The Break Up
“I don’t love you anymore.”
The words sliced through the air like a curse, cold and final.
Hermione Granger stood frozen in Draco Malfoy’s flat, her fingers trembling as she clutched the edge of the wooden desk for support. She had expected an argument. She had expected him to tell her that things were difficult, that work at the Ministry was demanding, that they needed time to figure things out.
She hadn’t expected this.
She forced herself to breathe. “You don’t mean that.”
Draco’s gaze was unreadable, his expression carefully composed, as if the past year of stolen kisses, whispered confessions, and sleepless nights spent tangled in each other’s arms meant nothing.
“I do.”
Liar.
Her chest ached as she searched his face for some sign of hesitation, for some indication that this wasn’t real—that he was pushing her away for reasons beyond his control.
But he simply turned away, his hands braced against the windowsill, shoulders rigid. “I think you should go.”
Tears burned in her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. “Why are you doing this?”
Silence.
Hermione clenched her fists. “At least have the decency to look at me when you rip my heart out, Malfoy.” Slowly, he turned. His silver eyes were void of emotion, distant, like the man she loved had already left long before this moment.
“I’m sorry, Hermione.”
She let out a shaky breath. “No, you’re not.” And with that, she walked away. She never expected him to stop her.
And he didn’t.
Two weeks later….
She read it in the papers first.
Heir of the Malfoy Fortune Set to Marry Socialite Pansy Parkinson.
The ink on the Prophet’s front page felt like acid against her skin. Hermione barely made it through the rest of the article, her hands shaking as she skimmed over the details—the lavish engagement party, the exclusive guest list, the statement from Draco himself, a cold, indifferent confirmation of his upcoming nuptials.
She should have been prepared for this. She had spent the last two weeks avoiding him at the Ministry, making sure their paths never crossed, ensuring she didn’t have to see the man who had shattered her.
But seeing it in print made it real. She turned the page, only for her breath to catch in her throat.
A picture.
Draco and Pansy at some upscale event, her manicured hand resting possessively on his chest. He was dressed impeccably, his posture composed, his expression unreadable. But it was the look in his eyes that broke Hermione completely.
There was nothing there.
No warmth. No love.
Just emptiness.
And yet, he had chosen her.
Hermione folded the paper, placed it on the table, and took a steadying breath.
She would not cry.
She would not break.
And she would certainly not let him see how much he had destroyed her. Hermione barely registered the sound of Ginny’s voice calling her name.
“Are you okay?” Ginny asked cautiously. Hermione nodded stiffly, pasting on a smile she didn’t feel. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”
And just like that, she shoved the pain deep inside her and pretended it didn’t exist.
Four weeks later - A pregnancy…
The healer’s words felt distant. “You’re pregnant, Miss Granger. About two months along.” Hermione sat motionless, her hands gripping the edge of the chair.
Eight weeks. Her stomach twisted. Her mind raced through the timeline, through the nights spent tangled in Draco’s arms, through the last time he had kissed her, held her, loved her.
She closed her eyes. Draco’s child.
No. Not just one. Two heartbeats.
Hermione’s fingers trembled as she pressed a hand to her stomach. Twins. She had spent weeks trying to erase him from her life, trying to forget the pain of his betrayal. But there was no forgetting now. There was only the undeniable truth—he had left her when she needed him most. And now, she was carrying his children.
The next few weeks had been the hardest. Hermione had always been independent, had always prided herself on her strength.
But pregnancy? Pregnancy was an entirely different kind of battle. Morning sickness had been relentless. There were days when she couldn’t keep anything down, when she sat curled up on the cold floor of her tiny flat, clutching her stomach, whispering to the babies that they would be okay.
She still went to work, still held her head high at the Ministry, even when exhaustion weighed her down. But it was getting harder.
And worse than the sickness, worse than the fatigue, was seeing him.
Draco Malfoy.
Untouched. Unchanged. Untouched by the life growing inside her, unaffected by the storm he had left behind. She had perfected the art of avoidance. They worked in different departments, and Hermione ensured their paths never crossed. But there were the newspapers.
The photographs. The endless reports of Draco and Pansy, their engagement, their social outings. And every time, it felt like another blow to her heart.
The Truth She Couldn’t Tell
The first time she nearly told him was in the atrium of the Ministry. She had been standing near the Floo, absentmindedly rubbing her growing stomach, when she spotted him.
Draco.
He was laughing—laughing—at something Pansy had said, looking more carefree than she had seen him since their break up. Her breath caught.
She wanted to hate him. She wanted to scream at him, tell him that while he was out living his perfect life, she was fighting his battles—sleepless nights, aching limbs, the terrifying reality of raising two children alone.
But she didn’t. She turned on her heel and left. Because he had made his choice.
And she refused to beg.
Eight Weeks Later – Waiting in the Rain
The downpour was relentless, soaking through Hermione’s cloak and chilling her to the bone. She stood outside Draco’s flat, her arms wrapped around herself, her heart hammering against her ribs. After days of reasoning with herself, She decided that Draco needed to know about the children.
She had spent hours rehearsing what she would say, how she would tell him that she was carrying his child, that no matter what had happened between them, he deserved to know.
But as the minutes stretched into an hour, doubt crept in.
What if he didn’t care?
What if he turned her away?
Her fingers trembled as she reached up and knocked again, but there was no answer. She took a shaky breath, telling herself she would wait. And she did. Through the rain, through the cold, through the ache in her chest.
Until finally—she saw him.
Draco rounded the corner, his expensive cloak shielding him from the storm, his silver-blond hair untouched by the rain.
But he wasn’t alone. Pansy Parkinson walked beside him, laughing as she leaned into him, her hand resting on his arm.
Hermione’s stomach twisted. Draco’s steps slowed when he saw her. Their eyes met.
For a fleeting second, she thought she saw something in his gaze—surprise, confusion, something deeper.
Then, just as quickly, it was gone. “What are you doing here?” His voice was clipped, impersonal. Hermione swallowed hard, willing her voice to remain steady. “I need to talk to you.”
Pansy scoffed. “Is this about work? Because I’m sure you can discuss it at the Ministry.” Hermione barely spared her a glance. “It’s personal.” Draco’s expression hardened. “If it was personal, I would have heard from you before now.”
Her throat tightened. “I tried.” The rain pounded against the pavement, the cold seeping into her skin. Draco sighed. “Whatever it is, it’ll have to wait.”
Her breath caught. “Draco, please—”. He exhaled sharply, his patience wearing thin. “I don’t have time for this, Hermione.”
The finality in his voice shattered something inside her. Hermione’s fingers curled around the fabric of her cloak. She had waited for him. Stood in the rain. Believed in the man she had once loved. And he had dismissed her like she was nothing. She blinked against the rain—or maybe it was tears—and took a step back.
“I understand,” she whispered. Then she turned and walked away. Draco didn’t call after her. He never even asked why she had come.
Five months Later…..
Hermione had always been independent. But pregnancy? Pregnancy was an entirely different battle. She had left the Ministry, disappearing into the Muggle world, where no one would find her. Where he wouldn’t find her. Where her pregnancy will not be a fodder for gossips. Where she wouldn’t have to see the headlines about his wedding, about the perfect life he had built while she struggled to carry their children alone.
She found a small flat in a quiet town, working odd jobs to get by, her stomach growing rounder with each passing month. The mornings were the worst—nausea, exhaustion, the sharp pangs of loneliness.
And yet, she never regretted them. Her children. Draco’s children. The only part of him she would ever have.
The pain was unbearable. Hermione’s body trembled as she lay in the dimly lit hospital room, sweat-soaked curls plastered to her forehead. The Doctor and nurses whispered urgently, but she barely heard them. She gasped as another wave of pain tore through her, her fingers clutching the sheets.
Then—relief.
A cry. Her son’s first breath. And then another. A daughter.
Tears slipped down her cheeks as she whispered their names. “Scorpius… Cassiopeia…”
The world blurred at the edges. She was bleeding. Losing too much blood too soon.
Her body was failing. Her vision faded. And just before the darkness took her, she breathed the only name that had ever mattered. “Draco.”
Two Years Later – The Malfoy Legacy
Narcissa Malfoy had always trusted the Black family tapestry. It was ancient, unyielding, and incapable of deceit. It recorded every birth, every death, every extension of the Malfoy and Black bloodlines without hesitation. And tonight, it had revealed a truth that shattered her world. Two new names had been stitched into the fabric in golden thread.
Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy.
Cassiopeia Hermione Malfoy.
Narcissa’s breath caught as she traced the delicate embroidery with trembling fingers.
Grandchildren. Draco’s children. She staggered back, gripping the edge of the antique chair beside her. Her heart pounded, her mind racing. How. There had never been an announcement. No whisper of Hermione Granger bearing Malfoy heirs.
Unless…
A chill crept down her spine. Unless Hermione had been pregnant when she left. Narcissa felt bile rise in her throat. There was only one person who could tell her the truth.
Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place
The heavy wooden door of Grimmauld Place groaned as it opened, revealing Harry Potter standing in the dimly lit entryway. His expression darkened the moment he saw her.
“Narcissa.” His voice was flat, edged with suspicion. She held her chin high, though her hands trembled at her sides. “I need to speak with you.” Harry didn’t move. “About what?” She inhaled sharply, bracing herself for what she already knew would be the most painful answer of her life. “Hermione Granger.”
For a second, something flickered in his gaze—grief, pain, and something colder, something final. Her stomach twisted. Harry exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “You’re two years too late.” The floor seemed to drop beneath her feet. Her voice barely came out. “What… do you mean?” Harry’s expression hardened, his green eyes burning with quiet fury. “She’s dead.”
The words struck her like an Unforgivable Curse. Narcissa staggered, gripping the doorframe. “No. That’s not possible.” Harry’s voice was laced with anger, but beneath it, she heard the raw pain. “She tried to tell him,” he said, his tone tight. “She went to Draco. She stood in the rain waiting for him. But he turned her away.” His jaw clenched. “And then he left with Pansy.”
Narcissa felt physically ill. No. No, no, no. Her son had sent Hermione away, pregnant with his children. Harry’s voice was quieter now, but no less brutal. “She left the Ministry after that. Went into hiding in the Muggle world. Ginny and I tried to find her, but she didn’t want to be found.” He swallowed hard. “She died giving birth. Alone.”
The words crashed over her like waves, each syllable sinking deeper into her chest. Alone. Hermione had been alone when she brought the Malfoy heirs into the world. She had been carrying their legacy, and no one—not Draco, not the Malfoy's, not even her friends—had been there for her. Narcissa would have not allowed Draco to fulfil the betrothal that Lucius agreed with the Parkinson’s. She would have done all she can to break it. She has learned to care for the girl over the years.
Harry turned and walked toward a nearby desk, retrieving something from the drawer. He handed her a sealed letter. “She wrote this before she died,” he said, his voice quieter now, filled with sorrow. Narcissa’s fingers trembled as she opened it.
Hermione’s Letter
Harry,
If you are reading this, it means I didn’t make it.
I’m sorry for leaving. For running away. I thought I could do it alone, but I was wrong.
I need you to take care of them. Scorpius and Cassiopeia. They have no one else. I don’t want them to grow up alone. I know you and Ginny will love them the way I would have, the way I should have.
Everything I own is in my Gringotts vault. It’s for them. For their future.
I did try to tell him, Harry. I went to his flat. I waited in the rain for him to come home. And when he finally arrived, he wasn’t alone. Pansy was with him. He looked at me like I was nothing. And when I tried to speak, he told me he didn’t have time for me. He walked away.
He didn’t want to know. So don’t tell him. If he ever comes looking, if he ever asks about them—don’t tell him. If he couldn’t care about them then, he doesn’t deserve to now.
Tell them I love them. Tell them I fought for them. Tell them I’m sorry.
Always,
Hermione
Malfoy Manor – The Confrontation
Draco sat in his study, nursing a glass of firewhisky, staring blankly at the flames in the hearth. It had been two years since he had last seen Hermione Granger. Two years since he had walked away. Since he had forced himself to forget. Two years of living a lie with the woman he married.
His mother’s entrance was abrupt, her heels clicking against the marble floor. Draco barely glanced up. “Mother, whatever it is, can it wait?”
“No,” Narcissa said. Something in her voice made him look at her fully for the first time. She was pale. Her normally poised exterior was cracking.
Draco frowned. “What’s wrong?” She took a slow breath before speaking. “You have children, Draco.” His world stopped.
His glass slipped from his fingers, shattering against the floor. His children? His heart pounded in his chest, his ears ringing. “What are you talking about?”
Narcissa stepped closer, her hands trembling. “Hermione was pregnant when she left.” His breathing hitched. No. No, that couldn’t be true. “She would have told me,” he rasped. Narcissa’s blue eyes burned with grief and anger. “She tried, Draco. She went to your flat. She stood in the rain, waiting for you. And when you finally arrived, you turned her away.”
Draco’s lungs constricted. The rain.
He remembered that night. The way Hermione had stood outside his door, soaked through, her eyes pleading. And he had walked past her. He had chosen Pansy. His breath came in short, uneven gasps. “No.” Narcissa’s expression shattered. “She left the Ministry after that. Went into hiding. And she died bringing your children into this world.”
Draco staggered back as if he had been physically hit. His heart stopped beating. His ears rang. His hands shook.
Hermione. Dead.
Gone. Because of him. A choked sound tore from his throat. Narcissa swallowed back tears. “They’re alive, Draco. Two years old. Scorpius and Cassiopeia. Harry and Ginny have been raising them.” Draco’s knees buckled, and he barely caught himself against the desk.
His children. His twins. Alive. And he had lost two years with them. His mother handed him the letter, but he couldn’t bring himself to take it. “She didn’t want you to know,” Narcissa whispered. Draco’s breath came in broken gasps. “I have to see them,” he whispered.
Meeting Scorpius and Cassiopeia
Draco stood outside Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, staring at the weathered black door as his pulse thundered in his ears. He had apparated here the moment his mother had left Malfoy Manor. The second he had learned of their existence. Of Hermione’s existence in them.
His children.
His twins.
A lump lodged in his throat. He raised a shaking hand and knocked. Seconds stretched into an eternity before the door opened. Harry Potter stood in the entryway, his expression unreadable. Draco exhaled sharply. “I need to see them.” Harry’s green eyes darkened, something cold and unyielding lurking beneath the surface. He let out a slow breath before stepping forward, closing the door slightly behind him as if to physically block Draco from the inside.
“You don’t deserve to,” Harry said, voice low and steady. Draco flinched.
Harry leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “She wrote to me before she died, Malfoy. Told me what happened. How she stood in the rain, waiting for you, desperate to tell you she was pregnant. And do you know what you did?” His voice was ice. “You walked away.”
Draco’s throat felt tight. “I didn’t know.”
“You should have,” Harry snapped. “She tried to tell you. But you had Pansy Parkinson on your arm and a bloody engagement announcement in the Daily Prophet.” His jaw clenched. “She needed you, and you turned her away.”
Draco swallowed, his hands curling into fists at his sides. “I know.” Harry’s eyes burned. “No, you don’t know. You don’t know what it was like watching her struggle and slowly fade away, trying to be strong for those babies while she had no one. You don’t know what it was like burying her.”
Draco squeezed his eyes shut, his entire body trembling. “You will never know,” Harry continued, voice thick with grief and barely concealed rage, “what it feels like to hold your best friend’s newborn children while the Doctor tell you she didn’t make it.”
Draco’s breath hitched.
“You lost the right to be their father the day you walked away from their mother,” Harry said, voice razor-sharp. “You do not get to waltz in here two years later and act like you care.” Draco opened his mouth—then closed it. There was nothing he could say. No excuse. No justification. Because Harry was right. He had failed Hermione. And in doing so, he had failed his children.
Draco’s voice came out hoarse. “I just want to see them. Just this once.” Harry didn’t move for a long time. His jaw was tight, his expression hard. And then, finally, he exhaled sharply. “One time, Malfoy. One.”Draco stepped into the sitting room, his heart slamming against his ribs.
Ginny was seated on the couch, watching him with cautious eyes, two small children in her lap. Draco felt the breath leave his lungs.
They were real. They were his.
Scorpius and Cassiopeia.
His son had silver-blond hair, just like him. But his eyes—his eyes—were Hermione’s. Warm, honey-brown, filled with a curiosity that stole Draco’s breath away. His daughter had wild brown curls, a mirror of Hermione’s, and Draco could see her mother in every delicate feature. She has his eyes. For the first time in years, his hands shook.
Ginny whispered something to the twins, then carefully set them down. They toddled forward, hesitant but unafraid. Draco knelt, his throat burning.
“Hi,” he rasped. Scorpius blinked at him, then grabbed a small wooden block from the floor and offered it to Draco with chubby fingers. Cassiopeia just stared at him, big pale, silver grey eyes searching his face, as if trying to figure out why he looked so familiar.
Draco’s chest ached.
I missed everything.
Their first words. Their first steps.
Every milestone, every moment—gone.
Tears burned his eyes, but he forced them back.
He reached out, hesitantly brushing his fingers against Scorpius’s tiny hand. A jolt ran through him. Scorpius giggled and dropped the wooden block into Draco’s palm. Draco let out a shaky breath and closed his fingers around it like it was the most precious thing in the world. A piece of his son. A moment he didn’t deserve.
Cassiopeia leaned slightly into Scorpius, watching Draco with his own startling eyes. And Draco—Draco was breaking.
Ginny cleared her throat softly. “It’s time for their nap.”
Draco’s heart shattered. That was it. His one moment.
Ginny stood and gently scooped up Cassiopeia while Harry bent down to lift Scorpius. The little boy blinked at Draco, his tiny hand reaching toward him for just a second—then curling against Harry’s shoulder instead.
Draco exhaled sharply, barely keeping himself from sobbing right there in the sitting room. Harry turned back to face him. “This was your only chance, Malfoy.” Draco nodded numbly, his vision blurred. Because he knew. He didn’t deserve to be their father. Didn’t deserve to know them. Didn’t deserve to hear them laugh, to see them grow, to be anything more than a name in a file they might read one day.
This was his punishment.
Harry was almost at the door when he stopped. “For what it’s worth,” he said, not turning around, “Hermione never hated you.” Draco’s breath hitched. Harry’s voice softened. “She was hurt. But knowing Hermione, she would have let them know you existed.” A fresh wave of agony tore through Draco. Because she had more faith in him than he deserved.
She had still wanted their children to know him—even after everything. And now, it was too late. Ginny and Harry disappeared through the doorway, their voices soft as they whispered to the twins.
Draco remained kneeling on the floor, the wooden block still clutched in his trembling hands.
Alone.
Empty.
Just when she had needed him the most—He had walked away. And now, all he had left of Hermione was a memory, a regret— And two children who would never call him father.