#dramione angst
final one! i hate this update sm but thanks for reading. read ‘the leaky cauldron’ and ‘illicit affairs’ before embarking.
trigger warning: ptsd, nightmares, alcoholism, violence, trauma, major character death
The shadow covers me
The sky above a blaze that only lovers see
Amy Winehouse, ‘Tears Dry On Their Own’
Ron looks like someone’s punched him in the gut. The anger and betrayal and pain that burn through his eyes make Hermione wish the ground would swallow her whole.
It’s over, it’s over, my friends, Ron, Harry, everyone and everything I fought for, it’s over, it’s finished -
It’s Draco who speaks first. ‘Weasley, listen -’
‘Shutup,Malfoy, you bastard -’ Spit flies from Ron’s mouth, and tears well in his honest eyes. He’s reaching for his wand -
‘No!’ Hermione screams. In her panic, she lets the bedsheet that she’s been clutching to herself fall. Gooseflesh covers her body but she’s warm from embarrassment as she gathers the sheet up again. Ron’s eyes don’t stray from her face, not for one second. They look so lost, and so sad, and oh god, what have we done?
Draco’s fumbling into a pair of scruffy trousers.
‘Hermione -’ Ron’s voice cracks.
She’s crying now. ‘Ron, I’m so sorry -’
‘How long?’
She can’t answer, because she knows the answer is toolong.
‘It was when you started staying here overnight, wasn’t it?’
‘What’s it to you, Weasley -’ All of a sudden, he’s the same Draco that picked on her at school.
‘SHUT UP, MALFOY!’ Ron roars, brandishing his wand, and suddenly Draco’s whipped his out too, and they’re going to fight, they’re going to kill each other, and it’s all my fault -
‘NO!’ Hermione screams again. Ron drops his wand a little at this, and Draco, now back to herDraco, touches her shoulder gently. His hand is shaking.
‘We can leave, Granger. We could leave this all behind, us two together, I know you’re not happy -’
‘Oh, it’s Grangernow, is it?’ Ron yells. ‘No more MUDBLOOD?’
Draco flinches, and Ron notices. He laughs bitterly. ‘You might - you might feel bad about it now, but that doesn’t mean you can just erase all the hateful things you said to her -’
‘Ron!’ Hermione’s voice is high and shrill. The tears are a waterfall now, and Draco’s hand is still on her shoulder, and she never wants it to leave.
Ron’s face crumples. ‘Why him?’He whispers. ‘When the waitress who worked here told me, I didn’t - I didn’t believe it. But I had to see for myself - Hermione, why? He was horribleto you for years - he fought for fucking VOLDEMORT, for fuck’s sake!’
Oh god oh god oh god
Hermione pushes the urge to throttle the bloody waitress out of her mind and focuses on the matter at hand.
‘I don’t know,’ she croaks. ‘I don’t - Ron, please don’t cry, please!’
‘Granger.’ His hand’s digging into her shoulder. It will leave a mark to accompany all the other ones he’s left on her.
Ron’s face is red and blotchy and he’s shoving his hands to his face like he can’t believe what’s happening and it’s awful it’s awful -
‘Hermione, I know things haven’t been… amazing between us - maybe we were just better off being friends, I don’t know - but for you to be fucking Draco bloody Malfoy -’
Aforementioned gently places Hermione’s robes in front of her. She wants nothing more than for him to hold her and never let go, but she couldn’t do that to Ron.
Like you’ve not done enough to him already -
Draco’s voice is a whisper. ‘Come on, Hermione, let’s go.’
‘You fucking - STUPEFY!’
‘PROTEGO!’
Ron’s spell rebounds back towards him. He flies across the room - and there’s a sickening crack as his head hits the wall.
Hermione screams. The blood drains from Draco’s face. He runs to Ron, who’s head is at a funny angle.
She’s sick with fear, all over the crisp white sheets.
‘Weasley - Weasley, are you alright -’
Hermione wipes the vomit from her mouth and crawls over to the two men she loves.
You said loves -
Yes I did.
Draco’s desperately feeling for Ron’s pulse, and he’s sobbing now too.
‘Weasley, wake up, please,wake up -’
‘RON!’
After what feels like hours, Draco gives up feeling for a heartbeat and lies Ron on the dusty floor. He starts to push down hard onto his chest, so hard that Hermione’s scared he’ll break Ron’s ribcage -
What does his ribcage matter anymore when he’s -
She clamps a sweaty hand over her mouth.
Draco’s still pushing but it’s not working, so he tries blocking Ron’s nose and breathing into his mouth, and when that doesn’t work, Hermione tries instead.
There’s only so much you can do -
SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UPPPPPPP
She tries all the healing spells she ever learnt at Hogwarts and read about in her textbooks.
It feels like the sun has set by the time Hermione gives up.
Draco pulls her into his chest. They cry together until the sky above’s ablaze with reds and oranges and pinks.
They don’t tell Harry the truth. Actually, Hermione doesn’t tell Harry the truth. As far as he knows, Draco is still hiding somewhere after the judges at his trial allowed him to escape Azkaban.
What Hermione does tell Harry and Ron’s family is similar to the truth. She says Ron died from a head injury after his spell rebounded while fighting a criminal; he was an Auror, after all. Her and Draco agreed that it was the easiest choice. Maybe the Sorting Hat was wrong, and she should have been put in Slytherin.
It’s a possibility that they’ll be found out. Hermione doesn’t care. She’s going to tell Harry the truth, one day. She knows she owes it to Ron to do so.
For now, she says that she needs to spend some time away from it all. Travel a bit. Harry understands. His kind eyes and round glasses and the childhood memories that cling to him make Hermione want to pull her hair out.
She dreams of the Great Hall at Hogwarts. The ceiling is bewitched to look like the night sky, and the tables are piled high with food. She’s laughing with Harry and Ron. She dreams of Bellatrix opening her arm with a knife, and Ron coming to save her while Draco looks away. She dreams of obliviating the waitress, and wanting to punch her face in. Draco holds her back as she kicks and screams.
He’s always there, and Hermione’s glad. If there’s one thing she hates now, it’s being left alone, and she knows it’s the same for him. They move from muggle home to muggle home where there’s very little chance they’ll be recognised, constantly checking which family goes on holiday when. Draco talks about breaking into his father’s vault at Gringotts and stealing some of the Malfoy family fortune so that they have more to live on. Hermione doesn’t know whether he’s joking or not.
He’s there for the nightmares and cold sweats that Hermione’s starting to accept will never go away. She holds his clammy hands as he vomits into a toilet bowl when the memories of Voldemort’s visits to Malfoy Manor rear their ugly heads. She reprimands him when he makes a throwaway comment about muggleborns, because even after his change of heart, he still has so much left to learn. Hermione tries to teach him, and he listens.
Sometimes they argue, and sometimes their fights are as petty as the ones they used to have at Hogwarts about who was top of the class. But sometimes there’s screaming, and throwing things, and Hermione will tell Draco it’s his fault Ron’s dead. Sometimes he’ll hex her, but she always deflects his spells. Sometimes he’ll storm out and won’t be home for hours, but just as Hermione’s finished crying herself hoarse he’ll stumble in, blind drunk. Sometimes this will make her cry even more. Sometimes she’ll go and kiss him anyway.
Weeks turn into months, and months turn into years. Draco complains about the muggle way of life, even though Hermione knows he finds some of their customs fascinating. It isn’t as easy for her to admit, but she misses the wizarding world too.
She dreams of Draco and Ron, but she only wakes up to one of them, now. The white blonde hair that used to mean insults and torment when she saw it across a school classroom is now a welcome sight on the pillow next to hers, even if that sight fills her with guilt every second of every day.
She wouldn’t feel right without it.
It’s funny how these things work out.
The End
author’s note: this was originally intended to be a oneshot but i’m feeling motivated to write rn so this is going to be a three part series:))
a chance meeting in the leaky cauldron, where hermione has been working to try to forget the horrors of the second wizarding war, leads to a series of illicit affairs. includes: much angst and implied smut. read ‘the leaky cauldron’ before embarking.
trigger warning: ptsd, nightmares, alcoholism, trauma
You showed me colours
You know I can’t see
With anyone else
Taylor Swift, ‘illicit affairs’
They go upstairs, into the spare bedroom that Hermione has just told Draco about. Skin meets skin and tears mingle and the night passes in euphoric highs and snivelling, guilty lows. But Draco always kisses the tears away, and Hermione repays the favour.
When she wakes up, her head pounds. Dust particles float across the room, sprinkled around like icing sugar, and Hermione feels like she’s awakening from a dream. She hasn’t slept this well in months.
But someone’s breathing gently next to her. Lazy rays of morning sun soften the bags under Draco Malfoy’s eyes, and then the flood gates open, and Hermione remembers.
For some unknown, godforsaken reason, she wants to curl up next to him.
Tears prick at Hermione’s eyes. When she sees the dark, winding smudge on Draco’s forearm, they start to fall in streams, and soon she’s shoving a hand over her mouth as she sobs so that the Death Eater she just fuckeddoesn’t wake up.
Why do you care whether he wakes up or not? Why does Draco Malfoy getting his beauty sleep concernyou so -
Shut up shut up shut up
Hermione cries until she can’t anymore. Then -
Ron Ron Ron Ron Ron Ron
Ah, yes. I was wondering when we’d get to the man that you just cheated on.
Oh god oh god oh god shut up please shut up
Don’t you think he might be wondering why you didn’t come home last night?
Hermione stumbles out of bed, frantically throwing her clothes on, and she’s almost at the door when she looks back, she doesn’t know why, she can’t help it.
He’s still asleep. His white blonde hair is tousled, and his lips look soft and warm.
I thought he hated me.
You know what they say. There’s a thin line between -
Hermione slams the door behind her, like that will make the doubts go away.
When she finally reaches the house that Ron and her share, she’s panting and her legs burn from sprinting; if her crying didn’t wake Draco up, the door slam definitely did, and she can’t risk being there to face the consequences of their actions.
She pushes the door open, cringing at how much noise it makes. Maybe Ron will still be asleep and he won’t even have noticed she was missing and it will all be ok -
‘Hermione?’ His voice is a croak.
Ron’s standing in the hall, wearing a dressing gown. He’s clutching a can of beer in one hand and his face is red and blotchy, like he’s been crying.
‘Where were you?’
Hermione goes to him and takes his hand in hers, her heart thumping against her ribcage. ‘My shift - my shift at the Cauldron overran. I was so tired that I fell asleep there - Ron, I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you. Please don’t be angry.’
Some Gryffindor you are, lying to your best friend.
Ron doesn’t relax. ‘But I went to the Cauldron when you weren’t back for ages, and I didn’t see you there anywhere. I mean, it was past closing time so I could only look through the windows, but -’
She wants to scratch her eyes out at the waves of relief which wash over her.
‘The spare room,’ Hermione babbles. ‘There’s a spare room upstairs. I just thought I’d go for a quick lie down, but I fell asleep. You know how it is.’
Ron breathes a sigh, and pulls her into a hug. He feels safe and warm. Even if their relationship isn’t working, she knows that he will always care for her as a friend. Hermione wants to cry and cry.
‘Thank Merlin. You don’t know how scared I was, Hermione. For a minute I thought - God, I don’t know what I thought.’ Ron laughs shakily. ‘I thought maybe some fanatic who won’t accept Voldemort’s dead had found out where you worked or something. I thought that a Death Eater had got you.’
Hermione balls her hands into fists, her nails digging deep into soft palms.
The whole day, she’s terrified that Ron will sense the smell of him.Even when she changes her clothes, it still clings to her. If Hermione closed her eyes, she could feel him above her, behind her, inside her.
She wants to close her eyes, but she won’t let herself.
The day passes in a nervous blur, and soon it’s time for her shift at the Cauldron.
I need to go. They’ll wonder why I haven’t turned up.
Why don’t you just pretend to be ill?
I - I could.
But you don’t want to.
Shut it. With any luck, he’ll - he’ll have left already.
He hasn’t left. Of course he hasn’t.
Hermione cleans the bar and serves butterbeer and chats to customers while Draco sits in the corner, hiding his face and downing glass after glass of firewhiskey. The sun sets in the sky, splashing red across a darkening canvas, and Hermione finds herself taking sips of customer’s drinks until eventually she begins pouring her own.
The waitress who served Draco last night doesn’t arrive at her scheduled time, but Hermione doesn’t worry - the alcohol that she’s knocking back won’t let her. A dizzy memory waltzes through her mind, reminding her of how she pointed out the way to the spare bedroom to Draco, who went up by himself, unnoticed. Hermione remembers telling the waitress that she was done for the night, and leaving out the front door. The backstairs that led up to the room where Draco waited were slippy and frosted over.
An hour or so later, Hermione stumbles up those same stairs, swaying in the cold winter air and hating herself.
Draco’s touch is warm.
Weeks pass. Hermione spends less time with Ron, because she can’t bear to look into his sweet face after what she’s done. The times that they see Harry, it’s hard to look into his eyes, too. She tells them that the nightmares have been getting worse, so she wants to start working later shifts at the Cauldron, and when the pub closes, she’ll stay to clean up. She knows it upsets Ron but she does it anyway, each footstep further away from their home sending a painful jolt to her heart. Hermione serves the customers, she drinks, she cries in the bathroom. She tells the waitress that she’s going home, now. She staggers up the stairs, and tries to block out the voices in her head as Draco fucks her.
She wonders if he has doubts, too.
She asks him.
‘Yes,’ he says. The first silvery wisps of dawn are creeping through the window, and his voice is even deeper from sleep. It makes Hermione’s heart throb.
‘Then why do we do this?’ She whispers.
He pauses. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Draco, when did - when did you start feeling like this, for me?’ The words come rushing out, and Hermione can’t stop them.
Draco stares at her. He swallows. ‘I don’t know about that, either. All I know is that -’ He sounds like he’s almost choking on his speech. ‘All I know is that one day, I saw you - you weren’t really doing anything, just sitting at the Gryffindor table with Weasley and Potter. And you were laughing. And just then, I felt this sort of - this sort of warmthin my chest.’
Hermione knows that feeling all too well, now.
‘And I hated myself for it. Because all my life, my father had taught me that muggleborns… you know.’ Grey eyes flood with guilt. ‘I’m sorry for that, by the way.’
Draco apologises a lot to Hermione now, about what went on between them at Hogwarts. It’s another thing she loves about him.
Loves - you said loves -
What? No, no I didn’t -
‘And me hating myself… it made me angrier at you. Like it was your fault, or something. Even if it hurt me to be horrible to you - I still felt like I had to do it.’
It seems Draco is more well-versed in the practise of self-hatred than Hermione ever was.
‘But after what happened with Voldemort, I knew I couldn’t live that kind of life. Which, again, I’m… I’m sorry for choosing in the first place.’
‘It’s alright, Draco,’ Hermione murmurs. It isn’t, really. She touches the scar on her arm. But she’d forgive him anything, anything.
What’s happened to me? If the house elves who’s freedom I campaigned so fervently for could see me now, they’d laugh.
Draco lies back onto the pillow, and laces his fingers with hers. The Dark Mark touches Mudblood’s jagged scrawl. Hermione gives into temptation, and nestles her bushy head into his chest. A silence falls, as soft as new snow. Hermione’s eyelids flutter closed.
There’s footsteps up the stairs.
Draco’s head snaps up. He’s heard them too.
‘Hide under the bed, Draco -’
Too late. There’s no lock on this door and it’s being pushed open and the waitress has discovered their hiding place -
But it’s not the waitress.
It’s Ron.
author’s note: first of all just wanted to say if anyone still cares that i’m so sorry about the joker fic, ik i haven’t updated in months - i started writing a new update but still don’t have any ideas on how to progress it:(( writer’s block sucks.
this is just a quick dramione one shot bc i’ve been in a pottah mood lately. also, isn’t it amazing how daniel radcliffe wrote the hp books?? jk rowling? i don’t know her.
the second wizarding war is over, and voldemort has been defeated. for hermione granger, however, the scars remain. suffering from ptsd and with her relationship with ron on the rocks, hermione has taken to working regular shifts at the leaky cauldron to keep her mind off things. one night, she comes across a familiar face. (draco x hermione) beware: much angst, but with a healthy dose of fluff at the end.
trigger warning: ptsd, nightmares, alcoholism, mentions of violence, trauma
I don’t never want to drink again.
I just, I just need a friend.
Amy Winehouse, ‘Rehab’
The flickering glow of recently lit candles bathes the Leaky Cauldron in a dim light. Outside, darkness has fallen.
Hermione hates the night. It reminds her that her shift is almost over, and that she will soon have to leave the dull comfort of the pub to face a crumbling relationship and, later, nightmares in garish colours of black and red. That’s if she manages to sleep at all.
She sighs, rubbing her tired eyes. Ron is a kind man and her best friend, but they just weren’t cut out to be lovers. What started as a tiny, nagging doubt has now become an incessant worry of Hermione’s - one that she is sure Ron can sense, too. But they care too much for each other to at least not try to make it work.
She wonders who will break the news first.
Hermione tries to push the uncomfortable thoughts out of her mind - like that’s ever worked before - and sets to methodically scrubbing the bar. Small, circular motions, one, two, one, two - you could just as easily use magic, you know - shut up, one, two…
The door opens, and someone enters. Hermione’s head snaps up. A new customer, thank god, something to do, someone to talk to - the Cauldron is nearly empty, at this hour.
The new arrival wears a hooded black robe and looks at the ground as he walks, so Hermione can’t see his face. His gait is timid and suspicious, like he’s scared someone will lash out at him - but he’s looking at Hermione like he recognises her, and as he turns away, she sees a flash of platinum blonde hair under the hood -
It can’t be him.
She hasn’t seen him in close to a year.
The man who she thinks is Draco Malfoy sits down at a table, as far away from Hermione as possible.
A waitress, the only other person aside from Hermione who’s working tonight, approaches him and asks if he’d like a drink. He murmurs something in reply - ‘I’m sorry, I can’t hear you’ - another murmur - ‘It’s the hood - if you’d take it off, then I could hear’ - a sigh, and then the hood comes off with a resigned yank,and the waitress gasps.
It is him.
‘Get me something strong - not a butterbeer.’
‘Y - yes.’
She scurries off.
Hermione stares at the boy who bullied her mercilessly back at Hogwarts - at the man who watched as Bellatrix Lestrange carved mudbloodinto her arm - at the prisoner who both she and the rest of the wizarding world had last seen on trial.
‘Draco Lucius Malfoy, you have been charged with aiding and abetting the war crimes and crimes against humanity committed by one Tom Marvolo Riddle and his followers, and the attempted murder of one Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore -’
People always used to say about Harry that there wouldn’t be a child alive who didn’t know his name.
Hermione never thought that the day would come when she’d compare Harry Potter to Draco Malfoy.
He was lucky to escape Azkaban, but he looks like he’s just left.
Draco’s face is gaunt, with hollowed-out cheeks. There’s not much left of the proud, pureblooded aristocrat in him, except for maybe the white blonde hair which is as it’s always been, perhaps just a little longer than usual. His eyes look empty and sad.
He glances over at Hermione, but when he sees her looking, quickly looks away. The waitress returns with his drink.
You should talk to him -
He doesn’t deserve it. He fought for the monster who tried to wipe out my whole kind, for God’s sake -
But did he really want to? You know what his father is like.
That’s - that’s not an excuse. And anyway, he wants to be left alone. We’d just start arguing again, like we did back at school.
Are you scared?
…
What, of Malfoy the bloody ferret?!
Hermione tries to block out the voice, and continues to scrub furiously at the bar. When she dares look up, she sees that Draco has finished his drink. He orders another one, downing it quickly. And another. And another.
God, how much does he drink?
What if he passes out? Then it’ll be all your fault for not stopping him when you could.
Shut up. I don’t care what happens to him, anyway.
Still scared?
Shut it.
Some Gryffindor you are.
That does it. With shaking hands, Hermione pours herself a butterbeer - you’ll need it - and walks to the table where Draco is sitting, slumped over his fourth drink. He looks up at her with bloodshot eyes, and she instantly regrets her decision.
‘Ah, Granger. I was wondering when you’d decide to grace us with your presence.’ He’s drunk, and his voice is deeper, deep like a muggle who smokes too many cigarettes.
Hermione’s normally brilliant mind goes blank, so she responds the only way she knows.
‘Shut up, Malfoy.’
Oh, for fucks sake. At least Ron and Harry would be proud.
Draco stares at her. For a moment, Hermione’s terrified that he’s going to start shouting, like alcoholics always do in films.
Oh god, he can’t be an alcoholic, can he?
She doesn’t know why that thought upsets her.
But he doesn’t shout. He starts to laugh. A loud, throaty laugh that makes the few people left in the Cauldron turn and stare. He sounds like he hasn’t laughed in years, which may, Hermione thinks, actually be the case. Then she starts to laugh too, at the absurdity of the whole situation. When they’ve cackled themselves sore, Draco motions to the chair opposite him.
‘Come on, Granger. Sit down. I need someone to talk to.’
So Hermione sits. An awkward silence settles, heavy with the years of not-so-pleasant history between them. She tries to break the ice.
‘How are you?’
She can hear the voice in her head laughing at her. Draco’s lips are pulled into a smirk.
‘Always so polite.’
Hermione takes a shaky gulp of butterbeer, and its warm burn gives her a jolt of much needed confidence.
‘So you’re saying I should be rude to you?’
‘After everything that’s happened, I’m surprised that you’re not.’
She doesn’t know what to say to that.
‘Anyway, to answer your first question,’ says Draco, ‘I am how I look. Bloody terrible. You seem to be doing pretty well for yourself, though.’
Hermione scoffs. He must not be a very good judge of character.
‘I take it then that you’re not,’ says Draco.
Bitterness bubbles up inside of her, like the potions they used to brew for Snape. Is he still just as ignorant as he used to be?
‘When you’ve risked your life and the lives of those you love countless times to fight a man who wants to murder all the muggleborns on the face on this Earth, you tend to have a few problems afterwards.’
Draco flinches.
‘Listen, Granger, about that -’
But Hermione can’t keep the anger hidden anymore. At first, she thought that not talking about it with anyone, not even Ron or Harry, would make it go away, but -
‘Oh, you’re sorry? If you care to remember, you called me a mudblood hundredsof times - so many times I can’t even count - and then you worked for Voldemort, and tried to kill Dumbledore, and watched as your fucking aunt hacked at me like an animal for the fun of it -’
A sob breaks through, and Hermione looks down at her glass. She’s drunk more than she thought.
A lone tear slivers down her nose and falls, plop, into the butterbeer.
‘Granger -’
‘What?’
Draco flinches again, like she’s slapped him.
‘I’m sorry.’
He sounds like a little boy again. Hermione remembers lying in bed in her second year dormitory, the day that Draco first called her mudblood.She remembers crying, wishing he’d say to her what he’s just said now. It means so much, but at the same time, it means nothing.
She sniffs back an onslaught of tears. ‘Sorry won’t make the nightmares go away.’
A cold chill passes between them.
‘I have nightmares too,’ he says.
You bloody bastard, this isn’t about you, Hermione wants to scream. But Draco’s eyes are cold and haunted, so she lets him talk. Some things never change.
‘They’re always at the Manor, or at Hogwarts, but with all the bodies from the battle -’
He drinks more from his glass, like the alcohol will wash the memories away.
‘And there’s a snake, but with Voldemort’s red eyes.’ Draco’s whispering, now. ‘And it slides up the table towards me - and - and my family is watching - and I can’t move - and then it opens… opens its mouth.’
A little talk - girl to girl - she’s lying on the cold stone floor - her sleeve is ripped up, and her bare arm feels naked in the cold air - but the cold is nothing compared to the pain - it hurts, hurts so much - Draco is trying to look away, but he’s not doing anything - why, why won’t you do anything, you bastard -
‘I dream of you too, sometimes.’ His chin wobbles. ‘Of my aunt, and - and what happened.’
‘What she did to me.’ Hermione can feel the scar on her arm, the jagged indents of the knife -
He nods, trembling. ‘What she did to you.’ Another gulp from the glass.
‘You shouldn’t drink so much.’
‘It makes the pain go away.’
They sit in silence for a few moments. The butterbeer is making Hermione’s head swim.
‘Why are you here, Draco?’
‘I wanted a drink.’
‘No, I mean -’
‘I left the Manor after my trial. Too many… memories.’
‘But didn’t your father -’
‘Try to stop me - yes. Told me I’d be forsaking the Malfoy name and money if I left.’ He breathes out shakily. ‘I left anyway.’
Hermione is shocked. ‘I thought family was everything to you Slytherins.’
A small ghost of a smile. ‘Not everything.’ It falls again. ‘Leaving my mother was hard, though.’
Hermione always thinks of Narcissa Malfoy as a stuck-up, unfeeling sort of woman. But she’s infinitely better than Draco’s father.
‘So where do you live now?’
‘I don’t live anywhere.’ Draco sees the look on Hermione’s face. ‘I know, a Malfoy living without his family riches - it was hard to get used to, I must admit. Especially sleeping in pub toilets. But I’m too scared to get a -’
‘A job?’ Hermione sees how embarrassed he looks.
‘Yes, for - for obvious reasons. I’ve tried twice before - but everyone knows who I am, you see, and no-one really wants to - you know. This is the first time I managed to pluck up the courage to come in here. I certainly never expected to find you. Why are you here, by the way? I heard,’ he swallows, ‘you live with Weasley now.’ There’s an odd look on Draco’s face.
‘I do,’ says Hermione. ‘It’s just - I don’t know. The routine of working here takes my mind off of everything. Like you said - if I don’t keep busy, the memories - they’re too much.’
‘I understand,’ murmurs Draco.
And he does.
A strange feeling takes over Hermione.
I can’t believe I’m about to do this.
‘Listen, Malfoy. There’s a - there’s a spare room, upstairs, here. With a bed. If you wanted to -’
Draco looks like he can’t quite believe what he’s hearing.
‘You’d let me stay here?’ he whispers.
‘Well, no-one uses it anymore, so, y - yes. But it might be a bit dusty. And you can’t work here - because I don’t think being around -’ She motions to their glasses. ‘I don’t think it’s good for you.’
And suddenly, Draco Malfoy starts to cry.
Hermione stares at him, open-mouthed.
‘Why are you being so kind to me?’ His shoulders rack with sobs. ‘You should - Hermione, you should hateme for what I’ve done to you.’
You called me Hermione.
‘I - I don’t deserve -’
For some reason, her heart constricts, and her breath hitches in her throat. Hermione leans forward, swaying a little from the alcohol, and puts her hand on Draco’s arm. With a chill, she realises that the Dark Mark lurks underneath the grubby cloth.
Draco jolts back, shocked at her sudden gesture. For a moment, Hermione’s terrified that he’s going to pull away - but he doesn’t, and melts into her touch.
She remembers, all those years ago, seeing Draco with his father at Flourish and Blotts. She knew then that this was a man who’d never hugged his son. Back then, Hermione couldn’t fathom a life without the warm hugs that her muggle parents so frequently gave her.
She can feel Draco’s blood pumping beneath his skin. Slowly, he repays the debt, and Hermione feels the heavy weight of his hand curve around her arm. Fingers trace a ghostly touch over her scar. He’s stopped sobbing, but his grey eyes are still wet. They remind Hermione of misty hillsides on an the early morning. Salty tears crystallise on beautiful black lashes, and his face is flushed.
He presses his lips to hers. It’s soft, and a sweet hurt.
