5 years.
It had been 5 years since Hermione Granger attended the wedding of the man she loved, and people were beginning to ask questions.
"Where have you gone, Hermione?"
"Why haven't you returned yet?"
"Why did you leave?"
"Aren't you tired of being alone?"
Of course, no one could ask her questions directly, since none of her friends truly knew where she'd gone. The quaint little home Hermione had found upon her return to Italy was far enough away from the rest of the Wizarding World that Hermione could make her best attempt at recovery without seeing them everywhere she looked. No, instead, people pestered her, the old fashioned way, with parchment and ink.
The letters were overwhelming at first. From Ron, from Harry, from Ginny and Molly and the plethora of Weasleys who were left after the war. Always addressed to 'Mione or Hermione. Always asking how she'd been; how she was fairing all alone; how soon she would be coming back. Sometimes Hermione didn't respond for weeks, she would let the envelopes form a large pile on her counter like leaves in the fall. Other times she would rip open the envelopes, disregarding the intricate designs stamped on their wax seals, simply thankful to read something new. The letters were refreshing at times, and devastating at others. Good news, bad news, annoying life updates she would rather not have known. And questions. So many questions.
Ginny had gotten married– another war hero fallen victim to the clutches of an evil Slytherin. The Prophet didn't like that one like they had Harry's marriage– Ginny had once sent a snippet of Rita Skeeter's rant about ex-Death Eaters worming their way into redemption. Pansy Parkinson– now Pansy Parkinson-Weasley– would sometimes add little notes at the bottom of Gin's letters, only condescending enough to be passed as a joke.
Stay safe Granger, the world is expecting the Golden Girl to return in one piece.
Ron, on the other hand, had not married. In his letters, he spoke about waiting for her, wanting to see her face-to-face for closure– and how he missed her more than she could ever know. But in Molly's letters, Ron appeared to be shagging the entire female population of Britain.
He's using that war hero title a little too much, Hermione. I wish you would come back.
Molly had cancer. Her handwriting grew more illegible as the years passed.
Harry sent letters too. Hermione couldn't muster the strength to read them fully, but she hated herself for that. They were always about his little family– how great Draco was with Teddy Lupin. How happy he was. His new promotion at the ministry– he was head auror now. They were thinking about finding a surrogate– they wanted to try for a kid of their own. Hermione's heart always sank a little more as she read, because she knew Harry was so happy. She couldn't bring herself to ignore him or to tell him the truth.
So Hermione would respond with minor details about her life. She'd grown a garden– her roses were now invading the place she'd designated for petunias and she couldn't find a non-magical way to solve it. She avoided magic at all costs, but she never included that in the letters. When she first moved, she'd dyed her hair blonde and gotten it permanently straightened with the money she brought from home. That lasted her about half a year– the amount of time she had truly planned to stay– but once she started running low she had to start looking for a muggle job. She'd gotten an interview at a little muggle bookshop, and by rambling about her love of books, the little old man who ran the place said he just had to hire her. He would bring her hot chocolate on Sundays and let her browse the shelves, though she would never buy a book. She only made enough to pay her rent and buy her groceries. She'd try her best to read at work, but she could never finish a novel because by the time she reached rising action in the story, a rush would hit and she'd be forced to help customers instead. Often someone would request to purchase the book she was reading, and she couldn't say no. Thus, the little bookshelf Hermione had built at home was sad and empty, but she read the few books she'd brought along from home over and over. Harry would always offer to send money– but she refused to tell him the currency she needed. She knew they would find her eventually if only they knew where to look.
Hermione still secretly hoped that one day– one god damned day– Harry's black owl would tap its beak against any of the stained glass windows of her little hut, clutching an envelope addressed to Granger. The little spark inside her stomach never went away every time she saw the owl. It could be him. This time. Maybe this time.
But it never was.
So Hermione would go about her day, trying her hardest to do what she'd come to do: forget him. Forget the empty promises and the blank look in his eyes the last time he'd looked at her. Forget the conversations, the trees they'd counted and the circles she'd traced on his back as she held him when he cried. Forget the Room of Requirement and the astronomy tower– the hugs he'd pull away from and the "now and forever" he never truly meant.
The alcohol never helped for long, but it helped enough to force a smile in the mirror as she tugged on her uniform for work. She couldn't risk being seen in Italy's magical community, so she had to settle for muggle liquor, which she budgeted for with the remainder of her paychecks. She could probably buy books with the money, but books weren't enough of a distraction. Red wine and dark whiskey worked the best, though the whiskey lasted too strongly on her breath to chug before work, so she saved it for bedtime. Bailey's Irish Cream worked best in coffee– the caffeine would wake her up from the previous night's hangover. Ibuprofen and acetaminophen were easier to swallow with orange juice spiked with tequila.
Hermione wondered if the reason she'd need to return to Britain would be liver failure– she knew a medic who specialized in liver treatment at St. Mungos. Maybe when she felt comfortable returning she would try rehab, or perhaps a mental mediwitch, if she was feeling especially healthy. But for now, she focused on getting through the day without contracting alcohol poisoning or getting fired for disorderly conduct. She considered that a successful day.
Her only goal was to forget, and if that failed, she just hoped to stay alive long enough to keep trying.
Some days she was good at forgetting, other days not so much. But on September 19th, Hermione forgot her own birthday.
Parcels arrived at her doorstep, but she stepped over them on her way out the door, because she was already running extremely, terribly late. She tripped over one of the packages on the way to her car, scraping her hands and wrists on the gravel in her driveway. She cursed the Gods aloud and mentally ran through a list of solutions to the blood droplets seeping from her palms. A first aid kit would take too long to find– she couldn't remember the last time she'd been injured or in need of a bandage. Usually when injured she would use healing charms like she did in the war, but using any sort of magic now would put her at risk of being discovered. She'd managed to remain under the radar of the Ministry by avoiding magic altogether for the past five years.
"Damn it," She hissed. She couldn't think of a better solution. Perhaps using a healing charm just this once couldn't hurt. She prayed she was right as she reached into her bag and pulled out the wand she kept for emergencies. She glanced around suspiciously, though she had no neighbors for kilometers, before muttering a few incantations to heal the scrapes.
She sighed and brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. "Stay calm. You got this." She murmured half-heartedly. "Get to work."
In the car, she rolled the windows down and played a Nirvana CD at max volume. The noise made her already pounding headache worse, but silence was simply not an option. She could not be left alone with her thoughts or else she would begin to overthink. Using her brain was dangerous anymore. She simply thought too much. About herself, about the world, about him.
Three customers were waiting outside the bookshop when she pulled into the small parking lot out front. They turned to face her as she stepped out of her car. Hermione raised one hand to apologize and shielded her eyes with the other, nearly gouging herself with the set of keys she was holding. "Traffic. Uh, traffico!" She lied. "Mi dispiace."
Damning the sun for being so bright, she stared at her Converse and begged her own feet to follow a straight line on the walk to the front door. She still stumbled twice.
None of the twelve keys Hermione attempted to shove into the lock were the one she needed, despite how much she mumbled obscenities at them. She groaned, missing her wand more than ever. A simple alohamora would solve this if she could just use fucking magic.
Finally, after trying every key on her chain, she was able to unlock the front door. The customers, who had been staring at her like the star in a one-man show, followed closely behind her. One– a man with a receding hairline and a plaid shirt– made a beeline straight for the non-fiction section, while the other two, who appeared to be a couple, remained at the front by the clearance shelves. Hermione felt a sour taste in her mouth as she watched the two stare longingly at each other, speaking softly about the books in front of them. They appeared so happy.
She hated happy people.
The couple didn't buy anything– which irked Hermione to her very core. People who mosied through the shop with no real intentions of buying anything were the worst customers: she always had to determine whether they were thieves or simply just window-shoppers there to waste her time. The balding man brought four books to her counter and asked which one she would recommend. Having read none of the novels in front of her, Hermione pointed at the book on the far right because its cover was pretty. The man thanked her profusely and shoved money onto the counter. He had overpaid slightly, but he told her to keep the change. It was €6, enough to actually buy a book. Hermione weighed her options in her head: alcohol or a book?
She decided a bottle of rum sounded a lot nicer than a novel today.
When the customers left, Hermione sighed with relief. Her headache was raging now, and her stomach was empty. She hadn't had time to eat breakfast or take her daily dose of ibuprofen. She turned away from the front door, which was letting far too much daylight into the shop, and groaned. "What a day, Hermione." She growled. "What a fucking day."
The shop remained empty for nearly an hour. She passed the time by eating a granola bar and skimming through an autobiography of an Italian political figure she'd never heard of. When the bell on the front door chimed, she winced at the sound. It was almost worse than the blaring music from her car.
"Benvenuti in Libri Felici, fammi sapere se hai bisogno di aiuto." Hermione forced herself to sound pleasant. She hoped the customer would in fact not need anything, so that she may continue half-reading this story she could have cared less about.
"Hai cambiato i capelli."
Hermione froze. Every muscle in her body tensed– because she could have sworn she knew that voice. But she couldn't have. Could she?
Hermione forced herself to speak. "Mi scusi?"
"You changed your hair." The voice said in clear English.
In that moment she knew. Or at least, thought she knew.
"Draco." She whispered, neither to herself or the man that had entered the shop, but as a question to the universe. She needed a sign– true, undeniable confirmation– before bringing herself to turn around. Hermione knew she could not afford to relish in the feeling of hope brewing in her stomach, despite how desperately she craved that hope after years without it. It would shatter her to see someone else standing where she believed him to be.
The universe did not answer, and neither did the man at the door. Memories came rushing back, even as she tried to fight them– memories of Pride and Prejudice and the Room of Requirement and every single damned thing she'd ever done with Draco. Could it be him?
It couldn't be him– shouldn't be him. He shouldn't have known where she was– shouldn't be in Italy, let alone in this dusty little bookstore. Not Draco. Not anyone, for that matter. She had hidden herself so meticulously that no amount of sleuthing from her friends should have managed to uncover her. Her plan was foolproof– had been for over five years.
No, it couldn't be Draco, Hermione decided. She extinguished the flames of optimism that had sparked at the sound of the deep voice, and swallowed the bitter taste his name had left in her mouth. Straightening her wrinkled blouse, Hermione mustered the courage to spin towards the man.
She was instantly reminded why she had turned away from the door in the first place– the windows allowed the sunlight outside to shine harshly into the shop. She squinted against the light and silently damned her own intoxication. She could only make out the customer's figure– bulky and tall, standing against the front door. It was definitely the shape of a man, but most likely not the shape of him.
"How may I help you?" She asked.
"Granger, I don't think it's me who needs help."
Bile rose in her throat and tears formed in her eyes.
"Draco." She repeated his name. She bit her tongue to muffle a gasped, praying the distance between Draco and herself would hide the single tear which fell from her eye and scalded the skin on her cheek.
"It's been five years, Granger."
"You don't think I know that?" She snapped.
"Do you?"
Hermione winced as he took a single step forward. She felt the earth shake under his stride. Draco's face was still hidden in shadow, but she allowed her mind to form an image of what she might see once her eyes adjusted to the light. She imagined his lips pressed into a thin, condescending line with no distinguishable difference between a smile and a frown, and his eyes frozen in a cold, emotionless gaze– just warm enough to appear approachable to someone unaccustomed to the sparkle they once held. He would never be cold enough to the common eye– never cold enough to be confused with the man people wanted him to be. Only cold enough to show he was no longer the man she wanted him to be.
He took a second step, then a third and a fourth, before light finally fell upon his face. To her surprise, he was frowning. His eyes were hard, but not cold. Not the way they had been at the wedding. There was emotion in the lack of expression on his face– like a whisper of the Draco who considered her worthy of consideration.
"Granger." He spoke her name like a noun rather than an obscenity and she felt her heart sink even lower as hope mixed with hopelessness. He didn't shout, nor project his voice like a politician behind a podium. He didn't look through her, or around her. He was addressing her– speaking to her, and only her, for the first time in an eternity. She realized there was no one else in the shop for him to choose to speak to. There was no one for him to play pretend for. No one for him to hide from, or impress.
They were entirely alone. It was relieving and excruciating.
"Granger." He repeated.
But Hermione refused to respond, fearful that a choked sob would be the only sound she could muster. Words swirled in her mind, but none were coherent enough to form a sentence. It's him, it's really him . Him. Him.
Draco. It's Draco. My Draco.
No. She chided herself. Harry's Draco.
"Merlin, Granger. Please." Draco said– his tone teetering dangerously between a demand and a plea. "Say something, damn it."
Hermione choked on the word she wanted to say. It took her three more tries to force it out. "How?"
"How what?" Draco cocked his head to the side in a manner she nearly mistook for concern, but his goddamned eyes were still so hard and empty.
" How ? How did you–" She stuttered. "How could you–" No, she paused. " How dare you ?"
Draco opened his mouth, but for once, Hermione didn't want to hear whatever was going to come out of his lips. Lips that had kissed her– every part of her. Lips that couldn't be bothered to speak her name in public for four years, before those exact same lips sealed a marriage with her own best friend. Lips that couldn't be bothered to explain anything to her– lips that expected her to understand. To care about his fucking happiness.
"No, Draco." She forced the words to sound slightly confident– despite how utterly devoid of confidence she was. She watched him scan the room, looking at everything except for her. She felt her ears grow hot with rage before she spoke again. "I don't care how. I want to know why. Why would you come here, after everything you've done? I want to know who, too. Who gave you the right to walk through that door as if you haven't spent every waking moment walking away from me? Who told you to come here? Who forced you to face me, Draco? Who picked the longer straw, damning you to an interaction with the god damned Golden Girl? Who–"
Draco whipped his head back towards her. "Granger, shut up."
Hermione's blood boiled. "Oh that is fucking rich–"
"No, Granger I'm–"
"You're what? Getting PTSD from the fucking drawing room floor, Malfoy? Getting second thoughts about gracing me with your holy presence?"
Hermione could have sworn an emotion flashed across his face before he opened his god damned mouth and nearly shouted, "Granger, shut up!"
"No!" She was shouting at this point, unbothered by who else might hear.
"Granger–" Draco hissed.
" Malfoy –" Hermione mocked.
"If you do not stop talking, I will have to jinx you, and I really don't want to do that."
Something in his voice made Hermione's stomach churn– something reminiscent of the boy she'd held in the Room of Requirement– something dangerously close to fear. It sent shivers down her spine, so she shut up.
Draco eyed her for a moment longer, eyes still hard, but wide this time. "You are not safe here." He said severely.
"What do you mean?"
Draco groaned, looking around. "Stop speaking."
"Dra–"
His wand was out before she could even finish his name. " Silencio! "
Rage boiled in every part of her body. Draco was walking closer now, he was almost to the register. She pushed out of her chair and clumsily attempted to stand; if she was going to fight him, she couldn't let him catch her off guard. However, in her drunken stupor, she tripped over her shoes and fell directly back into her chair. The world spun slightly.
"Merlin, Granger." Draco sighed. He was standing by her chair now, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. "Close your eyes and please do not vomit on me."
Hermione was confused, but obliged.
When she opened her eyes again, they were standing in what appeared to be a dimly lit shack. Well, he was standing, and she was haphazardly leaning against him like the last book on a shelf. She opened her mouth to ask where the hell he had brought her, but the silencing charm was still restricting her voice. She raised her fists to pound against Draco's chest, but he caught each wrist in his own hands.
"Let me explain." Draco said calmly. Too calmly. So Hermione tried her hardest to wriggle out of his grasp, but his grip on her wrists was too strong. "Please."
His voice had changed with that last word. Please. It was as close to pleading as she'd ever heard Draco get. He sounded– somehow– desperate. More desperate than he had been when she'd heard him speak of the Dark Lord. She stilled and allowed him to guide her to a chair in the far corner of the room.
"Granger. Please listen to the whole story before you hex me." Draco's voice was hard again. He began to pace across the dusty floorboards beneath him. "No one has heard from you for five years, Granger. Not your friends. Not your parents. Not the ministry. You haven't used magic enough for us to track you or make sure you were safe, until today. You cast a healing charm, and when you did that, we were able to locate not only you– but all things that are magically attached to you."
Hermione cocked her head. Attached? And what about the letters? They had been sending her letters. Who, if not Harry, Ron and Ginny, had she been communicating with? She assembled a list of things she knew– Molly's cancer, Teddy's birthday parties– and wondered if it had been secondhand knowledge.
"When Voldemort died, he left behind allies. He had numbers, Granger. People all over the world– in America, and in France. And unfortunately, Voldemort's numbers were second highest in Italy." He shook his head at her. "You happened to pick a very dangerous place to take a sabbatical."
"When I listened to the Dark Lord and my father talk before the war, they always spoke about moving the fight to Italy if all else failed. Voldemort never planned on dying, of course, so the plan went severely awry, and most of the Death Eaters who survived had chosen to go light before they could get killed by the Order, so they never made it to Italy either." Draco muttered. "But what we did not account for, and what I did not know, is that Voldemort had already moved some of the fight to Italy. The minor Eaters, the ones who didn't truly matter, were put here for a suicide mission that never happened because Voldemort didn't survive long enough to give the order to begin."
"They infiltrated the Italian Council of Magic, and they've been waiting for something major to happen, so they could set Voldemort's old plan into motion. Instead of destroying the Council, and overthrowing the Heads, they just slowly corrupted the entirety of the Italian Wizarding World."
"So corrupt, in fact, that mini bands of Voldemort devotees were legally allowed to meet and congregate under the excuse of political freedom. Death Eaters have reorganized in Italy with permission of the government. Of course, I have only discovered this within the past five years, so imagine my surprise when I see the glowing light under your missing persons case showing your magic signature had been used in Italy of all places."
Draco began to use his hands while he talked, something Hermione had noticed he only did when he was agitated. She began to understand that the situation he was describing had to be severe. She tried her best to fight confusion and process the information– treat this like another debriefing from the war– but his words sounded like a morning alarm in her mind. Italy. Death Eaters. Voldemort. Italy. Magic.
"But the Ministry did not just detect magic. We probably would have reached out over owl, if it had been a simple healing charm. But our system also detected seventeen trackers and twelve listening devices scattered around the city, all with relation to your magical signature."
Hermione's eyes went wide. She understood that part. She was being tracked.
Someone had found her. She was so busy hiding from Harry and her friends, she'd done nothing to hide from potential enemies. She'd been living unwarded for five years, hoping the blonde hair and muggle garden would keep her safe. She'd never thought about enemies. Only Draco and how desperately she needed to forget him.
"We pinpointed the location you were most likely to live at– the coordinates where you used the healing charm and the coordinates of one of the trackers were identical. There, we found parcels and letters signed by people who had not heard from you in years. No one knew where to contact you, and what owls they did send returned with the original letters still in their beak. Those letters did not come from Harry, Ron, Ginny or Molly." Draco continued to pace. "We've determined someone has been tracking you since you arrived– the letters in your home dated back all the way to the date you were filed as a missing person. We assume you set off some sort of ward alarm when you arrived here, you were recognized immediately, and then your identity was confirmed once you were classified as missing."
The urge to vomit returned. Nausea consumed her as Draco continued to speak.
"We don't know why they've waited this long to act on any plans against you. You've been lucky. But us showing up and looking around your place definitely set off a reaction. Aurors who were left at your home to survey the area caught men in black cloaks lurking around after the majority of us had left. When questioned, two of the men admitted to being Voldemort devotees, and two others actually attempted suicide before they would speak to us. So, it has been determined you are unsafe." Draco finished. He looked at her again, eyes still hard. " That is why I have silenced you and apparated you to an undisclosed location."
"Let me search you for devices and then I will lift the silencing charm. We need to wait for the other aurors to come before we can get you safely back to Britain." Draco used his wand to scan her, before he muttered the incantation to reverse his silencio. He didn't look at her anymore as he did it, as if he'd completed his obligation to grace her with his attention.
The second she felt her voice return, she asked the question she'd been sitting on. "Why did you come, of all people?"
"That is your first question?" He suddenly turned around to face the wall opposite of her.
"Yes." Hermione frowned. "Why did you come?"
"Because I have insight on the situation. It was best to put an ex-Death Eater in the field, in case we come into contact with the Devotees–"
But that was not the answer Hermione was looking for. With the alcohol muddying her brain and coursing through her veins, she felt the urge to interrogate him– to grill him for every ounce of emotion she could provoke before he left her all alone again.
"So you didn't come to save me?" She winced at the sound of her own voice– shaky and hoarse. "You were just following orders?"
"No. I came of my own accord." Draco said. His tone was dry– empty.
"That's not what I asked."
"I know." He sighed. "You asked if I came to save you."
"Yes." Hermione nodded, though she knew he couldn't see. "Did you?"
"Yes."
Hernione swallowed. "Why?"
"Because you're important."
But even that was not the answer she needed. She wondered if she kept asking questions whether he would leave sooner, or if he pitied her enough in this moment to stay and endure her questioning. She prayed to Merlin he wouldn't leave, not while she was like this, not while she was in danger. "Important to who, Draco?"
"The entire wizarding world– Harry, Ron, Ginny. They've been looking for you for years."
Hermione winced again. He still had not turned to face her– she wondered if he ever would. The silence between them grew thick as she closed her eyes to keep tears from escaping. You're not important, Hermione. Not to him. He cares because they care. The words swirled in her mind, and as she thought more about it, she couldn't hold back any longer. A sob escaped her mouth, loud enough to echo in the shack.
Draco whipped around, and she swore his face held some sort of emotion, but the tears in her eyes blurred her vision more than the alcohol had. "Granger–" He said, and it was there. Emotion, it was there in his voice. Not sadness nor grief, not the emotion she so desperately wished he would show, but something reminiscent of guilt.
"What, Draco?" Hermione shouted. "What?"
"Granger, you– I–"
"I don't want to hear what you have to say, Draco, but at the same time I so desperately do. Don't you understand?" She could hear herself slurring the words.
"You're drunk, Granger. I can conjure you a mattress, I have a sleeping potion–"
"I'm drunk?" Hermione hissed. "No, Draco. I'm hurt. I'm wounded. I'm fucking devastated."
"Hurt?"
"Don't play dumb, Draco. You know– you knew when you accepted this fucking mission what it would do to me." She sobbed harder with every word.
"I–"
"No! Just stop. You will never be able to say the right thing. You should just leave like you always do." Hermione's voice wavered. "Walk away and stay as unbothered as you have always been."
Draco didn't speak– which she guessed she deserved, since she'd asked him to stop. But she so badly wished he hadn't listened. She wished he had listened so many years ago instead of staring at her dumbfounded now. She truly wondered if he knew what he'd done. But he didn't walk away, and that was something. She stared at him through the tears– standing stiffly halfway across the room, staring at the wall behind her. She couldn't decode his expression– there was emotion, but not one she recognized. It was hard and cold, but soft enough to suggest the stone wall he'd built around himself was beginning to crumble. She prayed he would stay long enough for her to destroy the rest of the wall.
She so desperately needed him to feel.
She so desperately needed to feel him.
"Every time I go to sleep, I hear you screaming."
Draco's words hung in the distance between them. She stared at him as if he had grown a second head– and in a sense he truly had. But then he looked at her, and it was gone. All of it.
The wall, the one she needed to break, was already broken. And in Draco's face she saw the world's youngest Death Eater, desperate and scared. Pain. There was pain. He feels pain.
"It never ends. You scream and scream until your screams turn into a chorus of the screams of every single person I was forced to torture, but yours is still the loudest." A grimace formed on his lips. "It's you laying on that floor, green surrounding your entire body, and I just stare. I stare, and I stare until it's me holding that wand. And you keep fucking screaming, and I can't fucking stop. I'm completely fucking frozen. The world around us is frozen too. Except for you. You're writhing on the floor. Shaking, trying to crawl away."
Hermione's heart stopped.
"And you wonder why I can't look at you– I could feel you pleading, every day at the ministry– at the wedding– I could feel how badly you needed me to look. But I looked at you every single night. And I looked at you, and looked at you, and I couldn't turn away from the pain and the agony in your face. So I can't bring myself to look at you now. Because that same fucking pain is in your eyes, and I know that it's all my fault. I know, Granger."
He paused and ran a hand through his slicked hair. Hermione took that as an opportunity to speak. "It was your fault, Draco. And every day, I felt like it was my fault too."
Draco squeezed his eyes shut. "I knew that."
"You bastard–"
"I knew– I knew you blamed yourself, but at the time, it felt better than you blaming me." He grimaced again as he spoke. "It was wrong, I know that. But holding that wand– in my dreams– it felt worse. So knowing I was no longer holding a wand to your chest was enough to numb the guilt of breaking your heart. I hurt you, but I would never be the one to hurt you."
"I needed you, Draco. I fucking needed–" Hermione shouted.
"And I could not be what you needed– I never was." Draco shook his head at her, eyes still fixed on her own.
Hermione's lips trembled."You were everything."
"I know."
"So it was all a lie? Counting trees and dancing around the Room of Requirement? Did you even love me?"
Draco rubbed his chin, where a thin stubble appeared to have grown since she'd seen him last. "I did, Granger. I did."
"So why? How could you?" She countered.
"Because I loved you so much I started to hate myself. It was you or me, and I just didn't have the strength to choose you." He sighed. "You were– are– bad for my health."
"You don't think you were bad for my health too? I can't put down a bottle long enough to go to work sober. I moved countries to make sure I didn't have to see you– hear about you fucking my best friend– hear about how fucking happy you make him. You destroyed me– you destroyed everything, Draco."
"I know that."
Hermione's heart kept breaking every time he opened his mouth. She couldn't believe the words he was choosing to say. Never an ' I'm sorry.' Just what she'd done to him. How hurt he was, never mind how hurt she was. She almost wished she'd stayed silent– left the questions to rot inside her head. She didn't want to know the answers. She didn't want to know anything anymore. "You are a coward, Draco Malfoy." She spat, slumping in her chair.
"And you are a saint, Hermione Granger." He whispered.
"That's rich." She countered.
"You were never the reason why I left." Draco eyed her, almost the way she'd wished he would. Guilt, pain, regret, all swirled in his silver eyes, and she relished in it. Serves him fucking right. "You were never the reason for my nightmares– it was Bellatrix. She did that. But you were the only one around to remind me. So I left because I couldn't handle the guilt. I left because of me. I need you to know that."
Hermione hid her face in her hands. She didn't want to see him anymore– his guilt felt like another weapon he could use against her. As much as she wanted him to regret hurting her, she didn't want to be the source of his pain. She had enough fucking empathy for that. "You said forever." She said, though it was muffled through her palms.
"I didn't understand the implications of forever. And I'm sorry for that."
There it was. An apology. The words she so badly needed.
I'm sorry.
It felt like a weight had been lifted from her chest– like a sigh of relief to release the smoke which had clouded her lungs. She could breathe, truly breathe, for the first time in what felt like forever. Hermione let his words ring in the air like a song, like a ballad– like Now and fucking Forever. It was closure– as close as closure can be. And it simultaneously felt like bliss and agony– the end of an era of pining after a man who could not love her, and the beginning of an era without him. Truly without him– in her life– her heart– her brain. She felt his absence in her soul where his presence had always been. It wasn't letting go, but understanding she had been let go of. Understanding it was over. Understanding what she'd always known; the universe would not answer her late night pleas to bring him back to her.
The concept of moving on was now a possibility hanging in a future she had not been able to see. A future without him. She realized it was the presence of hope which had truly hurt her all these years, not the absence of it. She'd clung to the hope that Draco would run back to her and beg for forgiveness. It was the hope that he was worthy of redemption that had held her back.
Deep inside, Hermione felt that hope die. His apology was all she had wanted for years and years, and in that moment, as his eyes locked with hers, Hermione realized his apology could never be enough. If his words were truly a request for amnesty, he had earned the opposite.
There would be no now and forever. There never should have been.
When Draco realized she was not going to speak, she could see him begin to panic. His eyes scanned the room, clearly trying to find something else to focus on. But every time, they returned to her. For once, he couldn't stop looking at her. "Say something, please ."
"Tell me you don't love me." She said. Her vision no longer spun, as if the realization had sobered her far more than any sobering potion could have.
He opened his mouth but a moment passed before he spoke. "I– I can't do that."
It should have melted her heart, but the words had no impact on Hermione's heart. They were simply an amalgamation of letters with no true meaning. She hardened her gaze. "Why, Draco?"
"Because deep down, I always will." He sighed. Hermione thought she heard a noise from outside the shack, but she passed it off as a creaking roof. Draco seemed to not have heard it, as he continued to speak. "I've lost sleep praying you were alright– that we would find you in one piece. That maybe I wasn't the reason you left. And when I actually could sleep, I still heard you screaming. But seeing you in my dreams was like a reminder– a reminder that I had not seen you in years. I've driven myself mad remembering every moment I felt you staring years ago, begging me to look at you. I've practiced all the ways I could have apologized– gotten on my knees and begged you for forgiveness."
The noise came again, and she considered stopping him, but the words sounded too sweet to her ears. She had a strong suspicion there was someone outside, but Hermione's gut told her it was not she who was in danger.
"I love you, Granger. I always have– from the very first day I met you. From the very first time I called you mudblood, to the day I got married to someone else. And it kills me to see the pain in your eyes now, to know that all those years ago I chose to inflict that upon you." His eyes were tearing up now. "I broke your heart, and I hate myself every day for it. Harry makes me happy– so happy, but no one could ever fill the you-shaped hole in my heart."
"Draco?"
But this time, it was not her who had spoken his name. Hermione turned her head towards the source of the voice, and gasped when she realized it belonged to none other than Harry Potter-Malfoy.
Draco's eyes went wide, and Harry's narrowed. They locked gazes for a moment before Harry frowned and turned towards Hermione. "Merlin, Mione!"
"Harry." Hermione breathed. She looked from Draco to Harry, then back to Draco again, sensing a tension in the air so thick it could have been sliced with a dagger. Harry knows. She felt the urge to grin and frown all at once. Another weight had been lifted from her shoulders, and it felt just as bittersweet as the last.
"Are you hurt?" Harry broke the uncomfortable silence. He rushed to Hermione's side and placed a palm on her forehead. She jerked away out of habit and watched Harry's green eyes flash with concern.
"No, no, I'm fine, Harry." She said.
"We have to get you back before someone finds you. The other aurors are waiting outside." Harry threw an arm around her shoulder and tried to help her stand. His touch made her skin crawl– and she felt terrible for flinching. That was her best friend, but she couldn't get the image of his lips on Draco's out of her mind. The wedding– Harry's smile– that first Christmas. She hadn't forgotten– she hadn't moved on. She didn't want to blame Harry, but he was still the one Draco went home to at night.
"I can stand on my own." She insisted, and pushed herself to her feet. The world spun slightly less than it had before– she'd sobered enough in the past few hours– but she still had to focus in order to steady herself.
"Draco," Harry said, with a hint of disdain in his tone. "Tell Pucey and Hox I'm taking her to the Ministry. Wait fifteen minutes before you follow. Scope the area– make sure no one follows."
Draco nodded and took a visibly deep breath before leaving the room. Hermione watched him leave without the pang of longing in her chest.
You can have him. She thought as she turned to face Harry. He's all yours.
"Hermione, are you–"
"I'm okay, Harry." She chuckled– a true laugh. "Really."