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Draco steps out of his shop, drawing the door closed behind him and jiggles the key in the lock until the old mechanism clicks into place. The setting sun bathes Knockturn Alley in soft golden hues, and he tries very hard to ignore the fact that she always loved the sun set. He rubs absently at his sternum, as if to assuage the ache gripping his heart at the thought.
A peal of laughter cuts into the quiet of the early evening, and he lifts his head, glancing over his shoulder because for a moment–one fleeting moment–it sounds like her. He quickly searches the dimly lit street, hoping for some glimpse of the witch on his mind.
She’s out for a drink.
She is not Hermione Granger.
Her laugh sounds a lot like Granger’s.
She’s celebrating. In Knockturn Alley?
He finally catches a glimpse of her. Her long chestnut curls fall to her waist, bouncing as she walks. She laughs again, and Draco's heart skips a beat when he witnesses that smile he hadn't seen for years. His heart stutters, skidding to a near halt when he recognizes the wizard she's with. He watches her turn to look at the Weasel, a smile gracing her lips as she brushes past him into the establishment.
He resists the urge to curl his lip in a well-practiced expression of disdain at the sight of the ginger wizard, and tears his gaze away. He closes his eyes and clenches his jaw, the only sign of the effort he makes still the emotional turmoil within.
“She's happier,” he tells himself, despite the grief bearing down upon his heart. He fights it, pushing it away to bury it in the depths of his soul, but the memories nonetheless present themselves. When he opens his eyes again, she is gone, and he thanks gods he does not believe in that she will never see the anguish so clear in his eyes, so heavy on his heart.
He would never, in any universe, wish such upon her.
“‘Mione!”
Hermione pauses, shifting the weighty pile of her recently purchased books on her arm and greets Luna with a cheerful smile.
“Hello, Luna,” she says softly. “It’s been too long.” The blond nods with a soft smile.
“Did you get an invitation?” Luna asks. To Hermione’s confused expression, Luna reaches into the bag slung over her shoulder and withdraws an envelope bearing the Hogwarts seal. The brunette’s eyes flash, and she nods slowly.
“To the reunion. Ten years already, wow,” she sighs. “I got it a few days ago. I was just telling Ron about it, and was just on my way to see if Malfoy had gotten one. When Ron heard ‘Knockturn Alley’–because Malfoy runs an apothecary down there, you know–he insisted on coming with. Apparently I can’t hold my own in a fight.” Hermione rolls her eyes and lifts her shoulders in a shrug. “But we never actually went to see Malfoy. Ron took us out for a drink. I really should find him.”
Luna regards her with a knowing glance. “It’s been over ten years and you still use his surname? You’re friends, aren’t you?” Hermione drops her gaze, flushing slightly, and flounders for words, not entirely sure how to answer the question.
“It’s just that…well, it’s become a thing. I’m Granger, he’s Malfoy. You’re right, we’re still friends even after the…” she hesitates, valiantly trying to ignore the throbbing ache gripping her heart. She can still see the raw sorrow in his gray eyes as he’d pleaded with her to stay. Can still feel the tremble in his hand as he’d cradled her against his chest, burying his nose in her hair and whispering sweet nothings to her. Still, she can feel the soft warmth of his lips on hers—their last kiss–as he’d cradled her face in his hands, even as tears rolled down his. She struggles with the smile she intends to offer her friend; it’s a watery shadow of one. “We are, it’s just odd to call him ‘Draco’. I don’t think I ever have, really.”
Luna hums thoughtfully, twirling a lock of pale blond hair around her index finger. “You ought to try it sometime. See what face he makes when you do. I’m fairly certain he’s coming to the reunion. Everyone in our year was invited.”
Hermione arches one dark brow. “Everyone?”
Luna furrows her brows and stares at Hermione as though she’d grown a second head. “You were always one to advise against prejudices in school, Hermione. Do you, of all people, honestly think that McGonnagall would exclude anyone from a chance like this?”
“A chance for what?”
Luna’s face lights up with a delighted smile, her blue eyes shining. “To heal, to remember we have friends. To love and to honor those we’ve lost. It’s human.” Hermione stills, momentarily caught off guard by her friend’s profound remark. She’s right. If anything, it’s an attempt to heal the wounds left by the war, at least among our classmates.
“I suppose you’re right.”
“I usually am,” Luna remarks. Hermione rolls her eyes and shakes her head, stifling a laugh.
“Are you going with anyone?” She watches Luna carefully even as a wry smile forms on her own lips. Luna flashes her a conspiratorial smile and nods.
“With Theo, of course, who else? And you?”
Hermione settles into quiet thought, then, her mind drifting momentarily back to Draco. She had seen him that night out with Ron, or so she thinks. She’d lifted her head to catch sight of a blond head down the street, locking up for the evening. Before she could get a better look, however, Ron had yanked her none too gently into a pub.
“With Ron and Harry,” Hermione shrugs. “It’s a reunion, not a ball. I think it’d be nice, anyway.” Luna nods.
“Not as formal as the Yule Ball but not what you’d wear to a Quidditch match, that’s what I’ve heard,” Luna comments. “Well, I’ve got to go. Theo will wonder why I’ve left him so long. He does so hate those wrackspurts. Bye, ‘Mione!” She waves cheerfully and continues on her way. Hermione watches her leave, worrying her bottom lip thoughtfully. She lets her eyes drift closed and pulls her robes tighter about herself, wrinkling her nose slightly at the chilly wind that whistles down the street. As she stands in the cool spring twilight, she remembers the last time she’d felt such a cold wind.
10 years prior
The sun peeks through the misty morning fog, casting the wreckage of the battle in soft golden light. A cool wind whistles through the open space and tickles the back of Hermione’s neck. She shivers, instinctively drawing her robes about herself. She tenses, startled, when Malfoy shifts beside her, draping something warm over her shoulders. When she glances at him, she realizes he’s given her his suit jacket.
“You’ll catch a cold, you git,” she scolds lightly, making sure he knows by her tone (and the smile on her lips) that she is teasing.
“If it keeps you warm,” he shrugs. He wraps an arm around her and draws her close, leaning down to brush a soft kiss to her cheek. He then rests his head on her shoulder and embraces her. Hermione allows herself to enjoy the moment, her gaze shuttering as she tries to hold on to it, to fix it in her memory. She can feel his heart beating against hers, steady and strong.
Her conscience, however, shatters the peace of the moment.
Voices–familiar, beloved, scolding–echo in her mind. Derision, mockery, disdain, disapproval.
He’s a rotten prat! Ron.
You’d do so much better, honestly, ‘Mione. Ginny.
“ But, ‘Mione, are you mad? It’s him of all people. I can’t…I don’t think I can–” Harry.
“You can’t ‘what’, Harry?” Hermione had snapped back. The wizard had stared at her, shell-shocked, and shook his head. This had not been the first time that her friends had too openly expressed their internal disapproval of her relationship, but it was the last time that she could bear it.
Hermione in the present moment, in Malfoy’s arms, shuts her eyes tighter still in an attempt to keep the tears at bay. He seems to notice that something is amiss, nonetheless, and withdraws just enough to turn her about in his arms.
“What’s the matter, love?” His voice is so soft, like a caress, that her heart shatters to hear it. To know what her next decision will do to him.
“We have to stop,” she remarks, moving as though to extricate herself from his hold. She’s just managed to disentangle herself from him, but he holds onto her hand, squeezing just enough to get her attention. Her dark eyes fly open.
“Granger, I don’t understand,” Malfoy says quietly. “What are you saying?”
She makes the mistake of looking him in the eyes, immediately regretting it by the melancholy confusion she finds in their gray depths.
“I can’t anymore,” Hermione grates out. She has not the heart to lie to him, to tell him she does not love him. Is certain she’d be destroying a part of herself if she did. So she opts for a half-truth. It is true that she cannot bear her friends’ disapproval, the mute hatred they carry for the man she loves, the silent criticism whispering in their minds when they look at her. It is true that she cannot bear to leave him, but she has no choice.
Hermione feels as though she stands on the edge of a precipice, facing an abyss. Her friends–the closest thing to a family she has left–stand behind her, arms extended, ready to draw her back. And yet, one word from them would send her off the edge.
“Granger, please, don’t–don’t do this,” he pleads. “I know what you’re doing. You can’t. Please. We made it out, sweetheart. He’s gone, no one can hurt you anymore. You have me, we have each other! Please, don’t walk away.” The desperation in his voice tears at her heart, shredding it to pieces. His voice grows very small and quiet at the end, and Hermione is suddenly aware that she holds his heart in her hands. Something so fragile, breakable and irreparable, in trembling fingers. He moves again, standing directly in front of her, and lifts his hands to cradle her face. He searches her gaze for a moment before leaning down to kiss her.
The brush of his lips on hers is soft, slow, caressing. The kiss is desperate, pleading; when her hands lift to his chest to push gently, he refuses to budge.
“Draco, no. I can’t. I’m sorry,” is all she says before she pushes herself away. He releases her then, blinking several times to fight the tears already threatening to escape. She cannot bear to see him so, shoulders slumped, sorrow clearly written over his features. She draws in a shaking breath and makes a split second decision.
He barely registers the subtle movement she makes reaching for her wand, but when she lifts it, his eyes widen. “Granger, no. No, wait!” She shakes her head slowly, blinking back her own tears and Apparates away.
Hermione leans over the billiards table, carefully adjusting the position of her hand on the table as she shifts the cue stick in her hold. She shifts, settling into place, and inadvertently bumping into someone behind her.
“And I thought you said this wasn’t a physical game, Granger,” Theo drawls behind her. Hermione allows herself a wry smile but does not address the wizard who’d spoken. Her dark eyes are concentrated on the triangle of balls in the center of the table. She follows Blaise’s movements as he lifts the rack holding them in place.
“I did, you were just in my way,” she quips. “Here we go. Watch and learn.” She draws the cue stick back and slides it swiftly word, sending the balls rolling, dispersed over the table. The 15 and the 7 ball drop into the corners at the far end of the table; Blaise whistles. Hermione straightens, handing the stick off to Theo and smirks.
“Is there anything you aren’t good at?” Draco grumbles. Hermione glances up at him, arching a brow.
“Is that jealousy I hear, Malfoy?”
He scoffs. Hermione only chuckles at this. “Quidditch! I despise it,” she answers immediately with a short laugh. Draco sighs.
“Have you even tried it, Granger?”
“Wouldn’t dream of it. Surely you haven’t forgotten when you and Harry fell of your brooms, have you? It was Quirrel’s fault, but still,” Hermione remarks. She shudders. “No, no thank you. Blaise, go on then. Your turn.” She thrusts the cue stick into the wizard’s hands and nods. Hermione watches him for a few moments as he prepares to strike and only looks away after he makes the first hit. The balls shoot every which way, thumping softly against the sides of the table.
She turns away from the table and returns to her seat, hopping into it with a quiet sigh.
“Not jealousy. Consider it admiration.” Hermione stills, shivering slightly at Malfoy’s softly spoken words as his breath tickles her ear. She’s startled by his sudden proximity and leans back if only to put some distance between them.
“Admiration? Did I really just hear Draco Malfoy admit that he admires me?” She delivers the remark with a playful tone, but she’s studying him, searching his gaze. Draco huffs and looks briefly at the two Slytherins at the pool table. He blinks a few times, running a hand through his hair and drops his gaze to the carpeted floor beneath their feet.
“You know I do,” he says quietly, wistfully. “I always have.” Hermione can hear the unspoken words, or so she can imagine them. I miss you. Come back to me. She can certainly see them in silver melancholy she finds in his gaze.
“Malfoy…”
He settles into the seat beside her and leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees. He looks up at her and says nothing, but the muted sadness in his silver eyes says everything. In the distance, the billiard balls fill the air with sharp cracks as they strike each other. Blaise exults in his success, and Theo thumps him on the back. Hermione smiles fondly at them before glancing back at Malfoy.
“Come on, you want a try?” He hesitates, making no move to rise. She tries again. “Loosen up, Malfoy. That’s the whole reason I agreed to these Fridays, don’t you remember? Theo kept insisting I was so uptight, swamped in my research. Insisted I re-learn what it means to have fun. Well, then?”
The blond wizard grumbles his acquiescence and follows her.
Hermione arrives before Harry and Ron, lingering on the steps of the castle. She shivers, cursing Ginny’s insistence on her choice of dress for the evening and tugs at the hem of her white dress. An idea occurs to her in the moment, and she whispers a quiet extension charm. The hem of the dress, which had just brushed her knees, drops a few inches lower. Nonetheless, she can still feel the cool wind tickling her shoulders through the lacework of the dress's bust. She glances down at her hands, then to the bronze bracelet clasped around her left wrist. She admires the shape of it, crafted in the form of a dragon. She runs her fingers over its ridged scales and delicately traces its smooth curves. Two tiny chunks of amber that serve for its eyes glitter back at her in the dim light. Her heart twists itself into a knot as her mind drifts to the man who’d given this to her.
Just then, the air snaps and cracks around her, signalling the arrival of her companions.
Harry runs his hands down the gunmetal gray three piece suit he’d chosen for the evening, brushing away invisible specks of dust. He glances down at the navy blue bowtie clasped at his neck and tugs at it. Hermione grins, shaking her head. Some things don’t change.
Ron clears his throat. She glances at him, arching a brow at his slacks and loose-fitting white oxford.
“Didn’t Luna say it was ‘formal’, Ronald?”
The ginger wizard shrugs. “This is the most formal I’ve got, hey. It’s chilly. Shall we?” Harry dashes ahead to hold open the door. Hermione huffs and follows the men inside. The first thing that catches her eye is the soft glow of candles hanging overhead in the Great Hall, and a sharp pang of nostalgia hits her.
“Harry, the candles,” she whispers to him. He grins at her.
“Of course, how else would they light it?” He winks. She nudges his shoulder playfully and releases a contented sigh. “You want something to drink? Ron and I were just going to–” He turns to look for their friend, but breaks off when he catches sight of the ginger already making a beeline for the alcohol. “Blimey, he's fast. Well, guess it’s just us then. You want?”
She dips her head in a nod. “Sure, but maybe a glass of whine. No firewhiskey please. That stuff is nasty.”
“Malfoy used to drink it like water,” Harry says with a shudder. “Still can’t wrap my mind around it. Be back in a few.” He slips into the crowd of alumni and sets off to get her a drink.
She takes a seat on a stone bench and contents herself with watching the people.
“Fancy seeing you here,” a familiar voice purrs. She lifts her head to glance at who has spoken. Draco Malfoy stands before her in smart black slacks, a fitted black dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The faded Dark Mark is still visible, a black stain on his left forearm. She swallows past the lump that’s formed in her throat and takes a moment to gather her thoughts.
“I have an invitation,” she remarks.
“What a relief,” he quips. “Here I thought you gatecrashed.” Her eyes narrow. She resists the urge to release the sharp reply waiting on her tongue and reminds herself of their friendship. Friends don’t snap at friends. He’s joking. He’s Malfoy.
“I would never,” she scoffs. “Unlike some people. Your little stunt at Slughorn’s spread throughout the school like wildfire.” His silver eyes glint, but he makes no further sign to acknowledge her statement.
“You come alone, Golden Girl?” She rolls her eyes, realizing with a twinge that he knows just how much she disliked the title. Remembers how he used to name her with it, in jest, just to ruffle her feathers.
She shakes her head. “Harry and Ronald. Harry went to get us drinks, and well, Ron, it seems…he couldn’t wait that long.”
Malfoy hums. “That explains it! All of Ogden’s Best was completely gone by the time I arrived. Bloody tosser.” Hermione chuckles. Harry approaches, then, with a glass of red wine in one hand and a tumbler with some other alcoholic drink in the other. He hands Hermione her drink and nods to Malfoy.
“Malfoy.”
“Potter.”
“You made it then. Most everyone is here, it seems,” Harry comments before taking a sip of his drink. Hermione’s gaze flits between the two wizards. She says nothing, but lifts her glass to take a sip. She does not miss the fact that Malfoy catches sight of the bracelet on her wrist; his brow furrows slightly, and he opens his mouth as though he wants to say something, but decides against it.
“Unfortunately,” Malfoy mutters, jerking his chin in the direction of the ginger wizard struggling to stay on his feet. Hermione’s eyes widen and her brows fly up to her hairline when she lays eyes on Ron.
“Ronald!” she calls out. Harry clears his throat, lifting a hand to rub anxiously at the back of his neck. Malfoy watches the scene play out with mild amusement. “Collect yourself, please, for Merlin’s sake,” Hermione snaps, dark eyes alight with fire. “You know everyone’s looking at you.”
“Finally,” Ron slurrs. “They’ve only ever gawped at you and Harry. ‘Bout bloody time.”
“Ron…” Harry remarks, his tone low and warning.
“You know,” Ron tries again, lifting a trembling finger to point at Hermione. “You wouldn’t believe who I spotted. Those two bloody Slytherins.” His tongue fumbles the delicate syllables, muffling them, and Hermione strains to understand. She shakes her head. “‘talian git…wanker’s mother got thrown in Azakaban, you know him, Malfoy. What’s his name?”
Malfoy clenches his jaw, balling the hand at his side into a fist. “Never improved your scatterbrained memory, did you, Weaselbee?” Hermione elbows him in the ribs with a softly muttered, “Not this time, Draco.”
His heart skips a beat when his given name falls from her lips. He swallows thickly, but says nothing more.
Ron gives him a sleazy grin and lifts his shoulders in a shrug. “You shouldn’t keep company with snakes, ‘Mione. But apparently you’ve got a thing for Death Eaters. Nott wouldn’t shut up about his godforsaken father. Slimy git tried to slither out of it but I know a Death Eater when I see one. Looking at one right now.”
“Ron.” Harry and Hermione hiss at him, in the same moment. Malfoy stiffens.
“I would watch your words, Weasel.”
“I’m ashamed of you, to be honest,” Ron remarks to Hermione. “All those years, listening to us two go on about how bloody evil this lot is, and here you are, getting cozy with ‘em.” Hermione’s chair grates against the floor as she leaves it, jerking away from it with a sudden intensity that surprises the other two men. She regards Ron with eyes full of unshed tears and shakes her head.
“I’m ashamed of you for your crass conduct this evening, Ronald ,” she replies. “This should have been a pleasant evening, but you, as per bloody usual, have to ruin everything!” She turns to leave, but Harry gently grabs her arm as if to hold her back. She lifts her gaze to his and shakes her head, blinking back the tears already running down her face. “Harry, I’m sorry. I can’t. I just–I…” She tears herself away and storms outside. Just before she reaches the door, however, she glances back to see Harry, manhandling Ron, and saying something to Malfoy.
Harry glowers at Ron, giving a disapproving shake of his head. “Better get him a Pepper Up. Sorry, Malfoy, that’s it for us.” He dips his head to the blond wizard and grabbing Ron by his collar, drags him stumbling away.
“Hermione? Hermione!” She steadily ignores Malfoy’s voice calling her name and forces her way through the crowd of shifting people, intent on reaching the door. “Hermione, wait!” She slips through the door and storms out onto the sidewalk. Once outside, the dam breaks.
She releases the sobs she’d been holding in and wipes furiously at the tears sliding down her face. Her shoulders jerk under the weight of her cries, and it’s only the gentle fall of raindrops overhead that distracts her from her sadness. She looks up to the cloud-heavy sky and releases a shaky breath. Thunder cracks overhead, followed by a blinding flash of lightning, and the downpour increases. Tired, strained and thoroughly done for the evening, Hermione drops to the curb of the street, pulling her knees up to her chest. She does not care that her dress will be sullied by the dirty sidewalk.
Ron’s conduct this evening has forever sullied any good memory she might have drawn from it.
“Hermione?” His voice is much closer now, louder. He raises it to be heard over the rolling crack of thunder. “There you are, love. Come on, you’re soaking.” He crouches down beside her and gently gripping her forearms, lifts her up to stand beside him. She moves with little resistance, sniffling and wiping at her nose. He draws her close to him with one arm and with the other reaches for the wand in his pocket. Muttering a quiet charm, he lifts it overhead and watches as the protective charm shields them from the heavy downpour.
"Hermione," He cradles her face in his hands, the tears that streamed down her face mingling with the rain drops and Draco knew then, the passion of a sculptor. He would spend hours, nay, years mapping out all her perfect contours of her beautiful face if it meant he could stare at her forever. "I'm sorry," The words tumble out of his lips of their own accord. "I'm sorry that he said all that. I'm sorry that he doesn't love you the way you deserve to be love. I'm sorry that there's no man who deserves you. No man is worthy of you. Not Ron, not me, not anyone."
Her eyes flutter close, fat tears leaking down her face.
His heart shatters once more.
"But if I was ever as half as lucky as him, I'd remind you everyday of all your perfections. Of how beautiful you look when you're lost in a book, how you dimple when you smile, how amazing you are."
Her eyes fly open with surprise and Draco goes on, unwilling to stop pouring out his heart, giving it all to her. She can do as she wished with it, he has nothing left to hold back. Gently, he swipes a tear or a raindrop and rests his forehead against hers. "I would hold all your heart breaks so you only feel joy. Because that's what you deserve, sweetheart. You deserve to be cherished. Nothing hurts more than the memory of losing you. Weasley will soon discover. You're the first ray of light in the morning, chasing away the darkness. And I would protect your light with my life, if you'd have me once more."
"Draco," She wonders softly, "After all this time?"
His heart stutters when the two syllables fall from her lips; the muscle throbs with an all too familiar ache as memories of all the times she’d ever called him not ‘Malfoy’ but ‘Draco’ replay in his mind. His throat constricts and he is sure he can't breathe anymore.
"Always.”