It’s funny, Hermione thinks, that the worst day of your life can start like any other.
That the day the thing you love most is taken from you, you wake up, fix your tea, have breakfast with your husband.
You read a book in the living room, marvel at the way the sun looks coming through the large window, and consider what you want for dinner.
You pick up around the house even though there’s really no mess. You straighten up the pillows on your son’s bed. You walk through the garden. The birds sing, the breeze blows.
There’s nothing sinister in the air. No warning signs. No foreboding feeling settled into your bones.
No, it’s a casual Tuesday.
She’s supposed to meet Ginny for lunch. Supposed to run Draco fresh food, so he doesn’t have to heat something up.
She’s supposed to be a wife.
She’s supposed to be a mother.
It’s not supposed to be the worst day of her life.
That’s why when Minerva stumbles out of the floo into the Manor, she’s just surprised. Not worried. Not flustered that the woman has come in uninvited.
Her eyes are wide with shock but nothing more, nothing less.
It’s a Tuesday. The flowers in the garden have bloomed. The pastries they had for breakfast are still fresh.
It's just a Tuesday.
But as she looks up from her book and meets Minerva’s eye, she knows that it is no longer just a Tuesday.
There’s something in the woman’s gaze that sets off every alarm in her mind. And she stands up, rod straight, rushing to her.
The book she was reading hits the floor, echoing in the large room.
But she doesn’t care.
She reaches the woman and places her hand on her arms, and she considers that she’s never noticed how frail the Headmistress is. The woman shakes under her touch. And it scares Hermione when she realizes she hasn’t seen her quite like this since...well..since Voldemort seemingly controlled their every move.
She hasn't seen Minerva so unnerved since she was a child.
She’s older now, though.
Married, a mother.
The world had slowly healed. She had recovered, patching her wounds up with love and family. She had forgiven those who stood against them. She had held Harry’s hand as he cried over what he had lost. She had stood by Ginny’s side as she married Pansy Parkinson, defying all the odds.
And she had stood, with her hand in Draco Malfoy’s, as she confessed her unwavering loyalty to him in front of a crowd. Ron and Harry had stood next to her, something she never considered even a possibility.
But they had shown.
They had congratulated her even as her hands shook when she told them about Draco proposing.
And when Scorpius was born, they had all been there. Holding their breath. Reminiscing. Trying to peek past the closed doors. And when he cried, they cheered. Celebrating the birth of her son. Her and Draco’s son.
She never believed life would heal up so nicely, but it had.
Up until not at least.
But something on Minerva’s face told her that it was all about to change. The way her mouth gaped open and her hands shook.
This was the end of the peace she knew. The beginning of something else entirely.
Suddenly, she finds herself thrust into a reality she doesn’t want to be apart of.
And she notices her hands shake too.
“Minerva, what are you doing here?”
The woman is crying, and Hermione feels ill.
“You have to come, Hermione. Summon Draco. We have to get back to Hogwarts now.”
Hermione’s heart stops.
Hogwarts.
Summon Draco.
No. There’s only one reason why they would ever summon them both to Hogwarts. Minerva knows how busy they are. There’s only one reason why the woman would stumble out of her floo midday, uninvited.
Only one reason.
“Minerva, what is happening?”
“It’s Scorpius. Now, please summon Draco. We need to get moving.”
And right then, all fear and inhibitions fall away.
It’s Scorpius.
Right now isn’t the time for fear or reasoning. She reaches for the necklace hanging around her neck and taps it three times. It’s the warning signal they had agreed to when they had made the necklace infused with a protean charm.
Scrop had one too, but she hadn’t received any signals from him.
Her stomach turns as she wonders why she hasn’t received any signals from him.
Why had he not...
Minerva grabs her hand and pulls her towards the floo. Hermione nearly trips over her feet but stays behind the woman. She barely has time to look around the room before Minerva is calling out for Hogwarts, and they’re consumed by green flames.
The next time she opens her eyes, she’s standing in the faculty Floo of Hogwarts.
And she knows she has to let go of the childish hope she feels. The optimism.
"What's wrong with my son?"
Minerva pales.
“We should wait till Draco arrives.”
At that moment, she hears the heavy familiar footsteps reverberating off the stone floors, and she looks up to see him. He’s dressed in all black, his lips pressed into a thin line, his brow knitted in worry. He knows she would never summon him unless she had to. And as soon as he gets to her, he takes her into his arms.
“What’s going on?”
Hermione wants to answer, but she doesn't know.
Minerva idles beside them, waiting. When they finally turn to face her, she tries to look put together, rolling her shoulders back and pressing the wrinkles out of her robes with her hands. But Hermione can see it. Her swollen eyes, her face red.
Something’s wrong, no matter how perfectly pressed her outfit is.
“I- I’m not sure how to say this.”
“Then just spit it out, Minerva. Bloody hell,” Draco snips, and the woman flinches.
“Somehow...Death Eaters have made their way through the wards and -”
“Death Eaters? The same ones we warned you about weeks ago? The ones who have been threatening us, and you told us that the school had it under control?” Hermione’s fear gives way to rage ever so slightly.
Because they had been warning anyone who would listen about it since the first letter had arrived. The letter riddled with threats and promises. An eye for an eye, they had written. A promise to even the score. A rebalancing.
The balance that Draco had apparently offset years ago when he delivered the Elder Wand to Harry Potter.
But it’s not like the letter was a surprise. She knew they would be back one day...but not so soon.
She thought they would have a few more years.
But the letters had continued to come.
The last one the most terrifying of all. Promising to kill them. Promising to take what was theirs. Promising to continue the reign of pureblood.
Hermione had taken it to the Minister for Magic. She had taken it to Hogwarts. She had, in a desperate move, taken it to the Daily Prophet. But the responses were always the same.
You’re paranoid.
You have to move on.
This is simply a prank.
But the look on Minerva’s face tells her that the is anything but a prank.
No, she's not sure she'll ever recover from this.
She grasps Draco’s hand as she waits for it. As she waits for the words to leave Minerva’s lips.
“The wards should have been impenetrable. You know I took you both seriously when you warned me about the letters you were getting. You know I always put Scorpius and his safety first.”
She considers the statement. The words ring in her eyes. But it doesn't take her long to figure it all out...
Because Hermione Granger is smart...smart enough to put this all together. But she doesn’t want to. She wants the woman to say it and prove her wrong.
And she realizes for the first time in her life, she doesn’t want to be a know-it-all.
She begs the universe to prove her wrong.
“They found Scorpius. They knew the password. They-”
“Where is he?” Draco’s voice is dark, and she leans against him as she struggles to stay upright. And he holds her, supporting her. She wonders how he can do that...support both of them when the world is crumbling right before their eyes.
“Follow me.”
So they do. Hermione leaning against him for support as hushed sobs escape her lips. He shoulders her weight. Kisses her on top of the head. He guides her down the same corridors they used to roam.
And when they arrive at the door of Slytherin, it’s him who has to say the password so they can enter. He says the words that reveal the scene behind the door.
The scene she knows will be burned into her mind for the rest of her life because there’s no outrunning what she sees.
There’s no happiness that can mend these wounds.
There’s nothing.
She nearly collapses, but he holds her upright, guiding her into the very common room he used to spend his days in. But now, there’s a spitting image of him splayed across the ground.
Blonde hair.
Sharp features.
But honey brown eyes you would notice if they were open.
Hermione wretches, her stomach contents splattering against the floor, and Draco stares. He doesn’t move. And she wonders if that’s what a man truly looks like when he is broken.
He’s just staring at the small body on the floor. The body that isn’t moving. The little boy who would usually run towards them, yelling something he shouldn’t. The child with his smirk and her intelligence. The child who had changed them for the better.
That child isn’t moving.
The healers look up as they enter and pale. They recognize them. It’s not surprising. Their voices turn to hushed whispers. But their panic is unavoidable.
She returns her eyes to the boy. Her boy.
She thinks about him running barefoot through the Manor. She thinks about his laughter bouncing off the walls. She thinks about the first time he said dada was the first time her husband really started to forgive himself.
She thinks about him ruining her rose bushes on his toy broom. She thinks about how nervous he was about sorting. She thinks about how Draco had promptly told him that it didn’t matter where he was sorted, that he loved him no matter what.
She thinks about how Scorp gave Draco the best gift of all. Love with no inhibitions. No past. No regrets. Nothing but childlike wonder and admiration. She had watched her husband change from the second Scorp reached out for his hand, wrapping his tiny digits around Draco’s large finger.
She had seen what a love like Scorpius’s could do.
But she had never thought about what his absence would deliver.
She returns her focus to the scene and crumbles yet again. Draco supports her. And still, she’s not sure how he does it. And they take a step closer.
Scorpius doesn’t move.
He doesn’t laugh.
He doesn’t smirk, looking just like Draco.
He remains still. Eyes closed - hiding the one part of him that looks like Hermione.
“What…”
“They..they got to him before we had a chance.”
She falls to her knees at the confirmation and sobs. She can’t...she can’t handle this. She reaches out, her skin meeting his, and he’s too cold. Her baby is too cold. So, she grabs him away from the healers and buries him into her chest, trying to warm him.
Trying to make him feel less alone.
Had he faced this all alone?
She holds him tightly against her, burying her nose into his hair, and she shakes with sobs. Draco is kneeling beside her, holding them both like he’s trying to keep them together. But she hardly notices him.
Her son isn’t breathing.
And when she pulls back to study him, she notices it.
Marking on his right forearm that wasn’t there before. She takes his small arm into her hand and studies it.
T R A I T O R.
She looks at her own forearm, to the Mudblood scar, and notices an eerie similarity. The jagged lettering, the deep cut that would scar.
Scorpius hd been branded before he had been killed, like cattle. He had been marked and mutilated before they had taken his life.
TRAITOR.
That word didn’t belong to him.
That word was designated for his Father. A message no longer delivered on parchment but on their child’s skin.
Draco notices it as well. He goes stiff as he tries to control his crying. But his eyes flicker over the markings and he can’t get a grip, the reality of it all seemingly crashing into him at once. He falls to his knees beside her, taking Scorp into his arms, and Hermione can’t help but notice how cold the room is. She can’t help but notice how empty her arms are.
It’s an emptiness, she realizes, that she will feel for the rest of her life, and that shatters her from the inside out. She looks to her left. To her husband with his tears and shaking hands. To her sweet boy, eyes closed, lips slightly parted.
She swears he simply looks asleep. Like at any moment, his eyes will open, and his laughter will bring air back into her lungs. But as they sit there, it doesn’t happen.
Nothing in the world could have prepared her for this.
He was supposed to outlive them.
He was supposed to chase his dreams, and for only a moment, she begs whatever God she can think of to let her switch places with him. But nothing happens. She continues breathing, her chest rising and falling while his stays still.
“Do something!” Her voice sounds broken and desperate. “Do something to help him!”
But the healers don’t move. Minerva doesn’t move. No one moves, including Scorpius, and her sobs pick up.
“Won’t someone help him?”
“Miss...we tried. The spell was...it was already done.”
“What did they do to him?” Draco’s voice sounds so distant, and Hermione takes their son from Draco’s arms, and hugs Scorp closer.
“It was some type of dark magic….”
“Was it instant?”
“I’m afraid not.”
Hermione’s sobs echo against the stone wall. Her baby had suffered. He had been in agony. The Death Eaters couldn’t let him go quickly.
And she wonders if he had cried out for her.
The thought roots itself inside of her, and she can’t ward it off. It’s like poison in her bloodstream, consuming her.
She has no idea how much time has passed when they take his body from her arms. She reaches for him desperately, but Draco takes her arms, and she collapses into him, weeping.
“They have to move him, love. They have to take him.”
“But he’s my baby. He’s mine.”
“I know...but they have to take him before the students get back.”
Hermione doesn’t care for the other children. Why would she? Her son is gone.
She pulls away from Draco and studies him. He looks broken. But is he as broken as her? Has he realized that nothing will ever be the same? Does he know that she wishes it would’ve been him?
That was the last time Hermione Granger-Malfoy walked the corridors of Hogwarts. She swore to never return again.
-----
The funeral is crowded, and Hermione can’t help but wonder if everyone is there to actually mourn her son or just to get a glimpse of the broken Malfoy family.
She knows Harry, Pansy, Ginny, Blaise, Theo… .they’re there out of support. But the rest, she doesn’t trust them. She makes eye contact with no one.
But she doesn’t try to hide her brokenness.
And if they’re there for a show, she gives them one. She can hardly stand upright. She can’t speak through her tears. She figured a numbness would eventually settle in, but it never comes.
Agony.
Never-ending agony, that’s the only way she can describe it.
And when they lower his small casket into the ground, she shatters. Unable to control it. She reaches for him. Draco holds on to her. She sobs, her hands outstretched for her child, who she will never hug again.
Please.
Bring him back.
I’ll do whatever.
She bargains and begs. But the coffin is completely out of sight now. And as the burial comes to a close, she knows there’s nothing she can do to bring him back. Nothing. He’s gone. Alone.
The thought brings her to her knees, and Draco eventually picks her up, carrying her to the floo. She rests her head on his chest as he does, and all she can think about is how it’s not fair that his heart still beats while their son’s doesn’t. She thinks how it isn’t fair that he is still here while her son is six feet under.
It consumes her.
------
She’s never noticed how gray the Manor is. Never noticed how the light that filters through the windows brings out all the worst features. How it’s cold, seemingly never warmed no matter how hard they try.
It doesn’t feel like a home.
It feels like a prison.
A prison haunted by the ghost of what her life should have been and guarded by the man who had caused it all to fall apart.
But still, she knows that’s not fair. She knows Draco is mourning. She knows Draco loves Scorp, loves her. Still, at times, the thought creeps into her brain. Toxic. Pulsating through her.
He caused this.
He did this.
But then he appears.
He changes her clothes, he forces her to eat, he traces shapes on her back until she falls into a restless sleep. He washes her hair. He holds her hand. He takes care of her.
The thoughts fall back, the poison resides. And she’s thankful for him. She has no idea what she would do without him.
But the thoughts always come back one way or another.
-----
It’s too sunny for November.
That’s her first thought when she wakes up, the light hurting her eyes. She rolls over to find him waiting for her, studying her.
“Good morning. How are you feeling?”
How is she feeling? It had been two months since their son was murdered. What a stupid question at a time like this.
“I’m fine,” is all she can muster.
But it’s a lie. He knows it too, and he reaches out for her, pushing a stray curl behind her ear, and for a second, she can see the boy she fell in love with his small smile and quiet demeanor. But then she sees his lips, she sees his hair, she sees his features.
She sees her baby.
Her baby who had been killed because of his Father’s past decisions, and the poison roots itself inside her bloodstream.
“Why don’t we go have some breakfast?”
“Sure, I’ll catch up.”
He pauses for a moment but finally kisses her temple before making his way towards the kitchen. She heads to the bathroom.
And she stares at her reflection.
She stares at her own eyes reflecting back. Scorpius had her eyes.
But not anymore because he was gone.
She doesn’t remember doing it as she stares at her fist. There are shards of glass, blood everywhere. The mirror is shattered.
She stares at her hand, clenched. Bleeding.
She can’t stop staring at it.
It doesn’t take long for Draco to appear. A worried look settled on his face.
“What did you do, Hermione?”
She begins to cry, and he takes her into his arms as they sink to the floor.
“I couldn’t look at my eyes, his eyes. I couldn’t.”
Draco just nods, kissing the top of her hair as she sobs. And eventually, he removes each shard of glass from her hand, wrapping it gently. She never flinches. She never grits her teeth in pain. She never reacts.
And she notices, for once, how scared Draco looks. How terrified he seems to have her becoming so undone.
She can’t help but wonder if Scorpius had worn the same expression when they had taken his life.
When they had killed her only child.
She doesn’t come down to eat. Draco leaves her when she asks him too, but she knows he’s sitting outside in the hallway, just in case she has another episode.
And she can’t help but wonder if this ever ends. This pain.
They say time heals all, but she just doesn’t believe them. She doesn’t believe that this feeling will ever lift. Not after what happened. Not after they took him away from her.
------
She dreams of the word carved into his arm.
The dreams have gotten worse. They never release her. Every time she closes her eyes, she’s haunted by the images of Scorpius lying there. She sees his mutilated arm. It’s like living the worst day of her life over and over and over.
Except in her dreams, he speaks to her.
Why did you let them do this to me, mum?
Why did you let them get me?
Why?
Why did dad cause this?
Why did dad let this happen to me?
Why did you both let this happen to me?
I’m scared, mum.
It’s lonely here.
I’m cold.
And he sobs. He sobs the entire time. He reaches out for her, but she can’t touch him. She tries, but he’s always out of reach. Always out of reach . She wakes up sobbing, her hands outstretched above her.
And when she opens her eyes, she swears he’s still there, looking at her.
Why did you let them do this to me?
She doesn’t know.
So, she stops sleeping altogether. She can’t handle it. She can’t keep seeing him like that, or she’ll lose it entirely.
“What can I do, Hermione?” Draco asks that morning.
“Can you bring our son back?” she mutters.
He grimaces.
“You know I would if I could.”
“Why couldn’t it have been you instead?”
She doesn’t turn to look at him. She can’t handle the pain she knows has washed over his face. But he doesn’t argue with her. Instead, he gently kisses her forehead.
“I wish it would’ve been me too, love.”
And then he excuses himself.
She doesn’t move, though.
She sits there, and she stares at the wall. And she tries to keep herself breathing. She wonders what it would feel like if she just stopped.
----
Three months without him.
December rolls in, and she wonders if this is some infinite torture life is delivering her. Christmas. Scorpius’s favorite holiday.
She still goes shopping for him. Buying everything on his list. When she brings it home, Draco says nothing but looks at her with worried eyes.
He says nothing as she wraps each gift, placing them under the tree.
It’s undecorated because that was her son’s job. But it doesn’t stop her from building a mountain of gifts.
A new broom. New books. Everything he could have ever wanted.
“I think he would’ve loved it. What do you think?”
Draco gives her a sad smile.
“I’m sure he would’ve, Hermione. And we can donate all the gifts whenever you’re ready.”
Hermione can’t believe the words that have just come out of his mouth.
“What do you mean? They’re- these gifts are for our son.”
“I know...but...love, you know he’s not here to open them.”
“I - I don’t care. We can put them in his room.”
The room that hasn’t been opened since the day he passed. Hermione hasn’t had the nerve. Draco’s frown grows.
“Maybe it’s time to talk to someone? A mind healer could assist you.”
“No. He was my son, Draco. I’m not drugging myself up. Grieving him is the least I can do.”
“Hermione, he was my son too. I just think-”
“And yet, he died for your mistakes. Your choices! You don’t get to talk about him like this.”
Draco’s face fractures, a timid sob escaping his lips.
“You are not the only one hurting.”
Hermione bares her teeth. She can feel the poison running through her veins.
His fault.
His actions.
Traitor.
The word belongs to him.
“He died because of you. Do you know that?”
Draco hangs his head, fresh tears spilling over.
“Of course I know that, Hermione. Don’t you know I think about it every bloody day?”
She knows a good wife would comfort him. A good wife would apologize. A good wife would care that her husband is fracturing.
But she can’t.
Not when she used to be a good mum but now, she no longer holds the title. She can’t be a good wife when he caused this.
“The thought never leaves my mind, just so you know. I have dreams too. I know they attacked him because of me. I know that brand was meant for me. I know.”
He gazes at her. And she swears she can see it on his face — a flicker of hope that she will comfort him. That she will admit that this is not his fault.
But she won’t.
Instead, she stands up and gives him a sarcastic grin.
“At least you're self aware.”
He doesn’t come to bed that night.
-----
It’s funny, Hermione thinks, that the day you change your life can feel like any other day.
She woke up. Laid in bed. Ignored Draco’s calls to come to eat.
She took a long shower. She stared at where their mirror used to be. Picturing her eyes, his eyes. She hadn’t seen them in some time, seeing Draco had removed every mirror from the house in an effort to help her.
She went to the library. She read Scorps’ favorite book.
She ate one scone and drank one glass of tea.
And finally, she went into her son’s room.
It’s coated in dust. The gifts from Christmas piled all over the place. But otherwise, it looks just like it had the day he had left it.
Bed made because he really was the best boy.
Books piled on his bedside table because he was her son.
A quidditch magazine on his desk because he was his Father’s son.
She lays on his bed, hugging his pillow into her chest, and she fractures when she realizes it doesn’t smell like him anymore. And she remains there for some time, desperate for a sign not to follow through with what she has planned.
But nothing comes and eventually, she knows it’s time to leave. She takes one last look at his room before shutting the door behind her for the last time.
And then she waits for Draco to come home.
He does, finally, and she leads him to the dining room, where dinner is prepared. He studies her like he’s trying to decode her thoughts, but after a moment, he gives her a small smile and mutters words of gratitude.
He takes a seat.
She takes a seat.
And they begin to eat.
Wine is poured. Few words are exchanged. He avoids her eyes.
He did this, doesn’t he know that?
He caused this.
He killed their son.
He took everything away from her.
And yet, he has the nerve to sit in the home Scorpius once roamed. He has the nerve to eat dinner at the table he ate.
Draco killed him.
It didn’t seem fair.
But she would make things right.
She would settle the score.
“I love you, Hermione. I love you so much. I’m sorry,” he mutters.
And she gives him a smile.
“It’s okay. I - I think I’ve figured out how to forgive you.”
His eyes are sad, but he shakes his head.
She drinks more wine. More until her head feels fuzzy and the room tilts
Draco looks worried, but she just continues to smile.
“Do you remember how much Scorp loved this meal?” She asks.
Draco gives her a tight-lipped nod.
“Of course I do. For two months, it was all he would eat. I didn’t think I would ever enjoy it again.”
Of course he thought that. He never loved Scorp as much as she did. She doesn’t speak to him again.
When dinner is over, she takes one last look around the Manor. She’s not trying to memorize it. It just feels like she should.
And then she turns to him.
“I love you,” she says.
A real smile spreads across his face.
“Oh, I love you so much, Hermione.”
“But I love Scorpius more.”
He deflates.
“I know. I know you do.”
“I’m going outside for a walk. Do you mind?”
“Whatever you need, my love. Whatever you need.”
She gives him one more smile, taking him in. The dimple on his left cheek. Slate gray eyes. Blonde hair. Handsome. So handsome.
Too handsome to be the man that killed her son.
And then she walks out.
Standing in front of the Manor, she stares up at it. And she knows what she has to do.
Because this home is just a looming memory of her child. Of what she lost. Of what her husband did. How they failed.
She can almost see Scorp zooming on a toy broom. She can almost hear his laughter. She can almost feel him wrapping his arms around her.
“Do it, mum. Do what’s right,” she hears him say.
And she will. She will do right by him this final time.
Raising her wand, she takes a deep breath.
“Colloportus,” she mutters, and the sound of the doors locking rings out and she shivers.
She doesn’t have much time.
She has to do it.
She has to do it before he notices.
Do it, Mum.
She’s sobbing, terrified. But she has to do this. She has to do it now.
When the words leave her mouth, she can hardly believe she’s muttered them, but as the fire leaves her wand, she knows it’s too late to take it back.
And she looks for Scorp, for his proud brown eyes, but he’s nowhere to be found.
She watches as the fire hits the house, erupting in bright flames, and when her eyes find the door, she meets familiar gray ones. They’re not desperate. They’re not afraid.
And she swears she sees him mouth, “I love you.”
He remains there, staring at her until the front is entirely consumed by flames. Once she loses his gaze, she turns away from the scene and waits for help to arrive.
-----
Malfoy Manor Erupts in Flames - The End of a Dynasty
Last night, the wizarding world lost the final Malfoy.
Draco Malfoy was killed in a house fire, found by the door, clutching a charred photo many assume was a photo of his family.
As you know, the Malfoy’s suffered the tragic loss of their son earlier this year.
Mrs. Malfoy was found sitting outside the Manor as the fire raged on. Word has not been given on her involvement, but they say she went calmly with a smile on her face.
Witnesses say before she was taken away, though, she glanced back at the Manor and said:
“I hope you are proud, Scorp.”
But these claims cannot be proven.
We’ll be sure to keep you updated on this tragic event as we uncover the details.
The Daily Prophet.