As Draco laid immobile upon lush silk sheets, the concept of excruciating pain did not once pass through his mind. Rather, he could not shake the memory of how much Hermione Granger had hated these sheets. Once, in a fit of rage, she had cast incendio to a set of green linen he had owned since his fourth year at Hogwarts. "I will not sleep in your bloody Slytherin blankets, Draco Malfoy!" She had hissed. Draco did not respond, preoccupied with the task of extinguishing the flames before it burnt the whole manor down. The silk was scorched beyond repair. It made her cry and apologize profusely, therefore he could not bring himself to be upset.
They had been fighting about the decoration of the twins' nursery that day. At the paint store, she decided that she absolutely needed to paint the walls a pastel yellow– yellow for Merlin's sake! Draco, with years of his mother's lectures on the topic of proper interior design, refused to allow her to taint his childhood home with the repugnant Hufflepuff colors. They had settled on a pastel blue. Ravenclaw was still better than Hufflepuff.
Draco wished now that he had allowed her the one simple pleasure of her bloody Hufflepuff room with the stuffed elephant toys and unmoving muggle paintings she had been so stubborn about. Perhaps if he had, he could bring himself to step foot in the room without feeling the urge to retch. Now, it just served as a painful reminder of all he had lost.
She was always so god damned stubborn. She had never grown out of the know-it-all phase and she was still obsessed with books. She'd even take notes in the margins, as if she were studying for O. . He would come home from work and find her curled up under a wool blanket devouring a book the size of a small chest with one of those muggle 'pens' clenched between her teeth– which she would absentmindedly leave in various obscure locations around the house like breadcrumbs. He often found himself on scavenger hunts, searching for the contraptions so she wouldn't go out and buy a new box of replacements, insisting she'd lost them all.
Draco was convinced she still thought she was in school. She'd practice complex charms and hexes– many of which she had invented on her own– in their living room, using their couch as target practice. Since she had moved into the manor, Draco had replaced the furniture over twenty times. She'd just wave him off whenever he complained, telling him, "You've got the Malfoy family inheritance, and you're worried about a sofa?" She did have a point, but he'd never let her win that fight.
The other aurors and ministry employees had a running joke that her gravestone would feature the phrase "well actually." It was a grim thought which never quite registered with him, because Hermione Granger was too young, too brilliant, too lovely to die. Death was so improbable for her, the concept made him laugh. No. She would never not be there to chide him for mispronouncing a word, or when his opinion on an auror case was far-fetched. She would never not be there to laugh when he burnt their morning pancakes– he absolutely hated cooking the muggle way, but she preferred her mother's recipe to the ones Topsy had used. She'd never not be there to curl her nose up when she took a sip from his coffee cup– because hers was simply not enough– saying it was so sweet she worried he might clog his veins. "It's three spoonfuls, Granger." He'd laugh. "Not an entire sugar cane."
"That's Malfoy to you." She'd always say. Every time.
She drank her coffee black. Always black.
Draco, despite protests, actually loved when she corrected him. Because she listened. She had always listened. When his coworkers refused to take him seriously the first few years after the war, she would acknowledge his theories. She would remind the others that his experiences made him more credible than they gave him credit for. She'd worked with him on Graham Montague's case, and congratulated him for a job well done when the aurors finally caught him. She was the only one, back then. She still hated him, though; she had made that very clear. Wouldn't speak to him aside from professional matters. Not until the memorial.
It was June of 1999 when he miraculously found himself crammed into a crowd outside the newly repaired Hogwarts castle, standing closer to Granger than he had in years. As Saint Potter gave a speech, the crowd of survivors sobbed in each other's arms. Everyone had a friend, someone to cry to– someone to hold. Except for himself and Hermione Granger.
So there she was, the Golden Girl. Without her golden boys.
"It's beautiful isn't it?" She spoke first, not even turning her head– as if she had sensed him there. Her voice brought goosebumps to Draco's arms. "Almost looks the same. You know, as it did before."
Draco was speechless. She was willing to speak to him outside of the same castle that his fellow Death Eaters had destroyed. He stuttered for a moment. "I– I guess it is."
"You know I don't blame you." She finally faced him, lips curled into a curt smile. It made his heart flutter. "For this. For any of this. I saw you that day. You weren't on either side. And your mother helped us to win the war."
Draco flinched at the mention of his late mother, who had died of what he could only assume to be heartbreak following the death of his imprisoned father. She noticed. "I'm sorry, I–"
"It's fine, Granger. No need to apologize." He put on a smile. It wasn't entirely fake. That was new.
They stood in silence again, and he inspected her face as she turned back to face Potter, who was listing the names of the fallen. The mention of Colin Creevey made her eyes glisten with tears. She appeared to attempt to blink them away but one fell down her cheek anyways.
Draco did not stop to think before he reached out to wipe the tear from her skin. Her face was soft and warm. She stared up at him with eyes so big he wanted to dive through them to ease the pain from her mind. He wanted to dry the tears– every single one of them– but they continued to fall, so quickly he couldn't catch them all. He didn't really know why he felt a pang in his heart at the sound of her choked cries, but proving comfort felt like the right thing to do– the only thing he could do.
The memorial lasted too long. Draco felt every ounce of judgement from the survivors around him. He faced the backlash of his past every day, but here, there were no strangers. He knew every face— if not every name. And they knew him. Their glares bore holes into his face and he felt as if he would choke on the air surrounding the castle. He couldn't bring himself to step inside. It was all he could do to keep from sobbing. Malfoys don't sob in public.
He was seconds away from apparating to the nearest pub to get absolutely pissed when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He jumped. It was Granger. "Are you leaving?" She said, mascara smudged ever so slightly across her cheeks. Her nose was red, and her big bush of hair was even more unkempt than it had been in school. It had been tamed only an hour before.
Draco nodded. Her hand did not move. "Could– could I come with?"
That was the beginning of it all; the beginning of the end. That one simple question, and one simple nod. One simple round of firewhiskeys at the Leaky Cauldron– she absolutely hated the taste, he learned she preferred a warm butterbeer or a muggle margarita to any sort of magical liquor. But she wouldn't let him get shitefaced alone. And shitefaced they were indeed.
"Do you ever wonder what you could have been?" She whispered. "What we all could have been?" She was a philosophical drunk. He should have known she'd get even brighter when inebriated.
Draco thought for a moment, never removing his gaze from her toffee colored irises. He'd fixated on them all night. "I think I would have paid my way into the wizengamot," He chuckled, his words slurring together. "I always loved to watch the cases as a boy."
Granger burst into a fit of giggles. "That's amusing. I wanted to be a lawyer."
The night ended hours later when Granger's strange muggle contraption– a cell phone, she called it– began to ring. It was Potter. She had to go. "I'll see you tomorrow, won't I?"
"Tomorrow is Sunday, Granger. We don't work on Sundays."
"That doesn't mean I can't see you."
There are said to be endless possibilities– that every choice you make creates a separate branch in the timeline of your life, and that in some parallel universe, or alternate reality, you made a different choice.
If Draco had never owled her that night perhaps his reality would be different. If they had never met at Diagon Alley for ice cream Sunday morning, or chatted like old friends over a heaping scoop of butter pecan ice cream, or fought over how much caramel drizzle was too much caramel drizzle, maybe the world– his world– would be slightly less shattered. If he had stayed home that day, never gone to that damned memorial at the site of the crimes he nearly committed– perhaps Hermione Granger would be alive.
He hated her friends, until he didn't. Potter grew on him; the bloke was actually quite a comedian, when he wasn't being an egotistical prick. His prickishness was bearable. Weasley never improved, but the ginger was so busy barely winning quidditch matches in foreign countries that Draco's forced interactions with him were limited. But Ginny Weasley? That witch scared the bloody daylights out of him. If he was ever left alone with her, she would point her thin little fingers at his chest and hiss, "If you hurt her–"
"You'll turn me into an insect and feed me to your iguana, yes I know."
Their interactions grew more pleasant, so the warnings were more of an inside joke than a threat.
Hermione was appointed the godmother of Potter's first, and third child. Draco liked to poke fun that she lost the second job to Loony Lovegood. She'd hit him for that. Nonetheless, as the long term boyfriend of the designated Godmother, Draco was forced to interact with them too. James Sirius was an absolute terror the first three years. Draco nearly banned Ginny and Potter from his manor when the toddler knocked over his grandmother's ashes and began to use them as play sand, but Weaslette won. Albus– whose name had originally made Draco's stomach churn– was going to be a Slytherin, there was no doubt. Lily was so shy– the exact opposite of the first Potter child.
Hermione, however, loved Draco's friends. She and Pansy would stay up until an ungodly hour watching muggle rom-coms and squealing over the slightest romantic gestures. Theo and Blaise's wedding was one of the first official 'dates' with her. "Would you want to be my plus one for the night, Granger?"
"Are you asking me on a date?"
"Perhaps I am."
That was the first time they'd kissed. She'd initiated it. His heart could barely handle the joy.
The conversation between Draco and the three Gryffindors was one of the worst conversations he'd ever had. Granger didn't have parents– not anymore– so her little band of friends were the only people Draco could ask for approval to marry her. It was 2004. Weasel tried to hex him, and Weaslette– who was pregnant with her second child– actually did hex him. He was lucky to have remained human during the interaction. Ginny's reptile was fortunately not in the room.
But Potter said yes. So began Draco's trials, wherein the new trio would follow him around as he did everyday tasks and ensure that he was not in fact reporting back to some evil warlord. They made him learn to wash dishes by hand. Ginny made him sit through The Notebook. She laughed at him when he attempted to discreetly wipe a tear from his eye.
Granger nearly ruined the night before he could bend a knee. She hated fireworks– he soon learned– and apparently New Years Eve was not the best time to suggest marriage. This was something Draco felt he should have been informed of when the Gryffindors finally approved the proposal. When they arrived to their destination– a blanket on a hill overlooking the brightly lit city– she would not shut up about how harmful fireworks were to the environment, and the animals, and the babies in the world– so he cast a silencio and forced her to face him. It was already 11:58 p.m.
"Granger, I hate to interrupt, but if I don't do this now I might change my mind," He had huffed, before leaning down and tucking one knee underneath himself. Her eyes grew wide and she stopped trying to cancel the charm. "It pains me to say this, but I rather enjoy your company. And your big bushy hair and all your bloody books. Hell, I even put up with the Weasleys for you. Unfortunately."
He reached for the velvet box in his coat pocket and her eyes grew even wider. Wider than they'd been the day of the memorial. But there was no pain behind the sea of caramel now. He wanted to keep it that way.
"So I was wondering if perhaps you'd be willing to grace me with your insufferable presence every day for the rest of our lives?"
The new year began with Draco fumbling to slide a ring onto her finger. And then a long– long– kiss.
The first thing she did as his fiance was hand a sock to every single elf in his home. And then she paid Crabbe's construction crew to demolish the drawing room and replace it with a second library. That was her favorite place in the manor.
The wedding was small– she wanted it that way. She hated attention, though that's all she ever got. She was still the Golden Girl, after all. She took his name because she wanted to "stick it to" every one of Draco's pureblood ancestors. News of their marriage got around the entire wizarding world and he had now been dubbed the 'one who got the girl.' Random witches would write to him and ask him why he chose Granger over them, which would send his wife on a total rampage. One month she burned every letter he received just to make sure none of them were from his newfound fanbase. (Draco realized quickly that he had married a pyromaniac.)
His favorite title was "the boy who had no choice," after Hermione shouted at a crowd of onlookers that it was not his fault he'd been a death eater, and then proceeded to kiss him sloppily for show.
She was supposed to take over as Minister of Magic in 2008. The entirety of the wizarding world was abuzz with anticipation for her promotion. The brightest witch of their age, of their history, would finally be in charge. Rita Skeeter was churning out articles about women in power, and how inspiring it would be to see a woman 'as strong as our Golden Girl,' in office.
The papers were filled out. He was there when she'd done it: signed the parchment with an enchanted quill on a tiny dotted line and stamped her fingerprint beside it. He, as her spouse, had a list of obligations– which he never did read, because he was simply too engrossed in the look on his wife's face as Kingsley Shacklebolt read an oath aloud. She repeated it without a moment's hesitation. The deed was done.
Draco took her on a vacation to Italy to celebrate– reserved a table at Palazzo di Lyra and booked the luxury suite at Lo Scorpione. They had dined on fine wine– muggle wine, much to his chagrin– and an assortment of italian delicacies she'd never tasted in her life. Her favorite part of the entire night was a bloody loaf of bread. Focaccia, the waitress had called it. Hermione had ordered enough of that bread to feed an orphanage, and Draco still never managed to get a single bite before she devoured it all.
They spoke about the future, the real future that night. It was something they had been running towards for so long but had never quite discussed. Life as an auror was demanding in the years following the war. There were too many war criminals still roaming freely for either Draco or Hermione to really think any further than the end of the week. But the dark wizards had long been caught, and the auror department now spent its time answering calls from elderly witches convinced a Death Eater had stolen their cat.
Ten years. It had been ten years since the war.
Draco had always wanted a family of his own. Potter and Weaslette hadn't been engaged for three months before the crazy witch grew a baby bump. Draco had winced at the thought of bringing a child into a world still recovering from Lord Voldemort. But then he met little James one day at the ministry, and he understood.
"You know, I think Lyra is a beautiful name." Draco said as he played with Hermione's hair. "Makes me think of a little blonde girl with your eyes."
When Hermione looked at him, her eyes were an exact replica of the night at the memorial. The pain was back, and there were tears threatening to spill onto her cheeks. He wanted to use a time turner to put the words back into his mouth and never let them out.
"I– Draco, I can't." She began. Words spilled out along with her tears and as he listened he didn't know which of the two he'd rather wipe away. She sobbed as she explained to him the consequences of the war. Her body had suffered enough curses during the war that it was presumed she was barren. He wanted to throw up when he realized it was Bellatrix's torture to blame.
He had sat in silence that day and watched his wicked aunt crucio Hermione Granger until her screams were merely whispers. He had watched– had been forced to watch. In his own bloody home, the one he now shared with her. She could have died on his drawing room floor and he did nothing to stop it. How could she even look at him?
"Hermione, I–" He wanted to scream, he wanted to throw his fist at the wall until there were no walls to punch. But he knew that anger was the last emotion his wife needed him to show. He swallowed the pain. "We'd probably be horrible parents anyway. Look at us." He wiped at her tears and let out a nervous chuckle.
"I'm sorry, Draco. I should have told you. Do you still– still want this?" She waved her hands.
"Granger, you are more than I deserve. You're the Golden Girl, and I'm nothing but tarnished silver. I will love you as long as Fate will allow. Nothing could change that."
He kissed her before she could respond.
The love they made that night was different. It was an apology and a promise all at once; a declaration of devotion and an abdication of regrets. No one could take this from them. This was theirs. Passion seeped from every pore in their bodies and a lifetime passed before they finally parted. For Draco, was one hopeless shout into the void that maybe, just maybe, his aunt's torture hadn't worked. He suspected his wife was feeling the same.
The next morning, Draco awoke to his wife vomiting in the washroom.
Magical pregnancies were instant and needed only seconds to appear. Most witches felt symptoms within the week of conception. The first time Pansy served as a surrogate for Theo and Blaise, she had owled Draco five days after the act with news of her baby. Hermione Granger's wits were even quicker, though. He barely had time to pull her hair back before she blurted that she felt she was pregnant. Draco couldn't help the feeling of overwhelming joy that consumed him as he gathered their belongings and owled a mediwitch.
The healer called the pregnancy a gift from fate.
Hermione was convinced it would be a baby boy, but Draco wanted a little girl. Three months later, they both got their wish.
"Twins!" Draco had shouted into the waiting room at St. Mungos. Slytherins, Hufflepuffs, Ravenclaws and Gryffindors cheered as one that day. There were no house divisions in that hospital as Longbottom and his wife, Loony, pulled Draco into a big, overbearing embrace. Weaselbee gave him a slap on the shoulder– the closest thing to civility the two had shown since the wedding. Ginny, in her own unpredictable way, planted a sloppy kiss on his cheek. Potter shed a tear. Draco fought tears of his own.
"I always knew you had seeds of steel, Malfoy." Blaise quipped.
Pansy and Daphne gushed with Hermione, comparing baby bumps. Draco groaned at the realization he now had three pregnant witches in his life.
Scorpius and Lyra Malfoy were to be born September 13, 2009.
It was rare that an hour passed where they didn't fight during the pregnancy. Hermione constantly craved pumpkin juice and focaccia and at the most ungodly hours of the night, which Draco was expected to retrieve since she had freed all his house elves, aside from Topsy, who had refused to leave the manor. Hermione's neverending trail of pens grew wider, and her tantrums about needing to buy a new box grew louder. He would have to hold her tightly in his arms to keep her from hexing him. "I'll find your pens, Granger. I'll find your pens, I promise."
She would still sneak out while he was at work to buy more.
Her morning sickness never faded. When she wasn't reading or shouting over the various things which displeased her, she was emptying the contents of her stomach into a toilet. She grew thin by the middle of the second trimester, despite the large quantity of carbohydrates and sweets she consumed. None of Daphne's home remedies worked to soothe the symptoms. The healers blamed it on a complicated pregnancy, but insisted the babies were healthy.
The babies were supposed to be healthy.
It was August 2nd, 2009 when Draco came home to find his wife screaming in their library. The one she'd built. The one she'd loved. His feet couldn't move fast enough to move him to her side.
"Granger? Granger, what's wrong?" He held the sides of her face the second he could reach out to her.
She didn't respond.
Her skin was hot under his fingertips. There were beads of sweat spilling down her cheeks. Draco's mind went blank. He couldn't think, couldn't move. All he could do was stare into her caramel eyes and wish he could extinguish the pain in them. "Talk to me. Granger, tell me. What's wrong? What's wrong? Please."
She still didn't respond. Just looked up at him and screamed, voice hoarse. There was blood staining the material of her maternity jeans. He couldn't fight tears as he waved his wand to make them disappear. "Topsy!" He shouted. The elf appeared at his side. "Topsy, owl the healer."
"Which healer should Topsy be owling?" She responded, her gaze falling upon Hermione.
"Any healer. Any healer." Draco breathed.
As he laid Hermione down on the wooden floor, every second he had spent with her flashed before his eyes. The ice cream and the fireworks. The late nights watching strange muggle films. The mornings she'd read to him in bed. Everything.
"Mr. Malfoy, I think it would be best if you stepped out of the room." The healer stated glumly.
"No. I won't leave." Draco couldn't see anything but red. Red for blood. Red for her flushed cheeks. Red for Gryffindor pride and red velvet cupcakes and cherries on top of butter pecan sundays. "I can't."
The color faded from Hermione's cheeks the way green fades from leaves in Fall. There was no more red, only a pale, freckled ivory, tinted with blue. Blue like the nursery and the sky.
Draco never left. He couldn't move as healers flooded the room— couldn't tear his eyes from his wife's. "Come on Granger. Please. Please don't leave me." He gripped her cold hand in his own before a stout woman pulled him away. "No! Don't take me from her!" He fought against the woman's grasp, but she overpowered him. She didn't let him go until he was standing in the hall. There were people there. Too many people.
"Malfoy?" Ginny Weasley's hand found its way to his shoulder. "Malfoy, what's happening?"
He didn't respond, fearful that if he spoke the words aloud they would become real. This is all a nightmare, he repeated inside his head. A horrible, terrible nightmare. And he would wake up back in his bed, with Granger at his side to chide him for shouting in his sleep.
Arms were around his body again. Too many arms. There were voices, whispering "I'm so sorry," and "It's going to be okay." But he didn't process them. Wouldn't. Couldn't.
Hermione had looked so beautiful on that hospital bed, excited at the news that there would be two babies instead of one. She and Pansy had rushed to baby-proof the house. There was the nursery, and the children's books, and the embroidered blankets. For Lyra and Scorpius. Twins. Two gifts from fate.
Now there were no twins. And worst of all, there was no Hermione Granger.
It was hard to weigh the pros and cons of never loving Hermione Granger, but lately he found more pros than cons. Had he never pursued her, never asked her to marry him, never suggested they bear a child, she would still be alive. Had he never tested fate, never knocked upon its door and tried for a little girl that night, Hermione would be here to hold him. Or better yet, here to manage the wizarding world.
She would have been better off without him.
Now he laid upon the sheets she hated so much with the elf who had raised him leaning at his side. A potion coursed through his veins and the only part of his body he could manage to move was the corner of his mouth.
All Draco Malfoy saw as he faded in and out of consciousness was the face of the woman he loved. The woman who had held his children in her stomach for 8 months. The woman who had taken his last name. Who had listened to him before anyone else in the ministry. Who had spoken to him when no one else would.
He'd buy her all the pens in the world if it meant he could watch her scribble notes in the margins of one of his family's oldest books again, or any book, for that matter. If only he could watch her hair fall in her face until she puffed a breath to blow it away. He would fill every room in his house with focaccia, and bring her pumpkin juice every night at 2 a.m. if it meant he could hear her voice again— if he could watch her grimace at his coffee and smile at his pancakes— if he could argue over sugar and caramel drizzles again.
He had only 10 years with Hermione Granger, and he would take it all back if it meant she could have lived another 50.
As he died, he wondered if he would ever see her again, or if he would be damned for his sins, never to meet the love of his life again. But what greeted him at Death's door was not the flames of hell, but the face of Fate herself.
"Why?" Was all he could ask. "Why are you here?"
"You called out to me, Draco, as you did before." The woman spoke, voice nothing more than a soft whisper.
"The babies," Draco gaped. "That was you?"
"I answer each time I am called." Fate simply nodded.
"But I don't understand. I didn't call to you. Not today. Not ever."
"But you did, Draco." Fate said. "Tell me, as you stand before me, what is it you desire most?"
The words fell from Draco's mouth before his brain could fully form a thought. "I wish that Hermione Granger were alive."
"Do you understand what must be done?" Fate placed her hand on his arm. Her touch was like silk against his skin. He shuddered.
"Anything." He swallowed. "I would do anything for her."
Not a second passed before there was no Fate. There was nothing. Then there was something. A woman.
Draco squinted against the light.
The woman standing before him was not Fate, but Hermione Granger. Hair tamed, pulled into a tight bun. She was younger; the lines by her eyes were less obvious and the hollows of her cheeks were full. There was color on her face. Draco turned away, unsure of where he was. When he turned, he found Harry Potter standing at a podium. He found the stone walls of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. The blue and red and green and yellow banners above a grand entrance. He could hear sobs, and choked cries from the people around him.
His stomach dropped.
It was June of 1999 and he was crammed into a crowd outside the newly repaired Hogwarts castle, standing closer to Hermione Granger than he had in years.
"It's beautiful isn't it?" She didn't look at him as she spoke, but her voice brought goosebumps to Draco's arms.
"No. It isn't."
With that, Draco Malfoy pushed through the crowd and apparated himself to the Leaky Cauldron. Alone.
—-
As he sat, drowning himself in firewhiskey, he couldn't help but let his mind roam to the night they'd shared drinks. The empty chair across from him left a sinking feeling in his gut, and the peanuts he stuffed down his throat didn't help to fill the void.
This was what he needed. This was what she needed. This was for the best. He repeated these words in his mind.
The room spun with each sip he took. All he could see, all he could hear was her in his mind. The voice grew louder, more real. He thought he could smell her.
As his vision clouded with swirling black dots, he could have sworn he heard her say, "Mind if I sit?"
Authors Note:
The question you must now ask yourself is: "was she real?"
There is no yes or no answer. It's up to interpretation whether knowing she's alive will drive him insane, or if Fate chose to bring her back into his life. Ultimately you have to decide if Fate is good or evil. That's what this ending was supposed to do.
BUT if Fate DID bring her back into his life, is that because Fate is good or evil?
If Fate is good, which ending would happen? 1) They never fall in love, or 2) they fall in love and don't repeat the same mistakes? Does Draco have free will? Can he avoid making the same mistakes or is it set in stone?
That is what I will leave you with. Thank you for reading my fic! I hope you have an amazing day! Also, if you liked this, you can find me on Twitter as d1squietude and d1squietude on Tiktok as well. I will be writing more in the future. :)