Chapter Text
The Burrow
December 2000
“The heart I know I’m breaking is my own.”
The enchanted snow fluttered softly through her vision as she glided down the frost-covered lawn of the Burrow. A warming charm wrapped around her like a second skin, but still, Hermione Granger’s fingers tinged pink from the December cold as she clutched a bouquet of gardenias, freshly picked from Mrs Weasley’s greenhouse. The delicate petals trembled slightly in the breeze, their soft ivory a stark contrast to the grey sky above.
It wasn’t Hermione’s wedding
And yet, as she took her place amidst the celebration, her nerves hummed as though she were the one walking down the aisle. Her gaze unintentionally locked with a pair of silver eyes—cool, unreadable—and just as quickly, they flicked away, returning to the brunette witch on his arm.
She didn’t flinch. She didn’t react. She simply smiled as if she hadn’t seen him at all, even as something sharp twisted low in her stomach.
Hermione walked on, her arm loosely looped through Ron’s. There was nothing romantic there—never had been, not truly. Just a long-faded teenage crush between two Gryffindors who had once believed proximity might equate to love.
She still remembered Ron’s quiet whisper, so soft she might have missed it if they weren’t shoulder to shoulder.
“It’s Malfoy’s loss, ’Mione.”
But Ron, for all his kindness, was wrong.
It wasn’t only his loss.
It was her own.
New York City
February 2004
Hermione Granger adored New York. The energy of the city—its constant hum, its unapologetic pace. It fit her like a tailored glove. She moved through it like she belonged, the sharp edges of her mind matching its rhythm. Her ties to Wizarding London had faded to just a few: her godchildren, a handful of letters from old friends she now considered family. She had no desire to return.
Until the call came.
It was Wednesday afternoon—her early finish day at MACUSA—and the snow outside her window drifted lazily against the glass panes. “Good afternoon, Crooks,” she called out as she stepped into her apartment, flicking her wand behind her to lock the door with a crisp click.
Her ageing cat, nestled in the folds of a cashmere blanket atop the radiator, barely raised his head. With a grumbly harrumph, he buried his face in his paws again.
“Charming,” Hermione muttered affectionately, a small smile tugging at her lips.
She headed to the kitchenette, her footsteps muffled on the polished hardwood. The old kettle—a stubborn, temperamental thing she’d brought with her from London—groaned to life with a crackle of heat. With another flick of her wand, the breakfast dishes from that morning began to scrub themselves in the sink.
Her eyes wandered to the fridge, then stilled.
Tucked beneath a pair of plane tickets was a Polaroid. She slid it free, the edges curling with age. It had been taken on Valentine’s Day during her Eighth Year at Hogwarts.
He was in it.
A sharp breath caught in her throat—followed almost immediately by the shrill ring of her mobile.
Hermione jolted, nearly dropping the photograph. Shoving the picture into her beaded bag without a second glance, she dashed to the living room. Crookshanks gave her a disgruntled stare as she fumbled for the phone, not even looking at the screen.
“Hello, Hermione Granger speaking,” she panted.
“Mione, it’s me. Ginny.”
Ginny’s voice, usually brisk and bright, was soft. Exhausted. Wrong.
“Hi Gin, sorry—I just got in and my phone was in the kitchen—what’s happened?” Hermione trailed off, sensing the heaviness in her friend’s voice.
“Oh, don’t apologise, silly,” Ginny murmured. “Merlin, I miss your rambles more than anything. Look, I know you and Astoria weren’t close, but you should hear this from me, not the Prophet. You’ve always been part of our circle, even if you’ve been on another continent. And I’m annoyed they didn’t tell you sooner. Blaise said Draco sent a letter, but since you never replied…”
Hermione felt her stomach clench.
Because Ginny was right.
She had received that letter. Just after she’d moved. But she’d never opened it. She’d shoved it in a drawer, assuming it was a complaint about her abrupt departure. About how she hadn’t said goodbye. About how he hadn’t told her about his engagement until she’d read it in the papers.
She cut Ginny off with a sigh. “I did get his letter. I just… assumed it wasn’t important. I didn’t read it.”
There was a pause. Hermione could hear Ginny’s frown across the ocean.
“Hermione, please tell me you still have it. That you’ll read it.”
Hermione hesitated, then lied. “I don’t know where I put it.”
Ginny sighed, long and low. “Hermione… Astoria had a blood curse. Ancient magic. It made her really sick—worse than any of us realised.”
Hermione’s breath caught.
She didn’t hate Astoria—not really. She’d even liked her, in a reluctant, resigned sort of way. And as a curse breaker, blood curses were part of her world.
She jumped to her feet, already pacing. “I’ll take leave from work. I can come back. If I can get a sample—if there’s anything I can do—”
Ginny interrupted, voice trembling. “Mione… she died this afternoon.”
Hermione froze.
The air thickened around her, heavy with guilt and something else—regret, maybe, or grief for a chance she didn’t take. She thought of the letter, still unopened. Of Astoria’s smile at their last encounter. Of the man with silver eyes who’d once mattered too much.
“Hermione?” Ginny’s voice pulled her back. “I just wanted you to know before the news breaks tomorrow. There’s no pressure to come home—”
“I’m coming,” Hermione said quietly, sitting down hard on her sofa. Crookshanks climbed onto her lap without permission, purring low. “I’ll speak to MACUSA tomorrow and book a flight. When’s the funeral?”
“Friday morning, half eleven. At the Greengrass estate,” Ginny said. “She had it all planned. No fuss. We’re hosting the wake at the Burrow.”
“I’ll try to be back by Friday night,” Hermione murmured. “Would you mind popping some milk and bread in my flat?”
“Of course. We can’t wait to see you. And your goddaughter is going to lose her mind when she finds out her favourite auntie’s coming home.”
Hermione smiled despite herself. “I’ll call tomorrow to confirm everything.”
“Okay. Love you.”
“Love you more.”
As the call ended, Hermione let her phone fall onto the table with a dull thud. Crookshanks shifted on her lap, eyes half-closed, warm and comforting.
She stroked his fur absently and whispered, “I guess we’re going back to London, Crooks.”
For the brightest witch of her age, Hermione Granger had no idea what she was walking into.
Only that Draco Malfoy would be there.
And for the first time in years, they would be breathing the same air once again
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
The Library
October 1998
Hermione had counted that morning that it had been 163 days since the War had come to a long-awaited end. The witch couldn’t help but be on the defensive, terrified every time she closed her eyes with nightmares of Bellatrix Lestrange’s cold dark eyes boring into hers and her knife carving into her skin. She still saw the casualties of child soldiers in the Great Hall where they continued to eat dinner.
When Professor McGonagall announced that all seventh years who weren’t able to attend their final year could come back for an ‘Eighth Year,’ Hermione jumped the gun—a Muggle phrase her father would always say—before considering her options. Academically, she was doing her best, as she always would, but the insomnia was itching away at her health. Being the war heroine gave her certain privileges, which made her blood churn, but the perk of using the library at any time of day worked in her favour—especially for N.E.W.T.s and her personal research into the re-modification of her parents’ memories.
A quiet sigh escaped her lips as she placed down her weathered quill, having finished Slughorn’s thirteen-page refresher essay on the Dreamless Sleep Potion, due in Friday morning’s double Potions. Pleased to have finished it early, she shifted her focus to her other priority—her parents.
Just as she closed the potions book, a faint noise made her jump, a chill running down her spine. Hermione whipped her head over her left shoulder, wand raised and a wordless Lumos escaping her lips. She squinted into the shadowed corners of the History of Charms section. Rationally, she knew there were no Death Eaters hiding there, but trauma didn’t care for logic.
Steadying her breath, she turned back to her book on the history of memory charms.
She mumbled aloud, “The Memory Modifying Charm was created by Mnemone Radford. The witch was so skilled she became the first Magical Obliviator for the Ministry of Magic…” Her voice trailed off. The passage held nothing new. No breakthrough for mass obliviation. No case of full memory recovery. Just faint glimpses returning in phases.
Hermione refused to believe that was the end. She had carried hope through the war, even when many others lost it. But now, she felt a dread lingering in her chest. Was she losing it too?
The same noise again—shuffling and footsteps. Her wand flew up, and she stood. This time, she wasn’t imagining it.
And then silver-grey eyes met hers.
Draco Malfoy.
Pardoned. Cleared of all charges. Required by the Wizengamot to attend the Eighth Year and take Muggle Studies.
“Malfoy!” she gasped before she could think of anything more composed. Embarrassed, she lowered her wand. “What are you doing in the library at this time?”
“Could ask you the same, Granger,” he returned flatly, walking around the mahogany table and—shockingly—placing his bag across from hers.
Hermione stared. He looked as exhausted as she felt. Dark shadows beneath his eyes. Pale skin. Thinner than before.
Without a good excuse, she sat back down silently and tried to read.
Ten minutes passed in strained quiet, only parchment rustling between them. She hadn’t turned a single page.
“Struggling with that passage, Granger?” Malfoy said suddenly. “Don’t the mind healers say sleep helps you think clearer? Load of goblin piss if you ask me.”
She choked on a laugh despite herself, snapping her book shut. “It’s not goblin piss, Malfoy. It’s fact. And my sleeping pattern is no concern of yours. Besides—pot, kettle, black.”
He blinked. “What kettle? Are you hallucinating?”
She sighed. “It’s a Muggle phrase. Never mind. Go back to reading.”
A beat of silence.
“Hogwarts: A History,” he muttered.
“What?”
“That’s what I’m reading,” he repeated, voice laced with amusement.
Hermione’s heart fluttered. “That’s one of my favourites.”
“It’s a load of shit, Granger.”
Her blood boiled. That book had been a gift from her parents, the first book she ever read about the wizarding world. She’d lost it the day she obliviated them.
Before she could help herself, she launched into a passionate defence. Malfoy let her ramble before raising a hand, smirking. “Alright, Granger, as fun as this is, your screeching’s giving me a headache.”
He stood. “Come on. I’ll walk you back.”
Hermione stared. “Why?”
“It’s called being a gentleman. But if you’re going to interrogate the big bad Slytherin, forget it.”
“No—wait.” She blushed. “I’ll walk with you. Just give me a moment.”
They left together, and for the first time since the War, Hermione didn’t feel entirely alone. Something had shifted. His arrogance was still there—but the smirk never reached his eyes.
_________
New York City → London
February 2004
“Excuse me, Miss Granger?”
Hermione opened her eyes slowly. She hadn’t slept. Not a second. She’d left her sleeping potion in the rush to the airport and Crookshanks had been a nightmare to get through security.
“We’ll be landing shortly,” the flight attendant said kindly.
Hermione nodded, tucking her book—glamoured to appear like a trashy Muggle novel—into her bag. As the plane descended through morning rainclouds, she felt her stomach twist.
She was going home.
She thought about the letter.
The letter from him.
The one he sent after she left for New York, the one she’d stuffed in a drawer without opening. She had assumed it was petty. About her leaving without saying goodbye. About finding out in the Prophet that he was engaged to Astoria.
But Ginny’s voice still rang in her ears.
“Tell me you read the letter, Hermione.”
She hadn’t.
Astoria was dead.
And Draco… she didn’t know where they stood
Her thoughts were interrupted by the plane’s descent. Rain streaked down the window, the sky still dark in the early morning.
She hoped Harry and Theo hadn’t overslept.
Her heart settled at the thought of James and Adelaide—her godchildren. That’s what mattered.
She smiled at the memory of their births: James Sirius Astor Potter-Nott, born in August 2001, with Astoria as his surrogate. Adelaide Mae Zabini, born on Hermione’s birthday in September the same year.
Those two were her anchor.
She tightened her laces. The plane jolted slightly, making an elderly woman beside her gasp. Finally, they landed. The moment the wheels touched down, Hermione felt it.
Hermione was home.
___________________________
The riddled anxiety Hermione felt began to melt away the moment she heard it—
“Auntie ’Mione!”
The shrill, delighted squeal of her godson rang through the airport's arrivals lounge like a spell, snapping her out of her nervous haze. Hermione barely had time to brace herself before a small blur of curls and oversized trainers barrelled into her.
“James!” she laughed, arms flying open just in time to catch him. She crouched low, hugging him close, inhaling the familiar lavender and peppermint scent of his hair. “Oh, I’ve missed you so much, sweetheart.”
“You were gone forever,” James pouted, pulling back just enough to frown at her. “Daddy said you lived in America now with big buildings and tea that tastes funny.”
Hermione grinned, brushing a kiss across his forehead. “Your daddy is absolutely right about the tea. It's dreadful. I missed proper tea and your cuddles the most.”
“Well, you’re here now,” he said matter-of-factly, snuggling into her again.
Behind them, two very tired but very familiar faces approached with warm smiles.
“Alright there, world traveller?” Harry greeted, slinging an arm around her shoulder once she stood. “You’ve been gone long enough that even I started to miss your bossy know-it-all charm.”
“Oi,” Theo cut in, smirking as he gently pried James back into his arms. “That charm is half the reason James knows more about Goblin rebellions than any kid his age.”
Hermione rolled her eyes affectionately, but her throat tightened at the sight of them—her boys. Safe, alive, older. A little more lined around the eyes, perhaps, but just as much hers as they’d always been.
“I’m so glad to see you both,” she whispered, pulling Harry into a hug and then turning to Theo. “You look like you haven’t slept in weeks.”
Theo gave a low laugh, shifting James on his hip. “Grief and a toddler—excellent for the under-eye bags. You’d think being a potioneer would help, but unfortunately they’ve outlawed Dreamless Sleep as a parenting tool.”
Hermione snorted. “Tragedy.”
“You look good, though,” Harry said, tone gentler now. “New York suits you, even if I hate how far away it is.”
Hermione looked between the two of them, her gaze lingering on James’s sleepy face. “It’s been three years,” she murmured. “Feels like a lifetime.”
“Well,” Theo said, nudging her shoulder, “let’s start catching up on it. Come on, before James turns into a pumpkin.”
As they made their way toward the car park, the wind whipped around them, and Hermione felt it then; the sharp tug of home, unexpected and raw. For better or worse, she had returned
_____
The rain hadn’t let up.
It pattered steadily against the car window, a rhythmic tap-tap-tap that somehow managed to both lull and unnerve Hermione as the vehicle made its way through the dim grey stretch of south London. The city was still waking. The streetlamps were just beginning to blink off as early risers hurried beneath umbrellas and taxis splashed through shallow puddles. Familiar landmarks blurred by in streaks of water, comforting in their mundanity, and yet Hermione felt like a stranger in her own city.
Her head leaned lightly against the glass, eyes unfocused, thoughts heavy.
James’s soft snores filled the silence of the car, an almost sacred sound that softened the edges of her rising anxiety. Theo drove in quiet concentration, a far cry from the reckless, sarcastic Slytherin she once knew at school, while Harry sat beside her, occasionally glancing back at his sleeping son with paternal tenderness.
It had only been three years since she left—but something in her felt irreversibly altered.
America had given her escape. Structure. Something to pour herself into. A new identity to hide inside. Curse-breaking for MACUSA had become more than just a job—it was an armour. It let her be brilliant without being the war heroine, the friend who stayed, the girl who forgave. It let her forget Draco Malfoy.
Except she hadn’t.
Not really.
Her name had arrived on a crumpled envelope during her first summer in New York. She’d recognised the handwriting instantly—she would have known it anywhere. Tight, controlled script. Arrogant and anxious in equal measure. She remembered just staring at the letter for ages. Holding it. Turning it over. Telling herself she didn’t care what it said.
And then hiding it at the bottom of a drawer and pretending it never existed.
But she had kept it.
That alone said enough, didn’t it?
Now he was here. Still here. Still part of this world, woven into it by circumstance and by people they both loved. There was no avoiding him. Not this time. Especially not now.
She had always thought time and distance would dilute the feelings she buried after their brief, tangled history. She thought the Atlantic Ocean would’ve drowned them. But hearing his name in Ginny’s voice, the news about his wife, his grief… it was like a match had been struck somewhere deep inside her ribcage. A burn she couldn’t reach to soothe.
Hermione’s eyes traced the outline of the raindrops on the glass, her own reflection ghostlike against the city.
He had been married. To Astoria.
Astoria, who had offered her friendship. Who had invited her to brunches, who had made an effort even when Hermione couldn’t return it. Who carried Harry and Theo’s child with grace and no agenda. Who died before Hermione could say thank you—or goodbye.
She closed her eyes briefly, willing away the sting behind her lids.
A letter. One stupid, unopened letter. What had he written in it? Was it an apology? An explanation? A confession? Did it matter now?
Yes, her mind whispered. Of course it did.
The car pulled onto the quiet lane leading to Theo and Harry’s home, a charming ivy-covered townhouse tucked behind a tall wrought-iron gate. The garden was sleeping under a damp coat of late winter frost, but the warmth of the porch light glowed like a beacon.
Hermione glanced back at James, who remained peacefully asleep in his car seat, his chubby hand curled around the edge of his blanket—cream with fading red and silver thread. A gift from Molly. A bridge between Gryffindor and Slytherin.
Maybe that’s all they were now—bridges.
She reached down for Crookshanks’ carrier, and Harry quietly helped unload her bags. Theo unbuckled James with practiced ease, scooping him gently into his arms. The little boy murmured something in his sleep, a sigh of contentment against his father’s shoulder.
“Come on,” Harry said softly, tilting his head toward the front steps. “Let’s get you home.”
Hermione followed in silence, her chest tight.
She didn’t know what this visit would bring. She wasn’t sure what answers she’d find—or if she was even looking for them. But the truth she had avoided for too long sat now beside her in the form of grey eyes and an unread letter.
The last time she’d seen Draco Malfoy in person was in the spring of 2001—just days before she boarded the plane to New York, half a suitcase packed and too many feelings left unsaid. And now Astoria was gone. And she was here again, in the same country as him, with no excuse to stay away.
“You alright?” Theo asked .
She nodded quickly. “Just tired.”
“We can go for a walk if you want. —”
“No,” Hermione said, too fast. “No, I just… I think being home is sinking in.”
Theo gave a knowing look, but didn’t press further. That was the thing about Theo. He never pushed when it mattered most.
They’d all changed. Not just physically, but emotionally. The war had left scars, and the years had carved new ones. But somehow, they’d all still found their way back to each other.
She was terrified of what that meant.
Terrified of what it might mean for Draco.
Terrified of seeing him again.
Terrified of what she might still feel.
Her hand curled into the sleeve of her jumper.
You came back for Astoria, she reminded herself. For James. For your godchildren. You didn’t come back for him.
But the ache in her chest whispered otherwise.
As Theo turned off the main road and into the quiet residential street she remembered from Christmases past, Hermione stared at the familiar lights of the Potter-Nott household glowing softly ahead. She swallowed hard.
She was home.
But nothing about it felt simple.