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My largest thanks to EctoHeart for her amazing art for this story!

Hermione – Present time, June 2009

Dumbledore once told them that death is nothing but the next great adventure. Hermione isn’t sure if ‘adventure’ is an appropriate description, but maybe a reprieve from a cruel society. Growing up in the Muggle world caused Hermione to associate death with illness, and she understands, perhaps better than most, that there is a cycle to life. Regardless of whether you are born Muggle or magical, that cycle would one day finish, and death would come. 

The cycle, in simple terms, starts the same for everyone. Each individual is born from a cell that grows and multiplies into an embryo that eventually develops into a foetus. The foetus grows until it is composed of tissues that turn into organs that build your body. Eventually you are born, utterly dependent on your parents to care for you, and hopefully, you will be. The cycle of life continues; each day you age with your heart beating in your chest and your lungs breathing in air. 

More time passes. 

You grow into a toddler, and suddenly, you are aware. You develop a consciousness, and ‘awaken.’ You have your thoughts, actions, and opinions–you become you, as a person. More time passes, and the cycle of regeneration continues. Your thoughts become more complex. You experience happiness, sadness, anger, and love. Those less fortunate may experience abuse, prejudices, or even crime. You learn your culture—your history. You learn by trial and error. If you are a witch or wizard, then during your early childhood years, you may start to exhibit accidental bursts of magic, and eventually, you will learn to harness the power surging through your veins.

You experience life.

You continue to age, and depending on what side of the world you straddle, that process may look different. Being Muggle brings common ailments such as chickenpox, flu, or pneumonia, and as time passes, the cycle of regeneration slows. The risk of heart disease, stroke, or cancer increases as you grow older. Wizards and witches face different illnesses. The common ones: Forest Cough, Bowtruckle flu, or Dragon-Pox, are sicknesses that, for the most part, have no lasting consequences. Long term illness in the magical realm is unheard of; most things are cured after only a few potions. If you are magical, lasting damage or sickness usually comes as a result of rogue magic or curses–not something spontaneous. 

Because of this, the word terminal is not a part of a Healers vocabulary at St. Mungo’s.

Hermione understood what terminal was from a young age. Her grandmother, Louise Granger, died when she was nine years old after a three year fight with stage-four liver cancer. As a child, her parents always treated her with respect. When they spoke to her, they spoke with honesty, never shying away from difficult topics. She knew her grandmother was sick, but when her prognosis was slim, David and Jean Granger took the time to explain what that meant. Hermione knew that, despite modern medicine, her grandmother was going to die. When her father took her to visit her grandmother for the last time at St. John’s Hospice Centre in London, she already had prepared her ‘goodbyes’ in her head. 

She sat on the side of her grandmother’s bed, holding her slim hand in hers; the constant ‘beep’ of an intravenous machine supplying Lousie with pain medications and sedatives served as the only sound in the room. Hermione remembers how delicate her grandmother looked, and how she hadn’t even responded when she’d taken her hand in hers. She had stroked the back of her grandmother’s hand, noticing how translucent her skin was. Underneath a plethora of age spots and bruises, Hermione clearly saw the blue veins running beneath the surface, like they were nothing more than a vast network of streams. As she sat there, feeling the slowing of her grandmother’s pulse against her skin, Hermione realised that despite the claims she made to her parents–she hadn’t truly understood what it meant to die. 

Terminal ( adjective ) : the end of something; (of a disease) predicted to lead to death, especially slowly; incurable.  

When Hermione watched Louise Granger take her last breath, understanding washed over her; they all would come to an end. Her grandmother’s death sparked something within her, a profound curiosity for medicine. The concept of life and the mystery of death was fascinating. For the next two years Hermione consumed herself with dreams of becoming a doctor that would lead research teams to groundbreaking discoveries and advancements in medicine. She thought of her grandmother who hadn’t found her cancer until it was too late. She thought of the stories she’d overheard at her parent’s dentistry practice.

No one is immune to illness. 

She can make a difference.

Two years later, those dreams shattered as though they were nothing but old dinnerware being replaced with the finest of china.

At eleven years old, Hermione received her Hogwarts letter, and her curiosity for the human body was replaced with a curiosity for magic. For the next seven years, she devoted her ambitions to being the top of her class. She spent countless hours studying and practising magic, earning her nickname ‘Brightest Witch of Her Age.’ She used her skills to save Harry and Ron time after time. 

She joined the Order of the Phoenix. 

She Obliviated her parents and sent them to Australia. 

She fought Death Eaters and Voldemort. 

She faced the prejudices of a world that said she didn’t belong. 

She went back to Hogwarts to complete her education, and broke countless records by obtaining seven N.E.W.T.S.

After Hogwarts, her life took an unexpected path. Without the pressures of a war and mass genocide, Hermione fell back in love with research. She’d learned from her brief visit to St. Mungo’s during the Christmas Holiday of her fifth year, that aside from the Janus Thickey Ward, there are no long term illness units within the magical hospital. Most of the patients that reside there did so on account of wayward magic, and that since the potion cure for Dragon-Pox was discovered by Grunhilda of Gorsemoor in the 1600’s; there wasn’t a common, long term illness so to speak. So, Hermione took her inquisitive mind elsewhere, and joined the Department of Mysteries’ Research Ailment Division in August of 1999.

She made a change through her career, but not in the way she’d dreamed. 

She worked for the department for nearly four years, before once more life was well... life. 

Her path took a different route, and she decided on magical medicine, pursuing a career as a Healer, and officially joined St. Mungo’s in 2005. The first two years were challenging. Hermione spent a lot of her time treating injuries that, quite frankly, shouldn’t have ever happened. Reckless magic, duels, and Quidditch were at the top of her list. Yes, she was healing, but she wasn't being challenged— her talents were going unused. 

Hermione strived for the same fulfilment that the caregivers of St. John’s Hospice Centre had while taking care of her grandmother. 

Hermione sought after passion.

She hadn’t known then that she was on the precipice of just that.

In October 2007, Charlus Wood checked into St. Mungo’s, claiming he had lost the ability to Apparate. Hermione, still relatively fresh from the Healer Academy, recognized the symptom immediately; she understood the potential for what could be plaguing the great uncle of her former housemate. In 2001, a French wizard by the name of Reynard Tremblay, discovered the disease that came to be known as Magical Dysplasia. Even eight years later, the disease still remains mostly a mystery. Reynard found that Magical Dysplasia slowly ate away at one’s magical core until they were left as squibs, unable to perform any sort of magic. Manifestations of the disease included: muscle weakness, difficulty reciting spells, difficulty using magic, night sweats, emotional dysregulation, and difficulty sleeping. 

Hermione learned about the illness during her two years studying abroad while completing her various healer residencies, before becoming a certified medi-witch. Magical Dysplasia was the closest thing to a terminal illness that the magical community had. It taught her that magic–though powerful–could not fix all things. French healers developed a regimen to slow the prognosis of the disease, but they could not stop the inevitable. Potions, occupational therapy, and even sessions with mind healers could not save the magical core. The disease affected mostly purebloods or half-bloods, and despite research efforts, the origins remain unknown. Over the past eight years, there had been an uptick in suicides amongst pureblood witches and wizards. Efforts were made to include natural-born squibs in group therapy sessions to try to ease the transition for patients into a non-magical lifestyle. But even with these efforts, the loss of magic was too heavy of a burden for some to bear.

Magical Dysplasia wasn’t terminal, but it was incurable. 

Charlus Wood committed suicide the 8th of August 2008, after living four months as a squib. He was the first patient Hermione lost to the disease.  

His death came after four other patients were diagnosed with the illness, lighting a new urgency within her. There was a notable increase of Magical Dysplasia cases in London, and Hermione was determined to do something about it. In September 2008, she went to St. Mungo’s Board of Healers with a proposition for a palliative ward for Magical Dysplasia that she would lead. Her request was granted with unanimous support. The second floor west wing was transformed into four suites: Hermione’s office/consultation room, group therapy, physical/occupational therapy, and a private apothecary. The ward officially opened in January 2009, and now, five months later, they have a caseload of ten patients.

Well… make that eleven.

Hattie Vance, a middle aged witch with curly black hair currently sits across from Hermione in her office for a consultation. Her face is soft, laugh lines adorn her mouth, and she carries herself with an air of someone who has enjoyed life to the fullest. Hermione sits in a brushed black velvet wingback chair while Hattie fidgets with her hands on the matching settee. This is the hard part of her job, delivering the diagnosis. Hermione watches as a lone tear slips from her hazel eyes that just moments prior held such brightness. Now, they are vacant, like Hermione has just extinguished the flame of a candle. Hattie’s symptoms started three months prior, but the witch had written them off as fatigue related to her new granddaughter. Her symptoms began with slight muscle weakness and tremors. Then progressed to difficulty performing and maintaining her household spells. When she failed to cast a Scourgify after spilling a glass of wine, her husband made her seek treatment at St. Mungo’s. 

When cases of Magical Dysplasia started to rise, Hermione ensured that all healers at St. Mungo’s recognized the signs and symptoms to streamline appropriate consultations with her. Because of her efforts, when Hattie sought treatment with Healer Evans, she was immediately referred to Hermione. 

Hermione treats everyone the same. With each consultation, she asks the patients to fill out a medical questionnaire that recounts all health history, family history, blood status, and symptom history. After reviewing the questionnaire, Hermione will then cast a basic diagnostic spell to evaluate the magical core level. Every witch and wizard should always have a level between ninety to one-hundred percent; anything below ninety would indicate magical dysplasia. 

Hattie’s is eighty-five percent.

“Mrs. Vance?” Hermione asks gently, crossing her legs, and placing her notepad on her knee. This is always the hardest part of her job, delivering the diagnosis. She is not tactful at giving life-altering news. It is the aftermath of the diagnosis that Hermione excels at: giving witches and wizards a quality of life by treating their disease and associated symptoms. 

“I-” The witch pauses, pulling on her plum robes. “This is all very sudden.”

“It is, and I do understand, but your diagnosis is still very early. The best course of action to delay the spread of the disease is to take an aggressive approach. There are several next steps for you to take. You will be meeting with Roger Davies after we finish; he is our Potions Specialist. He runs an apothecary here at St. Mungo’s, and he will be able to tailor your potion regimen based on the recommendations that I will be giving you today. I also recommend that all of our patients attend a group therapy session with lead Mind Healer, Padma Patil-Zabini. The group meets on Tuesdays at four, but if you would like additional, private sessions, you are welcome to schedule with her. Any family members are welcome to attend with you, as we strive on not just treating your needs, but your family’s as well. This early in your diagnosis, I do not see a need to start you in physical therapy, but we will continue to monitor your symptoms closely.”

Hermione reaches into her folio, pulling out a small pamphlet that she had created to help explain what Magical Dysplasia is. She hands it over to Hattie, who takes the tri-fold parchment in a shaking hand. 

“This pamphlet will help you explain to your family and friends what Magical Dysplasia is, that is, if you choose to disclose your diagnosis with them.” 

Hattie nods her head in acknowledgment as her hazel eyes scan over the words.

“I recommend we start you on a Pepper Up potion twice daily, followed by a Calming Draught with dinner. I would also suggest trying to incorporate more natural foods into your diet. Root vegetables contain many natural antioxidants that can assist in prolonging health. In your pamplet you will see a list of those.” 

“Thank you, Healer Granger,” Hattie whispers, raising her eyes to meet Hermione’s.

“Please, call me Hermione. We will be spending a lot of time together for the foreseeable future.” She smiles, before jotting down her potion regime to give to Roger. “Do you have any further questions for me, Mrs. Vance, before I take you to Mr. Davies?”

“No Ms-, Hermione; you have been excellent, I thank you.”

“You may follow me.”

Hermione leads the witch into the bright corridor of the Tremblay Homestead Ward. When she designed the wing, she wanted to ensure that the patients they would come to treat would feel comfortable when they visited. Remembering how cold, and sterile the Janus Thickey Ward was when she’d seen Arthur after his attack had encouraged her to take a different approach; she made certain the Tremblay Ward was homely. The walls are painted a soft olive and the floors are a scraped, java oak. Golden framed pictures of various art displaying the English countryside line the walls, and above the entrance to the ward, are gold letters that read ‘Tremblay Homestead Ward’. 

Hermione walks Hattie to the last door on the left, smiling as she holds it open for her to enter. Modelled after a small Muggle apothecary is Roger Davies’ office. At the chime of the door, Roger appears from behind the counter. Now, in his late twenties, Roger is still as handsome as he had been in school. Sandy blonde hair falls effortlessly over his forehead, and bright hazel eyes look at them assessingly. He has a kind smile, and he has kept his Chaser’s physique from school. Hermione sometimes wonders if he still partakes in pickup Quidditch matches when he isn’t brewing. 

It is no wonder that Lisa Turpin had agreed to marry him the moment he’d asked. 

“Hermione,” he greets, his deep timbre filling the apothecary. “What brings you in?” His eyes flicker to Hattie, who stands nervously to her right.

“This is Hattie Vance; she is joining our Magical Dysplasia program.” Hermione walks to the counter, handing Roger her potion slip. “Based on our consultation today, I think this regimen would suit her well to start; she will need one month's supply to begin with.” 

Roger reads over the slip before looking at Hattie, “I have both of these on hand. If you have the time, Mrs. Vance, I would like to go over the timing of the regimen with you before you leave.”

Hermione turns to Hattie, placing a gentle hand on her arm, “You can schedule your follow up with me on your way out with Mr. Bennett at the front desk. If your symptoms worsen, or if you need to see me before then, please don’t hesitate to reach out.” She gives her arm a squeeze before letting go.

***

Passion ( noun ) is a term used to denote strong and intractable or barely controllable emotion or inclination with respect to a particular person or thing. 

Hermione finds passion in her career, truthfully she does; in her life… that is debatable. 

Hermione is pragmatic–logical. She only takes calculated risks and weighs the outcome of every decision or course of action before she makes a move. It is how she survived a wizarding war as a child, and it is how she kept Harry alive for all those years. That is her life, and she has accepted that fact about herself. But, when it comes to her love life, she is even more reserved, so to speak. 

She briefly dated Ron after the final battle because he was safe. She hadn’t been able to restore her parent’s memories following their Obliviation, and the months following she had sought comfort in the familiar.

Ron had been familiar.

When he’d kissed her in the Chamber of Secrets, she’d been convinced that this was what she sought after. Ron tasted of licorice and felt like home. She knew everything about him—the good, the bad, and the ugly. She knew that Ron had a heart of gold, and loved fiercely, but he had a temper to match. If he was a fuse then she was his match. Hermione was a pusher, and Ron, being the second youngest in such a large family, hadn't always taken to her ways. More than often they fought, but then again they’d fought since first year, so that hadn’t been anything new. Hermione had craved something so stable that she told herself their disparities were nothing but a minor flaw in the larger scheme of things, and being with Ron brought her life more good than bad.

The Weasleys had already welcomed her into their family at a young age, so there wasn’t that period of ‘get to know the family’ awkwardness when they became official. He had also been committed to them—as a couple. Ron wrote to her constantly after joining Harry in the Auror Academy instead of returning to Hogwarts with her to finish their education, and when she graduated, and they reconnected in person, it was like no time had passed between them. 

Following graduation, Hermione moved into her childhood home and slowly started the process of renovating it. Weeks passed, and Ron gradually started to help. Over the course of months, the home transformed from ‘Hermione’s childhood home’ to “Ron and Hermione’s house.’ It was the perfect blend of magical and Muggle, or so she thought. One year turned into two, and the pair found themselves living together. It happened naturally, just like breathing. But, slowly the fire that burnt rapidly between them smouldered to mere embers. They were platonic roommates that stayed together out of obligation rather than happiness.  

The conversation had been hard, but needed. In April 2001, Ron made love for what should have been the last time to Hermione. They both cried after, and he had held her close while one of his large, calloused hands tangled in her mane of curls. That night he started to move his belongings into the small flat above Weasley’s Wizards Wheezes. When Hermione watched Ron disappear in a flash of green, she thought she would have felt heartbroken, that she would mourn losing a part of herself. Instead, Hermione felt as though her head had broken water, breathing in air for the first time in years. 

It took time, but eventually their friendship was restored. It helped when Ron started dating Susan Bones in 2005, and it was the first mend in their strained relationship. The two later married in the Burrow’s back yard in 2007, under the pink and orange of an August sky. That had been two years ago, and now, they are expecting their first child this November. 

Hermione walks, a cup of lavender tea in one hand and a Muggle research journal over cognitive diseases in the other. This is how she has come to spend most evenings: alone with a cluttered mind. She loops a foot around the leg of one of her wicker patio chairs and tugs until the chair spins and she comes to sit. There is still a nip in the evening air as spring hasn’t fully transitioned to summer. Hermione pulls her navy jumper tighter around her frame, tucking her feet beneath her as she settles further into the chair. She looks up into the darkening May sky, counting the stars that are gradually twinkling into view. 

She cups her steaming tea in both palms. The quiet envelops her, and she is typically okay with the tranquillity that comes with being alone. But, tonight is different; her bones are laced with an unusual anxiety. She knows she can call Harry, or even Padma, and they would come. Her mind drifts back to Hattie and her family. Hermione is nearing thirty, and it isn’t the significance of the number that is giving her trepidation, but the reality of her own solitariness. By now, most of her classmates have been married for years, moving on to starting families of their own. Merlin, Harry and Ginny have three children now. Her life is filled with love for her found family, and with the joy of being a god-mother to Harry’s children, but it is missing the intimate connection that can only be found through companionship shared with another. 

Hermione isn’t prideful enough to deny that she is lonely in that regard.

She takes another drink of her tea, relishing in the burn as the liquid moves down her throat. Her eyes roam the sky, picking out constellation after constellation until her amber eyes trail north. Hermione takes in ‘The Dragon’–captivating, enthralling and all-consuming. She traces the figure while she continues to sip her tea, ignoring the ache that has cleaved its way into her chest. 

Chapter Text

Hermione – Department of Mysteries, July 2003 

“Fucking Salazar, Granger. I think we’ve done it.”

Hermione raises her head from where she is currently dissecting another Dragon Pox sample to eye her partner sceptically. His platinum hair is swept to the side, while his silver eyes gleam under the fluorescent lighting of their lab. They penetrate her, rooting her to the spot as though he has cast a sticking charm upon her. The thought occurs to her that most people who have such a fair complexion would appear washed out under the unforgiving light, but not Draco Malfoy–no–he only looks other-worldly before her. His alabaster skin glows, and his smile is brilliant as he looks at her. He is radiating happiness, riding the high that could only be the result of one thing: discovery. He shucks off his white robes, revealing the simple grey oxford and black trousers that he always wears. He moves from his table, never allowing his eyes to leave hers. Draco stops, placing his hands on the table where she stands motionless. 

“Don’t tell me after four years of working together, I’ve finally stunned you speechless.” His smile transforms into something predatory as he closes in on her. 

His proximity assaults her senses with the intoxicating scent of birch, and Hermione feels her stomach flip. One would think that after weeks of intimacy he wouldn’t still be able to render her a breathless mess. Her amber eyes flicker to his lips.

“Are you sure?”

“I cast the diagnostic twice—no reaction to the disease. We did it, Granger.” 

Draco reaches up, plucking the barrette from her curls. His gaze lingers as they tumble wildly around her face. He takes a lock, wrapping it around a finger. “We could start trials next week,” he whispers huskily, stepping closer, invading her space. 

An anticipatory clench takes hold of her chest. It is always like this, every nerve coming alive under the simplest of touches from him. She raises her eyebrows in question, reaching out a slender hand to fiddle with one of his buttons along his shirt. 

“You talk as though this is something to celebrate, Malfoy.” 

He hums, bending forward to run his nose along her jaw. “After almost two years of researching a Dragon Pox vaccine, I think a celebration is in order for our breakthrough.”

Hermione laughs, allowing him to wrap his arms around her waist, pulling her close. She runs her hands along his chest, feeling the muscle beneath the fine, Persian cotton he wears. Hermione presses a kiss to his cheek, breathing in his aftershave as his emerging evening stubble scratches against her skin.

“Would you like to go to dinner? There’s that Muggle French restaurant you are fond of up the road?”

Draco’s hands roam lower, palming her arse through her research robes. “I think I have what I want to eat right in front of me.” 

Hermione squeals as Draco picks her up in a swift motion, placing her atop of the desk.

“Draco—my research!”

He is undeterred. With a flip of his hand, her papers move, soaring onto the nearest unoccupied surface. She giggles freely as Draco parts her robes, pushing them from her shoulders. He places a kiss to the centre of her chest, and Hermione tangles her hands in the silken strands of his hair. She tugs, raising his face to hers. She kisses him, nipping at his lip. 

“Theo will be by any moment,” she murmurs against his mouth.

She feels his smirk. “Even if he does, he won't be able to get in. I locked and silenced the door when we came back after lunch.”

She pulls back, her hands still in his hair as she asks incredulously. “You what?”

He shrugs, a cocky grin spreading across his face. “I had a good feeling about today, but regardless, I doubted I would have made it home before ravishing you in these heels.”

“You are incorrigible .” 

He pops the first button of her navy blouse. “And you love it.” 

Perhaps it isn’t love per se, but Hermione does love how he makes her feel. Draco somehow has the ability to make her feel as though she is the most important person in the room when they are together, and she can’t help but wonder—if given enough time—could she become the centre of his universe—the most important person in his world? He makes her feel desired, like she is more than just the “Brightest Witch of Her Age.” He makes her feel like something to be cherished; it’s addictive. Does this make her selfish? To want to keep him, and always feel this way? 

Their tryst had started weeks prior, after one too many pints at the Leaky Cauldron. They’d gone for after work drinks with the department, and as their coworkers slowly filtered out, so did the rest of the pub. It became just the two of them, secluded at a small table in the back of the pub, debating magical theory over pint after pint. When Hermione mispronounced ‘Felix Felicis,’ Draco insisted that he be the one to walk her home. She tried to tell him that her home was in Muggle London, and that it was much too far to walk, but he was persistent. They hadn’t even made it outside of the pub before she stumbled. Strong hands caught her, and Hermione felt warm, much too warm, as the heat from his touch seeped through her robes and into her bones. She had looked into an endless sea of grey, and for the first time in years—she felt wanted. His eyes had flickered to her lips and Hermione hadn’t thought twice before closing the distance between them. Their mouths collided in a passionate clash of tongue and teeth. 

Draco had tasted like the answer of a long, sought after question. 

They hadn’t made it home.

Instead, Draco had fronted a room at the Leaky, and the pair stumbled into bed together. 

Hermione thought their affair would be a one time occurrence, that things between them would surely be awkward the morning after, but Draco proved her wrong. He had taken her for brunch and asked after her weekend plans. They had never ‘defined’ what exactly they were, but their time together outside of the lab slowly increased with each passing week. Hermione didn’t mind the ambiguity—not really. In fact, it was almost easier this way. There was no pressure between them for more, not like there had been when she was with Ron. Hermione was able to enjoy Draco without the unspoken question of when they would marry. She was free to fuck and debate him as she saw fit. 

The concept is liberating, and besides, it’s hard to think straight when Draco does ungodly things with his mouth.

He closes his lips around one dusty-rose nipple, grazing his teeth lightly along the nub. He twirls the other between his fingers, causing a whimper to fall from her mouth. He’d learned quickly how to play her—how to pluck every string until she sings for him, and she does. Hermione’s hands tighten in his hair, holding his face closer to her chest while pleasure filled moans fall from her mouth like a sinner's prayer. Perhaps what they are doing is a sin? Fucking one’s colleague in a public place could be considered inappropriate, but when Draco sucks on the tender flesh of her breast, marking her as his, she doesn’t care if they are sinners in the slightest. His ministrations continue as he turns his attention to her other nipple, leaving a trail of spittle over her skin. His breath is warm over her flesh, and she feels the coil in her stomach tighten under his touch. Her knickers are positively soaked by now, and she is certain that he knows how desperate she is to be touched. 

His lips are swollen when he looks up at her, and Hermione wastes no time in quickly undoing the clasp to his belt. His hands run along her thighs, disappearing under the satin of her black skirt. A little higher, she thinks when his fingers ghost her knickers.

His eyes are heavy, lust filled, and the same smug smirk that she has grown utterly too fond of appears. 

“You’re always so wet for me, Granger.” 

His hands grasp her hips, pulling her towards the edge. Draco pushes at her skirt until her cunt is visible, and she watches as his grey irises are consumed by black when he takes in the emerald lace of her knickers. 

He runs a finger along her slit and a gasp falls from her lips when he presses against her clit. The sensation of the lace against her swollen nub is almost too much, and her hips buck against his hand. Draco leans forward, capturing her mouth in a searing kiss. She loses herself in his kiss, each stroke of his tongue against hers fans the scorching heat that is pulsating through her veins. She doesn’t care that anyone could dismantle the wards upon their door and find them in such a compromising position, because right now, as Draco continues to rub her atop her knickers, the only thoughts that occupy her mind is how she will never forget the taste of green apples or how it feels to be touched by his hand.

Draco nips at her lip before he skates his hand under her knickers to peel them from her body. Hermione rolls her eyes as she watches him pocket the flimsy fabric, but she is far too desperate to be touched to argue with him over stealing her undergarments. His fingers gather the wetness from her entrance, spreading it over her clit before placing the digit in his mouth. Her eyes widen at the act and Draco grins.

“You always taste so fucking delicious.”

He parts her knees, massaging the flesh of her inner thighs. 

Draco sits on the workstool in front of her, eyes level with her dripping cunt. She knows how desperate she looks, cantering her hips towards his mouth, but if anything, her eagerness seems to only fuel him further. He plays with her, running his thumb in light circles over her clit.

“I’m going to make you come on my tongue, Granger, and then I’m going to fuck this pretty little cunt.”

He pushes a finger inside of her and she mewls at the intrusion. Her hands grasp onto his shoulders, steadying herself as he starts to move his fingers in a curling motion, stroking her front walls. She had been shocked their first time; even an intoxicated Draco had managed to find that perfect spot that previous lovers before had always failed to neglect. Now, as his fingers move and his tongue flicks over her clit, Hermione sees stars. The coil in her stomach is tightening, and she feels her walls start to flutter around his fingers as Draco pushes her to her crest.

Her parents had been Catholic, and prior to Hogwarts, Hermione had considered herself religious. But now, as she comes undone under the heat of Draco’s mouth, and the touch of his hand—Hermione wonders if perhaps there is a heaven after all. Her orgasm hits her, stealing the breath from her lungs as she pulsates around his fingers.

When Draco pulls away from her cunt, his mouth is glistening with the sheen of her release. Before him, perhaps she would have been embarrassed by the sight, but not now. Hermione tangles her fists in his shirt, colliding their mouths together once more. She can taste the musk of herself on his tongue, tangy but sweet, and she finds she doesn't mind it. 

“Please fuck me, Malfoy.”

Draco tsks, pulling her off the table to bend her over. His chest pushes into her back, and his hands grips her hips possessively, pulling her tight to his body as he whispers in her ear.

“Malfoy is it?” His voice is low, borderline devious, and the thrill of his tone sends a chill down her spine.

“Fuck me hard enough, and perhaps I may just call you, Draco, ” she purrs, arching and pushing her arse back against his straining cock. 

He nips at her earlobe. “You cheeky witch.”

She feels the broad head of his cock notch at her entrance, and with a controlled thrust, Draco sheathes himself inside. Her walls flutter instantly at the stretch. It’s euphoric, addictive, and Hermione is certain that nothing will ever compare to being fucked by him. He fills her perfectly—stretching and stroking, sending her into oblivion with each thrust of his hips. Hermione wants to scream, or cry—she isn’t sure which. Her fingers dig into the wood, seeking some sort of tether as Draco’s pace increases. 

His hips snap against her arse, and his hands grip her hard enough to bruise, eliciting a moan from her. The table screeches against the floor as they rock against it, and for a faint moment, Hermione worries that it may collapse; it wasn’t made for fucking colleagues after all. That worry quickly fades as the coil in her stomach tightens once more—pleasure builds in her spine, and she knows she's going to come again. Draco must feel it too, because his thrusts become deeper and his hands tighten, pulling her into him.

“Are you going to come for me again, Granger? Is this pretty cunt going to squeeze my cock? Are you going to let me fill you up until you walk out of here dripping my come?”

His questions are met with chants of, ‘ Yes,’ and, ‘ Draco, please make me come.’

She's too hot, burning under his touch as Draco snakes a hand to rub at her sensitive clit. It's too much and not enough, but somehow she wants more. Hermione wants to stay here, in this moment where all she feels is Draco inside her and all around her. 

But as always, the moment ends.

The coil that had wound painfully tight suddenly snaps, and Hermione is shaken once more with an electrifying orgasm that sets every nerve ending ablaze. Her walls tighten, pulling his cock deeper inside of her while wave after wave of her orgasm washes over her. She feels Draco thrust twice more, chasing his own release, before he comes behind her with a deep groan. 

They are silent, panting into the quiet of their lab as they each bask in the afterglow of their bliss. Is this happiness? Hermione can’t help but wonder as Draco presses a kiss to her shoulder. She misses him the moment he pulls his softening member from her to cast a quick Scourgify over the both of them. She turns, pushing down her skirt to see Draco tucking himself back into his trousers. His hair is mused, and a faint pink tints his sharp cheekbones. She loves seeing him like this, relaxed and carefree. It's the side of him that he keeps safely locked away—away from journalists who want to exploit the decisions that were made for a boy who had no choice.

She likes knowing who Draco Malfoy is. 

He reaches out, buttoning her blouse and pressing a soft kiss to her lips. 

“Does your offer for celebratory French cuisine still stand?” he asks playfully, tucking a wild curl behind her ear.

She is certain she looks positively fucked, but she doesn’t care in the slightest. Instead, a large grin spreads across her face, causing the corners of her eyes to crinkle in mirth. 

“That depends, are you fronting the bill for the vintage bottle of Sauvignon Blanc?” she counters, raising a brow.

Draco laughs. It's deep and rich, and Hermione wishes to bottle it up so she can play it on repeat in a pensieve. 

He presses a chaste kiss to her forehead before returning to his desk. “You know I will always foot the bill, Granger.” He smiles, picking up his outer robes. 

“What about notifying the St. Mungo’s board of directors about our discovery?” she asks, glancing at their notes along his desks. Draco turns to peer at the parchment, picking up his wand and slipping it into his pocket.

“I suppose our notes will be there tomorrow and we can notify them then.” He offers her his arm. “Shall we, Granger?” 

She shakes her head with a laugh, but slips her hand into the bend of his arm nevertheless, allowing him to take her to dinner once more. 

Chapter Text

Hermione–Present time,  July 2009

There is something cathartic about seeing Potter Cottage.  

Its restored beauty is invigorating, a reminder that something wonderful can be born from tragedy.

The white stone is inviting—homely, and Hermione can’t help but imagine that its beauty surpasses that of its former glory. 

When Harry had first told Hermione that he intended to restore his childhood home, she hadn’t initially understood his reasoning. Harry and Ginny had only been married for a few months, and she worried that such a renovation would be hard on the newlyweds. Not to mention the history of the cottage itself. 

“Aren’t you worried, Harry? Are you sure you want to live in the home where your parents died?”

“You live in your parent’s house.”

“That’s different.” And it was. Hermione had nothing but happy memories within those walls. The Obliviation of her parents was nothing more than a blight on an otherwise pristine remembrance of the residence.

“I have no recollection of my time there, Hermione. Besides, my memories at Privet Drive are much worse.”

She couldn’t argue with him, not when it was presented to her like that.

She and Ron helped with the renovations, and four months later, the Potters had settled into their new home. Harry told her that his parents had intended to build a life there, and he wanted to do the same. Now, eight years later and three children of their own, it was hard to tell that tragedy had once befallen the cottage. 

Life abounded from every crevice. 

It breathed hope.

“Mi! Mi!” Lily squeals, launching herself towards the iron gate that surrounds the property.

Hermione smiles, shifting her bag onto her shoulder, allowing her to greet her goddaughter with open arms. She squeezes her tightly, picking her up while she takes the time to breathe in her scent. The small two year old always smells of fresh gardenias. It’s refreshing—grounding, and Hermione allows the warmth of her hug to wash over her after a particularly stressful day. She runs her fingers through her copper hair before placing a tender kiss to her forehead.

“ Lily… what have I told you about bombarding people as soon as they step through the gate?” Ginny raises a brow at her inquisitive daughter in mock annoyance. There’s a tea towel slung over her shoulder and a smile tugging at her lips as she stands in the doorway, watching the scene unfold.

Hermione beams, “She’s fine Gin, I promise.” She gives Lily another squeeze before placing her back on the ground. 

The sound of running catches her attention, and Hermione turns to see James and Albus moving towards her, a garden gnome in hand.

“Look Aunt ‘Mione!” Albus says with a toothy grin, extending the little creature out towards her.

Hermione tries not to grimace.

The brown little gnome with its disproportionately large head bares its teeth at her in challenge.

“Perhaps we should put him back?” She offers, pushing Lily behind her as though the creature is about to launch itself out of Albus’s arms.

“Oh no,” James says, poking the gnome's belly. “Frank was trying to climb the ivy at the back of the house. We saved him!”

Ginny makes her way to stand by Lily, scooping her daughter into her arms. 

“James, go put him back into the potato patch. Al, go wash up for dinner.” The boys look at their mother with unyielding expressions of sadness, and Hermione tries to hide her chuckle at the sight. 

Ginny’s expression hardens as she looks at her two boys, “ Now .” Her command carries weight, the tone of her voice reminding her of Molly.

Hermione laughs as she watches James take ‘Frank’ from Albus, returning him to the small vegetable patch where he resides. Al glances once more at his mother and sister before sighing dramatically as he makes his way into the cottage.

“You’d think for a four year old he’d be less dramatic,” Ginny huffs, allowing Lily to slither from her arms to trail after Albus.

“I wonder where he gets his theatrics,” Hermione teases, knocking Ginny lightly with her shoulder.

“Bloody hell, don’t look at me like that. It’s not me.”

Hermione laughs, knowing that Ginny is right.

Ginny had taken to motherhood as swiftly as flying. When James was born 8th of August 2003, Ginny had announced her retirement from the Holyhead Harpies. The fiery redhead had initially been content to remain a stay at home mother while helping out with the joke shop on the weekends, but once Albus celebrated his first birthday on 22nd of May 2006, Ginny was ready to return to work. She originally started off reporting on local Quidditch matches but now serves as the senior Quidditch Correspondent for the Daily Prophet. Ginny’s fulfilled; Hermione can tell from how she talks about her work and her home life. She’s inspiring, balancing motherhood and independence flawlessly.

Hermione wonders if she too will ever be able to have both—a career and a family?

“Where did you go?” Ginny asks, looping her arm through her own and leading her into the cottage out of the smouldering heat.

“Nowhere,” she lies seamlessly, allowing her friend to guide her forward.

If Hermione was asked to describe the inside of the Potter home she would say it’s ‘lived in.’

Order and chaos unfurl in every direction, but somehow it blends in perfect harmony. Family photographs line the walls, while shoes crowd the entryway. The walls are painted a moss green, complementing the earth tone hues that fill the space. It’s inviting, like a warm quilt on a cool summer morning. 

Hermione is careful to step over the children’s things as she follows Ginny into the kitchen. By far it is her favourite room in the Potter’s home. Quartz counters compliment white oak cabinets. In the centre of the space is a large island where, on more than one occasion, she has sat late into the night drinking wine with her friend. She turns, peering into the dining room to see Harry setting the table. 

He looks up, grinning as he walks into the kitchen. 

“Happy Birthday, Harry,” Hermione reaches into her bag, pulling out a small box wrapped in white paper with golden snitch emblems printed along it.

Harry’s smile broadens, a light pink tint dusting his cheeks as he pulls her in for a hug. Breaking apart, he takes the box from her hand. She knows him like she knows herself, and Hermione doesn’t miss the subtle nervousness that flickers across his face as he studies the wrapping. Even years later, Harry still hasn’t quite gotten used to receiving presents, and she understands that it’s a small reminder of the scars they each carry.

A lingering pain.

Both physical and emotional.

Harry has Ginny—the Weasleys—his family.

Who does Hermione have? 

Her heart aches at the thought.

She has her work. 

Her friends .

It’s enough—or so she hopes.

“Open, Daddy?” Lily asks, wrapping her arms around his leg as she peers at the package with curiosity, and Hermione smiles at her excitement

“Of course, will you help me?” Harry scoops Lily into his arms, sitting her on the island.

She nods her head, feet swinging as she watches Harry run his finger through the wrapping. Peeling back the packaging, Harry reaches into the box to remove a small, blank photo frame.

He looks at her, his green eyes lit with curiosity.

Hermione taps her wand to her temple, removing a silver slither before releasing it into the glass. Before them plays a mute memory of Hermione seeing Albus and James holding Frank the gnome. Twin smiles bloom across the boys’ faces as they show off the potato-like creature before the memory repeats. 

“It’s a blend between a pensieve and a photo album. I saw it in the states when I travelled to meet with a consulting healer for Hattie’s case last month. I thought you might like it for your office,” Hermione pauses, watching Harry’s reaction closely. “It doesn’t store memories, but you can change them as often as you like.”

Harry doesn’t look up for a moment, instead his focus is drawn to the smiles on his sons faces as they hold the gnome. 

“Hermione, this—“ he stops, unable to finish his thought, and Hermione doesn’t miss the quiver in his voice.

Ginny wraps her arms around Harry’s waist, kissing his temple as she runs her fingers through his hair. 

“Just keep your thoughts of me in that black negligé to yourself,” Ginny whispers in his ear, thoroughly breaking the sombre mood with her humour.

Harry’s blush deepens and Hermione laughs. 

***

“How was your trip to the states? Were the American healers able to offer any insight?”

Hermione lowers her spoon, wiping the buttercream frosting from her hands.

“Not really,” she picks at the frayed edge of the navy tablecloth. “Healer Foster reported that they have only had one case since the discovery and that patient was of French descent. It’s almost like it’s localised here.”

Ginny frowns, taking a drink of her Bordeaux wine. 

“Their Potions Specialist promised to stay in contact with Roger, though. They have some native plants that could yield promising results at slowing the decline of the magical core,” Hermione shrugs, unable to hide the disappointment that laces her words.

She had hoped that her week-long trip would have been more fruitful, but in the end, she was wrong. A week of meeting with Magi Specialists had yielded no new information. If anything, she had been the one to educate them on Magical Dysplasia. She and Roger Davies had returned to Britain no closer to solving the mystery of the disease.

In fact, they had returned to a new diagnosis.

She feels nauseous.

It’s never enough.

She glances into the living room, unable to look at Ginny any further. Lily is colouring on the floor while James attempts to teach Albus to play wizard's chess as they sit across from one another at the small coffee table.

“And Theo?” Harry pushes.

She turns, meeting the hopeful green eyes that she knows so well.

“As far as I am aware, the Department of Mysteries is no closer to a breakthrough than we are. Roger has been working with Theo in hopes of creating a more streamline potion regimen, but so far it’s been futile.”

Harry is crestfallen, his hand tightening around Ginny’s shoulders.

“How, how is he doing— really ? Padma said he missed last week's group session.”

“Dad’s fine. If anything, he has used this whole ordeal to dive further into Muggle culture,” Ginny looks at Harry, biting her lower lip. 

It’s strange to see her like this. In all of her years of knowing the witch, Ginny has never been hesitant. She’s more level headed then Ron, but as crass as George.

She turns to Hermione, “It’s Mum.”

Hermione sighs with understanding. Molly Weasley had been in a state of denial for months following Arthur’s diagnosis two years prior. It wasn’t until Arthur lost his ability to Apparate eight months later that Molly began to accept her husband's fate. Hermione has tried to convince the Weasley matriarch to attend the group therapy sessions with Padma, but she has always refused, claiming that she is ‘perfectly fine, dear.’

Arthur took his diagnosis just as Hermione expected he would: happily . In his eyes, this was a way to explore the Muggle world without the judgement of Wizarding society. Part of her worried that as his magic dissipated, his child-like excitement would fade too—that the reality of his diagnosis would eventually wear on him as it had the others. 

“Is she alright?” Hermione asks cautiously.

“I think she’s worried that the new addition will be too much on Dad, especially since he can no longer Apparate.”

Hermione frowns, “He’s so excited though.”

“I know.”

Harry takes a drink of his beer before speaking, “Susan isn’t due until late November. Who knows what Hermione will discover before then.” He offers her an encouraging smile and she tries to return it—truthfully, she does.

But it’s hard. 

Merlin , it’s so hard to look past Harry’s undiluted optimism when he speaks about her with such hope. 

Regardless of hope, the truth remains the same.

Susan and Ron will be having their first child this November.

And Arthur Weasley will be a squib before he is three.

***

“The two most powerful warriors are patience and time,” Leo Tolstoy, War and Peace.

She’s been home for hours, but her mind is still racing with memories of her discussion with the Potters.

Arthur’s loss of Apparition reminds her of the ticking clock that looms in the recess of her mind.

He is running out of time.

Even if she miraculously discovered a cure today, she would not be able to restore his magic. She would not be able to undo the damage that has already ravaged his magical core. It’s frayed, hanging together by tethers, like a sweater that has been washed one too many times.

And that hurts her.

The reality is—she does not have the patience, nor does she have the time. 

Those have always been her biggest feats.

Time and patience.

Patience and time.

The two obstacles that have plagued her since she was a fourteen year old girl with a time turner around her neck, crippling under the weight of one too many classes. 

But, there is no time turner this time—no magical way to undo what has already been done.

The question remains: Will she be blamed? 

The Weasley’s have been more than friends—they are family . Even though things didn’t work out between her and Ron romantically, they have always been a part of her life. They accepted her, nurtured her, loved her when she lost everything during the war. 

She’s their daughter.

A sister.

A friend.

They’ve lived, fought, cried, and healed together.

But, how can they forgive her for not saving one of their own? 

She stares at her notes until the words blur. 

She can’t hold back the tears as they fall from her eyes. 

“Granger, we can’t fucking save everyone.”

She can still hear his voice. She can remember the way he would enunciate each word in his posh accent, driving her insane. He’d stand over her shoulder, twirling a curl around his finger as he watched her while she worked. 

Always so distracting.

Always there.

But why did he have to always be so fucking right?

She skims her notes frantically. There has to be some sort of connection—something she has overlooked.

“When are you going to take care of yourself?” he would ask.

She tells herself that there has to be more.

Chapter Text

Hermione–Flashback, September 2003. 

How had she ended up here?

That is the question that plagues her consciousness like an itch that she can’t quite seem to scratch.

Draco looks at her expectantly, a singular pale brow raised in challenge. And that's the gist of it—it's always a challenge with him.

And she loves it.

Breathes for it.

This thing between them. 

It’s exhilarating–titillating.

There is never a dull moment, in the bedroom or out of it. 

There is no label.

No expectations.

And after weeks of the casualness, she thought she might’ve tired of it, but she hasn’t. 

It’s why she’s caught so off guard the moment he wishes her ‘Happy Birthday’ and hands her a small velvet package.

She hadn’t done anything extravagant for Draco’s birthday. In fact, she wouldn’t count the risque lingerie she’d purchased as a gift at all. He’d torn it from her body and fucked her within what felt like an inch of her life. 

But this?

This feels like more, and it worries her that the expectations are changing. 

But then again, they’ve already changed: childhood enemies to casual co-workers to friends to lovers. It’s taken years, but here they are–and Hermione likes how things are now. But would it be so terrible? If things between them did change? She’s addicted to how Draco makes her feel–how he touches her–pushes her. Hermione would be lying if she tried to deny it. But change brings the risk of losing, and she isn’t quite sure she can let go of what has formed between them.

She stares at the black box. It’s small, no bigger than a Remembrall . Perhaps that’s what is inside? It would fit Draco’s dry humour, to give her such a thing. Better that than jewellery, she thinks. She can picture the look of horror on Narcissa Malfoy’s face if Draco gave her something from their family vaults. Sure, the Malfoy’s prejudices have long since been dismantled, yet Hermione can’t help but assume that his mother wouldn’t take kindly to him giving away expensive family jewels to a summer fling. He wouldn’t—surely not. Doubt creeps into her mind as she studies the box; it’s light, oh so very light. She shakes it, trying to determine its contents.

“What are you, five?” Draco drawls, leaning against her counter.

She glances up at him. His brow is still raised but his lips curve into a playful smirk. He looks at home here; in her kitchen. His linen shirt has the sleeves rolled to his elbows, displaying the lean muscle of his arms that she has come to know so well. She catches sight of his faded Dark Mark when he tucks his hands into his trouser pockets. He’s not ashamed of it, this she knows, but the sight always leaves her pitying him.

He told her not to. He insisted that he was a better man because of it, that without being forced into servitude he wouldn’t have ever understood how wrong he’d been. 

It’s just a scar—a reminder that he’d survived.  

They were—they are— each still too young to have been forced into such unfathomable circumstances. 

But, Draco was right; they survived.

Her Mudblood scar reminds her of that daily. 

So does the thick, purple scar along her ribs. 

Hermione wonders if that's why being with Draco feels so authentic. She doesn’t glamour herself around him—she doesn’t try to hide the lingering pain. The first time Draco saw her naked, he had kissed every blemish upon her flesh, and had trailed his lips over each lingering mark left from the war. He’d whispered praises and apologies into her skin before sinking into her, fucking her until they were both spent. He has a way of putting her back together, as though he holds all of the missing pieces of her puzzle. 

That's why this terrifies her; Hermione doesn’t want things to change.

She swallows, forcing a smile on her face and replies in what she hopes is a light-hearted tone, “Perhaps?” 

“Salazar, Granger. It's a birthday present not a bloody Blast–Ended Skrewt. Stop being difficult and just open the damn thing.”

Hermione rolls her eyes and can’t help but chuckle at his impatience. She flips the lid of the box, raising a brow. Nestled on black satin is a rusted fork.

“You got me destroyed cutlery?”

He moves, coming to stand in front of her, plucking the box from her grasp. His cologne with its hidden notes of birch assaults her senses; it's intoxicating– he’s intoxicating . 

“Snarky witch,” he mumbles. It’s low, deep, and the tone has her shifting her thighs. “Perhaps if you can’t learn to appreciate presents, you shouldn’t receive them at all.”

She meets his eyes knowing defiance dances in her own. “What did you expect? You gave me an old rusty fork.”

He snakes an arm around her waist, letting his hand rest on the low of her back to pull her close. “See, this is where you are wrong, Granger. This just isn’t any old rusty fork ,” he repeats her words back to her and she can hear the smile in his voice as his lips find her ear. “It’s a portkey.”

Hermione leans back, looking up to see delight and mischief adorning up his face. “A portkey?” She repeats.

Draco nods. “To Chamonix.”

“Draco, it’s Thursday. We have work tomorrow; we can’t go running off to France.” She tries to step out of his embrace, affronted at his suggestion. 

His hold tightens. “I already put our time in. Our research will survive seventy two hours without us.”

And so it does. 

Hermione finds herself hand in hand with Draco standing outside of what he claimed was his ‘humble family cabin.’

There is nothing humble about it; it's a gods damn mansion.

She looks at the stone archway that leads up to the planes of glass that covers the front of the home. Snow dusted alps serve as the backdrop, and she can see smoke rising from one of the four chimneys. It’s quiet and tranquil and oh so perfect.

And Draco had begged her to come, to give him this time. 

How could she have dreamt of possibly telling him no?

She is a gods damn fool.

Draco nudges her shoulder. “Come on, Pippy has our dinner ready.”

***

Draco’s idea of a relaxing weekend in the mountains is quite different from her definition. It seemed as though he has compiled a list of all of the things she’d dreamt of doing if she ever visited Chamonix. His actions speak louder than his words—he has listened when she has shared her aspirations, and Hermione doesn’t know what to make of that.

On their first full day, he takes her to visit local wineries for various tastings. The harvest is in full swing, and the pair makes their way through the countryside with no end destination in sight. By the conclusion of their fourth winery, Hermione is completely pissed and the sun is setting. She stumbles into the nearest Apparition point, and Draco catches her. They are both breathless from laughing too hard, and their gazes linger as they stare at one another. He looks at her with that half smile she adores and the pink tinge to his cheeks. Her breath catches; he’s charming, the perfect picture of old money and society. 

And he is hers, for at least a while.

His grey eyes bore into hers, and she’s caught in their depths. He searches her, and Hermione can’t help but feel exposed. There’s a caution in the way he wraps his arm around her waist to pull her close. Draco’s breath ghosts against her lips, and she can smell the lingering trace of his Crémant de Savoie. Her heart hammers with anticipation; Merlin, she wants to kiss him, to taste him. Draco presses his lips to her forehead, and she whimpers in protest. 

“You’re pissed, Granger.” He chuckles; the rich tenor of his laugh vibrates against her chest.

“You took me to five wineries on cheese and bread.” But he’s right, she can’t even formulate a complete sentence.

“I did.”

“That’s not a meal; of course I am drunk.” She hiccups, her words slurring.

Draco runs his fingers through her hair. There’s a lightness to his eyes that she wants to remember. It is as if here and now, they are hidden away, able to bask in one another's presence without the expectations of their reality. She knows that they will have to return to London, back to their jobs and stolen moments. But for now, she wants to keep him here— with her . She tightens her fingers in his jumper, determined to not let him slip through her grasp. It’s foolish on her part, truthfully. Hermione understands that she can’t really keep something that isn’t hers. 

She wonders if he is thinking the same thing. The lightness to his eyes dulls as he brushes a thumb along her cheek. “Let’s get you home, love.”

Hermione doesn’t understand why the term of endearment brings moisture to her eyes, but she blinks, dispelling the unshed tears quickly as Draco Apparates them from the alley. 

On the second day, Draco decides to take her hiking at the Aiguilles Rouges. After their strange evening in the alley, he is back to his ‘normal’ self, though Hermione isn’t certain that he really wants to go hiking, but she watches in amusement as he puts on his Muggle boots. She tells him that he looks like Indiana Jones, with his khaki pants and leather knapsack, but he doesn’t understand her jest. Instead, he rolls his eyes before he takes her hand, and the world disappears around them.

Draco tells her that they will be exploring the magical side of the Aiguilles Rouges. She’s excited, bouncing on her feet as he guides her up the path. At first she doesn’t spy any differences in her magical surroundings than from the pictures of the Muggle trails she’s looked at online, but then she spies them. Fairies whizz in and out of the forest trees, their lights illuminating the plethora of colours as the foliage changes from summer to fall. They are surrounded by a canopy of orange, gold, and brown. It's breathtakingly beautiful, and in the centre of it all, Draco looks at ease. His hair is windswept, with his hands in his pockets. There is a sheen to his brow, and despite being surrounded by nothing but beauty, his gaze is transfixed on her.

Like she is the most exquisite thing he has ever seen.

Hermione bites her lip, and his grin turns roguish. He moves, pulling her into his arms in a swift motion. 

“Keep biting that lip, Granger, and we won’t make it to the peak. You wanted to see the valley, right?” His voice is low, laced with a threat that she knows he will act on, but she isn’t afraid. If anything, his promise only excites her.

Draco’s grip is firm on her waist, his touch seeping through her thin flannel, warming her to the core. 

“What if I’d rather see you?”

“That is an awful response.” He rolls his eyes, but there is no vehemence behind his remark.

“Would you rather I say: Draco Malfoy, remove me from this mountain so you can fuck me senseless?” She raises a questioning brow, but her lips spread into the type of grin that makes the corners of her eyes crinkle.

“I would actually.” And Draco does the unexpected, he takes her hand and runs.

Back down the trail, away from the wards.

They can’t shed their clothes fast enough after he Apparates them into his chambers. He wastes no time in pushing her jacket from her shoulders and her pants from her legs. 

She laughs, falling into the nearest chair as her trousers get caught on her boots. “Draco, slow down.”

He looks up from where he crouches at her feet, undoing her laces. He looks so young, so carefree, and she wants to be lost in him, in this moment of time. 

“Take a shower with me?” he asks, but it is more of a statement than a question, and Hermione can’t help but tilt her head in confusion.

“Wh-what?”

His smirk transforms into a grin, and she spies the small dimple to his left check. “What part didn’t you understand, Granger? Take a shower with me or a bath, whichever you prefer.” He tugs her trousers from her legs, leaving her in her knickers and bra before him. “Besides,” he leans forward, capturing her lips in a heated kiss. “If you want me to lick your glorious cunt until you come, you’ll join me.” 

He leans back, and Hermione notices a glimmer in his grey eyes. This close she can see the silver flecks that surround the black of his pupils. 

He is beautiful.  

“Okay.” Her agreement comes in the form of a whisper. 

After weeks together, this is something new .

Draco shucks his shirt to the side, kicking off his own boots before leading her into the master bath. There is a large, porcelain clawfoot tub with a gold faucet that sits in the centre of the washroom. The his–and–her sinks are a white marble that waterfalls onto the floor. It is as if the entire bathroom has been constructed from one slab of stone. It’s endless, with no beginning or end. She eyes the shower, wanting to go to it. It's less intimate, and she thinks she would be much more comfortable there, but Draco is already making his way to the tub. He tosses his belt to the ground, and the buckle echoes against the stone.  

She watches him intently as he runs the water, charming it to a steaming heat. He flicks his wand, summoning unfamiliar oils from the cabinet, pouring them into the tub with the precision of a potioneer. After a moment, she is greeted with the scents of lavender and patchouli. Draco’s hair is mussed, falling over his forehead in silky strands as he works. She wants to run her fingers through it, feel the fine texture against her skin. He raises his head, looking at her with heat in his eyes, and warmth floods her veins, pooling in her belly. Draco stands, smirking as he undoes his trousers and removes them. Her eyes trace over the lattice work of silver scars that cover his chest before they rest, lingering on his half-hard cock. Hermione watches as he strokes himself once before entering into the tub.

“Are you planning on just watching, Granger?”

Hermione shakes her head, curls bouncing lightly. She unclasps her bra and shimmies out of her knickers, leaving her bare before him. She approaches the tub cautiously, as though her acceptance of his gesture is more than just a shared bath. It's a new form of intimacy, another barrier broken between them. Draco offers her his hand, and Hermione takes it as she steps into the deep tub. The water is perfect, hot without scalding, and the oils caress her skin like velvet. She sinks, nestling herself between Draco’s thighs, resting her back against his chest.

He hums in contentment, bringing his hands up her arms to rub at her shoulders and neck. He is almost doting in the way he runs his fingers through her curls, massaging the water and oils into her hair. The affection he shows her fills Hermione with a feeling that she can't seem to place, but she pushes the thought from her mind as she lays her head back against Draco’s shoulder. She looks up at him, studying the line of his jaw, the bridge of his nose, to how his blond lashes dust his cheeks just so. He’s focused on how his hands move across her body under the water, and from here she can see how his pupils slowly devour the molten silver of his eyes. 

Those captivating eyes. 

Chills erupt over her skin despite the heat of the water—the heat of his touch. He notices it because the corner of his mouth quirks, and he glides his hand up the planes of her stomach to ghost the underside of her breasts. Her nipples tighten in anticipation of his hand, but he doesn’t raise them further. Instead, he runs his forefinger along the purple scar. She hates that her mind compares them at this moment, but she can’t stop the train of thoughts nevertheless. Ron would have never touched her in this way, choosing instead to shy away from the scar leftover from Dolohov’s curse. She doesn’t fault him for that, not really. Ron wasn’t able to reconcile the past from the present or look at her scars as something of value. To him, they were a reminder that he’d failed her, but to Draco? 

They are a reminder of growth. 

“You’re so exquisite,” he whispers and his breath along her neck sends her arching into his touch.

How has he not touched her yet? Better yet, why hasn’t he touched her?

Hermione feels his smirk as he moves his lips along her neck. His touch is light, barely there, and she turns her head demanding more. She can feel his cock stirring behind her, pressing against her arse, and there is an ache forming between her thighs. She shifts, pressing back against him and Draco growls. 

“Greedy witch.”

He’s hot against her skin, and she wants to touch him, to feel the heaviness of him in the palm of her hand. She goes to spin, water splashing, but Draco grips her hip, halting her movements.

“Not yet,” he whispers, his voice gruff. 

He pulls her back between his legs and snakes his hand to the apex of her thighs. He brushes his finger through her slit and groans at her wetness. He strums his thumb over her clit with expert precision while his other hand teases her nipples. He knows her body, has learned every way to touch her, to break her apart until he is the only one capable of putting her back together.

He’s ruined her and saved her, and Hermione knows in her bones that she will never be the same. 

She moans when he slips a finger into her; it's wanton and desperate, but she can’t find it within herself to care. Draco presses his cock against her, pulling her tighter against him. They are skin on skin, and she burns for him. She wonders if this is what it's like to be a phoenix? Will she combust from the touch of Draco’s hand until she is reborn from her ashes? He presses another finger inside, and she feels herself flutter around the stretch. It’s so good, so filling, and as he continues to rub at her clit, her hips move to meet his hand. 

Her curls are wet, plastered to her shoulders—to Draco’s arms–but neither of them mind. His breath is hot against her shoulder as his fingers curl forward, stroking that spot that blinds her with pleasure.

She bites her lip to keep from crying, and Draco suddenly stops, pinching her nipple hard.

“None of that, Granger. I want to hear you.”

Merlin, she’s boneless, whimpering as she nods her head. 

“Good girl,” he purrs, sinking his teeth into her shoulder as his fingers move. The pain is sharp, stinging and Draco licks over the indents of his teeth. 

He strokes her burning embers until her blood singes each nerve as it pulses through her body. She’s going to come, shatter around his fingers. She whimpers, crying with need; each brush along her clit, each stroke of his fingers in her cunt only pushes her further towards release. Draco knows she’s close; he can tell by the way she moves. He kneads her breasts, teasing her peaked nipples all while whispering filthy things in her ear.

She’s over-stimulated–her breasts, her cunt, his voice. It’s all too much and it sends her to places that she hadn’t even fathomed. Hermione never knew that pleasure could be this. 

“Come for me, love.” 

It’s that word.

That term of endearment in his husky voice that pushes her over the edge. She clamps around his fingers, pulling him deeper, and her hands move, snaking around his neck to tangle in his hair, holding him close. Her orgasm burns, scorching her veins until she is new. 

Draco doesn’t give her time to recover. He pulls his fingers from her sex, spinning her in the tub until her legs bracket his thighs, and he’s kissing her. It's glorious and slow, and he tastes like spearmint. Hermione suspects, but as her slickend hands cup his jaw, holding his face to hers, she pushes the thought away, burying it deep within her. 

Hermione traces her fingers over his chest, dancing along his scars until she takes his cock in her hand. Her fingers curl around his shaft and he’s heavy. She strokes him, and Draco bites his lip, watching her face as she lowers herself onto him until he’s sheathed inside of her with one smooth motion. She relishes in the stretch, at the feel of him. He fits her perfectly, and when his hands settle on her waist and her arms wrap around his neck, she feels complete. 

Like the last piece of her missing puzzle has fallen into place. 

He kisses her once before burying his head in the bend of her shoulder.

“Don’t let the water leave the tub,” he demands, trailing his lips along her collarbone.

She doesn’t understand at first. Her mind is clouded by the pleasure he’s giving her because with each grind of her hips, Draco hits that deep spot, and her vision blurs. Her hips rock against him, sending the water falling over the edge and puddling onto the ground. She’s so consumed by the feel of him that she doesn’t hear the splashing, completely ignores the way the water ripples around them.

Draco’s hands tighten on her hips, halting her. She opens her eyes to look at him, confused.

“I said, don’t let the water leave the tub,” and then he’s moving her— slowly.

It’s tantalising, the pace he sets.

The way she feels herself climbing towards release is like trying to run through the water they reside in. It’s slow, oh so very slow, but it’s powerful. Hermione feels each stroke of his cock within her, each gentle thrust forward, and it leaves her breathless. She knows Draco as well as she knows herself, and despite him hiding this as a challenge, she understands what it really is. It's written in the way his eyes soften as he watches her ride him; it's clear in the way his hands grip her hips.

This is not a quick fuck between two bodies.

This is fulfilment between two souls.

It’s that knowledge that pushes her over the edge. She’s coming, shattering in his arms. Draco moves his hand, running it up and down her spine, kissing every inch of her that he can find while her orgasm ignites every nerve in her body as though he is the composer of a symphony that only he knows. Lips press to her matted curls, her forehead, her temple, her mouth, he’s holding her close, and then Draco’s coming, spilling himself inside of her. 

She falls, pressing herself into his neck, breathing him in while her hands tangle in his hair. They have to go back tomorrow, back to London, to their lives and their responsibilities. Draco’s arms tighten around her as if he realises the same thing. 

But that is not until tomorrow, and this is today. 

Chapter Text

Draco–Present, August 2009. 

Another day of failures. 

That is what his life seems to consist of nowadays. 

Failures, both past and present.

He stares at the floating numbers in front of him, gaze flickering to the experimental potion brewing in his copper cauldron on the table, and nothing is right . He has been at this for almost a year now with no breakthrough. No progress. Nothing.   

And that irks Draco more than he would like to admit. 

Things were easier when his partner wasn’t a dimwitted fool. It isn’t that he outright loathes Anthony Goldstein, but he isn’t her. He should be over it by now, the loss, the ache, but somehow that longing settles in the recesses of his mind like a phantom pain that he can’t quite seem to free himself of. 

He’s shackled by her memories.

He misses the sex, of course he does. 

There have been others since her, but they haven’t quite fit. They have left him sated but unfulfilled. 

But truthfully, that's not the real issue.

He misses her, but it's her friendship that he misses most of all. 

But when he thinks about it too much, even now, five years later, he finds himself angry.

Angry for not being more honest.

Angry for not making her listen.

Angry that they were both too prideful and too stubborn to admit what was in front of their faces. 

And now it's gone, but not entirely, and that almost makes it worse. His feelings for her are like a dying ember that refuses to smoulder; it clings to each breath of his oxygen as a last resort.

A reminder that she is still there. 

She’s a char on his very soul, and Draco wants to hate her for that, but he can’t muster the energy.  

He doesn’t want to tarnish the memories of a time in his life that was so bright with his anger. He wants to preserve it. His weeks with her were a whirlwind of colour on an otherwise landscape of grey.

Sometimes Draco finds himself wondering if those memories of their relationship is the reason why he agreed to work on researching Magical Dysplasia in the first place. He knows she left to pursue her dream of becoming a Healer, but what if he did this for her? If he wrote to her with a breakthrough, would she finally owl him back? 

Would she listen?

Draco shakes his head as though he is capable of dispelling her from his mind. He waves his wand towards his cauldron, dismissing its contents. Anthony raises his head from where he is chopping Flabberghasted Leech at his workstation. He gives Draco a frown, his brown eyes looking at him wearily from behind his horn rimmed glasses. 

“Everything alright, Malfoy?” Anthony asks, wiping the slime from his hands with a towel. He runs a hand through his sandy waves nervously. He’s always awkward around Draco, so unsure of himself, and it sets Draco’s teeth on edge.

“Does it bloody look like everything’s alright?” He shucks off his white robes, tossing them on his chair. 

“I take it that Herbaria wasn’t the answer?”

“What gave it away, Goldstein?” Draco replies sardonically.

Bloody, fucking idiot, Granger would have never ask—

He makes himself stop his train of thoughts, his comparison of the two. It’ll only make things worse, and on days like today, when nothing goes right, her absence is always the heaviest. 

Sometimes he worries he will cripple under the weight. 

He’s so tired, and despite taking Dreamless Sleep the previous night, he doesn’t feel rested. The nightsweats are making his sheets cling to his skin, and he can’t turn off his mind long enough to fall asleep peacefully. He doesn’t want to become dependent on a potion for rest, and he knows that Dreamless Sleep can become addictive, but after a week of fretful slumbers, Draco is desperate. He knows he’s working too hard, staying up too late, but this is all he has left—his remaining ties to St. Mungo’s and her. 

He aches when he moves, flipping through another composition book of notes and theories and arithmancy equations. 

Perhaps Occamy Egg mixed with Spleenwart would neutralise the degeneration? He tosses the notebook on his desk, lost in his own mind.

“The Flabberghasted Leech will be ready in the morning for brewing,” Anthony states as though it will break whatever awkwardness lingers in the air. 

Draco hums in acknowledgment, running his thumb along his lower lip. 

No one knows what causes the disease, and rather than focusing on the origins, Draco has dedicated his time to unravelling it at its core. If he can understand the mechanisms of the magical degeneration process then perhaps he can stop it, and once it's stopped, then he will focus on the origins. He knows it's the opposite of what she would have done.

She would have wanted to know the why rather than the how . 

But she’s not here, and Goldstien is about as useful as a flobberworm. 

“Looks like you two have survived another week of working together.” 

He turns to see Theo standing in the doorway of the lab with his arms crossed and his blue eyes gleaming. Draco huffs in agreement, rolling his eyes as he gathers his belongings. 

Theo’s smile falters as his gaze flicks from Draco to Anthony. “No changes?”

Anthony shakes his head. “We are trying Flabberghasted Leech paired with Unicorn hair tomorrow.”

Theo nods. “I’ll update Roger.”

Draco wishes it was easier to work with St. Mungo’s. Ever since the Tremblay Homestead Ward opened in January, the Department of Mysteries Research Division has been collaborating with the hospital in hopes of finding a cure, or at least a better treatment regimen. Theo had been his partner after Granger, and once the contract was signed, he took on the role as Liaison Officer between the hospital and their department. 

Anthony Goldstien was his replacement—fucker.

“Are you two ready to head to the Leaky?” Theo asks, shoving his hands into his tweed trouser pockets. “I think Blaise said he may swing by on his way home.”

“Ready to leave, yes. Ready for drinks with you bellends, no,” Draco scoffs, grabbing his messenger bag as he walks past Theo without a second glance. 

***

The Leaky Cauldron is loud—too loud. It smells of stale ale and tobacco, and even eleven years later, he still receives cautious stares from the patrons. Draco never understands why he agrees to come to these things. It isn’t like he enjoys the company of his coworkers. Sure, Theo is fine, and he considers him a close friend, but here he isn’t the Theo he knows. Under these circumstances, he’s too amicable, too agreeable, and he tries too fucking hard to make everyone get along. 

Draco understands Theo’s effort though; he appreciates why he tries so hard for their department to be cordial. Theo wasn’t able to keep their group of friends safe during the war and he sees this as his second chance. Their research—their teamwork, it may save countless lives. The healers at St. Mungo’s are relying on them to do so, to find some sort of breakthrough. No one understands why Magical Dysplasia is affecting half and purebloods more so than Muggle-borns. But, the inscrutability of it hangs over their heads, like a bell waiting to toll. Cases are increasing with no resolution in sight, and it has everyone on edge. 

Waiting.

For a deadline they can’t prepare for. 

So, Theo tries to boost morale with these weekly soirees. He invites the staff from St. Mungo’s, but only Roger Davies and Padma Patil-Zabini ever come. Draco sometimes wonders if this is why he attends? Is he hoping that she will one day show? It's a futile hope. He hasn’t heard from her in years. 

Owls gone unanswered. 

Post never returned.

Messages left on a Muggle phone. 

He’d even reached out to Padma to ask her to give her a letter.

There was never a response.

The silence was deafening, louder than a Bombarda . 

He’d seen her picture in the Daily Prophet when the Tremblay Homestead Ward opened, and that was the first glimpse he’d seen of her in quite some time. He’d stared at the moving photograph, watching as she smiled, and he couldn’t help but notice that it didn’t quite reach her eyes. He doesn’t want her to be sad or as unfulfilled as him, but Draco can’t help but wonder what has happened in her life to dull her shine. He hasn’t seen any mention of her dating in the society pages, nor has he seen an engagement announcement. 

Perhaps, she isn’t even with St. Mungo’s anymore. 

No, he would have heard if she'd left.

When he’s around Padma and Blaise, they each make it a point to not discuss her. They know she is a wound that has barely healed. He appreciates their thoughtfulness, he really does, but it’s hard to not worry, to not be curious about her wellbeing when he knows how she is. She would give and give and give all of herself, without a second thought if it meant that she would save someone else.

And Draco’s not there to tell her to slow down.

To take care of her.

He wonders who is.

Theo slides a pint over to him, breaking his melancholy with a promise of fresh ale, and Draco can’t stand the look of pity that mars his friend’s face. 

“Bad day?” He murmurs, sitting into the booth next to him. 

Draco nods, taking a steep sip of the beer. 

He tunes out the useless clatter around him as he counts down the minutes until he can leave. Anthony is discussing his idea for tweaking the calming draught for longer results with Roger while Padma and Blaise linger by the bar. 

“Mate—”

“I’m fine , Nott,” Draco seethes.

“Daphne and I are worried about you.”

“I didn’t realise my lack of fuckery made for a good dinner conversation.”

“Sod off, you know that's not what we mean. You don’t look well, Draco.”

He knows he doesn’t. 

Purple bruises cling to his under eyes and his already alabaster skin borderlines on being pallid. He knows he is a mere shell of who he was last year, and the year before, and the year before that, but with each passage of time, it seems as though he loses more of himself. 

Draco doesn’t want to think about that, though. Instead, he pinches the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes. “It’s getting close to September.”

“And it's been five years. That’s not it.”

Draco looks at him. Theo’s olive complexion glows under the dim light of the pub, but there is a kindness to his features that leaves him feeling unsettled.

It makes him decide to open up, even if it's just so. “I haven’t been resting well; late hours at the lab, a tosspot for a partner—”

“I heard that,” Anthony quips, winking at Draco before turning back to his conversation with Roger.

He looks at Theo in exasperation. “Do you see what I mean?” 

Theo frowns. “You need to loosen up. Daphne’s cousin—”

“No,” his voice is firm, the tone brokering no room for argument. “No Greengrasses.”

“Malfoy, Astoria was young, and was only—”

“I said no, Nott—just drop it, okay? It would make things too complicated, and besides, I forgave Tori a long time ago.”

Theo still looks displeased, and Draco can tell he wants to push him further, but eventually he sighs, taking a drink of his own pint. “Fine, are you still coming over Saturday for Quidditch?”

“Obviously,” he drawls, taking another swig from his beer.

“Did someone say Quidditch?” Blaise slides into the booth followed closely by Padma. She’s still in her plum healer's robes, and Draco can’t help but wonder if she is as tired as he feels. 

Padma must sense his lingering stare because she turns, looking at him. There is a deep rooted understanding between them, and as her almond eyes settle on his face she offers him a half smile. “She’s well.”

Draco nods in thanks, but nothing else is said about her. 

There's no need.  

That knowledge is addictive. It lifts the weight that Draco has been carrying, and for the first time in days, he feels as though he can breathe. If he knows she's okay, then he is free to focus on his research, and hopefully find something tangible that will help her.

The conversation turns light hearted as Quidditch is discussed, weekend plans are made, and Theo shares with Roger the upcoming trials that the department will be starting on Monday. 

Two pints later, Draco is ready to leave, and the group goes their separate ways. 

He waves off Theo and Blaise who insist on having a nightcap at Nott manor, but Draco declines and Padma mouths a silent ‘thank you’ as she pulls her husband towards the Apparition point.

“You sure you don’t want to come back to the manor? Daphne will be asleep, and I still have that good Scotch?” 

Draco’s lips quirk, but he shoves his hands into his trouser pockets, kicking at the cobblestone street. “I need a good night’s rest if I’m going to maintain my winning streak against you two pompous fucks.”

The lie burns his tongue, but Theo buys it. He laughs jovially, and it’s filled with the reminisce of one too many drinks. 

He shakes his head, sending his chestnut curls bouncing. 

“Then perhaps I’ll go wake Daph up for a late night romp.”

Draco huffs, amused at his friend's state of inebriation. “I doubt your cock would even work at the moment.”

“Oh Malfoy…you would be surprised at the things my cock can do. Daph is particularly fond when I—”

“Pippy!” Draco calls, summoning his house elf.

The crack of Apparition fills the empty streets of Diagon Alley and Theo stumbles at the intrusion. Pippy looks up at him with large violet eyes and a smile on his face. He’s dressed in a large sweater and mismatched shoes, but he looks at Draco with complete adoration.

“Master Draco calls for Pippy! Pippy came! How can Pippy be of service, Sir?”

“Pippy, it would please me if you could take Theo home to his wife. Can you do that for me?”

“Hey now…I do not need—”

But his words are cut off as the elf grabs hold of Theo’s trousers with his small hand.

“None of that, Mr. Theo. Master Draco tells Pippy to take Mr. Theo home, so Pippy does!”

“Thank you Pippy. See that Theo and his cock arrive home safely.”

Pippy nods his head, ears bouncing as he snaps his fingers, and the pair disappears before Theo can even form a response. 

Draco is alone, surrounded by the dying lights of Diagon Alley. The August air warms his face as he strolls towards the Apparition point. He’d considered leaving through the Leaky’s Muggle London exit, to allow himself time to walk and decompress, but truthfully, he is too tired and quite afraid of where he would end up. His boots echo against the ground as he walks, and he pays little mind to the shop owners closing up for the night. It is just another day that has come and gone as the cycle prepares to repeat tomorrow. 

Draco’s thoughts are dull as he steps into the Apparition point with his wand in his hand. He closes his eyes, focusing on his flat as the world around him compresses and fades away.

There’s pain.

Why is there pain?

Draco collapses to the floor of his living room as a tearing sensation rips at his right hand.

Bloody, fucking, Christ, he thinks, grasping at his arm.

He feels something that is wet and warm under his fingers, and it sends bile rising to his throat.

Draco opens his eyes as the sensation transforms. The pain sears, throbbing from his hand to his shoulder, bringing tears to his eyes until his vision blurs. He blinks rapidly, trying to clear his vision. 

“Tinsy!” His voice cracks, but the small elf appears immediately.  

Her violet eyes widen as she sees Draco laying on the ground. Her gaze traces over the large gash running from his thumb and extending around his wrist, and up his forearm. 

He's splinched himself.

And he’s severed his damn artery in the process. 

Tinsy doesn’t ask for instruction, but acts instead. She summons a small healing kit and proceeds to pour dittany into the cut. Draco hisses at the potion—it stings and singes while the smell of burning flesh lingers in the air, clinging to him with each inhale. 

“Master Draco needs St. Mungo’s,” Tinsy states as she works, wrapping his hand and arm in a clean gauze.

Draco ignores her, reaching around to pull a blood replenishing potion from the small box. He swallows in one go, tossing the empty vial to the side. 

“I’ll be fine, Tinsy. I just needed you to stop the bleeding, and you did. Thank you.”

His voice sounds distant to his ears, and he is still too light headed to move, but Draco leans his head against the sofa.

Why did I splinch? I wasn’t even drunk.

He mulls the thought over in his head as Tinsy finishes tending to his wound, examining her bandaging.

Two pints was not nearly enough to cause it.

Draco heaves.

“Master Draco!” Tinsy squeaks, reaching out to steady his shoulders. 

Draco lifts his bandaged hand, looking at it closely.

The nightsweats.

Fatigue.

Difficulty sleeping.

Trouble Apparating.

FUCK.

He spies his wand resting on the table where Tinsy had laid it before she tended to his hand. Draco takes a deep breath, concentrating on the spell that has come so naturally to him over the years. 

Accio wand, he thinks it silently at first, but nothing happens. 

He furrows his brow, but deep within he knows.

“Accio wand.” He says it more forcefully this time. His grey eyes bore into the hawthorn wood, but it doesn’t move.

Draco swallows as dread festers in every crevice of his mind. Tinsy continues to look between him and his wand, unsure if she should get it or what he wants her to do. 

“ ACCIO WAND!” It's more of a cry than a scream, but Draco can’t stop the singular tear that slips from his eye as his wand doesn’t soar into his outstretched palm.

Draco drops his hand to his lap and he feels the wetness of his tears drip onto his skin. He’s known, or at least he’s suspected it for quite some time now, but he had refused to accept it. 

How could the world be so cruel?

He supposes this fate is fitting in a way. 

What had Granger called it?

Poetic justice.

Chapter Text

Hermione—Flashback Halloween Ball at the Ministry 2003. 

“I absolutely can not wear this.” She holds up her hands in front of her as if that act alone will ward off Ginny.

“You can, and you will.” She shakes the flimsy Quidditch kit in front of her face, a devilish smirk upon her lips.

“How are you this demanding? Didn’t you just have a baby?” Hermione frowns, taking the green and silver Puddlemere jersey from Ginny’s hands. She unfolds it, holding it up. “ Why must it be so short?”

“Because it's sexy. ”

“Better question—why do you own a Puddlemere jersey?”

Ginny shrugs, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “Because I bought it for you knowing it's his favourite team, and seeing you in it will only drive the ferret insane.” Ginny turns, walking towards the bed to shuffle through several types of stockings. “I quite enjoy seeing him flustered; it's a nice change from the stick up his arse.”

Hermione shifts awkwardly. “We are–aren’t—there—” She stumbles over her words trying to explain, but Ginny glances over her shoulder with a knowing expression.

“You’re just fucking— I know. ”

***

The Ministry Galas are always a thing of wonder, but there is something particularly special about the Halloween Ball. Maybe it's the decor? Dancing skeletons fill the ballroom, and giant jack-o-lanterns line the walls. Charmed fog weaves throughout their feet, and the bar is open for all in attendance to enjoy. But really Hermione thinks it has something to do with the costumes, and how everyone in attendance is there for a night of merriment and nothing more. No one is comparing expensive dress robes or ensuring that they brush shoulders with the right people. The mood that fills the night is exuberant and jovial as they all dance the night away.

There is really nothing like it.

Halloween is a time for everyone to take a deep breath and enjoy.

It's a night to pretend that you are someone else, or anything else—it's to have fun.

After two wizarding wars, they deserve it after all.

Sometimes Hermione still has trouble grasping how she ended up in this particular situation, with this blend of friends. She had been certain that prejudices and feuds of her former classmates ran too deep–that the valley of their differences was too wide to reconcile, but she had been wrong.  

She’d confessed her dalliance with Malfoy to Ginny during one of their wine nights a few weeks prior, after having one too many glasses of Cabernet. Once the words had left her mouth, she couldn’t take them back, and unease clawed at her chest. It wasn’t that she was ashamed of her somewhat relationship with him, but she was worried about how her best friend would respond.

Her worries were for naught as Ginny had been thrilled .

For weeks, Ginny had bombarded her with questions, wanting to know every detail of their sex life, and Hermione has to admit it is quite nice being able to discuss these things with her. She has never felt comfortable divulging the details of her relationship with Ron, and it isn't like she could talk to Harry about it, but things with Draco are different. 

After Blaise and Padma’s wedding in early October, their separate social circles had slowly started to merge, and secretly, Hermione is thankful for that. Things with Ron are still awkward, but she hopes that with time they will be able to call themselves friends again. But for now, she finds comfort in Neville, Pansy, the Notts, the Zabinis, the Potters, and Draco. 

It is different, but it is good.

Now she stands in the Ministry’s ballroom slightly astonished as she takes in her group of friends. 

“Granger!” Theo purrs, walking towards her with his arms outstretched. 

He wraps her in a bear hug, and she is overwhelmed by the scent of his cologne. She peaks at Daphne over his shoulder as she returns the embrace to see her wincing as she mouths a silent apology. 

“Theodore.” She pulls back, eyeing his leather jacket, black loafers and his cuffed denims precariously. He has tamed his waves with a heavy pomade, but has left a singular curl down his forehead. He smirks and as Daphne steps up beside him, he hooks an arm around her slender waist. She’s teased and curled her blonde locks into something atrocious, but its her tight leather leggings, cropped black shirt, and the fag hanging out of her mouth that really causes Hermione’s mind to misfire. 

“Cat got your tongue, Granger?” Theo teases, pressing a kiss to Daphne’s hair. 

“Are you two Sandy and Danny?” Her disbelief is palpable as she eyes them.

She shouldn’t have ever introduced them to that movie, but even she has to admit that they are quite perfect for it. 

“We are,” Daphne responds with a giggle. 

“Hey, are you two from that musical ‘Mione made us watch?” Harry steps up beside her, twirling his Muggle handcuffs in his hand.

“Is that the movie with all the singing?” Padma asks, and Hermione’s eyes widen further as she realises the Zabini's costume choices—Helena Ravenclaw and the Bloody Baron. 

Padma’s mediaeval gown is a charcoal grey that hangs off of her slender shoulders and the sleeves pool around her wrists. There is a large red stain on her abdomen and slash in the fabric. It’s quite historically accurate, Hermione muses to herself. While Blaise, in her opinion, looks more like a Muggle pirate. Blaise tosses and catches a fake bloodied knife in the air, and that's when Hermione notices his own ‘fatal’ injury to his neck.

“It’s a classic,” Hermione protests, recovering from the shock of seeing them all.

“Tell me more, tell me more. Did you get very far?” Ginny coos, wrapping her arms around Harry’s waist as she presses a kiss to his cheek. 

“He got friendly, holding my hand!” Daphne sings.

“Well, she got friendly down in the sand,” Theo bellows, placing his hand on his crotch and thrusting.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, not this again.”

It's instantaneous—the effect his voice has on her. 

He has single handedly made her forget that they are in a crowded room. His words, his presence, it's enough to make her mind cloud and her thoughts roam. Draco has the ability to pluck her apart without even touching her, and it's honestly unfair, this effect he has on her. She feels him place his hand on her lower back, and chills erupt over each inch of her skin at the contact. She glances up, taking him in. They had refused to tell each other what they were dressing as which only added to the anticipation for the night. But now, as she allows her eyes to wonder, she can’t tell what Draco is. 

“Oh, sod off, Malfoy,” Theo pouts.

“You two have watched that movie fifteen bloody times,” Blaise drawls.

“Because it's good ,” Daphne narrows her eyes at Draco, threatening him to contradict her.

“Come on, you wankers; I don’t intend on wasting my one, child free night debating the nuances of Greased Lightning.” 

Hermione laughs as she watches Ginny drag Harry towards the Ministry’s open bar, the Notts and Zabinis trailing close behind. Hermione tries to follow, but Draco snakes his arm around her waist, pulling her against his chest. 

“And what are you supposed to be, Miss Granger?” His voice is like honey; it's deep and rich, and it drips into her every pore. 

She turns, tilting her head upwards, smiling at his darkened eyes. Draco looks at her as though she is something to devour, and to him, maybe she is. Hermione feels his hand run along the hem of her jersey until his fingers brush the back of her thigh. It’s borderline indecent, but the caress has her shifting her legs. She leans further into his touch. No one is paying attention to where they stand near the carved jack-o-lanterns and charmed skeletons, and Hermione has never been more thankful to have Draco alone. They have long since lost sight of their friends, and she can’t even spot Ginny’s striped prison jumpsuit in the crowd. 

“A Puddlemore player,” she replies in a voice that sounds sultry to her own ears. “And what are you, Mr Malfoy?” She skims her eyes downwards, eyeing his black oxford and matching black trousers, and quite frankly, it isn’t much different than his day to day attire. 

“A reformed Death Eater,” Draco whispers the words on an exhale, and his breath is hot against her ear. 

He embodies his name sake. 

Draco is a dragon breathing fire into her very soul. 

She burns for him, and it's an inferno she cannot contain.

She feels his grip tighten on her hip, and suddenly they are moving backwards until they are against the wall. She barely hears Draco cast a wandless Notice-Me-Not Charm around them before his hand is skimming up her thigh to trail his finger along the band of her knickers.

“Tell me, what position do you play?” Draco’s voice has deepened, taking on that husky tone that always makes her wanton in his hands. 

“Beater,” she manages to rasp and Draco cups her cunt, pulling her flush against him.

She whimpers at the contact and he tsks in disapproval. 

“Our lovely co-workers may not notice us, but they can still hear you, Granger.”

And that does something to her that she hadn’t expected. 

Heat pools in her belly, and she presses her arse back against him. She can feel him hardening in his trousers, and she has to bite back another groan. Draco runs his thumb against her slit, feeling the dampness that has gathered. He hums quietly, and it vibrates against her back.

“You’re already so wet for me. Tell me, Granger, are you a good beater?” Draco pushes her knickers to the side and then he’s touching her, stroking her clit gently.

The touch is so light that it almost causes her knees to buckle. She knows she has to answer him—they have played this game before. 

“I haven’t had any complaints.” She manages to keep her voice controlled despite his fingers doing torturous things.

She can feel Draco’s smile against her neck as he presses his lips against her skin. Somewhere in the recesses of her mind she knows this is wrong, that any of their Ministry co-workers or their guests could potentially notice them at any time. But Draco fucking her with his fingers has that familiar ache building, burning within her, and thoughts of repercussions are the furthest thing from her mind. 

“And you—you’re reformed?” She bites her lip, closing her eyes as Draco inserts his finger into her aching sex.

“Oh, very much so,” he pauses, inserting a second finger and curling them forward. “In fact, I’m about to fuck a Muggle-born.”

His words have her moaning, it’s so dirty, so filthy, and it has her dripping on his hand. She loves him like this, when he doesn’t hold back. He’s constantly pushing her boundaries without ever making her feel uncomfortable, and it leaves Hermione wanting more. She aches, needing to feel more than just his fingers, she needs him —desperately.  

“Come with me, we don’t need to stay for this thing.” He presses a kiss to her curls, pulling his hand from her knickers. 

She spins in his arms, her eyes tracing his face. There’s a genuineness written in his every feature, and Hermione understands. He’s only there for her . Despite being acquitted for his crimes and his magnificent work in the Department of Mysteries, Draco is still seen as a blood supremacist—a Death Eater—undeserving of a second chance.

If only the world could see him and know him as she does, then perhaps they would understand that he is multifaceted, loyal, resourceful, ambitious, and hidden behind a mask of indifference, he is kind . Draco is someone who has learned from his mistakes and has outgrown his upbringing. But out of a deep-rooted need for self-preservation, he allows others to think the worst of him. 

She never tries to correct him.

“Lead the way.”

***

Draco pulls her through the deserted halls towards the lifts that will take them to the atrium. Her platform heels echo against the glass floors, and the second time she trips, she stops. Draco turns, raising a questioning brow. She can feel the heat from his stare as she bends over, removing her heels and throwing them to the side. His gaze flickers to her bare feet as she stands before him, extending her hand.

“You’re just going to leave your shoes in the middle of the corridor?” His tone is disbelieving, but Hermione doesn’t miss the small smile that threatens to spread across his face. 

She shrugs. “They were Ginny’s. She forced me into wearing them so she will just have to deal with the repercussions of me losing them, and besides–” she moves closer to him. “You seemed in such a hurry to get me home.”

Draco attaches his lips to hers in a fury. He’s ravenous in the way he kisses her, and yet there is a tenderness in the way his hands bracket her face. He touches her as if she is something precious to hold.

Before she knows it, Draco is slipping his hand into hers and they are running. 

Her laugh is carefree as it bubbles past her lips, and it reminds her so much of running down the Aiguilles Rouges the previous month. It's these small, inconsequential moments of recklessness that she loves. It is as if in these moments, they are each making up for what the war robbed of them during their childhoods.

These moments are healing—purifying–releasing, and she never wants them to end.

The floor is cool against the soles of her feet, and she slides when Draco takes a corner much too sharp. Her hand tightens in his, and Draco looks over his shoulder. His hair has fallen over his forehead, and the smile that consumes him is brighter than the stars. 

When they stop, Draco presses the lift call bell several times as though he were a small child waiting impatiently for a sweet. When the gold doors finally appears before them, he looks at her roguishly, and it has her heart hammering in her chest.

She knows that look and what it means. 

Draco picks her up, and Hermione’s legs wrap around his waist as her hands tangle in his hair. He carries her through the parted doors, pressing her against the back of the lift. She doesn’t even know if he managed to press their desired floor , but Hermione can’t be bothered to worry as Draco nips at her neck. He’s everywhere, consuming her every thought. She’s pathetic in the way that she grinds herself against him, but he has left her wanting since he first touched her in the ballroom. 

Draco’s hands squeeze the flesh of her arse and he groans, thrusting into her. If she’s pathetic, then he is desperate, and Hermione knows he wants her—can feel how hard he is sliding against her core. 

“Please–Draco, I need you, ” she whimpers, pleading, and her nails scrape along his scalp. 

No matter how many times she’s had him, it's never enough.

In his presence, she is famished—he is a hunger that can not be sated.  

She wonders if it will always be like this? This insatiable need. 

Draco meets her eyes and she wants nothing more than to be split open by him until she can’t recognize where he ends and she begins. 

“Fuck it.”

She hears the sound of a buckle releasing, and then Draco is shifting her in his arms. He presses her harder against the wall as the lift continues its slow ascent. Draco’s hand dives beneath the jersey. His fingers wrap around the flimsy strip of fabric and rips, throwing her tattered knickers to the floor.

She feels him thrust into her in a swift motion, and then he’s fucking her— hard —against the lift wall.

Hermione throws her head back against the glass, and Draco’s lips are at her throat instantly. He bites and sucks at her flesh in between grunts of:

“So fucking tight.”

“Golden cunt—bloody fucking made for me.”

“Mine.”

It’s all so lewd, but so fucking perfect coming from his lips. 

She clings to him tighter, her nails digging through the cotton of his shirt as he fucks her with precision, and the heat that has pooled in her belly transforms into something different.

Hope.

Could his words be true? Could Draco think that she was made for him and him for her?  

Is she his?

Could she believe him?

It's the possibility of that last thought that has her unravelling by the seams, and Hermione is coming utterly undone in Draco’s arms. 

He’s unrelenting in the way he continues to fuck her through her orgasm, and she knows by the way Draco’s fingers press into her hips and the erratic thrusts that he’s close. He buries his head in her shoulder as he chases his own pleasure. He snaps his hips hard , once, twice and then he is filling her with a deep groan. Neither are able to move for a moment, content to just bask in the afterglow of their pleasure, but the lift starts to slow. 

Draco slides out of her, helping to stand her on the ground before casting a quick Scourgify over them. He rights her clothing, ensuring she is covered before he tucks himself back into his trousers. They are each a bit breathless and she reaches up, brushing a slickened strand of hair from his eyes. Hermione allows her hand to linger on his jaw, and she caresses her thumb along the flush that adorns his cheek. Draco smiles at her wistfully, turning his head to press a kiss to her palm. 

With a ding, the lift’s double doors slide open. Draco takes her hand in his as they step into the deserted atrium. The lift is gone before Hermione remembers to retrieve her destroyed knickers, but it's too late now. 

“My knickers,” she seethes, narrowing her eyes, but he only shrugs, nonplussed. 

She opens her mouth to say more but Draco silences her with a kiss, “I’ll buy you a new pair, Granger.”

She rolls her eyes when he pulls away and they each glance at the rows of vacant Floos. 

“My flat or yours?” He asks, bringing the back of her hand to his lips, brushing a kiss along her knuckles. 

“Yours.”

Chapter Text

Hermione—Present time, August 2009

Hermione sits in her home office sipping her lemon tea as she reviews her patient caseloads for the day. She likes this time alone to calm her mind before she goes to St. Mungo’s. It’s quiet–tranquil, and it gives her an opportunity to prepare for her day. In between the scheduled and rare emergent consultations, she occupies her time with helping Roger brew, ensuring that they always have enough potions on hand. But Wednesdays are different; they are hers. She spends the day reviewing the notes that Healer Williams takes of their patients in between their monthly check-ins with her, because early on in her career, Hermione discovered that providing proficient patient care required more than just her own efforts. She wasn’t able to properly assess and monitor each patient’s disease progression on her own, especially with the increase in new case consultations. 

She doesn't want to just consult and then step away, never to be seen again. She wants to be involved—to be able to possibly catch and slow an evolving symptom before it turns into something worse. Hermione knows she is just chasing the inevitable, that the symptoms are certain to occur as the disease progresses, but it doesn't stop her from wanting to ease them. Healer Williams joined their team in March, and so far their system seems to be working. He meets with their patients on a weekly basis to perform physical and magical assessments. He then records his findings for Hermione’s review on Wednesday, and that allows her to make any necessary adjustments to their treatment plan. 

It is time consuming, but worth it.

Hermione’s eyes narrow when she hears the chime of her Mag-iCalender. She pulls her stacks of manila files from atop the magical planner to see that under her ten o'clock slot there is a new consultation. Exasperation flares in her chest. Mr. Bennet knows that she does not perform consultations on Wednesdays, and furthermore, there is not even a patient name listed.

She huffs in annoyance, shoving the planner to the side.

***

Hermione enters St. Mungo’s at a quarter till ten through a dilapidated, red brick building that to the Muggle World is known as Purge and Dowse, Ltd. She waves at the registration witch and eyes the lobby that is slowly filling with patients needing to be seen. She spies Healer Evans holding open a golden door as a wizard steps through. Hermione always holds her breath with uncertainty when she sees Healer Evans at work, never knowing when she will receive the next referral. 

Hermione turns into the corridor that will lead to her office where her ‘new’ consultation awaits her. She sighs, adjusting her messenger bag on her slender shoulder as she walks down the hall. Her flats echo softly against the wooden floors, and she nods her head politely as she passes Padma leading Mr. Robert Podmore towards her therapy room. She takes a deep breath as her hand settles on the brass latch to her door. She pushes away the annoyance of the morning as she tries to remind herself that whoever is behind her door is in need of help , and that regardless of her intentions to not see patients on Wednesdays, it is her duty to provide care.  

When the door swings open Hermione feels as though she is sinking through time. 

She sees his blond hair first.

He stands with his back to her, studying the lines of literature that adorn her walls. 

She can’t breathe.

It’s been years, but that doesn’t matter. She would know the broadness—the shape of his shoulders anywhere. 

She remembers vividly how it felt to grip them as he fucked her.

But, she also remembers how it felt to trace her fingers over each indentation of muscle when he would lay his head in her lap. It was the quiet evenings when they did nothing more than read, basking in each other's presence.

She can’t understand why he is here—why he has chosen to seek her out now.

In the earliest days he had written, called her, and even had asked Padma to talk to her. She had wanted to break under the weight of his temptation, but her pride had refused. 

He had already made her a fool—an embarrassment he would not.

But even then, when the wound was still fresh, Draco had never cornered her.

Owls went unanswered. 

His post were never returned.

His messages left on her Muggle phone were erased. 

Eventually, he had stopped trying, and Hermione attempted to take back the parts of herself she had so freely given. 

Her trust.

Her joy.

Her heart.

She never did find the last piece of her puzzle, it was as though each time Draco had left he took part of her with him.

But sometime over the past five years, she has learned to live without it. 

She is incomplete, but mostly whole.

Mostly.

His memories no longer haunt her, but they are an echo.

And now, seeing him standing so casually in her office, he is a crescendo, demanding to be heard.

Draco turns and her breath catches.

She had tried to forget how captivating his eyes were, but time and space has not diminished their beauty— his beauty.

She can’t breathe.

She can’t think.

She’s drowning in the depths of an ocean of grey.

Why does this still hurt so much?

They each look at one another, and trepidation hangs in the air.

Her olive robes feel heavy in her arms, and she wants nothing more than to drop everything and run.

That’s what she had done anyway.

The pain in her chest is like breaking a stitch, reopening a wound that was almost healed.

She’s afraid to open her mouth, too afraid of the things she might say.

But as he always has, Draco reads her perfectly. He puts his hands in his pockets, and she watches the rise of his shoulders as he inhales.

“I’m sorry to surprise you for a consultation, but I was afraid if you knew it was me,” he pauses, taking a step towards her. Draco swallows and her eyes flicker to the column of his throat. “You wouldn’t agree to see me.”

His statement stings, and she winces at the weight of his words. 

It's a sobering truth.

But her guard remains.

Hermione allows the door shut behind her, and Draco’s shoulders visibly relax. She walks towards her desk, focusing on putting one foot in front of the other. She can’t bring herself to look at him as she lays her bag in her chair. 

She flips open a blank page of her notepad and picks up her favourite pen. “A consultation? You didn’t see Healer Evans.” 

She finds it in her to raise her eyes to his. To most, he would appear indifferent, bored even, but she knows, can tell by the way his mouth is set and the weariness to his eyes that it is just a mask, a fabrication. 

Draco is nervous.

She gestures towards the facing chairs. 

He sits across from her, his ankle atop his knee. She watches as he picks at the hem of his trousers, not meeting her eyes for a moment.

“I didn’t. Is that an issue, Granger?” He raises his head to look at her.

And there it is.

The challenge.

The defiance.

Her surname.

And it cleaves into her mind.

Searching—digging — threatening to uproot the memories.

But, it’s all for naught. 

The memory is walking, breathing, and sitting right in front of her.

“Healer Granger,” she corrects, crossing her ankles and straightening her spine. 

She needs barriers, has to have them if she is going to make it. Hermione sees a flicker of hurt that flashes across his eyes, but it is gone before she can dwell on it, and it takes any lingering warmth in the room with it. 

“Of course, my apologies, Healer Granger.” His tone is clipped, cold, and it fills her veins with ice. Hermione recoils at the sting. It's unfamiliar and hurtful, and nothing like the way he used to speak to her.

But that was then, and this is now, and this—this distance—this space , is needed.

There are kilometres between them despite their proximity.

She inhales, but that makes things so much worse. 

Birch and spice floods her senses, and it ripples through her mind like a tide, washing away each of her barriers. 

He’s everywhere.

Her consciousness.

Her subconsciousness.

Draco’s in front of her, physically, mentally, and she can’t escape him. 

He’s a bruise on her very soul, pressing — stinging —reminding her that she has not healed.

Hermione shifts; she’s angry at herself, angry at him for being here, and reminding her of everything. Draco hasn’t even said anything untowards, and yet he’s knocking at her, begging her to uncover everything she’s tried to forget. 

Hermione grips her pen harder. 

No initial exam, the tip scratches against her notepad as she writes. She has to distract herself, to look at something other than the ways his fingers trail along the hem of his pants.

“We have a way we do things here, Mr Malfoy. If you are seeking a consultation, you are first seen by Healer Evans, who then will evaluate your symptoms, and put you in contact with Mr. Bennet, who then schedules your consultation with me.”

She hears Draco snort.

She snaps her head to his, eyes narrowing. “What’s so funny?”

“You called me Mr Malfoy.” The look of disbelief that adorns his face floods her with anger, simmering beneath the surface of her skin like a solar flare. 

Hermione seethes. “I don’t see the issue. I’m being professional.”

“Right—professional.” He waves his hand, dismissing her statement as though it was of little importance. “I apologise for my outburst, please continue.”

She grits her teeth, shutting her notepad with a controlled precision. “ Why–why are you here?”  

Draco’s face falters, his mask slipping. “I have the symptoms of Magical Dysplasia.”

His words hang in the air, waiting for her to grasp, but they are just slightly out of reach.

They fall through her fingers like trying to catch smoke.

“H–how do you know?” She chokes, her mouth suddenly dry.

“Come off it, Granger. Who do you think has been footing your fucking research in the Department of Mysteries? The fatigue, the nightsweats, difficulty using magic? For fucks sake, I splinched myself last week.”

His magic.

It was one of the things she had been initially drawn to.

One of the things she had craved. 

Draco was powerful, his magic pure. 

She would watch him with fascination while he worked, entranced by the way his magic came and flowed from him effortlessly. 

It was beautiful—magnificent—orphic.

And when it had merged, tangling with hers on those intimate occasions, she’d thought it was kismet. 

She can’t accept it, and refuses to entertain it. Despite the ruin they had brought to one another, Hermione would have never wished this upon him. 

She licks her lips, looking away, overwhelmed with emotions that she is not ready to face.

But, she has to ask, and has to know how. “Did you—”

“Theo.”

“And he–”

“Put me down for today.”

Of course he did, her lips twitch, threatening to curve upward at his omission. She can’t be angry at Theo, not for this. 

Hermione flips her notepad back open, listing what Draco had shared: fatigue, night sweats, difficulty using magic, splinching. 

“Will you help me, Granger?”

She stares at the cream paper and its contrast against the blue ink of her penmanship. Her eyes sting, prickling with tears. It's his tone— the softness —the apprehension that permeates each syllable of his voice.

It’s the same tone he used when he’d first called her ‘love.’

“There’s no cure, Malfoy.” She wills the words from her mouth, wishing she could say anything else. 

“Not yet,” he counters.

She looks up slowly. Her heart hammers in her chest with a new anticipation.

“What do you mean?” She tries to conceal the hope from her voice but it quivers, betraying her.

“Help me research this— together— please . ”

Her stomach drops. She can’t fathom working with him, not again, not after everything .

Draco must see the reluctance forming on her face. He uncrosses his legs, leaning his elbows on his knees— pleading with her. 

Can she listen? 

Better yet.

Will she listen this time?

She didn’t before, and she knows it wouldn’t have changed his diagnosis, but things wouldn’t be like this between them —they wouldn’t be like they are now. But the damage is done, and there’s no undoing it. She’s scarred—forever marked, and Hermione can’t allow herself to spiral into the madness of what ifs and should haves while Draco sits before her begging her for help.

If she agrees, will she perhaps finally heal, be able to move on?

“We always worked well together.” There's reverence in his voice when he speaks, and it anchors her, preventing her from drifting further out to sea.

She had to concede, he was right. 

They always did.

Their branch of the Department of Mysteries had more developmental breakthroughs during their four years as partners than any other. 

But it didn’t change their history together.

How things ended between them.

Her silence remains, and Draco runs a hand over the back of his neck. 

She takes the time to look, really look at him.

Hermione had been so shocked by his presence that she’d completely ignored the details. 

She sees the beads of sweat starting to form along his brow. Dark circles contrast against his pallor, clinging to the thin skin of his under eyes. Her gaze trails lower, noting the pink scar that wraps around his right thumb before disappearing beneath the cuff of his sleeve.

He is sick.

Draco must take her silence as a ‘no’ because his shoulders cave in, and his fingers lace together in his lap. He looks out the window of her office, avoiding her gaze. 

“I didn’t think you were this cruel, Hermione,” he mutters quietly.

“Excuse me?” 

Draco looks at her and for the first time since the beginning of their encounter, he looks defeated. 

“I didn’t think you would actually refuse to help me. I thought we could,” Draco pauses on a shaky breath, running a shaking hand through his hair. “Just leave the past behind and do this— find a cure — not just for me, but for everyone.”

He needs this, she thinks.

And perhaps she does too.

“Okay.”

“Okay,” he repeats warily.

“Yes—I’ll help you.” And she will, conditionally. 

His grey eyes pin her, assessing her for any sign of deceit. She tries not to fidget under his scrutiny, but she fails, twirling her pen between her fingers. 

His lips quirk, but he quickly schools his features, sinking back into his mask of stoicism. “What’s your condition, Granger?”

“You begin a potion treatment, and complete a thorough diagnostic workup.” 

“Fine, but not today.”

“Malfoy, we need to start. Your symptoms—”

“Theo wants to be present when I find out how far it's progressed, and he’s tied up at the DoM for the rest of the day. Can you do it tomorrow?”

She nods, and suddenly a sense of gratitude for Theo pours over her. “Tomorrow. I also have other stipulations.”

He chuckles. It's rich and so familiar, and she can’t stop the slight upward tilt of her lips that cracks her resolve. 

“Of course you do.” He waves his hand, motioning for her to continue.

“I do new patient consultations on Mondays and Tuesdays. Wednesday I review our patients’ charts and make adjustments—those days are off limits, it's non-negotiable.”

Draco stands, adjusting his trouser pants. “Thursdays and Fridays it is. Got it.” 

He looks at her like he wants to say more, but he doesn’t. Instead, he puts his hands in his pockets, and walks towards the door. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Granger— thank you .” He calls over his shoulder without looking back.

And then he’s gone, leaving Hermione with more questions than answers as she stares at the now vacant chair. She bites her lip, replaying their whole conversation in her head, realising that she doesn’t know exactly how to feel now that he’s left.

Chapter Text

Hermione Flashback Christmas Eve 2003. 

Have a holly jolly Christmas

It's the best time of the year

Now I don't know if there'll be snow

But have a cup of cheer

Christmas carols play from the radio as Hermione hums to herself, mixing sugar cookie batter by hand. Cooking and baking with magic is something that she never quite got the hang of. Molly had briefly tried to teach her, but it is one area of magic that she is more than happy to ignore. Part of her wonders if her reluctance was born from a deep-rooted need to preserve some ties to her Muggle upbringing. 

To her mum.

Despite the fresh taupe paint, olive cabinets, and new appliances, this is still her childhood kitchen. Home renovations can not remove the memories of learning to bake and cook alongside her mum. 

Jean Granger would say, “A recipe is a story that ends with a good meal. It’s symbolic of love, and it's one of the greatest gifts you can give.”  

Hermione isn’t sure that sugar cookies are an appropriate symbol of love, but it’s something , and recently her words have felt inadequate. She’s nervous for tonight, and she isn’t entirely certain why. 

By now they have spent countless nights together, but this feels different.

Monumental.

Even though they will be parting ways in the morning, this feels as though they are standing at a crossroads. 

And she can’t help but wonder what it means.

For her.

For him.

They belong in two different worlds—pureblood and Muggle-born. 

He has Christmas dinner at the Manor with his mother, and she has brunch at the Burrow.

And yet… 

She had thought things between them would have faded by now, fizzled out and died, but months later Draco is still here, and it frightens her. She’s become dependent on him, and she doesn’t want to fathom what would become of her if he left. She imagines it would be like losing a part of herself. 

She stirs the batter harder. 

She’s never been the type of girl who lost herself to a boy. She has always managed to keep her wits about herself. Hermione recalls her time at Hogwarts, and how strongly she had judged Parvati and Lavender when they would cry and throw themselves over their classmates. 

The irony, she thinks. 

But this thing with Draco is different . He’s become an extension of herself, and Hermione is unable to pinpoint when that happened. She can’t picture herself without him. When she envisions her future…. he’s there, and that terrifies her because they have yet to say what this thing is between them. 

When she is with him, she feels like she’s trying to cup water in her hands. 

She’s able to hold it for a moment before it leaks, slipping through her grasp. There’s no reason to feel this way; Draco hasn’t given her any reason to do so, and logically she knows this. But in the recesses of her mind, there is a gnawing thought that will not go away. It demands to be heard.

What are they? 

Draco and she have never defined their relationship, which means he isn’t really hers, and she can’t shake the feeling that her time with him is running out. 

She thought she loved the ambiguity of it, but now? She wants nothing more than the reassurance that he is hers. But she doesn’t know how to ask that of him—how to even broach the topic. Instead she pushes it from her mind, cupping her hands a bit tighter. 

Her Floo roars to life, and Crookshanks meows as Draco walks into her kitchen. She looks up, smiling from where she stands at the island pressing cookie cutters into her batter. Draco sits their dinner, courtesy of Pippy, on her table, and eyes the shapes cynically. 

“What is that one supposed to be, Granger?” He places the palms of his hands against the granite, tilting his head as he studies the shapes. 

There’s a glint to his eyes and a mischievous smirk to his lips, and Hermione wants nothing more than to push , and see how far he will take her. 

“It’s Rudolph; he’s from a Muggle Christmas story.”

“He looks a bit stodgy. Is that supposed to be a nose? Why is it red?”

“Because he had to light the way for the sleigh, and—”

And suddenly Draco is laughing.

“You know what, forget it. You’re watching the movie tonight, it’s a Christmas classic, tradition. ”

“You said that about Grease,” Draco drawls.

“That’s because it is!” She replies incredulously.

“Granger, they each changed who they were so that the other would love them.” He steps around the counter, stopping right in front of her. His grey eyes sweep over her face, searching, studying, and it's so intimate that Hermione finds herself unable to breathe. The gravel in his voice when he next speaks leaves Hermione’s thoughts convoluted as she tries to understand. “When you love someone you don’t try to change them. You embrace them, fully. Your Muggle film was about two people who were infatuated with one another, and their desire to fuck. What they shared—that wasn’t love.”

He’s pulled the brick from her tower and suddenly her fortress is crumbling. His words are too heavy, too profound, and she doesn’t want to think about what he could really be saying.

What she secretly hopes he is alluding to. 

But Hermione’s too indecisive, and she has to do something. 

She needs to prevent her traitorous mind from forming thoughts that transform into traitorous words. 

She can’t ruin this.

Instead, she reaches into her bowl of batter and throws a handful against Draco’s face. 

He looks at her dumbfoundedly, and she sees the moment that shock rapidly transforms into retribution. He reaches up, running his thumb over his batter smeared cheek before placing the digit in his mouth, sucking it clean.

Hermione’s eyes widen at the sight, but when Draco reaches over, plucking an egg from the carton, she takes a step back. He has a devilish grin on his face, tossing the egg in the palm of his hand. 

“Now, Granger, that was not very polite.” He catches it effortlessly.

She raises her hands in front of her. “You insulted Grease.” 

And then Draco moves, flattening the egg on top of her head. She squeaks , feeling the wet yolk seeping into her curls as her mouth parts in shock. He grins in triumph, as the dimple on his left cheek appears. 

She bites her tongue, holding back the smile that longs to break free as her hands dig into the bowl of flour, and she shucks it at his face. Crookshanks screeches, darting from the kitchen. Hermione’s laughter drowns out the Christmas music as she flees to safety on the other side of the island, just outside of Draco’s reach. He looks positively murderous. Flour covers his face, clinging to the batter in clumps. He glances down at his jumper; his emerald cashmere is now stained white. He raises a brow, and when he finally looks to where she stands gripping the carton of eggs for dear life, he laughs, his anger dissipating into a challenge. 

“You stay over there, Draco Malfoy.” 

He stalks towards her, and she moves, grasping an egg firmly in her hand. 

“Or what, Granger?” He taunts her, dragging a finger through the batter of her destroyed Rudolph. Draco picks up her sugar container, twisting it in his hands.

Hermione doesn’t answer him. Instead, she launches the egg towards him, and it collides against his shoulder. Yellow yolk bleeds down his arm, and Draco shakes his head. He grabs fistfuls of the sugar, throwing it against her in rapid succession. She cries in laughter, closing her eyes as she holds the carton in front of her like a shield, but Draco is relentless. She throws another egg but it misses, and somewhere in the distance, Crookshanks howls in protest. 

It's chaos.

It’s misconduct.

It’s madness.

It’s the type of reckless abandon that only he is capable of creating within her.

And she gives in freely, willingly.

She feels something viscous on her skin, and she cracks an eye. Draco stands before her holding an empty bottle of oil in his hand, a smug smile adorning his face. He tosses it to the ground, prowling towards her. 

She holds another egg in defence or defiance—she isn’t sure which. 

Draco’s lips curve into a seductive smirk. “Put the eggs down, Granger.”

Hermione tries to flee, but she slips, falling into a mess of oil, flour, and egg on the floor. More eggs crack in the tumble, and she tries to crawl away, but he’s there, pinning her to the ground. 

He’s always there.

His body heat envelops her, cloaking her, and she smells the sugar twining with his cologne. Hermione twists, lying on her back to look up at him.

“I told you to put the eggs down.” Blond hair falls effortlessly over his forehead, and his eyes are molten. “But you never listen, do you Granger?” 

And suddenly she doesn’t think they are talking about eggs and flour anymore.

Her throat is dry, and she doesn’t understand.

Or perhaps she doesn’t want to—not really—because that would mean it’s real.

Draco is speaking to her as though he is begging for her to comprehend—to see.

But how can she when she refuses to accept what’s in front of her and in her heart?

He stares at her intensely, and there’s a longing in his eyes that leaves her feeling exposed.

She’s raw, flayed beneath him. 

Her heart is his for the taking, but he’s already stolen it. 

Pocketed it.

And she almost thinks it's worse, because if he means what he’s implying, then she’s an even bigger fool.

This is what you want, she thinks. 

But she can’t bring herself to ask.

She would rather live in naivety than risk being wrong.

She feels the water slipping through her hands as the silence lingers. 

Hermione licks her lips, her voice hoarse. “Just a stubborn Gryffindor.” 

She watches as the longing in his eyes is replaced by sadness, and Hermione thinks she might’ve made a mistake. 

But Draco doesn’t speak; he leans down, pressing his lips to hers.

***

Several cleaning charms and one hot shower later, Hermione lays in Draco’s arms. Their conversation from earlier is seemingly forgotten. 

That's what they do best though. They push and they pull, but they always skirt around what really needs to be said.

Each too prideful to admit their fear.

Each too afraid of getting hurt. 

Each too comfortable, but desperate for more.

She traces a finger along the latticework of scars that mar his chest, both sated from their time together in the shower. He’d washed the yolk from her hair, and then taken her against the tiles until she couldn’t think straight. 

Everytime he touches her, she discovers something, and it's always feelings she never knew.

Hermione’s overcome with the urge to break the silence, shatter it, fill it with anything else. She can’t allow this stillness to linger—it causes her mind to drift and wonder. They had already floated out to dangerous depths once today, and she doesn’t want to go there again. 

“Are you looking forward to seeing your mother?” 

Draco traces his fingers along her spine, and she shivers at the touch. 

“Not really.” He pauses, and she can see him biting his cheek. “I would have been content to spend it with you.”

And her anchor is gone.

She’s drifting, untethered by this moment. 

“I always have Christmas with the Weasleys.” Hermione swallows, and she doesn’t understand why she can’t just be honest.

I wanted Christmas day with you, and the day after, and the day after that too.

“I know.” He doesn’t sound upset when he acknowledges her statement, but there is an undercurrent of hurt that has pulled her head under the waves.

Her chest aches.

Why can’t she get this right? 

There’s no book to read, no spell to learn, and she’s lost in the way he makes her feel.

Draco’s eyes flicker towards his overnight bag on the floor of her bedroom, and she watches the bob of his throat as he swallows. 

Had he wanted her to invite him? 

“Accio gift.” He summons a small package wandlessly, his magic flowing from him seamlessly as a gold box soars into his hand.

“I’m always envious of you when you do wandless magic,” Hermione admits, watching him with wonder in her amber eyes as he sits up, the sheets pooling around his waist.

He shrugs, ignoring her comment as he extends the package towards her. “Happy Christmas, Hermione.”

Her breath catches and she bites her lip as she reaches out a shaky hand. It's small, reminding her of the portkey box from her birthday. She wonders if perhaps it is another trip? The gold shimmers in the dim light of her bedroom, and it's stunning, wrapped with precision with a ruby bow on top.  

“It's almost too pretty to open,” she muses.

He smiles at her, his left dimple appearing and it warms her heart. 

“I wrapped it without magic.”

“Did you now?”

“I did; now open it.” He tries to sound teasing, but there’s a weariness in Draco’s eyes as he watches her break the seal, removing a small black box from the intricate wrappings. 

She flickers her gaze to him once more, before turning her attention back to the box, lifting its lid.

Nestled against an emerald silk pillow is a delicate gold watch. 

“You were complaining about your watch battery dying last week—whatever the bloody hell that means.” 

She raises a hand, carefully slipping her fingers under the golden band. 

“It’s a witch's watch. It will never lose its time,” he continues to explain, running a hand over the nape of his neck.

Hermione looks at its polished square design, its pearlescent face, and she’s overtaken by its beauty. It’s featherlight in her hand, and she brushes a thumb over the surface.

“You refuse to slow down long enough to be able to replace yours, so I thought this may be a suitable present.” He continues. 

She can’t process his thoughtfulness.

He’s precision to detail in all aspects of his life.

She flips the watch over and that's when she notices it.

Engraved in a penmanship that she knows so well reads:

‘All the roads lead to you. Yours, Draco.’

She can’t do anything, but stare at the words. 

She is in love with him. 

She’s never understood the saying, ‘To love someone so much it hurts’, but this? Her love is unyielding, sweeping through every molecule in her body. It hurts because he doesn’t know. It eats at her, gnawing its way to the surface, demanding to be declared.

She has to tell him something— needs to tell him the truth.  

It's going to destroy her if she doesn’t.

He has to know.

“Do you like it?” Draco asks, shattering her thoughts and cracking her resolve. 

She snaps her head to his, smiling. 

Maybe a partial truth? 

“It’s perfect.” She leans forward pressing a kiss to his lips. 

Tell him , she thinks desperately as her heart pleads with her mind.

“I could fall in love with you, Draco Malfoy,” she whispers against his lips.

It isn’t right, and not what she’d intended to say, but it’s something . 

Surely he knows she means more.

She hopes he can hear the meaning behind her words, but she watches as the brightness in Draco’s eyes falters. 

“ Could ,” he repeats softly, the corner of his mouth quirking.

No, she thinks.

He’s got it all wrong —he doesn’t understand, and panic festers in her mind— in her chest.

If she can’t tell him then she’s determined to show him.

She will make him see.

She moves, wrapping her arms around his neck until he is nestled on top of her. She kisses him, pouring her heart, her happiness, her adoration for him into each stroke of her tongue against his. 

I do, she thinks. 

It’s true.

Please know that I do.

Chapter Text

Draco’s Diagnosis—Present time, August 2009

Hermione can’t seem to wrap her mind around the reality of her situation. 

Draco Malfoy has Magical Dysplasia.

Recollections of his consultation had kept her up most of the night. She had tossed and turned replaying both the good and bad of their time together, and as each memory resurfaced, so did the pain. Draco had reappeared back into her life like a summer storm–demanding and unyielding—and somehow she found herself caught up in his presence, unable to outrun the rain. 

His Magic.

How many times had she watched him cast wandless charms?

What will his mother think? Surly Narcissa will understand.

Yes, their potion regimen helped those afflicted, but it is not an answer. Draco could be optimistic, but Hermione is realistic. Their odds of achieving a cure before his core becomes fragmented are minimal.

Draco is going to suffer, and there isn’t a damn thing she can do to stop it. 

Hermione stands in her closet with nothing to wear. Nothing she owns seems suitable for what she has to do today—for what she has to face. Her robes are too formal, her slacks too casual, and she can’t bring herself to wear those oxfords that hang in the back of her closet behind her Hogwarts graduation cap. 

She glances at the small wooden box tucked underneath her shoes. 

No, she thinks. 

She returns to her jumpers, flipping through them aimlessly. But, like a moth to a flame, she glances over her shoulder again. Its sleek oak calls to her, begging for her to just look. It’s been five years now, what's the worst it could do? 

She sighs in exasperation, moving to sit in front of the shelf.

Damn you, Draco Malfoy, she thinks, furrowing her brow as she studies its presence.

There’s a layer of dust over the wooden surface, and the brass hinges are tarnished. She reaches out, pulling it into her lap. She feels like if she opens the box, then she will be subjecting herself to their more intimate memories, but she knows she has to start— needs to face their past in some capacity. But will that be enough? Hermione stares at the box intently; it is as though she is willing its contents to give her an answer—to tell her what to do. She runs a hand over the top, sweeping the dust from its surface. 

Five years.

She can do this. 

Or so she hopes. 

Hermione flips open the latch and raises the lid. The first thing she sees is a moving photograph of them at his family’s French cabin during her birthday trip. She hadn’t paid much mind to the picture then, but now she sees the way Draco tilts his head to look at her, and there is adoration in his eyes. Hermione sits it to the side, unable to look at her own face. She knows what it would show anyways. 

She moves the rusty fork out of the way, reaching for another item. The next picture of them is at Blaise and Padma’s wedding. Draco spins her on the dance floor, and the scene captures his dimple perfectly. Hermione traces his face with her thumb as tears prickle in her eyes. He looks so healthy, but it pales in comparison to how happy they both look. Draco smiles down at her, and the camera catches the way she had looked up with him with complete infatuation in her eyes. The loop ends with him bending forward, pressing his lips to her forehead before replaying again. Hermione bites her lip, watching the scene play thrice more before finally relinquishing it to the side. She can remember vividly how she had felt being twirled in his arms. It was the first time she had allowed herself to wonder what it would be like to dance with Draco at their wedding.

Hermione brushes a tear from her cheek before picking up the third picture buried within the box. This one doesn’t have them in it, and she’s quite thankful for that. Hermione isn’t sure she could face seeing the way they used to look at one another again. Instead, it’s a Muggle picture of her ruined kitchen on Christmas Eve, and she finds herself laughing at the ridiculousness of it all. Eggs, flour, and oil cover every surface, and her island is littered with destroyed cookie shapes. Hermione can remember exactly what she was thinking when she had taken that picture. How was it that the pompous boy from her childhood turned into the man who would have a bloody food fight with the Muggle-born girl in her Muggle-esqe kitchen? She had wanted to preserve the memory, to always be able to remember exactly how jovial Draco had been in her presence. 

And then she had spent the next five years trying to forget. 

She isn’t certain that she can look at the final object that is nestled against the satin lining of the box, but she knows she needs to. She knows that if she’s going to be able to work with Draco, to be able to help him, then she can no longer run from her memories of him. She needs to face them, acknowledge them and move on. 

She has to.

She’s lived in fear of the past for far too long. 

The gold still gleams as brightly as it had on that very first day, and it's like looking at a star. The pearlescent face still shimmers, and the second hand continues to tick in a perfect rhythm.

“It’s a witch's watch. It will never lose its time.”

She reaches down with a shaky hand and her fingers grasp the watch tightly. 

“Do you like it?”

She flips it over and her stomach feels like lead. 

“All the roads lead to you. Yours, Draco.”

Tears stream down her cheek as her heart burns in her chest.

“I could fall in love with you, Draco Malfoy.”

Hermione chokes back a sob.

“Could.”

The watch slips from her fingers, falling back to the bottom of the box, and she quickly snaps the lid closed. 

***

Draco is nauseous as he waits for Theo in the lobby of St. Mungo’s. He had managed to Apparate himself to the alley near the entrance, but now, he can feel the aftermath of the magical strain. His stomach twists and turns, knotting upon itself like vines in a terrace, and Draco closes his eyes. He wills the wave of sickness to pass, trying to focus on the sterile smell that he has come to associate this place with. The Tremblay Homestead Ward is nothing like the rest of St. Mungo’s, and he longs to just retreat into its welcoming conditions, even if it's just to get his official diagnosis over with. His right hand quivers, and he shoves it into his trouser pocket, determined to hide his ailment from the peering eyes that surround him. 

He glares at a passing healer that ushers a young boy through a set of cream double doors. Sometimes he wonders if he should have tried harder in his younger years to reform the Malfoy family name. He wonders if he should have tried to change the way that the Wizarding World viewed him. No one knows of his work with the Department of Mysteries or the thousands of galleons he has donated to this building within the past two years. He’s never allowed the world to see more than what they wanted. They have only ever looked at the surface level— at his name. But, not everyone. Someone did manage to look past it, and he managed to fuck it up. 

He allowed Hermione Granger to believe that he didn’t love her.

Why is it that thought hurts him more than his diagnosis? More than losing his magic? 

Seeing her yesterday had been like breathing after being deprived of oxygen for far too long. The burning in his chest had ceased, even if only for a moment. He hadn’t truly realised how much her absence had physically pained him until he was in her presence. It was as though he had just learned to live with the pain. 

“Are you ready?” Draco turns, looking over his shoulder to meet the apprehensive eyes of Theo.

Draco shrugs, “I suppose. It’s not really going to tell me anything I don’t already know.”

Theo frowns, but doesn’t say anything more as he leads him in silence towards the doors that will take them to Hermione’s office. He hasn’t exactly forgiven Draco for not saying anything about his symptoms sooner, but he understands that Theo is moreso hurt rather than mad.

The door to Hermione’s office is open, and as the pair stand in the doorway, Draco’s gaze finds her instantly. He takes the moment of her unawareness to allow his eyes to roam. She sits at her desk, head bent over as she writes furiously. Her hair is braided into a simple chignon, and his lips twitch with a memory, but the fondness of the night of Blaise’s wedding is quickly snuffed as his gaze settles on her hands. Hermione has rolled the sleeves of her cream jumper to her elbows, and her wrists are void of the watch he had gifted her. In fact, she doesn’t wear any jewellery. Draco doesn’t know why he is disappointed by the sight. It isn’t as though he had really expected her to wear the gift after their separation, but part of him had hoped. 

Part of him had hoped that she hadn’t been able to let go of everything , that some part of her needed to keep him close.

Theo knocks, but Hermione is too consumed by whatever she is writing to take notice. Draco shifts, and Theo casts him a questioning glance, but he just shakes his head, adjusting his cufflinks.

“Erm…Granger?” Theo calls from the doorway.

Hermione snaps her head in their direction, a mix of shock and apprehension clearly on her face.

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t hear you knock.” 

Hermione stands, tucking a wayward curl behind her ear as she moves around to the front of her desk. He notices the blue ink stains on her fingers, and he can’t stop the quirk of his mouth. It’s such a familiar sight, and it chips away at the ice that has formed in his chest. Hermione gestures towards the sitting chairs near her hearth, and Draco follows behind Theo.

“I’m wondering if there could be a potential build up of some sort of mineral that could be affecting the core. I was writing down my ideas to take back with you to the DoM.” Hermione rambles, waving a hand in front of her as she collects her wand from the edge of her desk.

She’s nervous, Draco realises, and that leaves him unsettled.

The unease that lingers in the air is palpable, and he can’t help but wonder if it will always be this way between them? How are they expected to work together if Draco is too consumed with living in the past, and Hermione being too hellbent on ignoring it.

Theo continues to glance between the pair of them as Hermione continues to ramble, and he takes his appointed seat.

“I was also thinking, depending on your core level, that an Invigoration Draught may be more suitable than a Pepper Up Potion for in the mornings—”

“Granger?” Theo lifts a dark brow, a smirk tugging at his lips as he leans against her desk, arms crossed. 

“Theodore,” She stammers as she takes her place, sitting across from Draco.

She still hasn’t looked at him, and Merlin, this is painful.

“Oh sod off it, Granger. I know we haven’t had much interaction over the past few years, but just because the two of you stopped fucking doesn’t mean you get to revert back to calling me Theodore.”

Draco coughs and her face flushes crimson.

“For fuck’s sake, Nott,” Draco manages to gasp, glowering at his friend.

Theo shrugs, unperturbed. “What? I needed to break this dour mood somehow. Besides,” he turns his focus back to Hermione, eyes narrowed. “Granger, you never told Daph and me that there was a second Grease. We had to find out all on our own.”

Hermione’s mouth parts slightly as she looks at him bewildered. “You mean Grease Two?”

“Yes.”

“Because it’s not good, Theodore.”

“Damn it, Granger. You have a very poor taste in entertainment, and it’s Theo. ”

“Can we just do the fucking testing?” Draco chimes in, exasperated. “I’m the one who’s bloody metaphorical magical clock is running out.”

Hermione jumps in her seat, finally looking at him as though his reminder of what they are all gathered for has burnt her. He looks into her whiskey coloured eyes for any hint of what she is really feeling, but disappointment floods him as all he sees is apprehension. 

He wonders if she can see the longing in his own?

“Of course.” She flicks her wand and a notepad and quicknotes quill soars towards her. “Before we get started, do you have any new symptoms I need to know of?”

“In twenty-four hours? Not likely, Granger,” Draco drawls, crossing his ankle atop his knee. 

“It was a genuine question, Malfoy.” 

It thrills him.

The fire that ignites in her eyes.

He smirks, it’s so familiar and the heat thaws him, spurring him onward.

“Just because it was genuine does not mean that it was intellectual.”

He watches as the corner of her mouth tilts into a frown, but her gaze hardens, the fire in her eyes burning. 

Fight with me, he silently pleads, because nothing has made him feel this alive in years.

She bites her lip and he can’t stop from focusing in on the way the skin blanches under the pressure.

“Intellectual?” She repeats. “Have you ever considered that showing emotional maturity is a sign of higher intelligence? Or is that too outlandish for your comprehension?”

There it is, Draco thinks, and the feeling brought on by her words is so exhilarating that it feels almost like taking a shot of Firewhiskey. 

It warms him.

Encourages him.

And its so fucking familiar that he almost forgets where they are.

Almost.

“As much fun as this is to watch you two spar, I really think we should do the actual exam?” Theo interjects before Draco can form a response.

The fire in his veins is extinguished, and Hermione looks mortified. 

Had she forgotten too? 

“R-right,” she stumbles over her words before straightening her spine, and gripping her wand tightly. “Are you ready?”

Draco nods his head solemnly, refusing to allow his gaze to look anywhere other than her, because she is finally looking at him.

He traces the bob of her throat as she swallows, but then he feels it—her magic enveloping him.

Draco is taken back by the sensation. It's bliss, like a cool breeze on a hot summer day; it's the whisper of a long lost friend. The way it entangles with his own magic is so intimate, so rapturous, that it leaves Draco hopeful for the first time in years.

But the hope quickly fades like the first snow of fall as Hermione’s mask slips as she assesses the floating numbers in front of them. In his periphery, he sees Theo pushing off of the desk to come stand beside him. 

“Granger—that has to be wrong.”

It’s Theo’s voice, but it's muffled. It’s as though Draco’s head is being submerged underwater. Draco sees Hermione wave her wand, banishing the diagnostic. The sensation of her magic leaving tears from him swiftly—painfully, and he has to choke back a sob. But, before Draco can even process its absence, it's back, wrapping around each part of him. The golden numbers reappear, and he sees Hermione’s eyes trace each one. 

And then suddenly Theo is yelling .  

“When did this fucking start for you, Draco?!” His outburst reverberates in the room as he grips his hands in his hair while he paces. “For that—” He points a hand at the diagnostic. “This didn’t just start.”

Hermione cancels the diagnostic, and the loss is gentler the second time, as though the rapid removal was unintentional the first instance.

Draco scrubs a hand over his jaw, looking up at the ceiling. “I noticed a change about a year and a half ago,” he finally mutters.

“ AND YOU JUST NOW!” Theo turns away, his anguish rolling from him in waves as he stares at Hermione’s collection of books along her shelf.  

“ Theo,” she whispers.

“ No, Granger.” His tone is like ice, laced with a cold fury as he rounds back on them. “You kept this to yourself for nearly two bloody years, Draco.” 

He can see Theo’s jaw working as he mulls his next words. 

“ Why?” It’s simple, and broken, and Theo’s voice is laced with a torn sob. “ Why did you wait so long?”

“I didn’t believe–”

“Cut the bull-shite, Draco. You know the symptoms better than anyone. You fucking study them every day, ” he seethes, stalking back towards him.

Hermione stands on instinct, blocking him from Theo’s murderous path.

“ Theo. ” She tries to plead again.

But his green eyes dart between the two of them, and his face falters. 

“Fucking Salazar,” Theo mutters more to himself than the room, and he rubs a hand over the nape of his neck. He takes a moment to breathe before he speaks. “If you think I’m pissed, wait until you tell Daph. She is going to murder you.”

“You can’t tell her, Theo, not yet.”

His face falls, and Hermione turns to look at him.

“I don’t want to start telling anyone until I'm further along.”

“Draco, your magical core is at bloody sixty-percent! How far along do you want to wait?”

Draco turns his attention to Hermione who continues to look at him like she doesn’t exactly know what to think of him, as though he is a mirage, and if she stares too hard he may fade. 

“What’s your conclusion, Granger?” He leans forward, lacing his fingers together, and honestly—Draco is quite shocked by both of their reactions. To be the one actually diagnosed, he feels like he is taking the news quite well. 

He’d expected Theo to be upset, but not to the degree of having a bloody temper tantrum, and Granger? He doesn’t want to think about the emotion that had filled her eyes when she’d scanned his diagnostic charm.

It was almost as though she cares, and Draco isn’t quite sure he can handle that implication.

She brings her lip between her teeth as she casts another diagnostic. Draco closes his eyes; it's not as intense as her first spell, but he still relishes in the feeling of her magic caressing his own. Hermione ends the spell gently, and Draco sighs as Hermione’s magic leaves his skin tingling with its lingering presence. 

She sticks her wand through her chignon, and Draco’s lips twitch at the sight. Hermione places her hands on her hips and tilts her head towards Theo.

“At least two years. Your cortisol, adrenaline and noradrenaline levels are several levels above normal. Given the splinching, and your other symptoms on top of your core being at sixty-percent…” Her voice trails off.

Hermione drops her head, and crosses her arms over her chest. The silence idles between them with the words she didn’t say.  She raises her eyes to meet his. Her amber depths are no longer filled with wariness, but instead they are filled with a profound sadness that he can’t place. 

Theo scrubs both of his hands over his face in irritation. Draco hears him mutter something that sounds like ‘ Two fucking years’ under his breath.  

“What’s next, Granger?” Draco asks, drawing both of their attention.

“Invigoration Draught in the morning, Draught of Peace mid afternoon, and a Calming Draught before bed. We can tweak and use Dreamless Sleep if needed as your symptoms progress. You’ll need to try to maintain a good physical regimen. You know fatigue and muscle weakness are inevitable.” She glances at him, and a sheepish look crosses her face. “Try to contain your sweet tooth, and incorporate more root vegetables into your diet.”

Try to contain your sweet tooth, her words crack his chest. 

He blinks sluggishly before somehow managing to say a simple, “I’ll try.” 

Hermione glances back at Theo. “That’s everything to start.”

Theo nods. “And you two are still intending to research together?”

Hermione’s eyes flicker to his briefly. “Yes.”

“Great,” Theo claps his hands together. “I’ll get you a permit for the lab.”

“Thank you, Theo.”

“You are free to pick up your potions from our Apothecary,” Hermione says the words softly. It's as though now that the diagnosis is complete, that neither of them know how to act around the other.

Their common denominator is now removed.

They’ve re-entered this awkward waltz that neither knows how to lead.

“That will be great. Thank you, Granger.” Draco stands, moving towards the door. “I’ll see you next week?”

“Not tomorrow?” 

He tilts his head over his shoulder. 

Was that—disappointment? 

“No, not tomorrow. I think I need a few days to process everything— officially.”

Hermione nods, crossing her arms as she tries to conceal the embarrassment on her face. “Of course, I understand completely. Well—not completely—right—um—,” she looks away, cheeks flaming. “We can see how you’re adjusting to the potions by then, too.”

Theo claps him on the shoulder. “Come on, let’s go see Davies.”

Draco offers her a half smile, before following Theo out the door.

Chapter Text

Hermione Flashback NYE 2003. 

“Are you sure I can’t convince you to come with me?” Draco asks as he trails his fingers along her spine. 

Hermione can hear the steady cadence of his heart beneath her ear as she lays her head on his chest. It’s New Year's Eve, and she has promised herself that tomorrow , she will tell him how she really feels.

Not today.

She needs one more day of space, one more night of normality, before everything changes. She worries how he will respond to her declaration, but it’s a risk she has to take. Hermione can’t hide her true feelings for him any longer. Her love for him has eaten at her, twisting her insides until she has been reshaped in an image of his love. 

She wants to agree to attend the Gala with him, truthfully, she does. Hermione wants nothing more than to dance the night away in his arms, to show the world that Draco Malfoy is hers.

Why can’t she bring herself to agree?

Instead, her throat dries as she speaks into his chest, “I always spend New Year’s Eve with the Weasleys at the Burrow.” The words are hollow, lifeless, and she wishes that she could take them back as soon as she has spoken them.

“I know,” is Draco’s only reply.

The disappointment, the defeat, that laces his tone threatens to break her in two. It's as though she’s always placing him second to everyone when she really only wants to put him first, but Hermione hasn’t quite figured out how to do that yet. She grimaces, wallowing in her self-loathing, at her cowardice for waiting another day. Hermione ignores the voice that screams at her to just tell him. But her silence continues, choosing to trace a finger along the large scar that bisects his chest instead. 

Draco accepts her silence, running his fingers along her spine. It’s Christmas Eve all over, she thinks, each of them refusing to just admit what they are truly feeling to the other.

Tomorrow, she promises.

Tomorrow she will be brave.

Hermione presses up onto her elbow, looking down to meet his mercurial eyes. Her curls cascade around them, enveloping them in a blanket of chestnut. Draco peers up at her, looking at her in a way that she still can’t seem to place. He has this ability to pick her apart, to insert himself into each new space he’s created, until he's a stain on her very soul.

“What do you want, Hermione?” Draco asks softly, reaching up to tuck a curl behind her ear. 

She can’t read the caution in his eyes, and it sets her on edge. Hermione wants to scream ‘ you,’ to confess everything right then and there, but she can’t . Her new watch weighs heavily on her wrist, almost like a noose around her neck. The inscription on the back has burnt his words into her skin, and onto her heart, but now, under the direct question, she can’t bring herself to answer him truthfully.

She feigns ignorance. 

“What do you mean, Draco?” Hermione asks, and she feels part of herself fade like an ash in the wind.

She watches as Draco licks his lips, swallowing once. “In the New Year, what do you want to happen?”

She has to tell him—has to. 

How can she wait for tomorrow when he’s asking for now?

“I want lots of things, more success in our department, more collaboration with St. Mungo’s,” she pauses, watching as her finger moves to curl in the lock of hair behind his ear. She’ll never get over how silken the texture is, how it just glides across her skin. Hermione takes a steadying breath, focusing all of her attention on the way his strand of hair wraps around her finger. “And this, I would like this to continue.”

She’ll tell him the rest tomorrow.

Hermione steals a glance, and watches as Draco’s lips curve into a sad half smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He leans forward, pressing his lips to hers, “Of course, Granger, whatever you want.” 

***

But it's never quite ‘whatever she wants’, because what she truly desires is waltzing and drinking fine champagne halfway across England, while she sits on a worn plaid sofa with a mug of butterbeer in her hands.

She truly is a gods damn fool.

She has no reason to be upset, after all, she has done this to herself. Draco had asked her for days to accompany him to his mother’s annual New Year’s Eve Gala, but she declined his offer each time. No matter how much she longs for the world to know that he is hers, she isn’t quite ready for that step. 

Not before they have a chance to talk.

Not before they define what they are.

Not before they discuss what they both want.

Yet Hermione still can’t help but kick herself. Draco has asked her point-blank what she wants, and like a coward, she has skirted around the question. 

Tomorrow, she reminds herself. Tomorrow she will have her questions answered, and there is always the Gala next year.

She’ll go with him then, and they will dance while drinking the finest champagne.

Hermione takes a sip of her butterbeer, chuckling as Teddy and Victorie chase one another around the living room. She can hear Andromeda and Molly laughing from the kitchen while Arthur speaks with Bill and Percy. Her eyes continue to scan the room as she sits by the fire. George has roped Charlie into a game of Exploding Snaps, while Harry and Ginny watch on in excitement. 

“Mind if I join you?” She looks up to see Ron smiling at her sheepishly. 

Things have been strained between them since things ended, and she still isn’t quite sure he knows everything about her relationship with Draco. 

She scoots over, patting the cushion next to her. “Have a seat.”

There's a peculiar tension that seems to build between them as they sit in silence, neither keen on being the first one to speak. 

“Why is this so hard?” Ron finally asks, chuckling darkly. “We were friends for years.”

Hermione sighs, draining her butterbeer. She sits the glass to the side before crossing her legs beneath her as she turns to face him. Ron is kind, familiar, and handsome in his ruffish way. He’s allowed his red waves to grow to his nape, and with the way his shoulders have broadened, he reminds her of a younger Charlie. But when Hermione looks at him, she doesn’t see a future, not romantically, at least. Initially after their breakup, that would have pained her. She had often questioned if she should have tried harder to make things work, but after six months with Draco, she understands that the two of them would have never worked.

Draco challenges her.

He brings passion into her life.

And even if things don’t work out between them tomorrow, Hermione understands that she can never settle for less.

She rests her head in the palm of her hand. “Because we were always better off as being just friends, not exes or lovers.”

Hermione sees the way Ron’s lips tilt into a sad smile. “Right, as usual, ‘Mione.”  

She twirls a finger in the air, hating the moniker before she even says it. “Brightest Witch of Her Age.”

“We will get it back, though, right? Our friendship?” The worry and genuinity that fills Ron’s cerulean eyes as he poses the question only seems to break her further.

She swallows, her voice cracking as she offers him a small smile. “I hope.”

Ron glances back out into the room. He’s silent for a moment, and Hermione watches as he considers his next words. “I think we’ll get there, someday.” He offers her one last smile as he stands, and it warms her when she sees that it reaches his eyes. “Happy New Year, ‘Mione.” 

Chants of ten, nine, eight, seven…. ring out around her, and she stands as George places a flashing hat, one that resembles a party favour from her youth, atop her head. The string pinches her chin, and she can feel it sitting lopsided against her curls, but she can’t stop the laugh that bubbles from her chest as Teddy reaches for her. 

If I can’t spend the night with Draco, at least I’m with family, she reminds herself, kissing the small boy’s bubblegum pink hair as she bends, scooping him from the ground. 

Three, two, one…. A chorus of ‘HAPPY NEW YEAR’ erupts around the Weasley’s living room, and George sets off a foray of fireworks. She watches as couples pair off, each kissing the other between fits of laughter, and she can’t help but wonder if Draco can feel the weight of her absence as she does his. 

Merlin, she should have gone with him.

She wonders what he is doing.

George catches her eye, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively in her direction, but she shakes her head no, laughing as she presses a swift kiss to Teddy’s forehead. 

“Your loss, ‘Mione!” George calls, before setting off another box of sparklers. 

***

“Where was the ferret tonight?” Ginny asks, walking her past the Burrow’s wards so Hermione can Apparate home.

Molly had tried to insist that she spend the night, but Hermione knew she would be much too anxious for tomorrow to rest in a bed that wasn’t hers. She’d feigned that Crookshanks was feeling ill, and that she needed to return home to give him medicine. 

She isn’t quite certain Molly had believed her, but Ginny had come to her rescue, offering to accompany her outside.

“He’s at his mother’s annual Gala.” She tucks a curl behind her ear before reaching into her jacket to remove her wand.

Ginny looks at her, tilting her head. “Better question, why are you not there with him? Surely he asked you?”

Hermione grimaces, scrunching her nose as she frowns. “I said no. OW !” She leaps back, gripping her arm from the lingering sting of Ginny’s slap. “What was that for?”

“Why didn’t you go with him?”

“We haven’t talked. ” But even to her own ears her excuse sounds pathetic. “I was going to tell him tomorrow.”

“And it never crossed that brilliant brain of yours to attend a fucking ball, like one of those Muggle princess stories where you go home with the prince, get shagged senseless, and then confess your unyielding love for one another in the morning when you wake up in each other’s arms?”  

“I couldn’t face society—his mother, Ginny, without knowing what we are first!” Hermione hisses, crossing her arms in defiance.

She watches as her friend pinches her nose in exacerbation. “What time are you seeing him tomorrow?”

“I’m going over to his flat for brunch.”

“Tell him, Hermione.”

“I’m going to; I promise.”

***

Hermione isn’t sure she slept when her eyes open to the sun casting a pink glow as it filters in through her bedroom window. After Draco’s presence in her bed for the last week, she’d found it hard to sleep in his absence. There was no arm draped over her waist pulling her close, or soft whispers of ‘ turn off that overactive brain of yours and go to sleep,’ and there was no quick shag before bed. Rather, Hermione had tossed and turned as her mind played countless scenarios of what their day would entail.

Worse case scenario, Draco will end things between them, best case? They will court—officially— publicly.  

Regardless of the potential outcome of professing her feelings, Hermione can at least move forward with closure. She just hopes that it won't be in the form of heartbreak.

She bites her lip, rolling over to trace his side of the bed. She runs her finger over his pillow as the scent of his cologne fills her senses, and she can’t help but wonder what he is doing at this moment.

He’s probably asleep , she thinks, laughing as she buries her face in her pillow. Probably one too many glasses of champagne.

Hermione stretches her arms over her head as she stands. She pulls her watch from her nightstand, slipping it onto her wrist. Draco’s inscription on the back gives her hope that today will be okay. She groans, her head pounding as she makes her way to the bedroom door. Little rest has left her feeling drained, and fatigue has settled into her bones. She needs tea. Hermione eyes Crookshanks asleep in his cot, and she reaches down, scooping him into her arms to pack him towards the kitchen. 

Despite the trepidation that has festered in her chest, Hermione walks with a lightness in her step as she moves around her kitchen to prepare her morning tea. It is as though making the decision to tell Draco that she loves him has lifted an undeniable weight from her shoulders. 

She refuses to hide from her feelings any longer.

She refuses to hide her feelings from him.

They both deserve honesty.

Hermione hums softly to herself as she waits for her water to boil. She charms Crookshanks' food and water bowl to self-fill in preparation for the day, and casts a cleaning charm over his litter box. He mewls in thanks before retreating back to her room.

She stares at her herbal blends in her cabinet. Typically, she would want something more energising to start her day, but her nerves are live wires sparking in anticipation of seeing Draco, and as the whistle sounds, she plucks the chamomile blend for the shelf.

Hermione is lost in her mind as her tea steeps in her favourite porcelain mug. It was her grandmother’s; the china is adorned with yellow roses that wrap around onto the handle. Over the years, she has come to prefer her morning tea in this particular cup, despite its small crack along the brim that she refuses to repair with magic. It always leaves her feeling connected to her Muggle life, and it is as though with each sip, she can recall a memory of a time before magic, and Hogwarts, and wars, and Draco Malfoy.

Her life was simpler then, when her only dreams were to become a Muggle physician.

The tapping at her window draws her from her mind, and she instantly recognizes the Prophet's delivery tawny owl. She smiles, pulling a small owl treat from the jar before opening the window. With one hand she offers the dried cracker while the other slips the morning's paper from its binding. Hermione offers the owl a quick thanks before watching as it disappears back into the brightening sky.

Hermione tosses the paper on the counter, not bothering to glance at the front page as she makes her way to collect the remainder of her tea. Sipping it with one hand, she returns to her island, pulling the paper towards her.

She doesn’t feel the china slip from her hand.

She doesn’t hear the shattering of the porcelain against the tile.

She doesn’t feel the scalding of the tea against her bare legs.

There’s a roaring in her ears and a burning in her eyes.

Love is in the Air! Malfoy Heir and Greengrass Heiress Bring in the New Year Together! 

By: Rita Skeeter

Hermione can’t focus; the words are nothing but blurs upon the page. Instead, her eyes trail across the moving photographs that show Draco waltzing a beautiful brunette woman across a grand ballroom. There’s a smile on his face as she spins in his arms, and then she sees it.

Astoria, leaning forward to press her lips to his at midnight.

She feels something break in her chest.

It’s detached, falling into the chasms as her heart cleaves in two.

How could she ever be foolish to believe that she was his?

The watch on her skin burns, reminding her that everything was a lie.

Was it a lie? He never was really her's to begin with.

A sob chokes from her throat as the levee breaks.

Pain.

There’s so much pain, and it’s all her fault .

It’s as though she has lost a part of herself. He’s been ripped from her soul, leaving nothing but broken fragments in his wake.

Why does she feel so betrayed?

Her fault for forgetting what they were .

Her fault for believing that Draco could care.

Her fault for falling in love.

She’s foolish and stupid for ever entertaining the idea of more.

Her chest tightens, and she’s certain she can’t breathe. Her inhales only draw attention to the part of her that is now missing from her chest.

He can never know.

He can never know that she cried for him.

That she loved him.

Draco can never know.

Chapter Text

Draco—Present time, September 2009

“Are you ready for today?” Theo asks, not turning from where he stands with hands shoved into his white research robes as he stares at a diagram of the human body. 

Draco continues to chop his Belladonna, refusing to look at his friend. Sure, things are better between them since receiving his official diagnosis weeks prior, but Theo still treats him as though he is going to break under the weight of his prognosis at any moment. 

Theo doesn’t realise that he broke years ago. 

“I suppose.” The tenor of his voice is flat, and Draco thinks it's better than sounding anxious. 

He hasn’t seen Hermione since his consultation. He had kept to his word and went to the Apothecary to pick up his month’s worth of potions the following day. He had also filled out and owled back her twenty page questionnaire, but he hadn’t had it in him to reach out and tell her that things had gotten… worse. 

A week after their disastrous meeting, Draco fully lost his ability to Apparate.  

He knows he should have owled her, but in reality, what could she have done? He knows he is an anomaly; his core is degenerating much too fast. But again, what could she have done? Rather, he pushed his symptoms to the side, took his potions, and owled copies of his notes and theories for her review. 

He had also called Theo, sworn him to secrecy, and proceeded to get pissed on vintage Ogden's.

“She’s going to ask how your symptoms are.” Theo’s statement rings true, piercing the air, and Draco can see him move in his periphery towards his work station. 

His lab has been quiet lately. Theo pulled Anthony to work more directly with Roger in researching the longevity of their patient’s current potion regimens as they try to narrow down a more streamline treatment process.

He knows Theo has really done it in preparation for he and Hermione to work together without an audience. Theo remembers how they are. He had walked in on them mid row on more than one occasion.

Thankfully, he’d never witnessed their resolutions. 

Draco is certain he and Hermione violated at least a dozen work codes during their six month affair. His eyes dart briefly to the desk across from his before returning to his dicing at hand.  

“I know,” is his curt reply, and he does. After a month of nothing but cordial owls that focused strictly on sharing information rather than his ailment, Draco knows her inquisitive onslaught is coming. 

It's in her nature; it's a fundamental part of who she is.

“Fuck, Draco.” He looks up to see Theo pinching the bridge of his nose. “Why do you have to make this so bloody difficult?”

He smirks. It’s not that he means to be flippant about his disease, but he can’t bring himself to focus on the implications of it. He’s too busy trying to remind himself that working with Hermione is not like before.

They are not lovers.

They are not friends.

They are not even acquaintances.

They are merely an echo of what they once were.

A fragment of lost time.

They are two individuals with only one common denominator.

A disease that has woven their paths together once more.

Draco wonders why fate continues to remind him of what he had. 

What was.

What he lost.

He shrugs rather than answering Theo’s question. He chops the Belladonna, focusing on the way his knife slices through the stems. It's one thing he still has control over, regardless of his wavering magic.

Theo flicks his wand, banishing his ingredients. 

“You fucker ,” Draco snarls, slamming his knife on the table.

“You–Granger–what are you going to do?” He repeats, pocketing his wand nonplussed.

“What do you mean? There’s nothing I can do .” Draco’s voice strains under the weight of his confession, and it’s true; there isn’t anything he can do, not when it comes to them. “If she asks how I am, I’ll tell her, but I am not going to worry her with something she can not change.” He enunciates each word, trying to stress the chasmic weight of what he is saying. “The best chance I have, that we have, is to remain focused on researching a cure, Theo.”

Sapphire collides with silver as they each stare at one another with unwavering force. He notices Theo’s jaw clench, but eventually he relents, returning Draco’s Belladonna to his workstation with a flick of his wand. 

“I’m not giving up, Draco, and neither should you,” Theo replies curtly before exiting the lab. 

***

Draco looks up as the green flames of his private Floo roars to life. Theo had taken it upon himself to link the fireplace in their lab to Hermione’s office at St. Mungo’s and his flat after Draco lost his ability to Apparate. It’s just another adjustment he has had to make following his diagnosis. 

The first of many.

Hermione steps through with a plethora of folders and books in her arms. He watches her, cautiously, as she scans the lab, taking in her once familiar surroundings. She takes a hesitant step forward, adjusting the files to rest on her hip. Her eyes dart around the room, and Draco wonders if she's comparing its current state to the way she left it five years prior. He has to admit, very little has changed. The same fluorescent lighting hangs overhead, while his desk is still nestled to the left, across from the one that used to be hers. Work benches and brewing stations fill the remaining space while countless bookshelves line the surrounding walls.

He doesn’t miss the way her eyes settle on Anthony’s desk.

Her desk.

He wonders if she remembers everything.

Every touch, every kiss, every intimate moment shared here—within these four walls.

It's been tortuous—a slow type of hell to work in the same space that he had fallen in love. 

How was it that he had found and lost everything within the Department of Mysteries? 

He’s never been able to escape her, and now? Seeing her here is like looking in a pensieve. How many times had she returned with new research from the Archives with her arms overflowing from the abundant scrolls of parchment.

But, it’s not the same. 

It’s not a memory. 

She doesn’t wear her oxfords or those heels, and instead of looking at him with excitement in her eyes, she looks at him wearily. It's as though she’s trying to reconcile past and present, and she hasn’t yet managed to figure out how. 

“Granger,” he finally says, wiping his hands on a towel as he makes his way to help her with her folders.

“Where’s Anthony?” She asks, relinquishing part of her books and files to his extended hands.

He doesn’t miss the way she avoids touching his skin, and Draco tries to ignore the sting.

“He’s with Roger, using arithmancy to try and find a common denominator between the various potion regimens you have your patients on.”

“Oh.” She bites her lip, shifting on the balls of her feet.

“Theo thought we could use the space from him,” Draco pauses, walking to place her books on Anthony’s desk. “He… struggles with theory sometimes.”

Hermione carries her remaining folders to sit them beside the others. Her white trainers are silent against the tile flooring, another difference . She’s dressed so casually for the day, so different from before, and yet, Draco can’t help but think that it fits. 

“Is there a place I can keep these?” She gestures to the tower before them. “I don’t want to take up his work space, but I really don’t want to pack them back and forth each day that I’m here. I would hate to lose a paper or—”

“There’s an empty drawer in my desk; we can put them in there when we’re finished,” he doesn’t look at her as he speaks. Instead, he picks up one of the manilla files and flips it open, scanning the words. She doesn’t need to know that he spent all day yesterday clearing it out for her. 

“Thank you.” Her voice is small, and he chances to glance at her over the top of the file. She’s running the tip of her finger along the grain of the wood, but her eyes are distant, as though she is elsewhere. Her plait falls over her shoulder, and his gaze flickers to where the sleeves of her olive jumper are rolled to her elbows. He catches sight of silver marrings across her forearm, and for the first time, Draco feels optimistic, as though the chasm between them isn’t as wide as he initially thought. 

When Hermione had first joined the Department of Mysteries, she’d glamoured her scars around him, and then eventually she stopped. 

They’d each barred their scars to one another.

But seeing it now? After all of this time?

It’s a sense of normality in otherwise rocky waters. 

He doesn’t want to draw attention to it, but instead returns to the topic at hand. 

“What is all of this, Granger?” He really is curious. It's much more than what he had sent her to review a month prior. 

She blows an errant curl that has escaped from her braid out of her face as she turns to look at him. It's so wholesome and familiar, and Draco can’t help but chuckle at her antics. 

How many times had she done that same thing while leaning over a cauldron?  

Merlin, why does it have to be like this? Why does there have to be these moments of familiarity where things between them are effortless?   

Why must they end when reality creeps back in?

It seeps through the cracks, reminding them that things are not easy, but complicated . 

They are entangled more so than Devil's Snare.

The corner of her mouth tilts upwards as she shrugs, picking up her own file. “I cross referenced your list of ingredients that didn’t help slow the degeneration process in your magical core replica against our patients to find a commonality between them.”

He raises a brow, sitting his file down in favour of crossing his arms as he leans against the edge of her desk. “Well? Are you going to educate me or just stand there and look smug about it?”

Hermione’s mouth parts in a blend of shock and incredulousness while a disbelieving huff escapes her lips. She sits her file back on the stack before she crosses her arms, mirroring his stance.

“You don’t have to be an arse, Malfoy.”

Draco’s smirk broadens.

It's the same exhilarating feeling that had coursed through him weeks prior when they had sat across from one another in her office.

Only this time there is no Theo to stop it.

“I’m always an arse,” he purrs.

She scoffs, rolling her eyes. “I’m glad to know that hasn’t changed.”

He places a hand over his heart. “You wound me, Granger.”

Her eyes widen, sparking with indignation. “Is this a joke to you?”

Draco pushes his tongue into his cheek, trying to hide the grin that threatens to spread across his face.

“You called me an arse.”

“You are an arse,” she seethes, placing her hands on her hips.

“But, you don’t have to remind me. In fact, you are the one that flaunted your intelligence immediately upon entering my lab.”

“It’s our lab.”

Our.

That one word catches in the air like a fraying thread, and they both pause.

He watches as a pink hue bleeds into her cheeks as the severity of her slip up weighs between them.

Our.

He doesn’t speak. He isn’t quite sure what to say to ease the awkwardness that has filled the air between them.

“Our lab—as we research—together, temporarily of course,” she finally manages to say, voice cracking.

“Right.”

Hermione plucks a file from the stack, suddenly flustered. She flips it open, extending it towards him.

“This is the most recent set of data from our caseload of patients. Healer Williams has noted a significant rise in their cortisol level, despite their various staging of the disease. They are in a constant state of flight or fight. I don’t think it's unreasonable to theorise that constant stress may be contributing to their magical core decline.” She turns another page. “If we can find a way to lower these levels, it may buy us more time.”

“A variation of Draught of Peace, should work?” He asks, taking the file from her hand. He flips through each page as he paces.

“But we would need something that could stay in their systems for an extended period of time. It needs to be longer lasting, that way they don’t build up a tolerance.”

“It would also save on ingredients. Unicorn horn prices have tripled.” 

She grimaces, nose scrunching. “That too.”

“We could try to substitute with more moonstone?” He offers, running his thumb along his lip as he contemplates.

“I was thinking of porcupine quills.”

He looks at her over the brim of the file. “They also have a tendency to induce an effect of euphoria in large quantities, which could raise their cortisol levels—it's counter productive.”

He watches as her shoulders deflate. “They are cheaper, but you’re right.”

Draco nods, not wanting to gloat. They’ve almost managed to have an amicable conversation, and he’s not ready to let go of it just yet.

“I can send a request through Theo for more moonstone. I don’t have enough in my stores for what we need.”

“We will also need a binding agent,” she muses, tapping her finger against her chin.

“I was thinking of trying Belladonna. It can help control one’s heart rate, and relax their muscles.” He glances at the diced plant atop his workstation.  

“Oh, Godric.” Her voice is laced with astonishment, and when Draco lifts his gaze to hers, Hermione is looking at him with wonder in her eyes. 

The golden flecks in her amber irises glow, pinning him to the spot . Hermione thrums with excitement, and Draco is certain he can feel her magic sparking in the air. But the smile that breaks across her face is breathtaking, splintering his resolve with an unyielding force. 

She is looking at him with wonder and awe, and it reminds him of before.

It had been easier when she stared at him with weariness and discontent.

But this? 

This is reminiscent, and he doesn't think he will be able to shake the image from his mind. 

“That could work! Do you think Theo can get the moonstone to us by tomorrow?” She bites her lip, trying to contain her smile.

But it's there, crinkling the corner of her eyes.

And it breaks him.

He had only ever wanted to make her smile—to have her always look at him like that. 

He buries the pain, reminding himself that it's not really him making her this happy, but it's the thrill of a new discovery. 

He reminds himself of their reality.

Another crack. 

He reaches for a blank piece of parchment and makes a list of ingredients for Theo to pick up from the Ministry apothecary. He sends the memo off with a flick of his wand, and he can’t hide the way his hand spasms with the movement. 

“When did that start?” Her words are void of the warmth that had laced them moments prior, and Draco looks over his shoulder to meet her gaze.

Her brow is furrowed as she stares at him. She’s assessing, and he can feel her eyes trail over him like a second skin.

Draco tilts his head back, looking up at the ceiling. “The spasms?”

“Yes, the spasms,” she repeats, walking towards him to grasp his still tremoring hand in hers. 

Warmth blossoms under the feel of her skin on his as she starts to massage his wrist and thumb, trailing her movements up to his fingers where she extends each joint. She doesn’t meet his eyes as she works, but Draco can’t help but stare at the way her lips dip into a frown. She removes her wand from her back pocket, and she taps it against various pressure points along his palm. The vibrations resonate in his core, and its gentle— soothing , as if she has plucked the lowest string of a harp. 

“What else has changed?” She asks, continuing to tap her wand against his hand.

“I can no longer Apparate.” He says it so casually, and it seems to take her a moment to understand his confession.

She halts the tapping of her wand, and slowly Hermione raises her eyes to his.

“You—you what?” She stumbles over her words and the disbelief is palpable in her tone when she asks,  “When did this happen?”

“About a week after we met.”

“That was a month ago,” she hisses, dropping his hand from her own.

Hermione takes a step back, and the hurt that is etched into her face reminds him of how she had looked when she left.

He can’t handle it.

“What could you have done, Granger? What could you have changed?” 

She turns her head away, looking anywhere but at him. “I could have done something,” she insists, crossing her arms.

“We can’t save everyone, Granger,” his tone is filled with defeat when he speaks. 

Her eyes widen at his words, and when she turns her face to his, she looks at him as if he were a ghost.

And perhaps in a sense he is. Hasn’t he spoken those very words to her before?

“I could have changed something! Are you taking your potions? Maintaining a physical–”

“Granger.”

“I need to know these things, Draco! I need to know how you are doing–when your symptoms change!” She throws her hands in front of her, shaking them, pleading with him. Her wand is long forgotten on the ground by now. She’s panting and upset, and he isn’t certain what has happened to spark this level of irritation within her. 

Hermione blinks, and he sees the unshed tears in her eyes.

No, he thinks. He can’t make her cry, not again.

“ Hermione.”

“No, Draco. For this–,” she waves her hand between them, her voice breaking. “For this to work, you have to be honest—you have to talk to me.”

That’s the issue though.

He was never fully honest, and neither was she.

But his time is ticking, and the sand in his hourglass is slowly running out. Draco knows that it is long past the time for prideful cowardice. 

He sighs, shoving his hands in his pockets. “You’re right. I’m sorry, Granger.”

Her face crumples, and he watches as she rubs away an errant tear that has slipped down her cheek. 

“What else has changed or worsened?” Her words are flat, and Draco watches as she tries to reign in her emotions.

He leans against his workbench. “Simple spells require more effort, the muscle tremors, but I am sleeping better.” 

She nods her head, tallying his words in her mind. “Is the effort for your spells more consuming as the day goes on or is it a constant strain?”

“I notice a larger difference around noon.”

“Let’s add a Pepper Up Potion with lunch then. I don’t want to incorporate a concentrated Invigoration Draught just yet.”

Draco nods his head in agreement and watches as Hermione glances at the clock above the mantle.

“What time do you want to start tomorrow?” She asks, scoping her wand from the ground and returning it to her pocket. 

“Ten? That gives Theo ample time to deliver our ingredients for our testing.”

“Okay.” She makes her way back to the Floo, pausing as she scoops up the powder in her hand. “I’ll swing by Roger's Apothecary to pick up your potions on my way.”

“Granger?”

She turns, caution shimmering beneath the surface of her eyes.

He wonders if it's worth it—if he should even say it.

Would she even want to hear it from him?

She tilts her head to the side, looking at him precariously.

He swallows, his mouth suddenly dry. “Happy birthday, Hermione.” 

Draco watches as comprehension of his words flood through her mind. Something flashes behind her eyes, but it's fleeting, gone before he can decipher what it is.

“Tha-thank you,” she stammers, and the corner of his mouth tilts upward in a sad smile.

He nods his head in acknowledgment before turning, unable to watch her leave.

***

Theo and Daphne’s marriage six years prior had brought opulence and warmth to the formidable manor that Draco remembered from his youth. Now, standing in the drawing room of the restored home, it is still hard for him to reconcile the two. How was it that this is the space that used to contain such Dark Magic and pain? The obsidian drapes that once covered the windows are long gone; white satin now hangs in its stead, allowing the sun to filter through, enchanting the rooms. The walls are no longer painted an emerald green, but are now brightened with a light taupe that compliments the quartz flooring. There are no paintings of Theo’s ancestors lining the walls that Draco passes, but rather art, both magical and Muggle adorn the halls. Evidence of Daphne's touch is everywhere. It is as though she has healed the darkness that had woven its way into Theo’s life, replacing it with her brightness— her love.

Draco is happy for his friends, truthfully—he is. 

He follows after the Nott’s house elf, Tolly, allowing her to lead him towards the dining room. She turns, smiling up at him as they reach the double oak doors. She snaps her fingers, opening them for his entrance.

“Tolly hopes that Mister Draco enjoys dinner with Master Theo and Mistress Daphne.” She bows once, nose barley grazing the stone flooring. “Tolly asks that Mister Draco gives Tinsy and Pippy a ‘hello’ from Tolly, sir.”

“Of course. They always send their regards to you. Thank you for accompanying me to the dining room, Tolly.” He offers her a small smile before watching as she Apparates away.

“Look who finally decided to show up,” Daphne smirks, setting the small table with three wine glasses as Draco walks towards the table.

He rolls his eyes, but he understands her quip. Daphne had been asking him over for dinner for weeks, and each time Draco has found a way to decline. He hasn’t been able to face her, to tell her of his diagnosis. He knows she will be hurt, even more so than Theo, and he isn’t ready to be the cause of her pain. But the loss of his Apparition has forced his hand. He knows that he can’t hide behind his well crafted lies and excuses much longer.

“Work has been busy.” Draco shrugs, taking his place at the table. He glances around the room. “Where is she?”

“Asleep. She and Tolly played in the gardens for most of the day. She is absolutely exhausted,” Theo answers, walking into the room. 

He pats Draco on the shoulder, and he doesn’t miss the sadness in his friend's blue eyes. 

“Is she looking forward to her birthday next month?” He asks, focusing on something lighter. He graciously takes the Pinot Noir from Daphne with a polite nod of thanks.

She laughs, tossing her blonde hair over her slender shoulder. Daphne and Theo have taken to parenthood seamlessly; it suits them Draco thinks. The pair glow anytime that Ophelia is mentioned, and he understands why. The rambunctious two year old is the centre of their world, and Draco’s.

“She has talked non-stop about unicorns since we mentioned it to her, and her party isn’t for another two weeks. I think Tolly may go mad if she has to play ‘pretty princess unicorn' one more time.”

“Don’t be dramatic, Daph, Tolly loves the attention,” Theo quips, taking a drink from his wine glass.

She flashes him a blinding smile before sitting next to her husband.

“I still plan on purchasing her a broom, just so you know.” Draco smirks into his glass. He loves knowing that Daphne is breaking the cycle of pureblood training with Ophelia. Yes, there are still rules, manners and expectations, but Ophelia is getting to be a child . 

A luxury that the three of them were never afforded.

Besides, flying is something he should still be able to do with his goddaughter long after his magic is gone.

Should.

“I know . Theo has already told me I can’t complain about your gift of choice.” She gives her husband a look of exasperation, and Theo chuckles in agreement.

The three settle into a comfortable silence, roasted duck, carrots and potatoes fill their plates as they each eat around small bits of conversation. Daphne informs him that Astoria has become engaged to an American wizard and will be moving to the States after their wedding in the spring. While Theo suspects that Anthony is secretly trying to seduce Roger away from his wife. Draco listens, nodding his head all while battling the growing resentment and trepidation building in his chest. His friends and acquaintances have all seemingly moved on with their lives. They're tying themselves to each other with sacred bonds, planning to grow their families; all the while Draco is alone, losing his magic.

His surroundings remind him of his circumstances.

He loves his friends, his family, and being a god-father to Ophelia, but those relationships do not change the loneliness that settles into his bones when he returns home alone each night.

He pushes the thought away.

“I’ll Floo over earlier next time. I hate that I missed seeing her tonight.”

“You should come with us to Puddlemere’s match against the Cannons next weekend. We’re taking Ophelia, and I believe Pansy is bringing Longbottom,” Theo offers.

“Yes! You could meet us there.” Daphne smiles excitedly. “That way her uncle Draco can tell her all about brooms.”

Draco glances at Theo who continues to stare into his wine as if it holds all of his answers.

“Draco? Would you like that?” Daphne asks, her blue eyes darting between the two men.

He swallows the emotion that threatens to suffocate him. He has to tell her .

“I would need to meet you here—to side along to the match.”

Her brow furrows as she looks at him. “ Okay... We can do that.” She flicks her gaze to Theo who is still silent, allowing Draco an opportunity to explain in his own way.

“Is everything alright, Draco?”

He twirls the stem of his wine glass between his fingers. He feels as though he is sinking– weighed down by the burden of his disease. 

He inhales deeply, easing his eyes up to meet hers. “I was diagnosed with Magical Dysplasia.”

He watches as his statement works its way through her mind. Daphne’s mouth parts in a silent “oh” as she turns to look at Theo for confirmation. 

“I’m no longer able to Apparate,” Draco continues to explain.

“That doesn’t happen until later in the disease, right?” Her gaze narrows, her tone chilling. “How far along are you, Draco?”

His mouth hardens into a thin line. “Around two years.”

Daphne’s knuckles whiten around her teacup. There is a cold fury woven into her voice when she next speaks. “When were you diagnosed?”

“Last month,” Theo answers.

Daphne turns her attention to her husband. “ You knew?”

Theo’s face falters. “I was with him when Granger diagnosed him.”

“You—you saw Hermione?” The shock is palpable in her voice as an air of hopefulness creeps. She looks back at him, eyes wide.

“Don’t get too excited. We are just researching.”

“Just researching,” she repeats, raising a brow, but her playfulness disappears as she remembers the topic at hand, his disease. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

Hurt. There’s so much hurt etched into her face.

“I’m sorry, Daph.”

“How long do you have until it’s gone?”

Draco shrugs, and truthfully, he doesn’t know. He isn’t certain why his disease is progressing more swiftly than the others, but he knows he can’t tell them, at least not yet.

Telling Granger had been hard enough.

“My magical core is at sixty percent. Hopefully Granger and I can discover something. We have made some promising progress.”

And they have. The Belladonna paired with the moonstone is yielding longer results, but they need to discover something to counteract the drowsiness that the flower induces without destabilising the potion itself. It’s as though they’ve entered a strange dance where they take two steps forward with their research, but one step back.

“How is she? It’s been awhile since I’ve seen her.” Daphne asks cautiously.

How could he describe her? She’s the same and yet different . She’s more reserved—quiet—it’s as though their history is always there, lingering over them like a shadow they can’t outrun. He has considered mentioning what happened in the past, and he wonders if she would listen now? They are both older, wiser, and he likes to think that if she knew the truth then perhaps things would be easier, maybe they could even be friends.

“Still Granger; she’s still determined to save the world.”

He takes a deep drink of his wine, determined to hide the bob of his throat and the crack in his voice.

Daphne doesn’t push further.

“Does Pansy know? Your mother?”

“I’m meeting her and Longbottom for dinner in a few weeks; I plan to tell them then. As for Mother—I’m waiting.”

She glances at Theo, frowning. “ Ophelia…”

“I know.”

“She won’t remember me like this, as being sick.” Draco says, though it’s more for his reassurance than theirs.

“You’re still her godfather, mate. She will love you the same.” Theo’s eyes implore him, stressing the sincerity behind his words.

Draco’s lips tilt into a sad smile, “I hope.”

Chapter Text

Hermione–Flashback January 2004

604,800 seconds, 10,080 minutes, 168 hours equal seven days without Draco Malfoy in her life. 

It is as though her world has been flipped on its axis; it is as if the Prophet’s article displaying Draco and Astoria’s kiss has suddenly altered her sense of gravity, and she’s no longer tethered to the ground. There is a chasm in her chest where part of herself is missing, and she isn’t certain when Draco engrained himself within her soul, but his absence is astronomical—gaping. She’s been left floating, untethered and raw. She has Incendio’d countless letters by now, blocked her Floo, locked her door, changed her wards, and erased numerous messages on her phone’s answering machine. But now, as she stares at the small blinking red light on the recorder, her heart is in her throat, pounding in a painful cadence as she waits for his voice to fill her ears.

“ I’m sorry, Hermione.”

She isn’t sure why she allowed this message out of all of them to play, but hearing the defeat hanging heavy on his every word makes her wonder what the other ones had said. Regardless, she pushes the thought from her mind as she sits curled under her patchwork throw. She brings her knees to her chest as she looks at the golden watch upon her wrist. Despite the torturous week she has suffered, she hasn’t been able to muster the energy to take it off. She traces a finger over each link as another tear slips from her cheek. Hermione isn’t sure how she is still crying; she was certain her tears would have long since dried, and yet the depth of her love for Draco continues to astound her. It is as though the well of her heartbreak is bottomless. 

How had she been so foolish?

Hermione knows that Draco is no longer the bigot from her childhood, but how had she ever convinced herself that he could feel something deeper for her than just a casual dalliance? She toys with the clasp. Hermione doesn't understand why she’s so hesitant to remove it. Despite the distance she has placed between them, part of herself knows that once the delicate watch leaves her wrist it will solidify the infinite break between them. It's as if it is the last tie that she has to him, and when it leaves her body, there will be an uncleanable stain left behind. 

It feels as though his inscription upon the back has been carved into her very skin.

A reminder of her naivety.

She’s fairly certain that there will be a constant ache, an unfillable hole in her chest. Draco’s roots had burrowed deep, each touch from his hand tilling the earth of her soul, and in one swift decision she had ripped them out— torn them from her body . Her nail catches in the thin latch, and with a steadying breath, Hermione pulls, sliding the watch from her hand like the first melting of snow. She holds it, thumb brushing over the pearlescent face.

“It’s a witch's watch. It will never lose its time.”

“You refuse to slow down long enough to be able to replace yours, so I thought this may be a suitable present.”

‘All the roads lead to you. Yours, Draco.’

“Do you like it?”

He’s an echo, lingering in her very consciousness— in her heart. But she can’t bear to keep this token of his affection in her eyesight. She’d considered returning it to him, but that would involve speaking, and she doubts that Draco would even accept her relinquishment of it. Hermione sighs, glancing at her overrun bookshelf. The first picture that she sees is from her birthday trip to Chamonix. She looks at Draco as if he is her answer to everything , and Hermione is certain that was the start of her fall, when it all began to change—when it became real. The picture captures the way her eyes crinkle when she smiles, bringing the wine glass to her lips, and Draco’s head tilts once, looking up at her before the loop repeats. Nestled in front of the frame is the rusty fork that had been commissioned into their portkey; she’d wanted them both on display to remind her of that day. 

The picture had been taken after Draco had made love to her in the claw foot tub. She’s dressed in one of his oversized oxfords and her damp curls fall in loose ringlets over her shoulder. She’s sitting on the marble island in his family's modest kitchen, ankles crossed, feet bare with a wine glass in hand. There’s a buttercream cake placed next to her hip with two forks stuck in the centre from where they had decided to eat straight from the pan. Draco leans against the surface, shirtless, resting on his forearms as he looks up at her. It’s so domestic—so wholesome , and for a time she thought it had captured the essence of their relationship perfectly. Hermione isn’t certain why Pippy had decided to capture the photo of them, but when he’d presented it to her before she and Draco departed for London, Hermione had been overwhelmed with gratitude by the gesture. 

Now she wants to hide it.

She wishes that she felt the urge to rip it, to destroy it—but she doesn’t. As much as she wants to, Hermione can’t bring herself to raze the photograph to ashes. She is incapable of feeling anything but longing, and that is almost worse. 

Her focus trails to the next frame. It was taken a few weeks prior, at Blaise and Padma’s wedding. She drapes her arm over the back of her sofa, watching as Draco spins her around the dance floor. The memory of that night is engrained upon her mind, and if she focuses, she can almost smell his cologne with its hints of birch and leather. It had enveloped her in the way his arms held her waist when the music died, and he’d swept her from the reception to their room. Hermione had thought that surely their arrival together had signified something? That Draco wouldn’t have taken just anyone to his best mate's wedding? After all, he’d slipped her dress from her body and touched her in every intimate way possible while whispering praises and affirmations into her skin as soon as the door to their suite had shut behind them. 

She’d felt him for days after.

He'd imprinted himself upon her mind, body and soul. 

The final picture is of her destroyed kitchen following their playful ‘food fight.’ She had snapped the picture to remember the lightheartedness, the simpleness of the evening before everything had changed. Hermione had used her parents' old polaroid; she loved the way the stillness of the image contrasted against the other moving images, but yet it fit alongside the others— or so it had . 

She’d wanted to remember that night.

Now she just wants to forget.

Hermione stands, pushing off the throw with the watch gripped tightly in her hand. Crookshanks raises his greying head from where he is curled in one of her armchairs, watching her as she makes her way to stand in front of the images. One by one she pulls them from their place, stacking them in her arms. 

Hermione feels as if she is carrying the weight of a thousand stones as she walks up the stairs towards her bedroom. She knows she is many things, but a fool she is not. She can not continue this thing with Draco. Despite her best laid defences and intentions, she’s unable to keep things casual—she’s fallen, and he has already destroyed her, winding himself into every crevice of her heart like a parasite. She tells herself it's better this way, a smooth break as she pushes open the door to her room. 

There is a small box nestled to the back of her closet near her shoes. It used to hold her pictures from Hogwarts when she was home for the summer holiday, but it's been empty for years. She pulls the box into her lap, raising the lid. Hermione knows she has to do this if she has any chance of moving on, or facing him when she returns to work the following week. 

The first item she drops to the bottom is the watch. She blinks several times as she stares at it. From the way it lands she can just barely make out the words, ‘ Yours, Draco.’ She feels numb, as if the watch has absorbed all of the warmth from her body. The next item she places is the polaroid of her kitchen, followed swiftly by the wedding picture, her portkey, and finally their first picture together during her birthday. She tightens her grip along the edges of the box as she tries to still the shaking of her hands. She stares at its contents with hollow eyes. It is as though she is looking at a part of soul. She wonders if this is what it would feel like to create a horcrux? An empty void of where part of herself once lived? A feeling of being incomplete? But Hermione knows as she shuts the lid, sliding the box back onto its shelf, that this was their parting.  

It was an ending she could not change. 

And besides, was it even possible to miss something that was never really yours?

***

“‘Mione,” Ginny says her name with a hint of pity. She leans forward gripping her hand in her own. “This isn’t like you.”

Hermione looks out the window of her living room, watching as the snow covers her front lawn. The scene looks like it belongs in a snow-globe. It's crystalline, pure, covering every surface, but the serene display does little to temper the void in her chest. 

“I know,” is her hollow reply.

It's been three weeks or 504 hours, 30,240 minutes, 1,814,400 seconds since she cut Draco from her life, and she can’t figure out how to process his absence. She had never been one to believe in the art of divination or soulmates; rather she had always believed in science, and the art of compatibility. But this sense of loss that has carved its way into her bones makes her question everything. 

She feels his absence everywhere.

“You and my brother were together for years.”

She swallows. “I know.” 

And she does. Deep down she knows that this thing she had with Draco over the course of the last six months was more consuming, more life altering than anything she had ever experienced before. 

Which has made the loss that much worse. 

“ Hermione …”

She turns, meeting Ginny’s deep brown eyes that are swimming with concern. This isn’t like her, to be windswept, left broken-hearted by a man. She knows she must look a mess, red stained eyes, swollen cheeks, and raw lips. She must look pathetic, this level of despair over a summer fling that finally ran its course. But this pain screams that it was more, that it was significant, that it was the once in a lifetime kind of love. 

She’s broken.

So, she lies. 

“I’m embarrassed, Gin. I know we never said what we were, but people saw us together–our colleagues–our friends. The same people who saw him snog Astoria on the front page of the Prophet.”

“Maybe–”

“ No,” and there's a strain in her voice as she silently pleads. 

Please don’t play what ifs or make excuses for what has happened. 

Ginny bites her lip, and Hermione knows she's trying not to argue with her, that her friend can see the physical strain that the last three weeks has taken on her. 

“How is work?” She asks instead, resting her chin in her hand. 

Hermione closes her eyes. Merlin, how she wishes that Ginny would have asked her anything. How Crookshanks’ vet appointment had gone, or how she is determined to resume her knitting fascination— anything but that .

“It’s fine,” she mutters quietly, averting her gaze from Ginny’s all knowing eyes.

“Bullocks,” she snarks, and Hermione wishes that for once she wouldn’t be so much like Ron, that she would just leave well enough alone.

How can Hermione possibly describe the awkward tension that fills their lab each time she enters without sounding lamentable? How each brick is laid and the wall between them is built higher and higher with each passing day. How she refuses to meet his eyes out of fear of drowning or breaking further. She passes the hours at work absorbed in her own mind. How she tries to reconstruct the image of this man into something unrecognisable to her heart. How they each work in silence until the clock strikes four and she promptly leaves. Is it right ? No. Is it the way she should handle the aftermath of everything– no, she knows it's not. Perhaps she is being unreasonable, but the events of New Years have shown her that Draco has the ability to hurt her. That the fortresses she erected around her heart was not as impenetrable as she thought, and she can’t bring herself to risk it— not again.  

She wasn’t prepared for this. 

Draco had tried to talk to her the first day she entered their lab following the winter holiday. 

He stands, strolling briskly from his desk towards her. “Hermione, please—would you just bloody listen to me .”

She shakes her head, shoving past him as tears once again threaten to spring from her eyes. “Please—just don’t, Draco,” she finally manages to rasp, sitting her bag on her desk.

She’d thought she could do this—thought she’d be able to return to work and be able to enter into their dance of amicable acquaintances, but she can’t. She knows him. She knows his taste, how it feels to wake in his arms, how he laughs and how he smiles. She knows him intimately; she knows—

She knows him, and that's why she can’t slip into a mask of indifference; she can’t pretend that she doesn’t.

Hermione looks at where Draco stands near the door. He stares at the floor, jaw tense and she knows that this will be the last time he asks her to listen. Draco will not beg forever, in fact she’s surprised by his efforts thus far. 

But she knows him.

She knows his pride has already suffered.

It's a goodbye.

He doesn’t ask her again.

And she doesn’t entertain what could have been said.

“Hermione?” Ginny squeezes her hand, pulling her back to shore.

“ Hmm? ” 

“What are you going to do? Harry and I—we are worried about you.”

Godric— she had never wanted to draw attention to her woefulness, but she presumes that's to be expected when you become a shell of who you once were, and if she is honest, she’s worried about herself too. How is it that fighting a war hadn’t broken her, and yet somehow losing Draco Malfoy had? How is it possible that her love for him succeeded where Voldemort had failed? 

Her amber eyes flicker to the entryway that leads into her kitchen. Sitting atop her island is an opened envelope and a partially filled out application to St. Mungo’s Healer Academy. 

Could she hide behind the facade of being able to heal others but not herself? 

Could she pour her mind, body, and spirit into learning, a distraction that could possibly push Draco to the hidden depths of her mind?

Perhaps she could learn Occlumency?

No.

Regardless of the pain, the hurt, and the fallout—her feelings for Draco are real; they deserve to be felt in their entirety—no matter how much it hurts.

“I always wanted to be a Healer,” she says after a moment. Her voice sounds so small, even to her own ears.

“You’re going to leave the Ministry?” Ginny’s question is laced with disbelief. During Hermione’s eighth year, all she had spoken of was her plans to work for the Department of Mysteries, and the possibilities that it would bring. She had burned with the excitement of magical discovery. 

Childish thoughts for a childish dream.

She wraps her arms around her knees, drawing them to her chest. Her finger runs absentmindedly along her wrist where her watch once sat. 

“It’s the closest thing to a Muggle physician, and before I found out I was a witch, it was what I wanted to do.” 

She knows she is running. It's cowardice. It is the opposite of her Gryffindor bravery. But Hermione knows that she can’t work a moment longer in her stilted lab with its suffocating air and shackling memories. She can’t hide behind textbooks and theories. She can’t stand to be in the same room as the person whom she had foolishly thought to be her beginning, because in actuality, he was her end. 

Hermione just can’t. 

“When will you owl your application?”

“Tomorrow.”

***

“Congratulations, Hermione!” Harry sweeps her into the largest bear hug when she enters into their modest cottage. 

Harry has always had the ability to calm her. Perhaps it's because he is the closest thing to family that she still has, but as his arms wrap around her shoulders, Hermione allows herself to believe for the first time in weeks, that perhaps she will be okay. 

That this crevice in her chest will one day close.

“I’m proud of you,” he whispers it softly as he pulls away, squeezing her shoulders lightly.

Hermione smiles. “Thank you, Harry.”

The act feels foreign; it's as though the muscles of her face have forgotten the motion. She’s certain that she looks in pain rather than joyous, but if Harry notices, he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he leads her towards the kitchen where Ginny has prepared their table. Rosemary and thyme lamb chops and baked butternut squash, along with fresh bread, fill the spread before her. James sits in his highchair and Hermione lifts him instantly. She buries her face in his messy black hair that is the mirror image of his fathers. He coos into her shoulder and she meets Ginny’s eyes over the top of his small head. She feels the first stitch weave into her chest as a tiny hand winds its way into her curls. 

“When do you leave?” Ginny asks, filling Hermione’s plate. She’s refused to put James down. He sits curled in her lap with a teething ring between his gums. It's as if her godson has returned the warmth to her soul, and she’s too afraid of losing the sensation if she relinquishes him from her arms. 

She runs her fingers through his spiky hair, watching as the onyx strands glide over her skin. “The first of March.”

“Are you nervous?” Harry asks, cutting into his lamb.

Hermione shrugs, picking up her fork to take a bite of the squash. “I was more worried about Crooks, but Luna has agreed to take care of him while I am gone.”

“How long is your first semester?” Ginny inquires, taking a sip from her wine.

“My first rotation is three months, and I’ll be staying in Bern.”

“Switzerland!” Harry’s brows raise.

Hermione’s lips tilt into a smile. “I’ll be home for three weeks before I travel to Paris.”

“How long will you be there?” 

“Each rotation is broken into three months, but I’ll be home between each one.”

“The program is two years?” Harry questions, leaning back in his chair. 

Hermione nods, running a hand up James’s back. She hates knowing that she will miss so many of her godson’s milestones, but she needs to do this for herself. She needs to rediscover who she is away from Draco Malfoy.

“But you can Floo call?”

Hermione snaps her gaze to Harry’s. He is looking at her pleadingly, as if he is afraid to leave her alone . “Of–of course, Harry. I will have a private Floo in my dorm.”

“Sounds better than Hogwarts,” Ginny huffs, reaching forward to take James so Hermione can eat. She frowns at the loss, but quickly transforms her features into a silly face when James looks back at her from his mother’s arms. 

“I’m really looking forward to… the change, ” she finally admits, taking a bite of the lamb.

A silence blankets the room, and Hermione realises instantly that she has said the wrong thing. It’s an opening for what she knows they really wish to ask.

“Does–Does Malfoy know?” Harry questions timidly. 

“No,” she answers flatly, not looking up. She focuses on the way her knife slices through the meat. She can’t bring herself to wonder what his response will be. They haven’t said more than a few passing words to one another since her first day back. It's jilted, and things are so much worse than what they were on their first day together nearly five years ago. 

“Are you going to tell him? Before you leave?” Ginny pushes, feeding James a bite of squash from her fork.

Hermione shrugs. She wants to lie and say that she hasn’t really considered it, that she doesn’t care. But the reality is that she has played countless scenarios in her mind of what she could say or how he might respond, and each one is worse than the last. It’s just another flaw in her brave façade. She doesn’t think she will tell him, not until her very last day. She’s afraid– terrified that he will say something that will convince her to stay.

She looks up, meeting Harry’s green eyes; they are a well of concern, and she hates knowing that she is the cause of it. “I haven’t decided yet,” she smoothly lies, returning her eyes to her dinner. 

Hermione pushes her food along her plate, missing the shared look of disquietude between the Potters before they each return to their meal. 

Chapter Text

Draco—Present time, October 2009

The light filtering in from the bay window casts an array of pinks and oranges across his otherwise neutral decor, lighting up his room like a garden in spring. He presses the palm of his hand against his eyes as if the simple gesture could repress the throbbing in his head. They are starting to become more frequent—the morning headaches—and they are inhibiting enough that Draco had written to Hermione the previous night to inform her of the change. He is trying after all. She had asked him—no—demanded his honesty, and now, as each week seems to bring a new change, he has to begrudgingly admit—Hermione is right. 

The time for prideful stubbornness is long past. 

She had written him back immediately, and he could tell by the upward stroke of her pen that her mind was whirling, trying to decide the next course of action for him to take, but without a clear path to follow, she had only asked for time. Regardless of his hourglass slowly running out, what other choice does he have than to give it to her what she asks? It isn’t as if there is another option for him to take. Draco rolls to his back, staring up to the indigo paint that covers his ceiling. 

Time.

Time—what a luxury that he’d never given much thought to, but now, when his bones feel as if they are as hollow as a bird’s—fragile and ready to snap—and his mind splits under the pain of a knife, Draco can’t help but wish he hadn’t been so vain. How much time had he wasted in his youth, hiding behind the facade of an indifferent charade? He’d paraded through the Ministry as a clown, determined to step away from the shadow of his father’s name in pursuit of his own happiness. 

Draco hadn’t known. 

He’d never fathomed that he’d find contentment buried in the arms of his childhood rivalry.

He was foolish and naive.

When Draco had found happiness, he hadn’t known what to do with it—how to treat it and cherish it; he was too young to understand. And even now, years later, he examines each mistake of his past as though he is peering into a pensieve, chastising each and every way he could have changed. 

Could have been bolder—wiser.

If anything, the past three weeks of working with Hermione has shown him that time holds no bounds. They are the same, and yet, entirely different people. With each passing week, he sees glimpses of the woman he’d loved, and yet, she carries herself with a soft self-assurance that could have only come from learning who she is as a person. Draco hates knowing that he wasn’t there to watch her transform and grow. 

He hates knowing he wasn’t a part of it.

He hates that she wasn’t present to see how her absence had made him change—how he’d learned.

But perhaps there is beauty in the passage of time. It changes just as the tide, never striking the shore in the same way twice. 

It leaves him with a sense of hope . 

Ever since their mild dispute on her birthday, they have slowly been treading water towards amiability. It’s like starting over; only this time, they already know one another, and it's more like being reacquainted with a long lost friend. They are associates that have somehow silently agreed to move past their previous hurts and transgressions. But even with their flimsy peace treaty, he can see the echo of hurt lingering in her amber irises, swimming just below the surface when she looks at him for a moment too long, and he understands that even if he hadn’t meant to, Draco hurt her fiercely in their early years. But for the sake of progress, neither of them say anything about it, instead they each focus on trying to move forward. 

But even with all of their progress, there are still moments of awkwardness when his hand grazes hers while exchanging potion ingredients or when she catches the gentleness in his eyes as he listens to her talk about theory and the realm of possibility. 

He can’t help it—she’s the lighthouse on the shore when he’s lost at sea.

It’s natural.

More often than not, they find themselves slipping into a familiar waltz when the clock above the Floo seems to slow and they lose track of time. In Hermione’s presence, Draco finds himself a little less broken, and he is selfish, coveting that feeling of being made whole. It leaves him with a sense of déjà vu, reminding him of how she’d called his bluff once upon a time. Hermione had stripped him, reached deeper than the facade he tried to maintain after the war, and pushed him towards who he wanted to be.

Sadly, he’d only found that version of himself much too late.

The resounding crack of Apparition reverberates in his modest quarters, and Draco pushes up onto his elbows. Tinsy stands at the foot of his bed, violet eyes wide, with his morning Invigoration Draught clasped in her small hand.

“Good morning, Master Draco,” she squeaks, walking towards him, extending the vial in offering. 

“Good morning, Tinsy” he replies raspily, taking the potion and throwing it back in a singular swallow. His head is still pounding like a hail storm against glass, and he pinches the corners of his eyes as he closes them in a flimsy attempt at pushing the pain away. 

“Sir?” She asks in a quavering voice, eyes wide as though she expects him to combust at any moment.

“Do we have a Pain Relief Potion?” He inquires through gritted teeth, pressing his fingers harder into his eyes in a desperation, trying to gain any relief.

Tinsy doesn’t respond, instead she Disapparates, and the double crack that fills the air signalling her return causes Draco to flinch. Her small hand wraps around his wrist, pulling it from his eyes as she slides the potion into his hand. 

“Young master is ill,” the elf murmurs, helping Draco tilt the potion down his throat. 

How much worse can it get? He wonders without an ounce of shame as he closes his eyes, waiting for the potion to soothe each neuron in his mind. The feeling is slow, like the warmth of the first day of spring. It bleeds through his system, coaxing each of his pain receptors into submission. Draco slowly opens his eyes, blinking as he focuses on where Tinsy sits in front of him with tears in her large, round eyes. With the pain receding, Draco is able to feel the state of his being. He feels the sheen of sweat over his body like a second skin; it sticks, making him hyper-aware as he leans against the headboard. Even though he managed to sleep a full eight hours, he feels fatigued, as though he’s flown for miles.

Draco swallows, mouth parched as he speaks, “Thank you, Tinsy.”

“You is sick; you is much worse, Sir,” she repeats, more insistently, eyes pleading. 

But how does one explain to an elf that there is no cure for what plagues him? How does he explain a disease that eats and destroys an intricate part of who he is? There is no right way to explain the idea of an incurable ailment.

Instead Draco sighs, offering a tight lip smile. “I’ll be okay, Tinsy.”

***

Pippy Apparates Draco into a secluded alley near Hogsmeade, and for the first time since his official diagnosis, he feels despondent. He thought he’d come to terms with the loss of his Apparition, but being faced with the task of meeting Pansy and Neville in Hogsmeade has cast an unforgiving light on his circumstances— dependency. The reality is sobering as he glances around the fall grounds as Pippy Disapparates behind him. This is his future—a reliance on someone to transport him when he can’t use the Floo. 

It’s a loss of his independence.

His weakness sends bile rushing to his throat. 

It’s an emotion he’d sworn he would never allow himself to feel again.

Another adjustment, another crack.

He pushes memories of a younger Draco curled inwards on himself under the weight of a Cruciatus to the recesses of mind, determined to focus on the day at hand. After all, that is the past, once lived and once done. Straightening his shoulders, Draco shoves his hands into his jacket pockets as he takes a step forward into the crowded streets. Hogwarts students rush from Zonkos and Honeydukes with laughter and screams, and he notices a seventh year boy scooping an unsuspecting girl into his arms, tossing her over his shoulder before running towards the Shrieking Shack. Draco feels his lips twitch at the sight. He’s honestly happy to see that this generation of students are not plagued by the ghost of war and a fathers sins. It's a relief, palpable and assuring that somehow they are managing to paint a better tomorrow.

He hadn’t exactly understood Neville’s interest in teaching Herbology, but through Pansy he has come to understand the gentle fulfilment his career as a Hogwarts professor brings. Neville is able to prune and shape his students until they flourish, just as he does with his plants. He tends to each one, nurturing them in the way that Professor Sprout had done for him years ago. Neville’s growth is a testimony that seeds can often weather storms, transforming into something unexpected and wonderful. It's a compliment that Draco would deny if asked, but given his recent engagement to Pansy, he tries to be less of an arse. 

He manoeuvres through the crowd, sidestepping reckless students as they enjoy the day. While watching the students thrive without the shadow of war, his mind travels to a dangerous place. Draco can’t help but wonder what he would have been without the Dark Lord. Would he have learned humility and acceptance? Or would he have followed after his father’s footsteps blindly, eager to pick up his mantle of being the Ministry’s puppeteer? Upon the completion of his eighth year, Draco had known that he wanted to do something different, that he wanted to do something with his mind—to do something that challenged him, excited him. But the lingering stares and judgmental opinions held by society had dissuaded him from many career options. Pansy was the one who had suggested the Department of Mysteries to him; something he would forever be grateful for. He had found himself quite fond of the anonymity that came with being employed in the branch, and had even convinced Theo to join as well. Their careers were something they could call their own —something they had built for themselves rather than with their familial name. 

Perhaps he isn’t moulding future generations like Longbottom, but Draco is doing good.

Or so he thinks.

So he hopes.

He knows that he has made a lasting impression upon the field of magical science and healing, but knowing that his career is being cut short penetrates deep into his chest. 

He can’t continue magical research without magic.

It’s just another thing that is being taken from him and he’s powerless to stop it.

He thought he’d moved past losing things, but he was wrong.

Always taken, never a choice. 

Floating pitchers of lager and butterbeer whirl through the air as he enters into the bustling pub. Music plays from the wizarding wireless nestled by the bar. It's a soft melody, reminding him of Muggle jazz. He turns, inhaling the scent of fresh stew and the sweetness of cauldron cakes. It's overwhelming in a sense. In spite of Madam Rosmerta’s forgiveness for his antics during his sixth and seventh year, he still feels a pang of regret every time he steps foot into the pub, and Draco has come to learn that accepting forgiveness is easier than trying to forgive yourself; it’s something he’s still trying to remedy. Rosmerta waves at him, a warm smile on her face as she tosses her salt and pepper braid over her shoulder. He tilts his head in acknowledgment before she returns to serving another patron that lines the bar. 

Draco turns, spotting Pansy’s onyx bob nestled at a small table with Neville. He manoeuvres his way through the tables and guests until he nudges Pansy’s leg. She startles as she glances up, but her scowl quickly transforms into a smile as she meets his gaze. She jumps from her seat, wrapping her arms around his neck in a tight embrace. 

“I’ve missed you,” she breathes, pulling back to smile fondly at him. 

“Same, Parks,” he laughs dryly. 

And it's true.

His love for Pansy is bottomless. She is his oldest friend, his first lover, and cornerstone. She and Neville had dated casually for the last several years until Pansy had finally given him an ultimatum, marriage or no sex. When Draco had finally inquired after the delay, Neville had confessed that he’d been afraid that Pansy wouldn’t want to marry as she had always spoken of betrothals and contracts with such vehemence. But perhaps that is the difference when you marry for love rather than political gain? You willingly want to bind yourself to another? He wonders if he will ever have the opportunity to experience that? Will a magical bond even be possible when his magic is gone? It’s another question that nips at him like a morning frost. He pushes the thought to the side as Neville watches them and smiles. Neville has been able to bring out the softness in Pansy that others failed to see. Where the world sees thorns, Neville sees beauty. Their compatibility rivals that of Daph’s and Theo’s or even Blaise and Padma’s. Draco is happy for them, truthfully, but he would be lying if he tried to deny that he wasn’t slightly envious of their companionship.

As Pansy slides closer to Neville, Draco pushes his lingering envy for their happiness to the side. Sandy waves fall into Neville’s hazel eyes as he looks fondly at his fiancee, and as usual, Draco is greeted with the scent of fresh soil and life in their presence. Perhaps it comes with the territory? Neville is constantly tending to the school’s multiple greenhouses while Pansy runs a small florist shop in Diagon Alley. But it’s unmistakable in the way that it seems to fill each of them with a sense of purpose—their ability to create life and beauty from the earth. 

“How’s the term going?” Draco asks, accepting the pint of lager that Pansy slides his way.

Neville shrugs, a half smile tugging at his lips. “It’s good—I suppose.” 

“He’s being modest,” Pansy retorts, rolling her eyes as she sips on her own beer. She pops a chip into her mouth, nudging Neville with her shoulder. “This one is finally presenting Devil’s Snare to his seventh year N.E.W.T. students.”

Draco’s eyebrows raise into his hairline. “I can’t imagine that monstrosity is bonding well with your other plants.”

Neville shakes his head. “It has its own greenhouse. It was quite the summer project. We had to construct it, make it impenetrable to light, and manage to keep the humidity level at seventy percent.”

“How will your student’s be able to see it?” Draco asks, picking at his own chips.

Pansy smirks, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. “I managed to charm goggles to allow the students to see at night. That was my summer project while this one did all of the manual labour.”

Draco is impressed with their ingenuity and teamwork, but watching them cleaves a Granger sized hole into his chest. 

He pushes forward, determined to not succumb to the depths of the treacherous waters before him.

“I’m impressed, Longbottom— fuck, Parks.” He grimaces, reaching to rub a hand over his shin. “What the bloody hell.”

“I helped, ” she scoffs, red lips curving. She pops another chip into her mouth. “How have things been with you? You’ve been ignoring our invites for weeks now.” Pansy looks at him, calculating, like a viper ready to strike. 

Draco swallows, pressing his tongue into his cheek. 

It was the wrong move.

Pansy jumps on his hesitation. “What is it, Draco?” 

The light humour is gone from her dark eyes as she watches him. He glances at Neville whose gaze flickers between the pair as though he is watching a quaffle being tossed to and fro. 

“Draco,” Pansy repeats, more earnestly this time.

He inhales deeply, focusing on the scent of earth as a means to ground himself. “What do you know of Magical Dysplasia?” He leans back, lacing his fingers together in his lap as he watches confusion distort their features as they each weigh his words. 

It's Neville who speaks first, and Draco can tell by the way he chooses each word that he is trying to not infer on the truth that's not being said. “The disease that Hermione treats?” 

Pansy’s eyes widen at the mention of Hermione’s name, and Draco can see the connections forming like constellations in her mind.

“What does Granger have to do with this?” And Draco winces at the ire in her tone. 

He knows that Hermione has been a sore spot between the two. Regardless of the time that has passed, Pansy continues to harbour ill feelings towards the witch since their unconventional split years ago. Neville has kept in touch with his former housemate, even if the two are not as close as they once were. Their friendship has been a fissure in Neville’s and Pansy’s relationship, one that the two have just recently been able to bridge.

“She’s my healer,” he says flatly, uncertain how else to explain their unorthodox arrangement. “And my research partner for the foreseeable future.” 

Pansy places her hands on the tabletop before her, fingers spreading in a controlled gesture that speaks volumes to the level of her vexation. 

Neville only looks at him with confusion written in his eyes. 

“What the actual hell, Draco?” She hisses, leaning forward. “Stop speaking in fucking riddles like Firenze and tell me what is wrong.”

“Pans…” Neville tries to soothe, wrapping his arm around her shoulders, but Pansy shrugs him off, shaking her head in a manner that sends her raven locks tumbling around her face. 

“I was diagnosed in August.”

His words take the breath from each of their lungs, twisting and turning in the air until they are something unrecognisable. Draco watches as the ire that had burned like coals in Pansy’s eyes extinguishes as though she’s been doused in water.

“Magical Dysplasia?” She repeats the words, tasting them as though they are something foul. 

He nods stiffly, tracing a bead of condensation down the side of his pint. 

“There’s no cure, is there?” Neville asks it as a question, but Draco can hear the knowledge woven into his statement.

He knows.

Draco shakes his head, unable to meet the echoing hurt lingering in Pansy’s gaze,and it feels as if that is all he sees nowadays— lingering hurt. 

“How long until it's gone?” She asks, tone clipped. 

Draco watches as brick by brick is stacked between them, sending the air around them plummeting into an arctic frost. He should have known… Daphne had been able to forgive his secrecy but Pansy? 

No. 

She latches onto it, harbours it, feeds off of it. 

She has an uncanny ability to twist her hurt into a metaphorical armour and Draco is helpless to watch as her fortress is constructed before his very eyes.

“How long, Draco?” She repeats, crossing her arms in front of her chest. 

“I’m not sure… My symptoms appear to be expedited.” 

“Expedited?” It's Neville’s turn to be perplexed as he tilts his head towards Draco, studying him as though he is some rare, exotic vine.

And it's that look of pity that sweeps through Longbottom’s gaze like an undercurrent that stokes the flames of Draco’s repressed anger. He grips his pint until his knuckles turn white as he tries to smoulder his flaring rage. He chances a glance at Pansy who is watching him with a far away stare, and he feels shame bubbling in his chest. 

How many more of these terrible conversations are to be had? 

“My case is progressing more rapidly than the other cases that Granger has treated,” he replies dryly. 

His grey eyes focus on another bead of condensation rolling down the side of the glass, and he can’t help but wish it was that simple–to dissolve into nothingness.

“St. Granger hasn’t been able to cure you?” Pansy spits. Her words are laced with venom as she finally allows Neville to pull her close.

Draco doesn’t miss the way she hastily wipes an errant tear from her cheek, and instead he chooses to ignore her blight. 

“Not yet,” his lips tilt into a small half smile. “But I’m confident in her abilities.”

“Does Blaise know?” She demands.

Another stone fills his stomach, pulling him deeper and deeper into the depths of the waters.

“Yes.”

Pansy scoffs, standing as she tosses her napkin on the table. She takes a moment, staring up at the open rafters that line the ceiling of the pub. Her hands clench at her sides. Her white oxford is tucked into a pair of tweed trousers, and Draco is certain that she’s going to curse him when she slips her wand from her pocket. But instead Pansy sighs, casting a cooling charm over face before she looks down at where he sits. Her sorrow is written plainly, from the way her lips purse from withheld words to the way her brow creases; her hurt is evident. She studies him, eyes tracing each facade of his mask.

“Does Cissa know?”

“No,” and he watches as she deflates, curling inward on herself, and she is no longer the viper before him, but the frightened girl from their youth. 

“I’m–” her voice breaks and she looks over to Neville for reassurance or comfort, Draco isn’t sure. “I don’t mean to make this about myself, Draco,” she finally says after a moment, fidgeting with the cuff of her rolled sleeve. “It just hurts.”  

The confession comes rushed, but Draco doesn’t speak. He stands, pulling her into his arms. Pansy buries her head into his chest and he feels a small shake rack through her lithe frame. He meets Neville’s eyes over her head, and he tilts his head in a sad understanding.

She needs time.

Time to grieve.

Time to accept.

Time to heal.

Time—something that even his bottomless wealth can not procure. 

***

When Pippy Apparates them back to his flat he is greeted with a petite tawny owl at the window of his study. Draco gives his thanks to Pippy who goes to fetch his evening Pepper Up Potion as he strolls towards the perch. He plucks an owl treat from the box and offers it in thanks before slipping the letter from its leg. The owl blinks its large golden eyes as to say, ‘ I need a response you dumbass.’ 

He recognises the penmanship instantly. The curve of the C , the flourish of the O.

He isn’t certain why his hands shake as he breaks the seal. It isn’t like he and Hermione haven’t worked together for the last month, but he feels like this letter is a turning point– the break in their storm.  

Draco,

I’ve been looking into your headaches, but without being able to run a diagnostic charm, it's hard for me to make a calculated assumption about what might be triggering them. Could you swing by my office Monday at eight? In the meantime, I can try to tweak your bedtime regimen to grant you some relief through the weekend.

How are your dreams?

-Hermione

Draco traces his thumb along the edge of the letter, unable to hide the smirk that pulls at his lips. He reaches for a piece of parchment and pen from the drawer of his desk, scribbling a hasty reply.

Granger,

I always dream, though I’d imagine they are not the kind you would like to read about.

-Draco

And yes, Monday works.

He tosses her owl another treat before securing the scroll to its leg.

And it's true.

His dreams are fabrications of the past that he wishes to remember and a future just out of grasp. 

But an hour later he’s relaxing in his study’s charcoal méridienne with Fyodor Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment in hand when a recurrent tapping at the window draws his gaze. Once more, Hermione’s owl sits at his perch looking at him expectantly. He slides a worn piece of parchment in between the pages before walking to open the window. This time the owl carries a small parcel with an envelope tied to the front. His mind is clearer from his evening Pepper Up Potion, and he notices as he unwraps the package that he does so with ease. The owl hoots at him once in thanks before disappearing into the indigo sky. Leaning against his elm desk, Draco slips the letter from the envelope and reads.

Draco,

I’m sure whatever haunts your late hours are raunchy enough to even make Minerva blush, but as it stands, your excitement is counter productive for when your neurons need the time to rest. In the package are three small doses of Dreamless Sleep Potion. They are of a diluted concentration and should be enough to slow your hippocampus—you’ll dream, but not as vividly. 

And if your saucy thoughts persist, then perhaps some self care before bed should do the trick.

See you Monday,

Granger

Chapter Text

Draco–Flashback, Feb. 2003. 

The ticking of the clock over the fireplace continues to slow. It's an unending agony; each stroke of the second hand serves as a reminder that these minutes are filled with a jagged silence that threatens to cut— deep . It's there, lingering between them, and with each moment when he drifts too close, she retreats further away as if she is being swept aside by the tide at sea. 

It stings.

After Hermione had fortified her walls, pushing him away, he made the decision to stop trying to force her to listen to his reason. It is counterproductive anyways. His insistence seems only to make things worse. She’s subdued, acting as though he’s backed her into a corner. So he’s decided to step back, to give her space, and harbour a futile hope that distance will allow Hermione time to clear her mind—that the gods will take pity and give them a chance at saving what they have. 

Patience.

He can be patient. 

Patience is a virtue and something he is quite skilled at—he is a Slytherin after all.

But patience is of little consequence when he feels as though he is at war. 

With each passing day, and no compromise in sight, his resolve is starting to wear thin. He feels as though he is chasing after smoke, never truly able to grasp what is just quite out of reach.

He was certain that after two months the ice between them would have begun to thaw, but Draco was wrong. On the days when they are in the same room, in the same space, he feels as if he is too big for his body; that her presence will suffocate him if he remains. He misses her. He misses her snarky quips, her laugh and the ease of friendship that they had built from mere scraps. He misses how she used to look at him, because now, when she meets his gaze, it's as though she is looking at a stranger. It makes him want to crawl out of his skin, to transform into someone or something else. Something or someone that will not cause her face to fill with such disdain. There’s a chasm between them with no bridge in sight. 

He can’t continue to work like this—it's stilted and jagged, and nothing like what he has grown accustomed to over the last four years. 

He misses her—her friendship.

This paradox he’s caught in is maddening. 

He can’t escape it, and quite honestly, he doesn’t know if he wants to, because that would mean escaping her.

And regardless of how much pain he suffers while in her presence, he can’t bring himself to want to be away from her.

Perhaps he is a masochist and Hermione Granger is his own form of torment.

She had once brought him heaven, but now, she has replaced it with hell. 

Or maybe this is a trial, a way for him to prove his worth—his love.

Patience.

He glances up from where he runs Arithmancy equations over the max boiling point of Asphodel. Hermione has pulled her hair into a messy knot a top of her head as she stirs her cauldron with devout attention. Her lower lip is pulled between her teeth, and her brow furrows in concentration, but Draco knows her. He can tell by the way her fingers splay against the table, pressing into the wood that her mind is elsewhere. 

Something is different–off. 

Hermione had met his eyes when she entered their lab at the start of the day, and he’d seen, swimming below the surface, an emotion that he couldn’t quite place. He’d considered asking if she was alright, but he figured his inquiry wouldn’t have gone over well. Instead, their day started in the way it always does—in silence. The hours pass while he continues to do what he has done everyday since the holidays— remain quiet in her presence. But the distress that clouds her in subtly gnaws at him, an itch he just can’t seem to scratch. He is used to being her confidant and this ‘not knowing’ has left him in a perpetual state of anxiety. 

He wonders if they will ever get past this –this contrived cohabitation? Or are they doomed to work in this ceaseless standoff where neither one is willing to relinquish their hold? It's maddening— infuriating –and he wants nothing more than to scream, to yell, to make her see what is slipping away. But he doesn’t. He can’t seem to find his voice since she begged him not to plead, and then again, when has he ever been able to deny her anything? So Draco sits in solitude, removed from her presence as if he were a mere thorn in her side. 

He glances back down at his parchment, twirling a pen through his fingers. The equation before him is the furthest thing from his mind as Draco tries and fails to push his questioning thoughts to the side. He wonders if Theo and Blaise would agree to meet him for drinks; it's Friday after all, and there is still plenty of time to owl them. He isn’t sure if his desire to get rip roaring pissed stems from a state of celebrating surviving another week without her or him trying to bury his pain in the bottom of a bottle of Ogden's in a feeble attempt to just forget her for a moment in time. 

It makes no difference to him. 

The result is the same.

A dullness that turns to numbness to cloud the ache where she used to be.

He’s lost, pondering how many glasses he would need to drink before Theo will have to Apparate him home. Last week it was seven, and he wonders if this week it will take eight? 

How many until he doesn’t know which way is up and which way is down? How many until he is a stumbling mess chasing after the earth’s axis?

Draco misses it, the first time she clears her throat. He’s tapping his pen against his parchment as he tries to recall how many Sober Up Potions he has at his flat. The second time she tries to garner his attention she says his name, and Draco raises his head to hers as hope swells in his chest. 

Is this it?

Is this the moment?

It's the first time she’s voluntarily spoken his name in weeks, and he isn’t sure what has triggered her sudden willingness to speak. He watches as she places the ladle from her cauldron on the counter with controlled precision, and the set determination to her eye sparks a weariness to linger in his chest. The air thickens between them, and suddenly Draco finds it harder to breathe. He looks at her with rapt attention, tracing each facet of her face as if he were examining a rare diamond—she’s beautiful, sharp and deadly. It's like part of him has been awakened, warning him to preserve this moment—foreshadowing that it will be the last time he sees her. His eyes are liquid pools of mercury as he traces each constellation of freckles along her nose, the curve her lips, and finally settling on her eyes. A reflection of sadness stares back at him. Each inhale is strained, incomplete, and the pressure that fills his lungs threatens to smother him. He sits his pen down, giving her his undivided attention despite knowing that whatever is about to be said will be detrimental. 

“I–” She pauses, plucking her wand from her hair to cast a stasis charm over the cauldron. Draco watches as she seems to fidget, uncertain of what to do with her hands. Hermione runs her fingers along the front of her white research robes, biting her lip as she steps away from the table. 

He feels tentacles of ice weaving around his ankles, rooting him to the ground as though he’s been ensnared by Devil’s Snare and she’s taken his sole form of light. Hermione moves, gathering her satchel and plucking parchments and photos from her desk. He doesn’t understand.

“Hermione?”

She doesn’t look at him from where she continues to pack her things away, but instead she speaks in a hurried tone. “I am starting at St. Mungo’s Healer Academy next month.”

She’s always wanted to be a healer.  

He’d known that, and yet, the confession splinters him, because that means…

“Today is my last day with the DoM.” Hermione raises her head, meeting his gaze as she slips her belongings over her shoulder. He watches the bob of her throat as she swallows and how she quickly averts her eyes. Draco presses his tongue into his cheek, each thought and word flying from his mind as the weight of her words settles. 

Definite.

Decided. 

She’s leaving—quitting. 

Any thoughts or wishes of repairing their fractured relationship or even regaining the friendship that he’d grown to covet vanish like smoke in the wind. All that remains is a fire of agony burning through the cavity in his chest. 

“Does Theo—”

But Hermione doesn’t give him time to answer. She nods, curtly. “He’s transferring to take my place.” 

His shock quickly transforms into something intractable. He’s bitter— angry that Theo had known and yet hadn’t told him— warned him. How long has he known? How long has Theo allowed him to live with this false illusion of hope that things may be salvageable between him and Hermione? 

Hermione must see the boiling rage that is simmering to the surface of his eyes because she quickly interjects, “Don’t be angry with Theo, please ; I made him promise to not say anything.” Her voice cracks, as she takes another step towards the door. “I can’t work like this, Draco,” she says in defeat as she looks to the floor; it's as though the admission has taken her last breath to muster.

“And whose fault is that?” He spits vehemently. It doesn’t matter anymore . He’s tried to be understanding— he’d hurt her after all— but he isn’t able to shoulder all of the blame; Draco refuses. She is as guilty as he is, but at least he isn’t the one to give up— he isn’t the one walking away.

Hermione snaps her head to his, and he sees anger flushing in her cheeks, in her eyes, and he supposes that it's fitting–they are twin flames after all. Draco meets her fiery gaze, refusing to break under the intensity of her stare. He waits, waits for her retribution, for her verbal onslaught— for anything —to justify the way that he currently feels. But instead her shoulders sag, like the urge to fight has left her; as if he isn’t worth her time. 

Perhaps he isn't.

She blinks, sighing and he stares as the desire to forget washes over her face. “Goodbye, Draco.”

And he is left to watch her leave.

***

He Apparates directly into the Manor’s south wing drawing room from the Ministry. Anger pulsates beneath his skin like an electrical current without a conduit. His hurt has quickly transformed into an unbridled fury, it's raw— all consuming , and Draco desires nothing more than to break— to inflict havoc upon those who have brought this fate upon him. He ignores his mother’s house elf Wimsey as he storms towards her parlour. Draco is hyper focused with only one destination in mind. His dragonhide loafers echo against the opalescent marble floors like a pendulum, knocking at his fury as he walks through the deserted halls. He ignores the curious looks of his ancestor’s paintings, the whispered murmurs from their frames.

This is her fault.  

After Hermione left their office, closing the door on them, Draco had stared after her as each fortification of his mind tumbled as though they were merely a castle in the sand. When she left she managed to take his hope and all of his betterment with her. Draco was helpless, unable to do anything but watch as she packed away an intricate part of who he was within her bag, and he could not stop it— stop her . At some point during their years as partners, he thought he’d become a better man— a good man. But now, as this anger twists and turns inside of him, spiralling into something unfamiliar, it roars and gnaws away at any resemblance of goodness within him.  

Draco can’t help but wonder if he was good only because she saw it within him first. 

He throws open the onyx parlour doors, his eyes landing on a gift from the cruel gods, and he feels his lips tilt into a vicious sneer. His mother sits opposite Astoria around a small table with a full tea service before them. Her icy blue eyes widen in shock as she takes him in, and he allows his gaze to trail to Astoria, who seems to curl inward on herself under the wrath of his stare. 

Good, let her be uncomfortable, he thinks vehemently. 

“Draco,” Narcissa says in a collected demeanour as she sits her china on the saucer. Her back is straight, shoulders stiff as she folds her napkin atop her lap. “This is a surprise. I was not expecting you today.”

“You couldn't leave well enough alone, could you?”

He watches as her jaw tenses, calculating his words of choice and her subsequent response. A battle of wits and will. Draco feels as though he has entered into a game of Wizard’s Chess with his mother as Astoria serves as the spectator where the stakes are much too high. He continues to ignore her though, despite feeling her gaze upon him, but he doesn’t acknowledge her— refuses to. Right now, his words are for his mother, and her alone . 

“I’m not quite sure–”

“Don’t be daft, Mother. You and Father have manipulated and interfered with my life–”

“Everything your father and I have ever done has been for your best interest,” Narcissa interjects coolly. Her demeanour is calm, but Draco knows he has struck a nerve. Regardless of his father’s transgressions, his mother will never allow Draco to speak ill of him.

“I am not a child, Mother. I have a career, friendships, a relationship–”

“You had a tryst with a woman who did not take your affections seriously, my dragon. I was only trying to help you.”

Draco scoffs, vision turning red as he stares at her. How is it that she can not see the fault in her actions?

“You thought manipulating Astoria into believing that I was interested was the correct course of action to take?” He knows his words have cut her, deeply, but Draco is too blinded by his rage to care. She is merely a pawn in his mother’s game.

“Astoria will make you a fine match.”

“I WILL NOT ENTER A COURTSHIP OR MARRY FOR PROPITIATORY!” He bellows the words, slinging them at his mother as if they can physically penetrate her mind–to make her understand–to see . Draco sees Astoria flinch from the corner of his eye, and under normal circumstances, he would have asked after her, but not today, not now.

Narcissa looks at him with a broken repentance as understanding crosses her face. Draco feels his anger dissipate, like air leaving a balloon.

“Miss Granger was–”

“ Everything,” he replies and it's a confession that's irrepressible, unrestrained, and only full of aching—longing.

An unbridled truth.

Given to the wrong person.

Months too late.

How long will this regret haunt him, remind him, that he had once held perfection in his hands? 

His anger bleeds out of him like the last clap of thunder in a storm, and Draco is left with nothing but a numbness that seeps into each particle of his bones and into his soul.

“I didn’t know,” Narcissa admits and the sorrow that etches into her face matches his own.

“Neither did I,” he confesses, and his honesty is so much worse. 

He knew, but he didn’t understand. 

***

“Draco?” Theo stands from the leather chair that he sits in, shock written upon his face. 

Draco ignores his name, moving towards the chair seated in front of the hearth. Each step is a burden, and it feels as if it takes all of his effort to place one foot in front of the other. He is physically drained from his confrontation with his mother and her subsequent apology. It had been surprisingly genuine, the remorse she shared. 

Perhaps in time he will learn to forgive her too. 

And maybe in time he will learn to forgive himself for his sins, both past and present.

Fools, they are all fools.

But that journey is for another day, at a later time, when doesn’t feel as though he has been pushed through hours of Legilimency . Draco’s mind is a turbulent mess as he sinks into the leather chair opposite of Theo, casting a single glance at his friend. A weariness has replaced the brief shock that had painted Theo’s face moments prior. 

Theo knows why he is here.

Draco runs a hand over his jaw, staring into the smouldering flames of the parlour’s fireplace as he allows the exhaustion of the day to envelop him, smothering him like poison he can’t endure. He watches as the flames dance along the marble hearth, crackling and painting an array of orange and amber along the cream walls. Draco’s lost; the warmth provides little comfort for the hollowness that has seemed to take up residence inside of his chest. She’s missing, and he doesn’t know if he will ever be able to fill her space. 

He hears Theo sigh, summoning a bottle of Ogden’s and two crystal tumblers as he returns to his chair. Draco turns, watching as he pours two fingers into each of their glasses before extending one out to him; his blue eyes are wide in earnest—an offering. Draco slips the tumbler from his hand, tilting the glass as he examines how the amber liquid catches in the light of the fire. 

How it reminds him of her eyes.  

“I was prepared for you to curse me when you found out,” Theo muses, taking his own sip of whiskey while he looks into the flames. 

“I was going to,” he replies bitterly, resting his tumbler on his knee.

Theo hums but doesn’t say anything further, and Draco understands; Theo is giving him the floor to yell— scream —to do whatever he needs to feel better. But the truth is, his fight left him when Astoria chased after him through the Manor, begging for his forgiveness. She’d looked at him with tears in her eyes with claims that ‘ she hadn’t known’ tumbling from her lips . He’d looked at her and known she was telling the truth. Astoria is nothing but a political pawn trying to be moved by her family to secure an advantageous match. He can’t resent her, not really. She’s young and naive, and how was she to know that what his mother promised wasn’t true? Perhaps in time he will be able to truly forgive her, but indifference towards the youngest Greengrass is all he’s capable of mustering at this time. 

Astoria and his mother aside, the other facet of the problem remains— there is no better.

Part of his soul is missing, and he wonders if Hermione feels it too? 

He often thought that after years of suffering, he’d finally managed to repay his penitence, that it was his turn for something more–something genuine. Bottomless galleons had never been able to purchase happiness, not like he’d experienced when he was with her. Hermione had burned so brightly in his eyes, purifying him through her touch, and for a moment he’d thought he was deserving of being loved. 

What’s the point? The purpose of trying to be a better man when she isn’t here to witness it? 

“You’re more calm than I anticipated,” Theo assesses, crossing his ankle at the knee. Draco feels his eyes on him, studying him.

“Where’s Daph?” Draco asks instead. 

“With Astoria,” he pauses, hesitant to continue. “She Floo called right before you arrived.”

“I saw her at the Manor having tea with my mother.”

Draco turns his eyes to Theo’s and watches as his jaw clenches. For the most part, Daphne has stayed neutral with what has happened. She faults her sister for being so rash, but she doesn’t pity Draco either, not when he had months to be transparent with Hermione. 

“Tori is sorry, Draco—you know that.”

“I know, but eventually she needs to understand that not every wizard who is kind to her is interested in a courtship, Theo,” Draco says the words more vicious than he’d intended, but the truth remains. 

She was a hopeless romantic born into the world of pureblood propitiatory, and she can’t have both. Astoria is no princess in need of being saved.

Theo and Daphne were lucky. Their love was born as children that grew and survived the war and their parent’s influence.

They've broken free from the chains of pureblood society.

But Astoria?

She is bound to the future set forth by her parents despite Daphne’s insistence that there is more to marriage than a name .

“She’s young, mate. She’ll learn that in time.”

Draco’s eyebrows raise, but he says nothing more as he takes a sip from his whiskey, cherishing the way the cinnamon flavour liquor burns. 

He has to ask—has to know.

“Why didn’t you tell me she was leaving?”

Theo sits his tumbler to the side, leaning forward to brace his elbows on his knees as he runs a hand through his chestnut curls. 

“Granger,” he paused, clear juxtaposition written upon his face. “She is as devastated as you–”

“Then why wouldn’t she listen?” He spits, and the anger that had receded licks at his mind, reminding him that it is still there—that he is still hurt.

“Pride,” Theo shrugs. “Her mind was already made up when she came to me. In her eyes, you made her out to be a fool, and to her, that was worse than lying.”

“She told you that?” Disbelief laces each of his words but he knows her, and he can’t imagine that Hermione would divulge that information willingly.

“No, of course not,” Theo chuckles dryly. “But I’ve watched the two of you dance around one another for the better part of the last year, and I know wounded pride when I see it.”

“Not very Gryffindor of her.” 

“Perhaps we influenced her more than we knew.”

Theo’s words ring true. How was it possible that in a matter of weeks Hermione had managed to bring out a recklessness that Draco hadn’t known he possessed? And how was it plausible that Hermione had played their relationship too close to the chest? 

It is wrong—not right, and he is helpless to change it.

“I miss her, Theo,” the confession is quiet, spoken so softly that Draco can barely hear it over the roaring in his ears, the pounding in his chest. 

“You’re going to be okay,” Theo says the words so confidently, and Draco wants to believe him.

But he doesn’t understand how.  

He doesn’t see how a future where he is okay is plausible when he feels as though he has been torn apart by the seams until he is left in nothing but tatters. There is no way he will ever be able to be put back together in the same way, because part of him is gone . 

She’d moulded him, shaped him, and changed him.

And then left him.

“ You’re going to be okay, Draco,” Theo repeats more softly, more earnestly.

He feels as though every beautiful thing he has built for himself has been burnt.

A garden of ashes. 

A thornbush of memories. 

He can’t remember her without being scorned—without being pricked until he bleeds.

He’s left in ruins. 

Chapter Text

Draco—Present time, November 2009

It's the type of November day that still holds to its dissipating fall demeanour. Its unwillingness to transition into the rapidly approaching winter is evident in the way that the mid morning chill hangs in the air. The varying auburn foliage clings to the trees, casting an array of burnt orange and yellows against the awakening sky. It's serene—the air is crisp, clean, and exactly what he needs. Each inhale stings his lungs as Draco trails silently behind Theo and Blaise as they make their way towards the quidditch pitch on the outskirts of Nott Manor’s grounds. It's the first time he’s flown in weeks, and now, as his broom rests on his shoulder, Draco can’t help but feel as though he is about to be faced with some sort of test—one that he has implicitly not prepared for.

Whatever this feeling is, it leans in the balance like a scale waiting to tip, and he hasn’t managed to figure out which way it will land. 

The unknowing leaves him anxious. 

But he pushes the trepidation from his mind as he focuses on a day of normality; it's what he desires—what he needs. 

Blaise levitates the quaffle in front of him as Theo reenacts Ophelia spilling her pumpkin juice on Astoria’s pantsuit at her birthday party last month, and the memory brings a smile to his lips. She'd laughed it off, casting a quick Scourgify over her trousers before sweeping her niece into her arms. He is happy for Astoria—truthfully. Draco has only been around the witch a handful of times since their disastrous New Years encounter, but those instances have always been uncomfortable. Regardless of forgiving her years ago, there remained an uneasy truce lingering between them, and things had never returned to how they were before. But Ophelia’s party was a turning point for their stilted friendship. Her betrothed, Jack, had accompanied her, and Draco had to admit that he seemed like a decent bloke during their brief encounter. Instead of adding to the odd dynamic of things, it left Draco feeling like a weight had been lifted. He and Astoria had finally been able to put their past completely aside—to move on. It was as though they had finally finished the last chapter of their story, and she was off to her happily ever after. Jack’s arrival seemed to finally bring the missing piece to their balance, and Astoria had finally forgiven herself. Once the two of them crossed that bridge of uncomfortability, the remainder of the party went smoothly. 

No one spoke of Draco’s illness.

Pansy had hugged him without tears in her eyes and Neville had smiled. 

Daphne laughed.

And Ophelia had clung to him as he packed her on his back. 

The jubilant smile on his goddaughter’s face had pushed the weeks of uncertainty to the side, allowing Draco to be present.

Like he is trying to be now.

In the summer, before diagnostics and potion regimens, these Saturday mornings of throwing a quaffle to and fro were a weekly occurrence.

But then Draco became sick.

And everything changed.

But today is an opportunity for normalcy, and Draco craves it—needs it like he does air, and he believes for the first time in weeks, as he swings his leg over the cherry wood to kick away from the ground, that there might be hope.

***

Hermione can’t remember the last time she’s taken a Saturday for herself. The last several weeks have tilted her world on its axis, and it's as though she is running against the wind. Perhaps it is fitting in a way? Draco Malfoy had entered her life nine years ago like an EF5 tornado, spinning and uprooting her every belief. When the wind had settled and only wreckage remained, she’d tried to rebuild, to reconstruct herself in the image of how she’d been before. But there was no undoing the damage that’d been done— she was changed. And now, years later when she has learned to live with those changes, when she has finally become comfortable with this new version of herself, he touches down, sweeping her up into his storm once again.  

She doesn’t understand who this version of Draco is. She finds herself distracted most days, watching him as they work in tandem. In some ways he is the same man he was before, challenging her with wit and will, and yet, he’s different, observing her with reverent attention. Most days, he treats her as though she is made of glass, like she may crack if he presses too hard. It's honestly fair behaviour, and she can not fault him for that. Their last weeks together, before her resignation, were nothing more than awkward occurrences and strained conversation. Hermione can’t help but wonder what they would have become if it had been this version of themselves to meet. It's apparent that they have each grown from their insecurities in one way or another, and she can’t help but feel that if it was this version, then they wouldn’t have felt the need to hide behind the charade of casualness. 

They were both so young and had each been unprepared for when things became real . 

She’d struggled with timing and he’d struggled with words, and in the end, it had cost them everything. 

She wonders if this is a second opportunity for friendship. Or is this forgiveness? Hermione hasn’t allowed herself to dwell on how much she’s continuously missed him over the years. But now, being faced with his presence, she realises that the gaping part of herself that she has tried to ignore will only ever be able to be filled by him. It leaves her feeling whole for the first time in years. It's maddening and frustrating, and she worries that lines between them will continue to blur. It's the reason she’d run all those years ago. In his presence, she is weak, slipping into a comfortability that knits her together at the seams. She can’t trust herself with him, not fully. She’s at war with herself because she wants to know more— desperately so. She knows she should still harbour resentment for his actions, to keep him at arms bay, but she can’t bring herself to feel that way when working alongside him ignites her soul with an euphoria that she’d only felt with him once before. She’s terrified. She wants to find a cure and save him, but whether it is from the disease or herself, she isn’t quite sure. 

Hermione sits on her small sofa, her feet curled underneath her with a worn copy of Wuthering Heights long forgotten in her lap. Despite tucking away Draco’s diagnostics and a notebook full of theories in her bag for the day, she can’t rid her mind of him. He’s a parasite, consuming her thoughts until they are only of him. She wants nothing more than to turn her mind off, to lock him away in his tiny little box, and forget— just for a day. But she can’t. Things between them have drifted too close—they have become too much like before, and she can’t seem to shake him. He’s pressing and prodding, and he isn’t even here; Draco’s invaded her fully, and it almost makes her want to scream. Hermione is certain it's his calm demeanour, how he’s accepted his diagnosis with such ease, that has left her captivated. It speaks to his growth—to his maturity more than his words ever could. Her curiosity for him is bleeding as she replays each interaction they have shared over the last several weeks in her mind. She wants to know now, more than ever, who he is today—who Draco has become . 

“What if we use dragon claws to stabilise the moonstone? The additional brain stimulating properties from the dragon claw could combat the drowsiness induced by the Belladonna?” Draco muses aloud as he flips through Advance Herbs and Healing, Seventh Edition by Baldwick Steros.

Hermione isn’t sure when they slipped into this dance of familiarity again. Draco leans against his desk with an air of casualness hanging around him. The sleeves of his shirt are rolled to his elbows, and Hermione finds herself too entranced by the sight of him. She’s utterly transfixed as his fingers spread against the worn spine of the tome he reads. She sees his grey eyes scanning the page, his tongue pressing into his cheek as blonde strands of his hair fall unintentionally across his forehead. It's comfortable, nostalgic, and she wants to bottle the feeling the sight of him creates to remind herself on the hardest days that they have made it to here. It shows her that she hasn’t become so cold, so jagged, that she is incapable of feeling this way. 

Can she be his friend? It's the question that has slowly wound its way into her heart—into her mind. His presence has reminded her of how strong his absence in her life has been, and she doesn’t think that she will be able to let him go— not entirely—not again. Their relationship isn’t the same as it was, but she admits that he is what has been missing from her life, and she can’t help but feel grateful that somehow, despite everything, they have found themselves in this strange paradox.

She’s too absorbed in her own thoughts of friendships, possibilities, and implications that she completely ignores his question. She’s too fixated, trying to consolidate the past and present of this man, and what he could mean. 

His gaze flickers up from the text, delight dancing in his eyes, and Hermione finds herself taken back by how much healthier he appears. His magical core hasn’t declined in weeks, and the addition of diluted Dreamless Sleep Potion has seemed to ease his morning migraines. Even now, the purple shadows that had initially clung to his under eyes have waned. She loves seeing him like this— progressing. Its hope that ignites in her chest, swelling like a balloon when he raises an inquisitive brow in her direction. Draco snaps the book closed, tossing it behind him on the table before crossing his arms over his chest. She can’t stop it; her traitorous eyes flicker—tracing the movement, watching as the cotton pulls taunt against his frame. An amused chuckle leaves his chest and her gaze darts to his face only to see a playful smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“What was the question?” She asks, a flush rising to her cheeks as she adjusts the temperature of her cauldron with her wand. She’s too hot, too flustered, and she can’t handle it when he looks at her like that.

“Oh no, Granger. Please, do share with the room what was so enticing that it managed to consume your thoughts away from our prestigious work?” He asks the question playfully, and she doesn’t know why she is surprised to hear no malice in his tone. 

Hermione purses her lips, trying to hide the sly grin that threatens to split across her face at his lighthearted jest. She’s nervous, and she doesn’t understand why. This — familiarity between them has awakened something she’d forgotten within her, and it leaves her heart beating painfully in her chest— reminding her. Hermione is certain that the emotion swelling inside of her will continue to grow until a Draco shaped bruise is imprinted upon her soul. 

“I was thinking if you continue to have these ‘groundbreaking researching epiphanies’ without me, you’ll no longer need my assistance in the lab,” Hermione says it teasingly, but she watches as a familiar emotion treks across his face, and it sends her breath catching in her throat. It’s the same expression that she was never quite able to place. 

Draco doesn’t speak, but instead he pushes off the table, grabbing a small towel from his workstation as he approaches her. There’s a pain in her heart as he comes to a pause in front of her—pressing, pushing, bruising. He’s close enough that she can feel the warmth from his body seeping deep into her bones. He’s everywhere. The notes of birch and cedar weave between each of the ribs in her chest until all she can breathe is him. Hermione looks up, meeting his stare. She’s enraptured by the swirls of grey and silver twining throughout his irises, and she’s lost as the colours before her paint a symphony of emotion that is his own personal song. She tries and fails to understand , and that's the issue; Draco has always spoken loudest with his eyes rather than his words. Even now, as he holds her captive, he seems to say ‘ don’t forget me’ as he reaches up, towel in hand, and brushes what she is certain is Flobberworm Mucus from her cheek.

“I’ve always needed you, Hermione,” and the confession is quiet, spoken for only her ears to hear. 

She wonders if he even knows he said it aloud.

But Draco doesn’t say anything further. Instead, he drops his hand, walking away towards the door, and she is left unable to breathe.

It's the materialisation of a spectral silver fox that pulls Hermione from her reflection. Her brows knit together as she tries to remember which of her friends’ Patronuses is the creature, but her question is quickly answered as Theo’s rushed voice pours from the fox’s mouth.

“Granger—there was an accident—please come to Draco’s flat.”  

The mist evaporates, seemingly taking the warmth from her body with it. Ice crystallises in her veins as she jumps from the couch, nearly tripping in her haste. Hermione can’t seem to move fast enough. Each stept is sluggish, as though she’s running through quicksand. He needs you, her mind screams as she plucks her wand from her hair, summoning her beaded bag. Hermione doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t allow herself time to think of whether Draco’s wards would still permit her access as she grips her wand tighter and Apparates. 

She stumbles forward as the world decompresses around her. Hermione ignores the sense of longing that grips her as the ivory walls appear in the periphery of her vision and she smells the scent of—

No, she can’t allow herself to think of that. 

Panic festers, seizing her chest, plucking at her resolve. 

Where are they? 

Where is he?

She needs to see him.

He has to be okay.

Space, distance, and time without him was manageable because Draco was okay.

A reality—a world without him in it is one that she can not fathom.

An accident.

What kind?

Images and memories from her time in the Healer Academy bubbles to the forefront of her mind. 

Lethal.

Accidental.

Fatal. 

“Theo!” She calls, voice cracking as she takes another hesitant step forward.  

“Living room!” His voice echoes from down the hall, and Hermione nearly runs.

She doesn’t care that she is in her favourite faded ‘ Granger Dentistry’ tee.

Nor does she care that she is dressed in Muggle leggings and thick wool socks.

She nearly falls as she rounds the corner into the large sitting room. Her mind tries to remind her that nothing has changed, but the sight of Draco’s bloodied quidditch kit and broken arm tells her that everything has. Blaise stands near the Floo, and his typical mask of stoicism has slipped. His dark eyes are focused on where Draco lays unconscious on his couch while Theo kneels before him, wand in hand, as he slowly closes the gash along his forehead. 

“What happened?” She rasps, casting her first diagnostic charm over his form. A golden exoskeleton hovers above him, and his vital readings fluctuate with each inhale. Her eyes scan the images rapidly: right temporal lobe haemorrhage, left lung collapse, broken ribs and right shoulder fracture.

Her mind switches gears from panic to healer as she motions for Theo to move so she can take his place by Draco’s head. 

“What happened?” She repeats the question as she casts her first Anesthesia Charm to ensure Draco remains asleep. 

“We were tossing the quaffle like we always do when we noticed he was having trouble catching it.”

“He couldn’t catch the quaffle?” She echoes, trying to understand.

She flicks her wand, ensuring that his vital readings cycle and record every two minutes as she moves her wand behind his right ear.

“Yes, but we just wrote it off to him not playing for a few weeks.” Guilt laces Theo’s words as he lets out a shaky exhale. 

“These injuries didn’t occur from not catching a damn quaffle, Theodore,” she snaps, making a small incision through bone and tissue with her wand to syphon the pooling blood, relieving the rising pressure against his brain. 

It’s Blaise’s cool tenor that fills her ears. “He wasn’t able to grip his broom— to steer—to hang on, Granger. He fell from about sixty feet in the air.” 

She feels the crack.

Images of Harry tumbling from his broom in third year consumes her mind's eye.

A well of despair opens, swallowing the rushed explanation, pulling her down with a new dread. 

There was no Arresto Momentum to slow his descent. 

He’s lucky to be alive. 

The red light illuminating Draco’s brain flashes to green as the last of the haemorrhage is removed, and his intracranial pressure returns to normal. She exhales, closing the burr hole with a steady hand, and casting a complex healing and concealment charm around the bruised tissue. There, she thinks, relieved as her brain diagnostic continues to indicate stability.

She moves down to his chest, staring at his quidditch kit with only a moment’s hesitation. Hermione clenches her jaw and with another flick of her wand she vanishes it, leaving him in his trunks. 

“I’ll find a blanket,” Theo mumbles, and she hears him leave.

She can’t tear her eyes away.

Purple bruises spread along his chest, down his stomach, contrasting vividly with silver latticework of his Sectumsempra scars. 

Her mouth dries as memories knock at the forefront of her mind.

Remember, they seem to scream.

Don’t forget me, he had said.

She shifts forward on her knees, laying the palm of her hand against the bulge of his broken ribs. Tears prick at her eyes when she hears the wetness of his breaths. Her fingers flex against him, feeling how clammy and cool his skin is beneath her hand. Hermione glances up, needing the reassurance that his readings are stable— that the rattle in his chest is not death’s, and that she can at least heal him from this. 

Hermione bites her lip until it bleeds as she pours her magic into shifting his fractures, reshaping his bones, until she feels his lung expand, and his breathing evens out once more. She wipes a hand over her cheek, sniffling, as Theo tosses a faded red and gold blanket over Draco’s legs. All that’s left is his arm—a simple and easy fix. 

“Is he okay?” Theo asks, blue eyes wide in earnest. 

Hermione nods, trailing her wand over his clavicle, repairing the fracture and mending the torn muscles in his shoulder. 

“Thank you, Hermione,” Blaise says with sincerity.

She swallows, reaching in her bag to remove her tin of Murtlap Essence mixture to rub along his bruises and heal his torn muscles and ligaments. Her fingers work in a controlled tandem, and she tries to ignore how all these years later, she still remembers each dip and crevice of his skin.

Don’t forget me.

How could she?

Draco’s body is a well worn path.

“Of course, he is my patient,” she says the words horsley, never tearing her eyes away from Draco’s diagnostics as she works.

He’s okay, she reminds herself, a comfort, a mantra.

But buried beneath numbers and percentages is one level she can not change.

His magical core is at fifty percent. 

“Come on, Blaise. Draco is in good hands.” She feels Theo place his hand on her shoulder, squeezing gently. “Owl us and let us know how he’s doing, okay?”

She nods, unable to speak and she hears the two men Apparate away. 

Alone, her resolve breaks. 

Hot tears stream from her eyes as she presses her head into her hands. Just weeks ago he seemed to be in a remission of sorts, but here, before her on the edge of brokenness, Hermione feels lost. She grieves for him in a way that she hadn’t realised was possible. He’s smoke in her hands, and as hard as she tries to cling to him, he’s slipping away.

I need him, she realises and the thought scares her, terrifies her and leaves her skin itching. He’s taken root into her soul, and Hermione thinks that perhaps Draco is more of a weed, twisting and turning and consuming. But she can’t let her mind dwell on those implications, not yet. 

She looks at him, battered and bruised before her. I need to move him, the realisation sinks in, but she glances at her shaking hands and knows. Hermione wipes her cheeks, allowing herself to take note of Draco’s flat. Little has changed in time. The same ivory from the halls bleeds onto the sitting room walls, off-setting the dark oak floors, the same well-worn green rugs adorn the floor. Draco’s overflowing bookshelves are still in an organised chaos that only he understands. The only new additions she sees are pictures along his mantle. Moving images of a young girl with brown hair stare back at her as she clings to Draco’s back while Theo and Daphne watch in glee… Ophelia, she realises; Hermione’s chest aches. In another image he holds a small baby wrapped in a swaddle. These are monumental moments, and it parallels her own relationship with Harry and his children. 

She’s missed so much of Draco’s life.

And being here, in his home? It feels the same, and she wants nothing more than to sink into the floor as shame swallows her because she was a foolish child who turned her back on this— on him.

“Tinsy,” she whispers the elf’s name, and she wonders if she will even come.

But just as she did years ago, the small elf materialises before her with a soft crack. Wide, violet eyes blink as she recognises who exactly has summoned her. 

“Miss Hermione,” she squeaks in surprise, wrinkled hands tangling in her small emerald dress. Her gaze flickers to where Draco lays unconscious on the couch with blood on his face and in his hair. 

Hermione sees tears and fear contort her features and she quickly reaches forward, grabbing her hand. “He’s okay, Tinsy. I healed him.”

“Master Draco is very sick, Miss,” she whispers, bottom lip quivering, and Hermione feels her heart break in two. 

She doesn't know how much Draco has shared with his elves, if anything, and she feels like it would be betraying his trust if she divulged too much. Instead she swallows the emotion that chokes her and gives the elfs tiny hand a reassuring squeeze. 

“Can you help me, Tinsy?” 

She tears her eyes away from Draco to meet Hermione’s questioning gaze. “Tinsy would be honoured to help Miss Hermione, Miss.” 

“We need to get Draco to bed, can you help me move him?” 

Tinsy nods rapidly, and with a soft snap of her fingers, Draco levitates from the couch. Hermione trails quietly behind her as she moves him down the hall and into his room. She forces the waves of longing that threatens to drag her under as she makes quick work to pull back his sheets so Tinsy can lay him in the bed. 

Hermione tucks his grey sheets around his shoulders, watching with relief as his diagnostic continues to glow a steady green. She needs to lift the Anesthesia Charm and assess his cognitive function, but part of her worries how he will respond to his accident. She bites her bottom lip, glancing at Tinsy.

“Would Miss like Tinsy to prepare chamomile tea for her?”

The corner of Hermione’s lips tilt upward. “That would be lovely. Thank you, Tinsy.”

Tinsy Disapparates and she sighs, turning to walk towards Draco’s master bath. The floor is still the same emerald green granite as she remembers, and her socks move silently across the surface as she tries to not focus on the shower in the corner. She grabs a small washcloth from the linen closet, wetting it with warm water before returning to sit at Draco’s side. The bed dips with her, and she feels the heat from his arm seep into her from where she sits. 

She looks at him, allowing her eyes to trace the blood matted in his hair, his defined brow, strong jaw and perfect tilt of his nose. Handsome , she thinks, and the regret and aching that fills her has left a knot so tangled that she is certain she will never be able to undo it. With another sigh, she counters the Anesthesia Charm with a triangular flick of her wand. She pushes her wand through her bun and leans forward, washing the blood from Draco’s hair. She is gentle in her movements, allowing him to wake gradually under her touch. 

She sees his eyes begin to flutter, and a deep groan emits from his chest. Slowly, under the movements of her hand, Draco’s eyes open. His molten eyes stare at her unfocused, and a small smile pulls at her lips. She folds the wash cloth, continuing to clean the rust coloured flakes from his previous wound. Neither speak for a moment, each seemingly content to appreciate the tranquillity woven between them. 

Draco traces her face with his eyes. “You’re in my room,” he says hoarsely. Hermione drops her hand, folding the dirty cloth in her lap.

“You fell,” she replies; it's a pathetic explanation, but it's the truth nevertheless.

Draco’s brow creases, a grimace crossing his face as he tries to move. “ Fuck, ” he gasps, leaning back against his pillows.

Hermione shakes her head, pulling her wand from her hair to banish the cloth and summon her bag. She grabs it from the air, reaching inside to pull a Pain Relief Potion from her emergency stores. 

“Drink,” she commands, helping to tilt the vial into his mouth. “Tinsy is preparing tea.”

He nods, closing his eyes as the potion sweeps through his system. The discomfort written in his every move breaks her further, and she pushes the tears from her eyes as she lights her wand with a silent Lumos . 

“Open your eyes, Draco,” she instructs quietly, and he complies without hesitation.

She moves her wand over each pupil, ensuring that his reaction time is appropriate. Another knot of anxiety unfurls as everything neurological checks out. She ends the spell, sticking the wand through her hair once more as she curls her fingers in her lap.

“Do you remember what happened? How you were feeling? Theo and Blaise said you were having neuro-motor difficulties.” 

Draco lifts his hand, reaching forward to entwine his fingers with hers. She watches, unable to think, as his hand engulfs hers, long fingers slotting perfectly between her own. Warmth spreads through her veins, melting the ice that had formed when Theo’s patronus had appeared. As his hand settles around hers, she can feel him trying to squeeze, but it’s weak.

“I think I need to start physical therapy,” his voice is hollow, void of any traces of warmth.

She nods, because what is there to say when he is right? Today’s events show that things are changing, declining, and a potions regimen isn’t enough. Hermione strokes her thumb along the back of his hand, allowing herself, for just a moment, to forget the circumstances surrounding the gesture. Instead, she allows herself to pretend that the feeling of her hand in his, isn’t the feeling of home. That it isn’t Draco reclaiming his spot in her heart, in her soul. She tells herself that she is a healer, comforting a patient, and that this simple touch is nothing more.

“I only remember the slip,” Draco says in a pensive manner. “I went chasing after the quaffle, and when I took my turn my grip gave way. I don’t remember the impact.”

“I would imagine not; your injuries were quite extensive,” she tries to say the words tersely, but her voice quivers, betraying her fear. Draco’s hand spasms against her own, and on instinct, Hermione looks down, massaging the tense muscle.

She can feel Draco’s eyes on her as she works, but she focuses on the movement of her fingers in his. She’s trying, and failing, to unravel the feelings that have enslaved—shackled her heart. But each time she gets one layer untangled, another ‘what if’ plays in her mind, and she can’t bring herself to fathom what would have come of her if he had—

“You came,” he says as though he is shocked, that her presence within his home has finally caught up to him. Hermione glances up, halting her movements against his hand. “I didn’t think home visits were included when you became my healer.” His tone is light, like he’s trying to wash away the implications of what he’d just said.

She won't argue with him, not under these circumstances. Instead she allows a slight smile to cross her lips as she holds his hand in hers. “Of course I did.”

Where is Tinsy with our tea? She wonders, because Draco is looking at her like that , and it's too much, too heavy, and she is certain that she’s being swept away in his tide. He swallows, gaze flickering to their clasped hands. 

“I thought I had accepted it–losing my magic.” His admission sends her heart skipping in her chest, cracking, beating in a rhythm that is double time. “I thought I could cope through flying and just living. Squibs can use brooms, portkeys, Floo networks—I thought I would be okay.” A sad grimace crosses his face. “Poetic justice.”

“ Draco…”

He shakes his head, dismissing her. “I’ve lost everything I loved once; I don’t want to do it again.”

She is certain that her breathing has stopped, that his words have somehow pierced her heart, carved it open, and have woven itself inside until it beats to the rhythm of ‘ I loved.’ A desire to fix , to repair, ignites inside of her, for more reasons than one. She will show him, she will teach him, she will save him.

“Can I take you to Muggle London— properly? ”

He raises a brow. “Muggle London?” 

She nods. “There’s more than the wizarding world and a few Muggle dining establishments. Let me show you.”

Draco shifts, grimacing in discomfort. “I’m not sure if you noticed, but I am in pain, Granger. An outing is not in my capabilities at the moment, at least, not today.”

She rolls her eyes. “No, not today—next Saturday. Besides, with your head injury, you really ought to be in St. Mungo’s.”

“ No,” his voice is hard, clipped, and Hermione’s shoulders fall.

“You need overnight monitoring. You had a brain bleed, and your concussion is still healing.”

“I’ll be fine, Granger. I’ll go with you to London, but I draw the line at an overnight stay in the hospital.”

She bites her lip as Tinsy appears levitating a full tea service; shortbread biscuits and chamomile tea fill a silver platter as she sits it on the bedside table.

“Master Draco! You is awake,” she says excitedly, walking forward to place her hand on his arm. 

“Hello, Tinsy.”

“Miss Hermione healed you. You was very hurt. Tinsy and Pippy were oh so scared.” Her bottom lip quivers as tears line her violet eyes.

Draco releases his hand from hers to reach forward and grip Tinsy’s shoulder. “I’m okay, Tinsy.” His voice is so gentle, so full of reassurance that Hermione wants to believe him.

She nods, accepting his words. “Can Tinsy be of service further?”

Hermione glances at Draco, narrowing her eyes. “You are certain I can’t convince you to go to the hospital?”

“ No,” he repeats like a petulant child.

She keeps her gaze locked with his as she speaks. “Tinsy, would you be so kind as to prepare the guest room for me? I will need to stay the night to ensure that your stubborn master doesn’t harm himself tonight.” 

She watches as Draco’s eyes flash, but the emotion is gone before she can decipher it. He nods his head before begrudgingly muttering ‘ fine.’

Tinsy claps her hands, exclaiming, “Yes, of course. Tinsy will tell Pippy to make dinner for two,” before Disapparating with a crack.

The sound causes Draco to flinch, closing his eyes. “You don’t need to stay, Hermione.” 

She reaches forward, grasping his chin to tilt his head to examine his incision behind his ear. Pink skin raises as the cells weave and knit together— healing . His jaw is smooth under her fingers from his morning shave, and she allows herself to breathe in the scent of his aftershave— cedar and oak . She drops her hand to her lap as she tries to slow the erratic cadence of her pulse. 

“I want to,” she admits as Draco opens his eyes, looking. The storm brewing in the depths of his grey waters seems to still, as an unspoken understanding passes between them.

This is closure.

This is a beginning.

This is acceptance.

This is now.

Chapter Text

Hermione Flashback Feb. Valentine’s Day 2004. 

“Are you sure the two of you really don’t mind?” Ginny asks, handing over a squirming James to Hermione’s open arms.

“Not at all. Now go, enjoy yourselves,” she insists, shifting her godson to rest on her hip. 

“Seriously, ‘Mione and I got him for a few hours. You two enjoy the afternoon.” Ron chuckles, rubbing his hand over baby James’s emerging dark locks. Their godson giggles, nestling further into Hermione’s shoulder. 

She meets Ginny’s eyes over his head, and a sinking sensation pulls at her stomach with the worry that stares back at her. She knows that Ginny understands; this will be the first time that she and Ron have been entirely alone together since their split, and her first holiday since things ended with Draco. She tries to convey her readiness, her okayness through the way she meets Ginny’s inquisitive brown gaze, but she can’t help but feel that she failed, that somehow Ginny sees through her facade. She only watches Hermione for a moment longer before sighing and grabbing Harry’s arm. 

“Come along, the children have our child under control,” she laughs, tugging Harry towards the door. “We will be back by eight.”

“Go, have fun!” Hermione giggles, shutting the door softly behind him. 

With the click of the latch, she feels the weight of her situation. 

Alone.

Baby James is babbling in her arms, and she feels herself holding him a bit closer as she turns to meet Ron’s eyes. She knows that they need this—this time to come to terms with finding their friendship once more. But it's hard. So hard to push back this feeling of uncertainty, especially when Ron is looking at her longingly. His familiar eyes trace over the way she holds James, how his small fist tangles in her olive jumper. 

Familiar, her mind whispers and she feels a blush creep up her neck.

“Shall we?” She asks awkwardly, shifting James higher up on her hip before motioning for Ron to lead them into her sitting room. 

The evening progresses in almost a blur. It's as though she's watching their interaction through a film, and it makes her feel like she is reliving the awkward dance from their youth where neither of them knows how to act around the other. But with each hour that passes, Hermione remembers— remembers why it had been so easy to fall in love with Ron. She remembers vividly as the barricades they’d each constructed crumble in their wake. He is safe, familiar, and as his hand grazes hers when she passes the beef stew, she feels a heat stirring in her belly. 

Ron would have never betrayed her.

He would have never made her wonder what she was, what they were.

There had never been any doubt.

Safe.

Familiar.

Sitting in her home, it's hard for Hermione to not remember how it had felt to share this space with him. Her eyes glance around the room, picturing where Ron’s items used to reside. Has it really been three years? They had both been so young, after all. Perhaps now that they are older, things between them could work. But is that what she would truly want—a life with Ron?

Deep down she knows the answer, but right now she can’t bring herself to acknowledge the truth that brims deep within. There’s a void, a tattoo on her heart that needs erased, and she can’t help but wonder if she would find her answers in his arms. She allows her eyes to linger, tracing over each freckle that paints his cheeks, the crinkling of his cerulean eyes as he hoists James over his head, and the way his auburn locks slightly curl at the nape of his neck. 

Safe—familiar, her mind repeats, reminding her.

She feels herself relax—allows herself to sink into the moment and just enjoy being present with Ron. Time passes comfortably, and when there is a knock at her door at ten till eight, she pauses. She doesn’t want this evening to end, because when he leaves, she will be left alone with the ghosts of her past. She’d left Ron, Draco had left her—it is a cycle of torment that she can not shake, and Hermione is certain that she can’t bring herself to spend another night alone.

She brought this ruin upon herself.

She is lonely.

Lonely and in need of companionship from someone other than herself.  

Her mind drifts to dangerous depths as Harry and Ginny enter with wind burnt cheeks and matching smiles. She can’t help but ponder what Draco is doing as she looks at them. Hermione is certain that he’s probably entangled in Astoria’s arms. He’s probably taken her to Paris, to his family’s cabin in the mountains; so what would it matter—what would it hurt if she asked Ron to stay.

She doesn’t want to be alone. 

It’s just one night, she decides as Ginny sweeps James from the floor, kissing his cheek. 

“How was he?” Harry asks, running a knuckle along his son’s cheek.

“He was perfect,” Hermione answers, standing from the couch and crossing her arms in front of her chest. Her fingers tangle in the wool of her jumper as she tries to slow the pounding of her heart.

“Thank you both again,” Ginny says earnestly. “Tonight was needed. Harry hadn’t realised that this was our first outing since the Ministry’s Halloween Gala.” She gives him a pointed stare, and misses the utter look of devastation that flickers across Hermione’s face at the words. 

Heels missing.

Knickers gone.

‘Yours.’

She inhales deeply, shifting towards Ron as if she can physically block him from leaving. 

Not alone.

Harry rolls his eyes, but places his hand on Ginny’s lower back as James yawns, nestling his face into her chest. 

“Someone’s sleepy,” Harry mutters, looking at his son with bright green eyes that are full of adoration. 

“Will we see you on Sunday for dinner at the Burrow?” Ginny asks, as she makes her way towards Hermione’s Floo.

“Of course; I wouldn't miss it,” she says through a smile that she is certain is more favourable to a grimace. 

Ginny glances once more at Ron over Hermione’s shoulder before speaking in a voice meant for only her to hear. “Owl me tomorrow, yeah?”

“Sure,” she replies, throat suddenly dry.

As the Potters disappear in a swirl of green, Hermione realises that they are alone—truly. It's been three years—three years since Ron was alone with her in her— his former home. He’d helped her build it, restore it to its current glory, and then they had parted, moved on. She hears Ron shuffle behind her, and Hermione realises that she has yet to turn to face him. 

Stay, her mind whispers. It's what she wants, what she has thought about all afternoon. She doesn’t want to be lonely, at least for tonight. Breathing deeply, Hermione turns, meeting Ron’s inquisitive eyes. Without the buffer of James, she feels as if he is looking right through her, as if he is turning her inside out and finally seeing for the first time how broken she truly is. Hermione shifts, suddenly uncomfortable by the truth of Ron’s heavy gaze. 

“Would you like a drink?” She finally manages to ask, her fingers tightening in her jumper until her knuckles are white.

Ron shrugs, shoving his hands in the front pockets of his denims. “Why not?”

Hermione walks much too quickly to be casual into her kitchen, and she feels the weight of Ron’s stare following after her, burning into her back. She tries to breathe, to focus on stilling the shaking of her hands as she pulls two crystal tumblers from her stores and plucks a vintage bottle of Ogden’s from the shelf. She chooses to not focus, to not think of how it was from Draco’s batch initially. Rather, she returns to her sitting room where Ron lingers near her bookshelf looking quite out of place. His focus is on the shelves, on the obvious spaces from where her pictures of her and Draco were once held. She is certain that he is trying to remember if those were the places where snapshots of their time together had belonged. It’s hard to see him here—like this, but she pushes the thought to the back of her mind.

Hermione clears her throat, and he turns, a smile pulling at his lips. It’s so different from the smirks that had adorned Draco’s lips. Where he was confident, assured, Ron is bashful, uncertain—smiling as though he has just been caught in the sweets jar. It’s wholesome, and almost enough for Hermione to question her implications for the night. 

Almost. 

Hermione curls onto her end of the couch and pours an inch into each of their tumblers. She extends Ron his as he takes his spot at the opposite end. 

“Thanks ‘Mione.” She finds herself staring, watching as Ron brings the amber liquid to his mouth and takes a generous drink. 

Perhaps he is as nervous as she is? It isn’t as if the silence that fills the air between them is uncomfortable per se , but it isn’t exactly easy. It’s thick, filled with a tension that she has yet to decipher. You want this, she reminds herself as she traces the veins that run along the back of his hands, disappearing beneath the sleeves of his henley with her eyes. Does she, though? She can remember how the calluses of his hands felt running along her bare skin, how he tasted of licorice and always felt like home.

Just for tonight, she decides. I deserve to be happy, at least for tonight. 

“Thank you for staying,” she replies softly, and they drink. 

Each sip feels like a gravitational pull as Hermione shifts closer to Ron until her feet are pressed under his thigh, and his arm is resting across the back of the small couch. Her senses are dulled, and the warmth coursing through her veins does little to temper the heat that is pooling in her belly. Each inhale brings the comforting aroma of sandalwood and tobacco and Hermione wants to drown in it, to forget the scent of birch and spice just for the night. 

She wants to forget and to remember what it felt like to be touched by someone who cares. 

They talk, and it's the first time their conversation has flowed in years. They find themselves discussing everything. His time at the joke shop, Burrow renovations, baby James, her upcoming Healer Academy rotations and so on. It’s easy; even if it's not the challenging debates that she’d grown accustomed to having with Draco, but it’s enough for her inhibitions to continue to lower as the alcohol pushes through her veins. 

She feels a finger in her hair. It's a careful touch, just a slight curl of the lock around his finger, but it's enough to send her heart hammering. It's a painful cadence, and it feels as if there is a snitch lodged in her chest, pushing and pressing. Ron watches her apprehensively, as though he is waiting for her to rebuke his approach. Instead, she tilts her head further into his touch. 

You want this. 

Those three words have become a mantra, her sole form of bravery as she leans further, resting her head entirely in the palm of his hand. She feels Ron’s fingers flex in her curls, and he watches her, eyes slightly glassy.

“‘Mione?” His question is a whisper, and her gaze settles on the curve of his lips. 

Perhaps if she was a better person, less broken—less selfish—she wouldn’t have been so weak. Maybe if things hadn’t ended the way they had with Draco—her heart shattered without a way to mend it in sight—she wouldn’t have succumbed to the lure of loneliness, perhaps she wouldn’t have sought fulfilment in Ron’s arms. But in this moment Hermione is not strong, she is not good, she is selfish, broken beyond repair, and she moves, pressing her lips to his.

There is a softness, a gentleness, to the way that Ron’s mouth slants against hers. It's the same as years before, but different. He tastes the same, holds her the same, and yet, when he pulls her to straddle his lap, there is a confidence, an assurance that was lacking from their past. Her hands weave into his hair, pulling him closer. The texture isn’t as silken as his, but Hermione pushes the thought from her mind, winding her fingers tighter as she tries to expel the thoughts of Draco from her mind.

To forget.

To burn him from her memory.

Perhaps to not heal, but merely replace. 

To hide him behind a charade of indifference. 

I want this, her mind repeats like a pin caught in the groove of a track. 

A hand makes its way under her jumper. Calluses move along her side, scraping and stroking an ember to a flame inside of her. Hermione moans into his mouth, nails digging, seeking purchase as Ron’s lips trail to her neck. He touches her with assuredness, remembering each way to make her sing, and she responds to him— loudly. His touch is different from Draco’s, and Hermione finds herself sinking, drowning in the manner in which he pulls her clothes from her body. Each touch erodes her composure until there is nothing left. Her fingers trace the freckles along his shoulders, and she has to focus her attention to anywhere but Ron’s eyes. She knows if she meets his gaze, she will break under the farce of their coupling. 

She’ll burn for this.

But she’s so hurt, so broken, and she wants to feel whole—just for a little while.

She sinks onto him fully, burying her head in the crook of his neck. She bites back a sob while praise for how fucking good she feels falls from Ron’s lips. Her mind is screaming; it’s at war with her body and her heart. Each movement is bringing her closer to her precipice, and yet it's not enough. Ron’s hands are too gentle, his praise too sweet, and of all the foolish things that she could have done, why did it have to be this? She clings to him tighter, breaking and coming apart in his arms. She feels his breath stutter as he reaches his peak a moment later, coming in her with a deep groan, and the sensation nearly causes Hermione to sob.

He’ll never forgive me for this, she realises. Any hope of fixing their friendship is gone as she pulls herself from his lap, summoning a throw to wrap around herself. She traces a finger over the patchwork. She can’t look at him, can’t bring herself to meet the expectation brewing in his gaze, and the realisation causes tears to sting her eyes.

Foolish—she’s so bloody foolish.

But lonely people do desperate things, and Hermione isn’t immune to the mistakes of a broken heart. 

A singular tear falls, and she can taste the salt as it passes her lips. 

“Hermione?” Ron asks tentatively. 

She turns to see that he has pulled his trunks on, and he is looking at her with caution in his eyes. The buzz from the firewhiskey has bled from their systems, and the magnitude of their situation meets them with an unyielding force. She can’t stop the emotions that break through the dam around her heart. Regret, longing, and pain rush from her as a sob rips from her throat. She buries her head in her hands as tears pour from her eyes. She feels Ron’s arms wrap around her shoulders, pulling her to his chest as his hand weaves its way into her hair. 

He isn’t Draco, and she is faced with the truth that she can’t replace him with a simple fuck. That she feels his absence too deeply, that there is no undoing the integration between their souls. She isn’t even sure if there will ever be an after Draco, because even now, in the arms of the man that should be a source of comfort she only feels despair.

“I–I–I’m—”

She’s choking, unable to breathe.

“ Shhh…it’s okay, whatever it is, it’s okay,” Ron murmurs more insistently, fingers massaging the nape of her neck as she continues to cry into his chest. 

Everything about his embrace is wrong–it isn’t right. 

There are no scars beneath her cheek, no scent of birch and spice, no hands trailing along her spine. 

‘Yours.’ 

Ron’s not Draco, and she can’t believe she was foolish enough to think that this was what she needed—what she wanted. 

She feels Ron’s hands bracket her face, tilting her back to meet his eyes. Worry swims in the ocean of their depths as he looks at her in confusion. 

His blatant concern only breaks her further.

He didn’t deserve this, her manipulation, and she surely doesn’t deserve his kindness. 

“Hermione, what is wrong?” He repeats, brow furrowing as he traces her face for answers; his thumbs swiping the tears from her cheeks.

“This shouldn’t have happened,” she finally manages to gasp through a ragged breath. 

Hurt flashes in his eyes, and his face falters at her declaration. “Wh-what?” he stumbles over his words, and she sees the gears turning in his mind. 

“We shouldn’t have had sex.” 

His hands drop from where he touches her as he looks away. She watches, traces the red flush that spreads down his neck, sees the bob of his throat as he swallows. Hermione knows he’s contemplating, putting together the distance she’d placed between them over the course of the last six months— what it truly means.

“Who is he?” Ron asks after a moment. His tone is clipped, controlled, and Hermione understands that his temper is hanging on by tethers. 

She picks at her cuticles, looking down at her fingers in her lap. She wishes more than anything that the floor would open, that it would swallow her whole. Shame rolls beneath her skin, and she itches to be anywhere but here. 

“Draco,” she whispers, and his name pierces her, exposing her, cleaving her open for Ron’s taking. 

She anticipates yelling; after all, that's how their arguments always ended. It was a key part of their relationship’s ultimate demise. Their incompatibility had pushed them from romance to complacently in a slow descent. 

“What was this? Payback?” He asks it so calmly, but as Hermione picks at her nail until it bleeds, she doesn't miss the undercurrent of hurt woven into his words. 

“ No,” she says admonished. “It’s–”

But what can she say? The truth —that the ache for Draco is too vast, that he’s stolen her anchor, and she’s lost amidst the treacherous waters of heartache— that she’s lonely.

“How long?”

“Six months.”

He stands, bending to pluck his clothes from where she’d tossed them. 

“ Ron…” Her voice cracks on a sob as he pulls his tee over his head. 

He hasn’t looked at her, and she fears that he won't, that this will be the final crack in their relationship— friendship . Hermione wonders how many pieces of herself she has left? She keeps giving, and losing and cracking, and her pieces are never recovered, and it all comes at the hand of her own foolish decisions. She’s spiralling, a cosmic force, shattered particles of her own brokenness.

“You used me, Hermione,” he finally says as he walks towards her Floo, and a dry chuckle meets her ears as his hand sinks into the Floo powder. He pauses, holding the emerald dust in his hand. “I would have accepted it—I would have even been happy for you—I knew you two were friends…” He shakes his head, tossing the powder into the flames. “But I don’t… I don’t know how I will forgive you for this—I thought I meant more to you than that. Don’t come to dinner on Sunday.”

He disappears into the flames.

Another crack.

Another break.

Another piece lost.

Another terrible decision.

Who is she without Draco Malfoy in her life? 

Who has she become?

Chapter Text

Hermione–Present time, November 2009 

She knows that the turning point between them came in the form of a broken man who felt he was deserving of the fate bestowed upon him. His willingness to accept his circumstances made Hermione turn her gaze inward, examining herself. Just like before, Draco has invaded her– slowly –surrounding her mind, body, and soul from all sides, until he is the sole source of her thoughts. His roots have spread, burrowing deep into her bones, twisting, and turning— capturing her . There was never the possibility of just being cordial co-workers, or even cordial enemies. They failed at being ‘just lovers’ and were even worse at being spiteful exes. The tether between them has always been present, connecting them , and Hermione is faced with the truth that she had longed to ignore. 

She is his; she has always been his. 

Time, distance, space, and even willful ignorance could not change the truth or depth of her love for him. When she left Draco, the world continued to move, leaving Hermione to watch her surroundings turn, spin, and continue while she was frozen—off kilter and axis. But now that he has re-entered her orbit, she finally feels herself tilting, spinning correctly for the first time in years. If she is the earth, then he is the moon, and Hermione is caught in a perpetual dance where her tide is dependent on his presence. His quidditch injury has forced her hand, finally making her accept that she needs Draco in her life.  

She needs him, undeniably so.

Each evening she would go to Draco’s flat to assess his healing, and it was in those moments that Hermione could feel the change. It's been a cycle of rebirth and renewal, and she can’t help but wonder if the pair of them had to go through their history to be able to get to this. She treats him with kindness, and he responds in feigned annoyance, but they each dance around the other with a quiet fondness that has only been cultivated through years of knowing the other. How is it possible that Draco remembers so much about her? Even when she’s the one examining his extensive diagnostics, he has her tea made to her preference, waiting on her when she steps through his Floo. Even now, his actions speak louder than his words as he shows her that he remembers . Hermione isn’t sure if she can allow herself to entertain the question, but it's there, pressing to the forefront of her mind. Has he felt her absence as she has his? She doesn’t ask. Instead, she promises him silently that she will save him, that she will care for him in the way he deserves. 

It’s that promise that pushes her steps forward as she parks her navy X5 in the bay lines outside of Draco’s London flat. There’s a anxious energy prickling through each of her nerves as doubt begins to creep into her mind about what she has planned for the day. Somehow, during their time together, they had never truly ventured into Muggle London. Yes, they had eaten at a few Muggle restaurants, and occasionally watched her telly, but she’d never taken him to explore the depths of the Muggle world. She’d never even driven him in her car, never introduced him to Muggle sports or taken him to a local festival. Their dates had always consisted of travel by portkey or Apparition, always to places that obscured their names. While other times they chose instead to lose themselves to one another inside the walls of their homes. It was as though each of them had been so ensnared with the other that the concept of doing something that could possibly take their attention away from the other was unfathomable. 

But this time is different . 

She knows that this isn’t a date; that given the circumstances of his disease, their time together is surely more clinical than romantic. But as she enters the elevator that will take her to Draco’s floor, a wave of anticipation washes through her. 

It's her birthday trip all over again. 

Things are changing between them— again , and Hermione braces herself for the fallout that is sure to come. She’s finally accepted her feelings, her need for him, and she dreads the outcome if she fails to save him despite her insistent claims that she will. He’d once told her that she was an unstoppable force, but his disease is an unmovable object, and she isn’t sure what the outcome will be now that they have collided. Hermione feels as though she is carrying an immeasurable weight upon her shoulders, that Draco will hate her if she is unable to keep her word. 

I promise , she’d whispered.

I know , he’d said.

She shakes her head, pushing the thoughts away as she raps her knuckles along the door. Hermione shifts on the balls of her feet while she waits, and a moment later, she hears Draco’s controlled steps approaching. She is certain that her breathing halts as the door swings open. Regardless of everything that has happened to him the last week, Draco looks surprisingly healthy. And handsome , her traitorous mind whispers. She hadn’t told him what they would be doing for the day, only instructing him to dress casually. A fitted navy jumper enunciates his broad shoulders, while dark denims sit low on his hips. It’s only the pallid colour painting his cheeks that alerts her to his illness. Hermione holds his stare, and it’s like drowning in pools of liquid mercury. Draco gives her once over before quirking a pale brow as he leans against the door frame, studying her. Hermione isn’t sure if he’s more surprised by the football shirt that hits her thighs, or the navy cockerel painted along her cheek.

“What do we have here, Granger?” He asks, a dry chuckle emitting from his chest as he steps to the side, allowing her passage. 

Hermione feels her face flame as she walks past him, pausing in his foyer. “I promised to show you Muggle London.” She extends the extra football shirt towards him. “I always keep my promises, and this is me, showing you that there is more to experience than Diagon Alley or Place Cachèe.” 

He rolls his eyes dramatically, a smirk tugging at his lips. He takes her offering, holding it up to examine the stitching of the patch along the sleeve. He glances at her; wisps of hair fall casually along his forehead as his smirk transforms into a devious grin. “Is that a cock painted along your cheek?”

“Har-har,” she taunts, crossing her arms. “It’s a cockerel, Malfoy; it’s the Spurs mascot. Would you like a matching one?” 

“I’ll just keep to my one cock, thank you.”

She nearly chokes, eyes widening as he watches her reaction smugly. 

“Are you going to enchant it to dance? To wiggle? To stand at attention?” Draco continues derisively, tossing the football shirt over his shoulder as he kicks the door closed behind him.

Hermione tucks her hands into her jacket. “Are you quite done?”

“Not really, but I’ll pause just for you.”

She scoffs, biting back a grin. “Go change, and grab a jacket.” 

“Granger…”

“Draco…”

“Where are we going?” 

“Tottenham's football club. They’re playing Wigan today.”

“The Muggle game?” He crosses his arms, tilting his head. He’s looking at her in an accusatory manner; it's as if the words she has uttered are blasphemous. “You hate sports.” 

“I don’t like Quidditch, but I never said that I didn't like sports.” She raises a challenging brow as Draco’s face flickers with annoyance.

He pulls the shirt from his shoulder, eyeing the navy embroidered ‘15’ along the back. “Who’s Crouch?” he sneers.

She tugs the shirt from his hand, shoving it against his chest as she pushes him towards the nearest loo to change. “Never mind who he is, but just know that he’s a valuable striker that the team just resigned this season; now go change.”

***

“I don’t understand why we can’t just side along?” Draco tries to hide the weariness that fills his eyes as he stares at her small SUV apprehensively. 

Hermione looks to where he stands a good distance away from the passenger door, and she tries to hide the humorous smile that threatens to break across her face at the sight. “There’s not an Apparition point near White Hart Lane,” she explains. “And besides, full Muggle experience, remember?”  

His eyes flash in irritation as he steps closer, tugging open the handle. “Fine, but I pray to fucking Merlin that you are a far better driver than flyer.” 

“Don’t be so dramatic,” she huffs, sliding into the driver's seat. 

Hermione’s quite fond of her car. Despite inheriting her father’s cream 1964 Porsche 356 coupe, Hermione had purchased her X5 because she’d wanted something for herself, something that kept her connected to her Muggle upbringing. She’d gotten the SUV earlier in the year, and it is everything that her younger self could have ever wanted. A navy gloss exterior contrasts perfectly against the silver rims, while a dark camel leather interior covers each seat within the cab. And now, with Draco sitting unmoving while he examines each crevice of the surface, she can’t help but giggle. 

His gaze narrows as he looks at her. “What’s so funny, Granger?” 

“You’re looking at the dash as though it’s about to attack you.” 

Draco only gives an indigent huff in response. 

She reaches over the centre console, tugging his safety belt over his chest. He’s so close, and as she clips it into place, she smells his captivating cologne. Birch and spice . It's an aphrodisiac, a drug straight to her olfactory system, each note slotting perfectly into a receptor as though he was made for her. She’d consume him fully if she could. Hermione swallows once, leaning back to look at him. Draco’s watching her curiously, waiting. “Safety first,” she offers meekly, turning to start her engine. 

The silence that fills the car is suffocating. Each passing moment pulls another particle of oxygen from the air. Her hand twitches along the steering wheel, eager to do something, anything to lighten the building tension between them. She reaches over, flipping on the radio in a desperate plea. The Red Hot Chili Peppers Otherside pours from the speakers, and it fills Hermione with a sinking sensation.

I heard your voice through a photograph

I thought it up and brought up the past

Once you know you can never go back

I gotta take it on the other side

Centuries are what it meant to me

A cemetery where I marry the sea

Stranger things could never change my mind

I gotta take it on the other side

Take it on the other side

Take it on, take it on

Her knuckles whiten under the pressure of her grip along the wheel. Why did she think that a car ride with Draco would be a good idea? It’s too small, too intimate, and Hermione is certain if she changes the station that it will just draw attention to the weight of the lyrics; instead she pushes through, turning onto another lane. She understands that most of the songs from this album were written about sobriety and addiction, but as she listens to each word being sung, Hermione can’t help but relate to the outpouring of emotion behind the words. When she thinks about it, she and Draco are two sides of the same coin, two inseparable bodies, with a history that is filled with both heartbreak and happiness, hope, and longing.

Inseparable. 

Constant. 

A force. 

The difference for her being, there was never an ‘otherside’ for her to slip into after Draco.

He was a void.

A vortex within her soul. 

But now? 

As her car smells of birch, and he shifts uncomfortably in the passenger seat next to her, she can’t stop herself from thinking that he’s a key sliding into place. In the past, she’d locked her heart, pushed him away, but now, in a mere matter of months Draco has become a locksmith, picking, and tuning until her fortress gives way. 

“What is this?” Draco asks, pulling her from her thoughts as the tune on the radio changes to something more lighthearted. 

So I cry and I pray and I beg

Love me love me

Say that you love me

Fool me fool me

Go on and fool me

Love me love me

Pretend that you love me

Leave me leave me

Just say that you need me

Hermione chuckles. “The Cardigans , Lovefool .”

“Muggles call this music?” he scoffs, haughtily. “It’s rubbish.”

“It’s better than Celestina Warbeck. Molly listened to her every Christmas.”

She sees Draco shift, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I concede, Granger.”

***

The buzzing of the crowd is electric; cheering, music, and laughter surrounds her on all sides. The atmosphere is addictive, and Hermione can’t stop the smile that splits across her face as she threads her fingers through Draco’s, tugging him closer. As they approach the front gate, the sounds of ‘Glory, glory Tottenham Hotspur, Glory, glory Tottenham Hotspur, Glory, glory Tottenham Hotspur’ grow louder. Muggles from all walks of life surround them, and she glances over her shoulder as she navigates them through the throngs of people to catch Draco’s stare. He looks stunned— overwhelmed. His quicksilver eyes dart from face to face, taking in the fan kits, painted faces, and pints of beer that surround him. Perhaps she should have warned him, should have compared it to attending the Quidditch World Cup, but watching his brows disappear into his hairline as he sees a man waving a navy and white flag while giving a two finger salute to a Wigan fan, makes her laugh. It's full, rich, and free and Draco looks at her with a soft endearment, and she knows he hasn’t heard the sound from her in years.

Her guard around him has always been raised, reserved.

But now?

There are no walls, no fortress around her heart to break through.

He’s shattered it, pushed himself through like a rogue bludger in the air.

He’s looking at her , through her , and the fondness that radiates from his gaze is enough to make her forget that their past is filled with something tragic. It’s strong enough to make her pretend that today may be more than a clinical exploration to help him adapt. Draco’s hand is heavy in hers, warm and constant. And Hermione allows herself to give in, to enjoy the elation that courses through her veins as she pulls him through the glass doors and into ‘The Lane.’ 

***

“The playing field is called ‘the pitch,’” Hermione explains, extending Draco a beer as they take their place in the blue stadium seats. She watches as he frowns at the green turf and the painted white lines that adorn its surface. She sees the confusion written in his brow as mercurial silver eyes take in the goal nets and the steadily growing crowd that surrounds him. She sighs, taking a sip of her brew. “Both teams will start at the centre, there, and just like with Quidditch, both teams will strike to gain possession of the ball. Their forwards and strikers will move down the pitch towards the goal in hopes of scoring.”

“Is that when it's over? When someone scores?” Draco asks curiously.

“Not quite. The match is set for ninety minutes, divided into two forty-five halves. In between the halves there will be a fifteen-minute break. At the end of the second half, whichever team has the most points will be the winner.”

She watches as he mulls over her rapid explanation, connecting her words to the markings on the pitch. Hermione shifts, feeling the need to fill the lingering silence. “It’s quite impressive, watching the players move as a unit.”

“Like Quidditch,” Draco smirks, the corner of his lip tilting upwards.

“Yes, but the pressure to win isn’t narrowed down to one person.”

Draco rolls his eyes but takes another sip of his beer. The stadium around them is nearly full, and Hermione shifts in anticipation. “There’s more I can explain, but I believe this should give you a basic enough understanding to enjoy the match without getting too caught up on penalties.” 

“Did you ever play?” he inquires, and there’s a genuine interest written in his eyes.

“Football?” 

He nods, watching her. The tops of Draco’s cheeks are tinged pink from the nip of the air, and he’s looking at her with a profound curiosity. His gaze makes her feel like he is committing this moment to memory, that it is his purpose to learn more about her, to understand her deeper than what he did before. 

She smiles bashfully, tracing a finger around the brim of her beer. “I did for a bit in primary school, but I wasn’t very good.” 

“You, not athletic?” Draco teases lightheartedly. 

“Shut it,” she murmurs, cheeks flaming, but she can’t rebuke him— not really . 

There’s a lightness to his eyes; it's the first time she's seen it in years. The sight leaves her breathless, and Hermione can’t bring herself to risk saying anything to potentially hinder it. Despite a slight apprehension to his surroundings, Draco seems at ease, almost carefree as he smirks playfully at her, and she finds herself wanting to slip into this familiar intimacy that seems to beckon to her. But she stops herself; instead, she just stares at him, eyes tracing the hidden threads of grey buried in the depths of his silver irises. He nudges her shoulder when she fails to respond, and she quickly gathers her wits, opening her mouth to retort. But their banter is cut short when the stadium explodes with cheering as the players enter the pitch. 

A smirk of her own crosses her lips as she leans over, a teasing tilt to her voice. “Just in case you are confused, we are rooting for the team in the white and navy kit.” Hermione hears Draco scoff at her jest, but he allows her to pull him to his feet to join in on the cheering of the crowd. 

Hermione finds herself more mesmerised by watching Draco’s enrapture of the game rather than the match at hand. He’s studying the plays with a rapt attention— enjoying it . When Crouch serves the first scoring goal of the half and Tottenham’s fans erupt into a chorus of ‘ Glory, glory, Hallelujah ’, Draco grins, stealing her breath. He claps along, turning to look at her. She’s motionless, smiling as her eyes trace the left dimple of his cheek while she joins in on the cheering.

“Football fans love to sing,” she explains, handing him a blue packet of cheese and onion crisps. Draco looks at it with an air of contempt, but takes it from her, nevertheless. 

“I still believe that my creation of ‘Weasley Is Our King’ is the best sports anthem.” 

She snorts, unable to hide her snicker as she opens her own green packet of salt and vinegar crisps. “That was quite rude of you, Draco.”

“I think my ‘Potter Stinks’ badges were far worse.” He pops a crisp into his mouth and instantly frowns. “ Fucking Salazar, Granger–these are awful. ”

Hermione laughs, extending her bag to trade. “Here, you’ll probably enjoy these more.”

Draco hums in agreement, lifting a singular brow as they swap.

“Better?” she asks as he tries the salt and vinegar. 

“Much,” he replies in between bites.

His eyes scan the players, watching as the ball is moved down the pitch, tossed effortlessly between the players. “Crouch, he’s surely a magical creature.” 

Hermione wipes her hands on a napkin, tilting her head in confusion. “Why would you say that?”

“Bloody look at him, has to be half giant.” 

Hermione blinks, staring at Draco as she waits for him to redact his statement. When he remains silent, she asks, voice full of disbelief, “Are you serious?”

“Look at him,” he repeats, gesturing towards the pitch. 

“You are unbelievable,” she murmurs, shaking her head, but the smile that spreads across her face betrays her. 

She’s happy.

These small moments that show her glimpses of what she could have had.

What she lost.

It hurts her, breaks her in a new way that she didn’t know was possible. 

Could’ve, should’ve, would’ve. 

It's a flicker of a future that's just out of grasp, and Hermione isn’t certain if the world is cruel for giving her this view.

It's a mirage of something that isn’t real—it’s fabricated, and it leaves the truth the same—it’s heartbreaking.

Some things cannot be healed; some things are irreversibly damaged . 

It fills her with a sadness that twists and turns, dragging her into the pits of regret. 

Was she the cause of this? Was her pride and stubbornness the reason that she lost him? Was there a truth to his claim of ‘it wasn’t what it seemed?’

Hermione has little regrets in her life, but losing Draco is her greatest. It's a sobering truth as she watches him. She is unsure of what Draco sees reflecting in her eyes because his face falls, transforming into something of concern.

“Granger?” he asks.

She brushes her hair over her shoulder as she lies. “Don’t you think it's a bit peculiar, me teaching you about a sport?” 

There’s a wariness to Draco’s eyes, and she can tell that he wants to push her, to inquire after her runaway thoughts. But in the end, he concedes, nodding with a slight laugh. “I think I deserve the right to take you to a Puddlemore game, even the playing field a bit.”

She feels her breathing hitch as her chest tightens. Could she? Could she allow him to take her to a match? She wants to say no, to decline. Hermione knows that accepting would push her too close to a line that is already too blurred. It's like it's been drawn in chalk, and with each passing rain shower, each moment they spend together , her clear boundary is being washed away. 

Rather she replies tersely, “I refuse to wear a Quidditch kit.” 

“I wore this,” he gestures at his shirt, “for you.”

“And?”

“So, you'll wear the kit of another man, but not my favourite Puddlemore player?” he challenges, eyes darkening as his voice takes on the possessive timbre that she’d used to covet.

“I’ve worn a Puddlemore jersey before, or did you forget?” She holds her breath, unsure what provoked her to recall the memory forward, to dispel the words from her lips.

An indecipherable emotion flickers across his face as his stare roams over her before settling on her eyes. “The world may have preferred you as golden, but to me, you were always more beautiful in silver,” he says after a moment, turning back to the game. 

Her breath leaves her body on a shaky exhale, her hands tightening in her jacket. Hermione is thankful for the distraction of the match; she isn’t certain what she would have said anyways. 

The second half of the game goes by in a blur. Defoe leads Tottenham to victory as the team proceeds to score eight more goals to secure the win. The stadium ignites in celebration when the match ends, and she watches as Draco loses himself to cheering along with the drunken crowd.

“Are all matches like that?” Draco asks as Hermione leads him towards her car, hand in hand.

They are both breathless, and she can tell by the twin rasp to his voice that they will each be hoarse in the morning. 

“Not quite, that was unexpectedly high, even for the premier league.” 

They stand by her car, but she makes no attempt to release her hand from his. She isn’t sure why this feels so different, but that part of her mind that has always lulled her towards him stirs. As much as she has tried to forget, to erase, to deny—

He is everything.

Even now, years later, Draco is in her bones, in her soul.

She is his. 

Hermione swallows, pulling her hand from his to fetch her keys. “Would you rather use my Floo, or would you prefer me to drive you back to your flat?” she asks, suddenly nervous. 

She looks up, meeting Draco’s eyes as he scans her face. She knows he’s searching, looking for any hint of uncertainty. After a moment, he nods, shoving his hands into his pockets. “The Floo would be great. Thank you, Hermione.”

The car ride to her home is stilted, uncomfortable, and Hermione isn’t entirely sure why. Perhaps it was the sound of her name falling from his lips that has sent her stomach into knots, or maybe it is the way that Draco looks at her with a controlled hunger in his gaze, but as she pulls into her garage and shuts the engine off, she has never been more eager to flee. Closing the driver’s side door, she feels like she can breathe for the first time since leaving the match. As she turns, she sees Draco looking at the covered Porsche that sits to the left.

“It was my father’s sports car, maybe I’ll show it to you sometime,” she quips, leading him into her kitchen.

Suddenly she is met with the realisation that this is the first time that Draco has been to her home in years. Hermione steals a glance over her shoulder as he follows silently behind her. His face reveals nothing, but as his gaze lands on her kitchen island, his shoulders stiffen. It's subtle, but unmissable. 

He feels it too.

It's a loss that she has never been able to fill.

Has he? 

Hermione tosses her purse onto the counter before leading Draco towards the living room. She can feel his eyes on her as she moves. It's heavy, a temptation that she wants to fall into. But she refuses to turn, refuses to see whatever emotion is written on his face.

She can’t face him. 

Can’t bring herself to acknowledge the truth swimming in her heart.

It's more than a need.

The constant war within her has created a juxtaposition between logic and desire

“Where’s your orange monstrosity?” His question is so sudden, pulling her from her thoughts, that Hermione nearly trips over her living room rug as she turns to look at him.

She wants to close her eyes, to pretend that seeing him in her home isn’t a vision from a daydream. He looks so fucking casual in his football shirt and denim jeans, and she wants to keep him here– with her.  

Daydream — unobtainable. 

She swallows. 

“Umm… he passed, later that year…” She finally replies awkwardly, and she averts her gaze as Draco’s face falls. 

“I’m sorry,” he replies tenderly, neither able to say anything more.

Rather, Hermione shrugs a shoulder, moving towards her mantle to gather her Floo powder. When she turns, she sees Draco looking at her bookshelves. The gaps from their photos are still there, but smaller. She’s tried to fill them with books and other pictures over the years, but nothing has ever quite fit. She feels her cheeks flame as Draco looks back at her, a knowing expression written upon his face. He doesn’t comment though, instead he moves, taking a handful of the emerald powder in hand. 

“I enjoyed today,” Draco says after a moment, silver eyes boring into hers– imploring .

He’s staring at her the way that he used to, all knowing , taking her apart piece by piece. She can’t hide from him, he knows her , and that level of understanding is what makes this dance between them so hard. Their steps are uncoordinated, and neither one is prepared to relinquish their control to allow the other to lead. The trust between them has been broken, but now, as Draco looks at her with a fondness in his eye, Hermione can’t help but wonder if a stitch between them is being formed.

Unforgotten. 

Biblical.

Unyielding.

There’s so much she wants to say and yet, she can’t find the right words. Instead, she smiles wistfully. “Until Puddlemore.”

The corner of his mouth tilts into a half smile as he tosses the powder into the flames. “Until Puddlemore. Goodnight, Hermione.”

And she watches as Draco disappears into the flames.  

Chapter Text

Draco Present time, December 2009

What is reality? Is it a fragment of time, space, and continuum? Is it the world with a plane of existence where things actually exist opposed to dreams? Dreams— where they are fractures of desires, fears, and memories? Is it the belly of the beast where you turn and run to no avail? Perhaps it is the story of redemption? Or maybe it is the story of failures marked by consequence? Is it worse, knowing that one action could have changed everything ? 

He lives—destined by a ripple effect of one choice; he’s dropped a stone into a pond, and he watches as the impact ripples across the surface, outward, onward—into the unknown. Is the definition of existence to be alive but not living? Because at this moment, he feels like the stone, falling down to the pits of the lake while everyone else lives , moves on above him while he is stuck in a diatribe with his own mind.

Draco isn’t certain what is in front of him or behind him. 

He can’t determine what is tangible, and what isn’t.

It’s peculiar.

Odd.

But despite not being afraid, there is a prickling sensation that runs along his spine telling him to run.

There’s a coruscating kaleidoscope of colour surrounding him, and no matter how hard he tries to focus, Draco can’t seem to locate its source. It distorts his vision as though he’s trying to look directly at the sun. Each step he takes resounds against the stone floors. Each tap is a perfect cadence that keeps in time to the beating of his heart. In the distance, he can hear an orchestra playing a gentle waltz, and Draco wonders if he’s at the opera. He doesn’t remember having plans to attend, but he doesn’t remember much since waking up in the strange room, with the strange stillness and unusual lights. 

He glances down. Adorning his body is a perfect pair of black dress robes— tailor made— the type that he always wears to society events and galas. His day-to-day attire has transformed over the years; it’s less aristocratic and more sensible. He has come to prefer simple trousers and jumpers, especially given his career . He wouldn’t just wear dress robes for no reason. Perhaps he’s at the opera after all? It’s the only explanation he can think of. It also sounds like him, agreeing to attend an event with his mother and then forgetting about it until the very last moment.

No.

That isn’t right. 

He hasn’t attended the opera with his mother in years.

So why is he here?

Where is he?

He doesn’t even know where here is, or how he came to this place .

Draco’s alone in the corridor, and even if he can’t see the portraits on the wall somehow he knows that he is being judged. For what? He can’t be sure, but it leaves him feeling apprehensive as he continues to walk along the hall. He’s determined to find a way out of this strange place. He is certain there is somewhere he is supposed to be, someone he is supposed to see. But who? His mind reaches, but his thoughts are obscured, blocked, like he can’t intentionally remember. It leaves him feeling frustrated, he is positive that there is somewhere with someone he would rather be. 

There’s movement ahead of him, catching his eye and his steps slow. Draco can see her plainly now that he is getting closer, a smooth sheet of dark hair gliding down a petite woman’s back. In the strange light her onyx gown shimmers with the surface of a thousand stars. 

Who is she? And why is she here? 

The prickling along his spine is growing, spreading to his fingertips in warning. This is not right, and he should not be here. But before Draco can flee, she turns, extending a slender hand. The light distorts her face, but the voice is familiar. 

“ Come, dance with me, Draco .”

He doesn’t remember moving or how this woman enters his arms, but he feels like he should smile and laugh; he is friends with her sister after all. The woman has been having tea with his mother recently. Her sister has left society, and so the mantle has fallen to her. She will carry on the family name within the upper class of the wizarding world until a match is secured for her and she becomes a doting wife. His mother is helping her. They take tea and attend charity events and other social standings together. Draco should accept this dance with her; it would be ill of him not too. It is the proper thing to do–it’s what is expected at these events afterall— a courtesy to his mother . But her overzealous perfume suffocates him with its hints of bergamot as he spins her, and the smile that crosses his face is more pained than genuine. 

He tries…

He thinks he is doing the right thing as the Malfoy heir. He escorts his mother and dances with her guests. 

Wrong. 

You do not want this life. 

A worn brown couch and a patchwork quilt draped over his legs. 

A book in hand and the smell of carnations. 

A smile that always reaches amber eyes. 

Somehow he feels the chains tightening around his ankles fighting against his insistent need to run, to flee this world that tries to drown him. He straddles the line of aristocratic heir and freedom bound. Draco doesn’t know, doesn’t understand how to blend the two, to learn to be both, to embrace both sides of who he is. Draco only knows that when he is alone with the fire in a looking glass that he feels alive, that somehow she has purified him, cleansed him from the inside out. 

Which is why this dance, with this small, unfamiliar woman in his arms, is wrong.

He shouldn’t be here. 

Draco wants to be with her, burning into a celestial, cosmic sea as the new year begins. 

He hurts.

That’s the first thing he realises. 

The pain that scorches him is not the cleansing type he has grown familiar with.

No.

This burn is that of ice, freezing and stinging and ending.

The small woman has kissed him, and in the distance there is a glowing flash of a camera. 

Horror. 

Fear.

Anger.

“Why would you do that?” he asks her, but there is no answer. 

Instead he is gone, ripped from the scene and suddenly he is alone—in a void he does not know. 

“Draco.”

He knows that voice. It's familiar —a comfort, a way out and forward. He tries to follow it, to run after it, but it feels as though he’s underwater. It’s muffled, distant, and each inhale burns, filling his lungs with water as he tries to move. He’s going to die— here —suffocating on the vision of an unfamiliar woman and the sound of his name. 

“Come back to me.”

In the distance there is a light. It’s warm and soft, and he thinks that's where he was called from. Draco wills his feet forward as he pushes through, breaking his head above water and finally emerging on the other side. Everything is different here; his steps are lighter and the suffocation is gone. He’s no longer drowning, but Draco is alone. Darkness envelops him like a warm cloak, but in the distance, there is a beacon of light—of hope. He takes a hesitant step forward, drawn like a moth to a flame, unable to resist. He can still taste the strange woman on his tongue and he knows that he needs to rid himself of her presence, to find the purifying fire and let it burn the indiscretion away. 

He moves with a purpose.

To confess–to explain his mistakes like he would to a Muggle priest.

He seeks absolution on an unfamiliar altar, but he would lay himself upon it without question or hesitation. He knows that he would carve himself open before it, if only to rid him of this torment.

Forgive me, please.

“Draco.”

It's that voice again, smooth like honey, falling over his skin. Suddenly his feet are moving rapidly with nothing but the goal of righting this unfamiliar wrong. Draco realises that he’s on pavement, that he’s running down a Muggle road. He doesn’t understand why he is here, but somehow he understands that this moment is monumental— that he has to save whatever he is losing.  

Even if he can’t quite remember what it is. 

His calm is quickly replaced with fear, woven into the very thread of his being. Faster. A brick home comes into view with an iron wrought fence encircling dying grass and ivy along the terraces. He doesn’t understand whose house it is, but he can’t shake the feeling of being home. 

Draco doesn’t hesitate throwing open the front gate and running up the familiar path. He’d crawl to the door if needed, he just knows that he must reach it. He doesn’t know what he is expected to do when he reaches the large oak entry. Perhaps knock? But he knows that he has to; he has to say something—anything—any attempt is better than nothing. 

He’s only ever done nothing. 

He has to rectify this feeling of something wilting and dying in his chest. Draco’s hand moves, pounding on the door with a force that he didn’t know he was capable of. 

His words are hungry, pouring out of his mouth with conviction.

“Please,” his voice rasps. It’s strained, unfamiliar to his own ears.

More insistent knocks against the wood. 

“Please, open the door.”

“Draco—come back to me.” 

His throat is closing and he feels the tears run down his cheeks.

“Hermione— please —listen to me! Please, don’t do this.”

And he feels his knuckles split against the intricate iron along the door, but it is nothing in comparison to this cavity that is cracking his chest in two. 

“It isn’t what you think,” he pleads. 

There’s blood running down his hand as he pounds, the sound echoing in the unearthly stillness that surrounds him. He leans his forehead against the grain, closing his eyes as he tries to breathe. 

“I– I–I won’t —don’t do this to me, please, love. Please, I am begging you.”

This pain—it’s as though there is a plague inside of him, destroying everything until he is left in a state of famine— wilted and dying.

“I can’t, I can’t without you.”

The purity that had engulfed him, that had the ability to replace nightmares with dreams is gone, and it leaves him crumpling to the ground like a sandcastle in the wake of an evening tide— destroyed.

“Please, don’t do this to us.” It's a hollow plea, falling on deaf ears beyond the door.

He turns, leaning back against the door as the rain starts to fall. He wants to slip to the ground, to sit there and stay in hopes that the fire will defeat the odds and burn again despite the rain. 

But he doesn’t. Instead, Draco falls. 

“Draco.”

He blinks into darkness, only this time there is no beacon in the distance. This time, the quiet that surrounds him is ominous with no feeling of hope to propel his feet further. He doesn’t understand where the Muggle street and the quaint brick home have gone, or where he is . Draco reaches forward, pressing against the wood that surrounds him. Somehow he knows he’s buried beneath the earth; he can feel each handful of dirt tossed upon his final resting place. 

She’s burying him.

He screams, raw, and shattering until his vocals rip. 

“Don’t forget me,” he begs.

Fists pound against the casket lid.

Let me out.

Listen to me, please. 

Don’t forget.

Another handful of soil.

Chestnut hair contrasts against the alabaster of his skin, and amber eyes crinkle as she looks up, smiling from where she rests on his chest. Why doesn’t he tell her? Why doesn’t he confess how he loves her? How losing her will leave him a shell of a man? 

“Truth or dare?” she asks, and it's so playful, so fun, and he doesn’t even hesitate before he says ‘truth.’

There’s a small little frown that dips between her perfect brows as she looks at him, contemplating. Eventually she asks, almost cautiously, “When did it change for you?”

He knows; he understands what she is asking. 

He reaches out a hand, brushing a thumb along her scarred forearm. “When Dumbledore tried to offer me a second chance, despite knowing that I was trying to kill him—it laid the foundation—opened my eyes to maybe look at everything happening around me in a different light. I began to question my every belief. People like Voldemort, like my father—things are never good enough for them. There is always something more; more power, more fear, more status to seek—I want to be content, fulfilled and happy,” he pauses, unable to meet her tear streaked face. “The true turning point was when you were tortured before me, though; all I could think was, here is my classmate, someone who I thought was less than me, fighting a war—it—” he stops, swallowing, unable to finish his thought, but she doesn't press. Rather, she traces a finger lovingly along his chest. “That was when,” he finishes softly. 

He thinks he sees it in her gaze, the same feeling that he has hid beneath the pools of silver in his own.

“Draco.”

Another handful tossed. 

Almost.

Pub nights with coworkers.

Liquid courage and the sweet smell of carnations. 

No longer ‘Malfoy’ but ‘Draco.’

The burning passion of discovery.

Bright smiles exchanged across the room, a twinkle in an eye.

Messy desks, and papers on the floor. 

Kisses and hands; fingers and desperation.

The feel of skin on skin.

Breathless whimpers and sighs.

A playful swat to an arse as he packs her over his shoulder.

Laughter. 

A failed attempt at trying to teach him to play Muggle strip poker, because she didn’t know that he already knew the game.

Learning to cook—roasted duck and rosemary potatoes—smiling over a shared bottle of wine. 

Slow dancing in her living room. 

Her head under his chin.

Trying to share a book together, but only arguing over their reading speed.

Late nights and early mornings.

Extended weekends and legs tangled in silken sheets.

‘I love you,’ silently promised each time he pushes inside of her.

Each road, path, twisting and turning leading him to her. 

Forever.

“Draco.”

A type of love that he dreams of. 

But it’s no longer a dream.

It’s a ghost—haunting and brimming with memories. 

Another handful of dirt and he can’t breathe. 

Ignored—pushed to the side— buried.

Buried, but not forgotten—not entirely. 

“Draco.”

Small hands bracket either side of his face, and suddenly, he feels as though he has been struck by the Whomping Willow— everything hurts. The scent of carnations washes through his body— cleansing the scent of bergamot from his mind. The pressure on his face is insistent, unwavering, and it is the first tangible thing he thinks he has experienced in quite some time. Draco feels the warmth cascade around him, wrapping tightly and smoothing. It pours into each crack of his being, mending him, making his soul whole. He recognises this magic— this feeling, and slowly he opens his eyes. 

Wide, amber irises stare down at him, clear distress etched into her gentle face. Her hair is twisted into a large knot atop her head, but several pieces have escaped, cascading around her face. He realises that she’s crying. Her eyes are red, cheeks swollen, and he finally notices how quickly she’s breathing above him— how pale she is . Draco sees her lips move, but he doesn’t hear her words. He turns his head, taking in his surroundings. Realisation dawns on him—somehow, he is in Hermione’s living room. His face contorts into a scowl, but as he tries to remember how he got here, to push past the gap in his memory, his mind splits under the pain. 

“Draco.” She says his name more insistently, and Draco tears his eyes away from her worn brown couch and crumpled patchwork quilt to meet her gaze. “Can you stand? I need to get you off of the floor.”

He swallows, realising how parched he is. He nods, taking her offered hand as she helps pull him into a sitting position. Draco’s head swims with the movement, but Hermione’s hand on his shoulder is firm, unmoving. He gives her an appreciative grimace before nodding, indicating he’s ready to continue. She pulls him to his feet, bearing most of his weight as she guides him to the couch. He’s lowered slowly, and she reaches with her free hand, shoving the quilt out of the way. She pauses her stance, one knee on the ground as he relaxes before her. Draco looks down to where she’s crouched between his legs. Under any normal circumstance he would have made a quip, some suggestive remark, but the look upon her face tells him that this is not the time for inappropriate gestures or quips. Suddenly he feels vulnerable. His nightshirt is stuck to his skin in a cold sweat, and he glances to where his hands shake almost uncontrollably in his lap. 

Hermione reaches out, steadying one of his much larger ones between her own. She starts to massage the joints along his fingers, watching his face as her fingers move. “Do you remember what happened?” she asks softly, never taking her eyes off of his. 

Draco traces her face, reading the sincerity that's laced beneath the surface. He pushes his thoughts towards the echoing pain in his mind as he tries to remember, to give up the information she seeks. Small glimpses of him moving through his flat, towards his Floo, float to the surface. He glances at his hands, noting the fatigue that plagues him, hollowing him to the core.

He’s deteriorating before her.

“The tremors, they weren’t ceasing. I think I was on my way to Floo call you,” he manages after a moment. He is certain there is something else, something he isn’t remembering, but it's too far out of reach.

She nods, unhesitating as she reaches for his other hand, and resuming her motions. He focuses on how soft her hand is, how sure she is in her work. It's hard for him to focus on anything but her touch, but he tries , tearing his gaze away as she speaks. 

“You fell through my Floo, passed out. I thought you were pissed at first.” She smiles, almost wistfully, but it’s gone almost instantly as she continues. “But then you wouldn’t respond to me,” her voice trails off, and for the first time Hermione looks away. “I called your name,” she adds in almost a whisper. In fact, Draco isn’t sure she meant to say the words aloud.

He swallows, dryly. “I don’t remember much about my afternoon, Granger, but I don’t believe I was drinking.” His voice is hoarse, his afternoon nothing but a haze as he tries to wade through the blurry images that reside inside of his head. 

A sad laugh bubbles from her chest, and when Hermione returns her gaze to his, there's a sadness that he can not place. “You weren’t pissed; I checked a diagnostic when you failed to speak to me.” She’s no longer massaging the tremors in his hand, instead she’s clutching onto him, holding onto his wrist so tightly, it is as though she is afraid that he will disappear from the palm of her hand. “You had a fever, a dangerously high one, Draco.”

He isn’t surprised by her statement, if anything it explains why his clothes are soaked and his murky recollection of the day. 

“I’m surprised you made it to me,” she continues, but Draco doesn’t think she’s talking to him. There’s a far away look in her eye— haunting— and he wonders what she is thinking.

“I’d crawl to you if I had to, Hermione.” Draco doesn’t know why he said it, why he confessed it. Maybe it’s the strange dreams that are just out of focus? The thoughts he can not place. The feeling of sorrow he awoke with has yet to leave him, he can’t shake it, no matter how hard he tries.

Silver eyes trace a constellation of freckles across the bridge of her nose, travelling down to the quiver at the corner of her mouth. She inhales sharply before him, but it’s not out of anger. Part of him aches, it's this cycle of give and take, longing and desire that they are bound too. 

Her voice cracks when she speaks. “You can’t say things like that to me, Draco.”

“I’m sorry,” he says, and it's laced with five years worth of remorse. 

He’d already apologised for the sins of his childhood, but the past five years? He’d tried, but she hadn’t been able to accept it. He wonders if she would now? Their history plays in his mind, and Draco wants nothing more than to rectify this distance between them.

Mudblood.

Swot.

Pompous arse. 

Death Eater.

Co-Workers.

Partners.

Friends.

Lover.

Future.

Past.

They’d overcome it once before. Could lightning strike the same ground twice? Could there be a future where she has a place in his life?

She squeezes his wrist once, pulling him from his melancholy before releasing her grip and standing. She casts another complex diagnostic over him. Most of the readings hovering in the air before him are an alarming shade of orange, but Hermione almost looks relieved as she studies them. 

“I need you to take another Antipyretic Potion; your fever is still remarkably high.” She flicks her wand, summoning a small leather tote from her lavatory. She looks at him, her shoulders dropping in defeat as she rummages through the bag.

“What?” he asks, curiously.

A sad smile pulls at her lips as she lifts two vials from the bag. “I can’t convince you to go to St. Mungo’s, can I?”

Draco rolls his eyes. “Do tell, Granger? What will your dear colleagues do for me that you are not already doing yourself?”

A crimson flush paints her cheeks, contrasting vividly against her freckles as she uncorks the first potion, handing it to him. She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t make to pull away as their fingers graze when he takes it from her. He downs the peppermint tasting concoction without question, motioning for the second. The chamomile potion slips down his throat easily— soothing, and he feels the effects of the Calming Draught instantly. Hermione takes the empty vials, slipping them into the bag, before taking her place next to him on the couch. She rests her head against her elbow as she sits sideways, studying him. Exhaustion gnaws at him as he tilts his head to look at her, unable to even shift his body to mirror her own. 

His hands have finally stopped spasming; they now lay lifeless in his lap while he watches her. He wants to close his eyes, to succumb to sleep, but he’s determined to not miss a moment. He’s here—with her , and for the first time in years, a restless part of his soul finally feels at home. Hermione moves a hand tentatively, reaching forward to brush a strand of damp hair from his eyes. 

“I don’t know how to care for you, Draco.”

The sadness that consumes her is palpable, and her confession is raw— flaying. He isn’t sure what to say, how to respond to the bluntness of her words.

“I don’t know how to do this.” She smiles sadly, her hand falling to the space between them. “But then again, I never really did.”

It takes more effort than he wants to admit to lift his hand and lay it atop hers. Hermione flips her palm, facing it upward until their fingers interlock, her thumb brushing along his own. The touch is innocent, pure, and Draco feels a lock sliding into place. He wants to keep her, keep this. 

“You care, Hermione—that’s more than I could have ever asked for.”

She opens her mouth, but quickly closes it. Her brow creases as she glances towards her kitchen. He wonders what she would have said. Draco doesn’t push though, he knows her, knows that she is taking this time to gather whatever thoughts that are coursing through her head before she speaks again.There is a new determination written in her eyes when she finally looks at him. 

“I would like to monitor you for the night, to ensure that I have your fever under control. I need to increase your Dreamless Sleep dose, too.” Hermione scrubs a hand over her face, sniffling as her words tumble from her mouth rapidly. “I don’t understand why this is happening so fast to you. I need to get with Roger—we have to figure out a way to slow your overactive parasympathetic nervous system; it's the only thing I can think of.”

She’s rambling, and Draco can’t help but smile softly as she becomes more flustered. 

“There’s my spare room o’course.” 

He musters the energy to squeeze her hand. It's subtle, but it's enough to garner her attention. 

“I’ll stay, Granger.”

She exhales, and he watches as the tension bleeds from her shoulders at his acceptance. Hermione nods, biting her lip. Neither one seems eager to move or speak; rather they sit, fingers entwined in a comfortable silence. 

***

“I think we need to establish a better way of communicating.”

Draco stands by her Floo, prepared to return to his flat. One night had quickly turned into two, and he feels bad that he has hijacked her weekend, regardless of her insistent claims that he hadn’t. It’d taken a full twenty four hours for his fever to reside, and this morning is the first time that he has felt accustomed to the new change . The hollowness that he’d grown accustomed to has transformed into something unrecognisable. He feels leaden, each step heavy like he is over encumbered by an unknown weight. He tugs on the magic inside of him, trying to summon it, but it feels distant , sluggish as it flows to his fingertips. 

Draco gives a dramatic huff, meeting the apprehension in her amber gaze. “What do you have in mind? One of your famous Protean Charmed Coins?” 

“Not quite,” she quips, pulling a slender phone from the back pocket of her denims to show him. “Would you be opposed to a Muggle cellphone?

***

Draco lays in his bed, his vial of increased Dreamless Sleep Potion and his new Muggle cellphone in hand. His mind is a mess of reminiscence as he reflects on the afternoon. His second outing to Muggle London had been far less ‘exciting’ than his prior trip to the football game. Hermione had rescheduled her patient consultations for the day in order to accompany him to the shop. When she’d Apparated them into a nearby alleyway, she hadn’t dropped her hand from where it rested on the bend of his arm. Rather, the pair walked in tandem, manoeuvring between the crowded pedestrians that lined the streets in their last minute holiday shopping haste. 

Hermione had purchased the phone with ease. Draco had stood to the side, watching the interaction as she spoke to the salesman. The Muggle man had said something about adding a ‘second line’ to her plan, and she’d agreed before signing the contract. Afterwards, Hermione had led them to a nearby park. She subtly cast a warming charm over them as they sat on an unoccupied bench. She was unhurried, taking her time to teach him about the phone and comparing it to her own. She’d laughed, snowflakes clinging to her knit cap as she watched him attempt to send a ‘text’ to her programmed number. 

“I need you to change this to just ‘Granger.’”

She smiles, eyes crinkling in the corners as she blinks the snowflakes away. “Not a chance, Draco.”

He twists the vial in hand, thumb hovering over the ‘send’ option along the screen. He has thankfully caught on to the basic functions of the small rectangular device, and has even managed to change her contact from ‘ Hermione’ to ‘Granger.’ But now, he looks at the messages that he has typed, all left unsaid— unsent.

I miss you.

I have missed you every single day for the last five years.

I love you, Hermione. I have never stopped loving you.

You will always be mine.

I will always belong to you. 

But will I ever be yours? 

I think I was once before.

I know I am broken, but would you let me try? 

Chapter Text

Hermione—Present time, December 2009

Inevitable: (adjective) certain to happen; unavoidable.

Hermione looks to Roger for support. He’s staring at Draco’s diagnostic charm with calculation glinting in his hazel eyes. She can see the loss lingering right below the surface. In a single breath, he takes off his tortoise shell glasses and brushes a hand through his sandy hair. 

His silence is defeating.

Draco’s outcome is inevitable.

Her gaze drifts to Theo; he leans against her desk, arms crossed, watching the scene unfold with clear dejection written upon his face. His stance is so similar to how he stood during Draco’s initial diagnosis months ago, and despite the sombre mood that has fallen over the room, Hermione can’t help but feel a rush of affection towards Theo. Each step of the way he has been by Draco’s side, a constant presence for him in these uncertain times. He has even gone as far as to purchase cell phones for himself and Daphne to use just in case Draco needs to reach them— a precaution . It’s thoughtful, his and Daphne’s willingness to adapt to Draco’s circumstances, and knowing that he is surrounded by people who care —deeply— eases some of the anxiety that has formed in her chest. She worries that Draco’s pride will eventually win out, and that he will try to push everyone away. But now, as she looks at Theo, who is a constant force at Draco’s side, she doesn’t think it will be that easy. Hermione can’t help but cling to hope as Theo looks at Draco. It's a community, a found family, and regardless of everything that has happened in their shared past, Hermione no longer feels like a stranger looking in. 

His outcome may be inevitable, but it is their response that matters.

She’s a part of this—a part of him.

Hermione turns, finally allowing her gaze to settle on Draco. He has remained suspiciously quiet, his grey eyes trailing over each flashing level in front of him. She knows it’s only been a few days since his drastic fever spike, but now, in the unforgiving light of her office, he looks sallow. For the first time since entering her office and starting his treatment plan, Draco actually looks sick— it devastates her. She’d grown accustomed to the small progress that they’d made. But now, dark circles cling to his under eye, and his colour is more ashen than warm; even his silver irises have dulled. It’s such a contrast from the improvement they had achieved, and to see him like this now—it’s disheartening. Weeks of working, researching, potion adjustments, and physical therapy were not enough to stop this. 

It’s their response, their actions that matter, she quickly reminds herself, but the feeling of failure still gnaws at her.

She’s failing him.

Hermione tears her stare away, focusing instead on Draco’s magical core level; it’s forty percent. It’s discouraging— demoralising. He shouldn’t be declining this rapidly, and she can’t help but feel like he is wasting away before her very eyes. Despite how hard she tries to cling, to dig her fingers into his skin and hold Draco steadfast in her hands, she feels desolate. 

It’s never enough.

‘We can’t save everyone, Granger.’

But for once, it’s not ‘ everyone’—it’s him, and Hermione has just gotten him back. 

She can’t bring herself to wonder who Draco is without his magic—it’s ingrained into who he is.

She would love him regardless.

But she aches for his impending loss if she can’t save him.

Draco’s magic is pure, sentimental, and a familiar caress that has woven into the gaps of her soul, repairing and mending— making her whole. She isn’t the same as she was before, but somehow, time and space have given her the clarity to face her feelings for Draco.

Hermione has to try.

She needs to do this for him— to save him— she owes him this kindness.

But she would love him regardless.

It’s a realisation that she has had to face. 

Her love for Draco Malfoy has never stopped existing. 

Denying it, burying it—her attempts at forgetting it — they were all for naught.

She’s never been able to move on— to let go of him.

She’s carried him with her every day—everywhere. 

He’s a scar.

But in time, she has learned that scars can be beautiful, and he is nothing if not a beautiful addition to her life.

Draco’s renewed presence has watered the seed—the remainder of his touch left behind. Each interaction between them has nurtured her feelings until they are sprouting, twisting, and cultivating. Her love for Draco has overgrown inside of her until she has no choice but to embrace it.

She feels him— deeply. 

But perhaps that’s the thing about love. Its roots are slow to grow— to burrow —but they travel downward and inward until their souls are entwined into one.

She couldn’t disentangle herself from him five years ago.

And she surely can’t now.

He’s just as much of a part of her as she is of him.

It’s frightening and maddening, but Merlin, is it freeing.

She doesn’t want to hide from him.

But would he let her love him?

Would Draco even want her to if she fails?

They stand on the precipice of forgiveness, but who will reach and grasp it first?

“We have you on an Invigoration Draught upon waking, Pepper Up at noon, Draught of Peace with dinner, and then Calming Draught and Diluted Dreamless Sleep before bed, yes?” Roger recaps, and Hermione can hear the exhaustion in his voice.

“Correct, and physical therapy on Tuesday with Healer James,” she responds, and defeat hangs heavy in her words.

Roger nods, contemplating. He prods the diagnostic with his wand tip, enlarging the levels for Draco to see. “Your cortisol, adrenaline, and noradrenaline levels are all remarkably high, even more so than they were back in August.”

“How are the Draught of Peace variant trials coming?” Theo asks, eyes darting between the three of them. “The Belladonna was showing promising results, no?”

“Arthur and Hattie were the only two willing to try it, but yes, Theo, they are responding well.” 

Hermione had been more hopeful that their caseload of patients would be willing to try the new potion, but most were content with their current regimen. They were pleased with the stability—the assurance that their current treatment plan provided.

They didn’t want to risk something that was successfully delaying the inevitable.

Their fear was understandable.

But Draco?

None of them know why his disease is rapidly progressing, but perhaps Theo is right. What would it hurt to try?

“I’m willing to try it,” Draco says. He speaks the words so casually as if they are doing nothing more than discussing quidditch scores rather than his deteriorating magic. “I helped Granger create it; I’m confident in its efficiency.”

“I think we should increase your Calming Draught to four times a day,” Roger adds, folding his glasses into the breast pocket of his shirt. “Is there any chance that the increase would counteract your variation of Peace?”

Hermione shakes her head no. “It should be fine.”

Roger relaxes, shoving his hands into his robes. “I’ll go and prepare three weeks' doses, then. They’ll be ready for you by tomorrow afternoon. Do you have any questions for me, Draco?”

“No, thank you, Davies.” 

He nods once at Theo and Hermione before closing her office door behind him. The silence that lingers in Roger’s absence is uncomfortable. Hermione isn’t sure where to look or what to say. Roger’s dry response did little to encourage any confidence in their attempts at slowing Draco’s prognosis. She wants to retreat inward, to delve into her mind and try to think of anything she can do to help. But she knows that now is not the time, and she can’t stop her eyes from travelling to her company. There appears to be some sort of silent conversation happening between Theo and Draco. Draco’s scowl deepens as he shakes his head at whatever was said, but Theo’s smile only brightens as he turns his mischievous blue eyes to her.

“ Oh, Granger…” Theo purrs, pushing off of her desk in a single stride.

“Theo—” Draco warns, but he is silenced as Theo waves a hand in his direction, which Draco quickly returns in a two-finger salute.

“I have yet to extend my deepest thanks for everything you have been doing to care for our brooding blond friend.”

Hermione feels her cheeks warm, and she hears Draco huff in exasperation. She fidgets, uncertain of what to do with her hands— or what to say . She will be lying if she claims that she is only doing her job. Treating Draco is more than that. House calls and overnight evaluations are more, but how does she put what it means to her into words? Eventually, she settles on tucking a lone curl behind her ear before muttering a hasty, ‘ It’s nothing,’ in Theo’s direction.

But the charismatic brunette before her can not be dissuaded. Theo’s smile only broadens further, seeing right through her as he continues. “Nonsense! Draco has already agreed to dinner with Daph and me tonight, but why don’t you join us as well.” 

His invitation is so sincere . 

It is one of the things she has always appreciated about Theo the most— his genuineness. When she first met Theo, she’d expected the cool calculation of Blaise or the subtle brashness of Pansy, but that was never the case. Even when things between her and Draco were less complicated , Theo had always been kind—accepting of her place in Draco’s life. 

He must see the debate in her eyes because Theo nudges her playfully. “Come on, Granger—for old times' sake.”

Hermione’s eyes drift to Draco. Does he want her there? He’s watching her curiously, and though his face remains impassive, she doesn’t miss the brief hopefulness that twines in his silver eyes.

A chance.

She turns, swallowing slightly before replying softly, “Okay, why not.”

***

Hermione isn’t entirely sure what she expected upon stepping into the Nott’s Manor, but the modern decor was not it. She glances around the drawing room, taking in the neutral walls and bright drapes that cover the expansive room’s arched windows. The sun is just starting to set, and the pink hue casts a crystal scintillation against the blanket of snow that covers the grounds. She feels quite out of place, like a child that has entered into Narnia completely unaware. In the distance, she hears the sound of running echoing against the quartz below her feet. She glances over her shoulder but finds both Draco and Theo watching her with twin humour in their eyes. Hermione raises her brows in question before glancing back to the doorway in time to see a young girl, who appears to be not much older than Lily, launch herself into Draco’s open arms.

Chocolate waves cascade down the little girl’s back while a tinkling laugh fills the room. Hermione can’t stop the warm smile that spreads across her face as Draco spins her once before meeting her gaze over the top of his god-daughter’s head. His silver eyes are full of life, shining brighter than the purest silver, and she feels something deep inside of her yearning. She glances at Theo, who watches the pair with a gentle fondness that has replaced his typical playful demeanour. Hermione turns back to the doorway as approaching footsteps draw nearer. 

Daphne brushes her blonde hair over her narrow shoulder, staring at her daughter with feigned indignation as she leans against the doorway. “ Ophelia… We told you that you needed to be gentle with your Uncle Draco.” 

Hermione watches, enamoured by the dynamics between the two, as a small pout tugs at Ophelia's lower lip. She reaches a tiny hand forward, placing it gently against Draco’s cheek as she whispers, “I sowry, Uncle Drwaco.”

Hermione swallows the rising emotion that burns her throat at the sight. There’s a quiet sadness that flickers across Draco’s eyes as he sways her lightly in his arms. He leans forward, pressing a swift kiss to her forehead. “You have nothing to be sorry for, my little dove.”

Hermione can’t bring herself to continue to watch the two interact. Seeing Draco as a godfather— it unearths something deep inside her. It’s a new door, with a different key, and with each laugh that Draco entices from his charismatic goddaughter, she feels the lock being picked. Hermione flicks her eyes to Daphne, who watches the two reunite with a timid dolefulness painted upon her face. She must feel Hermione’s inquisitive stare as she turns her light blue eyes to hers. Her gaze is piercing, and Hermione can’t help but hold her breath. Though not nearly as possessive of Draco as Pansy, Daphne has always been a formidable friend in her own way.

She is also Astoria’s sister, her mind reminds her.

Apprehension winds around her heart, holding it captive as Daphne looks at her. What does she think? Does she blame her for Draco’s deterioration? More so, does she blame her for Astoria? What does Daphne think of her, for how she abruptly tore herself from Draco’s life? Is she willing to accept her reappearance as easily as Theo? How does she feel about her now, standing in her home? 

There are always too many questions and not enough answers. 

Hermione has never been able to read Daphne as well as Theo; she’s guarded—the queen of a chessboard. But she sees the olive branch for what it is as Daphne offers her a gentle smile.

“Hermione—welcome to our home.” 

***

Dinner passes in a surprising comradery. Ophelia sits by Draco, telling him everything that he has apparently missed since her birthday in between bites of her shepherd's pie. Theo watches with humour dancing in his eyes and occasionally clarifies what Ophelia is saying when her words blend together with excitement. Hermione is surprised by how much the little girl looks like both of her parents. Though the colour of Ophelia’s hair is that of Theo’s, it falls in soft waves like her mother’s, but it is her eyes that draw Hermione in. They are the same piercing, cerulean blue as Theo’s. Her delicate features are painted across a heart-shaped face, and Hermione can clearly see why Draco is enamoured with her. 

It’s easy to be.

Ophelia is pure, the embodiment of hope, kindness, and love . 

She is the future that they had each sacrificed and lost for.

Ophelia—Teddy, James, Albus, Lily.

Their childhoods will not be torn apart by war.

And so, it is the simplicity of watching Ophelia slip her hand into Draco’s as she pulls him away from their dining room towards the sitting room that Hermione finds herself slipping into a comfortability that she has not allowed herself to feel in quite some time. She walks side by side with Daphne, each with a glass of pinot grigio in hand as they cross the threshold.

The design is similar to that of the drawing room she’d entered on her arrival. The same neutral decor flows throughout the home, and modern Muggle art adorns the walls, but this room is different. Ophelia’s toys and dolls are dotted across the floors and the coffee table. Nott Manor is by no means unwelcoming, but the touch of a child makes the space feel like a home. It reminds her so much of Potter Cottage, and for a moment, Hermione forgets that their circles no longer overlap. 

It's a barrier of her own creation.

She watches as Ophelia directs Draco towards the table, where she instructs him on how to colour her magical beast colouring book. She can’t remember the last time she has seen Draco so unguarded. There is a softness to each crevice of his face as his pale brows rise, and he nods along to Ophelia’s gestures— an undiluted love.

“He is her best friend,” Daphne says, tucking her feet beneath her as she takes a seat in one of the brown velvet armchairs near the hearth. 

Hermione spins the stem of her wine glass between her fingers as she lowers herself into the matching chair. “They are quite a pair,” she agrees. “Though I think she would be quite fond of Lily Potter; they are only a few months apart.”

Daphne smiles sadly into her glass. “Perhaps—when things are less,” she casts a pleading look in Draco’s direction, and Hermione quickly inclines her head in understanding— when Draco is no longer sick. “They can become acquainted,” Daphne finishes softly. “Pans is refusing to have children, and I want Ophelia to have friends, not the political acquaintances that were forced upon me.”

“ No— not my dear wife not enjoying her crafted playdates with Millie?” Theo teases, placing a swift kiss on Daphne’s cheek before joining Draco with Ophelia on the floor. Daphne scoffs, rolling her eyes at Theo’s back.

“That would be lovely. I’ll mention it to Ginny when the time comes.”

“Thank you, Hermione,” Daphne responds earnestly. 

A comfortable silence settles between them as they watch Ophelia steal Draco’s crayons from his hands with a giggle.

“I do worry about them,” Daphne admits quietly. “Draco used to charm everything for her—tricks and toys—anything to see her smile. I worry the most for him—for when she requests something that he can no longer do. The guilt will destroy him.” 

Hermione sees Daphne drink deeply from her glass until her wine is gone. She knows Daphne is right. Shame fills her as the magnitude of her failures settles over her consciousness like a heavy blanket. Draco isn’t just losing his magic—he is losing how he shows his love. 

She wants to cry.

To scream.

To yell.

He does not deserve this.

No one does. 

“I am trying, Daphne,” she confesses into her lap. She can’t bring herself to meet Daphne’s gaze. What would she see staring back at her? Disgust? Pity? Understanding?

“I know you are. Please, Hermione, I didn't mean to imply that I didn’t think that you were.”

She lifts her eyes, and Hermione is surprised to see a deep appreciation looking back at her. She opens her mouth to speak—to thank Daphne or to perhaps confess; Hermione isn’t quite sure which. But Daphne shakes her head subtly, reaching over to place a comforting hand on Hermione’s knee. 

“I know,” is all she says, and somehow that is enough. 

Hermione allows her mouth to fall closed as she mumbles a quiet, ‘thank you. ’ Daphne pulls her hand away as she stands to extract Ophelia from Draco’s lap. 

“Come, my little one. I think it is time for you to get ready for bed,” she says, reaching her hand for Ophelia to take. 

Hermione stifles a laugh as Ophelia looks up at her mother with large doe eyes. “But Mummy, jus’ one mwore time?” she pleads, and it's clear that she has taken after Theo’s dramatics.

“Not tonight, darling.” 

Ophelia sighs, glancing once at Draco before moving to stand by Daphne’s side, taking her mother’s hand.

Hermione places her empty wine glass on the end table as she moves to crouch before the small girl. She meets Hermione’s eyes with a frown on her face. 

“Miss Ophelia—I think it is my bedtime as well; it is quite late. But I wanted to say thank you for having me over for dinner. It was such a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I have a friend that your Mummy and I hope for you to meet after the holidays. She’s close to your age, and her name is Lily. Do you think you would like that?” 

Hermione watches as contemplation flickers over Ophelia’s face as she ponders her words, but after a moment, she nods in agreement. 

“Thank you, Ophelia. I can’t wait to see you again.” Hermione smiles.

“Tell everyone goodnight, my love,” Daphne says, placing a hand on her daughter’s shoulder.

Ophelia glances once more at Hermione before she gives a timid smile. Without hesitation, she launches herself into Draco’s arms for a hug. Hermione hears a gentle, ‘ Goodnight, my little dove, I love you,’ before Ophelia relinquishes her hold from him and allows Theo to sweep her into his arms. 

“Are you really leaving, Granger?” He asks, shifting his daughter on his hip.

Hermione stands, tucking a curl behind her ear. “I believe so. I have a new patient consultation in the morning.”

Theo nods in understanding before giving her one of his dazzling smiles. “Well, thank you for blessing us with some of your limited time tonight.”

Hermione laughs, full and rich, as she waves him off. “Don’t be ridiculous, Theo. Dinner was lovely. Thank you for inviting me.” 

“Are you leaving, too?” Theo asks, glancing at Draco, who is placing Ophelia’s crayons back into the container by hand. 

“I think I may stay a bit longer.” 

Theo tosses a wink in her direction. “Night, Granger!” 

“Goodnight, Miss Mi,” Ophelia waves sleepily over Theo’s shoulder as he carries her towards Daphne, who is waiting for them by the door. 

Hermione watches as the family retreats down the hall, and she is hit with the realisation that she is alone with Draco for the first time in days. The room isn’t necessarily uncomfortable, but it is different— charged. It is as though the air between them is suddenly electrified, waiting for a spark. Hermione looks up as Draco approaches, meeting his eyes. She wants to reach out, to touch him, to ensure that he is tangible in her hands.

Her fingers twitch.

She grips her arm, digging her fingers into the sleeve of her jumper.

“I’ll walk you to the Floo,” he says casually.

“Thank you.” 

This feeling between them is so unfamiliar. 

And she doesn’t understand why she’s so flustered.

How is he so calm?

There is a nervous energy that is twining between them, and each brush of their hands, as they walk down the hall, sends a spark of anticipation coursing through her veins. She focuses on their resounding steps—anything to keep her from admitting the traitorous thoughts that have overgrown inside of her.

Seeing you with Ophelia was like viewing a daydream. 

Why did we lose us? 

Why did we have to be so young?

Can you forgive me?

Will you?

“Thank you for coming,” he says, ending their silence as he extends the Floo powder towards her. 

“I didn’t know if you would want me to,” she confesses, scooping a handful into her palm. She looks up, finding herself drowning in the storm of his eyes. 

She watches, remembering the familiar look of war that dances across his features. Draco reaches behind her, placing the Floo powder back on the mantle. Hermione worries that she has said the wrong thing, that somehow she has angered him. Draco watches her face intently as he slowly raises a hand, capturing a singular curl in between his fingers. 

“Hermione,” he pauses, his brow creasing as he curls the strand. “There has never been any doubt of your place in my life.”

Before she can speak.

Before she can blink.

Draco leans down, pressing his lips to her forehead. 

It's swift.

But it's searing.

Branding.

Intentional.

Awakening.

And he’s gone before she even has time to think, disappearing into the Manor’s halls. 

Chapter Text

Hermione—Flashback, August 2007

Hermione’s mother once told her that forgiveness comes in many forms, but the tree analogy was her favourite. Jean Granger said that before there is forgiveness, there has to be an act— a stimulant —a growth from the ground. The cause is solid, steady like a tree trunk, with roots that burrow below the surface, unable to be seen. Her mother had told her that we would not always see the hurt or the scars that the initial offence inflicts— but they are there, rooted. The pursuit of forgiveness or growth is geared by our conscience— an awareness that a wrong has been committed. She’d told Hermione to picture the draw of the sun, pulling us upward and outward in pursuit of absolution, and just like the forks of tree branches, we each take different paths to reach the peak. 

Under the right circumstances, we can grow from our misgivings and hurt. 

Forgiveness from Ron was achieved over years and came at the encouragement of Susan Bones when she entered his life in the spring of 2005. She was the perfect rainstorm to Ron’s drought, pushing them each towards understanding. It had started through small encounters at Susan’s hand—dinner here, brunch there. Ron had still harboured the lingering hurt over her deception whilst Hermione carried a blanket of shame, but Susan was relentless in her efforts. She was able to do what Ginny and Harry had failed to— speak truthfully— without the fear of picking sides . She entered into her relationship with Ron by wanting to immerse herself fully into his life, regardless of what had happened between him and Hermione in their past. She wanted Ron to move forward with her, unencumbered by his resentment. Susan pointed out that they had been young— terribly so —and that they needed to learn to forgive themselves and each other. 

Hurt people tend to hurt others, Susan had said.

Her words were painfully true. 

But needed.

Susan showed Ron that he was deserving of love, and once he had learned to accept it, forgiveness grew. 

Now, as Hermione sits by Ginny, with baby Lily swaddled in her arms, she gets to witness Ron experience love at its fullest as he makes Susan his wife. Molly and Martha Bones have transformed the Burrow’s backyard into a beautiful autumn grove. Painted against the pink and purple August sky is an abundance of sunflowers, marigolds, dahlias, and sneezeweeds. The colours are perfect, flattering against Ron’s olive robes. He looks happy— incredibly so. 

She wonders if she will ever be able to experience this. 

Love.

A bonding. 

She looks down at the sleeping baby in her arms. Tufts of auburn hair stick up at odd angles as she nuzzles further into Hermione’s chest. Most days, she feels like she is caught in a charade, only going through the motions rather than living, and despite the insistent claims from Ginny that she needs to date— Hermione can’t bring herself to entertain the notion. She isn’t selfish enough to believe that others shouldn’t move on just because she can’t. She’s happy for Ron; truthfully, she is. He is taking the first step towards the future he has always envisioned for himself. Susan brings out the best in him, and he in her. 

They complete one another— a balance. 

It's hard for Hermione to picture something similar for herself. 

Most nights, when she closes her eyes, she is still haunted by silver eyes.

It’s hard to move on when your dreams refuse to forget. 

She’s stuck in a remembrall, unable to let go.

She thought she could move on, that becoming a healer would be what her soul needed.

She was wrong.

It didn’t change anything.

There is no one for her to come home to—an empty bed with cold sheets.

How can her life be simultaneously fulfilled and empty?

“Are you happy, Granger?” Draco had asked.

“I am,” she lied.

But what she had really meant to say was, ‘With you I am.’

So many words she thought but never said.

“She looks beautiful,” Ginny whispers, effectively pulling Hermione from her melancholy, and she can’t help but smile genuinely at the boyish wonder that fills Ron’s face as Susan begins her ascent down the aisle. 

She shifts in her seat to better see the bride. Susan’s chestnut hair flows in gentle waves down her back, and marigolds have been woven with baby’s breath to form a crown atop her head. Her green eyes sparkle, shining brighter than emeralds as she looks to her future. Susan is beautiful, framed perfectly in her ivory silk gown. It is simple in nature, with thin straps and a sweeping neckline, but it flows effortlessly over her petite frame. She and Ron each radiate joy as they look at one another. Their focus is singular, as though they are the only two in the garden. 

Hermione blinks as tears sting her eyes. Regardless of how happy she is for Ron, for Harry, for everyone else who has moved on, the truth of the matter remains— she is lonely. 

And there is an unhealable wound in her chest. 

***

Hermione—Present Time, Christmas 2009

“I want this for you, ‘Mione,” Ron had whispered, holding her close as they danced. “I want you to find someone you love and to be loved in return. I want you to be happy.”

Hermione isn’t sure why the memory of her and Ron’s dance at his wedding filters through her mind.

‘I want this for you, ‘Mione. I want you to be happy.’

Perhaps it’s because she is finally able to see with perfect clarity.

Her love for Draco is timeless.  

Bottomless.

Endless.

Awoken.

Maybe finally acknowledging the truth, the depths of her affection, has made her question, to ponder how her life would be different if only she had listened. 

Would this be her son in her arms?

Would she be happy? 

She knows the answer.

A myriad of freckles crinkle along a scrunched nose as Freddrick Heath Weasley looks up at her with bright, cobalt blue eyes. He looks so much like the pictures Molly has shown her of Ron at this age, and Hermione can't help but smile, to revel in the warmth that holding Heath brings. His birth has been one of the very few pleasantries she’s experienced over the last few weeks. Between Draco’s rapid decline and Arthur’s latest check-up revealing that his magical core level is twenty-five percent, Heath has been a welcomed distraction— for everyone.

Fred’s absence still lingers in each of their hearts, even now, years later, but with the Weasley’s first grandson , the new addition leaves the home feeling mostly complete. The Burrow is overflowing as each of Molly and Arthur’s children and grandchildren are in attendance. Laughter and music drift from room to room, adding to the jubilant atmosphere. Arthur and Ginny sit side-by-side, lost in their own conversation. George, Angelina, and Susan are helping James, Albus, and Lily decorate the Yule-Tree, while Teddy and Victoire sit by Harry and watch. The bustling sounds of Andromeda and Fleur sweeping around the kitchen while they assist Molly with preparations for the Christmas dinner flow from the kitchen, and Hermione can’t help but smile. 

“Happy Christmas, ‘Mione,” Ron says, stepping up beside her to brush a finger over his son’s cheek. 

Hermione glances up, taking note of the adoration that fills Ron’s face as he watches Heath’s eyes fall close as she sways him. “Thank you, Ron. He is perfect; I am so incredibly happy for you and Susan.”

He looks up, meeting her gaze— searching . She notices the dip to the corner of his mouth, and she holds her breath, wondering what he has seen on her face.

“Are you happy, ‘Mione?” he asks, low enough for only her to hear.

Hermione’s arms tighten around Heath instinctively as her mind spins, trying to sort through her thoughts to say something, anything , to make Ron believe. But he understands her better now than he ever did, and his brows raise slightly as he pushes her towards a confession with a gentle ‘truthfully.’

She swallows.

“No.” 

It’s a whisper, almost a plea, and her voice cracks with its omission. Tears threaten to spring from her eyes, and she doesn’t understand why she suddenly has the urge to cry. She glances around the living room at her friends— her family.  

The world has continued to spin, to move on, but she is left standing still.

Why can’t she be happy?

“What happened, Hermione?” 

Ron’s never asked, has never been willing to step off the ledge and open the door to the conversation about her past with Draco. It surprises her that he finally is now, and she wonders what has changed. She lets his question wash over her as she watches Heath shift in his swaddle. How can she answer him? How can she explain how everything in her life came to a standstill nearly six years ago? How can she unpack that she was never able to move on because half of her soul is found in Draco’s arms? How can she possibly explain what she is just now only admitting to herself?