Work Text:
He hadn’t decided if he would knock yet, letting the rain cool his flaming face. He had thought about it for weeks at this point, coming to see her. Would she hate it? Would she slam the door in his face before he could even get a word in? She would have every right to. After the rain had drenched his final layer of clothing and he could no longer stand to put it off, he knocked lightly on her door. It took a minute before she opened it, slowly peering around the door to see why someone would be knocking at her door so late during such a storm. He shook slightly at the rain still pouring down on him, but mainly at the sight of her. The cream cable knit jumper that swallowed her whole, the striped pajama shorts that her mom had given her for Christmas last year, and her favorite cat-themed fuzzy socks that came up to her mid-calf. Hermione Granger’s infamous hair encroached onto all sides of the doorframe surrounding her head, the golden honey locks haloed by the light coming from the multitude of lamps she kept on instead of the overhead light. He could only stand there like a corpse, a ghost come back to haunt her, before she realized it was him with a start. A confused and slightly irritated look passed over her face as she questioned him, “Malfoy, are you insane?” It was a fair question; they hadn’t spoken in months, not after how he had left things, and now he was on her doorstep, late at night, in the middle of a torrential downpour, speechless.
So, before he could lose his nerve, he said, “Granger, I know it’s been a long six months.” She began to open her mouth to say something, most likely to immediately argue as she usually did when she thought he had said something particularly idiotic. Before she could, though, he continued, “And I was too afraid to tell you what I want.” This stopped her, her mouth falling closed and a confused look crossing her face. It was marred by an almost fearful hopefulness, one she quickly smothered with annoyance.
This didn’t deter him, though. He didn’t let himself think too long about what it could mean. Didn’t let himself slow down, his prewritten speech flowing out of him as he had practiced late into the nights, some fueled by firewhiskey and some by pure bravado. But all of them were driven by the overwhelming longing he had to see her again and not have her eyes pinch at the sides as though she was holding back tears. Even if she didn’t want to start anything, whatever they had been, again, he couldn’t go on knowing she thought he never cared about her. Not to be confused, the main plan was to get her back, though.
“I want you.” He stated it as though it were a fact as true as the sky is blue. She stepped back slightly in shock, but also to let him step out of the still-pouring rain onto her orange-slice entry rug. Something he had relentlessly teased her for, the absolute muggleness of it, something he had adored though, and made sure to step his muddy boots over. “For worse or for better, Granger,” he continued, “I would wait forever.” He said this all while staring straight into her eyes. She broke eye contact at this, trying to find anything else to look at, but when her eyes inevitably landed on him again, he added, “and ever.” At this, she almost looked defeated, speechless. He knew she didn’t know what to say, especially with the elephant-in-the-room fact that he had ended things in the first place. He had broken her heart, and now he was asking to put it back together. He had to be the one to make this move; he knew she would’ve never brought it up again, would’ve toughened up and carried on. But he didn’t want to make her ‘muster through’ anything anymore.
From his coat pocket, Draco pulled out a picture frame safely tucked in a plastic bag. He handed it to Hermione gently, their fingers brushing ever so slightly in the process. She unwrapped it, not believing he had kept it, let alone framed it. The picture was a loop of her kissing his cheek, an infinite replay of affection between them. She had taken it on New Year’s Eve at the stroke of midnight, during those few blissful days spent together. She had placed the camera on a random table and promptly forgot about it as they toasted and celebrated the New Year with more than kissing. She had no clue he had developed the photo and framed it. The frame was a golden rim around glass that held the picture as though it was floating. “I was going to give it to you that night,” he admitted, “I’ve kept it since then.” She clutched the frame to her chest, the memories of those blissful days flooding back to her.
Following Hogwarts, Hermione had worked to become a lawyer, working with the Ministry to change centuries-old laws that discriminated against non-wizard beings and fighting internal biases against them. Draco, while he had become an auror, was still ostracized by most of his coworkers, and they often left him with the cases they didn’t want, more specifically, the ones involving non-magical beings they deemed below them. This meant he and Hermione crossed paths quite often, as she frequently had him testify in her cases, and he started to seek out her advice on approaching delicate situations. Working together in the Ministry had led to joking, which had led to flirting, which had led to a surprise makeout session in a broom closet they had jokingly gotten locked in during a company holiday party. They played it off as though nothing had happened when the door had been reopened, but that night, Draco had gone back to Hermione’s flat for the first time, and he didn’t leave for the next 3 days they had off for the holidays. Draco’s parents had ended up in jail, nothing as gruesome as Azkaban, but still no holiday vacation spot, and Hermione hadn’t been able to restore her parents’ memories fully, so neither of them was keen on visiting family during the holidays anyway. Instead, they spent it together, and it was the best Draco had ever felt in his life. That was until they went back to real life.
But now that he was here, saying all the right things, what was she supposed to do with it? The one thing she had waited months to hear, now plainly stated as though he had said it a million times.
“I must’ve lost my mind to have left you all alone, that night at the gala,” he practically whispered, shaking his head in disbelief at his own stupidity. “And I never even told you why,” he chuckled, defeated, as though it was comical how badly he treated someone he had been so madly in love with. Still was in love with. It had never waned, no matter what he had tried, who he had tried to see since. After the holiday had ended, they went back to the Ministry, keeping their weekend as their own little secret, when they received invitations to the Spring Gala to raise money for the Ministry. Even though Draco wasn’t the most liked at the Ministry, he was still heir to the entire Malfoy estate and fortune, and they liked his money. Hermione was always good for the press, so she always got an invitation, too. There had been a decision made in the time between when they got the invites and when they stepped out of the same car that night, drawing stares. Draco had gotten quite used to ignoring them, and the two breezed past into the venue, heads high. Draco had felt on top of the world until he had gone to get a quick drink. He had just promised that he would dance with Hermione; it was more than just coming in the same car; people could explain that away. Dancing together, in the middle of the gala, surrounded by journalists, that would mean something. He had needed some liquid courage first, and so he had headed to the bar for a shot of firewiskey. Just as he had reached the bar, a figure that had been standing there quickly turned to face him; it was Ron Weasley. Draco’s face had contorted through a quick succession of disgust, then annoyance, then an attempt at a smile as he said hello to his previous enemy, now coworker. They had started as aurors around the same time, Weasley following in Potter’s footsteps. They had worked on a case or two together, but it usually ended with some blowout disagreement that sent them both to Team-Building counseling, so they rarely got scheduled together anymore, less resources wasted, he supposed. Ron eyed him suspiciously, which wasn’t new to Malfoy, but what was new was how Weasley flitted his eyes back and forth to the dance floor. As Draco followed his gaze, he realized what Ron was here for. He was here to chat about her. He knew the car stunt had drummed up some conversation, but he didn’t imagine anyone would fully put it together yet. Draco should’ve expected that Ron would’ve been watching Hermione since she arrived. Seen the way they walked together, hands just barely brushing, fingers instinctively gravitating toward each other. Ron had been pining after her since their Hogwarts days, but she had reiterated that they had tried, and she thought they would be better as friends. Draco had been ready to remind Ron of this when the redhead had simply asked, “Why you?” Ron’s voice was laced with what sounded like disappointment and actual confusion.
It had thrown Draco for a loop; he had expected yelling, or vitriol, or maybe even a curse, but not a question asked in earnest. And to be frank, he didn’t have an answer. He didn’t know why she had chosen him. Sure, there was the physical happenstance of it all, but she had let him come home with her; she hadn’t been disgusted by his past like so many others were. Ron continued, “Why would she choose someone like you, someone who has done so many bad things, who has taken part in the worst parts of her life? Being with you would ruin her. Why would she choose that?”
Draco knew who he was, knew the shadow he cast as he walked through life. The son of one of the most prolific deatheaters, a deatheater himself, disgraced at 17 and only now at 26 had he clawed his way back into the wary graces of the Ministry for an Auror job. Through grueling counseling, public trials, and countless hours of community service, he had finally been able to be seen in public again without being spit on, but that didn’t erase the stain that was his past. Especially when it came to Hermione Granger, the people’s witch. She was a war hero, a genius, an advocate for those less fortunate; she was who every little girl looked up to, so basically the exact opposite of him. Except for the genius part, he had always gone head-to-head with her at Hogwarts for top of the class, and they had practically tied before everything in Year 6, when he had become a shell of himself. But that wasn’t what people saw; they didn’t see a kid stuck between a rock and a killing curse. They saw a willing participant who got off too easily. To be seen with him was met with either pity or disgust, while being seen with her was a one-way ticket to stardom.
And more than any of his fears of what people might say or do to him, what they would do to her scared Draco. She had worked so hard for everything she had. Her practice, her place in the wizarding world, her position as the brightest witch of their age. She had clawed her way there against an already defying amount of odds. He couldn’t stand the idea of her losing any of it, not to be with someone like him; he still hadn’t determined if he had fully deserved to be forgiven or if he had just selfishly wanted forgiveness to make his life easier.
He had had the best days of his life with her, but he wouldn’t let himself be the reason for any bad days of hers. He wouldn’t ruin her. So as he left Weasley standing at the bar babbling, he took one last look at her. Standing at the edge of the dance floor, looking indescribable in the silver gown she had worn. She looked around as though looking for something, not something, but someone, him. He soaked in the warming rays of her sunlight for one last moment, shuttered his heart, and walked out.
---
This long-winded confession of that night left Hermione reeling; she hadn’t even known Ron had been there that night, let alone spoken to Draco. As soon as she had realized he had left, she had gone home and cried for days. She hadn’t even fully understood why; they had only spent a couple of nights together. It clicked when she saw him at the Ministry a week later, and she heard her heart shatter in real time as he breezed past her without a word. She had loved him, and he had left her. She had never understood what had happened, what had changed in the minutes that they were apart. In the darkest hours of the night, she had feared that he had always planned to leave, that he had never meant any of it. But then she would replay those days in her mind, and she could never fully convince herself to believe that. She could never vilify him, no matter how much she wanted to and how hard she tried.
“So what changed?” She asked. It had been months since the gala, and here he was on a random Tuesday night.
“I was a bottle deep into my firewiskey collection when Blaise came by unannounced. He saw how much I had let myself go.” He cringed at this confession. Draco had stopped washing his clothes unless they started to smell; he had only shaved when the hair started to curl at the ends; he looked rough. “He asked what the hell happened to me, and I just told him everything. Do you know what his response was?” Draco asked
“What?” Hermione couldn’t imagine what the swaggering Slytherin could’ve said to convince Draco to come here and confess his feelings like a love song.
“He called me a right git,” Draco admitted. This earned a shocked chuckle from Hermione. “He said that I had been a supreme ass. He basically went through a list of names, some of which I still don’t even understand,” he muttered, almost to himself, “I think a few were in Italian.” Draco shook his head to clear it, “But eventually, he said that I hadn’t trusted that you would choose me. That I had taken away your choice because I was scared that it would be a no, and he was right. I was scared that either you wouldn’t choose me, or you would and you would end up hating me for convincing you.” Draco looked at Hermione in the eyes now. “And then he called me an idiot because you had already chosen me.” A relieved smile flashed across his face before it turned pained.
“I thought I was protecting you from making the hard decision, but I was just hurting you,” Draco admitted with a sigh. “Hermione, I messed up.”
She felt taken aback at the use of her first name, he rarely used it, the last time he had was when he had asked her to go to the gala with him.
“Why are you here now, though?” She finally spoke.
“Because I want to be selfish. I want to have what I want, and what I want is you.” Draco took a deep breath, bracing for his final risk, “and I think that you still want that too. Let me make it up to you. Let me show the entire bloody world how much I love Hermione Jean Granger.”
“Blaise was right,” was all Hermione said, her face not betraying any emotion, “you are a right git.” The words themselves would’ve made Draco collapse on the spot, give up any hope at a happy ending for him, except for the fact that they were paired with a face-splitting grin as Hermione leaned in, grabbed his face and kissed him. He had not realized he had been holding his breath until he released a sign into her mouth as her deepened the kiss. They stayed like that until the rain, utterly forgotten by the two, started pelting sideways into the doorway, and Hermione moved aside so Draco could enter.