The Mockingbird's Lullaby

by penthatspeaks

Summary:

Draco Malfoy is a single father raising his and Hermione’s daughter after tragedy tears them apart. As he struggles to give his daughter a life filled with love and safety, he carries the weight of a painful promise—one he made to Hermione before she was taken from them.

Notes:

Thank you all for your warm support! What started as a little plot bunny has now turned into a full one-shot, and I couldn’t have done it without your encouragement.

English is not my first language, and this story is not beta-read, so please excuse any errors. I hope you still enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it!

Happy reading! 💕

The war had ended, but not without its scars.

The world, though free of Voldemort’s shadow, still bore the wounds of his reign. The echoes of screams lingered in the ruins of Hogwarts, and grief settled in the spaces between rebuilt walls. Names etched into the Memorial of the Fallen in Diagon Alley served as a reminder of what had been lost. The wizarding world was healing, but healing was slow, and the past was relentless.

Draco Malfoy knew this better than anyone.

The mark on his forearm had faded into a dull, silvery scar, but it burned in other ways—in the whispers that followed him through Knockturn Alley, in the glares thrown his way when he stepped too close to the sanctity of Diagon Alley, in the careful way he spoke, always guarded, always aware of what people saw when they looked at him.

And yet, in the middle of the wreckage, he had found solace. Found her.

Hermione Granger had once been nothing more than an adversary, an opponent in both academics and ideology. But war had a way of shattering preconceptions, of breaking people down until all that remained were raw, unguarded souls reaching for something—someone—to hold on to.

It had started in the aftermath. In the hush of the Hogwarts infirmary, where beds lined the hall like silent sentinels of suffering. Where Draco had sat, shoulders curled inwards, head bowed, because he had nowhere else to go. His family name was mud, his father imprisoned, his mother under constant scrutiny. He had been alone—until a shadow cast over him, and she had been there.

She had not spoken at first. Merely stood, assessing him, lips pressed together in that determined way of hers. And then, after what felt like a lifetime, she had said, “You should eat something.”

It was not kindness, not entirely. It was obligation. Hermione Granger had been raised to see the humanity in all things, even in those who had once wished her harm. But still, it was something.

Days bled into weeks, and weeks into months. And in the quiet corners of a fractured world, something unfamiliar took root between them. First, in cautious exchanges over parchment, letters that bore neither judgment nor pretense. Then, in stolen conversations beneath the guise of neutrality, until one day, without realizing when it had happened, they had become something more.

Against all odds, they had built a life together.

It was not easy.

The world did not forgive so easily. Society was unkind, and prejudice did not disappear with the fall of a tyrant. The stares followed them wherever they went. There was no open hostility—Hermione’s war efforts had ensured she was beyond reproach, and Draco had done enough to keep his head down—but there was something worse than hatred. There was exclusion. A quiet, deliberate kind of shunning that whispered, You do not belong here.

So, they created a sanctuary of their own.

Their flat was small, nestled in the heart of London, away from the prying eyes of the wizarding world. It was cluttered with books, parchment, and ink-stained fingertips. There were nights of whispered conversations beneath the covers, where Draco would trace absent patterns into Hermione’s skin as she read aloud from whatever book she had stolen from their overflowing shelves.

In the safety of their walls, he was not the son of a Death Eater. She was not the brightest witch of her age. They were simply two people who had survived. Two people who had found each other in the wreckage of what they had once been.

And yet, the ghosts of the past were relentless.

There were days when Hermione would return home, her hands clenched into fists, her eyes rimmed red from whatever battle she had fought that day. Sometimes, it was the Wizengamot, where pure-blooded families still clung to their old ways, where Draco’s name was thrown around as if he were a reminder of everything the world wished to forget. Other times, it was the glares she received in the streets, the whispered words of traitor lingering in the air like smoke.

She never spoke of them, but Draco knew. He always knew.

And then there were his demons. The nights where sleep refused to come, where he woke with the taste of ash in his mouth and the sound of screams in his ears. On those nights, Hermione would find him at the window, staring out at the city beyond, hands trembling.

She never asked him to speak, never forced words where there were none. Instead, she would press her lips to his knuckles, warm and soft, grounding him in the present. And when he finally exhaled, when the weight in his chest loosened just enough, she would whisper, “Come back to bed, love.”

And he would go. Always.

But love, even the fiercest kind, was not a shield against the world.

There were moments that broke them. Moments where doubt crept in, where Draco would wonder if he was dragging her down, if she would be better off without him. Where Hermione, despite all her strength, would wonder if they were fooling themselves.

“I love you,” she had whispered once, her voice cracking under the weight of it all. “But is love enough?”

He had not answered immediately. Instead, he had cupped her face in his hands, brushing away the tears she had not realized had fallen. “It has to be,” he had murmured. “Because if it isn’t, then what else is there?”

And so, they endured.

Because for Hermione, love was not conditional. It was not measured against sins of the past, nor diminished by the weight of his name. It was steady, unwavering, and infinite. Regardless of the darkness that clung to Draco’s history, she saw him—not as the boy he had been, but as the man he had become. And that was enough.

Even in a world that refused to forget, even in the face of every obstacle, there was love. There was the way Draco’s hand found hers in a crowded street. The way Hermione’s laughter filled the walls of their home, chasing away the shadows. The way they always found their way back to each other, no matter how many times the world tried to tear them apart.

And on the nights where the past felt too heavy, where the weight of their scars threatened to consume them, there was the lullaby Hermione would hum against his skin, soft and steady, like the beating of a mockingbird’s wings.

A song of survival. Of love. Of a future they were still daring to believe in.

---

 

Draco never expected to find solace in anything after the war. Not in himself, not in the remnants of his name, and certainly not in love.

Yet, he found it in her. In Hermione.

It was not an immediate realization, nor was it grand or sudden. It came in quiet moments, in the way her fingers brushed against his when she passed him a cup of tea. In the way she stubbornly argued over literature late into the night, her hair a tangled mess, her cheeks flushed with conviction. In the way she looked at him—not with pity, not with judgment, but with something soft and unspoken. Something that felt like home.

And over time, he fell in love. So hard that she became his world.

At first, he resisted it. Love had never been something he was taught to embrace. In his childhood, it had been conditional, transactional—a thing that depended on obedience, expectations, and a duty to bloodlines. But Hermione loved differently. She loved wholly, without pretense or conditions, without demanding anything in return.

And Draco, who had once believed he was undeserving of such a thing, found himself clinging to it like a man lost at sea.

He didn’t know when it became obvious to her, but he suspected she had always known. Hermione had a way of seeing through him, peeling back the layers of self-preservation he had built over the years.

Perhaps she had known the night he had woken in a cold sweat, breath ragged, mind still trapped in the corridors of Malfoy Manor, echoes of Bellatrix’s laughter scraping against his skull. He had expected her to look at him with fear, to shrink away from the darkness coiling around him. But she had only reached for him, pulling him close, her hands threading through his hair as she whispered, “It’s over, love. You’re safe.”

Or perhaps it was in the mornings, when he would wake before her, only to find her curled against his chest, her fingers twisted in the fabric of his shirt as if, even in sleep, she was unwilling to let him go. He would trace his fingers along her cheek, watching the soft rise and fall of her breath, and wonder how someone as brilliant, as strong as Hermione could have chosen him.

He wanted to deserve her. Wanted to be the man she saw when she looked at him, rather than the one he had spent years despising.

And so, he made himself a promise—one he carried in the quiet chambers of his heart, one he would never dare speak aloud. He would make her the happiest woman in the world. He would spend every day proving, not just to her, but to himself, that he was worthy of the love she so freely gave him.

It was in the little things at first. The way he brewed her tea exactly the way she liked it, sweet but not overly so, with a hint of cinnamon. The way he left notes tucked between the pages of her books, little reminders that he was thinking of her. The way he memorized the things that made her smile—the smell of parchment, the taste of strawberries, the way she bit her lip when she was focused.

But it was in the bigger things too.

The way he defended her, fiercely, unrelentingly, when someone dared question her worth, her place in his life. The way he pushed aside his own fears, his own past, to step into a future that belonged to them both. The way he loved her, with every part of himself, as if making up for all the years he had spent denying it.

Hermione, for all her intelligence, sometimes failed to see just how much space she occupied in his heart.

“I don’t need you to prove anything,” she had whispered one evening, as they lay tangled together on the sofa, the fireplace casting golden shadows along the walls. “You already make me happy, Draco.”

But he did. He needed to prove it, not just for her, but for himself. Because loving Hermione Granger was the only thing that had ever made him feel whole. And for the rest of his life, he would never stop trying to be worthy of it.

---

 

Draco had never known happiness like this.

For years, he had believed love was something meant for other people—people untouched by the sins of the past, unburdened by the weight of a tarnished name. But Hermione had unraveled that belief thread by thread, until all that remained was the undeniable truth.

She loved him. Unconditionally. Unapologetically. And when he had asked her to be his wife, she had said yes.

She had said yes.

Draco had spent weeks planning the perfect proposal. He had considered taking her to Paris, the city of lights where she had always dreamed of wandering cobblestone streets with a book in hand. He had thought of the Hogwarts Astronomy Tower, where they had once stood under the stars, where she had told him she believed in second chances. He had even debated a quiet evening at home, proposing over tea and candlelight, just the two of them wrapped in the warmth of their love.

But in the end, it had happened in the most unexpected of ways. A simple, unplanned moment that had felt more perfect than anything he could have ever orchestrated.

They had been at their flat, Hermione curled up on their worn-out sofa, a book in her hands, her hair a wild mess from a day spent in the rain. Draco had been watching her from the kitchen, his heart swelling with something so fierce, so overwhelming, that it nearly stole the breath from his lungs.

She was everything. His light. His anchor. His home.

And suddenly, he couldn’t wait a second longer.

Without a word, he had dropped to one knee beside her, reaching for the ring he had been carrying in his pocket for weeks. When she had looked up, confused, he had simply taken her hand, pressing a kiss to her knuckles before whispering the words that had been sitting on the tip of his tongue for far too long.

“Marry me, Hermione.”

Her book had slipped from her fingers, forgotten, her eyes widening in shock. “Draco—”

“I know this isn’t grand or planned, and I should have done something more spectacular,” he had rushed to say, his voice thick with emotion. “But I don’t want to wait anymore. I love you. I want to spend the rest of my life proving that to you. Will you marry me?”

Tears had gathered in her eyes, and for a moment, he had felt his heart stutter in fear. But then, she nodded, a watery laugh escaping her lips as she whispered the word that changed everything.

“Yes.”

Draco had barely managed to slip the ring onto her finger before she had thrown herself into his arms, burying her face into his neck as she whispered, over and over again, “Yes, yes, yes.”

He had been over the moon, his heart soaring higher than a Firebolt at full speed. She had chosen him. Despite everything, despite his past, despite the whispers that still followed him in public—she had chosen him.

The wedding planning had been a whirlwind, filled with laughter, stolen kisses, and an overwhelming sense of disbelief that this was real. That this was happening.

Despite their history, despite the past they had all lived through, their old Hogwarts classmates had sent their best wishes. Harry had clapped him on the back with an approving nod, and Ginny had grinned as she embraced Hermione, whispering something that had made her best friend blush. Ron had been hesitant at first, but in the end, he had offered his congratulations, gruff but sincere, as if finally accepting that Hermione’s happiness mattered more than old grudges.

Neville had sent them a beautifully enchanted bouquet that never wilted, Luna had written a poem about love transcending the ages, and even Pansy had sent a letter, laced with dry humor but genuine well-wishes.

The day of the wedding dawned crisp and golden, autumn leaves swirling in the wind as Draco stood at the altar, waiting for her.

He had thought himself prepared. Had convinced himself he wouldn’t cry.

But then, the doors opened, and there she was.

Hermione.

His Hermione.

She was breathtaking. Her dress was simple yet elegant, ivory lace trailing behind her as she walked, every step slow, steady, unshakable. But it wasn’t the dress that stole his breath away—it was her. The way her eyes shone with love, with certainty, with a happiness so pure it made his chest ache.

His vision blurred as she reached him, her fingers slipping into his, grounding him. “You’re crying,” she whispered, her smile teasing yet soft.

Draco let out a shaky breath, squeezing her hand. “Of course I am. Look at you.”

The ceremony was a blur of whispered vows and unbreakable promises, of Hermione’s voice steady and sure as she vowed to love him for the rest of her days, of Draco’s voice cracking as he swore to spend every moment making her happy. There was no hesitation, no fear. Only love.

When the officiant finally declared them husband and wife, when Draco cupped Hermione’s face in his hands and kissed her for the first time as her husband, he felt it—

The weight of the past lifting.

The future stretching before them, infinite and filled with possibility.

And above all else, the unwavering truth that he was exactly where he was meant to be.

With her.

Always.

---

 

Everything was bliss.

Marriage had been a dream—better than anything Draco had ever imagined. Waking up beside Hermione every morning, coming home to her laughter, feeling her fingers brush against his as they prepared dinner together—it was a kind of happiness he never thought he would have.

But just when he thought life couldn’t get any better, it did.

It happened on an ordinary evening. Hermione had been quieter than usual, her fingers tracing mindless patterns against the rim of her tea cup. Draco had noticed, of course—he always noticed when something was on her mind.

“Alright, love?” he asked, nudging her foot under the table.

She looked up at him then, her warm brown eyes filled with something he couldn’t quite place. There was nervousness, yes, but beneath that, a tenderness so raw it made his breath catch.

“I—” She let out a shaky breath, a small, disbelieving smile curling at her lips. “Draco, I’m pregnant.”

For a moment, everything stilled.

The words echoed in his mind, sinking into every fiber of his being. He stared at her, mouth slightly parted, chest rising and falling as if he had forgotten how to breathe. His hands trembled where they rested on the table, and then—

Then, he moved.

Draco pushed back his chair so quickly it scraped against the floor, and in the next second, he was in front of her, dropping to his knees. His hands found her waist first, then slid to her stomach, hesitant, almost reverent.

His fingers trembled as they pressed against the soft fabric of her sweater, and when he looked up at her, his vision blurred with unshed tears. “Say it again,” he whispered, voice hoarse, as if he needed to hear it one more time just to believe it was real.

Hermione’s fingers brushed through his hair, her touch grounding. “We’re having a baby, Draco.”

A strangled sound escaped his throat—a mix between a laugh and a sob. And then, he was pressing his forehead against her stomach, his arms wrapping around her waist as he held her, held them , as if letting go would make the moment slip away.

Tears spilled freely down his cheeks, soaking into the fabric of her sweater. He had never cried so openly before, not even on their wedding day. But this—this was something else entirely.

Hermione cradled the back of his head, her fingers threading through his hair, soothing, loving. “Are you okay?” she whispered, though she already knew the answer.

Draco pulled back just enough to look up at her, his silver eyes shining with emotion. “You’re carrying our child,” he murmured, as if the very words were sacred. He exhaled shakily, pressing his lips to her stomach in a lingering kiss before whispering against the fabric, “Hi, little one. It’s your dad.”

Hermione let out a soft laugh, watery and filled with so much love that it made his heart ache. “Our baby is already so lucky,” she said, brushing away the tears on his cheeks. “They have the best father in the world.”

Draco swallowed thickly, shaking his head. “No,” he said, voice trembling. “But I’ll try, Hermione. I’ll try every single day.”

And he meant it. With every fiber of his being, he meant it.

The weeks that followed were filled with wonder. Draco became even more protective than usual, fussing over Hermione at every opportunity.

“Love, you shouldn’t be carrying that,” he’d say, taking even the lightest of books from her hands.

“I’m pregnant, Draco, not made of glass.”

“But what if it falls on your foot?”

She had rolled her eyes, but there was always a fond smile playing on her lips.

At night, when he thought she was asleep, Draco would press his hand against her still-flat stomach, whispering quiet words meant only for their child. Promises. Hopes. Love.

And when he finally felt the first flutter of movement against his palm, he cried all over again.

Their love had created life. And for Draco, nothing in the world had ever felt more magical.

---

 

Draco had never known a happiness quite like this.

Every day, Hermione’s belly grew rounder, a constant reminder that their love had created something extraordinary—someone extraordinary. And every night, when the world quieted and it was just the two of them tangled together in bed, Draco would rest his hand on her stomach, feeling the faint kicks of their daughter, overwhelmed by the sheer miracle of it all.

Tonight was no different.

He lay beside Hermione, his head propped up by his hand as he traced light circles over her swollen belly. A soft glow from the bedside lamp illuminated their bedroom, casting warm shadows across the room. Outside, the rain tapped gently against the window, filling the silence between them with a comforting rhythm.

Hermione shifted slightly, turning her head to look at him, her curls spilling across the pillow. “You’re thinking,” she murmured sleepily, her voice laced with affection. “I can hear it.”

Draco let out a soft chuckle. “I always think, love.”

She arched an eyebrow. “Yes, but this is your ‘I have something to say but I don’t know how to start’ look.”

He hummed in amusement, letting his fingers splay across her belly as their daughter kicked beneath his touch. His heart clenched at the sensation. “We should choose a name,” he admitted softly, glancing up to meet her gaze.

Hermione’s lips curled into a smile. “You’ve been thinking about this, haven’t you?”

“For weeks,” he confessed, brushing his thumb across her skin. “I want it to be perfect.”

Hermione reached for his free hand, lacing their fingers together. “Alright, Mr. Malfoy. Let’s hear your list.”

Draco smirked, but there was a flicker of nervousness in his expression. “Well, I considered some traditional names—ones with history. Like Scorpius, if she were a boy.”

Hermione wrinkled her nose playfully. “Draco, our daughter is not going to be named after a constellation.”

“Why not? My name is,” he teased, his eyes twinkling.

“Yes, but you’re already one-of-a-kind,” she countered, squeezing his hand. “I was thinking something softer. Something that feels like home.”

Draco exhaled slowly, letting his mind drift. “What about… Lyra?”

Hermione’s eyes brightened. “Lyra.” She tested the name on her tongue, and Draco watched as a thoughtful smile spread across her lips. “It’s lovely.”

“She was a brilliant heroine in an old Muggle book series, wasn’t she?” he asked, a little smug.

Hermione gasped in mock offense. “You actually read His Dark Materials ?”

He shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “You leave books everywhere, Granger. Eventually, I had to pick one up.”

She laughed, her fingers brushing his cheek. “Lyra Hermione Malfoy,” she whispered, testing the full name.

Draco’s breath hitched. Hearing it aloud, feeling it settle in his heart—it felt right. “Lyra Hermione Malfoy,” he repeated, reverence in his tone. “Our little star.”

Hermione’s smile was brilliant, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “You think so?”

Draco pressed a lingering kiss to her belly, his voice thick with emotion. “I know so.”

And as their daughter fluttered inside Hermione’s womb, as the rain whispered its blessings against the glass, Draco knew, without a doubt, that their little Lyra was already so, so loved.

---

 

Draco never imagined a world without Hermione.

Yet, here he was, standing in the ruins of their home, clutching a bloodstained note in trembling hands, his breath coming in shallow, ragged gasps.

"We take from you what you once took from us."

The words blurred as his vision swam, his grip tightening so fiercely that the parchment crumpled beneath his fingers. The coppery scent of blood lingered in the air, an agonizing reminder of what had been stolen from him. Hermione—his Hermione—was gone.

Their daughter, Lyra, barely a year old, whimpered from her crib in the next room, blissfully unaware of the horror that had shattered their lives in an instant.

Draco’s knees buckled. He barely managed to catch himself against the wall, the strength draining from his body as his mind spiraled into a frenzy of disbelief and anguish. He had woken up that morning to the scent of Hermione’s lavender shampoo on his pillow, to the sound of her soft humming as she rocked Lyra in her arms. And now—now she was gone .

No body. No trace. Just this single, cruel note and a pool of dried blood on their bedroom floor.

The Aurors had already searched the house, the Ministry was already mobilizing, but Draco didn’t hear their voices anymore. He didn’t hear Harry trying to reassure him, or Ron pacing with fury, or Ginny’s quiet sobs in the hallway. He heard nothing. Felt nothing. Just an unbearable emptiness ripping him apart from the inside out.

He staggered into their bedroom, his breath hitching as he took in the overturned furniture, the shattered mirror, the lingering scent of Hermione’s perfume mingling with something far more sinister—fear. A struggle had taken place here. She had fought.

Of course, she had fought.

His brilliant, fierce Hermione would never go quietly. He knew, he knew , she had given them hell before they dragged her away. But it hadn’t been enough.

He stumbled to the bed, his hands trembling as he picked up one of her scarves, clutching it as if it could somehow bring her back. The fabric was soft against his fingers, but it was cold. Everything was so, so cold without her.

A broken sob tore from his throat, and he pressed his face into the scarf, his chest heaving with silent agony. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t breathe .

Footsteps sounded behind him. He barely registered the hand that landed on his shoulder.

“Draco…” It was Harry. His voice was gentle, but firm. “We’re going to find her.”

Draco lifted his head slowly, turning to meet Harry’s gaze. There was grief there, deep and raw, but also determination.

But Draco—Draco felt nothing but a gaping chasm of despair. His entire world had been ripped away, and all that remained was the shattered pieces of the life they had built together.

He wanted to scream. He wanted to burn the world to the ground until they gave her back.

Instead, he closed his eyes and whispered the only thing that mattered.

“Find her.”

Days passed. Then weeks. Then months.

Hermione Granger-Malfoy became a name spoken only in hushed tones, in tear-streaked whispers, in desperate prayers that went unanswered.

There was no ransom. No trace. No answers.

Just silence.

Draco stopped sleeping. Stopped eating. His world narrowed to the walls of Malfoy Manor, where he paced the halls like a ghost, where he pored over case files until the ink blurred, where he held Lyra in his arms and whispered promises he wasn’t sure he could keep.

“I’ll find her, little star,” he murmured against his daughter’s soft curls. “I swear it.”

But even as he vowed it, even as he searched every dark corner of the wizarding world, a terrifying thought clawed its way into his mind.

What if she was already gone?

What if they had taken her from him forever?

And what if—

What if he never got to say goodbye?

---

 

Draco had begged. He had searched. He had bargained with devils.

But Hermione was gone.

The world had not stopped turning for his grief. The sun still rose each morning, casting its indifferent light over a world that felt infinitely darker without her. The Ministry still carried on, Aurors still pursued leads, and life—somehow, cruelly—moved forward.

But not for him.

Draco remained frozen in time, trapped in the moment he had found that bloodstained note. He had spent every waking second since then trying to undo it, clawing desperately at the impossible. He had become a man undone, unrecognizable even to himself.

He had offered gold, more than anyone could ever spend in a lifetime. He had promised power, whispered his willingness to bend knee to any who could bring her back. He had even offered himself—his life, his blood, his body—as payment. He had stood before the lowest of criminals, his once-proud shoulders slumped, his voice raw from pleading. He had grasped at the robes of warlocks, of mercenaries, of seers, anything, anyone who claimed they could find the lost. He had been willing to tear apart the very fabric of existence if it meant he could hear her voice again, feel her warmth against him just one more time.

But it had not been enough.

The proud, untouchable Draco Malfoy had been reduced to nothing more than a desperate, broken man, crawling through the filth of the world in search of the one thing he could never replace.

He had scoured every dark alley of Knockturn, every underground network of criminals and mercenaries, seeking whispers of the rogue faction that had stolen her from him. He had hunted, followed trails that led to nowhere, held his wand to the throats of men who flinched at the name Malfoy but had nothing to give him.

“Tell me where she is!” he had roared, more beast than man, slamming one informant against a stone wall until his knuckles bled. “Tell me, or I swear to Merlin I will make you beg for death.”

But every answer was the same—nothing, nothing, nothing.

He had broken down in Diagon Alley once, standing in the middle of the street, his body shaking as the realization began to seep into his bones. He had fallen to his knees in the cold winter slush, his vision blurred by tears, his breath coming in ragged, gasping sobs as witches and wizards passed him by, murmuring among themselves about the fallen Malfoy heir. He hadn’t cared. He didn’t care . The world could burn, the sky could fall, none of it mattered without her.

He had lost count of how many times he had stormed into the Ministry, demanding action. Harry had done his best, working tirelessly, pushing Aurors to the brink of exhaustion. But with no leads, no evidence, no trail—

Nothing.

Draco had never known what true helplessness felt like until now.

He barely noticed himself wasting away, his skin growing pale, his once-impeccable appearance becoming disheveled, his sharpness dulled by endless nights spent in torment. His hair, once neatly combed, now hung in a tangled mess. His hands, once steady, shook as he clutched the last piece of parchment Hermione had written on. His clothes hung looser on his frame, as if his body was slowly caving in on itself, starving for something it could never have again.

And Malfoy Manor—his prison, his grave—became nothing more than a mausoleum. The halls that had once felt suffocatingly large were now too small, filled with ghosts of a woman who had once breathed life into them. He saw her everywhere. In the library, where books sat untouched, her bookmarks still wedged between pages. In their bedroom, where her scent lingered on the pillow she hadn’t slept on in months. In the nursery, where the rocking chair still swayed as if she had just been there, humming a lullaby to their daughter.

And Lyra.

Their daughter had started to recognize that something was missing. She would toddle through the halls, searching for her mother, her tiny fingers curling into Draco’s robes as she looked up at him with wide, innocent eyes.

“Mama?” she would ask, her voice hopeful.

And every time, Draco’s heart shattered anew.

He could not give her an answer. He could not bring himself to say the words. So he would simply hold her close, burying his face in her curls as he whispered, “She loves you, little star. She loves you so much.”

But he did not know how to be both mother and father. Did not know how to carry the weight of the emptiness Hermione had left behind.

There were nights he collapsed on the floor outside their bedroom door, unable to step inside, unable to face the bed that no longer held her warmth. He would press his forehead against the cold wood, his hands fisting in his hair, and he would scream —a raw, agonizing sound that no one but the walls of the manor bore witness to.

And then, when Lyra had drifted into sleep, safe in his arms, Draco would return to his search.

Because if he stopped, even for a moment, it would mean accepting the unthinkable.

And he couldn’t.

Wouldn’t.

Not when his heart still beats only for her.

---

 

Six years had passed.

Six years of searching. Six years of waiting. Six years of waking up to an empty bed, reaching for someone who was never there.

Draco Malfoy was not the man he used to be.

The arrogant Slytherin prince, the one who sneered at the world from behind an air of superiority, had died the day Hermione was taken. In his place was a man who lived for one thing, and one thing only—his daughter.

Lyra was six now, all wild curls and bright brown eyes that mirrored her mother’s so perfectly it stole the breath from his lungs every time he looked at her. She was his light, the only reason he had not allowed his grief to consume him whole. But even she could not erase the hollow ache in his chest, the void where Hermione used to be.

Tonight, like every other night, he sat beside Lyra’s bed, running his fingers through her hair as she drifted between wakefulness and dreams.

“Papa,” she mumbled sleepily, her tiny hand curling around his fingers. “Sing the song.”

Draco’s throat tightened. She meant Hermione’s song—the lullaby she used to hum when she rocked Lyra to sleep, the one Draco had memorized even though it pained him to sing it. He could still hear Hermione’s voice in his head, soft and sweet, wrapping around the notes like a warm embrace.

He cleared his throat, forcing down the lump that threatened to choke him. “Alright, little star,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “Close your eyes.”

And so he sang. His voice was rough, worn with sorrow, but steady. He sang the lullaby of a mockingbird, of love and loss, of a mother’s arms that should have still been here to hold their daughter.

By the time he reached the last note, Lyra’s breathing had evened out, her lashes fluttering softly against her cheeks. Draco let out a slow breath, his hand lingering on her hair, as if touching her was the only thing keeping him tethered to the present.

“Goodnight, my little star,” he murmured.

He sat there long after she had fallen asleep, staring at her peaceful face, at the way the moonlight cast soft shadows over her features. She was growing so fast. Too fast. And every day, she became more like Hermione—the way she read books far beyond her age, the way she scrunched her nose when she was concentrating, the way she fought to understand things that even adults struggled with.

“Where is Mama?” she had asked just a week ago, looking up at him with those big, knowing eyes.

Draco had nearly dropped the book he was holding. He had known this day would come, had dreaded it since the moment Lyra had been old enough to form the question. But knowing hadn’t made it easier.

“She… she had to go away,” he had managed, his voice barely above a whisper. “But she loved you. More than anything.”

Lyra had stared at him for a long moment before nodding solemnly, as if she understood things beyond her years. “I miss her,” she had said simply, her voice heartbreakingly small.

Draco had pulled her into his arms then, holding her close, pressing his lips to the top of her head. “I miss her too, my love. Every single day.”

And that was the truth. There was not a single moment that passed where he didn’t feel the weight of Hermione’s absence. He had learned to live with the pain, but it never dulled. Never lessened.

Some nights, when the world was silent and even the walls of the manor seemed to mourn, he would pour himself a glass of fire whisky and sit by the window, staring at the stars. He liked to think Hermione was out there somewhere, watching over them. He liked to pretend she could hear him when he spoke to the night, whispered his regrets, his love, his never-ending grief.

“Are you proud of me, love?” he murmured into the darkness one evening, his voice barely more than a breath. “I try, every day, for her. But without you, I don’t know who I am anymore.”

The wind howled softly outside, as if answering him, but there was no real response. There never was.

Still, he endured. For Lyra.

He learned how to braid her hair, how to fix her favorite stuffed bunny when the seams tore, how to make her tea just the way Hermione used to—sweet but not too sweet, with a pinch of cinnamon. He learned how to read her favorite bedtime stories in all the voices she liked best, how to hold her when nightmares woke her in the dead of night, how to be both mother and father, even when the weight of it threatened to crush him.

He shielded her from the world’s cruelty, from the whispers about her missing mother, from the pitying looks people gave them. She was his everything, his reason to keep breathing, and he would not allow the world to taint her innocence.

But grief was a cruel thing. It did not soften with time; it only learned to hide in the quiet moments, lurking beneath the surface, waiting to strike when he least expected it.

Like when he caught a glimpse of a woman with bushy brown hair in a crowded street and felt his heart lurch before reality crashed down on him.

Or when he found an old jumper of Hermione’s tucked away in the back of their closet, the scent of her still clinging faintly to the fabric.

Or when Lyra, with all the unshakable certainty of a child, had looked up at him one morning and said, “Mama will come home one day. I just know it.”

Draco had nodded, swallowing past the lump in his throat. “I hope so, little star.”

And that was the truth.

Even after all these years, despite everything, he still hoped.

Because if he didn’t, he wasn’t sure how he would go on.

And as he sat there, watching over their daughter, he whispered the same words he always did into the quiet of the night.

“Wherever you are, Hermione… I love you. I will always love you.”

---

 

Draco never stopped writing to her.

Even though he knew she would never read them, even though the parchment remained untouched and unsent, he wrote. Because if he didn’t, it would feel like losing her all over again.

 

---

August 4th, 2004

Hermione, love,

She said her first word today.

I wasn’t ready for it. I don’t think I ever could have been. One moment, she was sitting on the floor, playing with that ridiculous stuffed kneazle you bought her, and the next, she looked right at me and said, ‘Papa.’

It was so small, so soft—but it was real.

I tried to smile for her. Tried to laugh like a good father should when their child reaches a milestone, but it felt like a blade through my chest. Because I had spent so many nights dreaming of this moment, picturing the way we would both turn to each other, how your eyes would light up, how you’d squeeze my hand and whisper, She said it, Draco, she really said it.

But you weren’t here.

It was just me. Just me and our daughter, sitting in the quiet of this house, with no one else to witness something that should have been ours.

I held her close and whispered how proud I was. But the words were thick in my throat, and my heart felt so heavy, love. So heavy.

I miss you. Merlin, I miss you.

Come home. Please.

Yours, always,
Draco

 

---

December 17th, 2004
Hermione,

She took her first steps today.

I wish you could have seen it. Lyra had been pulling herself up for weeks, always so determined, just like you. And then, this morning, she let go of the chair and wobbled toward me. Three whole steps before she fell into my arms. Three perfect, wobbly steps.

She was so proud of herself. She clapped her tiny hands, laughing like she had conquered the world. I tried to match her enthusiasm, but, love, it hurt .

I should have been sharing this moment with you. You should have been the one calling out to her, your hands outstretched, your voice full of encouragement. But you weren’t here. You’re never here.

So I held her, buried my face in her curls, and whispered what I know you would have said— Clever girl, my little star, you’re so clever.

I ache for you, Hermione. Every single day.

Yours, hopelessly,
Draco

 

---

March 21st, 2006
My love,

It happened. Her first bit of magic.

It was accidental, of course—just like we always imagined it would be. She was upset because she couldn’t reach the top shelf in the library, and before I could lift her up, the book floated right into her hands.

She gasped, wide-eyed, and turned to me, grinning like she had just discovered the greatest secret in the world. Did you see, Papa? I did it!

And, love, I swear—I saw you in her at that moment. The same fire in her eyes, the same insatiable curiosity, the same brilliance that made me fall in love with you all those years ago.

I should have been able to turn to you. I should have been able to hold your hand and say, Did you see that, Hermione? Our little star did magic!

But you weren’t here.

And it’s killing me.

I miss you. I miss you so much it’s unbearable. Every milestone, every moment, every second of joy is tainted by the aching truth that you should be here. That you should have been here.

But I’ll keep writing to you, even if these letters go unread. I’ll keep telling you about her, because if I stop, it feels like losing you all over again.

Yours, endlessly,
Draco

 

---

May 14th, 2007
Hermione, love,

Lyra asked about you again today.

She’s getting older. She’s too clever for her own good. I see it in the way she studies me when I hesitate before answering, in the way she furrows her brow like you used to when something didn’t add up.

She asked if you were coming home.

I couldn’t lie to her. I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. I just sat there, helpless, as she looked up at me with your eyes, waiting for an answer that I couldn’t give her.

I wanted to tell her yes. That any day now, we’d hear your voice again, that I’d wake up and find you standing in the doorway, smiling, saying, I’m home, love. I’m here now.

But I couldn’t say that. So I just pulled her into my lap and held her, whispering the only truth I know.

That you love her. That you loved her before she was even born. That you loved her so fiercely, so completely, that not even time or distance could take that away.

And I wonder— can you hear me, Hermione? Do you know how much we miss you?

I hope you do. I hope you know I’ll never stop waiting for you.

Yours, unwaveringly,
Draco

 

---

November 2nd, 2009
My dearest Hermione,

Lyra turned six today.

I baked a cake. It was a disaster, love. The frosting was lopsided, and I nearly burned the edges, but she still smiled like it was the best thing she’d ever seen. It’s perfect, Papa, she said. Just like you would have.

She made a wish before blowing out the candles. I didn’t ask her what it was. I already knew.

It was for you.

She still believes you’ll come back. And sometimes, I hate myself for not being able to believe with the same certainty she does.

Six years, Hermione. Six years of waiting, of searching, of whispering your name into the dark.

But no matter how much time passes, I can’t let go. I don’t want to let go. Because if I do, it means accepting that you’re never coming home.

And I can’t. I won’t.

So I’ll keep writing to you. I’ll keep telling you about our little girl, about the life I’m trying so desperately to hold together. And maybe, somehow, wherever you are—you’ll hear me.

I love you, Hermione. I will always love you.

Yours, forever and always,
Draco

 

---

 

Lyra was the only part of Hermione he had left.

And Draco would be damned before he let the world break her the way it had broken him.

He shielded her from the cruelty of whispers, from the weight of absence that loomed over their home like a storm that never passed. He did everything he could to keep her world intact, to make sure she never felt the same emptiness that clawed at his chest day after day. He gave her love, patience, and a version of himself that was steady and whole—because that was what she needed.

But behind closed doors, he was a man unraveling at the seams.

He told her stories of Hermione, wove her mother into every bedtime tale like a legend meant to be remembered for centuries. Your mother was the brightest witch who ever lived , he would say, tucking the blankets around her small frame. She was clever and kind, stubborn and brave. She saved the world, Lyra.

Lyra would listen with wide, adoring eyes, clutching the stuffed kneazle that had once belonged to Hermione. “Tell me more,” she would whisper, and Draco would give her more. He would tell her about the girl who had faced down Death Eaters and injustice with equal fire in her veins, about the woman who had loved so fiercely it had reshaped his entire existence.

But what he didn’t tell her was how much it hurt.

How every word felt like a knife twisting deeper, a reminder that these stories were all Lyra would ever have. That she would never hear her mother’s laughter, never feel her warmth, never know the way Hermione smelled like old parchment and cinnamon. He painted Hermione as a hero, but in his darkest moments, he feared that wasn’t enough.

Because love should not just be a story. Love should be here .

And Hermione wasn’t.

At night, when the house was quiet and Lyra was asleep, Draco let himself fall apart.

He sat in the library, surrounded by books he no longer read, a bottle of firewhisky in his hand. The glass was cold against his fingertips, but the burn in his throat was familiar, welcome. He drank not for pleasure, not for escape, but because it dulled the edges of his grief, turned the unbearable into something he could carry.

Most nights, he made it to his bed. Other nights, he collapsed onto the couch, the empty side of his bed too painful to face. But no matter where he lay, the routine was always the same—he closed his eyes and whispered her name into the dark.

“Hermione.”

Sometimes he imagined she would answer. That she was just beyond his reach, just a breath away. That if he listened hard enough, he would hear her voice, soft and exasperated, telling him to stop being so dramatic, to put down the whisky, to come to bed.

But there was only silence.

And so, he whispered again. Over and over, until sleep finally dragged him under, until he could see her in his dreams, if only for a little while.

The days passed in an endless cycle. He was strong for Lyra, shattered for himself.

He sat with her in the garden, watching as she chased butterflies, her laughter echoing through the air like music. He held her hand when they walked through Diagon Alley, ignoring the pitying looks, the murmurs of ‘ poor child, growing up without a mother’. He tucked her in at night, ran his fingers through her curls, and promised her that she was loved.

And he drank.

He drank because the firewhisky burned less than the grief. Because every time he looked at Lyra, he saw Hermione. Because even after all these years, he still woke up expecting to find her beside him, only to be met with cold sheets and an emptiness that never left.

He drank because it was the only way he knew how to survive without her.

---

 

It was a quiet night.

The kind of night where the air was thick with the scent of rain, where the world felt still, as if it were holding its breath. The fire crackled softly in the hearth, casting golden light across the nursery walls, illuminating the framed photographs that lined Lyra’s shelves—pictures of her as a baby, of Draco holding her for the first time, of a life carefully pieced together despite its missing half.

Draco sat on the edge of Lyra’s bed, smoothing down her curls with careful fingers. Her stuffed kneazle was tucked beneath her arm, her small frame curled beneath the softest blankets he could buy. He had learned early on that warmth was a poor substitute for a mother’s embrace, but still, he tried.

She blinked up at him, her brown eyes filled with a question that sent a slow, creeping dread down his spine.

“Daddy,” she whispered, voice small in the quiet of the room. “Why don’t I have a mummy?”

Draco felt his heart crack, a deep and silent fissure that had been waiting to split open since the day Hermione disappeared. He had known this moment would come. Had dreaded it with every fiber of his being. But nothing could have prepared him for the way those words stole the breath from his lungs, for the way they turned his limbs to stone.

He forced a smile, though it felt fragile on his lips. “Oh, my little star…” He brushed his thumb against her cheek, his voice steady despite the ache buried beneath it. “Your mummy loved you very, very much.”

Lyra frowned, scrunching her nose—just like Hermione used to. “But where is she?”

Gone. Gone. Gone.

The word sat on his tongue like poison, like something that would shatter them both if spoken aloud. How did you explain loss to a child who still believed in fairytales? How did you tell her that some stories didn’t have happy endings?

So instead, he swallowed the truth, buried it deep, and forced his voice to stay soft. “She’s watching over us, love. Wherever she is, she’s always watching.”

Lyra’s face brightened with childlike certainty, as if that was enough. As if knowing Hermione was somewhere made up for the years she had lost. “Then I’ll make her proud!” she declared, grinning. “I’ll be the best witch ever, just like Mummy!”

Draco let out a quiet laugh, though it wavered at the edges. “You already make her proud, little star.” He tucked the blanket around her, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “Every single day.”

Lyra beamed, her eyes fluttering shut as sleep began to pull her under. Within moments, she was lost in dreams, her small hand still curled around his sleeve, as if holding on to the promise he had given her.

But Draco… Draco knew better.

He knew that no matter how many stories he told her, no matter how many lullabies he sang, no matter how many gifts he bought to make up for the empty space beside them—nothing could fill the void Hermione had left behind.

And as he sat there, watching over their daughter, he whispered the same words he always did into the quiet of the night.

“I miss you, Hermione. I miss you so much.”

And the only answer was silence.

He knew that no matter how many stories he told her, no matter how many lullabies he sang, no matter how many gifts he bought to make up for the empty space beside them—nothing could fill the void Hermione had left behind.

That night, he didn’t go straight to bed. He couldn’t.

Instead, he walked down the darkened halls of the manor, past the rooms that no longer felt like home, past the ghosts of memories that whispered through the walls. His steps led him to the study, where a half-empty bottle of firewhisky sat untouched on the desk.

He reached for it without thinking, pouring himself a glass with hands that trembled just slightly. The amber liquid burned as it slid down his throat, but it did nothing to thaw the ice lodged deep in his chest.

With a heavy sigh, he lowered himself into the chair, running a hand through his hair. The exhaustion wasn’t just physical—it was bone-deep , the kind that no amount of rest could mend.

His gaze drifted to the fireplace, where the flames cast flickering shadows along the walls. He could almost imagine Hermione there, curled up in the armchair, a book in her lap, her face illuminated by the firelight.

He closed his eyes.

For a moment, he let himself pretend.

That if he turned his head just slightly, he would see her there. That if he spoke, she would answer. That if he reached out, his fingers would brush against hers, warm and real and here.

But when he opened his eyes again, there was only the empty chair, the quiet hum of the night, and the crushing weight of reality pressing down on him.

He set the glass down with a sharp exhale, dragging a hand over his face.

How was he supposed to do this alone?

How was he supposed to keep moving forward, day after day, when every step felt like walking through quicksand?

The only thing keeping him together was Lyra. She was his anchor, his purpose. But even she couldn’t mend the wound that bled endlessly beneath his skin.

Because the truth was, he wasn’t whole. He hadn’t been since the night Hermione vanished. And no matter how hard he tried to be strong, no matter how many times he told Lyra that her mother was watching over them—

He didn’t believe it.

Not really.

Because if Hermione was out there, if she could see him now, she would know the truth.

That Draco Malfoy was a man barely holding himself together.

And that no matter how much time passed, no matter how many years slipped through his fingers, he would never stop waiting for her to come home.

---

 

The storm raged outside, a furious symphony of wind and rain battering against the windows of Malfoy Manor. Lightning split the sky, casting jagged shadows across the darkened halls. Thunder followed, deep and unforgiving, rattling the very foundation of the home that had long since ceased to feel like one.

Draco sat at his desk, hunched over a parchment stained with ink and grief. His hands trembled as he dipped the quill into the inkwell, his knuckles white from the effort of keeping himself together.

But tonight—tonight, he was breaking.

The weight of it all, the sleepless nights, the hollow ache that never left his chest, the silence where her laughter should have been—it crushed him.

With a shaking breath, he pressed the quill to the parchment.

Hermione,

I don’t know if you’re out there, if you’re alive, if you’re watching over us. But Lyra—our Lyra—is growing up, and I’m terrified she’ll forget you.

I tell her your stories, your laughter, your kindness. I tell her how you would have tucked her in, how you would have sung to her. But it’s not the same. It will never be the same.

Some nights, she asks for you. Her little voice, so innocent, so trusting— Where is Mummy? Will she come home soon? And Merlin, love, it kills me.

Because I don’t have an answer. Because I can’t lie to her, but I can’t tell her the truth, either. I can’t tell her that I don’t know if you’ll ever walk through that door again, that I don’t know if she’ll ever hear your voice, feel your arms around her. I can’t tell her that every day without you feels like I’m drowning, like I’m trying to keep us both afloat with hands that are bleeding and broken.

I miss you.

Gods, Hermione, I miss you so much I can’t breathe.

They tell me to move on. That six years is a long time. That I should let go, for Lyra’s sake. But how do I let go of you? How do I let go of the woman who saved me, who loved me despite everything I was, everything I had done?

I wake up every morning and reach for you, only to find cold sheets. I hear your voice in my dreams, only to wake to silence. I look for you in the crowd, in every curl of brown hair, in every sharp wit and stubborn fire, but it’s never you. It’s never you.

If you can hear me, if there’s any part of you left in this world—know that I love you. That I will love you until my dying breath.

I will keep my promise. I will protect her.

But Merlin, Hermione, it should have been me.

Will always loving you in this lifetime,
Draco

Draco let the quill slip from his fingers, his breath shuddering as he pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes. He wanted to scream. He wanted to tear the world apart, to demand the universe give her back.

But all he could do was sit there, his body shaking, his heart cracking open like an old wound that never truly healed.

Lightning flashed outside, illuminating the letter that would never be sent, the words that would never be heard.

And in the silence that followed, Draco whispered her name, over and over again, as if somehow, somewhere, she might finally answer.

That night, Lyra wakes up crying, pointing to the window.

"Mummy was here," she whispers. "She sang to me."

Draco doesn’t believe in ghosts. He doesn’t believe in signs. But when he looks at the window, he swears he sees a figure in the rain—wild curls, deep brown eyes, a whisper of a smile. His heart stops. His breath catches in his throat. Because this time, she doesn’t disappear.

She stands there, trembling, rain-soaked and worn, but real.

Draco doesn’t think. He doesn’t hesitate. He bolts for the door, his legs carrying him faster than they ever have before. The storm howls around him, the cold rain soaking through his clothes, but none of it matters. The only thing that matters is her .

The moment he reaches her, he throws his arms around her, pulling her against him with a desperation he’s never known. His hands clutch at her thin frame, feeling the sharp edges of her bones, the scars that now mar her once-soft skin. She’s lost weight—too much—but she’s here. She’s real.

"Hermione—" His voice cracks, and then he’s sobbing, clutching her tighter, burying his face in her shoulder as his entire body shakes. Years of grief, longing, guilt—all of it pours out of him in ragged, choked cries. He holds her so tightly, as if he lets go for even a second, she’ll slip away again.

Hermione’s arms wrap around him, just as tightly. She’s crying too, her fingers tangling in his hair, holding him close as if she’s afraid he’ll disappear. "I’m here," she whispers, her voice hoarse, weak. "I made it home."

Draco pulls back just enough to look at her, his hands cradling her face. His thumb brushes over a faint scar on her cheek, his heart breaking at the sight of her exhaustion, the pain that lingers in her eyes. But beneath it all, there’s that same fire, that same Hermione.

He shakes his head, his own hands trembling as he cups her face. "I thought—" His voice wobbles. "I thought I lost you forever."

She shakes her head, pressing her forehead to his. "Never. I fought—I fought so hard to come back to you. To Lyra."

At the mention of their daughter, Draco lets out another strangled sob, his chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven breaths. He looks at her, at the woman he thought he would never see again, and he just weeps .

Hermione kisses his tears away, her own falling freely. Their lips meet in a desperate, broken kiss—one filled with years of longing, of suffering, of love that never faded. The rain falls around them, cold and relentless, but neither of them notice. They are lost in each other, in the feeling of being whole again.

Behind them, a soft voice pierces the night.

"Mummy?"

Draco turns sharply, his breath still ragged, as Lyra stands in the doorway, clutching her blanket, eyes wide with disbelief. The storm casts eerie shadows behind her, but all Hermione sees is her —the little girl she thought she’d never hold again.

Hermione gasps, breaking away from Draco to turn toward their daughter. Her hands tremble as she kneels, arms open. "Lyra, my love."

For a moment, Lyra hesitates, as if afraid this is all a dream. As if one wrong move will shatter this fragile miracle. But then, without warning, she runs—straight into her mother’s arms, sobbing against her chest.

"You're here," she hiccups. "You really came back from sky."

Hermione holds her so tightly it’s as if she’ll never let go again. "I promised I would."

Draco kneels beside them, wrapping his arms around both of them, pressing kisses to Hermione’s temple and Lyra’s curls. He feels Lyra’s little arms wrap around both of them, clutching them as if she, too, is afraid they’ll disappear again. He breathes them in, breathes in the scent of home, of family , and for the first time in years, he truly breathes.

Hermione lets out a choked sob against his shoulder, her fingers twisting in his robes. "I missed you both so much," she cries. "I fought for so long, Draco. I didn’t know if I’d make it back. I—"

"Shh," he soothes, pressing his lips against her forehead, against Lyra’s. "You’re home now. You made it. That’s all that matters."

They lay like that, locked in each other's embrace while the storm continued to rage. But where they were, in each other's arms, all was quiet.

And now finally, after so many years of pain, want, and heartbreak . . . 

They found home.