Angel of Small Deaths and Ink-Stained Hands

The parchment trembled between her fingers, fragile and thin, yet somehow heavier than anything she had ever held. The ink, dark and deliberate, carried the weight of a man stripped raw by his own regrets. Draco's handwriting had always been elegant, controlled—but here, it faltered in places, as though his hand had trembled while he wrote. It wasn't just a letter; it was an unguarded piece of him, spilling onto the page in a way he had never allowed before.

Her breath hitched as she traced the looping script, her fingers ghosting over the words like they might dissolve beneath her touch. Every sentence, every confession, struck her like a chisel against stone, carving away the walls she had spent weeks building around her heart.

She inhaled sharply, steadying herself. And then, with an aching heart, she read.

My Dearest Hermione,

There is no easy way to begin this letter, just as there is no easy way to undo what I have done. I could start with an apology, but even that feels inadequate. What are mere words in the face of the damage I have caused? How can I expect ink and parchment to carry the weight of my remorse, my sorrow, my love for you?

And yet, here I am, writing them, because words are all I have left.

I have spent every day since you left drowning in the silence you left behind. It is deafening, suffocating, unbearable. I thought I understood loneliness before, but I was a fool. True loneliness is waking up and reaching for someone who is no longer there. It is calling your name in my sleep and waking to an empty bed. It is hearing your laughter in my mind only to realize I will never hear it again unless you choose to let me.

I know I broke us, love. I know I lost you not because you stopped loving me, but because you had to start loving yourself more. And that… that is a truth that has nearly undone me.

I have spent years believing I could control the world around me—bend it to my will, force it into submission through sheer determination. But love doesn't work that way, does it? It is not a thing to be controlled, nor is it something to be taken for granted. I took us for granted, and in doing so, I lost the only thing in my life that ever truly mattered.

You.

You have always been my compass, my anchor, my truest North. And yet, I let my own demons drag me into darkness, and worse—I let them touch you, taint you. I let you fight battles you should have never had to fight. I let you shoulder burdens that were mine to carry. I hurt you in ways I can never take back, and I will carry the shame of that for as long as I draw breath.

I am not writing to ask for forgiveness, not yet. I do not deserve it.

But I will .

Because, Hermione, I am trying. I am fighting to be better—not just for you, but for myself. For the man I should have been. For the man you deserved all along.

I am seeking help. Real help. The kind that forces you to look in the mirror and face every ugly truth, every failure, every shattered piece of yourself that you spent years pretending didn't exist. It is agonizing. It is humbling. And it is the only thing that will make me worthy of you again.

Because, my love, I will not allow my darkness to be your burden anymore.

I will not be the man who drowns himself in liquor while you try to hold him afloat.

I will not be the man who lashes out in anger because it is easier than confronting his own pain.

I will not be the man who makes you wonder if staying is worth the price of your own happiness.

If I ever have the privilege of standing beside you again, it will be as the man you fell in love with—the man who chose you above all else, before the demons, before the excuses, before the pride.

I know I cannot ask you to return to me.

I know you are healing in ways I cannot yet understand.

But if there is even the smallest part of you that still remembers the love we shared before it all fell apart, then I ask you this:

Let me prove myself to you.

Not with promises, not with empty words, but with time, with actions, with the unwavering truth that I love you in a way that will never fade.

This love, Hermione— our love—is not a fleeting thing. It is not something that withers under the weight of time or distance. It is not something that can be drowned in whiskey or lost in the silence between us.

It lives .

It has lived in me from the moment I first kissed you, and it will live in me until my last breath.

So, I will wait for you.

As long as it takes.

If the day comes when you are ready, when you are willing to look at me and see not the man who broke you, but the man who built himself back for you, then I will be here.

And if that day never comes… then know that I will still love you. Always.

You are the greatest thing that has ever happened to me. And I will never stop being grateful for the time I had with you, no matter how much I wish for more.

With all that I am,

Your loving husband,

Draco

The letter lay before her, its edges softened by her repeated touch, the ink unwavering despite the countless times her eyes had traced its words. She sat at the desk, fingers ghosting over the parchment, as if by touch alone she could decipher the depth of emotion woven between the lines. Outside, the sky burned with the colors of twilight, casting the room in hues of gold and violet, the last embers of the day flickering out like a candle on the verge of extinguishing. Shadows stretched long across the walls, their slow, creeping advance a cruel reminder of how time continued to move forward, indifferent to her turmoil, unbothered by the weight of her indecision.

The room—her childhood bedroom—was a relic of a simpler past, its familiarity a stark contrast to the woman who sat within it now. It was here that she had once dreamed of love, of a future unmarred by pain, where right and wrong had been clearly defined, where love had been a source of warmth rather than anguish. But now, love felt like a knife, one that had carved through her, leaving her raw and uncertain, unsure of whether it was meant to heal or wound.

Draco's words lingered in her mind, whispering to her with the kind of longing that could unravel even the most carefully built defenses. His sorrow was palpable, his remorse etched into every carefully penned sentence. He had bared himself in ways she had never expected—laid himself at her feet with an openness that was both beautiful and devastating. There was no pride in his letter, no attempt at justification or deflection. Just honesty, painful and unfiltered. And yet, despite the sincerity in his words, she could not ignore the deeper, more terrifying truth beneath them: Words were easy. Change was not.

She had spent years believing that love could fix what was broken, that if she held on long enough, if she loved him fiercely enough, she could save him from himself. But love was not a lifeline—it was not a salve that could mend wounds left untreated, nor was it enough to battle the demons he had let take root in his soul. She had tried. She had given every piece of herself, stretched her heart to breaking in the hopes that it would be enough. And in the end, she had nearly lost herself in the process.

She could still hear the echoes of their last fights, the sharp edges of his words slicing through her, the sting of her own voice as she hurled her pain back at him. The venom, the exhaustion, the unbearable weight of watching someone she loved self-destruct and being powerless to stop it. He had become a storm, and she had spent so long standing in the rain, hoping he would let her in, hoping that if she held him tightly enough, he wouldn't drown. But storms did not stop for love. They raged, they destroyed, and they left wreckage in their wake.

And yet, despite all of it, she missed him.

It was the cruelest part of it all, the way her heart still ached for him, the way her body still longed for his touch, the way her mind still whispered his name in the quiet of the night. No amount of distance could erase the love she felt for him, nor could it silence the memories of what they had been before it all fell apart. The warmth of his laughter, the way his arms had once felt like home, the quiet moments between them that had made the world feel small and safe. It had been real. It had been beautiful.

But love alone was not enough to bring them back to that place. Not yet.

Her fingers tightened around the parchment, her nails pressing into the delicate fibers as the weight of her decision settled in her chest like a stone. He wanted her to believe in him again, to trust in the man he was trying to become. And a part of her wanted to. Desperately. But trust was not something that could be rebuilt overnight, nor was healing a thing that could be rushed. He was asking for patience, for faith, for the hope that one day, they could find their way back to each other. But faith, she had learned, could not exist without proof. And hope, as beautiful as it was, could be just as dangerous as love.

If she returned now, if she allowed herself to fall into the comfort of his arms without knowing whether he had truly changed, she feared it would only lead them back to the same place. The cycle would repeat, the wounds would reopen, and they would destroy each other all over again. She could not survive losing him twice. She would not survive losing herself again.

And so, for now, she had to walk away.

Not because she did not love him—God, she loved him. But because love, at its truest, was knowing when to stay and when to let go.

With a shaky breath, she folded the letter carefully, as if the motion itself was an unspoken promise— not yet, but maybe one day. She placed it gently in the drawer, her heart aching with the finality of the action.

She would not answer him. Not yet.

Because if there was any hope for them at all, she had to give him the chance to prove that his love was not just something written in ink, but something real—something strong enough to stand on its own, without her holding it up.

And if that day ever came, if he became the man he swore he would, if he truly learned to love himself as much as he loved her—then maybe, just maybe, they could find their way home again.

But until then, she had to choose herself.

And that, more than anything, was the hardest thing she had ever done.

~~~~~~

The first light of dawn crept through the curtains, slow and deliberate, casting golden ribbons across the room. The world was quiet, caught in the fragile stillness of morning, but inside her, a storm raged. Hermione sat on the edge of her bed, her hands curled into the sheets, her breath measured and even—but her mind was anything but calm.

Last night's Floo call with Pansy hadn't been a conversation. No, it had been an ambush, a masterclass in brutal honesty delivered with all the precision of a scalpel and the force of a goddamn hurricane. Pansy Parkinson didn't do sugarcoating. She didn't do gentle . She carved through illusions like a blade through silk, slicing away self-pity and hesitation until all that remained was the raw, unvarnished truth. And Hermione? She had never needed it more.

"Oh, for fuck's sake, Granger—are you seriously doing this right now?"

Hermione barely had time to part her lips before Pansy's voice cut through the Floo connection like a whip. Sharp, unforgiving, and laced with a kind of exasperation that only Pansy Parkinson could wield.

"Let me get this straight," Pansy continued, leaning closer into the green-tinged flames as if she could reach through the connection and shake Hermione herself. "You've spent years cleaning up that man's mess, enduring his brooding, navigating his emotional constipation like some tragic, self-sacrificing saint—"

She scoffed, tossing her perfectly curled hair over one shoulder. "And now, when he finally gets a taste of his own suffering, when he's actually marinating in his own self-inflicted bullshit, you're the one sitting there like some weepy, abandoned housewife? Do you hear yourself? Do you realize how fucking ridiculous you sound?"

Hermione exhaled, rubbing her temples. She should have known better than to reach out to Pansy for comfort. Comfort wasn't what Pansy did . Pansy didn't do soft reassurances or hand-holding. No, Pansy did war cries, verbal beatdowns, and high-heeled executions of bad decisions.

"Listen to me, and listen well, sweetheart," Pansy continued, her tone dangerously smooth now, like a snake circling its prey. "You are Hermione. Fucking. Granger. You are the woman who reduced the entire British Ministry of Magic to tears just by presenting a logical argument. You are the brightest witch of your goddamn age. A war heroine. A woman who literally outsmarted Voldemort and still had the time to read for fun. Do you understand how outrageous it is that you—of all people—are sitting there, mourning a man who is currently making his bed in a pile of whiskey bottles and self-pity?"

Pansy sighed dramatically, shaking her head. "I mean, really, babe—have some fucking dignity. If you're going to pine, at least do it fashionably. "

Hermione opened her mouth to argue, but Pansy steamrolled right over her, not having any of it.

"Oh, he's a mess right now? GOOD. Let him rot in it. Let him fucking choke on it. Let him wake up every morning with the taste of regret in his mouth like bile and the echo of your absence burning in his goddamn soul. But you? You do not sit around and wallow. You do not shrink yourself into something soft and palatable for a man who—let's be real—has spent the better part of your relationship giving you just enough to keep you hopeful but never enough to make you feel safe."

Pansy leaned in closer, her voice dipping into something lethal.

"You want him to wake the fuck up? You want him to beg? You want him on his goddamn knees? Then stop handing him the privilege of your patience. Make him earn it. Make him suffer the way you suffered. Let him ache for you. Let him wake up in a cold sweat at four in the morning, haunted by the ghost of you. Because men like Draco Malfoy? They don't respond to silence, and they sure as fuck don't respond to kindness. They respond to the fear of losing something they can't replace."

Hermione swallowed hard, her throat tight, but Pansy was relentless .

"You think he just gets to drink himself into oblivion and then scribble some half-romantic, poetic sob story of a letter and suddenly all is forgiven? No, Granger. That is not how this works. You are the prize. You are the loss he needs to feel down to his fucking bones."

Pansy tilted her head, eyes narrowing with the kind of feline amusement that usually preceded something dangerous. "Here's what you're going to do."

Hermione braced herself.

"You're going to stop crying. You're going to take a long, luxurious bath—use those stupidly expensive bath oils I know you have. You're going to do your hair, wear something that makes you feel like a goddess, and then you're going to walk into whatever room that man is in with your head held high and your eyes forward. And you? You do not flinch. You do not wilt. You remind him—without saying a single fucking word—that you do not need him. You choose him. And if he wants to keep that privilege? He better step the fuck up."

Hermione exhaled shakily, staring at the flames, at Pansy's sharp, unwavering expression.

"Because, babe?" Pansy's voice dropped to something almost gentle —if lethal could ever be described as gentle. "Nothing terrifies a man more than the realization that the one thing he wants most is slipping through his fingers. Let him feel it. Let him burn in it. And then—only then—does he earn the right to have a conversation about winning you back."

A beat of silence.

Then, Hermione inhaled deeply, something shifting inside her, something sharp and burning and undeniable .

"There she is," Pansy murmured approvingly. "That's my girl."

Then, with a final, wicked smirk, she cut the Floo connection —leaving Hermione in the dim glow of the embers, her heart pounding, her mind clearer than it had been in weeks .

Because Pansy was right .

If Draco Malfoy wanted her back, he was going to have to bleed for it.

Without hesitation, she stepped into the emerald flames, her wand flicking with an effortless precision that ignited the swirling inferno around her. The world blurred, twisted, and then—solid ground. The Malfoy estate materialized before her in a rush of opulence and suffocating silence, a hollow shell of the home she had once shared with him.

But Hermione wasn't here to reminisce.

She was here to remind Draco Malfoy exactly who the fuck she was.

Her heels clicked against the polished marble floors, sharp and deliberate, echoing through the vast, empty space like a war drum. The grand chandelier above cast fractured golden light against the walls, but nothing in this house shimmered quite as brilliantly as the fury igniting in her veins. There was no hesitation in her steps, no pause in her intent. He would see her. He would feel her. And he would understand exactly what it meant to lose her.

When she found him, it was almost pitiful.

Draco Malfoy, heir to one of the most powerful wizarding bloodlines, stood hunched over the stove, utterly defeated by a pan of eggs. His once-impeccable frame was draped in an open, wrinkled shirt, his tie discarded like an afterthought on the counter. The dark crescents beneath his bloodshot eyes told the story of too many sleepless nights, too many bottles emptied in vain. His silver hair was unkempt, sticking up in odd directions, and for the first time since she'd known him, he looked… small.

It was a tragedy. It was a mockery.

It was his own doing.

Draco didn't notice her at first, too caught up in his own pathetic existence to feel the storm brewing at his back. But then he turned, his breath catching the moment he saw her standing there—tall, poised, radiant in her fury. His entire world narrowed to her, his fingers gripping the counter as if grounding himself would somehow prepare him for the inevitable.

"My love," he breathed, almost disbelieving, as if saying it aloud might make her disappear. He took a step forward, desperation laced into every movement. "You came back." His voice was cracked, uneven—like a man reaching for salvation in the dark.

He reached out.

She didn't move.

"Don't."

One word. Cold. Sharp. Lethal.

His hand froze mid-air before falling uselessly to his side, fingers curling into his palm as if he could physically grasp the mistake that had unraveled everything between them. His eyes—silver and stormy—searched hers, pleading. Begging. But Hermione Granger was not a woman to be swayed by sorrow alone.

She stepped forward, her arms crossed over her chest, tilting her head just enough to let him know she was watching. Judging. Calculating.

"Kneel."

A command, not a request.

Draco hesitated.

A flicker of defiance ghosted across his face—pride warring with guilt, resistance against resignation. He was Draco Malfoy, once untouchable, once powerful. Malfoys didn't kneel.

Except he did.

Slowly, painfully, his knees hit the cold marble floor. He didn't look away from her, though. He let her see him—see the wreck of the man he had become. If this was what she required, he would give it to her.

"Are you sorry?" Her voice was steel-wrapped silk, soft but unrelenting.

"I am," he rasped, throat dry, voice shaking. The weight of the words seemed to pull at his very being.

"Sorry for what?"

Hermione watched him struggle for air, for words, for absolution that would not come easily. She was done filling in the gaps for him. He would be the one to carve his way back to her.

"For failing you," he admitted, voice raw. "For making you question your worth when you've always been everything. For drowning in my own weakness and letting it consume us both. For thinking that loving you meant taking without giving, breaking without mending. I failed you, Hermione. I failed us."

Her expression remained impassive, but something flickered in her eyes.

"And?"

He swallowed hard, his hands pressing into the floor, his entire body taut with the weight of his own shame. "And I will do whatever it takes to fix it. To fix myself. Just… tell me how."

She crouched before him, her fingers tilting his chin upward until their faces were only inches apart.

"You think I came back because I forgive you?" she murmured, her voice like a blade sliding between ribs. "No, Draco. I came back to see if you're even worth saving."

His breath stilled.

"You will earn your place in my life again. Piece by piece. Moment by moment. And if you falter—if you fail me even once—" she leaned in, her lips brushing dangerously close to his ear, "I will leave. And this time, I will never return."

A shudder wracked through him, but he nodded, his hands clenching into fists as if the sheer act of holding himself together was his only lifeline.

"Do you understand?"

"I do."

"Do you?" she challenged, standing once more, looking down at him with a gaze that made his entire body burn. "Because I don't have time for empty promises, Draco. You will clean up your mess. You will show me that you are capable of being the man I deserve—not just the man who loves me, but the man who can keep me."

His jaw tightened, his spine straightening even as he remained on his knees. "I will," he swore.

Her lips curled into something dangerously close to amusement, but it wasn't kindness—it was power.

She turned, her heels clicking once again against the floor, each step echoing with a finality that made Draco's stomach twist. But just before she reached the doorway, she glanced over her shoulder, pinning him with a look that sent a fresh wave of torment through his already shattered soul.

"And for Merlin's sake," she drawled, eyes flicking up and down his disheveled form, "clean yourself up. You look pathetic."

Then she was gone.

Draco remained kneeling, staring at the empty space she had occupied only moments before. The weight of her words pressed against his ribs, stealing the air from his lungs.

She hadn't come back to save him.

She had come back to watch him save himself.

And for the first time in weeks, the fog of whiskey and regret lifted, replaced by a single, undeniable truth.

He would not lose her again.

Not without a fight.

~~~~~~

The mirror was still fogged from the heat of his shower, condensation curling like spectral fingers against the cool glass, distorting his reflection into something almost unfamiliar. Draco dragged a hand down his face, palm pressing against the rough stubble that had grown in his weeks of solitude. His fingers trembled slightly as they moved to button his crisp white shirt, each fastening feeling less like an act of getting dressed and more like armor being put into place. Each flick of his fingers, each tug of fabric against his skin, was a small defiance against the chaos that had consumed him for far too long.

The residual warmth of the water clung to him, but it did nothing to temper the storm raging inside. He could smell the faint, familiar scent of his cologne—sandalwood and vetiver, understated yet precise, much like the man he had once been. The one he was trying—desperately—to become again.

But the grey-eyed stranger staring back at him from the mirror was not the same man Hermione had loved. No, this man bore the weight of guilt in the hard lines of his face, in the exhaustion etched into the hollows beneath his eyes. This man was a ghost, haunted by his own failures, by the sharp-edged memories of her absence. And today, he would face her. Not with excuses. Not with empty words. But with the raw truth of what he had done and the aching, desperate need to fix it.

The thought sent a sharp pang through his chest, one that he swallowed down as he stepped into the cool morning light. The world outside felt unbearably indifferent to his turmoil—the sky a flawless expanse of soft blues, the breeze carrying the scent of late-summer jasmine through the streets. His grip on the bouquet tightened. Pink peonies. Hermione's favorite. Symbolic of apology, regret, and the fragile hope of new beginnings.

They felt insubstantial in his hands. Flowers couldn't erase the past. They couldn't rewrite the nights he had drowned himself in whiskey instead of reaching for her. They couldn't undo the venomous words he had thrown in anger, nor the hurt he had inflicted when he was too lost in his own misery to see what was right in front of him. But still, he clung to them as he walked down the cobblestone streets toward her childhood home, feeling as though each step was dragging him toward some kind of reckoning.

And then, there it was.

The Granger house loomed before him, small but impossibly daunting. It had always been different from the Malfoy estate—quaint, warm, alive—the kind of home where laughter echoed in the halls, where love wasn't an obligation but a given. The sight of it made his throat tighten. This was the place that had shaped her, the foundation of the woman who had once loved him beyond reason.

And now, it felt like a fortress. One he wasn't sure he had the right to enter.

The garden was vibrant with life, the flowers in full bloom, swaying mockingly in the breeze. They belonged here. They had roots. They flourished. He, on the other hand, stood at the gate like an intruder, a relic of a past that had been both beautiful and unbearable.

His pulse roared in his ears as he climbed the porch steps, the wooden boards creaking softly beneath his weight. His heart pounded as he raised his hand to knock, fingers hovering over the polished surface of the door. Just knock. Just do it.

But the moment stretched. His hand refused to move. The weight of everything pressed down on him all at once—the memory of her voice, raw and broken, telling him she couldn't do this anymore. The way she had walked away, her back straight but her hands trembling. The space in their bed that had grown colder each night, until there was nothing left but emptiness.

What if she opened the door and told him it was too late? What if she didn't open it at all? What if her parents answered and slammed it in his face, their disdain echoing in the finality of that sound? What if—Merlin forbid—she had moved on?

The thought sent a cold, piercing terror through him, one that gripped his lungs and stole his breath. His fingers curled into a fist, pressing against the doorframe but never making contact.

He wasn't ready.

He had come all this way, but the truth clawed its way up his throat, suffocating him: He was still a coward.

The fear of facing her, of truly seeing the consequences of what he had done, was too great. He had spent so long running—from his guilt, from himself, from the wreckage of their love—and now, standing at the edge of what could be salvation or ruin, he found that he couldn't move.

His body betrayed him. His breath hitched, his vision blurred, and before he knew it, he was turning away, his steps hurried as he retreated down the garden path. The further he walked, the heavier he felt, as though the very air around him was thickening with every step he took in the wrong direction.

By the time he reached the street, his lungs burned with unshed emotion. With a sharp crack, he Disapparated, the familiar tug of magic yanking him away from the confrontation he had failed to face.

The moment he landed back in his study, the room felt impossibly small, suffocating in its quiet. The scent of parchment and ink was usually a comfort, but now it only reminded him of the endless letters he had written and never sent. The bookshelves—lined with knowledge, with power—mocked him with their stillness. What good was knowledge if he couldn't even muster the strength to fight for the one thing that truly mattered?

He looked down at the bouquet still clutched in his hand. The petals were as soft and full as they had been earlier, yet they felt wrong here, in this dim, lonely space. This house had never been a home, not without her in it.

The flowers slipped from his grasp, landing unceremoniously onto his desk, pink petals scattering across forgotten letters and half-written apologies. They didn't belong here. He didn't belong here. Not without her.

Draco sank into his chair, his head falling into his hands. Shame burned in his chest, clawing at his ribs. He had failed. He had come so close, yet he had faltered at the last possible moment.

He thought of her—Hermione, with her fire, her brilliance, the way she had looked at him once, as though he were worth something. He had lost that. He had broken that.

And yet, as the sun dipped lower in the sky, casting golden light through the window in a way that almost felt cruel, he made himself a promise.

He would go back. He would stand at that door and knock. He would face her, even if it shattered him. Because if there was even a fraction of hope left—even a sliver—he would not let his fear steal it away.

But tonight, all he had was his regret.

And the soft, quiet rustle of pink petals as they slowly began to wilt.

~~~~~~

Draco paced the length of the penthouse, his restless footsteps echoing off the polished marble floors, the sound a sharp reminder of how empty the sprawling space truly was. The silence, once a comforting companion in his solitary moments, now gnawed at him with relentless precision, each second stretching into an unbearable eternity. The grandeur of the penthouse—the towering floor-to-ceiling windows framing a breathtaking view of the city, the sleek modern furnishings, the subtle opulence of every detail—no longer held the same allure. What once felt like a symbol of success and independence now seemed cold, lifeless, and suffocating. Every corner of the space whispered a truth he could no longer deny: he was alone, and it was by his own design.

He paused near the bar, his hand trailing absently over the edge of the countertop, his mind racing with thoughts he couldn't suppress. For the first time, he truly allowed himself to admit it—he was a coward. Hiding here, in his self-made fortress of luxury and isolation, far removed from her, from the life he claimed to want, was nothing more than a pitiful act of avoidance. He could run from confrontation, from his mistakes, from the fear of rejection, but none of it would ever bring him closer to the one thing he desired most: her.

The realisation hit him like a blow, and he clenched his fists, frustration boiling beneath the surface. This penthouse, for all its beauty and refinement, was nothing more than a gilded cage, a stark reminder of the hollow life he had built around himself. If he truly wanted a future with Hermione—if he wanted to earn back her trust, to prove that he was capable of being the man she deserved—then he needed to make a change. This place could no longer be a monument to his isolation and fear; it needed to become a home, a sanctuary where love and warmth could thrive.

But how could he transform the walls around him when he was still trapped inside his own? The thought lingered, heavy and oppressive, as he resumed pacing, each step a silent battle against the doubts and fears threatening to paralyse him. If he wanted a family, a real family, he couldn't keep running. He couldn't keep hiding. He had to be braver than he had ever been before—not just for her, but for himself. And with that realisation came the faintest spark of resolve, a fragile but growing determination to face what he had been avoiding and to finally take a step toward the life he longed to create.

As Draco weaved his way through the labyrinthine aisles of IKEA, he felt like a very posh fish floundering in a decidedly Muggle pond. The maze of flat-pack furniture, all those confusingly named products, and the abundance of tiny Swedish meatballs were enough to make his head spin. But it wasn't just the store that was overwhelming—no, it was the Muggle families. They bustled about, effortlessly navigating the chaos, picking out cushions and plastic plants with the calm of seasoned experts. Draco, however, was decidedly not a seasoned expert. The endless clattering of shopping carts, the chattering children, and the wailing babies made him feel like he'd been dropped into some bizarre circus. This wasn't a home-furnishing store; it was a house of horrors.

After what felt like hours of wandering, looking far too lost for someone who had once navigated the treacherous corridors of Malfoy Manor with military precision, Draco finally found himself at the checkout. His cart was piled high with everything from oversized cushions that looked like they might swallow him whole to a dining table so complicated it might require an ancient incantation to assemble.

He stood in line, trying to act like he belonged, tapping his foot impatiently. The cashier behind the register was a young woman about his age, with bleached blonde hair pulled into a tight ponytail and earrings so large they could probably double as salad plates. 

Her name tag read "Kayleigh," and she gave him a once-over that was anything but subtle. It was like she was appraising him as one might evaluate a new sofa set—perhaps considering if he'd be comfortable for a few hours or just need a bit of extra padding.

"Alright, love?" she asked, her voice thick with an accent he had trouble deciphering. It sounded like English, but it was an entirely different dialect, filled with words he was certain didn't exist in the Queen's English. "You look like you could use some help settin' all this up. Could give ya me number, if you like."

He blinked, his brain momentarily short-circuiting. "Your… number?"

She leaned in a little closer, her smile widening in a way that made Draco feel like he was in some kind of strange, surreal dream. "Yeah, ya know—me mobile. I could come 'round, help ya put together all this flat-pack crap. Or we could just, y'know, grab a drink or summat."

His brain was officially fried. "Mobile?" He realised immediately that had been a terrible guess.

Her eyebrow shot up as she clearly misinterpreted his confused stare as some sort of shy flirting. "Yeah, mobile. Me phone. I'll just pop over, help ya with them screws... or we could have a laugh instead." She winked, and he felt his internal panic alarm go off. His experience with women was limited to a few interactions at the Ministry, none of which had ever involved anything quite as forward as this.

"Er, no, thank you," he stammered, desperately trying to sound composed. "I'm quite capable of managing on my own." He gave her what he hoped was a cool, confident nod, though internally he was already imagining Hermione's reaction to this whole mess.

Kayleigh didn't seem to be discouraged in the slightest. "Aw, come on, you're too posh for this kinda thing. Betcha never even held a screwdriva in ya life, have ya?" She winked again, her gold hoops bouncing slightly as she giggled. "Don't be shy, luv. Give us a ring when ya need a hand."

His cheeks flushed a deep shade of red. "I—I assure you, I'm very well-versed in screws, thank you." He wanted to crawl under the counter and disappear.

She giggled again, totally unbothered. "Alright then, fancy pants, but the offer's there if you change your mind." She continued ringing up his increasingly awkward purchases, chewing her gum like she was on her lunch break and had all the time in the world to torment him.

When she handed him his receipt, she slid a scrap of paper across the counter, which he automatically grabbed. "Just in case," she said with another wink that made him feel like a deer caught in headlights.

As he stared at the paper, he realised what he was holding: her phone number. The shock set in, and he quickly stuffed it into his pocket, muttering something unintelligible as he grabbed his bags and practically bolted from the store.

He couldn't help but chuckle to himself in disbelief. The Muggle world was utterly baffling. How had he, a man who'd once spent years dodging dark curses, gotten himself into this? Surely, this wasn't part of the 'Muggle experience' Hermione had been so keen to introduce him to.

The next day, when he returned to IKEA—this time, to retrieve an item called an "Allen key" that had mysteriously gone missing—he couldn't escape the inevitable. There she was: Kayleigh, still chewing her gum with the same intensity as before.

"Oh, look who's back!" she grinned. "Couldn't resist me after all, eh?"

He felt the blood drain from his face. "Er, no, I—" He cleared his throat. "I just... need to clarify something from yesterday."

Kayleigh raised an eyebrow, clearly not taking him too seriously. "Oh yeah? Realised you need a bit of help after all?"

"No!" he blurted out, then paused, trying to collect himself. "I mean, no, that's not it at all. I'm... married." His voice faltered for a second, as if trying to convince both her and himself. "Very happily married. To a very wonderful woman. Yes."

Kayleigh didn't miss a beat. "Well, that's nice, innit? But I was just offerin' a bit of help, no harm in that. She wouldn't mind, would she?"

His face went as red as his family crest. "She would absolutely mind," he said firmly. "In fact, I would mind as well. Very much." He felt like a hapless character in some kind of sitcom.

Kayleigh just shrugged, clearly unfazed. "Alright, suit yerself, posh boy. But if ya change yer mind, ya know where to find me." She turned back to her work, chewing her gum like it was the most important task of her day.

As Draco left the store, Allen key in hand, he vowed never to return to IKEA—at least not without Hermione by his side to decode the bizarre rituals of Muggle life. As he Apparated back home, he couldn't help but laugh at himself. He might be able to face down a Death Eater, but apparently, a blonde woman with a phone number and an Allen key was his Achilles' heel.

He couldn't wait to tell Hermione. Or, more likely, have her laugh at him while she sorted it all out.

~~~~~~

Separation was its own kind of hell, a slow, merciless ache that stretched across every second, turning minutes into hours, hours into days, and days into something even worse—something shapeless, endless. Every morning, Hermione woke up to the same crushing weight pressing against her chest, the suffocating absence of Draco beside her making each breath feel like a battle. She had read once that time was supposed to heal all wounds, that distance and routine would eventually dull the edges of grief, but time had only sharpened hers. It carved into her, day after day, leaving behind nothing but raw, gaping emptiness.

She needed an escape, a way to silence the thoughts that chased her relentlessly through the quiet of her empty flat. After much deliberation, she settled on journaling. Words had always been her refuge, a safe place where she could make sense of chaos. Surely, if she spilled enough ink onto paper, the noise in her head would quiet, the pain would settle into something manageable, something neat and comprehensible.

But writing only made it worse.

The moment she pressed her quill to the page, frustration flared in her chest, hot and unbearable. The words refused to come, or worse, they came too easily—messy, unfiltered, ugly truths that she didn't want to see staring back at her. Every sentence was a jagged reminder of how lost she felt, how utterly undone she was without him. The ink smeared beneath her fingertips, staining her hands like some physical manifestation of the sorrow that had seeped into her very skin. The more she wrote, the more her words betrayed her, until the parchment was filled with chaotic scrawls that looked nothing like clarity and everything like grief.

"This is fucking pointless," she muttered, slamming the journal shut and shoving it aside, watching as it skidded across the desk and hit the floor with a dull thud. It didn't make her feel any better. It didn't make the pain stop. It didn't make any of this easier.

Fine. If words wouldn't save her, she would try something else.

Baking. That was supposed to help, wasn't it? People always said there was something therapeutic about kneading dough, about losing themselves in the precise measurements of flour and sugar, about creating something warm, something whole, something good. It was a simple enough idea, and she liked the thought of it—losing herself in a task, following instructions, creating something tangible when everything else in her life felt so fragile and uncertain.

But her first attempt at a pie was an absolute disaster.

The crust was too thick, a leaden slab that cracked under the weight of the filling, which was too runny, leaking out over the edges like a sad, defeated thing. Still, she shoved it into the oven with a prayer, hoping that maybe, maybe, it would miraculously come together.

It didn't.

When she pulled it out, the edges were burned, the middle was still raw, and the entire thing looked like it had given up halfway through baking—just like her.

"Perfect," she muttered darkly, yanking the oven door shut with a little too much force. "A tragedy of a pie for a tragedy of a woman."

The second pie wasn't any better. The crust, this time, was too thin, barely holding together, while the filling had the unfortunate consistency of something gelatinous and vaguely menacing. The third pie—if one could even call it that—was an unsalvageable abomination. It was burnt on top, practically charred, but somehow still raw underneath, as if the universe itself had decided to personally mock her.

Hermione stared at the culinary horror show before her, hands resting on the counter, flour smeared across her arms, ink still clinging to her fingers from earlier.

She should have cried.

Instead, she laughed.

A sharp, humorless laugh that bubbled up unexpectedly, escaping before she could stop it. It was ridiculous—she was ridiculous. Three failed pies, a ruined journal, and nothing to show for her efforts except for a messy kitchen and the same unbearable emptiness clawing at her insides.

She laughed harder, doubling over, shaking her head at the sheer absurdity of it all.

"Oh, God," she wheezed, wiping at her flour-dusted face. "I've become the queen of sad fucking pies."

The weight in her chest didn't lessen, not really. The ache didn't disappear, and the loneliness didn't magically lift. But there, in the wreckage of her kitchen, in the ink-stained, flour-dusted mess she had made of herself, there was a flicker of something small and fragile. Not hope, not yet—but something close.

She wasn't okay. She wasn't sure when—or if—she ever would be again.

But she was still here.

And maybe, for now, that was enough.

~~~~~~

Hermione paused at the top of the stairs, her hand gripping the bannister as she heard the warm sound of laughter floating up from the living room. It was her mother's familiar, comforting laugh, but there was another voice, smoother and more refined. Curious, she descended slowly, the clack of her boots against the wooden steps loud in the otherwise quiet house.

As she reached the bottom, the sight of the unmistakable blonde hair caught her eye. Narcissa Malfoy was sitting on the couch, poised and regal as always, though her usual icy demeanour seemed softened by the warmth of the Granger home. Across from her, Jane was flipping through a photo album, her smile broad and fond.

"Look how cute she was in her Halloween costume," Jane said, her voice brimming with pride as she held up a photo of young Hermione dressed as a tiny pumpkin. The memory brought a smile to her face, even though she couldn't help but feel slightly embarrassed at the sight of herself so small and chubby, grinning up at the camera.

Narcissa leaned in, her expression softening with an unexpected fondness. "Adorable, yes," she agreed. "But Draco was never one to do anything he didn't want to," she continued, her voice carrying a rare warmth. "I remember one Halloween when he was barely two. We had this darling dragon costume—wings, a tail, the whole works. But of course, Draco refused to wear it."

She watched, intrigued despite herself, as Narcissa's voice held a hint of affection.

"We tried everything," she continued. "Lucius even tried bribing him with sweets, which, naturally, did nothing. Draco just crossed his arms, pouted, and refused to let anyone near him with that costume. Eventually, we had to force it on him—Lucius held him down while I distracted him with a story. But, the moment we got one sleeve on, he wriggled out of it like a little escape artist." Narcissa smiled, clearly amused by the memory. "In the end, he wore just the dragon hat, convinced it was a crown, though of course, he wouldn't smile for any photos. The defiance was practically baked into him even then."

Jane chuckled, her eyes twinkling. "Is Draco related to Luna by any chance? They could be twins sometimes, with that stubborn streak."

Narcissa paused, a small smile flickering on her lips. "Mrs. Nott?" she said, her tone thoughtful. "No, I don't think so. Though, given how pureblood families intertwine, who's to say? Maybe some distant connection through one of the old branches." She raised an eyebrow, intrigued by the thought. "Perhaps it's worth revisiting the family tree."

Jane looked momentarily horrified at her own slip-up. "Oh, I didn't mean—"

Narcissa waved it away gracefully. "No harm done, dear. Family is a complicated thing. And, I must admit, the idea of discovering new relatives is always a bit exciting, don't you think? Especially now that I only have one sister left."

Jane, clearly still uncomfortable, hesitated. "What happened to your other sister, if you don't mind me asking?"

Hermione's voice cut through the room like a knife. "She was the one who tortured me, Mum. She died during the war." Her tone was sharp, bitter—an edge to it that only years of repressed anger could forge. "And as for Narcissa's other sister, Aunt Andromeda—well, you remember spending Easter with them, right? She was disowned by the Black family for marrying a Muggle-born wizard. Ted Tonks. Teddy's grandfather." her lips twisted. "Unlike her sisters, she had the guts to reject the pure-blood nonsense they clung to so tightly."

The room went silent. Jane stared at Hermione, horrified, but before she could scold her, Hermione shot her a look that said everything. "Isn't it the truth, though?"

Narcissa didn't flinch. She nodded calmly, almost nonchalantly. "It is," she agreed. Her voice was smooth, unemotional. No bitterness, no anger. Just acceptance.

She raised an eyebrow, her gaze hardening. "So, what are you really doing here, Narcissa?"

Narcissa didn't hesitate. She met her gaze, her own eyes cool but honest. "I came to visit your mother," she said softly, her tone lacking any of the usual pomp. "For our weekly book club, of course."

Hermione didn't buy it for a second. "Cut the rubbish," she shot back, folding her arms. "You didn't come here to read books."

Narcissa sighed, the faintest smirk tugging at the corners of her lips. "Fine. I came for you," she admitted. "Not because of Draco. He made his choices, and now he must live with them."

Her brow furrowed, the walls she'd erected around her heart starting to crack. She didn't trust Narcissa, not after everything that had happened, but there was something in her voice—a rare openness—that made her hesitate. She wanted to respond, wanted to argue, but instead, she simply sighed and gestured toward the door. "Let's take a walk," she said, her voice flat.

Narcissa stood gracefully, her expression unreadable, but she nodded and followed her outside, leaving Jane to wonder what exactly was going on between them.

Jane opened her mouth to insist on an apology, but Narcissa stopped her with a soft, gentle hand on her arm. "Jane, darling, there's no need for an apology," she said, her voice warm and soothing. "Hermione speaks her truth, and sometimes, that's all we have left. The truth is its own kind of strength."

The words hung in the air as they began walking, the quiet of the neighbourhood providing a peaceful contrast to the storm of emotions swirling in her mind. The gentle rustle of leaves and the soft chirping of birds helped to calm the tension in her shoulders, and for the first time that day,she felt a flicker of peace.

"You and my mother seem to get along well," she said, glancing sideways at Narcissa, trying to make sense of this strange bond they seemed to share.

Narcissa's features softened in a way she had rarely seen before. "We truly do," she said, her voice warm and almost fond. "We meet every week. I'll admit, it's mostly gossip, but I've learned so much from her. She's... she's opened my eyes to things I never thought I'd understand."

She smiled, the genuine warmth in Narcissa's voice surprising her. "I'm really glad to hear that. It means a lot to me that you're willing to learn, to open yourself to new perspectives."

Narcissa chuckled softly. "I suppose I just needed the right person to help me. I'm still figuring it out, but, well... we're besties now, as the children say?" she asked, a playful note in her voice.

"Besties?" she echoed, a laugh slipping from her lips. "Yes, that's exactly how you say it."

Narcissa's laughter joined hers, and for a brief moment, the icy walls that usually surrounded her seemed to thaw, leaving behind someone far more tender than Hermione had ever expected. "She's shown me so many new things. Places I never knew existed. Experiences I never thought I'd have. Your mother is an incredible woman. She even taught me how to bake—and though I'm still awful at cooking, she's done wonders with that as well. She's explained things to me that, well... I didn't even know I needed to know."

She felt a pang of affection, her heart softening toward the woman at her side. This was a side of Narcissa few had ever seen—a glimpse of vulnerability beneath the cold, polished surface. "I'm really glad she's become a friend to you. I never would've imagined that, but it means a lot to me."

Narcissa smiled, a little hesitantly at first, before it grew warmer. "It means more to me than I can put into words. Your mother has given me something I didn't know I needed—a friendship, something real. I never thought I'd be able to say that."

She felt a tightness in her chest, but it wasn't born of anger. It was something else entirely—a realisation that Narcissa had opened herself up in ways few people ever did.

After a moment of quiet, she cleared her throat and spoke again, her voice gentle but careful. "About Draco..." she began, but she cut her off immediately.

"Please," shesaid, her voice trembling just slightly, "I can't. Not yet."

Narcissa nodded, her expression softening even more. "I understand, dear. But know this—I'm not here to pressure you. I'm not here to make you feel guilty or trapped. But I must tell you... my son is utterly devastated. Every night. He cries in his bed, begging for you. He's lost without you." Her voice faltered, the motherly concern breaking through. "I just don't want you to make any decision in haste. This bond... it's not something you can run from, not fully. It will follow you, no matter what."

She felt a lump rise in her throat, the weight of her words pressing on her chest. "I don't know what to feel anymore," she admitted softly, her voice barely a whisper.

Narcissa's gaze softened with empathy. She took a step closer, her presence warm and comforting. "It's all right. You don't have to know yet. Take your time. You deserve that. You've been through so much."

She felt a tightness in her chest, something she hadn't expected to feel from this woman who had once seemed so distant. "How did you live with it? With everything? The violence, the aggression... this world?"

Narcissa's gaze darkened slightly, but it was not with bitterness. Instead, it was filled with sorrow and something deeper, something unspoken. "I survived because of love, dear. A love so deep it defies explanation. And because of duty—because I had a responsibility. I had to hold on, for my family, for the future we hoped for." She paused, her voice thick with unshed emotion. "That's what kept me going. Love and duty are the anchors in a world that's often as dark and chaotic as the one we live in."

She swallowed hard, the words hitting her harder than she had expected. Narcissa, for all her coldness, had endured, had held on to something despite everything. And maybe, just maybe, there was more to her than the woman she had once been.

Narcissa placed a gentle hand on her arm, her touch surprisingly warm. "I'm here for you," she said, her voice a soft murmur. "You don't have to face this alone."

~~~~~~

She couldn't bear another day trapped in her flat, surrounded by half-finished projects and the faint smell of burnt pies lingering in the air. She needed space, a breath of fresh air, somewhere far removed from the painful memories. Without much thought, she decided to visit the British Museum. It had always been a place of refuge for her, a quiet sanctuary where the weight of the world could be momentarily forgotten. She hoped that maybe, just maybe, it could offer the clarity she so desperately sought.

The vast halls of the museum were cool and calm, a stark contrast to the chaotic thoughts swirling in her mind. She wandered aimlessly through the exhibits, her footsteps echoing softly on the stone floors as she let her surroundings wash over her. She passed the Rosetta Stone, the ancient Egyptian mummies, and the Elgin Marbles, but they barely registered. Normally, these artefacts would captivate her, but today they were just shapes, distant and unimportant.

Eventually, she found herself standing in front of the statue of Athena, her marble form commanding the room. The goddess of wisdom and war, a symbol of strength and intelligence. She stared up at the statue, feeling a surge of longing. She had always admired Athena, seeing in her a reflection of the qualities she valued most. Wisdom. Strength. But today, Athena's serene expression only deepened the turmoil inside her. What would Athena do in her shoes? Torn between love and the need to protect herself?

Lost in her thoughts, Hermione barely registered the presence beside her until a familiar voice, low and hesitant, broke the silence.

"My love?"

Her breath caught in her throat, her entire body tensing as she turned sharply. And there he was—Draco Malfoy, standing mere inches away, looking just as startled as she felt. His usually sharp, controlled features were softened by something unfamiliar—uncertainty, maybe even vulnerability, as if he wasn't entirely sure she was real.

She parted her lips, but no words came. It had been so long since they'd last stood this close, since she'd last heard his voice without it being an echo in her mind.

"Draco," she finally managed, the syllables barely above a whisper. They stared at each other, trapped in a moment neither had prepared for, caught between the ghosts of the past and the impossible pull of familiarity.

He cleared his throat, breaking the tension first. "I didn't expect to see you here," he admitted, his gaze flickering between her and the towering marble statue before them. "Bit of a coincidence, don't you think?"

"Or fate," she murmured, the irony in her voice unmistakable. She didn't know if she believed in fate anymore, but standing here with him, after everything, it was hard not to wonder.

Draco let out a dry, humourless chuckle. "Fate and I have never gotten along."

She tilted her head toward Athena's imposing figure, her voice quieter now, more introspective. "Athena," she mused. "Goddess of wisdom and war."

He followed her gaze. "And which are you seeking?" he asked. "Wisdom or battle?"

"A bit of both, I think," she answered, her tone laced with the kind of exhaustion that only heartbreak could bring. "I needed space. A place to clear my head."

He exhaled, his fingers twitching at his sides. "From me."

She didn't deny it. The weight of his presence—his scent, his voice, the sheer familiarity of him—was pressing down on her, making it difficult to breathe. Finally, she released a slow breath and said, "From everything."

Draco shifted, shoving his hands into his coat pockets. He looked as if he wanted to say something, but the words seemed to catch in his throat. He had come here to escape, to put distance between himself and the past that haunted him, only to find himself standing face to face with the very thing he couldn't outrun.

Hermione sensed his struggle, but she wasn't going to rescue him from it. Instead, she turned her gaze back to him and asked, "Why are you here?"

He hesitated before answering. "I could ask you the same thing," he said, a bitter edge creeping into his voice. Then, softer, more honest, "But… I suppose I've been trying to change. To fix things. I needed to be somewhere that didn't remind me of… everything."

A flicker of something—curiosity, wariness—crossed her face. "And has it worked?"

He huffed a quiet laugh, but there was no humour in it. "Not really. Everywhere I go, there you are." His eyes met hers, raw and open in a way that made her chest ache. "In my thoughts, my dreams… and now in bloody museums."

Before she could respond, he blurted, "Would you like to have a cuppa?"

The words hung between them, awkward and rushed, as if even he was surprised they'd left his mouth. A slight flush crept up his neck, and for the first time in years, Draco Malfoy looked sheepish.

To his surprise, Hermione's lips twitched, an almost-smile breaking through the tension. "That would be nice, thank you."

They walked side by side to the museum's café, neither speaking as they wove through the quiet halls. The air between them was delicate, fragile, but not quite as suffocating as before. When they reached the counter, Draco fumbled with his wallet, a familiar crease forming between his brows as he attempted to decipher Muggle currency.

Hermione sighed, shaking her head. "Honestly," she muttered, taking over with practiced ease. Draco let her, relieved but also painfully aware of how much he had missed the way she always just handled things.

They found a small table tucked into the corner, away from the scattered crowd of museum-goers. The café was warm, the scent of coffee and freshly baked scones wrapping around them, a stark contrast to the heavy emotions between them.

Draco ran a hand through his hair, searching for something to say, but everything that came to mind felt either inadequate or too much. So, instead, he grasped for the simplest thing.

"So… do you come here often?"

The second the words left his mouth, he grimaced. Merlin's bloody beard, what a line.

To his surprise, she didn't roll her eyes or scoff. Instead, she let out a small chuckle, a sound that softened something jagged inside him. "Not as often as I'd like," she admitted, stirring her tea. "I used to come here all the time when I was younger. But life…" She trailed off, shaking her head. "Well, life happened."

Draco nodded, his fingers tracing the rim of his cup. "Yeah," he said. "It has a way of complicating things."

She studied him for a long moment, her brown eyes unreadable. "It really does."

For a brief second, neither of them spoke, caught in the gravity of everything left unsaid. Then, Draco exhaled sharply, leaning forward. "Hermione, I—"

She held up a hand, cutting him off gently. "Draco," she said, and though her voice was soft, there was something firm, something exhausted beneath it. "Not now. Can we just… be here, in this moment, without all the baggage?"

His jaw clenched, the words he had been about to say turning to dust in his mouth. But then, after a pause, he nodded. "Yeah," he murmured. "We can do that."

The tension settled, the air between them shifting into something almost… comfortable. The clinking of cutlery, the low murmur of voices, and the warmth of fresh tea wrapped around them, creating a bubble of calm in a world that had been anything but.

It wasn't a grand reconciliation. It wasn't an apology or a resolution.

But it was something.

~~~~~~

In the span of a heartbeat, they had crossed the threshold, leaving behind the quiet hum of the museum café and stepping into the penthouse—a place that had once been both a sanctuary and a battlefield. The shift was dizzying, like stepping through time, and Draco felt his pulse quicken, his breath hitching as memories crashed over him in relentless waves.

She stood at the edge of the living room, her gaze sweeping over the space, taking in the ghosts that lingered in every shadow, in every untouched piece of furniture, in every whisper of the past that clung to the walls. The air between them felt heavy, thick with emotions too complex to name, too tangled to unravel in a single moment.

"Well," she murmured softly, almost as if speaking to herself, her voice a fragile thread in the stillness. "Perhaps my heart knows where it belongs after all."

The words landed between them like a quiet confession, so simple, yet so devastating. Draco felt them settle deep into his bones, wrapping around his ribcage, sinking into the marrow of him. His breath caught, his entire world narrowing to the space between them. His hands trembled—whether with fear or longing, he wasn't sure—as he reached for her, his touch hesitant, reverent.

His fingers found hers, tentative at first, as if she might vanish the moment he made contact. When she didn't pull away, when she let him take her hand in his, something inside him cracked wide open. He lifted her left hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to each delicate knuckle, slow and worshipful, like he was memorizing the feel of her all over again. When his lips finally brushed against the engagement ring that still graced her finger, his breath shuddered, the simple touch unraveling him more than he cared to admit.

"Is it with me?" His voice was raw, breaking over the words as he searched her face, desperate for an answer that could either mend him or shatter him completely.

Her eyes met his, and for a moment, he saw it—everything. The tenderness, the ache, the longing she tried so hard to contain. The war between her heart and her mind played out in the way she swallowed hard, the way her fingers twitched in his grasp, the way her lips parted on an exhale that felt heavier than air should be.

"Unfortunately, yes," she whispered, the admission slipping from her lips like something she hadn't meant to say aloud.

The breath he had been holding left him in a slow, trembling release, relief and devastation colliding inside him with equal force. He had dreamed of this moment, imagined her saying it a thousand different ways, but nothing could have prepared him for the way it would feel to hear her say it now. She still loved him. Despite everything, despite the wounds, despite the time apart—she still loved him.

"May I hug you?" The question was barely more than a whisper, fragile and uncertain, as though he feared that speaking too boldly might cause this moment to shatter into a thousand irreparable pieces.

She inhaled sharply, her lips pressing together as if bracing herself. Then, with a quiet, almost pleading sigh, she answered, "Please."

That single word undid him.

He closed the space between them in an instant, wrapping her in his arms, holding her as though she was the only real thing left in the world. The warmth of her body against his was intoxicating, grounding, anchoring him in a way nothing else ever had. His arms tightened around her, firm but gentle, like he was afraid she might slip through his fingers if he wasn't careful. He buried his face in her curls, inhaling the scent of her—soft, familiar, devastatingly hers—and his chest tightened, his breath catching on a quiet, broken inhale.

Her hands clutched the fabric of his shirt, gripping him like she needed to steady herself, like she wasn't sure if she was falling or standing still. He felt her exhale against his collarbone, and the shudder in it sent a sharp pang through his heart.

This—this was home. Not the penthouse, not the wealth, not the name or the legacy. Just this. Just her, in his arms, their heartbeats pressed together in a silence that said more than words ever could.

Time stretched and bent around them, minutes bleeding into one another, reality fading until there was nothing left but the sound of their breathing and the steady, unspoken promise laced between them. It wasn't just the physical closeness—it was the quiet communion of two souls that had lost each other and, against all odds, had found their way back. It was fragile, uncertain, but it was something.

The scent of her, familiar and intoxicating, filled his lungs as he buried his face in her curls, inhaling deeply, as if he could somehow breathe her into the empty spaces inside him. His grip on her tightened, his arms holding onto her as though letting go meant losing himself all over again. "I've missed you," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion, roughened by longing. "Gods, Hermione, I've missed you so much."

His pulse thundered in his ears as he tilted her chin upward, his fingers tracing the delicate curve of her jaw, his touch reverent, almost hesitant—like a man reaching for something sacred, something he feared he had no right to touch. Their proximity was a live wire, thrumming with a tension that burned through him, scorching the distance they had so carefully maintained.

"Am I allowed to kiss you?" His voice was barely more than a breath, so fragile, so uncharacteristically unsure of itself. It was a plea wrapped in restraint, in self-inflicted torment, in the desperation of a man who knew he had no right to ask but couldn't bear not to.

She met his gaze, and in her eyes, he saw their history laid bare—years of love and heartbreak tangled together in a knot that neither of them had ever truly been able to sever. Her hesitation stretched between them, the silence filled with everything unspoken, everything that still lingered between them like ghosts in the room. Then, finally, after what felt like an eternity, she nodded.

"Unfortunately, yes," she whispered, and though her words carried the weight of reluctant surrender, the warmth in her voice betrayed her.

That was all the invitation he needed.

The moment their lips met, the world around them ceased to exist. It was soft at first, tentative—two souls testing the waters of something they had been drowning in for far too long. But hesitation bled into urgency, restraint crumbled beneath the force of everything they had buried, and suddenly, the kiss was no longer gentle. It was desperate, raw, filled with the kind of aching devotion that had no language, only touch.

His hands threaded into her hair, pulling her impossibly closer as he poured every ounce of regret, every sleepless night, every whispered prayer for another chance into the way his lips moved against hers. And she let him. She let him claim her, let him kiss her like she was the very air he needed to breathe, let him remind her exactly how much she had missed him, too.

When they finally broke apart, foreheads resting together, their breaths mingling in the quiet space between them, neither of them moved. The moment stretched endlessly, fragile yet unbreakable, bound together by something neither of them had the strength to walk away from.

Draco's fingers ghosted along her cheek, his gaze searching hers with something unspoken, something desperate. "I love you," he confessed, the words slipping out before he could stop them, no longer something he could keep caged inside himself. "More than anything in this universe, Hermione."

Her breath hitched, her pulse stuttering under the weight of his words. He could see the war behind her eyes, the way her lips parted as though she wanted to say something—anything—but the words failed her. "Draco, I—"

But he didn't let her finish.

He kissed her again—this time with something fiercer, something almost desperate, a kiss that was both an apology and a claim, a vow and a plea. It was a kiss that demanded, that took and gave in equal measure, a kiss that threatened to consume them both.

Her body melted into his, her hands gripping at the fabric of his shirt like she needed to hold onto something solid, something real, something that reminded her of the love that had never truly faded.

When they pulled apart again, his hands trembled where they cupped her face, his gaze filled with something fractured. "Why now?" he asked, his voice barely steady. "After all this time? After everything?"

Her eyes glistened with unshed tears as she swallowed, her heart breaking all over again for the man in front of her. "Draco," she whispered, her voice raw, "this was the breaking point. It wasn't just your family's legacy, or the attack on me, or even your demons—those were battles we fought together. But this…" Her voice wavered, and she sucked in a shaky breath before continuing. "The drinking, the shutting me out—you let your pain consume you, and there was nothing left for me to hold onto. I had to walk away."

His arms tensed around her, his body going rigid as her words settled over him like a crushing weight. "I was drowning," he admitted, his voice hoarse, thick with regret. "Instead of reaching for you, I let myself sink. I didn't see what I was doing to you… to us."

She shook her head, her hands sliding to frame his face, forcing him to look at her, forcing him to see the weight of his choices. "It wasn't just about the drinking, Draco," she said, her voice steady now. "It was about you refusing to let me help you. You pulled away, you let yourself unravel, and I—I couldn't watch you destroy yourself anymore."

A single tear slipped down his cheek, and for the first time in years, he made no effort to hide it. "I was lost without you," he whispered, his voice cracking under the weight of his own confessions. "I still am. But I know now that I can't live like that. I have to change. Not just for you—but for me."

Her heart ached at the sincerity in his voice, the way he laid himself bare before her in a way he never had before. "I know you can be that man," she whispered, her thumb brushing away the tear trailing down his cheek. "But it will take time. It will take work. We both need to heal, Draco. And we need to do it together."

He exhaled a shaky breath, nodding, his grip on her tightening as if afraid to lose her again. "I'm ready," he promised, his voice filled with quiet determination. "I'll do whatever it takes. I'll prove to you that I can be the man you deserve."

She leaned into his touch, closing her eyes for a brief moment, letting herself believe in the possibility of hope. When she opened them again, there was something softer in her gaze, something that hadn't been there in a long time.

"One step at a time," she whispered.

Draco leaned forward, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead, his lips lingering as he whispered, "One step at a time."

And as he pulled her into his arms, holding her as though she was the most precious thing in his world—because she was—he knew this wasn't the end. It wasn't a perfect reconciliation, nor a promise of an easy road ahead.

~~~~~~

The weight of time pressed heavily against Draco's chest, a cruel and unrelenting force that reminded him of all they had lost. Every moment spent apart, every day that had slipped through their fingers, was a wound he could never fully heal. But that didn't mean he wouldn't try. He refused to accept that their story had reached its bitter end. He would fight for them, for her, for the love they had built, fractured but not destroyed.

Even if she carried Medusa's curse, he would still want to stare into her eyes, willing himself to turn to stone if only it meant he could gaze into perfection for eternity.

Their anniversary. A date that should have been marked with celebration, with whispered promises and shared laughter, had always been overshadowed—by war, by responsibilities, by their own personal demons. But not this time. This time, he would make it right. He would give her the moment they had been robbed of, the moment they deserved.

The preparations became his obsession. He poured over every detail, leaving nothing to chance. He thought of the things that brought her joy—the peonies she adored, the comfort of a well-worn book in her hands, the way she wrapped her fingers around a steaming cup of tea as if it were a lifeline. He thought of the way she once looked at him, with a softness that had been eroded by time and pain. He longed to see that expression again, to be worthy of it.

The penthouse, once a battleground of unspoken words and aching silences, needed to become a sanctuary once more. He transformed it, carefully crafting an atmosphere that breathed warmth and intimacy. Soft, golden lights cast a dreamy glow over the room, flickering like distant stars. Delicate fairy lights wove across the ceiling, illuminating the space with a quiet kind of magic. The air was sweet with the fragrance of fresh pink peonies, placed in elegant vases around the room. In the hearth, a fire crackled softly, its gentle warmth chasing away the cold emptiness that had lingered for far too long.

The dining table was set with meticulous care—not extravagant, but deeply thoughtful. He had spent hours in the kitchen, pouring over recipes, testing his own patience as he forced himself to learn. Cooking had never been a necessity for him before, but tonight, it was more than just a meal—it was a statement, a promise. He wanted her to taste the effort, to know that every bite had been made with love, with devotion, with the desperate hope that she might see how much she still meant to him.

And then, when everything was ready, he sent the message. Simple, but filled with meaning.

Come home. There's something I want to show you.

Then came the waiting.

His heart pounded as the minutes stretched into eternity, every second another agonizing moment of doubt, of fear that she wouldn't come. That she would choose to stay away. He paced, running his hands through his hair, inhaling deeply, exhaling sharply, trying to calm the whirlwind inside him.

And then—at last—the front door creaked open.

His breath stilled in his lungs as he turned. There she was, standing in the doorway, her expression unreadable as her gaze swept over the room. He drank in the sight of her, the way her lips parted slightly in surprise, the flicker of something in her eyes that made his pulse thunder in his ears. For a long moment, she didn't speak, just stood there, absorbing it all.

"Draco…" Her voice was hushed, filled with wonder and hesitation. "What is all this?"

He swallowed hard, willing himself to steady his voice. "It's our anniversary," he said softly, taking a step toward her. "We never had a chance to celebrate it. I wanted to make things right. To remind you of what we had… what we still have."

She stared at him, her fingers gripping the strap of her purse like it was the only thing grounding her. "You did all this… for me?" There was something fragile in her voice, something that made his chest ache.

"For you," he confirmed, reaching for her hand, his fingers tentative as they brushed against hers. "For us." He exhaled shakily, forcing himself to meet her eyes, to let her see the truth in his. "I know I've made mistakes, Hermione. But I need you to know—I'm fighting for this. For you. For everything we lost. And I will spend every day proving it to you, if you'll let me."

Her lips parted as if she wanted to say something, but no words came. Instead, she let her gaze drift around the room once more—taking in the flowers, the soft glow of the lights, the table set for two, the warmth of the fire. Her fingers twitched in his grasp, and for a moment, he thought she might pull away.

But then, she squeezed his hand.

"This is…" She took a deep breath, her eyes shining with an emotion he couldn't quite place. "It's beautiful." Her voice wavered, and she bit her lip, as if afraid to let herself believe in the sincerity of it all.

He held her hand a little tighter, stepping closer, his voice barely above a whisper. "I want to take care of you tonight. The way I should have all along. Will you let me?"

For a beat, she hesitated.

Then—slowly, carefully—a small smile tugged at the corner of her lips. It wasn't much, but it was enough to make his heart stutter.

"Yes," she murmured, her voice soft but certain. "I'd like that."

Relief crashed over him like a tidal wave, and he exhaled, feeling lighter than he had in months. He led her to the table, pulling out her chair for her before settling into his own. As they ate, they talked—not about their pain, not about their past, but about the simple things, the small joys that had once filled their days. They laughed, cautiously at first, but then genuinely, the sound melting the ice that had formed between them.

It was not a grand reconciliation, nor a perfect resolution. It was something smaller, quieter—an olive branch extended, a bridge beginning to rebuild. And as the night wore on, as she rested her head against his shoulder, he felt it in his very bones.

This wasn't an ending.

It was a beginning.