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“Granger, I’m going now,” Draco whispered. Hermione startled, the words shattering her carefully constructed cloud of denial.
“Theo’s going to accompany me as far as he can out of London,” he continued, “and then I’ll be on my way to an deserted island of the Ministry’s choosing.”
Her mind whirred, frantically searching for something, anything to say. But the only thing that her panicking mind could come up with was one word.
“No!” she all but screeched.
“Granger, you know how it is. If it was our choice, if we were in a world of our own, or the world we wish we could make, perhaps things could be different. As it is, I know you’ll hate me for saying this, but this is what’s best for you, and I hope you’ll be able to understand that eventually. And please, never give up on trying to make society a better place for us all.”
“Mal. Foy,” she grated back. “You are not doing this to me. I won’t let you.”
Memories flooded her vision — and his, too. The first time they’d eaten lunch together, him arrogantly convincing her to toss her atrociously bad meal out and eat his magnanimously offered ravioli instead. The time she’d completely surprised him by bringing homemade, hand-decorated cupcakes to his desk in an apparent secret mission that had required her to sneak into his office during a meeting. When they’d each stayed late at work and bumped into each other in the records room, both searching for the same manuscript that was the key to both of their research angles. Being “forced” to work together after that, sharing the single copy of the alchemical manuscript and reading over each other’s shoulders while huffing and puffing at the inconvenience of it all. Not truly listening to any of their coworkers’ suggestions on their work, but taking each other’s feedback with utmost consideration.
The mutual pining that followed, with Hermione confiding in Luna, and Draco confiding in Theo. The couple — Theo and Luna, that is — conspiring together to set them up on a date … and the rest was history.
And then, the memories turned dark, cold, and bitter.
Draco being confronted in front of their entire laboratory, accused of being an evil informant, feeding information to the newly revived Dark Side. Hermione jumping to his side to defend him, but even her fierce attestations to his integrity of character making no difference.
Hermione putting herself on the line, threatening to quit her life-changing research into healing after the Cruciatus curse if Draco was not reinstated to his position. And again, this changing nothing.
Draco knew that, for the good of society — for the good of Hermione — it was better for him to disappear into obscurity, to never again be seen “contaminating the Golden Girl,” as it had been declared he had done, so that she could continue her work and follow her passion. No matter what he or Hermione said, nobody would listen that his own ultimate purpose and passion was to make amends for his past, and to make a real difference in the recovering Wizarding World. He had been told by Head Auror McLaggen — whose qualifications for the job seemed dubious, to put it generously, and nonexistent, to put it Draco’s way — that he could lose Hermione in a voluntary exile, or he could lose his life.
She’d been convinced if they just stood their ground, something would work out in the end. But what she didn’t know— the one secret he’d kept from her — was that if they resisted, McLaggen threatened that she would be considered a fallen agent for siding with him, and would subsequently be imprisoned, killed, or worst of all, used as a test subject for endless Cruciatus Curses. So, though he knew he would never truly feel alive again without her, both options amounting to a death of some kind on his part, he took the option of exile to preserve Hermione’s life.
The time frame that McLaggen insisted on for Draco's departure was so short that they’d barely had time to digest what was happening, let alone mourn what they would lose.
In their relationship, they’d worked together professionally, making a highly efficient team. They’d also spent their time off together, comforting or entertaining each other, sparring or challenging each other. The one thing they hadn’t done was put words to what they meant to the other.
It needn’t be said out loud — or so they thought. They preferred to let their actions speak for their feelings, rather than their words — Hermione always offering a sweet treat and even sweeter words for Draco when he needed support, Draco looking after her, cooking, cleaning, and making sure things generally didn’t get out of hand as they had when he’d first gone over to her flat, where he’d even begun helping out with her stupid Kneazle — but Draco could not bear to leave them unsaid now in their final moments together.
“Granger … I want you to know something,” he said, voice rough, overcome with emotion. “I’m so sorry; I wish I’d said it sooner.”
A tear welled up in her eye as she looked at his face, completely vulnerable in a way he never trusted anyone else to see. He met her gaze, and swallowed hard.
“I want to say it because I won’t have the chance again. You mean everything to me, and you always will, Granger. There’s no one else I’d rather be with. I’ll spend every day of the rest of my life missing you. And I … will always love you,” he managed, waveringly.
His expression was so open, so devastating, that Hermione could do nothing but sob. She wanted so badly to say something back, to tell him that she felt precisely the same. But for once in her life, Hermione Granger couldn’t find her words, every bit of her heart's fire extinguished at the prospect of Draco’s permanent absence.
Instead she clutched onto him, arms wrapped around him as tightly as she could, faced buried in his chest as she hoped to infuse even a fraction of her love into the embrace. Because he had to know. He was the best part of her life, and it would be nothing without him, a reality which she could not bare to face, even in the moments before they would be forced apart forever.
They each took in the essence of the other, the constant warmth emanating from Hermione, the persistent chill from Draco. Their signature scents — cinnamon and vanilla and sunshine, peppermint and coffee and frost — melding together. The way her body folded into his, and the way his arms enveloped her.
They seemed so perfect.
But they were never meant to be.