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The ballroom was bathed in golden candlelight, the air thick with the scent of champagne and roses. Laughter rippled through the space, accompanied by the soft clinking of glasses and the murmur of conversations.
Theo’s wedding was perfect.
It should have been a night of celebration, of joy.
And yet...
Hermione felt like she couldn’t breathe.
She stood near the edge of the ballroom, a glass of wine in her hand, smiling when necessary, nodding along to conversations she wasn’t really listening to.
Because she could feel it.
Him.
That unbearable pull, that electric awareness that made the air feel heavier, the walls closer.
She had not seen Draco Malfoy in a year.
Not since the night everything had fallen apart.
And yet, she knew he was here.
She knew before she even turned her head, before her eyes found him across the room.
He looked… the same.
Devastating in a black suit, his platinum hair slightly disheveled like he’d run his fingers through it too many times, the way he always did when he was restless. He stood near the bar, whiskey glass in hand, posture perfect, effortless.
But then she looked closer.
The dark shadows beneath his eyes. The tension in his jaw.
He hasn’t been sleeping either.
Her heart twisted violently.
And then, Draco looked up.
Their gazes met, and it was like the air had been knocked from her lungs.
No smirk. No cold indifference.
Just something raw. Something wrecked.
Hermione’s fingers tightened around her glass.
She turned away first.
Because if she didn’t, she might do something foolish.
Like walk straight into his arms.
The evening stretched on.
The toasts were made, the cake was cut, and the music softened into something dangerously intimate.
And somehow, somehow, Hermione found herself beside him.
She didn’t know who had moved first.
But suddenly, they were there. Standing at the edge of the ballroom, watching Theo and Daphne dance beneath the twinkling lights.
Theo’s hand was firm on Daphne’s waist, their movements slow, effortless. A private kind of happiness woven between them.
“They look happy,” Draco murmured.
Hermione swallowed. “They do.”
A moment passed.
And then...
"That could have been us."
The words slammed into her like a curse.
Her breath hitched.
Draco wasn’t looking at her, his gaze still fixed on the couple in front of them. But his grip on his glass had tightened, knuckles white.
Hermione turned her head sharply, her voice barely above a whisper.
"We weren’t like them."
Draco exhaled, a quiet, humorless laugh escaping him. “No. We weren’t.”
They were never soft. Never easy.
They weren’t soft. They weren’t simple.
They were all-consuming, violent in the way they loved, in the way they hurt.
They were never soft, never simple. They were fire and ruin, passion and destruction, a love too wild to tame.
Love that consumed instead of soothed.
And yet, gods, gods, she had loved him.
Loved him so much that sometimes, she thought it would kill her.
“Would you have done anything differently?” she asked.
Draco hesitated.
For a moment, she thought he wouldn’t answer.
Then...
“No.”
The word was a blade.
And so was hers.
“I wouldn’t either.”
Draco turned his head then, really looking at her for the first time that night.
And Merlin, it hurt.
Because he wasn’t hiding it anymore.
The sadness. The longing. The regret.
It was all there, written in his eyes, in the slight parting of his lips like he wanted to say something, anything, to undo the past year.
But there were no right words.
So he said nothing.
Instead, he turned back toward the dance floor, his voice quieter now.
"That should have been us."
Hermione barely heard him over the music.
But she felt it.
A sharp, jagged cut through her ribs.
Her fingers trembled around her glass.
And suddenly, she couldn’t do this anymore.
She turned, ready to walk away, but then, then...
Draco moved.
Just the smallest shift.
Like he wanted to reach for her.
Like maybe, maybe, if she let him, he would.
Hermione hesitated.
Her heart screamed at her to turn back.
To stay.
To see if he would finally, finally fight for her.
But then...
Draco exhaled.
And stepped back.
Like he had made his choice.
Like he always made his choice.
Hermione felt something inside her shatter.
A slow, aching kind of break.
So she did the only thing she could.
She turned.
She walked away.
Didn’t look back.
And Draco...
Draco watched her go.
His hands curled into fists. His throat bobbed as if he were about to say something.
But he didn’t move.
Didn’t stop her.
Didn’t chase her.
And maybe, maybe that was the most painful part of all.
Because that should have been them.
But it wasn’t.
And it never would be.