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For Reasons Never Known	By : ariathel Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Draco/Hermione Views: 4033 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter, and am not making any money off this.

Chapter List
- 1-For Reasons Never Known
- 1
Summary: In the years after Hermione’s parents are murdered, she and Draco meet over their graves. She owed Lucius everything, her life, her children, and her love. She could never forget that.

Words: 3,500+

Rating: PG

Warnings: Character death

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“I never blamed you, you know.”

“Then you’re a fool.”

“Do you blame me?”

He just stared, as though the question had been spoken in Chinese. He was utterly baffled. “Why would I?”

“Then why should I?”

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They didn’t always run into one another here. In the years since their deaths, Hermione came on their respective birthdays and the day they died. Draco only showed up on the latter. The first time she had seen him, Hermione’s heart pounded in her chest. He had to know she was here; her apparition crack had broken the silence like a gunshot. She could hide, and wait for him to leave or acknowledge her, but he did neither, and her courage demanded more.

The thought of a gun made Hermione grip her jacket tighter. It was still spring, and a sunny one at that, but this place seemed to be perpetually damp and dreary on the day of their deaths. It settled in to her bones, and made her feel like an old woman.

She stepped forward, and placed calla lilies on her mother’s grave, a letter on her father’s. Draco just stood there. He didn’t even nod, simply turned and walked away. A moment later, a softer crack of apparition let her know he was gone.

Hermione choked on the bile rising in her. She felt something akin to shame, and hatred churning in her belly. She owed Lucius Malfoy her life, and despised every second of that knowledge.

She was twenty.

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“There’s a difference between self-defense and murder.”

“And there’s a difference between taking a life and not.”

He didn’t respond for a minute, bending down to place a single rose on each grave.

The pink one for her mother laid across the daisies Hermione had already placed, and the yellow for her father rolled a turn or two to rest next to the firewhiskey label she had charmed to adhere to thick cardstock, and placed in front of his gravestone. In between the stones was a picture of a young man, white-blonde hair and sky blue eyes, happily kissing a young woman with a head of riotous strawberry-blonde curls and a light dusting of freckles.

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The year after Hermione turned twenty-three, she brought a bottle of her father’s favorite beer, and a piece of celery and a tomato for her mother, representative of the bloody marys that Carol fell in love with during their week in Cancun.

She spent almost an hour recanting tales of that week in August, not even a full year before her parents’ death. A smile remained on her face the entire time. Even when Draco apparated to the gravesite, she did not stop her stories, her quiet chuckles, or the questions she posed to empty air, knowing they would never be answered.

They remained together at the gravestones for almost ten minutes, before Hermione gave him a polite nod and walked away. His similarities to the man who saved her life brought a quick pang of – something – to her chest.

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“Your father could not have known.”

“And yours…” Hermione let her voice trail off. She didn’t know how to describe the man who had been Draco’s father. “I owe him everything.”

Draco met her eyes, as he so rarely did during their accidental meetings here.

Silence fell, both thick with unspoken words, and heavy with anticipation.

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At twenty-six, Hermione apparated to the graveyard just seconds ahead of Draco. He was stiff, as he gazed down on their gravesites, silently mouthing words. Hermione hung back, allowing him privacy and space. The previous year, she had found a white rose on each grave, but no sign of the blonde. This year, a white narcissus was the flower of choice.

She stepped forward, this time with a seashell from Cancun for each of them. Her sundress left her legs quite cold, but she had apparated here from a beach vacation with her cousins. The formerly frizzy and bushy locks had been hacked off to form a halo of curls that sprung around her head, free of the burdened weight of a foot and a half of hair. Her seashell earrings swayed with the motion of her body, and her toes curled in her flip flops, hoping for a bit of warmth.

Hermione told them about Harry and Ron. Both had joined the Aurors. Harry married Ginny, and Ron was currently dating a French witch who seemed to compliment him in every way.

She purposely avoided all talk of Draco, still unable to get around the lump in her throat when she thought of Lucius.

And so she talked about her infant daughter, Diane.

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“He would agree with me. Lucius was not a good man, and he knew it. His end was nothing but the result of his decisions.”

“He could’ve left me there, and gotten help for himself,” she murmured. “Your mother wouldn’t be a widow.”

She had never once brought Narcissa up. In all actuality, she had never even conversed with him. Insults shouted over wands as children did not count as a conversation, the same way terse comments made out of politeness and necessity as adults were nothing more than that.

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At thirty, Draco brought a tag-along in the form of a blonde child who could not have been anyone but his son. He whispered to the child, words Hermione could not hear. She tuned him out. His words with the boy were his own.

Her own daughter was still only five. Her marriage was already on the rocks, though Hermione knew it would be from the moment she said “I do”. She dutifully told her parents anyway, her heart clenching for a brief moment at the thought of her inevitable divorce.

“’Scuse me,” a tiny voice said, tugging at her pant legs.

Hermione didn’t know how to answer the young child, but she flashed him a brilliant smile anyway.

“Daddy said your mommy and daddy are under here. I came with him ‘cause I’m s’pposed to learn that being mean is bad. Are you here ‘cause of that, too?”

Her mouth mimicked a fish for a second, all the words having fled her head without warning. It took her a moment to regain composure. “I’m here because I need to remember that it’s never too late to change.”

The little boy looked like he was mulling over her words, before turning to Draco. “What’s that mean, daddy?”

Draco picked the young child up, shooting Hermione a polite nod. He appeared to be answering his son, but had wandered far enough away that Hermione could no longer hear him.

She turned back to the gravestones. Yes, it would do her well to never forget that tidbit. When she thought of her daughter, she silently thanked Lucius, grateful that she was able to live long enough to give birth to the beautiful little girl.

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“My mother understands the situation.”

“How does she feel about me?”

Draco didn’t speak for almost a minute.

“She hated you, for a long time. That my father would die, to save your life, was like a slap to the face. He essentially chose you over her.”

Hermione stood still, hands clasped. Tears stung the corner of her eyes. Underneath the cold exterior, Narcissa was still a woman. She had absolutely nothing Hermione envied, with the exception of a love for Lucius that Hermione knew she herself had never felt for anyone. To lose the object of that encompassing feeling must have been devastating.

“I could have apologized, said I was sorry, but it would have been a lie. At the end of the day, I can’t wish I had died so he might have lived.”

She had never uttered those words before. That she could say them to Draco, the very man whose father had, without a doubt, sacrificed his own life to save hers, struck her has unreal. She spared him a glance. At forty-five, she no longer knew the man well enough to gauge his reactions, or facial expressions.

“I wouldn’t be able to wish it either. I had a father, as a boy. He was a father, then; he loved me more than he loved himself. Sometimes I believe that was why he did it. He would have given his life for me, his only child. You were your parents’ only child. They did nothing to deserve what was done to them, and neither of them had the ability or the chance to make that choice, the one to sacrifice themselves for you.”

In a twisted way, she understood.

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At thirty-one, she brought Diane, and was pregnant with her second child. Her marriage had dissolved the month before, as predicted, and neither she nor Diane were sorry to see him go.

Draco brought his son again. She had learned the child’s name was Scorpius. He had a short tuft of blonde hair, bright blue eyes, and smoother features. Diane’s own hair was a more strawberry blonde. The young girl waved to Scorpius timidly, smiling when he waved back.

Neither Hermione nor Draco wore wedding rings this time, though how Hermione knew he had ever had one on was beyond her.

“I’m sorry about Conor,” he said quietly, as they watched their children talk to each other.

“I’m sorry about Astoria,” she responded.

Neither of the two offered up any information about their marital losses, and neither thought to ask the other about them. The chatter of the two children was their only company this time.

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Hermione didn’t have the courage to ask if Narcissa still hated her.

“The ones who murdered my parents have been caught, and duly punished in the court of law.” Her voice was flat. “I used to dream of torturing them, using every curse on them that they inflicted on my parents. It took years of therapy to be able to move on, and to this day, Mind-Healer Jenkins believes my failure to form meaningful relationships stems from that night.”

Draco knew that her use of clinical terms was a method of distancing herself from the reality of her life. While he couldn’t say he had kept up on the details of Hermione Gallagher née Granger, she held a position in his life that he could never forget about.

“Lucius was never a part of those fantasies.”

It shocked him, that she could feel any measure of compassion for his father. One action made from remorse did not excuse him a lifetime of terrible deeds.

He said as much, quietly. This was the longest conversation they had ever held, and in a way, he felt it was necessary.

Hermione stuck her hands in her pockets, searching his eyes. The entire story of that night had never been told to anyone but her mind-healer. Not even Ron and Harry knew of it.

“He was late. His apparition startled the three who were torturing us. They turned away from us for a second, their wands up, and my dad was able to reach out and grab his gun from the nightstand. They must have had no idea what a gun was, because they just left it there. The first one shot was Lucius. He shot two of the other three before the last one was able to cast the killing curse on him. My mother was already nearly unconscious from blood loss, but she was next. Just when the last one pointed their wand at me, your father grabbed my ankle. He apparated us away. I fainted, and when I came to, he was dead.”

It took a lot out of her, to be able to say all of that. Her voice faltered a few times, but she was able to speak, from beginning to end. After, though, she felt a bit freer, like she had unburdened a humongous secret.

And then she waited.

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When they met again, at thirty-seven, Diane was at Hogwarts, as well as Scorpius. The two had both been sorted into Slytherin, and had formed a tight friendship. Jessica was still a few years away, and enjoying her time alone at home.

“Scorpius has a crush on Diane,” Draco said without much fanfare.

Hermione smiled to herself.

“I think Diane is a bit afraid of him. She’s only twelve, and he’s fourteen.”

“He wouldn’t hurt her.” If Hermione knew him better, she would say he was insulted. However, her knowledge of Draco Malfoy would fit in a thimble, and so she felt that presumption was wasted.

“I know that. Try telling that to a teenage girl who’s never had a boy interested in her before.”

“I see.”

“If Scorpius doesn’t tire of waiting for her, she’ll come around eventually.”

Hermione could see the beginning signs in her daughter’s letters, and could only wait and see what would come of this friendship.

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“We’ll never know why he did it. We can guess, and hope, but his reasons died with him.”

There seemed to be nothing left to say. Draco held out his hand. “Would you like to come to my father’s grave with me?”

She smiled, nodding.

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At forty, Hermione noticed, for the first time, signs of aging. Draco had a few smile lines around his mouth and eyes. While they were nowhere near old enough for grey hairs, the whole package hit her like a sucker punch. Draco Malfoy was attractive.

Diane was dating Scorpius, and Hermione longed to mention something to Draco when they met again at the gravesites, but the words didn’t come. Silence was more often than not their companion, whether their visits overlapped by five minutes or forty-five.

Jessica was to be off this year, and could barely contain her happiness. She wavered between hoping to be sorted into Slytherin, like her sister, or Gryffindor, like her mother. Quite a few of the Weasley and Potter clan was in Gryffindor, and she would be surrounded by friends.

Hermione used the time to tell her parents about her children’s activities, while Draco remained characteristically silent.

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At forty-five, Hermione brought her parents a picture of Scorpius and Diane’s wedding. The two were currently on honeymoon in Italy. Diane was hoping to teach at an Italian academy, while Scorpius’ skills as a curse-breaker ensured he could get a job wherever he pleased.

Jessica had been sorted into Gryffindor, and was currently dreaming of professional Quidditch, honing her skills as seeker for the house team.

Hermione wanted to speak to him this time. Before, the silence between the two had been comfortable, familiar, and words never seemed to come right. This time, however, they were practically begging to leave her tongue.

“I never blamed you, you know.”

“Then you’re a fool…”

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When they arrived at the location of Lucius’ grave, Hermione felt her breath catch in her throat, and swallowed thickly.

Draco had nothing to say, but he stepped back to allow Hermione space. She sat, resting her head on her knees, and cried. She had been unable to attend his funeral. Her own injuries had been too intense, and her recovery too precarious, to leave St. Mungo’s. Because he was buried on Malfoy property, she had never been able to visit his grave.

After several minutes, the tears slowed.

“I owe you everything,” she whispered. “You hated me; you cursed my kind, and spent your years doing whatever you could to make me feel inferior. You left a path of destruction and pain wherever you went.” The words were pouring out, and Hermione could only hope Draco didn’t hear her tirade. “You served a master who took perverse pleasure in murdering innocents. You taught your son to be like you.”

She paused. “I think, had you survived the gunshot, you would have redeemed yourself to the world, though I am wholly incapable of hating you anymore. Sometimes I resent you for that. You saved my life, at the expense of yours, and for that, I will never be able to forget you.”

Hermione used the hem of her shirt to dry her eyes, not caring that the gesture was crude. “I have two daughters, because of you. I will thank you, until the day I die, for them. Diane is twenty now, she married your grandson. Jessica is fifteen, and already an amazing seeker. She’s hoping to play professionally, and a lot of people think she can do it.”

She had run out of things to say. Standing, Draco came back to her side and stood quietly for a moment. He was always quiet at gravesites, it seemed, while she derived comfort from speaking to the dead.

He quickly smiled in her direction, a genuine one that highlighted the laugh lines. “So, what do we do now?”

Silence met his question. Hermione had no answer for that.

“I, for one, am tired of conversations over rotting corpses. I think we’ve long since moved beyond the enemies we were as children. We’re adults, and have more in common than one night and three dead bodies. If nothing else, we could talk about Scorpius and Diane.”

Hermione simply grinned. Yes, he was right. Gone was the pointy-nosed Malfoy of her youth. He was not Lucius, who was, at once, everything wrong with the wizarding world, and her savior. He wasn’t Scorpius, who made her daughter’s face light up with happiness and love.

She was tired of being lonely. This attraction to Draco might never lead anywhere, but she felt she owed it to herself to try.

“I think that’s a good idea.”

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At fifty, Hermione stood over her parents’ graves, leaving a few flowers from her own wedding bouquet. Bright oranges, subtle pinks, cheerful yellows had made up her wedding bouquet this time. Her first wedding had been a formal affair, full of muted blues and a long, white dress. Her wedding to Draco Malfoy was the second for both of them, and neither felt the need to be formal. Narcissa had found Hermione a fun, flirty dress that fell to her knees, and held all the colors of a glorious sunrise. Her eyes had sparkled with happiness as she stood next to Draco, dressed in casual robes, surrounded by friends and family.

It had shocked the wizarding world, when an announcement of their engagement had been made. Their history was rehashed for all to read about – both the history between the two of them as children at school, and the night that tied them together.

There were a few more laugh lines around Draco’s eyes. His hair was shoulder length, while hers was still as short as a boy’s. They took their honeymoon in Cancun, where she assured him that the water ran warm and clear, the sun shone brightly, and the alcohol ran freely. She detected a few wrinkles in her own face, but was constantly assured by Narcissa that, even as a muggle-born, she would be nearly eighty before grey hairs began surfacing. It was reassuring.

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At fifty-five, she brought her parents flowers from Jessica’s wedding bouquet. She had married one of Harry’s sons, and retired early from an absolutely amazing career as a seeker. Hermione visited Lucius’ grave afterwards, and told him about how Scorpius and Diane were expecting their second child. Narcissa had moved to Italy to dote on her great-grandchildren, and allow Diane to continue teaching Potions at one of the Italian academies.

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At sixty, Hermione found her first grey hair, and grumbled about it to her mother. Draco just laughed as she used tweezers to yank it out, kissing her lips and telling her that she was a Malfoy now, she would never have to worry about grey hair, if she didn’t want to.

That year, she grew quiet as she realized that, had her parents not been killed, they would surely be dead anyway, of old age. They were muggles. Narcissa could easily live to see another generation of descendants, but her own parents most likely would not have lived to see Jessica’s wedding. Her bi-annual reunion with her cousins had been tense for most of her fifties. Her cousins were old, wrinkled and grey, and Hermione still looked to be thirty. The reality of their cousin being a witch sank in then.

The thought of her parents’ death sobered her, but she shrugged it off, knowing she would probably come back here until she could no longer apparate. She didn’t need the closure, or comfort.

“I suppose it’s because I never want to forget that people can always change,” she murmured.

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At Lucius’ grave, she gently kissed her fingertips, and then placed the spot on top of his headstone.

“Thank you. I think you should know that I forgive you. It seems a bit egotistical to assume that I have to forgive you for anything, but I do. I don’t hate that I can’t hate you. I wish I could have known the man that saved me, because I think he was more Lucius than the man who served the Dark Lord. I wish you could have known me too; the woman your son loves, not the girl you knew in that second you saved me. Maybe, in our next lives.”

Hermione stood and walked the path up to Malfoy Manor, knowing that Draco would be waiting inside for her.

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Fin.
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For Reasons Never Known