Chapter Text
Correspondence from Draco Malfoy to Hermione Granger
October 11th, 1998
Dear Hermione,
I want to begin by saying how sorry I am that it has taken me this long, and under such poor circumstances, to finally address you by your name. It was your testimony alone that changed my fate. Because of you, in eight years I will walk through the gates of Azkaban a free man. How can I ever thank you? If there is anything I can do for you, anything you desire—name it and it will be yours.
I suppose I shouldn’t have been so shocked to see the Golden Girl testifying at my trial on my behalf, but I was all the same. Though I have done nothing to earn even a shred of your kindness, I cannot tell you enough how grateful I am for it. I must thank you not only for myself, but on behalf of my mother. She’s been in poor health ever since my father received his life sentence, and I truly don’t believe she would have recovered had I been resigned to the same fate.
There is no excuse for my cruelty, my cowardice, and my bigotry over the years. I wouldn’t dare ask you to forgive all the abuses and slurs I hurled your way in school, but I hope you will hear me when I say how sorry I am for the way I treated you. Why should anyone give a fuck about blood purity? I’m ashamed I ever did. I will never stop being sorry, Hermione. For all of it. As long as I live, I will regret not helping you that night at the Manor above all else.
I wish I’d done everything differently. It’s in large part due to you that I am free from the Dark Lord, that even here in Azkaban I don’t have to worry that he’ll find me. I know you and your friends didn’t escape the war unscathed. None of us did. Even so, I hope you are well.
Please don’t hesitate to reach out should you ever need a favor. The Malfoys owe you more than one.
Forever in Your Debt,
Draco Malfoy
………
Correspondence from Hermione Granger to Draco Malfoy
October 15th, 1998
Malfoy,
Consider the past forgiven and forgotten. I find that our school days seem so far away now, don’t you? Like a distant past that belonged to someone else. Honestly, some part of me longs for the days when my biggest problem was that some pointy-faced prat dared to call me ‘Mudblood.’
You and I both know there was nothing you could have done to help me at the Manor that night. If you had, we’d both likely be dead. Whether it was your intention or not, you saved our lives when you refused to identify Harry. I will never forget that.
Please don’t feel the need to thank me for testifying. I’m just sorry it didn’t do more, and that you ended up there anyway.
Sincerely,
Hermione Granger
………
Present Day
Sunday, July 3rd, 2005
Hermione Granger didn’t believe in love.
Or rather, she didn’t believe that romantic love was in the cards for her.
Not anymore.
She knew she shouldn’t dwell on such things. Not tonight, not after she’d just left her best friend’s engagement party, and especially not when she was on her way to a date with her boyfriend. But once again, her anxieties were getting the best of her. It was not too far before midnight when she stepped into the Wispy Witch—the overpriced, candlelit restaurant where Cormac had insisted she meet him that evening—and as she approached her table she wondered, not for the first time, how she’d gotten to this place. How she’d allowed herself to become trapped in a relationship she didn’t want. How she’d given up on ever truly finding the one.
When it came to her love life, Hermione remained woefully unfulfilled. Despite the fact that she had a steady boyfriend, men were practically lining up for the chance to date the famous Golden Girl—or as she’d dubbed earlier that year by Witch Weekly, “the wizarding world’s most eligible bachelorette.” Even so, sometimes she was so lonely that her heart ached with unbearable longing, an emptiness that spoke to a bone-deep craving for something more. Something real. Lately she’d resigned herself to the sad fact that the shallow, meaningless interactions that accompanied each and every romantic partner she’d ever had would likely be a permanent fixture.
She seemed to attract the most vapid of men.
But for the most part, she was satisfied with the life she’d built for herself. At just twenty-six, Hermione had already accomplished more than most people would in their lifetime. Not only was she a decorated war heroine, she was also the youngest member of the Minister of Magic’s support staff in nearly two centuries, and, to her utmost dismay, the near-constant subject of the latest tabloid fodder courtesy of publications like the Daily Prophet and Witch Weekly. To this day her closest and most treasured friends remained her former schoolmates, and she couldn’t imagine her life without Ron and Harry and the Weasleys, who’d become her only true family.
She adored the freedom of being on her own, and still found something so thrilling about the fast-paced buzz of life in London. Harry and Ron, both Aurors now, remained two of the most important people in her life. Over time, she’d grown closer than ever before with Ginny and Luna, and Neville, too, was a constant fixture in their social circle. Hermione and Ron hadn’t actually dated, thank Godric; they’d come to their senses soon after the battle of Hogwarts and never shared more than a kiss. In the years since the war, Molly Weasley had gladly stepped into the role of being second mum, and Hermione still spent every holiday at the Burrow. Although quarters were becoming increasingly cramped as the Weasley children paired off with their respective romantic partners.
A newly engaged Ron and Padma Patil were truly a match made in heaven. Padma fit right into their little club of Hogwarts misfits, and Ron clearly adored her. Their engagement party had been a joyful affair hosted at the Burrow earlier that night, filled with laughter and perhaps a little too much champagne. Hermione found herself tearing up alongside Molly, practically bursting with happiness as she watched her best friend profess his love to the woman he’d soon marry.
Harry and Ginny tied the knot the year before. After the toasts had been made at Ron and Padma’s party, the married couple made an announcement of their own: they were moving to Paris for two years. Ginny had decided to leave the Holyhead Harpies after being scouted for the French National Quidditch team, and was signing a two-year contract in France. Harry, on the other hand, was in his fifth year working for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, and had agreed to transfer to the same department at the French Ministry in support of his wife’s career.
It was happy news. But when Hermione departed the Weasley’s home that night, she left feeling heavy. An all-too-familiar sense of dread weighed on her, settling in her chest. She couldn’t ignore the voice in her head that whispered her darkest fears, promising she’d never find the kind of love her friends had with their partners. Insisting she’d wind up alone. Hermione had been lost in her own thoughts for most of the evening.
She was so distracted that she could hardly focus on the man sitting across from her.
“You’ve got a face like a slapped arse,” grumbled Cormac McLaggen through a mouthful of venison.
Hermione’s lips thinned. “Charming.”
Ever since she’d arrived for her date at the Wispy Witch she’d been staring into space, wishing she were anywhere else. She brought her glass of wine to her lips, gulping the red liquid down.
Don’t tell him to fuck off, she told herself, inhaling deeply. Don’t cause a scene. You can do this, you can suffer through at least another hour of—
“At least try to look like you’re enjoying yourself whilst the press is here.” Cormac wiped his greasy lips on a cloth napkin, looking at her expectantly.
She pasted on a thin smile, refusing to spare a glance at the two Witch Weekly photographers seated several tables away. She hated that he was right. The clicking of their cameras made her jaw tic, but she couldn’t give the press an opportunity to print yet another article speculating about the state of her relationship. Even if it was a farce. “Tell me about that incident at the Ministry again,” she prompted in a soothing tone, gazing up at him with a look she hoped resembled affection. “Did you say someone was fired?”
Cormac’s attention was remarkably easy to redirect. He enjoyed talking about himself more than almost anything else, and Hermione found that a single personal question directed his way could allow her to tune out his incessant ramblings for at least a half hour. She nodded along with a glazed smile as he launched into yet another monologue about his work in the Department of Magical Games and Sports.
“Right, so you already know I created the Ministry Quidditch league last year. Everyone loves it, it’s been really amazing for morale—groundbreaking, the big boss said. Couldn’t believe no one else had thought of it. But the other blokes in MG&S wanted to haze some of our interns. Just a bit of fun with the new lads, you know?” He flashed her what he undoubtedly thought was an irresistible grin.
Hermione struggled not to gag.
“And nothing says ‘welcome to team’ like a good prank, eh?” he continued. “So obviously we created this fake loo for the interns. Transfigured the thing myself, put a notice-me-not charm on it for all the other employees and everything.” He wasn’t even looking at her as he boasted.
At this point, she wondered if he’d even notice if she were to leave the restaurant entirely, or if he’d just keep talking.
Hermione stared blankly at the restaurant’s enchanted ceiling. Cormac’s voice faded into the background as she drained her wine glass, and she found herself re-examining her life while she mentally sorted through the list of goals she’d set for herself. She was perfectly on track to achieve her dream of joining the Wizengamot by the time she was thirty-five. She’d moved up in the Department of International Magical Cooperation and been promoted to a position as an advisor to the Minister several years earlier than expected, and she aimed to move departments every few years until she had gained enough experience to run for a seat on the prestigious high court. So what if she had to do it all alone? She’d given up hope of ever finding a true romantic match to share her life with, and that was fine. Hermione adored her friends, loved her work, and truly felt like a member of the Weasley’s family. She had a plan. A clear vision not only for her own future, but for that of wizarding Britain. And so far, everything was falling into place.
So why did it all suddenly feel so pointless? Why did this awful, sinking hopelessness threaten to consume her?
Perhaps, whispered a snide voice in the back of her head, there’s something deeply, terribly wrong with me.
She’d never been in love, after all. She’d never even come close. As her unfortunate boyfriend of three months rambled on across the table without pausing for a breath, she knew she wouldn’t be falling in love anytime soon. No, it was best to focus on her career. Best to stick with what she knew.
And Hermione knew dating Cormac McLaggen was a mistake.
“And then Williams—you know, that big bloke from maintenance—dismantles the thing and blows up at the interns, screaming about health code violations,” he howled, tears of laughter streaming down his face. “The magical maintenance team shuts down the entire floor, there’s smoke everywhere, and before you know it, all three new lads have been sacked and the department’s done away with the internship program entirely. Can you believe that? Absolutely legendary.”
“You don’t say,” she muttered dryly. Her insides burned. She downed more wine, hoping the dull buzz would help drown him out. It didn’t. She tamped down her fury at his cruelty, his lack of self-awareness, his general idiocy, digging her nails into the skin of her palm as she reminded herself that her reputation couldn’t afford a public outburst. She winced as cameras flashed in the corner of her eye, proving that the press hadn’t yet seen enough of the Golden Girl for one night.
Cormac was never supposed to be more than a one-night stand. He was every bit the insufferable braggart he’d been in their school days, but with the help of a cosmetic healer he was now handsome enough that with a well-placed complement and a cheeky grin, he could have his pick of witches. Hermione, too, had fallen prey to his good looks. Thanks to several too many firewhiskey shots and a rare moment of weakness at a pub, she’d gone home with him one fateful night last spring. But when she woke up in his bed the next morning with a raging hangover, she was so disgusted with herself she had no intention of ever seeing or speaking to the arsehole again.
Cormac was more cunning than she’d given him credit for. He’d insisted on walking her to the nearest apparition point, swearing he’d run out of floo powder. As soon as they stepped out the door together, they were nearly blinded with flashing white lights from a dozen different photographers. With a smug grin, Cormac had pulled Hermione to him and snogged her. And since she was still in her wrinkled dress and heels from the night before, her hair mussed, the implications of exactly what they’d been doing together undeniable, she let him. She’d allowed him to take her hand, feeling like a mouse caught in a trap, and plastered a smile on her face for the press when he kissed her on the cheek and told her he’d owl her for their next date.
Every day since, she’d regretted it.
Hermione never could have anticipated achieving her current level of fame. Her actions during the war and her association to Harry, coupled with her position at the Ministry, unfortunately made her one of the most recognizable faces in wizarding Britain. Which meant that if she wasn’t careful, every single detail of her personal life—every mistake, every date, every bloody time she went out for a drink with her friends—was gleefully reported on and photographed by the media.
The end of the war came with countless celebrations, and in those early days, when they were still recovering from the horrors they’d faced, she and her friends frequently went out and got pissed together. Hermione quickly discovered that she had become quite a popular fixation for wizards her age. It was…refreshing, you could say. To finally be seen as desirable in her adulthood after she’d spent so long being Harry Potter’s bushy-haired bookworm of a best friend. Exhilarating, even. After years of death, destruction, hiding, and horcrux-hunting, when she was young and single and trying to figure out what she wanted in a future partner, she decided she deserved a bit of fun. So she’d experimented with a series of one-night stands, most of which were entirely forgettable. But she didn’t yet understand the extent of her fame, and woke up one morning to find her own face gracing the cover of the latest Witch Weekly after the magazine had published a series of photographs of her cozying up to different men. Months worth of dates had been secretly photographed, plastered side by side in a salacious article that made Hermione look like the whore of Babylon. It had taken ages for her to redeem her reputation. She’d become hyper-aware of her public image in the years since, and she absolutely could not afford to have anything so scandalous happen again if she wanted a seat on Wizengamot one day.
Nobody wanted an alleged slag serving in the high court, war heroine or not.
She’d had a few short-lived relationships that she’d hidden from the press in the last few years, but they’d all been dead ends—so much so that the papers had begun to call her a lonely spinster. No matter what she did, she couldn’t win. By the time Cormac tried to strong-arm her into a relationship, Hermione knew it would only harm her fragile reputation if she didn’t go along with it. Regrettably, the press seemed to adore them together. She never slept over at his flat after that first night or allowed him to stay at hers, and though they did shag on occasion, she spent as little time with her boyfriend as humanly possible. Once the relationship hit the six month mark—a suitable period of time to date someone without being called a whore, according to the press—she planned on ending things. Hermione was already counting the days. She loathed the fact that she had to play this game, to consider her every move with how it could be taken by the media. Her career goals, unfortunately, made it a necessary reality.
Even though it was pointless, sometimes she still found herself fantasizing about a man that didn’t exist. About a love that couldn’t exist. Not for her. She was too intense; everyone said so. Too ambitious, too obsessed with her work. Too much of a know-it-all. She’d been called off-putting, aggressive, even power-hungry by more than one ex. But she refused to make herself smaller, to dumb herself down or stop fighting for a better world. Everything she’d done during the war, every person they’d lost, every sacrifice she’d made—it had to mean something. It had to be worth it.
So whilst Cormac prattled on, entertaining himself with another monologue, Hermione poked at her dinner and allowed her eyes to wander around the restaurant.
It was quite a romantic setting. Candlelight glittered like constellations across the restaurant, and the ceiling was charmed to resemble the night sky, not unlike the famous Hogwarts Great Hall. The space was dark and cozy, and there were several couples snogging or draped over each other in dimly lit corners across the room. One table full of older witches craned their necks to get a good look at the Golden Girl and her boyfriend. The incessant camera clicking had finally stopped, and the photographers, thank gods, seemed to have grown bored of their subjects and departed for the night.
Perhaps she could make an excuse and sneak away early.
A flash of white caught her attention at the bar. Her eyes darted over several figures, not quite sure yet just what, exactly, had caught their fancy—until a tall man in dark robes snagged her gaze. His back was to her, but something about the way he held himself seemed oddly familiar. Pale blond hair hung loose around his ears. His dragonhide shoes and tailored robes looked expensive, and the telltale neck tattoo of a former Azkaban prisoner could be seen poking out his collar.
He shifted to face the restaurant, scanning the area as if searching for someone. Hermione stifled a gasp.
It can’t be. He isn’t set to get out for another—
Her mouth went dry. Pulse racing, her wide eyes settled on a pale face she hadn’t seen in nearly seven years.
So the rumors are true.
Draco Malfoy had been released from Azkaban.
………