I had gone with Astoria to Platform 8 ¼ to see her off on the Paris Express shortly after Scorpius left for school. I was wandering aimlessly, now, through Kings Cross station. Wandering amongst the muggles as I had become used to doing. It was refreshing, sometimes, to be among people who had no idea who you were.
Astoria Greengrass and I – we were compatible. We both suffered under the same burden of Purebloodism. Our families were wealthy and our blood lines were pure. We were expected to carry on the tradition. In pureblood culture, love and marriage have nothing to do with each other.
My mother Narcissa was a Black – the oldest and most noble bloodline in England. My father was a Malfoy – the wealthiest and most respected. They were considered a perfect match, and they produced the requisite pureblood heir – namely me. Astoria had an identical background. The best purebloods did. The story of Scorpius Malfoy would be no different.
My marriage had been a lonely one. Astoria had her own friends, her own life and I had mine. I had hoped at least to have some sort of connection to her, some sort of deep understanding like what my parents had. My father told me that my wife didn't need to be my only source of comfort. He confessed his infidelities and my mother's indiscretions. It was a truth I wished he'd never told me, yet it was path I seemed destined to walk. I would lie in bed at night imagining that I was eleven years old again, that I could do it all over again. I dreamed that I had made different choices. I imagined that the witch lying next to me was my one true love, the only comfort I would ever need. We would love with such reckless abandon. But then the sunlight would come and suck all of the air out of the room and I would feel like I was suffocating. My dreams would be gone and I would be left with the stark reality of an empty bed and an empty heart.
I was pleasantly surprised to see Hermione Granger standing at a coffee shop counter fiddling with her purse. Ron was no where in sight. I decided to say hello.
"Let me get that" I took a ten-pound note from my wallet and shoved it towards the cashier.
It was a few moments before Hermione turned around. She was evidently surprised to see me. "Malfoy" she sputtered.
I smiled and leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek. She kissed me back. I put my hand on the small of her back, guided her towards a table and pulled a chair for her. I sat next to her.
"Twelve years" I muttered. She sipped her coffee and nodded.
"Twelve years and you haven't aged a bit Granger." She smiled broadly, though I wasn't sure if at the compliment or at my use of her maiden name. I'll never call her Weasley.
We sat in silence staring at each other. What felt like an eternity was probably closer to thirty seconds. I'd seen her with Ron down on the 9 ¾. Saw her with two kids that could only be described as miniature versions of herself and Ron. She still wore her wedding band. She was still married to that foul creature.
Ronald Weasley was one pureblood wizard that I hated. Despised and detested like no other; and it had nothing to do with his being a blood traitor. Hermione Granger was a flower, an angel, a goddess, a treasure of immeasurable worth. Instead of admiring her, praising her, worshipping her - he belittled her, undermined her, insulted her. I told myself I shouldn't hate him so much – I was no better than he. Perhaps if it had been another witch; perhaps if it hadn't been my Hermione.
Hermione broke the silence. "Where's Astoria?"
"En route to France." I thought about lying to her. I thought about telling her that everything was great – that everything had worked out like it apparently had with her and Ron. I didn't. "We're ... we're separated. Our divorce will be final in a few weeks. We tried to stay together for Scorpius, but ... we ... she ... she met someone."
I paused and studied Hermione's expression. It was full of compassion and understanding.
"Things have changed since our time. Many children these days are raised in single parent homes; come from broken or dysfunctional families. One of Scopius' friends once introduced a witch he was with as his mother's ex-husband's step-son's half-sister."
We both laughed weakly.
"Where's Ron?"
"Work" she replied curtly as a sadness crept over her features.
I closed my eyes and cringed when she said that Ron was at work. He was always at 'work', never with her. I guessed everything hadn't worked out with them as well as I'd thought. I doubted she knew; doubted Ron had ever told her anything. I wondered if I should say something – but it had been twelve years. Could she forgive me for keeping a secret for twelve years? I chided myself inwardly for not doing more that day, twelve ago. But back then I was thinking of duty and obligation. We all were.
"Why are you still with that oaf? You can do so much better. If you were my wife Granger ..."
"Don't start, Draco. Please. Not now." She inhaled deeply and massaged her temples. I could see her eyes becoming cloudy. I changed the subject.
"So you're back out to work now?" I tapped her folder. "I read in the Daily Prophet that you're a witch-in-law; that you're taking on Crown Estates?"
Hermione slid her folder out of my grip and into her lap "Sorry" she sipped her coffee "I can't really talk about it."
I nodded that I understood. "I'm glad to hear that you are working though; especially in a field that you love. I did always picture you out there on the front line championing muggle-born and house-elf rights. You're a long way from SPEW!"
We laughed earnestly at the memory of her first attempt at House-elf liberation. I liked when she laughed. I liked the way her lips curled, the way the corners of her eyes crinkled, the way the colour rushed to her face. I wanted to reach over the table just then and kiss her – hold her and kiss her. I was surprised at how much I still wanted her. After all these years.
"Hermione. Come away with me." I leaned over the table and grasped her hands in mine.
She shook her head, a tear was forming in the corner of her eye "I can't Draco."
"It doesn't have to be like this. We can be together – you and me. Leave Ron. Come away with me."
"I can't Draco. My son ..."
"Your children will understand. If you're happy, they'll be happy."
"Draco, just because you and Astoria called it quits doesn't mean that I'm automatically going give up my life, give up everything to be with you. I'm sorry the two of you couldn't make things work, and I know my marriage isn't perfect but ..."
"Hermione, your marriage hasn't been working for you since day one, do you really think things are going to change now? Why do you feel you have to punish yourself? You did your duty."
She shook her head more vigorously. The cover of her coffee cup became a reservoir for her salty tears. "Not duty" she finally whispered "guilt".
She was wiping the tears away, trying to pull herself together. I was completely stationary, a knot forming in my stomach. I couldn't believe she'd just said that.I'd never anticipated ... never imagined ... guilt? I'd never felt guilt in my marriage, but my union had been built on very different blocks. How could I have been so foolish to think that she wouldn't blame herself? To think that she wouldn't feel indebted to Ron? And that bastard didn't deserve it; didn't deserve her. If she only knew what I knew. If I'd only told her.
"You shouldn't ... you have nothing ... there's no ..." I closed my eyes. My words weren't coming. I wanted to tell her, needed to confess, but I couldn't seem to find the words.
Hermione pulled away from me. I watched as she gathered her paraphernalia and cleared her throat. "I have to go, Malfoy. I have a deposition."
"Hermione I love you" I choked out.
"Stop, Malfoy" She couldn't look me in the eye. "We're too old to play games. We're not children anymore."
I knew I wasn't a child anymore. I was a far cry from being a child. As a child I could always bully my parents into giving me whatever I wanted; I'd believed even her. But pureblood values were so deeply entrenched that not even a war could eradicate them. I couldn't turn my back on my family, my heritage, my people. Not after the fighting; not when they needed me most. Not after they'd given so much for me, risked everything for me. I'd buried an aunt. I'd buried a godfather. I'd buried a best friend. I'd given up my childish dreams. I buried Hermione Granger; buried her deep.
I did my duty.
She stood. I stood. I couldn't let her go. Not so easily. Not again. Not this time.
"No. Hermione. Wait. Please. I need to talk to you." I reached for her, but she evaded me. She hurried towards a bustling area. I followed, desperately trying to catch her, calling her name. I watched her brown curls manoeuvring through the sea of muggles. I tried to keep up, but I lost her. I looked every which way. She was gone. Apparated away in the crowd. I lost her. Again.
"DAMMIT!"
I yelled and kicked a nearby column. Pain resonated through my leg, but I didn't care. Physical pain was nothing compared to the emotional anguish I was feeling at that very moment. Guilt. She felt guilt and that wasn't fair. I paced back and forth next to the column, frantically running my hands through my hair. The knot in my stomach tightened. I needed to do something. I couldn't let it end like this. She shouldn't have been the one to feel the guilt.
"Damn."
I kicked the column again. My eyes were stinging. My breaths were coming in fast, short bursts. The muggles were making a wide berth around me like I was a madman. I felt like a madman. I registered what looked like security personnel approaching. I headed for the nearest exit.
It was twelve years ago when I'd last seen Hermione. Astoria was five months pregnant with Scorpius and we were having dinner in some restaurant that had tickled her fancy. She was talking on and on about so-and-so's party and this decoration and that decoration and whatever. I smiled and nodded every so often, but my attention was on the couple a few tables over. A shock of red hair had caught my eye. I stared at the red headed wizard. He stared back. Ronald Weasley. It had been years since I'd seen Weasley, yet there he was in the most expensive wizard restaurant in Paris. I couldn't see the face of the witch he was with – she was backing me – but I recognised her nonetheless. The shape of her figure; the graceful gestures of her hands; the brown curls escaping her chignon. I'd know her anywhere. Hermione Granger.
Ron seemed to be having bladder control problems. He kept leaving then returning to their table. They seemed to be arguing – the way couples argue in fancy restaurants. They'd lean in close to each other, their faces contorting and hardening; their lips moving in rapid succession. Then they'd pull away and lean back in their chairs - arms folded, smiling nervously at the other patrons – hoping nothing was overheard. She'd lower her head; he'd look over at me. She would return her face to his. He'd leave the table in a huff.
My wife was less than thrilled with my preoccupation. I tried my best to focus on her and her plans for the baby shower, but my mind would wander, my gaze would shift back to the beautiful, brown haired muggle-born. I disagreed when I should have nodded, smiled when I should have frowned. Astoria looked over her shoulder to where I'd been staring all evening. She asked who the witch was. I told her an old friend.
Astoria made to leave. I prepared to go with her, but she shook her head; kissed my cheek and urged me to stay. She understood. She was pureblood. She understood such things. She put her hands on her protruding belly; said I'd already done my duty.
Astoria left.
I remained.
Ron left.
Hermione remained.
I drained my glass, straightened my shirt, and smoothed my hair. I walked slowly, but determinedly towards the table when she sat sobbing. With each step my mind filled with images from our past. The first time I called her a mudblood, the Yule Ball, the day she opened the gate, the times I'd hexed her, detention, the time she slapped me, her swollen face beneath a stinging jinx at the Manor. I slid into the seat opposite her. I knew it was her birthday. I'd always remembered the little details about her.
I hadn't expected anything. A few drinks, some reminiscing, maybe a few laughs. But she was an emotional train wreck. I hadn't expected that. I'd imagined she and Ron had an ideal marriage – a few bumps and scrapes here and there - but full of the love that was missing from mine. I was wrong. I surreptitiously asked the maitre d' to include her bill with mine - make it look like her worthless husband had picked up the tab before he left. I hurried her out of the restaurant into the crisp evening air.
She was in no state to travel back to England. Ron hadn't made any arrangements from what I gathered. I bought her a ticket on the London Express for the next morning and got her a luxury suite for the night. I walked her to the room. Tucked her into bed. Made sure she would be all right. She asked me to stay. She was so distressed and depressed and attention-starved she would probably have asked Jack-the-Ripper to stay, even if he were wearing an enormous, flashing neon name tag.
I stayed with her. I held her soft, warm body against mine. I whispered comforting words to her hair. She poured her soul out to me. I don't know why she did it, but I responded in kind. We shared our innermost feelings – about the past; about our marriages; about the war; about each other. Feeling we had never shared with any other living souls. We cried and kissed and kissed and cried. Cried together like the fools we were. Cried for our sorrows, for the choices we'd made, for the years we could never bring back. We kissed like there was an imminent cataclysm; like there'd be no tomorrow. We kissed our longings, our passions, our desires. I wanted to take her away – somewhere far away where nobody knew our names. She thought of Scorpius. She thought of Ron. She said it wouldn't be right. She was right. She was always right. I held her until she fell asleep then left the room quietly, less she woke with a changed mind and we became adulterers. There'd be another time, another place, another chance. I truly believed that.
I staggered down the street outside of King's Cross Station like a drunkard. My leg pained, by stomach pained, my mind pained. I was standing next to Severus' grave not knowing how I'd gotten there, but it was there I always ended up when I felt the pains of love. Severus had understood these pains in a way no other could. It was he who'd taught me how to love from a distance, how to detach and compartmentalize, how to bury feelings deep inside. But now my insides ached as things once dead clawed their way out of their graves. Now I lay crying; convulsing and retching over my godfather's resting place clutching a handful of dirt.
The sun was well past its midday mark by the time I said good-bye to Severus. I had a board meeting to attend at Hogwarts, though the thought of sitting around with a bunch of ancient witches and wizards listening to the same garble that they talked year in and year out was less than appealing. I contemplated calling my father and asking him to go in my stead, but decided against it. I wanted to see Scorpius. I was planning to take him over to Hogsmeade for a little celebration – to make him the envy of all the other Slytherins – the same as my father had done for me on my first day. I apparated to Malfoy Manor, showered and changed into my business robes.
