Chapter Text
December 31st, 2006
The ballroom had been transformed for the occasion. Thousands of candles floated effortlessly in the air, casting a warm golden glow over the crowd. Above them, the enchanted ceiling had been replaced with a transparent dome, offering a breathtaking view of the winter sky. Snow fell softly beyond the glass, the stars glittering behind it like distant jewels.
Every surface was lined with abundance—towering displays of food from every region, crystal decanters pouring endless streams of wine, champagne, and firewhiskey. The Malfoys had spared no expense.
This was the event of the year. The Malfoy New Year’s Eve Ball.
Everyone had been invited. The entirety of high society. Key figures from the Ministry. Diplomats and dignitaries from across the globe. Even those whispered to be aligned with the Pact walked freely among them.
The Manor, already immense, had been magically expanded to accommodate the crowd. The room itself seemed to breathe—fireplaces along the edges enchanted to subtly shift the temperature, warm and comforting early in the evening, cooler and crisp as midnight approached.
A live orchestra played classical pieces, occasionally pausing for modern interludes that catered to the younger guests. The music was flawless. The lighting, immaculate.
And Draco was bored out of his mind.
He had been drinking since the start of the evening—first with Nott, then Zabini, Goyle, Daphnée, and Pansy. His glass was never empty, his mask never slipped. Not completely.
He wasn’t drunk, not quite.
But he was far from sober.
Earlier in the evening, he had quietly told them all that he was preparing to announce his engagement to Astoria Greengrass.
They had celebrated with mock toasts and sly smiles—some genuine, others sharp with implication.
At one point, somewhere between the third and fourth glass, Pansy leaned in close and asked, “Have you seen Nott? He disappeared a while ago.”
Draco shook his head lazily, not bothering to look around. “No idea,” he muttered. “Don’t care.”
And he didn’t.
Not tonight.
He already knew the real performance hadn’t started yet.
That would come when she walked in. When she looked at him.
And he would pretend it meant nothing.
***
Hermione was still at the Burrow, tucked into one of the upper bedrooms with Ginny and Molly fussing around her like it was a wedding day rather than a covert mission. Outside the frosted windows, the countryside was bathed in moonlight, calm and cold—nothing like the tension brewing inside the house.
“We have to go, Hermione,” Ginny said fastening a clasp on her own cloak. “We have a regime to bring down.”
Hermione nodded.
She was standing in front of the mirror, adjusting the sleeves of her dress. It was deep midnight black velvet, long-sleeved, and heavier than what she usually wore, but it fit like a second skin. Delicate black lace traced over her arms, chest, and across her midsection like creeping ivy. The skirt fell in soft, full drapes to the floor, elegant and fluid when she moved. She had chosen black heels—tall and silent.
Her hair was slicked back behind her ears, long and glossy, framing her face with severe precision. Around her neck, she wore her otter’s pendant—a quiet, personal anchor that glinted faintly against the velvet.
She looked… stunning. Regal. Powerful.
And for the first time in a long time, she allowed herself to feel it.
Hermione exhaled slowly and reached for her cloak.
She wasn’t sure why she felt the knot tightening in her chest. It wasn’t just the mission. It wasn’t the danger. It was something else.
Someone else.
The last time she’d seen Malfoy, he was bleeding—slumped against her doorframe, too pale, too silent. And still, even then, he had looked at her like she was the only truth left in a crumbling world. That night had ended with whispered secrets, him reaching out to Shacklebolt, and the beginning of something terrifying that will expose the Tenelabrith and the pact of torn.
Hermione pulled on her cloak and squared her shoulders.
“Let’s go,” she said. “It’s time.”
***
They arrived by Floo Network promptly at 9 p.m.
Hermione stepped out first, brushing a bit of ash from her cloak, followed closely by Harry, Ron, and Ginny. They positioned themselves near Shacklebolt, who stood tall and composed—but even from a distance, Hermione could see it in his posture. He was tense. Alert. Nervous, maybe for the first time in his life.
The ballroom was breathtaking. Elegant, gleaming, and heavy with expectation. But something was off. She couldn’t name it—not exactly—but the air had a charge to it, a subtle shift beneath the glamour. A tension threaded through the candlelight and polite laughter. She scanned the space instinctively.
Something’s wrong, she thought. I can feel it.
She tried to distract herself, moving slowly through the crowd, greeting familiar faces—old classmates from Hogwarts she hadn’t seen in nearly eight years. Some gave her warm smiles, others looked unsure whether they should acknowledge her at all. The war had changed them all, scattered allegiances and rewired friendships.
She smiled politely, exchanged pleasantries, made her way through conversations she didn’t really care about. But her eyes were searching.
She knew who she was looking for. But she wouldn’t ask. Couldn’t.
He knows I’m here. He’ll come to me.
Still, her heart beat a little faster each time she turned a corner or caught sight of blond hair.
Ron appeared beside her with a crooked grin, offering his hand. “Dance with me?”
She blinked, pulled from her thoughts, then nodded. “Of course.”
They moved together to the dance floor, and for a few minutes, it felt almost normal. Familiar. His hand in hers, the low murmur of the orchestra, the hush of silk dresses sweeping polished floors. They spoke quietly—about who was present, who wasn’t, and what might be waiting behind the evening’s glamour.
At one point, while they sat to eat, Ron leaned closer and whispered, “Kingsley’s rattled. Have you seen his hands? He never fidgets like that.”
Hermione glanced toward the corner where Shacklebolt stood, deep in conversation with a foreign ambassador.
He was fidgeting.
It made her chest tighten.
Something was coming.
And still—he hadn’t shown himself.
But he would.
She could feel it.
Draco had seen her the moment she arrived—four hours ago.
She hadn’t noticed him. But he had been watching her, always from just far enough away to go unnoticed, hidden among the shadows, the crowds, the endless parade of diplomatic masks.
She was… stunning.
More than he remembered. And that was saying something.
The black velvet clung to her like it had been stitched by starlight and rebellion. Her hair was sleek, her posture regal, her presence effortless. Every smile she offered someone—Weasley, a Ministry official, some wide-eyed young wizard trying too hard—sent a fresh pulse of jealousy twisting through his chest.
He hated it.
The way she laughed. The way she listened. The way she pretended nothing about tonight felt wrong. As if she weren’t the brightest mind in the room. As if she hadn’t been his greatest secret for years.
She moved like grace incarnate, but he knew better.
There was nothing innocent about Hermione Granger—not anymore.
She was full of secrets. She was hiding something beneath that perfect poise. And he admired her all the more for it.
But admiration wouldn’t protect her.
And he had a role to play.
It was time.
With a breath that tasted like firewhiskey and regret, Draco turned from the shadows and began climbing the grand staircase. The noise of the ballroom dimmed behind him, replaced by the thrum of blood in his ears.
In a few minutes, he would announce to the world that he was engaged to Astoria Greengrass.
And he would do it with her watching.
Because that was what the Pact required.
Because that was what war demanded.
***
Hermione’s gaze drifted toward the grand staircase.
They’d been told to expect an announcement—something important, something grand. But the moment the music shifted, and the room quieted, she felt it.
Something was wrong.
She’d been at the Malfoy Manor for four hours, and still—no sign of Draco. Not a glimpse. Not a glance. Just silence where there should’ve been something.
And now… this.
Her stomach twisted.
A hush fell over the crowd as two figures emerged at the top of the stairs. Malcolm Greengrass and Lucius Malfoy. Regal. Cold. Smiling the way men smile when they’re about to drop a blade.
The look on their faces chilled her.
She glanced around the room. Ron was suddenly at her side, slipping his arm around hers as if sensing her unease. She felt the firm tug as he began to steer her gently away from the main crowd. Harry and Ginny had already moved to the edge of the ballroom, eyes sharp, scanning.
She followed Ron’s lead—slowly, reluctantly—then stopped.
She saw him.
Draco.
He stepped into view at the top of the stairs, Astoria Greengrass at his side, her arm looped possessively through his. They looked—
Perfect.
He was devastating in formal black, his expression unreadable but elegant as ever. And Astoria… she was radiant. Dressed in silver and pale green, her blonde hair cascading down her back like spun silk. She was glowing. Confident. Poised.
And smiling.
That kind of smile.
Hermione felt Ron’s grip on her tighten slightly, but she pulled away without thinking, stepping forward slowly. The sounds of the room faded behind the rushing in her ears. She didn’t even realize she was moving.
She just needed to see Draco’s face. To read the truth.
Astoria turned to the crowd, beaming like a bride already crowned.
Malcolm’s voice echoed through the ballroom, deep and smooth.
“We are gathered tonight for a most joyous occasion,” he began. “A moment of alliance, of celebration.”
Lucius took over, his tone equally rehearsed. “For years, Malcolm and I have worked side by side, guided by shared vision and purpose. And tonight, we are proud to announce the engagement of my son—Draco Malfoy—and his daughter, Astoria Greengrass.”
The room erupted. Applause. Cheers. Fireworks burst into gold and green above the enchanted dome ceiling. Balloons appeared out of thin air, confetti rained from above, champagne glasses clinked like laughter.
Hermione couldn’t breathe.
And then—she saw it.
Astoria turned to Draco, reached up with careful fingers, and touched his cheek. Gently. Deliberately. She leaned in, and Draco—without hesitation—tilted his head, the corner of his mouth lifting into a faint smile before he kissed her.
Passionately.
Hermione took a step back and collided with something solid. She turned.
Ron.
He was watching her, his eyes full of sympathy, his mouth curved into a soft, helpless smile.
“You knew?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper.
He hesitated. “We heard the rumor an hour ago. We didn’t know how to tell you. You never said anything to us… just to Ginny. And she’s with Harry, and—well, you know how it is.”
He reached out to touch her arm, to comfort her.
She didn’t feel it.
She was cold.
Numb.
Shattered, but not allowed to show it—not here. Not now.
She needed to get away.
Just for a moment. To breathe. To gather herself before she completely unraveled.
It was nearly midnight, and the ball was still in full swing, but she felt like she was barely holding herself together. She muttered something to Ron—an excuse, a quiet apology—but he caught her arm gently.
“Stay close,” he reminded her, voice low. “We’re still waiting for Malfoy to expose members of the Pact. Kingsley needs confirmation before midnight.”
She nodded, forcing a small smile. “I just need the bathroom.”
He let her go, and she slipped out of the ballroom without looking back.
The moment the heavy doors closed behind her, the music and laughter fell into muffled echoes. She walked quickly, not caring where she was going, not paying attention to the turns. The hallways blurred past her—ornate, cold, unfamiliar. Somewhere along the way she found a large door, carved and old, and without thinking, she pushed it open and stepped inside.
The room was vast, dimly lit.
A library.
It was stunning—towering shelves, ladders, books so ancient their spines looked like they could turn to dust under too much light. Tomes bound in dragonhide. Scrolls that pulsed faintly with wards. She could almost feel the weight of centuries pressing down on the room.
Her fingers brushed one of the shelves, trailing along the gold-embossed titles.
She didn’t know what she felt. Not exactly.
Grief. Humiliation. Disbelief.
Just days ago, he’d told her he loved her. She had trusted him—truly trusted him—with the secret of the Tenelabrith. With herself. And now he was engaged to Astoria Greengrass, as if none of it had mattered.
Maybe it never had.
Maybe it had all been a dream—her hope, her stupidity, dressed up as something more.
The sound of the door closing behind her cut the air like a blade.
She froze.
She didn’t need to turn to know who it was.
His voice followed a heartbeat later. Cold. Sharp.
“What are you doing here?”
She turned slowly, her cheeks still damp with tears. The shame of it stung more than the cold in the room—being seen like this. Exposed. Fragile. By him.
And yet, as her eyes found him, she froze.
She notice the enchanted dome overhead cast soft moonlight down through the library’s arched ceiling. A narrow shaft of pale silver cut through the space and landed directly on him—framing him in otherworldly light. It clung to his shoulders, shimmered across his hair, and deepened the sharp lines of his face.
He looked unreal. Like something conjured from memory or dream. Too perfect. Too still.
Too far away from the man she thought she knew.
She swallowed, her throat tight, and didn’t answer. She couldn’t.
Because beneath the beauty of that moment—beneath the moonlight and silence—she could already feel the storm waiting in his voice.
She opened her mouth, but nothing came out.
He walked toward her. Measured. Controlled. Something about him was different. The way he carried himself. The weight in the air around him.
He was… wrong.
Darker.
She looked down at her trembling hands—and then she felt him. His fingers brushed her cheek, catching the trail of tears and tracing them to her chin. Then his hand tilted her face upward, forcing her to meet his eyes.
They were pale.
Too pale. Lifeless. As if the warmth she once knew in them had been erased.
She swallowed hard. Reached for his forearm.
“Are you okay?” she whispered. “What happened to you? I can feel it… there’s something darker in you.”
He didn’t answer. Just stared at her.
But for a moment—just a moment—his expression shifted. His hand moved to her neck, fingers grazing the small white otter pendant resting against her collarbone. The one he’d given her.
His thumb played with it. Gently. Almost tender.
Her breath caught.
He was going to kiss her.
She was sure of it.
And then—his eyes darkened, and she felt the shift. The snap.
“You’re Occluding,” she whispered, voice cracking. “You’re Occluding this moment. Why would you… How—?”
She stopped. Her words choked as something changed in his gaze.
It became colder. Crueler.
He held the pendant in his fingers, staring at it.
Then he spoke.
“Did you really think,” he said, voice slow and cutting, “that I could ever love you?”
Her blood went cold.
“You? The Mudblood who helped disgrace my family? The one who played a part in my aunt’s death? You’re the reason we fell. You—and your kind.”
She couldn’t move. Could barely breathe.
“I love perfection,” he continued, his hand moving from the pendant to the scar on her forearm. “And you’re not perfection. Not with that filthy blood. Not with your broken skin.”
His fingers slid down to her waist, pulling her closer.
“I used you,” he said softly, like a confession. “And I’ll admit, I enjoyed it. Every kiss. Every lie. They were right about one thing—playing in the mud can be fun. And you, Granger, weren’t a bad whore.”
With one sharp tug, he ripped the otter pendant from her neck.
“You should leave,” he said, voice flat. “You’re not welcome here anymore.”
She didn’t scream.
Didn’t flinch.
Her heart was cracking open in her chest, but her spine straightened.
With quiet dignity, she wiped the tears from her face with the back of her hand, held her chin high, and stepped past him.
She didn’t look back.
***
He heard the heavy wood door close behind her with a dull, final thud.
It was done.
He let the silence settle, trying to breathe through it. His eyes dropped to his hand, still curled around the small white otter pendant. The chain had snapped when he’d torn it from her neck, but the charm itself remained whole—cool and light in his palm.
He stared at it for a long moment before slipping it into his pocket.
He didn’t let himself think about why.
He had to be in Montreal soon—just after midnight. There were expectations. Plans. Layers of deception he could no longer afford to lose control of. He rolled his shoulders, fixed the perfect Malfoy expression back onto his face: poised, charming, unbothered. He was expected to kiss his bride-to-be in front of a hundred witnesses. And he would.
Because that was the role.
Because that was the price.
He left the library with measured steps, but the echo of them sounded too loud in the silence. Inside, something twisted.
It felt like he was walking deeper and deeper into something he couldn’t undo.
Mistake after mistake. And still—no turning back.