The Ministry Gala glittered with opulence, a carefully curated spectacle of wealth and influence. Golden candlelight bathed the ballroom, and the murmur of aristocratic conversation wove through the air like a melody beneath the orchestra’s waltz.
Hermione Granger-Montclair had mastered the art of navigating these events—smiling when required, laughing at the appropriate moments, standing dutifully beside her husband.
But nothing had prepared her for this.
“Ah, Malfoy,” her husband said warmly, clapping the man on the shoulder. “I’d like to introduce you to my wife, Hermione Granger-Montclair.”
As if they did not already know each other.
As if they had not once traced constellations on each other’s skin, or memorized the sound of each other’s ragged breathing in the dark. The future had never been theirs to claim.
Not when Draco’s past clung to him like a stain that society refused to forget. Not when Hermione’s reputation—her very cause—could be undone by a single whispered rumor of their affair.
Humanitarian Hermione Granger caught in a romantic embrace with former Death Eater Draco Malfoy. She saw the potential headlines when she closed her eyes.
Then the Marriage Law Act had been passed, and before either of them could decide if love was worth the risk, the choice had been made for them.
Now they were strangers.
Draco’s expression was unreadable as he took her hand, but when he bent to kiss it, he looked up at her slowly. A deliberate moment. A lingering ache. His lips barely brushed her skin, but the touch set her alight.
“It’s a pleasure,” he murmured.
Hermione’s breath caught, but she forced a polite smile. “Mr. Malfoy.”
Draco straightened, turning to her husband. “Would you mind if I borrowed your wife for a dance?”
She did not look at her husband. She could not.
“Of course,” he said easily, unaware of the storm raging between them.
Draco offered his hand.
And Hermione, despite every warning screaming through her veins, took it.
He led her onto the dance floor, and as soon as his hand found her waist, the years between them vanished. The past unraveled like silk, leaving only the feeling of his touch, the heat of his body near hers, the scent of something achingly familiar.
“Say my name,” he murmured as they moved.
She swallowed. “Draco.”
His grip on her tightened, just slightly, just enough. “I wasn’t sure you would.”
The waltz guided them, their bodies moving in perfect unison. She had not danced with him like this before, yet somehow, it felt like they had been made for it.
“Why are you here?” she whispered, barely moving her lips.
“You know why.” His thumb traced a slow circle against her back, hidden beneath layers of silk and propriety. “I had to see you.”
Her heart twisted painfully. “Draco—”
“Come with me.” His voice was quiet but urgent, laced with something raw. “Leave all of this behind. We can go somewhere far away. France, Italy—anywhere.”
The words struck her like a physical force.
Her grip on his shoulder faltered, but he held her steady, pulling her closer as they turned.
“You know I can’t.”
“You can,” he insisted, his breath warm against her cheek. “You don’t belong here, Hermione. Not with him.”
A sharp pang shot through her chest. “I made vows, Draco.”
“And did you love him when you spoke them?”
She hated him for asking. Hated him for knowing the answer.
Draco exhaled slowly, as if bracing himself for her next refusal. “Meet me in the rose garden at midnight.”
Hermione’s lips parted, but no words came.
“If you come, we leave together.” His fingers pressed into her waist, memorizing her. “If you don’t—” His voice broke for the first time that evening. “Then this is goodbye.”
The music swelled, carrying them through the final turn, the last fleeting seconds of borrowed time. Hermione felt the weight of his hand on her waist, the heat of his palm against hers, the way his fingers lingered—just a moment too long—carrying them to the final step, the final moment.
As the last note faded, Draco’s fingers slipped from hers with reluctance, the ghost of his touch still burning against her skin. He bowed, slow and deliberate, his eyes never leaving hers. Hermione curtsied, deep and unwavering, as if grounding herself in the moment—anchoring herself to him.
And then he was gone, swallowed by the crowd, by a world that did not want them to belong to one another.
The clock in the great hall began to chime.
Fifteen minutes until midnight.
Beyond the ballroom doors, the rose garden waited. Draco waited.
She glanced over her shoulder, searching for something—certainty, resolve, a sign. But all she found was the life she had built, the world she had vowed to make a better place for all.
Her fingers curled at her sides.
She closed her eyes and she took a deep breath.
Stay or go?
The choice was hers.
She exhaled slowly and began to move.