Tu étais formidable, j'étais fort minable
Nous étions formidables.
The morning sunlight spilled into the penthouse, golden and warm, illuminating the space in a glow that made everything feel softer, lighter. The floor-to-ceiling windows stretched across the room, revealing a city just beginning to stir, but inside, life had already begun.
The rich scent of vanilla and cinnamon filled the air, mingling with the rhythmic sizzle of batter meeting the heat of a pan. The steady melody of upbeat music floated through the space, a cheerful backdrop to the sounds of the kitchen—plates clinking, cabinets opening and closing, the occasional soft hum of someone utterly lost in their own world.
And there she was.
He stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame, watching her.
Hermione moved with an effortless grace, a natural rhythm to the way she worked. It wasn't just the cooking—it was her. The way her curls bounced slightly as she swayed her hips in time with the music, the absentminded little spins she made between flipping pancakes, the way her fingers danced across the counter as if every movement belonged to a song only she could hear.
It was such a simple moment. But Gods, it was enough to take his breath away.
She wasn't just his wife. She was everything. His sanctuary. His solace. The embodiment of everything he had fought to return to.
His chest tightened, overwhelmed by the quiet, unshakable love that surged through him. He had spent a year lost in the darkness, but now—now he had woken up to this. To her.
And he would never take it for granted again.
Unable to resist, he crossed the room in a few easy strides and slipped his arms around her from behind, wrapping her in his embrace. She let out a surprised little gasp before melting into him, her body instinctively pressing back against his.
The scent of her shampoo—vanilla and lavender—mixed with the faint sweetness of the pancakes she was making, surrounding him in warmth. He buried his face in the curve of her neck, pressing a lingering kiss to her skin, inhaling deeply as if he could bottle this moment and keep it forever.
"Good morning, my life," he murmured, his voice still husky from sleep.
She smiled, leaning further into him, letting him hold her like he needed to. "Good morning, dearest," she whispered back, her voice thick with warmth, the kind of softness that had always grounded him.
She tilted her head slightly, offering him more access to the spot he loved to kiss.
"Sleep well?"
"With you beside me?" He pressed another slow kiss to her skin, letting the warmth of her seep into him. "Always."
She sighed contentedly, though he reluctantly loosened his grip to let her return to her cooking. As she flipped another pancake, she glanced over her shoulder, her expression suddenly hopeful.
"Harry and Cho are coming over for lunch today. That's okay with you?"
He huffed a soft laugh, amused by the way she was asking him, as if she hadn't already made up her mind. "Of course," he said, a teasing grin pulling at his lips. "I wouldn't dare miss an opportunity to host the great savior of the wizarding world. Maybe I should practice bowing before he arrives."
She rolled her eyes, swatting lightly at his arm with the spatula. "Not funny, love."
"I thought it was."
She gave him a pointed look before softening. "You know he thinks you just had an accident, right?"
His smirk faltered slightly. "An accident." He repeated the words as if tasting them, as if trying to decide how they sat on his tongue.
She hesitated before nodding. "That's what I told him. That you had an accident, hit your head." Her voice was careful, controlled. "Be nice."
Something shifted in his expression—something quiet, something deep. He tilted his head slightly, watching her, his silver eyes searching hers.
"Will you ever tell him?" His voice was softer now, more serious. "What's really been going on with us these past three years?"
She stilled, the question lingering between them like a delicate thread that could snap at any moment.
Then, she turned to face him fully, her gaze steady, a flicker of something fierce beneath the surface.
"I would never," she said firmly, her voice unwavering. "It's not something I want to share with him."
He studied her, taking in the fire behind her words, the loyalty she carried like armor. He knew why she didn't want to tell Potter. Knew that their life, their battles, their struggles belonged to them alone.
And Gods, he loved her for it.
A slow smirk curved his lips as he raised his hands in surrender. "Calm down, darling. I was just teasing."
She huffed, narrowing her eyes at him, but he could see the tension easing from her shoulders.
"What would I even tell him?" she muttered, turning back to the stove. "'Oh, by the way, Harry, my husband and I have been navigating life's ridiculous twists and turns, complete with comas, accidents, and near-death experiences'? No, thank you. I'll stick to the truth… with a few little white lies sprinkled in for flavor."
He chuckled, stepping closer, his smirk softening into something real. Something deeply, unapologetically in love.
"That's my good girl," he murmured approvingly, before leaning down and stealing a quick kiss.
She shook her head at him, exasperated but smiling—and Merlin, how he had missed that smile.
"You know," he mused, leaning against the counter now, watching her with a lazy grin, "if I'd known married life would include gourmet breakfasts every morning, I might have asked for a forced marriage act sooner."
She let out a surprised laugh, her head tilting back slightly as she shot him a look. "Oh, don't start with your flattery now, Malfoy. You can help by setting the table."
"Yes, ma'am," he replied smoothly, giving her a mock salute before grabbing the plates and silverware.
As he moved about the kitchen, he caught glimpses of her out of the corner of his eye—the way her hair fell over her shoulder, the way she hummed softly to herself as she worked, the way the sunlight seemed to chase her, as if the universe itself was drawn to her the way he was.
And for a brief moment, he allowed himself to just exist.
No fear. No pain. No shadows lurking in the corners of his mind.
Just her. Just this.
The music played on, the pancakes continued to stack, and in that sunlit kitchen, surrounded by the promise of a new day, Draco Malfoy felt something he hadn't dared to feel in a long, long time.
Peace .
Whatever lay ahead, whatever challenges would come—
They would face them together.
And that was all that mattered.
~~~~~~
Draco wasn't sure how much more emotion he could handle. The last few days had been an exhausting haze of readjustment, his body weak, his mind sluggish, his sense of time utterly warped. Waking up after a year in a coma had been surreal enough, but nothing could have prepared him for the emotional avalanche that followed. And now, standing in the entryway of his penthouse, bracing himself as footsteps approached the door, he knew the worst was yet to come. His fucking friends.
They were here.
He had anticipated this, knew deep down that there was no way his friends would let him slip back into his life unnoticed. He had tried to prepare himself, had spent the last few hours rehearsing ways to downplay the entire situation, but the moment the door swung open, he realized all his mental preparation had been a colossal waste of time.
The second the gap in the doorway was wide enough, Pansy Parkinson stormed in like a woman possessed, her designer heels clicking furiously against the marble floor before she launched herself at him with the force of a goddamn Bludger. His breath left him in a startled huff as she wrapped her arms around his neck in a death grip, her perfume an overwhelming mix of expensive florals and barely contained rage.
"DRACO LUCIUS FUCKING MALFOY!"
His body rocked from the impact, his barely-recovered muscles protesting the sudden assault, but the sheer force of her embrace was nothing compared to the words that came next. She was shaking against him, her fingers clutching his back like she was trying to physically hold him in place, her voice cracking under the weight of her fury and relief.
"You absolute arsehole," she choked, her breath uneven, and he didn't need to see her face to know she was fighting tears. "You left us. A whole fucking year, Malfoy! Do you have any idea what that did to me? To all of us?"
Draco opened his mouth—maybe to deflect, maybe to tease, maybe to actually breathe—but before he could make a sound, she wrenched back just enough to glare at him through watery eyes, her features tight with emotions she clearly hadn't allowed herself to process until this moment.
"I thought you were dead," she whispered, and the words, spoken so quietly, hit him harder than any scream ever could.
His throat tightened, the weight of the past year pressing down on him in a way that had nothing to do with the coma itself and everything to do with what he had left behind. He wanted to say something, to reassure her, to joke, to promise—anything—but before he could, Pansy shoved his chest, not hard enough to push him away, just enough to make her point.
"If you ever do that to me again, I swear on Salazar's grave, I will kill you myself," she sniffed, furiously wiping at her eyes before stepping back.
The moment she moved, another presence filled the space she had left behind, and Draco barely had time to process the absurdity of what was happening before he was being pulled into yet another vice-like embrace. This time, it was Neville Longbottom.
Draco's body stiffened. Neville Longbottom had never hugged him. Ever.
"I missed you," Neville muttered gruffly, his voice strained, like saying the words was physically painful. "I hated missing you, Malfoy."
Draco let out a slow, shaky breath, barely managing to bring a hand up in what could only be described as the most awkward back-pat in the history of back-pats. "Alright, enough of this, Longbottom. You're making it weird."
Neville only squeezed harder. "Shut up and let me have my moment."
Draco, who had never in his life expected to be on the receiving end of a Neville Longbottom Hug of Deep Emotional Catharsis, decided that maybe—just maybe—he could let it happen.
Luna followed, wrapping him in something softer, something weightless, something that felt like forgiveness and patience and quiet understanding. It was a relief after the storm, a moment where he could just breathe. But before he could even recover from that, the next wave hit.
Unlike the others, Theo didn't immediately lunge at him. He stood a few feet away, his sharp gaze scanning him from head to toe, his arms crossed like he was assessing whether or not to acknowledge Draco's continued existence. And then, without a word of warning, he punched him.
Draco staggered back, wincing. "What the actual fuck, Nott?!"
"That's for making me think you were dead for a year," Theo snapped, shaking out his fist like he had been waiting for this moment for months. And before Draco could even react, Theo grabbed him by the back of the head and yanked him into a hug so tight it nearly crushed the already battered remains of his lungs.
"You fucking prat," Theo muttered, his voice tight with something Draco recognized as grief, and Draco, overwhelmed and exhausted, just exhaled a ragged breath. "I grieved you."
"I know," Draco whispered, closing his eyes for a second too long. "I know."
Theo pulled back just as suddenly as he had grabbed him, smoothing out his coat like nothing had happened. "Alright. That's my moment. I'm done."
And then there was Blaise. Unlike Theo, he didn't hesitate. Draco had expected something over-the-top from Pansy, something violent from Theo, but Blaise—Blaise—was the one who shook him the most.
Because Blaise Zabini, who never let anyone see his vulnerabilities, stepped forward, placed both hands on Draco's face, and just… stared at him. For a long time. And when he finally spoke, it was in a voice that was so quiet, so steady, it made Draco's stomach drop.
"I thought I'd never see you again."
Draco's breath caught. "Blaise—"
"You bastard," Blaise muttered, voice thick with emotion. "You left me."
And then, just like that, he pulled Draco into a fierce, silent embrace, his body trembling against him, and Draco clenched his jaw, pressing his forehead against Blaise's shoulder. "I'm sorry."
He barely had a moment to process any of it before the final person stepped forward, arms crossed, eyes sharp. Ginny Weasley had been standing in the back, watching, waiting, letting everyone else unleash their emotions first. But the second Draco met her gaze, he knew—he knew she was about to absolutely ruin him.
"You absolute TWAT."
And then she punched him in the chest.
Draco staggered back. "What the fuck, Weasley?!"
"I cried for you," she hissed, voice trembling with anger, and something far more dangerous. "I—I mourned you. And then you just—you come back, looking all fine, and we're supposed to accept that?!"
"I—" Draco tried, but she cut him off with a sharp glare.
"Don't say anything."
And then she was hugging him too, her grip fierce and unrelenting, her breath shaky against his shoulder. He froze, unsure what to do with his hands, until finally—finally—he let them rest lightly on her back.
"You scared me," she whispered, and for the first time in his entire life, Draco Malfoy understood what it felt like to be truly, utterly, overwhelmingly wanted.
Because they had waited for him. Because they had never stopped waiting.
Because, despite everything, he was home.
Hermione stood a few feet away, her arms folded, a beaming grin stretched across her face as she watched the chaotic onslaught of affection unfold. Her chest ached—not with pain, but with something warmer, something so deep and overwhelming that she felt it pulse beneath her skin.
Relief. Joy.
A love so boundless, it threatened to consume her.
Draco caught her eye over Pansy's shoulder, his breath still ragged from the sheer intensity of the reunion, and she could see it in his face—that flicker of disbelief, the quiet wonder in his gaze, as if he still wasn't sure if this was real.
So, when the room finally settled—when the shouting had died down, when Pansy had begrudgingly let go, when Theo had stopped throwing punches, and Blaise had reluctantly stepped back—Hermione stepped forward, gently brushing her fingers along Draco's wrist before lacing their hands together.
"You…idiot, they missed you," she murmured, her voice thick with something dangerously close to tears.
He let out a breathless chuckle, his fingers tightening around hers. "I love you too, darling."
She huffed, rolling her eyes even as her smile softened. Then, before he could tease her further, she lifted their joined hands and pressed his knuckles to her lips, letting the warmth of his skin seep into hers.
"You really don't understand, do you?" she whispered, her voice barely more than a breath.
He frowned slightly, tilting his head. "Understand what?"
She stepped even closer, the scent of vanilla and parchment surrounding him, grounding him. Then, with a voice that trembled just the slightest bit, she said:
"They came every day, love."
Draco stilled.
His breath caught in his throat as her words settled over him, sinking deep, as if the weight of them could press into his bones.
"They never left you."
The room seemed to tilt slightly, the magnitude of her words making everything around him blur—the penthouse, the walls, the voices of his friends in the background—it all faded, leaving only her and the echo of what she had just revealed.
He swallowed hard, struggling to find his voice. "They… they came?"
Hermione smiled, but there was a glow behind her eyes—something soft, something reverent, something raw.
"Every. Single. Day."
He exhaled sharply, his grip on her hand tightening.
"Ginny and Pansy," she continued, her lips twitching in amusement. "Mostly came to shout at you."
He let out a startled laugh. "Of course they did."
"They were so angry with you," she went on, shaking her head. "I mean—furious. But you know…" She paused, biting her lip before looking up at him again. "You scared them, darling."
His heart twisted.
Guilt curled in his stomach, sharp and sudden, but before he could let it consume him, Hermione squeezed his hand, pulling him back from the edge of self-destruction.
"My darling Luna was here every day too," she murmured, her voice turning impossibly fond. "Mostly for me."
Hos expression softened. "Of course she was."
She nodded. "She was my anchor. My—" Her breath hitched slightly. "My strength, when I was losing mine."
He hated that—hated the thought of Hermione suffering, of her carrying the weight of his absence.
But Hermione, as always, refused to let him dwell.
"Blaise and Neville," she continued, a ghost of a smirk returning to her lips, "they mostly came to read to you."
Draco blinked. "Read?"
She let out a soft laugh. "Catch you up on your books."
Something warm flickered in his chest—an unexpected kind of gratitude, one he didn't quite know how to name.
"They read out loud?" he asked, raising a brow.
"Oh, yes," she teased, her grin widening. "Blaise even did the voices."
He snorted, shaking his head in amusement—but there was something else beneath the humor, something deeper, something sharp.
They had waited for him. They had stayed.
Even when he had been gone, even when he had been nothing but a silent, unresponsive shell, they had been here.
He turned to look at the room full of people who had once been nothing more than his allies—his childhood friends, his accomplices, his business partners. But now?
Now, they were his family. And it broke something in him.
Not in a painful way, but in a way that felt new. In a way that felt like the careful rebuilding of something he had never realized was missing.
Before he could speak, her voice turned gentler, the teasing edge fading into something more serious.
"And Theo…"
He turned back to her, noting the hesitation in her voice.
Hermione sighed, shaking her head. "He… chose a different outlet."
He frowned. "What do you mean?"
She hesitated.
And that alone was concerning.
"…Let's just say," she finally said, choosing her words carefully, "the business is booming…"
Draco's stomach dropped.
Oh, fuck.
He knew what that meant.
"…And his marriage is on the verge of breaking into nothing."
He winced.
She exhaled, her expression torn between sympathy and frustration. "He was angry, Draco. At you, at the world, at—" she shook her head, "—everything. And he channeled that anger into all the things he thought he could control."
Draco dragged a hand down his face, already feeling the beginnings of a headache forming. "Shit."
She sighed, rubbing his arm soothingly. "Please go to Luna," she murmured, her tone laced with gentle urgency. "Apologize."
Draco didn't hesitate.
"I will," he vowed, his voice a low murmur against her skin as he pressed a lingering kiss to her forehead. His lips stayed there for a second longer than necessary, breathing in the warmth of her, grounding himself in the presence of the woman who had waited for him, fought for him, and never given up on him.
"I swear," he repeated, his voice thick with quiet resolve.
She exhaled, the tension in her shoulders easing just slightly as she nodded. She trusted him—of course, she did—but the weight of the past year still clung to them, an unshakable specter of all they had lost and all they still had to rebuild.
So, she allowed herself a brief moment of levity before the weight of reality could settle back in.
"And," she continued, nudging his ribs playfully, "the artistic drawings we have decorating the fridge? Those are from Lysander."
He raised an eyebrow, his lips twitching into a smirk. "Ah. That explains a lot."
Hermione gasped, scandalized. "Excuse you!"
He gave a lazy shrug, his smirk widening. "I did wonder when your drawing skills started to… decline."
Her eyes narrowed. "Be quiet, you absolute prat."
He laughed, his head tilting back in amusement, but before he could add another quip, Hermione crossed her arms and huffed dramatically.
"If Theo hears you daring to insult his Artist of a Child, he will choke you, Malfoy."
His grin didn't fade. If anything, it grew wider. "Oh, I know. That's why I make my observations quietly, love. I have no desire to die so soon after coming back to life."
She huffed, shaking her head, but her lips betrayed her by curving into a smile. "Good. Because I will not resurrect you a second time."
He sighed theatrically, draping an arm over her shoulders as he pulled her close. "Then we shall appease the young master Lysander by sending him a collection of sweets," he declared dramatically. "And while we're at it, we'll throw in some for Valerius as well."
She snorted. "You do realize Ginny still hates you, right?"
He smirked. "Oh, I'm very aware, darling."
She shook her head, laughing softly. "You should have seen her when you were unconscious. If murder weren't illegal, she might have actually succeeded in strangling you on principle alone."
He shuddered, pretending to look horrified. "Thank Merlin I wasn't conscious for that, then. At least one good thing came from my coma."
She gave him a look. "Don't even joke about that."
He sighed, squeezing her waist. "Alright, alright." Then, his smirk returned. "But I am glad I wasn't awake for her shouting. My ears thank me for that."
She shook her head, though she couldn't hide her amusement. "You're insufferable."
"And yet," he murmured, nuzzling into the crook of her neck, "you love me anyway."
Her laughter was warm, melting into the air between them, and for a brief moment—for the first time in forever—Draco felt like he had never been gone at all.
~~~~~~
Draco sat in the shadowed corner of his study, the fire crackling softly in the hearth. The room was steeped in silence, save for the rhythmic ticking of an antique clock on the mantel. His hand trembled slightly as he lifted a glass of whiskey to his lips, the amber liquid glinting in the firelight like molten gold. He took a deliberate sip, letting the sharp burn trail down his throat, hoping it would smother the unease twisting in his chest. But no amount of alcohol could drown out the cold truth that had lodged itself in his mind like a jagged shard of glass.
He was not invincible. He was not untouchable.
The brush with death had been closer than he could bear to admit. A curse, dark and deadly, had been aimed directly at him, its lethal intent palpable in the air. He could still hear the sharp, malevolent hiss as it cut through the silence, still feel the rush of displaced air as it narrowly missed its mark. It had left a reminder behind—a jagged, searing scar etched into the flesh of his arm. Every throb of pain it now radiated was a cruel reminder of how tenuous the thread of his life had become.
He leaned back in his chair, his gaze fixed on the flames as they licked and flickered, their light casting erratic shadows across the room. They seemed alive, mocking him with their careless dance. He had always understood, intellectually, that death was a risk—a hazard woven into the fabric of his world. It came with the territory, the choices he had made. But until now, it had never felt real. Not like this.
He clenched his jaw, his fingers curling into fists as frustration warred with fear. How had it come to this? How had he let himself get so close to the brink? And yet, in the back of his mind, he knew that the answer didn't matter. What mattered was what he did now, how he moved forward.
But the uncertainty gnawed at him. He was a man who thrived on control, on calculated precision. And yet, death was the ultimate uncertainty, the one variable he could never account for, never outwit.
His thoughts drifted to Hermione. What would she say if she knew how close he had come? Would she rage at him, demand answers, or would she simply look at him with those soulful, knowing eyes and remind him of all the reasons he needed to stay alive? The thought of her, of the life they had painstakingly built together, sent a new kind of ache through him—one born of love and a desperate need to protect what mattered most.
He dragged a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. He couldn't allow himself to spiral. Not now. There was too much at stake. He reached for the glass again, but this time, he didn't drink. Instead, he stared into the amber depths, as if the answers he sought might be hidden within.
The specter of death might linger, but it would not claim him today. Not if he had anything to say about it.
He took another sip of whiskey, the warmth spreading through him doing little to quiet the chaos in his mind. What had he been doing all this time, tempting fate and convincing himself he was immune to the consequences? He'd seen others fall—friends, enemies, even his own family—and yet he had clung to the arrogant belief that he was different. Special. Untouchable.
But now, that illusion was cracking, and the lie he'd built his life on was unraveling thread by thread.
The creak of the door broke the suffocating silence, and Hermione stepped into the room. Her presence was a balm, her silhouette outlined softly by the golden glow of the fire. She didn't speak immediately, her sharp eyes assessing him, taking in the stiff set of his shoulders, the empty glass trembling slightly in his hand, and the haunted shadow in his gaze.
"Draco," she said finally, her voice soft but insistent, like the grounding pull of gravity. She crossed the room cautiously, kneeling in front of him to meet his eyes. "What's wrong?"
For a moment, he didn't answer. The whiskey burned as he drained the last of it, the glass landing on the table with a hollow clink that seemed to echo endlessly. He dragged a hand through his hair, the weight of the confession pressing heavily on his chest. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and raw, like an open wound.
"I almost died, Hermione," he admitted, the words tasting bitter and foreign on his tongue. "And it wasn't some grand, heroic act. It wasn't a noble sacrifice. It was stupid—careless. A split-second mistake, and it nearly cost me everything."
Her expression shifted, concern deepening into something more profound as she reached for his hand, lacing her fingers through his. "But it didn't," she reminded him gently. "You're here. You're alive."
He turned his head, his storm-gray eyes locking onto hers. They were filled with something she rarely saw in him—raw, unfiltered fear. "But for how long?" he whispered. His voice was shaky, a threadbare echo of the man he tried so hard to be. "I've been so consumed by… everything—this life, this world—that I never stopped to think about how fragile it all is. How fragile I am."
Her heart clenched at the vulnerability in his words. It was a side of Draco he rarely allowed to surface, and it broke her to see him so consumed by doubt. She shifted closer, squeezing his hand tightly as if to tether him to her. "We're all fragile, Draco," she said softly, her tone steady and comforting. "That's what makes us human. None of us are invincible."
He closed his eyes, his jaw tightening as he struggled to steady himself. "I've spent so long trying to be strong. To be untouchable. It's how I survived—how I convinced myself I could keep you safe. But now… I feel like I'm unraveling. Like I'm losing control."
She reached up with her free hand, cupping his cheek and guiding his gaze back to hers. "You don't have to be invincible, Draco," she said, her voice gentle but firm. "You don't have to carry this alone. You're allowed to be scared. You're allowed to need help. That doesn't make you weak—it makes you human."
Her words hit him with the force of a tidal wave, washing over the walls he'd so carefully built around himself. For the first time in what felt like forever, he allowed himself to lean into her touch. Her hand was warm against his skin, her steady presence anchoring him in a way he hadn't realized he needed.
"What if I'm not strong enough?" he murmured, his voice barely audible. The question hung in the air, heavy with doubt and self-reproach.
"You are strong enough," she replied without hesitation, her voice unwavering. "But strength doesn't mean never feeling fear or doubt. It means facing them, even when it feels impossible. And you don't have to do it alone. I'm here, love. I'll always be here."
Something in him cracked, but it wasn't the shattering he feared. It was a release, a letting go of the impossible weight he had carried for so long. He exhaled shakily, some of the tension easing from his frame as her words wrapped around him like a lifeline.
He pulled her closer, his forehead resting against hers, the simple contact grounding him in a way the whiskey never could. "Thank you," he whispered, his voice rough but filled with gratitude. "For being here. For understanding."
She smiled softly, her fingers brushing through his hair. "Always," she whispered back. Her heart swelled with love for the man before her—flawed, broken in some ways, but so fiercely determined to rise above it all.
For the first time that evening, Draco felt the icy grip of fear begin to loosen. Hermione's presence didn't erase the fragility of his existence or the specter of death that loomed over him, but it reminded him of something just as real.
Hope. Connection. Love.
And as the firelight flickered around them, he dared to believe that maybe, just maybe, those things would be enough.
Together, they sat in the quiet of the study, the fire crackling softly beside them. The dim glow of the flames danced across their faces, illuminating the raw emotion etched into their features. Draco leaned back in his chair, his fingers still loosely entwined with Hermione's, grounding him as he began to come to terms with the reality he had spent so long avoiding.
It wasn't easy. Coming to terms with his own mortality felt like unearthing a buried wound—painful, unrelenting, and necessary.
"My love," he murmured, his voice rough with emotion. He hesitated, his grip on her hand tightening as if afraid she might slip away. "How do you deal with it? Your own… near-death experience?"
Hermione froze for a moment, the question hitting her like a cold gust of wind. She didn't answer right away. Instead, she let out a shaky breath, her free hand tracing absent patterns on her lap as memories she tried to keep buried surged forward. "Healer O'Connor helps," she said finally, her voice quiet and strained. "But it's always there, Draco. Every day. The PTSD, the flashbacks... the helplessness. It's like a shadow I can't escape." Her voice cracked, and she blinked rapidly, trying to stem the tears threatening to fall. "I blame myself constantly. For what happened. For surviving."
His jaw tightened, and a pang of anguish twisted in his chest. Seeing her, who he had always regarded as the embodiment of strength, reveal such vulnerability made his own struggles feel both heavier and oddly less isolating. He released her hand only to cup her face gently, his thumb brushing away a tear that had slipped free. "It was never your fault," he whispered fiercely. "Never. And what happened to me—that was my fault. My recklessness."
She shook her head, fresh tears spilling over as she covered his hand with hers. "You're not the only one who feels that way," she said softly, her voice trembling with emotion. "But blaming yourself won't bring peace. It won't make the memories go away. I know that because I've tried. For so long, I've tried."
His lips parted as if to respond, but the weight of her words settled in his chest like lead, silencing him. He turned his gaze to the fire, the flames reflected in the stormy gray of his eyes. "The flashbacks… they're unbearable," he admitted hoarsely. "Every moment, every sound, every detail… it's all still so vivid. And I can't stop wondering—what if next time, I don't get to walk away? What if I leave you—" He broke off, his voice faltering as a lump rose in his throat.
She leaned forward, her hands moving to his cheeks, forcing him to meet her gaze. "Don't," she said, her tone firm despite the tears glistening in her eyes. "Don't let the 'what-ifs' consume you. We can't predict what will happen tomorrow, my love. None of us can. But we can choose how we face today."
"But what if it's too late for me?" he whispered, his vulnerability raw and unfiltered. "What if I can't escape this darkness? What if it swallows me whole?"
She pressed her forehead to his, her touch grounding him in a way nothing else could. "It won't," she said, her voice steady and resolute. "Because you're not alone in this. And no matter how dark it gets, I'll be here. We'll face it together, step by step. You're not fighting this battle alone."
Her words were a lifeline, pulling him back from the edge of despair. He let out a shaky breath, his body relaxing just enough to feel her warmth against him. "I don't know if I can ever forgive myself," he admitted after a long silence. "But for you, Hermione… I'll try."
"And that's enough," she said, her voice filled with quiet strength. "Trying is enough."
In the stillness of the room, they clung to each other, their scars—both visible and invisible—binding them as tightly as their love. The road ahead was uncertain, fraught with pain and setbacks, but in each other, they had found a beacon of hope.
Healing Came in Different Forms
For Hermione, healing was a relentless pursuit. Every week, she sat in a therapist's office, confronting the horrors she had endured. The process was slow and agonizing—a careful excavation of memories she had tried to bury. She faced the flashbacks, the guilt, and the deep-seated fear that she was permanently broken. Yet, with each tear shed and every small victory, she felt a glimmer of herself returning. Therapy wasn't just a remedy; it was a reclamation of her own strength.
For Draco, healing was less linear. The whiskey bottle became a daily ritual—a bitter elixir that numbed the ache but offered no real solace. It dulled the edges of his pain, quieted the ghosts that haunted him, but it also chained him to the very despair he sought to escape. He knew it wasn't a solution, just a fleeting reprieve, but facing his demons head-on felt insurmountable. The bottle was his shield, his temporary escape.
She saw it. She noticed how his hand lingered on the glass, how his shoulders slumped under the weight of his unresolved grief. She didn't push him—she knew better than anyone that healing couldn't be forced. But she stayed, her quiet presence a constant reminder that he didn't have to face it alone.
Some nights, he would wake in a cold sweat, the vivid replay of his near-death choking him in the dark. Hermione would hold him, her arms steady and unyielding, whispering words of comfort until his breathing evened out. Other nights, it was her who needed solace, her own nightmares pulling her back to the brink. And Draco, despite his own struggles, would cradle her against his chest, reminding her that she was safe, that she was loved.
Healing wasn't linear, nor was it easy. But together, they carved out a fragile, imperfect path forward—one where love became their anchor, their guiding light in the darkness. They had each other, and for now, that was enough.
For months now, Draco had been drowning, and the only thing keeping him afloat was the burn of alcohol in his veins.
It started small—just a drink to take the edge off, to silence the thoughts that clawed at his mind when the world got too quiet. But soon, it became a ritual, a necessity. A lifeline.
Whiskey kissed him goodnight when Hermione couldn't reach him. Vodka held him steady when his hands wouldn't stop shaking. Brandy numbed the aching hollow in his chest where something—someone—had been lost.
He told himself it was control. A choice. A habit he could break whenever he wanted. But deep down, he knew the truth.
He wasn't drinking to forget.
He was drinking to survive.
Because the moment the liquor ran out, the ghosts returned—the memories, the pain, the guilt. The unbearable weight of a year gone, of a life that had moved on without him.
And if he let himself feel it all at once, he wasn't sure he'd survive it.
~~~~~~
"Enough is enough!"
Her voice shattered the suffocating silence of the study, thick with raw fury and unspoken desperation. She stood in the doorway, her breath coming in sharp, uneven bursts as her hands trembled at her sides. The stench of alcohol clung to the air, sharp and nauseating, mingling with the faint trace of dying embers in the fireplace.
Her eyes swept over the room in mounting horror.
Draco lay sprawled across the cold wooden floor, an empty bottle of whiskey hanging limply from his fingers, the glass smudged with his fingerprints, a silent witness to his descent into self-destruction. His once-pristine features were dulled by weeks of reckless neglect—his hair unkempt, his cheekbones more pronounced than they should have been, his lips cracked, his eyes—when they finally opened—bloodshot, unfocused, utterly lifeless.
And then, the words came.
"C'est ce que je veux. Je veux mourir."
A whisper. A confession. A death sentence wrapped in the cruel softness of his native tongue.
She staggered, the air leaving her lungs as if she had been punched. Her vision blurred, her pulse roared in her ears, and for a second—just one—she thought she might collapse under the weight of it all.
But then, something inside her snapped.
Rage, thick and scalding, surged through her veins, burning away the ice that had momentarily paralyzed her.
"Oh, fuck off!" she snarled, marching forward with dangerous intent. She kicked the bottle from his slack grip, sending it clattering across the floor. "Get yourself together, for fuck's sake! You're not the only one suffering, you selfish bastard!"
He flinched at the words, his expression flickering with something between irritation and recognition. Slowly, unsteadily, he pushed himself upright, his arms shaking under the effort. And then—he laughed.
Bitter. Hollow. Ugly.
"Selfish?" His voice was slurred, hoarse, thick with drink. His silver eyes, once sharp enough to cut, were now dull with resentment. "Selfish?" He scoffed, wiping at his face as if bored of the conversation already. "You think I chose this? You think I enjoy this?"
"I don't care if you enjoy it or not!" Hermione shot back, her nails digging into her palms. "You're destroying yourself, and you're dragging me down with you! Do you even see what you're doing to us?!"
He smirked, a slow, cruel curl of his lips. "Oh, so that's what this is about? Us?" He swayed slightly but caught himself against the desk, his fingers gripping the edge with white-knuckled force. "Merlin, Hermione, you love that word, don't you? Us. Like there's anything fucking left to salvage."
Her breath hitched, but he wasn't done.
"Don't pretend you're some saint in all of this," he continued, his voice taking on a sharp, venomous edge. "You think you've got it all figured out, don't you? Your little therapy sessions, your endless fucking talking… Does it even help? Or are you just pretending you're better than me because you can sit in a chair and cry about your problems?"
The words slammed into her with all the force of an Unforgivable.
Her stomach churned, her eyes stung, but she refused to let the tears spill—not in front of him.
"At least I'm trying," she whispered, her voice shaking but steady, her rage barely contained beneath the hurt. "At least I'm not drowning myself in whiskey every night, pretending that makes it all go away."
He laughed again, the sound hollow and bitter as he staggered to his feet, swaying slightly. "Trying?" he repeated mockingly. "You think you're fixing anything? Look at you—standing there, yelling at me like it's going to change a damn thing. You're just as broken as I am, Hermione. Maybe worse."
The words hit their mark, but instead of crumbling, Hermione's anger flared brighter. "I may be broken, Draco, but at least I'm not giving up! At least I'm fighting to make things better, for myself, for us—"
"Us?" he interrupted, his voice rising. "Don't kid yourself. There hasn't been an 'us' for months. You're too busy fixing yourself to notice that I've already fallen apart."
His admission hung in the air like a dagger, sharp and unforgiving. Hermione's hands trembled as she took a step closer, her voice low and trembling with raw emotion. "I notice, Draco," she said, her words cutting through his drunken haze like a blade. "I notice every single day. And I keep trying— trying —because I love you. Because I can't stand the thought of losing you."
"Then stop trying!" he roared, his voice cracking under the strain. "Stop trying to save me, Hermione. I'm not worth it. I've never been worth it!"
His head lolled to the side, his expression twisted into a grotesque mask of pain and resignation. His eyes, once piercing and alive with cunning, were now dulled, vacant, like the light within him had long since burned out. The sight of him like this—broken, hollow, a shadow of the man she once loved—made Hermione's heart ache, but the rage that coursed through her veins drowned out any sympathy.
"You think this is what you want?" she hissed, stepping closer, her hands trembling as they curled into fists. "You think dying is the answer? That it'll make everything better? That it'll make the pain go away?"
"Leave me alone, bitch!" he slurred, his words like venom, dripping with spite.
Her breath hitched, the insult hitting her like a slap. She stood frozen for a moment, her mind struggling to reconcile the man before her with the one she used to know. But the shock quickly gave way to an explosive fury, a heat that consumed her entirely.
"You dare call me that?" she spat, her voice trembling with disbelief and fury. "You're lying here, drunk out of your mind, wallowing in self-pity, and you have the audacity to call me a bitch?"
He sneered, dragging himself into a sitting position with a groan, the effort seeming monumental in his drunken state. His hair hung in damp, disheveled strands across his forehead, still wet from the water she'd thrown at him moments ago. He wiped his face with the back of his hand, his expression twisted into something cruel.
"How dare I?" he mocked, his voice sharp and cutting. "How dare you barge in here and act like you're some kind of savior? Like you're better than me?"
Her chest heaved with the force of her anger. "DON'T YOU DARE TWIST THIS!" she shouted, her voice breaking. "I came in here to help you because you're too much of a coward to help yourself!"
"Help me?" his bitter laugh echoed through the room, a cold and hollow sound. "You think throwing water on me and yelling like a shrew is helping? Merlin, you're pathetic, Hermione. Absolutely pathetic."
Her mouth opened, the words catching in her throat as if she'd been physically struck. She blinked, her vision blurring with unshed tears, but she refused to let him see her crumble.
"You think I'm pathetic?" she said, her voice shaking but still sharp. "Look at yourself, Draco! You're lying on the floor like a—like a drunk, bitter—"
"Say it," he snarled, cutting her off. He staggered to his feet, leaning heavily on the edge of the desk to steady himself. "Say what you really mean. A failure? A waste of space? Go ahead. Tell me something I don't already know."
She shook her head, her hands trembling with rage. "I didn't come here to hurt you. But you don't need me for that, do you? You're doing a fine job of it all on your own."
"Spare me the moral high ground," he snapped, his voice rising to a roar. "You think you're so perfect, don't you? Sitting in therapy, talking about your feelings like it makes you better than me. But you're just as fucked up as I am. Maybe worse."
Her jaw tightened, her body trembling with the effort to keep her emotions in check. "I'm not perfect," she said, her voice low and trembling. "But at least I'm trying. At least I'm not giving up like you."
"Trying?" he sneered, his tone dripping with mockery. "What are you trying for, huh? Some delusional happily-ever-after where you fix me, and we live in wedded bliss? Newsflash, Hermione: I'm not fixable. I've been broken beyond repair for years, and you're a fool for thinking otherwise."
Her resolve snapped. She stepped closer, her voice trembling with unrestrained anger. "You don't get to decide that for me,m! You don't get to sit there and wallow while I fight every single day for us—for you! Do you even care what this is doing to me? Do you even see me anymore?"
"See you?" His laughter was cold and hollow. "All I see is someone who can't let go of the fantasy. You're not fighting for me. You're fighting for yourself. To ease your guilt. To feel good about yourself. Don't pretend this is about love."
Her breath hitched, her vision blurring as his words cut her to the core. "How dare you," she whispered, her voice shaking with disbelief. "How dare you reduce everything we've been through to this—to your drunken, self-pitying delusions. You may have given up on yourself, but I will not let you drag me down with you."
"Then leave!" he roared, his voice echoing off the walls. His chest heaved as he glared at her, his expression wild and desperate. "Go on, Hermione. Walk away. You're good at that, aren't you? Leaving when things get hard."
The accusation struck her like a slap, the air leaving her lungs in a painful rush. She turned to him slowly, her eyes blazing with a mix of fury and heartbreak.
"You are despicable," she said, her voice low and deadly. "You're drunk, you're angry, and you're a coward. And you know what? If you keep pushing me away, one day, I will leave. And when that day comes, you'll only have yourself to blame."
Her voice cracked as she turned on her heel and stormed toward the door.
"Go on!" he shouted after her, his voice breaking. "Run, bitch! That's what you do best!"
The door slammed shut behind her with a force that rattled the walls, leaving him alone in the deafening silence. He sank back into the chair, his head in his hands, the bitter taste of his own words lingering like poison in his mouth.
~~~~~~
Hermione sat motionless at the edge of her childhood bed, her fingers gripping the frayed edges of the quilt her mother had sewn years ago. The fabric, once vibrant and full of warmth, now felt muted beneath her hands—just another relic of a past life she could no longer touch. The weight in her chest was suffocating, pressing down with the force of memories she wished she could bury.
Everything in this room had remained exactly as she had left it, frozen in time, untouched by the chaos of the life she had built and destroyed. The pale blue walls still bore the faded outlines of posters that had once inspired her, their edges curling with age. Her bookshelf, an unyielding monument to the girl she used to be, still stood proudly in the corner, stuffed to the brim with novels that had once felt like escape. And on the dresser, beneath the soft glow of a lamp, sat her old stuffed animals, their beady eyes watching her with silent understanding.
But instead of the comfort she had hoped to find, all she felt was empty.
This room—the one place that had once been a refuge—felt like a mockery now. A shrine to a girl who had once believed in the simplicity of right and wrong, who had dreamed of happy endings, who had trusted that love could fix anything.
She no longer recognized that girl.
The woman sitting on this bed was tired. Weighed down by cracks in her soul, by sharp edges of choices she couldn't take back. She was someone who had seen love curdle into something cruel, something jagged, something she no longer had the strength to hold onto.
Her gaze fell to the quilt beneath her hands, her fingers tracing its familiar stitches. Once, this had been her mother's way of wrapping her in safety, in love. Now, it only served as a reminder of all the softness she had lost.
The life she had built with Draco had none of that warmth. It had been built on fire and passion, but passion could burn just as easily as it could warm. And by the end, all it had left was ash.
A lump formed in her throat, thick and unbearable, as she pulled her knees to her chest, wrapping her arms around herself like a shield.
She had loved him.
God, she had loved him so much.
The memory of his touch, of his laughter in the beginning, of whispered promises against her skin—it clawed at her, threatened to drag her under. There had been a time when he had been her world, when she had fought for him, fought for them because she believed in him. Because she had wanted to believe that she could pull him out of the darkness before it swallowed him whole.
But in the end, she had only lost herself.
It had been a week since she had walked out of the Malfoy penthouse. A week since the heavy door had slammed shut behind her, the echo of it reverberating in her bones, sealing away everything she had once clung to.
A week since she had left behind the cold, sterile grandeur of a home that had never truly been hers.
She had tried—Merlin, had she tried—to make it feel like something more than a mausoleum of their dying love. She had filled it with books, with laughter, with traces of herself. But the walls had always been too hollow, the rooms too big, the space too suffocating in its emptiness.
Every inch of it had been haunted—not by ghosts, but by Draco's demons.
And she had fought them. Fought for him. Fought to save him.
But instead, she had lost pieces of herself in the battle.
She leaned her head back against the bedpost, her vision blurring as she squeezed her eyes shut.
She missed him.
That was the worst part.
The man she had fallen in love with, the one who had held her in the dark and whispered that she was the only thing keeping him tethered to the world. The man who had shown her glimpses of vulnerability beneath his sharp edges, who had let her see all of him, even the parts he hated.
But that man was gone.
He had let himself be swallowed by the anger, the bitterness, the self-destruction.
And she had let herself be swallowed with him.
The cruel words still rang in her ears, the look in his eyes still burned into her memory—the resentment, the loathing, the way he had twisted his pain into daggers and aimed them straight at her heart.
And yet… it wasn't just his darkness that terrified her.
It was her own.
The way she had let herself become consumed by him. The way she had justified every cruel moment, every bitter fight, every bruise his words had left behind.
The way she had mistaken her own self-destruction for love.
The lines between devotion and sacrifice, between love and ruin, had blurred so completely that she no longer knew where one ended and the other began.
And that—more than anything else—was why she had to leave.
Because if she had stayed, she would have lost the last remaining pieces of herself.
And she wasn't sure Draco Malfoy was worth what little of Hermione Granger she had left.
The sharp, cutting words he had thrown at her replayed endlessly in her mind, each one a dagger she couldn't remove. They twisted deeper with every replay, their weight heavier than the silence in her childhood room. Yet, it wasn't just the words that haunted her. It was the helplessness. The suffocating realization that no matter how much love or effort she gave, she couldn't save him—not from the darkness that consumed him, nor the self-destruction he seemed to embrace like an old friend.
She was startled from her thoughts by a soft knock on the door, followed by her mother's gentle voice. "Hermione, sweetheart, you have a visitor."
Her gaze broke from the book in her lap—one she hadn't been reading, merely holding as a distraction. Her fingers rested on the same page she'd been staring at for hours, the words blurring into meaninglessness. "Who is it?" she asked softly, her voice strained with the exhaustion of too many sleepless nights.
"It's Luna," her mother replied warmly, the name carrying a subtle note of reassurance, as though she knew Hermione needed her friend's gentle presence.
She hesitated, a knot forming in her chest. Relief flickered at the mention of Luna's name—her unwavering calm and whimsical outlook were like a balm for her frayed nerves. But guilt quickly followed. Luna would see through her fragile composure in seconds. She always did. Still, she nodded, forcing a faint smile. "Okay. Send her up please."
Moments later, the door creaked open, and she entered the room, radiating her usual unassuming serenity. She wore a flowing pale blue dress, the color of a summer sky, paired with one of her eccentric necklaces—this one strung with Valentino initials. Her wide, curious eyes scanned the room, taking in its preserved simplicity before settling on Hermione with a knowing, compassionate gaze.
"Mimi," Luna greeted her softly, using the nickname that only she could say with such ease and affection. Her voice was a melody, light yet grounding, and it wrapped around Hermione like a comforting embrace. Closing the door behind her, Luna approached, her expression a mixture of concern and quiet understanding. "Your mummy said you've been here a while."
She nodded, her voice barely above a whisper. "I just needed… space. Time to think." Her words felt heavy, as if even speaking them aloud took more effort than she had to give.
Luna didn't reply immediately. Instead, she crossed the room in her usual graceful, almost ethereal way, and sat down beside her on the bed. Her presence filled the space with a quiet comfort that made Hermione feel seen without being judged. The silence between them wasn't awkward; it was purposeful, the kind that allowed wounds to breathe.
Finally, Luna spoke, her tone gentle yet direct. "I heard about Draco." She tilted her head slightly, her soft blonde hair catching the light. "I know things have been difficult."
She felt her throat tighten, the lump that had been lodged there for days now impossible to swallow. "It's been awful," she admitted, her voice trembling. "I tried so hard to help him, babes. To be there for him. But it's like he's drowning, and every time I reach out, he pulls me under with him." Tears welled in her eyes, blurring the image of her friend sitting beside her. "He said things… things I can't forget. Words that hurt so much I don't know if I can recover."
Luna reached out, her hand warm and steady as it covered hers. "Pain makes people lash out," she said, her voice as soft as a lullaby. "It doesn't excuse it, but it explains it. Sometimes, when someone is hurting so deeply, they push away the person they need the most."
She shook her head, the tears slipping freely now. "I just… I don't know what to do anymore. I feel like I've lost him. And worse, I feel like I'm losing myself."
"You haven't lost yourself," she said firmly, her eyes holding Hermione's with an intensity that belied her usual dreaminess. "You've been carrying a burden that isn't yours to bear. Loving someone doesn't mean sacrificing all of yourself, Mimi. It's not about fixing their broken pieces at the cost of breaking your own."
Her sobs escaped in broken gasps as Luna's words pierced through the emotional haze she had been trapped in. "But I love him," she choked out. "I can't just walk away. What if he needs me? What if he can't get better without me?"
Luna's grip on her hand tightened, a small but unyielding gesture. "Mimi, listen to me," she said softly but with an edge of steel. "He has to want to get better. You can't do it for him. You can't pour all of your light into someone who refuses to step out of the shadows. That's not love. That's losing yourself."
She looked down, tears splattering on the quilt. "I just wish it didn't have to be this way."
Luna smiled faintly, a bittersweet expression that carried both sorrow and hope. "I know. Life is rarely fair, especially to those with hearts as big as yours. But you deserve love that doesn't leave you questioning your worth. You deserve a love that makes you feel whole, not fractured."
The room fell silent again, save for Hermione's quiet sniffles. Slowly, she leaned into Luna, resting her head on her friend's shoulder. "Thank you," she whispered hoarsely. "I don't know what I'd do without you."
Luna's arms came around her in a gentle hug. "You're not alone, Mimi. You'll find your way. And when you do, you'll remember just how strong you are."
For the first time in weeks, Hermione allowed herself to believe that might be true. Luna's unwavering belief in her felt like the first tiny step toward healing, and though the road ahead still felt impossibly long, she could at least see the faint glimmer of a path forward.
Luna sat across from Hermione in the cozy corner of her room. The soft clinking of teacups and murmured conversations filled the air, but in their little bubble of closeness, it felt as though the world had quieted. Luna's pale blue cardigan slipped off one shoulder as she leaned forward, her hands cradling her mug of chamomile tea. She looked radiant today—more luminous than usual, as though she were carrying a secret too wonderful to contain.
She raised an eyebrow, setting down her own cup. "You've been smiling like a Kneazle who caught the canary since you sat down. What's going on, Luna? Did you find another Crumple-Horned Snorkack expedition to join?"
Luna giggled, her laughter as light and musical as the wind chimes hanging by the tearoom window. She shook her head, her blonde hair catching the golden sunlight streaming in. "No, nothing like that." Her voice softened, a hint of mischief in her tone. "But you're right—I do have something to share."
She tilted her head, curiosity sparking in her eyes. "Well, don't leave me hanging, babes. Spill."
Luna's gaze softened, and for a moment, she simply looked at Hermione, her smile growing impossibly warmer. Then she reached across the table, placing her hand gently over Hermione's. "I'm pregnant."
For a heartbeat, she just stared at her, as if the words needed time to settle in her mind. Then her face lit up with pure joy, her hands flying to her mouth in a gasp of disbelief. "Luna! Are you serious? Oh, my goodness!"
Luna nodded, her smile widening into a beam of happiness that lit up the entire room. "I am," she said, her voice a little tremulous, as though she herself still marveled at the reality of it. "Theo and I are going to have a baby."
She was out of her seat in a heartbeat, circling the tiny table to pull Luna into a fierce, unreserved hug. "Oh, Luna, that's the most wonderful news!" she exclaimed, her voice thick with emotion. "I can't believe it—you're going to be a mum again!"
Luna hugged her back, her arms wrapping tightly around her friend. "And you're going to be the most brilliant auntie," she whispered, her voice trembling with happy tears.
She pulled back slightly, her hands still gripping Luna's shoulders as she searched her friend's face. "You're glowing, Luna. Truly. I don't think I've ever seen you look so happy. How's Theo taking it? He must be over the moon."
Luna's eyes sparkled, her cheeks flushing a delicate pink. "Oh, Theo cried when I told him," she admitted with a soft laugh. "And then he spent the next hour swearing to make the manor completely baby-proof again by the end of the week." Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. "He's already ordered books on magical parenting. I think he's read three of them in two days."
She laughed, dabbing at her eyes as tears of joy pricked at the corners. "That sounds like Theo—calm and composed on the outside but secretly in a tizzy underneath."
Luna grinned. "He's already talking about teaching the baby all about astronomy and showing them the constellations from the garden. He says he wants our child to know how vast and beautiful the universe is."
She let out a soft sigh, her heart swelling with happiness for her friend. "Luna, you're the most incredible mother. That child is going to grow up surrounded by so much love and wonder."
Luna squeezed her hand, her voice soft but filled with unwavering certainty. "And they're going to have the most amazing role models in their life, starting with you. I want them to grow up knowing what strength and kindness look like, and you embody both, Hermione."
Her heart caught in her throat at the sincerity of her words. She laughed through her tears, shaking her head. "Don't make me cry even more, Luna. I'm already a mess."
They both laughed then, their joy filling the small space between them like sunlight breaking through clouds. As they settled back into their seats, the conversation turned to baby names, nursery ideas, and Luna's excitement about introducing her child to the magical and Muggle worlds alike.
For the rest of the afternoon, the tearoom seemed brighter, warmer, as though it had been touched by the magic of Luna's news. And for Hermione, the joy of that moment was something she would carry with her forever—a reminder that even in the most unexpected places, life had a way of creating beautiful new beginnings.
~~~~~~
Three weeks. 21 days.
540 hours.
33240 minutes.
1,814,400 seconds.
Time had become his prison.
Draco lay in his enormous, empty bed, suffocating beneath the weight of every second that had passed without her. The silence of the Malfoy household pressed down on him, thick and unrelenting, filling every corner, every crevice, with an emptiness that mirrored the gaping void inside him.
Once a sanctuary of opulence and power, the house now felt like a mausoleum—cold, hollow, dead. The grand halls that had once echoed with laughter, with footsteps, with life, now carried only the distant ghosts of memories he could no longer touch.
Above him, the intricate carvings of the ceiling blurred in his vision, shifting in and out of focus as he stared unseeing, his body motionless save for the slow, shallow rise and fall of his chest.
He hadn't moved in hours. Maybe days.
He wasn't sure anymore.
The passage of time meant nothing when every moment without her felt like an eternity.
It wasn't just the physical toll of his illness—the weakness in his limbs, the fever that ebbed and flowed like a relentless tide—it was something deeper, more insidious. It was the gnawing ache that had taken root in his chest the moment she had walked out the door. Hermione. Her name was a whisper in his mind, a ghost in every corner of the manor, haunting him with what he'd lost.
He turned his head slightly, his gaze falling on the untouched bottle of whiskey on the desk across the room. It mocked him, a bitter testament to his failure to drown the memories of her laugh, her touch, the fire in her eyes when they argued. He had always prided himself on his strength, his ability to command and control. But now? Now he was powerless, lost in the void she'd left behind.
The sheets, once cool and crisp, now felt suffocating, a cruel reminder that her warmth no longer filled the space beside him. Every corner of the house seemed to conspire against him, betraying him with echoes of her presence—the faintest trace of her perfume lingering in the air, the book she'd left on the library table, its pages dog-eared where she'd stopped reading.
He closed his eyes, willing himself to shut out the memories, the unbearable ache of missing her. But it was futile. The silence was relentless, pressing down on him, suffocating him with the knowledge of his own inadequacy. He had driven her away, he knew that. His words, his actions—everything he had done had pushed her closer to the door. And now, she was gone.
The seconds ticked by, each one heavier than the last, stretching into an eternity of regret. For the first time in his life, Draco Malfoy—the man who had always believed he could face anything—felt utterly, completely broken.
He stared at the empty space beside him, the bed colder than it had ever been. Where her warmth had once lingered, there was now nothing but a gaping void, a silence so profound it seemed to seep into the marrow of his bones. Her absence filled the room like an oppressive fog, heavier than any weight he had ever known. The comfort of her presence, the quiet reassurance of knowing she was there, was gone. In its place, a loneliness that no amount of alcohol or self-pity could ever hope to numb.
Each second stretched into eternity, a suffocating countdown to an inevitable descent into despair. The ticking of time, once a background hum, now felt like a reminder of all that had slipped beyond his grasp.
Her last words echoed in his mind, sharp and cutting. The tremor in her voice, a mix of fury and heartbreak, burned into his memory. He could still hear it clearly—the way she'd looked at him, eyes brimming with hurt, the love she had once so freely given, now tainted with the weight of his cruelty. The sting of her rejection was a constant, cruel reminder that he had driven her to this point. The guilt gnawed at him, an insistent ache that twisted inside his chest, leaving him raw and empty, unable to find even the faintest trace of peace.
The silence around him pressed in, suffocating him as he grappled with the enormity of his actions. How had he let it come to this? How could he have lost her—really lost her? The realization hit him with all the force of a physical blow. It wasn't just the luxury, the power, the wealth that defined him anymore. Those things, once so intoxicating, now felt like a gilded cage, trapping him in his own misery. She had left him, and nothing he owned, nothing he had, could fill the hole she had left behind.
How could she? The thought twisted in his mind, sharp as a blade. It came out as a question, bitter and angry, but beneath it, there was a softer, quieter voice—a voice he couldn't ignore any longer—that whispered the truth he'd been avoiding for so long: She had every right to leave me.
He was miserable. A truth he had spent so long denying, pushing away with anger, with bitterness, with the walls he'd built around himself. He had driven her away, over and over, until there was nothing left for her to cling to. The venom in his words, the self-destructive path he had chosen, all of it had pushed her further from him. She had fought for him, for them, but in the end, there had been nothing left to fight for.
Now, with the weight of her absence pressing down on him like an immovable force, he finally began to understand the depth of what he had lost. The ache wasn't just in his chest—it was all-encompassing, a gnawing pain that radiated through every fiber of his being. It was a wound that went far deeper than he could have ever imagined, and it hurt in a way nothing else ever had before. He had shattered something irreplaceable, something he hadn't even realized he had until it was too late.
And the worst part? He knew there was no fixing it. The emptiness she had left behind was a chasm, vast and unyielding. No amount of whiskey, no fleeting moments of self-pity, could ever hope to fill it. Draco, slumped in a chair with a blanket draped over his shoulders, stared numbly at the dying embers of the fireplace. The warmth of the flames barely touched the cold that had settled inside him, the cold that no amount of external comfort could soothe.
He had been using the bottle as a crutch for so long, trying to drown his pain, but it had only dragged him deeper into his own darkness. The realization hit him hard, like a sharp slap: he couldn't hide from this anymore. He had to change. He had to face the reality he had created for himself, the one where his reckless actions had led to this moment—this unbearable, soul-crushing emptiness.
His eyes stayed fixed on the flickering flames, each crackle and pop a painful reminder of his choices, the decisions that had led him here. He had built this prison with his own hands, brick by brick, and now he had to live with it.
He had to confront the shadows, the ugly parts of himself he had long ignored, and find a way to rebuild from the wreckage. But for now, all he could do was sit in the oppressive silence, the weight of his guilt pressing down on him like a thousand tons, knowing—deep in his gut—that he was the one to blame for everything.
The weight of his failures pressed down on Draco like an avalanche, suffocating and inescapable. He had lost her—Hermione, the one person who had seen him at his worst and still believed in him. But belief only stretched so far, and he had pushed her past the breaking point. Now, all he had left was an empty penthouse, a bottle of whiskey he no longer wanted, and a desperation so thick it nearly choked him.
Summoning what little resolve remained, he forced himself toward the fireplace. His hands trembled as he reached for the Floo powder, hovering for a long moment over the flames. It was pathetic, really—how much hesitation lived in his bones, how much shame coiled in his stomach like poison.
Within the hour, Theo and Blaise arrived, both stepping into his penthouse with an expression that mirrored each other—concern, curiosity, and the unmistakable wariness of men who had witnessed Draco Malfoy in ruins before. They were used to this—the self-destruction, the slow spiral, the anger that burned itself out only to be replaced by a hollow nothingness. But this time, something was different. This time, Draco wasn't drinking himself into oblivion or punching walls to feel something. This time, he had called them. That alone was enough to make them pay attention.
Theo was the first to speak, his sharp gaze scanning the wreckage of Draco's study—the overturned glass, the scattered papers, the dim, suffocating atmosphere of a man barely holding himself together. "You look like absolute hell," he said bluntly, stepping inside as if he owned the place. "What's going on?"
Blaise followed, his eyes flicking from the untouched bottle of whiskey to Draco's rigid stance. He sighed, rubbing his temples. "Please tell me this isn't just another one of your brooding episodes," he muttered. "Because if we came all the way here just to watch you stare at walls and sulk, I'm going to throw you off the balcony."
He let out a dry, humorless laugh. "As tempting as that sounds, I actually need help."
Something in his voice made both men still. This wasn't just regret. This wasn't just a moment of weakness. This was something deeper—something more desperate.
Theo crossed his arms, his voice dropping in volume but not intensity. "What happened?"
Draco exhaled, running a hand through his disheveled hair. "She left me." The words felt like razors in his throat. "Hermione—she left. Three weeks ago. I haven't heard from her since."
Silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating. Blaise exchanged a glance with Theo, the weight of the confession sinking in.
"Well," Blaise said finally, his voice devoid of its usual lazy amusement, "congratulations, Malfoy. You managed to completely fuck things up."
Draco flinched, but he didn't argue. He had no right to.
Theo sighed, rubbing his jaw. "What did you do?"
Draco shook his head. "That's the thing, I don't even know when it happened. I didn't see it coming. I didn't realize—" His voice cracked, frustration bleeding through the exhaustion. "I was so wrapped up in my own goddamn head, in my own fucking damage, that I didn't see I was ruining everything."
Blaise exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. "Draco, you are the smartest idiot I have ever met. You're telling me she just woke up one day and decided to leave? No warning? No signs?"
"She was slipping away," he admitted, his voice quieter now. "I just didn't realize how much until she was already gone."
Theo studied him for a long moment before speaking, his voice softer but still carrying the weight of truth. "Then let me ask you this: are you calling us because you miss her, or because you finally realize you need to change?"
The question hit Draco like a gut punch.
Because that was the real issue, wasn't it? He hadn't just lost Hermione—he had lost himself in the process. He had become the worst version of himself, a man even he couldn't stand to look at in the mirror.
"I don't want to be this person anymore," he admitted, his voice raw. "I don't want to keep falling back into the same patterns. I don't want to keep losing the people who matter because I can't fucking deal with my own shit." He lifted his head, locking eyes with both of them. "I need to fix this. I need help."
Theo's expression softened, and for once, he didn't have some cutting remark or sarcastic quip ready. Instead, he nodded. "Good. Admitting it's the first step."
Blaise let out a deep breath. "We'll help you, but this won't be easy. You can't just sit around and sulk and expect things to magically fix themselves. You're going to have to put in the work."
Draco nodded, the weight of his own mistakes pressing heavily on his chest. "I know," he said. "But I'm ready. Whatever it takes."
Theo clapped a hand on his shoulder, squeezing once. "Alright, then. First things first: no more whiskey. No more self-pity. We come up with a plan, and you stick to it."
Blaise smirked, though there was warmth behind it. "And if you slip up, I will personally drag your sorry arse out of whatever pit you try to crawl into."
Draco let out a small, exhausted laugh. "I'll hold you to that."
The three of them stood there for a long moment, the gravity of the situation settling in. This was the beginning of something difficult, something painful—but also something necessary. Draco didn't know if he could fix things with Hermione, but he knew one thing for certain: he had to fix himself first.
And for the first time in a long time, he believed he could.
The silence that followed was deafening.
Blaise let out a slow, deliberate breath. Then he chuckled, low and humorless. "You've really done it this time, haven't you?"
Draco flinched, but he said nothing.
Theo straightened, his eyes narrowing with something between disappointment and fury. "Draco," he said, his voice slow and measured, "do you have any fucking idea what you've done?"
Draco lifted his head slightly, but before he could speak, Theo was on him.
"No, don't look at me like that, don't even try to fucking defend yourself," Theo snapped, his usual cool demeanor cracking as he took a step forward. "You think this is some kind of minor inconvenience? You think this is just a temporary setback? You destroyed her. And now, you're sitting here, moping like a goddamned child because you don't know how to fix it?"
Draco swallowed hard, his jaw tightening. "I—"
"You what?" Theo cut him off viciously. "You miss her? You regret it? Too fucking bad. You didn't just mess up, Draco. You broke her. You ruined something good. Something real. And for what? Because it was easier to push her away than deal with your own goddamn emotions? Because instead of being a man, instead of facing your issues, you let yourself spiral until the only thing left in your life was the wreckage you created?"
Draco's breath was unsteady, his chest rising and falling too quickly. He had expected Theo to be angry—he should be angry—but the sheer disgust in his voice made Draco feel like he had been physically struck.
Blaise, who had been watching quietly, finally spoke. "You know," he mused, his voice deceptively casual, "I've seen you fuck up a lot, mate. Hell, it's practically a sport at this point. But this? This is a new fucking low."
Draco's hands curled into fists. "I know I fucked up," he gritted out.
"Do you?" Blaise shot back, his voice sharp. "Because I don't think you do. You called us here, what, to have a little intervention? To help you clean up the mess? That's not how this works, Malfoy. You don't get to cry about it now. You don't get to decide when it's time to make things better. She does. And after what you've put her through, after everything, what makes you think she'll ever want to see your face again?"
Draco felt something inside him crack.
"That's what I'm trying to figure out," he admitted, voice barely above a whisper. "I don't—I don't know how to fix this. I don't know how to make things right. I don't even know where to start."
Theo exhaled through his nose, rubbing his temples as if trying to suppress the urge to strangle him. "First of all," he said, voice tight, "this isn't about Hermione. Not yet. This is about you getting your shit together. Because right now, you're a fucking disaster. And if you think some half-assed apology or some grand romantic gesture is going to fix things, you're out of your goddamned mind."
Blaise nodded, his expression grim. "If you want to make things right, you start by fixing yourself. Not for her. For you. Because right now? You're a fucking joke."
Draco bristled, his pride flaring. "You think I don't know that?" he snapped.
Theo laughed, but there was no humor in it. "No, Draco, I don't think you know that. Because if you did, you wouldn't have let it get this bad in the first place."
Draco clenched his jaw so tightly it ached. "I just—" He let out a ragged breath, his hands shaking as he gripped the edge of the table. "I just want to fix it."
"You don't fix this," Blaise said coldly. "You earn your way back from it. If you even can."
Theo crossed his arms again, staring down at him with something that almost looked like pity. "You don't get to decide when she forgives you, Draco. You don't get to rush this. You don't get to dictate how long she needs, or if she'll ever come back."
Draco pressed his palms into his eyes, his head pounding. "I know," he muttered.
"No," Theo said simply. "You don't."
Draco dropped his hands, looking up at them, his face drawn and exhausted. "What do I do?"
Blaise scoffed. "You really want to know?"
Draco nodded.
"Then listen closely," Theo said, his voice dead serious. "You clean up your goddamn life. You stop wallowing. You stop drinking yourself into oblivion. You get help. You work through your shit, and you do it for you, not because you think it'll get you Hermione back."
"And here's the kicker," Blaise added, his smirk cruel. "You do all of that, and you still might never see her again."
Draco flinched, but Blaise wasn't finished.
"If you really love her, you'll do it anyway. Because you owe her that. You owe yourself that." He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. "And if you're not willing to do the work? Then you never fucking deserved her in the first place."
Draco swallowed hard, his throat tight with emotion. He had never felt so small, so ashamed, and yet, for the first time in a long time, he felt something else too.
Resolve.
"Okay," he said hoarsely. "I'll do it."
Theo gave a slow nod. "Then prove it."
Blaise studied him for a long moment before shaking his head. "God help you, Malfoy. Because this is going to be the hardest thing you've ever done."
Draco exhaled, the weight of their words pressing into his ribs. He had no illusions—this wasn't going to be easy. This wasn't going to be quick.
But he would do it.
Because for the first time in his life, he had to.