Work Text:
Inspired by “All Too Well (10 Minute Version)” by Taylor Swift.
The pub was already loud when they pushed through the door, a low, steady hum of voices and clinking glasses layered over the thrum of music from the small stage at the far end of the room. Warm light spilled across dark wood tables and scuffed floorboards, and the air carried the comforting scent of fried food and beer.
Draco stepped inside first with Astoria’s hand in his, his fingers tightening briefly as someone brushed past them on their way out. He guided her through the press of bodies without thinking about it, moving with the quiet ease of someone who had done this often enough to know exactly where to step and when to pause.
Theo followed close behind them, already scanning the room as if he were assessing it for entertainment value, with Blaise, Pansy, and Greg falling into step so naturally that the six of them moved as a single, loose unit.
Theo slowed just enough to glance at the chalkboard sign near the door, his eyes skimming over the looping handwriting advertising the evening’s specials and the open mic night beneath it. He let out a short laugh and nudged Blaise lightly with his elbow.
“This should be interesting,” he murmured, before turning his attention back to the room as they were ushered toward a table near the middle of the pub.
The space they claimed was just large enough for all of them, a round table with mismatched chairs pulled close together, its surface marked by old rings from spilled drinks and the faint scratches of years of use. It was the kind of table that had seen arguments, bad decisions, and reconciliations long before they arrived.
They settled in with the comfortable chaos of people who had shared too many evenings together to need to choreograph it. Pansy slid into her seat and immediately kicked Greg’s foot under the table when he tried to angle his chair toward the bar.
“Absolutely not,” she said. “You’re not abandoning us the moment someone walks past with a tray.”
Greg grinned and adjusted his chair with exaggerated reluctance, and Draco found himself smiling without effort as he pulled Astoria’s chair in closer to the table.
Blaise leaned back in his chair with a lazy stretch, his gaze drifting over the room as if he were already judging the menu without having bothered to look at it yet. Theo dropped into the seat across from Draco and Astoria, one arm draped over the back of his chair as he took in the pub with open curiosity.
“This place is busier than I expected,” Theo said, glancing toward the bar where a line had already formed. “Either the food is better than you promised, or everyone in this part of London has collectively decided that tonight is the night to be seen in public.”
Draco let out a short laugh. “I didn’t promise anything about the food. I promised it was nearby and that they wouldn’t glare at us for taking up too much space.”
“That’s not a recommendation,” Pansy said dryly. “That’s the kind of reassurance you give right before someone serves you something that looks like it has been reheated more than once.”
Astoria smiled at that, her thumb tracing the smooth band of Draco’s wedding ring where their hands rested together on the table. The gesture was unconscious and easy, the kind of small, intimate movement that came from comfort rather than performance. Draco shifted his hand slightly, so his fingers laced with hers, his attention still on the conversation as if the contact required no thought.
A server appeared with menus and the promise of drinks, and the table filled with overlapping requests. Theo ordered first and then immediately changed his mind when he realised Blaise was planning to order the same thing. Pansy asked pointed questions about what counted as “house-made,” her tone suggesting she had been disappointed by this answer in other pubs before.
Greg attempted to negotiate extra sides with the earnest seriousness of someone treating it as a personal challenge. Draco and Astoria ordered without discussion, their choices sliding into place with the quiet coordination of people who had already learned each other’s habits.
When the server left, Blaise reached for his glass of wine and lifted it instead of setting it back on the table. He waited until the others noticed, the corner of his mouth tipping into a smile that was equal parts fond and deliberately theatrical.
“Before the food arrives and Greg starts insisting he’s on the brink of starvation,” Blaise said, his voice carrying easily over the noise of the pub, “I think it would be rude of us not to acknowledge that we are sitting here with a pair of newlyweds who somehow managed to survive all of us long enough to make it official.”
Pansy rolled her eyes, but the motion was automatic and affectionate rather than sharp. Theo leaned forward with a grin that suggested he was enjoying this more than he would ever admit, while Greg straightened in his chair as if he were preparing himself to take the toast seriously despite the obvious setup.
“To Draco and Astoria,” Blaise continued, lifting his glass a little higher. “May your arguments remain entertaining to watch from a safe distance, may your compromises be fewer than your victories, and may you continue to choose each other on days when that choice is easy and on days when it’s not.”
Astoria laughed, the sound soft and surprised, and lifted her glass in response. Something in Draco’s chest eased at the warmth in Blaise’s words even as he shook his head.
“That was unnecessarily sincere,” he said, though his mouth curved into a smile as he raised his glass. “You’re setting a dangerous precedent.”
Theo leaned across the table to clink his glass lightly against Draco’s. “Don’t listen to him. He enjoys the attention more than he will ever admit.”
Pansy lifted her own glass with a dry, affectionate tilt. “To the happy couple. May the rest of us continue to benefit from your collective poor decision-making.”
Greg laughed and lifted his drink in agreement, and for a moment the table felt like its own small pocket of warmth amid the noise of the pub, six people leaning in toward one another with easy familiarity. Draco felt Astoria’s thumb trace the edge of his ring again as their glasses met, the simple, ordinary weight of the moment settling around them.
At the far end of the pub, Harry had claimed the end of one of the low couches nearest the stage, his shoulder pressed into the worn leather as he leaned forward to set his drink on the table in front of them.
The small round table was already crowded with half-finished glasses and the remains of a shared plate of chips, the sharp tang of salt and vinegar cutting through the heavier scent of beer in the air.
Ginny sat beside him with one leg tucked beneath her, her foot bouncing lightly against the edge of the table as she watched the activity unfolding on the small stage a few metres away.
Ron and Neville had taken the opposite couch, Neville perched carefully on the edge of his seat as if he were worried about knocking something over, while Ron sprawled with his arm stretched along the backrest, already far too comfortable for someone who had only just arrived.
Luna had pulled a chair close to the low table rather than squeezing onto the couch, her long hair falling over one shoulder as she leaned forward with quiet interest. She watched as one of the staff members carried out a wooden stool and set it near the microphone stand, adjusting its position by a few inches before stepping back to assess the spacing.
Another staff member followed with a guitar case, setting it beside a small amplifier as the drummer climbed onto the raised platform and adjusted his seat with short, deliberate movements.
“Do you think they’re going to move that stool again,” Ron asked, nodding toward the stage. “It looks like it’s directly in the way of everything else.”
Ginny snorted. “That’s because you are judging it based on how you would arrange a living room, not a stage. There’s a difference.”
Ron looked unconvinced. “I’m just saying, if someone trips over it, that’s on them.”
Harry shook his head and took a sip of his drink. “You always assume the worst about furniture placement. It has never once tried to attack you.”
“That you know of,” Ron said, casting a suspicious look at the stool as the microphone stand was lowered slightly and angled toward the centre of the stage. “There’s something about wobbly stools that feels personal.”
Neville laughed under his breath at that, his shoulders loosening as he watched the stage being set with careful efficiency. “At least they look like they know what they are doing,” he said. “That’s more than I can say for most of the open mic nights I have been dragged to.”
“They do this every week,” Ginny replied, tipping her glass toward the staff. “You would think the novelty would have worn off by now, but people keep turning up to perform, so here we all are.”
Luna tilted her head slightly as she watched the backup guitarist test a few quiet chords, the sound barely audible over the noise of the room. “I like watching the moments before people perform,” she said calmly. “Everyone always looks like they are holding their breath, even when they are pretending, they are not.”
Harry glanced at her and smiled. “That’s one way of putting it.”
The drummer tapped his sticks together once and then rested them across his knees, waiting. The guitarist adjusted the strap over his shoulder, shifting the instrument until it sat comfortably against his chest. The stool remained where it had been set, slightly off-centre beneath the stage lights.
A man in a dark T-shirt stepped up onto the small stage and lifted the microphone from its stand. He tapped it once with his knuckle before clearing his throat, the sound cutting through the room just enough to draw attention without demanding it.
“Alright, everyone,” he said, his voice easy and practiced as it carried across the pub. “If you can hear me, you’re in the right place. If you cannot, then keep doing whatever you are doing because it seems to be working for you.”
A few people laughed, the room loosening around the sound.
“It’s singers’ night,” he went on, gesturing toward the stage where the stool and instruments were set. “So, if you were hoping for interpretive dance, I’m very sorry to disappoint you. The bar is open, the kitchen is still taking orders, and if you find yourself enjoying what you hear, feel free to make it obvious. The performers appreciate knowing they are not suffering alone.”
Another ripple of amusement moved through the crowd. At the couches near the stage, Ginny leaned slightly closer to Harry, a small smile passing between them as the room’s attention settled into a quieter focus. Ron lifted his glass in a lazy, almost ceremonial acknowledgement of the announcement, while Neville straightened a little in his seat, his eyes moving to the stool and the instruments with open curiosity.
Luna watched the stage with the same calm interest she had before, as if the idea of a performance did not change the shape of her attention so much as sharpen it.
At the table nearer the centre of the room, Theo let out a low hum. “Singers’ night,” he said, tilting his head. “This will either be surprisingly good or impressively terrible. There’s rarely a middle ground.”
Blaise smirked. “You say that every time we stumble into live music. And every time you end up pretending you’re above it while secretly enjoying yourself.”
Draco shook his head, the corner of his mouth lifting as he reached for his drink. “I’m perfectly capable of enjoying something without making it my entire personality for the evening.”
Astoria laughed quietly at that, her fingers still lightly circling the band of Draco’s ring as she leaned closer to hear him over the noise of the room.
The man on stage waited for the pub to settle before lifting the microphone again. “We’re going to kick things off with our first act of the night,” he said, glancing briefly toward the side of the stage. “So, if you are still deciding what you want to drink, now is your cue to commit.”
He paused, then nodded toward the shadows just beyond the stage lights.
“First up, we’ve got Mia.”
The applause swelled as he stepped back from the microphone, a few people near the front of the pub rising to their feet and calling out in encouragement as the first performer of the night made her way onto the stage. The sound carried across the room in uneven bursts, chairs scraping softly against the floor as patrons shifted for a better view.
Near the couches by the stage, Harry stood first and lifted his glass high with an easy grin, while Ginny followed with a cheer that cut clearly through the noise. Ron clapped loudly enough to draw a few amused looks from the tables behind him, and Neville rose more hesitantly, his applause earnest and wholehearted. Luna remained seated, but she brought her hands together in a soft, steady rhythm, her attention already fixed on the stage.
At the table nearer the centre of the room, Draco had turned slightly in his chair toward Theo and Blaise, his attention still on the conversation between them rather than the activity at the front of the pub. Theo was in the middle of describing a disastrous attempt at cooking earlier in the week, his hands moving as he spoke with exaggerated conviction.
“I’m telling you, the instructions were wrong,” Theo said, leaning back in his chair with mock seriousness. “There’s no world in which that many spices should be introduced to a pan at the same time. It was chaos. I had to open every window in the flat.”
Blaise lifted a brow. “You say that as if the windows being closed would have somehow improved the situation. I suspect the chaos was the point.”
Draco snorted quietly and shook his head. “If you are cooking anything that requires opening windows in winter, you have already failed at the concept of a meal.”
Their exchange was interrupted by the sudden rise in noise near the stage. Pansy’s attention shifted first, her gaze lifting over the tops of heads as she leaned slightly to one side to see past the movement in the room. The casual amusement on her face sharpened into something alert and intent.
“Draco,” she said, her voice low but unmistakably clear over the din, “you might want to look.”
The words cut cleanly through the banter. Draco followed her line of sight toward the stage as the movement in the room settled back into place, the first performer already seated on the stool with the guitar resting across her lap.
The light caught in the long fall of her hair, dark and glossy where it spilled over her shoulders in soft waves, framing a face he knew too well not to recognise even from across the room. She wore a pale, off-the-shoulder blouse that bared the line of her collarbones and moved faintly with her breath, paired with dark, close-fitting jeans and simple trainers that grounded the softness of it in something unmistakably real, the stage light found the high planes of her cheekbones and the curve of her throat.
The sight of her struck him with a force that left the space around the table feeling suddenly too small, his breath catching low in his chest before he could stop it. Theo’s posture snapped into stillness, the easy sprawl of him gone in an instant, his hand clamping hard around the back of his chair as if he needed something solid.
Blaise did not move at all, only the flick of his eyes giving him away. Pansy’s mouth tightened, the shift small but unmistakable, and Draco realised his glass was still suspended in his hand, his fingers locked around it as if he had forgotten how to set it down.
Across the room, Hermione lifted her head and found her friends. Harry’s grin was wide and unguarded as he tipped his glass toward her, and Ginny’s cheer cut through the last of the fading applause. Ron gave her an exaggerated thumbs-up that made Neville laugh even as he continued clapping, the sound earnest and a little too loud for the space.
Hermione’s mouth curved in response, the smile that reached her eyes lingering for a moment longer than the exchange required before she lowered her gaze back to the guitar and settled herself on the stool.
The drummer lifted his sticks and gave a small count-in that rippled through the nearest tables more than the sound itself, a few heads turning toward the stage as the room settled into expectant stillness.
The backup guitarist adjusted his grip on the neck of his instrument, and Hermione’s fingers found their place on the strings without hesitation. The first notes rolled out gently, the sound warm and steady as it filled the space between the tables.
Hermione leaned a fraction closer to the microphone as she began to sing.
“I walked through the door with you, the air was cold—”
Her voice moved through the pub with an intimacy that drew the space in around it, the sound carrying clearly enough that the room seemed to quiet without anyone being asked to do so.
Draco felt the first line settle under his skin like something that had been waiting for him. His throat worked once, dry and useless, and he swallowed against it anyway, his gaze pinned to her mouth as if the shape of the words could be altered by staring hard enough.
Beside him, Theo’s attention angled toward Draco rather than the stage, sharp and watchful, as though he were measuring how badly this would land.
Her eyes drifted closed as she carried the line forward, her shoulders easing as if she were setting the weight of the room into the sound of her voice.
“—but something ’bout it felt like home somehow—”
Sunlight filled the flat through wide windows, spreading across pale walls and the open space beyond the door. Hermione laughed as she stepped inside, the sound bright and unrestrained as she dropped her bag to the floor and crossed the short distance to Draco in two quick strides. She jumped into his arms without hesitation, her weight knocking him back a half step as he caught her with a startled laugh of his own. Her legs wrapped around his waist as she leaned down to kiss him, the contact open and eager, her hands sliding into his hair as if she had been waiting to do exactly that since the moment they stepped inside.
Draco held her easily, his grip sure as he adjusted to her weight, his mouth warm against hers as the kiss deepened. Hermione pulled back just long enough to look at him, her eyes bright as she laughed again and pressed her forehead to his. She kissed him once more, slower this time, her hands resting against his jaw as if she were memorising the shape of his face. The flat rang softly with the sound of their laughter and movement as he turned with her still in his arms, carrying her a few steps farther into the room before setting her down, their hands finding each other again without needing to look.
The edge of the table bit into Draco’s palm as his fingers tightened. He had tried not to touch that memory since the night he left that flat behind, but the sound of her voice drew it forward and held it in place.
On the small stage, Hermione opened her eyes and kept playing, the melody continuing beneath her voice without pause as the song moved on.
A few conversations near the bar fell quiet as the next lines carried into the room, the sound of cutlery fading as people turned their attention toward the stage.
“We’re dancin’ ’round the kitchen in the refrigerator light,
Down the stairs, I was there, I remember it all too well—”
Hermione’s mouth curved as she sang, the smallest, private smile breaking across her face as she glanced toward the couches near the stage. Harry lifted his glass in quiet salute, Ginny grinned back at her, and Ron made a face that suggested he was restraining the urge to whoop inappropriately.
Neville’s applause was soft but earnest, his hands coming together once before he stilled them again out of consideration for the room. Luna’s eyes shone with open attention, her gaze steady and warm as she listened.
Hermione let her gaze drift from her friends as the song moved on, her attention widening to take in the room beyond the edge of the stage lights. She looked out across the tables without lingering anywhere for long, her focus passing over strangers and familiar shapes alike as she kept time with the steady rhythm of the guitar beneath her fingers.
Draco did not move. The words settled into him with an intimacy that pressed too close for comfort, the memory of that kitchen and the cold glow of the open refrigerator door returning with unwelcome clarity. Theo’s knee knocked lightly against Draco’s under the table, a brief, grounding contact that said more than looking at him would have. Blaise’s grip tightened around his glass, the movement small and controlled as he continued to face the stage.
A glass paused halfway to someone’s mouth at the nearest table, forgotten as the words reached them. Hermione let the line land without looking toward the couches this time, her focus widening to the room beyond the stage lights, her posture steadying as if she no longer needed to check where her balance was.
“You kept me like a secret, but I kept you like an oath,
Sacred prayer and we’d swear to remember it all too well—”
The gala unfolded beneath chandeliers that scattered warm light across polished floors and dark suits. Hermione stood at Draco’s side in a black, one-shouldered dress that cut a clean line against the gold of the room, the fabric moving with her as she turned to take in the crowd. Her earrings caught the light when she moved her head, the small motion drawing a few glances before people’s attention shifted back to Draco.
Someone greeted Draco by name as soon as they stepped inside, and he answered without breaking stride as his hand slipped from Hermione’s back and he moved into the circle of conversation. Hermione remained half a step behind him, close enough to hear every word and far enough away to be left out of it.
Names were exchanged and pleasantries layered over one another while Draco kept his attention fixed on the people in front of him. He did not turn toward her, and when a woman’s gaze flicked toward Hermione, Draco shifted his stance until the line of sight closed again.
A moment later, he moved fully into the group and left Hermione at the edge of it. Someone offered her a glass of champagne as if she had arrived alone, and she accepted with a polite nod before turning toward the nearest cluster of guests.
From where she stood, Hermione could see Draco laughing with people who did not look back toward her. The space between them held, deliberate and kept.
Draco let out a slow, controlled breath. He remembered the room and the way he had angled his body without thinking, the small, precise movements that had kept her just outside the circle of attention. The memory lodged in him with an uncomfortable clarity, not because it was unfamiliar, but because he recognised how easily he had done it.
The room seemed to lean in as the song moved into its next passage, the usual scrape of chairs and murmur of voices thinning into something held and attentive.
"And I was thinkin’ on the drive down, any time now,
He’s gonna say it’s love, you never called it what it was—"
The piano keys were cool beneath Draco’s fingers as he sat on the edge of the bench in the flat they shared, evening light slanting through the windows and catching in the dust that drifted lazily through the room. Hermione stood beside the piano at first, her head tipped slightly as she listened, her expression thoughtful as she decided how to join in.
When she began to sing, her voice filled the room with an easy warmth that made the space feel larger. Draco glanced up at her with a smile that came without effort, his hands continuing over the keys as if they knew the song by heart. Hermione laughed when she missed a note on purpose and leaned closer to tease him about his timing, and he caught her by the wrist and drew her in until she was standing between his knees, pressing his mouth to her stomach through the thin fabric of her shirt.
Hermione’s hand slid into his hair as she tilted his face up to hers, her fingers warm against his skin. The piano bench creaked when she settled against him, their laughter softening into the quiet hum of the room as the half-finished song slipped away.
Draco remained very still as the memory settled into him, his breath leaving him in a slow, measured exhale. The weight of it pressed into his chest, not because the moment itself was painful to recall, but because it belonged to a time that had not required effort.
Hermione’s fingers never faltered on the strings as the room drew closer around her, the low tables and shadowed faces pressing into a narrower frame. She lifted her gaze from the guitar and let it move across the pub with unhurried intent, her attention settling where the light from the stage thinned into the darker press of tables.
Draco met her eyes, and the contact pinned him in place. The room narrowed to the small line between his table and the stage, the warmth of the pub falling away as if someone had opened a door behind him. His hand flexed once on the tabletop, fingers spreading and closing like he had lost sensation, and Astoria’s thumb, which had been tracing his ring without thought, slowed to a stop against the band.
“And you call me up again just to break me like a promise,
So casually cruel in the name of bein’ honest,
I’m a crumpled up piece of paper lyin’ here—”
She sang the words to him without lifting her voice, the line crossing the room with a steadiness that left nowhere for the meaning to soften. The lyrics pressed into him with an intimacy that felt out of place in the open space of the pub, as if something private had been laid bare in front of strangers.
Hermione was sitting at the small table in the flat with dinner laid out in front of her, the plates set and the cutlery placed as if the act of arranging them had been part of keeping the evening intact. The light from the window had softened into late evening, the room holding the quiet warmth of a space that had been prepared for two people rather than one. Draco was not there yet. She had checked the time once, then turned her attention back to the cooling food as if waiting were an ordinary part of the evening.
His name lit up her phone.
She answered on the second ring, the movement easy, the expectation still present in the way she held the phone to her ear. Draco told her that he would not make it back that night, that something had come up with his family and that he would explain later. He framed it as obligation, as something that could not be moved without consequence, and he promised that he would make it up to her.
Hermione did not raise her voice and she did not argue with him. She asked one quiet question about whether he was sure, and when he said that he was, she nodded once to herself and told him that she understood. The word sounded careful when she said it, as if she were testing it before letting it settle between them.
After the call ended, Hermione set the phone down beside her plate. She did not touch the food. She remained where she was for a moment longer than the pause required, the room holding its shape around the empty place across from her.
Draco did not move as Hermione held his gaze through the lines, the sound of her voice settling into him and staying there. Hermione’s gaze flicked, just once, to Draco’s hand where it rested beside Astoria’s, the pale band of his wedding ring catching the stage light before she looked away again and kept singing, her voice steady as if she had not seen it at all.
Draco’s grip tightened on the edge of the table before he realised what he was doing, the wood biting faintly into his palm. The breath he tried to draw did not fill his chest properly, and he let it out again through his nose as if he could force the tension to leave with it.
Theo’s knee bounced once and then stilled beside him, the restless motion betraying the tension he refused to voice. Blaise drew a slow breath through his nose and let it out again, his attention remaining forward as if he were bracing for what came next.
Astoria’s hand rested lightly against Draco’s wrist, the contact gentle and unknowing, and the contrast between her warmth and the sound of Hermione’s voice made it harder for him to remain where he was.
Hermione let the lyrics settle before lowering her gaze back to the guitar, her fingers continuing their steady movement as the song carried on.
The pub had fallen into complete stillness, the earlier clatter of cutlery and low conversation replaced by the focused hush of a room that had forgotten itself.
A couple near the bar stopped mid-laugh, mouths half open, then closed them as if embarrassed by the sound. Hermione’s voice carried cleanly through it all, and Draco could feel every word landing in his chest with a weight he could not shift.
“’Cause there we are again when I loved you so,
Back before you lost the one real thing you’ve ever known—"
The flat seemed to close in around them, the familiar lines of the room blurring at the edges as the weight of what he was saying took shape between them. Draco stood where he had stopped just inside the door, his hands unsteady at his sides as the words he had practiced failed to come out the way he had planned.
He told her that he could not choose her without tearing his family apart, and that he was not strong enough to lose them for her. The confession scraped out of him, raw and ugly, and he hated himself for how small it sounded once it was spoken aloud.
Hermione listened without interrupting him. She did not step toward him, and she did not step away. Her hands tightened slowly at her sides as if she were bracing herself against the force of what he was taking from her, and when she lifted her eyes to his face he felt the ground shift under his feet. There was nothing in her expression that softened the moment for him. She did not plead with him, and she did not try to save him from the choice he was making. She waited for him to finish breaking them.
When he stopped speaking, the silence did not feel empty. It felt full. The space between them held everything he had chosen to abandon, and the weight of it pressed into him until his chest ached with the effort of standing upright in the room where he had just ended the only place he had ever felt like he belonged.
The memory landed with a force that made Draco’s breath hitch in his chest. He dropped his gaze because meeting Theo’s eyes felt impossible in that moment, and his fingers curled hard around the edge of the tabletop as if he needed the pressure to stay anchored to his seat.
The sound of his own words echoed too clearly in his head, each one settling into his ribs with the weight of something he could not shift.
Theo leaned forward a fraction, the movement abrupt enough to give him away, his mouth parting as if he might speak before he caught himself. Blaise’s gaze dropped to the rim of his glass, his fingers tracing the edge once before going still, the quiet gesture carrying more weight than any look toward Draco would have.
The band held the closing stretch of the song with steady restraint, the rhythm unhurried beneath Hermione’s voice as her fingers moved over the strings. The pub had gone completely quiet, the earlier clatter of cutlery and low conversation replaced by the focused stillness of a room that had forgotten itself.
“Down the stairs, I was there, I was there,
Sacred prayer, I was there, I was there,
It was rare, you remember it—”
Her voice stayed steady as she carried the final lines into the room. The repetition settled over the tables and the low murmur of the pub fell away around it, the words hanging in the air longer than the notes themselves. Hermione held the last note cleanly and let it fade, her gaze lifted as the closing chord softened beneath her.
For a heartbeat, the pub held its breath.
Then the applause broke out, loud and immediate, chairs scraping against the floor as people surged to their feet. The sound filled the room in uneven waves, cheers rising from the couches nearest the stage and spilling outward until even the tables further back joined in.
Harry was on his feet first, clapping hard with an unrestrained grin. “That was incredible,” he called toward the stage, his voice cutting cleanly through the noise.
Ginny’s cheer followed, sharp and bright. “You were brilliant,” she shouted, her pride unmistakable even from across the room.
Ron clapped with both hands raised over his head, laughing openly as he whooped in a way that drew amused looks from the tables behind him. “That was mental,” he added, still clapping as if he might not stop on his own.
Neville joined in with an enthusiastic shout that made him flush when a few people near them laughed, but he did not seem to mind. Luna brought her hands together with measured delight, her expression soft and openly pleased as she watched Hermione take in the room.
Hermione’s mouth curved into a genuine smile as she rose from the stool, lifting a hand in acknowledgment of the crowd. She glanced toward her friends again, warmth and relief crossing her face now that the song was finished. She stepped away from the microphone as the band began to pack down behind her.
Theo’s breath caught beside him. “Oh, fuck,” he said under his breath, the words leaving him before he could soften them.
Draco felt the applause echo inside his chest in a way that made it difficult to draw a full breath. The memory of their love and the careless way he had undone it pressed into the present, leaving no space to pretend it had been anything else.
Blaise’s gaze flicked from Draco to the stage and back again, the shift sharp enough to be unmistakable. Pansy’s mouth had gone tight as she watched Hermione with an expression that suggested she already understood what this meant for him.
Draco pushed his chair back, the scrape lost in the noise of the crowd and stood. He began to move toward the stage, weaving between tables without quite knowing what he intended to say, only that staying where he was felt impossible.
Ginny reached Hermione first, wrapping her in a tight embrace that made Hermione laugh as she returned it without hesitation.
“You were amazing,” Ginny said, pulling back just far enough to look at her properly. “I’m so proud of you.”
Harry stepped in next and pulled Hermione into a brief, fierce hug that lifted her slightly off the ground before setting her back down again. “You were unreal,” he said, his voice thick with something that was very close to awe. “You were so good.”
Ron leaned in with an exaggerated grin. “I’m claiming bragging rights for knowing you when you are famous,” he said, still half-laughing.
Neville nodded in earnest agreement. “You were incredible,” he added, his voice quieter but no less sincere.
Hermione’s laughter carried over the noise, bright and unguarded, her cheeks flushed from the performance and the attention. Ginny slipped her arm around Hermione’s shoulders and turned them gently toward the back of the pub as the others fell in around them, their voices overlapping in excited praise that blended into the general hum of the room as they began to move away together.
Draco was only a few steps away when he called her name.
“Hermione.”
The sound of it carried further than he meant it to.
Hermione slowed and turned her head over her shoulder, finding him across the narrow space between them. The light from the bar caught in her eyes as she looked back at him, and he felt the distance between them sharpen rather than close.
They stayed like that for a moment, the room falling back into its edges around the small, impossible space between them. The last of the applause thinned into the low murmur of the pub, glasses clinking and chairs shifting as the night resumed its ordinary rhythm.
Draco took a step toward her and stopped, the words he had reached for refusing to come when he needed them most. Hermione held his gaze for a moment longer, then turned away with a quiet finality that left no room for anything else.
Ginny’s arm slipped from Hermione’s shoulders to link with her arm as they moved toward the back of the pub, the door swinging open to let the cooler air inside, and Hermione did not look back.
Draco remained where he was, watching her go as the crowd closed the space between them, until the distance between them felt complete.