À la Angelica Schuyler.
Not the kind of story I usually write. Sorry, y'all, this one's sad.
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The problem is that books and movies all make affairs out to be a romantic sort of thing. One party comes to the stunning and sudden revelation that they've been with the wrong person all along and everything just has a way of turning out perfectly, for the better.
The problem is that that's rarely how it works. The problem is that Hermione isn't that girl.
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When she went back to Hogwarts Ron didn't and Draco Malfoy did. It was a strange final year sans Harry and Ron, and even with all of them in counselling, echoes of the war still found a way to get in. It wasn't the first week of classes that Draco had come to her and, in his stiff, formal way, apologized for the torture she'd suffered at the hands of his aunt. He'd said he didn't expect to be forgiven but that he had wanted to make an effort, since they were sharing the castle for one more year.
To perhaps both Hermione and Draco's surprise, Hermione forgave him nevertheless. Gone was the Draco of the seven years prior, who sneered and whined and hid behind his two brute bodyguard-friends. The Draco of eighth year was on the whole soft-spoken, only quietly sarcastic, and—like a huge majority of Hogwarts students that year—weary.
The eighth-years had formed a new temporary House, as none of them had the energy for House spirit, and some of the younger students had joined, too. As Hermione heard it, the fifth House—never named, just "the fifth House"—persisted for years after all the students who had been through the war were long gone. It was a sad thing to look back on, the generations of students who had all been forced into a cruel world too soon, who were too shocked for friendly competition among one another. But since her friends and classmates had begun sending children off to Hogwarts, the fifth House had vanished. As far as any students at Hogwarts could tell nowadays, the war was a distant memory.
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Hermione has to steel herself for the trip to Platform 9¾. She knows she'll see Draco there—Draco and Astoria.
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The fifth House had its own commons, a place where Hermione frequently sat to study. She didn't like being within reach of younger students—she'd had problems with a girl-gang of hero-worshippers (a couple of Gryffindors and a Ravenclaw)—but she didn't much like being alone, either. Even though not a lot of the eighth-years lingered in the common room with her, just being in the place that they tended to pass through was enough.
One day she'd returned from class to see Draco reading in a large, soft chair. Something about it felt like a test—like she was being challenged. When he noticed her hesitating beside the couch, he looked up, then ducked his head and closed the book on his finger. "Pardon me," he said smoothly, standing to leave.
"Ma—Draco?" Hermione had forced herself to use his given name, to show that she didn't resent him still. He turned around looking surprised, his expression for once unguarded, as he tried to determine what she was on about.
"Ah, I just wanted to say—" Hermione searched for something that wasn't full of assumptions, that didn't cut at his pride—"er, that you're welcome to study with me, if you like. I'm… not exactly the best at potions."
Draco had narrowed his eyes at her, just slightly. "We just turned in our Potions parchment. There isn't another due for a month at least."
"Well, you know me," Hermione said, shrugging as she set her things down on the table in front of the couch, "I like to start early." When she looked up, Draco was still regarding her carefully.
"I'll keep that in mind," he said coolly, cutting his eyes to the chair he'd been occupying but then leaving the room anyway.
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The next time Draco had passed through the common room, he'd nodded politely to Hermione. "Granger."
"Malfoy," she responded pleasantly, and within just a few minutes he had come back with a book. Over that week he became a fixture in the common room, same as Hermione, and they'd even spoken to each other a little. A few more weeks that turned into a month and they actually worked together on assignments, gave book recommendations, made quiet sarcastic jokes as they passed each other in the halls. None of Hermione's other friends had come back for eighth year—no close ones, anyway—so it felt good to have an ally, however unexpected.
Ron was always busy. That was part of Auror training, of course, and he was also quite a bit frustrated by it. Despite what they'd been through, he still had some honing of his skills to do; and the fact that he had frequent examinations on various skills also upset him. He owled Hermione as frequently as he could, but there were some days they barely heard a word from the other; floo was often out of the question as Auror training was so discreet.
As it was, Hermione didn't have a lot to say to Ron as her eighth year pressed on. She had a lot of studying to do, a lot of extra work she gave herself that she felt she needed to do, and she was enjoying Draco's company. Of course the last part was something she couldn't share with Harry, and certainly not Ron. At first it felt odd, like she was keeping something from them—but on the other hand, they weren't likely to understand and would probably get upset if they heard she was spending time with him—even out in the open, in the common room. They had running jokes now. They sometimes took meals together in the Great Hall, when it wasn't too crowded. And when Hermione's fan club began to simmer down, they'd work together in quiet corners of the library.
Ron would just get upset if he knew she was friends with Draco, and Auror training was stressful enough. It was a good reason she had not to mention Draco, she confirmed to herself.
Except maybe that wasn't the only reason.
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Hermione knows her mind should be somewhere else. She shouldn't be thinking about him. She shouldn't be thinking about eighth year, after all the time that's passed. She's seeing her daughter off to Hogwarts, and Rose is just so dreadfully excited after all she's heard. Hugo is grumpy. Hugo is always a bit grumpy, and everything is as it should be, Hermione and Ron and Rose and Hugo and all of Rose's things on a trolley. Rose will be taking classes with Neville, and Neville is just lovely, and they'll be seeing Harry and Ginny soon.
Everything is wonderful. Their lives are stable. Their children are starting Hogwarts and she shouldn't know that Draco's son is starting this year too but she does. Once she saw it she never forgot the birth announcement—he'd be eleven now, too. His name is Scorpius.
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Hermione skipped the Yule Ball. Harry and Ron were far away on training—no contact—and she was feeling less and less okay about that. She loved Ron—she'd spent years loving Ron, not admitting it to herself but always knowing, but after just one summer of too much mourning and too much rest she'd been itching to get back to school, with or without him.
Now she wondered if that was a terrible choice. Separating the two of them. Not that she'd any desire to be an Auror, but—for all the love she had for Ron she'd never been more confused about him, not even when he'd dated Lavender. Before they'd parted for the school year they'd made plans—wild, dreamy plans that were wild in how normal they aspired to be, how they hoped to lead quiet lives: marriage ("But not yet!" Ron had squeaked, as if she was threatening him), a home, children.
It seemed so far away, now that all she ever heard from Ron was complaining. He'd stopped saying sweet things to her, as if he'd forgotten all the snogging they did over the summer. Some days he told her he wanted to quit and her heart sank. Some days she wondered whether it would be best for them to come into their own alone—to grow up first. It had gotten to the point that she'd pick apart every letter he sent, finding all the places where he revealed his immaturity. It seemed naïve how much he said he loved her when all she felt was that they were slipping away. And now all the Yule Ball reminded her of was the time he hadn't asked her, and that wasn't helping, either.
Someone in the fifth House had brought in a bunch of alcohol. A few of them went to the Yule Ball, especially those with lots of younger friends, but the leftover spoils were laid out in the common room on a large table with an enchanted sign that said "Free! No Tricks!" so Hermione had snagged something to mix with her pumpkin juice. In the past the sign would've given her pause, but now that none of the elder Weasleys were around—she refused to think their names, to think about the Battle—she believed the sign.
With the whole castle in the Great Hall, she tried for somewhere remote. The overlook on top of the astronomy tower seemed like a good choice, as it was open, drafty, and so far out of the way of the dormitories that she didn't suppose she'd come across any students looking for a quiet spot to make out. There were tons of spots in stairwells and behind statues—she'd come upon Ron and Lavender in most of them, back when that was a thing.
Another twinge. Bad idea, thinking of that.
She carried the ice-cold bottle of pumpkin juice all the way across the castle, never once opening it, so that by the time she was climbing the last few stairs she could practically taste it. It was, of course, her luck that the tower was already occupied.
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Once they pass through the barrier, Rose and Hugo are in awe and Hermione feels something warm swell within her. Hogwarts is a wonderful place, and Rose already loves it. She certainly hopes Rose will stay out of trouble better than her parents did—but with Voldemort gone, there doesn't seem to be too much cause for worry there.
The Hogwarts Express is gushing clouds of magical steam and there are trolleys and students and parents—friends—in every direction. Ginny flags them down, raising on her tiptoes as she waggles her fingers at Hermione, and Rose rushes to meet her aunt and uncle as Hugo grumbles along behind them.
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When Draco looked up, Hermione sighed wearily. "How about that."
"If I didn't know better I'd say you were following me," Draco teased lightly.
Hermione rolled her eyes and plopped down next to him.
"I thought you'd be at the Yule Ball," he elbowed her. He was also drinking, she noticed.
Hermione snorted. "And I was sure you wouldn't."
"Then you did follow me!"
"I didn't say that," Hermione scoffed, finally opening her pumpkin juice.
"Well," Draco replied. A long silence stretched out between them.
"Well?"
"Well here we are," he said simply, leaning back against a support to look through the opening into the dark sky.
The wind blew a huge gust and Hermione shivered, casting a few warming charms to add to Draco's. Draco hunched down next to her, moving the smallest bit closer.
"Bloody terrible night for stars," Hermione quipped, and they both laughed.
And the night crawled on that way—gusts of wind, warming charms, and the two of them inching closer and closer together until their arms were pressed into each other, until one couldn't move without disturbing the other. They talked in low tones with their faces close together—it was the only way to hear over all that wind. They took turns casting the warming charms. They spoke, hesitantly, about what it was like to be back in the castle after the war.
Draco, plied by drink, was surprisingly forthcoming. He didn't often talk of himself or his family, as he had when they were children; but now he spoke of how alone and frightened he'd felt, to be a Death Eater at Hogwarts. Not that he ever used those words—where Hermione had learned from Harry to say "Voldemort" outright, Draco wouldn't even speak the name of the organization, much less the master. And Hermione understood. Draco spoke of protecting his mother, of the way he'd seen his father slip away.
It wasn't as if it all just spilled out. The time trickled by slowly, and the wind blew, and half the time Draco and Hermione weren't even looking at each other at the same time—Hermione would still, listen hard, as he leaned closer and gave her the next halting sentence. "I was always afraid," he said once, and Hermione's heart broke, waiting for him to continue. When he didn't, she'd rested her head against his shoulder, like a subtle hug, and he'd dropped his chin to rest against her head.
And then it was late—much later. Hermione had awoken with her head pillowed on Draco's shoulder and she breathed deep, memorizing the scent of him: cologne like cinnamon and underneath a spicy evergreen soap.
She'd lifted her head, intending—well, intending without thinking. She was going to snuggle in. She was going to kiss his cheek. But as soon as she'd lifted her gaze he'd turned to look down at her, their faces barely centimeters apart. Hermione's heart jumped into her throat and she held her breath; she hadn't expected him to be awake.
Hermione took one tiny gasp of a breath and watched as Draco's eyes travelled down to her lips, ever-so-briefly: a universal sign for "I want to kiss you." She'd sat up then suddenly, her face burning, a red light flashing the name Ron in the back of her mind.
Draco cleared his throat delicately and schooled his facial expression back into a more neutral mask. "Granger," he said, looking away to reach for the bottle he'd brought up and hers as well, "I'm not myself when I'm drunk."
"Draco," she breathed, and his mask slipped as he turned his face to her, hope returning to his eyes. "Ah—no, I… I'm glad… you were here."
The tiniest smile crinkled the corner of Draco's eyes. "Walk you back?" he offered, and when they returned to the common room it was all Hermione could do not to sprint back up to her room to escape what she was feeling.
She didn't sleep. She didn't sleep for a few nights. She answered Ron's letters with completely boring details. She told him she'd skipped the ball, but not who with. She told him she was having trouble sleeping, but not why. She sent him words of encouragement, said she looked forward to Christmas. Even though that was a lie.
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Hugo isn't behind her anymore—he's several steps away now—and Hermione rolls her eyes, hanging back to collect him. As she reaches for his shoulder, ready to give him a good scolding, she just happens to glance up to see the Malfoys.
Draco isn't looking; he's bent down and speaking to a blonde boy who looks just like him—Scorpius. Hermione takes just a moment to observe his frame. Age has been kind to him, kinder than to Ron—he still looks thin and strong; his hair is still thick and longer than ever, gathered into a tail just at the back of his neck. It takes her breath away, seeing him again in real life, and for the life of her she'll never forget the way he smelled, the guarded way he smiled, the quiet vulnerability of that night during the ball. She darts her eyes guiltily toward Astoria.
Of course Astoria is already looking back. Her expression is cold, but her eyes warm slightly when they meet Hermione's. Hermione quirks the corner of her mouth, smiling back in the tiniest way, and already Astoria is looking back to her son.
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At Christmas Hermione had nearly left Ron. Ron was not having it. He'd had a complete meltdown—Harry said it was the stress, the training—and Hermione had blamed her candid wish to leave him on her own stress, her own desire to push herself too much, even though it was a lie. Ron spent a few days acting like he was afraid of her, like she was too delicate to upset, like she could disappear at any moment. She hated that. Some days she almost grabbed him and broke up with him properly, but then she remembered she was in his family's home, eating his family's food, spending a holiday with all but one of her best friends.
Every night when everyone retired to their bedrooms she'd think of Draco in the dark. She replayed the scene in the tower a hundred times, all with different outcomes. She wished with all her heart that he hadn't been so cautious. That instead of giving her a signal he'd just done it, had just reached out and kissed her and made the decision for her. And listening to the going-to-bed sounds coming from all directions in the Burrow, her guilt only twisted her stomach into tighter and tighter knots. She cried most nights, some mornings in the shower. She'd tear up at meals but steel herself until she had a better opportunity, until she was alone.
Hermione didn't want to lie to Ron. She was relieved that he never asked if there was someone else—not that he'd have believed it, anyway. But some days after, she wished he had. She wished he had asked, that she had told him. Maybe he'd have had the courage to do what she couldn't bring herself to do. –That, or he'd have gone out to fight Draco and probably gotten killed.
Back at school for the spring, she got letters from Ron more frequently. He was still stressed and still acted the tiniest bit as if she was some sort of time bomb—but she endured it. She gave herself benchmarks. She said, the next time he says this, I'll break up. The next time he does this, I'll leave him. Except most of those things never came to pass. Or when, once, they did, she couldn't find it in herself to end it. She'd cried instead, cried imagining how hurt he and his family and all their friends would be if she couldn't keep it together, if she couldn't keep them together.
And so she'd carried on, still spending all her time outside class with Draco. Other students started talking about them, but whenever someone got the courage to ask her she'd roll her eyes and decline to answer.
Draco was really very intelligent and dedicated to his studies now, and often they didn't even speak in the hours they spent together at their table in the library. They looked out for each other—Hermione might announce she was spending lunch in the library to look over her notes a teensy bit more, and Draco would bring her something wrapped in a napkin (bread, some cheese, an apple or an orange). Draco might mention he'd acquired a massive headache during their last course block, and Hermione would produce a vial of potion from her bag for the pain. A couple of times she'd even had to give him Muggle pills, which he regarded skeptically but without any further comment.
She noticed Draco never asked about Harry or Ron. She noticed she did everything she could not to acknowledge the existence of Ron to Draco.
When she crossed paths unexpectedly with Draco during the day, her heart would leap into her throat. She'd become a slightly bigger version of herself, one who always had something to say. She was flirting, but in her mind she called it friendly banter. She was falling, but she labeled it friends. Some nights she'd spend long minutes staring past the book she was reading, wishing that Draco could see into her mind, wishing she could push him to make a move. Please, she'd think over and over. Please, Draco. Don't make this my choice.
But after the night of the Yule Ball, he hadn't tried to kiss her again, hadn't mentioned it. It hung between them, invisible but huge. The proverbial elephant in the room.
Hermione still didn't sleep well. When she dreamed, it was silver eyes and white-blonde hair and cinnamon and evergreen; and there was no one to talk to when she awoke, no one in the world at all. I have Ron, she'd remind herself; but the first name in her mind when she awoke each morning was Draco.
One early-spring visit to Hogsmeade, Hermione was leaving her table at the Three Broomsticks when a few younger girls came to ask if they could have it. She was there to see Harry, but he'd had to cancel, so Hermione had enjoyed a little something alone as her emotions whirled around like a hurricane in her chest. Hermione recognized the girls—one was Daphne Greengrass's little sister. She was a Slytherin spending her free time with two Ravenclaws, and of the three girls she was certainly the most striking.
It was strangely intriguing to see a Slytherin with friends outside the House (Hermione's friendship with Draco aside). "I'm sorry, I feel like I should know you," Hermione said to the girl, curiosity getting the better of her. "Greengrass, right?"
"Astoria," the girl replied, nodding her head in a way that reminded Hermione that the Greengrasses were purebloods. Still, she also quirked her mouth up in a smile, Hermione heard no malice in her voice when she continued, "You're Hermione Granger."
It was that moment that Draco had chosen to walk up to her. Hermione was having a bad day—an emotional, guilty day. Nevertheless she'd turned to greet him, noticing how all the girls who had just seated themselves at the table suddenly sat up straighter.
"Friends of yours?" he inquired.
Her heart leaped, but not in a happy way. It was something like nerves, or intuition. Some kind of warning—that if she did this, there was no going back.
She had Ron, she told herself. She had Ron.
"Actually, I just met them. Draco, don't you know—" I have Ron—"Astoria?"
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Hermione grabs Hugo by the shoulder. "Come on now, dear," she says in that mothering way she's always had, "it'll be your turn soon."
They turn and walk down the platform towards Harry and Ginny. And Ron, and Rose, and their three cousins, and the lives they live now. Hermione practically feels Draco's presence, now yards behind her, and she keeps walking toward her husband. She doesn't turn to look again.
The problem is the movies don't show this part. The problem is it's a choice you make. The problem is you live like that every day after, wondering if you chose right.
Some days you're okay.
Some days you just know you were wrong.