Chapter 2: Harry
In vain I have struggled. It will not do. My feelings will no longer be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.
- Fitzwilliam Darcy
The moment Hermione's feet hit the dark marble of the Ministry floor, her senses were flooded with voices and bodies and camera flashes and questions and everything all at once. People rushed to her like predators to prey–an entire crowd of no less than seventy witches and wizards hungry for something, anything , from the Golden Girl. She supposed she was , and had long been, prey–this was the curse of being a war hero. Anonymity and privacy were far and few once you aided in saving the world. After all, Greeks devoted shrines and statues to Heracles for his 12 labours; heroism was the first door on the left in the long hallway of fame.
At first, when the last head of the war was severed and the world returned to some sense of normalcy, Hermione appreciated the attention–wrote it off as gratitude and signed any piece of parchment that was shoved in her face. She even kept a muggle pen in the pocket of her denims for the rare occasion that an onlooker forgot a quill. She had saved them, after all. She held the Apples of Hesperides in both hands with pride.
But the saviour complex dissipated within a few years, once the blue ink of her twelfth ballpoint began to run dry. She grew to wholly resent the very thought of purchasing another box of pens, so she simply didn't. She learned to say no to the reporters thirsty for an insider's scoop on her life and to shake her head when another sheet of parchment was thrust her way with the hopes of a signature. Harry and Ron never mastered this skill, and Hermione was left to hear the tidbits of their lives that she had rather not known through the front page of the Daily Prophet.
Like every restaurant Harry took Draco to. Every meal they had shared. Every shopping spree. Every vacation. Every anniversary. Every public kiss. Everything.
But here, in this damned Ministry lobby, Hermione Granger did not feel like a saviour, or Heracles. She felt like a nudist at a carnival promoted to children, but intended for adults. She was exposed, and the people around her were not fans; they were vampires eyeing her neck and licking their lips, preparing for their first taste of blood in 5 years. It was as if the whole wizarding world had crowded into the Ministry's main lobby in wait of her return–it was a welcome home party she was not privy to.
Rita Skeeter pranced to the front of the crowd, staring at Hermione over the top of her glasses. She could see the headlines now: Golden Girl finally comes home. The first line would speculate where she had been. Inevitably Skeeter would accuse her of eloping with a random man off the street; that was a popular trope in her columns.
"You've gone blonde, Miss Granger." Skeeter commented, a fresh sheet of parchment and a feathered quill floating above her head, which scribbled utter nonsense furiously. Skeeter smirked like Dr. Suess' grinch and Hermione felt the urge to reach out and claw the smug look off the woman's face. But she couldn't do that. Not in public.
"I like the new look." A stranger piped.
"Tell us, where have you been?" Another witch screamed at a volume no sane person should ever attempt.
Hermione's ears rang–head spun–legs shook. She was too drunk for this, and even sober, her blood would boil nonetheless. She was not a goddamn celebrity. She never was, but especially not now. She wanted to shout this over the noise–shout louder than the reporters and every single stranger in the room. She wanted to hex them all, force them to look at anything–anyone–but her.
Instead, Hermione clung to Harry, pleading with him with her eyes to do something–anything. "Harry," She mouthed.
Harry simply nodded. "Get lost. All of you." He barked. He held Hermione's shoulder and shoved her through the horde of witches and wizards, who did not, in fact, get lost . The crowd followed her until they hit the protective ward which kept the general public from entering the Ministry's main headquarters. They continued to flee from Ministry employees once inside, travelling down a long hallway into a room with a grand metal door. Inside was a comically large desk with files scattered all around its surface. No less than four mugs sat on various corners of the wood. The room reeked of coffee.
This must be Harry's new office. Of course he would get the biggest office in the building. He was the fucking Chosen One.
"Hermione." Harry puffed, slamming the metal door shut. He ran a hand through his hair and scratched the back of his head as if pondering his own existence. Or hers. Hermione met his eye for a moment. He immediately averted his attention to the ceiling. "Gods." He muttered. "You could have died."
"I'm fine , Harry!" Hermione slurred anxiously. Her legs refused to steady themselve and she couldn't force the noise from outside to leave her mind. It was too much. This was all too much.
"No you're bloody not." Harry snapped. Hermione flinched. "You reek of liquor. And you've been gone for five years. Five fucking years!" He raised his voice now. Hermione's fists clenched. "You have no idea how worried we were, 'Mione. No one knew where you'd gone, if you were safe. You just left. Poof. Gone."
"I needed to do that, Harry." Hermione sniffed. "I needed to leave." I needed to leave before I lost my goddamn mind. Before I let my soul crumble again like it did at your wedding. Before I had to stare at your stupid wedding photos for another fucking second. Before–
Harry interrupted Hermione's mental soliloquy before she could wallow further in her self-made bed of pity. "You left because of us, didn't you?" He muttered. His gaze was still fixed firmly on the ceiling. Hermione glanced upwards to see what was so interesting but found nothing but a chandelier. Why won't you fucking look at me?
"No– Harry–" Hermione sputtered.
"Because of Draco." Harry added.
Hermione still couldn't bear to hear Harry call his now-husband anything but 'Malfoy'–to speak his name with anything but distaste.
Husband.
Hermione took a deep breath, afraid she might fall now. Words like yes, and obviously, and why else would I fucking leave a month after your wedding , swirled in her mind. Perhaps if she did fall, if she crumpled on the floor in a ball and made herself small Harry would skip this part of the conversation. He'd ask her what's wrong, run a diagnostic spell on her, find some form of sobering potion and forget about all the questions he would inevitably ask in the next few minutes. She'd be a sick patient instead of a suspect to interrogate; a friend to save instead of a foe to question.
Would he hate her? If she spoke the truth, instead of falling–instead of feigning illness–would she lose her best friend for good? Draco had loved Harry enough to leave her all alone in the world; was Harry willing to do the same? She had relished the disheartened look on Harry's face when he'd stumbled into the middle of the little pitiful apology Draco likely didn't mean, but she wasn't ready to be abandoned by everyone yet. After Harry, Ginny and Ron would surely follow. And she would be alone. For good.
In Hermione's drunken stupor, she could feel the world collapsing around her. Harry still wouldn't look at her. He would leave her, he would hate her. Her chest was sinking, lower and lower and it would surely cave in if she took another breath, so she held it until her vision began to go black. Her brain filled with every ounce of pain she'd been drowning out with whiskey for the past eight years.
No one could ever fill the you-shaped hole in my heart .
Draco had looked like a man with a hole in his heart when he left her, but he healed too quickly. Harry healed him, the fucking Chosen One–the wizarding world's greatest hero. He was Heracles, he held the Apples of Hesperides. He got the statues and the sacrifices, he got the sex and the diamond ring. The Boy Who Lived was the Boy Who Was Loved. She would never be more than a mudblood-shaped hole in Draco Malfoy's heart, but he healed. He healed.
Her heart never stopped hurting. Her chest really would cave in soon, she was sure of it. She was the only one in the world who knew she was dying and they would call her crazy for announcing it. They would let her die. She shouldn't have come back. Being followed and tracked and captured would be better than this. Harry should have saved her, if she had needed to be saved. She would have been a victim, now she was a suspect because he overheard her conversation–it should have never happened.
She should have accepted her role as the victim. She should have moved on. Draco Malfoy did not love Hermione Granger, and that was the irrefutable truth.
He was her prince. He was her secret. He was just a boy, not a beast–
Keeping him was the worst thing she ever did.
I broke your heart, and I hate myself every day for it – I hate myself.
Closure. She needed closure. She didn't know how much longer she would last living on muggle booze and broken hope. She was drowning in the river Styx. Closure would save her.
I'm sorry for that.
S orry was all she wanted. Why didn't it help? She wanted everyone to know. She wanted to burn the wedding down to the fucking ground, melt the diamond ring and let the stupid balloons float into outer space. She wanted to drown herself in wine. Red wine.
Red like me. Red stains on a white tablecloth; red stains on the marble floor.
The world should know what he did. How she felt. Harry didn't know.
Harry shouldn't know.
I've lost sleep praying – maybe I wasn't the reason you left.
You left because of us?
She left because of love.
She left because of pain. Of heartbreak and the urge to drown herself in any body of water she saw–never long enough to die, just long enough to make Draco Malfoy sit at Hermione's hospital bed and apologise to her waterlogged body for leaving her when she needed him most.
She left because she knew the world would not watch her drink herself to death without writing a goddamned thinkpiece on the aftermath of war and its effects on the Brightest Witch of Her Age. They would assume she was genetically predisposed to addiction–comment on her parents who no longer even knew her name and accuse them of being the reason she handled trauma worse than the other heroes. It was her upbringing. It was her muddy blood.
She left because she was sick of signing her name in cursive and being scoffed at the second she refused. She left because she couldn't drink in public–couldn't drink with others. She had to drown out her sorrows alone, but she was never given the privacy to enjoy it; somebody was always knocking at the door. She left because of raised eyebrows everytime she attempted to stock up on sobering potions just so she could face the outside world without a hangover. Because of Ginny opening the medicine cabinet and questioning why it was full of travel sized liquor rather than over-the counter medications. She left because the muggle shrink would not prescribe her Xanax.
Hermione left because of war. She left because of scars. She left because she was the Golden Girl and all she really wanted to be was Draco Malfoy's wife, or girlfriend, or lover–just something other than stone cold strangers avoiding eye contact at Christmas dinner because the only witness to attest for their intimacy was God and the drawing room floor.
Harder. Good Girl.
He had fucked her like he loved her, but never enough to show her off to anyone else. If only the world knew how good he was at hiding–each of his public sightings were splashed across the front cover of various tabloids but she was never in the picture. He never had a girlfriend. Just Harry.
I have to go. This is just between us. Our little secret.
Why was Harry good enough to be seen with? Why wasn't she?
I have to go.
She had to go; she had to leave. She had to let go. The broken pieces of her never found their way to meet in the middle of her heart so her thoughts and her feelings and every memory she ever had would rattle inside her 'til death did them part. She was united with her pain, she was wedded to her pity, and Draco Malfoy was married to her best friend.
Draco Malfoy-Potter. Harry Potter's husband .
He was the only one she wanted to smile for–why couldn't she smile? It had been so long since she'd smiled. Maybe they could be friends. Would Harry still be her friend if he knew?
You left because of us, didn't you?
Harry Malfoy-Potter. Husband. Would he leave her too?
Speak now or forever hold your peace.
She always held her peace. He was her secret.
Now and forever, right?
It died in that drawing room.
Maybe she didn't deserve forever, maybe she'd never been strong enough. Maybe she should hold her peace; lie. Lie to Harry. Harry shouldn't know. Harry deserved forever. She couldn't ruin that.
I didn't understand the implications of forever.
How do you misunderstand the definition of a word? Forever means without end; without stopping. The entire expanse of one's lifetime–that is forever. That was Harry's forever. Harry Malfoy-Potter. Draco Malfoy's husband.
I've practised all the ways I could have apologised.
Harry Malfoy-Potter. Draco Malfoy's husband.
He tried to bloody kill me !
Bygones are bygones, right?
Just rest Draco.
The blood on his shirt, the scars on his chest. Harry didn't mean to do it.
He's a good man, Ron!
Harry-Malfoy Potter. Draco Malfoy's husband.
You look lovely in green. His favourite colour.
I loved you.
Loved. Spoken in the past tense, never present. No now. No future. No forever.
Mudblood.
Maybe if she really had screamed a little less on the drawing room floor. Maybe if she'd spoken instead of cried. Maybe if she'd worn green the day he stopped loving her. Maybe if she had apologised. Maybe if she'd asked: Why don't you love me? Why can't you love me – why him? Why Harry? Before they went and got married.
Harry-Malfoy Potter. Draco Malfoy's husband.
I loved you–the day I got married to someone else.
Harry makes me happy–So happy.
I loved you.
Always.
How do you leave someone you love? That's what Hermione couldn't grasp–couldn't learn–couldn't study. There were no books on heartbreak, just stupid guides for "how to feel a little bit better" and none of them had recipes to make your own whiskey or handle human interaction without a bottle of gin. Just journal and go for walks; be one with nature. But the world outside her door was suffocating. She was suffocating.
I left because I couldn't handle the guilt – I left because of me–
He felt guilt. She wanted to relish in that. But she couldn't.
Every time I go to sleep I hear you screaming.
I left because of me.
He left. He left her. It didn't matter the reason; she needed him. She had nothing left. He was the only ground she knew how to walk on, he was the only light she knew how to see. He was gone.
Nobody knew.
This is just between us Granger, it's our little secret.
Hermione was fucking tired of their secret.
She swam to the ocean's surface to find enough air to vocalise the truth. "Yes, Harry. I left because of Draco."
Harry finally looked at her–ripped his gaze away from the chandelier and let it rest upon her eyes. Gently. Not viciously or tainted with jealousy. Not soaked in pity or spite. Just that green Harry Potter spark in his eyes that makes you want to spill every piece of classified information you ever heard.
"What was he to you?" Harry asked softly.
Hermione breathed. "I loved him–I sort of still do." She stammered. "N–not sort of. Definitively." Her mind raced again but maybe if she kept speaking she wouldn't hear her own thoughts. "Realistically speaking I never stopped–and well, I left because I should have and couldn't–and I didn't want to tell you or anyone, I still don't really–but I think you know now–you heard it, I think. You had to. Unless you didn't. And–"
"I heard it." Harry affirmed. Hermione couldn't tell whether her heart sunk or just returned to beating properly.
Hermione blinked. Assessed. Wondered if she'd made up this conversation in her head–if Harry's composure was a front to hide his internal rage. If he was already planning the ways he could remove her from his life. If he knew Draco too well to believe anything he'd heard in that shack. If he really believed a word his husband had said at all.
"How much?" She puffed.
"More than you'd like for me to admit to." His lips formed into a tight, comforting smile. Like a friend. Like he cared. "I had no idea, Hermione."
"No one knew." Hermione shrugged hesitantly. "Not your fault, really."
"I don't think that's the truth." Harry shook his head. He knew her too well. "I see it now, the way you were so stiff–the way you looked at me that first Christmas. I thought you hated him like the rest of the world." He sighed.
Hermione wrung her hands behind her back, shifting back and forth from one foot to the other; she should stay in constant motion so she would be ready to run if she had to. Her body wobbled, though. She really needed to sit, but she wasn't confident that would help steady herself much at all. "Logically, you did nothing wrong."
"Emotionally?" Harry cocked an eyebrow.
She looked at the floor. Couldn't face him when she said it. Shouldn't say it–didn't know if there were enough words in her vocabulary to speak. "It broke me." She whispered. "Just a little. Well, no–a lot. Yeah, a lot."
Those weren't the right words. Weren't perfect. So she tried again.
"He told me he couldn't stay with me because he felt guilty for the incident with Bellatrix at the manor. Said–" Hot tears began to force their way to her eyes much like Harry had to shove through the crowd; tirelessly and with great effort, no matter how much she resisted. "Said he couldn't love me after he saw me on the drawing room floor. That's what he said. Almost exactly, actually. I couldn't–I don't want to accept that–"
"It hurts, Harry." She let the tears spill onto her cheeks now. It felt relieving and agonising all at once. She was bare once more, to the person she'd hid from for years. "It hurts a lot, and what killed me the most was having to balance the wish to see you happy and the burning need to replace you–"
"I just–I wanted to heal. With him. With someone I loved, someone who made me feel less alone in the world we saved. I liked–I liked the way he numbed the pain. He numbed my pain, Harry. At Hogwarts, and after. Anytime I was with him, I felt safe–"
"I never knew he… I wish he felt the same. It kills me to think–to hear–he didn't feel the same. Didn't feel safe." She struggled to swallow the quaffle sized lump in her throat without choking. "I just wanted to heal, Harry. I never healed. I never got the chance–I never got the fucking chance to heal–" She sniffed, snot threatening to stream from her nose.
This wasn't the pivotal crying scene you saw in movies–the big heartachingly painful soliloquy–the moment the main character poured out her heart and emptied her brain of all the thoughts she'd never voiced, gaining the courage to be brave and say what hurt her most. The type of scene you grab a tissue for and secretly admire how beautiful the actress looked whilst pretending to sob. That was the type of scene she'd always wanted.
This scene was ugly and raw and unpleasant and Hermione just wanted to hide. Hide from Harry and any source of light; she wanted to crawl into a dark abyss and let the tears wear themselves out before she faced another living creature again. She felt mortified that anyone–even her best friend–could see her now. Didn't want to face him, or anything other than the marble floor of his grandiose office.
Marble, just like Malfoy Manor. Just like the drawing room.
Harry was silent. She knew deep down he was giving this to her. This moment of vulnerability; she knew he was kind enough to provide some sort of void for her to shout into. But she couldn't shake the feeling that once she was done, and the words were all said, he would still leave.
A speck of hope that maybe he would still love her gave her the motivation to continue. Maybe. All she needed was maybe.
"And then I saw you." She choked. "It was two weeks after he told me–told me he couldn't love me anymore. We hadn't really been–" She had to stop to catch her breath.
"We weren't really together for a long time–me and Draco–before he told me he didn't want… before we officially spoke and ended things. So I guess he didn't cheat. But it feels like he betrayed me–it took two weeks! Two weeks to find someone who was worthy of love in the ways he never loved me and that fucking hurt. He showed you off like a trophy, Harry. The Boy Who Lived, war hero! Draco Malfoy with his sworn nemesis. It was like poetry, beautiful irony–he spoke about you like a Jane Austen novel–he loved Pride and Prejudice, you know–that's how we started talking–" She rambled.
"I always wished–I wished he had thought it through–avoided cameras, taken you on a date in private. Just given me a grace period, yeah?" She wiped her nose with her sleeve and gagged on her words. She felt like dry heaving. But Harry still didn't speak.
Harry Malfoy-Potter
"Two weeks wasn't long enough for me to fall out of love. Nothing would be enough actually, 'cause he loved you before he stopped loving me. He married you. And I hate him for that, but I couldn't keep you from being happy so I just shut up about it. The fact that he never told you about me burns–he told me we were his little secret and god knows I kept it. I would've died with it–taken him to the grave–if he'd never gotten married so soon and moved on before I could even clean out his things from my flat. If he'd picked anyone but my best friend to move on with, maybe I'd be okay." She was nearly screaming now.
"I wore green to your wedding because green is his favourite colour and the only thing he said to me was that he liked my dress. I knew he would, that's why I wore it! But all he said was 'you look lovely in green' not 'sorry' or 'how are you?' or 'thank you for coming to my wedding with your best mate even though I know this is killing you inside' and 'you're drunker than Mad Eye Moody,' and 'I should've helped you feel worthy of life before you started trying to drink yourself to death.' Those would be great ways to start. He knew how I felt, he had to–but I don't think he cared. It never felt like he cared." Hermione sputtered.
"I drank and shagged random men just to fill the void, but it gets worse every second of every day. Because I don't want to be here like this. I don't want to feel so alone but I can't help myself. I still feel like the fucking mudblood in Malfoy Manor screaming for mercy–screaming for help. And the worst of it is, I regret making any noise at all." She sobbed.
"I wish I'd laid there and thought of England and acted like the brave little Golden Girl everyone expects me to be. Maybe he would have loved me still, maybe he would have never had nightmares so harsh he couldn't look me in the eyes ever again. But I gave up. I've given up. Completely, with my entire being. And I want to carve this scar off my skin because all it does is remind me of the day my soul fucking died and God forgot to take my body with it." She grabbed her wrist as if the cuts were fresh again. They did feel fresh again, actually. She imagined blood seeping through her sleeve, dripping to the floor. She felt like screaming for help again. She felt like dying.
Red like wine. Red like me.
"I loved him, Harry. But I also love you. It hurts. It fucking… really fucking hurts. To see you happy and to wish you weren't. It hurts worse than the blade and the cruciatus curse ever did. Because I am alone, and I fear I will die alone, because I can't find the motivation or courage or breath or time to fix this. To fix me. I have been broken since the war, and I am still broken ten years later."
"So I left because of that. Not because of you. Not because you married the man I loved. Because I needed to heal somewhere away from all of this, from the reminders that the day I died was too traumatic for Draco to marry me ."
"The song you danced to at your wedding–I introduced him to that. We had a saying that we would love each other 'now and forever.' Forever . But you got forever. I didn't. And I tried my best to rehearse positivity in the mirror and find a way to be happy for you. I told you I was happy for you both at the wedding. But those words tasted like acid. Because I wasn't. I wasn't happy for me or you or anyone. So I had to run. I had to get out before that ruined me."
"But five years in hiding away from it all did nothing but teach me how to cure a hangover, bleach my hair and speak enough Italian to sell a novel or buy a box of tampons."
"I give up, Harry. I give up." She managed to croak out before her voice simply faded away into silence.
She was done, she thought. She'd said everything she had ever hoped to say and likely more than she should have. She felt insane, but free. Her head throbbed, her feet ached, her vocal chords burned. Bile had risen to the very top of her throat now and she knew there wasn't much use in swallowing it, it would eventually come back up, so she lived with the discomfort.
But there was a bittersweet comfort in the knowledge someone knew.
Harry knew.
Harry's arms were around her before she could think any further, and then she was crying into his shoulder. He smelled like firewood and unreasonably expensive cologne. Like Harry. Her best friend. Harry Potter, not Harry Malfoy-Potter. Just Harry.
He was never the enemy.
Hermione sobbed into his chest as long as he would allow. He put his hand on the back of her skull and her headache subsided enough to breathe a little. She wished he would speak, yet simultaneously thanked God for the silence–thanked God for the hug–for the comfort of another human being. She hadn't been hugged or touched in over five years. Harry's embrace eased her soul, if only for this brief moment.
When Harry spoke, he didn't pull away from her. He just muttered into her hair. "I don't know what to do, Mione."
"There's nothing to do." Hermione whispered. "Just stay with me. Don't leave, please."
"Why would I leave, Mione?" He replied.
"Because Draco–because I–" Hermione sputtered.
"No." It was one word, two letters, zero room for questions. Hermione bit her lip to contain a sob of joy, of relief, of something other than pent up rage. Something other than pain and loneliness.
Friendship.
"You could have died." Harry said. "We could have lost you. We were so, so scared."
"I didn't think there was much to lose." Hermione responded honestly. Her lips felt swollen.
"The entire world idolises you, Mione. Little girls, little boys, everyone above and in between. They searched for you for hours on end, every day, for months. Me, Ron, Ginny; we would have set fire to the wind if it led to saving you." Harry pulled away now and Hermione felt his absence in her chest. He placed his hands on her shoulders as if to steady her. She still felt wobbly. "You have a home. You are not alone. You are so, so loved. And I wish you could see for yourself the reasons why."
The bile in her throat decided it was ready now. She fell to her knees and retched onto the marble floor. It tasted like liquor and sorrow. She tried to hold the next round in long enough to apologise–tried to bring out her wand to clean it, but Harry just conjured a bucket and held her hair in his fist.
The metal door opened and it would take a fool not to foresee what came next.
"Hermione!"
It was Draco. Harry Potter's husband.
"Draco." Harry responded. The look on his face must have read of frustration or shock or something tangibly bad, because Draco did not take another step further into the office. He stood at the open door, mouth agape–or at least this was what Hermione envisioned as she stared into the bucket of her own vomit.
"She told you." Draco assessed.
"You didn't." Harry said.
Harry didn't sound angry. He was as calm as he had been whilst speaking to her, actually. As the world went black, Hermione couldn't determine whether this made her feel better or worse about herself. She sank to the ocean floor, losing sight first, then smell, then the ground beneath her knees, then everything all at once.
The darkness which enveloped her reeked of firewhiskey.
She hated firewhiskey.