Title: Countdown.
Author: paraphernaelia // espieglerie Rating: G.
Summary: Draco needs Hermione to let go.
Warnings: This story is set after HP&TDH, if you have not read the seventh book, you will be in for some definite spoilers. But some parts of the epilogue in DH have been disregarded and changed to my liking. Er. This could be a tearjerker? Not sure, it's up to you to decide.
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, JK Rowling, Warner Brothers and et cetera, own him as well as the rest of Potterverse. I only own my story and the parts I have created from somewhere in my brain. No copyright infringment is intended.

.x.x.x.

It was New Year's Eve, or rather; it was almost New Year's Eve.

The flat was decorated with faerie lights, draped over window sills and door frames. The nymphs glowed brightly with an ethereal effect, that made the atmosphere much nicer than it was in reality. Green champagne bottles, empty or still filled to the brim, were saturated with cooling charms, to keep them cold. Housed in a silver cauldron in the middle of the parquet flooring, the flow of the effervescent alcohol never ceased. Over the gray marble counter, silver trays filled with light hors d'œuvres lingered. Several cheeses, bruschetta and crudités specially prepared were being devoured by the second. Other than that the flat was kept dark, besides the faerie lights were floating candles that remained lit all throughout the night.

Despite how beautiful the night appeared to be, the silver, the lighting, the moonlight and the mood, her heart beat wildly inside her chest, forbidding her to enjoy any of this.

Her hair was a dark caramel colour, slightly curled, that fell until halfway down her shoulders. The locks that were once vibrant and springy now seemed tame and lifeless. Held together with chignons and hairpins, she almost sparkled. She was never described as the slender type, but she was never on the heavy side either, many would describe her weight as the ideal one. Her face was ashen, almost hollow looking; it never regained the life it once had, since the war. With eyes the colour of toffees, they seemed to lack the bright lights that once shone from them, but she refused to let her emotions get the best of her. That was not the Hermione Granger people knew. The night was surprisingly quiet; the music a slow jazzy blend of dynamics and notes lingered in the almost-spring breeze. Only few people had come, she had invited the ones that she felt mattered.

The war had taken many from her, and perhaps taken a part of her as well. There were small groups of people near her, either sitting on the carpet, fiddling with the details on the cushions or sitting on the chairs, talking with the ones they loved. She envied these people; they seemed to have gotten over the losses they faced, or the simply chose to ignore it, and simply dwell in the fact that they still had something.

"Hello you," A voice disrupted her thoughts; a hand brushed away a stray lock of her hair, and stroked her cold cheek.

Her skin flushed with a kind of warmth she had not felt for a long time. She shivered. He kneeled in front of her, without any effort to maintain his balance. Those years on his broom as a seeker had done him well. Her eyes met his, the warm blend of emerald and brown. His famed eyes that reminded her and everyone else in the wizarding world of Lily Evans Potter, yet his charcoal hair, served as a standing memory of his father, James. She smiled at him, not truly meaning it. He could tell. The orbs searched her face with a force.

For what? She didn't know.

She had remained close to him, they needed each other. Ron hadn't survived during the war, a great tragedy to the Weasley Family as well as to both Harry and Hermione. However, as though it were pre-planned, Harry married Ginny after the war; it seemed logical, so obvious that they would eventually wed. They had three children: James, Albus Severus and Lily. Hermione couldn't help but be envious of their perfect family, their perfect lives. She almost had that, she could have. If only she had blocked the killing curse that was spat from that vile mouth of Thorfinn Rowle, one of Voldemort's loyal followers. She had never forgiven herself for that. He had killed Ron, hitting him square in the chest; she couldn't help but feel partially responsible. Despite the comforting she had received from Harry, Ginny, the Weasley's, she still felt guilty. For years she woken, early in the hours of the morning, plagued by nightmares that played the scene of his death a countless number of times. But Ron wasn't the only person she had lost, she had lost many, but one stood most prominent from them all.

"Hello Harry," she sat down on the warm carpet, next to him, her legs touching his. He offered his glass of champagne, nodding, she had a sip. The sweet, bubbling liquid tickled her tongue, and proceeded to do the same to her throat.

"You aren't enjoying yourself," he said quietly, as her ran his hand through his hair. He peered into her eyes, the amber pools, still beautiful, yet somewhat monotonous. She didn't have to answer, biting her lower lip. Harry knew that Hermione had only loved once. Despite the many moments she had spent with Ron during the time they spent looking for horcruxes and months before that, it didn't seem as though it were enough. Hermione had cried during the nights he left, not to mention when he died in the war. Their relationship lasted months, perhaps close to a year. In the end, Ron and Hermione did end their relationship in the worst way possible - Ron had died. Hermione never got the chance to say goodbye, to do it properly, to leave it off as friends. After that, Hermione never set her eyes on anyone. Harry knew she still felt remorse for Ron, but she had to let go of that. She needed to, she wasted years, almost a decade, dwelling upon the past.

"It's hard." She said suddenly, interrupting Harry's train of thought. "To think about what was, and what could have been." Harry drank from his glass, and swallowed.

He knew that she hadn't meant Ron. Before they had started their seventh year, Ginny told him that Hermione had been pursuing a relationship with Malfoy during their fifth and sixth year. He then knew why she was so distant, why she wore those smiles on her face, she had never been happier. He understood why she would have kept it secret, after all those theories of "Malfoy-Is-A-Death Eater", but in a sense, he felt betrayed. Harry knew he wouldn't be able to handle it then, saying she was mental, but she was so happy then, maybe he could have let it slide. The relationship had eventually ended with the death of Dumbledore, Hermione never saw him again. Ginny said Hermione cried for ages, never realising that he could be so ruthless, be so much like his father. Hermione thought he had genuinely changed, he did not. He had almost killed Dumbledore, yet did not, she was glad for this. Draco wasn't completely a murderer.

Harry remembered that last year, during Albus Severus' first year of school, what had happened at the platform. Malfoy had come there, with his son, Scorpius Malfoy, his wife absent. Malfoy married Pansy Parkinson, not a surprise at all. After he greeted them, a few feet away, with what could only be distinguished as a nod; Harry noticed his face whiten slightly, just like it had before he had inflicted Malfoy with Sectumsempra. Looking to Hermione, he saw her turn away, and nervously fiddle with the buttons on her cardigan. She had refused to acknowledge his presence.

"Have you spoken with him?" he asked suddenly, curious to see if she had still remained in contact with him.

She hesitated slightly, her forehead wrinkling, an action which she did when she was about to vacillate or when she was in deep thought. Wiping at her face with the side of her hand, she finally answered. "Yes, one or two times." Harry remained quiet, and Ginny sat next to Hermione, her red hair fluttering in the air.

"He's happy. So happy with his son, his wife, his family," confessed Hermione, eyes watering slightly. Harry reached for her hand and squeezed it tightly.

"Hermione, we're always going to be here... All of us, we're all here for you," Ginny smiled in agreement.

"I know, and I love all of you for that, but it's not the same," she replied, her voice cracking. Ginny put her arm around her shoulder. They sat there, not speaking for what seemed like ages.

Hermione did not cry, she wouldn't let herself be dragged that low. Her tears clung to her eyelashes, but they wouldn't fall. She heard the doorbell, the sound filling her ears.

"Harry can get it, Hermione,"

"No, it's alright... I'll get it myself,"
She stood, fixing her burgundy cocktail dress as she did so. As she walked to the door, her heart pounded, it ached badly and her skin was flushed. A part of her wished he were here, saying that he wanted what she wanted as well. Saying the words that she had said once, the words that had the ability to destroy things completely or change them for the better.

"You can't do this, not without me, not without my help," she cried. Her face was red in frustration and concern. Why did he have to do this alone?

"You don't understand, Hermione. I have-,"

"Then tell me. Explain it to me. I've covered for you, telling them that you're not a Death Eater," she paused, exhaling sharply, "Then what do I find, on your arm, on your skin..." trailing off, she touched the inside of his arm, tracing the grotesque green design, placed there.

"I don't want to hurt you, Hermione. If I could, I would change things..."

"Draco, please... I love you." He flinched as she said the words, and turned away. She looked at him, fearing that this was the last time she would ever see him alive.

"I-I can't love you." He said it, barely, a hoarse whisper escaping the lips that she regularly trapping her own. Crumbling to the floor, she stared hard into the fire, barely hearing the portrait close.

She shook her head, thinking about herself at sixteen. The memory made her recall how painful things were, painful but wonderful at once. She never knew it could be so hard. That memory influenced the part of her that never wanted to see him again. Those words stung badly, she couldn't retaliate at all, and she felt empty. She still felt that way now.

Yet she felt herself go back. The times when they would study in silence, watching each other, or lying on the floor, tangled in a thick blanket during the winter. And going back to when he would always come to her door and see if she fancied a mug of coffee. She opened the door, her hand, clammy and sweaty, gripping the handle.

Draco was here.

Her eyes fixed the steely, light grey orbs that were like a fog. He had grown older; misery was visible in his expression. His hair was long, long as it had been during their sixth year.

"You. Why are you here?" she could not help her tone of bitterness. She wanted to scream at him, hit him even, for what he had done. Yet she wanted to kiss him, to hug him, to make love with him once more. She needed him. She needed a start, and she felt that being with him could achieve that.

"Hermione,"

She looked up at him, as she registered the sound of her name, not her surname, coming from his mouth. Draco couldn't think at that moment. He didn't know what to say, he could not decide. He had a family, a wife that loved him, a son and a chance to live after being a Death Eater. A new start, erasing the horrible things he had done, the horrible things he had witnessed. But he wanted Hermione still. He wanted to be like it was when they were sixteen. But most of all, he wanted her to be happy; regardless of whether they were together or apart, he wanted her to be happy; he wanted her to truly live and to mean it. He wanted her to mean it when she smiled, to mean it when she laughed.

"I..." That was all he could manage.

"It's starting!" called a voice from inside.

The countdown had begun. Hermione turned, her eyes blazing with anger and sorrow, to the people who crowded by the window.

"You what? You've no idea of what I have gone through. You've no idea what I've lost, what I can never have back."

Ten.

"I do know. I do understand. I know you're better than this, Hermione. The Hermione I once knew would never bury herself under piles of work to hide from what she has to do."

Nine.

"Well, that Hermione is gone. You took that part away from me, years ago."

Eight.

"There are things that I wish I never did, things that I wish never happened... But you cannot make me regret my marriage or my family."

Seven.

Hermione nodded, words climbed up her throat, but she couldn't bring herself to say them.

Six.

"Please Hermione, do this one last thing for me, let go. You need to. We can both see how it's tearing you apart." He raised his hand, stroking her face, her cheek, so cold. "How it's tearing me apart."

Five.

"I-I... I can't. God, I love you." It finally came out.

Four.

"I know, and Merlin, I love you, I still do... But I have a family, I have a son... And, you can't possibly fathom how hard it is for me to remember what we both were, how you used to grin, how you used to be so happy..."

Three.

"I can fathom that, living in the past hasn't done me well... For you, I'd let go of it..."

Two.

"You have to..."

He kissed the tears that fell on her cheeks, his actions making her cheeks glow. It was hot where his lips touched her skin. Her arms eventually enveloped him in a hug; he didn't stiffen, but returned the act. He kissed her forehead. In all of a sudden, he withdrew and left, not glancing back. Hermione watched as he disappeared down the corridor of doors. She could hear the people laughing inside, as they all cried:

One.

Their gazes lingered on the muggle fireworks that sent lights through the darkened interior of the flat. She stood there, her eyes staying on where he stood, listening to the cheers inside when all she wanted to do was cry alone. She wanted to pretend she could do this. Maybe she could, in time. But she couldn't help herself, as tears fell from her eyes, glittering in the light, the she could feel it. Like a heat and ice spreading through her body, she could feel the weight slowly lifting off her heart.