Chapter Text
Hermione
At first, Hermione doesn’t hear the knocking. Her heart batters against her ribs, beating so furiously that her pulse thrashes in her ears and fingertips sting. She stifles a sob as she assesses the damage to her flat. The shattered lamp, the torn pages scattered along the faded rug, and the relaying whir from the upturned phone.
The knocking arrives again. Urgent. Unrelenting.
With the side of her head throbbing, she backs away with silenced steps, wand held tight, wordlessly altering the wards so she can be certain her husband can’t return and take her by surprise again. She presses the pad of a finger to her cheek and hisses in a breath. It comes away red and sticky.
The knocking breaks. “Hermione!”
She holds her breath. It’s not Tom’s voice. It’s so distinctly different, so undeniably safe, that she moves towards it. Relief causes her shoulders to sag a whit. But as she’s unlatching the lock and cracking open the door, she realises exactly who it is and what they’ll see.
It's too late.
He's heard her. She can't ignore him because she knows he won't leave without an answer. Slowly, she cracks the door, only enough to see silver eyes staring back at her. Narrowed with an unrecognisable ire, glinting with a familiar worry.
“Draco.” Her voice is thin. “Is this something to do with work?”
The muscle in his jaw feathers. The door is shoved wide and Hermione nearly loses her footing as he storms in, making the handle crack sharply against the wall.
Her nerves fray anew.
When she turns, Draco is at the other side of her tiny flat, staring at her with a similar shade of anger she’d witnessed only moments ago in another man. But it feels different. It's not directed at her. As his eyes run lines across her face, his nostrils flare.
“I knew it.” He whips around, tracking towards the bedroom. “I fucking knew it.”
She chases after him, wondering how this must look through his eyes and how she might veil him from the truth. It's the opposite of everything he's known of her during their years as colleagues: her organisation, foresight and control. This mess is the very depiction of all that's gone wrong in her life. Every incorrect path taken and ill-timed decision. Every inaction. Every fear and insecurity and occasion she's said to herself ‘this time will be different.’
Tears renew from the shame of it, stinging Hermione’s cheek on the way down. She doesn’t want Draco to think of her this way. He can’t see her like this.
“Where is he?” He steps through the archway, surveying the bedroom. The mussed sheets. Red wine on the rug. His voice gains an echo as he moves into the bathroom. “Is he here?”
“No,” she mumbles.
His footsteps and shaky breaths fill the small space. He stops before her, face a mask of fury. “Tell me where he is.”
“No, you—”
Draco's grip shackles her wrists, clenching the delicate bones, and she whimpers from another harsh touch. He forces her around so that she has no choice but to glimpse her own reflection in the crooked gold-framed mirror at the wall.
“Look at you. Look at yourself.” She twists away, but he spins her back and makes her see the swell of her cheek. The purple blooming around her eye. “Look at what he’s done to you.”
The glimpse of her tear-streaked face is fleeting, creasing with a sob, eyes scrunching tight against her tears. Hermione buckles inward.
She falls. But she falls knowing Draco will always catch her.
He yanks her in close, but his touch turns tender as he captures her waist, a hand heavy at the back of her head. As he holds her there without saying a word, she’s hurriedly lulled by his manic heartbeat. By his caged heat and the scent of cologne warmed from a day on his skin. Perfectly soothed. When another sob breaks from her lips, he pulls her closer, equal parts harsh and comforting; the command of his touch keeping her up straight, but the gentle, low timbre of his repetitious “you're safe” reassuring.
Hermione slips a palm beneath his coat, skating along the soft cotton of his shirt until her arm is bracketed around his waist.
“Hermione.” It’s a sigh.
Draco's lips rest on the top of her head and her heart splinters all over again. He's dependable and safe, but he's not hers and never will be, and that thought tempers the comfort.
But he’s close to all she has and she cinches her arm tighter for that fact.
They stay for such a sweet, prolonged moment that Hermione nearly convinces herself everything will be fine.
“How did it get to this?” His voice arrives softly, but his words are sharp enough to raise her hackles.
The blame feels searing and heavy and she doesn't know what to do with it except give in to its stoking of her temper.
Hermione's cheeks burn as she pulls away from his embrace. She steps back far enough that he can see the hurt claiming her face. “How is it that you’ve become just another person telling me I don’t meet their expectations?” Her voice is tear-clogged.
“That was never my intent. Do you understand that he could have killed you? That he could come back to do so?”
“I’m not an idiot, Draco.”
“I know you’re not.” He flings a hand through the air, voice rising. “This is why it pains me.”
Their taut, furious breaths crowd the small space, adding to the whirring of the telephone. The moment is everlasting, the air heavy with hurt and frustration.
Draco’s posture loosens. “How many times will you let this happen?” he eventually asks, and she still hears the blame.
“You say that like this is my fault.”
“That's not what I’m saying.”
“What are you saying then?”
She watches him battle with his words. The little shake of his head and the sharp lines of his throat with an inhale she hopes will preface something soft and pacifying. But his words arrive just as pointed.
“That I can't do this any longer, Hermione. That I refuse to watch you destroy yourself any more.”
“Then don’t!” Hermione blinks hot tears and they forge a path down her cheek, dropping from her chin. “Leave!”
***
Three years earlier
Draco
Two hundred days of working with Hermione Granger—two hundred days Draco wishes he hadn’t been counting. Previously he's only counted down: the days until his trial, until his home arrest ends, until he completes his Unspeakable training. He doesn’t know what’s come over him, to count up.
That’s a lie. Draco knows perfectly well.
It’s two hundred days of sharing an office with Hermione and the soft, much needed nature of her. The undeniable fact that she was there when every other part of his world was sharp and unforgiving. Now, after barely a year, he's taken by her soft rose scent and even softer hazel eyes, how they turn curious and, on the rare occasion, calculating.
Then there are all the qualities he typically neglects to notice in most people, but cooped up together for at least eight hours a day means that noticing is a given: her gentle laughter preceding the punchline of the joke, wild curls that can’t all be tamed back into a bun, and the little huff she emits when she’s not making headway in her work. He notices she's beautiful.
Hermione plays on his mind so often that today, he'll take a chance.
He's brought a present into work, and he'll gift it to her at lunchtime when they share a table in the cafeteria and inevitably exchange half their sandwiches so she can ‘change up the monotony.’
Yesterday, Draco heard that she’s no longer with Weasley, so it seems timely. Perhaps not only timely, but the only time. How long will she remain single? She's only come into her own since school. Her looks, and by association, her confidence. She doesn’t self-consciously hook her hair behind her ear nearly as often, and her muggle clothing hugs her in all the right ways. And so Draco tells himself this is his first and perhaps only opportunity, and he's only sweatier for that fact.
When Hermione sinks into the seat ahead of him with a cafeteria tray and her own sad brown-bread sandwich, she asks, “What did you get, then?”
“Egg salad. You?”
“Curried chicken.”
It sounds positively disgusting (there’s a reason he bypassed it), but he keeps his mouth shut as she reaches across the table and swaps half of his sandwich for hers.
He's ready to ask about the book she's carrying today, because many of their best conversations have been due to his enquiries of muggle literature, but he suddenly can’t bring himself to say anything. There's a new addition on her hand. A gold ring on her finger with a paltry diamond atop. So petite that he squints just to be certain.
Suddenly, he's void of words.
Draco eyes it as he takes a bite of his food and roughly swallows, knowing he won't be able to stomach it without a retaliatory wave of nausea. She's already several bites into her sandwich when he finally asks, “Do you perhaps have some big news to share?”
Hermione follows his gaze. “Oh,” she says with a little laugh, then holds out her hand to splay her fingers. “Ron asked me to marry him over the weekend.”
Draco's heart feels like it drops clear from his body. He needs to remind himself to breathe.
Alongside his strained inhale, the way her smile doesn’t show in her eyes isn’t lost on him. He quietly grasps on to the realisation, as if it will one day—hopefully soon—lead him to everything he's been wishing for as of late.
“I suppose I should say congratulations.”
She fiddles with the edge of the bread crust. “That almost looked like it pained you to say.”
“Well, it is Weasley we’re talking about.”
She rolls her eyes, but it's playful.
It's at that moment Draco realises he’d overheard a conversation (“Hermione is no longer dating Weasley”), missing the part where they’re not dating because they're engaged. His cheeks burn for the misunderstanding. Knowing his luck, he's tinged noticeably pink.
“And what's that you've brought with you?” She points to the little velvet box beside his left hand and Draco's pulse quickens. He forgot he brought her a gift—a gift he certainly can't give her now.
His cheeks must be scarlet.
“A tool,” he fibs. “I need to deliver it to Theo after lunch.”
“In such a beautiful box?”
Draco clears his throat, desperate to move the conversation anywhere else. “Did he propose to you at the The National Gallery?” he asks, knowing it's her favourite. “Or the Tate?” he adds, knowing it's her next favourite.
“Actually, no.” She hooks a stray curl behind her ear. “Just at the Burrow.”
He doesn't even have time to process her answer before she's asking, “Anything new and exciting happening with you?”
Draco pushes through the distracting twinge in his chest. “I'm moving into that muggle flat I told you about.”
“You are?” Her eyes light up and the ache in his chest only spears deeper. “I’m impressed. We'll have to get you a telly.”
“A…”
“Television. I think you'll like Inspector Morse.”
She thinks he'll like it… She's said that to him a few times over the months they've spent as coworkers, often alongside the suggestion of a book or muggle cuisine or travel destination. And she's always correct. Draco can't help but wonder, if she knows him so well, how is it she can't see what else he likes?
***
Hermione
After a year of sharing an office, Hermione now describes Draco as quiet but kind, his childhood sneers seemingly dampened by scrutiny from the wizarding world following the war. The public has been horrid. She’s witnessed the Howlers, the letters detailing anger and trauma, and the way it’s eaten at his confidence. Now, the public blame appears to have dropped away, but she sees the damage and how he's now placid and perhaps sometimes unsure of himself.
Every day, she sees his true nature. She sees it in his considered questions, and in his thoughtful hums as he listens. She's also heard about his lengthy list of apologies—witnessed some—seen him work alongside muggle-borns, and experienced not only his tolerance of her, but his respect. Then there's the other things… How he leaves her sweetened tea under a stasis charm in the mornings, books she may enjoy every other week, and a sweet handwritten card for her birthday.
Lately, Draco has become her constant. A peculiar thought to have following their childhood.
Even after working so closely, their conversations are few and far between. That doesn't mean Hermione hasn't noticed his gaze burn the top of her head as she reads or burr her cheek when she inspects a potion. When Draco does speak, she knows it's with well-thought purpose.
“Do you ever wonder if the Love Room affects you?” he asks one morning.
He sits deep in his chair at the desk opposite, his black-shirted elbow propped on the armrest to hold his chin in his fingers.
Hermione raises her brows in question.
“Affects your relationships,” he clarifies.
“I suppose I haven't considered the possibility, particularly given all our magical protections around the fountain.”
They work with strong magic—those grounded in love and affection and obsession—but Hermione has always been concerned with their effects on others, not her. Never her.
She turns the question on him. “Do you?”
“I do,” he says simply, then takes a quill in hand and busies himself elsewhere.
***
Draco
Draco invited her to the art gallery before he knew she’d be engaged, when he thought she was newly single. He had invited her to one of their late night showings as a friend, and he assumed she accepted as such.
Still, he allows himself to imagine edging closer as they pause at each new painting, close enough that she eventually touches his arm when she laughs, then he might guide her into a new room with a hand at the small of her back. Perhaps he’d lean in to whisper a compliment in her ear.
Instead, as they move through the grand room of the gallery, he keeps a respectable three feet between them at all times. He enjoys her smile from afar. He admires her thoughtful expression as she takes in the meticulous paint strokes of Vermeer. Perhaps he admires for a little too long.
“This is your favourite, isn't it?” he eventually asks, breaking her concentration.
“How did you know?”
“The way you look at her.”
She bites back a smile like she’s been caught, then turns to the portrait. “What do you think she's waiting for?”
Draco surveys the painting again, as if there might be a correct answer and he needs full marks. He admittedly doesn't enjoy study as much as Hermione, but they share the same interest in preciseness. Correctness. In the paintwork there’s an image of a cupid behind the young woman, which he thinks symbolises love. Then the empty chair tells him that she's indeed waiting for a guest. The inclusions and exclusions are as intentional as the colour.
“Who,” Draco replies. “Who she’s waiting for.”
The edge of her mouth pulls in before she turns back to the painting, seemingly considering his answer, but with her persistent silence as she trails to the next artwork, he can't help but feel his interpretation is wrong.
Away from the gallery, he can finally take in a full breath. He's made it through without the slip of an affectionate hand and only half a dozen stray looks. But it's during dinner, a French place near Mayfair—muggle, because he thought she'd enjoy that—when he's viewing her in a moody light and through the lustre of two glasses of wine that he needs to talk himself out of doing something stupid.
Draco reminds himself that this is certainly not a date.
“Is that duck?” she asks when his main course arrives in front of him.
“You're not a fan?”
“The opposite, in fact. I've never met anyone else who enjoys it.”
“The duck à l'orange here is brilliant.”
“Perhaps I’ll need to try.”
They mirror a gentle curve of their lips as her meal of Sole Meunière is placed in front, causing the candle flames to flicker. The shadows dance all over her face. Her beautiful honey-coloured eyes glint, and he reminds himself a deep breath will do him well.
“This looks wonderful,” she says.
The fish does look appetising too, but suddenly, he’s wondering what she might have if she had the choice of anything in the world.
“What is your favourite meal?”
She hums thoughtfully but the answer is near instant. “The radicchio and gorgonzola pasta from a little nameless place in Florence, in the late hours of the night.”
“That's awfully specific.”
“It was awfully memorable.” Her excitement is palpable, her smile stunning, and he finds himself grinning broader, too. “And perhaps it was a little fancier than I usually opt for in a meal. Ron's not much for fancy places. It's not the money,” she adds hastily. “He just prefers… you know, simpler food.”
The disappointment in her tone forces Draco's hand. He wasn't going to pry, but everything about her this evening tells him he should do otherwise.
“Does he know you're here?” he asks.
She shakes her head, but there's a gleam of guilt to her expression.
“Where does he think you are?”
“With Ginny. Here's hoping he never asks her about it because she won't have a clue.” She emits a small, self-conscious laugh.
Draco nods as he takes this in. He doesn't care for the wizard, but he doesn't want to become a rift in their relationship. He’s not certain how he feels about it. Not certain what to say.
“I suppose I didn't want you to feel like we can only enjoy each other at work,” says Hermione. “I appreciate you and our friendship, and that's all I was thinking when I said yes. Besides, it's time for Ron to come to terms with the fact you're a perfectly respectable wizard and a good friend.”
If he thought he were bereft of words before…
He hopes his expression conveys his gratitude. It must do, for she takes her cutlery in hand and he quickly follows suit. Without a word, he transfers the two rounds of beetroot from his plate to hers, and she threads green beans through the tines of her fork and adds them to his plate. Not because she doesn't like them, but because she has a habit of exchanging something for his unwanted food.
“And what if you could go absolutely anywhere in the world?” he asks, finally ready to stoke their conversation and forget about her fiancé.
Her gaze floats to the ceiling as she appears to consider. “This line of conversation makes it sound like you're about ready to whisk me off to Italy for pasta.”
“I would if you wanted to. We can find your nameless pasta restaurant.”
He shouldn't have said that. Even though her expression is pleasant enough, he should have swallowed the thought instead of letting it free from his mouth.
Draco eyes the ring on her finger. He despises that thing.
“So, are you seeing anyone?” she asks, eyes cast down on the green bean she nudges across her plate.
Draco is not naive to the way she redirects the conversation. It leaves him with an inappropriate irritation, as if he’s sitting here unheard. All he wants to say is that he’ll whisk her off to anywhere in the world, he'll give her everything she desires and he'll be everything she needs.
In an attempt to douse his wild urge, Draco takes in some of his wine. Then another mouthful. The Pinot Gris is smooth, but he considers her question with a bitter taste in his mouth.
Next week, he has a date with Astoria Greengrass. A date that will better resemble a business meeting to discuss their betrothal.
And yet he says, “No one at the minute.”
***
Draco
Hermione takes to her feet and plucks up her wand from her desk. “Are you almost ready to break for lunch?”
She's wearing purple robes today and her curls are bunched up on top of her head. Lately, her eyelashes seem darker and cheeks hold blush all day long, and Draco suspects she's been testing beauty charms in advance of her wedding. Whatever she's doing only seems to make him take pause for longer. But how much longer can he openly admire her beauty?
Soon she’ll be a married woman.
Today is the first time he's considered requesting the division of their office into two.
Just as he opens his mouth to reply, another presence swans into the room. A presence that somehow makes the energy in the space known, and causes Draco to second guess whether life was boring before this exact moment. Theodore Nott is everything to everyone exactly as they need him to be, and it suits him rather well.
“Draco, dear,” says Theo, eyes zipping around the walls. “You could use a little more colour in here. It's drab. Reminds me of Nott Manor.”
Draco takes to his feet. “You remember Theo, don’t you?” he asks Hermione. “I thought he could join us today, but unfortunately, I have too much to catch up on. Why don’t you two go ahead?”
Hermione tilts her gaze. “You can’t break for even fifteen minutes?”
“I'm afraid I need to get back to the Love Room.”
Theo winds his hand through the air with a flourish. “Lunch with the incomparable Hermione Granger?” He grins, dimpling his cheek. “How lucky am I?”
She turns her eyes on Theo, evidently incapable of smothering her smile, and Draco knows his plan is working.
It works better than he ever intended.
From that moment, Draco witnesses a friendship bloom like nothing he’s ever seen. Like flowers in a plot of perfect soil with the right measure of rain and just enough sun. He’s envious for a brief moment. Until he realises friendship with Theo is exactly what Hermione needs; and Draco still desperately wants to give her everything.
***
Draco
“Did you watch Inspector Morse last night?” asks Hermione.
“Speaking of inspecting, did you see Sarah from the Muggle Liaison Office? She’s expecting. With a muggle. He threatened to call authorities when she tried to explain her magic.”
“Theo!”
“What? It's true.”
“That was a terrible segue,” says Hermione. “And stop gossiping. Or at the very least, put a charm up first.”
“I didn't catch it last night,” says Draco, carrying on the conversation with little care for the gossip.
Hermione finishes the last bite of her sandwich before she says, “Oh, that's a shame.”
Draco's eyes stay on the coffee mug he coddles in hand. “Actually, I don't have a television any longer.”
“You don’t?” asks Theo. “What am I supposed to watch my football on now?”
Draco arches a brow. “You don't watch football, you watch football players.”
Theo shrugs, his palms upturned in the air. “Why would you do this to me?”
“I'm not at the London flat any longer. Astoria wanted to live in the manor.”
“Oh.” Hermione fiddles with the little silver stud in her earlobe. “I see.”
“Shame,” says Theo.
Typically their shared silences are warm and comfortable, like a lived in pair of slippers, but this one Draco weathers with his toes scrunched in his leather Oxfords.
“Did you both receive my wedding invitations?” she asks casually, as if querying the weather.
Draco is so ill-prepared his expression of ease droops.
“I'll be there, darling,” says Theo.
“Brilliant.”
Draco's considering what's left of his sandwich despite the fact her eyes are on him. He never fails to feel the intensity of Hermione Granger’s gaze. Finally, when he looks up, her eyes wide and imploring, he very nearly just tells her he'll be there. But he can't attend, can he? The mere thought brings him a cold sweat.
“I might have a conflict,” he says. “Besides, I think the Weasleys would much prefer I'm not there, don't you?”
“Draco.” His name sounds like a reprimand. “I campaigned very hard to get you on the invitation list. There's only so much space as it'll be at the Burrow, and I dearly want you there.”
“I dearly want you there, too,” Theo adds. “Selfishly, though. I'm not sure if I can bear conversation with only Weasleys all night long.”
Hermione wears such a hopeful look.
Draco doesn’t want to disappoint her.
That's how he finds himself at the Weasley residence on a humid summer afternoon. That's how, as he takes to his feet to watch the bride begin her journey down the aisle, he finds himself robbed of breath at the sight of her. He finds himself contending with the realisation that not wanting to disappoint anyone is the very reason he forms so many memories he prefers to forget.
***
Draco
The office is bereft of the delicate scent of her chamomile tea, the little hums when she scours recent publications, and her stifled laughter when she finds something amusing yet doesn’t want to disturb him. He pretends he's not counting down the days until their office again experiences her presence. Their office. Yes.
Every day, he stares at her empty chair behind her desk stacked with parchment and books, and the three cups she likes to keep filled with differing beverages. He imagines she’s right there with her curls bundled up on her head and her wand poking through. He pictures her eyes turning on him. Feels the lighting of his soul and the catch of his breath at the mere thought. He deprives himself of an inhale as he considers the things he might say if he were braver and if she weren’t in love—if she weren’t married—then as the pain echoes through his body, he sets his breath free.
Every day, he has the same imagining.
Then, one morning, he tracks into their office, and there she is waiting for him. She resigns her chair with a sweet excitement, and he's so drawn to her, he doesn't realise he's already moved halfway into the room.
“There you are! You're in much later than usual.”
He takes his time answering, as if he might better steel himself for a moment he's been thinking about for weeks now. “I had a meeting on the fourth floor.”
“Oh, well I haven't seen you in so long.”
“You've been on your honeymoon.”
“Of course, but you disappeared after our ceremony.”
“Sorry. Family emergency—didn’t Theo tell you?”
“Of course he did. I just… missed you, I suppose.”
Draco nods stiffly and sinks his gaze down. “You looked…” He can't bring himself to move his eyes from the insignificant spot on the faded Ministry carpet. “Beautiful, as always.”
“Thank you,” she whispers.
Draco feels it, the tension he's created. He can't say such things. At least not aloud. Not to her face.
“How is Astoria?”
At that, he’s sobered like a cold bath. “She's well. We're… We're officially engaged.”
“Oh.” Her tone is surprised, her pleasant expression latent. “Congratulations.”
In the months to come, Draco tolerates Hermione. Tolerates how her eyes light for him when she smiles, how she likes to tell him about the day's journey into the office or the new novel she discovered last night. He tolerates the sweet and often silly notes scribbled between Love Room theories and left upon his desk:
I adore your new coat, very Paddington of you.
Would you still work with me if I were a flobberworm?
A new Chinese place has opened only two streets away—lunch tomorrow?
Draco tolerates her as a married woman.
Even despite his inclination to put distance between them, they fall in step seamlessly, their conversations still often half-finished sentences moving in the same direction:
“Did you consider whether the viscosity—”
“I did,” he interrupts. “Nothing. But for the density I've now changed the calculations—”
“Back to the original, I know, but the distillation—”
“Will reach boiling point, I promise.”
Then, for a stretch, she arrives at work each day looking a little worse for wear, hair frizzier than usual, wearing shirts she's not bothered to run a smoothing charm over, and a distinct lack of any ability to smile at his silly rune jokes.
Excitement doesn't show in her face in the way he once knew, not even when they have their first breakthrough in the Love Room and Draco is so ecstatic he could lift her into a hug and twirl her around. Instead, he simply grins her way. But hurriedly, his own thrill slips at witnessing her faraway look.
He knows, then, that something irreparable has changed in Hermione.
***
Hermione
Marriage to Ron is the Burrow on Sundays, Quidditch talk on days that end with Y, jokes that sometimes make the end of her mouth twitch up, and a regular appearance of Harry and Ginny… whom she loves dearly, of course. She supposes her expectations for her marriage to Ron exceed the efforts on his part, and she supposes it will do her good just to ignore such a realisation.
“You're not joining Theo and I again?”
“I'm afraid I have some work to catch up on,” says Draco.
Hermione wants to tell him that she needs him without saying as much. How is she supposed to tell him? She nibbles the inside of her lip as she considers, watching him sitting there at his desk, pretending to busy himself with a report they finalised weeks ago.
The tear in her chest rips wider the longer she stares at him, eking more pain as she comes to the realisation she can’t push him any longer. No longer can she witness the evasiveness of his eyes and the uncertainty in his words. Maybe this is what happens after marriage? Maybe there's some sort of unsaid new rule for distance, perhaps some pureblooded custom she's never considered.
At least she has Theo, she supposes, as she walks to meet him in the cafeteria. Hermione has an inching, unsettling feeling that she needs to keep her few friends close.
It's barely two weeks later when Hermione wonders whether that feeling was a fearful prediction or a self-fulfilling prophecy.
***
Hermione
Marriage to Charlie is danger. It’s sweet stolen kisses and callused fingers prying her legs wide. Then it’s uncomfortable dinners at the Burrow and silence from Harry and Ginny. It’s arguing in the sweltering dragon’s den about the logistics of weekly Portkeys to Romania, before weeping with horrid realisations.
Just as October slips into November, Hermione tries again. She extends an invitation to Draco despite the fact she already knows the answer.
“Sorry,” he says without even glancing up from his desk. “Too busy today.”
It’s not that he no longer cares for her; she's certain he does. He still sends back scribbled replies to the notes she leaves on his desk and helps to thread on her coat before they both depart for the day, and she can't brush that off as simple habit. Yet he refuses to spend any prolonged time with her unless there’s a desk or lab bench between.
To Hermione, his avoidance is clear. To others, it simply appears like good work ethic.
For three tight breaths, she stares at him shuffling parchment around and wonders what might happen if she just blurts out that she doesn’t like how this has all changed. If she just comes out and says she wants to spend more time with him. What if?
Hermione sighs curtly.
If only he understood. She could use his comfort and sensibility; but Hermione doesn't have the wherewithal to tell him why, to explain what’s happened, to admit that her life is coming undone around her and it’s all her fault.
She doesn’t want Draco to see her this way. Reckless. Stupid.
Of course, she never meant for it to happen; but who does?
Hermione keeps several regrets, usually large. On this occasion, it’s a slew of little regrets, beginning with forever damaging her favourite holiday.
It was the early hours of Christmas morning at the Burrow when they first crossed paths. Perhaps not so much crossed, but collided. Hermione had loitered at the basin in a slip of moonlight, staring out at the expanse of Devon and again wondering why she couldn’t sleep and her limbs were restless. She was wired these days.
Thoughts trod upon thoughts, gallivanting through her mind—thoughts about her future, what was to come next, wondering what might sate her in the way she needed. Travel? More work (less)? Children? She and Ron had been married for only several months and they weren’t being careful. Not because they’d had a conversation, but simply because she assumed that’s what was supposed to come next.
But what if that next wasn’t what she wanted?
Hermione turned as if moving away from her harried thoughts and found Charlie splitting the soft moonlight. She stared at him, eyes a little wide, as if he might have all the answers. Maybe he could rein in her racing thoughts.
His gaze traced her parted mouth.
She bit her lip.
Charlie walked a straight line, not stopping until his hands cradled her cheeks and his lips took hers.
There was hesitation in her mind and good intentions in her heart, but her body pressed against Charlie’s heat and everything else fell away. He appeared to be exactly what she needed at that moment. Unlike anything she’d known.
Charlie couldn’t have been more different from his brother: hands rougher, kisses claiming, everything about him so sure. So desperate for her. She’d never experienced that flavour of desperation before. She knew determination and tenacity in the sense she had always wanted to best everyone in her classes, to fend for her life, to help Harry’s cause during the war. But desperation, and for her? Never.
It wasn’t the first occasion they’d been drawn to each other’s orbit over the years. She recalled the brush of their fingers the Christmas prior, as they stood beside the kitchen worktop chatting with Harry. How Charlie’s touch had lingered. She remembered the heat of his gaze on her breasts the day they made a makeshift swimming pool in the Burrow backyard. Remembered the praise he gave her when Ron failed.
Hermione remembered it all. She imagined it going further when she was unable to meet her dreams, when her thoughts were too loud. When he was sleeping only five feet away.
It was just a kiss.
Then it was more and too much.
They were caught by Harry before the Christmas stay was through, making for an upsetting and uncomfortable end to the holidays.
As soon as Hermione’s divorce to Ron was finalised, she felt changed; and strangely, not for the better.
Charlie suggested they marry, as if the solution would fix everything.
Hermione agreed, as if the solution was the only one.
Relationships with Ron and Ginny were irreparable, the coldness from Molly and Arthur unbearable. Harry resented her. Once the dangerous thrill of encounters with Charlie ebbed away, Hermione finally discovered the reality of the situation. It was a grim realisation—the one that they had little in common except the desire to explore each other’s bodies. When that was eclipsed by Charlie’s resentment for everything he’d lost because of her, there was no saving any semblance of a relationship, let alone a marriage.
After communication with Harry finally fell away, so too did any contact from the remaining Weasleys, and in the space of three months Hermione went from having a husband, an adopted family, and friends she imagined she’d live her days out beside, to nothing but a novel hatred for Christmas and another pending divorce.
How can she tell Draco as much? She can’t.
Hermione’s lip trembles with sudden overwhelm, but she rolls her teeth over to stifle it. She can’t break into tears like this. What would he think?
“Sure,” she replies to Draco, barely above a whisper, then leaves him alone as her heart beats to and fro with a stab and a spike.
Some hours later, while Draco works in the Love Room, Hermione can't move from her desk. Her eyes remain unfocused on the slip of parchment that she’s just signed, thinking about how she’s twenty-three and twice divorced. She doesn’t realise she’s crying until her cheeks heat. She's pathetic.
As she drops her head into her upturned palms, a sob slips from her lips.
“Hermione?”
The door didn’t make a sound when it opened, and suddenly, she's wary of pulling her face from her hands and looking him in the eye. She's no doubt splotchy. Red-eyed. If she'd known she was going to cry, she would have chosen somewhere more private.
“Is something the matter?” Draco’s voice is closer now.
With a swift inhale, she finally moves her eyes to his. “It’s fine, it’s just… my divorce with Charlie is finalised.”
“Charlie?” he asks, and with that, she realises how Theo has been such a good friend. She had expected him to divulge conversations to Draco in some manner, seeing as Theo had been there to witness the relationship from the doomed beginning to the disastrous end. But apparently Draco is naive.
Hermione can only bring herself to nod tightly.
“I…” He loiters in front of her desk, one hand slipped in his trouser pocket. “Would you like me to leave?”
“No, I want you to stay.” The truth has never come so easy. “Talk to me.”
“About?”
As he tracks closer, moving around to meet her on the other side of the desk, she shrugs loosely. “Anything. How is Astoria?”
“Astoria? Well, extremely excited. She's planning our wedding.”
“Oh.”
His face creases. “I shouldn't have said that, I'm sorry.”
As she whimpers a little to stop another onslaught of tears, she discovers a scrunched tissue on her desk and pats at her wet cheeks.
“She’s lucky to have you,” she whispers.
“She is?”
“Of course. You’re sweet and reliable. Loyal.”
“Well, she hasn’t said as much, but hopefully, she agrees.”
There’s a light smile on his face as he wandlessly conjures his chair to roll out from behind his desk and meet him, then he sits at Hermione’s side and swivels her until all she can see is his concerned gaze. A little wet hiccough escapes her mouth at the surprise. With his hold on the arms of the chair, bracketing her in, his attention keeps hers captive with no ability to shy away. Through the heartache and shame, she’s peculiarly nervous.
“I hope you understand that you’re worthy, Hermione.”
She dips her chin to her chest, away from the conviction in his eyes, her own heating all over again. She’s not sure what to do with affection like this. So blatant, undoubtedly personal. From Draco.
“I've been meaning to say this to you for some time now. You’re worthy of someone who loves you in the right way.”
A fresh spill of tears arrives in spite of Hermione’s grit of her jaw. She hides her face in her palms again, feeling like she’s taken a Cruciatus straight to the heart.
“I’m sorry,” Draco says softly. “Perhaps I've chosen the wrong time to say as much.”
Although she surrenders her hiding, Hermione can’t bear to look at him. She darts her gaze around the office. Feeling nothing but foolish, her faint laughter emerges as more tears tumble.
“Wait here,” he tells her, then following a gentle squeeze of her shoulder, he departs.
He returns barely five minutes later and deposits a plate onto her desk. “You should eat something.”
He resumes his seat, his own cafeteria plate in hand. At first, Hermione smiles from his sweet gesture, then her tears silently fall all over again at seeing how he’s swapped half her sandwich for his. Maybe one day, she'll be able to marry someone who knows what she needs without asking, who can read her even in the silence and the shadows, who thinks she's worthy of being loved in the right way.
***
Draco
Theo rests his boots on Hermione’s desk and leans back in her chair. His presence is distracting, as always, but particularly so when Draco is trying to interpret runes. At six PM, too. He's either on the verge of a breakthrough or a headache.
“You know I love you dearly,” begins Theo.
“Don't do that.”
“Come on now, you work in the Love Room. You of all people shouldn't shy away from the emotion.”
“I’m not shying away, I’m trying to finish calculations so I can go home.”
“Well, you can’t depart without me telling you that I love you dearly, and I've known you longer than many, so believe me when I say I know she will make you happy.”
He finally looks up from his parchment. “Astoria?”
“Hermione.”
Draco’s heart may as well be in the fist of a giant. “Theo.”
“I'm not naive, Draco. Neither is she. And now she’s finally single.”
He intends to resume his writing, but he suddenly has nothing to write. His mind is just filled with her. “I have obligations,” Draco mutters.
“Last I checked,” says Theo, “obligations were not love.”
***
Hermione
Hermione’s Love Room routine is very specific and never strays. She walks a lap of the darkly tiled space, around the fountain of love potion. A natural spring with no documented history other than it appeared one day, and a brave wizard took in a mouthful and went mad with desire. Originally, Hermione and Draco had thought it simply Amortentia, like every other Unspeakable before them, but they had already proven that it was far more powerful. Its magical signature different. Unique.
Every new day she eyes the potion tentatively for changes (never finds any), then she pads into the corner that she and Draco have been steadily turning into something that resembles a muggle laboratory. There are gadgets for testing and measuring, pipettes, gloves and goggles. Before she begins with the equipment, she turns on the radio with a tap of her wand.
They’re too deep in the building for any signal except for the Ministry’s own fuzzy station, which Hermione quickly realised was just Chopin records on repeat, and only too recently learnt that it doubles as hold music for those ringing the single Ministry telephone from the muggle government. Nevertheless, it keeps her mind on track and keeps her company when Draco is in the office.
Today, he’s at the nearby lab bench, scribing calculations for a new experiment while Hermione tries to separate the potion for the five hundredth and twelfth day in a row.
Understanding its components means a better understanding of its mechanisms. Finding answers will lead them to their next theory, which will ultimately take them closer to their overarching research question: can it serve a genuine purpose? They aim to shed some light on why the potion appears to be a dozen times more powerful than Amortentia. If all goes well, new discoveries will help solve its history. Perhaps even help them find innovative uses.
They’ve been trying to derive the composition for a year now. More. She’s altered spells for countless iterations and adapted muggle technology all so she might see the solution break. Even ripple. She'd take anything at this point.
As Hermione works, she considers how today, the room is scented more apple than the sterile solution it has been in the recent past. But then again, she can't smell all too much beneath Draco’s sweetly-scented hair potion and bergamot cologne. Then she finds herself humming. Nocturne No. 2 in E-flat major plays, and with it comes the realisation that they’re on the third play-through of the record for today. At this point, she might know the works of Chopin better than she does this potion—
Hermione shrinks away from the bench.
She blinks hurriedly, worried she's hallucinating the very sight she wants to see.
In the glass beaker ahead, half-full of pearlescent pink liquid, a small dot of red rises languidly until it buoys to the top.
“Draco…” she says cautiously, as if speaking too loudly might frighten it away.
“Hm?”
She swallows gently. Her breaths constrict.
“Hermione?”
His heat is now at her back.
“Hermione,” he breathes, and she hears nothing but awe.
All of a sudden, his large palms grip her shoulders. He's shaking her with his delight until she’s tipped off the stool and onto her feet, and he wraps his arms around her waist.
The excitement is contagious and, as he twirls her in a circle with her arms over his shoulders, she laughs. The room hums with magic in celebration. She can’t believe it. It’s a speck of a change but she’s giddy, and Draco is not only thrilled but wild in a way she hasn't experienced before. Her smile is all teeth for the first time in a very long while.
Draco lowers Hermione down to her feet, and her joy remains outward as he snatches her hand in his and lowers his other palm to the small of her back. He twirls her in a more grounded circle. Elegantly, like they’re front and centre at a ball.
“You’ve done it, Unspeakable Granger.”
“I've done something,” she corrects. “Not it. There's still such a long way to go.”
But it doesn’t seem like he cares at this moment, his focus instead on his deliberate footsteps as he dances her in a waltz to the mumbling Chopin.
“Oh I forgot you’re an extremely proficient dancer, Unspeakable Malfoy.”
“The pureblood etiquette bootcamp.”
He spins her out and then reels her back in, eliciting her little laugh, but this time, when his hand smooths along her lower back, he draws her nearer until their bodies are flush and she needs to crane her neck. She finds his excitement has bled away; but maybe she likes this expression a little more.
A softness she second guesses whether is for her.
A softness she knows shouldn't be for her.
His palm is warm on her back. His other has her hand nestled inside, held close to their hearts. They sway in a sweet rhythm that not only settles her pulse but draws out the beats. It causes her a fabulous contentment, so much so that she closes her eyes to better experience the weightless carefree sensation. Then, as her lips part on a sigh, his meet her forehead. Whisper-soft. So gentle, she'll later second guess whether she felt them at all.
What are they doing?
Hermione gasps in a breath and pulls away from his hold. “I should capture the specimen before it disappears.”
She can’t look him in the eye for all too long.
“Well done, Hermione. It finally feels worth it, doesn't it?”
To have seen Draco grin with abandon and to experience his intimate hold, it certainly feels worth it.
***
Draco
Somehow, a year of engagement to Astoria disappears in the beat of a breath. Draco is aware a marriage to a Greengrass is his duty, but he often wonders whether duty is for him.
At least he no longer catches his breath every morning when he sees Hermione. He still finds himself absent-mindedly watching her throughout the day, perhaps more so with curiosity than anything. He doesn't know all too much about her personal life these days, and that's probably for the best, but he still wonders if she's happy.
Today, her eyes catch on his and he quickly looks away, right at the photograph of Astoria he keeps on his desk. She’s pretty, like any wife of a Malfoy should be. He loves her, he thinks. If love is meant to feel like a strained smile.
He wonders what love feels like for Hermione.
She makes a noise, something like gagging, drawing him away from his thoughts. Suddenly, her palm flies to her forehead, then she dips down behind her desk out of sight with a retching sound.
Draco is on his feet before he realises.
“Oh,” she mutters, looking wan as she sits up straight.
“Hermione?”
She pads a tissue against her mouth. “I'm sorry. I’m not feeling well.”
“In that case, you should leave, you’re in no state to work.”
She nods weakly, but she seems unsure.
“I can take you home,” he says, stepping closer.
“Draco… I'm…”
“I insist.” He closes in another several paces. “I've never seen you this poorly, and if that’s not a sign to give up for the day, I don't know what is.” He vanishes the sick she’s left in a waste paper bin, then takes her coat and handbag from the nearby stand.
Before she can protest further, he’s dragging her chair out then helping her up and ushering her towards the door. If he knows anything about the witch, it’s her inability to judge the line where work is concerned.
They Floo directly into the living room of a small flat. Small enough that he spots the bedroom ahead and a cramped kitchen at their left. He’s certain he's seeing pretty much all of it.
“So this is where you live?”
She gives a pale laugh. “I know, it’s tiny.”
Late morning sun slants in through the large casement windows, cracked open enough to make the sheer drapes dance.
“It’s not too tiny. It’s nice.”
As she glances around, his eyes follow. To the empty coffee table, the bookcase stuffed silly, and the fireplace mantel with one framed photograph and several nearby patches of unsettled dust, as if the surface recently underwent change.
“Actually, I don’t really live here at all lately.” She rubs at her forearm. “I’m just here because Oliver and I had a fight.”
“Right.” Draco wanders around, uncertain of what to do or say next, and in the absence of words, deposits her coat and bag on the sofa.
Draco had seen The Prophet over his breakfast that morning and promptly lost his appetite. Wood, the most successful Quidditch player for Britain in decades, often took up space on the front of the paper, but Hermione latching on to his arm was something he never expected to see. Golden Girl Marries Star Quidditch Player, read the headline.
Apparently after a whirlwind night, they’d married in America. She had only meant to be overseas for a work conference. For barely a week.
He glances at her bare hand. “No ring yet?”
“He wants to buy me something custom made.” Her face creases and it resembles something like pain. Then her hand moves for her stomach, but noticeably hesitates. She tucks a curl behind her ear instead. “He wants to buy us a nicer place to live, too. He has a lot of big plans.”
“That’s…” begins Draco. “If you’re happy, I’m happy.” He shows a strained smile.
“Yes, well… And I’m pregnant.” Her words emerge with a self-conscious laugh.
Draco can’t seem to find any humour in this situation. His facsimile of a smile slips from his face.
All of these men, all of these husbands—three so far—and he’s never once pictured her with a child. With a family. He doesn’t quite understand. He’s aware she wants children (two, she’s told him), so perhaps his own desires were getting in the way.
But he can’t think like that now. She's recently wed, and pregnant, apparently.
And he’s soon to be married.
“Congratulations,” he says woodenly.
“It’s still early.” She shakes her head. “I shouldn’t have told you. I suppose I could have simply said I have a stomach virus…”
He’d completely forgotten she was ill.
Draco inhales a sharp breath, one that he hopes indicates the near-end of this conversation. He can’t bear it any longer. “Do you need anything else before I leave?”
Her gaze meanders over his face, more assessing than he prefers, then she shakes her head. “You’ve already done too much. Thank you.”
