The chapel was bathed in golden light, the air thick with the scent of roses and the murmurs of joyous celebration. Hermione stood quietly, her hands clasped tightly in front of her, a bittersweet smile tugging at her lips as she watched Neville and Pansy exchange vows. They looked radiant—two souls who had weathered their storms and found peace in each other.

She glanced sideways, catching Draco's profile. His sharp features were softened by the light, but his expression was unreadable, distant. The sight made something inside her ache, a familiar ache she'd long since stopped trying to name.

Her voice was soft when it broke the silence between them, almost too soft for him to hear.

"Some flowers," she began, her tone heavy with melancholy, "never get to bloom and see the day. Some flowers are content to wish their life away. Some may rise, and some may fall."

He flinched almost imperceptibly but said nothing. She took a steadying breath, her gaze fixed ahead.

"Lord knows what I did to deserve this," she whispered, her voice cracking under the weight of her own grief. Her hand gestured faintly toward the couple at the altar. "This could have been us."

He turned his head sharply toward her, his eyes flashing with something like pain, like anger, like regret. "Hermione," he hissed, his voice low and urgent, "not here. Not again."

"I'm just saying my peace," she replied, her voice trembling but resolute.

"Don't do this to me," he murmured, his tone raw, pleading.

Her eyes softened as they met his, a fleeting moment of vulnerability shared between them. She knew him—knew the boy he'd been, the man he was now. And perhaps that was the tragedy of it all: she knew him too well.

"Goodbye, Draco," she said finally, her words barely louder than a breath.

She stood slowly, the scrape of the wooden pew echoing in the quiet. Her movements were deliberate, unhurried, as though she was trying to savor the finality of it. Each step away from him felt heavier than the last.

He didn't move. He didn't look up. He simply stared at the floor, his hands clenched into fists against his thighs.

"This could have been us," he thought bitterly, his mind conjuring a thousand impossible scenarios. He saw them laughing in the sunlight, arguing over wedding plans, standing where Neville and Pansy now stood—desperately in love, unshakably united.

But reality was a cruel mistress.

And as her figure disappeared through the grand chapel doors, leaving nothing behind but the faintest trace of her perfume, he realized he would carry the weight of her absence for the rest of his life.

 ••••••••••••••

When she finally stepped through the door of her flat, the weight of the day came crashing down around her. The silence was deafening, a stark contrast to the chaos of emotions raging inside her. She leaned back against the door, her chest heaving as she tried—and failed—to hold back the tears that had been threatening to spill all evening.

The first sob escaped her lips before she could stop it, raw and guttural, and soon she was sinking to the floor, her body wracked with the force of her grief. She cried for what felt like hours—cried until her throat was raw and her tears soaked the sleeves of her jumper. It wasn't just sadness; it was heartbreak, confusion, and the sharp sting of betrayal all tangled together.

He'd left her.

The memory replayed in her mind, vivid and merciless. No warning, no explanation. He had simply dropped the bombshell and walked away. The words he'd spoken—cold, detached—echoed in her head like a curse. "It's better this way, Hermione."

Better? For whom?

She had begged him, pleaded with him to tell her why. Her voice had cracked under the weight of her desperation, her hands trembling as she reached out for him. But he had been like stone, his jaw clenched, his eyes avoiding hers as though looking at her would break him.

And then he was gone.

She didn't know how she'd made it home that night, her legs carrying her on autopilot while her mind spiraled into a storm of unanswered questions. She didn't know how she'd survived the weeks that followed, waking up each day to the gnawing ache in her chest where her heart used to be.

For months, she was a shell of herself. She moved through her days like a ghost, going to work, attending meetings, smiling when required—all the while dying a little more inside. Nights were the worst. They stretched endlessly, filled with memories of him—the way he laughed, the way his hand fit perfectly around hers, the way he whispered her name like it was something sacred.

She tried to rationalize it, to make sense of his sudden departure. Maybe he thought he was protecting her. Maybe he believed she deserved someone better, someone less damaged by the past. But no matter how many excuses she conjured for him, the pain didn't lessen.

And then there was the anger. It crept in slowly, replacing the grief with a simmering fury. How dare he make that choice for her? How dare he leave her without an explanation, without a chance to fight for what they had?

But even the anger couldn't hold for long. It always gave way to the loneliness, the empty space beside her where he used to be.

It took her months to pull herself back together, to stitch the broken pieces of her heart into something resembling whole. She threw herself into her work, into causes she believed in, into the friendships that reminded her she wasn't truly alone. But even then, there were moments—quiet, solitary moments—when the pain would resurface, sharp and relentless.

Because no matter how much time passed, no matter how many distractions she filled her life with, she couldn't escape the truth.

She still loved him.

 ••••••••••••••

A soft knock echoed through Hermione's flat, cutting through the quiet hum of her evening. She froze mid-step, her heart lurching in her chest. Few people ever visited her unannounced. Her pulse quickened as she approached the door, her fingers tightening around the edge of her cardigan.

Peeking through the peephole, her breath hitched. There he was.

Draco Malfoy.

He stood on her doorstep, the soft glow of the corridor light casting shadows across his sharp features. In his hands was a bouquet of white flowers—delicate and pristine, their scent likely intoxicating even from where she stood. But it was the way he shifted his weight nervously from one foot to the other, his silver eyes darting to the floor and back to the door, that left her unsettled.

For a moment, she considered not answering. Letting him stand there, just as she had been left standing in the aftermath of his departure. But curiosity—and something deeper, something she didn't want to name—compelled her to turn the lock and pull the door open.

The air between them felt electric, heavy with words unsaid and wounds unhealed.

He looked up at her, his expression softening, though there was a trace of uncertainty in his gaze. "Petite Étoile," he began, his voice low and smooth, tinged with vulnerability. "Je suis ici pour m'excuser." I'm here to apologize.

Her heart twisted at the sound of the nickname, one he hadn't spoken in what felt like a lifetime. It had always sounded different in his voice—reverent, like a prayer. But she wouldn't let herself be swayed. Not this time.

"Eh bien, je ne te pardonne pas," she replied coldly, folding her arms across her chest. Well, I don't forgive you.

He flinched, the flowers in his hands trembling slightly as he gripped them tighter. But he didn't look away. Instead, he took a small step forward, his tone growing more urgent. "S'il te plaît, permets-moi de m'expliquer," he implored. Please allow me to explain myself.

She narrowed her eyes, her jaw tightening. How dare he? After everything? She felt the anger rise in her, hot and fierce, threatening to spill over.

"Va te faire foutre," she spat, her voice laced with venom. Fuck off.

He winced as though her words were a physical blow. For a brief moment, the façade cracked, and she saw the raw regret etched into his features. He looked down at the flowers, his shoulders sagging under the weight of her rejection.

"I deserve that," he murmured, almost to himself. His voice was quieter now, tinged with a sadness that felt dangerously contagious.

She wanted to slam the door in his face, to turn her back on him and erase the memory of him standing there, looking so utterly lost. But her hand lingered on the doorknob, and she found herself unable to move.

Because no matter how much she wanted to hate him, no matter how much pain he had caused her, she couldn't ignore the part of her heart that still yearned for answers—for closure, if nothing else.

"You have two minutes," she said at last, her tone clipped, though her hands trembled at her sides.

His eyes snapped up to meet hers, a flicker of hope igniting in the stormy gray depths. He took a cautious step forward, the flowers still clutched tightly in his hand.

"I'm not asking for forgiveness," he began softly, his words deliberate and careful. "Not yet. But I need you to know why I did what I did. Why I thought I had no other choice."

She didn't respond, her expression stony. But she didn't close the door, either. And that, Draco knew, was more than he deserved.

He pushed the door open tentatively, the faintest hint of hesitance in his movements. It wasn't forceful, but it wasn't exactly polite, either—a subtle sign that he wasn't ready to be turned away. She raised an eyebrow but stepped aside, motioning for him to come in.

He stepped into her flat, his presence as overwhelming as always, though he looked markedly different now—less composed, less certain. The faint scent of rain clung to him, mingling with the crisp, floral aroma of the bouquet he still carried.

Before she could say a word, a soft rustling from the corner caught both their attention. Crookshanks bolted into the room, his fluffy orange body streaking across the floor like a comet. He leapt gracefully into his arms, purring loudly and meowing in a way that was almost scolding.

Draco chuckled softly, the sound both familiar and achingly distant. "I know, mon chaton," he murmured, scratching the cat's chin in that particular way Crookshanks had always loved. "Daddy is here."

Her sharp intake of breath cut through the moment like a blade. Her arms crossed instinctively, her tone cold and clipped. "You're not his daddy anymore."

The words were harsher than she intended, but she didn't regret them. She watched as Draco froze, his hand stilling against Crookshanks' fur. For a moment, he didn't look at her, his gaze fixed firmly on the cat.

"I'm aware," he said finally, his voice low and strained. "I miss him."

She softened, though she tried to hide it. "He misses you, too," she admitted, her voice quieter now. "Sometimes… sometimes he sleeps on your shirt. The one you left behind."

His head snapped up at that, and the look on his face was one of devastation. His usually composed features were marred by a vulnerability so raw it made Hermione's chest tighten.

"Really?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

She nodded, her arms dropping to her sides. "Yes," she said simply.

For a moment, they stood in silence, the weight of their shared history filling the space between them. Crookshanks, oblivious to the tension, rubbed his head against his chest, purring contentedly.

He cleared his throat, as though trying to shake off the emotions threatening to consume him. "May we have tea?" he asked softly, almost cautiously.

She hesitated. She wanted to say no, to tell him to leave and take the flowers and the memories with him. But then she looked at him—truly looked at him—and saw a man carrying the weight of a thousand regrets.

"Yes," she said finally, her voice steady.

He nodded, a faint flicker of gratitude crossing his face. He carried Crookshanks in his arms as he followed her into the kitchen, his grip on the cat as if letting go would undo him entirely.

As she busied herself with the kettle, he took a seat at the small table, placing the bouquet carefully in front of him. Crookshanks climbed onto his lap, settling there as though no time had passed, as though nothing had changed.

But everything had changed.

She placed two cups of tea on the table, sitting across from him. For a while, neither of them spoke. The only sounds were the soft hum of the kettle cooling and Crookshanks' rhythmic purring.

He finally broke the silence. "I don't deserve this," he said, his voice hoarse.

Hermione met his gaze, her expression unreadable. "You don't," she agreed, her voice quiet but firm.

And yet, here they were.

The room felt heavy, as though it had absorbed the weight of all the words they hadn't yet spoken. They sipped their tea in awkward silence, the clinking of Hermione's spoon against her cup the only sound breaking the stillness.

She finally set her cup down, leaning back in her chair as she crossed her arms. "Well?" she said, her tone sharp. "Go on, then. Start your miserable little speech that you've been rehearsing for God knows how long."

Draco flinched, the edges of his composure cracking. He swallowed hard, his fingers tightening around his own cup. "I… I did prepare a speech," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

She raised an eyebrow but said nothing, her silence daring him to continue.

He let out a shaky breath, his eyes darting between her and the steam rising from his tea. "I've waited," he began hesitantly, "waited until…" His voice faltered, and he looked down, his hands trembling slightly.

"Until what?" she prompted, her tone cold, though her fingers gripped the edge of the table so tightly her knuckles turned white.

Draco looked up at her then, his gray eyes glistening with something she couldn't quite place—grief, guilt, desperation. "Until my mother died," he said softly, the words landing between them like a thunderclap. 

Her breath caught in her throat, but she didn't respond. She simply stared at him, her expression still carefully guarded.

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "She… she made me promise to stay away from you," he continued, his voice thick with emotion. "To keep you safe. She thought…" He trailed off, shaking his head as though trying to dispel the memory.

Her gaze remained fixed on him, but her face was unreadable. She didn't offer him sympathy, didn't offer him anger—she offered him nothing.

When she didn't say anything, he reached into his coat pocket, pulling out a small, weathered scroll. He hesitated for a moment, his fingers lingering on the parchment, before sliding it across the table to her.

She eyed the scroll warily, but she didn't move to pick it up. "What is this?" she asked, her tone clipped.

"It's… it's everything I couldn't say," he replied, his voice trembling. "Everything I wanted to tell you but didn't know how. It's…" He paused, his eyes searching hers. "It's the truth."

She stared at him for a long moment, her fingers hovering over the scroll. She wanted to rip it apart, to throw it back in his face and tell him that no amount of words on parchment could erase the pain he'd caused her. But instead, she found herself reaching for it, her hand brushing against his as she took it.

He flinched at the contact, as though her touch burned him. "You don't have to read it now," he said quickly, his voice almost panicked. "Or ever, really. I just… I needed you to have it."

She turned the scroll over in her hands, her expression still inscrutable. "Why now?" she asked finally, her voice barely above a whisper.

He looked down at his hands, his shoulders slumping. "Because I can't live with myself if I don't," he admitted. "Because I'm tired of running away."

Hermione's lips pressed into a thin line, her emotions threatening to betray her. She placed the scroll on the table, her hand lingering on it for a moment before pulling away.

"I don't know if this changes anything," she said quietly, her eyes meeting his.

"I don't expect it to," he replied, his voice steady despite the anguish in his eyes. "But I had to try."

They sat in silence again, the scroll lying between them like a fragile bridge—one that could either bring them closer or crumble under the weight of everything left unsaid.

Her eyes lingered on it, the delicate parchment catching the soft light of the room. It seemed so small, so unassuming, and yet it carried the promise of something monumental.

Her fingers hesitated as they brushed against the edge of the scroll. She could feel his gaze on her, heavy and expectant, though he didn't utter a word.

Finally, with a deep breath, she picked it up, unrolling the parchment carefully as though it might disintegrate in her hands. The silence grew thicker, the air between them charged with tension as she began to read.

The words were elegant, written in his neat, precise hand—each letter imbued with a care that felt almost reverent. But it was the content that struck her like a blow, the weight of his emotions bleeding through every sentence.

Petite Étoile,

I don't know where to begin, or if these words will ever reach you, but they are all I have left. You deserve more—more than my silence, more than the pain I've caused, and certainly more than this inadequate attempt to explain myself.

I left because I loved you.

That may sound absurd, even cruel, but it's the truth. Loving you was the most terrifying thing I've ever done. You were my light in the darkest of times, my anchor when I felt adrift. But I feared that my love would ruin you. That my past, my family, my choices would taint the brightness that is you. And so, I ran. I thought I was protecting you. I see now that I was only protecting myself from the thought of losing you.

Every day without you has been a torment I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy. I see you everywhere—in the books I no longer have the heart to read, in the quiet moments I once shared with you, in the ghost of your laughter that echoes in my mind. 

When my mother passed, it was as though the last tether holding me to my old life snapped. For the first time, I allowed myself to think about what I truly wanted—not for her, not for anyone else, but for me. And it was you, Hermione. It has always been you.

I know I don't deserve a second chance, but I am selfish enough to ask for one anyway. Even if you never forgive me, I want you to know that loving you was the only good thing I ever did. You were my redemption long before I knew how lost I was. I will carry you in my heart for the rest of my life, no matter what you decide.

Yours always,

Draco

Hermione's hands trembled as she finished reading, her vision blurred by the tears pooling in her eyes. She blinked rapidly, willing them not to fall, but it was no use. A single tear slipped down her cheek, followed by another.

Across the table, he sat stiffly, his hands clenched tightly together as though bracing himself for a blow. He didn't speak; he barely seemed to breathe.

She set the letter down carefully, her fingers lingering on the parchment as though she could absorb the weight of his words through her skin. Her mind raced, her emotions a whirlwind of anger, sorrow, and something else—something dangerously close to hope.

She finally looked up at him, her voice shaking as she spoke. "You loved me, so you left me? That's your grand explanation?"

He flinched, his head bowing under the sharpness of her tone. "I thought I was protecting you," he said quietly.

"Protecting me?" her voice rose, her frustration spilling over. "Do you have any idea what you did to me? How I—" She cut herself off, shaking her head as tears slipped freely down her face.

His eyes were glassy now, his composure unraveling. "I know," he said hoarsely. "I know I hurt you. And I will never forgive myself for that. But I couldn't bear the thought of you being dragged down by me, by everything I carry."

She laughed bitterly, the sound hollow and sharp. "You don't get to decide what I can or can't handle, Draco. That wasn't your choice to make."

"I know," he said again, his voice breaking. "I know that now. But at the time… at the time, I thought I was doing the right thing."

She stared at him, her chest heaving with the effort of keeping her emotions in check. She wanted to scream at him, to tell him that his noble intentions didn't make the pain any less real. But she also wanted to believe him—to believe that his actions, however misguided, came from a place of love.

"I don't know if I can forgive you," she said finally, her voice soft but steady.

He nodded, his expression one of quiet resignation. "I don't expect you to," he replied. "I just needed you to know."

She looked back down at the letter, her fingers tracing the edges of the parchment. The words were still there, unchanging, but their impact rippled through her like a storm.

For the first time in months, she felt something shift—a crack in the wall she'd built around her heart. And though she wasn't ready to let him back in, she couldn't deny the spark of something fragile and uncertain stirring within her.

And so, they sat in silence again, the distance between them both unbearable and impossibly close. The air in the room felt stifling, thick with unsaid words and raw emotions that neither of them knew how to contain.

She finally broke the silence, her voice cutting through the stillness like a blade. "We were together for five years, Draco. Five years. And you left me. At twenty-six, we're adults, not children. You can't hide behind excuses like that."

He flinched as though her words physically struck him, but he didn't look away. Instead, he spoke, his voice calm but laced with an ache that betrayed him. "Five years and thirty-nine days," he corrected softly, his eyes locking onto hers.

Hermione froze, her breath hitching for the briefest moment. Then her lips twisted into a bitter smile, the hurt in her eyes sharp and unrelenting. "So, what you're telling me," she said coldly, "is that you've been wasting my time for exactly 1,864 days."

His hand curled into a fist on the table, his knuckles turning white. "I did not waste your time," he said through gritted teeth, his voice low but trembling with intensity.

"Oh, really?" dhe shot back, her tone sharp and unforgiving. "Then what would you call it, Draco? Five years of promises, of love, of planning a future together—and then you just walk away? You disappeared, leaving nothing but an empty space where you used to be. If that's not wasting my time, then what is it?"

The tension between them snapped like a taut wire. His palm slammed against the table, the sound reverberating through the room like a thunderclap. Hermione flinched, but she didn't back down, her gaze unwavering even as tears threatened to spill over.

"Do not say that," he growled, his voice shaking with fury. "Do not say things like that, Hermione. Every single one of those days—every single one—was pure love for me. Do you hear me? Pure. Love."

Hermione's eyes narrowed, her hands gripping the edges of her chair as though to anchor herself. "Don't lie to me, Draco," she spat. "If it was all pure love, then why did you leave? Why wasn't I enough to make you stay?"

His face crumpled, his anger dissolving into something far more fragile. He opened his mouth to speak, but the words caught in his throat, and for a moment, he looked utterly broken. "It wasn't you," he whispered, his voice so soft it was barely audible. "It was never you, Hermione. You were everything. I left because I was afraid I would destroy you."

She let out a sharp, humorless laugh, shaking her head in disbelief. "Destroy me?" she repeated incredulously. "Draco, do you even hear yourself? You did destroy me. You leaving me was the destruction. And I'm still picking up the pieces."

"I know," he said, his voice cracking. "I know I hurt you, and I hate myself for it every single day. But you have to understand—I thought I was saving you. My family, my past… I was afraid of what being with me would mean for you. I was afraid of dragging you down."

She leaned forward then, her eyes blazing with anger and anguish. "You don't get to decide what's best for me," she said, her voice trembling with emotion. "You don't get to play hero by ripping my heart out and then waltz back in here, expecting me to understand."

He pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes, as though trying to block out the weight of her words. "I don't expect you to understand," he said hoarsely. "I don't expect forgiveness or anything else. I just… I couldn't stay away anymore. I couldn't keep pretending I didn't love you."

"Love?" she snapped, her voice rising. "You don't get to call it love. Love doesn't abandon someone. Love doesn't leave them to fend for themselves while they're drowning."

He looked up at her then, his gray eyes filled with unshed tears. "It does if it thinks it's saving them," he said quietly, his voice breaking. "I thought I was protecting you from a life of pain, from the shadows of my past that would always follow me. But I see now that all I did was push you into a different kind of pain. One I caused."

Her chest tightened, her anger warring with the vulnerability she saw in him. "You were wrong," she said firmly, though her voice softened. "You were so, so wrong."

"I know," he whispered. "And I will spend the rest of my life regretting it."

They stared at each other, the silence between them charged with a thousand emotions—anger, sorrow, longing, and something else that neither of them dared name. Her hands trembled as she reached for her cup, needing something to do to ground herself.

"Draco," she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper, "you can't just come back and expect everything to be okay. It's not that simple."

"I don't expect it to be," he replied, his gaze steady despite the tears threatening to spill. "But I had to try. Because losing you was the greatest mistake of my life, and I don't want to live without trying to fix it."

She looked down at the table, her vision blurring as tears welled in her eyes. Words eluded her; her thoughts swirled in a chaotic storm of anger, grief, and something far too dangerous to name. The man sitting across from her was both her greatest joy and her deepest heartbreak—a paradox she couldn't reconcile, no matter how hard she tried.

The silence stretched between them, heavy and suffocating, until Draco reached into his coat pocket and placed a small velvet box on the table.

Her eyes flickered to it, her chest tightening instinctively. "What is that?" she asked, her voice trembling.

He didn't meet her gaze. Instead, he stared down at the box, his fingers lingering on its edges as though he wasn't sure he had the strength to let it go. "Open it," he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper.

She shook her head, her heart pounding painfully in her chest. "No," she said firmly, leaning back in her chair. "I don't want to open it."

He looked up then, his gray eyes filled with a quiet desperation that made her stomach churn. "You need to see," he insisted softly.

"No, I don't," she countered, her voice sharpening. "I don't want to open something that's just going to rip my heart out all over again."

His jaw tightened, his fingers gripping the box so tightly that his knuckles turned white. "It's not meant to hurt you," he said, though the strain in his voice betrayed him. "Please, Hermione. Just… trust me."

She let out a bitter laugh, her hands clenching into fists on her lap. "Trust you? You're asking me to trust you?" she repeated incredulously. "Draco, you're the last person in the world I should trust right now."

He flinched, his shoulders sagging as though the weight of her words had physically struck him. "I know," he said quietly, his voice thick with regret. "But I'm asking anyway."

She stared at him, her chest heaving with the effort of holding herself together. For a moment, she considered reaching for the box, if only to end the excruciating tension that hung between them. But the fear of what lay inside—of the memories it might dredge up—kept her frozen in place.

When she didn't move, he let out a shaky breath and rose from his chair. He walked around the table and knelt beside her, his movements slow and deliberate, as though he were approaching a wounded animal.

"Hermione," he said softly, his voice trembling, "please. If you can't open it, I'll do it for you. But you need to see this. You need to understand."

Before she could protest, he gently opened the box, tilting it toward her so that its contents were laid bare.

Her breath caught in her throat, her eyes widening as they fell on the rings inside.

They were exquisite—delicate yet bold, perfectly balanced in a way that felt achingly familiar. The engagement ring was unlike anything she'd ever seen: a brilliant diamond at its center, surrounded by smaller stones that seemed to shimmer with an otherworldly light. The wedding band was equally stunning, its intricate design mirroring the patterns on the engagement ring, as though the two were halves of the same whole.

Her fingers trembled as she reached out, stopping just short of touching the rings. "What…" she began, her voice cracking. "What is this?"

His gaze softened, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. "They're our rings," he said simply.

She swallowed hard, her throat tightening painfully. "I figured that much," she whispered. "But… why? Why are you showing me this now?"

He hesitated, his hand brushing against hers as he gently pushed the box closer to her. "Because they were meant for you," he said, his voice breaking. "They were designed for us. I spent months working on them, making sure every detail was perfect. I wanted them to tell our story, Hermione. The way we balanced each other. The way we fit together, even when we didn't think we could."

Her vision blurred as tears spilled over, sliding down her cheeks unchecked. "Draco…" she choked out, shaking her head. "Why are you doing this? Why now?"

"Because I need you to know how much I loved you," he said, his voice raw. "How much I still love you. I wanted to give these to you five years ago, Hermione. I wanted to put this ring on your finger and spend the rest of my life proving that I was worthy of you. But I let my fears win. I let my mother win. And I lost you."

Her hand finally hovered over the rings, her fingertips brushing against the cool metal. The touch sent a shiver through her, a reminder of what could have been—and what might never be again.

She closed her eyes, her chest heaving with silent sobs. The weight of the rings, of his words, of their shared history pressed down on her, threatening to crush her.

When she finally opened her eyes, she saw him watching her, his gaze steady yet filled with an overwhelming tenderness. His heart was visible in his eyes—fragile, exposed, and completely vulnerable. She felt a tightness in her chest, a sharp, familiar ache. For the first time in years, she allowed herself to feel the depth of her love for him, the love that had never truly disappeared, no matter how many walls she built around it, no matter how hard she tried to bury it.

The room around them seemed to fade into a blur, the world slowing down as everything else vanished, leaving only the two of them.

His hand reached up, trembling slightly as he gently tilted her chin, urging her to meet his gaze. He stood so close that she could feel the heat of his breath, and with a quiet, almost reverent movement, he leaned down and kissed the single tear that had escaped her eye, the one that had fallen like a fragile confession of everything they'd lost.

He kissed the edge of her cheek next, his lips brushing against her skin with such tenderness that her breath caught in her throat. She was frozen, her pulse hammering in her ears as he moved closer, his lips now just inches from hers. And then, as if the air between them had finally broken, he kissed her—a soft, slow kiss that carried the weight of all their shared history.

The kiss was everything. It was forgiveness and regret. It was anger and desperation. It was years of pain and longing, all poured into that single moment. His lips moved with a quiet urgency, and for the first time in ages, she responded. She kissed him back, her hands trembling as they found their way to his chest, clutching at the fabric of his shirt like it was the only anchor she had left in this storm of emotions.

The taste of him was familiar, like coming home. A home she had tried to forget. A place she had been torn away from. But in this kiss, she found all the pieces that had been lost. And she knew, with a sudden, heart-stopping clarity, that she had never truly stopped loving him.

He kissed her deeper, his hands finding her waist and pulling her closer, as though the distance between them had become unbearable. There was no hesitation now, no more hesitation. They had both spent too long apart, living in their own painful silences, unable to move forward or back. But here, in this moment, there was only the pulse of longing, the ache of everything unsaid, and the unbearable gravity that drew them back together.

Without breaking the kiss, he lifted her, his hands strong and sure as they slid beneath her thighs. He placed her gently on the kitchen counter, her legs wrapping instinctively around him as he stood between them. The cool surface beneath her back contrasted sharply with the heat of his body, and the world seemed to tilt once more, as though they were both falling into something they could no longer escape.

Her fingers threaded through his hair, pulling him closer as the kiss deepened. She could feel the weight of his chest against hers, the rapid beat of his heart against her own. She could feel everything—every inch of him, every breath he took, every touch that seemed to demand more. And yet, at the same time, it felt like she was drowning. Drowning in the flood of emotions that she had spent so long trying to bury.

"Draco," she whispered against his lips, her voice breaking as she pulled back slightly to catch her breath. She couldn't bring herself to say anything else, not yet. The words were there, sitting heavy on her tongue, but they were tangled with too much.

His eyes softened, and he brushed a stray lock of hair from her face, his fingertips lingering on her skin, gentle and tentative as though afraid to break the fragile moment between them. His gaze never left hers, each second feeling like an eternity as they stood there, suspended in time. The air was thick with the weight of everything they had been through, and yet, in that single, quiet moment, all that seemed to matter was the look in his eyes—the silent, desperate plea that conveyed more than words ever could.

"I know," he murmured, his voice low and filled with a raw tenderness that sent a shiver down her spine. His thumb gently traced the line of her jaw, the simple motion filled with affection and regret, his touch warm against her cool skin. "I know. I know all the hurt I've caused, the time I've wasted. But you've always been mine, even when I couldn't see it. Even when I let you slip away."

Her breath caught in her throat as she searched his face, wondering if she could ever truly believe the sincerity in his voice, or if the years of pain had somehow broken them beyond repair. But in the depth of his eyes, there was something undeniable—something that told her, in the rawest, most unspoken way, that he wasn't the same man who had walked away from her all those years ago.

He leaned in slightly, his voice barely above a whisper. "I would recognize you in total darkness, Even if you were mute and I were deaf. I would recognize you in another lifetime entirely, in different bodies, different times."

Her heart skipped a beat as his words wrapped around her like a warm, familiar embrace. She could feel the sincerity in each syllable, the weight of his confession settling deep in her chest. She wanted to say something—anything—but the words felt so small compared to what was stirring inside of her.

"And I would love you in all of this," he continued, his voice breaking slightly as if the very act of speaking the words was too much. "In all the versions of us, in all the forms we take. Until the very last star in the sky burns out into oblivion. Please." He reached into his coat pocket, pulling out the velvet box once more and slowly, reverently, levitated it toward her.

It floated between them, glowing with an almost ethereal light, as if the magic itself could sense the gravity of the moment. The world around them seemed to fade, and all that existed was the delicate, heart-stopping beauty of the ring, and the man before her—the man who had torn her heart apart and, somehow, was now asking for her to trust him again.

She stared at the ring for a long time, unable to move, unable to speak. Her heart was a tumult of emotions—fear, anger, longing—and yet, beneath it all, a quiet hope stirred. She could feel it—this strange, undeniable pull between them, as if the universe itself was begging them to find their way back to each other.

Without saying a word, she opened the box.

Her fingers trembled as she picked up the ring, her gaze flickering back to him. His eyes were filled with hope, but also with something deeper—something that had the power to tear them both apart, something that asked for forgiveness in ways no words ever could.

With a shaky breath, she slid the ring onto her finger. It fit perfectly, as though it had been made for her—made for them. The moment the cool metal touched her skin, a soft spark of magic danced through her, and for a heartbeat, the world around them seemed to hum with a quiet, ancient energy.

His eyes brightened as he saw the ring on her finger, a quiet smile tugging at the corner of his lips. Without a word, he picked up the second ring, the wedding band that had once seemed so impossible. He slid it onto his own finger, the gesture almost reverent.

As the second ring touched his finger, the magic between them came alive. It was subtle at first—just a soft, almost imperceptible shift in the air. But then, it grew. It was as if their souls, once so separate, were slowly intertwining, knitting together in a way that defied logic. The magic was no longer just a part of their world—it was them. The rings had sealed something between them, something that could never be undone.

She felt it before she could fully understand what was happening. Her heart raced as a warmth flooded her chest, her hands trembling as the connection between them deepened. There was no denying it now—this was their fate. Their love. The one they had fought for, lost, and now—somehow—found again.

He closed his eyes, his breath shaky as the energy between them pulsed with power. It was like a thread, invisible yet tangible, that connected them on a level that transcended time and space. Hermione could feel the pull, could feel his heart beating in time with hers, and for the first time in years, it felt as if they were whole again.

For a long moment, they simply stood there, not needing to say anything more. The world around them faded, leaving only the two of them—their souls now irrevocably entwined. It was as if the universe had conspired to bring them back together, to mend what had been broken.

Her eyes fluttered closed as she leaned into him, resting her forehead against his. She could feel the warmth of his body, the steady beat of his heart, and everything inside her seemed to settle, as though some deep, ancient part of her was finally coming home.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion, each word a weight pressing against his chest. The sound of it, so raw and vulnerable, seemed to echo in the quiet of the room. "I'm so sorry for everything. For the time I wasted. For the pain I caused."

Her heart broke at the sound of his apology. It was as though she had been waiting for these words for a lifetime, but now that they were here, they didn't quite feel like enough. How could they be? How could anything truly atone for what had been lost? She didn't know. But in that moment, all she knew was that she needed him. She needed to feel him—his breath, his touch, his presence—before she could even begin to think of forgiving him.

Without thinking, she kissed him again. This time, it wasn't gentle, or tentative, or restrained. No, this kiss was a rush of everything that had been building between them—years of desire, of frustration, of longing. It was hungry, desperate, as if she were trying to consume him, to claim back what had been taken from them both. She kissed him with an intensity that spoke of years of pain and yearning, the floodgates of her heart finally breaking open.

He groaned against her lips, his hands moving quickly, almost desperately. He pulled her off the counter, his fingers curling around her waist, lifting her in one smooth motion as if she were weightless. The air between them was thick with tension, with everything they had left unsaid, everything that had been building to this singular moment.

Without a word, he marched her towards the bedroom, the rhythm of their movements frantic and urgent. He kicked the door open, not caring about the noise, not caring about anything but the overwhelming need to have her, to hold her, to make up for all the time they had lost.

As the door swung wide, he placed her gently, but firmly, on the bed, his eyes never leaving hers. There was something in his gaze now—something that had been missing for so long. It was regret, yes. But it was also something else. Something deeper. Desire, yes. But more than that. A raw, unspoken promise.

He stood above her for a moment, breathing heavily, watching as her chest rose and fell with the same urgency, her eyes dark with emotions too tangled to untangle. Her hands reached for him, pulling him down toward her, her lips finding his again in a kiss that seemed to seal everything between them. It was as if, in that kiss, they were both asking for forgiveness, and offering it all at once.

The world outside their little bubble ceased to exist. There was no past, no mistakes, no hurt. There was only this moment—this burning, consuming connection between them. His hands were all over her, tracing the curves of her body, memorizing every inch of her as if he had been starving for her touch. And she, too, responded with a hunger, her hands desperately finding his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart beneath her fingertips.

They were moving together, as if their bodies knew exactly what they had been missing, what had been denied for so long. The weight of their love, of all the things they had shared and lost, hung between them like a fragile thread. A thread that had been stretched thin, but now seemed to find its strength once more.

He lowered himself to her, the softness of the bed beneath them somehow grounding them in the chaos of the moment. His lips found her neck, his breath hot against her skin as he kissed his way down to her shoulder. Every touch was a whispered apology, every kiss an attempt to erase the distance that had grown between them.

Her hands tangled in his hair, pulling him back up to her face, her lips desperate against his, as though she couldn't get close enough. The kiss deepened, and everything else—the world, the past, the future—faded into oblivion. It was just them now. The two of them, caught in this wild, tumultuous sea of love and longing.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. They didn't need to. The silence between them was filled with everything they couldn't say, everything that was pouring from their hearts and souls without the need for words. Their bodies did the talking now. Every movement, every breath, every sigh was a conversation they had been trying to have for years. And finally, in this shared space, they were listening. They were hearing each other.

The magic that had once bound them together—faint, fragile, almost forgotten—now roared to life, wrapping around them both as they surrendered to each other. They had waited too long. Fought too hard. Lost too much. But at this moment, none of that mattered. There was only the overwhelming, all-consuming truth that they were meant to be together. That no matter how much they had hurt each other, no matter the mistakes, no matter the pain—they had always been one.

And when he finally pulled back, his breath ragged and his eyes wild with the same need that had been coursing through him since the moment they met, he whispered, "I'll spend the rest of my life proving to you that I'm worthy of this. Of you."

Her fingers traced the line of his jaw, her eyes soft but filled with the same promise. "Then prove it," she said, her voice barely a whisper.

And in that moment, in the heat of their passion, in the quiet intensity that surrounded them, she knew that no matter how this ended, they had finally found their way back to each other. They had started again. From here. From this place of love and loss, of mistakes and redemption. They had started again. And this time, they would never let go.

He kicked the door shut behind him, his hands roaming over her body, his touch firm and demanding. He ripped her clothes off, his lips trailing a path of fire down her neck, her collarbone, her chest. She moaned, her body arching into his touch, her fingers tangling in his hair.

His lips closed around one of her nipples, his tongue swirling around the sensitive bud. She gasped, her body arching into his touch. He trailed his hand down her body, his fingers slipping under the waistband of her panties, his touch sending shivers down her spine.

Her hands found his shirt, her fingers fumbling with the buttons. He ripped his own shirt off, his body pressing against hers, his skin hot against hers.

He jumped on the bed next to her, his hands roaming over her body, his touch firm and demanding. He flipped her over, his palm cupping her ass, his fingers slipping into her wet pussy. She moaned, her body arching into his touch.

His lips closed around her clit, his tongue swirling around the sensitive bud. She gasped, her hands reaching back, her fingers tangling in his hair.

"Draco," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "Please."

His fingers slipped inside her, his thumb rubbing against her g-spot. She moaned, her body trembling, her orgasm building deep inside her.

"Say it," he whispered, his voice a low growl. "Say that you're mine."

"I'm yours," she gasped, her body trembling. "I'm yours."

His fingers slipped out of her, his cock replacing them. She gasped, her body stretching to accommodate him. Draco thrust into her, his cock filling her completely.

"Say it," he whispered, his voice a low growl. "Say that you'll marry me."

"Yes," she gasped, her body trembling. "Yes, I'll marry you."

His cock pounded into her, his body slapping against hers. She moaned, her body trembling, her orgasm building deep inside her.

"Say it," he whispered, his voice a low growl. "Say that you'll give me a baby."

"Yes," she gasped, her body trembling. "Yes, I'll give you a baby."

His thumb rubbed against her clit, his cock pounding into her. She moaned, her body convulsing, her orgasm ripping through her.

"Fuck, baby," he groaned, his body shuddering, his cock throbbing inside her as he came.

He collapsed on top of her, his body pressing against hers, his breath coming in short gasps. Henrietta wrapped her arms around him, her body trembling, her heart pounding in her chest.

"Will you stay with me?" she whispered, her voice barely audible. "Will you stay with me forever?"

He rolled over, his body pressing against hers, his eyes locked onto hers. "Until the last star bursts into oblivion," he whispered, his voice soft but firm.

She smiled, her heart fluttering in her chest. She knew that no matter what happened, they had finally found their way back to each other. They had started again. From here. From this place of love and loss, of mistakes and redemption. They had started again. And this time, they would never let go.