Chapter Text
I’ll come with you, for breath is a trivial art;
I yearn to meet my end beside you.
I long to kiss every inch of you, inch by inch, savoring the sacred geography of your form.
And then, with fierce tenderness, to hold you close, our bodies entwined in a final, unyielding embrace.
I’ll come with you, for breath is a trivial art;
I wish only to meet my end in your undying company.
-Draco Malfoy, chapter four
Draco Malfoy sat at the head of an imposing wooden table, the centerpiece of a library that seemed less a room and more a living relic. Dark shelves stretched endlessly upward, weighed down with ancient tomes that whispered the secrets of generations long past. The air felt heavy, as though the walls themselves were steeped in some old, forgotten magic.
Hermione, preferred to stand, made no move to sit. She had no intention of lingering any longer than necessary. Her gaze wandered over the space, momentarily distracted by the depth of knowledge held within these walls, but her purpose remained clear. She was here to uncover the real story behind the play, and then she would leave.
Draco’s eyes followed her, amused by her decision to stand, a slight smirk curving his lips as he observed her guarded posture. “You won’t sit?” he asked. He seemed all too aware of the fact that, despite her apparent reluctance, Hermione’s attention was being drawn into the mystique of the room, the gravity of its untold stories.
Hermione gave him a measured look, brushing aside the subtle challenge in his words. “I won’t be here long, Malfoy.” she said, her eyes darting over the rows of books, ancient manuscripts, and the strange, shimmering artifacts scattered about. It was as though this library, this entire house, held more life than any person within it. “I just want to know the truth, not whatever performance you’ve conjured for the public.”
Draco’s fingers drummed lightly on the table, a gesture as deliberate as it was dismissive. “Ah, but that’s the problem, Granger. You think knowledge is something you can simply extract, as if it’s buried beneath a stone waiting to be uncovered. But the truth," he paused, his voice lowering, "Is rarely so cooperative.”
Her eyes flicked to Draco, a faint smirk tugging at the corners of her lips. "It's really unexpected that you're so philosophical," she remarked, her tone light but pointed, as though testing the waters.
Draco's eyes gleamed in response, a flicker of amusement breaking through his usual guarded expression. "I guess I like to surprise people," he replied, his voice steady, almost indifferent. But beneath the calm exterior, there was something sharper, something deliberate.
He shifted his gaze from her to the scattered letters and tomes on the table, the remnants of a story too old and twisted for easy explanation. "Now," he began, his fingers tracing the edge of one of the fragile pages, "Let me tell you the truth you've been wondering about."
At that moment, Hermione couldn’t help but lower her head, her gaze sharpening as she studied him intently—truly lingering, as if her eyes were finally catching up with a truth they had long refused to see. It was peculiar, this sudden attention to Draco Malfoy, a man who had once been nothing more than a specter of her past, defined by his sneers and the vitriol that dripped from his words. All those years, she had never considered the man behind the cold mask, his presence reduced to the malice he had worn so effortlessly. But now, in the quiet of this room, as he sifted through ancient parchments with a kind of thoughtful concentration, Hermione found herself studying him with a curiosity she couldn’t explain.
He stood there, shoulders tense but not unfriendly, his brow furrowed in that familiar Malfoy way. And for the first time, Hermione saw it, the striking resemblance to his father, a resemblance that was impossible to ignore. Lucius Malfoy had been a symbol of everything dark and corrupted in the wizarding world, a figure that had loomed over her youth with his polished cruelty and cold, aristocratic gaze. And here was Draco, carrying the same sharp angles in his jaw, the same high, chiseled cheekbones that defined a lineage built on pride and prejudice. Yet, where Lucius had been all brittle frost, Draco seemed more subdued, less a polished weapon and more... human.
His pale blond hair, though shorter than his father’s, yet still long enough to curl at the nape of his neck, softening his appearance in ways she hadn't anticipated. The look was almost anachronistic, out of step with the trends of modern wizards, but somehow it worked for him. It lent him a quiet elegance, a kind of unspoken history that, Hermione found herself thinking, made him seem less like the schoolyard bully and more like a man who had lived through difficult years, perhaps even evolved through them.
The realization left a strange taste in her mouth. She had always categorized Draco neatly in her mind—he was the villain, the coward, the product of his family’s toxic legacy. But now, standing before her in this quiet, dimly lit room, he seemed to blur the edges of that simple narrative. His seriousness, the way he moved with a sense of calm authority, felt out of step with the Malfoy she once knew. And the more she looked, the more she saw that this was not Lucius reborn but Draco, distinct, conflicted and perhaps more layered than she had ever allowed herself to imagine.
It was unsettling. To consider him anything more than a relic of her past was uncomfortable, a disruption to the narrative she had written for him in her mind. Yet here he was, surprising her with every passing second, and Hermione couldn’t shake the sense that maybe, just maybe, there was more to Draco Malfoy than she had ever wanted to admit.
“I recall telling you that the wizard’s name in the play wasn’t accurate,” Draco remarked, a casual wave of his wand making the air shimmer faintly. “Aleric… it’s nothing more than an invention. A fabricated name for a story too bleak to be retold as it was.”
Hermione frowned. “So, what was his true name then?”
“Alistair,” Draco answered, his gaze shifting back to her. “Alistair Malfoy. One of my ancestors. But for the playwright, that wasn’t poetic enough, was it? Too ordinary. Too human.”
She leaned forward, her gaze fixed on him. “And changing it made the story… what, more appealing?”
“More palatable,” he corrected softly. “They needed something grander, more tragic—a name like Aleric evokes power, evokes destiny. A name fit for a hero’s lament, not a pitiful fall into darkness.” He paused, studying her expression. “It’s always easier to romanticize a name when the truth is far more sordid.”
“What else in the play isn’t true?” Hermione asked, her voice softer now, almost hesitant, as if she were peeling away layers of a fragile past.
Draco leaned back, his movements unhurried, and folded his arms as if settling into the conversation. “The so-called curse, for one. That was pure fiction, a dramatic contrivance to lend the story more flair.” He paused, a faint smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. "However, most of Aleric’s—Alistair’s—monologues are actually taken from his personal diaries. The words he speaks to his lover, those are almost entirely his own, though the play twisted a few things for effect. Once you read the original letters, you’ll see the truth."
His gaze turned introspective, and Hermione found herself watching him with newfound curiosity. Draco wasn’t just recounting a story, he was confronting a part of his family’s history, one warped into legend. The smirk on his lips did little to mask the weight of that truth, the way he seemed to straddle two worlds: the one of grim reality and the polished façade handed down through generations.
Hermione nodded, remembering their conversation. "Like you said that night?"
Draco’s brow furrowed slightly, the memory flickering behind his eyes before he nodded slowly. “Yes,” he repeated, his voice quieter. “What I shared with you then was stripped from his actual letters, not the fantasy spun on stage. It’s amazing, isn’t it? How history bends so easily when you change a word here, a name there…”
He trailed off, his gaze drifting somewhere distant, caught in the tendrils of thought. There was a melancholy there, an almost imperceptible longing. Hermione felt a strange sense of empathy for him.
“So…” Hermione murmured thoughtfully, the words lingering on her lips as she narrowed her eyes in contemplation. “Who was his lover?”
Draco’s eyes remained fixed on her, watching every shift in her expression. With a measured, almost languid grace, he reached for a particular parchment amid the clutter on the table. Its edges were yellowed and frayed, like a relic torn from a forgotten past, and as he handed it to her, it seemed to whisper of age-old secrets concealed within its fragile fibers. He extended it toward her with a calm, almost reverent precision.
“All I could recover was this, an old portrait,” he murmured softly. “Here.”
Hermione’s curiosity surged, sharpening to a fine point. She took the parchment gingerly, her fingers brushing against its brittle surface as if it might crumble at the slightest pressure. Carefully, she unrolled it, anticipation tightening in her chest. But as the scroll unfurled, her excitement turned to confusion. The parchment stared back at her, blank and unyielding, its surface devoid of any image or trace of ink.
“What—?” Her voice trailed off, caught between bewilderment and frustration, her eyes darting between the parchment and Draco’s inscrutable face. “There’s nothing here.”
Draco’s lips curved, the barest hint of a smile ghosting across his features, subtle and distant, more a suggestion than a true expression of amusement. He leaned back slightly, one arm draped casually along the back of his chair, as if savoring the moment, as if her reaction had been precisely what he anticipated.
“It’s blank for now,” he murmured, his tone a soft, almost conspiratorial murmur, the words slipping into the silence like the prelude to some long-buried revelation.
Hermione felt a flicker of impatience stir within her. “What’s that supposed to mean?” she demanded, lifting the empty parchment to the light as if expecting some hidden image to materialize.
Draco’s gaze didn’t waver. Instead, he raised his wand, letting its polished tip hover lightly above the smooth, empty sheet. “It means,” he said softly, drawing out each word as if savoring its significance, “That this parchment reveals its secrets only under the right conditions, when the time is precisely right, and under the proper circumstances.”
Hermione frowned, her brow knitting in concentration as she turned the parchment over, studying it with the careful scrutiny of someone determined to unravel a puzzle. “And when would that be?”
Leaning forward, Draco’s gaze remained locked on hers, his voice dropping to a low murmur. “During a full moon week and right at midnight,” he replied, his eyes holding a gleam of something elusive, something that seemed to shimmer just out of reach. “Fortune is on your side, Granger. There’s a full moon tonight.”
Hermione blinked, taken aback, her gaze drifting from the blank parchment to the window, where the last vestiges of twilight were giving way to the night. The sun had already set, draping the world outside in deep indigo and casting elongated shadows across the library. The implications began to settle around her, and a soft, almost hesitant understanding flickered in her eyes.
“So…” she began slowly, struggling to piece together the fragments of what he was telling her. “The play’s title, Tears of the Moon—does it reference this spell?”
Draco nodded once, a solemnity in his gaze that made the room seem to still around them. “Yes. The title wasn’t simply poetic. It was a direct reference to the moon’s influence over this particular magic. Only during a full moon does this parchment—this memory—unveil itself. And only then can you glimpse the true face of the wizard who’s been reduced to a myth.”
Hermione swallowed, feeling the weight of the moment settle heavily in her chest. She glanced back at the parchment, which now seemed to pulse faintly, as if waiting, biding its time, holding its secrets close. “So, tonight… we could see—”
“Yes,” Draco interrupted softly, his gaze intent. “Tonight, if you’re willing to stay.”
Stay? Did Hermione really want to spend more time with Draco Malfoy? It was a question that should have been easy to answer—no hesitation, no second-guessing. And yet, the certainty that had always defined her feelings about him wavered, blurred by the unexpected camaraderie that had grown between them in such a short span of time. She found herself glancing around at her surroundings: the grandeur of the Malfoy library, the soft, flickering light casting shadows against walls lined with ancient tomes. This was Draco’s world, a world she would never have imagined herself willingly entering. Yet here she was, lingering.
Friendship. Could she truly call it that? The word seemed both too small and too precarious, fragile as a single strand of thread stretched between them. But there was something, wasn’t there? Something unspoken that made her want to stay a little longer, to uncover more of the mystery that lay not just in Alistair’ story, but in Draco himself. She was in his home, in his library, with him, of all people. It had to mean something.
And then Hermione thought of Ron.
She didn’t need to glance at the clock to know how late it was growing. If she returned home late, would Ron even notice? The question cut deep. He would hardly look up, too engrossed in whatever trivialities occupied his evenings. Would he even ask where she had been? The thought that he might not care left a hollow ache in her chest.
And yet, perversely, the idea of being late—of pushing boundaries Ron had stopped noticing—held a strange appeal. What if, just this once, she returned home later than usual? Would he be anxious? Would he worry, or would he simply continue, unbothered and indifferent?
Hermione sighed softly, the sound slipping past her lips unbidden, and caught Draco’s sharp gaze as he turned to look at her. He watched her in that careful, measured way of his, head tilted slightly as if reading the conflicting emotions on her face. She felt suddenly exposed, as though he could see her thoughts as plainly as if they were laid out on the parchment she held.
No. Even if she stayed, Ron wouldn’t care. She knew it in her bones, knew it with the same awful certainty she had been grappling with for months now. Her staying out would not make him wonder. It wouldn’t prompt him to ask where she was, why she hadn’t come home, or who she was with. That, more than anything, drove the knife in deeper. There was no mystery left between them, no curiosity, no care. And tonight, for reasons she couldn’t fully explain, she found herself resenting that more than ever.
Hermione traced the rough edges of the parchment absently, grounding herself in its texture. “I have to admit, Malfoy,” she began slowly, trying to banish the thoughts of Ron from her mind. “You do have a way of weaving intrigue in the most unexpected manner.” She glanced up, meeting Draco’s gaze. “But I told you earlier, I don’t have much time.” The words felt heavy on her tongue, and with some reluctance, she added, “I think I’ll just stick with the real story tonight.”
Draco’s expression didn’t shift, his pale eyes holding hers with a steadiness that made her feel as though he was waiting for something—for her to say more, perhaps. He didn’t blink, didn’t move, just observed her with that unnerving calm. Then, after a pause that stretched into silence, he inclined his head slightly, one hand rising to accept the scroll.
“Then I’ll just give you the story,” he murmured quietly, voice low and unwavering.
Hermione bit the inside of her cheek, feeling the weight of her decision settle uncomfortably between them. Slowly, reluctantly, she glanced down at the parchment in her hands. It felt different now—heavier, almost as if the empty sheet itself were disappointed by her choice. She traced its blank surface one last time, lingering over the rough, empty space where an image should have been, before winding it carefully back into a neat roll.
With slow, deliberate movements, she placed it in Draco’s waiting palm. His hand closed around it, the movement smooth and controlled, the long fingers curling over the fragile surface as if he held something precious. For a moment, his gaze remained fixed on her, searching her face with an intensity that made her chest tighten. Then, with a slight incline of his head, he leaned back, setting the parchment aside with a gentleness that belied his usual demeanor.
“Very well,” he said, his voice softer now, the sharp edge of his usual tone tempered. “Let’s start with why the title of the play is Tears of the Moon. Alistair never revealed her true name, not once in his letters or his diaries. He only ever called her My lunaria, his Moon Blossom.”
A faint tremor of fascination stirred within Hermione. The delicate phrasing, the careful choice of words, it was more than just an alias. There was devotion in it, a reverence wrapped in veils of obscurity, a sentiment that seemed to transcend the boundaries of mere affection.
“My lunaria,” she repeated softly, savoring the name as if it held a flavor all its own. “He veiled her in moonlight.”
“Yes,” Draco replied, his gaze steady, revealing an intensity she hadn’t anticipated. “For him, she was more than flesh and blood, a muse, a phantom lover woven from the light of the full moon. He ensconced her in mystery, placing her beyond the grasp of ordinary men.”
Her mind raced, absorbing the weight of his words. “If there’s no curse, what killed Alistair and his lover?” she pressed, her voice sharper than she intended, curiosity mingling with disbelief.
Draco’s expression shifted, hardening into something more solemn. “There was no curse,” he reiterated softly, almost as if trying to convince himself of this reality. “But there was a disease. A wasting illness, fatal and relentless. It’s what took Alistair’ lover first… and in his despair, it’s what drove him to end his own life.”
Hermione’s breath caught in her throat as the revelation settled like a stone in her stomach. “Wait, what?”
Draco met her gaze, “Alistair was not a strong wizard; he was a recluse, a man consumed by love and ultimately destroyed by it. His letters are filled with haunting depictions of his feelings—longing, grief, an overwhelming sense of loss. He believed he could save her, but the illness was beyond even his magical reach. When she died, he succumbed to madness.”
The weight of his words pressed down on Hermione. “So, he sought comfort in a curse that never existed?” she murmured, her voice barely a whisper.
“Yes,” Draco confirmed, his eyes reflecting a mixture of sadness and understanding. “In the absence of hope, people grasp at whatever semblance of control they can find. The curse became a metaphor for his torment, a way to externalize the grief he could not contain. The real tragedy lies in his vulnerability.”
The room seemed to shrink around them, tightening with a palpable silence. “How do you know these details?” Hermione asked at last, her voice tentative, almost afraid to shatter the stillness that had fallen between them.
Draco’s lips twisted into a sardonic smile. “How do I know?” he echoed. “Because I am a Malfoy, and the story of our mad ancestor is part of the legacy my parents made sure I never forgot. A cautionary tale, if you will.”
“A cautionary tale?” Hermione repeated, her voice catching on the strange turn of words. “What lesson were they trying to teach?”
For a moment, Draco seemed lost in thought, his gaze distant. Then his lips curved into a faint, hollow smile. “I doubt you came here to listen to the wisdom of my parents,” he shot back with a touch of irony, his eyes flashing briefly before settling back into their guarded depths.
Hermione stared at him, struggling to reconcile this man before her with the arrogant boy she remembered. And yet…
“In the play,” he continued, his tone taking on a measured, almost clinical cadence, “Aleric was portrayed as a valiant wizard, a hero struggling against impossible odds to save his beloved. But in reality, Alistair was no hero. He was weak and fearful, a recluse too consumed by grief to muster the courage to face the world without her. He let the disease take her, and then let madness take him.”
Hermione’s brows knitted together, an incredulous smile tugging at her lips. “You’re admitting that a Malfoy was a fearful?”
Draco’s gaze met hers, piercing and unflinching. “The truth, Granger. What would I be if I lied to you about it?”
Hermione’s expression softened, caught off guard by his honesty. She thought of all the times he’d lied or twisted the truth to suit his needs during their school days. Even now, she found it hard to fully trust this new version of Draco, no matter how candid he appeared. Memories of the sneering boy he once was were difficult to shake off, despite the changes in him.
“Shall we continue?” he asked, shattering the silence with a suddenness that felt almost cruel. He reached into a stack of worn papers and pulled free a small, leather-bound notebook. The cover was cracked with age, the corners fraying, yet it held a kind of somber dignity in its weathered state. “This is one of Alistair’s diaries.”
Hermione’s eyes widened as she took in the tattered book. “One of them?”
Without pausing, Draco pulled several more from the pile, stacking them with an almost careless grace. His mouth twisted into a smile, devoid of any warmth. “There are at least fifteen. I stopped counting when I realized how obsessively he wrote. Pages and pages… documenting every fevered thought and fleeting agony.”
“That’s…” Hermione hesitated, searching for the right word. “That’s—”
“Madness?” Draco finished softly, a glimmer of something unnamable darkening his gaze. “Yes, madness has a way of leaving its mark on paper as surely as it does on the mind.”
She turned back to the diary in his hand, its weathered pages a stark reminder of a life unraveled by loss.
"It actually took me quite a long time to piece it all together," Draco murmured, leaning back in his chair, one elbow propped on the armrest as he pressed his fingers lightly against his temple. “When I want to unearth something about my family’s past, the information is rarely elusive. But Alistair… he was different. All I had were fragments; his letters, scattered diaries. There’s no comprehensive account. Alistair may have been mad, but he valued his privacy more than most. Even after all these years, I had to wrestle with layers of protection spells just to access his possessions.”
Hermione’s gaze shifted thoughtfully to a folded parchment in the corner of the desk. Draco followed her gaze, his eyes narrowing slightly, as if anticipating her question even before she voiced it.
“I didn’t do it on purpose,” he said, his voice quieter now, a trace of tension threading through the words.
Hermione frowned, her curiosity sharpening. “Why?”
A silence settled between them, heavy and charged. Draco’s expression remained composed, but his eyes held a flicker of something more, something difficult to name. “I suppose,” he began slowly, the words reluctant, as if he were unspooling a thought he hadn’t fully examined until now, “I suppose it was out of respect for Alistair. Whatever else he may have been, mad or otherwise, that portrait mattered to him. It was a relic of something sacred to him. More significant, somehow, than the wild ramblings in his diaries.” His gaze drifted back to the parchment, a faint, almost imperceptible tightness around his mouth. “I didn’t think it was something the world should see. Not something that should be catalogued and put on display for others to pick apart.”
“Then who did you think should see it?” Hermione asked softly.
Draco’s eyes met hers, unblinking. “Just me,” he murmured. “And a few others… people who might understand.”
“You said I could see it tonight—if I was willing to stay.”
Draco tilted his head slightly, a graceful acknowledgment. “And I meant it,” he replied, his voice measured. “I wouldn’t have shared Alistair’s story if I didn’t believe you were someone who could appreciate its depth.” His gaze lingered on her, intent. “But you made it clear you don’t have time, so perhaps there’s no point discussing it further.”
A strange pang of longing stirred within her, an inexplicable urge to glimpse what lay hidden beneath that parchment, to see through Alistair’ eyes, if only for a moment. The thought flitted through her mind before she could suppress it: What would it feel like, to be so cherished that even a fragment of your memory would be guarded so fiercely?
"I think it’s time for a drink," Draco muttered absently, almost as though speaking to the room rather than to her. He turned his head slightly, gaze fixing on a precise point just beyond Hermione’s shoulder. A soft pop interrupted the stillness, and there, as if summoned by Draco’s unspoken command, Mopkin stood there, intelligent eyes and a bowed posture.
Hermione frowned, trying to decipher what she had just witnessed. Draco hadn’t even spoken his name—hadn’t made the slightest sound to summon him—yet the elf had appeared as if summoned by thought alone.
“Bring Miss Granger and me something to wet our throats with,” Draco said, his tone casual but carrying an underlying command.
The elf bowed again—once, deeply—before vanishing as soundlessly as he’d come. Hermione straightened from where she’d been leaning against the table’s edge, her eyes following the space where the elf had stood.
“You’re taking good care of your house-elf,” she remarked, a hint of challenge in her tone.
Draco turned back to her, expression impassive. “Actually,” he said, idly running his fingers through his hair, dishevelling the neatly combed strands, “He takes good care of me, and this house.” There was a faint smile, almost imperceptible. “I don’t get the chance to be here often. Mopkin, on the other hand, values the house and… my collection.”
For a moment, Hermione stared at him, caught off guard. Of course, she thought, chastising herself. Draco’s primary residence was in France; she knew that. It was strange to think she’d momentarily forgotten. But something about his manner here—the ease with which he moved through these rooms, the sense of ownership and familiarity—had made it seem as if this place were more than just a secondary dwelling.
Her gaze slipped almost absently to his hand. He had been twisting a ring around his finger, a glimmer of silver catching in the dim light.
“Are you the only one staying here?” The question slipped out before she could stop it.
Draco turned his head, meeting her eyes squarely. “You could say that,” he replied softly. “Every time I return, it’s a comfort to know I have a place to come back to. Somewhere that’s… mine.”
The words were spoken without self-pity, yet something in them made Hermione’s chest tighten. Mine. The word hung between them, resonating with a note of loneliness she hadn’t expected to hear. She hesitated, then pushed forward with the question she hadn’t meant to ask at all.
“Does your wife know about this?”
The moment the words left her lips, Hermione inwardly winced. Why had she said that? Why, of all the things she could have asked, had that been the one to slip out?
Draco didn’t react immediately. When he did, it was with a low, incredulous laugh, something almost dangerous flashing in his eyes. “Does this look like a place I’m trying to hide, Granger?” he asked softly, leaning in just slightly. “Of course, she knows.”
It threw Hermione off-balance, made her feel as though she were glimpsing something fragile and private that she shouldn’t be privy to. She cleared her throat, looking away.
Astoria Greengrass. The name floated through Hermione’s mind, accompanied by a vague memory of the elegant woman she had seen only in passing at Ministry events. Reserved, polished, perpetually composed. The last time Hermione had seen them together had been at the Minister’s birthday celebration—a brief, distant glimpse of a couple who seemed to glide effortlessly through the social sphere. She remembered the way they had stood side by side, perfect in their poise.
For a fleeting, irrational moment, she had been envious, envious of what she had perceived as a smooth, unmarred life, while her own marriage was fraying at the seams.
She shook herself, banishing the unwelcome memory. But before she could formulate a response, a pair of crystal glasses appeared with a soft, chiming sound, and a slender bottle of deep red wine materialized between them. The label gleamed richly in the candlelight, embossed with delicate silver filigree. It was, without a doubt, a bottle that whispered of long cellars and a pedigree Hermione could only guess at.
Draco lifted one brow, his expression almost amused as he took in her reaction. “Do I even need to ask whether you like red?”
“Not quite,” she murmured, lips quirking despite herself. “But are you sure you want to waste something this fine on me?”
The corner of his mouth tugged upward, a hint of the old, familiar arrogance making his gaze gleam. “Who said anything about waste?”
He uncorked the bottle with a deft twist, the soft pop echoing in the stillness. The deep, garnet liquid swirled smoothly into the glasses, filling the space between them with a fragrant warmth. When he offered her a glass, their fingers brushed for just an instant—a fleeting contact, almost imperceptible, yet it sent a ripple of awareness through her.
“To—” Hermione began, but the words faltered. What was there to toast? To old memories? To new enigmas?
“To Alistair Malfoy. He deserves it tonight.” Draco supplied quietly, his eyes never leaving hers. He raised his glass, and after a heartbeat’s hesitation, she did the same.
The wine was exquisite—dark and velvety, with a complexity that lingered on the tongue, teasing out hints of spice and something elusive, almost like regret.
Hermione lowered her glass slowly, meeting Draco’s gaze over the rim. “Well, at least one thing’s clear,” she murmured.
“And what’s that?” he asked.
“You do have good taste,” she said lightly, a smile hovering at the edges of her lips.
Draco’s answering smile was brief but real, a glimmer of something more genuine than the sardonic curve she was accustomed to. “Would you like to read one of the letters?” he asked after a stretch of silence, the question slipping out softly, almost like a breath. He tilted his head slightly, gesturing with a subtle nod towards the pile of fragile, faded papers scattered at the far end of the table. “There are plenty. Go ahead, choose one.”
Hermione hesitated only for a moment before stepping around him, the stem of her wine glass balanced delicately between her fingers. She could feel his gaze following her movements as she approached the pile, his attention like a weight at her back.
“Are they all correspondence with his lover?” she murmured, a note of uncertainty threading through her voice as she reached for one of the letters.
“Why don’t you find out for yourself?” Draco’s response was light, but there was something layered beneath it—a challenge, a hint of amusement. “And read it aloud, if you’re so inclined.”
She shot him a quick, narrowed glance, trying to decipher the intention behind his words. Was this another game? A test of sorts? With Draco, she never knew. But curiosity had already sunk its teeth into her. She turned back to the letters, selecting one at random, feeling the brittle texture of the parchment beneath her fingertips.
Draco’s smile vanished. He went still, his attention narrowing sharply on the letter she’d chosen. Slowly, almost thoughtfully, he raised his glass to his lips. The liquid within caught the flickering light, casting fleeting shadows across his features as he stared at the parchment with an intensity.
“Shall I?” she murmured softly, as if breaking a spell. The letter felt fragile in her hands, as though it might dissolve at the mere brush of breath.
“Please,” Draco replied, his voice low, the sound almost swallowed by the surrounding quiet. “By all means.”
Hermione took a steadying breath, then set her glass aside, gently unfolding the delicate paper. The scent of aged ink drifted up, mingling with the musty sweetness of old parchment. As she smoothed out the creases, her eyes swept over the lines of dark, elegant handwriting. Unlike the earlier trick Draco had played, the parchment wasn’t blank. It was filled with a fevered scrawl, the letters slanting dramatically, as if the writer’s hand had trembled with some barely contained emotion.
Taking another breath, Hermione began to read aloud, her voice slipping softly into the stillness of the room.
“My sweet lunaria,” she read, the name whispering through the quiet like a caress. The words were wrought with a kind of desperation, a yearning that felt almost palpable. “How I long to speak with you again. The nights are endless without your laughter to chase away the dark. I have become a hollow echo in these halls, a shade of the man I once was.”
Hermione’s gaze flicked up, briefly catching Draco’s eyes before she continued. There was a stillness in him now, a tautness that hadn’t been there before.
“Every corner of this house is haunted by your absence,” she went on, her voice a murmur, “every shadow a reminder of what I have lost. I search for you in my dreams, but you are always just out of reach, your hand slipping through mine like smoke.”
“I am undone without you, my love. If I could tear apart the veil between us, if I could find a way to pull you back to me… I would give up everything. My name, my blood… even the very magic that binds me to this earth.”
Silence followed her final words, thick and oppressive. The parchment seemed to tremble slightly in her hands, or perhaps it was just her imagination. She glanced up, finding Draco watching her with a strange, inscrutable expression.
“Well?” he asked softly, almost a murmur, as if unwilling to break the delicate atmosphere that had settled over them.
Hermione blinked, caught off guard by the emotion simmering beneath his calm facade. “It’s… more like a confession than a letter,” she whispered. “He’s confessing to his own obsession. As if as if he’s apologizing for it.”
Draco’s lips curved faintly, though the smile didn’t reach his eyes. “A lover’s apology, perhaps,” he agreed quietly. “But one without the chance for absolution.”
The weight of his words seemed to press down on her, heavy and unrelenting. Hermione lingered over the parchment, her eyes tracing the words with a strange sense of reverence. There was madness in them, that much was clear, but what kind of madness? Wasn’t loving someone to such extremes already a kind of lunacy? She knew what it was like to be fearless in the face of war, brave enough to die for victory and the ideals they had fought for. But for love? She had never felt that brand of unhinged devotion, not for Ron or for anyone else. That wild, all-consuming passion that blurred the line between sacrifice and destruction—it was foreign to her.
“I wonder what it is you see,” Draco’s voice interrupted, low and laced with curiosity. She looked up, startled. He had shifted in his seat without her noticing, and now stood beside her, studying her expression with the same intensity she had given the letter.
“I’m just trying to make sense of it,” she replied, placing the fragile parchment back atop the pile as if handling something more volatile than ink and paper. Her fingers lingered on the brittle edges for a moment longer before withdrawing. “Trying to understand.”
“Don’t bother,” he said dismissively, pouring himself another glass of wine. His movements were unhurried, almost languid, but there was something tightly coiled in his posture, some unspoken wariness. “I spent years dissecting his words, searching for meaning in every fevered sentence, and still, I found nothing but the echo of a broken mind. Sometimes understanding is a fool’s errand.”
“Maybe.” She picked up her own glass and took a deliberate sip, letting the rich taste settle on her tongue. “But it doesn’t stop me from wanting to try.”
Draco regarded her for a long moment, the amber liquid in his glass swirling slowly as he tilted it thoughtfully. Then he shrugged, a faint, almost rueful smile tugging at his lips. “Of course not. I remember you never leave any question unanswered, no matter how trivial—or dangerous.”
“Some questions aren’t dangerous,” Hermione pointed out, raising an eyebrow. “Like whether there’s a photograph of him somewhere. That’s harmless curiosity.”
Draco’s smile tightened. “There was a likeness of Alistair once—a portrait, I think—but it’s been lost, perhaps deliberately.” His gaze drifted to the shadowed corners of the room, where darkness pooled like ink.
“That’s a shame,” she said softly, genuinely meaning it. “It would be easier to understand him if I could see his face.”
A faint, almost derisive laugh escaped Draco. “Would it? Do you think madness is etched into bone and sinew, that a face can tell you anything worth knowing?” He shook his head, taking a long drink. A smile played at the corner of his lips, half mocking, half serious. “But I’ll make it easier for you, he looked like me.”
Hermione’s lips twitched despite herself, and she let her gaze travel over his features. “Why am I not surprised? Every man in your family must be born as the shadow of the last.”
“Give me a break, Granger,” he said, chuckling softly. “But if we’re going to nitpick, at least I’m the handsomest shadow.”
Hermione nearly rolled her eyes, fighting a smile. “I don’t think I’m willing to argue the finer points of your family’s attractiveness.”
“No?” he drawled, an almost playful glint sparking in his eyes. “Pity. I was looking forward to defending my unparalleled good looks.”
She blinked, caught off-guard by the simplicity of his answer. Then, almost involuntarily, her gaze drifted over his features, the angular cheekbones, the sharp cut of his jaw. A face carved from old family lines, familiar in its haughtiness and symmetry. Of course, he would look like the man in the letters. The past seemed to echo through him, etched into the very planes of his face.
“Let’s just say you’ve been… blessed by centuries of selective breeding,” Hermione quipped, arching an eyebrow at him. “And leave it at that.”
“Selective breeding?” Draco repeated, feigning a look of horror. “That’s the most backhanded compliment I’ve ever received, Granger. I think you just managed to insult every Malfoy who’s ever lived.”
“Really?” Hermione shot back, unable to keep the amusement from her voice. “Well, if that’s true, I suppose I should say something even worse.”
Draco’s eyes danced with silent laughter, and for a moment, the tension between them seemed to melt away, replaced by something lighter, more reminiscent of their younger selves—banter tinged with a kind of cautious camaraderie. It was strange to stand here, sipping wine in the dim light, sparring with Draco Malfoy of all people, about a man long dead and a love lost to time.
For a moment, the silence between them felt different, less a barrier and more a pause, a breath held before something unnamed.
Hermione broke it first, glancing away, back to the pile of letters. “So, you don’t have a portrait of Alistair, but you have his words… his desperation…” Her fingers ghosted over the crumbling edges of the envelopes, and she looked up again, brow furrowing slightly. “What drove you to find all of this? To piece it together?”
Draco’s expression shifted, something flickering behind his eyes, something guarded, cautious. “Family legacy,” he said quietly, almost as if reciting a well-worn phrase. “We all have ours. I just chose to dig a little deeper than most.”
It wasn’t a real answer, not entirely. But Hermione knew better than to press. Instead, she nodded, letting the thought linger between them. “And the portrait… the one of his lover?”
He hesitated, his gaze darkening. “That’s different. Alistair’s letters were meant for her, they’re full of half-mad devotion, yes, but there’s… something pure in it. Something that’s his and hers alone. The portrait is more complicated. I keep it out of respect for what they shared.” His mouth tightened, and he looked away, almost uncomfortable. “There’s a darkness to it, something even more obsessive.”
His gaze met hers again, and for a fleeting moment, Hermione saw something raw and unguarded flicker there. Then it was gone, hidden behind the polished veneer of nonchalance.
“You’re surprisingly introspective tonight,” she remarked, her voice softer.
“And you’re surprisingly tolerant of my company,” he countered, his lips quirking into a faint, sardonic smile. “Tell me, Granger—what keeps you here, lingering in a place you claim not to have time for?”
Hermione hesitated, the question catching her off-guard. Why was she still here? She should have been long gone, back home. And yet, something about this place kept pulling her back, like a moth to flame. Maybe it was the allure of mysteries unsolved, or maybe it was something deeper, something she wasn’t ready to name.
She glanced at the last, darkened drops in her glass, and then at her wristwatch. Indeed, for someone so often governed by time’s relentless cadence, she had allowed herself to be lulled into its forgetting.
“I don’t know,” she admitted, a trace of humor flitting in her eyes. “Perhaps the story has cast too strong a spell over me. Though, I suppose it’s naive to hope for a happy ending. Such tragedies often mirror reality more than we’d like.”
Draco’s expression softened imperceptibly. “Yes, reality is rarely merciful.” His gaze lingered on her, thoughtful. “It’s a pity you can’t stay until the midnight to see the portrait as it’s meant to be seen. But, I’m not ungenerous. If you want to leave with a piece of this history, one of his diaries perhaps? Though I warn you, some are far more dismal than what you’ve already heard.”
Hermione raised an eyebrow, caught off-guard by the offer. “Isn’t that… a bit too intimate?” she asked slowly. “He was your ancestor, after all.”
Draco leaned back, crossing one leg over the other with a casual elegance. “And he’s been dead for nearly two centuries. I doubt he cares what happens to his musings now.”
“But your family—” she began, eyes narrowing slightly as if trying to decipher the riddle he always seemed to present. “Would they really approve of you giving away something so valuable?”
A ghost of a smile flickered at the corners of his mouth. “It’s rather endearing that you think my family still has the slightest concern for Alistair Malfoy’s legacy. Believe me, I’m the only one who cares enough to keep the memory of the mad Malfoy from vanishing into obscurity.”
Hermione tilted her head, curiosity glimmering in her gaze. “And making it a public performance—does that honor him, or obscure him?”
Draco’s gaze grew distant for a moment, as if surveying some unseen landscape beyond the walls of the room. “Tears of the Moon is… a particular project,” he said finally, choosing his words with care. “I wanted the world to see him, not for the broken man he was, but for the brilliance, the tragedy. A romantic myth, rather than a cautionary tale. And for that, I needed a master of illusion, someone who could capture the story as I envisioned it.”
“Thaddeus Alderborne,” Hermione murmured, recognition dawning. She could suddenly see the kindly old theatre owner, a man with eyes that seemed to have seen too much and yet still found delight in every flicker of drama. He had arranged her seats himself, guiding her to the perfect view with the gracious air of one bestowing a rare treasure.
Draco nodded slowly. “An old friend of the family,” he confirmed. “He understood what I wanted to achieve. I wanted Alistair remembered, but remembered beautifully, tragically. A hero of the night, rather than a madman raving at the moon.”
The memory of that night unfurled in Hermione’s mind like a flower in the dark. The heavy velvet curtains, the murmur of the audience, the shadowed figure slipping into the seat beside her with that unmistakable profile, Draco Malfoy, intruding on her solitude with all the ease of a man stepping into his rightful place.
She blinked away the recollection, focusing on the present. “So, I can really have one of his diaries?”
“Yes, Granger,” Draco said with a soft, almost amused sigh. “Like I just offered.”
There was a surreal quality to the moment, the offer of something so deeply personal, bound in the cracked leather of time, passed across the space between them as casually as a conversation over wine. Hermione hesitated, glancing at the pile of delicate volumes, each one imbued with the essence of a life long gone. Finally, she reached out, her fingers brushing lightly over the covers until she chose a small, unassuming diary.
“Thank you,” she said, as she picked one up. The leather was cool beneath her fingertips, scarred and cracked by the passage of time. “I’ll treat it with the respect it deserves.”
Draco’s expression shifted, something fleeting, like a thought half-formed and then discarded. He turned his gaze back to the scattered letters, absently swirling the remnants of his drink. “Just be careful what you dig up,” he murmured. “Some secrets refuse to stay buried.”
His words hung in the air between them, weighted with the kind of caution only the truly wary could understand. But Hermione merely nodded, a faint, knowing smile curving her lips. “I’ve never been one to shy away from the forbidden.”
“Ah, yes,” Draco said, his tone laced with something close to admiration. “The insatiable Gryffindor curiosity, draped in the guise of courage.”
“Or perhaps it’s just a scholar’s instinct,” Hermione countered, a spark of mischief in her gaze.
“Perhaps,” he allowed, his mouth twitching into a smile.
Then, with one swift decisive motion, Hermione slipped the diary into her bag, a subtle gesture of reclaiming control. She straightened, shoulders squared as if casting off some unseen weight. "Well, I should take my leave."
He inclined his head with a small, graceful nod toward the door, a gesture almost reverent in its formality. “Allow me to escort you."
One last glance swept the room before she turned to leave, her gaze lingering on the shadowed corners and towering shelves as if imprinting them into memory. The magic of the place seemed to hum beneath her skin—a quiet, elusive song that stirred something deep within her. It was odd to think that Draco Malfoy, of all people, had built something so…otherworldly. How had he managed to create this sanctuary of whispers and half-forgotten spells, something so achingly beautiful it seemed almost alive?
"I must admit, you surprised me," Draco murmured as they moved towards the door, his voice breaking the silence like a ripple across still water.
Hermione arched a brow, curious despite herself. “Surprised you? How so?”
“A great many things,” he replied, his tone contemplative. “The fact that you came at all, for instance. But more than that, I see now that my assumptions were… gravely misplaced.”
The heavy door groaned softly as he pushed it open, stepping back with a slight inclination of his head. She hesitated briefly before passing through, acknowledging his courtesy with a fleeting nod.
“You’ve formed opinions about me?” Hermione queried lightly, the lilt of her voice teasing as she glanced at him. “Now I’m intrigued. Do share.”
“I imagine I’ll have to revise all of them after tonight,” Draco said wryly, a shadow of humor playing at his lips. “But I’m sure you’ve had your own thoughts. Everyone does.”
Hermione’s brow furrowed ever so slightly. She’d certainly had thoughts—opinions formed in the crucible of war and aftermath, shaped by memories of his cold sneer and cutting words. Yet, as she stood beside him now, those old images seemed to blur at the edges, their clarity dissolving. She had never expected to find herself in this position—engaged in a civil, almost pleasant conversation with the man she’d once considered an enemy. The realization unsettled her more than she cared to admit.
“You’re right,” she said slowly, as if tasting the truth of the words for the first time. “I suppose I’ll have to reconsider mine as well.”
She hadn’t anticipated that he would walk her out himself. She’d expected Mopkin, just as before. But here he was, his presence a subtle, steadying force beside her as they made their way to the entrance.
Outside, the night spread out like a velvet tapestry, the house bathed in the cool, ethereal glow of moonlight. Hermione paused for a moment, lifting her gaze to the sky. The moon hung high above them, casting its silvered light over the grounds. She wondering what sort of secrets the parchment left behind in the library might hold. What incantations, what stories could be coaxed to life under such a light? But the answers, she knew, would not be hers to grasp—not tonight.
"One last question," Hermione said abruptly, turning her gaze back to Draco, who lingered in the doorway like some watchful sentinel.
“As if you haven’t asked enough already,” he drawled softly, though there was no bite to his tone.
She ignored the quip, her expression thoughtful. “I just want to understand, why all of this?” Her hand gestured vaguely, encompassing the house, the revelations, the unexpected turn their conversation had taken. “Why did you feel the need to share it all?”
Draco’s face shifted in the moonlight, his expression pensive. “Because you wanted to know the story,” he said simply.
“Yes,” she agreed, “But you didn’t have to tell me. Don’t mistake me, I’m grateful. But it was… surprising.”
“Unexpected, given our history,” he murmured, almost to himself. A strange, faraway look flickered across his face, gone as quickly as it had appeared. “But that’s exactly why.”
Hermione’s gaze softened, curiosity melting into something warmer. “I don’t judge you anymore,” she said quietly, as if confessing a secret. “In case you wondered.”
“I know,” Draco replied, his voice low and steady. “Otherwise, you wouldn’t be here, would you?”
“And yet,” she pressed gently, “After all these years, I can’t help but find your behavior… strange.”
Draco folded his hands behind his back, his posture suddenly formal. “All I can say, Granger, is that Alistair Malfoy isn’t the only one who carries the weight of regret.” His gaze turned distant, shadowed. “And the burden of remorse it lingers, often far beyond appearances."
Hermione felt something stir within her—a flicker of empathy, perhaps, or a shared recognition of burdens carried alone. But before she could respond, he continued.
"I don’t have the power to rewrite the past, nor the magic to erase what’s been done.” he continued, voice softening almost imperceptibly. "But let’s say I’m done pretending none of it ever happened.”
Hermione tilted her head slightly, her curiosity piqued. “What are you talking about?”
A faint, almost amused smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “You’re a clever witch, Granger,” he said, his tone shifting abruptly, as though his words carried a private edge. “It doesn’t suit you to ask questions you already know the answer to.”
The wind swept between them, cool and restless. Hermione blinked, momentarily unsettled by his sudden shift. She hadn’t expected the conversation to veer like this, slipping between clarity and something far more cryptic.
Draco, without looking at her, tilted his head toward the sky, as though finding some solace in the cold expanse of stars. “I suppose,” he began, almost absentmindedly, “You’ll want to leave before it gets too late.”
Hermione’s hand tightened on her bag as she nodded, unsure of what more to say. There was a weight between them, something unspoken that hung in the air like a spell left incomplete.
“Thank you again for sharing the story,” she said, her voice quieter, laced with a kind of finality.
He didn’t meet her eyes, but his words came softly, as though acknowledging something they both understood but wouldn’t say aloud. “It was a pleasure,” he replied, his tone calm, steady—yet carrying with it an undercurrent of something Hermione couldn’t quite grasp.
And for the first time, Hermione felt as though she could leave Draco Malfoy’s presence without the weight of judgment or mistrust.
Perhaps that, too, was a kind of magic.
The moment Hermione crossed the threshold into her home, her eyes were drawn to the chaos on the dining table, a veritable testament to Ron's haphazard foray into the kitchen. Piles of unwashed dishes and remnants of meals lay strewn about, a silent witness to his indifference. Her eyes then landed on Ron, who lay sprawled on the sofa, his deep slumber punctuated by the occasional soft snore.
A soft sigh escaped her lips, a sound tinged with both weariness and resignation. With a flick of her wand, she set the mess on the dining table into motion, the dishes gliding away toward the kitchen, settling with a quiet clatter in the sink.
Deciding it was time to make her presence known, Hermione dropped her bag onto the floor with a deliberate thud. The sound echoed through the stillness, reverberating against the walls like a herald of her return, enough to rouse Ron from his slumber.
“‘Mione?” His voice was thick with sleep, punctuated by a slight rustle as he stirred.
Hermione hesitated, hanging her coat on the rack as she considered her answer. “Yes,” she replied, the word hanging in the air between them.
“What took you so long?” Ron’s inquiry was casual, but there was an underlying tension that hinted at his growing frustration with her absences.
She turned to face him fully, noting the disheveled state of his hair and the redness creeping into his cheeks. He looked older, more worn than she remembered, and her heart twisted at the sight. “I…” she started, her voice faltering for a moment. “I met a friend.”
Ron’s gaze flickered toward her, but he quickly diverted it, his interest waning as he returned to the familiarity of the sofa. “Yeah? Hope you had fun.”
The casual dismissal stung more than she expected. A familiar pain shot through her stomach, a tightness that had become all too common since their marriage had begun to fray at the edges. Disappointment washed over her, leaving her throat dry and her heart heavy.
For a fleeting moment, Hermione considered revealing the truth about Draco Malfoy. But in Ron’s disinterested demeanor, she saw a reflection of their unraveling bond.
She took one last look at Ron, feeling an odd mix of love and heartache. As she turned toward the stairs, the words tumbled out before she could contain them. “Yes, Ron. I had a lot of fun.”
And in that moment, she truly meant it.