Draco adjusted his tie once more, and took a step back. Peering into the antique mirror, he appraised his appearance. Pristine, as always. Not a hair out of place. His suit fit like a glove and the emerald green complimented his skin tone. He sighed and turned to the floo; a few more minutes and he would be late. That simply wouldn’t do, appearances must be kept after all. He flooed into the ministry without a look back.
Hermione ran her hands down her dress, ignoring her reflection staring back at her. The material caught on her nail and she spent a precious few moments fixing it. She was stalling, she knew, and yet she didn’t move towards the floo. Finally, she looked up to find the dress’s deep navy staring back. It was a form-fitting cocktail dress, one she had borrowed from Ginny. With a few tailoring charms, it fit as if it was custom-made. Hermione hated it. She felt like a doll to be paraded around. Nevertheless, she started her walk to the floo. She had wasted enough time, and was cutting it close. Tossing one last look over her shoulder, she stepped into the fireplace.
Draco was unamused with the evening. He arrived knowing the evening’s itinerary. Greetings at eight, corned by a foreign dignitary at eight thirty, obligatory dance at nine, back in his penthouse by nine thirty. It was clockwork, and he found comfort in the regularity. This evening, however, was not regular. It was only eight fifteen, and his plans had been disastrously derailed by the last person he thought he would see; Hermione Granger.
Hermione waited patiently. She had waited for other things longer, after all. Grabbing a complimentary drink, she took a seat alone. She scanned the crowd with a calculating eye for any shocks of white-blond hair. Finding none, she simply leaned back into the chair. She knew that eventually he would find her.
Draco was unabashedly staring at her, but she was looking past him. Two years. It had been two years since they had been in the same room. Two years since he had said things he couldn’t take back. The woman he had once thought to marry was sitting alone, and Draco was walking towards the open seat next to her.
He caught her eye. He was moving, cutting a path through the dance floor, directly towards her. She stiffened in her seat but she didn’t move. This was what she wanted. She wanted one last conversation, and she was ready.
Later, he would say he walked to her unconsciously. His brain hadn’t caught up to his feet before he was standing at her side, peering down at the woman he had loved, at the woman he had lost.
Hermione slowly turned towards him and motioned at the chair beside her. Her voice was level and poised as she spoke, almost as if she had her words memorized.
“You should sit.”
He didn’t move for a few moments, simply taking in her appearance. She looked the same. Her hair had grown slightly, but she was unmistakably the same woman he had bought a flat with, the same woman he had introduced to his parents, the same woman he still loved. It was her. He sat down quickly, not wanting to waste a moment of their time. His speech was hurried, he had so many things to say and not enough time.
“Hermione it’s nice to see you-I missed you-what brought you back to England-where are you staying-”
The thoughts were half formed as they poured from his mouth, two years worth of questions breaking through the surface. Hermione cut him off with a gentle wave of her hand.
“It’s nice to see you as well, Draco. I’m staying in England for the foreseeable future, as I’m having an event of sorts here, and I wanted my closest friends there for it.”
“An event?”
Draco looked at her politely confused, awaiting her explanation. As she uttered her next words, Hermione almost took pity on him. Almost. Instead, she stabbed him with her next words.
“Yes, an event. My wedding.”
Draco’s ears started buzzing. The edges of his vision went blurry, and he gripped the arms of the chair. Did she say-did she say her wedding? Surely he must have misheard her. A breading, that’s what she said. She’s searching for bread. She’s back in England for bread.
He still hadn’t spoken, and Hermione could practically see the wheels turning in his brain. His face had shifted from intrigued to panicked. Hermione didn’t waste any time though, pushing the knife in further.
“My fiance and I have temporarily found a flat in England, and we’re planning on staying for at least the year.”
Draco looked down at himself. Although he found no knife, he could feel the wound. He could feel the blood pouring out and pooling onto the ground. He looked up, and was surprised to see Hermione sitting serenely. Why wasn’t she reacting to the carnage? Why couldn’t she see the damage she had done?
Hermione took it all in. The confusion in his eyes, the twitching in his hands. She soaked in the scene as if it gave her life. She waited a second longer before twisting the knife.
“Theo has been so understanding about my desire to be around friends during this time. He’s truly my ideal man.”
Theo-Theo Nott. The man Draco had once called his best friend, and promised to make his best man. Theo had been there to see Draco and Hermione’s love blossom, and it seemed like he had taken the torch after Draco had thrown it to the ground.
Hermione had one last thing to say, and she would be done. Truly, she didn’t know how much more Draco could take. His feet were starting to uncontrollably tap and his eyes darted around the room. He looked to be a scared animal, and Hermione relished in it. She gripped the knife tighter and prepared to deliver the final blow.
“We do hope you can join us at the wedding. You’re one of our closest friends.”
With that, she stood up and left the corpse of Draco Malfoy bleeding out behind her. As she strode to the floo, she didn’t pause to look back. She shouted her destination into the fireplace, and though she wouldn’t admit it, her voice broke ever so slightly at the end.