The Letter
Draco Malfoy yawned loudly as he went to collect his mail from the owlry of his home, now vacant and deafening in its silence. His parents were long dead, the Manor wall echoing the harshness of his childhood, his adolescence and, most regrettably, his induction into the Death Eaters. For nearly a year he fought the war alongside his family, alongside Voldemort himself, his prize pupil, even after his failure with Dumbledore.
His hands were soaked with so much blood—his deeds could never truly be undone.
The war still raged on, even now, as he stood in his robe and slippers, thumbing through his letters. All war-related, all eager and in request of his presence at various locations and for various missions. The only difference now was who had sent them—Harry Potter.
It had been a strange turn of events, the day Draco decided to join the light side. A conflict had been brewing within him for months, only last week rearing its head. He killed three fellow Death Eaters that day—an event he knew would spread like wildfire—then sought out Harry where the latest reports said he should be. Not surprisingly, several members of the Order of the Phoenix were aware of his approach many days before his arrival and greeted him with a barrage of stunning spells that knocked him cold for nearly ten hours.
He awoke in a strange room, the face of none other than Hermione Granger looming over him. She looked the same as she always had, her frizzy hair pulled back into a hasty ponytail, her chocolate brown eyes glowing with an unexplainable emotion. She offered him tea, which he set aside and ignored, then asked him what use he could be for the Order.
"How do you know I haven't come here to kill you all?" he'd demanded, throwing the heavy blankets off.
"Do you know how long Harry has been waiting for you to come to us?" she'd laughed. "None of us believed him," she added with a knowing look. "But then we heard you were coming and we knew he was right. You'd finally seen the light, so to speak."
Draco frowned deeply and stood up. He was uncomfortable, to say the least, in her presence. After all, she had been his main target of torture in their years at Hogwarts. Yet, here she was, smiling at him as if they were long time friends.
"What?" he snapped, searching his pockets.
Without a word she reached into her own and produced his wand, the very thing he'd been looking for, then left the room.
When she was gone he sat back down, not touching his wand, his thoughts drifting to the only fairly decent memory he possessed of himself and Hermione. It was during their sixth year, the day after Harry had cursed him, to be exact. She was the only person who came to visit him, his own girlfriend finding better things to do than see her could-be-dying boyfriend. He shunned her immediately, thinking she'd come there to gloat. But then she smiled, sadly, and whispered, "I'm so sorry," and left on his bedside table a single black rose, its petals already wilting at the edges.
Later he sought her out, shoving her into a broom closet and demanding she tell him why she'd gone to see him. She answered that she was truly sorry for what Harry did and hoped it hadn't scarred him more than physically. He was so furious at her compassion—at her audacity to feel for him—that he lashed out and slapped her loudly across the face. She stumbled back a few steps, then burst into a fit of laughter.
"What the hell is so damn funny!" he'd cried, grabbing her by the arms.
"You," she'd sighed, shaking her head as if he were simply an unruly child. "It will be a cold day in hell when you finally come around, Draco Malfoy."
He shook her violently, ordering that she stop laughing or he was going to make her regret it. She touched his face with such unexpected gentleness that he jumped back, brandishing his wand at her. This didn't phase her, however, and she came forward, stopping about a foot before him.
"No one has ever been kind to you, have they?"
Before he knew it, she leaned in and kissed him softly on the cheek. Then she stepped back, but before she could get too far he snatched her back, crushing his lips against her.
Twenty minutes later, as they were getting dressed, Draco pulled the black rose she'd given him from his robes, thrusting it at her.
"I don't need anyone's kindness," he'd spat, then stormed from the room as if she'd insulted him.
Draco read his mail with difficulty, his letters coded and confusing even with his skill at deciphering them. He had only been at the Manor one night, having decided that he couldn't stand being around Hermione all the time at the Order Headquarters. She hadn't said a word about that night back in sixth year, and he doubted she ever would, but simply the thought of her having that information was something he could not handle.
He decided, after reading the third letter, that he should go to Headquarters that afternoon, for they obviously needed him. He was about to forget the rest of the mail, figuring anything they said could be explained easily once he got there, when he noticed the handwriting on the last letter. He lifted it carefully, recognizing it instantly. With the rose he'd received over a year ago, had come a note with only a single phrase: All we have in life are choices.
He wanted to ignore the letter, wanting nothing to do with Hermione—the shame, even in his newfound "goodness" was too much. He needed time, time which she obviously was unwilling to give him.
With shaky hands, he cracked the seal, gasping at the four simple words written within.
He dropped everything, ran to his room, got dressed as fast as he could, then ran from the Manor until he was far enough away to Apparate. He reached Number 12 Grimmauld Place, his face coated in a thin sheen of sweat, his lungs screaming for air. Bursting through the front door, he ran straight for the room he'd been avoiding since his arrival. He had always wondered at its strange silence, only now realizing the obvious. It had a Silencing Charm cast on it.
Without knocking, he opened the door, his heart stopping at the sight before him.
"Hi," Hermione said, smiling gracefully.
"Hi," he replied stupidly, and stumbled forward until he reached her, sitting proudly in a chair beside her window. "Why didn't you tell me?" And for the life of him he couldn't make himself sound angry, sound anything but curious.
"I was waiting," she answered. "When you denounced Voldemort I knew I could tell you."
Draco let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding, taking a seat in the chair placed conveniently beside her.
"What's her name?" he whispered, reaching out cautiously to touch the very tip of a toe of the tiny baby girl Hermione cradled in her arms.
She smiled and said, "Hope."
He couldn't help it; his face broke into a grin, a stunted laugh escaping his throat at Hermione's shocking letter. The four words had been: Happy Father's Day Draco.
A quick little one-shot for Father's Day :P I don't know if it's celebrated in England, but for the sake of the story it is.
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