We are in the home stretch! Oh that makes me sad...
This chapter is a bit shorter but you are getting some longer ones in the end
It is a double update, but over two days, so you will get the next one tomorrow!
TW: Grief of loss of a child
The morning light filtered through the curtains in Hermione's flat, casting a warm glow on the cluttered breakfast table. Rose sat cross-legged on the floor, a plate of half-eaten toast beside her, surrounded by a sea of crayons and parchment. She hummed quietly to herself as she worked, her curls bouncing every time she adjusted her position.
Hermione sipped her tea, absently watching Rose from the kitchen counter where she sorted through a stack of Ministry reports. Her thoughts were scattered, though she tried to focus on the tasks at hand. The emotional distance between herself and Draco lingered, and she hated the way it gnawed at her heart, especially when Rose was so clearly missing him.
"Mummy?" Rose's voice cut through her thoughts, soft but insistent.
Hermione looked up, setting her cup down. "Yes, sweetheart?"
Rose stood, clutching a piece of parchment in her small hands. Her cheeks were flushed with excitement, and there was a hopeful glint in her brown eyes. "Can we owl Draco? I made him a picture, and I want to ask if he can come over."
The question hit Hermione like a jolt. She swallowed, her gaze flickering to the parchment Rose held. It was a colourful drawing of the three of them—Rose, Hermione, and Draco—standing under a bright yellow sun. A Quidditch pitch loomed in the background, with tiny figures on brooms darting through the sky.
"That's lovely, Rose," Hermione said softly, crouching down to examine the drawing. "I'm sure Draco would love it."
Rose's face lit up, but she fidgeted nervously. "Do you think he'll come? He hasn't been here in ages."
Hermione's chest tightened. It had only been a day, but to Rose, any stretch of time without Draco must have felt endless. "He's been busy, love," she said gently, brushing a curl away from Rose's face. "But I'm sure he misses you, too."
Rose tilted her head, considering Hermione's words. "So can we send him a letter? Please, Mummy? I really want to see him."
Hermione hesitated, torn between her own lingering feelings of hurt and the way Rose's earnest plea tugged at her heart. How could she deny her daughter the chance to connect with someone who had become such a pivotal figure in her life?
"Alright," she said finally, forcing a smile. "Let's write him a letter."
Rose squealed with delight and rushed to the table, grabbing a fresh sheet of parchment. Hermione followed, sitting beside her and reaching for a quill.
"You can tell me what to write," Hermione offered, her voice steady despite the knot in her stomach.
Rose nodded eagerly, her voice bright as she dictated.
Dear Draco, I drew a picture for you! It's of me, you, and Mummy playing Quidditch. Do you like it? I miss you so much. Can you come over and play Quidditch with me? Or we can do something else fun if you want. Please say yes! Love, Rose
Hermione folded the parchment carefully, tucking Rose's drawing alongside it. Her movements were deliberate as she tied the bundle together and attached it to her owl's leg. "Take this to Draco, please," she whispered to the bird, who hooted softly before taking flight.
Rose watched the owl disappear through the window, her face glowing with anticipation. "Do you think he'll write back soon?"
Hermione smiled faintly. "I'm sure he will."
Dear Rose, Thank you for the wonderful drawing—it's brilliant. You've got quite the talent for capturing a good Quidditch pitch! I miss you, too, and I'd love to come and play with you. How about this afternoon? I'll bring a broom and everything. Tell your mum I said hello. Love, Draco
When the owl returned an hour later, Rose squealed with delight, clutching the letter tightly as she read it aloud to Hermione. The joy on her face was infectious, and despite Hermione's internal conflict, she felt a flicker of warmth at Draco's thoughtful response.
"He's coming today!" Rose exclaimed, bouncing on her toes. "I'm so excited!"
"I know you are," Hermione said, brushing a hand through Rose's hair. "We'll get everything ready, won't we?"
As Rose dashed off to plan their "game," Hermione unfolded the letter again, her eyes lingering on the neatly written lines. Tell your mum I said hello. It was such a simple, polite phrase, but it sent a ripple of emotion through her, stirring feelings she wasn't ready to confront.
She folded the letter carefully and placed it on the counter. For Rose's sake, she would put aside her doubts and focus on the good—the bright connection Draco had with her daughter. Even if it hurt to have him close but untouchable, she couldn't deny how much his presence meant to Rose. And, if she was honest with herself, to her as well.
The brisk early afternoon air carried a chill that bit at Draco's cheeks as he crouched beside Rose, adjusting the strap on her borrowed Quidditch helmet. They were in the open field near Hermione's flat, a patch of frosted grass serving as their makeshift pitch. The remnants of the morning frost sparkled under the weak winter sun, and the crisp scent of pine lingered in the air. Draco had brought along an old practice Quaffle and a child-sized broom he'd purchased specifically for her. He hadn't planned on doing this today, but Rose's excitement was impossible to resist.
"There," he said, straightening the strap with a small smile. "All set. Remember, just keep your grip steady, and let the broom do the work."
Rose nodded earnestly, her curls peeking out from under the helmet. "Do you think I can go as fast as you?" she asked, her voice filled with hopeful determination.
Draco smirked, leaning closer conspiratorially. "Not yet. But one day, you might give me a run for my Galleons."
Rose giggled, clutching the broom tightly as she mounted it. Draco gave her a reassuring pat on the shoulder before stepping back, his wand at the ready in case she wobbled. As she kicked off the ground, hovering a few feet in the air, her squeal of delight brought a warmth to his chest that he hadn't felt in days.
Her laughter echoed across the quiet field, chasing away some of the heaviness that had been weighing him down since their conversation at Grimmauld Place. For a moment, all that mattered was Rose's joy.
From the sidelines, Hermione watched with her arms crossed, a scarf wrapped tightly around her neck. The breeze tugged at her hair, pulling stray curls loose from where they were tucked behind her ears. Her expression was guarded, her gaze flickering between Rose and Draco.
Hermione hated how much her heart softened at the sight of him—how he crouched low to encourage Rose, his voice calm and steady, even when she wobbled slightly on the broom. He had a knack for making her feel safe, and that only made their unresolved tension harder to bear.
"Good, Rose!" Draco called, his tone firm but warm. "Now try moving forward. Just lean a little—there you go!"
Hermione felt her chest tighten, her fingers tugging absently at the edge of her scarf. This was the Draco she'd fallen for—the one who was patient and kind, who had seamlessly stepped into their lives and become so much more than she ever expected. But the tension between them still hung like a storm cloud, and she didn't know how to bridge the chasm that had formed.
Draco glanced over his shoulder, catching her watching him. Their eyes met briefly, and something unspoken passed between them. His grey eyes were searching, as if looking for reassurance, for something Hermione wasn't sure she could give. Her lips twitched, almost forming a smile, before she turned away, focusing on tightening her scarf.
As Rose practiced gentle loops, Draco joined Hermione on the sidelines. He kept a respectable distance, his hands shoved into the pockets of his coat.
"She's a natural," he said quietly, his breath visible in the cold air.
Hermione nodded, her gaze fixed on Rose. "She loves Quidditch. I think she gets it from Ron."
Draco's jaw tightened slightly at the mention of Ron, but he kept his voice neutral. "And from you, I'd wager. She's got your determination."
Hermione blinked, surprised by the compliment. She glanced at him, her expression softening just enough to reveal her weariness. "Thank you," she murmured, her voice almost too quiet to hear.
Draco's lips parted as if to say more, but before he could respond, Rose's triumphant shout interrupted them. "Look, Mummy! I'm doing it!"
Both turned to watch as Rose hovered higher, her face lit with unfiltered joy. The sight tugged at Hermione's heart, swelling it with pride and a bittersweet ache. This happiness, this sense of family, was everything she wanted. And yet, the unspoken future loomed large.
"I don't know how to tell her," Hermione said suddenly, her voice hesitant but firm.
Draco looked at her, his grey eyes searching hers. He understood immediately what she meant—the looming inevitability of explaining their distance to Rose. "She'll understand," he said simply, though his voice was tinged with doubt. "She's stronger than you think."
Hermione's breath caught in her throat, and for a moment, she wanted to believe him. But the pain of the situation was written all over her face. "I don't want her to think she did something wrong."
"She won't," Draco said firmly, his tone brooking no argument. "Rose knows how much you love her. She knows how much I—" He stopped, swallowing hard. "She knows how much she means to me too."
The moment hung between them, fragile and laden with unspoken words. But before either could say more, Rose's laughter broke the tension, pulling their attention back to her. For now, they let the conversation drop, choosing instead to watch Rose soar, her joy a temporary reprieve from the storm brewing between them.
The flat was quiet, too quiet, as Hermione and Draco moved about the kitchen in an uneasy rhythm, tidying up after lunch while Rose played in her room. The clatter of plates and the soft hum of the kettle were the only sounds breaking the silence. It wasn't a comfortable quiet; it was heavy, weighted with all the things they weren't saying.
Hermione glanced at Draco out of the corner of her eye. His jaw was tight, his movements precise as he wiped down the counter. She hated this distance between them, the guarded politeness that made her feel like a stranger in her own home.
"Draco," she began hesitantly, setting a glass in the drying rack and turning to face him. "About earlier—"
"Mummy?" Rose's small, trembling voice interrupted her, cutting through the air like a blade.
Both Hermione and Draco froze, turning in unison to see Rose standing in the doorway. Her bottom lip was quivering, and her wide brown eyes glistened with unshed tears.
Hermione's heart dropped into her stomach. "What is it, love?" she asked softly, crouching down to Rose's level.
Rose hesitated, her small hands fidgeting with the hem of her jumper. "Are you and Draco mad at each other?"
The simple, innocent question hit Hermione like a punch to the chest. "No, sweetheart," she said quickly, her voice soothing despite the panic rising inside her. "Why would you think that?"
Rose sniffled, glancing nervously between her mother and Draco. "I heard you talking earlier," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. "You sounded upset. Is it because of me?"
Draco knelt beside her without hesitation, his grey eyes softening in a way Hermione hadn't seen in days. "Rose, listen to me," he said, his voice steady but laced with emotion. "This isn't your fault. Not even a little bit."
Hermione reached out, brushing a stray curl from Rose's forehead. "Draco's right, darling. None of this is because of you. We're just… trying to figure some things out. But we both love you very, very much."
Rose's eyes brimmed with tears, spilling over as she whispered, "Promise?"
Hermione's throat tightened as she pulled Rose into a tight hug, holding her close. "I promise," she murmured, stroking her daughter's hair. "You have nothing to worry about, my love."
Draco's hand rested lightly on Rose's back, his fingers gentle as he offered his own reassurance. "We both promise," he said quietly. "No matter what, you'll always have us."
Rose sniffled against Hermione's shoulder, her small arms clinging tightly around her mother's neck. Hermione could feel the wetness of her daughter's tears soaking into her jumper, and it broke her heart that Rose had overheard enough to be scared.
Over Rose's shoulder, Hermione's gaze met Draco's. His expression mirrored her own—a mix of guilt, sorrow, and a fierce determination to shield Rose from their struggles. In that moment, the love they shared for Rose overshadowed the tension that had been building between them. It was a silent acknowledgment that, despite their differences, they were united in this: Rose's happiness and security came first.
Hermione adjusted Rose slightly, settling her more comfortably in her arms. "Why don't we go sit in the living room?" she suggested gently, her voice soothing. "We can have a cuddle and read your favourite book."
Rose nodded against her shoulder, still clinging tightly. "Okay."
Draco rose to his feet, his eyes lingering on Hermione and Rose for a moment longer. "I'll grab the book," he offered, his voice softer than she'd expected.
Hermione gave him a small, grateful nod, and as he moved toward the bookshelf, she carried Rose to the couch, settling down with her daughter curled against her chest. When Draco returned, holding the worn copy of The Tales of Beedle the Bard , he sat down beside them, closer than Hermione had anticipated.
As Hermione began reading, her voice steady and calm, she felt Rose's small body soften against her, her daughter's breathing evening out as the story wove its gentle spell. But the quiet comfort of the moment was fractured by Draco's presence beside her. He was close enough that she could feel the warmth of him, hear the soft rustle of his clothing as he shifted slightly, but the unbearable distance between them stretched like a chasm. The space where his hand might have rested on her knee, the absence of his arm around her shoulders, the ghost of a kiss that would never come again—all of it hurt more than she could have imagined.
He was there, solid and grounding, but he wasn't hers anymore. And sitting this close to him, knowing they could never touch, never close that gap, felt like pressing a bruise that had already turned to something deeper, something broken. The fragile truce between them in their shared care for Rose wasn't a balm—it was a painful reminder of everything they had lost, everything that would never be the same. The ache of his nearness cut sharper than any absence ever could.
The crisp winter air bit at Draco's face as he stood on the snow-dusted front step of the Potters' home. He adjusted the collar of his coat, his mind racing with second guesses. What was he even doing here? This was Potter's house. But the weight on his chest wouldn't ease, and for reasons he couldn't entirely explain, he needed to talk to someone who might understand.
Taking a deep breath, he knocked on the door, the sound sharp and hollow in the quiet evening. It didn't take long before the door swung open, revealing Ginny, her red hair catching the faint light from inside. She looked at him, surprised but not unkind.
"Malfoy?" she said, her brows lifting slightly.
"Ginevra," he replied, nodding politely. "Is Potter home?"
Ginny hesitated, her sharp eyes scanning his face. Whatever she saw there made her step back and gesture him inside. "He's in his study," she said, closing the door behind him. "I'll go get him."
Draco stood in the warm hallway, the house radiating a comforting homeliness he wasn't accustomed to. The faint scent of ginger and cinnamon lingered in the air, and somewhere upstairs, he could hear the faint giggles of James, likely resisting bedtime.
It wasn't long before Potter appeared at the top of the stairs, his glasses slightly askew and his jumper rumpled. He looked down at Draco, his face a mix of curiosity and concern.
"Malfoy," Potter said as he descended. "This is unexpected."
"I need to talk to you," Draco said, his voice low but steady. "Privately."
Potter's brow furrowed, but he nodded. "Come on, then." He led Draco down the hall to a small study, where a fire crackled warmly in the hearth, casting flickering shadows over the cluttered desk and well-worn armchairs.
Once inside, Potter motioned to one of the chairs. "Take a seat. Can I get you something? Tea? Firewhisky?"
Draco shook his head, sitting stiffly. "No, thank you."
Potter sat across from him, leaning forward slightly, his elbows resting on his knees. "Alright, Malfoy. What's on your mind?"
Draco hesitated, his fingers tightening on the arms of the chair. The words felt heavy, but he forced them out. "It's Hermione. And Rose."
Potter's expression softened slightly, but he didn't interrupt.
"She wants more children," Draco continued, his voice taut. "And I… I don't. Or I didn't think I did. But now…" He trailed off, shaking his head. "I don't know."
Potter sat back, his face thoughtful. "What's stopping you?"
Draco exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. "Fear. Losing another child. Failing them. Failing her." He looked up, his grey eyes stormy. "I lost a son, Potter. Do you know what that's like? To bury a part of yourself and never feel whole again?"
Potter's face tightened, his green eyes flickering with something Draco couldn't quite place. "No," he said quietly. "I don't. But I know what it's like to live with fear. To think you're not enough."
Draco frowned, his posture stiffening. "It's not the same."
"No, it's not," Potter agreed. "But I do know what it's like to wonder if you'll fail the people you love. To carry the weight of expectations and fear that you can't meet them."
Draco's gaze dropped to the fire, the flames reflecting in his eyes. "Rose sees me as a father," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "And I love her like she's my own. But the idea of another child… I don't know if I can handle it."
Potter leaned forward again, his voice steady. "You don't have to be perfect, Malfoy. Being a father isn't about getting everything right. It's about showing up. Being there. Rose loves you because you're present. And Hermione… she loves you for the same reason."
Draco shook his head, his jaw tightening. "What if I fail them? What if I lose them?"
Potter's gaze was unwavering. "What if you don't?"
The words hung in the air, simple but powerful. Draco looked up, meeting Potter's steady green eyes.
"I was terrified when James was born," Potter admitted, his voice quieter now. "I didn't know what I was doing. Still don't, half the time. But Ginny told me something once that stuck with me. She said being scared means you care. It means you want to do right by them. And that's what matters."
Draco swallowed hard, the tightness in his chest easing slightly. "You make it sound so simple."
"It's not," Potter said with a small smile. "But nothing worth having ever is."
For a long moment, Draco didn't speak. The fire crackled softly, and the weight of Potter's words settled over him like a blanket.
Finally, he stood, his movements slow but deliberate. "Thank you, Potter."
Potter nodded, standing as well. "Anytime, Malfoy. And for what it's worth… you're doing better than you think."
Draco gave him a faint, almost imperceptible smile before stepping out into the hall. The warmth of the house followed him as he Apparated back to the Manor, Potter's words echoing in his mind.
Fear might never leave him entirely, but perhaps it didn't have to. Perhaps it was time to let love outweigh the fear.
That evening, Draco sat alone in the Manor's study, the firelight casting restless shadows on the dark wood paneling. A glass of Firewhisky rested in his hand, its amber contents catching the flicker of flames. The room, usually a place of solace, felt suffocating tonight. His thoughts churned endlessly—Rose's innocent question, Granger's weary expression, and Potter's words all tangled together in a storm of guilt, fear, and longing.
The Firewhisky burned as it slid down his throat, but it did nothing to quiet his mind. Rose's face swam before his eyes, her wide, trusting gaze as she asked why he didn't stay over anymore. The memory sliced through him, leaving a dull ache in its wake.
He set the glass down with a sharp clink, the sound loud in the otherwise silent room. The weight in his chest had become unbearable, pressing against his ribs like an iron band. Standing abruptly, Draco grabbed his cloak from the back of the chair and swept out of the room. The chill of the Manor's empty corridors mirrored the cold inside him as he made his way to the grounds.
The night air was frigid, biting at his cheeks as he strode toward the family mausoleum. Frost sparkled on the neatly trimmed hedges, and the distant hoot of an owl was the only sound that broke the stillness. As he approached the stone structure, its austere facade loomed in the moonlight, stark and unyielding.
Inside, the mausoleum was colder still, the air heavy with the weight of generations past. Draco's footsteps echoed softly on the marble floor as he approached the small, unadorned grave at the far end. The stone was smooth and pale, the name etched into it a painful reminder of all he had lost.
Draco knelt before it, his breath misting in the icy air. He rested his hand on the grave's surface, the chill of the stone seeping into his skin. For a long moment, he couldn't speak, his throat tight with emotion.
"I'm sorry," he whispered finally, his voice cracking. The words echoed faintly, swallowed by the stillness. "I've been holding on to you so tightly, I don't think I ever let myself breathe."
He closed his eyes, his head bowing as the memories washed over him. The fleeting moments of joy, the heartbreak of loss—they were all intertwined, impossible to separate. He had carried this pain for so long, letting it shape his choices, his fears, his life.
"I'm scared of replacing you," he admitted, his voice raw with vulnerability. "I'm scared of forgetting. Of failing again. But I think… I think I'm more scared of not trying."
The words hung in the air, fragile yet resolute. He thought of Rose, her laughter and her tears, the way she had become such a vital part of his world. He thought of Hermione, her strength and her warmth, and the way she had made him believe he could be someone better.
"I don't want to lose them," he whispered, his hand tightening on the stone. "I don't want to lose what I have now."
As the words left his lips, a strange sense of clarity began to settle over him. It didn't erase the pain, didn't dull the ache entirely, but it was enough—a small, flickering light in the darkness. He couldn't change the past, couldn't undo the losses that had shaped him. But he could choose to embrace the future, even if it terrified him.
Draco rose slowly, his knees stiff from the cold. He placed his hand on the grave's surface one last time, his fingers lingering as if to convey the unspoken promise in his heart. "I'll never forget you," he said softly. "But I have to move forward now."
The night was still as he stepped out of the mausoleum, the frost-crisp grass crunching beneath his boots. Above him, the stars stretched endlessly, their quiet light a reminder of how small and fleeting life could be.
Draco pulled his cloak tighter around him, his breath fogging in the icy air. For the first time in a long while, he felt the faint stirrings of hope—not an end to his fears, but the courage to face them. With that, he turned back toward the Manor, ready to take the first step toward the life he wanted, the life he had been too afraid to admit he needed.
Draco ️