Chapter Text
Year 2003
It was just one of those daily routines.
Hermione stood by his bedside, flipping through the papers clipped to her clipboard. She was muttering about the necessary procedures Draco could expect over the next few days as part of his recovery.
What she didn’t notice, however, was the sunlight streaming through the curtains, casting a warm glow across the room.
She didn’t see the way Draco watched her hands; his eyes fixed on the golden band glinting on her ring finger in the light.
"You're married?"
A beat.
"Ah—no." Hermione paused, perplexed. "Engaged," she said quickly, turning away as she shut her eyes and winced. She’d forgotten to remove the ring before visiting his hospital room.
Silence settled between them as she busied herself with his medical chart, flipping pages that didn’t really need flipping anymore.
"He's a very lucky man," Draco said, not looking up from his lap.
"Is he?" Her voice broke and was barely above a whisper, eyes fixed on the lab results she could no longer make sense of.
He finally looked at her. Storm-grey eyes catching the sunlight that made them shimmer.
She could almost drown in them.
"He must have done something good in his life to deserve you, Healer Granger. If he’s managed to earn even a fraction of your attention, then he’s a very lucky man."
Her throat tightened, a wave of emotion rising fast.
She remembered another time, another place—his voice trembling as he knelt before her, asking the very question he now couldn't recall.
She forced herself to blink away the tears that threatened to surface, pressing her lips together in a firm line.
Draco tilted his head, watching her with that same quiet curiosity he used to have when studying her across the Potions classroom—though back then, it was buried beneath years of rivalry and pride.
"You look like you’re about to cry," he said, softer this time. “Was it something I said?”
Hermione shook her head, managing a small smile. “No, just… tired, I suppose.”
His brows furrowed. “They’re working you too hard. You're here every day.”
"You're a patient I can't ignore," she said, hoping he’d hear the professionalism in her tone—not the quiet desperation underneath.
There was a pause, thick with everything neither dared to say.
He was about to open his mouth to say something, but a knock at the door interrupted. Hermione turned as it gently creaked open.
Narcissa Malfoy stepped in with practiced grace, her posture regal, gaze sharp, hands clasped flatly on her middle.
“Healer Granger,” she greeted, voice velvet-smooth. “I hope my son is doing well?”
Hermione took a breath, forcing composure as she met Narcissa’s gaze. “Yes—his lab results are stable. I was just done informing him of his treatment schedule in the following days. My assistant healer will be dropping by later to send you a copy.” She straightened, defaulting to clinical precision. “If you’ll excuse me, Mrs. Malfoy, I still have rounds to complete.”
Narcissa stared at her, something unreadable flickering in her eyes.
Hermione turned, exiting with as much calm as she could gather. But before she reached the end of the hall, she heard a soft voice.
“Hermione—”
Narcissa had followed her, after quietly closing the door behind them.
Hermione turned and with a strangled breathing, she collapsed into Narcissa’s arms, despair and exhaustion pouring out like waves crashing to the shore. She hadn’t even realized that she was crying until Narcissa gently wiped her tears with careful thumbs after they pulled away from each other.
“Oh, darling. I know. I know,” Narcissa murmured, her own eyes shining. “Come on. Let’s talk.”
Arm in arm, they walked down the hall like two women clinging to each other against a rising tide. They found a bench in the atrium, facing the fountain. Around them, healers in lime green robes moved like quiet ghosts.
Hermione inhaled deeply, grounding herself. Narcissa watched her, one hand still clasped around Hermione’s.
“How are you, dear? You look so tired,” Narcissa said softly, brushing a stray curl from Hermione’s cheek.
Hermione closed her eyes, sighing. Something in the older woman’s touch felt like home—safe, familiar.
“I’m fine, Narcissa. Truly.”
“You’re not,” she replied gently. “You’re pushing yourself too hard. It pains me to see you like this.” Her voice trembled, but she quickly gathered herself, spine straightening. Grace reborn.
“I just need some sleep. I'll be fine.” Hermione whispered, barely audible.
“Hermione, look at me.”
She did.
“It’s been almost a year,” Narcissa said, resting her hand atop Hermione’s. “As Draco’s mother… I wouldn’t blame you if you chose to move on.”
Hermione flinched as if struck. She pulled her hand away, wringing it out as though the very idea of moving on clung to her skin.
“No—no, we made plans, Narcissa,” she sucked in a breath, a tear slipping free. “I can’t give up on him. I’ve fought so hard for my place in this world, by his side.” She caught the flicker in Narcissa’s expression and winced, but she could not stop the words from coming. “Draco and I—we fought for each other. To be with each other. And I’m tired. Gods, I’m so tired. But we’ve come too far for me to let go now.”
She turned fully to Narcissa, eyes burning.
“He will remember me. He will remember us. I love him too much to walk away just because it hurts.”
Narcissa was stunned—awed—by the conviction in her voice, by her unwavering resolve. She nodded slowly. “I understand, dear. I don’t know what’s come over me.”
Hermione saw Narcissa close her eyes painfully, as if admonishing herself.
"It was foolish of me to bring it up at all. Just an intrusive thought, nothing more. Forgive me, dear."
Narcissa opened her arms again, and Hermione fell into them.
This time, she did not cry. She relished at the comfort, and warmth that was offered to her. Grateful, even.
Narcissa—who, like Hermione, had endured the hopeless months of Draco lying unconscious and unmoving in his hospital bed—now became a source of strength for her, just as she had been years ago.
“I always knew he loved you,” Narcissa whispered after a while, stroking Hermione's hair. “But I never truly understood how much… until now.”
--
After a while, Hermione gently pulled away from Narcissa’s embrace and sat upright on the bench, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.
“He noticed the ring,” she murmured, wincing as the memory resurfaced. “I forgot to take it off before going into his room.”
Narcissa lowered her gaze to her hands folded neatly in her lap, her expression unreadable. After a moment, she spoke with quiet restraint.
“Hence the reason you need a break from the hospital, darling. You’ve done so well these past few months—always so careful not to overwhelm him.” She took a poised breath, lifting her shoulders slightly. “What did he say?”
“He assumed I was married,” Hermione said with a dry, bitter chuckle.
Narcissa’s eyes flicked up. “Why are you doing this to yourself, Hermione, dear? Why not just tell him the truth—that you're engaged to each other?”
“Because—” Hermione hesitated, her voice catching. “I know it’s selfish. I know he has a right to the truth. But I just… I can’t bear the thought of him looking at me like a stranger. Of him hearing I’m his fiancée, and not feeling anything. No recognition. No warmth. Just more confusion.”
She swallowed hard, blinking away the sting behind her eyes.
“It would be like torture,” she added, then inside her head, for him and for me.
Narcissa nodded slowly, her expression softening with understanding.