I haven't written anything in a while, I know. I've been gone for a long time and I'm sorry. And I've never written anything like this before either, so go easy on me. I hope it's acceptable as I tried my very best! And I hope you enjoy it, as tragic as the story may be. Also, if the first part doesn't make much sense, I did it purposely so don't hate me too much!
I recommend listening to the song Ronan by Taylor Swift, as this is where the inspiration for this story came from. I also recommend reading up on the story behind it.
As usual, JK Rowling owns everything
WARNING: CHARACTER DEATH, SMUT
It was a miserable day and Hermione found it rather fitting given the current situation. The sky was overcast with dark clouds and she could hear, as well as see, the rain bounce off the wooden decking of the balcony from her seat by the open French doors of their bedroom.
This was the first time she had allowed them to be open from the moment her son had found his feet. Even during the hot summer months when Draco would complain that the room was suffocating and cooling charms just didn't quite cut it, she would refuse to have the doors opened. It had always been too much of a risk in her eyes as a mother.
Oliver Malfoy was a curious soul, much like herself. However, that inherent gene had not discouraged his father's disregard for the rules and the thought of her little boy getting within five feet of the balcony outside their bedroom door was enough to drive her insane with worry.
She would have given her heart and soul for such a simple anxiety now. To sit and worry that Oliver was going to cut himself on that pair of play scissors or bump his head doing somersaults off the sofa or trap his fingers in the car door.
It was all a memory now, of course. Because the reality was so much worse and oh, so much more painful and raw and absolutely heartbreaking that it could not possibly be real. It could not possibly be happening to her, to them.
No, she refused to believe it. Flat out refused. That was the easiest option. She was a Gryffindor taking the cowards way out.
So, she found herself sitting cross-legged by the open balcony doors of her shared bedroom with her husband of eight years, unseeingly staring at clouds and rain and nothingness. And she had to sit there, she dare not move, because if Oliver found his way into their bedroom, which was likely, all hell would break loose and she could not have him on that God damn balcony.
However, her concern ebbed at the reminder of her son's good behaviour over the past few weeks. He had been remarkably obedient after the incident in Diagon Alley and as a reward, Hermione had promised him that they would re-decorate his bedroom next month.
Thoughts of decorating were soon scattered when she felt somebody creeping up behind her. She smiled slightly, knowing the sound of those footsteps. She had come to learn them over the years and she was almost positive that she could recognise her husband's approach blindfolded.
Draco didn't sit, which was unusual, she thought. She turned and looked up at him as he stood behind her looking sombre and morose and she frowned slightly wondering what on Earth could have made him so miserable. It couldn't possibly be the same thoughts that had tormented her mind for the past six hours, because she had already come to the conclusion that that was a horrible nightmare and it was not real, it would never be real.
"You never liked these doors being open." Draco commented.
"Yes, well, maybe Oliver is mature enough to understand the concept of 'don't run off the balcony' by now. It's high time I put a little trust into my son, don't you think? You've always said so yourself."
"Hermione..." Draco said her name dangerously, a low tone. a warning.
He looked down at her, his frown deepening and she could have sworn she saw a flash of anger in his penetrating gaze, but shrugged the thought away. It wouldn't be the first time her husband had been in a foul mood for no apparent reason and she was certain it would not be the last. Her focus was on Oliver. If he couldn't snap out of this vile mood, then that was his problem, but she had their son to think about. Draco would come around eventually. He always did.
"So, I was thinking of taking Oliver to Diagon Alley this weekend. I said we'd go and have a look at the DIY shop. He's so excited about painting his room, Draco. Honestly, you should have seen his face light up when I suggested it! Although, I'm sure he will have mentioned it to you. It's not like him to keep quiet about something he's so passionate about." She smiled. He let out a shaky exhale. "Would you like to come with us? Oliver and I would enjoy the company. We don't spend nearly as much time together as a family as I would like. Also, I believe Oliver is in need of some father-son bonding time. It's been almost a month since your last Quidditch match."
"Hermione, please, stop." It was almost a plea.
"What in Melin's name is the matter with you? Do you have no interest in what I am doing with your son?" She cried. "For Heaven's sake, Draco, I hope you haven't been in this mood around Oliver. It isn't good for him."
"Hermione, Oliver is-"
"Oh! I almost forgot. I've booked in to have him measured at Madam Malkin's too. I want to order him a new winter cloak. His old one barely covers his knee caps and I don't want him getting a cold just as baby Potter is due to arrive. I know Spring is almost here, but you can never be too careful. Would you mind terribly if we stopped off there first thing? And I-"
"Granger, stop!" Draco growled, cutting her off mid-sentence and earning a glare in his direction.
"Where is Oliver?" Hermione asked, peering around Draco to see if their son had maybe fallen asleep on their bed. It had become somewhat of a bad habit.
"He's gone."
"What do you mean he's gone? Gone where?"
"Hermione, Oliver-" He swallowed the bile down in his throat and Hermione watched as he bit back the tears and she wondered what the hell he was going on about because Oliver was not gone. "He's just gone."
"Draco, stop talking nonsense!" She had risen to her feet by now, was beginning to panic, could hear her heartbeat pounding in her ears and all she wanted was to know where her baby boy was.
"He's dead."
She felt herself tumbling over the edge at his words.
"STOP!" She screamed, pushing past him. "STOP IT!"
"Where are-"
"Oliver!" Hermione cried out, making her way towards the bedroom door and waiting for that familiar head of platinum blond hair jump out from behind the bathroom door or the potted plant on the stairs. Only she was forcefully spun around before she could even step foot out of the room as Draco grabbed her roughly by the shoulders, preventing her from leaving.
"For fuck's sake, Hermione! Oliver is dead. He is dead! Gone! He died and you were there and you need to fucking snap out of this!" He was shaking her now, treating her as if she were nothing more than a rag doll. It was the first time he had become aggressive with her in any which way and her head was spinning with all of these thoughts that she could not bring herself to believe; the things he was saying could not be true.
She stared blankly at her husband, his face screwed up painfully and tears marring his beautiful face. Hermione had never seen him cry. Not when his rightful inheritance was taken by the Ministry, leaving him homeless and with not a knut to his name, not when his mother had abandoned him, not even when Lucius passed away. Not once in the eight years they had been married, not in the two years before that. It was a strange sight to behold.
"Hermione, Oliver is gone." He choked out again, bringing her back to reality. "He's gone. You can't go too. Come on, Hermione, come back to me. I can't lose you as well."
"No." Was her whispered response.
"Don't cry." He muttered then, pulling her into his arms and holding her tighter than she could remember him ever holding her before. His fingers dug painfully into her upper arms and she was certain they would bruise, but she didn't care. "I'm here. Don't cry."
She wasn't crying.
"No, no, no."
And Oliver wasn't gone. Draco was talking nonsense. He was tricking her. He was playing some twisted trick on her and any minute now her little boy was going to call out for his mummy to make him scrambled eggs in her special way and he would want a glass of milk with it, of course, and they would sit at the kitchen table together and she would watch him eat and he would turn to her with milk around his mouth and give her that signature Malfoy smile, not a smirk, a smile and his little laugh would just make her day and she would burst into fits of laughter with him as he began to talk about his milk moustache.
He was not gone. And he most certainly could not be dead.
"Why?" She hadn't meant to ask him that. "WHY?"
Draco continued to hold her to him as she screamed and cried and soaked his 100% Egyptian cotton shirt that she hated simply because it had cost him an absolute fortune whilst they were expecting Oliver. He did not flinch as she began to hammer his chest with her fists. He did not fight her. Draco simply watched his wife fall apart as the last thread of hope they had been holding onto turned into nothing.
And Draco thought back to that 1st July 2004, the weather much resembling the dismal state it did at present, as he and Hermione welcomed Oliver Malfoy into the world for the first time, a tiny white bundle in his mother's arms, lying atop a hospital bed in St. Mungo's. It was ironic that on that 3rd February 2008, as the rain fell hard and the clouds rolled in, he watched his only son fade away, exactly where their three year adventure had begun.
Oliver's funeral had been crowded. Such a young boy with such a big heart was loved by many and everybody wanted the opportunity to say goodbye. However, Hermione had never liked crowds. That day had been no different.
One more look of pity, one more reassurance of 'he's in a better place now', one more useless bunch of flowers and she would not be held responsible for her actions.
She had watched as her little boy was taken away for the final time, stood her ground and made it through the service with her heart in her mouth and tears in her eyes and then she and Draco had escaped to their home in hopes of peace and time alone to mourn him properly.
"You miss him." Draco had stated suddenly, out of no where, as they sat by the fire in their sitting room.
"No, I don't." She had replied without thought, her eyes pleading with him to understand as his had flashed with hurt.
Because he had to understand.
He would never understand.
"Missing someone is to acknowledge the void that they have left in place of where they used to be and to realise that nothing is ever going to fill it," Hermione continued, trying to explain herself to him. "Missing someone is to know in your heart that no matter how much you want them by your side, they won't be. Missing someone is to accept that it is over and that the person you love the most is gone and that you will never have another moment with them no matter how hard you wish for it."
"Hermione-"
"I can't accept that Oliver is gone, Draco. I can't accept that my son is dead. Because if I do, even for a second, I think it may kill me too."
There was a prolonged stretch of silence as the couple mulled over Hermione's words. The ticking of the Grandfather clock the only sound to be heard, echoing through the room that had felt so empty since the beginning of Oliver's absence.
Hermione watched her husband warily, noting how his gaze dropped to a small, plastic racing broom poking out from under the arm chair residing in the corner of their sitting room. It was the tiniest of things; a small part of Oliver's Falmouth Falcons Quidditch set that Draco had treated him to back in August.
Seeing the toy brought back memories of how he had received it in the first place. It had all begun when she had trampled two of Oliver's real-fire-breathing-dragon figurines that she and Draco had presented him with for his third birthday. He had, yet again, left them lying scattered over the hallway floor.
He had cried that day when she had informed him of what she had done, screamed the worst possible things his young mind could think up at her. He had even told her that he hated her as that was the one occasion where she had refused to replace the broken toys. She had asked him to tidy them away numerous times and he had blatantly disobeyed her. She had warned him of the consequences and had assured Draco that this was the only way Oliver was going to learn.
Of course, Draco hadn't listened to her either and it was no surprise when, the next day, she returned home from work to find Oliver playing happily with a brand spanking new Quidditch set in the middle of the hallway. She had never been left to ponder who their son took after most in terms of personality. He was her husband all over again.
Hermione wondered if such an insignificant piece of plastic had caused Draco to remember these things too. She studied him for a while longer, watching as his eyes remained transfixed on the little broom under the chair.
"I'm sorry." Draco confessed suddenly, his voice hoarse and cracked in places as his Adam's Apple bobbed up and down.
Her brows furrowed at his uttered words.
"Whatever for?"
He spat out a humourless laugh and the sound was bitter and cold to Hermione's ears. "For everything."
"Draco, you're not making any sense." She sighed, exasperated.
"I'm sorry that I couldn't save him. I'm sorry that I let you down and I'm sorry that I let our son down. I'm sorry that whatever I give you now isn't enough because he is gone." He swallowed again, somewhat nervous and overcome with emotion that he had been forbidden to share throughout his adolescent years, especially with her. "I am your husband and Oliver's father. It was - is - my duty to protect you both and I have failed. And I know that you can never forgive me. Fuck, I would never ask you to. However, I need you to know that I am so truly sorry for how things have turned out. Damn it, Granger, you are everything to me. You and Oliver were it. My life. And I've fucked it up, I know I have. And I don't know how to make it right. Fuck, Hermione, I need to make this right, and I can't. Shit, you have to understand that no matter how much I did or didn't say it, Oliver was- and you are- fuck!"
"Draco-"
"I'm so sorry." He choked out. "That day- I should never have let you go."
She shushed him then, locked her arms around his neck and brought his head down to rest against her breast. She held him there, like she would hold Oliver after a bad dream, running her fingers through his hair and letting her nails lightly scratch the surface of his scalp as she closed her eyes and rested her chin atop his head.
"It was never your fault." She whispered. "I love you. So much, Draco. There is nothing to forgive. It was never your fault."
Her heart shattered as she felt his shoulders begin to shake and he nuzzled his face into the skin of her throat like a wounded animal. She felt the moisture as it began to soak her flesh. She listened intently to his muted sobs and she only clung to him harder as if she was afraid he would disappear too and leave her completely and utterly alone. And, oh, how she willed herself to stay strong. Merlin knew she had to. Because this was Draco's time to fall apart. Not hers.
"We will get through this." She told him, an air of certainty in her words. "I promise you, we will get through this. For him."
He was in Oliver's bedroom again. Draco spent the majority of his time locked away in there now, whereas she could barely glance at the name plaque on the door without breaking down into inconsolable sobs.
After tossing and turning for three hours straight, Hermione had slowly given up on the idea of natural sleep. Draco was a big help in that department. His presence and warm body would often lull her off to a fitful sleep for three or four hours, never more than that. However, he had taken to spending many nights in Oliver's room, leaving her alone with her thoughts and her grief and her supply of Dreamless Sleep potions.
She didn't blame Draco, of course she didn't. Hermione was an intelligent woman and she understood that people dealt with grief in different ways. This was how Draco was coping and if it worked for him, who was she to contradict his methods? He had lost a son too. Sometimes she forgot that and she hated herself, absolutely despised herself, when she did. She was not selfish a person.
The trouble with Dreamless Sleep, however, was that it only worked for so long. Hermione found that she could only rely on the potion for a certain length of time before the effects stopped working on her.
Hermione had reached her limit three weeks ago.
And so, she found herself at one o'clock in the morning, standing on the landing at the top of the stairs listening to the light snores coming for her son's bedroom and imagining, wishing, that it wasn't her husband in there. But, that was silly. Because she knew it was Draco. Oliver never snored. And Oliver had not been in that room for nearly two months. He never would be again. Hermione knew this. Each time she reminded herself, it hurt a million times more than the last time the thought had crossed her mind.
There was one other source of comfort that she relied on in an emergency. Because there were times when she would go for days, even weeks, without sleep and she would feel herself slowly slipping into insanity. Oliver's stuffed Hippogriff, Charlie, always did the trick, sending her off to sleep for a couple of hours. The toy still smelled of him and it almost always brought on the waterworks, but it also managed to help her drift off.
Hermione didn't like using this method. She didn't want the sweet smell of her baby boy to fade, and every time she held the teddy to her chest, the scent that hit her senses became less and less potent.
However, as her mother had always reminded her, desperate times called for desperate measures. So, she blinked back the tears and gave into her guilty pleasure once more.
He had locked himself in the study again. This was the fourth time that week and it wouldn't have been so bad, Hermione thought, if only he wasn't in there for the length of time she knew he would be. The previous night, he had shut himself away almost as soon as he had arrived home from work. That had been five o'clock. She had fallen asleep before he had shown his face again, and was woken as he fell into bed beside her eight hours later.
It was risky, disturbing him whilst he was working on the case that involved their son's death. However, she countered, he needed to eat and she was convinced that he was losing weight and she could not live with herself if she allowed her husband to leave her too without doing anything about it. So, she found herself knocking tentatively on the door to their study, steaming plate of lasagne in hand, and making her way into the room. He was sat at the desk, head bent over a million pieces of parchment and she frowned slightly when he refused to look at her as she entered.
"I made you dinner." She announced, placing the meal on the desk before him. "It will get cold if you don't eat it now. I know you hate re-heated lasagne."
"Place a warming charm on it." Was his only reply, eyes yet to leave the text before him.
She lifted the plate up when he continued to ignore her, and put it down on top of the parchment he was currently reading. Her heart dropped as she witnessed the flash of anger in his eyes and he immediately grabbed the plate, tossing it onto the floor and inspecting the piece of parchment closely.
"You stupid bint!" He growled. "Do you have any idea how fucking important this is?"
"Draco-"
"NO!" He had slammed his fist down onto the desk and she had flinched slightly as the sound resonated around the otherwise silent room and his usually calm voice turned to screams. "THIS COULD BE THE ONE PIECE OF INFORMATION THAT HAS THAT SICK FUCK THROWN INTO AZKABAN! WHAT PART OF THAT DO YOU NOT UNDERSTAND?"
"You can't do this on your own, Draco, please! The Ministry-"
He bit out a sharp laugh and made his way around the desk to look her dead in the eye.
"The Ministry? Are you really that fucking deluded, Hermione?"
"They're doing the best they can." She had offered, trying her best to stay calm and composed in the face of his rage.
"THEY'RE DOING FUCK ALL! IT'S BULLSHIT!" Draco roared, spittle hitting Hermione's face as he nashed his teeth together and she watched him seethe. "OUR SON WAS MURDERED AND THEY'RE SAT ON THEIR IDLE ARSES WITHOUT A CARE IN THE FUCKING WORLD AND YOU STAND THERE AND TELL ME THEY'RE DOING THE BEST THEY CAN? ABSOLUTE FUCKING BULLSHIT, HERMIONE!"
"This isn't good for you!" She had yelled then, tears sprining to her eyes and fast making their way down her pale cheeks. "For us."
"And what about Oliver?" He had asked then, quieter than before, but she could see the anger bubbling at the surface. "What about what's good for our son, Hermione? Our dead child."
"Don't say that. Please."
Her resolve had broken and Draco could see it, but his anger was so far gone that he could not bring himself to stop.
"Why not? What's the matter, Hermione? Can't stand to face the facts? Our son was murdered and-"
"Stop!"
"-HE'S FUCKING DEAD, GRANGER AND THERE'S NOTHING WE CAN DO ABOUT IT!"
"STOP IT!"
"OLIVER'S FUCKING DEAD, HE'S-"
Hermione had slapped him then, hard enough to leave a red print of her hand across his face. And he had stepped back and looked at her, really looked at her, as she shook and cried, hysterical tears trailing down her cheeks and he knew he had truly wronged her this time.
"Hermione, I'm s-"
"It's not enough, Draco." She had managed to choke out, cutting him off, before turning and leaving the room in a flurry of tears and anger and hurt.
And Draco had cursed himself again and again, throwing his fist into one of the bookshelves and running his bloodied knuckles through his hair.
Two hours later, he had cleaned up the broken plate of lasagne, filed away the documents that had laid sprawled over their desk for the past three weeks and crawled into bed, wrapping his arms around his sobbing wife.
"I love you." He had whispered into her ear, fighting back his own tears and willing her to please, please, for the love of Merlin, forgive him, because he could not lose her too, not over this.
They fell asleep like that, his arms wrapped around her small frame as she cried herself into a fitful slumber.
Hermione did not speak to him for four days.
He did not enter the study again.
Draco went to court. Hermione didn't.
Endless times, she had stood before the hundreds of eyes of the Wizengamot to bring down yet another terrorist who still lived with their mind stuck in the dark days. Even after all these years, with Voldemort gone, every now and then there would be some magical folk who thought it was clever to continue his antics. There had been an attack on the Ministry at one point, over two hundred lives lost. Diagon Alley had lost the Leaky Cauldron two years ago. Hogsmeade now resided without a Honeydukes. Even after all this time, no one was safe, and it enraged Hermione to think that her son had to grow up in this world which was constantly at war with itself. But, each time, she would stand up and work against the forces whom wished to end the smidgen of peace they had found. Sometimes it seemed as if she, Harry and Ron would never be done saving the world.
And yet, this time was different. This time, it had been personal and the moment she had realised that she had walked into their trap, she had berated herself. She had shielded Oliver the best she could, taken curses and hexes and narrowly avoided death in an attempt to save her little boy.
There were killing curses cast that day, lives were lost, and yet she could only see Oliver. She could only hear Oliver, think Oliver, breathe Oliver. And still, it had not been enough. He had spent the last five days of his life in St. Mungo's as he fought hard to overcome the cruciatus that he had been hit with whilst his mother writhed on the ground alongside him.
No three year could survive an unforgivable that strong. Hermione had known that in the end.
She had given her statement, evidence against the monster who had taken her son away. But, she couldn't stand up in a room full of Ministry officials and have his eyes on her as she relived the moment Oliver was murdered. Hermione could not bare to be in the same room as that vile excuse for a Wizard without the feeling that she may just kill him too.
On 15th June, after a four month trial, Donovan Knight became subject to the Dementor's Kiss after being found guilty for the murder, manslaughter and torture of magical citizens without motive or reason and the use of all three unforgivables.
Draco and Hermione agreed that there had been no justice at all.
Knight's sentence would not bring their son back to them.
Oliver's fourth birthday came and went. Hermione could never have prepared herself for it, not if she had been granted all the time in the world.
Every tick of the clock hurt, her heart ached and the tears would not stop. She wanted her son. Needed him more than the air she breathed. And yet, he was the one thing she could not have.
She baked a cake, smothered it in purple icing because that was his favourite colour and placed four candles between the iced words: 'HAPPY BIRTHDAY OLIVER'.
That was how Draco found her five hours later; sat at the kitchen table, birthday cake covered in unlit candles and her head in the cradle of her arms as she sobbed into the wooden surface. Eventually, she brought herself to strike the match. Draco left the room. She sung a quiet 'happy birthday' and blew the candles out for her little boy.
She did not make a wish. She was no longer naive enough to believe it would ever come true.
Seven months had passed when Hermione eventually gathered the strength to enter her son's bedroom.
It was a Sunday, she remembered, and Draco had been called into work as his latest project came to an end. The potions lab that her husband owned often took up a lot of his time, but she was thankful that he had something that he was so passionate about to occupy his mind. She was also thankful for the time alone. But, she was proud of Draco. He had built himself up from the ground after he had lost it all. And with her job as the Head of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, her campaign work for S.P.E.W and his business, they had made a small fortune for themselves.
Of course, what money they had made had been spent on Oliver. She had always tried hard not to spoil him, had admitted to Draco that she did not want their son to mirror his father's behaviour as a schoolboy. But, it was difficult not to give your child the world when they asked for it.
Walking into the room, she had held her breath and wasn't quite sure what she was expecting to see. It was exactly how she had always pictured it, exactly how Oliver had left it on the last day she had watched him play here. But, oh, how it felt empty. She was frozen to the bone, stood by the door frame, and it was horrid. It did not feel like the room her son had grown up in. That room had always felt like home and it shocked her to find it any different.
But, it was the same. This was most definitely Oliver's room.
There at the end of his bed lay a countless array of books, both fictional and non-fictional, that she had read to him time and time again over the past three and a half years. Strewn over the carpet were his Quidditch figurines, stuffed teddy bears and the odd toy train that she had purchased for him on one of their regular visits to Muggle London.
And his wardrobe was thrown open, as was usual with her messy little man, clothes peering out at all angles and her eyes were drawn to the Hogwarts robes tucked behind the rest of his things. Draco had purchased them on the sly almost the moment Oliver had been born, had been so adamant that his son was going to be a Slytherin like his daddy. Hermione had almost put him into a hex induced coma when she had found the robes in their two month old son's bedroom a week later.
However, she could never bring herself to throw them away. She would never admit it to Draco, but she was just as convinced as he that Oliver would be sorted into his father's house. Her eyes drifted over the bottom of the wardrobe - a yellow pyjama top with a big purple dinosaur on the front, reading 'BARNEY' in big, bold letters. Barney the Dinosaur had been Oliver's favourite TV show and, by default, these had been his favourite pyjamas. She remembered fondly how his eyes had lit up when Grandma Helen had given them to him for his birthday. He had always insisted on wearing them, despite the fact that the trousers didn't quite cover his ankles any more.
Gingerly, she picked the garment up off the floor, bringing it to her face and inhaling tentatively. It smelled like him. Exactly like him. And it brought yet more tears to her eyes as she backed up towards the bed in the corner of his room and sat, holding the top to herself and squeezing her eyes shut. Maybe if she wished hard enough, she thought, maybe some miracle would bring him back to her. And she would give him a bath, which of course he would hate. Then, she would chase him. The pitter-patter of his bare feet across the landing would be like music to her ears. And she would gather him up with a big, white towel that would cover his tiny frame from head to toe and shield him from the nights' chill. And she would watch her son, filled with pride and love, as he tried his very best to pull on those pyjamas all by himself, ready for bed.
Hermione would treasure every precious breath they both took.
But, it wasn't real.
Reluctantly, she opened her eyes as the sound of shuffling feet could be heard in the distance and they settled on Draco as he stood in the doorway to the room, watching her as if she was about to shatter into pieces at any given moment. And, she thought, maybe she was. Because as she sat there on Oliver's bed, the cold material of his pyjama top twisted around her hands, she finally understood that her little boy was gone.
Halloween was hard.
She remembered the last Halloween they had spent together; her, Draco and Oliver. Surprisingly, it had been her husband who had insisted they take their son trick or treating now that he was old enough to understand what was going on. They had attempted it the year before, you see, when Oliver had been barely two years old and he had been scared senseless by the fancy dress they had encountered on their street.
Hermione had, understandably, been unsure. But, Draco had assured her that testing the waters would not harm the boy and if he enjoyed it, which, if he knew his son at all, he was certain he would, it would do him plenty of good. Hermione was certain that he just wanted to show Oliver off to the world. It would not have been the first time.
Although, she had to admit that, put together with that special smile, he looked no less than adorable in the little Falmouth Falcons costume that she had helped him to make. She had been unable to get him out of it for two days and it was in desperate need of a spin in the washing machine, however every time she tried to coax it from his body, he would kick up a fuss so loud that it was hardly worth it.
And so, reluctantly, she had armed Oliver up with a pumpkin shaped basket for his sweets and a tough warming charm on his clothes, and agreed to the night out.
Draco had been correct, much to her disdain, and at the age of three, Oliver had loved it. Hermione could recall how her heart swelled with pride as she watched her little boy run up and down the drive ways of the homes on their street, jumping up and down on doorsteps as he reached to ring the bell and then gave up and began to bang his tiny fists against the doors instead. She remembered how he would scream 'trick or treat' at the people who answered their doors, and the disappointment that would cross his features when nobody opened up, only to be replaced with the fierce determination she saw in her husband as he moved onto the next house. It had been the happiness moment of her life.
There would be no trick or treating this year.
Draco was sat on the sofa in the sitting room, listening intently to the Wireless he had become so attached to since Oliver had been taken away. He was miserable and Hermione knew it, but there was little she could do as she was in no better shape herself. Yet, she forced herself on a trip to the local supermarket as the evening drew nearer and arrived home with a few packets of sweets.
Now, she stood by the front door, bowl of treats in hand, and waited for the next group of children to knock on their door.
The bell rang, cutting through the silence of their home and making her jump slightly, which was a sure sign that an adult was on the other side of the door accompanying their child. Hermione opened up, plastering the best smile she could upon her face as she looked down at the little girl who barely came up to her knee caps. Blonde hair, big blue eyes and a pair of glittering fairy wings on her back. She couldn't have been any older than Oliver had been the year before.
"Trick or treat!" She sang.
"Remember to get as much as you can!" Hermione said, watching with a heavy heart as the little girl dipped her hand into the bowl of goodies.
"What do you say, Anna?" She gave a small smile to the girl's father who was stood protectively beside his daughter
"Thank you!" She chirped up at Hermione, the pink mask she wore falling over her eyes and causing her to squint uncomfortably as she adjusted the costume.
"You're most welcome." Hermione replied. "Happy Halloween, sweetheart."
Then they were walking down the garden path, the man taking hold of Anna's hand as she tried to rifle through the bulging bag of sugar held in one hand. And all Hermione could see was Oliver and herself and what was and what should have been and what they would never have again.
It wasn't fair. She would never get over how truly unfair it was and how life had dealt her such a cruel hand. A she was angry and she understood why Draco had locked himself away that night. She was half tempted to join him. Because it should have been them freezing their arses off in the chilly Autumn air, worrying about which way their son was going to run off to next and knowingly dreading the thought of getting a three year old on a sugar rush off to sleep at two o'clock in the morning.
Taking a deep breath, she watched the little girl and her father leave the garden and she closed the door, leaning her head back against the wood. Oh, how she wished that had been her. She would have given her soul to feel Oliver's hand in hers once more and she would have given anything to stay in the moment forever.
But, that moment was gone. And so was he.
Christmas came around quicker than Hermione and Draco would have liked. The days dragged and time seemed to stand still, and yet the world carried on. The festive season was proof of that.
Hermione would have rather liked to meet the person who had once said that time heals everything and, quite frankly, punch them in the face. Because as Christmas Day drew nearer, she could have sworn she had never ached for Oliver more.
She had dragged Draco Christmas shopping one day in early December. He was hesitant and she didn't blame him, because so was she. But, they still had family and friends to buy for and time would not skip Christmas Day, no matter how hard they wished. So, she spent the majority of her day gathering gifts from Diagon Alley and ticking names off a list and trying her damned hardest to get into what little Christmas spirit she could muster.
It was when they entered Oliver's favourite toy shop that it really hit home. She had only brought them here to purchase something for little Lily Potter, when she had laid eyes upon a training broom floating just above their heads. She had spun around to look at Draco, her eyes alight with glee as the question rose to her lips.
"Do you think Oliver would like one for Christmas?"
And Draco had given her that wavering look mixed with pain and pity and she had remembered and brought her hand to her mouth as tears sprung to her eyes, blurring up her vision.
Her feet had carried her from the shop almost instantly, her legs giving way as she fell back against the glass window outside and she did not bother attempting to stop the sobs from racking her body. Merlin, how could they do this? How on Earth could they be expected to carry on as if their child was not dead? How could the rest of the world be so unaffected by something that had changed their lives forever? Draco followed close behind her, and there and then, she knew that she would never overcome that gutting sense of loss.
"I f-forgot." She choked out, face twisted in agony as the reality washed over her for the nth time that year. "I r-really forgot, D-Draco. He- He would have- Oliver would have-" She was unable to finish her sentence, but Draco knew. He knew that this would haunt them both for the rest of their lives and nothing would take the pain away. So, he pulled her up and wrapped his arms around her shoulders as she cried into his winter scarf and swiftly apparated them back to their home.
They never did finish her Christmas shopping that year.
"I hate your eyes." Draco confessed one night as they lay together, tangled up in the bed sheets.
His words did not shock her, she understood why he was saying them. She often felt the same way about him.
"They make me remember him, Hermione. The way he would look at me with them eyes whenever he wanted something and I would give into his demands without a fight or a care in the world. I hate having to look you in the eye some days." He continued, fingers running through his hair which was a sure sign that he was distressed. "But, how can I ever stop looking when I love you both so much?"
"You can't." She had answered simply, fingering a strand of blond hair and he didn't miss the look of pure longing that had crossed her gaze as she did.
He had leaned over and kissed her then, so fiercely that she was stunned by the act. She did not fight him. No, she had never pushed him away, never would. She kissed him back with equal fervour, all lips and tongue and teeth. And it was desperately raw, it had been so long and she needed this.
Hermione hummed into his mouth with contentment as his body covered her own, skin on skin, her arms wrapping around his bare torso to lightly trail her fingernails down his spine. She smiled slightly when she felt him shiver and he held her tighter as he deepened the kiss even more so than before, hands gliding over her stomach towards her breasts. He took one into his hand, palmed it expertly and rolled her nipple between his thumb and forefinger until the nub hardened to a sharp peak, resulting in a delightful moan on her part. He repeated this with the other breast and by the time he had finished, she was breathing heavily and he watched, mesmerised, as her chest rose and fell.
Wantonly, she lifted her hips off the bed, desperate to feel that friction she desired so much, but his boxers were in the way and her knickers dulled the sensations down to a minimum. She could still feel his hardness against her soft centre, however, and she craved the feel of him now more than she ever had. It had been too long.
Again, he claimed her mouth and ever so slowly, deliberately, he edged his way towards her underwear. She whimpered slightly, a plea for him to please not tease, not tonight. Heeding her warning, he hooked his fingers around the band of elastic at her hips and gently rolled her knickers down her legs. Raising himself onto his forearms above her, he watched with a hungry gaze as the material graced her thighs, knees, ankles and finally landed on the floor somewhere to her left.
Alas, patience was not something that Hermione prided herself in as her husband did so himself and she proved this by practically ripping his boxers from his body. Her eyes narrowed at the boyish grin that flashed over his features as she stroked his ego, but she reached out to lightly grasp his straining erection and the expression fell, replaced by a gasp and aching need. She stroked him once, twice, and then he was reaching down to pull her hand away and she looked at him quizzically.
"I won't last." He answered her unspoken question.
He looked almost apologetic and she was about to say something to him, but he leaned down to suckle at the sensitive skin of her throat, just beneath her ear and she became lost in the sensations. He knew how to make her lose it and she praised the heavens that he did as he lightly bit at the spot, causing her to let out a sharp gasp and dig her nails into his upper arms harder than before.
Feeling him settle himself between her thighs, the head of his member bumping her entrance, she wrapped her legs around his hips, locking her ankles together at his lower back and raising her own hips once again. He looked at her, eyes dark and lidded with desire and she made a noise at the back of her throat that was almost a growl as she reached between them and lined him up.
"Now," Her voice was hoarse and he nipped at her earlobe as he pushed inside her with one smooth thrust.
They both groaned at the long lost feel of him buried inside her. Unsurprisingly, their passion had dwindled after losing Oliver and moments like this were scarce, so Hermione cherished them twice whenever they occurred.
Draco began to rock his hips in purposeful patterns, and with each thrust and slide she would gasp and hold onto him a little tighter still. He kept his head buried in the crook of her neck as he pistoned in and out of her, aware of nothing but the feel of his wife wrapped around him in this way.
It was all for her.
Hermione begged him to go faster, harder, and he complied without hesitance, reaching between them to circle the sensitive bud between her thighs as he felt her tighten around his length. He pulled back to watch as her mouth hung open in silent pleasure, nothing but the slap of flesh, her small gasps and his grunts and groans filling up the otherwise silent room and he felt his self control ebbing away faster than he would have liked.
"Come for me, Hermione." He had begged, sweat dripping from the tangles of his fringe as he bent down to capture her lips once more. "Let go."
Faster, harder, three more thrusts and she was done. She clung to him as every muscle in her body seized up and began to quake, fingers digging into his flesh, surely leaving marks as she once again ran her nails along the skin of his back. White spots clouded her vision and she was only half aware of him as he looked her dead in the eye as she came apart.
His thrusts became erratic, hips losing their rhythm and his brow furrowing as he concentrated purely on finding his own end. She felt him stiffen, his muscles tensing beneath her sweaty palms and she gently tugged at his hair as he, too, came undone, moaning her name over and over into the skin of her throat.
And then he was crying and she was clutching his head to her as he nuzzled into the juncture between her neck and shoulder, curling her fingers around the short strands of hair there. She allowed her own grief to take over her too, with him still buried inside her, and thought it almost funny that she really had never seen her husband cry throughout those past ten years, seeing as the tears were now becoming the only sense of normalcy they had left.
On the date that marked the one year anniversary of Oliver's death, Hermione did nothing. She did not go to work, did not get dressed, did not even get out of bed. She and Draco sat together, talking about their baby boy who she so desperately wanted back with her, with them, where he belonged. Hermione did nothing but relive the memories they had left in place of their son.
"I remember when he used to make that God awful squealing noise when you tickled him." Draco whispered, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
"I remember when he flooded the bathroom." Hermione added.
"I remember him jumping on our bed at half past four in the morning. I never did wake up for him. It was always you. You didn't speak to me for a week after we argued over that."
"You deserved it."
"Maybe."
"I remember when he cut up your Quidditch Weekly magazines and you sat him on the naughty step for over an hour."
"Those magazines were expensive." Draco chuckled.
"He never went near a pair of scissors again."
"I remember when you played hide and seek with him and completely lost it when you couldn't find him. You had Potter and Weasley out looking for him. You even got me home from work early to tell me our son was missing, only to find him curled up in the bathtub fast asleep half an hour later."
"He scared the living daylights out of me." Hermione sighed, her heart sinking and a frown gracing her features once more. "I'd give anything for him to be curled up in the bathtub now."
Draco sighed in defeat.
"I know you would."
One week later, Hermione sat atop the closed toilet seat, watching Draco intently as he leaned back against the porcelain sink across from her and gnawed at his thumb nail subconsciously. She tapped the plastic stick against the palm of her hand, taking comfort in the quiet slap, slap, slap, as she counted the seconds inside her head, eyes never leaving her husband's face.
Ten, nine, eight...
She bit her lip, hard enough to draw blood and the tangy taste was almost refreshing as the sheer enormity of the situation made her mind go fuzzy.
Seven, six, five...
Draco moved onto the other thumb, apparently having had enough of the one he had been working on previously.
Four, three, two...
Hermione inhaled deeply and met her husband's wide-eyed gaze as she turned over the stick in her hands and glanced down.
One.
"I'm pregnant."