It's too late
He watched her from where he sat hidden in the corner in a privacy booth that obscured any sight or sound within. She, in turn, sat at an intimate two-top near the center of the room. Her laugh drifted his direction tinkling with cutlery against plates and the calming plinks of the live pianist.
Theo Nott—old friend, confidant, traitor—beamed at the pleasure of her joy, hand reaching out to intertwine with her own.
It should have been Draco holding her hand and making her laugh. It had been Draco in that exact role not two months ago. He had been the full recipient of her gaze and her touch and her gasps and her sighs. She had been the one to remind him of the warmth in the sun, the sweet smell of morning rain, the power of a fleeting touch of skin against skin. She taught him to live life for the experience of it again, an outlook he had forgotten back in the early days of Hogwarts before the unbearable weight of his name. Her influence on him was slow and steady—one day the world was grey, then the next he looked out at the coastline and appreciated the sunrise for the promise it brought rather than the dread he’d long expected.
And despite everything Hermione had given him, he failed her.
Five years of friendship and more than friendship, and not once did he take the next step. Nobody knew about them, not his friends, not his family. And for what? A fear that she wouldn’t fit in? Wouldn’t understand why he needed his family name and all the power that came with it even after all they had lost?
He turned down her invitations to public dinners, parties, and weddings. He only took her out to muggle locations where nobody would recognize them. He told himself he did this for her, because he didn’t deserve her and didn’t want to ruin her reputation.
The truth was that he was a coward and always had been.
When his mother told him it was time to pick a wife and take on his responsibilities as head of household, he didn’t argue, didn’t tell her about them. He didn’t hesitate to tell Hermione. It hurt, yes. He even cried a bit. But he still went through with the decision and ended their relationship that wasn’t quite a relationship.
She just smiled and wished him well.
Now here she was, sitting at a table with his childhood friend, a man with just as much responsibility and expectations to his name. It burned Draco to see Theo toss the chains aside as if they weighed nothing, as if there wouldn’t be any repercussions. He dared to look happy. His eyes relayed his feelings openly in a way no proper Pureblood should—he looked at Hermione like she made him the luckiest bloke in the world.
Draco sat at his table long after the couple left, Theo’s arm draped loosely around her waist as if it belonged there. They had ignored the stares and whispers, wholly immersed in each other. He imagined Theo inviting her home for a drink as a precursor to…more. Her hair on his pillow, his body cradled between her legs. Draco imagined it all because he had lived it all.
When he finally walked out past her chair, he noticed a familiar scarf draped across its back. Picking it up, he didn’t even consider handing it to the maitre d’ for her to retrieve later. He walked straight outside with the silver silk he’d gifted her two Christmases past clutched tightly in his hand. He’d take it home with him, a hollow reminder of all he had lost. The scarf smelled just as he remembered her, all warm spices and parchment paper. He felt as forgotten as the flimsy bit of cloth he held.
He disapparated just as Hermione reappeared around the corner and ran forward, his name on her lips a second too late.
“Was that Draco with your scarf?” Theo followed at a casual stroll behind her, hands tucked into his pockets.
“I believe so. I don’t know why he’d take it with him.”
His laugh at her statement caught her attention and she turned an inquiring look his way.
“That’s just Draco. He doesn’t know how to be happy. He’ll keep your scarf, but deny having it or that it belongs to you if anyone asks.”
As much as she hated to hear it, she knew Theo was right. His frank observations were a large part of what drew her to him in the first place. He didn’t hide truths, as uncomfortable as they could often be. More importantly, he didn’t hide her and their burgeoning relationship.
“I just really liked that one,” she sighed.
Theo stepped closer, tugging off his own wool scarf and wrapping it around her shoulders. “You can have mine.”
She buried her nose in the deep blue fabric that matched his eyes and inhaled deeply. “Why does it smell like coffee?”
“I might have spilled some and neglected to clean it,” he replied with a sheepish grin. “Let me scourgify it for you.”
Hermione danced backwards as he made to lift the scarf away. “I happen to like coffee, Theo Nott.” Her eyes sparkled up at him as she looped the wool once more around her neck.
Their backs to the restaurant, they resumed their plans for the evening. For once, Draco Malfoy had guessed right. The two drank, delighted in further conversation, and retired to bed together—silver scarves and eyes thoroughly forgotten.