Make
Suggested listening: Billie Eilish - I Love You
Inspired by the above photo of couple completing domestic tasks.
They would start over. It was going to be okay. They needed to believe—hold onto that. They were too young to feel this way.
Lucius was in Azkaban, Narcissa on house arrest. Their vaults were frozen and mined for reparation efforts.
Her parents' memories weren't coming back.
After some heated, stolen moments and rips at each other's clothes and egos at Hogwarts, they parted amicably after graduation.
The last night, he laved each hateful letter of her scar and muttered incoherent things into her stomach.
No matter the outcome of the war, Hermione would never fit into his world. She didn't want to break herself trying. And she didn't want to be a factor in his decision-making.
They had no childish illusions anymore.
And Draco—he deserved to live a life of his choosing. She didn't want him to have to prove himself, his love. She knew.
Hermione returned to Hampstead. She was going to fix her home, then sell it, and send the funds to her parents. Her parents' uni savings for her allowed for that.
The silence was sometimes deafening and it was lonely, but her mind was quiet.
Harry and Ron called and wrote often, trying to convince her to come back for a Healing internship or live with Harry at Grimmauld Place and work at the joke shop until she found her way.
Her response was always the same, "Maybe one day."
Knock. Knock.
It was a Tuesday.
Hermione opened the creaky door to see a winded, wavy-haired Draco with stormy, unsure eyes, carrying a knapsack and satchel on his hip. He looked consummately the Eighth-Year student.
She probably had blue paint on her nose.
"They unfroze my vaults," he said.
"Congratulations?"
"I signed everything over to my Mother."
"Oh."
"I thought you would come."
"Where?"
That question stumped Draco. It was true. Where was her home now? Did he expect her to go to the Manor?
"I wanted—I wanted to come sooner, but I didn't know if. you would want—," he stammered, then cleared his throat. "I want to make a life with you."
Hermione let out a disbelieving laugh, but stepped aside to open the door wider.
There was a period of adjustment, to say the least. Her temper flared easily. He got frustrated at every Muggle inconvenience. She was always waiting.
After each fight, she half-expected him to get up and leave, saying it was too difficult. Instead, Draco wrapped his arms around her stomach and buried his nose into her neck, pulling her closer to sleep. As if she were precious.
Other nights one or the other would wake up thrashing in cold sweat or screams, crying out for people long gone.
Draco would always watch Hermione get ready in the morning. Brush her teeth and tie her hair up before getting back to work on the place.
He learned to cook and use the Muggle phone. He made them breakfast every morning.
At night, he would insist on undoing her hair by hand before running his fingers through her riotous curls.
Harry called on his regular day, checking in and asking the same question. This time, it was Draco who answered, "Maybe one day."