A History of Us
The manor was quiet.
Too quiet.
The kind of quiet that came after too much noise—after too many eyes, too many expectations, too many masks. Hermione had peeled off her heels the moment they stepped through the door. Now, barefoot and silent, she stood at the vanity in their room, fingers slowly working the pins from her hair.
One by one, they clinked onto the wood.
She watched herself in the mirror. Watched as Draco stepped into the doorway behind her, still dressed from the gala, collar undone, hair a little mussed. His expression unreadable. But his eyes—his eyes never lied.
He looked at her like she was the only thing in the world that ever made sense.
“You’re staring again,” she murmured, half a smile tugging at her mouth.
“You’re always worth staring at,” he replied, voice low.
She rolled her eyes, even as warmth pooled in her chest. “You were… something tonight.”
He stepped closer. “Something?”
She met his gaze in the mirror. “Powerful. Sharp. Unapologetically mine.”
Draco’s lips curved into a slow, almost shy smirk. “You liked that.”
“I did,” she whispered, turning to face him. “You didn’t just defend me, Draco. You saw me. And you didn’t flinch.”
He reached out, brushing a stray curl from her cheek. “I’ve never flinched when it came to you.”
Hermione swallowed. Her heart was pounding again, but not from nerves.
From truth.
“Can I tell you something?” she asked quietly.
His fingers paused at her jaw. “Always.”
They sat by the fire. No wine. No pretense. Just them, legs tangled on the couch, the glow of the flames painting soft gold across his face.
“I never really stopped after the war,” she began, voice thin, like she was testing its strength. “Not really. Everyone expected me to… keep going. Fix things. Rebuild. Heal.”
Draco watched her, silent.
“But it wasn’t just expectation,” she added. “It was habit. Survival. They always looked to me—Harry, Ron, the Order. Even the professors. Like I’d have the answers. Like I always would.”
She exhaled shakily, pulling her knees to her chest.
“And I did,” she whispered. “Because I had to. Because I wanted them to live. All of them. So I planned. Prepared. Researched. I packed that bottomless bag like we were going to war—because we were.”
Her voice cracked. “And I never put it down. Not even now.”
Draco reached for her hand, threading his fingers through hers.
She blinked at him. “Do you know how exhausting it is? To be needed that much? To never drop the weight because you’re terrified someone else will die if you do?”
Draco’s grip tightened.
“I didn’t do it because I was the smartest,” she said, tears slipping quietly down her cheek. “I did it because I couldn’t not.”
He moved then, sliding in closer, wrapping his arms around her like a shield.
Hermione sank into him. Quiet. Trembling.
And that’s when he spoke.
Draco’s POV
“I remember,” he said, voice low against her hair.
Hermione stilled.
“I remember the way you walked into the Great Hall that night. Yule Ball. You were… different. Not because of the dress. Or your hair.” He smiled faintly. “Though you were—are—beautiful.”
He pulled her closer, speaking into the firelight.
“You looked like you belonged to yourself. And I hated how much I noticed.”
Hermione turned her face slightly. “You noticed me then?”
“I always noticed you.” His throat tightened. “Even in sixth year, when everything fell apart. You were still there. Clever. Brave. Always two steps ahead. I remember thinking… they wouldn’t survive without you.”
She didn’t respond.
He pressed on.
“And in the war… I watched. When I wasn’t supposed to. I saw you in the forest once, casting protective wards, trembling, but still standing. And I thought—she’s going to get them through this.”
Hermione's breath hitched.
“I envied them,” he admitted. “Because they had you. And I… didn’t even deserve to look.”
She turned to face him fully now, her eyes wide and shining.
“And even after everything, I still couldn’t stop looking.”
He reached for her hand again, brushing his thumb over her knuckles.
“I don’t know when it happened,” he whispered. “But somewhere between hating you and marrying you, I fell in love with you.”
Silence.
Fire crackling.
Breath caught.
Draco met her eyes and said it again—like a promise, like it had always been there.
“I love you.”
Hermione didn’t move.
Didn’t speak.
She just surged forward, crashing into him like a wave breaking over stone. Her lips met his—not rough, not frantic.
Just true.
The kind of kiss you give after a war ends.
When you’re finally, finally safe.
Later, they lay in bed—her head on his chest, fingers tangled, breathing synced.
And he whispered into the quiet, “You don’t have to carry it alone anymore.”
Hermione smiled against his skin.
“I know.”