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It had been a week since she left and the same time since Draco had walked into the flat they had shared. He didn’t want to go back. It hurt too much. He had bought it for them a few years ago when they had spent more nights at her house than not and he got tired of living out of a suitcase. She had whined at what she deemed was an unnecessary expense until he showed her the bookshelves he had installed in every room, and all the muggle appliances he had ordered for the kitchen.
He turned the key in the lock, opened the doors and passed through the wards they had placed together after a blood purist had attempted to break in when their dating became public. He reflexively shucked off his jacket and placed it on the coat rack by the door, immediately noticing his other coats and the absence of hers. Particularly the emerald green cardigan she favoured when lounging at home or running errands.
The cardigan has been his. She had taken it from his childhood bedroom closet at the manor on one of their first visits there. She had claimed that all girlfriends stole clothing from their boyfriends to wear. He had feigned annoyance while granting her permission to borrow his clothing, yet something in him stirred seeing her in his clothes. It was later that night when she put the cardigan on in her flat, opening a book and sitting next to him on the couch that he realised the stirring was love. It would take another month and a few dozen more letters to confess this revelation. Something, now, Draco desperately wished he had just told her that night.
Shaking the feeling off and running a hand through his hair, he looked around the apartment.
The room was too warm – charmed to the temperature she liked, he had become a master at nonverbal cooling spells in their years together. He looked around and felt at ease for the first time but the ease was cut off quickly by the pang of the loss, knowing this place was no longer theirs, but just his. The thought hit harder than a bullet. He knew that she had wanted more than England with all its traditions, could and would offer her. Even labelled the Brightest Witch of Her Age, she was still muggle born. Prejudice ran strong in the wizarding community, even after two wars were fought and won to end it.
He had wanted to go with her but couldn’t find the strength to. And she let him go. She made the decision for herself, and he knew in his heart, it was the right decision for her. Even if he could not gather enough courage to go with her.
He walked into the small but cluttered flat and saw her in everything. In the now empty bookshelves, once filled with muggle authors and magical textbooks. In the kitchen, he saw the stove where she taught him to cook –the muggle way– and he had burnt everything. Afterwards she would laugh, kiss him and bring ice cream to eat out of the carton at the small table in lieu of a burnt dinner.
It was there, next to the muggle coffee machine– the first appliance he had ever mastered– that he saw the letter. His name was written on the front in handwriting he knew as well as his own. He knew what this was: her final goodbye. Letters were how they started, afterall. He held down the hurt, knowing that ending with a letter was as fitting as it could be.
Their letters had started innocently enough, as inter-departmental correspondence. Instead of taking the jolty and nauseating elevator to each other’s offices–hers underground with the Unspeakables and his higher up in finance–they would send memos. She would ask about what she needed to know from his work, or send in for reimbursements, and he would answer just as professionally. Until one day instead of a memo it was a letter. He remembered it appearing on his desk suddenly and immediately knowing it was from her, as only Unspeakables were able to perform magic of that sort in the ministry.
He thought he had gotten it by mistake, and stood to return it to her or who it was addressed to. Turning it over to find the owner, he saw his own name printed in a simple and clean way that graced their memos over the past few months. He cocked his head and sat back down opening the letter. It shouldn’t have been surprising–the contents. It was a diatribe on his latest argument to cut funding for the Department for Regulation of Magical Creatures. He smirked at her words and wrote a lengthy reply back.
That was this first, this would be the last. He huffed as he sat on the chair of their small dining table –noticing she didn’t take much from this room, only her favourite tea mug was gone.
She had asked him not to come help her pack, when she left across the ocean. But he had come anyway – hidden under a disillusionment charm, watching the only thing that mattered to him leave. And it was his own damn fault.
He argued with her, with himself really: he couldn’t leave his mother, he couldn’t leave England. But what he couldn't tell her, and what was more important: he couldn’t taint her new start, with his history. She needed to start fresh, and be allowed to be brilliant in a place where she could shine. So he let her leave.
He watched her pack, alongside the git-who-lived and his redheaded wife, both of whom he had begrudgingly become close to over the years. The third that made up the trio was still an idiot, but calmed when he married. They could have a pint without throwing hexes.
He watched her box up his heart, and shrink it to fit in the suitcase she would carry it away with. It took no time at all, yet he had wished it took ages, so he could stare at her for just a little longer. When she turned the lock he almost ran to her, to beg her not to leave. But he did not. Yet he saw her turn, and scan the street in front of her. She was looking for him.
She knew he was there. He knew that she knew. And he stayed rooted to the spot and hidden behind magic that would keep them apart.
Magic had always been their commonplace and their divide. She had always been brilliant and he had always been expected to be great at magic but better at following wizarding society norms. He shuttered remembering the first, and only, gala he had brought her to. His mother had helped her find a gown and she had looked stunning. He expected the attendees to fawn over the “Golden Girl” or at least pretend to be nice to her. He should have known better, the night ended less than an hour later with a spilled glass of wine on a Greengrass sister–he wasn't sure which one– and Hermione snogging him in front of all the attendees. He had preened until they got home and she cried in his arms, Gryffindor courage vanished and a brilliant insecure woman held onto him. Brushing her hair back, he soothed her with promises to never attend one of those again – good cause or no, he would write a check. She calmed and they fell asleep on their couch in their finery. The next morning there was a letter from her on their breakfast table. It was a list of all the causes she thought were good enough for his donations – not a single one of them had a Greengrass on the board.
His hands trembled as he picked up the letter next to the coffee machine and walked to the same breakfast table. Holding the letter he was surprised at its weight, it was light enough to be only a single parchment. Their letters had originally been work correspondence, but always hefty with knowledge and questions. Heavy with words. The letters of their courtship would tax her old barn owl and even his eagle required more than a single treat on occasion. This was anything but normal.
Breaking the seal he took a deep breath and closed his eyes, not wanting to see her final words but knowing that he could hold on no longer. He opened the envelope to find he was right. There was only a single sheet. But he was surprised at the contents. Instead of a full letter there were only two words. He tapped the paper with his wand, hoping there was a magical signature – a final puzzle she had left for him that would bring him the closure he so desperately wanted, but knew he could never truly give himself.
This was not like her. Two words? To end five years? Two words, after millions more exchanged. After thousands of shared stories. Two words?
Anger welled in Draco’s chest. His hands came to rip the letter. To shred it like his heart.
But he read it once more. He had expected her to say goodbye – she didn't. He had expected her to tell him that she loved him always, and wanted him to be happy and move on. She didn’t. Instead the letter was a single demand. And with those two words, Draco knew what he needed to do.
Find me.
And find her he would. He would find her every morning for the rest of her life. He would find her in her favourite coffee shop and bookstore. He would find her on campus teaching students, and in the lab making discoveries. He would find her in their home, in America or England. He would find her in the letters he would write her the second she left the door, or when he thought of her throughout the day. He would go to hell to find her, wherever she was he would find her.
With a flourish of his wand, he conjured parchment and ink. Writing just four words back. Sealing it with his signet ring, he sent the letter to her.
—--
Hermione sat at her desk in her new home in New York, her favourite mug steaming with tea next to her. A tapping caught her attention and she looked up and found a familiar eagle at her window. She pulled a treat from the tin she had already prepared and gave it to him in exchange for the letter. He did not wait for a response, flying off in his elegant fashion.
She opened the letter sealed with an “M.”
I’m on my way.
She picked up her mug and took a sip, hiding the smile that adorned her face. She closed the letter she has been writing and put the final touch on the front.
Welcome Home Draco.
She finished her tea, grabbed her bag and headed for her lab. She hummed all the way, knowing that soon her home will be filled once again with warmth, love and possibly a burnt dinner when she gets home. She made a mental note to pick up his favourite ice cream on the way home.