A.N. – So, I read that little snippet that keeps on popping up on tumblr about the Dramione bit in The Cursed Child—where Draco says, "Hermione Granger. I'm being bossed around by Hermione Granger—and I'm mildly enjoying it"—and I couldn't let it go. I haven't read the Cursed Child and I probably never will because the HP books were fine on their own, but I wanted to fit that line into canon somehow with my head canon ending. *shrug* Hopefully you'll all enjoy it!
Note: This is completely unbeta'd, so sorry for any mistakes. :)
Of Memories, Emotions, and Time
By LoveGurrl411
Draco Malfoy couldn't love Hermione Granger.
It was a fact. Like the Earth was round, and the stars that sparkled in the night sky probably died millions of years ago—it was that kind of fact. It was the kind of fact that tore at a person's soul, the parts of a soul that had the capacity to care.
This feeling didn't linger. It never lingered. It couldn't linger, because Draco Malfoy couldn't love Hermione Granger.
When he was five years old, smile bigger than his sense, his father wrapped him up in his big, strong arms, and said "Draco, you've the privilege of being a Malfoy—pureblood. Do you know what that means?"
Draco, wanting only to please his father, eagerly nodded. His silver eyes were bright, his heart completely filled with happiness.
Lucius, entitled and content in his role of father, smirked indulgently at Draco. "No you don't, not yet. But one day you will."
When Draco was eight years old he made a friend in town while his mother wasn't looking—Jesse. She was beautiful and bubbly, full of a life filled with wonder that Draco always wished he could be full of it too.
When Narcissa took a walk into town, Draco would plead and beg to go with her, and like little ninjas Jesse and Draco would make a game of talking to each other without Narcissa seeing.
There was nothing wrong with making a friend, they knew, but something deep within Draco told him there was something not quite right about it either.
Draco couldn't ever put his finger on it, and he was too young to pay such basic instincts any mind.
It was a sunny day in May when Narcissa turned abruptly around, eyes searching for Draco, and saw him in a fit of laughter. Oh his laughter, so youthful, like sunshine itself, cloaked around her, but it couldn't stop the chill that permeated her bones.
Her pureblood son consorting with a muggle—it was unfathomable. Narcissa couldn't reach him fast enough, it was as though every second he spent in that muggle girl's presence was another second he'd be contaminated.
Sullied.
Her hands were like vices made of metal as they clamped around his arm and dragged the confused boy away.
Jesse watched, horror and fear on her face, as Draco fearfully asked what he'd done wrong.
But somewhere in his bones he'd already known.
After dinner, once Lucius had been briefed on what his son had done—Draco was always his son when the boy did anything wrong—Lucius stared thoughtfully at his little boy.
Beads of sweat ran down Draco's face, he was so terrified. He hadn't done anything wrong. He hadn't. But the disappointment on his father's face made Draco's stomach churn. The blatant disgust on his mother's face made Draco's heart freeze.
"Draco, do you remember when I told you that you were special?" Lucius asked regally.
"Because I'm a pureblood," Draco responded, eyes taking in all of the world. It was the miracle of youth.
"Yes," Lucius stood, and walked around the splendid dinner table with its elegant carvings and sophisticated table linens. He stopped next to Draco, and looked down at him as though his own heart were breaking. "But because you are a Pureblood, and special, that means that others in the world must be our opposite, those that aren't magical—filth."
"But she can do magic!" Draco had said excitedly. Perhaps this was all a misunderstanding.
"Even worse," Lucius sneered, flashes of the past shooting across his mind like little bursts of magical memories. "Mudbloods. Those that have magic, but aren't pure like us."
Draco didn't know what to say. It didn't sound quite right, but who was he to say it was wrong. Instead, he kept his stare trained on his hands in his lap.
"Look at me, Draco," Lucius commanded, eyes hard. Draco's head snapped up as though the words had been an edict from the Almighty himself. Lucius had vowed before that he wouldn't be like his own father—too weak to control and dominate his child for his own good. If Abraxas Malfoy had taught this lesson to Lucius when he was a child, Lucius was sure that it would have saved him plenty of heartache in the long run. "This may be the first time, but it will not be the last that you will be ensnared by them. But you must always remember that they are dirty, beneath us—beneath you."
Draco nodded, not understanding, too young to see the intent in his father's eyes. Suddenly, he was hauled and thrown over his father's lap, the sting of a belt carving the lesson into him: keeping company with Mudbloods only brought trouble.
When Draco was eleven years old he met Hermione Granger. She was bucktoothed, and had sparkling eyes that shined like chocolate diamonds. He wanted to ask her if his eyes shined like hers did. He wanted to tell her that nobody liked a know-it-all—he didn't want her to be bullied.
She was too alive to be bullied.
But then it was time to be sorted, and Professor McGonagall yelled out "Hermione Granger!" as though her name were an anvil landing on Draco's stomach.
Hermione sat on the stool, prim and proper which was clearly her way, and their eyes met for a second before the hat took her away from him.
In that instance, a lifetime of pain and wonder passed between them as though they were seers, sharing a possible future.
His head hurt, and his eyes burned in a strange agony.
His hand reached for his chest, as their eyes lost contact, and he rubbed his chest right over his heart.
"Are you okay?" Blaise asked.
"Yea," Draco had answered confusedly. "Fine—just had a weird ache is all."
Hermione Granger, he marked the name. Mudblood.
He made sure to sit facing away from her once sorted, the memory of the pain in his heart slowly forgotten.
When Draco was twelve he called Hermione Granger a Mudblood.
It'd been the first time he'd said the word aloud, and it left a bitter taste in his mouth. Her eyes had watered, and it was the most beautiful sight he'd ever witnessed. Her teardrops were like the jewels that hung on a chandelier.
Her nose and face were blotched red in anger, and shame, but Draco could only sneer—an automatic response he'd learned from his father.
He'd seen women cry before—his mother and Pansy. But they'd only ever cried as a tool. Tears were a weapon where Draco came from, to be used against a man to gain something. But Hermione's tears served no purpose. They were genuine and raw.
The more he realized that her tears weren't a ploy, the less severe his sneer became, until she ran away, her friends chasing after her. Frowning, Draco couldn't look away from her retreating form, her face imprinted on his mind.
Her tears were little pit pats on his soul, stinging him, darkening the very fabric of his existence.
"Aw," Pansy smiled cruelly. "I think you hurt the little Mudblood's feeling, Draco."
Draco touched his chest. "Yea, guess I did."
When Draco was thirteen Hermione Granger punched him in the face.
It was harsh, and strange, but probably the realest thing he'd ever felt. Her eyes were alight with malice and triumph. Her mouth was upturned viciously, and Draco's heart sped up. This was Hermione Granger. This was the girl he'd been waiting for, the one he'd known was hiding behind the love for rules.
She was glorious, and he hated her like he'd never hated anyone in this world.
"This may be the first time, but it will not be the last that you will be ensnared by them. But you must always remember that they are dirty, beneath us—beneath you."
Lucius' words rang in Draco's mind like an annoying song that had gotten stuck in his head.
This may be the first time. This may be the first time.
But it will not be the last. But it will not be the last.
Draco was appalled at the sensation in his stomach, that odd flip that made him want to run away and run towards her.
He ran away, Crabbe and Goyle behind him, blood seeping out of his nose messily.
The echo of Hermione's words to her friends in his ear: "That felt good."
Yea, Draco shamefully realized. Something about that encounter had felt good.
When Draco was fourteen he realized that Hermione Granger wasn't bucktooth anymore (she should've thanked him, really), and that she had a quiet beauty about her that stood out in a crowd when she attempted to tame that wild mane of hers.
He'd noticed at the World Cup, when out of massive crowd he'd been able to hone in on her, as though his eyes had been made solely to find her.
He'd walked up to her, fear in his heart, but Saint Potter and Weaselbee had been at either of her elbows, ready to defend her.
Didn't they see the crowd, he'd wondered. Couldn't they see that leaving her alone, even for a second, with so many Death Eater sympathizers in one place was dangerous? Maybe they couldn't. They weren't raised around the Dark Arts. They couldn't feel it in the air like he could.
His heart beat faster, an annoying tick in his heart making him care when he didn't want to.
That night, when Death Eaters attacked, knowing somewhere in his heart that his father had been among them, Draco had felt real fear.
The kind of fear that attacked while the victim was unawares. The kind of fear that made him feel like he'd been sucked into outer space, floating about the expanse of the universe, alone.
He hadn't been sure if he'd been worried for his father, or for Hermione Granger, whose friends had left her alone earlier.
He'd hated her even more than he had before.
But as time continued on, he could ignore her sudden loveliness—it was so unassuming. But then she'd attack ferociously, without even noticing.
He'd noticed the night of the Yule Ball. There she'd been, dancing with Victor Krum, laughing, smiling up at him as though he were a knight of old.
"Are you okay?" Daphne had whispered in his ear, her chest pressed against his.
Hermione twirled in the distance, and his heart beat punched him over and over again, as though trying to remind him of something. He didn't want to, but he couldn't help but fixate on Krum's arm, thrown so loosely about her waist, as though it were the most natural thing in the world.
Maybe it was.
Maybe he was the one wishing for things that weren't natural—she was a Mudblood after all.
"Draco?" Daphne peered up at him, her sapphire eyes digging into him like Granger's tended to.
"Yea," Draco nodded slowly. They were so young, yet he felt so old—like he'd already lived a thousand lives, and was just in one out of a thousand more. He wished he could love Daphne; he wished he could bow at her feet and worship her the way she deserved. Hermione's laughter tinkled its way to him on the light breeze. "I'm okay," he let his forehead fall to hers, and closed his eyes, disgusted with himself and his desires. "We'll be okay."
When Draco was fifteen, Hermione Granger had been caught by Professor Umbridge trying to use the floo.
Draco hadn't known the reasons, but he'd seen the desperation on Hermione's face, and he'd understood that something important was going on. It wasn't until much later, when he'd had to attend his father's trial that he understood how important that night had been.
This may be the first time, but it will not be the last that you will be ensnared by them. But you must always remember that they are dirty, beneath us—beneath you.
"We must be strong, Draco," Narcissa said, her face a perfect stone. "There will be many looking to tear us down, now that we aren't in favor."
"Now that we're disgraced," Draco corrected in hushed tones. He couldn't look away—that was his father, his father, the man who'd raised him, and loved him all of his life, being carted away like an animal.
"We are only ever disgraced if we believe we are," Narcissa kept her chin lifted and her shoulders stiff. "No one can make you less than what you believe you are."
Her words rang truer than anything his parents had ever said to him, and in effect contradicting so many things they'd said to him.
As Draco had gazed into the demented eyes of his once graceful father from afar, he hated Hermione Granger with every fiber of his being. His entire body shook with the force of his emotions, because as despair gripped him and his father, he'd wondered if Hermione Granger would truly be okay from the encounter.
"Do you understand, Draco?"
"Yes," he gritted his teeth, trying to keep the images that swirled in his mind at bay—images of a life he hadn't lived, but yearned for, despite knowing she was the cause for his father's incarceration. "We are who we want to be."
When Draco was sixteen he let Death Eaters into Hogwarts. It'd been terrifying, and thrilling, and fucking horrible all at once.
Bellatrix's manic laugh, and Greyback's gleaming teeth seared themselves into his nerves, so much so that he couldn't stop shaking.
Draco disarmed Dumbledore so fast that he knew the old man had let him. Still, he wouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth, and he couldn't budge—his family's life was at stake. His own freedom was at stake, too.
"I have to do this," Draco pleaded silently for understanding.
"You're not a killer, Draco," Dumbledore said gently. They were the harshest words Draco had ever heard, because if he wasn't a killer, then he wasn't a real Death Eater, and if he wasn't a Death Eater at heart then he'd never be able to save his family.
Family above all else was the Pureblood way. If he couldn't do this, then maybe he wasn't a true Pureblood at all.
"I have to do this," Draco repeated; he repeated it like a man who'd lost everything, and had only the power of hope to sustain him.
"I know, my boy," Dumbledore said kindly. His hands were open, outstretched even, as if he could offer Draco some semblance of salvation and redemption if Draco would simply step forward. "Just know that there will always be a safe place for those who need it here."
What the fuck did that mean? It didn't matter, not when Draco's wand was already lowering. Not when the tears that had been burning Draco's eyes fell steadily down his cheeks.
He didn't see Dumbledore. No, he saw the person he hated most in the world. He saw Hermione Granger, in the place of Albus Dumbledore. He saw her sad eyes, and her open palms, awaiting him, offering him everything and nothing.
He'd been about to kill Hermione Granger, and though he hated her, fuck, he hated her, he just couldn't do it.
He couldn't do it, and he was so ashamed.
When Draco was seventeen, he'd witnessed Hermione Granger be tortured in his living room by his aunt Bellatrix.
He'd wanted to savor the moment, enjoy her pain. But her pain, someway, somehow, had become his pain too.
This was nothing like the time she'd punched him. This was heartbreaking, and distressing. Not her. Not her. Anybody but her.
Her screams penetrated any haze that had veiled him when he'd first seen them appear, captured, petrified, wondering if he'd lie for them.
He'd hated them for so long. His disdain knew no bounds. But he could never mistake those eyes. Those auburn orbs of hers that scratched at his chest like he had a demon that was being exorcized.
He had lied, and his father knew it. His father had seen them enough times to know, but he'd left the choice up to him.
This may be the first time, but it will not be the last that you will be ensnared by them. But you must always remember that they are dirty, beneath us—beneath you.
The memory burned him until he felt that he had been transformed and was now fiendfyre, and lost.
Her screams brought him back, and he was found in the mark upon her arm—the same arm as him. Mudblood.
He lurched, ready to help Bellatrix because he fucking hated her so damn much that he could barely breath. Or perhaps he lurched to pull Bellatrix off her, because her screams echoed somewhere deep inside of him.
Fuck, her pain was his pain, and he couldn't take any more of her tears. But Lucius' grip was firm on Draco's shoulders, stopping him.
He looked away, only to find his father staring at him with knowing eyes.
Not long after, the battle of Hogwarts raged like nothing he'd ever witnessed before. It was lightning and fire, death and enlightenment—oh, the students of Hogwarts were fierce in their power and prideful in their beliefs, despite whatever side they'd chosen.
But Draco wasn't prideful. He wasn't a rock in this storm. No, he was the ocean, changing every moment that passed. One second he was fighting Potter and her in the Room of Requirement, and then next second he was fighting alongside Neville Longbottom against Death Eaters.
It was war in its truest form, and Draco had never felt more alive. He'd never felt more afraid either.
He'd simply fought, friend or foe didn't matter. Not in a war where he wasn't quite sure whose side he was on. Not in a war where the entire time the words where is she, where is she had been playing in a loop in his head.
He tried to convince himself that he was searching for his mother, but when he spotted her at the front line—fucking suicidal Gryffindors!—the voice quieted, and he knew it wasn't true.
Finally, it looked like Potter had lost. Draco didn't really care, but as he was beckoned to the Dark Lord, and he passed by Hermione Granger's side, her gaze burned into him. He could feel her disappointment. He could feel her ache, and he fought the instinct to touch his own chest to make sure his heart was beating.
But as the Dark Lord's arm wrapped around him, Potter sprang up, and Draco's parents grabbed him—he could see the fighting resume around him. He could see all the beautiful lights of war, from spells, to charms, to curses, hexes, and unforgiveables.
The lights were beckoning him to them, to her, and he wanted to go so bad. But he saw her being shielded by Ronald Weasley, fucking Weasel, and he understood that she didn't need him. Like when she'd been dancing with Victor Krum, there was already someone there with her, fulfilling a ridiculous desire that laid inside of him.
"Draco," Lucius hissed, desperate to leave. "We must leave. Now!"
Draco couldn't respond, and his father, as all parents knew their children, looked upon him with sadness.
"She is not one of us," Lucius said regrettably. "The war may be lost, but that doesn't change who she is. And she isn't one of us."
Lucius and Narcissa had dragged Draco far enough away, that they weren't in any imminent danger of joining the fray, but they didn't have much luxury room to linger either.
"We are who we want to be," Draco repeated Narcissa's words back to his parents as he watched the war from afar; it went on without him, and it hurt that it had. That he'd been one soldier, among the many.
"Yes," Lucius looked at Draco, not with pity but with empathy. He'd been there too once upon a very long time ago. They were truly father and son. "I thought so too, but it is we, the privileged, Pureblood, that can be whoever we want to be. Not them. Never them."
Draco didn't believe him. Couldn't believe him. But then he saw celebration in the distance. He heard cries of happiness, and he knew that the war had been won, and he hadn't been a part of it.
He watched as Hermione Granger launched herself into Ronald fucking Weasley's arms, and his heart ached and burned—for her or because of her, he wasn't sure. Didn't matter.
Because Draco had never hated anyone the way he hated Hermione Granger.
He nodded, and they left, like drizzle on a sunny day, there and gone the next.
A love that could have been so great lost to the wind and the rubble of a destroyed Hogwarts.
When Draco was thirty-two, married to Astoria Greengrass (fuck, Daphne had been pissed), father to a blonde haired teenager named Scorpius—the light of his life, he sat across Hermione Granger, Deputy Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, and two other aurors, giving them his expertise on a certain ancient alchemy essay which could be potentially dangerous in the wrong hands.
As he detailed the meaning behind certain ancient runes that were no longer in use in modern magical Britain, he noticed that her wild hair had stayed untamed. He noticed that her eyes could still make him feel like he'd been punched in the gut.
She'd grown into her curves, and her lips were still dangerous to his heartbeat as she bit at them in concentration.
It was like running into a long lost memory, and realizing that it hadn't been as lost as he'd first thought.
As soon as he finished talking, Hermione started shooting orders as fast as she could breathe out the words.
Draco couldn't help the smirk that curved his lips.
They weren't who they'd once been. But he still hated her. He hated her like he'd never knew he could. Much more than he had before, though how those emotions could grow with time left him baffled. He hated that she'd gone almost to the top, despite her birth. He hated how beloved she was in the magical world, despite her blood.
He hated how she'd gone off and married Ronald Weasley—a shop owner of Weasley's Wizard Wheezes. He hated that she still made him feel that strange ache in his chest whenever he looked into her eyes.
She still made him feel like he had a heart condition, and perhaps he did.
Finally, Hermione turned her gaze on him, and started giving him orders as though he were an auror, as though he worked for the Ministry at all.
But strangely, a calm settled over him. It was as if she was accepting him into her world. And it felt good. Too good.
"Hermione Granger. I'm being bossed around by Hermione Granger—and I'm mildly enjoying it" Draco said astonished, and yet not.
He said it because…he'd always hated her. But to hate someone that much, you've got to love them that much, too.
Draco Malfoy couldn't love Hermione Granger. But he did love her. He did, and that would never change.
That too was a fact—the kind that tore at a person's soul.
"Chop, chop" Hermione clapped her hands at him. "Well, what are you waiting for?"
Say anything but the truth. Say anything but the truth.
The truth had always been such a dangerous thing.
She is not one of us, Lucius' words echoed in his mind.
Fuck it! Fuck it!
"Well?" she pressed in that annoying Granger way of hers. (He'd be dead before he'd ever call her Weasley).
"I'm waiting for you to hate me back," Draco said slowly, so damn slow that it took him a moment to realize he'd stopped speaking. His palms were sweaty, and his heart felt like it was going to explode. Fuck!
Hermione's face was etched in shock, then realization, then a small secretive smile that tore him down completely and built him right back up. She was magnificent, and he felt magnificent too. Because her pain was his pain, as it always had been. And her happiness was his happiness, even when he didn't want it.
I'm waiting for you to hate me back.
"I do." She replied softly. "I always have."
They both knew they were talking about love.
Soo, what do you guys think? Like it? Hate it? Let me know and Review! **Reviews are love**