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Chapter Text

this is a commissioned piece of fanart made by the lovely @kelserly

please do not repost or use anywhere outside of in reference to 'Convoluted Choices.'

“....Meanwhile the post of Defence Against Dark Arts will be taken by Professor Snape”.

Draco’s hand held up the weight of his head as he continued to tune out the noise of his peers around him. His gaze lingered straight ahead, none of the words flowing around him fully registered.

 His train of thought seemed to always return to the meeting his father had insisted he attend earlier in the week that ended with a harsh reminder of what his intended purpose in this blasted world was supposed to be. 

Powerful. 

The after effects of taking the Dark Mark was exactly that cruel reminder to tell him that there were plenty of choices that seemed to be closing in on him in record speed. He tried not to allow himself to let his focus drag along the noise of the bumbling Gryffindors at the table in front of him and he absolutely did not let his gaze look at the Golden Girl herself that represented everything he was required to hate in this world. 

Choices. 

Could there even be a choice anymore? Draco didn’t feel like he had one. Not when the Dark Lord’s expectations were as clear as the icy gleam in his father’s eyes. Not when his mother’s desperate, pleading face had haunted his thoughts long after their last conversation. Her fear, so raw, so tangible, made him wonder—was there any escape from this? Or was he simply being pushed further into a corner, with no way out?

Before any further thought could continue to skate through his mind, Theodore Nott nudged him in the shoulder in an attempt to get his attention. Draco shut his eyes slowly and allowed a slow inhale to drag through his nostrils before turning his head to focus on the individual next to him.

“Yes, Theo?” His tone came out clipped, much harsher than initially intended. His eyes raked over Theo as he took in his cheery demeanor. Must be nice to not feel the weight of the world on your shoulders. He clenched his jaw slightly and allowed the hand that was being used for stability to drop down to his side.

Theo held his hands up in mock surrender before speaking in his usual tone, “Woah, mate.” Theo blew out a long exhale of breath to further along his dramatics that allowed Draco the slightest quirk of the corner of his mouth. “I was just trying to get your attention, I’m not sure if those eyes of yours work but the rest of the hall is getting ready to turn in for the night.”

Draco nodded slightly before looking around and noticing that Theo was right. The rest of the students had already begun to file out of the hall and it was important not to draw any more attention to himself than what was already to be expected of him. “Brilliant.” He said and stood up from his seat, allowing his legs to follow suit with the rest of those around him. 

“He looks different don’t you think? Draco. Almost ill”

Draco's head snapped to the side to figure out who was talking about him, that was exactly what he was trying to avoid and yet he failed. He clenched his jaw in annoyance when he realized who exactly the voice came from.

 Bloody Granger.

“Just forget about it, mate. Really-” Theo attempted to start speaking but Draco’s feet had already taken him in the direction of the voice that had yet again snapped him out of his train of thoughts. He heard a brief chuckle from the man he left behind but it didn’t stop him from walking. As if something had taken over his movements, his feet propelled him over to the Golden Girl herself.

“I look ill, you say? What exactly gives you the right to think that?” He sneered as he towered over her. Her ridiculous frizzy hair and her ridiculous Gryffindor bravery. Who was she to think that she had any right to talk about what he looked like, really. 

Granger stepped back and crossed her arms across her chest before turning her nose up and speaking, “It was a mere observation, Malfoy. You look horrid, really.” She spoke as if it was the most obvious thing in the world and regardless of him knowing that she was actually right it wasn’t anyone’s business. Most certainly not her business, thank you very much. 

“Perhaps you should focus on your own appearance before casting stones, Granger.” He sniffed before looking her up and down. His face contorted to a look of disgust as he took in her appearance. Her uniform contained far too many wrinkles and stray hairs from her orange beast. An orange beast was perhaps an equal description of the ridiculous excuse of a man that stood next to her. His jaw clenched and he flexed his hands by his side before turning sharply on his heel and returning to the path he was taking out the door. 

The sharp words still hung in the air between them, echoing in his ears. Draco quickened his pace, desperate to escape the feeling of weakness he could feel creeping into his chest. But even in the silence that followed, her words lingered—“You look horrid, really.” And though he would never admit it to anyone, they stung more than he cared to let on.

As he moved through the corridors, his feet almost carrying him on their own accord, his mind was a thousand miles away. The warmth of the Great Hall was replaced by the chill of the stone walls, and yet nothing seemed to break through the fog that resumed in his head. The thought of his father’s icy, cold words from the meeting still burned under his skin. And then there was Granger. Her words had bothered him more than he cared to admit, but there were more important things—things like the Mark that still pulsed against his wrist, reminding him of what was to come and the reminder of his given destiny.

The common room was buzzing with energy as everyone seemed excited with the reunion after the summer. Quite frankly, reuniting with those around him was the last thing on his mind when he had more pressing matters to attend to. 

“Golden girl really got your knickers in a twist there, Drake.” Theo teased, snapping him out of his train of thought. Draco tensed and looked to the side where Theo seemed to appear out of nowhere. He rolled his eyes before scrunching up his face in a look of distaste. 

“Piss off, Nott.” He spat before bristling past him towards his room. The only good thing that seemed to come from having more galleons than he could comprehend was the ability to have his own room. Some privacy was much needed after trying to maintain a somewhat normal facade around those around him.

Stepping into his room the heavy wooden door clicked shut behind him, the sound too final, too heavy for his liking. The darkness of the room enveloped him as he collapsed onto his bed, his body heavy with a weight he couldn’t shake. He didn’t even bother to undress; there was no point in trying to get comfortable. His mind raced with thoughts that refused to settle, and sure enough, sleep was a distant dream. Another night without rest. Another night where he wondered if there would ever be a way out.

Draco's eyes snapped open to the harsh morning light creeping through the thick curtains of his room. The familiar, aching weight of the night before clung to him like a cloak, heavy and suffocating. He barely registered the soft hum of activity outside his door or the fleeting noise of the house elves cleaning the corridors. His mind, as fractured as it was, was still trapped in the fog of his living nightmares. The Dark Mark, his father’s voice, and then Granger’s harsh yet true words, all mingled together in a haze that wouldn't dissipate no matter how hard he tried to focus.

He let out a slow, defeated breath as he sat up, running a hand through his disheveled hair. There was no point in attempting to salvage what little sleep was left. He had a class to attend. Advanced Potions. As if potion making was of any importance to him at this point in his life. With a quick flick of his wand and muttered incantation, he assumed he looked what could be deemed presentable to attend the mundane class. 

As Draco walked toward the common room, the dread began to settle in. The castle was truthfully eerily quiet at this hour—save for the occasional echo of a passing student, intent on their own schedules. He trudged through corridors of Slytherin with a faint sense of detachment, everything around him almost dreamlike in the haze of exhaustion that was sure to be evident with the bags under his eyes. 

By the time he entered the classroom for Potions, he was hardly aware of the bustling students around him. His eyes, half-lidded and dull, wandered to a free seat, the reality of the day settling back in. 

The classroom’s cold walls were a stark contrast to the faint warmth of the sunlight filtering in through the narrow windows. Draco slid into his seat at the front of the classroom with an almost mechanical precision. His eyes flicked over the students already seated around—none of them really mattered. Not yet, anyway. Not while his mind was still reeling with his father’s threats and the looming task that felt like a shadow hanging over him.

"Good morning, class," Professor Slughorn’s voice cut through the tension, his rotund form bustling around the room as a way of introduction. "Welcome back to yet another year here at Hogwarts. Today, we'll be beginning what will be your year-long project. You’ll be paired up with a partner, and you'll work together to create a potion worthy of your talents."

Draco barely registered the announcement. His gaze wandered across the room until—of course—his eyes met hers. Granger. She was already sitting across from him, eyes focused on the desk, face set in that usual determined expression of hers. 

A pang of frustration gnawed at him before a familiar, numbing detachment washed over him. It was the only way he knew to shield himself from the relentless thoughts that seemed intent on destroying him.

The chatter around the classroom seemed to rise in excitement at Slughorn’s announcement as if it were something worth being excited about. Slughorn cleared his throat in an attempt to get the attention back on him before he continued on in his nasally tone. “In an attempt to further house cooperation and unity, you will be paired with a student from a house that is different than your own.” 

That announcement seemed to have a flurry of mixed reactions whether it be a grumble of frustration or excited yet hushed whispers, Draco felt his own curiosity subtly piqued. He stiffly sat up in his seat and focused on the old man who continued rambling. 

“Before you all get ahead of yourselves, I will inform you all of the structure of this assignment. First and foremost, you and your partner must agree upon a potion of interest and have a written proposal on my desk by no later than 3pm on Friday.” He looked around the class as he spoke as if waiting for some argument. “Second, the partnerships are a final decision that was chosen at random based on a few deciding factors. Most importantly being that you are in different houses and share similar skill sets.”

This was met with a fleet of motions rippling through the classroom. Wandering eyes as if they could figure out who their partner was intended to be. People shifting in their seat perhaps to will away the unknown. Draco closed his eyes and tilted his head to the side as he found himself growing frustrated with the dramatics of the prolonged explanation. 

“Finally, the structure of the class itself will be a mixture of meeting here once a week as a full group and using the other class periods to work with your partner on not only your assignment but getting to know them.” Professor Slughorn’s voice rang through the air as the excitement was almost visible on his face. 

He brought his hands together in front of his chest, touching his fingertips lightly against one another while looking at the class with an overly eager smile. Merlin. This professor looks bloody insane. “As I say you and your partner’s name, make your way over to them QUIETLY!” Letting out a small yet nervous laugh, he took a sharp intake of breath before carrying on. 

“Theodore Nott, you will be partnered up with Luna Lovegood.”

“Ronald Weasley, you will be partnered up with Cho Chang.”

“Harry Potter, you will be partnered up with Pansy Parkinson.”

“Hermione Granger, you will be partnered up with Draco Malfoy.”

Draco stiffened at this announcement and tuned out the rest of the rambling nonsense that the professor was spewing. "Partnered with Granger, huh?" He muttered under his breath, more to himself rather than anyone else. 

He wasn’t sure if it was fate or some sick joke of the universe, but of course he would be working with the one person who seemed to have an intense desire to drive him absolutely mad this year if their conversation from the night before was any sort of indicator. 

With a screech of his chair, Draco stood up and hoisted his belongings in his arms before beginning to make his way over towards the insufferable know it all herself. He ignored the daggers that were being shot at him from the Weasel and Scarhead and loudly set his class materials down on the table separating himself from her.

“Granger.” He drawled out in introduction, lowering his gaze to look at her more fully before sitting down in his chair across from her. Deep brown eyes met his silver ones with a slight tinge of pink on her cheekbones.

 “Malfoy.” She said in a clipped tone that hinted at her annoyance in their partnership. 

A sardonic smirk tugged at the corner of Draco’s lips as he looked her over—her pride was almost too easy to provoke. “Merlin, Granger. I can assure you, I am just as enthused as you are in this partnership. Don’t worry though” He said before dropping his voice to a tone only audible to the two of them. “My intelligence will carry us through this assignment.”

She shook her head and let out a slow exhale before sitting down on the chair across from him. Her appearance resembled that of a pouting child on the verge of a temper tantrum which only further fueled his amusement. He went to rest his chin on the palm of his hand while looking at her with a half lidded gaze.

Despite himself, he found his gaze lingering longer than it should’ve—her freckles, her curls, that almost innocent way she held herself. He hated that he noticed any of it. It wasn’t supposed to matter, but it did.

“Are you going to stare at me for the remainder of class Malfoy or are you actually going to help me begin to figure out what we are going to do for this blasted year long project?” Her voice cut through his thoughts and he clenched his jaw in annoyance. His mind snapped into focus, blocking out everything else as his eyes flicked back to Granger. His silver gaze was unreadable now, a wall of indifference in place of the conflict that had been there only moments ago.

“Really, Granger? Staring at you? I almost didn’t think the brightest witch of our age could have a bigger ego but I suppose you like to prove people wrong.” He sneered with a look of disdain that didn’t quite match the small flushed tone that was taking residence on his cheekbones. Lowering his gaze, he allowed himself to absentmindedly run his index finger along the spine of the Advanced Potion Making textbook and focused on his breathing.

Granger didn’t respond to his bait. She simply gathered her things, her expression unreadable, and turned away from him. It frustrated him even more. She was always so damned composed, like she had everything figured out. In all honesty, he felt like he should care more about the project itself but he knew that it wouldn’t make any difference to him as he didn’t expect to finish the year at Hogwarts anyways. 

The choice was made for him, and it was final.

The room began to gather movement once more when he looked up and observed that his peers had begun to file out of the classroom. With a grimace settling on his face, he allowed himself to gather his belongings and follow the dissipating crowd slowly out into the corridors. 

Before he could react, Pansy’s arms were around him, squeezing tight enough to remind him that, yes, she was still there. Theo, not one to miss a chance, followed suit, his touch lingering just a moment longer than was necessary. Draco stiffened at the unexpected closeness, his mind buzzing with frustration at how easily they could invade his personal space. “Is there a reason why you both feel the need to hold me or were you both feeling particularly enthused at your pairings for the project?”

Pansy huffed out a laugh before removing her arms from his side, meanwhile Theo let his touch remain. Perks of being a Slytherin. All of them seemed to be touch deprived and it carried through in daily interactions.

 “I can assure you, I am not anywhere near enthused about being paired with the Boy Who Lived” Pansy sniffed and jutted her chin upwards in an attempt to show indifference.

Theo’s voice broke into his thoughts. ‘Loony isn’t as bad as I thought she was going to be. I think I got the best pick in comparison to Scarhead and Granger.’ Draco gave a sharp glance at his friend, irritated that Theo could joke so easily. At this moment, nothing seemed remotely funny.

Despite the way his tone came out in a light teasing manner that was clear to be harmless, Draco found that his building frustration was threatening to spill over. 

Needless to say, he had no intention of putting any real effort into a project meant to ‘unite houses.’ It just served as yet another task he had no choice but to endure until his chosen destiny would catch up with him.

Draco didn’t wait for his friends to catch up with him. He walked quickly, the weight of the project, his family’s expectations, and the ever-growing pressure of his position in the world heavy on his shoulders. He needed to speak with Snape before dinner; there were things he couldn’t afford to delay. The rest of the day would bring nothing but more complications.

Draco’s footsteps echoed through the empty corridor as he walked away from the classroom. His thoughts, however, were far from empty. His mind buzzed with questions, his father’s expectations pressing him forward with each step. The school day had ended, but it felt like the real work was just beginning. He made his way towards the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, where Snape would be waiting. There were things Draco needed to know, and the Dark Lord wasn’t about to make it easy for him to figure it out.

Trying hard not to focus on the thundering of his heart and all too familiar lull of anxiety, Draco flexed his hands by his side before standing up straight as he entered the room. 

“Mr. Malfoy, to what do I owe the pleasure?” Severus drawled in a low tone that could only be categorized as lazy and unenthused. He clapped the book that was in his hands closed with a resounding snap before making his way across the room in strong strides to where Draco stood.

Draco grimaced at the proximity and mustered an unenthused look. “No need for the pleasantries, Professor.” He sneered and went to create distance between the two of them by taking residence in a nearby chair. Letting his arms close across his chest he gave a look at Snape expectantly as if to say, How am I supposed to do this? And Why did you bring me here? 

As if reading his mind or perhaps getting the memo from the thick band of tension that lingered in the air, Snape moved to sit across from him. “If that is how you would like this environment to be then so be it, Draco.” Again, with the condescending and unenthused tone. 

Draco’s hand twitched at his side, the phantom burn of his Mark a constant reminder of his reality. He clenched his jaw, willing his voice to remain steady despite the turmoil churning in his chest. “You asked me to come here after my classes today, so I am here. Is there a reason that you tasked me with this or am I supposed to just sit here?”

“Patience is a virtue and it seems you are lacking it, Malfoy.” Snape tutted before looking at him with a look of disdain. “I made an unbreakable vow with your mother, and I intend to keep it. I will try my hardest to mentor you for this job you have been tasked with.”

Draco met that with a resounding scoff. It wasn’t a bloody request, it wasn’t as if he was given a choice-no this was something he was told he needed to do. Without acknowledging him, Snape continued on.

“However.” He drawled with a stern look on his face that matched his tone. “I also need to know that you are willing to be receptive to my attempts to mentor you. I will not waste my time.” 

“I’ve been tasked with a literal death wish. You realize that, surely?” Draco asked, not bothering to hide his exasperation over this poor excuse of a conversation. “They know I will not succeed with this task, it is only to punish me for the sins of my name and I am going to fail. ” 

A resounding sigh left Snape’s mouth as he cast his gaze over him with a look that mirrored pity. The intrusive feeling of annoyance and frustration swirled in his chest while Snape was looking at him with a look that one could describe as sour. “The Dark Lord chose you for this task, while I am not privy to his reasoning that does not change the outcome. You were chosen to handle his task and in the event of your failure, I will take your place.” His eyes narrowed, his voice dropping an octave, sharp as a dagger. “You believe the world owes you understanding, Mr. Malfoy, but let me remind you—it does not. You will learn, or you will fall. I will not indulge self-pity.”

Draco dragged his hand through his platinum hair leaving it looking disheveled in its wake. Eager to move the conversation further along he let his voice come out in an even tone, “How do I even begin to prepare for something like this?”

Snape clenched his jaw. “We will start with focusing on you as an individual before we even reach the idea of the cabinet. You are… proficient in occlumency but it still could use some work. How familiar are you with the use of shield charms?” 

Rolling his eyes before meeting the dark gaze ahead of him, “Shield charms? What am I a bloody first year?” This whole meeting was a waste of his time, he would just have to figure this whole situation out on his own, just as he expected. He stood up from his chair and glared at the man in front of him. 

“Mr.Malfoy, sit back down.” Snape’s voice came out harsh, punctuating each word individually leaving no room for discussion. He dragged a long inhale through his nose before exhaling slowly prior to continuing in a tone less daunting. "A shield charm is not just defense, Draco. It is intention, focus, and, above all, discipline. If you cannot summon the will to defend yourself, how can you hope to succeed at anything else?"

Draco flexed his fingers at his side. “What if I don’t want to succeed at this? What if I don’t want to be the cause of an innocent man’s death?”

“It is his death or your own, Draco.” Snape spat before tugging at each of the fabric near his wrists and crossing his arms. “Or in this case, as I promised your mother- it is his death or mine. It is neither my desire nor intention for either of us to face mortality at this age.”

Death wasn’t an unfamiliar thought for Draco himself. There is a solemn peace of mind that comes with the idea of him meeting his end on his own terms. So much control has been taken away from him and it could all be much simpler to disappear from the world itself. 

Just as always, Draco pushed that thought quickly to the side. There was one thing that he was in control of and that was the protection of his mother. She would not fall victim to the failure of her son, she had already fallen victim to the failures of her poor excuse of a husband. He would make sure of that. 

“Correct me if I am wrong professor, but you are saying that a shield charm will be my lifeline from the Dark Lord?” Draco drawled while trying to appear as unaffected as possible. 

“This is precisely what I am saying.” Snape raised his eyebrows and waited- seemingly waiting for a response from Draco that would certainly not be coming. He looked momentarily pleased before continuing. “Shield charms as a foundation are easy to understand. However, they have the ability to be refined and more complex.” 

Draco opened his mouth to ask a question but abruptly stopped. Pain. A sharp hiss left his mouth as he grasped onto his forearm, now that was an unfamiliar sensation. “It appears we are being summoned. The Dark Lord is more impatient than you, Mr. Malfoy. We must oblige immediately.” 

A heavy wave of anxiety threatened to rush over him as he staggered back to make room for his departure. A firm grip reached out and firmly clasped along his other arm causing his sight to snap up to Snape. The burning in his forearm was searing now, a summons that demanded obedience and offered no escape. Snape’s grip tightened on his arm—not harshly, but firmly enough to ground him. “Occlude,” Snape ordered, his voice quiet but unyielding. “You will need every ounce of focus you have.”

Before he could fully register what was happening he felt a tugging sensation below his navel as the classroom faded from his sight and landed on the place he used to call home. Taking a moment to find his bearings as he landed from the side along apparition, he looked over at Snape with eyes that reflected a fraction of the pain he felt mentally.

In return he was met with a sharp look that served as a fierce reminder of their words prior to departure. Occlude. Snape retracted his hand quickly forcing Draco’s mind to zero in on the present moment. He took a long breath in before smoothing out his clothes and urged himself to follow behind Snape as he walked through the entryway. 

His dragonhide shoes clicked as he trudged slowly towards the drawing room. Clenching his hands into fists by his side, he mustered whatever remaining willpower he had in him and began to occlude. Carefully locking away the feelings of anxiety, pain, and hopelessness into a place in the depths of his subconscious that could (hopefully) not be reached. 

The air at Malfoy Manor felt different than he remembered in his youth, the grand hallways echoing with a silence that seemed to breathe down his neck. Shadows stretched unnaturally along the walls, and the faint hum of voices from the drawing room carried the weight of something unspeakable. 

As he crossed the threshold and entered into the drawing room Draco could hear Bellatrix’s high-pitched laughter—shrill, unhinged, and far too gleeful for the horrors it accompanied. He suppressed a shudder, bile rising in his throat at the thought of what she was capable of. 

He moved with purpose as he strolled to the long table, his nose tilted towards the air as he tried to exude confidence he definitely wasn’t feeling. He took his spot in between his parents and took a moment to gaze around the table briefly before looking over at his mother. She gave him a brief and small smile that wasn’t reflected anywhere on her face besides the small uptick from the corners of her mouth. A slight scrape against his mental defense wore down as he looked at her wordlessly and expressionless, taking in the dark bags underneath her eyes. He frowned slightly before he averted his gaze away from her.

The aroma of the air had changed immensely since his last time home. What was once a scent that could replicate cleanliness was now replaced with the smell of decay, almost as if something was withering away in the very room he sat in. His gaze flickered over to Severus briefly and was met with a look of indifference. 

He clenched his jaw and willed his frustration to disappear back into the depths of his mind. Finally, a ragged voice broke the silence that had taken over the room. “Welcome to all, you’ve done well to respond to your summons.” Draco turned his head to look at the man at the head of the table. After one quick observation, it was apparent where the putrid smell was coming from.

“My Lord” mumbles coursed out in acknowledgement around the room and he suppressed a chilling sensation that seeped through him. 

“I have brought you all here today because the young Draco Malfoy here-” Draco’s eyebrows furrowed and he clamped his hands firmly down on his thighs. “Has been given the honor of completing an extraordinary task this year at Hogwarts that will help strengthen our cause.” The Dark Lord let out a menacing laugh while he observed the reactions from the other Death Eaters around the table.

Draco couldn’t bring himself to use his words so he just simply nodded in acknowledgement. “ Draco!” Bellatrix hissed causing his head to snap towards her. “Do you have nothing to say to Our Lord? Perhaps a ‘thank you’?” 

Thwack. A sharp hand found its way harshly across Draco’s chest and he looked at the source. His father looked at him with a look of pleading yet disgust openly on his face. Draco cleared his throat before stiffly saying, “Yes of course, thank you my Lord.”

His cheeks warmed as he felt the eyes around the long table glazing over him with a look of jealousy and in that moment he felt disgusted. Really the task he was handed, that was chosen for him, was nothing to be jealous of. He slammed his mental barriers back at full force to try to replace the feeling of disgust and anger- allowing him to zone out the rest of the meeting. 

Draco tried to focus on the table’s surface, the wood polished to a gleam, but his vision blurred with the weight of it all. Every word spoken around him seemed distant, as though muffled by the storm raging in his mind. How did it come to this? He was just a boy—a boy thrust into a world that demanded blood for proof of loyalty. The walls of his mental fortress wavered, cracks forming under the relentless pressure.

Merlin. He was weak. So weak willed that he was sitting here wallowing in self pity while he should be focusing on the willpower it will take to complete the task. Focusing on his one reason for even entertaining the task himself. His mother would not fall victim to the Dark Lord, he would not allow that. That thought alone was the only way Draco could muster any sort of resolve when it came to the situation. 

The Dark Lord promised him greatness but  screw ‘greatness’. He could almost scoff at the idea itself but refrained from doing so. The only thing that he desired from this task he was handed was the safety of his mother. She never wanted this life for any of them but it was just another sin from his father. 

A light touch on his hand startled Draco. He turned to see his mother’s pale face, her eyes wide with a fear she dared not speak aloud. “They’re gone,” she whispered so faintly that it was more breath than sound. He frowned, confused, before glancing around. It was true. The others—faces that had been leering and laughing moments ago—were now conspicuously absent. Only Snape, his parents, Bellatrix, and the Dark Lord remained.

He clenched his jaw and went to begin standing up to excuse himself. His lack of sleep feeling more evident after feeling the energy from the dark and daunting meeting seep through him. He just wanted to go back to his dorm and lay down, which apparently was a choice that was not going to be given to him. 

“Ah, young Draco,” Voldemort began, his voice smooth and eerie. Draco stood to his full stature and bowed his head slightly as he moved to push his chair back into the table. 

“My Lord.” He drawled lowly and fixed his gaze on the withering man before him. From the corner of his eye he saw his mother’s trembling hands gripping onto the back of her chair as she stood next to Draco.

“The heir to the proud Malfoy name. Tell me, do you find this task daunting? No, no—don’t answer.” He chuckled softly, a sound that sent chills down Draco’s spine. Keep your walls up, don’t panic, be strong for your mother. He refused to make any movement or any sort of reaction to the baiting comments that were being tossed his way.

The Dark Lord loomed closer to him, standing now only a few feet away from him. Draco straightened his shoulders and challenged the man with a blank stare. “Your father’s… shortcomings have left a stain on your family’s reputation. But you, boy, have been given the opportunity to restore honor to your bloodline. All it takes is courage. Do you have courage, Draco?” 

He opened his mouth to make any sort of response that could be deemed respectful but before anything could leave his mouth he snapped it closed. “My Lord,” Bellatrix interjected, her voice dripping with zeal, “if the boy is to succeed, he must first learn discipline. Allow me to teach him. He will know pain, and through pain, he will grow strong.” From his side, a barely audible yet sharp intake of air came from his mother and he shook his head just slightly enough hoping to discourage her from any sort of reaction.

His throat bobbed as he swallowed harshly. Bellatrix was a poor excuse for an aunt let alone a human being. Her loyalty had no bounds when it came to her master and it didn’t matter if it would cost her family further suffering. 

Voldemort tilted his head, his serpentine gaze flicking to Draco. “A fine idea, Bellatrix. The boy must understand that this is not a game. Very well—proceed.” A gleeful squeal left her mouth and she bowed to him while muttering praises to him. Spineless witch. 

Lucius dragged his mother back behind Draco with a firm grip that gave her little to no room for movement or struggle while trying to whisper words of encouragement stating that it was all going to be okay and that Draco was going to make them proud. The only thing that Draco felt he was going to make was a heap of bile on the table in front of them with the scraps he had digested from dinner. 

He walked around the table, careful to avoid where the Dark Lord was standing,  and into the open space that surrounded it before stopping a few feet shy of where his aunt stood. Bellatrix twisted her wand in her hand almost pondering her next move before tutting slightly. “You will bring honor back to this family.”

With a quick raise of her wand he didn’t comprehend the words that left her mouth before Draco’s world exploded in pain. The curse struck him like a lightning bolt, and for a fleeting moment, all he could think of was how pathetically small he must have looked to the Dark Lord. A disappointment, just like his father. Just like—no, no, stop. Focus on surviving. One breath, then another. But each breath felt like glass shredding his insides.

His body convulsed against his will, muscles seizing as the curse tore through him like fire. Dropping to his knees he clutched at the ground for purchase, trying to find something-anything to focus on. He bit down hard on his lip, tasting blood, determined not to scream. Not in front of them.

She lifted the curse and he clutched heavily at his chest, trying to focus on slowing his breathing. Through the haze of agony, he saw his mother, her hands gripping the arm of his father so tightly that her knuckles had gone white. His father, the coward he was, turned away while Bellatrix’s laughter rang in his ears like a twisted melody. His guard was completely down and depleted and before he knew it he heard a snarled, “ Crucio!” 

There was no stopping the screams and wails that left his mouth that time around. His body slumping to the ground, succumbing to the pain as he thrashed in place. Between his eyes trying to remain open or clenching shut in pain he noticed that Snape sat perfectly still, his face a mask of indifference. But for a fleeting moment, Draco thought he saw something else in the man’s dark eyes. Guilt? Pity? No, that wouldn’t be it. He told Draco himself that he wouldn’t give into the self pity he exuded. Unable to think coherently, his vision began to blur slightly. 

The stabbing and harsh pain retracted from his body but the aftershocks had begun to set in. Draco lay crumpled on the floor, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he felt blood trickle from his nose. Bellatrix loomed over him, sneering. “Weak,” she spat. She wasn’t wrong, he was weak. He was weak and he was going to fail. He was going to fail and it was going to be all his fault that his mother reaped the consequences. 

The Dark Lord dismissed them with a wave, his voice cold. “Take him away. Teach him, Bellatrix. I expect results.” Flat footed feet pattered against the floor as he walked towards him momentarily before pausing. “You will rise, or you will fall,” Voldemort hissed, his crimson eyes narrowing as he looked down at Draco’s crumpled form. “Either way, your family’s fate rests on you. Don’t disappoint me again.” With that he left the room, his frustration evident in his movements.

Slowly coming to his senses he heard hurried heels rushing his direction. “My dragon-” His mother whispered, reaching a tentative hand towards his face to swipe the blood away from his nose. Her eyes were welled up with tears as she muttered a cleansing charm to herself and his face. Slowly her hand caressed his face, cupping his cheek gently stroking her thumb along his cheekbones. 

He looked around frantically, trying to take in his surroundings. Once he felt the comfort of noticing they were alone he reached a trembling hand to close over hers. His bottom lip quivered and he leaned into her touch just for a moment. Just this moment he would allow himself this comfort.

Her whispered apologies were like a balm and a wound all at once. “My son,” she repeated, her voice breaking with every word. “I’m so sorry, my dragon. I tried, I tried to stop this…” But the pain in her eyes told him what he already knew—there was no stopping it. No stopping any of it. I will save you mother, I will protect you. 

After allowing a few moments of his mother’s gentle touch he gave her a somber look before making way for his departure. Mustering his last bit of energy he willed his body to apparate away from what would be his recurring nightmare if he ever got a wink of sleep and back into the place he used to look for solace. 

The nightmares didn’t wait for sleep—they haunted him the moment he shut his eyes. Flashes of red light, searing pain, and his mother’s tearful whispers played on a loop in his mind. He didn’t bother trying to sleep anymore. The bed in his dormitory felt as cold and unwelcoming as the stone walls of Malfoy Manor.

Chapter Text

His body ached from the lingering aftereffects of the Cruciatus Cuse. His mind was clouded with exhaustion, and sleep had eluded him once again. When he closed his eyes, he heard Bellatrix’s laughter reverberating in his skull, the phantom pain curling in his muscles.

The morning light creeping through the castle windows felt almost offensive. The world had the audacity to continue moving as if nothing had changed—as if he hadn't spent the night being torn apart from the inside out.

When the sharp tap of an owl’s beak against the window startled him, he groggily reached for the letter it carried, his vision swimming. His breath caught when he saw the sender’s name.

Hermione Bloody Granger. 

With a resigned sigh, Draco unrolled the parchment and scanned its contents.

Typical. Always the bossy and superiority complex even in a bloody letter. He crumpled the parchment in his fist before tossing it onto his desk. 

His lips curled into something that wasn’t quite a sneer, but something darker. She acted as if she had any control over him, as if her word held any weight in his world. He should ignore her. He had far more pressing concerns than a class project.

And Really? Why was he even bothering? The project was meaningless in the grand scheme of things. In a few months, he’d be gone—whether dead or imprisoned, it didn’t matter. And yet, the thought of leaving it all to Granger gnawed at him. He could already hear her smug voice, her irritating lectures on responsibility, her insufferable superiority. The worst part? She’d be right.

But then—he thought of Bellatrix, of her taunts, of his father looking away, of his mother’s trembling hands. The reminder that he was failing at everything that mattered. If he couldn’t control anything else, he could at least control this.

So he forced himself to move.

Draco arrived at the library nearly twenty minutes late.

Though looking nothing like the normal embodiment of Slytherin he had still managed to show up. His uniform was slightly disheveled—his tie loosened, the sleeves of his robes wrinkled from restless tossing and turning. Dark circles shadowed his sharp features, and despite his best efforts, he couldn’t fully suppress the way his limbs still felt stiff from the previous night. He knew he looked like hell.

Granger was already seated at the far end of the library, her books neatly stacked, quill poised in hand. Her foot tapped impatiently against the floor, a clear sign of her irritation.

The moment he stepped into her line of vision, she narrowed her eyes. “You’re late.”

Draco let out a slow exhale and ran a trembling hand through his hair, feigning indifference. “I was busy.” He slid into the chair opposite her, wincing slightly at the movement, but quickly masking it with a scoff. “Not all of us have the luxury of living life solely for the purpose of a bloody school project.”

Her brows furrowed as she studied him, sharp eyes sweeping over his disheveled appearance. She didn’t say anything at first, but he could feel her overanalyzing him, and it made his skin crawl.

“Busy doing what?” she asked, too perceptive for his liking. His stomach churned but he knew he had to put up his normal facade. 

Draco forced a smirk, leaning back in his chair. “Jealous, Granger?” he drawled, voice lazy but edged with something that wasn’t quite amusement.

She rolled her eyes, clearly unimpressed. “Oh, please. I’m just trying to determine whether I’ll actually have help on this project or if I should just do it myself.”

His jaw tightened at that. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

“Barely,” she muttered.

His fingers curled into fists beneath the table. He wanted to snap back, to tell her she didn’t know anything. She had no clue what she was talking about. But that was the problem, wasn’t it? She didn’t know. 

She had no idea what he had endured last night—what he endured mentally every night. And yet, here she was, looking at him like he was nothing more than a lazy, arrogant boy who couldn’t be bothered to show up on time.

Something about that made his stomach turn, yet again. Bile rising in his throat making him take another deep inhale and slow exhale.

“Look,” he bit out, his voice lower, sharper. “I don’t care what you think of me, Granger. Just tell me what we’re working on so we can get this over with.”

She blinked at the sudden shift in his tone, but after a beat, she straightened her posture and flipped open a book. “Fine.”

She launched into an explanation, speaking with the same certainty she always did, but Draco barely heard her. His thoughts were elsewhere—on the ache in his bones, the weight in his chest, the knowledge that none of this even mattered.

And yet, despite himself, despite everything—he was here.

He had been unknowingly flexing his hands above the table in an attempt to work through the tremors while his mind had drifted to depths unknown.

“Malfoy!” Granger snarled, quite ferociously for the swot, causing him to blink the world back into focus.

He flattened his palms on the table and gave her a disapproving look. “Granger, that is hardly the tone you should be using in the library. Surely you should know that.” He tutted with a shake of his head.

If it was possible for someone to transform into the color red, surely Granger would have hit the mark. “You didn’t even listen to anything I said!” Granger said in an exasperated, yet undoubtedly, quieter tone while crossing her arms across her chest.

Merlin, he certainly was an arse. 

He grimaced momentarily before letting his exhausted gaze meet her furious eyes. “Avada me for not being fully devoted to listening to you ramble.” He muttered with far less of a bite to match his words..

Arse. 

Granger regarded him with an overanalyzing look again, her brows furrowed deep as she took a look once over him again. He stiffened in his seat and scowled. Yes Granger, I look and feel like death. How kind of you to notice. 

“What? No further lecturing?” He sneered, again, with less of a bite to his tone.

Exhausted. 

“You look horrid.” Draco opened his mouth to snap but she held up a hand in surrender. “Seriously Malfoy, you look paler than normal and that is saying something.”

He scoffed and shook his head, steering his gaze away from her analysis. A mistake. This was a bloody mistake. He shouldn’t have come. 

He should have ignored her letter, stayed in bed—should have done anything else besides sit here under her scrutinizing gaze while she picked him apart like some sort of puzzle she was determined to solve.

Ridiculous bleeding heart of a Gryffindor. 

He tore his eyes away from her, pretending to scan the parchment in front of him, but the words blurred together, meaningless. His hands flexed again, tremors subtle but relentless.

Granger, apparently, wasn’t done. Shocker.

“Malfoy.”

Her voice had softened—less sharp, more… concerned? He didn’t like that. Not at all.

He exhaled through his nose, fixing her with a glare that took far too much energy. “For Salazar’s sake, Granger, what?”

She hesitated. And that—that—was unexpected. Granger never hesitated. Always something to say, the insufferable type she is.

For a moment, she looked as if she might press the issue, as if she might actually ask him what was wrong. 

That was dangerous territory, he’d have to rectify that immediately.

Draco straightened, forcing his usual smirk back into place. “Finally at a loss for words? Merlin, I never thought I’d see the day.”

Her lips pressed into a thin line, and just like that, the concern vanished—replaced by the same exasperation she always had when dealing with him. “Fine. Be insufferable, then.”

Relief curled in his chest, though he wasn’t sure why.

She shoved the open book across the table toward him a little more forcefully than necessary. “We need to divide the research. Since you clearly can’t be bothered to focus for more than five seconds, I’ll take the first half of the subject matter, and you can handle the rest.”

Draco frowned, his pride prickling despite everything. “You’re assuming I’m incapable of pulling my own weight?”

Granger lifted a brow. “I’m assuming you won’t.”

He huffed, leaning back in his chair. “I hate to break it to you, Granger, but I’m more than capable of keeping up.”

“Oh? Is that why you haven’t taken a single note since you sat down?”

Draco’s fingers twitched toward his quill out of sheer spite. “Give me the damned book.”

She didn’t look convinced, but she slid it completely toward him this time, nonetheless. He forced himself to focus, ignoring the way she continued to watch him out of the corner of her eye. He let the silence settle between them, his fingers tightening around the quill as he forced himself to write something— anything —to prove a point.

The words felt foreign under his fingertips, his usual precision in script instead came out  jagged and rushed.

Granger sighed beside him. “I don’t understand you.”

Draco didn’t look up. “Good.” There was nothing that needed to be understood. 

“Seriously.” She tapped her quill against her parchment. “You show up late, looking like hell, act like you don’t care, but then you sit here and get defensive when I suggest you might not actually do the work. You make no sense.”

He set his quill down with a sharp click, dulled grey eyes flicking up to meet hers. “Then stop trying to figure me out.”

A beat of silence stretched between them.

With that, Granger rolled her eyes and turned back to her own notes. “Fine. Suit yourself.”

Draco inhaled slowly, flexing his fingers once more before picking up his quill again. He didn’t owe her explanations. He didn’t owe anyone anything. He already had every ounce of his independence stripped from him, there was nothing left for him to give to anyone. Even if he wanted to.

Which he didn’t , thank you very much. 

Yet for some forsaken reason, he stayed.

He continued to mindlessly scribble down notes of different ingredients and interactions pausing every so often to flex and stretch his fingers. When the tremors became too much for him to bear, he set his quill down.

Exhaling a puff of breath he didn’t realize he was holding, he looked up from his parchment to see her already looking at him. A frown settled on her face as she regarded him. He didn’t need her pity. 

“Careful Granger, if you keep frowning like that there won't be any beauty charms that will smooth those lines on your face.” He drawled lazily as he moved his hands to rest in his lap.

“The snark is hardly necessary, Malfoy.” She sniffed and shifted her gaze down to her notes again. He dropped his gaze back down to his own parchment at her dismissal.

He dragged his tongue along his teeth, his mouth making a clicking tone in its completion. “I took some notes down on ingredients and interactions, did that big brain of yours come up with any ideas for this blasted potion yet?”

She set her quill down and clasped her hands together in front of her. “I was thinking we could brew a potion to work on cursed marks.”

His gaze snapped back up to her and in that moment it seemed as though an unanswered question found confirmation in her expression. No, no, no. 

His mind slammed its barriers down, dulling out the panicking sensation that had begun to sink in. Draco forced himself to hold her gaze, even as something cold curled in his stomach. Cursed marks. The words echoed in his head, rattling around like spare knuts. 

She knew.

No—she didn’t . She couldn’t.

And yet, her expression was too careful. Not smug, not taunting— just careful.

He needed to break this moment before it broke him deeper than he already was. “That’s… bold.” The words fell from his lips, flat and toneless.

Her brow furrowed. “Well, yes. It’s an advanced concept, but I think we can handle it.”

We.

Something in his chest twisted, unfamiliar and unwelcome.

He leaned back in his chair, arms folding over his chest. “And what exactly inspired this little endeavor, Granger? Are you collecting charity cases now? Thought you’d brew something heroic for all the poor, unfortunate souls cursed by dark magic?” His voice was light, lazy, but there was something acidic beneath it.

Her eyes narrowed. “It’s a useful potion.”

He straightened in his seat, his defense cracking. “You think I need it?” The words were out before he could stop them.

He really needed to work on his poor excuse of occlumency. 

Hermione blinked, startled. “I—” She hesitated, but only for a fraction of a second. “I think people need it.”

The air between them shifted, thick with something unspoken.

Draco sighed, exhaling slowly through his nose, forcing his fingers to relax against the tabletop. He attempted to sink back into whatever depths of numbness he could salvage.

“You’re reaching, Granger,” he muttered, dragging his gaze away. “Stick to something simpler. Something achievable. You don’t need to make this a crusade.”

Out of the corner of his eye he saw her study him for a moment, and he hated it.

Then, to his relief, she let out a sigh and picked up her quill. “Fine. We’ll look at other options.”

But the way she said it— the way she looked at him —made it clear she wasn’t going to do that.

And worse? He didn’t want to try anything else.

The cursed mark he had was permanent, he was sure of that. Wasn’t he?  

He wanted to leave. He had no plans of attending anything else for the rest of the day so there was no purpose in prolonging this torment any longer. He has that choice. The choice to stay or leave. 

Draco’s fingers curled against his palm beneath the table. A habit he hadn’t realized he had developed—a futile attempt to ground himself, to force control into a body that felt less and less like his own. He wasn’t sure what unsettled him more—the fact that she had suggested the potion at all, or the way something inside him had clenched at the idea of it.

Hope was a fickle thing. He knew there was no rhyme or reason as to why the idea of brewing a potion for cursed marks should even spark a glimpse of hope in him, but it did. Even if it was only for a fraction of a second.

Hope.

It had no place here. Not in his life, not in his thoughts, and certainly not in anything bloody Granger proposed. She didn’t know. She couldn’t possibly know. She was just being her usual insufferable self, reaching too far, trying to fix things that couldn’t be fixed.

But still…

His jaw tightened. He had to shut this down. The potion was pointless. If cursed marks could be erased, he wouldn’t still be branded like livestock. He would’ve clawed it off himself by now.

And yet—even though she said they could look into something else there was an unmistakable glint in her eyes, something determined, something that sent a sickening churn through his stomach.

She wasn’t going to let this go.

He should sneer, he should scoff, he should tell her how ridiculous she was for even entertaining the idea.

Instead, he stayed.

His fingers twitched against his knee, and his mouth worked faster than his thoughts. “Hypothetically…” He forced the word past his teeth, grimacing at the way it felt. “If you were to have us pursue this absurd and impossible potion—how would we begin?”

The moment her lips quirked at the edges, something in his chest twisted violently. He ignored it.

She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she studied him, her quill poised midair as if she were deciding whether or not to call him out on his sudden shift in interest.

For a moment, he thought she might push—demand to know why he cared, really cared—but instead, she just nodded. “Well,” she said, her voice slipping into that familiar, matter-of-fact tone, “first, we’d need to understand the nature of the curse itself.”

Draco exhaled, tension easing from his shoulders. Good. She wasn’t going to make this a thing.

Hermione flipped to a fresh page in her notes. “Cursed marks are different from ordinary wounds. Most don’t just linger physically; they’re tied to the caster’s intent, to the magic itself. That’s why simple healing spells don’t work.”

Draco stiffened.

He knew that already—of course he knew that.

But hearing her say it, so clinical and detached, made something twist in his stomach.

The Intent was clear when they forced his arm out, fingers like iron, inescapable, inhuman in a sense. Magic that doesn’t fade. Magic that lasts. Magic that binds.

A brand, a reminder, a life sentence.

Hermione, absorbed in her own explanation, didn’t seem to notice the way his grip tightened around the edge of the table. “If we were to counteract that kind of magic, we’d need a binding agent—a magical neutralizer. The problem is, most potions are designed to work with the body’s natural healing, not against lingering dark magic.”

Lingering dark magic.

His pulse ticked against his throat, a slow, suffocating rhythm.

If she only knew, if anyone only knew how substantial the lingering effects were on one with the mark.

Not just the mark itself, but what came with it. The sleepless nights. The phantom pain. The way his stomach turned every time he caught his own reflection and saw something he couldn’t scrub off, no matter how hard he tried.

He hadn’t been a person in that moment. He’d been a canvas, a vessel, something to be carved into, painted over in ink he never asked for. He still didn’t feel like a person, not anymore at least. Any sense of normalcy had long gone out the window. 

And yet—here he was. Entertaining this ridiculous, impossible thought.

Hermione’s quill scratched against the parchment as she jotted something down. “Maybe… Jobberknoll feathers? They’re used in truth serums because they have properties that counteract lingering enchantments. If we could combine that with something that regenerates tissue…”

Draco swallowed. His mouth felt dry. Stop Stop Stop. His mind no longer had a home for his weak occlumency and his thoughts were screaming at him– pleading with him to end this conversation and leave. 

But his voice betrayed him. “And what if the mark isn’t just physical?”

Hermione paused.

Her gaze flicked up to him, and for a moment—just a second—he thought she might see too much. As if she could see into the depths of his withered soul. 

No.

His throat tightened. He should have picked a different question. Something meaningless. Something that didn’t crack him open like this.

But then, she nodded slowly, tapping her quill against the parchment. “Then we’d need to counteract the magical imprint itself.”

Draco forced a smirk, leaning back, grasping at the comfort of old habits. “Sounds impossible. Even for you, Granger.”

Her lips twitched. “You say that, and yet, here you are.”

His face fell flat and he shifted his gaze downwards, not allowing himself to watch the satisfaction lingering on her face.

He hated that.

Hated that she wasn’t wrong.

Hated that, against all logic, against every bitter, cynical instinct he had left, he wanted to believe her.

So with a lift of his head he rolled his eyes, reaching for his quill again. “Fine. Jobberknoll feathers. What else?”

She hesitated, as if deciding whether or not to press her point.

But then, with a small smirk of her own, she dipped her head. “Let’s find out.”

There was a sudden shift in the air. It wasn’t – couldn’t be a shift in Draco’s demeanor but the air around him didn’t feel as thin anymore. After a relatively not disastrous first meeting with Granger, he had time to focus on the rest of the day.

The plans he had for the rest of the day were simple.

Nothing. 

There was no need to go to any classes or wander around really when this wouldn’t be his reality for much longer. 

Mindlessly he made his way into the Slytherin common room thankfully not bumping into many people in the long corridors. Socializing with Granger took about as much energy as he was willing– able to deplete and he was ready to be alone again.

His feet dragged him over to a couch that wasn’t occupied to try to-

“Draco!”

Theo’s sing-song tone of voice rang through the common room, loud and bright, completely at odds with the dull ache pressing against Draco’s skull. He barely had time to grimace before Theo threw himself onto the worn leather couch beside him, draping himself over the armrest like he belonged there. Which, in fairness, he did.

Draco exhaled sharply, pressing two fingers to his temple. So much for solitude.

“Bloody hell,” Draco muttered. “Do you ever enter a room at a reasonable volume?”

He shifted in his seat to find a more comfortable position, an attempt if you will, to make himself feel like it was just a normal day at school before his life destiny had been made for him. He propped his head up with his arm and looked towards the person in question. 

Theo grinned, utterly unbothered. “No, but thanks for asking.” His gaze flicked over Draco, unbothered expression turned sharp in a way that made his skin itch. “You look like death.”

“Cheers,” Draco huffed, sinking deeper into the couch. “Heard that a few times as of late.” 

Theo nudged his knee against his own and quirked an eyebrow, “Tough day, Drake?” 

Today wasn’t as bad as they have been lately but familiarity was easy to sink into. “What day isn't?” Draco scoffed, resting his palms now in his lap. Willing himself to ignore the tremors that had continued from the night before. 

Theo made a noncommittal noise before leaning back, stretching his legs out like he had all the time in the world. The silence between them should have been suffocating, but it wasn’t. Not really.

He hated that, despite everything—despite the war, despite the mark branded into his skin, despite the undeniable shift in the social order—Theo was still here. Like nothing had changed.

As if Draco was still worth his time.

Regardless if his permanent brand was known to his friends or not– which it wasn’t– he felt like he didn’t deserve the sanctuary Theo tended to provide him.

“Alright, what happened ?” Theo drawled, breaking the quiet. “You’ve got that look.”

Draco’s brow furrowed. “What look?”

“The one where you’re overthinking something so hard you might actually set fire to the furniture.”

Draco scowled. “I do not —”

“You do ,” Blaise’s voice cut in as he strolled over, dropping into the armchair across from them. “It’s deeply unsettling.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Brilliant. I’m so glad my existential crisis is entertaining for you both.”

Blaise smirked. “Oh, it is. By all means, continue.”

Theo hummed. “Let me guess. Someone insulted your hair, Granger breathed in your general direction, or—oh!—did Astoria corner you again about the tragic demise of your betrothal?”

Draco glared. “All deeply plausible, but no.”

“Ah.” Theo tilted his head, considering. “So, Granger did breathe in your direction, then.”

Draco stiffened. Not noticeably—at least, he hoped not—but it was enough. Because Theo’s grin sharpened.

“Oh interesting .”

“Drop it, Theodore,” Draco warned, his voice low. His gaze shooting daggers that held no real ill intent but he had enough with the observational notes from Granger all afternoon and he was not going to deal with it again, thank you very much. 

Theo held up his hands, all innocence. “I would , truly. But your face is doing that thing again.”

Draco huffed a sharp breath, dragging a hand through his hair. He didn’t have the energy for this. Not today.

Theo, evidently sensing as much, knocked his shoulder against Draco’s before flopping back dramatically. “Alright, alright. Keep your secrets, Malfoy .” His tone was teasing, but not unkind.

Draco swallowed.

It was strange, wasn’t it? That they were still here —Theo and Blaise, acting as if things were just as they always had been. As if the world wasn’t shattering. As if Draco himself wasn’t shattering along with it.

He didn’t deserve this.

Didn’t deserve to sit here, to feel the slightest bit at ease when everything else was suffocating him.

Didn’t deserve to have friends who stayed .

“Draco.”

He startled slightly, glancing up to see Theo watching him, the teasing edge of his expression softened into something more familiar. More real .

He swallowed. “What?”

Theo’s gaze flicked over him, and then, with a lazy grin, he nudged Draco’s knee again. “You want a drink?”

Draco exhaled, some of the tension in his chest unraveling, just a little. He forced himself to smirk. “Depends. Is it poisoned?”

“Would that really stop you?” Blaise quipped.

Draco let out a breath that could almost be a laugh. “No, I suppose not.” Would make it more enticing , is what he really wanted to say. 

Theo grinned. “That’s the spirit.”

Within a blink of an eye, Draco found himself with a hand wrapped around the neck of a Firewhisky bottle that helped dull out his sorrows one gulp at a time. Certainly not drinking with the social etiquette he had been raised with, but chasing the feeling that was slowly blanketing over him.

The ability to just be. 

The Firewhisky burned on the way down, tracing a molten path to his stomach that he barely felt anymore. Draco exhaled through his nose, his fingers tightening around the bottle as Theo threw an arm over his shoulder, far too cheerful for the late hour.

“That’s the spirit,” Theo drawled, clinking his own bottle lazily against Draco’s. “Damn, I thought you’d be brooding all night.”

Draco scoffed, taking another swig. “‘M not brooding.”

Blaise raised a brow from where he lounged across the armchair. “You’re always brooding.”

Draco huffed, sinking further into the worn leather of the sofa. Maybe he was. Maybe he had reason to. The room swayed just a little, but he didn’t mind it. The alcohol dulled the jagged edges of his mind, letting him exist in this moment where things were almost normal.

He could almost pretend that things weren’t spiraling. That his days weren’t numbered.

That he wasn’t thinking about Granger.

His fingers twitched around the bottle. His mind shouldn’t be drifting there—not to the way she had looked at him earlier, not to the way she had almost figured him out. Not to the strange, twisted comfort of her stupid, insufferable presence.

He scowled at the ground. Bloody Granger. 

“Oi,” Theo nudged him. “Where’d you go just now?”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Nowhere.”

“Uh-huh.” Theo’s grin turned wicked. “Thinking about a girl?”

Blaise chuckled into his glass.

Draco sneered. “You lot are insufferable.”

“You didn’t say no.”

“Piss off.”

The conversation blurred around him after that, reduced to Theo and Blaise’s lazy back-and-forth while Draco nursed the Firewhisky, letting the warmth settle in his veins. His mind itched. He was too restless to stay here, but unsure of what to do. 

And then, before he could second-guess himself, he made what he hoped was a swift and apologetic exit from the common room and he was reaching for his wand.

Thanks Nott, for your clever charms.

A whispered magical message.

He barely registered the words as they left his lips, let alone the foolish impulse that drove them. But the magic carried his voice through the castle, threading its way to the one person who was definitely not expecting to hear from him at this hour.

“Granger,” he murmured, the words slurring slightly.  “Found something, can’t wait, requirement.”

He blinked, exhaling slowly.

Oh, fuck.

Chapter Text

He hesitated for a moment outside the dungeons before shrugging to himself and slinging back another sip of his alcohol.

Draco dragged his feet through the corridors, the castle tilting slightly with every step. Or maybe that was just the Firewhisky settling in. Either way, he hardly cared. His pulse thrummed with an odd, restless energy—not quite regret, not quite expectation, but something in between.

What in Salazar’s name was he doing?

The Room of Requirement wasn’t far now. He lingered outside the stretch of wall where it always appeared, staring at the cold stone as if it might provide him some sort of answer as to what he had gotten himself into. 

He should leave. He should go back to the dorm, sleep this off, pretend this never happened.

But he didn’t move.

The minutes stretched. The corridors remained empty.

She wasn’t coming. He scoffed and muttered to himself before taking another swig of his bottle before stowing it in the security of his robe. 

Of course she wasn’t coming. Why would she? Whatever foolish impulse had driven him to send that message was just that—foolish. 

Granger was probably in bed freshly done with her charity piece of the day for Potter and the Weasel, rolling her eyes at his drunken nonsense, making a mental note to berate him during their next study session.

He exhaled, shaking his head at himself, and turned on his heel—

Footsteps.

Draco barely had time to process before a familiar figure emerged from the shadows, her wand clenched in her hand, her expression taut with irritation.

She had come.

A sly grin pulled at his lips before he could stop it. “Granger! Always a pleasure.” His voice came out far too loud for a clandestine meeting past curfew. The alcohol had thoroughly sabotaged his volume control and apparently his self control.

Hermione’s eyes widened in alarm, and in a split second, she was in front of him, slapping a hand over his mouth. “Are you insane?” she hissed. “Do you have any idea how loud you’re being?”

Draco’s brows shot up, amusement flickering beneath the hazy warmth of the Firewhisky. He would have made a quip about her touching him, but she had already yanked her hand away and was glaring at the empty wall.

She paced, once, twice—muttering something under her breath, and then, as if summoned by sheer force of will, the door materialized before them. Without giving him a chance to stumble through another unnecessary remark, Hermione grabbed his wrist and yanked him inside.

The door shut with a soft click.

Draco let his gaze lazily roam around the space they were in. 

Bookshelves. Of course.

He let out a quiet huff of laughter, swaying slightly as he took in the sturdy wooden furniture, the dim, warm lighting. This was exactly what he should have expected, especially from Granger.

“Predictable,” he murmured.

That was the final straw. Hermione whirled on him, arms crossing over her chest, her glare sharp enough to cut through whatever alcohol-induced haze he was enjoying. “You dragged me out past curfew, not because you had important information, but because you were drunk and wanted to talk?” She scoffed. “And you didn’t even bring me a drink?”

Draco blinked.

And then, to his utter horror, he smirked.

Traitorous Firewhisky.

Slowly, he reached into his robes and pulled out the half-empty Firewhisky bottle, raising an eyebrow as he waited for her next move. Dangling it out in front of him in a taunting manner, as if trying to lure his prey. 

Would she flee? Would she scold him?

Or would she surprise him?

The thrill of the unknown was almost as exhilarating as winding Granger up herself. 

Draco watched as she hesitated for only a fraction of a second before she yanked the bottle from his grasp, bringing the bottle to her lips and took a measured sip. 

He blinked, caught completely off guard. He hadn't actually expected her to do it.

He tilted his head, his smirk sharpening. "Didn’t know you had it in you, Granger. Thought good girls like you played by the rules."

She stilled. It was barely noticeable, but it was there—the way her fingers tensed ever so slightly around the neck of the bottle, the way her breath hitched for half a beat too long. And then, as if remembering herself, she scoffed, rolling her eyes like he hadn’t just rattled her.

A faint flush dusted her cheeks.

“ Please, ” she huffed, shoving the bottle back at him. “Get to the point, Malfoy.”

He gave her a wicked grin after noticing her reaction, making a mental note to use that for his future endeavors of winding up Granger. Accepting the bottle back, he tipped another sip down while maintaining eye contact before settling down on a nearby chair. 

He grimaced, feeling the wooden chair beneath him, “Merlin Granger, couldn’t have conjured something more comfortable could you?” 

If looks could kill, he would be a dead man. 

Her nostrils flared and she placed her hands on her hips getting ready to scold him no doubt. “Malfoy, I am already cross with you. You really do not want to test me.”

Draco leveled her with an amused look. “The door is right there, Granger.” He drawled. 

“ Or!” She started while flinging her hands up. “ You could actually tell me what you called me here for and what spell you used.” She sat down on the chair opposite of him, rather inelegantly if one were to say. 

Draco exhaled, leaning back against the chair, the Firewhisky settling like molten gold in his stomach. He was warm. Too warm. Maybe it was the alcohol, or maybe it was the fact that Granger, of all people, was sitting across from him with her arms crossed, eyebrows raised, waiting.

He hated waiting.

“I told you already,” he drawled, lifting the bottle lazily. “Found something. Big discovery. Couldn’t wait.”

Hermione gave him a flat look. “And yet, I see no groundbreaking revelations.”

Draco clicked his tongue, lips twitching. “Maybe you’re looking in the wrong place, Granger.”

Her eyes narrowed, but there was something else there—something thoughtful beneath the irritation, like she was weighing whether or not she cared enough to dig deeper.

Instead of answering, she leaned forward, snagging the bottle from his grip again, fingers briefly brushing against his own in the exchange.

Draco let her.

He watched as she brought it to her lips, her fingers wrapping around the bottle, her posture more at ease than he would have ever imagined. Something about that—about the way she had surprised him tonight—settled oddly in his chest.

She wasn’t scolding him.

She wasn’t rolling her eyes and storming off, declaring this a waste of her time.

She was still here.

For some reason, that realization sent a strange ripple through him—something foreign and unsettling, like stepping onto unsteady ground.

The silence between them wasn’t tense. Not anymore.

Granger had stopped glaring, at least. Instead, she let out a soft, almost contemplative sigh, leaning back slightly in her chair. The bottle dangled loosely from her fingers as she stared at the bookshelf across from them, her expression unreadable before she set the bottle back down on the table between them.

Draco tilted his head, watching her while taking the bottle back into his own grip.

It was the first time he had seen her like this—not brimming with righteous fury, not wearing that insufferable know-it-all expression. Just…quiet.

It was a stark contrast to the image of her he had built up in his head.

She looked tired.

Not in the way he was used to seeing her—tired from schoolwork, from study sessions, from perfecting every spell she touched. No, this was different. It clung to her shoulders, settled in the corners of her mouth.

Draco swallowed, the warmth of the Firewhisky making his limbs heavier, his thoughts looser.

He should say something.

But the moment stretched on, strangely delicate.

For once, he didn’t want to ruin it.

And maybe that was why, before he could think better of it, the words tumbled out.

“You ever get tired of it?”

Hermione blinked at him, clearly thrown by his words. It wasn’t often—if ever—that he would admit to feeling anything remotely close to how low he actually felt. For a moment, she seemed to search for some hidden meaning, some trap he was laying for her.

Draco, realizing what he’d just said, scowled and straightened in his chair. “Forget it,” he muttered, tilting the bottle to his lips again.

Hermione huffed. “Malfoy, relax.”

He raised a sharp brow at that, like the concept itself was absurd, but before he could make some biting remark, she sighed and leaned back slightly in her chair. “Yes. Alright? I feel it too. Overwhelmed. Like there’s never enough time, like I’m always a step behind, like no one actually listens when I—” She cut herself off, exhaling. “So, yes.”

Draco didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. The knowing look he gave her was enough.

For the first time that night, they weren’t sniping barbed words with sharp edges. Just two people sitting in the same quiet understanding.

It didn’t last.

Hermione’s gaze flicked down, gnawing at her bottom lip as if unsure of herself. “Your hand,” she said suddenly. “It was shaking earlier.”

Draco’s grip on the bottle tightened.

She hesitated, then carefully added, “That happens after prolonged exposure to the Cruciatus Curse.”

The words were soft, matter-of-fact, but they sent a sharp jolt through him. Draco’s body went rigid. The warmth of the Firewhisky vanished in an instant, like ice water had been dumped over his head.

His stomach twisted.

His walls slammed back up.

His jaw clenched as he slowly set the bottle down, fingers twitching with the urge to bolt. His voice, when he finally spoke, was low. Cold.

“Don’t.”

Hermione frowned. “Malfoy, I—”

“I said don’t.”

The space between them stretched, thick with something suffocating. The moment—whatever it had been—was gone.

Draco stood abruptly, rolling his shoulders back, shoving his emotions into the deepest, darkest place he could manage. “I think we’re done here, Granger.”

Draco’s gaze flicked to the door, his hand already on the handle. He needed to leave. The room had grown suffocating, the weight of her words and the quiet between them too much.

But before he could make his escape, Hermione’s voice cut through the air. “Malfoy, wait.”

The sound of her footsteps followed, rapid, like she’d made up her mind.

She reached out again, this time gripping his arm—a firm hold that sent a jolt through him. Her fingers brushed against the sleeve of his robes, where the Dark Mark was hidden beneath.

It was like a spark to dry tinder.

Draco’s breath hitched, and before he could stop himself, he attempted to jerk his arm out of her grasp, his entire body going rigid. His eyes locked onto hers with an intensity that felt like it could burn. The pull of anger—real, searing anger—swelled inside him, threatening to break free. He was dangerously close to losing it, and the effort to keep his emotions from spilling over felt like too much.

His pulse quickened, heart thundering. He could feel his hand twitch again, a sign of the rage that was clawing at the surface.

“You don’t get to touch me,” he snarled, his voice low and venomous.

Hermione flinched, her expression faltering, but her grip didn’t falter. She was pushing, trying to reach him—trying to make sense of him in a way that he couldn’t allow.

His breath came shallow, his thoughts a storm of fury and confusion. The darkness that had loomed in the back of his mind surged forward, and with a silent, desperate effort, Draco dug into his Occlumency. He forced the anger down, blocking the rush of emotions, shoving them into the tight, suffocating space he reserved for them.

“Don’t,” he muttered, his voice barely a whisper, the word more of a plea than an order.

He could feel his emotions crackling beneath the surface, but the moment passed, and with it, the worst of the fury. His jaw clenched tightly, and without another word, he wrenched open the door.

“Malfoy, wait—”

But he was already gone, slipping into the darkened corridor with a slam of the door behind him. Curfew and all to be damned. 

He was an absolute fool to even summon her, let alone meet with her. Her thirst for knowledge, particularly over matters  that didn’t concern her is what made her so infuriating to begin with. He had more important things to focus on, and finding any sort of comfort wasn’t a choice he was allowed to have.

He wouldn’t make that mistake again. 

As he walked through the empty corridors, he felt like he was back to the start of the day emotionally. Draco Malfoy was a pawn in a game of chess and he was so tired of being played. 

Casting a quick Tempus charm with his wand he realized that he had only been gone for a little short of an hour. Hopefully Theo and Blaise were already out of the common room and he would be able to slip by unnoticed. 

The world carried on without him.

Draco barely noticed the passing of days, only that the castle dimmed and brightened with the turn of time, a rhythm that felt distant, irrelevant. He remained in his dormitory, stretched out on his bed, staring at the ceiling with unfocused eyes.

He ignored the scratch of parchment that slid under his door in tidy, irritated handwriting.

He ignored the hours that bled together in a haze of nothingness. The only certainty was the steady pulse of dread lodged deep in his chest, beating against his ribs like a second heart.

He was used to this feeling now.

The weight of it. The knowledge that nothing he did mattered. That no matter how many hours he spent in the dark, curled into himself, the world outside would continue without him. Potter would continue his crusade. The Dark Lord would continue tightening his grip. His mother—his mother would continue holding her breath, waiting for news of her son’s inevitable failure.

Perhaps it would be easier to just—

No.

Self-preservation. That was all that mattered now. Keeping his head down. Locking away anything that made him weak.

Draco forced himself onto his side, curling in on himself further. His gaze locked momentarily on the steadily growing pile of parchment pieces in front of his door. He groggily patted around on his bed to find his wand. 

“Accio parchment,” he murmured while extending his other hand in front of him to catch the incoming scraps. With a resounding sigh he turned over the first piece.

Draco rolled his eyes and crumpled the parchment up, tossing it on the floor in front of him. He flipped over the next scrap of parchment.

Draco grimaced to himself feeling a pang of guilt gnawing at him. There was no reason for him to feel that way, really, it was just Granger and he didn’t owe her or anyone anything. Once again, there was nothing left for him to even give at this point.

Thumbing through the other remaining pieces of parchment he noticed a couple from his fellow Slytherins, mostly Theo, a piece somehow from Severus, and yet another from Granger.

Draco frowned and tossed the remaining pieces of parchment onto the floor to join the others. He waved his wand haphazardly casting the trusty time charm that indicated it was nearing the late evening on Friday.

A blanket of relief swallowed him that it wasn’t yet Saturday, though he wasn’t quite sure why he put much thought into that notion. He shuffled back underneath his covers, settling his head onto his plush pillow, and let his eyes flutter shut. 

He didn’t know how long he lay there before the pain hit.

A sharp, burning brand lanced through his arm, cutting through the fog of detachment like a hot knife. The agony seized him, ripping the breath from his lungs as his vision blackened at the edges. His fingers clenched in his sheets, knuckles going white as he swallowed back the bile clawing up his throat.

A summons.

His chest rose and fell in sharp, ragged breaths. It had been days since the last one. Days since he had to look any of them in the eye.

But yet again, he had no choice but to oblige.

With a shuddering exhale, Draco swung his legs over the side of the bed, pushing himself upright. His vision went hazy momentarily, forcing him to remember it had been an unknown amount of time since he had any sort of nutrition. 

 The castle suddenly felt suffocating, the air thick and stale. Moving on autopilot, he grabbed his cloak, his wand—anything that made him look composed, even if he was anything but.

A glance in the mirror told him he looked pale, drawn, weak, but it would have to do.

He steeled himself, rolling his shoulders back as he forced numbness to settle over him like armor.

And then, without another moment’s hesitation, he turned on his heel, following the pull of the Dark Mark like a beast on a leash vanishing in a plume of black smoke.

The drawing room of Malfoy Manor used to be a place of grandeur, but tonight, it felt like a tomb. The high ceilings and dark wood paneling seemed to close in around Draco as he stepped inside, the low flicker of candlelight casting distorted shadows against the walls. 

The air was thick, heavy with unspoken threats, with the stench of power wielded without mercy.The odor of decay had gotten stronger in his absence and it chipped away at whatever was left of his already deteriorating excuse of a heart. 

They were all waiting.

Rows of Death Eaters lined the perimeter of the room, their black robes blending into the darkness, their pale faces illuminated only by the dim flames. Some watched with thinly veiled disdain, others with amusement. 

Everyone appeared to be standing at this gathering which was different than the last and at the center of it all, seated in his high-backed chair like a king upon his throne, was the Dark Lord.

His red eyes gleamed as they landed on Draco.

"You’ve been quiet, Draco," he said softly, his voice almost pleasant. Almost. 

“All week and there hasn’t been one update from you.” 

Draco stepped forward, keeping his head bowed just enough to show deference but not weakness. His limbs felt heavy, his exhaustion pressing into him like lead. He hadn't eaten, that was feeling more apparent. Hadn't slept, again, though that wasn’t anything new.

 But none of that would be a sufficient excuse. The Dark Lord didn’t accept excuses. 

"You tasked me with finding a way into the castle, my Lord," Draco said, his voice steady—too steady. "I have been working on it."

Failure. You’re failing your family, Draco. 

A long silence followed.

Voldemort tilted his head, tapping a skeletal finger against the armrest of his chair. "And?"

Draco's mouth felt dry. He swallowed. "There are—obstacles."

It was the wrong answer.

Voldemort exhaled, a slow, disappointed sound, and the room seemed to tighten around him. He shook his head and tutted in disapproval.

 A quiet murmur rippled through the Death Eaters—anticipation, curiosity. They had come expecting a show, and Draco was providing them with one.

"My Lord," another voice cut in smoothly.

Severus.

Draco didn’t turn his head, but he could sense him stepping forward from the shadows. His presence was an odd comfort, though it shouldn’t have been.

Snape inclined his head toward Voldemort. "There may be another way. The Vanishing Cabinets, one of which is inside Hogwarts and the other in a shop in Knockturn Alley. If repaired, they could create a passage directly into the school."

A beat of silence.

Then Voldemort smiled—a thin, humorless curve of his lips. "You see, Draco," he murmured, " Severus remains useful."

Heat rose to Draco's face, shame curling tight in his chest. He clenched his fists, fingernails biting into his palms.

"And yet," Voldemort continued, "you, who were given this task, stand before me empty-handed." Each word punctured a hole in the thin layer of comfort that had momentarily been provided.

Draco’s breath came shallow. He forced his expression into something blank, something impassive. Anything to keep from revealing the pit opening inside of him.

Voldemort leaned forward just slightly, enough that Draco felt the full weight of his attention. "Perhaps," he mused, "you are not as… loyal as I had hoped."

The word sent a jolt through Draco’s body.

The Death Eaters stirred, the air alive with the implication. Loyalty. A thing that could not be questioned. A thing that, if doubted, could lead to consequences worse than death.

Draco willed himself not to react, but his fingers twitched at his sides.

A soft, delighted laugh rang through the room.

Bellatrix.

"My Lord," she said silkily, stepping forward. "If the boy's loyalty is in question, then I believe he requires… a lesson, if you will, in what it means to serve you."

Draco stiffened.

Voldemort’s gaze didn’t leave him. "A lesson," he echoed. "Yes. I believe that is necessary. This time, let it be a demonstration for all to witness."

A cruel smile split Bellatrix’s face as she turned toward him, her wand already raised.

Draco swallowed down the bile rising in his throat. He willed himself to move, to take a step forward as if of his own volition—as if he were not being paraded before the room like a pathetic, disobedient child about to be punished.

He walked to the center of the drawing room, where the space was clear, where they could all see him. His own personal stage. His own auditorium of doom , filled with the eager gazes of people who would happily carve him up and take his place.

"Draco," Narcissa's voice was barely above a whisper.

He flicked his gaze toward her. She stood rigid beside his father, her hands clasped tightly in front of her to keep from shaking.

Lucius' grip on her arm was firm. A silent command: Do not interfere.

Draco clenched his jaw and turned away.

Bellatrix grinned. "Ready, my dearest nephew?"

There was no time to brace for it.

"Crucio!"

Pain exploded through his body, hot and unrelenting. It burned through his nerves, searing into bone, pulling a strangled gasp from his throat before he could stop it. His knees buckled, but he fought against it, teeth clenched, his body trembling violently.

The laughter around him was distant, muffled beneath the roar of agony.

Bellatrix lifted her wand, just for a moment. " Oh ," she crooned mockingly, "he’s weaker than before, isn’t he?"

Draco’s vision swam, his breath coming in short, gasping heaves.

"Hasn’t been sleeping, has he?" Bellatrix continued in a singsong voice. "Hasn’t been eating?"

Another flash of white-hot pain. The curse hit again, his body arching involuntarily. The room tilted—too bright, too sharp.

Seconds. He only lasted seconds .

His body gave out beneath him, his limbs too heavy, his mind too fogged.

The last thing he heard before the darkness took him was the delighted hum of his aunt’s voice, and Voldemort’s soft, amused chuckle.

And then—nothing.

Draco woke to silence.

For a moment, he didn’t move, barely breathed, only stared up at the canopy of his bed, willing himself to feel something—anything—other than the hollow, sinking weight in his chest. His body ached in ways he couldn’t put into words, his nerves still raw from where the Cruciatus had eaten through him. But the pain was dull now, lingering only in the background, as though his body had given up registering it fully.

He turned his head slightly. The dim, green-tinged light of the dungeons filtered through the curtains of his bed. His dormitory. Hogwarts.

It was disorienting.

Hadn’t he just been in the drawing room of Malfoy Manor, collapsed on the cold marble floor while a room full of Death Eaters looked on? Hadn’t he just felt the burn of the Dark Lord’s scrutiny, the humiliation curling in his stomach, the weight of Bellatrix’s laughter ringing in his ears?

And yet—here he was. Back in his dormitory, as if nothing had happened. As if it had all been some fever dream.

Except the pain was real. The exhaustion. The heaviness pressing down on his limbs like a leaden curse.

Slowly, Draco pushed himself upright, his movements sluggish, his head pounding in protest. The room swayed for a moment before settling. He forced out a breath and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. No one had checked on him. No one had even noticed he was missing.

Of course not.

His eyes flicked downward, catching something small on his nightstand.

A tiny vial of deep amber liquid. And beneath it, a folded scrap of parchment.

He hesitated before reaching for it, fingertips brushing against the crisp edge of the note as he unfolded it. The handwriting was sharp, angular, and unmistakable.

No signature. None was needed.

His grip tightened slightly on the parchment before his gaze slid back to the vial. Nutrition potion.

Snape knew.

Draco exhaled sharply, the sound bordering on bitter amusement. Of course Snape knew. He always knew.

But this? This wasn’t pity. Wasn’t softness. It was an acknowledgment. A warning. And a reminder—one that settled, unwanted, in the pit of Draco’s stomach.

This will not be the last time.

The thought lingered long after he drank the potion, after the warmth of it spread through his empty stomach.

And yet, even with that knowledge, even with the inevitability of what was to come, the silence of the dormitory pressed in on him, suffocating.

For the first time in days, Draco found himself craving something other than detachment.

Maybe that was why, when the clock struck three the next afternoon, he found himself stepping into the library.

And for once—he knew he wasn’t doing it for the assignment.

Chapter Text

The library was quieter than usual.  

Draco hadn’t considered what time it was when he left the dormitory, only that he needed to leave. He needed to be anywhere but there, lost in a haze of detachment and frayed nerves. And somehow,  this —walking into the library, finding her —felt like the only logical place to go.  

The moment he spotted her, hunched over a thick book with her quill tapping absently against the parchment, he knew she hadn’t been expecting him. 

He couldn’t fault her for that. He wasn’t sure he would show up himself. 

Granger didn’t look up right away, too engrossed in whatever she was reading, but the shift in the air was undeniable when he reached the table. Her hand stilled, her posture tensed—like she felt him before she saw him. 

When she did finally lift her gaze, her brows arched in unfiltered surprise before smoothing into something unreadable. She didn’t speak. Didn’t blurt out some sanctimonious remark about him finally showing up.  

Draco hesitated.  

She looked… different.  

Not in any way he could pinpoint, but the absence of her usual unbearable certainty made his stomach turn. The fact that Granger —the insufferable, all-knowing, self-righteous thorn in his side—looked as lost as he felt was somehow worse than all of it.

And now, for the first time, he actually saw it.

Maybe that was why, instead of sitting across from her like before, he pulled out the chair beside her and sat down.  

Hermione blinked but didn’t comment, only adjusting her parchment to make room. The silence stretched, not entirely uncomfortable but still fragile, like a delicate thread that could snap at any moment.  

They both moved at the same time, reaching into their bags, placing their belongings onto the table. It was almost synchronized—the scratch of books against wood, the shuffle of parchment.  

Then—  

“I’m sorry,” Hermione said.  

“You were right,” Draco breathed out at the same time.  

The words collided, tangling between them. Hermione’s lips parted, her head tilting slightly as if she’d misheard him.  

“…Wait, what?”  A small bubble of laughter threatened to slip past her lips. 

Draco grimaced, shifting in his seat. He clenched his jaw and exhaled sharply through his nose, willing himself not to regret speaking in the first place. His hand lifted to flatten against the table, but the tremors betrayed him, faint but persistent. His fingers curled slightly, as if grasping at the last remnants of control.  

Hermione’s gaze dropped to his hand.  

Draco saw the realization flicker in her eyes—the way her breath caught, the way she realized what he was referring to. 

A scoff rasped from his throat, weak and humorless. He turned his head away, rubbing the back of his neck before muttering, “Don’t tell me I have to repeat that nonsense to you again, Granger.”  

His voice carried none of the usual amusement, the taunting drawl he might have used in another life. Instead, it sounded thin. Strained. Hollow.  

Hermione didn’t take the bait. She was still watching him, lips parted, expression unreadable. But she didn’t press him. Not yet.  

Draco swallowed hard and forced his hand to still.  

If she caught on, if she understood exactly  what had happened to him since the last time they saw each other—she didn’t say a word.  

Not yet.

“Do I have your permission to address what you confirmed, Malfoy? Or am I right to assume you’ll storm off and disappear for a couple of days again?” Her voice came out clipped and he stiffened his posture, as if willing himself to prepare for a battle.

He supposed he deserved that but willing himself to actually relax into uncertainty was a whole other story. 

“I don’t plan on storming off and disappearing, Granger.” He drawled, an amused lilt in his voice. “Yet.” 

She scoffed and shook her head, murmuring something about him being insufferable but the opportunity was just so easily there he had to take it. It was easy and familiar sinking back into teasing Granger as if it was his favorite pastime but it wasn’t out of ill intent. 

Not anymore, at least. 

“Contrary to the popular belief,” He started and then hesitated before continuing. His gaze met her own expectant look and he willed himself to continue. “It isn’t exactly easy for me to open up not to..” 

She scoffed and shook her head at him. “Not to what? A mudblood? How pred-”

“Salazar, Granger. No. That isn’t what I was going to say.” He dragged a trembling hand through his already unkempt hair and blew out a long breath. 

He was met with her scowling gaze and it would’ve been all too easy to comment on how much she looked like an angry child but Draco wasn’t going to take that bait, thank you very much. 

“It isn’t easy for me to open up to anyone. Not even Theo or Blaise, no one. For whatever reason, it seems like you are going through your own issues” He gestured towards her general presence which only seemed to further irritate her. 

Gods, he was really mucking this up. 

Draco groaned and scrubbed his hands across his face. He began to open his mouth to try to fix the ever growing mess that this conversation was turning into but she held up her hand to silence him before he could start.

“Malfoy, I don’t need you analyzing how I look. I get enough of that from everyone else, thank you very much.” She shuffled her parchment on the table to place it into an organized stack. “If you want to discuss how very clearly we are both falling apart, we can do so however if you want to focus only on this assignment that is what we are here for after all. You can choose.” 

Her face was tinged with a faint red and she sucked in a deep breath as if she spilled her soul during her rambling.

Draco quirked an eyebrow and tried to gauge the validity of her statement. As he was trying to explain before he was so rudely interrupted– deserved or not, opening up to people was not something in his nature. 

This was a bad idea. A terrible, self-destructive, reckless idea. And yet—he didn’t move. Didn’t scoff, didn’t sneer, didn’t throw up a wall as he always did. Instead, he let the words settle in his chest, an unwelcome weight pressing down. The problem with opening up to someone wasn’t just the act of doing it. It was what came after. The expectation. The consequences. The way it left you vulnerable, exposed.

Showing emotions was deemed as a weakness according to his father and Draco did not like disappointing his father. However.

It seemed to be the one thing Draco excelled at as of late, so would it really hurt to disappoint him once more? 

Draco ran a shaky index finger along his parchment as if skimming the words for some sort of answer to his dilemma. Granger cleared her throat and gave him a look, always expectant. 

“I don’t necessarily think it would be the worst thing in this world to discuss our issues.” Draco spoke in a cautious yet level tone, waiting to see if he was being lured into a trap. 

Granger gave him a surprised look but tried to quickly mask her emotions with something more neutral. She nodded and placed her stack of parchment into her bag and moved to stand up.

Draco’s face dropped in disbelief and he immediately felt anger bubbling up in him. Of course this witch had been lying and now he made an utter fool of himself for falling right into her trap. 

Pathetic, pathetic, pathetic. 

“Are you coming or are you going to continue planning my untimely death in your mind?” Hermione lilted with an amused expression. 

Draco furrowed his brows in confusion and huffed out a breath. “Where exactly am I supposed to be going, Granger?” 

She turned, gesturing for him to follow. “Somewhere more private. I assumed you would appreciate that.” 

Privacy with Granger didn’t exactly go over well the last time he had put himself in that position but he found himself collecting his belongings nonetheless and rising to his full height, towering over her. 

Slinging his bag across his back, he allowed the faintest quirk of his lip. “For someone as ferocious as yourself, you are quite short Granger.” 

She scoffed and rolled her eyes, but he didn’t miss the way her mouth lifted in a small smile before she brushed past him and began walking towards the exit of the library. His feet scrambled to catch up, reaching her in a few long strides. 

An uneasy feeling crept into his stomach, coiling tightly in his chest. “Granger if you’re planning my untimely death, I’d like to be warned.” He attempted to joke, but the weight of the unknown was crushing him.

Tiny footsteps halted and she spun around to look at him. The look on his face must’ve betrayed his anxieties because her expression faltered slightly. “I am going to pretend to not be offended that you think that low of me.” With another roll of her eyes she turned back around and continued her trail. 

Draco grimaced and followed behind her, the uneasiness dissipating ever so slightly. His anxiety did tend to flare up in unnecessary situations. It was Granger, for Salazar’s sake. Maybe she was tiny and mighty but she wasn’t an executioner. 

In all reality, his anxiety could be stemming from a different place. A place tinged with curiosity and hesitance boiling over as they crossed over the boundaries of whatever dangerous territory it was between the two of them. 

As he continued to follow behind her, he tugged on the straps of his bag to give his trembling hands something else to focus on. Before he knew it, they were standing outside where the Room of Requirement would appear.

Students passing by them paid them no mind besides the curious glances from a few, he followed behind Granger as the door appeared for whatever room she had conjured for them this time around. 

To Draco’s surprise, the room this time was not conjured as studious as their meeting prior. What was once a studious environment, was now one for comfort. A warm, and dimly lit fireplace sat to the side of the room. Plush red sofas sat opposite of one another in the middle of the space.

Hermione walked towards the first sofa and made herself comfortable which gave Draco the room to do the same on the opposition. He sat stiffly on the couch across from her, back as straight as a washboard as he waited for her to break the silence. 

“No comment about the appearance this time around?” She asked with a set of raised eyebrows. 

Draco fought back a small smile and shrugged. “I was thinking about it, to be fair.” 

She tutted and shook her head in amusement. Digging into her never ending bag of supplies, quite literally never ending, she brought out a bottle of cheap liquor. 

Draco found himself equally stunned as he was amused. 

“Is surprising me and changing my expectations of you something you plan on continuing to do, Granger?” His posture slowly relaxed and he watched her, intrigued. 

She let out a small laugh and shrugged before bringing the bottle up to her lips and taking a quick swig. Petite hands reached towards him, extending the bottle to him. 

He cautiously accepted the bottle outstretched to him. “Liquid courage.” He murmured more to himself than anything before taking a measured sip of the drink. 

“Merlin, Granger!” He sputtered, clutching onto his chest as his eyes widened. “What are you poisoning me with, goblins piss?” 

“No you prat, it’s just cheap firewhisky. Not everyone has ridiculously expensive liquor stored in their dorm, Malfoy.” Small hands reached towards him, these hands were grabby in nature and he huffed out a laugh.

 Knocking back another gulp of liquor, he made a face that was not dramatic, thank you very much. “Noted Granger. Next time we meet I’ll supply our liquid courage.”

He handed the bottle back to her grabby hands. His fingers brushed against hers, fleeting but warm. Too warm. He stilled for a fraction of a second before curling his hand into a fist, letting the moment pass without acknowledgment. It was nothing. Just hands. Just an accident. It shouldn’t mean anything at all. His face felt warm all of a sudden. Surely it was from the liquor and not from touching Granger’s hand. 

She took a big gulp, tilting her head back as she polished off the remaining bit of the already small bottle. “Now..” She hiccuped, slapping her hands onto her knees.

“Now?” 

“Now we can talk about our falling apart with a little more courage.” She supplied, bringing her legs up to rest alongside her on the couch. 

Draco grimaced and nodded.  In theory, he had already agreed to this whole opening up nonsense so it would not be very gentlemanly of him to back out of an agreement with a witch. Even though it was Granger, he would not make himself out to be a liar. 

“This reminds me of a mind healing session Granger.” 

“While I am highly educated, I do not possess the proper education to be considered a mind healer,” Her brows knitted, and he swore he could almost see the gears churning in that complex mind of hers.  “Would it make it easier for you if I started first?”

He frowned but reluctantly nodded. He wasn’t going to make a bloody fool of himself and overshare, so her going first wouldn’t necessarily be the worst thing in the world. 

She nodded and expelled a long breath. “Where do I even start?” She opened and closed her mouth multiple times as if trying to decide what was acceptable to share and what wasn’t. 

Draco scowled at her and crossed his arms across his chest, “Granger, you are the one who wanted to talk about our feelings like bloody Hufflepuffs,” He leaned forward and braced himself with his arms resting on his thighs. “Where is all of that Gryffindor bravery?”

She narrowed her eyes at him, “You aren’t making this any easier, Malfoy. I’m not dim, I know that it was my suggestion,” She tipped her chin up. “Gryffindor bravery doesn’t always help when it comes to dealing with Slytherin cunning. I am not trying to make myself look like a fool.”

Draco scoffed and leaned back in his seat again, his hands balled into fists alongside him. “If you think I am going to take what you tell me and exploit it, then you certainly don’t know me at all.”

Granger gave him a pointed look as if to say, ‘No shit.’

Draco rolled his eyes, obviously they didn’t know each other and he wasn’t exactly planning on becoming best mates with the Gryffindor Lioness to be fair, but this whole talking thing was her blasted idea anyways. 

“You’re right, Malfoy.” Draco bit back the strong urge to say that obviously he was right, he instead remained quiet and watched her with a blank look on his face. She looked like she was expecting him to make a snide remark and he brought his fist up to rest against his mouth nonchalantly to suppress the smirk that was threatening to appear.

She exhaled a dramatic breath, picking at her sleeves absentmindedly. “We don’t know each other and you haven’t always been the kindest person to me, Malfoy.” His stomach churned again and the uneasy feeling crept back up. “I know it was my idea to talk about our feelings. It was a good idea in theory.” 

Draco swallowed the lump building in his throat, “In theory, until you remembered that you were talking to me?” 

She grimaced and gave a half shrug, “In a sense, yes.” She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “However, I think we are both aware that there are worse things happening in the Wizarding world that I could be focusing on instead of faulting you for your unkind words over the years.” 

Draco stiffened his posture in his seat, tension building in his shoulders. He did not drink enough for this sort of conversation. Does he go on the defense? Or does he stop being an utter arse and just apologize? Old habits die hard but is it worth it in the grand scheme of things? 

He didn’t deserve her act of kindness or willingness to move on from his poor behaviors. It made him uncomfortable and his inner turmoil was working in overdrive. 

Make a choice, Draco. 

His shoulders slumped and he closed his eyes for a brief moment, focusing on the drag of air in through his nose and out through his mouth. “Granger, I-.” He swallowed thickly. “I am not going to make excuses for my shitty behavior in the past. You should fault me for my words and how I treated you.”

She gave him a skeptical look and he grimaced, “There is nothing that I can do to change what I have said or done in the past. As much as it pains me to issue apologies…” He trailed off, a teasing tone to his voice. 

She scoffed and shook her head but he didn’t miss the way the corners of her mouth lifted only slightly.

Got you. 

He blew out raspberries and flexed his hands on his thighs, “If anyone in this world is deserving of an apology from my bitter soul, it is you. So from the bottom of my cold heart, I am sorry for the way I treated you over the years.” He leaned back against the couch, resting his head in the palm of his hand next to him.

Granger gave him a once over look and an amused smile crept onto her face finally, “Wow Malfoy, the whole Slytherin in despair vibe is quite charming.” Her nostrils flared as she maintained her smile. 

Draco scoffed and waved his hand in dismissal, a smug smile on his face. 

She tilted her head side to side. “I accept your apology but it definitely needs work. I think it would fall somewhere along the lines of ‘Poor’ or maybe ‘Acceptable’ if graded.” 

Draco shook his head incredulously, “My apologies, Professor Granger. If I ever apologize fully again, I will make sure to aim for at the bare minimum an ‘Exceeds Expectations’.” 

Draco observed the way Granger’s cheeks flushed at the name, ‘Professor Granger’ and he tugged his bottom lip between his teeth to bite back the smirk forming. He would have to store that knowledge away for another time. 

“Any day now, Granger. I think there are cobwebs taking root around us with how long you’re taking.” He drawled, eyebrows lifting to his hairline. 

She used her hands to toy around with a loose strand of hair, seemingly collecting her thoughts. After another extended stretch of silence, she shifted in her seat and the words tumbled out. 

“To put it lightly, I feel like the weight of the world is on my shoulders. It seems like at any moment, the wizarding world could combust and everyone tends to look towards me for answers.” She dragged her hand along the plush couch she was on absentmindedly. 

That made sense considering the company she kept. Between Scarhead and the Weasel, she didn’t have the best counterparts to help. They probably didn’t even appreciate her intelligence knowing the type of men they were. 

“In all fairness, I usually do have an answer to most of the complex situations possible but they just expect it from me. It is exhausting,” Her eyes were downcast on her hands following the path they were making along the couch beneath her. “The worst part of all of it is not only is it exhausting, but they don’t ever appreciate it. No one ever thanks me for supplying the answers and if they acknowledge it at all it is only ever to tell me I’m not doing enough.” 

She frowned to herself and wiped angrily at her face. “Mm- sorry. Alcohol makes me emotional.” She let out a dry laugh and shook her head to herself. 

Draco clenched his jaw, trying to suppress whatever rambling the alcohol was going to induce from him but it spilled out like word vomit anyways.  “Granger, look at me.” Sharp and straight to the point. 

Honey brown eyes that were swimming with tears cut up quickly to his silvery gaze.

Shit. 

A muscle twitched in his jaw, nostrils flaring. “I do not know the depths of what you do to help them, but I can confidently say that even without knowing what it is I am sure that you are doing more than enough.” He scoffed and shook his head, crossing his arms across his chest, legs stretching out in front of him. 

Hermione blinked at him, and for once, she wasn’t scowling or rolling her eyes. Instead, her lips parted slightly, a flicker of something unreadable passing over her face. Draco shifted uncomfortably. “Don’t read into it, Granger.”

Did he just accidentally compliment Granger?

Shit. Shit. Shit. 

“Alcohol makes me ramble apparently, my apologies Granger.” He drawled, trying to keep his tone level unlike the warning sign flashing in his mind. 

She sniffled and rubbed her sleeve under her nose before murmuring out a quick cleansing charm on the fabric. She clasped her hands in her lap and huffed causing a quirk of Draco’s brow. 

“Well, now that I have cried in front of you. It’s your turn to open up.” She said, her cheeks flushed a light pink tint. Draco swallowed and looked away from her. 

This was obviously due to his nerves obviously, not because the pink hue to her cheeks was alluring or anything, thank you very much. 

He dragged a shaky hand through his tousled hair and sat back on the couch. Stretching his legs in front of him, he let his eyes close shut momentarily trying to gather his thoughts. 

What could he say without oversharing? What could he say without putting her or himself in further danger? His mind was in turmoil and he grimaced before opening his eyes. “This stays in this room, right?” 

She scoffed and folded her arms across her chest. “I sure would hope so. I don’t need the whole bloody castle knowing I spend my free time drinking and crying to Draco Sodding Malfoy.” She sniffed. 

His body stiffened and he tilted his head slightly to the side. “I’ll pretend not to be offended with the fact that you seem to be disturbed with people knowing you’re spending time with me outside of our academic project.”

Her face softened and she worried her bottom lip beneath her teeth. “Quite the contrary, I don’t mind if people know I’m spending time with you outside of our project, it's more of the whole..” She gestured loosely towards the empty liquor bottle. 

“Ah, the whole Golden Girl Granger breaking school rules with alcohol. That makes sense.” He supplied and fought back the urge to smile. “Speaking of alcohol, I feel like I have already sobered up. Your goblin piss decided not to grace me with any further liquid courage.” 

She rolled her eyes and threw a plush pillow at him, which he dodged easily. “Prat.” She grumbled and he let a smile appear only momentarily before his thoughts further sobered him up. 

“I unfortunately have been tasked with quite the..” He hesitated. 

There was no way he could explain any of this without divulging far more than he should and besides it was Granger. She was on the opposite side of this impending war, and anything he told her she could report to others. He would be sacrificing not only his own safety but his mother’s safety and that wasn’t something he took lightly. 

He risked a glance at her and he frowned when he observed a look of disappointment on her face. Almost as if she expected him to lie and not actually tell her what was causing him to fall apart. “Granger, I can’t.” Silver eyes plead desperately with honey for an inkling of understanding. 

He doubted he would find any. 

“Malfoy, you asked if nothing would leave this room and I agreed with you. I mean it. I would take a vow with you but we don’t have anyone to perform it so you will just have to trust me.” Her cheeks were still rosy from her prior tears and her expression left no room for questions. 

Draco nodded, his hands clutching his thighs for purchase. If he was actually good at occluding this might not be as difficult to express and he wouldn’t show as much vulnerability but, unfortunately, that wasn’t the case. 

He readied himself by taking in another deep breath before leveling his gaze with her own. “You were right, as I said before, I have been put under the Cruciatus curse. Multiple times and for prolonged measures of time.” 

Hermione’s breath hitched in her throat and the silence surrounding them in the room was palpable. Draco hooked a finger in his collar and loosened it slightly, the room starting to feel suffocating.

 “I was taught that vulnerability is a weakness, emotions are a weakness. I am supposed to be the redemption of the Malfoy name.” He shook his head at the absurdity and glanced down at his lap. His fingers toying with the edge of his sleeves. “I have been tasked with something that is not only dangerous to others but dangerous for myself if I do not follow through.” 

His bottom lip trembled and he willed himself to reign in any sense of emotional strength that he had, he would not cry in front of Granger. He screwed his eyes shut momentarily, again trying to focus on his breathing. The room felt like the oxygen was slipping away.

He unbuttoned the top button of his shirt and shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “It’s actually really not myself that I am worried about, I already know my time is running out,” He huffed out a dry laugh and dragged a shaky hand through his hair. “If I do not complete what has been asked of me, not only would it be the end for myself but it would be severe for my mother and I will not let her suffer again from the failure of another Malfoy man.”

Draco tried to focus his gaze on Granger but his vision was swirling. Why was the air so thin in this blasted room? His chest was heaving trying to catch a solid breath that felt fulfilling enough but it felt as if he was suffocating. He clutched his hand to his chest and shut his eyes again. Maybe if there were less things to focus on, he could find the ability to breathe fully. 

He was pulled out of his spiral when cold small hands clasped around his face, “Draco!” His eyes opened in alarm and he blinked away the spots in his vision. “Follow along with my breathing, in through your nose first.”

At this distance, he could count the freckles on her cheeks. He followed her instructions, taking in a slow deep breath. “Now release for four seconds.” He exhaled slowly, focusing on the way her cold hands felt against his clammy face.

 “Now repeat that a couple more times with me, you can do it.” Her eyes were a soft honey brown color when you really look up close, a few speckles of gold glimmering in them. The irony was almost laughable if he could breathe enough to laugh.

Draco continued to repeat the cycle of measured breathing and slowly he felt everything start to fall back into place. He should really pull away from her, she shouldn’t be touching him. He didn’t deserve her help. 

He swallowed thickly and leaned back slightly, most definitely ignoring the way her fingers lightly grazed along his cheeks as she retracted back to her spot across from him. His cheeks heated, flush with embarrassment and his wounded ego. “Thank you, Granger.” He croaked out. 

“Does that happen a lot?” She asked softly, crossing her legs at the knee and smoothing her skirt down. Her face didn’t show any pity, only concern. 

He shrugged feigning indifference, “More so than before, I suppose.” He murmured, using his sleeves to dab off the dampness on his face. Hermione nodded in understanding and he found that he was grateful for the silence. 

“I have a proposition.” Hermione said after a comfortable lapse of time in silence. 

Draco quirked an eyebrow and hummed in acknowledgement. “Oh? Do tell, Granger.” He drawled. He shifted back to get comfortable on the sofa once more, thanking Merlin for the shift in conversation. 

“Well, I was beginning to think-”

“Granger? Thinking? No way.” He mused with a slight smirk to his face. 

Back to teasing Granger. Safe territory and not at all showing him vulnerable like his embarrassing display of emotions prior.

This he could handle.

Granger coughed, “Prat” and pretended to clear her throat before continuing with an amused smile on her face, “Anyways! Malfoy, I was thinking that since we are going to be partners for this project for the remainder of the year that we should perhaps meet on Mondays and Wednesdays outside of class since we are required to be in Professor Slughorn’s class in person on Fridays.” 

Draco tilted his head side to side as if contemplating his options. It wasn’t a bad idea and it wasn’t like he was planning on giving much effort towards his other classes since they wouldn’t matter anymore in the near future. There seemed to be no harm. 

“That seems.. Reasonable.” Draco murmured and shrugged. 

“Precisely and I assume it would just be easiest if we were to meet outside of the Room of Requirement that way we could conjure the proper environment based on what stage we are in our development of our potion.” Hermione supplied and fiddled mindlessly with her skirt, almost looking nervous.

Draco narrowed his eyes on the motion and flicked his gaze up to her face again. “What else are you thinking about in that big brain of yours, Granger?” 

She huffed and her face flushed with a rosy pink, she smoothed out her skirt once more and looked back up at him. “I think that each week on one of those days we should take some time to decompress and just.. I don't know- talk? For house unity!” 

Draco swallowed thickly and furrowed his brows. Was Granger trying to be his friend? Being partnered with her for a project was one thing but scheduling times to just talk seemed like it was moving into a friend sort of territory. That could be dangerous if he did not tread lightly. 

Growing an attachment to Granger of all people was something that would not be good for anyone and especially not himself. He had a duty. A job to execute and another added person to be concerned about was not a smart idea. 

Absolutely a bad idea. 

“That makes sense.” He blinked. Had he really just agreed to that? Bloody hell.

“Perfect!” She chirped and smiled widely. 

Draco opened and closed his mouth multiple times thinking about how he could retract his statement without sounding like a complete arse but there was no good way to do it. He found himself unable to say anything else at the moment. 

“Do you have anything else you want to talk about right now? Otherwise I think dinner should be just about to start in the Great Hall and I am getting hungry,” Hermione started to stand up and slung her bag over her shoulder. 

Draco shook his head and stood up, smoothing down his trousers as he stood to his full height. He stretched his arms out above his head and began to gather his belongings. 

“You should really eat something as well.” She said and gave him a pointed look.

Draco scowled and huffed out a breath, “Granger, don’t worry about what I eat. Go meet up with your fellow Gryffindorks and I will see you on Monday.” 

Hermione frowned and nodded before bobbing her head in a farewell and walking towards the exit of the Room of Requirement. 

As she exited the room, Draco dragged a hand down his face and groaned. “Fucking idiot.” He grumbled to himself and trudged out to the exit. 

Draco lifted a hand to the door in front of him and knocked twice.The door cracked open a small distance and a flat voice drawled, “Come in.”

Draco moved to push the door open fully and clicked the door shut behind him. Snape was setting down his wand and looking at him with an unreadable expression as he walked up to his desk and sat down in the chair across from him.

Should he bring up the potions? Address the meeting? 

“Decided to stop your pity party and come learn more about shield charms? Or perhaps the cabinet I brought up?” Snape spoke, always one for the theatrics. 

Draco scowled momentarily before fixing his face into an expression more neutral. “Potentially both?” He took off his robe and rested it along the backside of the chair he was on and rolled up his sleeves, not needing to hide his dark mark from Snape was a relief. “I am more curious as to why you didn’t tell me personally about the vanishing cabinets and instead decided to tell the Dark Lord in front of everyone.” 

Snape stood up from his chair and paced slowly around to the front of his desk before leaning against it, arms crossed and nose raised. “You should show some gratitude. I came up with a solution overall, it is not only yourself on the line but myself as well.”

Draco fixed his godfather with a glare, “You didn’t need to take that vow, Severus.” He grumbled.  He was grateful, truly, but Snape didn’t need to make him feel worse about the scenario. It’s not like he asked him to take that vow and he wasn’t the one who asked for protection. 

Snape’s expression hardened and Draco had to suppress the shudder that threatened to ripple through him. “Draco, you’d do well to keep up and realize that this is your duty. Whether you like it or not, that is not going to change.” 

Draco’s jaw tightened and he nodded, “Yes, Professor.”  

“Are you familiar with the Room of Hidden Things, Mr. Malfoy?” 

Draco scoffed at the name, the formalities hardly necessary. “Of course I have heard of the room. What about it exactly?” 

Snape uncrossed his arms and curled his fingers along the edges of the desk behind him, “There is a vanishing cabinet in the Room of Hidden Things that has one known brother cabinet. It currently resides in Borgin and Burkes in Knockturn Alley.” 

A line appeared between Draco’s brows as he waited for it to all click into place. A cabinet was supposed to be his saving grace? He truly was thoroughly screwed. 

“Spend some time working on fixing these cabinets to have a solid link between them. If you are to truly execute this order, the Dark Lord expects for there to be an audience. He was always one for a display.” Snape spoke in a flat tone, raising his eyebrow as if to insinuate Draco was an idiot. At least that’s how he took it. 

An uneasy feeling crept back into him, pooling low in his stomach leading to an overwhelming sense of nausea. “So if I am hearing you right, the plan to have the vanishing cabinets utilized is not to help me complete this duty but for an audience of death eaters to watch me murder a man? Are you mental?” Draco snarled and his breathing began to become labored again. 

Do not lose yourself again, one episode in front of Granger was enough for a day. 

“Obviously,” Snape squinted his eyes at Draco and turned away from him. He walked towards his chalkboard, a dramatic flair of his cloak following behind him. His handwriting scratching along the board as he spoke aloud, “Now, shield charms.” Underlining it more times than necessary.

Draco pinched the bridge of his nose and repeated, “Shield charms.” His eyes closing as he worked to hone in his composure. 

Snape wrote beneath it again repeating the words out loud, “Occlumency and Projection.” 

Draco’s eyes opened and his hands dropped to his lap, “Projection?” His tone coming out questioning, unsure of what to think in this regard. He had never heard of a projection shield charm coming into use, he wasn’t even sure that it was actually a thing.

Snape set down his piece of chalk and turned around to face Draco again, “Yes, projection. Your current occlumency skills are inept but once mastered and properly anchored in the mind, it can extend beyond yourself—though I doubt you’ll manage that anytime soon.” He tilted his head to the side and looked at Draco with an assessing gaze. “Does that make sense?” 

“No.”

“Great. Moving on.” 

Draco threw his hands up and blanched at him, opening his mouth to give some sort of retort before Snape held up a hand to stop him. 

“Learn first, ask questions later Draco.” His voice came out bleeding with disdain and Draco felt defeated. 

Draco absentmindedly scratched over his inked skin, goosebumps rising. It felt as if all he was capable of was being either a disappointment or a liability to those around him and it was exhausting. 

Snape gestured toward the chalkboard again, his fingers lingering over the word shield , narrowing Draco’s focus back to the board.

“You have a dangerous tendency, Draco,” he said, his tone clipped. “For all your posturing, you care . More than you should. And if you cannot protect yourself, you will never be able to protect anyone else. Do I make myself clear?”

Draco stiffened. A sharp, instinctive denial clawed its way up his throat, but he swallowed it down. I don’t— But the words wouldn’t come, because Snape wasn’t wrong, and that made it worse.

He wanted to scoff, to roll his eyes, to act like the very idea was insulting, but his hands curled into fists instead. The truth of it sat like a lead weight in his chest. He did care, and that was the problem, wasn’t it? Caring made him weak. Caring made him hesitate. Caring made him sick to his stomach at Malfoy Manor while the others laughed.

He willed himself to feel nothing—to push it away like he always did. But Snape had seen it, and saying nothing felt like an admission.

Draco forced his shoulders to relax and lifted his chin. “Then teach me,” he said, his voice steady despite the storm raging inside him.

Snape gave a curt nod. “We will bring it back to the basics with Occlumency. Once you have mastered that you will work on feeling that mental protection and projecting it on the exterior of your being.” 

Draco scrubbed at his eyes and felt overwhelmingly exhausted out of nowhere. Had he eaten anything yet today? It was hard to recall. His energy levels felt utterly depleted and he had not even done that much today. 

Maybe it was the aftershocks of the torture creeping up on him again? 

Pathetic. 

Draco stood up from the chair and stifled a yawn, shrugging his cloak back over his body. “When would you like my first official lesson to be?” 

Snape retreated back to his chair perched behind his desk and sat down. “If you are finding yourself inadequately prepared to practice today, you can find me tomorrow or Monday after you finish with your classes.” 

Monday would not work, he had another duty requiring his attendance. Meeting with Granger was already a plan set in motion for the blasted assignment, “I’ll see you tomorrow, Severus.” 

“Very well,” Draco began walking sluggishly towards the door. “Oh and Draco? Do come more prepared tomorrow. Perhaps nourish yourself properly.” 

He stopped in place and blew out a frustrated breath, “Yes Professor Snape.” He sneered and pushed on out of the room. 

As he walked mindlessly down the corridors, his stomach grumbled and he winced. He really needed to start remembering to eat but it seemed like it always slipped his mind. 

He continued wandering along the halls, his hand lightly grazing the cold stone of the walls next to him as he continued his path. The illumination of The Great Hall coming into focus.  If he was lucky there would be some remnants of food out if the house elves have not already cleared it. He tightened robe around him and followed the glow in front of him.

The scent of shepherd's pie lingering in the air elicited another grumble from his stomach. He scowled at his stomach as if it had wronged him and passed the threshold into the Great Hall. 

There happened to still be food on the tables and the remaining students were slim, his feet began to propel him forward towards his respective table before he stopped in his tracks. His breath caught in his throat. 

The Weasel had his arm slung loosely around Granger’s shoulder as she leaned into his touch. She was smiling warmly up to Weaselbee before her eyes shifted and met Draco’s. 

Her smile dropped a tad and she shifted only slightly away from his touch, her face flushing that reddish hue again. 

The reason was beyond him, but he spun on his heel, walking back toward the door with renewed vigor.

His appetite had vanished, replaced by something sharp and unwelcome in his chest.

Chapter Text

“Lovegood is actually quite the companion if you spend time with her,” Theo waggled his eyebrows eliciting a scoff of disbelief from Draco. “What, Dray? Don’t tell me that you and Granger haven’t made some sort of progress in your escapades together?”

Draco rolled his eyes and lifted his shoulder in a half shrug, “Granger is.. Alright.” 

Blaise lifted his eyebrows in amusement and shook his head meanwhile Theo’s face lit up like a child on Christmas morning. “Granger is.. Alright? Please elaborate.”

Pansy sauntered into the common room and flopped down on the couch, draping herself against Blaise. “Elaborate what exactly?” 

Blaise raised his hands up in surrender, “Don’t ask me. I just live here.”

Draco groaned and sunk further down into the couch wishing he would disappear into the depths of the fabric. Leave it to Theo to get his blood pumping this early in the afternoon. 

“There is nothing to elaborate,” Draco fixed a narrowed gaze on Theodore. “She’s just not as insufferable as expected.” He waved his hand dismissively and looked away from his friends.

“Granger?” Pansy sputtered and sat up straight in her spot. “She is completely insufferable, I mean she walks around like she owns the place while Tweedledee and Tweedledum follow her around like lost puppies.” She scoffed.

Draco rolled his shoulders and let his eyes skate across his friends. A pang of irritation jolting through him, “Sounds like someone has quite the obsession, Parks.” He sneered and feigned indifference. 

Pansy looked positively feral at Draco’s remark and looked incredulously at Blaise and Theo for someone to back her up, although they weren’t keen on getting involved in whatever this dispute was. 

Smart men they were.

Draco stood up heaving out a bitter laugh. “Focus on your own partnership with Scarhead before worrying about the progress of mine, Pansy.” He lifted his hand and gestured farewell to Theo and Blaise who were looking at him as if he had absolutely lost his marker.

Okay, he defended Granger. So what? It didn’t mean anything. Truly she still was slightly insufferable but she had become easier to be around. Besides, it’s not like he was the easiest person to be around. 

Nonetheless, he had bigger things to worry about and he didn’t have the time to choose whether or not he should feed into Pansy’s insecurities. He had plenty of those on his own, thank you very much. 

Trying to find his footing after the tug of apparition was something he still wasn’t the greatest at. He stumbled slightly, clutching onto his dresser in his room. At least the vile smell of death didn’t waft into his private living quarters at the Manor. 

Small victories came scarcely so he would take them as they came. 

“Mipsy!” Draco called out into his room and a small house elf cracked into existence in front of him.

“Master Draco! You’re home!” She squeaked, her big eyes welling up with tears as she moved towards him. 

Draco bent down at the knees and hushed her, “Shhh, Mipsy. Please.” He gave her a pleading look and clasped his hands in front of him. “Can you please discreetly tell mother that I am here in my room and ask her to come visit me?” 

Mipsy blinked tears away and nodded eagerly, her small hands framing Draco’s own. “Anything for you, Master Draco.” She retracted her hands and stood to her full (still short) height. 

“Oh and Mipsy, please tell mother to keep it a secret. I don’t want ‘You Know Who’ to be alerted to my presence.” He dropped his hands to his side and stood up. She shuddered at the mention of the vile excuse of a man who had taken residence in the manor and nodded in understanding. 

“Of course, Mipsy will be telling Mrs.Malfoy to be discreet.” She nodded once and vanished silently from his view. 

He plucked at the cuff of his robe before huffing and tugging the blasted thing off anyways. He draped it along the back of a chair in his room, smoothing it down along the sides. He began to pace back and forth in his room, anticipation bubbling up in his chest. 

A whoosh and flash of green flames drew his attention to the fireplace in the furthest point in his room. “Draco.” Narcissa breathed out and elegantly yet eagerly moved towards him. 

His heart ached and his shoulders sunk, “Mother.” He rasped before moving in long strides and tugging her into his embrace. She clung tightly to him as her small frame stood enveloped in his arms. 

She pulled back and looked him over, her eyes slightly panicked. “Are you okay, my Dragon? Are you hurt?” 

Draco huffed out a laugh, “I’m as okay as I can be mother. Look, I don’t have much time. I have to meet with Severus soon but I need your help.” 

Narcissa nodded and stepped fully out of his embrace, his heart clenched at the absence of her warmth. She clasped her hands together in front of her and lifted her chin high, “Anything.”

Draco gave her a weak smile and moved around her before sitting on the edge of his bed. He used his wand to cast a silencing charm towards his door before placing it on the nightstand next to him. 

Narcissa perched in a chair across from his bed and crossed her legs, her hands now resting on her knee. She waited patiently for him to continue and Salazar, he couldn’t be more thankful for the woman sitting across from him. She somehow always knew what he needed, even when he didn’t. 

His expression dulled and he opened and closed his mouth numerous times as he tried to settle on how exactly to bring up what has been plaguing his mind since after his meeting with Severus yesterday. 

“Severus has suggested mentoring me in the methods of Occlumency and how once mastered, it could be projected almost as a shield charm.” He rolled his shoulders, his hand moving to massage the back of his neck. Narcissa’s eyes tracked his every movement.

He dropped his hand into his lap and grimaced. “While that could be…useful. What if I can’t master it fully? What if I can’t protect you?”

Narcissa’s mouth downturned for a fraction of a second before settling back into a firm line, she shifted in her seat slightly. She uncrossed and recrossed her legs, smoothing her hands up and down her thighs before reclasping. “Draco, you are a lot more talented than you believe yourself to be.” 

Draco opened his mouth to deny this statement but his mother held a hand up to silence him. “ However ..” He righted his shoulders, a dangerous flicker of hope bubbling up. “There is something that I think could help if you were unsuccessful in mastering the skill.”

“I would take anything at this point,” He blurted, the flicker igniting into a flame. 

Narcissa nodded tightly, “Draco, no one knows about this and it is important that it stays that way. We can’t afford any strengths to be found out.” Her voice wavered, coming out quietly. 

Draco nodded, his eyebrows furrowing. “Of course, mother. I would never betray your trust.” He tilted his chin up, his tone firm- absolute.

Narcissa sighed and stood up, straightening out her robes. “Very well. Wait here.” 

She pulled her wand out of her pocket and cast a disillusionment charm on herself before moving back towards the Floo. “If I am gone longer than an hour and you need to meet with Severus, come back next weekend.” 

Draco’s head turned slightly, his mind racing a million miles a minute. He swallowed thickly and nodded in understanding. Narcissa gave him a weak smile and exited through the Floo, her destination murmured so quietly under her breath it was inaudible. 

The silence settled over him again, his nerves fraying at the edges. The flame of his hope flickering ever so slightly, not being fed the fuel it needs to fully set ablaze. He rubbed his forearm, wishing that the ink embedded in his skin wasn’t working overtime to fully dampen the flames.

He stood up from his bed, his vision blurring slightly at the edge. He stumbled momentarily, trying to right himself. “Mipsy.” He croaked out, and with a resounding crack he was no longer alone in the room. Big beady eyes looking up at him. 

He jolted at the noise, his eyes flickering towards the door. Grateful that he had half the mind to cast a silencing charm earlier. “Yes, Master Draco?” Mipsy squeaked. 

Draco bent down at the knees, to try to match her height. His stability wavered causing him to place a hand alongside him on the cold and firm floor. He looked at her with a dull– weak expression. “Can you bring me something to eat please?” 

She nodded eagerly, reaching her hands out to him but refraining at the last moment. “Right away, sir.” She looked him up and down, concern evident in her expression before vanishing with the snap of her fingers. 

Draco shifted, sitting back and dragging his knees upright. He loosely slung his arms around his knees, his head bowing to rest against his forearms. He expelled out a shaky breath. 

If he had any hope of protecting anyone, he really needed to start taking better care of himself. His mindset had deteriorated immensely ever since the Dark Lord had taken up residence in his home and it was hard to believe that just before this year, he had a confident and bold demeanor.

He was now stuck in the shell of a man. Utterly hollow and flayed bare to the bone, it felt as if he had nothing left to give but that wasn’t an option. There was no easy choice to be made. If he was able to take the easy route, he would continue to let himself wither away until there was nothing left. 

Pathetic. 

The urge to protect his mother and perhaps a spare soul from the darkness that was bound to come coursed through his veins and worked to fuel the small will to live he had remaining. Giving up was not an option. He had to be better than this.

A cold hand brushing against his arm jolted him out of his state of mind, he jolted and looked up. “Mipsy is sorry for scaring Master Draco but he is not responding to Mipsy.” 

“Sorry,” He murmured, looking into her worried eyes. The aroma of warm pastries filling his nostrils and he was almost salivating. A hovering plate of warm croissants and muffins lingered in his eyesight. “Thank you Mipsy. You did well.”

Draco eagerly clasped onto the hovering dish and set it down on the floor in front of him, etiquette lessons be damned. “You’re free to go Mipsy.”

Mipsy nodded, trying to hide the concern in her expression but being unsuccessful. Draco chose to ignore this, he didn’t want to linger onto the thought of bringing down yet another person he cared about.

Focusing more on the task at hand, he devoured the warm pastries in front of him, allowing him to feel the warmth seep into his skin and bones. 

Once he had finished eating, he stood up and placed the empty plate on his nightstand. He picked up his wand that was resting next to it and casted  ‘Tempus’ to see how long his mother had been gone. To him– it had felt like ages, but in reality it had only been about 30 minutes. 

As if she could read his thoughts, the flames to his Floo Network flashed green and Narcissa stepped out. She brushed the soot off of herself and straightened her robes, her disillusionment charm long forgone. 

That damn flicker of hope was beginning to reignite and he swallowed thickly before settling down onto his bed again. “Mother?” He asked after only a moment of silence. 

She gave him a weak smile and brought the chair she previously abandoned closer to him. She settled down into the chair, her knees pressed tightly together in between Draco’s sprawled legs, her posture stiff. “Do you remember what you promised?”

Draco nodded eagerly, clasping his hands loosely together in front of him. His gaze followed a journey over Narcissa’s face– trying to search for some sort of understanding or answer for what was supposed to be his saving grace should he fail. 

Narcissa’s stiff posture relaxed only slightly and she reached into her robe pockets and produced a necklace. 

A necklace? 

Draco considered his flicker of hope thoroughly smothered into smithereens. His face faltered slightly before he quickly caught himself and reached his hands towards the necklace. Narcissa audibly swallowed before gently resting the necklace into his hand.

He examined the necklace with care, trying to understand if this was all a cruel joke. He had dared to allow himself to feel some sort of comfort from his mother but nothing seemed to make sense when he was looking at a simple necklace.

Simple necklace was an exaggeration in reality. A long gold chain with a medium sized pendant towards the bottom of it. He rolled it over in his hands and could’ve laughed at the absurdity of it all. Of course, he did not . He wasn’t going to disrespect his mother, thank you very much. 

“The Black family crest?” Draco drawled, lifting an eyebrow at Narcissa. His eyes flicked between her face and the piece of jewelry. He gave her a weak smile of gratitude and shook it in his hand.

“Draco!” Narcissa scolded and put a hand on his to still him from any further reaction, his cheeks heated up in embarrassment. “ Yes– it is the Black family crest.”

“Mother, respectfully.. I..?” He blew out his breath in raspberries, dragging his freehand through his hair. So much for being given a choice of extra protection. 

She tutted, “Draco Lucius Malfoy. I taught you better patience than this.” She gave him a pointed look which caused him to right his posture and grimace. Force of habit. 

She reached into her robes once more and produced an onyx ring with a single emerald stone in the middle. “These two pieces are companions of a sort.” She gently clasped his hand and placed it into the center of his palm. “You are a part of the Noble House of Black, surely you realize that. My family..”

Narcissa sat straight and elegantly crossed her legs together, clasping her hands on her knee. “We are one of the oldest remaining lines of pureblooded Wizardry.” 

Draco clenched his jaw at the mention of blood status. A tale as old as time. His mind temporarily flickered to rosy cheeks with freckles and curly brown hair. He blinked. 

Focus. 

“With our lineage being around for so long, we also wield some of the most powerful magic. We are especially talented with charms,” She explained, her thumb brushing along the back of her hand. A nervous habit of hers. “The companion set you are holding is one of the most powerful shields outside of casting magic itself.” 

Draco looked down, necklace in left hand and onyx ring in right. He rolled them in his grip, his brows furrowing as his mind worked in overdrive to try to make sense of what she was saying.

“As long as someone of ‘Black’ blood is wearing the necklace, the companion wearing the ring will be protected from any and all forms of harm,” Draco’s heart lurched, swallowing thickly. “Besides the killing curse, of course. Nothing could withstand that, besides that Potter boy apparently.” 

Draco’s gaze snapped back up to his mother and a muscle ticked in his jaw at the mention. He took a deep breath, “Why haven’t you given father the ring?” 

Narcissa flinched, barely noticeable to the eye, thumb stopping its movements momentarily. It was a valid question in his mind but perhaps poor timing. “I think we both know that we lost your father to the dark side a long time ago, Draco.” She fished a silk handkerchief from her pocket, preparing herself for the incoming tears. 

“He chose this lifestyle. You, Darling, did not choose this.” She dabbed at her eyes, folding the silk in her hands afterwards. “While I love your father very much, I will always protect my son above all.” Her tone was soft but firm and unyielding. 

“Thank you,” He breathed out. He gently placed the companion pieces next to him on his nightstand before reaching forward to hold her hands in his own. “I will get us out of this, I swear.”

She gave him a small smile that didn’t meet her eyes. Her gaze was distant as if she knew that hope found no home here. 

Draco tugged on the chain around his neck, righting it so the pendant rested loosely against his chest. He tucked it beneath his shirt, steeling himself as he raised a hand to knock on Snape’s door.

It swung open with alarming speed. Severus gave him a once-over before gripping the front of Draco’s robes and hauling him inside. He craned his neck to check the corridor—left, then right—before shutting the door behind them with a slow, deliberate click .

Draco adjusted his uniform, giving Snape an incredulous look. “Are you actually mental?”

Snape’s lip curled in disdain, but he didn’t dignify the question with a response. He only gave Draco another appraising glance before sweeping toward the front of his office, robes billowing behind him with practiced drama.

Merlin, Draco thought, and I’m the one accused of theatrics.

He took his time crossing the room, peeling off his robe and folding it neatly over a nearby table. When he turned back around, Snape was already waiting, arms loosely folded.

The professor gestured vaguely to the chair across from him before leaning against the heavy oak desk. “You look… adequate,” he said dryly, after a pause long enough to make the remark feel even more begrudging.

Draco rolled his eyes. “Apparently, warm food helps. Who knew?” he muttered, shrugging and glancing away. He was getting tired of everyone commenting on how he looked.

He would appreciate the attention—under any other circumstances. But his life had drifted so far from normalcy that he was shocked anyone expected him to hold together at all.

Snape narrowed his eyes, adjusting the cuffs of his sleeves before linking his hands behind his back. “As I’ve previously stated, your Occlumency is woefully underdeveloped. We’ll have to start from the beginning.”

Draco clenched his jaw but held his tongue. He had no interest in dragging this out longer than necessary.

“When you build your walls,” Snape continued, “what form of storage do you use?”

Draco scoffed. “Same as anyone—brick by brick.” He lifted his chin. “It’s not complicated.”

“Watch it,” Snape snapped, clicking his tongue. “That’s exactly the problem. What everyone does might work for them, but you are sitting at the Dark Lord’s table weekly. You don’t get the luxury of simplicity.”

He folded his arms, then seemed to reconsider and gestured instead. “Go on, then. What do you suggest?”

Snape rounded his desk and sank into his chair with a sigh. “You need something more layered. Skilled Occlumens don’t just imagine walls—they create intricate structures. Personalized constructs. Before all this, you were fond of books, weren’t you?”

Draco dipped his head once in agreement, brow arched.

“Then picture your mind as a library. Your own private collection—vast, winding. Difficult to navigate. Shelves upon shelves of knowledge and memory, emotion catalogued and buried. Not easily accessible.”

A muscle in Draco’s jaw twitched. He inhaled slowly through his nose, then exhaled just as deliberately. It made sense. More than he wanted to admit.

He gave a shallow nod.

“Close your eyes,” Snape said. “Focus on the silence. Construct your fortress.”

Draco shifted, the edge of the chair biting into his back. “Certainly, Professor,” he muttered.

His eyes fluttered shut. He focused on his breathing—a habit he hadn’t realized he’d picked up until recently.

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.

At first, it was only darkness.

Then: the soft flicker of torchlight against stone.

Draco opened his mind’s eye and stepped forward into memory—no, not memory, but something reimagined. Rebuilt.

The grand library of Malfoy Manor rose around him, not as it truly was, but how he needed it to be. The ceiling soared into the shadows. Shelves lined the room, stretching high above his head and extending endlessly into corridors that twisted and split like a maze. 

Just the way he wanted it.

His footsteps echoed across the black marble floor as he moved deeper into the labyrinth of his mind. He knew these halls immediately. Knew which turns led to shelves of trivial memories, which ones veered toward the darker alcoves— ones only he would dare approach . Some aisles were pristine and organized; others were in disarray, books stacked sideways, left half-open or gathering dust.

There were doors, too. Heavy ones. Sealed and warded, each one hiding something sharp, something volatile. 

Instead, he turned a corner and found a spiral staircase. He climbed it slowly, floor after floor, knowing that only he could navigate this place—seemingly already knowing it like the back of his hand.

 A construct of necessity, sharpened by fear. A fortress of silence, catalogued by pain.

He paused at a window high in the tower, one that didn’t exist in the real Manor. Beyond it stretched endless fog. No intruder would find their way here. Not unless he allowed them.

Draco exhaled again.

The pendant he wore—his mother’s—was warm beneath his shirt even in this space, like an anchor tethering him to something softer, something human.

But he closed that feeling off.

Emotion had no place here. 

His gaze dragged away from the depths of the fog and he walked to the shelves closest to him. He picked up a forest green book that was lying haphazardly on the shelf and opened it, pages flipping automatically. Bits and pieces of frayed memories from his childhood, specifically with his mother, replayed vividly along the moving pages. 

He inhaled sharply, trying to remind himself that emotion did not belong out and about so carelessly. He let the memory of the pendant and ring etch onto the pages before carefully shutting it and placing it on the shelf in front him. 

He turned and picked up the next book that was carelessly laid down on the shelf. It was honey colored with flecks of gold sprayed on the edges.  He picked it up slowly–curiously, resting its spine gently in the palm of his hand. Only a quarter of the book seemed to have memories while the remaining pages were left blank. 

It was reserved for potential choices—possibilities that felt just out of reach.

He let the feeling of hope seep into the pages before clenching his jaw, trying to prepare himself for the contents of the book itself. 

It was a hesitating moment but finally he watched as the pages came to life in front of him with a mind of its own. Slowly the pages turned from the beginning. A glimpse of a girl with brown bushy curls asking if anyone had seen a toad. Stolen– fleeting glances across The Great Hall of honey colored eyes meeting his momentarily.

His cheeks warmed. His nostrils flared. His brow furrowed in confusion.

The pages continued to turn, more moments coming alive. Freckles on cheeks– making up their own constellations, rosey pink hues to skin, and warmth. The feeling of soft fingers lightly grazing his cheeks as he pulled from the touch. 

He lifted his free hand to his cheek in remembrance and stored whatever feeling that was into the book. Embedding the emotions into the pages. His other palm held the book open steadily as it flickered through the remaining pages that were carefully left blank.

Something unfamiliar ached in his chest—quiet, insistent. He filed it away with everything else.

He expelled out a long breath before carefully closing the book and shakily setting it on the shelf. 

“Draco,” Snape’s voice echoed into existence—low and distant, as if coming through fog.

He ignored it at first, eyes lingering on the shelves, on the books that had been carelessly left open, vulnerable.

“You need to come back. Slowly.”

The fog outside the window thickened. The torchlight began to dim.

He cast one final look at the honey-colored book—once warm in his palm, now stored away.

Then, with a breath that trembled just slightly, he let the library fade.

Draco inhaled sharply as the last traces of torchlight and marble dissolved, dragging him back to the present. Snape’s office came back into focus—the stale scent of parchment and potion smoke, the dim flicker of candlelight against stone.

His pulse was elevated. He knew it. So did Snape.

“I assume,” Snape said slowly, “you chose to follow my suggestion.”

Draco opened his eyes, blinked twice, and sat straighter in the chair. “Obviously.”

Snape’s gaze narrowed.

“What did you construct?”

“As you said,” Draco sniffed and adjusted his collar, suddenly aware of how hot the pendant felt against his chest. “A library.”

“An impeccable choice,” Snape drawled, though his tone was more thoughtful than mocking. “And its layout?”

“A labyrinth,” Draco answered tightly. “Layered. Structured. Properly secured.” He couldn’t stop the defensive edge creeping into his voice.

Snape crossed his arms, the black of his sleeves folding like ink. “And what did you encounter within it?”

Draco hesitated. Just a second—but it was enough.

Snape’s eyes sharpened. “Something unsettled you.”

Draco’s jaw clenched. “It’s my mind. I don’t need to justify its contents.”

“That may be,” Snape said smoothly, “but your inability to regulate your emotional response means it remains vulnerable to intrusion. Do you truly think the Dark Lord will be so generous as to let you compose yourself before he tears your mind open?”

Draco didn’t respond. His fingers dug into the wood of the chair.

Snape’s expression hardened. “Very well. Let’s see if your fortress is as impenetrable as you claim.”

Before Draco could protest, Snape raised his wand.

“Legilimens.”

It was immediate—pressure against his temples, a pulling sensation, like invisible fingers trying to pry him open. But this time, Draco shoved back.

He pictured the Manor’s corridors. The green book. The staircase. The window in the fog. He slammed a door shut behind him— hard —just as a flicker of warmth tried to curl into his chest.

The honey-colored book.

No.

He threw the memory deep into the stacks, banishing it with sheer force of will, locking it in the uppermost tower behind five different wards.

His teeth ground together. Sweat prickled his brow.

He didn’t think—he acted . Maze. Shelf. Lock. Door.

And then, nothing.

Silence.

Snape broke the spell.

Draco gasped quietly and lifted a hand to his forehead, chest heaving.

Snape studied him with a sliver of interest.

“Hm,” he said, stepping back. “Adequate.”

Draco stared at the floor, willing the flush in his face to fade. The memory had still been too close . Too vivid.

“You’ve improved,” Snape said. “But don’t fool yourself into thinking it’s enough. Your construction is clever, but cleverness doesn’t shield you from sentimentality.”

Draco snapped his head up. “I’m not sentimental.”

Snape raised a brow. “No? Then why did you react like you were hiding a corpse in the walls?”

Draco opened his mouth to retort, but thought better of it. He looked away.

Snape watched him a moment longer, then turned back to his desk.

“We’ll meet again soon. You need consistency. Mental discipline is not mastered in a single night.” He paused, eyes flicking back to Draco’s. “And I suggest you tidy your shelves.”

Draco rose wordlessly, gathering his robe from the table behind him. His hands were still shaking slightly, though he hoped it didn’t show. As he reached the door, he paused.

“The corpse stays,” he muttered, too quiet for anything but a smirk.

And then he left, before Snape could see that behind the smirk, something else was still burning.

Draco trekked through the common room, nodding his head in acknowledgement towards his friends before continuing on through. He weaved his way through the short first years and stalked towards his private room. 

Once he reached his room, he unlocked the door and shut it quietly behind him. He began to walk forwards when his feet scuffled on a sheet of parchment causing his breath to hitch momentarily. 

He lifted his trousers slightly, giving himself more slack as he bent at the knee to grab the piece of parchment. His jaw clenched as he immediately recognized the handwriting. 

How did Granger always manage to have notes appear in his room? 

Draco snorted and shook his head, a begrudging half smile creeping onto his face. He folded the piece of parchment neatly, his eyes tracking the pile of her old notes that lay crumpled on the floor. His stomach rolled involuntarily. 

He took the neatly folded piece of parchment and slipped it into a drawer next to his bed. Tugging his clothes off piece by piece, he found he had the willpower to actually fold those neatly too. 

He changed into a pair of silk pajama pants and bent down once more to pick up the crumpled scraps of parchment that were resting carelessly on the floor. A muscle ticked in his jaw as he uncrumpled them, his thumb dragging along the dried inked messages. 

Huffing out a defeated breath, he folded them similar to the most recent note and shoved them into his drawer before slamming it shut again. He pivoted on his heel and slipped into bed.

Dragging cold fingers through his blonde hair, he scrubbed his hands down his face. As always, once he was alone, the thoughts seemed to trickle in again. If it wasn’t for the pounding in his head from Snape’s probing, he would’ve attempted to shove it all down with Occlumency once more.

Was there a way to complete his task without having to cast the killing curse? 

His father made it so that Dark Magic was nothing new but going to the extent of utilizing such a final and condemning Unforgivable curse made his skin crawl. 

He was an expert at being a coward, to put it simply. If there was a way to get the same end result but not have to watch the light leave someone’s eyes, that would certainly be ideal. Snape had said he would complete the task if need be but putting that onto his Godfather wasn’t exactly an ideal thought.

Then it hit him.

Couldn’t he just gift a cursed item? That would surely do the trick. 

The only concern was how exactly Draco could get it to Dumbledore. He didn’t want to further implicate himself but he had limited options.

Coward.

He tugged the covers up to his shoulders and flipped on his side. He used his wand to shut off the lights in his room, squeezing his eyes shut tight. Falling asleep any moment now would be remarkable but highly unlikely.

His face relaxed and he focused on his breathing again.

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. 

Draco  would strictly forbid the idea of casting the killing curse. Was he against the other Unforgivables? 

He involuntarily grimaced thinking about the searing pain he received from the Cruciatus curse. That one wouldn’t be helpful in this case anyways, so he pushed that thought to the side.

Perhaps the Imperious curse? Could he make someone else do his dirty work for him? 

Coward, he thought. You’re a coward. 

He willed his mind to think about absolutely anything else. He twisted the onyx ring on his hand absentmindedly, seeking some sort of comfort. 

Inhale. Hold. Exhale. Hold. 

Chapter Text

Knock. Knock. Knock.
“Draaakey!” Theo sing-songed from outside the door.

Draco didn’t need to see him to know he was swaying on the balls of his feet like an impatient child, probably raising his hand for another knock.

A groan rumbled from Draco’s throat as he dragged a hand down his face. He didn’t know what time it was—too early, clearly—for Theodore’s dramatics.

Bang. Bang. Bang.
“If you don’t unlock and unward this door in the next minute,” Theo called, voice growing louder, “I’ll be forced to take drastic measures.”

Draco cracked one eye open. His vision was still fuzzy, but it sharpened just in time to glare at the ceiling. “Piss off, Theo.”

He ran a hand through his hair and flopped onto his back, ignoring the pounding in his head.

Only a few weeks had passed since the start of term. And while he still couldn’t understand how his friends managed to carry on like the world wasn’t falling apart, he’d come to—grudgingly—appreciate it. Their constant chatter and idiotic games kept the worst of his thoughts at bay.

Something, he figured, was better than nothing.

Theo cleared his throat. “You leave me no choice.”

There was a pause. Then—

“Bomba—”

“Finite Incantatem! Alohomora!” Draco shouted, scrambling upright, wand in hand.

The spell cut Theo off mid-incantation.

The door creaked open slowly, revealing a triumphant Theo Nott, whose grin could rival the bloody Cheshire cat.

“Have you lost your damn mind?” Draco seethed, lowering his wand and setting it on the nightstand with exaggerated care.

Theo tutted, strolling into the room with all the grace of a show peacock. “Just trying to see my best mate. What’s wrong with that?”

Draco scowled. “So your solution was to blow up the door to my bedroom. In the Dungeons .”

“Precisely.” Theo dropped onto the edge of Draco’s bed with a satisfied sigh. He laid back, arms folded beneath his head like this was his room and not Draco’s sanctuary.

Draco rolled his eyes and sat up properly. His duvet slipped down, exposing pale skin marred by months of neglect. His shoulders hunched. 

His mother would be appalled at his posture right now. 

Draco dropped his head into his hands, berating himself for ever thinking company was a good idea. Maybe nothing really was better.

Then—a shift on the mattress. A hand, soft but insistent, wrapped around his forearm.

“Draco,” Theo said quietly, voice rough.

Draco’s entire body went rigid.

He wrenched his arm back violently, clutching it to his chest. “Don’t,” he snapped, eyes wide and pulse thudding in his ears.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

He turned his head away, swallowing hard. “You should leave, Nott.”

Theo didn’t move. “So that’s why you’ve been hiding.”

A muscle jumped in Draco’s jaw. He pressed his palm flat against his chest, grounding himself. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. 

Definitely still alive, but breathing didn’t mean living.

He still couldn’t look at Theo.

“Draco—” Theo’s voice cracked as he reached out again, slower this time, more cautious. His fingers brushed against Draco’s arm and curled around it. He didn't flinch this time, but his throat tightened.

“When?” Theo whispered, barely audible. “When did this happen?”

Draco swallowed. “Over the summer,” he muttered. “It’s not a big deal.”

Theo’s grip faltered. “ Not a big deal? Are you joking?”

Draco looked at him then, tired and hollow. “What would you have me say, Theo? That it hurts? That I wish I’d fought harder? That I feel like I lost something I can never get back?”

He laughed bitterly. “There’s nothing to be done now. So why bother ?”

Theo looked like Draco had just slapped him.

“You didn’t think, out of everyone in this fucking castle, that I’d understand?” His voice shook with barely contained anger. “You know who my father is.”

Theo’s eyes dropped to the Dark Mark—his fingers brushed it gently, reverently, like he didn’t want to believe it was real. Draco didn’t stop him.

“I would’ve stood by you,” Theo whispered. “Even if the whole world didn’t.”

Draco’s throat burned. 

Headache be damned, his gaze dropped to his arm briefly before he slipped into the familiar depths of his mind.

He was sprinting through the corridors of his constructed library now—feet thudding against black marble, breath sharp in his throat. Shelves blurred as he passed, aisle after aisle twisting like veins across a map he should know by heart. But panic roared louder than memory, and for a terrible second, he couldn’t find the stairs.

Focus.

He forced himself to stop, eyes scanning left, right. No. No, he wouldn’t get lost in his own godsdamn mind.

“Draco, don’t you dare,” Theo’s voice snarled, distant and tinny, like it was trying to reach him from the other side of a locked door. Hands gripped his shoulders—real or imagined, he wasn’t sure—but he shook them off, pushing forward.

Finally—finally—his eyes caught on the familiar spiral staircase. He took it two steps at a time, heart slamming against his ribs. The higher he climbed, the quieter the real world became.

Books still lay scattered from his last visit—open, unfiled, chaotic. His hand found the dark brown tome without hesitation. The spine was cracked, the pages swollen and barely holding together. Theo’s book.

Memories spilled across the pages in quicksilver flashes: laughter under a Quidditch stand; shared cigarettes behind the greenhouse; a drunken argument in fifth year; Theo pinning a Prefect badge to his own robes, mock-bowing.

And now this.

A new page fluttered into place near the back. Blank. Waiting.

Draco didn’t hesitate. He let the moment bleed onto the parchment—the sight of Theo’s devastation, the way his voice broke, the unbearable weight of caring. He watched the memory write itself, then gently closed the book and returned it to its shelf.

A sharp exhale escaped his lungs, unsteady and quiet.

When he opened his eyes, the room was real again.

Theo sat in front of him, blinking through the sheen of tears that hadn’t yet fallen. His fists clenched and unclenched in his lap, jaw taut with hurt.

“So that’s it?” he rasped. “Hide in the depths of your mind the moment someone shows they care about you, Draco?”

Draco gave a half-shrug, blinking slow and tired. The headache screamed, his limbs ached from the tension, but he didn’t let the walls drop. “There’s nothing left of me to care about, Theodore.”

Theo’s breath hitched. His voice cracked as he whispered, “You’re an arse , Draco Malfoy.”

A few books slipped from their shelves in the library. The sound of them hitting the marble echoed in his chest.

Draco’s eyes screwed shut. “It’s better this way.” He opened them again, slowly. “I bear the same mark your father does.”

He looked up at Theo, something grim coiling in his expression—bitter, not cruel.

“My father…” He trailed off with a hollow hum, tilting his head as if considering the weight of it all.

“I’m officially just as bad. Just as worthless.”

Theo didn’t respond right away. His brows were drawn, mouth parted like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He let the silence stretch for a beat, like he was giving Draco one last chance to take it back.

But Draco didn’t.

So Theo sat up straighter, and for once, there wasn’t a trace of a smirk on his face.

“That’s bollocks,” he said evenly.

Draco blinked.

Theo didn’t look away. “You are nothing like them.”

Draco gave a humorless laugh, eyes flicking to the Dark Mark before quickly turning away. “We’ve got the same branding.”

“That mark doesn’t mean anything if you fight it,” Theo snapped. “You think my father didn’t try to shove it down my throat too? You think just because we come from the same filth, that we have to be it?”

His voice was rising now, steady but hard. “You’re not like them, Draco. You never were.”

Draco stared at the floor, jaw clenched. 

“It all makes sense now,” Theo said, softer now. “How you’ve been acting..”

“This wasn’t your choice. What they did to you. And you still—” He broke off, shaking his head. “You still try to protect people. You still try to be better.”

Draco’s mouth opened, then closed. There was no fight left in him. Not with Theo. Not with himself.

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and let his head hang low. His voice came out hoarse, small.

“I’m tired, Theo.”

That was all.

No dramatics. No deflection. Just the truth.

Theo inhaled sharply like he’d been punched in the gut, but he didn’t speak. He just reached over again, this time slower, and rested a hand on Draco’s shoulder. Thumb brushing gently against his cold skin before pulling him into an embrace.

Draco’s breath stuttered, he lifted his arms slowly before wrapping them around Theo. He melted into the embrace, feeling weak yet again. 

Pathetic.

Draco walked the corridors of the castle like a ghost of himself, purposeful in stride, but hollowed out inside. His limbs ached, a dull soreness lingering from a sleepless night and Theo’s unwelcome wake-up call. He hadn't even bothered with breakfast—couldn’t stomach the idea of food while his own mind was eating him alive.

The chill of the stone walls pressed in around him as he made his way through the winding halls, the occasional student offering a nod or a glance that he didn’t return. He let them see what they expected to see—a Malfoy in control. Cool. Indifferent. Untouchable.

But his mind betrayed him.

Every step echoed with self-doubt, louder than his own footfalls.

Coward. Pathetic. Weak.

He gritted his teeth and lifted his chin slightly, letting the weight of the world settle across his shoulders without letting it hunch his spine. He wouldn’t allow it.

Not today.

And then there was her—because somehow, always , it came back to her. 

Hermione Granger with her maddening precision and her stupidly perfect handwriting and her insufferable kindness masked as professionalism. He didn’t need her pity. He didn’t need anyone's pity. 

But he couldn’t lie to himself—he needed the silent understanding that lingered between them. The way her voice filled the gaps without demanding anything.

She didn’t press like Theo had. Not yet, anyway.

Theo had good intentions. There wasn’t a bad bone in his body but the way he saw through Draco so easily made his stomach churn. His visual observations came with prodding and picking apart. 

There wasn’t any of that with Granger. Just two people falling apart on opposite ends of a spectrum. 

Still, without even displaying any signs, Granger would know something was off about him.

He could feel it already—she’d take one look at him and know he hadn’t slept. That something was off. That his usual razor-edged sarcasm was dulled by the blunt ache in his chest.

He dragged a hand down his face just before the library came into view, inhaling sharply and forcing himself fully upright. 

No weak emotions on display. 

No hesitations, and no vulnerabilities. 

He had his mask up and the entrance to his personal library ready for him to walk through which he approached the physical library itself. 

She was waiting at the entrance, her arms crossed over her chest and a stack of notes clutched to her side. That ridiculous sense of punctuality.

Draco took one more breath, rolling his shoulders back as he approached.

Let the performance begin.

“Granger,” he drawled, shoulder pressed lazily to the stone wall beside the library door. His arms crossed, and his eyes flicked down to the teetering stack of parchment in her arms. “Apologies, Professor Granger. I didn’t come equipped with any notes today.”

Her cheeks flushed a soft pink, but she lifted her chin defiantly. “Malfoy. As expected.” She clutched the notes tighter to her chest, as if shielding them from further commentary.

The corner of his mouth curved slightly and he pushed off the wall moving towards the door in front of her. “I’d ask you if you are prepared to dive in but it appears you’ve been preparing for this meeting since last week.” 

She rolled her eyes and huffed but gave a small smile despite herself. 

Got you, Granger. 

This would forever be his favorite pastime. 

He pushed the door open and held it for her, dipping his head in mock courtesy. “After you, Professor.”

She breezed past him with her head high, ignoring him entirely. Draco followed, the faintest edge of fatigue still tugging at his limbs—he buried it beneath the smirk. She strolled with a purpose, leading them easily to a section tucked away towards the back.

“So!” Hermione said as she slapped her pieces of parchment down on the table in front of them. She rounded the table and separated the pieces into small stacks that seemed to make no sense at first glance.

He lifted an eyebrow, dragging out the chair with an exaggerated sigh before sinking into it. Chin in hand, he blinked at the chaotic-looking stacks. “So…?”

She didn’t take the bait. “Do you remember what I suggested for one of the ingredients of our potion?”

He scoffed—easy. “Jobberknoll feathers. Obviously.”

Her surprise was written all over her face, and for some reason, that made something inside his chest settle. He gave a lazy wave of his hand, as if to say go on, impress me .

“Yes, Jobberknoll feathers—which was rather silly, now that I think about it.” She laid three pages in front of him.

His eyes skimmed the pages: Grand Wiggenweld Potion, Blood Replenishing Potion, Draught of Peace.

He clicked his tongue, pushing the parchment back toward her with one finger. “Granger, the assignment was to invent a potion. Not dig through Slughorn’s favorites.”

Her eyes narrowed. “If you’d bothered to read the notes on the bottom, you’d know I was comparing known potions with our concept for cross-referencing purposes.” She mimicked his movement and pushed the parchment back towards him with a singular finger. 

Draco leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms behind his head with a slow, smug grin. “Ah, my mistake. I forgot I was dealing with someone who writes footnotes in her sleep.”

She looked like she wanted to bite back with something sharp but the corners of her mouth twitched instead.

There it was. That flicker.

For a moment, the tightness in his chest loosened. He forced himself to look disinterested. Detached. Sinking back into the familiar shell he used to confidently exude. 

So he raised an eyebrow, “Do continue, Professor. I’m absolutely riveted.”

She rolled her eyes and snatched the parchments back. “Fine. Since your only contribution so far has been sarcasm, I suppose I’ll walk you through it.”

He gestured grandly toward the stacks. “Lead the way.”

But as she started explaining the distinctions between restorative and suppressive properties of certain ingredients, her hands moving animatedly, her voice steady and sure—he stopped listening to the words.

Not out of boredom.

Because it was quiet in his head. For the first time all day, it was quiet .

Her curls bounced slightly when she turned to grab another page. Her lips pursed thoughtfully before she corrected herself mid-sentence. There was ink on the side of her hand from scribbling notes too fast.

And when she finally looked up again, brow arched expectantly, he blinked and said, “Brilliant as always, Granger. Haven’t heard a word.”

She groaned. “You are insufferable.” Leaning forward, she twisted her hair up into a messy bun, securing it with her wand before sinking down into the chair across from him.

Draco gave her a lazy, contented smile and lifted a shoulder in a half-shrug. “I’ve been called worse.”

His eyes followed the movement of her hands, then settled on the tangle of curls she'd pinned haphazardly atop her head. He swallowed thickly. “Merlin, Granger. You could nest Jobberknolls themselves in that mess.”

His mouth felt inexplicably dry. Why did it feel so dry?

“Stop being a prat.” She rolled her eyes, but he caught the twitch at the corner of her lips. His grin widened, full and unrestrained, and she shot daggers in his direction.

What do Muggles say? If looks could kill ? He could already see the Prophet headline:
Draco Malfoy dead after falling victim to Gryffindor Princess Hermione Granger’s knives-for-eyes. Read more on page 3.

He huffed a quiet laugh and reached toward the parchment stack, hesitating. “May I?”

She gave a reluctant nod, gesturing toward the notes.

He frowned. “Why the Draught of Peace? The other two make sense.”

She sighed and bit her lip. His eyes dropped to the motion before flicking quickly back to her eyes.

Hermione gathered the pages in front of her, stacking them neatly as she spoke. “I’m assuming it won’t be a particularly pleasant process. I imagine it could affect the nervous system—rapid heart rate, maybe even panic responses. The Draught of Peace should balance that out, at least theoretically.”

Draco tilted his head in reluctant agreement. “Suppose that makes sense.”

He didn’t say more, but his mind snagged on her words. It wasn’t so far-fetched anymore—this idea of hope, of undoing. He’d dismissed it outright before, too afraid to let himself believe. But now…

He glanced at her again. If anyone could find a way to strip darkness from skin, from soul, it would be Granger.

His voice was low, cautious. “I’m almost afraid to ask, but… how would we test if it works?”

Her expression shifted. His stomach twisted. He already knew the answer.

“Malfoy, I—” Her eyes dropped. She grimaced, pressing her palms flat against the table, fingers twitching slightly as if she wanted to reach for him but decided against it.“I’ve gone over it a hundred ways, but there’s no other viable method I can find.”

The look in her eyes… that damn look.

Pity.

His heart twisted violently in his chest.

“I’m not your bloody charity case, Granger.” His voice came out cold, sharper than he intended. “That’s thoroughly off the table. You know that.”

She flinched. But she didn’t look away.

“That’ll get me killed faster than expected. Is that what you want?” He spat, jaw tight, vision blurring at the edges. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

He pushed back from the table, chair scraping harshly. “Here I thought we were making progress. Foolish of me.” But before he could stand, her voice cut in, quiet but firm

“No.”

He stilled.

She was staring at him—shoulders drawn tight, hands clenched in her lap, but her voice didn’t waver.

“No, Malfoy. I don’t want that. And I don’t pity you.”

His breath hitched. He swallowed thickly– opening his mouth, about to offer some sharp retort but she was already leaning forward, slowly, as if not to spook him. Her fingers reached across the table—only just brushing the edge of his hand before she pulled back.

It was barely a touch.
But it scorched.

“I just want to help,” she said, softer now. “And I know you hate that. But I’m not going to apologize for it.”

Something in his chest cracked—barely, but enough.
He stared at her, at the fire in her eyes, at the quiet strength in her voice.

And instead of lashing out again, he whispered, “Then stop looking at me like I’m already gone.”

Silence stretched between them. Thick. Heavy.

She blinked slowly. “You’re not.”

Another beat passed. “You’re not going anywhere, Malfoy. I’ll make sure of it.”

Draco stared at her, unmoving. The words lodged somewhere behind his ribcage, pressing in like a weight he didn’t know how to carry.

He wanted to scoff, wanted to brush it off with some half-hearted jab about her Gryffindor savior complex. He even opened his mouth to do it. But nothing came out.

Instead, he exhaled quietly, as if something in him was deflating.

“I don’t need a keeper,” he muttered.

“I’m not trying to be your keeper,” she replied, her voice soft but steady. “I’m trying to be your partner.”

His gaze snapped up to hers, sharp and questioning. “ Partner ?”

“In the project,” she rushed out, though her tone betrayed her. There was more beneath the surface. She glanced down, suddenly finding the parchment very interesting. “I just meant… I’m not giving up on this. Or you.”

Draco looked at her for a long moment.

She wasn’t blushing. Not exactly. But there was a tension in her shoulders, like she wasn’t sure what she’d just risked saying.

He leaned back slightly in his chair, arms crossed—but it was less of a defense and more of a brace, like he was trying to hold himself together.

“You’re unbelievable,” he said, though there was no venom in it.

She quirked a brow. “So I’ve been told.”

His lips twitched. Almost a smile. Almost.

A long silence settled between them, but it wasn’t heavy anymore. Not quite.

Hermione reached out, carefully sliding one of the pages back toward him. Her fingers brushed against his knuckles—light, brief, but deliberate.

Neither of them moved.

He could have pulled away.

He didn’t.

Draco glanced down at her hand, still hovering near his, then slowly turned his over, palm facing up—not touching her, not quite. Just... open.

Her breath caught.

Then she pulled her hand back, slowly. Her fingers curled in her lap. A muscle twitched in his jaw and he fought back the unsettling feeling creeping in his chest. Draco looked down at the parchment in front of him, then back at her.

 He cleared his throat and clutched the parchment, eyes scanning over the contents again. “When do you want to begin brewing?”

Her shoulders dropped, relief softening her expression at the change of subject.

“Well—” Her voice wavered, and her cheeks flushed that familiar rosy pink. She exhaled a breath to compose herself before continuing, “Wednesday we were supposed to spend time getting to know one another. House unity and all that.”

She waved a hand, trying for nonchalance.

The weight in his chest loosened slightly. He nodded. “Ah, yes. House unity,” he drawled.

“Right. House unity.” She echoed it with a slight furrow of her brow, then shook the thought off. “So… Friday, when we have class again—we can begin brewing then?”

“Sounds reasonable, Granger.”

His eyes roamed her face slowly, pausing at her eyes—back and forth, like he was looking for something even he didn’t know how to name.

A beat of silence stretched between them before she began gathering her notes. He pushed the parchment back toward her, careful not to touch her again.

Hermione clutched the notes to her chest, her eyes settling on him. “Anything else for today, Malfoy?”

He tilted his head, contemplating. Then shook it, dragging his tongue along the edge of his teeth before exhaling. “No. That’ll be all for today.”

Draco definitely didn’t notice the way her eyes followed the path of his tongue. Or the hitch in her breath.

She dipped her head in a quick nod, pushing back her chair. “See you Wednesday,” she said too quickly.

Her legs carried her across the room faster than he thought possible for someone her size. He blinked after her, brow furrowed.

“Bye, Granger,” he muttered, then stood to follow suit, heading toward the exit.

The hours dragged. Sleep refused to come—but that didn’t surprise him. Sleeplessness had become his new normal.

Maybe that was for the best. If he couldn’t sleep, he couldn’t dream. No nightmares. No flashes of what waited for him outside this castle.

He stared up at the ceiling, counting the tiles.

When that ran out, he rolled onto his side and counted the wall panels. How exhilarating.

Draco’s thoughts turned backward—toward the early years at Hogwarts, when he’d been so sure of everything. His father’s words, the Malfoy legacy, his own unshakable superiority.

The sneers. The slurs. The biting remarks he’d spat at anyone who didn’t fit his neat, poisonous worldview.

It all churned now, sour in his gut.

Maybe this was karma. Maybe this was exactly what he deserved—dying alone, slowly, by his own hand. What could be more poetic?

He pulled the duvet up to his chin, curled in on himself, eyes scrunched shut like it might hold the thoughts back.

It didn’t.

With a groan, he flopped onto his back again, ran both hands through his hair, and exhaled hard. Then stood.

He opened the nightstand drawer, fingers brushing over a stack of notes in Hermione’s tight, logical handwriting. He bypassed them, reaching for a chocolate frog box instead.

A gift from his mother—she always made sure he had sweets, no matter how dire the world got around them.

He peeled back the plastic, took a bite, let the chocolate melt slowly on his tongue. A flicker of calm, childlike emotions blanketed over him. He almost allowed himself a smile.

He flipped over the card at the bottom of the box, curious—

And froze.

Albus Dumbledore stared back at him, smiling that damnable, knowing smile.

His stomach turned.

“Fuck,” Draco hissed, throwing the card and box across the room. “Fuck. Fuck, fuck!”

He swiped everything off the desk in one angry motion. Books thudded to the ground. A picture frame shattered.

The sharp noise yanked him back to the present.

Draco stumbled over to the frame, crouching low. His hand shook as he picked it up.

The photo was torn.

His mother, clapping with delight. His father, pride hiding behind restraint. And Draco, flying on a toy broom, cheeks flushed with joy.

The rips ran straight through their faces.

He collapsed against the bed, the frame clutched to his chest, and sobbed.

His body shook with the force of it. Sobs loud, broken, aching in a way he couldn’t hold back anymore.

He could Occlude. He should Occlude. That was the point, wasn’t it? Keep it all out.

But tonight… he didn’t.

Tonight, he let it in. Let it burn through him.

Then, slowly, the sobs subsided.

He wiped his face on his sleeve, breath catching as he forced himself to stand. He had to do something. He had to end this.

He crossed the room, pulling open his dresser drawers until he found the velvet box—sleek, dark, and far too familiar.

The opal necklace glimmered in the low light.

He knew this one. Bought by his father at Borgin and Burkes. Supposedly cursed.

His fingers hovered just above the gems.

Could this work? Could it end this?

He grabbed the box and set it on his dresser, pacing the room three times before stopping again.

He scowled.

Think. Think of something strong enough. Something fast. Something final.

His mind spiraled through old lessons—his father’s words, whispers of blood magic.

Of course.

Draco grabbed his wand, flipped his right hand palm-up, and pressed the tip to the center. “Diffindo.”

A clean cut opened, beads of blood welling up instantly. He hissed but held steady.

He hovered his hand over the necklace, squeezing his palm until droplets fell onto the opals. They sizzled and vanished into the seam.

Blood magic. Malfoy and Black blood. That and the fact the necklace was cursed already had to be enough.

He sealed the box and buried it again in the back of the drawer.

A healing spell closed the wound on his palm. His wand hung limply in his hand.

He looked around the wreckage of his room—at the shards, the toppled books, the broken frame. With a flick of his wrist, he set everything back in place. Even the photo. It wasn’t whole, but it moved again. Just barely.

He stepped to the window. The Black Lake churned in the distance, wind sweeping across the surface.

Above it, the moon hung high—mocking in its stillness.

He sank onto the edge of his bed, buried his face in his hands, and let the silence settle. The cold pressed into his skin. The sharp edge of his wand bit into his temple.

He sat up. Turned the wand in his fingers.

Someone. He needed to talk to someone. Anyone.

But who would answer?

Pansy was mad at him—so that was a resounding no .

Blaise was, as far as he knew, blissfully unaware of his… condition.

Granger? That hadn’t exactly gone over well the last time.

He settled on the simple, easy choice.

Draco lifted his wand to his mouth, muttering the incantation from Theo’s trusty wand-messaging charm and called for the man himself.

“This is me not burying myself in the depths of my mind, Theodore. If you’re awake, please come over.”

The silence of his room stretched. Seconds ticked by, dragging like hours, until a quiet knock broke the stillness.

“Come in,” Draco called out, his voice low. The door creaked open to reveal Theo, sporting a somber smile.

“It’s past curfew, close the door, you prat.” His voice was dry, more commanding than annoyed.

Theo chuckled, stepping inside and locking the door behind him. “I must say, I’m surprised you reached out. I figured you’d disappear off the face of the earth for a few days after this morning.” He shrugged off his robes and draped them over the desk chair.

Draco glared half-heartedly before huffing a defeated laugh. “I debated it.”

Theo scoffed and rounded the corner of the bed before plopping down beside him. “I’m sure you did, prat.”

The teasing lilt in his voice was exactly the balm Draco hadn’t known he needed. He nudged Theo’s shoulder with his own, a small, genuine smile tugging at his lips.

Theo shook his head, grinning. Then, a more serious tone settled into his voice. “Really, Drake. Why’d you call me here?”

Draco lifted a shoulder in a half-shrug, eyes dropping to his feet. “Couldn’t sleep.”

“Well, seeing as I’m also awake at this gods-forsaken hour, it would appear I’ve got the same problem,” Theo mused, head tilted in Draco’s direction.

He tutted dramatically. “Now, now, Draco.” He dipped his chin, eyebrow raised. “No wallowing in self-pity unless you invited me to wallow in mine too.”

Draco let out a full grin. “A proper pity party. How perfect.”

Theo leapt to his feet, clapping his hands together and rocking on his heels. “It’s not a proper pity party without the finest liquor.” He rummaged in his cloak and emerged victorious, brandishing a bottle of vintage Ogden’s like it was Excalibur. “Fancy a drink?”

Draco barked out a laugh. “Obviously.” He crossed to the dresser, pulling open a drawer reserved for occasions exactly like this. Two antique lowball glasses clinked as he set them down.

He bumped the drawer closed with his hip and gestured to the glasses. “Ladies first,” he drawled. A sharp stinging jinx zipped past him. “Arse!” 

“Only sometimes,” Theo shot back with a smirk.

Theo uncorked the bottle, and poured generously. “To poor decisions and worse coping mechanisms,” he said, lifting his glass.

Draco mirrored him. “To our well-earned pity party.”

The glasses clinked. They drank.

Theo hissed with approval. “Burns so good.”

Draco moved to one of the armchairs, gesturing lazily for Theo to take the other. He slumped down, took a few steady sips, and rolled his head back, eyes unfocused on the ceiling above.

A bubble of laughter escaped him. “Fuck. I think I’m already feeling it.”

Theo cackled, loud and infectious, and Draco’s head lolled toward him, wearing a sleepy, lopsided smile. “Think that’s funny?” he slurred, flinging a stinging jinx that missed by a mile.

“Oi!” Theo yelped, retaliating with a jinx of his own.

Draco grunted, pulling his leg up and rubbing at the sting, still laughing. He raised his wand again—“Wait—wait—wait!”

Draco sighed, setting it down. “Already?”

Theo lifted his hands in mock surrender, sipping again. “No, no. Let’s talk about something interesting.” He smirked. “How’s it going, working with The Brightest Witch of Our Age ?”

Draco groaned, letting his head thump back against the chair. “She’s insufferable.”

Theo lifted a brow. “That bad, huh?”

Draco swirled the firewhisky in his glass, watching the amber liquid catch the low light. “She’s all logic and lecture and quills with color-coded ink.” He paused. “Had the gall to correct my theory on potion compounds. Twice.”

Theo made a low hum of amusement. “Twice? Tragic.”

Draco huffed. “She was right, of course. Bloody annoying.”

Theo’s smile widened. “Right and annoying. Deadly combo.”

Draco didn’t respond at first. His gaze was fixed somewhere between the ceiling and the inside of his head.

“She asked if I was okay,” he said finally, almost too quietly.

Theo tilted his head. “And were you?”

Draco snorted. “What do you think?”

Theo let the silence settle for a moment, then took another sip of his drink. “So. You’ve gone from hexing each other in corridors to late-night philosophical chats?”

Draco shot him a look. “It wasn’t like that.”

“Mm-hm.”

“It wasn’t.”

“Did she use the color-coded quills when she asked?”

Draco rolled his eyes and muttered, “Shove off,” but his tone was more exhale than insult.

Theo leaned back in his chair, studying him with that familiar, quiet amusement. “You know,” he said lightly, “if I didn’t know better, I’d say you almost admire her.”

Draco scoffed. “She drives me mad.”

“That wasn’t a no.”

Draco said nothing. Just stared into his glass.

Theo didn’t press. He just grinned into his own drink and clinked it once against Draco’s. “To insufferable know-it-alls.”

Draco hesitated. Then clinked back. “To color-coded pity parties.”

Chapter Text

Draco scowled at the owl perched on the inside portion of his windowsill, smugly holding out a scroll tied with Slughorn’s absurdly shimmery ribbon. He crossed the room slowly and plucked the parchment from its leg.
His fingers dug into the bowl on his desk, fishing out a treat and offering it forward. He was a gentleman, thank you very much.

With deliberate care, he untied the ribbon—immediately casting Incendio as it fluttered to the floor.
He unrolled the scroll, his frown deepening with every line.

Helpful conversation starters for House Unity.

“Kill me,” he muttered under his breath. He skimmed the parchment, incredulous.

If you could be any magical creature, what would you be and why?
Too easy. A basilisk—if only to end this nonsense with one well-placed glance.

Describe your ideal day off.
Another scoff. Before his death sentence? Hexing first-years and indulging in teenage vices. After? Spiraling in existential dread.

His eyes landed on a final one: What is one thing no one knows about you?
He snorted, rolling the scroll back up and shoving it into his cloak pocket. “This is just absurd.”

Still, despite the usual flood of cynicism, Draco found himself walking—slowly, deliberately—toward the Room of Requirement. He told himself it was to fulfill the assignment. To avoid another peppy owl from Slughorn.

Not because he was curious what Granger would say. Not because her face had been occupying a concerning portion of his thoughts lately.

Naturally, he arrived ten minutes late. On purpose. Just to see that crease form between her brows when he walked in.

He closed his eyes and willed a room to “Meet with Granger.” to appear. As the door materialized, he straightened his robes and took a long breath before twisting the knob and pushing inside.

She was already seated, quill in hand, hair pulled back in a messy bun that didn’t look nearly as irritating as it should’ve. She glanced up as the door creaked open, eyes narrowing.

“You’re late.”

Draco sauntered in like he owned the place. “Punctuality is boring, Granger.”

"On the contrary, punctuality is quite respectable and I know you were raised with better manners," She narrowed her eyes at him momentarily, studying him. "So I think it's safe to say you are just either A) Lazy or B) An Arse." 

Draco's eyes widened in amusement, "Such vulgar language from you, Granger." 

She rolled her eyes, not interested in taking his bait and gestured towards the table cluttered with spare parchment, books, and a certain offensive list. Draco eyed it with disdain as he sank into the chair across from her.

“Tell me you’re not taking that thing seriously.”

Hermione arched a brow. “Some of us actually want to pass this assignment.” She sniffed, fixing him with an almost-menacing scowl.

Draco reached across the table, snatching the parchment with all the care of someone handling bubotuber pus.

“Alright then,” he said, voice thick with mock sincerity. “Let’s dive in, shall we? If you were a bloody ice cream flavor, what would you be?”

She groaned and dropped her forehead against the table. “Merlin, just hex me.”

He smirked. “That’s not on the list, but I’ll make a note.”

She lifted her head with a glare, though the corner of her mouth twitched. “Fine,” she sighed. “If we’re doing this, we’re doing it properly. One question each. You start.”

“I believe I just did, Granger,” he drawled, placing the parchment back on the table. He crossed his arms and slouched lazily into the chair, legs stretched out in front of him.

Hermione’s gaze dropped—he thinks —to his legs, before she cleared her throat and looked back up.

Interesting.

A smirk tugged at his lips. He dragged the pad of his thumb slowly along his bottom lip, then gestured toward her. “Come on, Granger. Use that brilliant, terrifying brain of yours and answer the riveting question.”

She scoffed and crossed her legs, hands folded tight enough to bleach her knuckles. “Strawberry. Obviously.”

Draco’s eyes bulged. He clicked his tongue in disapproval. “Strawberry?” he repeated, appalled. “Merlin, Granger. Spare me from the excitement.”

She narrowed her eyes. “And what exactly is wrong with strawberry?”

Time to play his favorite game: getting Granger riled up over pointless things.

Draco shrugged, head resting lazily in his palm. “I would have thought it was obvious. Strawberry is bland. Predictable.”

Hermione sucked in a breath and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Strawberry isn’t basic . Plenty of people don’t even like it.”

“Exactly,” Draco said, eyes glittering. “Because it’s bland.”

Her glare sharpened. “The question was—if you recall, which I doubt— what ice cream flavor would I be? I said strawberry. You’re calling me bland and basic.”

He rolled his eyes, waving a dismissive hand. “No, I said the flavor is basic. I wouldn’t use that to describe you, Granger.”

“Oh, really?” she said, tone tight, fingers clasped even tighter. “Then what flavor would I be, Malfoy?”

He tilted his head, pretending to think, even as an answer came easily.

Something with a bite. Sharp. Surprising. Impossible to forget.

He could be an arse and say something like ‘Vanilla’ but Granger was too complex to be something as simple as vanilla.

Draco clicked his tongue thoughtfully, eyes still on her. “Something with a bite,” he said slowly, watching her eyebrows lift. “Maybe… dark chocolate and chili.”

Hermione blinked. “What?”

He shrugged. “Sharp. Intense. Kind of addictive once you get past the initial shock. Definitely not basic.”

Her lips parted, but no sound came out at first. Then she huffed, color rising to her cheeks. “That’s oddly… specific.”

He leaned back, satisfied–momentarily. “Just calling it like I see it, Granger.” Apparently complimenting her had become his new normal. This definitely was not dangerous territory. 

Everything was fine, it’s fine. 

Draco shifted in his seat uncomfortable, tugging at the collar of his shirt. He waved his hand in dismissal, “Don’t read into it Granger.” 

She cleared her throat, “Right, okay. What flavor would you be?” 

Draco scratched the back of his neck and puffed out a breath, “Rocky road, easy.” She scrunched her nose up in disgust and he held up a hand to halt her impending rant. “I know, it’s not my favorite flavor either but it is fitting.” 

“Enjoyable when it’s sweet but then it becomes tough and jagged when you’re not expecting it” She filled in the blanks for him rather eagerly as if she had solved a complex problem.  

He lifted his brows and clapped slowly, “Spot on, Granger. Top marks as always.”

She huffed out a laugh and shook her head, “Insufferable.”

“Sweet, jagged, and insufferable? Merlin, Granger. You know exactly how to spoil a man.”

“Don’t read into it, Malfoy.” She parroted and grinned.

Cheeky witch. 

“Anyways!” She gave him a pointed look which made him hold up his hands in mock surrender. 

She leaned forward so she was closer to the parchment on the table, eyes scanning the questions as her brows furrowed in contemplation. 

His eyes tracked her movements until he noticed the top button of her uniform had come undone. He quickly snapped his eyes away, feeling warmth crawl up his neck. 

“Oh this is a good one, Malfoy.” Hermione said, her voice sounded conspiratorial and he swallowed thickly as he carefully looked back towards her. “Are you okay?” She looked at him with concern and a muscle ticked in his jaw.

“Yeah- yeah, I’m fine.” He croaked, the warmth now creeping onto his face and settling on his cheeks. 

She gave him a look that undoubtedly said she didn’t believe him, but decided not to press the issue.

Thank Salazar and all things magical. 

She leaned in, her voice hushed as if she was divulging a secret, “If you could be any magical creature, what would you be?” 

He kept his eyes trained on her face, making sure to look at her only from her neckline and above.

Again, he was a gentleman, regardless if the traitorous thoughts flooding his mind were quite ungentlemanlike. 

He blew out raspberries—-laying the dramatics on thick, “Salazar, that is quite difficult Granger. Not sure if I can handle it,” His voice came out in a warning but his eyes held nothing but warmth. 

She crossed her arms and tilted her chin up, “Don’t spare me the excitement.” Her voice had dropped a few octaves and he laughed heartily.

He collected himself, gaining back his composure. “Are you mocking me, Granger?” He drawled, shifting in his seat. 

“So what if I am?” She sniffed, biting back her own fits of laughter.

His eyes glittered with amusement, tutting “Naughty witch.” His heart was thunderous in his chest.

Hermione scoffed, “Just answer the question you prat.” 

“Not to be utterly predictable…” He mused, rolling his shoulders back as he sank back into his spot again. “Obviously I would be a dragon. It would be criminal not to be.” 

She rolled her eyes, “Give me one good reason why you would be a dragon besides your given name?” 

Draco bit back the urge to say something that could be too forward and sighed, dragging a hand through his hand leaving it unkempt. “I’d be a dragon because while I am fascinating to look at-” he gestured to his physique. “-I am quite terrifying when I want to be.”

She narrowed her eyes at him and shook her head, “That’s a farce, Malfoy. Merlin knows you are the furthest thing from terrifying. You might be dickish but you’re not scary.”

Draco dipped his head forward, “Are you sure about that, Granger?”

“Oh, I am positive. You don’t scare me, Malfoy.” 

He grinned wickedly, eyes gleaming with delight. He pushed off of his seat and leisurely walked towards her, he circled the chair she was sitting on. His fingers brushed along the fabric, only slightly ghosting her shoulders as he stopped behind her. 

He leaned forward, savoring the hitch in her breath. “You really shouldn’t have said that,” he purred near her ear, amusement curling in every syllable. Her shudder sent a thrill down his spine.

He wasn’t sure what confidence came over him. Wasn’t quite sure how he was able to be so comfortable around her that his demeanor was able to shift as if nothing was wrong in his world.

Perhaps it was the way he savoured these small moments more than he cared to admit. 

The moments he was able to provoke reactions from Granger or perhaps it was the way she offered him a sense of serenity that allowed him to not only open up but truly fall into what was comfortable for him again. 

His nose just barely grazed the skin of her neck, his mouth all too close to her pulse point. “W-what are you doing?” She stammered, but she remained frozen in her seat. 

She didn’t push him away. Didn’t yell. Didn’t tell him to stop. 

A flicker of uncertainty washed over him and he paused momentarily because what the actual fuck was he doing. 

His bravado slowly faltering, “Scaring you,” He moved his head back up to whisper into her ear, “Obviously.” 

Draco stood back to his full height, his lithe fingers gently almost reverently grazing the nape of her neck as he moved to fully circle her. He tugged his trousers just slightly as he moved to kneel in front of her.

Rosy pink cheeks. To be expected.

His eyes stared into hers, searching. “Scared, Granger?” 

That earned him a (deserved) shove, not quite strong enough to push him over but enough for him to quirk his eyebrow at her. Her chest was heaving raggedly and he swallowed thickly before standing up, pacing back to his chair.

He blinked.

What the fuck did he just do? 

His mind was screaming with flashing signs and sirens sounding.

Panic. Panic. Panic. 

Hermione was still staring at him, her expression unreadable, and Draco could feel his heartbeat hammering against his ribs like it was trying to escape. The silence stretched between them like a frayed wire—too taut, too fragile.

He cleared his throat and rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly very interested in the wood grain of the table.

“Sorry. I—” he started, wincing. “I don’t know what that was.”

Hermione blinked, then gave a little shake of her head, as if trying to clear it. “You’re not going to lunge at me again, are you?”

Draco snorted, relieved by the levity even though it didn’t fully reach his eyes. “Tempting, Granger. But I think I’ve done enough damage for one evening.”

A beat passed.

She tucked a loose curl behind her ear. “You were wrong.”

He glanced at her warily. “Wrong?”

“You’re not scary.” Her lips twitched. “Unhinged, maybe. Overly dramatic, definitely. But scary? No.”

He huffed a laugh and leaned back in his chair, trying to act casual even though his skin still felt like it was on fire. “I’ll take it.”

Another silence, but this one felt a little softer. Less suffocating.

Hermione glanced back at the parchment between them. “You never let me answer.”

He raised a brow. “About how terrifying I am?”

She rolled her eyes. “About the magical creature. You said you’d be a dragon, so now it’s only fair for me to tell you what I’d be.”

He gestured grandly. “By all means, enlighten me.”

She hesitated for a moment, then said slowly, “Maybe… a sphinx.”

Draco tilted his head, intrigued. “Riddles and claws. Not bad.”

“And a tendency to rip people apart when they get the answer wrong,” she added sweetly.

“Merlin,” he said, mock-scandalized. “You’re bloodthirsty. I like it.”

Hermione gave him a dry look, but there was amusement dancing at the edges of her eyes. “It fits. People underestimate me all the time.”

Draco studied her for a moment, the smirk sliding from his face. “They really shouldn’t.”

Something shifted then—quiet, heavy, real. The kind of moment that crept up when neither of them was trying to be clever.

“Granger, I have a burning question, if I may.”

She stiffened, looking at him warily. “Yes?”

He tried to muster up the courage to voice the thought that had been needling at him—usually sometime between midnight and regret.

Truly, sometimes he didn’t mean to sound like an arse. It just… happened.

“Why are you wasting your time with the Weasel of all people?” he blurted, grimacing. “I mean—he’s painfully dull and you’re… you.”

“Ron is not dull, Malfoy.” She snapped, though her voice wavered just slightly.

Interesting.

“So it’s true then?” he asked, ignoring the unwelcome weight settling in his chest. “When I saw you two the other day—you’re together?”

Hermione’s expression shifted—like he’d crossed an invisible line neither of them had acknowledged but both had drawn. She hesitated, gaze flicking toward the fireplace before finding his again. Like she was waiting for him to take it back.

He didn’t.

Wouldn’t.

Couldn’t.

“He’s my best friend. There’s nothing else to it,” she said, her voice quieter now. She reached up to tighten the messy bun on her head, then flattened her palms against her thighs.

He gave her a long look, not entirely convinced, but willing to drop it.

For now.

Draco leaned forward and plucked the parchment from the table, his eyes scanning it without really absorbing the words. The silence stretched, and he shifted uncomfortably, tugging once more at the collar of his shirt.

Then his gaze caught on a question—one they hadn’t read aloud yet. One that felt even more dangerous than the one he’d just asked.

If he’d already breached something delicate, this would surely shatter it.

But still—he needed to know.

He tapped the parchment once, drawing her attention. She looked at him cautiously, a wary and thin smile playing on her lips.

“Back to the prescribed questions?” she asked.

“For house unity, obviously,” he drawled, resting his head on his knuckles. His eyes roamed over her slowly, a flicker of something unreadable behind them. Then he nodded once, like he was accepting a sentence only he could hear.

“What’s one thing no one knows about you?” he asked, voice low and steady.

Hermione stilled.

The smile faded completely.

She looked at him like she wasn’t sure whether he was serious—or whether she wanted him to be.

But he didn’t flinch.

“That’s a real question,” she said, barely above a whisper.

“Mm,” Draco hummed. He leaned back slightly, suddenly unsure why he’d even opened his mouth. “Call it a moment of weakness.”

Hermione looked away, eyes scanning the bookshelves as if hoping an answer might be tucked between the spines.

“I’ve never thought about that before,” she said at last.

He waited, silent.

She wet her lips and pulled her knees up, arms wrapping loosely around them. “Maybe… that sometimes I feel like I have to be the smartest in the room or I won’t matter. That if I’m not useful, I’m dispensable.” She laughed once, sharp and self-deprecating. “It’s ridiculous, really. I know it’s not true. But when things get quiet, that’s what creeps in.”

She peeked over at him. “There. That’s mine. What’s yours?”

Draco raised a brow. “Demanding, aren’t you?”

Her gaze held. “You asked first.”

He tilted his head back, staring at the ceiling like it might hold a better response. Then he slowly brought his eyes back to her, expression unreadable.

“Something no one knows,” he echoed, like tasting the words. “Maybe…”

For a moment, it looked like he might deflect, or offer up something shallow. But then—

“I guess it’s that I feel the most human—the most normal—when I’m with you.” He said it evenly, like he was commenting on the weather. His eyes dropped back to the parchment. “Which is a terrible inconvenience, considering you’re insufferable.”

Hermione blinked, stunned.

Draco didn’t look at her. Didn’t dare.

“I’d like to officially request that we return to talking about ice cream flavors or magical creatures now.”

Hogsmeade weekends used to be something Draco actually looked forward to.

Ever since third year, he'd enjoyed slipping into the small village and acting on foolish impulses with Blaise and Theo. Getting sweets they didn't need. Spending money just to spend it. Pretending, for a few hours, that there was nothing looming over him.

Unfortunately, this was not going to be the case this time around.

The weight of a carefully wrapped box in his pocket dragged at him, a leaden reminder of the task ahead. His eyes scanned the crowd of students bubbling with uncontained happiness as they scurried into different avenues of the village.

An arm slung loosely around his shoulder, breaking his trance.

“We’re going to Honeydukes, right?” Theo batted his lashes dramatically.

Draco rolled his eyes, letting out a weak laugh. “Obviously,” he drawled, leaning into Theo’s touch for a fleeting second. Just long enough to steal a shred of comfort.

“I just need to make a quick stop at another shop. I’ll meet you there?”

Theo’s brows furrowed, his arm slipping away. “You sure, mate? This is our routine. Straight to Honeydukes, no detours.”

Draco sighed, feigning exasperation. “Gods forbid I make a change. However will you cope, Theodore?”

Theo pouted but dropped it. “See you in a bit, Drake.” He disappeared into the crowd, dragging Blaise with him.

He scrubbed his hands over his face, a heavy wave of exhaustion sinking into him. This was it, it had to be. All he had to do was get this cursed necklace to Dumbledore without anyone suspecting it of him and this nightmare could end.

Or get progressively worse but that was food for thought for later. 

His feet carried him through the village automatically, his chest aching with every step. He swallowed thickly, willing his mind to settle.

He needed to focus.

Pushing open the doors of his library—the vast labyrinth he'd built inside his mind—his dragonhide shoes clicked against the marble floors, matching the frantic beat of his pulse. As his steps slowed, his heart began to settle, the heavy stillness of the place washing over him.

Draco walked up to the back entrance of The Three Broomsticks, a muscle ticking in his jaw as he focused on his breathing. He looked around him and observed that there weren’t many people on this side of the building.

There was a slight possibility that he would actually be completely unnoticed. 

He breathed out a sigh of relief and tugged the hood of his cloak over his head. He leaned against the brick building and closed his eyes momentarily again, focusing on digging deeper into the depths of his mind. 

His mind had created its own ‘Restricted Section’ if you will. An aisle lined with shelves of books enclosed with the depths of all of his emotions he had felt. His lithe fingers dragged along the edge of the nearest bookshelf as his eyes flicked across titles. 

A thick tome labeled ‘Grief’ laid next to a similar dark colored book labeled ‘Sadness’. He snorted at the irony of the sizes and colors of the two books. 

He continued walking a little further down the aisle and he saw a few thin books sitting flush on top of one another. Lighter colors– more vibrant, sat abandoned. The titles to the books were caked with dust and he frowned. 

That simply wouldn’t do. 

He raised a hand, blowing away the worst of the dust, but the grime clung stubbornly. A quick cleansing charm had them clearing away in a small, defeated plume of smoke.

His eyes grazed the titles, his thumb brushing almost reverently along them. He let out a bitter laugh, how utterly fitting.

‘Happiness’ – Pastel yellow and thin.

‘Pride’ – Orange and slightly thicker but still thin. 

Landing on the last title, his heart sunk. 

‘Love’ – Lilac and the thinnest of them all. 

His throat constricted. He swiped at the dampness gathering under his eyes with the back of his hand, cursing himself.

Turning away, he forced himself deeper into the aisle until a thick burgundy book caught his eye.

‘Anxiety.’

Of course.

He closed his eyes, breathing deeply, fingers clenching around the heavy spine. The book fluttered open on its own, a blank page yawning up at him.

He pictured it—this moment, the sickness in his chest, the frantic buzzing under his skin—and willed it all out of him, carving it away like peeling skin from bone. Pouring the feeling into the pages until he was scraped clean.

The book snapped shut with a sharp crack.

Draco jammed it back onto the shelf with shaking hands and didn’t look back.

He walked quickly, weaving through the labyrinth and slamming the door to the library behind him as he returned to consciousness.

His eyes fluttered open.

Once silver with flickering blue, they were now dull, flat grey. A mirror of everything he'd locked away inside.

The necklace burned a hole through the inside of his pocket.
Or at least, it felt like it.

Draco pressed his back against the crumbling brick of the Three Broomsticks' side alley, breath curling in the cold air. His fingers twitched at his sides, but otherwise he stayed still. One misstep, one crack in his facade, and this entire nightmare could go up in smoke.

The door creaked open. Madam Rosmerta bustled out, arms full of crates, her hair pinned up in a messy twist. She hummed under her breath, oblivious.

His wand slid into his hand like a second heartbeat.

"Imperio. "

The word barely left his mouth, but it cut through the air like a knife. Rosmerta jerked once — sharp, unnatural — then stilled.

Draco pushed off the wall and approached her slowly, the world narrowing to the scuff of his shoes against the stone. His hand shook once — barely — before he forced it still.

Her eyes were vacant when he met them. A hollow marionette waiting for orders.

"You have something for Dumbledore," he said, voice too calm, too detached. "You’ll find a student. Give it to them. Tell them it’s a gift for him. Make sure it gets to him. No questions."

Rosmerta nodded dully. 

Draco swallowed against the bile rising in his throat.

He hated this.

He hated every second of this.

But the library shelves stayed closed, the pages blank.

He reached into his cloak, pulling out the delicate, cursed box, and pressed it into her limp hands. “Do not open it.” 

She nodded, her fingers clasping tightly onto the box. 

It was done. It had to be done.

"Go."

Without another sound, Madam Rosmerta turned and moved back toward the bustle of the main street, her steps measured, unthinking. A perfect pawn.

Draco stood frozen in place for a full minute, heart pounding in his ears. Then slowly he sank back into the alley shadows, hands buried deep in his pockets, and forced his legs to move.

He had to get back to the castle. He had to pretend like none of this ever happened.

And maybe — if he lied well enough, if he buried it deep enough–  he could convince himself, too.

The sun was sinking lower, the light turning brittle and sharp against the grounds. Students trickled back toward the castle in clumps, their laughter and chatter grating against his raw nerves.

Theo was going to ream him apart for missing a trip to Honeydukes but he needed to get this done. This was a duty, he was left with no choice. No room left for debate.

Draco kept his head down, cloak pulled tight around him, each step heavier than the last. He needed to get inside, needed to lock himself behind stone walls where no one could look at him.

"Malfoy?"

He stiffened.

Hermione Granger was standing a few feet off the path, books hugged to her chest, brow furrowed.

Of course it would be her. Of course she would notice.

Merlin, would he ever catch a fucking break?

He forced his features into a blank mask, willing his Occlumency to encase him like armor. 

"You alright?" she asked, cautious.

He met her gaze just long enough to register the genuine concern in it — and it burned, sharp and unwanted. His armor cracking just slightly. 

"Fine," he said, voice flat and eyes lifeless. 

She didn’t look convinced. "You look—"

"Tired, Granger," he cut her off, managing a ghost of his usual drawl. He waved his hand in dismissal. "Need to get back. Some of us have actual responsibilities."

Something flickered across her face — hurt, maybe — but she squared her shoulders anyway.

"Right," she said stiffly. "Well. See you around, Malfoy."

She turned, stalking off toward the castle entrance without waiting for a reply.

Draco stayed rooted to the spot a moment longer, watching her go, feeling something sour rise in his throat.

Fuck.

He tugged his cloak tighter and followed the path up to the castle — steps slow, deliberate, each one echoing louder in his skull than the last. 

The Slytherin Dungeons were dim and cold when he finally stumbled inside. Students were still lounging around conversing about their escapades. A dull pain began to flutter in his skull from the depths of his Occlumency and he rolled his shoulders back.

To the side— Theo, Blaise, and Pansy were sprawled on a couch sharing sweets from their trip. Theo was shooting daggers his way causing him to grimace. 

He moved towards them and bent forward, dropping his voice to a level only audible to Theo and himself. “Got caught up with a task.” Giving him a pointed look, Theo’s face faltered and he nodded solemnly. 

Draco dipped his chin in farewell and trudged towards the stairs, descending towards his room. 

Pushing open his door with heavy limbs, securing it tightly behind him, he allowed his mind to slowly dissipate. He shrugged off his cloak, letting it puddle on the floor, and collapsed into bed without bothering to pull the covers over himself.

For a long time, he just lay there, staring up at the stone ceiling, feeling the necklace still burning through the lining of his pocket even though it was long gone. 

He closed his eyes, briefly touching his chest to remind himself of the safety his family necklace was granting him. The pad of his thumb brushed over his onyx ring, willing his heart to calm down. 

Nope, too much. 

Draco pulled up the walls of his mind higher, thicker, until he could barely feel anything at all.

Maybe it was over. Maybe, if he was lucky, he could just stay here. Remain suspended in this empty half-sleep, where nothing could touch him.

Draco turned his face into the pillow, shutting out the world.

For the first time in what felt like ages, he drifted into sleep without nightmares.

Chapter Text

Draco woke to the low hum of voices in the common room beyond his dormitory door. Morning light slashed in thin stripes across the stone floor, too bright, too sharp.

He turned onto his side, pressing his forehead into the pillow, willing the ache behind his eyes to recede.

No luck.

It pounded there steady and relentless like the beat of a drum at a funeral procession.

Occlude, he thought dully. Just Occlude.

He tried. Reached for the familiar blankness, the heavy doors in his mind. But the headache splintered the effort apart before he even got the first wall up. 

He supposed this was his karma. He didn't deserve the peace anyway.

Draco dragged himself upright, the world tilting uneasily around him. His robes from yesterday were still crumpled on the floor where he'd dropped them. He tugged them back on with clumsy fingers, every movement feeling like it took twice as much energy as it should.

He had half a mind to cast a charm to help with the disgruntled appearance of his robes and tried to smooth out the edges of his hair that stood awry. His eyes peeked quickly at himself in the mirror and he sharply turned away.

A walking corpse. 

By the time he staggered out into the common room, a knot of younger students had already gathered near the fireplace, whispering furiously. He was only able to catch snippets of their conversations. 

"Did you hear?" a girl said breathlessly. "Katie Bell… cursed… in Hogsmeade —"

"She’s in the hospital wing— doesn’t look good”

"Someone gave her something — a necklace or something — and it cursed her—"

Draco stopped dead.

The walls of the common room pressed in around him, too close, too loud. His heart hammered against his ribs so violently he thought it might crack them.

He couldn't move. Couldn't breathe.

Katie Bell. The necklace.

He hadn't even seen who Madam Rosmerta had chosen. He hadn't watched. He hadn’t stayed to know.

He should have expected the fallout or the fall from the little glimpse of mercy he had given himself. He had instructed to give it to a student but it was never meant to harm a student.

His fellow peers did tend to grind his nerves but he wouldn’t intentionally cause damaging harm to one of them. When it came to Professor Dumbledore, he didn’t have a choice. Yet, this was all his fault. If he would’ve just mustered up the nerve..  

Coward , he thought. You’re a coward.

The guilt roared up inside him, hot and choking, bile creeping up his throat on a warpath for destruction.

He turned sharply and pushed out of the common room, out into the dungeon corridors, the shadows swallowing him whole.

The whispers chased him down the hallways anyway.

Katie Bell. Cursed. A necklace.

Draco pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, trying to block it out, but all he saw behind his eyelids was the thick tome – Grief – unreachable and out of his grasp. 

He stumbled into an empty corridor, chest heaving. His knees hit the stone floor harder than he meant them to. He stayed there, slumped against the cold wall, fingers clenching in his lap until his nails left crescent moons in the fabric of his robes.

Maybe he deserved to stay there. On the floor. Drowning in anguish and riddled with guilt.

Maybe if he just stayed still enough, if he just hurt enough, it would be enough penance to make up for what he'd done.

It wouldn’t be. He knew that. But it was the only thing he had left. 

This was all his fault, all his fucking fault. 

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. 

“Fuck!” He cried out, slamming his fist against the wall. He winced and clenched his fist to his chest, fragments of skin tattered and beads of blood bubbling up. 

The harsh ache in Draco’s chest was mind shattering, but it grounded him. Reminding him that he was still alive, no matter how unfortunate that might be. 

He scraped together whatever shards of himself he could find and forced his body upright. Trying to fight the fits of his pending anxiety attack he worked through his mental checklist to calm him and make him look normal even though he felt quite the opposite. 

1. One foot in front of the other.
2. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.
3. Pretend to be alive.

By the time he shoved open the door to the Slytherin common room, he could already feel the mask slotting itself into place — a crude, fractured thing, but enough to fool people who weren't looking too closely.

Unfortunately, his closest friend Theo was always looking closely.

Theo sprawled on one of the green velvet couches, lazily flipping through his Arithmancy book. His sharp eyes flicked up the second Draco entered.

“Bloody hell, mate. You look like shit," Theo said casually, like he was commenting on the weather. He tossed the book onto the table and stood, stretching. "C’mon. Food. Maybe it’ll fix whatever’s gone wrong in that pretty head of yours.”

Draco opened his mouth to tell him to piss off. The words didn’t come. He was too tired.
Too hollowed out.

Instead, he shrugged — a jerky, half-hearted motion — and let Theo steer him out of the dungeons, up toward the Great Hall.

The noise hit him like a wall when they entered: students laughing, arguing, the metallic clatter of cutlery against plates. It all sounded muted. Distant.

Draco dropped into a seat at the Slytherin table, letting Theo ramble about something Luna had done with him during their most recent potions session he couldn’t bring himself to listen to. He picked at his food without seeing it.

Going through the motions of existing and trying to exude that he was more than the hollow shell that he resided in.

All of his attempted shots at normalcy seemed to be working until a ripple of tension cut through the Hall, threading itself tight across the long tables.

Draco’s gaze lifted automatically.

Across the room, near the Gryffindor table, Potter stood with two students. Katie Bell and her best friend. Their faces were pale, pinched. Potter looked visibly upset.

As if he could sense it, Potter's head turned back and their eyes locked across the room.

It was a split second. Maybe even less.

But it shattered Draco’s already fragile composure like glass.

Panic lanced through his chest — cold, sharp — before he even understood what was happening. His eyes flicked over to Granger who was watching him cautiously, face filled with concern.

He shoved himself up from the bench so fast he nearly knocked it over. Theo called after him, confused, but Draco didn’t hear it.

He was already moving.
Fast.
Faster.

His panic was building up to the point of crippling. He just barely heard the steps of footsteps following behind him. 

The ache in his chest turned devastating when he heard a distant and panicked, “Harry! This is nonsense, please listen to me!” Granger. Potter.

Fuck.

Down the corridor. Around the corner.

Anywhere but there in the swarm of his peers.

His breath rasped harsh in his ears as he stumbled into the first bathroom he could find, bracing his hands against the edge of the sink, staring at his own reflection in the cracked mirror.

A ghost stared back. Pale skin. Hollow eyes. Bloodless lips.

He didn’t recognize himself, maybe that was for the best. This isn’t the way life was supposed to be. Everything was supposed to come easy, why did everything have to be so gods damn complicated? 

His chest heaved as a fit of sobs escaped, riddled with guilt and anxieties, he was utterly and devastatingly broken. 

He reached out blindly and twisted the faucet on. Water gushed from the tap, ice cold, splattering against the cracked porcelain. Draco plunged his hands under it, scrubbing viciously at his skin as if he could wash the guilt away.

He splashed water onto his face, gasping at the shock of it.

Still trembling, he grabbed the collar of his uniform and yanked hard.The fabric clung to his damp skin, choking him, and he ripped it over his head with a ragged sound of frustration.

The bathroom door creaked.

Draco froze, chest still heaving, water dripping from his hair and face and torso.

Voices drifted in from the hall.

" Hermione, I know he did it! " Potter’s voice pierced the air sharp and frantic.

"I can’t go in there, it’s the boys’ lavatory, Harry! Stop!" Hermione’s panicked voice followed, thin with desperation.

Draco’s stomach dropped so violently he nearly collapsed. Of course it would be them. His mind was hazy and the panic was starting to become suffocating once again. 

The door slammed open.

Draco barely had time to turn before Potter stormed inside, wand drawn, fury etched into every line of his face.

"I know what you did, Malfoy." Potter spat. “You hexed her, didn't you?”

His breathing became audibly more ragged as he fully turned to face Harry, his chest heaving with exertion. 

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. 

Draco’s hand’s scrambled for his wand and he shot a stinging hex towards Harry before darting away from his eyesight. 

He didn’t want to hurt anyone, he wanted to scream. He didn’t mean for this to happen. 

Harry fired his wand off at him and Draco just barely dodged in time causing a destructive shatter to clatter throughout the room. The sink that he just stood in front of broke into shards of porcelain and water sprayed into the air. 

Spells exploded from Draco’s wand with frantic, graceless bursts — not aiming to win, only to escape.

“Harry James Potter, stop it right now!” He heard Granger shriek from the hallway as he rounded the corner of the bathroom stalls. 

Draco peered around the stalls and fired off another hex which narrowly missed Potter, crashing into a nearby mirror.

More glass shattered, more heavy breathing. 

Fuck. 

It got eerily quiet for a moment and he pressed himself up against the nearest wall, eyes flicking for any exit he could get to. 

What was that blasted noise? It sounded almost like bare skin slapping onto the ground. Draco’s eyes widened in realization and he dropped down, firing out a hex under the stalls with a quick flick of his wand and a grunt. 

He began moving quickly and quietly trying to make an escape as discreetly as possible. He kept his wand drawn and extended out in front of him 

Hurried and heavy footsteps rushed towards him in quick procession. 

Potter shouted something — something vicious — and a blinding flash of light erupted from the tip of his wand.

"Sectumsempra!"

It felt like time shattered.

Pain exploded across Draco's chest, sharp and hot and unbearable.

He stumbled backwards, a strangled cry tearing from his throat before he crumpled to the floor, blood spilling fast and thick, pooling beneath him.

“Harry? What was that?” A shrill voice barely registered in his mind.

The room went silent except for the sickening drip-drip-drip of his own blood hitting the tile.

Draco tried to breathe but couldn’t. His mouth opened and closed uselessly, his vision darkening at the edges. Through the roaring in his ears, he barely registered the sound of someone screaming.

The bathroom door slammed open again with a violent bang .

"Malfoy!" Granger’s voice, he thinks, was high, panicked, terror-stricken.

She skidded across the wet floor, nearly falling to her knees beside him.

He thought he saw her hands hovering over him, frantic, glowing faintly trying a plethora of healing spells, her hair wild, tears spilling down her cheeks.

Draco’s eyes felt heavy as his vision continued to darked, his chest heaved as he gave a weak, almost content smile. “Granger,” He breathed out shakily. He tried, he really tried, to keep his eyes open and focus on her. “ It’s okay– just let me go.” 

He blinked once more, slower before his eyes remained shut. The last thing he saw was thick chocolate curls as honey brown eyes stared down at him with devastation and panic written all over her face. 

His consciousness was fading in and out, a weak smile still on his face. A dribble of blood spilled from his mouth before his jaw went slack, no longer able to muster the strength to form a smile.

He felt a small–shaking hand cupping his cheek faintly, another healing spell he wasn’t sure which one was spoken out loud before he drifted into the abyss. 

He wasn’t sure how long he had been out. He wasn’t sure what anchored him back — the searing pain lingering, or the sound of someone sobbing.

Not just anyone.
Granger.

"Malfoy— stay with me—" she gasped, her voice cracking in a way he'd never heard before.
Her hands were shaking violently as she pressed them against the gashes across his chest, muttering healing spells he could barely recognize, voice breaking on every syllable.

The blood kept pouring.

"Stop it, stop please—" she whispered her voice frantic, clutching at him like she could physically hold him together. Her palms were slick with his blood, staining her sleeves, matting her hair to her cheeks.

Somewhere in the background, Potter was babbling  "I didn't mean to— Hermione, you need to help him—" Hermione's head snapped up, her face a mask of raw fury.

"Get a professor!" she screamed at him. "NOW!" For a moment, Hermione didn’t even recognize him — Harry, her best friend, looking like a terrified child. And all she could think was: you did this. You hurt him.

Potter stumbled back, terror-stricken, and bolted.

Hermione turned back to Draco, her hands trembling. “Godric-” She gasped out, as if struck with a lightning bolt of knowledge, “Vulnera Sanentur” She shakily dragged her wand along his chest and finally it seemed as if the healing was making headway. 

"You’re going to be fine," she told him fiercely, even though tears were still pouring down her face. "You’re going to be fine, do you hear me?"

Draco couldn’t answer. Couldn’t even lift his hand, they twitched restlessly at his sides. Wanting, needing to reach out to calm her.

He wanted to tell her again, tell her to let him go. He wasn’t worth a single one of those tears of hers. 

Hermione squeezed her eyes shut and whispered a Featherlight Charm , so choked with emotion it nearly fizzled out.

She clutched him under the arms, hauling his limp weight up with every scrap of strength she had.

“Stay awake, stay awake, please—” she begged, dragging him out into the hallway.

He was only half-conscious, every step jarring him into fresh bursts of pain. His wounds not fully healed left a trail of droplets behind them, spatters along the stone floors.

Hermione didn't care.

She didn't care that she was sobbing hysterically, that his blood was soaking through her robes, her skin, everything.

All she cared about was keeping him alive.

"Come on, come on..” She held him closer to her causing a weak groan to escape his bloodied lips. “just a little farther—" she reassured, her heart hammering so violently she thought it might burst.

The Hospital Wing doors crashed open under her shoulder.

Madam Pomfrey let out a shriek and immediately rushed over, summoning a stretcher and supplies with furious speed.

"Set him down quickly, Miss Granger— Merlin's sake, what happened—"

Hermione obeyed blindly, lowering Draco onto the nearest bed, her hands reluctant to let go even as Madam Pomfrey waved her away.

Blood was still trickling from somewhere unknown. The old matron cursed under her breath and started working fast, spell after spell flashing from her wand.

Hermione stood back numbly, arms wrapped around herself, shaking so hard her teeth chattered.

Draco’s head lolled sideways, the grey of his skin almost matching the sheets.
She couldn’t tell if he was awake.

So she moved without thinking.

She sat down on the edge of his bed, her blood-slick hand finding his.

His fingers twitched weakly.

Hermione bit down on a sob and leaned closer, clutching his hand tighter, bringing it to her heart.

"You're not allowed to leave me," she whispered, voice splintering like broken glass.
"You're the only one who understands. You're not allowed to die, do you hear me?"

Madam Pomfrey's spells crackled overhead a flurry of healing charms, blood-replenishing potions but Hermione barely registered them.

All she could do was cling to him.

All she could do was beg.

"Please stay."

"Please, Draco."

The world was a thick, syrupy fog.

Draco floated in it, dragged under again and again, anchored only by the faint, stubborn pressure of a hand wrapped around his. Somewhere beyond the haze, voices rose and fell — sharp, panicked. The steady beat of the heart monitor pulsed next to him. 

"I'm not leaving!"

Granger.

The sound of her voice cut through everything else. Draco tried to move, to open his eyes, but it felt like lifting stone. He felt the remnants of a weak cleansing charm washing over him, peeling back the grime of his dried blood.

"Miss Granger," Pomfrey's voice snapped, exasperated. "You need rest. He will survive now,  you can't sit here all night—"

"I said I'm not leaving!" Hermione’s voice cracked with exhaustion and something fiercer, something more raw than he'd ever heard from her. The cleansing resumed after a beat, the tip of a wind gently trailing along his tattered clothes and a small shaky hand cupping his cheek, thumb stroking his cheek almost reverently. 

“Students are going to be the death of me.” Pomfrey grumbled under her breath and her feet scuffled as she walked away.

A weak groan escaped him without warning, barely more than a breath. Hermione’s hand dropped from his face almost immediately.

“Malfoy?” she gasped, voice breaking around his name.

He forced his eyelids to flicker open, using all the energy he could muster.

The room was too bright, too sharp. Granger’s face swam into focus– pale, tear-streaked, her wild curls still matted with drying blood.

A shadow of moonlight was beginning to creep into the room. 

How long had he been here?

“You’re awake,” she whispered, as if she couldn't believe it. Her hand slowly, cautiously moved back to his own and gently intertwined their fingers together. He wanted to respond, wanted to hold her hand in return but his fingers only twitched slightly.

He tried to speak but could only manage a faint rasp of breath.

Stay , he wanted to say. For some stupid and selfish reason, Stay here .

The door slammed open.

Draco flinched instinctively, but Hermione didn’t even glance away from him. She kept one hand wrapped tightly around his now, the other smoothing back his damp hair from his forehead. His eyes fluttered shut and he leaned into the touch, or attempted to.

Safety.

You’re safe.

Heavy footsteps, hushed voices — then a sudden sharp intake of breath.

"What the hell is she doing here?" Pansy’s voice hissed across the ward like a whip.

Hermione finally turned, stiffening, but she didn’t let go of Draco’s hand.

Theo and Blaise stood behind Pansy, looking almost equally stunned. Theo, true to form, was the first to recover.

“Well, would you look at that,” Theo drawled, his voice a shade too casual to be genuine. “Gryffindor compassion extends even to slimy Slytherins. Isn’t that heartwarming?”

Blaise said nothing, his dark eyes sharp and calculating, flickering between Draco and Hermione.

“Parkinson, Zabini, Nott,” Hermione acknowledged quietly, her voice hoarse. “He—he needed help. I wasn’t going to let him die.”

Pansy scoffed, folding her arms tightly across her chest. “Of course not. That would tarnish your precious record of saving everyone, wouldn’t it?”

Hermione’s chin lifted, but before she could retort, Draco gave her hand the faintest squeeze.

It was enough.

She bit down whatever furious defense she had brewing and turned back to him, her other hand adjusting the blanket over his chest with careful precision.

Theo’s smirk faltered slightly, his brows rose as he tried to understand what was occurring in front of his eyes.

For a moment, no one spoke. 

The trio exchanged concerned yet intrigued looks. 

An audible gulp, another hand clasped around his free one. He felt this hand turning over his forearm as if searching for something and heard a relieved exhale. 

Ah. 

He would have to thank Theo for making sure he had some semblance of dignity once he could properly form a full sentence again. 

Theo blew out raspberries and dragged a hand through his unruly curls, “Mate, you look like shit.” He could just imagine the shit eating grin on his face and he tried to use any energy he could find to smile back but there was only a small quirk of his lips before it dropped again. 

“Immaculate shit.” Blaise quipped, his hand dropping on top of Theo’s as he walked closer. 

Pansy scoffed and undoubtedly rolled her eyes, Draco could assume. “You look fine, Draco. Rugged and handsome, as always.” 

Hermione stiffened again, clutching his hand even tighter. 

Interesting.

Then Madam Pomfrey stormed over, brandishing her wand like a weapon. "OUT. All of you. Mr. Malfoy needs rest!"

“But—” Hermione started.

"You may stay, Miss Granger, Merlin knows you’ll just ignore what I have to say anyways" Pomfrey said, grudgingly. "The rest of you — out! "

Pansy shot Hermione one last blistering glare before sweeping away in a flurry of robes. Theo and Blaise followed, Theo tossing one last look over his shoulder with something oddly like approval.

The world had dimmed into soft candlelight by the time the door creaked open again.

Hermione was half-dozing in the chair beside Draco’s bed, her head resting awkwardly against the mattress, her hand still linked loosely with his.

She startled awake as soft footsteps approached.

Pansy Parkinson stood there awkwardly, clutching something in her hands — a folded, clean Hogwarts robe.

"You look like hell, Granger," she said bluntly, tossing the robe onto Hermione’s lap. "Change before you pass out and add more problems to Pomfrey’s workload."

Hermione blinked at her, too exhausted to summon a proper retort.

Pansy hesitated, her mouth tight, before she finally muttered — so low it was almost inaudible, "Thank you. For saving him."

Hermione stared at her.

Pansy’s cheeks flushed with either anger or humiliation or maybe both.

Before Hermione could answer, Pansy barreled on, her voice clipped and precise, her words landing like careful darts.

"Potter told me what happened. Barely." She sniffed, smoothing invisible wrinkles from her skirt. "I've already informed the ‘Chosen One’ that he’ll need a new partner for the Potions project."

Hermione blinked again.

Pansy gave her a look that could have cracked glass. "Don’t expect a bloody medal. Or friendship."

Then, softer, almost begrudgingly:

"But...regardless if the prat himself will admit it, I am sure he is glad you’re the one here."

Without waiting for a reply, she spun on her heel and left, the door clicking quietly shut behind her.

Damn you, Parkinson . If he had his wits about him he would hex her into oblivion for that one. 

Sure, it was nice having someone by his side. It didn’t necessarily have to be Granger, any form of company would be nice. Although she did offer a quiet sense of companionship that was comfortable. Not pushy, shockingly, just a devastating sense of safety he couldn’t allow himself to get too comfortable with. 

Hermione sat frozen for a moment, eyebrows scrunched in confusion as she brushed the clean robe in her lap with her free hand, heart hammering painfully. 

He tried to clutch her hand but it just twitched in response.

Slowly, carefully, she turned back to Draco. His eyes were half-lidded again, the barest trace of a smirk curling at the edge of his mouth.

"Don't laugh," she scolded, stifling a bubble of laughter of her own, brushing a hand lightly along the side of his face. "You're not allowed to laugh. You’re still supposed to be healing."

His fingers twitched weakly against hers. 

There was that insufferable swot he knew, the one and only Hermione Granger. 

He watched her smile falter and she stiffened in her spot, “I’ll be right back, Malfoy. I probably look dreadful.” 

Draco’s eyebrows twitched, confusion taking root in his expression. The change of her mood was confusing and it let a devastating bout of dread sink into him. A muscle twitched in his jaw and he let his eyes fall completely shut.

Hermione took that as her dismissal and the cold air was biting in the absence of her warmth. 

Draco was unsure yet again, how long he had been unconscious. An embodiment of warmth was alongside him and his eyes slowly opened. 

He let his gaze scan the room. The candles guttered low. Hermione had finally changed into the fresh robe, pulling her chair even closer to Draco’s bedside. She was still holding his hand.

The Hospital Wing had fallen into a heavy, almost sacred silence, broken only by the soft rustle of fabric as Draco shifted slightly.

Hermione jolted upright at the movement, heart hammering so loud Draco could almost hear it.
"Malfoy?" she whispered.

He blinked up at her  slow, heavy — and tried to clear his throat. It came out as a rough, painful rasp that scraped against raw lungs.

Granger leaned in closer, hesitating, her hand hovering like she might reach for him but thinking better of it. Her face was blurry around the edges, her mouth pinched tight like she was trying not to fall apart.

He hated it.
Hated that look.

Hated being the reason for it.

He gathered what little strength he had left and rasped out, "Don't—"

His voice broke mid-word. Granger froze, her hand still suspended awkwardly near his cheek.

"Don't cry," he whispered, the syllables barely shaped.

For a second, she just stared at him, her expression crumpling in a way that made something twist painfully in his chest.

She wiped at her cheeks in a jerky, half-angry movement, muttering something under her breath that might have been "I'm not crying," even though she obviously was.

Draco let his head relax back against the pillow. His body felt like it had been wrung out and hung up to dry, but there was a sliver of lightness there now too — something easing in his chest.

Maybe it was the fever. Maybe it was Granger stubbornly refusing to leave his side.

He didn’t have the strength to figure it out.

Her hand found his again, careful but steady. He let his fingers twitch against hers in answer — the only thing he could offer — and again, Granger didn’t push or fuss or launch into a lecture. Just remained silent outside of the relieved exhale of breath she expelled. 

She sat there, her head bowed low, their hands tangled together in the flickering candlelight.

His eyes fluttered closed for a long moment, and when he opened them again, there was something raw and unguarded there — something that shattered any pretense of composure he thought he had.

"Why—" he started, voice cracking. He swallowed painfully. "Why’re you...here?"

Hermione’s head lifted again slowly, her face pinched in sadness. "Because you deserve someone to stay," she said, simple and honest, even if her voice trembled around the truth of it.

"You don’t..." He shifted again, a grimace tightening his features. "You don’t know what I’ve done."

"I know enough," she said fiercely, leaning closer. "I know you didn’t deserve to go through what you did. And I know you didn’t deserve to go through it alone. "

Something in Draco’s face crumpled — a fleeting, heart-wrenching crack in the armor he had spent years building.

Hermione squeezed his hand and his heart ached.

"Even if you played a part in what happened to Katie, I don’t believe it was intentional. You are not a bad person, Malfoy." she whispered. “You don't deserve to be alone.”

His breathing hitched — not quite a sob, not quite a gasp — and Granger’s eyes searched for some sort of answer he wasn’t sure he could give. His face remained carefully blank, not trying to jump to any sort of conclusions or any semblance of hope that threatened to bud at her words. 

It was a dangerous balance of allowing someone to truly see him. Allowing someone to peel back his carefully crafted layers of protection, but he found that at this moment he didn’t want to be alone. 

They had been teetering the edge of something– something bigger than all of this. Something with the capability to destroy him and if he had any more strength left to guard himself he would push her away. 

Yet he didn’t. 

Draco watched her in return, curiously. He wanted to make a comment about her big brain working overtime as he took into account the lines on her face etched in contemplation but he remained silent. 

His fingers twitched against hers again and that must have been a good enough answer for whatever complex problem she was trying to solve in her mind. 

The scraping noise of the metal chair she was seated in, made his eyes flicker down and observe her moving closer. His eyes widened fractionally, “Granger?” He croaked out and tried to clear his throat. 

Hermione paused and looked to the table to the side of them, she grabbed an empty cup and muttered an Aguamenti before gently holding the cup to his lips. “Drink.” She instructed, her voice leaving no room for debate. 

Draco arched a brow but leaned into the movement. She tipped the cup just slightly enough for him to drink. He didn’t drop eye contact with her. 

Once the contents of the cup were empty, she shifted back into her seat. He felt the remnants of water on his upper lip, and he dragged his tongue slowly across them. 

Her breath hitched and she sharply turned to place the cup on the side table before she looked back to him. Noticing her cheeks had flushed, a small quirk of his lip followed almost a resemblance of his typical smirk. 

“Stop it.” Hermione scolded, but there was a slight uptick to the corners of her mouth that made him not irritated at the child-like scolding. 

She yawned and stretched her arms above her head, her shirt slipped from her skirt just barely showing her skin and Draco swallowed thickly. 

She let her arms drop back down, “Sorry. This chair is not comfortable for sleeping.” She grumbled. 

A seed of guilt gnawed at him, “You don’t have to stay here.” He rasped, clenching his jaw. 

An agitating voice in his mind argued with him, Don’t go. Stay. He grimaced at his internal dialogue, ignoring that he had once again felt utterly pathetic. 

Granger scowled at him, “I already said I'm not leaving.” She sniffed. 

Draco, unfortunately, found that he was grateful that she was so stubborn but it didn’t mean he couldn't tease her for it, right? 

Ah, he could play his favorite game. Getting Granger riled up for no reason. 

Draco smiled weakly, looking at her with a half-lidded gaze. “Such a stubborn witch,” He tutted. Her eyes sparkled with amusement and his fingers twitched slightly, ignoring the absence of the warmth of her hand in his. 

“Perhaps you could use your brilliant brain to transfigure your chair into a cot, unless you rather just jump into this tragic excuse of a hospital bed with me.” 

That would certainly do the trick, he was fully prepared for the full Granger meltdown in 3..2..-

Hermione scoffed, “You couldn’t handle a witch like me in your bed.” 

His eyes widened, that was not what he was expecting to come out of her mouth. He needed to regain his composure and not look like an utter fool. 

Play it cool. It’s Granger for Salazar Sake. 

“If you’re scared Granger, you could’ve just said that.” He said with an amused lilt to his voice, he dipped his head only slightly while raising his brows. Your turn witch.

Hermione’s smile turned downright devious and he swallowed nervously in response. “I’ve told you..” She stood up from her chair, hovering closer. “You don’t scare me.”

He had almost forgotten that his vitals were being magically tracked with a diagnostic charm next to his bed, and the blasted charm showed his heartbeat quickening slightly. He felt a slight warmth creep onto his face.

It was his anxiety, not because of Granger. That would be absurd, thank you very much. 

He fought the urge to send a Finite towards the charm as it continued to increase in speed as her proximity drew closer. 

“Seems like you’re the one scared, Malfoy,”

“It’s obviously inaccurate, Granger.” He rolled his eyes and attempted to wave in dismissal but his hand barely lifted. 

She huffed out a breath of laughter and shook her head, “Insufferable.”

“Me?” Draco sputtered out, letting out an incredulous laugh. A sharp pain shot through him and he released a throaty groan. 

Her eyes widened, almost panicked. “No laughing!” 

He rolled his eyes, “Apologies professor.” He wheezed and leaned his head back against his pillow. 

Hermione shook her head, a soft, disbelieving smile tugging at her mouth. "You’re ridiculous," she said, voice dropping low, almost fond. Then, even quieter, almost like she couldn’t stop herself, she added, "You don’t have to be afraid with me."

Draco blinked up at her, stunned. The words knocked something loose in his chest; something he didn’t have the strength to catch.

He watched, helpless, as Hermione muttered a quiet spell, her wand flicking toward the narrow bed.The mattress expanded with a soft groan of protest, making enough room for two if they didn’t mind being... very close.

He opened his mouth whether to protest, to tease, or to beg her to stay, he wasn't sure — but the words stuck.

Hermione didn’t wait for permission. She set her wand down, drew back the covers, and carefully climbed into the space beside him.

She hesitated just a breath, searching his face for any sign he didn’t want this.

Draco couldn’t have pushed her away if he tried.

She gently pulled the covers up over them, tucking it around their shoulders against the slight chill of the Hospital Wing.

Draco lay still, too exhausted to do anything but absorb the feeling of her solid and stubborn pressing lightly into his side.

The diagnostic beside them chimed again, quicker for a moment then slow and steady, betraying him with every thump.

Hermione shifted closer, almost shy about it, until her forehead rested lightly against his upper arm. It was the smallest touch, but it undid him completely.

He felt his throat close up, blinking hard against the burn in his eyes.

"You’re not getting rid of me that easily, Malfoy," she mumbled, voice thick with exhaustion and something far more dangerous: belonging .

Draco huffed a breath not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh and let his eyes fall closed.

A tired, weak jumble of words escaped him, “Wouldn’t dream of it, Granger.” Dangerous words.

His hand, still clumsy and aching, found hers blindly beneath the covers.

Their fingers brushed— tentative, searching and when Hermione's hand curled firmly around his, Draco let himself believe, just for tonight, that maybe he didn’t have to be alone.

For once, he didn’t overthink it.

Didn’t brace for the worst.

Didn’t push her away.

He just held on.

And finally… finally…he slept.

Chapter Text

Soft light bled through his closed eyelids.

Draco groaned quietly, the ache of the now repaired damage to his skin still throbbed. His eyes blinked open slowly, his vision coming into focus in pieces.

Granger was still there. 

He was relieved although he knew he shouldn't have been. 

He could feel the delicate weight of her head near his shoulder. Her hand, lax but still curled around his under the covers. 

A small, traitorous part of him almost smiled.

This is dangerous. 

He flexed his free hand and was grateful to note he had gained some of his strength back. Perhaps it was the fact that he had slept the best he ever had in months no– years.

Draco took a chance and stroked his thumb lightly against the back of her hand, the ache in his chest beginning to sharpen. Not from pain, but from something deeper. The devastating thought that this was only temporary. 

Focusing on calming his breathing, a familiar routine he was used to, he allowed himself to close his eyes again, and for once live in the moment. Embracing the comfort of safety and silent companionship that she had to offer. 

Soft footsteps echoed through the hospital wing.

Draco shifted, half-conscious.
Probably Pomfrey making rounds.

But then a hissed voice, sharp and anxious "Are you sure about this? "

Another voice, more hesitant: "He deserves to know I’m sorry. Just..quietly."

Draco’s brow furrowed without opening his eyes.

That wasn’t Pomfrey.
That wasn’t anyone Slytherin either.

It prickled wrong under his skin.

"Maybe he’s still unconscious," someone muttered.

He forced his breathing to stay even, feigning sleep.

A rustle, the faint shuffle of shoes, whoever it was clearly had a problem with dragging their feet. 

Imbeciles.

"What the bloody hell—" a sharp gasp, and it all clicked.

The Scarhead who gave scars and the Weasel.

Draco resisted the urge to smirk. 

Caught you off guard, did we?

There was a thump, the sound of someone stumbling into a bed frame.

"Is that— Hermione? " came Potter’s stunned whisper.

Brilliant.
Truly brilliant.

Draco could practically taste their confusion. He couldn’t have made this even more perfect if he tried.

He felt Hermione shift minutely beside him, and felt the tremor that ran through her. He squeezed her hand lightly and he received a soft squeeze in return.

A beat of stunned silence passed.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Ron demanded, voice rising.

Draco felt Hermione stiffen further, but she didn’t let go of his hand.

"I could ask you the same," she said coolly, her voice low and tight. She shifted just slightly in bed, but still remained close.

Harry, to his credit, seemed too shell-shocked to add anything.

But The Weasel, predictable as always, kept going.

"After everything he’s done? You know what kind of person he is, Hermione." Ron’s voice came out venomous and it made Hermione’s breath hitch. 

Draco brushed his thumb over her knuckles, desperate for her to feel his apology, but she stayed rigid. His stomach twisted like a noose tightening.

He kept his eyes shut. Tried to breathe.

For once, Weasley wasn’t incorrect and that burned . 

He didn’t deserve her defense. He didn't deserve her hand in his. He didn’t deserve her comfort.

But when Ron’s next words hit the air, something inside Draco snapped anyway.

"Figures. Always had a thing for lost causes, didn't you, Hermione?"

Draco’s voice rasped out before he could stop it, low and broken but razor sharp,"Say one more word, Weasley, and I'll hex your mouth shut."

The silence after that was sharp enough to cut skin.

Draco forced his eyes open, vision swimming. He blinked slowly before lifting his head slightly. Ron looked gobsmacked. Harry looked like he wanted to die.

He turned his head and saw Hermione’s face tilted towards his— flushed, furious, and absolutely beautiful.

The traitorous diagnostic charm next to him accelerated only a fraction and he clenched his jaw. 

Slowly, Draco tightened his fingers around Hermione’s under the blankets, anchoring himself to her.

"Don’t talk to her like that," Draco croaked, meeting Ron’s stunned glare with everything he had left. “She made sure I wasn’t left to bleed out unlike someone else in this room.”

“Malfoy I–” Harry started but was cut off rather quickly.

“The world would’ve been better off if you would have died.” Ron spat at him and looked at Hermione with a look of disgust. 

Draco looked back towards Hermione and saw the slightest tremble of her bottom lip and he could almost feel his heart clench in response. She looked almost as broken and defeated as she had that day in the library and she hadn’t done anything wrong.

That wouldn’t do. 

He ignored the– unfortunately accurate again— words from Weasley and mustered his last strain of energy, “Hate me all you’d like, Weasel. Granger is far better than you could ever deserve or even handle. Quit while you’re ahead.” 

Ron’s face turned a harsh red and he lunged forward, anger coming off of him in waves. 

In an instant, Hermione had shielded him from the imbecile and Potter was tugging Ron back trying to coax him back with pleading words. 

“Get out Ronald!” Hermione barked out. Her face no longer was filled with devastation but pure rage. He swore her hair almost sparked with the strength of her anger and he heard the charm monitoring him uptick in pace only slightly. 

“You’re a fool, Hermione. A fool.” Ron sneered, chest heaving in exertion. He spat at the floor in front of Draco’s bed and stormed off in a furious rage. 

Harry looked at the two of them with what could only be described as embarrassment. Unsure if it was because he had failed at his murder attempt or if the actions of his dunderhead friend were the cause, he looked defeated. 

“I’m sorry,” He breathed out before turning on his heel and following in the footsteps of his sidekick. 

Silence enveloped them again and he turned his head to look at Hermione. Her cheeks were flushed and she blinked, too stunned to speak. She looked down and grimaced, shifting away from him only slightly just to settle once again in the crook of his arm. 

Draco swallowed thickly, letting his head flatten back against his pillow and he clenched his eyes shut. “You shouldn’t have to deal with that. Not for...” His hand released hers, shakily dragging it through his hair. “Not for being around me. You should go.” 

He refused to open his eyes, refused to watch her walk away, refused to acknowledge that it would hurt more than he cared to admit but she remained at his side. “I’m not going, Malfoy.” 

Such a stubborn witch. 

She shouldn’t lose her friends over trying to be his protector. He knew that it was too good to last and that he shouldn’t have expected the comfort or serenity she brought to last any longer than a figment of his imagination. 

“You know what I am,” He said, he slowly opened his eyes and kept his face carefully neutral, turning his head to look at her.  “You covered my mark.” 

Her face flushed, “I don’t care. I know you didn’t want that. You’re not like them.”

His chest ached and his expression faltered. He didn’t deserve her understanding, didn’t deserve her support. 

Pathetic.

“Don’t let yourself be taken down into my darkness with me,” he searched her eyes for understanding, but she remained stubborn and rooted to her spot. “Granger, I want you to leave.”

Hermione’s jaw clenched, “Well– That’s just absurd, Malfoy.” She narrowed her eyes at him and huffed out an exasperated breath. 

"Don’t do this, Granger," he rasped, exhaustion dragging him under like a riptide. 

He needed to occlude, needed to shield himself from the aching devastation sinking into him. He was aware she deserved better than he was able to give. Friendship or whatever else. 

Draco closed his eyes, head laying back flat onto his pillow.

“Open your eyes and look at me,” She was begging, voice thick with emotion but he still refused. “Look at me!” 

He wasn’t going to let her ruin her friendships over him. 

Draco was still a firm believer that she could do a lot better than Scarhead and the Weasel, he knew he wasn’t going to be around much longer. 

Even if a small part of him wanted to be, he knew he didn’t have that choice. 

Pulling open the heavy doors of his library he trudged weakly through the aisles. His bones felt heavy and his breathing came out labored. 

“Malfoy!” She barked, fumbling to grab his hand once more under the covers. 

He walked slightly quicker to his own ‘Restricted Section’ and scrambled to grab onto his thin book etched for happiness. His fingers clasped firmly around the edges before he moved down the aisle again and up the spiral staircase. 

Each step felt heavy, but he knew he had to keep pushing. 

It would be better for everyone this way. Not just better for him, but better for her. 

He placed the book down on the shelf alongside the honey colored book, gold flecks seemed to mock him and his desperation as they shined brighter than always. 

“Please, open your eyes.” Hermione’s voice came out weak, fractured. He knew that this was what would be the outcome if he continued to stay in her life in a way that was more than academic. He would end up hurting her and that’s what he wanted to avoid. 

He never wanted to care for her but he did. Gods, he did. 

He let his emotions and desperation spill over into the blank pages of the book, his fingers trembling as they ran along the thick pieces of paper. 

With a trembling breath, he shoves the books haphazardly back onto the shelf— knowing that he shouldn’t touch them again. 

Draco’s eyes blinked open slowly and he turned to look at her. His face sagged with exhaustion, his grey eyes dulled to the color of ash.

Her breath caught as she looked back and forth between his eyes. 

For once, he didn’t feel the sharp slice of desperation cut through him as it usually would when the people he cared about looked at him helpless—hopeless. 

“Weasley was right, about something for once, Granger” He laughed bitterly, he tilted his head basking in the way his thoughts stayed in the depths of his mind. “I’m a lost cause, and I am not going to drag you down with me.” 

Hermione opened her mouth to argue, and he lifted his hand up to stop her rambling. “Spare me the pointless lecture. This—“ he gestured loosely between the two of them. “—was a friendship doomed from the start. I'm not good for you.” 

Her eyes welled with tears and she blinked them away, “Stop it.” She spoke weakly but he pummeled on. 

“Thank you for your Gryffindor bravery and saving yet another lost cause, but I am not yours to save.” She flinched back as if he had hit her but he knew that he had to continue pushing. Had to break her now so he couldn’t destroy her later. “I will continue to do my portion of the assignment but I don’t find it necessary to meet outside of that.” 

A few stubborn tears slipped down her face and she wiped them off furiously. 

He sighed and shook his head slowly. He wrapped a loose curl of hers around his finger and let it spring back to its spot. 

Draco gave her a thin, almost mechanical smile, one that didn’t touch the flatness in his eyes.“But if there’s one thing I could ask of you, Granger?”

Hermione’s brow furrowed, confusion flickering across her tear-streaked face. She opened her mouth, but no words came.

Draco forced his hand to move, the one still trembling faintly from exhaustion, still adorned with the heavy onyx ring his mother had given him. He slipped it off with a slow, deliberate twist, as if it pained him to let it go.

He hesitated. Just for a second.

But then he held it out toward her, palm up between them.

His voice was quieter when he spoke, but the edge to it was sharp enough to leave no room for argument.

“I need you to wear this.”

Hermione stared at the ring, brow creasing further. “What..?”

“It’s enchanted,” he interrupted, tone detached, factual. “Protection magic. Tied to…” He glanced down briefly at the thin chain around his own neck where the necklace sat hidden beneath his hospital gown, then back at her, grey eyes remaining carefully blank. “As long as someone with Black blood wears the companion piece, the person wearing this—” he shifted the ring in his hand— “will be protected to the best of magical ability.”

Hermione opened her mouth again, maybe to protest, but he cut her off with a slight, nearly imperceptible shake of his head.

Draco hesitated, the ring resting against his palm like it weighed a thousand stones. His hand shook once before he forced it toward her, almost mechanical.

His voice was tight, clipped. “No one can know. Not Potter. Not Weasley. No one.”

Hermione didn’t move to take it.

She searched his face, her own crumpling with something between outrage and heartbreak. “Why would you give me something like this,” she whispered, “if you’re planning to push me away?”

For a small second, Draco’s facade slipped.

His fingers curled around the ring again, knuckles whitening.

He opened his mouth, something raw and real straining at the edges of his occlusion. Something undoubtedly devastating.

“Because if something happened to you—” The words cracked off mid-sentence. He dragged in a sharp breath, jaw locking, and when he spoke again, his voice was hollow. “—just wear it, Granger.”

Without giving her the chance to argue, he pressed the ring into her hand, not gentle but not cruel either and pulled back like her touch burned him.

The weight of the unspoken words, because I care about you more than I should , hung between them, thick and suffocating.

Hermione curled her fingers around the ring, laying it flat on the palm of her hand. She opened her mouth, his name trembling on the edge of her lips but she stopped herself. 

The exhaustion began to wear him thin and he knew soon enough he wouldn’t be able to maintain the integrity of his Occlumency. “Please.” He whispered, quiet and defeated.

They met each other’s gaze, searching desperately for something he wasn’t sure he could handle. She dipped her chin once in acknowledgement before shakily placing it on her ring finger. 

Something violent twisted in his stomach and he felt his walls falter. As he watched it magically shape to the size of her finger, his own eyes welling up slightly.

Pathetic. 

“Go, Granger.”

Hermione balled her hands into tight fists and he closed his eyes, willing the dangerous thoughts that crept into his mind at the sight of family jewelry on her to sink into the depths of his mind. 

She sniffled once, the bed shifting as she moved from her spot next to him. She pulled the covers up around him. It was a poor substitute for her warmth. Her footsteps receded, each one carving silence deeper into the room.

The click of the door shutting to the Hospital Wing drowned him in what felt like the finality of the situation and he allowed his walls to crumble down. His bottom lip trembled and he wanted to curse the thing off of his face.

Draco had never hated himself more than he had in this very moment. 

Leave it to Granger of all people to make him feel something outside of hopeless desperation in this cruel world and damn himself for letting himself get too comfortable. 

He slumped fully back into the bed and curled onto his side, tugging the blanket up to his shoulders. His senses were flooded with the scent that screamed Granger and a lump balled in his throat, too hard to swallow. 

Eucalyptus, Mint, and.. Lavender? 

His hands weakly clung to the fabric and he let out a long breath of air. 

I’m sorry, Granger. I’m so fucking sorry. 

He was released from the Hospital Wing hours later and the cruel, unyielding, liveliness of the castle crashed over him. 

Draco forced himself to hold his head high, hoping he didn’t look as broken as he felt, and made his way back to the Slytherin dungeons. 

As he crossed the threshold into the Slytherin common room, he flinched at the level of noise. He tried to close in on himself, arms folded to his chest. His thumb brushed against the outline of the Black Family necklace underneath his shirt.

“Drake!” Theo exclaimed, scrambling from his seat and rushing towards him. The noise level depleted significantly and curious eyes turned towards him from all around the room. 

Draco sighed heavily, his hands dropping to his side. Cautious and careful arms wrapped around him and he melted into the touch. “Not going to break, Theodore.” He drawled, feeling slightly amused despite the circumstances. 

Theo squeezed him tightly and he let out a weak laugh, “Okay, okay. I just want to sleep, I’m fine, seriously.” Theo pulled back slightly and looked him over before nodding in acceptance.

Theo cupped his cheeks with a clap and placed a wet kiss on his forehead, “Don’t ever get hurt again you beautiful bastard.” 

He scowled and nudged him off, “Enough.” He huffed in exasperation, smiling at the absurdity of his friend before weakly squeezing Theo’s shoulder in reassurance. “Really, I’m fine.” He added, brushing past him and jutted his chin upright.

He strolled leisurely through the common room, ignoring the looks he received and proceeded to his room. 

The door clicked shut behind him, and the silence roared.

For a long moment, he didn’t move. He stood there, one hand still gripping the doorknob, his other hand clutching at his chest. The chain of the Black Family necklace was cool against his fingertips, the weight of it heavy beneath his shirt.

He closed his eyes.
Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.

He pushed off the door and stumbled to the bed. Collapsed face-first into the mattress and didn't get up.

It didn’t take long for time to start slipping.

The castle moved on around him, uncaring.
The noise of the common room dimmed into a far-off murmur.
The firelight behind his eyelids flickered and died.

Hours, days, weeks blurred together into something shapeless and cruel. Time became just another weight pressing down on him, another thing he couldn't control.

He buried himself in Occlumency. Never allowing himself to feel his emotion longer than a small fraction of time before he closed himself off from feeling anything more than the weight of the chain hung from his neck. 

His lessons in Occlumency became a nightly occurrence. Almost as if Snape knew more than he was sharing. Like he just knew his time was running out.

Snape tore into his defenses night after night, battering him raw with Legilimency until he was bleeding memories he hadn’t meant to show.

And Draco rebuilt the walls deeper, more complex, a further developed labyrinth. He shoved everything behind them.

Every small moment of emotion he experienced leading up to his run in with Potter and the scarce hours following, he made sure to bleed those memories dry into the depths of the book buried in his mind.

The cutting and mind shattering pain he felt as the curse hit his skin.

The way Theo had clung to him like he was something breakable when he returned.

The memory of the Hospital Wing.

The feeling of safety that was fleeting–temporary– leaving him feeling more alone than ever.

The last time he'd seen her.

He couldn’t afford to think about her. Not when he could still feel the press of her fingers against his skin if he let himself remember. Not when he could still hear her voice, soft and angry and so alive, pleading for him to not do this.

He had to stay away. It was the only choice he had left that still felt remotely his.

So he stayed hidden

Brewing quietly in what used to be their shared version of the Room of Requirement, leaving brittle, rushed notes before vanishing into the shadows. He didn't wait to see if she ever found them.

Didn't dare.

The Wednesday ‘House Unity’ sessions came and went. He refused to make an appearance. He couldn’t handle seeing her. 

He ignored the parchment notes that floated to him on charmed spells, the way her writing shifted from stiff to pleading to furious. Each one was immediately folded and tucked into the back of a drawer like tiny, buried corpses.

He continued to skip his classes.
Skipped meals.
Skipped living.

Pansy and Blaise stopped trying to be there for him. Stopped expecting answers when they asked ‘What’s wrong’. 

Not Theo.

When Theo found him, he would let himself pretend. Pretend he wasn’t cold all the way through.
Pretend he didn’t feel like he was rotting from the inside out.

Theo would drop onto his bed, ramble nonsense until Draco could almost forget himself for a few minutes. Sometimes he'd let Theo talk until they both drifted into a thin, restless sleep.
It was the only time he wasn't completely alone.

But even that never lasted.

He always woke first. Always woke up gasping like he was drowning.

Slipping from beneath Theo’s weight like a thief in the night, running back to the broken Cabinet that swallowed up his hours.

The Vanishing Cabinet became his whole world. 

Cracked, splintered, stubborn. 

It was fitting almost, he could describe himself the same way. 

It mocked him every time he tried to force the magic into obedience. 

The summons from the Dark Lord started to increase in frequency. Expectant and already disappointed stares were a common reoccurrence. 

Another failed attempt to fix the cabinet meant another moment under the agony of the Cruciatus curse. 

Draco had lost count of the amount of times he had been put under the curse. Lost count of the amount of times he had passed out from the pain and woke up with dried blood under his nose. 

He had consumed an innumerable amount of the deep amber colored nutrition potions left by Snape when he found himself tucked back into his bed at Hogwarts.

The worst part was his mother.

She ignored when his father scolded her into an attempt of silence and began voicing her protests, vocally objecting to the repeated use of the curse. 

Each time he returned to the Manor, responding to a summons, his mother looked weaker and more beaten down than the last visit. 

The visions haunted him and his desperation was seeping into his every waking moment. 

He slept in fits and starts, head pressed against the cold stone walls of the Room of Requirement, or not at all. Every dream was a nightmare. Every waking moment was worse.

His hands had adapted to a constant tremble. He developed a haunted appearance and hid in the shadows off his mind. He refused to look at himself in the mirror because the sight of himself scared him.

When it got bad, really bad, he would pull the necklace from under his shirt and clutch it tight in his fist until the links bit into his skin. The Black Family crest pressed cruelly into his palm.
A reminder of who the better half of him was.
A reminder of what he was trying to protect.

Sometimes in the darkest hours of the night, when sleep continued to evade him, he swore he could smell what she smelled like that day when she was laying next to him.
It was almost as if it was the faintest breath of eucalyptus and mint and something achingly warm.

But he shoved it away. Shoved her away.

It was better this way. It had to be. The less he thought of her, the safer she'd be.

Every step he continued to take away from her felt like dragging knives through his own ribs.
But he never turned back. He couldn’t.

No one could save him from what was coming. 

Not Snape.

Not Theo.

Not Granger.

Not even himself. That was a lost cause from the beginning. 

He buried himself alive. Built a coffin out of guilt, fear, and duty and laid himself down inside it, stone-faced and silent.

Waiting for the end, not knowing when it would come, but knowing it was near.

He wondered sometimes if anyone would even notice when he disappeared. Wondered if she would.

Then he crushed the thought before it could bloom.

Hope was the cruelest poison of all.

And he had already swallowed enough of it to choke himself silent.

The summons came at dusk.

A flash of pain ignited beneath his skin. It was sharp, searing, and far too familiar. He didn’t even wince, didn’t hiss from the pain. He simply sealed his mind off and let his breathing ground him.

He shifted away from Theo and slipped out of bed, his numb facade carefully put into place. Draco had been in a half slumber phase laying next to Theo in the darkness of his single dorm. 

Over time, as Draco caved into himself more and more, Theo stood strong by his side. Unwavering and relentless. Most days he didn’t leave his room outside of his late nights working on the Vanishing Cabinet but he could always rely on the fact that when it reached the darkest hours of the nights, Theo would come to his door and let himself in.

Some nights they would talk, some days he was even able to give a few dry laughs and weak smiles, but more often than not, they would spend the evening just in each other's presence. 

Silence was a comforting blanket and not something he typically associated with Theo’s presence but it seemed that he had known that there were no pieces left to pick up from Draco’s excuse for an existence and let time pass by in silence.

Every time a summons came he was forced to remove his family necklace and he had to fight tooth and wand to suppress the anxieties that threatened to consume him. Anxieties that something would happen to her within the hours of not wearing his companion piece.

With a quick glance back at his bed and his best friend, he disappeared into the depths of the night. 

He was gone before Theo even woke up.

When Draco arrived at Malfoy Manor, the air was already heavy with expectation. The drawing room reeked of smoke and dark magic. Death Eaters stood like statues, their masked faces trained forward, silent and waiting.

And at the head of it all there he stood.

The Dark Lord’s voice was colder than the grave.

"You will let them in, in two days.."

Not a question. Not a suggestion. A command.

Draco didn’t breathe. The world swayed beneath his feet, but he held steady.

"You've had enough time. I’ve grown tired of waiting."

Something inside Draco cracked. He wanted to scream that the Cabinet wasn’t ready, that it splintered when it should sing, that it consumed more than it produced—but he bit his tongue. Bit it until the copper tang of blood grounded him again.

He nodded. Shallow. Almost imperceptible.

"Yes, my Lord."

Sinister smiles and maniacal cackling sounded through the room, but his Occlusion remained steadfast. Nothing would tear his walls down.

The meeting ended in record time, and Draco stumbled out of the room like a man being led to his own execution.

He didn’t sleep any further that night.

In his absence, Theo had retreated back to his own room– probably assuming he would not be returning this evening.

Draco paced.

Back and forth.

Back and forth.

Eyes red-rimmed and raw. He stared at the necklace on his desk, hands trembling over the letter he'd rewritten ten times. Folded carefully, sealed with a charm that would dissolve the moment the clock struck midnight tomorrow.

His hands were shaking as he tucked it away.

He had hours left. Maybe less.

He didn’t know how to say goodbye.

When morning came, he moved like a ghost.

He found Blaise first. The boy raised a brow at the sudden reappearance of his friend, but didn’t press when Draco pulled him into a one-armed hug and muttered something about watching his back.

Then Pansy, always sharp-eyed and stubborn. She narrowed her gaze, suspicious.

"What are you on about?"

Draco just hugged her. Pressed his cheek to the top of her head and didn’t answer. She huffed, rolled her eyes, muttered something about being melodramatic—but her voice wavered when he stepped back and didn’t meet her eyes.

It was Theo that undid him.

Theo, who found him in the alcove by the Astronomy corridor, where they’d hidden during first year when they’d broken curfew, who said nothing when Draco turned and said, “I’m sorry,” like it meant something more.

Theo pulled him into a hug so tight Draco couldn’t breathe for a second.

"You’re scaring me, mate."

"I know."

"You can tell me what this is. You can—"

"No," Draco cut in, voice strangled. "Not this time."

They didn’t speak again. But Draco gripped the back of Theo’s neck and pressed their foreheads together for just a moment before letting an exhausted breath out and walking away.

Draco found her in the corridor near the library. Of course she was there, always searching, always sharp-eyed and alert.

“Granger.”

She turned, startled, and her brows knit together. “You’re actually showing your face?”

“Not now,” he said quietly. “Just—come with me.”

She looked like she was going to argue, but something in his tone made her pause. He tugged her into a shadowed alcove, one shielded from view by heavy stone and a sliver of spellwork he cast half-heartedly, hands shaking.

He held out the letter.

Her eyes dropped to it, then flicked up, suspicious.

“Don’t try to open it, it wont work,” A muscle ticked in his jaw and his walls threatened to crumble.  “Not until tomorrow. I mean it, Granger.”

“Draco, what—”

“I said don’t.” His voice broke, and he cursed under his breath.

She stared at him, face shifting between confusion and something much more fragile.

He looked at her like it would be the last time. Memorized the lines of her face like a lifeline.

The curly haired witch who used to make him want to tug his hair out in frustration, was standing in front of him devastatingly beautiful. 

The painstaken realization shattered his walls into ruins.

If only he hadn’t wasted so much time– 

No. 

He couldn’t let himself think that way. 

Then, without warning, he pulled her into a hug. Full-bodied. Desperate. One hand curled tight into her hair, the other fisted in the back of her jumper like he was holding onto the edge of a cliff.

She froze. And then, slowly, melted into him. Arms creeping around his waist. Breath catching. 

She fit so perfectly into his arms, it was almost cruel.

His nose pressed to the curve of her neck. Her scent—eucalyptus and mint and something that made his throat tighten—wrapped around him like a curse.

“You matter to me,” he whispered. “Don’t forget to open it tomorrow.”

Then he pulled away, just like that.

He didn’t look back. 

Hermione Granger had known heartbreak before.
There had been grief, of course. Loss. Anger. But this..
This was something else entirely.

Malfoy had said she had a savior complex before, Godric, Ron had said that she had a thing for lost causes. She didn’t believe that was fitting to the situation one bit.

When she thought of Draco Malfoy? Her view on him had changed drastically in comparison to what it used to be. Yes, he undoubtedly was an arse sometimes but it hadn’t been malicious. Not in a long time. 

The Malfoy she had started to get to know was someone she rather enjoyed being around. He was exceptionally intelligent, surprisingly funny, and devastatingly complex. She felt like she was just starting to peel back his many layers and understand the man underneath before all of this. 

Beyond his hardened exterior, he was just him. 

Gods, how she wished he understood that was enough. 

He was more than enough. 

She layed curled in on herself in her four poster bed, the letter in her trembling hands, the parchment trembling with it. The charm had worn off sometime past midnight. It had curled open in her fingers like a secret finally giving in to the weight of silence.

She let the drapery close and seal around her bed and cast a silencing charm, unsure of what to expect of the letter.

She read it once. Then twice. Then again.

Her chest ached, but not in the sharp, splintering way she expected. It was dull. Hollow. Like something had been scooped out of her and nothing had been put back in its place.

The words weren’t long. They weren’t loud. But they wrapped around her ribs and squeezed. The quiet kind of devastation that left no room to breathe.

You are the sun.
You always have been.

She pressed the back of her hand to her mouth as if she could keep herself from falling apart, but it was no use. Her chest heaved on a sob, and she clutched onto her duvet for some sense of support, the letter still in her grip like it might vanish if she let go.

He knew.
He knew something was coming.

That was what broke her the most. Not the beauty of the letter. Not even the way he’d looked at her when he handed it over. Like it might be the last time.

But the truth of it.

That this had been goodbye.

And he hadn’t said it. Not out loud.
He hadn’t let her fight for him.

Tears spilled hot down her cheeks as she pulled the letter to her chest and held it there like it could anchor her to the moment.

“I would’ve stayed,” she whispered into the silence. “I would’ve stayed with you.”

But the shadows had already swallowed him.
And the sun had come too late.

She was undeniably and painfully alone again.

Chapter Text

Draco’s choices have never been something he could make on his own. 

He was more than capable of making them but his ability to truly choose had been taken away from him a long time ago.

Being a Pureblood wizard came with consequences on its own. He never expected to be in a marriage with someone he truly loved, he never expected to fully fall in love.

Never having to work for anything could be seen as a perk. Sure, he had more galleons in his numerous vaults than he even knew what to do with but is it so wrong that Draco wanted more for himself? 

Is it so wrong to believe that he had more to offer this world if he was just given a damn choice?

His father had instilled beliefs deep into his mind that for a long time, there was no room for questioning. 

“You’re going to be powerful, Draco. You’re the future of the Malfoy name. You should be proud.” 

What Lucius said was always true. It used to be as simple as that. 

Yet as he stood in front of the Vanishing Cabinet, feeling like he was teetering on the brink of death itself, he wished he would’ve made his own choices sooner. 

When he still had a chance.

A chance to break free from the Pureblood ideologies. The chance to be his own person. The chance to just be Draco. 

His heart thundered against his ribs, and even the familiar breathing exercises he relied on couldn’t soothe the panic clawing at him.

Despite his inability to suppress his anxieties the traditional way, he knew he would be able to soothe it in another way.

His head ached from overuse of Occlumency but the pain was welcome. It helped ground him. 

Draco looked around his surroundings and swallowed the lump building in his throat. Looking at one of the many scattered clocks adorned onto miscellaneous objects in the Room of Hidden Things was proof that he was running out of time. 

He hastily shoved the rubbish off the chair closest to him onto the floor and sank down into the seat. His hands curled over the armrests and he let his eyes close, slipping into the deepest corners of his mind.

Lights flickered on as he walked through the hallway to the entrance doors of his mental library. He pushed against the doors with both palms, startled when they barely cracked open. 

He frowned and hesitated, looking around his environment. Nothing on the exterior appeared to be any different than the last time he had truly taken the time to heavily occlude yet the doors were undoubtedly a lot heavier than he could recall. 

Draco braced himself before barreling forward shoulder first into the doors and grunted on impact, almost tripping over his feet as the doors opened. He let out a long breath of relief before righting his posture and smoothing his clothes. 

Navigating his labyrinth had become a lot easier over the weeks due to the time he had spent blanketed even in half hearted Occlusion. 

As he made his way up to the top of the spiral staircase now in the middle of the library, he noted that his mind had done its own sort of reorganization over the weeks. 

The books that used to be stored in his mind’s own construct of the Restricted Section now had found a new home. 

He made his way towards the thick tome filled with his anxieties when he stopped dead in his tracks. He blinked, eyebrows furrowed.

The honey and gold flecked book that was reserved purely for Granger was now resting alongside the lilac book, “Love” in bold embossed letters. His breath hitched in his chest and he lurched forward, tugging the small lilac book quickly into his hands. 

During Draco’s last long visit to his library, had this book depicted as the thinnest of them all. Yet as he looked now, it had undoubtedly grown. Not by much, but enough to notice.

He knew he was running out of time, and getting lost in his mind was the last thing he should be doing when the Death Eaters were awaiting entry through the cabinet any moment now. 

But he was only human. 

His index finger traced the lilac spine with reverence and he turned it over, resting the book on the palm of his hand. The pages flickered to life in front of him, replaying the nights he spent in his room in between trips to the Room of Hidden Things.

The nights where his mind found peace, momentarily, while being consumed with thoughts of her. 

The moments from the Hospital Wing that had initially taken residence of his book of ‘Happiness’ had sunk into the pages of the lilac book and finally as the book turned to the last page it replayed the moment that broke him the most, no less than 24 hours ago. 

He watched Granger’s face in the moment of surprise when he tugged her into the alcove and the look of anguish that was etched into his own face as he pulled her into their first and last hug. 

He brushed his thumb gently over Granger’s face on the page and let out a defeated sigh. Closing the book and willing his heart to settle, he placed it on the shelf and traded it out for the thick book of his anxieties.

He willed any remaining worries and thoughts about what he was about to do to sink deep and bleed onto the pages in front of him. Reshelving the book and turning on his heel, the last glimpse of the shelf he got was lilac and honey. 

Draco’s eyes fluttered open and he was relieved to see that not much time had passed according to the clocks surrounding him. The blanket of numbness — the bone-chilling void where his emotions should be — steadied him as he retreated from the seat and walked up to the cabinet again. 

He unlocked it from the outside and booked it. He had no desire to stick around and see his aunt and her companions any longer than necessary. 

He held his wand tightly in his hand and made his way to The Astronomy Tower. He had been given some insight from his Godfather that Dumbledore was out traveling doing something unknown and should be returning relatively soon. 

The unfortunate perks of having a double agent to look after him. 

His shoes clicked along the stairs as he ascended towards the top, his wand arm beginning to tremble. 

Cold air bled through the stone walls as he climbed, but it was nothing compared to the cold inside him. Draco pressed forward, one trembling step after another, his mind a hollow echo chamber.

He swore he heard someone conversing with Dumbledore and his hand tightened around his wand. 

Fuck fuck fuck. He was supposed to be alone. 

When Draco reached the top of the tower, the world felt muted, like he was moving through water.

He wasn’t ready.

No amount of Occlumency or numbness could have prepared him for the sight of Dumbledore, frail and alone, standing at the edge of the world like he knew exactly what was coming.

Draco stumbled to a halt, his wand half-raised, throat dry and useless.

"Good evening, Draco," Dumbledore said, as if they had simply met by chance. "You have come so far since you started at Hogwarts. Please—know that you still have a choice.”

His wand trembled at his side, and for a split second, the wall he’d built inside his mind splintered , something inside him aching to believe him.

But he couldn’t. He couldn’t afford to.

He gritted his teeth and forced the numbness back into place, locking it down before it could break him open.

His eyes flicked side to side, scanning the shadows. “Who else is here?” Draco asked, wand extended, voice cracking under the pressure. “I heard you talking.”

“Just me,” Dumbledore replied calmly, unshaken. “And you, of course.”

Draco’s eyes darted around the empty tower, his grip tightening on his wand. He didn’t trust this stillness. Didn’t trust Dumbledore’s quiet acceptance.

“They’re coming,” he said. “The others. I– I have to.”

“Yes,” Dumbledore said gently, as though he already knew every word Draco was about to say. “I rather thought so.”

“They’ll kill me if I don’t,” Draco snapped, as if saying it out loud would make it more real, more justifiable. “He said he would kill my mother.”

The numbness that Occlumency had wrapped around him was beginning to fray, unraveling thread by thread under Dumbledore’s gaze.

“I see,” said Dumbledore. “And is that why you are here now? Is that why you haven’t done it already?”

Draco swallowed hard. His arm shook, wand still pointed. “You don’t understand.”

“Oh, but I do,” Dumbledore said, and there was something in his voice, something unbearably kind, that nearly made Draco flinch. “You are not an assassin, Draco. I see the struggle in you. You are trying to do what is right… but you are trapped in a position where you must choose between what is easy and what is right.”

A muscle in Draco’s jaw ticked. “I have no choice.”

“There is always a choice,” Dumbledore said, softly but firmly. “You still have one, even now.”

Draco’s knuckles turned white around his wand. He could feel the numbness slipping, the walls cracking like glass under pressure too long ignored. Occlumency was failing him now—because it was supposed to. Because Dumbledore was looking at him not like a threat, but like a boy.

A boy who had come too far.

“How?” Draco’s voice broke. “How can I choose? I can’t .”

Dumbledore remained still. Quiet. Letting him speak.

“I never cared if I died,” Draco said with a bitter, wet laugh that didn’t sound like it belonged to him. “Not really. Didn’t expect to make it through this year.”

He blinked back the tears that were welling up, “But I will always care about my mother.”

His voice thickened with something raw, something that felt dangerously close to grief. “She will not die because of my failures.” His wand trembled again, but this time it dipped slightly. “My father failed to protect her. But I won’t. I can’t .”

He took a shallow breath, chest tight, throat raw.

“So no,” he said, eyes glassy. “I don’t have a choice.”

The words clanged in his skull like a final judgment, and somewhere deep inside, Draco wanted to apologize. To say I’m sorry for this, for being here, for pointing a wand at a man who’d done nothing but offer him mercy. But he didn’t know how. The words felt too big. And worse—he didn’t know how much time he had left.

“I shall make this easy for you.” Dumbledore spoke calmly, lifting his wand from his robe.

“Expelliarmus!” Draco cried out, panicked. 

Dumbledore let the wand clatter, “Very good.” His words came out defeated.

Every second stretched unbearably thin. The air felt like it would break.

So he just stood there. Wand raised, guilt choking him, Occlumency shattered.

And that was when he heard footsteps. 

Boots scuffed against the stone steps—too many of them. Draco's heart lurched. He turned his head, just for a moment, and that was all it took.

Bellatrix was first, her face twisted with wild excitement. Behind her came the others, faces gleaming with anticipation, like bloodhounds catching the scent.

“Well, well, well,” Bellatrix sing-songed, wand twirling lazily in her hand. “Our little dragon's cornered his prey after all.”

Draco stiffened, fingers tightening on his wand until they ached. The Death Eaters fanned out behind him, a wall he couldn’t fight, couldn’t run from.

“You did it, Draco!” another Death Eater crowed, shoving past him toward Dumbledore. “You got him!”

Dumbledore remained where he was, still as a statue, gaze fixed on Draco. There was no anger there. No fear.

Only something infinitely worse.

Pity.

Draco stood frozen.

“Do it,” she whispered, stepping closer to him, her voice curling like smoke around his ears. “Kill him, Draco.”

He didn’t respond.

“Do it!” she shrieked this time, voice cracking against the stone walls. “Show us you’re not as pathetic as your father!”

Draco flinched.

The words hit harder than a curse. His father’s failures and his mother’s life hanging in the balance was suffocating him from the inside out. His wand shook. He couldn’t breathe.

Bellatrix’s voice rose again. “Come on! What are you waiting for? He’s right there! The Dark Lord gave you the honor. Don’t make us clean up your mess!”

Draco’s knees nearly buckled. His mouth opened but no sound came out.

“No.”

The word cut through the room like a blade.

Snape stepped into view, his black robes swirling behind him, face unreadable, wand already drawn.

Draco didn’t know how to feel.

Relief hit first, sharp and disorienting—then guilt. Crushing, consuming guilt.

Because he hadn’t done it.

And because, for a split second, he was glad.

Dumbledore looked almost relieved, which was confusing on its own accord. “Severus,” He breathed.

“Avada Kedavra.” At the tip of his wand, a cruel green light shot out and made contact with Dumbledore. 

It felt like the world had tilted on its axis as he saw life quickly leave the old wizard’s eyes. 

Draco’s breath hitched and he looked over at Snape who had his face carefully blank. 

Bellatrix cackled maniacally with glee and tugged Draco towards the direction that Dumbledore had fallen, and with a shout she had conjured the Dark Mark in the sky. 

After seeing the clouds take their shape, darkness spread throughout the sky and in that moment he felt terrified. 

The couple of Death Eaters that were present began to head towards the stairs and he somberly followed behind them. 

Draco had high hopes that he wasn’t going to run into any of his peers. It was embarrassing enough to be associated with the ink that plagued his arm, he was reminded of that enough when he looked into the mirror.

It would be even more embarrassing to be seen with a swarm of Voldemort’s highest ranking soldiers. 

He spent the time it took following behind them to build his walls back up in his mind, sealing the memory of this moment into his book of Grief and allowing the blanket of numbness to swallow him whole. 

He trailed behind them, keeping a distance, his eyes looking around him as they walked through the corridors. He wished that he could just slip into the depth of the night shadows. 

Draco selfishly wished he could have more time. 

He longed to see her, once more, even if it would destroy him more than he already was. The desperation for more was threatening to destroy his carefully structured labyrinth. 

He hurried up his footsteps to fall back into the steps of his destiny. 

They turned into The Great Hall, memories of the room reorganized into his mind. 

Grief. 

Bellatrix turned the room into one of destruction and chaos. Her sadistic glee was evident in every blast of her wand. She left nothing but ruin behind her. 

She had her mind made up, it seemed. She wanted to strip the glee and magic environment from Hogwarts itself. The determination on her face was enough to understand that. 

“Oooooh!” She squealed, suddenly struck with an idea, and Draco was aware enough to know it wasn’t going to be good. 

She hopped off of the large table she was on, sauntering closer to the all too eager Death Eaters with them. 

“Let’s pay dear old Hagrid a visit!”

Murmurs of approval and agreement flowed around him and he focused on keeping his face carefully blank. 

Not agreeing. Not disagreeing. 

Fucking coward.

Bellatrix looked at him for a moment, her nose scrunching in disgust, before she pushed past him. She moved through the corridors with grace, expertly leading them through the castle and to the exit closest to Hagrid’s 

He followed closely behind, his head beginning to ache with the strain of his Occlumency. He carried through with the motions of a willful soldier, dutifully following behind the small herd of people in black. 

“Snape!” 

He turned on his heel quickly, stumbling over his feet. His eyes widened at who was calling Snape’s name. 

His throat burned with the ache of wanting to, begrudgingly, tell Potter to run. 

He shook his head at him, trying to catch his eye, but his efforts were met with nothing. He swallowed thickly and turned back around to face Hagrid’s. Draco’s breath caught in his throat as his crazed aunt bellowed, “Hagrid!” Before setting his hut ablaze. 

“He trusted you!”

Bellatrix turned around and her eyes lit up like a child who just received the last Chocolate Frog in Honeydukes. “Let me kill him!” She lilted, rocking on the balls of her feet. 

Draco snorted and rolled his eyes. Definitely like a child. 

“No! He is the Dark Lord’s!” Snape bellowed before turning his attention back to Harry.  

Draco was rooted firmly in his spot, eyes focused solely on the Hut that was blazing into oblivion. His gut churned violently and he knew he had to leave before he would do something that would endanger him further. 

With a swift turn on his heel, he disappeared with the crack of apparition. 

Time seemed to taunt him.

The days continued to bleed together and he wasn’t aware of how much time truly had passed since that blasted night at Hogwarts. 

Draco had thought that the summons were exceedingly frequent nearing the end of his time at Hogwarts, but nothing compared to the cruel nature of his current living situation. 

He had suffered.

Greatly. 

Since he had failed his task to murder Albus Dumbledore, technically, he reaped the consequences constantly. 

Between being sent on unnecessarily dangerous tasks or being under prolonged exposure to the Cruciatus Curse, he found himself once again wishing that it would all end. 

The exhaustion of existing but not truly living was a line he teetered over every moment of every day. 

He sometimes allowed himself to sneak back into the depths of his mind. 

Occlumency had become a friend when he didn’t have any remaining. 

His walls were carefully constructed and intact from the moment he woke up in the morning to the moment he had tried to get a wink of sleep.

However, when he was able to have a couple extra moments to himself, he would let himself truly indulge in the memories that lingered in the walls. 

Some may call that unnecessary torture.

Draco didn’t. 

He saw it as a way to escape and relive and feel. 

His senses would come alive and if he tried hard enough he could almost feel the warmth of her body snug next to his in the hospital bed, the smell of her lingering on his pillow when she left, or the soft caress of her fingers on his cheeks. 

When things got really tough, he let himself relive their first and last hug. It looped through his mind to the point where he was sure he had the amount of freckles on her cheeks memorized down to the quantity and shapes.

He wondered if she was okay. 

As if things couldn’t get any worse, a new Death Eater had been recruited. Officially. 

There had been talks at their late night meetings in the Drawing Room about the need to expand and continue to spread the word of the Dark Lord. Their numbers were growing in rapid masses and it made him want to pull the strands of his fine hair out. 

When things had gone from bad to progressively worse.. He knew the exact moment. 

Offered like a loaded Gringotts Vault, Theodore Nott Sr. had brought Theo to tonight's meeting. 

Draco didn’t breathe.

He couldn’t.

The moment Theo stepped into the drawing room, flanked by his father and shadowed by robed figures who didn’t yet know what it meant to belong to the Dark Lord, the air left Draco’s lungs and never came back.

Their eyes met.

And it shattered him.

Theo’s face was unreadable but his eyes, Merlin, his eyes, they looked directly at Draco like they already knew. As if Theo had read the ending of their story before Draco ever got a chance to rewrite the middle.

Draco’s throat closed. His wand hand twitched beneath the table.

No, no, no.

He forced himself not to move, not to blink, not to feel , but it was useless.

The walls in his mind—stone by stone, spell by spell—began to crumble. Occlumency didn’t stand a chance. Not against this .

Draco reached beneath the table blindly and gripped his mother’s hand like a lifeline. Narcissa startled slightly, then curled her fingers around his without a word.

He was trembling.

Not from fear. Not exactly.

From despair.

Because Theo should never have been here. Not in this room. Not with them . Because Draco had once imagined Theo as his last thread of normalcy. Someone still untouched by this rotting world, still safe. Someone who reminded him of what life used to be like. 

And now he wasn’t.

Draco’s gaze dropped to the polished wood of the table, but the echo of Theo’s expression burned behind his eyelids.

His lip curled inward as he bit down hard, punishing the emotion surging through his chest. He wanted to vomit. He wanted to scream. He wanted to Apparate out of the room and drag Theo out by the collar and shove him against the Manor gates and make him leave .

But he didn’t move.

He just squeezed his mother’s hand tighter, until his knuckles ached.

Narcissa leaned in, her voice a breath against his temple, so low only he could hear:
“You must stay still, my darling. You must stay calm.”

He wanted to tell her he couldn’t. That it was too late. That something inside him was breaking .

But instead, he nodded.

He would break later.

For now, he swallowed it down like poison.

He couldn’t deny that he missed seeing Theo. He had desired any scrap of normalcy he could find, hence he spent a plethora of time in the depths of his mind.

Yet, this is the last thing that Draco wanted to happen. 

He would’ve rather never seen Theo again if it meant him not being here.

A hush fell as Theo was led forward.

Draco's hand was still locked in his mother’s beneath the table, his palm clammy, her grip unyielding.

The Dark Lord turned his head slowly, the corners of his mouth curling in that dreadful, thin-lipped smile that never quite reached his eyes.

“So,” Voldemort said, his voice like silk stretched over steel. “Another son of an old family. Loyal blood. A name I know well.”

Draco’s stomach turned to ice.

He didn’t dare glance at Theo again, though he could feel his presence like a weight on the room. Theo was close enough now that Draco could hear the quiet, even cadence of his breath. Not shaking. Not resisting.

Neutral.

Of course he would be. Theo always played things careful, subtle. It had gotten him out of trouble before. Maybe it could do the same now.

But the murmurs of approval building along the walls of the drawing room crushed that flicker of hope. The old guard of Death Eaters nodded, sharp with satisfaction. Some leaned toward one another, whispering about legacies and strategy and the cleverness of the Nott family line.

Draco didn’t hear them clearly.

His ears were full of blood and static.

“You understand what this means,” Voldemort said, rising to his feet with that slow, terrible grace. “You are not a boy. You are making a choice.”

Theo nodded once. “Yes, my Lord.”

The sound of the phrase on Theo’s lips made Draco’s chest seize.

Narcissa’s fingers tightened on his.

“Come forward,” Voldemort said, extending a hand like an invitation, like a trap sprung with perfect ceremony.

Theo stepped up from his chair and rounded the table without hesitation.

Draco forced himself to look. He had to look.

Theo rolled up his sleeve.

It was like watching himself again all those months ago, caught in that same moment, that same airless room, the same pressure bearing down on him like the weight of history.

Draco had felt sick for weeks after it was done.

Now, he felt worse.

Voldemort pressed the tip of his wand to Theo’s forearm.

Theo did not flinch.

But Draco did.

It started as a dull burn behind his ribs and quickly bloomed into something unbearable. A memory, unbidden, of his own skin searing, of holding back the scream so Bellatrix would stop smiling like she was proud.

The room filled with the faint, putrid scent of burning flesh and dark magic.

Then the Mark began to rise.

Black ink bleeding beneath Theo’s skin.

Permanent. Binding.

Final.

The murmurs returned, this time warmer, louder. Applause in the form of dark satisfaction.

Draco sat in silence, unable to join them. He couldn’t even nod. Could barely breathe.

He stared at the forming Mark, that cursed serpent winding into Theo’s flesh, and he wanted to tear it out. Rip the whole thing away. Undo it.

But all he could do was sit there and pretend he didn’t care.

He closed his eyes for a moment, trying his hardest and retreating into the coldest place in his mind.

He opened the book labeled Grief, and tucked the scene inside.

He would feel it later.

Right now, he had to survive. 

As time slipped further into uncertainty, the Dark Lord’s patience thinned to the width of a knife’s edge. His cruelty sharpened with it, each meeting more volatile than the last.

He slammed his withered fist against the long table, the brittle crack of bone on wood reverberating through the cavernous drawing room. “Are all of you seriously this incompetent?”

Draco kept his expression neutral, schooling his features with the precision of someone who had long since mastered the art of survival. His gaze stayed fixed on the far wall, refusing to meet the serpentine red eyes across the table.

The only thing tethering him to the here and now?

Theo’s hand, carefully intertwined with his under the table.

It was a Slytherin thing—this quiet solidarity, this wordless tethering in the face of dread. Pureblood children raised in gilded cages learned young how to comfort without softness, to speak in gestures rather than words. It was misunderstood at Hogwarts, where affection between the Slytherins was seen as something unusual but no one dared to comment.

But in moments like this, it was the only thing keeping Draco from falling apart.

“How hard can it be to capture this boy?” Voldemort hissed, voice dripping with venom as he stalked the perimeter of the table like a viper sizing up its prey.

Bellatrix’s chin lifted sharply. “My lord, if I may?”

He inhaled a sharp breath through slitted nostrils, fingers flexing with barely-contained malice, before flicking his hand for her to speak.

Bellatrix practically vibrated under the attention. Draco didn’t need to look at her to know she was smiling.

“Perhaps…” she began, in a voice almost sing-song, “we don’t need to find the boy. Perhaps we let him come to us.”

Murmurs of interest stirred like static around the table.

She leaned forward on her elbows, eyes glittering with fervor. “He’s got that noble streak in him, hasn’t he? That self-sacrificing Gryffindor rot. If we gave him a cause… someone to die for…”

Draco pressed his free hand into his thigh, hard enough to feel the bite of his fingernails through fabric. The pain was grounding. So was Theo’s steady grip.

Voldemort raised a thin, impatient hand. “Speak clearly, Bellatrix. What cause would entice our dear Harry Potter?”

Her smile stretched wide, feral and childlike. “There are far too many Weasleys,” she purred, and the room erupted.

Some snorted. Others laughed. A few even clapped. Only a small number stayed silent.

Draco’s stomach twisted, bile rising at the back of his throat. He wished he could tune her out, wished he could Occlude well enough to smother her voice. But he couldn’t. Not now.

Bellatrix’s face lit with inspiration. “Wait—oh! I know!” She clapped her hands together. “The Mudblood. We need to get the Mudblood. Or her Muggle parents. Maybe both.”

A single name hadn’t been spoken but it didn’t need to be.

Draco’s heart stopped. His hand clenched around Theo’s with crushing force.

No.

Not her.

Anyone but her .

There was laughter, awful and unrelenting. The kind that lingered like a smoke you couldn’t escape. Somewhere across the table, someone suggested they carve a message into the girl and send her back bleeding. Another proposed finding her family home and obliterating it. Draco didn’t know who said what. Every voice twisted into one shrieking note of madness in his ears.

He couldn’t breathe.

Theo’s hand was still in his, fingers gripping tightly now, grounding. Anchoring. But it wasn’t enough.

Not her.

Not her.

His Occlumency splintered like glass beneath a hammer.

He’d worked so hard to keep the walls in place. Had spent months perfecting the mental library behind his eyes, categorizing every horror, every failure, every buried wish that had no business being real. He’d tucked her away in the deepest, safest part of it—a sealed volume bound in guilt and fire. She wasn’t supposed to be part of this world.

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. 

But Bellatrix had just torn that page open with her teeth.

Draco could feel the sweat pouring down his back, slicking his shirt to his skin. His heart beat so hard he thought it might rupture in his chest. His vision narrowed to a tunnel, everything closing in on him. The urge to stand, to run, to scream, to hex Bellatrix into ash—every instinct fired at once.

“Not now,” Theo muttered under his breath, voice tight but low. “Draco. Not now.”

Draco blinked, a single tear escaping down his cheek before he could stop it. He ducked his head to let his fringe fall forward, shielding his face. He forced air into his lungs through his nose, slow and even, pretending to cough so he could wipe his face against the back of his wrist. It didn’t matter. No one was watching. Voldemort was too enthralled, pacing again, commanding them to form a plan.

“The blood traitor or the vile Mudblood or both,” Voldemort instructed, a cruel excitement plastered across his face. “Whatever it takes to get Harry Potter.”

A game plan began to take shape. Names were thrown out, assignments delegated. Theo whispered something else, something Draco didn’t hear over the thudding in his ears.

Then, finally—mercifully—the meeting was adjourned.

Draco didn’t remember walking back to his room. Didn’t remember Theo walking alongside him. 

He only remembered the moment the door shut behind them, the click of the lock loud in the silence, and the way his legs gave out as he hit the edge of his bed.

He pulled his wand with shaking hands. Wordlessly, he cast a Silencio , then a ward charm. He layered on another and another until the magic in the room felt thick, static-charged.

Then he broke.

A gasping sob tore out of his throat, and he folded over at the waist, hands in his hair. His entire body shook, and no amount of biting his tongue or clenching his fists could stop it.

Theo stood frozen for a moment near the door. He had always been the sarcastic one, the smooth-talker, the cynic with a sharp tongue. 

But since being forced into taking the Mark, his humor had dulled to a knife too tired to cut. 

Theo crossed the room in two strides and sank down beside him on the bed.

Draco barely noticed until Theo’s arms wrapped around him, solid and steady. That was what broke the last of his resolve.

Draco turned, burying his face in Theo’s shoulder, and cried. 

It was loud and ugly and raw. His fists clutched Theo’s robes like a child.

“Not her,” he whispered. Then louder, again and again. “Not her. Not her. Not her—”

He repeated the words like it was the only thing he knew. As if his whole vocabulary had disappeared and all he could do was utter pointless pleas as his anxiety and devastation threatened to pull him under.  

Theo didn’t speak. He didn’t tell him it would be okay. He didn’t offer empty comfort or force promises he couldn’t keep.

He just held him tighter, rubbing soothing circles on his back and sniffling as if he was trying to hold himself together while seeing his best mate in despair. 

This was reality. 

This was devastation. 

Summer passed in the blink of an eye.

Theo had taken up permanent residence at the Manor, unofficially claiming a corner of Draco’s wing—but more often than not, he ended up in Draco’s room, silent company amid the suffocating quiet.

Draco had spent countless nights trying to devise a plan to warn her. To convince her to leave, disappear, never look back.

But he’d like to believe he knew her far too well. 

Stubborn to the bone. 

Even if he could get a warning to her, she wouldn’t take it. 

She’d stay with her friends. 

She always stayed.

He couldn’t bring himself to care what happened to the red-haired git who hovered around her like he had nothing of value to offer on his own.

But he wasn’t stupid.

If there was any chance for his mother’s safety, for Granger’s survival—for even the smallest sliver of hope in this blood-soaked war—

Potter had to live.

The thought twisted in his chest like tarnished silver.

Draco had never truly wished death on his peers, not even Potter. Not really. 

But the idea of him walking away from this, from all the wreckage, felt impossible. Like something out of a children’s fantasy.

So he buried himself deeper in the walls of his own mind.

The honey-colored book stopped opening. No matter how many times he tried, it stayed locked—warded so tightly even he couldn’t access it.

Maybe it was self-preservation. Maybe that was the whole point.

Still, selfishly and guiltily he kept trying.

He just wanted to feel close to her again. Just a glimpse of what it was like before. Even if it hadn’t become anything more than a begrudging friendship with lingering touches or glances. 

She remained just out of reach.

Clutching the Black Family pendant in his fist, he sent a silent plea into the universe. 

Pleading to anything that she still wore the matching onyx ring.

That, somehow, it might truly be enough to save her.

It was the only thing he had left to believe in. 

Draco and Theo had been ordered to return to Hogwarts.

The Dark Lord wanted more eyes in the castle, more than just Severus, watching for any trace of the trio.

They obeyed.

And what they returned to was not a school. Not anymore.

It was a prison in disguise, ruled by Snape’s iron-clad regime and shadowed by something worse: the absence of safety.

What had once felt like a second home now reeked of cruelty. A nightmare layered over a memory.

Draco hated it.

He despised the sterile silence that fell over the Great Hall. The empty seats. The way even the portraits seemed to avert their gazes.

It was shameful to admit, but once upon a time, he might’ve seen this as a victory. 

Now, the thought made him sick.

He tried to bury himself in his studies as a form of penance.

If there was even the slightest sliver of a future—one where he lived, where he was free —he wanted to believe he could choose differently. 

He’d make the choice to be better. Be more than a name etched in blood and expectation.

A man worth redemption.

But that hope unraveled more each day, thread by thread, as he watched students dragged from lessons for “discipline.” Where detentions had once been given, now there was only punishment.

The Carrows didn’t touch the Slytherins. Not often at least. 

But Draco saw what they did to the others. Heard it through the walls.

Sometimes, he and Theo intervened. Played their part.

They’d offer to “handle” the punishment. Pull the student away, lie through their teeth, and take them to some abandoned corridor. There, they’d fake the injuries. Smear blood. Whisper apologies.

It wasn’t enough.

They couldn’t save everyone. Not without raising suspicion. 

And Draco didn’t know how much longer he could live with that.

He tried to stay away from the Manor.

Outside of the required summons that now featured a frailer, more brittle version of the Dark Lord, Draco did everything he could to avoid stepping foot inside again.

He kept in quiet contact with his mother, ensuring she was safe. That’s what he’d been fighting for all along, wasn’t it?

Thank Salazar and every deity above but it seemed she hadn’t been subjected to further punishments.

Still, maybe he was a coward for not verifying it with his own eyes.

Now, sitting in weary silence with Theo in their shared room, he found himself almost grateful for the interruption when an envelope slid beneath the door. The elegant Malfoy seal glinted up at him.

Draco shot Theo a glance. Theo just shrugged, frowning.

His mother and him had a routine. One letter a week to avoid attracting attention.

This was the second in three days.

Draco stood, crossed the room, and crouched to scoop up the envelope. He tore it open and scanned the parchment.

The blow hit like a curse to the gut.

Four letters, hastily scrawled.

L U N A

His face must have said it all.

Theo approached slowly. “What is it?”

Draco crushed the parchment in his hand, bile rising in his throat. He forced his eyes up to meet Theo’s. “Luna,” he rasped.

Theo froze. “What? Do they have her? What do you mean?” His voice pitched up with panic, words tumbling out too fast.

Draco gave a tight, miserable nod. With a flick of his wand, he set the letter ablaze. Ash floated to the floor.

Luna. Technically a distant cousin, though most Purebloods were connected in some convoluted way. He’d never known her well. She always seemed like she existed slightly out of phase with the world.

Maybe that was the smart way to survive it.

“We have to do something, right?” Theo’s voice hardened as he rolled his shoulders, cracking his neck like he was preparing for a duel. “We can’t just leave her there, Drake.”

“Don’t you think I know that?” Draco snapped, dragging a shaky hand through his hair. His posture sagged. “Sorry.”

Theo waved the apology away and started pacing. “What could we even do? We can’t exactly walk her out.”

Draco exhaled slowly and crossed the room in a few strides, sinking onto his bed like the weight of it all was finally getting to him. “Why her?” he muttered. “It feels so... random.”

Theo let out a bitter, humorless laugh. “Oh, sure. Because the Dark Lord needs a reason to be a bastard.”

Draco gave a grim nod. “Fair point.”

His palms were sweating. He rubbed them slowly over his thighs, trying to ground himself.

Theo sat down next to him and flopped back with a groan, throwing an arm over his face. “Will anything ever be enough for them?” he whispered.

Draco’s chest ached. “You know what they want.”

Theo peeled an arm off his face to shoot a sidelong look. “Granger’s smart, Drake. She’ll be fine.”

Draco’s jaw clenched, a muscle twitching with restraint. He wanted to believe that—Merlin, he needed to—but he also knew how much time was being devoted to tracking her and her family. It wasn’t a passing interest.

It was a hunt.

Theo suddenly sat up, struck by realization. “It’s her dad, right? He’s always publishing anti-Death Eater excerpts in The Quibbler . They probably think she’s tainted by association.”

Draco hummed in agreement. “Suppose that’s enough for the snake-like bastard.”

Theo looked him dead in the eyes. “You know what we have to do.”

Draco stared at the floor for a long moment. The silence thickened, cracked at the edges with dread. Then he nodded slowly.

“Unfortunately.”

Draco and Theo had decided to take the more leisurely route back to the Manor. They Apparated just outside the gates giving themselves a few more moments to think through what the hell they were about to do.

By the time they reached the front door, they realized they still had no idea.

“Fuck it, I guess,” Theo muttered, shrugging before pushing the door open.

Draco took in a deep breath, slipped into the depths of his mind, and followed.

Every visit back here felt worse than the last. The air was clogged with something vile and decrepit, thick enough to coat his tongue and crawl down his spine. Despair curled tight in his gut, coiling around his ribs.

He could only imagine what it was doing to his mother.

Malfoy Manor had once been her pride and joy. Now it was nothing but a rotting husk of memory. There was no joy left here. Just ghosts.

Their dragonhide shoes clicked down the long corridor toward the drawing room.

The Dark Lord was absent, thankfully, but the magic lingering in the air was still oppressive. Still dark. Still thick enough to choke you.

But the room was empty.

Draco blinked. “Well… this is odd, right?”

Theo nodded stiffly. “Definitely odd.”

Draco grimaced and gestured toward the nearby staircase. “I’m assuming she’s down there.” He flexed his hands and wiped the sweat off on his trousers. “Just follow me. Prepare for the worst.”

Theo scratched at the side of his face and gave a terse nod.

Draco pulled out his wand and cast a silencing spell on both their shoes before moving swiftly down the corridor, a sudden burst of urgency propelling him forward. He muttered Alohomora and pushed open the gated door to the dungeon.

“Perks of knowing the owner?” Theo quipped dryly.

Draco shot him a look, but the corners of his mouth twitched up briefly.

He shut the door quietly behind them. With a wave of his wand, torchlights along the walls ignited, casting flickering shadows across the dungeon’s stone walls.

“Lovegood?” Draco called softly, stalking through the cold room.

“Luna?” Theo whisper-yelled from the other side.

“Draco? Theo?” A soft, dreamy voice floated toward them, followed by faint footsteps and a small yawn.

Draco’s head snapped toward the sound. He exhaled sharply.

Luna stepped forward into the light. She was disheveled, a little grimy, but seemingly unharmed.

“Luna,” Theo breathed, rushing forward and pulling her into a tight hug.

Draco watched, throat tight. Grateful she was okay. He reached for the chain around his neck and rubbed the back of the pendant to ground himself. Walls. High. Tight.

He stepped forward, placing a hand on Theo’s shoulder. “Are you okay?” he asked her, eyes scanning for injury.

She nodded. “Your mother is quite lovely. She makes sure I stay fed and cared for.”

Draco’s throat thickened. “Mipsy?”

A soft crack of apparition answered him, followed by a squeak and small arms wrapping around his knees.

“Master Draco! Master Theo!” Mipsy’s big eyes were already glistening.

“Hello, Miss Mipsy,” Luna said gently, bending to shake her hand.

Mipsy hesitated, her lip trembling, before glancing up at Draco for reassurance.

He crouched down, meeting her gaze. “Mipsy, this is Luna Lovegood. She’s my cousin. Please make sure she’s taken care of so Mother doesn’t get in trouble.”

Mipsy nodded fervently. “Mipsy won’t let Mistress be hurt. Mipsy promises.”

Draco gave her a strained smile. “Please be—”

A bang echoed above them. Footsteps. Several.

“Call for Draco, Cissy!” Bellatrix’s voice rang down, venomous.

“He’s probably in his room. The wards went off not long ago,” Lucius answered, bored and drawling.

Draco’s skin crawled. Merlin, he hated his poor excuse of a father.

He turned to Mipsy quickly. “Be safe. Remember what I said.”

Theo pulled Luna in for one last hug, whispered an apology, and let her go. “We need to get to your room. Now.”

Draco grabbed Theo’s arm and Apparated them upstairs. They landed just in time before heels clicked down the hall, and a knock came at the door.

“Come in,” Draco called, already bracing himself.

He gave Theo a look. Theo raised his eyebrows but said nothing.

The door opened and shut in a heartbeat.

His mother crossed the room in three quick strides and wrapped her arms around him. Draco embraced her tightly.

“Did you get my letter?” she asked, voice trembling.

Why was she trembling?

Draco pulled back to study her face. Her eyes were red. Teary.

Panic didn’t rise, it couldn’t. He shoved it down with trained force. His Occlumency walls stood firm. He rubbed her arms soothingly. “We got the letter. We came as fast as we could. Luna said you’ve been helping her. You need to be careful, Mother.”

Narcissa nodded, stepping back and gesturing toward the bed. “Draco, sit. We don’t have much time.” Warning bells fired in his mind but it flicked to the side like nothing.

Draco frowned and obeyed. Theo looked like a ghost.

His mother sat beside him, clasping his face in her hands. “I don’t know how to say this. I want to prepare you before I bring you down, but Draco…”

Theo’s sharp breath should have been the second warning. Should have told him everything.

“It’s her. That girl. They have all of them.”

Draco’s mind didn’t stutter. It split.

He stared ahead, unblinking. Felt the hum of blood rushing past his ears, loud and hot like fire. The weight of his mother’s hands on his face barely registered.

He blinked slowly.

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.

He had to keep it together. Had to. But his voice cracked like old parchment.

“Did you see—” He stopped. Swallowed. His hand flexed once before curling into a fist on his knee. “Is she wearing the ring?”

Narcissa’s lips parted, then shut again, her pale eyes shimmering with recognition. “Yes.” The word was barely there, like a secret. 

The tight coil of control inside him bent just slightly. If he let himself feel it, it might destroy him. But it was her . She had worn it. She hadn’t taken it off.

Relief, sharp and punishing, cut through him with a love so raw it tasted like iron in his mouth.

“I told her it would protect her,” he murmured, more to himself. Disbelief and relief tied into one. “She believed me, she kept it.”

“They want you to identify them,” Narcissa said suddenly, her voice just above a whisper. “They believe it’s Potter, Weasley, and…” She hesitated, then softer still: “I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t.”

Draco’s head snapped toward her, eyes wide not in anger, but something almost like disbelief. His throat bobbed as he stared at her, searching her face.

His chest constricted, and for one terrifying second, he couldn’t breathe.

A breath finally escaped him. Shaky. “You mean that?”

Narcissa reached up and cupped the side of his face again. Her hand was so cold. “Of course I do.”

Something inside him loosened. It was a quiet, dangerous thing. His Occlumency walls trembled under the weight of it.

She knew. Knew the depths of his feelings for the witch and it didn’t bother her. It had been clear for a while now that she didn’t want him to be like the rest of them, but this made it crystal clear.

He looked at Theo who looked upset for him and he shook his head, “It will be okay,” he dragged a hand though his fringe. “It has to be.” 

He stood up and wrapped his arms loosely around Narcissa, putting his chin on top of her head. “Thank you.” He whispered, and she nodded into his chest.

“Come now,” She said, wiping under her eyes and expelling out a breath. “Protect your minds, boys.” She moved to squeeze Theo’s arm in reassurance before straightening out her attire. She glanced once more at him before turning on her heel and moving towards the door. 

“Ready, Drake?” Theo asked softly, clamping his hand on his shoulder and brushing his thumb against it gently. 

Draco huffed out a bitter laugh, “No. But I have to be.”

Draco entered the drawing room with his gaze fixed on the floor.

The familiar scent of damp stone and ash clawed at his throat. Magic, dark and feral, still lingered in the air like smoke after a fire. His shoes moved soundlessly across the floor, charms still intact, but his heart pounded loud enough it might as well have echoed. 

He didn’t dare lift his eyes. He couldn’t. If he saw her now, if he saw her face after so long, he didn’t know if he could hold the walls steady.

So he focused on the rugs. The scuffs in the wooden panels. The corner of his mother’s old tapestry, now singed black at the hem. Anything but her.

Bellatrix’s voice sliced through the silence, high and delighted. “Is it him, Draco?” she cooed, cupping something, someone,with mock tenderness. “Is it him?”

Draco didn’t look. Couldn’t.

Behind him, Theo stepped forward with the same smooth disdain he used in Slughorn’s classroom, hands tucked lazily behind his back like they weren’t in hell.

“You’ll have to be more specific, Bella,” he drawled. “Is it who ?”

Bellatrix didn’t even turn. She just laughed, sharp and unhinged.

Draco’s eyes flicked upward.

Potter.

His face was swollen beyond recognition. His glasses were gone, one eye nearly swollen shut.

Draco’s stomach turned. His voice sounded flat and strange in his own ears.

“What happened to his face?”

Bellatrix tilted her head, still grinning. “Yes, what is wrong with his face?” Her fingers tangled tighter in Harry’s hair as she leaned closer to her captive, nose nearly touching his. “Did you do this, girl?”

That’s when he looked.

Hermione.

He hadn’t meant to. Hadn’t planned to. But Bellatrix flicked a careless gesture in her direction, and his eyes betrayed him.

Greyback had her pinned, his forearm pressed to her throat, nose dragging along her cheek like a dog scenting prey feral with delight.

They locked eyes.

Draco’s knees nearly buckled.

His fists clenched at his sides, then hesitated. He needed her to know that he’d do what he could. That she wasn’t alone.

He swallowed thickly, gaze flicking to the onyx ring on her hand, then back to her face. His own fingers brushed the pendant under his shirt, feigning nonchalance.

“Where did you find them?” he asked smoothly, voice even.

Her eyes tracked the movement and fluttered in recognition.

He gave her a faint smirk before his expression fell blank again. He turned away.

“Well?” he drawled at the Snatchers.

Scabior stepped forward, twirling a gleaming sword in his hand. “Some forest. They said his name. We snatched ‘em,” he said with a shrug, like it was nothing.

Bellatrix’s attention snapped to the blade. Her eyes widened.

“Where did you get that ?” she breathed.

Draco’s brow furrowed, and he cast a quick look toward Theo, who gave a tiny shrug.

Scabior shifted on his feet. “Took it from the girl. Figured I earned a souvenir.”

Bellatrix shot upright with a snarl. In a blur, she disarmed and subdued the Snatchers with a violent flick of her wand. Black robes slithered from its tip, binding them into twitching bundles on the floor.

Lucius surged forward, seizing Weasley by the collar and jabbing his wand beneath the boy’s chin. Ron thrashed, shouting obscenities.

Potter lunged toward him, but Theo grabbed Harry from behind, twisting his arms into a secure grip.

Draco turned just in time to see Greyback press a kiss to Hermione’s cheek. “Next time,” the werewolf purred, before disapparating.

She stumbled forward.

Draco didn’t think, he just moved.

He caught her before she hit the ground. She clung to him, her breathing ragged and shallow. His eyes fluttered shut.

He called on his Occlumency, pulling from the deepest place Snape had taught him. Not just shielding his mind, but pushing the magic outward. A faint shimmer wrapped around them, protective and warm.

“You’re going to be okay,” he murmured, arms closing around her. He tugged her against his chest like she was the only thing keeping him upright.

Perhaps she was.

His mind and heart sang a song rapidly in unison.

Hermione. Hermione. Hermione. 

She didn’t speak, just held him tighter. Her eyes closed in what looked like fragile relief.

“Get off her, you filthy Death Eater!” Ron roared. Draco’s nostrils flared in barely contained anger.

Bellatrix’s head snapped toward them, eyes wild.

“ Crucio! ”

The curse hit the shield. A faint prickle crawled across Draco’s skin but nothing more.

He’d always wondered how the Black family companion set would hold up against the blood it came from. He had hoped never to find out.

“Draco,” Bellatrix snarled. “Hand over the Mudblood.”

Draco scanned the room. Lucius looked at him with revulsion.

“Let go of the filth,” his father hissed.

Draco ground his jaw. He kept his feet planted where he stood, he didn’t move.

Bellatrix let out a feral screech and fired again. Crucio. Crucio. Crucio.

The shield held but the sensation intensified. Hermione yelped, and it shattered his hesitation.

He shoved her behind him.

“ Expelliarmus! ” he barked, wand snapping forward.

Bellatrix’s wand flew from her hand.

Harry froze in Theo’s grip, jaw slack.

“You dare disarm me?” she shrieked. “The Dark Lord will hear of this!”

She lunged toward them.

Seemingly out of nowhere,“ Stupefy! ” Narcissa’s voice rang through the chaos—cool, calm, and devastating.

Bellatrix crumpled to the floor, rage frozen on her face.

“My son has faced enough harm.” Narcissa sneered down at her sister’s rigid body, her collected composure temporarily replaced with an anger Draco had rarely ever seen. 

Lucius rounded on her, eyes wide in disbelief. “What are you doing? This could save us. It could restore our name! ”

Draco looked to his mother, his anchor , and tilted his chin toward Lucius.

Narcissa gave the faintest nod.

“ Stupefy. ”

Lucius fell, rigid, still clutching Ron like a broken marionette.

Ron thrashed. Theo snorted and released Harry, who scrambled toward his friend.

Narcissa and Theo stepped forward, halting in front of Draco.

“Well,” Theo said, hand to heart. “This is all very touching, but we should probably make a plan before the Dark Lord arrives and maims us all. ”

He stepped to the side, peering around Draco. “Hi, Granger,” he purred.

Draco narrowed his eyes. “Theodore. Don’t test me.”

Theo smirked, raising his hands. “Touché.”

Just for a moment, it felt almost normal. Just one.

Draco looked around the room. The wreckage. The reality.

He swallowed hard.

“Draco,” Narcissa said softly. “What do you want to do?”

She looked so small, but there was a steel spine behind her worry. Quiet power.

Hermione stepped from behind him. Draco shifted to shield her but stopped when she placed a hand on his arm.

“You could Obliviate them,” she whispered, uncertain, almost as if the idea was painful to voice.

Narcissa tilted her head. “I like this one,” she said, then turned to Theo. “We’ll handle it. Obliviate the Snatchers, my husband, and my sister. I’ll modify the memories to buy us time.”

She stepped away, then paused.

“You have only a few moments,” she said to Draco. Then, to Hermione: “I’m sorry, Miss Granger. I wish we were meeting under better circumstances.”

Hermione clutched Draco’s arm tighter. “Me too,” she whispered.

Narcissa gave a polite nod and turned.

Theo was beaming, actually smiling. Draco’s chest ached.

“Duty calls,” Theo said lightly. “A pleasure, Granger.”

Draco barked out a laugh, surprised by the sound. Shook his head.

“Theo,” He called out. “contain Potter and the Weasel too. Please.”

Theo’s expression softened. “Anything for you, Drake.”

Draco mouthed, thank you , then turned to Hermione and gripped her gently by the arms.

He let the last of his walls drop.

“Did they hurt you?” he asked softly.

Hermione shook her head slowly, and his shoulders sagged with relief.

“You’re a prat, Draco Malfoy,” she breathed, her bottom lip trembling. His hands dropped from her arms, brows furrowing in confusion.

“Typically, yes. But why now, Granger?”

She shoved his shoulder halfheartedly, but enough. “You left. You wrote that bloody letter saying all those sweet things and didn’t even let me fight for you. You’re a coward.”

His chest ached. His resolve cracked.

“Do you think that was fucking easy for me?”

She lifted one shoulder in a shrug, chin high. “Seemed easy enough.”

Her voice wavered, just slightly but he caught the hurt beneath it.

Draco narrowed his eyes, letting out a defeated breath. “No. It wasn’t easy, Granger.”

He dragged a shaky hand through his hair and saw her eyes track it. No, not it. The Mark. His stomach twisted, and he let his hand fall uselessly to his side.

“I don’t know when you stopped being an insufferable thorn in my side, but you did.” His voice was hoarse. “I never wanted to care about you. But I do.”

Her eyes widened. Her breath caught.

“Then why didn’t you let me help you?” she whispered.

Draco scoffed, rolling his eyes as if that might keep him from crumbling. “You couldn’t. You can’t help me. I’ve been damned for months, Granger. There’s nothing anyone can do about it.”

He dropped his gaze, battling the storm in his chest.

“I meant what I said,” he rasped, looking back up at the honey-gold eyes that haunted his mind more often than not.

“You are the sun in my eyes, Granger. You deserve better than my darkness.”

Pathetic .

“There’s nothing wrong with darkness, Draco.”

His heart thundered. Pink crept up her cheeks.

Gods , he’d missed that.

Hermione sighed, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “Everyone has a little darkness in them.”

He grimaced, fighting the instinct to throw up his defenses, to say something self-deprecating—how his darkness was worse, how they weren’t the same.

“Don’t say things you don’t mean,” he said instead, voice low and cracking under the weight of everything unsaid. “I can’t afford to hope. I can’t let myself believe there could be more.”

“Why not?” she demanded, arms crossing as she stomped her foot like a furious child.

Draco gestured vaguely to the room around them. “You’re not safe in my world. I won’t put that on you. I didn’t even think I’d see you again, Granger. And I doubt I will after this.”

Hermione frowned. “You told me not to look at you like you were already gone. Do you remember that?”

He rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. “Yeah, I remember. But that—”

“Stop it!” she snapped. “You’re not gone. You’re right in front of me. Stop it!”

His lip curled into the smallest smile despite himself.

She narrowed her eyes. “Why are you smiling?” She tried to stay stern, but a smile tugged at her lips anyway and his heart soared .

He opened his mouth to answer, but a voice shouted from across the room.

“Oi! Drake!”

Draco’s head snapped around. Theo was waving wildly.

“Weasel’s losing his mind. Wrap it up!”

“Let me go, you prick!” Ron snarled, thrashing where he stood as Theo and Potter struggled to hold him back.

Hermione let out a weary sigh and looked past Draco, toward Ron. “He told me he has feelings for me.”

A violent emotion curled in Draco’s chest. “Did he? And what did you say?”

She looked back at him. “I told him I had feelings for someone else.”

His breath left him in a rush. His heart felt like it had been struck by lightning.

Draco stepped forward, cupping her face gently in his hands, his fingers threading into her hair. He searched her eyes, looking for permission.

She gave the barest nod.

His eyes fluttered shut. He leaned in. His lips brushed hers, soft and tentative until she gasped and melted into him. Then he kissed her fully.

He had never felt more whole in his miserable existence. Never felt this powerful, this alive.

He smiled into the kiss, and she tugged him closer by the front of his robes. He groaned softly, flicking his tongue against her lips.

She parted for him but froze.

“Fucking Death Eater scum! Let go of her!”

“Ron! Leave it, for fuck’s sake!” Harry groaned, exasperated.

Draco pulled back, brushing her cheeks with his thumbs, reverent, like she might vanish if he looked away.

He pressed a kiss to the tip of her nose. He should’ve been furious at Weasley’s outburst, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.

“You have to go,” he murmured.

Her eyes shut tight, and she nodded.

“Be safe. Please.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “I’ll find you again. One way or another. I promise you, Hermione Granger.”

Her eyes flew open at the sound of her name on his lips and she grinned, clinging tightly onto his robes still. 

He gave her a soft fond smile, and brought her head closer again. He pressed a soft kiss to her forehead and just held her close for just a second longer. 

He allowed himself another moment, letting his heart burst with a joy he hadn’t felt in ages. 

A silence fell as Hermione and Draco slowly pulled apart, her hand lingering on his chest. The chaos across the room had dimmed to muffled bickering, the kind that could break into real shouting at any moment.

Narcissa stepped forward, heels clicking softly on the marble. She stopped just beside Draco and swept a sharp glance around the room.

“Everyone—” she said clearly, voice cool and commanding, “huddle up.”

Theo blinked. “Did she just say…?”

“Move,” Narcissa said without raising her voice. It didn’t matter. Everyone obeyed.

Harry, Ron, Hermione, Draco, and Theo gathered close. Ron reluctantly loosened his stance beside Harry, eyeing Draco like he’d rather hex him than share breathing space. Hermione still hadn’t moved away from Draco entirely, her hand curled now in the fabric of his sleeve.

Narcissa’s expression was unreadable, but her gaze moved over each of them in turn, assessing with sharp precision.

“I’ve modified the memories of the Snatchers who brought you here,” she said briskly. “They now believe they were arriving for a duty report and were ambushed upon crossing into the Manor. They remember being injured. I also implanted the memory that the prisoners in the dungeons escaped during the chaos.”

Theo arched a brow. “That’ll hold?”

“It will hold,” she replied, her tone brooking no argument. “I’ve been perfecting that spell since before any of you were born. And if it doesn’t, it won’t trace back to us.”

Her gaze sharpened as it landed on Harry. “You need to leave. Now. ”

Harry nodded immediately, but paused. “You said prisoners. Who else was here?”

“The Dark Lord has taken people he deems valuable. I’ve ensured they’ve been… taken care of. Quietly.” Her chin lifted slightly, as if daring him to question her motives.

When Harry wisely said nothing, she gave a slight nod of approval and turned toward the stairs, a quiet urgency in her step. Even in haste, she moved with practiced elegance.

“I’ll bring them up. You don’t have long.”

“I don’t know how to thank you,” Harry said. “You didn’t have to—”

“I did,” Narcissa said curtly, turning back. Her hands folded in front of her. “My son, Theodore, and I….we never wanted this war.”

Hermione still hadn’t moved. Her fingers had drifted to Draco’s wrist, clinging to it like it was a tether.

Narcissa followed her gaze. A faint smile touched her lips, almost imperceptible. “He’s stronger than he thinks,” she said quietly. “So are you.”

Ron cleared his throat loudly. “Right. Yes. Touching moment. Can we go before He-Who-Makes-My-Skin-Crawl shows up?”

Theo actually laughed, the sound unguarded for the first time in what felt like ages. “Still eloquent, Weasley.”

“Shut it, Nott.”

Hermione leaned in, her forehead resting briefly against Draco’s bicep, their height difference more apparent than ever. “Don’t break your promise,” she whispered.

“I won’t,” he murmured, brushing his thumb over the back of her hand.

By the time Narcissa returned, three figures followed in her wake. 

“Hello, Harry.” Luna’s dreamy voice cut through the tension like sunlight.

“Luna?” Harry sputtered, disbelief written across his face as he rushed toward her.

Ron groaned. “Brilliant. More bloody people.”

Harry stopped in his tracks and snapped, “Seriously, Ron? This could’ve gone a hell of a lot worse. Drop it.”

Draco didn’t look at them. Couldn’t. Not when Hermione was still in his arms, her warmth seeping into his chest like something sacred.

He turned toward her and wrapped her tightly in a final embrace, burying his face in her hair. 

Lavender. Eucalyptus. Mint.

His mouth nearly watered from the ache of it. “Be safe,” he said, voice almost cracking. “Please.”

She clung to him in return, arms around his waist like she could imprint the memory of him into her skin.

He pressed a kiss to the crown of her head and reluctantly pulled away.

Hermione rose onto her toes, her lips brushing his cheek. “Thank you. For everything.”

Harry hesitated at the door, casting Draco a long look, part disbelief, part reluctant respect. Ron gripped Hermione’s arm, as if afraid she might turn back. Theo gave Draco a pat on the back.

And for the first time in what felt like lifetimes, Draco let himself hope. Just a little.

As the front doors shut behind them, the silence that followed didn’t feel quite so suffocating.

Draco turned to his mother. “What’s the plan?”

Narcissa stepped carefully over the unconscious heap of Snatchers. “If I recall correctly, Theodore has always had a flair for chaos.”

Draco groaned. “Don’t remind me.”

Theo’s grin was feral. He rubbed his hands together like a man preparing for mayhem. “I live for chaos.”

Narcissa gave him a weary glance but nodded. “Make it look believable that three wandless prisoners escaped the dungeons. Use whatever means you need. Just make it work.”

“As you wish, darling,” Theo purred.

Draco shot him a glare, but the annoyance didn’t stick.

“And them?” Draco asked, nodding toward the unconscious Snatchers and, regrettably, to where his father and aunt lay slumped together, still rigid from the stunning spells.

Narcissa clicked her tongue and flinched as a dull boom echoed from below. “We’ll revive your father and Bellatrix once the Snatchers are repositioned. For now…” She flicked her wand, casting a Featherlight Charm. The Snatchers lifted gently off the floor.

Draco followed as she levitated them to the front step and dropped them in an unceremonious heap.

“What can I do?” he asked, voice softer now.

She gave him a look full of quiet pride. “Nothing, my Dragon. I’m just glad to see the light back in your eyes.”

He started to smile, only to flinch when she abruptly sliced her palm open with her wand.

“Mum…?” 

She ignored him, letting the blood drip onto the ground around the Snatchers. “Has to look real,” she said briskly. A healing charm sealed the wound seconds later.

Draco stared, struck by her precision, by her cold practicality. She was brilliant. Terrifyingly brilliant.

Footsteps pounded up from below.

Theo appeared, panting dramatically, bent at the waist. “There’s a hole where the window used to be,” he wheezed. “Apologies, Narcissa.”

She merely waved it off. “It’s fine, Theodore. I haven’t felt proud of the Manor in ages.”

She looked between them then, hands on her hips, and both boys immediately straightened.

“You need to act. Convincingly. If we’re not careful, today could be our last.”

The mood shifted. The levity disappeared.

Draco blinked. “I have an idea,” he said suddenly, voice low and sharp with urgency. “A cover story.”

Narcissa raised an eyebrow. “Go on.”

“The Snatchers were ambushed near the Manor by a group of Potter loyalists. They gained access to the wards during the scuffle. Father and Bellatrix went to investigate, and were stunned. By the time Theo and I reached the dungeons, it was too late.”

Theo gave a slow clap. “Honestly? Brilliant. Small problem.”

Draco’s jaw tightened. “What.”

He was positive it was foolproof, thank you very much. 

“How did they know we had prisoners? And how’d they know where to find them?”

Draco groaned and scrubbed his hands through his hair. “Fuck.”

“Language, Draco Lucius Malfoy,” Narcissa scolded, and he flushed under her stare.

She considered a moment, then said, “Theodore’s right. It’s a solid plan, but we need to account for that detail. The logical conclusion is that a Death Eater leaked the information.”

Draco nodded slowly. “That works. You’re brilliant.”

Her cheeks colored slightly. “I’m going to position Lucius and Bellatrix. In five minutes—no sooner, no later—one of you needs to summon the Dark Lord. Look like you were on your way to the dungeons when the explosion went off. Make it believable.”

“So… get dirty?” Theo waggled his brows.

Draco shoved him. “Prat.”

They set to work. Dust, soot, and enough disarray to sell the part. Draco dragged his fingers through his hair, mussing it more, and looked to Theo.

“We still have to sell this.”

He raised his wand, but Theo caught his arm.

“I’m glad to see you smiling again, really. But you need to stop grinning like the smug bastard you are and Occlude .”

Draco huffed. Fair enough.

He took a slow breath and pulled the mental barriers into place. It didn’t drain him the way it had before. Hope, however fragile, seemed to help.

With his expression schooled, he pressed his wand to the Mark. Theo hissed as his own began to burn.

They staggered upward toward the drawing room just as the whoosh of Apparition filled the air and Death Eaters arrived in force.

Lucius stormed in, his voice booming. “What in Salazar’s name happened?”

Bellatrix wasn’t far behind, eyes wild.

Then the voice that made Draco’s spine stiffen.

“Yes,” Voldemort said coldly. “What happened?”

Draco stepped forward, mouth parting to deliver their prepared story but Bellatrix beat him to it.

“My Lord!” she cried, stumbling forward with surprising desperation. “The Snatchers were ambushed—enemies got through the wards. They stunned us. Took the prisoners. I failed you, My Lord. I am so sorry—”

Draco blinked, startled. Bellatrix taking the fall hadn’t been part of the plan.

Maybe he really did need to learn that memory charm.

“Fools,” Voldemort hissed. “How could you let this happen?”

His gaze turned, serpentine and expectant, to Draco.

Draco bowed his head. “My Lord, we tried to intercept them, but by the time we reached the dungeons, they were already gone.”

Theo stepped forward, composed. “With most of the adults incapacitated, Draco and I did what we could. We were only visiting for holiday break.” 

Voldemort raised a hand, flexing and clenching it as if he could wring his irritation from the air itself.

“How is it that the two youngest among you managed to show a shred of sense while the adults fumbled like fools?”

His voice was eerily calm. The kind of calm that came before carnage.

“My Lord,” Lucius sputtered, clearing his throat. “I offer my deepest apologies for this foolishness.”

Voldemort turned on him sharply. His eyes blazed. Lucius recoiled, bowing low.

“This will not happen again. Do you understand me?”

A chorus of murmured “Yes, my Lord” echoed through the room. Voldemort dipped his head, acknowledging them with cold disdain.

“You are dismissed,” he sneered, before lowering his gaze to Nagini coiled at his feet. “Nagini. Come. Dinner is waiting.”

Smoke billowed as Death Eaters Disapparated one by one, their exits a rush of relief. But Draco’s eyes stayed locked on the Dark Lord, tracking his slow, deliberate steps across the Manor’s marble floor.

At the threshold, Voldemort paused. Turned slightly.

“Narcissa.”

Draco stiffened. His stomach turned. Next to him, Theo had gone white.

Narcissa stepped forward, head bowed with practiced grace. “Yes, my Lord?”

Her voice didn’t waver. Merlin help them, she sounded serene . If Draco weren’t on the edge of panic, he might’ve been impressed.

“Where are the Snatchers?”

“By the front door,” she answered evenly.

He gave a single nod, then continued on, the wet slap of bare feet echoing in tandem with a low, sinuous slither.

As he disappeared down the corridor, Narcissa finally spoke—softly, gently, as if it were any other evening.

“Boys, go on to your wing. I’ll have Mispy bring up dinner shortly.”

The walls were quiet again. No muffled screams. No footsteps echoing past midnight. Just the gentle creak of old wood and the occasional sigh from the fireplace as the flames licked over half-charred logs.

Theo was sprawled across the velvet chaise in his room like he owned it, one leg hanging off the side and the other bent dramatically, like some tragic theatre darling. His wand hovered lazily above an unopened bottle of Ogden’s Firewhisky, spinning it in the air.

Draco raised an unimpressed brow from where he sat near the hearth. “You’re going to drop it.”

“I’m testing fate.” Theo grinned and caught the bottle with one hand. “Besides, didn’t you say this was from your secret stash? The infamous ‘only open if the world’s ending’ bottle?”

Draco reached for the glass tumblers on the table between them. “It’s close enough.”

Theo poured two generous fingers each, handed one over, and held up his glass. “To the end of the world, then.”

Draco clinked his glass against Theo’s with the faintest smirk. “And to the idiots who attempt to survive it.”

They drank in tandem, Firewhisky burning its way down with a comforting sharpness. For a long moment, neither of them said anything. It was the kind of silence that didn’t feel heavy, just full almost like a breath held between waves.

Theo had begun pacing around the room, inspecting the space like he had nothing better to do and complaining that they didn’t have luxury like this at Hogwarts and that it should be illegal.

Draco paid him no mind and was absentmindedly tracing his thumb against his lips almost in remembrance of earlier in the day. 

His face was flushed with warmth as he remembered how soft her lips had felt against his. He had felt like a man starved until that moment, and he selfishly wanted more. His eyes fluttered shut, working on tucking the memory in his mind neatly into her book. 

Theo’s breath hitched from across the room and there was a clambering noise, “Draco Malfoy, you did not..”

Draco’s eyes snapped open immediately, embarrassed at the thought he had been caught fantasizing, but was confused to see Theo not even looking at him. 

“What are you..?” He trailed off as Theo turned to face him, dangling Dumbledore’s wand from his hand. 

“Stealing from a dead man? Merlin, and I thought the Dark Lord was cruel.” Theo’s voice came out playful and teasing as he rotated the wand in his hand.

Draco grimaced and knocked back the remainder of his glass with a gulp, “I disarmed him that night. I honestly had forgotten that I had taken it.” 

Theo set down his glass on top of the hearth and inspected the wand closer, “Bloody hell.” 

“What?” Draco asked, shifting in his seat uncomfortably. 

He wasn’t exactly proud of that night either, that was for certain, but he didn’t need Theo to judge him for it. He judged himself enough already. 

Draco was not intoxicated enough for this. 

He moved swiftly to add more to his glass and looked at Theo who was still inspecting the wand. He narrowed his gaze at him, “Merlin, Theo. I didn’t want to do it.” 

“No, you prat. Do you not know what wand this is?”

Draco rolled his eyes and took a sip of his drink, “Yes, It’s Dumbledore’s wand. You just said that.” 

“That old bastard had the Elder Wand!” Theo deadpanned, hands going limp at his sides.

Draco furrowed his brows in confusion, “Wait what?”

“The most powerful wand in existence?” Theo asked, staring at Draco like he had lost the plot.

Draco blinked. 

He set his glass down on the hearth next to Theo’s and moved closer to inspect the wand, “Well shit.”

Theo sputtered out a laugh, “Yeah, shit.” He slapped it down into Draco’s hand before taking his glass once more and flopping back down on his couch. 

Draco held the wand by the ends and walked back to his seat, sitting down slowly as his mind churned. 

Silence blanketed them as Draco stared at the wand like it would give him answers to a complex question.

Theo broke it first. “You’ve been less miserable.”

Draco frowned, looking back up. “Thanks?”

“No, I mean…” Theo waved his glass. “You’re still a brooding bastard, but now it’s like… you’re brooding with hope . Which is annoying, frankly.”

Draco snorted and leaned back in his chair, letting the heat of the fire warm his skin. “You’re reading too much into it.”

Theo gave him a look. “Am I? You’ve been sitting there smiling to yourself like a first year because you saw your witch and now you're in denial.”

Draco rolled his eyes but didn’t deny it. 

Even though today had been quite the rollercoaster of events, it all had felt worth it. He had gotten to see her when he thought he never would again. 

Undoubtedly he felt a little less numb. The tremor in his fingers had dulled, and the noise in his head wasn’t quite as loud. It didn’t feel like peace, he wasn’t stupid enough to call it that, but it felt like a pause. A crack in the armor.

And Merlin help him, he’d let himself believe maybe it was okay to have hope in this instance.

Theo took another sip, then leaned back, eyeing him sideways. “You have serious feelings for her, don't you? Like ‘ feelings’ feelings.”

Draco didn’t answer.

That was enough of one.

Theo smirked and tilted his head dramatically. “Oh, Hermione,” he swooned, clutching his chest. “Your kiss warmed my cold heart and I just knew you were the one for me—”

“Shut up. ” Draco threw a pillow at him, half-laughing.

They dissolved into easy silence again, the kind that comes only after surviving something ugly together.

Draco stared at the flames, glass in hand, something calm in his chest. It was unfamiliar. Dangerous, even. But it was there.

For the first time in months, he didn’t feel like the world was about to split open beneath him. And that was terrifying.

The chill of the castle had never felt quite like this.

They’d returned to Hogwarts days ago. Maybe a week. Maybe more. Time had lost its shape, bleeding at the edges like ink in water.The castle had lost its liveliness at the start of term, but it hadn’t been like this before. 

It had simply gone quiet.

Too quiet.

Draco walked the corridors like a ghost in his own skin. The oppressive silence. The heavy clouds pressing against the windows.

The happiness that Draco had felt at the Manor felt a lightyear away, and the existential dread had taken root once more. 

There’d been something dark around the castle especially lately but this was worse. Heavier. Like the walls knew something was coming.

It was as if the castle itself was holding its breath.

Something was wrong.

The charmed bell above the common rooms rang. Not once for dinner, but three short chimes. Summons.

“All students,” echoed Professor Snape’s magically amplified voice across every corridor, “are to report to the Great Hall immediately.”

Draco exchanged a glance with Theo.

“Something’s happening,” Theo muttered. “You feel it too?”

Draco didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

They joined the others, falling into silent, rigid lines of students marching through the castle like soldiers headed to war. 

As they entered the Great Hall, the tension sharpened. No one spoke.

At the front of the hall, Snape stood like a statue, his expression unreadable.

“It has come to my attention that earlier this evening, Harry Potter was spotted in Hogsmeade.” 

Gasps and murmurs rippled through the hall, and Draco’s gut churned. 

“If anyone here has any knowledge of Mr. Potter’s movements this evening, I invite them to step forward,” The room quieted and Snape’s gaze scanned the room. “Furthermore, any person who has knowledge and fails to step forward… Student or staff.. Shall be treated as equally guilty.” 

A scuffle of shoes echoed across the room, and the gasps had returned. 

“It seems, despite your exhaustive defensive strategies, you still have a bit of a security problem, Headmaster.”

The doors to the Great Hall burst open with a thunderous crack. Light flooded in and with it, the resistance.

Draco’s breath caught.

Across the room, Hermione stood in the chaos. His eyes found her like gravity, lighting up for the first time in weeks. He didn’t know what expression he wore, only that something like warmth flared in his chest at the sight of her.

His gaze looked her up and down, checking for any sign of injury or harm. He instinctively moved forward until Theo elbowed him sharply. “Don’t,” he said under his breath.

It pulled Draco back to reality, just in time to watch Professor McGonagall step forward like a general to face Snape. Her wand was drawn. Her voice shook the rafters with fury.

A duel sparked elegant, powerful, brief. Snape blocked her strikes like a man going through the motions. He deflected, retreated, and when it was clear he would not win, he vanished through the window in a whirl of shadow.

The Great Hall was alive with chaos. Students scattering. Spells flying. Screams rising like smoke.

Draco and Theo backed toward the wall, wands out on instinct but not raised, staying out of the fray. Just breathing. Just surviving.

“The hell is happening?” Theo asked, eyes sweeping the room.

Draco didn’t answer. His attention was fixed across the crowd, tracking one head of wild brown hair. Hermione. She was running with Potter and Weasley toward the corridor.

“Room of Requirement,” Potter shouted over his shoulder to someone.

Draco’s heart kicked. He looked at Theo.

“Come on.”

“What? Where—”

“We’re following, but we need to make a stop first.”

Their dormitory was untouched. Quiet, eerie in its normalcy. The chaos of what was going on hadn’t reached this far yet.

Draco went straight to the drawer beneath his bed and pulled out a narrow, dark box. He opened it and inside, the Elder Wand lay still.

“I thought you said you’d never use it,” Theo said.

“I won’t,” Draco said, snapping the box shut. “But Potter might.”

Theo let out a breath. “That’s so messed up I think it might actually be noble.”

“Don’t get used to it,” Draco muttered, already heading for the door.

They crept into the shifting Room just as the door reappeared and opened. Potter, Weasley, and Hermione rushed in, their silhouettes vanishing between high, stacked junk and furniture.

Draco and Theo kept close to the shadows, weaving between cluttered desks and dusty shelves.

Then he saw them and he exhaled in relief.

Hermione bent over something, pulling it free. A fang? 

Her sleeve was torn. She looked flushed and winded, but alive and beautiful. 

His eyes continued their focus on her and dropped towards her back.

Weasley’s hand was on the small of her back. 

Draco froze, a violent coil of anger threading quickly through him. Something both protective and possessive was threatening to boil over.

Mine.

The word echoed in his skull, sharp and relentless.

Mine. Mine. Mine.

He didn’t realize he was gripping his own wand and raising it until Theo caught his arm.

“Don’t lose the plot,” Theo hissed. “Focus. You want her alive, don’t you?”

Draco swallowed the fury, eyes locked on Hermione, then nodded once.

They pressed deeper into the chaos of the Room.

It seemed like everytime they got closer to the trio, they disappeared around another corner.

After what felt like ages, they finally caught up to Potter, who stood near a high, crumbling shelf, glancing around as if searching for something else.

Draco looked once at Theo who nodded reassuringly and shooed him forward with his hands. He stepped out first.

“Potter.”

Harry spun, wand up, ready to strike but he hesitated.

Draco raised both hands in surrender, one holding the narrow box. “I’m not here to fight you.”

Theo scoffed and stepped beside him, arms crossed. “Honestly, mate, if we were, you'd be face-down already.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed. “What do you want? I really don’t have time.”

Draco opened the box and offered it out.

“I think this might help against him .”

Harry stared, anger flashing across his face. “You kept it?”

Draco sighed and lifted the box towards him again, “I disarmed him and didn’t know what to do with it. Theodore over here realized the wand held more significance.”

Potter took the wand slowly, as if it might bite. The weight of it in his hand changed something in his expression. 

Hermione stepped forward, “Holy crickets, that’s the elder wand!”

Draco smiled fondly at her, “Precisely, Professor Granger.”

Her eyes flicked up towards him, her cheeks flushed and she rolled her eyes. “Prat.” She mumbled but there was no venom behind it.

Behind him, Weasley was scowling. “You just trust him now?”

“I mean, he has saved our lives before…” Harry inspected the wand, almost in awe. 

Hermione’s eyes hadn’t left Draco’s again. There was something unreadable in them now. He didn’t trust himself to look too long.

Still he stepped closer.

“You’re alright?” he asked, voice low.

She nodded. “I’m fine.”

Relief swept over him like a tide, and before he could stop himself, he reached forward and hugged her.

Tightly. Just for a moment.

She breathed out a heavy sigh in relief, clutching firmly onto him.

Weasley made a noise like he was choking.

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Theo muttered. “Not now.”

“Enough!” Ron barked, shoving forward between Draco and Hermione causing Hermione to stumble to the side, yelping. 

Draco lunged for her, pulling her close. “Shove her like that again and it’ll be the last thing you do, Weasel.” He sneered at Ron, curling his arms protectively around her.

Ron scoffed and flailed his arms around, exasperated. “This is bloody mental. We don’t need him or his creepy sidekick. ”

Theo raised a brow. “I’ll take ‘Creepy Sidekick.’ If you take ‘Jealous Moron.’”

“Enough!” Harry cut in sharply, looking at Ron and Hermione pointedly, “We’ve got the fang. The wand. Now we destroy the Horcrux. That’s what matters.”

What the bloody hell was a Horcrux? 

They all turned as Hermione stepped forward again, lifting the basilisk fang toward a tiara? She braced it on a crate, hands trembling.

Draco didn’t realize he was holding his breath until she drove the fang through.

The Horcrux screamed. Emitting an unnatural sound and a shockwave burst outward. The fire lanterns hanging above flickered and shattered.

A large cloud of black smoke was propelling outwards and Potter stumbled back, wincing as he grabbed onto his forehead.

“ Incendio! ” Ron shouted, trying to burn the oozing dark mass spilling from the destroyed cup.

“No, don’t!” Hermione shrieked.

The fire snapped into existence and then expanded . Not a normal flame. No. This was unnatural .

Fiendfyre.

It crawled hungrily over the wreckage, then leapt into the sky like a serpent, splitting into monstrous shapes—jaws, wings, snarling beasts built of flame.

The room tilted into madness.

Harry scrambled in his spot, “Ron, you idiot!” Harry bellowed, beginning to rush backwards away from the growing flames. 

“What the hell is that?!” Ron yelped, eyes wide.

“Fiendfyre!” Hermione screamed. “You absolute cretin! ”

Theo swore loudly. “For fucks sake, we need to move!”

Draco’s brain caught up a second too late. He grabbed Hermione’s hand instinctively, pulling her behind a toppled wardrobe as one of the flame-serpents dove down.

The Room was turning into a furnace. Towers of junk collapsed in fiery bursts. The Fiendfyre surged after them, relentless and hungry, as if it knew what they carried.

They darted between broken desks and shelves, the others scattering in different directions. Draco kept a death grip on Hermione’s wrist, even when her hand slipped once and he nearly lost her.

“Draco!” she yelled, pulling back. “Theo!”

He spun and his eyes went wide. Theo was limping, a scorch on his leg, barely outrunning the edge of the flames.

Draco released her hand.

“Go!” he shouted. “Find the exit door!”

“What? I’m not leaving you!”

“ Granger, go! ”

She hesitated for one breath, then ran. Draco turned and sprinted back, catching Theo under the arm just as a flaming lion pounced over a toppled cabinet.

They barely ducked it. Theo stumbled but didn’t fall.

“You’re an idiot,” Theo wheezed.

“Shut up and limp faster.”

When Theo continued to slow them down, Draco tugged him behind himself and bent down. “Get on my back!” 

Theo grunted and hopped onto Draco’s back, and he took off. 

“Can barely walk, you think I can jump you dick?” Theo grumbled, clinging onto Draco tightly. 

Draco barked out a weak laugh, chest heaving with exertion. “Merlin, Theo. Don’t make me laugh right now.” He kept up his pace, urgently rushing towards anywhere the fire wasn’t enveloping.

The door appeared. Glowing faintly through the smoke.

Hermione was holding it open, hair wild, eyes searching. Harry and Ron had already escaped it appeared.

She saw them and screamed, “Hurry!”

Draco turned his head to look behind him for a moment, seeing how much time he had. 

The Fiendfyre was right there.

A burning hawk made of molten fury dove straight at them—and with a grunt he charged through the doorway just as it struck the wall behind him, exploding in a detonation of heat and fury.

The door slammed shut.

He dumped Theo off his back and dropped to his knees, palms slapping onto the floor. 

The sound of coughing, gasping, other bodies hitting the ground in exhaustion.

Hermione dropped beside Draco, clutching his shoulders to push him back onto his haunches, checking for burns, for blood, for breath.

“I told you to be safe,” she whispered shakily.

He cracked a weak grin. “I told you I wouldn’t break my promise”

The air shifted .

A coldness swept through the ruined corridor like a gust of wind through a crypt. Magic stirred in Draco’s blood that felt wrong, invasive, dark .

Then the voice came.

“ You have fought valiantly… but in vain. ”

Voldemort’s voice was not shouted, it didn’t need to be. It slithered through stone and fire and bone. It curled into their minds.

Draco stiffened.

Hermione tensed her hands on his shoulders and he pulled her closer, shielding her body with his own before he even realized what he was doing.

Her fingers dug into his robes.

“I do not wish this. Every drop of magical blood spilled is a waste. If you do not step forward… if you do not give me Harry Potter… then all of you will die. One by one.”

The voice rang out like a death sentence.

Draco’s spine shivered. It wasn’t just fear. It was recognition . That voice belonged to the creature who had broken him. Who had ruined his family. The monster who had taken everything and called it loyalty.

“ Harry Potter… you have one hour. Come to me in the Forbidden Forest… and no one else needs to die. ”

Silence fell like ash.

Then a cough. A groan. 

The Weasel predictably spoke up. “He’s bluffing. Right? He’s trying to scare us.”

Harry didn’t answer.

He sat several feet away, his wand limp at his side, and Elder wand by the other. His face was pale. Haunted.

Hermione sat up, still pressed against Draco’s side. “Harry…”

He didn’t look at her. His eyes were fixed somewhere far beyond the castle walls.

“I know what I have to do.”

“No.” Hermione’s voice cracked, and she tried to rise but Draco tugged her closer. “No, Harry—”

“Hermione–” Harry stood up, bending down to collect the wands.

“No!”

Draco looked up, jaw clenched. “You’re not seriously thinking of giving yourself up ?”

“If I don’t… more people will die.”

“They’ll die anyway.” Draco snapped. “You think he keeps his promises? You’ve seen what he does to people. To their families.”

“You don’t understand—”

“I understand enough,” Draco growled, letting go of Hermione and moving to stand up. He extended a hand to her but kept his gaze focused on Harry. “You’re walking out there to be slaughtered.”

Silence again.

Then Harry looked at Hermione. “You know I have to.”

Tears clung to her lashes, but she nodded, barely.

Draco’s fists clenched. “Unbelievable,” he muttered, turning away. “Bloody Gryffindors and their martyr complexes.”

Theo leaned against the wall, arms crossed, but his face was grim. “If we’re down to our last hour, maybe we ought to make it count.”

The hour had begun.

Harry had turned and walked away without another word. Not dramatically. Not heroically. 

Just… gone. 

His silhouette slipped into the smoke and shadows that still clung to the ruined halls like ghosts.

No one stopped him.

They simply watched.

Now, the corridors echoed with footsteps as the survivors moved through the remains of what had once been their school. Rubble littered the floors. Blood dried in cracks. Smoke curled from broken stones.

Draco walked beside Hermione and Theo, silent but alert, one hand twitching toward his wand more often than not.

Up ahead, charred portraits wept quietly in their frames.

The Death Eaters had retreated having been called back by Voldemort's hissed command like serpents slithering into the trees. The halls were no longer battlegrounds, but morgues.

Ron stalked a few paces ahead, shoulders tense, boots crunching over fallen glass.

He turned suddenly, jaw set. “You staying back there with them , then?” he snapped at Hermione, voice sharp.

Hermione startled, then stepped forward but Draco’s hand brushed her arm. A quiet, instinctive stop. He looked down at her with searching and pleading eyes.

She froze.

Ron scoffed. “Right. Of course.”

He stormed off, muttering something incoherent under his breath, disappearing around a fallen archway.

Hermione exhaled shakily, eyes shining, but didn’t move to follow. Her voice was small. “He’s scared.”

Draco didn’t reply. He didn’t have it in him to care what Weasley felt. He gently wrapped his arm around her shoulder, bringing her closer to his side. He tried to bring a sense of comfort, but selfishly he was glad Ron had walked away.

Theo kicked a few pieces of rubble out of their path with a sharp clatter and muttered, “So that’s it then. The Boy Who Lived walks off to die, and we’re meant to wait around and clap when it’s done.”

He tried for a smirk, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

Hermione glanced at him, frowning.

Theo grimaced and his tone dropped, quiet and bitter, like something he hadn't meant to say out loud. “Maybe the good guys really do lose this time.”

They walked in silence after that.

Pillars crumbled around them. The air still carried the scent of ash and grief.

Nearing what was The Great Hall there were faint cries and pleas of devastation floating into existence and Draco’s stomach churned. 

Pathetically enough, he wanted to fall into what was safe and Occlude but as he looked at his best mate who looked haunted and the witch at his side who looked wrecked by anguish, he couldn’t bring himself to talk the cowards way out. 

If they were going to feel their emotions to the fullest, he would force himself to do the same. 

Theo moved a couple steps in front of them and stopped.

Draco stumbled for a moment and a line creased between his brows.

“You two have already wasted enough time not being together.” Theo said simply.

Draco blinked and Hermione’s breath hitched, almost on a sob.

Theo’s eyes widened, “No- shit.” He dragged a hand though his unruly curls and let out a long sigh. “That came out wrong, I meant that we don’t know what is about to happen.” He gave Draco a pointed look that made him shift uncomfortably. 

Of course he was right. 

With Potter doing the noble thing and sacrificing himself, it was clear they were in for a lifetime under Voldemort’s reign. 

Which meant once again, his time with her had been nothing more than a snippet of false placed hope. 

Theo nodded once it seemed that Draco had caught on and smiled weakly, “I am going to go find Blaise and Parks, you two spend whatever time we have left, somewhat free, together.”

Hermione’s shoulders had begun to shake and he looked down to see her crying, his heart clenched.

He mouthed, Thank you, once again to Theo before he had disappeared into The Great Hall.

“Granger?” Draco asked quietly, moving in front of her. 

She kept her gaze focused on her feet as heavy droplets of tears streaked quickly down her face.

Draco stepped closer, one hand hovering in the air like he wasn’t sure how to comfort her when he felt broken himself.

“Hermione.” Her name left him soft and cracked. It felt too delicate for the rubble-strewn world around them.

Still, she didn’t look up.

Her shoulders shook harder, silent cries rippling through her like an aftershock. Her fists clenched at her sides, nails digging into her palms.

He reached for her then, no longer tentative. His hands found her arms, then slid slowly up until he cupped her face. Gently, like she might break.

“Look at me,” he whispered.

She did. Eventually. Her eyes were red-rimmed, lashes wet. Raw. He used the pads of his thumbs to brush whatever tears he could from her face. 

Still amidst the destruction surrounding them, she was beautiful. 

“I’m scared,” she said. The words slipped out like a confession, small and broken.

“Me too,” he admitted. “But I’m here, for now at least.”

And then she was in his arms, folding into him like the space had always been made for her. He held her tightly, burying his face in her hair, breathing her in like it might anchor him.

Around them, the world was quiet, save for the distant weeping and soft crackle of fire still smoldering in a far-off corridor.

“Whatever happens,” she whispered, “thank you. For finding me in all of this.”

His grip tightened. “I promised.”

They stood like that for a long moment. Like it was just the two of them in a quiet hollow of time. The castle around them broken. Their friends scattered. A war still roaring on the horizon.

His emotions were rapid firing between full blown panic and grief. Grieving over the time he had already lost, and the time he inevitably was going to lose. 

He took a deep breath and let his words flow out of him like a riptide that he couldn’t stop.

“I’m sorry for not telling you how I felt sooner. I was too blind to see it. Too lost in the depths of my mind.” 

She clung onto him tighter, and his heart was hammering in his chest threatening to take him out with the undercurrent of his anxieties building.

“In another life, I would have properly courted you. A life where there wasn’t all of this destruction and ruin. I would have taken you out on dates properly, and spoiled you rotten,” he let out a bitter laugh and he blew out a harsh breath as he felt his own tears begin to gather. “If Potter truly is gone, I will be forced to maintain my miserable excuse for a life but it doesn’t mean I wont try my hardest to protect you even from afar.” 

She let out a gasp, and her cries seemed to grow stronger. He rubbed soothing circles on her back and let his own tears fall freely. 

“If some miracle happens and Potter survives,” his voice cracked but he didn’t care, he continued on while he still could. “I will be sent to Azkaban for my standing in this war, regardless if I wanted this life or not.” 

She pulled back from his grip and tilted her head up to look him in the eyes, “You didn’t do anything wrong, that’s not fair.” 

He gave her a pointed look and pursed his lips, “You know that isn’t true.” He tucked a loose curl behind her ear and brushed his thumb gently along her cheekbone. 

“I don’t know what this thing between us is but I know what it can’t be,” his eyes screwed shut tightly, trying to find some composure. “You deserve a normal life and as much as I wish it could be with me, you deserve happiness. You deserve peace.” 

“Stop saying goodbye to me, Draco. Stop doing this.” 

He cupped her face fully, gently, in both of his hands and gave her a somber smile, “You are the most brilliant witch I know, Hermione Granger. You know I am right.” 

“I am going to fight for you, one way or another. Surely you realize–”

He leaned down and firmly pressed his lips against hers, he couldn’t handle what she was trying to say. 

His fate had been determined for him awhile ago, and either way it would be a lose-lose situation for him. 

A scream echoed down the corridor, cracking through the silence like lightning.

“Who is that?” Ginny’s voice shrill and horrified cut through the smoke and sobs.

The sound shattered the fragile moment between them.

Hermione jolted at the noise, the kiss still lingering like a bruise, but Draco didn’t let go. He caught her hand, lacing their fingers tightly together.

“Come on,” he said quietly. His voice was steadier than he felt. “We need to see.”

Their footsteps quickened, crunching over glass and gravel, the wails of the wounded growing louder. The dim halls gave way to fractured stone steps, and then they were outside.

Smoke drifted in the cool air like ghosts rising.

The courtyard was flooded with people; students, professors, Order members, survivors, all drawn to the same dreadful pull.

And then they saw it.

A line of Death Eaters standing triumphant.

Bellatrix’s smile stretched far too wide.

Narcissa, pale and silent.

Fenrir, bloodstained and snarling.

And at the center was Voldemort. Serpentine and terrible, arms raised like a conductor about to bring down the final, fatal note.

To his side, Hagrid stood with eyes that looked haunted. Eyes that held memories he would never forget. In his arms was a lifeless body. 

Hermione’s hand gripped Draco’s tighter. Her breath left her in a broken sound.

“Harry,” she whispered.

Gasps rippled through the crowd.

Voldemort’s voice rang out, eerily magnified. “Harry Potter... is dead.” He let out a triumphant laugh, swaying side to side with glee that was revolting.

A collective cry of anguish and disbelief rose from the survivors. Ginny screamed. McGonagall staggered forward, held back only by Flitwick.

Draco's heart twisted violently in his chest. Hermione was shaking beside him. And yet he couldn’t look away.

Because it couldn’t be true.

Because if it was true…

Then the good guys had truly lost.

Draco felt like he couldn’t breathe. 

Not really.

Not with Potter— Harry —lying motionless in Hagrid’s arms like the world’s last hope had been extinguished.

He didn’t even realize how hard he was gripping Hermione’s hand until she winced.

“Sorry,” he murmured, voice barely audible.

She didn’t let go.

Voldemort’s voice slithered through the crowd again, snake-smooth and mocking.
“You see now that resistance is futile. Your champion is gone. There is no shame in survival. Join me, and you will be spared. Stand against me, and you will be destroyed.”

Silence. Heavy. Suffocating.

Then there was movement.

A lone figure stepped forward from the Gryffindor cluster. Stumbling at first, then straightening. The crowd seemed to part around him like water.

Longbottom.

Draco blinked, almost incredulous. The boy who had once melted cauldrons and tripped over his own robes now walked straight toward Voldemort, his face pale but set with determination.

“Fucking hell,” Theo breathed somewhere behind him. “He’s actually doing it.”

Hermione’s breath caught.

Even Voldemort stilled. “And who might you be?” he asked, mockingly polite.

Neville didn’t flinch. “Neville Longbottom,” he said, voice surprisingly steady. “And I have something I would like to say.”

Something hot and sharp surged through Draco’s chest. He didn’t recognize it at first. It wasn’t hope. Not quite.

 It was something messier. Something like envy laced with awe. Because Neville , the nobody and the afterthought, had made a choice in front of everyone. A brave, impossible choice.

Draco wondered, briefly, what it would have been like to have that kind of courage months ago.

Voldemort laughed, the sound high and chilling. “So eager to die with your friends?”

Neville didn’t answer.

Voldemort turned his head, thoughtful. “A pity. Such spirit, wasted. Perhaps another example is required—”

His wand began to rise.

And that’s when everything shattered.

Harry Potter slipped from Hagrid’s arms and hit the ground with a thud that echoed across the courtyard.

Gasps broke the air like cracks in glass.

He rolled onto his stomach, then pushed himself shakily to his feet. Dirt smeared across his face, blood drying at the corner of his mouth but he was unmistakably alive.

A ripple of confusion surged through the Death Eaters. Murmurs. Shouts.

Voldemort’s eyes widened, and for the first time, Draco saw something close to fear ripple across that inhuman face.

And then chaos exploded.

Spells erupted in a sudden barrage, streaking red and gold and green across the smoke-choked sky. 

Screams. 

Flashes. 

The ground shuddered beneath the weight of magic.

Draco didn’t have time to think. He had his wand out in a heartbeat, the other hand still tangled with Hermione’s.

“Stay with me,” he said, voice low and fierce. “Don’t let go.”

She nodded, eyes burning with fury. 

The courtyard became a war zone, once again.

A blast to their left sent stone flying. Draco shielded them with a practiced Protego , wand spinning reflexively. 

Across the courtyard, Theo’s wild eyes caught his. His best mate looked unhinged, almost exhilarated while darting through the fight like it was some macabre game, curses flying from both hands.

Draco’s heart pounded, but there was no time to process it.

Voldemort’s shriek tore across the air. He launched spell after spell toward Harry, but Harry  deflected each one, the Elder Wand crackling with power in his grip.

That’s it , Draco realized. That’s the wand. He’s using the wand.

And it was answering him.

The tide was turning.

If he had a moment to exist he would have almost experienced excitement while in a state of disbelief but the chaos of the environment was too lively.

Some Death Eaters fled instantly, disapparating in loud cracks of desperation.

Lucius was among them.

Draco watched his father stumble back, pale and wide-eyed, before vanishing into the smoke like a ghost.

Coward. 

Always a coward when it counted.

But Narcissa did not run.

She emerged through the haze, her dueling robes blood-spattered, eyes locked on her son. “Draco,” she called, and he turned just in time to see her raise her wand and take down a Death Eater lunging behind him.

She moved to his side like she belonged there, facing the storm beside him, her hand briefly finding his shoulder, her eyes fierce.

“I’m with you,” she said.

It undid him a little, again utterly at a loss of words, but there was no time to fall apart.

Bellatrix screamed across the courtyard, launching curses at everything that moved, cackling with madness until she turned towards Ginny Weasley.

Their duel ignited like a firestorm.

Draco couldn’t watch it all. Hermione was pulling him, they were fighting together. His spells were clean, precise. He took down a masked figure aiming at a cluster of first-years. Another trying to corner McGonagall. 

Endless names hurled at him— traitor, disgrace, blood-traitor scum —bounced off like sparks against armor.

He didn’t care.

This was the side he should have chosen months ago.

Then Bellatrix screamed, feral almost, one final time. A sickening crunch before shards of her split into the air. Silence in her wake.

Molly Weasley stood, chest heaving, wand raised, victorious.

Draco blinked.

That was something he had never seen before. He was certain he had almost seen it all.

In the center of it all there was Harry.

He and Voldemort stood in the middle of it all, solely focused on one another.

Draco’s grip on Hermione’s hand was bloodless.

“Finish it,” he whispered under his breath. “Please. Finish it.”

It felt as if time had ceased to exist as a concept, almost moving in slow motion.

A final clash of green and red.

Red drew nearer and nearer to Voldemort until he turned to ash.

Literal ash.

Voldemort was gone.

Truly gone.

And the courtyard stilled.

The silence was unbearable.

Just ragged breathing. The clatter of a single wand hitting stone.

A few remaining Death Eaters turned and Disapparated, leaving behind only the wounded, the fallen, and the broken pieces of the night.

Draco exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. His legs trembled beneath him. He felt Hermione press into his side, and he wrapped his arm around her, burying his face in her hair.

Blaise, Pansy, and Theo had drawn closer, drifting toward them like moths to flame. They held each other in a tight, exhausted embrace. Draco met their gazes for only a second, grief and relief mirrored back at him.

Adrenaline surged through him, his breaths turning ragged, chest heaving. He pulled back slightly, searching Hermione’s eyes before scanning her for injuries.

She gave him a tired smile, and his heart fluttered.

His breathing slowed. It was as if she alone had the power to still the chaos.

He cupped her face gently and leaned in to kiss her—soft and slow, then again, in a series of quick, aching pecks, as if reassuring himself that she was real, that they were here, and alive.

A small hand rubbed circles against his back.

He gave Hermione a quiet, genuine smile before turning half around.

“Mother,” he breathed, arms releasing Hermione to pull Narcissa into his embrace. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

“I’m just glad you’re safe,” she whispered, wrapping her arms tightly around him. “You don’t need to thank me, Draco.”

He pulled back and saw something he hadn’t seen in her in months or maybe longer. A real smile. Warm. Steady. Human.

The broken parts of him trembled, unsure what to do with the hope trying to stitch them back together.

Hermione met his eyes one last time before running toward Harry, who had collapsed under the weight of what he’d just done. Her absence was immediate. Like cold air rushing in.

“Draco Malfoy and Narcissa Malfoy?”

Draco froze.

He turned and was met with a line of Aurors closing in. Their expressions were tight, unreadable. The badges on their robes gleamed in the low light.

His heart plummeted.

He knew this was coming. Naively, he didn’t think it would be so soon. 

Bloody vultures.

Theo roared behind them, thrashing against the grip of another Auror. “Bloody cowards! Where were you when this was all going to shit?! Now you’re here?” He spat at their boots, kicking wildly.

“You are being detained for your activity as a Death Eater,” one of the Aurors stated coolly. “You will receive a fair trial. If you do not have a solicitor, one will be appointed for you.”

Two of them stepped forward. Draco moved without thinking, shoving his mother behind him.

“She wasn’t involved in anything!” he snapped, voice cracking with emotion. “My mother didn’t hurt anyone! She saved Potter and she lied to the Dark Lord to do it ! ”

His breath hitched. 

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.

He could feel it slipping away.

Hermione’s voice rang out suddenly. “Wait—wait, stop! He helped us!” she cried, rushing back. Her eyes were wild, frantic. “Draco fought for us. He—he turned against them. You saw it! Everyone saw it!”

Her hand caught his arm. He felt the desperation in her touch.

One of the Aurors hesitated, eyes flickering between them.

“Please,” she said, her voice cracking. “You don’t understand! He doesn’t deserve to be dragged off like this.”

Draco looked at her. Really looked at her.

She was flushed, trembling, eyes full of fire.

Beautiful.

“Hermione,” he whispered, the ghost of a smile brushing his lips. “It’s okay.”

The words lodged like a blade in his throat.

The Aurors seized his arms.

He didn’t resist.

“Draco—no!” Hermione reached for him again, but he was already being pulled away. Narcissa moved beside him, head high, her expression unreadable.

Theo was still shouting in the background. Blaise looked stunned. Pansy was crying silently.

Draco looked back one last time, memorizing the way Hermione stood in the rubble, fists clenched, eyes red and shining.

Then he disappeared into the smoke.

End of Part One: Choices Lost

Chapter Text

Cold.

If there was one word to describe Draco’s predicament it would be cold. 

Azkaban was dark, dreary, and chilling to the core. 

He wasn’t sure how long he had been stuck in this cycle of hell where days had bled into weeks that had ultimately bled into months. 

He was told he would be given a fair trial but it had been ages since his arrest.

At least it felt like it. 

He was allowed one hour out of his cell everyday but most days he didn’t utilize it. Didn’t feel like there was a reason when the outside of the cell held the same empty and cold confines that his cell provided. 

The smallest of benefits of his designated hour out of his cell was when Theo was held in the cell next to him. They would take turns taking residence in front of each other’s cell and talking about whatever they could think of. 

But as the days bled together and nothing had changed in their predicament, there wasn’t much more to say. 

It was nice sometimes to just sit down on the cold, hard ground and just be in each other’s presence. Silent companionship at its finest. 

That was until Theo had completely lost it.

Merlin knows, Draco couldn’t really blame him. 

It had become harder and harder to keep their mouths shut as the days passed, especially when there were guards just waiting for one wrong word to come out of their mouths. 

Finally Theo had snapped. 

He wasn’t sure how long ago it had happened, but it felt like a lifetime.

Theo had lashed out and pleaded for more humane treatment and that they were still human beings.

Suffice to say that didn’t go over well with the guards monitoring them. They had more than eagerly carted him out to solitary confinement where dementors were a lot more present for monitoring behavior. 

When he wasn’t in a trance like state, his mind would float to thoughts of Theo and hoping that he was okay. He wouldn’t allow himself to dwell too long on the thought as he didn’t know if he could handle it if he wasn’t. 

Finding different ways to pass the time had been difficult. 

He didn’t really think of himself as someone who was necessarily creative per say but he had to come up with different things he could do to try to pass the time. 

He had exactly seven metal bars on his cell, 12 ceiling tiles, and 43 different cracks that were embedded into the concrete flooring of his cell. Counting had become a hobby of his.

Crazy, right?

Something as mundane and simple as counting things that never changed had been a way to pass time for him. 

He had begun working out in his cell as a way of calming down his anxieties. Occluding was barely a habit he could maintain anymore so it became second nature to exercise instead. 

He had beat his personal best today and was able to complete 100 pushups and 100 situps in quick succession. He was very proud of that. 

They had taken his wand away from him and there was some sort of shield that dulled magical capabilities for those who were skilled in wandless magic like Draco was.

He didn’t realize that magic had a certain feel until he was stripped of it. 

When he focused hard enough, really focused, he could produce the smallest bit of wandless magic so when it happened he knew he had to make it count. 

He would use his limited magical ability to warm up the poor excuse of food that he received or if he had let his mind run rampant for a bit longer than he should have, particularly with thoughts of her, he would use it to cast a quick ‘Scourgify’ on himself. 

More times than not, it would end up being used as the latter.

It usually started the same way, mostly innocent. A flicker of her voice in his head. The way she used to say his name when she was irritated with him but with that softening at the end, the way her lips curled, like she didn’t really mean it.

Draco exhaled slowly, his hand already slipping beneath the waistband of his loose prison-issued trousers. He palmed himself lazily at first, just to take the edge off. But the image of her refused to stay gentle.

He remembered the curve of her waist, how she’d tucked her legs beneath herself when they studied, the way her blouse would ride up just enough for his mind to fill in the rest. His hips shifted involuntarily at the memory.

There were the few kisses they had shared, the softness of her lips and the smallest gasp she let out when he kissed her for the first time.  

Merlin, the way it felt to have her body pressed up against him should be considered downright criminal. 

His breath hitched as he stroked himself harder, thumb swiping over the head where precum had already gathered. He imagined her moaning his name, imagined her nails digging into his back, imagined her saying “don’t stop, Draco” with that heady little gasp she gave when she was flustered.

His hips jerked upward into his hand, his mind painting her beneath him—writhing, needy, whispering that she wanted all of him, even the broken parts.

He bit his lip to muffle a groan as heat surged down his spine. His free hand fisted the thin blanket beneath him, muscles tense, back arching with every pass of his palm.

He was close.

So close.

He thought of her coming apart under his mouth, of her thighs trembling, of the way he imagined her eyes would flutter closed when he whispered how fucking beautiful she was.

And then release.

It hit him hard, wrung out of him with a strangled sound as his seed spilled hot over his hand and stomach. His chest heaved, body trembling with the effort to stay quiet, not that anyone was listening.

He lay there in the aftermath, arm flung over his eyes again, the air already cooling sticky skin. Shame lingered faintly around the edges, but mostly it was the ache. The ache of being alone. Of not knowing when, or if, he’d see her again.

He had only just been able to kiss the witch. He should’ve known that once he got a taste, he would selfishly want more. 

It was almost a craving that he knew would not be fulfilled until he had her again. 

Although, unfortunately, he was unsure how long he would be stuck in Azkaban and wouldn’t hold it against her if she found someone. Even if it ended him.

She deserved a free man to cherish her like how he wished he could. Wished he would’ve done it when he had the ability. 

There was next to no perks of holding the ‘Malfoy’ name anymore besides the money.  Most of it had been seized by the Ministry so even that wasn’t that great anymore but he thankfully had enough to buy stationary supplies and hygiene kits. 

The hygiene kits were subpar at best. Draco couldn’t tell if it was due to the murky water he was forced to shower in or if it was just that piss poor quality of the items that were available. 

It made him realize how good he had it in life and how much he had taken for granted now that he had to carefully budget his spending to just exist while incarcerated. 

The stationary supplies helped the most out of anything. 

When he wasn’t spending his time counting the dimensions of his cell, he would draw to his heart's content. He wasn’t exactly sure what the standard was for doodling but he was quite sure that he had become quite the expert at it.

He was so used to using a quill and inkpot that getting used to the positioning of the flexible safety pens had taken some time. 

He tried to stay away from documenting his feelings on paper. He knew that every piece of mail that came in or out of Azkaban was being monitored. They also did cell searches at random and the last thing Draco wanted to give people was something to laugh at. 

He wasn’t allowed any visitors and mail only came once every two weeks. It was the only thing he had left to look forward to. That was if the guards weren’t on their own rampage and withholding his mail from him.

Draco was certain that on weeks that he didn’t have any mail come to him, it was simply because the guards had destroyed it or were too lazy to bring it to him. He was certain that it had to be illegal in some shape or form. 

Either way, it made time go by a lot slower when he didn’t receive mail. 

He wasn’t exactly the most popular bloke out there, especially now that his status as a Death Eater had been publicized anywhere and everywhere. Regardless of how he had behaved during the Battle of Hogwarts and how he had attempted to change the tide, he was still treated like he was nothing more than a man with a mark that damned him. 

Pansy had written to him a few times during the first few months. She had expressed her deepest apologies over and over again. She would keep him updated with how everything was going on the outside and had begun to take care of his House Elves in the absence of any presence at his house. Eventually the letters stopped coming and Draco had believed it was because there was nothing left to say.

Blaise had been in contact at first as well. Another string of apologies was sent his way but he often would just go on about his new life he had built. The communication had stayed consistent for awhile but even those had died out after some time had passed. 

There was only one person who remained consistent in their contact with him or at least as consistent as the guards would allow. 

Hermione Jean Granger.

If there was one person in his life that he had dared to hope to receive correspondence from it would have been her. 

He would have never expected that after all of this time she would be the one person to remain consistent in his life. 

He couldn’t express his gratitude enough.

There simply weren’t enough words or words he was comfortable saying while knowing that his letters were being monitored. 

He hoped she still wanted him the way he wanted her. 

He had once been an individual that was confident in his ability of knowing a witch wanted his attention, but Granger wasn’t just any witch. 

He almost missed it—tucked beneath the limp excuse of dinner the guard had shoved through the hatch without comment. He only noticed the pale parchment once he’d dumped the tray and caught a glimpse of ink. His heart kicked once. Then again.

Hermione.

He didn’t dare touch it at first. Just stared. The way her neat script curved across the front like it hadn’t been scrutinized by Ministry eyes. He wondered if she spelled her letters now, if she wrote in code, in case someone tried to weaponize her words against him. Against her.

Carefully, reverently, he picked it up, cradling it in his hands like it might vanish.

He didn’t open it right away. He just…held it. For a few long minutes. Let the presence of it sit heavy in his chest, like warmth trying to remember what it felt like to live in a place so cold.

Her handwriting was still the same. Precise. Assured. The ‘D’ in his name had the smallest, most delicate flourish.

Everytime he opened a letter of hers he was struck with a fear it would be her saying she had found someone or come to her blasted senses and understood that he could never amount to the man she deserved. Not from behind bars at least. 

Malfoy, Draco #157924144

He grimaced looking at the number next to his name, ashamed that this is what his life had come to. 

His fingers shook when he moved to break the seal but saw it had already been opened. The few bites of dinner he had managed to swallow churned violently in his stomach. 

Stupid protocols. 

He sighed and dug into the envelope and opened the folded letter carefully.

Draco,

I hope this reaches you. I have sent two others recently but haven’t received a response so I am assuming that you either got tired of me or if they are once again withholding your correspondence. The thought of them sitting unread, or worse, destroyed makes me furious. I am not sure what I am allowed to say without getting you in trouble or cause them to withhold it so I will keep it simple this time.

I’m thinking of you. Every day.

Godric knows I should be embarrassed to be admitting that, but it’s the truth. 

You haven’t been forgotten. 

So don’t you dare sit there and let your anxieties crush you, Draco Malfoy. 

The ministry still won’t let me see you which is a whole other issue that I have been battling with them about. I’ve filed petitions. I’ve contacted Kingsley directly. Nothing has worked yet but I’ll keep trying. I won’t stop. 

I hope you’re still drawing. You once told me it helped you cope. Maybe one day you’ll let me see the things you have made. 

Take care of yourself, Draco. Please.

Even when it is hard. 

Sincerely yours, if that is okay to say, 

Hermione J. Granger

P.S. - If my other letters didn’t make it to you, I’ll say it again. Happy Belated Birthday Draco.

He didn’t realize he was crying until a tear hit the page and blurred her name.

He folded it carefully, too carefully, and tucked it into the side of his thin mattress like it was something sacred. Like it was the only thing in this hell that belonged to him.

Then he curled onto his side and stared at the wall, heart pounding with something suspiciously like hope. It was awful. Dangerous. Addictive.

Even he had forgotten about his birthday, and yet she had remembered. 

It was hard to know what day it was.

How long ago was his birthday?

It stung slightly knowing that not another one of the people in his life had written to him 

Maybe the guards had withheld the letters? 

As the saying goes, ignorance is bliss. 

Maybe it was okay to pretend. Pretend that life for his friends had stopped the way his had the day of the Battle of Hogwarts. 

Draco couldn’t sleep. 

He had run out of different things to count in his room and nothing had helped the rampant way his mind was churning thought after thought in quick succession. 

He groaned and scrubbed a hand across his face before standing up, stretching his arms over his head. He twisted side to side but the kinks in his back wouldn’t budge. 

He flicked on the poor excuse of a cell light and sat cross-legged on the floor, parchment propped against the back of an old hygiene kit box, the stub of his pencil resting between his fingers.

He’d rewritten the opening line six times.

Too cold. Too sincere. Too…him.

Eventually, he smirked bitterly and scrawled:

Granger,

Against all odds, I’m still alive. Shocking, I know.

Even more shocking? This time, they let your letter through. Either they’re growing sentimental or they’re hoping your handwriting will break my spirit before the dementors do.

He paused, tapping the pen against the page. It was running fairly low on ink but he would stretch it out as much as he could. 

Especially for her.

He dabbed the pen to his tongue and grimaced at the bitter taste. He leaned back against the stone wall, letting the ache in his shoulders settle before continuing.

I’m not really sure what to say that won’t be intercepted, mocked, or possibly used in a training pamphlet titled: “What Not To Do in Post-War Rehabilitation.” But I’ll try anyway. Because it’s you.

You asked if I was still drawing. I am. And because I have no sense of pride left, I’m sending you one. Just try not to frame it—unless it’s to frighten off unwanted suitors.

(If it smudges, blame the Ministry’s budget cuts. These colored safety pens could barely survive a Remedial Potions class.)

He reached beside him, lifting the folded sheet he’d spent hours on.

It was the top half of her face—just her eyes. He hadn’t trusted himself to draw the whole thing. Her mouth would have undone him. Her smile.

But her eyes, he’d tried. Poured himself into every tiny stroke. Used the light brown to soften the edges of her irises, then layered in flecks of yellow in a poor attempt to imitate the gold in her eyes the best he could. It wasn’t right but he did what he could with what he had.

He added, below his letter:

P.S. I tried to get the color right, but as it turns out, no Ministry-approved supply kit contains the shade of light you get in your eyes when you're about to correct someone with a three-paragraph lecture and a smile.

P.P.S. Consider this my way of proving I think about you more than is probably appropriate for an inmate.

P.P.P.S. If anyone official is reading this: hello. Please enjoy my subpar sketch and know that no sedition was intended. Though if you must punish someone, I suggest whoever’s responsible for the soap. That’s the real crime here.

He hesitated with his signature. Then, in deliberately neat strokes, signed:

Yours (truly),

Draco.

He folded the letter around the drawing and sealed it with trembling hands. It was a pointless act, knowing that it was going to be opened before it even left the facility but the normalcy felt nice. 

She might never receive it. She might. That was the torture of hope in a place like this.

But if she did, if she held that parchment and saw what he couldn’t say out loud, then maybe it would be worth every ache of missing her.

He didn’t remember crawling into the poor excuse for a bed, but he must have at some point.

He was woken—quite rudely—by the sound of metal striking metal, bars rattling in rapid succession like a warning shot.

He groaned and sat up, blinking against the dim light, eyes squinting to make out the blurred figure on the other side of the cell.

“Can I help you?” he muttered, voice rough with sleep and disuse.

Bastards.

“No, you can’t help, Death Eater scum,” came the sneer. The guard sucked in a sharp breath, like it pained him to continue. “You’ve got a professional visit. I’m here to escort you.”

Draco scoffed under his breath.

He’d been rotting in here for Merlin only knew how long, and this was the first time someone had asked to see him?

“Let me fix my appearance. One minute,” he sighed, tossing the threadbare covers off himself and slowly pulling his legs over the edge of the bed.

The guard laughed, a grating bark of a sound. “Not sure why you’re bothering. You look like shit regardless.”

Draco clenched his jaw so tightly he swore he heard something crack. The bastard wanted him to lash out. They always did. Give them a reason, and they’d take a week off your rations in return. He said nothing.

Instead, he yanked his thin shirt over his head and stepped toward the bars.

The metal chute clanged open with a sharp snap. Draco let out a humorless laugh.

“Hands, inmate,” the guard barked.

Draco moved to offer them forward, but the voice rose in volume. “Oi! What do you think you’re doing? Hands behind your back for transport, Death Eater.”

His lip caught between his teeth, and the tang of blood bloomed across his tongue. He bit down harder to keep his mouth shut.

He drew his arms back into the cell and turned, placing his wrists behind him. He was taller than most—certainly taller than this troll—and the positioning didn’t make much logistical sense.

He cleared his throat. “How, exactly, am I meant to fit my hands through the chute if it’s been installed at goblin height?”

The guard snarled. “Like this.”

A rough hand shot through the opening, seizing Draco’s wrists and yanking them up at a sharp angle.

His back slammed into the bars with a solid clang , knocking the air from his lungs. The metal bit into his arms, and he bent at the knees, jaw clenched against a sound that threatened to escape.

A hand pressed against the middle of his back and shoved.

Draco stumbled forward, catching himself with a sharp inhale. He turned his head to shoot the guard a scowl but ultimately bit his tongue. No point. He was far too eager to see another human face— anyone other than these walking sacks of cruelty in uniform.

With a tap of his wand, the guard unlocked the gate. The screech of the metal scraping open against the stone sent a shudder down Draco’s spine. It sounded like bones being dragged.

“Move,” the guard snapped, waving him forward.

Draco stepped through the threshold and was immediately seized. The man’s fingers clamped around his elbow, yanking him forward with a jolt.

He clicked his tongue in irritation, forcing himself to focus on his breathing.

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.

The corridor was dim and quiet—eerily so. They passed shuttered cells, each one humming with magic and silence. No one spoke. Even the torches seemed subdued, their flames barely flickering.

And then there was noise.

At the far end of the corridor, footsteps echoed in sharp, dragging thuds. Another pair of guards emerged, hauling someone between them.

Blood was smeared across his face.

It took Draco a beat too long to recognize him. His head was lowered, shirt torn, his mouth stained crimson from a steady trickle down his nose.

Theo.

Draco stopped walking.

Theo looked up, grinning like a madman. His lip was split and his eye was already darkening to a bruise, but the look he gave Draco was full of twisted, familiar fire. 

It was the kind of grin he wore in sixth year when he’d hexed Crabbe’s eyebrows off and acted like it was an accident.

“Drake,” Theo drawled, voice rough, “Fancy seeing you here. Looks like we’re both getting the five-star tour.”

Draco’s heart slammed against his ribs. He took a step forward before he even realized it.

“Watch it, inmate.” The guard snarled and shoved Draco’s shoulder, slamming him against the wall with a deafening crack. Cold stone kissed his cheek. “One more step out of line and you’ll be heading to solitary instead of your precious professional visit.”

Theo was still smiling, even as his guards dragged him toward his cell.

“Don’t get soft on me now, Draco,” he called out, grinning through bloodied teeth. “Wouldn’t want to ruin your big day.”

Draco’s hands curled into fists behind his back. His breathing was shallow. Controlled.

He didn’t speak.

Not because he didn’t want to.

But because he couldn’t.

They marched him down another corridor. This one was cleaner, colder somehow, with thick metal doors instead of enchanted bars. A door near the end creaked open as they approached, and the guard gestured him inside.

It was a barren room: stone walls, a table bolted to the floor, and three chairs. A one-way glass window stretched across one wall, but he could feel the eyes behind it like pinpricks against his skin.

The guard pushed him forward.

“No sudden moves,” he growled, and moved to uncuff him only to immediately seize Draco’s left wrist and slam it down against the metal table.

The enchanted cuff snapped shut so tight around his wrist that Draco hissed.

“That’s your writing hand, isn’t it?” the guard said with a sneer. “Oops.”

He didn’t flinch when the man spat at him. The glob landed near his shoe, viscous and contemptuous.

Draco’s jaw locked.

The door behind them opened.

“I’d watch your conduct, officer,” came a smooth, rich voice. “That’s a Ministry complaint waiting to happen. You’re aware he’s represented now, aren’t you?”

The guard froze mid-step.

Draco blinked at the silhouette in the doorway.

The man stepped forward, the light catching on his sharp cheekbones, tailored robes, and deliberate, feline smile.

“Blaise?” Draco said, disbelieving.

Blaise raised an eyebrow, setting a leather-bound portfolio on the table with an elegant thud. “No warm greeting after all this time?” He smirked faintly, then turned toward the guard. “Uncuff his dominant hand. Now. Or would you like me to summon your supervisor to explain why a pretrial detainee is being shackled like a dog during legal counsel?”

The guard glanced between them, clearly annoyed, then muttered a curse under his breath. With a sharp flick of his wand, the cuff on Draco’s wrist clattered open. It reattached to his non-dominant hand tightly. The guard exited without another word,boots as heavy as his attitude.

Draco flexed his fingers, the joints stiff, the skin pinched and red where the metal had dug in. His jaw remained clenched. “You’re my solicitor?”

“Not officially,” Blaise said smoothly, settling into the seat across from him. “But close enough. I passed the wizarding bar six months ago. Figured I’d put all that Slytherin cunning to good use.”

Draco swallowed hard. “You vanished. I wrote. Multiple times.”

Blaise’s gaze flickered, regret shadowed in his otherwise unreadable features. “I had to.”

Before Draco could demand more, the door creaked open again.

He didn’t breathe.

He couldn’t.

Narcissa Malfoy entered the room like a ghost with a lion’s posture—her chin lifted, her frame thinner than he remembered, and her complexion pale as ever. But her eyes—her eyes still burned. Sharp, worried, alive.

“Draco,” she said, voice soft as silk, but it carved through him like glass.

He stood too fast, his chair screeching against the stone floor.

He’d been sure. Absolutely, unshakably sure, that she was still imprisoned. Maybe worse.

“Mother?” The word cracked like splintered wood in his throat.

She gave him a small, trembling smile and stepped forward slowly, cautiously, like he might bolt or shatter if touched. Her gaze combed over him, visibly cataloging every hollow of his face, every bruise or bend she could see.

He reached for her instinctively but before he could even brush her sleeve, his body was yanked backwards. The chain on his wrist jerked taut, slamming him back into the chair.

His eyes went wide as he twisted, trying to see what had happened.

Behind Blaise, the two-way glass had gone transparent. A guard stared back at them through it, wand to throat.

“No touching, inmate,” the magically amplified voice boomed, sharp as a slap.

Draco sank back in his chair, his face blanking out like a shuttered window.

Narcissa, composed as ever, gave him a tight-lipped smile and sat across from him, folding her hands neatly on the table. Her fingers trembled.

“Are they always one for theatrics?” Blaise asked dryly, brow raised in disdain.

Draco sighed, low and tired. “It’s a magical prison. Comes with the territory.” He gave a one-shouldered shrug, the gesture more defeat than indifference.

Blaise clicked his tongue and leaned back. “All right then. Good news or bad news first?”

Draco’s hands twitched on his thighs. “Bad. Always.”

Blaise glanced toward Narcissa, almost seeking permission. She gave a small nod.

“Right.” Blaise opened the leather portfolio in front of him and slid a parchment toward Draco with a single finger. “Trial starts tomorrow.”

Draco stared at the page like it had insulted him. “Tomorrow?”

His voice pitched in disbelief. For ages there had been nothing. Silence. No dates, no updates, no clues.

And now… tomorrow?

His mouth went dry. “They’re going to give me the kiss,” he said hoarsely. He didn’t look at his mother. He couldn’t. He didn’t want to see the fear he felt mirrored in her face.

Blaise grimaced and gently pulled the parchment back. “No…not the Kiss. Probably not. But they’re aiming for something big. They want to make an example of you.”

Draco’s stomach twisted.

One count of aiding Voldemort in breaching Hogwarts.

One count of using an Unforgivable.

One count of reckless endangerment—Katie Bell, probably.

And one count of attempted murder with an Unforgivable curse.

Draco felt like he was going to be sick. Maybe he did deserve to rot away in his cell. Maybe he deserved a harsh reminder of the choices that were taken away from him and the choices he had made. 

He rubbed his fists into his eyes, already exhausted. “I didn’t cast it,” he whispered. “I didn’t cast the curse.”

“I know,” Blaise said quietly. “But you raised your wand. And to them, that’s the same thing.”

A bitter laugh tore from Draco’s throat. “Of course it is.”

A small sniffle made his head snap up. Narcissa’s shoulders trembled slightly, but her face stayed composed. Still a Malfoy. Still armor.

“We’re doing what we can,” she said, voice steadier than her hands. “There are people Blaise contacted. For your defense. Character witnesses.”

Draco raised a brow, already doubting it. “Not that it matters. No one’s going to come on such short notice. That was the point, wasn’t it? No time for preparation.”

His voice rasped like dry parchment as he leaned forward, chest tightening. “Who did you contact?”

Blaise hesitated, then shut the portfolio slowly. “Granger,” he said. “And Potter.”

Draco blinked.

His heart thudded once—loud, confused, involuntary.

“And Weasley,” Blaise added. “Luna Lovegood. Professor McGonagall. Kingsley. Anyone with a shred of influence who saw you hesitate. Who saw you choose. ”

Draco’s voice dropped to a whisper. “You really think they’ll show?”

Narcissa’s hand crept halfway across the table again—then halted. She didn’t touch him. She didn’t dare. But her voice was clear.

“I think some people have moved past what you did at that tower,” Narcissa said gently. “Even if you haven’t.”

Draco frowned, unsure whether to scoff or believe her. He highly doubted anyone had forgotten. Sure, he’d hesitated. He’d spared Dumbledore. He’d crumbled the moment his mother’s safety was secured by Snape taking over. But he had still opened the door. He had let them in. The moment the castle was breached, everything had begun to unravel. Murders, war, chaos.

The bile rose slowly, sour in the back of his throat. He swallowed it down, barely.

He drew a shaky breath. “And the good news?”

Blaise straightened, the smirk back in his voice. “Well, ‘ta! Your mother is free and fully cleared of all charges.” He gestured broadly toward Narcissa, as if presenting a priceless artifact.

Draco managed a thin smile. “That’s good, Mum. You didn’t deserve to be taken in the first place.”

He reached instinctively across the table, desperate for something to ground him, for the comfort of her hand. But the magical restraint snapped him back like a leash, his palm slapping the table with a dull thud.

“Last warning!” barked the guard through the glass.

“Fuck,” Draco muttered, letting out a bitter laugh. He used his thumb to swipe at the moisture gathering under his eye before it could fall.

“I tried writing to you, my darling,” Narcissa said, her voice hushed as if gentleness might soften the wound. “I’m assuming you never received them?”

Draco’s head snapped up. “H-how long have you been out?” His voice cracked, raw and pleading, but embarrassment didn’t come. Only disbelief.

Her eyebrows furrowed before she masked the expression, slipping back into the composed grace of a Malfoy. “Draco… the battle was nearly a year ago.”

He couldn’t breathe.

“I was released not long after,” she added carefully. “Thanks to Mr. Zabini’s quick maneuvering.”

His mind reeled. A year? He felt like he was going to be sick.

“That doesn’t make sense,” he whispered. “Granger’s letter—she said, ‘Happy Belated Birthday, Draco.’ Surely they haven’t been holding back letters for that long, right?”

At the mention of Hermione, Blaise’s brows lifted but the flicker of curiosity quickly dropped away, replaced with something harder.

Draco’s stomach twisted. A tremor passed through his fingers, and he clenched them into fists to hide it. “What month is it?”

Blaise hesitated. “Mate…”

Draco’s eyes sharpened. “What. Month.”

A grimace tugged at Blaise’s mouth. “March.”

The silence that followed cracked something open inside Draco.

March.

His birthday was in June.

Hermione had said belated. And it was March.

His pulse thundered. His mouth went dry.

“So what is it, then?” he asked hollowly. “The guards—have they been holding my mail? Just—just handing it out when it suits them?”

Neither of them answered. They didn’t need to.

His entire chest constricted as he leaned forward, hands pressed flat against the table. “They’ve been messing with me,” he said quietly, numb. “Keeping me isolated. On purpose.”

Narcissa’s eyes shimmered, but she didn’t deny it.

He had done well, or tried to when it came to withholding his full feelings in letters. The tightness in his chest burned. It was hard to even fathom how much of his correspondence she had actually received. Gods. He just sent out that drawing like a fool. Certainly that would be the guard’s entertainment source for the near future. 

Blaise, for once, looked genuinely uncomfortable. “We’ll look into it. I’ll request an inquiry—”

Draco laughed bitterly. “An inquiry. Sure. I’m sure they’ll get right on that, mate.”

The stone walls of the room suddenly felt closer. Tighter. He could hear his heartbeat in his ears. His memory scrambled, trying to reorder time. Trying to make sense of the gaps. The days that bled into weeks. The months into nothing.

They were playing with him. Twisting the knife slow.

And no one, not even his own mother, had known just how bad it had gotten.

He sat back, the tremor in his hands worsening as he folded them into his lap.

“I didn’t even know what season it was,” he whispered.

Blaise shifted, crossing one leg over the other. “The only other piece of news I have for now is that Theo’s hearing is also tomorrow. To be fair, he looks to be in equally bad condition.”

Draco’s head snapped up, his voice sharp. “Is that supposed to be comforting?”

His anger flared without warning, quick and hot beneath his ribs.

Inhale. Exhale.

His jaw clenched, but the image returned. The way Theo had stumbled past him in the hall before coming here, blood dripping from his nose and that wicked grin. 

“They roughed him up after the visit.” His voice cracked. “I saw him—he was bleeding.”

His hand clenched and unclenched in midair like he couldn’t bear to let the memory settle.

“Draco,” Narcissa said urgently. “Breathe. Focus on the motions. Like we practiced.”

He tried. His chest rose. Fell. Rose again.

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.

Blaise cleared his throat. “Would it be comforting to know your lovely father has also been found and is now behind bars?”

Draco’s eyes narrowed, but Narcissa’s reaction was sharper—her shoulders tensed, and her gaze flicked away.

“Apologies, Narcissa,” Blaise said quickly, inclining his head.

She shook her head once. “No apology needed.” Her voice was quiet, but resolute. “Good riddance.”

Draco’s breathing slowed. He sagged back in the chair, the weight of exhaustion pooling in his bones.

Blaise tapped a finger on the table. “I saved this for last.”

Draco turned toward him slowly, wary. “If it’s more bad news, I swear—”

“It’s not,” Blaise said, his lips curling into something like a smirk. “Granger is practically starting a revolution.”

Draco blinked. His breath caught.

“What?”

“I’m serious,” Blaise said, leaning forward like he couldn’t wait to spill it. “She’s been diplomatically causing havoc. Don’t ask me how—she’s Granger. It’s a talent.”

Draco stared, disbelieving. His pulse had picked up, hammering in his ears.

“She’s telling anyone who’ll listen that you, your mum, and Theo defected before the final battle. She’s fighting to have it on record.”

His throat worked around a lump he hadn’t realized was there.

Blaise continued, “She’s managed to land some position in the Department of Magical Law Reform or Innovation or—I don’t know, something that sounds very Granger-ish—and she’s not being quiet about you.”

A strange pressure bloomed in Draco’s chest. He didn’t know if it was relief or shame or something dangerously close to hope.

“She’s trying,” Blaise said simply. “Really hard.”

Draco couldn’t speak. He couldn’t move. 

The silence stretched long between them. The kind that made your ears ring. Narcissa watched him carefully, like she wasn’t sure if he was going to break apart or finally let himself hope.

But the moment was short-lived.

A loud clang echoed through the room as the door opened once more, the guard returning with his wand raised.

“That’s time.”

Draco swallowed hard and pushed to his feet, though his legs trembled beneath him. He looked at Blaise, then at his mother. He didn’t want to leave. Not yet. Not when there was so much unsaid and so little time left.

Narcissa rose slowly. She looked older than he remembered. Fragile in frame, but no less commanding. She hesitated for only a second before placing a hand flat on the table, not reaching out, not crossing the line. Just anchoring herself to the moment.

“We’ll be there tomorrow,” she said quietly. “We won’t let them do this without a fight.”

Blaise stood as well, adjusting his collar. “I’ll do what I can to stall until some of the others arrive. We will try to confirm with character witnesses. And Granger... well, if she gets her way, the whole damn Wizengamot will have a headache by sunrise.”

That startled something close to a smile from Draco. It didn’t last long.

“Let’s go, inmate,” the guard barked.

Draco nodded once, to Blaise, to his mother. He tried to memorize the soft concern in her eyes, the casual arrogance in Blaise’s smirk. He didn’t know if he’d see either of them again after tomorrow.

He turned toward the door.

Chains slithered back into place around his wrists, cold and tightly strung behind his back.  The metallic bite grounded him reminded him exactly where he was, and how far he still had to fall.

The walk back to his cell was silent. Shockingly. 

Each footstep echoed through the corridor like the tick of a countdown clock. The cell door slid open with a grinding noise, and he stepped inside without needing to be told.

The door slammed shut behind him.

He stood in the center of the small space for a long moment, staring at the familiar cracks in the wall, the scratch marks near the cot, the place where the damp never quite dried.

Then, slowly, he sank down onto the edge of the bed, hands dangling between his knees.

He hadn’t even known what month it was.

But Hermione did.

And somehow, impossibly, she still believed he was worth saving.

She hadn’t given up. 

Chapter Text

If there was one thing to say about Hermione Granger, it was that she never stopped fighting for the things she believed in.

Take, for example, the Society for the Promotion of Elfish Welfare. The acronym ‘S.P.E.W.’left something to be desired, admittedly, but the intention had always been pure. She’d been mocked relentlessly for it, but she never backed down. Not when it mattered.

Fighting for a cause—truly fighting for it—was something Hermione not only excelled at, but thrived on.

And now? The cause she was pouring herself into, heart and soul, was Draco Lucius Malfoy.

She wasn’t entirely sure what to call whatever existed between them. There hadn’t been time for definitions before he was arrested. But what she did know, beyond any shadow of doubt, was that the treatment he had received was far from just.

After the war, her life felt fractured. It felt like everything had been knocked out of place, and no one had bothered to help her put the pieces back.

Harry and Ron had made the joint decision not to return to Hogwarts, declaring their time there finished. Hermione, on the other hand, clung to her education like a lifeline. She always had. Knowledge was her anchor, her sanctuary.

At first, she’d tried to return to Hogwarts to help with the reconstruction efforts. But the air there was too heavy and far too haunted. After a long, tearful conversation with Professor McGonagall, she decided to complete her studies remotely, absorbing coursework from the comfort of her flat.

Initially, she’d moved into Grimmauld Place with Harry. It had made sense, being around someone who understood the darkness they’d both endured. But the fragile peace she’d found there was shattered the moment Ron decided to move in.

Ron claimed he simply wanted to be around his best mates again. Harry had been thrilled. And at first, Hermione had been relieved by the idea of the trio reunited under one roof. They were trauma-bonded, after all.

But as the weeks passed, she noticed the shift. The quiet exclusions. The conversations that stopped the moment she walked in. The plans made without her.

At first, it stung like betrayal. She’d spent sleepless nights trying to figure out what she’d done wrong.

Eventually, she realized she wasn’t the problem.

Ron had fallen into old habits: teasing her, flirting just a little too seriously. When she shut it down—gently, clearly, repeatedly—he didn’t take it well. His charm quickly morphed into love bombing, followed by cold silence when she didn’t respond the way he wanted.

It became clear that he couldn’t separate her refusal from rejection. He tolerated her presence after that—but only just. More often than not, he treated her like an inconvenience.

Harry, ever the peacemaker, tried to play the middle. But in the end, it was obvious where his loyalty lay.

Both he and Ron moved on to jobs at the Ministry once they’d deemed enough time had passed. And just like that, Hermione was alone.

She stopped being angry. Stopped being sad. Instead, she did what she’d always done, she redirected. She poured her hurt into purpose.

She completed her remaining Hogwarts coursework in record time. It was something she was, despite everything, immensely proud of.

Her Order of Merlin, First Class, had come with a small fortune. It sat heavy on her conscience, tainted by the cost at which it had come. But it also gave her the freedom to breathe. To choose.

So she moved out. Found a flat that felt like hers. Warm and lived-in, full of light and quiet. Just her and Crookshanks in a cozy two-bedroom, two-bath home. One room for living. One room for studying. Her own space. Her own rules.

She filled the flat with books, plants, and gentle solitude.

If Draco ever saw it, she was sure he’d make some offhanded comment about how painfully predictable she was. Just like he had that first time they’d shared the Room of Requirement.

The memory caught her off guard, lodged like a thorn in her chest.

She missed him. Desperately.

It wasn’t logical. Far from it. 

There hadn’t been time for anything to fully bloom between them. Just a flicker of something wild and fragile, born in chaos, caught in the silence between arguments and shared glances that turned into something deeper and gentle. 

But that flicker hadn’t gone out. If anything, it had grown brighter.

There were moments. Quiet ones, when the flat was still and her tea had gone cold when she let herself imagine what might have been. What could still be. The possibility of more.

So she fought for him.

Because that’s what Hermione Granger did.

She wrote to him constantly. It was likely more letters than was probably socially acceptable. She knew many of them wouldn’t make it to him. Azkaban was still infected with the remnants of a corrupt system, and she suspected that the guards took some pleasure in playing god with a prisoner’s mail.

But she kept writing.

If one letter was lost, she wrote another. Then another. Because if even one reached him, if even one reminded him that he wasn’t alone, it was worth it.

Needless to say, Hermione was devoted.

She was currently pacing around her study, reciting the words she planned to say at his—Draco’s—last-minute trial. Her hair was twisted into a bun, secured messily with her wand. A pen was tucked behind her ear, and a piece of parchment that was creased, ink-stained, and overworked trembled slightly in her grasp.

“Mr. Malfoy was as much a victim as any of us. He may have ink on his arm that makes you believe he is dam—”

She stopped, groaned, and scribbled the word out hard enough to tear the parchment.

“Right. No cursing in court. That’ll go over well.”

With a huff, she flopped into her desk chair and smoothed the parchment flat. Her eyes scanned her scribbled draft, lips pursed in thought as she twirled her pen between her fingers. This speech had to be more than just a plea. 

It had to be powerful. Heart-wrenching. 

A lifeline for The Boy Who Had No Choice.

What could she possibly say to make people understand? To look beyond the cold, sharp angles of Draco Malfoy’s reputation and see the boy who had been raised in a cage of legacy and fear?

She’d tried everything. She’d built an entire case around mitigating circumstances around fear, coercion, and impossible choices. He wasn’t innocent. No. But innocence had never been her argument.

After finishing her remaining coursework in record time, because that’s what she did when her world fell apart, Hermione had taken a post in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Not as an Auror, despite the push from Kingsley, but working in restorative justice. She’d also begun collaborating with the Muggle Liaison Office, helping integrate Muggle technology into wizarding infrastructure.

Yes, some of that was to help the world heal. But the projector she had designed had the capability to be connected to a Pensieve to display memories on a screen. That was built with Draco in mind.

The moment she heard from Narcissa and Blaise that the Wizengamot was moving up both Draco and Theo’s hearings to tomorrow , she’d flooed to the Ministry and submitted every relevant memory she had—every shred of truth she could offer.

And now, she was on her twentieth rewrite of her speech when the Floo flared to life down the hall.

She froze.

The pen clattered to the desk. Her parchment remained, fluttering slightly in the draft as she slowly rose to her feet.

“‘Mione! It’s us, come out!”

Us?

She cursed under her breath. “Bugger.”

With a sharp breath in, she shut the door to her study with a careful click and walked down the corridor to the sitting room.

“Harry… Ron. Hi,” she said, offering a tight, practiced smile.

They were both already standing awkwardly near the fireplace, tension rolling off them like heat from a dragon’s breath.

“Oh, have a seat! Sorry. Can I get you anything to drink?”

They exchanged a glance and shook their heads in unison before settling stiffly onto her couch.

That twist in her gut tightened. Something wasn’t right.

She sat across from them, folding her hands in her lap. “So…?”

Harry cleared his throat. “Right. Erm—someone showed up at Grimmauld earlier. Unexpectedly.”

Hermione stayed silent, brows lifted, unsure where this was going.

“Narcissa Malfoy,” he continued. “Apparently she can access the house through the Black family line. She came to us… begging.”

Hermione’s heart thudded.

“For Draco’s trial, I presume?” she asked, already knowing the answer. She glanced at Ron briefly, instantly regretting it. The scowl he shot her made her skin itch.

“Yes,” Harry said, flatly. “For Malfoy’s trial. Tomorrow.”

She nodded once, trying to keep the flood of nerves at bay. “And… you’re going to testify for him, right?”

Ron scoffed. He leaned back, arms folded across his chest, mouth twisted into something bitter. “I’m going to testify, alright.”

Hermione’s jaw clenched. She turned back to Harry, ignoring the heat rising in her cheeks.

“Mione, it’s really last-minute,” Harry said quickly, “but I get how important this is to you. I do. And yeah, I’ll testify for him.”

The breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding escaped all at once. “Thank you.”

Harry nodded, eyes soft.

But something still gnawed at her. Ron’s silence, the smug set of his jaw, the way he hadn’t said what kind of testimony he was planning to give.

She wanted to ask. She wanted to demand, to press him until he confirmed he wouldn’t sabotage this.

But she didn’t.

Because Harry was here. Because they had some kind of unity again. Because maybe she wanted to believe that Ron could do the right thing in this circumstance involving Draco, even if it was just this once.

Hermione smoothed her damp palms down the front of her blouse, hoping that the professional silhouette masked the fact that she felt like the floor might drop out from beneath her at any moment. 

Her pulse thundered in her ears, but she forced her shoulders back, chin up. She had to appear composed. Confident. Like she belonged here.

Theo’s trial had gone as smoothly as they could have hoped. He had been released with time served, the Wizengamot deeming the nature of his alleged crimes relatively minor. He hadn’t cast an Unforgivable. His mark had come late. And his testimony—supported by character witnesses—had painted him as a reluctant participant more than anything else.

Hermione had spoken on his behalf with practiced ease, like she was answering a particularly obvious question in class. Luna’s testimony, full of gentle whimsy and startling truths, had disarmed the courtroom in the best way possible. No one dared push harder once Luna Lovegood declared that “Theo only wore a mask to survive, not to harm.”

Others had testified too, but Hermione, selfishly, hadn’t heard most of them. The entire time, she’d been gripping a piece of parchment in her hands, her mind looping through Draco’s defense speech like a mantra. Line by line. Word by word. As if sheer repetition might keep it from unraveling under pressure.

Now she was pacing just outside the courtroom doors, trying to practice her best impassive expression in case things turned. She'd perfected it over the years.

Logic over emotion. But today, her heart refused to stay quiet.

The doors slammed open with a loud thud and out strolled Theodore Nott, wearing a smug, wide grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. Pansy Parkinson followed closely behind, her step light, her chin high.

Hermione couldn’t help but notice that while Theo was out of his prison robes, he still wore faint grime like a shadow clinging to his skin. 

Trauma never wiped off easily.

“Granger!” Theo called, striding toward her like they were old friends meeting for drinks.

She dipped her head politely, still caught off guard by the way his energy had shifted. “Theodore.”

He stopped in front of her, hands twitching like he didn’t know what to do with them. She didn’t offer a hug, and he didn’t push for one.

“I just wanted to say thank you. For everything,” he said, voice quieter than she’d ever heard it. Gentler. Like he was intentionally speaking only for her to hear.

She waved him off lightly, attempting a small smile. “It was an easy choice, you didn’t want that life.”

His smile faltered, and for the first time, real worry passed behind his eyes. “You’re going to testify for him, right?”

“Of course,” she said, without hesitation. Her voice was steadier than she felt.

Theo exhaled, relief clear in the line of his shoulders. “It’ll mean a lot to him.” His eyes flicked down to the parchment still clenched in her hands. “More than you know.”

Warmth prickled across her cheeks. She tried to swallow it down.

He reached out, finally settling on a hand on her shoulder. The touch was brief, a squeeze both gentle and grounding. 

“Just… be prepared,” he said, voice low now. “Blaise thinks they’re going to try to make an example out of him.”

Her breath caught.

“We’ll just have to see about that,” she said, forcing strength into the words, though her heart was pounding so hard it made her ears ring.

Theo studied her for a beat longer. Maybe he saw the fear in her eyes. Maybe he didn’t.

“Thanks again, Granger,” he said, then turned on his heel. “Alright, Pans, I’m dying for a proper bath and something edible.”

Pansy snorted. She spared Hermione one final glance that was relatively neutral, but curiosity lurked. A small tilt to her lips, something almost like respect. Then she followed Theo down the corridor.

Hermione stayed rooted to the spot, fingers tightening around the parchment in her hand.

The lights hadn’t felt this blinding during Theo’s trial.

A trickle of perspiration slid down the back of Hermione’s neck, disappearing beneath the collar of her blouse. She shifted in her seat, subtly casting a cooling charm under her breath, hoping no one noticed the tremor in her wand hand.

“Why is it so bloody hot in here?” she whispered, rolling her shoulders back, trying to loosen the growing tension buried beneath her skin.

Do not blow this, Hermione Jean. Not now.

Harry, seated beside her, leaned in with a worried glance. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” she said quickly, too quickly. Her voice cracked at the edges, betraying her.

The courtroom was filling fast. Rows upon rows of witches and wizards packed the benches, murmuring amongst themselves as they craned their necks for a better look. The press was already here, quills poised midair, cameras flashing sporadically like distant lightning.

Observers. Journalists. The entire Wizengamot.

The air was heavy, buzzing with expectation, and Hermione felt like the walls were closing in. Her knee bounced without her permission, her chest rising in shallow gulps.

She should have been more prepared. Why didn’t she review her closing again? Did she forget to include–

“All rise,” boomed the Chief Warlock, cutting through the hum of conversation like a sword.

Hermione jerked to her feet, swallowing hard. Her knees wobbled beneath her, weak with nerves. She steadied herself with a breath and focused on the rich, commanding figure of Kingsley Shacklebolt as he strode to the center of the Wizengamot circle.

“You may be seated,” he said, and the room obeyed as one.

Hermione smoothed the hem of her skirt and perched on her hands, tucking them beneath her thighs. If she couldn’t stop the trembling, maybe she could just sit on it until it passed.

Across the room, Blaise Zabini sat in the same seat he’d occupied for Theo’s trial, arms crossed tightly over his chest. He looked calm but it was a brittle sort of calm, like a still lake concealing something jagged underneath.

They all knew the stakes were different.

Hermione’s eyes drifted to the center of the courtroom. The single chair that waited like an executioner’s stool. Its black restraints hung loose, limp and glinting faintly in the candlelight.

“Hermione , breathe, ” Harry murmured. His hand found her thigh, firm and steady. She hadn’t realized she was still bouncing it.

“Sorry,” she whispered. She forced a tight smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes. Her throat was dry. Her heart was galloping.

You’re a professional. Act like it.

But Godric, she wasn’t ready. Not for this.

The sound came all at once—boots on stone, the clink of shackles, the hush that rolled through the crowd like a falling veil. Every head turned toward the double doors as they creaked open.

The courtroom went silent but for the snapping of cameras and the rasp of iron against stone.

Draco Malfoy stepped into the room.

He walked slowly, flanked by two Aurors, each gripping one arm. His Azkaban uniform was wrinkled and faded, the sleeves too long, his collar slightly askew. He looked pale beneath the harsh overhead lighting, bones sharp beneath his skin.

His fingers curled around the edge of the chair as he sat. The restraints coiled around his wrists and ankles, locking into place with a metallic click.

The Aurors nodded once toward Kingsley, then turned and left him there.

“He looks like shit,” Ron muttered under his breath.

Hermione shot him a withering glare, but she didn’t correct him.

Because he wasn’t wrong.

Draco looked wrecked.

She hadn’t been prepared. Not for this version of him. 

She’d imagined him thinner, perhaps withdrawn, tired. But this was something else entirely. He looked hollowed out, like someone had drained the color from him and left behind only shadow.

Her eyes drifted slowly from the loose fabric of his uniform to the thinned frame of him and then to his face.

Her breath caught in her throat.

He was already looking at her.

For a fleeting moment, something sparked in his eyes—relief? disbelief?—but it vanished almost as soon as it appeared. His expression shuttered, retreating behind the smooth, practiced emptiness she remembered from the war.

He looked away.

And Hermione felt something inside her crack.

“Please state your name for the record,” the Chief Warlock instructed, his voice nasally and laced with disdain, like he’d already decided the outcome.

“Dra–” Draco cleared his throat and then spoke with quiet composure, “Draco Lucius Malfoy.”

“Let the record state that Draco Lucius Malfoy is present.”

The quick-quotes quill beside the scribe scratched efficiently, almost smugly, across the parchment.

Hermione scowled at it. 

Just another thing to fix once she had more sway with the Department of Muggle Relations. If it operated anything like the one Rita Skeeter used, it would be a miracle if a single honest word made it onto the record.

Kingsley rose from his seat at the center of the Wizengamot, his expression unreadable but his voice clear and resonant.

“Mr. Malfoy, you stand before this court accused of four criminal charges, each carrying severe consequences under magical law.”

He let the silence stretch just long enough for it to settle like lead in everyone’s stomachs.

“One count of aiding and abetting The Dark Lord and his followers in breaching the security of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, endangering the lives of countless students and staff.”

A murmur rippled through the crowd. Hermione clenched her jaw and kept her gaze steady.

“One count of using an Unforgivable Curse. This is a crime which, on its own, warrants a life sentence in Azkaban under current Ministry law.”

She felt Harry tense beside her.

“One count of reckless endangerment, tied to your role in the cursed necklace incident involving Miss Katie Bell.”

Draco remained motionless, his face blank.

“And one count of attempted murder with the use of an Unforgivable Curse—specifically, the Killing Curse—against Headmaster Albus Dumbledore.”

This time the crowd didn’t just murmur. It reacted. 

Audible gasps, a few angry shouts, and the flash of cameras as the courtroom filled with the noise of public outrage.

Hermione’s spine stiffened.

Kingsley lifted a hand and the room fell back into a strained silence.

“These are not minor infractions, Mr. Malfoy,” he said. “Should the Wizengamot find you guilty, you may be sentenced to a lifetime in Azkaban, or no less than twenty-five years’ imprisonment.”

He paused, then looked directly at Draco.

“Do you understand the charges brought against you and the potential consequences?”

A breath passed.

“Yes, sir,” Draco answered, his tone dry and neutral. His voice didn’t waver.

Hermione’s fingers curled tightly into her skirt.

Kingsley gave a single nod, then turned his attention to the row of defense seats.

“Mr. Zabini,” he said, “does the defense have any opening remarks before we proceed?”

Blaise stood, smoothing the front of his robe. His usual smirk was gone, replaced by something sharper, more deliberate.

“Yes, Minister,” he said. “We do.”

Blaise adjusted his stance with a measured calm, clasping his hands before him. His voice rang out, confident but composed.

“Members of the Wizengamot, I ask only for your attention and your willingness to hear the full truth before reaching your judgment.”

A pregnant pause. He let the weight of the room settle again before continuing.

“The charges against Draco Malfoy are serious. No one here is arguing otherwise. But this court must remember that justice is not simply about punishment. It is about understanding context. It is about understanding choice .”

He glanced toward Draco for only a moment before returning his gaze to the panel.

“At the time of the alleged crimes, Mr. Malfoy was a minor. A school-aged boy. He was not a follower of The Dark Lord by choice. He was a target. A child with a target painted on his back, and a noose placed around the necks of his family.”

Soft murmurs rippled across the courtroom again, but Blaise didn’t falter.

“The Dark Lord did not simply recruit Mr. Malfoy.” He let his gaze flick back to Draco only for a moment before looking back at The Wizengamot. “He punished him. Punished his father’s failures by assigning the boy an impossible task. With a clear message: succeed, or watch your mother and father die.”

He let the statement breathe, then continued with quiet force.

“Draco Malfoy was not a Death Eater by conviction. He was a hostage. A child forced to walk a path under threat of torture and death not only for himself, but for those he loved.”

Hermione swallowed tightly. 

Blaise was walking the line with care, but his voice held the right notes of urgency.

“I ask this court to listen. Listen to the testimony of those who were there. Those who witnessed the fear he lived in. The choices he made, even under impossible circumstances. He did not kill. He did not want to harm. He showed restraint where many adults could not.”

Blaise straightened, expression unreadable.

“We do not deny that he made mistakes. But we are asking you to see the full picture before rendering judgment. That is all we ask.”

He nodded once. “Thank you.”

Then, calmly, he returned to his seat.

For a moment, the room was still.

The echo of Blaise’s final words seemed to hang in the air like mist, settling over the Wizengamot and its gathered spectators with palpable tension. Even the quill at the scribe’s desk seemed to slow, uncertain whether to keep scratching away.

And then, soft as parchment turning in a quiet library, a sound broke through it all.

A quiet sniffle.

Hermione’s gaze snapped forward. 

A few rows ahead, Narcissa Malfoy sat with her chin held high and spine ramrod straight, immaculate as ever in her pristine robes. But the tremble in her shoulders betrayed her, and her gloved hand lifted ever so slightly to brush beneath one eye.

The sound might’ve gone unnoticed, had it come from anyone else.

Kingsley faltered.

He had been halfway through lifting the parchment with the trial protocol but paused, eyes flickering to Narcissa Malfoy for the briefest moment. Something about the small, solitary gesture softened the tightness around Kingsley’s mouth. A flicker of something passed through the Minister’s otherwise steely professionalism.

Then he cleared his throat.

“Very well,” he said, voice deep and grounding, “in light of the defense’s opening statement, I ask: who would you like to call to the stand first?”

“The defense calls Harry James Potter to the stand,” Blaise said. His tone was even,but he shifted slightly in his seat, like he wasn’t quite sure if it had been the right move.

Gasps rippled across the courtroom. Cameras snapped and flashed so furiously that Hermione was surprised no one had been blinded.

“Thank you,” she murmured as Harry rose beside her. He gave her a weak smile before stepping into the aisle.

Hermione knew all too well that Harry, like her, hated the spotlight. Twisted narratives came too easily. There was always someone watching. Always someone waiting for the next story to spin.

“Please state your name for the record,” the Chief Warlock said, beaming. Positively beaming.

Hermione very nearly snorted. The sight of a grown man swooning over a war-weary twenty-year-old was almost comical. Chosen One, indeed.

Harry sat stiffly. “Harry James Potter.”

He looked deeply uncomfortable, posture rigid, eyes narrowed against the flash of another camera.

Kingsley cleared his throat and shot the Chief Warlock a warning look.

“Oh! Right. Let the record state that Harry James Potter is present for the defense.”

Kingsley nodded once, then addressed Harry directly. “Mr. Potter.”

Harry dipped his chin in acknowledgement.

“Do you swear to tell the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, to the best of your knowledge and magic?”

“I swear.” Harry’s voice was steady. He took off his glasses—fogged with condensation—and rubbed the lenses clean on his formal robes.

Blaise rose swiftly, walking to the center of the courtroom. “Mr. Potter, please tell the court how you know Mr. Malfoy.”

Harry shifted in his seat. “Malfoy and I went to Hogwarts together. We were in the same year.”

Straightforward. Careful.

Hermione glanced sideways. Ron sat rigid beside her, clenching and unclenching his hand against his knee.

Something twisted in her stomach.

“Were you and Mr. Malfoy friends?” Blaise asked, his voice still level, neutral.

Hermione turned back to Harry, holding her breath.

Please don’t say anything stupid.

“Erm—no.” Harry huffed a quiet laugh, then sobered. “We didn’t really talk much over the years, if I’m being honest.”

Her heart splintered, just a little.

“Interesting,” Blaise murmured, pacing slowly before stopping directly in front of the witness stand. He gestured broadly to the room. “Then please explain why you, Mr. Potter, have chosen to testify today in Mr. Malfoy’s defense.”

Hermione caught Draco’s gaze for the briefest moment. His posture—already rigid—tensed even further. She tried to give him a reassuring look, tried to promise without words that it would be all right.

He looked away.

Harry dragged a hand through his hair and exhaled. “Similar to what I said during Mrs. Malfoy’s hearing and, to put it bluntly...” He paused. “Draco saved our lives.”

The courtroom erupted.

Cameras flashed like firecrackers. The crowd surged in whispers and exclamations.

Kingsley pointed his wand to his throat. “Order in the courtroom! Silence!”

The noise cut off instantly.

“Please elaborate,” Blaise said, smooth and steady.

“A little before the final battle,” Harry began, shifting uncomfortably, “Hermione, Ron, and I were captured by a group of Snatchers. We were brought to Malfoy Manor for identification before Voldemort was summoned.”

Only the quill’s scratch could be heard. The room leaned in.

“Draco Malfoy refused to identify us to his aunt—Bellatrix Lestrange. She became... volatile when she saw one of the Snatchers holding the sword of Gryffindor. Hermione had it before we were captured.”

Murmurs stirred again, and heads turned toward her. She kept her eyes locked on Harry.

“Bellatrix was enraged,” Harry continued. “She subdued the Snatchers and demanded the sword. Greyback was holding Hermione hostage. In the chaos, he shoved her to the floor and Disapparated.”

Hermione’s breath caught in her throat. Warmth crept up her neck and bloomed across her cheeks.

“Everything shifted the moment Draco moved to catch her.”

The room stilled again.

“Draco Malfoy, Theodore Nott, and Narcissa Malfoy helped us escape,” Harry said, voice firm.

Blaise nodded slowly, then placed his palm flat on the witness stand. “Thank you, Mr. Potter. Is there anything else you’d like to say?”

Harry hesitated, then adjusted his glasses. “When the battle broke out, Draco gave me the Elder Wand. Without that wand, I believe—no. I know —it would’ve been nearly impossible to defeat Voldemort.”

Gasps. A few audible hisses at the name.

Harry rolled his eyes. “It’s just a name.”

Blaise let the moment hang before nodding once. “That is all from the defense. Thank you again, Mr. Potter.”

Harry stepped down without another word. Cameras continued to flash, but he ignored them, shoulders hunched slightly as he returned to his seat beside Hermione.

She reached for his hand as soon as he sat. His palm was sweaty, but she didn’t care.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

Kingsley straightened his papers again, gaze flickering toward the defense table. “And who will you call next?”

Blaise hesitated for half a second, then stood. “The defense calls Ronald Bilius Weasley to the stand.”

Another ripple of noise passed through the courtroom. Not as dramatic as Potter, but still a name that turned heads.

Hermione turned sharply to look at Ron. He didn’t meet her eyes. Just stood, rolled his shoulders once like he was preparing for a fight, and stalked down the aisle to the front.

The difference between him and Harry was stark. Where Harry had approached with reluctant weight, Ron moved with a smug sort of energy. His chin tilted up just a little too high.

Hermione’s stomach twisted.

“Please state your name for the record,” the Chief Warlock prompted, eyebrows raised in curiosity.

“Ronald Billius Weasley.”

“Let the record state Ronald Billius Weasley is present for the defense,” the Warlock added, almost cheerfully.

Hermione felt the shift before anyone else did.

Ron didn’t respond. He crossed his arms over his chest and waited.

Kingsley gave him a measured look. “Do you swear to tell the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, to the best of your knowledge and magic?”

“I swear,” Ron said flatly.

Blaise approached carefully, though a trace of confidence lingered in his step—leftover from Harry’s successful testimony.

“Mr. Weasley,” he began, “can you please explain to the court how you know Mr. Malfoy?”

Ron snorted.

Blaise blinked.

“We were in the same year at Hogwarts,” Ron answered. “He was always a git.”

A few people in the audience chuckled.

Hermione narrowed her eyes. Something was wrong.

“And why,” Blaise asked, voice still steady, “have you chosen to testify here today in Mr. Malfoy’s defense?”

Ron turned his head slowly toward Blaise, his lips curling into something unpleasant.

“I haven’t.”

The courtroom froze.

“I’m not testifying for him,” Ron said loudly, turning toward the crowd now, voice rising. “I’m testifying against him.”

Chaos.

The audience erupted in shouts and gasps. The clicking of cameras roared to life again, feeding on the chaos like wildfire.

Hermione felt her heart drop into her stomach.

No. No. No.

Her pulse pounded in her ears as Kingsley shouted for order once more, slamming the butt of his wand against the podium. It took longer this time to calm the room. People were whispering and pointing, scandal curling like smoke in the air.

Blaise was motionless beside the stand. His mouth opened slightly, then closed. He looked blindsided. “Mr. Weasley—” he began, voice thinner than before.

But Ron cut him off.

“No, let me talk.” His tone sharpened with confidence now, feeding off the shock in the room. “Everyone keeps acting like Malfoy’s some kind of tragic case. But I haven’t forgotten the things he’s said. The way he acted. He chose to side with Death Eaters. His family did. You don’t just stumble into that.”

Hermione’s hands clenched in her lap, tears gathering in her eyes. 

“People keep saying he was scared and young. He walked around for years thinking he was better than everyone else, especially people like Hermione.”

Her breath caught.

“He called her a Mudblood every chance he got, and now we’re all supposed to pretend he’s changed? He helped them . He got people killed . So yeah, I’m here. And I’m telling all of you—he doesn’t deserve a second chance. He deserves to rot.”

There was a stunned silence in the courtroom.

Hermione couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t look at Draco. Couldn’t even look at Ron.

Blaise finally stepped forward again, his voice tight and cold. “So to clarify, Mr. Weasley… Mr. Malfoy saving your life along with your friends was not enough for you to see he didn’t want that life?”

Ron shrugged. “Guess not.”

“Then you may step down.” Kingsley’s voice rang like a gavel.

Ron left the stand, chin still high, looking like he’d just won a game no one else knew they were playing.

He didn’t sit next to Hermione again.

She stared at the empty seat beside her, heart pounding, mind racing.

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

How could she even come back from this? How could they fix this?

She would never forgive Ron, she was absolutely sure of that. 

Kingsley cleared his throat in an attempt to soothe the room, “Was there anyone else you wish to speak for the defense before we move into the submitted memories?” 

Blaise looked warily over at her,  “The defense calls Hermione Jean Granger.”

The murmurs rose again at once. More pointed this time, scandalized even. 

People had to be questioning her sanity after the words Ronald had just spewed but she wouldn’t go down without a fight.

Hermione’s stomach flipped as she stood. It wasn’t lost on her how many eyes followed her. Nor how many of those gazes burned with suspicion, confusion, or barely veiled contempt.

But she lifted her chin, smoothed the front of her skirt again, and stepped forward.

Let them look.

Let them listen.

She could fix this. Had to fix this. That was what she did. She solved problems and fixed things. She fought for what she believed in. 

She could feel Draco’s gaze on her as she approached the chair at the witness stand that was so unlike the one he had been shackled to. Her hand brushed the edge of the witness seat and for a second, she thought she might hesitate.

But then she sat, spine straight, and looked directly at the Wizengamot.

“Please state your name for the record.”

She took a deep breath and rolled back her shoulders.

Let the repairing begin. 

“Hermione Jean Granger. I swear to tell the truth,” she said clearly, “the whole truth, to the best of my knowledge and magic.”

Kingsley nodded once, “Thank you Miss.Granger.”

She gave a rehearsed smile and lifted her chin as she looked at Blaise.

She felt her anxiety slip away from her, a blanket of confidence draped over it.

She would do this. 

Blaise gave her a weak smile, seemingly still shook up from the havoc Ronald had caused. 

“Miss.Granger, please state how you know Mr.Malfoy.”

“I went to school with Draco, we were in the same year as Hogwarts.” Hermione said and her eyes slipped over to Draco for just a moment, just to know he was listening. 

Blaise nodded, “Were you two friends at Hogwarts?”

Hermione laid into her practiced confidence, “Not initially no. During our first couple of years we really didn’t talk. He had held some instilled prejudices but it was obvious, at least to me, that he didn’t truly believe those things.” 

Blaise motioned for her to continue, “and the years following?”

She grinned and looked him right in the eyes, “He became one of my best friends.” 

The crowd had a variance in reactions but she paid them no mind. She kept her gaze steady and focused on him. 

Draco’s eyes softened around the edges and he swallowed tightly. 

“During our sixth year at Hogwarts, Draco and I had been partnered with each other for a year-long potions project,” She chuckled to herself and shook her head. “We were quite wary of one another at first but after sometime it was obvious that the perception people had crafted of Draco Malfoy was the furthest thing from the truth.” 

Blaise looked confident once again and he nodded, “Can you elaborate on that?”

Hermione nodded quickly, the smile still evident on her face. “We were both two very haunted and broken people. We broke down the barriers we had built around others and allowed ourselves to just be. He was a boy put in a ridiculously difficult position in order to save his family’s life and it weighed heavily on him. He had told me he didn’t have a choice and that he wished that things were different but that he wouldn’t risk his mother’s life.”

Narcissa sniffled and cameras flashed. 

“There came a time where it seemed more impossible than ever for him to have a choice but he took it. He saved Harry, Ronald, and I. He didn’t have to do that, it was actually quite dangerous for him to do that, but he made the choice to help us and aid us.” 

Blaise smiled softly at her, “Thank you for that, Miss.Granger.” 

Hermione dipped her head in acknowledgement, “Of course. It’s the truth.” She shrugged simply, keeping it straight to the point.

“Was there anything else you would like to add?” Blaise asked.

 “I have submitted multiple memories to be used in the Pensieve projector for everyone to witness,” She lifted her chin high as she made a point to look at everyone around the room. “These memories will show Draco Malfoy shielding me from his aunt Bellatrix, aiding our escape, and fighting right alongside the Order in the Battle of Hogwarts.” 

Hermione looked at Draco once more before looking at the members of the Wizengamot, “Draco Lucius Malfoy was the boy who had choices made for him for most of his life. Yet the man he truly was, was made evident when he stepped away from what he knew and made the choice to do the right thing. I ask that you all take this into consideration when you watch these moments. Thank you.”  

The room was silent but she didn’t care. 

Let them think, let them listen to the truth. 

She made her way back to her chair swiftly and sat down. Her nerves crashed over her again like a bucket of cold water. Her hands trembled and she tried to keep her eyes trained on Draco to calm herself but she was slipping.

Blaise cleared his throat and stood again, his expression now carefully composed, though Hermione could see the strain around his mouth. “The defense would now like to move forward with the Pensieve projector, Your Honor.”

Kingsley nodded, voice low but firm. “Granted.”

An Auror stepped forward and retrieved the vials from the evidence table—thin, swirling memories bottled like silver smoke—and handed them to Kingsley.

Hermione couldn’t help but feel a spike of anxiety as Kingsley unstoppered the first vial and poured it into the shallow stone basin in front of him. 

She had worked tirelessly for the projector to work for this very moment, she hoped everything went smoothly. She held her breath. 

It activated with a soft whir and hum of magic.

She let out a breath of relief as she watched the memory project from the Pensieve onto the screen.

The first memory flickered to life: the drawing room of Malfoy Manor. Hermione’s body went tense.

Cameras flashed in rapid succession. Reporters leaned in to capture the projected images. Draco’s pale, trembling face. Bellatrix. The sword. Greyback. Her own body being shoved towards the ground. The rawness of the moment Draco reached out to catch her before she hit the marble floor.

The way he shielded her with his Occlumency projection and protected her and himself from the string of Unforgivable curses made the crowd murmur in surprise. 

Perfect.

A second memory played. The Room of Requirement. Draco explaining why he had the Elder Wand and why he and Theo think it could help Harry win. 

Cameras flickered again and she smiled to herself, her breathing evening out. 

Finally, The Battle of Hogwarts. Draco fighting against Death Eaters and working to protect her along with the others. 

It faded to silence.

Kingsley nodded once, then turned to Blaise. “You may proceed.”

Blaise stepped forward, voice calm and resonant. “The evidence speaks for itself. Mr. Malfoy did not act out of malice. He acted out of fear. Out of desperation. And despite every reason not to—he chose to help. Multiple times. At great risk to himself.

“No one is suggesting we forget the past. But justice is not about vengeance. It is about the whole truth. And the truth is Draco Malfoy is not the villain people made him out to be.”

He paused, letting the words settle.

“We ask this court to see the man he is now. Not just the boy he was forced to become.”

He bowed his head slightly, then returned to the table.

Kingsley straightened his shoulders and addressed the courtroom.

“This court will now recess for deliberation. The Wizengamot will reconvene when a verdict has been reached.”

He struck the gavel once.

The room erupted at once. Robes rustling, chairs scraping back, voices swelling with speculation and whispers sharpened by flashbulbs. Reporters surged forward like vultures to the edge of the gallery, cameras snapping with blinding speed, desperate to capture the exact expressions worn by the boy on trial.

Hermione didn’t move with everyone else.

She stayed in her spot and kept her gaze fixed on Draco.

He looked like he might be carved from stone. Shoulders tight, knuckles white where his fingers gripped the edge of the chair—but he met her eyes. And for a long, suspended second, neither of them looked away.

Her lips tilted into the barest of smiles. Small. Steady. Certain.

You’re not alone, it said.

Draco’s head gave the slightest shake. Not a refusal. Something softer. Disbelief, maybe. Or awe. Like he couldn’t quite fathom what she’d done for him.

She just hoped it had been enough.

It had to be.

Not just for him.

For the world they’d fought for—for the belief that people could change, that choices mattered more than names, and that justice didn’t have to look like vengeance.

She took one last look at him before turning back toward her seat, heart pounding with the quiet, desperate hope that mercy would win.

Chapter Text

Draco tried his hardest to keep a neutral look on his face, but it felt like the entire bloody universe was toying with his emotions on purpose.

He had lost track of how long he’d been shackled to this blasted chair in the center of the nearly empty courtroom. Time had taken on a slippery quality.

What he wanted more than anything was to get up. To cross the room and speak to his mother.
Seeing her yesterday—apparently for the first time in nearly a year—had left him queasy. 

She kept trying to offer him reassuring smiles as she sat there now, waiting patiently for a verdict. But he knew her too well. The emotion trembling just beneath the surface of her expression was barely contained.

It was unlike her to be anything but composed in public. And that was what nearly broke him. It cracked something steady and cold inside his chest.

Then, of course, there was the matter of Granger.

At first, she’d stayed in her seat, rooted like a monument to resolve, glancing his way every so often with that fierce, unreadable look. Then, slowly, she started to grow restless. He could see it in the way her foot bounced, in the way her hands kept curling into her robes.

The Weasel hadn’t returned since his little outburst on the stand. Frankly? Good riddance.

Potter hovered beside her, trying to offer comfort, but even from a distance, Draco could tell it wasn’t working. There was something imbalanced between them. It was like they were trying to play roles they no longer fit.

After about half an hour of waiting, Hermione stood. Not abruptly, but with that quiet, unshakable determination he recognized too well. It was so reminiscent of their school days—of her rising from the Gryffindor table to chase down an answer—that he almost smiled.

He watched, transfixed, as she walked directly to his mother.

Draco fought to keep his expression unreadable, but his curiosity twisted inside him.

She extended a hand toward Narcissa, as if introducing herself.

They’ve met.

Not exactly under ideal conditions, but still. What was she doing?

His mother simply smiled and took her hand, then patted the empty seat beside her. Hermione sat down without hesitation, beaming like she’d just solved an equation no one else had dared attempt.

They leaned in to talk, and he could feel the shape of his world tilting slightly out of orbit.

A sudden click and burst of light snapped his focus away.

He turned sharply to find Rita Skeeter practically vibrating with glee, her photographer close beside her and that obnoxious Quick-Quotes Quill scribbling away like mad. 

Draco didn’t bother hiding the scowl he sent in her direction.

“I’d kindly suggest you lose the positively murderous look while your fate’s being decided,” Blaise drawled as he appeared in front of him, hands in his pockets, expression unreadable but familiar.

He stood at a safe distance—close enough to be there, far enough to respect the gravity of the moment. But Draco could read him easily. Tension in the shoulders. A tightness around the mouth.

Draco swallowed the knot rising in his throat. “Thank you,” he said quietly. “For all of this.”

Blaise’s expression softened. “I just hope I’ve done enough.”

Draco gave a faint shake of his head and offered a grim, weak smile.

“I don’t have particularly high hopes, if I’m being honest. You did an outstanding job truly Zabini but if things don’t fall in my favor, I’ll understand.”

The smile slipped from his mouth, and his voice grew colder. Flatter.

“I figured I’d rot here until old age took me. Quiet, miserable end. It would’ve been fitting.”

Blaise winced. “That’s... pretty morbid, mate.”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “Can you blame me?”

Suddenly, a wave of movement stirred the courtroom as members of the Wizengamot filtered back in.

Draco felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, a slow, creeping sense of dread rising in his chest. Low murmurs filled the space, robes sweeping across stone as officials returned to their seats. The public gallery followed suit, a ripple of voices and shifting bodies threading through the room like a tightening net.

His pulse picked up. His fingers twitched, straining against the restraints clamped around his wrists. He couldn’t stop the widening of his eyes, or the panic blooming in his throat.

“Breathe, Draco. Breathe.” Blaise’s voice was low but firm as he moved closer to him. “It’s going to be fine. Everything’s going to be fine.”

Draco wasn’t sure if Blaise was trying to convince him or himself.

“All rise,” the Chief Warlock instructed, voice echoing like a hammer falling.

The room obeyed instantly, the scraping of chairs replaced by a brittle, anticipatory silence.

It was too quiet. Too still. Like the entire room was holding its breath.

Like vultures circling overhead, waiting for the final twitch of their prey.

His gaze swept the courtroom once more before landing on Granger. She stood among the crowd, back straight, expression unreadable… but her face was flushed. Her jaw set.

Already devastated.

He swallowed hard and looked away, shame slicing through his ribs like a knife. Maybe she’d lost hope. Maybe she’d come to her senses. It would be understandable.

But it didn’t mean it hurt any less.

His fingers curled around the edges of the chair, white-knuckled and shaking. The cold metal bit into his palms.

Then—softly, deliberately—the courtroom doors creaked open again.

He turned his head, expecting the final blow.

But instead, he saw Pansy. Walking side by side with Theo.

Theo was free.

Draco’s chest stuttered around a beat. His heart surged so forcefully it felt like it might split his ribs.

Theo had made it out.

Relief nearly knocked the breath from his lungs. If anyone deserved a future outside these walls, it was Theo. 

Not because he was perfect, but because he had fought tooth and nail not to become the kind of person they’d been told to be.

The two of them moved quietly through the rows and took the open seats on the other side of his mother. Narcissa reached for Theo immediately, wrapping him in an embrace that made Draco ache with longing.

That sort of touch. That kind of closeness. He hadn’t felt it in almost a year.

Theo looked over, eyes finding his like a lifeline. He grinned wide and gave him a ridiculous thumbs-up that was so devastatingly, unshakably Theo that Draco nearly laughed out loud.

Nearly.

But the weight of the room pressed down too hard.

“You may be seated,” Kingsley announced, and more camera flashes sparked through the room like lightning.

Draco sank back into the chair, shifting uncomfortably as the restraints clinked against metal. He tried to disappear into his own mind.

It had been ages since he’d retreated so deeply—longer still since he’d had the strength to maintain the mental shields that Occlumency required. Most days, he couldn’t summon the energy. But now, his brain was firing off pure instinct. Fight or flight.

The sweep of numbness hit him like a tide—cool, practiced, familiar. He let it flood him, let it scrape the edges of his panic until it dulled to something manageable.

Kingsley cleared his throat.

Draco lifted his eyes.

“The Wizengamot has come to a decision.”

He clenched his jaw, his gaze locked on the Chief Warlock.

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.

“On the count of aiding and abetting the Dark Lord and his followers in breaching the security of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, the Wizengamot finds Draco Malfoy—guilty.”

Flashes exploded around the room like gunfire. He shut his eyes tightly, trying to breathe through the roaring in his ears.

This was it.

“On the count of reckless endangerment, the Wizengamot finds Draco Malfoy—guilty.”

Every memory he’d dared to hope for—those ordinary, stupid, beautiful things like walking outside without a tether, laughing without flinching, touching someone he loved—were evaporating before his eyes.

He tried to go deeper into Occlumency. Tried to sink himself into the void.

But it had been too long. And it wasn’t working.

“On the count of using an Unforgivable Curse, specifically the Imperius Curse, the Wizengamot finds Draco Malfoy—innocent by—”

A thunderous uproar erupted in the gallery. Gasps, shouts, chairs scraping violently against stone. Cameras flashed greedily.

“Order!” Kingsley bellowed, his voice magnified by a Sonorous charm. “Silence!”

Draco’s eyes snapped open. His heart was pounding so loudly it drowned everything else out.

Had he heard that right?

“Innocent through means of self-defense and fear for personal safety.”

His grip on the chair tightened, fingertips digging into the wood. He couldn’t breathe. This wasn’t possible. Was it?

“On the count of attempted murder with the use of an Unforgivable Curse, the Wizengamot finds Draco Malfoy—innocent.”

That charge had haunted him the most.

He’d lifted his wand. Yes. But he’d never cast it. Never said the words.

There had been no attempt.

Not by his hands at least. 

Kingsley shuffled a few parchments in front of him and cleared his throat once more.

“The court will now move to sentencing.”

Draco’s spine straightened involuntarily. His heartbeat thrummed in his ears, dull and insistent.

“Given that you have already served nearly a full year in Azkaban, that time has been credited toward your sentence,” Kingsley said, voice measured, formal. “For the charge of reckless endangerment, you are hereby sentenced to six months of house arrest. For aiding and abetting the breach of Hogwarts, an additional six months.”

Draco blinked.

Six months. Then another six.

That was it?

Kingsley’s voice cut through the fog. “Your sentence will be carried out under Ministry supervision, with strict magical boundaries in place. You are not to leave the designated property for any reason unless instructed by the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Violation of these terms will result in immediate reincarceration.”

He still couldn’t wrap his mind around it. 

He wasn’t going back to Azkaban.

He wasn’t going back.

Draco’s jaw slackened slightly, but he remained silent. Was this real? He almost dared to breathe until Kingsley’s next words snapped him back to the present.

“The gallery and media representatives are now dismissed.”

The room erupted into motion again. Cameras flashing one final time, chairs scraping as people filed out, murmurs already growing into frenzied speculation. But Draco hardly registered any of it. He just stared straight ahead, numb.

Still shackled by those blasted magical restraints. 

“Ms. Granger, Mr. Zabini—please remain. The Wizengamot has one final matter to discuss.”

Hermione  by Narcissa’s side, hands folded tightly in front of her as she stood up. Blaise moved from the defense table and stood beside Draco’s chair again.

Once the courtroom doors had sealed behind the crowd, Kingsley spoke, his tone no longer public but direct, grounded in authority.

“The Wizengamot has agreed to offer you a path to further reduce your sentence,” Kingsley said, meeting Draco’s eyes with unflinching steadiness. “This offer is extended based on your unique position and knowledge of those who remain in hiding.”

Draco’s brow creased.

“We are prepared to reduce part of your house arrest if you agree to assist the DMLE in the identification and capture of remaining Death Eater operatives,” Kingsley continued. “You would be required to disclose any information you currently possess, as well as anything that may come to light in the future.”

Draco swallowed hard, his throat scratchy and dry.

He wasn’t even sure where to begin. There were names,faces, and rumors he hadn't let himself think about in months. Guilt always followed too closely behind.

Kingsley held his gaze, expectant. Pressing.

Draco cleared his throat. “I haven’t had the chance to make many choices of my own,” he said, voice hoarse and barely more than a whisper. “And you’re giving me one of the easiest I could make.”

He could feel the blood rushing in his ears, the buzzing static of disbelief still humming under his skin. 

Was this really happening?

“I’ll give you everything I know,” he said, firmer this time. “Anything that comes to me—without question.”

A few murmurs of approval rippled across the chamber. Not many. But enough.

Draco flexed his fingers, the cold press of the shackles biting into his wrists. Still here. Still bound.

“Very well,” Kingsley said at last, and there was something less rigid in his expression now. Almost relieved. “As for your initial house arrest, there are several strict terms you’ll be required to follow.”

Draco gave a shallow nod, jaw tight.

“Ms. Granger is Head of the Restorative Justice Division for the DMLE. She will be presiding over your case.”

Kingsley paused, then looked past him.

“I presume the nature of your… friendship with Mr. Malfoy will not interfere with your duties, Ms. Granger?”

Draco’s heart gave an undignified jolt. He turned slowly to look at her.

Hermione’s brows drew together for a beat, her expression unreadable as she stood beside Narcissa. Then she lifted her chin and addressed the Minister.

“Minister, with all due respect—the formalities are unnecessary. You know you can call me Hermione.”

A flicker of something passed between them. Then she continued, voice clear and even.

“I’ve never demonstrated anything short of professionalism in my position. That won’t change.”

Kingsley sighed. “Yes, Hermione, I’m aware. But this is—”

She raised her hand, stopping him mid-sentence. A gasp rolled through the chamber like a ripple.

Merlin. This witch.

“Respectfully, Minister,” she said, steel in her voice, “I helped build this division from the ground up. I would never compromise the integrity of my work, or the Ministry.”

Draco had to fight back a smirk.

You can take the witch out of Gryffindor, but you can’t take the Gryffindor out of the witch.

“Thank you for clarifying,” Kingsley said with a wry note. “Now, Mr. Malfoy. Listen closely, as I’ve had to repeat myself far too many times today.”

He shuffled the parchment in front of him, aligning the stack before meeting Draco’s gaze again.

“During your house arrest, you will be required to remain at your designated place of residence. Any changes must be submitted in writing and approved by the Ministry. You will be subject to random inquiries by DMLE personnel to ensure nothing is—how shall I say—‘out of the ordinary.’”

Draco arched a brow.

‘Out of the ordinary’—as in resurrecting the Dark Lord and forming a hobbyist death cult, perhaps?

“Wards will be placed on the perimeter of your property and monitored closely. You will not be permitted to leave the premises at any time.”

Kingsley flipped the page. “Speaking of residence—where do you plan to stay?”

Draco’s brow furrowed. “I’d assumed the Manor?” He looked over his shoulder at Narcissa.

Her expression faltered. She glanced toward Kingsley.

Right. Of course. Why make anything simple?

“The Manor was seized by the Ministry,” Kingsley said, flatly.

Draco blinked. “What?”

He turned fully now, trying to meet his mother’s eyes. “Mum? Where have you been staying?”

“We have other properties, my dear,” she said softly, with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “And that place stopped being a home long ago.”

Draco tried to rake a hand through his hair, forgetting the shackles. The loud clank of metal made him wince.

He exhaled sharply, cheeks flushed. “Then I—I don’t know where I’m supposed to live.”

“I’ve been at the estate in France,” Narcissa offered. “But I assume you’re not permitted to leave the country. There’s a small cottage also in Wiltshire—quiet, private. It hasn’t been used in years, but it’ll serve.”

Draco looked at Kingsley, unsure. “Is that acceptable, Minister?”

Blaise elbowed him but Kingsley simply nodded.

“That’s fine.”

He straightened the stack of parchment in front of him again.

“Once we adjourn, Ms. Granger and an Auror will escort you to the residence to place the wards.”

Draco swallowed hard, eyes flicking anywhere but toward Hermione.

“You will receive your wand back,” Kingsley went on, “but it will be magically restricted. Spellwork will be limited and all casting monitored and reported to the Ministry.”

He sighed, clearly weary of his own voice by now.

“Ms. Granger will oversee the rehabilitation component of your house arrest. This includes academic studies, periodic evaluations, Muggle integration programming, and any other activities relevant to your recovery and reintegration.”

Draco noticed Hermione shift slightly in his periphery. He frowned.

“Muggle… integration?”

“Ah. Yes.” Kingsley’s voice took on a note of vague amusement. “I seem to have forgotten to mention that.”

He clasped his hands together.

“Your rehabilitation includes mandatory immersion in Muggle customs and life. Your wand will not be at full strength, so it stands to reason you’ll need to adapt—live, more or less, as a Muggle. It should help… dislodge any lingering biases.”

Draco’s hands curled around the arms of his chair.

“I haven’t held those beliefs in a long time, Minister,” he said coldly.

“Yes, yes,” Kingsley said, waving him off. “Then it shouldn’t be a problem.”

He flipped through the last of the papers. “That appears to be all. Do you have any questions?”

Draco hesitated, then exhaled slowly. “I—” He cleared his throat. “There were some drawings. Letters. From my cell. I’d like to keep them, if possible.”

From the corner of his eye, he saw Hermione shift again. She was wringing her hands now. He fought back a smile.

“They’ll be sent to your residence,” Kingsley replied. “Along with any other items of value.”

Draco snorted before he could stop himself, then coughed to cover the sound.

Items of value . A few dull safety pens, half-used soap, and a toothbrush made for a troll.

But the letters from Granger and the sketches of her?

Priceless.

Kingsley arched a brow at him before nodding. “Alright. On behalf of the Ministry, we wish you well. Please don’t return to us sooner than necessary.” He gestured to the Auror lingering at the side.

The Auror walked forward briskly and tapped his wand against Draco’s restraints. They unlatched with a sharp clank . The metal hit the chair, but Draco didn’t mind.

Free, he thought. You’re free.

He flexed his fingers, then rubbed his wrists, wincing at the raw skin. Rising slowly to his feet, he exhaled deeply. “Thank you all, truly. I won’t let you down,” he said, meeting Kingsley’s eyes.

Kingsley gave a small smile and nodded in return.

Taking that as his cue, Draco turned to the three people waiting for him.

Blaise wore a shit-eating grin.

Narcissa and Hermione mirrored each other—eyes glassy, lips trembling into smiles.

“Are you ready, Draco?” his mother asked.

He dragged a hand through his hair, heartbeat in his throat. “I’ve never been more ready in my life.”

Hermione beamed. His heart fluttered.

Narcissa stepped forward swiftly and pulled him into a hug. He hesitated, arms hovering—then held her tight.

It felt like his nerve endings had been set alight.

He inhaled sharply, his lungs unfamiliar with the sensation of unfiltered air and safety.

Blaise clapped a hand on his shoulder with a rare, gentle squeeze.

Draco released Narcissa, brushing his hands down her arms and clasping her fingers. He squeezed once. Reassurance.

Then he tugged Blaise into a quick hug, murmuring, “Thank you.”

He didn’t need to say more—Blaise would understand.

The chamber had mostly cleared, but he could still feel eyes on them. Watching.

He turned at last to Hermione.

And it nearly wrecked him.

He wanted to kiss her. Hold her. Just be.

“Granger,” he rasped, blinking hard.

She had been waiting, chin propped on her clasped hands, a serene and deeply relieved smile on her lips.

“Draco,” she whispered. A whole story in just his name.

A crooked grin broke across his face. It had been so long since he had felt even a glimpse of happiness or hope but this time it was all consuming. 

Hermione let out a breathy laugh and moved toward him just as he stepped toward her.

He wrapped his arms around her waist and lifted her clean off the floor.

She shrieked, a startled sound that dissolved into laughter.

He’d never heard anything more beautiful.

He buried his face in her neck, breathing her in. She sighed as he gently set her down but didn’t let go.

She fisted the back of his uniform, shoulders trembling as they held on to each other.

A faint noise stirred in the back of the room, but he didn’t care. Not now.

He pulled back just enough to look at her.

Beautiful.

His lip trembled. This time, he didn’t fight the tears.

“Fuck,” he whispered, brushing beneath her eyes with his thumbs.

She smiled, full and unrestrained, gripping his wrists.

“You beautiful, brilliant witch,” he breathed.

She flushed, closing her eyes like she was soaking in the moment.

Hermione’s eyes fluttered open, and she began to speak when—

Click. Click. Click.

“My, my, my…”

Draco’s spine went rigid. His blood ran cold.

Fucking Skeeter.

“This is brilliant ,” she purred, fingers flitting dramatically through the air. “War heroine and recently freed prisoner: A love story for the ages.”

Draco’s hands dropped, jaw clenching.

He cast Hermione a brief, apologetic look before turning to Rita with icy disdain.

“The show’s over. Gallery was dismissed ages ago—unless you’ve developed a habit of ignoring the Minister’s orders?” he sneered.

Rita tutted. “Nonsense, my boy. This is something you should be proud of—certainly—this love of yours.”

Draco swallowed and slipped behind a mask of indifference. He wouldn't give her what she wanted.

They hadn’t done anything. Nothing had happened. There was nothing to discuss.

“Watch yourself, Skeeter,” he snapped.

“Surely you remember what happened the last time you crossed me,” Hermione said coolly. “I’m not opposed to filing a report on your behavior today—complete with your inability to follow direct orders from the Minister. Not to mention the nature of your secret.”

Rita just smiled, bright and shark-like. “Lovely to see you as always, Ms. Granger.”

Narcissa stepped forward and placed herself firmly between them. “We were just leaving.” She turned to the group with a calm smile. “Shall we?”

Draco nodded once and turned to follow them, brushing past Rita and her sharp gaze.

The corridor ahead stretched long and unfamiliar, but for the first time in years, it didn’t feel like a trap.

He had no idea what was waiting for him beyond the Ministry doors—what would happen at this so-called cottage, what it would feel like to have a wand again, or to try to live a life outside the weight of a prison cell.

But he had hope. And for now, that was enough.

He stepped forward into the unknown—heart pounding, wrists still aching, but free.

Chapter Text

“Well, this place has seen better days,” Blaise drawled, arms crossed as he surveyed the space.

Draco gave a grim smile and looked around the cottage that was now his place of residence. It had, indeed, seen better days. Perhaps not in the last few decades, but surely once upon a time.

Compared to the Manor, anything would feel small  but this wasn’t small , not really. And anything was better than the prison cell he’d spent the last year in.

He still didn’t understand how it had happened. After nearly twelve months of silence, isolation, and a trial sprung on him at the last possible moment, he’d braced himself for a lifetime in Azkaban. Maybe even The Gallows.

Instead, he’d been given a year of house arrest.

A year.

It was nothing compared to what he thought he’d earned.

He stepped further inside. Dust blanketed every surface in a thick, undisturbed layer. He ran a finger along a nearby table and grimaced.

Definitely an inch.

Narcissa cleared her throat softly behind him. He turned to her.

“The elves who used to tend the cottage were reassigned to help keep the Manor clean during…” she trailed off, lips tightening before smoothing into a polite smile. “They’ve since been sent to our other estates. But I know Mipsy would be more than willing to stay here with you.”

Draco glanced over her shoulder, making sure Granger was still outside, casting wards, before quietly asking, “Are they free?”

Blaise let out a quiet snort, muttering something under his breath.

“I freed them the moment I was released,” Narcissa replied with a small, knowing smile. “Most chose to stay on — with a proper wage.”

Draco huffed. Of course they had. He could practically hear Fourth Year Hermione scoffing in triumph. He remembered writing home about the know-it-all who’d started a society with a name that made him want to vomit, wearing those ridiculous badges.

His mother had written back: I raised you better than to be so narrow-minded.

She had always been far more progressive than his father. Fire and ice, his parents — always.

He was pulled from the thought as Hermione stepped across the threshold, brushing dust off her hands.

“You freed your house-elves?” she asked Narcissa, voice bright with delighted disbelief.

“Predictable as always, Granger,” Draco muttered with a wry smile.

She narrowed her eyes at him, exhaled slowly, and scanned the room. “Why are you still in your prison uniform?” she asked, nose wrinkling as she crossed the space with her hands on her hips.

Draco looked down, grimaced. “I don’t have any clothes here, and I don’t even know where the bloody washroom is. So spare me the judgement, Granger.”

Blaise stepped forward and held out a folded change of clothes. “Pansy sent these. She said she’ll stop by tomorrow with a proper wardrobe,” he said with an infuriating lilt.

Draco took them, his grip tightening, thumb brushing over the fabric like it was something precious. He swallowed hard, blinking back sudden emotion.

“Thanks,” he murmured.

He turned to Narcissa, but before he could speak, she raised a hand and gave a small shake of her head.

“We’ll let you get settled,” she said softly. She turned toward Blaise and Hermione. “Come along.”

Blaise clapped Draco’s shoulder. “Floo me if you need anything, yeah?”

Draco nodded and pulled him into a firm hug. “Thank you. For everything.”

Blaise gave him a smirk and slipped out the door.

Draco turned to Narcissa, drawing her into a quiet, lingering embrace. He kissed her forehead and murmured a thank you that didn’t feel nearly big enough. She cupped his face briefly, smoothing his hair off his temple before stepping back.

She didn’t say goodbye. She just gave him a look, something that was soft and relieved,  and followed Blaise outside.

Draco finally turned to Hermione.

She stood a few feet away, wringing her hands like she was trying to stop them from shaking. He raised an eyebrow at her, unsure if it was curiosity or concern that bloomed in his chest.

“I, um…” She cleared her throat. “I have to stay a little bit longer to go over more specifics,” she said, voice thin and tentative. “About your house arrest.”

Draco sighed and nodded, tucking the little bundle of clothes under his arm. “Well, if you don’t mind, I’d like a warm bath and a change of clothes before we go over the fine details.”

“Oh—yes, of course! I can just… make myself busy.” Hermione replied quickly, eyes not quite meeting his.

Draco blinked, frowning. “I have no idea where anything is,” he paused. “Care to join me for a flat tour, Granger?”

Hermione perked up, her posture straightening. “I think that would be a good idea. You know. For security purposes, of course.” She added, a flush blooming across her cheeks.

A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. “Ah yes. Security purposes.” He clicked his tongue, clearly amused.

He started walking, but didn’t hear footsteps behind him. He glanced over his shoulder.
“Coming?”

“Yes—sorry,” she squeaked, scurrying after him.

If someone had told him years ago that Hermione Granger would be in his flat—alone—he would’ve called them mental.

He bit back a laugh at the thought.

They moved through the cottage in companionable silence. It was outdated and in desperate need of attention, but Draco found he didn’t care. Not really. He was grateful. He was home, in whatever form this took, and the disbelief still clung to him like a second skin.

Eventually, they stepped into a room that was clearly the bath. Though sunlight filtered in through a dust-streaked window, Hermione still lit the wall sconces with a flick of her wand.

A large, ancient clawfoot tub sat squarely in the middle of the room.

A strange, almost giddy wave passed through him, and he stepped forward, setting his clothes on the counter—

“Wait!” Hermione thrust an arm in front of him, stopping him mid-movement.

He arched a brow. “Yes?”

She huffed and pulled out her wand again, casting a quick Scourgify over the counter, then around the room.

He set the clothes down, a little sheepish. “Thank you.”

She waved it off as she worked. “This place really needs to be cleaned the Muggle way. It’s utterly filthy. I wouldn’t recommend bathing in here if it weren’t for the fact that you smell like Azkaban.”

He snorted. “Well, I was just there.”

She gave him a flat look before turning the taps. Once the tub had filled a little, she immediately drained it and started over.

Draco leaned back against the counter, arms crossed. “Was that water not to your liking?”

Hermione scowled. “The pipes probably haven’t been used in years. I wanted to flush out any buildup before you—” she sighed. “Never mind.”

He blinked at her, confused. Another Muggle thing, probably. Or just one of the many details he’d been too spoiled to ever think about.

“Malfoy, do you know where my beaded bag is?” she asked, dipping her fingers into the water to test it.

He blinked. “Why would I know where your bag is?”

She sighed. “Accio bag.”

The bag zipped into her hand and he blinked, noting the ease of her wandless magic. Apparently, she'd grown even more competent—if that was possible.

She reached an arm into the bottomless bag, digging through what sounded like clinking glass bottles before emerging with a small vial. “Aha!” she beamed, holding it up like a prize. “This will help relax you a bit and it smells amazing.”

He frowned, watching curiously as she unstoppered the bottle and used a dropper to release a few drops into the water. 

She cast a warming charm, then a stasis charm over the bath before straightening and brushing her hands on her trousers. “Take your time. Merlin knows you need it.” Her tone was firm but kind, her eyes softer than she probably realized.

He rolled his eyes. “Thanks, I think.”

Reaching over his head, he peeled off his shirt. He caught the quiet sound she made and glanced sideways—Hermione was very deliberately not looking at him.

Her cheeks were flushed again.

He smirked. “Something wrong, Granger?”

She audibly swallowed. “I’ll actually be back. I have to—do something.”

And just like that, she brushed past him and disappeared out the door. A second later, the Floo roared to life.

“Thank you!” he called after her, laughter tugging at his chest.

She didn’t have to do all that. But she did.

And it meant more than he felt safe admitting.

He shoved the thought aside as he stripped off the rest of his clothes, grabbing a clean towel and washcloth before stepping into the bath.

The heat enveloped him, a balm to his sore limbs and battered spirit. He sank into it with a sigh, the water lapping just above his lips.

The scent hit him like a memory.

Her.

Lavender. Mint. Eucalyptus.

He would recognize it anywhere. He had dreamt of it—buried himself in it, deep in his mind, when sleep was all he had.

It stirred something raw in his chest.

He closed his eyes and let himself exist —just for a moment—letting the warmth soak into the corners of him still frozen from Azkaban.

Only after several long minutes did he reach for the washcloth. He scrubbed—his arms, his chest, his legs. Once. Twice. Again. As if he could wipe away the months of filth and the memories that clung to it.

As if he could start over.

Maybe he could. 

Salazar knows he would try to, at the very least. 

After what felt like a small eternity, Draco finally emerged from the bath, steam curling from the door behind him. He tugged on the fresh clothes Hermione had left, the soft linen dragging a low, involuntary moan from his throat. He hadn’t realized how much he missed the feeling of clean fabric against clean skin.

He rubbed the towel over his hair until it stood in damp, disheveled tufts, then reached to extinguish the flickering wall sconce with a puff of breath.

Right. His wand.

He needed to ask Granger when he was getting it back. The thought sparked something warm and electric in his chest. Even though he knew the Ministry had  stripped it of most of its original power, the idea of holding it again stirred something he hadn't let himself feel in a long time.

Draco padded quietly through the hallway, the floorboards creaking underfoot, and turned toward the living room—only to stop dead in his tracks.

Hermione at some point had changed into more casual clothes. Leggings that threatened to break any shred of restraint he had left, and an oversized jumper that hung off one shoulder. 

She was in the middle of cleaning the cottage. The Muggle way.

He blinked at the sight, eyebrows knitting together. “Granger?”

She turned, her cheeks slightly flushed from exertion, and a loose curl fell from the clip holding her hair back. She blew at it absently, to no effect. “I figured I’d make myself useful while waiting,” she said, brushing her hands on her thighs.

Draco swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry. “You didn’t have to do that.”

He stepped farther into the room and took in the visible difference—less dust, cleared surfaces, the air somehow lighter. The place no longer looked entirely like it had been frozen in time.

Hermione placed her hands on her hips and raised a brow. “No, I didn’t. But I wanted to. A simple thank you would do.”

He gave a half-huff, rubbing the back of his neck where the damp strands clung to his skin. “Thank you,” he said quietly, sincerely.

The hem of his shirt lifted slightly with the motion, revealing a sliver of pale skin. He noticed her eyes flicker down, then quickly darted away. A flicker of warmth bloomed in his chest.

She cleared her throat and walked into the small kitchen to rinse her hands in the sink. He took the opportunity to sink down onto the sofa—a stiff, vintage floral monstrosity—resting his head back against it.

“Well?” he drawled, watching her with open amusement.

She returned and, without hesitation, flicked his forehead with her fingers. He flinched dramatically. “Feisty little witch,” he muttered, rubbing the spot and crossing his arms.

Hermione laughed and rolled her eyes before sitting down on the far end of the couch with a respectable distance firmly in place.

He ignored the flicker of disappointment that stirred in his gut.

“I apologize for the unprofessional attire,” she said, tucking her legs beneath her. “But I couldn’t stand that other outfit a moment longer.”

She reached into her beaded bag and pulled out a sealed property bag with his name clearly printed across the top. A few official-looking parchments stuck out from one corner.

His fingers twitched involuntarily at the sight.

Hermione carefully opened the bag and began removing the contents. His eyes flicked to the items: the black trousers and button-up shirt he had worn during the final battle… his wand… and his Black family signet necklace.

But it wasn’t the wand that made his breath catch.

It was the necklace.

His eyes dropped to her hands, and he wished they hadn’t.

His jaw tightened. “The ring?” he asked, voice rough, quiet.

Hermione blinked in confusion, then followed his gaze to her hand. She lifted it, frowning. “Huh.”

Just huh.

A sharp edge of anger began to bleed into the hollowness he felt. He took a breath, trying to steady himself. 

He didn’t know what he’d expected. 

Maybe that she’d kept it on every day since like he had vague dreams of. 

The visibly bare skin still stung. He knew it didn’t have magical protection without the companion piece, but the symbolism had meant something to him. Still did. 

Perhaps if he wasn’t such a coward when he had given it to her and actually acknowledged the feelings he had for her then maybe it would’ve meant something to her too. 

She stood abruptly, effectively ending his spiraling thoughts, and walked over to the Floo. She rose up on her tiptoes. “This ring?” she called, turning with something small glinting in her palm.

His heart stumbled in his chest.

“I’ll add cruel to the list of ways I describe Hermione Granger,” he said lightly, trying to shove the emotion out of his voice. Make it a joke. Play it off.

She snorted and held it up between two fingers. “I did grow fond of it,” she said. “But if you want it back—”

“No!” he blurted out, far too fast.

Her eyebrows shot up in surprise, and she bit her lip, clearly trying to suppress a laugh.

He scowled and cleared his throat. “I mean… you can keep it. It’s not a big deal.” He forced a shrug, feigning nonchalance. “It suits you.”

Her eyes sparkled with amusement, and she gave a theatrical sigh. “Well, if you insist …”

“I do,” he said, voice lower now, a smile curling at the edges. “Oh, I insist.”

She slipped the ring back onto her left ring finger—slowly, deliberately—and he didn’t look away.

Something shifted between them then. Quiet, but undeniable.

Draco reminded himself that he needed to tread carefully. 

Hermione Granger was an accomplished, respected figure in the Ministry now. Life had continued on quite well for her without him orbiting and clouding her existence. He wouldn’t compromise her, wouldn’t pull her into something that could unravel everything she’d worked for.

But Merlin, he’d missed this.

This version of himself… the one who could look her in the eye, say something clever or utterly stupid, and not worry about whether the ground would open beneath him. 

Not the hollowed-out shell who’d haunted Hogwarts like a ghost in his own skin.

Not the masked, silent shadow who’d done what he had to, because there hadn’t been a choice.

There had been a flicker of something, even back then. After their first few project meetings, a light he hadn't realized he was desperate for until she’d ignited it.

Granger had breathed it into existence, and now it was burning so bright his ribs ached with the effort of containing it.

He reached toward the necklace, fingers brushing the air only for her to swat his hand away.

“You have to sign—” she said, already sliding one of the parchments toward him and placing a Muggle pen next to it, “—this first.”

He sighed, exaggerated and put-upon, before picking up the pen and scrawling out his signature. As soon as the final flourish left the tip, the parchment shimmered once then vanished into thin air.

His brows shot up. “I swear I just signed it—I don’t know how that happened.”

Hermione let out a loud, delighted laugh, throwing her head back as her shoulders shook.

Now he was thoroughly confused.

When she finally caught her breath, she wiped under her eye and gave him a sheepish grin. “Godric, the look on your face was too good.”

He blinked between her and the empty space where the document had been. “Was it… cursed?”

She bit her lip to hold back another smile. “Charmed. All Ministry documents are enchanted to return immediately once signed. I should have warned you, but I’m so glad I didn’t.”

He gave a wounded scoff, warmth creeping across his cheeks. “Glad I could be your entertainment.”

“Don’t be so dramatic.” She tapped something lightly against his arm. His gaze dropped. Her hand was holding out his wand. “You can have this back now.”

The world narrowed to a single point.

His wand.

His heart beat unevenly as his fingers curled around it. The thrum of magic pulsed from the core, sliding up his arm like a long-lost limb returning to him. He exhaled, the smile stretching across his face unfiltered, almost boyish.

“Gods, I missed my wand,” he breathed, twisting it lightly in his grasp, just to feel it again.

When he looked up, Hermione was watching him with an expression so soft, so full of something he couldn’t name, that it caught him completely off guard.

His smile faltered at the same moment hers did.

“What?” he asked, voice cautious.

She blinked, then turned quickly toward the table. “Nothing,” she said, a little too fast. “Sorry.” 

A dry laugh followed as she slid another parchment toward him. “This is the list of spells you’re approved to use.”

Draco glanced down at the page and huffed.

The list was pitiful. Barely more than a handful of elementary charms. He could’ve learned more in first year.

He blew a raspberry and tossed the parchment onto the table. “What about wandless magic?”

She tilted her head, considering. “As a Ministry official, I have to strongly advise against it,” she said primly.

He deflated.

“But,” she added, and her voice softened, “as your… friend, I’ll just say they haven’t figured out a way to monitor it. Yet.”

He looked at her for a beat longer than necessary and tucked the information away with a grateful nod. “Thank you.”

Hermione returned the nod, her gaze dropping back to the table. “This last one outlines what to expect from our meetings moving forward,” she said, sliding the final paper over. “By next time, I’d like you to compile any questions you have for me about the Muggle integration portion of your rehabilitation. And I need you to pick which Hogwarts coursework you’d like to finish.”

Draco scanned the contents. There was a breakdown of classes and a long note about Hermione coordinating with McGonagall. The list of Muggle concepts made his head spin. Electricity. Movies. Phones?

He grimaced. “Sounds reasonable enough,” he murmured, setting the parchment beside his wand and sinking deeper into the stiff floral couch.

“Anything else?” he asked, voice low.

She shook her head. “Nope. That’s all. Unless you have questions for me.”

He had too many. Most of which he probably shouldn’t ask.

But one slipped out anyway, quiet and unguarded. “Is this the only time I’ll see you?” His fingers twitched beside him. “Just… for Ministry duties?”

Hermione looked up, her expression unreadable at first—blank, almost. Then something shifted. The line between her brows softened, but she didn’t answer right away. 

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, that same strand that had escaped before, and looked down at the pile of papers like they might offer her an escape.

“Well,” she said eventually, voice careful, “officially… yes.”

He swallowed, something cold and disappointed sliding through his chest despite how little he’d dared to hope.

“But,” she continued, lifting her gaze to his, “unofficially… I suppose that depends.”

“On what?”

“On whether you want to,” she said simply.

It wasn’t flirtatious. There was no teasing lilt to her words, no playful smile. Just honesty, set down between them like a fragile offering.

Draco stared at her, caught off-guard by the sincerity of it.

He hadn’t expected that answer. Maybe a polite deflection. Maybe a vague Ministry excuse. Certainly not the door being left slightly open.

And suddenly, the breath of life he felt that flickered only when he was graced with her presence burned into oblivion. 

“I do,” he said, quietly but without hesitation.

Hermione’s eyes widened a little, just for a second, before relief crossed her face. She nodded and folded her hands neatly in her lap.

“Alright,” She said, as if it were the easiest thing in the world. But her voice wavered slightly. “Then maybe we’ll find time. Outside of Ministry obligations. We would need to be very careful.”

He nodded slowly, trying not to look too relieved. “Right.”

A silence stretched between them. Not uncomfortable, but full. 

He shifted in his seat so he was facing her fully. His fingers twitched again, every muscle in his body buzzing with the impossible weight of the question he knew he shouldn’t ask. 

But she was here. Warm. Breathing. Not a dream.

“Hermione?” he asked carefully, voice hoarse with restraint.

Her breath hitched. “Yes?”

He couldn’t breathe. Or maybe he was breathing too much. His thoughts spiraled in a mess of want and warning, of don’t ruin this and just this once .

His mouth opened, closed, then opened again. “Can I—?”

He stopped himself. His heart was racing like he was standing on a ledge again.

She was watching him with parted lips, like she knew what he was asking before the words even came.

He swallowed hard and tried again. “Can I kiss you?” His voice was raw. “I’ve wanted to. For… fuck, I don’t even know how long. I know I shouldn’t—I know there’s so much—”

His rambling died the second she surged forward.

Her mouth crashed into his like she had been holding herself and finally the leash had snapped. Her hands were in his hair, in his shirt, curling into him like she was afraid he might vanish again. And gods, he kissed her back like she was breath itself—desperate and unsteady and burning.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t neat.

It was the kiss they should’ve had without the weight of a war on their shoulders. Without guilt, or fear, or duty clawing at the edges.

It was hunger, desperation, and healing all at once.

His hands found her waist, gripping like he might fall through the floor if he let go. Her body was pressed flush to his now, all fire and noise and trembling hands. He tilted his head and deepened the kiss, nearly groaning at the soft, broken sound she made against his lips.

He was spiraling—he knew it—but gods, he didn’t care. Not now. Not with her kissing him like that. Like she had starved for this just as much as he had.

She finally pulled back with a gasp, their foreheads pressed together, both of them breathless and wrecked.

“Fuck,” he whispered, eyes still shut. “If this is a dream, I swear to Merlin I’m going to kill someone when I wake up.”

She let out a breathless laugh and pressed her lips to the corner of his mouth. “Not a dream.”

He opened his eyes slowly. She was looking at him like he was something tragically beautiful.

And he didn’t know what in Salazar’s name to do with that.

So he kissed her again.

Softer, this time.

Like he had all the time in the world.

Chapter Text

Hermione had left with something close to embarrassment on her face. Her cheeks flushed, her eyes wide, lips still swollen from the kiss they’d shared—ravenous and messy and impossibly gentle, like they didn’t know whether to devour or worship one another.

Draco hadn’t moved for several minutes after she left.

He wasn’t embarrassed.

Not in the slightest.

If anything, he was still trying to remember how to breathe.

He’d spent so long starving—for warmth, for touch, for something that wasn’t grey stone and cold judgment. Starving for her. 

Gods, especially her. 

He hadn’t realized how badly he’d wanted to feel anything again until her mouth was on his, until her fingers curled into his shirt like she needed him just as much as he needed her.

He’d never been kissed like that before. Like someone was daring to need him.

And now she was gone, and the air felt thinner in her absence.

Draco eventually dragged himself up from the couch and down the hall to his room, a pathetic echo of a smile still ghosting his lips. It felt foreign—his mouth wasn’t used to it anymore—but not unwelcome.

He felt pathetically similar to what he imagined a first-year felt like after his crush looked his way for the first time. In reality it wasn’t too far off from the truth. 

During their last bit of time at Hogwarts, outside of Theo, Hermione was the one person who he begrudgingly let see him and the weight on his shoulders. 

Now? She saw him. The version of him that had endless possibilities for his future. He wasn’t quite sure what that looked like yet but he knew he envisioned her in it one way or another. 

He collapsed onto the bed with a soft grunt, the mattress exhaling beneath him like even the furniture was tired. Even though the rest of the house had been left in a state that looked like it was frozen in time, the bed had been way more comfortable than the thin excuse for a mattress he had in Azkaban. 

He stared up at the ceiling, arms folded behind his head, the kiss playing on a loop in his mind.

The way she looked at him like he was real and she couldn’t quite believe she was in his arms again.

His thoughts spiraled, but not in the ways they used to. Not into panic or regret. No devastation in this loop, no guilt clawing at the corners—just the glimpse of his future choices he could make but mainly just fragments of her. Her laugh. Her eyes. The way her voice softened when she said his name.

Maybe… maybe it was okay to feel this. To want.

He could survive house arrest. A year in this gilded cage, in exchange for a future that was finally his own. Freedom was close. He could almost taste it and it tasted like her.

Like possibility.

He remembered what he’d said to her during the battle, when everything around them had been falling apart. “In another lifetime, I would have courted you properly.”

At the time, he hadn’t expected to live long enough to see that lifetime.

But now?

Now, he wasn’t sure if he could wait. Not for the year to pass. Not for freedom to be officially granted by the Ministry. 

He could be careful. He would have to be careful.

But maybe he could start now.

Start slow. Thoughtful. Earnest.

Proper.

If anyone deserved to be loved properly, it was her.

And gods help him, he was going to try.

Draco turned onto his side and buried his face into the pillow, letting out a quiet groan of contentment. He hadn’t realized how much he missed something as simple as softness. As warmth. As comfort.

A pillow. Salazar, a pillow. He clutched it tighter.

He would never allow himself to take even the smallest things for granted again.

A warm bed. Clean clothes. A window. Warm baths and floral smells.  

Time, he knew now, was not endless. It slipped through your fingers like dust, unnoticed until it was gone. He didn’t even know how long he’d been locked in that cursed cell—only that it had drained something essential from him. And now, with what time he had left, he was determined to live deliberately. Fully.

A life worth living.

He wasn’t entirely sure what to do with all this free time under house arrest, but for once, the possibilities didn’t feel suffocating—they felt endless.

He’d finish his studies. He already had more brains than most of the Ministry combined, but it wouldn’t hurt to solidify it with credentials. He wasn’t about to be a cautionary tale of wasted potential.

He’d commit to this Muggle integration program, not out of some noble allegiance to Ministry ideals, but because it gave him an excuse to see her. To learn more about her world. To unlearn what he’d been taught, and maybe start becoming the man who deserved her.

He might even let himself return to art—though he’d have to find a way to acquire proper supplies. Anything had to be better than the Azkaban-approved safety pens that cracked and bled like dying insects. 

And finally—perhaps most importantly—he was a man on a mission.

He was going to make Hermione Granger fall hopelessly, irrevocably, utterly in love with him.

He would do it slowly, carefully, properly.

He would court her with all the old-fashioned sincerity she deserved: letters, small gifts, and nice dates although that would be hard but he figured he could make something work. 

Anything to make her smile that brilliant, secret smile—the one she’d given him before apparating away like she hadn’t just changed his entire world.

Now, something important to know about Malfoy men: they were possessive by nature. And when they were devoted, they didn’t waver.

Draco used to think that was just a poor excuse for how obsessively his father adored his mother, once upon a time. A dramatization. A flourish. 

But now, after small tastes of Hermione Granger—her laugh in his mouth, her fingers twisted in his hair, her breath warm against his cheek—he understood.

He would not let her slip away. Not this time. Not in this life.

Some might call that obsessive. Problematic, even. But Draco Malfoy didn’t care. He had spent too long hollowed out and alone, too long surviving and not living. He knew the difference now. And he knew what he wanted.

He fell asleep with the ghost of her kiss still lingering on his lips, mind full of parchment and paints and courtship strategies. Plans to charm her, make her laugh, surprise her, keep her.

It was the most peaceful night of sleep he’d had in years.

Draco woke to the sound of pounding. Heavy, jarring knocks echoing down the corridor like hammer blows.

His eyes snapped open, his body jackknifing upright before his mind caught up. Panic clawed up his throat as his heart thundered beneath his ribs. His breath came in short, ragged bursts.

You are free. You are at home.

He clenched the bedsheets in white-knuckled fists, repeating the words in his head like a spell.

It took nearly a full minute for his breathing to level out. Just as the tension in his spine began to ease—

BANG. BANG. BANG.

The noise came again, louder this time. He gritted his teeth and slapped his palm across the nightstand, fingers scrambling for the wand he’d placed there. The moment his hand closed around it, his lungs eased a little. It wouldn’t do him much good under restriction, but the feel of it anchored him all the same.

He crept out of bed and padded barefoot to the door, wand limp at his side.

Halfway there, he paused. Muffled yet familiar voices filtered through the wood.

He blinked. 

Draco yanked the door open.

Pansy Parkinson stood on his doorstep in full dramatic pout, arms crossed and toe tapping. Beside her, Theodore Nott winced apologetically.

Theo raised his hands. “I told her you were probably asleep and maybe, just maybe, three rounds of pounding wasn’t the best way to wake up someone just out of Azkaban.”

Draco glared at Pansy. “Pleasure as always, Parks. Thanks for the cardiac episode.”

“Don’t be such a baby,” she said breezily, already brushing past him. A box levitated behind her, bobbing slightly as she marched into the flat like she owned the place.

He stepped aside with a sigh and gave Theo a look of exhausted disbelief. Theo just shrugged and stepped inside.

The moment the door clicked shut, Draco reached forward and pulled Theo into a hug so tight it nearly knocked the breath from both of them. He buried his face into the crook of his friend’s neck and squeezed like letting go might unravel him.

Theo froze for half a second, then his arms wrapped around Draco’s waist and pulled him in closer.

For a while, neither of them moved. They just breathed.

Draco glanced up and caught Pansy watching them from across the room, her face soft with unguarded joy. The second she realized she’d been seen, she stiffened and tilted her chin. “I’m going to go… judge your flat and pretend I’m not emotionally compromised. You two have a moment.”

She pivoted sharply and stalked off into the next room.

Draco let out a low, breathy laugh and slowly pulled back. He rested his forehead against Theo’s, cupping the sides of his friend’s face with trembling hands.

They didn’t open their eyes. They didn’t need to.

“You’re free free,” Draco whispered.

Theo huffed out a dry laugh. “ You should be ‘free free’ too.”

Draco pulled back and met his gaze, jaw tight. “I’m lucky I got any sliver of freedom at all,” he said roughly, dragging a hand through his hair. “I deserved worse. You didn’t commit a single crime.”

Theo’s expression darkened. “Draco, you had no choice. You know that better than anyone. What they made you—what they did to you—”

“I still did things,” Draco muttered. “And that matters.”

A pause.

Theo sighed and sank down onto the arm of the sofa. “You really are the most dramatic bastard alive.”

Draco arched a brow. “This is coming from the man who once threatened to set fire to his own eyebrows rather than take Divination.”

Theo held up a finger. “In my defense, that class was a nightmare. But no, really—this place, this second chance—take it. You deserve to rebuild.”

Draco blinked. Slowly, he let the words settle in.

He crossed to the couch. That ridiculous floral monstrosity that looked like it had been hexed into existence by someone with a vendetta against good taste and dropped onto it with a sigh.

“I think…” he said quietly, resting his elbows on his knees, “this might be the closest I’ve ever been to something like peace.”

Theo watched him for a moment, then nodded. “Good. Then let’s make sure it lasts.” 

Pansy cleared her throat before stepping back into the room. She narrowed her eyes at both of them before letting out a rare, reluctant smile and strode toward Draco.

He stood up to meet her, opening his arms. “Parks. Even though you nearly gave me a heart attack, it’s good to see you.”

She didn’t answer, just folded herself into his chest and gripped him hard, holding on with a quiet fierceness that told him more than words could.

Draco ran a soothing hand up and down her back. “Thank you,” he murmured. “For taking care of the elves while Mother was still in holding.”

Pansy leaned back, eyes narrowed in mock offense. “Well, I wasn’t going to leave them to rot in that dreary mausoleum. They were bored out of their minds. No one to boss them around. A tragedy.”

He grimaced. “Sounds like they suffered.”

“More than you, probably,” she sniffed, but softened again before moving to perch on the edge of the coffee table.

Draco sank back down beside Theo, who gave him a wry look that said good luck keeping up with her.

Pansy clapped her hands suddenly, startling them both. “Right! I almost forgot.” She reached over, grabbed the box she’d brought in, and dropped it directly into Draco’s lap with far too much enthusiasm. “Open it.”

Draco arched a brow but couldn’t help the wary smile tugging at his mouth. The box was surprisingly light, but sturdy.

Knowing his wand wouldn’t work for Diffindo he tore the box open normally.

As soon as the box opened, a rich scent of new fabric hit his nose. Draco blinked. Inside was a meticulously packed selection of clothing—button-downs, blazers, and slacks folded with precision. All in his preferred darker palette. Expensive, sleek, immaculately tailored.

“Pansy here’s been fussing like a mother kneazle,” Theo added, leaning forward to get a better look. “I told her you’d be happy just to have socks that didn’t feel like sandpaper.”

Draco let out a laugh that surprised even him and began pulling each piece out with slow reverence. Merlin, he had missed clothes. Actual, proper clothes. Even just the texture of good fabric beneath his fingers felt decadent.

By the time he was done, the coffee table was buried under a neat avalanche of fabric, and the little box sat nearly empty. He stared at it, brow furrowing.

“Thank you,” he said after a beat, clearing his throat. “Truly, Pansy. Not to sound ungrateful, but... did you just bring an illegally expanded box into my Ministry-warded flat?”

Theo sputtered on his drink, nearly dropping the glass.

Pansy lifted her chin. “Please. I’m not an idiot, Draco Malfoy.” She flipped her hair. “I had Granger help with an undetectable extension charm.”

Silence. Thick, stunned silence.

Draco stared at her like she’d grown a second head. “You… asked Granger… for help?”

Pansy shrugged one shoulder, casual as anything. “Well, seeing as you’re clearly in love with her, I figured I should start getting along with the witch.”

Draco choked. “I’m not—I’m not in love with—”

But the universe, as ever, had impeccable timing.

The Floo behind them roared to life in a burst of green flames.

All three heads whipped toward it.

Hermione stepped through, brushing ash off her robes.

Draco went very still.

“Granger,” he breathed, his stomach flipping over itself like it was trying to crawl into his throat.

Theo was already shaking with silent laughter beside him, tears threatening to spill from the corners of his eyes. “Oh,” he wheezed, “this is too perfect.”

Hermione’s eyes widened, just barely.

Draco’s gaze flicked to her face, catching the faint flush creeping up her cheeks, then dipped to her white-knuckled grip on the tote bag.

She looked like she wanted to vanish into the flames she’d just stepped out of.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said quickly, already stepping back. “I didn’t know you had company. I can just—”

“No!” Draco said, too loud, too fast.

Theo wheezed louder.

Pansy, ever the savior, smacked Theo’s shoulder. “Get it together.”

Theo yelped in dramatic protest, earning a snort from Hermione.

Draco stepped forward, trying to smooth things over with his tone. “Really, Granger. It’s fine. They were just leaving.” He shot Pansy and Theo a look that practically begged them not to make this worse.

“You guys can stay, I made enough food for probably a week. I didn’t know what Draco would like.” She hesitated, setting the bag down beside the hearth.

Theo turned his head, just out of her line of sight, and waggled his eyebrows at Draco. Mouthing: ‘Draaaco.’

Pansy smacked him again. “Out. Now.”

“Thank you for the offer, Granger,” she said with the barest civility, “but seeing as Theodore can’t behave, we’ll leave you two be.”

Theo slapped his thighs and stood. “A pleasure, as always, Granger. Don’t be a stranger.”

Hermione nodded politely. “Nice to see you too, Theo.”

“Granger,” Pansy echoed with a nod.

“Parkinson,” Hermione replied evenly.

Draco practically herded them out. “Thanks again. Bye now. Out.”

Pansy’s voice rang through the flat as the door closed, “Open your Floo for us next time so I don’t have to send you into near cardiac arrest again!”

As silence settled, Draco turned to Hermione just as she arched a brow, clearly about Pansy’s parting words. He waved her off, heart still hammering from… all of it.

Instead, he gestured to the bag. “Granger, what’s the occasion for all this?”

“Well, I figured you didn’t have food,” she said, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear as she walked toward the kitchen. “And I highly doubt you know how to cook without magic. So I thought I’d make sure you didn’t starve.”

Draco followed her, something fluttering in his chest. “Is this a favor from Ministry Granger, or…” he hesitated, voice quieter, “my friend Granger?”

She pressed some buttons on the oven that he hadn’t looked at once. His ears rang from the beeping and he blinked, heart thundering as he waited for her answer. 

She turned, her back against the warm oven, cheeks flushing a deeper pink. “Friend Granger,” she said, rolling her eyes like she wasn’t hoping he’d ask. “Ministry workers don’t make casserole deliveries.”

He smirked, unable to stop himself. “So I’m the lucky one?”

Hermione huffed a laugh and turned her face slightly to hide her smile. “I’d certainly say so.”

There was a beat of silence. Draco’s heartbeat picked up again, but not from panic this time. From something slower. Warmer.

He took a step forward, then another, until his arms were braced on either side of her against the counter. He tilted his head, gazing down at her with a crooked smile. “So short,” he teased, voice low.

“Maybe you’re just ridiculously tall,” she whispered.

His lips hovered just over hers. “Perhaps.”

He closed the distance and kissed her slowly, allowing himself to savor the feeling of her lips pressed against his own.

Hermione’s arms looped around his neck, fingers threading into his hair. When her nails grazed his scalp, a low sound escaped him before he could even think to swallow it down.

Fuck. That felt—

He didn’t even have words for it. 

Never wanted anyone like this.

He’d spent so long either being an absolute prat in his first few years at Hogwarts or locked in war and fear, and now—now he was unraveling with a single scratch of her nails.

His hands slid down, gripping her waist. She tugged lightly at a lock of his hair and he just reacted. He lifted her up without thinking, her thighs wrapping around him like it was the most natural thing in the world.

His heart stuttered. He’d never been this close to anyone. Not like this.

Their kiss deepened as he spun and set her on the counter, his hands never leaving her. He moved on instinct and got lost in her moans that were low and muffled against his mouth. Her breathy sounds were like a spell he never wanted broken.

He bucked against her without meaning to—too wrapped up in the moment—and Salazar, the rush of heat that followed nearly knocked him off balance.

She made a sound. A sound that belonged in his dreams.

Draco cursed inwardly. He didn’t know what he was doing.  But he wanted to learn. He wanted to memorize every sound she made, every place that made her gasp, every inch of her that melted into his touch.

His lips left hers, kissing his way across her jaw, behind her ear. She trembled beneath his mouth, whispering his name like a secret.

“Draco,” she whimpered.

His breath caught. That sound. That voice.

He pressed a reverent kiss to the curve of her neck before trailing hot open mouthed kisses, sucking and nipping in tandem along her skin. Every delicious sound she made was something he would never forget.

If he died right here on this kitchen floor, it would be with her name on his lips.

“Draco.”

Her whisper of his name unspooled something deep in his chest. He couldn’t think straight.He just pressed his lips lower, brushing the sensitive spot where her neck met her shoulder. Her breath hitched, arms tightening around his neck, anchoring him there like she needed him to keep breathing.

His hands slid under the hem of her jumper, warm palms against soft skin. She arched into him slightly, wordless and trusting, and that nearly undid him.

She tasted like warmth and vanilla and something distinctly Hermione. It made his brain hazy. His hips pressed closer, as if his body had decided for him. His thoughts were jumbled, caught somewhere between is this real and don’t ruin it.

He dragged his mouth back up to her jaw, lips skimming her skin. Her pulse thudded under his tongue.

He was petrified to know the answer because he wasn’t quite sure how he would handle the news if The Weasel or bloody Viktor Krum had gotten to do this. Maybe it was selfish but his voice was raw with need when he murmured against her throat, “Have you…gone beyond kissing with anyone?” 

Hermione froze for the briefest second—not tense, just still—and then let out the softest breath. “No.”

Relief. Terror. Something like awe.

He lifted his head, heart pounding so hard it echoed in his ears. “Me either,” he whispered, voice cracking like something sacred had been shared between them.

Her eyes met his, wide and glassy and so damn beautiful it made his chest ache.

And then—
BEEP.

The oven chirped with mechanical cheeriness, like it hadn’t just shattered the moment into a thousand pieces.

Draco jolted like he’d been hexed. Hermione gasped, clutching at his shoulders before laughing breathlessly.

Draco stepped back, heart racing for an entirely different reason now. Fucking oven. He ran a hand through his hair, trying to will away the flush in his face and the undeniable tent in his trousers.

He didn’t dare look at her for a second. His mind was spinning. 

Of course. Of course something would interrupt this.

Because nothing could ever just go right.

When he finally glanced at her, Hermione was sliding off the counter, her jumper rumpled, her lips kiss-swollen, and her hair slightly tousled.

She looked wrecked. Beautifully, utterly wrecked.

His knees nearly buckled.

She smoothed her top and bent to grab the tote bag, not looking at him, probably giving him a moment to recover. Or herself.

You idiot, his brain screamed. So much for properly courting the witch.

He rubbed a hand over his face, pacing a few steps away like that would help settle the arousal still simmering low in his belly.

Hermione opened the oven and slid the dish inside, still quiet.

Draco exhaled hard. “Granger,” he said softly.

She turned, cheeks pink, eyes bright but unreadable. “Yeah?”

He swallowed, suddenly unsure what he was even trying to say. Don’t stop. Come back. Let me hold you a little longer.

Instead, what came out was, “You look beautiful.”

She blinked then gave a wide and unrestrained smile that tugged at his heartstrings. 

He shoved his hands into his pockets, ducking his head to hide the small smile tugging at his mouth.

She tilted her head. “You okay?”

“Merlin,” he said with a laugh of disbelief. “I’m the most alive I've felt in ages, I’m more than okay.”

Hermione stepped forward again, close enough that he could feel the warmth of her. “You’re not the only one.”

He reached for her hand, bringing it up to his lips to brush a gentle kiss against her knuckles. 

By the time the food was plated, a calm hush had fallen over the cottage.

Hermione moved about the kitchen with easy confidence, setting out the dishes one by one: roasted vegetables, a creamy pasta, and what smelled suspiciously like homemade garlic bread. Draco pulled out a chair for her without thinking, one hand brushing the small of her back as she passed him. Her eyes flicked to him, a soft smile tugging at her lips, but she didn’t comment.

He waited for her to sit before taking his place across from her, proper as ever though the second he tasted the food, his restraint began to fray.

He took a bite of the pasta and groaned— actually groaned—before catching himself and straightening with a snap. “Bloody hell, Granger.”

Her head snapped up in surprise, a laugh bubbling out of her. “That good?”

“I haven’t had a proper meal in ages,” he said after polishing off another bite. “Azkaban food wasn’t exactly… seasoned.”

Hermione gave him a small, sympathetic smile and nudged the bread basket toward him. “Eat as much as you like. I made way too much.”

“I’m not complaining,” he said, already reaching for more. He buttered a piece of bread with the precision of someone raised by staff but the enthusiasm of someone who hadn’t felt this kind of warmth in years. “This is… dangerous. You’ll have to make it again, and I’ll probably propose marriage on the spot.”

She snorted into her glass of water. “Is that how you’re planning to trap me? Through food?”

“Too late. I’m already ensnared.” He gestured to his plate. “The garlic bread did me in.”

Their eyes met over the table, and the moment stretched—comfortable now, not charged, but intimate in its own right.

He cleared his throat and stabbed at a roasted carrot. “So,” he said, aiming for casual, “what was it like… you know. While I was inside?”

Hermione’s expression softened as she set her fork down. “Busy,” she said after a beat. “Relentless, really. Between finishing my education, starting at the Ministry, and just figuring out how to be a person again.”

Draco frowned. “Did you take time for yourself at all?” He took a measured sip of water, watching her patiently as she calculated her answer.

She dabbed her lips with her napkin. “Not at first, if I’m honest.” Her expression twisted. “I moved in with Harry because I didn’t have anywhere set to go. It was nice at first. Fun, even.”

He wanted to curse Potter. Not out of lingering resentment— that had died along with everything else in Azkaban—but because Harry got to live with her while Draco sat in a cold, silent cell. Still, he was begrudgingly grateful she hadn’t been alone.

“I finished my studies and spent my time trying to heal in my own ways,” she continued. “We were just… two broken people. It was relieving not to be alone.” She paused, swallowing. “Until Ron moved in.”

Yep. That rage hadn’t gone anywhere.

He went rigid in his seat, gripping his water glass too tightly.

Don’t blow this. Don’t be a fool.

She studied him carefully before going on. “It was fine. I mean, I finished my studies at home because I couldn’t handle going back to Hogwarts. Harry and Ron went straight into Auror training.”

He snorted before he could stop himself. “The Weasel as an Auror?”

Hermione raised her brows, like she couldn’t quite believe it either. “Yes. Truthfully, I was happy for them. It was fine at first—until they started leaving me out of conversations. Not inviting me to things anymore.”

Strike that. He still didn’t like Potter.

“Ron tried to pursue me. Relentlessly,” she said quietly. “I kept shutting it down, but he’d get… volatile.”

Draco’s hands clenched tight in his lap, knuckles white. His voice dropped. “Granger, I swear if he put his hands on you—”

“No. He didn’t.” She raised a hand, gentle but firm. “It never got to that point.”

His jaw ticked, but he let out a slow breath and resumed eating, though the food no longer tasted quite as warm.

“Harry would never admit it, but it was clear where his loyalty stood. And I’ll never allow myself to feel less than anyone.”

He smiled at that, quietly proud.

“I moved out,” she went on. “I was awarded an Order of Merlin: First Class after the war, and the money was more than enough. So I bought a nice little flat.”

Draco beamed. “That’s great. Truly. I’m proud of you, Hermione.”

Her cheeks flushed, and his heart stuttered.

He was absolutely mad for this woman.

“Thank you.” She grinned, wide and real, and he knew— knew —he’d spend every minute of this life and whatever followed trying to keep her smiling like that.

“So how did you end up at the Ministry?” he asked, standing and beginning to clear the table. He waited for her to finish before collecting her plate as well.

She let out a soft laugh and followed him into the kitchen.

He ran through the minimal list of spells he was allowed to use, then cast a careful Scourgify over the dishes.

Hermione tutted. “Lazy.”

He only shrugged. “I have to use my magic when I can.”

She opened her mouth to reply, but he cut her off with a sly grin. “Don’t think I missed that little Granger laugh a second ago. So—enlighten me. Answer the question.”

She scowled at him and turned toward the living room. “Grab glasses!”

He rifled through several cabinets before finally locating a pair of matching goblets. When he padded into the living room, brows raised, she motioned him over.

He followed obediently.

She poured them each a glass of wine, and a memory stirred in him—sharp and clear.

“If I recall correctly,” he said, voice amused, “I told you I’d supply us with our liquid courage the next time we shared a drink.”

She snorted and handed him a glass. “I can assure you, this is not Goblin Piss.” Her voice dropped into a half-decent impression of his, and he shook his head in mock exasperation before taking a sip. 

“It’s pretty good,” Draco admitted, taking another small sip. “If your plan was to wine and dine me, it’s working.”

Hermione laughed, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like “Insufferable prat,” which only made him smile more.

He gave her a pointed look.

She groaned and set her glass on the table. “Okay, fine! The simple answer is I wanted to help fix the broken justice system from the inside out.”

Her gaze dropped to her lap. Fingers fidgeted. “The more complex answer is that, selfishly, a lot of the reforms I pushed for were because of you.”

Draco’s breath hitched. He blinked. “What?” he choked out.

She grimaced. “It didn’t sit right with me, how they treated you after the Battle. And Azkaban was already horrific, but… it was worse knowing you were in there.” She gave a half-hearted shrug, as if trying to brush it off, but the flush on her cheeks gave her away. “I even coordinated with Muggle Relations to develop that pensieve projector for trials—with your case in mind, mostly.”

Draco stared at her, stunned. His heart thundered in his chest. His hands trembled slightly against the stem of his glass.

She had never given up on him. Not really. Not even once.

“Selfish, I know,” she said quietly, shaking her head.

Draco scoffed. “You? Selfish?” He turned toward her fully, earnest now. “You’re rebuilding a system for the people who need it most. And you never gave up on me.” He tried to keep his tone light, even though every word was sincere. “It’s like you’re trying to get me to fall in love with you or something.”

That was the plan he had for her.

“So what if that is my plan?” she challenged, a coy smile curving her lips.

Draco’s eyes widened for a beat. Then he recovered.

“Then you should know,” he said softly, “I have the same plan for you.”

Her smile faltered. She blinked. “Oh.”

“Don’t take it back now, Granger,” he warned, voice low.

“Never,” she breathed.

Chapter Text

Draco Malfoy found pride in himself over his intelligence. Truly, he was quite intelligent and he often found himself at the top of his class outside of Hermione Granger. 

Currently? Draco felt like he was less intelligent than the Weasel and it was a huge blow to his ego, to say the least.

He scowled at the rectangular shape in his hand and shook it a few times. 

Hermione bit her lip to suppress her laugh and turned her head to the side presumably to collect herself. 

Draco narrowed his eyes at her, “It’s broken, Granger. That is the only logical answer.” 

Over the weekend, Granger had made a delivery to his cottage with a stack of textbooks and materials along with a muggle device. Her instructions were clear: “Look over your coursework and open the box to the device and read the instruction manual.” 

Now she was sitting across from him in his living room, not only suppressing her laughter but she was here as Ministry Worker Granger and not his ‘friend’ Granger. That had soured his mood from the beginning. 

He was incredibly proud of the witch and her accomplishments but he wanted nothing more than to tug her into his arms and shower her with kisses and affection. 

He all but slammed the ‘device’ onto the coffee table in between them and crossed his arms, “You should return it. It’s not working.” 

Then there was the matter of Theo. He loved his best mate and he didn’t use that term lightly but he was really wearing his patience down to ground zero. 

Theo was in hysterics next to him and letting out a howl of laughter, wiping tears from under his eyes. 

Draco snapped his head towards him and glared. “Theodore, I thought you were here to help me not use me for your entertainment of the night.”

“D-Drake–” Theo gasped in between laughs. “I’m sorry but you just look so lost and it’s hilarious.” 

He supposed this had to be his deserved karma for saying Granger used to look like a pouting child on the verge of a temper tantrum during their school years because he was quite sure he looked similar to one. 

Hermione just looked at him sympathetically and he frowned and released a deep breath, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Walk me through it again, please.”

Hermione got up and moved to sit next to him, he was immediately hit with a breeze of that eucalyptus and lavender scent that plagued his mind more times than he would care to admit. 

He swallowed thickly and shifted in his seat a bit, his knee brushing against hers as if looking for any sort of contact. 

She let out a shaky breath and reached forward to grab the device and swiped her curls over her shoulder. “Okay, so to get to the main screen you click this button.” she showed him and the screen brightened. “To get to your contacts you can click this button and it is loaded already with your friends who have adapted to muggle technology and myself obviously.” 

Draco bit his lip to suppress a grin before shaking his head to himself, “Okay. What is the purpose of these contacts?” He looked at her, furrowing his brows in concentration. 

She grinned and grabbed her own device. “Watch this.” She scrolled through this contact list of his and found the line that said her name. “A green and red button will pop up on your mobile, press the green button. Okay?” 

She didn’t wait for his response before moving away from the room they currently were in. 

All of a sudden a loud chiming noise rang from the device and Draco jumped and looked at the ‘phone’ in alarm. Theo let out another howl of laughter, “Green button, Draco!” He gasped out.

Right, green button. 

He lifted his index finger and harshly jammed his finger onto the color green and winced. A voice sounded far away and he frowned, shaking the device in his hand again. 

“Oh bloody hell.” Theo sighed and grabbed the device from his hands and held it to his ear for him.

A tiny Granger voice rang out in an amused lilt. “Dracoooo.”

Maybe she didn’t have the device to her ear like Theo did for him. He had to make sure  she heard him. “GRANGER?” 

“Ow, Draco. You don’t have to yell.” She groaned and he felt warmth creep up his neck

“Sorry, Granger.” He mumbled as he grabbed the device from Theo’s grip and held it to his ear on his own accord. “Where are you?”

A couple of beeps hummed into his ear and he pulled it away from his ear, frowning at it. He pulled it back to his ear again, “Granger?” 

Theo sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “This is a lost cause.” 

Draco scowled at him and set the device on the table in front of him. Hermione swiftly moved back into the room and sat down next to him. “Where were you?” 

Hermione let out a bubble of laugh and held her fingers to her lips. “I was just in the other room, Malfoy.”  His eyes darted to the onyx ring on her ring finger and he bit his lip, his heart booming with pride. 

She flushed and dropped her hand, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “That was a phone call. Muggles use them to communicate instead of that handy wand charm that you used back at school.” 

Theo bowed dramatically from his seat. “I will take full credit for that invention. That charm was all me darling, Granger.” 

Draco shot daggers his way and Theo held his hands up in surrender. “Too easy.” Theo cooed. 

Draco held his finger up in a vulgar gesture and Theo just grinned widely in response. 

Hermione sighed and shook her head in amusement. “Okay, so the last thing I am going to teach you today for the Muggle Integration is text messages. Muggles use this instead of an owl.” She picked up her phone and scooped his off the table as well. 

“Just like a phone call, two people can be anywhere in the world and you can communicate with them through this device.” She explained and showed his a little icon with a green bubble. “To send a text message, you can touch this button.”

She paused and waited for him to press it. He lifted his index finger and braced himself again before jamming his finger down on it. Hermione inhaled sharply in surprise before gently grabbing his hand. “You don’t need to stab it with your finger, Godric Draco.” 

He loved the way his hand felt in hers, he probably looked like a damn fool as he melted at the touch. He was doomed. 

She gently grabbed his index finger, swallowing audibly before gently pressing the pad of it to a plus sign. “Okay. Now you can type in my name.” He gently used his index finger and pressed the buttons gently and was relieved to see that it was lighting up the letters as he did so. “Okay now touch here.” 

He touched where she showed him and she grinned. “Good. Now you can type out a message.”

He furrowed his brows, and bit his lip in concentration. He pressed the ‘H’ and ‘I’. He looked at her and waited for further instructions.

“Good now press the blue button.” He did and she showed him the mobile device in her other hand and saw that it showed his name with the message he wrote. 

He grinned widely, “Genius.” He breathed out, his eyes wide in awe. “Only you will get the message I send?” 

She nodded at him, her eyes were shining with fondness that threatened to end him right then and there. “As long as you are only using the messages with my name on top it will go only to me. However you can message your other friends there just like you did for me and it will have a separate message thread.” 

Draco blew out a breath. “Incredible.” 

Theo patted him on the back with a grin. “I can show you how to use your phone for other things like ordering food and other things to get delivered here since you can’t leave. I’m just waiting for Narcissa to add me to your vaults to get muggle money for you to use.” 

Draco narrowed his eyes at him. “How did you get so good at this so fast? We got out the same day.” 

“It is quite easy once you get used to it mate. Even though I had deemed you a lost cause,” Theo tilted his head and clicked his tongue. “I suppose you learned pretty quickly.” 

Hermione nodded eagerly next to him. “You did good.” 

He grinned at her and Theo let out a snort in amusement before standing up and slapping his hands on his thighs. “Well, I will see myself out before I throw up from seeing this lovesick puppy look on Draco’s face any longer.” 

“Better than existential crisis.” Draco drawled and gave him a pointed look. 

“Touché.” Theo said and gently patted Draco’s cheek a few times. “See you soon, Drake. Granger, a pleasure.” He dipped his chin before moving to exit through the floo. 

A whoosh and a flash of green solidified that Theo had indeed left. 

Hermione stood up and cleared her throat. “I think that is a good place to stop for today.” She bent at the waist to grab her bag and slung it over her shoulder. “Do you have any questions about your coursework?” 

He blinked and shook his head. “You’re leaving?” 

Hermione paused before nodding. “Yes, I have to get back to the Ministry. My work day isn’t over yet.” 

Draco frowned and nodded. Right. Ministry Worker Granger. 

“When can I see you again?” He asked after a beat. 

He didn’t want to sound as desperate as he felt. He still had some sense of pride left although his ego had taken a hit earlier in the day. 

Hermione smiled softly at him. “I won’t be back for another Ministry related visit until next week.” His shoulders dropped and a muscle twitched in his jaw as he tried to hold back any rambling. “So work on your coursework please, so I can give it to McGonagall and if you have any questions you can call or text me now.” 

Draco nodded slowly. “Can I see my friend Granger before next week?” 

“I’d love that.” She said softly. “Text me when it works best for you.” 

Draco scratched the back of his neck sheepishly before standing up. “Well my schedule—if you were unaware—is quite vacant for the next year.” 

Hermione winced. “Yes, shoot. Sorry.” 

Draco waved it off. “It’s fine. Life goes on, right?” He gave a weak smile.

“Right.” She breathed out and frowned. 

His heart ached knowing he was going to be alone in his house again but at least he had something to do now between coursework and understanding this device. 

He wanted to reach over to her and give her a kiss in farewell but he knew that Hermione was here strictly on business and he didn’t want to make her upset. 

He slowly walked up to her and reached for her hand, brushing a soft kiss to her knuckles as he maintained eye contact. 

“Until next time.” He said softly and he gently ran his thumb along her hand before letting go and stepping back. 

“Until next time.” She agreed, and gave him a small smile before moving towards the floo and making her departure. 

Draco sighed and ran a hand through his hair. The silence already leaving him with an uneasy feeling in his chest. He rubbed his hand against his chest to try to soothe the ache before moving towards the floral monstrosity and flopping down on it. 

He could use this device to his advantage. He couldn’t do half the things he wanted to do in order to properly court Hermione but Theo had mentioned being able to order things for delivery. 

Perhaps that could make things easier. 

He opened his phone like Hermione had shown him and paused for a moment. 

There had to be a faster way to type on this blasted device. He adjusted his hands multiple times, trying to find a position that worked best before settling in a position that allowed him to use his thumb to type instead. 

He tapped onto Hermione’s message again and smiled to himself before typing out. 

You looked beautiful today, Granger. 

He pressed the arrow and set it down onto the table. 

It made a chirping noise and Draco swiped it back up quickly. 

You looked quite handsome yourself, Draco. 

He smiled widely and let the device rest on his chest as if the words could soak into his being. 

Merlin, he had turned quite pathetic again. At least this version of being pathetic didn’t leave him with what felt like a countdown date of despair. 

He quite liked this version of pathetic. 

Draco was currently seated on the floral monstrosity known as his couch, facing a rather uncomfortable-looking Harry Potter.

He crossed his arms and sank further into the cushions, affecting indifference as he leveled Potter with a flat look.

Harry shifted, cleared his throat. “You’re probably wondering why I’m here,” he said, grimacing. “I’m here on behalf of the DMLE.”

A muscle twitched in Draco’s jaw. He focused on his breathing.

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.

“I haven’t left the property, and I haven’t used any spells that weren’t permitted,” Draco said coolly.

Harry’s eyes widened. “Oh—no, no,” he blurted. “You’re not in trouble or anything.”

Draco gave him a slow, pointed look. Obviously. He wasn’t an idiot.

Harry pushed his glasses up and let out a breath. “Right. Uh. During your trial, you made an agreement with the Minister to report any information you might have about Death Eaters who escaped the Battle.”

Draco swallowed hard but nodded, leaning back.

“Okay, so what I’m failing miserably to say is…” Harry shifted again. “They need whatever you’ve got. By Friday.”

Draco went still. “Merlin, Potter. It’s already Thursday.”

Harry flinched at the tone of his voice. Draco resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

He scrubbed a hand down his face, elbows braced on his knees as panic began to stir. His thoughts scattered and spiraled, sharp-edged and too fast.

“How am I meant to obtain this information,” he said, voice brittle, “when I’m stuck in this godsdamned cottage?”

Harry sighed, raking a hand through his fringe. “Yeah, I wasn’t sure how you were supposed to do that either. Honestly.”

Draco exhaled shakily, the weight of it all pressing down like fog. “Are they—” His mouth went dry. “Are they trying to send me back?”

His voice was barely above a whisper. Panic curled tight in his gut.

He hadn’t used Occlumency in weeks. He hadn’t needed to. He’d been… steady. Even happy, in fleeting moments.

But now—now the anxiety was clawing up his throat, sharp and suffocating.

“I can’t go back there,” he said hoarsely, hands fisting the edges of the couch. “I can’t.”

He refused to fall apart in front of Saint Potter of all people.

“Relax, Malfoy. I don’t think that’s their intention,” Harry said gently, but there was hesitation in his voice. As if even he didn’t believe it.

“It’s not exactly easy to relax, Potter,” Draco snapped. His chest heaved. “You don’t know—you don’t understand what that place is like. I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy.”

Each breath felt thinner than the last, the room tilting around him.

“Malfoy, listen to me.” Harry leaned forward. “I know you’re not a bad person. I wouldn’t have testified for you if I thought otherwise.”

Fuck.

Draco closed his eyes. He hadn’t even thanked him. And now here he was, having a full-blown breakdown in front of him.

Pathetic.

“They don’t know what you went through,” Harry continued. “And they don’t know what you might still know. Just… give them something. Names, locations—anything. Even one or two things would help.”

Draco tried to focus on breathing until the rush of air in his lungs stopped feeling like drowning.

“I can do that,” he said quietly, nodding.

“Perfect. Since you can’t leave the property, you can Floo me when you’ve got it?”

Draco reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out his phone. “Do you have one of these devices?”

Harry blinked, then laughed. “Yeah, I’ve got a phone. Where’d you get one?”

“Granger,” Draco said, lifting one shoulder in a half-shrug. “Muggle integration and all that.”

Harry’s brows lifted, but he just nodded. “Makes sense. Here, I’ll put my number in.”

Draco hesitated, then handed it over. Harry typed quickly, then passed it back.

“You can text me when it’s ready,” he said.

Draco placed the phone beside him on the couch. “Anything else?”

Harry shook his head and stood, brushing off his Auror robes.

Draco hesitated, then stood as well. His pride clawed at his throat, but he knew he wouldn’t forgive himself if he didn’t try.

He extended a hand.

Harry looked down at it, clearly remembering the last time Draco had done this—first year, an offer of alliance or friendship that had gone nowhere.

Draco’s palms were clammy. He almost pulled back.

But then Harry reached out and clasped his hand. One firm shake.

Draco let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “Thank you. For testifying. And… for everything.”

Harry’s cheeks flushed slightly as he let go. “It was the right thing to do.”

Draco gave a small nod. A thin-lipped smile. “Still. Thank you.”

And then Harry was gone.

Draco had spent the entire night resisting the urge to message Hermione and beg her to come over. He wanted her near—more than he wanted to admit—but the last thing he needed was to seem more desperate than she probably already thought he was.

Which is precisely how he ended up with Theodore Nott stumbling out of his Floo and knocking him flat onto the floor.

Draco grunted as Theo landed squarely on top of him, entirely unbothered.

“Drake! It’s been ages,” Theo sighed theatrically, rolling off him and flinging an arm over his face like some tragic starlet. “You don’t call. You don’t write.”

“I saw you two days ago,” Draco said, exasperated, as he pushed himself upright and offered Theo a hand.

Theo clasped it and let Draco haul him to his feet. Draco huffed a breath, lips twitching despite himself. “Glad to see Azkaban didn’t kill your flair for dramatics.”

“Can’t let the place take more than it already did,” Theo said breezily, but there was a sharpness buried under the lightness.

Draco winced. “Right.”

Theo flopped onto the couch, running a hand reverently over the upholstery. “You know, I actually like this couch.”

Draco’s nose wrinkled. “If I could incendio the eyesore, I would.”

“And I’m the dramatic one?” Theo tutted.

Draco flipped him off before collapsing beside him.

They sat in companionable silence for a moment, until Theo asked, “So. What’d you call me over for?”

Draco feigned innocence. “Can’t I just want to spend time with a mate? We haven’t hung out alone in nearly a year.”

Theo clutched his chest. “A tragedy, truly. But come on—you’re Slytherin to your bones. You’ve got an agenda.”

Draco hesitated. “Fair enough. There are… two things. One good and one bad.”

Theo raised a brow. “Start with the bad news.”

Draco nodded grimly. “As part of my parole, I agreed to provide the Ministry with intel on any Death Eaters who slipped through the cracks after the war.”

He sighed. “Potter showed up today to let me know they want a list by tomorrow.”

Theo’s brow furrowed. “That’s short notice.”

“Yeah.” Draco raked a hand through his hair. “Couple problems with that: one, I’m magically confined to this bloody cottage, so I’m not sure how they expect new information. Two, I can’t remember anything helpful.”

“That’s probably the trauma,” Theo said, casual as ever, but his expression had tightened. After a beat, he added, “Fuck it. I’ll do it.”

Draco blinked. “Do what exactly?”

“I’ll go digging. Try to find any of the stragglers still out there.” He said it like it was the simplest thing in the world. “I’m not letting them throw you back in for failing an impossible task.”

Draco’s stomach dropped. “Absolutely not. That’s not what I called you for.” He sat up straighter. “I just need help remembering names, maybe a few locations. I’m an arse, not a monster.”

Theo’s posture slackened with visible relief. “Good. I’d have done it, but honestly, I can’t stand any of those bastards.”

Draco let out a sharp breath of laughter, then gestured to the parchment and pen on the table. “Alright. I’ll start writing what I remember. You fill in the blanks.”

The first few names came easily. Faces from around the Dark Lord’s table, voices from meetings he wished he could forget. The ink flowed smoothly at first, but then slowed, the gaps between entries growing longer.

He finally shoved the parchment toward Theo. “That’s most of them, I think. Feels like I’m missing someone though.”

Theo scanned the list, humming to himself, then scribbled a few more names. “This should buy you time. You’re better off giving them too much than too little.”

Draco leaned back and rubbed his hands over his face. “I just want this part of my life over with.”

“I know,” Theo said, voice softer now. “And I’ve got you. Always.”

“Thanks.” Draco closed his eyes and let the silence settle.

A few minutes passed before Theo yawned and stretched. “Alright, what was the second thing?”

Draco had been looking forward to this part, but Theo looked worn thin. He hesitated. “Don’t worry about it. It’s late.”

Theo gave him a mock-scandalized look. “You’re worried about me? I’m touched. Tell me anyway.”

Draco sighed. “You’re going to laugh.”

“Probably.”

Draco shot him a glare. “Alright then. Has Mother added you to the vaults yet? Because I need you to teach me how to use that Muggle delivery service.”

Theo blinked. “Yeah. She said I could help you figure this out since she is in France again. She learned all of this during her time away from your father apparently,” he snorted and shook his head. “Also gave me a card from some Muggle bank. Barclay’s or something?”

Draco looked at him like he’d spoken in Parseltongue. “A card? What in Merlin’s name is a card going to do?”

Theo grinned, delighted. “Draco. It’s the greatest invention Muggles have ever created. Forget wands. Forget flying cars. This—” he pulled the thin piece of plastic from his wallet and held it up reverently, “—is a debit card. You swipe it, and money disappears. It’s incredible.”

Draco looked alarmed. “That sounds cursed.”

“Right? I thought so too. But no. You use it to buy things. On your phone. Without ever talking to anyone.”

Draco’s brows knit together. “So…you just…tell it to buy things and it obeys?”

“Pretty much,” Theo said, handing him the card. “Though to be fair, I’ve only just figured this out myself. All thanks to a little something I call trial and error, and Pansy’s very expensive taste in skincare.”

“She helped you?”

“She helped herself, mostly,” Theo snorted. “But yes. I watched, I learned. Kind of. So if this goes sideways, you’re not allowed to yell at me.”

Draco gave him a skeptical once-over. “Fine. I accept your terms. For now.”

Theo leaned forward, smirking. “So. What are we trying to buy?”

Draco cleared his throat, gaze a bit too focused on a spot above Theo’s head. “Just…things. For Granger.”

Theo blinked, then broke into a slow, shit-eating grin. “ Things , he says. That’s very specific.”

Draco scowled. “Can we skip the commentary and get to the delivery part?”

Theo was already taking Draco’s phone from his lap. “Alright, alright. First things first: Google. It’s a search engine.”

Draco looked suspicious. “Search engine? Is that like a Pensieve?”

“Kind of,” Theo said. “Except instead of diving into memories, you just type things in and it tells you everything about the world outside of magic. And lies. It also lies sometimes.”

He opened the browser and handed Draco his phone back. “Type ‘flower delivery’ and Wiltshire.”

Draco held the device with suspicion, then gingerly tapped at the screen. He had gotten better at understanding the keyboard but everything else was confusing. The results loaded, and his eyes widened slightly.

“There are so many,” he murmured.

“Welcome to the idea of capitalism.”

Draco clicked the first link, scrolled through page after page, and finally paused on an extravagant arrangement bursting with ivory roses, lavender, and what he could only describe as “floaty things.”

“This one,” he said, pointing.

Theo choked. “Mate, that’s three hundred pounds.”

“And?”

“That’s a lot of money, Draco.”

“I have that,” Draco said flatly.

Theo blinked. “…Right. Forgot who I was talking to.”

Draco kept browsing. “Should I get chocolates too? They have some that come in gold boxes.”

“You’re literally turning into Pansy.”

Draco didn’t look up. “Then she clearly has taste.”

Draco began to feel giddy, like maybe he could still find a way to woo this witch even from the confines of his home. Internally, he was thrilled. Externally, he was trying to keep calm, to appear nonchalant—as though he hadn’t just spent twenty minutes debating between bouquets like his life depended on it.

He kept scrolling through the pictures mindlessly, something warm fluttering in his chest. And yet, that same chest gave a painful twinge. His smile faltered as unease slid in like a shadow behind the sun.

Muggles were…brilliant. Unflinchingly clever. These websites were sleek, efficient, and kind of terrifying. He remembered, with a sour twist, all the lessons drilled into him about their inferiority. How much time he’d spent believing it. How much of his identity had been constructed on poisoned foundations.

He shifted in his seat.

All this time, he’d been taught that magic made them superior. But if anything, the Muggles had done more with less. And Hermione— Hermione —was the best of both worlds. No wonder she outpaced everyone. No wonder he could barely breathe when she smiled at him.

She deserved someone better than him.

He swallowed the thought before it could bloom too far.

After he felt satisfied with his selections, he handed the phone and card back to Theo. “Now how do I get them to her?”

“Well, unfortunately there’s this concept called the Statute of Secrecy, so you can’t have these delivered to the Ministry,” Theo drawled, already typing in the numbers on the card with practiced ease.

Draco frowned. “Well how am I supposed to get them to her?”

“Do you know her address?”

Draco blinked. Shit. Of course not. He hadn’t even considered that detail. This was quickly spiraling. He shook his head slowly.

Theo let out an exaggerated sigh. “Just have them delivered here and invite her over?”

Draco twisted his lips, brows still furrowed. “I suppose that could work. I feel bad that she has to come here in order to get a gift for herself though.”

“She won’t mind,” Theo said, waving a hand. “It’s you she’s coming to see. Not the flowers.”

“She’s a busy witch, Theodore.”

“Doesn’t change the fact that she’s besotted with you.” Theo cooed and pinched Draco’s cheek.

Draco batted him off with a glare, though he couldn’t quite keep the smile from tugging at his lips. “You think so?” he asked, quiet, cautious—like saying it too loud might shatter the possibility.

“You can’t actually be serious,” Theo said incredulously. “She’s absolutely mad for you. Probably as much as you are for her.”

Draco doubted that. She had a whole world outside of him. Friends. A future. People who hadn’t spent years soaked in darkness. He rubbed the back of his neck, his voice rough around the edges. “I’ve never felt this way before.”

Theo’s smile softened. He reached out, patting Draco’s shoulder with surprising gentleness. “As much as I detest the lovesick look you get every time you see her, I’m glad that you have her. You look more alive than I’ve seen you in a long time.”

Draco groaned and buried his face in his hands. “It’s embarrassing that you’re not wrong. I can’t shake this feeling.”

And he didn’t want to.

He’d fought it for so long. Fought her —or at least, what she represented. But when he was honest with himself, really honest, the only time he’d felt close to whole again was when she was near.

She made him want to be better.

She made him want to stay.

There were days—so many days—when he’d woken up and felt nothing but dread. Days when the thought of existing for one more hour was unbearable. When the weight of everything he’d done, everything he hadn’t done, pressed against his chest like stone. He’d stared at the ceiling and wished he could just…fade.

But he hadn’t. He hadn’t done anything reckless. Hadn’t made the kind of mistake he couldn’t come back from.

And now he had a reason he was glad he hadn’t.

It was pathetic, maybe. Fragile. But it was real.

The silence stretched between them, comfortable and kind.

Theo stood eventually, brushing his hands down his shirt. “Alright. Operation Pathetic Romantic is underway. I’ll let myself out.”

Draco glanced up. “You don’t have to go. Stay. We can order something else. I think I saw a chocolate subscription—”

Theo laughed. “I’ve corrupted you already.”

Draco smirked. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“I’ll come by soon,” Theo said, heading toward the fireplace. “I want to hear all the dirty little details of your escapades.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Arse.”

But even after Theo left, that quiet warmth stayed behind. A balm over the bruised parts of him.

Maybe he really could do this.

Maybe, for once, he hadn’t already lost.

Chapter Text

Draco Malfoy was pathetic.

Not in the cowardly, soul-crushed way he used to be when he trudged through every day with dread coiled in his chest and guilt embedded in his bones.

No, this was an entirely new breed of pathetic. The kind that revolved around Hermione Granger.

Every waking moment seemed to be an attempt to win her over.

This morning’s mission had been a success. The flowers were delivered bright and early. They were lush, vibrant, and stunning. Just a fraction of the words he could also use to describe Granger.

He tapped slowly at his phone now, asking her to come over for the evening, promising a surprise. He could barely keep his hands still.

Yesterday, Theo had returned to teach him how to use the mobile like a proper Muggle—how to order groceries, how to shop for necessities on some website called Amazing Prime or something, which, frankly, sounded like the name of a wizarding battle spell.

Still, he was getting the hang of it. Integrating. Trying.

Even Potter had come by to pick up the list of names they’d put together, cheeks redder than usual when Theo opened the door. Draco didn’t miss the flush on Theo’s face either. They had danced around it, but Draco’s curiosity lingered, even as Theo waved it off.

“Focus on your own romantic escapades,” Theo had said with a wink. Easier said than done, really.

After a brief Floo call to his mother, she insisted on sending Mipsy to stay with him once again. Draco had protested—wanted to believe he could handle this next-to-no-magic life. But after another failed attempt at scrambled eggs, he caved. He didn’t need a fire in the kitchen and his life.

Tonight had to be perfect. For her.

She wasn’t technically his—not yet. But that didn’t stop him from thinking of her as such. Privately. Constantly.

Mipsy was placing the final touches on dinner, the aroma so divine Draco nearly drooled.

“Mipsy, this smells incredible,” he said, breathing it in.

“You is too kind to me, Master Draco,” she said, rocking on her feet and wringing her hands.

“Nonsense.” He crouched down so they were nearly eye level. “Just call me Draco, Mipsy. You’re free, remember?”

She narrowed her eyes and crossed her arms, a stern expression that had him lifting his hands in surrender.

“Fine, Master Draco it is,” he muttered with a small smile, rising to his full height. He smoothed down his clothes, then gave a slow, awkward spin. “Do I look alright?”

Mipsy nodded firmly. “Very handsome. Miss Granger will love it.”

A flush crept up his neck. He didn’t quite know how to handle praise anymore especially when it mattered so much.

His phone buzzed in his pocket.

Be there in less than 5, just freshening up. x

His heart skipped. He pocketed it and turned back to Mipsy. “Okay, she’ll be here soon. You don’t have to stick around.”

Mipsy smiled and snapped her fingers, producing a long velvet box. “Madame Malfoy is saying to give this to you. For your witch.”

Your witch. The words settled deep in his chest.

He opened the box carefully—inside was a simple, elegant diamond bracelet. It was quiet sophistication, beauty without pretense. It was so Hermione.

“Thank you,” he whispered to Mipsy just as the Floo roared.

She disapparated with a pop, and he shoved the box into his pocket, trying to compose himself.

Hermione stood in the fireplace brushing soot off her dress. Her curls were soft and loose around her face. She wore a yellow floral dress that hit mid-thigh, and on her finger, the onyx ring he couldn’t stop staring at.

“Beautiful,” he breathed.

She gave him a shy smile and stepped forward, her arms winding around his neck as she rose on her toes to hug him.

Draco pulled her close, burying his face in the crook of her neck and pressing a soft, reverent kiss to her skin. He breathed her in.

I don’t deserve this, the thought whispered. Not after everything he had been. Not after the time he spent on the wrong side of a war. But yet she was here—she chose to be here.

She pulled away first, but his hand followed her, fingers catching a single curl and twisting it gently. “I hope you’re hungry,” he murmured, voice low.

“Famished,” she admitted, her eyes drifting over his form, taking in the careful way he’d dressed. Her lips curled. “You look—” Her voice faltered as a flush colored her cheeks. She swallowed thickly.

“Yeah?” he asked, a lilt of amusement in his voice, the corner of his mouth pulling into a knowing smirk.

She nodded, a breath catching on her lips. “Yeah.”

He hummed, pleased and not bothering to hide it. The approval in her voice, the softness in her gaze—it lit something fierce and tender inside him.

With a feather-light motion, he guided her toward the small dining area, his hand hovering at the small of her back not quite touching, as if even that might be too much. He pulled out her chair and eased it in once she sat.

“I’ll be right back,” he said softly, a little more formal than usual, because tonight felt like something important—something sacred.

He returned dish by dish, laying the meal before her like it was an offering. Then he stepped out one final time and returned carrying the vase of flowers.

He set them down just beside her, not directly in the center of the table, but close—personal. His hand reached out, brushing the back of his fingers over her cheek.

“For you, love.”

Her breath caught. She pressed a hand to her mouth. “Oh, sweet Godric, Draco—these are beautiful.”

Success.

Draco’s grin was slow and boyish. He took his seat across from her, tucking the napkin across his lap like it was second nature. “There’s also a card,” he added, his voice gentler now.

She gave him a beaming smile before carefully retrieving the sleek black envelope nestled between the blooms.

Draco looked down at his plate, fussing with his fork. He didn’t want to stare—but he also couldn’t not look.

He’d agonized over the wording. It wasn’t a grand speech or sonnet. It was too small a space for all the things he could never say out loud. So he wrote what mattered. What was real.

The note, written in clean, deliberate strokes, read:

To the witch who’s on my mind from the moment I wake until the moment I fall asleep—

I know I’m not worthy of you. I may not be even a fraction of the man you deserve, but I promise I will spend every day trying to become him. Someone you can count on. Someone who never lets you down. Someone you deem worthy to be by your side. 

Yours always,
D.L.M.

A sharp scrape of wood against stone interrupted the quiet. He looked up just as Hermione crossed the room with swift determination. Her hands cupped his face, warm and steady, and then she kissed him—slow, reverent, and devastating.

She pulled back, eyes shining with unspoken feelings. “Thank you,” she whispered.

Then, without waiting for a response, she returned to her seat, cheeks flushed.

Draco swallowed hard, guilt tightening like a fist in his chest. “You deserve more. I want to give you more, but… I can’t do much while I’m locked in this place. I’m sorry.”

Hermione glanced up as she began to eat, fixing him with a look that was equal parts exasperation and affection. “You are more than enough, Draco. I just wish you could see that.” Her hand gestured vaguely around the cozy room. “I don’t mind being here with you—not one bit. It’s only a year.”

He watched her warily, unsure if he could let himself believe it. “I appreciate that, Hermione.”

“Good. Then it’s settled.” Her tone brooked no argument and something in him settled at the finality of it.

The rest of the meal passed with easy conversation—light, unhurried, the kind of talk that meant nothing and everything at once. It left Draco wondering how something as simple as sharing a table could feel so intimate, so grounding.

Later, they sat curled together on the sofa, their limbs brushing lazily, hands occasionally drifting into each other’s space, anchoring and exploring. Draco let out a breath and shifted toward her, his nerves suddenly returning in full force.

He reached for her hand, holding it delicately. “I have… one more small thing for you.”

She blinked, brows knitting in curiosity, but didn’t pull away.

From his pocket, he pulled the long velvet box. The weight of it felt heavier than it should—like it carried not just a gift, but a piece of his soul. He met her eyes, the sincerity in his gaze unflinching.

“Hermione,” he said, voice hushed, “I once told you that in another lifetime, I’d have courted you properly.”

He exhaled slowly, his thumb tracing the back of her hand. “I don’t know how we went from barely tolerating each other to this—this thing where it feels like I can’t breathe when you’re not near. But I know it’s real.”

She squeezed his hand gently, a silent encouragement.

“I want to make my intentions clear,” he said. “You already have my heart and soul in the palm of your hand. And it would be the greatest honor to be the man who holds yours.”

He flipped open the box and basked in the way it stole her breath away. “I know this has to stay a secret for now. At least until I’m free. But… would you do me the honor of being mine?”

Hermione let out a soft, breathless laugh, tears catching in her lashes. “I’ve been yours for a long time now, Draco. It would be my honor to be your girlfriend.”

Something inside him cracked open at her words. Relief. Joy. Hope.

“No take backs, Granger,” he said with a half-smile, but his voice was rough with emotion. “My heart wouldn’t survive it.”

He lifted the bracelet gently from its box, fastened it around her wrist with shaking fingers, then raised her hand to his lips, placing a tender kiss against her skin.

“I mean it,” he murmured. “I am yours, in any way you’ll have me.” 

She grinned and inspected the bracelet, twisting her wrist around and watching the diamonds catch in the light. “It’s beautiful, thank you. Again.” 

He smiled sheepishly at his witch and moved forward to pull her into what was intended to be a small and gentle kiss. It had deepened quicker than he had thought possible. 

Hermione climbed over him and onto his lap, her legs straddling both sides of him as her dress showcased more of her thighs. Her fingers were doing that scratching sensation that drove him wild as they devoured each other whole by means of kissing. 

His hands trekked slowly from her waist down to her arse, hesitant at first but after a needy sound slipped from her lips into their kiss it snapped his resolve. 

He palmed her backside, rocking her core over his hardened shaft in his trousers. The friction of his cock against her warm core had his chest heaving in ragged breaths. 

“Fuck Hermione.” He groaned against her lips as she rocked her hips on her own accord. The sweetest sounds escaping her lips threatening to be his undoing. 

He felt the telltale pressure building from the bottom of his spine and moved to hold her hips still. “I need a minute.” He panted, pulling back from the kiss. 

Hermione’s eyes were round with desire, cheeks flushed and lips devastatingly used. She shifted on his lap, trying to clench her thighs together and he let out a choked laugh. “Granger.” He warned. 

He was trying to avoid coming in his trousers like a teen who had just discovered masturbating but she was testing his limits. 

“Please, Draco.” She breathed out, her eyes flicking back and forth between his own. 

He inhaled sharply. “Words, Granger. What are you asking me?” 

“Well, I was just thinking…” She flushed as she tucked a curl behind her ear. “We could?” 

Draco swallowed harshly, his cock twitching in his trousers. “Have sex?” He croaked. 

They had discussed that they were both virgins but he had been worried about not making it worth her time. He didn’t want to disappoint her. With the way things were going, he was certain that he wasn’t going to last more than a minute and that was not acceptable. 

She bit her lip and nodded slowly. “I mean, only if you want to of course.” 

“I asked you to be my girlfriend and made my intentions of courting you and making you mine quite clear tonight.” He huffed out an incredulous laugh. “I would love to, I just don’t want to disappoint you.” 

She rolled her eyes. “I have nothing to compare it to, so the bar is pretty low.” 

His lip curled in amusement, “You really know how to make a man feel good.” 

She shoved him playfully and shook her head in amusement. 

When he was certain he was no longer under the risk of making a fool of himself, he grabbed the underside of her arse and picked her up. Her legs instinctively locked around his waist, and she squirmed in his grip, a startled laugh caught between her teeth.

“Bedroom?” he asked, voice low and rough, as though the word scraped against the walls of his throat.

She nodded breathlessly, brushing her nose along his jaw. “Please.”

He carried her down the short hallway, her lips on his neck, her fingers threading through his hair as he tried to walk in a straight line. He barely made it through the doorway before he was kissing her again, one arm supporting her weight while the other fumbled to push the door shut behind them. It slammed softly, and he walked her back until her spine met the wall.

Her dress had ridden high on her thighs, the soft fabric bunched around her hips. He rocked into her, letting his forehead fall against hers. “Tell me if I go too fast, yeah?” he murmured, breath fanning over her lips.

“You’re not.” Her voice was hushed but steady. “I want this. I want you.”

Draco’s jaw tensed as he inhaled sharply through his nose. He let her slide down his body until her feet hit the floor, and their eyes locked. For a beat, neither of them moved.

Then Hermione reached down, tugging the hem of her dress up and over her head. She stood before him in a simple bra and knickers, flushed but unflinching. “Your turn.”

His breath caught. “Beautiful, beautiful woman,” he whispered, his hands shaking as he plucked open his shirt button by button leaving his pale marred skin on display. 

She stepped forward, fingers trailing along the bare skin of his chest, brushing over the scar just above his ribs. He caught her hand, kissed her knuckles.

“You’re beautiful,” She said softly, like she was stating a fact rather than trying to flatter him.

His throat worked around a response he couldn’t quite form. Instead, he kissed her again, slower this time. Her hands pushed the rest of his shirt off his body, the upper part of his body fully exposed. 

She pulled back from the kiss, the palms of her hands resting gently on his chest. He let his hands rest on her hips, thumbs dipping just under the trim of her knickers when her breath caught. 

His eyes flicked up and then followed where her eyes were focused. His hands immediately dropped to his side, and his cheeks flushed with embarrassment. 

“I understand if you’ve changed your mind.” Draco breathed out. His heart threatened to tear at the seams. He knew the Dark Mark was a sight of its own and no part of him was proud to have that displayed on his skin. 

“Stop it.” She scolded before grabbing his forearm and pulling it closer to herself. She placed soft gentle kisses to the skin that always remained colder than the rest. “You’ve just never let me see it before.” 

He blinked back the tears in his eyes, feeling utterly foolish at his emotions getting the best of him. “I’m not exactly proud of it.” He muttered. 

“This—“Another kiss to the mark. “— does not change how I feel about you. Not one bit.” 

He did not deserve her. 

“Thank you.” His voice came out shaken, showcasing the shards of himself that he tried not to acknowledge. 

She stepped close, cupping his face as she stood on her tiptoes. She kissed him slowly again as if her actions could solidify the balm to his soul the way her words tried to. 

Draco pulled back and extended a hand towards her, guiding her towards his bed. She sat down on the edge of it before scooting back to lay down fully. 

He stripped off his trousers leaving him in his black boxers before he crawled over her on the bed. He had envisioned this exact scene far too many times to count and held back a laugh. 

She arched a brow at him but didn’t question it. 

He placed a quick kiss on her nose. “I want to make it good for you, but you might have to guide me. Please can I taste you?” 

Hermione’s eyes widened at the prospect and she clenched her thighs together beneath him. “Are you sure?” 

Draco allowed himself to laugh this time. “Please let me taste you.” 

She bit her lip and nodded nervously. He let out a breath he didn’t know he had been holding in and looked down at her beneath him. “I want to worship you. Mind, body, and soul.” 

She whimpered and he felt his cock twitch again in his boxers. He lowered his hand, gripping his cock firmly at the base trying to relieve some of the ache. 

Draco dipped his head down to kiss her softly again before trailing soft kisses down her neck and over the mounds of her breasts that were threatening to spill from their enclosure. 

He placed open mouthed kisses to the visible skin before pulling the cups of her bra down slightly to expose her pebbled nipples to him. He let out a groan and leaned his head down to flick his tongue against the peak. 

Her back arched instinctively and his eyes lifted to meet hers as his mouth closed around the bud. His tongue swirled around it, his teeth grazing it gently eliciting a breathy moan from her. He released it from his mouth before moving his head to give the other one the same attention. 

She shifted to unclasp her bra and flung it off the side of the bed and he cupped her breasts in his hands, palming them experimentally. His cock jolted again in his boxers. 

He held her by the waist with his hands as he moved down her body, licking and kissing his way down her stomach before he settled his body between her legs. 

She looked at him nervously as he trailed kisses along the waistband of her knickers. “You’re sure you’re okay with this?” 

Hermione nodded eagerly and he let out a small chuckle. “Words, darling.” 

“Yes.” She whimpered almost in a pleading tone. 

He nodded, his tongue darting out to his lips as he smelled her arousal from its proximity. 

Draco placed kisses along her hip bones before kissing on top of her pubic bone above the fabric of her kickers. He moved further down and his mouth watered as he observed the small wet spot that had gathered over her center.  

He ran his nose along the fabric, before pressing a kiss over her clit that had her hips bucking up. His eyes lifted up towards hers again, creasing at the edges in amusement. 

He hummed in approval as he kissed over her warm core again before letting his tongue trace over the skin between her thigh and knickers. 

“Please.” She keened in desperation, her hips shifting in anticipation. 

He reached his hands up to pull the fabric off her. She lifted her hips in assistance and he had to stop himself from drooling at the sight of her bare glistening cunt in front of him. 

“Talk me through it,” he murmured, voice gravelly with need. “If you need me to stop or change anything, you tell me.” 

Then he lowered himself, breath catching in his throat as he licked a long, deliberate stripe through her folds. The taste hit him with the force of a hex but it was salty, sweet, and intoxicating. He groaned into her. “Fuck, Granger. You taste so good.” 

Hermione’s hand fisted the sheets, her breath shuddering through clenched teeth as if she were trying to cage the sounds in her throat. 

Draco pulled back just enough to speak, lips wet with her. His voice was rougher now. “Don’t hold back. Let me hear how I make you feel.” 

She let out a shaky breath and nodded. He leaned his head back down, parting her folds with his index and middle finger before licking a stripe up the middle.

Draco kept his eyes locked on her face, memorizing her reaction to every swipe of his tongue and learning what she liked best. He curled his tongue into her core and let another moan skip past his lips. Fuck. She was going to be the death of him. 

He moved higher, hoping he’d remember Theo’s crude ramblings correctly about the spot that had made Luna see stars. His tongue circled it, tentatively at first. 

The response was immediate. Hermione’s hips jolted, a gasp leaving her lips as her head tipped back. “There—right there.”

Triumph lit up in his chest like a match struck in the dark. He latched on, swirling and flicking his tongue in the same rhythm, drinking in every sound she gave him like a man starved. 

He swirled his tongue around it before flicking it rhythmically. Her hand slapped down onto the bed, her face contorting in pleasure. “—nngh, Draco don’t stop.” 

He didn’t.

If anything, he doubled down, like her words had ignited something primal in him. His hands slipped beneath her thighs, anchoring her open as his tongue flicked and circled over that sensitive bundle of nerves with slow, deliberate pressure.

Hermione’s thighs trembled against his ears. Her hips rocked up, chasing the rhythm of his mouth, seeking it—needing it—and Draco let her. Merlin, he wanted her to lose control. He wanted to be the reason.

He could feel her getting close. Her breath hitched, turned into whimpers, then moans that grew desperate, broken at the edges.

“Oh—Draco, I—” she gasped, fingers threading through his hair, clutching tight. “I can’t—please—”

He hummed into her, sending vibration through her center. He slipped one hand up her torso, brushing over her ribcage to settle just beneath her breast as a steadying point as her body coiled tighter and tighter.

“It’s okay,” he murmured between strokes, mouth never leaving her. “Let go for me. I’ve got you.”

And she did.

Her whole body arched—head thrown back, lips parted in a silent cry—as the orgasm ripped through her like lightning. Her thighs locked around his head, her cunt pulsing against his mouth, and Draco moaned into her, overwhelmed by the sheer miracle of it.

She was unraveling for him. Because of him.

She gasped his name again, softer this time almost like a spell, or a thank you and his chest cracked open.

He kissed her through it, slower now, tongue soft and reverent against her fluttering clit as the tremors subsided. When she finally sagged back into the bed, boneless and breathless, he pressed a kiss to her inner thigh, then to the dip of her hip—like she was something sacred.

Draco pushed himself up slowly, settling on his elbows beside her. He took her in: flushed cheeks, kiss-bitten lips, chest rising and falling in aftershocks—and for a moment, he couldn’t breathe.

He brushed a strand of hair from her cheek, eyes wide with something like wonder. “You are beautiful,” he whispered. “Absolutely beyond words.”

Her eyes fluttered closed at the touch. She leaned into his hand, then licked her lips thoughtfully. “I actually read something.”

Draco snorted, still catching his breath. “What did you read this time?”

She opened her eyes, placing a hand lightly on his bare chest. “If a man comes once, it’ll take a little longer the next time.”

Draco blinked, brows furrowed. “That’s… interesting?”

“Prat.” She swatted his chest. “I just meant… you’re worried about, you know…” She grimaced. “Finishing too fast.”

“Coming the second I feel you?” he grumbled, heat blooming across his cheeks.

Her blush deepened, but she only shifted closer, rolling onto her side. Her fingers drifted lower down his chest, then dipped teasingly beneath the waistband of his boxers.

“Do you understand what I’m saying, Malfoy?”

“Yes, I do.” He scowled faintly at her use of his last name. “You don’t have to—”

Her hand slipped fully beneath the fabric, wrapping around his cock with a tentative stroke. His hips jerked into her touch, and he inhaled sharply.

This was going to be a devastating blow to his ego.

“Take them off, Draco.”

He didn’t need to be told twice. He shoved his boxers down and off in one motion, and his cock sprang free—thick, flushed, already leaking.

Hermione’s breath hitched. “You’re… big,” she murmured, her tongue darting out to wet her bottom lip.

He groaned and flopped onto his back, scrubbing both hands over his face. “Going to be the death of me.”

The bed dipped, and she crawled between his legs.

“I’ve read some scenes,” she said, voice shy but determined. “If you don’t like it, just tell me.”

His eyes widened. He couldn’t imagine a single thing she could do that he wouldn’t love.

That was all the warning he got before she leaned forward and kitten-licked the slit of his cock, lapping up the bead of precum like it was nothing.

“Fuck—” he choked, thighs tensing as he fought the urge to thrust up.

Hermione looked up at him, smiling around her nerves, then licked a long stripe from the base to the tip. She circled the head with her tongue before wrapping her lips around him, taking just the tip into her warm mouth.

Sweet Merlin.

He fisted the sheets, hips lifting slightly, driving himself just a bit deeper.

“Shit—I’m sorry. Sorry,” he gasped.

She only moaned around him in response, her eyes dark and half-lidded, and the vibration nearly undid him.

She sank lower, inch by inch, and wrapped one hand around what she couldn’t yet take. Her rhythm was careful, exploratory, but every motion sent heat pulsing up his spine. Pressure built low and fast—too fast.

“Hermione—” he croaked, his voice wrecked. “If you don’t stop—”

She moaned again and pushed lower, gagging slightly around him, and that was it.

“Gods—Hermione! ” His hips stuttered as he came, cock pulsing between her lips in thick, hot ropes. He couldn’t even think, not when he felt her mouth around him, the way she took every drop, her name echoing like a mantra on his tongue.

She swallowed what she could before pulling off his cock with a soft pop. He groaned at the sight of her licking away what had spilled from him, and reached toward her with a boneless, aimless hand. “Come here.”

She grinned and curled up into his side, tucking herself beneath his arm. “Was it good?” she asked, her voice teasing but just a little uncertain underneath.

Draco almost made a joke about her constant need for praise—but she deserved all of it, and more.

“You did so good,” he murmured, cupping her cheek, his thumb stroking along her jaw. He leaned forward and brushed his lips over hers, gentle and awed. “Top marks, Professor Granger.”

She snorted and tugged him into a kiss. The moment their mouths met again, they both moaned softly at the taste of each other, the intimacy of it deepening as her thighs pressed together beneath the covers.

When he pulled back, he let his eyes travel down her flushed body, taking in the way she squirmed beneath his gaze. “Did sucking my cock make you wet, Granger?” he asked, his voice low and rough, laced with new, unsteady confidence.

She whimpered and gave a tiny nod. He smiled—first a smirk, then something softer. Gentle.

His hand slid to her hip, stroking her skin with careful fingers. His cock twitched, already stirring again as he watched her thighs shift, slick and eager. His heart swelled painfully.

“Gods, you’re perfect,” he rasped, then drew a deep, uneven breath. “Are you sure you want to go further tonight? I’m not in any rush. Really.”

Her eyes softened, but her answer was immediate. “Godric, Draco. Yes, I’m sure.” She framed his face in both hands, pulling him in for a slow kiss before leaning back just enough to look him in the eyes. “Make love to me.”

His throat tightened. He gave a small nod, then reached down to stroke himself, coaxing his cock back to life with a few slow pulls. His breath trembled as he settled between her legs, and she parted them for him without hesitation.

He groaned at the sight of her slick folds glistening, inviting, a vision that would haunt him in the best way. “The charm—” he managed, fingers grazing through her arousal. “You need to cast it. I can’t.”

“I’m on a Muggle pill,” she said, lifting her hips to meet his touch. “Please, Draco.”

He bit down on a groan and gave her a reverent look. “As you wish, darling.”

He propped himself on one forearm as he guided his cock between her folds, dragging the tip along her heat, coating himself in her slick. The warmth of her had him seeing stars. He circled her clit once, then again, and she cried out, her head falling back.

“Eyes on me, Hermione,” he said hoarsely. She obeyed instantly, and the raw trust in her gaze almost undid him.

Positioning himself at her entrance, he paused, searching her face. She gave a nod—barely there—but it was enough.

He pushed in slowly, just the tip, and hissed through his teeth. “Fuck—”

“Oh Gods,” Hermione whimpered, her walls clenching instinctively around him, resisting the stretch.

She was so tight, it was dizzying. Every inch was a battle not to lose control.

“If I die between your legs,” he gasped, “I’ll die a happy man.”

“Draco—” she panted, tense all over. Her hands gripped his biceps, nails digging into his skin.

“Hermione, you need to breathe,” he managed, his legs trembling with the effort it took to hold still. “You’re squeezing me so tight.”

“Right—right.” She took a deep breath and visibly relaxed, her body softening beneath him. Still impossibly snug, but now with a little give.

“Can you take more?” he asked, voice thick.

She nodded, biting her lip, and he moved another inch deeper. “Still good?” he choked out.

She winced, but nodded again, voice barely above a whisper. “Just keep going slow. I’ll tell you if I need to stop.”

Draco loosed a shaky breath, his eyes locked on hers as he eased deeper, bit by bit. Every pause, every flutter of discomfort, was met with a tender kiss to her cheek, her neck, her jaw. He was patient. Gentle. Devoted.

By the time he was fully seated inside her, she was trembling and breathless. And so was he.

He lowered his other forearm to frame her face, staying still within her as he searched her expression. Her lashes were fluttering, breath uneven, but she looked up at him with such trust it nearly broke him. He leaned down and kissed her—slow and reverent, like a promise.

She clenched around him again and his breath hitched as he broke the kiss, forehead dropping to hers. “Sorry,” she whispered, face pinched. His heart clenched. “You need to start moving. Please.”

Draco nodded, brushing his nose against hers, and began to move with aching slowness. He pulled out almost to the tip, then sank back in, inch by inch, as though savoring each fraction of her heat. With every thrust, her body softened further, welcoming him more easily, and his jaw slackened as a moan slipped from his lips.

Her hands came up to clutch at his shoulders, fingernails dragging faint lines down his back. Her expression shifted—from tension into something softer, more molten—as her mouth opened in the most devastating sounds.

“More,” she panted, “give me more.”

He grunted, bracing more of his weight on his forearms as he quickened his pace slightly, still careful but more confident now. Her back arched into him and her legs wrapped around his waist, urging him deeper.

“Salazar, fuck. Hermione—” he choked out as she cried his name, lifting her hips to meet him.

She slipped a hand between their bodies, fingers working over her clit, and he groaned aloud when he felt the faint brush of her knuckles against his stomach. Her moans grew louder, breathier, more desperate, and he responded in kind, rolling his hips a little faster, chasing every reaction she gave him.

“Gods—right there. Don’t stop, please—don’t stop,” she cried out, her free hand clawing at his back.

He kept his rhythm steady, focusing on hitting that spot again and again. Her breathing quickened. He could feel the telltale coiling in his own belly, tightening with every thrust, and he bit down on his bottom lip in a futile attempt to hold back.

Her cunt began to flutter around him, and her fingers moved faster. He could feel the tension thrumming through her entire body.
“Hermione,” he rasped, voice wrecked, “I’m close.”

“Me too—so close. Please—” she gasped, her thighs tightening around his hips. He felt her tremble beneath him, on the edge.

His hands clutched the sheets beside her head, white-knuckled. “Come for me, Granger,” he breathed, desperate now. “Let me have you.”

He kept moving, hips rolling in and out of her, his rhythm firm and unrelenting. When she cried out his name, her head thrown back and her body arching into his, he knew she was falling.

“Draco!”

Her cunt gripped him like a vice, milking him, pulsing around him with every wave of her orgasm. He moaned, guttural and raw, hips faltering.

“Hermione—fuck—you feel so good,” he growled, watching her come undone beneath him, her body trembling, her lips parted with endless murmurs of his name.

“Come in me, Draco. Please,” she begged, voice hoarse and wrecked.

That did it.

His cock twitched deep inside her, thick and swollen, and his balls drew up tight.

“Gonna—” thrust “come—” thrust “feels too good—” thrust.

His hips stuttered as he came, burying himself as deep as he could. “Hermione!” he moaned, spilling hot ropes of come into her. Her cunt clamped around him, pulling every drop from him, and he groaned again—low and shaky.

He kept moving slowly, letting the aftershocks roll through him, drawing out every last sensation. His breath was ragged, his forehead pressed to hers, heart pounding so loud it drowned out everything else.

Their breaths mingled in the stillness, warm and ragged. Draco stayed still inside her for a moment longer, not wanting to leave the safety of her body, not yet. Her arms were still wrapped around his shoulders, trembling slightly, and he pressed a kiss to her cheek, her jaw, her temple—anywhere his lips could reach.

“You okay?” he whispered, brushing back a few strands of hair stuck to her damp forehead.

Hermione nodded, eyes still closed, her lips curving into a sleepy, sated smile. “More than okay,” she murmured, voice thick with exhaustion and something sweeter. “You?”

“I think I just saw the meaning of life,” he said, only half joking. She let out a soft giggle, and the sound warmed his chest.

Slowly, he eased out of her, murmuring soft apologies when she hissed at the sensitivity. He kissed her again, murmuring praises against her skin— you were perfect, so good, I’ve never felt anything like that —as he reached for his wand to clean them both up with a quiet Scourgify.

She hummed contentedly, already curling toward him. He lay back and opened his arms, and she immediately nestled into his side, head tucked under his chin, one leg thrown over his hip like she belonged there.

“Feels like we’ve done this before,” she whispered, voice sleepy and small.

He tilted his head slightly. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t know. Just… like this was always supposed to happen.” Her fingers traced idle circles on his chest. “You make me feel safe.”

His throat tightened, and he buried a hand in her curls, holding her a little closer.

“I’ll keep you safe,” he murmured. “Always. I swear it.”

She tipped her head up slightly, eyes blinking open, heavy with exhaustion but soft with affection. “I love you, Draco.”

It hit him like a curse—but in the best way. He didn’t even hesitate in saying it back. His heart pounding in his chest.

“I love you too, Hermione. More than I ever thought I could love anyone.”

She smiled again, small and sleepy and full of trust, and tucked her face into his neck.

Within minutes, her breathing slowed, soft and even, and he realized she’d drifted off, wrapped around him like ivy, like she’d been made to grow into him.

He stared at the ceiling for a while after, one hand stroking up and down her back, the other gently tangled in her hair. 

He fell asleep shortly after thinking to himself that he couldn’t quite believe that he had made it this far in life and how beyond lucky he was to be existing in this moment. 

For the first time in what felt like years, Draco Malfoy felt peace.

Chapter Text

Hermione groaned dramatically as she flopped onto the floral couch in the living room, limbs sprawled, exhaustion radiating from every inch of her. She kicked off her heels with little care, and they hit the side table with a loud thud.

Draco arched a brow at the sound, clearly unimpressed. Without a word, he reached for her legs, lifted them, and took a seat where her feet had been. She began to pull them back instinctively, but he halted her with a gentle tap, silently telling her to leave them.

She did. He started rubbing the arches of her feet, kneading his thumbs into the tender skin. The groan she let out this time was less theatrical, more grateful.

“Bad day again?” he asked, lips pursed, doubling down on the pressure.

"I just don't understand," Hermione sighed and flung her forearm over her eyes. “I trust your judgment, and the information you gave the DMLE was really solid—at first.”

It had been a few months since Draco’s house arrest had begun, and honestly, things had been going... surprisingly well.

He’d adapted to Muggle integration better than anyone had expected. He’d completed his final Hogwarts coursework, picked up sketching again—something quiet and solitary. He wasn’t delusional enough to think he could do anything serious with it, but it helped pass the time and gave him something that felt his.

Even better, Ministry Worker Granger’s visits had become less frequent, and Girlfriend Granger had taken their place.

That development alone had made all the difference.

After his initial cooperation with the DMLE—providing a detailed list of Death Eaters he knew by name—the department had jumped into action. They’d compiled their own files, launched background investigations, and eventually circled back to him for more. Known hideouts, abandoned safehouses, old meeting spots—anything that hadn’t been located during the war.

Draco had given it freely. He wanted to help. And at first, it worked. Raids had been successful. Escaped Death Eaters had been caught. There was a sense of momentum.

But lately... things had begun to unravel.

Hermione had been stuck working longer hours at the Ministry and forced into active investigations. Raids were no longer clean or quick—they were chaotic and, more often than not, fruitless. 

It meant less time on the Restorative Justice side of things for Hermione, and more on the front lines. On the chasing and catching and, more recently, the failing.

She’d confided her frustration to Draco, often curled up beside him with her voice heavy and her eyes distant. And he’d listened, offered what comfort he could. He was her boyfriend, after all—and, frankly, still in awe of that title.

The thrill of being Hermione Granger’s boyfriend hadn’t worn off. He doubted it ever would.

But watching her run herself ragged—and knowing it was partly because of the information he had provided—was starting to gnaw at him.

Several recent raids had failed under suspicious circumstances. Aurors would arrive at a hideout only to find fresh signs of activity: half-eaten plates of food, still-steaming cups of tea, playing cards mid-game as if someone had bolted mid-hand.

It was like someone was tipping them off.

Every. Single. Time.

Just when the DMLE was about to make an arrest, the targets would vanish and leave behind a warm seat and a lingering sense that someone, somewhere, was feeding them just enough information to escape.

And Draco couldn’t help but wonder: Was it something he missed? Something he’d said? Or worse was someone inside the Ministry working against them?

He glanced down at Hermione again as she shifted slightly, her expression softening under his touch but her brow still creased.

He wanted to protect her from it all. The long days, the disappointments, the endless hunt. 

But he also knew Hermione Granger didn’t need protecting. She needed partnership . And if something deeper was at play here... he needed to figure it out before it cost them more than just sleep.

“You already know my thoughts on this,” Draco said, his voice taut with frustration.

“I don’t think you’re wrong,” Hermione sighed, shifting her position and replacing her feet in his lap with her head instead.

Draco knew the drill. He slipped his fingers into her curls, gently massaging her scalp.

Her eyes fluttered shut, and she let out a small hum of satisfaction despite the tension still written across her features. “I just don’t know who could be feeding them information. It has to be someone on the inside, obviously, but… it goes against everything the DMLE stands for.”

With his free hand, Draco reached down and smoothed the creased lines from her brow. “It would have to be someone skilled in manipulation,” he said. “Someone who knows how to avoid suspicion—especially from you.”

“I just worry.” Her eyes opened again, the uncertainty in her gaze at odds with her steady tone. After a moment’s pause, she frowned and added, “I’m probably overthinking it.”

Draco arched a brow. “With you? Always a possibility. But tell me anyway.” He resumed threading his fingers through her hair, as if trying to massage the thoughts away as well.

He took his job as boyfriend very seriously, thank you very much.

She was quiet for a beat, only the occasional hum of contentment slipping out. Then: “It’s almost as if someone is sabotaging your intel. Am I mad for thinking that?”

Draco grimaced. He gave a slow, half-shrug. “That thought crossed my mind, too. But I figured I was being paranoid.”

Hermione reached up and caught his hands in hers, cradling them against her chest. “I’m going to get to the bottom of it,” she said, firm. Certain. Like a vow.

He felt something tighten in his chest. “I don’t doubt that you will,” he murmured, fingers instinctively curling to twine with hers. “Just… do it safely, alright?”

She scowled. He smirked.

Truthfully, he knew she could handle herself. She was terrifyingly competent. But he also knew he’d go mad if something happened to her and he was stuck here, helpless. Bound by wards and law. Watching from the sidelines.

He would burn the world down if something happened to his witch—and sleep like a baby after.

“How else can I take your mind off work?” he asked softly, brushing his thumb across her knuckles.

She twisted her lips in thought. “Take a bath with me?”

Draco’s mouth twitched upward. He slipped his hand from hers and rose. “As you wish.” He bent to press a kiss to her forehead before offering his hand.

Hermione sat up with a grunt that sounded more beast than witch, stretching her arms over her head. Draco snorted as he pulled her to her feet, leading her toward the washroom.

He got the bath running, adding the various oils and scents she liked—lavender, eucalyptus, something citrusy he’d never bother naming but had come to associate with her. He’d grown oddly fond of them, though he didn’t believe they actually relieved stress. But if they helped her, that was enough.

Moving to her side, he cupped the back of her neck and drew her into a slow, lingering kiss. She rose onto her tiptoes, deepening it. Her fingers fisted in the front of his shirt, tugging him closer, eliminating the last traces of distance.

They undressed in comfortable silence, movements unhurried. Hermione shivered when Draco’s fingers brushed the bare skin of her back, unclasping her bra with gentle precision. There was reverence in the way he looked at her—as if peeling away her clothes was an honor, not a routine.

He stepped in first, settling against the curve of the tub, then reached a hand out to help her in. Hermione slipped off her onyx ring and put it on the counter. She clasped his hand before straddling him briefly, then turned and leaned back into his chest, sighing as the warm water enveloped them both.

Draco wrapped his arms around her waist, chin resting on her shoulder. For a while, neither of them spoke. The scent of lavender hung in the air like a protective spell, and the only sounds were their quiet breaths and the occasional shift of water.

“Better?” he murmured against the shell of her ear.

“Mmm,” she hummed, her head tipping back to rest against his collarbone. “Much.”

He pressed a kiss to her temple, then another just beneath her ear. “You’re carrying everything on your shoulders again.”

“You’re on my shoulders,” she whispered back, teasing, though the heaviness in her voice remained.

Draco let out a soft chuckle. “Touché.”

He trailed his hands over her arms, her stomach, memorizing her all over again. “You know you don’t have to fix it all alone.”

“I’m not alone,” she said simply, twisting her head to glance at him. “You’re here.”

The words undid him more than he’d admit. 

“It’s not as good as being out there with you, Granger.” He swallowed thickly and kissed her again, softer this time. His lips lingered at her jaw, then her cheek. “I’ll always do what I can at home for now.”

Hermione reached for his hand beneath the water, threading their fingers together and guiding it to rest just over her heart.

They stayed that way for a long while—skin on skin, breath syncing, hearts slowly steadying. Her pulse beneath his palm, steady and warm, was enough.

Eventually, she let out a soft yawn, and Draco could feel the way her body began to grow heavier against his.

Draco reached for the small porcelain dish with her favorite shampoo, warmed slightly from the steamy air. “Tilt your head back for me, darling,” he murmured.

Hermione complied wordlessly, her eyes fluttering shut as she let herself melt into him again.

He poured a small amount into his palms and began to lather, fingers moving slowly through the strands of her hair. The pads of his thumbs massaged her scalp in lazy, soothing circles.

“You know,” he said softly, “this is entirely unfair.”

Hermione hummed sleepily. “What is?”

“That I’ve become this—” his voice dipped playfully, “—well-trained haircare specialist, and yet I don’t receive even half the praise I deserve.”

Her lips twitched into a small smile. “Is that so?”

“Oh yes. I’m practically professional.” He leaned in to press a kiss just below her ear, his breath sending shivers down her spine. “And you, Miss Granger, are the most demanding client I’ve ever had.”

“I’m your only client.”

“Semantics,” he drawled. “But for you, I’ll allow it.”

He rinsed the shampoo with slow, careful movements, as if she were spun from glass. Then, he reached for the soap, lathering it between his hands before running them gently along her arms.

“You know,” he murmured, quieter now, “you’re the strongest person I know.”

Hermione’s shoulders dipped slightly under the weight of the compliment, but he continued before she could retreat into deflection. 

“I love you,” he said softly, barely audible above the lapping water. “Even on your worst days. Especially then.”

She turned in his arms, slipping her arms around his neck, face pressed to his damp chest. “I love you too,” she whispered. “More than I can ever explain.”

Draco held her tightly, as if anchoring her back to herself.

Eventually, their skin had started growing wrinkly, and he helped her out, wrapping her in the oversized towel she loved. 

To be fair, it was a Draco sized towel but it covered her as if it were a plush cape. A small smile crept onto his face at the thought. 

He dried her hair with another towel while she blinked at him sleepily, eyes heavy but soft.

He guided her to bed, pulling back the duvet and slipping in beside her. She curled into him instantly, pressing her cheek to his bare chest.

He draped an arm over her waist and tangled their legs beneath the covers. “You smell like lavender and righteous fury,” he murmured into her hair.

Hermione let out a sleepy chuckle. “And you smell like ink and bad decisions.”

“Only the sexy kind.”

She laughed again, quieter now, the sound giving way to a yawn. “Thank you,” she murmured. “For tonight. For you.”

Draco brushed his lips across her forehead and pulled her closer, his voice barely above a whisper. “Always. Sleep, Granger. I’ll be here when you wake up.” 

Draco didn’t know what time it was, only that the sun hadn’t risen yet. The room was cast in a dim silver-blue light, moonlight sneaking through the half-drawn curtains. His limbs were heavy, tangled in the warmth of their shared duvet, and he was content to stay like that until reality forced him otherwise.

That was until he felt the slow drag of fingers across his bare chest, nails light and deliberate.

He blinked open blearily. “Mm?” he managed, voice rough with sleep.

Hermione smiled against his skin, her lips brushing the space just below his collarbone. “Go back to sleep,” she whispered.

Draco’s eyes flickered shut again. “Not possible now, is it,” he muttered, though there was no irritation in his tone—just amusement of a man being doted on.

He felt her shift against him, the cool glide of her hand slipping under the duvet. His muscles tensed instinctively, but his body remembered hers as well as his name. Every inch of him stirred beneath her gentle touch.

Her mouth found the side of his throat, warm and slow. “I just wanted to thank you,” she murmured, voice sultry and reverent all at once.

“For?” he asked, barely breathing.

“For taking care of me. For letting me rest. For reminding me I don’t always have to be strong.”

Draco swallowed hard, her words striking deeper than even her touch. “You don’t owe me anything,” he rasped, even as his hand found her waist beneath the sheets.

Hermione lifted her head just enough to meet his eyes. “Maybe not,” she said. “But I want to.”

She moved to lay on top of him, leaving a trail of kisses as she slid down his body and settled between his legs. 

He inhaled sharply through his nose, scrubbing his hands over his face before blinking slowly to try to focus. He felt his blood pulsing towards his cock and he grunted. 

“Granger,” he rasped. “As much as it kills me to say this, it’s late. You should rest for work.” 

He selfishly hoped that she ignored his pleas even though he felt partially guilty for that thought. 

He could just barely make out the frown on her face in the wake of the moonlight. He grimaced and brushed some curls back from her face. “It’s only because I care about you.” 

She sighed and shook her head, curls falling around her face like a veil. “And I care about you, which is exactly why I want to do this.”

She dipped her hands under his boxers with practiced ease, tugging them off of him. His cock sprung up, hard and leaking against his stomach. 

Her tongue darted out to her bottom lip before bracing herself on his thighs. She placed kisses all over his thighs and anywhere surrounding his pelvic area. 

Another followed lower, then lower still, until his arguments dissolved into shallow, stuttering breaths. Her fingers wrapped around the base of his cock with practiced ease, her touch reverent and familiar.

Draco’s hand flew to the back of her head, not to guide but to anchor himself. Her mouth closed around him, warm and wet and unhurried, and he nearly choked on his own breath.

“Fuck, Granger—” he groaned, head falling back into the pillows. “You’ve gotten too good at this.”

She hummed around him in smug agreement, sending vibrations down his spine. He shuddered. There was nothing tentative in the way she touched him now, no more first-time awkwardness. She knew his body like she knew spellwork both intimately and intuitively.

Draco threaded his fingers through her curls, voice raw. “You always take such good care of me.” His hips twitched involuntarily, though he forced himself to stay still. “So pretty with your lips wrapped around my cock.”

She moaned her approval around him and his chest ran ragged. Her pace was slow, purposeful, like she wanted to memorize every sound he made.

He gathered her hair into a singular fist, hips lifting to meet her movements and she let out another feral sound of delight. His breath stuttered. “ Fuck, Hermione.”

She slid her hand down to cup his balls, and that was it—his spine arched, mouth dropping open in a low, broken moan as he spilled into her mouth. His hips jerked as he spouted off the last drips of his spend into her warm mouth and she greedily lapped up every last drop. 

When he finally came down from it, she kissed his hipbone sweetly, crawling her way back up to lie beside him. He turned toward her, pulling her close, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to her shoulder.

“You have ruined me for good, Granger.” Draco mumbled, his eyes heavy lidded again once more. 

Hermione just nuzzled more into his chest and let out a small chirp of laughter before expelling a deep breath. “Go back to sleep, Draco.” 

His eyes closed and a lazy dazed smile crept onto his face as he drifted off. Thoughts swirling back and forth between how did I get so lucky and I never want this to end. 

Draco woke to the smell of coffee and Theo’s voice echoing down the hallway.

Hermione had already left for her flat before work, kissing his cheek with a soft I love you —a ritual he’d grown to crave more than he ever expected.

He wanted to ask her to move in. He hated being apart from her longer than necessary. But he knew it wasn’t the right time—not while he was still on house arrest, not with her Ministry position under scrutiny.

Not yet.

Draco groaned, dragged himself out of bed, and pulled on a pair of joggers. He found Theo in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, looking far too smug for this early in the morning.

“You’re disgusting,” Draco muttered, scrubbing a hand through his hair.

Theo smirked. “Says the man positively radiating post-coital glow.”

Draco rolled his eyes but didn’t bother denying it. He poured himself a mug of coffee and took a long sip. “What are you doing here?”

Theo’s expression shifted, folding his arms. “Checking in. You’ve been quiet. And I’ve been hearing whispers—internal leaks at the DMLE. Sabotage. Hermione mentioned anything?”

Draco’s jaw ticked. “She suspects someone’s feeding intel, but she doesn’t know who. I’ve told her to be careful.”

Theo raised a brow. “And we both know how well she listens to that .”

Draco grimaced, dragging a hand across his jaw. “She’s capable, no doubt. But it still doesn’t sit right with me.”

Theo hummed, like he could feel it too—that something was building, looming just out of reach. He took a gulp of coffee that made Draco wince.

“Burns so good,” Theo croaked, then set the mug down.

“I sincerely hope for everyone’s sake that’s decaf,” Draco drawled, lips twitching into a reluctant smile.

Theo scoffed. “Where’s the fun in that?” He strolled into the living room, bent down, and planted a kiss on the floral couch. “Missed you, baby.”

Draco rolled his eyes but followed, dropping onto the opposite side of the sofa. He set his mug down and leaned on one hand, voice lower. “These leaks. Have you heard something specific?”

Theo nodded as he sank into his seat. “I have my sources.”

“Oh?” Draco’s lips curled in amusement. He wasn’t blind and saw the way he had acted around a certain Wizard not long ago. 

Theo flipped him the bird and Draco huffed out a laugh and shook his head. 

“Anyway,” Theo continued, “I’ve heard the big, bad Aurors keep showing up to empty hideouts. Like someone tipped them off just before.”

Draco’s jaw tightened. “That sounds about right. Granger’s been working overtime, pulled into investigations she shouldn't be on. She's exhausted.” He waved a hand, trying to sound casual, but it didn't mask the concern lining his voice. “She looked wrecked last night.”

Theo watched him carefully, then leaned forward. “She’s pushing herself too hard again, isn’t she?”

Draco didn’t respond at first. He picked at a loose thread on his joggers and exhaled sharply. “She always does.”

“She’ll burn out.”

“You try telling her that,” Draco muttered, sinking deeper into the couch.

A pause.

Then, quieter: “She’s doing good work. Important work. But she’s not sleeping. She barely eats. And she still checks on me like I’m the one falling apart.”

Theo didn’t speak. He just watched him with that unsettling, silent patience he saved for moments when he knew Draco was coming undone.

“I want her to move in,” Draco admitted, barely above a whisper. “Even with the fucking house arrest, I—Merlin, I just… I sleep better when she’s here.”

“You told her that?”

Draco shook his head. “How can I? She’s already risking her career being with me. If she moved in, the press would eat her alive. The Ministry…” His jaw clenched. “It has to wait.”

Only a handful of people knew about their relationship. Theo—who likely meant Potter did too—Pansy, and his mother. Draco wanted to shout it from rooftops, plaster it across the Prophet. She was his witch. It was an honor to be hers.

Theo’s voice was careful. “And if something happens while you’re waiting?”

Draco’s head snapped up.

“If she needs you, and you can’t get to her?” Theo clarified.

“That could happen any day,” Draco bit out. A muscle feathered in his jaw. “She’s protected, I’ve made sure of that—but I’m fucking useless stuck in this house. I just have to hope.”

He rubbed a hand over his chest, pressing the Black family pendant beneath his shirt. Narcissa, Hermione, and Draco were the only ones who knew about the protective enchantments the companion pieces held. 

Then he stood, pacing the living room, trying to burn the restless heat under his skin.

“She’s not reckless,” Draco said. “She’s survived a war. She’s smart. She’s powerful.”

Theo grabbed his arm and pulled him back down. “No one’s saying otherwise. I’m sorry.”

Draco sat again, throat tight. He reached for his coffee, trying to ease the hollowness coiling in his stomach.

He lifted the mug to his lips when the air in front of them shimmered, and Harry’s stag Patronus surged through the living room like a gust of moonlight.

Draco froze. 

The mug slipped from his hand and shattered.

Harry’s voice followed, clipped and strained:

“Hermione's been hurt. It doesn't look good. St. Mungos.”

And then it was gone.

The words still echoed like a blow to the skull.

Confusion and panic bled into one burning emotion and climbed through his throat. That didn’t make sense. She shouldn’t have been hurt. They had protective companion pieces for a reason. She still wore hers. So did he.

Realization struck him sharply and Draco surged to his feet, stepping over the broken mug. “No—no, no—”

He stormed toward the washroom, ignoring Theo’s rapid footsteps behind him.

“I’ll go. Just tell me what you need,” Theo called. “What are you looking for?”

Draco’s gaze swept through the room and landed on the countertop staring at it with horror.

Her ring.

She must’ve forgotten to put it back on after their bath last night.

He should’ve reminded her. Should’ve put it back on her .

“Fuck, fuck, FUCK!” Draco pushed past Theo, rushing towards his front door. House arrest be damned. The ring was biting into the palm of his hand with how tight he was gripping onto it but he didn’t care. 

“Draco, STOP!” Theo barked, chasing down after him.  

Draco moved as if pulled by a string, a step forward—then stopped. The wards. The fucking wards. He was caged in place by the cold, magical tether of his house arrest, and for the first time since they’d been cast, he wanted to scream. 

He did scream. 

Theo was already moving. “I’ll go.”

"She was just here a few hours ago." Draco’s breaths came ragged, fury and fear warring beneath his skin. “She was fine this morning.”

He slid the ring onto his own finger and felt it resize to fit properly. He swallowed thickly, his thumb brushing against the back of it. 

“She’s going to be fine, Drake,” Theo said, already pulling on his coat. “But you need to stay grounded. If you breach the wards, they’ll lock you up. That won’t help her.”

Draco closed his eyes, devastated. “Tell her I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“Don’t be sorry,” Theo said, stepping into the fireplace. “Be here when she comes home.”

And then he vanished in a swirl of green flame.

Draco stared at the empty space where he’d stood.

“ If she comes home,” he choked out.

He sank to the floor, burying his face in his hands. His fingers tangled in his hair as he rocked forward.

She was going to be fine.

She had to be.

Chapter Text

Three Days Ago

A knock sounded from the outside of her office door. 

Hermione closed her eyes and let out a deep sigh. She set the case file she had been working on down neatly on top of the pile on her desk. “Come in.” 

Her door pushed open slowly and Harry walked in with Head Auror Robards trailing behind him. Hermione’s spine stiffened and she gave them both a thin lipped smile as she stood up. 

“Harry… Head Auror Robards, to what do I owe the pleasure?” She asked in a clipped down, gesturing to the seats in front of her desk. 

She smoothed her skirt underneath her before taking a seat back down in her office chair. Her eyes flicked back and forth between the two men and an uneasy feeling crept into the pit of her stomach. 

Harry was looking at her with a look of sympathy that made her eye twitch in frustration. She knew exactly what that meant. 

“We need all hands on deck for the raid we are planning to execute today, Ms.Granger.” Robards said simply and clasped his hands neatly in his lap. 

Hermione’s hands clenched into fists beneath her desk before she nodded. 

They have needed all hands on deck for weeks now. She was beginning to believe that the work here at the Department of Magical Law Enforcement was skating on unethical bounds. She wasn’t even technically an Auror, she had her own department that she was supposed to be focusing on but all of her attention kept getting pulled elsewhere. 

“One of the safehouses that Mr.Malfoy had informed us of seems to have had recent activity, if I am looking at things correctly.” Robards spoke with hesitancy and scratched the back of his neck looking almost sheepish.

She had been working to continue to implement Muggle integration as part of her work here at the DMLE. It started initially with the Pensieve Projector but she had once again explained how far behind they were in terms of surveillance in comparison to the Muggle world. 

The Wizarding world already used cameras and they had enchanted photos to show for it in The Daily Prophet well...Daily. She couldn’t comprehend why it had taken her to come along to show that they could set up live feeds of cameras. 

Most wizards who had grown up strictly in the wizarding world had not been aware of the whole concept of films and Hermione had made it clear that they were missing out on solving cases with something as simple as around the clock surveillance with hidden cameras.

Sure, it was perhaps a little morally grey and pushed the boundaries of what is deemed acceptable in society but if it wasn’t public knowledge then it was no harm and no foul. Besides, the only people that were aware of the usage of the cameras were the people working in the DMLE. 

Especially with the recent raids going so poorly, Hermione had made it top priority to get camera feeds up and running at the known Death Eater hideouts that Draco had informed them of. She was almost certain that someone working on the inside of the DMLE was tipping off the Death Eaters but, until she had concrete proof, she wasn’t going to create any issues. 

Hermione looked over at Harry and arched a brow in question. “Did you verify the camera footage?” 

Harry nodded and tilted his head to the side towards Robards. “I have. Twice. However, Robards wants you to verify that what he sees is correct.” 

Hermione frowned. Harry had grown up in a Muggle household just like she had. Watching footage wasn’t difficult by any means and all of this was starting to really test her nerves. Were they intentionally trying to waste her time?

Robards cleared his throat and gave her a small smile. “I would just feel more comfortable if you verified the movement on the footage was actually recent and not that we had missed this activity from when we first installed those devices.” 

“With all due respect sir, the live feeds should be time stamped. I made sure they were set up that way. I really do have important work that I should be doing for my own department which—”

Robards held his hand up and she clamped her mouth shut. “I understand that Ms.Granger, however it doesn’t change the fact that we need you out on the field with us today. As I’ve stated,” he began standing up and smoothed down his uniform. “We need all hands on deck.” 

Hermione stood up and turned to grab her wand holster off her coat rack behind her. “Let me just grab my belongings and I will meet you guys in the surveillance room.” She fastened the strap of her holster leaving it secured snug across her chest and comfortably accessible. 

“Thank you for your cooperation.” Robards said from behind her. She didn’t bother responding nor turning back around to acknowledge him and waited for the click of the door to sound. 

Once she heard the click of the door she shrugged her coat over her shoulders and grumbled under her breath. “Incompetent people I swear to Merlin.” She turned back around and jolted, a hand flying to her heart. 

“Jesus– Harry.” She breathed, her cheeks flushing with warmth. “Sorry, I thought you left with him.”

Harry snorted but nodded. “I figured as much with your grumbling and what not.” He shifted in his spot and wiped his hands against his trousers. He always did have a problem with sweaty palms. 

Hermione huffed out a laugh and shook her head. “Stayed to walk with me? How chivalrous.” 

“Can’t a bloke walk with his best mate?” He asked and stepped to the side to hold the door open for her. Her heart ached a little in her chest at his words but she bit her tongue and exited her office. 

They walked in an awkward silence on their way through the winding halls of the DMLE. His words echoing in her mind. She missed his friendship more than she was willing to admit. She still looked at him as a close friend but he still refused to acknowledge the fissure he helped create in their bond by allowing Ronald to act the way he did. 

Hermione absentmindedly rubbed her thumb against the underside of her ring finger and she looked down at her hand. “Shit.” She said under her breath. 

“What is it?” Harry asked and looked at her in confusion. 

She waved him off and swallowed thickly. “It’s nothing.”

She must’ve forgotten to put her ring back on after the bath her and Draco had taken last night. She had been so tired lately and in such a rush this morning—under the real risk of running late to work— she had all but run out of Draco’s cottage. 

It left her hand feeling naked and she felt like a layer of her skin had been taken right off of her. She had been wearing it everyday for almost a year now that it felt just wrong to be without it. 

She hoped Draco hadn't noticed yet and that she could just slip it back on when she visited him briefly after work tonight. Merlin knows he would probably be worried sick knowing that she wasn’t wearing the protective jewelry, especially with her increase in field work. 

They rounded the corner and entered the surveillance room and shut the door tightly behind them. Robards was already sitting in front of the screen and he turned his head to look at them. “I have the location in question pulled up on this—” he gestured loosely in front of him. “-thing.” 

Hermione fought back the urge to roll her eyes and made her way towards the screen. She leaned forward and used the mouse to click the rewind button to try to watch the footage. Changing the playback speed into something quicker, she righted her stance and crossed her arms as she watched the movement on the screen. 

It stayed void of any movement for the majority of the last twenty hours. “There!” Robards jabbed a finger at the screen and she squinted. “You can see movement behind the curtains.” 

There definitely was… something. She pursed her lips and looked at him. “Did you check to see if anyone had recently bought the property?” 

Robards narrowed his eyes at her and she felt Harry shift uncomfortably at her side. “Do not insult my intelligence. Of course I looked into that. It still remains unoccupied according to our records.” 

Hermione flushed and nodded. So he can pretend to be dimwitted when it comes to understanding very simple Muggle technology but she is not allowed to question his intelligence. 

Noted.