Draco Malfoy:
I accept who I am; I'm the bad guy.
A disappointment.
A lonesome convict of my own failures...
Who am I? A mannequin of my shame. A selfish drive.
Two years since Hogwarts. Neutral.
Two years since conviction. Evident.
Two years since rapture. Vacant.
Is it to matter in how I feel, or to ever felt? To ever feel fidelity in either bliss or yearn?
Has it ever mattered in the first place? Have I only been a product and slave to my name and blood?
Two years, and I'm the chosen one. Supposedly. Brought by a compromised settlement that will result me into a one-way ticket home. That is, if I ever wanted to go there.
There's no home, I think to myself. Not after Azkaban.
Prisoners escape, and now it's my job to find them at all ends. They don't care of it's dangerous, it's the Muggles. The identity of all magicry all compromised. Gripping within their pathetic palms.
Strolling along the dreary streets of London, I find myself pondering and strayed. Not too far, I swore I've laid my eyes upon the brightest source of elation and pry.
Granger. Mrs. Hermione Weasely. Sitting within those cafés.
Not too far, I think to myself.
Not too far, was the greatest fondest I have once long endured. To watch her was a distant street dream that can only fade back to reality.
Hermione Granger:
It's been two years, I thought to myself sipping a cup of tea in a Café with Ron.
Two year ago was the great end of an adventure, and an onset to another. The fall of Voldemort to the fall of all joyfulness left within me.
The memory seems so clear to me, to see our names and faces displayed on the Wizarding News.
Ronald. Harry.
And, there was me, the mudblood. A muggleborn, I suppose they're not wrong, but I was never fond of the idea of being remembered that way. I didn't mind too much… They did say I was "the bright witch of her age".
Ron and I had finally married, but for only about six months and it wasn't at all delightful as I once imagined.
I starred out the window glazed with frost, watching others go among with their lives. As muggles they are, their lives must be more magical than mines at this given moment.
My eyes eventually come across a well-dressed bloke: a dark frock coat and platinum blond hair. His hands are in his pockets, so I notice he wore a black suit underneath. I'm not quite sure how long I've had been starring, but I eventually find him starring back at me. The face was hazy, but familiar.
"Don't stare, you twit." Growled Ron.
I gripped my hand beneath the table, refusing to look at him.
"You stupid little bitch…." He grumbles.
"Ronald, not here… please." He rolls his eyes and shakes his head anyways. Within seconds, he storms out.
Marrying him was a mistake.
Draco Malfoy:
I couldn't see much. Not from here.
But, just as I feared, I catch her gaze. Torn between fleeting and remaining, I knew I had other things to do, rather than just pondering and gleaming over beauty. I am in doubt she is the same.
A family, children, a job, and Weasely.
I walked away, assuming she turned to look at that very spot I stood. I hoped that once her eyes met there, she'd forget it all. That maybe what she saw was nothing, nothing but a product of her imagination. The product of an unkind remembrance of a volatile being she once knew in Hogwarts.
I wish you well, Granger... Mrs. Hermione Weasley.