A little look into their mundane lives with friends.
After Draco parted ways with Granger and Rose in Diagon Alley, the warmth from their brief interaction lingered, but it quickly faded as he returned to his usual existence. The momentary lightness he'd felt was swallowed up by the familiar coldness of Malfoy Manor. The sprawling, empty estate greeted him as it always did—grand but hollow, a relic of his family's former glory. The long, silent corridors, the towering portraits of his ancestors, all seemed to watch him with cold, judgmental eyes as he passed through the dimly lit halls. Draco had learned to live with the quiet, but every so often, the silence pressed down on him like a weight he could never fully shrug off.
He spent the evening in his study, nursing a glass of firewhisky as he thumbed through the potions tome he had bought earlier that day. The usual solace he found in his work was elusive tonight, his thoughts drifting more often than not to Rose—her wide-eyed curiosity, the way she'd trusted him so completely. It was a feeling that unsettled him, though not in an unpleasant way. It reminded him of what he had lost, of the child that had never been, and of the life that had slipped away from him after Astoria had left.
The fire crackled in the hearth, casting flickering shadows across the room, but Draco felt little warmth from it. Eventually, the solitude became too much, and he stood, draining his glass before heading out onto the grounds of the manor. The evening air was crisp, the stars above faint against the growing twilight. Without thinking, Draco summoned his broom from the corner of the grand entrance hall and mounted it, pushing off into the cool night sky.
Flying had always been his escape. It was the one thing that made him feel free, even when everything else in his life felt like a prison. The wind whipped through his hair as he soared over the vast estate, the trees below blurring into a dark sea of green. For a moment, he let go of everything—the weight of his family's legacy, the ghosts of the past, the silence of the manor. Up here, it was just him and the sky.
But even as he flew, his thoughts kept circling back to Rose. The little girl's excitement over Quidditch, her bright, innocent enthusiasm—it reminded him of what it had been like to love the sport as a child. He had been just like her once, chasing Snitches across the grounds of the manor, dreaming of becoming a Seeker like the greats of the time. But life had a way of crushing such dreams, and now, as an adult, he flew not for the thrill of it, but to escape the emptiness.
After an hour or so, Draco descended, landing lightly on the gravel path leading back to the manor. He dismounted his broom and stood for a moment, looking out over the grounds, his chest tight with a feeling he couldn't quite name. Maybe it was loneliness, maybe it was something else. Either way, it was a feeling he couldn't shake.
Later that week, Draco found himself sitting in a small, dimly lit pub in Knockturn Alley, tucked away in a corner booth with Theo Nott and Blaise Zabini. It had become something of a ritual for the three of them, though they never spoke of it in such terms. Once every few weeks, they'd gather in this out-of-the-way spot, sharing drinks and conversations that were more comfortable in silence than filled with the usual wizarding gossip. They were the only friends Draco had kept from his Hogwarts days, and though the bonds that connected them had changed over the years, there was a mutual understanding between them that didn't require sentimentality.
The pub was quiet, the hum of low conversation and the clinking of glasses providing a muted backdrop to their evening. A faint, familiar haze of wood smoke and liquor filled the air, the scent as much a part of their routine as the drinks they ordered. The flickering candlelight cast long shadows across the dark wood of their table, and the dim light reflected off the polished surface of Draco's glass as he swirled his firewhisky absently.
Theo sat across from him, leaning back casually, one hand wrapped around his own drink, his sharp eyes glinting with curiosity. Blaise, seated beside him, was watching Draco with his usual air of detached amusement, a sly smile tugging at the corner of his lips. The conversation had been light so far, circling around recent Ministry decrees and rumours about magical artefact auctions, but Theo had been observing Draco closely.
"You've been quiet tonight," Theo remarked, his voice low and casual, though his gaze was more focused than usual. "More so than usual, anyway."
Draco shrugged, taking another slow sip of his firewhisky. The burn of the alcohol in his throat didn't distract him as much as he'd hoped. "Nothing worth talking about," he muttered, though even as the words left his mouth, he knew they weren't true. There was something, and it had been gnawing at him since that day in Diagon Alley.
Blaise raised an eyebrow, swirling the amber liquid in his glass with lazy precision. "Must be something," he chimed in, his tone smooth and easy as always. "You look like you've seen a ghost."
Draco shot him a sharp look, but there was no real venom behind it. The truth was, Blaise wasn't far off. He had seen a ghost—just not in the way his friends might have imagined. It wasn't the spectre of his father or the memory of his family's downfall that haunted him this time. No, the ghost that clung to his thoughts was much smaller, much more innocent. The memory of Rose's wide eyes, her innocent trust in him, had stayed with him since their brief encounter, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't shake it.
After a long pause, Draco sighed, setting his glass down on the table. He wasn't sure why he felt the need to say it out loud, but before he could stop himself, the words slipped out. "Ran into Granger the other day," he said, his voice carefully measured, as if testing the weight of the admission.
Both Theo and Blaise looked at him with mild surprise, though it wasn't the kind of shock that would lead to questions. They were far too reserved for that. Instead, Theo raised an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued. "Granger? What, at the Ministry?" he asked, his tone neutral but intrigued.
"No," Draco replied, his fingers tracing the rim of his glass as he spoke. "In Diagon Alley. Her daughter got lost. I helped the daughter find her."
There was a beat of silence as Theo and Blaise processed the information. Draco wasn't one to volunteer details about his personal life—least of all about interactions with old Hogwarts classmates. Theo exchanged a quick glance with Blaise, who, as always, was the first to break the silence with a soft chuckle.
"You, helping Granger?" Blaise drawled, leaning back in his seat with a smirk. "Never thought I'd see the day."
"It wasn't for her," Draco said sharply, his defensiveness rising instinctively. He hadn't expected to feel so protective about it, but the words came out more forceful than he intended. He took a deep breath, forcing his tone back to something more neutral. "It was for her daughter."
Theo, always more perceptive than he let on, leaned forward slightly, his gaze more focused now. "Interesting" he said, his curiosity deepening. "Didn't know she had one."
Draco's hand stilled over his glass, and for a moment, he considered whether to leave it at that. But the memory of Rose—her bright eyes, her big smile—was still fresh in his mind. He couldn't help but feel that speaking about it might release some of the tension that had been building within him.
"Rose," he muttered, his voice quieter now, as if the name itself carried weight. He stared down at the amber liquid in his glass, swirling it absently. "She's four. Reminds me of… something."
Theo and Blaise exchanged another glance, but this time, there was a subtle shift in their expressions. Neither of them pressed him for more, but they didn't have to. They understood what Draco had left unsaid. The three of them had known each other long enough to read between the lines, and they all carried their own share of ghosts.
The conversation shifted after that. Blaise, always the smooth conversationalist, steered the discussion toward safer topics—work, the latest nonsense The Prophet was printing, rumours of old magical families still holding sway behind the scenes. Theo offered his dry, biting commentary in between sips of his drink, and the usual banter between them flowed easily enough. But even as Draco nodded along, offering the occasional remark, he remained distant, his thoughts drifting back to that brief connection with Rose.
He couldn't explain why it had affected him so deeply. It wasn't as if he had any particular fondness for children—quite the opposite, in fact. But something about Rose had stirred something within him that he had thought long buried. Maybe it was because she reminded him of the child he and Astoria had lost, or maybe it was because, in her eyes, he hadn't been Draco Malfoy, the former Death Eater, the bearer of a tarnished family name. To her, he had been just a man who had helped her find her mother. And that simple, unburdened connection had unsettled him in ways he hadn't anticipated.
As the night wore on, Draco found himself falling quieter, though neither Theo nor Blaise seemed to mind. They knew him well enough to sense when his thoughts had drifted elsewhere, and they didn't push for explanations. It was part of the unspoken understanding that had kept their friendship intact all these years—no one asked for more than the other was willing to give.
By the time the evening was winding down, Draco had barely touched his drink. He glanced at the clock above the bar, realising it was later than he'd intended to stay. The familiar weight of the manor, its cold silence, was already settling in his chest, calling him back. But the thought of returning to that emptiness felt heavier tonight, more oppressive than usual.
"I'm heading out," Draco said, his voice low as he pushed back his chair. Blaise glanced up from his drink, giving him a knowing look but saying nothing. Theo nodded, a small, understanding smile tugging at his lips.
"Take care, Draco," Theo said, raising his glass slightly in a casual farewell. "Try not to brood too much."
Draco smirked faintly, though the humour didn't quite reach his eyes. "No promises," he muttered before turning toward the door.
As he stepped out into the dark, narrow alley, the cool night air hit his face, sharp and bracing. The usual quiet settled over him like a familiar cloak, but this time, it didn't feel quite as comforting. His thoughts were still tangled, the memory of Rose… and Granger.
For a long moment, Draco stood at the edge of Knockturn Alley, staring out at the street beyond. The shadows of his past, the ghosts of his mistakes, all seemed to hang just behind him, waiting to catch up. But for once, it wasn't the darkness that weighed on him. It was something carefree—a connection that had slipped through his fingers before he'd even realised it was there.
With a quiet sigh, Draco Disapparated, the familiar pull of the manor drawing him back. But even as he returned to the cold, empty halls of his family's estate, he couldn't shake the feeling that something had shifted, something had changed. And though he didn't yet know what it meant, the memory of that brief, fleeting warmth stayed with him, a quiet reminder that perhaps, just perhaps, there was still more to his life than the silence that surrounded him.
Hermione's life continued in its usual whirlwind, a daily race to manage her Ministry responsibilities and raise Rose on her own. Each day felt like a balancing act, meeting after meeting sandwiched between paperwork and the ever-present demands of parenthood. No matter how she tried, there never seemed to be enough hours in the day.
On one particular weekday afternoon, she managed to leave the office a bit early and headed straight to the Burrow to pick up Rose. Molly Weasley, as usual, had taken Rose in for the day, a kindness that filled Hermione with gratitude but also a tinge of guilt. Stepping out of the Floo, Hermione was immediately enveloped in the familiar warmth of the Burrow, the scent of something delicious simmering in the kitchen.
"Ah, Hermione! There you are," Molly greeted, her face lighting up as she bustled over, a ladle in hand. "Rose has had a marvellous time—out with the boys in the garden. She's really taken to those cousins of hers."
"Thank you, Molly," Hermione said, her heart full of gratitude as she gave Molly a hug. "Honestly, I don't know what I'd do without your help."
"Oh, think nothing of it," Molly said, dismissing her thanks with a wave. "We love having her here, you know that. And Hermione, you're doing brilliantly, truly. We all see how much you're juggling—it's no small feat."
Hermione managed a soft smile. Molly's support meant the world to her, but it didn't ease the weight of her own expectations. It often felt like she was barely keeping everything afloat, straining to be the steady figure in Rose's life while navigating her own complex reality.
"Now, go on," Molly added, nodding toward the back door with a motherly smile. "She'll be so pleased to see you."
Stepping out into the garden, Hermione spotted Rose racing around with James and Fred, the two older boys guiding her through some rudimentary Quidditch moves. Rose's laugh echoed through the yard, bright and carefree, and for a moment, Hermione felt a flicker of peace. Whatever the challenges, Rose's happiness was worth it.
"Rose!" she called, beckoning her over. "Time to head home, love."
Rose dashed toward her, curls bouncing, her cheeks flushed with excitement. "Mummy, I was playing Quidditch! James says I'm really good!"
Hermione laughed, ruffling her daughter's hair. "Did he now? Well, I'm sure you were wonderful. But now let's head home. I thought we could make a special dinner together."
Rose's face lit up with excitement at the prospect, and she held her mother's hand as they went back inside to gather her things.
Later in the week, Hermione and Rose arrived at Harry and Ginny's house for dinner. The familiar smell of Ginny's cooking filled the air as they stepped into the warm, inviting space. James greeted them excitedly at the door, already launching into stories about his latest Quidditch practice, and Rose eagerly listened, hanging on every word.
As they sat down to dinner, surrounded by the chatter of family and the warmth of the kitchen, Hermione couldn't help but feel a pang of loneliness. She was grateful for Harry and Ginny—they were like family, and they had always been there for her and Rose. But sitting at the table with them, watching Harry and Ginny exchange easy smiles and knowing looks, made her acutely aware of what was missing in her own life.
Ron had moved on. He had a new wife now, a new baby, and his visits with Rose had become more sporadic. Hermione didn't resent him for finding happiness, but the distance between them had grown over the years, and it left her feeling isolated in a way she hadn't anticipated.
"So, how's work at the Ministry?" Harry asked, pulling Hermione from her thoughts as he passed her a plate of roast chicken. His voice was warm, casual, but Hermione knew Harry well enough to sense the concern behind the question.
"Busy, as usual," Hermione replied, forcing a smile as she took the plate. "But it's good. We've made some progress on the new magical creature regulations."
The words came out easily, but they felt hollow. She had recited the same response countless times now, to Harry, to her colleagues, even to herself. Work had become an endless cycle of meetings, legislation reviews, and late nights at the office. Progress was always being made, but it was slow, and the mountain of tasks never seemed to shrink. She didn't mind the work—it was important, and she believed in what she was doing—but the weight of it, coupled with the pressure of raising Rose on her own, was beginning to take its toll.
Ginny, seated next to her, gave Hermione a sympathetic look, her brow furrowed with concern. "You work too hard, Hermione. You need to take more time for yourself."
Hermione laughed softly, though the sound lacked its usual lightness. "If only there were time," she said, shaking her head as she glanced at Rose, who was deep in conversation with James about Quidditch. "Between Rose and the Ministry… well, I'm sure you know how it is."
Ginny nodded, understanding written all over her face. She glanced at James, who was explaining his latest Quidditch manoeuvre to an eager Rose. "It's a lot, but you're doing great, Rose loves you."
Hermione appreciated the sentiment—she really did—but the words, however well-meaning, didn't ease the sense of loneliness that gnawed at her. Ginny's words were meant to be comforting, reassuring, but they only served to highlight the isolation Hermione felt in her day-to-day life. It wasn't just about work. It was about the life she had imagined for herself—the life that had fractured after her divorce from Ron.
She had thought they could make it work. When Rose was born, Hermione had been convinced that the strength of their shared history and their love for their daughter would be enough to keep them together, despite the cracks in their marriage. She had believed, perhaps naively, that they could find a way to bridge the gap between their different worlds—her endless ambition, Ron's desire for a simpler life. She had wanted to be a family despite their differences.
But as the years passed, the arguments had grown more frequent, and the silences more telling. They had tried for Rose's sake, but in the end, it hadn't been enough. The reality of their separation had hit Hermione harder than she cared to admit, and while she had thrown herself into her work and her role as a mother, there were still nights—too many nights—when the loneliness was unbearable.
As Hermione sat there at the dinner table, surrounded by her best friends and their lively household, she felt a pang of longing for the life she had once envisioned. She watched Harry and Ginny exchange easy smiles, their connection so natural, so effortless. They weren't without their own struggles, but they had managed to build something strong, something steady, together. And in the midst of the warm glow of their home, Hermione couldn't help but feel the sharp contrast of her own solitude.
It wasn't that she begrudged Harry and Ginny their happiness. She was genuinely happy for them, and she cherished the moments she and Rose spent with their family. But watching them, seeing how their lives had settled into a kind of balance, made Hermione acutely aware of what was missing in her own life. The companionship, the support, the knowledge that someone else was there to share the burdens and the joys of raising a child.
She felt as though she were constantly running—running to keep up with the demands of the Ministry, running to be the mother Rose needed, running to maintain some semblance of control over a life that often felt like it was slipping through her fingers. And no matter how fast she ran, no matter how much she accomplished, there was always that lingering emptiness.
"Are you alright, Hermione?" Ginny's voice broke through her thoughts, soft with concern.
Hermione blinked and looked over at her friend, realising she had been staring into space. She forced another smile, nodding quickly. "Yes, I'm fine. Just a bit tired, I suppose."
Ginny didn't press, but her eyes remained kind and knowing. Hermione appreciated that—appreciated that Ginny didn't push her to talk about things she wasn't ready to say out loud. Ginny had been there for her through the most difficult days after the divorce, offering support without judgement, and Hermione knew she could count on her, even in the silences.
The conversation shifted back to lighter topics—James's Quidditch practice, a funny story about Albus getting into mischief at Hogwarts—and Hermione allowed herself to relax, if only for a little while. The warmth of the Burrow, the laughter of the children, and the comfortable familiarity of Harry and Ginny's home were a welcome reprieve from the constant demands of her life.
But even as she sat there, a part of her was still distant, still wrestling with the ever-present questions that gnawed at her when the day was done and the house was quiet. Was this how it was always going to be? Could she continue juggling everything on her own without burning out completely? And if not, what could she do differently?
Her thoughts drifted back to Ron, and though they had come to terms with their separation, there were moments when the memories still stung. She remembered how they had once been so close, how their friendship had blossomed into something deeper during the war, how they had stood side by side through the darkest days of their lives. And yet, despite everything they had shared, despite the love they had once had, it hadn't been enough to keep their marriage from falling apart.
Rose's laughter pulled Hermione from her reverie, and she looked over at her daughter, who was grinning up at James, her eyes bright with excitement. Watching her, Hermione felt a rush of love so powerful it nearly took her breath away. Whatever challenges she faced, whatever loneliness she felt, Rose was the reason she kept going. Rose was her world, and for her, Hermione would do anything.
Still, as the evening wore on and the table was cleared, the lingering sense of isolation remained. She didn't say anything as they finished the meal and helped Ginny with the dishes, her thoughts a million miles away as she listened to Harry and Ginny's easy banter. Even as she smiled and laughed at the right moments, her mind was elsewhere, trapped in the silent reflection of what might have been.
It wasn't until they were leaving that Hermione felt the familiar weight settle back over her. She hugged Ginny tightly, exchanged a few words with Harry, and took Rose's hand, guiding her daughter back toward the Floo. As they prepared to leave, Ginny gave her one last look—a silent offer of support, a reminder that she wasn't truly alone, even if it sometimes felt that way.
But as Hermione and Rose stepped through the Floo and returned home to their quiet flat, the emptiness followed her, filling the spaces left by a marriage that had once held so much promise. Hermione put Rose to bed, kissed her goodnight, and then sat alone in the living room, the silence pressing in around her like a second skin.
She loved Rose with everything she had, and she was grateful for her work at the Ministry, but the truth was undeniable—there were still nights when the loneliness was too much to bear, and the weight of doing it all alone threatened to crush her.
Draco found himself back at Malfoy Manor, the fire in the hearth casting flickering shadows across the study. He sat alone, nursing a fresh glass of firewhisky, his thoughts drifting back to his unexpected encounter with Granger and Rose. He hadn't anticipated how deeply it would affect him, how the innocence of a child could stir old wounds he had long tried to bury. But there it was—an undeniable reminder of what could have been, haunting him in the quiet, oppressive stillness of the manor.
Draco set his glass down, the amber liquid barely touched. A house elf popped in and informed him that his mother was awake. His mother's silent suffering was always in the back of his mind, a constant presence that gnawed at him. Narcissa, once the formidable, graceful matriarch of the Malfoy family, had become a mere shadow of the woman she used to be. Since Lucius's death, she had retreated into herself, rarely leaving her chambers, her sharp mind dulled by grief and loneliness.
Draco crossed the hall and made his way to the potions storage, looking for one, in particular, that he brewed more often than the others. The Calming Draught. He opened a cabinet and retrieved a delicate vial of the potion, its pale blue liquid shimmering faintly in the dim light.
Though he took it himself on occasion, it was his mother he brewed it for. She needed it more than he did. Each day, the weight of her grief seemed to grow heavier, and the Calming Draught was the only thing that brought her any semblance of peace, however fleeting. Draco clutched the vial tightly as he made his way to her room, his heart aching at the thought of what she had become.
He knocked softly on her door before entering. Narcissa was sitting by the window, staring out into the darkness of the manor grounds, her expression distant and hollow. She barely registered his presence at first, and it wasn't until Draco knelt beside her, holding out the vial, that her eyes flickered with faint recognition.
"Mother," he said quietly, his voice gentle. "You should take this."
Narcissa glanced at the vial in his hand, her gaze lingering for a moment before she reached for it with a slow, graceful movement. Her fingers trembled slightly as she uncorked it and brought it to her lips, swallowing the draught without a word.
Draco stayed with her for a while, as he often did, watching as the tension in her face eased and her breathing steadied. The potion brought her a brief reprieve, but Draco knew it was only temporary. The emptiness would return, just as it always did, just as it did for him. But for now, it was enough to give her a moment's peace, even if that peace felt as fragile as glass.
Next week, Rose asks questions about the "nice man".