i miss you in the same ways i hated you

He was forcing the air out of her lungs.

Hermione wasn't quite sure how Draco Malfoy was doing it, but he definitely had been making it difficult for her to breathe. It was his thing, after all; he had done it before, twelve years old and taunting her with a you'll be next, mudbloods , seventeen years old with a split lip and loathing in his silver eyes when he whispered a command against her ear, a take your knickers off, Granger that still plagued her half a decade later.

When the scorching words echoed inside her head, shattering any illusions of sleep the moon and midnight sky promised, she had often (reluctantly) wondered if it still plagued him, too. In his cold, dark cell, she wondered if he remembered saying it at all—or how easily (quickly) she had obeyed, slipping her underwear off, her gasp resounding across what was left of their old Potions classroom when he pushed his way in.

She wondered, too, if he despised her even more for having been the last person to touch him before being imprisoned (alone) for the rest of his life.

"I know there are a lot of questions," Robards commenced after Kingsley's timid assistant secured the privacy wards in their conference room, his tone gruff and impatient as ever. "And the Minister and myself will answer what we deem necessary, but, as always, you'd do well to remember the confidentiality clauses you were bound to when you took on the title of Auror."

Harry slid his right hand off the large, sleek, white-oak table; his fingers gently circled Hermione's wrist, squeezing three times like they were still trainees in need of silent encouragement to keep going. To keep surviving.

She knew she had to find her breath again, but the relentless, grey storms in Draco's narrowed eyes made it difficult to force her lungs to function again. Especially when his gaze had flickered to where Harry's hand had disappeared, like he could see through the wood and he was still not above ridiculing and judging them for how openly they displayed their weaknesses.

The situation was much worse by Lucius Malfoy finding her brown eyes almost as frequently as his son.

"They know their positions, Gawain," Kingsley said to his Head of the DMLE as he leaned against his chair, arms crossing over his broad chest. To the other occupants in the room, he looked every bit a Minister for Magic that was not afraid to roll up the sleeves of his expensive robes and put in the work where it was needed. To Hermione, he looked just as he did in the ancient, dusty rooms of Grimmauld Place—like a soldier, a strategist, a survivor.

But now a liar, too.

"Five years ago," he continued, "the wizengamot held a private sentencing for the Malfoy family. A selected few were allowed in aside from the council, those being two members of the Daily Prophet , myself, and Harry Potter. The world demanded Death Eaters to pay their reparations with blood, but we needed the Malfoys elsewhere. The wizengamot proceeded with their original verdict: life in Azkaban for Draco and Lucius Malfoy and three years of house arrest for Narcissa Malfoy. It was the sentence we gave to those two reporters. And it was the sentence they passed on to you, the public."

Hermione tugged her hand free from beneath Harry's.

At the hollow center of their conference table, a projection appeared. It was the front page of an old Daily Prophet she knew every word of: DRACO AND LUCIUS MALFOY, SENTENCED TO LIFE IN AZKABAN FOR WAR CRIMES.

"Once the reporters were escorted out of the hearing, we gave the Malfoys a choice: a life of limited freedom and magic in France, forbidden from ever returning to England, or twenty years of exile, guaranteed a sentence reduction if they aided our undercover Aurors and the Ministère des Affaires in tracking down fugitive Death Eaters in that region."

Sat at Hermione's right, Ron's palms turned into white fists when Harry cleared his throat as he waved a wrist at the static photograph of Draco Malfoy strapped and chained to a chair, his real conviction darkening the purple underneath his eyes like it weighed the same as the false sentencing the newspapers printed. In its place emerged another old Prophet article Hermione was familiar with: ESCAPED DEATH EATER RABASTAN LESTRANGE CAUGHT AT LAST.

"As you know," said Harry, the corner of his jaw ticking when his Aurors looked past the projection, shadows of the same betrayal Hermione felt flashing in their eyes, too, "retired Auror Bernard Williamson was awarded an Order of Merlin: First Class after Rabastan Lestrange's capture. While Williamson did effectively lead a small team of our Aurors across allied countries, Lestrange's apprehension was aided by Draco and Lucius Malfoy. If it hadn't been for their contribution, Rabastan would still be on the run alongside his brother Rodolphus, whom he later gave up to the Ministry in exchange for a shorter sentence."

Ron scoffed, something like cowardly dickhead leaving his mouth. Hermione doubted it was directed at either Lestrange brother, even if his blue eyes were zeroed in on the changing Wanted posters in the projection.

"If Williamson received an Order of Merlin—" Although Hermione had struggled with noticing anything else other than Draco Malfoy materialized after five years of forcing him behind an occluded space, she had not missed the expression on Blaise's face when he had seen the ghost, too. Like a shield charm made of flesh and bone, Blaise knew how to conceal his emotions behind a flawless mask; to see the shock, the anger, the deception fray the edges of it now fueled Hermione's, too. "What did the Malfoys get for catching the Lestranges?"

Robards aimed a glare at Harry first but the latter was glued to the Wanted posters. Hermione knew he was thinking of Sirius; it was an instinctive reflex to want to reach out to him, dip her fingers into his fisted palm until his fingers relaxed, rest her chin against his shoulder, or clutch on to his elbow as he reeled himself back in from the nightmares that plague him even when he was awake.

Before she reacted, however, Robards grit out, "Rabastan Lestrange did indeed help us apprehend his brother, but do you think we completely acquitted his transgressions because he pointed a finger at another Death Eater and murderer, Auror Zabini? The best he got was an hour a day without chains, but subdued by a potion in case he tried to kill yet anotherguard."

Translation: a monster doesn't stop being a monster because he catches one, too. The Lestrange brothers had more blood on their hands than Draco and Lucius Malfoy, that was true, but they were still marked by the same master.

They would always be guilty of the same crimes.

Hermione shifted in her seat when the silver in Draco's eyes grew colder.

"The Malfoys have proven themselves useful to whomever they are lent to," spoke Head Auror Luke Jasper, hazel eyes glittering as he grinned at the foreign colleagues now turning their attention to him. When he caught Hermione's eye, his mirth turned sharp. "That's why the French sent them over to MACUSA. They were the ones to find Travers, tracing him back to that Te-Moak reservation. And that's why I have brought them here alongside my team, to continue putting their expertise to good use."

"Was that before or after our Ministry warned you about Atlas Greyback and the pack he was putting together?" Hermione grimaced when she heard Ron. She should've known it was too much to expect him to have control over his frustration, especially when faced with arrogant American Aurors and his childhood nemesis. "Last year we told MACUSA Greyback was recruiting, searching for fugitive scum that had spread to your country, but your lot refused to listen. You refused to work with us because—oi, what was the reason again, Harry?"

"MACUSA wasn't afraid of werewolves," supplied Miles Bulstrode, crossing his muscular arms over his chest as he glared at Jasper. "Not when you've tamed deadlier beasts than that. I mean, those were your words, weren't they, sir ?"

"Now you have three dead Aurors," Ron did not hesitate, ignoring the threatening glint in Harry's green eyes that told him to back off. "Now you turned our issue into an International Confederation one."

Having been set on never saving Ron and Harry from anything ever again, Hermione was once again victim to her instincts. This impulse had been formed in childhood, too; the one where she would always pull those two out of the deep end, even if it meant diving in after them. As such, she found herself focusing on the projection at the center of the conference table. In a second, the Wanted posters became a livestream of Fenrir Greyback's cell (a charm she helped George and Lee Jordan perfect after having introduced them to trashy reality telly).

Just like Robards turned away from Harry, Head Auror Jasper and his team redirected their scowls to the video. In tensed silence they watched Greyback stop from scratching names into the stone with his fingernails; in the next moment, he exposed long, sharp canines when a team of guards entered his cell, his howl inaudible from the livestream, but Hermione picked up on how the guards recoiled at the noise.

"Greyback has been carving the names of his children into that wall since Atlas tried to break him out last year," Hermione found her voice, the sound strained like she had not used it for ages rather than in an hour. Draco's attention had deviated for a moment, but it was back on her. She zeroed in on Head Auror Jasper, who sat on the former's left. "It isn't for sentimental reasons, of course. They're reminders of what is owed to him."

"A life for a life," said Jasper, his previous mirth dissolving the distaste he felt for her fellow Aurors.

She nodded. "We tracked those names and the only surviving offspring is Atlas. It not only makes him the alpha of the Greyback pack, but the one bound to collect from those who owe his father a debt. And that is the major question: who owes Fenrir Greyback a life? If we answer that, we can stop Atlas and his pack from killing any more innocent people."

"The Dark Lord owes Greyback a debt."

Take your knickers off, Granger.

Come for me.

I never wanted you to die.

Those were among the last words Hermione heard fall from Draco Malfoy's lips. After five years of trying to forget how he sounded, looked, and tasted when he said them, she was not expecting to hear him say something new. Nor was she expecting to feel the same thrill shooting up her spine upon hearing his voice again, like he was wrapping a gentle hand around her throat once more, sliding back into her after pulling out just to have her beg for everything he had left.

He wanted Hermione to look at him.

That much she guessed when the unforgiving storms in his eyes turned into calm winter rains.

"He demanded servants," said Draco, "and that included the heirs of his original followers. Greyback was nothing more than a halfbreed to the Dark Lord, but he still produced monsters for the cause. He took Greyback's children, sent them to war, and they were the first to die in the frontlines."

"Voldemort is dead," Ron reminded with a snarl, his hand coming down on Hermione's shoulder like he was holding her in place. As if he knew—as if he feared —she would follow the sound of Draco's voice like a siren call.

Right into the deep end. Again.

"Smart as ever, Weasley," Draco sneered, glancing back at where his fingers touched Hermione. Then, as Lucius Malfoy shifted in his seat, bringing his pale hands to rest over the table, she watched Draco revert to a ghost. "Death Eaters," he added, devoid of the intensity that sparked memories in Hermione's mind. "They owe Greyback the debt now."

"With their master dead, these remaining fugitive Death Eaters will follow any monster that promises freedom," Harry sighed as he cast the empty livestream away. He then turned exhausted eyes at his Aurors. "We need to go back to our files and trace links between both Greybacks and other registered packs. From there, we will cross-reference for connections to known Death Eaters."

Miles and the other Aurors stood, nodding firmly at Harry's command.

"We'll have to go through the Head of the DRCMC to get those files," said Blaise, his gaze briefly directed at Draco before turning back to his Head Auror. Hermione noticed he had managed to smooth out any signs of his displeasure aimed at Harry as he spoke to him now. "And she will be a nightmare to convince seeing as a prominent figure petitioned for werewolf registrations to stop being used for DMLE matters."

"When used in a discriminatory context—"

"Auror Granger will speak to the DRCMC," Harry interrupted Hermione, earning him a glare when he then told Blaise, "You can go to Azkaban. Speak to Crabbe Sr. See what information he can give us on Fenrir Greyback."

She yanked the paperwork off the surface of the table. When she scooted her chair back and stood, letting out a murmured curse, Hermione didn't fail to notice Head Auror Jasper grin wickedly at her.

"While your partner thinks MACUSA egotistic enough to belittle a werewolf attack," he said, "we in New York were perhaps too trusting in your abilities as a peacemaker, Auror Granger. After all, your reputation proceeds you. Hermione Granger: war hero, brightest witch of her age, revered Auror, and an advocate for all wizard and creature-kind. If anyone could do the impossible, it surely would be you ."

"Are you taking the piss?" demanded Ron, his freckled face a bright, furious red. He pushed his chair back, an accusatory finger pointed at Jasper and his team. "MACUSA knew Hermione had been attacked by Atlas Greyback."

Jasper didn't lose his grin. "We read the report, Auror Weasley. And it seemed to us like you have a habit of leaving Hermione behind. I mean, you do come back— eventually. Still, usually, something has happened since then, whether that be Atlas Greyback, a snake posing as a celebrated historian, or a burst of dark magic."

"Potter!" growled Robards as Ron lunged for Jasper.

Harry gripped the back of Ron's robes and Hermione brought a palm to the aching, bruised side of her face. She had not reinforced the glamour charm since the morning. As she traced a careful fingertip across her skin, she watched Draco follow the path with his eyes, the violet shades disappearing with a bit of wandless magic.

I never wanted you to die.

The strange, soft glimmer in Draco's gaze reminded Hermione of the way he had said those last six words. Like he meant them.

Like it mattered that she stayed whole.

Hermione turned on her heels as she had done back in Señora Herrera's cafe, walking away from Draco and the expression on his handsome, pale features that made her believe he had been waiting all this time for her to find him again.

______

Maybe she was a coward.

She was well aware of all of her faults, of course, but Hermione felt the sting of the word more sharply as it carved itself down her spine. Plenty of times she took a deep breath, raised her chin, and did the thing that terrified her, but this was different.

This was Draco Malfoy.

There was a time—back before she knew his tongue tasted tangy and sweet like crisp, green apples and the crook of his neck tasted like their own brand of regret—she would have faced him head-on, staring right into those treacherous, storming eyes and cursed him until he forfeited to her courage and magic.

Now Hermione was the one running.

Borrowing the files from the DRCMC had not been difficult or time-consuming for her; while her coworkers loved to tease her about riling up the Heads of other departments by constantly surveying their work and propositioning new, effective, and orderly manners to execute aforementioned work, there was always a grateful, overworked secretary or assistant that owed her favors. She knew the right thing to have done was head back to the bullpen, congregate with those on the Greyback case, and stay until Harry called it a night. But that meant having to look at him, too—at her lying best friend and his self-proclaimed good intentions.

When she got into the lift and found herself at the Atrium, Hermione shrunk the files and tucked them into the pocket of her robes. Every step into the Floo had weighed, like she was leaving fossilized footprints on the sleek, marble floor, but her heart screamed out for her safe haven.

For Scorpius.

She knew he would not be expecting her so early in the evening; during the weekdays, he was accustomed to a glimpse of her through sleepy eyes and the feel of her kiss on both his cheeks before his dreams called for him. So when the Floo burned with emerald flames, signaling an arrival, Hermione almost laughed at the confusion tugging his blonde brows together.

When Scorpius registered that he was indeed seeing her, all curly hair slipping out of a once-pristine bun and gentle, warm, loving eyes, he tossed his crayons, jumped to his little feet, and bellowed as he ran to her, "Mummy!"

"Hello, darling," Hermione breathed, her left hand moving to cup the back of Scorpius' neck as the right pressed him further against herself. When the nightmares of war left her trembling, she often embraced her son like this, like she could burrow him inside her chest to keep him safe from the dark clouds that shadowed her past.

The echo of heels against the tiled floor made Hermione look up from Scorpius' soft, white-blonde hair. Pansy Parkinson was standing at the end of the hall, her eyes sharp like ragged sapphires and her ruby-red lips threatening a snarl Hermione had not seen since their school days.

She knew.

Taking in another quiet breath, Hermione willed herself to take a step back from her child. This newfound space let Scorpius tilt his chin up, big, bright silver eyes glittering as he smiled. If there was anything that could cure the parts of herself that still bled, screamed, and raged, it was that sight—her son happy.

"You've been good for your Aunt Pansy, right?" asked Hermione with a smile of her own, her hands now moving up to rest against his round cheeks. "You know she threatened to stop minding you after your rucksack of contraband put a hole in our roof last week."

"He's a right little heathen," huffed Pansy.

Scorpius turned to her with a pouted bottom lip. "Sorry, Auntie."

"Not you. George ," Pansy clarified with a scoff, rolling her eyes as she smoothed nonexistent wrinkles from her gorgeous and expensive pantsuit. "I swear to you, Granger, that I turned away for one second. I still haven't cracked how George managed to sneak all those products to the kid, but when I do—"

Scorpius let out a loud laugh at the violent, crude gesture Pansy made.

Usually, Hermione would have frowned and reprimanded both for their lack of tact, but instead she let herself smile at the sound, running her thumbs over his cheeks in gentle circles.

"You missed me today, Mummy?" he asked when he turned back to her, his head tilting to the side. "Is that why you're home early?"

"I miss you every second, sweetheart."

Pansy made a gagging noise just as Scorpius scrunched up his nose at the giant kiss Hermione pressed to his forehead. "Kid," she called, "why don't you finish up your homework in your room while your mum gets started on dinner?"

"I thought you were making pasta today, Auntie?"

"Making?"

"Buying, whatever ," huffed Pansy at Hermione's disbelieving snort. "And while Zabini's restaurant sells excellent bolognese, growing little dragons need hearty, homemade meals. At least that's what Mrs. Weasley keeps telling me since the kid tattled on me."

Hermione toed off her boots as Scorpius skipped back to the coffee table, retrieving his belongings. "Scorp didn't tattle," she clarified defensively, " Ronald did. Seeing as he was under the ridiculous impression that his fiancee cooked."

"Yeah, well, now he deserved that lie, didn't he?" Pansy said, following Hermione into the kitchen once Scorpius walked down the hall that led to his bedroom. "And while I do quite fancy his face, Granger, if you told me you rearranged his nose I wouldn't hold it against you."

Blowing out a frustrated breath as she slipped off her robes and draped it over a chair, Hermione said, "I wanted to. Believe me. I should've hit harder during training, but I felt bad for the idiot. Joke's on me now, isn't it?"

Pansy Accoied a bottle of wine from the fridge. Hermione knew she normally turned up her refined nose at the generic stuff she picked up from Tesco, but Pansy was trying to show her solidarity by ingesting the stuff. Oddly enough, Hermione appreciated the effort. It was, after all, how Pansy had slithered her way into their circle, by shattering preconceived notions and old grudges with her specific brand of loyalty.

"It was Zabini, wasn't it?" Hermione took the filled glass from Pansy's outstretched hand. "He told you about Mal—about him ."

"His owl came in after Ron's frantic Floo Call, actually," she said after taking a sip of the red, her nose wrinkling just as Scorpius' had done when Hermione smothered him. She tried for another drink before setting the glass on the wooden table. "I'll tell you this, Granger, he wasn't the least bit terrified of my reaction, but of yours . He seemed to think you'd be lost to him and Potter now that the truth is out."

Hermione slid into a chair, her eyes welling with tears. Anger and agony felt too much alike to deduce which preceded over the other, both wrapping fingers around her heart, sinking claws into the fragile tissue.

"Harry said he kept the secret for Scorpius' sake."

"You don't think that's true?"

"It doesn't matter. It wasn't his choice," she hissed, but a sob escaped her restraint. She pressed a trembling hand against her mouth, forcing the rest to stay in line, to keep quiet so her little boy wouldn't come racing out of his room trying to defeat any hurricane that threatened to uproot her.

Pansy twisted the glass between manicured fingers for a moment, her sharp blue eyes observing, trying to find more than what Hermione already openly wore. Before, when they were young girls, adversaries and opposites of each other, she attempted to discover and create weaknesses to exploit or hurt Hermione with, but now, after three years of friendship, she pulled out what was not being said to help .

"You're right, Granger. It wasn't his choice. Nor was it Ron's," she said, bringing the glass to her ruby-painted lips. When she took a tentative sip of the cheap wine, she then laid out what Hermione did not want to hear: "But you're not really mad at the lie, are you? You're mad you believed it. It was easier that way. To keep your past locked in a cell in Azkaban where no one could get to it. Not even you."

Take your knickers off, Granger.

Come for me.

I never wanted you to die.

"You never asked to see him—" Pansy reached for Hermione's hand, breaking her free from the memory of Draco's lips against her ear, demanding in whispers for her to offer up everything she had left. "If you had, you would've been compelled to tell him he left you with more than just ghosts."

Hermione pressed her free hand against her chest. Beneath the skin and bone, she could feel her twisted, damaged heart calling out for her most cherished possession.

A little boy that was half Malfoy.

"You don't owe him the truth, Granger," continued Pansy, squeezing her fingers once before bringing her hand back to the wine glass. "Salazar knows I wouldn't give it to him, but it's not a secret you can keep forever. You gave the kid your name, but you raised him among lions and snakes. You made us all promise never to reveal his parentage, but even someone blind can see he's a copy of Draco."

Scorpius was all silver eyes and platinum-white hair. But sharp, pale angles and a love for flying, too.

"So what are you really afraid of?"

A wave of new tears spilled down Hermione's cheeks when she looked at Pansy. She didn't have to say it; she knew Pansy had already found the truth hidden behind the anger and the agony stretched out across her expression.

Hermione was terrified of diving off the deep end again.

Right into Draco's arms.

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[[AN:]] Hey, Guys! Sorry for the late update. I promise I AM trying to upload a new chapter once a week, but I'm also trying to adjust to my new work schedule and it isn't going as planned lol. Still! Thank you for reading and leaving such lovely comments! They mean so much to me!

Song: "Playing with Fire (Loving You)" by The Careful Ones.