Archive of Our Own

Steam curled at their ankles, hovering in the heavy air. The old engine gleamed under the station’s light, its bright red belly a marvel for the children gathered. Little hands traced the smooth metal, fingers grazing rivets as they drifted toward the open carriage door.

“Write to me the moment you’re sorted!”

“Don’t fret, love; if you forgot anything, we’ll owl it to you straight away.” 

“Of course, you’ll make friends, darling!” 

“Try not to eat all of that at once. It’s got to last you all day; that feast isn’t until after dark.” 

Amidst the platform chatter, three figures embraced in silence. A mother, with her son of twelve and daughter of fourteen, held tight to one another. No tears were shed. Perhaps they had cried too many and were simply worn out with them. But a gentle sorrow hung about the trio as they clung to one another fiercely. Knuckles whitened as they clutched at robes, and breaths came shallow from the force of being crushed together. 

She kissed their cheeks, holding them longer than she used to, and this time they didn’t pull away. Soft whispers passed between them: “I love you,” “I’ll miss you, Mum,” and from Hugo, a small sniffle as he held on, still shorter than her but growing fast. She wondered how much taller he’d be before she saw him again. 

Promises were exchanged: letters, of course—many, many letters. A weekend together in just a month. They nodded vigorously with smiles. 

A familiar crop of dark, dishevelled hair burst through the steam. “Rose!” Albus Potter jogged up to meet the girl. Behind him, a boy with bright blonde hair, almost white, followed. The mother stiffened and lifted her eyes to search behind the boy for another, older, familiar face that he so resembled.

The children shifted away, forming a little circle, and began chattering together animatedly. The mother remained, eyes still fixed ahead. Across the platform, he stood, watching. His pale grey eyes revealed little, but she saw it. She saw it in the dark circles beneath them, in the subtle tension carving lines at their corners, in the way his brows dipped just slightly, echoing the same grief her own face wore in the mirror.

He watched his son. She watched him. And deep in their own memories, they both wished for someone else to be there, standing beside them, admiring these little marvels they had made, preparing for another year at school. Her thumb brushed over a wedding band on her ring finger and gave it a turn.

◆ ◆ ◆ 

Why did graveyards need so many reminders of death? As if any visitor could forget. An angel with face buried in her hands wept eternally as Hermione Granger passed. She kept her own hands in the pockets of her trench coat—a thirty-fifth birthday present from her mother, which she had charmed to repel rain and keep her perfectly warm no matter the temperature. Never sacrifice style for comfort. Such were the subtle joys of being a witch. She lifted a hand and twisted it before her, scattering the dried autumn leaves from her path in a little gust of unnatural wind. 

A willow’s branches draped over the place they had chosen for him. It was a beautiful spot that overlooked a little pond. Her fingers brushed the top of his tombstone, casting a wandless spell to make the tiny flecks within the stone shine. Standing on the soft earth above him, she greeted Ron. 

Deep inside of her, it felt like something had been torn away, the ragged edges scraping her heart with every breath. She began slowly at first, telling him of Rose and Hugo going back to school. Of how the Aurors were getting on without him. Of how strange leaving the Ministry was without meeting him at the Floo. Of how quiet the house was now. Before she realised it, her knees were in the damp grass, a trembling hand pressed against the headstone and another against her lips. 

◆ ◆ ◆ 

The transfer had been necessary. Three years ago, when life still resembled something normal, she’d left politics behind—horrible people—and found refuge in the Department of Mysteries. Her curiosity felt indulged here, and finally—finally—her mind could play. 

Unspeakables were a peculiar breed. No one noticed the hours anyone kept, so it became easy for Hermione to find herself in her laboratory well past midnight. Colleagues offered only wry smirks as they slipped out at equally absurd hours, their guilt masked by sheepish shrugs. 

Last year, he came to work here, too. 

She would follow his unmistakable white-blonde hair as he strode down the ink-black halls, robes billowing out behind him in a dramatic manner that reminded her of Professor Snape. More than once, she caught herself stifling a grin at his affected gravitas. 

After her world had tilted off its axis in March, she began to notice him more. No longer just a relic of her past or the father of Rose’s thoughtful friend; he was someone who might understand what she carried and what she felt. 

◆ ◆ ◆ 

Nothing made a sound in her empty home, a silence that seemed to fill every corner. She missed the unobtrusive noises of her parents' Muggle house: the refrigerator purring in the kitchen, the air purifier running in a corner, the gentle churn of the washer running, her dad clicking away at his computer. 

Her magical house was as silent as the grave. Occasionally, it settled with the creak of old wood, like an elderly man easing into an armchair. Tonight, however, the house remained still as if content with its own silence. With a flick of her wand, she lit the lights and summoned her book, curling up on the sofa. 

◆ ◆ ◆ 

Her robes swished lightly about her wide-leg trousers as she walked down the hall to the room where he worked. It was late, she knew that. But down here in the bowels of the Ministry, a timelessness prevailed. Torches glowed low and warm from sconces regardless of the hour; their flickering light reflected from the sleek black tiles like firelight on a damp cave wall. 

In this timeless place, she stepped lightly into his open door, watching the alchemist at work for a moment. He hadn’t noticed her approach, bent over his desk, completely absorbed in his notes. Dark blue robes draped over him in a modest cut in the newest style that took inspiration from Muggle tailoring, much less frippery than his father had ever worn. A short beard graced his jaw, and he wore his hair cut short on the sides with a little length on top that now curled slightly over his brow—a style he had kept for years since shortly after his trial.

She had always wondered if this was done to distance himself from the comparisons with his father. It worked well. Instead, he now had the roguish quality of his mother’s side: the devilish atmosphere that seemed to cling about Black family men. 

Long fingers traced the diagram that lay unrolled and weighted down on his workbench. His brows were furrowed in concentration, and he glanced back and forth between the scroll and an old text propped on a stand beside him. 

Gently, she cleared her throat, not wanting to startle him. His eyes snapped up to her. 

“Malfoy, can I ask you something?” 

Draco Malfoy blinked once as though weighing the reality of her presence, his eyes narrowing slightly before straightening with deliberate grace. They barely ever spoke. Only pleasantries in passing, nothing more. Then, with an inviting gesture, he beckoned her into the room.

“Of course, Granger.”

She moved only a few steps and slid against the wall, her hands behind her back, left ring finger tapping on the tiles. 

“It’s personal…if that’s alright.” 

He eyed her warily, then gave a curt nod.

“Do you—do you think of her often?” 

For a long moment, Draco regarded her in silence, his expression inscrutable. The flickering torchlight danced across the smooth planes of his face and gave his hair a golden glow. A small crease formed between his brows, then vanished. With a gentle sigh, he stepped to a workbench by the wall and sagged against it, arms crossed. 

“Every day,” he murmured. 

She tipped her head back, staring at the ceiling. “Does it ever get better? The aching?” 

“Yes…and no… It never leaves. But you get used to it, I suppose.” 

“What was she like?” She heard him draw in a rapid breath. “I’m sorry,” she glanced at him, suddenly stricken. “Malfoy, I’m so sorry—I have no business—we don’t—we aren’t—”

He waved her off. “No, don’t be sorry,” his voice was tight, a wry smile quirked the corner of his lips. “It’s just… no one is ever brave enough to ask me about her.” Their eyes met. “But I always wish they would.” 

She nodded, hoping he would go on. After a rough swallow, he did, “I sometimes feel that if I start talking about her, I won’t be able to stop, and maybe I’ll just drown. But I want to talk about her.” He drew in a steadying breath. “Astoria was…she was the loveliest person I ever knew.” 

A hum and gentle bubbling came from the workbench in the back of the room. Her ring tap, tap, tapped against the tile behind her. He shifted slightly, his robes swishing and brushing against his trousers. 

“It’s so quiet now at home,” she murmured. 

He sighed, “You know what I miss the most? All of the little sounds she made that filled the house. She would,” he paused, looking unsure if he wanted to say, then bit his cheeks and went on, “She would giggle at the romantic Muggle books she read.” A soft smile spread across his face. “Gods, she would bring home so many of those, and she would sit on the chair by her favourite window in our bedroom or on the sofa in my study and read them with her feet tucked up under her, and I’d hear these girlish little giggles coming from her! Perhaps, incongruous with her elegance, and yet…” He ran his hand over his jaw, lost in memory. 

“I know what you mean about the little sounds,” Hermione said. “Ron used to make so many.” 

“Gods, I can just imagine,” he said, but it didn’t sound mocking as it once may have, long ago, only friendly, kind, an invitation to go on. 

“He clattered everything in the kitchen, even when making the most basic snack. There’s never been a noisier man preparing tea! I would snipe at him about it all the time. And his footsteps were so heavy. I could always tell where he was in the house. And now…” 

Malfoy was watching her carefully with a deep understanding that no one had given her since she had lost Ron half a year before. 

“I don’t know how to be in my house anymore,” she said in a small voice. 

Malfoy took a deep breath, his chest rising and falling with great deliberation. “Would you care to get dinner?” 

She laughed, “It’s nearly eleven at night!” 

He smirked and shrugged, and for a moment, a boyishness passed across his face, and the years between them fell away, and maybe the hour didn’t matter at all. 

“Alright,” she acquiesced. “Where do you have in mind?” 

◆ ◆ ◆ 

“I would never have guessed Draco Malfoy knew a good döner place.” Hermione wiped her fingers on a napkin, crumpling it before tossing it into the empty basket.

“There are a lot of things about me that would surprise you, Granger.” He tossed a chip in his mouth. 

“I don’t doubt it. We haven’t exactly been chatty for the last twenty years.” 

He fixed her with a sharp look, one eyebrow raised in mock severity, finger pointed. “Never. We’ve never been ‘chatty.’” 

“And yet, here we are.” 

“Here we are.” His eyes crinkled. 

“Anyway,” she shrugged lightly, “now I know your home library is filled to the brim with smutty books.” 

He threw his head back and laughed—a sound so genuine and rich, it caught her off guard. When was the last time she had laughed with someone?

◆ ◆ ◆ 

“How can you expect me to choose only one?” 

They were walking through the darkened streets of London along the Thames not long after the midnight chimes had rung in Big Ben. A soft breeze blew along the old river. She watched the water as it curled and rolled into the night, flowing on and on out to sea. A small boat drifted by, laughter spilling from it where it seemed a party was happening. 

“Fine then, what’s the first one you remember really liking, and what’s the most recent one you’ve read?” 

“Two questions now, Granger? Raising the stakes, are we?” He teased, hands shoved in the pockets of his long peacoat transfigured from his robes. The deep blue had an arresting quality in the darkness that drew out the colour from his pale eyes. “Well,” he began, “the first Muggle book I really liked was ‘I, Claudius’ by Robert Graves.” 

“What, really?” 

“Shocked you, have I?”

“Not exactly,” Hermione said, considering. “I suppose it’s a bit unexpected, is all.” 

He gave a light shrug. “I like history—only had centuries of family lore drummed into me. Anyway, Astoria shoved it into my hands the first time she took me to Foyle’s. She hadn’t read it either—never did, actually—but she had me pegged by then, I think.” A private smile graced his lips.

“And the most recent one?” 

“‘Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell,’ by Susanna Clarke.” 

“What did you think of it?” She asked eagerly. She’d never met another witch or wizard who had read it. 

“It was brilliant, wasn’t it? The idea of English magic was fascinating. So much more, I don’t know, archaic, maybe? I wish it had kept going. Terrible there isn’t a second one.” 

Hermione nodded and smiled. “I used to try to get Ron to read the books I liked, but,” she gave a little shrug, “he was never much of a reader. But when Hugo moved out of the nursery, he surprised me by transforming it into a library. A little table by the window—just like my favourite at Hogwarts.”

“Do you still read in there often?” Malfoy asked, his voice low and warm. 

Her brows furrowed. She looked off over the river and began leading him across the Millennium Bridge. The towering edifice of the Tate Modern loomed in a dark silhouette before them. As they reached the centre, she leaned her elbows on the railing and stared over the dark waters below. 

How could she talk about the little jewel box of a room? The perfect wood-panelled walls, the way it was so warm and special, and yet how lonely it could feel with Ron never wanting to join her in it unless to play a game of chess? And it had become lonelier still now that he was lost to her.

“I’m a little angry with him, I think,” she whispered into the dark, the burble of the river filling the space between them. 

Malfoy made no sound, only leaned along the rail beside her, listening. 

“Things weren’t always perfect, but we did love each other—I do—and now he’s gone, and I’m a little angry for all the dangling conversations. For all the emptiness. And then I feel guilty for thinking that. Am I horrible for even saying it? God, I am, aren’t I?” 

“No.” His voice was firm. “No, you’re not horrible. Not even a little bit.” His hands knit together. Fingers clenched and relaxed, clenched and relaxed. Above them, a waxing gibbous moon slithered behind encroaching clouds. 

His voice, when it came, was almost lost to the wind: “It took me a long time to stop being a little angry with her too. Scorpius—he was so young. And she had always known she was sick. And then I was so angry at myself for taking her. For keeping her.” His hands clenched tight; all colour fled from the knuckles. “How could she just leave us like that? How can I be a father on my own? And at the same time, I feel like I wasted her life. I wasted it in our house. I kept her with me, wallowing in—in my shame. And she should have always been so free.” His face lifted, deep shadows carving hollows in its planes.

“She was free with you, Malfoy. She chose you,” Hermione laid a hand across his forearm. He glanced down suddenly at the touch, eyes flitting up to her face in astonishment. Tentatively, he reached out and squeezed her fingers once before withdrawing. They stared at the river as it rolled on and on. Big Ben echoed the hour, and still, they stood above the dark water. 

◆ ◆ ◆ 

Days blurred into weeks, and soon, stopping by each other’s doors became habit. He brought her books, she brought him conversation, and in the quiet caverns beneath Whitehall and on long walks by the Thames, a friendship began to bloom. 

They shared news of their children. He spoke of Scorpius, of the quiet sensitivity he had inherited from Astoria—his love for art, his deep feelings—and Hermione kept to herself her memories of the boy she had once known and how he seemed to have become a man who felt deeply, too. 

In turn, she told him about Hugo and Rose. About Hugo’s compassion and determination and Rose’s exuberance and fierce intelligence. They talked about the first year or two at school when Rose had been wary of Scorpius—and really all Slytherins—for some time. 

Hermione described how hard it had been to realise she had raised her children with prejudices. How difficult it had been to accept that she and Ron had passed on old hates of their own. How could it be that after years spent combating bigotry through action and policy, her children had still been pitted against their cousin Albus for so little reason?

“Gran—Hermione,” Draco had said, running his hand through his fine hair and looking terribly distraught, “I owe you an apology. Merlin, we’re almost forty, and I’ve never said it. How have I not?” 

“No, Draco, you don’t—“ 

“Yes, I do. You know I do.” And so he did. 

And tension crackled between them in the cold evening air. And, suddenly, they were shouting beneath the street lamps of St. James Park, their voices rising into the blustery night. And then he yelled that they were making another battle of it. And, somehow, they stilled and looked at each other for a long time until their gazes penetrated deeply, and they remembered how scrawny and pathetic and full of the machinations of adults they had been. And now they were two adults themselves, standing on a path in the park near midnight, shouting one another down for things that couldn’t be changed and were long gone. 

And he ran his hands down his face and said, “Merlin, if Weasley were here, he would have just broken my nose and had done.”

And Hermione started to laugh, great peels of ridiculous laughter. She was doubled over laughing. And then they were both laughing. And she was crying, and he was clutching her forearm to steady her and pulling a ridiculous, monogrammed handkerchief from his ridiculous pocket. And she was somehow laughing even harder. 

◆ ◆ ◆ 

“Scorpius said his dad mentioned you in a letter,” Rose said, fixing Hermione with a pointed look over her butterbeer. “I thought you and Mr. Malfoy didn’t get on?” 

Hermione shook her head. “That was a long time ago. Things change. And anyway,” her thumb grazed across her wedding band, spinning the gold on her finger, “he knows what it’s like. What we’re going through.” 

Rose stared out the window of the Three Broomsticks. Her deep blue eyes followed the swirl of activity outside. Winter winds blew down from the mountains with a vengeance, battering the little village, sending leaves and wanderers scurrying. 

“Yeah, Scorpius does, too,” Rose said quietly. “He’s been really great. Really, really great. With Hugo, too. Not that they see each other often,” she clarified, “but I guess he’s found him crying in the library a few times.” 

“Oh, Rosie, I’m so—”

“Don’t worry about it, mum.” She reached across the table and squeezed her mother’s hand, firm and reassuring. “We’re okay. We’re going to be okay. We miss him so much, too. And Professor Longbottom has been looking out for us. We have people.” Her long lashes brushed against her cheeks; her eyes turned toward the table. “I’m glad Mr. Malfoy has been a friend. I’m glad you have someone you can talk to.” 

“Rose,” Hermione reached out and brushed a finger along her daughter’s elegant nose, “you are too wise for your years.” 

◆ ◆ ◆ 

The house was dark when Hermione returned from Hogsmeade. A full October moon hung low outside over the garden, leaving the world awash in blues. She slipped her shoes off in the middle of the sitting room floor and sank into the sofa, her head tipped back. All was silence around her and she felt its weight pressing in. The ragged, wounded piece within her brushed against her sternum with an abiding ache. 

The fireplace flared green. Harry’s head poked out from the grate. “Hey Hermione, mind if I come by?” 

“Of course not! Let me put a kettle on.” 

She went to the kitchen, listening to the roar of the Floo. With her back turned, she heard Harry dust his robes and cast a scourgify. His footsteps shuffled against the rug and tapped along the hardwood. The sounds echoed through the house and in her bones.

“All right there, Harry?” She asked, pouring water into their teacups. 

“Yeah, perfectly fine. You?” 

“Good, yeah.” She set a cup in front of him, pulled out a chair, and took a seat herself. “I saw Rose today.” 

“That’s nice. How is she?” 

“Well enough,” she sighed heavily and set the cup in front of her, both hands wrapped around its warm sides. “It’s been a hard term so far, I think.” 

Harry nodded, his eyes downcast. It had been a hard few months for him as well. For all of them.

“I need to tell you something,” he began. She sat up straighter. “Nothing bad, I promise. It’s just,” he ruffled his permanently mussed hair, “I’m resigning as an Auror—” 

“What? You are?” 

“—and taking up the Defense Against Dark Arts post at Hogwarts.” 

“Harry, that’s wonderful!” She reached across the table and gripped his hand. “You were always meant to be back at Hogwarts somehow. And you’re such a good teacher. It’s going to be amazing.” 

He let out a breath he had been holding in a whoosh and smiled crookedly. “Thanks, Hermione.  I think it’s the right move.” 

“It absolutely is.” He squeezed her hand. “Will you stay at Grimmauld Place or move to Hogsmeade?” 

“Ooh, we haven’t decided, really,” he scratched the back of his neck.

Hermione took a sip of tea and fixed him with a stern look. “Harry,” she said, bringing her cup down with a clatter, “you both hate that house. Hate. It.” 

He laughed, “We really do! I don’t know why I’m dragging my feet about it. Gin practically started packing the moment Minerva popped round to talk to me about the open position.” 

They laughed and chatted for a long while about Hogsmeade and houses and what being back at Hogwarts would be like. The evening deepened into night, and gradually, they reminisced, combing over old memories with a careful brush lest they disturb the dust that had only just settled. His pitying looks rose to her from time to time, and she would glance away out the window, searching for constellations but seeing only a warped reflection of the lamp-lit kitchen. 

As Harry left, they clung tightly to each other. This man, who was once the boy she had given everything she could to help keep alive, now stood before her, another part of this loss. And yet…and yet…it wasn’t shared. The Floo illuminated the room in a flash of green as Harry vanished back to his home, where his wife’s warm embrace waited for him. 

Hermione turned from the fireplace’s dying embers and took to the stairs. Why was this house so big? She peeked into Hugo’s room, lined with books and quidditch posters. Toys still sat propped on shelves. Perhaps he wasn’t done being a little boy just yet, she smiled. 

She peeked in Rose’s room, where quidditch jerseys mingled with a few Muggle music posters. Her father’s old record collection sat on Rose’s desk with a little record player he had given her, which she was working on charming to run by magic alone. Hermione decided not to tell her she had figured out long ago which charms were needed, deciding instead that this was Rose’s puzzle to solve. 

And then she was at the library. Her library. The door had been closed since that terrible day when Harry had stood in its frame, shoulders heaving in his Auror robes, his dark look telling her all she needed to know. 

Carefully, she pushed the door open. 

Moonlight shone in the window at a sharp angle. This wasn’t the warm place she had loved. It was a cold and desolate tomb where her joy had turned to ash. 

Her Floo illuminated the sitting room once more as she fled to the Ministry and down, down, down into the caverns of the Department of Mysteries. 

◆ ◆ ◆ 

“Working late again, Granger?” A familiar, smooth drawl came from her door. 

“Never left, more like,” she said, nodding to a cot she had set up on the side of the room days before. 

Draco eyed the little pile of blankets and pillow scornfully. “I give it a week before you’re in Mungos with a debilitating back problem.” 

“That isn’t the sort of thing you go to the hospital for; it’s only discomfort.” 

He scoffed, crossing the room. “I’d like to point out that anything below five on the pain scale is technically ‘discomfort,’ yet I’ve never been turned away for a two.” 

She rolled her eyes dramatically and turned back to her texts.

“Still operating from the polygenic inheritance model?” Draco asked, leaning over her desk. 

“Yes, and these results,” she tapped a stack of papers beside her, “are from the labs at Cambridge.” 

He lifted them and began slowly reading, the crisp turn of pages drifting to her from where he stood. From the side of her eye, she observed him. Her friends were always intrigued by her interests, and Ron had been supportive of them, but she never had someone who simply understood until coming to the Department of Mysteries. A sense of personal alignment settled on her as he flipped through the results, carefully noting the flagged markers.

“Interesting. So this might explain some of the genetic bottlenecks you’ve been charting in the old families?” 

“Yes, I think so. Your Black propensity for morphological magics—” She paused, her gaze sharpening as a thought coalesced. “Draco, have you ever considered becoming an animagus? It’s probable you have a natural affinity for it.”

He stilled, pursing his lips for a moment. Closing the papers and lowering them gently to the desk, he turned to face her with a glint in his eye. Stepping back from the desk with a flourish, he gave a dramatic turn of his wrist like a stage magician, then shifted in a seamless blur of magic.

“Oh my god, Draco!” She clapped. Eyes of the palest grey stared out from the face of a sleek black cat. He leapt onto the desk and pranced over her notes before sitting on the edge, tail waving gently back and forth. “Since when?” 

Cat Draco leapt from the desk, transfiguring mid-air and landing as a human again. “Shortly after eighth year,” he said. “Took some time before anyone accepted me for a mastery. I studied this while waiting.” 

He went back to looking at the genetic results from the Cambridge lab. Hermione’s operating theory was that magic wasn’t the result of a single gene, but due to multiple ones interacting together. She also believed there was an epigenetic component in which moments, perhaps of high stress or other types of extreme experience, caused latent magical genes to be expressed. Thinking back on her first bursts of accidental magic and how heightened her emotions had felt in those moments, this seemed a logical conclusion. 

“Who were your samples?” He asked. 

“Me, Harry, and Ginny.” 

He nodded. “Muggle-born, half-blood, and pureblood. That’s a fair selection.” 

“Yes, but only one of each, so overall poor.” 

“Do you think—” He paused, pinching his lower lip between thumb and forefinger. When he spoke again, he was deliberate with his words, almost cautious, “Do you think this research would be wise to publish widely?” 

Hermione sighed and laid down her quill, leaning back in her chair. “Truthfully, I don’t know. There is a possibility that all anyone will glean from it is that magical power can indeed be concentrated. All the rest speaks to how it crops up in Muggles, but I worry about other implications. Would genetic testing become a priority for couples in our world? Would partners be rejected on the basis of genetics? I worry.” She looked at him long and hard. “You’re the one who grew up ensconced in all of this rot. What do you think?” 

Perching on the edge of her desk, he crossed his arms and carded his fingers through his short beard. “I think it depends on the narrative you weave when the findings are released. If it focuses on the origins of magic and avoids discussing the bottlenecks and concentration of magic, then I think it would be an illuminating bit of information to lead us out of the dark, so to speak.” 

“But,” he continued, “the narrative around it would be vital. This is exactly the sort of thing I can practically hear my parents and Aunt Bellatrix going on and on about, crowing over how massively powerful our families had become.” His lip curled. A look of disgust settled on his features.

Hermione sighed, “So more of the same then, really.” 

“No, not the same.” His pale grey eyes pierced her. “How magic arises in Muggle-borns and where it comes from in all of us, that’s a revelation. Just focus on origins and not the rest.”

A wave of exhaustion suddenly overtook her. She glanced down at her wristwatch, stifling a yawn, then groaned. 

“How is it nearly two in the morning already?” She eyed the cot. “I’ve got to get some sleep. Out, out, you distracting man!” She waved him away. 

Chuckling, he rose, but before he reached the door, he paused, concern crossing his face. 

“Why are you sleeping here?” 

Casting a warming charm over the little cot and adding a few other comforting measures, she replied without meeting his eyes, “You know why.” 

Mercifully, he only pressed his lips together in a firm line and stepped forward, waving his wand at her little cot with a flourish. The cot shimmered, shifting into a beautiful, burgundy chaise lounge long enough to sleep comfortably. 

“I could have done that, you prat,” she snapped. 

“Of course, you could have. Just beat you to it is all.” He winked and ducked from the room. 

◆ ◆ ◆ 

December was bitterly cold. Drafts in her silent house were too many to seal. She chased them around, wand in hand, repairing and reinforcing everything. Still, the cold persisted, wiggling its way into every corner. The house began to feel not only lonely and silent but frigid and dead. 

The burgundy chaise lounge became her bed, her office a sanctuary where time and the world beyond couldn’t reach her. Draco brought her tea and a wireless so that music could ring around her office. She began a project with some Arithmancers that crossed over with the offices working to reconstruct a time-turner. Theoretical conversations carried on all hours in their magical cave where time could not penetrate. Her cup was full, and she was content. 

But then it was mid-December, and the end of term at Hogwarts was suddenly looming before her. And she wasn’t sure what to do. How had it gotten away from her? How could she have let this happen? They would be there in two days. How could she not have considered what this would mean? Frantically, she paced her office, biting the side of her thumb. 

“What’s all this then?” Draco asked, carrying two cups of tea. He handed her a cup and sat in her chair behind her desk. 

“This is you taking advantage of my space,” she said, finally stopping and arching a stern brow at him. 

“Mmm, that explains the scowl and maybe this little,” he gestured over all of her, “pose, but not the marching back and forth and eating your own thumb. Tell me.” 

“The children get home in two days.” He nodded slowly. “And I completely forgot about Christmas. How did I forget that? How could I be so stupid? My mother texted about it, and yes, I do recall agreeing that we would have Boxing Day together, but I didn’t think about how soon that would be.” She began pacing again. “And I didn’t decorate. They always loved to set up the tree with Ron, and I haven’t even been heating the house—“ 

“What?” He sat forward.

“—and I didn’t get a tree,” she continued, her voice rising. “And this is their first Christmas without him. It’s our first without him. He always helped me shop. He always made the plans with his family. Merlin, fuck, he wasn’t even good at the shopping, it was awful! But I didn’t even think of it, and now—” 

Two warm hands slid up her arms, pressing into her, stilling her frantic movement. His touch was steady, anchoring her as she struggled for breath.

“Breathe, Hermione. That’s it.” 

She closed her eyes—a harsh sting burned in her cheeks. The salty tang of tears filled her mouth. No, no, no more tears. 

But one escaped. 

And then another. 

And a thumb tenderly brushed them away—gentle and warm. 

“Hermione,” he murmured, his voice was so warm and soft. “Breathe. Tomorrow, we’ll sort it out, alright?” 

She nodded, eyes still squeezed shut, hands running up and down her arms. 

“You don’t have to do this alone. You’re not alone.” 

She nodded again. 

Another tear broke free. 

The thumb swept it away. So warm and soft. 

◆ ◆ ◆ 

She woke on her chaise to the eternal timelessness of her office. Her wristwatch read half past four. Was that in the morning or afternoon? Rising, she dashed home to shower and change—the only thing she did there anymore. Afternoon, she thought, stepping through the Floo and catching the red of sunset out her window.

Something was different. 

For one thing, the house was warm. For another, a garland hung over the mantel with little fairy lights dancing through it. There was even a stocking hanging by the fireplace, Hugo’s name embroidered in a careful hand. It wasn’t hers. Another lay folded on a chair, waiting for Rose.

She crept to her kitchen. An extremely large platter of biscuits sat there below a stasis charm. Molly’s biscuits, she would recognize them anywhere. Rushing back to the sitting room, her eyes fell on it in the corner: a little Christmas tree. Resting on its branches was a note.

Hermione,

We know this Christmas is difficult, but you’re not alone. You don’t have to carry everything on your shoulders.

See you at the Burrow. We’re here for you, always.

 

With love,

Harry and Ginny. 

A postscript was scrawled in Ginny’s handwriting: 

Imagine our surprise when Draco Malfoy, of all people, stopped by to remind us this was your first Christmas without Ron. (As if we would or could forget ♡.) We will be talking about this, my lovely witch.

◆ ◆ ◆ 

The Leaky Cauldron buzzed with Christmas cheer—carol singers in the corner, patrons laughing and jostling—but Hermione felt the warmth only brush against her, never quite sinking in. Tucking her arms into her sides, she shuffled forward as best she could until she was out by the back wall and tapping the bricks to watch them peel back. It was always a marvel to her, ever since that beautiful August when she was eleven and the whole world lay bright before her. 

No sooner had she set foot in Diagon Alley than a familiar voice brushed warmly over her ear.

“If you make fun of my hat, I will hex you.” 

She looked up at him and bit her cheeks to stifle a grin. 

“Not a word, Granger, I swear.” His scowl would have been ferocious were it not for the cosy green and gold inexpertly knit beanie gracing his head. 

“Can I at least ask why it is?” She waved her hand toward the hat, biting back another grin. 

Draco heaved a sigh as he began to lead her down the path toward the shops. “My son, who I cherish, made this for me when he was small with Astoria. She taught him to knit, and they used to do it together while I read to them—yes, yes, we were absolutely sickening. No, stop laughing.” 

“It’s got a little pompom on the top!”  

“I swear to Merlin…” 

“Why not just wear a different hat? Or no hat?”

His shoulders and face tightened in discomfort. 

“Draco?” 

“It was in my outer robe pocket, alright? I forgot the hat I usually prefer. And I’m not about to transfigure this one in any way and risk compromising the integrity of the yarn.” She bit her lip at this nostalgic defence. “I have to wear a hat…here…with you. Or, well… or it might be unpleasant.” 

She sobered, her eyes dropping to the path where their footsteps perfectly synced with one another over the cobblestones. Two souls in the blue of evening, missing parts of themselves now, one half drawn to the warmth of the other, wishing only to be whole again in some way. She leaned slightly into his arm beside her. 

“I’m glad you’re here with me.” 

He pressed into her once in answer. 

Shops were crowded and unpleasant. Buying Quidditch gloves for Rose, a clerk offered condolences. In Flourish and Blotts, two older witches asked how she was coping with her loss. 

“You’re so young, deary.” 

As though she need be reminded. As though her aching body let her forget how young and now alone she was. As though she hadn’t dreamt of his lips on her hip, trailing up her stomach, and whispering to her…only to wake and remember reality afresh. 

As though it wasn’t even more awful that the dreams of him had dwindled months ago. 

Draco hadn’t meant anything by it when he stepped beside her at that moment, showing her a book Hugo might enjoy and holding two for Scorpius and Albus. One of the women clutched the other, recognizing the man beneath the ridiculous beanie, and whispered to her friend, who narrowed her eyes at Hermione. 

As though she could possibly touch Hermione Granger with her unfounded judgement. 

Hermione drew herself up, letting her curls fall back, her chin lifting imperiously. Then she spoke to Draco in Latin, telling him she wanted to leave. Draco’s eyes flicked to the women, his gaze sharpening, then back to Hermione. Without a word, he gathered the books, called to the clerk to charge them to his account, and swept her from the shop.  

◆ ◆ ◆ 

Wrapped in a knit blanket before the fire with a hot chocolate in hand, Hermione let the comfort of the Burrow envelope her. Feet hammered on the stairs, pounding up and down as nieces and nephews and her own two dashed from room to room. 

“Watch it with those brooms!” 

“No, I don’t care what Uncle George said; I’m not eating it.” 

“If you tell her that, she might slap you. Just warning.” 

“Hey! That was my present—yours is at home!”

“No more dodging the subject,” Ginny said, dropping into the chair beside her. “Malfoy. Spill.” 

“There’s nothing to tell, really.” She stirred her hot chocolate, eyes fixed on the swirl of her spoon. “We talk now. Fairly often.” 

“Come on, Hermione,” Ginny pressed with a half-smile. “What do you two even find to talk about? Just work?” 

Tipping her head back, Hermione gazed into the exposed ceiling beams. There wasn’t a right angle in the house. She had always loved its higgledy-piggledy charm. Bangs and bumps and scurrying feet resounded through the floor above. She closed her eyes, allowing the glorious chaos to wash over her. 

“Work, yes…and everything.” She took a deep breath, feeling the ragged edges left by the piece of her that wasn’t there flutter on her inhale. “We have the same hurts.” 

Neither spoke for several minutes. Several of the children thundered by with brooms in hand while Molly, no less mobile in her eighties than she was in her forties, chased after them. Hermione let the Burrow’s glorious chaos wash over her. It was all so wonderfully alive.

“It must be a balm to share that with someone,” Ginny said softly. 

“It’s a light in the dark.” 

◆ ◆ ◆ 

The children returned to school. While they had been home, she’d slept on the sofa. Everything was strange. Her bed was wrong. It felt too cold and foreign. She couldn’t bear to sleep in it—maybe ever again.

The library was tainted, and now it even smelled stale. The air was thick with dust, the scent of old paper no longer comforting but spoiled. The house had become a place she couldn’t inhabit, not really. It had dwindled until it was only a storage space for her clothes and a shower for her to wash in. 

She returned to the Department of Mysteries, and when the first night arrived after the children had departed, she stayed late, eventually curling up to sleep on the chaise. 

◆ ◆ ◆ 

“Dinner, Granger, come on, up you get.” 

“It’s past nine!” She protested. 

“Indeed, and ‘we have heard the chimes at midnight’ many times, so I think we’ll be alright. You need food. You’re wasting away! Look at that; you’ve completely bungled that calculation.” 

She glanced at her notes. “Bite your slanderous tongue. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with those!” He draped her outer robes about her shoulders and transfigured them into a lovely peacoat. 

Up through the lift, they rattled; out through the Atrium, they emerged; across Westminster, they popped in a crack of Apparition. 

“Nandos? Really?” 

He smirked and shrugged. “It is after nine, Granger. What did you expect?” 

Afterward, they wandered through Covent Garden, the streets wrapped in a mix of shadows and the golden light of streetlamps. He asked about her Christmas and told her about Scorpius’s reaction to his new broom. Eventually, they rambled their way through Trafalgar Square. Draco related some ridiculous story about Lord Nelson from a book Astoria had given him for a birthday. Hermione laughed to think of this pureblood man who once spat slurs as a child now waxing on about the marvels of the Age of Sail. 

“Was she as fond of history as you are?” 

“No,” he laughed. “I think she found it all rather tedious, if I’m honest. But she opened my eyes to so much.” 

They wandered down the Mall, street lights aglow above them and the lights on Buckingham Palace ahead. Leafless branches cast spiderwebbed shadows on the pavement. A police officer nodded to them as they went by. When a sharp breeze rushed around them, they drew their coats and scarves tighter before laughing and casting warming charms instead.

“When we were in Florence for our honeymoon,” Draco said, “she wanted desperately to see this sculpture she said was quite famous.” Hermione laughed, knowing exactly which sculpture he meant. “Yes, well,” he blushed and glanced away, “I know about the David now, don’t I? Anyway, she wanted to see it, and I was still new to stepping out from Wizarding spaces—nothing beyond bookshops and a cafe. And she had been so sheltered, you have no idea. I was a nervous wreck trying to make sure I would blend in, and I thought maybe we wouldn’t go after all because she was nervous, too. But then she scooped up her bag and ordered me out of the room. We even stood in a queue amongst Muggles. She did everything. She was so bold and fearless—absolutely fearless.” He shook his head, smiling. 

“I think I would have liked her.” 

He turned to face her. “You really would have, you know.” 

“I think you’d have liked Ron, in better circumstances,” she said softly, glancing at him. He scoffed. “What? You have no idea how similar you can be about things. Not everything, obviously.” 

“Maybe. Maybe in a different world.” He looked at her then as they strode past the palace and into St. James Park. “A world with parents who weren’t more interested in creating an heir than having a son.” 

“They must have hated Astoria.” Her eyes widened as she said it. “God, Draco, I didn’t mean—I’m so sorry!” 

But he was laughing with a wide, open smile. “No, no, you’re right. Merlin, they really did! She wasn’t at all what they wanted.” 

They rambled for a while through the park. January cold began to seep in again. Midnight came and went. A wrought iron bench in Hyde Park accepted them and their warming and cushioning charms. Hermione convinced him not to transfigure it into a settee—barely. 

“Are you still angry with him?” 

“I don’t know. I don’t think so.” Her thumb brushed over the band of her wedding ring. “Do you ever feel guilty for how you think of her? Or don’t?” 

Draco frowned as he shifted on the bench, crossing one leg over the other. He spoke slowly, “Sometimes… I feel guilty for forgetting to miss her when Scorpius and I are having a particularly good time. I don’t mean that I don’t miss her in those moments,” he rushed to clarify, “but more that I forget to think of how I miss her.” 

Hermione tipped her head back. The stars were completely obscured by low-hanging clouds. City lights bounced off them, giving the sky a dim orange glow. Perhaps snow was on the horizon. 

“Sometimes,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper, “I wonder if I’m ready to put away my love for Ron, and then I feel like I am being eaten inside by my guilt. How can I think that? How can I want that? It’s not that I don’t want to love him anymore. I always will. I just, I don’t know, I want to put it away.” 

She turned to look at him fully. In the cold night, his pale face with its fine beard and grey eyes seemed an ethereal marvel. The tiny crease between his brows told her how intently he was listening, and she wondered at it. Where had the boy she had known gone? This man wasn’t him, surely. 

“Before he died,” Hermione continued, “I kept thinking that maybe this was just enough, but it wasn’t all-consuming. And now, I feel so guilty because while I love him deeply, I don’t think he was this great, storybook love of my life, but I feel like I’m supposed to feel he was and stay true to that. But I’m young, aren’t I?” 

“You are.” 

“And I don’t want to spend the next seventy years—god, we live too long with magic—cold and alone.” 

He stared at her, his gaze soft. 

“And I am so cold and so alone,” she whispered. 

His pale eyes lingered over her features, the streetlights catching in them and glittering like starlight in an early morning sky. 

“What’s the alternative?” He asked carefully. “If you don’t put your love for him away, will you be able to live, truly live again?” 

The ragged edges of the missing piece of her fluttered with every breath. Wasn’t she alive now? Didn’t she love her research and her children? Weren’t there friends to see and correspondences to answer? 

“Have you?” She pushed one hand into her hair, elbow propped on the back of the bench. Her eyes fixed on her other hand, drawing patterns on the wool of her coat in her lap. “Have you put your love away?” 

Draco closed his eyes and breathed in and out, in and out. His breaths were clouds that drifted between them in a fog. 

“Yes,” he whispered, eyes still closed. She watched the motion of them behind his thin lids as he searched memory. “Nearly two years ago,” he began slowly, “shortly before I decided to become an Unspeakable, I made an ornate box in my mind—something beautiful like she was—and put all of my memories and love for her there. She felt like a secret I had to guard. No one asked me about her, and I felt strange wanting to say anything. Strange and inappropriate. How do you just bring up a funny memory about your dead wife when having drinks after Quidditch? I just—I couldn't navigate that when they’d all barely started treating me normally again. And then the worst thoughts: What if they criticised her love of Muggle books? Or how small our life together was? Or how she chose me?” He opened his eyes. Red had begun to rim them; the watery look of tears collected in the corner. 

“You gave me permission to open the box, Hermione.” A tear slid down his cheek. “If you put your love away, it’s only so that you can live every day as your own. It doesn’t mean he has to be a secret. It doesn’t mean you forget.”

She was crying again. But these didn’t feel like the tears that would swallow her up and drown her. They felt like relief. 

Her hand lifted from her lap and reached tentatively out to his cold cheek. At her touch, he flinched almost imperceptibly, and she wondered when the last time someone had touched him had been. Her thumb brushed away his tear and swept back and forth across his cheekbone. 

Slowly, so very slowly, he lifted a hand, long fingers gliding beneath her jaw. The pad of his thumb traced the arc of her cheek. Then, it lowered and as it settled between them, he clasped her fingers in his own, knitting them together. 

◆ ◆ ◆ 

In the caverns of the Department of Mysteries, time skipped and jumped without much sense of order. One week stretched out endlessly, a relentless parade of calculations that led to frustration and curses. Unspeakable Merriweather, an older witch of prodigious talent, began to fray at the edges, too, until the two of them were both swearing like sailors at their Time Turner project. Then they made a breakthrough, and the next two weeks disappeared in a blur. 

She started the shower the moment she arrived home, letting the water run while she gathered her things, the sound of it soothing her. The kitchen felt stagnant and cold now, too. She would make tea at work. It was better that way, anyhow. 

In her nightstand, tucked away at the back of the drawer, sat a small blue velvet box. Once, it had held a treasure, a promise sealed in gold. Ron had opened it for her in the woods behind the Burrow, the late afternoon sun casting a golden glow around him like a halo. She could still see his brilliant smile. Pulling open the drawer, Hermione stared at it, her thumb rolling her wedding band around her finger, sliding it forward to her knuckle and back again, over and over. 

◆ ◆ ◆ 

He was bent over his notes again. A tousled shock of white-blonde hair flopped over his brow with a little curl as he leaned forward. His lips were moving, muttering to himself about something he was looking at. A burbling cauldron emitted a steady, dense cloud of steam beside him. It spilled over and flowed onto the floor, where the cloud gathered and rolled all along, obscuring the tiles below. 

She leaned on the doorframe and watched him for a long time in silence. After a while, as he rose to give his elixir a stir with a crystal rod, his eyes met hers and softened. A gentle curve pulled at the corner of his mouth. 

“Dazzled by my brilliance?” He quipped. 

She rolled her eyes with a smirk and strode to his desk to read over his notes and pepper him with a hundred questions. 

◆ ◆ ◆ 

The days, which had slipped by unnoticed in a sea of research and discovery, began to slow with a sense of impending doom. February limped along until it gave way to unwelcome March.

Hermione answered owls and sent chocolates to her children. She had dinner with friends and family. She visited the Burrow and shivered in the garden there, trying to ground herself and find a sense of calm. 

March seventh, then eighth, then ninth, oh god, then the tenth. The awful tenth. Bleak, rainy, miserable, cold, so very cold until ice flowed in her veins. She shivered on the bathroom floor, her back against the cold tile, while scalding water poured from the shower, filling the room with steam but offering no warmth.

◆ ◆ ◆ 

“Granger,” something gently brushed a strand of hair from her face and tucked it behind her ear. “Hermione.” 

She woke, bleary eyes straining against the soft light of her laboratory. Tinny piano music drifted from the wireless she had left on in the back corner. Draco knelt beside the chaise, his forehead lined with worry. 

“It’s nearly gone two in the morning.” His eyes travelled over her. “You don’t look like you’ve had a good night’s sleep in months.” 

“Years, actually,” she mumbled.

“Come on, up.” 

“No,” she shivered beneath the blankets, “I can’t walk anywhere.”

His mouth pressed into a thin line. “It’s too late for any of that business. I’m taking you home.” 

“No.” 

“Not your’s, mine.” 

She stared into those pale grey eyes, their corners taut with concern and something else. Tiny lines had appeared around his mouth, a spiderwebbing of worry while his lips pressed together tightly. 

“Alright.” 

They stepped through the Floo into a beautiful sitting room that, in the day, must be awash with light. Seafoam green walls gave way to exposed beams in ashy brown on the ceiling. Large windows made up one wall with comfortable seats tucked into each of their wells. He led her through the dark house. All was simple and elegant. An understated style for a country house that had clearly been modernised. Books sat in piles by some of the chairs, indicating favourite perches. 

“Where are we?” Hermione asked.

“Cumbria. Not far off from the Lake District.” He glanced over his shoulder at her as they went up the stairs. “I wanted somewhere a little distant from my mother, but where Scorpius and I could do plenty of flying.” 

“Did Astoria choose it?” 

“No,” his voice was soft. “She never saw this place.” 

Hermione let him lead her to a guest room with plush cream carpeting underfoot. A lovely four poster stood in the centre with a little hearth before it. He flicked his wand, lighting a crackling fire. With another flick, a harp in the corner tipped back and began playing itself softly. 

“There are sleeping clothes here,” he said, tapping a wardrobe. “And a loo through there.” 

“Where will you be?” 

“My room is down the corridor. Last door on the right. Bit of a scorch mark in the centre from a burst of accidental magic Scorpius had last summer. Can’t miss it. ” 

Hermione nodded, overwhelmed with exhaustion. She went to the wardrobe and collected some pyjama bottoms and a shirt, then shuffled to the loo. 

When she emerged, he was still there, leaning against the four-poster, a book on broom maintenance in hand. He wore black trousers and a dark green jumper with sleeves pushed up to his elbows. Her eyes travelled down to his sock feet, which were crossed at the ankles. Without a word, she untucked the duvet and slipped into the warm, soft bed. 

Draco turned to her, his shoulder still propped on the wooden post. The little book floated to a table by the window. Most of the tension had left him since they entered the house. He looked so at ease, all long angles and resting elegance.

“I could have stayed on the chaise.” She yawned. “I’ve been there most nights for months. No one minds.” 

“I mind. You’re getting more and more run down the longer you stay there.” 

“But,” she raised a finger above the bedspread, “I’ve still not needed St. Mungos, so you were wrong on that.” 

“Merlin, witch.” He dropped onto the bed and flopped backward, his head resting on her ankles beneath the blankets. “It’s warm here, and it isn’t so quiet. If it were any earlier, I would lend you a book, but you need sleep.” She yawned again as if for effect. 

For a long time, he stared at the ceiling, his chest slowly rising and falling. “I couldn’t sleep in our bed either,” he said quietly. “Seven months in the guest room, and I knew I could never sleep in that bed—that room—again.” 

“So…the house.” 

“So, the house.” 

“Did she like flying?” 

“She did.” 

“I’m not fond.” 

He chuckled. “I know.” He turned his head to face her. Had she ever seen him so carefree and relaxed? “But would you fly with someone else? Did Ron ever take you?” 

“He did. And I would.” She paused, lips rubbing together. “Especially to see the Lake District.” 

A brilliant smile broke across his face. The lines which had looked like worry to her an hour before seemed like joy now. She watched him, her eyes blinking heavily. 

“Sleep, Hermione.” And he turned his head back to the ceiling as she drifted off. 

◆ ◆ ◆ 

Dawn crept in tendrils through the window. It brushed across the floor and swept gold strands along the sheer curtains. Outside, a bird called. Her fire was still burning low in the hearth with a soft hum, the last crackles of birch logs long done. In the corner, the harp had slowed to a few gentle notes sustaining in the light. 

Hermione stretched and wiggled beneath the plush duvet. The scent of jasmine wafted from the fabric as she moved against the fine cotton. Slowly, light filled the room until all the creams and rich chestnut tones of the room were washed in it. 

She crept into the kitchen wearing a soft brown blanket draped about her like a cloak. It was a sleek and rather elegant space with clean lines, wood cabinetry, exposed beams, and a richly textured buttercream patina on the wall. Slipping to the sideboard, she prepared a cup of tea. 

Dappled light filtered into the room through a large hedge outside the broad kitchen window. A sloping lawn stretched away from the house, and a tidy back garden was surrounded thickly by trees. A quaffle lay haphazardly left on the terrace next to a trunk she suspected housed more Quidditch bits and bobs. Every so often, a breeze hit the oddly shaped ball, starting it rocking back and forth. 

She stood by the window, arms folded across her chest with the blanket snug around her as she sipped her tea and watched the light move through the garden.

“How did you sleep?” Draco’s voice, rough with morning, echoed through the room. 

Her eyes held fast to him as he stepped toward the cupboard for a teacup. Grey pyjama bottoms and a blue shirt with sleeves pushed up to his elbows hung loosely from his tall, narrow frame. His hair was ruffled but not terribly mussed, and on the bridge of his long nose sat a pair of reading glasses. He turned to face her, taking a sip of tea, his eyes still contracted with morning sleepiness. 

“Good, yeah—very well." She rubbed her face roughly until the blush she thought must be staining her cheeks receded. “It was such a comfy room. You have a beautiful home.”

His lips pulled at one corner as he took a sip of tea. Steam curled up in a thin line and tangled in the wave of his hair. 

“You know,” he said slowly, “this is the first time in months that I’ve seen you in daylight.” 

She tossed her head, shaking her curls from her face, and smirked. “What do you think? Am I better left to the moonlight and shadows?” 

“Never.” His eyes glittered over the rims of his glasses. 

◆ ◆ ◆ 

Tentatively, it began. Nudges to her shoulder as she fell asleep at her desk. Whispers and brushed curls from her face as she lay on the chaise. A hand pressed into the small of her back leading her to the Floo. 

Wrapped in the soft embrace of a white duvet, a fire crackling in tandem with the harp’s gentle melody, she talked with him until she fell asleep each night warm and rested. They spoke of everything and nothing: books they had read, the magical properties of various wand woods, the potential of rare earth minerals in alchemy, why cotton and silk made superior bedding fabrics, their brilliant children. In the warm evenings and still mornings, tenderness bloomed.

◆ ◆ ◆ 

“Easter holidays are coming soon,” Draco said, crushing obsidian to a fine powder with his pestle. “What would you think of bringing Rose and Hugo to Cumbria?” He ground down hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing with a rough swallow. “We could explore the Lake District. There are so many fine places for flying, and if you’re not keen to fly, there are some trails, perhaps. There’s plenty of space, and it would be no bother—” he was babbling now. She bit her cheek to stifle a grin.

“That sounds lovely.” He looked up sharply, with an open face, and took her in. 

“Yeah?” He collected himself with a shake. “Brilliant, yeah. Perfect. That’s perfect.” 

“I’ll write and let them know the plans,” she said, smiling. A pink tinge crept up his neck, a soft grin curving his lips. 

◆ ◆ ◆ 

For days, the house rang with shouts and laughter. Hugo dashed down the stairs, yelling for the others to wait, still buckling his Quidditch pads. Draco stood in the garden casting wards to keep the game contained and hidden. Albus, Scorpius, and Rose conferred seriously about how to best divide the teams.

At King’s Cross Station, Rose and Scorpius had begged for Albus to join them, and Harry, with a quizzical expression, had acquiesced. As they prepared to leave while Draco was busy gathering the children’s things, Harry pulled her into the shadow of a column.

“Hermione, you know you’re not alone, right?” His green eyes searched hers. 

She threw a long look back at the tall man with white-blonde hair, leaning down to listen intently to Rose, a mischievous grin tugging at his beard. 

“I’m not alone,” she replied with certainty. 

◆ ◆ ◆ 

“Mum,” Rose slid onto the sofa beside Hermione in the sunroom. Rain pattered on the glass roof. “Can I ask you something about Mr. Malfoy?” 

“Of course. What is it, Rosie?” Hermione brushed loose red hair from her daughter’s face, and for a fleeting moment, she was struck by the resemblance—how much Rose mirrored Ginny at that age.

Rose’s brow furrowed, her coral lips pursed in consternation. “Are you dating him?” 

“What? No, I—”

“Because it’s alright if you are,” she rushed on. “He’s kind of funny and nice and really smart, I think, and—”

“Rose,” Hermione cut her off, “we aren’t—I don’t know how to describe—“

“He looks at you in this way , Mum,” she sighed. Her blue eyes, Ron’s eyes, earnest and intuitive, lifted and met Hermione’s. “Like he’s really, really looking at you. Like deep into you. And he doesn’t want to ever look away.” 

Hermione’s eyes drifted to the window where rain streaked down, making an impressionist painting of the garden view. Her fingers pressed against her pursed lips, searching her memories of Draco. 

“Mum?” 

“We aren’t dating, Rosie,” Hermione said softly. “But,” she swallowed, her fingers still before her lips, “it isn’t nothing. It’s just…something else.” 

Rose’s eyes scanned back and forth; a small divot formed between her brows. “I think,” she began, “that whatever it is, it’s good.” Rose sighed and leaned back heavily, her head tipped up to the ceiling. “It’s really good for you, Mum. Your colour is coming back. You look, I dunno, you don’t look so…” she waved her hand, searching. 

“Sad?” 

“Completely undone and wrecked, actually.”

A laugh burst from both of them. “God, Rosie, thanks a lot,” she chuckled and kissed Rose’s head.

Rose leaned on her mother’s shoulder, their hands tangled together, gripping tight, and watched the rain fall. 

◆ ◆ ◆ 

A cloying damp pervaded the unused house. Hermione swept her wand about the room, clearing the air. She trailed up the stairs, muttering cleaning charms and spreading the scent of bergamot. Dust, damp, the still and unloved feeling, all were banished with her magic. 

She stood before the night stand, her thumb rolling across her wedding band. The drawer was opened. The box was removed. And then she was sitting on the edge of the cold bed, holding the ring in her hand, turning it over and over and over. Bringing it to her lips, she kissed the gold band once. Then, she tucked it away in the little blue box and closed the drawer. 

◆ ◆ ◆ 

Draco was sprawled on the chaise in her laboratory, talking while Hermione sat behind her desk, taking notes. The image of a patient and a counsellor crossed her mind, and she bit back a smirk. 

“—and I don’t think that’s what Flamel was doing with it, but I can’t determine how the resin ought to be used. His notes are truly—Hermione, you would be appalled. Dreadful little scribbles. No sense of order. Merlin, and the marginalia! Not an easy man to follow.” 

“You never know what kind of wisdom is lurking in marginalia,” she said, pointing her quill at him. 

He sat up and arched a condescending brow. “What is the wisdom in nuns plucking penises from trees like fruits?” 

“Honestly, if you have to ask…” 

She checked her wristwatch: it was nearly eight at night, not very late at all. An aria from a magical opera about a star-crossed werewolf and Veela warbled from the wireless. Brushing her finger across the ink of her notes and calculations, she pondered for a moment, then laid her quill down and began clearing her desk. 

“What’s happening? What am I looking at?” 

She glanced up sharply, following his gaze to her desk, and frowned. 

“Packing up for the night, what does it look like?” He stared, a look of trepidation wrinkling his brow. “Have I struck you speechless? Honestly,” she shook her head, curls brushing her cheeks, “you’d think I do nothing but work.” 

“Hermione,” he whispered, her eyes met his, “come to dinner with me.” 

◆ ◆ ◆ 

They walked for a long time after, meandering through familiar streets, along the river, and beneath leafing park trees. A fresh spring rain had washed the city, giving it a lustre. Clouds moved fast above them. Hermione tipped her head down and watched their steps in sync. Two souls in the evening, stepping lightly over the damp pavement. 

After a while, a long index finger reached out and looped about the ring finger of her left hand. She turned and met his questioning gaze. Gold light from the streetlamp shone in his pale eyes. 

“I’ve put it away,” she said, and much meaning hung from those words. 

His finger wrapped tighter and squeezed. They stayed like that until, stepping back into the silent Atrium at the Ministry of Magic, they walked to the Floos and journeyed north. 

◆ ◆ ◆ 

A fire crackled warmly in the grate. The harp sat silent in the corner. And on the bed, two souls lay side by side atop the duvet, murmuring to one another. They spoke of nothing and everything. He watched the firelight illuminate the edges of her curls, and she watched it dance in his eyes.

His thumb swept across her brow, tracing the contours of her face. She brought her fingers to his beard, brushing gently along it. Her gaze lingered on the elegant curve of his lips. 

“Are you warm enough?” he asked. 

“I could be warmer,” she whispered, and he pulled her closer, their legs tangling together. 

“Hermione,” he spoke sotto voce, his thumb tracing her jaw as his face tilted closer, noses brushing gently. “I want to kiss you—rather desperately.” His smile then, a soft curve of longing, drew her in, and she found herself closing the distance to grant what they both desired.

Blue early morning light suffused the room. Hermione stirred, beginning to stretch until a strong arm encircled her waist and drew her back. Draco breathed into her hair, nuzzling into her neck. 

“Not yet,” he murmured against her skin. 

In the little hours of the night, they had slipped beneath the blankets. Whispers were followed by tentative kisses, tremulous fingers mapped faces and hands, drawing each other closer. Wrapped in one another, they had drifted to sleep. 

She lay curled tightly against him, her hand clutching his soft shirt. Listening to the spring rain tapping against the window sill, she slipped back into sleep. 

◆ ◆ ◆ 

A subtle shift moved through them. In the ink-black corridors of the Department of Mysteries, their hands brushed and clasped briefly in passing. While poring over research, their fingers found each other intertwining atop the desk. Hermione checked her watch with increasing frequency, finding logical stopping points in her work. At day’s end, Draco leaned casually against the doorframe, ankles crossed, a knowing smirk pulling at his features. With a casual toss of his head urging her forward and his elbow cocked invitingly, he beckoned her to join him. Together, they departed into the dimming light. 

◆ ◆ ◆ 

‘It doesn’t mean he has to be a secret. It doesn’t mean you forget,’ he had said. So, from time to time, when the little blue velvet box in her heart rattled, she opened it and told him what she saw. 

And he listened. 

◆ ◆ ◆ 

“What’s this?” Draco asked, turning the ‘Sherlock Holmes’ collection over in his hands. 

She shrugged. “I think you might like it. Holmes is quite brilliant.”

Later, as they settled into bed, she burrowed deep beneath the covers while he, with ankles crossed atop them, thumbed through the table of contents. “And you’ve read all of these?”

“Only a few and a very long time ago,” she admitted. “Will you read one out loud to me? Your voice has just the right timbre for narrating.” She snuggled closer, her head finding the crook of his arm.

He looked down at her, eyes filled with wonder, and drew in a sharp breath. Wrapping an arm around her and pulling her close, he began, his voice a steady, calming presence in the quiet room.

“In the year 1878 I took my degree of Doctor of Medicine of the University of London…”

◆ ◆ ◆ 

The fireplace in Draco’s room was nearly as large as the one the Floo connected to. It was almost too warm for it, now that June had settled on them, but the nights were still just cool enough. Hermione lay, sprawled on a thick rug, reading a seventeenth century treatise on Time Turner sand. Beside her, Draco was sketching diagrams for a distilling apparatus he had been having trouble with. The sun had set long ago, and now the dim firelight was all that illumined the room.

Resting her cheek on her hand, she watched him. His brows were drawn down in intense focus, casting deep shadows over his pale eyes. He had braced one elbow on his knee and was pressing his knuckles into his pursed lips while his left hand, holding a thin piece of charcoal, moved deftly across the page. The elegance of his hands was hypnotic. 

Lowering slowly, she lay back on the rug, her curls spread about her, and reached out a hand to brush once against those long fingers. Immediately, his motion stilled. He laid the charcoal down and turned his face toward her. Golden firelight caught brilliantly in his eyelashes, the pale grey of his iris, and the white gold curl that draped above his forehead. 

“You are quite beautiful, do you know that?” She murmured. 

A birch log snapped behind her. No other sound was made between them. Two of his elegant fingers lifted to banish the charcoal and drawing gently away. 

Like a stealthy cat, shoulders rolling with each calculated movement, he crawled over her. The distance between them vanished as he hovered just above, the scent and warmth of him enveloped her.

“Hermione,” he whispered as his lips captured hers. 

His hands roamed, exploring, memorising contours and textures—landscapes he vowed to revisit. Her response was equally curious, fingers gentle at first, then demanding, pulling at fabric until barriers fell away, and they were bare to one another. The warmth of the fire wrapped about them. Burning and touching, whispering and crying out. 

His eyes locked with hers in a moment suspended in time, brimming with anticipation and hesitance. They stood at a precipice, the past boxed away secure, safe, and known. Before them spread the future, an uncharted vista. She held his gaze, her eyes a silent plea, inviting him to step into the unknown with her. Two souls, in the golden firelight, knit together, becoming full and perhaps whole again. 

The fire dwindled to glowing embers, casting a soft light over the room. He lifted her palm and gently placed a kiss on its centre. 

“Hermione,” he said, a low murmur in the tender silence, “do you know I love you?” 

Her chest rose and fell, breaths skating across his skin as she lay still. “I know.” A smile curved her lips. Lifting her head, she met his earnest gaze. He pulled her to him in a fierce kiss. 

◆ ◆ ◆ 

Glorious sunlight streamed through her library, filling the room with warmth. She moved about casting charms to rid books of any lingering dust and to protect their bindings. The wood glowed in the brilliant afternoon. Opening a box, she began to place unread books inside until it was filled to the brim. With a tap, she shrunk it all and slipped it into her pocket. 

Somehow, the room felt smaller than it once had. It was only ever really meant for one, she supposed. And now, well, there wasn’t space for both of their collections after all. But the house in Cumbria had a large library room with plenty of empty shelves ready for stuffing. 

As she turned to leave, a beautiful ebony chess set caught her eye. Her hands ran along it gently, thumb caressing the black knight as she lost herself for a moment to memory. Grasping the knight in hand, she slipped it into her pocket, too.

At the bottom of the stairs, she looked about once more. She would be back, she knew. They would all come home soon, of course. There would be conversations and more tears, many more, and Harry would carry boxes, and Ginny would make tea, and together, they would all depart for something new. 

◆ ◆ ◆ 

Steam curled at their ankles, hovering in the heavy air. Sunlight shone in long shafts at the end of the platform as the train rolled into King’s Cross Station. The clanks of the creaking engine groaned and fussed as it rolled in to stop. Its gleaming red belly was warm from travel, and steam issued from its chimney in a billowing cloud as it crept into the station.

Hermione stood, hand clasped tight in Draco’s, waiting for the children. She breathed deep, looking for a jagged edge of hurt. Instead, a wound, recently stitched, ached gently near her heart. Perhaps it was healing well, and perhaps it never entirely would. She rubbed the heel of her palm there, soothing it, and at her side, he pressed into her shoulder. As though he knew. As though he felt his own. 

As the train’s last motions shuddered and jarred through it, she turned to him and rose on her toes, placing a kiss at the corner of his mouth. 

“Draco.” His eyes fixed on hers. “I love you, you know.” 

And his smile was as glorious as the morning sun.