Chapter Text
Atlas by herzschlagjaeger
“Home is not where you live, but where you are understood.”
— Christian Morgenstern
“The only thing that matters in life are the traces of love we leave behind when we go.”
— Albert Schweitzer
Prologue – a life before
March
There was something tender about spring sunrises. The light didn’t appear all at once; it unfolded gently, as though morning were asking the world if it was ready. And Hermione was ready. She had been for hours now. She had been waiting for the soft sunlight to drive back the darkness and usher in a new day. By now, she had expected to be in Draco’s arms.
Instead, she sat on the wide living-room windowsill with one of Molly’s knitted blankets draped over her shoulders and a fire crackling in the hearth. Beyond the glass, morning dew glistened on bare branches and twigs that swayed gently in the wind, like thoughts left unspoken. Draco was nowhere to be seen.
The sky was turning a delicate shade of pink—with a hint of gold and apricot. These were colors that didn’t blind the eye but instead offered a little hope and confidence.
For the past two weeks, that hope had warmed her heart again and again. It gave her the strength to bear the ache of missing him. Draco had beewn away for almost two weeks on what should have been a routine Auror mission, one of many he had undertaken ove the years. He had been gone for longer before, but uncertainty and worry still shadowed Hermione whenever he was away. She simply could not switch them off.
No matter how much Hermione trusted him and his instincrs she could not silence the worry beneath it all. It was born not from doubt in Draco, but from the love thad had grown between them over the years.
She brushed a stray strand of hair behind her ear and clutched the empty teacup a little tighter in her hands. Draco was actually supposed to have returned in the early hours of the morning, before daybreak. But so far, there was still no sign of him. The birds out in the garden were practicing their first songs, and the sun was greeting the day, growing brighter and brighter.
With her thumb, she traced the chipped rim of her red lucky-cup. It was just a small notch, left in the clay during firing. Draco had made this cup for her in one of Luna’s pottery classes, which he’d reluctantly taken for Hermione’s sake when they’d begun seeing each other several years earlier. They had chosen to meet without prejudice or recriminations about their pasts or the war, following only the unexpected certainty that the other person felt right. With each other, they had found belonging – a sense of home – regardless of what anyone else thought of them.
Hermione tried to take her mind off things; she stood up and placed the fluffy blanket on the windowsill before wrapping her oversized cardigan more tightly around herself. At the same moment, the German Shepherd at her feet shook himself and stood up. He had been her faithful companion for nearly four years. Atlas looked at her calmly as Hermione scratched him behind the ears and finally headed toward the kitchen.
24 hours. She kept returning to that number as the hands of the clock crept vorward. Only after 24 hours had passed from Draco’s scheduled return would Hermione be allowed to contact the Ministry. Until then, they would tell her nothing, both to preserve the mission’s secrecy and to avoid disrupting the magical tracking charm. She forced herself not to look at the clock again. Instead, her steüs slowed in the hallway, and the soft patter of Atlas’s paws ceased when she stopped.
Her gaze wandered over the walls and the photographs lining the staircase in mismatched frames. Together, they traced the twelce years of Hermione and Dracos’s relationship. In one of the magical photographs, Hermione and Draco were pictured in front of their house, both wearing proud smiles. They were holding the key in their hands after buying it in the depths of winter a few years earlier.
Right next to them hung photos of their rainy wedding, which they had celebrated very simply with just a handful of guests. Hermione wore her white dress, which was high-necked and hugged her upper body tightly. From the waist down, the fabric fell smoothly in heavy, silky folds, flaring dramatically toward the hem—like an angel’s trumpet, Blaise had laughed at the time.
There were also snapshots from their vacations around the world—in South America and Namibia. New Year’s Eve with their friends over the years. Draco and Blaise dancing at some party, their ties loosened and broad smiles on their faces.
A chaotic photo from Easter at the Weasleys’, when they’d tried to get everyone in one picture. Hermione loved these pictures. Although they always captured a decisive moment, they never had the power to tell the whole story behind them. Yet she would always keep them in her mind as memories.
Atlas snapped Hermione out of her thoughts, rubbed his head against her calf, and Hermione walked on into the kitchen. She was grateful for his company. He shared the burden of time and worry with her.
“You must be sick of me by now, big guy. I kept you up half the night, didn’t I?“ Hermione said, stroking his fur before putting the kettle on.
Atlas settled beneath the kitchen table, restling his muzzle on his front paws as he watched Hermione roll up her sleeves. As everyone knew, grass didn’t grow any faster just because you pulled on it, and baking had always helped her forget everything else for a while.
She reached for a bowl and mixed together butter, eggs, sugar, and flour. She deliberately set her wand aside. Working with her hands cleared her mind, and she felt her tension ease just a little as she vigorously kneaded the ingredients for Draco’s favorite cake.
She handled the cake pan with practiced ease, greasing it thoroughly before turning to another bowl. There, she mixed the mandarins, sugar, lemon juice, and quark into a smooth filling. Hermione became so absorbed in the recipe and making the crumble topping that she failed to notice Atlas rise and hurry from the kitchen into the living room. Only when familiar footsteps sounded through the house did she look up. Draco finally appeared in the kitchen doorway. Atlas pranced around his legs, tail wagging, and Hermione smiled.
The tension drained from her shoulders, and at last she could breathe freely again. Until that moment, she had not realized how tight her chest had felt. Draco looked exhausted, dark shadows under his storm-grey eyes. Even so, he gave her a faint smile. Hermione hurriedly wiped her hands on a dish towel. They crossed the room toward eatch other, and she wrapped her arms around his neck. Sheh ad missed his scent. Without hesitation, Draco circled her waist with his arms and pulled her close.
She didn’t care about the dirt and grime on his Auror uniform. Hermione was just glad he was back with her. She heard Draco stifle a yawn, and she pulled away slightly from the embrace to cup his face in her hands. Draco’s hair was unusually disheveled, his face was dirty, and his features seemed heavy with fatigue.
“Merlin, I missed you,” he said, leaning down toward her.
The tips of their noses touched. Not a kiss. But a closeness that spoke volumes. Hermione’s hands slid down from his cheeks, over his neck, to his broad shoulders. She felt Draco’s warm, familiar breath on her lips and heard a soft whimper at her feet, as if Atlas were worried he was being left out. When they pulled apart, Hermione ran her fingers through Draco’s light blond, tousled hair and smiled faintly. She had questions. Lots of questions. But she didn’t ask a single one.
“I’ll finish the cake. You go and take a shower, all right?” Hermione said. Draco nodded silently. He said nothing else.
He gently brushed her unruly curl back behind her ear and watched her intently, as though she might vanish if he moved even too quickly. He hesitated for several long seconds. Then a minute. Two minutes. And Hermione didn’t move. She let Draco take his time as he wearily took in the sight of her and finally pulled her back into his arms. She stroked his back without saying a word. Draco buried his face in her hair and took a deep breath. And finally, he let her go. If he didn’t do it now, he certainly wouldn’t in the next hour. She knew him inside and out. He left Hermione in the kitchen and trudged upstairs to the bathroom.
Hermine’s movements were as practiced as before—only quicker now. She slid the cake into the oven, set the timer, and let the dished take care of themselves. Used bowls bounced into the sink, while the sponge hopped down from the rack and set to work beneath the warm water. Hermine felt her heart beating wildly in her chest; like a young bird trying to escape its cage. Her fingertips tingled, yet a heavy calm settled through her limbs – the first she had felt in two weeks. A faint smile touched her lips as she poured Draco a cup of tea and followed him upstairs.
Atlas had lain down in front of the bathroom door, waiting, and pricked up his ears attentively as Hermione walked past him into the bedroom. She set the cup on Draco’s nightstand next to the photo of the two of them from many years ago, when they’d been sledding down the hill at the Weasleys’ house on a sled that was far too small during a snowy winter. In the photo, Draco had lost his hat—they were both laughing. Thick snowflakes swirled through the frame, and as they sledded past the camera, the shot started over. Hermione smiled at the memory of that day. It had been chaotic, way too loud and cold, but still wonderful. She loved photos, whether they were Muggle-still or magically alive.
When Hermione heard Draco turn off the shower in the next room, she began preparing the bedroom. She blocked out the golden morning sun, darkened the windows, and drew the curtains. Then she turned on a dim nightlight on the dresser, pulled back the blankets, and fluffed the pillows before Draco came into the bedroom with nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist.
She watched Draco in silence as he rummaged through the wardrobe for something to wear. Hermione couldn’t help herself. A few small blue bruises and scratches on his waist and back, but she saw no serious injuries – nothing that would require a healing potion. The muscles on his stomach shifted beneath his skin as he pulled on a T-shirt and caught Hermione’s gaze. He was fine. Hermione felt a warmth spread through her chest, and her racing heartbeat slowed just a little.
Over the past few years, she had occasionally overheard Harry, Draco, and Blaise talking about injured fellow Aurors. That was one reason Ron had quit a long time ago and preferred to work at the joke shop on Diagon Alley. But everything had turned out fine. Just like the times before.
“You look like you’re about to fall asleep on your feet,” Hermione said. Draco snorted, and one corner of his mouth twitched briefly.
“Not far from it,” he said, dropping onto the bed. Atlas trotted in from the hallway and sat beside the mattress, resting his muzzle on its edge. Draco stroked his head and scratched him behind the ears.
“Did you keep a good eye on everything, good boy?” Draco murmured softly. Hermione tied her hair into a ponytail and sat down next to Draco on the bed. Atlas gave a soft, contended rumble, his tail sweeping back and forth across the floor.
Hermione watched as Draco opened his nightstand drawer, took out his wedding ring, and slipped it on. Draco always took the ring off for work. He’d lost it once before and didn’t want that to happen again. The golden band shone familiarly on his ring finger, and it wasn’t until he was wearing the ring again that Hermione felt a sense of calm. It was as if only then would she believe that he was truly back.
Atlas padded from the bed to his dog bed, spun around three times, and lay down. Calm. Just like always. This dog radiated a sense of calm and security that Hermione had never experienced before from an animal. His amber eyes studied her and finally closed. He was just pretending. In ten minutes at the latest, he’d be lying at the foot of the bed.
“I think he missed going for runs with you,” Hermione said as Draco fluffed up his pillow and reached for the worn, yellow star-patterned pillow he’d had since childhood. Draco said nothing. In the first few hours after a mission, he usually didn’t say much. He processed everything in silence—every battle and every argument—she could see it in his eyes. And later, she could sense it in his nightmares.
“Mm,” Draco grunted noncommittally and ran his hands over his face. He wouldn’t take long to fall asleep and would catch up on a lot of sleep, as tired as he looked.
“Rest,” Hermione said softly. „I’ll wake you later for cake.“
Draco nodded. He took a breath, as if about to say something, but remained silent.
“See you later,” she said softly and leaned down toward Draco. It was supposed to be a quick kiss, but Draco placed his hand on the back of her neck, held Hermione in place, and deepened the kiss. She sighed against his lips. She had missed him—his closeness, his voice, and his warmth. The kisses.
“Please stay,” Draco whispered barely audibly, but Hermione had heard him immediately. She nodded silently. Draco’s eyes looked heavy—filled with dark memories of the past few days. But she didn’t bring it up and just pressed her lips together. Draco said nothing. Not yet. He would speak when he was ready. Just as he always did.
Hermione lay down next to him in bed, and Draco pulled her close. She felt his warm breath on her shoulder as she curled up and snuggled into the crook of his neck. In one arm, Draco held Hermione tight; in the other, he clutched his faded yellow star pillow.
Atlas jumped onto the foot of the bed without being asked and plopped down with a snort. Hermione felt the weight of his hind legs on the blanket at her feet and sighed contentedly.
“I love you,” she whispered softly against Draco’s collarbone and kissed the soft skin on his neck.
“…I love you, too,” Draco murmured wearily, and before Hermione knew it, his breathing had grown familiar—deeper and heavier. His firm grip around her waist loosened, and she gently stroked his abs—without haste and without a specific goal. Now that Draco was back, she found it easier to breathe again.