Author's Note: I'm usually a nighttime updater, but I couldn't wait to post this chapter any longer :)
Additional love as always to mcal for her never-ending support, both on this and every other aspect of life.
It didn't make sense.
He had asked her to meet.
He had initiated it.
Her hand clutched the elegantly bound set of quills she had found discarded on the pavement outside of the cafe. A dozen of them. All fresh and sharp for the start of a new school year — just like Hermione had said in her letter the other week that she wanted.
Her grip tightened.
He had been there.
Rage and confusion battled for prominence in her brain as she marched down Knockturn Alley. The lights in the bookstore were out, and she breathed a short sigh of relief. Penelope had already finished locking up for the night.
Hermione shoved the proper key into the lock then pushed herself inside. Not even the scent of books could calm her senses. As soon as the door clicked shut, Hermione cast a Muffliato Charm around the perimeter and let out a scream. What, precisely, she was screaming about, Hermione wasn't sure. Anything. Everything. The fact that her pen pal had left. That she'd had to face Malfoy instead. That her leaden heart was trapped inside her stomach, weighed down by insoluble disappointment.
She had hoped for a date. Would have settled for dessert with a friend. Instead, she had nothing.
Hermione pressed the heels of her palms into her eyes. The darkness obstructed all other distractions, allowing her enough focus to centre her thoughts for the first time since she had spotted Malfoy step into the cafe. Yet those efforts did nothing to stop the flames of irritation from continuing to burn.
She did her best to control the conflagration. There had to be a logical explanation. There just had to.
Had he recognised her and been too intimidated to engage with the famous Hermione Granger? Part of the comfort of writing to him was that he didn't interact with her with the same reverence as so many others did, just because of something she had done six years ago. Maybe shock and surprise had stolen him away. Or what if he had arrived during those unpleasant moments she'd been forced to interact with Malfoy? He could have seen her speaking with him, gotten the wrong impression, and left.
Hermione huffed. As if her list of reasons to be annoyed with Malfoy wasn't already long enough.
She pushed aside those tarnished thoughts. She'd come to the bookstore for a reason.
Making her way to the office, Hermione held on to one of her last strands of hope. It didn't hold long. When she stepped into the space, there was no sign of a parchment aeroplane awaiting entry. Nor, after she had taken the Floo home, was there a letter back at her flat.
No note. No explanation. No apology.
Hermione threw the quills on her kitchen table before falling onto the sofa with a frustrated humph.
The cushion of the pillow over her face muffled her second round of screams. Feelings from three and a half years ago — long passed but never fully resolved — stewed to the surface. If he planned to suddenly disappear from her life again, she would never forgive him. It had caused her too much strife the first time.
A weight settled on top of her stomach, and Hermione set aside the pillow to peer at the ginger fur and yellow eyes of her beloved cat. Crookshanks mewled, then nudged his soft pink nose against her hand. She stroked his greying coat a few times, but despite her pet's attempt, he, too, gave her little comfort.
Returning Crookshanks to the ground, Hermione got to her feet and paced to the kitchen. She wasn't sure anything would be able to squash the surging storm swelling inside her, yet she filled a kettle and cast a Warming Charm on it anyway. Her mother had always made her tea when she was distraught, and while it had never fully helped Hermione, it was worth trying if it could, even temporarily, placate her thoughts.
Theories and speculations pestered her mind while her eyes continually glanced to the window in despondent hope that she'd spot a parchment aeroplane. When all she saw was a crescent moon obscured by clouds, Hermione rested her eyes and listened to the faint whistle of steam.
This wasn't how their night was supposed to go.
Hermione retrieved a mug from the cabinet then placed the strainer filled with decaffeinated Earl Grey tea leaves into the cup. Curls of steam rose from the stream of hot water as Hermione poured the liquid on top. Then, she waited.
Waited. Just like she had done for forty-five minutes before she finally accepted that he wasn't coming.
A flash of white blond hair crossed her thoughts, and Hermione scowled. She didn't want to imagine what Malfoy would sneer out if he ever learned her date — or, she supposed, non-date — didn't show up. It would have been easy for Malfoy to enter the cafe without approaching her table. Clearly, he had done it just to incite her. Civil conversation, her arse. He had a motive. Draco Malfoy always had a motive.
Enough time passed, and Hermione removed the strainer from the mug. The heat of the tea seeped through the ceramic, warming her hands as she held it, not a single sip taken.
The audacity of that wizard! She had told him to go away. Yet he stayed, pried, and then somehow found it appropriate to ask if she thought him capable of change. She would have laughed at the absurdity of the question if he hadn't looked so serious asking it. And for whatever reason, in that moment, she had felt a twinge of sympathy.
Was he too far gone? No. Was he capable of change? Maybe. That was for him to decide, not her. As she distinctly remembered once writing her pen pal, she didn't think anyone was incapable of change. They just needed—
The mug slipped from Hermione's fingers and shattered on the kitchen tiles.
No more than five minutes later, hundreds of letters spread across the carpet, all bundled in stacks tied together with twine and organised by month. Hermione first selected the pile from January 1999. Somewhere, in one of these stacks, it was in there.
One by one, Hermione began re-reading every note, every letter that her pen pal had written her that second semester of her final year at Hogwarts. The stress of revising for N.E.W.T.s had caused her to become less responsive to all her other pen pals, yet she had never failed to go more than a day without writing him. His responses had been just as prompt. He had been her beacon of sanity when the endless colour-coding of class notes or incessant staring at the famous Hermione Granger had grown to be too much. As long as he continued to make her stressors disappear, it didn't seem to matter who he was.
Now, it very much did matter.
Mentions of being an only child. Of growing up far away from Muggle London. Of the satisfaction he got from brewing a particularly tricky potion. Of the freedom he felt when flying.
How had she been so blind?
And then, she found it. Nestled within the letters from March of that very same year, sat the one that had gripped her heart more than any of the previous. She located the exact paragraphs and was immediately transported back to the Great Hall where she had read it for the first time.
There are pieces of my past that sometimes keep me up at night, regrets and mistakes that torture every sleepless thought, while I stare at the blank expanse of my ceiling. I hope, for your sake, you've never felt this agony. The pain of wondering if the things you've done are irreparable. If the people you've harmed will ever be able to see you as something else. As someone worthy of more than pure disdain.
I know we don't usually write about things like this, but I needed to get those feelings out there today. Just sharing them with someone, with you, makes it feel slightly better. But I know it's just temporary. Tonight, I'll once again stare at the ceiling as I ask myself for the hundredth time if I'm capable of change.
The parchment shook as Hermione read it again. And again. She looked at the date scripted in the corner.
March 26th, 1999
He had written it the day after the anniversary of their capture.
Of Dobby's death.
Of her torture.
Hermione's insides twisted, and the whole world seemed to stall. She had never considered it a possibility. The pen pal program had only been advertised in British publications. But that didn't mean British wizarding families residing in other countries hadn't maintained their subscriptions. And at a certain point, coincidences were no longer coincidences.
"What are the odds that, of all the people in Wizarding London, we would run into each other for the third time in two weeks?"
Hermione didn't need to do the maths to conclude that the odds were incredibly low — unless their meeting tonight had been planned.
Repeated taps against her window pulled Hermione from her frantic thoughts. On the other side was a parchment aeroplane.
An ice cold shiver froze every inch of her frame. The only movement was the wild beating threatening to jump out of her chest. It wasn't until Crookshanks leapt onto the ledge and began scratching at the glass that Hermione forced herself to thaw and retrieve his letter.
There was no salutation.
I thought I was ready for us to meet, but when the moment came, it wasn't the right time. If you knew my reasoning, I have no doubt you'd understand. You'll just need to trust my judgement like you've learned to trust me. I've battled with this for hours, but I need you to know one thing: I still want you in my life. After so long, I can't imagine you not. But for now, I think it best that we remain pen pals.
Hermione collapsed onto the sofa, eyes locked on the parchment. His writing was tighter than usual. She imagined him gripping his quill with additional pressure as he had penned these words. How many discarded drafts were in his rubbish bin? Surely this was far from his first. And this — this — was what he had decided to send her.
He still wanted her in his life.
The thought swirled inside Hermione's mind. The idea of friendship with him didn't feel realistic.
Him.
Not "him" her pen pal, but him.
Draco Malfoy.
Her grip on the parchment tightened, causing crinkles on the edges. After six years, it hurt to see the handwriting she had placed so much faith and feelings in say that he wanted to remain pen pals. Because, despite everything she had just discovered, that's what stung the most.
She wasn't mad at Draco Malfoy; she was mad at her pen pal.
But it was impossible to differentiate those conflicting emotions when they were directed at the same person.
Hermione pushed herself off the sofa and discarded the letter on the kitchen table next to the quills before summoning all the letters and stalking into her bedroom. She had no more words for him tonight.
...
Customers scattered throughout the bookstore, yet Hermione couldn't concentrate on any of them. Her attention was set on the scene unfolding just beyond the store's front window.
The morning had been slow so far, made all the worst by Penelope's incessant worried glances. They hadn't stopped since the moment Hermione had told Penelope that her pen pal had left her waiting last night — even if that did exclude one massive, major detail. And now, no more than twenty feet away, stood that very same wizard, trying not to be dragged into her shop by his son.
Part of Hermione prayed they didn't enter. The other part inexplicably, irrationally hoped that they did.
Her breathing stalled when they started to move and the front door pushed open. Scorpius had won.
His little feet scampered through the entrance while a vibrant, beaming smile matched his excitement. Hermione expected him to head straight to the books, but instead, she soon found the young child right at her feet.
"Hi, Book Lady," he said, tilting his head way back so he could peer up at Hermione with his sparkling blue eyes.
"Good morning, Scorpius," Hermione politely returned despite the rocky current flowing through her veins. She offered him a closed-lipped, pleasant smile, then looked behind him to where his father stood, stiff and rigid. She forced a solitary nod. "Malfoy."
His returning gaze was distant. "Granger."
No sign of cordialness coloured his tone. Why would there be? He was Draco Malfoy, and she was Hermione Granger. They had never gotten along.
Except that they did get along.
Very well.
Very, very well.
Her heart ached, staring at the wizard who, for so many years, had treated her with such disdain, yet had also helped her heal those wounds — even if not knowingly. And he knew it was her. That the witch standing in front of him was the same person that he, too, had confided so much in through thousands of letters.
Neither one of them said another word to each other.
"Come, Scorpius," he said when he finally broke their silence, though the hundreds of seconds it felt like couldn't have lasted longer than one or two. Malfoy steered his son in the opposite direction. "Let's go look at the books."
Hermione watched their movement as they joined the other customers perusing the shelves. Hardly a minute had passed before Malfoy looked over his shoulder and their eyes caught one another for a splinter of a second.
Her mouth was dry, but Hermione swallowed anyway. The lump in her throat refused to budge.
"I can't believe he's here again."
Hermione blinked herself back to focus. Penelope stood next to Hermione, arms folded against her chest as she peered in Malfoy's direction.
"His son likes books," Hermione pushed past her lips, trying not to think too hard about how much more she knew about Scorpius from Malfoy's past letters.
Penelope huffed, and her expression soured. "He's perfectly capable of shopping at Flourish and Blotts."
Hermione's stomach churned as she turned to fully face Penelope. She had been so caught up in her own emotions towards Malfoy, Hermione hadn't considered that she wasn't the only witch here who had experienced prejudice as a Muggle-born.
"Which means he made the conscious decision to return to the store he knows I own," Hermione stated, carefully watching Penelope's reaction. "That must signify some sort of shift in him, right?"
Penelope stalled, seemed to think for a moment, then sharply exhaled. "It's a start."
A customer approached the counter, and Penelope left to complete their purchases. Hermione scooped up a pile of unshelved books and began returning them to their spots — all while never taking her eyes off Malfoy and Scorpius for longer than a handful of moments.
Penelope was right to be sceptical that Draco Malfoy could sincerely change his prejudiced ways. A day ago, Hermione had felt similarly. He had cheered while Muggle-borns feared for the Basilisk. One didn't easily forget that — especially when Hermione and Penelope had both spent three weeks petrified.
Over ten years had passed since then. None of them had come out of the war the same person they had been before, Malfoy included. The fact that he had even signed up for the pen pal program was proof of that. But anonymous correspondence expressing his remorse for his past mistakes wasn't the same as internalising a shift in mindset. That took work. Effort. Motivation.
And Hermione had little doubt that she was staring straight at Draco Malfoy and his motivation.
Hermione forgot all about reshelving books as she continued to observe Malfoy and Scorpius from a distance. Since first seeing Malfoy again the other week, every antagonistic interaction they'd had during childhood had fueled her bitter resentment. But that cruel, young wizard had grown up to be the man in front of her. Her pen pal. A wizard she knew to be so much more.
Clever. Considerate. Charming. Three things she admired in a wizard. Three things she believed her pen pal to be. Three things she had thought Draco Malfoy not to be.
Only, the more she watched him, the more Hermione admitted how biased she had been. Six years could change a man. Had changed a man.
She was the one who hadn't changed.
Bolstering her nerves and swallowing decade-old animosity, Hermione set down the remaining unshelved books and approached them. If she and Malfoy could get along on paper, it was worth seeing what they could manage in person.
She left a five foot gap between them. "Is there anything I can help you find?"
"We're fine," came Malfoy's prompt — slightly choked — response. He only acknowledged her presence with a half-turn of his head before reverting focus to Scorpius.
But Scorpius wasn't looking at his father. His bright eyes locked on Hermione. "Do you has more star books?"
"Yes, we do," Hermione answered with a smile, astutely aware of how Malfoy seemed to be watching their every interaction. "Would you like to see my favourites?"
Scorpius nodded his head in quick succession, and Hermione pulled out her wand. A single swish later, four different books drifted off surrounding bookshelves and floated their way. Scorpius giggled at the thin trail of golden sparks that cascaded down from the books' paths as he jumped up to try to catch one. The modification of that spell never failed to amuse their youngest patrons.
Once all the sparks had faded, Hermione sat cross-legged on the floor and spread out the books for Scorpius to see. "This book tells you more about constellations," Hermione said, pointing at the one all the way on her right. "It talks about different stars than the one you already have, so I think you'll like it. But I also thought you might want to learn something new. Do you know anything about the planets?"
Scorpius shook his head, but from his wide-eyed expression, he was eager to hear more. Hermione introduced the other books about various space topics, and Scorpius wasted no time opening them up and beginning to explore. He chose the planet book first and laid down on his stomach as he flipped through the pages.
It was remarkable to see how quickly Scorpius could get immersed in a book, even at such a young age. Stories from her parents suggested that Hermione had been similar. Had Malfoy been like this, too? Or was Scorpius more like his mother?
The clearing of a throat directly behind her tore Hermione's attention to the wizard in question. Malfoy's stern expression was still in place, as was his cold, distant demeanour. But somewhere, hidden in the silver specks of his gaze, she found the faintest flicker of warmth — even if it did only last a second.
"We'll take them," Malfoy evenly stated, having slipped back fully into his reserved state. "And a book about dragons from the Muggle perspective if you have."
He started walking towards the counter before Hermione had the chance to react. That was probably a good thing. Otherwise, he would have seen the small quirk of Hermione's lips. Her mind was still trapped in perpetual struggle trying to reconcile the Malfoy she knew from childhood with the Malfoy she knew from their letters, but small remarks like these helped bridge that gap. This was now the second time he was purchasing books for Scorpius rooted in something Muggle.
Scorpius remained immersed in the books as Hermione selected a book on Muggle dragon mythology as well as a copy of The Paper Bag Princess. When she set the two books on the counter, Malfoy picked up The Paper Bag Princess, flipped through the pages, lifted his eyebrow no less than three separate times, then closed it.
"Scorpius will enjoy these."
The quirk of Hermione's lips returned, this time, for Malfoy to see. "I'm glad."
Silence settled between them, though not the strained sort that she was accustomed to. It was a welcome changed to the stiff tension with which they usually interacted — in person, at least.
Hermione added up his total, and Malfoy placed the appropriate number of coins on the counter. The books were in the bag, and the transaction was complete.
It could have ended there. Easily. She and Malfoy had managed to make it through an entire conversation without being hostile. By their standards, it had even been civil. That's what Malfoy wanted, right? A civil conversation?
Regardless of whether or not they outwardly confirmed anything, Malfoy knew. And she knew that he knew — even if he didn't know that she knew, nor that she knew that he knew.
Yet that didn't stop Hermione's curiosity from getting the best of her. For the first time ever, she could ask her pen pal anything, and the parchments wouldn't be able to block his answer.
Hermione gripped the handle of the bag, inches from handing it to Malfoy, when she pulled it back.
"Can I just ask you one thing?"
Something darkened in Malfoy's gaze, but he didn't protest.
Hermione gathered her hair over one shoulder, looked down at the counter, then, finally, met his eyes as she pushed out the question that had stirred inside her for over a year.
"What happened to Scorpius' mother?"
Whatever Malfoy had expected her to ask, this certainly wasn't it. A ripple of shock flashed across his expression. His lips parted slightly, seemingly unable to revert back to the practised stoicism he so typically wore. Compassion clenched inside Hermione's chest, and she tried to summon the words to tell him that it was okay if he didn't want to tell her, but she too desperately wanted that answer. Or perhaps, more accurately, she wanted him to trust her with that answer. If not as Hermione Granger, at least as his pen pal.
He broke their eye contact, attention falling towards Scorpius still flipping through the various books. By his side, Hermione noticed his fingers fidgeting with one another.
"Her name was Astoria," he said, voice low and strained. He didn't look at her as he spoke. "Astoria Greengrass."
Hermione felt her whole body grow numb. "Related to Daphne?"
"Her younger sister." A visible swallow travelled down his throat, as if the next words pained him to say. "We were married."
The stab in her chest hurt more than it should have. She couldn't help but glance down at his left hand where a wedding ring must have once sat.
Malfoy's gaze fell off Scorpius, but it still didn't land on Hermione. "She passed away a few months after Scorpius was born. A familial blood curse we didn't know about weakened her after childbirth."
Hermione couldn't help the small gasp that escaped her. Blood curses were rare and often had no cure. All feelings for Malfoy aside, she could only imagine how difficult that must have been for them.
Her words were a soft whisper. "I'm so sorry. I had no idea."
Only then did Malfoy meet her eyes. "As I told you last night, you'd discover a lot of things if you really knew me. There's a lot more to me than you think."
Hermione stilled her breathing. "I know there is."
She reached out the bag again, and Malfoy took it into his hold, though not before Hermione let go. Their fingers brushed against each other, and even the slightest contact with his skin sent a heat to Hermione's cheeks. She withdrew her hand before her flush grew apparent.
"About last night," Hermione said, her heart thudding in her chest as Malfoy jerked his head to once more look at her. She bit the inside of her lip. "For what it's worth, I do think you've changed. In some regards, at least." A deep inhale filled her lungs, and she looked at Malfoy with what she hoped was remorse. "What I said the other week about you and your son was rash and unfair. I just— You've raised Scorpius very well on your own."
He blinked at her for several seconds until his coldness cracked, as did the tension surrounding them.
"Thank you."
They continued staring at each other, letting the lack of insults speak instead of words themselves. There was no goodbye when Malfoy turned from her, but the voicing of his thank you was enough for now.
He started to walk back to Scorpius but stopped after only a few steps.
Malfoy looked back over his shoulder. "Astoria and I… It was an agreement between our families. I never—" The words slipped away as his eyelids pressed closed. When he reopened them, it was with a softness Hermione had never seen from him before. "For what it's worth."
Hermione stood in stunned silence as she watched Malfoy and Scorpius exit the bookstore.
...
After Malfoy left, it became even more difficult for Hermione to concentrate on customers. By the time it reached three, Hermione asked Penelope to take over running the shop for the remainder of the day. Penelope didn't press for a reason. If Hermione was leaving early, Penelope knew it must be important. And it was important. Once Hermione Granger had a need to research something, it became instantly vital.
The Diagon Alley Library was nothing in comparison to the one at Hogwarts. Their collection of reference books was half as extensive and the atmosphere was dull and uninspiring without the seemingly endless rows of magical tomes. But it had what Hermione needed: a complete backlog of Daily Prophets dating back six centuries.
She found what she was looking for in a Sunday Prophet from November of four years ago.
Back in her flat, Hermione once again had hundreds of letters scattered across her sitting room carpet. Crookshanks started padding towards her, and she cast a Fence Charm to keep him in the kitchen. She couldn't risk any of the letters getting out of order.
One by one, the pieces of the puzzle fell more into place. First were the dates that she already knew:
October 17th, 1998 - Their first letter
March 26th, 1999 - He expresses his regrets
April 14th, 2000 - His last letter before disappearing
June 5th, 2003 - The letters resume
After finding those respective letters within the sea of parchment, Hermione placed a temporary Sticking Charm on each one and levitated them to the wall for display, leaving considerable gaps in between. For so long, that three year hiatus had been a blank in their relationship. He hadn't divulged much about that time. Hermione hadn't pried. But now, she had a few new dates to add:
November 5th, 2000 - Draco Malfoy marries Astoria Greengrass
September 15th, 2001 - Scorpius Malfoy born
Early 2002 - Astoria Greengrass passes away
Slowly, the holes in the timeline started to fill. It stung to think how little Malfoy and Astoria had been married before she died. They couldn't have been married more than two months before Astoria had become pregnant. And it still didn't answer what happened in the year and a half between Astoria's death and their letters resuming. But there was one event that she hadn't yet added to the timeline that held more significance than any of the others.
It had been an aside in the Sunday Prophet article announcing the Malfoy-Greengrass marriage. To any other reader, it would have been a mere detail. But to Hermione, it was the answer she'd waited four years for.
The couple, pictured above, got married yesterday on the Malfoys' private Bordeaux estate after a seven month engagement.
She added one last date to her timeline:
April 2000 - Draco Malfoy and Astoria Greengrass get engaged
The same month the letters stopped.
Summoning a letter off the wall, Hermione retrieved the one dated April 14th. It would be impossible to count how many times she had read it. That first month alone she had read it at least fifty times. She had picked it apart, hoping to find a hint she had somehow missed, a firmer explanation about why he had disappeared. Now, in context, it finally made sense.
I'm at a crossroads. There's something in my life that I feel I must do, though it brings me little happiness. In fact, I fear it will go directly against my own happiness. But it feels like the right thing for my family, so I'm compelled to do it anyway. It wouldn't be the first time I've made sacrifices for them, and I'm sure it won't be the last.
Hermione could still remember her response. She had told him she related more than he could imagine. That she, too, had made significant sacrifices in the name of her family, even when that decision was emotionally taxing. And that she would make that same decision every single time.
That final letter remained in Hermione's hand as she pushed herself off the floor and settled onto her sofa. One flick of her wand and all the parchments on the floor gathered themselves back into the appropriate piles. She then removed the Fence Charm so Crookshanks could sit next to her.
She read the letter for at least the hundredth time, only causing the sinking feeling in her gut to deepen. The last line hurt the most.
Our correspondence means more to me than you'll ever know.
Hermione rested her head against the back cushion and took deep, steady breaths. Logic felt unreachable right now. Her thoughts were too muddled by emotions. Turning off her mind, she let those emotions overtake her thoughts, allowing a few tears to finally break free.
Her head was such a blur, she didn't know where to start processing. But a few things were becoming clearer: Draco Malfoy hadn't wanted to stop writing her. Draco Malfoy wanted to keep writing her. And she, Hermione Granger, wanted to keep writing Draco Malfoy.
She swiped away the wetness that lined her cheeks and located the master parchment. As soon as the copy was made, she penned her response.
My long-time friend,
While you may not share your reason with me, I need you to know how much it hurt when you didn't show up last night. This isn't the first time you left me waiting for you, just to be met with disappointing silence on your end. I do trust your judgement, and I do trust you. But I also need to trust that you won't disappear again like you did three years ago, just to reappear when it serves you. I need to know I won't lose you again — even if, for now, it is just as pen pals.
Her heart palpitated until his response came slightly over an hour later.
My intention was never to hurt you. Not last night and not three years ago. I was young and didn't know how to properly confront what I was feeling. Looking back, there are many things I would change. Many. Not just this. But I can only move forward, which is precisely what I am trying to do. I'm still not sure what the future brings, but after today, I am cautiously optimistic that things aren't as bleak as I thought. One day, I hope to tell you everything. Until then, I'm not going anywhere, so long as you'll have me.
Hermione folded up his response and placed it in the top drawer of her nightstand. She didn't know what the future held for them either. A full day after realising his identity, the path ahead of them was still unclear.
Considering the way she had treated him in the cafe, Hermione wouldn't have blamed Malfoy if he had cut off communication completely. But she suspected he felt the same as she did; the bond they had developed the past six years was too deep to let go of just yet. Their feelings for each other were real. That part hadn't changed. It just wouldn't be as easy as they had hoped to make that transition to real-life.