She was an apparition from another realm, draped in the golden glow of flickering candlelight that danced across the folds of her gown. The fabric, as ethereal as morning mist, cascaded from her shoulders in delicate waves of silk, each embroidered star catching the light like a whisper of the cosmos. Her hair—those dark, unruly curls he once adored—now tamed and pinned at her temples, restrained in a way that felt unfamiliar, almost foreign.
Her face—familiar yet distant—was like a memory slipping through his grasp, achingly close and utterly unreachable. And her eyes, those luminous pools, revealed themselves only when she turned just so, offering him no more than a fleeting glimpse of her profile. Her lips, curved into a polite, almost wistful smile, seemed to hold the weight of unspoken words, a quiet echo of what once was.
Seeing her after two years ignited the memories he carried like embers, smoldering quietly until her presence made them flare, searing his chest with their heat. She was everything he had loved and everything he had no right to love. Each subtle motion of her hand around the stem of a champagne glass, each delicate tilt of her head, sent waves of longing and despair crashing through him.
How had he let this vision—so full of grace, so alive—slip through his fingers like sand in an hourglass?
***
Rows of shelves stretched to the vaulted ceiling like ancient pillars, their wood groaning beneath the weight of books. The spines, embossed with golden letters, shimmered faintly under the soft glow of dim lamps, like constellations scattered across the quiet expanse of the library. Spring was nearly upon them. For months now, in his eighth year, he had perfected the art of invisibility. He lingered in shadows, studied diligently in secluded alcoves near the dungeons, sat at the back of every classroom, and ate hastily at the farthest edge of the Slytherin table, always closest to the door of the Great Hall.
But tonight, the intricacies of ancient runes demanded more space, forcing him from the sanctuary of shadows into the library’s cavernous heart. He claimed a large, dark table in the stillness of evening, where every whispered word felt eternal, every footstep reverberated like a chant, a reminder of the centuries of thoughts contained within these walls.
Then came the footsteps—deliberate, unhurried, yet unbearably loud against the silence. They grew closer, until they stopped.
“Malfoy?”
The voice was quiet, uncertain, like a soft knock on a door he wasn’t expecting anyone to approach. He lifted his head, the motion slow and deliberate, reluctant to acknowledge he’d been addressed. Surprise flickered across his features as his gaze landed on her.
“I...” He hesitated, then spat, “Granger.” His nod was curt, his eyes scanning her face, a mixture of confusion and wariness.
She frowned, her expression unreadable, and stood there for a moment, as though weighing whether to continue. Then, in that same soft, careful tone, she asked, “Ancient Runes?” She gestured toward the scattered parchment in front of him, her voice almost gentle enough to dissolve the tension in the air.
He studied her for a beat longer, his mind grasping for some explanation for her presence, for why she’d approached him at all. Finally, he nodded, saying nothing.
“I once heard...” she began, her voice tentative, trailing off as if she were searching for the right words. “That runes are... like the way magic speaks to reality.”
Her lips curved into a faint, uncertain smile, one that didn’t quite reach her eyes, as though she wasn’t sure her metaphor made any sense. “It’s kind of fascinating, if you think about it.”
Malfoy didn’t respond immediately. He studied her, his gaze searching her face as if trying to decipher an unwritten code, to understand why she stood there and why she’d spoken to him at all. The silence between them was heavy, stretching thin and taut. Finally, he looked away, his attention dropping to the parchment in front of him, as though dismissing her words as inconsequential.
“What’s the matter?” he asked at last. His voice was low, but there was a sharp edge to it, a trace of irritation that lingered like the aftertaste of bitterness.
“Nothing. Nothing,” she replied quickly, almost too quickly, shaking her head. “Just… runes. Fascinating.” She smiled, but it was small and fleeting, the kind of smile that didn’t quite touch her eyes.
Malfoy raised an eyebrow, unimpressed, his silence daring her to elaborate.
“What’s the matter, Granger?” he repeated, his tone more deliberate this time, his chin tilting slightly as he regarded her.
She sighed, the sound barely audible but heavy with resignation, as if conceding to the futility of keeping up pretenses.
“McGonagall thought it might be worth it for me to... check on you.” Her hand brushed against the badge pinned to her chest, a subtle reminder of her authority.
He rolled his eyes, the gesture loaded with disdain.
“I know you’re here all alone,” she continued, her words tumbling out in a rushed, nervous cadence. “And Zabini and Theodore are... in Italy, right? And your father is in...”
Her voice faltered as Malfoy’s sharp glare cut through her sentence like a knife, his narrowed eyes silencing her.
“I don’t need anyone ‘checking’ on me,” he replied coldly, his voice steady yet laced with indignation. But it lacked the venom it once might have held—it was restrained, almost subdued. Not like the Malfoy she had sparred with before.
She didn’t seem shy anymore. Something flickered in her eyes, a spark of defiance, as she lifted her chin. Her posture turned defensive, and the sound of her irritation was so sharp it felt like she might stomp her foot to punctuate it. She drew in a deep breath, poised to speak, but when her gaze locked onto his, her expression shifted. The fire in her eyes softened, her brows knitting together as if in quiet contemplation.
She didn’t look angry—not the fiery frustration he’d so often seen before. Nor did she look sad, a look he might pity or dismiss. No, this was something different. She looked calm, but... disappointed.
Disappointed.
The word burrowed into him, sharp and unwelcome. He’d been on the receiving end of disappointment countless times—teachers, classmates, family. The weight of it had left its mark long ago. But coming from her, it stung in a way he couldn’t explain.
And then she turned to leave, and before he could stop himself, the words tumbled out:
“They’re connections.”
His voice was harder than he intended, the sound sharper than he’d expected, but the words spilled forth as if they had a will of their own.
“They’re not just symbols—they’re connections. Each rune carries an echo of ancient magic, a resonance that only reveals itself when you truly understand its meaning. They’re echoes of spells that were once as instinctive as breathing.”
She stopped mid-step, her eyebrows lifting slightly as though she wasn’t sure she’d heard him correctly. Turning back, she studied him, her gaze sharp and curious, making him feel unexpectedly exposed.
“Most people see something simple in runes,” he continued, as if compelled by the intensity of her attention. “Signs. Symbols. Patterns. But that’s nothing compared to what they really are. Runes are a language, a dialogue with magic itself. They’re like mirrors, reflecting not just the spell, but the wizard who casts it.”
She didn’t reply immediately, her silence stretching as she regarded him with an expression he couldn’t quite decipher. Finally, as though surrendering to some unspoken decision, she pulled out the chair across from him. The sound of wood scraping against the stone floor echoed in the stillness.
She sat, her gaze flicking to the parchment spread before him before darting back to his face, just for a second—furtive, uncertain.
Malfoy straightened, leaning back in his chair as he watched her. She began to scan his notes, her fingers trailing absently over the edges of the pages. He didn’t say another word, didn’t break the quiet, just watched as she read.
“So... what exactly are you trying to investigate here?” she asked softly, her finger brushing over his notes. Her tone was calm, measured, yet attentive, and for once, it didn’t carry the sharpness he might have expected. There was no condescension in her voice—at least, he didn’t think so. It felt more like genuine curiosity.
“The meaning of runes that only work in specific arrangements,” he replied at last, his words slow and deliberate. The silence between them stretched, but instead of letting it linger, he found himself continuing. “The intent shifts depending on the context, almost as if the runes adapt to the wizard using them. I’m trying to figure out whether it’s the runes themselves... or the caster.”
She nodded thoughtfully, her gaze scanning his notes. For a moment, her hand twitched, almost imperceptibly, as though she wanted to correct something but stopped herself just in time.
“That makes sense,” she said after a pause. “Runes have always seemed more... conscious than other forms of magic.”
His brow arched, skepticism flickering across his face.
“Conscious?” he repeated, the word sounding more like a challenge than a question.
She didn’t falter. Instead, she met his gaze, her smile gentle yet unwavering.
“I think we’re their mirror,” she said quietly. “They reflect us—our intent, our flaws, our magic. Maybe even more than we realize.”
***
Hands. Hands that weren’t his, resting possessively on a woman who wasn’t his anymore. They settled on her waist with ease, confident—too confident. They moved lightly, tracing a path as though offering her comfort he had no right to give.
And then she laughed.
That laugh—bright, unrestrained, and free—pierced through the layers of chatter and music like a blade, sharp and unavoidable. It carried a weightlessness, a joy that seemed to defy the shadows of pain he knew so well.
He shouldn’t have noticed. Shouldn’t have let the sound burrow its way into him. But it did.
It was the kind of laugh that could soothe the sharpest edges of the world, that could mimic the rhythm of a summer downpour, a warm ray of light breaking through the clouds, the scent of a spring meadow in full bloom. And yet, in that moment, it was unbearable.
His chest tightened as the sound echoed in his mind, a cruel reminder of what once had been his. The melody of her happiness, so achingly familiar, now felt like a foreign tune—a song he could no longer hum along to, no matter how hard he tried.
Draco forced himself to look away, but the image lingered, etched into the corners of his mind like an unwelcome guest. The sight of her, radiant and unburdened, felt both a punishment and a blessing—a painful affirmation that she had found a way to live without him.
And he? He stood in the shadows, a silent observer to her joy, every laugh a testament to his loss.
***
They sat beneath a sprawling oak on the castle grounds, the shade of its leaves casting dappled patterns over their scattered parchments. A soft breeze rustled through the branches, carrying with it the scent of spring—fresh earth, blooming flowers, and the promise of renewal. Hermione leaned over one of her notes, her brow furrowed in concentration, while Draco lazily traced the shape of the Gebo rune in the air with his wand.
“The rune of the gift?” she asked, her tone curious, though her attention stayed on her parchment.
“It’s more than a symbol of a gift,” he replied, his voice quiet yet unusually steady, as if the rune itself demanded his focus. “It’s... a burden. Sometimes you give something you don’t want to give back.”
She lifted her gaze, intrigued, the spring sunlight catching in her hair.
“A gift, but not in a material sense,” he continued, his finger now tracing the rune on his parchment. “It’s a gift of emotion, of balance... sometimes even forgiveness.”
“Forgiveness as a gift?” she repeated, her voice soft, mulling over the idea. “Do you think that’s why forgiveness is so hard? Because it feels like losing something that should belong to you?” Her fingers idly smoothed the edge of her parchment, as though her hands mirrored her restless thoughts.
“The gift that costs the most,” he murmured, his words barely above a whisper. “You don’t give it to someone else. You give it to yourself.”
For a moment, silence settled between them. His gaze drifted to the horizon, distant and unseeing, as though the weight of his thoughts pulled him far from the present.
She noticed his hand tighten around his wand, the small gesture betraying his inner turmoil.
“Lucius...” he said suddenly, the name slipping out like a bitter taste he couldn’t swallow. “He always said that power lies in control. Over people, over situations... over yourself.” His voice wavered, though he tried to steady it. “And the war?” He swallowed hard. “The war showed us how little control we ever really had.”
Hermione’s expression softened, her sharp focus yielding to gentle understanding.
“Draco...” she began, her voice delicate, but the sound of his name startled him. He looked at her, his shock apparent, as if hearing it spoken aloud had stripped away some invisible armor.
It was the first time.
Did saying his name mean she was trying to understand him? That she wanted to see him, really see him? The way she said it—so personal, so intimate—it made him feel bare, exposed.
He raised a hand as though to stop her, his tone suddenly firm, defensive. “I’m not saying this to make you feel sorry for me.”
Her gaze didn’t falter, but he could sense her disappointment lingering at the edges of her silence.
Disappointment.
The weight of it made him rush to fill the void. “I... I just... I’m sorry, Granger.” The words came out unevenly, jagged around the edges, like a truth he hadn’t meant to reveal.
Hermione paused, studying him for a long moment. Then she nodded, her gaze lowering back to the parchment in front of her, though her thoughts were clearly elsewhere.
“Granger... I... for everything. I don’t expect this to change anything. I…”
The distant sound of laughter interrupted his words. Hermione lifted her head, her attention drawn to Ginny, who was waving at her with a bright smile. Hermione glanced back at him, her lips curving into a small, polite smile that seemed to acknowledge his words, even if she didn’t respond.
Then she turned toward her friend, raising her hand in a wave.
Draco watched as Ginny’s expression shifted when she noticed who Hermione was sitting with. Her steps slowed for a moment, her smile faltering slightly. It wasn’t hesitation or disdain he saw in her face—it was something softer, more like concern.
But after a moment, she smiled again and continued toward them with a group of friends in tow. Draco, not wanting to engage in any form of conversation or confrontation, quickly turned his gaze downward, focusing on the scattered notes at his feet.
“Hermione.”
The confident voice cut through the quiet, and out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of the tie belonging to the boy who had spoken her name. Against his better judgment, Draco looked up slightly, just as Hermione did.
The boy was watching her, but he gave a brief, polite nod in Draco’s direction. The gesture startled him; few people acknowledged him in any way, let alone with civility.
“Anthony,” Hermione greeted softly.
Anthony. Draco’s eyes flicked to the boy’s robes—Ravenclaw. He recognized him vaguely but couldn’t recall his last name.
“Are you going to Hogsmeade this weekend?” Anthony asked, his words quick, almost rushed. Before Hermione could respond, he added, “Would you like to go with me?”
Hermione blinked, the surprise evident on her face, but after a brief pause, she smiled. She cast a quick glance at Draco before answering.
“Sure, why not?” she said, standing and brushing off her skirt. She turned back to Anthony. “Are you heading to Transfiguration?”
Draco didn’t hear Anthony’s response. His thoughts began to spiral, drowning out their conversation. Only when Hermione said, “Bye, Malfoy,” did his attention snap back.
He looked up at her, and for the briefest moment, their eyes met before she turned and left with Ginny and the others.
Draco’s gaze followed her, lingering even after she was gone. His hands clenched around the edges of the parchment in front of him, his grip tightening until the paper threatened to crumple.
Was this jealousy?
The thought gnawed at him, unwelcome and uncomfortable.
Was he jealous of Anthony for asking her to Hogsmeade? Or jealous of the ease with which she seemed to move through the world, surrounded by friends and free from the weight he carried? Or was it something deeper—that no one bothered to talk to him, to ask him anything, or even to look at him the way Anthony had looked at her?
He didn’t know. All he knew was that the feeling churned inside him, sharp and bitter, leaving him uneasy and hollow.
***
The joke she had heard—whatever it was—must have been corny, perhaps even painfully stupid. But she was laughing as though it were the most brilliant thing she’d ever heard, her head tilting back, her eyes sparkling with unrestrained joy. Her companion grinned, leaning closer, his presence too familiar, too comfortable.
Draco felt something inside him crack. It was sharp, splintering, as though it were his chest breaking apart and not the fragile glass he clutched in his hand.
Everything about the scene felt wrong, out of place, like a memory that didn’t belong to him but had somehow invaded his mind. Hermione—Granger—shouldn’t be in someone else’s arms. She shouldn’t be smiling like that, her laughter carrying the kind of ease and freedom he hadn’t seen in years.
She shouldn’t be laughing like...
Like she’d forgotten.
He swallowed hard, tearing his gaze away, desperate to break the invisible tether that kept pulling him back to her. But the pull was relentless. Even as he turned away, his eyes betrayed him, drawn back to her like a moth to the glow of a candle it could never touch.
She was so close.
And yet, she was a world away. A world he couldn’t reach, couldn’t touch.
And it hurt.
It hurt too much.
***
They sat beneath the same oak tree where they had spent countless afternoons since the first whispers of spring had warmed the air. For the first time in years, Draco found himself outdoors without the weight of fear pressing on his chest—no Dark Wizard to run from, no judgmental stares from Hogwarts’ halls to avoid. He could simply sit, his back against the familiar rough bark, feeling the breeze against his face.
The silence between them was familiar now, even comfortable. But today, it carried a heaviness, a strange tension that neither seemed willing to name. Hermione had a parchment resting on her lap, though her attention drifted far beyond the inked words. Draco sat nearby, his wand slipping idly through his fingers, his gaze fixed on the horizon.
“Runes,” Hermione said suddenly, her voice breaking the stillness like the rustle of leaves. “Do you think we’re reading them correctly? That we still understand what they really meant to the people who created them?”
Draco turned his head slightly, glancing at her from the corner of his eye.
“Probably not,” he replied, his tone measured. “But maybe that doesn’t matter. Maybe their meaning changes with us. Over time.”
“Like everything else,” she murmured, propping her chin in her hand. “People, places... relationships.”
Draco’s brow arched, though his voice remained deliberately nonchalant.
“Is that your subtle reference to Goldstein?”
Hermione flinched, just enough to betray her surprise.
“What about him?” she asked, her cautious smile failing to mask her unease.
Draco shrugged, feigning indifference. “Nothing special. You just seem to spend a lot of time with him.”
Hermione studied him, her eyes searching his face for some hidden meaning.
“He’s nice,” she said at last. “And... easy to talk to.”
Draco snorted softly, though there was no humor in it.
“Easy,” he repeated, rolling the word on his tongue. “That sounds... boring.”
“Not everyone has to be complicated,” Hermione snapped, her words sharp with defensiveness.
Draco let the silence stretch between them, his gaze drifting away as if the conversation had already lost its importance. But after several long seconds, he spoke again, his voice quieter this time, tinged with something harder to define.
“You know, Granger,” he began, “I used to think we liked people because it was simple. That we chose those who made us laugh, who were... easy.”
Hermione frowned, her brow furrowing as she turned her full attention to him.
“Like your brief thing with Weasley,” he added, glancing at her sidelong. Hermione’s expression soured.
“I broke it off to protect our friendship,” she said curtly, her tone bristling with irritation.
Draco smirked faintly, though there was little humor in it. “Sure, but it wouldn’t have worked anyway.”
Hermione rolled her eyes, but he continued before she could retort.
“Maybe it’s not true that we go for what’s easy,” he said, his tone shifting, softer now, almost introspective. “Maybe we’re drawn to what keeps us up at night. What we can’t stop thinking about, even when we know we should.”
Hermione blinked, caught off guard. “What do you mean?”
Draco turned to her fully then, his gaze steady, something unspoken flickering in the depths of his grey eyes.
“You tell me,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.
Hermione stared at him, her lips parting slightly, but no words came. The weight of his statement hung in the air, pressing against them both. Draco could feel something stirring inside him, a realization coiling slowly around his heart, tightening its grip.
Her laugh as she skimmed through dusty books in the library. The way her brow furrowed in concentration as she puzzled over a particularly difficult rune. The tremor in her voice when she spoke about something that mattered deeply to her.
She wasn’t just Hermione anymore. She was like a rune whose meaning shifted every time he looked at her—mysterious, complex, and impossible to decipher completely.
And suddenly, it was clear.
He didn’t want her to go out with Goldstein. Not because of the time they spent together, but because Goldstein could see her smile, hear her laugh, and might never understand how much they meant.
But Draco didn’t dare say it out loud. Not yet.
***
Draco still stood in the shadows, leaning against the wall of the grand ballroom deliberately avoiding the glittering spotlight. The swirl of laughter and music filled the air, yet his attention was elsewhere. His gaze, no matter how hard he tried to resist, kept returning to her.
Hermione was dancing with Goldstein, her dress flowing like liquid silver with each measured step. She moved with a grace that seemed effortless, her expression calm, as though—for once—the weight she always carried on her shoulders had lifted.
But Draco noticed the details others would miss.
He saw the fleeting moments when her smile faltered, subtle cracks in the facade she wore. The way her gaze drifted to somewhere far away, to something—or someone—beyond the present, before she forced herself back into the conversation.
And then their eyes met.
It lasted only a second, but in that moment, Hermione smiled. It was small, quiet—nothing like the bright laughter she had shown earlier. This smile was different. It was softer, almost... apologetic.
Draco’s chest tightened, confusion mingling with the ache he had been trying to ignore. What did that smile mean? Was it regret? Pity? An acknowledgment of the distance between them? Disappointment?
Before he could decipher it—or decide how he even felt about it—Hermione turned back to her partner, her focus shifting seamlessly back to Goldstein.
Draco clenched his jaw, forcing his gaze elsewhere, but the image lingered like a shadow in his mind.
Should she feel guilty? Of course not. She wasn’t his problem anymore.
But no matter how often he repeated the thought, it didn’t dull the sting.
***
They stood on the platform, a few steps apart, shrouded in the shadow of the departing train. Hermione clutched her books tightly to her chest, as though they were a shield, a fragile barrier against the weight of the moment. Draco stood with his hands buried in his pockets, his posture casual, his face carefully neutral—but his eyes betrayed a weariness she recognized all too well.
“So... that’s it, huh?” Draco said, his voice low, his gaze sliding toward her without fully meeting her eyes.
Hermione nodded, her expression subdued.
“Looks like it,” she replied softly, the words carrying a quiet melancholy. “Good luck... with whatever lies ahead.”
Draco’s lips twitched into a faint smile, though it lacked any real joy. It was more of a grimace, a mask to hide something he couldn’t quite name.
“Thanks, Granger. You too.”
For a moment, silence settled between them, heavy and unresolved. Hermione’s gaze drifted toward the horizon, her thoughts far away, as if searching for the right words among the clouds of steam left by the train.
“You know...” she began, her voice tentative, her eyes still fixed on the distance. “People think the end of a war means the end of the fighting. But... sometimes it’s just the beginning.”
Draco turned his head slightly, frowning as he studied her, as though trying to piece together the meaning behind her words.
“It’s hard to leave everything behind, isn’t it?” she added, her voice trembling on the final word, the weight of it hanging between them.
He opened his mouth, ready to respond, but the words caught in his throat when she turned back to him with a forced smile.
“I hope you find peace, Malfoy,” she said, her tone light yet fractured, before turning and heading toward the exit.
Draco remained silent, watching as she walked away, her figure dissolving into the bustling crowd. Her words lingered, echoing inside him, reverberating in places he thought were long sealed off.
And as she disappeared from sight, he realized she had left behind something he couldn’t quite name—something that refused to fade, no matter how far away she went.
***
Hermione touched her temple lightly, her fingers brushing against her skin as she felt the faint stirrings of a stress sweat. The crowded ballroom seemed to press in around her, yet she couldn’t shake the sensation of his gaze. She didn’t turn her head, but she didn’t have to. She felt it—sharp, unrelenting, like a weight on her chest.
Out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of him. Draco stood leaning against a pillar, half-shrouded in the shadows cast by the glittering chandelier. A glass hung loosely in his hand, the amber liquid inside catching the light, but his focus wasn’t on the drink.
He was watching her.
He didn’t hide it, not really, though his posture tried to feign indifference. His eyes, however, betrayed him—penetrating, relentless, as if trying to unearth pieces of her she’d buried long ago.
There was something achingly familiar in his gaze, a memory that brushed too close to her heart. And yet, it felt foreign, alien—a stranger’s touch on an old wound.
She tried to ignore the tightening in her chest, the way his presence seemed to pull her back to places she’d rather forget. But his eyes lingered, unspoken words heavy in the space between them, until the rest of the room faded into nothingness.
***
Draco stepped into the lift at the Ministry of Magic, his movements measured, his stride calm. Yet the tension in his shoulders betrayed the composure he worked so hard to project. His dark grey robes, impeccably tailored, seemed to say what words could not: that he belonged here, even if the world—and sometimes he himself—refused to believe it.
It was his first day in the Auror Office as an analyst. Not his dream job, but it was better than living in the shadow of his family name. Family name that allowed him to better understand wanted criminals. Better than the suffocating silence of the manor.
The lift doors began to close when, suddenly, they jolted open. Hermione Granger darted in, her steps hurried, her bag swinging over her shoulder. Even her entrance carried that unique mix of chaos and determination, as though she never had time for anything yet always knew where she was headed.
“Sorry!” she said automatically, brushing a stray curl from her face. Then she looked up—and froze.
Their eyes met, and the silence that followed stretched just a second too long.
“Granger?” Draco asked, his brow furrowing slightly, as if questioning the reality of her standing there. It wasn’t exactly shocking to see her at the Ministry, yet somehow it was.
“Malfoy,” she replied, her voice tinged with the same surprise. Her features quickly shifted to something more neutral, the slightest tilt of her chin betraying her attempt to compose herself.
The lift began its ascent. Hermione adjusted the strap of her bag, her gaze skimming the buttons on the panel as though they were suddenly fascinating.
“What are you doing here?” she asked eventually, her tone casual but edged with curiosity.
“Auror Office,” he said with a shrug, attempting nonchalance. “Analyst. Just starting.”
“And you?”
“Care for Magical Creatures,” she replied, her lips twitching into a small smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Been there about a month.”
Draco nodded, considering whether to ask her what had brought her to that particular department. Before he could speak, though, the lift slowed and stopped at her floor.
The doors opened, and for a moment, it seemed like she was about to walk out without another word. But then she hesitated.
“Malfoy,” she said, her voice uncertain yet steady enough to carry an air of determination. “Maybe... lunch? Or coffee?” Her tone was light, almost indifferent, as though the suggestion meant nothing, as though it wasn’t unusual.
Draco blinked, his surprise momentarily visible before he masked it. He studied her, searching for any sign of insincerity, but found none.
“Fine,” he said simply, his voice even.
“Find me when you have time,” Hermione added quickly, stepping out of the lift before she could second-guess herself.
The doors slid shut behind her, and Draco found himself staring at the spot where she’d just stood. The faint scent of parchment and lavender lingered in the air, and for reasons he didn’t fully understand, he let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.
***
Hermione smiled at Anthony, her lips curving effortlessly as he said something lighthearted. But the ache in her chest told a different story. Was she really amused? Or was she just trying to fill a void she couldn’t quite name, a hollow space she didn’t dare examine too closely?
And then she felt it again—that gaze, heavy and almost tangible, like a weight pressing against her skin.
Her eyes flicked to Draco for the briefest of moments, just long enough to confirm what she already knew. He was watching her, his expression unreadable, though his presence was anything but subtle.
He was a ghost of something that could have been but never was.
Draco Malfoy wasn’t her enemy anymore. But he wasn’t... hers either.
The thought settled in her chest like a stone, unwelcome and unshakable.
***
Draco sat at a small table in a café tucked away in Muggle London, not far from the Ministry. His fingers traced the rim of his coffee cup, turning it slowly in his hands. He glanced at his watch, though he already knew the time. Granger was never late.
Moments later, she arrived, a stack of parchments tucked under her arm and that familiar expression on her face—half-focused, half-distracted—betraying that her mind was still wrapped up in her latest case.
“Hi,” she said, settling into the seat across from him. She placed the parchments to the side, as if attempting to set her work aside, if only for a moment.
“Hi,” Draco replied, arching an eyebrow. “Working on something groundbreaking? Or is it just another hippogriff report?”
Hermione let out a small snort, a tired laugh that didn’t quite reach her eyes.
“The hippogriff report,” she admitted, reaching for her coffee. “But I’m hoping it’ll help improve their conditions on the southern reservation.”
“Riveting,” Draco deadpanned, though there was no bite in his tone—only a hint of dry irony Hermione had long since learned to overlook.
“And you?” she asked, taking a sip of her drink.
“Nothing special,” he said with a shrug. “Data sheets, pattern analysis. You know, the kind of dull things that save the world without ever making the front page.”
She looked at him then, her smile softening. It wasn’t the overly polite one she often gave colleagues or strangers—it was quieter, warmer, more genuine than the last time he’d seen her.
These meetings had become something of a ritual. Same time, same table, every Tuesday. They talked about work—harmless topics, free from the weight of their past. It was an unspoken rule, a delicate boundary neither of them dared to cross, as if it shielded them from memories they weren’t ready to confront.
But today, Hermione seemed different. There were faint shadows under her eyes, evidence of sleepless nights she couldn’t quite hide. She paused more often than usual during their conversation, her thoughts drifting to places she didn’t share.
Draco watched her carefully, his hands still on the coffee cup.
“Granger,” he said suddenly, his voice calm but carrying an edge that made her look up.
“Hm?” she asked, startled by the intensity of his gaze.
“You look like you need a drink.”
Hermione raised an eyebrow, her surprise evident.
“A drink?” she repeated, as if checking to see if she’d heard him correctly.
“Yes, Granger. People go for drinks. Especially those who look like they need something stronger than coffee.” A faint smirk tugged at his lips, lightening the seriousness of his words.
Hermione blinked, taken aback, but after a moment she nodded. Her smile was small, tired, but tinged with gratitude.
“Okay. Drinks sound good,” she said quietly, her voice softer than usual.
Draco leaned back in his chair, a flicker of satisfaction crossing his face. He wasn’t entirely sure why her agreement pleased him, but it did.
“Great. Today at seven?” he suggested.
She nodded, and just like that, the conversation shifted back to its safe, familiar rhythm. Neither of them pushed further, both content to preserve the fragile balance they had built, as if one wrong word could break it entirely.
***
The music faded briefly as the orchestra shifted into the next song, the pause filling the ballroom with a soft, buzzing murmur of conversation. Hermione stood at the snack table, her back to the crowd, her movements deliberate as she poured herself a glass of pumpkin juice. The weight of the room’s noise pressed against her ears, each voice melding into an indistinct hum.
She wasn’t listening.
She turned her gaze downward, her hand steady on the pitcher, as if the simple act of pouring could grant her a fleeting moment of stillness amidst the chaos.
But she felt it.
His gaze.
It was as tangible as a touch, lingering against her skin, even though she refused to meet it. She didn’t need to. She knew exactly where he was, could picture him perfectly in her mind’s eye: standing in the shadows, leaning against a pillar, watching her with the intensity he tried so hard to disguise.
Draco was still there. In the background. Watching.
In the shadows, where he seemed to belong.
Hermione took a sip of the juice, steadying herself, the cool sweetness grounding her for just a moment. She kept her back to the room, her posture composed, though a small part of her wondered how long she could pretend she didn’t feel him there.
***
It was Tuesday evening, but the usual relief Hermione felt at the end of the workday was absent. The office was quieter than usual, the kind of stillness that crept under her skin. She lingered at her desk longer than necessary, unwilling to face the empty silence of her apartment.
When she finally left, Draco was waiting for her at the Ministry entrance, leaning casually against the cold marble wall.
“You’re late, Granger. You’re never late,” he said as she approached. His tone held no reproach, only a hint of teasing.
“I had some work to finish,” she replied, her voice evasive, her gaze flitting somewhere over his shoulder.
They walked in silence to a nearby pub, one Draco had suggested earlier. It wasn’t fancy, but it had a warm, unpretentious charm that made it easy to feel comfortable.
Hermione ordered a firewhiskey without hesitation, prompting Draco to raise an eyebrow as he lifted his own glass.
“A surprising choice,” he remarked, his voice laced with mild amusement.
“I thought I deserved it,” she replied, a flicker of a smile touching her lips before it faded almost as quickly as it had appeared.
The conversation began as it always did, revolving around their work. Hermione spoke about a troubling case involving illegal unicorn trade, while Draco mentioned his analysis of magical connections between artifacts in a complex Auror investigation. But as the firewhiskey warmed their blood and loosened their tongues, the conversation shifted.
Hermione’s fingers toyed with the edge of her glass, her gaze fixed downward.
“You know,” she said suddenly, her voice barely above a whisper, “I’m working with the Healers on... something.”
Draco’s attention sharpened. He leaned forward slightly, his expression curious but calm.
“Something?” he asked, the interest in his tone unmistakable.
She shrugged, as if trying to downplay the weight of her words.
“It’s not certain. They’re just starting some research... on memory magic.”
Draco didn’t speak right away, sensing there was more.
“Memory magic?” he echoed, his voice steady.
Hermione hesitated, her fingers tightening around her glass.
“My parents,” she said quietly, the words slipping out before she seemed to realize it. She stopped abruptly, as if regretting the admission.
The silence that followed was heavy, the kind of silence that said more than words ever could.
Draco reached for his drink, taking a measured sip as he processed what she had just revealed.
“I’m sorry,” he said softly, and though his words were simple, they carried an unexpected sincerity.
Hermione looked at him then, her eyes meeting his. In them, Draco saw something that caught him off guard: gratitude, yes, but also a vulnerability that made her feel achingly human in a way he hadn’t expected.
“Thank you,” she replied, her voice just as quiet, and for a moment, something unspoken passed between them.
The rest of the evening returned to safer topics—idle conversation that neither of them had to think too hard about. But Draco couldn’t shake the thought of what she had shared.
This wasn’t the Granger he had known—the steadfast, confident girl who seemed impervious to doubt. She was different now, more human, more layered. And as they parted ways, Draco realized she wasn’t just occupying his thoughts. She mattered.
***
As Anthony returned to her, his hand gently brushing her arm, Hermione smiled, but it was reflexive, automatic. The warmth in her expression didn’t quite reach her eyes. She could feel the weight of his gaze, sharper and more real than the touch of Anthony’s fingers.
Draco was watching.
She stole a glance in his direction, the intensity of his expression making her heart stutter. He didn’t even bother to mask it this time—his eyes locked on Anthony with an emotion that was impossible to misinterpret. He looked like he wanted to hit him, to pull Anthony away from her and demand answers that didn’t exist.
Hermione’s lips curved into a faint, apologetic smile, an instinctive attempt to diffuse a tension she didn’t even fully understand. But the moment she offered it, she turned her head, breaking the connection as if it had burned her.
Anthony was speaking, but she wasn’t listening. She couldn’t stop herself from wondering what Draco saw when he looked at them. Did he see Anthony as someone unworthy of her time, as a placeholder for something—or someone—she’d never truly let go of?
The truth was, Anthony was kind. Steady. Safe. She wasn’t sure if she wanted more than that anymore.
But when Draco’s gaze lingered, piercing and relentless, she felt something stir inside her, something she’d buried beneath layers of logic and necessity. It was the way he looked at her—not just like she mattered, but like she was the only thing that mattered.
It terrified her.
Because part of her remembered a time when she might have risked everything—her pride, her reputation, even her heart—for the same man who now stood on the sidelines, arms crossed, jaw tight, as if barely restraining himself from acting on whatever was coursing through him.
And now? She didn’t know.
As Anthony guided her back onto the dance floor, Hermione tried to focus on the music, on the steady rhythm of his steps. But in the back of her mind, she couldn’t shake the image of Draco: standing in the shadows, watching her like she’d betrayed him, like he was still waiting for her to remember a promise she’d never made.
***
Half a year had passed since their first drinks, and Hermione and Draco's Tuesday meetings had become more than a routine. They sometimes swapped coffee for drinks, and more often than not, someone from the Auror Office joined them—Harry, Ginny, and even Ron on occasion, though his presence was always accompanied by a faint awkwardness.
That evening, they sat at their favorite corner table in a cozy pub, the buzz of chatter and laughter creating a warm backdrop. Draco swirled the firewhiskey in his glass, half-listening to Hermione animatedly tell Ginny about a recent case. There was that familiar gleam in her eyes—somewhere between passion and exhaustion—that Draco had long since learned to notice.
Harry, sitting across from Draco, poured himself another drink before turning to him.
“You should join our investigation team,” Harry said suddenly, breaking into the conversation.
Draco blinked, startled by the suggestion. “I doubt that would be a good idea,” he replied dryly, though his lips twitched into the faintest smirk.
“Why not?” Harry countered, raising an eyebrow. “You’ve got an analytical mind. We could use someone who can read between the lines.”
Ginny chimed in, her smile no longer tinged with the reserve she once held for him. “Maybe Harry’s right. Besides, you get along with us now. Even Ron hasn’t been grumbling much lately.”
“It’s a miracle,” Draco replied, though his tone was lighter than usual.
Across the table, Hermione looked at him with a warm but searching gaze.
“I think you should try,” she said simply.
Draco raised his glass in a silent toast, his smirk softening. “I’ll consider it,” he said, taking a sip.
The evening carried on in good spirits, but as Ginny and Harry said their goodbyes, Draco and Hermione found themselves alone at the table.
“They’re always the first to leave,” Draco mused, turning his empty glass in his hands.
“They have other priorities,” Hermione said with a small shrug.
“And you?” His voice was calm, but his eyes carried a weight that made her pause. “What are your priorities, Granger?”
Hermione hesitated, as if searching for an answer she hadn’t quite settled on.
“I suppose I’m just... trying to figure it all out,” she admitted quietly.
Draco nodded, respecting the honesty in her words. He didn’t press her, but after a moment, he asked, “Any progress with your pa— with the memory researchers?”
Hermione stiffened slightly, then let out a soft sigh.
“A little,” she said, glancing away. “Draco, now that you’re friendly with my friends, they don’t know the details about my parents.”
“Fine. Of course,” he replied quickly, his tone earnest.
Hermione met his gaze, her voice dropping to a near whisper. “You’re the only one who can support me in this.”
Draco swallowed hard, her words settling heavily in his chest. He looked at her, his expression unreadable, but Hermione could sense the weight of his unspoken thoughts.
“But,” she added, breaking the tension, “I don’t want to think about it tonight. Tonight, I want to forget about all of it.”
“Granger—” Draco began, but she stopped him with a small wave of her hand and a faint smile.
“Let’s just enjoy tonight,” she said, taking another sip of her drink.
Draco nodded, and they returned to lighter topics, laughing at the quirks of their fellow pub-goers. As they prepared to leave, standing a few steps from the bar, Draco politely said her name with a nod and a slight smile, ready to bid her goodbye.
“Draco,” Hermione began, her hand brushing against his sleeve, stopping him mid-turn. She wasn’t sure why she thought she should say it. “Anthony and I... we broke up.”
Draco raised an eyebrow, her words hanging in the air like a spell that had yet to land.
“Since when?” he asked, his voice quiet, almost hesitant.
“A few days ago,” she admitted, avoiding his gaze.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. Hermione finally looked up, meeting Draco’s intense gaze, which seemed to search her face for answers she hadn’t given.
Before she could process what was happening, Draco leaned down, his lips brushing against hers with sudden, determined warmth. Hermione froze, caught off guard, but then she kissed him back, her restraint melting away as the tension between them broke free.
When they finally pulled apart, Hermione stared at him, her eyes wide, her breath uneven.
“Draco...” she began, but the words faltered.
“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice hoarse. “We shouldn’t have.”
“Draco,” she said again, this time more firmly. “I said I wanted to forget tonight. Come home with me.”
They held each other’s gaze, the unspoken question lingering between them. Finally, Draco nodded, his hand reaching for hers. She took it without hesitation.
A quick turn, and they found themselves in Hermione’s living room, the world spinning briefly before grounding them in the quiet intimacy of her space.
Words were unnecessary. Draco pulled her close, his lips finding hers again, their movements charged with months of unspoken desire. Hermione let herself get lost in the moment, the weight of her worries and the ache of the past dissolving under his touch.
***
Hermione stood near one of the long tables lining the ballroom, a champagne flute in her hand, though she’d barely touched it. She was engaged in conversation with Seamus Finnigan and Dean Thomas, but her attention kept drifting.
The conversation suddenly took an unexpected turn.
“I didn’t realize Malfoy was back at the Ministry,” Seamus said, his voice low but clear enough to catch Hermione’s attention.
Dean raised an eyebrow, taking a sip of his drink. “He was working with the Auror Office for a while, wasn’t he? But then he left—two years abroad, right? So why’s he back now?” His tone wasn’t harsh, but there was a thread of skepticism Hermione couldn’t ignore. “Maybe he should’ve just stayed where he was.”
Hermione’s response came faster than she intended, her tone sharp enough to startle even herself.
“Maybe he came back because he has a reason to.”
Seamus blinked, taken aback by her sudden edge.
Hermione shrugged, avoiding his gaze and instead focusing on the bubbles rising in her glass. “I think sometimes people deserve a second chance,” she said softly, her voice quieter but no less firm. “Especially if they’re trying to change.”
Dean frowned, as though considering her words, but then he looked at her curiously and said “And if he came back, maybe it’s because there’s someone worth coming back for.”
The words hung in the air, sharper than she expected. Her own words surprised her. She was not his anymore, so why did she feel like she needed to defend him? And if he did not have a purpose here, like he said, why would he come back?
Hermione exhaled slowly and turned her gaze away, unwilling to linger on the thought. She wasn’t ready to unpack what exactly she had meant—or who, deep down, those words were really for.
***
Draco sat at the small kitchen table in Hermione's apartment, watching her move about as she prepared breakfast. Her hair was tied back in a loose ponytail, strands escaping to frame her face, and the apron she wore—delicate and floral—looked slightly out of place on her. Yet somehow, she managed to make it charming.
“I never thought I’d see you in an apron, Granger,” he remarked, a faint smile playing on his lips.
“And I never thought I’d be cooking breakfast for a Malfoy,” she shot back, a teasing glint in her eye as she stirred something on the stove.
“I could help, you know, if you’d let me,” he said, feigning indignation.
Hermione chuckled, turning toward him. “You’d probably make a mess of my kitchen.”
Before he could reply, she leaned over and kissed him lightly, her laughter lingering in the air between them.
Breakfast was simple but comforting—scrambled eggs, cottage cheese and fresh bread Hermione had picked up in Diagon Alley. They ate together, the conversation flowing easily, as though this kind of domesticity were something they’d always shared.
When they finished, Draco stood and surprised her by holding out his hand.
“What are you doing?” she asked, her brows furrowed in mock suspicion, though the smile on her lips gave her away.
“Dancing after dinner. Quite a Muggle tradition, isn’t it? You said your dad…” he said, his smirk teasing.
“I’m not sure that’s exactly a tradition,” she stopped him, but before she could finish, he took her hand and pulled her gently to the center of the room.
The radio on the counter hummed softly, playing a Muggle ballad. Draco placed a hand on her waist, guiding her into a slow, swaying rhythm.
Hermione laughed softly, resting her head against his shoulder. For a moment, it felt like nothing else mattered—the world outside faded away, leaving only the two of them in their small, shared haven.
But as if to remind them that perfection was fleeting, an owl fluttered on the windowsill, a copy of the Daily Prophet clutched in its beak.
Hermione frowned as she took the newspaper, her eyes catching the bold headline:
“Are Former Death Eaters and the Ministry’s Golden Girl Together?!”
Beneath the headline was a grainy photograph of them leaving a restaurant in Hogsmeade, taken in secret.
Draco reached for the paper, his face hardening as he scanned the first few lines. His jaw tightened, the easy warmth he’d carried moments ago replaced by something colder, sharper.
“It’s nothing” Hermione said quietly, reaching out to touch his arm.
But Draco pulled away, her touch breaking against his retreat.
“I knew this would happen,” he said, his voice low, almost to himself.
“Draco...” Hermione began, her tone gentle, but he cut her off with a shake of his head.
“I have to go,” he said abruptly, his voice cool, though there was something raw beneath it—something fragile and wounded he couldn’t quite conceal.
Before she could stop him, he turned and moved toward the window, his movements brisk, as though leaving quickly could shield him from the pain he didn’t want to face.
***
Hermione looked away, willing herself to focus on the rhythm of the dance, on the gentle sway of the music, on Anthony’s steady presence. But it was no use.
Draco’s gaze was unrelenting. It wasn’t just a glance or a casual observation—it was piercing, all-consuming. He didn’t look at her as Hermione Granger, war hero, or Ministry darling. He looked at her as if she were his entire world, as if everything he’d ever known or wanted was bound up in her existence.
It made her chest tighten.
He had been her opponent, once. And then he had been... something else. Someone else.
There had been a brief, fragile moment when the weight of the past seemed lighter, when the lines between them blurred, and it felt as though the possibility of something more had been within reach.
But what could have been had faltered before it could fully take shape.
It hadn’t been the war, or the scars it left behind. It had been the world they lived in—the expectations, the judgment, the unrelenting reminders of who they were supposed to be.
And now, standing in the same room, separated by little more than the dance floor, the chasm between them felt wider than ever.
Hermione exhaled softly, forcing a smile as Anthony spun her, her steps practiced and precise. But her thoughts betrayed her, slipping back to Draco, to the way he looked at her—as though he’d never stopped wondering what might have been.
And the truth was, she had wondered too.
***
Draco returned to Hermione's apartment late, the door shutting behind him with a muted thud. His steps were heavy, his shoulders tense, and the irritation in his expression was impossible to miss.
“What’s wrong?” Hermione asked cautiously, watching him from where she sat on the couch. She kept her tone even, careful not to push too hard.
“Nothing, Granger,” he snapped, waving her off with a sharp motion. “You don’t have to keep asking the same questions.”
Hermione frowned, her jaw tightening at the edge in his voice.
“I’m just trying to help,” she said, calm but firm.
“Maybe you should stop trying,” he shot back, his tone cutting.
Her face hardened, the hurt flickering across her features for only a moment before she masked it.
Hermione watched as Draco paced across the room, his movements restless, his hand running through his hair in frustration. She knew this wasn’t about her—at least, not entirely. Her mind turned to the Daily Prophet article she’d seen earlier that morning, the one dredging up Lucius Malfoy’s past in connection to a recent case. Or perhaps it was the letter she’d noticed in the corner of the kitchen that afternoon, bearing the distinctive Malfoy family crest. A letter from his mother, no doubt.
Whatever the reason, Hermione felt the weight of what wasn’t being said between them.
She opened her mouth to speak, to ask if it was about the article, or the letter, but the words caught in her throat. She didn’t know how to bridge the gap that seemed to widen with every passing moment. Draco wasn’t the type to admit to pain, and she wasn’t sure he’d let her share in it, even if she tried.
“Draco...” she began softly, but he shook his head, his expression hardening.
“Don’t, Hermione,” he said, his voice quieter now, but no less sharp. “I don’t need this tonight.”
Hermione inhaled deeply, forcing herself to stay composed.
“Fine,” she said evenly, standing up from the couch. “But whatever it is, you don’t have to carry it alone.”
Her words hung in the air as Draco stopped pacing, his back to her. For a moment, she thought he might respond, but he stayed silent.
Hermione took a step closer, but when he didn’t turn, she sighed and retreated to the bedroom, leaving him alone with his thoughts.
Draco stood in the middle of the room, staring at the floor. He hated the way he’d spoken to her, but the knot in his chest made it hard to breathe, let alone apologize. The weight of the article, the expectations, the judgments—everything he tried to bury had a way of clawing its way back to the surface.
And now, the only person who’d offered him solace was slipping further away, and he didn’t know how to stop it.
***
Hermione spun gracefully in Anthony’s arms, the music weaving around them like a cocoon, momentarily drowning out the chaos of her thoughts. She focused on the rhythm, on the steady steps of the dance, willing herself to stay in the moment.
But the feeling crept in, unrelenting.
It was as if everything unfolding now was a scene from a film she’d already watched—a story she knew by heart. She could predict the dialogue, the steps, the glances.
And the ending.
She’d hated it then, and she knew she wouldn’t like it now.
The realization pressed against her chest, heavy and unwelcome. She tried to shake it off, offering Anthony a polite smile as he guided her through the next turn, but her mind betrayed her, pulling her back to the weight of what could have been.
What she’d chosen to leave behind.
***
Hermione left him little gestures, each one a quiet declaration of her feelings. She scribbled notes wishing him a good day and slipped them into his pocket. She made him a cup of tea before he even stirred in bed. When he looked overwhelmed at the end of the day, she would place a gentle hand on his shoulder, her touch saying what words couldn’t: I’m here. It’s okay.
She wanted to show him that it didn’t matter what anyone thought. She had survived the war, defied expectations, and come out stronger. She had fought for what she believed in before, and she would fight for this too. The feelings she had for him were overwhelming, vast, and beautiful—something she hadn’t expected but couldn’t deny.
But Draco... Draco didn’t seem to notice. Or, if he did, he didn’t acknowledge it.
One evening, as they sat together in the quiet of her living room after another long day, the tension she’d been carrying for weeks came to a head.
“Sometimes I feel like you’re here only in body, but not in spirit,” Hermione said softly, her voice steady but laced with a vulnerability she couldn’t hide.
Draco looked at her, startled. His grey eyes flickered with something—guilt, perhaps—but he didn’t answer. Instead, he stood abruptly, muttering something she couldn’t make out, and disappeared into another room.
Hermione sat frozen, staring at the space he’d left behind. The silence felt like a weight pressing on her chest.
He returned two minutes later, his expression serious, his hands shoved deep into his pockets.
“I don’t deserve this, Granger,” he said, his voice low, as if the words were being pulled from somewhere deep and reluctant. “I don’t deserve... you.”
Hermione’s breath caught, her throat tightening as she tried to process his words.
“You’re brilliant,” he continued, his gaze meeting hers. “And kind. And... persistent.” The corner of his mouth quirked slightly, but there was no humor in it. “But I don’t know if I can be what you need.”
Hermione opened her mouth to speak, but he held up a hand, stopping her.
And with that, he turned and walked to the bedroom, leaving her alone in the soft glow of the living room lamp.
Hermione sat in silence, her heart heavy. She had heard his words, but they didn’t feel like enough.
Because what he didn’t say—what he refused to admit—was that she mattered to him in the way she longed to matter. His words weren’t I love you, but they weren’t nothing either.
And yet, as she sat there, Hermione couldn’t shake the feeling that she was fighting a battle he wasn’t ready to join.
***
No. No. She had to stop thinking about it.
When they decided to start something, it had ended terribly. The pain had been overwhelming, a sharp and relentless ache that took months to dull. Every empty space in her life had seemed to echo with his absence. Every reminder of what they had tried to build together brought a fresh sting.
She had suffered enough.
A year after the breakup, she found her way back to Anthony. With him, everything felt easy. There was no heaviness, no unspoken words lurking in the corners of their conversations. It wasn’t the same, not even close, but it was safe.
She couldn’t let herself get entangled in feelings for Draco Malfoy again.
To be with him meant reopening every wound, unraveling every knot of their complicated past. They would have to dig through all the hurt, have the difficult conversations, untangle the mess they had left behind.
No. She couldn’t.
She couldn’t risk her heart again.
And yet, as much as she tried to tell herself this, her chest tightened every time she caught his gaze from across the room.
***
Hermione sat on the edge of the couch, her hands tightly clasped in her lap, the tension in the room almost suffocating. The silence between her and Draco was thick, the kind of silence that had grown over weeks, festering into something neither of them had addressed.
Draco stood by the window, his hand braced against the frame, his posture rigid, as though the weight of their unspoken words was pressing down on him. His gaze was fixed somewhere beyond the glass, but his focus was inward, trapped in his own storm.
“Do you think this works?” Hermione’s voice broke the silence, soft yet laden with emotion.
Draco turned slowly, his brow furrowing.
“What works?” he asked, though the question felt hollow. He knew exactly what she meant.
“Us,” she said simply, meeting his gaze with an expression that was equal parts exhaustion and determination.
“If that’s a question, then you already know the answer,” he replied, his tone colder than he intended, the sharp edge of his words slicing through the air.
Hermione’s hands clenched in her lap, her knuckles whitening as she struggled to keep her voice steady.
“I tried, Draco. I really did,” she said, her voice breaking at the edges.
“You tried?” he repeated, the bitterness in his voice unmistakable. “Or maybe it just looked like you tried, Granger. Because from where I stand…”
“From where you stand?” she interrupted, her tone rising, her frustration bubbling over. “You don’t even see where I stand, Draco. You never have.”
Draco looked away, his jaw tightening, his hands clenching into fists at his sides.
“I gave you signs,” he said quietly, his voice trembling with restrained emotion.
Hermione let out a bitter laugh, the sound tinged with disbelief.
“Signs? What signs, Draco? Your silence when I begged for words? Your constant retreat when I needed you to stay? What signs?”
His head snapped toward her, his eyes flashing with a mix of anger and pain.
“And you, Hermione? Do you think I didn’t notice your signs?” he snapped, his voice sharp, but his words laced with a raw vulnerability. “Instead of talking, you left notes. Instead of asking, you assumed. When Lucius, when my mother…” His voice cracked. “You expected me to read through the silence, through those fucking signs.”
Hermione shot to her feet, her face flushed with emotion.
“Because I thought you could hear me! I thought you could see me!” Her voice wavered, her anger barely masking the hurt beneath. “But you never look, Draco. Not really. You never really look.”
Draco pushed away from the window, stepping closer but still feeling miles apart. His voice was softer now, tinged with something he couldn’t quite name.
“And you never tried to understand me,” he said, almost a whisper. “You thought you could fight for both of us, but I just…”
“You just what?” Hermione interrupted, her voice rising with desperation.
“I’m not worth fighting for!” he shouted, his voice breaking with the weight of his own confession.
The silence that followed was deafening. Hermione stared at him, tears welling in her eyes, threatening to fall but refusing to.
“I gave you so many signs, Draco,” she said finally, her voice trembling but steady. “That we need to talk about serious things, and not put them under the rug! That you were worthy. That I needed you to meet me halfway. That I was hurting. And you never saw them. You never accepted them.”
Draco’s expression crumpled, his defenses faltering as he looked at her, his grey eyes filled with something broken.
“Maybe because you never saw mine,” he said, his voice soft, the bitterness curling around his words.
Hermione’s shoulders slumped, the fight draining from her as a wave of sadness washed over her.
“Maybe we’ll never understand each other,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.
Draco turned back to the window, his shoulders stiff, his gaze distant.
“Maybe,” he murmured, the words heavy with resignation.
Hermione stood there for a moment, her breath catching in her throat. She reached for her cloak, pulling it around her shoulders.
“Maybe someday you’ll start being brave,” she said, her voice firm, though her heart felt like it was shattering. And in that moment, Draco felt the same sting he always had with her: disappointment.
The words struck deep, and he couldn’t summon a reply.
“Goodbye, Draco,” she said, her voice steady despite the tears brimming in her eyes.
He didn’t turn, even as the door closed behind her.
Draco stood there, unmoving, his hands trembling at his sides. When the silence of the room finally registered, he clenched his fists and closed his eyes, the weight of her absence settling over him like a suffocating shadow.
***
Five minutes. That was all the time their last conversation had taken before she left him. Five minutes to dismantle what they had tried to build.
Draco disappeared the very next day. Hermione only learned through Harry that he had gone abroad. No details, no explanation—just gone. She hadn’t asked for more. At the time, she didn’t have the strength.
Between trying to restore her parents’ memories and piecing herself back together, she couldn’t face the enormity of what they could have been—what she had seen in Draco’s eyes. Not then. Not now, when she knew all too well how it could end.
Hermione set down her glass of champagne with a quiet clink, the room spinning with too many memories and emotions. She slipped through the large doors of the reception hall, the cool night air hitting her as she stepped onto the balcony.
She rested her hands on the balustrade, her fingers curling tightly around the stone as she tried to steady her breathing. The fresh air helped, the quiet moment away from the crowd giving her a chance to compose herself.
When she turned back toward the hall, her breath caught.
“Draco,” she whispered, the name escaping her lips before she could stop it.
He stood in the doorway, half-illuminated by the glow of the chandeliers inside. His posture was steady, but his eyes—those unmistakable grey eyes—were full of the same unreadable intensity that had haunted her for years.
“Hermione,” he said softly, the single word carrying a world of meaning.
For a moment, they simply stared at each other, the silence between them heavier than all the words they had left unsaid.
But this time, something was different.
Maybe this time there would be a different ending.