Summary: Draco Malfoy, recently divorced and struggling with the grief of losing his child, leads a quiet and isolated life, while Hermione Granger juggles single motherhood and a demanding career at the Ministry.
Their lives unexpectedly collide when Draco helps Hermione's young daughter, Rose, after she gets lost in Diagon Alley.
What begins as an awkward encounter between former classmates slowly develops into a deeper connection, as both Draco and Hermione are forced to confront their pasts, the failures of their marriages, and the loneliness that lingers in their lives.
I am writing this story for my husband, who is a big supporter of my obsession with the Dramione community, and Harry Potter in general. He is also the one who came up with the plot of this story, and is my sweet beta during this whole experience.
I will be posting every Wednesday, and I think we will see roughly 20 chapters. But who knows.
TRIGGER WARNING: This story deals with the aftermath of loosing a child and the lingering effects. If this triggers something in you, I would not recommend going on.
Enjoy!
Draco Malfoy sat in silence, staring at the empty fireplace in Malfoy Manor. The cold, grey light of morning filtered through the curtains, casting long shadows across the stone floors. His days had begun to blur together in a monotony he could neither escape nor explain. The manor, once filled with echoes of old grandeur and life, felt now like a mausoleum—still, empty, and stifling.
Astoria had left over a year ago. They hadn't spoken since the day she walked out, not even a glance exchanged during their swift, silent divorce. He hadn't fought her decision to leave. How could he? He had failed her, just as he had failed their child. Their son, barely a breath in this world before the life drained from him.
Draco sighed, his hand tightening around the glass of firewhisky he'd been nursing since morning. It was the only constant left, that dull ache of loss he wore like a second skin. No amount of routine or carefully planned tasks could hide the emptiness. The manor had always been too big, but now it was suffocating.
He hadn't even noticed the house-elf entering until it spoke. "Master Malfoy, is there anything Master needs?"
"No, nothing," Draco said, his voice barely above a whisper.
The elf bowed deeply and disappeared, leaving Draco once again with his thoughts, the silence of the manor swallowing him whole.
The clock on the mantle chimed, dragging Draco from the fog of his thoughts. It was time to begin the day, though it felt like each new one was a mere continuation of the last. The same dull routine, the same futile attempts to fill the emptiness Astoria and his son had left behind.
With a heavy sigh, Draco stood, setting his half-empty glass of firewhisky on the table beside him. He straightened the cuffs of his tailored shirt, every movement precise and practised, and glanced around the grand drawing room. It was vast, adorned with the remnants of the Malfoy family's centuries of wealth and prestige—portraits of forebears who stared down at him with cold eyes, tapestries depicting battlefields and scenes of power. Once, he'd taken pride in this heritage. Now, it seemed as hollow as the rest of his life.
Draco left the room, his footsteps echoing through the corridors of the manor as he made his way toward the study. This was where he would begin his day, as he had for months now—overseeing the Malfoy estates, managing the family's properties and wealth, a task passed down to him as the Malfoy heir. A necessary duty, but a joyless one.
He opened the heavy oak door to his study, a room that had once been his father's domain. The desk, large and imposing, was cluttered with parchment, ledgers, and estate reports. A quill and inkpot sat ready at the corner, along with several books on wizarding law and trade. Draco had inherited control of various Malfoy holdings—estates, businesses, investments—but it all felt like a tedious formality to him. None of it mattered. Not really.
Still, he sat down and began the day's work. His movements were methodical as he signed off on property maintenance requests, reviewed financial statements, and considered investment opportunities. The Malfoy estates were vast and complex, stretching across Britain and into Europe, and they required careful attention. But it was not the work of passion or personal fulfilment. It was an obligation, and Draco handled it with the same cold efficiency he did everything else.
His mind drifted as he worked, the monotony allowing his thoughts to wander back to Astoria, to their son. He had failed them both, and it haunted him daily. He had been so wrapped up in his duties as the Malfoy heir, in keeping the family name untarnished after the war, that he hadn't been the husband she needed. He hadn't seen the cracks in his marriage, hadn't noticed Astoria slipping away from him until it was too late. And their child…
Draco clenched his jaw, forcing the memory down. It wouldn't do well to dwell on it now. Not when there were endless reports to sign, tenants to respond to, and estates to manage. He couldn't afford distractions.
A few hours passed in this manner—quill scratching against parchment, the occasional interruption from a house-elf delivering messages or tea, though Draco rarely touched it. The routine was mind-numbing, but it kept him busy enough to ignore the ache gnawing at his chest. That, at least, was something.
When the last of the morning's paperwork was complete, Draco rose from his chair, feeling the stiffness in his limbs from sitting too long. He crossed the room to a tall window, gazing out over the grounds of Malfoy Manor. The sprawling estate stretched out before him—manicured lawns, towering hedges, and the shimmering surface of the ornamental lake. The groundskeepers kept everything in pristine condition, as they always had, but to Draco, it all looked lifeless. Just like everything else.
Still, there was one place that brought him some measure of solace, one area of the manor that was still his own. With a sudden resolve, Draco turned away from the window and made his way down the long corridor toward the east wing.
The potions lab had been his sanctuary for as long as he could remember. Hidden deep within the manor, past a series of heavy wooden doors and stone staircases, it was one of the few places that felt untouched by the weight of his family's legacy. Here, Draco could lose himself in the precision of brewing, in the exacting nature of potion-making, a discipline that demanded complete focus.
As he stepped into the lab, the familiar scents of crushed herbs and simmering concoctions washed over him. Shelves lined the walls, filled with ingredients collected from across the world—some rare, some dangerous, all meticulously labelled and organised. His workbench stood in the centre of the room, already set with several cauldrons and glass vials.
He rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, allowing himself a brief moment of anticipation. This was where he could forget—if only for a little while. In potions, there were no mistakes that couldn't be corrected, no heartbreaks that couldn't be mended with the right brew. It was logical, ordered, and most importantly, it didn't require him to think about the past.
Draco pulled a worn leather journal from a drawer and flipped it open. The pages were filled with detailed notes and sketches, recipes for potions he had been developing or improving over the years. Today, he decided to continue working on a variation of a Calming Draught, something he'd been perfecting for months now. The idea had come to him after the war, when the nightmares had been unbearable. But now, it served a different purpose—something to numb the ache in his chest, to smooth over the ragged edges of his grief.
He began to gather the necessary ingredients—moonstone, lavender, crushed valerian root, and powdered ashwinder eggs. His hands moved with practised ease, measuring precise amounts, grinding the herbs into a fine powder before adding them to the cauldron. The potion bubbled softly, turning a soft blue as it heated over the flame.
As the minutes passed, the rhythmic process of potion-making soothed him. Each step required his full attention, leaving no room for thoughts of Astoria or the child he had never known. Here, in the stillness of the lab, the world outside the manor ceased to exist.
Draco stirred the mixture carefully, watching as the colour deepened. Potions had always come naturally to him. Even as a boy, he had excelled in Professor Snape's classes, the precision of it appealing to his analytical mind. It was one of the few things in his life that hadn't changed, even after the war, after his family's fall from grace. This, at least, was still his.
The potion simmered quietly as Draco added the final ingredient, a few drops of essence of chamomile. He set the stirring rod aside and leaned against the workbench, watching as the liquid settled into a deep sapphire blue. It was nearly done.
For a moment, he allowed himself to relax. The tension in his shoulders eased slightly, and he closed his eyes, letting the rhythmic thrum of the simmering cauldron fill the silence. It wasn't much, but it was enough to quiet his thoughts, if only for a little while.
After bottling the potion and storing it away with the others in his collection, Draco extinguished the flame beneath the cauldron. The lab was quiet now, the scents of herbs and brewing potions fading into the background. He glanced at the clock on the wall. It was nearing late afternoon. Time had slipped away from him, as it often did when he was down here.
Draco wiped his hands on a towel and left the lab, making his way back upstairs to the main floors of the manor. The house-elf appeared again as he passed through the drawing room, bowing deeply.
"Master Malfoy, dinner is ready, if Master wishes to dine," the elf said in a hushed voice.
Draco hesitated for a moment. The idea of eating alone at the long, empty dining table felt unbearable, but he had little choice. The manor was quiet, as it always was. There would be no conversation, no laughter, no companionship. Just the clink of cutlery on porcelain, the echo of his footsteps in the vast, empty halls.
"Later," Draco muttered, dismissing the elf with a wave of his hand.
The elf bowed again and disappeared, leaving Draco once more in the silence of his own making.
He wandered through the halls of the manor, his mind drifting back to the days when he and Astoria had first moved in together. They had made plans then—grand plans for the future, for their family. But those plans had crumbled, and now he was left with nothing but memories and regrets.
Draco paused in front of a portrait hanging in one of the corridors. It was of his parents, Lucius and Narcissa, painted when they had been younger. His mother smiled softly in the painting, her eyes warm and kind. His father stood tall and proud, his gaze cold and calculating, just as Draco remembered him.
He stared at the portrait for a long moment, his thoughts distant. He wondered if they had ever felt this kind of emptiness, this sense of loss that gnawed at him constantly. His parents had always seemed so sure of themselves, so certain in their place in the world. But Draco was no longer sure of anything.
Finally, he tore his gaze away from the portrait of his parents, his thoughts heavy with memories he couldn't quite reconcile. As he continued down the corridor, his steps slowed in front of another portrait, one far more personal. It was of him and Astoria, painted not long after their wedding. She had been beautiful, with her soft smile and graceful presence, her hand resting lightly on his arm. They looked happy in the portrait—content, even. Back then, they had believed that they would both be free from the shadows of their past.
Reaching out, his fingers brushed the edge of the frame as he stared into Astoria's eyes. Even in the portrait, there was a hint of sadness in her expression—something that had always lingered beneath the surface, a quiet fragility that Draco had never been able to protect her from. He felt like he had failed her in many ways, and the portrait was a reminder of the life they had once hoped to build, a life that had never come to fruition.
His gaze drifted down the corridor, and his eyes landed on an empty frame further along the wall. The sight of it made his stomach churn, and he quickly averted his eyes, unable to bear the sight of that empty space. That frame had been meant for their son—his son. The child who had never had a chance at life, who had been lost to them, before they had a chance to show him love. It was a space that should have been filled with hope and joy, but now it only represented loss, a gaping wound that refused to heal.
Draco turned away, his footsteps echoing in the quiet. The silence of Malfoy Manor remained around him. There was nothing left for him here. Nothing but ghosts.
Hermione Granger sat at her desk in the Ministry of Magic, staring at the mountains of paperwork that seemed to be multiplying by the minute. The flickering light from her wand illuminated the small, cramped space she called an office. It was far from the grandeur that some might expect of one of the heroes of the Second Wizarding War, but to Hermione, it didn't matter. The quiet hum of the Ministry around her was familiar, though hardly comforting. This was where she had chosen to make a difference—working on laws and policies to help improve the magical world. Still, despite the importance of her work, she couldn't help feeling like she was drowning.
A half-drunk cup of tea sat beside her, now cold. She had meant to finish it hours ago, but the demands of the day had pulled her in too many directions. Her hand absentmindedly moved across the parchment, signing her name to yet another memorandum on magical creature rights. Her heart wasn't in it today, though. Her mind kept wandering to Rose.
Four-year-old Rose, her pride and joy, was the one constant in Hermione's life. A brilliant, lively little girl with Ron's bright red hair and her own curls and brown eyes. But being a single mother was hard, harder than Hermione had ever imagined. It had been two years since she and Ron had divorced. The split had been mutual, the result of growing apart after years of trying to make it work. They were better off apart, but the burden of raising Rose had fallen almost entirely on Hermione's shoulders.
At first, Ron had tried—he really had. He would come by regularly, take Rose to the park, or spend time at the Burrow with her. But that had been before his new wife, before his new baby. Now, Ron's presence in Rose's life was sporadic at best. And Hermione understood, she really did, an infant took time and energyHermione could see the disappointment in Rose's eyes every time her father cancelled a visit, and it broke her heart.
Hermione's quill paused mid-sentence as a pang of guilt hit her. How long had it been since she had picked Rose up from the Burrow? She had dropped her off there with Molly that morning, rushing out the door before the sun had fully risen. She knew Molly was more than happy to watch Rose, but Hermione hated relying on her. She hated the feeling that she was missing out on her daughter's life because of her job.
With a sigh, Hermione dropped the quill onto the desk and glanced at the clock. It was already past five. She was supposed to have picked up Rose an hour ago. She quickly gathered her things, stuffing papers into her worn leather bag, and extinguished the light from her wand.
The walk to the Floo Network terminal felt endless, her footsteps echoing in the now mostly empty Ministry corridors. As she stepped into the green flames, Hermione called out, "The Burrow!" and in a flash of swirling magic, she disappeared, reappearing moments later in the cosy sitting room of Molly and Arthur Weasley's home.
The familiar warmth of the Burrow surrounded her immediately—its mismatched furniture, the smell of home-cooked food lingering in the air, and the sound of laughter from the kitchen. Hermione paused for a moment, letting the homeliness of it all wash over her, before stepping into the kitchen.
"Mummy!" Rose's delighted voice rang out, and within seconds, the little girl had flung herself into Hermione's arms.
Hermione knelt down, enveloping Rose in a tight hug. "Hello, my darling," she whispered, her heart swelling with love despite the exhaustion gnawing at her bones. Rose smelled like fresh air and the garden, her curls wild from running around outside.
"She's been an absolute angel today," Molly said, smiling warmly as she wiped her hands on a tea towel. "No trouble at all."
"Thank you, Molly," Hermione said gratefully. "I really appreciate you watching her."
Molly waved off her thanks. "Nonsense, dear. You know I love having her here. It's no trouble at all. You work too hard, Hermione."
Hermione forced a smile, but there was no denying the truth in Molly's words. She did work too hard. But what choice did she have? She was doing her best to build a better future for Rose and for the magical world as a whole. That had to count for something, didn't it?
"Come on, love," Hermione said to Rose, pulling her coat from the chair. "Let's get home and make some dinner."
The flat Hermione shared with Rose was small but comfortable. It wasn't much compared to the Burrow's sprawling warmth, but it was theirs. As soon as they arrived home, Hermione set to work preparing dinner. She tried to focus on the task at hand—chopping vegetables, stirring the pot—but her mind kept drifting back to the paperwork waiting for her at the Ministry. There were proposals she needed to review, and drafts she had to revise, and…
"Mummy, I'm hungry," Rose interrupted, tugging on her sleeve.
Hermione blinked, realising she had been stirring the same pot of soup for much longer than necessary. "Sorry, love," she said, giving Rose a smile. "It's almost ready."
She moved with quick, practised efficiency, ladling the vegetable soup into two bowls and setting them on the small kitchen table. Rose clambered up into her chair, her legs swinging happily beneath her as she dug in.
"Is it good?" Hermione asked, sitting down across from her.
Rose nodded enthusiastically, her mouth full of soup. "Mm-hmm! Yummy!"
Hermione smiled, but it didn't quite reach her eyes. She watched Rose eat, her heart aching. Rose was growing up so fast. Sometimes Hermione felt like she was missing it, like she was so consumed by work and responsibility that she wasn't able to fully enjoy these moments with her daughter. But what else could she do? The weight of being both mother and father to Rose, of providing for her, fell solely on her shoulders.
Ron's absence had only become more noticeable as time went on. Hermione couldn't remember the last time he had spent more than an hour with Rose. His new family had taken priority, and while Hermione didn't blame him for wanting to be happy, it didn't make it any easier to explain to Rose why her daddy wasn't around as much anymore.
"Will Daddy visit this weekend?" Rose asked suddenly, her innocent question piercing Hermione's heart like a knife.
Hermione forced a calm smile. "I'm not sure, sweetie. He's been very busy."
Rose frowned but said nothing more, returning to her soup. Hermione's stomach twisted with guilt. She didn't want to lie to Rose, but what could she say? That her father didn't have time for her anymore? That he was too caught up with Susan and their infant son Hugo?
After dinner, Hermione cleaned up the kitchen while Rose played with her toys in the living room. The sound of Rose's laughter filled the small flat as she made her dolls fly around the room, imitating broomsticks. For a brief moment, the weight on Hermione's shoulders lifted. She watched her daughter play, marvelling at how resilient Rose was despite everything.
But the moment passed quickly, as it always did. Once the kitchen was tidy, Hermione began the bedtime routine—a bath, brushing Rose's hair, and reading a story before bed. Rose insisted on The Tales of Beedle the Bard , and Hermione obliged, reading aloud the familiar words as Rose snuggled against her, her eyes drooping with sleep.
When the story was finished, Hermione kissed Rose on the forehead and tucked her in tightly.
"Goodnight, love," she whispered, brushing a stray curl from Rose's face.
"Night, Mummy," Rose mumbled, already half-asleep.
Hermione quietly left the room, closing the door behind her with a soft click. She stood in the hallway for a moment, the quiet of the flat pressing in on her. The weight of the day settled back onto her shoulders, heavier than before.
She walked into the living room and collapsed onto the couch, her body sagging with exhaustion. The small flat felt too quiet now, too empty. It was at moments like this, when the busyness of the day had faded, that the loneliness crept in. She had thought she'd adjusted to it—being a single mother, living without Ron—but some nights it hit harder than others.
Hermione glanced at the stack of papers on the coffee table. There was always more work to be done, more demands from the Ministry, more responsibilities. But tonight, she couldn't bring herself to face it. Instead, she reached for the book she'd left on the armrest—a Muggle novel she'd been trying to finish for weeks but never seemed to have the time for.
She opened the book, but her mind wandered. It was hard to focus when her thoughts kept drifting back to the Ministry, to Rose, to Ron. She hadn't expected it to be like this. After the war, she had imagined a life full of meaning and purpose. She had wanted to change the world, to build a better future for everyone. But now, most days felt like a struggle to just keep her head above water.
She loved her work—truly, she did. The laws she was helping to pass, the changes she was making, they mattered. But there was always something missing. A sense of fulfillment that her job couldn't provide. And then there was the nagging guilt. No matter how hard she worked, there was always a voice in the back of her mind telling her she wasn't doing enough for Rose.
Hermione leaned back against the cushions and closed her eyes for a moment, the weight of her exhaustion pressing down on her. She didn't know how much longer she could keep going like this—balancing work, motherhood, and the endless demands of both. But what choice did she have?
The book lay open in her lap, forgotten. The flat was silent except for the faint sound of Rose's breathing from the other room.
For a brief, fleeting moment, Hermione allowed herself to imagine what it would be like if things were different. If Ron were still there, if they were still a family, if she didn't have to carry all of this alone. But those thoughts only led to heartache, so she pushed them away.
She opened her eyes and picked up her book again, determined to lose herself in its pages. But no matter how hard she tried, the words blurred together, and the ache in her chest remained.
Tonight, like so many other nights, Hermione Granger was alone. And though she had long since grown accustomed to it, the loneliness still stung.
Tomorrow would be another day, and she would wake up, push through, and do it all over again. Because that's what she had to do. For Rose, and for herself.
But for now, she was simply tired.