For a long time, there had been nothing but ghosts.
Draco Malfoy had spent too many nights awake, staring at the ceiling, drowning in memories that wouldn’t let go. He had spent too many Decembers trapped within the suffocating walls of Malfoy Manor, watching his mother’s hands tremble as she poured tea. Watching his father sit in silence, gazing into the fire as if he could still see the flicker of Dark Marks in the embers.
He had spent too many years learning that regret was a slow poison, that it settled into your bones and made a home there.
But things were better now.
At least, that was what he told himself.
He had carved out something close to a life—something that almost felt real. He had a flat of his own in London, a job at the Ministry he didn’t despise, and for the first time in years, he could look in the mirror without recoiling at his own reflection.
And then there was her.
Hermione Granger had walked into his life like a hurricane—all sharp wit and stubborn fire, fierce in the way she felt things. She had looked at him across the cold, sterile halls of the Ministry, and for some inexplicable reason, she had seen him.
Not the name. Not the past. Him.
Draco had fought the idea, at first.
The impossible notion that she could want him—that she could see past the things he had done, the boy he had been. That she could look at him and not remember all the ways he had once tried to tear her down.
But Hermione never did anything halfway.
If she chose something, she chose it fully.
And she had chosen him.
The first time Hermione Granger had approached him in the atrium of the Ministry, Draco had barely registered her presence before she launched into a whirlwind of impassioned words.
"Malfoy," she had said, striding toward him with determined purpose, brown eyes alight with something fierce, something unshakable. "I need your help."
He had blinked at her, stunned by the sheer force of her conviction before he could even form a response.
"With what, exactly?" His voice was cool and careful.
"Legislation for werewolves. They deserve better. Proper medical care, and resources—including, but not limited to, free Wolfsbane Potion, access to Mind Healers, job placement, and housing security. The system is stacked against them, and it needs to change."
He had opened his mouth, ready with some excuse, some reason why this had nothing to do with him. He didn’t work in the Being Division of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. He worked in the Beast Division. But then she looked at him—not through him, not past him, but directly into him.
"You know what it's like, don’t you?" she had asked, her voice softer but no less insistent. "To be marked. To be someone people look at and only see a monster."
Draco had exhaled sharply. He had wanted to scoff, to tell her she didn’t know a damn thing about him. But the truth settled like lead in his stomach, heavy and undeniable. She was right.
And so, against all logic, he had nodded.
What followed were months of relentless work. Late nights in the archives, pouring over century-old laws and loopholes, ensuring that the legislation was airtight. They drafted proposal after proposal, tweaking, refining, and countering every possible argument before it could even be raised. Some nights they worked in companionable silence, quills scratching against parchment, interrupted only by the rustle of paper and the occasional exasperated sigh when they hit a dead end. Other nights, they argued heatedly over phrasing and clauses, Hermione pushing for idealism, Draco grounding them in reality.
Somewhere in between, the boundaries between work and friendship blurred. They started sharing takeaways at the Ministry when the hours stretched long. They reminisced about Hogwarts, the war, and the people they had lost. Hermione cried once—just once—when talking about Fred, and Draco, feeling hopelessly out of his depth, had simply handed her his handkerchief and looked away until she composed herself. He hadn’t expected her to take his hand later that evening, squeezing it in silent gratitude.
The first time he met up with her outside of work, it felt surreal. Hermione had invited him to the pub with her friends. He had almost declined, but the thought of returning to his empty flat held even less appeal. He had expected hostility, but apart from Weasley’s visible discomfort, the night had been...fine. Better than fine, really. Granger’s friends had laughed, shared stories, and treated him with something close to normalcy. It was unnerving. And yet, it was the first time in years he had felt something like belonging.
And then, after months of effort, came the day they stood before the Wizengamot. Draco had expected to be nervous, but as Hermione stood before them, presenting their case with razor-sharp eloquence and unwavering determination, he found himself captivated. She was magnificent—her curls wild and untamed, her voice strong, her passion palpable. He couldn’t look away.
When the ruling came down in their favour, when the legislation they had fought so hard for was officially passed, Hermione had let out a breathless, disbelieving laugh before turning to him, eyes shining.
"We did it!"
And then, before he could react, she launched herself at him.
Draco caught her instinctively, arms wrapping around her as he spun them both in exhilaration, laughter spilling from his lips. The moment they stopped, Hermione still in his arms, something shifted. She was looking at him, truly looking, and he recognised the expression on her face—the quiet certainty of someone making a choice.
And then she pulled him down into a kiss.
For a moment, he was frozen, stunned beyond reason. Then, as if waking from a dream, he kissed her back. It wasn’t hesitant. It wasn’t calculated. It was real, and it was everything.
As they parted, breathless, Hermione searched his face. "Draco?"
He exhaled shakily, a slow, incredulous smile pulling at his lips. "Yeah," he murmured. "Yeah, alright."
And for the first time in a long, long time, he allowed himself to believe in something good.
He was sure she would realise he wasn't worth it, realise that she, the smartest witch of their age, would see the error she had made and leave him but somehow, impossibly, she had stayed. She came over after long days at work, curling into his couch as if she had always belonged there, her presence settling over his flat like warmth, like comfort, like home. She stole his jumpers and left her books scattered across his bedside table, made tea with too much honey and wrinkled her nose when she tried to convince him to read muggle literature.
She stayed the night, her warmth pressed against him beneath the sheets, her curls tangled in his fingers as she mumbled in her sleep.
His mother adored her.
Narcissa had taken one look at Hermione and smiled like she knew something Draco didn’t. Like she had already seen the future laid out before them.
Draco should have felt like he had everything.
But there was no man as terrified as the man who stood to lose her.
He had learned too well that the universe had a cruel sense of humour. It dangled happiness just out of reach, and the moment you let yourself believe it was yours to keep, it was ripped away.
Draco knew what it was to watch something slip through his fingers.
He had grown up with power, with wealth, with a name that once opened doors. And yet, in the end, it had meant nothing.
In the end, he had been a boy—frightened, desperate, grasping at something that had never truly belonged to him.
And that was the thing, wasn’t it?
Hermione didn’t belong to him. She never could.
She was too good—too full of light, of fire, of something pure that he had spent his whole life reaching for but never quite touching. Until her.
And maybe, one day, she would realize it.
That she had given her love to a man who had spent too many years walking in the dark.
That she had chosen someone selfish and scared and broken, someone who wanted her more than he had ever wanted anything, but who still, deep down, did not believe he had the right to keep her.
That she could do better.
That she deserved better.
So he held her closer as they lay there.
She stirred beside him now, shifting slightly in sleep, her breathing soft against his skin. The moonlight spilling through the window painted silver against the freckles on her shoulders, the curve of her spine.
Draco traced idle patterns against her skin, his fingers trembling slightly as they moved.
He shouldn’t ask.
Shouldn’t need to ask.
But the words broke from him anyway, a whispered plea against the quiet—
"Please stay."
He didn’t know why he said it.
Maybe because happiness had never been something he trusted.
Maybe because he had spent too many years waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Maybe because, even now, with her beside him, with his life so much fuller than he ever thought it could be, he couldn’t shake the fear that one day he’d wake up, and she’d be gone.
Hermione sighed sleepily, shifting in his arms, her fingers brushing against his wrist.
“M’here,” she murmured, voice heavy with sleep, “Always my love.”
Draco closed his eyes, exhaling.