Memories and Secrets
By the time the Hogwarts Express disappeared from Platform 9 and 3/4 of King's Cross, the witches and wizards here to bid their children goodbye slowly started to exit the station.
Hermione squeezed her husband's hand. They stood there for a while, arm in arm, staring blankly at the rugged train tracks beneath their feet. Ron knew that Hermione had always found it difficult to part with their daughter, Rose, during the start of a new school year. This year was particularly difficult for her. Hugo finally turned of age and was set to attend Hogwarts as a first year alongside his elder sister.
Sighing, Hermione leaned her head on Ron's shoulders. He ran his hand through his wife's hair. Hermione leaned into the touch, seeking comfort in the way his fingers combed through her curls. She used to hate it when he did that. Having been told that her hair had always looked unruly and unkempt during her schooling years had made her deeply insecure about it. The memory of Blaise Zabini trying to light it on fire during Charms in her third year had traumatized her so deeply that she began a religious hair care routine. Every night, she took handfuls of different oils and generous globs of Muggle hair masks to make her locks somewhat presentable. Her Slytherin peers, being as obnoxious as they were, still teased her about her new "oily hair".
She had always wondered whether Hogwarts was the same now as it was when she attended. Hermione recalled being relentlessly tormented by others due to her Muggle upbringing. Her seven years, despite her academic success, had been filled with episodes of isolation. She had no girl friends, and had felt like an intruder upon Ron and Harry's friendship: at least, until her and Ron started dating, that is. When she was at her lowest, she sought comfort in the smell of parchment and quills scrawling during the dead of night. Sometimes, a couple droplets of water would hit the pages of her homework, and she would think that the ceiling was leaking water. But when she rubbed her eyes and felt the wetness upon her cheeks, she'd realize that she had been crying so silently that even she herself did not notice.
Her loneliest moments manifested not when she alone. It was when she was in the Great Hall, surrounded by hundreds of other chattering students. In those moments, she was no longer the sharp Hermione Granger who shown bright in a classroom. No, during this time, she was nobody––just a helpless girl lost in a sea of people with whom she did not belong. When Ron and Harry jousted over some article in the latest edition of the Quidditch Times or talked about how much they both fancied Romilda Vane, she tried, time and time again, to insert herself between the two of them. Yet, her attempts to seek out companionship in the two people she loved most in the world were met with empty stares and half-hearted mhms.
Over the years, Hermione grew to understand her place within the dynamics of this strange, magical universe. Her outspokenness morphed into watchfulness: she stayed out of everyone's way, as if to ensure that the topography of her friends' relationships––mountains of shared experiences that they had created in her absence––remained undisturbed.
Hermione would end up only confiding these truths in one person. Her memories of Hogwarts, she decided, were best sealed away in her heart forever. She had to move on with her life, towards something better. Though before she did, Hermione had entrusted one key––just one––to someone who she knew would defend her secret like it an oath.
As if summoned on command, a shock of platinum-blond hair caught Hermione's attention in the distance. She could recognize him anywhere; she would know him in darkness, in death, and at the end of time.
His tall figure peaked out from the fray of witches and wizards still trying to leave the platform. Beside him was a slightly shorter woman dressed in maroon robes. His wife, no doubt. Her brunette hair was cut into a sleek bob, like the ones Hermione often saw in those Muggle fashion magazines.
She whispered something into her husband's ear, giggling as she did so. Upon hearing her words, the corners of his mouth tugged into the shape of a playful smirk that Hermione knew like the back of her hand. It was that smirk alone that had drawn her to Draco Malfoy all those years ago.
Yet the sight of him him now, with Astoria Greengrass, now Malfoy, on his arm, made something in Hermione's soul twist, even though she knew it should not have.
Astoria Malfoy was in a league of her own. That was the first thought that appeared in Hermione's mind. She looked like someone who belonged in high society, a woman who looked like she was worthy of bearing the Malfoy family name. Hermione could tell that she was special, too. Astoria's charm was not confined to her beauty. Rather, she seemed kind, far kinder than anyone Hermione had ever known. She saw this compassion reflected in Draco. It seemed that, throughout the years they've been married, Astoria changed something in him. He carried himself so differently these days. Even from afar, Hermione could tell his sunken eyes had returned to their natural shade of vibrant blue. His shoulders, which used to slump as though he was the Titan Atlas himself, now held high as he walked.
Her pulse quickened without permission. Sweat gathered on the grooves of her palms. Despite the cool summer breeze funneling into the hollowed area of Platform 9 and 3/4, Hermione thought she was going to suffocate from a stifling heat. The last time she had felt such trepidation rush down her spine was almost two decades ago, when she saw the bone-white figure of Lord Voldemort emerge from the shadows of the Forbidden Forest. His eyes were the shade of a sacrificial bull’s innards, and his stare had sent tremors down her spine.
Hermione thought that she’d know no such terror again in her life.
But Draco now looked away from his wife. His blue eyes fell immediately on Hermione, and she could have sworn they pierced straight into her soul. That gut-wrenching fear from twenty years ago rose again like bile in her throat.
Do not let him have this kind of power over you. She told herself. For hadn’t she already spent the majority of her youth cowering in the presence of others? Hadn’t she tried so hard to compress the burning, passionate flame that was Hermione Granger into a mere ember that only sparked for others’ amusements? She allowed others to silence her, belittle her, ignore her, during her Hogwarts years, but she’ll be damned if she allowed Draco Malfoy now, of all people, to turn her into that sputtering girl again.
Hermione wrenched away from Ron's embrace and turned to leave, quickly muttering to him that she was going to freshen up in the restroom.
She practically sprinted there, slamming the wooden door open and scrambled towards the sinks like a madman. Hermione splashed cold water onto her face and forced herself to gaze upon her own eyes in the mirror.
The sight of Draco made her want to scream. She pictured herself punching the reflection in front of her, panting wildly through her frustrations as it fizzled out of her. She blinked back the angry tears blurring her vision.
Whatever relationship she had with Draco had happened a decade ago, during a time when they both had the luxury of living in a fantastical reality, where hiding behind sly touches and stolen glances were enough for the both of them.
That version of Hermione and Draco existed in the past. She is now a woman thirty-seven years of age, happily married for over a decade. She hadn't even seen Draco in over thirteen years.
But how can you forgive yourself for all the things that never came to be? A small voice crawled in the back of her mind.
She thought of Draco’s blond hair gleaming under a lamplight, and the way his hand pressed against hers when they walked down an empty street in Central London during New Year’s Eve. The night’s shadows shielded their intertwined fingers against the rest of the world. They soaked up each other’s companionship as if in a drunken haze, with the moon as their lone witness.
That was her favorite memory between the two of them. Hermione’ recollection of the event was so vivid that sometimes, she thought she made it all up. It seemed incomprehensible to her now, at thirty-seven, that she and Draco Malfoy once cared for each other. It really did seem like it had all happened in another life altogether.
Hermione tore herself away from the sink, flicking her wand to fix up her hair and makeup. Her hands trembled as she performed the charms, as if her own body was haunted by the onslaught of memories surging through her brain.
After another couple of deep breaths, she reluctantly walks out of the restroom. Ron was standing outside, leaning against a pillar.
“Are you alright,” he asked. “You look shaken up.”
Hermione forced a smile upon her lips. “I’m alright, just needed to redo my makeup.”
Ron, the ever-loving husband who knew Hermione’s emotions so well that she sometimes hated him for it, knew not to press any further. He knew that she’d tell him when she was ready to. Yet, this was the one secret she’d take to her grave without sharing.
As Ron and Hermione exited King’s Cross, Hermione did not dare turn back. She felt sandy-eyed, and her body moved without her accord. Perhaps it was good that she didn’t speak to Draco. The voices of the dead had the power to drive the strongest of men insane. And Draco, for all his happiness he created with his new family, might as well have been dead to her.