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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.

Chapter Text

The Potter-Nott Residence
February 2004 

Hermione Granger was woken in the early evening at the Potter-Nott residence by the unmistakable thuds of hurried feet and high-pitched giggles. Nestled into a soft duvet, she blinked groggily against the fading light seeping through the curtains. For a moment she didn’t move, letting the warmth of the quilt and the faint hum of voices downstairs steady her.

Her father’s voice echoed in her mind, clear as if he were standing beside her: You’ve always been one to jump the gun, Hermione. Always rushing in. And wasn’t that exactly what she’d done? Packed up New York, her research, the semblance of a life she’d built there, and come back to London without pausing to ask if it was the right decision. Without pausing to wonder if the city of her youth, of scars and mistakes, was truly where she belonged.

She told herself it was for the work — for the chance to help people like Astoria, to fight a curse that had stolen far too much already. And that part was true. It had to be. But lying here now, half awake, the weight of uncertainty pressed against her ribs. Was she meant to be here? Or had she simply run toward the familiar, even if the familiar hurt?

Her doubts were interrupted by the faintest whispering just outside the door. A badly muffled, “Shhh, she’s still sleeping!” followed by a louder, “No, you shhh!”

The corners of her mouth tugged upward despite herself.

“Aunt Mione! Aunt Mione!”

The door banged open, and all her spiralling thoughts vanished as two small figures barrelled across the room. Adelaide Mae Zabini, curls bouncing, and James Potter-Nott, crown askew on his head, launched themselves onto the bed in a tumble of laughter and flailing limbs.

Hermione let out an oof as the air rushed from her lungs, but her arms came up instinctively to gather them in. Adelaide tucked her head under Hermione’s chin with a triumphant squeal, while James clambered onto her stomach, declaring, “We won! We got to her first!”

Hermione laughed, breathless, joy swelling so suddenly it nearly hurt. Merlin, she had missed them. Their warmth, their uncomplicated love — the way they didn’t care about her doubts, her mistakes, her unfinished sentences. They just wanted her.

And in that moment, as Adelaide’s tiny fingers curled into her jumper and James peppered her with questions too quick to answer, Hermione thought that maybe, just maybe, her father had been wrong. Maybe rushing back to London hadn’t been a mistake at all.

Even if it meant an entire ocean no longer separated her from Draco Malfoy.

She wrapped the children tightly in her arms, burying her face in their hair. The warmth of their tiny bodies, the soft scents of soap and hot chocolate, calmed something in her that had been coiled tight for days.

From the doorway, a familiar voice laughed.

“Excuse me, Adelaide Mae? Why are you never that excited to see me?” Ginny Weasley—now Zabini—leaned against the doorframe with crossed arms, her expression wry but soft.

Adelaide blinked at her mother, twirling a finger through Hermione’s curls. James piped up before Adelaide could speak.

“But Auntie Ginny, you’re Addy’s mummy. She sees you all the time!”

Hermione and Ginny burst into laughter. The two toddlers frowned, unamused by the grown-ups laughing at their logic.

Ginny gave Hermione a look. One Hermione knew well—I need to talk to you.

She cleared her throat. “Alright, you two—go play outside on your brooms with Uncle Theo.”

Hermione’s eyebrows shot up. “Aren’t they a little young for brooms?” she asked, slightly horrified.

Adelaide giggled. “Auntie Mione-ee, Uncle Draco takes us out all the time. It’s fine!”

“And!” James added proudly. “They’re kid-sized brooms, not big ones!”

Hermione tried to school her face into something that didn’t scream what the hell, but the mention of Draco made her chest tighten. Ginny caught the flicker in her eyes and, without a word, ushered the kids out of the room.

“Theo! Can you watch the kids on their brooms, please?” Ginny called before quietly closing the door.

She turned back to Hermione, her face gentler now.

“How are you feeling, Mione?”

Hermione exhaled. “To be back? Or at the possibility of seeing him?”

Ginny sat beside her on the bed, wrapping an arm around her.

“Well… both. Between Astoria, the past you share with Draco, and the pull between two cities, I imagine it’s a bit… overwhelming.”

Hermione nodded. “I miss London, I won’t lie. But New York was easier. At least there I didn’t have to risk bumping into him in every corridor or apparition point.” She let out a shaky breath. “I’m not ready to see him. I don’t think I ever will be. But I’m here to help people like Astoria. That’s what matters.”

There was a pause. Ginny’s fingers stilled against her arm before she spoke again, softer.

“Hermione… I need to apologise. About Astoria. I thought you already knew about the blood curse. I never meant to blindside you.”

Hermione swallowed hard, the truth pressing at her ribs. “I didn’t know. Not until you told me.” She hesitated, then drew a shaky breath. “And there’s something else. Draco wrote to me. Back in the July of 2001 — a few months after I left for New York.” Her voice dipped lower. “I never read the letter. It’s still sealed, tucked away in a drawer. I couldn’t face it then… and I still haven’t. I can’t bare the thought of losing it either. I brought it with me.” 

Ginny froze, eyes widening. “You’ve had a letter from him for three years? Hermione—” She broke off, caught between disbelief and sympathy, her voice gentling even as it trembled. “Merlin’s sake, that must have been eating you alive.”

Hermione let out a bitter laugh, shaking her head. “It feels cowardly. Like I’ve been running from words on a page.”

Ginny’s expression softened, the shock settling into compassion. “It’s not cowardice. It’s grief. It’s fear. And it’s human. Three years or thirty — you’ll read it when you’re ready. And if you never are, that’s alright too.”

Hermione blinked, her throat tightening. “You always make it sound so simple.”

“It’s not simple,” Ginny said firmly, brushing a curl from her cheek. “But you’re not carrying it alone anymore. I know now. And I’m here. Whatever’s in that letter, you don’t have to face it by yourself.”

Hermione exhaled shakily, nodding once. “I can’t talk about him. Not now. I need a shower.”

“Of course. I’ll meet you downstairs.”

Hermione stepped into the scalding water moments later, letting the steam curl around her, loosening the ache in her muscles. She washed quickly, letting the hot water soothe her until the sounds of laughter and clinking glasses reached her ears. The others were downstairs.

Wrapping herself in a towel, she padded into the guest room to dress—but cursed when she realised her nicer clothes were still in the hallway. She sighed and pulled on the most comfortable thing she could find.

Descending the stairs, she passed the open living room window. A cold gust slipped through and wrapped around her bare arms, drawing a sharp shiver.

She turned to head back up—but a flash of green caught her eye.

A deep green jumper lay on the armrest of the couch. Probably Theo’s. Harry wouldn’t be caught dead in that colour.

Shrugging it on, Hermione felt instantly warmer. Softer. Safer. It smelled faintly of cologne and fresh laundry. It felt like home.

She didn’t dwell on the odd comfort.

In the dining room, Ron enveloped her in a tight hug, followed by Pansy and Blaise.

“It’s good to see you, Granger,” Pansy said quietly. “I wish it were under better circumstances.”

Hermione nodded, her throat tight. “How’s Daphne?”

“Coping. She knew it was terminal. But… she’s still in shock.”

Theo entered with drinks, raising an eyebrow as he caught sight of her outfit.

“I like the jumper, Granger. Very Slytherin of you.”

Hermione smirked. “Don’t worry, Theo. I’m still Gryffindor through and through.”

Laughter rippled—but the kind that came a second too late.

Hermione brought the butterbeer to her lips, ready to sip—when the smell hit her.

It wasn’t the sweetness of the drink that met her nose, nor the roasted warmth of the kitchen that wafted from behind her. No, this was something entirely different.

Firewhiskey. Spearmint. Cigarette smoke.

Draco Malfoy.

The realisation hit her so hard she nearly dropped the bottle.

Her chest constricted, breath catching in her throat. The scent curled under her nose like a ghost, rising from the jumper she’d shrugged on without a second thought. It was his. It had to be. That’s why everyone had gone quiet. That’s why Theo had looked at her like she’d grown another head.

She shouldn’t still remember it so clearly. Not after all this time. But memories have a way of clinging to the senses—scent, especially.

Just like that, she was back in the common room. Eighth Year. October. The cold wind rattling the castle windows…

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
Eighth Year Common Room
October 1998

The castle was nearly silent. Outside, the trees cracked in the wind, their bare limbs scraping against stone. Inside, a faint hush of firelight flickered against the bookshelves. Everyone else had gone to bed, but Hermione couldn’t sleep—not again.

She pulled the sleeves of her jumper tighter around her hands as she rummaged through the kitchenette. Her fingers brushed glass bottles and parchment-wrapped herbs, muttering aloud to herself to keep her mind focused. “Valerian, Flobberworm mucus, powdered sage—where’s the bloody lavender?”

Gone. She groaned softly, remembering she'd given the last sprigs to Luna earlier that day. Of course. For one of her scrapbooks.

She shut the cupboard with more force than necessary. The wooden door clapped shut, louder than she intended. Guilt bloomed in her chest. She didn’t want to wake anyone. The last thing she needed was a well-meaning intervention from Ginny or Harry.

Sighing, she turned to make tea instead. Something warm. Something human.

She’d just added a splash of milk when a voice sliced through the quiet like a knife.

“Fucking Merlin’s beard, Granger. Of course it’s you making all this noise.”

Hermione spun around. Malfoy stood at the foot of the stairs, bleary-eyed but annoyingly smug, dressed in a thick forest-green jumper and Slytherin tartan pyjama bottoms. His hair was mussed, and he was barefoot on the stone floor.

“You know, if you wake Theo, we’re all dead,” he added, walking toward her with infuriating ease.

“I wasn’t that loud,” she snapped, cradling her cup. “And clearly you were already awake.”

He reached over her shoulder, his body brushing against hers as he grabbed a mug. The proximity made her freeze. His scent—tobacco, mint, and something woodsy—wrapped around her, warm and heavy like smoke.

“Do you have a staring problem, Granger?” he drawled, raising a brow.

“Oh, no,” she bit back. “Only when arses invade my personal space.”

He smirked and reached for the kettle. “How strong do you like your tea?”

“I’m perfectly capable of making it myself.”

But he didn’t argue. He poured for both of them and settled onto the sofa—her sofa. His movements were fluid, casual, but purposeful. Like he belonged there. Like this wasn’t completely bizarre.

“Don’t touch my research,” she warned as he reached for the scattered notes on the table.

“Relax,” he muttered, flipping a page with mild interest. “Just seeing what’s got your knickers in a twist.”

She snatched the papers away, her temper flaring. “It’s none of your business, Malfoy.”

He leaned back lazily, lips curling. “Merlin, Granger, you’re wound tighter than Theo when he’s on about those Muggle contraptions. What do you call them? Auto-mobiles?” He exaggerated the word, watching her bristle. “He swears he’ll drive one someday. Says it’s character building.”

Hermione blinked at him, momentarily disarmed by the absurdity. “They’re cars, Malfoy. And if Theo wants to drive, he’ll need more than character. He’ll need a license.”

Draco gave a mock shudder, smirk deepening. “Imagine it, He’s bad enough on broom. Theo loose with a car, would result in a tragic end for half of Surrey.”

Her lips twitched despite herself, but she buried it quickly, clutching her papers tighter. The banter couldn’t soften what he’d just seen sprawled across her notes.

His eyes flicked down again, tone dropping. “Is this what you were working on in the library?”

Hermione’s throat tightened.

Obliviation. Parents. Gone.

She turned away from him, eyes stinging.

Malfoy didn’t push. Instead, he simply sat. Drank his tea. Silence settled again—heavy and awkward and strangely intimate. The cold crept in through the windows, brushing icy fingers down her spine. She shivered involuntarily, teeth threatening to chatter.

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake,” he muttered.

Before she could protest, he yanked his jumper over his head and shoved it into her lap. The wool was still warm, and it smelled like him.

“Put it on,” he said flatly. “I can’t listen to you vibrating like a bloody toothbrush.”

Too tired to argue, too cold to refuse, Hermione obeyed.

And—oh.

It was soft. It was thick. It was comforting. She sank back into the couch and sighed, tension easing from her muscles. She couldn’t help it—she yawned.

When she opened her eyes again, Malfoy had conjured a silk handkerchief from his pocket. With a flick of his wand and a quiet Engorgio, it transformed into a blanket. He sat beside her, closer than she expected, and tucked the blanket around both of them.

Hermione stared.

“What are you doing?” she whispered, heart thudding.

“Trying to stop you freezing to death,” he muttered, not looking at her.

She didn’t move. Not when their shoulders touched. Not when the silence returned, gentler this time. Not even when her eyelids drooped, impossibly heavy.

Her head dropped to his shoulder. His chin came to rest lightly atop hers.

And for the first time in a very, very long time—Hermione Granger slept peacefully.

“Granger?”

Pansy’s voice tugged her back.

Hermione blinked, the dining room snapping into focus again — butterbeer cooling in her hand, the soft gleam of candlelight painting the walls, Blaise leaning back in his chair with an indolent smirk. Theo was waving his fork mid-story, Harry trying to cut in, Ginny laughing so hard her shoulders shook. Somewhere under the table, James let out a shriek of delight, and Adelaide scolded him for spilling pumpkin juice.

The noise was warm, familiar, like a hearth fire she should have been able to sink into. But her chest ached, breath hitching as though she were standing at the edge of something sharp.

Pansy carried on, oblivious. “I forgot to tell you—we’re going bridesmaid dress shopping. I was going to owl you, but since you’re back…”

Hermione nodded too fast, heat building under her jumper until it felt unbearable. “That sounds great. I’ll grab my diary from the living room.”

She pushed her chair back, the scrape louder than she intended, a few heads lifting in her direction. Ron’s brow furrowed; Ginny’s lips pressed together like she might ask. Hermione didn’t let her. She slipped out before anyone could stop her, the babble of conversation chasing her down the corridor.

The living room was dimmer, quieter. Only muffled echoes of laughter and children’s squeals seeped through the walls. Her bag sat waiting on the armchair. She dropped to her knees beside it, digging through parchment and quills with shaking hands.

That jumper.

That night.

That sleep.

That boy.

The images pressed too close, pressing on her ribs until her lungs burned. She forced herself to breathe, whispering under her breath, “Where is it—where is that bloody diary—” as if finding it could anchor her.

And then the air shifted.

The roar came sudden and unmistakable, fire bursting green in the grate. She froze.

The Floo.

Her body went taut, every nerve straining. The background noise of her friends — a distant burst of Theo’s laugh, Adelaide’s high little voice — felt impossibly far away. All that filled the room was the rush of heat and the faintest trace curling into the air.

Cologne. Warm, clean spice threaded through with something darker. Not strong — just enough. Enough to unravel her completely.

Her body knew before her mind allowed it. Every part of her recognised that scent, like a chord struck deep, one that had never truly stopped vibrating.

And with it, the sharp, undeniable certainty that the ground beneath her would never be steady again.

Chapter Text

London
The Potter-Nott Residence
February 2004

The soft hum of conversation from the dining room had faded into a gentle hush by the time Hermione entered the living room. The light from the fireplace flickered across the old wooden floorboards, casting familiar shadows that twisted and stretched as if trying to reclaim her. She stood alone now. There was no James to occupy her arms, no Adelaide tugging at her curls, no Ginny’s warm, knowing smile. Just the diary clutched tightly in her hands and a silence that buzzed louder than any crowd.

It had been years. Years of absence, of healing and hurting and healing again. And yet, nothing had prepared her for the way her breath caught in her throat the moment he stepped from the Floo. Not the thousands of miles she’d put between them. Not the time. Not even the carefully constructed walls she had built to keep the memories of him at bay.

She had told herself she’d changed. She wasn’t that young witch from the war-ridden halls of Hogwarts anymore—the one who had once sat beside Draco Malfoy in a quiet common room, heart racing at his proximity, stomach fluttering at the brush of his fingers. That version of herself had belonged to another lifetime, to another Hermione. But the way her fingers trembled as she gripped her diary now, and the sudden, visceral ache in her chest—that didn’t feel like someone else’s memory.

No. This was present. Real. And it hurt.

The green flash had barely faded from the hearth when their eyes met.

Draco Malfoy was still devastatingly handsome. Pale skin like marble, sharp jaw, grey eyes that once softened only for her. But now they held a flicker of something harder. Strained. Defensive. Cold.

Hermione didn’t know what to say, so she didn’t speak at all.

Instead, she stared down at the frayed tassel of her diary, pretending it held the answers she couldn’t find in him. The tension between them was suffocating, years of unspoken words knotting between them. She opened her mouth, but the familiar scent of him—smoke, spearmint, something dark and wintery—washed over her like a wave. It pulled her under, yanking her back to a time when things were just beginning.

Back to the quiet ache of curiosity, to hesitant trust, and to a potion that changed everything...

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
November 1998

The storm outside raged like a beast, rattling the high castle windows and blanketing the dungeons in bitter chill. Hermione rubbed her arms as she leaned over her cauldron, stirring slowly, watching the mixture bubble into something vaguely plum-coloured. The damp air carried the faint scent of mildew and scorched potion—but also something warmer. Cinnamon, maybe. Pears. Cherries.

She checked the time. Malfoy was late.

The door creaked open, letting in a swirl of cold air and a flurry of white flakes. Draco Malfoy sauntered in, Quidditch robes damp around the hems, hair tousled from the wind, and a cocky smile curling the corner of his mouth.

“You’re late,” she said flatly.

He shrugged off his robes and dropped into the seat beside her. “Quidditch ran over. Had to lecture Harper on what a bloody Beater bat is actually for.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, but said nothing. They slipped into the rhythm of the work—measuring ingredients, flipping through annotated textbooks. She refused to look at him more than necessary, but it was difficult. The steam rising from the cauldron sent his scent drifting toward her again—mint, something green and clean, like moss after rain.

Amortentia.

The two worked in silence for a few minutes, the tension between them familiar now—almost comforting in its predictability. The flicker of wandlight danced over the potion’s surface, illuminating the mist curling above it like delicate tendrils of smoke.

It was Malfoy who broke the silence.

“So, Granger… think you’ll smell Weasley?”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Obviously not. We didn’t work, did we? That much is clear.”

She smirked. “Do you think you’ll smell Parkinson?”

“Absolutely fucking not,” he replied without pause, casually sprinkling pearl dust into the bubbling liquid.

They both laughed, the tension lifting just slightly.

As the final ingredients were added, the potion shimmered and began to release its scents.

Hermione inhaled and paused. Her brow furrowed.

“Sweet apples… spearmint… mist-covered grass… and—” she stopped herself, pulse quickening.

Draco turned to her, his face unreadable. “And what?”

She shook her head. “That’s all.”

He raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced.

“And you?” she asked, trying to shift the focus.

“Books,” he said. “Fresh cherries. Pears, maybe?”

Their eyes met. Both knew what this meant, but neither dared to say it. It lingered unspoken between them—the possibility, the inevitability.

The two of them not saying what they were both clearly thinking. That they could smell each other. That this potion, designed to uncover desire, had slipped past their carefully constructed facades.

The air thickened around them. Outside, the storm howled against the stone. Inside, something else was building.

She turned away first.

“Well, I don’t think we’re meant to take Amortentia too seriously,” she said, voice strained. “It’s just a potion. Smells change.”

Draco didn’t respond. He only watched her a moment longer, then turned back to his notes. But the tension between them lingered in the air like perfume—heavy, unspoken, undeniable… 

___

The present slammed back into her like a gust of wind.

The room was still. Draco’s eyes were locked on hers, unreadable, his posture sharp against the quiet. For a suspended moment neither of them moved, the air taut between them.

“Didn’t expect to see you here.” His words were calm, almost casual, though his eyes lingered too long to be careless.

Before Hermione could even attempt to speak, Theo’s voice echoed from the other room, calling his name.

Draco blinked, then looked away sharply. He brushed past her with a small grunt, the scent of smoke trailing after him. His shoulder bumped hers, and Hermione flinched.

He was real. This was real.

She hadn’t seen him in three years, and yet it had only taken a second to feel like she was nineteen again, standing over a bubbling cauldron with her heart in her throat.

“Auntie Mione coming back?” Adelaide called from the dining room.

Hermione blinked hard and forced her legs to move, her diary clutched to her chest. She returned to the others and slipped into her seat beside Pansy. The conversation faltered briefly, eyes flickering between her and Draco, who had seated himself across the table. But Pansy rescued the moment with a bright voice.

“So. Bridesmaids dresses.”

Hermione smiled thinly and opened her diary.

_____

The evening unfolded with a strange rhythm. Conversation hummed and dipped around her, bursts of laughter weaving through the clink of glasses. Ginny and Blaise were curled together on the loveseat, Blaise occasionally adding dry commentary that made Ginny snort into her wine.

James dozed peacefully against Hermione’s side, his small breaths warm against her arm, while Adelaide had claimed Draco’s lap as though it were her rightful throne. She tugged insistently at the cuff of his sleeve until he obliged her with a little flick of fabric, the corner of his mouth lifting. It was the first real smile Hermione had seen from him all evening, unguarded and soft, and it caught her off-guard—an ache pressing deep in her chest.

She couldn’t look for long. She busied herself by smoothing James’s hair, pretending not to notice how natural Draco looked with Adelaide nestled against him, her curls brushing his jaw. But her ears strained anyway, catching the low rumble of his voice when he bent to murmur something that made the little girl giggle. It was too easy to remember another life—too dangerous to linger on it.

The fire dimmed, its glow flickering against the glass of half-finished wine on the table. Pansy rose first, sweeping on her coat with a dramatic flourish.

“June twelfth,” she said pointedly, fixing Hermione with a stare for the third time that night. “No excuses. I want you here, in one piece, ready to make Ron look less like a troll.”

Hermione laughed softly, shaking her head. “I’ll be here.”

Farewells came quickly after that. Ginny and Blaise kissed her cheeks, sweeping a yawning Adelaide into the green flames. Pansy and Ron followed, hand-in-hand, their silhouettes swallowed by Floo light.

The house fell quieter in their absence. Too quiet.

James stirred in her arms, rubbing at his eyes, and Hermione pressed a kiss to his hair. “Bedtime, little man,” she whispered, though his only response was a muffled protest before he burrowed closer into her shoulder.

She carried him upstairs, each step creaking softly under her weight. The hall light glowed dim, catching on the frames lining the walls—snapshots of laughter, friendship, a life that had carried on even when she’d been oceans away. James yawned as she laid him gently into his bed, tucking the quilt beneath his chin. He was asleep before she could even straighten, his small hand curled loosely against the blanket.

With a sigh heavier than she meant it to be, Hermione smoothed back his hair one last time, then padded downstairs, wrapped in silence.

The telly murmured low in the sitting room, flickering light spilling over Theo and Harry asleep on the sofa, curled under a blanket, hands loosely linked. She smiled faintly, but it didn’t reach her chest. She slipped past, already picturing the kettle, the ritual of tea, the simple comfort of it.

The kitchen was colder than it should have been. The back door stood ajar, February’s bite cutting straight through the warmth of the house

She stepped forward, meaning to close it—then stopped.

Outside, near the railing, a figure struck a match. The flare lit sharp angles, hollow shadows.

Draco.

Smoke coiled around him, a thin shield between his body and the night. His shoulders bent under a weight she recognised all too well—the kind one carried alone, even in a crowd.

Hermione froze in the doorway, hand suspended above the knob. The kitchen clock ticked faintly behind her, a reminder that time hadn’t stopped, even if the air between them had.

For a long moment, neither of them moved. The winter air cut sharp across the threshold, the only sound the faint crackle of his cigarette and the hush of her own uneven breathing.

Then he lifted his head. Grey eyes found hers. Unreadable. Distant. But something flickered there—something too raw to name.

The smoke drifted between them, a wall and a tether all at once. Her breath caught. “Oh,” she whispered.

And that was how it ended: not with words, not with ease, but with silence heavy as stone. Two people caught on opposite sides of a threshold, bound by the past, suspended in the present—waiting, perhaps, for the storm to finally break.

Chapter Text

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
The Black Lake
November 1998

Draco leaned back against the gnarled bark of the old oak tree, the one near the eastern edge of the Black Lake that no one ever sat beneath — except for him. The cold wind swept off the water, sharp and raw, lifting loose strands of his pale hair and tugging at the edges of his coat.

He took a long drag from the cigarette, the smoke curling upward and fading into the crisp winter air like fleeting shadows. It wasn’t beauty he sought here — not in the frozen stretch of black water, nor the skeletal branches dusted with frost — but a kind of quiet he couldn’t find anywhere else. A stillness that dulled the restless ache he carried.

Hermione stood a few steps behind him, wrapped tightly in her scarf, her curls escaping to dance in the breeze. She hadn’t meant to follow, but something in the way he exhaled, the way the smoke drifted around him, pulled her closer without her willing it.

She noticed the scent before anything else — his aftershave: a sharp mix of amber and something darker beneath, tangled with the bitter tang of smoke. It should have pushed her away, but instead it held her there, silent and watching. It reminded her of the other night. The two of them working on their Amortentia potion and things left unsaid.

Her eyes traced the pale fingers tapping the cigarette’s glowing tip, flicking ash like scattered snowflakes onto the frozen ground. She didn’t move, caught between the impulse to speak and the need to stay unseen.

Then his voice, low and unexpected:

“Fancy a draw?”

She jumped but didn’t turn at first. The half-smirk she saw when she did was enough to soften the cold biting at her skin.

“Yeah,” she said, faster than she meant to, the word nearly lost in the quiet.

Their fingers brushed as he passed the cigarette over, warmth meeting chill. She inhaled, slow and deliberate, the smoke stinging her lungs in a way both foreign and oddly comforting. Exhaling, she kept her face carefully neutral, though inside a flutter of something like recklessness stirred.

Draco’s gaze lifted, amused. “Not such a good girl after all, huh?”

She scoffed softly. “What are you on about, Malfoy?”

“You’ve done this before,” he said, stepping closer, eyes sharp but holding something unreadable. “I thought I’d be your first.”

A bitter laugh escaped her. “You don’t want that kind of responsibility.”

He didn’t press further. Instead, the silence stretched, the wind tugging at Hermione’s curls, painting her cheeks pink, her eyes bright in the fading light. She was both the girl he remembered and a stranger grown harder, shaped by loss and survival.

They shared the cigarette’s last embers, smoke curling and twisting, a fragile thread binding two fractured pasts.

Draco broke it with a low murmur. “I just needed some quiet. It never stops in my head.”

Hermione gazed out over the lake’s dark, glassy surface, fractured by the occasional ripple, reflecting a sky smeared with cold winter light. “I know,” she said softly. “I feel it too.”

His head turned at that, as though surprised she’d admitted it aloud. For a moment, his grey eyes were stripped of all the armour he wore — tired, uncertain, human.

“You’ve… changed,” she said after a pause, choosing her words carefully. “Since the war.”

He gave a sharp exhale that might have been a laugh. “That’s what happens when you lose.”

“That’s not what I meant.” Her voice steadied. “You don’t seem—” she hesitated, searching his face. “—like you’re trying so hard to be someone else anymore.”

Draco looked away, jaw tight. “When everything’s been stripped from you, Granger, there’s no one left to perform for. You just… are.” He gave a humourless shrug. “I’m not sure I like who that is yet.”

Hermione’s throat tightened, but she didn’t look away. “At least you’re trying.”

Something flickered in his expression, gone before she could name it. He shifted, as if uncomfortable, then said, with deliberate dryness, “Besides, I’m already being reformed, remember? Mandatory Muggle Studies.”

That pulled a startled laugh from her. “You actually go?”

“Every bloody week.” He smirked faintly, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’m thinking of booking Theo one of those Muggle ‘driving lessons’ for his birthday when we leave. He’d probably crash the contraption within a mile, but…”

The image of Theo Nott solemnly taking a driving lesson was so absurd that Hermione laughed again, softer this time, the sound curling between them like warmth in the winter air.

“You’d watch, wouldn’t you?” she teased. “Probably sit there criticising the poor instructor.”

Draco’s smirk deepened. “Naturally. Can’t let Nott tarnish the reputation of Slytherins everywhere.”

Her lips curved before she could stop them. “You realise you’re admitting you’d be there. That you’d go.”

“Progress, Granger,” he said quietly, echoing her tone from earlier.

Their hands brushed again when he reached to take the last drag. Neither pulled away immediately.

“You’re not as insufferable as you used to be, Granger,” he said finally, a faint, weary smirk tugging at his mouth.

“And you’re not as much of a prat.” Her lips curved, almost involuntarily repeating his words. “Progress, then.”

That earned a real laugh — quiet, but genuine. It startled her, how much she wanted to hear it again.

The lake rippled under the wind, skeletal branches rattling overhead. Neither moved to go back inside. And somehow, standing there together in the brittle November cold, it felt… less lonely.

_________

The kitchen was dim, lit only by the dull under-glow of the sconces and the moonlight bleeding in through the open back door. February’s chill swept into the room in slow, aching drafts, carrying the scent of winter—earthy, sharp, bone-dry. It crept across the tiled floor, wrapped around Hermione’s ankles, and slipped beneath the cuffs of her cardigan. But she didn’t move.

Smoke curled in lazy tendrils near the doorway.

Draco.

He stood just outside on the back step, one shoulder pressed to the doorframe, a cigarette balanced between two fingers. His hair was wind-mussed, longer than she remembered, and the smoke spiralled into the air like a silent clock ticking.

Hermione swallowed, the tightness in her throat flaring hot against the cold. She hadn’t meant to find him here. She hadn’t meant for this moment to happen tonight, or maybe ever.

He turned slowly, sensing her before he saw her—his movements deliberate, as though he’d known she was there the whole time.

Their eyes locked.

His features were as sharp as they’d been at eighteen, only now they were honed by something older, harder. The familiar grey of his gaze was colder than the February air. His lips parted slightly, but no words came at first. Only a beat of stillness.

Then, his voice: low, rough, dry from disuse.

“Didn’t realise you were back.”

Hermione inhaled quietly, her fingers twitching against the hem of her jumper. “I’m not,” she said. “Not really.”

Draco let out a sharp huff, the corner of his mouth twitching—not a smile. It was more like bitterness trying to bite its way out. “Right. Of course. Just passing through.”

The cigarette burned between his fingers, the ember briefly flaring as he took another drag. He looked away as he exhaled, as if the sight of her was too much.

Hermione stepped further into the kitchen, drawn to the warmth of the Aga. The floor creaked under her feet, and she hated the sound, hated that it made her feel like a ghost in her own life.

“I didn’t expect to see you tonight,” she said finally.

That landed heavy between them.

Draco glanced at her again, sharp and unreadable. “You came back after three years and didn’t think we’d cross paths? That’s optimistic.”

“I didn’t come back to—” She stopped. Bit down on the words. He didn’t deserve her explanations. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

He tilted his head slightly, watching her. “Then why did you come?”

She didn’t answer.

The silence stretched taut, pulling at the stitches of old wounds. He looked at her like he was searching for something—confirmation, maybe. Or denial.

When she didn’t give him either, his jaw ticked. “Still good at that,” he muttered. “Not saying what you mean.”

Hermione’s mouth twitched. “Better than saying nothing at all.”

That made him laugh, but there was no warmth in it. “You still think it was that simple?”

“No,” she said quietly, eyes flickering to the ash falling from his cigarette. “I know it wasn’t simple. But you still chose.”

Draco’s expression darkened, the cigarette now held low in his hand. “You don’t know what I chose.”

“I know what you didn’t.”

Her voice came out sharper than she’d meant, brittle with the echo of years she’d tried to forget. She could still see him in her memories—standing in that eighth year common room, lips pressed into a silent apology he never spoke aloud. She could still hear the ghost of his voice telling her it wasn’t her fault, that things were more complicated than she understood. That they weren’t theirs to choose.

The same voice that now stood in front of her, familiar and foreign all at once.

The cold wind shifted, rustling the edge of her sleeve.

Draco looked down, then stubbed the cigarette out against the stone step with unnecessary force. “So how long are you staying?”

“I don’t know yet.”

He snorted. “You never were one for plans unless they had a colour-coded calendar attached.”

Hermione didn’t rise to the bait. She turned her head toward the window, watching frost inch along the glass pane.

“I should go,” she said, though her feet hadn’t moved.

“Probably,” he agreed, but made no move to step aside.

The tension was suffocating. Their shared history pulsed beneath the silence, unspoken but very much alive.

“I didn’t come back to dig up the past,” Hermione said at last, voice barely above a whisper.

“No,” Draco murmured. “But it has a way of finding you anyway, doesn’t it?”

She blinked once, heart lurching.

Behind them, the house was still. Quiet except for the distant creak of floorboards upstairs, the occasional murmur of wind brushing the windowpanes. The night was wide and silent, but the space between them was tighter than ever.

Draco looked down, then stubbed the cigarette out against the stone step with unnecessary force. “So,” he said, the word sharp, deliberate. “You’re staying here now?”

Hermione’s brow twitched, a reflex she didn’t bother to hide. “Temporarily.”

“Of course.” His tone held no curiosity, just a flatness that scraped against her. He stepped back slightly into the doorway, like even the cold air between them was too much to bear. “Let me guess — work? Something pressing and noble, then?”

She didn’t answer. Her silence was confirmation enough.

Draco scoffed. “You always did know how to leave things unfinished.”

Hermione bristled. “And you always knew how to follow orders.”

His mouth twitched — not a smile. Something bitterer. “Right. Back to that.”

“I’m not here to fight with you,” she said, though the tension in her shoulders betrayed her.

“Then maybe you shouldn’t have come back at all.”

That silenced her more effectively than a slammed door.

The air between them hung thick with everything they weren’t saying. The reasons. The grief. The years. The betrayal.

Hermione glanced away, eyes fixed on the shadowed hallway beyond him. “I didn’t come here to talk about the past.”

“Well, that’s a shame,” Draco said coolly, leaning against the doorframe. “Because clearly that’s the only thing we’ve got left.”

And with that, he stepped aside, letting the cold air rush in behind him as he turned and walked back into the house without another word. No invitation. No closure.

Hermione stayed where she was for a long moment, her pulse thrumming like a war drum in her chest. Then, slowly, she turned toward the stairs, her footsteps quiet against the floorboards, as the door clicked shut behind her — and with it, the sound of every apology neither of them would ever say.

But she could feel him watching as she walked away.

Just like he always had.

‘Take me to the Lakes…’ 

Chapter Text

London
Hermione’s Flat
Late February, 2004

The flat was too quiet.

Hermione stood in the middle of her living room, arms crossed, eyes scanning the space that had once felt like hers — before she’d packed it into boxes and left for another continent. It smelled faintly of lavender polish and the old paper scent of spellbooks. Crookshanks had already claimed his old spot by the radiator, his tail twitching sleepily as if he’d never left.

But everything else felt suspended. Like she was haunting a life she’d once lived, not returning to it.

She let out a breath and summoned the kettle with a flick of her wand, trying to ignore how empty the space felt without Theo cracking jokes, James’s chatter or Harry’s footsteps sauntering down the hallway. The Potter-Nott household had been loud and lived-in; this was solitude.

Necessary, she reminded herself. Needed.

James hadn’t seen it that way.

He’d clung to her waist the morning she left, chin wobbling and eyes glassy as he whispered, “But you just got back.” And when she’d gently explained that she needed her own space again, that she’d visit all the time, that he could Floo any hour of the day — he’d only shaken his head and buried his face in her robes.

You feel like home, he’d mumbled.

That one sentence had followed her the entire walk back to her flat.

Now, standing alone in the soft hum of silence, she wasn’t entirely sure he was wrong.

The tea kettle screeched. She moved mechanically, pouring hot water into her mug, adding a splash of milk and one sugar like she always had. But even the warmth in her hands didn’t chase away the chill that had crept into her chest since she’d shut the door behind her.

She took a slow sip, staring at the empty chair by the window, and made herself think forward. Solitude wouldn’t last forever. Tomorrow she began at St Mungo’s. Blood curse research. A fresh start, even if the ghosts came with her.

_____

A week later, Hermione had found her rhythm at St Mungo’s.

The ward was quieter than usual, though she knew it was only because the curse-burn patients had been transferred overnight to the adjoining pod for intensive monitoring. St Mungo’s had long abandoned the idea of “specialist wings” for blood curses — each case presented differently, fractured magic warping itself in unpredictable ways. One patient might have mottled skin, dark lines spreading like frost through their veins, while another wasted away as though every nutrient slipped through their body without use.

Hermione stood at the end of Bed 3, wand poised above her notes, dictating observations to parchment that hovered in the air beside her.

“Seventy-two hours post-onset,” she murmured, eyes on the young man before her, “fever spikes remain irregular, no correlation to blood pressure or curse-flare cycles. Skin deterioration worsening across the clavicle. Standard dittany applications ineffective. Recommend trial of fluxweed-infused salve at doubled concentration.”

Her quill scratched obediently across the parchment. The patient moaned in his sleep, and Hermione adjusted the cooling charm on his pillow, smoothing the blanket with a hand that tried not to tremble.

New York had taught her discipline, precision, the value of data over guesswork — but London was different. London had ghosts in the corridors.

Astoria’s name lingered on every file. Greengrass. She’d been admitted here, walked these same wards, lain in these same beds. And Hermione had been half a world away.

She pushed the thought back and reached for the next chart. Her fingers were already stained with tincture ink, the faint smell of crushed valerian and ash bark clinging to her sleeves.

The Healer-in-Charge stopped at her side. “Granger.” His tone was brisk but not unkind. “The Prophet’s been sniffing again. Don’t let them corner you in the Atrium. You know what they’ll ask.”

Hermione nodded, though her stomach tightened. She knew exactly what they’d ask. Why she had come back. Whether she’d been summoned. Whether her old… association with Malfoy had anything to do with her sudden return.

Association. That was the word people used when they didn’t know the truth.

Because the truth — the real thing between her and Draco — had never belonged to the world. Only their closest circle knew: Harry, Theo, Ginny, Blaise, Pansy, Ron. Friends who had held their secrets without question, protecting something fragile the outside world would have torn apart.

The Prophet had always speculated about the odd mix of Gryffindors and Slytherins who seemed inseparable after the war. They had no idea that beneath the surface, Hermione and Draco had been more than friends. That their relationship, kept quiet by both their choice, had burned just as brightly as it had broken.

Hermione steadied herself with a breath and turned back to the patient. “This curse doesn’t care for rumours,” she said evenly. “It will take everything if we don’t get ahead of it.”

The Healer gave her a short nod and moved on.

Hermione lingered by the bedside, eyes tracing the dark, branching lines that crept across the young man’s shoulder. She lifted her wand again, dictating more notes, her voice firm though her chest felt hollow.

“Fractures of magic destabilising faster than predicted. Recommend joint consult with Spell Damage team. Immediate.”

Her parchment rolled itself neatly, ink drying in the cold hospital air. She tucked it under her arm, straightened her robes, and forced herself to move down the line of beds.

Work first. Everything else — the whispers, the ghosts, the truths she still hadn’t faced — could wait.

_____

When she arrived home, the silence met her like an old adversary.

The flat smelled faintly of peppermint tea and parchment ink, Crookshanks already stretched out in his usual spot by the radiator. Hermione set her notes down on the table, rubbing the ache from her wrist. The ward had been relentless today, as it had every day since her return, but at least in the flurry of dictation and treatments, she hadn’t had to think about Draco Malfoy.

Not until the quiet pressed in again.

She lit a single lamp, the shadows pulling long across the walls, and curled into her armchair with Crookshanks clambering onto her lap. Tomorrow would be more of the same. More curses to untangle. More ghosts to sidestep.

She closed her eyes, the silence of the flat pressing too close. It was too easy to remember other silences — dungeons echoing with storm winds, the scratch of quills, and the sound of a boy she should have hated telling her things he’d never admitted to anyone else.

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
November 1998

The dungeon corridors were near silent at this time of evening, save for the occasional murmur of portraits and the soft hiss of torchlight against damp stone. Hermione tightened her scarf around her neck as she walked, her shoes tapping a steady rhythm on the slick flagstones. The scent of salt and dust hung in the air — that unmistakable, ancient Hogwarts smell — and it hit her like a memory every time.

She pushed the heavy door to the Potions classroom open and stepped inside.

Draco was already there.

He stood at the far table, sleeves rolled up, blonde hair slightly damp from the storm still rattling the castle windows. Steam curled lazily from their cauldron as he stirred, the brass ladle clinking softly against the side.

Hermione hesitated, then closed the door behind her. “You’re early.”

He didn’t look at her. “Could say the same about you.”

She set her bag down and walked to the table opposite him, the chill from the corridor clinging to her robes. “I figured if I left any later, the Slytherin third-years would hog the corridor again. They’ve started singing Celestina Warbeck carols.”

A flicker of a smirk crossed his lips. “Sounds like hell.”

“For once,” she said, settling beside the ingredients tray, “we agree.”

They worked in silence for a while. The potion needed careful layering — powdered moonstone, then a clockwise stir, followed by a hint of fluxweed and a five-minute rest period. Hermione sliced ingredients while Draco ground rosehips with practiced ease. There was something oddly comforting in the rhythm of it — until the quiet became something else.

Tense. Pressurised. Like a storm in a bottle.

Eventually, she broke it. “Harry and Ginny broke up.”

Draco’s hand paused over the mortar. “Yeah?”

“Mhm.” She kept her eyes on her cutting board. “It happened yesterday. In the Astronomy Tower, of all places.”

“Very dramatic.”

She snorted despite herself. “You’re one to talk.”

He set down the pestle. “Let me guess. Potter couldn’t give her the fairytale.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow. “He told her he’s into boys.”

Draco turned his head. For a moment, his face was unreadable. “Potter? Huh.”

“It was brave,” she said quietly, brushing fluxweed into a silver bowl. “He’s always been brave. But it takes a different kind of courage to say something like that — especially after everything. I think Ginny’s heartbroken, but… she understands.”

There was a long pause.

Draco’s voice was quiet when he finally replied. “Must be nice.”

Hermione looked up.

He wasn’t meeting her eyes. He was staring into the cauldron, as if the soft swirl of ingredients might offer a way out of whatever thoughts he’d just let slip.

“To be free,” he added, more to himself than to her. “To love who you want without someone breathing down your neck about legacy. Or duty.”

Her breath caught, but she didn’t say anything.

Instead, she watched him — his jaw tense, his hands rigid on the edge of the table. There was so much she didn’t know about him still. So much he didn’t let her see. But there were moments like this — rare, fragile — where she caught glimpses of something softer underneath the bitterness.

“You know,” she said after a moment, “no one gets to decide those things for you, Draco.”

He looked at her then. Really looked.

The dungeon torchlight flickered across his pale features, catching the tired shadow under his eyes, the faint dusting of flour on his sleeve. His lips parted, like he might say something. But then his expression shuttered, and he glanced back down at the table.

“Some of us don’t get that choice, Granger.”

The words settled heavy between them, louder than the bubbling cauldron. The rest of their classmates unaware of the heaviness of words and honesty between the pair. 

Hermione bit the inside of her cheek, torn between pressing him—what do you mean?—and holding back. The uncertainty gnawed at her, sharp and insistent, but something about the stiffness in his shoulders warned her off. Not tonight. Not yet.

Before she could gather herself, Blaise strolled past their table with a knowing grin. “Well, isn’t this cosy. My, how times have changed.”

Hermione glared, heat rushing to her cheeks. “Don’t you have your own work to finish?”

“I do,” Blaise said easily, “but watching you two nearly burn holes into each other’s essays is far more entertaining.” He tapped the rim of their cauldron, ignoring Hermione’s scowl. “Careful, Granger. Spend too much time with him, and people might start to talk.”

“Go away, Blaise,” Draco muttered, though his tone lacked its usual bite.

Blaise only smirked wider before sauntering off.

Hermione ducked her head, quill scratching furiously across her parchment. But she couldn’t ignore the way her pulse quickened, or the way Draco had, without thinking, nudged the inkpot closer to her hand when her quill began to sputter.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

“Don’t mention it.”

The words sat between them, as steady as the potion’s bubbling. Hermione bent her head again, forcing her eyes to the lines of her essay. The assignment was meant to be straightforward—three feet on fluxweed properties and their applications in restorative draughts. She usually excelled at this, at focusing, at putting her thoughts in clean, ordered rows.

But her mind snagged. On Blaise’s knowing smirk. On Draco’s fingers brushing hers. And most of all, on his voice earlier, when he’d muttered about not having a choice.

The sentence had lodged itself in her, gnawing quietly, refusing to be forgotten. She wanted to ask—what choice? Who decides?—but something in his guarded expression had warned her not to. Not yet. Not when he might shut down and retreat further into those walls she was only just beginning to glimpse beyond.

Her quill hesitated mid-sentence, the ink beading like her thoughts, messy and unresolved. She swallowed hard.

Feelings, she told herself, could be bottled up just like potion ingredients. Contained. Labeled. Controlled.

But as the cauldron hissed softly, its contents shifting from violet to a near-perfect shade of rose, she couldn’t help but think that something else was bubbling quietly inside her, something that no essay could explain away.

____

Hermione blinked hard, the echo of torchlight and bubbling cauldrons dissolving until only the hush of her flat remained. The mug of tea on her desk had gone cold, untouched.

Now, years later, she could finally see what he had meant in that dungeon — legacy, duty, choice. He hadn’t been speaking in riddles; he had been speaking of Astoria. Of the arrangement his family had already set in motion.

Her throat tightened. If he had only trusted her enough to say the words then, if she had only pushed past her hesitation and asked… perhaps everything might have been different.

Instead, she sat alone in the quiet of her flat, staring at the pages of her diary, and wished for a truth she would never stop carrying in the hollow of her chest.

For the first time since her return, she pulled out a fresh quill and began to write.

Confessions of Love.

Something she had subconsciously began in New York, the title had been thought of easily.

The ink spilled across the page like whispered secrets.

She wrote not just of Draco — but of herself. Of the fractures in her heart and the silence that had grown too loud.

And maybe, just maybe, writing it down would help her find the courage to finally face what she had buried for so long.

A soft chime from her enchanted clock pulled her gaze away from the page. A small flutter of parchment slid onto the desk.

She unfolded it carefully.

It was a note from Ginny.

Hermione — we’re having a small gathering tomorrow night to celebrate Ron’s birthday. Harry is hosting, Pansy and the others will be there. It’s nothing formal, just friends. I know you’ve been distant, but we’d really love to see you. Please come, even if just for a little while. — Ginny

Hermione’s throat tightened.

The invitation was simple, yet it carried a warmth she hadn’t felt in weeks. A tether back to the world she thought she had left behind.

She traced the words with her finger, feeling the stirrings of something she’d almost forgotten — hope.

Setting her quill down, Hermione glanced at Crookshanks curled peacefully in her lap, then toward the window where the city lights flickered against the dark sky.

Maybe, just maybe, she could start to mend the fractures.

Hermione folded the note gently and placed it inside her diary. She sent a note back to Ginny, confirming that she would be there and thanking the younger witch for inviting and thinking of her.

Tomorrow, she thought, she would write more. But tonight, she would rest.

Because for the first time in a long time, the silence felt a little less fractured.

Chapter Text

Godric’s Hallow 
March 2004

The Potter-Nott kitchen was awash in warmth: firelight flickering against copper pans, the hum of voices weaving with the scent of treacle tart and mulled cider. Hermione sat at the scrubbed oak table, Adelaide perched comfortably on her lap, the little girl’s curls tickling her chin as she clutched a wooden toy. Across the room, James tugged impatiently at Harry’s sleeve, demanding another slice of cake, his laughter ringing like a charm against the glass-paned windows.

On the surface, it was domestic ease. But beneath it, tension threaded the air like smoke. Hermione felt it most keenly whenever she glanced toward the window.

Draco stood there, tall and composed, the faintest reflection of moonlight carving sharp edges into his face. Hands buried in his pockets, he was the picture of aloofness—until James toddled over, clutching a crayon drawing of a dragon.

“Look, Uncle Draco! I made this for you!” James announced, chest puffed with pride.

Something softened in Draco’s expression, so fleeting most wouldn’t have noticed. He crouched, the fabric of his dark coat whispering against the floorboards, and accepted the paper with surprising care.

“It’s brilliant,” he said, his voice pitched low and steady. “I’ll keep it safe.”

James grinned and darted off, leaving Draco standing again, the drawing folded neatly in his hand. Hermione’s chest tightened at the sight—not at the sharp profile of the man he’d become, but at the ghost of the boy she remembered, unguarded for half a heartbeat.

When the children thundered into the next room, their laughter fading into the distance, Hermione found herself alone at the counter, pouring more tea. She sensed him before she heard him.

“Granger.”

The single word was soft, not quite cautious, but stripped of the sharp edges she’d braced for. She turned, mug in hand, to find Draco closer than she’d realised, his grey eyes steady on hers.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” he said quietly. Not an accusation—just fact.

Hermione lifted her chin. “Perhaps I have. You didn’t exactly make things easy in this kitchen the last time.”

A muscle ticked in his jaw, but instead of deflecting, he exhaled slowly, gaze dropping briefly to the floorboards. “I know. I was… harsh. Unfair.” The words came clipped, as if dragged against his will, but they landed. “I don’t make excuses well.”

Her grip tightened around the mug. For a moment, the younger version of herself—the one who might have softened instantly—stirred. But she pressed her lips together, reminding herself she wasn’t nineteen anymore.

“You were cruel,” she said evenly. “But I’m still here.”

His eyes flicked to hers at that, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face. He leaned slightly against the counter, putting space between them without retreating. “You always did have a ridiculous tolerance for me.”

“Or maybe,” she countered, “I’ve just learned not to let you chase me off so easily.”

For a beat, silence stretched between them—tense, but not unbearable. Then his voice lowered, the edge of civility shading toward curiosity.

“I’ve heard about St Mungo’s,” he said. “The blood curse research.”

Her breath hitched, but she forced her shoulders straight. “So you’ve been listening.”

“I notice things,” he said simply. His tone wasn’t sharp now, but weighted. “And I notice you’re burning yourself out.”

Her lips curved, though the sound that left her was humourless. “You think you’re the first to point that out? It isn’t about me. It’s about the people who don’t get another chance.”

Something flickered—pain, maybe—before he looked away, fingers brushing the edge of James’s forgotten crown on the table.

“You could have told me.”

“I wasn’t ready,” she admitted softly, the truth scraping its way out.

He nodded once, gaze returning to hers. His voice dropped further, almost rough with restraint. “I’m not used to you keeping things from me.”

The words hung between them, heavier than they had any right to be.

Her throat tightened. “Perhaps we both kept too much.”

For a moment, his expression eased—just slightly. His mouth curved, not in a smirk, but something quieter, tinged with weariness. “You always were relentless,” he murmured, the admission almost lost under the hum of voices in the next room. His eyes held hers just long enough for the weight of it to settle.

“I suppose that’s what I liked about you.”

The words silenced her. For a heartbeat, the kitchen seemed to tilt—the warmth of the hearth, the distant laughter, all fading into the charged space between them.

Before Hermione could find a reply, a small voice pierced the moment.

“Auntie Mione!” James called from the other room, his tone urgent in the way only children could muster when demanding attention.

Hermione blinked, grounding herself in the sound. She set down her mug, stepping back from the counter. “Duty calls,” she murmured, her voice steadier than she felt.

By the time she turned toward the doorway, Draco had already straightened, the shutters sliding back into place across his expression.

The moment lingered anyway, following her as she crossed the threshold—words left hanging, like smoke curling in the air long after the flame had gone out.

James’s voice tugged her back into the noise and warmth of the gathering. Hermione rose, smoothing her skirt as she crossed into the next room, leaving behind the charged silence of the kitchen. The children had already launched into another round of games, their laughter rising bright and unbroken. She let it ground her, though her chest still carried the echo of words that lingered like smoke.

It was strange, she thought, how easily one moment in the present could reopen the door to another time—when firelight and celebration had cast a different kind of glow, and she had been nineteen, learning just how complicated proximity to Draco Malfoy could be.

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
Eighth Year Christmas Party — Christmas Eve 1998

Snow clung to the tall windows like delicate lace, muffling the world outside in a hush of white. Inside, the Eighth Year common room shimmered with candlelight and laughter. Dozens of floating candles glowed against charmed garlands of holly and tinsel, while pine boughs above the hearth filled the air with evergreen. Someone had enchanted the gramophone to play old wizarding carols layered with a lazy Muggle jazz beat. It felt warmer than the Great Hall ever had—like a secret sanctuary.

Theo raised his butterbeer with a dramatic flourish, the liquid glittering gold under his charm. “To survival!” he announced, sprawled across an armchair as if he owned it.

“To friendship,” Harry corrected, though his cheeks burned when Theo immediately threw an arm around him, pulling him close.

Hermione laughed, a soft, surprised sound that made Theo beam.

“Careful, Potter,” Blaise drawled from his perch by the drinks table, his dark eyes sharp with amusement. “He’ll have you wearing Slytherin green by morning.”

Ginny, beside him, swatted at Blaise’s shoulder, though her lips curved in a smile she tried to hide. “And what’s wrong with red?”

“Clashes with my complexion,” Blaise replied smoothly, making Ginny roll her eyes and blush.

On the sofa, Ron cleared his throat loudly, his ears turning crimson. Pansy, utterly unbothered, leaned back against him and announced, “Well, since everyone’s watching us anyway, Ronald and I are… seeing where things go.”

The room went still for a second—then Theo barked out a laugh, Harry spluttered into his drink, and Hermione blinked, wide-eyed. Ron shrugged helplessly, while Pansy smirked like she’d just dropped a bombshell and quite enjoyed the blast.

“You’re joking,” Ginny said finally.

“Afraid not,” Ron muttered.

“Oh, this is rich,” Blaise said, raising his glass. “We’ve reached the Stockholm syndrome stage.”

“Shut it, Zabini,” Ron grumbled, but there was no real bite in it.

Hermione watched it all unfold, warmth tugging unexpectedly in her chest. A year ago, she would have called it impossible. Gryffindors and Slytherins, seated shoulder-to-shoulder, laughing, teasing, weaving their lives together like it was the most natural thing in the world. But war had a way of stripping things bare. And somehow, in the wreckage, they had built this. A patchwork family stitched together by survival and choice.

Her gaze drifted across the room, and her heart tightened. Draco Malfoy stood slightly apart near the bookcases, a glass of sparkling butterbeer in hand, posture deceptively relaxed. He wasn’t smirking. He wasn’t sneering. He was watching. Watching all of them, but mostly… her.

Their eyes met. The quiet intensity in his gaze made her chest flutter. She turned quickly back to Theo, who was regaling Harry with a story about how he’d nearly hexed the Ravenclaw choir for singing Celestina Warbeck off-key.

Hermione smiled, but her mind was already elsewhere.

_

Later, as the evening deepened, laughter swelled around the fire. Theo teased Harry about his atrocious dancing. Blaise tried to charm Ginny into another drink. Ron and Pansy argued playfully over who had started their courtship, each claiming it was the other.

Hermione sat near the fire, the warmth loosening something tight in her chest. Her burgundy jumper was soft against her skin, her curls pinned back with a gold clip that caught the candlelight. She should have felt out of place. But she didn’t. For the first time in months, she felt like she belonged.

Her eyes wandered back to Draco. He hadn’t joined the teasing. But he hadn’t left, either. He leaned against the bookcase, profile sharp in the flickering light, and every so often, his gaze flicked to her again.

When the enchanted mistletoe drifted lazily above them, it was Theo who spotted it first. His grin was wicked as he nudged Hermione forward.

“Oh no,” she whispered, stumbling slightly and finding herself face-to-face with Draco.

His hand shot out, steadying her elbow. The touch was brief, but it sent her pulse skittering.

Above them, the mistletoe hovered expectantly.

“Well,” Draco murmured, eyes flicking upward, then back to hers. “The castle does have a cruel sense of humour.”

Hermione arched a brow. “Are you suggesting the mistletoe is sentient?”

“I’m suggesting it has a death wish,” he replied smoothly, the faintest smirk tugging at his mouth. “Dangling over us.”

Her lips twitched despite herself. They were standing far too close. She could smell him—pine and smoke, threaded with something darker. Her chest tightened.

The mistletoe gave a wobble of disappointment and drifted away, as though insulted. Neither of them moved.

Draco cleared his throat. “Are you not going home for Christmas?”

Hermione hesitated, then shook her head. “No. My parents… I obliviated their memories during the war. They don’t remember me.”

His mask slipped. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know” he said softly.

“Don’t apologise,” she said quickly, her throat tight. “It was my choice. And I’ll fix it. One day.”

His gaze held hers for a moment, unguarded. Then she asked, very quietly, “And you?”

“My mother’s in France,” he admitted. “I stayed.”

Hermione stepped half a breath closer. “Well… at least we’re not the only ones stuck here.”

A faint smile tugged at his lips. “Better company than I expected.”

Something twisted in her chest.

Their fingers brushed as she shifted her glass. Neither pulled away.

Across the room, Harry noticed.

His laughter faded as he caught sight of Hermione and Draco standing close, speaking too quietly, eyes fixed only on each other. He didn’t interrupt, didn’t nudge Ron or Theo, didn’t so much as move. But his gaze lingered—sharp, thoughtful, uneasy. Hermione felt it briefly when she glanced away, and her stomach dipped.

She busied herself with the butterbeer tray. Draco shifted back toward the shadows, mask sliding into place again.

But Harry had seen.

The evening continued on, full of laughter and carols and Theo’s antics with the record player. Hermione tried to focus on her friends, but her mind kept circling back to that moment—Draco’s voice low and unguarded, his apology she hadn’t wanted, the faintest curl of warmth when he said she was better company than expected.

Ginny and Blaise slipped out together. Ron and Pansy disappeared into the corridor, laughter trailing behind them. Theo had fallen asleep against Harry’s shoulder, snoring softly as Harry pretended not to mind.

The fire burned low, casting molten light across the rug. Hermione curled into an armchair, too warm and drowsy to move.

When she stirred awake, Draco was there. His hair mussed, eyes tired, two mugs of tea in his hands.

“You dozed off,” he said quietly, offering her one.

She accepted it, their fingers brushing. Her chest tightened. “Thank you.”

He lowered himself onto the rug, cross-legged, close enough that she could see the shadows under his eyes. For a long while, they sat in silence, the only sound the crackle of the fire.

Hermione studied him. The way his posture softened when no one watched. The way his gaze flicked to her and away, as if afraid to linger.

“I’m glad you stayed,” she whispered before she could stop herself.

His head lifted, eyes meeting hers. Grey, unguarded. “Me too.”

The air thickened. The room seemed to shrink. His gaze dropped briefly to her mouth, then back. His lips parted, hesitant.

“Can I—?” His voice was rough, barely audible.

Her breath caught. She nodded. “Yes.”

The kiss was soft, tentative. Not demanding, not rushed—just honest. It said I see you. I’m here.

When they parted, Hermione’s hand lingered on his jaw, her thumb brushing his cheek. Her lips curved faintly. “Merry Christmas, Draco.”

His eyes closed briefly before opening again, softer than she’d ever seen.

“Merry Christmas, Granger.”

_____

Back in the warm buzz of Ron’s birthday party, Pansy swept in from the kitchen carrying a towering cake draped in thick icing and flickering with enchanted candles that glowed red and gold.

“Ready?” she trilled, eyes alight with mischief.

The living room gathered close, shoulders bumping, voices blending as they broke into a loud, cheerful chorus of “Happy Birthday, Ron!” Theo’s voice carried above the rest, far too dramatic, while Ginny clapped her hands in time to the beat. Blaise leaned in to murmur something wry under his breath that made her snort into her wine.

Ron turned a spectacular shade of red but grinned through it, cutting a look at Hermione that made her laugh in spite of herself. He blew out the candles to cheers and a dramatic flourish from Theo, who insisted he’d “helped.”

Plates clinked, slices of cake were passed around, and for a moment the noise and warmth of it all pressed close around Hermione like a balm. She let herself exhale, shoulders loosening, taking comfort in the small things—Pansy licking icing from her finger, Harry shaking his head fondly at Theo, Ginny brushing a hand over her bump as Blaise offered her the largest slice.

But when Hermione glanced up, the air seemed to still.

Across the table, Draco was watching her. Not openly, not enough for anyone else to notice—but enough for her to feel it. His expression was softer than it had been in months, though clouded with the same distance he wore like armour.

Something caught in her chest. A fragile moment stretched between them, no wider than a breath.

The laughter around her surged again, pulling her back. She forced a smile, accepted her plate, laughed at Theo’s terrible impression of Ron’s toast. But the weight of Draco’s gaze lingered, threading through the noise.

Unspoken truths. Memories that refused to fade. And, somewhere beneath the layers of armour they both still carried, the fragile hope that one day, the facades might finally fall.

Chapter Text

Pansy and Ron’s Townhouse, London
March 2004

Hermione tugged her coat tighter around her shoulders as she stepped into the driveway of Ron and Pansy’s house. Even in March, the lingering cold of early spring nipped at her cheeks, leaving a faint pink flush. The house itself stood pristine, all sharp lines and pale stone, far from the cozy clutter of her own flat. Pansy had always favored order, and the interior reflected that: pale walls, polished floors, and soft golden light spilling from crystal lamps. Nothing felt out of place, yet somehow it exuded warmth—a kind of cultivated comfort that contrasted with the chaos Hermione often carried with her.

The smell of roasted vegetables and faint cinnamon drew her forward. Adelaide’s delighted squeal echoed from the living room, followed by the sound of James’ indignant protests. Hermione’s lips curved in a tired, genuine smile as she opened the front door.

“Auntie Mione!” Adelaide wriggled free from Ginny’s arms and barreled toward her, curls bouncing. Hermione dropped to her knees, catching the little girl in a firm hug.

“Hello, my love,” she said, inhaling the faint scent of soap and the sweetness clinging to Adelaide’s hair.

“I helped Daddy bake! Flour everywhere!” Adelaide beamed.

“Oh no,” Hermione laughed softly. “Did you turn the kitchen into a winter storm?”

“Bigger than James’ dragon!” Adelaide declared proudly.

From the rug near the fireplace came James’ voice, high and indignant. “Oi! Not true!” The little boy hopped up, waving a toy dragon as if it were proof of his argument.

Hermione’s heart lifted. She carried Adelaide toward the living room and crouched to meet James’ gaze. “Let me guess. Daddy said a word you weren’t supposed to repeat?”

Both children nodded solemnly before dissolving into shared giggles.

Ginny appeared then, hair tied back in a neat ponytail, sleeves rolled, looking every bit the composed mother. “You’re a saint for distracting them,” she said warmly. “I swear they’ve been bouncing off the walls all day.”

Hermione leaned down to kiss Adelaide’s temple and set her carefully on the floor. “I missed them.”

Adelaide clung to her leg immediately. “You’re staying for dinner?”

“I am,” Hermione said softly, her eyes lingering on the two children. For a moment, she let herself bask in the quiet joy of family, the kind of warmth she hadn’t felt in years.

By the time Blaise arrived, the living room had settled into a kind of easy rhythm. Theo sprawled in an armchair, James perched on his lap, animatedly recounting some dragon mishap from the morning. Harry had claimed a spot on the rug, leaning against Theo’s legs, listening with quiet attentiveness. Blaise moved fluidly around the room, balancing trays of snacks and wine, his sharp gaze catching Hermione whenever it lingered too long on some memory of her past.

Pansy, sitting with her glass of wine, finally broke the quiet. “Hermione, you’ve been awfully subdued since you got here. Spill. And don’t blame it on the children—they’re adorable, but even they can’t make a Granger look distracted like that without something serious behind it.”

Hermione let a small smile tug at her lips. “It’s… nothing. Just the week, the work…”

aise, who had been leaning casually against the back of the sofa, set down his glass with a soft clink. His voice was low, thoughtful.

“You know, Hermione, the world doesn’t stop moving when people make choices. Sometimes, you just need to catch your breath and decide which pieces are still yours to keep.”

Hermione blinked, caught off guard by the bluntness of his tone. Blaise Zabini had never been one to soften truths, and for a moment it stung—like a shard of glass pressed against skin. But beneath it, she felt something steadier, almost protective, the same current of care she had once leaned on in darker moments.

“Pieces to keep?” she echoed, her voice quieter now, as if testing the words.

Blaise’s gaze didn’t waver. “Yes. You don’t have to claim every piece of the past. Some of it—him, Astoria, the choices he made—you can leave behind. But some things are yours, and no one, not even Draco, can take them from you. You’ll know which is which when you stop running long enough to listen.”

There was no judgement in his voice, only that razor-edged clarity that had both unnerved and anchored her before. Hermione swallowed, struck by the reminder that Blaise’s honesty, however sharp, had never been cruel—it was survival, and sometimes, it had been her own.

Blaise shrugged slightly as he added, breaking Hermione from her inner thought. “Draco is… complicated. Loyal in his own way, but he makes choices for reasons that often hurt the people around him without meaning to. Sometimes he hides the truth, thinking it protects you. Sometimes it doesn’t.”

Hermione’s chest tightened. The words hit the same raw chord as the loyalty she had begun to recognise among her friends tonight.

Ron, who had been unusually quiet, leaned forward, elbows on his knees, voice subdued but firm. “Look, Hermione… Malfoy married Astoria in November 2000. You left for New York a few months later. But we’ve always been with you. Always.”

Hermione blinked, uncertainty flickering across her face. “Even when I left?”

Harry’s gaze was steady, warm. “Especially then. You’ve always been ours, Hermione. That doesn’t change because Draco… put a ring on someone else’s hand.”

The room softened in stillness. Adelaide stirred on Ginny’s lap, James leaned against Theo, eyes wide at the adult conversation though he didn’t fully understand, and the tiny domestic noises—the crackle of the fireplace, the occasional clink of a cup—made everything feel intimate and alive.

Hermione swallowed hard. “But you were kind to Astoria.”

Harry nodded. “We were polite. She treated him well in her way. But our loyalty? That’s never been in question.”

Ron exhaled sharply, frustration mixed with affection. “Polite is one word for it. I had to bite my tongue more than once, believe me. But you—” He jabbed a finger toward Hermione. “You were our priority. Always. He knew that too, Hermione. He bloody well knew it when he made his choice.”

Pansy swirled her wine lazily. “Don’t act as though the lot of you didn’t tiptoe around it. You were seething, but none of you ever said it outright.”

Ron shot her a glare. “Didn’t need to. He could read a room. Malfoy’s good at that.”

“Draco,” Harry corrected quietly, the weight of the name lingering. Hermione felt her chest ache.

Blaise leaned forward, voice measured, calm, almost philosophical. “Draco isn’t easy. He makes choices thinking he protects everyone, but half the time, he burns what he wants to keep.”

Hermione’s gaze shifted to him. “Are you saying that’s what happened?”

Blaise’s dark eyes met hers. “I’m saying Draco’s flaw has always been his inability to believe people would choose him without obligation. So he chooses for them. It rarely ends cleanly.”

Theo, sensing the heaviness, leaned into James and whispered theatrically, “And this, children, is why you never let Uncle Blaise near the firewhisky. Turns into a bloody oracle.”

A ripple of laughter lightened the room, yet Blaise’s gaze remained thoughtful. “Don’t mistake his silence for indifference,” he said softly. “Sometimes it’s the opposite.”

Hermione opened her mouth, closed it. Words felt heavy, unnecessary.

Ginny reached across the sofa, resting a hand lightly on Hermione’s knee. “You don’t have to decide anything tonight. But you don’t have to carry it alone, either. We’ve got you. All of us.”

Pansy sniffed dramatically. “Merlin help us, but she’s right.”

James giggled, muffled in Theo’s jumper. Adelaide tugged at Hermione’s sleeve, trying to join the moment.

Hermione laughed wetly, blinking back tears she didn’t realize she had been holding. For the first time in years, she believed them.

__

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
Boxing Day 1998

The castle was quieter than usual the morning after Christmas. Snow clung stubbornly to the tall windows of the common room, painting the world outside in muted silver and pale blue. Most of the students who had stayed for the holidays were still asleep, the corridors echoing only with the occasional scrape of a boot or the soft creak of a door. Hermione sat curled in an armchair near the fire, a thick blanket wrapped around her shoulders, her hands cradling a cooling mug of cocoa. Steam swirled lazily upward, carrying the faint scent of chocolate and sugar.

The night before had left her mind tangled in a way she hadn’t expected. The kiss—the brief, hesitant, and impossibly intimate brush of Draco’s lips against hers—still lingered on her skin. Every time she closed her eyes, she could feel it again, the warmth, the breathlessness, the awkward, exhilarating thrill.

The common room door creaked. Hermione’s head lifted, heart catching. Draco stepped inside, snowflakes melting on his shoulders, his scarf hanging loose. His hair was damp from the cold, slightly mussed, and there was a faint flush on his cheeks. He paused, as if unsure, before his eyes met hers.

“I wasn’t sure if you’d be here,” he said, voice low, careful.

“I live here,” she replied, keeping her tone light, though her stomach fluttered.

He nodded once, slow, deliberate. A silence stretched between them, the crackling fire filling in the gaps.

“About last night…” she began, her voice barely above a whisper.

Draco stiffened. “Yeah. I—”

“I liked it,” she interrupted, heat creeping up her neck. “In case that wasn’t clear.”

His shoulders relaxed fractionally. “I did too. Maybe too much.”

“Is that a problem?”

“Only if you think it is.”

“I don’t.”

There was something unguarded in his gaze then—hesitance, hope, fear. “I’ve never done this… slowly. Honestly. Without… performance.”

Hermione tilted her head, a wry smile tugging at her lips. “You think I’m here for performance?”

“No,” he said, lips quirking slightly. “That’s what terrifies me.”

She reached across instinctively, brushing her hand against his. He startled, but didn’t pull away. His eyes dropped to their touching fingers, then back to hers.

“Draco,” she whispered.

“I don’t want to pretend it didn’t happen,” he said softly, “or act like it was a mistake. But I’m not… good at this. At us.”

“You don’t have to be,” she murmured. “We just have to be honest.”

His gaze softened, almost incredulous. “Honest?”

“Yes. Honest,” Hermione said, letting her hand linger on his. “That’s all I ask.”

Draco exhaled slowly, a small, humourless laugh escaping. “I think I can manage that.”

For a moment, the world shrank to just them—the warmth of the fire, the soft sound of crackling wood, the gentle hush of snow outside. Hermione let herself breathe. Let herself hope.

“Do you… want to talk about it?” she asked, finally breaking the quiet.

He shook his head. “Not yet. I just—” His hand tightened over hers. “I wanted you to know I’m not running away.”

“You’re not,” she confirmed.

“No,” Draco replied, a little firmer. “I’m staying Granger. Here. With you.”

Hermione’s chest swelled with something she hadn’t felt in a long time: cautious optimism. A tentative trust. She let a small smile escape, letting herself savor the simplicity of it.

This moment was theirs. Uncomplicated, fragile, and real.

The fire burned lower, and Hermione sipped her cocoa, the warmth spreading through her fingers and into her chest. She thought of the night, of the laughter, the embarrassment, the tentative steps they had taken together. There was fear, yes, but there was also a spark. A possibility.

Draco’s hand brushed against hers again, more purposefully this time. Hermione didn’t pull away.

“Boxing Day,” Draco said softly. “It feels… like a beginning.”

“Maybe it is,” she whispered back.

__

The memory lingered as Hermione drew a slow breath, letting the images of snow-dusted towers and the warmth of the common room fade into the gentle hum of present-day March. London carried the faint scent of early spring in the air, but inside Ron and Pansy’s townhouse, warmth came from the low chatter of children and the soft glow of lamps across polished wood floors. The contrast was jarring in the best way—past and present converging, reminding her of what had been, what had changed, and what still remained.

Dinner was a cosy affair, casual yet full of laughter and small domestic chaos. Adelaide and James chattered animatedly, recounting the day’s exploits with flour, dragons, and half-finished Lego towers, while Ginny and Pansy moved effortlessly between kitchen and table, orchestrating plates of roast chicken, mashed potatoes, and roasted vegetables. Blaise, with an easy grace, helped serve while keeping the children entertained, his calm commentary grounding the small whirlwind of energy.

Hermione found herself seated between Ginny and Blaise, observing the family she had returned to. Theo sat beside James, listening intently to his son’s ongoing dramatisation of a “dragon rescue,” while Harry and Ron flanked the table, the usual banter softened into quiet attentiveness. Hermione felt the hum of loyalty, friendship, and connection vibrate around her. She remembered Blaise’s words from earlier—the subtle reminder that Draco’s choices had been complicated, often protective, sometimes flawed—and she allowed herself a moment to consider the nuances of truth, love, and human imperfection.

The children’s laughter slowed as plates emptied, replaced by quiet contentment. Hermione leaned back, watching James press his forehead against Theo’s chest while Adelaide yawned, curling into Ginny’s lap. The domestic simplicity was comforting, grounding her in a world where the past felt held at arm’s length yet always present.

As the evening waned, Hermione rose to gather her coat and bag. She knelt first to kiss the children goodnight, pressing a gentle hand against Adelaide’s cheek and ruffling James’s hair. “I’ll see you soon,” she murmured, and for a brief moment, both children beamed, clutching her hands tightly before reluctantly letting go.

Turning to the adults, Hermione’s eyes met Ron’s and Harry’s, the two constants who had never wavered. Her voice softened, carrying both gratitude and affection. “Thank you… for being here, for everything. For your loyalty, even when I wasn’t around. I’ve never felt so supported.”

Ron’s usual grin softened into something warmer, a rare seriousness in his gaze. “Always. That’s what friends do. No matter the distance, no matter the time.”

Harry nodded, steady and unwavering. “You’ve never been alone, Hermione. Not even when it felt like it. We’ve got you.”

Blaise gave a faint, approving nod from across the room, his calm presence reinforcing the sentiment, while Ginny placed a comforting hand on Hermione’s arm. Pansy’s smirk was small but genuine, an acknowledgment of the unspoken support around them.

Hermione gathered her things, taking one last glance at the softly lit room, the children now half-asleep, and the adults quietly smiling, their loyalty woven into the very fabric of the home. She stepped forward, the Floo powder warming in her hands, the familiar hiss marking the end of the evening.

As the flames swirled around her, Hermione exhaled deeply, carrying with her the reassurance, love, and quiet strength of the family and friends who had anchored her through past uncertainties. She felt alive with possibility, tethered to memory yet rooted firmly in the present—and for the first time in a long while, the veiled loyalty of those who had stood by her through every choice, every absence, and every unspoken moment eased the weight of the past, allowing her to move forward.

Chapter Text

March 2004
Ginny and Blaise’s TownHouse 

The snow had begun to fall again by the time Hermione arrived at Blaise and Ginny’s house, settling over the garden in delicate powder. It clung to the hedges and flowerbeds, silent and persistent. Inside, everything was warm and golden—the scent of cinnamon clinging to the air, mingling with the soft hiss of logs burning in the fireplace. The perfect way to spend her day after a long week of research and not much progress at St Mungo’s.  

Of course, Hermione was out in the cold, playing in the snow with her godchildren.

Adelaide was waddling through the snow in an enormous dragon-covered snowsuit, arms sticking out stiffly as she clutched a half-formed snowball. James ran in circles around her with a wooden broomstick, pretending to joust the wind. Hermione watched them from the kitchen window, mug of tea cradled between her hands.

She’d been staying at her London flat for a few weeks now, immersing herself in the archives at St Mungo’s. Blood curse research wasn’t exactly light reading, but she found herself slipping into it with relentless precision. Pages of case studies, curse theories, obscure alchemical references—it all consumed her waking hours. Maybe too much.

When she wasn’t working, she was… thinking. About snow, about the tower, about him.

“Hermione?”

Ginny poked her head around the corner. “You’ve been staring at the garden for ten minutes. You alright?”

Hermione blinked. “Fine. Just—thinking.”

Ginny didn’t push. “Adelaide’s demanding her godmother’s presence for snow-castle reinforcement.”

Outside, Hermione knelt next to the small girl and began scooping snow into crooked turrets. Adelaide leaned her head against Hermione’s shoulder and sighed like she’d just accomplished great things.

“You’re the bestest ‘Mione,” she mumbled.

“I’ll take it,” Hermione said, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

“Snow looks nice on you,” came a quiet voice behind her.

Draco.

Hermione glanced up, startled. He stood just outside the garden door, coat unfastened, his cheeks pink from the cold. His gaze was steady, but not unkind.

“You remembered,” she said, wiping snow from her gloves.

He lifted a brow. “You used to say snowfall was nature’s apology for everything else.”

She hadn’t remembered saying that, but something about the way he said it made her chest ache. He didn’t stay long—just crouched to adjust James’s scarf and mutter something that made the boy grin before excusing himself back inside.

Adelaide, oblivious, tossed a snowball and missed entirely.

Hermione laughed softly, but her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes.

Hogwarts Astronomy Tower
Hogmanay – December 31st, 1998

The castle had never felt quite like this.

Hermione paused on the stairwell, adjusting the flask of cocoa in her hand as she caught her breath. The air was alive tonight, filled with anticipation, laughter, and the muffled thrum of music drifting all the way from the Great Hall. Lanterns burned brighter than usual in the corridors, casting soft pools of light over the stone floors. Even the portraits seemed caught up in the celebration—Sir Cadogan had been seen earlier parading about in a tartan sash, singing bawdy ballads until the Fat Lady threatened to have him removed from his frame.

It was Hogmanay—New Year’s Eve—and though Hogwarts had never traditionally celebrated the Scottish holiday, someone had persuaded the professors to make an exception this year. Perhaps it had been McGonagall herself, remembering the old traditions of her youth, or Ginny with her unstoppable cheer, or Theo Nott with his knack for stirring mischief. Whoever it was, the decision had transformed the castle into something warm and welcoming, for the first time since the war.

Hermione had watched younger students sneak extra shortbread from the kitchens, seen enchanted lanterns float high in the rafters, their light flickering like distant stars. Outside, fireworks were already crackling from Hogsmeade, their sparks showering colour over the frozen lake. And beneath it all, there was a current of something else—a shared hope that perhaps the new year might be gentler than the last.

But Hermione wasn’t heading for the Great Hall or Gryffindor Tower. She climbed the final steps toward the Astronomy Tower, the air colder, sharper the higher she went.

Snowflakes drifted through the open arches when she emerged, the sky a deep slate scattered with stars. She shivered, drawing her cloak tighter around her shoulders.

Draco was already there.

He leaned against the balustrade, pale hair mussed by the wind, posture deceptively casual. His hands were buried in his coat pockets, and his breath came in pale plumes against the night air. But when he turned and saw her, a small, unguarded relief softened his features.

“You came,” he said, as though surprised by his own hope.

“You asked,” Hermione replied simply, lifting the flask. “I brought cocoa. Still far too sweet for you, I’m afraid.”

A faint smirk tugged at his lips. He reached for it, fingers brushing hers deliberately. “Trying to poison me, Granger?”

“You’ll live,” she teased, though her pulse had quickened at the touch.

He took a sip, grimaced with theatrical exaggeration, and handed it back. “If I die of sugar shock, I’ll haunt you.”

She rolled her eyes and moved to stand beside him. Their shoulders brushed lightly, and for a long moment, silence folded around them—not tense anymore, but soft, patient.

Draco reached into his coat and produced a pair of gloves. “You forgot these. Again.”

Hermione blinked, then laughed, slipping them on. They were still faintly warm from his pocket. “You like rescuing my things.”

“I think you like being rescued.”

She arched a brow. “Careful, Malfoy. Don’t push your luck.”

But the smirk didn’t last. His gaze lingered, thoughtful, almost uncertain. That familiar tension stretched between them—once sharp and hostile, now something fragile and new.

Hermione drew a steadying breath. “You don’t have to become him, you know.”

His jaw tightened. “You make it sound easy.”

“It isn’t,” she said gently. “But you’re not your father. You never were.”

He looked away, out over the snow-dusted grounds. “Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever be anything else. Every choice I make feels like I’m walking a path he carved.”

Hermione stepped closer, her scarf brushing his sleeve. “Then carve a new one.”

He gave a quiet, humourless laugh. “And when I fall back into the same mistakes?”

“You won’t,” she said firmly. “Because you already know where those mistakes lead.”

For a moment, he was silent. Then his voice dropped lower, rougher.

“There were expectations after the war… arrangements my family thought were best. But it was all empty, just another performance. And then you, Granger—” his gaze flicked to hers, almost defiant, almost pleading—“you’ve made me realise what it’s like when someone actually sees me. When it’s honest. I thought I’d already ruined any chance at that.”

Hermione’s chest ached. She didn’t ask for names. Whoever he meant was a shadow he still carried, a story half-buried. But she heard the grief in his voice, the fear of hope.

“You’re allowed more than one chance,” she said softly. “More than one person who sees you.”

His eyes snapped back to hers, sharp with something that looked like both longing and dread. “And you? You see me?”

“Yes.” Her voice trembled, but the word rang true. “I do.”

Outside, bells began to toll midnight, their echoes carrying through the castle walls. Faint cheers rose from the village below, and the muffled pop of distant fireworks painted the windows with fleeting bursts of colour. The air inside seemed charged, caught between one year and the next.

Draco lifted a hand, brushing a stray curl from her cheek before cupping her jaw, his fingers cool against her skin.

“Promise me this isn’t pretend,” she whispered.

“Not a single moment,” he said, steady despite the shake of his breath.

As the clock chimed and fireworks flew into the sky, he kissed her.

It was slow, reverent, as if neither wanted to startle the fragile truth blooming between them. His lips were chilled from the wind, but the warmth of him bled into her, steady and insistent. Hermione clutched lightly at his coat, anchoring herself as her eyes fluttered shut.

He tasted faintly of cocoa and winter air, but more than that, of something wholly him. The world blurred away—stone, snow, sky—until there was only the press of his mouth and the startling tenderness in it.

The kiss deepened gradually, like an exhale they had both been holding for months. His thumb brushed along her cheekbone, gentling even as his lips grew surer. Hermione let herself sink into it, let herself believe, if only for this night, that it could last.

When they finally drew apart, foreheads resting together, the sound of their mingled breaths filled the quiet. Draco swallowed, voice rough. “I don’t want to lose this.”

“You won’t,” she murmured, slipping her hand into his. Their fingers laced easily, like they had been meant to find each other.

Cheers came from the Great Hall, muffled by stone walls, followed by a cascade of fireworks over the lake. Colours painted the snow in shimmering bursts of emerald, gold, and scarlet. Hermione tilted her head back, watching the sparks fade.

“Happy New Year,” she whispered.

Draco pressed a kiss to her temple. “With you, it just might be.”

The quiet spell broke when the Astronomy Tower door banged open.

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake, Theo—” Blaise’s voice echoed as he strode in, dark cloak swirling. “I told you, I’m the taller one. First-footing is practically designed for me.”

Theo stumbled in after him, scarf askew, curls dusted with snow. “Height has nothing to do with it, Blaise! Tradition says it has to be the first dark-haired man to cross the threshold after midnight. Obviously, that’s me.”

Hermione pulled back slightly, cheeks warm, while Draco groaned under his breath.

“Dark-haired?” Blaise scoffed, flicking a hand at Theo’s head. “You’re chestnut at best. I’m raven.”

“Raven?” Theo snorted. “You’re pigeon.”

Hermione bit her lip to hide her laugh. “What exactly are you arguing about?”

Theo puffed out his chest. “First-footing, Granger. It’s Hogmanay—you must welcome the year properly. The first visitor across your threshold after midnight brings good fortune. Clearly, that honour belongs to me.”

“Not a chance,” Blaise retorted smoothly. “She deserves someone with elegance, not someone who tripped on the stairs.”

Draco pinched the bridge of his nose. “You two are insufferable.”

Theo ignored him, turning back to Hermione. “Tradition is tradition. Someone must bring luck into the Eighth year common room. And everyone knows I’m far luckier than Blaise.”

Blaise arched a brow. “Please. The very fact you’re claiming that proves you aren’t.”

They both looked at Hermione expectantly.

She raised her brows, amused. “Perhaps I’ll let you both in together. Twice the luck.”

Theo gasped. “Sacrilege!”

Blaise sighed dramatically. “Leave it to a Gryffindor to tamper with sacred custom.”

Hermione laughed, warmth blooming in her chest. For the first time in what felt like forever, the castle wasn’t weighed down by fear or grief. It felt alive—with laughter, with tradition, with possibility.

Draco’s hand brushed hers again, almost unconsciously. When she met his gaze, his expression softened, as though he’d seen the same thing she had.

Hope.

Later, as they descended from the tower—Theo still loudly arguing about the technicalities of hair colour while Blaise smirked at every word—Hermione fell into step beside Draco. The laughter ahead echoed against the stone stairwell, but between them stretched something quieter, steadier.

Her fingers grazed his, and he caught them without hesitation.

They walked in silence for a while, the cold stone walls around them humming faintly with the remnants of fireworks outside. The castle felt hushed now, as though it too had exhaled into the new year.

Hermione glanced sideways, catching Draco’s profile in the dim torchlight—the curve of his mouth, the shadows under his lashes. He must have felt her gaze, because he turned, and for a moment, their eyes locked.

No words were exchanged. Just a small, private smile passed between them—uncertain but real, a fragile tether pulling them closer.

By the time they reached the corridor leading toward Gryffindor Tower, the noise of celebration had quieted to a distant hum. It was the early hour when revelry gave way to stillness, when the first day of the year felt like a blank page waiting to be written upon.

Hermione’s heart lifted in her chest, steadier now than it had been in months. Something had shifted tonight—something irrevocable.

Draco’s thumb brushed lightly across her knuckles, and she returned the pressure, meeting his gaze once more.

For the first time, the fear wasn’t louder than the hope.

And as dawn waited just beyond the horizon, Hermione allowed herself to believe: the new year might bring not just endings, but beginnings.

_____

The soft glow from the fireplace painted shadows across the room as Hermione sat curled on the armchair, a woollen blanket draped loosely over her legs. Adelaide was already fast asleep in Ginny’s arms, her small chest rising and falling gently, while James lay nearby, quietly playing with a wooden toy.

Ginny settled beside Hermione, her voice low and warm. “You know, you’re more than welcome to stay here as long as you need. Isolation isn’t good for you — I see it.”

Hermione’s gaze softened, touched by the offer, but she hesitated, biting her lip. “I don’t want to be a burden.”

Ginny shook her head gently. “You’re not. You never have been. Sometimes, being surrounded by people who care is exactly what you need.”

Unnoticed by the two friends, Draco’s quiet footsteps echoed in the hallway. He paused just outside the door, the faintest crease in his brow as he caught Ginny’s words.

A soft sound from the hallway announced by Adelaide stirring. Draco’s face softened as he looked toward the nursery.

“I’ll take them upstairs,” he said quietly walking past the witches.

Ginny smiled warmly. “Thank you, Draco. You’ve done so much for them.”

Before he left, his hand brushed briefly against hers—a fleeting touch charged with years of unspoken emotion.

Draco bent to brush a kiss across Adelaide’s forehead, then ruffled James’s hair affectionately. “They’re my world. Always.”

As Draco stood, after effortlessly lifting both toddlers to take them to Adelaide’s bedroom, Hermione’s heart felt the weight of unspoken things hanging between them.

When the door clicked softly behind him, Hermione leaned back with a deep breath. Ginny’s hand found hers, giving a reassuring squeeze before the both walked to the settee.

The warmth of Ginny and Blaise’s sitting room enveloped Hermione like a comforting cloak. Ginny sat close by, her hand gently resting on her cup of tea. Theo lounged on the other side of the room, casually flipping through a wizarding magazine. However, his eyes often darted to Hermione, sensing her quiet restlessness. Harry, who was working a night shift, was absent.

Hermione managed a tired smile. “It’s been a busy week. The blood curse research is... exhausting. But there’s progress.”

Blaise came through with a butter beer and knowing tone as he spoke. “Knowing you, Granger, that stubborn streak will get you through.”

Hermione laughed lightly, the sound fragile but genuine. “I hope so.”

Ginny squeezed her hand. “You’ve always been the one to fight.”

Hermione’s eyes drifted to the softly glowing fire, memories swirling quietly beneath her calm exterior. “Sometimes I wonder if fighting is all I have left.”

Theo’s tone softened. “You’re not alone.”

The room hummed with quiet warmth, the snow whispering softly against the windows.

Hermione’s fingers brushed the edge of her bag, tempted to pull out the leather-bound notebook—the one filled with silent confessions, thoughts she hadn’t dared voice aloud.

Instead, she leaned back, breathing in the calm night, allowing herself this fragile moment of peace.

The house had fallen into a hush. Adelaide and James had both been carried upstairs, nestled into Adelaide’s bed with tender care by Draco, who was currently having a cigarette in Ginny’s garden as Hermione over heard him tell Theo as he reached the bottom of the stairs. 

Hermione sat curled in the corner of the sofa, her fingers toying with the handle of her empty teacup. Ginny and Theo had quietly moved to the kitchen, giving her space, understanding without asking. The only sound was the low crackle of the fire, and the faint creak of the stairs as someone descended.

She didn’t hear him at first—just the soft click of the living room door, then the sound of footsteps behind her. She turned.

Draco stood in the doorway, sleeves rolled up, a small box in hand. His expression was unreadable.

“I brought these,” he said, stepping forward and placing the box gently on the kitchen table. “They’re pain prototypes. From my lab.”

Hermione dried her hands slowly, eyes flickering to the package. “For…?”

“For the blood curse,” he said simply. “They’re not curative. But they helped Astoria in the early stages. If you’re testing pathways or tracking symptoms… they might be useful.”

Her breath caught. “I didn’t realise you brewed those yourself.”

“I didn’t always,” he said. “But toward the end… I needed to feel like I was doing something.”

Hermione moved closer, fingertips brushing the lid of the box. “I’ve only just begun mapping the curse’s progression. It’s… complex.”

“I know,” Draco said quietly. “But if anyone can untangle it, it’s you.”

She didn’t answer right away. The silence curled between them—familiar and heavy. He wasn’t looking at her now, just at the box.

“You really did try everything,” she said after a moment. “With Astoria.”

Draco’s jaw tensed, his voice quiet. “I couldn’t save her. But I stayed. And she… she knew that.”

Hermione nodded, gaze falling to the box again. “I didn’t know you were still working in potions.”

“I’m not under the Malfoy name,” he said. “Started my own business two years ago. Research and development for St Mungo’s, mostly. Quiet work. It suits me.”

Hermione looked up sharply. Something softened in her expression. “You really did choose a different path.”

He met her eyes then—slow, deliberate. “Not in time to keep everything I wanted.”

The words landed like a tremor. Neither of them moved.

Hermione’s throat felt thick. “I’ll test them. The potions. I’ll let you know how they work.”

Draco nodded, stepping back. “They helped her sleep. For a while, at least.”

A pause. He turned to leave, then stopped with one hand on the doorframe.

“You still like snow,” she said suddenly.

He looked over his shoulder, eyes shadowed. “Still reminds me of Hogwarts.” There was a gentleness to his tone, though a trace of something heavier lingered beneath it.

She smiled faintly, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Some things don’t change.”

“Some things do,” he said softly, hesitation threading through the words. He stepped toward the hearth, plucking a pinch of Floo powder from the jar on the mantel. His movements were careful, deliberate.

Just before he threw it, he turned back, and for a moment his usual restraint faltered. “I’m… glad you’re back.”

Hermione blinked, caught off guard by the sincerity in his voice. “Are you?”

His eyes searched hers, holding a weight she hadn’t seen in years. “It’s… complicated. But yes. More than I probably deserve.”

She gave a small nod. “Goodnight, Draco.”

He stepped into the flames, pausing just long enough for her to notice the small bundle tucked under his arm—a few carefully labeled vials. “Goodnight, Granger.”

With a flash of green, he was gone.

Hermione lingered by the fireplace, her curiosity tugging at her as she glanced at the vials. The labels were faintly familiar—her mind piecing together the handwriting and the careful notes. Potions he had once brewed for someone else, long ago, carefully saved. She remembered a gesture he had once treasured, a gift she had given him—not fully understood yet—but now it seemed quietly connected to the careful way he moved through the world. A part of him, thoughtful, precise, and quietly striving toward something he’d never shared.

Outside, snow drifted against the windowpanes, and the distant laughter of Ginny and Theo rose from the kitchen. Hermione let herself linger in the quiet, pondering the small, deliberate choices that shaped the man Draco had become;

He had changed. Not in the obvious ways, but in the quiet ones. His posture. His tone. The fact that he worked under no company banner or family name now, but was quietly helping the Healers at St Mungo’s—with no ceremony, no expectation. Just… contributing.

He had freed himself in ways she hadn’t thought possible back then.

And still, Hermione didn’t know what to do with that truth.

Still holding her teacup, she turned and made her way back to the sofa. As she sat, the shadows of the past sat with her—but for the first time in a long while, they didn’t feel quite so heavy.

Chapter Text

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry - Eighth Year Common Room January 1999

The January chill pressed against the tall windows, making the fire’s warmth feel almost sacred. Hermione hugged a thick blanket around her shoulders, the scent of burning oak mingling with the faint tang of potion ingredients she’d been buried in for hours. The common room was quiet now, most students away, leaving only the soft ticking of the clock and the occasional pop from the hearth.

Draco sat on the edge of a velvet armchair, elbows resting lightly on his knees, eyes dark and intent as they met hers. “You’ve been buried in this for hours… are you managing?” His voice was low, careful, threaded with something deeper, a concern that reached past the mundane.

Hermione felt heat rise in her cheeks. “I… I think so. Thank you for noticing, Draco. That means more than you know.”

He gave a brief nod, jaw tightening subtly. “I get it,” he said quietly. “I know what it’s like to be trapped between what everyone expects of you and what you want. To feel… forced onto a path you didn’t choose.”

She stepped closer, brushing her fingers along his sleeve. “Then maybe… we can make our own path. At least while we’re here.”

His gaze softened, and for a moment the weight in his shoulders seemed to lift just enough. He opened his arms slightly. “Here… with us, with this…”

Hermione perched carefully on the edge of his lap, warmth from his body seeping through her robes, the firelight casting a gentle glow across their faces. Her hands found his shoulders, and slowly, deliberately, she leaned forward. Their lips met in a soft, searching kiss—tentative at first, tasting of the faint bitterness of worry and the warmth of trust slowly growing between them.

When they pulled back slightly, foreheads resting together, Hermione whispered, “I want this… I want us.”

Draco’s hand lingered near hers, hesitant, caught between confession and restraint. “I… someday,” he murmured, almost to himself. “There are things I should tell you—about my parents, the choices they made, the path they tried to carve for me…” His voice faltered, strangled by unspoken regrets. “But not tonight. Not while we have this.”

Hermione’s fingers brushed his cheek, urging him closer. “I’ll wait,” she said softly. “We’ll figure it out, together.”

Draco leaned back slightly, a playful yet tender glint in his eye. “Hogmeade this weekend?” he asked, voice low, casual. “Just us. No one else. We could… see it differently. You and me.”

Hermione’s stomach knotted. “I don’t know… what if someone sees us? What if—my parents, your family—”

He caught her hand, holding it gently but firmly. “Then we don’t tell anyone. Just for a few hours. I don’t want to hide you—I want to be with you. But I’ll wait until you’re ready. Always.”

Her heart swelled at his patience. “I… okay,” she admitted, a shy smile tugging at her lips. “Just… promise we won’t make it complicated?”

“Not a chance,” he murmured, pressing a soft kiss to her temple. The firelight danced across his features, highlighting the quiet sincerity in his gaze. “I only want this. Only you.”

Hermione leaned into him, breathing in the faint scent of winter and parchment, the warmth of the fire, and the steady, reassuring pulse of Draco beneath her. The common room seemed to hold its breath with them, the world outside paused, leaving only the fragile, unspoken promise between them: for now, their own path, their own moments, their own unbroken world.

St Mungo’s — Hermione’s Office

The afternoon light slanted through the tall windows, catching motes of dust that floated lazily in the air. Hermione sat behind her desk, the faint scent of lavender mingling with the earthy tang of drying potions, her fingers lightly tracing the rim of a vial. The chill of early spring seeped through the stone walls, and for the first time all day, she felt the weight of every unspoken word between her and Draco.

A sharp knock cut through the quiet.

“Come in,” she said without looking up.

Draco entered, coat damp from drizzle, carrying a tray of potions. The earthy aroma mixed with the office’s herbal scents, sharp and grounding. “I brought the latest batch of pain relief,” he said carefully, setting the tray down. “Thought it might help.”

Hermione’s gaze lifted, tired but appreciative. “Thank you.”

He lingered, shifting uneasily. “Patients are improving. Maybe it’s the potions, maybe it’s your methods. Whatever it is, it’s working.”

“I’m not here for praise,” she said, tone firm.

Draco’s eyes darkened. “After everything with your parents… I wasn’t sure how you’d handle this work. Blood curses, potions… facing the darkness that took them.”

“Don’t bring my parents into this,” she snapped.

He stepped closer, voice dropping. “My wife didn’t get to see these improvements because you were too selfish and proud to read my letter.”

The words hit like frost. Hermione’s hands clenched at the desk, nails pressing into wood. She drew in a sharp breath.

“Do you know what it’s like, Draco?” she said, voice rising but controlled. “To carry every hint, every riddle, every half-truth you threw at me? To sit there and try to decipher your silences? To watch you speak in circles instead of just telling me what you felt?”

Draco’s jaw tightened, his eyes flickering with pain. “I… I didn’t want to burden you. I thought—”

“You thought what?” Hermione interrupted, pacing slightly. “That I wouldn’t understand? That I wouldn’t care? You never let me in! And all those times… all those chances, you just left me guessing!”

His hand lifted slightly, as if to reach for her, but he hesitated. “I… I didn’t know how to start,” he admitted quietly. “I didn’t want—”

“To keep hiding behind riddles?” she finished for him. “That’s the problem, Draco. I’ve always tried to understand. I always tried to trust you. But there comes a point where trust isn’t enough when it feels like you’re still hiding. Do you see that?”

Draco swallowed hard, eyes darkening with unspoken guilt. “I… I see.”

Hermione took a deep breath, letting the words sharpen around her like frost on the windows. “And your friends—ours—did you think I didn’t notice how their choices left me standing alone while you all carried on? I’ve stayed silent, I’ve stayed patient. I’ve tried to understand. But it’s been me—always me—picking up the pieces you left behind. Do you understand that?”

Draco’s expression faltered. The hand he’d raised dropped slowly, a mixture of regret and helplessness painting his features. “I… I can’t change the past. But I never wanted you to feel abandoned.”

Hermione squared her shoulders, her voice steady, cutting through the lingering sting of his words. “Our connection now,” she said, voice unwavering, “is through our godchildren. I can be civil in social interactions within the friend group. That’s where it ends.”

Draco’s expression faltered for a brief second, grief and pain flashing in his eyes, but then it hardened into something colder. Without another word, he turned and left the room, the soft click of the door a final punctuation.

Hermione exhaled deeply, her heart pounding with the raw ache of the confrontation. The sting of his words and her own unspoken frustrations still echoed in the quiet office. She brushed a hand against her face, hastily wiping away the solitary tear that had escaped.

No, she reminded herself, I am here for those who suffer these blood curses. For those who still have a chance. For my parents, even if I cannot restore their memories.

Hermione exhaled deeply, letting her hands drop to the desk. She leaned back in her chair, chest rising and falling as she tried to let go of the tension. Her gaze shifted back to the scattered vials and notes, to the patients whose lives depended on her attention.

“Time to focus,” she muttered softly, picking up the next case file. Symptoms, potential treatments, notes from previous visits—all demanded her careful, undivided attention.

Her thoughts flickered, unbidden, to the argument with Draco, to the ache his words had left behind. But she pushed it aside. There were things she could control, and there were things she could not. Blood curses, however, were not beyond her influence. They could linger, hidden and hereditary, slipping through generations. She had returned for that reason alone—to rule out the possibility of James falling prey, to find a cure before it could claim him.

Even as the sting of the argument lingered, she immersed herself in her work. One patient at a time, one breakthrough at a time, the healing she could shape became her anchor. Some battles, she reminded herself, were fought not with anger, not with words, not even with love—but with diligence, care, and a steady hand.

Her mantra echoed quietly in her mind, over and over, steady and unyielding: Protect him. Save him. This is why you are here. For all her unresolved feelings toward Draco, for all the fractures that lingered between them, this was her purpose. And for now, it was enough.

____

Sunday, Hermione’s Flat

The scent of bergamot and orange peel curled from the half-full teacup on the windowsill, mingling with the faint warmth of the late afternoon sun. Hermione sat curled up on her couch, hair still damp from the bath she’d taken the moment she arrived home last night—scrubbing away the hospital air and the ghosts that clung stubbornly to her thoughts.

She hadn’t gone in today. For the first time since starting at St Mungo’s, Hermione had taken a Sunday off without guilt gnawing at her ribs. She told herself it was because she’d earned it—because she couldn’t pour from an empty cup. But really, she knew the confrontation with Draco had rattled her more than she wanted to admit.

A quiet knock at the door drew her attention. She rose slowly, bare feet padding across the rug, and opened the door to find Ron holding a paper bag and Harry with coffees in hand. Ginny followed close behind, her arms crossed lightly, a thoughtful expression on her face.

“Thought we’d better check you hadn’t drowned in research or patient monitoring,” Harry said with a small smile, lifting one of the cups.

Ron held up the bag. “And I brought pastries. Those honey ones you like.”

Hermione arched a brow. “What do you three want?”

Ron grinned. “I can’t bring pastries to my favourite ex-girlfriend without suspicion? That’s unfair.”

She rolled her eyes, stepping aside. “Come in before someone thinks I’m accepting pity calls.”

Ron flopped dramatically onto her couch. “We’re not loitering. We’re being supportive.”

Harry placed the coffees on the table, Ginny sitting in the armchair opposite Hermione. “We thought you might like company,” Ginny said softly.

Hermione took her cup, letting the warmth seep into her hands. “Thanks,” she murmured.

The room settled into a quiet hush, the sound of rain tapping softly against the windows. Hermione let herself just breathe for a moment, letting the presence of her friends anchor her.

Then she spoke, voice steadier than she felt. “I need to say something… about yesterday. I saw Draco.”

Harry blinked. Ron raised an eyebrow. Ginny leaned forward slightly.

“At St Mungo’s,” Hermione clarified. “He brought more of the pain potions that helped Astoria, and… we had a - what’s the word?”

Ron grimaced and answered. “A Row? Dramatic declaration of mutual loathing?”

“Something like that,” Hermione admitted. Her fingers tightened around her cup. “He said things about my parents… about how he wasn’t sure how I’d handle this work… about the potential of not being able to save them. He accused me of… not reading his letter. And yes, it hurt. More than I expected.

Ginny’s hand brushed hers, soft but grounding. “Hermione…”

“No, listen,” Hermione said firmly, eyes meeting each of them in turn. “It’s not just him. It’s… everything. All those years of riddles, half-answers, the things he never fully explained, the choices he never shared. I tried to be understanding, I really did. I’ve kept my distance, respected his silence. I’ve been patient.”

She paused, letting her frustration slip past the careful composure she usually maintained. “But it’s exhausting, being patient while piecing together someone else’s life. And while I understand Ginny had Adelaide, and Harry and Theo had James, life moved forward for everyone else. I was left alone, processing my grief, my love, my anger. And it hurt. I felt… isolated. Left behind. I wanted to be there for everyone, to be understanding, and I tried—but sometimes… sometimes it hurt more than I let on.”

Ron’s eyes softened, a flicker of guilt passing over his face. “Hermione… we—”

“I know,” she said, cutting in gently but firmly. “I understand. I made choices too. I needed that distance. I needed to be alone to work through what I felt, and that’s on me. But understanding doesn’t erase hurt. Some things only I could face, and I needed to do that on my own.”

Harry spoke quietly. “You should never have felt alone, Hermione. We’re sorry for that. Truly.”

Ron nodded, his tone softer than usual. “We should have seen it sooner. I’m sorry, Hermione. We didn’t mean to leave you to it.”

Ginny added, voice warm, “I was caught up with Adelaide, yes. I should have checked in more. I’m sorry too.”

Hermione let out a breath she hadn’t realised she was holding. “Thank you. That means more than you know. I’ve taken responsibility for my choices. I’ve tried to understand others. And I still do. But understanding doesn’t erase hurt. Some things… only I could face, and I had to do that alone. And I needed to say it.”

She paused, looking out at the rain-soaked streets

. “And… I still care about Draco. Despite everything. Despite how much easier it was to hate him, to leave him in the past. I wanted to move forward without complication, without betrayal. But that love… it doesn’t vanish just because it’s painful. And yes, I wish he’d been honest with me. I wish he’d shared his thoughts, his choices, instead of leaving riddles I had to decipher on my own.”

Harry gave her a quiet, understanding look. “It doesn’t stop you from being human, Hermione. Or from feeling what you feel.”

Ron added, more gently now, “He’s Draco. And you didn’t imagine what you had back then. We all saw it. And we get it. But seeing it through years of silence… that’s different. We’re sorry it left you isolated.”

Hermione let a small smile break through, fragile but real. “Thank you. Really.”

Ginny squeezed her hand. “You’ve always been strong, Hermione. But it’s okay to let us in sometimes.”

Hermione nodded, letting their presence settle around her, a quiet comfort after the storm of words. “I’ve taken my own path, faced my own struggles. But for now… this, right here, with all of you, is enough.”

Outside, the rain continued, soft and steady. Inside, tea warmed their hands, and for the first time that day, Hermione allowed herself to just breathe, grounded in the knowledge that she wasn’t truly alone—even if she had needed her own space to heal first.

_____

The dull weather had made the night creep in quickly. By the time Hermione glanced at her grandfather clock, her friends had already been gone for hours.

The flat was quiet now, save for the occasional groan of the floorboards and the hum of Muggle traffic several floors below. Hermione sat curled in the armchair by the window, legs tucked beneath her, a lukewarm cup of tea cooling in her hands, forgotten long ago.

Outside, the sky had bruised into violet and charcoal. A soft rain tapped against the glass in steady, uneven rhythms.

She should have been tired. After the draining encounter with Draco and the emotional afternoon with Harry, Ron, and Ginny, exhaustion should have claimed her easily. But instead, her mind buzzed—fractured images of the day stitched together by a thread of unease.

Draco’s words echoed, sharp and cold.

You were too selfish to read my letter.

Her jaw clenched. She wanted to hate him for saying it. For the cruelty of it. But there had been grief in his eyes too—grief she recognised from her own reflection months after her parents had failed to remember her name.

Crookshanks leapt onto the window ledge, curling his tail around his paws, watching the world as if it owed him answers.

Hermione reached for her leather-bound notebook, fingers trembling only slightly. She hadn’t written in it since the night Ginny and Pansy had dozed off on her couch. That had felt cathartic. This felt heavier.

She stared at the first line she’d scribbled weeks ago:

Confessions. Of love. Of loss. Of all the in-betweens.

Beneath it, she added:

You said I was selfish. Maybe I was. But I was hurting too.

She let the words sit there for a long moment before closing the book, tucking it beneath the cushion.

Her gaze drifted to the bookshelf, to the framed photo of James and Adelaide giggling in Central Park last summer. Her heart ached. She loved them—loved the glimpses of a life she might have had if everything had been different. But that didn’t mean she belonged in it. Not anymore.

Then a small warmth settled over her chest, the echoes of the afternoon still soft but present. Harry, Ron, and Ginny had listened. They’d acknowledged her feelings, admitted their missteps, and genuinely apologised. For the first time in months, Hermione allowed herself a fragile sense of relief.

And yet, the vial of pain-relief potions Draco had left at St Mungo’s still lingered in her mind, a tangible reminder of the complicated bond between them. The care he’d shown—awkward, frustrating, but real—made her chest tighten in ways her friends’ apologies couldn’t touch. Despite the anger, despite the words spoken, despite the distance between them, there was still love there.

She pressed her forehead against the cool windowpane, the rain’s chill seeping through the glass.

Hermione whispered into the empty flat, “I’m not staying, not forever.”

It was a promise she repeated every night like a spell, even as the roots of her life here sank deeper and deeper.

She was here to work, to finish what she had started, and to find a cure. But then, she would leave again, returning to the life she had built in New York, however fractured it had begun and however lonely it sometimes felt.

She couldn’t let herself believe that anything else was possible.

Not yet.

Hermione stayed there, watching the rain streak the glass, the ache in her chest softened by the warmth of shared understanding and apology. For a moment, it felt lighter—like she’d set a small burden down, even if the rest of the weight remained.

Beneath the surface of her flat, where the air was quiet and still, the love she felt for Draco lingered, stubborn and unyielding, like a candle refusing to flicker in the storm.

Chapter Text

St Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries  
Hermione’s Office

Hermione found herself slipping into routine like it was armour.

The quiet hum of the lab at St Mungo’s offered a rhythm she could anchor to: the bubbling of cauldrons, the faint rustle of parchment, the soft clicks of glass phials aligning in careful rows. It wasn’t New York, but it was safe—until she saw his handwriting on old case files or passed the hallway near the cursed artefacts ward and felt the echo of a presence that no longer existed.

Astoria Greengrass had always been efficient, clinical, elegant. The opposite of Hermione in so many ways, and yet somehow, that made her absence feel heavier.

Hermione pressed a cloth to the edge of a steaming cauldron, dabbing away a bloom of violet smoke that threatened to overflow. The mixture inside was stabilising nicely. The last three patients who’d used the adjusted tincture were showing slowed progression in their curse symptoms. It was working. It was actually working.

She should feel triumphant. Instead, she just felt tired.

There was a knock at the door.

Hermione didn’t look up. “I’m just finishing the notes on—”

“Relax, Granger. You’re not being summoned by the Ministry,” Blaise drawled.

Hermione glanced up. He stood leaning against the doorframe in immaculate charcoal robes, one arm cradling Adelaide against his chest. She was fast asleep, curls pressed into his shoulder, her tiny hand gripping his collar like it anchored her there. Her cheeks were flushed, the faint trace of fever still visible.

Hermione set her quill aside immediately. “Is she—?”

“Fine,” Blaise said smoothly, though his arm adjusted around her protectively. “Medi-witch says it’s a mild wizarding infection. She’s got a potion course, nothing serious.”

Hermione’s chest eased. “She looks peaceful.”

“She’s quiet,” Blaise corrected, lowering his voice with a smirk. “Don’t confuse that for peaceful. She inherited Ginny’s lungs, I assure you.”

Hermione huffed a laugh despite herself, the sound breaking some of the heaviness that had been clinging to her since morning.

Blaise tilted his head, studying her with the same sharp eyes that made most people squirm. “Ginny’s been on me to invite you properly. Dinner at ours. Not everyone. Just us, the children, food, and wine. You could use a night where parchment isn’t your only companion.”

Hermione hesitated. “Blaise, I don’t—”

“Think about it,” he said, softer now, brushing a hand over Adelaide’s back. “Addie will be over the moon when she hears you’re coming.”

Hermione swallowed hard, caught between guilt and warmth. “I’ll… see if I can.”

He gave her a knowing look, the kind that left no room for deflection. “Good.” Then, almost as an afterthought, though his tone sharpened, he added, “For what it’s worth—he looks like shit.”

Hermione froze. “I’m not asking for updates.”

“Of course you’re not.” Blaise smirked faintly. “That’s why you look like you haven’t slept in three days.”

She glared at him, though it lacked conviction. “Do you have a point?”

“Yes.” Blaise’s voice lost its teasing edge, turning uncharacteristically measured. “Don’t let the weight of whatever was between you and Draco convince you it didn’t matter. It mattered, Granger. That’s why it still hurts.”

Hermione’s breath caught. She couldn’t answer. Not with Adelaide curled against his shoulder, safe and loved, while her own chest ached with something sharp and unsteady.

Blaise adjusted his daughter’s weight and pressed a kiss to the top of her curls. “Dinner,” he repeated softly. Then, without waiting for her to argue, he left.

The door clicked shut. Silence folded back around her.

And then came another knock.

This time it wasn’t Blaise, but a medi-witch, her gloves glowing faintly as she held out a shimmering envelope sealed with a Stasis charm.

“This came through the ward archive this morning,” she said quietly. “It was spelled to release today. Addressed to you.”

Hermione’s heart stumbled in her chest. The script on the front was elegant, deliberate. Unmistakably Astoria’s, She remembered it when she sent a Theo a birthday card. 

She waited until the corridor emptied before touching the letter. It sat heavy in her hand, despite its weightless charm. Astoria’s script was careful and controlled, the way she’d always been.

She didn’t open it right away. She stood for a moment in the quiet of her office, listening to the muted hum of the hospital beyond the walls—the shuffle of healers’ boots, the creak of old spellwork in the foundation, the wheeze of magical ventilation charms trying to keep pace with spring’s early humidity.

Then she sat at her desk, broke the seal, and unfolded the parchment.

Dearest Hermione,

If you are reading this, then the worst has come to pass, and I can no longer speak these words aloud. So I leave them here, with you.

Hermione couldn’t read the letter here. Not like this.

Her throat tightened. She folded the parchment carefully, almost reverently, placed it back in the envelope, and slid it into her drawer. Her hands trembled—not from Astoria’s blunt words, but from the ache that formed in her chest at the reminder of all that had passed. There was grief there, yes, but also something else: a charge, a permission, a challenge.

She pushed her chair back, intending to step out, to breathe, to think—

The Floo flared behind her. Green flames roared, spilling across the hearth, and then Draco stepped out, brushing soot from his sleeves. Their eyes met immediately.

“I heard you were in all day,” he said, voice low, carefully controlled. “I came to drop off another batch. Potency stabilised. You’ll want to dilute it down to thirty percent.”

Hermione stood motionless, jaw tight.

“Leave it on the table,” she said quietly. “And go.”

Draco blinked. “Granger—”

“I’m serious,” she interrupted, voice firm. “I’m not in the mood.”

For a heartbeat, something in his expression shifted. Vulnerability flickered in his eyes—a crack in the walls he so carefully built. Hermione felt that pull, the quiet warmth of connection—but she breathed through it, reminding herself why she needed to stand firm.

“Did you get the letter?” he asked finally.

Hermione’s stomach twisted. “Yes.”

He stepped closer, just a fraction. “Then you know she didn’t hate you.”

“That doesn’t change what you said last week,” Hermione snapped. “You don’t get to come in here and pretend like that didn’t happen.”

Draco’s jaw tensed. “I wasn’t pretending.”

“Then what are you doing?”

He exhaled harshly through his nose. “Trying. Badly, apparently.”

For a moment, his gaze lingered on her, searching, almost pleading. “I just wanted to… talk. To explain. Maybe even—”

“No,” she cut him off, shaking her head gently. “Not now. Not yet. I can’t do this, Draco. Not today.”

His eyes darkened briefly, disappointment flickering, but he didn’t press. He could see the strength in her stance, the careful control she held over herself. Her walls were intact, and he respected them—at least, for now.

“I’m taking tomorrow off,” Hermione said finally, steadying her voice, letting her decision anchor her. “I need time. Time for myself.”

He nodded once, the raw edge of regret visible, but he stayed silent. No further arguments, no attempts to push past her boundary. She noticed the man behind the control—the fleeting vulnerability—and yet she held fast, keeping her own peace intact.

Then he left, the green flames of the Floo fading behind him. Hermione stayed standing for a moment, letting the smell of potion ash and spring rain wrap around her. Her hands unclenched, her throat still tight—but she didn’t cry.

Running had been the easy option once. New York, her own solitude, the safety of disappearing into work and silence. And sometimes—even now—she felt the temptation of it, the cruel tug of imagining what it would be like to vanish again, to let go of everything and retreat back into anonymity. The thought left her hollow, guilty, because she knew she couldn’t. 

Not now.

Not when she had patients who looked at her with fragile hope, colleagues who trusted her skill, promises she had made to herself the day she chose to return. Leaving again would be safer. But safety wasn’t why she was here.

Her gaze flicked to the edge of the desk where Astoria’s letter lay, its folds already softened from being opened too many times. For a moment she hesitated, then reached for her beaded bag and slipped the letter inside, burying it among quills, spare parchment, and the familiar clutter she always carried. Tucking it away didn’t silence it — the words still circled in her chest — but it gave her something else to hold on to.

Her quill hovered. A single drop of ink dotted the page. And without meaning to, her mind drifted backward—past the hospital wards, past the months in New York, past all the things left unsaid—toward a winter afternoon when everything had felt new, yet possible.

___

Hogsmeade — January, 1999

The crisp winter air bit at Hermione’s cheeks as she walked alongside Draco down the snow-dusted cobbled streets of Hogsmeade. Frost clung to the shop windows, the scent of sugar drifting from Honeydukes mingling with the spice of butterbeer steaming in their hands.

Draco’s shoulder brushed hers as he fell into step. “It’s… nice,” he said, voice low, almost hesitant, “to get away. Just the two of us.”

“It is,” Hermione admitted, her gaze tracing the cobblestones. “Quiet. Peaceful. Almost too quiet.”

He quirked a brow. “You’d prefer an audience?”

She rolled her eyes, lips tugging. “Not quite. But I suppose I’m used to the noise — the castle, everyone watching, waiting for the next fight to break out.”

“Fighting?” Draco smirked. “You? Never.”

She nudged him with her elbow, and to her surprise he laughed — genuinely. It slipped past his usual restraint, warm and unguarded. Hermione found herself smiling, caught off guard by how much she liked being the reason for it.

The wind picked up, tugging at her scarf. Draco’s coat collar was undone, pale skin catching the bite of cold. Hermione sighed, slipping her own scarf loose. Without ceremony, she wound it around his neck, fingers brushing his jaw as she tugged the knot snug. “You’ll only complain otherwise,” she said.

He tilted his head, eyes catching hers. “I might. But you’d ignore me.”

Hermione smirked faintly, then reached into her beaded bag. “Besides, I always carry spares.” She pulled out a second scarf — deep green wool, one she’d knitted herself over the holidays — and looped it around her own throat.

Draco blinked, then let out the softest huff of amusement. “Of course you do.”

They walked on, snowflakes clinging to her curls before melting away. His hand brushed hers once, twice, until his fingers threaded with hers. Warm. Steady. Uncharacteristically gentle.

She let him keep it.

And it felt… right. Not just because of the spark that flared each time he leaned closer, but because of the quiet way their lives had entwined over the past months: late-night debates in the common room that ended in laughter instead of shouting; the time she left tea by his elbow when he fell asleep over Arithmancy notes; the silent exchange of books across the library table, a small gesture that meant more than either of them said aloud.

He wasn’t only the boy she kissed in shadowed corners. He was becoming her friend — the one she could tease and trust in equal measure.

“It’s complicated,” Hermione said softly, her breath misting in the cold.

“It doesn’t have to be,” Draco replied, a flicker of daring in his voice.

She laughed then — properly, warmly — at the stubborn tilt of his chin. And in return he gave her a smile that wasn’t polished or practiced, but real. Almost boyish. The kind of smile that made her chest ache.

On a reckless impulse, she leaned closer, her curls brushing his cheek, and pressed the lightest kiss to his jawline. Tentative. Fleeting. Hers.

His fingers tightened around hers in answer, no words needed.

Snow hushed the village, softening the world around them. Hermione rested her head briefly against his shoulder, listening to the quiet rhythm of his breath, allowing herself a fragile, fleeting hope: that maybe friendship and something more could live side by side. That maybe she didn’t have to choose.

__

The Zabini townhouse was dim when Hermione stepped through the Floo.

A faint warmth still clung to the hearth — Blaise had clearly left it burning for her — and the scent of lavender and honey drifted through the air from a half-burned candle on the mantle. Somewhere upstairs, a music box played faintly; Adelaide’s bedtime ritual in full swing.

Hermione dusted the soot from her sleeves, exhaled through her nose, and allowed her shoulders to drop for the first time all day.

She was tired. Deeply. Bone-deep. But the kind of tired that didn’t only come from hours standing in the lab, or rereading Astoria’s words. It came from feeling too much all at once, and pretending she wasn’t.

Footsteps padded lightly down the stairs.

“’Mione?” came a small voice.

Hermione turned, and there was Adelaide — three years old, wild curls spilling from her braid, rubbing her eyes with the back of her hand. She held a worn toy Thestral in one arm and blinked at Hermione with sleepy confusion.

“You’re still awake?” Hermione asked gently, kneeling down to her height.

Adelaide nodded, solemn. “I waited.”

Hermione’s throat pinched. She opened her arms, and the little girl shuffled into them without hesitation.

“You don’t have to wait for me, poppet.”

“But you always say goodnight.”

Hermione smiled faintly. “Well then. Goodnight, Adelaide Mae.”

Adelaide pressed her nose into Hermione’s neck. “You smell like potions.”

Hermione laughed under her breath. “Yes, well. That’s what happens when you fight curses all day.”

Adelaide didn’t answer, already growing heavier in her arms as sleep tugged her back under. Hermione stood carefully, cradling the small, warm body against her chest as she walked back up the stairs.

In her goddaughter’s bedroom, she laid Adelaide down beside a gently snoring James, who was sprawled across the bed with his arm thrown dramatically over his eyes like the lead in a Shakespearean tragedy. The pair of them constantly having sleepovers warmed Hermione’s heart.

She pulled the quilt over both of them and paused at the door.

Her godchildren. Their presence—messy, tender, unfiltered—had become the softest part of her days. Her reasoning for returning to London.

She left the door open a crack and padded downstairs.

As Hermione entered the sitting room, Ginny was curled into the corner of the couch, sipping tea from a mug. Her red hair was scraped back into a plait, and her eyes remained alert despite the hour.

“You look like you’ve walked through hell,” she said softly.

Hermione slumped into the other corner of the couch. “It’s been a day.”

Ginny’s gaze sharpened, gentle but firm. “I should have checked in more while you were in New York. I know it must have felt like we left you alone.”

Hermione shook her head. “You didn’t. I… I chose to isolate myself. And maybe that was wrong too. But pretending everything was fine when it wasn’t… it didn’t help anyone. Least of all me.”

Ginny let out a slow breath. “I get it. But you’re stronger than you give yourself credit for, Hermione. It’s time to face it. Stop carrying everything by yourself.”

Hermione’s fingers twisted around her mug. “I… I actually got a letter today. From Astoria.”

Ginny blinked, and then leaned forward slightly. “Astoria?”

Hermione nodded, looking down. “I haven’t read it yet. I… I’m not sure I’m ready. But just knowing it’s there—it’s… unsettling. I don’t know if I want to face it.”

Ginny’s hand came to rest over Hermione’s. “Hermione, you’ve faced everything else—your parents, blood curses, all the chaos around James and Adelaide—you’re not going to crumble because of this. You’ve earned the right to feel it, to read it when you’re ready. But don’t hide from it forever.”

Hermione let out a slow breath, a mixture of relief and tension. “Maybe… maybe you’re right. It’s just… heavy.”

Ginny’s grip tightened slightly. “Of course it is. But you don’t have to do it alone. Not anymore.”

The rain tapped gently against the windows. Hermione closed her eyes, letting the words sink in, a small flicker of something lighter threading through the weight in her chest.

____

The air smelled faintly of cinnamon and something sweet — maybe the tart Ginny had baked earlier with Adelaide, whose soft snores echoed from the playroom.

Hermione stood near the kitchen window, her arms crossed as she watched the dusky garden beyond. The glass felt cool under her fingertips.

Ginny had insisted she stay for tea — and now, with Ginny upstairs checking Adelaide’s temperature, she found herself alone with Blaise.

He poured two cups quietly, the clink of porcelain the only sound between them.

“You look like you’ve been running on fumes,” Blaise said eventually, handing her a mug.

Hermione gave a small smile. “St Mungo’s is… it’s a lot. But we’re making progress. Slowly.”

Blaise studied her for a moment, then said, “You saw Draco today.”

She nodded. “He dropped off another batch of potions. We barely spoke. He tried—” she hesitated, choosing her words, “—but I told him to leave. I couldn’t do it. Not after last week.”

Blaise’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Last week?” he echoed.

Hermione let out a breath, setting her mug down. “We had it out. A real fight. Years of silence and half-truths… it all came out.” Her voice roughened. “I told him I was tired of carrying everything for both of us. That he broke me, and I had to put myself back together alone. That he doesn’t get to bury me under his guilt and then act like nothing happened.”

For a moment, Blaise said nothing, just let the words sit in the air. Then he nodded once. “Good.”

She blinked. “Good?”

“Someone needed to say it to him,” Blaise replied evenly. “And you were the only one who could.”

Hermione gave a humourless laugh. “He looked at me like I’d hexed him. He hated every word.”

“Of course he did. Doesn’t mean you were wrong,” Blaise said simply.

Her throat tightened. “He said things too. Things that cut deeper than he knows.”

“He’s grieving,” Blaise said, his tone not excusing, but explaining. “And grief makes people cruel. Not because they mean it — but because cruelty feels easier to control than helplessness. But don’t mistake it for hatred. He doesn’t hate you.”

Hermione’s gaze flicked to his, wary. “Then what?”

“He’s terrified,” Blaise said without hesitation. “That you’ll never forgive him. That you’ll move on and he’ll be left with nothing but ghosts. He loved Astoria, yes, but not the way he was in love you. You were the risk he never had the courage to take.”

Hermione blinked, fighting the prick of tears. “I’m not going to fix him,” she said quietly. “I can’t.”

“No one’s asking you to,” Blaise replied. “But that doesn’t mean you can’t care. Even from a distance.”

His gaze softened, steady on hers. “And don’t forget — I know what it cost you when it ended. Ron and I were the ones who came to your flat, remember? We were the ones who dragged you out of bed. Made sure you ate. Sat with you until you could breathe again. You let us see you broken, and then we watched you put yourself back together.”

Hermione swallowed, something tugging in her chest. At the time, she’d been too raw to recognise it — At the time, she’d been too raw to recognise it — too lost in heartbreak to see what his steady presence had meant. She and Blaise had never been the closest of friends back then, not like Harry or Ginny, yet he had shown up when she needed someone most. In hindsight, she realised how much she had taken that for granted.

A shaky smile curved her lips. “You did. I don’t think I would have managed without you both.”

“Exactly,” Blaise said. “So don’t let Draco’s guilt undo that. Don’t let him make you question the strength it took to stand back up. He doesn’t get to take that from you.”

Hermione nodded slowly, the weight in her chest loosening, just a little.

Upstairs, the faint sound of Ginny’s voice drifted down as she hummed Adelaide to sleep.

Hermione stood there, warm mug in her hands, wondering what it meant — to love someone who had loved someone else. To still feel the echoes of something unfinished.

___

The Floo spat her out in a gentle rush of green flame, the scent of ash and lavender clinging to her robes as she stepped into the stillness of her flat. Crookshanks blinked at her from the armchair, then turned in a slow circle before curling back into his nap.

Hermione was grateful for the quiet.

Grateful, too, for the hush of lamplight and the way the evening stretched long and unbroken before her.

Hermione’s fingers slipped absently into her bag as she shed her coat, pulling out the letter she had refused to open at St Mungo’s.

It had appeared without ceremony — delivered by one of the older witches in the diagnostics ward who murmured, “It was charmed to arrive today.” No sender. No flourish. Just a letter in clean parchment and soft, familiar handwriting.

Astoria’s handwriting.

Hermione had stared at it all day. After only being able to read the first paragraph. Hermione tucked it beneath research notes. Shoved it in her beaded bag, only to fish it out again moments later. She hadn’t been ready.

But now, in the still warmth of her flat, the letter felt less like a threat and more like a ghost — waiting patiently to be acknowledged.

She didn’t bother making tea. Just sat cross-legged on the worn couch, Crookshanks jumping up to sit in her lap, fingers running over the seal until it broke with a soft crack.

The parchment unfolded easily, and Hermione couldn’t help but hold her breath. 

Dearest Hermione,

If you are reading this, then the worst has come to pass, and I can no longer speak these words aloud. So I leave them here, with you.

First, an apology. Not for my life, nor for the choices that were mine, but for the hurt I may have caused you without ever intending to. My place beside Draco cast shadows I never wished to cast. You were gone — across an ocean, to begin again in New York — but distance does not always soften the ache. Perhaps it made it lonelier. Perhaps it made you feel replaced. I hope you can believe me when I say: you never were.

The truth is, what Draco and I shared was never a fairytale. It was not grand or sweeping. It was quieter: care, duty, a companionship that carried us through. And it worked, in its way. But there were places in his heart I could never reach, and I always knew it. We played into our role as husband and wife; it became an armour and a shield to hide our true feelings. Whilst we cared for one another, it was never romantic.

By now you will know what I tried so long to keep hidden: that my time was always shorter than I let on. Very few people knew how ill I truly was. Draco, my sister and my parents… 

I disguised it — not out of shame, but out of stubbornness, perhaps even denial. I wanted to be seen as more than a fading body. Even to the wider circle of your friends never saw the worst of it until the end, when no strength or glamour could cover the truth any longer.

I wanted you to know that I truly never knew about you and Draco until we were married in November. I wondered why you had declined the invitation, especially as you were in the same circle of friends.

I think you deserve to know how I learned. It wasn’t from him, and not from you. It was an argument — Ron and Draco, voices sharp enough to shatter the air. Ron’s words cut: “She trusted you, and you let her down.” And Draco’s reply, ragged: “You think I don’t know what I cost her?”

I never knew every detail. I didn’t need to. The truth was in their anger, and in the silence that followed. Later, I learned there had been a letter. One he sent to you — though I never knew what it said. Only that you never read it. I cannot blame you for that. We all make our choices in order to survive.

Draco never said it aloud, but you… you were different. You were gravity.

There’s a world where he chose you. And maybe it’s this one, still — if you’re brave enough to let it be.

I want you to know I never resented you. How could I? The heart does not bend to expectation. He loved me in his way, and I loved him in mine. So let go of the guilt, Hermione. The what-ifs. The should-have-beens. You don’t owe me anything — except, perhaps, this: be honest. With yourself. With him. With what you want.

This is not a love letter. It is a release. And perhaps, my last piece of peace.

With love,

Astoria

Hermione’s throat burned.

She folded the letter back along its softened creases, then pressed it against her chest, breathing through the ache in her ribs.

How cruel — and kind — it was to receive grace from the one person who had every right to hate her.

She wasn’t sure what she felt. Guilt. Relief. A sorrow too old to name.

But there, in the solitude of her sitting room, the air thick with unspoken truths, Hermione let the tears fall freely.

Not for the past. Not even for Draco.

But for the version of herself that had waited too long to receive this letter — and the quiet flicker of hope that still hadn’t gone out.

Chapter Text

Sunday Morning –

Hermione’s Flat, West London

Hermione woke to the soft creak of the radiator and the muted sound of rain tapping against the windows. Pale light filtered through sheer curtains, spilling across the worn floorboards and catching on the spine of a familiar leather notebook.

It had been a week since the hospital. She hadn’t seen Draco since, though she knew he’d kept in touch with the ward, making sure his potions reached the right hands. Beyond that, nothing. No knock at her door, no sudden flare of green in her hearth. He was giving her space—something she hadn’t expected, but maybe needed.

Crookshanks was nestled at the foot of her bed, curled in a tight ball of orange fluff, his ears flicking in sleep.

She shifted, reaching into the bedside drawer for a jumper, but her hand stilled when her fingers brushed leather instead of cotton. Slowly, she drew it out. The letter. Her chest tightened as though the room had grown smaller, pressing in around her. She hadn’t meant to keep it there, buried among the ordinary clutter of scarves and sleep-shirts, but it had been waiting all the same.

Her thumb traced the neat fold of the envelope, her breath catching. Not today. She wasn’t ready—not yet. But for the first time, she admitted the truth to herself: she wanted to be. She wanted to know what Draco had written, even if it hurt, even if it undid her.

She placed the letter back inside the drawer gently, as though careful handling might dull its sharpness. But closing the wood didn’t silence its presence. The thought of it followed her as she moved through the flat.

The kettle hissed to life, steam curling into the air. Hermione stood at the counter in her dressing gown, staring at the rising bubbles as if the answer might come there. Her hands moved out of habit—Crookshanks’ bowl filled, tea poured into her favourite chipped mug—but her mind kept drifting back to the drawer.

The flat smelled like rain and dried lavender. Normally, it was comforting. Today, it felt too still, too aware of the letter she hadn’t opened. She took her tea into the armchair by the window and sat with it cooling between her palms. Outside, the street was quiet, the sky a sheet of pewter grey.

Her gaze caught the clock on the mantel. She was already late for breakfast at the Potter-Notts. She’d promised James, and he’d be watching the floo for her. The thought tugged her forward, forcing her into motion.

She dressed quickly, smoothing her hair, fastening her coat. But even as she tightened the belt at her waist, her eyes flicked once more toward the bedside drawer. A pull. A temptation.

Not today.

Astoria’s words lingered, circling like smoke.

You don’t owe me anything—except, perhaps, this: be honest. With yourself. With him. With what you want.

The words had shocked her – in a disarming way that peeled back layers Hermione hadn’t realised she still wore.

As she stepped out of the flat, umbrella held high against the drizzle, she carried the echo of that envelope with her. Tucked away, unopened, it no longer held the same fear. Her thoughts clouded as she headed towards the apparition point.

____

Theo’s pancakes were already half-demolished by the time she stepped into the kitchen at Harry and Theo’s house.

The scent of cinnamon and maple syrup clung to the air, warm and almost nostalgic. James was sitting at the table in his pyjamas, syrup smeared across his cheeks.

“Auntie ‘Mione!” he beamed. “I saved you the biggest one.”

She smiled faintly and kissed the top of his head. “Thank you, darling. That’s very noble of you.”

heo raised a brow as he flipped another pancake with wandless flair. “You’re late. I was about to send James up with coffee as an emergency rescue.”

“I’m fine,” Hermione said, smoothing a hand down her coat sleeve.

“You always say that when you’re not,” Theo said sweetly, piling blueberries onto her plate anyway. He tipped his head toward Harry. “This one’s been telling me stories about you, by the way. Something about you calling out the boys when they tried to cut corners on patrol shifts in Eighth Year?”

Hermione flushed faintly. “I only said what needed to be said.”

Theo grinned. “Of course you did. I’d have paid to see it.”

Harry chuckled behind his paper. “She hasn’t changed much. Still keeping everyone in line.”

The warmth of the moment softened into something quieter. Theo set down the spatula, his tone shifting. “Astoria never told us about the curse until January. Not me, not Blaise, not even Pansy. We just thought she was… tired, or pushing herself too hard. She wanted to live normally for as long as she could.”

Hermione looked down at her plate, her fork resting idle. She hadn’t known that. It landed differently than she expected—not guilt exactly, but a weight in her chest.

“She wasn’t someone I was close to,” Hermione admitted, her voice low. “We never really… bridged that gap.”

Theo’s expression softened. “And she knew that. She wasn’t trying to keep you out, Hermione. She kept all of us out. That was her choice. She wanted to be remembered for her life, not her illness.”

Hermione swallowed, tension working at her throat. There was a strange relief in hearing it, even if it didn’t erase the sharp edges entirely.

As the chatter in the kitchen resumed—James babbling about dragons, Harry teasing Theo about his overzealous pancake flipping—Hermione sat quieter than usual, her coffee cooling between her palms.

Astoria had chosen silence. Had chosen to protect the shape of her life until the very last possible moment. Hermione could respect that, even as it unsettled her. Because now, when she thought of the unopened letter in her bedside drawer, it felt heavier than ever.

If Astoria had guarded her truth until she couldn’t anymore, then what was Draco’s letter? A truth he had left for Hermione when she hadn’t been ready? A piece of him he’d entrusted to her despite knowing it could cut?

She pressed her lips to the rim of her mug, eyes fixed on the swirl of steam. She wasn’t ready. But the want was there now, sharp and steady. And it frightened her more than the not-knowing ever had.

“So,” Theo said, pouring juice with too much enthusiasm, “Ginny says Adelaide’s decided she wants to become a dragonologist-slash-ballet-dancer. No pressure.”

James snorted with laughter. Hermione smiled into her mug.

“Did you sleep all right?” Harry asked gently, his voice a contrast to the banter.

Hermione nodded. “I did. Eventually.”

He didn’t press. But the look he gave her was knowing.

“Will you come to the park with us?” James asked eagerly, bouncing on his seat.

Hermione hesitated. “In a bit. I need to stop by St Mungo’s first.”

Theo sighed dramatically. “You are a menace to your own relaxation.”

“It’s just a check-in,” she said lightly. “There’s been progress.”

Harry reached over and squeezed her wrist briefly. “We’re proud of you, you know.”

She blinked, caught off guard.

“Thank you.”

Hermione kissed her godson on his hair full of curls before bidding the family a goodbye as she headed towards the floo.

_____

The corridors of St. Mungo’s smelled faintly of sage, spell-burn, and antiseptic. Hermione moved through them with practiced ease, nodding to passing healers, her clipboard balanced under one arm.

The blood curse ward was quieter today. Most patients were resting easily, their vitals stabilised. A gentle pulse of magic from the monitoring charms glowed pale blue instead of warning yellow—calm. Stable.

She moved between beds, checking dosages, adjusting charm placement, trading quiet notes with one of the senior healers. The work helped her focus, pulling her mind away from the spiral of thoughts still lodged behind her ribs.

“Miss Granger?” a tentative voice called.

Hermione turned to find a young boy propped up against his pillows, his mother close beside him. His skin was still too pale, but his eyes had more light than they had a week ago.

“Did you bring more of the green potion?” he asked, wide-eyed.

Hermione’s mouth softened. “I did. It tastes dreadful, I’m afraid, but it’s part of why you’re feeling stronger.” She adjusted the charm at the base of his bed, then glanced at his mother. Relief flickered across the woman’s face, her gratitude unspoken but clear.

Further along, an older wizard stirred as she checked the ward. His voice was raspy. “Do you really think this will hold?”

Hermione crouched a little, meeting his gaze. “Your numbers are holding steady. That’s progress. More than we had a fortnight ago.”

He exhaled, some of the tension leaving his shoulders.

When she reached the far end of the ward, she paused by the window, watching the rain blur the outlines of London beyond the glass.

“You’ve done well here,” came a voice to her left.

Hermione turned. Healer Ansari stood nearby, arms crossed loosely, watching the ward with his usual measured calm.

“Thank you,” she said, shifting her grip on the clipboard. “The latest batch is holding. No seizures in the last thirty-six hours. One patient even reported a reduction in pain symptoms.”

Ansari tilted his head. “You’ve considered healing work, haven’t you?”

Hermione blinked. “I’m a curse-breaker.”

“Yes,” Ansari said mildly. “But patients listen to you. Families trust you. Not every curse-breaker has that.”

Hermione’s throat caught for a moment, but she forced a polite smile. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Ansari’s mouth curved. “It was.” He let the thought sit before adding, “And the potion delivery from Malfoy’s clinic?”

“Effective,” Hermione said. “Surprisingly so.”

Ansari hummed, then added casually, “He stops by more than necessary.”

Hermione stilled.

“Checks the logs. Looks over the records. Doesn’t say much.”

Her jaw tightened.

“He’s not here for the potion logs,” Ansari said softly, his eyes steady. “Maybe he’s waiting on something else.”

Hermione exhaled slowly, shaking her head as she forced her tone clinical. “He’s probably just making sure Astoria’s case is helping others. That was always important to her.”

But her hands trembled slightly as she reached for her notes.

Ansari didn’t press. He gave her a single nod, then moved to speak to a junior healer.

Hermione lingered at the window, trying to still her pulse. But the echo of Draco’s voice—You were too selfish to read the letter—rang sharp in her ears, dulling the calm hum of healing magic around her.

She blinked once. Twice. Then straightened her shoulders, scribbled a final note in the margins of the chart, and left the ward with her coat clutched tightly in her fist.

The March wind met her as she stepped outside, cold and biting. Her heels clicked against the cobblestones as she left St. Mungo’s behind, but the weight of the day clung stubbornly.

Her thoughts weren’t on the ward anymore. They weren’t even on the work.

They were on him.

And how complicated it had always been.

Ansari’s words lingered, twining with Draco’s. Her mind slipped, unbidden, to a memory she hadn’t touched in weeks—buried beneath grief, regret, and all the years lost in between.

Back when the snow was still falling.

Back when they hadn’t yet said everything wrong…

Late February 1999,

Eighth Year Dorms – Hermione’s Room

The castle had grown quiet for the night, the winter snow brushing softly against the frosted windows of the Eighth Year corridor. Hermione’s room was aglow with candlelight, her desk cluttered with parchment and an open book face-down beside a nearly empty mug of hot chocolate.

Draco sat cross-legged at the foot of her bed, his tie undone and sleeves rolled to his forearms. He was reading over a journal of potion notes she’d shared with him earlier in the week. He looked oddly at home there—out of place and yet perfectly still in her space, like he’d always belonged in that quiet.

Hermione watched him over the rim of her tea, curled into the pillows. Her toes brushed his thigh, a casual touch neither of them questioned anymore.

“You have ink on your chin,” she murmured, pointing with her mug.

Draco blinked and reached to wipe it, smudging it worse. She laughed softly and nudged forward to fix it herself, brushing her thumb under his mouth. It lingered a second too long.

The air changed—slowed.

“Do you ever stop?” he asked.

“Stop what?”

“Thinking. Planning. Trying to fix everything all the time.”

Hermione tilted her head. “Do you?”

His eyes softened. “Not around you.”

Her stomach flipped.

She reached for her notebook, then paused. “I had a letter from a contact at a memory clinic in Germany. About my parents.”

Draco’s expression grew cautious. “And?”

“They’re willing to try something. A new sequence of memory recovery charms. It’s risky. It could make it worse.”

His hand found hers without thinking. “But you’ll try anyway.”

She nodded. “I have to.”

Draco was quiet for a beat. Then, lowly: “I know what that’s like. Wanting to undo something that can’t be undone.”

Hermione’s heart twisted at his tone. She didn’t ask what he meant. She had a feeling he wouldn’t answer. But she held tighter to his hand.

Eventually, the room grew still again. The candlelight flickered low.

He didn’t go back to his dorm.

They lay side by side on top of the duvet, fully dressed, Hermione’s head on his shoulder and his arm around her back. Their legs tangled lazily together beneath the blanket she’d pulled over them.

Neither spoke.

She could hear the steady beat of his heart. She could feel the rise and fall of his chest, his warmth pressing into her side.

 It wasn’t just lust; there was something quieter, heavier—like grief and hope intertwined in a single breath.

Draco shifted to look at her. “If we had more time, things were different, maybe… I mean, if we had more time.”

 Hermione’s hand tightened around his. “Don’t. Not now. Not yet. I just want it to be us.”

 He hesitated, searching her eyes. “…About everything that’s expected of us, the promises, the arrangements—”

“I know,” she said gently but firmly, cutting him off. “I don’t want to talk about it tonight. We’re here. Now. That’s enough.”

Draco exhaled slowly, a mixture of relief and frustration in his chest. He kissed her forehead instead, closing his eyes.

They fell asleep like that.

And for a few hours, the world felt far enough away that nothing could touch them.

____

The late afternoon sun was gentle and golden, stretching long shadows across the grass. Crocuses had started to bloom along the path, purples and whites peeking out from winter-tired soil. The world felt like it was waking up—slowly, stubbornly, as if unsure whether spring had truly arrived.

Hermione spotted them before they saw her. Theo, lounging on a bench in his long charcoal coat, one arm draped lazily over the back as he gestured animatedly with a coffee in the other. Harry stood nearby, arms crossed with a fond smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he watched James dart back and forth across the open green, chasing a small dragon-shaped kite that periodically belched tiny puffs of blue smoke.

Hermione inhaled deeply through her nose. The scent of grass, distant roasted chestnuts, and the faint lingering memory of hospital antiseptic clung to her clothes. She crossed toward them, shoes crunching softly over the gravel path.

“Look who’s joined the land of the living,” Theo said, raising his eyebrows and dramatically shifting to make space beside him. “You look like someone carrying a secret and a grudge.”

Hermione gave him a tight-lipped smile. “Only one?”

Harry stepped in to kiss her cheek. “Glad you made it.”

She sat beside Theo, tugging her coat more tightly around her. The warmth of the spring sun didn’t quite reach her bones, not after the morning she’d had. But James’s laughter—sharp and bubbling—reached her just fine. It cracked something in her chest open just enough to let a sliver of light through.

They sat in silence for a few minutes, watching James tumble to the ground and then spring up again, red-faced and giddy. Harry chuckled as Theo muttered a running commentary about the proper aerodynamics of toy dragons.

Hermione didn’t say much. She sipped the coffee Theo handed her, now lukewarm but comforting, and let the breeze toy with the ends of her curls.

“You okay?” Harry asked, his voice gentle, not pressing.

She hesitated. Her fingers curled tighter around the paper cup. The words sat heavy in her throat.

“I will be,” she said finally.

Theo gave her a long look, then nudged her knee with his. “You don’t have to fix it all alone, you know.”

“I’m not trying to fix anything,” she replied quietly. “I’m just… finding where I stand.”

Harry nodded, reading between the lines. “When you’re ready,” he said, “we’re here.”

Hermione looked back out at the park. James had flung himself onto the grass now, legs in the air, talking animatedly to the dragon toy as if it were a living creature. The moment was peaceful. Still.

The park was a quiet pocket of green nestled between the bustling city streets, a place where the sounds of laughter and birdsong wove together like a soft melody. Sunlight filtered lazily through the high branches of ancient oaks, dappling the grass with golden patches. The air carried the faint scent of blooming daffodils and freshly mown lawns, a hint of spring weaving its way in despite the lingering chill.

James, with his tousled hair and scrunched-up nose of determination, was attempting to climb the enchanted rope bridge that led up to the dragon-shaped slide. His small hands gripped the rough ropes tightly, feet slipping and catching again, unaware of the precariousness.

Theo shot a quick glance at Hermione before springing to his feet with an exaggerated groan. “Merlin’s knees,” he muttered, voice laced with amused exasperation. “That child has no fear and absolutely no sense of balance.”

Harry chuckled quietly, the sound warm and easy. “We’re just trying not to ruin him,” he said, eyes following Theo as he moved toward James, offering a steady hand and a reassuring smile.

Hermione watched them—their gentle patience, the way Theo knelt to help James over a tricky knot, the easy camaraderie between the two men. She felt a soft tug at her heart, a bittersweet ache mingling with the peacefulness of the afternoon.

“You’ve both done well with him,” she murmured, her voice almost lost beneath the rustle of leaves and distant laughter.

Harry turned toward her, his gaze steady and kind. “We’re lucky to have him. He’s a handful but he’s ours.”

A quiet settled between them, not heavy but thoughtful, like the pause between breaths. The faint breeze teased loose strands of Hermione’s hair, brushing her cheek with cool fingers. She closed her eyes briefly, savouring the small moment of calm.

After a breath, she spoke softly. “I received a letter when I was at work, it was from Astoria.I’ve been thinking a lot about what she wrote.”

Harry didn’t interrupt, simply listening, the weight of unspoken understanding hanging in the air.

“She was more perceptive than I gave her credit for,” Hermione continued, eyes tracing the patterns of sunlight on the grass. “And kinder, in ways I didn’t expect. It should’ve made me feel… relieved. That she saw me. That she wanted me to stop carrying the guilt.”

“But instead?” Harry’s voice was gentle, inviting.

“I feel like I’ve been cracked open,” Hermione said, a brittle laugh escaping. “All those years of what-ifs and should-haves—I thought I’d moved past them, but they flooded back all at once.”

Harry’s eyes softened with empathy. “You never really do move on completely when it’s something that deep.”

Hermione looked at him, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. “Is it terrible that I’m still angry with him?”

“No,” Harry said quietly, with no hesitation. “You’re allowed to be angry. You’re allowed to grieve everything that never was.”

She swallowed hard, blinking to clear her vision.

Harry leaned forward slightly, his voice a comforting whisper. “But Hermione… you’re also allowed to let something new begin. When you’re ready. With or without him.”

Her gaze drifted back to Theo, who was now gently lifting James down from the bridge, laughing as James waved his hands like a victorious wizard.

Hermione’s voice was barely audible as she murmured, “He’s not the boy I once knew. And I’m not the girl he remembers.”

Harry smiled softly. “Maybe then, it’s about whether the people you’ve become still have something worth holding onto.”

Hermione bit the inside of her cheek, unsure if she could answer, but the question lingered in the quiet afternoon.

As Theo returned, holding James’s hand tightly, both flushed with success, Hermione allowed herself a small, genuine smile. For the first time in a long while, the ache inside felt a little less raw—just enough to hope.

____

The front door closed softly behind Hermione as she stepped into the stillness of her flat. The fading daylight filtered through the curtains, casting long shadows across the familiar but quiet space. She set down her bag with a sigh, the weight of the day pressing on her shoulders.

In the kitchen, she moved methodically, peeling onions and chopping carrots, the rhythmic sounds grounding her spiraling thoughts. Tonight she was making her mother’s stew—the recipe she'd clung to over the years, a small thread tying her to a past slipping further away.

The rich aroma of caramelising onions and garlic filled the room, swirling with the scent of simmering herbs. Hermione stirred the pot carefully, adding more broth than necessary, making too much—perhaps out of habit, or maybe because she wasn’t ready to be alone just yet.

She glanced out the window as the sky darkened. The city lights blinked to life, indifferent to the quiet battle unfolding inside her. Her hands trembled slightly as she set the ladle down, rubbing at the fine line of tension between hope and despair that she’d tried so hard to suppress all day.

The stew bubbled gently, warmth seeping into the room, but a chill clung to the corners—an echo of loneliness that wouldn’t be stilled by food or memories. She brushed away a tear that slid down her cheek, silently whispering, “I miss you,” to no one and everyone.

Suddenly, the sharp hiss from the fire place  shattered the fragile calm. Her heart jolted as the sound reverberated through the flat, harsh and insistent. She froze, the breath caught in her throat, her fingers twitching as if reaching for a spell she didn’t want to cast.

Before she could move, the familiar green flames of the Floo burst alive in the hearth. Draco stepped through, his eyes dark and unreadable, searching hers with an intensity that left no room for pretence.

The stew on the stove simmered over, unnoticed, filling the kitchen with its rich, overwhelming scent—too much for just one person.

They stood in the silence, the weight of years pressing between them.

It was the first time they had been alone in this space since spring 2001, the last time before she left for New York.

The air hung thick with unsaid words, past hurts, and fragile hope.

Hermione’s breath caught, the warmth of the room suddenly too small, too charged.

Deep inside, she knew this night would change everything.

Chapter Text

Hermione’s Flat, 

Early Evening, March 2004

The flames had barely died down in the grate when she turned, her pulse still thrumming from the sudden burst of green. She blinked, startled. The tension in her body didn’t ease as quickly as it should have. Her mind had already begun sorting through questions: Why now? Why unannounced?

Draco stood near the hearth, brushing a hand down the front of his coat, shaking off soot. His eyes flicked around the room, scanning it like it was unfamiliar — though it wasn’t. Not really. He’d stood here before.

Spring 2001. The last time he’d seen this space. Before New York. When everything had quietly, and then catastrophically, fallen apart.

“Sorry for barging in,” Draco said, his voice low, almost unreadable. “The Floo was still open. I… didn’t think you’d lock it.”

Hermione hesitated, one hand still curled around the back of a dining chair. “You didn’t owl.”

“No.” He glanced away. “Would you have answered if I had?”

She didn’t reply. The silence between them answered for her.

The flat was quiet, save for the occasional pop from the fireplace and the soft bubbling of stew on the hob. The scent of rosemary and thyme lingered in the air — comforting, familiar — and suddenly jarring, given the weight hanging in the room.

“I spoke to Blaise,” Draco said after a moment, his voice low. “And Theo. Even Potter, if you can believe it.” His mouth twisted faintly. “They all had the same opinion.”

A humourless sound slipped from him, closer to a scoff at himself than anything else. “They think I’m an idiot. Which is probably fair.”

She didn’t smile back. Not yet.

“You’re not,” she said eventually, though the words came slow, measured.

His eyes met hers at last. “I was, though. Before, after… everything. Blaise told me what I needed to hear — and he was right. I handled everything poorly. I hurt you. I lied. I ran when I should have faced things. I let fear, pride, and cowardice decide for me instead of being honest with you. I refused to see what I was doing to you — and to us. I let my own shame dictate our end. I know I cannot and do not deserve to take back the way I treated you, the way I pushed you away, the lies, the silences. I own all of it, Hermione. Every single piece.”

Her throat tightened.

“You’re right,” she said, her voice steady. “You didn’t deserve to.”

He flinched.

“But you came anyway.” Her tone softened, just slightly. “So maybe you’re not the coward you think you are.”

A pause. Then, with quiet clarity, she added, “Thank you. For saying it.”

Draco didn’t reply. He didn’t reach for her. He just stood there, wine glass cradled in one hand, the other clenched at his side like he didn’t trust it not to break something.

“And… the engagement,” he said after a long beat, low and careful, as if testing the waters. “I know it’s been looming over us—over everything—but I’m not asking you for anything.”

Hermione’s hand tightened slightly on the counter. “Draco.” She shook her head, cutting him off gently but firmly. “Not now. Not this. Not ever in this moment. We have enough to deal with without complicating it with what-ifs.”

He exhaled slowly, almost a release of tension. Then, quiet but fierce: “I wanted to be better for you. I should have been. I wasn’t. And that was my fault entirely. No excuses. No blame. Just the truth: I hurt you. I abandoned you when I should have stayed. I let everything that scared me — my father, the expectations, my own pride — make the decisions for me. Not my heart, not my loyalty, not my care for you. That’s on me. And I cannot change it, but I can stop running from it now.”

And in that quiet, Hermione felt it: the old ache beginning to stir — the weight of history lodged in the walls, in the air between them. The weight of things left unsaid pressing in, breathless and close.

Suddenly, memory swept in — full of rain and firelight and the impossible hope of a boy who had once made promises he couldn’t keep…

Hermione’s Bedroom 

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry 

March 1999

The storm had settled over the castle like a second sky, thunder rolling low against the stone as fat drops of rain splattered the windows. It was late — too late for anyone to be in the common room — but Hermione sat curled into the corner of the sofa, a half-read book resting on her lap, forgotten. The fire had burned low, casting only a dim orange glow across the space. Shadows flickered along the walls.

She hadn’t meant to cry. Not again.

But her eyes were stinging, and the words on the page blurred every time she blinked.

She drew her knees tighter to her chest and wiped at her face with the sleeve of her jumper. The room was silent except for the crackling fire and the distant thunder outside. The storm echoed how she felt—overwhelmed, volatile, barely held together.

The creak of the door made her flinch.

She didn’t turn at first, hoping whoever it was would leave. But then a familiar voice broke the stillness.

“Hermione?”

She closed her eyes for a moment. Of course it was him.

She heard Draco’s footsteps pad softly over the carpet, then the pause — that hesitation she knew by heart. But this time, he didn’t keep his distance. He came to her side, slowly, quietly, like he was afraid of breaking her.

She didn’t look up.

“I thought you’d be asleep,” he said gently.

“I couldn’t.” Her voice was thin. “I got an owl. From the specialist in Sydney.”

Draco sat beside her without a word. His presence was warm and steady. Familiar.

Hermione took a shaky breath. “It’s done. They’ve tried everything. Magical memory restoration, Muggle cognitive therapy, even the Department of Mysteries got involved. Nothing worked.”

Draco didn’t speak. His silence wasn’t empty — it was careful, holding space for her words.

She turned her head toward him then, eyes red and wide. “They don’t know who I am,” she whispered, voice cracking. “They never will.”

Her face crumpled.

It was too much. Too final. Too cruel, after everything she’d fought for.

Draco reached for her without thinking. One arm slid behind her back, the other across her shoulders, and he pulled her against his chest. Her body folded into him with the familiarity of muscle memory, like they’d done this before — because they had.

He pressed his lips to the top of her head.

Hermione’s tears soaked through his shirt, but he didn’t flinch. His hand moved in slow, steady circles over her back as she sobbed — the kind of crying she never let anyone see, not even Harry or Ron. But with Draco, here, in the half-dark, she let it go.

“I’m sorry,” she choked out, burying her face deeper into his chest. “I didn’t know where else to put it all.”

He tightened his hold. “Don’t apologise,” he murmured. “Not to me.”

She pulled back slightly to look up at him, her face flushed and damp. “I was supposed to fix it. That was the whole point of sending them away. I was supposed to bring them back.”

“You did everything you could,” he said. “More than anyone else would have.”

“But it wasn’t enough.” Her voice was barely audible.

Draco cupped her cheek gently. “That isn’t true. It’s not your fault their memories didn’t return.”

Hermione’s breath hitched. Her gaze locked on his — searching, trembling, aching.

“Then whose is it?” she asked.

He didn’t answer. Because they both knew the answer was too big — too complicated — too painful.

But he kissed her instead.

Soft. Slow. Full of apology and something else — something quieter than hope, but stronger than despair. She leaned into it, trembling, letting herself be kissed like she needed it to breathe.

When they broke apart, foreheads pressed together, Draco said quietly, “Whatever you need — I’ll be there. I promise.”

Her eyes fluttered closed.

It was a beautiful lie.

And she let herself believe it anyway…

_____

The steam from the hob curled around her face as Hermione stirred the stew again, slower now, her hand heavy with thought. The memory lingered like perfume — faint, familiar, inescapable. The scent of rosemary hung thick in the air, blending with the echo of his arms around her, the firelight from a bedroom long ago, the way she had sobbed into his shirt and he hadn’t let go.

Her grip on the spoon tightened.

She could still feel the warmth of his hand against her back, even now.

She set the spoon down too hard. It clanged against the edge of the pot and spattered sauce up the front of her jumper.

“Bloody hell,” she muttered, snatching a tea towel from the counter. Her voice cracked more than she meant it to.

Behind her, Draco didn’t speak, but she felt him watching. The same way he had that night — not intruding, just seeing. She wiped at the sauce but didn’t bother to fix her appearance. What would be the point?

“I used to dream about them remembering me,” she said suddenly, turning toward him.

Her voice sounded thin in the stillness. She swallowed hard, pressing the tea towel into her palm like an anchor. “That I’d walk into the room one day and they’d just… know. No spells. No process. Just them. Just me.”

Draco didn’t move. But the line between his brows deepened.

“I had a dream once that my mum called me by name again,” Hermione said. “She was making tea. She asked me if I still took two sugars. I woke up crying. It felt real.”

Her throat tightened. She blinked, once. A single tear slipped down her cheek.

She didn’t wipe it away.

Draco crossed to her slowly. His movements were careful, deliberate, like he was approaching a creature that might startle if touched. But he didn’t reach out.

“I remember that night,” he said. “In your room. At Hogwarts. The storm outside. You didn’t want anyone to see you like that.”

Hermione’s breath caught.

“You let me,” he added, softer now. “And I didn’t know what to do with it. With all that grief.”

“I wasn’t looking for a solution,” she said quietly. “I just… needed someone to stay.”

Draco exhaled. “I stayed.”

“You did,” she agreed. “You always did… until you didn’t.”

The words hovered between them, sharp but not cruel. Just true.

He nodded once. “I meant what I said then. Even if I didn’t deserve to.”

Hermione searched his face. Not for lies — but for gaps. Fault lines. A reason to retreat. But there was only that old steadiness in his gaze. The one she’d trusted long before it had made sense to.

And for the first time in years, she didn’t hide. She let him see her — tear-streaked and tired and full of all the things she never got to say.

Hermione didn’t say anything as she ladled stew into two bowls. The kitchen was warm now — golden from the low light, carrying the faint scent of thyme and slow-cooked vegetables. She moved with quiet purpose, grounding herself in the simple rhythm of serving, breathing, existing.

Behind her, Draco reached for his coat.

“I’ll go,” he said quietly. “I didn’t mean to—”

“There’s too much food for one person,” she interrupted, sharper than intended.

He stilled.

Then, softer, without looking at him: “You can stay. If you want.”

The silence stretched, brittle, until she heard the faint brush of fabric as he placed his coat over the back of the chair. A moment later, he sat.

They ate quietly at first, the only sounds the clink of cutlery and the muted hum of rain against the window. It might have felt domestic — ordinary — if not for the weight threaded through the air between them.

Halfway through the meal, Hermione looked up. Her voice was steady, but her pulse thundered. “I shouldn’t have left the way I did. New York. No note. No goodbye. It was—”

“Hermione,” Draco interrupted gently, his gaze holding hers. “I know now, I didn’t deserve one.”

Her throat tightened. “You did. Maybe not a perfect one. But something. You mattered. Even then.”

Draco’s jaw tightened. “And I ruined it.”

“Yes,” she admitted. “But I didn’t handle the aftermath any better. I needed distance. Control. I thought disappearing would help me cope—but it wasn’t fair. Not to you. Not to anyone.”

He held her gaze steadily. “You were broken. You did what you had to, to survive.”

Her lips quivered into a brief, fragile smile. “Maybe. But I can’t pretend it didn’t hurt you.”

“It did,” he said simply. “But I hurt you first. Worse. I know that.”

The silence that followed was heavy, but not suffocating.

“I don’t know what this is,” Hermione admitted finally. “Or what it could be.”

“I don’t either,” he said, voice quiet but certain. “But I want to try. Even if I don’t deserve a second chance.”

Hermione set her spoon down again, heart hammering. “There’s something else. Something you should know.”

Draco’s head lifted, eyes sharp.

“I never opened your letter,” she whispered, the confession trembling out. “The one you sent me. July, 2001.”

His breath caught. She could see the flicker of surprise cross his face.

“I wanted to,” she went on, voice shaking despite her effort. “Merlin, I wanted to. But I wasn’t ready. Not then. I had only just left. Everything still felt raw. I didn’t think I could bear whatever you’d written.” She swallowed. “I still don’t think I can. But I kept it. I couldn’t throw it away. For nearly three years, it’s been in my drawer.”

His gaze softened, but he didn’t interrupt.

“One day,” she whispered, “I’ll read it. When I know I can bear the truth in it.”

For a moment, she thought he’d press, demand she open it now. But instead, Draco nodded once, slow and deliberate. His voice was steady, though something raw flickered beneath.

“Then I’ll wait,” he said simply. “Even if you never do. That’s yours, Hermione. Always yours.”

Her chest ached, a strange mix of relief and tension, sharper than she expected.

When they finished eating, she stood to collect the bowls. He followed her into the kitchen, wordlessly helping clean up, his movements quiet and precise. He knew her flat — even now, like muscle memory — knew where the dish rack went, where the mugs lived. That knowledge made something ache deep in her chest.

Later, they ended up on the sofa. Not touching. Not needing to. The words, the confessions, and the memories lingered in the space between them like something tangible, almost a presence of their own. No fire burned in the hearth, just the quiet hum of the night settling around them, candlelight flickering softly against the walls.

Draco leaned back, arms folded loosely across his chest, his gaze steady but reflective. Hermione tucked her knees beneath her, hands resting lightly on them, noting the honesty etched into his features, the accountability he had carried to this moment. Neither spoke. The silence was not heavy or punishing; it was full of quiet recognition that they had finally spoken truths long kept in shadow.

For the first time in years, silence felt like possibility.

Hermione felt it in her chest — a subtle easing of the tight coil she had carried for so long. Draco’s presence, steady and unflinching, reminded her that honesty could exist without shame, that accountability could coexist with care. It wasn’t perfect, it wasn’t easy, but it was real. And for now, that was enough.

The night stretched on, unhurried. Words had been spoken. Truth had been claimed. And in that quiet aftermath, with candlelight soft on their faces, they both understood something they hadn’t in years: healing didn’t demand grand gestures. It demanded only the courage to face what had been hidden, to speak it aloud, and to let it be witnessed. That was where the possibility lay — small, delicate, unbroken

Chapter Text

Hermione’s flat, West London
Late March 2004

The flat was still.

Hermione stirred beneath the duvet, blinking against the pale morning light that filtered through the curtains. It was the kind of dull, cloudy brightness unique to late March — when spring hadn’t fully arrived, but winter had mostly retreated. A quiet grey lingered in the corners of the room, casting the walls in soft shadow.

She exhaled slowly, her breath catching in the back of her throat as her hand drifted across the bed.

Cold sheets. No imprint. No sign of him.

She didn’t know why she’d expected there to be.

Sitting up, she scrubbed a hand across her face and pushed the hair from her eyes. The silence pressed in around her, thick and familiar. This was how most mornings began — alone, quiet, composed. But something about today made it feel different. Sharper, somehow. Like the air itself was holding its breath.

She swung her legs over the side of the bed and padded barefoot into the kitchen, her toes curling against the cool wooden floor. The kettle sat untouched on the counter, beside two mugs — one of them still held the faint ring of tea left behind from the night before.

Draco’s mug.

She stared at it longer than she meant to, her fingers brushing the porcelain rim as she lifted it to the sink. It was cold, of course. Dried leaves clung to the bottom in a faint swirl, already beginning to stain.

She rinsed it out slowly, mechanically, before reaching for the loose tea tin. The motion was muscle memory now — a ritual she’d perfected over years of solitude. Scoop, pour, wait. She watched the kettle steam, her reflection blurring on its surface.

He hadn’t stayed.

Not that she’d expected him to. Not really. They hadn’t discussed it. Hadn’t defined anything. He’d come, he’d apologised, they’d eaten. They’d sat on the sofa, the distance between them stretching like a held breath.

And then he’d left.

She hadn’t asked him to stay. Hermione needed the space.

Crookshanks twined around her ankles, purring with lazy expectation. She reached down and scratched behind his ear, grateful for the distraction.

“I know,” she murmured. “I’m being ridiculous.”

The kettle whistled low and insistent. She poured the water over the tea leaves and leaned against the counter, watching the amber swirl deepen in the mug.

The apartment still smelled faintly of rosemary and thyme from the night before. The scent clung to the air, stubborn and warm, like a memory that refused to fade. It mingled now with bergamot and something else she couldn’t quite place — something like regret.

She carried her tea to the small table by the window, curling her hands around the mug for warmth. Outside, London was beginning to stir. Cars passed. A child laughed in the distance. The world was moving.

She was not.

Her gaze drifted to the sofa. One of the cushions was still slightly indented. She hadn’t fixed it.

Last night, he’d sat there — quietly, cautiously, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to. She could still picture the angle of his jaw in the candlelight, the way he hadn’t looked at her when he’d said he didn’t deserve a second chance.

Her fingers curled tighter around the mug.

He hadn’t stayed. And that was fine. That was good. This wasn’t that. They weren’t that. Not anymore.

And yet…

The silence wrapped around her shoulders like a too-thin blanket. She sipped her tea, even though it was still too hot. It burned her tongue. She didn’t flinch.

The ache wasn’t loud. But it was there. Persistent. Familiar.

A faint breeze drifted in through the window, stirring the edge of the curtain. Hermione sat in silence, her tea now cold, untouched. She traced a fingertip along the rim of the mug, her mind a thousand miles and five years away. The ache that had settled in her chest wasn’t new. It had lived there for a long time, tucked behind logic and duty and everything else she used to armour herself. But today, it had shifted — sharper, nearer. And when she closed her eyes, she could still see him, just as he had been that night. The boy who hadn’t let her fall apart alone.

____

March 1999, Hogwarts
Hermione’s bedroom, Eighth Year

Days had passed since Hermione had learned the news about her parents. She barely left her room, though her friends checked in, leaving food that went untouched. Even getting out of bed felt like an effort, save for the occasional shower. Changing into her pajamas was exhausting in itself, each small movement straining her already weary body.

The door opened quietly.

Draco stepped inside, his expression cautious but firm. He didn’t need to see her face to know she’d been crying — the room smelled of parchment, stale tears, and something sharp and metallic beneath it: rage.

Hermione sat on the edge of her bed, arms folded tightly across her stomach like she was holding herself together.

“You didn’t knock.”

“You wouldn’t have let me in.”

“Maybe that was the point.”

He shut the door behind him. “I’m not leaving.”

“Why?” she bit out, voice fraying. “So you can stand there and feel superior about how I’ve finally cracked?”

His jaw tightened, but he didn’t rise to it. “No. I came because I care.”

She laughed then, raw and painful. “You care? You have no idea what this is, Draco. I lost them. I chose to lose them. And now I can’t get them back. They don’t even recognise me—do you understand what that feels like?”

“I don’t,” he said honestly. “But I want to.”

Her eyes filled again, but this time with fury. “You can’t fix this.”

“I’m not trying to.” He stepped closer. “I’m just trying to be here.”

That undid her.

She moved suddenly, kissing him with too much force, teeth knocking against his. He grunted in surprise but didn’t pull away. Her hands fisted in his jumper, tugging it up, desperate and rough.

“Don’t stop me,” she murmured. “Please. Don’t make this about comfort or healing or whatever noble thing you think I need.”

“I won’t,” he breathed against her mouth. “But I’m not just going to take from you if you’re not really here.”

She pulled back for a moment, chest heaving. “I’m here. I just… I don’t know what else to do. I want to feel something that isn’t this.”

Draco touched her face, his thumb sweeping beneath her eye with surprising gentleness. “Then let me feel it with you.”

She didn’t answer with words — she pulled him in again, kissing him deeper this time. His hands slid over her back, broad and warm, pressing into every tense line of her body as if he could anchor her by touch alone. Clothes came off in fragments: her jumper tugged overhead, his shirt pulled away, the clumsy undoing of buttons and belts between gasps and half-spoken reassurances.

When he laid her back on the bed, his eyes flickered over her like he was memorising her skin. His fingers skimmed the side of her breast, the curve of her hip, leaving trails of heat that made her shiver.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmured.

“Don’t say that,” she said quickly.

“Why not?”

“Because I might believe you. And then I might need more.”

“You can,” he said. His palm flattened at her waist, steady and firm. “You can need things, Hermione. Even me.”

Her breath caught.

He dipped his head, kissing a path down her collarbone, his mouth hot and insistent against her pulse. She trembled under him, thighs falling open almost unconsciously, her body aching toward him. His hands were reverent but searching, thumbs brushing the soft inside of her thighs before he grazed the place that made her gasp.

“Tell me what you want,” he said, lips brushing her stomach.

“I want to forget,” she whispered.

“No,” he said, kissing lower, just above where she needed him. “You want to remember something good. Something that’s just yours.”

She let out a ragged breath. “Draco—please.”

He looked up at her, eyes dark and hungry. “Say it again.”

“Please.”

He slid two fingers into her, slow and deep, curling inside her until her back arched. She gasped, the sound breaking open against the quiet.

“You’re so warm,” he murmured, watching her closely. “You always get like this when you’re angry. Like fire under your skin.”

“Shut up,” she gasped, but her hips rocked against his hand, chasing more.

He kissed her again, swallowing her moans, his thumb circling her until she was shaking under him. Her hand slid down, wrapping around him through the thin fabric of his boxers. He groaned low, his whole body tensing at her touch.

“Fuck,” he breathed, breaking the kiss. “You undo me.”

“Good,” she whispered, dragging her lips along his jaw. “Then we’re even.”

For a moment, she froze, guilt pricking her chest. “I’m not—Draco, I’ve been with someone before. With Ron. It wasn’t—” she swallowed, shame heating her throat, “—it wasn’t like this. I just don’t want you to think…”

He kissed her hard, silencing her doubts. “I don’t care who came before me. I only care about this. Right now. Us.”

She pulled him closer, relief flooding her chest as he shed the last barrier between them.

When he pressed into her, it was slow, careful, the stretch of him filling her inch by inch until her nails dug crescents into his back. And in that moment, she realised — she had done this before, awkwardly, fumblingly, with Ron. But this was different. This was Draco. This was dangerous and consuming, and she knew with a sharp clarity she could never take it back.

“Look at me,” he whispered.

She did.

His hips moved, measured at first, dragging against every aching place inside her. “You feel—gods, Hermione—you feel like home.”

She blinked hard. “Don’t say that. Please.”

“Why not?”

“Because I still want to hate you some days.”

“Then hate me,” he whispered, thrusting deeper, “but don’t push me out.”

Her hands slid into his hair, tugging, anchoring herself as their rhythm grew more frantic. Their bodies moved like they’d done this a hundred times before, as if muscle memory had taken over where thought stopped. He buried his face in her neck, his breath hot and ragged, her name falling from his lips like prayer.

When she came, it was sharp and sudden, her whole body tightening around him, her mouth falling open in a broken cry. Draco followed seconds later, his body shuddering against hers as he spilled into her, every line of him taut with release.

They lay in silence after, limbs tangled and slick with sweat, hearts thudding hard against each other.

Hermione’s voice was small when she finally spoke. “I’ve done this before, but… never like this. Not with you.”

Draco brushed damp hair back from her temple, his expression unreadable. “That’s the only part that matters. That it’s us.”

Her chest ached. “I still don’t know if I trust this.”

“I don’t either,” he admitted. “But I trust you.”

Her eyes searched his face, and for a fleeting moment, she saw it — something he was holding back, some obligation he couldn’t name. It sat like a shadow behind his words.

“Don’t promise me forever,” she whispered. “Just promise you won’t vanish.”

His throat worked. “I won’t. Not unless you ask me to.”

She didn’t answer. But she didn’t let go either.

___

Late March 2004, evening – Ginny and Blaise’s Townhouse

The sun had begun its slow descent behind the rooftops, casting dusky streaks of apricot light across the cosy lounge of Ginny and Blaise’s home. There were toys scattered beneath the coffee table, a small pair of glittering fairy wings abandoned on the armchair, and the soft scent of something sweet — cinnamon, maybe — lingered from the kitchen.

Hermione sat on the sofa with a warm mug in her hands, its steam curling beneath her nose. Her shoulders were tight, posture careful. This house had always been a place of comfort — but tonight she felt full of nerves, like she didn’t quite know how to inhabit her own skin.

From down the hall came the muffled sound of Blaise’s voice — cheerful and sing-song — trying to coax Adelaide into pyjamas. She shrieked with laughter and darted past the lounge, a blur of flying curls and footie pyjamas, before disappearing again with her father hot on her heels.

Ginny entered from the kitchen, holding a glass of juice. “Honestly,” she muttered, flopping down onto the sofa beside Hermione. “She’s an escape artist. I swear she gets faster every week.”

“She’s relentless,” Hermione said with a soft smile. “In the best way.”

“She gets it from me,” Ginny said smugly. “Blaise is already outnumbered.”

Hermione took a quiet sip. “It suits you. This life. This house.”

Ginny gave her a sideways look. “You say that like you’re standing outside the window.”

Hermione didn’t respond at first. She stared into her mug, her hands tightening around it. “Do you ever think about what your life would’ve been if things had gone differently?”

Ginny raised an eyebrow. “We’re not talking about me, are we?”

A beat.

“No.”

“Draco?”

Hermione exhaled. “There was a night. March 1999. I’d just learned my parents’ memories couldn’t be restored. I’d hit a wall — emotionally, magically, everything. And he showed up. And he didn’t try to fix me, or disappear. He just… stayed.”

Ginny’s expression didn’t change — but she leaned in slightly, her interest quiet and patient.

Hermione continued, slower now. “We fought. Then… we didn’t. I think it was the first time I let myself really fall apart in front of him. And he didn’t leave.”

“That matters,” Ginny said gently. “Sometimes the people who stay in our worst moments mean more than the ones who arrive in our best.”

Hermione blinked hard. “I didn’t think I’d still feel it, after all this time.”

“Do you want to feel it?”

“I don’t know,” Hermione admitted. “It’s complicated. We’re not… anything. Not now. But he was at my flat. He apologised. For everything. And it felt…”

“Real?”

Hermione nodded.

“Messy?”

“Very.”

Ginny was quiet for a moment, then glanced toward the hallway, as if checking whether Blaise and Adelaide were still preoccupied. Then she turned back to Hermione, a sudden spark in her eye.

“Well, since we’re trading emotional chaos…”

Hermione looked at her, curious.

Ginny grinned. “I’m pregnant.”

Hermione’s mouth fell open. “You’re what?”

“Eight weeks. We just found out. Blaise’s still in a mild state of shock.”

Hermione let out a disbelieving laugh. “Ginny!”

Ginny held up both hands. “It wasn’t planned. At all. I was convinced Adelaide had nearly broken my spirit, but here we are. Round two.”

Hermione leaned over and pulled her into a tight hug. “Adelaide’s going to be a big sister.”

“She’ll be insufferable,” Ginny said fondly. “She’s already tried to put a tiara on the cat and call it ‘Queen Baby.’”

Hermione laughed into Ginny’s shoulder, then pulled back, her eyes glassy. “I’m really happy for you.”

“Thanks,” Ginny said, her voice quiet. “Honestly, I was scared to tell anyone at first. But it’s good news. And maybe it’s reminded me that… sometimes life gives us second chances even when we didn’t ask for them.”

Hermione blinked.

Ginny added, more gently now, “And maybe some people deserve a second chance too. Even if it doesn’t look the way it once did.”

Hermione looked down at her hands.

“I left,” she said softly. “Back in 2001. I didn’t even say goodbye.”

“You were grieving more than just your parents,” Ginny said. “You were grieving him too.”

“I thought if I left first, I wouldn’t have to watch him be with someone else.”

Ginny didn’t argue. She simply reached out and squeezed Hermione’s hand.

“And now?” she asked.

Hermione hesitated. “Now I think I might want something I’m terrified to name.”

“Well,” Ginny said, “name it anyway. Even if it’s only in your own head. Sometimes that’s the first step.”

A sudden burst of laughter echoed from the hall — Blaise’s amused, theatrical groan, followed by Adelaide squealing, “Again!”

Hermione wiped away a tear and laughed softly, “Blaise is about to be even more outnumbered.””

Ginny smirked. “Worth it.”

And in that warm room, with the shadows of old heartbreaks softening in the candlelight, Hermione let herself believe — even just a little — that starting over didn’t always mean starting from nothing.

____

The Floo flared briefly with emerald light, then stilled again. Hermione stepped out of the fireplace, brushing a bit of soot from her sleeve. The flat was dark save for the faint golden glow of a few candles she’d left enchanted to burn low. The quiet wrapped around her like a second skin — familiar, comforting, and a little too sharp around the edges.

She slipped off her boots and padded into the kitchen. The stew pot still sat on the stove from the other night — empty now, scrubbed clean. Only the faintest trace of rosemary lingered in the air, like the memory of something warm.

Hermione made herself a cup of tea, even though she didn’t particularly want one. The kettle whistled low and lonely. She filled her mug, carried it into the sitting room, and curled up into the corner of the sofa — the same corner where she and Draco had sat in silence days ago. Not touching. Not needing to.

Tonight the silence was louder.

Ginny’s words echoed back to her: Adelaide’s going to be a big sister.

Hermione smiled faintly. It was genuine. She was happy — truly — for Ginny and Blaise. There was no envy in her bones, not exactly. But there was something else. A quiet pull. A soft ache she couldn’t name without tearing something open inside herself.

She traced the rim of her mug with one finger, watching the candlelight flicker along the bookshelves. All the knowledge she’d crammed into her brain over the years. All the plans she’d made. All the lives she’d imagined.

And yet—

She had never quite imagined herself as a mother.

Not because she didn’t want to. But because she'd never dared to dream that far ahead. War had taught her not to trust time. Love had taught her not to trust certainty.

She let the thought settle:
What if I don’t get to have that?

Not in the desperate, cloying sense. Just… an honest wondering. A possibility taking shape in the quiet.

She pressed the mug to her lips. The tea had gone lukewarm.

There had been a time — a lifetime ago — when she’d imagined what it might be like to raise a child with Draco. Ridiculous in hindsight. They’d been young. Bruised. Full of the kind of hope that burned too fast. But sometimes, when he smiled at her in those rare, unguarded ways, she’d seen it. A flicker of something gentler. A future they might’ve shared if the world had been different.

Her fingers curled around the ceramic tighter.

She didn’t regret the life she’d chosen — the work, the independence, the resilience it demanded. But there were nights like this, when stillness left too much space for wondering.

And for the first time in years, she admitted it to herself:

I don’t know if I want children.
But I do know I want the option.
And I’m not sure I have it anymore.

The thought lodged somewhere deep — not painful exactly, but persistent.

She exhaled slowly and leaned her head back against the sofa.

There was so much she didn’t know. About herself. About Draco. About what might happen if they tried again — or if they didn’t.

But for now, the tea in her mug was cooling. The candle was burning low. And she was still here.

Still choosing to stay.

Her fingers tightened around the mug.

Then — a soft tap against the window.

She blinked, startled. An owl sat just beyond the glass, pale and sleek, a faintly familiar silhouette against the deepening sky. It blinked at her once before dropping a letter onto the sill and taking off again without ceremony.

Hermione stood, heart kicking unexpectedly in her chest.

The envelope bore her name, written in a hand she hadn’t seen on parchment in years. Slanted. Measured. Undeniably his.

Draco.

She didn’t open it right away. She stood there, thumb brushing the edge, the paper still cool from the night air.

Then, slowly, she returned to the sofa, unsealed it, and read.

Hermione,

I didn’t plan to write this. And I don’t expect anything from it — not a reply, not a reckoning.

But the other night has stayed with me. More than I thought it would. More than I want to admit.

You apologised. You shouldn’t have. You didn’t do anything wrong, Hermione — not then, not now. I was the one who failed us. I was the one who broke what we had. I can live with the weight of my mistakes, but I can’t let you carry them too. That was never yours to hold.

I’ve been thinking about what you said. About things not being clean. About what’s left when you carry something too long, until it wears you down. And you were right — there’s no way to tidy the mess we made of each other. All we can do is name it for what it is, and stop pretending it was anything less.

I’m not asking you to forgive me. I’m not asking for another chance. I just wanted you to know that I heard you. That I see you — not just who you were then, but who you are now.

Whatever you decide — whether you stay, whether you leave again — I’ll respect it. You don’t owe me anything.

And still… I’m here. Not asking. Not expecting. Just here.

—Draco

She read it twice. Folded it carefully, her fingers lingering at the crease.

It was barely a page. Reserved, measured — just like him. But underneath the restraint, she could feel it. The pulse of something real. Something wounded and waiting.

She didn’t cry.

She didn’t smile either.

But she pressed the letter flat across her knee, looked at the quiet space around her, and whispered — to no one in particular — “I don’t know if I’m ready.”

The candle on the table flickered gently, as if in response.

And for the first time in years, she didn’t reach for closure. She didn’t lock it away. She let it stay open. Unresolved. Possible.

Hermione set the mug aside and stood slowly, barefoot on cool floorboards. She crossed the room, kneeling carefully, fingers trembling slightly as she pulled her still-packed suitcase open.

There it was — where she’d left it. A single envelope, brittle with time and too much silence. Draco’s handwriting across the front, faded but unmistakable.

New York, July 2001.

She’d never opened it.

She’d taken one look at the owl, the seal, the name — and tucked it away. Back then, she’d been too angry. Too hurt. Too determined to never let him in again.

But now…

She looked down at the two letters. The one fresh in her hand — restrained, careful, composed. And the other — unopened, untouched — older, heavier with whatever he might have said before the years hardened him.

She didn’t open that one either.

Not yet.

But something inside her cracked, quietly. A wondering.

Was that version of him braver than this one?
Was there something in those pages she wasn’t ready to hear then — and maybe still wasn’t ready to hear now?

Hermione sat back on her heels, both letters resting in her lap.

The past and present. The boy who once knew how to hold her together, and the man trying to learn how to hold himself accountable.

She placed the unopened New York letter gently back into the drawer, as if setting down a weight too heavy to carry just now.

Her fingers lingered on the worn wood of the desk before she sank to the floor, leaning against the edge of the drawer.

Her breath slowed, and the noise of the present dimmed, fading into the past.

In the quiet of her mind, she saw it clearly — that night in 1999.

The soft glow of the common room firelight, low and golden. The way Draco had looked at her, vulnerability mixing with something fierce, something tender.

The first time they’d let down their walls, the first time their hands had found each other in the dark.

She remembered the feel of his fingers tracing the curve of her jaw, warm and steady.

His voice — low and careful — as he whispered, “You’re not alone.”

How her anger had cracked beneath his touch, raw and honest.

How they had moved slowly, uncertain, yet desperately needing to bridge the space between them.

The scent of the fire mingled with the faint hint of his cologne, a mix of sharp herbs and something softer, more familiar.

Her skin remembered the brush of his lips against hers, hesitant at first, then bolder.

The way his hands had held her, not possessively, but protectively.

How she’d finally let herself breathe, let herself fall — even if just for a moment — into something that felt like hope.

The memory was both painful and sweet, a flicker of light in the darkness she carried.

She closed her eyes, savouring it.

Because that night had been real.

Because it was theirs.

And because maybe — just maybe — some part of that still waited, quietly, beneath all the years and silences.

The flicker of the candle caught her eyelashes as she opened her eyes again. The room was quiet, save for the soft ticking of the old clock on the wall, its steady rhythm a subtle reminder that time moved forward — even when she wished it wouldn’t.

She let out a slow breath, the weight in her chest settling just enough to feel like breathing again.

Her fingers brushed the unopened letter once more, then drifted to the edge of the desk.

Tonight, she would leave the past folded away, the memories held softly inside her like a secret.

Tomorrow was another day.

And for the first time in a long time, she felt something fragile — a cautious thread of something that might one day grow.

Hope.

She didn’t know what the future held.

But she was still here.

Still willing to find out.

Chapter Text

April 2004 — Hermione’s Flat, West London 

The snap of parchment against wood startled her. Hermione glanced down at her cluttered desk, where her beaded bag had slumped open. A small leather-bound diary had slid out, its worn ribbon still caught in the clasp. And beneath it, as though shaken loose from the years themselves, a Polaroid slipped free and landed face down on the floor.

Her breath caught.

She bent, fingertips grazing the glossy surface, and turned it over. The photograph shimmered faintly with enchantment, frozen in that warm, timeless sepia of wizarding film. There they were—two teenagers caught mid-laugh, cheeks flushed with February chill, pressed close together on the steps near the Black Lake. His scarf was crooked, his hand hovering at her waist as though he’d forgotten how to let go. Her hair was wild, curls tumbling over her jumper, and her eyes… her eyes were shining with something she had only admitted to herself much later.

The memory surged like a tide.

She sank back into her chair, clutching the photograph against her chest. And the world around her—her flat, the piles of parchment, the hum of London—slipped away.

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry — Valentine’s Day, 1999

Someone had charmed the corridors into blush and gold. Petals turned lazy circles in the air, settling in the crooks of banisters and the tangles of tapestries, and lanterns glowed like hanging hearts along the stone walkways. Hermione told herself it was ridiculous—but even she couldn’t deny the soft glow it lent the castle: an old fortress dressed, for a night, as something gentler.

She escaped the common room when the carols turned sappy and Theo bewitched the butterbeer to taste like cinnamon hearts. A hand found her wrist in the doorway—cool fingers, a familiar steadiness—and Draco’s voice murmured near her ear, “Come on.”

She didn’t need to ask where.

They slipped through the quiet, past the last straggle of giggling fourth-years and a suit of armour humming a love ballad off-key. In the Entrance Hall, the draft tugged at her hair; outside, the air sharpened her lungs with every breath. The lawn rolled away in a soft white film, snow melted thin and glittering where the day’s weak sun had managed it, refrozen by moonlight into lace.

By the Black Lake, the steps were rimmed in frost. Draco flicked his wand and warmth bloomed around a conjured blanket, the air inside the spell a degree softer, the wind dimmed to a hush. He didn’t look at her at first; he watched the water, silvered with winter, and then glanced over as if checking she was truly there and not an imagining his mind had been nursing all evening.

“You hate the decorations,” he said, sitting, voice dry.

“I hate the laziness of the charmwork,” she corrected, settling beside him. “And the sentimentality.”

He huffed a laugh. “You’re sentimental about everything that deserves it.” He tipped his head, the ghost-smile that never quite made it to his eyes becoming something softer. “Which is why I brought you here and not under a ceiling of levitating hearts.”

“Your chivalry is breathtaking,” Hermione deadpanned, but her gloves were off without her realising, bare fingers sliding into the warmth trapped between their bodies. His coat smelled faintly of smoke, pine resin, and something cleaner beneath—mint, perhaps, or the sharpness of winter air caught in wool.

For a few minutes they said nothing. The lake breathed—a long, slow exhale—and the castle lights blinked in the distance like watchful stars. He shifted, and the inside of his knee brushed her thigh. The small, accidental contact released something that had been held too tightly inside her chest.

He cleared his throat. “I, ah—this is going to sound… ridiculous.” His mouth twisted. “But I wanted you to have today as something you choose to remember. Not something the castle forced on you.”

Her smile pulled at the corners, unwilling and bright. “That isn’t ridiculous.”

“Good.” He reached into his pocket, then paused. Whatever he’d been about to offer, he changed his mind and closed his fingers around it again, the smallest of hesitations. “Maybe later,” he said, as if he’d had to swallow the impulse.

Before she could press, footsteps crunched on the path above them.

“Don’t hex me,” Theo whispered loudly as he appeared around the balustrade, already grinning. He held up a small instant camera—Muggle-looking, but with a brass trim Hermione recognised from the tinkering bench in Flitwick’s club. “Improved this myself. My homework from Muggles Studies. Had to test it on a difficult subject.”

“I’m not a subject,” Draco drawled.

“No,” Theo said cheerfully, “you’re the control.”

Hermione snorted, unexpectedly. She didn’t know where to put her hands. Draco solved it by reaching low, palm finding her waist with an ease that startled them both.

Theo lifted the camera. The world snapped into stillness. “Look at me—no, not like you’re about to duel. Oh for Merlin’s—Malfoy, pretend you like joy.”

Something in her broke loose—laughter, helpless and bright. Draco’s mouth tilted, a crack in the armour that widened into a real smile. Hermione felt his breath at her temple as he leaned in. The camera clicked. The film slid out with a soft whirr.

They watched the image bloom: the flash of her teeth; the sliver of green at Draco’s throat; the wind making mischief of her hair. In the moving edge of the picture, Draco’s thumb stroked the line of her coat as if he didn’t know he was doing it. Hermione’s head tipped closer. Their laugh lingered.

Theo blew on the picture and handed it to her, his voice for once free of mockery. “For when you forget how to smile.”

She looked up, stung by the kindness. Theo had already retreated a pace, hands up, grin turned sly again to hide what he’d let slip. “Right, I’ll leave you to your brooding and your… whatever this is.” He wiggled his eyebrows. “Do carry on.”

“Theo—” Hermione began, half-prayer, half-warning.

“Gone!” he chirped, vanishing up the steps like a smug shadow.

Silence fell, the sort that arrives only after laughter, full and gentle. Hermione stared down at the photograph in her hands. It warmed quickly, as if the charmwork was feeding on her pulse.

“He isn’t wrong,” Draco said quietly.

“About which part?”

“You forgetting.” His voice was steady now. “The smile.”

She swallowed. “I don’t… forget on purpose.”

“I know.” His hand—still at her waist—flexed like the thought had travelled all the way to his fingertips. He turned, properly facing her, and in the circle of warm air he’d conjured she could see the winter-pale of his skin and the tired purple smudges beneath his eyes, and the way the tension he wore in classrooms simply wasn’t here. Not with her. Not tonight.

“Why me?” she asked, the question slipping out before she could tidy it up into something safer. “Of all the people you could be outside with, in the cold, pretending it’s not Valentine’s Day—why me?”

He didn’t smirk. Didn’t deflect. “Because you make it feel like a real day,” he said, simple as breath. “Not a charm. Not a performance.”

Her throat ached. The wind tugged at a curl; he reached out and tucked it behind her ear, knuckles grazing her cheekbone. The touch spilled something warm down her spine.

“I shouldn’t… keep asking you to do this,” he added, and there was the shadow again—old fear, old orders. “To make space for me.”

She leaned into him, closing the space herself. “Then don’t ask. Just… take it.”

The sound he made was small and wrecked. His mouth found hers like a secret he had been hoarding, and the cold disappeared. He kissed her like he was careful and not careful, the two urges scrapping quietly until the careful won. Hermione tasted mint and winter and something only him. Her hand slid up his lapel to the heat of his throat; his breath caught. The kiss deepened, unhurried, and that was somehow worse—better—than urgency would have been. It meant something. It laid quiet claim.

When they finally parted, he stayed close, his forehead resting against hers. The lake breathed. The castle watched. The photograph, wedged now in the cuff of her glove, pressed its warm rectangle into her wrist like a pulse.

“Tell me you’ll keep that one,” he said, chin tipping at the picture without moving away from her.

“Only if you stop looking at me like that,” she managed, trying for wry. It came out as a whisper.

“No chance.” The corner of his mouth lifted. “You should know I’m exceptionally bad at doing what I’m told.”

“Shocking news,” she said, but she was smiling, and she felt it settle in her face like it belonged there.

He looked like he might say something else. Whatever it was, he swallowed it, as if the words would be safer for waiting. Instead, he reached down and laced their fingers together, gloved and bare, his thumb rubbing slow circles against the seam of her knuckles.

“Come on,” he murmured after a while, when the cold outside their charm pushed its face against the edge of the warmth. “Before you get sanctimonious about frostbite.”

She tucked the Polaroid inside her jumper, close to the heat of her sternum. “Too late. I was born sanctimonious.”

He laughed under his breath—softer, truer than the drawl he wore for crowds—and got to his feet, not letting go of her hand as he helped her up. They walked back across the lawn through the near-silent snowfall, the castle opening its lit arms to take them in. A lantern blinked overhead as they passed beneath it, and when she glanced sideways, he was already watching her.

She pretended not to notice. He pretended not to care. The night pretended to be only weather and stone and a lake that forgot nothing.

In her dorm later, with the curtains drawn and the castle breathing around her, Hermione slipped the Polaroid into the inner pocket of her robe. The charm had warmed it through; when she pressed it to her palm, the image fluttered gently—just enough to show that they kept laughing.

She closed her eyes and held it there, the heat of it soaking into her skin.

A small, stubborn piece of the day lodged itself in her ribs, less like a thorn than a light.

Hogwarts Library — April 1999

The library had grown warm with spring, the heavy curtains drawn against the fading light, trapping the scent of ink and dust and candle wax in the air. Hermione’s quill hovered above her parchment, but she hadn’t written a line in ten minutes.

Not with Draco sitting across from her, his tie loosened, his sleeves rolled past his elbows. He looked nothing like the boy she’d spent years disliking, but instead like someone new — someone sharper, quieter, his silver eyes darkened with something that made her pulse trip.

His knee brushed hers under the table. Not by accident.

“Granger,” he murmured, the corner of his mouth curling. “You’ve read the same line five times.”

She lifted her chin. “And you’ve been watching me long enough to know that.”

“Guilty.” He leaned forward, voice dropping. “Distracting you is becoming a favourite pastime.”

Her cheeks heated, though she tried to keep her voice even. “You’re insufferable.”

“Mm,” he hummed, smirking now, “and yet you keep coming back here. With me.”

The words landed like a spell. He didn’t look away, didn’t pretend they were anything less than what they were. Her hand tightened on her quill, heart hammering. And then, under the table, his fingers brushed hers — testing, waiting.

Hermione let her quill fall. She slid her hand into his.

By the time Madam Pince closed up, the tension between them was unbearable. In the corridor, Hermione grabbed his sleeve and tugged him into a shadowed alcove. Draco’s mouth was on hers before either of them spoke, the kiss hard and breathless, his hand fisting in her jumper as her fingers tangled in his hair.

There was nothing hesitant anymore. Not since March, not since that night she’d let him into her bed after the crushing grief of her parents’ lost memories. They had crossed the line, and now there was no going back.

Hermione’s Flat — May 1999

Due to all the hurt with losing her parents and being unable to restore, returning to their home was something she didn’t have the strength to face. Hermione found a top-floor flat in West Muggle London that just fit. 

Her flat smelled of tea leaves and books, of the lilac soap she kept by the sink. It was small, tucked above a Muggle bookshop in London, but it felt like a world apart from everything else — a place that was hers, and now, slowly, theirs.

The first time Draco stayed, he’d prowled the narrow rooms like a cat in a strange house, brushing his fingers over her shelves, frowning at the chipped teacups, smirking at the floral curtains.

“It smells like parchment,” he muttered.

Hermione folded her arms. “It smells like home.”

And it did. Especially when he finally settled, sprawled on her sofa, his head tipped back, looking more at ease than she had ever seen him.

The pair spent their weekends away from Hogwarts to grow with one another. They learned each other here. She learned that he hated drafts, that he read potion journals with the same intensity she read Arithmancy essays, that he made the strongest tea she’d ever tasted. He learned that she hummed when she cooked, that she curled toward him in her sleep, that her laugh — when he teased her mercilessly — made his chest ache in ways he couldn’t name.

Nights blurred. Sometimes they didn’t make it to her bed, losing themselves in kisses against the kitchen counter, hands urgent, mouths hungry. Other nights were slower: her body stretched beneath his on the sofa, their movements languid, unhurried, as if memorising each other in the dim lamplight.

One night, tangled together under her blanket, her head on his chest, he whispered it for the first time.

“I love you like this,” he said, lips grazing her collarbone, his voice roughened and bare.

Her breath caught. She looked down at him, her curls tumbling loose, her hand slipping into his hair. She didn’t say the words back, not yet. But the way she kissed him after — slow, reverent, desperate — told him enough.

Hogwarts — June 1999

The end of term loomed, and with it, the end of their bubble. Exams were finished, trunks were half-packed, and the castle felt suspended in a strange kind of farewell.

On the warmest evenings, Hermione found herself wandering down to the Black Lake. The grass was cool beneath her palms, damp with twilight dew, and the water shimmered silver under the fading sun. Somewhere in the trees, the crickets had begun their nightly chorus, blending with the occasional splash of the giant squid.

Draco always found her.

He never announced himself. She’d just feel the grass shift beside her, a shadow lowering into the grass, his presence steady and quiet. Sometimes they didn’t even speak. Their shoulders brushed, their breaths fell into rhythm, and silence became a language of its own.

“Tomorrow,” he said once, his voice barely carrying across the water.

Hermione turned, studying the hard line of his profile against the horizon. “Tomorrow,” she echoed.

It wasn’t just a date on a calendar. It was the unravelling of what they’d built here — their common room evenings, the small rituals of sharing books and sneaking tea into the library, the careful way their hands had learned to find each other. Outside Hogwarts’ stone walls was a world still jagged, still broken, still watching them through narrowed eyes.

Almost without thinking, Hermione reached for him. Her fingers brushed his knuckles — tentative, searching — and he closed his hand over hers without hesitation, firm, steady, grounding her.

And Hermione, heart tight in her chest, let herself believe — just for tonight — that maybe that would be enough.

-

Summer Evenings — Hermione’s Flat

The rhythm continued, as if Hogwarts had simply shifted location. His knock was replaced by the rush of emerald flame in her fireplace, his silhouette stepping out of the grate as he brushed soot from his sleeves. He never came empty-handed — always something: potion texts, parchment scrawled with theories, sometimes food he pretended to have cooked himself.

She would catch sight of the lopsided mess, raise an eyebrow, and with a flick of her wand transfigure it into something edible. He’d smirk, feign outrage, and they’d sit cross-legged on the floor, sharing charmed plates that floated stubbornly when nudged aside.

It wasn’t grand. It wasn’t formal. But it was theirs.

Sometimes, over dinner, his words would quiet, the laughter ebbing into thought. Mentions of his mother. Family expectations. The constant hum of decisions being made in rooms he no longer wanted to enter. He tried to make light of it, but Hermione saw the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers tightened around his glass.

“They’ve started… arranging things again,” he admitted once, eyes flicking to the table as if the words themselves were dangerous. “Plans for my future. My name. As if I don’t already have one.”

She reached for his hand across the plates. “You don’t have to let them.”

His thumb brushed her knuckles, and something like guilt passed through his gaze. “I’m trying not to.”

After that, they’d migrate to the sofa, books and notes sprawled around them, or sometimes to her tiny balcony where they’d sit pressed close, the city hum faint below, the stars faint above. Draco would read aloud from whatever he’d brought, voice rich and low, until her head dipped against his shoulder and her lashes fluttered closed.

And later, always later, it was the bedroom.

The door closing soft. His hands undoing her carefully. His voice rasping low against her skin, speaking things he’d never dare say in daylight. The press of him into her until the rest of the world disappeared — until nothing existed except their tangled breath and the heartbeat-pulse of being alive.

When the world came back into focus, it was quieter. He’d hold her, his hand spread across the small of her back, his breath warm in her hair.

One night, her fingers found his in the dark, curling instinctively around them as if anchoring herself. He squeezed back, their hands fitting together like a secret vow.

“I’ll make it work,” he murmured once, raw, almost as if convincing himself. “Whatever comes. We’ll make it work.”

Hermione closed her eyes, pressing closer, her hand tightening in his. She wanted to believe him. Needed to.

Because here — in her flat, in the fragile little world they’d built from nothing but stubbornness and want — it did feel like they could.

And so she let herself believe.

Hermione’s Flat — December 1999

Snow pressed thick against the windows, frosting the glass into delicate lace. The small bedroom glowed with the soft amber light of the fire she had coaxed into the grate. Compared to Malfoy Manor’s cavernous halls, the space was modest — narrow bookshelves stacked high, a desk scattered with parchment, and a mismatched quilt pulled over her bed. But to Hermione, it was warm. Lived in. Safe.

Draco looked utterly out of place at first glance, shedding his expensive winter cloak at the foot of her bed. Pale hair damp with melted flakes, aristocratic features sharp against the dim light — but when his eyes softened at the sight of her perched cross-legged on the bed, curls loose around her shoulders, he seemed at home.

“You’d rather be here than the Manor,” Hermione teased, tugging at the hem of her oversized jumper.

Draco gave a half-smirk as he sat down beside her, the mattress dipping beneath his weight. “Crookshanks hisses less than my father’s portrait. That’s reason enough.”

Her laugh dissolved into a sharp inhale as his hand slid over her thigh, warm through the wool of her leggings.

“You’re wearing far too many clothes,” he murmured, lips brushing her temple.

“It’s December,” she whispered back, shivering — not from the cold, but from the heat radiating off him.

“I’ll warm you.” His mouth trailed from her temple to her jaw, to the pulse at her neck. “Always do.”

She surrendered easily, letting him tug the jumper up over her head, baring her to his touch. His lips chased the new skin, reverent and hungry at once, while her hands slipped beneath his shirt, nails scraping lightly at the ridges of his stomach. By the time he pushed her leggings down her legs, she was already trembling, arching into him.

They tumbled beneath the quilt, his weight pressing her into the mattress, his mouth finding hers again and again — frantic, unyielding, as though he couldn’t stop reminding himself she was here, that she was his. His fingers tangled in her curls, his hips slotting between her thighs, heat building sharp and steady until she was gasping for him.

When he finally pushed into her, Hermione cried out, clutching his shoulders as her body stretched around him. Draco groaned low into her throat, his thrusts slow at first, then deeper, deliberate — each one like a vow.

“I love you,” he rasped, voice breaking as his forehead pressed to hers. “Do you hear me? I love you.”

Her back arched, nails dragging down his spine. “I love you too,” Hermione gasped, breath catching as he drove into her again. “Merlin, Draco — I love you.”

The words undid him. His rhythm faltered, then surged, a rough, desperate edge overtaking the control he usually held so tightly. Hermione met him thrust for thrust, her cries swallowed by his kisses, her body shattering under the intensity of him.

When she came, it ripped through her in waves, his name spilling from her lips. Draco followed moments later, hips stuttering, a shudder coursing through him as he buried himself deep, groaning against her mouth like he was afraid the world might hear.

After, they lay tangled in sweat and blankets, Hermione’s head on his chest, listening to the steady thud of his heart as though it were proof enough. His fingers traced her spine slowly, like he was committing her to memory.

“You could stay,” she whispered into the fabric of his shirt. “For Christmas. For longer.”

His hand stilled in her hair. He pressed a kiss to her curls, lingering. But the silence stretched too long.

Hermione pulled back enough to look at him. “You don’t want to.”

“It’s not that,” he said softly. His eyes shone in the firelight, unreadable. “It’s… complicated.”

Always that word. Always the shadow.

Her chest tightened. She cupped his jaw, her thumb brushing the line of his cheekbone. “Then promise me one thing.”

“Anything.”

“Don’t lie to me. Not about this. Not about us.”

Draco held her gaze, silver eyes burning. “I swear it. No lies.”

Hermione kissed him again — desperate, aching — trying to seal the vow into his mouth, into his breath, into his very skin.

For a moment, it felt unbreakable.

They stayed tangled together, fire hissing softly in the grate. After a long while, Hermione murmured into the quiet: “If you could do anything — without your family, without expectations — what would you do?”

Draco shifted beneath her, his hand pausing in her curls. His chest rose and fell, like he was weighing how much to admit. “I’d leave the Manor behind. All of it. The obligations, the whispers about what my life should look like.” His jaw tightened. “They think they can map out every step for me, but I don’t want that. I’m trying to stop them, Hermione. Even when it feels like I can’t win.”

Her heart squeezed. “Fight for us?”

His hand tightened slightly at her waist. “Especially for us.” His voice was quiet, but unshakable. “They’ll try to dictate everything — where I go, what I do, who I’m supposed to be. But I don’t want that life. I want something that’s mine. Just mine.”

Hermione kissed his jaw, eyes stinging. “Then that’s enough. As long as you don’t stop fighting.”

“I won’t,” he vowed, almost fierce. “I promise you that.”

The fire crackled. Snow whispered against the glass. For a moment, wrapped in his warmth and the weight of his promise, Hermione let herself believe it might be true.

Hermione’s Flat — January 2000

The city outside was thick with fog, muffling the usual London hum. Lamps glowed dim in the mist, their halos blurred against the windowpanes. Inside Hermione’s flat, the fire snapped and hissed, but the warmth did little to thaw the knot forming low in her chest.

The table was set. Not extravagantly — just two plates, a bottle of red she’d splurged on, candles flickering in brass holders. She had even charmed the stew to stay warm, her mother’s recipe, the one that had always filled their house with the smell of thyme and roasted root vegetables. Comfort in a pot. A homecoming in itself.

She checked the clock on the mantel. Nearly nine.

Draco was late. Again.

Hermione sat curled on the sofa, legs tucked beneath her, still in her day robes. She kept her book open in her lap but hadn’t turned a page in half an hour. Each crack of Apparition outside made her glance at the door. Each time it was nothing.

When the knock finally came, she rose too quickly, the book tumbling to the floor. She opened the door to find him standing there, snow still dusting his coat, his scarf askew like he’d rushed. His hair was damp, his eyes shadowed.

“You’re late,” she said, trying to keep her voice even.

“I know.” He brushed past her into the flat, shaking frost from his sleeves. “I got held up.”

Her eyes followed him. He didn’t kiss her hello. Didn’t reach for her hand. He just moved toward the fire, holding his palms out to the heat.

“I made dinner,” she said quietly.

Draco glanced at the table — untouched stew, still steaming gently under her warming charm. Guilt flickered in his eyes, but he masked it quickly. “I’m not hungry.”

The words landed sharper than he intended. She flinched.

“You used to look forward to this,” Hermione whispered. “To us.”

His jaw tightened. “Don’t start, Hermione. It’s been a long day.”

““Don’t start?” Her voice broke, louder now. “You’re hardly here anymore. And when you are, you’re—” She stopped herself, pressing her lips together. “Distant.”

Draco turned then, eyes flashing silver in the firelight. “Do you think I don’t notice? That I don’t feel the same distance?”

Hermione’s throat tightened. “Then tell me why.”

He exhaled, shoulders sagging, and for a moment she saw something raw in his face — weary, unguarded. His lips parted, as if the truth teetered there.

“I’m trying,” he said quietly. “I don’t want to drag you into—” He cut himself off, jaw tightening. “There are things I can’t… not yet.”

Her eyes burned. “Not yet? That’s always the answer. Always the wall.”

“Hermione.” His gaze darted to hers, sharp and pained. “I haven’t lied.”

“Keeping things from me is the same,” she whispered, her tears stinging hot. “You shut me out, and I’m left wondering if I even matter.”

He reached for her then, hands catching her arms, desperation bleeding into his voice. “You matter more than you know. You’re the only thing that does.”

Her breath hitched. For a moment, she let herself lean into his touch, the warmth of his grip, the sincerity in his eyes.

But the stew on the table still sat untouched. The candles had burned low. And the silence between them felt heavier than any promise

Hermione lay awake in the dark, the stew still sitting cold on the table, the candles burnt down to stubs. She had blown them out after Draco disappeared into the spare room, shutting the door without another word.

She tried to read. Tried to focus on the soft hum of the wireless. But her mind replayed every sharp syllable of their argument, the tightness in Draco’s jaw, the way his voice had cracked when he’d said she was the only thing that mattered.

She hated fighting with him. Not because she thought love should be easy, but because each time they clashed, the fear lodged deeper — the fear that this, too, would unravel. That he would leave.

The door creaked. She looked up. Draco stood in the doorway, his hair mussed, his shirt hanging loose. His eyes were shadowed, but softer now, vulnerable in a way few ever saw.

“I couldn’t sleep,” he said quietly.

“Neither could I.” Her voice was steadier than she felt.

He crossed the room slowly, sitting on the edge of the bed. For a long moment, he didn’t touch her, just stared at his hands, as if weighing something unspoken.

Finally, he reached for her, fingers brushing her cheek. “I hate this,” he whispered. “The distance. The way I shut down. I’m not used to… this.”

“Being honest?” she asked gently.

“Being seen,” he corrected. His thumb stroked her jaw, tentative, as though afraid she’d pull away. “You see too much of me, Granger. The good and the bad. And it terrifies me how much I want you to keep looking.”

Her breath caught. She covered his hand with her own, pressing it to her face. “Then stop pushing me away.”

Something broke in his expression — a crack in the armor he wore too tightly. He leaned in, kissing her with a tenderness that unraveled the last of her anger.

It deepened quickly, urgency sparking between them, all that tension twisting into need. He pushed her back against the pillows, his weight grounding her, his hands mapping her body as if to remind himself she was real, that they were still here.

Her fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, their mouths parting, breaths mingling. His whispers punctured the silence between kisses.

“I need you.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I love you.”

The words weren’t desperate — they were raw, certain, spoken like a vow he was trying to etch into her skin.

Hermione’s tears slipped hot against her temples, but she kissed him harder, pulling him down until there was no space left between them. Until his love wasn’t just words but proof in the way he held her, the way he worshipped her, the way he let himself be undone in her arms.

After, they lay tangled together in the quiet, the fire in the grate burning low. Draco pressed a kiss to her temple, his breath warm in her curls.

“I don’t deserve you,” he murmured.

Hermione tightened her grip on his hand, threading their fingers together. “Then prove me wrong.”

He didn’t answer, but his thumb traced slow circles against her palm, steady and grounding. And for the first time in weeks, Hermione let herself believe they might be finding their way back to each other.

Hope flickered, fragile but alive.

February 2000

 Hermione adjusted her scarf for the third time, her eyes darting to the clock on the mantel. The hands ticked past the quarter-hour, then the half. The fire had burned low, the stew she’d made for them barely touched.

She was already dressed for the evening — a soft burgundy dress that brushed her knees, her curls pinned back in a way that had taken more effort than she wanted to admit. Blaise had chosen the pub, Ginny had insisted they couldn’t cancel again, and Hermione had thought tonight might feel… normal. Solid.

But the other half of that plan still wasn’t here.

The Floo finally roared to life, spitting Draco into the room in a swirl of green flame and soot. His tie was still loose, his hair slightly damp as if he’d only just showered.

“You’re late,” Hermione said, sharper than intended.

Draco brushed ash from his sleeve, unbothered. “I had work.”

“You always have work.” Her arms crossed before she could stop herself. “We were supposed to leave half an hour ago.”

His brow lifted, cool and dismissive, though the twitch in his jaw betrayed him. “What would you have me do, Granger? Walk out in the middle of a meeting? Some of us don’t get to live in a world of books and principles. Some of us have to keep the family name intact.”

Hermione’s stomach tightened. She hated when he weaponised that tone — the one that reminded her he belonged to a world she’d never be fully welcomed into.

Her voice came low, clipped. “Don’t make me feel like I’m the inconvenience here. Not when I’m the one waiting.”

The silence stretched. His eyes met hers — grey, unreadable, hard. Then, after a moment, he exhaled and stepped closer.

“You look beautiful,” he said, voice quieter now. “I didn’t mean—”

Hermione wanted to stay angry. To hold onto it, to demand he acknowledge the patterns she saw forming. But the way he was looking at her — raw around the edges, faintly apologetic — tugged at her resolve.

She sighed, reaching for her cloak. “Just… don’t make a habit of this.”

His lips twitched in a faint smirk. “Wouldn’t dare.”

Hermione stepped closer, her hands smoothing down the lapels of his coat, her touch gentler now. “I shouldn’t have snapped,” she said quietly. “I just… wanted tonight to go well.”

His eyes softened, a flicker of something warmer breaking through the grey. Before he could respond, she rose onto her toes and kissed him. It was brief, tentative, but steady — a peace offering.

Draco inhaled sharply, his hand finding the small of her back, holding her there a heartbeat longer than the kiss itself. When they parted, his forehead rested against hers for a moment.

“You’re infuriating,” he murmured.

“And you’re late,” she replied, lips curving despite herself.

A shadow of a smirk tugged at his mouth. He straightened, finally meeting her gaze properly. “Let’s not keep Blaise and Ginny waiting, then.”

Hermione looped her arm through his. The tension wasn’t gone — not really — but for now, it was patched over, smoothed into something bearable.

They stepped toward the Floo together. And as the green flames flared around them, Hermione held onto the fragile sense of hope the kiss had sparked, even as unease lingered just beneath her ribs.

The Floo flared green and spat them into the Lamb & Flag, soot brushing across Hermione’s sleeve. The pub was warm and crowded, the low ceiling trapping the scent of roasted meat, hops, and the faint burn of firewhisky. Lanterns hovered lazily above the tables, spilling shifting gold across the oak beams.

Hermione smoothed her dress with one hand, Draco’s steadying touch ghosting at the small of her back as they stepped clear of the grate. The knot in her chest tightened, though she forced a smile when she spotted Blaise waving them over.

He and Ginny sat in a corner booth, cheeks flushed from the heat of the pub and from something else — a brightness, a fullness, Hermione couldn’t quite place until Blaise leaned forward with a grin that was smug and soft at once.

“We wanted to tell you first,” Ginny said, eyes flicking to Blaise’s before returning to Hermione and Draco. Her voice was warm but trembling with contained excitement. “We’re engaged.”

Hermione’s breath caught. “Engaged?”

Ginny nodded, her braid slipping over one shoulder as Blaise slid his arm around her, pulling her close. “Last night. He asked.”

“Three times,” Blaise added with mock indignation, earning another laugh and swat from Ginny. “Technically five if you count the false starts.”

Hermione’s lips parted around a shaky laugh, but the sound snagged in her throat. “That’s… wonderful. Congratulations, both of you.” She meant it, she really did, but beneath the warmth was a pang sharp enough to steal her breath.

Beside her, Draco’s jaw was taut. His nod was polite, clipped. “I’m happy for you.”

Blaise smirked faintly. “Try to sound it, mate.”

Ginny leaned across the table, catching Hermione’s hand briefly. “Winter wedding. We are thinking December. Small, just family and friends.”

“That sounds perfect,” Hermione said, her smile soft but distant.

The four of them raised their glasses. The clink of crystal rang clear in the thick pub air. Hermione took a sip, the wine sharp on her tongue, and tried not to see the way Blaise kissed Ginny’s temple without thinking, how easily their joy filled the space between them.

Conversation drifted, Ginny talking about quidditch training practice and Blaise ribbing Draco about missing meeting with him and Theo. Hermione kept her smile in place, but her mind snagged on the silence beside her. Draco swirled his wine, gaze fixed on the dark liquid as if it held answers he couldn’t voice.

Halfway through the meal, Blaise leaned back, eyes narrowing slightly. “You two look like you’ve been hexed into awkward silence.”

Hermione forced a chuckle. “Long week.”

Draco said nothing.

Ginny glanced between them, her smile dimming. “It doesn’t have to be hard, you know.”

Hermione felt the words like a stone dropped into her stomach. She set her fork down, her appetite gone.

Draco’s voice came low, meant only for her. “You’re comparing again.”

Hermione’s gaze flicked to Blaise brushing crumbs from Ginny’s cheek, her heart tightening. “And if I am?”

His reply was sharp, defensive. “We’re not them. We never will be.”

Her breath wavered, but her voice stayed steady. “Maybe I just want to feel like we’re on the same side.”

Their eyes held — his silver, sharp; hers golden, wounded. Whatever words hovered between them dissolved when Blaise cracked another joke and Ginny’s laughter spilled over the table, warm and bright.

The rest of the evening blurred. Hermione laughed when it was expected, joined in the toast to Ginny and Blaise, even managed to compliment the roast lamb despite barely tasting it. But her stomach knotted tighter with every casual brush of Draco’s hand that didn’t linger, every glance that slid past her instead of meeting her eyes.

By the time they stepped back out into the cool spring night, Hermione’s cheeks ached from the effort of pretending. The London air smelled of rain and chimney smoke, damp cobblestones glistening under the lamplight. Ginny and Blaise disappeared down a side street, hands twined, laughter echoing behind them.

Hermione and Draco walked in silence. Their footsteps echoed against stone, the only sound between them. Hermione folded her arms across her chest, trying to hold herself together.

Finally, she broke it. “You didn’t have to look like you were being tortured in there.”

Draco’s reply was clipped. “I’m glad for them. I said as much.”

“You nodded once and spent the rest of the night brooding into your wine.”

His jaw tightened. “And you kept staring at them like we were supposed to perform the same act.”

Hermione stopped, turning to face him. The lamplight caught on her curls, casting a golden halo that felt painfully at odds with the sharpness in her eyes. “It wasn’t an act. It was real. What they have — it’s what I thought we…” Her voice faltered, but she pushed through. “I just wanted to feel like we weren’t falling apart in front of everyone.”

For a moment, neither spoke. The night pressed heavy around them. Then Draco’s shoulders dropped, the tension leaving him all at once. He stepped forward, cupping her cheek in his hand, his thumb brushing against her skin.

“You drive me mad, Granger,” he said softly. “But I don’t want anyone else. Not then. Not now.”

Her throat closed. The sharp edges of her anger dulled, melting into something more fragile. She caught his wrist, holding him there, and whispered, “Then prove it. To me. Not to them. Just… to me.”

He kissed her then, sudden and certain, all silver heat and soft desperation. The world narrowed to the press of his mouth, the taste of wine still lingering on his tongue, the way his hands drew her closer like he was afraid she might slip through his fingers if he let go.

By the time they reached her flat, neither had spoken another word. Clothes fell away in the dark, her back pressed to the cool plaster wall, his breath ragged against her neck. It wasn’t rushed — it was aching, tender, threaded with the unspoken plea that maybe this could still be enough.

Later, tangled in the sheets with the glow of the fire painting his skin in shades of bronze, Draco whispered into her hair, “I love you.”

Hermione’s breath caught. For a heartbeat, the words seemed to still the entire room. She pressed her palm flat against his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heart beneath her hand.

“I love you too,” she whispered back, the words fragile but certain, carrying every ounce of hope she still had left in her.

He pulled her closer, burying his face in her curls as though the world outside didn’t exist. And for a little while, in the fragile quiet of her flat, it felt possible. The fissures between them seemed to shrink, replaced by warmth and the weight of promises.

But as Hermione drifted into sleep, her cheek against his chest, some part of her still wondered whether love — whispered in the dark — would be enough to carry them through the light of day.

The fissure remained, unseen by anyone else, but Hermione felt it splitting wider with every passing second

Theo and Harry’s Flat — May 2000

The warmth of the day clung to the air inside Theo and Harry’s third-floor flat, despite the wide-open windows and the lilac breeze drifting in from the street below. Their home smelled faintly of rosemary and smoke from the kitchen fire, and everywhere Hermione looked were signs of their mismatched but happy life together — stacks of books leaning against walls, dried herbs tied with twine hanging from the rafters, candle wax melted into uneven pools on the mantle.

Hermione stepped out of the Floo, brushing soot from her sleeve, Draco right behind her. The familiar voices of their friends carried from the sitting room — laughter threaded with something lighter, brighter than she expected.

And then Hermione heard it: a voice she didn’t recognise. Lilting, refined, with a soft French cadence.

“Incredible, truly. You’ve made this place into a home.”

Hermione and Draco exchanged a glance. She adjusted her sleeve, heartbeat picking up, and followed the sound.

Theo was sprawled luxuriously across a velvet settee, gesturing animatedly with a glass in his hand. Opposite him sat a young woman with sleek dark hair and a posture too polished for the chaos around her. She wore pale blue robes trimmed in silver, her smile soft and easy. She looked as if she belonged, even here.

“Hermione,” Theo said, springing upright. “Finally. And Draco. Excellent. We’re all here.”

The woman rose gracefully to her feet, extending her hand with a warm smile. “You must be Hermione. I’ve heard so much.”

Hermione blinked, taking the hand automatically. It was cool, steady, elegant. “And you are?”

“Astoria Greengrass,” she replied, her French lilt subtle but unmistakable.

Hermione’s chest tightened faintly at the name, though she masked it quickly. “You went to Beauxbatons, didn’t you?”

Astoria nodded, her smile never faltering. “Oui. I’m back for a time, visiting family. And Theo, of course.”

Hermione forced a small laugh. “Of course.”

Astoria looked over to Draco, a look that made Hermione feel uneasy, as they greeted each other with familiarities like they had met before. She said nothing. 

Harry appeared from the kitchen, tray balanced precariously in his hands. “And here she is. Hermione, Draco — grab a seat before Theo tries to rope Astoria into surrogacy duties she hasn’t agreed to yet.”

Theo lifted his glass again. “I’m only being practical. If anyone’s going to give us a ridiculously beautiful magical baby, it’s her.”

Astoria rolled her eyes but laughed, the sound delicate and unbothered. “There has been no decision,” she said, amused. “We are only… discussing possibilities.”

Harry set the tray down with a snort. “Discussing, he calls it. More like daydreaming.” He leaned against the wall, eyes warm, a faint blush in his cheeks.

Hermione smiled, though her stomach twisted faintly. “Surrogacy?” she asked, cautious but curious.

Harry nodded, his voice steadier now. “Eventually. By the end of the year, maybe. We want to do it right.”

Theo beamed at him. “Which we will. Together.”

The air in the flat was warm, laughter bubbling up again. Hermione managed a genuine smile, her heart softening at the sight of them — the way Theo’s hand brushed Harry’s, the way Harry leaned into him with unconscious ease. This was what building a life together looked like.

The conversation drifted to lighter things. Theo suggested outrageous baby names, Harry vetoed each one, Astoria sipped her cordial with quiet amusement. Hermione tried to join in, but her mind was elsewhere, her focus snagged on that flicker of familiarity between Draco and Astoria.

When the others slipped into the kitchen to fetch more drinks, Hermione leaned close, voice low. “She greeted you like it wasn’t the first time.”

Draco’s brow furrowed. “What?”

“She knew you. Before tonight.”

A pause. Too long. She pushed to the back of her mind.

“We crossed paths last week,” he admitted finally. “Theo wanted me involved in the surrogacy discussion. I didn’t think it mattered.”

Hermione stared at him, unsettled but trying not to let it show. “It mattered to me.”

He rubbed a hand along his jaw, looking suddenly older, more tired. “Hermione, there’s nothing going on. Don’t make it more than it is.”

She studied him for a long moment, searching for cracks in the calm mask he wore. “You’re very good at deciding what I should or shouldn’t worry about.”

He turned toward her fully, his expression unreadable, shadowed. “I’ll fix this. I promise.”

Hermione stared at him, the noise of laughter drifting from the kitchen. For a long moment, she said nothing. The space between them stretched thin, fragile.

And though Draco’s hand brushed hers beneath the cushion, she couldn’t shake the feeling that something essential had already begun to slip.

__

The rain had stopped, leaving the London streets slick and shining beneath the glow of lamplight. Hermione walked beside Draco in silence, her coat wrapped tight around her, her mind still knotted from the evening. Inside Theo and Harry’s flat there had been laughter, warmth, plans for the future — but Hermione had felt like an intruder in it all, as though she were standing on the outside of glass.

Draco walked with his hands shoved in his pockets, his cloak pulled close against the damp. For a long while, neither spoke. The soft hiss of carriage wheels and the occasional bark of a dog were the only interruptions to their silence.

When they reached her flat, Hermione’s hand faltered at the lock. She hesitated, her chest tight. Draco reached out, his fingers brushing hers as he took the key gently from her hand. “Here,” he murmured, his voice quiet in the damp air.

The door swung open. Inside, the small space smelled of parchment, tea, and lavender. Hermione shrugged off her coat, dropping it over the sofa. She sat down heavily, curling her knees against her chest.

Draco lingered in the doorway for a moment before crossing the room, lowering himself onto the cushion beside her. The fire in the grate had long since gone cold, leaving the flat dim and hushed.

“You were quiet tonight,” he said softly.

Hermione gave a faint, humourless laugh. “So were you.”

He tilted his head, studying her with that sharp, assessing gaze that always made her feel both seen and scrutinised. “What’s on your mind?”

She looked down at her knees, her throat tight. “Astoria,” she admitted, the name slipping out before she could stop herself. “She’s… she’s beautiful. And polished. The kind of woman people expect at your side.”

For a heartbeat, there was silence. Then Draco reached for her hand, untangling it gently from her knee. His touch was warm, steady.

“You think I care about that?” he asked, his voice rough but certain.

Hermione swallowed hard. “Don’t you? You’ve grown up with people like her. Girls who glide through ballrooms and wear the right smiles. I’ll never be—”

Draco’s grip tightened. “Stop.” His eyes held hers, grey burning with an intensity that made her breath catch. “You’re the one I come home with, Hermione. You’re the one who knows me. The only one who’s ever dared to push me and still stay.”

Her chest tightened painfully. “You make it sound simple.”

“It is,” he said, quieter now, his thumb brushing over her knuckles. “More than you think.”

For a long moment, neither of them moved. Then Hermione leaned into him, resting her head against his shoulder. He slipped his arm around her without hesitation, holding her close.

The room was silent except for the sound of their breathing, the weight of her doubts slowly easing beneath the steady warmth of his touch.

She closed her eyes, not quite believing him, but wanting to.

Needing to.

The evening passed slowly as the fire in Hermione’s flat crackled back to life, casting a soft amber glow across the room. The weight of the evening still pressed heavy on her chest, and she found herself moving slowly, as if every gesture took more strength than she had.

Draco noticed.

“Come on,” he said quietly, standing from the sofa and offering her his hand. “You’re exhausted.”

Hermione hesitated, but allowed him to lead her to the bedroom. She felt raw, stripped open by her own admission of insecurity. But Draco, for once, didn’t press her to talk. He just moved with a kind of calm steadiness that made her feel — against her better judgment — safe.

In her small bedroom, the shadows felt softer. Draco reached for the clasp of her cloak, his fingers deft but unhurried as he loosened it from her shoulders. When she fumbled with the buttons of her jumper, he stilled her hands gently and worked them loose himself, careful, almost reverent.

“This isn’t necessary,” she whispered, though her voice lacked conviction.

“Maybe not,” he murmured, folding the jumper neatly over the chair instead of tossing it aside. “But let me, Granger.”

His hands were sure but not possessive, not coaxing desire but simply offering care. He eased her down onto the edge of the bed, tugged the blanket back, and waited until she slid beneath it before pulling it snug around her shoulders.

For a moment, his expression shifted — something tender, almost pained. He didn’t speak immediately. Instead, he brushed a curl gently back from her forehead and pressed the lightest touch of his fingers against her temple, as if memorising her.

“You’re impossible sometimes,” he said softly, his lips quirking in the barest smile. “But don’t ever doubt where I stand when it comes to you.”

Hermione’s chest tightened. She wanted to believe him. She needed to.

He leaned back, shedding his own outer robes before settling on top of the covers beside her. Not close enough to crowd her, but close enough that she could feel the warmth radiating from his body.

In the quiet, her breathing evened out, slow and heavy. She was nearly asleep when she felt his hand graze hers beneath the blanket, tentative but steady, and then their fingers intertwined.

Hermione blinked up at him, throat aching. “Why are you always like this? You make me think…” She faltered, unable to finish.

“Think what?” he prompted, his voice low, almost careful.

“That maybe we really could last,” she whispered, the confession spilling before she could stop it.

Something flickered in his expression — surprise, yes, but also a softness he rarely let anyone see. He leaned closer, brushing a curl away from her face. “Then don’t waste your time doubting it,” he said, quiet but certain. “We will.”

Her chest tightened, but this time not with fear. She nodded, small but firm, letting the words sink into her like a balm. For tonight, she chose to believe him.

When he slid beneath the covers beside her — still in his shirt, still a deliberate distance away — Hermione shifted closer until her head rested against his shoulder. His arm went around her instinctively, pulling her nearer.

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy anymore. It was warm, safe, threaded with a fragile kind of hope.

She let her eyes fall shut, her last thought before sleep the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath her cheek, and the way it made her feel like she belonged exactly where she was.

Hermione’s Flat – June 2000

The summer night clung warm and heavy to London, the open window letting in the hum of the city below — the faint hiss of car tyres on wet streets, the occasional burst of laughter drifting up from a pub. Hermione’s small flat glowed with candlelight, the soft flicker turning the stacks of books and parchment into warm silhouettes.

Draco sat sprawled on her sofa, shirt unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled up, his hair falling loose around his temples. He looked more relaxed here than anywhere else — no stiff posture, no Manor shadows. Just him.

Hermione hovered in the doorway for a moment, watching him, nerves fluttering low in her stomach. Beneath her robe, silk brushed her skin — deep green, chosen deliberately. His colour. His house. Something that said: I know you, and I want you to see me.

“Stop staring,” Draco said without looking up, his voice lazy but threaded with amusement.

“Birthday boys don’t get to complain,” she countered, stepping into the room with a small, carefully wrapped box in her hands.

He arched a brow as she crossed to him, silver eyes flicking with curiosity. “What’s this?”

“Your present.” She pressed it into his hands before she lost her nerve.

He unwrapped it slowly — her precise corners and neat folds giving way to brass gleam. The compact set of scales caught the candlelight, elegant and precise. Beneath it lay a slim leather-bound notebook, his initials embossed in gold.

“For your work,” Hermione said softly. “For when it’s yours. Not your father’s. Not the family name. Just Draco Malfoy.”

Something in his expression broke. He stared at the scales for a long moment, his throat working before he managed, “Hermione…” His voice was hoarse. “No one’s ever—” He cut himself off, jaw tight, eyes flashing with something raw. “I love it.”

Relief bloomed in her chest — and then, before she could say anything, he was on his feet. The gift slipped onto the table, forgotten, as his mouth crashed onto hers.

Hermione gasped, the sound swallowed by the heat of his kiss. His hands framed her face, desperate, almost reverent, before sliding down to catch at the knot of her robe. With one sharp tug, silk spilled to the floor, and his breath hitched.

Green silk clung to her body, delicate straps, lace that hinted more than it covered. For a heartbeat, neither of them moved.

“Fuck,” Draco whispered, voice rough as gravel. “You’re trying to kill me.”

Her lips curved. “Consider it part of your present.”

That broke him. He lifted her easily, her legs wrapping around his waist as he carried her through the narrow hallway, bumping into the wall with a muffled laugh before setting her down on the bed. The mattress dipped beneath their weight, his body pressing hers into the sheets, mouth devouring hers like he couldn’t get enough.

Clothes vanished in a blur — his shirt discarded, trousers shoved aside, the green silk slipping from her shoulders until it pooled around her waist. His hands roamed everywhere, mapping skin he already knew by heart but worshipping it like it was the first time.

“You undo me,” he muttered against her throat, biting gently, sucking until she gasped. “Every bloody time.”

“Then don’t stop,” she whispered, arching into him, her nails dragging down his back.

His mouth trailed lower, teeth grazing her nipple before his tongue soothed the sting, and Hermione cried out, clutching his hair. His hand slid between her thighs, fingers stroking slow, deliberate, until she was trembling, breathless, begging.

Draco’s fingers slowed, resting warm against her skin, but his face shifted — that softness giving way to something heavier. He lifted his head, silver eyes searching hers.

“There are things I should tell you,” he said, voice low, frayed at the edges. “About my family. About what they expect of me. I don’t want it, Hermione — any of it. I’ll fight it, every bloody step, but you need to know—”

She pressed her hand to his mouth, cutting him off. Her eyes were bright, chest heaving. “Not tonight,” she whispered. “It’s your birthday, Draco. Just… let it wait for one night.”

He froze, torn between relief and frustration, then kissed her palm like a vow before pulling it away. His mouth crashed back onto hers, the weight of his confession left unsaid, buried under the urgency of her body against his.

“Have I told you how much I love you?” he gasped as he slid into her, the words tumbling out unguarded.

“Yes,” Hermione moaned, arching to meet him. Her hands clutched at his shoulders, nails biting deep. “But tell me again.”

“I love you,” Draco said, over and over, with every thrust, his forehead pressed to hers, breath shuddering hot against her lips. 

When he finally pushed into her, it was deep and steady, filling her completely. Hermione gasped, clutching at him, their foreheads pressed together, breaths ragged. Every thrust was deliberate, as though he wanted to memorise the shape of her, brand himself into her bones.

“Look at me,” he demanded, and when she did, the intensity of his gaze nearly undid her. “Mine.”

“Yes,” she breathed, her voice breaking. “Yours.”

The rhythm built, bodies slick with sweat, the air filled with her gasps, his curses, the creak of the bed. Pleasure snapped through her, hot and blinding, her body clenching tight around him. Draco groaned her name, spilling into her with a shudder, his mouth capturing hers as though he could fuse them together.

They collapsed into the tangle of sheets, bodies heavy, limbs entwined. For a long moment, silence reigned, save for the hammering of their hearts.

Draco brushed damp curls from her forehead, his lips ghosting her temple. “I don’t deserve you,” he murmured, voice still unsteady.

“Maybe not,” she whispered back, tracing idle circles over his chest. “But you’re mine anyway.”

His arm tightened around her, pulling her close until she was half-sprawled across him. The green silk was still tangled around her hips, a reminder of how deliberate this night had been.

Later, when the candles had burned low and the air smelled of sweat and wax and something sweeter, Hermione curled against him, voice quiet. “Do you ever think about what comes next?”

He hummed, his fingers idly stroking her arm. “All the time. Potions. My own work. A company with my name on the vials.”

She smiled faintly, eyes heavy. “You’ll do it. I know you will.”

“And you?”

Her throat tightened. “Travelling. Somewhere far. Somewhere new.”

He stilled, his hand pausing mid-stroke, before he pressed a kiss into her hair. “Wherever you go, you’ll be extraordinary.”

And for that night — in the heat of June, wrapped in him, still tasting his words on her lips — Hermione let herself believe it.

Late June 2000 

The air was thick with the smell of rain through the open window when the owl dropped the magazine onto her kitchen table. Hermione didn’t even glance at it at first, distracted by the simmering kettle and the stack of parchment she’d been working through.

But then the pink script caught her eye.

Witch Weekly.

She hadn’t subscribed in years.

Her hand hovered before she opened it — before the photograph slapped the breath from her lungs.

Draco. In formal black robes. Astoria Greengrass at his side, her hand looped delicately through his arm. The two of them looked polished. Composed. Like they belonged together.

The headline burned.

Sacred Bonds: Malfoy–Greengrass Engagement Announced.

Hermione’s pulse roared in her ears. She didn’t breathe until the knock came.

She didn’t need to check who it was.

Draco stood in the doorway, damp from the drizzle, his tie loosened, expression grim. His grey eyes darted to the magazine still clenched in her hand.

“Granger—”

“Congratulations.” Her voice was sharp as glass. She shoved the cover at him like a blade. “It seems you’re getting married.”

He flinched, stepping inside before she could slam the door. “It’s not what it looks like—”

“Oh, please,” she snapped, pacing back toward the table. “What part isn’t what it looks like? The part where your family parades you around on Astoria’s arm? Or the part where I find out about your engagement from Witch Weekly instead of the man I—” She cut herself off, breath jagged.

Draco dragged a hand down his face. “I didn’t agree to this. I swear, Hermione — I didn’t even know until last night. My mother and the Greengrasses went behind my back. It’s political — a merger, a name-cleansing exercise, I don’t even—”

“But you knew they wanted this!” Hermione’s voice cracked. “You knew, and you didn’t tell me.”

“I thought it was talk — nothing more,” he said, desperate. “They’ve been scheming for months, trying to box me in, but I never consented. I didn’t even know they’d planned a public announcement — it was leaked without me—”

“When.”

Her voice was low, trembling, dangerous.

“When. Did. You. Know?”

Draco froze, throat working. “My birthday,” he said finally, voice breaking. “I found out that morning. You said you wanted one night where the rest of the world didn’t matter — and Merlin, I wanted to give you that. I wanted to forget all of it. Just for a few hours.”

Hermione’s breath stuttered, fury and heartbreak twisting through her all at once. “So you knew,” she whispered. “You knew — and you came here anyway.”

He flinched. “I didn’t want to lose you before I’d even had the chance to tell you—”

“When were you going to tell me, then?” she cut in, voice rising to a sharp edge. “After you picked out your wedding robes? Or were you planning to keep shagging me until the bridal shower?”

Draco recoiled as if struck. “Don’t do that—”

“Don’t what?” She advanced on him, eyes blazing. “Don’t act like a woman who’s just realised every touch, every word, every promise was nothing but lies?”

His chest rose and fell sharply. “It wasn’t a lie,” Draco said desperately. He reached for her, but she jerked back. “Hermione, that night — your gift, the green silk, you telling me it was mine, I love you — that was real. That was the truest thing I’ve ever had. I swear it.”

Her laugh was bitter, hollow. “Real? You call this real? Keeping me in the dark while your family pens your future for you? While you stand beside her at Harry and Theo’s like it meant nothing?”

He looked pained, shaking his head quickly. “That night — I didn’t know she’d be there. I only knew her from charity events, from her parents — I swear to you, I didn’t know, Hermione. If I had—”

“You didn’t have to know to warn me,” she said, voice trembling. “You could’ve told me what they were planning. You could’ve told me the truth.”

“I was trying to protect you.”

“No,” she spat. “You were trying to protect yourself.”

The words landed heavy, final.

Draco’s jaw worked, his eyes frantic, desperate. “I love you. That hasn’t changed.”

Hermione shook her head, chest heaving. “If you loved me, you would have trusted me. You would have told me before Witch Weekly did. You would have fought for me instead of hiding behind your name.”

“Hermione—” He stepped closer, voice rough. “Don’t erase us. Don’t erase what we had. That night — your birthday gift — it was the only time in my life I felt free. Don’t take that from me.”

Her throat tightened, but she forced the words out like steel. “You took it from yourself.”

Silence fell, thick and suffocating.

Then a lamp exploded on the side table, shards flying. Books tumbled from shelves as if shoved by invisible hands. The kettle shrieked and burst, scalding water hissing across the counter. Wordless magic pulsed through the room like a storm, raw and furious, until the very walls seemed to shake.

Hermione stood in the centre of it, fists clenched, tears streaking her cheeks, but her gaze never wavered from his.

Draco finally stepped back, colour drained from his face.

The silence after the chaos was deafening.

He swallowed hard, eyes flicking once more to her—to the woman he’d just lost. Then, slowly, he turned and left, the door closing with a hollow click behind him.

Hermione sagged to the floor, the magazine still crumpled in her fist. The flat smelled of smoke and steam and broken promises.

The only sound left was the rain against the window.

Hermione’s Flat — July 2000

The days blurred.

Morning light would spill weakly through the curtains, dust motes drifting in the still air, but Hermione rarely noticed. She moved through her flat like a ghost — making tea she never drank, writing half-sentences she never finished.

The box sat in the corner of the living room. She couldn’t bring herself to throw it out, but she couldn’t open it either. His things — a scarf he’d left draped over her chair, a book with his neat scrawl in the margins, a half-empty bottle of cologne — all contained in a single wooden chest that seemed to pulse whenever her eyes slid toward it.

At night, she would curl on the sofa with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders, staring at it until exhaustion dragged her under. Sometimes she thought she smelled him — smoke, pine, something darker. Sometimes she swore she heard his voice in the silence.

But she didn’t move it.

Didn’t touch it.

Didn’t dare.

The outside world went on without her. She ignored owls from Harry, polite knocks from Ginny, invitations folded neatly into the post. Even Crookshanks seemed to watch her with quiet disapproval, curling at her feet with a low, restless purr.

When she did leave the flat, it was only to pick up food, to pretend for a moment she was normal. But the moment she stepped back inside, the air thickened again — stagnant, heavy, laced with memory.

By mid-August, the flat was spotless. Hermione had scrubbed every surface, rearranged every shelf, alphabetised every book. But still the box sat there. Untouched.

Mocking her.

One evening, she sat cross-legged on the rug, staring at it with a glass of wine clutched too tightly in her hand. The words she’d shouted at him replayed in her head like a curse.

After you picked out your wedding robes? Or were you planning to keep shagging me until the bridal shower?

Her chest burned. She tipped back the glass, finishing it in one swallow, and pressed her fist hard against her mouth to keep from crying out loud.

The knock startled her.

Hermione didn’t move. Not at first. But the second knock was louder, followed by a muffled voice she knew too well.

“’Mione, open up.”

Ron.

She dragged herself up, wiping her face with the back of her sleeve, and cracked the door — only to blink in surprise. Blaise Zabini stood just behind Ron, arms crossed, expression unreadable but eyes sharp.

Ron arched a brow. “Told you she’d answer for me.”

Blaise smirked faintly. “Or maybe she just didn’t expect to see both of us looking like the bleeding Welcome Committee.”

Hermione swallowed hard, stepping back automatically as they let themselves in. The flat suddenly felt too small with the two of them filling it.

Ron’s eyes swept the room — the wine glass on the table, the scattered papers, the magazine splayed open. His jaw tightened. “Bloody hell, ’Mione.”

Blaise bent, picked up Witch Weekly, and set it neatly on the counter. His movements were smooth, deliberate, but when he turned back to her, his gaze was piercing. “This—” he tapped the cover once, softly “—isn’t the whole truth. You know that.”

Hermione bristled, throat tight. “It’s enough.”

Ron crossed his arms, shaking his head. “No, it’s bollocks. What’s enough is you eating something that isn’t tea and wine, and opening the curtains before you turn into a vampire.”

Despite herself, Hermione let out a strangled laugh. Blaise’s smirk widened slightly. “He’s right. Though Merlin help me for agreeing with Weasley.”

“Oi,” Ron shot back. “I can still hex you, marrying my sister or not.”

Hermione pressed her hands to her temples. “Why are you both here?”

“Because,” Blaise said smoothly, “you’ve been hiding away for weeks. And even I can’t watch this from a distance anymore.”

Ron’s voice softened then, cutting through the tension. “We’re worried about you, ’Mione. That git might’ve broken his promises, but you don’t get to break yourself over it.”

Hermione’s breath caught, tears threatening again. “He promised me honesty,” she whispered. “That was all I ever asked for. And he—he—”

Her voice fractured.

Blaise stepped closer, his tone quieter, steadier. “He’s an idiot. And he’s paying for it, more than you think.”

Ron wrapped an awkward but firm arm around her shoulders, pulling her into his side. “Still doesn’t excuse it. But you’ve got us. All of us. Even him, if you ever decide you want to forgive the bastard. But until then…” He squeezed her once. “You’ve got me. You’ve got us.”

Hermione let out a shaky laugh through her tears. “You two are an odd pair.”

Ron grinned. “You love it.”

Blaise smirked, smoothing a crease from his sleeve. “Admit it, Granger. It’s comforting.”

Ron muttered something about “herbology experiments gone wrong” as he carried the abandoned wine glasses into the kitchen. The sound of the tap running filled the small space, leaving Blaise and Hermione in a pocket of quiet.

He was leaning against the back of her armchair, one hand in his pocket, the other idly trailing over the worn fabric as if cataloguing every detail of her space. His gaze flicked to the box in the corner, lingered a moment too long, then slid back to her.

“You kept his things,” Blaise said simply. Not judgment. Just fact.

Hermione swallowed. “I couldn’t—” She broke off, shook her head. “I just couldn’t.”

He nodded, like that was exactly what he expected her to say. Then, more quietly: “You still love him.”

The words hit like a blow, sharp but not cruel. Hermione blinked hard, clutching the hem of her sleeve. “Does it matter?”

“Of course it matters.” Blaise’s tone was infuriatingly calm, like he was discussing the weather. “It’s why this hurts so much. And why you’re sitting here with that magazine like it’s a lifeline instead of the knife it is.”

Hermione’s throat tightened. “He lied to me.”

“Yes.” Blaise’s eyes softened, just slightly. “And he’ll be living with that mistake longer than you realise.”

She looked away, blinking rapidly at the floor. “Why are you even telling me this? You’re his friend.”

“I’m yours too,” Blaise replied smoothly. “And I’ve never believed loyalty meant silence. If you think he doesn’t still look at you like you’re the only one in the room—well, then you’re blinder than I thought.”

Her breath caught. She pressed her palms against her knees, grounding herself. “Don’t give me hope, Blaise.”

For once, his smirk faltered. “I’m not giving you hope. I’m giving you the truth. What you do with it is yours.”

The clatter of mugs interrupted them, Ron calling out, “Found the biscuits! They’re stale, but edible.”

Blaise straightened, smoothing his sleeve with a flick. “Come on then, Granger. Let’s see if Weasley’s tea is as bad as it was at Hogwarts.”

Hermione let out the smallest laugh, shaky but real, and rose from the chair.

Ron’s laughter and Blaise’s smooth baritone faded with memory, until the flat was quiet again. The kettle whistled faintly in the kitchen, and Hermione realised she hadn’t moved for several minutes, her body still heavy with the weight of recollection.

It was March 2004. Years had passed since that night when Blaise carried the box away, Ron cracking jokes to keep her from shattering completely. Every last shirt, book, and trinket was gone. She had nothing of Draco’s left in her possession.

Except for two things.

The Polaroid. And the letter.

Hermione pulled the photograph from her beaded bag, the edges slightly frayed with time. The image still glowed faintly with its preservation charm: her and Draco caught mid-laugh, their cheeks pressed together, her curls wild across his shoulder. His arm curved possessively around her waist, his smile unguarded in a way few had ever seen.

She shouldn’t have kept it. She’d told herself dozens of times over the years to burn it, to let it go. But every attempt had faltered. And so it had followed her — from London, to New York, and back again.

Her thumb traced the photograph’s glossy surface, and her throat tightened.

If he’d only told her back then — really told her — not in riddles or half-truths, not with that careful restraint he mistook for protection. If he’d just let her see the whole of it — the pressure, the expectations, the quiet negotiations that tried to script his future without him — she might have understood. They could have fought it together. But instead, he had folded into silence, and she’d been left standing in the wreckage of what neither of them had said.

And still, after everything, she couldn’t shut it off — the part of her that loved him. Time and distance hadn’t dimmed it, only reshaped it into something quieter, heavier. A kind of ache that lived beneath the surface of everything she did.

She set the Polaroid down, but her hand lingered before she finally opened the drawer of her desk. Inside, beneath layers of parchment, lay an envelope — untouched, unopened, the parchment slightly yellowed with time.

Her name, written in his handwriting.

Hermione’s chest ached as she brushed her fingers across the seal, still intact. She had carried it for years like a curse and a comfort. Whatever was inside could break her all over again. Or free her. She didn’t know which.

And that was why she had never read it.

The fire sputtered in the grate, the silence of the flat pressing against her ribs. She leaned back in her chair, eyes slipping shut for a moment, the unopened letter heavy in her hand.

So much time had passed. And still, a single photograph had undone everything she tried to forget.

Chapter Text

Draco Malfoy’s Perspective

Godric’s Hallow

April 2004

The air hit him the moment he Apparated: crisp and April-cold, tinged with tilled earth and the faint sweetness of early blooms. The Potters’ house sat quiet under a pale dusk, chimney smoke curling upward like the steady rhythm of domestic life. Through the window, lamplight flickered — a warm, living pulse that had no business belonging to him, yet tonight, he was part of it.

He stepped up the cobbled path and raised his hand to knock, but the door opened first.

“The man of the hour,” Theo announced, grinning as he leaned against the frame. “Just in time for your evening of chaos and crumbs.”

Draco arched a brow. “You make it sound like a punishment.”

“Oh, it absolutely is,” Blaise said smoothly from behind him, coat already on. “We’re leaving you with two small humans and a kitchen stocked with sugar. Consider it penance.”

Ginny appeared, cloak in hand, laughter soft but tired. “You’ll be fine. They adore you.”

“I’m not sure that makes this better,” Draco muttered.

Harry descended the stairs, adjusting his tie with a hint of panic. “We should only be gone a few hours, let’s hope. The last time we went, it dragged on until lunchtime, lasting until the following day. The Ministry is hosting some diplomatic nonsense, and apparently, it’s frowned upon to bring toddlers.“

Theo clapped Draco’s shoulder. “See? You’re indispensable. The children insist Uncle Draco’s essential to their emotional development.”

Ginny rolled her eyes affectionately. “Mostly because you spoil them with biscuits.”

“And miniature broomsticks,” Blaise added.

“I’ll have you know,” Draco said dryly, “my influence is purely educational.”

“Of course it is,” Theo drawled, tugging on his gloves. Then, with a glance at Blaise that was just a bit too conspiratorial, he added, “Don’t worry, Malfoy — tonight will be enlightening for you.”

Draco frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Theo’s grin was infuriatingly pleasant. “You’ll see. Try not to hex anyone.”

With a final nod from both parents, the door closed behind them, leaving Draco alone with the quiet energy of the house and the faint echoes of children’s laughter drifting from upstairs. He set his wand down near the hall-stand and let himself breathe, absorbing the comfort of domestic normalcy that had once felt so alien to him.

He exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “Right, then,” he muttered. “Let’s survive this.”

“Uncle Draco!!” A small voice called from the staircase. Adelaide appeared first, wide-eyed and thrilled, her hands tugging at his sleeve. “You’re here! Come play with us!”

Draco’s chest constricted, an unfamiliar swell of something heavier than nostalgia—regret, yes, but also the thrill of being trusted, being needed. “I am,” he said softly, kneeling to meet her gaze. “I’m here now.”

James appeared behind her, more cautious, peeking around the corner, curiosity bright in his eyes. “Draco,” he said carefully, “will you help me with the trains?”

“I will,” Draco replied, giving him a small, genuine smile. “Let’s see what we can build together.”

The children ran ahead, chattering and laughing, and Draco followed, letting their energy guide him into the living room. The scent of polished wood, old books, and lingering hints of the couple’s lives wrapped around him. For a moment, he allowed himself to imagine he was part of this world—not as a guest, not as an outsider—but as someone responsible, someone accountable.

He watched as James laid tracks across the rug, carefully planning curves and junctions. “You have to put this here,” James instructed, handing him a straight piece. Draco nodded, placing it with precision, mindful not to disrupt the boy’s careful planning.

Adelaide joined with small wooden trains, her enthusiasm uncontainable. “Look! They go super fast!” she squealed, sending the miniature engines zipping down the tracks. Draco laughed softly, the sound low and restrained, almost foreign to his own ears. He caught himself savoring it, storing it quietly like a memory for later—a small reminder that joy could exist without ceremony or pretense.

The children’s laughter rang through the house, bouncing off the walls and furniture, carrying with it a warmth Draco had long denied himself. It was grounding, ordinary, yet extraordinary in its simplicity. He remembered all too well the times he had been absent, the chances he had ignored, the mistakes he could never undo. And yet, here he was, fully present, learning that accountability was not just an abstract concept—it was in the small acts of care, the attention paid, the patience exercised.

Adelaide tugged at his sleeve again, pointing toward the kitchen. “Can we make snacks? Like… cookies?”

Draco glanced toward the dimly lit kitchen, the warm glow of the lantern revealing flour dusted across the counter. “Yes,” he said, surprising himself with the ease in his voice. “We’ll make cookies. But you must help me clean up, too. Fair?”

“Fair!” they chorused, and Draco found himself smiling again, truly this time.

As the children moved to fetch ingredients, he stepped back slightly, letting them lead, watching them with a careful attentiveness he hadn’t afforded anyone in years. Each laugh, each question, each small success in the kitchen was a stitch mending old regrets, a quiet redemption that required no words, no declarations—just presence, care, and honesty.

Draco paused at the kitchen doorway, hands resting lightly on the frame. The evening air from outside had cooled the house slightly, but the warmth from the hearth and the children’s energy kept the chill at bay. He let himself remember other evenings, other responsibilities he had neglected, the countless ways he had failed. And he admitted it—finally, to himself: he had been wrong. He had faltered, he had hurt, he had hidden. But this—this moment—he could claim.

He breathed in, smelled the faint vanilla from the cookies, the lingering earthiness of April outside, the warmth of the children’s trust. Draco straightened, eyes softening, and whispered almost to himself, “I can do this.”

The kitchen smelled of flour, sugar, and honey. He handed Adelaide the rolling pin and James the cookie cutters, letting them take the lead while he guided gently. Laughter and conversation flowed freely, and Draco felt a calm pride settle over him—the kind that came not from command, not from status, but from the quiet act of being reliable, of being present.

Draco stayed in the kitchen, lingering near the counter as James and Adelaide scrambled to fetch the ingredients. The faint hum of the evening outside—the wind rustling the budding leaves, a distant bird settling for the night—blended with the warm, yeasty aroma of the dough. It was grounding, ordinary, and yet entirely foreign to him; these domestic rituals had never been part of his world, not in the way they existed here.

He rolled up his sleeves and took a knife to portion the dough, careful not to cut too large a piece for the children’s small hands. He found a quiet rhythm in the motion—the slight resistance of the soft dough, the faint stickiness under his fingers, the smell of sugar and vanilla rising with each movement. He felt oddly at peace, almost as if the act itself, so mundane and careful, was a balm for years of recklessness and avoidance.

“Look, Draco!” Adelaide squealed, holding up a cookie shaped like a crooked star. “I made it myself!”

Draco crouched to her level, inspecting the uneven shape with genuine attention. “It’s perfect,” he said softly, letting her beam with pride. 

James, not to be outdone, held up a cookie shaped like a train. “Can you put this in the oven, Draco?”

He nodded, smiling faintly at the boy’s cautious anticipation. “Of course. We have to be careful, though. The oven is hot.”

As he slid the baking tray in, he paused to inhale deeply. The warmth of the oven seeped into the kitchen, carrying the faint caramelised scent of sugar with it. Draco’s mind wandered, tracing the memory of his younger self at Hogwarts, sneaking into the kitchens with an illicit curiosity and fascination with the Muggle ways of cooking and baking. He had always liked the precision, the quiet discipline of measuring and mixing—tasks that left no room for deception, no chance to hide. It was honest work, and he had never realised how much he had craved that honesty in his adult life.

He straightened, watching as James carefully set a small plate of cookie dough aside to bake next. Draco’s hands brushed the countertop, dusted lightly with flour, and he felt a grounding sort of satisfaction. Here, in this ordinary kitchen with these ordinary children, he could be present, he could repair, even if only in the smallest of ways.

Of course, Draco being a wizard and the children’s bedtime routine looming. He put a quick charm on the oven to speed up the cooking process. With a DING, the cookies were done.

Adelaide scampered over to him, sprinkles in hand. “Can I do it all by myself?”

Draco crouched again, careful to maintain eye contact, and guided her gently. “You can do it, but I’ll be right here. We do it together. That’s the best way.”

The simplicity of it—kneading, shaping, guiding—made him aware of all the things he had ignored in his own life: moments of care, patience, attentiveness. Here, there were no judgments, no expectations beyond what he chose to give. He could be reliable. He could be accountable. He could be present.

He stepped back slightly, letting the children experiment, laughing at James’s exaggerated carefulness and Adelaide’s enthusiastic flour-dusted hands. Draco allowed himself a small smile, soft and unguarded. For all the mistakes he had made, all the trust he had broken, here was something he could do right: be here, fully, quietly, without drama, without ambition—simply being.

The kitchen filled with warmth, both from the oven and the small, human chaos of baking together. Draco helped decorate, much to the children’s delight, realising that sometimes redemption was a matter of minutes, attention, and presence, rather than grand gestures.

He brushed flour from his hands and adjusted the cookies, decorating his in green and silver swirls. Draco inhaled again, the scent of vanilla, sugar, and warm dough mingling with the faint smell of the garden drifting through the slightly open window. He felt a quiet contentment settle in his chest—a fragile, patient kind of pride.

Even now, he thought, even after all the mistakes, he could do this. He could be better. And in this kitchen, with these three-year-olds laughing and learning, he had a chance to start

The kitchen slowly settled into a gentle rhythm. Adelaide and James carried their small plates of warm cookies into the living room, giggling as crumbs scattered across the rug. Draco followed behind, balancing a tray with the children’s milk, careful not to spill. The soft clink of glasses and plates was almost musical, punctuating the hum of evening life in the house.

Adelaide proudly held up a crooked star covered in sprinkles that were pink and had unicorns, Draco crouched to her level, putting a dark curl behind her ear. “It’s amazing,” he said softly. “The best kind of star — slightly imperfect, but brave enough to shine.”

Her grin nearly undid him.

James’s showed his cookie, shaped like a train and resembling the Hogwarts express. Draco leaned against the couch, letting the warmth seep into him. He thought of how far this was from where he’d once been — the boy who mistook control for strength, detachment for dignity. He thought of Hermione and how she had always seen through him, past the cold and the sarcasm, straight to what was trembling beneath.

You were trying to protect her, he told himself. But the truth came back, cold and clear: you were protecting yourself.

He had called it mercy. It had been cowardice.

Once the children were happily engrossed with their cookies and film on the television, Draco rose and moved back to the kitchen to clean. He waved his wand, muttering under his breath as soapy water swirled magically around the sink. Plates floated, flour dust vanished into the ether, crumbs swept themselves into a neat pile.

He paused, hands still in the air as he surveyed the tidy kitchen, letting himself breathe in the warmth, the faint scent of vanilla, sugar, and honey lingering in the air. This, he realized, was accountability made tangible: careful action, attention to detail, and presence without expectation of reward. He had long avoided responsibility for the simplest reasons—pride, fear, the need to protect himself—but now, each small act, each deliberate choice to care, felt like a stitch in the frayed fabric of his past mistakes.

Draco leaned against the counter for a moment, gazing through the window at the garden outside. The last light of April dusk faded, leaving shadows and the faint shimmer of dew on young leaves. The world continued, quietly, and he could choose to move within it differently than he had before. To be honest, to be present, to be accountable.

His mind wandered naturally, as it always did, to past moments where he had failed, where care had been absent. But then, unexpectedly, the memory of Astoria came forward, clear and vivid—a winter afternoon, the warmth of a sunlit room, the faint scent of chamomile tea, the careful conversation with her and her family. She had spoken with him then, quietly, without judgment, about obligations, family, and legacy. There was care in her tone, platonic, deliberate, a reminder that some relationships required presence rather than passion.

Draco’s jaw tightened as he remembered his words, the hesitation, the faltering attempt to explain himself. He had wanted to protect Hermione, wanted to shield her from complications that were no longer his to dictate—but he had still faltered. Still failed. And yet, that memory, that quiet interaction with Astoria, reminded him that presence mattered. Listening mattered. Accountability mattered.

Every broken promise came back with startling clarity: the letters unwritten, the silences maintained, the half-truths that masqueraded as restraint.

He whispered, almost to the window’s reflection,

“I’m not the victim here. She was. And I — Merlin help me — I failed her.”

The words lingered like smoke.

The smell of cinnamon and vanilla blurred into another scent — mulled cider and pine. The kitchen light shifted, the edges of memory sharpening until he was no longer in Godric’s Hollow but standing before a hearth in Wiltshire, years ago.

Malfoy Manor - 

Hogmanay 2000

The fire crackled gently, warmth rippling across polished floors. Outside, frost clung to the garlands and the world lay hushed beneath snow. Astoria sat quietly by the window, hands folded neatly in her lap, her gaze calm and unflinching.

Draco gazed out into the gardens and decided not to attend Ron and Pansy’s Hogmanay celebrations. He knew Hermione was going and overheard Ginny and Pansy discussing their outfits when he visited Blaise. He didn’t want Hermione to feel uncomfortable or isolated within her own friends, as he didn’t want to act in front of her like he did at Blaise and Ginny’s wedding. 

“You’re pacing again,” she said lightly, not looking away from the page she held. “You’ll wear out the carpet.”

He gave a dry huff. “You don’t mind.”

“I do, actually.” Her tone was teasing, but the smile that followed was soft. Familiar.

Their friendship had always been that—gentle, steady, almost brother-sister in its rhythm. There had been affection, yes, even love, but not the kind that burned. Not the kind that consumed. They both knew it.

Draco sank into the chair opposite her, staring into the fire. “I keep thinking I could have done things differently. I should have been honest. Instead, I stayed silent—and hurt everyone who didn’t deserve it.”

Astoria turned a page, her voice quiet but steady. “You think silence protects,” she said. “But it only delays what you owe.”

He exhaled, the scent of pine and spice thick in the air. “Hermione suffered for my restraint. I told myself I was sparing her the burden of my name, but it was cowardice. I wasn’t ready to fight for her.”

Astoria studied him for a long moment. “You were still learning who you were,” she said gently. “You wanted to be different from them, but you hadn’t quite learned how yet.”

Draco’s throat tightened. “And you—and Hermione—paid the price for that.”

“No,” she said simply. “We both did. But we were never meant to be in love, Draco. We cared for each other, deeply—but not like that. We both knew it. What we had was friendship, and perhaps that was what we needed then.”

He nodded slowly, staring into the flames. “I’ll carry it. Not as an excuse—as a debt.”

Astoria smiled faintly, closing her book. “Then carry it properly. Learn from it. Hermione deserves that much.”

The fire popped, scattering embers like stars. Draco let the guilt settle this time, heavy but cleansing. He wasn’t the victim. He was the cause.

The snow outside pressed gently against the windows, the hush of Hogmanay creeping over the quiet home. In the distance, he could almost hear the muted laughter and clinking glasses from Ron and Pansy’s New Year’s gathering, a world carrying on without him. And yet here, in this quiet domestic sphere, he could feel the first tendrils of redemption take root—not from ceremony, not from grandeur, but from acknowledgment, presence, and a willingness to shoulder the weight of mistakes fully.

Astoria’s eyes met his with quiet understanding. “You have the chance to be better, Draco. Not for them, not for the world, not even for me—but for Hermione, and she’s the one who deserved your honesty and apology. Do not squander it.”

He nodded again, more firmly this time, letting her words sink in. The fire crackled behind him, the warmth spreading through his chest, mingling with the ache of remorse. He had been reckless, he had been foolish, he had hurt. And now he knew that facing those truths, fully and without excuse, was the only path forward.

Draco straightened, glancing down at her stomach, at the life growing there through surrogacy, a bridge between families, between obligations, between futures he had once dismissed. “I will not fail again,” he whispered to no one but himself. “I will not allow history to repeat. Not with her, not with anyone. And I will bear the weight of my errors, fully. That is my choice.”

Astoria’s hand squeezed his, a gentle reminder of trust, partnership, and quiet loyalty. Draco felt the weight lift, slightly—not entirely, never entirely—but enough to recognise the path he needed to take, enough to realise the cost of what he had lost, and the imperative to do better moving forward.

The fire popped, sending a small flicker of light across the room, shadows dancing on the walls. Draco let himself linger, eyes on the glowing embers, heart heavy with regret, yet lighter in resolve. He was not the victim here; he had been the perpetrator of his own mistakes, and he would carry that truth fully from this night onward.

______

Draco blinked, the sound of Adelaide’s laughter pulling him back. The scent of cookies had deepened, rich and golden. He moved to take the tray out, steadying his hands as heat brushed his skin.

He placed the cooling rack on the counter, the sugar glistening faintly in the lamplight. Behind him, the children raced to the living room, milk sloshing in their cups, their joy spilling through the house like light.

Draco leaned against the counter, looking around the quiet kitchen. It smelled of flour, sugar, and second chances. And for the first time, he allowed himself to think not of the man he had been—but the man he could still become.

He straightened, brushing flour from his sleeves, and let his mind wander.

For years, he’d told himself he’d done the right thing. That walking away had been necessary — noble, even. That Hermione would be safer, freer, unshackled from the stain of his family name. It had been the lie he lived by — and one he’d repeated so many times that it almost felt true.

But now, with four more years behind him, he could see it for what it was.

He’d been twenty. Young enough to believe redemption was something that could be earned by distance. Old enough to know better. He’d claimed his views on Muggle-borns had changed — and they had, in the conscious ways. He’d shed the language, the prejudice, the overt poison of the life he’d been born into. But the bones of his upbringing had still held him then, quiet and insidious. The sense of duty. The need to preserve the Malfoy name. The unspoken fear that no matter how much he wanted her, loving Hermione Granger would always be a rebellion he wasn’t brave enough to sustain.

He’d let that fear dictate everything.

He’d let it whisper to him in the night — that she deserved better, that he would ruin her, that his penance was solitude. That the greatest proof of love was absence.

And he’d believed it.

He could still see her face the night she asked him to fight for her. The disbelief in her eyes when he didn’t. He’d thought walking away was mercy. But it wasn’t mercy. It was cowardice wearing the mask of restraint.

He’d walked out thinking he was protecting her.

But all he’d done was abandon her.

And now, at twenty-four, with time and loss carved into the lines of his face, he finally saw the truth for what it was — the raw, merciless truth he’d buried beneath years of justification.

The moment he didn’t fight for Hermione Granger was the moment he lost the only family he had ever truly loved.

It wasn’t the Malfoy name, the Manor, or even the blood that tied him to the past — it was her. She had been the thing that made him human again, the one person who had seen something worth salvaging in him. And he’d thrown it away because he hadn’t known how to love her without apology.

Astoria had once told him that silence didn’t protect; it only delayed what you owed. He’d understood her too late. She’d seen him more clearly than he saw himself — a man who wanted love without consequence.

Now, standing in the flicker of the same firelight, he knew that the consequence was the cost of every moment he hadn’t fought for Hermione.

The fire cracked, a low hiss echoing through the quiet. Draco stared into it, his chest tightening with the ache of everything unsaid. The ghosts of his choices hung heavy in the air — all the letters he hadn’t sent, all the words he’d rehearsed but never spoken.

He rubbed a hand over his jaw, feeling the weight of years pressing against his ribs. His reflection in the darkened window looked older, harder, lonelier than he’d ever imagined becoming.

And still, in that quiet, he whispered to himself, almost like confession —

“I should have fought for you.”

The sound of his own voice startled him.

Then came the knock.

Soft. Hesitant.

Draco froze. His breath caught somewhere between disbelief and memory.

Another knock followed — firmer this time, steady, grounding.

He rose slowly, every motion deliberate, his pulse pounding like a drumbeat beneath his skin. He reached for the handle, the firelight flickering against his wrist. The air felt charged, suspended between past and present, guilt and hope.

When he opened the door, the world seemed to narrow to a single breath.

She stood there — curls, scarf, the faint glow of April dusk framing her like something out of a dream he’d long ago given up trying to forget.

And all he could manage — the only word that made it past his throat —

“Granger?”

Chapter Text

Hermione’s Flat 

April 2004, early evening 

The April dusk pressed grey and damp against the windowpanes, softening the edges of the city. Hermione buttoned her coat slowly, her reflection wavering in the glass — curls pinned back neatly, scarf snug around her neck, a foil-wrapped parcel of cinnamon biscuits waiting on the sill.

Two months back in London.

Long enough to relearn the city’s rhythms — the dawn sweep of owls, the murmur of Diagon Alley — and to fall into the warmth of family again, James tugging at her sleeve with endless questions, Adelaide smearing jam across her cheeks. And yet, not long enough for the ghosts to quiet.

She lifted the parcel from the sill, the foil warm beneath her hand. Baking had become her reprieve, something simpler than curse theory. Flour, sugar, chocolate — ingredients that obeyed the rules, that gave back sweetness if you treated them right.

A glance around the flat caught the cluttered desk, the scrolls of notes, the scattered books on cursebreaking. All reminders of why she was here. Why she’d come back.

With a long breath, she tucked her wand into her sleeve and locked the door behind her. The corridor smelled faintly of coal smoke and polish.

The evening was damp and chill as she stepped out toward the nearest Apparition point, brownies warm against her side.

When she opened her eyes, she stood at the end of a quiet lane in Godric’s Hollow, the Potter–Nott residence glowing warmly ahead. Smoke curled from the chimney, laughter rang faintly through the windows, and the garden lanterns had just flickered alight, casting pools of gold against the damp cobblestones.

Hermione adjusted her scarf, squared her shoulders, and started up the path.

____

The evening air clung damp and chill to Hermione’s coat as she stepped up to the doorstep, brownies nestled in her arms. She knocked once, twice. Then, as the door swung open, she blinked.

Draco Malfoy stood there. Overnight bag she noticed at the bottom of the stairs. His brows pulled together at the sight of her.

“…Granger?”

Hermione stared. “What are you doing here?”

“I was asked to babysit.” His eyes furrowed with confusion, a familiar spark of disbelief flickering. “Don’t tell me—”

“I was also asked to babysit.”

They both paused. Behind him, the warm glow of the entrance hall beckoned, James’s laughter echoing faintly from the living room , the scent of vanilla and sugar still hanging in the air. Now here they were, two figures in the doorway, looking for all the world like mismatched bookends.

Hermione exhaled. “Theo.”

Draco’s mouth tightened. “Remind me why any of us are still friends with him?”

“Because he’s charming when he wants to be,” Hermione said, brushing past him into the hall. “And apparently very good at scheming.”

“He told me Harry and he were at some Ministry gala. ‘Strictly no-kids,’” Draco muttered, shutting the door. “Apparently, my presence was ‘essential to James’s emotional development.’”

Hermione rolled her eyes, adjusting the biscuits under her arm. “Which is code for, ‘Malfoy, stop brooding and go entertain a toddler.’”

The corner of his mouth twitched. “Well, I suppose I should be grateful he didn’t phrase it like that.”

They walked side by side down the hallway, their words sharp but not unkind — the old cadence still there, worn smooth with time. The tension between them lingered, but it wasn’t jagged anymore.

From the sitting room came the thunder of small feet.

“ADELAIDE ITS MIONE!”

“AUNTIE MIONE!”

James and Adelaide came skidding across the polished floorboards, socks sliding. James latched onto Draco’s leg with a triumphant grin; Adelaide wrapped herself around Hermione’s hand, her unicorn pyjamas glittering under the lantern light.

“You both came!” Adelaide beamed, cheeks flushed. “Mummy said we could stay up until the first star!”

“You’re not supposed to tell that part,” James whispered loudly.

Hermione knelt to smooth Adelaide’s curls. “Are you two going to behave tonight?”

Adelaide nodded solemnly, then ruined the effect by sticking her tongue out at James.

James retaliated with a poke.

“Alright, truce,” Draco said, stepping between them like a weary referee. “Mischief after snacks, not before.”

Hermione arched an eyebrow. “That’s your bar for the evening?”

“Realistic expectations,” he replied dryly, taking the brownies from her and steering the children toward the kitchen.

And just like that, the house filled with chatter and warmth — mismatched plates, mugs of pumpkin juice, star-shaped apple slices. Hermione brushed crumbs from Adelaide’s jumper while Draco fielded James’s barrage of questions about Quidditch and dragons. The domesticity of it all pressed in close, almost surreal.

At one point, she caught his gaze across the table — a brief, unguarded flicker of disbelief that matched her own. And underneath it, something older. Something that had never quite been buried.

But beneath her calm exterior, something coiled. Every small exchange, every lingering look, every reminder of what they’d been — it stirred up the words she hadn’t yet said. She wanted to give him a piece of her mind, to finally demand the answers she’d been denied. But not here. Not in front of James and Adelaide. She wouldn’t ruin their evening with the wreckage of hers and Draco’s past. Still, it was coming — the conversation she’d avoided for years. She could feel it brewing like a storm gathering on the horizon.

Upstairs, bedtime was chaos.

James wriggled under his blanket, dragon toy clutched in one arm, legs kicking like he was trying to take off. Adelaide busied herself lining up her unicorn and bunny along the headboard, narrating seriously under her breath.

“You realise it’s bedtime,” Hermione said, crossing her arms.

“It’s star night,” James corrected, yawning even as he spoke. “Daddy says rules are different.”

“Which Daddy?” Draco asked, settling on the edge of the bed. 

“Both,” James replied, matter-of-fact, like the question itself was foolish.

Draco gave Hermione a look that all but said this is your godchild. She couldn’t help but smirk. 

“Even on star nights,” Hermione said firmly, “teeth have to be brushed.”

Adelaide groaned. “Brushing is boring.”

“So is losing all your teeth to sugar bugs,” Hermione countered.

Adelaide gasped in horror, clutching her unicorn. “Not Sparkle’s teeth!”

Draco leaned in conspiratorially. “Unicorns are immune. Terribly unfair.”

“Unfair,” James echoed gravely. “Tell us a story instead.”

“One story,” Adelaide demanded, sitting upright. “With Sparkle and a dragon.”

“Of course,” Draco muttered. “Demanding audiences at this house.”

“You love it,” Hermione said, taking a seat at the end of Adelaide’s bed.

James wriggled upright too, his toy dragon clutched in both hands. “Uncle Draco cheats at stories,” he announced.

“I don’t cheat,” Draco said smoothly. “I embellish.”

Hermione arched a brow. “That explains a lot.”

The children dissolved into giggles, delighted by the bickering.

“You’re funny together,” Adelaide said suddenly, her voice soft and certain in the hush between laughs.

Hermione’s hand stilled on Adelaide’s curls. Across the room, Draco’s mouth twitched, caught somewhere between a smile and silence.

James, oblivious to the shift, piped up from his bed: “Uncle Draco smiles more when Auntie Mione’s here.”

The air thickened. Hermione’s cheeks warmed; Draco glanced at her quickly, then away, adjusting James’s blanket with unnecessary precision. Adelaide giggled again, but this time it seemed too loud in the quiet room.

For a beat too long, no one spoke.

Hermione cleared her throat, forcing lightness back into her voice. “Alright then. One story. Short.”

“Two,” James bargained, grinning.

“Half,” Draco countered without missing a beat.

Hermione shot him a look. “They’re three in a few months, Malfoy. Fractions aren’t on the table.”

“Creative Arithmancy,” he replied, and her laugh slipped out despite herself.

So they told a story — messy, ridiculous, full of dragons that sneezed glitter and unicorns that saved the day. James roared at all the wrong parts, Adelaide supplied dramatic gasps, and by the end both children were drooping, clutching their toys with sleepy determination.

Hermione tucked Adelaide in, pressing a kiss to her curls. Draco lingered at James’s bedside, smoothing the blanket once more before standing.

In the doorway, Hermione glanced back. Two small forms curled in their beds, the rise and fall of breaths finally slowing.

“They’re good kids,” Draco murmured.

“They are,” Hermione agreed. “And utterly spoiled.”

“They’ll blame you for that,” he said, mouth curving faintly.

“Or you, for embellishing.”

“Unlikely,” he murmured, but the smile lingered.

They moved down the stairs together, their steps quiet, the hush between them softer now — not sharp edges, but something fragile, almost steady. Yet beneath it, Hermione felt the unease simmering — that familiar pulse of irritation she’d been pushing down all evening.

There were things she wanted to say.

Sharp, necessary things.

He’d been evasive earlier — too measured, too polite — and she’d seen through it. She wanted to ask why, to challenge the walls he still built between them, but not here. Not in this house with laughter still echoing from upstairs, not with two sleeping children who deserved their peace.

So she held it in.

For now.

But it was there, brewing like a storm at the edge of her composure, waiting for its moment.

“Tea?” Draco asked, voice careful.

Hermione nodded. “Yes. Please.”

They moved through to the kitchen in silence, the clink of mugs and faint hiss of the kettle filling the air between them. A fire glowed low in the hearth, its warmth chasing shadows across the walls, and the scent of cinnamon still lingered from the biscuits.

Draco slid a mug across the table without comment. No questions, no pause. Just one spoonful of sugar, stirred clockwise — exactly as she’d always taken it. Hermione wrapped her hands around the cup, the heat seeping into her palms, her throat tightening. He hadn’t forgotten.

It felt strange, sitting here with him now, in this house — lived-in in a way the old flat above Diagon Alley had never been. Here, there were toys tucked beneath chairs, laughter echoing faintly from upstairs, framed photographs lining the mantel.

But she remembered the first time she had stepped through these doors, when Harry and Theo had just moved in, boxes stacked in corners and the scent of fresh paint still clinging to the walls. Everyone had been there that night, crowded together, voices bright to mask the heaviness waiting underneath.

Everyone but Draco.

And it had been her, not him, who’d carried the weight of difficult words.

Hermione blinked down into the steam rising from her tea. That was the night she had told them she was leaving. That she was moving to New York.

Her chest tightened with the memory—

Potter-Nott Residence

 February 2001

The fireplace glowed low in the house Harry and Theo had only just moved into, the air still smelling faintly of fresh paint beneath the smoke. Boxes leaned half-open against the skirting boards, a stack of books sat unshelved in the corner, and half the chairs didn’t yet match. It was bigger than the flat above the Diagon Alley bookshop, but it didn’t feel finished yet. Not lived-in.

Hermione stood by the window, watching her breath fog a small circle against the cold glass. Outside, frost silvered the hedgerows of Godric’s Hollow, and the lanterns in the lane bobbed faintly in the wind. From upstairs came the groan of shifting pipes; the whole place still carried the echo of being new.

Inside, warmth wrapped close. The fire snapped and spat, casting light that gilded mismatched furniture and half-unpacked belongings. The smell of curry lingered from the takeaway cartons stacked by the sink, Ginny’s contribution of Muggle bakery pastries adding butter and almond to the mix. Firewhisky burned rich and sharp in tumblers — Blaise and Theo already into their second. Pansy’s nail polish cut through it all, sharp and chemical, as she leaned cross-legged on the arm of Ron’s chair.

The chatter was light — Quidditch results, Ministry gossip, Theo’s exaggerated story about a broom cupboard mishap. But Hermione heard it for what it was: stalling. Everyone was waiting for the thing unsaid.

Ginny caught her eye from across the room, her braid slipping over one shoulder. A small nod. Encouraging. Steady. She already knew. She had stood beside Hermione just that morning when the lease for the Brooklyn flat was signed, her hand warm around Hermione’s trembling fingers.

Hermione turned from the window. Cleared her throat. “I have something to tell you.”

The noise dropped away. Even the fire seemed to hush.

Theo was first to break the tension. “Please don’t say you’re engaged to Gilderoy Lockhart.”

Hermione let out a small laugh — brittle, but real. “Worse.”

Harry’s brows pulled together. “Worse?”

Hermione stepped forward, the boards creaking beneath her boots. “I’m leaving London.”

The words fell heavy.

Pansy’s brush froze mid-air. Blaise straightened in his chair. Ron blinked, leaning forward slightly. Harry’s thumb stilled on the rim of his glass. Theo’s mouth opened as if to quip again, but no sound came.

“I’ve taken a post with the International Magical Cooperation department,” Hermione went on, her voice thin but firm. “In New York. It’s a two-year placement. Maybe longer.”

Silence pressed thick. The fire popped. Someone shifted in their chair, leather creaking.

Harry was the first to find his voice. “You didn’t… you didn’t say anything. When did this happen?”

“It came together quickly,” Hermione said, her hands twisting in front of her. “Ginny’s known, but I wasn’t sure how to tell the rest of you. I kept putting it off.”

Ron’s voice was low, sharp. “Is this about him?”

The word clattered into the room, bitter.

“No,” Hermione said quickly. Then, softer: “Not entirely.”

They didn’t need to ask who he was. Married now, for four months, to Astoria Greengrass. A tasteful ceremony, all soft silks and polite applause, the photos printed across the pureblood society pages. Hermione hadn’t gone. She had been invited. But declined. In solidarity, Ron, Harry, and Ginny decided it would be best to stay with her the day of the nuptials, not leaving her side. Despite Hermione’s reassurance to the three of them that they could go, they refused. 

“It’s just…” Hermione searched the floor, the firelight blurring her vision. “Everything here feels like it’s standing still. I need something new. Somewhere I can… breathe. Somewhere without ghosts.”

Harry exhaled slowly, nodding, though his brow stayed furrowed.

Blaise tilted his head, voice low and smooth. “When do you leave?”

“First of March.”

The answer hung like smoke.

Pansy set the nail varnish aside and crossed the room, her perfume cutting through the scent of curry and whisky. She pulled Hermione into a hug — not careful, but crushing. Fierce.

“Selfishly,” she murmured into Hermione’s hair, “I hate this. But if I were you? I’d leave too.”

Hermione’s throat tightened.

Pansy pulled back, eyes gleaming as she cupped Hermione’s cheek with a green-tipped hand. “Promise me you won’t let some Yankee idiot try to match your wit.”

“I make no promises,” Hermione managed.

Ron rose next. His jumper smelled faintly of smoke and peppermint. His hug was awkward, too long, but warm. He didn’t understand — not fully — but he was trying.

Harry took her hand, his voice soft but certain. “You’ll always have us, Hermione. Doesn’t matter where you are in the world.”

Theo finally got up, smoothing his shirt with exaggerated care. “Looks like we’ll have to write dramatically long owls, and Pansy’s going to cry in secret for six weeks.”

“Shut up,” Pansy muttered, swiping at her eyes.

Blaise lifted his glass, voice dry. “Just don’t forget to send us imported whisky. We’ll consider it penance.”

The room loosened with laughter, brief and fragile. They poured another round. Talked lighter things. Ginny pressed a second pastry into Hermione’s hand and made her eat.

But beneath it all, Hermione could feel the shift — the knowledge that this was the last time they’d all be here together like this. The smell of curry and polish, the fire snapping, Theo’s laughter echoing, Ginny’s smile steady, Ron’s brow furrowed. She pressed it all into memory, branding it into herself because she knew she would miss this version of them forever.

She didn’t say Draco’s name. No one did.

But his absence echoed through the house all the same.

_____

The memory blurred at its edges, firelight softening into another hearth, another kitchen. Hermione blinked, the taste of curry and whisky fading into the cinnamon-sweet air of the present.

“Granger.” Draco’s voice cut quietly across her thoughts. A mug nudged gently against her hand — steady, warm, exactly the way she liked it.

Hermione looked up. He was sitting opposite her at the Potter–Nott table, sleeves rolled, firelight painting sharp angles into softer lines. Present, solid, watching her with an expression she couldn’t quite read.

He hadn’t been there that night, when she’d announced she was leaving.

But he was here now.

And the contrast settled heavy in her chest.

The kitchen had just fallen into companionable quiet when light footsteps scuffed down the stairs. Adelaide appeared in the doorway, clutching her stuffed unicorn by one ear, her glittery pyjama bottoms twisted at the hem. Her eyes were wide, cheeks still flushed with sleep.

“Auntie Mione?” she whispered. “James is upset.”

Hermione rose at once, smoothing Adelaide’s hair as the little girl slipped her hand into hers. Draco was already standing, the crease between his brows deepening as he followed them up the stairs.

The old house groaned around them — floorboards creaking, the faint rattle of pipes in the walls — until Adelaide pushed open the children’s bedroom door.

James sat upright in bed, cheeks streaked, clutching his blanket in both fists. The soft glow of the nightlight painted the room in amber and shadow, catching on the toy blocks scattered across the rug and the half-built broom model resting on the dresser. His eyes were huge, wet, his lip trembling.

“I had a bad dream,” he whispered.

Hermione crossed to him immediately, perching on the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped under her weight. She brushed the curls back from his damp forehead, her touch light. “Tell me, sweetheart.”

James’s voice cracked. “I dreamed one of my daddies went to heaven. Like Auntie Tori.”

The words seemed to hollow the air. Hermione’s chest burned. Adelaide climbed onto the bed beside him without hesitation, curling close and tucking the unicorn under his arm. “It was only a dream,” she said fiercely, as though she could will it away.

Draco moved then, sitting carefully on James’s other side. His usual reserve had fallen away; his voice came low, even, almost rough. “That won’t happen,” he said firmly. “Your dads are safe. They love you far too much to leave.”

James blinked up at him, tears still caught in his lashes. “But Auntie Tori loved us too.”

Draco stilled, grief flickering raw across his face before he masked it again. He laid a steady hand on James’s shoulder, his thumb moving in slow circles. “She did,” he said quietly. “More than anything. And that love hasn’t gone anywhere. It’s still here—” he tapped James’s chest gently “—every time you laugh, every time you’re brave. That’s how she stays with you. Your dads are right here, and they always will be.”

Hermione felt her throat close. She smoothed the blanket over James, her voice gentler now, steady where his cracked. “And you’ve got us too. Auntie Mione and Uncle Draco. We’re your godparents, remember? We’re not going anywhere either.”

James’s small body sagged, his breath easing into slow, uneven pulls as sleep crept back in. Adelaide leaned closer, resting her head against his shoulder, her unicorn wedged protectively under his arm.

Hermione pressed a kiss to James’s curls, breathing in the warm, familiar scent of soap and sleep. Across the bed, Draco mirrored the gesture with quiet reverence, brushing his knuckles softly against James’s temple before drawing back.

For a heartbeat, their eyes caught across the children — hers bright with unshed tears, his silver gaze unguarded, raw. The house creaked around them, the nightlight flickered, the children breathed in even rhythm.

Neither spoke.

The room grew heavier with peace, the tension thinning as the children’s snores filled the quiet. Adelaide gave a soft sigh, James’s grip on his blanket loosening at last.

Hermione stayed where she was, her hand still resting lightly on the blanket. Draco mirrored her stillness on the other side, both of them fixed on the children, both studiously avoiding each other’s gaze.

Minutes ticked past — suspended, fragile, the kind of silence that feels like it might break if anyone breathes too deeply.

And then, softly — a whisper, almost too quiet —

“We wouldn’t leave them either.”

Hermione’s head lifted, just a fraction. The words had come from Draco, quiet and steady, his eyes still fixed on James’s sleeping form.

Her breath caught. There was a sincerity in his voice that pressed against the ache in her chest — the kind that made her want to forgive and fight him all at once.

She had no reply. She only let her hand linger a moment longer on Adelaide’s small one, and let the truth of it settle between them.

The children’s breathing deepened into the steady rhythm of sleep, their small bodies curled close together under the blankets. The house seemed to sigh with them.

Slowly, carefully, Hermione rose from the edge of the bed, her movements hushed and deliberate. Across from her, Draco did the same, his gaze flicking briefly toward her before sliding away again.

Together, they eased toward the door, the floorboards barely creaking beneath their steps.

She glanced back once, just before Draco pulled the door to, and saw James and Adelaide curled close beneath the blankets, the nightlight casting them in a soft amber glow.

Only when the latch clicked shut did Hermione exhale.

And still, the whisper lingered.

We wouldn’t leave them either.

They moved down the stairs together, their footsteps quiet on the old wood. The house had softened into night — pipes ticking as they cooled, the faint rattle of wind against the windowpanes, the silence of rooms finally stilled.

In the sitting room, the fire had burned low but steady, casting long orange shadows across the mismatched armchairs and the knitted throw folded on the back of the sofa. The scent of cinnamon still lingered faintly from the biscuits, threaded now with the smoky warmth of banked embers.

Hermione curled into one end of the sofa, tucking her feet beneath her. Draco settled at the other, not too close, but close enough that the hush felt shared rather than lonely. Neither spoke at first.

The only sounds were the crackle of the fire and the faint hum of the night outside.

Hermione let her gaze rest on the flames, her voice quiet when it finally came. “They’re lucky, you know. To have so many people who love them. To never have to wonder if they’ll be left behind.”

Draco didn’t answer straight away. She risked a glance at him and caught the firelight shifting across his profile — the sharp lines gentled, silver eyes shadowed but intent.

“Lucky,” he said at last, low enough it could have been to himself.

The silence settled again — not heavy this time, but warmer. Easier. Yet under the calm, the unspoken things still pulsed between them: the words she hadn’t said earlier, the confrontation still waiting its turn.

Hermione pulled the blanket from the back of the sofa and spread it loosely over her knees, the soft wool carrying the faint scent of lavender. The fire popped, the quiet wrapped around them, and for the first time all evening, it felt almost comfortable.

Draco shifted, leaning his elbow against the armrest, his gaze lingering on her longer than she expected. “Get some rest, Granger,” he murmured. “You look ready to fall asleep sitting up.”

She huffed softly, pulling the blanket higher. “Don’t let me sleep too long.”

His mouth quirked, not quite a smile. “No promises.”

Hermione gave a tired little laugh, her head tipping back against the cushions. The warmth of the fire and the hush of the house blurred the edges of the moment until her eyelids grew heavy.

The last thing she registered was the soft crackle of the fire and the quiet rustle of Draco shifting on the sofa opposite. Then the world slipped away — and for the first time in three years, she fell asleep in the same house as him.