Draco Malfoy broke up with Hermione Granger on a Wednesday afternoon. Over letter.
She read the letter quickly, once, and didn’t pen a scathing response. She didn’t cry, she didn’t rage, and she didn’t process the news at all. She simply incendioed the letter, and returned to the reports she was developing for work. Unicorns were disappearing in alarming numbers, and they wouldn’t stop for Hermione’s personal life.
Thus, Hermione continued working. She continued socializing with her friends, slipping in a casual mention of the breakup, and plastering a smile on her face while assuring everyone that, “yes, it was mutual, yes, I’m fine, no, there’s no need to worry, yes, I’m doing okay, yes, I’m alright, no, we can not vandalize Malfoy Manor…”
She buried herself in activities, volunteering at Saint Mungo’s, and taking on extra case loads at the Ministry until she didn’t have any free time to devote to ex-boyfriends and broken promises. Her days were packed front to back, and there was no room for despair. She had issues to fix, not sorrows to indulge. She hid behind a front of nonchalance and brushed off her friend’s concerns as easily as she brushed off lint.
She broke down alone. She sobbed alone, every night, when even the heaviness of her eyelids couldn’t distract her from the emptiness she felt. For months, she held it together through meetings and the Weasley’s weekly quidditch games in public, and completely fell apart in private. She knew her methods of distraction were fickle, she knew she could not ignore the pain forever, and yet she piled activity upon activity to keep her mind on thoughts of fundraisers and social events-instead of Draco Malfoy.
And it worked, for a time. It worked until her two worlds finally blended and Hermione could no longer keep a perfect, placid, mask in place. Harry found her quietly sobbing at her desk one afternoon, understanding dawning as she let the word ‘Draco’ slip. Harry had simply squeezed her shoulder, informed her boss that she would be taking an early day, and apparted her to her apartment.
She told him everything. She told him of the attempts she made at distraction, of her nightly meltdowns, of the ever-present ache in her chest. Harry listened with a concerned smile and a reassuring touch. He didn’t judge or condemn, but offered her an out. “There’s a job,” he told her, “for a magical creature researcher at the French Ministry of Magic. Apply for the job, Hermione. Take time and heal. We’ll be here for you when you return, but take the space you need. We love you, Hermione.”
She left for France on a Wednesday morning, precisely five months after Draco had sent his letter. She appreciated the irony as she brushed up on her French.
Her new colleagues, Amara and Charles, weren’t very chatty. They didn’t invite her out to drinks and turned a blind eye to her occasional red eyes. She knew they wouldn’t indulge her in a pity party, and she appreciated them thusly. Together, they researched and recorded. Alone, Hermione spent long nights in her new apartment eating take-out and processing.
Another six months later, Hermione returned to England. Over drinks, she told her friends of the creatures she had studied, of the colleagues she had met, and the stories she had collected. Privately, she told Harry of the healing she had done, of the nights she spent learning to enjoy her own company, and the various darts thrown at a Draco Malfoy dartboard. “It was cathartic,” she said, “to be able to hit him again in that pointy nose. Truly, thank you, Harry.”
Hermione enjoyed her new-found independence and hard-fought peace as best as she could. She rejoined the Weasley’s weekly quidditch matches, but cut the Saint Mungos volunteering in the name of ‘free time.’ Harry had congratulated her on putting herself first.
She received a knock on her front door around the two month mark of her return to England. It couldn’t be Harry or Ron, she figured, for they could apparate in. Curious, she opened the door and came face-to-face with the person responsible for countless nights of crying, and months of isolation from her friends. Draco Malfoy stood in her doorway, and looked like he belonged nowhere else.
Hermione was speechless, and pretty sure her mouth was actually hanging open. Draco shifted on his feet, and looked appropriately awkward to be standing outside his ex-girlfriend’s apartment. He mumbled a request to enter, but didn’t meet her eyes. He fiddled with his thumbs, and he toed the ground. Memories flashed before Hermione’s eyes.
She saw the candles that sat between them on their first date. She saw the red gown she wore as they attended a gala together, and she heard the whispers that incessantly followed them that night. She smelled the violet bouquet he had bought her, and vividly recalled her allergic reaction to them. She saw the man who he had been, the Draco Malfoy she had fallen in love with. All the good parts of their relationship flooded her senses, and she almost allowed him to walk her past her door and back into her life. Almost.
Before she could open the door any further, however, she recalled the concern in Harry’s voice, and his plea for her to relocate. She remembered her struggle to make friends in France, and her eventual acceptance of independence. She remembered the hours she spent piecing herself together, and she remembered the cause of her breakdown. She took one last look at him and used those very memories, the good and the bad, to inform her decision.
Draco Malfoy was left standing in Hermione’s doorway, looking as if he belonged anywhere else.
She didn’t need to know his reasoning for seeking her out, and she never would. There was no reason for her to subject herself to the anguish he would undoubtedly bring. Hermione had put in the work to become whole once again, and she would not let him cut her up. He was simply not worth it. No amount of apologies would undo the destruction his departure had caused. No amount of ‘I’m sorry’ and ‘let me explain’ would replace the months she had lost. Instead, Draco Malfoy would stay in her memories.
Hermione closed the door on Draco Malfoy on a Friday night. She was vaguely disappointed it wasn’t a Wednesday.