#becauseao3isdown

She’s on the radio again. Her voice is the only reason I take out the radio she gave me every morning at nine AM, for her tiny, thirty-second segment after the traffic report. A Letter from Hermione Granger. She’s Wizarding Britain’s favourite, and I’m no one different from her screaming fans after she gives a speech, or who cheer for her after she passes legislature. I shake the thoughts away and listen. 

“After the war, I worked as a counsellor for reformed Azkaban prisoners. When I was working with my last person, I remember that I had always said that he was unforgivable before I met him. When I met him, I was surprised at the person I found underneath labels of Death Eater and Blood Traitor and Evil. Of course, my experience is only an individual one, and it’s impossible to ignore someone’s past, but I believe that it’s possible for redemption.” And then her voice fades out and it’s replaced by horoscopes. 

I feel her words touch something in me. Blood Traitor. Evil. Death Eater. Where’s your Lord now? My fingers clench on the table, remembering the voices of the guards as they stripped me and searched me and spat on me. Not so haughty now, are you, Malfoy? Where’s your father now? Oh, he’s dead! Poor Draco. And then, a word parts the blizzard. Breathe, Draco. I remember her telling me that, her fingers light on the base of my neck, one of the many times I got lost inside my mind and she led me home. Breathe. Can you tell me where we are right now?

“I’m at home,” I mutter. Good. Now, who am I? 

“Hermione Granger. My reformation counsellor. Not anymore. But…” Good, Draco. Take a moment. Maybe I clung on to her in that memory, because I remember her pulling my hands away and clasping them in her own. I’m not going anywhere. 

“But you lied.” I brush my hair out of my face. “You left, didn’t you. I know I shouldn’t resent you for it, but you left. Said you’d write and you didn’t. Because Weasley took you on some impromptu trip and proposed.”

“Talking to yourself now?” Pansy saunters into the room. I jolt up from the counter I was leaning on.

“Jeez, Parks, where did you come from?” I ask, smoothing down my clothes. I wave my wand and the radio stops. 

“Today’s brunch day, did you already forget? Blaise and Theo are already in the garden.” Pansy waves her wand and summons a tray from the cabinets under my sink.

“Shit, was that today?” I rub my forehead. “I completely forgot. I didn’t trim the roses, so the gazebo is pretty much unfunctional.”

“I still don’t know why you do that by hand. You can’t use house elves anymore, but I bet there’s dozens of spells,” Pansy murmurs as she unpacks her bag. She pulls out a cake and places it on the tray.

“That looks good,” I say absently.

“Do you think so? I baked it myself. With Harry.” Pansy continues unpacking her bag and placing increasingly elaborate creations on the tray. “So, what’s on Draco’s mind that he forgot about our weekly brunch day? Were you crushing after Granger again?” 

“What? No—”

“I don’t understand how you got so attached to her. I hated my reformation counsellor so I fired him and did the community service hours instead. I’m actually glad, I wouldn’t have met Harry otherwise,” Pansy says. She lifts up the tray. “Grab the teapot for me?”

I follow her out the garden doors and walk the winding path into the garden. As expected, the roses I forgot to trim block the entrance to the gazebo. But Theo and Blaise have decided to try their hands at gardening. On my roses, that my mother took so much care of, and that Hermione taught me to care for. I place the teapot precariously on Pansy’s tray and rush forward, snatching the clippers from Theo and the trowel from Blaise.

“And were you thinking you could dig the petals out of my roses?” I ask, waving the trowel. I make quick work of the roses, sending them with the tools back into my kitchen. I’ll give the flowers at Mother’s grave later. I clean up the gazebo and soon we’re seated. 

“So, what sadness lengthens Draco’s hours?” Blaise asks as he butters a crumpet. 

“Who do you think?” Theo sighs dramatically. 

“Wizarding Britain’s superstar, Hermione Granger,” Pansy announces. She sips her mimosa.

“You three are horrible,” I mutter. “I haven’t talked to her in a year.” 

“And herein lies the problem,” Theo intones. “You think she’ll hate you.”

“I think that I was just another one of her patients for lack of a better word,” I correct. “She talked about another one of her guidance patients on the radio today.”

“But weren’t you her last patient? She got engaged to—”

“No, she did a couple more after she got back from her trip,” I reply. 

“How do you even know that when you won’t let us tell you about how her life’s going, and you won’t read about her in the society pages?” Blaise asks. 

“Potter told me when we were meeting him. Said she was planning to do more counselling.”

“Well—”

“Why must we always talk about me? These brunches have become ambushes,” I complain. “Parks, how’s the shop going?”

“I got seventy orders for hand-painted masquerade masks for Rosewood’s Summer Solstice party, so I’ve been working day in, day out. Harry has tried to help, but to no avail. I won’t let his ham-handed paint job ruin my store’s reputation,” Pansy sighs. “I think I hurt his feelings, but I haven’t the time to make it right.”

“That’s a skilled person problem,” Theo complains.

“You’re just salty because ever since Matthew broke up with you, you’ve just lounged around being a dramatic prat in your huge manor,” Pansy retorts. 

“Matthew’s dating this guy named Tony now,” Theo wails. He hides his face in his sleeve. 

“There, there,” Blaise pats his arm. “Must be hard not being wanted. I couldn’t relate.”

“That’s because you’re in a happy relationship—” Theo sniffles, lifting his head. “And I’ll be alone forever!” Theo starts sobbing again, even louder. 

“Theo!” Pansy snaps her fingers in front of Theo’s face. “I brought you your favourite sweets—”

“Lemon pound cake?” Theo stops crying instantly. I laugh as Theo scarfs down three slices of lemon cake in rapid succession. Soon, no one wants to leave so we cook dinner together as Pansy gripes about the unreasonable patrons who come to her for her clothes, and Theo moans about Matthew, and Blaise preens in front of the mirrors.

As I mount the stairs to my room after my friends leave, a strange thought comes unbidden over me. What if I just sent her a letter like she told me to. I’m sorry I’ve got to go now. But you should keep in touch, Draco. I’ll always be here for you. I trusted her, so the moment I heard she was back, I waited outside her house. She returned with Weasley, laughing up the stairs with bags full of groceries from the Farmer’s Market that she once brought me to. That was our place. But it wasn’t like I could say that, so I left. 

I still have the rule I made that day scribbled on a framed piece of paper on my nightstand. You will not talk to Hermione Granger. I’ve come too far to break that rule. But I need to hear her voice. That, I’ve allowed myself. I grab the recording I made of her first message and pull the covers over my head.

“Good morning! I’m Hermione Granger, and for the next few months, I’ll be with you every morning at nine AM, giving you a couple insights to start your day! Today, I’ll be leaving you with just a sentence. Recovery doesn’t happen in an instant, and it’s hard to enjoy the process, but it’s one thing that everyone can try.”

You were my only competitor for top marks every year, Draco. You can do this. I remember her hand on mine, guiding my hand to clip the roses, her fingers deftly stirring a pot full of stew and lifting the spoon to my lips, her fingernails digging into my skin as I steadied her on the ice rink. She was so close, right in front of me and so beautifully alive, until she left and I had to content myself watching her speeches in the back row, listening to the recording I made of her radio messages, and knowing that she’ll never see me. 

I’ve spent my life after Azkaban trying so hard to disappear from the public eye—after a year, the hate mail slowed to occasional howlers—but now, all I want is for her to see me. Then what? My mind mocks me. You still have hope that she treasures those moments too, don’t you? How could she ever? You were just another fan, another patient, another person who she changed forever. Just another person who loves her.

I roll over to face the ceiling and wave my wand to reveal the stars behind a glass ceiling. It’s wrong for me to like her this way. For me to want to see your face this bad, because I know that if I ever talked to you, I’d be disappointed. We sat on this very roof once and I pointed out Draco and Andromeda, she showed me Sirius. I told her about my mother and her roses, so the next day, she helped me revive the clippings I brought from the manor. 

I honestly think that the reason why I refuse to get close to her again, why it’s my staunch rule, is because I am as much of a coward that I was in my Hogwarts years, and on the Astronomy tower, and during the war. Unlike her, and Weasley, and Potter, and every hero that I am not.

The next morning is uncharacteristically misty for a late-Spring day. I unfold the Prophet and spot her face on the front page. She passed another Dragon Protection Act, and I know that triumphant look on her face from class when she beat me on a test. I huff a laugh. I remind myself of Pansy when she used to cut out pictures of her favourite singers from the magazines she ordered. I close the paper and place my teacup in the sink. 

A word catches my eye from the bottom of the page that I just closed. I dart towards and flip it open. Romania. I backtrack across the page. In order to learn more about her next goals, Ms. Granger will be in Romania for the next six months. We’ll be sorry to see her go, but are thrilled for her most recent victory. I stumble towards the radio. Her leaving to Romania means she’ll be stopping her program, perhaps indefinitely. Her leaving means that for six months, I won’t hear her voice. 

Good morning everyone! It’s Hermione Granger, and today, before I say my little message, I have an announcement today. Today will be the last segment of my little program—

Oh no. No. No. My knees hit the floor, fingers scrabbling on the floorboards. She can’t leave. She can’t be going again. I can’t be alone again, but maybe I was always alone because I haven’t talked to her in a year and she doesn’t care but she cared so much and she taught me to care too, so how can she leave now—

That’s all. It’s been a great ride, and I’m so thrilled for my next adventures. Hermione Granger, signing off. There’s a click as I realise that she’s now completely gone, and that I just missed her last message, and I’m falling into darkness. 

I’m in the Forbidden Forest, watching Voldemort’s body rot. The maggots chitter and scramble through his empty eye sockets, and somehow, they form words I know. Death Eater. Evil scum. Unworthy. Failure. They stop moving suddenly, and I feel something staring at me. I whirl around, and she’s right there. But maybe she isn’t, because there is no warmth in her face. She just stands there, staring at me, cold, honey-gold eyes picking me apart with disdain. Finally, her face twists. Worthless Death Eater scum, she spits before whirling away. I stumble back as the maggots swarm me. Breathe. I am shivering in the corner of my cell in Azkaban as the winds howl outside. Breathe. I am receiving my first Howler, words coming at me like a storm. Breathe. And Hermione Granger is walking away. 

Draco! A shout punctures my consciousness, followed by a loud banging. Draco! Are you in here? Draco! A female voice shouts my name again. Is it—no. That was the past. When I locked myself in my house with only the smouldering embers of a red envelope, lost somewhere between Azkaban and the Astronomy Tower. It was the anniversary of the war, and I had ignored all of her letters, and somehow, she came to find me, banging on my door. Draco! Draco! Are you in here? You can’t just— a frustrated noise—Just open the door, okay? This is literally my job—I need to see that you’re not dead! So I let her in, and she curled my fingers around a mug of tea. Drink. 

“Why don’t you call me Malfoy?” I asked her, voice breaking. I coughed to hide it. She looked up, eyes wide, as if she had never thought of it, a furrow forming between her brows. I longed to smooth it away. She came to a conclusion, blinking at me. 

“You’re not your father,” she said simply. And that was that. And that was that. 

I am lying on crisp white sheets in a room in St. Mungo’s. I hear voices and struggle to focus on them.

“—collapsed from shock. He should be fine in a while. If you three had come any later, this could’ve been much worse. He should stay here for a couple more days, and I will check on him in a couple hours.”

“Thank you,” I hear Pansy say, echoed by murmurs from Blaise and Theo. 

“Is he all right?” That’s a new voice. It’s so familiar, but somehow—

“He won’t die, Granger,” Pansy says roughly. Granger? Hermione Granger? My eyes fly open, but the light is too bright, and I shut them immediately, wincing. But I know it’s her. 

“Well, I guess there’s nothing to do,” Theo mutters. It’s so strange to hear them like this, all worried and defeated. 

“Come on, Harry, let’s go get something to drink. Sorry for dragging you two into this,” Pansy sighs. “I know it was your last time to meet before Granger leaves.”

“It’s fine. Hermione insisted,” Harry replies. The door opens. No. Don’t leave again. Please—

“Don’t go—” the words shoot out of me. “Please—” And maybe she recognizes the words from late-night Patronuses and my hand tight around hers when I was lost and she pulled me out of darkness, because she turns back and takes my hand.

“I’m not going anywhere,” she whispers. There’s a rustle of her turning around. “I’ll stay here a bit longer. You guys should go ahead of me.” And this time, she doesn’t let go.

I wake up to curls tickling my neck. Or at least, I think I wake up. I don’t want it to be a dream as she kisses my forehead and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. And I want it to be a dream as she steps away from my bed and opens the door, leaving once again.

six months later.

I walk down the street with my recording in hand. It’s been six months, and I think I’ve learned to live without her voice every morning. Maybe. I wish she walked away after our first official meeting as my reformation counsellor. A year ago, she walked into my living room with two mugs of tea and told me that she would be by my side for the next three months—

“Fuck off, Mudblood,” I told her, the slur slipping out of my mouth.

“Words mean nothing without conviction,” she said, her expression hardening but with an easy smile.

“You sound like Aunt Bella when she taught me how to do the Unforgivables,” I replied. 

“You stopped saying mudblood with hate in Fourth Year at the World Cup. Remember? You told me that they were looking for mudbloods like me. But there was no hate. You were horrified, maybe?” Her easy smile never slipped. 

“You fucki—”

“You stopped saying that word with conviction when I saw you in Seventh Year. Maybe because of the Astronomy Tower—” I flinched, a motion that didn’t go unnoticed by her. Her gaze sharpened, but she continued. “So now, when you say it with neither hate nor conviction, they’re just two words. Put a word in the middle, say ‘not,’ and it becomes ‘mud not blood.’ Then it could be like we went to the cinema and you were scared of the ‘blood’ in a black and white film. Maybe I would’ve turned to you and said, “It’s mud, not blood.” She smiled at me in that annoyingly smug way of hers, like she just beat me in test scores.

“You’re fucking delusional,” I spat. 

“True,” she replied lightly. She got up, easy expression gone. “But Draco Lucius Malfoy, you’re delusional if you think that you’re going to sabotage my chances to become a better candidate for Department Head of the Magical Creatures Department.”

“Ah, I knew you had some ulterior motives,” I said, vindicated. “You aren’t a selfless hero, Granger. I knew it.”

“And did you ever think I was?” She smiled at me, a sharp smile that was more teeth than happiness. 

“Better you than Potthead,” I replied. “But you’ve got to wonder, could someone who isn’t a selfless hero become Department Head?”

“Seeing that your father was on the Board of Directors of Hogwarts, clearly,” she replied flippantly.

“You don’t know shit about my family,” I snarled. 

“Hmm. Another thing to talk about.” She made a note on her page. “Well, Draco, I’m glad we could have this little heart-to-heart. I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

“I won’t,” I muttered.

“Oh, you will, Draco Malfoy. Even if I have to hunt you down myself. Now that I know that you hate this, I’m even more motivated to do my job.” 

“You’re loitering,” a familiar voice calls, jerking me out of my memory. 

“Parks,” I say, trying to regain my composure. “I came to visit you.”

“Clearly, seeing that you stood in front of my store for three minutes already,” Pansy replies. “Well, come in. I’m mending one of my pieces right now, but you can talk.”

Inside the backroom of Pansy’s store, she annoyedly snaps her thread with her teeth and rummages around in her box of threads. She chooses a gold thread and looks up. 

“Well, aren’t you going to say anything?” Her eyes flash.

“No. You were the one who told me to come visit you from time to time. It’s not like there’s anything new to say,” I reply flatly. Pansy grabs a tiny diamond bead and starts sewing it on the shimmery black fabric of a dress.

“Did you know that she wore this dress?” Pansy asks after a long pause. 

“Hermione?” I ask, glancing at the dress again.

“To the War Anniversary ball a year ago. For twenty minutes before she got too worked up about you ignoring her letters and stormed your house,” Pansy answers dryly.

“Ah,” I say, slightly sheepish. “Is that how she lost some of the beads?”

“Yeah. It was partly my fault, because this is a vintage from the 1920s, and I didn’t sew on these beads correctly because it was a last minute job,” Pansy replies. “You know, she always goes running when she knows you’re hurt.” 

“You know, I think I’ve told you many times that I don’t want to talk about her,” I snap.

“You continued the conversation about her,” Pansy counters. “Why are you so scared to even fathom that she could care about you?”

“Because she doesn’t. Because she left. And because if I get my hopes up, it’ll hurt even more,” I grind out. 

“It’s your funeral, Draco. But when I came home to tell Harry to close the shop for me because I’d be staying with you, and he was with Hermione, the moment I said why, she bolted up and Floo’d to St Mungo’s,” Pansy says. She sews on another bead. 

“She’d do that for Weasley,” I reply softly. 

“Weasley and Granger—” Pansy cuts herself off and shakes her head. “She’s back. Go talk to her. You two deserve that at least.” She mutters something darkly under her breath about oblivious, stubborn asses before she looks up, surprised that I’m still here. “If you’re just going to stand around, go get me some tea,” she sighs. “Make yourself useful.”

After a couple hours of making myself useful, I walk out of Pansy’s shop, arms laden with packages for delivery, another one of her chores. After sending the packages off, I sigh and lean against the brick wall outside Pansy’s shop. She’s back. Go talk to her. I groan and bang my head against the wall. You two are a pair of oblivious, stubborn asses. I bang my head back against the wall again. She always goes running when she knows you’re hurt. The hardest thump yet. Tucking a strand of hair behind her ear as she leaned closer, almost as if—

“I told you to stop doing that,” says a voice. My eyes fly open, and I already know who I’m going to see. Brown curls, Muggle “denim,” sparkling brown eyes, and that honey voice. 

“Gra—Granger,” I stammer. 

“Don’t call me that, it reminds me of our Hogwarts years,” she rolls her eyes, that same sarcasm that I remember from a year ago. “I thought we were on a first name basis.”

And just like that, it’s like no time passed. “Okay, Hermione, sorry I’m a little rusty after not talking to you for a year.” 

“Oh, Draco, our relationship is forever,” Hermione grins. 

“Ah yes. You were my therapist,” I remark. That was all we were, right? Just say something to prove what I’ve known this entire time. “Very touchy feely.”

“If we’re being accurate—” Hermione pauses for my long sigh at her catchphrase, right on cue— “I was your reformation counsellor, meant to help your smooth transition into post-War life!”

“Quoted that from the handbook, did you?” I grin and gesture for her to walk with me. 

“Of course. Never go anywhere without it. And I never say anything without good proof,” she adds. 

“You said a lot of things,” I say quietly. “You said that you’d never get on a broom—”

“You were a good teacher,” Hermione shrugs. “I taught you so much Muggle culture, so you just returned the favour. The polite thing to do.”

“You said that you would force me to let you do your job, but I just ended up telling you anyway,” I say.

“On you, not me,” Hermione shrugs. “I just gave it a little time. After the War Anniversary incident, things progressed fast enough for me to not Bombarda my way into your house.” 

“Oh, please, my wards wouldn’t let you,” I scoff. “You tried.” 

“Maybe I’ve been practising. But try again. What have I said without good proof?” Hermione’s eyes dart up at me with a clear challenge.

“You said you’d write,” I say, voice unwavering but much too soft. She catches it. That’s how she was such a good counsellor. How she was able to know everything without me needing to tell her. 

“I’m sorry. I—Blaise told me that you didn’t let anyone talk about me, so I thought you didn’t want to hear from me. I thought I made a mistake in—” she sighs. “Caring. Too much.”

I don’t know what that means. For the brightest witch of her age, her words are suddenly cryptic. “I think I cared too much as well.” There. That kind of strategic wording that I’ve learned all my life.

“Yeah?” I don’t know when we got so close, but the setting sun sets her hair on fire, and her eyes sparkle. I’m painfully reminded of sunset in my garden, brushing dirt off her cheek, tucking a wayward curl behind her ear and the way her eyes fluttered shut before she got a patronus from Weasley and hurried off. I step away. She’s engaged. Or maybe married. Or maybe—

“How’s Weasley doing?” I ask. “I know it’s late, but congratulations.”

“For what?” she asks, puzzled.

“The engagement? I honestly haven’t been keeping up with the society pages, but Parks told me,” I say. 

“Oh!” Hermione gasps. “We broke up a while ago. Amicable. We agreed that we’re better off as friends and neither of us wanted to throw ten years away.” She shrugs.

So maybe her “caring, too much,” was not just a friendly sentence. Maybe—

“Are you free after this? For dinner?” Another cryptic sentence that I can’t puzzle out. I’m tempted to just ask her outright, but I can’t bear to lose her having just found her again.

“Sure. I know a place,” I tell her. And I wish that this night would never end.

“So you’re telling me that Pansy broke your wards on Valentine’s Day, left pink hearts and cupids everywhere, shoved Blaise into the bed with you and left?” she’s laughing, head tossed back as we stumble into the street. There’s the evidence of the two bottles of wine that we drained on her wine-dark lips.

“She thought I was lonely—” I roll my eyes, unable to stop the smile spreading across my face. 

“Aww, have you been lonely ever since I left?” she asks jokingly. My eyes soften at the sparkle in her eyes.

“Yes,” I answer truthfully. “Honestly, yes. I missed you. Even though I heard your voice every day that year—”

“My radio program?” she asks incredulously. 

“I tuned in every day,” I admit. “It was like you were there, but not.” I huff out a laugh. “Until you left for Romania without any warning.” 

“I can’t believe you listened to all of my programs!” She flushes even more. “That’s so…”

“Well you accomplished your mission,” I shrug. “To use your influence to help people. You helped me. And your fans.”

“You were my hardest case.” She bumps my shoulder. “I guess I cracked you.”

“You melted me,” I laugh. “When I saw you today, I thought I was hallucinating you from looking at your pictures in the Prophet too much. Just another fan.”

“Who would’ve thought that you would’ve become my biggest fan,” Hermione muses. 

“Who would’ve thought that you’d still be such a pure hero after all these years,” I tease. 

“You think I’m pure?” Hermione asks, voice going low. She blinks up at me from under those feathered eyelashes, gaze shifting into something hotter. 

“I think you could have such filthy thoughts,” I whisper. “I haven’t seen proof yet.”

“Ever the perfect researcher,” she whispers back, hooking an arm around my neck and pulling me down into a kiss. It’s everything I thought it would be in full colour, the swipe of her tongue over my lips, her fingers clutching the hair at my neck. I pull her closer to me, teeth scraping over her lip as she shudders. I smile against her mouth, pushing her against the wall.

“You started this,” I breathe, pulling my fingers through her curls, tangling them further. I pull away, resting my forehead against her, breaths synchronising. 

“I’ve been wanting to do that ever since Harry cut his finger off and Ron patronused me to come and fix it,” Hermione breathes. I look down at her flushed cheeks, kissed lips and mussed hair and I smile.