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Twenty two years ago:
By the end of your first week at Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry, there wasn’t a student or teacher who did not know the name Draco Malfoy.
At eleven years old, he held the arrogance of a man much older and much more experienced with the wiles of the world. At such a young age, he held the air of someone holding court. His small group of friends banding around him, watching him with expressions undefined.
At eleven years old, Draco Malfoy already started to hold the world in his hands.
At eleven years old, you knew to stay away – to protect yourself from the hurt that seemed to follow the young blonde boy wherever he went.
Nineteen years ago:
At fourteen years old, the whole school is still very much aware of Draco Malfoy’s presence. His family’s reputation preceding him; the pressure of the Malfoy name sitting heavily upon the teenager’s shoulders.
The friendship began on a Saturday.
A memorable enough day for you to remember exactly what day of the week it was. The day is seared into your mind for the fact that it had been a Hogsmeade weekend, and Draco hadn’t gone. He hadn’t missed a Hogsmeade visit since being granted permission, but for some reason he had chosen to miss this particular weekend.
And he had joined you in the library.
At fourteen years old, you were very much aware of Draco Malfoy and his title of the Slytherin Prince. At fourteen years old, you knew very well to stay away.
For a while he didn’t speak. He didn’t know what to say; that’s what he’ll admit to you in a couple of years, when you lie on his chest, reminiscing.
His first words to you are your name. They’re whispered, quiet in the hush of the library, “(Y/N)?”
You startle, losing your place in your book, “Draco?”
He points down to your book, a shy smile on your face, “What are you reading?”
You feel your cheeks begin to heat; the familiar flush that accompanies your explanation of your love for fantasy novels that include a love triangle between two boys that are as equally as swoon-worthy as the other. You clear your throat, “A fantasy novel that I’ve been meaning to read for a while.”
Draco sits himself down across from you, resting his elbows on the table, looking somewhat intrigued. He doesn’t an offer an explanation for why he sits down, and you don’t ask for one. You’re happy enough to talk to the teenager that had manage to strike fear in the hearts of many of the students in the school; to decide for yourself whether Draco’s bite is worse than his bark.
“Are you enjoying it so far?” He asks, eyes focused on you rather than the book in your hands.
You glance down to the pages, your bookmark tucked away neatly. Nodding your head, you reply, “I am. I’ve read other books by this author and I’ve yet to find a book I dislike by them.”
Draco nods, not wanting to talk any further. Puzzled, you shrug your shoulders, disregarding the conversation with the Slytherin Prince as a moment of madness on his behalf, returning to the fantasy world of angels, demons, and gargoyle protectors.
It’s an odd interaction by any standard. He never offers his reasoning as to why he spoke to you, why he sat down and then stayed with you. Instead, Draco remains across the table from you, eyes roaming around the library before he eventually settles on watching you read, tracking the movement of each page.
As the day draws to an end, Draco stands and waits for you to collect your things. Silently, a friendship is forged between you both, and you cannot help but wonder how long this will last.
Seventeen years ago:
The greenhouses were ever so dark on an evening. The long tunnels are bathed in muted light due to the vines stretching their way across the roof, reminding you of hands reaching for their lovers in the middle of the night.
How many nights had you wandered the rows with Draco? Your hand reaching for his in the same way as the vines. His hand clasping yours like a Venus fly trap grips its prey.
Nights in the greenhouses were your favourite. Draco’s guard was dropped, revealing the shy mannered teenager you had fallen in love with. His arrogance: his anger – a façade to keep curious eyes at bay. There were very few he let in; you being the one he was most truthful to.
It was in the greenhouse and the hospital wing that you found Draco to be more his true self. It in those two locations that he forged more and more of who he wanted to be after Hogwarts.
He was playful; he was happy, and he was in love with you.
You smile to yourself as you step further into the greenhouse; remembering the night he had confessed his feelings to you, under this very roof. Draco hadn’t been prepared for your reaction, for to you throw your arms around his neck and kiss him. He hadn’t been prepared the first time, but he was definitely ready for the second, and the third, and the fourth.
“What are you thinking of?” His voice sounds close to your ear, making you jump.
Gasping, you whirl around, slapping Draco on the chest lightly. He laughs, catching your hand and bringing it to his lips. You glare at him playfully before answering, “For your information, I was thinking of the night you told me you loved me.”
Draco sighs happily, hooking an arm around your waist, pulling you to him. His free hand reaches up to stroke your cheek; his eyes shine with what can only be defined as joy and adoration. “That night features in my top ten nights of all time.”
“At what number?” You ask, leaning your cheek into his touch.
Draco tilts his head to one side, pretending to think it over. He waits a moment before answering, “Possibly number one.”
“Possibly?”
He laughs, dropping his hand from your face to settle on your waist. He ducks his head, his lips so close to yours they brush as he whispers, “Would it help to know that you feature in every one of my top ten nights?”
You tilt your face back, desperate for an ounce of pressure between your lips, “It helps some, but I think I have an idea of how you can really persuade me.”
“Oh?”
You hum in answer, finally connecting your lips in the kiss you had been longing for since you had met Draco in the Slytherin common room. It was hard, you realise, to keep your hands off him when he was in this sort of mood. Playful Draco was as intoxicating, if not more so, as he was when he was quiet and solemn. It felt silly, to be sixteen years old, and already declaring yourself in love, but here you were.
Breaking the kiss, you step back from the teenager that had somehow stolen your heart. Draco follows you instinctively, hands reaching for you. It sends a rush of warmth through your body, but you force yourself to focus on the plan for the night. Things could easily slip downhill if you were to let yourself fall into the spell that Draco had managed to intricately weave around your heart and mind, connecting them both to him as his were connected to you.
“I say we get started for the night. We don’t want to let down Madame Pomfrey, do we?”
Draco huffs out a laugh, eyes bright as he watches you, “I suppose not. Let’s get started.”
“Name two purposes of Valerian Root,” You state, standing proudly by the flower known for its healing properties.
“To help someone sleep as well as to ease anxiety,” Draco answers, counting off the purposes on his fingers.
“Very good,” You laugh. You move quietly between the long rows of plants, still in awe that such plants could exist outside of their natural habitats. The wonder of magic, you think to yourself. You turn to Draco suddenly; happy to find his eyes already on you, “What is one danger of Black Henbane?”
Draco pauses his steps, eyes searching for the very flower you had spied only a moment ago. His mouth stretches into a small smile when he spies it hidden away at the back of the greenhouse – away from prying eyes and wandering hands. He walks over to you, remaining so close to you, you can feel the heat from his body as he answers, “As a member of the nightshade family, the plant can be toxic if used in large quantities.”
“Madame Pomfrey was right,” You splutter, happier and happier with his answers, “You’re going to make an incredible Healer, Draco Malfoy.”
You bite your lip, watching the heat creep up Draco’s neck to his cheeks. He ducks his head for a moment, unusually shy around you. “I don’t think I’ll get there if I don’t have you,” He admits, raising his head, meeting your gaze.
A satisfied smile spreads across your face. His admission practically heals something within you; an almost confirmation that Draco wants whatever the both of you have to last. “It’s a good job I’m in this for the long haul then isn’t it?”
“Are you really?” Draco asks; a funny tone to his voice, almost strained as if he can see something in the future.
You nod, determined. Reaching for his hand, you tangle your fingers together, wanting nothing more than to be close to him in this moment. “I’m here for however long you want me, Draco. If that means forever, then that means forever.”
Fifteen years ago:
The words are whispered so quietly you wonder whether you’ve heard him correctly, but then his hand drops yours and you watch him walk across the courtyard to be folded into the arms of the darkest wizard in a century.
“I’m sorry, forgive me.”
They reverberate in your head; clanging in your mind until they are all that you can hear. They repeat to the sound of your heart. Beating against your chest with such force you wonder whether the rest of the courtyard can hear your heart.
A broken sound leaves you; a sob mixed with a whimper drops from your lips as you attempt to follow the teenager you had pledged your forever to. Your eyes remain on Draco, watching as his mother reaches for him. You’re sure you scream his name over and over again, pushing through the crowd of remaining Hogwarts students, desperately, desperately trying to get to him.
A pair of hands grab at your waist, keeping you planted to the ground, stopping you from getting to him. “Don’t do it,” The hands all but shout, “Don’t follow him. He’s chosen his side.”
He had. He had chosen his side, and it hadn’t been with you. It’s then that you realise that whilst you had promised your forever, he had never promised you his.
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The letters are written out of hope. They’re written out of foolish hope that he would read them and come back to you. You write down your feelings for the blonde, displaying your love, expecting it to be thrown back in your face.
By writing down your feelings, you’re not only ridding yourself of the burden of the memories, but you’re laying down hope for a future you had promised years ago in the dark of a greenhouse.
Twenty four letters are sent.
There are no replies.
After the twenty fourth letter is sent, you wash your hands of the Slytherin Prince and the hurried kisses behind tapestries. You rid yourself of the memories of his smile and the feel of his hand in yours, of how his fingers would tangle with yours as he would press you against the wall, his lips seeking yours for a kiss that would be burnt into your memory. Deep down, though, you knew that it would be a while before you would free of the stain of his lips and hands.
He had chosen his side. The motive you would never know, but he had chosen nonetheless and now it was time for you to live your life.
Now:
The day began ordinarily. You woke with your husband; the sound of his alarm rousing the both of you. A day begun too early in your opinion. One you shared with your husband, happy at the sound of his laughter followed by the first of many kisses of the day.
The second kiss of the day landed on your mouth as you watched him head off to work. It had been a chance meeting the day you met your husband. Aiden had fallen to the floor in front of you; dramatically tripping over his own feet and untied shoelaces. After your laughter had dissipated, you had helped him up, asking for his name so you could see if he was hurt. He had stuttered his name out; already half in love with you, he later joked.
Waving Aiden off, you watch his car pull out of the driveway. Aiden hadn’t a lick of magic in him; completely and utterly ordinary save for the love he holds for you. His lack of magic had been part of the appeal; desperate to have a sense of ordinary after experiencing the extraordinary in your education.
He knew everything. Your magic wasn’t something you could keep secret, and he had accepted it as part of you, joking how much easier it would be to put the kettle on from another room.
It’s barely an hour later when a knock on the door sounds. Frowning, you automatically know it isn’t Aiden. He wouldn’t knock; he would walk straight in with a smile on his face and a greeting at the ready.
Pulling open the door, you feel your heart stop in your chest when you catch sight of the man standing on your doorstep.
Draco Malfoy.
The urge to run was overwhelming; adrenaline coiling your muscles tight, ready to spring to action in a moment’s notice. The last time you had seen the man standing before you, you were stood on the other side of the courtyard. The lines in your relationship very clearly drawn despite the letters written with love and hidden away with care, ready to be sent.
It had been fifteen years. Fifteen long years of wondering what you did wrong; of building yourself up from what he had broken into pieces; of finding a love you finally knew you deserved in the form of Aiden.
It had been fifteen years, and Draco Malfoy looked like hell.
Words fall from his mouth in a torrent; the explanation rushed out so fast it is hard to keep. You move to interrupt, to state the three words that would end it all now.
He doesn’t let you. Instead, he confesses his love for you. The love that had never died for him but had long been buried for you. He watches you in silence, watching the emotions flit over your face with a puzzled expression on his own. Draco didn’t seem to understand what was causing your hesitance, your silence on the matter.
“Draco…” You state, holding up your left hand for him to see the silver bands wrapping around the fourth finger – a sign of your love for Aiden, “I’m married.”
The effect is immediate. You watch as the fight leaves his body; as the hopelessness sets in, wringing his body for what it’s worth. The light dims in his eyes and you can the irreparable damage crack through the bright grey of eyes you once adored.
“Do you love him?” Draco asks; hating how the words taste on his tongue – bitter and filled with self-hatred. He cannot help himself; he has to know; this has to be the last nail in his self-built coffin.
You nod, feeling for the rings that have sat on your left hand for years now. “I do. I love him very much.”
“Does he treat you well?”
“Better than I deserve at times,” You admit, remembering the early days in your relationship with your husband. How he had been so patient when you woke up crying over the blonde haired man that now stood on your doorstep. How he had taken you in his arms and had not pushed; hadn’t questioned you like he wanted to – he let you cry it out and waited for you to come to him.
Years later and you still hadn’t thanked him enough for that.
Draco nods: blonde hair falling into his eyes which he pushes back with a weary movement of his hand. He steps back, a hand coming up to his chest. Whether it is an action of apology or a way to protect the heart that was now shattering in his chest, you did not know.
“I’m sorry,” He gasps, “I shouldn’t have come. I shouldn’t have done this, but I had to know.”
You step forward, one hand outstretched to the boy you had loved so fiercely at sixteen, “Draco…”
He shakes his head, face pained, “Please don’t. Don’t say my name.”
Tears fill your eyes; overwhelmed with the day already. “I’m sorry,” You whisper, “I hope you find someone. They’ll be as lucky as I was all those years ago.”
It’s the last straw. Draco’s heart shatters into unrecognisable dust in the cavity of his chest. His hands fall limply at his sides as his eyes run over your face one more time; committing to memory of what aging next to you would have looked like, what his future could have looked like if he had chosen you that day in the courtyard.
One more look is all he allows himself before he apparates away, running back to the safety of his home where he can mourn for the life he could have had in peace. If only he had spoken up, spoken out.
If only.