Work Text:
Draco was not, by nature, an early riser. Given the option, he would start work at 10 and never have a meeting before noon. However, he did not have the luxury of setting his own schedule, so needs must. He made his way to a little cafe in muggle London just around the corner from the Ministry of Magic. It was a convenient stop on his way in each morning. Draco had been working with the Wizengamot for several years. First, it was as a witness during the trials after the war. After more than a year of depositions and testifying against other Death Eaters, he had managed to earn enough goodwill to land an entry-level position. It was a lot of paperwork and extremely dull most times, but it had the potential to allow him to set right many of the sins of his family. No one had ever said the road to redemption would be easy.
As he opened the door, Draco breathed in the alluring scent of caffeine – his personal siren’s song of smell. Aromatic coffees, herbaceous teas, and sweet fresh-baked scones filled his nose, and he could already feel himself becoming less of a walking corpse with his liquid salvation imminent. Prior prejudices aside, Draco had found no shop to parallel the muggle one he had stumbled upon just recently. The Manor lost their elves in the aftermath of the war, and wizard magic simply did not brew tea to the same quality. Muggles, however, had it down to a quite literal science.
After a brief exchange with the young bloke running the register – a new one Draco did not know the name of – he stood off to the side to await his order being called. He took a spot next to a brunette woman expecting her own order. Draco was careful to leave a moderate gap between them – he learnt the hard way that muggle women tended to get tetchy when having their large personal bubbles invaded. Though, it could have been his attempts at conversation that did him in. Draco was making an honest attempt at learning muggle culture, but he could understand how questions about how one had travelled to the shop, where and how they worked, and what sort of trousers they were wearing could be read as invasive. In his defence, he had never seen trousers with so many pockets before. They had seemed like they could be practical when one did not have the advantage of extension charms.
Draco had since developed three rules for himself when going to the cafe: 1. Ask no one more than two questions. 2. Give everyone at least a metre or two of space. 3. Do not gawk at anything or anyone. The last rule became particularly difficult when he noticed the woman beside him was no muggle stranger but a rather familiar witch – none other than Hermione Granger herself. War heroine, darling of wizarding Britain, and, according to the Daily Prophet, recent peace-maker with the giant tribe that had settled into Scotland after the war. She seemed to notice him shortly after, though Draco had likely garnered her attention by gaping openly at her.
Her eyebrows rose upon recognising him, but she quickly gave him a pleasant smile. “Hiya,” she said brightly.
Draco merely blinked at her for a moment before his shock wore off enough for him to find his voice. “Granger. Hello.”
“On your way to work?” she inquired politely.
“Yes. You?” he replied in a more stilted tone than he would have liked. It could not be helped, though. Draco was totally unmoored by the sudden presence of the witch.
Granger just nodded in response to his barely-uttered query. She had a rather puzzled expression as she observed him, despite her attempts to keep up her smile. Draco found it unsettling.
“Her-min-own,” one of the baristas called out.
“That’s me,” Granger said with a chuckle like they were sharing a private joke.
Draco stood-stock still with his gaze fixed on her as she stepped up and collected her beverage from the counter. She flashed him another smile when she turned back with her drink in hand.
“See you around, Malfoy,” she said on her way out the door.
Draco had seen Granger around the Ministry a handful of times since the conclusion of his own trial in the Wizengamot. He was fairly certain she did some work with creatures, which was supported by the article on her work with the giant tribe. Still, he had not spoken an actual word to her since the battle. He had thought about it, of course. Often, even. He could never bring himself to do it, though. What did one say to the woman they wished dead multiple times over as a child? For Merlin’s sake, she was someone he had fought in a war to exterminate, no matter how dispassionately he may have done so. If the smell of the cafe was a siren’s song, seeing Granger there was like being dragged to his death in the ocean’s depths.
Someone loudly clearing their throat snapped him from his thoughts. He looked up to see the barista staring at him expectantly. “Draco,” she said, likely not for the first time, as she slid his cup towards the edge of the counter.
“Right. Sorry,” he said as he scrambled to grab his brew. “Cheers.”
~
When Draco ran into Granger for a second time a few days later, he was still surprised but managed to follow rule #3. “Alright, Granger?” he said as she walked over to wait for her order.
Recognition hit her instantly as she looked up from her notepad. “Malfoy,” she replied with a bemused expression. “Never thought I’d run into you in a place like this.”
Draco did not need three guesses to determine what she meant by “like this.” She would have expected him to stick to magical shops. “I’ve expanded my horizons lately,” he said simply.
Granger nodded as she considered the information. “Good for you.”
He might have taken offence if she had not looked so devastatingly earnest. “How are things in…the DRCMC?” he inquired, adding an extra lilt to the last bit.
She nodded again, this time in confirmation of his guess. “Good, I think. I suppose I’ll see on Monday.”
Before he could respond, the barista called his name. Draco loitered by Granger after retrieving his tea. It was the weekend, and he had no need to rush off.
“Any good?” he asked, gesturing to the book she had tucked under her arm.
Granger glanced down at the text. “I haven’t read it yet,” she admitted.
It looked to be a text about something to do with goblin politics titled Rebuilding and Rebellion . “Hopefully, it’s more engaging than Binns was,” Draco supplied, which made her chuckle.
“Well, I don’t see how it could be worse,” she said flippantly.
The barista called for “Her-min-own,” and she fetched her drink – coffee, by the smell of it when she returned.
“Are you staying?” she asked, head tilting slightly to one side as her eyes darted between him and his tea.
Draco was not sure if she meant to invite him to sit with her or ensure he did not.
“Oh. Um, no. I…I should get going, actually,” Draco replied, suddenly feeling embarrassed at having lingered. He blamed the slip on his lack of socialisation of late. He bid her a rushed farewell before heading out.
~
Draco did not talk to Granger again until the following Saturday. Though he had passed her on the way in or out of the shop a few times during the week, they had merely exchanged polite smiles. Every time, she looked briefly surprised to see him, and Draco wondered how often they nearly missed each other. Did she go to the cafe every morning? Had she been going for a long time? She certainly had her own surprises for Draco – namely, her ability to be anything even approximately kind towards him. Also, that she had grown up to be quite lovely. She had mostly tamed her hair, her insufferable swotty attitude had mellowed into an attractive sort of confidence, and muggle trousers did loads more for her bum than school robes ever had – not that Draco had been looking, of course. Though, he finally understood why asking about the details of trousers might be indecent.
After having a lie in, Draco apparated to London and strolled to the shop in the late morning for his daily fix of caffeine. He instantly spotted Granger tucked away in a plush chair with her book. Once he had retrieved his tea – splash of milk and two sugars, thanks – Draco made the decision to approach her rather than slip out unnoticed.
Granger startled as he plopped down into the seat next to her. She stared wide-eyed over her book at him, blinking rapidly as her confusion slowly began to dissipate.
“Good morning, Granger,” Draco said, undaunted by her reaction. “How’s your book?”
Her expression was more guarded than normal as she watched him. “It’s good so far. It’s about the 1920s…um, rebellion from a goblin perspective – quite different from the version we learnt from Binns back in school,” she said in a tone Draco imagined she might use to teach her own class one day. “Is that what you came over here for, Malfoy? To ask about my book?”
Her voice had a distinct edge to it, and Draco could feel his face heating under her scrutinising gaze. He was decidedly daunted.
“No,” he said, and it was the truth. “I just saw you there and thought I might come say hello.”
That had her brow arching to the heavens. Then, suddenly, she glowered at him. “Did you know I would be here? Are you tracking me?” she demanded.
“No! I mean, I thought you might, ‘cause of running into you before. But, Merlin, Granger! I haven’t been bloody following you!” Draco argued. He felt rather indignant about the accusation when her best mate was the one who had set a tail on him back in school.
With the way her narrowed eyes stayed trained on him, she did not seem convinced. “Why should I believe you’re not just a…a…” she hesitated.
“A what , Granger?” Draco challenged, eager to know which of the myriad potential insults she was about to hurl at him.
Her brow furrowed. “Erm…”
He was having none of her regret now. He was already offended - she may as well spit it out. “Say it, then,” Draco demanded. “A bigot? A Death Eater? A stalker? What were you going to say?”
“The last one,” she said sheepishly.
Draco rolled his eyes. “I’ve been coming here for months. I assure you it wasn’t to see you. Forgive me for having the audacity to think we might have a real conversation.”
Draco pushed up to his feet, ready to escape. He had been foolish to think Granger’s polite conversation had been anything more than idle chat. Clearly, she had wanted to keep the peace and nothing more. He had overstepped by joining her – massively so, given her reaction.
“Wait,” Granger said, and Draco remained fixed in front of his chair. “I’m sorry. I was just surprised. I mean, we’re not exactly friends.”
“To put it mildly,” Draco agreed. He had not had many of those since the war, as both sides seemed to consider him tainted. “I guess…I thought we might be able to change that.”
She eyed Draco for several seconds as she seemed to weigh her decision. Then, she jutted her hand out towards him. “Hello. I’m called Hermione,” she said.
Draco eyed her hand for a long moment. “What’re you doing?”
She rolled her eyes as if he just asked the most idiotic question she had ever heard. “Starting fresh. Now, are you going to shake my hand and introduce yourself, or will I have to just let it hang there all morning?”
He brought his palm to hers tentatively before grasping hold of her hand. “I’m Draco,” he replied. “Lovely to meet you, Hermione.”
She smiled up at him, still holding firmly to his hand. “Yes, I think it is.”
Draco sat back down, and Hermione told him a bit more about her book – with some prompting. It was not the easiest conversation he had ever had. Hermione was clearly thrown by him, stumbling over her words and blushing as if she expected him to ridicule her for every slip. They would lapse into silence every so often, and she would read a bit before asking him a question – she even asked twice about how his work was going. But she was giving him a second chance, and Draco knew that was more than he deserved. He was determined not to waste it. And he hoped, with time, that he might be able to put her at ease, showing her that he really had changed.
Draco lay awake replaying his tea with Hermione for the next three nights. There was a lightness he felt at the thought of building a genuine friendship with her. If he fancied her just a bit and liked the way little dimples formed in her cheeks when she tried to hold back her smile, well…it was a brave new, post-Voldemort world. Who would condemn him?
Not that he expected his passing fancy to actually go anywhere. Draco, despite some glaringly poor decisions in his past, was not too thick to miss the difference between a girl who fancied you and a girl who was being nice. Hermione fell firmly in the latter category. The only glances she stole at him were puzzled ones. The only contact she had made was shaking his hand during their re-introduction. Still, she seemed to find him decent company, and Draco certainly enjoyed hers.
There was just a nagging, niggling little problem that would not leave his brain. Starting fresh was all well and good – second chances were even better – but it was growing increasingly clear that ignoring the past would simply not do. The weight of unspoken apologies weighed heavily on Draco. After agonising about it for hours when he should have been sleeping, he resolved to seek Hermione out at the ministry the next day.
~
When he arrived at his desk, Draco was full of jitters that had nothing to do with caffeine. He had imagined apologising to Hermione for years now. Somehow, having already been extended a second chance by her only made him more nervous about it. Draco was massively inefficient all morning, and he nearly bolted to the lifts when his lunch break finally arrived.
Upon emerging onto level 4, Draco shook the nerves from his body before approaching the receptionist. The frail but kindly old wizard helpfully pointed him in the right direction, and it was not long before Draco heard Hermione’s voice.
“Imelda, don’t forget to take the…the bag,” she called.
“What bag?” another witch, presumably Imelda, asked.
“You know. The…the little one. Anti-theft. As a gift for Griblok,” Hermione said.
“Oh! The mokeskin pouch! Good call. I’ll get it now,” the witch replied.
Draco caught a glimpse of a dark-haired witch darting around a corner just before Hermione’s cubicle came into view. She was alone, rifling through a mound of papers on her desk. As Draco approached her, she was muttering to herself about lists and far too engrossed in what she was doing to notice him.
“Um, Hermione?” he asked.
“Yes, how can I–?” she started, sounding exasperated.
She stopped short when her eyes raised and met his.
Draco gave her a sheepish smile. He felt guilty for interrupting her at work. But he knew he had waited far too long to apologise, and he could not stand waiting any longer. “I was wondering if you have a few spare minutes to talk.”
Hermione blinked at him. “Is this about the proposed wolfsbane bill? Because Augustine’s the…the, um…well, he’s in charge of that, so you’d probably be better off discussing it with him.”
Draco rubbed at the back of his neck in a bid to relieve the mounting tension in it. “No, I…it’s not about work.”
Draco chewed his bottom lip as Hermione’s brow furrowed. He was freshly regretting coming to visit her at work. He should have waited until he ran into her at the cafe. It was stupid, really. He had been selfish to rush it. Of course she would not want him to approach her there. He was once again overstepping.
“Okay,” she said before conjuring a chair for him.
Hermione sat primly at her disaster of a desk, hands folded atop it, as she waited for Draco. He forced himself to sit despite his nerves making him want to ricochet off the walls. He thought that sitting was friendlier – it would not do to loom over her whilst trying to make amends.
“I…I wanted to apologise,” Draco said.
Hermione’s eyes widened, but she did not interrupt.
“I know it probably doesn't mean that much, but I really do want you to know how sorry I am. I was horrible to you – to your face, behind your back. I said inexcusable things. I was cruel, and I taunted you. I even said I wished you dead – and, worse, I think I meant it. All of which isn’t even accounting for my actions in the war. I’m so sorry for what I let my aunt do to you. What my whole family let her do. I want you to know that’s not who I am anymore. I don’t believe my family makes me better than anyone else. If anything, it’s clearly the opposite. There’s nothing pure about our lineage. I’m sorry I didn’t learn that sooner.”
She still looked stunned. “Thank you,” she said. “It means a lot, actually.”
Draco gave her a small smile. She probably had no idea how it made him feel to hear that. If he let himself be sentimental, he might say that, in that moment, he would not need a broom to fly.
“For what it’s worth,” she continued, “I forgive you, Draco.”
Now that . That was…Draco could not even begin to process how that made him feel. He could, however, feel the tears pricking the corners of his eyes. He kept them at bay, but he had to sniff to keep his nose from running. “Really?” he asked, despite being able to see the sincerity in her expression. It was simply unfathomable that she could mean it.
“I’ve read your testimonies. It’s clear that you’ve changed,” she said. A small smirk quirked her lips. “You’re not that little prat from school anymore.”
Draco chuckled. “No, not anymore,” he confirmed, feeling a swell of fondness at her teasing. He was in grave danger of making a fool of himself if he stayed much longer. “Though, I dare say I’ve taken up enough of your afternoon. I’ll see you around, yeah?”
Hermione’s smirk turned to a genuine smile. “I expect so.”
~
Draco did see Hermione, though it was not until the following Saturday when he was met with the familiar sight of her curled in an overstuffed chair reading Rebuilding and Rebellion . Draco tried to catch her eye to wave but had no luck. She was dead to the whole cafe with a book in her hands. So, he made the walk over to her after getting his morning tea. This time, Draco addressed her before daring to sit. “Alright, Hermione?” he said.
“Malfoy,” she said as she looked up. “Fine, thanks. You?”
Her tone was neutral, but the less-than-warm greeting paired with the return to his surname had him instantly worrying he had done something wrong. They had seemingly parted on quite good terms on Tuesday. Had she expected him to visit her again at the ministry? Should he have asked her to have lunch during the week? Draco did not remember making friends being so bloody tenuous back in school.
“Yeah, good,” he said awkwardly. “Um, mind if I sit with you?”
Hermione shrugged. “Go for it.”
Her eyes returned to her book as Draco settled into the chair next to her. He had clearly offended her, but he could not for the life of him think how he managed it. The prospect of outright asking what he had done seemed unlikely to yield positive results, so Draco opted for engaging her in friendly conversation, instead. “Any new insights on the underpinnings of our broken goblin-wizard relations?”
Hermione shook her head without looking away from her book. “I’ve only just started it,” she replied.
For a moment, Draco thought maybe she had procured a sequel of sorts to her last text, but a look at the cover confirmed it was the same one. “Well, I’m sure you’ll find it a poignant illumination of the numerous biases wizards have against goblins.”
That made her look up at him. “Have you read it?” she asked.
Draco laughed, but he quickly realised her question was sincere. “No. That’s what you told me.”
As it often did, Hermion’s brow furrowed as she stared at him. “We’ve done this before, haven't we?”
Now Draco’s brows knit together. “You mean talked about your book?”
She just nodded.
Draco chuckled. He decided that they must be overworking her in that department of hers if she was so turned-around about such recent events. “Yes. Just last Saturday.”
She looked distressed by that fact, and that was when Draco finally started to realise something was wrong. “Oh,” she said softly.
Draco arched a brow at her. “Do you really not remember?” he asked as she fished around in her bag.
She shook her head as she retrieved her notepad. “I can't,” she said simply. “I…I had an accident. I lost my memory.”
That made Draco’s eyes go wide. He was not sure what he had expected was going on with her, but it was not that. “So, you don't…How far back? I mean, you obviously know who I am.”
“I didn't lose my memories. I lost my memory . I can't form new ones – not properly, anyway. I have anterograde amnesia.”
Draco was in a state of utter consternation. Surely she was joking? When could she have been in an accident? How could that even be possible? “Wait, then how do you know?”
She looked pensive as she consulted her notepad. “I can learn some things given enough repetition, I suppose. I don't remember being told, but I know I had an accident and lost my memory. I got caught by a tree swung by a disgruntled giant, apparently.”
Draco blinked at her. The article about her trip to the giant tribe was months ago. Notably, Draco did not recall any mention of her accident. “So, you don’t remember talking about this book last week?” he asked.
She gave him an apologetic sort of grimace as she shook her head.
His throat went dry. “Or Tuesday?”
“Tuesday?” she asked, the wrinkle returning to her forehead.
“I…came to see you on my lunch break.” Draco could not bring himself to mention the apology she likely had no recollection of.
The rise of her eyebrows was confirmation before the words left her lips. “I’m sorry. I don’t remember.”
Draco’s heart sank in his chest. She had no idea what he had said – it was no wonder she had been apprehensive to see him. She did not know how much he appreciated being given a second chance. She likely could not even remember offering it to him.
“How many times have you seen me here?” he asked.
“That I recall?” she clarified.
Draco nodded. He could not speak – he could not even breathe.
Hermione searched his eyes for what felt like hours. Draco was certain she could see the tension in them. He was hanging by a frayed rope, just waiting for the last strand to snap.
“This is the first,” she admitted.
Freefall was not what Draco expected it to be. It was not dizzying or crushing or even frightening. It was cold and empty. It was a weightless yet oppressive nothing. A nothing to match what Hermione remembered of him the last few weeks.
“I went to you to apologise,” Draco stated.
“What?” she asked, lost without the benefit of his train of thought.
Draco linked his hands in his lap to keep them from fidgeting and cleared his throat to steady his voice. “Tuesday. I went to see you so I could apologise.”
“Oh?” Hermione asked, and he could see the anxiety in her expression. He realised she was likely running through a gamut of reasons he might need to do so, expecting the offence to be recent.
“I wanted to apologise for so long. For school. And the war. Just…everything,” he explained.
“That’s…” Hermione started but struggled to find the right word.
“Surprising?” Draco offered.
“Yes,” she admitted before diverting her gaze from his.
She was clearly embarrassed, but Draco could not blame her for feeling that way. She had no reason to feel otherwise. “I’d like to again, if it’s all right,” he said.
She bit her lip and clasped her notepad to her chest like armour. Eventually, she nodded. “Okay.”
So, Draco apologised again. He might have thought it was for himself – some need to hear her forgiveness again. But the truth was that she had said it meant something to her, and Draco thought she deserved to know it, even if she would forget again. The fact was further proved to himself when they were interrupted just after she had thanked him. Ginny Weasley came into the cafe to collect Hermione for lunch. She was more than a little sceptical upon spotting Draco sat beside her. Rather than asking questions, she merely herded Hermione out of the cafe.
Not hearing whether Hermione would forgive him again did not bother Draco. He had accomplished what he had intended. The pit of loss that did exist in his stomach was from the knowledge that his burgeoning friendship with Granger would never come to fruition. Each discussion would always be the first for her. He was an acquaintance to her at best – and, more likely, an estranged enemy.
~
Draco carried on as normal at first, but it felt deceptive, somehow, to engage with her. More than that, it was painful to know quickly she would forget him whilst each new detail of her was burnt into his mind – the way her eyes shone when she laughed and sparked when she was worked up, the way she worried her lip when she could not remember the word she needed, and the way the crease in her brow always made his fingers itch to smooth it for her. Draco refused to abandon his morning routine, but he stopped chatting with Hermione when he ran into her. They merely exchanged polite smiles on the occasions they patronised the shop at the same time. Draco stopped going to sit with her on Saturdays, and she rarely noticed he was there. He would watch her read as he waited for his tea. When it was popped on the counter, he would take it and leave.
The leaving got progressively more difficult, though. Partly due to the way Hermione would sometimes strike up a conversation on days they ended up next to each other in the queue or waiting for their beverages. She would ask after his mother and chat about his work – always as if it were the first time she had run into him.
The breakdown of his discipline was gradual. It started with a final glance her way before turning to go. That turned into lingering just a minute more. Then several. Then drinking his tea at a table in the corner of the cafe. His sips got smaller and slower until his drink was routinely cold before he finished it. He started arriving earlier so he had more time before one of her friends arrived to collect her. Draco always made sure to leave before they got there.
After several months of his progressive madness, she caught him. She glanced up from her book – the same one she always had – and immediately spotted him watching her.
“Malfoy?” she asked, and that was the instant he was fucked.
He was drawn over to her more than he consciously walked there. He sat next to her, and they talked for almost an hour. Draco apologised again, because he could not bear her not knowing. She forgave him again. He started apologising almost every conversation, hoping that he might be able to make it stick. She had varying reactions to his apologies, depending on her disposition that given day. Usually, she thanked him and extended her forgiveness. Sometimes, she was persistently sceptical. In her more irascible moods, she outright rejected it. Those were blessedly rare.
Draco nearly dissolved into tears the first time she responded to his apology with “yes, I know.”
She did not remember him apologising, but she knew all of what he was sorry for. That was something. Possibly everything. It lit a hope in him that she might remember more about him over time. Privately, in a part of his heart so deep that he did not even let himself be fully aware of it, he hoped she might come to recognise they were friends – maybe she would even begin to feel the warmth she showed him after especially heartfelt conversations.
That particular hope, however, went unfulfilled. With time and repetition, she remembered certain facts he told her – cases he had worked on, how he took his tea, even his sodding birthday. But she never remembered him . Almost every morning they ran into each other, she greeted him with the same surprised expression. Sometimes, though, she could tell by his own expression that they had interacted before. She was well aware of her condition at that point, and she would try to mask it. Those were the hardest days. She would give him a warm smile – one that said they were familiar. Close, even. And every. Damn. Time. That forgotten hope would bloom back to life in his chest.
One spectacularly devastating day, he must have been looking at her particularly fondly, because she greeted him with a hug. He was so taken aback that he froze in place, stiff as a board. She had pulled away quickly.
“I take it we don't hug,” she said before chuckling at herself. “I'd be embarrassed, but I know I won't remember it anyway.”
Gods, if that didn't lance right through him. He just stood there, dumbstruck and heartbroken.
Her smile fell as she looked at him with concern. “Sorry, I…I really didn't mean to make you uncomfortable.”
“No!” he rushed out, stomach sinking as he realised that she was probably assuming it was a blood status thing. “You didn't. Don't apologise. I just…You've never…”
Usually, he was the one to help her find her words. Currently, though, he found himself at a loss for them.
“Well, maybe I'll start,” she said amiably.
She didn't.
The next time Draco saw her, she was back to her usual flash of surprise. He spent hours lying awake wondering if he could recreate his expression that had led to the embrace. He had gone so far as to procure a pensieve to see it for himself. He could see why she had assumed they were close – he looked utterly besotted.
After days reviewing the memory, Draco could not bring himself to put the plan into action. It felt dirty – like manipulating her into something she had not consented to.
He ditched the plan, but he kept the pensieve.
~
Hermione became a constant in Draco’s life. She changed in small ways. She aged with the rest of the world. Her personality shifted minutely over time. But it was so gradual compared to the chaos of the world around her that she was practically carved in stone. Her constancy was a comfort to Draco, especially when he felt lost.
For a long time, she had been one thing Draco wished could change. He had ached for her to be able to remember the hours they spent together. For her to truly know him. After years without progress, he accepted that it would never happen. It was mostly for her sake. Draco had been getting increasingly frustrated at each new failed attempt to engrain himself in her memory until he finally burst.
“For fuck’s sake, Hermione! This is the one hundred and twenty-second time I’ve been here, how can you not remember one of them?”
Hermione was, naturally, quite taken aback. Draco had stormed out of the cafe, but not before learning that she was the type to cry when shouted at. Even more than the shouting, Draco regretted storming out. He rose early the following Monday and waited for her at the cafe. He apologised for his abhorrent behaviour, but she had already forgotten the incident. It was dreadful never really being able to make amends. When apologising for the past, Hermione knew what he had done. She forgot his apologies, but she could accept them in the moment. Apologising for an incident she had no recollection of was different. The Hermione he had hurt – had brought to tears, even – no longer existed. Draco’s remorse was too late.
It was that ordeal that made him resign to stop trying to get her to remember him – to finally accept that it truly was impossible.
By then, it was equally impossible for him to stay away from her. He slowly branched out, at the behest of his mind healer. He had originally sought one out in the hopes that they could help Hermione. He sponsored her treatment under the guise of “reparations.” Only Ginny seemed to suspect he had any personal stock in the matter. After everything that could be done had been, the healer recommended Draco to their colleague.
He reconnected with old friends, as well as made new ones. He was reintroduced to Daphne’s little sister, Astoria. She was kind and smart and had a decent sense of humour. He asked her on a date after months of her dropping hints. He asked her to marry him after two years of courting. His parents had long-since moved to France, so Draco and his new bride settled into the Manor.
As the time went on and Draco’s responsibilities increased, he stopped being able to spend every Saturday morning in the cafe. But he went as often as he could.
~
“How old is he?” Hermione asked. Her eyes were alight with joy as she stared down at the photo.
“Eight months,” Draco replied.
“There's no denying he's yours, is there?” she teased. “He could be a carbon copy.”
Draco had no need to ask what a carbon copy was. She had explained it to him after making the same comment months ago.
“What’s he called?” she inquired.
Draco bit back a smile. He had purposefully withheld that detail. “Scorpius.”
Hermione made a particularly valiant effort not to let her nose wrinkle. “It goes well with your name,” she said politely.
“I know you hate it, Granger,” Draco said casually.
“No, I don't!” she insisted. “It’s cute.”
Draco arched an incredulous brow at her. “You told me that it's tantamount to child abuse,” he stated.
“I did not!” she said with all the indignance of an eidetiker.
Draco rolled his eyes in an admittedly petulant display of disagreement. “I can't believe you're actually arguing with me. I'm not the one with amnesia.”
She gaped at him. “How dare you?”
Draco, knowing the difference between her actual offence and when she faked it to suit her – and the present instance was definitely the latter – simply attempted to rile her further. “How dare you ? Do you have any idea how insulting it is to have a woman with no memory think she knows better than you?”
Hermione smacked his arm – she had always been a bit violent. “I don’t have no memory, you git! I just lack–”
“Episodic memory. I’m well aware. I remember from the first time you told me, as mine’s intact,” Draco interjected with a wicked smirk. “You always get so tetchy about that, you know. For the record, your semantic memory isn’t exactly up to snuff, either.”
“You’re horrible,” she grumbled. “Are you sure we’re friends?”
“Positive,” Draco stated.
“Allegedly,” she replied, still dubious. “I think you’re trying to trick me about that like you’re trying to trick me into thinking I told you I hate your son’s name.”
Draco placed a hand over his heart. “You wound me, Granger. You truly believe I would take such advantage of an ailing woman?”
She was, unsurprisingly, unmoved by his feigned emotion. In fact, she crossed her arms rather defiantly over her chest. “You’ve never tried to convince me of a made-up memory, then?”
Draco held his piece as a rather guilty smile tried to tug at his mouth.
“That’s what I thought,” she sniffed.
Draco gave her a casual shrug. “Regardless, you did call my son’s name abusive,” he insisted, because it was the truth, damn it.
“Not bloody likely. I refuse to believe I would be so cruel about what someone decided to call their child. Even to you, Malfoy,” she said.
“Ah. I see where we’ve miscommunicated. See, you didn’t know it was my son’s name at the time. I said I had to leave or I’d be late for my appointment with Scorpius. I was due home to take him for a stroll around the grounds in his pram, but you didn’t know that bit. You said, and I quote, ‘Jesus Christ, what poor sod’s parents hated him enough to name him “Scorpius”?’”
She was horror-struck as she clasped her hands over her mouth. “I didn’t.” It was more of a question than a statement.
“Oh, but you did,” he replied. “It was quite the blow to my ego.”
“I’m sure it’s a perfectly good name for a wizard,” Hermione offered.
She said it so earnestly that Draco could not help but laugh, which earned him a blush and a sheepish smile from her. He almost felt bad for making her feel embarrassed. “Gods, Granger, only you can insult me and make me feel like I should apologise.”
“Sorry,” she said. “If it’s any consolation, he’s a very cute baby. I’m sure it’ll more than make up for his horrendous name.”
That made Draco snort in a rather undignified manner. “Yeah, I feel loads better,” he said sarcastically. “Did you lose your filter when you took that bump on the head?”
“I suspect you just bring out the worst in me,” she replied before taking a pointed sip of her coffee.
Draco shook his head in disbelief. “God help me if this is you at your worst, Granger.”
~
Draco was as proud of his son as any parent would be, but he especially loved showing Scorpius off to Hermione – even considering her misguided opinions on his name. Her whole face lit up whenever he showed her a photo. By the time he was 2, she knew his name without Draco having to tell her. It happened when he had been telling her about the birthday party they had held the month prior.
“Yes, I think I knew you have a son,” she said. “He’s called Scorpius, isn’t he?”
Draco’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “Yes, he is,” he said, stunned.
Hermione asked if he had a picture of him. Draco did, of course. He always had a muggle photo on hand to show her. She gushed about how identical he was to Draco.
“I’m sure I’ve told you that a hundred times, haven’t I?” she said, looking embarrassed.
Draco chuckled. “You have. It feeds my ego, though, so feel free to carry on telling me.”
Hermione laughed, and it made the corners of her eyes crinkle. “I’ll definitely have to find a way to stop, then,” she teased. “Do you have other children?”
Draco shook his head. “Just the one,” he replied.
Still looking down at the picture of a cake-covered Scorpius, Hermione hummed thoughtfully. “I used to want children,” she said.
In all the years Draco had been coming to see Hermione, it was not something she had ever shared before. “Used to?” he asked before he could think better of it.
Her lips pursed for a brief moment. “I can’t very well raise a child I don’t remember. I mean, what kind of life is that for them? Having a mummy who doesn’t even know who they are.”
For the first time in years, Draco felt his heart break for the woman next to him.
~
Draco brought more muggle photos to show Hermione over tea. Most of them were of Scorpius, but sometimes he brought one of his whole family on holiday or something beautiful he came across that he thought she might appreciate – like a waterfall or a sleeping fox. Nearly a decade in, Draco was reminded how glad he was for her constancy.
“Granger, would it bother you if I told you something only because I know you won’t remember it?” he asked.
Hermione considered the question for a minute before responding. “Well, I obviously won’t care in the long term. I don’t think I’ll mind in the short term, either. It sort of sounds nice to have my condition be helpful to someone, if I’m honest.”
“Astoria’s sick,” Draco said. Just saying it out loud was a kind of relief. For the moment, he was not bearing the burden alone. “She has a blood curse. It’s terminal. She has a few years, probably.”
“Merlin, Malfoy, I’m so sorry!” she said. She rested a comforting hand on his arm.
It was silly, really, how easily she could make him feel better. Nothing had changed. His wife was still dying. Hermione did not even know Astoria – she hardly knew Draco, for that matter. They never talked about deep matters unless Draco had something to get off his chest. The only personal information she had ever shared with him was her abandoned desire to be a mum. They weren’t even on a first name basis for fuck’s sake.
Draco considered leaving it at that. He really did. He could take his modicum of comfort and move on. Except he couldn’t. Not really, anyway. The thought would fester until it ate through him. Then there would be no controlling when – or to whom – it came out.
“That’s not the part I need you to forget,” Draco admitted.
Hermione merely inclined her head for him to continue.
Draco sighed. “Sometimes…Sometimes I wonder what things would be like if they’d gone differently. I love Astoria, and I wouldn’t trade Scorp for the world, but…I just get this feeling that something’s missing, or…or I missed out on…something else. Now I’m losing what I do have. And Scorpius is going to be stuck with just me, and I might deserve what’s coming, but he sure as hell doesn’t.”
“You don’t deserve to lose your wife, Draco,” Hermione said firmly. It was the first time she had used his name. “Sometimes things are just terrible, and it’s not fair to any of us.”
“You didn’t deserve to lose your memory,” Draco said. It was a potent injustice that she, of anyone, had her mind damaged. She was and continued to be one of the most brilliant people Draco had ever met. Even after her accident, she continued to do important work in the ministry. Draco was certain that she would have been an absolute force if she had never been injured. It was never something he voiced to her, as he was certain the idea already haunted her without him pointing it out. Perhaps that was why he could admit his shameful feelings to her of all people, and Draco indeed did his best to convince himself that was the reason. Though, he knew deep down that the unacknowledged truth was that it was because she was his “something else.” It was part of why he felt he deserved to lose Astoria. There had always been a part of himself that he kept from her – reserved for someone else every Saturday morning.
Hermione levelled him with an intent stare. “Dwelling on what might have been offers no peace. Trust me.”
~
In the last year of Astoria’s life, Draco would go months without seeing Hermione. She never remembered his absence, of course, but somehow that made it worse. She had reached a point where she knew to expect him, and she would know – at least for a time – that he had failed to show up.
Draco got five more years with his wife after he learnt that she was dying. Then, suddenly, his home was as empty as the rest of the world. Most of the world, anyway.
Draco would visit her grave often, just to sit in the grass and talk to her. It was striking how similar it was to his teas with Hermione. He talked to Astoria about Scorpius, mostly – how much he missed her, how terrified Draco was to raise him alone, how often Draco saw her in his mannerisms and tenderness, how that filled Draco’s heart and made it ache all at once.
Astoria passed in the summer, and Draco waited to go to the cafe until after Scorpius returned to Hogwarts in September. He arrived early and bought a latte in addition to his usual cuppa.
“Alright, Hermione?” Draco said when she walked into the shop that morning.
Her smile was the same as always. She greeted him like she would have if she had just seen him a week ago, not six months. He handed over her preferred coffee, and they went to their usual chairs. Her book sat unopened on the end table between them, and they talked for hours. Despite being repetitious, the conversation soothed something in Draco that had been unsettled for months.
The week of her birthday, he brought Hermione the newest book by the goblin author she had been reading the first Saturday he approached her. She loved it. A few months later, she started reading it every Saturday morning. At that point, she had no idea it was from him, of course. Draco had contemplated putting an inscription in it for that very reason, but he decided against it in the end. He enjoyed getting to see her read it so voraciously without the concern that it was a performance for his benefit.
He met her every Saturday while Scorpius was away at school. He continued when Scorpius left to pursue a transfiguration mastery. Unless there was an emergency meeting of the Wizengamot, Draco never missed a tea. He updated Hermione on his life – interesting cases he had, what Scorpius was up to, and renovations he had done around the Manor. Oftentimes, he would inform her of the same updates multiple times over the course of the morning.
Early on after reconnecting, Draco would have dreams where Hermione would get better. Sometimes she would remember their last encounter, other times she would miraculously remember all of them. When they became more frequent than the dreams where Astoria was alive, Draco quickly became dependent on dreamless sleep potion. Eventually, he took back up with his mind healer. It was that or stop going to see Hermione, and Draco could not bear the thought of that.
For years, he carried on like that – having his weekly, repetitive teas with Hermione followed by his weekly sessions with his mind healer to stem the guilt they caused. That was followed by decades where he no longer needed the healer. The pattern held until the damage to Hermione’s mind no longer held steady.
It was subtle, at first. She started struggling with word-finding more. Then she started to forget things she had known before. Just little details, like facts she had learnt from her weekend reading or which day in June was Draco’s birthday. There were a few instances he suspected she thought he was his father at first, though he could not prove it. One day, after several years of decline, she did not recognise Draco at all when she walked into the cafe. Shortly after, she was moved into the Janus Thickey Ward. It took months for Draco to be able to visit her there. No matter how much he and his family had donated to St Mungo’s, there was no amount of money that could bend the rules for who visited the most tragic of the saviours of the wizarding world. In the end, it was Potter who got him permission to visit Hermione. Mrs. Potter, that is.
When he was finally permitted inside her room, Draco sat in a chair beside Hermione’s bed. He rested his forearms on his thighs and kept his hands laced together. Ginny presided over the corner of the room, giving him space but clearly monitoring him, as well.
She was the one to break the heavy silence of the room. “She would talk about you a lot, you know,” she said in a hushed voice so that she did not wake Hermione.
Draco raised a brow at that. “Would she?”
“On the way to our lunches. It usually started with, ‘I just had the most curious tea with Draco Malfoy of all people,’” she explained before chuckling to herself. “She was absolutely stunned for the better part of a year. Then it became a scandalised, ‘Ginny, I think I might be friends with Draco Malfoy.’”
Draco smiled slightly at the mental image of Hermione being scandalised by their friendship.
“She worried I’d think she’d gone mental,” Ginny added.
“Did you?” Draco asked.
Ginny smirked. “I might’ve if I hadn’t seen you in the shop myself to begin with.”
Draco looked over at her curiously. “So, you were fine with it from the start?”
She shrugged one shoulder. “Seemed like you were genuine about it from her recollections. I admit, I am curious how it happened, though.”
Draco shook his head before looking back to the sleeping woman beside him. “I wish I had an answer for you.”
~
Draco switched his visits to Tuesdays, as there tended to be a mass of Weasleys and Potters on the weekends. He was no less dutiful in his attendance, though. The cafe was not on the way to St Mungo’s, but he still went there first to get her a coffee. He learnt the hard way that apparition and hot liquids did not mix, but he eventually found a system.
He visited Hermione every week until she started thinking he was part of the staff. Then, he started visiting daily, as he knew her time was limited. He stopped going to the cafe when she stopped eating or drinking. There was almost always someone else by her side at that point. Her loved ones had worked out a rotation so she was never alone. No one commented on his presence in the mornings, and Draco was afforded the occasional private moment with Hermione when her assigned companion would pop out to grab tea or go to the toilet.
He saw her on her last day, but he was not with her when she passed. She was not really his to grieve, and he wanted to respect those who had earnt the right. Draco had figured out long ago how to be content with what he had – and accept what he could not. The mediwitch had informed him that her passing was imminent when he arrived that morning. He said his goodbye and stayed until he heard Weasley and her parents talking with the healer outside the room. He placed a kiss on her forehead before he left her to the company of her friends and family. He passed several additional Weasleys on his way out of St Mungo’s, and Draco was heartened at the thought that so many were rushing to her side. He read in her obituary that she was indeed surrounded by all her loved ones in her final moments.
The week before her passing, while Hermione was still lucid enough for conversation during her limited hours of wakefulness, Scorpius and his wife had welcomed a baby girl. Draco showed Hermione a picture of the newborn the following morning, and her eyes lit up in a way he had not seen in months. She wrinkled her nose when he informed her that his granddaughter was called “Cassiopeia.”