Chapter 1: Part 1 - The Compass (Draco)
Chapter Text
2006
Draco took a long, tired drag from his cigarette as he surveyed the scene before him. It wasn’t exactly rare for to get a call from Potter, though the two weren’t friendly even after all these years. But Draco was contracted with the Ministry of Magic as an expert on the Dark Arts. Potter, as Head of the Auror Department, had somehow convinced Draco that it would be a good way to show the world that his post-war rehabilitation had worked. That, despite how hated the Malfoy name still was, he could at least be useful with the knowledge his family had on the subject.
That had been three years ago when they’d run into each other at a pub. Potter was working a particularly difficult case that was driving him mad, and in less than an hour of conversation and two sangrias each, Draco had solved it for him.
The Ministry contract had come by owl the next day. Draco had almost ignored it, almost thrown it into the fireplace, almost said absolutely fucking not.
But really, what else had he been doing at the time? The war had been over for five years and he’d spent the first year on trial, the subsequent two years in rehabilitation, and the fourth and fifth years skulking around muggle towns in Europe bedding women and being blissfully unknown. Of course, Pansy was all wrapped up in his life in a twisted way after he got out of rehabilitation, as well. Not that it hadn’t been twisted before the war with her.
The problem was that it had all started to lose its charm in Spain. Running into Potter in that small muggle town had, despite the sneer he’d offered Potter at the idea of such things, been some sort of destiny. Fate, maybe.
In the time since, Draco had been called onsite for maybe six cases. Potter regularly wrote with small questions, double checking that his theories were correct or requesting information he couldn’t get, and making sure Draco worked the minimum hours necessary for the contract. The usual things a supervisor might do, but he only requested Draco in person when things were looking bleak.
Bleak was definitely the word that Draco was thinking as he stood in the graveyard. There had been others when he’d arrived, taking pictures, all looking sickly and green in the face. Draco couldn’t blame them when they'd requested to return to headquarters; most just didn’t like to be around him, but the scene was decidedly atrocious. Draco was chain smoking just to keep the smell out of his nose.
“Can I have one?”
He handed the metal case over. “Thought your weasel didn’t like you smoking.”
Potter shrugged. “I think she’ll understand when she sees The Prophet tomorrow.”
Draco agreed privately, but made no further comment. His barbs never irritated Potter anymore, and it took the fun out of calling his wife the old names.
He walked around the three newly dug up graves instead, careful to avoid the blood and bits of brain in the grass, making his way to the headstones. He crouched down, frowning at the newness of the markers. He didn’t even need his reading glasses or a scourgify to make out the names.
Thaddeus Wrange.
Lesley James.
Christopher Planter.
All of their death-days within the last three weeks. All buried within the last week. All missing their brains.
“All muggle?” he asked Potter, who had not joined him.
“Thaddeus Wrange was a squib, but he taught physics at Cambridge.”
Draco rubbed his chin. It was slightly rough as he’d been called from bed at dawn and hadn’t had time to shave. Apparently it had been a mess obliviating the muggles when a local witch had called the Ministry stating that there was dark magic present on the scene.
“The others?”
He could hear the sound of papers flipping. “Hmm.”
Draco waited, letting Potter’s mind work. He didn’t care to do more of it himself than necessary. He hadn’t even had tea yet—a realization that was slowly coming to fruition with a painful vengeance, despite the hangover potion he’d downed before apparating.
“Lesley and Christopher were also squibs, to be married next year. They met during undergrad at Harvard during an exchange program and both graduated with doctoral degrees. Astrophysics and quantum physics, respectively.”
Draco narrowed his eyes and looked over his shoulder. “All three were squib doctors of the same branch of this muggle science? The schools are good?”
Potter nodded, closing the file. “The best. Any ideas?”
He slowly stood, taking the same, safe steps away from the graves. He handed Potter another cigarette and lit his… tenth? He’d lost count. His eyes tracked the obvious traces of dark magic.
This area of the graveyard had a strange, malevolent quality to it. Like something was waiting, creeping, just out of sight. Despite being the height of summer, it was chilly. The air was thick with a residue Draco knew well. It still permeated Malfoy Manor, waiting in corners and rooms and under rugs. Hiding in vases and books.
Eight years wasn’t long enough to clean out centuries of dark magic from that place, from the ground itself. He’d have the whole manor knocked down if he wasn’t worried that it would all escape and find somewhere new to infect.
But the graveyard would be clear of it in a few days at most. Apparently, that was why Draco was called in. Potter and his team couldn’t get ahead of whoever was doing it. This graveyard was the fourth so far.
Draco sighed. “I’ll need to do some research for this… brain stealing activity. Blood magic, obviously, is a possibility, but it doesn’t really explain that all three of them had similar educations. That they’re all squibs is…” he trailed off.
“Alarming,” Potter supplied.
Draco nodded. “It’s either completely coincidental, or whoever is doing this has access to birth records.”
They stared at the scene in silence, digesting that information. The only three places with birth records were the Ministry, Hogwarts, and St Mungo’s.
A loud crack sounded, and they both turned. Draco’s jaw tightened at the sight of Granger.
“Hi Harry,” she said grimly. “Edley sent me to see if you needed help.” She met Draco’s eyes. “Malfoy.”
He said nothing. Their truce was somewhat stable on a good day of having to work in close proximity, but usually ended up in bickering and death threats by the end of a case. Draco still despised her—though not for her blood anymore. He’d realized before the war had even ended that blood-status was a fucking joke. When Potter had told him in that pub that the Golden Trio had been looking for horcruxes, that that’s what had been in Bellatrix’s vault, that the Dark Lord had been a fucking half-blood, he’d outright laughed. Voldemort’s entire life had been a sham—he’d only cared to live forever, to have power and status.
A Dark Lord with daddy issues. It still made him smirk every time he thought about it.
But Granger? She was simply insufferable. Her tone of voice, her know-it-all attitude, none of it had changed in the last eight years. Even her hair was still a bloody rat’s nest, though it was at least up in a bun these days. It at least made her look somewhat palatable. If he squinted enough.
Potter was explaining the new developments in the case during their staring contest. It was what they always did the first day—a power game. That was something that Draco did like. Her inability to hide her emotions always gave him the upper hand.
But Potter was sighing now. “Is this really necessary? You lot have worked together for three years at this point. You correspond almost daily.”
She huffed and rolled her eyes. “It’s not my fault he’s unable to simply say hello. His rehabilitation obviously didn’t teach him manners. He’s a brute by owl, as well.”
Draco smirked. Apparently the truce wasn’t lasting long, this time. “Hello, Granger,” he purred. “Your hair is looking particularly pygmy—puffed today. Did Potter’s wife hide her pet in there?”
She crossed her arms and gave a sharp smile. “Thank you, Malfoy. You look like a particularly ragged ferret today. No time to shower and shave? Considering you still have lipstick on your collar, I’d say you didn’t even roll out of bed sober or at home this morning.”
Potter muttered something and walked away while Draco raised his brows. “Jealous? Last I heard, Weasley was shagging Parvati again. How long has your on-off relationship been going again? Since sixth year? I could show you what a real man feels like if you want.”
A small thrill went through him when her eyes narrowed into something icy. Feral, even. “And last I heard Pansy had to call Blaise and Theo to drag you from her doorstep the night before her wedding.”
That thrill turned to ice of his own at her words. How the bloody hell would she have even heard about that? He forced his tone to bored, indifferent, despite the churning of hatred and dread and regret and—
“I was trying to warn her husband that she’s a cheating whore.”
She snorted. “You would know, since you broke her and Zabini up the second you were out of rehabilitation.”
His temper snapped. “You don’t know a fucking thing about any of that, Granger. I thought you were smarter than listening to the rumor mill, but you’re apparently not any more intelligent than Ron or his home wrecking girlfriend.”
“Fuck you,” she hissed.
Draco barked out a laugh and lit another cigarette. “Jealous, after all.”
She huffed and spun around, following after Potter. He watched her go, unable to stop his eyes from watching the way her hips swayed. She’d taken to wearing a lot of black in recent years. Considering his own wardrobe, he couldn’t find fault in it. Today she was in sheer tights, a mid thigh dress that cut her figure well, and boots tied up to her knees. Her necklines were always modest, her shirts and dresses and blouses always 3/4 sleeved. She never looked unprofessional.
It was just… different. He’d mentioned it to Potter once, who had noticed, apparently, but didn’t seem to think it was strange. Draco found that strange; if anyone should know when something was off with Granger it should be Potter. Weasley was too self-centered to give a rat’s ass, and Potter’s wife was generally busy birthing babes or playing quidditch these days.
Draco wondered if she had any real friends left anymore. He narrowed his eyes. Maybe he should try being nicer.
The thought had him rolling his eyes. Maybe Granger was right and he was still drunk. He’d been up until 3am with… what was her name? Stella? He’d been seeing her for a few weeks at that point. He should probably know her name.
He finally followed Granger. Potter promised pictures and a copy of the file by owl before the morning and he didn’t bother saying goodbye to either of them before he disapparated, intending to get some more sleep and a bloody shower before starting his research.
Draco sat at his desk, tapping his fingers on the dark wood only a few hours later. He was stalling, not wanting to go to the manor. He certainly didn’t want to open the bloody letter Granger had already sent. He supposed he should have stayed to discuss it all with her in person, but their interaction had made him feel off kilter. Strange. Like despite hating one another, they were very much alike these days.
If he was willing to admit it to himself, they’d always been similar. He was always right behind her in classes at school, except potions in which he’d excelled. Her swottiness when it came to information was not much different than his ability to read people easily. She was fiercely loyal to her friends—even Weasley despite the oaf's constant infidelity. Draco was fiercely loyal to his, as well. Even Pansy, despite her and that idiot being cut of the same cloth. At least until she’d gone too far. Draco and Granger both had an air of superiority that they couldn’t shake and may, in fact, be getting stronger as they aged.
That morning, however, had been worse than it was before. It wasn’t usually so personal. They’d had some unspoken rules about what to not use when they bickered. Draco knew he’d been the one to cross that line with the comment about Weasley.
The thought had him opening his drawer to pour a drink.
The worst part about working with Granger in person was that she was always on his bloody mind after he saw her. When she was sending him reports and the like to cross reference and sign off on, he could pretend she was some random colleague. He couldn’t do that when he had to bloody see her every day, sometimes for months at a time.
He growled and tore open the envelope. It contained everything Potter had promised, plus Granger’s own notes. As always, they were meticulously organized. Another thing they had in common. She already had a list of books she had access to and could start researching. She requested Draco to research the others if he had them, and to please let her know if he didn’t.
He scoffed. Of course he bloody had them. Whatever magic that had been built upon over generations of Malfoy’s made it so they couldn’t be removed from the library. Much of the artifacts couldn’t be, in fact. Malfoy was only allowed to go to the manor if he was actively working on a case with Potter and Granger, and he preferred it that way. He absolutely, without a doubt, hated it there.
His throat burned as he gulped half the glass and sat back. Something gold glinted on his nightstand, and he sighed. Stella always left something so she’d be able to come back and get it. He needed to break it off with her. She seemed to think it would get serious, and Draco was so far from that it wasn’t even funny.
His parents and ancestors would be turning in their graves that he was still unmarried at twenty six. That he had no interest in ever doing so, or having an heir, would make it worse. In fact, he had a strong investment in seeing his family name die out at that point. He didn’t want his children, his grandchildren, to be hated for their name—for what family they came from. The last three years being completely back in the wizarding world was bad enough for him, despite being rehabilitated. Despite his work for the Ministry. He was still hated by too many people.
And Potter was too bloody Gryffindor at heart to hate him. He’d even stood as a character witness during his trial, talking about the night Dumbledore died, proving that he’d never actually killed anyone at all during any of it. Sixth year, and school in general, they’d written off now as a rivalry that couldn’t have been anything else. His wife, even, tolerated him well enough the few times Draco had had to make a late night house call about a case.
And Granger… he threw back the rest of his drink.
There had been one night, the two of them working on a case at headquarters, where he’d found her watching him. It wasn’t the way she always looked at him, though, like he was dirt or a particularly nasty blast ended skrewet. She’d been chewing on her quill, getting ink on her lower lip, and she’d had her head tilted to the side. Her gaze had been assessing, but soft.
He’d reached across the desk, wiped the ink off with his thumb before he realized what he was doing. He hadn’t thought about it, hadn’t even considered it. He’d been driven by instinct. And her eyes had widened, her mouth slightly parted as he stilled, thumb still touching her lower lip.
Draco, she’d said softly.
Hermione.
Apparently, it was the sound of their first names on each others lips that broke the spell. They’d both reared back and sent all their notes, books, everything flying.
Draco had not sat at a desk with her since.
That was two years ago. If he cared to think harder on it, he could confidently say that he knew she hadn’t taken Weasley back since then. If he cared to think about it more, he could say that he’d stopped taking Pansy back around that time as well. If he really cared to think quite bloody hard about it all, he could say that he still found her watching him, and he always watched her.
He could say it was a game, between them. Not like the one that morning. No, this one had higher stakes. Which of them might bring it up first, if ever? Which of them might call the other by their given name, again? He said it now, as he always did after he saw her in person. Felt the way it wrapped around his lips, how it came off his tongue as though it was gliding rather than being spat.
He knew he shouldn’t dwell on it. On her. Hermione Granger was out of reach for Draco Malfoy. It didn’t matter how similar they were, or that they worked together, or that he’d noticed the small tattoo on her spine peeking from under her blouses, or that her lower lip had been so full and soft that he sometimes found more pleasure in that memory than in one of his many flings over the last two years.
None of it mattered.
He threw back another drink before disapparting to the manor, determined to get through this case as quickly as possible.
Chapter 2: Hermione
Chapter Text
“How many times do I have to tell you, Ginny? I’m not taking him back. He’s done it too many times.”
Hermione was at the office, talking to her through a two-way mirror. She had finally put the kids to sleep and Harry was in the shower. Gin always used the opportunities when Harry wasn’t around to try to convince her that Ron had changed. It used to work, but Hermione was done pretending with him. He always thought he wanted her back, always thought he wanted to really try this time, but it quickly devolved into the same old thing.
Ron would try for a few weeks to cut back on the drinking, and then he’d start having late nights with the boys, and then he’d start coming home smelling of perfume, and then he’d stop coming home at all—or if he did it was horribly unpleasant. He did the same thing with Parvati, bouncing back and forth between them like they were paddles and he, the ping pong ball.
“He’s been sober for six months now,” Ginny pressed. “Hasn’t talked to Parvati in eight! He’s been working on himself.”
“Has it ever occurred to you,” Hermione said through gritted teeth, “that maybe it is being in relationships with me and Parvati that cause him to drink?”
It was a difficult realization she’d had to accept the last time he'd cheated, two years ago. That maybe Ron wasn’t the entire problem; that just like she did his schoolwork for him and took care of him like Molly did, that she was enabling his behavior. And that made her part of the problem.
It was a real hit to her ego to come to that conclusion. That despite her never ending attempts to fix him, she couldn’t. Something about the war had fundamentally changed him. It had changed them all, of course, but Ron had turned to alcohol during eighth year and his war was not one she wanted to fight the rest of her life. She’d already spent her formative years saving the world. She wouldn’t spend the rest of her life saving Ron.
Ginny’s ramblings stopped suddenly and she knew that Harry had come downstairs. He said something quietly, which made Gin roll her eyes but they quickly said goodbye.
Finally, she could work in peace. She’d sent her list of books and her notes to Malfoy three days prior, and he still hadn’t responded. He sometimes took a week or more, but another graveyard scene had been found just that morning. He’d shown up looking more put together than the last time she saw him, smelling like himself and not whoever he was fucking at the time. He’d not bothered with their verbal sparring, either. He’d just smoked an entire pack of cigarettes, taken notes and told her he’d send an owl soon.
She sighed, rubbing her eyes and pushing her work to the side. It was nearing midnight. She should get home, but truthfully, she preferred to be anywhere else. She hadn’t yet moved since she’d finally decided to be done with Ron. There were still pieces of him everywhere, even if the decorating process had always been directed by her.
Something they’d picked up on holiday. A gift from Molly. A picture of them and Harry and Gin at the wedding. From school. Christmases and Easters and things she didn’t want to get rid of just because Ron was a part of it all. But she also didn’t want to look at any of it anymore.
And yet if she moved, would she leave it all in boxes? Just throw it in the attic and ignore fifteen years of her life?
Maybe she should. It was why she’d started wearing black, after all. Ron had made some comment that black didn’t suit her, but looked great on Parvati. Hermione had thrown her entire wardrobe away immediately. She knew it gave Ron power, gave it all so much bloody power, but she didn’t care. She didn’t have it in her to buy another new wardrobe, just like she didn’t have it in her to move and hide all of her memories away.
She was halfway home, to her loft in muggle London, when she decided she needed a drink. The pub was only a block away, after all. One drink wouldn’t hurt. Not after realizing how much time and energy this case was going to take. Not after that conversation with Ginny. Not after having to see Malfoy again, and not knowing how often she was going to have to see him.
Bloody arse.
She quickly ordered a glass of wine and nestled her way into a booth at the back. It was no busier than normal; the neighborhood pub always had sports on and served food. It was a good place to gather with friends; to meet someone, maybe. But Hermione didn’t want to meet anyone, or talk to strangers, so she did what she always did and pulled a book out.
Still, a much too familiar voice pulled her from Steinbeck’s interpretations of good and evil by way of East of Eden as a large, warm body slid into the booth next to her only thirty minutes later. “Really, Granger? You’re at a bar and you’re bloody reading?”
She ground her teeth, lifting her eyes to meet his. “Yes, Malfoy, and you’re interrupting me. What do you want?”
He smirked, sipping his drink. “Is insulting you not a good enough reason to sit?” She didn’t give him the satisfaction of an answer as she continued glaring at him. He finally rolled his eyes and put an envelope on the table between them. “I was intending to find you at headquarters but security told me you’d already left. Was hoping to catch you before you went to sleep.”
She straightened. “You were going to my house?”
He shrugged a shoulder, like it wasn’t absolutely insane of him to do. “I do the same to Potter when time is of the essence. You’re not special.”
She picked up her book again. “Then go bother him.”
He chuckled, tapping the envelope. “Are you sure you’re not interested in what I’ve found? I don’t think Potter would appreciate it nearly as much as you.”
She squirmed a bit at that. He was relying on her incessant need for understanding to get her to do what he wanted, but she didn’t want to cave to Draco-fucking-Malfoy. “Go buy me a drink and then tell me about it so I don’t have to read your atrocious handwriting.”
He scoffed. “My handwriting is bloody magnificent, as you know.” But he still got up, much to her surprise, and made his way to the bar.
She watched him weave through the tables, taller than everyone else, broader and more athletic than she wanted to notice. He was in his usual slacks and button down shirt, all black. His hair was perfectly styled, short on the sides and long on the top, slicked back, somehow unmoving but probably soft to the touch.
She wondered, as she always did, what it was like to be him. To have lived so long under the pressure of dark magic all around you, in your home, your body, and to still be able to live normally. He must smile, right? Spend time with his friends? Have interests and hobbies? Do something, other than work all of the time?
He turned and met her eyes, smirking all the way back to her booth. She scowled and snatched the drink from him when he sat. After a long sip, and a moment of grounding herself, she met his gaze as professionally as possible. “What did you find?”
He was watching her now, in that strange way of his. Like the silver light in his eyes was of the moon itself, and he was the man behind it all. Always watching. Noticing. Wondering. Did he do that to everyone?
“Malfoy,” she pressed.
He sighed, taking a hearty gulp of his whiskey. “I found a very old book in the manor. Handwritten by some psychotic ancestor of mine, no doubt. It—”
“Hermione?”
She swiveled her head to find Ron standing there. His eyes were darting suspiciously between her and Malfoy.
“Ron.”
He went from confused to furious within seconds, his cheeks and ears reddening, shoulders tensing. She felt herself turning in, her stomach gripping itself. Her eyes seemed to do nothing but zero in on him, on how his jaw worked hard to get words out.
“I went to swing by and figured you were here since you weren’t home. Didn’t realize you were friendly with the ferret these days.”
Hermione quickly opened her mouth to try to correct him, but Malfoy chuckled darkly. She froze as his fingers lightly touched her shoulder, pulling her up straighter by sending a shiver down her spine.
“Hermione and I talk a lot these days, Weasley. Lots to talk about, really, when you can keep up.”
Her eyes widened. He’d said her name. Again.
She cleared her throat—she couldn’t think about that now. “We’re working on a case, Ron. I’m sure Harry told you about the graves.” She swatted Malfoy’s hand away, or tried to, but he held onto her fingers.
“Yeah,” Ron spat. “It's almost one in the morning though, and you aren’t at headquarters working, are you?”
“I make house calls when needed. She was here, and so here I came along to buy her a drink.” Malfoy was still holding onto her fingers, his thumb stroking her skin. “And work,“ he added after a beat of silence.
“Stop,” she hissed at him.
“Hermione, lets talk. Outside.”
She closed her eyes tightly, grounding like her therapist taught her to. Trying to make her head stop spinning.
“No, Ron. I—”
She faltered at his expression when she opened her eyes, but forced the words out. The ones she’d been practicing in the mirror for a year, in therapy, for two. “I’m working, and I meant what I said the last time we spoke. I don’t want to have anymore talks. I’d like to be civil around the others, but we are not friends anymore. I already spoke to Gin tonight: my answer is still no. Please, leave.”
“Hermione,” he growled.
Then he was stepping forward to try to pull her up, and she was frozen and unable to stop him. She’d never been able to stop him, never—
Somehow, Malfoy was there. She barely saw it when his hand, large and calloused, wrapped around Ron’s freckled wrist. Her eyes shot to his face, which was livid in a way she’d never seen. “Didn’t your mum ever teach you that when a woman says no, it means no?”
She put her hand on Malfoy’s thigh, squeezing it. Not hard, not as though his muscles could even be hurt by her small hands. Just a squeeze. He didn’t react, him and Ron glaring at one another, Ron starting to tell him to sod off. But others were starting to notice, and she squeezed again. “Draco.”
He met her gaze slowly. Intentionally. “Hermione.”
She swallowed down the memory of that night, tried to keep herself right there. “Let him go. Please.”
He did so immediately, while Ron cursed loud enough for the bartender to start coming over. “Get out,” Malfoy told him. “Now.”
Ron spit on the table, and met Hermione’s eyes once more. “Never thought you’d whore yourself to him, but guess it makes sense. You’ve always been desperate to be liked. First Krum, now Malfoy.”
The bartender came over with security, escorting Ron out after getting the story from Draco and some of the muggles. Hermione sat there staring at the table, shaking, barely noticing until it was quiet again.
“Hermione.”
Her eyes shot up. He’d done it again, and her eyes filled with tears. “I’m fine. Let’s just go back to headquarters.”
His voice was soft, nothing like she’d ever heard from him. “Are you going to be safe tonight?”
She closed her eyes as the trembling started again. Memories, Ron throwing things in his drunken rages and when he shoved—
“Why don’t you stay at my place.”
She opened her eyes again, breathing hard. Bellatrix over her, carving into her skin, torturing and screaming and— “I can’t ever go back there, I—”
“I don’t live at the manor.” And then he was taking her hands in his. “Breathe. In, two, three, out, two, three. Again, two, three, out, two, three.” Long minutes later, of breathing with him, of staring into his eyes, she stopped shaking. “I have a spare room, it’s yours for the night, alright? We can—” He stopped, clenching his jaw so hard his perfect teeth might crack. “You can tell me what he’s done to you another time. Only if you want.”
She flinched away from him, scooting back. “Why are you being nice to me? I don’t need to be coddled, Malfoy.” She didn’t want to be weak, not in front of him especially and now-
“Because we’re not kids anymore,” he said calmly, but not reaching for her. “This isn’t Hogwarts. This isn’t us bickering at work. You just had a panic attack. Your ex-boyfriend just came in here and tried to forcibly remove you after you said no. He knows where you live.”
“You didn’t need to goad him,” she muttered as she gathered her things, not meeting his gaze.
And then his fingers were on her jaw, turning her face gently towards him. “I would never have done that if I knew. I’m not that person. Not for a long time.”
“You seem to really care if I believe you, Malfoy.” She meant it to be a scoff, but it came out hoarse.
“Stop calling me that.” He was being too kind. Too real. “I want you to say my name. I don’t want to be Malfoy anymore.”
“Why?” she whispered, her throat a desert.
All he said was, “please."
And maybe it was that word. Maybe it was that he’d defended her when she couldn’t defend herself. Maybe it was the feeling of his fingers on her jaw, or that he’d brought the information he found to her before Harry, or that he’d gotten her a drink, or even that he stayed.
Whatever it was, her tongue tasted his name as it passed through: green apples and sandalwood. “Draco.”
He smiled slightly, those silver eyes glowing. “Hermione.”
Notes:
Thank you sm for reading and commenting!! I’m really excited to share this story with you all!!!!!!!
Chapter 3: Draco
Notes:
I should note that this story is primarily Draco’s journey *back* to love, rather than him falling in love. Thus, there are only two more short Hermione POV chapters with a Draco POV in between before it’s almost entirely his POV with some necessary cameo’s by other characters.
With that said, enjoy!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Draco ignored the strangeness, the ease, with which he sat with Hermione and Potter at the latter’s house pouring over case notes. The birth of Albus had been hard on Potter’s wife, so she was apparently coaching the Holyhead Harpies rather than playing, these days. Molly Weasley also loved having babies around again, so she’d taken over watching the children so she could go back to work while Potter worked overtime on their case.
Draco winced at suddenly knowing so much about Potter’s family dynamics. He hadn’t really intended to get so… involved.
He was reading over his notes for the hundredth time. More and more gravesites, a new crime scene every three days, the pattern unchanging. The connections were always the same: squibs, freshly buried, brains gone, each being an expert in some muggle science.
Potter was rubbing his jaw. He’d taken to growing a beard recently. Weasley had one too.
He glanced at Hermione. Did she like beards?
He quickly refocused, eyes returning to the notes. It didn’t matter if she did. It didn’t matter that she was still sleeping in his guest room after a week. That they were eating meals together and living… peacefully. As roommates, he reminded himself. Just until she found something—that was what she’d said. She’d tried to go back to her loft but had found it destroyed and returned in a panic.
She hadn’t even thought twice about apparating right back to him. To him. Not anyone else.
He didn’t know what it meant. To her, anyway. To him it felt like something was shifting. Something important. He just couldn’t be bothered to name it, and maybe it was fear, but he was fine with that. Fear didn’t make him weak—it made him smart. He’d learned that a long time ago.
At least, that’s what he told himself.
Draco didn’t know how much Potter or his wife knew about Weasley. Hermione had told him bits and pieces over the week: how the drinking kept getting worse since the war, how first it was the cheating, then the fighting, then the physical incidents started. The dragging her inside if she tried to leave, the locking her in their bedroom if she tried to pack a bag, the shoving and taking her wand from her.
He felt himself go rigid right then as it all crashed into his mind. He wasn’t even involved with Hermione in any real way, and yet he knew the next time he crossed paths with Weasley, nothing was going to stop him from showing that piece of shit what pain really was. He wouldn’t even need his wand for what he wanted to do.
He slid his eyes back up, frowning. If Potter was still friends with Weasley, he couldn’t know, right?
He didn’t know if he should ask Hermione about it, because if Potter did know and hadn’t done anything about it, then he’d have a real issue with him, too.
“Go through it again,” the Chosen One sighed.
Draco scattered the errant thoughts about his roommate’s situation as he picked the journal up. “An ancestor of mine was a particularly adept potioneer. He developed a potion in 1348, when muggles were dying in the millions during the Black Plague.” He flipped to the dog-eared page and handed it to Potter. “Apparently, if you drink the potion and eat the brains of the newly dead right after, you’ll gain all of their knowledge.”
Potter grimaced. “Bodies were particularly easy to get then.”
“And the wizarding world could easily cure a silly thing like the Black Plague but ignored the squib population entirely,” Hermione cut in. She rolled her eyes. “Of course, if the muggles hadn’t killed all of the cats because of their association with the devil, Europe wouldn’t have been overrun with the rats in the first place. Superstition will be the death of us all.”
Potter fiddled with the cigarette he’d bummed when they’d arrived. He hadn’t lit it yet, and Draco didn’t blame him. His wife was terrifying when angry. “You should know by now that Divination is not entirely fake.”
She huffed, tying her hair back. “There is a difference between real prophecies and claims made by old men about symbolism, especially when related to power grabbing.”
Potter grinned, finally lighting his cigarette and sitting back. “I don’t know, Hermione. I got the Grim in my tea leaves third year, then Sirius showed up as the Grim itself. Figure I’d be dead if you didn’t have that time turner.”
She pointed her quill at him, ink flying off. “Yes, Harry, and you’ve never let me live any of that down, have you? It’s your only bit of evidence when this comes up. Correlation is not causation. A coincidence is not science, muggle or magic.”
Potter’s eyes were a little brighter when Draco met his gaze. “Anything to add, Malfoy? You’re not usually so quiet.”
He stubbed his own cigarette out and vanished the evidence. “I think that the prophecies and other strange things kept in the Department of Mysteries indicates that there are a lot of things that exist that we don’t understand—or that the Ministry doesn’t want us to know about. But not having a complete understanding of things doesn’t mean they aren’t valuable.” He smirked when Hermione rolled her eyes. “Still, I happen to like cats.”
She tilted her head. “You do?”
He shrugged. “The serpent is associated with the devil in muggle literature as well.”
She smacked him with her notebook and he couldn’t stop himself from grinning. She scowled, but her lips were lifted.
Harry cleared his throat and they whipped their heads to him. His bushy brows were high on his forehead. “You two are different recently. Anything you’d like to share?”
Draco stiffened, but his eyes shot to Hermione. He wasn’t going to share her secrets if Potter didn’t know. She was staring at Harry, her jaw now quivering. Her breath started coming faster and Draco grabbed her hand, squeezing gently.
“He did it again,” Potter surmised.His eyes were tracking the way Hermione leaned into Draco's touch. His jaw was set, and there was a darkness in his eyes that Draco hadn’t seen for a long time. Sixth year, maybe. “When?”
She shook her head, her lips pressing together, so Draco told the story.
“She’s been staying in my guest room since,” he finished, feeling strange about Potter knowing that. Protective, even. Like he didn’t want to share the information at all, in case Potter offered her his guest room, instead. “He destroyed her flat.”
Potter sighed. “Ginny needs to know, and so does Molly and the rest of them. Keeping this secret for so long has only made it worse.”
“No,” Hermione rasped, then rubbed her eyes. “I’m not getting everyone involved. I’m just not getting back together with him ever again, and you’re unlikely to see me at gatherings if he is there. I have to move, and just not see him again. It’s the best option for us all.”
Potter opened his mouth but Hermione snapped at him to leave it alone and stormed into the backyard. Draco let her go—the one time he’d tried to go after her, only two days prior—she’d jinxed him. He knew she hadn’t meant to; she’d broken down after, sobbing, but he’d scared her.
He really, really, didn’t want to scare her. He’d never cared so much about how he acted in his life. Even his childhood and performing for the Dark Lord hadn’t mattered—not like this. He wanted to do this right. It was… confusing.
So instead of chasing her, he met Potter’s gaze. “I’d like to know why you’re even still associating with someone whose treated her like that for years and has shown no remorse or willingness to change.”
Potter looked grim. “You were like that for a long time, Malfoy, and yet here you are, with me and Hermione, in my kitchen… reaching for her like you’re her lifeline when she starts to have a panic attack.”
Draco felt his nostrils flare. “You didn’t fucking see her when she apparated back into my kitchen not three minutes after she’d left. You didn’t stay up with her all bloody night as she jumped at every noise and couldn’t remember where she was when she’d invariably wake up from nightmares of Weasley. And that was if she could fall asleep at all.” He lit a cigarette, forcing his jaw to relax. “In fact, if she hadn’t come back she’d probably have nowhere to go, since you’re bloody married to his sister and her parents can’t be un-obliviated.”
Potter only tilted his head, and Draco took that as a sign to continue. “The difference between me and Weasley is that everything I ever did that I needed rehabilitation for was done to keep my family safe. Every day of my life I was under so much bloody pressure from my father, Death Eaters, the Dark Lord himself, to perform. That included from birth, from the very moment I met the three of you until the day my father died."
He sucked his cigarette down, waiting for a response, but none came. “Weasley might have grown up poor and been a bumbling idiot, but what he’s done to her is because he’s too selfish to change, too selfish to let her go, and thinks that tossing a woman around is a good way to feel a little powerful. Wonder how many bruises Parvati’s got on her.”
He leaned forward, snatching his case of cigarettes and lighting one, stubbing the other out. “Or do you think its just Hermione? Do you think its just the woman who won’t fall over herself to make him feel big? Do you think its just the woman who shines too bright?”
Potter stayed silent as he got up and poured the three of them a glass of firewhisky.
“The Chosen One, the Brightest Witch of Her Age, and then Ronald Weasley. What’s he remembered for? Winning quidditch? Being good at chess? Anyone with two eyes can see that even if he was vital in some way to the Golden Trio, he’s never going to matter as much as you and Hermione—he’s never going to be remembered as well. I am remembered as the Youngest Death Eater, I am remembered for unsuccessfully killing Dumbledore, and yet, as you said, Potter: here I am, sitting in this kitchen, with the Chosen One and the Brightest Witch of Age. Where is Weasley, do you think?”
Potter sipped his firewhisky and grinned. “So you think Hermione shines brightly, do you?”
Draco forced himself to not react, to not stub his cigarette out on Harry-too-bloody-observant-for-his-own-good-Potter’s face. “He’s probably at mummy’s, crying to the Weasley brood about how she’s a traitor for being in public with me. And mummy and your wife and whoever else is going to sit there and tell him everything he needs to hear to keep believing that he deserves her, because none of them know that he’s beating her when he’s got her.”
He frowned. “I’ve spent years trying to get her to tell Ginny. I won’t go against her wishes like that.”
Draco narrowed his eyes. “Then you’re an accomplice to his crimes, and a threat to Hermione’s life.”
He left the rest unsaid. If Potter could already tell he was fond of her just by the conversation alone, then there way nothing else to even say.
Everyone knows a Malfoy protects their own.
Draco watched Hermione from across the table. She’d been more quiet since that day at Potter’s. Meeting his eyes less. She was stable enough. No shaking, no jumping at sounds, no eyes darting wildly around. But it felt bad, between them.
“Are you upset I told Potter about the pub?” he asked after Naisy cleared their dinner plates away. It had been eight days that he’d been trying to let her have space, but it wasn’t changing anything. It wasn’t going back to how it was before.
Strange, that he was looking at it that way, but he couldn’t make himself stop.
She was tapping her fingers on the table, which Draco tracked. He did the same thing when he didn’t want to do something immediately. He wondered how much more he’d find that they have in common through her living with him, through working the case.
Until she was gone again.
He ignored the way his chest tightened at the thought. He’d asked her a question—he should at least have the decency to listen to her answer if she wanted to give him one.
Finally, she looked up at him. He’d always thought her eyes were a light brown, but he knew now that they weren’t. They were golden brown, with flecks of chocolate. He wanted to dive into them.
“No, I’m not angry with you.” More tapping. He wanted to wrap her hand in his, tell her she didn’t need to be afraid to talk to him. “I just wonder… if me staying here might give Harry and everyone else the wrong idea.”
His chest tightened so painfully his breath caught. He had to force himself to speak calmly. “What do you mean?”
Her cheeks turned pink and she started gesturing between them. “Well, the way you acted at the pub. Ron has some idea that we’re seeing each other it sounds like and we’re not, of course, but I’m basically living with you and well, I don’t mind, I actually like it here and you’re really easy to live with and I enjoy our conversations and you—”
“Hermione.”
“Ah, yes. I’m rambling. Um.”
“If you want to find a flat I’m not going to stop you. I’ll help you, even. I have multiple properties you could live in, pay me rent if it makes you feel better.” He tried to keep the bite out of his voice. “But I don’t personally give a rat’s ass about what Weasley’s family thinks about you being here after what he’s done to you, and I’ll tell you what I told Potter: if he’s not making decisions that keep you safe, even if you don’t always like them, then he’s an accomplice to Weasley.”
Her eyes widened. “Draco—”
“You helped draft the rehabilitation program I was in,” he continued. “Those are your words.” She just stared at him, and he scoffed. “Do you think I didn’t know that? That I haven’t read the innumerable things you’ve published? That I don’t know that you’re the backbone of progress after the war or that I don’t know where my donations go?”
Her voice was low. “I didn’t know you paid so much attention.”
He forced himself to calm, to release the force from his body, from his voice. “Everyone does.”
She offered a weak smile. “No, they don’t. None of them do.”
Draco tapped his own fingers on the table, holding her gaze for a long time. He didn’t know what to say. He knew what he wanted to say, but he didn’t want to hurt her. To break her apart.
So he smirked, and raised a brow. “Well I’ve never denied I’m superior to your friends. You’re finally just catching up.”
“I don’t want to leave,” she admitted, not rising to the bait. “But I’ll start paying you rent and buy groceries and—”
“I have more money than I know what to do with,” he cut in. “Put it in savings, buy yourself something you want, tip Naisy, I don’t care. I don’t want your money.”
“What do you want?”
He stiffened at the question—at the seriousness of her voice. “I want you to be safe.” It was a careful, neutral answer. One he felt good enough about.
“Why?” she pressed, tilting her head in that way of hers.
Draco should have known she’d not let it go, and he was too stubborn to walk away from the conversation. He was backed into a corner, now. He just had to decide if he wanted to be free from it, or pull her in with him.
He studied her, running through the panic attacks and the conversation with Potter and the pub incident. How when he’d broken Weasley’s wrist, it had been purely on instinct. He would have pulled a man off of any woman in that situation, but he wouldn’t have shattered their bones.
Then it was the late night at the office. The way she’d said his name at the pub and not stopped, just because he asked her not to. The way she came to him if her anxiety kicked up and he was engrossed in something else. How he’d taken to sleeping in his underwear in case she slipped into bed next to him because she couldn’t stand forgetting where she was every time she opened eyes. How he slept better, on those nights, feeling the warmth of her skin on his—even if it wasn’t more.
But Merlin knew he wanted more.
He didn’t mean for his voice to be so low, so soft. “Because I’m a better man when I have something worth protecting.”
Her breath caught, and he found himself continuing, suddenly needing to defend himself. His words. Maybe it hadn’t come out the way he’d wanted it to.
“Listen: I’m selfish—I won’t ever lie about it. In fact, you can count on me never telling you a single lie because there is nothing about your reaction to what I am and do that is scarier than what I’ve already lived through. So yes, I want you to be safe because I know I am a better man when there’s something in my life I care to protect.”
He saw her wavering, trying to sort through what he knew she must think about herself. He couldn’t just let her think—
“I care to protect you, because you are worth it. Because you always shined so bloody bright it blinded me, and I’ve watched it fade over the three years we’ve been working together, and no one else who claims to care for you seems to care enough to protect you.” He shook his head, setting his jaw. “I’m not like Potter. I don’t give a shit if you don’t want me to talk to Ginny or the rest of the Weasley’s about what he’s done to you. If I see them, I’m not bloody holding back. I don’t care if you want me to leave it alone the next time I see him. The likelihood of that idiot not ending up in St. Mungo’s is quite low at this point.”
She cleared her throat, fingers tapping again. “You won’t lie to me?”
Draco chuckled tiredly, rubbing his face. “I suppose I’ve told you a few, here and there. I like your hair, I thought your buckteeth back in school were adorable and I was furious with myself that that spell hit you instead of Potter in fourth year. And every time we have a case like this I look forward to seeing you in person—I bicker with you because you’re the only person who does it as well as I do, and I can’t stop wondering what that tattoo on your spine is.”
Her mouth popped open, fingers stilling. He forced himself to not cross his arms like her rehabilitation course taught him. To keep body language inviting. To not intimidate others.
“It’s a dragon,” she said softly. “One of the longer ones, from China.”
Draco didn’t let himself react—it didn’t matter than she had his namesake tattooed on her skin. It didn’t mean anything. It couldn’t.
Unless—
“I got it…” she laughed shakily, her cheeks turning bright pink. “This is going to sound mad, but I got it after that night we were at headquarters. Ron, he… he’d never touched me like that. Or looked at me like that. And I know we were just tired and it was meaningless but Ron wrote to me the very next morning asking to talk and I realized that I needed to remember that moment between us. I needed to remember that I don’t need him.”
“It meant something to me.” The words were out before he could consider the impact. She pulled back and he closed his eyes. “I just meant—”
“It did?”
He cleared his throat. “I didn’t take Pansy back again after that either.” Next was a smirk, because he desperately wanted a moment to breathe from the seriousness of it all. “I suppose I could get your name tattooed down my spine.”
She finally smiled, and it was so real he couldn’t breathe. “Does this mean we’re friends?”
His fingers fiddled with his case until he had a cigarette in his fingers before he tossed the ugly thing on the table so he wouldn’t have to look at it. He went to the window and lit it, then studied the starry sky. “If that’s what you want, Hermione, then yes, we’re friends. I’d say I’m the best friend you’ve got right now.”
She was tapping the table again, and it was soothing to him. Like he didn’t have to do it himself. Like he wasn’t entirely alone. “I want to know if I need ink on my lip for you to touch me like that again.”
He stilled at her words. “No,” he murmured as he slowly turned his head, looking directly into her eyes. “But that’s not something I do with my friends.”
“Then I don’t want to be your friend.” Her eyes were bright. Real. She wasn’t playing a game with him.
He turned fully towards her, leaning back against the windowsill. “What do you want to be?”
“Whatever comes after that.”
“And I would be that to you? Or do your friends do that to you?”
Hermione scoffed. “No, my friends don’t do that to me. You would be the same.”
She was sitting up straight, staring at him, and he had a distinct feeling that whatever he said next would change things. No matter what it was, nothing could ever take them back from this moment.
“I don’t share,” he settled on, his eyes roving over her, wondering if she tasted as good as she always looked.
She rolled her eyes. “I don’t either, I just don’t expect you consider me your girlfriend or for us to jump into a serious relationship. I don’t usually live with my… whatever, and I live here so—”
“You’re staying.” He stubbed his cigarette out and sauntered towards her. “If that makes you my girlfriend, then that’s exactly what I want.” He crouched at her chair, and she was watching him carefully again. “My girlfriend sleeps in my bed every single night, however, and I have rules.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Rules.”
Draco lifted his thumb slowly, gently touching it to her bottom lip. Her breath hitched and he basked in it—in knowing that he did that to her. And that he could do it again and again.
“No lies,” he murmured. “No cheating. No abuse.” He smirked. “And when you invariably fall in love with me…”
She scoffed, swatting him away, but he leaned in, his lips barely touching hers. “Don’t let it go to waste.”
Notes:
Thank you SO MUCH for reading! I absolutely appreciate ANY feedback you might have to offer. The next three (short) chapters are being posted immediately after this, and I plan to post every 3-4 days.
Chapter Text
Hermione sat on Draco’s bed waiting for him. There was another graveyard to visit, but he’d insisted on the necessity of grooming because some swotty witch once told him he looked like a drunken bastard.
She smiled slightly. She’d actually thought he looked handsome and rugged, but the lipstick on his collar had irritated her. She’d thought it was because they were working, and he could at least dress the part. But she realized now, after a mere week of being his girlfriend, that she did have a bit of a jealous streak. He was a magnet for female attention, and it was apt to make her spiral.
He always ignored it—the attention from other women. He always held her close, kissed her cheeks, played with her hair. He always marked her in some way as being the one he wanted. Ginny had said it seemed overly possessive, but Draco had not hesitated even a moment before he laid it on thick about what a possessive man looks like, her own brother being the worst kind of them.
She’d dropped it after that.
Hermione finally telling Ginny about Ron had strained their relationship in all of the ways she’d been terrified of for years. He was going to be rehabilitated now, and while Draco had said she should press charges, she had just wanted him to get help. Molly hadn’t reached out, though Arthur and Charlie had.
Things with Harry were subsequently strained, but only because of the issues in the Weasley household. He wasn’t treating her any differently, yet guilt ate at her still. He was so obviously exhausted.
Draco stepped out of the washroom, buttoning up his shirt. Hermione’s gaze lingered on the mess of giant scars from when Harry cursed him in sixth year. It was so strange to be there with him, and so far away from what she’d thought her life would be.
Married, dinner three nights a week at the Burrow, endless quidditch games with Ron playing for the Chudley Cannons and Gin playing for the Holyhead Harpies. Chasing after the Potter kids and asking Ron to just wait a little while longer to have their own.
“If you’re going to stare at me every time I show a piece of skin then we’re not going to be moving slowly,” Draco purred, prowling to her.
He touched her cheek and she slowly stood. His tone had been light, but she knew he saw it. That she wasn’t okay. He dragged his thumb across her lower lip, and her heart fluttered.
“That was a joint decision,” she managed.
He kissed her, softly, like he had all of the time in the world to explore every way her mouth moved with his, how it might allow his tongue access to taste her lips, how he might scrape his teeth across her flesh.
“It’s still the right one, since you were thinking about it all again.”
She swallowed hard. “It’s been years, I should be over it.”
His eyes darkened to something gray. A storm, restrained by something somehow stronger, faster, willing to fight harder.
“Part of recovery is not hiding it. It’s only been a five days since you told Ginny. Its worse, almost, having to now live through everyone else’s reactions. Having to see who will be on the other side of the fallout. What you’re going through is normal.”
“What if there’s no one…” She meant it as a question, but it had died in her throat. Admitting her worst fear, that after all of it, she’d be completely alone.
She went to pull away when Draco didn’t answer, but he held her tighter. “Even if we’re not good like this, you’ll still have me. I promise.”
“How can you say that?” She pulled away more strongly, grabbing her bag and wiping her eyes. “You said you wouldn’t lie, and there is no possible way to know if that will be the truth even a month from now.”
She knew she was being moody, acting ridiculous, flying through states of mind like a madwoman, but she had so little control over anything that she was barely keeping it together. Draco had tried to teach her to Occlude, but she’d somehow ended up dissociated entirely.
He ran a hand through his hair—it was how she knew he was losing patience despite seeming to have a deep well of it. It only made her feel worse. “Because I’m not betting a friendship with you on whether we’re sexually compatible.”
She whirled. “Sexually compatible? Friendship? What happened to the whole girlfriend thing?”
He worked his jaw. “You are my girlfriend, Hermione. You live here, we share a bed, meals, I let you use my bloody toothbrush.” He took a deep, slow breath, sliding his hands into his pockets. “And if we get to the sex stage and the way we are is not compatible, we’re going to have to rethink it. I am going to have to rethink it, because my sex drive is high and I prioritize it in a relationship even if right now we are taking things at a pace that is challenging for me. But if I have to rethink it, it doesn’t mean that I’d abandon you. I’d rather find a way to make it work.”
Hermione felt herself bark out a laugh, and it was so unlike her that she wanted to curl in on herself, crawl under the bed, hide somewhere, anywhere. But she had to double down now—had to commit to it.
“Probably shouldn’t waste your fucking time then, Malfoy. Go back to Stella or whoever the hell you were banging before you found me in that pub, hmm?”
A cold indifference overcame him, and she flinched away from it. From the change in his eyes and his tone—like he was pushing her away.
“I don’t play these games in a relationship. If you want to fight because you’re overwhelmed and need an outlet, fine. I’ll fight with you, I’m no bloody saint, either. But if you’re going to make intentionally hurtful comments about changing the nature of what we are, then I’m going to take them seriously. Personally, I am not meaning to be hurtful, and I am sorry that I was.”
She stared at him. How was he so logical, so completely healthy, and she was so broken? He’d been a Death Eater—he’d hurt so many people, and yet she, who sacrificed everything to save the wizarding world, was barely hanging on by a thread.
She looked around in a daze for something to ground her, but everything was spinning. If they were fighting about them, she couldn’t go to him for it. And there was nothing, nothing to hold onto.
It hit her then, and she stumbled back.
She had nothing there that was even hers. She had a second wardrobe at her office because of how late she often worked, a toothbrush, books… everything she needed. But this… this wasn’t her living there. It was charity.
She was a ghost in his house.
Temporary.
Not real.
Her throat seemed to close up, to choke her on purpose, but she forced the words through. “I appreciate what you’ve tried to do here, for me, but it’s not going to work. I’ll stay in my office at the ministry from now on, and see you when we need to meet in person.” She forced herself to meet his eyes. “I’m glad we’ll still be… friends.”
He said nothing as she let her declaration settle. The only evidence she saw that he cared at all was the way his pulse was suddenly jumping on the side of his neck.
But he wasn’t trying to talk her out of it. He wasn’t doing anything.
She didn’t bother saying anything else as she disapparated.
Notes:
I know, I KNOW! It ended before it even began, and IM SORRYYYYY. I’d imagined when I began writing that this story would go one way, but the more I wrote the more I realized I wanted it to go somewhere else. It’ll be worth it!
Thanks for reading!! Please offer me any feedback you have!!!!
Chapter Text
“Hermione not with you?”
Draco’s stomach was churning and overly acidic from the bottle of firewhisky he’d half emptied before showing up. The cigarettes weren’t helping, and neither was the fact that he’d not bothered to eat the toast Naisy had tried to get him to take.
“I thought she was coming.”
He could feel Potter’s eyes on him, assessing. “You don’t know where she is?”
He spit on the ground, trying to get the horrid taste his gums tended to secrete before he vomited out of his mouth. “She said she would be staying at her office from now on, and left. I figured she was going to come here and go there after.”
He was so tightly wound, so bloody furious that he flinched when Potter’s hand landed on his shoulder.
“Malfoy, is she alright? Are you?”
Draco met his gaze, the concern in it nearly making his head spin. He shrugged Potter’s hand off, taking a step back. “Believe me, she needs you more than I do. If you want to be useful, get her some fucking help.”
Potter pulled out his own pack of cigarettes, and lit two, and handed one over. “I was under the impression that that was what you were doing. Getting her help. Outside of her muggle therapy, I mean.”
Draco snorted, shaking his head. They hadn’t directly told Potter about the changes in their arrangement, but he knew. It wasn’t hard to tell since the three of them had been spending 12 or more hours a day together since the case started. “I’m not the right person for that.”
“Let me get this straight,” he said slowly, a strange edge to his voice. “You came into her personal life like a hurricane, destroyed the entire structure of it that she’d painstakingly built over the years to make it work for her, and… gave up? Do I have that right?”
He met Potter’s eyes and set his jaw. “I set a boundary about the way we fight, and she chose to run away. I’m not willing to do these games of throwing old flings around as hexes and daring the other person to leave when things get hard.”
Potter opened his mouth, but Draco kept going, a feeling of burning in his chest making it hard to stop. “Furthermore, I have rules about what I do and I’m not chasing her when she runs. I’m not Weasley.”
An auror, Draco thought his name was Hamitch, interrupted, requesting clearance to clean the scene. He walked away as it was Potter’s call, towards where the cliff overlooked the channel. The water was choppy, and he wondered if a storm was coming.
Potter’s words replayed in his head.
You came into her personal life like a hurricane and destroyed—
The alcohol came up first, burning his throat and mouth, getting into his nostrils as he heaved into the grass. Then it was bile; they’d skipped dinner the night before when Hermione had been too anxious to eat. After that, it was dry, but the heaving didn’t stop. He was on his hands and knees, shuddering with the sheer force of his stomach, his body, trying to deny the accusations.
Long minutes later, Potter crouched down and offered a bottle of water. He scourgified the vomit then sat on the grass, gazing out over the water. They smoked in silence, half the pack gone when he finally spoke.
“The real reason I never told Gin, never did anything except try to talk some sense into Ron, was because I knew I couldn’t follow through with the way it would change everything.” He fiddled with his wand, brows coming together. “My life has been a series of dedications to things larger than myself: saving the world, bringing Voldemort down, chasing down the remaining Death Eaters, this.” He jutted his chin behind them, towards the graveyard. “And when I looked at all that I’ve done and do, I knew, unequivocally, that Hermione Granger was something that I couldn’t save.”
Draco said nothing as Potter seemed to gather his words. “If I wasn’t with Gin, maybe I could have. I think Hermione and I would have been alright together, in a different world.” Draco slowly looked at Potter, caught completely unaware by such an idea. “But what we all needed after the war was someone to dedicate everything to. I do that for Gin—all of my work, my life, I wake up and dedicate it to her every day, and she does it for me. That’s what Hermione did for Ron, and what he was meant to do for her. And now, all this time later, almost a decade, and Hermione is fighting a completely new war, while Ron is still stuck in the last one.”
“Potter—”
He didn’t let Draco interrupt, which had him grinding his teeth and lighting another cigarette.
“I don’t know what you think about when you wake up in the morning or throughout the day, but I know you’re just like me and Hermione. You don’t do things for the sake of doing them, and you don’t do things in half measures. I know why you were at Pansy’s the night before her wedding. I saw the photos, had to sweep the place the next morning.”
Draco ’s jaw was aching by that point. He’d known that, of course he did, but it still made his head spin knowing that Potter had had to clean up Pansy’s mess. The blood magic she tried to use to tie herself to Draco without his permission. It had taken months for St. Mungo’s to clear the bond. To retrieve the dark magic from his soul without fucking killing him.
He rubbed his chest. That was only a year ago.
“I know, based on yours and hers statements, that you’d spent years doing the same dance with her that Hermione did with Ron, that not all of your scars from Pansy can be removed.”
“Is there a point to this?” Draco finally ground out, standing. “I should probably eat something before I vomit again.”
Potter stood as well and met his eyes, flicking his cigarette off the cliff. “Hermione doesn’t believe anyone can dedicate what they do to her, because Ron didn’t, I didn’t, no one did. No one has. She’d accepted that, was willing to live in the glass house she built because at least she wasn’t alone. At least it was mostly contained. But now, it’s shattered.”
Draco sneered, unimpressed by the sob story. “And?”
Potter slowly looked him up and down, and he inadvertently stiffened. He hadn’t been assessed by Potter in years. Not like that. “I’ve never known you to not clean up your messes, Malfoy.”
Potter gave him a brisk nod and walked away, disapparating mid-step on the other sides of the wards they’d had to place around the graveyard.
“Fucking Potter,” he muttered, reaching into his pocket for his own cigarettes. He’d been smoking the Chosen One’s all morning.
But he found himself staring at the case, realizing it wasn’t the one he’d always had. The one that Pansy had given him when he’d been released from the rehabilitation program. That she’d thrown at him too many times to count over the years they were on and off.
There were no dents, no scratches, and it didn’t have his family crest on it. A silver Chinese dragon was engraved, wrapping around both sides of the matte black metal. His namesake constellation was tiny, but twinkling. He brushed a thumb over it, and the dragon moved, flying through the night sky.
His heart wrenched.
When would she possibly have had time to have this made? To exchange his cigarettes from the old case to this one without him noticing?
It had to have been just that morning—she’d had to have slipped the new case into his jacket when he’d laid it out before he showered.
He opened it, finding his hands shaking slightly. Inside, laying between the band and the cigarettes, was a small, folded piece of parchment. He took it out, eyes scanning her precise handwriting.
So you remember, too.
Notes:
Thank you for reading!!!!!! There’s nothing more that I love than Harry dropping a truth bomb on Draco hard enough to make him vomit hehehe.
SOOO appreciative of any feedback you might have to offer!!!! Hope everyone had a great weekend :)
Chapter 6: Hermione
Notes:
ALRIGHT this is the last Hermione POV chapter for a LONG time, and for that, I am sorry. But, again, this story is Draco’s journey *back* to love, whatever that means for him. Hermione will remain a center piece of this story and I PROMISE we will see her again!
Enjoy <3
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“You’re sure about this?”
Hermione nodded once, not meeting Harry’s eyes. He’d gotten back from the scene only an hour ago. She’d spent the morning drafting her resignation and packing her office, everything she had, into her bag using an undetectable extension charm. She’d also spent an undue amount of time arranging with her solicitor to clean and sell the loft with as little involvement from her as possible.
He set the letter down, and took his glasses off, rubbing his eyes. “Where are you going to go?”
“Mexico. My parents, they went to a town called Playa Del Carmen for their honeymoon. I thought I’d visit, take some time to… get myself together.”
He didn’t respond for a few minutes, but when he spoke his voice was gentle. “Does this have to do with your fight with Malfoy this morning?”
She stiffened, but forced out a laugh, anyway. “There’s nothing here for me. I did what I was supposed to do. I saved the world, made it through school with the highest grades in Hogwarts history, published research and drafted legislation and helped rebuild society. This,” she waved her hand tiredly, “all of this is just… it’s time.”
He stood and came around his desk, hugging her tightly. “I wish I had been a better friend to you. I’m sorry.”
She blinked back tears. She understood, really she did. It was some sort of cruel joke, in a way, being so horribly logical by nature. Where would Harry possibly have found time to give more than he did? He hadn’t expected to even survive Voldemort. He’d had no plans for what came next, but the future came anyway.
The trials, the press, his relationship with Ginny and then kids, Weasley family obligations and becoming an auror, an offer to head the department before he’d even finished his first year. Even now, whispers buzzed that he was wanted as the next Minister of Magic as Kingsley was apparently discussing retirement.
Harry was barely twenty six, and yet he had the look of a wizard who’d lived most of his life already.
When she’d gotten to her office after leaving Draco’s apartment, she’d taken one look in the mirror and realized that she did too, except it wasn’t the same life Harry had gotten. Not in the end, anyway. She would never be jealous of him, would never blame him for what he had—he’d earned it all. But she couldn’t stay, either, and have to keep wondering why what she’d gotten felt so cheap.
So, she kissed him on the cheek, and gave a watery smile. “I forgive you. Tell Gin I said bye, will you?”
He said nothing, walking her to the visitor’s entrance where she would go to muggle London, then take a train to the airport and never look back.
As she was about to walk out the door, Harry cleared his throat. “And if Malfoy asks about you?”
They’d lived together less than three weeks—dated for only one of those weeks. She’d not kissed him nearly as much as she’d wanted to, not told him she’d appreciated him as much she should have.
It shouldn’t hurt as much it did, but the pain that shot through her every nerve and choked her chest so hard she could almost swear she felt her ribs crack left her breathless. Harry waited, not pressing, and she wished that Draco had come after her. She wished, more than anything, that he’d chased her, not to force her to stay, but to simply tell her she didn’t have to leave.
That he hadn’t lied when he’d said she was worth protecting.
After a long silence, she smiled sadly. “He won’t, Harry, but thanks.”
Notes:
Thank you a bajillion for reading and for any feedback left! I’ll be posting again in 3-4 days!!!