Chapter Text
September 18, 2001, London
22:30
The first time she had visited the Wizard's Beard was when she had graduated from Hogwarts. The pub was on the Muggle side of London, on a street parallel to the entrance to the Leaky Cauldron. Neville had been the one who had suggested it, and Hermione supposed it was because of the two weeks in the summer he had spent at Dean's house in the Muggle world. The pub was small and always full of university students or students from the theater school that was right across the street.
Out of the corner of her eye, she glanced toward the six-person table where she and her friends used to sit. Now, a group of four women and three men were gathered there, laughing loudly at some inside joke. Hermione looked back, tiredly, at the half-empty glass of soda in front of her and the still-unopened bag of crisps. Her phone buzzed in her pocket -she pulled it out to see a short text message from Ginny, informing her that she would be arriving shortly.
Ginny and Neville were the only ones among her close friends who had returned to Hogwarts to complete their final year. Harry—the Boy Who Lived Again, the one who had finally defeated Voldemort—had followed his dream and joined the Auror training program, which had welcomed him with open arms. Ron, on the other hand, who couldn’t stand the thought of more exams or revision, had become George’s business partner at Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes. So, Hermione suddenly found herself with Neville and Ginny, walking the same corridors where she had once run with Harry and Ron.
The Gryffindors weren’t the only ones returning to Hogwarts that year.
The first time she saw Draco Malfoy and Theodore Nott Jr. sitting in the newly established eighth-year common room, Hermione froze. Neither acknowledged her presence. She had expected Malfoy, at the very least, to glare at her. Instead, he didn’t even glance up from the Potions book in his hands. Swallowing her initial shock, Hermione walked past them with her head held high and her gaze fixed on the door to the girls’ dormitories.
By the end of the first month, Malfoy was rarely seen without Nott at his side. They shared every class, always sat together, and spoke little to anyone else. Hermione often wondered if they clung to each other out of habit—or necessity—shielding themselves from the cold stares and whispered judgment of their fellow students.
One Monday, after Nott's Sunday visit to his father in Azkaban, Hermione saw Malfoy's blackened eye and torn lip, and she knew her suspicions were correct.
The Halloween breakfast was the first time she had seen them sitting at the smaller table set up in the Great Hall for the eighth-years, who no longer wore house badges. Nott was calmly buttering a piece of bread, while Malfoy stirred three spoonfuls of sugar into his coffee. Hermione’s first instinct was to turn and join Ginny at the Gryffindor table. She would have done so, too, had it not been for Neville’s steady hand, lightly guiding her into the empty seat across from Nott.
To everyone’s surprise, it was Neville who first began spending time with them. The reason was practical enough: a Charms project that Professor Flitwick had assigned in pairs, forcing him to work with Nott. To Hermione’s relief, she had been partnered with Padma Patil.
By the time Christmas break arrived, Hermione had exchanged a total of ten words with Theo Nott—a significant improvement, considering the previous seven years had yielded none at all. With Malfoy, however, the count remained at zero.
In January, Hannah Abbott's birthday arrived and Neville was determined to organize the best party for his girlfriend in the eight-year-olds' common room. At this very party, after about seven butterbeers, Neville collapsed on the floor, shouting to the whole room how in love he was with Hannah. Hermione and Malfoy were the first — and perhaps the only — sober people in the room who ran towards the unconscious Gryffindor.
"Can you help me get him to his room?", were the first non-hostile words she had spoken to him in eight years of knowing him. With his help and a few simple levitation spells, Hermione laid Neville on his bed after removing his shoes.
“Here,” Malfoy said, holding out a vial filled with crimson liquid. She recognized it immediately: a sobriety draught. “Longbottom’s going to need this in the morning.”
Hermione took it, careful not to touch his fingers, though she felt a slight hesitation. "Thank you," she replied and left the vial on Neville's bedside table for him to see when he woke up.
“Glad to help,” was his only reply, before he turned and disappeared into his own room.
After that brief, almost casual exchange, Hermione began to notice Draco Malfoy more closely. He attended the same number of classes she did, though unlike her, all were compulsory. It was part of the agreement he’d made with the Ministry in exchange for exemption from the two-year house arrest that had been imposed on his parents.
He was quiet in most classes, rarely showing any interest in the professors, and yet his grades were consistently excellent. He and Nott kept mostly to themselves, but as the weeks passed and January came to a close, Hermione noticed more and more of the eighth-years beginning to include them in conversation. She often saw Anthony Goldstein, Nott, Neville, and Malfoy playing Exploding Snap in the common room, their laughter echoing through the stone walls. So, she wasn’t surprised when, on their next Hogsmeade weekend, Neville suggested they all go to the Three Broomsticks together.
“Give them a chance, Hermione,” Neville said, catching her moment of hesitation. She couldn’t imagine what good either Nott or Malfoy had done to earn Neville’s friendship, but whatever it was, she hoped it had brought some measure of joy to someone.
When Ginny and Hermione sat down at the table Neville had set, Malfoy and Nott were already there. Nott smiled at her, and Hermione found herself offering a forced smile in return. Hannah, who had been sitting with Padma, Anthony, and a few other seven-year Ravenclaws at a nearby table, soon joined them. At first, the conversation was stilted, with only Neville, Nott, and occasionally Hannah contributing. Two butterbeers later, the conversation turned to Quidditch. Ginny and Theo quickly became locked in a heated debate over something Hermione didn’t even pretend to understand. Hannah had migrated to Neville’s lap, and Hermione could have lived quite happily without the sight of the two of them snogging endlessly in front of everyone. So, she was left alone with Malfoy and, never patient enough to endure an uncomfortable silence, she finally dared to speak to him.
“Do you think Nott is a good duelist? Because if he keeps insisting that the Falmouth Falcons' seeker is better than the one from the Holyhead Harpies, I’m afraid Ginny will challenge him to a duel to the death," she said, raising her voice to be heard above Ginny and Theo’s argument. Malfoy then laughed, and the sound took her by surprise. She had obviously heard him laugh before, but this time it was different—less cruel, more joyful.
"Nott doesn’t know anything about Quidditch. The only reason he keeps saying that is because he enjoys annoying Weasley," he told her.
That night, the six of them stayed at the Three Broomsticks until midnight—until a furious McGonagall appeared in the fireplace and berated them for their irresponsibility. Hermione had drunk far too many butterbeers to care about the lecture. If she was honest with herself, all she could feel was the white arm of a pure-blood wizard around her waist, steadying her as she walked the last hundred yards to the eighth-years' dormitory.
Over the next few months, the two Slytherins, the three Gryffindors, and Hannah often ended up together in the common room—reading, exchanging notes, or playing Muggle board games Hermione had ordered from Harry, once she realized no one knew how to play Taboo or Monopoly. It didn’t take her long to notice that Malfoy was extremely intelligent, disciplined, and infuriatingly consistent. And, above all, he hated losing. These characteristics made him a prime candidate for her NEWTs study group, much to the surprise of everyone else. Neville and Ginny tried to follow her insanely detailed study schedule, but they quickly gave up. Malfoy was the only one who not only seemed completely satisfied with Hermione's initiative to stick notes on half the pages of his notebooks, but often stuck some of his observations in her own books.
“When did you buy these post-its?” she asked one evening, noticing an orange square with his neat, calligraphic handwriting on a page about the Draught of Living Death.
“I borrowed them from you,” he said. “Without asking, of course,” he added casually. “I’ve been using them for a month now. They’re very convenient. Look—” he tapped the note with his wand and it changed from orange to yellow. “I enchanted them with a copy spell. Any notes you make on yours now appear on mine—and vice versa.”
“You stole my post-its and enchanted them to copy my notes?” she asked, attempting to sound annoyed. In truth, she was impressed. That spell would have saved her hours of copying notes for Harry and Ron.
Malfoy chuckled. “I’ll buy you twenty packs of them the first chance I get.”
On the first day back after the Easter holidays, Hermione opened her door to find a box of two hundred and fifty post-it notes waiting on the floor outside her room.
22.47
“Would you like something else?” the bartender asked her. Hermione glanced at her empty glass of soda and motioned for him to bring her another. She thought vaguely that he must have recently started working at the Wizard’s Beard, since she’d never seen him before.
In the first few months after graduating from Hogwarts, Hermione met every Friday at the pub with Neville, Malfoy, Nott, Ginny, and Hannah. Sometimes Harry would join them. Occasionally Dean popped in. And once—much to everyone’s astonishment—even Pansy Parkinson, who had moved permanently to Paris after finishing her studies at Beauxbatons, made an appearance.
Most of them, except for Neville—who worked at a magical greenhouse in Scotland—and Ginny—off touring with the Holyhead Harpies—still managed to meet regularly on Friday evenings, even after beginning full-time work.
Hermione’s schedule at the Department of Magical Law Enforcement was demanding. Still, no matter how exhausted she felt, she made a point every Friday to walk down to the Department of International Magical Relations to meet Nott and Malfoy. The latter now worked in the Finance Office. Nott was one of the few privileged people who had a working fireplace in his office, so they would travel from there to the Leaky Cauldron and then to the Muggle side of London. Hannah, who worked long hours at St. Mungo’s, would walk to the pub straight after her shift.
As the months passed, Hermione found herself growing inexplicably anxious every Friday before stepping into Nott’s office to meet the two Slytherins. More and more often, her cheeks would flush the moment her eyes met Malfoy’s and she could never summon a logical explanation for it. Other times, she would catch him staring at her mouth for minutes while she explained the countless changes she had made to how the data in the Auror’s cases were recorded and stored, or while discussing her disagreements with her boss, who believed that the magical community should remain forever stuck in its old ways.
“Hermione? Are you okay?” Hannah had asked one Friday night, after Hermione having drunk more wine than she could reasonably handle, tripped over a high chair and landed squarely in Malfoy’s arms.
Hermione scrambled to her feet, cheeks blazing, mumbling at least ten apologies before finally daring to meet his gaze.
“My pleasure, Granger,” he said, voice hoarse.
But she barely heard him, too tipsy to process anything beyond the hungry look in his eyes.
On the first Friday of the year 2000, Hermione arrived at Nott's office ten minutes earlier than usual. When she entered, Theo and Malfoy were already by the fireplace, laughing.
“Granger!” Theo beamed. “Just the witch I needed! Draco’s always been jealous of me and frankly, I can’t trust him. Tell me—how do I look?”
He stepped toward her, arms open theatrically. He was dressed in a sleek black suit that likely cost more than her monthly salary.
“You’re a bit overdressed for the Beard, don’t you think?” she said, sinking into one of the comfortable armchairs in his inexplicably spacious office. She never understood why Theo had such a large office with a fireplace and a small sitting area while she was crammed four floors down sharing a tiny space with two other witches.
"Would you invite me to your house, Granger, for... late night activities?” he asked, winking at her.
Hermione burst out laughing. “Late night activities? You mean sex, Theo?” Malfoy, who’d been silent, was clearly struggling not to laugh. Theo, unfazed, only grinned.
“Exactly what I mean. So? Do I have your blessing?”
“So, you’re not coming with us?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Well, I've got a date with Angela Hardy from the Department for the Misuse of Magic and there's nothing you can do to stop me from going out with that witch." He looked smug. Angela Hardy had just graduated from Beauxbatons and was one of the most dazzling witches currently working at the Ministry. Hermione was nearly certain she was part Veela.
“Weasley’s not coming?” Malfoy asked, his voice casual.
Hermione shook her head. “She’s at the Burrow. Fleur gave birth a few days ago, and Ginny wanted to spend time with the family. What about Hannah and Neville?”
Malfoy handed Theo the bowl of Floo powder. “They left for Scotland yesterday. Abbott finished packing early, so they went ahead. Looks like it’s just the two of us tonight, Granger,” he added, just as Theo vanished in a swirl of green flame.
A shiver ran down her spine. She tried to ignore it.
When they arrived at the Wizard's Beard that Friday there was no reason to sit at the end table with six seats, since none of their friends were coming. Malfoy led her to a smaller table, tucked into a quiet alcove, away from the noise of the pub. They ordered a bottle of wine, and when he asked about her week at work, Hermione went into detail—perhaps more than necessary—about the new case she was working on. Malfoy listened attentively, rarely interrupting her and asking pertinent questions that helped her refine her ideas. When their wine was finished, he ordered another bottle. And when that one was done, he switched to non-alcoholic beer, knowing that Hermione wasn’t used to drinking.
Time blurred. Hermione would have sworn they'd only been there for an hour or two, but when the bartender flicked the lights off and on, signaling closing time, she glanced at her watch. They’d been at the pub for five hours.
"Are you hungry?" she asked him suddenly, as they walked down the main road towards the Leaky Cauldron.
"I’m starving, Granger!” he said with a grin.
“Do you want to come to my flat? I can make something quick to eat,” she said impulsively. The wine had left her head light, her limbs loose, and even the sharp January cold couldn’t cool the burn rising in her cheeks.
He stared at her, briefly speechless.
And in that moment, she felt foolish. He probably had a dozen house-elves who could whip up whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted. Why would he settle for her cold sandwiches or overcooked pasta?
“I’d love to,” he said at last.
She only truly believed he meant it when he stepped into the Leaky Cauldron’s fireplace beside her and disappeared in green flame.
Hermione and Ginny rented a small flat near Notting Hill, in a building owned by a Squib. The other inhabitants were all wizards. The flat was small, with just two bedrooms, a bathroom and a tiny living room that was connected to the kitchen. But the girls didn’t need anything more. Ginny was often away, spending most days of the month either out or at Grimmauld Place, so Hermione had grown used to living alone.
Draco Malfoy had been there once before, along with Theo, Harry, Hannah, Neville, and Ron, for a chaotic board game night Ginny had hosted. But back then, the space had been full of laughter and shouting and empty bottles. Now he stood alone in her living room, quietly reading the spines of the books on her shelves. The silence between them felt thick. Charged.
She rummaged through the cupboards, trying not to overthink, and announced that she’d make pasta all’Amatriciana.
"Honestly, Granger, whatever you think is best. Right now, I could eat Lucius’s roasted peacocks and still be hungry."
He helped her set the table and they ate in silence. When they sat on the sofa in the living room, each with a glass of wine in hand, the atmosphere in the small apartment shifted. Something in the air between them had changed. She felt butterflies fluttering in her stomach, her body warming up, a feeling she couldn’t ignore, no matter how hard she tried.
Draco spoke to her about his work, one of the few times he’d ever allowed anyone to know what he really did at the Ministry. With each new piece of information she learned about him, the distance between them seemed to shrink. She could feel the warmth of his presence, and before she knew it, his shoulder was resting against hers. Then Malfoy, who had turned toward her, leaned in, his face only a few centimeters from hers. She could feel his breath on her skin. He’s going to kiss me, she thought, and in that moment, nothing else mattered more than feeling his lips on hers.
“I want to kiss you-" he whispered, and she felt his breath on her skin. Do it, do it, do it. "-but first, there’s something I’ve been putting off for months".
Hermione drew her gaze from his lips, her breath uneven, her hands suddenly cold. She nodded, silently bracing herself.
That night, Draco Malfoy finally apologized for all the mistakes of his past, for all the things he had said and done, and the many he hadn’t. He spoke about everything, not with fear, but with a deep shame that seemed to weigh on him, a weight he could no longer carry in silence. He apologized for his behavior, for the cruel words he had thrown at her, for his actions, and perhaps most importantly, for the things he hadn’t done when he should have. The more he spoke, the more Hermione realized how deeply he had changed in the past two years. The Draco in front of her was nothing like the one she had known. The Malfoy he described, the one from the past, and the Draco sitting before her now, were two completely different people — as if time itself had reshaped him. The war had changed him. He had grown. He had matured in ways she hadn’t expected. He had seen things, learned lessons that she knew would never leave him.
When he finished speaking, he asked her to forgive him, and in that moment, his eyes, those soft gray eyes, seemed to reflect everything he had endured. They were the most beautiful gray she had ever seen.
"I forgave you a long time ago," she whispered, her voice barely above a breath, the weight of the words more than just an acceptance, but an acknowledgment of everything they had both endured.
The moment the words left her mouth, he cupped her face in his hands, his touch tender as he leaned in, his lips gently meeting hers.
This was the first time Draco Malfoy kissed Hermione Granger.
The next day, they went on their first official date at a charming Muggle restaurant tucked away in a quiet corner of London. Hermione felt a flutter deep in her chest as she prepared for the evening—nervous, yet exhilarated in a way she hadn’t experienced in years. Returning to the building where she lived, Draco pulled her gently but firmly against the wall. His lips met hers with a hunger and intensity that stole her breath. That night, sleep refused to come. Every time she closed her eyes, she could still feel the press of his body against hers—the warmth of his hands, the taste of his kiss. It was as if he had left a permanent imprint on her, one she couldn’t shake loose. Her mind raced, her heart still pounding, trying to unravel the whirlwind of emotions swirling within.
By the end of the month, they had shared four more dates. The second time, Draco took her to a private gallery showcasing the work of a French sculptor—an experience Hermione would never forget. The sculptures seemed to breathe beneath the soft light, capturing moments of grace and beauty so profound they left her speechless. Each piece told a story, and in that quiet room, she felt as though time itself had lost its hold. When Hermione mentioned the incredible Greek exhibits at the British Museum, ones Draco had never seen—she couldn’t help but feel a thrill. Those exhibits had always been a passion of hers, and sharing them with Draco felt like a bridge between their worlds, a way to bring him closer to the parts of herself he had yet to discover. She already knew what their third date would be—an invitation for him to see a new side of her, just as she was learning to see new sides of him.
On one of the few warmer days in March, Draco arranged a picnic by the sea, just for the two of them. When they returned to her apartment that evening, Hermione asked him to stay. They lay tangled in bed, exploring each other’s bodies through whispered touches and quiet laughter. Hermione had little experience with men before, but all past encounters were forgotten the moment she melted under his hands. From that night on, he stayed at her flat at least three times a week.
It didn't take long for their friends to figure out what was happening. Theo was the first to find out, and then Hermione told Ginny, Harry, and Ron. The latter two, although they had learned to tolerate Malfoy's presence at their monthly meetings, chose to turn a blind eye to Hermione's relationship with him.
They kept the relationship secret from Draco’s parents and the wider wizarding world. The press was relentless with Harry, Ron, and Hermione, and revealing their connection to Malfoy would have sparked unwanted tension and turmoil. So the months passed quietly, their love flourishing in its own private world—morning kisses in bed, secret glances at the Ministry, stolen dates in the Muggle world, afternoons cooking in her tiny kitchen, and restless evenings in their shared bed.
For his birthday, she bought him a mobile phone, which she was sure he would have shattered into a thousand pieces if it hadn't been a gift from her. Draco wasn’t exactly good with technology.It took him two weeks to master typing messages, most of which were no longer than ten words. But that was enough, because Draco only needed to learn to send three: I love you.
For her birthday, he bought her a necklace featuring the Draco constellation, worth a year's rent. 'To always have me with you, even if I’m not around,' he had told her as he sank into her that night.
Fourteen months after their first kiss, they took their first long vacation together. Hermione had been transferred to the Auror Office as a consultant in the interpretation of ancient runes and the study of rare curses a few weeks earlier, but Robards, her new boss, had granted her leave. So, that July, she found herself swimming in the Aegean Sea, watching the most beautiful sunset she had ever seen.
Their cruise to the Greek islands lasted a week, and if they had asked her what paradise was like, she was sure she would have said it looked like this. They woke up early every morning to watch the sunrise. Their days were filled with walks through the picturesque alleys of the Greek islands, delicious food, swims in the sea, cocktails by the blue waters, dreamy sunsets, and endless nights with their bodies tangled beneath the full moonlight. When they returned, Hermione felt as if she never wanted to leave that paradise.
“We’ll go again,” Draco promised, reading the sadness in her eyes.
“Do you promise?” Her voice was soft, almost childlike. The thought of returning to work after a week of pure joy with him was unbearable.
“I promise you, on the sacred Slytherin House,” he said, placing his hand over his heart, as if swearing a solemn oath.
She patted his shoulder playfully. “I’m serious! When do we go again?”
“When do you want to go?” he asked, eyes glinting with amusement.
“Tomorrow.”
Draco laughed, but when her frown deepened, he leaned in and kissed her gently on the lips.
“Tomorrow’s impossible, my love. Remember, when I first suggested this trip, you wouldn’t even ask your boss.”
Hermione’s frown deepened further.
“Next summer? For a whole month? One week wasn’t enough,” she pressed.
“Next summer. For a month,” he agreed without hesitation.
“And every summer after that?” she asked.
He chuckled softly. “Won’t you grow tired of the same place every year?”
She shook her head firmly.
“Then I promise you,” he said, taking her hand and holding it tight, “we’ll go every summer for the rest of our lives. Just you and me.
A week later, Hannah and Neville visited them and announced that they had secretly married two months ago in a small clearing near Hogsmeade. When Hannah affectionately ran her hand over her belly, the whole group at the table stared in surprise.
“It’s still early, only three and a half months,” Hannah said, her smile radiant.
Ginny eagerly bombarded them with questions about the pregnancy, while Ron and Theo congratulated Neville no less than ten times each.
“A friend from the hospital gave us this book,” Neville said, a mixture of awe and nervousness in his voice. “At three months, the baby is about the size of a tangerine. Can you believe that?” He conjured a small, glowing tangerine, gazing at it before casting a loving glance toward Hannah’s belly.
Later that night, just before they fell asleep, Draco pulled Hermione into his arms and gently stroked her belly.
“Tangerine,” he whispered softly in her ear. “One day, we’ll have a tangerine.” His arms tightened around her, and in the light haze of her sleep, Hermione couldn’t help but agree wholeheartedly.
23.10
“Hermione!” A disheveled Ginny hurried over and sat down next to her at the bar. “Sorry I’m late. The match in Bulgaria was a disaster. I just got back to England an hour ago.”
She was talking so quickly that Hermione had trouble keeping up with her words.
“Oh my God, how are you? Harry said he stopped by the flat and you weren’t feeling well,” Ginny added, her hands cupping Hermione’s face as her brown eyes searched for answers.
Ginny’s expression twisted in concern, and Hermione couldn’t help but wonder what she looked like in that moment—if she looked as broken as she felt.
“Hermione,” Ginny whispered, her voice soft yet filled with urgency. “What happened? Did you talk to him?”
Tears she hadn’t known were there, began to spill down her cheeks, and her voice caught in her throat.
“Gi... Ginny,” she choked out, barely audible.
Without hesitation, Ginny rose and pulled her into a tight, unwavering embrace. “Everything will be okay, Hermione. This can’t be true. Something must have gone wrong.”
A second, louder sob escaped Hermione’s throat, and she buried her face in Ginny’s fiery hair. Several minutes passed like this before Ginny gently pulled away and returned to her seat.
"Please, tell me what happened. Harry was so angry, I didn’t understand half of what he was shouting," Ginny said, her voice filled with concern.
Hermione took a deep breath, her gaze fixed on the necklace with the Draco constellation, which she had been gripping tightly in her right hand since she entered the pub.
“It’s true, Ginny,” she said quietly, the weight of those words almost too heavy to bear.
Her voice faltered as the truth spilled out, and her body trembled with the effort to hold herself together. She gritted her teeth, swallowing the bitter bile rising in her throat.
“Was the Daily Prophet telling the truth?” Ginny asked, voice thick with disbelief.
On Sunday, September ninth, exactly nine days ago, Hermione woke up feeling cheerful. She and Draco had made plans to take a portkey at ten o’clock sharp to the annual Jane Austen festival in Bath. The idea had been his, and when he told her about it, she kissed him so fiercely that she almost threw him off the couch.
“I’m going to believe you love Captain Wentworth more than me, Granger!” he teased her, laughing.
After the festival, for which Hermione had, of course, bought appropriate period clothes for herself and Draco—she was particularly excited to see him in Mr. Darcy's attire—she had made reservations for dinner at a traditional local restaurant with the best reviews in all the travel guides she had looked at. They planned to return to London late that night, and since it was a Sunday, Draco would be staying at her flat, which meant she would spend even more time with him in bed the next morning.
But all her plans for the day were shattered when she saw the cover of Sunday's Daily Prophet that an owl had left on her window. On the front page, in large letters, she read the headline:
"Pureblood Union: Draco Malfoy and Astoria Greengrass to Wed!"
Beneath the shocking headline, a photograph showed Draco holding a woman Hermione recognized from the corridors of Hogwarts, though they'd never exchanged a word. The black-and-white image moved as all magical photographs did, capturing the intimate moment between them. Draco had his arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her close. As she settled against him, he pressed a gentle kiss to her hair, and she beamed at him before offering a smile to the camera. The painful image replayed again and again, and Hermione felt rooted to the spot, unable to tear her eyes away from the intimate moment that pierced her heart with every passing second. Her hands shook as she turned the page, revealing a full feature, complete with photos and quotes from the delighted couple and their beaming parents. Among the pictures, her gaze was drawn to the sparkling, oversized diamond.
“…the engagement ring, symbolizes the love shared by the two young people, was personally chosen by Draco Malfoy for his stunning bride from the Malfoy family vaults. It is a priceless historical heirloom, the diamond of which is imbued with magical protective powers…” Hermione read beneath the caption. “…I adore it, it’s the most beautiful gift Draco has ever given me,” the bride-to-be had said.
The pictures of the couple in various settings—together at the Malfoy Manor garden, in the company of their families, sharing intimate glances—made Hermione's stomach churn. It was as if her entire world had shifted under her feet, and everything she thought she knew about Draco, about them, had crumbled into dust.
The words on the page felt like a cruel joke, her breath caught in her throat as she read snippets from the interview with Astoria. "Draco and I have always understood each other," she said, beaming, "We come from families that value tradition, and our marriage will strengthen both our lineages. It's all very exciting."
Hermione's hand gripped the edge of the paper, her knuckles turning white. Always understood each other. The words felt like a slap. She had been so certain that what she and Draco had was real, that their bond had been built on something meaningful, something more than fleeting passion or the weight of societal expectations. Yet here it was, in the pages of a public newspaper—Draco Malfoy, the man who had once kissed her with such urgency, was planning a life with someone else.
She sat back against the couch, the newspaper still clutched tightly in her hands. The words blurred before her eyes, her emotions a chaotic whirlwind. Why hadn’t he told her? Why hadn’t he said something before it all came to this? But there was nothing, no explanation, no apology.
In another photo, Hermione saw Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy, impeccably dressed and wearing satisfied smiles. Standing beside them were the Greengrass couple, wearing similar expressions of contentment. "Speaking on behalf of both my husband and myself, we are overjoyed by the surprise Draco had for us today. There is no greater joy for a mother than to see her child so in love. I am thrilled for both of them and eagerly look forward to seeing them start their own family..." Lady Greengrass said to the camera of the Prophet.
"This wedding will bring even more joy to my family, and for that, I am deeply grateful. Draco and Astoria were truly meant to be together. My son could not have found a more beautiful, kind, and pure soul to love..." Narcissa Malfoy shared with a smile.
The tribute was followed by a dozen more photos of Draco kissing Astoria on the cheek and holding her hands in his. The two of them were in the library of the mansion—the very same library she had longed to visit, and which he had promised her they would explore together someday. Then, they were walking through the gardens, where he had told her he planted a rosebush named Hermione, one that would take root in his home just as she had taken root in his heart.
With a sinking heart, Hermione read through the words, though they barely registered. “A perfect match,” said one of Draco’s family members. “A union that’s been years in the making,” said Astoria’s father. The words blurred as her mind began to swim, and the sense of betrayal stung deeply. It was Draco - who had never told her, never shared that this was the future he had been building all along.
She saw Astoria standing with Narcissa and Lucius, all of them smiling. Draco was shaking hands with Mr. Greengrass. Each of these photos felt like a dagger to her heart. A sharp blade that kept twisting, and Hermione was left bleeding, alone in the living room of her small apartment, clutching a portkey that was supposed to take them to Bath in half an hour.
“…I’ve always wanted a Christmas wedding-” Astoria Greengrass—soon to be Malfoy, said, and Draco Malfoy, standing beside her, nodded in agreement. “…Draco and I love Christmas. We used to spend our Christmas holidays at Malfoy Manor when we were kids.” The Prophet’s microphone then shifted to the next Lord Malfoy. They asked him if he’d been waiting a long time to propose and whether he felt ready to start a family. “I’ve been looking forward to this day. It’s Tori’s birthday, and I couldn’t have chosen a more fitting date. I’ve been ready to marry the woman I love for a long time. I’m overjoyed that my dream is finally coming true.”
Hermione didn’t know when she collapsed to the floor. She didn’t know how much time had passed, or whether she was awake or trapped in some nightmare. When she opened her eyes, the portkey, a worn-out rubber ducky, had vanished. The Daily Prophet was still in her hands, with Astoria Greengrass’ flawless face smiling at her from the cover.
That first day, Hermione sent him four owls. When she received no reply, she sent her silver otter with a plea for him to meet her immediately. When that also went unanswered, she resorted to texting him on his cell phone. And then she called him. Over and over and over again.
Hermione didn’t leave her flat, waiting for him. She lay on the sofa in her living room, her eyes locked on the flickering flames in the fireplace, hoping to catch a glimpse of a face that never materialized. Sleep offered no solace that night.
Monday at work was excruciating. Hermione went to Draco’s office first thing that morning, only to find it empty and silent. At lunch, she sought out Theo, but his secretary—yes, he had a secretary—told her he was away all week on a business trip to Ireland.
A little later, Harry found her crying alone in the bathroom.
“How—how did you know where I was?” she whispered, her voice barely audible. Harry helped her to her feet, gently wiped away her tears, and handed her a cold sandwich from the cafeteria.
“You’re my family, Hermione. I watch over you. I take care of you,” he said softly, guiding her back to his office.
Tuesday and Wednesday dragged by, each minute slower than the last, with no sign of Draco. Every morning and night, she sent him owls, clinging to the hope of a reply. But Thursday came, and when she tried to send her Patronus, the silver otter never appeared. Desperation consumed her, stealing the warmth of any happy memory. That night, Draco’s mobile phone was switched off. By Friday morning, the number was no longer in service.
Ron and Harry frequently checked in on her, with Harry practically becoming her shadow at the Ministry. She did nothing but visit Draco’s office three times a day, leaving him messages each time. His colleagues told her that he had taken time off to enjoy his engagement and that it would be best to leave him be. Hermione ignored them.
On Saturday, Neville appeared at her doorstep, and before she could say anything, she collapsed into his arms, barely managing to whisper a few words.
"I gave him the chance you told me to."
Neville stayed with her on Saturday, offering the quiet comfort Hermione desperately needed. But once he left on Sunday, a simmering anger began to rise, relentless and burning beneath her skin. Angry at Draco. Angry at his silence. She knew he loved her—he had to, right? The way he’d shown it, the small, stolen moments. But why was he treating her like this? Why was he hiding, shutting her out? Did she deserve this? What had she done to earn such cold disregard?The more time passed, the hotter her fury grew. Until, in a wild surge of frustration, she grabbed her quill and wrote a letter. Not to Draco. To Theo Nott, who she was certain would soon return to London.
The letter was blunt, filled with her fury and confusion. She made it clear: if Draco didn't show up after this, she would go to Malfoy Manor herself. She would burn it down if she had to, tear through every inch of it until she found him. She would speak to his parents, his colleagues—anyone—until she knew where he was. Because Hermione Granger did not deserve to be ignored like this. Not by him.
On Sunday night, the flames in her fireplace flickered to life, casting a green glow across the room. Seconds later, Draco was standing in the middle of her living room, impeccably dressed in a black suit, his hair styled to perfection. He looked every bit the image of the pureblood aristocrat he was—gorgeous, serious, and undeniably powerful.
Meanwhile, Hermione stood in stark contrast. She was wearing her old, faded pajamas—the ones he'd always teased her about—and her face was swollen from the days of endless crying. She didn't bother to mask the exhaustion or the pain that was etched into her features. She was a mess, and he, as always, was the picture of perfection.
"You have to stop, Granger," his voice distant, as if the person standing before her wasn’t the man she had known, the one she had loved. His words were sharp, cutting through the silence like a knife.
Hermione’s throat tightened, the sting of his anger slicing through her. “What do you—” she began, voice trembling with hurt and confusion, but he cut her off.
“The messages. The owls. The Patronus. Coming to my office ten times a day, bothering my colleagues,” he spat, irritation lacing every word. “What do you think you’re going to achieve? And now you’re threatening me through Theo? What makes you think you could burn down my house?”
Hermione stood trembling, her body alive with rage, every nerve screaming. Her chest heaved as words poured out in a furious torrent she hadn’t known she possessed. The shock of his coldness had shattered her calm—there was nothing left but raw, blazing frustration.
“You, Draco Malfoy, are standing in my house, lecturing me on manners?” she screamed, voice shaking with all the fire she felt. “You?”
She couldn’t hold back anymore. The feelings of betrayal, confusion, and hurt all mixed into one, bubbling over like a pot left too long on the stove. "I've been trying to talk to you for a week!" she yelled, her voice cracking. "I've been waiting for you to tell me what the hell that damned article in the Prophet means FOR.A.WEEK!" Her eyes were wild now, her breath coming in short, ragged bursts as she tried to make sense of the confusion swirling inside her. "I am expecting an apology! To hear that everything was a mistake! Instead, you dare to yell at me in my own home?"
How dare he?
"I’m waiting for you to assure me that the man who for the last two years has been claiming he loves me, dreaming of his future with me, sleeping and waking up with me in his arms, could never get engaged to another woman I’ve never heard him talk about!" The words spilled out, sharp and bitter, and the pressure in her head intensified, as if the force of her emotions was trying to break free in some way she couldn’t understand.
But Draco stood there, blank-faced, as though her words didn’t matter to him. His expression was almost bored, as though he were watching something trivial unfold in front of him. And it infuriated her. His indifference made everything worse. He wasn’t even listening.
When her voice finally broke, and the words trailed off in the emptiness of the room, Hermione’s heart clenched painfully. She felt her tears threatening to spill, but she held them back. She was not going to break down in front of him. Not like this.
She tried to stand, tried to talk to him rationally. She tried to push aside her anger and tears and despair. She assured him that he could talk to her, that no matter what happened, they could face it together. She promised him that they would find a solution together because so far there was no problem in the world that scared Hermione Granger. But nothing was enough. She wasn't enough.
"Stop," he told her when tears from her frustration, her sadness, her fucking bad luck, had filled her cheeks.
"What the hell happened?" she asked him quietly, her voice trembling, betraying the anger she still tried to hold on to. "What changed?"
"Our relationship had an expiration date," he said, his tone matter-of-fact, like he had already come to terms with it, like he had already given up. "And you know it, Hermione." His eyes seemed to avoid hers, his gaze falling to the floor. "You are a war hero and I am someone the world sees differently. What the hell did you expect? We can't even walk around together in public."
The way he spoke, like it was inevitable, like they had never stood a chance, made her blood run cold. He had never told her this before. Not once had he ever made her feel like she wasn't enough.
"Expiration date?" she repeated, her voice breaking with disbelief. She took a step toward him, her heart thudding painfully in her chest. "What the hell are you talking about?" She reached out instinctively, but he stepped back. Away from her.
The sting of rejection hit harder than anything she had ever felt before, but she refused to let it take over completely.
"I don’t care about your last name, Draco," she said, her voice steady despite the tears that continued to fall. "I thought we were over this. I don’t care about your past, I don’t care about the mistakes you made four years ago, I don’t care what the newspapers write, and I don’t care what people say," she told him, her words raw but unwavering. "I only care about you."
"But that doesn't apply to me," he shouted. "I have other people to care about. What do you expect me to do? Leave my parents? Leave everyone behind? Forget my life? My name? My lineage? There are expectations, Granger. There are rules. I care about what people say, what the purebloods I have to face-."
Hermione's temper flared. "Stop this immediately, because I swear if you even hint that my origin is responsible for all this, I will kill you with my bare hands".
A few minutes passed before either of them spoke.
Finally, it was Draco who broke the silence, his voice cold and distant. "I have to go. Whatever this was between us, it's over for good. This is the last time we're talking about it. Please don't contact me again, unless it's a matter of work. Then I'll be happy to help you in any way I can."
He turned his back and before he could disappear, she spoke.
"You're such a coward," she said, her voice low but sharp enough to cut through the silence. "I really thought you'd changed. That maybe you'd grown up. Found a little courage. But I was wrong. You're still the same—someone who runs the moment things stop being easy.” She felt their happiness flowing through their hands because of his cowardice.
He froze in his place. Slowly, he turned to look at her, and his face was red, from shame or anger, she didn’t know. She hoped it was shame. If she felt that much pain, the least he could feel was shame.
“What happened, Draco? Did they threaten you with disinheritance? Did they withhold your monthly allowance? Did they promise you something else to get you to throw me aside and marry your pureblood doll?” She spoke calmly, without tension, and with a coldness that frightened even her. If Lucius Malfoy had seen her, he might have been proud.
“I wonder if they chose her for you. Was any of what the Prophet wrote true? Surely you don’t love Astoria Greengrass, because I know very well that you love me. Surely you didn’t spend time with her, because you spent all your time with me. So, what happened, Draco? Don’t you think I deserve to at least know?”
A few seconds passed without him speaking, and Hermione thought she would never get the answers she sought. Then she realized it didn’t matter, because, with or without the answers, the result was the same. Draco Malfoy was no longer in her life.
“I had to make a choice, and I made the right one for everyone,” he said simply, stepping into the fireplace. She watched him leave, and with him, he took her heart. Draco Malfoy was no longer in her life—by his choice.
23.45
When she described the events to Ginny, her voice had adopted the same cold tone it had held the day she had first met Draco. Hermione had not seen him since. She had not sent him an owl, nor a Patronus, and she hadn’t set foot in his office again. In fact, she hadn’t gone back to work at all. She had contacted Robards and requested leave for the coming week. She had adjusted the spells on her apartment and barred everyone except Harry and Ron from entering. She hadn’t opened any of the three letters Theo had sent her, and she had burned all the Daily Prophets before they had even touched her windowsill.
"Hermione, something else is going on. Malfoy loves you." Ginny said, her voice full of concern.
Hermione nodded slowly. Yes, Draco loved her. But was that enough? Probably not.
"It doesn’t matter. Love isn’t always enough. He made a decision, and it wasn’t me. I told him I’d help him, that we would fight it together. I could do anything if I knew we were together, but he wasn’t interested."
"Hermione-" Ginny began, her voice gentle, but Hermione cut her off.
"Ginny. He's marrying another woman in three months, by his choice. He threw me out of his life, by his choice. He refused my help," Hermione said, her grip tightening around the necklace in her hands. The edges of the pendant dug into her flesh. "I can fight for anything I believe in, but not for a man who doesn’t want to be with me. For a man who doesn’t want me to fight for him. And he doesn’t want me to."
There was resignation in her voice. Hermione had never given up on anything in her life—never, even when everything seemed hopeless, even when the fear threatened to consume her. She had fought for Harry, for Muggleborns, for her parents. But this? This was different.
Ginny reached across the table and took Hermione’s hands in hers. "We're here, Hermione, and we love you so much. Everything will be okay, I promise," she said, lacing her fingers through Hermione’s. "Now, let’s drink whatever alcohol the Beard has to offer, and tomorrow will be a better day."
She motioned to the barman for two whiskies, and Hermione looked down at her glass, now full, her heart sinking further into sadness.
"There’s one more thing," Hermione said, her voice barely above a whisper, as Ginny downed her drink in one gulp.
"What's that?"
"Yesterday morning, I found out I’m pregnant."
Ginny froze, her eyes wide. In one slow motion, she grabbed the second full glass of whiskey and stared at Hermione, speechless.
The time in the pub was midnight.
00:00.
Happy birthday to her.
