Match, Wedding, Divorce
1. October 22nd, 1999 - Friday - A Familiar Name
A surge of satisfaction rushes through Hermione, and she has to school her expression into something sedate. She soaks up Harry’s joy and draws it into her bones, forcing herself to be brave. This is all she needed, all she proclaimed she required to be happy. She would face whatever name they gave her with dignity.
She slides her finger under the lip of the envelope and rips it open, drawing everyone’s gaze. She pulls the small parchment from inside, realizing only now that the ink is pure ivory — she’s seen nothing like it before.
‘Hermione Jean Granger
has been found a favourable match with
Draco Lucius Malfoy.
Congratulations.’
She wants to laugh — she can’t believe she didn’t see this coming. Because, of course, the universe would see this as an opportunity to get back at her for meddling. Still, a palpable relief floats through her, because whatever else Draco Malfoy might be, he’s no Death Eater. Not any longer. The warning she has locked away in her chest proves that.
“I got Draco Malfoy,” she breathes.
Her words cause pure chaos — Ron snarls and pulls his wand as though he can curse him from afar. George is rage and thunder on the other end of the table, and even Mrs. Weasley looks as though she’s ready for war.
Harry though; she’s surprised, Harry is furious. She thought he would defend Malfoy, the way he had so eloquently at his trial so long ago.
“I’ll go to Kingsley,” he snaps. “I’ll fight before you spend a moment trapped in that Manor again.”
Hermione feels dizzy when she finally realizes what Harry’s talking about. She can recall the dread of lying under the ominous chandelier, the knife in her arm carving out her worst fears. She can recall the mad laughter and screaming of her own hoarse voice; the fire of the cruciatus curse in her veins.
The dread that hadn’t hit her when she’d read Draco Malfoy’s name on the black parchment storms through her now. Harry’s right — she’ll die before she spends another moment a prisoner in Malfoy Manor.
Hermione forces herself to breathe slowly; watching Ron and Harry unravel has always allowed her a steady battle calm.
“Harry,” her voice sounds as though it comes from far away, “Harry, it’s okay. It’s okay. I don’t have to live in the Manor — there’s no law stating I must reside in my husband’s house.”
“Yeah, just a law stating you have to marry the git,” Ron sneers. “You actually think Draco Malfoy is going to live in your little cottage?”
Hermione can feel the trembling beginning in her legs; it’s an aftereffect of sustained torture via the cruciatus curse. She’d developed it after the war, alongside so many others. Stress always brought the shakes on, but Hermione plants her feet and makes fists of her hands to hold them steady.
“I don’t know,” Hermione snaps back, “let’s not panic yet. It could have been worse.”
“How?” Ron’s voice is sharp and cutting. “How in the world could it be worse? The man called you a mudblood for years --”
“Ronald Weasley!” Molly cuts Ron off, horror in her voice. Ron snaps his mouth shut but doesn’t take back his words. He’s not wrong and they both know it.
“Hermione, dear,” Arthur begins, “we won’t jump to conclusions. Why don’t you write to Mr. Malfoy, and if he is... not... a suitable match, then we can take our case to the Wizengamot? You may call in a favour to Kingsley — he’ll help us. He owes you that.”
Hermione can feel a hysterical laugh bubbling up in her throat as Arthur repeats her own words to Kingsley back to her. She’s already called in her favour for Kingsley — she is owed nothing anymore. She’d even threatened to war with the ministry. They won’t help her.
Still, she swallows her panic and lies. “I’ll do that, Mr. Weasley.”
Molly looks as though she may say something further, but a sputtering from the fireplace interrupts her. Charlie’s head pokes through - green Floo and red flame surrounding his familiar Weasley features.
“Hello,” he greets. Molly rushes to the fire to kneel by her second eldest son’s fiery face.
“Charlie,” she says, “how are you?”
Charlie smiles, but he looks tired. “I’m fine, Mum. I’ve only got a few minutes, but I thought I should tell you who your new daughter-in-law will be.”
Molly’s eyes fill with tears, and Arthur stands beside her shoulder, clasping her gently. Hermione thinks just how unfair this is — the Weasleys have fought in two wars to keep their children free and safe, and now they must stand idly by as their hard-won freedom is stolen. All their children will be forced into loveless matches; except Bill, married to Fleur before the WPG was even a thought.
Hermione stiffens her spine — Ginny will marry under the WPG, but she will still marry Harry for love. Hermione gave them that. It will be worth any sacrifice to watch their marriage bloom; Hermione will live in Malfoy Manor before she will watch Harry Potter crumble.
“It’s Astoria Greengrass.” Charlie’s voice monotones.
This time it’s George who can’t hold his tongue. “Bloody hell, we’re to be inundated with Slytherins and Greengrass sisters.”
Charlie frowns at his brother. “Pardon?”
Percy sighs, “I got Daphne Greengrass. The sisters will marry the brothers.”
“Is that even allowed?!” Ron is aghast.
Hermione rolls her eyes, “Honestly, Ron. Of course it’s allowed. They’re not marrying each other.”
“I’ve never met her,” Charlie says wearily. “I plan on owling after this call. She’s... quite a bit younger than me.”
Hermione recalls that Astoria Greengrass was the year below her in school — she’s only 19, barely even eligible for the WPG. Charlie is nearing 28. Hermione wonders how scared Astoria might be. She’s never spared a thought of the Greengrass sisters before, but she imagines if the name written on her letter had been someone older. It could have been anyone — she thinks briefly of the names Malfoy had written to her. Marcus Flint’s father is still eligible at 39, and while he escaped imprisonment in Azkaban, it’s well known he supported Voldemort.
“I’ll do the same,” Percy says, interrupting Hermione’s internal spiral. “They deserve to get the letters at the same time, so one isn’t left to wonder.”
Charlie nods. “At least I know I’ll like my brother-in-law.”
Mrs. Weasley’s choked laugh turns into a sob, and Charlie winces. “Sorry, mum. Guess I should’ve listened to you and settled down years ago.”
Mrs. Weasley heaves a great breath and pulls herself together. “Listen to me, children,” she gestures to the room at large, drawing them all into her words, “this is not your fault. This is the fault of those in the Wizengamot and Ministry who are too narrowminded to let us heal in peace. This law may bind you to a spouse you would not have chosen, but you will always have this family as your own.”
Hermione’s eyes fill with tears because it’s so heartfelt. She misses her mother — she’s so far away, lost to her forever.
Charlie nods at her words. “That is a comfort. I’ll talk to you all soon.”
His head disappears, leaving a small fire burning in his place.
The silence that remains prompts Hermione to stand.
“I think I’ll go home as well,” Hermione murmurs. “I should... I should write a letter.”
Ron stands. “I’ll walk you out.”
She hugs Harry goodbye, and thanks the Weasleys for their support, promising to be in touch. Ron follows her silently to the front door. His angry presence is a balm to her nerves; for everything they have been through, Hermione knows Ron. She understands him. She draws comfort from his fury, as predictable as the sun. They have survived worse than this before.
“Hermione,” Ron breathes when they step outside, “I’d like to apologize to you.”
“Whatever for, Ron?”
Ron frowns. “I know that romantically we didn’t work. But you are my best friend; listen to me, Mione, I would do anything for you. I’m just… I’m so sorry that this law is trapping you. If we had known this was coming, I’d — I would have—”
Hermione cuts him off gently, “Ron, stop. I know you’d marry me, you told me that already. I know you’d elope with me right now if it meant I didn’t have to marry Malfoy. I return the sentiments, really, I do, but I want you to try with Hannah. Maybe you can be happy?”
Ron pales. “Hannah is lovely, but she’s going to hate me. She’s losing Neville over this, y’know?”
Hermione nods, “Yeah, she is. But that’s not your fault, Ron. You’re stuck in the same shit situation we all are. Just be kind to her; be her friend. Treat her the way you would treat me. Write her a letter — tell her how sorry you are for all of this. Tell her you’d love to meet as a friend to make this work.”
“You’re right,” Ron agrees, his half-smile dimpling his cheek. Hermione is helpless to do anything but smile back at him. “At least we’re friends. But Mione… what about you?”
Hermione stares at Ron silently for a moment, before she sighs. “Ron, I’d like it if you didn’t share what I’m about to tell you with anyone, not even Harry.”
Ron’s eyes widen; Hermione can’t blame him. She’s not usually secretive, and she always tells Harry everything.
“What is it?” Ron asks.
Hermione frowns and glances down at the patchy flower bed Molly Weasley planted so long ago. Fall has crept up on them, and everything is dying. It feels symbolic somehow.
“Draco Malfoy wrote to me,” Hermione blurts, ripping off the bandaid, “three months ago. To apologize.”
Ron’s jaw drops, speechless. Hermione plows forward before he can even get a word out.
“Now I’m not saying he’s a saint, I’m not even saying he’s one of the good guys, but listen — it could be worse. He owes me for standing at his trial, and he knows it.”
“An apology is one thing,” Ron says staunchly. “A marriage is entirely another.”
Hermione nods slowly, “You’re right, Ron. But I don’t see that I have much of a choice here. I could run, sure, but I’m not willing to lose the only family I have left.”
Ron looks down; even he can understand that. Ron would marry Malfoy himself before he’d ever sacrifice his family.
“Hermione.” Ron grabs her hand and twines his fingers around it, squeezing gently. “You are the smartest witch I’ve ever met. You can get rid of this stupid law — you can fix this. You won’t have to stay married to him. I just know it.”
It’s not as though she hasn’t had the same thought. She’s bright — the brightest witch of her age — and she knows she can find a loophole to dismantle this Wizarding Population Growth Act. She’s willing to do it, but even she isn’t optimistic enough to think she can solve it within the next 30 days, the deadline she has to get married by.
She’ll marry Malfoy, and then she can find a way to get out of it.
“Ron, I’m going to try,” she promises. “I’m going to fix this, and you and Hannah can be friends, and George can marry someone he loves, and I swear to you, I’ll fix this.”
Ron pulls her in, hugging her tightly. “We’ll help you, Mione. You just tell us what you need, and we’ll get it done.”
Hermione lets herself have the moment to be safe, wrapped up in Ron’s arms. It’s always been just her, Harry, and Ron. She knows that they’ll help her; they’ll always help her. No matter where she goes, she has them.
“Thanks, Ron.” Hermione says, pulling away and wiping her eyes surreptitiously, “I’ll see you soon.”
Ron lets her go and watches her get to the apparition point. It’s only a few steps before she feels the wards lift, but he speaks before she can disappear.
“Hermione,” his voice is dark with fury, “if he hurts you, we’ll kill him.”
She doesn’t doubt this for a moment, staring back at Ron’s eyes. He’s pledging Harry’s help as well, but she knows Harry would agree. They have all killed and seen death, and she has already become someone she never thought she would be.
“Ron,” she answers softly, meaning every word, “if he hurts me, I’ll kill him myself.”
Ron’s smile is slow and approving, thick with menace, and Hermione disappears with the image of it burned into her mind.
2. November 14th, 1999 - Sunday - Malfoy's Wedding
St. Catherine’s looks the same as it did in her parent’s wedding photos. She feels incredibly small, standing hidden behind the stone doorway. She wonders what her mother thought about, being in this very position, ready to go out and marry her father. Was she nervous? Was she excited?
Hermione misses them so desperately she can feel it, like a wound that’s still scabbing over, being picked raw by every moment she notes their absence. In this church, though, Hermione can nearly feel them around her. She wonders if they’d be proud.
The music is nearly inaudible next to the thundering of her heart, and for a moment Hermione regrets not having someone walk her down the aisle. It had felt wrong though — the space beside her was meant to be her father’s, and he wasn’t able to fill it. She supposed Draco felt the same — his mother’s absence must have been a raw wound.
She sighs out a quick breath and decides she can delay her fate no longer. In only three short steps she has turned the corner, and suddenly, he is there.
Draco watches her with magnetic silver eyes and an inscrutable expression. Terror courses through her — not the same kind of fear as she felt during the war, but something else.
The last time she had seen him, he’d kissed her.
She brushes her sweating palms gently against the flowing material of her dress. It brings her courage; the sash of emerald green is smooth and cool beneath her touch, and when she glances back at Draco, he’s biting back a smile.
Tentatively, she smiles back.
He reaches for her when she’s close enough, and it’s a relief when she slips her fingers into his. He squeezes instinctively, grounding her.
“Honoured guests, we are gathered here today to tie Mr. Draco Lucius Malfoy in matrimony to Miss. Hermione Jean Granger.” The officiant’s voice is clear and emotionless. “Through their match, we have seen respect, contentment, and growth, not only within their relationship but also with the surrounding community. The Ministry offers their blessings to your marriage, and hopes that a deep connection will continue to blossom between you.”
As disgusted as Hermione feels by the words, she can see a familiar sneer creeping onto her soon-to-be husband’s face. She squeezes his hand, and he focuses on her, blinking as though he had forgotten she was there.
Hermione rolls her eyes, and the fury seems to melt out of Draco’s shoulders.
“Mr. Malfoy?” The officiant asks.
Draco snaps his head back towards the officiant, who is staring at him expectantly. Hermione has to swallow her laugh at his distraction.
“I do,” Draco says immediately. Hermione can feel her blush begin — she knew he intended to wed her, but the words seem so official.
“And Miss Granger, do you agree to wed Mr. Malfoy and accept him as your lawfully wedded husband?”
“I do,” Hermione says softly.
“By the power vested in me by the Ministry of Magic, I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride.”
Hermione blinks at Draco for the smallest second — they have kissed once. And now they are married. Terror seems to live inside her, yet her fears are obviously not his, because he bends forward easily. His lips are soft and gentle, seeking but not asking, and Hermione kisses him back easily.
When he pulls back, she watches him open his silver eyes, heat coursing through her. She wishes he had kissed her longer, firmer, anything — something to prove that he wanted her.
His hand is gentle on her elbow, though, when he follows their officiant. Draco’s signature appears with his wand tap, and Hermione follows his lead.
The paper reads Draco Lucius Malfoy and Hermione Jean Malfoy.
She swallows at the weight of it all. They are married!
He leads her gently back down the aisle, and Hermione meets the gazes of her friends. Harry is sharing a smile, entirely directed at her, and Ginny has tears in her eyes but a grin on her face. Despite the conditions by which she has been married, Hermione can feel the love and support of her friends pressing in on her, comforting and heady.
When the doors close behind them, Hermione turns to look at Draco. He looks overwhelmed — almost the way he had during their fifth year.
“Are you alright?” Hermione asks, biting at her lip. She’s terrified that he’s suddenly realized that he’s married a muggleborn — or worse, that he’s remembered all the reasons he despised her in school.
Draco turns to her and sighs, shaking his head as if to dispel his thoughts. “You look beautiful,” he murmurs. He reaches out to drag his fingertips gently down the emerald green sash of her dress. “I can’t believe you wore Slytherin green and silver for me.”
Relief blossoms inside her at his words, but Hermione rolls her eyes to cover her reaction. “Well, I was told it was traditional.”
“Where on earth did you get the gown?” Draco asks, a smile settling about his mouth.
“Molly Weasley gave it to me,” Hermione admits. “At Harry’s wedding. I altered it a bit, but it’s very similar to her original.”
The absence of her parents is a gaping hole, and Hermione prepares herself for Draco to ask the questions he’s been avoiding. They are both orphans now.
The doors swing wide behind them, breaking the tension, and Hermione turns to find Ginny Potter beaming at her. She rushes forward and wraps Hermione in her arms, closely followed by Harry and Ron.
The embrace is solid and warm, and Hermione has to swallow down her tears of gratitude for her friends when they finally release her. She glances over to see Draco being hugged by Luna Lovegood — his expression is a cross between terrified and disbelieving, and Hermione grins.
“You look great, Hermione,” Harry’s voice distracts her.
“It’s true,” Ron agrees. “It was a nice wedding.”
Hermione can’t believe how hard they’re trying to make it all feel normal, and she’s just so fucking glad she has friends like them. Molly Weasley still has a gentle hand on her shoulder, love shining out of her face.
“Absolutely gorgeous, dear,” Molly adds. “You were a stunning bride.”
“And not a bad-looking groom, either,” Ginny teases.
Harry scowls, “Hey! Ginny!”
Ginny laughs loudly, and Harry’s annoyance gives way to adoration. Hermione can’t seem to wipe the smile off her own face.
“Best go congratulate the ferret,” Ron huffs. Hermione almost tells him he doesn’t have to, but Ginny hugs her again, and the moment is lost.
“Gosh, I can’t believe Mum had this dress hidden away!” Ginny says into her shoulder. “It’s just gorgeous.”
“Oh, no! Ginny — I’m so sorry! You should have been wearing this!” Hermione realizes, dread settling into her stomach.
Ginny swats her shoulder. “Don’t be ridiculous! I’ve had my wedding dress picked since I was nine years old and first met Harry. Mum knew that. I’m so pleased she gave it to you.”
Hermione laughs at the remembrance of Ginny’s ridiculous crush on Harry, but her dread eases into contentment. “I’m so glad she did,” Hermione admits. “I was dreading the idea of dress shopping. It’s beautiful.”
Ginny nods — she knows what has gone unsaid. Hermione couldn’t have imagined wedding dress shopping without her mother. It had been hard enough to not have her father giving her away, with his infectious smile and gentle words.
Ginny hugs her again, and Hermione sinks back into her arms.
“I’m very proud of you, you know?” Ginny murmurs into her shoulder.
Hermione nods, unable to force the words out.
When Ginny pulls away, she has a secretive smile on. Luna is standing beside her, with Ron and Molly beside them. Luna reaches out and squeezes Hermione’s hand.
“We must be off now, dearest.” Molly Weasley says. “It was such a joy to be here. Thank you for inviting us.”
Hermione returns her thanks, and hugs her easily, though a part of her is swamped with disappointment that they are leaving so soon. She hadn’t planned any type of celebration or party, because it had felt weird to celebrate a marriage they had been forced into, but now she’s feeling regretful.
“Hermione, we also have to get going, but you look beautiful. Let’s get together soon, okay?” Harry adds on, and Hermione forces herself not to scowl.
“We’re off as well,” Luna’s voice is gentle, “but it was a lovely wedding. Not one Nargle in sight.”
Her amusement at Luna’s words pushes most of her sadness at her friend’s quick departure away. “Luna, Theo, thank you for coming,” Hermione says.
She watches them leave and slowly turns away from the doors back to Draco.
Her husband.
“They left much quicker than I expected,” Hermione says softly. She wonders if he can hear the sadness in her voice.
“Are you tired?” Draco asks suddenly.
She shakes her head, “Oh, no. I’m fine. I expected them to visit more, actually.”
“We can always visit another day,” Draco says off-handedly. “Shall we head home? I can side along us there.”
Hermione blinks at his reassurance, and the easy way he says home. She can feel a blush overtaking her cheeks, but she still forces herself to say what she’s thinking.
“You look handsome.” She mutters. It’s the truth — he’s incredibly dashing in his dress robes, his white-blonde hair pushed out of his eyes. If nothing else, Ginny wasn’t entirely wrong. Her husband is extremely attractive.
Draco grins, “Well, I could hardly let you be the most beautiful thing in the room. I have a reputation to uphold, you know.”
Hermione feels the laugh bubble out of her at his words. “Your ego, Malfoy, is the size of this bloody church. I suppose I should be pleased I was second, then?”
Draco swallows hard and reaches out to take her hand. She blinks at his change in mood but curls her fingers against his. “I hardly think you’ve ever come second in anything, Granger. Definitely not this.”
Her laughter fades, and suddenly Hermione is faced with his words. Draco watches her with silver eyes, and Hermione wonders just how much it cost him to say that. She leans closer to him, pressing gently on his side, and relief seems to blossom in his gaze.
“Let’s go home,” she murmurs. “You big flirt.”
Draco laughs, and they disappear with a pop.
They reappear within moments, but instead of being in front of their cottage, they are on the lawn of the Burrow. Hermione goes rigid at the surprise, panic coursing through her for a moment.
But Draco’s arm tightens around her, and she realizes she is staring at a group of people that she loves.
“Surprise,” Molly Weasley says calmly, walking towards them with no tears in sight. “I know you didn’t want a big reception, Hermione, but I can hardly have you go home hungry, so I thought something small would do the trick. Thank you for bringing her here, Mr. Malfoy.”
“Draco is fine, Mrs. Weasley,” Draco says, and Hermione snaps her eyes in his direction.
“You knew?” Hermione gasps.
Laughter breaks out at her words, and Hermione allows herself to relax. This is a gift — something that Molly may have planned, but Draco has given her. She stays inside his embrace, even as she greets the party-goers.
“Thanks for getting her here,” Harry Potter says when he approaches. Draco nods in acknowledgement, and Hermione positively beams.
“Harry,” she grins, “I never thought I’d see the day you conspired with Draco Malfoy.”
Harry shrugs. “Never thought I’d see the day where you married him.”
Draco scowls, but Hermione laughs and squeezes his arm to cut him off. Her own retort is lost when Ron and Hannah Abbott appear.
“Hey Hermione,” Hannah Abbott greets, then glances nervously at him, “Malfoy.”
“Come eat,” Ron invites. “Mum made all your favourites! And even George is here! He brought Parvati.”
Hermione can feel herself glowing with happiness, and she drags Draco toward the buffet-style table. He doesn’t protest at all, and Hermione doesn’t let go of his fingers.
She snatches a plate and fills it with her favourite foods, Draco hovering nearby. Easy conversations burst forth from all over the yard, and Hermione wonders if she’s ever felt this carefree.
She turns back to Draco, who is standing and watching the party with a strained expression. If there was any doubt left in her about whether Draco was still a villain, it is now gone. She can’t imagine it’s easy for him to be here, surrounded by everyone he was taught to hate his entire life. And yet, for her, a bride he never wanted, he is subjecting himself to it.
She bumps her hip against his. “What’s wrong?” She asks.
He shakes his head, “Nothing.”
He meets her eyes and some of the consternation fades on his face. He grabs the dumpling she was holding between her fingers and tosses it into his mouth.
Hermione wants to be annoyed, but instead, she can feel her blush spreading over her cheeks at the idea that Draco Malfoy just ate the food she was touching.
“Hey! I was going to eat that,” she protests weakly.
Draco smirks, “What’s mine is yours, wife.”
Her heart almost stops as he says the word, and she forces herself to roll her eyes. She bumps her hip against his again, and suddenly his hand is spreading warm and gentle along his back.
It feels monumental, in a way. They’re friends — she can feel it now, the acknowledgement between them. She wants it to be more.
Molly Weasley distracts her, calling her over. She walks towards her, glancing back to see Draco isn’t following; but Theo and Luna are beside him, and Hermione’s sure he’s in good hands.
Molly wraps an arm around her shoulders and shows her off to Percy and Daphne, who hadn’t been at the wedding. Hermione blushes at Percy’s compliment, and Daphne even makes small talk with her.
“‘Mione,” Ron greets, stepping into their circle. “I’m glad you could come.”
She grins. “I’m so glad you all planned this for me. I admit I was disappointed when you all left the church so quickly.”
“We knew you would say no to a party.” Ron rolls his eyes. “But we figured you’d be happy enough if it was just a few of us.”
“I’m thrilled, truly,” Hermione says.
“Walk with me?” Ron asks, and Hermione excuses herself from Molly. She slips her arm into the crook of Ron’s, and they head towards a different snack table.
Ron is solemn. “I’m worried, Hermione.”
“Don’t be,” Hermione assures him. “Draco’s been nothing but gentlemanly.”
Ron nods, but his frown doesn’t move. Hermione stops suddenly, and Ron is forced to stop with her. She lets her arm drop from his and pins him with her best no-nonsense expression.
“That’s not why you’re worried, is it?” She asks.
Ron winces. “No. It’s the WPG.”
“What about it?” Hermione asks, pulling her wand from a hidden pocket of her gown to cast a quick muffliato.
Ron shrugs. “We both know they want to see pregnancies, Hermione.”
Hermione feels herself flinch, and a scowl overtakes her face. “I realize that, Ronald. I’ve got it under control.”
“I’m sure you do, but perhaps—”
“No,” Hermione snaps. “I am not discussing this with you.”
Ron frowns. “That’s fine, honestly. But who are you talking to about this, because it’s not something you can just deal with alone, and—”
“Stop.” Hermione hisses. “Stop.”
She can nearly feel her flesh burning inside from Dolohov’s curse. The way she had felt when the St Mungo’s Healers had told her ‘not likely’. The way Ron had tried to be supportive, but she could nearly taste the disappointment leaking out of him.
The way she had loved him so, so desperately — and she had to let him go.
Because he deserved the family he wanted. Because Hermione only knows how to sacrifice for her friends.
She doesn’t love him anymore, and she knows it wouldn’t have worked between them, but this subject tears at her in all the ways she hates to be reminded she is broken.
Tears are threatening, and she balls her shaking hands into fists.
“Malfoy should know, Hermione,” Ron says. His voice is calm and smooth and gentle, and she hates it.
She feels ready to explode, but she notices Malfoy striding toward them with purpose. Her panic must show on her face, because she glances at Ron and his hand twitches behind one thigh, and she can feel their muffliato fade just in time.
“Draco,” Hermione greets, forcing a smile. “Did you eat?”
Draco scowls, and Hermione knows he isn’t a fool. He’s seen their argument, and there’s no way he’ll let it go easily. She stiffens her spine in preparation for an interrogation, feeling as though she could fall over at any moment, exhaustion coating her at the thought of telling him exactly what Dolohov’s curse did those years ago.
Hermione waits for the questions, but Draco’s expression has gone calm. He slips an arm around her waist and pulls her gently to his side, and she leans into the warmth of him gratefully.
“I did,” he confirms. “Molly Weasley is a wonderful cook. Would you like another drink?”
“Sure,” Hermione agrees, blinking at his change in temper.
“Hermione,” Ron’s voice is a warning, but he barely has her name out of his mouth before she’s cutting a vicious glare at him.
“Leave it, Ronald.” She hisses, “Enough. That’s enough.”
Ron’s shoulders slump, and he turns without glancing at either of them.
Draco sucks in a breath, “Can I ask—”
“No.” Hermione snaps. Regret instantly fills her at her tone — he’s been patient and kind, and this is not his fault. She forces herself to be calm and tries again. “Sorry. I meant… not… now. Please.”
Draco frowns but nods in agreement, and Hermione swallows down regret and secrets at how hard he’s trying.
He says, “Alright. Come this way. There’s a table we can sit down at.”
“I can stand,” Hermione protests instantly, drawing away from him slightly.
He regards her coolly. “I didn’t say you couldn’t, Granger.”
Hermione stares into his silver eyes, suddenly endless and cold. She wishes she could go back to when he had watched her with a smile on his face.
Wishes she wasn’t picturing the way he would look at her once she told him she couldn’t produce the children he would inevitably want. He was so proud of being a Malfoy — and not only was he being denied his stupid pureblood heirs, but now he would be denied an heir at all.
“I’m sorry,” Hermione whispers. “I’m so sorry.”
She’s not sorry for her heritage; she refuses to ever spend a single moment sorry that her parents were hers, that her childhood was hers. But she is sorry that she knows this will inevitably end. Hermione will bring down the WPG, and Draco will leave, and while she doesn’t love him, it’s hard to bear the inevitability of the ‘what-if’ he’ll become.
“You don’t have to apologize to me,” Draco says, soft and gentle. He urges her forward again, breaking their stare, and Hermione tried to compose herself. They make it to the table where Molly Weasley is sitting with Arthur and Harry Potter. Granger sits on his right.
“Hermione, you looked so beautiful today,” Molly says immediately. “I’m so honoured you wore the dress — and I’m so glad you took the shoulders down, dear. Honestly, I have no idea what we were thinking when that was a fashion.”
Hermione smirks, so grateful for the topic change. , “That trend was also popular in the muggle world, too.”
Arthur Weasley’s eyes light up, “Really? Do we often mimic muggle clothing trends?”
Hermione laughs, letting herself forget the past few minutes. Explaining muggle clothing trends to Arthur Weasley is endlessly entertaining; and it helps that as she describes them, Arthur sketches them out on a napkin below, chuckling to himself as he does so.
She can feel her tension melting away, and it seems as though Draco is willing to let this conversation go, too. A chiming sound draws her attention, and Hermione glances over to see Harry tapping his knife gently against his champagne flute.
“I’d like to propose a toast. To Hermione: you are the sister I never had, and the smartest woman I have ever known. You have saved my life more times than I can count, and there is nothing I wouldn’t do for you. I wish you all the happiness in the world.” Harry’s green eyes look glossy, and he clears his throat before continuing. “And to Malfoy — I wish you the best. And she is the best. So don’t bugger it up, alright?”
Hermione swipes at the tears on her cheeks and beams at Harry. She sees Draco raise his glass at the toast, and she summons a flute of champagne to raise as well.
“Cheers,” Granger murmurs, turning towards him shyly. She taps her champagne flute against his glass of Firewhiskey lightly. He’s watching her with endless silver eyes, and he doesn’t break their stare even as he sips his burning liquid.
3. Friday, January 7th, 2000 - Divorce
Hermione is not much of a cook. When faced with endless camping, foraging, and a limited supply of food, she’s excellent — however, now she’s in her cottage attempting to create a simple breakfast for her husband.
She can feel happiness bubbling up inside her at the thought. Draco is at their table, pretending to read a book — she knows he’s not truly reading, because his page-turning rate is exceptionally slower than usual, and he keeps sneaking glances at her when he thinks she’s not paying attention.
Hermione cracks the final egg into her pan and flinches when Juney suddenly appears in front of the table. Her large eyes are narrowed in a disgusted scowl, and she practically throws a paper at Draco.
“For you, Master Malfoy,” Juney spits, spinning on her heel and disapparating as quickly as she had arrived. It’s the largest display of house-elf insubordination Hermione’s ever seen, and if Juney hadn’t disappeared so quickly, she’d be tempted to congratulate her.
Draco meets her wide-eyed gaze in shock, and Hermione sets her spatula down with a shaking hand when she sees the Ministry of Magic’s crest on the parchment. Nothing good has ever arrived for her with that emblem.
Draco stands, and she watches as he takes slow and steady steps towards her, flattening the paper so they both can see. Hermione wants to reach out and take his hand, but fear has blossomed within her and she’s hardly capable of anything.
“The Ministry of Magic is very pleased with the way the Wizarding Growth Population Act is progressing and is thrilled to announce that we have seen substantial growth in our economy, our international wizarding relations, and pregnancy and birth numbers, all of which has cemented the future of the magical world.
With such success, the Ministry of Magic is happy to offer the WPG - Compatibility Act. This act is specifically designed for those matched couples who are finding their current marriages no longer viable. To receive a Divorce, the couple must petition the Ministry of Magic for form T-978. Upon receiving this form, the couple must attach their magical signatures to the form by tapping their wands to the applicable section.
To petition the Ministry of Magic, please contact ‘The Office of Magical Marriage’.
Regards,
Kingsley Shacklebolt, Minister of Magic
Ernest Hawkworth, Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot”
A near-hysterical joy replaces her dread — they successfully began the demolition of the WPG! She laughs out loud and nearly shouts, “We did it! We actually got in a divorce option!!”
Draco is not celebrating, however, and Hermione’s excitement fades when he lifts the first letter to read a much shorter piece of parchment.
“Granger,” Draco chokes out. “What the fuck is this?”
Hermione freezes, darting close again to read whatever has thrown him so much. The words sink into her mind like a festering wound, and her dread slams into her more powerful than before.
‘To Draco Malfoy & Hermione Malfoy;
You have been approved for magical Divorce. Please see the T-978 form attached, pre-signed. Simply tap your wands to finalize your magical Divorce.
Signed,
The Office of Magical Marriages’
Hermione looks up to meet silver eyes. Draco looks a cross between furious and panicked, and Hermione isn’t sure what she feels. Her legs are trembling with stress, and she wraps her arms around her ribs tightly, forcing herself to be still.
Juney’s anger — so unexpected — is now terribly understandable.
“No.” Draco snaps, startling her.
“What?” Hermione whispers.
Draco turns to her, furious and demanding. “No. Fuck that, Granger. I don’t want a divorce, and I know you don’t either. You’re mine, you said so yourself.”
Hermione blinks; she doesn’t want this divorce either, but she’s not in the business of not considering all of their options. She knows exactly what Draco has given up by marrying her, and while she knows he loves her, she’s not convinced it’s enough.
“But I’m—”
“Don’t you dare give me some shite excuse like I’m sacrificing something, or that you’re muggleborn.” Draco hisses.
“Your family magic depends—”
“You are my family!”
Hermione stills — Draco’s never yelled at her before, not even in Hogwarts when they would spit venom at each other. While she doesn’t particularly enjoy being yelled at, his words seem to echo in the silence, and Hermione hasn’t lost what he’s said. His family.
Draco sucks in a breath wildly, and when he reaches his hands to her shoulders, he is calm and gentle again. She sinks into his grasp, relief blooming at his touch.
This time when he speaks, Draco’s voice is soft and deadly serious. “There are only two Malfoys left in this entire world, Hermione. It’s just me and you. If you don’t want this, then I’ll sign this right now, because I won’t chain you here. But don’t you fucking dare tell me I’ll be better off. I won’t be.”
Hermione can’t help it — she can feel tears coursing down her cheeks. She desperately doesn’t want a divorce. She wants to keep him and love him and spend the rest of her life arguing about books with him.
“Okay,” she whispers. “If you’re sure you want this, okay.”
He reaches for her, and Hermione nearly collapses into his embrace. She twines herself around him and presses close to the heat of him. Her family.
“Are you sure, Granger?” Draco asks quietly, “I want you to want this, too.”
Hermione remembers just how miserable she had been when he had disappeared on Christmas eve. She remembers how sick she had felt, knowing that somehow Draco had thought he was anything like his father, forcing her into this marriage. She doesn’t ever want to make him feel that way again.
She pulls away just enough to meet his gaze, channelling every ounce of genuine affection she can. “I want this. Nothing’s changed, I just… want you to have all the options.”
“You are the only option,” Draco argues, and Hermione can’t help her smile. He yanks his wand out and prepares to burn the letter to a crisp, and Hermione is overcome. He loves her — and it is obvious and known and weighty. There is nothing in this world she wouldn’t do for him, nothing she wouldn’t sacrifice —
“Wait,” Hermione gasps. She drags herself out of his arms, and when he looks at her with surprise and fear in his gaze, she wants to die.
There is nothing she wouldn’t do for him.
“I have…” Hermione swallows hard. “I have to tell you something before you destroy the form.”
Draco’s wand lowers, and Hermione almost wishes he ignored her. Wishes he had incinerated the form and the divorce option, and that she wouldn’t have to drag these words like knives out of herself. But the moment is over, and Draco is staring expectantly, and Hermione is nothing if not brave.
“Do you remember in fifth year when your father failed a task at the Department of Mysteries?”
Draco winces, his hand creeping up to his chest. Hermione knows exactly how Voldemort would have taken that failure, and she has no doubt that Draco paid the price for Lucius’ mistake.
“Well, I was there,” Hermione says, numbly. “With a few others. We have a charmed coin from when we were part of Dumbledore’s Army — you remember when Umbridge had you all pull us into her office? Anyway, the coin lets us communicate. We called our reinforcements that night because we thought someone was in danger at the Ministry. We had to fight a few Death Eaters that night. Dolohov was one of them.”
Saying his name feels like swallowing acid, and she knows that Draco has noticed. Even references to Bellatrix don’t pain her the way the memory of Dolohov does.
“What did he do?” Draco rasps.
“He hit me with a rather nasty curse, as I mentioned before,” Hermione answers, her voice cracking halfway through. She clears her throat. “It was too much for Madam Pomfrey, and she sent me on to St Mungo’s for specialists. I obviously survived.”
“But?” Draco demands — and Hermione wishes he hadn’t.
She straightens her spine and readies herself to be alone. “I can’t give you the children that you want, Draco.”
Draco’s face goes expressionless — and Hermione waits. It feels as though she ages a lifetime in those short seconds, and Hermione doesn’t know if she can survive this.
“I’m sorry,” Draco finally says. Hermione realizes she’s been staring at their floor and glances up at him. “I’m sorry Dolohov did that to you. I’m sorry he took your choices away.”
God — here it is. “Draco…” she whispers, just for the chance to hear his name on her lips again.
Draco, however, has other ideas. “Nothing changes, Granger. I won’t lie and tell you I’m not a little sad — you’d be a great mum and I’ve never had a big family before. But nothing changes between us. I want you.”
Hermione’s body moves without her permission because she’s suddenly flying into his arms, sobs breaking out of her chest harshly.
“Ron wanted a family,” she cries, “and I couldn’t — couldn’t—”
“Let’s not talk about the stupidity of Ronald Weasley right now, love,” Draco murmurs, and Hermione feels his hand stroking gently down her spine. His heart is thundering against her eardrum, and Hermione is ready to kill to protect this.
“He’s the only one who knows,” Hermione confesses. “And he wanted me to tell you, but I was too scared. He’s not being cruel, Draco — he hates lying. He wanted you to know before you got in too deep. In case you… in case you didn’t want me anymore.”
Draco’s arms tighten almost painfully, but she doesn’t mind.
“I do want you, Granger,” Draco says again, voice rumbling from where she’s tucked her forehead. “And it occurs to me that Mrs. Weasley has more than once referred to you as another daughter.”
Hermione sniffles. “Yeah.”
Draco presses a gentle kiss to her hair, and she knows it’s probably ridiculous-looking since she had barely wrangled it into a bun this morning. Yet — and yet — he is still here.
“Then where did you ever get the idea that children had to be from their parents to matter? Molly and Arthur Weasley love you just as much as they love all their other children. If you want kids, Granger, then we can make that happen. You have all the money at your disposal — you can ask for second opinions, find specialists, find a surrogate, adopt, whatever. Look, I know you — you are very capable of loving anyone and anything — I mean, you love Potter, and he’s the worst; so if you want kids, then say the word and we will have them.”
Fresh tears course down her face, but they are absorbed into his shirt. She doesn’t move at all, trying to swallow down a medley of grief and love and sheer want. When Hermione finally feels like she might be able to face him without crumbling into dust, she drags her fingers up to wipe at her eyes and tries to face her husband.
“Harry isn’t the worst,” Hermione says — mostly because anything else she wants to say there are simply no words for.
Draco rolls his eyes, “Let’s agree to disagree.”
Hermione smiles. It seems there are words, after all. “I love you madly, Draco Malfoy.”
“So can I incinerate this bloody awful paper now?” Draco asks quickly.
Hermione grins, and she flicks her fingers toward the nearly forgotten paper and whispers: “Incendio”. It bursts into flame and crumbles into ash on their countertop. Draco rewards her flashy show of wandless magic by gaping at her, shock and pride evident in his expression.
“Just how much wandless magic have you been practicing, Hermione? You’re a bloody menace.” Draco asks.
“Too late to divorce me now.” Hermione teases. Draco is suddenly in front of her, replying to her sass by pressing her into the cupboards and kissing her. Hermione throws herself into their kiss, and she wonders how it’s possible to feel the future laid out in front of her. She’s never been fond of divination, and yet she swears she can see it — years and decades and lifetimes of this.