WIP: Two Lungs (T) - Draco/Hermione

Draco is twenty-four winters old when he steps into the café one late afternoon, dressed in a finely pressed suit. As he approaches the front counter, he loosens his tie and orders two coffees and one milk, pays, and finds an empty table in a quiet corner to sit down. He follows the patterns etched into the wood and then leans back into his chair, closing his eyes. Hushed conversations float around him and beyond the atmospheric sounds, he faintly dreams of willow leaves and summer dust.

He remembers small details at first, relishes everything before pulling in the bigger pieces of his memory. It is empty by the lake. He pushes his sleeves up and sits by the old tree, falling on his back. The leaves flutter almost imperceptibly in the soft breeze, sunlight flickering through the branches in ghostly particles, and if he closes his eyes it's like the world is blinking down at him.

When she arrives, she kneels by his side and hovers over him for a moment, fingers tracing over his cheeks without really touching him and brushing the strand of hair that's fallen across his face. Like a spell cast over him, he stirs from his nap, his vision adjusting to the myriad of colors around him and finally sees her, acknowledging her with a subtle nod and closing his eyes again, feeling her move beside him. After a while, she nudges him and he looks up at her. She has on a pretty sundress and cardigan, hair pulled to one side over her shoulder. Sitting up, he leans in closer to her and tugs at her sleeve which earns him a look (he shivers at the sheer intensity and loveliness of her), but she nonetheless shrugs the article of clothing off at his earnest, but silent beckoning. One arm holding himself up close behind her, he rests his chin on her shoulder and waits until she props open her book.

He reads with her like it's the most natural thing on earth and reminds her of their seamless synchronisation when he reaches over and turns the page for the both of them. She makes a sound underneath her breath, as if to say he needn't show off, but she lets him turn the rest of the pages. Her hand searches for his and interlaces their fingers as her way of thanks.

The beauty of their wordless conversations and quiet gestures fitted the both of them perfectly, he recalls. No kisses, no bear-tight embraces – just slow and languid intimacy.

When the bell to the café chimes at another entrance, he turns his gaze to the door and stands up at the sight of Astoria walking inside with their little boy in tow, who is no more than three. Scorpius scans the floor and, when they find him, he releases his mother's hand and runs in his direction at full-speed. Though the War is not a distant memory, there is an unusual calm in the aftermath. There are certainly issues to address but, beyond politics, the Wizarding World find themselves hard-pressed to place blame on the once-young. And the younger Malfoy has proven himself equal, if not superior, to his senior in dignity, poise, manners and, most importantly, perspective.

To the surprise of many, Astoria Malfoy née Greengrass is the subject of envy.

Astoria approaches her husband as he lifts their son into his arms.

"Hello," she greets. Draco responds by kissing her cheek and invites her to sit down. The waitress brings them their drinks, to which Scorpius thanks her (because little boys must grow up to have proper manners, as all Malfoy heirs are in possession) and focuses all his attention on the white liquid, sipping it carefully and exploring the world that he's created at the table with the other two cups serving as enemies on the battlefield. His glass of milk is the safety zone, of course.

Draco watches his son for a moment, pleased at the way he is completely absorbed in his own imagination. Good, he thinks. When he looks up at his wife, she is as beautiful as the day he wed her. Though younger, she is wise and observant, and he is thankful that she was his first in many ways. He reaches for her hand, and she squeezes his.

"Shall we discuss the papers?"

With a purse of her lips and a heavy intake of breath, she nods.



It is a long process, one that drains them of energy and an enormous amount of time explaining to their son. He has been inconsolable, as expected, and the questions he's dealt them have been painful. But he gets it, or at least he's adjusted to the changes. Scorpius will be in his custody and is allowed as many visits to Astoria as he desires; she will be given an undisclosed monthly allowance; and she will be in ownership of a villa on a Grecian island while he keeps the Malfoy Manor.

Sorted.

When he and Scorpius enter the Manor by themselves for the first time, Draco feels a sense of loss at the same time Scorpius wails for his mother. It is, unquestionably, the longest and most difficult night to sleep through.



The day Draco breaks the news to Granger, they are laying down together on a hammock she's conjured for the both of them. At first resistant to the idea, he is glad she's forced it on him. While she reads, he notices her bare legs – lovely, really – and he wonders how he managed to oversee them back in school, though he doesn't bother sharing these thoughts with her. Those days are over, and the present is more important.

"Granger," he says.

"Hm?" she acknowledges, her attention still on her book. Rolling his eyes, he tears the book away from her grasp, and she fights him to get it back, huffing and obviously displeased at his method. In their ever-shifting weight, the hammock turns and topples them onto the ground where she's managed to fall on top, giving her leverage. She snatches the book back from him and snaps, "Serves you right."

He tightens his grip on her and repeats, "Granger."

She sighs and looks down at him, expectantly.

"Next month," he starts and trails off. He doesn't know how to finish. He thinks of their brilliant summer together and, despite their time spent mostly reading and rarely exchanging words, it's one he isn't prepared to relinquish just yet. Draco takes her hands in his and runs his thumbs over her knuckles while she tilts her head, perplexed. He is going to memorise everything he can about her – her soft and unruly hair, the shape of her face, the flush of her cheeks, the brightness of her eyes, the planes of her neck and shoulders, the pale of her skin, the small swell of her breasts and slim waist, the legs that seem to go on forever, and the complete breathlessness of her.

"Are you ill?" she asks. "You look like you're about to faint."

"No," he breathes, "no. I need to tell you something."

She smiles at him, and he is struck by how pretty she is. Really pretty, and it reminds him of opalescent shells and vibrant stars, things unearthly and wonderful and captivating, things that are beyond description.

"Would you marry me?"

She visibly stiffens. She laughs, unnerved, and tries to remove herself from his grasp to no avail. "Don't be silly."

"Would you? I'm being serious. And don't be thick, Granger, I'm only asking. You don't see me on my knees, which is how I'll propose should the time arrive. I want your answer, and I want the truth. Would you marry me?"

Her shoulders slump in resignation and she closes her eyes, thinking. His heart beats loudly, and he's afraid she can hear how vulnerable he is because this isn't the kind of question he normally asks of her. She finally takes a deep breath and presses her lips against his forehead, and it feels like wings and she smells like rain and something sweet. Time passes (it feels like months, but there is always something infinite about them) and were he not attuned to everything about her, he would have missed it.

She shakes her head. No.

He isn't surprised. Maybe they're too young. Maybe the idea is too soon. Maybe she isn't prepared for forever.

"Next month," he says again, looking past her to the endless sky. It's cloudless and bright blue, and he knows he could stay like this forever. "Next month, I'm getting married."