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Dear Hermione,
I am writing to you because you don't seem to want to talk to me right now, and I hope this letter elucidates my feelings.
I remember the first time I saw you after the war. I brushed up against you accidentally while trying to push my way through the Three Broomsticks. It had been a particularly stressful morning; I tried to avoid going out, but I had been wandless since the war and Ollivander had finally agreed to see me. To top everything off, it was a particularly crowded day at the pub, and one of those sunny Saturdays where it seemed as though everyone was laughing and having a good time except for me.
"Apologies, Ms. Granger," I said to you in what I knew was a tight voice after you had flung your wild hair around to glare at me.
Your wide brown eyes narrowed into slits before you half-hissed, half-spoke, "Do you think you can still scare me after all these years, Mr. Malfoy?" The last two words were dripping with sarcasm and disgust, as though speaking my name made you want to gag.
But I nearly laughed at your question. The idea that I would try to scare you, when I had been reliant on my wandless magic, which wasn't what it used to be, when I was so reclusive that leaving my house gave me pangs of anxiety? It was absurd. I hadn't even been able to scare you when you were a child and I was at the height of my powers.
Before I could respond to you, though, the Weasley boy whispered something to you and dragged you away, but not before your eyes burned into me again.
After that, I continued to hole myself up in my house, mourning Narcissa and, in some ways, Draco. Even though he hadn't passed, the war had severed anything that was left of our relationship. But that's another story entirely.
It was just over two years before I spoke with you again at a Ministry Christmas party. Even though we worked in the same building, we hadn't even said hello to each other. Every time we were in the elevator at the same time, you did one of two things: either you spoke with everyone in the elevator that wasn't me and went quiet when inevitably we ended up riding alone—the downsides of our floors being so remote—or it was just us at the start and you would suck in a breath as the doors would close, determinedly staring straight forward while you held it until you got to your floor. I would hear you let it out just as you stepped out and the doors closed, always so close to your head of hair that I would worry for a moment the doors had caught it.
I hadn't wanted to go to the Christmas party. I'm sure that was obvious. But Draco had talked me into it, and since we had finally been talking again, I didn't feel I was in a position to argue with him. Of course, twenty minutes in and he was in a lively conversation with a leggy blonde and I was by myself in the corner, hoping that if I looked bored enough, no one would talk to me.
It had been a good strategy; it helped that the party was a muggle-themed "ugly Christmas sweater party" and I was in black robes. I didn't know what that meant; I'm still not sure I know exactly what that means. You had one of the strangest sweaters there; unlike the majority at the party, yours didn't have a moving animation that seemed to be the trend of the moment that year. I had even seen them on regular days in the office. Yours had a likeness of an odd man dressed all in red that popped out of your otherwise thick, black sweater.
When I had been at the party for one and a half hours—and yes, Hermione, I timed it—I allowed myself to leave, taking stock of the room one last time before I made my exit, deciding to take a walk before apparating. Even though I was leaving the party, something felt wrong about going home that early. I had managed to get myself out on a weekend evening; I owed it to myself to make the most of it.
Now, I hope you don't mind me saying, I wonder if something else brought me to that decision, as though part of me knew you were just three blocks away, soaked from sitting in the freshly fallen snow, sobbing.
When I saw your head bent over your knees as your body wracked with sobs, I knew immediately it was you. I hesitated for a moment, wrestling internally if it would be more polite to leave you alone or offer assistance. I'm not sure I decided to speak to you to be kind or because the silence between us irritated me. It felt, in those days, like there was so much unspoken between us. Of course, it was mostly your contempt for me and my unending guilt.
Regardless of the reason, I sat down next to you in the slightly watery snow, clearing my throat slightly so that you looked up, eyes filled with tears and cheeks red from the cold.
"What the hell do you want?" You had asked.
"I wanted to see if you were alright, Ms. Granger."
"Leave me alone," you whispered to me as you broke down again into sobs.
I hesitated, asking quietly if I could walk you home. At first, I wondered if you had heard me, but after a few minutes, you jumped up suddenly and began walking down the street before turning around and asking, "Well? Are you coming, then?"
I nodded and hurried after you, nearly slipping on ice but managing to balance.
We walked that way for a few blocks, me one step behind you. You had stopped crying just enough that I could tell that your shaking was from the cold.
"Ms. Granger," I ventured, nervous although I know it probably didn't show in my voice. "Would you allow me to perform a Warming Charm on you?"
"I can perform my own Warming Charm, thanks," you snapped, pulling out your wand and promptly dropping it, likely because your fingers were so numb.
We both bent down to pick it up, but we were probably only halfway down before the words started tumbling out of your mouth. I can't remember exactly what you said, but it was something like: "The absolute fucking nerve of you, Malfoy, asking to perform any spell on me, as though I've just forgotten about the last decade. Supposedly the Ministry thinks you were coerced; I think they just like being paid off. But you've always been able to control everyone, haven't you? With your stupid money and superior expression all the time. If you dare point that—that thing—at me, I will curse you so fast you won't know what hit you."
Although I doubted your abilities on that night, as you violently shivered, likely refusing to warm yourself as I had suggested the spell, I nodded and smiled slightly. "I believe you, Ms. Granger. I think you have shown yourself to be quite capable throughout the years."
You continued to stare at me as though you were waiting for me to say something else, but I couldn't collect my thoughts well enough to say anything more. It didn't seem fair, either, to argue with you about your opinion of me when it was mostly correct and it was obvious you were having a rough night already.
"That's all?" You demanded.
"I—I apologize, Ms. Granger," I managed in a quiet voice.
But you wanted more. Your voice was taunting now; you wanted me to say something horrible so that you could scream at me. I still don't understand that, Hermione. You had more than enough to chastise me for without me giving you more. "What exactly are you sorry about? List everything. I want to hear you say it."
And I did. I don't remember my words; I could barely focus on them that night, as they tumbled out of me. But I know I started with the prejudice I had instilled on Draco and inflicted on you and ended with my inaction on the day I know you will never forget, when you were tortured. I still regret that, Hermione. And I know I've apologized, but I want to say it again. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.
You didn't really know what to say after I had finished. "Well, this is my apartment building, so thanks for walking me home, I guess." You didn't wait for me to respond as you spun around and half-ran into your building. I saw you pause after you passed through the clear door to the building. Somehow, I felt that you were pausing there because you had collected your thoughts and you had some response to me. So it was my turn to hurry away before I had to face your censure. Would you have said anything to me that night, Hermione? If I had stayed standing there, waiting?
It was three weeks until we were alone in the elevator. I didn't say anything to you. I had already been the one to break our silence; I wanted to give you the option to lapse back into it if you wanted. But that day, you said, "Stuck in an elevator with you, am I?" Although you sounded genuinely irritated, there was this undercurrent of playfulness that made me wonder if I was on the path to being forgiven.
And I responded: "I'm told there is no worse fate. My sincere condolences."
You smiled only slightly, but it felt like a triumph. The next year and a half were more cutting remarks in the elevator and otherwise ignoring each other. It felt like something akin to closeness. And it was lovely. I didn't question it or think to want more.
But seeing you at Flourish & Blotts for the book signing last week changed everything for me, and I hope for you. When you saw me from across the room, you smiled a wide smile. It was the first time I had seen you smile like that, and even though you wrinkled your nose and screwed up your face right afterward to try to make it a joke or erase it away, I saw it.
It gave me enough confidence to walk up to you without pretense and greet you. We talked all night: about the author, what we liked to read, what music we both liked, and even our relationships with our families—the hard parts and the good parts.
And a few hours and a couple drinks into the party, we were in the Alchemy section of the bookshop, going through each volume and applying a rating system to judge how completely off the rails it was. I started to tell you how I couldn't even finish one particularly terrible tome and you were scandalized that I abandoned a book. Somewhere in our teasing, our faces were close enough that I could see the freckles underneath your eyes.
As I started to process how I was feeling, you leaned forward and brushed your lips against mine. My response, Hermione, was not thought out; it was instinctual when I pushed you against those books we had rated. I can't tell you how good it felt to have your hands in my hair, pulling and caressing in turn as we kissed, hot and unyielding and perfect.
Because it was perfect.
"I can't believe I let this happen," you exclaimed suddenly, pushing me away. "Just because we're friendly doesn't mean you changed. You think I'm less than you and I've let myself believe—"
"Hermione—"
"Don't call me that. I have to go."
And you ran out of the book signing and I haven't thought of anything since. On Tuesday, we had one of those terrible, silent elevator rides we used to always have. I tried to speak and you got off on the wrong floor to avoid me.
Hermione, I miss you. What I realized at the book signing was that I didn't hate our silences just because I felt guilty, or alone. I think part of me has always known that there could be more between us, and now that I have a glimpse of that, I can't just let it go. I know it's selfish because I can't endeavor to deserve you, but I promise to leave you alone if I don't hear from you.
I want you to know that I meant it when I said I was sorry. My prior beliefs became embarrassing to me during the war when I was confronted with their results. I am ashamed of what I was then and hope to continue to improve myself. I don't think you're less than me. I could never think that.
I think you're wonderful.
Sincerely,
Lucius Malfoy