Other Lives

III.

"I had a promise to keep, didn't I?" he said despite knowing he was better off keeping the words at the pit of his stomach. Slowly, she turned back to him; her pink mouth did not part to tell him she recalled this memory, too, but there was something in her eyes that said I know, I remember. It had been decades since Draco had spoken her language, but he had not lost the skill to decipher Hermione. Despite that, he added, "The Ministry was expecting me to put my old Pureblood money to good use. Who was I then to disappoint those in control of my freedom?"

"I would've never let them send you to Azkaban," Hermione muttered, turning away from him again, this time walking slowly to the right side of his office. Draco watched her survey the pictures on the wall—they were all of Scorpius through the years, shaking hands with Virgo Labs' partners (one even with Charlie Weasley and his pet dragon), deep in the forest where they sourced certain plants with the permission of the native inhabitants, or with the Muggle Prime Minister and her other officials, strengthening bonds of trade between two worlds.

Draco could see the corner of Hermione's mouth pull up in a smile as she lingered on a thirteen year-old Scorpius and Albus Potter shaking hands as captains of their respective peewee quidditch teams for a charity game held for St. Mungo's.

"Hermione—" he paused, letting his tongue savor the name he only murmured in the silence inside his head. It tasted like a prayer; it tasted like a promise he was not able to keep because Fate had always been intent on his misfortune.

"How's Astoria?" she asked before the tone of his voice settled in these walls the way it once did in their personal, secret haven of the Head dormitories. "I heard about her mother passing."

"Last year," Draco said, clearing his throat. "She's better now."

"Grief is a curious thing, isn't it? It never really leaves. But I'm glad to hear—"

"Hermione," he said her name in another way that was familiar to his mouth, too. On the verge of frustration. It made her smile a little wider until he continued with, "Why are you here? To talk about my wife? Because it's been twenty years—the last thing I want to talk about is anything or anyone that isn't you."

She started turning away from him again, but Draco reached for her wrist to keep her in place. The contact of their flesh after years of it being only a treasured curse sent out a spark of magic; it rattled the picture frames on his wall and made the lights flicker.

He had to squeeze the gold coin in his left hand to remind himself that this was real: Hermione was really in front of him, her hand now in his, both struggling to feed their lungs as all the oxygen in the room disappeared the more he reeled her into his space.

Draco almost laughed when she found the strength to detach herself from his arms.

"You know why I'm here," she said after taking in a deep inhale, walking past him and straight to his desk. There was a paperweight holding down a stack of loose documents that needed sorting at the upper right corner—it was a chunk of glass carved into an otter. Everyone got a chuckle at the unnecessary, random object in Draco's otherwise pristine office, but now Hermione was staring at it like something that had been taken from her. "They can't get married, Draco."

He watched as she picked up the paperweight, turning it to further study every ridge of it. It reminded him of Goyle the night before, inspecting their twenty-year sobriety chip in hopes that it would reveal more than what it was meant to represent.

"They're seventeen, Hermione, I'm not thrilled about it, either. Believe me. But they're also adults. If it's something they want, it's going to happen regardless of what we think."