The droplets of rain are hitting the windows, the breeze of the storm outside somehow making its way inside as if it's well-aware that Hermione's heart and soul is just as messed up.
She glances at the clock on the wall that's ticking ruthlessly, reminding her that time is running away whilst she's cuddled up in her loneliness. It is well past midnight and in an hour or so the sun will be up in the sky, reminding her that it's yet another day that she has to start and pretend.
Pretend to be Hermione Malfoy. Pretend to be happily married to a man who doesn't even come home most days... Pretend like her marriage isn't falling apart—perhaps already has. Pretend like she isn't feeling like a sixty-year-old tired woman whilst she is only twenty-six.
Pretend like she is still the woman she was a year ago.
Now, she's only a shadow left—a ghost walking in the corridors of their ridiculously huge house. Now she's just an alone soul living in a place which was supposed to contain a family—a wife and a husband with loving children—but now carries her heavy heart.
She forces herself to lean on her elbows, rising from the couch she was lying on. It's obvious that Draco isn't going to make an appearance that night like most nights. It has been almost four days since she last saw him as he stormed out of their house after yet another one of their fights. She knew he'd take a few days off but the worry is eating her inside out.
Is he alright? Is he eating? What is he up to?
It's not even the worry wives have about their husbands—is he cheating on me? Is he in another's arms whilst I am worrying about him? Is he kissing lips that aren't mine?
She isn't worried about those things. Not as long as Draco is safe and sound. Not as long as he takes care of himself. Besides, Hermione is certain he would not go down to such lengths to make Hermione feel worthless. His ghost-like presence is already having that effect and Draco is well-aware.
She wraps a blanket around herself and walks to the large windows, displaying the storm outside. This Christmas, it seems, they won't have snow. It's raining too hard to let them have a white Christmas.
Last year, around this time, she was happily fussing over the Christmas cards and gifts, the tree, the invitations for their Christmas party and making playlists, having them down in a vinyl, all the whilst having her husband at her side. The air was filled with snarky comments and small bantering and a pair of eyes filled with nothing but adoration.
This year, only four days left to the merriest time of the year, she's next to the window in an empty mansion with nothing but the echo of the house it used to be; with nothing but the shadow of the memories it had held and no husband to be on her side.
The thought makes her chest tight. Not because she needs a husband but because the person she loved—who is she kidding? Still loves—is somewhere out there, without her, doing stuff she's not aware of and despising her with every cell in his body.
Where's the irony? Draco Malfoy is simply back to being the selfish, miserable snob he used to be in their school years. Before they fell in love. Before they bared their heart and soul out for each other.
The sound of lighting outside, growling and threatening, makes her flinch and the world seems unsteady around her. Sighing, she distances herself from the window, her heart beating a bit too fast for her fancy.
She isn't scared. She has been through worse. She has defeated the bloody Dark Lord for Merlin's sake; a storm wouldn't leave her heart beating rapidly from the sound of thunder and yet, it is.
"I'm just being ridiculous," she acknowledges to the hollow that's keeping her company. The bedroom is down the hall and she's tempted to walk there and curl herself up in the huge bed, hoping she'll be able to sleep. But the room seems too far, the bed too empty.
So, instead, she sits on the couch again, hugging herself tightly with the blanket and closes her eyelids, trying to get a glimpse of sleep without being flooded by the memories that don't seem to leave her alone.
Lately, as the scary embrace of the divorce that's eventually awaiting them nears, she finds herself lost in the memories of their first days. Back when they were still consumed by each other, back when Draco's grey eyes weren't a sharp blade going through her heart.
She catches herself red-handed, looking back at the first she saw Draco out of school. At the ministry, searching for the head of the Department of Magical Transportation, looking for a warrant he needed signed for the sake of their family business.
Hermione was occupied in the Department back then so it was no surprise when she was assigned to look over Malfoy and his family company in case he was up to anything shady. That meant spending hours wandering around his company, his workplace and consequently, him.
It wasn't all rainbows and unicorns—they had their fair share of going to each other's throat and throwing tantrums and causing scenes but eventually, Hermione woke up one day, her hatred replaced with love. She woke up one day to the cruel reality that she was, in fact, heads over heels for Draco Malfoy.
It would've been a nightmare if Draco hadn't gotten drunk out of his mind—probably after trying to deal with his messed up feelings with liquor—and turned up in Hermione's place, shouting that he fancied her and he hated it.
It was a rough patch after it, a hard relationship to get your hands on and even a harder one to contain but they did it. Because at the end of the day, they were in love.
Now, though, Hermione doubts that there is no affection left in Draco's heart. She's sure her heart still bears the same sentiments but the one-sided, unrequited life isn't what keeps a marriage bond strong. She knows letting go is a better resolution in her life.
Her eyelids are getting heavy, her heart heavier and yet she is finding herself wandering away to the realms of dreams but as she is about to say farewell to reality for a couple of hours, the main door creeks, making her jump up.
Her first instinct is to hex the intruder because who the hell comes to her—their—house at four a.m. in the morning? But the mumbling of a very wasted Draco fills her ears makes her put her wand away and stand up, going towards the man who is her husband only on paper.
"Draco?" she says, her eyes widened at the sight in front of her. He is pale and yet his cheeks are bright red from the aftermath of the firewhiskey he has spilled. He is staggering, unstable and his grey eyes who never seem to be out of focus are now barely open. Hermione shudders, feeling like she doesn't know the man in front of her—like he's a stranger inhabiting the body of the man she loves.
"Hermione..." He sighs, finally looking at her. His pupils are dilated and his eyes are red as if they have been filled with all his blood. "Why are you still awake?"
It's not a hostile question—he probably doesn't mean to provoke a fight at this hour, he probably doesn't mean anything other than the fact it's too late for her to be up but Hermione is restless. She has spent all night, staring at the door so maybe Draco would come back. She has spent time worrying about him whilst he was somewhere, getting shitfaced.
That's why she can't keep her anger under leash. "What? You wanted to sneak away again peacefully? Not under the eyes of your controlling wife? Well, guess what, you aren't getting away easily!" Her voice is edgy, her tune a bit higher than usual but she isn't shouting—not yet—but she doubts it'll be long before both of them are screaming at the top of their lungs.
Her blood boils, her heart clenching and unclenching as she awaits Draco's response. She's sure it'll be coming any second now.
"Not tonight," Draco says warily, dismissing Hermione with a flick of his wrist and if Hermione had gotten a few hours of sleep, she'd let it go for the night but the gesture only makes her fume.
"Of course, you don't want to spoil the fun of drinking by arguing with your wife. Typical, Draco! Bloody typical! But guess what, while you were away getting shitfaced, I was here awake, ALL NIGHT!" She's shouting, sooner than expected, but she can't help it. She can't keep the anger running in her veins at bay.
"Not fucking tonight," Draco hisses, walking away—more like staggering away—from Hermione but she catches his arms, stopping him firm in his place. "What the fuck do you want?" Draco blurts out before Hermione can start the next round of scolding. "You want to know what? I didn't ask you to stay up for me. By all means, fucking sleep and never wake up. See if I give two flying fucks."
Hermione is taken back by the sudden outbreak. The worst part is, he isn't shouting—not really. His volume might be higher than the usual but it's probably the impact of alcohol. He's not overpowered by emotions, he isn't desperate for a reaction out of her like she is.
He is uttering the words like it's the most normal thing in the world. He lets the sentences fill his mouth like it isn't the very mouth who had told her I love you a while back.
She sucks in a breath, trying not to show him that her heart has been, yet again, broken by his cruel words. She holds his gaze, her hands slowly giving away and letting Draco's arm go.
"You are a heartless, miserable arsehole," Hermione says, her voice weaker than she fancies, shaking with grief that's dripping from it. "You..." Her voice fades away under the heavy knot that's blocking her throat.
"Is that it for tonight then?" Draco scoffs the words. "Are we fucking done for tonight or do you want us to go around screaming a bit more? Are you done calling me names? Now can I go to the fucking guest room and nurse my hang over?" He forces his arms out of Hermione's weak grip, his shoulder touching her side forcefully as he walks towards the stairs to finally get to the guest room.
Hermione just stands there, dumbfounded, as if she has just figured out this is her reality. She spins on her heel after a couple of minutes, looking at the blonde man who is forcing his legs to take him upstairs. "Why?" the word leaves her mouth before she can stop it. "Why are you doing this, Draco?"
The weak echo of her words linger in the air, making Draco stop in his place for a second. Hermione notices the way Draco balls his fist before disappearing at the end of the stairs into the dark hall, leaving her with no response.
Her ears are ringing with Draco's words, each time getting more cruel than the last. By all means, fucking sleep and never wake up. See if I care.
Of course, what else did she expect? It was bound to come for a while now. She was just determined into fooling herself into thinking that it wasn't reality. Those words feel like a slap in the face. See if I care.
Some might say it is dramatic that those words stand out to her when Draco has thrown more insulting words around during the last few months but those words, those insults, were just desperate petty encounters. Silly sayings that are made to make you feel better, to help you empty your anger.
Caring is the basis of a marriage—caring for others and being cared for is what keeps people from falling apart. However much insults were shot around during their venomous fights, it didn't matter because at the end of the day Hermione thought they went to sleep still caring for each other.
But now, maybe she has been naive. Maybe it was all a fantasy she had nurtured to keep herself from falling apart. Maybe it was all happening in her head. Maybe Draco has stopped caring and all the words that have left his mouth during their fights are from the bottom of his heart.
The heartache she feels seems surreal. How can someone have that impact on you? Even after seven years of loving, how can he have that power? How can Draco Malfoy have the power to make her heart bleed?
She can't even cry. She can't even convince herself that this isn't merely a nightmare.
See if I care.
Maybe Hermione is the only fool who still cares.
—
The storm is still raging outside when she wakes up. It's still raining and like weather, the train of thoughts in her head is still the same. She doesn't open her eyes even though she is painfully awake. The illusion that by keeping her eyes closed—just like when she was seven—she can pretend that she's asleep and day doesn't have to start just yet.
But she's not seven anymore. Nearly two decades later, she knows better than to let those fairytales fool her. The fairytale that closing her eyes makes everything easier, the fairytale that love exists, the fairytale that she'll eventually end up with her own happily ever after.
Forcefully, she finally accepts that sleeping has left her eyes and she is bound to open her eyes soon or later. Sooner rather than later. The sooner she allows the reality to sink in, it's better.
There are still mornings when she wakes up, hoping to smell brewed coffee or maybe pancakes, hoping to hear Draco's growling in the kitchen, going on and on about how food related charms make him grow exhausted. There are still some mornings when she wakes up hoping that she's not alone in the bed, that there will be an arm wrapped around her middle, pressing her back to his chest.
That morning, though, is not one of them. Her mind is very sharp, aware of the fact that last night Draco came home, said some nasty things and then wandered up to the guest room. She's aware that the pain was too much, she couldn't even cry. She remembered thinking that she cannot go to their—now her—room. So, she curled up on the sofa and slept. That was all she could manage.
She's still dizzy with lack of sleep and the heartache but the crashing voice that comes from the kitchen makes her jump, running to the source with her wand out almost unconsciously.
Bursting the door open, she sees Draco with his palm open, a newly made wound exposed, mumbling curse words under his breath. She isn't sure if the wave washing over her is one of relief or one of worry. Relief that he's still home—as pathetic as it sounds—and worry about his well-being.
She's not going to let him know it—that she's still yearning for him. How can she not? After all, they did spend many blissful days with each other, tangled up in nothing but love, coated with raw emotions, with a love Hermione never deemed herself capable of. Her heart can't just forget everything because... they no longer feel the same.
"Are you alright?" Hermione says, as nonchalantly as she can manage, and Draco's head snaps up, looking at Hermione. For a second, his gray gaze isn't guarded. It's raw and genuine—rather in pain but real. He's feeling something and somehow that makes Hermione's heart beat faster.
He can still feel, she thinks. She was terrified that all feeling in the man in front of him had left him.
She averts her eyes away, looking at the mess on the floor just to let her head be flooded with a previous memory very similar to this one.
The pictures sneak their way in quite professionally, images so vivid as if it isn't a page from almost four years ago. They had just moved in together and since Hermione was consistent in keeping her muggleborn routes, they kept quite the mundane traditions. The coffee maker instead of using spells was a regular thing for them.
Except, Draco had no clue how it worked even though Hermione had spent hours trying to make him figure it out. Eventually they decided to leave the coffee to Hermione.
One morning, though, Draco had thought that it was quite romantic to surprise his girlfriend in the bed with a mug of coffee so he had taken it upon himself to try to make the thing work. Instead, Hermione had woken up with the sound of a small explosion. Draco put down the fire with his wand but still, the kitchen had been ruined until they fixed it that afternoon.
She still remembers the anxiety and childish anger in Draco's eyes when Hermione showed up in the door frame with worry and fear. She still remembers the way he was ready to retort something because he thought Hermione would get mad.
Instead, she had laughed until her stomach hurt. Later that morning, Draco had treated her with fleeting kisses and love making while whispering sweet nonsense into her ears.
A ghost of a smile was making its way to Hermione's lips with the memory swirling in her head but Draco's cold tune made it go away before it could even be formed. "Satisfied now?" he says, his voice dripping venom.
"What?" she chokes the words out, tripping over the words. What does he mean? What does he fucking think of her? "Why would I be satisfied when you have shattered one of my glasses?" she utters the words coldly, flicking her wand. "Reparo."
She's tempted to mutter a healing spell for Draco's hand as well because she knows when he's nursing a hangover, he can't perform any spells efficiently but she doesn't. He is no longer her problem.
Draco refuses to meet her eyes after she glances at him one last time. "You are pathetic," Hermione can't help but utter, tears stinging in her eyes as she spins on her heel and walks away, desperate for a shower so she can finally let the tears run down her cheeks.
—
Later that day, on the twenty-third of December, she is sitting in their study, busying herself with the cases she had brought home before the holidays. As the minister's right hand—and as they speculate, the next Minister of Magic but Hermione still isn't still flattering herself with that—she needs to get some work done even during the holidays.
She can't seem to focus though. She's constantly finding herself thinking about Draco. Is his hand alright? Does he really not care anymore? Is it really over? When did everything start slipping away? Was she not good enough? Was it her fault? Did she say something? Why did he get drunk? Is he leaving her before the end of next year? When will they finally give up completely? Have they already given up?
She doesn't know. Doesn't matter how long he spends thinking about it, trying to come up with some answers—everything is just so vague for her, so lost. She can't recall the moment they fell apart, she can't recall how they ended up there. She can't even imagine how their lives were before they went downhill. The good memories seem like a fever dream.
The million dollar question, though, is: when will they finally get tired of living in this misery? When will they say goodbye... for good?
Her temples hurt from all the thoughts so her index fingers try to massage them so maybe her head will slow down, her thoughts healing slightly. But they don't. They just keep on hurting and hurting and hurting and thoughts keep on coming and never leaving.
Her mind slowly thinks about Christmas. In two days, it's going to be Christmas and yet she doesn't feel it. She doesn't feel the magic of Santa, she doesn't feel the spirit. All she feels is cold. Last year, they held a Christmas party in this very mansion with all their loved ones—Potters, Weasleys, Zabinis, Notts and Narcissa alongside Hermione's parents. This year, she doubts even Draco will be around for the holiday.
Should she get a tree? Should she at least spare herself a good day in between all the darkness in her life?
Her thoughts—and therefore her decision—go interrupted as there's a knock on her window. Looking up abruptly, she sees a familiar owl—Narcisssa's owl—knocking and whimpering. She opens the window quickly, letting the drenched bird in.
He flies straight towards the fireplace, warming himself up before revealing a letter that he has been hiding under his body. The letter is mostly fine but Hermione still performs an anti-water charm before opening it and giving the owl a couple of peanuts to occupy himself.
She opens the letter as worry clenches her stomach. What can she possibly want? Is there something wrong?
As she tears the envelope open, she is greeted with a Christmas card, an invitation to Narcissa's party.
Christmas Party!
Please join us for a Christmas feast on 25th of December. Join us to have a toast and cookies and to celebrate with our special ones.
Yours, Narcissa Black
Hermione would smile if it was any other situation. She has always liked Narcissa. In fact, she was always her favourite Malfoy until she fell hard for her son and she changed her name to Black after her divorce. But now, she doesn't have it in herself to smile. Instead, she feels sick with worry. There's an additional line that is in Narcissa's own handwriting.
Hermione, dear, make Draco be on his best behaviour. There are some very important people attending. I miss you all very much. I'm so excited to see you! Love you both! Narcissa.
How very wrong Narcissa is if she thinks Hermione can still make Draco be anything. Perhaps in a long gone past, but now, she's the one who makes Draco lose it.
She stares warily to the envelope in her hands. Narcissa doesn't know how their life has turned out to be in the past couple of months. She can't straight up reject her because what will she tell her? Me and your son are probably going through a pre-breakup phase. It's Christmas for Godric's sake! She can't drop the bomb like that.
Finally she picks herself up, trying to hold her chin up before leaving the room. After all, she won't be attending the party alone. She needs to tell Draco before scribbling back a reply to her mother-in-law.
"Draco?" she calls when she finally descends the stairs and is in the living room. He's nowhere in sight and she wonders if he's ditched her to go get wasted again. "Draco?"
It takes a while—and Hermione almost gives up—when Draco walks out of the bathroom. He's pale like a corpse and the disgusting smell roaming around her tells Hermione that he has been puking his guts out. His face still has droplets streaming down and his gray eyes are blood-shot. Has he cried? Hermione wonders. "Yes?" He says, his tune unusually calm and soft. Almost like they haven't spent weeks fighting. Almost as if it's normal.
But Hermione knows it's not normal—they are still in the middle of it and they won't be able to rest. She knows. So she clears her throat, handing the invitation to Draco, keeping her chin high and her eyes emotionless.
"I can't fucking read now," Draco forcefully lets the words out. He is hungover, he has a headache and now he can't read. Hermione wants to take her wand out and perform a healing charm so he can get better. She wants to kiss him and tell him that it's going to be alright. But she doesn't. Instead she fixes her cold gaze on Draco.
"Well, you have to figure a solution for it," Hermione says coldly. See if I care, she wants to add but she doesn't. She isn't as inhumane as Draco. She still cares even though she hides it quite often—she has to.
Draco glares at her before snatching the paper, running his long fingers in his hair before narrowing his eyes at the paper. "Fuck," he breathes out after he's done with reading, passing the paper back to Hermione. "What the fuck should we do?"
Hermione cocks an eyebrow, crossing her hands on her chest. "I was hoping you'd come up with something. After all, you are the better actor between the two of us."
Her tune is cold, unforgiving and Draco's eyes turn into stone dead gray and if Hermione was anyone else, she'd be scared but she isn't so she holds his gaze.
"We can't not go," Draco says matter-of-factly. Hermione rolls her eyes as if to say no shit, Sherlock and says nothing. "My mother will go fucking nuts if she finds out that..." his voice drifts away. They both know what he's going to say. It's okay.
"Well, then, we have to go," Hermione concludes and the dread of it makes her want to rip her heart open. "And pretend."
Draco licks her lower lip before fixing them in a thin line. She sees through him. She knows he hates this, that he feels suffocated, that he wants to scream at her and make it very clear that he wants nothing to do with her and yet again, he can't.
"Okay," he finally breathes out. "We pretend..."
And Hermione isn't sure if they actually managed to keep a civil conversation or if Draco's voice was actually bitterly sad when he uttered the word pretend before going up to the study to reply and send it away.
—
The sound of water running always gives Hermione a kind of solitude. The way droplets came dripping down her skin makes her feel like she's in control. That evening, though, she feels like everything is running out of her hands—like she can't catch a glimpse of life. It's all a scripted cheap comedy that is going to come crumbling down.
That's why she doesn't spend long dwelling under the water. She rushes out of the shower, putting on a robe and lying on the bed, hugging herself. If it wasn't for the heating charms, she'd be freezing.
The storm finally stopped last night and was replaced with an unbearable cold. So cold that even Draco's effective heat charm can't make him go outside. He'd rather be locked up in the guest room, away from Hermione, rather than outside and getting shitfaced.
She closes her eyes and lets herself forget. She pretends that Draco will enter their previously shared room anytime and press kisses all over her belly, making her giggle, begging him to stop. He'll look at her with a smirk and then reach for her hips, keeping her in place whilst he kisses her with passion.
She lets herself smile into the imaginary kiss, to feel his warm body on hers, to feel loved. It feels like ages since they last had sex. It has been ages since she was touched, cherished, appreciated...
And just like that, her eyes fill with tears. She doesn't let them fall, closing her eyes tightly, determined not to waste any tears on the failed experience of her life.
Maybe relationships aren't for her. Maybe she simply sucks at being a person. Maybe she is just in bad luck and all men she knows are just shitty people.
But Draco wasn't shitty.
Well, he was, in the beginning when she was a low-life muggleborn, his rival and the person he hated the most. But then he changed. He altered, a new Draco forming. A man whose strong arms were there when she needed a hug, a man who thought of her as his equal and who loved her. Took care of her when things were tough, listened to her when no one else would.
And then, he shut her out.
She isn't sure when it happened or why it happened. She isn't sure what went wrong but suddenly, she woke up and they weren't them anymore. They weren't man and wife. Draco retreated to his old self—guarded, closed up and full of scornful remarks and smirks.
He hasn't flashed Hermione a single smile in ages, leaving her yearning and longing for just a glimpse of his unguarded eyes.
She used to constantly wonder what happened, constantly trying to make Draco be the same person. She tried to make them come close again because he was the one. He was hers and she wanted to make it a known fact but eventually, she gave up.
She accepted that it was how it was going to be. Some marriages don't make it. Some loves are broken, fucking shattered, after they marry each other. Some loves are just doomed not to last and their love story was no ordinary story. She wouldn't expect an ordinary ending—a happily ever after—for their story.
She eventually gave up and started to protect her heart as well but it didn't matter how hard she tried. He always found a way to break it. He always went through her guard, no matter how hard she tried not to let him.
"It's okay," she mutters to herself, rubbing her eyes and making sure that she isn't going to cry. After she is certain no tears are going to be shed—on Christmas day, who even cries on Christmas day?—she stands up, walking to her closet.
Many of her clothing items have memories attached; from fancy dates in restaurants to trips on muggle yachts to her honeymoon all across Europe. She smiles at them—they are sacred. They are proof that their love happened. That she hasn't spent seven years imagining it.
Her hands linger on a specific red dress though. She hasn't worn it a lot but she can still clearly remember the first time she did.
She had been overworked in ministry, obsessing over some rule she can't even remember. What she does remember is the fact that an owl knocked on her window, dropping a package for her. The neat handwriting screamed Draco and as soon as she laid eyes on it, she felt everything else getting forgotten.
She recalls the first time she laid her eyes on the dress as she unpacked the baggage. It was breath-taking. And there was a note with it.
I am going to pick you up at seven when I come home. Got a surprise for you, Granger. D. M.
She had giggled like a child, done her work as soon as she could and left an hour earlier to get ready. Draco had been there on seven sharp, looking handsome and dazzling but what that has been engraved in her mind is the look Draco had on when he first saw her. He looked like he had been hit by lightning.
Her hands, now, linger on the dress, debating on whether it will be a wise choice to put it on. She likes to think it's because she looked so good in that dress not because she wants to know if Draco's eyes are going to shine brightly again if he sees her in the red silk.
She doesn't take long getting ready. She uses the same old potion to keep her wild curls in a graceful patch above her head, uses light makeup and eventually puts on the crimson red dress that goes down up her knees and reveals her shoulder gracefully.
She smiles—rather sadly—at her portrait. She could go to this Christmas party cheerfully, hanging onto her husband's arm, knowing that they'd probably end the night with sweet, sweet love making. Now, though, she knows she has to plaster a smile on her face all night, trying not to look like her marriage is falling apart and pretend like they are fine.
She wonders if it would be a wiser decision if she allowed herself to break down and cry a bit before getting ready but it's too late since she's ready and it'll be a shame to spoil it. So she takes a breath, trying to gather herself. "It will be alright. We'll get through this," she assures herself, walking out of the room.
The sound of shuffling downstairs tells her that Draco is already downstairs and she glances at the clock to check if she's later than planned. Well, she is not and if Draco chooses to be an annoying twat because of it, it's his fault not hers.
"Well, she fucking finally decides to roll in," Draco growls as he hears her footsteps and turns to face her. He is wearing a sharp black suit and he looks dashing.
Hermione excitedly waits for a reaction even though she's well aware she isn't going to get any. As if to confirm her thoughts, Draco simply throws an unimpressed glance at Hermione. "It took you long enough."
She tries to pretend like she isn't hurt. She tries to throw Draco a cold glance with an eye roll. But the knot in her throat tells otherwise but she ignores it, swallowing hard. He isn't going to make their possibly last Christmas together miserable. "Just... Stop, Draco," she sighs and finally there's a hint of shock in Draco. He probably expected Hermione to start screaming at him but she's so tired. "Let's not fight tonight. It's already hard to pretend like we are,"—she swallows, trying not to sound depressed—"still in love. Let's have a good night. Please."
Draco looks hurt—or maybe it's just Hermione's head playing tricks on her—but he finally averts his gaze, no uttering a word. Hermione sighs, taking that as a no. What else did she expect? Her word isn't worth much these days. She climbs down the last three stairs as well, standing next to Draco.
She is expecting him to get into the fireplace and leave, waiting for Hermione to join him but instead, he offers her his arm, showing that he fancies apparating. She links her arm through his arm, feeling his body properly after months and months of distance.
She hates what it's doing to her. It makes her ecstatic, euphoric and blessed even though there are layers of clothes in between them. "Ready?" Draco says, his tune reminding Hermione of the Draco she used to know. It makes her Happy and so bloody sad at the same time. She nods, waiting for the feeling of apperation filling her and moments later, they are in the main hall of the Black's mansion.
"Oh, darling!" a feminine voice makes them steady themselves, turning to the source with a smile. Of course, it is the infamous Narcissa Black with her ever so cheerful spirit. "I missed you two so much." She says, crashing Hermione in a hug before moving on to kissing Draco on the cheek and hugging him as well. Draco glances at Hermione when Narcissa goes over the roof with the hug and Hermione smiles slightly, catching Narcissa's attention to save Draco.
"These are lovely decorations, Narcissa," she says because she knows if there's anything that can make Narcissa forget about affectionate hugs, it's decorative stuff. As expected, she lets go of Draco with a squeal as she mindlessly chatters about where she got them and how much she paid some fairies—which are witches in the decorating company—to get them done.
Hermione has zoned out of conversation but she still manages to smile and nod at times she deems necessary. She is thinking about that one look Draco gave her, begging for help with his eyes. It almost felt like they were okay. It's wishful thinking, she knows, but for tonight, she wants to pretend like it isn't. Like he asked her for help because she is his wife and he knows she'll always save him.
A few minutes pass before Narcissa locates some new guests and places a kiss on Hermione's cheek as she excuses herself and drifts away to greet them. Hermione huffs out a breathy chuckle. "Your mother is something else," she says with a laugh, sliding her hand in Draco's.
It isn't until a few seconds later that she remembers it's not them anymore and removes her hand. They were supposed to pretend and when it's the two of them, there's no pretending. They already know they are broken.
"She is," Draco says, looking at Hermione with a look. Hermione knows what it says. It says he's also painfully aware of the fact hanging above their neck. "It's alright."
Hermione nods, snaking her hand around his arm again. It's okay. Even if it's only for one night, it's alright. She is tempted to ask Draco why again. She is tempted to scream at him and tell him off on his behaviour. That they are fine now, why can't they be fine forever? That she still loves him so he better stop acting like a prick and accept her love,
She doesn't, instead she puts on her smile and follows Draco over to a group of people they both know from businesses and functions. She puts on a smile and holds onto Draco as if he isn't going to let her go anytime now... she just smiles and pretends.
—
She isn't sure how long she has been alone, staring around at people who are laughing mindlessly, getting sucked back in the hurricane of thoughts and memories who don't seem to be leaving her head any time soon. The glass of wine in her hand—which is not her first—has made her tipsy and the knot in her throat is threatening to make her drunken mind cry any time now.
This isn't Hermione Jean Malfoy—she doesn't get drunk, she doesn't feel like crying at parties. She is in love and should be hand in hand with her husband. She is a strong woman everyone looks up to with a burning desire in her heart that makes her who she is.
Who is this person sitting in her shell then?
It isn't long before someone—probably one of their school pals, because he is around the same age as Hermione—sits down next to her with a breath that stinks of alcohol and eyes that are disgustingly red and unfocused. Hermione is tempted to stand up and go away but she's feeling too exhausted to do so.
"Miss Granger, right?" he starts talking and Hermione should correct him with a No, Missus Malfoy but she doesn't. What does it even mean if she's going to eventually be Miss Granger? "Pleasure to meet you."
"You too," Hermione says even if she doesn't know who in Merlin's name is the man next to him. She can give it to him—he's ridiculously handsome. No more handsome than Draco or Harry for that matter but still appealing enough with chestnut hair and black eyes. His skin is light and his nose sharp. Hermione smiles at him mindlessly.
He keeps on talking, saying things Hermione can't focus on long enough and Hermione keeps on smiling at him as if a smile is just part of her body. She wants him to leave her alone, let her think for Godric's sake—she's so occupied with her thoughts. That's why she isn't quick to react when he leans towards her—flirtatiously—and winks.
Hermione's breath is stuck in her throat then. What the hell is he doing? Why is Hermione frozen? Why isn't she pulling away?
"Astaroth," Draco's voice is what saves her and she releases a sigh when the man—Astaroth apparently—pulls away and looks at the other Slytherin. "Fancy meeting you here."
His tune says otherwise. His tune says that he can put his head on a platter and give it to his loved ones. Hermione wants to hug Draco so tight, she wants to tell him she's thankful for the save.
"Draco," he greets her husband dryly. "It's been ages, mate."
"Yes, since you flew away to Durmstrang, correct?" Astaroth nods while Draco moves to sit next to Hermione, wrapping his arm around her shoulder. Hermione hates herself when she easily leans into him. "I believe you have met my wife, is this true?"
"Wife?" he seems dumbfounded, throwing a confused look at Hermione before gathering himself. "I have. You are lucky, Malfoy. You have a lovely wife."
"I do, indeed," Draco nods with a smile. "It was nice seeing you. Hermione, love, can you spare me a dance?" He says, catching her hand and pushing her to her feet.
Draco's every touch is making her sober up, painfully aware of him, holding her. Not many are dancing but Draco still manages to get to the dancefloor and puts his hands on her waist, wrapping her arms around his neck.
"What the fuck was that?" he hisses at her when there's no one near them.
"What was what?" Hermione asks, too drunk on his nearness and scent to notice anything else. She wants to tell him to shut up so she can enjoy this while it lasts. She wants to inch closer to him, leaning her chin on his shoulder. She wants to kiss him then and there, whispering sweet nothings.
"You were flirting with him!" Draco whisper-shouts. "I mean if you want to mess around, be my fucking guest but not at my mum's fucking party!"
Hermione is taken back with surprise, now painfully sober. Was this really what he thought of her? "I wasn't messing around," she simply says, distancing herself from Draco slightly. This is not the man she fell in love with—this isn't who she wants to be around. "You know I wasn't! How can you even say that?!"
"He didn't know you were married," Draco points out but the shame in his eyes doesn't go unnoticed by her.
"So what? That doesn't mean I am not!" Her eyes are glistening with anger.
"Okay," Draco simply says, swinging with her to the rhythm of music and Hermione can't help but think of all the things they would tell each other if they weren't so distant.
"Why did we end up like this, Draco?" the words escape her mouth before she can even gather her thoughts and Draco's eyes widen. "Tell me, what went sideways...?"
Draco stares at her for too long, Hermione almost melts under his gaze but she holds her stance. She needs to know. Even if all of this is going to be lost soon, she at least deserves to know what was wrong with them.
Without any words, Draco clenches onto her wrist, dragging her out of the dance floor and towards the stairs. Her head tells her to be scared—after all, this isn't the man she used to know—but she's never been calmer. She can finally know the truth and that's what matters the most.
And she knows, doesn't matter how broken they are, Draco is never going to hurt her. He's never going to do anything to harm her.
Minutes later, they are inside the guest room that Narcissa always gave them when they stay over. The room bears a lot of memories. All the late nights spent there, making love, talking and laughing. She smiles slightly.
Draco turns to her, rubbing his temples. "It's been more than a year since we were last here." Hermione is aware of the fact. The last time they were here was some time before Christmas last year—sometime before everything came crumbling down. "Do you want a drink?"
"What?" Her eyes widened. So now, they are drinking pals? She's tempted to laugh and shout at him to just give her damned answers.
"I don't think I can finish this fucking night without liquor," Draco says. "So do you want a fucking drink or what?"
And who is Hermione to say no?
—
She isn't sure how many shots she's downed or how many more she's going to take. It doesn't matter as long as it feels good. As long it's her and him in the room with nothing but their clothes distancing them. Draco's pupils tell her that he's totally wasted.
"Bloody hell, do you remember when I got drunk one night and you had to take care of me while I puked my guts out?" Hermione says carelessly, the memory just flashing in her head. Why? She doesn't know. She isn't sure if it's important. She says it out loud because she can!
"Fuck yeah," Draco says, his tune light for the first time in the last year. "It was your first time getting properly drunk."
Hermione nods, smiling. He's right. She had a lot of her firsts with Draco; first time getting drunk, first time experiencing public sex, first time laughing like she's going to die, first time spending all night partying, first time being loved properly, in a way a girl desire...
"What happened, Draco?" Hermione utters, the words more like a hopeless whine rather than a sentence. "Why did you fall out of love? Hell, when did you fall out of love?"
Draco's eyes widen but he doesn't seem surprised. Just... sad as he takes another shot, frowning as his tonsils burn. "Did I?" he simply says.
Hermione doesn't know what to say. Of course you did, she wants to scream. To pound on her chest and demand answers not absurd replies. She just wants to know what made them lose their dynamic. What made them be perfect strangers who know each other too well.
Instead, she awaits for Draco but he doesn't seem to be willing to utter another word. So, she pushes harder. "Tell me, Draco," there's a knot in her throat and she's not sure how much longer she can keep going without crying. After all, she does have a right to cry—to mourn the loss of a love she has nursed for more than half a decade. "Tell me where we went wrong because I can't fathom where!"
He chuckles, coming out more like a sad attempt to be in control. "Everywhere, love..." the pet name slips out of his mouth like it's the easiest thing he can say. It makes Hermione's heart miss a beat. Love, how much she missed hearing the word rolling out of Draco's tongue.
"Tell me," she urges, her tired mind unable to come up with better words.
"I can't," he growls, running his long fingers in his blond locks. His face looks so pale under the dim light of the room, his eyes scared and he looks so young—like he's back to being a lost teenager who doesn't know what is going on with him. "I fucking can't," he whines this time.
"Why not?" Hermione says, reaching out for him, her hands trying to hold onto his arms, keeping him down so he is forced to listen to her. "Why the hell not? Tell me!"
"Because I am not good enough for you!" Draco blurts out, standing up. The tears that were threatening to leave Hermione's eyes are now gone after the shock. She expected anything—anything at all—but this. "Fuck," he curses under his breath, putting distance between them.
"What do you mean?" Hermione is startled.
"Nothing."
"Tell me."
"I said nothing."
"And I said tell me, you are lying!" Hermione shouts unexpectedly. "You can't just blurt out bollocks like that and get away with it! You just bloody can't! Tell me what the hell you meant! Tell me what is that supposed to mean!"
Draco is taken back by the sudden outburst. "I..." he sucks in a breath. "I am a failure—you know it, the whole fucking world knows it. And you—the brightest witch of our generation—can't be with me. I get it! I fucking get!"
"Who says you are a failure?"
"EVERYONE!" Draco shouts, Hermione shuddering when she hears it. "Are you stupid or do you just pretend like you don't understand?"
"I don't understand!" She shouts, fighting the sobs that are threatening to leave her throat. She isn't going to cry, not until she has her answer. "You are not making any sense!"
"You are next in line of becoming a minister," Draco says after a pause, staring into Hermione's eyes with emotionless eyes, void of feelings, his lips set in a thin line. "And there has been talks around the ministry that since you are married to an ex-DeathEater, you are not worthy of the position."
The world is spinning under her feet, her vision blurred. What? How does he know? She shuts the talks down, throws fits and makes it more than clear that Draco is nothing but an ally to the wizarding world. She did it all for him and for them and now the very thing she fought to get with him is tearing them apart? It's stupid.
"Since when do you care about what others say?" Hermione demands. Where is his ego now? Now that they need it to get through shit, he shuts her out and acts like he doesn't give two flying fucks!
Draco stares into her eyes, his eyelids fluttering. No words leave his lips and that only makes Hermione angrier. "You can't just say something like that and stay silent! You can't fall out of love with me and blame it on other things! If you want to leave so badly, just tell me the truth! Just tell me you don't love me anymore!"
"I CAN'T!" Draco surprises both of them by the screech leaving his throat. His chest is moving up and down rapidly and Hermione's eyes fix themselves on Draco's gray ones—now glassy with unshed tears.
Tears filling Draco's eyes!
"What?"
"Don't do this, Hermione," Draco hisses, his voice stiff with the knot pulling on his throat. "We are beyond fixing, don't make me say things that only make it harder. Don't push me."
"We aren't beyond anything. I am still your wife! Am I not? Isn't that what you told me only minutes ago? I am still your wife!"
"I can't tell you that I don't love you anymore cause I do," his voice is small, his eyes filled. Hermione wants to reach out and tell him fuck everything then, let me kiss you but she doesn't, waiting for him to go on. "But I can't do this anymore.
"You have a future, you have a good reputation—you can have everything you want. Me? I'm just a burden. Do you realize that you can lose the position that is made for you because of me? How am I going to look at you after that? How can I fucking tell you to love me when I take away good things? I am fucked up, Hermione!
"You are not! You can go back to the life you had before—without me, full of people who deserve you. People who aren't going to shut you out when they're scared, people who haven't hurt you." his voice cracks up, his hands shaking. Was it things that he kept inside for a year? Is that why he's ruining every chance of happiness they can have?
"Then why didn't you think of everything before you married me? Why now?"
"Because I was so in love with you I couldn't think of anything else!"
"And now, what?! Now you aren't in love with me anymore and you want to get rid of me by making up excuses?"
"FUCKING HELL, HERMIONE! NO, BECAUSE I LOVE YOU MORE!" Draco shouts, pounding his fists to the wall in anguish. "Because I just can't bear the thought of you looking at me ten years from now and blame me for taking away every opportunity you had to walk away."
That's when it happens.
Draco has only ever cried twice in front of Hermione. Once when he wanted to apologize for everything, all the stuff he had put her through and was so overwhelmed with emotions.
And the second time is now. Tears streaming down his cheeks as if they are silent rivers longing to be flooded. As if they are pearls, begging to come down.
Hermione is certain it's the aftermath of spilling too much alcohol but Draco is still there, more vulnerable than ever, and he looks so young, so lost.
"I was selfish. When we first started. Now, I just want you to have everything you want and you are not going to have that with me."
"You are everything I want," Hermione says, surprising both of them. She didn't want the words slipping out of her mouth—she didn't want to put herself out there once more but she does.
It's Draco, after all. It's the man that made her heart beat faster, made her feel alive and challenged her and completed her. How can she not put herself out there for him.
"Hermione, this isn't what you mean..." Draco sys but Hermione doesn't hesitate in shutting him down by hugging him.
As if Hermione's embrace was the cue, his shoulders go up and down in painful sobs, hiding his head in Hermione's wild curls and holding her a bit tighter than usual. Hermione feels herself getting absorbed into Draco as his nails dig into her body because he's hugging her too tightly as if he's afraid she's going to vanish.
"Shhh, baby, it's okay," Hermione whispers, her hands inside his blonde locks. "It's okay, we're okay. I am here, Draco."
It takes a while for Draco to finally calm down. When he does, Hermione pulls him a little backwards, staring into his eyes with a smile. "Look at me, Draco."
He does. He does and Hermione can write symphonies about the world inside them, she can write sonates about the whispers coming out of them, she can write stories about the lost tales inside their gray aura.
"I love you. I will always love you. And the only thing that can make me go away is you, telling me that you no longer care about me. If you say that, I will go. Honest to Merlin, if you tell me that you don't care about me anymore, I will leave you. Can you do that?"
Draco shakes his head hardly and a wave of relief washes over Hermione. "Then, I am not going. Not now, not ever because there's nothing in the world that I will choose over you."
Draco nods like a lost boy and a ghost of a smile appears on his face. Hermione carcasses his cheeks, pressing kisses to his cheekbones, his forehead, any place she can get her lips on.
"Can I kiss you?" Draco murmurs as if he's scared of the answer she will give him.
Hermione doesn't reply, just stands on her tallest tiptoes and kisses Draco's mouth—gently and ever so lively. There are no tongues, no burning passion. It's like they are experiencing their first kiss all over again, careful and delicate—terrified of disturbing the magic that's around them.
Minutes, hours, days later Hermione pulls away with a smile. "Merry Christmas Draco."