Hermione Granger attended the wedding of the man she loved.
Stood in the corner as they slow danced
Numbly clapped her hands as they
Were presented man and man.
Hermione Granger attended the wedding of the man she loved
Scrawled her name in their guest book
Tasted ash when they toasted champagne
Hermione Granger attended the wedding of the man she loved
She wore emerald green, marveling
At how beautiful he beamed in white
Hermione Granger attended the wedding of the man she loved
When his groom rounded the corner
His face broke apart like clouds
But all around her were flames
Hermione Granger attended the wedding of the man she loved.
"Congratulations. I'm so happy for you both."
The wedding was a grand event. White, gold, and silver floral arrangements were scattered along the lake-shore, built so high she thought one simple push might send one plummeting to the ground below. A white belvedere was erected at the edge of the lake. The water provided a beautiful backdrop– it was still and clear and Hermione could see schools of fish swimming around as she pondered the thought of jumping in. Perhaps if she was soaking wet and distraught, she might have a valid excuse to leave.
It was the wedding she always dreamed of. One she would likely never have.
She shouldn't have expected anything less from Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter: the Boy Who Lived and the richest prick in the wizarding world. Their wealth combined was enough to build a city. One measly yet magnificent wedding wouldn't put a pea-sized dent in either of their vaults.
She scribbled her name in the guest book, staring at the grand display of every moving photograph that could possibly exist of her best friend and his blond fiancé. There was hardly any room to rest her hand without knocking over another pretty little frame, with pretty little faces inside. It made her stomach churn, because how could they look so happy when she was too busy holding in tears every time she looked their way?
Hermione begrudgingly took a seat in the front row, next to Ron and Ginny, whose distaste was apparent on their faces. They never approved of Malfoy, but Hermione could still tell they were happy for their friend. She just wished she knew how to feel the same way.
The Minister of Magic began to speak to the crowd from inside the belvedere, but she couldn't hear him over the ringing in her ears. Draco Malfoy gracefully sauntered down the aisle, wearing a black tuxedo that suited him so well it made Hermione's breath hitch. Soon Harry was walking towards Malfoy in a white suit, but Hermione couldn't take her eyes off the man in front of her. He stood exactly where she always wished he would, nose high in the air, eyes never leaving Harry as he walked down the aisle. That should have been her that he was gazing at with pure admiration. That should have been her in the aisle. That should have been her wearing white.
That should have been her. But it wasn't. And it never would be.
Memories flashed inside her mind. Memories of the times she'd been led to believe this wedding would be hers. Times he'd promised– muttered words against her skin, like "I love you," and "you're mine." Memories of the beginning, the middle and the end of their story. The beginning was bliss. Sometimes as she would lay in bed at night, wondering if Draco was laying next to her best friend, she would go back to the beginning of it all and make believe it was still her he laid with.
They had met– truly met, that is– in September of fourth year. Hermione had discovered a small door while pacing the halls, looking for Harry. It was a door that had never been there before– she knew of that. In fact, she had gotten lost in this very hallway once or twice before. No, that door had not been there.
She cautiously reached for the door handle, touching it with only the tips of her fingers, afraid whatever existed on the other side might burn her. The moment her skin connected with the door, it swung open. Inside was none other than Draco Malfoy. He was shirtless and his hair was a mess– flopping into his eyes as he whipped around to face her.
"What are you doing here, Granger?" He coughed the moment their eyes locked. He was wide-eyed– shocked– and he looked as if he had been caught in some sort of act– whether devious or intimate, she could not discern. Hermione chose to swallow her curiosity and dampen the little flame that sparked inside of her at the sight of him so undone.
Hermione nearly left, nearly turned on her heel and shut the door. A blush rose to her cheeks as she sputtered, "I– I'm sorry, I didn't–"
"Snooping, eh?" He barked. His voice was harsh, but it sounded like honey to her bright red ears. He looked ethereal. No, he looked hot, she admitted to herself. Draco Malfoy was hot.
"No–" She stiffened, trying her hardest to sound firm– assertive. "I found a door."
"Yes, I can see that, Granger."
Hermione rolled her eyes. "And then–"
"You opened it, obviously." Draco interrupted.
"Right." She nodded awkwardly.
"Well?" He stared at her expectedly. She squirmed under his gaze, imagining things she'd never thought herself capable of considering.
"Well." She mimicked with faux confidence.
"Are you just going to stand there like a deer caught in lumos, Granger?" He cocked his head mockingly. She swallowed, willing the blush scorching her cheeks to disappear. She prayed he couldn't see.
"I think–I think I'll go." Hermione nodded. She turned on her heel and fought the urge to turn back around and stare at Draco Malfoy a little longer.
She didn't return until months later, before the final Triwizard challenge. She tried her best to convince herself that she was simply going to scope the room– to figure out its secrets. But when the door opened to reveal Draco Malfoy inside, she realized why she'd come. For him.
Always for him.
"You're back, Granger." He drawled, seemingly disinterested.
"I am, Malfoy." She nodded. "I see you are too."
She eyed him. He was less undone than before– but still more casual than she'd seen him in months. His tie was loose around his neck, and the top few buttons of his finely pressed shirt were undone. His hair was floppy again– longer now; it fell in his eyes much like Harry's did lately. He was sprawled out, reading, on a couch which rested in front of a large fireplace. The room was cozy– less cold than it had been before. She hadn't had time to scan the room when she'd last seen him here, but she had seen a bed in the center of an empty room– sheets messy as if he had been sleeping there. But this room was different. She pondered whether the room of requirement changed at will. Had Malfoy changed the room on his own?
"I am, Granger. And I would prefer if you weren't." Malfoy responded. But his tone was less mean– no longer menacing. He spoke calmly, no hint of a growl or a sneer in his voice. His eyes scanned the book in his lap carefully.
"What are you reading?" Hermione blurted.
"What?" Malfoy looked up from the book, a near-laugh plastered across his face.
Hermione's mind raced. She wanted to hide from his gaze, it was unusually warm. "What are you reading?"
Draco Malfoy stared for a second– a moment too long. Hermione shifted her weight from foot to foot in the silence. Then he spoke: "Pride and Prejudice."
Hermione fought a smile. That was one of her favorite books. "Pride and Prejudice?" She inquired, raising an eyebrow.
"Yes. Is there a problem?" His eyes solidified. Hermione wondered if that gaze– the familiar disdain on his face– was simply a defense mechanism. The unfeeling, indifferent Draco Malfoy. Was it all a guise?
"Not at all," Hermione contended. "It's a fascinating read."
The unpleasant expression dissipated and Malfoy almost looked relieved. Like he'd expected to be judged. Hermione knew he'd anticipated a fight. But Hermione, for once, didn't feel like a fight. Not with him. The years of being called a mudblood faded as she peered at him– he didn't seem like that boy. That bully. She kicked herself for letting it go– she should resent him– hate him entirely. But here, in this mysterious room. He was just a boy.
"It is," He cleared his throat. Then he did the unexpected– he motioned to the cushion next to him. Hermione gaped. "What are your thoughts on Darcy, Granger?"
When she sat, he repositioned himself to face her. Then they talked about the book– about the world– about classes and magic. He never once brought up her muggle life. It was as if in this room she was his equal. She analyzed him, marveling at the way he no longer resembled the boy she had met at the sorting ceremony. This person– this man– was light years away from the persona he showed the world. She wondered what had changed.
He wasjust a boy.
Just a boy. Hermione thought with a snort. Just a boy who hid her from his friends, from the world. A boy who chided her in public and fucked her in bed. Just a boy who'd made love to her like there was no tomorrow, and left when tomorrow arrived.
Yeah, he was just a boy. Just a boy who leaves every time things get tough. Just a boy who married Harry Potter to escape the girl he'd promised the world. A boy who had rather loved her best friend than her.
Hermione numbly clapped as the two men kissed, sealing a marriage she knew would never break. A marriage formed by love, not angst. They were in love, and there was nothing she could do about it. She wondered if Draco knew their love was at the expense of her pain— if he knew the sparks he must feel in the pit of his stomach were ignited by the burning in her chest. All she felt were flames licking at her skin— they surrounded her, dancing in the cool breeze. Rage and sorrow and the overwhelming urge to sob against the chest of a tall blonde consumed her all at once, because Draco Malfoy did not love Hermione Granger, and that was the irrefutable truth.
Only Merlin knew how much she loved him.
Hermione stood in the corner as they began to slow dance to a song she instantly recognized. It made her stomach drop. Now and Forever– she remembered the name. How could she forget? After all, her mother had just smiled and laughed when Hermione announced that this soft little muggle song might be featured at her future wedding, because Gods, she loved it so much.
She gripped a glass of elven wine and tried not to remember the nights her father swung her around their family kitchen, instructing her on how to move her feet to the tune.
"If you are to be married to this song," Her father had said. "You should at least know how to dance to it."
The hired singer– a stout man with a beard and a bowtie– began to croon and Hermione felt the words like a curse to her spine.
"Whenever I'm weary, from the battles that rage inside my head,
You make sense of the madness, when my sanity hangs by a thread.
I lose my way but still you seem to understand
Now and forever, I will be your man"
She closed her eyes and imagined Draco singing to her– dancing with her again. Imagined the days they spent together, so many years ago. Before it all, before the war. Before the day he fell in love with Harry Potter and forgot her like a spell he hadn't practiced. Before he told her he would love her until the end of time, but could no longer see a future with her in it.
Hermione had shown Draco the song in sixth year when she'd asked the Room of Requirement for a record player. She'd shown Harry too, but it was likely Draco who had selected it for their first dance. The first time she had played a Richard Marx record for him, he had adored it. He always asked for more, until she ran out of albums to play.
"This song–" Draco had said. He held his hand out, offering her a dance. "I love it."
He had spun her around the room like a princess. It was better than the dance with her father– it felt real. Draco's hands were soft in hers, and his hold on her waist was firm yet gentle. She imagined her favorite movie, Beauty and the Beast. In this moment, she was Belle– her skirt felt like a gorgeous gown. And he was the Beast: The Death Eater, the bully, with the stone cold exterior. The one people feared, the one they hated. But as he twirled her, he laughed like no beast would.
No, Draco Malfoy was no Beast. He was her prince.
As the song came to an end, she looked up at him. He grinned. "Now and forever, Granger." He whispered. "I'll be your man."
That was the first promise. The first 'now and forever' he had ever uttered. She felt a jolt of warmth explode inside her chest. The next day– then the next, and every day after that– she would ask him; "Now and forever, right?"
He would nod, and her heart would burst all over again.
Even as the years passed and Draco got colder in public and rougher in bed, he would say it. Now and forever. Just not for anyone else to see.
"No one else can know, Granger."
Now and forever.
"This is just between us. It's our little secret, okay?
Now and forever.
But Hermione's 'now and forever' quickly began to look a lot like 'now and for never.'
She was a painful reminder to him of his sins. That was all she would ever be. She was the girl writhing on the drawing room floor and screaming out to him for help. The girl with 'mudblood' carved into her skin– the girl he didn't save.
"How can you look at me, after all of it?" Draco had said. His voice was severe, his face twisted into an expression which fell between a grimace and a smile. She knew this– this tone, this face. It was his way of holding in the pain inside. His way of seeming strong. For her. He never met her eyes, though. She couldn't remember the last time he genuinely looked at her– the way he used to, or even at all. Not since the war, at least. She secretly hoped that perhaps he did, when she wasn't looking back.
It was August of 2001. Case files for a missing war hero were laid atop a large oak desk. It stood between them like a barricade, holding an eager crowd from a wary performer. It felt like a wall– a wall that had been built brick by brick right under her nose, and a wall she couldn't tear down. She didn't truly know how long the wall had been growing between them, or who had contributed most to its construction. But the room felt ice cold. The silence had grown uncomfortable; the wall was impossible to ignore.
"Because you are the man I love, Draco." She whispered. She so badly wanted to touch him– to ease the pain he was hiding. To break the wall and push aside the desk so that she may hold him like she had in sixth year when he had shown her his dark mark. She needed to let him know he was safe to let all the pain out. To cry, even. She carefully opened her mouth to speak again, but then Draco held up a finger. His chest rose and fell before he filled the silence with words she'd rather him not have said.
"Granger–" He pressed his lips into a tight line. "–I can't."
Her heart dropped and her stomach clenched and every muscle in her body felt like it seized. She could hardly form a response as her mind raced, attempting to retrace her steps from the last two years. Her actions, her words.
As she asked the last question– the prompt for his final blow: "Do you still love me?"
"Always." He finally turned towards her. Icy eyes met her brown ones, and she gasped. There was no sparkle. Nothing. No hint of the love he once had for her.
"You said forever– now and forever." She choked. "What happened to 'now and forever?'"
"It died in that drawing room, Granger."
"Draco—"
"But at least it isn't you that's dead, right?" Draco let out a dry chuckle.
Hermione watched as he paused. His eyes were fixed on her, finally, yet his gaze felt piercing, like a needle through the space between her eyes. He looked, momentarily, like a man with a hole in his heart, and Hermione wondered if it would ever heal— if he'd ever love again.
But as it turned out, he would. Just not for her.
Hardly a month had passed before the Prophet released a photo of Draco and Harry out for tea. Of course, Hermione had to be the last to know. She'd taken a vacation to Italy to clear her mind. She so badly needed to be somewhere he was not, and it nearly worked. She'd met a woman— Aria Berese— who had helped to distract her, even if only for a moment. Hermione even once considered staying— considered melting into the arms of a woman willing to hold her as she sobbed, in a way that Draco would not.
But all hopes of recovery were lost when she returned to London and saw the pile of Prophets that had accumulated on her windowsill over the past month. She stared hopelessly at the gleam in Harry's eyes as he smiled at the man across from him. The man she loved. They laughed and smiled, and she couldn't help but notice that Draco looked exactly like he had when she first told him she loved him in the Room of Requirement. He sipped from a tiny cup in the photograph, and she knew what was in it: five sugar cubes because of his incurable sweet tooth and just a splash of cream. She wondered if he had ordered cold peppermint tea. That was his favorite.
She wondered if Harry knew that.
She hoped that he didn't.
But she knew. She knew the second she saw that article that she had lost him for good. Because Harry Potter was a beacon of hope that she could never provide. He saved the wizarding world and she was just the helping hand used to flip pages rather than cast spells.
When the news first broke, Rita Skeeter dubbed the couple "Drarry–" the Prophet called that a "ship name." The sound of their combined names made bile rise in her throat. When Hermione had first fallen for Draco– long before their first rendezvous– she had written a list of her own "ship names," though she hadn't called them that at the time. Her favorite was Dramione. It was much catchier than Manger or Gralfoy.
"Dramione." Hermione whispered. She breathed, willing the church hall to stop spinning. "Dramione," she repeated the word, almost desperately this time– desperate to feel how she had felt the first time she had said it– desperate to remember that feeling. But the word held no weight– no truth.
As Draco and Harry's dance came to an end, Hermione's head was spinning. She accioed another glass of wine, because if anything could get her through this night, it would be the bittersweet numbness of intoxication. Perhaps if she got sloshed enough, her friends might send her home and allow her to leave this event without judging her for it.
No, they would still judge her. They always judged her.
But Draco didn't. Not back then. Not when the leaves began to fall from the trees and they laid in the red and orange piles on their backs and when they accidentally fell asleep in each other's arms in the sun. Not when he kissed her by the frozen lake in the winter when no one else was looking. They were too busy building snowmen to cast a warming charm, so the next day she was sent to the Hospital Wing for a severe cold. Not when they looked out upon the grounds from the Astronomy Tower and tried to count all the trees in the forest. She had counted two hundred and thirteen, but he had counted two hundred and thirty.
"You're wrong, Granger," He smirked, feigning disappointment. "Those trees–" He motioned towards the forest, "–they intersect. You have to look carefully."
"I amlooking carefully," She hissed.
He smiled at that, reaching out with both arms to pull her into an embrace. She nuzzled into his shoulder and inhaled the scent of peppermints, cologne and firewood and everything she'd ever wanted. She would have given anything to stay there– to preserve that moment in time until the Earth collapsed in on them with arms still locked around each other. But he pulled away, and the moment was gone.
Lately, he always pulled away first. But he'd say it, right before he wiped the warmth from his eyes and replacing it with the Draco Malfoy sneer. He would always say it. Now and forever.
And then he would leave.
She wondered if he would judge her now, as she haphazardly raised her glass to join her friends in a toast, sloshing the red liquid onto the white tablecloth. It stained like blood. She wondered if he'd eventually see the stain and think of her, because he'd once said that she was as red as they come. Red found a different meaning during the war, she supposed, when red was no longer a color of pride but a color of death and loss. Blood had always been Draco Malfoy's fascination. His was pure as snow, or so he claimed– sacred, untouched. He'd never seen her bleed before that night at Malfoy Manor. Hermione tried to imagine the shock on his face when he realized her own blood was red, not brown.
Theodore Nott gave a speech. She'd always loved his anecdotes at school– things he'd say to Draco when she wasn't supposed to be listening. But she couldn't stand the way he spoke tonight, voice full of love and a disgusting hint of delight. He told the hundreds of witches and wizards in the hall how proud he was of Malfoy for ' finally manning up .' Hermione snorted so loudly Ron and Ginny turned to glare. She hardly considered Draco Malfoy's marrying of the Chosen One manning up when he was still too cowardly to face the demons he'd left behind with her.
He hadn't even glanced at her all night. Still hadn't, barely an hour before the damned ceremony was to be over. And there would be no after party for her to crash either. At least not one she'd been invited to.
The worst part of the ceremony was not, in fact, watching the first man she'd ever loved look at another person in ways he'd never looked at her. No. The hardest part was trying not to look at him the same way— trying not to look at him as if he were the sun and she didn't care if her retinas burnt because fuck he was gorgeous in a tuxedo. No, she couldn't stare at him as if he was the only wizard in the world, let alone the room, because no one knew. No one except her and Draco Malfoy himself.
Theirs was a love never written, never spoken. It was a love sealed with the words now and forever and always and then left to rot amongst a long list of secrets that Draco Malfoy kept hidden behind solid walls of stone. Like how his first kiss belonged to Blaise Zabini, or the way he secretly hated warm Earl Grey, but drank it to please the purebloods around him. She wondered how many of those secrets remained hidden from Harry, or if it was just her significance in his history that he refused to acknowledge.
Because he was a Death Eater, and she was the Golden Girl. A taboo, a wrong-doing that they agreed would be too shocking to share, but low and behold here he stood with the fucking Chosen One, so maybe it was just her he didn't want to be seen with. Muddy blood never seemed to stop him from burying his cock inside inside of her, but maybe a public affair was just too far for Draco Malfoy. Maybe mudbloods were meant to be kept underneath the sheets and war heroes were meant for brunch in London. Maybe his aunt's victims were meant to be tossed aside and childhood nemeses were meant to be arm candy to show off whenever Rita Skeeter needed a new front page story.
Harry had nearly killed Draco once. Hermione remembered slinking through the Infirmary's grand doors, scared to be seen, just praying he was alive.
"He tried to— he tried— he tried to bloody kill me, Granger." Draco had rasped, choking on a new round of blood coursing its way from his damaged organs to his head. "It was a spell–" He sputtered. "A spell I've never heard. It was dark– s-strong."
Hermione thought of Harry's book– the one he'd found at the back of a cupboard and held onto like a family heirloom ever since. She bit her lip, scared for her lover, and for her friend. She ran through a list of the moments Harry had acted out– the rage that was growing in him with every minor inconvenience. She so badly wanted to believe that he wouldn't curse Draco– but she couldn't.
"Shhhhh, it's okay. Just rest, Draco. Just rest." She'd said, holding his head in her lap and running her fingers through his stained, damp hair. "You can tell me in the morning."
Draco asked that she leave before morning so that no one would see her and grow suspicious as to why she was there.
Now Hermione's head spun as she tried her best not to glare from across the room. Harry's arm snaked lovingly around Draco's waist, as if they'd never disagreed a day in their lives. As if they'd never fought separate battles— as if they'd been attached at the hip since they first met. It was as if Draco had been the one in the Forest of Dean giving Harry haircuts when his fringe grew into his eyes— or as if Harry had been the one in the Room of Requirement holding Draco's shaking shoulders as he sobbed about the Dark Magic stamped permanently on his arm. No, Hermione simply didn't exist. Not within their world.
"Harry Potter!" Hermione had shouted. She was at risk of blowing her cover, of outing her relationship with the man she was supposed to hate. But she didn't care. She needed to confront her best friend, she needed to hear him say he was wrong. She needed to understand, to believe in her friend again after watching Draco's blood gushing from open wounds in that hospital bed. "You cursed Malfoy?!"
Harry had a wide-eyed expression as he breathed, "I didn't mean to."
"You didn't mean to?" She pointed a finger at his chest. "How do you accidentally curse someone?"
"I didn't know what the spell did, I just– I just said it. And it worked." He mumbled.
Hermione's head spun all the way to the Room of Requirement. She wanted to ask Draco how he felt and what she could do to make him feel better, but she never got the chance. The moment she stepped through the door, she saw a bed in the center of the room. Draco asked her to undress, and she happily complied. Hermione unbuttoned her shirt as he undid his belt. Then they fucked– of course. They always fucked. But she hated that word– she preferred to think of it as making love.
"Draco." Hermione had moaned as he slipped in. She stared up at his face. He shut his eyes.
"Harder." She hummed.
His pace stayed the same.
Once he finished, he brought his mouth to hers and drove his fingers inside her until she fell apart on his hands. "Good girl," He'd mumbled against her lips– the first words he'd spoken since they'd begun. Hermione grinned through the kiss and sighed with pleasure. He had let her come this time.
"I have to go," Draco broke the silence that had risen between them. Hermione frowned as his mouth left her own. She closed her eyes, relishing for a brief moment in the bliss burning in her core. When she opened them again, she caught sight of the thin scars speckled across his torso. She gasped.
"He didn't mean to do it," She blurted to Draco. He didn't seem to believe her at the time. She had known it wouldn't work– they hated each other after all. But at least she'd attempted to clear her best friend's name. At least she'd tried.
Apparently it had worked.
Hermione wondered if Draco had asked Harry about the curse as he leaned down to whisper something in his husband's ear. The two looked absolutely chuffed. Perhaps they'd never discussed it– perhaps Draco had rather forgiven and forgotten Harry's sectumsempra than Hermione's screams.
Draco looked at Harry's lips and her stomach lurched in anticipation of another kiss. Hermione squeezed her eyes shut, afraid that if she kept them open she might vomit.
"Bygones are bygones, right? And they're so gone, Hermione. I want the world to know that." Harry had gushed to her with stars in his eyes when the news of their relationship was leaked. She wondered if he had played a part in why there were reporters at a little muggle cafe in London that day, but she never pressed the matter, partially from fear that she'd lunge at her best friend the second he confirmed her suspicions. He had gotten what he wanted… the entire world fucking knew.
Bygones had transformed into awkward Christmas dinners with Malfoy and the Weasleys, where Harry spent hours trying to convince them all that Draco had changed. "I love him, Ron." He'd said through gritted teeth the first time he appeared at the burrow with a platinum blond and an armful of gifts. "You have to be okay with that."
"He treated you like bloody shite, Harry!" Ron had shouted.
"I know." Harry pulled Draco closer to his chest. "But we've moved past that. He's a good man, Ron. A great man."
Hermione didn't bring herself to object to the relationship– in fact, she didn't speak much the entire Christmas celebration. That day was her one moment to "speak now," but instead she chose to forever hold her peace. Harry looked so happy. She blamed her silence on intoxication– slurred her words when anyone spoke to her. But she wasn't truly intoxicated until much later that night, as she sobbed into her pillow between gulps of firewhiskey.
She absolutely hated firewhiskey– it made her tongue swell and her throat burn. Ginny had once proposed– after catching sight of Hermione's swollen lips one night at the Leaky Cauldron– that perhaps Hermione was allergic to the drink. Hermione had avoided the bottle in her cabinet until it was the last one left.
Hermione got drunker as the months passed. Months without Draco– months where he was loving someone else. She tried not to think about them fucking. She tried not to think about the way Draco used to moan her name– tried not to think about her name morphing into Harry's. She would lay awake at night, remembering the rhythm of the love he had made to her. When she felt her lowest, she would bring home a random bloke from whichever muggle pub she chose to sulk at– every week she would wander further into the city, further away from Draco. And she would fuck them. She would mutter their name if she had learned it, and try her hardest not to say his. She would close her eyes and would pretend it was him. But it never was.
Neither alcohol nor sex nor sabbaticals to random countries helped her to forget. Nothing could. The broken pieces of her heart would rattle the moment she felt anything close to joy or laughter or closure or even a fucking second of peace. She'd think of him every time the corners of her mouth felt the urge to lift, because he was the only one she wanted to smile for. After a year– then another– Hermione no longer felt like smiling at all.
No, because it was Harry smiling instead of her. Harry got the sex. Harry got the fireworks and the kisses on New Years Eve as the clock struck midnight– kisses Hermione was forced to witness in order to keep appearances. Harry got the vacations to Rome and charcuterie boards– Harry got to gush about the Goblin wrought diamond ring Malfoy gave him in July of 2003. Harry got to meet the Malfoy family– got to keep the family heirlooms passed down through the Malfoy bloodline for generations. Harry got every fucking thing she should have received. And she had to pretend she wasn't falling apart.
She didn't want to hate him– didn't want to let the boy who'd broken her heart break her friendships too. But anymore, Hermione hated everyone who earned even a second of Draco Malfoy's time. Hermione hated everything.
When Hermione opened her eyes– leaving her rage fueled daze– there were two blurry figures standing before her. It wasn't until one spoke that she realized it was them.
"Hello 'Mione!" It was Harry. Harry fucking Malfoy-Potter, grinning like a bloke who'd just been given the secrets of the universe. Draco was at his side, but he still wasn't looking in her direction.
Arrogant prick! she wanted to scream— wanted to throw her fists against his chest and kick his feet out from underneath him because how dare he stand so close and yet act as if she wasn't even there. Fucking look at me, you loathsome git! You absolute arsehole! Look at what you've done to me!
Her mouth was dry when she opened it, and the words she should have been saying simply did not come out, because she was too busy biting back the ones in her head. She followed Draco's gaze and realized he was staring at the wine stain on the table. Red like me, right?
Harry looked at the glass she was still clutching and tsked .
"You've had one too many of those, haven't you?" He chuckled, turning towards his new husband as if expecting him to speak. When Draco remained silent, Harry turned back towards her. "Well, I hope you're enjoying the ceremony. I certainly am."
She willed herself to look happy, though if she were to write an itemized list of her current emotions, " happy" wouldn't even fit in the margins. Her stomach ached as she stood and curled her lips into a smile. "Congratulations, Harry. I'm so happy for you both."
The words stung her tongue like an acrid flavor of Bertie Botts Every Flavor Beans, but nonetheless, she held out her arms and fought a scowl when Harry threw his own around her in return. The embrace was almost friendly– she played the supportive role well. She wondered if her best friend could feel how stiff she'd grown under his touch because he got to hold Draco like this every night— now and fucking forever. ' Til death do them part.
When he released her, Harry was still beaming. "I'm so glad you could make it, Hermione. It means the world to us you're here."
She fought the rising bile in her throat, because she doubted the aforementioned " us" included Draco.
"If you'll excuse me, I believe the Minister is about to leave. I can't let him go without saying goodbye!" He chuckled and practically skipped across the room towards Kingsley Shacklebolt, leaving his groom behind.
There was a moment, where Draco had yet to move, and Hermione physically couldn't move, that time stood still. She didn't breathe, and from the stillness of his chest, it appeared neither did he. She willed him to turn his head, to move, to speak, to breathe, to fucking apologize for all the pain and all the tears he'd left her to cry alone– to make up for the nights she laid awake in her bed thinking maybe if she'd screamed a little less on the drawing room floor that he would be laying next to her right now. He should repent for all the fucking misery she would face for the rest of their lives because now she would never be able to face her best friend without feeling like a ticking time bomb at the thought of his new hyphenated last name because God fucking dammit! Draco's last name should be Granger-Malfoy not fucking Malfoy-Potter.
Then he did it; Draco moved, he breathed, he spoke— and she almost wished he hadn't. He straightened, meeting her eyes for the first time in years. "You look lovely in green, Granger."
She glanced down at the silky dress she'd found years ago, in hopes he might find it beautiful enough to take her into town for dinner or a drink. It now hung from her frail body like a robe. She allowed a lone tear to slip from her eyes at the thought that this would be the first and the last time he'd ever see the dress she'd bought solely for him.
"I know." She muttered, though she knew the words would change nothing. "It's your favorite."
His eyes flashed briefly with an indiscernible emotion. She didn't allow herself to hope that emotion was remorse or nostalgia. She held his cold gaze as long as he would allow before he turned away. Then he was gone and she was alone in a room full of people with only an empty glass and a broken heart to keep her company.