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Chapter Text

The garden was alive with soft, magical light. Towering trees lined the edges of the venue, their branches adorned with glowing lanterns, casting flickers of warmth over the guests. The air was thick with the scent of roses and freshly cut grass, mingling together in a sweet embrace. Pastel-colored floral arrangements spilled across tables, their delicate petals nodding gently in the breeze, while candles lined the aisle in an elegant row, flickering like tiny stars. It was a setting out of a fairy tale, cozy and inviting, yet undeniably elegant.

Hermione stood at the back of the venue, her eyes fixed on Ginny. She had never seen her friend look so radiant, so alive. The soft glow of the lanterns seemed to catch in her hair, making it shine like fire. Ginny was perfect, glowing in her wedding gown as she walked down the aisle. There was an undeniable magic to the moment, the kind that only a wedding could bring. But for Hermione, there was something else in the air, something heavier.

She watched as Ginny approached the altar, her smile bright and full of joy, but Hermione couldn’t shake the feeling that she didn’t belong here, not really. She felt like a ghost, standing on the fringes of a world she no longer had a place in.

It wasn’t just the wedding, though. It wasn’t even just the beauty of the moment. It was Ron. He was here, of course, sitting among the guests, looking so comfortable and so happy with someone else by his side. His new partner’s hand was intertwined with his, their fingers laced together as they whispered quietly to each other. Hermione’s stomach twisted painfully at the sight of them.

The breakup with Ron had been messy. Unexpected. It hadn’t been the way she thought it would end, not like this.

Her chest ached. She had tried, so hard, to make it work. She had fought for him, and she had been sure, so sure that they were meant to be. But now, seeing him with someone else, the finality of it hit her like a sharp, cruel gust of wind. A bitter lump rose in her throat.

Did he even miss her? Did he ever feel the same ache she felt now? Or was he relieved, free from all the weight they had carried together?

Her thoughts were interrupted as Ginny, now at the altar, beamed at Harry, her eyes filled with love. Her voice was steady as she said her vows, and Harry’s face was full of admiration, his gaze locked onto her with something pure, something Hermione couldn’t help but envy. It made her heart ache deeper.

Ginny was different today, so much softer, more grown-up, but still unmistakably Ginny. Fierce, passionate, full of love. It made Hermione wonder about the kind of love she had with Ron. What could have been different? Had she done something wrong? Had she not fought enough for their love?

But this was Ginny’s day. Ginny deserved every moment of this, every ounce of happiness. Hermione couldn’t let her own sadness overshadow it, couldn’t allow the pain she was feeling to take away from the joy that was meant to be celebrated here.

But the loneliness lingered, hovering just beneath the surface, making her feel separate from the world around her. Maybe it was the environment, the intimate, celebratory atmosphere of a wedding that made her feel so isolated. So out of place. Even with all the people surrounding her, she felt as though she were standing on the edge of something, disconnected from the celebration that was unfolding before her.

The ache in her chest was sharp again, but she pushed it aside, focusing instead on Ginny and Harry as they continued with the ceremony. Today wasn’t about her. Not about her heartache.

But that didn’t stop the emptiness from following her like a shadow.

Hermione’s thoughts were still tangled in her own confusion, the sharp pain of watching Ron with someone else still digging deep into her chest. She was trying to focus on the ceremony, trying to push through it. But just as the emotions began to ebb, she felt a flicker of something else, a shift in the air.

Her gaze drifted toward the back of the venue, where a few late arrivals had made their way in. At first, she didn’t think much of it. But then she froze.

There, standing near the entrance, was Draco Malfoy.

Her stomach tightened at the sight of him. The last time she had really spoken to him had been during the aftermath of the war, and even then, their interactions had been scarce and often laced with bitterness. But now, here he was, standing stiffly at the back of the venue, his eyes scanning the crowd.

His expression was unreadable, his pale features sharp against the soft glow of the lanterns. He was dressed in formal attire, a dark suit that somehow seemed to draw more attention to his discomfort than his elegance. He looked out of place, and yet, it wasn’t completely surprising. After all, it was a Weasley wedding. Chaotic, full of life, but also undeniably family. Draco, for all his past, was here in a way that seemed almost like an afterthought.

Theo Nott was with him, looking perfectly at ease, his posture relaxed as he scanned the crowd, a smile on his lips. Hermione knew that Theo and Ginny had somehow grown close over the years, having both found common ground after the war. It was clear that Theo had invited Draco along as his plus-one, a fact that seemed almost surreal to Hermione. She had never once imagined that Draco would be here, at Ginny’s wedding, a guest among people who had once fought against his very existence.

Draco wasn’t here as a guest of honor, Hermione realized. He was simply along for the ride, an odd, unexpected addition to an already chaotic gathering. And yet, she couldn’t look away.

A brief wave of discomfort washed over her as their eyes met. For a moment, they simply stared at each other. Two people bound by the past, yet so far apart now. Hermione was sure he didn’t want to engage with her, just as much as she didn’t want to engage with him. The years of animosity still loomed between them, unspoken but ever-present.

She quickly glanced away, as though the weight of that single exchange might become too much to bear. But something about his presence, a quiet tension, like the calm before a storm, settled into her chest.

She didn’t know why, but Draco’s presence felt... strange. Different. The years since the war had changed them both, and the awkwardness of the moment was palpable, but there was something in the air that Hermione couldn’t quite place.

Maybe it was the fact that she wasn’t the only one standing on the edges, an outsider in a sea of people. Maybe it was something else entirely.

But she couldn’t help but wonder, what was he doing here?

She shook her head slightly, trying to refocus on the ceremony, but her mind kept drifting back to Draco.

Hermione tried to steady her breath, forcing herself to look away from Draco, but her eyes betrayed her. Before she could look anywhere else, he and Theo was already standing just a few feet away from her with Theo already engaging in a flirty conversation with a lady.

The space between them felt loaded, thick with the tension of years, of history, of things unsaid. Draco’s eyes flickered toward her, distant yet… almost as though he were waiting for something. His gaze was steady, but there was an undercurrent of something she couldn’t name. Something real. Something different from the usual snide remarks and subtle insults they’d exchanged in the past.

He shifted uncomfortably, his hands tucked into his pockets, the lines of his suit too sharp, too stiff against the warm atmosphere of the wedding. He looked awkward. Out of place. As if this event was one he’d never imagined attending, and certainly not with her standing right there.

"Hello," Hermione said, her voice coming out colder than she’d intended. She felt the awkwardness creep into her words, the coolness laced with the ghosts of their past. She could feel him measuring her, judging, perhaps, just as she was doing with him.

"Granger," Draco responded, his voice smooth but with the faintest edge. No warmth. No hostility. Just a dry recognition of her presence.

And then, as quickly as it had started, the exchange ended. There was no lingering curiosity or need to revisit what they once were or what they might have been. The silence stretched between them for a long beat, neither of them willing to break it, as though the years of their shared history weighed them down.

Hermione glanced back at the ceremony, her thoughts racing. Why does this feel so strange? It wasn’t just Draco’s presence that made her feel unsettled, it was the quiet understanding between them. They didn’t need to say anything; it was all in the air around them. The uncomfortable past, the unspoken truce. The look in his eyes held something, something that made her chest tighten, even though she didn’t want to feel it.

It was a strange combination of being repelled and drawn to him at the same time, and she couldn’t quite make sense of it.

Ginny's voice rang out clear and strong as she spoke her vows to Harry, words that seemed to soar with sincerity and love. 

"With this hand, I will hold your heart, binding it to mine through every spell we cast. With this flame, I will light your path, guiding you through darkness and doubt. With this ring, I bind my soul to yours, in magic, in love, now and forever."

She looked up at him with such intensity, her eyes sparkling with a mixture of admiration and hope, while Harry's expression mirrored hers. His voice cracked slightly as he repeated his vows, his gaze soft with devotion.

"With this hand, I will shield you from the storm, warding off the shadows with every charm. With this breath, I will give you life, filling your world with warmth and light. With this ring, I bind my heart to yours, a promise that no force shall ever break."

It was a perfect moment. A moment of pure connection.

And yet, Hermione couldn’t stop the ache in her chest, couldn’t help the question that lingered in her mind. Could I ever have that again? The connection they shared, the kind that Ginny and Harry had found, so effortless, so true. Could she even want something like that again, after everything?

Her eyes flickered briefly to Ron, who was seated nearby, his arm around his new partner. There was a coldness to their proximity, a distance between them even in the closeness of their touch. Could I have fought harder? Could I have made him see that we still had a chance?

But then her gaze shifted, almost involuntarily, to Draco. He stood hands still tucked in his pockets, staring at the ceremony with a faraway look, as though the vows weren’t meant for him. It was a strange thing, really he wasn’t meant to be here, in this moment. But his presence still seemed to affect her. His silence, his distance from the rest of the crowd. Was it possible, too, that he knew what she was feeling?

The vows hung in the air, beautiful and inspiring, but to Hermione, they felt like a reminder of what she had lost and what she was still searching for. Was that kind of connection even possible anymore?

As Ginny and Harry shared their first kiss as a married couple, the crowd erupted in applause. Hermione forced herself to join in, clapping with the others, but there was a tightness in her chest, a lump in her throat that she couldn’t shake.

And then, as if it were fate's cruel joke, she felt it. Ron’s gaze.

She caught it from the corner of her eye, but the second their eyes met, she felt a wave of discomfort wash over her. His expression was unreadable, but there was something in the way he looked at her, something that was part guilt, part indifference.

She didn’t know what to make of it. Was he sorry? Did he regret how things had ended? Or was he simply... over it? Was she the one still holding on, still trapped in a moment that had long since passed?

And then there was the new partner sitting next to him someone who smiled easily, whose hand Ron held without hesitation. The contrast hit Hermione like a punch to the stomach. It was hard to focus, hard to think. Was this what she had lost? What they had lost? Was this where everything had been heading? She wondered if, perhaps, if they had communicated better, if they had been braver with their words, they could have had something like Ginny and Harry’s love. Something stable. Something real.

But the ache wouldn’t go away.

She fought the urge to break down in tears. She pushed back the wave of emotions that threatened to overtake her. Not here. Not now.

The wedding, the vows, the joy in the air, everything felt like a reminder of what she no longer had. What she had lost, and what she still wasn’t sure she could find again.

The evening had taken on a different energy now that the ceremony was over. The wedding guests had spilled out into the garden, the sound of their laughter and chatter floating through the air. The lanterns had been lit, casting a warm, golden glow across the garden. The night sky above, dotted with stars, felt endless, magical, even. The music played softly in the background, a cheerful contrast to the quiet tension Hermione felt inside.

She needed a moment of solitude, away from the cheerful noise. The happy faces around her, the constant reminders of what she had lost, felt overwhelming. She slipped away from the crowd, silently excusing herself from the festivities, and found her way to a quiet corner of the garden. Here, the noise faded into the distance, and the soft scent of roses and fresh grass filled the air, mingling with the cool evening breeze.

She stood there, letting the quiet envelop her. She watched as the light of the floating lanterns flickered above, their soft glow reflecting off the dewy leaves. It was beautiful, but it only seemed to deepen the ache in her chest. The weight of everything, the breakup with Ron, the memories, the tension in the air settled on her like a thick fog.

It was in this quiet, fragile moment that she heard footsteps approaching. She turned slightly, startled by the sudden presence, and there he was, Draco Malfoy, stepping out from the shadows of a nearby tree. His figure emerged from the dimness of the garden, looking as out of place as he had during the ceremony.

He was alone, his hands tucked into the pockets of his formal attire, his expression unreadable, though there was a hint of something that wasn’t quite annoyance or disinterest. It was almost as if he had sought her out though she wasn’t sure why.

"Granger," Draco said, his voice cool, but not as sharp as she remembered. His eyes swept over her, his gaze lingering for just a moment longer than usual.

Hermione wasn’t sure why she felt so uneasy. She had barely exchanged two words with him earlier, and yet now, in the stillness of the garden, everything felt... different. The tension between them was palpable, like the air right before a thunderstorm. Neither of them spoke, but neither could seem to break the silence either. They both stood there, two figures distanced from the rest of the celebration, with the world beyond them carrying on as if they were two ghosts, hovering in the shadows.

"Malfoy," she said, her voice colder than she intended, a sharp contrast to the warmth of the garden around them. She fought the urge to look away, to ignore him completely. But there was something about the way he stood there, looking at her with that unreadable expression, that made her stomach tighten. It wasn’t arrogance. It wasn’t hostility. It was something different, something that she couldn’t name.

The moment stretched on, neither of them quite willing to break the strange, magnetic pull between them. It was like something between curiosity and hesitation. Neither of them moved closer. Neither of them said what was on their minds. But there was an unspoken understanding, a quiet acknowledgment of everything that had passed between them. The war, the animosity, the uneasy truce that now lingered between them like the space between thunderclaps.

It was strange.

Hermione wasn’t sure what to make of it. She had come here for solitude, a brief escape from the crowd. But Draco’s presence was like an unexpected gust of wind, unsettling, yet undeniable. She hadn’t expected to find him here, alone, away from the wedding’s celebration, and yet... part of her couldn’t help but wonder why he was here. What did he want?

Draco’s gaze, steady and focused, seemed to understand something she hadn’t said. His eyes weren’t filled with judgment, or pity, or indifference. There was no guilt, no confusion like she saw in Ron’s eyes. Instead, there was something almost comforting in the way Draco looked at her. It was like he understood this space between them, this strange moment. More than anyone else here, maybe even more than Ron had ever understood her.

She couldn’t quite explain it, but for a moment, she felt seen in a way she hadn’t in a long time. It wasn’t a warmth that made her feel secure, but a quiet recognition of the hurt they both carried.

It was confusing, and it made her uncomfortable. But it was also... strangely comforting. And that only made her feel more unsettled.

As the night wore on, the atmosphere of the wedding began to shift. The grand garden outside, filled with flickering lanterns and the scent of roses, felt quieter now, the festivities winding down. Ginny and Harry had long since disappeared to begin their honeymoon, and the remaining guests were slowly trickling out, leaving behind the memory of the magical day. Hermione stood near the edge of the garden, surrounded by the soft glow of the lanterns, but she felt distant from it all, like an observer, not a participant.

The wine had gone to her head, and the emotional exhaustion of the day weighed heavily on her shoulders. She tried to lose herself in the beautiful surroundings, but her thoughts kept returning to Ron. To the breakup. To everything she thought she had, only to watch it unravel in front of her. And now, here she was, at Ginny and Harry’s perfect wedding, standing alone and unsure of where to go next.

Her gaze flickered across the yard, over the guests who were laughing, dancing, and talking in the distance. That’s when she saw him.

Draco Malfoy. He wasn’t with anyone, not partaking in the usual mingling. He stood off to the side, looking uncomfortable in his formal attire, his eyes scanning the crowd but never really engaging. It was strange to see him like this detached, almost aloof, but there was something about the way he held himself, the way his eyes lingered on the crowd and then shifted back to her, that caught her attention.

Hermione wasn’t sure why she was drawn to him. Maybe it was the loneliness she felt in the air or the way Draco, despite his reputation, seemed out of place here. Either way, she couldn’t stop herself. She found her feet carrying her toward him, her heart fluttering, unsure of why.

When she reached him, he didn’t look surprised. In fact, there was a slight smirk on his lips as he turned to face her, his eyes glinting in the dim light.

“What’s a guy gotta do to get some peace around here?” Draco drawled, his voice smooth, his posture relaxed but still radiating a sort of quiet intensity.

Hermione raised an eyebrow, feeling the tipsiness of the wine in her body, but she kept her composure. “Maybe you should try joining the crowd. Or is it beneath you, Malfoy?”

His lips curved upward in a lazy smile. “You’re one to talk, Granger. You look like you’re about ready to bolt yourself.”

“I’m fine, thank you very much,” she said, though the words felt a little slurred in her mouth. She adjusted her position, trying to maintain some sense of dignity, but the wine had loosened her tongue, and everything felt too raw, too exposed.

Draco took in her unsteady stance with an amused glance. “Really? You’re ‘fine’? You look like you’ve been hit with a weighty dose of nostalgia and bad choices.” He let the words hang in the air between them for a moment before his gaze flicked over her, taking in her dress, her posture, his eyes lingering on her lips for just a fraction longer than necessary. 

Hermione chose to disregard Draco’s comment, refusing to let him see how much it had affected her. She took a deep sip of her wine, feeling the tipsiness begin to settle in. She watched Draco for a moment, his arms crossed as he leaned against the stone wall. Her curiosity got the better of her, and she couldn’t help herself.

“So,” she started, her tone playful but laced with genuine curiosity, “what exactly are you doing here, Malfoy? This is Ginny’s wedding, not exactly your usual scene. I didn’t think you’d be the type to-” she waved a hand vaguely in the air, “-attend family celebrations.”

Draco raised an eyebrow, his usual sneer curling on his lips. "Why do you think, Granger? Because I wanted to see St. Potter and Ginny Weasley get married?" He let out a mocking laugh. "Please. Theo dragged me here said something about ‘a necessary evil,’ whatever that means." His eyes glinted as he looked at her. "But I’m sure you’ll think it’s much more entertaining than that."

Hermione, slightly tipsy but still sharp, crossed her arms and raised an eyebrow. "Oh, so it’s not because you wanted to witness a beautiful moment between friends?" she teased, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

Draco scoffed, rolling his eyes. "Please. I’m not some sentimental fool like you, Granger." His tone was flat, but the smirk that played at the corner of his lips told a different story. "I don’t even like Weasley’s sister." His sneer turned more pronounced, as if disgusted by the thought.

Hermione smirked, amused despite herself. “And you couldn’t get out of it?”

“Did you really think I’d pass up the chance to watch Potter make an arse of himself?” Draco asked, his tone full of derision. “Theo didn’t give me much of a choice, though. He was all ‘It’ll be good for you, mate. It’s a wedding, not a war.’” Draco made a face as though the idea of attending the wedding was the last thing he’d want to do.

Hermione couldn’t help but laugh, shaking her head at the image of Draco being dragged here against his will. “I’m surprised you didn’t just refuse outright.”

Draco’s gaze flicked over to the dance floor, his eyes narrowing as he watched Ron in the distance, awkwardly attempting to dance. “I could’ve,” he muttered. “But what fun would that be? I don’t get to witness Potter trip over his own feet if I’m not here.” He took a sip of his drink, then glanced back at Hermione. “Besides, if I didn’t come, I’d have to listen to Theo go on about it for the next month.”

Hermione raised her glass slightly, a teasing grin on her face. “You’re here for the entertainment value, then?”

Draco gave a sharp, sardonic smile. “What else? Weasley looks happy. Potter, on the other hand, looks like he’s about to faint. There’s something oddly satisfying about it.”

Hermione shook her head, amused but slightly exasperated. “You really are impossible.”

“Yet, here you are, talking to me,” Draco shot back, his smirk never fading. “Seems like I’m the least of your problems tonight.” 

Draco tilted his head slightly, his eyes narrowing as he studied Hermione. “So, Granger,” he began, his voice smooth and slightly mocking, “what exactly are you doing here? Aside from trying to avoid whatever’s going on in your head, of course.” His gaze flicked briefly over to where Harry and Ginny were, still lost in their little bubble of newlywed bliss.

Hermione rolled her eyes, but she couldn’t hide the faint smile that tugged at her lips. “Harry and Ginny are friends of mine,” she said, her tone slightly defensive. “And it’s their wedding, Malfoy. What kind of person would I be if I didn’t show up to support them?”

Draco scoffed, a dark chuckle escaping him. “Oh, I’m sure that’s it,” he said with a mockingly sweet smile, his gaze flicking back to her, “But if we’re being honest, I’m sure it’s not the wedding you’re here for. I bet it’s that you’re looking for a glimpse of the Weasel.”

Hermione’s expression faltered just for a second, her stomach tightening at the mention of Ron. She straightened, trying to look unaffected. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Draco arched an eyebrow, his lips curling into a faint smirk. “Oh, come on. You’re not fooling anyone, Granger. I’ve seen that sad, little look you’ve been giving him all night,” he teased, a glint of amusement in his eyes. “You thought you could just slip away unnoticed, but you’ve got ‘I’m still pining for the Weasel’ written all over you.”

Hermione felt heat rise to her cheeks, her fingers tightening around her glass. “That’s none of your business, Malfoy,” she shot back, though the sting of his words rang true, and she hated it.

Draco replied with a shrug, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “You’re here, you’re watching him, and you’re pretending it’s all fine. You think no one notices? We all know you can’t even stand to look at him for too long, but you can’t quite tear your eyes away, either.”

He took a step closer, his gaze intense as he leveled his eyes with hers. “And, Granger, you decided to come talk to me. So, yeah, now it’s my business. You’re not exactly as good at hiding things as you think.”

Hermione scoffed, crossing her arms defensively. “I’m fine. I’m having fun, really. Just... enjoying the wedding like everyone else.” She forced a smile, though it felt more like a mask than anything genuine.

Draco raised an eyebrow, a smirk playing on his lips. “Is that so? Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’ve been drowning in your own thoughts all night, trying to play the part of the happy, perfect guest." He tilted his head slightly, his gaze never leaving hers. "But I guess it's not like I'm surprised. You always did take things too seriously, didn't you?"

Hermione felt a brief flush of heat rise to her cheeks, but she managed to stay composed. "What's wrong with taking things seriously?" she asked, leaning in just slightly, her voice quieter, almost a challenge. "Some of us like to put a little thought into our decisions."

Draco raised an eyebrow, leaning back slightly as if inspecting her more closely. “Thoughtful... Maybe that’s part of the problem, Granger. You think too much about things that don’t matter.” He glanced off toward the other end of the garden. “Take the Weasel, for example. He’s out there, enjoying himself, still the same idiot, while you stand here sulking. Think he’s giving anything a second thought?” Draco’s tone wasn’t harsh, but there was something sharp about it, an undercurrent of cynicism that made Hermione bristle.

She glanced back at the crowd, her eyes landing on Ron, who was in the middle of a conversation with someone else, completely oblivious to her presence. He looked... happy. Carefree. The same Ron who had once told her he'd always be there, but never seemed to show up when things mattered most.

Hermione swallowed hard. “What’s wrong with Ron?” she asked, though even she knew her defense was weak.

Draco chuckled darkly, his eyes flicking back to her, his gaze almost appraising. “Really, Granger? You’re still holding out hope for him?” Draco’s lips curled into a sneer as he scanned the room, his gaze flicking over to where Ron was laughing too loudly with a group of people. “The guy’s got no depth, no substance. Every time he opens his mouth, it’s like listening to a bloody clown try to be serious.” He scoffed, shaking his head in disbelief. “It’s pathetic. Always running off when things get real, hiding behind that so-called ‘family loyalty’ of his. But we both know the truth. He’s terrified of anything that matters. Couldn’t handle a real relationship if his life depended on it.” Draco’s tone was sharp, biting. “Honestly, who can even respect someone like that?”

The words stung, more than she cared to admit. But it was hard to argue with him. The wine made her feel brave, but also a little exposed, and the reality of what he was saying hit harder than she expected. Maybe she was the one who had been fooling herself, hoping for a future with someone who never truly understood her.

Her mind raced, but before she could find something to say in response, Draco’s gaze flickered over her, appraising her, his lips curled in a smirk.

She shifted awkwardly, the discomfort in her feet finally becoming unbearable. She glanced at the grass beneath her, hoping for a moment of solace.

Draco raised an eyebrow. “What? No more ‘perfect’ posture, Granger?” His voice was laced with a teasing edge, his eyes dancing with amusement. "No more ‘perfect’ Granger standing tall?”

Hermione grimaced, lifting one foot in a failed attempt to shift the heel. She barely managed a chuckle, trying to sound nonchalant. “I think I’ve had enough of these heels," she muttered, but it was clear she couldn't manage to slide one of the shoes off.

Draco’s eyes glinted with humor. “You know, if you're really struggling, I could help you. But something tells me you wouldn't want me doing that.”

Hermione shot him a glare that was meant to be intimidating, though she felt her resolve waver a little. “I can handle it,” she snapped, but there was a noticeable falter in her voice. The pain in her feet was beginning to feel almost unbearable.

Draco let out a soft, almost imperceptible laugh. He didn’t wait for her to argue further. With a flick of his wrist, a chair materialized beside her.

“Sit,” he said, his voice like velvet, yet edged with his usual sardonic amusement. “You look like you’re about to fall over.”

Reluctantly, she sat, adjusting her dress and trying to regain her composure. Hermione opened her mouth to protest, but the words died on her lips as Draco simply ignored her.

His gaze never wavered as he dropped to his knees in front of her, the movement smooth, almost predatory. The sudden proximity made Hermione’s pulse race, and a strange flutter of nerves stirred in her stomach as he reached for her first heel. His fingers brushed lightly against her ankle, sending an unexpected shiver up her spine.

Chapter Text

Hermione stood there, her heart racing, her mind spinning in chaotic circles. The garden felt impossibly quiet now, every breath she took somehow more noticeable, louder. She wasn't sure how long she stood there, caught in the stillness, before Draco's retreating figure pulled her back to the present. She watched him walk away, his tall, broad form disappearing into the night, and something, something inside her itched to follow him.

It wasn't rational. It wasn't sensible. She knew that.

But then again, when had any of her decisions been fully rational tonight? The breakup with Ron, the frustration building up inside her, the confusion, the raw emotions that had threatened to tear her apart. All of it weighed on her, like a heavy cloak she couldn't shake. She'd never felt so exposed, so vulnerable, and earlier, in front of Draco, it was like a flickering flame she couldn't snuff out.

Why did he have to say that? "If you ever find yourself wanting something more than... whatever you've got now..." She'd almost convinced herself it didn't matter, that it was just another tease, another mind game from someone who never took anything seriously. But the words kept echoing in her mind, pulling at her. What did he mean by that? What did he want?

But, more importantly, why did she feel this tug in her chest? Was it just the wine? Was it the loneliness? Or... or was it something more?

The rational part of her, the part that was still clinging to the idea that there was some semblance of control in her life, wanted to tell herself to turn around, to walk away, to stay in her lane. It wasn't the right time for this. It wasn't the right person.

But that wasn't what her body was telling her. Her body wanted something else. She wanted to forget. Forget the heartbreak. Forget the betrayal. Forget the goddamn tears she couldn't stop shedding in the quiet of the night. She wanted to feel something else. And for some reason, Draco Malfoy, with his quiet confidence and his smirking gaze, seemed to be the only one who could give her that.

Before she could stop herself, she took a step forward. Then another. Her feet, bare against the grass, felt light, almost as if they were carrying her forward of their own accord. She hadn't thought this through. She wasn't thinking at all. The urge to follow him was stronger than any thought, any caution.

Could this really be happening? Could she be this desperate?

No, she wasn't desperate. She was... broken. She needed something to take away the ache, the guilt, the confusion swirling inside her. She needed to feel alive again. Needed to know that someone, anyone, was willing to see her, to want her, without the weight of her mistakes hanging over her.

It was Draco. Of all people, it's him.

She was barely aware of her feet carrying her closer to him, but her voice caught when she finally spoke. "Draco!" The word left her lips before she could stop it, breathless and laced with something else. What am I doing?

He paused, turned around, that familiar smirk forming on his lips as he looked down at her. She could see the glimmer of amusement in his eyes, the challenge in his posture, as if he already knew what was coming. But she was too far gone now to care. Too far gone to care about the implications, about the judgment, about the consequences.

"I..." She swallowed, taking a step closer. "Please," her voice was soft, but there was a pleading edge to it that she couldn't disguise. "Just for tonight, take me somewhere. Anywhere. I just... I need to forget."

Draco raised an eyebrow, his expression frozen for a beat as he processed her words. The smirk faltered for a moment, replaced by a dumbfounded look. "Where?" he asked, the single word coming out in a disbelieving tone. It was clear he hadn't expected that from her, not in a million years.

His voice, dripping with a mix of disbelief and amusement, cut through the tension in the air. “Granger... you really want me to take you somewhere?”

Hermione took a shaky breath, meeting his gaze, her heart hammering against her ribcage as if it might burst from her chest. “Yes,” she said, the word firm despite the storm of emotions that raged inside her. She couldn’t explain it, couldn’t justify it. But she wasn’t going to back down now. She needed to do this. For once.

Her voice dropped lower, more vulnerable now, barely above a whisper, "I just need to feel something else."

Hermione’s heart thudded in her chest as she took another step forward, her gaze unwavering. There was no second guessing, no hesitation now. Her mind might be screaming at her, telling her to stop, but her body, her heart, they were all aligned on one thing now: the need to feel something else. To break free of everything that had weighed her down.

With purpose, Hermione closed the distance between them, and Draco’s eyes widened, clearly caught off guard by the sudden shift in her demeanor. For a moment, he simply stood there, frozen, unsure of what was happening. She reached out, her hand gripping his arm with a surprising amount of force, pulling him toward her.

Draco stumbled slightly, his balance thrown off by her unexpected pull. His breath hitched at the contact, his gaze flicking from her hand on his arm to her eyes, searching for some sign of what she intended.

Hermione didn’t let go. Her fingers tightened just enough to keep him close, to stop him from backing away. She moved toward him, her lips parting, her breath shallow. She couldn’t stop herself now. Her thoughts were scattered, her emotions a tangled mess, but all she knew was that she needed something...something real, something to anchor her in the chaos.

As she stepped even closer, her eyes locked on his, the world around them felt like it faded away. There was no room for reason, no room for thinking. She could feel his pulse quicken, his breath drawing in shallow and quick as he realized what she was about to do.

And then, just before their lips could meet, just as Hermione leaned in, Draco closed his eyes with a sharp breath. A moment of stillness passed between them, and then-

CRACK.

The sound of magic crackling in the air was the only warning before everything around them shifted. The garden, the music, the guests, they were all gone in an instant.

Draco’s world tilted as he stumbled slightly after the sudden apparition, his hands finding purchase on the unfamiliar ground beneath him. He blinked rapidly, trying to regain his bearings, his heart still racing in confusion. The air felt different here, cooler, more still than the vibrant buzz of the wedding garden.

He turned, his eyes widening at the sight around them. They were no longer surrounded by the familiar sights of the wedding or the magical world he knew. Instead, they were... somewhere else. A house. A cozy, dimly lit room with soft furnishings and an undeniable sense of quiet isolation.

The walls around them were simple but comforting, with no trace of anything magical. No flickering candles or floating objects. The faint hum of electricity buzzed in the background, and Draco’s mind took a moment to process the stark difference. He wasn’t sure how it had happened, how they'd gotten here, but one thing was undeniable.

They were no longer in the wizarding world. They were somewhere... else.

“What the hell...” Draco muttered under his breath, trying to steady himself. His voice was thick with disbelief, the remnants of the spell still swirling around him as he looked at Hermione, who stood just a few paces away, her chest rising and falling with every breath.

His hand instinctively reached out for her, though he wasn’t sure if it was to steady her or himself. “Granger, what the hell did you just do?” His voice was sharp, tinged with confusion, but also something else. Something that hinted at awe, or maybe fear.

He couldn’t quite place it.

Hermione stood still for a moment, her posture stiffening as the full weight of what she'd done settled in. The magic of the Apparition faded, and the quiet of the room surrounded them. She didn’t look at Draco right away, her eyes trained on the floor, her shoulders heavy.

The sadness radiated from her in waves, a quiet ache that seemed to have taken up permanent residence in her chest. It was in the way she stood, almost as if the weight of her emotions was too much to carry, and yet she did, with silent grace. Her hands twisted together, the rings on her fingers glinting in the low light as if they too had become burdens.

Draco noticed it immediately. He had been watching her closely, studying her every movement, and the sudden shift in her energy didn’t escape him. She wasn’t the confident Hermione Granger he was used to; she wasn’t the woman who could challenge him, make him laugh, or even get under his skin. Now, she was something else, someone else. Her sadness was palpable, and it filled the air between them, heavy and quiet.

Finally, Hermione spoke, her voice soft but carrying the weight of her heart. "8 Heathgate, Hampstead Garden Suburb, London."

Draco furrowed his brow, his confusion deepening as he processed her words. “What?” he asked, his tone sharper than he intended. “What are you-”

“This is my childhood,” she whispered, her gaze drifting to the walls around them. The words were heavy, almost like a confession, like something she had never intended to say out loud. Her gaze remained fixed on the room, but her mind was somewhere else, somewhere distant, somewhere she could hardly bear to revisit.

Draco blinked, the confusion still lingering. “What do you mean… your childhood?” His voice trailed off as he glanced around. The house, the room, it felt... ordinary. Not at all what he expected. Nothing about it screamed Hermione Granger, the determined, rational, magical force of nature he knew.

Hermione didn’t answer right away. She just stood there, her face soft with sorrow, as if the world around her didn’t quite match the one she had once known. She turned slowly toward him, her eyes finding his for a fleeting moment before she lowered them again.

"Yeah," she said, her voice almost distant. "This house, this place... it's where I grew up. Before everything changed. Before it all fell apart."

Draco didn’t know what to say. His mind raced, trying to make sense of it. How had she ended up here? Why had she brought him here, of all places? He tried to process the situation, but everything felt like a tangled mess like Hermione's emotions, the tension between them, and now this revelation.

"But why-why here, Granger?" he asked again, his confusion clear. His voice had softened slightly, but there was still a sharp edge to it, like a question that was just begging to be answered.

Hermione finally lifted her gaze again, and her expression was weary. “I... I don’t know. I thought maybe... maybe being here would make things make sense. Or maybe it wouldn’t. I just didn’t want to be in the middle of that wedding anymore. Or anywhere else, really. I needed to be somewhere familiar. Somewhere that wasn’t about him or... anyone else.”

Draco absorbed her words, but still, his mind couldn't grasp the full picture. He looked around the room again, his eyes narrowing in thought.

"This is... your childhood home?" he repeated slowly, more to himself than to her. The place felt so different from what he had imagined. It didn’t feel like it was a house that belonged to someone like Hermione someone who had always been so controlled, so steadfast.

He took a step forward, his gaze locking with hers, but it was obvious now that Hermione wasn’t in the mood to talk any further. She was already lost in the depths of her own thoughts, and the sadness clung to her like an old, familiar cloak.

“Why did you bring me here, Granger?” he asked again, this time his tone more blunt, less patient, but there was a flicker of concern in his eyes.

Hermione’s lips parted as if she was about to answer, but then, her eyes widened as if remembering something. She threw him a small, almost amused glance before responding in a voice tinged with irony. “You told me to let go, lose control. So... I did.”

Draco's eyes went wide, and his lips parted in shock. “What?!” he barked, dumbfounded. “You-WHAT? That’s not what I meant, woman!” His voice was thick with disbelief, the words slipping out before he could stop them.

Hermione blinked, the corners of her mouth twitching upward. "Well, you know," she said with a small shrug, "You didn't specify what kind of letting go I was supposed to do." Her gaze softened, but she couldn't quite hide the trace of her sadness.

Draco stared at her for a moment, blinking like he was trying to process it. Then, in an almost comical fashion, he threw his hands up in exasperation. "Why am I here? Where's the drink in my hand?" He shook his head, his frustration and amusement blending together, as he took another glance around the room. “And why the hell is it so... quiet?”

Hermione couldn’t suppress the small laugh that bubbled up, though the sound was tinged with bitterness. “I thought maybe this would make you feel better too,” she said quietly, glancing at him, her expression softening for just a second. “But I guess we’re both stuck here now.”

Draco gave her a look, his disbelief not yet fully dissipated, but there was something softer in his eyes now, even if it wasn’t exactly sympathy. “Yeah, and who do you think you’re kidding, Granger? A cozy little walk down memory lane isn’t exactly the kind of ‘letting go’ I had in mind.”

Hermione stayed silent, her thoughts clearly elsewhere, and Draco gave a heavy sigh as he looked around the room again.

"Alright," he muttered, rubbing his temple as he started to turn away. "Let’s just... sit this one out then, yeah?" He shot her a smirk, but his usual confident, teasing demeanor was slipping underneath the sarcasm, something else lingered. Something unspoken.

Draco sat down on the couch with an exaggerated sigh, his eyes scanning the dusty room. He quickly recoiled from the cushion, wiping his hand on his trousers before slouching back, his expression dripping with disbelief. “Unbelievable,” he muttered under his breath, rolling his eyes so dramatically it was almost comical.

He glanced around the room again, his gaze flicking from one corner to the next, taking in the neglected state of the place. The furniture, the curtains, even the floors it all looked like it hadn’t been touched in years. “Could’ve brought me somewhere decent, Granger. A hotel. Nice bed. Big one, candles, maybe? You know, something with a little bit of charm, not some abandoned, dusty house no one lives in.” He waved his hand around with a smirk, but there was a sharp edge to his voice. “Do you not clean? Not even a little bit? Or is the dust part of the... ambiance?”

Hermione didn’t laugh, didn’t even seem to hear his teasing. She stared at the ground, her shoulders heavy, her hands clasped together in front of her as if they were the only thing holding her together. She didn't respond immediately, the weight of Draco’s words settling in her chest in a way she hadn’t anticipated.

Slowly, her eyes lifted to meet his, her face unreadable. “No one lives here anymore,” she said softly. Her voice cracked slightly, but she didn’t back away from the truth. “Not since before our seventh year at Hogwarts.”

Draco blinked, his smirk faltering as he processed the words. His eyes softened ever so slightly, though the walls he’d built around himself were still intact. "What do you mean? Your parents-"

She nodded slowly, but instead of giving him an explanation, Hermione turned her gaze away, her voice quiet as if speaking to herself more than to Draco. “I Obliviated them... to protect them. Made them forget everything. Forget me.”

The silence hung in the air like a heavy fog. Draco stayed still, unsure whether to speak or simply wait for her to finish. He didn't need to ask more questions. He knew the answer, the weight of the words, and the burden it carried. The war had taken so much from so many people, on both sides. Neither of them could claim to have escaped its grasp unscathed.

Hermione finally met his gaze again, her eyes carrying an emptiness that made Draco’s heart stutter in a way he wasn’t prepared for. He wanted to say something, anything, but there was nothing. Her vulnerability was like a wound he didn’t know how to tend to.

"You didn’t have to do that," Draco murmured quietly, his usual sarcasm and bravado momentarily slipping away. He had no right to tell her that, not really. But the words were out before he could stop them. He wasn’t sure if he was speaking out of guilt, or some deeper sense of understanding.

But Hermione just shook her head. “I couldn’t risk them being dragged into it. My mum, my dad... they were innocent. They weren’t part of the war, but if I didn’t do it, they would’ve been. And they would’ve died because of it.”

She paused, as if waiting for him to judge her. When he didn’t, she continued, her voice soft and pained. “The war... it took so much from everyone. We all did things we had to do to survive.”

Draco stayed silent. He didn’t know how to respond. He could feel the weight of the moment between them, the shared history, the unspoken understanding. Neither of them had escaped the war unscathed, though they had fought on opposite sides. The things they had seen, the things they had done they would never be the same.

Finally, Draco looked at her, his usual sneer now tempered by something deeper. "This place," he said, gesturing vaguely to the room, "it’s not just dust. It’s... it’s history. It’s your history." His tone was a little softer now, though still tinged with that familiar sarcasm. "I get it. But don’t expect me to be all sentimental about it."

Hermione didn’t smile, didn’t nod in agreement. She just let the silence linger, the weight of her words, and of his response, pressing down on both of them. There were no easy answers. No comfort to be had, not in this moment.

She sat down on the floor next to the couch, her knees drawn up to her chest, her hands wrapped around them like she was trying to hold herself together. "I don’t know why I brought you here," she said quietly. "I just... I needed to be somewhere else. Somewhere safe, in a way. Even if it’s just for tonight."

Draco didn’t respond, but he didn’t need to. 

The silence between them stretched, thick with unspoken words and heavy emotions. Hermione sat there, her knees drawn up to her chest, eyes fixed on the floor, her mind swirling in a vortex of sadness. She felt like she was drowning in it, each breath coming slower, heavier, like the weight of the past was too much for her to carry anymore.

Draco sat across from her, still on the dusty sofa, his gaze distant, as if lost in his own thoughts. Neither of them spoke for what felt like an eternity, the only sound the faint rustling of the old house around them. The air was thick, heavy, pressing against them from all sides.

And then, breaking the silence, Draco spoke quietly, but with a certain edge that made Hermione glance up at him. His voice was almost detached, as if he were recounting a story that wasn’t his own.

“Well,” Draco began, his eyes flicking toward her for a moment before settling back on the floor. “Since we're sharing our deepest, darkest secrets..." He trailed off, his lips curling into a wry smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. "I almost killed my mother before the war.”

Hermione's breath hitched at the unexpected confession. She looked at him, eyes wide, but Draco kept his gaze steady, unwilling to meet her gaze directly. She didn’t know what to say, how to respond.

“I wasn’t in the right place... the right headspace,” Draco continued, his tone cold, distant. “I thought I could spare her the pain of what was coming. The war, the things we’d be forced to do. I thought it would be better if she just... didn’t have to live through it." His words were matter-of-fact, as if he were recounting something distant, almost too painful to feel anymore.

He gave a small, bitter laugh, his gaze flicking over to Hermione's face, finally meeting her eyes for just a split second. "But, I didn't. I didn't go through with it. Obviously." He paused, looking down at his hands, flexing his fingers as though trying to shake off the memory. "I’m not gonna elaborate on the details," he added with a smirk that didn’t quite mask the pain beneath his words. "But yeah, that’s the story. And if you ever tell anyone... I’ll kill your cat."

The last part came out with a teasing, almost mocking tone, but Hermione knew better than to take it lightly. It was his way of keeping distance, of pushing away the vulnerability, of hiding the rawness of his confession behind a joke, a threat.

Hermione’s heart ached for him in a way she hadn’t expected. The weight of his words, the heaviness in his tone, it hit her harder than she was ready for. She had no response. No comforting words to offer him. And she wasn’t sure she could, even if she tried.

For a moment, they simply sat there, their shared silence thicker than ever. Neither of them spoke, but they both felt the shift. The unspoken understanding that passed between them. They were both broken, both scarred by the past, both haunted by things they couldn’t undo. They weren’t enemies anymore. They weren’t even friends. They were just two people lost, uncertain, and somehow connected in their brokenness.

Hermione finally exhaled, her breath shaky, unsure of what to say or even what to feel. She didn’t speak. She didn’t have to. Draco’s words had already given her more than enough to process. But the weight of the silence was becoming unbearable, the unsaid things between them pressing down on her chest like a vice.

Her gaze flickered toward him, her nerves flaring up again as she realized how much she was staring. Draco was watching her, his eyes steady, but something in them something unfamiliar made her heart race. There was no amusement in his expression now, no mocking grin. He looked... almost serious. His gaze didn’t waver, even as she hesitated, unsure of how to ask what was swirling inside her.

The quiet seemed to stretch on, the minutes slipping away, until her voice finally broke the stillness.

"Make me forget," Hermione said, her words barely more than a whisper, her voice tight with uncertainty. She met his gaze, her eyes pleading in a way she couldn’t quite explain. "Just for tonight... I want to let go."

The words felt like a confession, raw and vulnerable, like a truth she hadn't even known she was hiding. I need you. I need something. I need to escape this fucking mess.

For a moment, there was silence between them, a heavy pause that stretched on far too long, and she was almost certain that he would turn her down. That he would laugh it off. That he would make her feel small for even asking.

Draco studied her with a cool detachment at first, but there was an intensity in his gaze that made her pulse race. His eyes flicked over her face, his sharp gaze taking in the desperation, the raw need in her expression. For a moment, she saw a flicker of uncertainty in him, something like a decision being made. The corner of his mouth quirked up into a slow, knowing smile, but his eyes didn't soften.

"You sure about this?" Draco's voice was low, almost playful, but there was an edge to it, like a predator toying with its prey. "Once you say yes, there's no turning back, Granger."

Hermione's heart pounded in her chest. Her breaths were shallow, but she didn't falter. She could feel the weight of everything pressing down on her, the shattered pieces of her life. She had no answers, no direction, only the desperate need to feel something other than pain.

"I'm sure," she said, her voice stronger now, a hint of defiance in her eyes as she held his gaze. "I want this. I want to forget it all, even if it's just for tonight."

Draco leaned back against the cushion, his eyes unwavering as they locked with hers, the air between them thick with something unsaid. His expression remained unreadable for a moment, before he slowly rose to his feet, his movements smooth and deliberate. He crossed the room toward her, his tall form cutting through the space with ease, every step carrying an intensity that made Hermione's pulse race.

When he reached her, he didn’t speak. Instead, he reached out and took her hand in his. His touch was light at first, almost teasing, but the moment his fingers wrapped around hers, the pressure increased, his grip firm but not painful, almost possessive, as if silently claiming her in a way that sent a thrill through her chest.

Hermione’s breath caught in her throat, her heart pounding faster, the raw heat of the moment swirling around them. Her mind screamed for her to say something, to question him, to stop this madness, but before she could gather her thoughts, Draco's lips parted just enough to mutter something under his breath.

CRACK!

The world around them exploded into motion. The rush of Apparition tugged at Hermione’s stomach, the disorienting sensation spinning everything around her in an instant. Her grip on Draco's hand tightened instinctively, as if clinging to something solid in the storm of it all. The blur of colors and the sharp twisting of reality made her dizzy, but before she could fully register what was happening, everything snapped back into focus.

They landed with a jolt.

Hermione blinked rapidly, trying to adjust her vision as she looked around, but this... this wasn’t her house. It wasn’t anywhere she recognized. The room they were in was dimly lit, cool shadows dancing on the walls from the soft flicker of candlelight. The air smelled of pine, earthy and fresh. The room felt... familiar in an unsettling way, like something out of a dream, charming yet dark, intimate yet foreign.

A large bed took center stage, its dark linens rumpled as though it had recently been used. The furniture was simple, dark wood, elegant but not flashy, like someone had carefully chosen each piece for its purpose rather than for decoration. The atmosphere was thick with the same tension that had been simmering between them, the same intensity that had ignited when Draco first took her hand. It was heavy in the air, seeping into her skin.

Hermione’s mind raced. Where were they? She looked at Draco, but before she could even get the words out, he was already watching her with that same familiar, dangerous smile, his grip still firm on her hand, grounding her in this place that she couldn’t quite comprehend.

His voice was low, the words hanging between them like an unspoken promise. “You wanted to forget,” Draco said, his tone dark and steady, almost like he was savoring the moment. “Now, you’re here.”

Hermione opened her mouth, ready to say something, but the words caught in her throat. She felt lost in the room, in the heat of his presence, in the sudden realization that she had followed him without a single question, without a second thought. She had no idea where they were, no idea what had just happened.

But it didn’t matter.

For tonight, it didn’t matter.

She was here. And whatever this was, whatever it would become, it was all she had left.

Draco stood right in front of her, towering over her with that same smirk, his presence filling the space between them. His gaze was fixed on her, intense and calculating, as though he could read every thought racing through her mind. Hermione’s heart hammered in her chest, her breath shallow, her body humming with a mixture of confusion, need, and an unmistakable tension she wasn’t quite ready to unravel.

"Tell me, Granger," Draco’s voice was smooth, his words laced with a commanding edge. "Is this what you really want?"

Her pulse raced as his eyes roamed over her, studying her. She had already crossed a line, stepping into a world she couldn’t quite navigate, and now, standing in front of the bed, the weight of his gaze on her made it feel as if she was teetering on the edge of something irreversible. She felt vulnerable, exposed but at the same time, a part of her was almost desperate for whatever this was, whatever he was offering.

The door was closed behind them, and the space between them seemed to grow more charged, every second dragging out in unbearable tension. For a moment, she hesitated, her body tense, her thoughts at war with the desire pulsing through her veins. She could pull back, stop this madness, end the chaos of emotions threatening to consume her. But in the end, her body made the choice before her mind could catch up.

She met his gaze, her voice barely above a whisper. "I want this. I want you."

Draco’s smirk deepened, a slow, almost predatory curve of his lips that made her stomach flip. His eyes darkened as he took a step closer, the space between them shrinking until there was no room left for hesitation. He didn’t speak immediately, his presence suffocating, waiting.

"Are you sure?" he asked softly, his voice like velvet but carrying a razor-sharp edge.

The weight of his words hit her like a storm, but before she could second-guess herself, her words were already tumbling out. "Yes. I’m sure."

With a fluid motion, Draco reached out, his hand coming to rest on her shoulder. His grip was firm but gentle, a command in the touch as he guided her toward the bed. The mattress felt like a cloud beneath her as she sat down, the softness engulfing her. She could feel the delicate texture of the sheets, the warmth of the bed almost inviting her to let go. There was something familiar about the scent of the room, something earthy and grounding, the faint trace of pine that lingered in the air, making her feel strangely at ease like she was in a place that had known her for years.

Her mind struggled to focus on anything other than the way the bed cradled her, the sense of comfort pulling her deeper into the moment. She was so lost in the sensations that she barely noticed the shift in Draco’s posture. He was no longer standing beside her, and she blinked, her thoughts scattered, when she looked up and found him standing in front of her, his eyes locked on hers.

Before she could ask where they were, Draco’s fingers gently cupped her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. His touch was light but undeniable, a command in the way he held her face. The words that followed were a low murmur, his voice smooth as silk yet laced with a sharpness that made her breath catch.

"Tell me again, Granger," Draco began again, his voice thick with intent. "Is this what you really want?"

The question hung in the air like a challenge, and Hermione felt her heart race, every instinct telling her that this was it. There was no turning back now. She didn’t need to answer him. She could feel the weight of the decision in her chest, in the way her body thrummed with need.

"Yes," she breathed out, her voice steady this time, conviction creeping in despite the chaos inside her. "I want this."

Draco’s eyes flickered, and for a moment, there was a subtle change in his expression a glimmer of something deeper. He leaned in just slightly, as if to kiss her, but instead, his voice rumbled against her ear.

"Good girl," he murmured, the words sending a jolt through her body. He wasted no time, lowering himself onto the bed beside her, his hands working swiftly to remove her dress, the fabric sliding off her skin with expert precision. Hermione's body felt hot beneath his touch, every nerve alive with need, but still, she couldn't ignore the electric tension between them.

Her hands found his shirt, fingers trembling slightly as she pulled at the fabric, desperate to feel more of him, to bridge the distance between them. Draco chuckled softly, grabbing her wrists with ease and pinning them above her head, his grip firm and unwavering.

"No," he said, his voice low, almost growling. "I decide how this goes."

Hermione's breath hitched at the commanding tone in his voice, her pulse racing in anticipation. She wasn't sure whether she wanted to protest or submit, but as Draco's lips descended on her neck, all rational thought disappeared. His mouth moved against her skin with slow, deliberate pressure, his hands sliding down her body, pushing her into the soft bedding beneath her.

"I don't know what it is about you, Granger," Draco whispered against her skin, his breath warm and sending shivers down her spine. "But I can't resist you tonight."

Hermione gasped as his fingers brushed against her skin, igniting a fire deep inside her. There was nothing gentle about his touch, nothing tender. It was possessive. Commanding. Raw. And every second of it felt like it was unraveling something deep within her.

Draco moved lower, trailing his lips down her body, his hands guiding her legs apart. "You wanted this," he muttered, as if reminding her, his voice low and hungry. "Now you'll get it."

Hermione's breath quickened, her body arching towards him, desperate for more. She didn't need to speak. The way his hands and lips claimed her, said everything. She closed her eyes, trying to steady the racing of her heart, overwhelmed by the intensity of the sensation.

When she opened her eyes again, he was looking at her, his expression unreadable. But there was something in his eyes, something raw, something vulnerable.

"This doesn't change anything," Draco whispered, his breath warm against her skin, his words laced with something dark and possessive. "But for tonight, I'll be here."

His hand gripped her waist, pulling her flush against him, his lips brushing against her ear, as if claiming her in the silence of the room. His touch was insistent, hungry, as if he couldn't stop himself, even though his words suggested otherwise.

The air between them thickened, heavy with unspoken promises, as her breath hitched, unable to escape the heat of the moment. And with that, the world outside ceased to exist.

Chapter Text

Hermione woke with a start, the light from the morning sun cutting through the curtains and hitting her square in the face. She squinted, trying to block it out, but it felt inescapable. She tried to remember where she was. This room was unfamiliar, the bed too soft, the air too still. The world felt distant, almost too quiet. The silence was suffocating.

A dull headache throbbed behind her eyes, and for a moment, she couldn't place where she was or how she got there. But then the memories came rushing back, chaotic, sharp, like jagged pieces falling into place. The heat of Draco's hands, the urgency between them, the way it all felt too much, too fast. Her stomach twisted as she realized what had happened. What the hell did I do?

The knot in her chest tightened as guilt and confusion mingled together. Her mind raced over the events of the night before. Was this really her? Was she really someone who could do something like that? The questions circled in her mind like a storm. She felt exposed, raw. She wanted to run, to hide, but there was nowhere to go.

She sat up slowly, the room spinning for a moment before her vision cleared. Her heart pounded in her chest as she tried to calm herself. She looked around, noticing the harsh light spilling into the room from the window. The atmosphere felt cold, like the walls themselves were pushing her away. This isn't my room, she realized, her thoughts slow to form. She wasn't even sure where she was anymore. Did it really happen?

Her hands went to her face, rubbing her temples as if she could erase the lingering feelings, the guilt that clawed at her insides. But then, the sting of Ron's name hit her like an icy wind. Ron.

The thought slammed into her chest, and she immediately felt the familiar ache. The breakup still felt fresh, even though it had happened months ago. The pain lingered in ways she hadn't expected. She loved him once. She had given him everything. But now? Now it was all in the past, and the past was gone, slipping through her fingers like sand.

Her mind flashed back to that moment, the breaking point when she had walked away from him. The last words they'd exchanged were like a finality that had sealed her fate. He had already moved on. And yet, the pain of it, the sense of loss, still clung to her like a second skin.

But then something shifted. You're not betraying him anymore, Hermione, she told herself. You're not with him, and he's with someone else now. The rational thought should have given her relief. She wasn't doing anything wrong. Yet, despite knowing that, the guilt wouldn't lift. Instead, it left her feeling even more confused. What did this even mean?

She swung her legs off the bed, standing shakily. The soft carpet beneath her feet did little to ground her as she moved toward the window, hoping the clarity of the morning light would help make sense of what had happened. But it didn't. Instead, the more she thought about Draco... about that the more everything felt even murkier.

She glanced over at the chair where her clothes from the night before had been discarded. They were wrinkled and crumpled, like the events themselves. A sharp sense of shame hit her, like she was suddenly seeing everything through a different lens. She felt exposed.

And then, she saw him.

Draco was standing by the door, already dressed, moving around the room with an air of indifference. He was fully clothed, as if last night hadn't even happened. She could feel the chill of his presence the emotional distance he always carried with him but this morning, it was colder than ever. He had a quiet, almost careless grace to him as he moved, but it only highlighted the walls he had built between them. He didn't even seem to notice her watching him.

The knot in Hermione's stomach tightened again. How can he be so... unaffected? She thought bitterly.

Her gaze lingered on him, and she wanted, needed, to ask. She opened her mouth, but the words felt stuck, tangled in her throat. What could she even say? Was she supposed to pretend like nothing had changed? Was she supposed to act like what happened didn't matter?

He turned to face her, sensing her gaze, and for a moment, his expression softened, not with affection, but with a kind of quiet understanding that made her heart ache. And yet, it wasn't enough to fill the space between them. It only made the distance feel more real. He said nothing, just moved towards the door with practiced detachment.

Her mind swirled with questions she was too scared to ask, too scared to confront. "So... last night. Was it just a mistake to you?" Her voice broke the silence, sounding fragile, as though it didn’t quite belong to her. She hadn’t meant to say it aloud, but the question was out there now.

Draco paused for a moment, his back to her as he leaned against the wall. She couldn’t see his expression, and that made her stomach twist. His silence hung thick in the air, his presence cold, his posture stiff, like he was trying to shut her out.

"Not everything's a grand revelation, Granger," he said, his voice as flat as it was dismissive. His tone cut through the air, like he couldn’t be bothered to offer anything more. "It was what it was."

The words hit her harder than they should have, each one driving a nail deeper into her chest. Was that all it was to him? A passing moment? Just a mistake? Her anger flared up for a second, but it was swallowed quickly by something darker, something that made her feel small, vulnerable. Was she really this easily dismissed?

"Are you really just going to pretend like this didn’t happen?" she pressed, her voice quieter now, more brittle. She could feel the frustration rising, her hands clenched tightly at her sides. "Like nothing changed?"

Draco shifted, but only enough for her to hear the slightest sound of his clothes moving. He didn’t turn around, didn’t even seem to care enough to face her. He just shrugged, the motion casual, like it didn’t matter. "It happened. End of story."

Her heart raced, but she couldn’t let it go. She wasn’t ready for him to walk away, not with that. "So... you don’t regret it?" she asked, her voice softer, hesitant, though the question burned on her tongue. "You’re just going to walk away, no second thoughts?"

Draco finally turned, but only enough to glance over his shoulder, his cold eyes meeting hers for just a moment. There was nothing there no softness, no remorse. Only indifference. His lips curled into something that barely resembled a smirk, and he shrugged, the movement dismissive, almost mocking. "It’s not like you’ll be calling me for a chat, Granger."

The words hit her like ice water. There was no care in them, no acknowledgment of what had passed between them, nothing to suggest that it had meant anything at all. Her chest tightened as a wave of confusion crashed over her. Is this really all it was? This was not how she imagined the morning after. Sure, she hadn’t expected roses or some grand confession, but this coldness, this emptiness felt worse than anything she could have imagined.

The silence between them felt suffocating now. Neither of them spoke, neither of them moved. The walls they’d built around themselves were growing higher with each passing second, and the space between them felt wider than ever.

Draco’s back was still to her, his hand moving toward the door without a second glance. She wanted to stop him, to make him explain, to say something that would make this moment less... wasted. But the words caught in her throat. She had nothing left to say, nothing that could change the way this was unfolding.

Draco reached for the door, his movements slow and deliberate. Hermione’s chest tightened as her mind raced, trying to piece together what had happened, what was happening. Was she just another conquest to him? Was this really just a one-night thing for him?

Before she could say anything, Draco stepped into the hallway, leaving her behind. His back remained to her, and all she could see was the door shutting behind him, the cold finality of it echoing through the space.

Hermione stood there, frozen, staring at the closed door, the weight of his absence pressing down on her like a physical blow. This is it, she thought. This is what I am. This is what we are. She wasn’t sure whether to feel relief or anger, but what she did feel was the overwhelming sense of... waste. She had given something to him, her trust, her body and he’d taken it, leaving her with nothing but a hollow feeling.

Hermione took a deep breath, but it didn’t help. The silence in the room only deepened the emptiness inside her. She had imagined the morning after would be different, that there would be clarity, maybe even a sense of closure. But instead, all she felt was a crushing weight in her chest. Why is this affecting me so much? she wondered, her thoughts spinning wildly. I should be angry. I should be relieved he’s gone. But all she felt was... lost.

The guilt gnawed at her insides, a constant reminder of how easily she had given in, how easily she had allowed herself to be swept up in something she didn’t fully understand. Did I really let him do that? The thought burned her chest, making her feel sick. Was she so desperate for affection, for something, that she let herself fall into his arms without thinking? Was it that simple for her? Did I let him win?

A wave of shame flooded through her, so intense that it almost felt like it was suffocating her. Was I just a game to him? The question cut through her thoughts like a knife, and she felt the weight of it settle heavily on her shoulders. He hadn’t stayed. He hadn’t cared enough to offer anything beyond the moment they’d shared. He’d simply left, like it was nothing, like she was nothing. She should’ve known better, shouldn’t have let herself get caught up in it. She had let him treat her like that. She had allowed herself to be used.

The shame clung to her, sinking into her skin, making her feel dirty, undeserving of whatever it was she thought she had wanted. She could still feel the echoes of his touch, the cool detachment in his voice, the way he had shrugged her off like she was nothing more than a fleeting distraction. And she had let him. How did I let this happen?

The more she thought about it, the more it felt like a betrayal, not of Ron, but of herself. She had sold herself short, given in so easily, so carelessly. Was I that desperate? Her chest tightened with a mix of guilt and disgust. She hadn’t wanted to be this person, not this weak, this vulnerable, this willing to be discarded.

The silence grew thicker, pressing in on her, suffocating her. She could still hear the faint echo of his words, his cold tone as he left. “It’s not like you’ll be calling me for a chat, Granger.” The dismissal, the complete lack of any kind of care or afterthought, it made her stomach twist.

What had happened? What had it all meant?

She felt like she couldn’t even look at herself in the mirror anymore, like she had betrayed herself just by letting him in. The shame was overwhelming, consuming, and she didn’t know how to push it away. It wasn’t just the act itself, it was everything that had led up to it, everything she had allowed herself to feel. Why did I let him make me feel like that?

The room felt small, suffocating, as though everything in it was closing in around her. She stood there, paralyzed by the weight of her own shame, unable to shake the feeling that she had somehow destroyed something inside herself, something she might never get back.

She had given in, and now she was left with nothing but the bitter taste of regret.

With her legs shaking beneath her, Hermione sat on the edge of the bed, . She took a deep breath, trying to steady herself, but everything inside her felt off-kilter. It wasn't just the guilt or the confusion it was the way her body still hummed with the aftereffects of last night. Her skin felt too sensitive, the weight of the sheets too heavy, the air too thick with something she couldn't quite name. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to shut it all out.

But then, like a wave, the flashes of last night came rushing back, Draco's hands on her skin, his lips against hers, the way he had looked at her with that intensity. Her breath caught in her throat, and her face flushed, heating up from the memories. No. Stop, she told herself, biting down on the feeling as though she could suppress it entirely. You shouldn't feel this way. You should be angry. You should be disgusted. Not... turned on.

She shook her head, forcing her mind away from the heat that threatened to rise within her. She needed to focus, needed to regain some control over her scattered thoughts. She couldn't let herself get lost in the aftermath of this. It had been a mistake, a lapse in judgment, nothing more. She stood up, gathering her strength, and walked toward the chair to put back her clothes on, hoping that getting dressed would somehow help her regain some semblance of normalcy.

As she pulled on her clothes, her eyes wandered over the room, trying to focus on something, anything that wasn't her racing pulse. The space was small, far smaller than she expected. It felt cramped, uncomfortable, nothing like the grandiose space where they'd...where they had... where they had done the deed.

She froze, her fingers halfway through fixing her hair. The room last night had been enormous, large windows letting in a view of a sweeping landscape she couldn't fully remember, thick silk sheets that felt like a dream against her skin. The bed had been a massive, four-poster monstrosity, draped in rich, dark fabrics. The air had smelled of fresh pine and something else, something sharp, earthy. A kind of mystery she couldn't quite place.

But this room? The bed was smaller, the sheets were plain, unremarkable, the scent of pine gone, replaced by a more neutral, stuffy atmosphere. She frowned. Had it really been that way last night? She thought hard, her mind still foggy from the alcohol and the heady emotions. Maybe it had all been distorted by her drunken haze maybe her memory was simply skewed by the chaos of what had happened.

She stood in the middle of the room, lost in the shifting sense of reality when a sudden, strange memory surfaced. It was so vivid, it nearly knocked the breath out of her. She remembered the voice, a deep, unmistakable voice calling a name.

"Draco?"

She blinked, confusion clouding her mind. She had definitely heard that, but she couldn't remember the context. The voice, was it his? She couldn't place it. No. It wasn't Malfoy.

A door had opened, the soft creak of hinges echoing in the stillness of the night. She could almost feel the rush of warmth that followed, the weight of something soft being draped over her body. A blanket? No. It wasn't a blanket. It was Draco. Her head had been foggy with exhaustion, and her eyes heavy from the alcohol, but she could still remember the feeling, the protective cover of warmth.

Theo.

The realization hit her like a bucket of cold water. Theo. It was Theo's voice. He had been there, hadn't he? She could almost see it now:

She had been barely conscious, half-sleeping from exhaustion, the alcohol finally sticking in her veins. Her body was heavy with sleep, and she'd barely noticed the door opening just the faint creak of hinges. The room had been dark, the only light the dim glow of the fire. And then Theo's voice had broken the silence.

"Draco?" he had called, his voice soft and a little confused.

But Draco's response was immediate and sharp. Even in the haze of sleep, Hermione could feel the shift in his presence. He was closer than she had realized, his arm around her as if he had already sensed Theo's intrusion.

Theo had stepped forward, crossing into the room, unaware of the intimate space they shared. But the moment he had done so, Draco had acted without hesitation. His voice was low, cold. "Theo, get out." It wasn't a suggestion it was an order.

Hermione barely stirred, too exhausted to understand what was happening. But now, in the clarity of the memory, she could see it all.

Draco hadn't needed to rise. He didn't have to stand to shield her. His arm had tightened around her, drawing her closer, his body a silent barrier between her and whatever could have happened next. He hadn't moved from the bed. He had kept his position, his body effectively cutting off Theo's access without a second thought.

Theo had hesitated, taking a step back. Draco hadn't made a big show of it. There was no grand gesture. He had simply kept his arm around Hermione, the shift in his body language telling Theo all he needed to know. The message was clear stay away.

"Get out," Draco had repeated, his voice still low, no room for discussion. The words had left no doubt. Theo had backed off quickly, almost apologetic, muttering something Hermione didn't catch.

He had pulled the covers back over Hermione, his movements swift, precise. It almost seemed too... caring, considering the situation. But there was something in the way he did it, something that made her feel a little too protected, too taken care of. As though he wanted her to stay there, undisturbed, but at the same time, it was hard to tell if he was making sure she was comfortable for her sake or to keep her exactly where he wanted her.

He didn't say anything more no words of comfort, no reassurances. He didn't need to. His body remained close, his arm still draped over her, as though the mere presence of his skin against hers was enough to keep the world at bay. But even in the stillness, there was something off about it. A quiet, almost possessive kind of control that made it unclear whether he was keeping her safe... or keeping her for himself.

The room was still, yet it felt heavy with tension. Draco didn't let go of her, didn't pull away. His body pressed against hers.

The memory of Draco's actions faded, leaving Hermione with an uncomfortable sense of uncertainty. She didn't know what to make of it, nor did she know what to feel. She shook her head, pushing the thoughts aside, needing to focus on something anything else. The room felt too small, too suffocating.

She stood and moved to the door, needing to escape, even if only for a moment. The hallway outside was quiet, the hum of the hotel's air conditioning the only sound. She walked briskly, her heart still pounding from everything that had happened.

Hermione's steps faltered as the plaque caught her eye, the words Raffles London at The OWO staring back at her. It was almost impossible to process. How? How had she ended up here, in one of the most exclusive hotels in London, after everything that had happened last night?

Her mind flashed back to Draco, his presence, his touch, the way he had pulled away from her so easily this morning. It was as though the playful, teasing Draco from last night had vanished into thin air. Last night, he had been cocky, confident, even joking, making her laugh despite herself. He had been an arse, yes, but it was the kind of arse she could almost tolerate. There was something almost familiar about it, funny, even. He had been lighthearted in a way that made it easy to forget the weight of everything else. The chemistry between them had felt real, electric.

But now? This morning, it was as if a switch had been flipped. He had been cold, distant, an arse, yes, but one who had left her feeling more unsettled than anything else. His indifference had been suffocating, like a door slammed shut between them. The Draco from last night, the one who had teased her and pushed her buttons in that way she hated and... liked, was gone.

The contrast was jarring. It was like nothing had happened. He had barely looked at her when he left, as if their shared moment had meant nothing. No lingering words, no soft gestures nothing to indicate that something had passed between them at all.

And that realization was enough to make her feel even more adrift.

What the hell was this? How had everything shifted so drastically?

She placed a hand against the plaque, still feeling the weight of Draco's absence, the cold air of the hotel pressing in around her. She didn't know what to feel. Last night, he had felt real, unpredictable, brash, yes but real. This morning? It was like he was a different person altogether. Or maybe... maybe it was her who had changed. Maybe she had just imagined the connection, the heat between them.

Chapter Text

Hermione Granger stood in the dimly lit room, her back stiff against the cool stone wall of the cavernous vault. The air was thick with dust and the faint scent of earth, a reminder of how long this place had been sealed away from the outside world. She could feel the weight of centuries pressing down on her, both in the walls around her and in the tension that had been building in her chest all afternoon.

She had a job to do. She always did. As a Curse Breaker for Gringotts, she was called to places like this ancient, forbidden spaces where old magic lay dormant, waiting for someone brave (or foolish) enough to uncover its secrets. Today, it was a centuries-old vault hidden deep within the Scottish Highlands, its enchantments so complex that even the Goblins had hesitated to approach it. And now it was her responsibility to crack the vault open. Carefully. Safely. Without triggering the deadly curses that had claimed the lives of previous would-be treasure hunters.

Her hands were steady as she unrolled a series of enchanted scrolls across a stone table, the parchment glowing faintly under the flickering light of her wand. She had always been good with magic, more than good, actually. Her mastery of runes, spells, and charms had made her one of the most sought-after Curse Breakers in the field. But today, the job felt different.

Maybe it was the exhaustion. The constant travel between ancient ruins and mystical sites had taken its toll. Maybe it was the lingering frustration that gnawed at her, that gnawing feeling she couldn't shake ever since that night.

Her fingers brushed the edge of the scroll, her thoughts drifting. She quickly shook her head, forcing her focus back to the task at hand. She had to focus. The vault, as mysterious and beautiful as it was, wasn't going to open itself.

Hermione had always thrived in the face of pressure. It was why she'd chosen this career in the first place. The rush of solving complex magical puzzles, deciphering ancient runes, the quiet moments when everything clicked into place, it had been her escape. A place where she could bury her personal doubts and desires beneath layers of parchment and spells.

But lately, it hadn't been enough.

She swallowed hard as she crouched down to examine the intricate lock at the vault's entrance. Her worn leather gloves creaked as she ran her fingers over the runes carved into the ancient door. Engorgio, it had to be enlarged, slightly, so she could see the full inscription. She murmured the charm under her breath, and the lock expanded, revealing a series of delicate, interwoven symbols. Her breath caught as she recognized one of them: a protective charm, a particularly volatile one. She would need to be precise with the counter-curse or--

A sudden rush of cold air swept through the room. She froze, her fingers trembling for a moment, before she snapped back to reality. Her wand flicked over the symbols, and she concentrated deeply, murmuring the counter-curse under her breath.

Focus.

But then, despite her best efforts, the memory of that night with Draco surged forward, unwanted and overwhelming.

Draco's hands were everywhere now, on her skin, on her body, moving with a desperate need that mirrored her own. She could feel the heat of him, the hard press of his chest against hers, the unmistakable ache of desire building between them. Her breath caught in her throat as his lips moved down to her collarbone, his hands shifting to her back, unclasping the delicate fabric of her bra with a practiced ease.

Each movement felt like it was driving them closer to something inevitable, something raw and unrestrained. His body moved over hers, strong and sure, and she couldn't help but respond, pulling him closer, lifting her hips to meet his, her breath mingling with his in the heat of the moment.

It was wild. Reckless. There were no words, only the sounds of their ragged breathing, their bodies moving together in the heat of the night. Each touch, each kiss, each shift in position felt like it was pushing them further into the abyss, an abyss they both willingly fell into, lost in the rhythm of their desire.

Hermione felt his fingers press against her, felt the weight of him, the way he moved against her, and it made her dizzy with need. She responded in kind, pulling him closer, her fingers gripping the back of his neck as she kissed him with a desperation she couldn't explain.

Everything was blurred. The room, the world, even her thoughts. There was no past. No future. Just the feeling of him hot, hard, and desperate against her. Every inch of her body was alive, every nerve tingling with the sensation of his touch.

It was everything. It was nothing. It was everything she didn't know she needed.

Hermione blinked hard, pushing the memory back down into the recesses of her mind. It didn't matter. She couldn't afford distractions. She would not let him ruin her work. Not now. Not here.

Her shoulders tensed, the weight of her body language reflecting the inner battle she was fighting. She rose to her feet, dusting herself off, and straightened her robes dark green, fitted for travel, worn at the edges from weeks of use in the field. Her thick, chestnut hair was pulled back into a practical knot at the base of her neck, a few stray curls escaping to frame her face as she worked. Her face was pale, a slight trace of exhaustion under her eyes, but there was still that spark of determination of grit.

She turned back to the vault, focusing on the task again. She was wearing down. She could feel it. But she couldn't let it show. Not to the Goblins. Not to herself. This vault would open, and she would leave with the success she'd earned.

A bead of sweat trickled down her temple as she took a deep breath, her hand hovering just above the lock, ready to trace the final rune. She was about to finish this. About to get through it.

But again, there he was, flickering at the edge of her thoughts.

Hermione's breath came in ragged gasps, her body flush against Draco's, every touch, every press of his body against hers igniting a fire that she couldn't extinguish. His lips were on her neck, his hands tracing the curve of her back, pulling her closer, as if he couldn't get enough of her. She hadn't expected it to be like this, this raw, this urgent. She had always thought there would be something more... something beyond just the physicality. But right now, it was impossible to think of anything else.

His lips moved up to her ear, and he whispered, so close, so intimate, that it sent a jolt through her entire body. "This doesn't change anything," Draco's voice was low, hoarse, his breath warm against her skin. His words were laced with something dark and possessive, like a silent promise, a warning.

Hermione's heart stuttered in her chest. The heat between them, the overwhelming pull of desire, faltered for just a fraction of a second.

What did he mean?

Her mind tried to process the words, the meaning behind them, but it didn't add up. She felt the tension in his grip tighten, a possessiveness there that only made her pulse race harder. This doesn't change anything?

She was dizzy with need, with the feeling of him, this intoxicating mixture of desire and something darker, but those words stuck in her mind, like a splinter she couldn't remove. He'd pulled her closer, kissed her harder, and yet... had he already built a wall between them? He wasn't offering her anything more than this. He wasn't promising her anything. The thought struck her like cold water, and suddenly, the heat of the moment felt less consuming. His words were like a shield, a cold, calculated reminder of exactly who Draco Malfoy was.

This doesn't change anything.

Her pulse quickened, her breath caught, and she couldn't push away the knot that tightened in her stomach. She'd been so swept up in the passion, in the desperation of the night, that she hadn't noticed how much she had wanted it to mean more. She had let herself believe, for a fleeting moment, that this was something different.

But no. He had made it clear. It was just this. Just tonight.

She clenched her jaw, her fingers digging into his shoulders, her grip tightening. The words, his words, were a slap to her chest, a rude reminder of the space between them. Draco had kissed her like he needed her, touched her like she was the only thing that mattered in that moment. But here, in the quiet aftermath of his whisper, the truth was unmistakable: This meant nothing to him.

Her chest burned with frustration, with the sting of realization that, in the end, she was just a temporary distraction for him.

"But for tonight, I'll be here."

The words echoed in her mind, biting deeper than any physical touch. She could still feel the weight of them. It wasn't just a warning, it was a promise of nothing.

Draco wasn't giving her a piece of himself. He wasn't even letting her in. She was just a brief moment of satisfaction, a night to him that he would forget as easily as it had started.

She felt it in the way his lips moved against her skin, in the way his hands continued to explore her body, not with tenderness, but with the practiced detachment of someone who knew exactly what he was doing, exactly how to leave her wanting more. But there was no more to be had.

The memory of his words still clung to her, the bitter sting of them cutting deeper with every passing second. Hermione's fingers gripped the edge of the stone table as she focused on the vault in front of her, trying to push away the anger that simmered beneath her skin. The curse on the vault was no match for the fury she felt right now, the fury that he had managed to make her feel small, insignificant, after everything.

It was ridiculous. Unforgivable.

She could still feel the heat of his touch, the ache of his body against hers, but the anger had taken over. It had to. It was the only thing that kept her from shattering under the weight of her own feelings.

This doesn't change anything.

It was the truth she would never be able to forget. No matter how badly she wanted to.

Hermione felt the tightness in her chest again, the ache she hadn't allowed herself to fully acknowledge. She shook it off, furious with herself for letting her emotions creep in like this.

"Focus, Hermione," she muttered aloud, the sound of her voice grounding her in the present. "You've got a job to do."

Her fingers traced the final rune and, with a soft, almost imperceptible click, the vault door creaked open.

She blinked, exhaling sharply. It was done.

The pub was lively, bustling with chatter, laughter, and the sound of clinking glasses. Draco Malfoy, however, was a stark contrast to the jovial atmosphere. He sat at his usual corner booth, a glass of firewhisky in hand, staring into it like it might offer him some kind of profound wisdom. His usual cocky demeanor had been replaced with something colder, more detached.

Blaise leaned back in his chair, eyes scanning the room, before landing on Draco. "What's the deal, Malfoy?" he asked, a mischievous glint in his eye. "You've been awfully quiet tonight. I thought you were supposed to be the life of the party."

Draco didn't even bother to look up. He just swirled the contents of his glass, lips curled into that signature sneer. "I'm just here to observe you lot. I didn't realize I was supposed to entertain all of you."

Gregory, ever the clueless one, raised a brow. "Right. You observing us is just terrifying, mate. You're giving off major 'dark lord' vibes tonight. Something's definitely up with you."

Theo, who had been sitting quietly, watched Draco with a knowing look, then threw Gregory an amused glance. "Maybe he's just upset because he's still mourning his loss of attention," he quipped, his voice casual, but his eyes sharp with knowing.

Blaise grinned. "Ooooh, did someone steal the spotlight from you, Malfoy? Come on, spill. What's gotten into you tonight?"

Gregory nudged Draco. "Maybe it's a woman," he said with a wink. "Maybe there's someone special on his mind."

At the mention of "woman," Draco's fingers twitched, but he didn't acknowledge it. He just threw Gregory a look of mild disdain. "You're about as sharp as a blunt knife, Goyle. Are you sure you didn't hit your head on something earlier today?"

Theo, leaning forward with interest, let the conversation take a more dangerous turn. "Oh, I'm sure it's not a woman. Malfoy's not the type to get emotional, right?" He smirked knowingly. "But I do wonder... maybe someone's gotten under his skin. Someone who's... hard to forget."

Blaise raised an eyebrow, eyes twinkling with amusement. "So, who is it then? Who's been keeping our dear Draco up at night?"

Gregory was completely oblivious, and just waved a hand. "Come on, who's the lucky girl? Someone dangerous? Mysterious? Or are you finally going for the sweet, innocent type? Maybe a Mudblood?"

Draco's hand went still for a split second, just long enough for anyone paying attention to notice. His jaw clenched, but he didn't respond. He just took a long gulp of his drink, eyes narrowing into slits.

"Mudblood? Really, Goyle? It's no longer 1998," Draco drawled. "And I would suggest you keep your petty insults to yourself, or I might just decide to use you as an example of why people need to learn basic decency."

The gang chuckled nervously at the threat in his voice, but Theo wasn't ready to let up just yet. He knew how to push Draco's buttons without crossing the line, just enough to make him squirm.

"So, Malfoy," Theo began, leaning back in his seat, folding his arms with a hint of amusement, "how is Granger these days?"

Draco's eyes snapped to Theo, a flash of something dark and dangerous crossing his face. He was too quick with the reaction. Theo saw it, and it only made him grin wider.

"Granger?" Draco's voice was cold, smooth, and utterly unbothered. "What the hell would I know about Granger? She's just a head of a department, Theo. Nothing more."

Gregory raised his glass, clearly having missed all the subtleties. "I don't get it. Why are we even talking about her? It's not like Draco's ever--"

"Oh, we are talking about her, are we?" Blaise interrupted, leaning forward. "Because from where I'm sitting, Malfoy's been acting a little off since Potter and Weasley's wedding. Granger was there, wasn't she?"

Draco's eyes flickered. The mention of the wedding made his heart skip, but his face remained blank, a mask of indifference. He forced a chuckle, something sharp and biting. "Potter's wedding? Oh please, don't tell me you lot still care about that. Nothing interesting happened there."

Theo's grin widened, his voice dropping slightly, "Nothing interesting, huh? I seem to recall something about you and Granger sharing a very interesting night together."

The room fell silent for a second. Gregory looked from Draco to Theo, puzzled. "Wait, what? What are you on about?"

Theo only smirked, leaning in slightly, eyes glinting with mischief. "Oh, don't act like you haven't noticed the way Draco gets when we even mention her. He's got this whole... distracted look about him. Like he's... remembering something."

Gregory and Blaise both leaned forward, eyes wide with curiosity. "Wait, wait, hold up. You're saying something happened between Malfoy and Granger? At Potter's wedding?" Blaise asked, his voice full of amusement.

Draco, sensing the storm closing in, finally let out a derisive laugh. "I'm not your bloody favourite soap opera. Maybe you should go and ask Granger if you're so interested."

Theo gave a lazy shrug. "I think it's more fun watching you try and deflect every question, Draco. I mean, look at you. You're practically glowing with... nervous energy."

Draco's eyes flared, and he leaned forward, his lips curling into an almost wicked smile. "Nervous energy?" he repeated, a dangerous edge in his tone. "You've got quite the imagination, Nott. But I've been around long enough to know how to keep my secrets."

Gregory looked confused, clearly still not fully understanding what was going on. "But you did have a thing with her, didn't you? You two... clicked or something, huh?"

Draco clenched his jaw, then shot up from his seat, knocking his chair back with an audible scrape. His voice was low, dripping with contempt. "I don't owe any of you an explanation about anything. So if you've all finished your little theories, I'm going to take my leave. Before I start feeling like I'm stuck in a bloody circus with you lot."

He turned on his heel, striding toward the door without another word, leaving a group of very confused, very curious wizards behind.

Theo chuckled softly, watching Draco leave with a mix of amusement and something else, something more knowing in his eyes. "Oh, he's definitely hiding something. You'll see."

Blaise let out a low whistle. "Well, that was interesting. So, you're saying something did happen with him and Granger?"

Theo smirked, sipping his drink. "Let's just say... there's more to Draco Malfoy than meets the eye. But it's his secret, not mine to spill."

Gregory shook his head, still lost. "So no one's going to tell me what happened?"

Theo just smiled. "You'll find out in time, Goyle. You always do."

Draco’s footsteps echoed down the dimly lit alleyway as he stepped out of the pub, his cloak billowing behind him in the chilly night air. The buzz of laughter and the murmur of conversation seemed to fade the farther he walked, replaced by the dull thrum of his own thoughts. He didn’t need to turn around to know that the others were still talking about him, still trying to decipher the look in his eyes the one he couldn’t quite suppress when they’d brought up Hermione Granger.

He clenched his jaw, his mind a swirling mix of frustration and confusion. The cold night air hit his skin like a slap, but it did nothing to numb the ache gnawing at him from the inside. It had been weeks since that night, and yet it felt like it had happened just moments ago, as if every sensation, every moment, was still alive in his body.

This doesn't change anything.

He repeated those words like a mantra, hoping they would somehow silence the whirlwind of thoughts that refused to leave him alone. But the truth was, the words felt hollow now, like an empty promise he’d made to himself. He couldn’t deny it any longer, the memory of her lingered like a ghost, haunting him when he least expected it.

He had tried to push it away, tried to bury the feelings under layers of sarcasm, indifference, and bitterness. He had spent years building walls, fortifying his heart with ice, determined never to let anyone close enough to break through. His family had taught him that much, feelings were weaknesses, emotions were dangerous, and attachments only led to disappointment.

But Hermione Granger… she was different.

Draco didn’t know why he couldn’t shake her from his mind, why her presence had rattled him in a way no one else had. She had a fire about her, an intensity that both unsettled and intrigued him. The way her eyes had looked at him that night, so fierce, so determined, so unafraid, had unsettled him more than he cared to admit.

And when her fingers had brushed against his skin, something inside him had shifted, something he hadn’t felt in years. A rawness. A hunger. But also a fear. The kind of fear that made him retreat, made him put distance between them before things could go any further. Because if he let it, if he allowed himself to feel whatever this was, it would be a threat. A threat to the carefully constructed persona he had spent so long maintaining.

He pushed through the gates of the Malfoy Manor, the towering stone walls looming around him like a prison. His father’s shadow still hung over him, a reminder of the expectations, the legacy of darkness that he could never fully escape. And his mother… well, she’d always been a prisoner of a different sort. Draco had watched her over the years, silently suffering under the weight of her choices, of the family she couldn’t escape, and he had promised himself he would never end up like her.

He stopped at the foot of the stairs leading to the front door of the manor, his hand resting on the cold stone railing. The name burned in his mind, and with it, the memory of that night. The way she had kissed him with such desperate need, like she was fighting against something. What was it? Was it just the thrill of the moment? The need for escape?

It wasn’t just the physical part that was messing with him. That was easy enough to compartmentalize, to rationalize. He could dismiss it as a fleeting moment, a brief lapse in judgment. But the way she had looked at him afterward, the way her expression had softened just before she turned away, there had been something there.

Something that made him feel like he was standing at the edge of a cliff, staring down into an abyss.

Draco exhaled sharply, his breath visible in the cold night air. He couldn’t do this. Not now. Not with everything else he had to sort out. He needed control, and he couldn’t afford to lose it, especially not over someone like Hermione Granger.

He glanced up at the darkened windows of the manor, a shiver running down his spine. The house was as cold and unwelcoming as it had always been. Inside, he knew, was his mother, still a ghost of the woman she had been, trapped in her own regrets.

He had always tried to push away his emotions, to be the cold, calculated heir his father had expected him to be. But lately… lately it felt like the weight of his past was starting to press in on him from all sides. And Granger was only making it worse.

This doesn't change anything.

He repeated the words in his head once more, willing them to take root, to bury everything that was stirring inside him. But deep down, he knew the truth: it had already changed something. He just wasn’t sure what, or how much.

With a heavy sigh, Draco turned and walked into the manor, his footsteps echoing through the empty hallways. He’d deal with it all in time. He had to. He always did.

But for now, he’d have to keep pushing the truth aside, because facing it would be far harder than facing any curse or dark magic.

The warmth of the bustling pub greeted Hermione as she stepped inside, the familiar chatter and clinking of glasses momentarily easing the tension in her shoulders. It was supposed to be a reunion, a casual gathering to catch up with Harry and Ginny after what felt like an eternity of work, travel, and unspoken things left hanging in the air. She spotted Harry and Ginny, sitting together at a corner table, their faces alight with the afterglow of their honeymoon.

Ginny waved as soon as she saw Hermione, her smile wide and genuine. "Hermione! Over here!"

Hermione made her way through the crowded room, her heart warming at the sight of her friends. Ginny, glowing from the recent trip and the joy of being back in familiar company, leaned forward to hug her. "It's so good to see you," Ginny said, pulling away with a sparkle in her eyes. "You look like you've been working non-stop."

"I have," Hermione admitted with a small chuckle, settling into the seat beside Ginny. "It's good to finally take a break."

Harry grinned as he reached out to clasp her hand in greeting. "How’s the Curse Breaker life treating you?"

"Busy. But you know how it is." Hermione tried to keep her tone light, though a part of her still felt out of place, like there was an undercurrent to everything she said.

The door to the pub swung open again, and Hermione's stomach tightened when Ron walked in. He was a little late, as usual, but that didn't ease the tension that had been slowly building since they’d all agreed to meet up. He flashed a quick smile when he saw her, but there was an awkwardness in the air that neither of them could ignore.

"Sorry I'm late," Ron said as he sat down next to Hermione, not quite meeting her eyes.

Hermione simply nodded, but her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. Harry, sensing the slight unease, cleared his throat and shifted the conversation.

"How was the honeymoon, mate?" Ron asked, trying to break the quiet tension.

Ginny perked up. "It was perfect," she said, her eyes meeting Harry’s with a soft fondness. "Just what we needed after everything."

"Sounds like you two had a great time," Hermione said, her voice a bit softer than usual, as she glanced at them both. There was something tender in her expression, but it quickly faded as her attention shifted. Ron, sitting so close but feeling so distant, was more of a puzzle to her now than ever before.

Ron rubbed the back of his neck uncomfortably. "Yeah, uh... it's good that you're back, though."

"Yeah, well, back to the grind." Hermione let out a small laugh, though it sounded hollow to her own ears.

Ginny noticed the subtle shift in Hermione’s demeanor and raised an eyebrow. "Everything okay, Hermione? You seem a little... off tonight."

Hermione hesitated, feeling the weight of Ginny’s question. She wasn’t sure what to say. Was she ready to talk about the unspoken things that had been building inside her? The gnawing, unfinished feelings that had been lingering for weeks now? The strained silence that still hung between her and Ron was enough to make her want to change the subject, to avoid whatever it was that was pulling at the edges of her thoughts.

"Just tired," Hermione finally said, a faint smile playing on her lips. "Been a long couple of months. But I’m happy to be here with all of you."

Ron shifted in his seat, still avoiding her eyes. He could tell there was something more going on, but he didn’t know how to bring it up. The distance between them was so palpable now, no matter how much they tried to ignore it, the events of the past few weeks were still hanging over them.

Ginny, sensing the tension between the two, flashed Hermione a look, then turned to Harry. "What’s next on the agenda, then? Any more vacations planned for us?"

Harry grinned. "Not for a while. We’re back in the thick of things now. But I wouldn’t mind a quiet weekend in Hogsmeade."

The conversation continued, lighthearted and casual, but the awkwardness between Ron and Hermione was undeniable. Neither could quite seem to bridge the gap that had opened between them, the silence speaking volumes louder than any of the words that passed between them.

As the night went on, the pub got fuller, filled with the sound of chatter and clinking glasses. Harry and Ginny sat across from Hermione and Ron, sharing stories of their honeymoon. Harry's eyes were still alight with happiness as he described the stunning location they'd chosen.

“You should've seen the view,” Harry said, grinning. “The sea, the cliffs, the sunsets. It was like something out of a dream.”

Ginny laughed, her hand resting affectionately on his arm. “And don’t forget the food, Harry. You ate more in one week than I think you’ve eaten in the last year. I swear, he’s a bottomless pit.”

Hermione smiled, genuinely happy for them, but the smile faltered slightly as she glanced over at Ron. He was leaning back in his chair, looking at them with a neutral expression that Hermione knew well. Their relationship had been over for months now, but the tension still lingered in the air whenever they were in close proximity.

Ginny noticed the subtle shift and gave Hermione a sympathetic look, but she was quick to redirect the conversation, focusing on the honeymoon details once again.

“Sounds amazing, mate,” Ron said, leaning forward with a half-smile. “Really happy for you both.”

But then, as if it was completely unintentional, he casually threw out, “By the way, I’ve been meaning to ask. How sweet was it of Malfoy to help you with your heels at the wedding? I didn’t expect that from him, especially after all the crap he put us through.”

Hermione froze, her heart skipping a beat as she froze mid-sip of her drink. She hadn’t expected Ron to bring that up. Not here. Not now. And certainly not like that.

Ron, oblivious to the way the air had thickened, went on, “I saw him take them off for you after you two were talking. Didn't think he'd be the one to do something like that.”

Hermione’s face reddened slightly, and she set her drink down a little too forcefully. Her hands clenched into fists under the table, but she quickly composed herself, forcing a calm expression to mask the rush of emotions flooding her chest.

“I didn’t think anyone was paying attention,” Hermione said, her voice sharper than she intended. “And it’s none of your business, Ron. I don’t owe you an explanation for anything.”

Ron raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised by her defensive tone. “I’m just saying it was odd, that’s all. You and Malfoy… seemed awfully comfortable with each other.”

Hermione’s jaw tightened, her mind a whirlwind of thoughts she wasn’t ready to voice. She hated how casual Ron was about it, how he was clearly trying to provoke her.

“I don’t owe you anything, Ron,” Hermione replied, her voice unwavering, though a flicker of pain flashed in her eyes. “We’re not together anymore, remember? You’ve moved on, and so have I. So what if I spent a little time with Draco Malfoy? It's none of your business who I talk to or who I spend time with.”

Ron’s mouth opened, but before he could say anything else, Hermione continued, her words becoming more forceful.

“You don’t get to judge me anymore, Ron,” she said, leaning forward. “After everything, after how you treated me. I'm free to be with whoever I choose. Just like you’re free to be with someone else now. I don't care what you think, okay? No one could treat me worse than you did.”

The tension was palpable now, the air thick with unspoken words and unresolved history. Hermione stood abruptly, not wanting to stay in the suffocating silence anymore.

“I’m done,” Hermione muttered, pushing her chair back and heading for the door before Ron could respond.

Ginny, who had been quietly watching the exchange, immediately stood up and followed her. “Hermione, wait!”

Outside the pub, the cold night air hit Hermione like a splash of water, but it didn't clear the storm swirling in her chest. She paused on the cobblestone street, breathing deeply, trying to steady herself, but her emotions were all over the place, frustration, anger, exhaustion.

“Hermione,” Ginny called softly, catching up with her. “I’m sorry. I didn’t expect that to happen, not here, not now…”

“I’m just tired, Gin,” Hermione said, her voice trembling slightly. “I’m tired of pretending I’m okay. Tired of trying to hold it together all the time. Work, Draco… Ron... it’s all just too much. I thought I’d be able to move on. I thought I could forget what happened, forget that night with Draco, but I can’t. And I don’t know how to fix it.”

Ginny’s heart went out to her friend. She gently placed a hand on Hermione’s shoulder. “You don’t have to fix anything, Hermione. It’s okay to be tired. It’s okay to not have all the answers. But you don’t have to do this alone, alright? I’m here.”

Tears welled up in Hermione’s eyes, her defenses crumbling under the weight of everything she’d been holding in for so long. “I don’t want to be angry, Ginny. I don’t want to feel bitter. But I can’t help it. I don’t even know where to start anymore.”

Ginny pulled her into a gentle hug, rubbing her back in soothing circles. “You’ll figure it out, Hermione. You always do. Just… be kind to yourself. You’ve been through so much.”

Hermione nodded, burying her face in Ginny’s shoulder for a moment, letting herself feel vulnerable for the first time in what felt like forever.

“I’m sorry I ruined the evening,” Hermione whispered after a few moments.

Ginny pulled back, giving her a small smile. “You didn’t ruin anything, Hermione. Sometimes, we all need to let it out. It’s okay.”

Hermione took a shaky breath and nodded. “Thanks, Ginny. I needed that.”

“Anytime,” Ginny said softly, brushing a tear from Hermione’s cheek before linking their arms together.

Ginny nudged her playfully, her eyes gleaming with mischief. "So, Draco, huh?"

Hermione froze mid-step, her eyes widening. "Oh, for Merlin's sake, Ginny," she groaned, already feeling the heat creep up her neck. "Not you too."

Ginny just grinned, her teasing tone light. "What? You can't expect me not to ask. It seems like you were talking to him at the wedding, and well..." She raised an eyebrow, her grin widening. "He was helping you with your heels, very gentlemanly of him. What's going on there?"

Hermione rolled her eyes playfully, but her chest tightened. "I don't know what you're talking about," she said, trying to sound casual, though she was sure the flush on her cheeks betrayed her. "Nothing happened."

Ginny laughed softly, crossing her arms as she bumped Hermione’s shoulder with hers. "Right. Nothing. Sure."

Hermione groaned, rolling her eyes again. "Fine, so maybe something happened, but it doesn’t matter." She paused, trying to steady herself. "I mean, he was there, and I was… upset, and things just happened. And then, the next morning he left. Just like that."

Ginny was quiet for a moment, then gave a soft, understanding chuckle. "Honestly, though, Hermione," she said, her voice soft but playful, "who could blame you? I mean, after all this time, Draco Malfoy, of all people has turned into quite the catch. You’ve seen him lately, right?"

Hermione looked at her, eyes narrowing. "What do you mean?"

"Come on," Ginny teased, "He’s ridiculously handsome now. He’s all grown up, looks like he could bench-press an entire Quidditch team. And don’t even get me started on the muscles." She gave Hermione a wink. "I’m not judging you, Hermione. Believe me, I get it. He’s... well, he’s a lot more than the bratty, spoiled kid we all used to know."

Hermione groaned again, this time with a laugh, her face turning red. "I’m not going to have this conversation with you, Ginny."

Ginny, however, wasn’t letting up. "What? It’s just a bit of harmless teasing. You’ve always had a thing for the bad boys, haven’t you? And Malfoy? Oh, he’s definitely bad, but in the best way."

Hermione rolled her eyes, but there was a hint of amusement in her expression now. "I’m not getting into this with you, Ginny. The last thing I need is to be publicly roasted over my choices past or present."

Ginny chuckled, her tone turning more serious. "Hey, I’m not judging. Seriously. After everything with Ron, I’d say it’s about time you did something for you." She nudged Hermione again. "And you don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to. But if you do, I’m here, yeah?"

Hermione let out a soft breath, the weight of the evening pressing in on her. She appreciated Ginny's words more than she let on, but part of her was still unsure about opening up, even to her best friend. "Thanks, Ginny," she said quietly, her voice soft but sincere. "I just... I’m not sure what I want right now. And honestly? I don’t know if I even want to think about Draco anymore."

Ginny gave her a knowing look, but didn't push any further. "Alright, no more Draco talk. Promise. But if you ever do want to talk about it, you know I’m here, right?"

Hermione smiled faintly, the weight in her chest feeling a little lighter. "I know," she said softly. "Thanks, Ginny. It means a lot."

Ginny smiled warmly at her, offering a small, reassuring hug. "Anytime, Hermione. Anytime."

And with that, they continued walking down the quiet street, the weight of the night still lingering but with a quiet understanding between them.

Chapter Text

It had been two months since Harry and Ginny’s wedding. Two months since that one night, one stupid night that she couldn’t stop thinking about. But Hermione Granger was determined to ignore it. She couldn’t afford to dwell on that fleeting moment of weakness with Draco Malfoy, no matter how much it lingered in the back of her mind like an itch she couldn’t reach. No, she had more important things to focus on: work. Curse-breaking. The constant pressure of deadlines, the adrenaline-fueled race to lift curses before they caused real harm, was more than enough to keep her mind occupied.

Except... today, it wasn’t.

She had been feeling off for a few days now, tired in a way that coffee couldn’t fix, the kind of tired that gnawed at her bones. The way her stomach twisted at odd times, the slight nausea that came and went without warning. The dull ache in her lower back that made sitting through meetings unbearable. She didn’t want to admit it, but something felt... different.

But she couldn't think about it. She couldn’t afford to. She had a thousand things to do, from tracking down dangerous magical artifacts to dealing with irritable clients who thought curses were mere inconveniences. She couldn’t afford to waste time on whatever this was.

Hermione tried to bury the strange sensations. She shoved them down, told herself it was just stress, maybe too much late-night work, or perhaps an off meal. Nothing more than her body’s way of telling her she needed a break. So she worked harder, pushed through the fatigue, the discomfort, and kept her mind firmly focused on the world of curses and ancient spells, refusing to acknowledge the lingering whispers of uncertainty creeping into her thoughts.

On her rare day off from the constant grind of curse-breaking, she wandered aimlessly through Diagon Alley, hoping to clear her mind. The sun was out, the cobblestones crowded with witches and wizards laughing, shopping, enjoying the day. But it all felt like a blur. Everything felt like a blur. The weight of work, the pressure of her responsibilities, and the confusion swirling in her heart felt overwhelming.

Her feet carried her toward Florean Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlour before she even knew what was happening. It had been weeks since she’d treated herself to a little indulgence, but lately, all she could think about was her favorite Chocolate and Raspberry Ripple. Maybe it was silly, but she figured she deserved something familiar, something comforting.

She slipped inside, ordered her ice cream, and found a booth by the window, hoping to lose herself in the moment. As she took the first bite, she closed her eyes, savoring the cool, sweet rush. But then… it didn’t taste right. It wasn’t bad, per se, but it wasn’t the magical sweetness she remembered. The raspberry flavor was flat, the chocolate not as rich as it should have been. She took another bite, hoping it would be better, but it wasn’t.

Disappointment curled in her chest. It wasn’t just the ice cream. Everything felt wrong lately. Work had been grueling. She felt disconnected from everything she loved. Even something as simple as her favorite treat couldn’t fix that.

After a few more bites, she abandoned the ice cream, left a tip, and walked out, trying to clear her head. She wandered through Diagon Alley, letting her feet take her wherever they wanted, trying to push the nagging feeling of unease out of her mind. Her thoughts were a jumbled mess of frustration, exhaustion, and a simmering ache that she didn’t want to acknowledge.

It was then that she saw the bookstore. Hermione had been to this place countless times, and yet, today, it seemed to beckon her in. Maybe a book would help. Maybe she’d lose herself in its pages and forget about everything else for a while.

She stepped inside, the familiar scent of paper and ink wrapping around her like a warm hug. She ran her fingers along the spines of the books absentmindedly, her eyes not really seeing them. She needed something to ground herself, something to help her stop feeling so... lost.

Her hand landed on a book. It was an ancient tome about potion-brewing, something she’d always been interested in but hadn’t found time to properly study. She was about to pull it off the shelf when she noticed someone else’s hand closing around it at the same time.

She looked up.

It was Draco Malfoy.

Her heart lurched in her chest at the sight of him. She hadn’t seen him in two months. Not since that night.

She had no idea why it bothered her so much, but there it was, the sight of him. His pale blonde hair, tousled just enough to look effortlessly stylish, and the sharp angles of his face that always seemed to catch the light just right. His features, so familiar, so annoyingly perfect, as if he had been sculpted with cold precision. It was the kind of beauty that could make anyone angry, especially when it was paired with that insufferable smirk that had been a part of him since they were children. The kind of smirk that had always hinted at a superior knowledge, as though he could see things that others couldn’t, could see straight through them, as if they were nothing but a passing distraction.

But what really made her blood boil was the way he was looking at her now. Those grey eyes, always so calculating, were focused on her with an intensity that felt almost accusing, like she were the one who had invaded his space, not the other way around. There was something about the way he held himself, arms crossed, chin slightly raised that made it feel as though the world were bending to his whims, as if nothing could possibly surprise him. It made her skin itch, that sense of entitlement he carried, like he had the right to judge her, to dissect her, even in this simple moment. It was the way his presence loomed, taking up space, even when he wasn’t saying anything, that made everything feel more difficult.

It was ridiculous, really. She had nothing to prove to him, yet standing here, face to face with him, she felt as though every breath she took had to be measured, every word carefully calculated.

And yet, despite all the annoyance, despite the way he rubbed her the wrong way with every glance, she couldn’t deny that some part of her still noticed him. She couldn’t help but wonder if he could tell how rattled she was. It wasn’t something she was used to feeling so off balance around someone. But here he was, standing there, looking at her as though he were already disappointed in her.

It was maddening.

Hermione's breath caught for a moment, her irritation flaring immediately. Of course it would be him. Of all the places. Of all the times. She didn’t want to deal with him. Not today. Not when everything was already feeling so heavy.

"Granger," Draco said, his voice low, smooth, and somehow still managing to hold that edge of mockery. His hand didn’t move from the book.

"Malfoy," Hermione muttered, trying and failing to keep the annoyance from creeping into her tone. She didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of seeing how much his presence affected her. But his very existence seemed to intensify the discontent she’d been carrying for weeks. “What are you doing here?”

Draco shrugged nonchalantly, his silvery eyes glinting with amusement. “Couldn’t resist the charm of a dusty old bookshop, I suppose.” He tugged the book slightly, pulling it just beyond her grasp.

Hermione’s eyes narrowed. “I was reaching for that.”

“And I grabbed it first.” His voice was annoyingly smug, as though the whole situation were some sort of game to him.

“Of course you did,” she snapped. Her hand was still hovering over the book, but she wasn’t about to give in to him that easily. “You always have to have the last word, don’t you?”

Draco’s lips curled into a smile that was more of a challenge than anything else. “I don’t need the last word. I just need the book. Seems like it’s a coincidence we both wanted it.”

“Oh, is it?” Hermione huffed, stepping closer to him. “You seem to think that just because it’s you, you’re entitled to whatever you want. Newsflash, Malfoy: That’s not how it works.”

Draco’s smile faltered for a second, as though he hadn’t expected her to push back quite so strongly. But he quickly recovered, crossing his arms. “You’re right,” he said, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “How foolish of me. I should have let you take it, Hermione Granger, the great and powerful curse-breaker, war-heroine. Forgive me for thinking you were just another person in this bookshop, with no more claim to it than I.”

Hermione took a deep breath, trying to reign in her frustration. “I’m not in the mood for your games, Malfoy. Just give me the damn book.”

Draco looked at her with that insufferable smirk again, enjoying the tension. “Oh, but I’m enthralled by your mood, Granger. What’s the matter? Work getting to you?”

The words hit a nerve she hadn’t expected. It was like something inside her snapped. All the stress, all the weight of the last few weeks, the feeling that everything was falling apart, her composure unraveled.

Her hands trembled as she suddenly snapped, "You have no idea what it's like, do you?" She could feel the tears welling up, but she bit her lip, willing them to stay in check. "You walk around like you're so much better than everyone else, pretending like nothing ever bothers you--"

Draco’s eyes flickered with surprise as Hermione’s voice broke. But before he could say anything, the tears began to fall, quicker than she could stop them. She tried to wipe them away, but more came, faster and harder, each sob racking through her body. Her knees felt weak as her entire frame trembled with the force of her crying.

Draco froze, staring at her in complete shock. This was Hermione Granger, the brilliant, calm, composed Hermione Granger, who was falling apart in front of him. His confusion was palpable, and he couldn’t even think for a moment, completely stunned by the sight of her breaking down.

“What the hell?” he muttered, his voice panicked. His eyes darted around, like he was looking for someone, anyone, to help, but the shop was empty except for them. “What do I do?”

Hermione’s sobs grew more intense. She barely managed to gasp out, “I just... I just wanted something simple to be right... something to make me feel better... but nothing is... nothing is working!” She wiped her face with the sleeve of her jacket, her words slipping out in broken breaths. “It’s all too much. It’s... it’s everything. Everything feels wrong.”

Draco looked like he’d been hit with a brick, his face pale, completely thrown off balance. “Stop-just-stop crying!” he said, his voice cracking. He was stumbling over his words now, utterly panicked. “What the bloody hell is going on? Granger, I-I-Merlin, I didn’t-”

Hermione sniffled, trying to control her breathing. “I’m fine... It’s just... stress,” she said weakly, though her voice was far from steady. “Work, life, everything. And I thought... I thought ice cream would fix it, but... it tasted wrong. Everything tastes wrong.”

Draco blinked, still unsure of what to do, but he knew he couldn’t just stand there. “Ice cream?” he repeated, his tone incredulous, before he mumbled, “That’s-really? You’re crying over ice cream?”

“I’m not crying over ice cream!” she shot back, her voice cracking slightly as she lifted her tear-streaked face to glare at him. “It’s everything, Malfoy.”

His panic seemed to grow, but now it was accompanied by something else, something like concern. He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly, pacing for a moment, unsure of what to do next. "Alright, alright," he muttered, finally getting his bearings. “I’ll buy you real ice cream, okay? No more of that... whatever that rubbish was you had.”

Hermione blinked, still wiping her tears, completely taken aback by his sudden shift. “Wait, seriously?”

“Don’t make me regret it,” he muttered, looking at her as if he were bracing for something worse. “Just... come on, before you cry over the book again.”

A small laugh broke through Hermione’s tears, a breathless, disbelieving sound. “You’re ridiculous,” she managed, even though her heart was still pounding, the overwhelming emotions still lingering.

Draco, still clearly flustered but relieved that she wasn’t crying anymore, nodded curtly. “I know. I’ve been told.” And with that, he awkwardly led her out of the bookshop, a hesitant but strangely comforting silence between them.

It wasn’t fixed, not by any means. But it was a start.

Hermione couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt so utterly out of place. The bookstore had been a welcome distraction, but as soon as Draco grabbed her wrist and yanked her out of the shop, the sharp feeling that something wasn’t quite right returned. Here she was, once again, pulled along by his cold, indifferent direction. It felt like déjà vu.

Before she knew it, the world around her shifted. A brief tugging sensation in her stomach, a loud pop that made her ears ring, and dizziness hit her like a sudden wave. Her knees wobbled, and she grabbed her forehead, trying to steady herself.

“Bloody hell!” she gasped, gripping onto the nearest solid object, Draco’s arm. His arm was unexpectedly solid, warm to the touch. It felt firm, with a slight tension to it, like he was ready for anything. The skin was smooth, cool against her fingertips, but there was muscle under there, just enough to make it feel substantial. It wasn’t too soft, but it wasn’t rigid either, the kind of strength that was easy to miss unless you really felt it.

“Don’t be dramatic, Granger,” Draco said in his usual disinterested tone, though he was still holding her steady as her balance wavered. “You’re fine.”

“Fine?” she snapped, struggling to get her bearings. “You didn’t even tell me you were going to Apparate us! I-ugh!” Her stomach twisted with the disorienting sensation. “This is ridiculous! You can’t just drag me around like this without any warning!”

“You’re being melodramatic.” Draco didn’t seem to have a care in the world, as usual. “I’m not going to drop you, Granger.”

She gave him an incredulous look, still shaking her head. “I could have-have splinched myself or something!”

Draco’s lips quirked up in that familiar, infuriating smirk. “I’m sure you’ll survive.”

“Ugh!” Hermione fumed, her patience wearing thin. “You're a menace. You can’t just-”

Before she could finish, Draco interrupted her, his tone dismissive. “If I were a menace, Granger, you’d be dead by now.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Oh, how comforting. Lovely. Just what I needed today.”

Draco’s tone grew flatter, though there was a slight flicker of something else in his gaze, something more… considerate. “You’re fine. Relax. Stop being so tense.” He glanced around as if to reassure her.

She wasn’t reassured. Not at all.

“Are we in some secluded place where you plan to murder me for crying over ice cream, or is this a better location for you to dispose of my body?”

Draco snorted. “See for yourself.”

Hermione frowned at him, trying to decipher what exactly he meant by that as she glanced around. The moment her eyes landed on the bustling Muggle street, the world seemed to freeze.

The cobblestone road, the noise, the people, she was in the heart of London. And it hit her like a brick wall.

Draco had taken her to the Muggle world.

Her mouth fell open. She stared at him like he had two heads. “What... what did you say?” she stammered, her thoughts scrambling.

“I said we’re in the Muggle world, Granger,” Draco answered lazily, though there was a slight edge in his voice, as though he was used to this.

But Hermione? She was anything but used to it. Draco Malfoy was standing here, in the middle of Muggle London. His grey eyes flickered with the faintest hint of annoyance as she continued to gape at him in disbelief.

Her eyes widened in surprise as the familiar bustle of Muggle London stretched out before her. Muggle London? She stared at Draco as if he’d just grown a second head. “Wait. Wait a minute. You... brought me to the Muggle world?”

Draco raised an eyebrow and gave a lazy, almost bored wave of his hand. “Yes, Granger. Muggle London. It’s charming here, isn’t it?”

Hermione’s jaw dropped. “Draco Malfoy in the Muggle world?” she repeated, incredulous. “What is this? Have you gone soft? Or did you have a conversion I didn’t know about?”

He gave a nonchalant shrug. “Yes, Granger. It’s not a crime to step into Muggle territory, is it?”

“But you-” Hermione’s voice faltered. Her thoughts spun. Draco Malfoy used to openly despise the Muggle world. He’d spent years insulting her, belittling her, and hating everything about her because of her Muggle-born status. And now, here he was, casually strolling around the Muggle world like he was some... normal person.

The realization hit her with a sharp jolt. “You-” She almost choked on the words. “You used to hate me for being a Muggle-born!”

Draco’s eyes narrowed slightly, a flicker of irritation crossing his face. “I’ve changed, Granger. You should try it sometime.” His tone was cold, defensive, but there was something underneath that she couldn’t quite place.

Hermione gaped at him, not sure whether to laugh or scream. “Changed? You’ve changed, and now you’re in the Muggle world, eating... ice cream?” She was practically choking on the absurdity of it all. “What is this, Malfoy?”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he flicked his hair out of his face with an exaggerated motion, looking around the busy London street with that infuriating air of someone who didn’t care at all about how unusual or dangerous this could seem. “You think I care what people think, Granger?” Draco finally muttered, eyes flickering to her. “You really wouldn’t want to get caught up in the Daily Prophet with an ex-Death Eater, now, would you? I can handle the attention, but I’m sure you’re more concerned about your reputation.” he said smoothly, glancing over his shoulder, his eyes narrowing. “Can you imagine? ‘Granger Seen Crying and Eating with Former Dark Lord’s Right-Hand Man,’” he drawled, voice dripping with mock sweetness. “It’s quite the story, isn’t it?”

The weight of his words hit Hermione like a punch to the gut. The thought hadn’t even crossed her mind, what it would look like if people saw her with Draco Malfoy. A former Death Eater. Someone who had once wanted nothing more than to see her and others like her crushed under his boot. And yet here they were, standing on a Muggle street, together.

Her face flushed with the realization. “Oh,” was all she could manage, her voice barely above a whisper. She had nothing else to say. What was there to say?

She hadn’t thought of that, hadn’t thought about the potential fallout of being seen in public with someone like Draco. “I--”

“I don’t care,” Draco muttered, walking ahead without waiting for her. “If you’re not careful, though, you’re going to have your name splashed across the front page for being seen with me. So if you’re that worried about your image, Granger, maybe you should reconsider this little outing.”

Hermione snapped out of her reverie, hurrying after him. “Wait, you didn’t even tell me where we were going! What if this is some...some trap? What if I’m walking into some kind of-”

Draco turned around just as she was about to finish her sentence, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. “You’re acting as though I’m planning to murder you. Really, Granger. Relax.”

Draco, ever the one to move on from uncomfortable moments with ease, turned on his heel and continued walking. “If you’re done staring at me like I’ve grown two heads,” he said, a touch of impatience creeping into his tone, “follow me.”

Hermione, still in shock, followed him, her mind racing. This was a side of Draco Malfoy that she had never imagined. This new Draco, one who walked freely in the Muggle world, unafraid of the judgment, unbothered by the history that had once defined him was bewildering. And it left her second-guessing everything she had ever thought about him.

Before she could find her voice, they reached their destination. And her mind spun once more when she saw the brightly lit sign of Gelato Maestro, one of the most famous ice cream parlours in London. A Muggle ice cream parlour. A Muggle ice cream parlour that Draco Malfoy had willingly brought her to.

She blinked rapidly, trying to process what was happening. “You--” She cleared her throat. “You brought me here? To a Muggle ice cream parlour? This place?”

Draco gave her a sidelong glance, a smug smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “What? You thought I was going to take you to some Wizarding ice cream place? I like variety, Granger. It’s charming here.”

Her jaw nearly hit the floor. “Charming?” she repeated, incredulous. “This-this is-you? Malfoy? You’re in the Muggle world eating... gelato?”

Draco didn’t answer. He just smirked, clearly amused by her surprise.

Hermione, still reeling, muttered under her breath, “You’re unbelievable.” She glanced at the menu, her mind distracted, trying to focus on the normal task of ordering ice cream. “I’ll have the vanilla, I guess.”

Draco froze. He whipped around, giving her a look of pure disbelief. “Vanilla? You’ve got to be joking.” He scoffed, shaking his head as though he couldn’t even comprehend such a choice. “Vanilla? You really think I went through all this trouble for you to order vanilla? It’s bland, Granger. Bland.”

Hermione huffed. “What else am I supposed to get, then? Blood orange sorbet?”

“Much better,” Draco said, walking over to the counter to place his own order. “That’s what you should have had.”

As they sat down with their ice cream, Hermione couldn’t help but be completely thrown by how much Draco had changed, how much he’d become someone she never thought she’d see, let alone be standing next to.

She looked at him, still incredulous. “You’re not going to turn into one of those Muggle-fascinated weirdos, are you?”

Draco snorted in response, smirking at her. “Please. You think I’m going to start having tea and scones with Muggles?” He shook his head, rolling his eyes. “I just like gelato.”

And with that, Hermione felt the tension shift just enough for her to breathe again. Despite everything, the confusion, the bizarre situation, the tension between them, there was a small, unexpected sense of comfort in sitting here, together, even if she didn’t fully understand how or why.

The low chatter of families and the faint clinking of spoons against bowls were oddly comforting, despite the tension that remained between them. Draco, with his usual air of aloofness, was already halfway through his exotic sorbet, looking entirely at ease. His pale blue-grey eyes flickered toward her occasionally, but he didn’t seem to be in any rush to break the silence.

Hermione, however, was far from comfortable. She twirled her spoon around her blood orange sorbet, but her mind kept drifting. She couldn’t stop thinking about how strange this all felt. Draco Malfoy. In a Muggle establishment. Eating ice cream. With her.

She couldn’t even recall the last time she had felt this uncomfortable around him, not since... well, not since that morning two months ago. She hadn’t planned for this. For him. For... whatever this was.

"So," she finally said, the words slipping out of her mouth without thinking. "Never thought I’d see the day where Draco Malfoy willingly steps foot in a Muggle ice cream shop."

Draco shot her a look, his lips curling into a wry smirk. “I never thought I’d see the day you’d willingly sit down with me, Granger,” he retorted, his voice holding a touch of dry amusement.

Hermione gave him a pointed look but didn’t immediately respond. Instead, she took another bite of her sorbet, the sharp citrus taste barely cutting through the tension that hung between them. He had a point, after all. If someone had told her a few years ago that she’d be eating ice cream with Draco Malfoy in the Muggle world, no less she’d have laughed in their face.

The thought hung heavy in the air, and for a brief moment, Hermione felt something she hadn’t quite anticipated, a flicker of something almost like... camaraderie?

She frowned at the thought. Camaraderie? With Draco Malfoy? What on earth was she thinking?

“I can’t believe you’re actually enjoying this,” Hermione said, trying to push away her conflicting thoughts. "You used to think Muggles were... well, beneath you.”

Draco’s eyes flickered to hers with that familiar mixture of amusement and calculation. “You know, Granger, you really should stop thinking in such binary terms,” he said with an exaggerated sigh. “I’ve learned a thing or two since school. Not everything about the Muggle world is completely horrendous.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow. “I’d have never guessed. Draco Malfoy, Muggle connoisseur.”

He smirked, swirling the last bit of his sorbet on his spoon. “You’re still the one who’s surprised. I’m perfectly capable of appreciating the finer things in life.”

Hermione snorted, but there was no heat in the sound. “Finer things? In this place?”

Draco leaned back in his seat, taking his time with his response. “Why not? It’s just ice cream. It’s simple. It’s sweet. It’s not trying to be anything else.”

The way he said it was oddly... thoughtful, for someone who usually preferred to hide behind his sarcasm.

She frowned at the depth of his words, unsure how to respond. She was still reeling from the shock of Draco even being here. He’d always been so dismissive of anything Muggle-related, and yet here he was, sitting across from her like it was the most normal thing in the world.

"You’re not going to turn into one of those Muggle-fascinated weirdos, are you?" she asked lightly, though her voice held a hint of concern.

Draco let out a quiet snort of laughter, the sound almost surprising in its warmth. "Please," he said, his tone teasing yet oddly... reassuring. "Not that weird. But you do make it seem as though the entire Muggle world is beneath me. As though you don’t belong here.”

Hermione blinked. "Well, I--" She faltered, catching herself. He had a point. She wasn’t entirely comfortable either. In fact, she was still trying to wrap her head around the fact that she was here, with Draco Malfoy, in the first place.

"I didn’t think you’d ever want to be anywhere near Muggles again," she admitted quietly, almost to herself.

Draco’s eyes flickered toward her, his usual guarded expression softening just a touch. “Times change, Granger. People change.”

She tilted her head, unsure of what to say. She was, for the first time in a long while, unsure of how to interpret him. Her mind kept drifting to the past, to the Draco who had sneered at her for her blood status, who had called her every name in the book. How could she reconcile that with the man sitting in front of her now, quietly contemplating the sorbet in his hand as though it were some profound mystery?

"You're awfully quiet," Hermione remarked after a long pause, her voice more guarded than she intended.

Draco’s lips quirked upward slightly, but he didn’t immediately respond. He seemed to be savoring the ice cream a little too carefully, as though he wasn’t just eating, but actually contemplating the whole situation.

Hermione couldn’t help but chuckle lightly, the sound faint but genuine. "I thought you’d be mocking my choice in flavors by now. Aren’t you the one always criticizing the simplest things?"

He raised an eyebrow at her. “Why bother when it’s clear you’re perfectly content with your ‘blood orange sorbet,’” he drawled, clearly amused at the idea of her indulging in something so ordinary. “You're hardly taking the opportunity to expand your horizons.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Maybe I'm just here to enjoy myself, Malfoy. Not everything needs to be some grand gesture."

His smirk deepened, his gaze sharp. “Well, you are capable of being boring, aren’t you?”

She almost choked on her bite of ice cream, narrowing her eyes at him in mock outrage. "I’ll have you know I’m far from boring."

“Oh, I'm sure,” he replied, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Just sitting there, eating a flavor that tastes like someone’s idea of exotic fruit.”

She couldn’t suppress a laugh at the absurdity of it all. Despite everything, despite how unexpected and strange this situation was, it was hard not to feel a tiny spark of amusement at Draco’s antics.

Hermione’s smile faltered slightly as she watched him. “So, what do you want to do now, Malfoy?”

He paused, then pushed his spoon around the last of his sorbet, as though considering her question. “You really want to do something?” he asked with mild surprise, as if it hadn’t occurred to him that she might want to keep hanging around him.

“Yes,” she said with a slight challenge in her voice. “I do... how about we walk around for a bit?” she offered, surprising herself with the invitation. “I mean, you’ve already dragged me out here for ice cream, might as well make the most of it, right? Just... you know, not too far. I think I’ve had enough of you for one day.”

She flashed him a smirk, one that was half-teasing, half-genuine. It was strange, how easy it was to fall back into old patterns with him. There was a part of her that wanted to keep the peace, make light of the situation, after all, wasn’t that what she always did?

Draco, however, didn’t look quite as pleased with her suggestion. He crunched his face in mock-disgust, the lines of his sharp features tightening as if he’d just been told to drink a potion brewed by house-elves. “Walk around with you?” he scoffed, his voice dripping with exaggerated disdain. “Granger, do you realise what kind of torture that would be?”

Hermione raised an eyebrow, surprised at the bluntness of his response. “Torture? Really?”

He gave a dramatic sigh, crossing his arms over his chest, his lips curling into a sarcastic half-smile. “I’ve just spent the last few hours enduring the horrifying experience of watching you cry. I think I’ve done my time. A stroll with you? That’s outright cruel and unusual punishment.”

Hermione rolled her eyes but couldn’t help the little chuckle that escaped her. There it was, the familiar Malfoy sarcasm that had once irritated her to no end. Yet now, it didn’t seem quite as biting. More like a shield, one he was too tired to keep up fully.

“I’m not that bad,” she said, glancing at him as they both stood up and made their way out the store. “Besides, you’re the one who promised me ice cream. And you made it so that I had to spend hours talking to you in the first place.”

“Right,” Draco quipped, smirking. “So, this is my punishment now? My ‘reward’ for making sure your sniveling little day was somewhat tolerable?”

She swatted his arm playfully. “You're impossible, you know that?”

He only raised a brow, his smirk widening. "You’re lucky I’m such a nice guy, Granger. Don’t mistake my kindness for a lack of pain from my end."

But, for all the bickering and sharp comments, there was something gentle in his eyes as he said it. And that softness, even for just a second, caught Hermione off guard. She wasn’t used to this Draco. She wasn’t used to feeling this... comfortable with him. And maybe that was why the conversation had started to shift, without either of them realising.

They walked in silence for a bit longer, and Hermione could feel herself growing more at ease with each step. She wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was the cool evening air, or maybe it was the fact that there had been no real explosions between them all night. Even with the tension, they hadn’t ended in a fiery argument. Draco had been... different. And for once, Hermione couldn’t quite pinpoint whether that difference was good or bad.

Finally, as they reached a quiet corner near a park, Draco stopped walking and turned to face her. His expression was unreadable, but there was something in his gaze, something almost soft, but still guarded.

“Well, this is it, then, isn’t it?” Draco said with a sigh. “You’ll probably run off to tell Potter all about your adventure with the former Death Eater.”

Hermione couldn’t suppress the small laugh that escaped her at his words. “You know, I think I’ll keep this one to myself. Wouldn’t want to shock everyone too much.”

Draco’s lips quirked upward, but his smile quickly faded. “Right. Well, I suppose this is where we part ways, then.”

Hermione blinked, surprised by how quickly he was trying to distance himself. But she understood. She’d been expecting it. Still, it left a weird sort of emptiness in her chest.

“Yeah,” she said, her voice quieter now. “Guess so.”

He gave a small, almost reluctant nod, as though it pained him to admit it. “I’d say it was... nice seeing you, Granger. But that’d be pushing it.”

Hermione rolled her eyes again, a teasing smile curling at the corner of her lips. “I’m sure it was.”

Draco's expression softened, just a fraction, and for a brief moment, he looked like the boy she’d once known at Hogwarts, the one who never quite fit the role of his name, the one who was always searching for something he hadn’t been able to define.

“Take care of yourself, Granger,” he said quietly, before giving a little nod of farewell. “And try not to think too much about ice cream. Not everything needs your crying.”

Hermione bit her lip, fighting the urge to say something more. It felt like there were so many unsaid words between them, so much left unaddressed. But she didn’t say anything, not this time. She just offered him a small, tentative smile.

“You too, Malfoy. Don’t go turning into a Muggle-fascinated weirdo, alright?”

He snorted, his trademark smirk flickering for just a moment before it faded back into something more... neutral. “See for yourself.”

With that, he gave her one last nod and disappeared into the darkening street, his figure blending into the London night.

Hermione stood there for a moment longer, her thoughts a tangled mess, but there was a strange warmth in her chest that she couldn’t quite explain. Maybe she’d never fully understand Draco Malfoy, but tonight, she’d seen something different, a side of him that felt human, if only for a moment.

And for once, she wasn’t sure if that made things more complicated or a little bit simpler.

Chapter Text

It had been a month since that afternoon with Draco, the day they had shared ice cream in an easy, unspoken silence. The air between them had been light, uncomplicated, almost as if time had slowed just for that brief moment. She hadn’t seen or spoken to him since, but that afternoon, simple as it was, had stayed with her. It had felt effortless, peaceful, and for the first time in a long while, she’d felt at ease. But no matter how hard she tried to push it aside, that feeling lingered, like an echo in the back of her mind.

She threw herself into work, distracting herself with long hours at her desk, hoping to shake the strange pull she felt when she thought back on that afternoon. But something still felt off. Her magic had started to act strangely. She wasn’t sure what it was, but there were moments, fleeting but unmistakable, when it felt like something unseen was tugging at her, like her magic was shifting in ways she couldn’t understand.

For weeks now, Hermione had felt… off. It started subtly, like an electric hum beneath the usual rhythm of her life, just on the edge of her awareness. She had always known that magic was a delicate thing. Fragile, volatile, constantly shifting. But lately, it felt like something had slipped out of sync. The usual calm certainty she held over her magical abilities had started to fade, replaced by a strange sense of disquiet, like the very fabric of her magic was unraveling.

At work, the first signs of it had been small, easily dismissed. She was standing in the middle of an ancient, cursed vault, carefully studying a complex series of glyphs etched into the walls, when a tiny slip of her hand caused the weight of a heavy book on her desk to float up, spinning briefly in midair before crashing back down. She blinked, looking around the room, but no one had seen. She had thought it a fluke, a mere accident. But then the next day, while working through a set of tricky magical puzzles, an odd gust of wind rushed past her, scattering the parchment she’d been studying. The air seemed charged, crackling with invisible energy that tugged at her. She was sure she hadn’t cast a spell, yet the disturbance was undeniable.

It wasn’t just at work. One afternoon, she’d met up with Ginny at a small café, trying to distract herself from the mounting tension that had been building inside. They sat in a quiet corner, chatting about anything and everything, but Hermione’s mind was elsewhere. She couldn’t shake the feeling that something was out of place. As Ginny spoke, Hermione absentmindedly reached for her drink. Just as her fingers brushed the edge of her cup, it jumped off the table, hovering for a brief second before landing back down with a soft thud. Ginny hadn’t noticed, but Hermione’s pulse quickened. She tried to laugh it off, but the unease in her chest only grew. She had tried to brush it off as nothing, just the stress of it all, but deep down, she knew this wasn’t normal.

The strange occurrences didn’t stop. When Hermione was alone in her flat, they seemed to grow more frequent, more intense. One evening, while reading through an old magical tome in her living room, she noticed a soft glow from the corner of her eye. At first, she thought it was the reflection of the firelight, but when she looked up, the edges of her bookshelf were faintly illuminated by a golden light, as if they were alive with magic. She jumped up, heart racing, but the glow flickered out before she could investigate. It was like the very air around her was alive, responding to something she couldn’t understand.

Even her own reflection in the mirror seemed strange. Sometimes, she swore the image staring back at her wasn’t quite right, as if the person in the mirror was both her and someone else at the same time. And then, the dreams.

They had been growing more vivid, more intense. Images of glowing runes, of ancient magic, of a presence, something powerful hovering just out of reach. Hermione woke in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat, her pulse racing. She couldn’t explain it, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that whatever this was, it was tied to her in a way she couldn’t yet comprehend.

It was all too much. She could ignore it no longer.

Each odd occurrence, each inexplicable moment, tugged at her with an urgency she couldn’t deny. Something was happening to her magic, something far beyond the ordinary, and she was terrified that if she didn’t find out what it was soon, it might spiral completely out of control.

With trembling hands, Hermione reached for her bag, pulling out the stack of books she had been obsessively reading over the past few days. Her eyes scanned the worn spines, flicking through pages that had become increasingly useless. The texts on magical side effects, magical anomalies, and strange disorders that she had poured over felt almost useless now. None of them offered any answers to the unsettling disturbances she had been experiencing. It was as if the magic itself was slipping through her fingers, something beyond her comprehension, beyond any book she had read.

She sat back against her couch, trying to quiet the rising panic in her chest. What is happening to me? The question repeated in her mind like a mantra. Was it stress? She had been working herself to the bone, dealing with the complexities of curse-breaking, and constantly juggling endless tasks. Maybe it was just her body’s way of reacting to the pressure. But that didn’t explain everything. It didn’t explain the magical accidents, the strange dreams, the overwhelming sense that something was out of her control.

Her eyes drifted to the pile of books, frustration bubbling inside her. There’s got to be something, she thought desperately. There has to be an explanation for all of this. The small mishaps had become frequent, and no matter how hard she tried to rationalize it, the fact remained: something was wrong. 

She ran a hand through her hair, anxiety twisting in her chest. Maybe I’ve been pushing myself too hard. She didn’t want to admit it, but maybe it was true. She was constantly running on empty, trying to balance her work with her personal life, trying to meet the high expectations she set for herself. Perhaps her magic was simply reacting to that. The exhaustion. The pressure.

The nausea had only added to the growing list of symptoms. She had dismissed it at first, chalking it up to something she ate or another late night that left her stomach unsettled. But it hadn’t gone away. It lingered, like a constant, low hum beneath everything. Stress, she thought again. Maybe I’ve just been running myself ragged. I just need a break.

But now, sitting in her flat, surrounded by the same books she had pored over for days, Hermione couldn’t deny the gnawing feeling deep in her gut. What if it’s something else? What if it wasn’t stress, or exhaustion, or a curse she hadn’t encountered before? What if it was something she couldn’t even begin to comprehend?

Her thoughts spiraled, and the anxiety in her chest grew heavier with each passing second. She couldn’t keep living like this, in a constant state of confusion, uncertainty swirling inside her like a storm. I need answers, she thought fiercely. I can’t keep guessing. I need to know what’s going on.

Later that afternoon, Hermione met Ginny for a quiet coffee. Ginny had noticed her distracted mood for weeks now, and today was no different. As they sat across from each other, Ginny’s eyes narrowed slightly, her lips quirked in a concerned smile.

“Hermione, you’ve been off for ages now,” Ginny said, her voice gentle but persistent. “What’s going on? You’re not your usual self.”

Hermione hesitated, her fingers curling around her coffee cup, her thoughts still racing. She wanted to explain what was happening, to unload all the confusion, the swirling mix of magic and exhaustion, but she couldn’t quite find the words. So, instead, she gave a half-hearted smile, trying to mask her anxiety.

“I don’t know,” Hermione said, her voice betraying the uncertainty she felt. “I just feel… strange, like something’s off. Like my magic is… I don’t know, out of sync, maybe? I’ve had these weird little incidents at work, things levitating when I didn’t mean to cast, or objects just... reacting to me when I didn’t expect them to.”

Ginny raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued but trying not to look too alarmed. “That doesn’t sound normal. Have you seen a healer?”

Hermione shook her head, suddenly feeling embarrassed. “No, I--I just thought it was stress. I’ve been working so much lately, and everything’s been chaotic. But these… these little things are happening more and more. I’ve been reading everything I can, trying to figure out what’s wrong, but nothing makes sense.”

Ginny leaned forward, her expression softening. “Hermione, it’s okay. If something’s off, you need to see a healer. I know you hate admitting when something’s wrong, but this sounds like more than just stress. A healer could run some tests, check your magic, make sure nothing serious is going on.”

Hermione bit her lip, uncertainty washing over her. What if it’s nothing? What if I’m just making a big deal out of nothing?

“I just… I don’t know. What if it’s nothing?” Hermione said, trying to sound casual, but the doubt in her voice was unmistakable. “What if I’m just overreacting?”

“You’re not overreacting,” Ginny said firmly, her voice filled with an understanding that made Hermione feel less alone. “If it’s nothing, then you’ll know for sure. But if it’s something more, at least you’ll have answers. You’re not going to figure this out on your own, Hermione. You need help.”

Hermione exhaled slowly, feeling the weight of Ginny’s words settle in her chest. It was hard to admit that she didn’t have all the answers, that she couldn’t control everything, especially when she was so used to having a handle on things. But maybe Ginny was right. Maybe she needed to take that step, to see a healer and get to the bottom of what was really going on.

She gave Ginny a small, grateful smile. “Okay, I’ll make an appointment. I don’t know what’s going on, but I can’t keep living like this.”

Ginny smiled back, relieved. “You’re doing the right thing, Hermione. You’ll be fine, whatever it is.”

Hermione’s footsteps echoed down the hallway of St. Mungo’s, the sound sharp against the sterile, cold floor. Her mind was a mess, a tangled web of confusion and fear. Each step she took toward the healer’s office felt heavier than the last, as if the weight of her own uncertainty was pulling her down.

She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt this out of control. Her magic was unstable, unpredictable, and no matter how many times she tried to regulate it, nothing worked. 

Her fingers gripped the strap of her bag, her knuckles white, as she entered the waiting area. The room was quiet, with soft, ambient lighting that did little to soothe the anxiety clawing at her chest. The smell of antiseptic mixed with a strange, faint scent of herbs, a reminder that magic often carried an underlying complexity, that it was just as much part of her as her own breath. She’d always been able to control it. At least, she had until now.

Sitting in the waiting area, Hermione tried to steady her breath, but it was no use. Her heart raced, her thoughts were fractured. She felt too exposed, too vulnerable. What if they couldn’t fix it? What if it wasn’t just her magic, but something worse? What if there was something deeply wrong with her, something no one could mend?

The healer’s office door swung open, and a middle-aged witch with warm, brown eyes and a soft smile stepped through. "Miss Granger?" she asked gently, her voice calm and welcoming, as though she were trying to make the space feel less intimidating.

Hermione stood and nodded quickly, doing her best to compose herself. "Yes," she said, her voice tight. "I’m here for an appointment. I… I need some help."

The healer ushered her into the room, gesturing to a plush chair in front of a small wooden desk. The walls were lined with shelves, cluttered with jars of potions and vials filled with strange, glittering substances. A soft glow from enchanted candles filled the room with a gentle light, but it only made Hermione feel more exposed.

“Please, make yourself comfortable,” the healer said, her tone warm but professional.

Hermione sat down, her nerves settling only slightly. The healer took a seat across from her, her eyes studying Hermione with a kind expression.

“What seems to be the problem?” the healer asked, though there was an underlying note of concern in her voice. She’d likely seen her fair share of patients in distress, but there was something about Hermione's tense posture that seemed to make her worry.

Hermione hesitated, then spoke, her voice faltering at first. “I’ve been… experiencing some unusual magical occurrences,” she began. “I’m a curse breaker, and magic is supposed to be my area of expertise, but… I can’t explain what’s been happening. Objects are levitating on their own when I’m not even casting a spell, books fall from shelves when I’m nowhere near them, and things around me just seem to... move. I don’t know what’s going on.”

The healer nodded, her expression thoughtful as she listened, her eyes not judging, but focused. “Uncontrolled magic can happen for a number of reasons. Emotional strain, magical fatigue, or even a shift in magical energy. But,” she added, tilting her head slightly, “this does seem unusual. Tell me, Miss Granger, have there been any other symptoms? Any changes in your health?”

Hermione’s breath caught at the question. Her health? She hadn’t given it much thought. Sure, she had been more tired lately, more irritable. The nausea, it had started out as a mild inconvenience but had only gotten worse. But it didn’t seem connected. It couldn’t be. She’d chalked it up to stress, lack of sleep, the overwhelming demands of her work, and her social life.

"I--" Hermione’s voice faltered as her eyes fell to her lap. She didn’t want to sound ridiculous, didn’t want to give away the full extent of her fears. “I’ve been more tired than usual… and, I suppose… a bit nauseous. But I thought it was just stress. I’ve been under a lot of pressure lately.”

The healer nodded, scribbling something on her notepad. “It’s quite possible that stress could be the root of this,” she said. “However, I’d like to run some tests to be sure. Uncontrolled magic is usually a symptom of something deeper. We’ll need to examine both your magical and physical well-being.”

Hermione’s chest tightened, and a lump formed in her throat. She couldn’t help but wonder if there was something they might find that she wasn’t prepared to hear. What if this wasn’t just about magic? What if there was something wrong with her, something she couldn’t fix?

“Is there something… specific you’re looking for?” Hermione asked, her voice small.

The healer met her gaze and smiled, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “We’ll start with a basic magical diagnostic. We’ll need to see how your core magic is responding. But I have a feeling that this is tied to something more specific. Perhaps something tied to you personally, something that may be affecting your magic at a deeper level.”

Hermione’s mind raced. Her magic had always been steady, always been a reflection of her own strength. What could be altering that now?

A soft wave of magic rippled in the room as the healer raised her wand and murmured an incantation. Hermione closed her eyes, trying to steady her breath as she felt the familiar pull of magic swirling around her, though it felt different this time. The energy felt strange, like it was being pulled in several directions at once.

After a few long moments, the healer lowered her wand and looked at Hermione. Her face had shifted slightly, her expression now more serious. “Miss Granger, I have some news,” she began, her voice softer than before. “It seems that the magical disturbances you’ve been experiencing… they’re not random. In fact, they’re tied to something far more specific.”

Hermione’s heart rate quickened. “What do you mean?”

The healer paused, taking a breath before continuing. “You’re pregnant.”

The words hit Hermione like a punch to the gut. She blinked, her mind failing to process the statement at first. "Pregnant?" she repeated, her voice thick and hoarse. The word felt alien, surreal. "That can’t be right. I--"

The healer nodded, her face grave. “I’m afraid it is true. The magic you’re experiencing, the unexplainable occurrences, the nausea, the fatigue are all linked to your pregnancy. It’s already activated a magical bond, and that bond is deeply tied to both you and the child.”

Hermione’s hands trembled as she clutched the arms of her chair. Pregnant? She hadn’t even considered that possibility. The very idea seemed absurd, impossible, a nightmare. Her thoughts spiraled as the room seemed to tilt around her. She hadn’t missed her period, did she? Hadn’t even thought about it. She’d dismissed every symptom as stress, exhaustion, anything but this.

“You’re sure?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. “I didn’t--I wasn’t expecting this. I wasn’t prepared for this.”

The healer nodded again, her face softening in empathy. “I understand this is a lot to take in, but the magical bond between you and the child is already formed. It’s not something that can be easily undone.”

Hermione’s stomach dropped, and a cold sweat broke out along the back of her neck. "I... I can't... I can’t have a child," she whispered, her voice shaking with the weight of the words. "I don’t know how to handle this. It’s not planned. I can’t--I can’t keep it."

The healer’s face turned serious, the sympathy in her eyes now tempered with a warning. “I must be very clear with you, Miss Granger. Terminating this pregnancy is not an option. The child’s magical essence is already tied to you. Attempting to break that bond would set off catastrophic consequences. The child’s potential is tied to an ancient magical bloodline, and any attempt to interfere would trigger a curse, one that would not only affect your magic but could lead to far more dangerous outcomes for both you and the child.”

Hermione felt the weight of the healer’s words settle over her like a heavy cloak. A curse? She couldn’t even begin to fathom what that meant. Her thoughts swirled as her chest tightened with panic. What was she supposed to do now?

The healer’s gaze softened once again, though there was a stern edge to her voice. “There is no simple solution here, Miss Granger. This child is part of something far greater than you realize. The bond is already in place, and there are no safe alternatives to carrying this pregnancy to term. Attempting to terminate it could cost you everything.”

Hermione’s hands clenched into fists at her sides, and she bit back a sob. How was she supposed to face this? How was she supposed to handle something this unimaginable?

The healer’s voice softened as she continued, but the gravity of her words weighed even heavier in the room. Hermione felt as though the world had shifted beneath her feet, and everything she thought she knew had been turned upside down. Her hands were trembling in her lap, but she couldn’t tear her gaze away from the healer.

“There are a few critical things you must understand, Miss Granger,” the healer said gently but firmly, her tone carrying the weight of experience. “First, you are already in your 12th week of pregnancy. While this is still relatively early, the magical bond between you and the child is now very strong. It has already started to affect your magic, and it’s crucial to avoid doing anything that could disturb that connection. Magical interference, especially something as drastic as attempting certain spells or engaging in activities that disrupt the bond, can have disastrous consequences. You must take great care to preserve your magical essence.”

Hermione nodded mutely, trying to take in the enormity of what was happening. Her mind kept racing, and she couldn’t shake the fear gnawing at her chest.

“The child is already tied to your magical core,” the healer continued, her eyes serious. “Anything that could destabilize your magic could affect both you and the fetus. Stress is the most dangerous element. Overexerting yourself, pushing yourself to extremes, whether physically, mentally, or magically will increase the risk of a magical backlash. Your spells could backfire, and it could put undue pressure on the pregnancy. You need to be careful about how you approach your magical work, especially in the coming weeks.”

Hermione swallowed hard, her throat dry. She had never been one to avoid work or responsibility. She had always pushed herself to do the impossible. The thought of stepping back, of slowing down, was almost foreign to her.

“The same applies to your physical health,” the healer went on, her voice softening with a hint of sympathy. “I know you’re a very active person, Miss Granger, but you need to be cautious. No strenuous physical activity, no heavy lifting, no dangerous environments where you could risk injury. Your body needs rest. A lot of it. While it’s perfectly natural to want to keep going, your energy is now being used in a way that you can’t control. Your body is doing a lot of work to sustain this pregnancy, and pushing it beyond its limits could lead to complications.”

The healer paused, watching Hermione closely, as though weighing her next words carefully. “There are also some specific potions and spells that you must avoid, particularly anything that alters your body’s natural balance. Certain healing potions that might normally be fine for you could be dangerous now. They could interfere with the fetus’s development or destabilize the magical bond. And, in your case, it’s important to avoid any form of magical manipulation that could alter the child’s development or the flow of your own magic. Healing magic, especially, needs to be carefully monitored. Only a specialist trained in magical pregnancies should be trusted with that.”

Hermione felt a chill run through her at the mention of potions. She’d worked with dangerous potions before, anything from healing draughts to curse-breaking concoctions and the thought that something as simple as a wrong potion could harm the baby sent a wave of panic through her.

“Lastly,” the healer said softly, “you must avoid any kind of magical termination. I understand the stress of an unplanned pregnancy, but I need to make something very clear. Because of the ancient magic that binds you and this child, termination is not an option. It would cause catastrophic damage to your magical core. You risk losing your own ability to perform magic, possibly forever. The curse tied to such an action would leave permanent scars on your essence, and you would never recover. No healer, no matter their skill, could undo what that would do to you.”

The healer’s expression hardened as she delivered the final warning. “In fact, there are a few other specific things you must avoid. Certain spells and magical actions are no longer safe for you in your current condition. For instance, any spell that creates an overwhelming amount of energy like Confringo or Incendio can destabilize your magic and cause dangerous repercussions. I would advise you to avoid using high-impact spells altogether for now.”

Hermione’s breath caught at the mention of Confringo. She had used it before on curse-breaking missions, and the sheer power of it could be dangerously unpredictable even when you weren’t carrying a child.

“And, though you’re skilled with transfiguration,” the healer continued, “you should refrain from performing advanced transfiguration or any animagus transformations. Those kinds of alterations to your form require a deep connection to your magic and can severely disrupt the child’s magical bond. Even simple transfigurations could become unstable, and the stress could harm both you and the baby.”

Hermione nodded, her mind still reeling, but trying to process everything the healer was saying. She had always relied on her magic to solve problems, to protect herself and those around her. But now, she couldn’t even trust herself.

“There are also potions I must strongly advise you to avoid,” the healer added, her eyes focused intently on Hermione. “Wiggenweld, for example, is a very common healing potion, but it may cause fluctuations in the magical field around you and the child. Potions like Felix Felicis Liquid Luck should also be avoided at all costs. The potion itself is volatile, and even a small dose could cause severe side effects. Do not risk it, Hermione.”

Hermione felt like she was drowning in a sea of warnings, each one pulling her under deeper into the abyss of this unknown situation. Every word seemed to carry more weight than the last.

“You should also avoid using any forms of divination that involve direct magical intervention. I know you’re familiar with crystal gazing or tea leaf readings, but these types of magic are unpredictable and could distort the child’s magical essence.”

The healer paused, allowing Hermione to process the magnitude of it all. “You need to take care of yourself, Miss Granger. Your magic is precious, and so is the child’s magic. Be cautious with every step you take. For now, avoid unnecessary risks. Rest. Let others help you.”

Hermione felt the full weight of her situation crash down on her. Every area of her life, her magic, her work, her daily choices had to change. The healer’s warnings didn’t just change her actions, they changed her identity, her sense of self.

"I... I understand," Hermione whispered, her voice weak. She felt a tremor in her hands, but she forced herself to stand up, taking a deep breath to steady herself.

The healer smiled kindly, though there was a sadness in her eyes. “You will adapt, Miss Granger. It will take time, but you will adapt. And remember, there are resources available to you. If you ever need guidance, don’t hesitate to reach out. We are here to help.”

Hermione nodded absently, her mind in a haze, the healer’s words reverberating through her thoughts like a distant, muffled echo. Each warning, each consequence seemed too much to grasp, too much to absorb. She hadn’t fully understood what had just happened in that office, what had been said, what she was supposed to do. Her legs moved automatically, carrying her out of the healer's office, but she wasn’t truly aware of the path she was walking. The hallways of St. Mungo’s blurred, the voices of passing wizards fading into unintelligible noise.

Her feet moved, but her mind felt like it was somewhere far away, floating just out of reach. Her hands trembled as they gripped the doorframe for support, but she couldn’t remember exactly how she'd gotten here. She barely registered the bustle of the hospital around her, the hurried footsteps, the occasional shout of a healer calling to a colleague, the echo of distant doors slamming shut. Everything felt so distant, so unreal, like she was watching it from behind a foggy window.

She only came back to herself when she heard her name.

“Hermione?”

The voice cut through the fog like a knife. Ginny’s voice, familiar and comforting, but now it felt far too sharp for Hermione’s fragile state. Slowly, her vision began to clear, and she blinked rapidly, trying to focus.

She didn't know what happened but somehow, she was lying on a bed. She was still in St. Mungo's, but the room around her seemed faint, indistinct. The edges of everything were blurry, like she was trying to peer through a veil. Harry was speaking with a healer at the foot of her bed, his voice low and comforting, but it sounded distant, muffled. She couldn’t hear what he was saying.

Then, there was Ginny, sitting beside her, the weight of her presence grounding Hermione in a way nothing else could. Ginny’s face was soft, concern written across it, but it felt like Hermione was a world away from her, unable to reach out.

When Hermione’s eyes met Ginny’s, it was like something inside her snapped. The floodgates opened.

Tears welled up in her eyes before she even realized she was crying. All the uncertainty, the fear, the overwhelming weight of everything that had happened hit her in an instant. Her breath caught in her throat, her chest tightened painfully, and before she could stop it, the tears came, streaming down her face.

Ginny didn’t say a word. She just reached out, pulling Hermione into her arms without hesitation. Hermione buried her face in Ginny’s shoulder, the sobs coming in great, gasping waves, as if her body was trying to release everything it had been holding back. Ginny’s arms were steady, a quiet comfort amidst the chaos of her emotions.

Harry’s voice was still muffled, but Hermione could feel his presence behind her, his steady reassurance as he talked with the healer. Ginny’s warmth enveloped her, a simple, grounding force as Hermione’s world tilted around her.

“I’m here,” Ginny whispered softly into her ear, her voice like a balm against Hermione’s panic. “You’re not alone.”

But the weight of what had happened, the impossible news, the impossible reality of it all, was still there, pressing down on Hermione’s chest. She didn’t know what came next, didn’t know what was going to happen or how to fix any of this. But right now, all she could do was cry, clutching onto the one person who had always been there for her, letting the tears spill as she faced the overwhelming uncertainty that lay ahead.

Chapter Text

Hermione sat alone in her small flat, the soft hum of the quiet night only serving to intensify the loud, chaotic thoughts swirling in her mind. The pregnancy was a reality now, one she couldn't escape, no matter how much she tried. She glanced at the clock, but the hands seemed to blur as she kept shifting her gaze back to the open books before her. They all offered some form of solace or clarity, but none of it made the situation any easier to bear.

Her fingers gripped the edge of her book so tightly her knuckles turned white, and yet, she felt the pages slipping through her grasp, as if they were taunting her with information she didn't want. Her breath quickened as she tried to focus, but the words twisted in front of her eyes. The ink blurred and shifted like the pages were alive, taunting her, dragging her deeper into panic.

She shifted in her seat, legs bouncing nervously under the table, her foot tapping an erratic rhythm. She took a deep breath and let her gaze return to the text, biting down hard on her bottom lip, a nervous habit that did little to calm her thoughts. Her nails dug into the edges of the book's spine as she turned another page, hoping for something that would make this feel more manageable.

"Magical pregnancies," the book read, "often follow a pattern of growth that binds mother and child in unexpected ways. However, in certain bloodlines, the magical connection between the child and mother is far more potent, a result of ancient binding rituals."

The words seemed to swim before her eyes, but she pushed forward, desperate for some clue that could offer her a way out. She'd already spent hours combing through the text, her stomach sinking with every new paragraph, each one adding to the weight of her predicament. Her mind raced with a thousand questions, none of which had an answer.

Her hands shook as she flipped through the pages, muttering quietly to herself. "Please, there has to be something..." She exhaled sharply, not even sure what she was hoping for. A way out, a way to stop this...

As she read further, her brow furrowed, the tension in her shoulders building. Ancient magical traditions, pureblood families, heirs bound by blood magic. The words seemed to jump out at her, each one stabbing at her heart. She couldn't seem to focus long enough to make sense of it, her thoughts racing too fast.

But then, she stumbled upon something that made her freeze. She leaned closer to the old parchment, her fingertips lightly brushing over the faded text. Each word seemed to hum with an unsettling power. She could feel her breath catch in her chest, her pulse quickening as she read. The Soul Binding Charm... It was ancient, archaic, and too specific. And as she read on, a sense of doom settled deep within her.

The Soul Binding Charm, a powerful spell known only to the oldest and most respected pureblood families, was cast to ensure the survival of an heir. Once activated, the charm bound the soul of the child irrevocably to that of the mother, making the connection unbreakable. No force, no matter how great, could sever the bond, and the pregnancy could not be undone. The child, once the binding was in place, was destined to be carried to full term, regardless of the mother's wishes.

Hermione's hands trembled as her eyes flicked to the next section, her breath catching in her throat. Her gaze blurred with the sudden rush of dizziness, the weight of the words almost too much to bear. Her fingers hovered above the page, the pages trembling beneath her touch as her pulse throbbed in her neck.

The magic was powerful and unwavering, designed to preserve bloodlines and protect the continuation of the family name. The child's soul, bound to the mother's, could not be severed. The bond would not allow the pregnancy to fail, no matter what. The child would be protected from harm, carried to full term by the mother's body, and the mother herself would be compelled to protect the pregnancy until the child's birth.

Hermione closed her eyes, trying to process the implications. She felt as though the very air had thickened around her, the weight of what she was reading pressing down on her chest. The ancient magic, cast by the first practitioner-Selene Malvern had been passed down through generations of pureblood families. It was a heritage, an heirloom designed to safeguard the continuation of bloodlines.

Her hands hovered over the page, her heart racing. This wasn't just some obscure spell it was part of a larger tradition, a binding of lives that had been carried through centuries, not requiring any further casting, as the magic was already embedded in the bloodline. 

This was no ordinary pregnancy. The magic, once activated, ensured that no child born of the spell could be lost. The child would grow, and the mother's body would continue to protect it, no matter the circumstances, no matter her own desires. There would be no termination, no way to reverse the process. The soul bond was eternal, unbreakable.

Hermione's chest tightened as the full weight of the reality crashed over her. There was no escaping this, no way to change what was happening inside of her. The magic was already at work, weaving itself into her very soul, connecting her to the child she had never intended to carry.

Her breath hitched. This wasn't just a spell. It was a legacy, passed down through pureblood families for generations. It had been created to protect heirs, to ensure that the bloodlines could never be broken, even if the mother's heart disagreed with the outcome. And now it was hers to bear. The child inside her whether she was ready or not was part of that legacy.

Her hands tightened into fists as the words swam before her eyes. The magical bond was undeniable. The child was hers to carry, whether she wanted it or not. And there was nothing, absolutely nothing, she could do to stop it.

With a soft, despairing sob, Hermione dropped her head into her hands, her fingers clutching at her hair. The room spun around her, the weight of the ancient magic, of the soul bond, pressing down on her chest like a vice. There was no escape. She was bound to this child and to a legacy she hadn't asked for.

The morning light filtered through the curtains of Hermione's flat, but she couldn't bring herself to feel any of the usual comfort in its warmth. Instead, the daylight seemed to mock her. Her exhaustion, the gnawing dread that wouldn't leave her chest. Every little thing felt like an intrusion, from the ticking of the clock to the sound of the kettle bubbling as it warmed up. She tried to focus on her research, but her thoughts kept drifting. The books, though familiar, offered no real solace today. It felt as though she were slowly suffocating beneath the weight of the secret she carried.

She could have stayed there, in her quiet little corner, hidden away from everything. But the walls were closing in, and the uncertainty was eating her alive. With a sharp breath, Hermione shoved the books aside, deciding to venture out. There was still more research to do, more answers she needed to find. It was her only escape from the constant spiral of her thoughts, where Draco's coldness, her own panic, and the unbearable knowledge of her pregnancy collided in a never-ending whirlpool.

As she stepped into Diagon Alley, she moved mechanically, each step feeling heavier than the last. She couldn't even look at the familiar shopfronts without feeling a deep sense of dread. She knew she had to keep moving, though. She needed to immerse herself in something else, anything else. Books. Knowledge. If she could just get a few more volumes, something to ground her in the chaos, maybe she could get through another day.

She was so focused on the titles in front of her, barely noticing the people around her, that she almost didn't catch it. But then, a flash of pale blonde caught her eye.

Draco.

A jolt of panic shot through her chest so violently that she felt like the breath was ripped from her lungs. She froze, her hand gripping the spine of a book, and for one horrifying moment, the world seemed to stop moving. It was him, he was here. He wasn't supposed to be here. Not now, not when she could barely hold it together.

Her heart hammered in her chest as she instinctively stepped back, her eyes wide with terror. Her throat tightened as she tried to swallow down the wave of panic. I can't do this. Not today.

Her mind screamed at her to move, to escape, but her body refused to cooperate. She stood there for a long, tense moment, trying to remain still, to shrink into the background of the alley. She could feel the pulse of fear running through her veins, the overwhelming sensation of being cornered. What if he sees me? What if he talks to me?

Her thoughts were a haze of frantic whispers, pushing her to act before it was too late. Her heart beat too fast, her hands trembling as she suddenly turned away, her feet carrying her toward the nearest Floo Network. She didn't care where it led, she just needed to be far from him. She couldn't face him, not after everything. Not after he left her, distant and cold, with no explanation.

The Floo was the only way out. She grabbed the powder, hands shaking, muttering a destination at random. "Harry and Ginny's flat," she breathed, almost pleading, and the flames consumed her in an instant.

The familiar warmth of Harry and Ginny's flat was a sharp contrast to the cold panic still coursing through her veins. She stumbled out of the Floo, gasping for breath as she landed clumsily on the hearth. Her heart was still racing from the encounter in Diagon Alley, and she felt dizzy with the weight of it all. Her hands shook as she straightened herself, trying to steady her breathing.

She had hoped to escape the overwhelming pressure of facing Draco, but she hadn't expected this kind of escape, this overwhelming sense of being trapped between choices she didn't want to make. She wiped her clammy palms on her trousers, trying to regain some composure, but it wasn't working.

She barely registered the sound of Ginny and Harry talking in the other room until they stopped, and she heard the soft thud of Harry's footsteps approaching. Hermione felt the tears prickle at the back of her eyes, but she refused to let them fall, not here, not in front of them. She swallowed hard, trying to gather herself, but her breath hitched in her chest as her panic bubbled over once more.

Ginny was the first to reach her, her gaze soft and concerned. "Hermione? What's going on?" She gently cupped Hermione's face with her hand, her eyes scanning her for any sign of injury. "You look--Hermione, what happened?"

Hermione opened her mouth to answer, but the words got stuck in her throat. She was shaking, too overwhelmed to speak, and in that moment, all she could do was stand there, frozen and unable to explain the fear she was feeling.

Harry's footsteps were heavy as he moved toward Hermione, his face a mix of concern and barely-contained frustration. He exchanged a brief look with Ginny, then turned his attention back to Hermione. He studied her for a moment, his jaw tight, his eyes narrowed with worry.

"Hermione..." His voice was softer now, but there was still a sharp edge to it. "What's going on? What's really going on?" He paused for a moment, his gaze flickering down to her trembling hands. "We're not idiots. We've seen how you've been, the way you've been pulling away from us. You can't keep doing this to yourself."

Hermione opened her mouth to protest, to tell him it was fine, that she just needed space, but Harry didn't let her. His voice cut through her thoughts with a sharpness that made her freeze.

"No more running, Hermione." His words were quiet, but there was no mistaking the firmness beneath them. "You're staying here, with us. No arguments." Harry's hands balled into fists at his sides. He took a step forward, his frustration bubbling to the surface, though he kept his voice steady. "We're done with this game where you pretend everything's fine while we watch you slowly burn out."

Hermione's heart skipped a beat. His words hit her like a punch to the gut. She hadn't realized how much she'd been pretending how much she'd been hiding from them, from herself. The weight of it all crashed into her, and she felt her resolve falter.

She opened her mouth again, but this time, the words didn't come. She was too exhausted, too drained. The idea of fighting him now seemed impossible.

She sank down onto the couch, her shoulders slumping in defeat. Ginny sat beside her, her touch light but reassuring, and for a moment, Hermione allowed herself to lean into it. Harry stood over them, his presence heavy with unspoken emotions.

"You don't have to tell us everything, Hermione." Harry's voice was quieter now, but there was an undercurrent of anger that made it clear how much this was eating at him. "I respect that you've been keeping your secrets. I get that it's your right, and I've tried to respect that, but I've had enough. I don't give a damn what happened I really don't." He rubbed a hand over his face, trying to rein in the frustration. "What I care about is seeing you tear yourself apart and not doing anything about it."

Hermione's breath hitched as she stared at him, her eyes wide with surprise. What had happened to her own strength?

She opened her mouth again, but no words came out. Instead, her lips trembled, and before she could stop herself, she started to cry. The tears came in quiet, shaking waves, the weight of everything, Draco, her anxiety, the endless pressure finally crashing over her all at once. She didn't try to stop it this time. It felt as though something inside her had broken, and she couldn't hold it together any longer.

Harry's voice softened, but there was still that edge of pent-up emotion. "We were called in to St. Mungo's, Hermione. Do you even remember that? We had to come get you because you dissociated. Do you know how sick we were with worry, not knowing what had happened to you, why you couldn't even tell us? We couldn't even ask you about it because you wouldn't let us in. You wouldn't even let us help."

He paused, taking a step closer. "You can keep your secrets. You can keep whatever happened, whatever this is," he gestured helplessly, "to yourself. But you are not going to destroy yourself over it. I won't stand by and watch you do this to yourself, Hermione. We are not letting you kill yourself with exhaustion. You're not alone in this, and it's time you realize that."

Hermione could feel her chest tightening, the weight of Harry's words sinking deep into her heart. She let herself cry harder now, the tension in her body unraveling with each sob. There was no fighting it anymore. She had hidden herself away from everyone fearing their judgment, fearing rejection but she couldn't hide anymore. She couldn't pretend everything was fine when it so clearly wasn't.

Ginny's arms were around her instantly, holding her tightly, but it was Harry's words that continued to echo in her mind. She hadn't realized how far gone she really was, how much she had shut them out. Her body trembled, and her voice cracked as she whispered between the sobs.

"I don't know what to do, Harry. I can't fix it. I can't keep up..."

Harry stood there, silent for a moment, before he exhaled, the frustration draining from his face as he finally softened. "We'll figure it out, Hermione. You don't have to have all the answers right now." His tone was quieter now, a little gentler, but still resolute. "But you don't have to do this alone. Not anymore."

He hesitated for a brief moment, then added, "You can stay with us. We have plenty of room, and we want to help. You don’t need to go through this by yourself."

Hermione met his gaze, a mix of gratitude and uncertainty in her eyes. She hadn’t realized how much she needed that offer, that assurance. With a quiet nod, she agreed, her voice barely above a whisper. "Thank you, Harry. I… I think that’s exactly what I need right now."

Hermione closed her eyes, feeling the comfort of Ginny's embrace and the unwavering strength of Harry's words. For the first time in weeks, she allowed herself to let go of the fear and the burden. She wasn't alone anymore. And though the road ahead was unclear, for the first time in a long while, she felt like there might be a way through this. 

The warmth of Ginny’s hug lingered in Hermione’s chest, but as the day wore on, reality began to creep back in. The comfort she had briefly found was already starting to fade, slipping away like sand through her fingers. The following morning brought with it a different kind of stillness, one that felt heavier and more oppressive than the day before.

The feeling started as a low, unsettling thrum in Hermione's chest, a flutter of nervous energy that she tried to ignore. It had been building for days, weeks maybe, something she'd brushed off, but now it had festered, spreading until it was too big to contain.

Her breath hitched, sharp and shallow, as she clutched the side of her desk, her nails digging into the wood. The book in front of her blurred into indistinct shapes. The words on the page didn't make sense anymore, the letters swimming as if the ink itself had been corrupted. She pressed a hand to her forehead, trying to steady herself, but her heart was pounding too loudly in her ears, drowning out her thoughts.

Breathe. Focus. You've done this before. It's just stress. It's just exhaustion.

But the words didn't help. They never did. The room seemed to close in around her. The walls grew too tight, too suffocating, and she could feel the air in her lungs, trapped, unable to escape.

Her hands shook as she tried to steady herself, and then before she could stop herself a sharp intake of breath tore out of her. She gasped, the panic rising like an uncontrollable wave, swallowing her whole.

The world around her began to spiral.

A harsh, guttural sob tore from her throat. She couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. The room tilted, and she felt herself falling into a pit of nothingness.

Ginny was the first to hear the distress in Hermione's strangled breathing. She had been upstairs, flicking through a magazine, when she heard a small, strangled sound from below a half-gasp, like someone choking on air.

"Merlin," Ginny muttered under her breath, rushing out of the room and down the stairs. As she rounded the corner into the living room, she froze for a second at the sight of Hermione slumped against the desk, her face pale, eyes wide with panic.

"Hermione!" Ginny rushed to her side, kneeling beside her friend, grabbing her shoulders gently. "What's wrong?"

But Hermione didn't respond. Her eyes were wide, staring at nothing, her breathing ragged and shallow. She clutched at her chest with both hands, her knuckles white, and her lips trembled. Ginny's heart stopped.

No more hesitation. Ginny grabbed Hermione's trembling hands, trying to pull them away from her chest, to get her to focus. "Breathe, Hermione. Come on, focus on me," Ginny urged, but Hermione didn't seem to hear her, her body shaking as if it were being torn apart from the inside.

Ginny's mind raced. I need to get Harry. Now.

She didn't think twice. She sprang to her feet and ran to the kitchen, barely managing to catch Harry's attention before darting back toward Hermione.

"Hermione!" Harry's voice was already sharp with alarm as he followed Ginny into the living room. He took in the scene in an instant, his eyes flashing with panic. "What happened?"

Ginny's breath caught in her throat as she tried to steady herself. "She's not responding, Harry. She's... she's not okay."

"Shit," Harry muttered under his breath, immediately moving toward Hermione. He knelt beside her, cupping her face in his hands, trying to bring her back to the present, to steady her.

Hermione was still trembling violently, her body betraying her as she fought to breathe. Her lips parted in a silent scream, but there was no sound.

"Hermione," Harry said firmly, holding her face as he kept eye contact with her, trying to anchor her. "Focus. Breathe. You're okay, Hermione. We're here."

But nothing worked. She was slipping, and both Ginny and Harry could feel it.

Without another word, Harry scooped Hermione up in his arms, his muscles tense with the weight of the situation. Ginny followed closely behind, her heart pounding in her chest as she rushed to help guide them through the door.

St. Mungo's. Ginny didn't need to think twice. She had no idea what was wrong with Hermione, but she was terrified that they were running out of time.

The ride through the Floo network was chaotic. Hermione's body was still limp in Harry's arms, and Ginny had to force herself to focus on the destination. Her heart raced what had happened to her best friend? What had caused this sudden breakdown?

At St. Mungo's, they rushed through the corridors, a blur of healers and frantic staff directing them to an empty treatment room. Ginny's breath came in sharp gasps as they entered, and the healers immediately went to work, assessing Hermione's condition with practiced urgency.

Ginny stood at Hermione's side, her hand hovering over her friend's, helpless, afraid. She watched as the healers moved quickly to settle Hermione on the bed, casting calming spells, administering potions, and keeping a watchful eye. But Hermione was still a ghost, distant, disconnected, her face pale and drawn.

"Can you get her to respond?" one of the healers asked, but Harry and Ginny were both too scared to offer any answers. Ginny could feel her heart sinking into her stomach.

"I don't know," Ginny said, her voice small. "She hasn't been herself for weeks. But... this is worse. Something's... wrong."

Harry stood at the end of the bed, his hands clenched at his sides, his face pale. He glanced between the healers and Ginny, his mind racing with a thousand questions.

"Don't worry," the healer said, offering a small, reassuring smile. "We'll stabilize her. It's not uncommon for someone to become overwhelmed when dealing with emotional stress. We just need to get her calm."

Ginny nodded, though the fear gnawing at her chest wouldn't let up. She squeezed Hermione's hand gently, speaking quietly, "Come on, Hermione. Please. We're here. You're safe now."

As Hermione's breathing slowly began to steady, Ginny sat by her side, her fingers lightly brushing through Hermione's hair. Her heart ached with each passing second. What's really happening? She had a thousand theories running through her mind, but none of them made sense.

Ginny wanted to know what Hermione was hiding what had been going on in her life for the last few weeks. She could feel the weight of the silence between them like a heavy fog, pressing down on her chest. Hermione had been so distant, so withdrawn. She'd never seen her like this before.

Ginny's mind reeled back to the earlier moments, when Hermione had been on the verge of tears, gasping for air. There was something deeply troubling about the way Hermione was acting, something far beyond the surface. Ginny wanted to know the truth, wanted to understand what was tearing her friend apart.

But Hermione didn't speak. She didn't meet her eyes. She was lost in herself, wrapped in a shell of distress that Ginny couldn't break through.

And yet... Ginny stayed, her heart aching for the girl she loved like a sister.

Finally, after what felt like hours, Hermione's breathing began to even out. Her eyes fluttered open, her gaze still unfocused, but she was there, at least partially. She blinked slowly, confusion clouding her features.

Ginny's hand was still holding hers, and she squeezed it gently. "Hermione?" she whispered, her voice tentative. "Can you hear me?"

Hermione's lips trembled, and for a brief moment, her eyes focused, just enough to meet Ginny's. But there was no recognition, just a foggy, distant look that barely registered anything around her.

"I don't know what to do..." Hermione's voice was a rasp, so soft that Ginny had to lean in closer to hear her. "I can't... carry this. I can't do this."

Ginny's throat tightened. What was she talking about?

Before she could respond, the light in Hermione's eyes flickered and faded again, as if a veil had been drawn over her mind once more. She fell silent, her gaze drifting away again.

Ginny's heart shattered for her. Whatever Hermione was going through, it was more than Ginny could see. More than anyone could understand.

Hermione's head felt heavy as she stepped out of St. Mungo's, the sharp scent of antiseptic still lingering in her nose. The faint hum of the hospital seemed like a distant memory, but the overwhelming pressure in her chest was all too real. Harry and Ginny flanked her, both of them silent but unyielding in their presence, each supporting her in their own way.

They hadn't left her side since they'd rushed her to the hospital Ginny staying close, offering soft reassurances while Harry worked with the healers, determined not to let Hermione face this alone. Now, as they walked back into the safety of their flat, the familiarity of the space did little to ease the knot in her stomach.

It had been a blur of emotions since everything started unraveling the panic attacks, the dissociation, the near-constant barrage of confusion and fear. Now, sitting on the couch in the quiet warmth of their living room, she couldn't escape the reality of the situation. She was overwhelmed, but most of all, she was terrified.

Harry and Ginny made her a cup of tea, the warm scent of chamomile lingering in the air as Hermione stared at the swirling liquid in her mug. They hadn't pushed her to talk yet, giving her the space she so desperately needed. But she knew it wouldn't last.

The next morning, Hermione sat quietly on the edge of the couch, her hands folded tightly in her lap, eyes cast downward. The dim light of the late afternoon filtered through the curtains, casting long shadows on the walls. The quiet hum of the world outside seemed distant, muffled by the thick silence in the room. She felt like a tightly wound knot, her insides a storm of uncertainty, too afraid to breathe too deeply for fear she might break.

Ginny sat beside her, close but not crowding, her own gaze soft but unwavering. She didn't rush Hermione, didn't ask more than she could give. But she could see it Hermione was on the edge, and Ginny couldn't let her stay there, couldn't watch her slowly unravel in silence. It had been a long few days, but today felt like a turning point, the weight of Hermione's secret pressing too heavily for it to stay buried much longer.

"I know you're scared," Ginny said, her voice low, warm. She gently placed her hand on Hermione's arm, offering comfort through simple touch. "But you don't have to carry this alone, Hermione. You don't have to keep this to yourself, not anymore."

Hermione squeezed her eyes shut, taking in a shaky breath, trying to steady herself. The air felt thick, like the space between them was closing in. She wanted to say something, to explain, but words caught in her throat. She had been running from this conversation for so long. Running from the truth. But the weight of her fear was becoming too much to handle.

"I'm not... ready to talk about it yet," Hermione whispered, her voice breaking as the words stumbled out. Her body tensed as if bracing for impact, and she tugged her hands tighter into her lap, as if the action could hold everything together.

Ginny's eyes softened, but her expression was determined. She leaned forward slightly, her hand still on Hermione's arm, and she spoke gently, but with an intensity that Hermione couldn't ignore. "I know you're not. And I won't push you to share more than you can right now, but I'm here. And I need you to know... I'm not going anywhere. I can see it in your eyes, Hermione. I can feel how heavy this is for you. And I just... I don't want you to carry it alone anymore."

Hermione's lips trembled, her chest tightening as the truth she had been desperately hiding began to creep to the surface. The thought of sharing it, of exposing her pain, felt like standing on a cliff, a leap of faith into a chasm she wasn't sure she could survive.

"I just... I don't want to be a burden, Ginny," Hermione choked out, her voice barely above a whisper. "I don't want to burden anyone with this... I don't know what to do, and I don't know if I can do this on my own. It's just all too much. Too much for me to handle."

Ginny's voice softened further, full of compassion but firm in her conviction. "You're not a burden, Hermione. And you don't have to handle this alone. Not now. Not ever. I'm here for you, Harry's here for you, we're all here. But you have to let us in. You can't keep carrying this alone, love."

Hermione closed her eyes, tears prickling at her lashes. She felt exposed, fragile, like the walls she had so carefully built to protect herself were crumbling. And yet, despite her fear, despite the storm inside her, Ginny's words were like a lifeline. It was the comfort of being seen, truly seen, and the safety of knowing that someone was there, not to judge, but to help her carry it.

There was a long pause before Hermione spoke again, her voice trembling as she finally let the words spill from her lips, thick with emotion. "I'm pregnant," she whispered, the weight of the confession hanging in the air, heavy and final.

Ginny's hand on her arm tightened, but it wasn't a grip of shock or panic, it was one of quiet understanding, of connection. Her gaze softened, no judgment, just warmth and concern. She didn't rush to speak, didn't try to fill the silence with words. Instead, she let Hermione feel the truth of her support, letting the space between them settle in a quiet understanding.

After a moment, Ginny's voice was soft, but there was a careful, gentle probing in her tone. "Is it Malfoy's?"

Hermione's body stiffened at the question. Her heart skipped, and a rush of nausea flooded her senses. The thought of Draco, of that night, swirled in her mind, a memory she wasn't ready to confront. She pressed her palms harder against her legs, trying to hold herself together.

Her words came out slow, tentative. "Yes," she whispered, the confession hanging between them. It felt like another heavy weight, like admitting it made it real. Made it something she couldn't undo.

Ginny stayed silent for a long moment, letting it sink in, her eyes not leaving Hermione's face. She didn't look shocked, didn't recoil. She just looked at her friend, with a mixture of concern and compassion. Her hand gently squeezed Hermione's arm again, the warmth of it grounding Hermione in the moment.

When Ginny spoke, it was with quiet understanding, her voice full of care. "I know this isn't easy. I know you're terrified. But Hermione... you don't have to make every decision right now. You don't have to figure it all out in this moment. But you do need to think about Draco. He deserves to know. You can't carry this alone. Not when it involves him too. You can't decide everything for both of you without giving him a chance to choose."

Hermione flinched at the thought. The idea of facing Draco, of telling him about this, about what had happened, was paralyzing. Her throat tightened, and she felt her chest constrict. The fear of rejection, of him turning away from her and the child, was suffocating.

"I can't... I can't tell him, Ginny," Hermione whispered, her voice raw with emotion. "What if he doesn't want this? What if he... what if he doesn't care?"

Ginny shifted closer, her eyes full of empathy, but her words were firm. "You don't know what he'll say unless you give him the chance. You're scared, I get that, but you can't shut him out of this. It's his child too. And you don't have to handle it alone."

Hermione's voice broke, her fears crashing against her resolve. "I'm afraid. I'm afraid he'll hate me. I'm afraid he'll turn away. And I don't know if I can take that."

Ginny's gaze softened even more, her voice gentle but insistent. "Hermione, you can't make that decision for him. You have to let him be a part of this if he wants to. It's not just about you. You don't get to decide everything for him. And it's not fair to carry this by yourself, not when it's his child too."

Hermione's hands trembled in her lap, and for a moment, she didn't know whether to cry or scream. The weight of everything, the secret, the fear, the uncertainty felt crushing. But Ginny's steady presence beside her anchored her in a way that was hard to explain. Slowly, the tension in her chest began to ease, if only slightly.

"I don't want to be alone in this," Hermione admitted quietly, her voice breaking under the weight of the admission. "I don't want to face it alone, Ginny."

Ginny leaned in, her voice soft but resolute. "And you won't be. Not if you let us help you. Not if you let Malfoy have a chance to be a part of this."

Hermione's gaze drifted down, her thoughts still clouded with fear, but she knew Ginny was right. She couldn't hide forever. And the truth was... Draco had a right to know. He had a right to be a part of this. She just wasn't sure if she was strong enough to take that first step.

As Ginny left, her words hung in the air. Hermione was left alone, but for the first time in a long while, the weight of her decision didn't feel as heavy. There was a small flicker of possibility, a quiet hope that maybe, just maybe, she wouldn't have to face this all alone.

But the fear still gripped her. And the road ahead seemed unclear. Still, deep down, Hermione knew she had to talk to Draco.

She wasn't sure when, or how, but she had to.

A  few days after the conversation with Ginny, Hermione found herself pacing back and forth in the living room of Harry and Ginny's flat, unable to sit still for more than a few moments at a time. The space, once comforting, felt like a cage now, each step echoing off the walls, her mind spinning in a whirlwind of fear, guilt, and overwhelming uncertainty. The reality of her pregnancy was settling in, and with that came the crushing weight of responsibility. She wasn't ready for this, she hadn't even begun to wrap her head around the idea of becoming a mother, let alone facing Draco.

The thought of telling him gnawed at her insides, twisting with dread. What if he rejected her? What if he didn't care about her, or the baby, or anything at all? She could barely breathe, the anxiety making her chest tight and her thoughts scatter. But the pressure, the constant, suffocating weight, wouldn't leave her alone. She had to face it. She had to make a decision. But she didn't know where to start.

As she rounded the room for what felt like the hundredth time, she jumped slightly when the door to the living room opened. Harry stepped inside, his brow furrowed with concern. He'd been watching her for days now, noticing the changes, how she barely ate, how she kept to herself more, how she paced around like a prisoner in her own thoughts. He had been patient, but now it seemed like the moment had come to confront whatever was causing this turmoil.

"Harry," she said, almost too quickly, too sharply, as if hoping he would leave her to her thoughts.

But Harry didn't leave. Instead, his expression softened, and he took a step closer, his gaze steady but kind. "Ginny hasn't told me what's going on, Hermione. She said it was up to you to tell me when you're ready. But I'm seeing how much you're struggling. Please, talk to me."

The words hung in the air, and for a moment, Hermione couldn't speak. She felt exposed, vulnerable. She had tried to keep this all locked inside, but it was eating her alive. The anxiety, the fear, the shame it was too much to keep hidden.

Finally, Hermione's breath caught, and she stood there, her hands trembling at her sides, unsure if she could even bring herself to speak the words. The silence between them was thick with expectation, with the weight of the truth that she had been holding onto for so long. The pressure in her chest built, and she could feel the sting of tears threatening to spill once more.

She opened her mouth to speak, but no sound came out. She swallowed hard, her heart racing. How would he react? What would he think of her?

Her voice, when it finally came, was barely a whisper, hoarse with the strain of holding everything inside. "I'm pregnant, Harry." She paused, the words sitting heavily in the air between them. She could feel Harry's eyes on her, searching for understanding, for something. But she couldn't bring herself to meet his gaze.

She took a deep breath, her chest tight, and continued, her voice faltering, barely audible. "And... it's Malfoy's."

The words hung in the air, the confession slipping out of her with an almost painful hesitance. She flinched as she said his name, as if the mention of Draco's name might make everything worse. Her heart was pounding in her chest, the fear of judgment, of rejection, flooding her with waves of panic.

She immediately regretted saying it. The words tasted bitter in her mouth. The truth felt like a betrayal, a shameful secret that had now spilled into the open, too late to take back. Her eyes welled with tears, and she couldn't look at Harry. How could she, when she was sure he would see her as a traitor? A hypocrite? She'd spent years fighting Draco, trying to get over the bitterness of their shared past, and now, now this.

Harry took a step closer to her, his eyes softening as he gently asked, "Why didn't you tell me sooner? Why now?"

The question hit her like a punch to the gut. Her chest constricted, and her throat tightened painfully. She'd been holding onto the truth for so long, and now that she was faced with it, she couldn't hold it in anymore. The tears she had been fighting to keep hidden for days finally broke free.

"I didn't want to tell you like this," she whispered, her voice trembling. "I didn't know how... how to even say it. I thought you'd think I was weak, that you'd be disappointed in me for--" Her throat tightened again, choking on the words that felt impossible to say. "For... for being with him."

Hermione collapsed onto the couch, her hands covering her face as sobs wracked her body. The flood of emotions she had been suppressing came rushing out, uncontrollable. She felt weak, exposed, and small. Harry stood there for a moment, unsure of how to approach, his face full of concern. He had seen her break down before, but this was different. This was something deeper, something she'd been hiding for far too long.

She wiped her eyes with trembling hands, her voice cracking as she struggled to speak between sobs. "I thought you'd see me as a traitor, Harry. I... I thought you would hate me for... for sleeping with Draco Malfoy. After everything he did to you, to Ron, to all of us... How could I ever explain that? How could I ever face you knowing what I'd done?"

Harry's heart clenched at her words. He could see now just how much fear and guilt she was carrying. It was like she had built this wall around herself, convinced that everyone would judge her for something she had never planned to happen. Hermione had always been the strong one, the logical one, the one who helped them through every crisis. But now, she was broken in a way that he hadn't expected.

"Hermione," Harry said softly, sitting down beside her and reaching out to place a hand on her shoulder. "You're not a traitor. You didn't do anything wrong. I can't speak for how Malfoy treated me, how he treated all of us. But this is about you, and what you need right now. What you're going through. This isn't about the past, or what happened before. This is your life, your choice."

Hermione's sobs quieted slightly, but her body still shook with emotion. She leaned into Harry's touch, unable to hold back the anguish that had been buried for so long. "I was so afraid, Harry. I didn't want you to think less of me, to see me as weak or stupid. Malfoy is the last person I ever thought I'd be involved with, and now this... I can't even believe it myself."

Harry squeezed her shoulder gently, his voice steady. "You're not weak. And you're not stupid, Hermione. We all have our reasons for the things we do, and none of us are perfect. But what you're going through, this is not something you need to face alone."

Hermione's mind raced with everything Harry had said, but there was one thing that lingered in her heart, the fear that Draco wouldn't be there, that he wouldn't care about this child or about her. The thought of telling him terrified her more than anything.

"How am I supposed to tell him, Harry? How can I face him after everything that's happened?" Her voice cracked once more, and her hands clenched in her lap. "I'm so scared of what he'll say, what he'll do. What if he doesn't want this? What if he doesn't even care?"

Harry gave her a small, reassuring smile. "You're not alone in this. You never have been, Hermione. You've always had us, me, Ginny, Ron. And if Malfoy is the father, you don't have to carry this burden on your own. You owe it to yourself, and to the baby, to give him the chance to be part of it. But you're not alone. Not ever."

Hermione's heart ached at the thought of confronting Draco. The idea of telling him terrified her, but Harry's words gave her a sliver of hope. Maybe, just maybe, she wasn't as alone in this as she'd convinced herself she was.

Later that night, after another sleepless, restless night, Hermione found herself lying awake, staring at the ceiling. The weight of the decision she had to make hung over her like a dark cloud, but something inside her had shifted. She couldn't keep hiding, couldn't keep running from the truth. She knew Harry was right, she couldn't face this alone. It was time to take the first step, no matter how terrifying it was.

With a deep breath, Hermione made a decision. She would tell Draco. It wouldn't be easy, and it wouldn't be painless, but she had to try. For the baby. For herself. And maybe, just maybe, for the chance to make something out of the wreckage.

Chapter Text

Hermione sat on the couch, a small but welcome feeling of comfort settling over her as she listened to Ginny and Harry chatting quietly in the kitchen. The gentle hum of the house, the soft clinks of dishes, and the warmth of the fire crackling in the hearth made it easy to pretend for a while that the world outside didn’t exist.

Ginny had insisted she stay with them for a while longer, saying it would be better if she wasn’t alone right now. Hermione was hesitant at first, but after a few days of staying with the Potters, she was beginning to feel a bit more at ease. She knew it was their way of making sure she was okay, physically and mentally but it helped to have the familiar, supportive presence of her best friends.

“Alright, I’m making you something to eat,” Ginny called from the kitchen. “Something easy, and full of good stuff.”

Hermione managed a small smile. “I’m not really hungry, Gin. I’m okay.”

Ginny peeked her head around the corner, eyes soft with concern. “Don’t argue with me, Hermione. It’s good to eat even if you’re not starving. Trust me.”

Harry entered the room then, carrying a tray with a simple salad, some sliced fruit, and a small bowl of soup. His usual easygoing expression was replaced by a more thoughtful look, and he placed the food in front of Hermione gently, as if he wasn’t sure how to approach the subject of her not eating.

“I thought this might be a bit lighter,” he said, careful, his tone quiet. “Just... if you’re feeling up to it. It’s good for you.”

Hermione glanced at the food, touched by the subtle care. She picked up a spoon, hesitating for a moment before taking a small bite. “Thanks, Harry. I appreciate it.”

Ginny sat down next to her, squeezing her shoulder comfortingly. “You know we’re here for you, right? Whatever you decide, whatever happens, we’ll help you through it.”

Hermione nodded, her throat tightening. It felt so good to hear the words, but the weight of what she was carrying, physically and emotionally felt like it would never let up.

“I just… don’t know how to tell Malfoy,” Hermione admitted quietly, her fingers fidgeting with the edge of her napkin. “I don’t even know what I’m going to do. I haven’t even made up my mind about this… I don’t know what’s right.”

Harry gave her a careful look, his eyes soft but searching. “You don’t have to decide everything right away. And you don’t have to tell Malfoy anything until you’re ready. Whatever you do, you don’t have to do it alone.”

Ginny nodded. “Exactly. We’re not going anywhere, Hermione. You don’t have to have all the answers yet.”

Hermione’s gaze drifted toward the window, her mind spinning. The thought of telling Draco terrified her, but the idea of facing the situation without knowing how he’d react. it left her feeling trapped in a limbo. She could feel the pressure of his legacy pressing down on her even now.

“The thing is, Ginny, Harry,” Hermione said after a long pause, her voice low. “It’s not just about me. It’s about everything this child might mean... not just for me, but for Malfoy. I don’t know how to navigate that. How do I even begin to explain it?”

Harry shifted his weight, his expression a mix of concern and care. He leaned against the wall, crossing his arms, choosing his words carefully. “It’s not about how you begin to explain it, Hermione. It’s about when you feel ready to, and you’ll do it in your own time. We’re not rushing you. Just... remember we’re here to listen. Whenever you’re ready.”

Ginny reached out, giving Hermione’s hand a gentle squeeze. “You don’t have to face Malfoy alone, either. You know we’ll be right there beside you, no matter what happens next.”

Hermione closed her eyes for a moment, letting their words sink in. The warmth from their support felt like a balm to her frazzled nerves. Still, the weight of the decision ahead loomed over her. The healer’s warning echoed in her mind "Attempting to terminate it could cost you everything" and she couldn’t shake the feeling that there were forces at play here that she didn’t fully understand.

Ginny tilted her head, looking at Hermione with a kind, knowing expression. “You don’t have to carry this alone, Hermione. Whatever you decide, we’ll support you. But you have to take it step by step, okay? One thing at a time.”

“I know,” Hermione said softly, her voice barely above a whisper. “I’m trying.”

There was a long pause, and Harry broke it gently. “And, you know, if there’s anything you need food, space, or just to talk don’t hesitate. You’ve got us.”

Hermione gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. “I just don’t want anyone to worry about me. I feel like I’m stuck between so many things, and I don’t know how to handle it all yet.”

The morning sunlight gently filtered through the kitchen window, casting a soft, golden glow over the room. Hermione, wrapped in a thick woolen blanket, sat curled up on the couch, sipping her tea slowly. The warmth of the mug felt comforting, and the familiar hum of the house, Harry and Ginny's voices from the kitchen, the crackle of the fire was almost enough to make her forget the weight of everything pressing down on her.

She closed her eyes, just for a moment, trying to soak in the peace. It was fleeting, but it was enough.

"Morning!" Ginny's voice rang out cheerfully from the front door, breaking the silence. “I’ll be right back, just grabbing the paper."

Hermione didn’t look up. She was still lost in her thoughts, her mind wandering between a thousand different worries. But then, a few minutes later, Ginny returned with the Daily Prophet in hand, her expression unreadable at first.

Hermione didn’t notice it immediately, but when Ginny’s face hardened, her brows drawn in an unreadable frown, Hermione looked up.

“Ginny?”

Ginny didn’t respond right away. The sound of paper crinkling filled the room as she continued reading. Then, there was a loud intake of breath.

Hermione felt a sinking feeling in her chest. She looked up, meeting Ginny’s eyes as the paper was handed to her.

The headline hit Hermione like a physical blow.

"Granger's Shocking Pregnancy: Ron Weasley’s Ex Fiancée Expecting; Is This Her New Start or Desperate Attempt to Win Public Favor?" By Rita Skeeter

Ginny began reading aloud before Hermione could even react: “In an unexpected turn of events, former Ministry official Hermione Granger, who has been making headlines recently after her highly publicized breakup with Ron Weasley, is now pregnant. Though Granger has yet to confirm the father, many are speculating that the child belongs to none other than her former fiancé, Weasley, with whom she has been on-and-off for years. Despite their recent separation, the news has raised questions about Granger’s motives, has she become so desperate for public favor that she’s willing to use a child to repair her image?”

Hermione’s breath caught in her throat as the article continued.

“Sources close to Granger claim that the breakup with Weasley, after a decade-long relationship, was emotionally charged and left many questioning Granger’s character. Some are suggesting that this pregnancy, while undeniably significant, may be part of a larger attempt to win back sympathy from the public. Despite her prestigious career in the Ministry, Granger’s tendency to burn bridges and switch allegiances has led many to view her as unpredictable, and this shocking revelation only serves to further complicate the story of a woman whose motives are always questioned.”

Hermione’s hands trembled as she held the paper. Her vision blurred, and the words on the page seemed to swirl together into a confusing mess. Panic gripped her chest like a vice.

“No,” Hermione whispered, her voice breaking. “No, no, no… this can’t be happening.”

Her breathing became shallow, her pulse racing. She felt as if the walls were closing in on her, her chest constricting with every breath she took. She grabbed for the edge of the blanket, trying to steady herself, but it wasn’t enough.

Ginny's face flushed with anger as she watched Hermione’s frantic panic, but her first instinct wasn’t to lash out. Instead, she dropped to her knees in front of her, her hands gripping Hermione’s shoulders firmly, trying to ground her. “Breathe, Hermione. Breathe. Focus on me.”

But Hermione couldn’t. The world felt too small, too suffocating, and her thoughts were jumbled with the weight of the article. The words desperate, unpredictable, emotionally charged stuck in her throat, making it impossible to think straight. She had never expected her private life to be torn apart like this. This was supposed to be hers to control. But now... it was public, it was in the paper, and she couldn’t escape it.

“How… How did they--who--who told them?!” she gasped, clutching her chest, trying to catch her breath. “This was supposed to be private! My life--my body--how could they do this to me?”

Ginny's jaw was clenched, her eyes filled with fire as she stood up. “I’ll kill whoever did this. They have no right to twist your life into a public spectacle like this.” She was shaking with fury, her fists clenched tightly by her sides.

Hermione barely heard her. Her mind was racing, her body trembling with the panic that threatened to overwhelm her. The article, no, the lie was far more than a betrayal of privacy. It twisted her very being, painting her as someone desperate to regain public sympathy, as if she were using her pregnancy as a ploy to fix her shattered image.

As Hermione continued to struggle to breathe, Harry stormed into the room, the sound of his boots hitting the floor with heavy steps. His eyes instantly locked onto the crumpled paper in Hermione’s hands, and he knew before he even saw the words. He was no stranger to Rita Skeeter’s venomous pens. But this, this was beyond even her usual manipulation.

He crossed the room quickly, taking the paper from Hermione's shaking hands with a fierce, almost violent motion. His jaw was tight, his brow furrowed, as he scanned the article, his face turning a deep shade of red. His eyes burned with barely contained rage.

“This is bloody ridiculous,” he snarled, his voice low and dangerous. “Ron Weasley’s ex-fiancée? That’s how she’s framing it now? This is a goddamn disaster.”

Ginny’s anger matched his, but she was still focused on Hermione, her hands running soothingly over her friend’s arms, trying to help her find her breath. “It’s not Ron’s, Harry. We both know it’s not. This is bullshit. And whoever thought this was a good idea…” Ginny trailed off, her fists still clenched.

Harry threw the paper onto the table with a sharp motion, his eyes blazing as he turned toward the door. “I’m going to find out who did this. I swear to Merlin, they will regret it.”

He turned back to Hermione, his face softening for just a moment as he met her eyes. “We’ll figure this out. I’m not letting them get away with this.”

Hermione was barely able to nod, the panic still coursing through her. The idea of being painted as someone desperate to win favor, someone manipulative, it was suffocating. She felt like her entire life was spinning out of control, and there was nothing she could do to stop it.

But Harry’s words, his fury, gave her a small measure of comfort. He was going to help her. They would find out who had done this. But the feeling of violation, the utter helplessness that had taken root in her chest would take time to shake.

Harry’s footsteps grew faint as he walked out of the house, his mind already racing with the need to track down whoever had tipped Rita Skeeter. The anger that had been bubbling since he’d read the article was now an unrelenting fire. Harry had known Hermione wasn’t ready for the world to know, and certainly not in the way the Daily Prophet had presented it. He wasn’t going to let whoever had taken it upon themselves to invade her privacy get away with it.

“I’ll be back soon,” he muttered to Ginny, his voice tight with rage. “I’ll find out who did this.”

Ginny’s gaze softened, but the worry in her eyes didn’t lessen. “Be careful, Harry,” she replied, watching him go.

The moment the door clicked shut behind Harry, Hermione slumped further into the couch, her breaths still shallow, her hands trembling. The panic had taken over again, each deep breath only making her feel more suffocated. The world knew, and the one person she hadn’t told yet, Draco, was now going to find out the wrong way. Worse, Ron would have to know too, even though the article had painted him as the father when it was not even close to the truth.

“I haven’t even told him, Ginny!” Hermione whispered, the dread and panic threatening to choke her. “I haven’t even told Malfoy... And now this... now it’s all out there. The world thinks it’s Ron’s! It’s not his! Why would they say that?”

Ginny sat next to her, her anger simmering under the surface, but it was not the time for that. Hermione needed her calm, steady presence. “Breathe, Hermione. One step at a time. I know it feels like everything is falling apart, but you’re not alone in this.”

But before Hermione could respond, the familiar sound of the Floo flared to life, and the green flames swirled in the hearth. Ginny stood up, her face full of confusion. Hermione, however, froze, her stomach twisting. She recognized the voice that followed.

“Ginny?” Ron’s voice rang out, louder than usual, a mix of confusion and something else that was quickly turning into anger. Ginny turned toward the hearth as Ron stepped through, his face flushed with anger. But there was something else, shock, when he saw Hermione sitting in the living room.

His eyes widened for a moment, as he looked around, surprised to see Hermione sitting with Ginny. He hadn’t known she was staying here. But his shock quickly turned into fury as he strode forward, the Daily Prophet clutched tightly in his hands.

“What is this, Hermione?” Ron spat, his voice rising with each word. “How could you keep this from me? This child, this is my child, isn’t it? Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you tell me you were pregnant?”

Hermione’s heart skipped a beat, the fear creeping up her spine as she sat frozen, unable to respond. She had known this moment was inevitable, but now that it was here, she felt paralyzed.

Ron slammed the newspaper onto the table in front of her, pointing at the headline. “Hermione Granger, former Ministry official, pregnant with child.  What the hell is this, Hermione? You can’t just--”

Hermione opened her mouth to speak, to explain the truth, but no words came. Her throat tightened, the weight of the situation too heavy to bear. How could she tell him now, after everything he had said? She couldn’t lie, but telling him the truth was too complicated.

“I had a right to know, Hermione!” Ron continued, his voice thick with hurt and frustration. “We were supposed to be getting back together, and now I find out like this? I thought this was going to be a new start for us! Why didn’t you tell me? We could have figured this out together. You’re carrying my child, Hermione. Why didn’t you trust me enough to tell me the truth?”

The words hit Hermione like a physical blow. The assumptions, the anger in his voice, it made her feel trapped, as if the entire world was pressing in on her.

Ginny stepped forward, her tone more forceful than usual as she positioned herself between Ron and Hermione, a protective wall for her friend. “Ron,” she said, her voice sharp. “This is not the time or the place for this. Hermione doesn’t owe you anything right now. You can’t just barge in here and accuse her. She’s processing everything that’s happening right now.”

Ron’s face twisted with frustration. “I’m not just some afterthought, Ginny!” His voice cracked slightly with the emotion. “I deserve to know the truth. If that’s my baby, then I need to know! How could she hide this from me?”

Ginny met Ron’s eyes, her own temper flaring. “You need to back off, Ron. Hermione’s been through a lot. You can’t just force answers out of her like this. It’s not fair.”

Ron stepped back, jaw tight, looking between the two women, clearly fuming but not knowing how to react. “I just--I can’t believe this,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. “I thought we were going to be a family. I thought you were going to tell me.”

Hermione didn’t know how to respond. She couldn’t tell him the truth, not yet. Everything in her screamed to tell him, to finally say it, but the words stuck in her throat, twisted up in guilt and fear.

Ginny, seeing Hermione break under the pressure, turned to Ron again, her voice softer but no less firm. “You can’t do this to her, Ron. She’ll talk to you when she’s ready. But right now, you need to give her some space.”

Ron seemed to hesitate for a moment, clearly torn between his anger and concern. But his frustration won out as he muttered one last, defeated, “I’ll be back. This isn’t over, Hermione.”

And with that, he turned and stormed out, the door slamming behind him.

Hermione slumped back against the couch, the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding finally escaping her lips in a shaky exhale. She couldn’t stop the tears from falling. She was still trembling, her mind spinning, her heart aching from the weight of everything that had just happened.

Ginny immediately moved to her side, sitting down next to her and pulling Hermione close. “I’m so sorry, Hermione,” she whispered softly. “You don’t deserve this. You don’t deserve any of it.”

But Hermione could barely hear her. The flood of emotions was overwhelming, and all she could think about was the look on Ron’s face, the accusations he had thrown at her, the way he’d assumed everything would go according to his plan. And now, with the whole world knowing her secret, she didn’t know how to face anyone, especially Draco.

Ginny continued to comfort her, rubbing her back, doing her best to ease the panic that hadn’t let go of Hermione’s chest. “We’ll get through this. One step at a time. You’re not alone, Hermione. We’ll figure it out together.”

But in that moment, Hermione felt more alone than ever. She didn’t know where to start, how to fix this mess. And worst of all, she didn’t know how to tell Draco.

Hermione sat there, her head spinning, her body trembling with exhaustion. She could feel the weight of the world pressing down on her, suffocating her. The Daily Prophet article, Ron’s accusation, the pregnancy—it was all too much, too soon. Her heart pounded painfully in her chest as the reality of it all crashed down on her. She had never imagined things would spiral this quickly. She hadn’t even told Draco yet, and now the entire wizarding world was drawing conclusions for her.

Tears welled up in her eyes, unbidden, and she let out a strangled sob, her hands trembling as she gripped the edge of the couch. The floodgates opened, and her shoulders shook with the force of her sobs. It was too overwhelming. Everything about it felt like a tidal wave, pulling her under, and she couldn’t find a way to breathe.

Ginny, sitting beside her, quickly wrapped an arm around Hermione, pulling her into a comforting embrace. “Hey, hey,” Ginny whispered, rubbing her back soothingly as Hermione’s sobs wracked her body. “It’s okay. I’m here. You’re not alone.”

But Hermione couldn’t stop herself. She was drowning in the enormity of the situation, the fear of telling Draco, the worry over how to navigate the mess that was her life now. The way Ron had barged in, accusing her, assuming the worst, it felt like everything she had worked so hard to keep private had been ripped away, exposed to the entire world. How could she face Draco when everything was already spiraling out of control?

“I can’t... I can’t do this,” Hermione gasped, her voice breaking. “It’s all too much. I haven’t even told him yet, Ginny. I haven’t even told Malfoy...” Her words were rushed and panicked, as if the mere thought of telling him made her chest tighten with dread. “How am I supposed to face him now? After everything? The world knows, but I haven’t even had the chance to explain. And now... now he’ll think I kept it from him, that I was hiding it, and I don’t know how to fix it.”

Ginny held her tighter, her grip firm, offering warmth and stability in the storm of Hermione’s emotions. “You have to tell him, Hermione,” Ginny said softly but firmly, her voice steady with quiet determination. “You can’t keep running from this. You can’t hide from Malfoy, not anymore. He has a right to know. You owe it to him, and you owe it to yourself.”

Hermione’s sobs quieted for a moment as she processed Ginny’s words. She didn’t want to face Draco, not with everything that had happened, not with how the world was now watching her. But deep down, she knew Ginny was right. Draco deserved the truth. He deserved to know what was happening, even if the fear of how he would react made her stomach twist.

Ginny pulled back slightly, gently cupping Hermione’s face in her hands, forcing her to look up. “You’re not alone in this,” Ginny reassured her, her eyes soft but unwavering. “You’ve got me, and you’ve got Harry. We’ll be here for you. But you have to take the first step. You have to talk to him. You can’t let this fester and grow in silence. It’s too much to carry alone.”

Hermione wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, the rawness of the moment leaving her feeling fragile. The weight of her emotions made it hard to breathe, but Ginny’s words started to sink in. She couldn’t hide forever. She couldn’t keep this secret from Draco, not when the world had already pried it out of her. The fear was suffocating, but deep down, she knew it was time to face the consequences, whatever they might be.

“I... I’m scared,” Hermione admitted quietly, her voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t know how to tell him, Ginny. I don’t know how to do any of this.”

Ginny’s expression softened with understanding. “I know, Hermione. I know it’s terrifying. But you don’t have to have all the answers right now. Just take the first step. That’s all you can do.”

Hermione nodded slowly, her tears still slipping down her cheeks. The fear still clung to her like a heavy cloak, but there was a spark of resolve in her chest, small but steady. She couldn’t keep running from Draco. She had to face him, now.

Ginny gave her one last reassuring squeeze before pulling away, her tone gentle but unyielding. “I’ll be right here with you, every step of the way. But you have to talk to him, Hermione. You can’t wait any longer.”

Hermione’s sobs continued to wrack her body as she sat there, lost in the overwhelming tide of her emotions. Every time she tried to calm herself, another wave hit, stronger and more suffocating than the last. She had never imagined her life would be turned upside down like this, her private moment of fear, of uncertainty, now splashed across the front page of the Daily Prophet for everyone to see.

Ginny held her close, her arms wrapping around Hermione with a gentleness that was a stark contrast to the storm of emotions churning inside her best friend. She rocked her softly, murmuring soothing words as Hermione clung to her.

“You have to tell him, Hermione,” Ginny said quietly, her voice soft but firm. “You don’t have any more time to wait. The world already knows, whether you want it to or not. If you don’t tell Malfoy now, Ron and everyone else will think it’s his. And that… that’s not right. Not for you. Not for him.”

Hermione let out another quiet sob, her face buried in Ginny’s shoulder, her body trembling. The reality of it hit her harder than ever. She didn’t want to face Draco yet. She hadn’t even processed her own feelings, let alone how she was going to explain everything to him. The thought of telling him terrified her. What if he didn’t want this child? What if he resented her for keeping it a secret for so long?

“What if I’m not ready? What if I don’t know what to say?” Hermione’s voice cracked with the weight of her worry, the tears streaming down her cheeks faster now, her breath shallow. “What if he doesn’t want us, Ginny? What if he--”

“Hermione, listen to me,” Ginny interrupted gently, lifting Hermione’s chin so that their eyes met. There was no anger in Ginny’s eyes, only compassion, understanding, and the deep love of a best friend who had been through her own share of heartache. “I know you’re scared. But the truth is, everyone already thinks it’s Ron’s child. That’s what the Prophet said. If you don’t tell Malfoy, everyone will believe that lie. You have to clear this up before it goes any further. Before this gets out of hand.”

Hermione’s breathing hitched as the weight of Ginny’s words sank in. She hadn’t even thought about the damage the rumors could do. If she didn’t tell Draco soon, Ron would keep believing it was his, and the whole world would be left to speculate. And then... what if Draco found out later? What if he found out she’d kept it from him, and he felt betrayed?

“Oh, Ginny,” Hermione whispered, the tears flowing more freely now. “I’m so scared. I don't know how to face Malfoy. I don’t want him to hate this child. I don’t want the world to think this is Ron’s, when it’s not. I can’t... I can’t let it all fall apart like this. What if I can’t do it? What if everything goes wrong?”

Ginny’s arms tightened around her, and she pulled Hermione closer, pressing her forehead to Hermione’s in a gesture of warmth and safety. “You don’t have to do it all at once. You don’t have to have all the answers right now. But you do need to tell him. You owe it to him and to yourself.”

Hermione nodded weakly, but her heart was still heavy, her chest tight with anxiety. What if Draco didn’t understand? What if Ron came back, demanding answers, creating a scene? What if she wasn’t strong enough to face it all?

Ginny continued to comfort her, her voice soft and steady. “I know this feels impossible, but you have to face it. You can’t let this fester. The world is already watching, but you can still control how it plays out. Malfoy has a right to know. And so do you. You deserve peace, Hermione. You deserve to make a decision that’s yours.”

Hermione closed her eyes, overwhelmed by the exhaustion of it all. Every inch of her body felt weighed down, and the emotional toll of the morning was beginning to take its toll. She could barely keep her eyes open, her mind spinning too much for her to grasp hold of anything. She felt like she was going to collapse from the strain.

Ginny noticed the change in her, her friend’s body starting to go limp against her. “Hermione?” Ginny whispered gently, brushing a strand of hair from Hermione’s face.

“I’m... I’m so tired,” Hermione murmured, her voice weak. She could barely hold herself up anymore, the exhaustion of the emotional rollercoaster pulling her under. “I don’t know what to do... I just... I just need to rest.”

Ginny adjusted, pulling Hermione closer into her arms, holding her like a fragile bird. “It’s okay. You don’t have to have all the answers right now,” Ginny whispered softly, her hand smoothing down Hermione’s hair. “Just rest. You’re not alone in this, Hermione. You’ve got me, and I’m not going anywhere.”

As Hermione’s breath grew slower, more shallow, she felt herself drifting. The events of the morning, Ron’s accusations, the Prophet article, the looming confrontation with Draco, swirled in her mind, but she was too tired to keep fighting it. She let herself sink into the warmth of Ginny’s embrace, her body giving in to the exhaustion that had built up, and her tears slowed, until the only sound was the steady rhythm of her breathing as she fell into a much-needed, but uneasy, sleep.

Ginny continued to hold her, her face soft with sympathy, knowing how much Hermione was carrying. It wasn’t just about telling Draco anymore. It was about finding the strength to face the world, to take the next step, and to begin healing. But that would take time. For now, Ginny just let her friend rest, knowing that tomorrow would bring a new set of challenges, and maybe, just maybe, the courage to face them.

Chapter Text

Hermione stood in the corner of the bookstore, her head low, a large scarf wrapped around her neck, and a wide-brimmed hat obscuring most of her face. She had charmed her appearance, altering her features slightly to avoid recognition—her heart racing with each step as she made her way down the aisles, pretending to peruse the shelves, but her mind was a million miles away.

It had been a month since Draco had casually taken her for ice cream, the day she realized something felt off with her. She hadn’t understood it then—the strange emotional tug as they sat together in the cold, the odd ache in her chest as they laughed under the streetlights. Now, with everything that had happened, it hit her in full force: her tears that night had been for the baby growing inside of her. It had been the pregnancy that had stirred such deep, unexplainable emotion in her.

And now, here she was, in the same bookstore, waiting for him.

She glanced at the clock on the wall. The morning had passed, and it was already approaching noon. She had spent hours there, memorizing the speech she had prepared in her head. She had thought about this moment over and over—how she would say the words, how she would tell Draco the truth.

“I’m pregnant,” she whispered softly under her breath. “Malfoy, I’m pregnant. And I need you to know...”

She had said it to herself so many times that it almost felt automatic, but each time it felt like it weighed more heavily. She couldn’t even bring herself to say the words aloud now, let alone to him.

Hermione glanced again at the door. No Draco. The hope that had filled her when she first arrived had slowly faded, replaced by the sickening feeling of disappointment. She waited for another hour, feeling more and more like a fool.

When the bell above the door jingled as someone else entered, Hermione glanced up, expecting it to be him. But it wasn’t. She took one last look around, then sighed, shaking her head. It wasn’t meant to be today.

Her shoulders slumped in defeat as she quietly exited the bookstore, her footsteps heavy. She had hoped, foolishly, that he would walk through those doors, that somehow fate would intervene and bring him here so she could finally tell him. But it hadn’t happened.

She felt the weight of the world as she made her way home to Ginny and Harry’s house, the burden of the secret pressing down on her chest, suffocating her.

Ginny was sitting at the kitchen table, stirring her tea absently, her eyes lingering on the door. The house felt unusually still, as if waiting for something to break the silence. When Hermione finally walked through the door, Ginny immediately noticed the shift in her friend. Hermione’s shoulders were slumped, her movements slower than usual, and the familiar spark in her eyes was gone, replaced by something heavy and distant.

It didn’t take much for Ginny to realize that the day had not gone the way Hermione had hoped.

“Did you see him?” Ginny asked, her voice soft, almost tentative, as if she already feared the answer.

Hermione let her bag drop to the table with a dull thud. She exhaled heavily, then shook her head, not meeting Ginny’s gaze. “No. He wasn’t there. I waited... for hours.”

Ginny’s heart sank, but she didn’t move. She didn’t want to crowd Hermione with empty words, knowing how much her friend was already carrying.

“I’m sorry, Hermione,” Ginny said quietly, her voice thick with empathy. “I know you were hoping…”

Hermione’s eyes flickered briefly toward Ginny before she looked away again. “I thought he might be there. I’ve seen him in the bookstore before... twice. I thought if I waited long enough, maybe he’d walk through that door, and I could finally tell him.” Her words trailed off, and she closed her eyes for a moment, as if trying to shut out the frustration threatening to boil over.

Ginny bit her lip, not sure how to help ease the pain Hermione was clearly feeling. “You gave it a shot,” she said gently. “You tried.”

Hermione let out a small, bitter laugh, the sound hollow. “I don’t even know why I thought he’d be there. I was... I was hoping he would be, but why would he? He doesn’t know... he doesn’t know I’m looking for him. He doesn’t know any of this.”

The words hung in the air for a moment. Ginny’s chest tightened, knowing that Hermione wasn’t just feeling the absence of Draco; she was feeling the weight of everything she was carrying alone.

“I know this isn’t easy,” Ginny began, but Hermione cut her off, her voice quiet but full of emotion.

“I never thought it would be easy,” she murmured. “But I thought... maybe he’d just be there. And maybe I wouldn’t have to do this alone. I don’t know why I thought he’d care.” She swallowed hard, her throat tight. “I just want to tell him.”

Ginny stood up and walked over to her, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder. “You will tell him, Hermione. But you’re not alone in this. You’ve got me. You’ve got Harry. You’ve got us.”

Hermione nodded but said nothing, her gaze fixed on the floor. She didn’t have the strength to argue, or to tell Ginny how much she wished things were different. She didn’t know what she was expecting—maybe Draco to show up, maybe everything to just fall into place—but now it felt like nothing would ever go as planned.

The next morning, Ginny found herself wandering the Ministry of Magic, her thoughts drifting back to Hermione. She’d spent all of last night trying to support her, but Ginny knew it wasn’t enough—Hermione needed answers, not just comfort. Ginny herself couldn’t help but wonder where Draco was in all of this, but she had no idea how to help her friend without stepping on a few unspoken boundaries.

As she moved through the corridors of the Ministry, Ginny spotted Theo Nott, chatting with a Ministry worker near the lift. Normally, Ginny would have passed by without much thought, but today, there was something on her mind that she hadn’t been able to shake off.

She approached him casually, making sure not to seem too interested or intentional. "Theo," she greeted with a casual smile, her tone light and friendly.

He turned, raising an eyebrow but grinning. “Ginny. Fancy seeing you here.”

“Yeah,” she replied, letting the conversation flow naturally. “Just on my way to a meeting.” She paused, glancing at the busy hallway around them, before letting her voice drop just slightly, as if in passing. “You know, I haven’t seen Malfoy around much lately. Have you?”

Theo looked at her with a small furrow in his brow, clearly assessing her for a moment. “Malfoy?” he asked, a hint of surprise in his voice. “Why? You need something from him?”

Ginny quickly shook her head, keeping her tone casual as she shrugged. “Oh, no, nothing like that. Just... I don’t know. It’s been a while since I’ve seen him. Thought he’d been around more, that’s all.”

Theo didn’t seem entirely convinced but didn’t press her on it. Instead, he tilted his head thoughtfully. “Well, he’s been around. He’s been spending a lot of time at The Veela’s Wing—you know, that exclusive place. Not usually his scene, but he’s been there more than usual lately.”

Ginny kept her face neutral, resisting the urge to react too strongly. "Oh? The Veela’s Wing... never thought I’d hear that. I guess he’s keeping to himself lately."

Theo gave her a knowing look, still a little unsure of her intentions, but he simply nodded. "Yeah. Seems like it."

Ginny nodded as well, but she didn’t linger. “Thanks, Theo. Just curious, you know? Thought maybe he was caught up in something.”

Theo gave her a polite smile, but there was a lingering suspicion in his gaze. “Right. No problem, Ginny.”

Ginny waved him off lightly, turning on her heel and walking away, though her mind was already racing. The Veela’s Wing. Of course. Draco would be hiding out there, away from everything. It was an exclusive, discreet bar—one where you could disappear without anyone asking too many questions.

Her heart beat faster as she processed what that meant for Hermione. She knew exactly what she had to do next.

When Ginny returned to Harry and Hermione’s house, she found Hermione sitting in the living room, staring out the window as though lost in thought. The quiet of the morning hung heavy in the air, and Ginny could see that Hermione had not yet shaken off the disappointment from the day before. Her posture was slumped, her usual vibrant energy dimmed.

“Hey,” Ginny greeted softly, walking into the room. Hermione turned slowly, her eyes tired, hollow with the weight of her own thoughts.

“I found out where Malfoy's been,” Ginny said, trying to keep her tone casual, though Hermione could hear the undercurrent of urgency in her voice.

Hermione blinked, her eyes snapping to Ginny, suddenly alert. “Where?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper, as if the very mention of his name could stir something in her chest.

Ginny hesitated for a moment, unsure of how much to reveal, but finally replied, “The Veela’s Wing. It’s a bar. Exclusive. Very discreet.”

Hermione’s heart skipped a beat at the name. The Veela’s Wing—it was exactly the kind of place Draco would retreat to when he needed space, when he wanted to vanish without anyone asking questions. She felt a rush of emotion flood her chest: uncertainty, fear-- longing?

“So he’s there now?” Hermione asked, her breath catching as she spoke. It wasn’t a question she thought she’d ever ask, but here she was, wanting to face him, wanting to do the thing that terrified her most.

Ginny nodded, her expression soft but knowing. She had been through enough to understand the weight of what Hermione was feeling. “I’m going there tonight,” Hermione said, her voice surprisingly steady, though a storm of emotions raged within her. It wasn’t the calm certainty she had hoped for—there was still an underlying current of fear, of nerves, but it was there, the clarity, the resolve to finally confront Draco and tell him everything.

She swallowed hard, feeling the tightness in her chest. This is it. The words she’d been rehearsing, the thoughts that had plagued her for days, would finally be spoken. She wasn’t sure what kind of reaction she would get—wasn’t sure what she was even expecting—but she had to do this. There was no turning back now.

Ginny didn’t hesitate. “I’ll go with you.”

Hermione shook her head almost instinctively, her thoughts racing before she could fully process the urge to refuse. “No,” she said, her voice quiet but firm. “I need to do this on my own.”

For a moment, she looked away, taking a steadying breath. The nerves twisted inside her, but the clarity was there, too. She had been waiting—waiting for something to change, waiting for Draco to come to her. But that time was over. If she didn’t take this step, nothing would ever happen.

A small, resolute smile flickered across her face, though it didn’t reach her eyes. “It’s time,” she murmured. She could feel the weight of her decision pressing on her, but also the relief that came with making it.

Ginny stood there for a moment, a slight frown on her face, clearly concerned, but she said nothing. Hermione had made up her mind, and Ginny respected that.

With a deep breath, Hermione stood up, the determination in her posture unmistakable. She was ready to face Draco, ready to tell him everything she had been hiding. She wasn’t sure if he would understand, or if it would change anything, but it didn’t matter anymore. She wasn’t going to let this uncertainty define her any longer.

As she turned to get ready, Ginny’s voice stopped her, softer now. “Hermione... are you sure?”

Hermione hesitated. She closed her eyes briefly, taking in a breath, and when she opened them again, there was something different—something stronger—in her gaze.

“I’m sure,” she said quietly, her voice unwavering.

Ginny didn’t push her further, simply nodding, though the concern in her eyes remained.

Hermione's heart pounded, her mind raced with a thousand thoughts, but one thing was certain now—she was done waiting.

Hermione stood in front of the full-length mirror, her fingers lightly brushing over the soft fabric of her dress. The charm she had cast on herself concealed her features just enough to make her barely recognizable to anyone who might know her. She had always been a little uncomfortable with drawing too much attention to herself, but tonight was different. This was about him. She needed to do this.

With a deep breath, she checked her reflection once more. Her long hair, normally wild and unruly, now flowed sleek and straight, its color slightly darker under the glamour she’d applied. Her makeup was perfect, nothing too flashy, just enough to emphasize her features without giving away her identity. She cast a glance at her belly, a subtle bump that was becoming more and more difficult to hide. Her eyes lingered there for a moment, the swell of her abdomen serving as a painful reminder of the decision she had yet to face. She swallowed hard. Now is not the time to focus on that, she reminded herself, the familiar flutter of nerves settling in her stomach. She had a job to do, and the bump would just have to remain hidden for now.

She turned away from the mirror with a sigh, trying to steady her breath, before stepping out of the room. It was time. She was done waiting. She couldn’t ignore this anymore.

The Veela’s Wing was a place of opulence, its polished marble floors gleaming under the soft glow of enchanted chandeliers. The bar itself was sleek, an understated blend of dark wood and glimmering silver. A small stage was set in one corner, where veela dancers moved with grace, their shimmering silks floating around them as they swirled. Their movements were hypnotic, drawing the eyes of every patron who dared look their way.

Hermione felt a flutter in her chest. She wasn’t used to this kind of environment—this was a world of luxury and excess, the kind she had never truly belonged to. Yet, tonight, she was here on a mission. Her eyes scanned the room, trying to ignore the whispers of the crowd, the quiet hum of luxury, as her gaze shifted around. She didn’t need to search long.

Draco Malfoy stood out, as always. He was lounging at a corner table, his glass of amber liquid in hand, his posture casual but with that signature arrogance that made him impossible to ignore. He looked different tonight—darker, more brooding, like he belonged in this world, effortlessly commanding attention. But Hermione had no time to admire the way he looked now. She had to focus.

Taking a steadying breath, she made her way toward him, her heart pounding in her chest. She had prepared this moment in her head a thousand times, each word rehearsed over and over. You can do this, Hermione, she reminded herself. Just say it. Don’t let him derail you.

When she reached his table, Draco didn’t immediately acknowledge her. He didn’t need to. The moment she was within his line of sight, he was aware of her presence. She stood tall, and straightened her posture.

Finally, she took a deep breath and said the words she had been rehearsing for so long. “I’m pregnant.”

Draco didn’t even flinch. He didn’t even look at her, his face as blank as if she were just another stranger. The silence between them stretched on, thick and uncomfortable. He didn’t react, didn’t say anything. Hermione’s heart raced faster, the weight of his indifference pressing down on her chest.

She cleared her throat, trying again, this time with more force. “I’m pregnant.”

Still, Draco’s eyes remained fixed on his drink, the glass swirling in his hand. After a long pause, he finally spoke, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Oh, how wonderful,” he muttered, his tone dripping with disdain. “Another one to add to the mess. Like I give a damn.” He took another sip of his drink, his expression so uninterested that it made Hermione’s stomach twist painfully.

Her words hung in the air, unacknowledged and ignored, and Hermione stood there, dumbfounded. The hurt was immediate, but she refused to show it. She blinked, struggling to find the words to respond, but before she could speak again, Draco waved her off with a flick of his wrist, dismissing her.

“Run along, Miss,” he said, his tone biting and cold. “I don’t need company.”

For a moment, the world around her blurred as the sting of his words sank in. She had expected many things—anger, confusion, maybe even questions—but not this apathy. Not this dismissive cruelty. She felt a sharp wave of frustration rise inside her, but it wasn’t just anger—it was something deeper, something that cut straight to the core.

And then, in that quiet, biting silence, Hermione had a sudden realization.

I’ve charmed myself.

Her eyes widened in sudden understanding. She had altered her appearance—her hair, her skin tone, the subtle changes to her features. She wasn’t just Hermione Granger to him; she was a stranger, someone he didn’t even recognize. She had been so focused on her nerves, on preparing herself for this confrontation, that she forgot the most obvious detail: the charm.

With a dry smirk playing on her lips, she allowed the charm to drop just enough. Her hair bounced back to its usual wild curls, her face returned to its familiar shape, and the shift was subtle, but enough to make the difference.

Draco froze, mid-sip, as he looked at her in disbelief. His eyes widened, and the glass in his hand nearly slipped from his fingers.

“Granger?!” he almost choked on his drink, his eyes flitting around as if searching for any sign that this was a mistake. Please, don’t let anyone see. The thought flashed across his face before he quickly looked away, now suddenly aware of the implications.

Hermione didn’t react at first, watching the shock unfold across his features. His gaze darted around the room nervously, clearly trying to assess whether anyone had noticed the reveal. “What the hell are you doing here?” he whispered harshly, the scorn in his voice now mixed with confusion. “Are you out of your mind?”

Hermione stood there, unfazed, feeling a dark sense of satisfaction at his shock. “I thought I’d come pay you a visit,” she said, her voice steady.

Draco shot a glance around, his face flushing in embarrassment and irritation. “Are you out of your mind?” he whispered harshly. “This is a bar, Granger. Are you trying to ruin both of our lives?”

Hermione raised an eyebrow, her lips curling into a small, bitter smile. “You’ve never seemed so concerned about my life before, Malfoy.”

With no more words, he grabbed her arm—perhaps a little too forcefully—and started dragging her toward the back of the bar. His grip tightened, his fingers pressing into her skin, but Hermione didn’t fight it. Instead, she let him lead her past the stage, past the veela dancers who were still swaying in the background, their beauty lost on her now.

He took her through a hidden door and into a private room—luxurious, dimly lit, and clearly reserved for special occasions. Hermione’s eyes flicked around, noting the way the room was decorated in rich velvets and dark wood. Her stomach turned when she realized that it was the kind of place Draco might have rented out—luxury, exclusivity, a place that whispered of his privilege.

“Did you book this, Malfoy?” she asked dryly, her bitterness evident in her voice.

Draco didn’t answer, his breath heavy, his expression somewhere between frustration and something else—something harder to place. He shoved the door closed behind them and turned to face her, his words sharp, “Explain yourself,” Draco spat, looking at her with a mixture of confusion and irritation. But Hermione wasn’t backing down now. 

Draco’s eyes were narrowed, his lips pulled into a tight line as he stared at Hermione. His anger was palpable, his fists clenched so tightly that the veins in his hands stood out starkly against his pale skin. His jaw was locked in an almost painful grimace, his muscles rigid with tension. It was clear he was fighting to keep his emotions in check, but the storm brewing inside him was undeniable.

“Explain yourself,” Draco spat once more, his voice dripping with contempt.

Hermione’s throat constricted, but she stood her ground, the words she had been rehearsing for so long now rushing out in a single, steady breath. “I’m pregnant.”

The words seemed to hang in the air, heavy and unyielding. For a moment, Draco didn’t react—he didn’t even blink. And then, as if the weight of her statement finally hit him, his whole posture stiffened. His fists tightened further, and his jaw clenched so hard Hermione could almost hear the grinding of his teeth.

Hermione’s pulse quickened as she watched his angry expression twist into something darker, something less controlled. It wasn’t just anger; it was disgust, as though she were an inconvenience, a reminder of something he couldn’t avoid.

“Have you come to gloat?” Draco’s voice was low and sharp, the words cutting through the thick silence between them.

Hermione felt her chest tighten, a sudden wave of disbelief and hurt flooding through her. Gloat? Of all the things he could say, that was the one that hit her hardest. Her stomach dropped as she tried to process the question, her heart thudding in her ears. Was that how he saw her?

“Gloat?” she repeated, her voice strained as she tried to swallow down the raw pain his words caused. "What makes you think I’m here to gloat?"

Draco’s expression twisted further, his eyes dark with frustration. He seemed almost repulsed by the very thought of the pregnancy. “Is that the only reason you’re here?” he sneered. “To gloat about being pregnant?”

The sting of his words cut deep, and Hermione’s mouth went dry. She felt a wave of anger surge within her, her body instinctively recoiling at the accusation. She wasn’t here to boast; she was here to tell him the truth. And yet, his words made her feel like something shameful, something unworthy.

Draco’s face twisted in disgust, his words coming out almost as if they were forced from him, like they left a bad taste in his mouth. “I’m disgusted, Granger. Pregnant. Of all things. I can’t believe you’re standing here, telling me this.” His voice was biting, laced with contempt, and Hermione’s heart shattered all over again, each word chipping away at the fragile resolve she had built up just to get here.

The pain in Hermione’s chest was unbearable. She stood there, frozen, as the words crashed over her like a wave. She had expected many things—shock, confusion, even anger—but she hadn’t expected this. Not this cold, cutting disgust. It felt as though all the air had been knocked out of her lungs, and she struggled to find a way to respond.

She took a deep breath, holding back the tears threatening to surface, her hand curling into a fist at her side. She wanted to shout, to scream, to demand that he see her, to understand what she was going through, but the words stuck in her throat.

But then something inside her snapped.

She was done being hurt by him. Done letting his words twist her into something she wasn’t.

Draco’s expression darkened, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “So, you’ve finally come down from your high horse, Granger? Decided to grace us commoners with your presence? Come to gloat about the little family you’ve finally got? The perfect life with the Weasel, are you?” He sneered as he spoke, his eyes flashing with disdain. “Congratulations on making it so easy for the rest of us to see what you’ve built—your dream life with Weasley. Is that what this is all about? Is that why you’re here? To rub it in?”

Hermione’s heart dropped into her stomach at the words. It was as if each one was a stone thrown at her chest, and she could feel the impact of each insult. It wasn’t just his words; it was the way he said them—like she was nothing more than a trophy to be flaunted or a mistake to be ridiculed.

She stood frozen for a moment, the world slowing around her as realization hit her like a slap across the face.

Ron. Of course, Draco thought it was Ron’s.

Her breath caught in her throat as the truth of the situation struck her. She had assumed Draco knew everything, or at least, that he would have figured it out by now. But no—he didn’t know. He thought she had come to brag about Ron’s child, about how everything had worked out for her. The Daily Prophet had made sure of that. They’d painted the perfect picture of Hermione and Ron, and it seemed that Draco had bought into every bit of it.

“Of course,” she whispered, the bitterness rising in her voice. “You think it’s Ron’s, don’t you?”

Draco’s face froze, his eyes flickering with confusion, but also with a flash of guilt. “Well, isn’t it?” he asked, his voice softening but still edged with suspicion. “I thought you and Weasley were… well, you know.”

Hermione’s chest tightened with frustration, and she let out a sharp breath. “No, Malfoy! It’s not Ron’s! It’s yours!” She raised her voice, feeling the weight of everything she had been holding back for months suddenly crashing to the surface. “I broke up with Ron six months ago, and I’m three months pregnant—do the bloody math!”

Draco’s face shifted from confusion to something else—something deeper, like a twinge of regret mixed with his own discomfort. He opened his mouth to speak, but Hermione didn’t give him the chance.

“I’m not here to gloat,” she said, her voice shaking with anger and hurt. “I’m here because you needed to know the truth. But if you can’t even grasp that, then maybe I was wrong to think you’d care.”

Draco opened his mouth again, but this time, his words were lost as he stared at her, processing what she had said. His lips parted in disbelief, and for a moment, he was silent, as though trying to understand just how far he had been from the truth.

“Granger,” he started, his voice softer now, but still tinged with something darker. “You—you’re three months pregnant?”

Hermione didn’t trust herself to speak at first. She stood there, seething, her hands trembling by her sides. “Yes,” she said finally, voice steady but sharp. “I’m three months pregnant. And it’s yours.”

The room seemed to close in around them.

Draco stood frozen for a moment, his expression a mix of shock and disbelief. His usual sharp, controlled demeanor shattered as he processed her words. His eyes flickered between Hermione and her belly, a silent realization dawning on him. For the first time, he looked... human—a little lost, a little unsure. But only for a second. Then, as though a switch had been flipped, his face transformed. The shock faded, replaced by a cold indifference that stung even more than the anger he had aimed at her earlier.

"Get rid of it," he said, his voice low and flat, like he was discussing a minor inconvenience.

Hermione’s heart dropped. The words rang in her ears, over and over, as if they were some kind of twisted echo. She couldn’t even process what he was saying at first. She had thought... hoped... that maybe, just maybe, he would show a flicker of something—regret, guilt, even anger—but this? This was worse than she could have imagined.

"Get rid of it?" Hermione repeated, the words leaving her mouth almost like a question, as if she hadn’t heard him correctly. She stared at him, dumbfounded. Her mind struggled to catch up, trying to comprehend the absurdity of what he had just said. She’d expected a million things—rage, confusion, maybe even denial—but not this.

"Are you serious?" she whispered, her voice breaking slightly. She could feel her heart sinking, her emotions spiraling.

Draco looked at her with a mixture of impatience and something darker, almost like he was irritated by her shock. "I can't have a child with you," he said, his voice a little louder now, his words cutting through the silence. His eyes narrowed, his jaw clenched as if the very idea of a child, their child, was an absurdity in itself. "I don’t want a child tied to... this."

His words stung more than any physical blow. It was the coldness in his voice, the way he dismissed the idea like it was nothing—just some problem to be solved. As if she was the problem, and the fetus... just an unfortunate consequence of a mistake.

Hermione’s stomach twisted with anger, a fury rising in her chest that made her hands shake at her sides. How could he? After everything? After she’d spent weeks twisting herself in knots, wondering how to tell him—how to even begin to navigate this—and now he was telling her to just get rid of it?

Her hands were trembling as she wiped at her eyes, the sting of his words making it hard to breathe. "I thought you’d be angry. I thought you’d tell me to leave, or that you wouldn’t want anything to do with me… but this?" She swallowed hard, trying to hold back the tears, but it was no use. "You want me to terminate it?"

Draco’s face remained cold, completely unfazed by her outburst. He stared at her with no emotion—like she was nothing more than a nuisance. "You think I’d want a child? With you?" His voice was harsh, and there was no warmth, no softness, only contempt.

Hermione felt something crack deep inside of her. She had expected to hear him express frustration or disbelief, but this? This was different. This was hatred.

"You have no idea what this is like," she said, her voice barely above a whisper, trembling with the force of her own pain. Her chest tightened, and the weight of the moment bore down on her. She couldn’t stop herself from letting out a bitter laugh—one filled with so much hurt. "You think I wanted this? I didn't ask for this. But you think it’s so easy, don't you?"

Hermione felt the weight of his words, but it only made her angrier. She’d spent weeks grappling with the knowledge that she was pregnant, that everything in her life had changed. She had come here, to this bar, to tell him the truth. And now he was dismissing her, dismissing the life growing inside her like it was a mere inconvenience.

"I can’t get rid of it," she said through clenched teeth, her voice steady despite the burning frustration. "I never wanted this, Malfoy. You think I wanted to be carrying your child? But this is happening, whether you want it or not. And I’m not going to just walk away from it."

Draco’s eyes hardened, his expression turning colder by the second. "I can’t have a child with you. I won’t."

His words hit Hermione like a slap, and she felt a sickening twist in her stomach. It wasn’t just that he didn’t want her, or that he didn’t care about her—it was that he didn’t even care about the child. The life that was growing inside her didn’t even matter to him. She was nothing more than an inconvenience, a complication he wanted to erase.

"No," she said through gritted teeth, her anger bubbling up like a volcano. "I can’t, Draco. Not because I want to—because I can’t."

Draco raised an eyebrow, clearly not following her. "What are you talking about?"

Hermione’s voice was tight, her hands trembling with fury. She took a step closer, not letting the distance between them ease her frustration. "I can’t get rid of it because of your stupid pureblood legacy, your soul tie—whatever the hell you want to call it!" She was shaking now, but she didn’t care. "Once someone of your bloodline gets pregnant or gets someone pregnant, termination becomes physically impossible. The bond that forms, the magic—" She couldn’t help the bitter laugh that escaped her, though it sounded hollow, "—it’s not just a gift, Malfoy. It’s a curse. And it’s been passed down for centuries, making sure that your family’s bloodline always continues, that you have an heir. So don’t stand there, telling me to ‘get rid of it.’ You think I wouldn't if I could?"

Her voice was rising, cracking slightly with the sheer amount of emotion she was bottling up. "I can’t. I can’t because of your bloody bloodline, and I have no choice in this. The moment I got pregnant, it was already decided for me. You’re not the only one trapped in this, Malfoy."

Draco’s face remained cold, his expression unflinching as he processed what she said. It was like he was in a world of his own, trying to push away the reality of what she was telling him, what they were facing.

Draco, still cold, shook his head as if it was all just too much to bother with. "If you can’t find a solution," he said dismissively, "then I will."

It was the final straw. Her stomach turned, and something dark coiled in her chest. He wasn’t just indifferent; he was actively planning to take control of something that was, by every right, hers. He didn’t even want to hear her side of things. He didn't care.

Hermione took a sharp, angry breath, her vision clouding with tears. "You think you can just fix everything for me, don’t you?" she spat, her voice rising, her hands balling into fists. "You think you can just make it go away because it’s inconvenient for you? Well, you can’t."

The bitterness inside her was rising to the surface, her voice trembling with the weight of it. "I can’t get rid of it. I can’t. You don’t know what this is like." She pointed at her belly, though the charm still kept it hidden. "I can’t. There’s a magic involved here that you -- "

Draco’s lips curled into a sneer, but he didn’t seem to care. He crossed his arms, exhaling slowly like he was done with the whole thing. "Then figure it out, Granger. If you can’t, I will."

Hermione’s heart cracked in that moment. He wasn’t listening. He wasn’t even trying to understand. Her breath caught in her throat, and for a second, it felt like the entire world was crumbling around her. She had spent weeks in agony, trying to find the right words, building up the courage to face him, and this was what she got in return.

He was telling her to fix it. He was telling her to fix it.

And that, more than anything, was what broke her.

Draco glanced at Hermione one last time, his eyes icy and distant. "Figure it out, Granger. I don’t care how you do it, but make sure this doesn't drag on any longer." He turned away, dismissing her as if she were nothing more than a passing inconvenience. "Theo," he called sharply, not even sparing her another glance. "Escort her home."

Hermione blinked, confused. “Theo?” she muttered, looking around the room. Theo? She couldn’t understand why he would be calling for him now.

It was then that she noticed something—a slight shift in the room. A shadow in the corner of her vision. Theo had been sitting silently on the bed the whole time, his presence completely unnoticed by Hermione in the chaos of her confrontation with Draco.

Theo slowly stood up from the bed, his movements deliberate but unhurried. He adjusted his glasses, his expression calm but with a hint of something unreadable in his eyes. Hermione’s face flushed with embarrassment as she realized he had been there the entire time, quietly observing the exchange.

“I... I didn’t notice you,” Hermione said quietly, her voice barely above a whisper. Her gaze flickered toward Draco, still cold and distant, before returning to Theo, who was now standing tall beside her.

Theo raised an eyebrow, a small, knowing smile playing at the corners of his lips. "You were a bit busy with Draco." His tone was light, almost teasing, but there was a certain softness to it that made her feel oddly comforted.

Hermione let out a soft, frustrated sigh, wiping a tear that had escaped down her cheek. "I didn’t expect you to be here... I didn’t even hear you." She shook her head. "I didn’t notice anything except... him."

Theo didn’t say anything right away, but the look in his eyes softened. “Doesn’t matter,” he said quietly, stepping toward her. "But you shouldn’t be here anymore. It’s clear he’s made up his mind."

Hermione’s chest tightened as she swallowed the lump in her throat. “I can handle myself, Nott. I don’t need you to—”

"Don’t argue with me, Granger," Theo cut her off gently, but firmly. He moved closer, offering his arm as though it was the most natural thing in the world. "You don’t need to be alone right now. Let me walk you."

She hesitated, looking up at him, and for the first time in what felt like ages, her heart felt a little lighter. She wanted to refuse, to prove that she could do it alone, but something in Theo's steady presence made her reconsider.

“Fine,” Hermione muttered, her voice a mixture of reluctant gratitude and tired frustration. “But I’m fine, you know.” She tried to sound convincing, though the cracks in her tone betrayed her.

Theo didn’t argue. He simply nodded, the smallest of smiles on his lips. “I know you’re capable, Granger. But this isn’t about being capable. It’s about not having to face this alone.”

Theo opened the door for Hermione, allowing her to step through first. As they walked out into the hall, the tension in Hermione’s chest started to loosen just slightly, though the weight of everything was still there, pressing down on her.

Theo remained silent as they walked together, his presence a steady anchor as they moved through the corridors. Hermione couldn’t quite shake the feeling that everything was unraveling, but with Theo by her side, it didn’t feel quite as impossible to navigate.

"You know, I didn’t think this would be how the night would end," Hermione muttered after a long silence.

Theo glanced over at her, his lips quirked into a soft smile. "You and me both," he said quietly, before his gaze returned to the path ahead.

Hermione walked silently beside Theo, the sound of their footsteps echoing in the quiet hall. She kept her gaze straight ahead, but her mind was racing with everything that had just happened.

She thought for sure Theo would ask what had been going on, about Draco’s words and the confrontation that had taken everything from her. She thought he would press her, offer some kind of comforting words, or at least try to understand the depth of the pain she was feeling.

But Theo didn’t ask a single thing. He simply walked beside her, offering his presence without pushing. There was something about his quiet understanding that made it all the more difficult for Hermione to swallow her emotions. It felt as though he was giving her space to breathe, but in doing so, it made the weight of everything heavier.

As they reached the Floo, Theo gave her a brief, almost unnoticeable look before stepping aside. He reached for his own bag, gathering his things with practiced ease.

“Well,” Theo said softly, his voice breaking the silence. “Goodnight, Granger. Get some rest.” His words were simple, yet filled with a quiet sincerity.

Hermione nodded, her throat tight. “Thanks, Nott,” she said, her voice coming out quieter than she intended. She had expected something more from him, maybe an offer to stay or a more pointed question, but his quiet demeanor was a stark contrast to the storm raging inside her.

Theo didn’t linger, just gave her one last look—a brief, understanding glance—before turning away to leave her to her thoughts.

Hermione stood in the Floo entrance for a moment, watching him leave. Then, with a deep, steadying breath, she stepped into the fireplace and called out, “The Potter's house!”

The familiar rush of green flames enveloped her, and she was instantly whisked away. But the moment her feet hit the ground, the world around her seemed to spin.

Before she could catch herself, her knees buckled beneath her, and she crumpled to the floor of the Harry and Ginny’s living room, gasping for breath as her emotions finally erupted. The weight of everything—the confrontation with Draco, the crushing realization of her own helplessness, and the overwhelming sense of rejection—all came crashing down on her at once.

Tears flowed freely now, streaming down her face as she collapsed onto the cold stone floor, sobbing uncontrollably. She had tried so hard to hold everything together, to be strong for herself, for the baby, for everyone else who might be watching. But now, with no one around, all the emotions she had pushed down for so long broke free.

Her chest heaved with each sob, and the warmth of the Floo fire seemed to mock her, flickering uselessly as she curled into herself on the floor. She could still hear Draco’s cold words echoing in her mind, his dismissal of her and the life she was carrying.

“I can’t have a child with you. I won’t.” The words repeated over and over in her mind, each one a harsh slap to her soul.

The only thing she could do now was let it all out, to cry until there was nothing left, until her body no longer ached with the force of it.

It felt like she was drowning in everything—her fear, her anger, her disappointment. And despite the comforting thought that she was back at the Burrow, surrounded by the warmth of friends, she felt utterly alone.

She didn’t know how long she sat there, on the cold floor, crying until she had no more tears left to shed. Eventually, though, the sobs quieted, and all that was left was the faint sound of her breath as she sat there, completely broken.

It was how Harry saw her hours later. 

Without saying a word, Harry knelt beside her. He didn’t ask what had happened—he already knew. He had seen her leave earlier, her face pale and drawn, and though he hadn’t wanted to pry, he knew she had gone to confront Draco. Now, seeing her curled up on the floor, vulnerable and broken, Harry knew exactly what had transpired.

He didn’t ask her to explain. There was no need.

Gently, but with quiet determination, Harry reached down and lifted Hermione into his arms, cradling her as though she weighed nothing at all. She didn’t resist, allowing him to guide her, her body limp in his embrace. He carried her to the sofa, his movements slow, careful, as if afraid that any sudden motion would shatter her even more.

Once they reached the couch, Harry sat down with Hermione in his lap, wrapping his arms around her tightly, offering her the safety and comfort she had been yearning for. His fingers gently stroked her hair, trying to soothe her, to make her feel like she wasn’t alone.

Hermione didn’t say a word. She didn’t have to. She let him hold her, her face buried in his chest, her body trembling with the weight of everything she had been carrying all evening. In that moment, Harry didn’t try to fix anything. He simply held her, offering her the one thing he knew would help: his unwavering presence.

A few minutes later, Ginny walked into the living room, her footsteps light but purposeful. The moment she saw them, she stopped, her eyes softening. She didn’t need to ask either—she already knew what had happened.

Without a word, Ginny walked over to Harry and Hermione, her gaze filled with understanding and a deep sympathy. She crouched beside the sofa, reaching out to gently touch Hermione’s arm, coaxing her to look up.

"Hermione..." Ginny’s voice was soft, almost like a whisper, full of warmth and care. "It’s okay, love."

At the sound of Ginny’s voice, Hermione looked up, her eyes red and swollen from crying. She didn’t have to say anything. Ginny’s arms wrapped around her in an instant, holding her as tightly as Harry had. It was a comforting embrace, one that enveloped her completely, the warmth and tenderness a stark contrast to the cold emptiness she had been feeling.

Ginny cooed softly, brushing Hermione’s hair back from her face. "It’s going to be okay. We’re here for you, always."

Hermione let herself be held by Ginny as she had been by Harry, finally allowing herself to lean into their comfort. She could feel their strength, their love, and for the first time that evening, it felt like the crushing weight on her chest was starting to lift.

She closed her eyes, her breath shaky, but steadier now. "I don’t know what to do anymore," she whispered, her voice barely audible.

"You don’t have to figure it out right now," Ginny said softly, her voice full of reassurance. "Take your time. We’ll help you when you're ready."

Harry gently squeezed her shoulder, his voice quiet but firm. "You’re not alone in this, Hermione. We’ve got you."

And in that moment, surrounded by the people who cared about her the most, Hermione allowed herself to break once more in front of them. She let the weight of everything she had been holding in slip free, finally surrendering to the vulnerability and pain that had been threatening to consume her.

Even if it felt like she was falling apart, for the first time that night, it didn’t matter. She wasn’t alone.

Fuck Malfoy. 

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Hermione Granger wasn't sure how it had come to this. Five months pregnant, she was now walking through Diagon Alley, her arms overloaded with bags full of food she desperately craved. The bags were awkward and heavy, and every step she took seemed to make it harder. She had to stop every few feet to adjust the load. Chocolates, fruits, pastries, wizarding delicacies she couldn't help but want. As if the cravings alone weren't enough, she had foolishly overestimated her ability to carry everything by herself.

She could feel the strain on her arms, the weight pressing down on her belly. Should've brought a trolley, she thought, but it was too late for that now. She had everything she needed. Or rather, everything she thought she needed.

When she shifted to balance one particularly heavy bag of fruits, her foot caught on the cobblestone, and before she could react, the contents of the bag spilled across the pavement. The fruit and snacks tumbled everywhere, rolling out of their bags like some chaotic spell gone wrong. She gasped in surprise, scrambling to catch everything, but it was too late.

Thud.

Someone bumped into her, hard, and Hermione's breath caught in her throat as she tried to steady herself, hoping to salvage whatever remained of her dignity. She quickly looked up, expecting to see an apologetic stranger or passerby. But, no, of course it was him. Draco Malfoy.

Hermione immediately froze, her pulse quickening, her mind already scrambling. She had cast a charm on herself, one to disguise her appearance, just enough to make sure she wouldn't be recognized. She had barely ventured into public in the last few weeks, and she certainly didn't want Draco seeing her, especially not after their last disastrous encounter.

Draco's eyes flicked over her in an almost distracted way as he crouched down to help gather the spilled fruits. Hermione stiffened, heart hammering. She could feel the weight of his gaze, even through her charm. She hoped, prayed, that he wouldn't notice. She even adjusted her posture slightly, hoping the disguise worked better than she thought.

But it didn't.

He paused, his fingers brushing against the fruit, before his sharp eyes lifted to meet hers. "Granger," he said, his voice flat but with a hint of recognition that she couldn't ignore.

Her stomach dropped. Shit.

"Thought you didn't want to be seen." His lips twitched into something like a smirk, though there was no humor in it.

Hermione's hand tightened on the last of the spilled fruit, her knuckles going white. She didn't speak at first, too stunned by the sudden acknowledgment of the truth. How did he know?

"Relax, Granger," Draco continued, his voice low. "I've seen you before. You aren't as good at charms as you think you are."

She swallowed hard. God, of course, he saw through it.

Before she could respond, Draco stood up, holding one of the bags full of food. He didn't give it back to her right away. Instead, his eyes lingered on her, piercing and sharp.

"Where are you headed with all this?" he asked, tilting his head slightly as if the question were casual, though his tone suggested something more. His eyes flicked to the half-empty bags in her hands, as though noticing how much she was struggling. "Need some help?"

Hermione's jaw clenched. "I can manage just fine on my own," she said, a little too quickly, her tone defensive. She tried to reach for the bag in his hands, but Draco simply stepped back, holding it out of reach.

"No need to be so stubborn," Draco remarked, ignoring her attempt to take the bag. He flicked his wand casually, and before Hermione could protest, he whispered, "Accio shopping list."

Hermione's heart sank. She hadn't thought he'd notice her list tucked away in her pocket, and she certainly hadn't expected him to use his magic to summon it.

The list flew into his hand with a flick of his wand, and he unfolded it with a sharp exhale, scanning it as though it were no big deal.

"Well, well," Draco said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "There's one more place you need to go... I see you've planned your entire trip around food, Granger. A wizarding food shop, I assume? Very on brand for you."

Hermione blushed, feeling her skin burn. "It's none of your business."

Draco glanced back at her, his sharp gaze flicking over the two bags of food she was already struggling to carry, his lips curving into a slight sneer. "How does this all fit in you, Granger?" he asked, his voice low but tinged with amusement. "You're carrying quite a load. Don't you think it's a bit excessive?"

Hermione's face flushed with embarrassment, a surge of anger rising in her chest. "Don't you dare," she spat, her hands shaking slightly as she took the list back from him.

But Draco didn't stop. Without waiting for her to react, he turned and started walking toward the shop listed at the bottom of her list. He didn't ask if she wanted help. He simply assumed.

"Wait!" Hermione called, panic rising in her chest. "I don't need your help, Malfoy! Stop acting like you're some kind of savior."

But Draco didn't listen. He walked with purpose, his back straight, his steps deliberate, completely unfazed by her protests. He was already leading the way to the store she hadn't wanted to go to in the first place.

Hermione sighed in defeat, knowing that there was no way she was getting out of this. The cravings were too strong, and the food was far too tempting. Her stomach growled audibly as she followed behind him, unable to fight the need for the wizarding food.

Once inside the store, Draco guided her through the aisles, picking out the items she needed before Hermione could even think to argue. He piled them all into one more bag and then, without even asking, he took the rest of her bags. Hermione couldn't stop him, not with the weight of the food and the exhaustion pulling at her. Her feet were sore from the walking, and the last thing she wanted was to drag this out further.

When they finally left the shop, Draco didn't give her a choice. He was already making his way to a nearby carriage. A grand, magical carriage drawn by winged horses. The sight of it made Hermione panic.

"I didn't bring money for the carriage," she said quickly, looking around frantically.

"You can't floo with your condition," Draco said, his tone softer than before, though his eyes were hard. "And you're not walking all the way back. So you're getting in."

Hermione tried to protest, but Draco was already loading the bags into the carriage, paying the footman with a few flicks of his wand.

She didn't have the energy to argue anymore. As much as she hated it, Draco was right. She couldn't floo yet, her pregnancy was too far along. She wanted to fight him, to tell him she didn't need his help, but her body felt too tired.

The moment she sat down in the carriage, exhaustion swept over her like a tidal wave. Her head throbbed, and the dizziness was quick to follow. She tried to steady herself, but it was no use. Draco sighed, his eyes scanning her face as he climbed in after her.

"Don't," she grumbled, looking out the window to avoid his gaze. "I don't need your pity."

"Never said you did," Draco replied, his voice unusually calm.

He lounged against the back of the chair, his posture frustratingly at ease despite the weight of Hermione’s words. One arm rested lazily on the armrest, the other draped across his lap, fingers tapping idly against his knee. His expression was unreadable, but there was something infuriating about the way he sat there—like none of this could touch him. Like the happenings wasn’t digging into her, unraveling everything inside her.

Hermione clenched her fists. "You don’t even care, do you?"

Draco tilted his head slightly, the ghost of a smirk playing at his lips. "I never said that either."

The carriage jolted as it began to move, and Hermione slumped back against the seat, closing her eyes. But as she sat there, she couldn't shake the question that burned inside her. It was the thing she'd wanted to ask him for so long, the thing that had lingered in her mind since their last conversation.

"Is this guilt you're feeling?" she asked, her voice strained but steady.

Draco didn't answer right away. He simply looked out the window, his face unreadable. Then, finally, he sighed.

"I'm not doing this for you, Granger," he said quietly. "I'm doing it because it's the right thing to do."

But Hermione wasn't sure she believed him. The silence that followed was heavy with unspoken words, the tension between them palpable as the carriage sped toward her destination.

"You look like hell." His voice was rough, tired, but there was something else beneath it. Something unreadable.

Hermione exhaled a sharp, humorless laugh. "So do you."

His gaze flicked downward, and she watched as his eyes lingered just a second too long on her stomach. Her breath caught.

Then he nodded toward the potion in her hand. "What's that?"

The small vial in Hermione’s grip shimmered under the dim light, its contents a soft, translucent blue. A potion for pregnancy-induced dizziness, designed to stabilize fluctuating magic and keep nausea at bay. It had a faintly sweet scent, almost like chamomile, meant to soothe rather than overwhelm.

Draco’s gaze lingered on it, his expression unreadable.

She stiffened. "None of your business."

Draco exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand across his jaw. "Granger, you're--" He hesitated. "Pregnant. Of course it concerns me."

Something inside her snapped.

"You made it clear you wanted nothing to do with this," she bit out, her fingers tightening around the vial.

Draco shifted on his seat. "I shouldn't have said that." His voice was quieter now, but Hermione didn't miss the hesitation in it, the way he was trying to pick his words carefully. "I was--" He shook his head. "It doesn't matter. You need help. And I can--"

"I don't need your help."

Draco frowned. "Granger--"

"No." Her pulse was hammering, heat crawling up her throat. "You don't get to do this."

He stepped closer, brows knitting together. "Do what?"

"Decide to care now."

Draco flinched. Just a little. Just enough for Hermione to notice.

His mouth opened like he wanted to argue, but she didn't let him.

"You were planning to leave," she spat, eyes burning. "All dressed up, like it meant nothing before I even woke up"," she spat, eyes burning. 

Draco's expression hardened. "It was a mistake."

Hermione let out a sharp, bitter laugh. "Of course. A mistake." Her chest rose and fell with shallow breaths. "And when I told you I was pregnant, you told me to get rid of it." Her voice broke, and she hated it. "Do you have any idea what it took for me to tell you?"

Draco looked away. His fingers curled into fists. "I was--"

"Drunk? Cowardly?" Hermione scoffed. "Malfoy, just say it. You were scared."

Draco's jaw clenched, his nostrils flaring. "Of course I was bloody scared! You think I haven't spent every day since wondering how the hell we ended up here?"

Hermione's voice was shaking now. "At least I didn't run."

And that, that was what did it.

Draco moved so suddenly that the entire carriage seemed to jolt with him, the wood creaking under the sudden shift in weight. Hermione instinctively pressed back against her seat, heart hammering. His eyes flashed with something dark, something dangerous.

"You really want to talk about running?" His voice was low, sharp as a blade.

"Yes!" Hermione snapped. "Because that's all you ever do! You ran after the war, after that night, and now again when I have to deal with this alone--"

Draco's breath came out harsh. "You called me Ron."

Hermione stilled.

The world around her seemed to narrow, shrinking to just the two of them. "What?"

Draco's expression was cold, unreadable. But his voice, his voice was raw. "That night. Right in the middle of it, you called me Ron."

Her stomach dropped.

"I--" Her voice died in her throat. "No. That's not--"

"You don't even remember, do you?" His laugh was hollow, bitter. "Figures."

She shook her head. "I don't remember that."

Draco scoffed. "Brilliant."

"I--" Hermione swallowed hard. "Even if I did--"

"Oh, no. Don't you dare dismiss this," Draco interrupted, voice rising. "You want to know why I left? Why I couldn't fucking face you the next morning? Because I spent the night with you, only to realize you weren't even with me."

Hermione stared at him, breath shallow.

"And you want to blame me for running?" Draco exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "Maybe you were running, too."

Hermione forced herself to breathe, to think, but the moment was slipping through her fingers. "Even if I did," she pushed, "it shouldn't matter. We both knew it was just a one-night stand."

Draco's eyes blazed.

"Oh?" His voice was dangerously soft. "It shouldn't matter?"

Hermione lifted her chin. "No."

Draco let out a sharp, humorless laugh, stepping closer. His frustration was boiling over now, something raw and ugly surfacing in his expression.

"So let me get this straight," he said, voice sharp as steel. "It shouldn't matter that you called me Weasley in the middle of fucking me--"

Hermione flinched, but he didn't stop.

"but it matters that I walked away? It matters that I panicked? That I told you something in the heat of the moment?" His voice rose. "Funny how it only seems to matter when you're the one uncomfortable."

Hermione's breath caught. "That's not--"

"Oh, but it is."

The silence between them was suffocating.

Hermione swallowed hard, but she was shaking. "No matter what happened that night, the baby is real. And it's happening, whether you like it or not."

Draco dragged a hand through his hair, frustration spilling over. "It shouldn't be happening."

Hermione's stomach twisted. "What?"

Draco clenched his fists. "I used three protection spells, Granger." His voice was rough, almost panicked. "Three. This shouldn't have been possible."

The world tilted.

Hermione stared at him, the weight of his words pressing against her ribs.

The carriage slowed as it approached the Potters' house, the lanterns outside casting a soft, golden glow against the darkened street. But even as the wheels finally stilled, Hermione made no move to get out. Her hands were clenched in her lap, knuckles white, her mind a whirlwind of half-formed questions she didn't know how to ask.

Draco exhaled sharply in front of her. "Granger."

She didn't look at him. "I just--" She swallowed. "How?"

Draco ran a hand through his hair, frustration tightening his jaw. "I don't know," he admitted. "But I'll find out."

Hermione finally turned to face him, her expression wary, searching.

His gaze didn't waver. "I'll research," he said, quieter this time, as if the promise itself would settle the unease thrumming between them.

Something in her posture eased, just a fraction, but still, she hesitated.

A sharp knock on the carriage door made her flinch. "Hermione?" Ginny's voice came muffled from the other side.

Draco's eyes flickered toward the door before returning to Hermione. "Go," he said, his voice unreadable.

And for some reason, that single word felt heavier than it should.

Later That Night: Malfoy Manor, Family Records Room

Draco was surrounded by stacks of ancient books, his fingers trembling as he flipped through the brittle pages. Candlelight flickered against the stone walls, shadows stretching long across the room. His mind was racing, desperately searching for answers.

And then, finally, he found it.

A passage written centuries ago, hidden deep in the Malfoy family records:

"Upon reaching their twenty-first year, the blood of a Malfoy heir shall awaken. This magic, bound by our ancestors, will ensure the continuation of our line, overcoming all obstacles. It is the will of our legacy. It cannot be undone."

Draco stared at the words, his heart hammering.

It wasn’t a mistake.

It wasn’t a failure in the spells.

It was his blood. His inheritance.

The realization crashed over him like a tidal wave.

He wasn’t just reckless.

He was doomed from the start.

Draco’s hands shook as he reread the passage. The words swam in his vision, twisting like a cruel joke. His breath came in short, sharp gasps, the weight of the revelation pressing down on his chest like a crushing hex.

"Upon reaching their twenty-first year, the blood of a Malfoy heir shall awaken. This magic, bound by our ancestors, will ensure the continuation of our line, overcoming all obstacles. It is the will of our legacy. It cannot be undone."

A harsh, bitter laugh tore from his throat. Of course. Of course, his life wasn’t his own. Of course, some long-dead Malfoy patriarch had decided centuries ago that he, and every Malfoy heir after him, would never have a say in something as fundamental as fathering a child.

His fingers clenched around the fragile parchment, crumpling the edges. He wanted to rip the page out, burn it, obliterate it from existence. But it wouldn’t change anything. It was already done.

His stomach twisted violently. He shot up from the desk so fast that the chair scraped against the marble floor with an earsplitting screech.

The room felt too small, the walls too close.

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

He used protection.

Three spells. Three fucking spells.

And yet, here he was. Bound by something beyond his control, trapped by a legacy he had spent years trying to outrun.

His fingers curled into fists, nails digging into his palms. A growl of frustration built in his throat. His pulse pounded against his temple. The bookshelves blurred in his periphery as anger, hot, suffocating, swelled in his chest.

Then, before he could stop himself, his fist lashed out.

The impact against the wall sent a violent jolt up his arm. A sharp crack echoed through the records room as his knuckles split open against the stone. Pain flared, grounding him for a fleeting second before fury took hold again.

His breathing was ragged. His heart slammed against his ribs.

Hermione’s voice, cold and accusing, sliced through his mind.

"At least I didn’t run."

Draco squeezed his eyes shut, exhaling shakily. He had wanted to argue, to tell her she was wrong, but was she?

Because what had he done, really?

He had walked away. Left her alone to deal with the mess that fate had thrown at them. And the worst part? She probably thought he had just been irresponsible. That he hadn’t cared.

His jaw clenched.

He had spent so long trying to break free from the weight of his family’s past. Trying to be something other than what the Malfoy name had dictated him to be.

But in the end, it hadn’t mattered.

In the end, his future had never truly been his own.

And now?

Now, he had to face it.

He just didn’t know how.

The walls of the potter's house felt like they were closing in. Hermione sat curled up on the sofa, knees drawn to her chest, a half-empty cup of tea cooling on the table beside her. The fire crackled weakly in the hearth, but it did nothing to chase away the chill settling deep in her bones.

Draco’s words kept replaying in her mind, over and over again.

"You called me Ron."

Her stomach twisted.

No. She would’ve remembered that. She would’ve known if she had...

Wouldn’t she?

Hermione shut her eyes tightly, but instead of finding peace in the darkness, she was thrust back into that night. The blurred haze of too much alcohol, the heat of Draco’s hands on her skin, the sharp, desperate gasps between them. She tried to recall every detail, every moment, searching, praying for proof that he was wrong.

But there was a gap in her memory.

A stretch of time lost between pleasure and exhaustion.

Her fingers dug into the blanket wrapped around her shoulders.

What if he wasn’t lying?

What if she had done it?

Her chest tightened, and suddenly, she felt sick.

She had been so furious at him, at his coldness, at the way he’d dismissed her that morning like she had meant nothing. She had convinced herself that he had simply abandoned her. That it was his fault.

But if what he said was true...

Hermione swallowed hard.

It didn’t erase what he had done. It didn’t erase how he had treated her, how he had refused to face the consequences of their actions. But it did change something, didn’t it?

Because if she had called him Ron, then maybe, just maybe, Draco had left for a reason she never considered.

Maybe it wasn’t just cruelty.

Maybe it was pain.

Hermione hated the thought. Hated that there might be more to his actions than she had allowed herself to see.

Tears burned at the corners of her eyes, and she pressed her palms against them, willing them away. She didn’t want to feel sympathy for him. She didn’t want to feel anything for him.

But the damage was already done.

Because for the first time since this nightmare began, she wasn’t entirely sure she had been fair to him.

And that thought terrified her more than anything.

Draco stormed into Theo’s flat without knocking, slamming the door behind him with enough force to rattle the picture frames on the walls. Theo, lounging on his sofa with a glass of firewhisky in hand, barely spared him a glance.

“You look like hell,” Theo remarked, taking a slow sip. “And you’re acting like a man who just found out he’s got an illegitimate child.”

Draco glared at him.

Theo’s smirk widened. “Ah.”

Without a word, Draco strode past the sitting room and into Theo’s study, where the walls were lined with books, most of them untouched, save for the ones Theo used for his occasional research. Draco yanked an old, leather-bound tome from under his arm and threw it onto Theo’s desk. It landed with a heavy thud, dust kicking up into the air.

Theo raised an eyebrow. “If that’s a gift, I’d prefer a bottle of Ogden’s.”

Draco ignored him, raking a hand through his already disheveled hair. “I used three spells, Theo.” His voice was raw, hoarse from the hours he’d spent shouting at the walls of Malfoy Manor. “Three. I did everything right. And it still--” He cut himself off, exhaling sharply.

Theo leaned forward, setting his glass down. “And?”

Draco gestured toward the book with a jerk of his hand. “And it wasn’t a failure. It wasn’t an accident. It was fucking inevitable.”

Theo’s amusement flickered, curiosity taking its place. He flipped open the book, scanning the brittle pages. His gaze landed on the passage Draco had spent the last few hours memorizing against his will.

"Upon reaching their twenty-first year, the blood of a Malfoy heir shall awaken. This magic, bound by our ancestors, will ensure the continuation of our line, overcoming all obstacles. It is the will of our legacy. It cannot be undone."

Theo let out a low whistle. “Damn.”

Draco’s jaw clenched. “Yeah.”

Theo leaned back in his chair, running a hand over his mouth. “So you’re telling me you shagged her, used three spells, and she still got pregnant?” His lips quirked. “Mate, that sounds like old magic.”

Draco scoffed bitterly. “It is old magic.” He gestured to the book. “Malfoy tradition. Centuries-old bloodline magic. My fucking inheritance.”

Theo hummed, tapping his fingers against the armrest of his chair. “Well.” He glanced up. “What are you gonna do?”

Draco exhaled harshly, the weight of the question settling on him like a lead weight. He had spent the past hour tearing through records, desperate to find a loophole, a way out, some proof that this was a mistake. But there was none.

He had spent years fighting against his family’s legacy. Trying to carve out something different for himself.

And now?

Now he was bound to it in the most irreversible way possible.

“I don’t know,” he admitted, voice hollow.

Theo studied him for a long moment before nodding. “Well, that’s a start.”

Draco sank into the chair opposite him, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes. For the first time since Hermione Granger had told him she was pregnant, the anger simmering in his veins gave way to something else.

Exhaustion.

Defeat.

And, deep beneath it all...

Fear.

Before he could break, Draco Apparated straight from Theo’s flat, the familiar pull tightening around his ribs before he landed with a sharp crack inside Malfoy Manor. The sudden silence of the estate pressed against him, vast and suffocating.

He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair before striding toward his room. His pulse pounded in his ears, his thoughts tangled in the same looping mess—Hermione, the baby, the spells that should have worked, his fucking inheritance.

His fingers twitched at his sides, desperate for something to break, to shatter, to destroy. But for once, he didn’t reach for a bottle, didn’t hurl a hex at the nearest wall.

Instead, he pushed open the heavy doors and stepped inside.

Draco sat at the edge of his bed, elbows resting on his knees, staring at the floor. His mind was loud, too loud, but his body was still.

The room around him felt suffocating. The grand four-poster bed, the dark green drapes, the ornate furniture, all of it felt like a cage, like a reminder of who he was supposed to be.

For the first time since this all started, he realized he needed to be the one to reach out.

Not Hermione.

Not Ginny or Potter or Theo.

Him.

He had spent weeks running from her, from the truth, from himself. He had drowned himself in firewhisky, buried himself in rage, convinced himself that none of this was real. That if he ignored it long enough, it would somehow go away.

But it wouldn’t.

And the worst part?

She probably thought he didn’t care. That he was just another mistake, another regret she wished she could erase.

Draco exhaled sharply, scrubbing a hand down his face.

She called me Ron.

The memory struck him again, sharp and unforgiving. A wound that refused to heal.

Maybe that should have made it easier. Maybe he should have let it harden him, should have used it as a reason to keep his distance, to prove to himself that none of this mattered.

But it did.

The pregnancy wasn’t supposed to happen. The magic that bound it into existence was beyond his control, a cruel joke from his ancestors. But that didn’t change the reality.

A reality that he had tried pathetically to run from.

A reality that she had been left to deal with alone.

Draco leaned back against the headboard, staring up at the ceiling. The weight of it all pressed down on him, made his lungs feel too tight, his chest too heavy.

She had every right to hate him.

Maybe she already did.

And yet, he still wanted to see her.

He wanted to tell her the truth. About the bloodline, about the magic that had doomed them both from the start. He wanted her to know that this wasn’t just him being reckless or careless. That he had tried. That he wasn’t, isn’t, indifferent to what they had done.

But mostly, he just wanted to -- he stopped his thoughts.

He didn’t know what he was going to say.

He didn’t know if she’d even listen.

But one thing was certain, he couldn’t keep running from this.

From her.

From the child.

His throat felt tight as he reached for his wand, fingers tightening around the handle. He hesitated only for a moment before Apparating.

Before he could change his mind.

Chapter Text

The moment he Apparated into the club, the heavy bass of enchanted music thrummed through his chest. It was exactly what he needed. Something loud, something distracting, something to drown out the chaos in his head.

The air was thick with smoke, the scent of firewhiskey, and something darker, some illicit magic humming beneath the surface of it all. This was the kind of place where no one cared who you were, where no one whispered Malfoy with disdain.

Perfect.

Draco pushed through the crowd, making his way to the bar. He barely had to lift a finger before a glass was in front of him, something dark and burning, and he downed it without thinking. The heat of it spread through his chest, numbing, dulling.

Good.

He lost count of how many he had after the fourth.

The room blurred at the edges, the lights smearing into streaks of color. He let the noise swallow him whole, let the drinks settle into his veins, trying, desperately trying, to outrun the thoughts clawing at the back of his mind.

But no matter how much he drank, no matter how many strangers pressed against him on the dance floor, it wasn’t enough.

Because every time he closed his eyes, all he saw was her.

Hermione Granger, sitting in front of him, fire in her eyes, hurt laced in every word.

You were planning to leave, all dressed up like it meant nothing before I even woke up.

Draco grit his teeth and ordered another drink.

The weight of knowing the truth, that he never had a choice, that this baby was always going to happen, pressed down on him.

It didn’t matter how much he drank. It didn’t matter how reckless he got.

The truth wouldn’t go away.

Draco didn’t go home. He didn’t go anywhere that mattered.

Instead, he drifted.

The morning found him slumped in the corner of some dingy pub in Knockturn Alley, the last remnants of firewhiskey coating his tongue. The bartender was already eyeing him warily, as if waiting for him to either order another drink or leave. He did neither.

By midday, he was wandering Diagon Alley, the streets too bright, too full of life for the emptiness pressing against his ribs. He dipped into shops without reason, let the crowd carry him through, let the world move while he stayed still.

And then, as he turned a corner near Flourish and Blotts, he saw it.

A mother walking with her child, no older than three or four. The little girl giggled as she ran ahead, her small hands outstretched as if reaching for something only she could see. Her mother’s voice was gentle but firm, calling her back with a quiet laugh.

Draco looked away, a tightness forming in his chest.

That, that was what he was supposed to be responsible for? A life that small? That fragile?

The thought made his stomach churn.

He left Diagon Alley after that, Apparating somewhere, anywhere, that wasn’t here. He spent the rest of the day dipping into bars, drinking enough to take the edge off but not enough to drown himself completely.

The more he drank, the easier it became to tell himself he didn’t need to see her.

That it didn’t matter.

That he could let this whole thing rot in silence like a coward.

But that thought made him feel worse than anything.

Draco didn’t remember deciding to come here. One moment, he was wandering, lost in a haze of exhaustion and alcohol, and the next, he was standing in front of Number 12, Grimmauld Place.

The house loomed before him, dark and unwelcoming, its crooked windows like narrowed eyes, watching him.

And he knew this place.

This was where the carriage had stopped yesterday. Where he’d last seen her, where she had vanished behind the heavy door.

She was inside.

He should leave. Should walk away before he made this worse.

But he didn’t.

He just stood there, hands stuffed in his coat pockets, staring at the door like it might give him the answers he didn’t have. His body ached with exhaustion, his head pounding from a day spent drinking and avoiding everything that mattered. He hadn't slept. He looked like hell.

And yet, he didn’t move.

He didn’t even know what he wanted to say.

He just had to be here.

Maybe he expected her to ignore him. To pretend she hadn’t noticed him standing there. Or maybe she’d tell him to fuck off the moment she saw him.

He wouldn’t blame her.

Still, he lingered.

Hermione had been brewing tea when she noticed movement just beyond the window. A shadow of a man, standing still outside the door.

Her heart stuttered.

She wasn’t expecting anyone. And yet, something about the figure made her pause, kettle forgotten mid-pour. The dim glow of the streetlamp barely reached him, but it was enough for her to see, pale white hair catching the faint light.

Of course, it was him.

Draco Malfoy.

For a moment, she simply stared. He wasn’t knocking. He wasn’t leaving either. Just standing there, hands stuffed into his coat pockets, head slightly bowed as if bracing himself.

Something twisted in her chest.

Finally, she moved toward the door, hesitating for only a second before pulling it open.

And there he was.

Hermione hadn’t expected to see him again.

Not really.

Maybe she had told herself that he would come around eventually, that he had to. But deep down, she had prepared for the worst. For silence. For his absence to stretch on forever, until the memory of him faded into something dull and unremarkable.

And yet, here he was.

Draco Malfoy, standing on the doorstep of the Potter household, looking like hell.

His hair was unkempt, a few strands falling into his tired, storm-gray eyes. There were deep shadows under them, a hollowness in his face that hadn’t been there before. His coat was slightly wrinkled, as if he had Apparated straight from wherever he had been, pacing and hesitating before finally showing up.

He shoved his hands deeper into his coat pockets, shoulders tense.

Hermione gripped the edge of the doorframe, struggling to process the fact that he was here.

“You’re here,” she finally managed, her voice barely above a whisper.

Draco let out a breath, sharp and uneven. “Yeah.”

A beat of silence.

The weight between them was unbearable. 

She felt herself bristle. “Did you come to say something cruel again?”

Draco flinched, barely, but she caught it. His jaw tightened. “No.”

No excuses. No anger. Just that.

Hermione didn’t know what to do with that answer.

She should slam the door in his face. She should tell him he was too late, that she didn’t want to hear whatever it was he had to say. But something about the way he was looking at her, guarded, wary, like he didn’t know what to do either, made her pause.

“I found something,” he said suddenly, voice rough.

Hermione frowned. “What?”

Draco exhaled through his nose, closing his eyes for a moment like he was bracing himself. Then he lifted his gaze, locking onto hers.

“Let me in,” he said. “I’ll tell you everything.”

She hesitated.

She could feel the warmth of Ginny and Harry’s presence inside, their quiet chatter in the next room. She could shut this door and pretend this conversation didn’t need to happen.

But then she looked at Draco again. The tension in his shoulders. The way his hands curled into fists inside his pockets. The fact that he was here.

Against every instinct screaming at her to turn him away, she took a step back.

Draco exhaled shakily and stepped inside, and Hermione closes the door behind him. The warmth of the house contrasts sharply with the cold air outside, but it does nothing to ease the tension pressing between them.

She walks ahead without a word, leading him into the dimly lit sitting room. The fire crackles, casting flickering shadows across the space, but neither of them moves to sit.

Before either can speak, hurried footsteps sound from the hallway.

Ginny rounds the corner first, her wand in hand, eyes sharp with suspicion. Harry is right behind her, brows furrowed, his entire stance shifting into something defensive, ready for a fight. But when they see who’s standing in the middle of the room, their expressions morph from confusion to disbelief.

Ginny’s grip tightens on her wand. “What the fuck is he doing here?”

Draco doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t cower. He just stands there, hands still buried in his coat pockets, jaw locked tight.

Harry’s gaze flicks to Hermione. “Did he force his way in?”

“No,” Hermione says, voice quiet but firm.

Ginny’s head snaps toward her. “You let him in?”

Hermione swallows. “Yes.”

Silence falls, thick and heavy. The tension is palpable.

Harry exhales through his nose, shoulders tight with restraint. Ginny, on the other hand, looks moments away from hexing Draco into oblivion.

Draco, still eerily calm, simply meets their glares and says, “I don’t think hexing me will change anything, but you’re welcome to try.”

Ginny looks like she just might.

Hermione turns on her heel and walks toward the living room, glancing over her shoulder at Draco. “We should talk.”

Draco follows without a word, his boots heavy against the wooden floor. The fire crackles softly, its glow casting long shadows along the walls.

He doesn’t sit, just lingers by the armchair, his posture stiff. He knows this conversation is inevitable, but that doesn’t mean he’s ready for it.

Harry and Ginny follow them in.

Draco side-eyes them, waiting. Surely, they’d leave now. This wasn’t their business.

But neither of them so much as moves. Ginny crosses her arms and leans against the fireplace, while Harry plants himself near the doorway like a sentry.

Draco exhales sharply, tilting his head back slightly like he’s asking the universe why he’s being punished like this. But fine. Whatever.

He turns to Hermione. “I know why this happened.”

Hermione frowns. “What?”

“The pregnancy,” Draco clarifies, voice tight. “I know why none of the spells worked.”

That gets their attention. Ginny straightens, and even Harry’s expression shifts into something unreadable.

Draco rubs a hand over his jaw, clearly uncomfortable. “There’s an ancestral… blood gift. A binding magic that activates when a Malfoy heir turns twenty-one.” He pauses. “It ensures the continuation of the bloodline.”

Silence.

Then...

Hermione blinks. “You’re telling me this was predetermined?”

Draco huffs a humorless laugh. “Apparently.”

Ginny’s brows knit together. “Wait--so you’re saying this baby was always going to happen? No matter what?”

Draco nods once, jaw clenched.

Harry scoffs. “That’s some twisted pureblood bullshit.”

Draco shrugs, his expression unreadable. “Trust me, Potter, I’m not thrilled about it either.”

Hermione looks away, her mind racing. This wasn’t just an accident. It wasn’t just bad luck. It was meant to happen, on some archaic, magical level.

She doesn’t know how to feel about that.

And judging by the look on Draco’s face, neither does he.

Ginny lets out a disbelieving breath. “So what? Your family just decided centuries ago that any Malfoy heir was going to breed whether they wanted to or not? What the hell kind of magic is that?”

Draco runs a hand through his hair, looking exhausted. “Old. Deep. And clearly unavoidable.”

Harry scoffs, arms crossing over his chest. “And you just found out about this now?”

Draco glares. “You think I knew?” He gestures sharply. “You think I wanted this to happen? I tried to stop it, Potter. Three different spells, three different spells. Didn’t work.”

Ginny shakes her head, clearly furious. “You still told her to get rid of it.”

Draco flinches, but covers it with a scowl. “I didn’t know the truth then.”

“That’s not an excuse.”

Draco sighs through his nose, looking like he wants to hex something. “I know that, Weasley.” He turns back to Hermione. “Look, I’m telling you now because you deserve to know. This wasn’t just a mistake or bad luck. The magic in my blood made this happen.” His voice drops slightly. “You had no choice in it. Neither did I.”

Hermione swallows, feeling something uneasy twist inside her. She should be furious, should rail at him for how he left, how he handled this, but a new wave of exhaustion crashes over her.

Because if this was inevitable… if it was always going to happen, no matter what…

Then what does that mean for them now?

Ginny frowned, arms crossed tight over her chest. “It doesn’t seem real. Malfoy, you’re twenty-seven. If this whole bloodline bullshit was supposed to happen at twenty-one, why is it six years late?”

Draco’s jaw tightened. He didn’t answer. His hands curled into fists against his thighs, the knuckles turning white.

Ginny, never one to let things drop, pressed on. “Well? Why now?”

Hermione glanced at Draco and immediately noticed the way his shoulders tensed, the way his throat bobbed like he was forcing something down. He looked hesitant. Like he didn’t want to say it. Like he couldn’t.

And that was enough for her to make a decision.

“Ginny,” Hermione said, voice quieter but firm. “Harry. Can you give us a moment?”

Ginny turned to her, brows knitting together. “Hermione--”

“Please.”

Ginny stared at her, then at Draco. She understood. With a sigh, she exchanged a glance with Harry before nudging him toward the door. “Fine. But if he pulls anything, yell, and we’ll be back in a second.”

With one last glare at Draco, Ginny left, Harry following after her.

The door clicked shut behind them, leaving Hermione and Draco alone.

Hermione didn’t hesitate. “Why is it late?”

Draco’s jaw tightened. His hands curled into fists at his sides.

That damned question.

He could feel the anger rising in his chest, the sharp edge of it scraping against his ribs. Why should he answer that?

He didn’t owe her anything.

This entire situation was a mess, and he’d already told her more than he ever intended. He had been forced to confront the truth he spent years ignoring, forced to deal with the weight of something he never asked for.

And now she wanted more.

His breath was shallow, his pulse pounding in his ears. The pressure in his chest built and built, ready to snap--

But before he could explode, Hermione spoke again.

“If you’re not ready to talk about it, it’s okay.”

Draco froze.

His anger faltered, caught off guard by the softness of her voice.

That wasn’t what he expected. Where was the fire? The accusations? The sharp-edged words that had been their constant since this nightmare began?

Draco stared at her for a long moment, studying the way her shoulders slumped, the way her fingers dug into the fabric of her sleeve.

“You’re not angry,” he said, more statement than question.

Hermione didn’t look at him.

Draco wasn’t sure what he expected. Bitterness, sharp words, another fight. But not this. Not her looking so... resigned.

For weeks, she had been nothing but fire and steel, challenging him at every turn, holding him accountable even when he wanted to run. And now?

Now, she just looked tired.

“I was angry,” Hermione murmured, rubbing at her temples like her thoughts hurt. “And I could be angry again tomorrow, or the next day, or years from now. But right now?” She let out a breath, shaking her head. “Right now, I just want to breathe.”

She wrapped her arms around herself, gripping the sleeves of her sweater like they were the only things holding her together.

“I was angry, Malfoy.” Her voice was quiet but firm. “I was furious. I wanted to scream at you, hex you, make you feel as awful as I did. But what good would it do? Hatred isn’t going to fix this.” She let out a hollow laugh. “I’m exhausted. And at least now, I finally have answers. At least now, I know this wasn’t some cruel twist of fate. It wasn’t just my mistake or yours, it was something that was always going to happen.”

She swallowed hard, shaking her head. “I did my research, you know. I found traces of this… this curse. I knew it had something to do with old pureblood magic, but I didn’t have the full picture.” She looked at him then, eyes dark with something unreadable. “Now I do. And maybe, for once, I can stop fighting the unknown.”

Her shoulders slumped, exhaustion seeping into every part of her. “After everything, the pregnancy, The Daily Prophet publishing it, the entire wizarding world assuming it was Ron’s--”

Draco flinched.

Hermione didn’t miss it. His whole body went rigid at the mention of him.

She squeezed her eyes shut, her voice cracking. “Maybe now I can stop pretending it doesn’t hurt.”

Draco had no response to that.

The words filled the space between them, thick and suffocating.

And then...

“I’m sorry.”

Draco’s breath caught.

Hermione wasn’t looking at him, staring at the floor instead, her fingers curling tighter into her sleeves.

“I don’t remember calling you Ron that night,” she admitted. “But if I did... I’m sorry.” Her voice was barely above a whisper. “You didn’t deserve that.”

Draco’s fingers twitched.

She swallowed. “I know it doesn’t change anything, but I need you to know that I wasn’t thinking about him. Not like that. I--” She inhaled sharply. “I don’t know why I said it, but if it bothered you, then I’m sorry. I mean that, Malfoy.”

Draco exhaled through his nose, his chest tight.

For a long time, he said nothing.

Then, finally, his voice came out low, strained.

“…Yeah.” He looked away, jaw tight. “Me too.”

The living room went silent, the air thick with the weight of everything that had just been said. Draco sat stiffly on the couch, fingers tapping idly against his knee, while Hermione leaned back, exhausted. Her eyes fluttered shut for just a moment, as if the conversation had drained every ounce of energy from her.

Then, the door creaked open, and Ginny entered quietly, her gaze soft but firm as she looked at Hermione.

"If you two are done talking," Ginny said gently, "Harry and I would like a word with Malfoy."

Draco exhaled through his nose. He wanted to say no. He wanted to be anywhere but here, under their scrutiny, but he knew he had to at least try to be accountable for what he’d done. He had to face them, especially Potter, whose wife had been the one picking up Hermione’s shattered pieces.

So he nodded once and stood.

Ginny glanced at Hermione, checking in silently, and when Hermione gave a small nod, Ginny led Draco out of the room.

The tension in the kitchen was suffocating. Harry stood by the counter, arms crossed, his gaze sharp. Ginny took a seat at the table, her fingers laced together tightly, but her expression was less hostile, more tired.

"I don’t even know where to start with you," Harry admitted, voice low. "What the hell were you thinking, Malfoy?"

Draco let out a bitter chuckle, shaking his head. "Trust me, Potter, I’ve been asking myself the same thing."

Ginny arched a brow. "You told her to get rid of it."

Draco flinched. He had no defense for that. "I know."

"Do you?" Harry challenged. "Because you disappeared. She had to find you. She had to tell you, and you threw it back in her face."

Draco clenched his jaw, inhaling sharply through his nose. He wanted to fight back, to snap something sharp and cruel, but he couldn’t. Because Potter was right.

"I was a coward," he admitted, and even saying the words felt like cutting himself open. "I didn’t know what to do."

Ginny scoffed, leaning back. "And do you now?"

Draco hesitated. Did he? He had answers now, sure, but that didn’t mean he had a plan. He had no idea how to be a father, no idea how to handle the mess he’d made.

Before he could respond, a sudden crash echoed from the other room.

Draco’s head snapped up. Something felt wrong. His pulse spiked as he turned sharply toward the hallway. Without thinking, he pushed past Harry and Ginny and rushed back into the living room.

Hermione was gripping the arm of the couch, her entire body tense, breathing shallow and uneven. The air around her crackled. Pure magic, pulsing like a second heartbeat. Her hands trembled as she pressed them against her stomach, her face pale.

"Hermione?" Ginny rushed forward, but Draco was already moving, instinct overriding logic.

He dropped to his knees in front of her, his hands hovering over hers but not quite touching. "What’s happening? What’s wrong?"

Hermione tried to speak, but another wave of magic rippled through the room, making the lights flicker. She squeezed her eyes shut, her breathing coming in sharp, uneven bursts.

Draco’s blood ran cold.

This wasn’t normal pregnancy symptoms.

He didn’t think, he couldn’t think, before his magic surged forward, desperate for something, someone, that could fix this.

And then, instinctively, he called, "Toffy!"

A sharp pop echoed through the room, and suddenly, a small, aged House Elf stood before them, large, knowing eyes taking in the scene.

"Master Draco?" Toffy blinked, momentarily stunned. Then his gaze flickered to Hermione, and his expression turned serious. "Oh… this is not good. This is not good at all."

Ginny stepped back, startled. "Did you just...did you summon a House Elf?"

"Not just any House Elf," Toffy muttered, already moving toward Hermione. "Toffy is a Healer."

Draco clenched his jaw. "Fix her."

Toffy huffed. "Master Draco does not command Healer Toffy. But… Healer Toffy will help." He placed his small hands over Hermione’s, his fingers glowing faintly. He let out a heavy sigh. "Oh dear. This is bloodline magic. It is reacting…"

Draco’s throat went dry. "Reacting to what?"

Toffy’s large ears twitched as he glanced up, his gaze heavy. "To you, Master Draco. You have been running away." He shook his head. "Magic does not like unfinished business. It is demanding Master Draco take responsibility."

The words slammed into Draco like a physical force. He opened his mouth to argue, but before he could say anything, Hermione let out a tired, bitter laugh.

"Of course it is."

Toffy examined Hermione carefully, his large ears twitching as he observed the way she clutched her stomach. His wrinkled face scrunched in thought before he asked, "Toffy is asking how often is Mistress Granger like this?"

Harry exhaled heavily. "Almost every day for the past month."

Hermione, still catching her breath, forced herself to sit up straighter. "It--it’s been happening since I found out I was pregnant."

Draco’s head snapped toward her. "And no one thought to force you to go to St. Mungo’s?" His voice was sharp with accusation, eyes narrowing at Harry and Ginny. "You just let this keep happening?"

Ginny bristled instantly. "We did what we could with what she allowed us to do!"

Toffy’s ears flapped as he turned his sharp gaze on the room, hands on his hips. "Bad, bad wizards! Fighting when Mistress Granger is unwell! Stupid wizards, stupid foolishness!" He stomped his tiny foot on the floor, the sound oddly loud in the tense silence.

Draco, already irritated, scowled. "Excuse me?"

Toffy didn’t so much as flinch. Instead, he jabbed a bony finger in Draco’s direction. "Master Malfoy has no right to ask why no one went to St. Mungo’s! Master Malfoy was not here! Master Malfoy left Mistress Granger alone, yes, yes, left her to be sick and stressed and hurting!" The elf practically vibrated with outrage. "And Mistress Granger is too stubborn, yes, always stubborn, Toffy knows this! But that does not mean she should be alone! No, no, no!"

Draco’s jaw clenched, his fists tightening at his sides, but he had no retort.

Ginny, arms crossed, looked thoroughly satisfied. "For once, I actually agree with a Malfoy house-elf."

Toffy turned on her next. "And miss Potter should not be shouting at Master Malfoy when Mistress Granger is collapsing from stress! No, no, no! This is all foolish, all stupid! Fighting does not help the little one!" His large eyes flicked toward Hermione’s belly, and his ears twitched with disapproval.

Ginny immediately shut her mouth, properly chastised.

Toffy let out a dramatic groan, his long ears flopping as he threw up his tiny hands. "Oh, foolish, foolish wizards! Everyone being stubborn! Everyone making things worse!" He smacked Draco’s knee with a firm thwap, making the wizard jolt slightly in shock. "Master Malfoy should not be gone! Gone makes Mistress Granger sicker! Gone makes little one weaker!"

Draco swallowed thickly, his anger warring with something else entirely. Guilt.

Hermione pressed her fingers to her temples. "Toffy, please, just--tell me what’s happening."

The elf huffed, still looking displeased, but finally nodded. "Mistress Granger’s magic is out of balance. Stress, exhaustion, too much sadness very bad for little one. Very bad for Mistress. Magic is working too hard to protect little one. Magic is pulling from Mistress’ own strength, yes, yes. Not enough rest, not enough calm." His gaze flicked to Draco again, and he sniffed. "Should not be alone."

A weighted silence filled the room.

For the first time since Toffy arrived, Draco didn’t argue. Didn’t snap. He just looked at Hermione, at the dark circles under her eyes, the slight tremor in her fingers.

He had never wanted this. But that didn’t change the fact that it was happening.

And now, he was running out of excuses to stay away.

Draco’s glare at Toffy faded as his eyes flickered back to Hermione.

She looked… wrong.

Not just tired, not just pale, but worn down in a way that made something coil uncomfortably in his chest. Her skin had a sickly pallor under the warm glow of the room, and there were dark smudges beneath her eyes, deep enough that it almost looked like bruising. Her shoulders, usually squared with stubborn resolve, sagged under an invisible weight. Even her curls seemed lifeless, hanging limply around her face.

She was exhausted. Bone-deep exhausted. Like her body was barely keeping up, like she’d been fighting a battle alone for far too long.

It unsettled him.

Draco clenched his jaw, glancing at Potter and Ginny, as if expecting them to notice it too. But of course, they did. They must have. They’d been with her this whole time.

So why the fuck did they let it get this bad?

His stomach twisted unpleasantly. Because he let it get this bad too.

Draco swallowed hard, his throat tight as he took in the full weight of what he was seeing.

This wasn’t just stress. This wasn’t just exhaustion.

This was him.

This Hermione looking like she could barely stand, like she was withering under the weight of it all was the direct consequence of his actions. His avoidance. His cowardice. His absence.

Every single choice he had made since that night had led to this.

He had told her to get rid of it.
He had left her to deal with the aftermath alone.
He had drowned himself in alcohol while she suffered in silence.

And now, after all that, after an entire month of staying away, he had the audacity to stand here, in the warmth of this house, and act like he had a right to demand answers? To be angry?

The realization hit like a gut punch, leaving him winded.

This wasn’t just about a mistake. This wasn’t just about a pregnancy neither of them had wanted.

It was about her.

And he had failed her in every possible way.

Draco barely had time to process the weight of his realization before Toffy turned to him with sharp, unblinking eyes.

“Master Draco,” the house-elf said, voice high yet firm, brimming with authority that left no room for argument. “You is taking Mistress Granger to her room. You is not leaving her side until she is better.”

Draco stiffened. “I--”

“No arguing,” Toffy snapped, ears twitching. “Master Draco is not that stupid, is he? Mistress Granger is needing rest. She is needing care. And you is the one who must give it.”

Draco’s lips pressed into a thin line. He hesitated, glancing at Hermione, unsure if she would even allow him near her, let alone carry her.

But she didn’t protest.

She just sighed, too tired to fight, too drained to care. A small nod was all she gave.

Draco hesitated for only a moment before carefully bending down, his arms steady as he lifted her into his hold. She was lighter than he expected, alarmingly so, and the realization only deepened the pit of guilt in his stomach.

She didn’t tense at his touch, didn’t flinch away she just allowed it, head resting against his shoulder, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion.

Harry stepped forward, motioning for Draco to follow. “This way.”

Draco carried her through the dimly lit corridors of Grimmauld Place, the house eerily quiet except for the soft creak of the floorboards beneath his steps. Harry pushed open a door, revealing a modest bedroom, Hermione’s.

Draco carefully lowered her onto the bed, adjusting the pillows behind her before pulling the blanket over her form. She exhaled slowly, sinking into the comfort, eyes fluttering closed for just a moment.

Toffy, satisfied, clapped her small hands together before whirling toward Harry and Ginny. “The Potters, sir and miss is leaving now.”

Ginny raised a brow. “Excuse me?”

“he Potters are making too much noise, and Toffy does not like it! Mistress Granger needs quiet,” Toffy huffed, placing her hands on her hips. “Too much noise. Too much stress. She is not getting better if too many people is fussing over her.” She pointed a small but commanding finger at the door. “Out.”

Harry and Ginny exchanged looks before sighing in resignation. “We’ll check in later,” Harry murmured, giving Hermione one last glance before leading Ginny out.

The door clicked shut behind them, leaving only Draco, Hermione, and Toffy in the room.

Draco shifted awkwardly, uncertain of what to do now, but Toffy wasn’t done. She turned to him, eyes sharp once more.

“Master Draco is listening, yes?”

He blinked. “To what?”

“Toffy is telling you what Mistress Granger needs and what she must not do.”

Draco straightened, forcing himself to focus as the house-elf continued.

“Mistress Granger is needing food. Good food. Not stress. Not worry. Not sadness.” Toffy’s ears twitched. “She is not overworking. Not reading too much. Not staying up too late. She is resting. She is drinking potions. She is not skipping meals.”

Draco nodded stiffly. “Fine.”

Toffy’s eyes narrowed. “And Master Draco is making sure of it.”

A lump formed in his throat.

He glanced at Hermione, who lay still, too drained to react.

This was it.

His consequence.

Toffy’s large eyes locked onto Draco with an intensity that made his skin prickle. “Master Draco is listening very carefully, yes?”

Draco swallowed, nodding.

“Toffy must repeat. Mistress Granger is not to be lifting heavy things. Not to be climbing too many stairs. Not to be stressing her mind with too much thinking, too much sadness, too much worry.” Toffy’s small foot tapped against the floor in agitation. “She is needing rest. Proper rest. No missing meals. No skipping potions. No being left alone for too long.”

Draco’s brows furrowed. “She won’t be left alone. She has Potter and Ginny.”

Toffy’s ears twitched in irritation. “And Master Draco is thinking that is enough?” The house-elf huffed, crossing her arms. “It is Master Draco’s fault Mistress Granger is in this state. Master Draco is staying with her. Master Draco is making sure she is eating. She is drinking. She is breathing without all this stress crushing her.”

Draco clenched his jaw.

Toffy’s gaze was merciless. “Master Draco is not running away anymore.”

His hands curled into fists. He didn’t argue.

Toffy gave him one last sharp look before spinning on her heel and marching toward the door. “Toffy is coming back later to check.” She glanced over her shoulder at Draco. “Master Draco better not disappoint.”

And then she was gone, the door clicking shut behind her.

Outside the room, Harry and Ginny barely had a second to process before Toffy turned on them, hands on her hips, expression fierce.

“The Potters, sir and miss” Toffy said sharply. “You is not doing enough.”

Ginny bristled. “Excuse me?”

“Toffy is saying what Toffy means,” the elf snapped. “Mistress Granger is too tired. Too weak. You is letting her do too much. You is letting her be too sad.”

Harry sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “We’ve done everything we can--”

“Toffy is saying it is not enough.” She pointed a small but firm finger at both of them. “No more letting Mistress Granger push herself. No more letting her pretend she is fine when she is not.”

Ginny pressed her lips together. “And what do you suggest?”

"Harry Potter and Ginny Potter are thinking they know best, but Toffy is knowing better!"

“Toffy is making lists,” the elf declared. “Mistress Granger is eating more. Mistress Granger is drinking all her potions. Mistress Granger is not overworking. No more too much reading. No more too much crying.”

Harry and Ginny exchanged looks.

Toffy nodded in satisfaction. “The Potters, sir and miss is following these rules, yes?”

Ginny exhaled through her nose. “Yeah. We will.”

Toffy gave them one last withering look before waving her hand. “Good. Toffy is watching. Toffy is checking.”

And with that, she disappeared with a loud crack, leaving Harry and Ginny standing in the hall, slightly stunned and a little terrified.

Ginny turned to Harry, blinking. “Did we just get scolded by a house-elf?”

Harry sighed. “Yeah.”

“…Did we deserve it?”

“…Probably.”

Inside Hermione's room, Draco sat stiffly in the chair beside the bed, elbows on his knees, watching her.

Hermione was asleep, but not peacefully. Her brow was creased, her lips slightly parted, her fingers curled weakly against the sheets. Even in sleep, exhaustion clung to her like a shadow, dragging her down, refusing to let her rest properly.

Draco swallowed.

He was a bastard. A coward. An utter prick.

She looked worn down, gray and fragile in a way he’d never seen her before. And he had done that. He had run. He had let her face all of this alone. And now, here she was, trapped in a body that was betraying her, burdened with a pregnancy that had never been her choice.

The guilt was suffocating.

He wanted, needed, to offer her something. Comfort, maybe. But how? What could he possibly give her now that wouldn’t feel too much, too heavy?

His hand twitched.

He wouldn’t touch her. Not without permission.

Instead, he carefully placed his hand on the bed, just beside hers. Close, but not quite touching. Just there. A presence. A silent offering.

Seconds passed. Then, the tight furrow between her brows eased.

The tension in her shoulders melted away, her fingers relaxing against the sheets. And for the first time since he’d stepped into this house, she looked at peace.

Draco inhaled slowly, staring at the place where their hands nearly met.

It wasn’t much. But maybe, for tonight, it was enough.

Chapter Text

Draco wakes up still in Hermione's room, stiff from sitting in the chair all night. His body protests as he shifts, his back aching from the awkward position. He didn't mean to stay, but he couldn't bring himself to leave. Not when she looked so utterly exhausted. Not when Toffy had practically ordered him to remain by her side. And maybe, just maybe, because he wanted to.

The first thing he sees is Hermione, still asleep but looking a little less strained than before. The deep lines of exhaustion have softened ever so slightly, though the weight of the past weeks still clings to her features. His hand is still resting near hers, mere inches apart, as it had been last night. He quickly pulls it back, clearing his throat as if that could erase the moment of quiet intimacy they had shared in the dark.

Before he can dwell on it, a soft pop fills the room. Toffy appears, balancing a tray of breakfast in her small hands. The house-elf takes one look at him and gives an approving hmm, though she says nothing. Instead, she sets the tray on the bedside table with careful precision before turning to inspect Hermione with a critical eye.

Draco exhales, raking a hand through his disheveled hair. He knows the house-elf's silence is deliberate. If he had tried to sneak out in the middle of the night, she would have had something to say about it. Instead, Toffy merely hums again before nudging the tea cup on the tray closer to Hermione's side of the bed.

As if summoned by the scent of warm tea, Hermione stirs. Her brows knit together as she shifts beneath the blankets, inhaling deeply. For the briefest moment, she looks at peace. And then her eyes flutter open, and the moment shatters.

She blinks, still groggy, her gaze unfocused as it lands on Draco. There's a second, a single, fragile second where she forgets everything. Where it's just morning, where there's just another person in the room.

And then she remembers.

The color drains from her face as reality crashes back down. Her breath stutters, her fingers tightening in the sheets. Her gaze flickers to the chair, then to him, her expression unreadable. Draco braces himself for the inevitable reaction, the anger, the resentment, the demand for him to leave.

Instead, she just swallows hard and exhales.

"Morning." Her voice is hoarse from sleep, barely above a whisper.

Draco nods, unsure of what to say. He isn't sure what he expected, but it wasn't this, this quiet, heavy acceptance.

Toffy, unimpressed by the weight of the moment, huffs and pushes the tray forward. "You must be eating now, yes! No skipping! Bad for Miss and bad for little one, very bad!" She claps her hands together with an air of determination. "Toffy is making sure Miss eats today!"

Hermione hums in response, still waking up, still processing.

Draco clears his throat. "How do you feel?"

Hermione studies him for a long moment before answering. "Better," she admits, voice still thick with sleep. "Tired, but better."

Toffy bobs her head rapidly. "Good! Very good! But Miss must keep resting. And Master Draco--" Toffy turns to him, narrowing her large, unblinking eyes, "--you is making sure she eats, yes? You is not leaving Miss alone again, yes?"

Draco stiffens slightly but nods. "Yeah."

Toffy gives a sharp nod, satisfied. "Good, good! Toffy is watching, yes she is!" Then, with a final pointed glance, she bustles out, muttering about 'stubborn wizards and witches' under her breath.

Hermione shifts under the covers, sitting up slightly, and reaches for the tea. Draco watches as her fingers wrap around the cup, still a bit unsteady. Without thinking, he reaches out, steadying her hand before she can spill.

Hermione stills.

Their fingers brush, and for a moment, neither of them move.

Draco is the first to pull away, clearing his throat again, looking anywhere but at her. "You should eat," he mutters, leaning back in his chair.

She doesn't say anything but picks up a piece of toast. As she takes a bite, she finally speaks, voice softer than before.

"Thank you... for staying."

Draco exhales through his nose, his gaze fixed on the floor. "Yeah."

They don't say anything more, but the silence between them isn't as heavy as it once was. She hesitates before slowly straightening her sitting position, pushing her curls from her face.

Draco watches, his throat tight, as she takes the tea again with slightly trembling fingers. He wants to say something, anything. But the words won't come.

Reality has set in. And for the first time, neither of them is running from it.

They don't say anything more, but the silence between them isn't as heavy as it once was. After a few moments, Hermione sighs, setting down her tea. "You don't have to hover, you know."

Draco raises a brow. "Toffy said I shouldn't leave."

She gives him a tired look. "Toffy also thinks I should be treated like I might shatter at any moment."

Draco hesitates, glancing away. "And should you?"

Hermione doesn't answer right away. Instead, she studies him, as if trying to decide something. "I don't know," she finally admits, voice barely above a whisper. "Some days, it feels like I already have."

Draco clenches his jaw, fingers curling into fists. He doesn't know what to say to that, doesn't know how to fix this, or if he even can. But he's here now, and maybe that's a start.

He leans forward, resting his arms on his knees. "Then I'll stay," he says simply.

Hermione glances at him, surprised. But she doesn't argue.

The morning presses on, quiet and still, the only sounds of a rhythmic ticking of the clock. The air between them hums with something unspoken, not tension, not quite ease, but something that feels like a truce.

Draco watches as Hermione slowly sips her tea, her hands curled around the cup as if absorbing its warmth. The silence between them is no longer suffocating, but it lingers, stretching between the space of everything they don't say.

Then, unexpectedly, Hermione speaks.

"I had a cat," she says, her voice quiet but steady.

Draco blinks. "What?"

"A cat," she repeats, eyes focused on the ripples in her tea. "Crookshanks. He used to sleep at my feet every night when I was in school." A small, wistful smile touches her lips. "Always knew when something was wrong. He'd nuzzle against my hand, just like..." She trails off, shaking her head.

Draco tilts his head. "Like what?"

"Like last night." She doesn't look at him, but her fingers twitch against the ceramic. "When I woke up... my head felt clearer. Lighter. I don't know if it was the tea or the rest or--" She hesitates. "But... thank you."

Draco shifts in his seat, unsure what to do with the strange warmth creeping up his neck. He shrugs. "It was just a hand on the bed, Granger. Not exactly groundbreaking."

Hermione hums, taking another sip. "Still. It helped."

Silence falls again, but this time, it's not uncomfortable. Hermione leans back against the pillows, tracing the rim of her cup with her thumb. "You know, I used to think about how my life would look after Hogwarts. I had plans. Work at the Ministry, change laws, make the world better."

Draco leans against the chair's armrest, watching her carefully. "And?"

"And now... I'm here." Her lips curve, not quite a smile, not quite sadness. "Funny how things turn out, isn't it?"

Draco exhales through his nose. "Yeah."

Hermione looks at him then, studying him in that sharp, perceptive way she always has. "Did you ever have plans?"

Draco's jaw tenses slightly. He thinks about it for a long moment before answering. "No."

Hermione doesn't look surprised. She nods, as if she understands something unspoken. "Maybe that's the difference between us. I always needed to know what came next."

Draco doesn't reply, but after a few moments, he reaches for the teapot and refills her cup before she even asks.

Hermione notices, but she doesn't comment. Instead, she wraps her hands around the cup again, letting the warmth seep in.

For the first time, their conversation doesn't feel like a battlefield.

When Draco finally steps out of Hermione's room, the warmth vanishes.

It's an immediate shift. The suffocating heaviness of reality slamming back into place, pressing against his ribs like iron.

The hallway feels colder.

Harry is waiting.

Not leaning, not slouching, just standing there, arms crossed, jaw tight, expression unreadable. But his eyes... they say everything.

Ginny is beside him, not as still as Harry. There's an energy to her, a barely restrained fury in the way her arms are crossed too tightly, in the way her fingers grip her sleeves like she's holding herself back from something worse.

The silence stretches.

Draco doesn't speak first.

He should. He knows he should. But there's something about the way they're both looking at him that makes it impossible to force the words out.

There's no point in lying.

No point in defending himself.

They already know.

Harry finally breaks the silence, his voice even but edged with steel.

"Whatever you decide to do, don't make this worse."

It's a warning. A reminder. A plea.

Ginny scoffs before Draco can process it, her voice sharp and biting.

"Bit late for that, isn't it?"

Something inside Draco tenses.

His fingers twitch at his sides, the old instinct to reach for his wand flaring up, not to hex them, not to fight, but because he just needs to hold onto something solid. Something real.

Something to stop himself from unraveling right there in the fucking hallway.

He almost responds. Almost throws something back, something cutting, something cruel.

It would be so easy.

It's what he's always done.

Deflect. Defend. Destroy.

But he doesn't.

Because Ginny is right.

Because there is no defense.

Because he's already done enough damage.

He exhales sharply through his nose, staring at the floor, and mutters, "I know."

Harry's expression doesn't shift, but Draco doesn't miss the flicker of something in his eyes. Not forgiveness, Draco wouldn't dare expect that. But something else. Something reluctant, something wary.

Ginny, though, isn't done.

"Knowing isn't enough," she says, her voice quieter but no less sharp. "Fix it."

The words hit him like a physical blow.

Fix it.

Like it's that simple.

Like he hasn't been trying to figure out how to fix things from the moment she told him she was pregnant.

Like he hasn't spent every waking second since then caught in the mess of his own mistakes, drowning in them, barely able to breathe past the weight of it all.

"I'm trying," he says, the words forced from him, rough, raw, dragged out like they hurt to say. Because they do.

Ginny shakes her head, a hollow laugh escaping her lips. "Not hard enough."

Draco's jaw clenches. His hands curl into fists at his sides, nails digging into his palms.

"I stayed last night," he says. His voice isn't loud, but it carries. "I didn't leave."

It's all he has to offer. The only thing he's done right in weeks, months, years even.

Ginny exhales sharply, shaking her head like it's meaningless. Like it doesn't count.

"And that's supposed to make up for everything?"

Draco's throat feels tight.

"No," he admits, his voice quieter now, rougher. "But it's a start."

Silence stretches between them, thick and suffocating.

Harry watches him carefully, measuring something in his gaze. Draco doesn't know what he's looking for. Doesn't know if he finds it.

But after a long, heavy pause, Harry gives a single nod.

It's not approval.

It's not forgiveness.

It's not even acceptance.

But it's acknowledgment.

Ginny, though, is still staring at him. Still unimpressed. Still unforgiving.

"It better be."

Draco exhales sharply, the words settling over him like another layer of weight pressing him down.

He doesn't say anything else.

There's nothing left to say.

He just nods, turns, and walks away, his footsteps echoing down the hall, the weight of their judgment pressing into his spine, the reality of what he's done settling deeper into his bones.

And the worst part is...

He knows he deserves it.

Toffy flutters anxiously by Hermione’s side, wringing her small hands. “Miss must be staying in bed! It is not good for Miss and the little one to be moving so much so soon!”

Hermione barely spares her a glance, stubbornly gripping the edge of the dresser as she pushes herself to her feet. “I’ve rested enough, Toffy.” Her voice is firm, but there’s a slight waver to it, a telltale sign that she’s still unsteady. “I need to move.”

Draco, standing near the door with his arms crossed, watches with quiet skepticism. He doesn’t say anything, but the slight tilt of his head and the way his gaze sharpens tell her he’s already expecting this to go terribly.

Toffy looks like she’s about to have a heart attack. “But Miss--”

“I’m fine.”

The words barely leave Hermione’s mouth before she nearly stumbles.

Draco moves before he thinks, stepping forward and catching her by the arm. His grip is strong, steady. Warm.

The world stills.

Hermione’s fingers clutch at his sleeve, her breath caught somewhere between indignation and something else, something she doesn’t have the energy to name. Their eyes meet. Her brown ones flickering with frustration, his grey ones unreadable.

His hold lingers.

It’s not just the physical contact that makes something tighten in her chest; it’s the way he’s looking at her. Not with pity. Not with disdain. But with something raw and unsettled, something that reminds her, he’s still here.

And that makes it harder.

She exhales sharply, yanking her arm free. “You don’t have to act like you care.”

Draco doesn’t move right away. His fingers twitch, as if they almost resist letting her go. And for a moment, just a breath, he looks as if he’s about to say something else, something that might crack open the wall between them.

Instead, he exhales and mutters, “And yet, here I am.”

The words settle between them, heavier than they should be.

Hermione stiffens.

Something in her expression shifts, not quite anger, not quite acceptance. Just… something that lingers, just like his words do.

She looks away first.

Draco lets her.

But he doesn’t step back, doesn’t cross his arms again like he normally would to put a wall between them. He just stays where he is, hands loose at his sides, watching her regain her balance.

Toffy eyes them both warily before scurrying to grab a pillow, muttering to herself about “stubborn witches and foolish wizards.”

Hermione straightens, determined to stand tall. But Draco doesn’t move far.

Because despite everything, despite the sharp words, the broken trust, the undeniable mess between them, he still finds himself there.

Still watching.

Still waiting.

Still catching her when she falls.

And maybe that’s the worst part.

Because he knows, deep down, he always will.

Over the next few days, Draco steps up in small ways, bringing her potions, making sure she eats, even distracting her when he notices she's overwhelmed. He doesn’t hover, doesn’t smother, but he’s there, in the background, quietly making sure she’s taken care of.

Hermione, though still wary, doesn’t push him away.

They don’t talk about the baby, or about that night, or the mess of emotions still tangled between them. But they talk.

One afternoon, she’s curled up in an armchair, a book balanced in her hands, when Draco, seated across from her, closes his own book with a soft thud. “Theo once tried to outdrink a centaur.”

Hermione’s brow furrows as she looks up. “Excuse me?”

Draco smirks. “Centaurs drink something brewed from magical roots in the Forbidden Forest. Stronger than Firewhisky. Theo, in his infinite stupidity, challenged one to a drinking contest.”

Hermione straightens. “And?”

“And he woke up in Hogsmeade with an IOU pinned to his robes, promising the centaur a favor.”

She snorts mid-sip of tea, barely catching herself before she chokes. Draco watches in amusement as she coughs lightly, setting her cup down. “That is ridiculous.”

He leans back in his chair. “I know. He refuses to talk about what the ‘favor’ was.”

Hermione shakes her head. “That’s terrifying. Theo shouldn’t be allowed near intelligent creatures if he’s making those kinds of deals.”

Draco chuckles. “He shouldn’t be allowed near alcohol either, but here we are.”

She hums in agreement, a ghost of a smile lingering on her lips. The conversation shifts easily after that, moving from ridiculous stories about Theo to their favorite books, to Hermione’s frustrations with the Ministry’s current policies.

Draco listens. Really listens. He doesn’t just nod along, he offers counterpoints, challenges her views, and engages in ways that make her forget, just for a little while, that things between them are complicated.

“You really think the Ministry’s new regulations on magical creature housing are that ineffective?” Draco asks one evening, arms folded as he watches her pace.

“Yes!” Hermione says, exasperated. “They’re treating it like a paperwork issue instead of actually implementing protections. It’s absurd.”

Draco tilts his head. “And what would you do differently?”

She stops pacing, eyes narrowing at him. “Are you actually asking, or are you just trying to get a rise out of me?”

His lips twitch. “Both.”

She rolls her eyes but indulges him anyway, launching into a detailed argument about systemic reform. Draco listens, interjecting only to challenge her in ways that make her refine her argument further. It’s familiar, reminding her of late-night debates in the Hogwarts library, except now, there’s an undercurrent of something else.

Later that evening, as she sits curled up on the sofa, reading, he places a small vial on the table beside her. She glances at it. A calming draught.

“I don’t need it,” she says, though not unkindly.

Draco shrugs. “Then don’t take it.”

She doesn’t. But she leaves it there.

The nightmare isn’t like the ones from the war. There are no screams, no flashes of green light, no blood staining the ground beneath her feet. But it’s suffocating all the same.

She’s standing in the middle of a vast, empty space, shadowed figures looming in the distance. Voices whisper all around her, too low to understand but filled with judgment, with expectation. The weight of their unseen eyes presses down on her chest. She looks down, and suddenly, she’s holding something small, fragile, yet unbearably heavy.

The baby.

But then, her arms are empty. Gone. Slipped from her grasp before she could even hold on. Panic surges through her veins, cold and sharp. She turns, searching, but the whispers swell into an overwhelming roar, a deafening wave of accusation.

You’re not ready. You can’t do this. You’ll ruin everything.

Her breath catches, her body frozen, a scream locked in her throat--

Hermione wakes with a sharp inhale, her chest tight, her pulse hammering against her ribs. The room is dark, the weight of the dream lingering like smoke. She blinks, disoriented, and then her eyes land on the figure near the window.

Draco sits with a book in his hands, but he isn’t reading. His gaze flicks up the moment she shifts, as if he’d already been watching her.

“Couldn't sleep?” he asks, voice quieter in the dark.

Hermione swallows, the echoes of the nightmare still clinging to her, and shakes her head.

She hesitates, but then--“Will you stay?”

Draco doesn’t answer right away. His expression is unreadable, his fingers resting lightly against the open pages of his book. But then, after a moment, he sets it down and moves closer, settling onto the chair beside her bed.

“Yeah,” he finally says. “I'll stay.”

The tension in her chest eases, just a little. Her breath slows. The darkness doesn’t seem so suffocating anymore.

Just before Hermione fully succumbs to sleep, her hand shifts slightly on the bed, fingers twitching in the quiet.

Without thinking, Draco moves his own closer, hesitant, unsure. A part of him warns against it, tells him to keep his distance. But another part, quieter yet far more persistent, urges him forward.

His fingertips barely graze hers, warm, fleeting, but unmistakably there. He expects her to pull away, to pretend it never happened. But she doesn’t.

Hermione’s breath hitches, just slightly, the ghost of a shiver running through her. It’s such a small thing, barely a movement, but he feels it as if it were thunderous. And then, after a beat of silence stretching between them, her fingers shift only a fraction, but enough to touch back. Enough to acknowledge him.

A warmth spreads through Draco’s chest, unfamiliar and unwelcome, because it means something. And he’s not supposed to let it mean anything. But in the hush of the dimly lit room, with her breathing evening out, steadying, he lets himself feel it anyway.

For Hermione, the moment is grounding, steadying. The nightmare left her feeling untethered, floating in the heavy darkness of uncertainty. But this, this small, simple touch anchors her. It’s not much. But it’s enough.

Neither of them speak.

The moment is so fragile, so delicate, that it feels like breathing too loudly might shatter it.

Draco’s pulse drums in his ears. He tells himself it’s nothing. It has to be nothing. Just exhaustion, just circumstance. But as he watches her breathing slow, her features relaxing into sleep, he knows he’s lying to himself.

Because for the first time in a long time, something doesn’t feel so impossibly heavy.

Chapter Text

The sun had long since dipped below the horizon, casting elongated shadows through the tall windows of Grimmauld Place. The fire crackled softly in the hearth, filling the silence between them with something almost companionable.

Hermione sat curled up in an armchair, parchment spread across her lap, fingers absently twirling the end of a quill. Across from her, Draco lounged at the far end of the sofa, idly flipping through an old book, though his eyes weren’t entirely focused on the words. The air between them was not quite easy, but it was no longer thick with the sharp edges of resentment or uncertainty. There was hesitancy, sure, but not the kind that made either of them feel like fleeing.

The quiet stretched, neither of them feeling the need to fill it. Until, finally, Hermione let out a soft exhale and spoke.

“I got my position back,” she said, running a finger along the rim of her tea cup before glancing up at him.

Draco’s eyes lifted from the page, brows raising just slightly. “Curse-breaking?”

She nodded. “Technically, I was never officially dismissed. Harry filed for a year’s worth of leave for me.” Her lips curled in something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Didn’t even ask me first.”

Draco huffed a quiet breath of amusement, shaking his head. “Sounds like Potter.”

“It does, doesn’t it?” Hermione murmured, eyes flickering to the fire. The tension in her shoulders had been unbearable when she first received the news, but the more she thought about it, the more it settled into something closer to relief. “It’s strange. I thought I’d be more upset. I spent years fighting to be in that position, and now that I have it back, I’m not sure what to do with it.”

Draco was silent for a moment before he leaned forward, resting his forearms against his knees. His gaze flickered to hers, steady, unreadable. Then, with a quiet exhale, he muttered, "You don’t have to have all the answers, Granger. Just figure out if it’s something you can still hold."

Hermione blinked at him, taken aback by the simplicity of his words. She had spent weeks agonizing over it, twisting herself into knots about whether she should return, whether she could handle it. But he made it sound so… effortless. As if it wasn’t about obligation or expectation but rather what she wanted.

A slow breath left her lips. “Yeah,” she murmured, voice softer now. “I suppose you’re right.”

Draco smirked slightly, but he didn’t press the moment further. Instead, he leaned back, flipping a page in his book, as though the conversation had never been heavy in the first place.

The silence returned, but this time, it wasn’t empty. It wasn’t waiting to be filled with unspoken fears or carefully measured words. It was just… there.

Hermione didn’t mind it.

The room had settled into a fragile kind of quiet, the only sounds being the occasional flick of a page and the faint crackle of the fire in the grate. Hermione had returned to her reading, her eyes scanning the text with an intensity that made something coil tight in Draco’s chest.

He should have looked away. Should have left the room entirely. But he didn’t.

Instead, he watched her.

Not just in passing, not just with casual interest, he watched her like she was something rare, something dangerous. 

His eyes traced every minute shift in her expression, every flicker of thought that played across her features as she read. The slight crease between her brows when she concentrated. The way her lips parted, just barely, when she found something interesting. The subtle way her throat moved when she swallowed, the absent-minded tuck of a curl behind her ear, only for it to fall forward again, like it belonged there, like it was mocking his need to fix things, to make things right.

Draco clenched his fists against his knees, but it did nothing to quiet the restless pull inside him. It was slow, insistent, an ache he couldn’t name, settling deep in his chest and refusing to leave.

It crept in with every breath.

He wasn’t supposed to be here. Wasn’t supposed to want to be here. And yet, he did.

The Malfoy name was a weight on his shoulders, a chain around his throat. There was a path carved out for him before he had even been born, and nowhere in that path was this, sitting in silence with Hermione Granger, watching her, curious, almost as if he'd forgotten what it was like to see someone this much.

It had been easier when they fought, when they clashed with sharp words and biting remarks. At least then, the fire between them had been familiar, anger was safer than this quiet, creeping longing that threatened to consume him whole. But this? This quiet understanding, this ease that was slowly, dangerously creeping into their interactions, this was something else entirely.

Draco had long since learned not to waste time wanting things out of reach. Like peace. But as he sat there, watching Hermione, the truth settled into his bones like a curse.

He is wasting time.

And that terrified him.

And then, as if she could feel the weight of his gaze, Hermione suddenly looked up.

Draco didn’t move. He didn’t look away, didn’t school his expression into something indifferent. He just stared, his silver eyes locked onto hers with an intensity that sent a sharp pulse of awareness through her spine. Her brow creased slightly, lips parting in silent question.

“What?” she asked, her voice soft but searching. “What’s wrong?”

Draco didn’t answer. He couldn’t. The words tangled in his throat, caught somewhere between caution and something far more dangerous.

Instead, he said something else. Something that slipped out before he could stop it.

"Vos me pesez, et si ne puis vos mètre hors de pensee."

Hermione blinked. Confused. “What?”

Draco exhaled slowly, forcing his gaze away as if that could somehow erase the moment, erase the truth in his voice. “Nothing,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. “It’s nothing.”

But Hermione wasn’t convinced. And somewhere deep inside, Draco knew, she’d felt it too. The shift between them. The weight of everything unspoken. The quiet, lingering thing that neither of them wanted to name. 

And Hermione… Hermione watched him now.

Not for long. Not enough to let herself fall into whatever that moment had been. But long enough for her to remind herself this doesn’t mean anything.

It couldn’t mean anything.

Because she didn’t know how long he would be here. If he was here out of obligation, out of guilt, out of something she hadn’t figured out yet. She didn’t know. And that was the problem.

The last time she let herself get too close, he turned away so easily. The morning after. The ice cream after.

Her fingers curled against the pages of her book. Deep down, she was just waiting for it to happen again, for him to turn cold, to turn distant, to leave her shattered all over again.

Night had fallen by the time Ginny called them for dinner. The warm scent of roasted chicken and buttered potatoes filled the house, making it feel almost too cozy. Draco had already been preparing to leave, straightening his robes and reaching for his wand, when Hermione without really thinking spoke up.

“You can stay.”

Draco froze.

Ginny and Harry both turned to her, but even she wasn’t sure why she’d said it. Maybe because, after everything, watching him leave so soon felt... off. Like something unfinished. Or maybe because, despite all the history between them, his presence wasn’t as unwelcome as it should have been.

Draco’s expression didn’t give anything away. Stay? His lips parted slightly, but he caught himself before the word could form.

Hermione cleared her throat, suddenly feeling self-conscious. “I mean--Toffy would probably scold the both of us again if you left.”

Harry, ever quick to catch on, smirked. “Oh yeah. Can’t disappoint Toffy. He’s practically running this place now.”

“Damn right, he is!” Ginny added..

Draco let out a slow breath, raking a hand through his hair. “You do realize I own an entire bloody manor, don’t you?”

“Yes, but apparently, you have terrible eating habits,” Ginny chimed in, placing a dish on the table before narrowing her eyes at him. “And if you try to leave, I will hex your arse back into that chair. Nicely, of course.”

Draco arched a brow, his tone dry. “Well, that’s reassuring.”

“Good,” Ginny said sweetly.

Hermione shook her head, hiding a smirk as she took a seat. Draco lingered for a moment before exhaling sharply and sitting across from her. He could tell himself it was just practicality, that staying was easier than arguing. But when his eyes met Hermione’s across the table, the excuse felt thin.

Dinner had long since ended, but Toffy had just appeared, and Merlin help them all, the tiny elf was on a mission. She stood before Draco and Hermione, arms crossed, foot tapping, her large eyes narrowed with the kind of judgment that could make even a Malfoy feel shame.

"Master Malfoy must not stay seated all night! And Miss Hermione needs good air! Toffy demands it!" she declared, pointing an accusing finger at them both as if they'd committed a heinous crime.

Hermione blinked. "Toffy, I--"

"A short walk is good for Miss Hermione! And Master Malfoy is looking..." Toffy squinted, tilting her head as she examined Draco like a particularly disappointing cauldron cake. Then she gave a dramatic sniff. "Not so aristocratic anymore. A walk will fix it."

Draco sat up straighter, affronted. "Pardon me?"

Toffy nodded sagely, as if he hadn’t just delivered a fatal blow to his dignity. "Slouching, Master Malfoy. And the hair. Walk will fix."

Ginny, barely concealing her laughter, clapped Draco on the back. "Better listen, ferret. Toffy doesn’t take no for an answer."

Harry smirked. "Might just hex you next."

"Toffy does not hex!" the elf snapped, indignant. Then he paused. "Toffy jinxes. Small ones. Just a little."

Draco stared. "This is actual madness."

Before he could protest further, Toffy grabbed him by the sleeve with surprising strength and started dragging him toward the door, Hermione following in a dazed sort of compliance.

"Short walk. Ten minutes. No protests," Toffy ordered, shoving them both outside.

And just like that, Draco Malfoy, heir to one of the most prestigious pureblood families, found himself being frog-marched towards the front door by a house-elf with a superiority complex.

They walked in silence at first, the night wrapped around them like a quiet cocoon. They passed a small park, the swings swaying gently in the breeze. Hermione slowed her steps, her gaze lingering on them, something wistful crossing her face.

"I miss being a child sometimes," she murmured. "No war, no expectations. Just... running, playing, swinging."

Draco looked at her, really looked at her, and for some reason, the words slipped out before he could stop them.

"I never really had that."

Hermione turned to him, curiosity flickering in her expression. "What do you mean?"

Draco exhaled, his hands sinking into his coat pockets. "My childhood wasn’t--It wasn’t bad, not in the way some people have it. I had everything I could possibly want. But... there were rules. Expectations. My father, he wasn’t the type to be pleased easily. Everything I did was measured against something greater, something I wasn’t quite reaching. My mother, she tried to shield me from it, in her own way. But there was always this... weight."

Hermione didn’t interrupt. She just listened.

Draco let out a dry, almost humorless laugh. "It’s strange. I spent so much time trying to be who they wanted me to be, but I don’t think I ever really knew who I actually was."

Draco exhaled, his hands sinking deeper into his coat pockets, as if he could bury himself along with the words he hadn’t meant to say. A muscle in his jaw twitched.

"Fuck," he muttered under his breath, shaking his head. "Listen to me. Whinging like some self-pitying idiot." He let out a sharp, humorless scoff, tilting his head back slightly. "Malfoy heir, raised in a bloody manor, complaining that his life wasn’t perfect. How tragically poetic."

His mouth twisted, and there was something biting in his tone, but the real cruelty wasn’t aimed at her, it was at himself.

Hermione’s fingers twitched at her side as if she wanted to reach out but thought better of it.

She frowned, her brows drawing together. "That’s not--" She stopped herself, exhaling before trying again. "You’re not whinging."

He let out a dry scoff, but Hermione didn’t let him look away.

"You’re allowed to talk about it," she said softly. "Having more than others doesn’t mean you didn’t suffer in your own way."

Draco’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t argue. He just looked at her, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The swings creaked in the wind, a lonely sound in the quiet park.

Draco glanced at her. "You said you miss being a child. What’s stopping you?"

Hermione blinked at him. "What?"

"Swing. Run. Play," he said simply, nodding toward the empty swings. "Nothing’s stopping you now."

She let out a soft laugh, shaking her head. "That’s ridiculous."

Draco shrugged. "Maybe. But you looked like you wanted to."

She hesitated, then, almost impulsively, stepped toward the swing.

"But maybe don't run, Toffy might kill me"

Hermione chuckled before she sat, testing the chains, then gave herself a light push.

Draco remained standing, hands in his pockets, watching as she swung forward and back in slow, lazy arcs. The motion was unhurried, almost rhythmic, her curls shifting with every movement. The air was cool, the night still, and for a fleeting moment, Hermione looked… light. Not weighed down by problems, by history, by everything that loomed over them.

Draco let himself watch, just for a little longer. The way her fingers gripped the chains, the way her eyes fluttered closed when the breeze brushed against her skin, the quiet, content hum she barely seemed aware of. There was something achingly nostalgic about it, something untouched by time.

The chains of the swing creaked as Hermione slowed, her feet dragging lightly against the ground. The playful ease from moments ago faded as she stilled completely. And then, without thinking, she placed her hand on her stomach.

Draco felt it like a blow to the chest.

His mouth went dry, his pulse a little too loud in his ears. It was such a simple movement, barely even a conscious one. And yet, it stole the air from his lungs.

They hadn't talked about it.

Not properly. Not once.

Hermione traced slow, absentminded circles over the fabric of her jumper, her gaze distant. And Draco, Draco wanted to look away, wanted to pretend he hadn't noticed. But he did. He always did.

"You do that a lot."

His voice was rougher than he intended, but it was out before he could stop it.

Hermione blinked, her hand stilling as she turned to him.

"What?"

"Touch your stomach."

Her eyes flickered with something, caution, uncertainty, but she didn’t move her hand away. Instead, she just studied him, like she was waiting for something.

Draco clenched his jaw, something twisting deep in his chest. He exhaled sharply, glancing away before forcing himself to meet her gaze again.

"I think about it more than I should," he admitted, his voice quieter now.

Hermione's breath caught, but she didn't interrupt. She just waited.

Draco swallowed hard, dragging a hand through his hair before finally looking at her, really looking at her. "The baby." His throat tightened around the words. "It’s there. It’s real. And it’s... mine."

Saying it out loud felt different. He wasn’t sure what he expected. Some sort of shift, some tangible moment where everything clicked into place. But all it did was make the weight of it settle deeper in his bones.

Draco's words hung in the air between them, raw and exposed, and Hermione exhaled shakily, fingers still curled against her stomach.

"And what do you think about it?" she had asked.

Draco swallowed, the weight of everything settling deep in his chest. He could feel the tension in his ribs, the tightening in his throat. But this time, he didn’t shove it down.

"I think…" he started, then stopped. He blew out a slow, unsteady breath, his jaw tightening. His fists curled at his sides before he forced them to relax. "I think I was a bloody coward," he admitted, the words bitter on his tongue.

Hermione’s brows furrowed, but she didn’t interrupt.

Draco took a step closer, his hands flexing at his sides. "I was terrified, Granger. I still am. But back then? When you told me?" His lips curled into something that wasn’t quite a smile. "I wanted to make you feel as miserable as I did."

Hermione flinched.

Draco’s chest constricted painfully at the sight, but he forced himself to keep going.

"You showed up at the bar that night, and I--fuck, I didn’t even let you talk before I lashed out. I said things I shouldn’t have. I threw a tantrum like a child because I was pissed. Pissed that you had come to me after all that time. Pissed that--" He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "That the Daily Prophet was saying the baby was Weasley’s."

Draco let out a sharp breath, his jaw tightening. "Because that night, you--" He swallowed hard, looking away for a second. "You said his name"

Hermione flinched, but Draco pressed on.

"I hated it. Hated that I let myself get too close, that we--" he exhaled sharply, his voice tight, "--that you told me things, that I told you things. And then you said his name." He let out a hollow laugh, devoid of any real amusement. "I felt like a fucking idiot. And I was so damn angry I didn’t even stop to think. I just… shut it off. Shut you out. Made sure you knew it meant nothing, because if I let myself feel even a fraction of it, I was going to lose my fucking mind."

His fingers curled into fists at his sides.

"And then months later, I saw you in that damn bookstore, and I was still bloody pissed. Still bitter. And then you cried, fuck, Granger, you cried and I hated it. Because of course it was me. Again." His voice wavered, sharp with frustration. "Just like Hogwarts, wasn’t it? No matter how much time passes, I still manage to be the reason you end up in tears."

Hermione sucked in a sharp breath.

Draco’s gaze dropped, his throat tight. "I thought it was his," he said, voice low and uneven. "I thought I was just some stupid mistake. That it didn’t mean anything. That you…" His jaw locked, his fingers curling into fists. "That I was just filling in for him. Just some fucking replacement."

Hermione’s lips parted, her expression stricken, but Draco didn’t let her speak yet.

"I was wrong." His voice was low, but firm. His eyes lifted, meeting hers with a quiet intensity. "I was so fucking wrong, Granger."

Her eyes shimmered in the dim light, and he realized, with a sharp pang in his chest, that she was blinking back tears.

Draco exhaled sharply, then, before he could think better of it, he dropped to one knee, leveling their heights. Hermione tensed, her breath catching, but he didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away.

"I was a right bastard," he muttered, voice rough. "For what I said. For how I acted. For leaving you to deal with this alone." His jaw tightened, his throat working around the words. "You didn’t deserve that."

Hermione let out a quiet, broken sound, her shoulders trembling as the tears slipped free, unchecked. She didn’t try to hide them, didn’t bother to wipe them away.

Draco’s fingers twitched with the urge to do it for her. Instead, he forced himself to keep talking.

"I was scared," he admitted, his voice low, raw. "Still am." His throat bobbed. "I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing. I don’t know how to be--" He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "I’ve only ever been a Malfoy. And let’s be honest, that’s not exactly a glowing reference."

Hermione shook her head, her shoulders trembling. "Malfoy--"

"But I know one thing," he cut in, voice steady but edged. "I’m not running."

A quiet sob broke from Hermione’s throat.

Draco went rigid, hands twitching at his sides. He wasn’t built for this. For tears, for emotions thick enough to choke on. But then, before he could overthink it, he reached out. Just a brush of his fingers over the back of her hand. Barely there. Like he didn’t trust himself not to make a mess of it.

He exhaled sharply, tilting his head, before reaching up, hesitant, reluctant. Like he already knew he had no business touching her. But he did it anyway.

He tucked a stray curl behind her ear, fingers skimming her cheek before he could stop himself.

"I won’t run," he muttered. "Not from this. Not from you." A muscle in his jaw ticked. "Not from what's coming."

Hermione sucked in a breath, searching his face like she was trying to pick apart his words, like she was waiting for him to take them back.

Draco's hand lingered a second longer before he curled his fingers into a fist and dropped it. His voice was quieter, rougher, but there wasn’t a shred of hesitation.

"I swear it."

And this time, he’d rather die than break it.

Hermione wanted to believe him, Merlin, she wanted nothing more than to believe him, but she had learned the hard way that words meant nothing without action. And Draco Malfoy had run from her before. More than once.

She went still, searching his face for the catch, for the moment he would contradict himself, for the hesitation that always came before retreat.

But it never came.

And that terrified her.

Her throat tightened, her eyes burned, and she hated it, hated that after everything, he still had the power to make her cry.

"You say that now," she whispered, shaking her head, voice unsteady. "But what happens when it gets too real? When things get too hard? Are you still going to be here then?"

Draco flinched at the doubt in her voice, at the vulnerability she couldn’t quite hide. But he didn’t look away. Didn’t retreat.

"I don’t know how to do this," he admitted, his voice raw, "but I know I can’t walk away again."

A sharp breath escaped her, ragged and unsteady. She wanted to tell him that’s not enough. That knowing he shouldn’t leave didn’t mean he wouldn’t.

But then she looked at him, really looked at him, and she saw it. The exhaustion. The regret. The fear. But most of all, the determination.

He wanted to stay.

And maybe, just maybe, she could let herself believe him.

At least for tonight.

She didn’t say it out loud. Instead, she wiped at her eyes and gave him a look, half-exasperated, half-exhausted, the kind that said you have a lot to prove.

And Draco, somehow, understood so he held her gaze, unwavering. He didn’t turn away this time.

Instead, he swallowed, his voice quiet but firm. "Then let me prove it."

A breeze drifted through the park, cool against their flushed faces, carrying with it the scent of damp earth and night-blooming flowers. The weight of their conversation still lingered between them, raw and unshaken.

Hermione exhaled shakily, her fingers curling and uncurling against her lap as she tried to steady herself. Draco remained where he was, kneeling in front of her, his presence grounding despite the storm he had just stirred within her.

The air was thick with something unspoken, something fragile. Neither of them moved to break it, until Hermione sniffled, wiping at her eyes with trembling fingers. She had cried too much tonight, and yet, there was something different about these tears, like they weren’t just from pain, but from the sheer weight of everything that had been left unsaid for too long.

Draco was still kneeling in front of her, his hands loose on his thighs, his head slightly bowed like he wasn’t sure if he should keep looking at her or if she would push him away.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The silence stretched between them, not uncomfortable, but heavy. And then Hermione took a breath.

"You can call me Hermione, you know," she said, her voice quieter than she meant it to be.

Draco’s head lifted slightly, his eyes flickering with something unreadable. "What?"

"You always call me Granger." She gave a watery smile, small but real. "But I think… I think if we’re going to do this, whatever this is, you should call me Hermione."

Draco didn’t answer right away. He just stared at her, something shifting in his expression, something cautious but… warm. And when he finally spoke, his voice was softer than she’d ever heard it.

"Hermione."

It sounded different coming from him. It made her stomach flip in a way she wasn’t ready to acknowledge. But she didn’t take it back.

She meant it.

Draco was still watching her, his eyes tracing over her face like he was trying to memorize every detail. Her words had settled between them, something unspoken shifting in the space they shared.

He hesitated for a fraction of a second before clearing his throat. "Then… you should call me Draco."

Hermione blinked, surprised.

"You hate when people call you by your first name," she pointed out, tilting her head slightly.

Draco exhaled sharply, almost like he was annoyed at himself for saying it. "Not everyone," he muttered, and then, quieter, "Not anymore."

Hermione stared at him for a long moment, her fingers curling around the edge of the swing. The weight of his words settled in her chest, warm and unexpected.

"Draco," she tested the name out, soft but certain.

Something flickered across his face. He schooled his features almost instantly, but she caught it, the slightest hitch in his breath, the way his fingers tensed just a little.

He swallowed, looking away. "Yeah. That works."

For a moment, they just sat there, the night air cool around them, the quiet settling into something neither of them wanted to disturb. Then, slowly, Draco shifted. He extended his hand toward her, fingers open, palm up, an offering.

"Draco," he said again, deliberate this time.

Hermione hesitated, but only for a second. Then she placed her hand in his, her fingers curling around his own.

"Hermione."

The smallest of smiles ghosted across his lips. Their hands lingered just for a moment, just long enough for something unspoken to pass between them before Hermione finally let go.

The night stretched quiet around them, but the space between them felt just a little less vast.

And this time, neither of them turned away.

Chapter Text

There was a sharp knock at the door.

Harry, already halfway through his morning tea, sighed and set the cup down. "If that's another demanding house elf, I swear--"

But when he swung open the door, it wasn’t a wide eyed elf standing there. It was Theo Nott, looking far too smug for someone who was uninvited.

"Potter," Theo greeted, as if they were old friends catching up over brunch instead of former school rivals who had somehow ended up on surprisingly good terms. "Glad to see you're still the reliable type."

Harry raised an eyebrow. "Am I?"

"Yes. Because if anyone was going to harbor a stray Malfoy, it would be you, I took a wild guess. I had a theory,” Theo announced, shrugging off his cloak. “And, as it turns out, I was right.”

Harry raised a brow. “About?”

Theo gave him a long-suffering look. “Malfoy. The absolute menace has been missing for two weeks. Two. Weeks. And before you say anything, no, I did not actually care at first. I assumed he was brooding somewhere, nursing a whiskey bottle and his many, many issues. But then I realized, no public sightings. No dramatic bar fights. Not even a single scathing Prophet headline about the Malfoy heir’s latest crime of ruining yet another business’s reputation.” He placed a hand over his heart. “The economy is suffering, Harry.”

Harry sighed. “And so you just… guessed he was here?”

Theo smirked. “Well, I considered other options first. Like a secret love affair with a Veela cult. But this seemed more likely. Imagine my shock when I turned out to be right." Theo declared, breezing past Harry into the house without waiting for an invitation.

Harry stared after him, then sighed. "Why do none of you know what knocking and waiting means?"

Theo ignored him, already surveying the house like he was appraising real estate. "Nice place, Potter. Cozy. A little too Gryffindor for my taste, but I suppose not everyone can have style."

"Oh, I’m sorry, were you under the impression that I wanted your approval?" Harry said dryly.

"Not at all. I just like to be thorough in my observations," Theo replied with an easy grin before casually adding, "Now, where’s our dear wayward Malfoy? If he’s been kidnapped, blink twice."

Harry rolled his eyes but led Theo to the living room, where Draco and Hermione were deep in discussion over an old, cursed artifact Hermione had been tasked with researching. Theo pretended he didn't see Draco massage Hermione's hand. 

He strolled in like he owned the place. "Well, well, well. If it isn’t the missing Malfoy. You do realize you’ve been gone for two weeks, right? I was beginning to think you finally eloped with a bottle of Firewhisky."

Draco didn’t even look up. "If you came all this way just to hear yourself talk, you could’ve sent an owl instead."

Theo placed a dramatic hand over his heart. "I had to come in person. The Daily Prophet is running out of headlines about you stumbling out of bars, and it’s becoming so difficult to keep up your reputation as Britain’s most tragic aristocrat."

Draco finally looked up, scowling. "I hate you."

"No, you don’t. You’d be lost without me," Theo said smoothly before turning to Hermione with a bright, completely unbothered smile. "Granger! You look lovely as always. Are they feeding you properly here? Do you need me to smuggle you some decent tea?"

Hermione blinked at him. "I--no, I think I’m okay?"

"Are you sure? Because Potter’s taste in tea is abysmal. I’d sooner trust a goblin to make me a cocktail."

"I’m right here," Harry deadpanned.

"Yes, and?"

Draco pinched the bridge of his nose. "Merlin, I need a drink."

Theo smirked. "See? And that’s how you end up in the Daily Prophet, again."

Theo barely had a chance to make himself comfortable before the front door swung open, and in walked Ginny, her sharp gaze landing on him immediately. "What are you doing here, Nott?"

Theo, ever unbothered, leaned back in his chair and smirked. "Why, Ginevra, darling, what a warm welcome. I might start thinking you don’t enjoy my company."

Ginny crossed her arms. "I enjoy it even less when you show up uninvited."

"Oh, nonsense. I was just catching up with dear Draco here," Theo gestured lazily at Draco, "since he’s been playing house and avoiding all responsibility."

Draco scowled. "I have not--"

"Two weeks, Draco. Two. You were gone so long, even the Daily Prophet has run out of scandalous headlines about you." Theo tsked. "Do you know how hard that is? They were this close to publishing an exposé on whether your tragic absence was due to an existential crisis or an unfortunate haircut."

Draco pinched the bridge of his nose. "For the last time, I don’t give a damn what the Prophet writes about me."

"Yes, yes, very noble of you," Theo waved him off before turning back to Ginny. "Speaking of scandals, how’s that little information exchange of ours been going?"

Ginny blinked. "What?"

"You know," Theo continued nonchalantly. "How you’ve been feeding me updates about our dear Hermione here, and I, in turn, have been keeping you informed on the whereabouts of a certain brooding blond? Quite the productive arrangement we had."

Ginny’s expression turned murderous just as she smacked Theo upside the head.

"Ow!" Theo yelped, rubbing the back of his skull. "Was that necessary?"

"It was not supposed to be talked about, you absolute menace!"

Theo merely shrugged. "Ah, well. It was bound to come out eventually."

Draco shot Ginny an unimpressed look. "You’ve been spying on me?"

"You disappeared," she snapped back. "Excuse me for making sure you weren’t drowning in a gutter somewhere."

Theo leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, watching Hermione squirm with unfiltered delight. "Well now, Granger, how is it that you’re somehow glowing and yet still managing to look like an overworked scholar? It’s impressive, really. Radiant yet chronically exhausted, it's very witch chic of you. I suppose it just adds to your allure. A delicate flower thriving in the harshest of conditions. Tragic. Poetic. Beautiful."

Hermione, already pink-cheeked from the initial wave of praise, stiffened as Theo carried on. "I--That’s--"

"And the way you carry yourself, all grace and intelligence, yet completely unaware of the devastating effect you have on mere mortals." Theo sighed, shaking his head with exaggerated woe. "Merlin help the rest of us. If I were any less of a gentleman, I’d be writing poetry about you this very second. Alas, I am burdened with restraint."

Draco, who had been pinching the bridge of his nose, finally groaned. "I swear on everything holy, Nott, if you don’t shut up--"

"Oh, come now, Draco," Theo waved him off with a lazy flick of his hand. "Just because you don’t have the vocabulary to express your admiration doesn’t mean I should hold back."

Hermione had buried half her face in her hands by now, her ears burning. "I can’t--You are so--"

Before she could finish, there was a sharp crack and the sudden whack of a tea tray connecting with Theo’s shoulder.

"Ow! Bloody hell--"

Toffy, the ever-dutiful house-elf, stood with her arms crossed, unimpressed. "Master Nott will cease giving Miss Hermione an elevated heartbeat! It is still too early in the morning! Bad for the baby that is sleeping!"

Hermione blinked, momentarily too flustered to process anything beyond the sheer absurdity of the situation. Theo, meanwhile, rubbed his shoulder, looking both affronted and oddly impressed.

"A violent but well-timed intervention," he admitted. "Fine, fine. I’ll leave Granger’s heart rate alone. For now."

Toffy sniffed, unimpressed, and promptly vanished with another crack, leaving Theo to shake his head. "Honestly, what is this house? I come here with my heart full of love and get assaulted for it."

Ginny snorted. "More like you got exactly what you deserved."

Draco smirked. "For once, I agree with her."

Hermione, still red-faced, let out a groan and muttered, "I hate all of you."

Theo rubbed the sore spot on his shoulder with an exaggerated pout, though the twinkle in his eyes betrayed his amusement. "You wound me, Gin. I thought we had a sacred, unspoken bond of subtlety."

Ginny huffed. "Subtlety? You just announced our entire spy network like it was the latest Quidditch score."

Hermione, still recovering from Theo’s barrage of compliments, had her face half-buried in her hands. Her cheeks were still burning, and she was this close to just vanishing under the couch cushions. Draco, ever the opportunist, smirked at her discomfort.

"What’s wrong, Granger? I thought you enjoyed intellectual debates? Surely, discussing the ethereal beauty of your hair and the devastating charm of your smile falls under that category?"

Hermione groaned. "You’re the worst."

Theo gasped, clutching his chest. "Betrayal! And after I so graciously elevated your status to ‘angel walking among mere mortals’ in the eyes of wizardkind."

Before Hermione could formulate a response (or possibly launch a pillow at his head), there was a sharp pop, and Toffy materialized beside Theo once more. The tea tray in her tiny hands swung up like a well-aimed Bludger, connecting solidly with the side of Theo’s head.

THWACK.

"Master Theo is causing unnecessary stress to Miss Hermione!" Toffy scolded, her eyes narrowing like a disappointed professor catching a student misbehaving. "Miss Hermione must stay calm in the morning! The baby is still resting, and excitement is simply unacceptable!"

Theo, rubbing his head for the second time in the span of five minutes, blinked in bewilderment. "Did I--Did I just get assaulted by a tea tray twice?"

Draco crossed his arms, leaning back smugly. "You get used to it."

"You tolerate this?" Theo whispered, scandalized, staring at Toffy like she was some kind of terrifying deity.

Harry, still standing by the doorway, smirked. "Draco doesn’t have a choice. Toffy runs this house. We just live in it."

Toffy gave a firm nod, crossing her arms in satisfaction, as if to say damn right, I do.

Theo exhaled dramatically. "Fine, fine. I’ll be good. No more distressing the mother-to-be. I will, however, continue to bring devastating truths and dazzling charm to the table, because, well--" He gestured to himself. "Some burdens must be borne."

Hermione groaned again, this time flopping against the couch. "Why are you even here?"

"Excellent question, my dear genius," Theo said smoothly, plopping himself into a chair. "Besides checking if Draco finally perished under a pile of self-loathing, I’m also here on official business."

Draco sighed heavily. "I don’t work for you."

"No, but you do work for the Daily Prophet, and they are currently on a rampage looking for their most scandalous headline generator." Theo leaned forward, lowering his voice like he was about to share a state secret. "You see, in your absence, a great tragedy has occurred. Several bars have not been ruined by your presence. The Prophet is struggling. Society is struggling. And most importantly, I am struggling, because now I have to keep making excuses for you."

Draco pinched the bridge of his nose. "I hate you."

"Ah, but you hate me with love," Theo said serenely. "Now, let’s talk about how we’re fixing your reputation before another bar dares to thrive in your absence."

Draco pinched the bridge of his nose. “You don’t actually care about me, do you? You just miss getting into bars for free.”

Theo gasped, clutching his chest like Draco had just stabbed him. “How dare you?” He took a beat, then shrugged. “But yes.”

Draco let out a slow, suffering sigh.

Theo, completely unbothered, narrowed his eyes and inspected Draco like he was some kind of medical anomaly. “Actually, you really need some sunlight. You’re too pale. Almost transparent at this point.” He leaned in closer, squinting. “I swear I just saw your blood circulate.”

Ginny snorted. “He’s got a point, Malfoy. It’s a bit alarming.”

Harry, arms crossed, nodded. “Might be a vampire at this point.”

Theo snapped his fingers. “That explains why he’s been hiding here. It all makes sense now.”

Draco scowled, rubbing a hand down his face. “I hate all of you.”

He turned to Hermione, expecting some kind of support, but she just smiled, eyes full of amusement. “You should go,” she said lightly. “Have some fun. You’ve been inside for too long. Besides, I’m better now.” She glanced at Toffy. “And if anything comes up, Toffy will find you.”

Draco hesitated, something unreadable flickering across his face.

Then, 

“Draco.”

His name. From her lips. Soft, but certain.

Draco stiffened. Theo gasped.

“Oh-ho, what’s this?” Theo clutched his chest again, reeling back dramatically. “First-name basis now? My, my, how positively marital.”

Draco’s eye twitched.

Ginny snickered. “He’s got a point--”

“I swear to Merlin, Nott--”

Theo ignored him completely, whirling to Hermione instead. “So, Hermione.” He dragged out her name with glee. “How long have we been speaking to dear Draco with such familiarity?”

Hermione, for the first time that morning, looked properly flustered. “It’s--it’s just practical at this point, I mean, we are--”

“Oh, no need to explain to me,” Theo cut in, grinning wickedly. “I fully support this domestic development--”

Draco groaned, grabbed Theo by the collar, and hauled him toward the door. “We’re leaving.”

“But I still have more teasing to--ACK--”

The door slammed behind them.

As soon as the door shut behind Draco and Theo, silence settled in the room.

Then, 

Ginny turned to Hermione, her arms crossed and a slow, knowing smile creeping onto her lips.

Harry coughed into his fist, staring very pointedly at the floor.

Hermione blinked. “What?”

“Oh, nothing,” Ginny said, all too innocent. “Just... you called him Draco.”

Hermione bristled. “And?”

Ginny’s smile widened. “And nothing. Just making an observation.”

Harry coughed again, this time looking far too interested in the ceiling.

Hermione narrowed her eyes. “You two are insufferable.”

Before either of them could push further, Toffy suddenly announced, standing right between them.

The elf beamed, her large eyes shining with absolute certainty. “Love is most good for the young master!” Toffy declared, nodding so vigorously her ears flopped. “It is long overdue! Master Draco and Miss Hermione are nearly six months behind schedule!”

Hermione’s stomach dropped. “I--what--”

Toffy pressed on, utterly undeterred. “At this time, Miss Hermione and Master Draco should be kissing! And hugging! And--” she clapped her tiny hands together, eyes twinkling, “--engaging in the most devoted displays of affection! The little master must be surrounded by love, always!”

Hermione choked. Ginny was already half-falling off the couch in silent laughter.

Toffy, satisfied with her declaration, gave a final nod and vanished with a pop!

Ginny howled with laughter.

Harry made a strangled noise and turned bright red.

Then, Ginny, between uncontrollable laughter, gasped, “Oh Merlin, Toffy is right! You and Draco really are behind schedule--”

Hermione slapped both hands over her face, radiating heat. “I hate everything.”

Ginny had always prided herself on being a good observer. It was a necessary skill, growing up in a house as loud and chaotic as the Burrow. You had to learn to read between the lines, to pick up on the things that went unsaid. And right now, watching Draco and Hermione, she could see something shifting, something soft, something careful.

Draco Malfoy had always been sharp edges and cold smirks. A boy raised on privilege and war, a man shaped by regret and survival. But here, in her living room, he was different. He was quieter, but not in a way that felt withdrawn. It was deliberate. He listened when Hermione spoke, not just waiting for his turn to respond, but listening. Absorbing her words. Taking them in as if they mattered. As if she mattered.

And the strangest thing? He was gentle.

Ginny had seen it in fleeting moments, the way he subtly shifted the pillow behind Hermione when she sat down, how his hand hovered near her back when she moved too quickly, just in case she lost her balance. The way he instinctively reached for the tea before Hermione could, cooling it with a spell before passing it to her without a word. Little things, things that told her this wasn’t obligation or guilt. This was care. And maybe he didn’t even realize it.

There was the night Hermione had fallen asleep at the table, her notes scattered in front of her, quill still in hand. Ginny had been about to wake her, but Draco beat her to it.

With an exasperated sigh, he plucked the quill from Hermione’s fingers before it could stain her cheek with ink. Instead of waking her, he simply flicked his wand and made a blanket appear, draping it over her shoulders. For a long moment, he just stood there, staring at her, his expression unreadable. Then, as if shaking himself from a thought, he stepped back and returned to his own book.

Ginny had been frozen in place, watching from the hallway. Not just because of what he did, but because of how natural it was. As if he had done it a hundred times before. As if it was second nature.

Then there was the afternoon Hermione had been attempting to reach a book on the highest shelf in their small library, standing on her toes with a huff of frustration.

Before Ginny could offer to help, Draco walked past, barely glancing her way before flicking his wand and summoning the book into her hands.

"You could have just handed it to me instead of showing off," Hermione said, raising an eyebrow."

Draco smirked. "I could," he said, already turning away. "But I do enjoy watching you struggle."

Ginny had expected Hermione to snap at him, to roll her eyes, to argue but instead, she had smiled. A real, unguarded smile.

And Ginny had seen it, that flicker of something in Draco’s expression before he masked it. Something startled, something drawn to her in a way he hadn’t meant to show.

There was no grand declaration, no sweeping gestures. Just this, this quiet, careful presence. A man who had spent years running, now choosing to stay.

And Hermione? Hermione, who had been so tired, so alone in all of this, she was letting him. She was letting him be there.

Ginny smiled to herself, warmth spreading in her chest. Maybe, just maybe, Draco Malfoy wasn’t the man he used to be. Maybe, despite everything, he was still capable of something good.

And maybe, just maybe, that something was meant for Hermione.

Theo had only been in the Potter household twice, once to drag Draco out for drinks, and the second purely to piss him off. And yet, despite his brief visits, he had seen far too much.

It wasn’t the grand, dramatic gestures that caught his attention. No, Theo was a Slytherin through and through; he knew how to spot the subtle, the careful, the things left unsaid. And Draco, his best mate, the same arrogant bastard who had perfected the art of indifference, was slipping, again and again, in the presence of one Hermione Granger.

There had been the first time, when Theo had entered unannounced, greeted Harry like an old friend, and found Draco in the living room, sitting next to Hermione as they pored over a book together. Not across from her. Not with the usual stiff detachment. No, Draco was close, leaning in just slightly, his focus not just on the words, but on her.

Theo had watched as Hermione absentmindedly rubbed at her wrist, frustration clear on her face as she struggled with a spell theory. And Draco, without a word, had reached out, taken her hand in his, and carefully massaged the spot where she had been pressing too hard. He hadn’t looked at Theo, hadn’t even seemed to remember he was there.

“Too much pressure,” Draco had murmured, his thumb brushing over her wrist once, twice, before releasing her like he hadn’t just done something insane.

And Hermione, brilliant, sharp-tongued Hermione, had just... let him. No protest. No sharp retort. Just a quiet thanks as she returned to her book.

Theo had nearly choked on air.

Then there had been the second visit. That one had been even worse. He had only come by to get under Draco’s skin, to gloat about something ridiculous, only to walk into the kitchen and find the most absurd sight.

Draco Malfoy. Peeling an apple. For Hermione.

Not just peeling it, slicing it into neat little pieces and handing them to her one by one while she read through some impossibly thick book. And when she had gotten too absorbed in her reading to take the next slice, Draco had merely sighed, set it down on her plate, and waited.

Theo had turned to Ginny, who was watching from the other side of the kitchen, her arms crossed and an expression of smug amusement on her face.

“You’re seeing this, right?” Theo had asked in horror.

“Oh, I see everything,” Ginny had replied, grinning. “He even cuts the crust off her sandwiches sometimes.”

Theo had nearly passed out.

Because this, this wasn’t Malfoy Manor’s doing. This wasn’t the cold, calculated control Draco had been raised with, the careful restraint of a man who never let his emotions slip. No, this was something else. Something softer. A kind of care Theo had never seen in him before.

A gentleness that had come alive in Hermione’s presence.

And that was terrifying.

Theo didn’t know what would come of it, if Draco would ever admit it to himself, if Hermione would ever see it for what it was, but he saw it. And that was enough to make his next visit all the more interesting.

After all, what kind of best friend would he be if he didn’t make Draco absolutely miserable about it?

Theo, being the loyal and dedicated friend he was, couldn’t let it slide.

“You know, I’m proud of you, mate,” he said, watching Draco stir his tea like he hadn’t just committed the most un-Malfoy act of the century.

Draco stilled, blinking at him. “What?”

Theo smirked, leaning back. “I said, you look like a prat.”

Draco narrowed his eyes. “That is absolutely not what you said.”

Theo grinned. “Prove it.”

Draco just scowled, tossing a sugar cube at him, which Theo deftly dodged. But even as the conversation moved on, Theo filed the moment away. Because he had meant it. And maybe, just maybe, Hermione Granger was the reason why.

Harry only caught glimpses of them. Mornings before he left for work, evenings when he returned, fleeting moments in between the chaos of his job at the Ministry and the demands of the world.

But sometimes, the smallest moments spoke the loudest.

In the early mornings, when the house was still quiet, he would see them by the window, where the first rays of sunlight spilled into the kitchen. Hermione would sit at the table, scribbling something in a notebook, a mug of tea cooling beside her. And Draco, Draco, who once claimed to hate mornings, would be sitting across from her, absently peeling fruit with a precision that could only come from years of practiced wandwork.

Harry had never imagined Draco Malfoy to be someone who quietly handed Hermione the slices of fruit as she wrote, never forcing conversation, never demanding attention, just existing in her space, sharing the silence like it was something sacred.

Then, there were the evenings.

Harry would return home, bracing himself for the usual chaos. But more often than not, he found something else.

One evening, after a long day at the Ministry, he had walked in to find Hermione fast asleep in the armchair, a book slipping from her grasp. But what caught his attention wasn’t just that, it was Draco, sitting on the floor beside her, legs stretched out, absently paging through one of her books.

And the thing was, Draco wasn’t even reading it. Harry could tell. His gaze barely flicked to the words. Instead, every so often, he would glance up, watching Hermione shift in her sleep, adjusting the blanket so it covered her shoulders. And then, so carefully, like it was second nature, he reached up and tucked a stray curl behind her ear before turning back to his book.

Harry had seen war. He had seen hate, fear, anger. He had seen the worst of people.

But this? This was something else.

Draco Malfoy was not just present. He was staying.

And one night, Harry decided to acknowledge it.

Draco was standing outside on the back porch, a glass of firewhisky in hand, staring at the stars. Harry stepped out beside him, leaning against the railing. They stood in silence for a while before Harry finally spoke.

“Thanks.”

Draco turned his head slightly, brows furrowing. “For what?”

Harry exhaled, shaking his head. “For choosing to stay.”

Draco was quiet for a moment, swirling the firewhisky in his glass. “Didn’t realize you cared that much, Potter.”

Harry smirked. “I don’t. Hermione does.” He looked at Draco then, more serious. “I just hope you’ll stay till the end.”

Draco didn’t answer right away. But after a long pause, he let out a breath and muttered, “Yeah. Me too.”

And for Harry, that was enough.

Chapter Text

Draco and Hermione sat across from each other, surrounded by books. Hermione, deep into a passage, was muttering to herself while Draco sat opposite her, head propped on his hand, watching her with an expression Harry couldn't quite place.

"You're staring," Hermione said without looking up.

Draco blinked, unbothered. "You talk to yourself when you read."

Hermione flushed. "I do not."

Draco smirked, flipping a page. "You definitely do."

Instead of arguing, Hermione rolled her eyes and pushed herself deeper into the book. She hadn’t realized just how much of a habit it had become, but now, hearing Draco’s teasing, she suddenly felt self-conscious. She hated how much Draco noticed, and how much she allowed him to, but at the same time… there was something about him she couldn’t quite shake.

Her heart skipped a beat, and she cleared her throat, trying to focus on the text again. But Draco, of course, never seemed to focus on anything other than her. And when she glanced up briefly, her gaze met his, their eyes locking for a fleeting second. She immediately regretted it.

Draco was still watching her, waiting for some reaction. She could feel the weight of his stare, as though he were waiting for her to break, waiting for her to do something unexpected. Hermione clenched her jaw and went back to her book, trying to push aside the uncomfortable feeling. But as always, it lingered.

That was when the knock at the door came.

Harry, who had been half-watching the two of them while pretending to organize some papers, frowned. "Expecting someone?"

Hermione shook her head. Draco didn’t answer, but his gaze flicked toward the door warily. Before anyone could move, the distinct sound of Theo’s (who had been showing up more in the Potter's house than his work in the ministry) voice rang out from the hallway. "Not unless you have a full report on the incident and at least three tea leaves from Gringotts, I’m not letting you in."

Hermione frowned, sitting up straight. She could hear Theo’s teasing tone from the other side of the door.

"Ah, Weasley! Fancy seeing you here. What an interesting, completely unexpected surprise."

Harry groaned. "Oh, for fuck’s sake."

Ron’s voice, suspicious and impatient, followed. "What are you doing here, Nott?"

Theo sighed dramatically. "You wound me, Weasley. Can’t a man visit his dearest friends without being interrogated?"

Ron wasn’t buying it. "Move."

"Oof, can’t do that, mate. You see, it’s a terrible time for visitors. Very tragic, really. Everyone inside has--uh-Dragon Pox. Highly contagious. Fatal in some cases. You should probably leave before you catch it."

Ron gave him a flat look. "Are you serious?"

"Oh, absolutely. Would I, Theodore James Nott, ever lie to you?" Theo placed a hand over his heart, his expression one of exaggerated sincerity. Then, after a beat, he added, "Besides, did you know you’ve got something in your teeth? Right there, front and center. Looks like spinach."

Ron, despite himself, ran his tongue over his teeth.

Theo grinned. "Made you check."

Ron’s patience snapped. "Move, you absolute tosser."

Before Theo could throw out another excuse, Ron shoved past him, stepping into the house. He took one glance at the living room, and then-

His whole body went rigid.

Draco sat there, relaxed as ever, sipping his tea like he owned the place. His gaze flickered lazily to Ron over the rim of his cup. Then, in a perfectly calm, insufferable drawl, he said, "Oh, hey, Weasley. Welcome to my humble abode."

Ron’s eye twitched. "What the fuck is he doing here?"

Draco, ever the menace, took another deliberate sip before replying, "Oh, you know. Settling in. Lovely place, this. Potter even lets me pick the curtains."

Hermione’s heart sank. She could feel the tension rising, could feel the air thickening in the room, but she couldn’t look away from Draco. And yet, she could also feel Ron’s eyes on her, like a weight pressing on her chest. She didn’t want to do this. Not like this.

She hadn’t planned to face Ron like this, not yet. The thought of telling him the truth, that the baby wasn’t his, felt like a cruel twist of fate. 

Ron turned to her then, voice trembling with confusion, anger, and hurt. "Tell me you’re not actually letting him near our kid."

The weight of the moment hit her all at once. She stared at Ron, and all the fear she’d been carrying came crashing into her chest. Was she really about to say it out loud?

But she had to. For herself. For the truth.

Hermione finally broke the silence with a shaky breath, her voice steady but firm. "Ron… the baby isn’t yours."

It felt like the room had frozen. She could barely breathe as she waited for him to process her words.

Ron’s face drained of color, and his mouth opened, but no sound came out.

"What?" he croaked, his voice cracking.

Hermione squared her shoulders, every inch of her feeling the weight of his disbelief. "It never was."

There was a beat of silence, and Hermione’s stomach twisted. She could see Ron’s brain trying to make sense of it, trying to reconcile the last few months of his life with the shocking truth that had just been dropped on him.

But then the shock melted into something darker, something angrier.

"The Prophet--" he started, his voice shaking.

Hermione didn’t need to explain. "The Prophet was wrong."

That’s when Ron turned to Draco, his eyes widening with realization, disbelief, and fury all in one.

"...No. No. No fucking way--"

Draco, of course, was enjoying every second of it. He met Ron’s angry gaze with a raised eyebrow and a cocky smirk. "Surprise," he said flatly.

Hermione flinched at the bluntness of it. But before she could make any more sense of the situation, the explosion came.

Ron’s face, which had been pale with shock and disbelief, suddenly twisted with rage. His hands balled into fists, his knuckles white with tension. He lunged forward, his voice a low growl as he advanced on Draco. "No way in hell is this happening. Not here. Not with him."

Draco, unruffled, slowly placed his tea cup on the table, his movements deliberate. His eyes flicked to Ron, sharp and calculating. "If you want a fight, we do it outside. Far from Hermione," he said, his tone cool and measured, though there was an undeniable edge to his voice.

Ron’s fury flared at the sound of Draco using her first name, and before anyone could stop him, he was charging at Draco. His fist swung out, but Draco was already on his feet, his movements swift and precise.

He knew the situation well, too well. He was so close to Hermione that if they fought, it would undoubtedly hurt her, too. But Draco had no intention of backing down. His own anger surged, and without another thought, he met Ron halfway, a blur of motion, his fist colliding with Ron’s jaw.

The force of it knocked Ron back a step, but Ron wasn’t going to let Draco have the upper hand. He swung again, this time aiming for Draco’s midsection. But Draco dodged, his reflexes sharp as ever, before swinging back with a punch that landed against Ron’s cheek.

The sound of fists meeting skin echoed in the room, but the chaos only escalated.

Hermione’s heart was racing in her chest. She tried to step forward, to pull them apart, but she was frozen, unsure of what to do as the two men collided like bulls in the middle of the living room. The sight of Ron, her ex, fighting Draco like this, like they were enemies back in school, made something in her gut twist painfully. But it was the realization that Draco had done this to protect her, to ensure she wasn’t caught in the middle, that made her pause.

Theo, who had been watching this all unfold with an almost amused expression, let out a sharp breath of exasperation. "Bloody hell," he muttered to no one in particular, before raising his wand in one fluid motion. "Accio wands."

In an instant, both wands shot through the air and into Theo’s outstretched hand, the force of the movement momentarily halting the fight. Ron and Draco froze, each of them now glaring at Theo as he twirled their wands nonchalantly between his fingers.

"Place your bets, boys," Theo said with a wide grin, clearly delighted by the chaos. "Who do you think's winning this one?"

Hermione’s blood boiled. She wasn’t even sure if she was more angry at the men fighting in the living room or Theo for making light of it. "You’re insane," she spat, stepping forward, her voice trembling with rage. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

Theo merely shrugged, as though this was all just another amusing game to him. "What? I just thought it’d be fun to see who could throw the best punch." He chuckled darkly, completely ignoring the tension in the room.

But before Hermione could snap back, Harry who had been frozen from what is unfolding slammed back to reality, his face a mask of concern. He quickly moved to her side, his hand instinctively reaching out to her, pulling her away from the brawl. "Come on," he said quietly, his voice low, but firm. "Let’s get you out of here."

Hermione didn’t hesitate. She allowed Harry to guide her away, his protective presence making it easier for her to step out of the whirlwind that had erupted. As they moved away, she couldn’t help but feel a mixture of rage and helplessness.

She didn’t want to be shielded from the fight; she wanted to stop it. But she knew, deep down, there was no way she could. Not yet. She had to let it play out.

Behind them, Theo was still grinning, completely unfazed by the tension. "Well, if you’re going to fight, you might as well put on a good show, yeah?" He glanced at Harry, who shot him a sharp look in return.

Harry didn’t even spare Theo a second glance as he continued to lead Hermione away from the chaos.

"Harry, you can’t just let them--"

"I’m not letting them," Harry interrupted her, his tone fierce. "But you need to get out of here before things get worse. I’ll handle it."

Hermione’s chest tightened. She didn’t want to leave, didn’t want to be pulled away, but Harry’s calm insistence won out. She couldn’t bring herself to argue with him now. As much as she hated to admit it, she knew this wasn’t something she could fix on her own.

"I’ll be right back," Harry promised softly, before glancing back at the fight, his hand still gently on Hermione’s arm. "Stay here. You’re not getting any closer to that mess."

Hermione reluctantly nodded, her mind racing as she glanced back at the two men fighting over her, fighting over what they thought they knew. And all the while, it felt like her world was unraveling just a little bit more.

As Ron swung his fist toward Draco once again, the tension in the room reached a breaking point. The sound of skin connecting with skin echoed, only to be drowned out by the sound of Harry’s voice. Sharp, commanding, and unwavering.

“Enough!”

The force of Harry’s command was enough to halt the fight in an instant. Both Ron and Draco froze, as if the words cut through them like a spell. Harry stood at the door, his chest heaving with barely contained fury, eyes blazing with a fire born of years spent in the heat of battle. His shoulders were squared, jaw clenched, and there was no mistaking the authority in his stance.

He was no longer the young man who had barely survived the last battle; this was Harry Potter, the one who had defeated the Dark Lord, the one who had seen more death and destruction than either of these men could ever fathom. And now, standing in front of them, his mere presence demanded respect.

“You will stop this right now,” Harry’s voice boomed, louder than before, like the roar of a lion. “I will not let either of you make a fool of yourselves in my house.”

Ron took a step back, his anger still palpable, but Harry’s words hit him like a punch to the gut. The fury that had clouded Ron’s judgment suddenly faltered, and a moment of clarity broke through. But only for a second.

“You don’t get to tell me what to do, Harry!” Ron snapped, his fists still clenched, his breath coming in ragged gasps. “This isn’t your fight! This is about her--and him!”

Harry didn’t flinch. “It is my fight, it is my house” Harry’s voice was even, but it was the finality in it that settled over the room. The old anger from the war seemed to pulse just beneath the surface, a reminder of who Harry had become. “If you want to fight, we’ll do it outside, away from Hermione.”

“Potter’s right,” Draco said coldly, his voice clipped. He shot Ron a sharp, almost dismissive glance. “Take it outside, Weasley. You could’ve easily made this a lot worse.”

Ron’s eyes flashed with anger. “What, you think you’re some bloody hero now, Malfoy? You don’t--”

“No,” Draco interrupted, his voice sharp, cutting through Ron’s words. His gaze flicked to Hermione, who was clutching her stomach instinctively, and his jaw tightened. He could feel his anger building. “You could’ve made this a hell of a lot worse than it needed to be. Don’t make the same mistake again.”

Ron, now seething, was clearly on the edge of another outburst. But Harry didn’t wait. In one swift movement, he stepped forward, his chest almost touching Ron’s, and planted himself firmly between the two men, not allowing even an inch of space for the fight to continue.

Harry’s eyes never left Ron’s, and he spoke in a low, deadly tone. “This ends now, Ron. You’re angry, but you’re not going to solve anything like this. You’re not going to do this in front of Hermione.”

Ron’s lips trembled as his eyes darted to Hermione, but Harry didn’t let up. “You walk out of here now. Before I make you walk out.”

The weight of Harry’s words, the sheer authority behind them, made Ron hesitate. 

Ron, now visibly deflated, turned his gaze to Hermione. “You--you let him in here? You let him around our child?”

Harry’s voice cut through the air like a whip. “She didn’t let anyone do anything, Ron. And the child is not yours” His eyes narrowed, and for the first time in the conversation, his gaze turned cold. “This is her decision. Not yours. And if you can’t respect that, I’ll make you respect it. But you’ll do it outside.”

Harry’s voice was sharp and commanding, his eyes fixed on Ron. “You want to fight, fine. But not here. Not where you could hurt Hermione.”

Ron’s fury hadn’t diminished, but Harry’s presence was a constant reminder that it wouldn’t be wise to escalate things further. He gritted his teeth, fists still clenched, but held his ground for the moment.

Theo, who had been watching the scene unfold with a knowing smirk, finally couldn’t resist. He leaned in with a sneer, addressing Ron in a mocking tone. “What’s the matter, Weasley? Lost your temper that badly? Can’t take a few words from Potter?”

Ron’s eyes snapped to Theo, and the insult hit a raw nerve. Without warning, he surged forward, his body tense with rage, but everyone thought he was heading straight for Theo.

Instead, Ron veered at the last second, sidestepping Theo and heading directly toward Hermione. His hand shot out toward her, aiming to grab her arm.

Draco, watching the entire exchange unfold, reacted instantly. His movements were like lightning as he stepped into Ron’s path, his hand locking onto Ron’s wrist, pulling it away from Hermione before Ron could make contact. 

The space between them seemed to shrink as Draco moved into his personal bubble, his voice a deadly whisper that only Ron could hear. “You make one more move near her, one more, and you’ll regret it. I don’t care how many years you’ve known her, Weasel. Touch her again, and I’ll make sure you never get close enough to even look at her again.”

His grip tightened ever so slightly, a warning, but one that spoke volumes. It wasn’t just about defending Hermione anymore; it was about making sure Ron understood that his actions had consequences. Draco’s eyes flicked briefly to Hermione, her arms still clutching her stomach, and something flickered in his gaze, a mix of anger and concern.

Ron’s expression shifted. His mind was racing, but Draco’s words cut through his rage like a sharp blade. He knew this wasn’t just a verbal threat. Malfoy wasn’t someone you ignored when he spoke like that.

The room was suffocating with tension. Ron tried to pull away, but Draco’s grip remained firm for a moment before he released him, stepping back with a cold, almost bored expression. For a second, Ron hesitated, unsure of how to react.

Draco’s eyes didn’t leave Ron, though the intensity of his stare seemed to grow colder with every passing second. 

The room went quiet, the only sound coming from the ticking of the clock on the wall. Ron, deflated but not quite ready to back down, looked like he might snap again at any moment. But Harry moved with purpose, stepping between the two men and planting himself in front of Hermione, like a shield. His jaw was clenched, his eyes hard with the weight of everything he had fought for, everything he had lost. He would not let this turn into a spectacle.

He turned to Theo, and it was clear Harry wasn’t in the mood for Theo’s usual quips. His voice was firm, leaving no room for argument.

“Theo,” Harry commanded, his tone brokering no disagreement. “Take Hermione out of here. Now.”

Theo raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised at the gravity in Harry’s voice. He opened his mouth to make some sarcastic remark, but Harry’s unwavering gaze stopped him in his tracks. Theo’s lips curled in something between a smile and a smirk, but he said nothing. Instead, he turned toward Hermione, his demeanor shifting. The teasing, playful Theo was gone, replaced by someone much more serious.

“Come on, Granger,” Theo said, his tone softer now, as he placed a hand on her shoulder, guiding her toward the door. “Let’s get you out of here before they break anything important.”

Hermione, still rattled by the whole situation, glanced between Theo and Harry, the tension in her chest not quite lifting. But she trusted Harry, and she knew he was right. She had to get out of here.

Harry’s eyes never left Ron or Draco as he watched Hermione leave, his posture still brimming with authority. The room was thick with the weight of the past, and Harry’s words had landed like a hammer. He would not allow this to continue. Not while Hermione was in the middle of it.

Once Hermione was safely out of the room, Harry turned back to the two men, his anger and frustration finally breaking through the calm exterior. “Ron, you need to leave,” he said, his voice steady but cold. “This isn’t your place anymore.”

Ron’s fists clenched, and he opened his mouth to protest. “No way. Malfoy should leave. He’s the one causing all of this--”

“Draco is my guest,” Harry interrupted firmly, his gaze hardening. “You, on the other hand, are uninvited and have caused enough chaos. You’re not welcome here anymore.”

Ron’s face reddened with a mix of shock and fury, but Harry stood his ground. “Leave. Now.”

For a long moment, Ron glared at Harry, but the weight of his words and the fire in his eyes made Ron hesitate. The silence hung in the air, suffocating and thick, until Ron finally turned and stormed out, slamming the door behind him.

Harry’s gaze locked onto Draco, firm and unyielding. “The fight didn’t need to happen, Draco. It could’ve ended right there.”

Draco’s jaw clenched, the words stinging, but he didn’t snap back. He swallowed his pride, his voice low but edged with frustration. “I warned him. He started it, Potter. I wasn’t about to let him keep going.”

Harry stepped forward, his expression resolute. “You didn’t have to engage. You could’ve walked away.”

Draco scoffed, his voice laced with disbelief. “And let him walk all over me?” His eyes darkened with the weight of his own frustration. “Not happening.”

Harry’s gaze never wavered. “You’re not helping anyone, least of all Hermione, by picking fights. You’re making it worse for her.”

Draco’s frustration shifted, the sharpness in his voice fading slightly, though his anger still smoldered. He didn’t back down, but there was a subtle shift in his posture, an almost imperceptible acknowledgment. “I didn’t want this, Potter. He made sure I didn’t have a choice.” His words were harder, but the edge of defensiveness was dulling.

Harry’s voice remained steady, cutting through the tension. “You always have a choice, Draco. You just don’t always take it.”

Draco held his ground for a long moment, the words hanging heavy in the air. His eyes flickered to the door, where Hermione had left only moments before, and something in his gaze softened, just for a second. He glanced back at Harry, his voice quieter, reluctant. “Maybe I could’ve handled it differently.”

Harry took a breath, his tone still unwavering. “Next time, walk away. For her.”

Draco didn’t respond immediately, the weight of Harry’s words settling on him. He stood there, silent, his gaze lingering on the door before he nodded stiffly. It wasn’t a resolution, but it was a step toward one. He turned, not looking back, the tension still thick in the room, but for now, the fight was over.

The room was silent, heavy with the weight of the unspoken. Hermione sat on the edge of the bed, her hands pressed into the fabric of her clothes, her thoughts swirling. The world outside seemed far away as she tried to process everything. Ron's visit. The fight. Draco’s words. Her mind replayed the moments over and over, but nothing seemed to settle into clarity.

She felt torn, a part of her still angry and disappointed, while another part, one she couldn’t quite silence, wanted to believe in him. But how could she trust him? How could she trust herself after everything that had happened?

Her anger and disappointment come from the fact that, once again, everything escalated into chaos when it didn’t have to. She had hoped Draco would handle things differently.

Yet, despite her frustration, she still wants to believe in Draco. He’s shown glimpses of change, moments where he’s been careful with her, where he’s tried to step up. She’s seen him struggle with his own demons, and part of her understands why he lashed out at Ron. But understanding isn’t the same as excusing, and that’s where her hesitation comes in.

Can she trust that Draco won’t let his pride and anger dictate his actions? Can she trust that he won’t make things harder for her when she already has enough to deal with? And more importantly, can she trust her own judgment when it comes to him? She thought she had made peace with her decision to let him in, but now doubt creeps back in, whispering that maybe she’s being foolish. Maybe she’s setting herself up for heartbreak.

That’s why she feels torn, caught between disappointment and hope, between what she wants to believe and what reality has shown her.

She heard the soft creak of the door, and Draco stepped inside. He was still distant, but there was something different in the way he held himself now. He wasn’t trying to close himself off, but he wasn’t quite reaching for her either. A silent tension hung in the air between them, the silence speaking louder than words could.

He stood by the window, his back turned to her, eyes staring out into the dark, but she could feel the weight of his attention on her. She hesitated before breaking the silence.

"I didn’t want this to happen," he said quietly, his voice rough. "The fight, I mean. It should’ve ended before it got to that point."

Hermione swallowed, looking up at him. "Then why did you engage? Why didn’t you just walk away?"

He let out a short, frustrated breath. “I warned him. I told him not to do it. The Weasel started it, and you know he doesn’t know when to shut his mouth.” His words were sharp, but there was an underlying frustration that seemed to pull him down. He turned slightly, his eyes catching hers. "I didn’t want to fight. But he had no right to come at me like that, not when--"

"Not when what?" she interrupted, her voice more brittle than she intended. She stood up, her hands clasped together tightly. "Not when I’m involved?"

Draco’s gaze flickered, a moment of uncertainty flashing across his face before his expression hardened again. "Not when you’re in the middle of it. Not when it could’ve ended with you getting hurt." His voice was low but filled with a deadly edge.

Hermione’s chest tightened at the words, the tension thickening in the room. "You think this makes it better? You think this solves anything?"

Draco’s jaw tightened as he stepped closer, frustration now in his movements. "I didn’t make it worse. He did. He came after me, and I had no choice but to respond."

“I know, but it didn’t have to go this far,” Hermione said, her voice shaky now, as much from the helplessness she felt as from the anger. “You could’ve walked away. You could’ve let it go.”

Draco looked at her for a long moment, his lips curling slightly as he exhaled. "Let him walk all over me? I’m not a bloody coward." He shook his head, glancing away, as if struggling to keep himself composed. "You don’t know what it’s like, having everyone think you’ll just take whatever they throw at you."

Hermione’s heart twisted, her frustration mixing with a pang of understanding. "I know," she whispered. "I know, Draco. But you’re not just fighting for yourself anymore. You’re fighting for all of us. For what’s real, for what we’re trying to build. You can’t just fight every battle with your fists. You can’t make things better like that."

Draco stayed silent for a moment, his gaze moving to the floor before slowly meeting hers again. "You think I wanted this? You think I wanted to hurt you by doing what I did?"

"I don’t know what to think anymore," she said quietly, her voice wavering with emotion. She took a step toward him. "You can’t keep fighting every battle like it’s the last. And you can’t keep pushing me away every time it gets hard."

He didn’t speak for a long moment, and the quiet stretched between them, heavy with unspoken things. Finally, he moved, his voice low. "I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to be... open, or trusting. I don’t know how to be the man you want me to be."

Her chest ached at the admission, and she reached out, placing her hand gently on his arm. His muscles tensed, but he didn’t pull away.

“You don’t have to be perfect,” she said softly, her voice barely a whisper. "You just have to try. We both have to try."

Draco looked down at her hand, then up at her face. "I don’t want to end up like him. I don’t want to be my father."

She squeezed his arm gently, her heart thudding in her chest. "You’re not him," she said quietly, meaning it. "And you never will be."

Draco’s expression softened for just a moment, the walls around him faltering. "I don’t know how to make it right," he admitted, his voice quieter now, more vulnerable than before.

"You don’t have to have all the answers," Hermione replied, her voice steady despite the turmoil inside her. "But we can figure it out. Together."

Draco stared at her for a long time, the silence between them stretching. Finally, he exhaled deeply, as if releasing some of the tension that had been building inside him. He nodded, though it wasn’t a promise, not quite. "I'm trying."

"I know," Hermione said with a small, tired smile. "And we’ll manage."

The tension between them had lessened, but the uncertainty still hung in the air. Draco didn’t move closer, but neither did he pull away. They were standing in that space, just a few steps apart, neither willing to close the gap completely yet. But the distance between them didn’t feel as insurmountable anymore.

Hermione exhaled, shaking her head. “We’re lucky Toffy didn’t suddenly appear like he always does.”

Draco scoffed, a flicker of amusement crossing his face. Would’ve been better if he had, he thought. It always was, ever since he was a child. Toffy had a way of steadying things, of making the world feel just a little less unbearable. But instead of saying that, he simply muttered, “Toffy’s in Auckland. At St. Merope’s.”

Hermione frowned. “St. Merope’s? Who’s he attending to? All the Malfoys are in Europe.”

Draco shifted his weight, crossing his arms. “Toffy isn’t just some house-elf,” he said, as if stating the obvious. “He’s a healer. A real, proper healer.”

Hermione blinked, taken aback. “Toffy’s a ...proper healer?”

Draco huffed, glancing away as if he didn’t understand why she sounded so surprised. “Yeah. Certified and everything.”

Hermione hesitated before saying, “I didn’t even know house-elves could--”

“They can,” Draco cut in, his voice firm, but not harsh. “Most don’t get the chance.”

As Hermione processed that, her gaze drifted over Draco again, only now noticing the faint purplish bruise just beneath his jaw, trailing toward his cheekbone. It wasn’t large, but in the dim lighting, it stood out against his pale skin.

“You’ve got a bruise,” she said before she could think better of it.

Draco raised a brow, his smirk laced with dry amusement. “Brilliant observation.”

Hermione rolled her eyes but stepped a little closer. “I’m actually good at healing spells, you know.”

“Oh?”

She gave him a pointed look. “Well, Harry was very good at almost dying every year back in school. I had to learn something.”

For the first time that night, Draco let out a real laugh, low, rough, and unexpected. Hermione, surprised by it, found herself laughing too.

The sound faded, leaving behind something quieter, something lighter.

Draco touched the bruise absentmindedly. “It’ll heal,” he said, but his voice wasn’t dismissive this time.

Hermione tilted her head. “I could--”

“It’s fine.” He hesitated, then added, “But… thanks.”

As she studied him, her gaze softened, and before she could second-guess herself, she lifted a hand. Draco stilled immediately, his breath hitching just slightly as her fingers brushed against his temple, tucking a loose strand of his pale hair back into place.

It was such a simple touch, light, fleeting, but it sent an unexpected shiver down his spine. He had been touched before, plenty of times, but this wasn’t like those. It wasn’t out of obligation or necessity. It was just her. And for some reason, that made it worse.

Hermione felt it too, the way her fingertips barely skimmed his skin, the way she was suddenly too aware of how close they were. A warmth curled in her chest, unfamiliar yet unmistakable. A thrill, a rush, subtle yet undeniable.

She pulled back, swallowing. “Heal the bruise, Draco.” Her voice was softer than she intended, but the slight quirk of her lips betrayed her.

Draco’s throat bobbed as he watched her, something unreadable flickering in his expression before he smirked, smaller, but real. “Yes, Hermione”

Neither moved right away. But when she finally turned to leave, she felt his gaze linger, as if, for the first time in a long time, neither of them were quite ready to walk away.

The scent of chamomile and peppermint curled around the quiet kitchen, soft and calming, but Hermione's thoughts were anything but. She stirred the tea absentmindedly, her eyes focused on the swirling liquid rather than the present moment. The kettle clicked off behind her, long forgotten. She was still digesting the conversation with Draco, still feeling the weight of his vulnerability, and the terrifying tenderness of it all.

“You know,” came a smooth voice from behind her, “if you keep stirring it like that, you're going to open a portal to hell. And frankly, I don’t have the right robes for that.”

Hermione jumped, nearly sloshing hot tea onto the counter. “Theo!” she scolded, spinning around. “How long have you been there?”

Theo gave a lazy shrug from where he was perched on the windowsill, a biscuit in one hand, his expression completely unbothered. “Long enough to witness you brew an existential crisis into your tea.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes but didn’t argue. Instead, she grabbed two mugs, poured the tea, and slid one across the counter toward him. Theo caught it with a small nod of appreciation, taking a sip like he'd been invited all along.

“So,” he said between sips, “you and our resident broody blonde had a little heart-to-heart.”

Hermione hesitated. “Yes. We talked.”

Theo raised a brow. “And by talked, do you mean real words? Or just the usual intense staring, snide remarks, and unresolved trauma?”

That earned a reluctant chuckle from her. “No, real words this time. It... helped. He opened up.”

Theo leaned back, looking oddly satisfied. “Color me surprised. Draco doesn’t exactly do ‘emotion’ unless it’s rage or self-loathing.”

Hermione didn’t deny that. “It was hard for him,” she said quietly. “But I think... he meant it. All of it.”

“And you?” Theo asked. “Do you believe him?”

She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she looked down into her tea, fingers wrapped tightly around the mug. “I want to,” she admitted. “And I think a part of me does. But it’s terrifying.”

Theo’s gaze softened, just barely. “Of course it is. You’re not just trusting him with your feelings anymore. You’re trusting him with your future, with this baby, with... you.”

She swallowed hard, eyes prickling. “Exactly.”

Theo set his mug down and leaned forward, tone quieter now. “Then maybe stop expecting yourself to do it all perfectly. Or expecting him to. The world isn’t going to reward you for overthinking every step, Granger. It’s okay to lean into something messy if it’s real.”

Hermione blinked, momentarily stunned by how sincere he sounded.

“And,” Theo continued, tilting his head, “for what it’s worth, I’ve never seen Draco try so hard not to ruin something.”

Hermione’s breath hitched.

Theo shrugged. “He’s still an idiot. But he’s your idiot now.”

That made her laugh, a real one this time. “Thanks, Theo.”

He grinned. “Don’t mention it. Really. It’ll ruin my reputation.”

Hermione sipped her tea and, for the first time that day, felt like maybe, just maybe, things might be okay.

“You know,” she murmured absently, “Toffy’s lucky he wasn’t around. He’d have been more stressed than I was.”

Theo responded with a  snort “Please, that anxious puffball? He’d have fainted at the sight of Weasley's face alone.”

Hermione didn’t even flinch at his comment. She just sipped her tea. “Still. He probably would've tried to dive between them like some overly dramatic referee.”

“True. But he’s a healer now,” Theo said, looking at her with a lazy grin. 

She smiled and took another sip of tea, then muttered, “I still can’t believe house-elves can be proper healers. And still do everything else on top of it. Toffy must be exhausted.”

“Oh, you don’t have to worry about that,” Theo said, sounding almost smug. “Toffy’s a free elf.”

Hermione blinked. “What?”

Theo turned his whole body toward her, grin spreading like he’d been waiting his entire life to drop this piece of trivia. “Oh yes. Has been since second year.”

“But--he’s Draco’s elf. I’ve seen him fuss over him like--like--”

“A neurotic grandmother with a caffeine addiction?” Theo supplied.

Hermione looked scandalized. “I was going to say a loyal companion, but alright.”

Theo waved his hand. “Same thing. But nope. Toffy’s free. Right after your dear Potter pulled the sock move with Dobby.”

Hermione blinked. “You mean Draco actually followed Harry’s lead?”

“Don’t get it twisted,” Theo said, eyes gleaming. “Draco absolutely refused to part with a sock. Said it was disgusting and beneath his standards. So instead, he polished up his Slytherin necktie, folded it like a gift, and handed it to Toffy like he was knighting him.”

Hermione’s eyes widened, a laugh bubbling up. “He would.”

Theo chuckled. “Said something about, ‘If I’m freeing you, I’m at least doing it with style.’ And then told Toffy not to make it weird.”

“And Toffy made it weird?” she guessed.

“Burst into tears. Wore the tie like a royal sash. Wouldn’t take it off for weeks. Might still sleep with it.”

Hermione shook her head, smiling. “That’s… weirdly adorable.”

“Welcome to the Malfoy brand of affection,” Theo said with mock pride. “Polite emotional suppression with a side of accidental sentiment.”

Hermione gave him a look, but her smile lingered. “I didn’t know any of that.”

“Well, we don’t exactly hand out brochures,” Theo teased. “But now you see why Toffy’s so ride-or-die for Draco. He was chosen, with a fashion accessory, no less.”

Hermione placed a hand over her mouth, shaking with laughter, but something inside her quietly… shifted. That kind of action, even buried under eleven-year-old dramatics, told her more about Draco than she expected.

“Of course,” Theo added, “he’s still with Draco by choice. Said he liked the chaos.”

“Of course he did,” Hermione murmured, unable to keep the small, soft smile from curling her lips.

Theo gave her a long, knowing look, then raised his butterbeer again. “You’re not wrong to question things, Hermione. But you’re also not wrong for seeing the parts of him that no one else bothered to.”

She took another sip of her tea, quieter now. “Draco never talks about those things.”

Theo tilted his head, watching her carefully. “Because he doesn’t think they matter to anyone. But they do. Especially to people like you.”

Hermione glanced sideways at him, lips twitching. “And what exactly do you mean by that?”

“I mean, you’re the type who notices things. The quiet moments. The soft truths. And he’s the type who doesn’t know how to show them unless someone asks.”

Hermione blinked as the room suddenly tilted, her grip on the edge of the counter tightening. The warmth from her tea mug seeped through her fingers, grounding her, but only barely. Her vision blurred for a second, her heart racing in a strange, off-beat thrum.

Theo was mid-sentence, some half-serious remark about how Toffy probably had a secret elf spa in Auckland, when Hermione’s hand trembled and the mug slipped from her grasp, shattering on the floor.

“Hermione?”

Her knees buckled.

“Hermione?!”

Theo shot forward just in time to catch her before she collapsed completely, his arms awkwardly supporting her weight as panic surged through him like lightning.

“Oh Merlin, oh Merlin, what do I do? WHAT DO I DO?!”

He looked around wildly, as if a bloody instruction manual might drop from the ceiling. “HELLO?! HELP?! IS ANYONE HERE?! I THINK SHE’S BROKEN!”

Hermione groaned, her face pale, hand pressed to her belly. That was all Theo needed to see.

“Oh shit, this is the baby. THIS IS THE BABY, ISN’T IT? SHE’S DYING. THE BABY IS DYING. I CAN’T--WHAT DO I DO? I’M NOT QUALIFIED FOR THIS--I BARELY KNOW HOW TO KEEP MY PLANTS ALIVE--"

He clutched her tighter, voice cracking, “Why didn’t I pay attention in Magical First Aid?! WHY?”

“THEO!” Hermione wheezed, barely conscious, but her voice was enough to halt his spiral.

He stared at her, wide-eyed, like a deer caught in wandlight. “Okay. Okay, you're alive. That’s good. That’s really good. What do we do now? What would a rational adult do? WHO IS A RATIONAL ADULT?! I NEED ONE--”

And then, instinct kicked in.

“Draco. I need Draco. DRACO!”

He bellowed like a banshee, voice echoing through the house.

“DRACOOOOOOO! YOUR BABY MAMA’S DYING!”

Theo was still screaming.

“DRACOOOO! THE BABY! HERMIONE! SOMETHING’S WRONG--SHE’S--JUST GET DOWN HERE, YOU USELESSLY ATTRACTIVE PIECE OF--”

CRACK.

Draco Apparated into the living room mid-shout, wand already drawn. “What happened?!”

Theo turned toward him, wild-eyed, pointing at Hermione like she had just spontaneously combusted. “SHE FAINTED! She went all pale and floppy like a dying daisy and I don’t know what to do! She's talking but also she’s not okay--DO SOMETHING, HEAL HER, OR CAST A SPELL, OR--DO I SLAP HER?!”

“DON’T SLAP HER, YOU MORON!”

Draco dropped to the floor beside Hermione, kneeling so fast he nearly knocked Theo over in the process. He reached out, brushing hair from her clammy forehead, voice low, urgent.

“Hermione. Hey. Look at me. What happened?”

“I--I don’t know,” she mumbled. “Just got dizzy… everything’s blurry--”

Theo hovered behind them, flapping his hands uselessly. “She dropped her tea! There was tea everywhere! I think it was cursed--was the tea cursed? Should I drink it to check?!”

“Stop talking,” Draco growled, eyes still on Hermione. “Did you hit your head? Are you in pain?”

“My magic--it spiked. I felt it again, like before. It’s the stress, Draco--”

“Shh,” he said gently. “Don’t push yourself. Just breathe.”

Theo clutched his own chest like he might faint. “We need Toffy. I take back every bad thing I’ve said about that elf--where’s the damn tie-wearing miracle worker when you need him?”

Draco flicked his wand, summoning a small bottle of stabilizing draught from the other room. He helped Hermione sit up slowly, holding her steady against his chest while coaxing the potion to her lips.

She drank shakily, and he didn’t let go, not even after she sighed and leaned into him, exhausted.

“You’re okay,” Draco whispered, his jaw tight. “I’ve got you. You're okay.”

Theo, watching the scene with a hand dramatically over his heart, finally let out a long breath. “WELL. I didn’t cry, in case anyone was wondering. Those were stress tears. Different.”

Draco shot him a look.

“What?” Theo sniffed. “I panicked! She’s scary when she faints!”

Theo stood at the edge of the kitchen like a war survivor. One arm dramatically clutching the doorframe, the other holding his still-shaking teacup. “Well,” he declared, “my work here is done. I screamed, panicked, emotionally supported, and nearly fainted in solidarity. I am a treasure.”

Draco gave him a side-eye so sharp it could’ve sliced steel. “You screamed, nearly slapped her, and tried to poison yourself with tea.”

Theo lifted his chin. “Some call that heroic. I call it Tuesday.”

He made for the door with flair, grabbing a biscuit on the way out like it was a medal of honor. “Right then. I’m leaving before someone bleeds or proposes. And if anyone asks, I saved Hermione Granger today. Put that in the Daily Prophet, won’t you?”

And then, he walked straight into the wall.

Thunk.

A beat of silence.

“I meant to do that,” Theo said with dignity, rubbing his forehead before finally Disapparating with a loud pop.

Draco turned back to Hermione, still kneeling beside her, one hand lightly resting on her back. “You scared the hell out of me.”

She gave him a small, tired smile. “I scared myself. I thought, just for a second, that I lost control of everything again.”

“You didn’t.” His voice was soft now. “You’re here. The baby’s okay. You’re okay.”

Her fingers curled weakly into the sleeve of his shirt. “You came.”

“I’ll always come,” he said without hesitation. “You don’t have to wonder about that anymore.”

She looked up at him, and something settled quietly between them.

Draco didn’t speak. He didn’t have to.

With a quiet intensity, he scooped Hermione into his arms, cradling her carefully. His movements were steady, confident, there was a calmness in him that hadn’t been there before. She didn’t protest, her arms instinctively wrapping around his neck, her face nestled against his chest.

He didn’t hurry, but he moved quickly. Every step was deliberate as he carried her, her weight a strange mixture of familiarity and responsibility. He was aware of her in every way, her breath, the gentle rise and fall of her chest against his.

Her heart was still beating too fast for his liking, but he would get her to her room. He needed to.

The hallway felt like it was stretching forever. His footsteps echoed, bouncing off the walls in the otherwise quiet house. But even as he walked, there was something different in the air, a shift, something new that neither of them could quite name yet.

When they reached her door, Draco paused. The weight of it all hung in the air.

Hermione's head was resting on his shoulder, her eyes closed, but her breath was shallow, shaky. She hadn’t spoken since he’d picked her up, but he felt her pulse racing beneath his fingers. The stress of the day, the argument, the tension, it had all taken a toll.

“Almost there,” he murmured, his voice tight with concern.

She didn’t respond. She was so still, almost too still.

Draco pushed the door open with his foot, careful not to jostle her too much. He stepped inside, the room bathed in soft, golden light. As he crossed the threshold, he felt something shift within him, a deep, unsettling sensation, like a knot unwinding in his chest.

He moved to the bed, lowering her gently onto the sheets. But as he did, something unexpected happened.

A subtle shift.

A flutter.

A movement.

Hermione gasped, a soft, breathless sound, and Draco froze, his hands trembling slightly as he adjusted his grip on her.

“What, ?” he started, his voice almost lost in the quiet of the room.

Her eyes flew open, wide and searching, as her hand instinctively went to her stomach. “She… it moved,” she whispered, her voice cracking with wonder. “I, I think the baby moved.”

Draco’s breath caught in his throat, his chest tightening painfully. The air around them seemed to thicken, the weight of the moment pulling everything into focus. Her hand was on her belly, and his was there too, hovering, unsure, but drawn to the sensation.

He placed his palm on the curve of her stomach, the warmth of her skin sending a shiver through him. He felt it then, clear as day. The tiniest of movements. A flutter, gentle and fragile but undeniable.

The baby.

Their baby.

Draco froze.

Hermione watched his face as everything changed in his eyes. Like something ancient had cracked open in him. Like something new had just been born.

“It moved,” Hermione whispered, almost in disbelief. “It's moving.”

He didn’t say anything. Couldn’t.

His hand stayed there, pressed to the curve of her belly. And the moment stretched between them, silent, sacred.

“I’ve never felt it like that before,” she said. “Not so clearly.”

Draco still hadn’t moved, his face unreadable. But his fingers, those long, callused, careful fingers, splayed wider across her skin, as if he could anchor the moment. As if he didn’t want to miss a single second of it.

Hermione’s voice turned soft, almost trembling. “You felt it first.”

At that, Draco looked at her.

And there was something in his eyes that shattered her.

Wonder.

Terror.

Awe.

Love, maybe, not quite spoken, not quite formed, but there.

He swallowed hard, jaw working. “It's… real.”

Hermione smiled, blinking quickly. “Yeah. She is.”

And then, quietly, barely above a breath, he whispered, “Altınımız... ”

He swallowed hard, his thumb brushing over the soft curve of her belly as if he could imprint the moment onto his very soul. “Our child.”

Her breath caught in her throat at the weight of it, the finality in his words. The way he said it, like it was the only thing that mattered anymore. No more uncertainty. No more doubt.

She felt a sudden, overwhelming surge of emotion, her chest tightening with the enormity of it all. She reached up, cupping his face, her thumb tracing the line of his jaw, as if she needed to remind herself that he was really here. That this was really happening.

Draco stared at her, his eyes wide, unblinking. The moments stretched between them, heavy with everything they hadn’t said yet. Everything they hadn’t fully understood.

“I’m here,” he said, his voice low, a promise wrapped in the rawness of his words. “I’m here, Hermione.”

She nodded, unable to speak. Instead, she placed her hand over his on her stomach, her other hand still cupping his face, guiding him closer. She needed him close. She needed to feel that.

The baby moved again, a gentle shift beneath their palms, as if to reassure them both.

Draco’s eyes widened slightly. His breath hitched. He didn’t pull away. Instead, his hand stayed there, pressing gently against her, as if he could anchor himself to the reality of it. To the future of it.

He hadn’t wanted this. He hadn’t wanted to be here, so involved. So exposed.

But now, with the soft movement of the baby beneath his hand, he didn’t want to be anywhere else.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured, his voice low but resolute.

And in that moment, with everything quiet around them, Hermione realized just how much that promise meant. And how much Draco had already changed.

She looked up at him, her eyes filled with something soft and vulnerable, and whispered, “I know.”

And for the first time, with the baby moving between them, it felt like it might all be okay.

Chapter Text

It was supposed to be just another quiet day. Hermione had hoped for a moment of peace, a break from the whirlwind that had defined her life ever since her pregnancy had come to light. The morning had been relatively calm, she and Draco had managed to talk things through, their conversation lingering in the air, heavy with unspoken emotions. While she didn’t exactly feel good, there was a fragile sense of understanding between them that made her feel... maybe not safe, but at least heard.

She had hoped that for once, just once, she could have a peaceful day. But of course, fate had other plans.

The owl arrived without warning, there was no forewarning, no gentle buildup. The Daily Prophet landed on the kitchen table in front of her with a sickening thud. The sound felt like it came from miles away, her brain trying to comprehend the inevitability of what was to come.

Hermione’s hands trembled as she reached for the paper. Her fingers didn’t want to move. It was as if her body understood before her mind did, she could feel the weight of what was about to unfold before she had even opened it. She felt sick. She was terrified. And yet, the paper lay there like an immovable force, and she had no choice but to face it.

When she finally opened it, everything seemed to slow down. Her eyes scanned the headline:

"Weasley, the Real Father or Malfoy? A Question of Paternity and Pregnancy Scandals."

Her heart dropped into her stomach. The words blurred in her vision, but the sharp sting of the headline still managed to pierce her.

No. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t focus. Her gaze darted back to Ron’s name. Then, Draco’s. And then her own. The words, the accusations, felt like they were suffocating her, dragging her under. She didn’t want to read any further, but her eyes moved down the page in slow motion, like they were being forced to take in every poisonous word.

The article twisted the truth into something grotesque, each sentence more damaging than the last. There was no clear explanation of the situation. Instead, it painted Hermione as reckless. It suggested she had fallen into this predicament due to her own impulsive decisions. It described her pregnancy as the result of a love affair that should have never happened.

But what made her stomach turn even more was the way they framed Draco. They accused him of manipulating her into this situation, suggesting that he had intentionally gotten her pregnant, that he was somehow using her to further his own twisted goals. The image of Draco as some sort of puppet master, pulling all the strings in the background, left a foul taste in her mouth. She had been through so much already, and now the entire wizarding world was turning its back on her, spinning a narrative that wasn’t hers to own.

Her breath caught in her throat. The weight of it was so crushing, so all-consuming. She felt the paper tremble in her hands as though it might explode in her grip. Her heart pounded in her ears, drowning out all sound. How had it come to this? She had always known that public opinion could shift at any moment, but she had never imagined it would turn on her like this. What could she do?

The words felt like daggers, cutting into her very sense of self. She was reckless. She was irresponsible. She had let herself fall into a mess that was too big for her to fix.

A quiet voice broke through her haze. Ginny’s voice, sharp, full of fury, cut into the silence. “This is fucking ridiculous,” she said, her eyes wide as she read the first few lines over Hermione’s shoulder. She slapped the paper down on the table, her hands shaking with barely contained anger. “This--this is a bloody lie. Who in their right mind would--” Ginny stopped herself mid-sentence, and her eyes narrowed. “It’s Ron. I know it’s him.”

Hermione didn’t say anything. She could only nod, her throat tight. Ron. Of course it was Ron. It had to be him. The way the article so conveniently pinned her as reckless, painted her as a victim, and implicated Draco so heavily, it all had Ron’s fingerprints on it. She could feel it in her bones.

Ginny turned away from Hermione for just a moment, clenching her fists. She was seething now. “This is beyond belief,” Ginny muttered under her breath, pacing across the kitchen, her temper rising with each step. “He--he can’t just do this to you. To us.”

Hermione didn’t even have the energy to tell her that Ginny was right. It wasn’t just about Draco. It was about Ron too. Ron had always been there, lurking in the shadows of Hermione’s life, never quite able to let go. And now he had taken the most vulnerable moment of her life and turned it into a public spectacle. A spectacle that was full of lies, manipulations, and an utter disregard for her autonomy.

Ginny’s voice cut through the heavy silence again, this time softer but with a fierce tenderness. “Hermione... I know it hurts. But this--it’s not about you. It’s about them trying to tear you down. They can’t do that. Not to you.”

Hermione blinked away the tears that were threatening to spill. But they were still there, just behind her eyes, and she could feel the weight of them building. She wanted to shout, to scream, to demand that they stop, that they see her as a person and not a headline. But the more she read, the more the weight of the lies sunk in.

Why does it feel like they’ve already made up their minds about me?

She thought of Draco, sitting at Malfoy Manor. It felt like the world had just fallen apart, and he wasn’t here to help pick up the pieces. The irony wasn’t lost on her--she had always thought Draco would be the last person to stand by her in a crisis. But now, in this moment, she longed for his presence. She wished he were here to tell her that things would be alright, to help her stand tall against the storm.

But then a cold thought crept in, just as it had every time the weight of the scandal seemed too much to bear. What could Draco even do? The world had already made up its mind. It didn’t matter what Draco said or did. No matter how much he defended her, the damage had already been done. Draco couldn’t fix this. No one could. It was too late for that.

The tears she had been holding back spilled over, hot and fast. She tried to hold herself together, but the weight of it all, Draco’s absence, Ron’s betrayal, the cruelty of the press, crushed her spirit. She felt small. She felt alone. The once unshakable confidence she had carried throughout her life was now gone, buried under a mountain of rumors and assumptions.

Ginny was beside her in an instant, her arm around her shoulders, pulling her close. “Hey, hey, it’s okay. It’s okay,” Ginny murmured, her own voice trembling with fury and frustration. She wasn’t trying to calm Hermione with empty words; she was trying to stop herself from exploding. Her own anger burned brightly, but there was a tenderness in her touch that reminded Hermione, for just a moment, that she wasn’t completely alone.

But Harry’s voice cut through the haze. He had been standing at the edge of the kitchen, his hands clenched into fists. “This is bullshit,” Harry growled. He stepped forward, his eyes blazing with anger as he read the article again. His gaze shot back to Hermione, a mixture of fury and disbelief written across his face. “Hermione, we’ll fix this. I don’t care what the papers say, but Ron--Ron will pay for this. I swear, we’re not letting this go.”

Hermione managed to give a slight shake of her head. She appreciated Harry’s determination. She knew that he and Ginny would fight for her, but she couldn’t help but feel like all their efforts would be in vain. The damage had been done. The world already had its story. The world was already judging her.

“I don’t even know where to start,” Hermione whispered, her voice small, fragile.

Ginny squeezed her tighter. “We’ll figure it out. We always do.”

Hermione clung to the words, but somewhere deep down, a voice told her that the world wouldn’t listen. No one ever did when they thought they already knew the truth.

The Malfoy study was as silent as a tomb.

Sunlight cut through the high windows of the manor, casting long slashes of gold across the polished mahogany desk. The air smelled faintly of parchment, ink, and dust, the scent of old power. And solitude.

Draco sat behind the desk, sleeves rolled to his forearms, a quill between his fingers, unmoving over a document he hadn’t been reading for the past fifteen minutes.

He had spent days here. Pulling himself back together. Sorting through estate matters. Restoring a sense of order after weeks spent living out of place, waking up to the wrong ceiling just to be near her.

She hadn’t asked him to stay.

But she hadn’t asked him to leave either.

And that, somehow, had been enough.

A tap at the window broke the quiet. His owl, a sharp, steel-feathered creature bred more for speed than companionship, held a tightly rolled copy of The Daily Prophet in its talons.

He didn’t move.

Another tap.

Draco sighed through his nose, pushing up from the chair to retrieve the paper. The owl didn’t wait. It dropped the scroll into his hand and flew off in a whirl of feathers.

He tossed the Prophet onto his desk without looking at it.

He almost didn’t open it.

Almost.

But the black-lettered headline caught his eye, stark and sprawling across the front page like a wound:

WEASLEY, THE REAL FATHER OR MALFOY? A QUESTION OF PATERNITY AND PREGNANCY SCANDALS

His blood went still.

He stared at it for a second. Two.

Then he slowly sat down, smoothed the page out with one palm, and read.

Every line carved deeper. Every paragraph was a twist of the knife.

They dragged Hermione’s name across the page, bold and bold-faced, suggesting she’d been reckless, manipulative, scandalous. That Ron had been the wronged party. That Draco, Draco, had taken advantage of her when she was vulnerable. There were quotes from “anonymous sources” and “close friends.” None of them named. All of them cowards.

They mentioned the child.

His stomach turned.

They called it “a consequence.” A “controversial twist.” A “mistake”

He didn’t realize his hand was shaking until ink smeared across the paper where his fingers crushed the edge.

For one breathless second, Draco could not see.

The paper blurred. Not from tears, he didn’t cry, but from rage. Cold, clinical, blooming fury.

He pushed his chair back with such force it scraped the floor like a scream. The Prophet crumpled in his hand, torn nearly in half.

He paced once. Twice.

Then stopped.

He gripped the edge of the desk and let his head hang, eyes squeezed shut.

He had promised her.

He had said he’d be there. That he'd protect her. That this, this, would never touch her. And now the world had turned its claws on her, and she was alone in that moment, reading the same article, with no one to shield her from it.

No one to lie and say it wasn’t as bad as it looked.

No one to hold her and let her fall apart.

He saw her in his mind’s eye, sitting at that kitchen table in the Potter house, paper in her hands, silence thick, Ginny's fury, Harry's disbelief. The tremble in her fingertips. The way her breath must’ve hitched when she read his name.

A sick, hollow feeling opened in his chest.

He had to do something.

But what?

What the fuck could he do?

The press was the press. It wouldn’t be silenced with a wand. Reputation didn’t bend to logic. And Hermione, she wouldn’t want theatrics. She wouldn't want vengeance. She would want peace. Quiet. Dignity.

But it was too late for that now, wasn’t it?

They’d taken her dignity and ground it beneath headlines. They had taken her name and twisted it. They had taken the truth, their truth, and spit it back out.

And Ron.

Of course it was Ron.

Who else would have known?

Who else would have said just enough to start the fire?

Draco’s mouth curled into a sharp, humorless smile.

“Oh, Weasley,” he murmured under his breath, voice like winter steel. “You just made the worst mistake of your life.”

He turned, left the paper in ruins on his desk, and reached for his cloak.

No letter. No warning.

He would look Ron in the eye and make him understand.

Make him see exactly what he’d done to her.

And what Draco Malfoy would do for the life she carried.

Ron stood stiff-backed outside the Burrow, arms crossed over his chest like he was holding himself together with the last threads of ego. He didn’t look surprised to see Draco. If anything, he looked like he’d been waiting.

The wind stirred, biting and cold. Frost clung to the grass.

Draco said nothing as he approached, shoulders squared, cloak billowing faintly behind him. No entourage. No theatrics. Just the quiet inevitability of a man who had nothing left to fear and everything left to protect.

“You’re not welcome here,” Ron snapped.

Draco didn’t even blink.

“You leaked it.”

Ron’s mouth twitched, his silence louder than any denial.

Draco’s jaw ticked. “Say it.”

“I didn’t mean to--”

“Say it.”

Ron exhaled sharply, like the words might cost him. “I told someone. Off record. I didn’t think they’d run with it--”

“You thought wrong,” Draco cut in, voice deceptively calm. “And now Hermione’s name is being dragged through the dirt. She’s being called reckless, manipulative--unfit.”

Ron's jaw clenched. “You think I don’t regret it? I never wanted this to happen to her.”

“No,” Draco said, stepping closer. “You just couldn’t stand not being part of her story anymore.”

Ron flinched.

“You weren’t in the papers. You weren’t in the house. You weren’t in her life--and now you’ve wedged yourself back in by setting the world on fire and tossing her into it.”

Ron’s ears turned red. “You act like you’re the solution. Like you’ve done anything to make her life easier.”

“I’m not the solution,” Draco murmured. “But I’m not the one who sold her out to strangers.”

Ron’s voice cracked with bitterness. ““She’s mine--she always has been. You don’t deserve her. You used her. You manipulated her when she was vulnerable and it was a mis--”

“Say it again,” Draco hissed.

Ron faltered.

“I dare you to call what she did a mistake,” Draco went on, tone razor-sharp now. “Call the child growing inside her a mistake. Look me in the eye and say it.”

Ron’s breath hitched.

Draco stared, eyes colder than the winter wind. “You can hate me. Be jealous of me. Curse my name in the privacy of your sad little house. But don’t you dare reduce her choices to regret just because you weren’t the one she chose.”

“I’ve known her longer,” Ron bit out.

“And yet you never saw her.” Draco’s voice was soft, lethal. “You loved a version of her that stayed where you left her.”

Ron tried to speak, but Draco stepped into his space now, the air between them taut with barely-contained violence.

“I may be a bastard. I may have made a thousand mistakes. But I will burn down this entire fucking world to protect the life she’s growing inside her. I will lay waste to every headline, every whisper, every fool who dares call her less than extraordinary.”

“You’re just saying that because it’s your kid--”

“No,” Draco said. “I’m saying it because it’s hers.”

The silence that followed cracked something in the air.

Ron looked like he’d been punched, eyes wide, breath shallow.

Draco leaned in, quiet and deadly. “When our child grows up and asks why their mother was nearly ruined by people who claimed to love her, I’ll tell them the truth. I’ll tell them your name.”

He didn’t wait for a reply. Didn’t offer a threat.

He just walked away.

Leaving Ron standing there, alone, drowned in his own betrayal.

He walked out of the Burrow like a storm bottled too tight, controlled, cold, every step deliberate. But inside? Inside, he was chaos incarnate. Heat curled in his lungs, his jaw locked so tightly he thought he might crack a tooth.

As soon as the wards let him out, he Apparated.

Not to the Manor. Not to Hermione.
Not yet.
He couldn’t, not when his hands were shaking.

He landed somewhere old and wind-battered, the cliffs outside Wiltshire, where sea met stone in jagged, merciless cuts. He hadn’t been here in years. It had been a place to hide when he was a boy and needed to be alone with a fury no one understood.

He needed it now.

The cold air hit him like a slap. The sky was iron-gray, the wind tearing through him. He welcomed it. Needed it to burn the remnants of Ron Weasley’s voice out of his ears. “She’s mine--she always has been.”

No.
No.

Draco let out a breath so sharp it might’ve been a curse. And then, without thinking, he punched the stone ruin behind him. Three times. Knuckles cracking against the wall, skin splitting instantly. It felt good, not in a satisfying way, but in a real way. Proof he was still here. That he hadn’t imagined that confrontation, that pain.

Blood slid down his hand, but he didn’t look at it.

He braced his palm flat against the cold stone, head bowed.
He had wanted to kill him.
He had wanted to lose control.

He didn’t.

And somehow, that felt worse.

"Should’ve stopped it before it reached her."

He said it aloud. To no one. To the sea, maybe.
To the guilt.

Because this? The headlines. The betrayal. It was all on him. He had let the world circle her like vultures, hoping silence would be enough. Hoping Ron would shut his damn mouth. Hoping the truth would be enough to keep her safe.

It wasn’t.

He flexed his hand, pain flaring bright and immediate.
He welcomed it.

He didn’t know what he’d say to her.
Didn’t know what she’d say to him.

What if she sent him away?
What if she asked him to stay and he didn’t know how to be what she needed?

The sea roared, and for a moment, he felt small.

But still, he knew what had to come next.

"You said you’d stay,” he whispered to himself.

“So stay.”

He stared out into the horizon a moment longer.
Then, bleeding and bracing for whatever storm waited back at the Potter’s house, Draco Malfoy turned and Disapparated.

The paper was in the bin, crumpled, unreadable now, but the words still carved themselves into her like a curse that wouldn’t lift.

Her name. Her life. Her child.

The headlines ran on repeat in her skull, grotesque and sharp, until she felt like she couldn’t breathe without tasting ink and shame.

She sat curled up on the couch like she could shrink herself small enough to disappear into the cushions. Ginny was beside her, stiff with fury, eyes like molten steel. Harry paced near the window, arms folded, jaw grinding as he muttered under his breath.

The house was quiet, but it was a charged quiet. Like the moment before a storm breaks.

Hermione hadn’t cried.

Not yet.

She just stared down at her own hands, steady now, but pale, fingers curled around her middle like she could hold the world together with her bare grip.

Ginny had tried to make her eat. Harry had offered to find Ron and wring his neck.

She’d said nothing.

She didn’t ask where Draco was.

Didn’t dare.

But the ache at the center of her chest throbbed with the not-knowing. With the what if.

Maybe he saw the headline and decided this was the last straw.

Maybe he left. Maybe he’s done.

Maybe this is the part where he realizes he made a mistake.

She swallowed that thought like glass. It cut going down.

The room was silent again, save for Harry’s pacing. Ginny hadn’t moved in twenty minutes. She looked like she wanted to murder someone with her bare hands, and Hermione suspected she knew who.

“Ron did this,” Ginny muttered darkly. “I know it. I thought he’d be decent.”

Hermione closed her eyes. She didn’t want to talk about Ron. Not now. Not ever.

“I hate him,” Ginny continued, her voice shaking now. “I swear to Godric, if I see him, I’ll hex him so far back into childhood, he’ll beg to go back to Hogwarts.”

Hermione didn’t answer. Didn’t move.

She just let the silence settle again.

And then, the door opened.

Not loud. Not a slam. Just the whisper of the lock clicking back into place.

Her spine went rigid before she even looked. She knew.

Her heart stuttered.

Draco stood in the doorway like he’d walked through a storm. Windblown. Mud on his boots. Blood dried over one knuckle. His eyes scanned the room in a beat, and then locked on her.

He didn’t say anything.
Neither did she.

But when he stepped inside, there was something in him. Something bruised, and sharp, and held together with pure will. Like he’d been fighting ghosts and still wasn’t sure he’d won.

She stood slowly, unsure what she’d even say. Her throat was so tight it hurt.

He stopped a few steps away from her.

His voice, when it came, was quiet, flat, but trembling with something furious beneath.

“You’re not alone in this. No matter what they say. No matter what they print. They don’t get to decide what you are. And they sure as fuck don’t get to touch you without going through me.”

Hermione’s breath caught.

It was the first time anyone had spoken to her like she was still whole.

She opened her mouth to reply, but nothing came out. Her vision swam. She hadn’t meant to cry. Not now. Not in front of Ginny, or Harry, or him.

He didn’t ask her to speak.

He just stepped forward and reached for her, not to pull her into a kiss, not to press himself against her, but simply to let his fingers graze her wrist. Gentle. Reverent. Like he was trying to ground her without breaking her further.

“Altın’s not going to come into a world that hates you,” he murmured.

The word. The child.
Their child.

The word, Altın, was Turkish. It meant “gold”, but it was more than just gold. It represented the rarest, most precious form of wealth. It was something that had weight, that carried with it a promise of value, of something to protect, to cherish. Something pure.

She hadn’t known it when he’d said it before, but now, standing here, she understood. She understood what he was trying to tell her. And for the first time since the news had broken, she wasn’t just a victim in the headlines. She was someone worth protecting. Worth fighting for.

She broke then, not sobbing. No, this was quieter. Deeper. A trembling exhale as she leaned forward, head tilting to rest against his chest. Not clinging. Just… pressing close, like her body knew he was safe before her brain could catch up.

His hand came up to cradle the back of her head, his fingers threading gently through her hair. Still saying nothing. Still holding.

And for the first time since the Prophet’s ink had seared itself into her skin, Hermione breathed.

The living room is quiet, save for the faint crackling of the fire. Hermione sits curled on the edge of the couch, legs tucked beneath her, a cup of tea cooling in her hands. The storm outside has passed, both literal and emotional, and what's left behind is something gentler, quieter.

Ginny sits beside her, one knee drawn up, her expression soft but alert. They’re speaking in low whispers, as if raising their voices might shatter the fragile calm that’s finally settled over Hermione.

Ginny doesn't say anything at first. She watches her carefully, noting the faint steadiness in her voice, the return of color in her cheeks. Hermione looks exhausted, yes, but no longer like she’s trying to hold herself together with threadbare spells.

“What does it mean?” Ginny finally asks.

Hermione exhales softly, the edge of a tired smile brushing her lips. “I looked it up. After he said it.”

She places the tea on the table, her fingers brushing against the spine of the old, open book beside her, Turkish etymology, borrowed from the back shelves of the library.

“Altın,” she whispers. “It means gold.”

Ginny’s brows lift, just slightly.

Hermione nods. “He chose that word. For the baby. And I think he... I think he’s starting to mean it.”

For a long, quiet moment, Ginny doesn’t answer. She just leans in, resting her head lightly against Hermione’s shoulder.

And for the first time in days, Hermione doesn’t flinch at the touch.

From the kitchen, Draco watches them.

Hermione is curled up on the couch, her profile bathed in firelight, speaking in low murmurs to Ginny. Her hands move delicately, tracing shapes in the air as she speaks. There’s still weariness in her posture, but her voice is steadier now, her shoulders no longer curled in on themselves like they had been hours before.

And still, Draco can’t look away.

The silence in his mind lingers like a storm cloud. He can’t shake the weight of everything they’ve just shared, of how her eyes shimmered when he said what he said, how her hands had trembled when he brushed her wrist. She hadn’t pulled away.

He grips the edge of the counter until his knuckles strain, the wood cool beneath his fingers.

It should’ve made things easier, knowing she trusted him, even now. But all it did was twist the knife deeper.

Because he doesn’t know how to exist in this fragile middle ground. He doesn’t know how to be needed without breaking. And worse, how to want something without ruining it.

He can protect her. He will protect her. But the other thing, the thing growing inside her, with his name, his blood, it terrifies him.

Draco Malfoy, terrified by something the size of a peach.

He shuts his eyes briefly, jaw clenched. If he lets himself think too long about the gold she’s carrying, about what it means, what it demands of him, he might break the glass in his hand.

He’s not ready. But he’s already in it.

And Hermione, Hermione is just a room away. Gold in her womb. Fire in her spine.

His.

Even if neither of them can admit it yet.

Draco leaves the warmth of the Potter household with barely a word.

No one stops him. Not even Hermione.

The wards let him through like they know he’s not running. Just… needing. A breath. A break. Distance before he drowns.

Hermione stares at the window of the living room, her gaze distant, unfocused. The world’s falling apart around me.

But she’s no longer just upset about the press. She’s worried about Draco. She feels it in the pit of her stomach, the tightness that’s been there since he left the house. She’s not sure what he’s thinking, what he’s feeling, and that uncertainty eats at her more than anything else.

What if he’s regretting all of this? What if he’s pulling away now?

The thought lingers, and she can’t shake it. She wants to believe in him, wants to believe that he’ll stay. That he’ll keep his promise. But the nagging fear is there. It’s always there. The uncertainty of what’s next. She’s pregnant with his child, and the world is watching them, judging them, tearing them apart before they’ve even had a chance to figure things out.

How do I fit into his life? What does he see when he looks at me?

She sighs softly, rubbing her temples. There are too many questions. Too many unknowns. She feels like she’s drowning in the uncertainty of it all.

She pulls herself away from the window and sits down on the couch, the room feeling eerily quiet. The Potter house, normally so full of life, now feels like a prison. She’s grateful for Ginny and Harry, of course, but even they can’t fill the silence that’s growing in her chest.

How much can I rely on him?

It’s a question that weighs heavily on her mind. She doesn’t know the answer. But she knows she needs him. She’s terrified of what it means to raise a child in a world like this, one that doesn’t care about their family, one that’s so quick to judge and tear them apart. And yet, she’s equally terrified of losing him. Of him deciding this is all too much for him to bear.

And so, Hermione sits there, quietly reflecting, hoping for something, anything, that will tell her they’ll make it through this together.

Draco presses the heel of his palm to his chest like that’ll quiet the ache there, like it’ll hold in the chaos that’s been building since the Prophet headline, since the argument, since her shaking hands and her voice whispering his name like it meant something more than air.

He paces.

He doesn’t even know what he’s doing anymore.

What is this?

He has no definition for it. Hermione hadn’t asked him for anything. Not a promise. Not a future. Just… not to leave her alone.

But she’s not alone anymore, is she? There’s a child. A whole damn life tangled in this mess they’ve made, unplanned, impossible, golden. Altın.

Draco drags his fingers through his hair, hard enough to sting.

Can he do this?

He can fight the press. He can hex anyone who lays a finger on her. He can bleed for her, lie for her, burn down anyone who tries to make her small.

But can he hold her at night when the nausea won’t stop and her spine aches from the weight?

Can he stand in St. Mungo’s and watch her scream through childbirth?

Can he love something so helpless without turning into the man he swore he’d never become?

Is he just like Lucius?

That thought guts him.

He sees his father in flashes, stern hands, cold eyes, love weaponized into obedience. The kind of man who never asked, only demanded. Who ruled a house with a wand in one hand and disappointment in the other.

Draco stares down at his own hands. There’s blood still dried along his knuckle from when he punched the stone ruin. He flexes his fingers. They tremble.

He can’t be Lucius.

He has to be something else. Someone else.

But what if he isn’t enough?

What if he fails?

What if he’s the one thing that ruins Hermione, and the child, and everything?

He sinks down onto the cold stone steps outside the safehouse, knees drawn up, head bowed.

You’re not alone in this.

He had said it to her.

Now he’s the one who feels alone.

For the first time since the war, Draco feels small. Not because of the world, but because of what he wants. Because he wants something good. Something real. And he’s terrified he’ll only poison it.

He closes his eyes.

And in the dark behind his eyelids, he sees her.

Hermione. Standing in firelight, whispering to Ginny. Tired and brave and broken and still trying.

She hadn't asked him to love her.

But she had let him stay.

And maybe, maybe that meant something.

But, does it?

Does it mean anything?

The night air hits him like glass, sharp, clean, too clear for what he’s feeling. He walks a few paces down the quiet path beyond the garden, then Apparates without thinking.

He lands somewhere dark and familiar. One of the old Malfoy safehouses in the northern hills, long abandoned. Cold stone, colder silence.

Draco exhales slowly. It fogs in the air.

He left the muffled sounds of Hermione and Ginny whispering from the living room. The scent of peppermint tea steeping in the kitchen. The warmth of her presence, still lingering in the air.

And now, nothing.

Just cold, damp air and the hollow silence of a forgotten hilltop.

The world stretches wide around him.  He’d come here once as a child. There was a ruin. A stone wall left behind by time and war. It doesn’t matter.

Draco doesn’t know why he ran.

Only that he had to.

That the walls were closing in again.

That her voice, soft and shaking and forgiving, had made something unbearable open up inside his chest.

He walks. Aimlessly. For minutes or hours, he doesn’t know. The stars blur above him.

He finds the broken wall and sits.

And that’s when it starts.

The storm behind his eyes.

At first, it’s just a whisper. What are you doing?
Then louder. You don’t belong there.
Then louder still. You’re going to ruin her. You always ruin things.

He grips his knees with trembling hands.

You don’t know how to be this person.

You’re not meant for this.

His fingers dig into his sleeves. He breathes through his teeth.

She’s better without you.

His throat tightens. He shakes his head.

But the thoughts come anyway.

He sees her face when he said Altın. The way she stilled. The way her eyes glistened. The way she trusted him with that softness, as if he hadn’t shattered everything just days ago.

And for a moment, he believed he could protect her. Be the man she needed. Be someone safe.

But now. 
Here, in the dark.
He sees the truth.

He doesn’t even know who that man is.

He doesn’t know how to be a father.

He doesn’t know how to love someone without hurting them. Without running. Without drowning in the fear that he’s just Lucius in a better coat.

“Fuck,” he chokes.

The panic rises like bile.

What if he can’t do it? What if the baby looks at him and sees everything he hates in himself?

What if Hermione realizes too late that he isn’t worth all this pain?

His breath catches. Stutters.

He gasps.

He tries to inhale again, nothing. Like the night has collapsed into his lungs.

His body curls forward.

He presses his hands to the cold stone beneath him, trying to stay upright, but the grief, the fear, it’s too much.

It crushes him.

He slides to his knees.

The first sob is silent. Then another. Not crying, just breaking. Ribs shaking. Jaw clenched so tight his teeth ache. His whole body trembles, a slow, desperate unraveling of everything he’s held inside.

He doesn’t know how long he stays like that.

Time ceases to exist.

The stars fade. The world lightens.

And still, he kneels.

The ground is wet. His cloak soaked through. 

He feels small. And useless. And not enough.

The thoughts won’t stop.

She deserves someone better. Someone whole.

This child deserves better.

You’re just your father with better hair and worse choices.

Then, 

Pop.

The sound of Apparition barely registers.

But the voice does.

“…Mate?”

Draco doesn’t lift his head.

Footsteps crunch over damp grass.

Theo’s voice cracks the silence, half a whisper, half a scolding:

“You’ve been gone all night, you absolute dick. Do you even know what time it is?”

Still, Draco doesn’t move.

Theo stops a few feet away.

“You, you missed sunrise. Granger hasn’t slept. Potter looks like he’s going to break his wand in half. What the hell is wrong with--?”

He sees Draco.

Finally sees him.

Sees the mud on his knees. The dried blood on his knuckles. The way his body hangs like it’s forgotten how to be a person.

Theo’s voice softens, loses all edge.

“…Draco?”

No response.

Not even a flinch.

Theo steps forward. Slowly. Carefully.

When he crouches beside him, he doesn’t reach out. Just watches the way Draco’s shoulders shake, not from cold. From whatever storm he’s drowning in.

“Talk to me.”

Draco finally exhales.

It’s not a sob. Not a cry.

It’s the sound of a man breaking open.

“I don’t know who I’m supposed to be,” he whispers. “I don’t--I don’t know how to be better than him. I thought I did. But I can’t fix this. I can’t even fix me.”

Theo swears under his breath.

Then, gently, carefully, he places a hand on Draco’s back.

Draco shudders beneath it.

“I want to be good for her,” he chokes. “For the baby. But what if it’s not enough? What if I can’t be anything but this? Just… broken.”

Theo doesn’t give platitudes. Doesn’t say he’ll be fine.

He just sits there. Beside him.

A hand between shoulder blades. A heartbeat beside a storm.

The sun keeps rising.

And Draco Malfoy, for the first time in his life, lets someone see him fall completely apart.

Theo doesn’t say anything else.

He doesn’t try to pull Draco up. Doesn’t offer a joke to lighten the mood. Doesn’t push.

He just stays.

Kneeling in the wet grass beside his oldest friend, who has never looked more lost.

Draco’s fingers press against the stone again, scraped and cold, as if anchoring himself to the earth will stop the shaking. But it doesn’t. His body trembles under the weight of everything he’s buried for too long.

He presses his forehead to the ground.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he whispers, voice cracking like glass under pressure. “I don’t know how to be a father. I don’t know how to be someone safe.”

His words trail off into a shaky exhale. “What if I ruin them both?”

Theo stays silent.

Not because he doesn’t care.

But because he knows, right now, Draco doesn’t need answers. He needs space to unravel. Someone to witness it. Someone who won’t look away.

Draco’s breath hitches.

“I look at her and I--Gods, I want to be good. But I don’t know how. Every time I try, it feels like I’m pretending. And she deserves more than a man who’s pretending to be whole.”

Theo exhales softly.

Still, he doesn’t interrupt.

Draco curls tighter around himself.

“My father… he used to say we were born to carry legacy. That love is weakness. That softness invites war.” His voice grows distant. Hollow. “And now I have this, this child, this thing growing, that should grow from love that I don’t even understand. I don’t know how to give what I never had.”

His hands shake again.

He covers his face. Hides from the light.

“I’m so fucking scared.”

That’s when Theo finally moves.

He doesn’t say much. Just shifts closer, so his shoulder brushes Draco’s. So he knows he’s not alone. Not right now.

Draco doesn’t look at him. Doesn’t need to.

The silence stretches. Not empty, held. Weighted by a kind of friendship that’s survived too many years and too many versions of them both.

“I should’ve stayed,” Draco whispers. “At the Potters’. I should’ve stayed with her.”

Theo’s voice is low. Careful.

“You’ll go back.”

Draco laughs, bitter and raw.

“She deserves someone better.”

Theo hums. “She chose you.”

Silence again.

Then, Draco’s walls crack wider.

His face crumples as he grips his hair, as if trying to claw something out of himself. And this time, when the sob escapes, it’s not silent.

It’s a wound.

A broken sound, full of every time he’s been told to be quiet. Every moment he’s been forced to be strong. Every inch of himself he’s hidden just to survive.

Theo doesn’t flinch.

He lets Draco shatter.

Lets him grieve the boy he used to be.

The man he still isn’t sure how to become.

And as the morning sun stretches higher over the hills, nothing gets fixed.

No wounds are healed.

But Draco Malfoy, surrounded by ruin and rain-soaked earth, is no longer alone.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s the first step.

Hermione stood alone.

The podium felt too tall. The crowd of reporters too loud, even in silence. Her palms were slick, her throat dry, her magic curling just beneath her skin like a storm trying to break through.

Ginny had begged her to wait.

Harry hadn’t even known she’d left.

But Hermione Granger had made a decision.

She couldn’t wait anymore, not for the Ministry to make up its mind, not for the Prophet to spin another lie, not even for Draco to come back.

He hadn’t come home last night.

She had hoped, Gods, she had hoped, they’d do this together. That they’d face the world as one, as they had promised each other the night before. But maybe courage had a limit. Maybe Draco had reached his.

And maybe that had to be okay.

She told herself it was okay.

Even if it hurt.

Even if it made her feel like she was standing at the edge of a war with nothing but a flickering wand and trembling hands.

Flashes erupted the moment she stepped out.

“Miss Granger!”

“Is it true about the Malfoy heir?”

“Was this a political move?”

“Are you trying to secure status for your child?”

Hermione lifted her chin.

Her voice was steady, even when her hands weren’t.

“I’m not here to justify my private life,” she said clearly, “but I am here to reclaim my story.”

Cameras clicked. More voices rose. She forced herself to continue.

“I am pregnant. Yes. The child is mine. It was not planned, but it is loved. And no matter what stories you print, no matter what assumptions you make, this is my life. Not yours. Not the Prophet’s. Not anyone else’s.”

For a moment, brief and glorious, there was silence.

Then the questions came like knives.

The reporters didn’t stop.

Like wolves scenting blood.

“Do you regret sleeping with him now that he’s run off?”

“Does he even claim the child?”

“Was it a pity fuck?”

Her breath caught.

That one landed like a slap. She couldn’t even tell who said it.

Gasps scattered. Then silence. Then--

“You were always the clever one, Miss Granger. But clever girls don’t always keep their legs closed, do they?”

Hermione’s throat closed. Her magic sparked beneath her skin, wild and flaring, and her vision blurred, 

No. No no no, she couldn’t break now--

The doors slammed open.

A gust of wind followed in his wake like the gods had hurled open the skies.

Draco Malfoy stood in the entrance.

And the room froze.

The room is stunned silent.

Flashbulbs freeze mid-click. Quills pause mid-scratch.

Draco Malfoy, in sleek black robes dusted in ash and sunlight, stands at the front. Next to Hermione. Not behind her. Not beside her.

Next to her.

“Let me make one thing clear,” he says, voice calm, almost too calm, like the kind of quiet that comes before a duel. “The child is mine. Hermione Granger is under my protection. And anyone who wishes to challenge that, ” he lets the words hang, eyes cutting across the room, “is welcome to try.”

There’s a shuffle of papers, then a rush of questions,

“Mr. Malfoy, are you admitting to a romantic relationship with--”

“Is the baby a result of an affair?”

“How long have you been hiding this?”

“Was this a publicity stunt? A scandal for redemption?”

Draco raises a single pale hand.

The room falls silent.

“I owe no one here an explanation,” he says, measured. “But let me give you one anyway.”

His eyes flick across the reporters, cold, silver, slicing.

“You want scandal? Fine. The baby was unplanned. The timing? Inconvenient. The consequence?” He looks at Hermione, softer now. “Irreversible. And I am not running from it.”

A hush ripples through the room.

Draco’s voice turns frost-sharp again.

“I’ve spent years letting this world write my story for me. Letting headlines define who I am. You followed me through alleyways, stole moments from my life to sell papers, painted a version of me you could sleep with at night.”

He steps forward.

“Those days are over.”

He pauses, waits for the fear to sink in.

“You’ll write what I allow you to write. You’ll print what I pay you to print. And if one more story, one more sentence, crosses my desk dragging Hermione’s name through the dirt?”

His smile doesn’t reach his eyes.

“The Malfoy accounts will be withdrawn. Entirely. And may I remind you… the only reason most of you still have quills is because Malfoy gold lined your ink wells.”

A low, horrified murmur spreads.

“I suggest you all decide, today, whether access to your precious readership is worth losing your careers over one more bloodthirsty headline.”

He turns to Hermione, offering his arm like he was born to end press conferences on his own terms.

She hesitates… then takes it.

And when they leave, together, heads high, a hundred flashes chasing them like desperate lightning,

No one dares stop them.

Not this time.

Not anymore.

The heavy doors of the Ministry press hall groan shut behind them.

Hermione walks with her head high, the echo of camera flashes still seared behind her eyes, the chaos of the room ringing in her skull. Her limbs feel like lead, her pulse like thunder. Beside her, Draco is quiet, too quiet, but his hand brushes hers occasionally, like a silent reminder: I’m here. I didn’t leave. I won’t.

Outside, the air is cooler. The sky is painted with a dull gray that promises rain, the stone beneath their feet still warm from the sun earlier. And parked neatly along the curb is a sleek, deep-green carriage, enchanted for silence and speed.

Leaning against it is Theo.

He’s dressed in black, coat sharp, arms crossed, eyes unreadable as he watches them descend the steps. He straightens slightly when they approach but doesn’t speak. Doesn’t need to. His gaze shifts over Hermione briefly, checking for damage, maybe, and then settles on Draco.

No words. Just a look. And Draco nods.

Theo gives a quiet whistle, and the carriage door clicks open.

Hermione climbs in first, the weight of the world dragging behind her. Draco follows, but before he steps in fully, he pauses. Glances over his shoulder. Theo meets his gaze again.

“Make sure we’re not followed,” Draco mutters low, meant only for him.

Theo nods once, curt. Loyal. Then shuts the door behind them with a firm click, and takes his place on the driver's step.

Only then does the carriage begin to move, silent, gliding, away from the Ministry’s chaos and into whatever storm waits for them next.

Hermione’s eyes flick to Draco.

He doesn’t limp. His coat is clean. His hair slightly mussed, but that’s nothing new. No bruises. No blood. No visible wounds. Not even the bloodied knuckles yesterday can be seen. It was gone. Though, she doesn’t miss the dull shadows under his eyes, like he hasn’t slept. Like something inside him has been clawing its way out. Her heart aches before she can stop it.

She wants to ask, Where were you? Were you attacked? Mugged? What the hell happened to you last night?

But she doesn’t. Because part of her is still angry. Furious, even.

He doesn’t look broken. Just tired. Haunted. And somehow, that infuriates her more. If he wasn’t hurt, then why didn’t he come back?

When the carriage stops, Theo is the first to climb out. He doesn’t look back at Draco or Hermione, just steps down onto the cobblestone pathway and strides toward the door, giving a quick word to Harry and Ginny waiting in the doorway before they vanish inside.

Draco and Hermione remain, locked in their shared silence. The weight of everything, everything she wants to say, everything she needs to say, weighs on her chest. He should’ve said something by now, done something by now, but he hasn’t.

Draco, finally breaking the tension, speaks quietly, his voice still strained. "I told Theo to take Harry and Ginny somewhere. We need to talk, Hermione."

Her back is rigid as she steps out of the carriage, not looking at him. Her chest burns with rage, but she won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing it. She marches straight into the house, her pace quick, purposeful. She doesn’t want to be near him right now, doesn’t want to be near anyone.

The moment they’re inside the house, she marches to her room, slamming the door behind her. But Draco follows her. Of course, he follows her.

She doesn’t even wait for him to knock. She yanks the door open, fury lighting up her eyes.

Her anger, raw and blistering, cuts through the space between them. She glares at him, voice shaking but loud.

“You just disappear,” she says, each word sharper than the last. “You disappear without a word, without a thought! After everything, after everything we’ve been through, you just leave! You can’t just say all those things and then walk out like it means nothing! Like you don’t care!”

Draco stands frozen, his jaw tight, fists clenched. She’s shouting at him, but the fury in her eyes burns him more than anything she could say. He opens his mouth, but she cuts him off, the words spilling out faster, more venomous.

"Where the fuck were you? You disappeared and then came back like nothing happened! Like everything’s okay!" Her chest heaves with the force of her words. "You just disappeared, Draco! I was sitting here, waiting for you, wondering where you were, wondering if you were ever going to come back! What the hell am I supposed to think?"

Draco stands there, jaw tight, looking at her with a mixture of guilt and anger. "I was trying to figure things out, Hermione. I’m not a bloody mind reader. I don’t know what you want from me."

"I want you to stop making promises you can’t keep!" she yells. "I want you to stop pretending that everything’s fine, that you have control of anything! You lied to me, Draco! You told me you’d be here, and then you vanish for hours. I was worried, and all you care about is your damn problems!"

His eyes flash, the anger in his chest burning hotter now. He steps forward, his fists clenched. "I didn’t lie to you, Hermione! I never meant to hurt you. I don’t know what the hell I’m doing, but I’m trying."

"Trying?!" she scoffs, voice trembling with rage. "You’re not trying, Draco. You’re hiding. You’re avoiding. You can’t just keep disappearing every time things get hard. You can’t keep saying you want something and then running away when it actually matters. I need you here, Draco. I need you to stay."

"I’m not running away," Draco shoots back, his voice rising. "I can’t do this perfectly, Hermione. I’m not like you. You’re not scared of anything. You don’t have this weight on you, this legacy hanging over you, the fear of failing. You have strength, you have faith, and I don’t. I don’t know how to fix it. I don’t know how to be the man you need."

The words cut into Hermione’s chest. She blinks, taken aback by his raw honesty, but the anger doesn’t leave her. No. It’s too much. Too much to feel all at once. She’s so tired of this, so tired of waiting for him to figure it out, to become the man he promises to be. She feels betrayed, and she won’t let him weasel out of it.

"You’re lying," she spits, glaring at him. "You’re lying to me, Draco! You’re saying things just to make me feel better, but I’m not stupid. You don’t mean any of it. You don’t mean anything you say!"

Draco’s face tightens, his hands shaking now, fists clenched. His body is rigid, but the agony is clear in his eyes.

"Stop it!" he shouts, taking a step forward, his voice strangled. "You have no idea how hard this is for me! You have no idea what it’s like to live in my shoes! You think I want to be like this? You think I want to disappoint you every fucking time? I’m terrified, Hermione. Terrified that I’m going to ruin everything, that I’m going to be just like my father."

His voice cracks at the end, and the anger in his chest falters, giving way to something softer, more vulnerable. He’s shaking, his face flushed with frustration, his eyes rimmed with the start of tears.

"I’m scared, okay? I’m scared of failing you. Of failing her. And I don’t know how to fix it. I don’t know how to be the person you need me to be. I don’t know if I can."

“Then why did you leave?!” Hermione screams, her hands shaking, tears threatening to spill. “Why leave me in the dark? You said you’d be there for me, but I didn’t know if you were ever coming back! I thought--” She stops herself, swallowing the lump in her throat. “I thought maybe this was too much for you. Maybe you couldn’t handle it.”

Draco takes a step back, his gaze hardening. “You think I couldn’t handle it?” His voice cracks just a bit, but he doesn’t let it show. “You think I couldn’t handle this? Do you even know what I’m up against? What I feel every time I look at you?  I’m fucking terrified, Hermione. I’m terrified I’m going to fuck it all up.” He turns away, pacing to the other side of the room, his voice quieter now, but thick with emotion. “I didn’t leave because I didn’t care. I left because I didn’t want to drag you into the mess of my mind. I didn’t want you to see me falling apart.”

Hermione’s heart breaks at the admission, but the anger hasn’t gone away. It’s still there, pounding in her chest. “You think I don’t see it? You think I don’t know how hard this is for you, too? But you can’t just… just run away, Draco. You can’t.”

“I didn’t run away!” His voice rises again. “I needed to get my head on straight, Hermione. I needed a minute to breathe.”

“Well, you took more than a minute,” Hermione snaps, glaring at him. “You took hours--hours I was left here, wondering if I had been stupid to trust you.”

Draco closes his eyes, the weight of everything crashing down on him. When he opens them again, there’s no more anger. Only exhaustion. He’s done. Done fighting. Done running. And as much as he’s tried to hold it together, he feels himself cracking.

“I’m sorry,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I didn’t mean to make you feel like I was leaving you, or that I didn’t want this. I just--” He takes a deep breath, voice faltering. “I’m not good at this, Hermione. I’m just not. And I’m scared. And I… I don’t know if I can do it. I don’t know if I can be the man you need me to be. The man our child needs me to be.”

Hermione’s eyes soften, the fire in her chest slowly turning to ice, leaving only a dull ache. She wants to stay angry, but it’s hard when Draco looks like that, when he admits, finally, how much he’s struggling.

“I don’t need you to be perfect,” she says, her voice trembling. “I just need you to be here. With me. I need you to be present, Draco. I don’t know what’s going to happen, but we have to face it. Together.”

Draco looks at her for a long moment, the weight of her words sinking in. He feels like he’s drowning again, but in the best way, her words are the only air he can breathe. Slowly, cautiously, he steps toward her.

“Come here,” he murmurs.

Before Hermione can respond, before she can decide whether to yell again or crumble where she stands, Draco steps forward and pulls her into his arms.

Her breath catches.

It’s the first time he’s held her like this. Really held her.

They’ve brushed fingers, clutched each other's wrists, he’s carried her when her knees gave out, but that wasn’t this. That wasn’t his arms around her. That wasn’t her chest flush against his. That wasn’t his hand splayed between her shoulder blades like he was afraid she might disappear.

Hermione stiffens. Her mind flashes with every reason to push him away, too close, too soon, too dangerous, but then his breath hits her temple, warm and uneven. His heartbeat pounds against hers like it’s echoing her own. And she folds. Slowly, shakily, she folds into him.

The weight of him. The realness of him.

He’s solid and warm and here.

Her fingers clutch at the back of his shirt as though afraid he might vanish again. Her tears don’t fall loudly, but they come, sliding down her cheeks, sinking into the fabric stretched between them.

Draco breathes her in like he’s been holding his breath for days.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers into her hair, his voice rough. “I’m sorry for making you feel like you were alone in this. You’re not. I’m here. I just…” He swallows thickly. “I need time to figure this out. And I’m going to do everything I can to make it right. To make us right.”

Hermione closes her eyes. She hadn’t realized how cold she’d been feeling until this moment. Until the warmth of him, arms wrapped around her, steady, grounding, started thawing something deep inside.

“You’re not alone either,” she murmurs, her voice cracking, her cheek pressed to his chest. “We’ll figure it out. Together.”

And that’s it. That’s all they say.

But it’s enough.

They stand there, wrapped around each other, breathing in the same quiet air. For the first time in days, Hermione feels something loosen in her chest. Some place that had been clenching, bracing for the next hit, finally begins to ease.

And Draco, who had spent a night convincing himself he wasn’t enough, holds her like he’s finally allowed to want something for himself.

The press, the headlines, the judgment, it all fades beyond the walls of the Potter house. In this moment, it’s just them. Messy and scared and hurting.

But together.

And somehow, that’s the bravest thing either of them have ever done.

Chapter Text

The fireplace crackled softly in the Potter living room. Outside, grey clouds churned with a storm yet to break. Hermione sat curled up in one corner of the couch, a cup of warm tea cradled in her hands. Ginny sat beside her, legs tucked underneath herself, thumbing through a Prophet article with narrowed eyes and quiet disgust.

The silence between them was comforting, earned, tired, and fragile.

Then came the crack.

Hermione jolted, hot tea sloshing over her fingers. Ginny was on her feet in an instant, wand drawn before she even fully processed why.

A Malfoy house-elf-, small, hunched, and visibly jittery, stood trembling in the center of the room. Its ears twitched violently, fingers wringing the hem of a fraying pillowcase. It bowed low, nose nearly brushing the hardwood floor.

“M-Master Draco is being summoned by Mistress Malfoy,” it squeaked, voice cracking under the weight of its anxiety. “Urgent family matters, sir. Immediate.”

Draco looked up from where he stood near the far bookshelf. His whole body went still. Not rigid just… still. Like something inside him had gone quiet and cold all at once.

Ginny glanced sharply between him and the elf. “Now?”

The house-elf gave a little whimper. “Mistress says now. Says time has been wasted enough.”

Hermione watched the blood drain from Draco’s face. Not visibly, but she could feel it. The way he swallowed, the flicker of old shadows in his eyes. He nodded, almost mechanically. “Tell her I’ll be there.”

Another bow, another crack, and the elf was gone.

Hermione stood slowly, setting her teacup down on the coffee table. “Draco.”

He was already turning, one foot toward the hallway.

“You don’t have to protect me from them,” she said softly.

Draco stopped. His back remained to her for a moment, too long. Then, finally, he turned his head, just enough that she could see his profile, the cut of his jaw, the way his eyes wouldn’t quite meet hers.

“Yes,” he said, voice low. “I do.”

There was no bravado in it. No pride.

Just finality.

And then, without another word, he apparated.

The room was quiet again. But it wasn’t peace that lingered this time, it was dread.

Hermione sat down heavily on the couch, her hands cold. Ginny sat beside her, placing a firm, grounding hand on her knee.

“What kind of family summons their son like a soldier?” Ginny muttered.

Hermione didn’t answer. Her eyes were still fixed on the spot where he’d vanished, her heart tightening with every beat.

The quiet didn’t last long.

Barely twenty minutes had passed since Draco’s departure when another crack rang through the air.

Hermione and Ginny both turned their heads at once, startled again, but this time, it was not an anxious messenger. It was a bumbling, wide-eyed little house-elf with one too-long ear and a scarf twice its size dragging on the ground behind it. Its name was stitched into the scarf’s hem: Mimsy.

The elf darted into the hallway, muttering to itself. “Must fetch the cloak, Master Draco's spare. Mistress said not to be late. Gloves, yes, gloves…”

Hermione stood, brow furrowed. “Excuse me?”

Ginny’s brows drew low. “Who are you? What are you doing in here?”

Mimsy jumped as if struck by lightning. It dropped the rolled parchment it had gathered, fumbled to collect it again, and stammered, “Oh! Oh! Mimsy was only sent to fetch Master Draco’s things! Mistress Malfoy said, said to bring them straightaway--”

The air snapped like static.

A second crack, sharper than the first, split the room, and Toffy appeared in a blur of motion and rage, her tiny form practically crackling with fury.

She took one look at Mimsy and hissed, “What do you think you’re doing in Mistress Hermione’s house?”

Mimsy recoiled, knocking over Draco’s gloves in fright. “I-I-I was told! Mistress said--!”

“I didn’t ask what Mistress said!” Toffy snarled, eyes blazing. “You answer me!”

Hermione stepped forward then, still in her slippers, her teacup forgotten on the table. “Toffy--”

But Mimsy, cornered and panicked, blurted out the truth in a squeaky rush:
“M-Master Lucius said she was a blemish on the name! That the child would taint the bloodline! That Mistress Hermione should’ve stayed in the dirt where she belonged!”

Silence fell.

The teacup slipped from the table when Hermione’s hand hit it, and hit the carpet with a soft thud. She didn’t even blink.

Ginny’s face twisted into fury. “What?”

But Toffy, Toffy had gone utterly still.

No tremble. No snap. Just a stillness that felt far more dangerous than anger.

She turned her head slowly toward Mimsy. “You come with me. Now.”

Mimsy gave a terrified squeak, nodded frantically.

CRACK!

And they were gone.

Hermione stood in the middle of the living room, hands trembling, staring at the spot they’d vanished from.

It wasn’t just the insult. It wasn’t just the bloodline slur.

It was the realization that Draco had walked into that alone.

The drawing room of Malfoy Manor is suffocating.

Draco stands tall, but every inch of him feels like it’s being squeezed in a vice. The walls are lined with ancestral portraits, their judgmental stares silent but scathing. A fire crackles in the grate, but it throws no warmth.

Lucius Malfoy doesn’t sit. He looms.

He stands before the marble fireplace, fingers laced behind his back like a general preparing to pass judgment. Narcissa sits nearby, stiff and silent, eyes shadowed and watchful.

"You've embarrassed this family beyond comprehension," Lucius begins, voice low but sharp like a blade. "A Granger? A child out of wedlock? Have you completely lost your mind, or are you trying to destroy everything we built?"

Draco keeps his back straight, but his jaw tightens. “I didn’t come here to be insulted.”

Lucius laughs, bitter and cold. “No, of course not. Because you’ve already been insulted enough, haven’t you? Dragging our name through the mud, letting that Mudblood use you like a puppet.”

“Don’t,” Draco warns, voice rough.

“I will say it. She has no place here, you have no place here, not if you continue down this path. Do you think the blood matters less because the war is over? It matters more now than ever. And that abomination growing in her belly--”

“Don’t you dare talk about the baby.”

Lucius crosses the room in two long strides and backhands Draco across the face.

The sound cracks through the room.

Narcissa gasps, half rising from her chair, but Lucius doesn’t stop. “You stupid, reckless boy! You don’t know what you’ve done! That child will be the end of us. Of everything.”

Draco staggers, holding his cheek, blood blooming where Lucius’s ring tore skin. But he doesn’t retaliate. He just looks up at his father, eyes ablaze.

“I’d rather burn this house to the ground than let you control me one more day.”

Lucius lifts his hand again.

But Narcissa is suddenly there, between them, her hand on Lucius’s wrist.

“Enough.”

He freezes.

“Enough.” Her voice is cold steel.

Lucius’s nostrils flare, his hand twitching like it wants to obey him more than her. But her gaze doesn’t waver.

Draco watches them both, chest heaving, cheek burning, heart cracked open. His mother looks back at him, something soft flickering in her eyes.

But she doesn’t speak.

And Draco turns away, jaw trembling, not from weakness, but from the strength it takes not to fall apart.

Lucius yanks his arm from Narcissa’s grasp.

“You defend him?” he spits. “After everything, you stand between me and the thing that’s dismantling our legacy?”

Narcissa doesn’t move again. She watches him, still, silent, but unmoved.

Lucius turns his fury back to Draco, eyes glinting with disgust.

“You were supposed to restore this name. My name. After the war, we bent, we begged, we groveled to keep our place in society. I did that, for you. And this, this is how you repay me?”

Draco says nothing, his breath tight, his spine locked into a rigid line. His silence only enrages Lucius more.

“You think you love her? That filthy girl with dirt under her nails and a baby she probably didn’t even plan for? What do you think she wants, Draco? Your heart?” He sneers. “She wants your name. Your vault. Your protection. She wants to clean her image with our blood.”

“You don’t know her,” Draco says hoarsely.

“Oh, I know her kind,” Lucius snaps. “You think she’d stay if you lost the Malfoy fortune tomorrow? She would run, Draco. And that child, that mistake, will be the anchor that drags you to the bottom.”

Draco flinches, but not from the words. From the thoughts he’s been afraid someone else might say out loud.

“You always were weak,” Lucius hisses. “Sniveling and soft. I saw it in you even as a boy. You cried when the peacocks died, do you remember? Cried like a girl. And now you’re parading around with one. You were never going to be strong enough to be a Malfoy.”

Draco’s lip curls, but Lucius steps closer, lowering his voice into something even more insidious.

“You want to protect her, don’t you? That’s rich. Let me tell you what’s going to happen, son. One day, she’ll leave. When you’re no longer useful. When the burden becomes too much. And you’ll be left with nothing, not her, not the child, and certainly not us.”

Draco’s fists are clenched so tight his knuckles have gone bone-white. But it’s Narcissa’s voice, low and tight, that cuts the tension.

“Stop it, Lucius.”

He ignores her.

“You think this is love?” Lucius snarls, circling Draco like a predator. “This is a phase. This is guilt and fear and lust tangled up in sentiment. It’ll fade, and when it does, you’ll crawl back. You always do.”

Draco finally looks up. His eyes shimmer, not with tears, but something harder. Deeper.

“I’d rather be nothing than become you.”

A crack of silence. It lands like thunder.

Lucius stares at him, this stranger of a son who now stands defiant, blood still wet on his cheek, heartbreak written across his mouth.

And for a moment, the elder Malfoy looks almost… afraid.

But then he scoffs. “You’re already halfway there.”

That’s when the echo of footsteps breaks the tension, Narcissa moving toward Draco. She stops beside him, not touching him, but near enough that it’s a choice. A statement.

Lucius watches her with disgust.

“Fine,” he says coldly. “Protect him. Coddle him. Let him ruin himself with that girl. But don’t say I didn’t warn you when the scandal catches fire and buries us all.”

He turns away.

Narcissa’s voice is quiet, cutting. “You buried us a long time ago, Lucius.”

Lucius turns his back on them, stepping toward the window, his voice almost idle, too calm.

“Oh, and Draco,” he says, as if it’s an afterthought. “I’ve reinstated the Apparition wards.”

Draco freezes.

Lucius doesn’t look back, only smooths his cuffs like he’s brushing off dust. “You won’t be leaving until we’ve resolved this family mess.” A pause, then the dagger: “One way or another.”

The words hang in the air like poison.

Narcissa’s breath catches, but she says nothing.

Draco’s jaw tenses, his throat working against the urge to speak, but he doesn’t give Lucius the satisfaction of a reply.

He turns on his heel, silent, rage pulsing in every step as he walks toward the grand staircase.

Lucius watches him go with cold, hollow satisfaction.

Draco’s footsteps echo up the stairs, heavy with everything unsaid. He doesn’t stop, doesn’t turn around. Doesn’t beg.

Instead, he heads for the one place in the manor that still feels like it once belonged to him, his old bedroom.

A room full of shadows and memories and dust.

He closes the door behind him with a soft but final thud, and the silence that follows feels like a scream held in the walls.

A sharp CRACK splits the quiet gloom of the corridor as Toffy appears, fists balled tight, her ears twitching in fury. Beside her, Mimsy cowers with both hands over her head, sniffling as she tries to keep up.

Toffy does not slow.

She storms down the grand hallway like she owns it, rage glowing behind her wide, furious eyes. The fine sconces and marble archways do not impress her, not anymore.

They reach the parlour entrance, just outside where Lucius and Narcissa remain. Mimsy stumbles, but Toffy grabs her wrist before she can flee.

Before Mimsy can protest, the parlour doors swing open. Narcissa stands there, eyes sharp and unreadable.

She takes them both in, Mimsy quivering, Toffy burning like a fireball barely held together.

Mimsy stumbles, hiccuping tears. “I-I didn’t mean to! I just said what Master Lucius said--!”

“You do not say those words in Mistress Hermione’s house!” Toffy’s voice is razor-sharp, more fury than any elf should contain.

Mimsy sobs.

“You do not speak what Master Lucius says like it’s truth. You do not dishonor the witch our Master chose.”

Toffy turns, breathless with anger, and locks eyes with her.

“Master Draco chose her. He loves her, even if he doesn’t know it yet. He won’t let her go. And neither will we.”

There’s a pause. The air seems to hold its breath.

Narcissa’s face doesn’t change, but something flickers in her eyes.

A softness, maybe.

Or maybe a wound.

She doesn’t speak. Not yet.

But she doesn’t send them away either.

Toffy’s expression stays firm, her loyalty worn plain across her face like armor.

Then, a sound, faint, distant. The creak of a door upstairs.

Draco’s room.

Narcissa finally speaks. “Stay out of sight,” she says to the elves. “For now.”

Her voice is quiet.

But there is steel beneath it.

The house feels empty. Even with Ginny nearby, there’s a quiet weight to the air. Hermione sits in the living room, eyes unfocused, lost in thought. The constant swirling of the press, Draco’s disappearance, and the weight of everything she’s been through, it all presses down on her chest.

Then, she hears it.

A faint crack!

Hermione jumps slightly, her eyes flickering toward the foyer. A figure steps into the room, tall and regal, as always.

Narcissa Malfoy.

She stands at the doorway, her presence immediate and imposing. Her icy gaze doesn’t waver as she looks directly at Hermione, though the tension between them is palpable.

Ginny, sensing the change in the atmosphere, instinctively reaches for her wand. But before she can speak, Narcissa raises a hand, a subtle gesture that commands silence.

“I’m not here to threaten,” Narcissa says, her voice calm, almost measured. “I’m here to understand.”

Ginny hesitates, but the weight of Narcissa’s words forces her to lower her wand. Narcissa doesn’t wait for permission to enter the room. She moves gracefully, settling into the seat across from Hermione, never breaking eye contact.

The air feels thick with unspoken words, but Narcissa waits, patient, calculating. Hermione’s heart beats a little faster, unsure what to expect. The woman across from her has always been an enigma, distant, cold, and yet, oddly protective of her son in her own way.

Finally, Narcissa speaks, and her words are unexpected.

“He’s more like me than his father,” she says, her voice a quiet admission. “That’s why you might stand a chance.”

Hermione’s eyebrows furrow. The words don’t immediately make sense to her. “What do you mean?”

Narcissa leans back slightly in her chair, her expression unreadable. “Lucius... he’s consumed by his own ideas of power. His need to control. Draco, though... he has my strength, Miss Granger. He doesn't know it yet, but it’s in him.”

Hermione feels a sharp pang of confusion, but she doesn’t interrupt. She listens, unsure of where this conversation is going.

“If you ever decide he’s not enough,” Narcissa continues, her voice softening, yet carrying a strange weight, “I hope you won’t hesitate to leave him. He needs someone strong enough to walk away, too.”

Hermione’s heart stutters in her chest at the unexpected advice. She opens her mouth to respond, but the words catch in her throat. There’s so much to say, but it feels like the moment isn’t hers to control.

Narcissa doesn’t give her a chance to answer. She stands, smooth as silk, and looks at Hermione one last time, something unreadable in her eyes. Without another word, she turns and leaves the room, her footsteps echoing as she vanishes through the door.

Hermione remains frozen for a long moment. Ginny, still tense, lowers her hand from her wand, watching Hermione carefully.

The room is silent.

And yet, a part of Hermione feels like something has shifted.

What did Narcissa mean by that? Would Draco ever truly be enough for her? Or was she the one who needed to be enough for him?

Before she can unravel the complexity of it all, the silence stretches longer than she’s comfortable with.

She’s left to think.

Draco lies flat on his back, staring up at the ornate ceiling. His thoughts are a maelstrom, spinning wildly, refusing to settle. His fingers twitch, but he doesn't reach for his wand. He just lies there, too drained, too full of emotion to even move. The silence in the room is thick, suffocating, and the weight of everything hangs in the air.

His mind drifts back. The night of Harry and Ginny’s wedding.

The night when everything shifted. The night when he brought Hermione in his room.

It had been a quiet night, far quieter than Draco had expected. He had been on edge the entire evening, pretending, playing the part of the dutiful guest, the compliant Malfoy heir. But when he had slipped away with Hermione, pulling her into the quiet, private space of his room, everything had changed.

It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. He had always tried to keep a distance, to resist the pull between them. But in the stillness of the room, with the weight of the night settling in, something shifted. Something in him that he didn’t want to acknowledge.

They had been so close, too close. He could feel the heat from her skin, the way her breath caught as they stood together. He had told her it would be fine. He had told himself the same. But the moment they had apparated to his room, it was as if all control had slipped away.

The tension between them had been palpable. The way Hermione had stood there, unsure, vulnerable in a way he hadn’t seen before. He could see it in her eyes, that mix of curiosity, apprehension, and something else, something deeper. He had told himself he wouldn’t cross that line, but in that moment, he had been powerless to stop himself.

He hadn’t planned on what happened next.

The night had moved too quickly. One minute, they had been talking, testing the limits of their conversation, of their feelings, and the next, he had kissed her. It was a kiss that burned with all the frustration, the tension, the hidden desire that they had been fighting for so long. It was more than just passion, it was desperate, it was raw. Neither of them had expected it, and neither had known how to pull away.

But as the night stretched on, the weight of their actions hit him. Draco had been unable to sleep, restless, his mind clouded with thoughts he couldn’t untangle. He had watched Hermione sleeping beside him, her breath slow and even, her body so close yet so distant. His mind raced as he replayed everything, feeling both guilt and longing, regret and an undeniable pull to her.

At dawn, his worst fear had come true.

Hermione, still half-dazed from sleep, had murmured something that made Draco’s stomach twist with a sickening sense of panic. She had called out Ron’s name. It had been soft, barely a whisper, but it was enough.

Draco froze, his blood running cold. He hadn’t even been able to look at her. His heart was racing in his chest, and suddenly, all of the things that had made him act on impulse, all of the things that had felt so right in the heat of the moment, now felt like the worst mistake he had ever made.

So, he had apparated them both to a Muggle hotel in London. It was the farthest he could get from everything, from the confusion, the guilt, the mess he had created. The distance would help him clear his head. But as they arrived, Hermione woke up, her confusion evident.

He should have known better. But in that moment, he had let himself be led by the swirling emotions, the undeniable chemistry between them. And now, it was clear: she was still thinking of him. Of Ron.

Furious with himself, Draco had done the only thing he knew how to do. He had retreated, pulling away from her emotionally, trying to bury everything deep inside. He had dressed quickly, and when Hermione stirred, he turned his back to her, his face unreadable. He had to pretend it didn’t hurt. He had to pretend that it wasn’t eating him alive inside.

But the truth was, it hurt more than anything else. The pain of hearing her call someone else’s name, of realizing how badly he had miscalculated, he couldn’t escape it.

He had acted like everything was fine. Like nothing had changed. But deep down, he knew nothing was the same. The look in her eyes told him everything he needed to know. She was still thinking about him. About Ron.

The regret and bitterness festered inside him as he pretended to be calm. He had no answers. No way to fix this mess. So, he did what he always did, he shut down.

But the truth gnawed at him relentlessly. He couldn’t stop thinking about her, about the kiss, about how badly he wanted it to mean something. But it didn’t. Not anymore.

The warmth of their embrace still lingered when a soft crack echoed through the room.

Toffy appeared in the foyer, clutching a thick, weathered book to his chest. He didn’t bow or stammer this time, just stepped forward with quiet purpose.

Hermione blinked. “Toffy?”

The house-elf nodded once. “Forgive the intrusion, Mistress. Master.” He held out the book gently. “The Malfoy Legacy. I thought it should return to his hands.”

Draco’s eyes darkened slightly as he reached out and took it. The cover was bound in faded dragonhide, marked by centuries of wear. His thumb brushed across the gold-etched crest.

Toffy continued, tone even, respectful. “It is tradition. Once a Malfoy heir reaches twenty-one, the magic of the line allows no barrier to its continuation.”

Hermione’s brow creased, a flicker of understanding crossing her face. They’d discussed this, how she’d become pregnant despite protective spells, how it made no logical sense.

Draco nodded slowly. “We know.”

But Toffy didn’t leave just yet. He tilted her head, gazing up at his master with quiet insistence.

Then he said, calm and measured, “But the magic did not act when it should have. Not until now.”

Hermione’s eyes lifted to Draco, confused. “What does that mean?”

Toffy didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. He only looked at Draco, long and hard, with a gaze that said plainly: It’s time.

Draco’s jaw tightened. The book felt heavy in his hands, not just with history, but with choice. With truth.

Toffy gave one final nod, and vanished with a crack.

Silence stretched between them.

Hermione stepped closer. “Draco… what is he talking about?”

He didn’t look up at first. Then, finally, he did.

And she saw it in his eyes, the thing he’d been carrying, hiding.

Not just shame.

Something older. Something deeper.

Draco stood silently, his eyes still fixed on the ancient book in his hands.

Then, wordlessly, he gestured toward the sofa. Hermione obeyed without question, easing down as if she knew, whatever was about to be said would change something.

Draco didn’t sit at first. He paced once, then stopped, turning the book over in his hands before setting it on the low table before them.

“Remember,” he said quietly, not looking at her yet, “when I told you… it was an ancestral gift. A blood-binding magic. Something that activates when a Malfoy heir turns twenty-one.”

Hermione nodded slowly. “Yes. You said it was to ensure the bloodline continued.”

He gave a small, dry laugh. “It’s tradition. Magic so old, no one remembers who created it. And once the heir turns twenty-one… no spell, no potion, no barrier can stop it. The next time they’re with someone, the bloodline continues. No exceptions.”

She tilted her head. “But you’re twenty-seven now.”

“Exactly.” He finally sat beside her. His voice dropped low. “Ginny asked me once. Why now? Why not before?”

He drew in a long, unsteady breath.

“I never answered her.”

Hermione’s hand gently brushed his, but she didn’t speak. She waited.

Draco stared ahead. And then, finally, he said it.

“Because I couldn’t. I couldn’t touch anyone. Not after what I did. Or… what I almost did.”

His voice cracked on the last word.

Hermione stilled.

“It started when Voldemort came back,” Draco whispered. “The missions. The expectations. The… punishments. I was sixteen. Just a boy, and already learning how to hurt people.”

He closed his eyes. “Katie Bell. Do you remember her?”

Hermione nodded slowly, heart dropping.

“She was the first.” His voice trembled. “I didn’t even touch her. Just handed her the necklace. Just… passed it along. But she screamed like I’d set her on fire. Like I’d poured poison into her veins with my hands.”

His fists clenched.

“And that sound, it never left me. That scream. I hear it in the quiet. I heard it every time someone reached for me. Every time someone brushed against me in the halls, I flinched. I started avoiding everyone. Couldn’t look anyone in the eye. Couldn’t stand the thought of being near another body--”

He swallowed hard.

“Because what if I hurt them too?”

Hermione’s breath hitched, tears pooling.

“I tried, after the war. Once. With someone. A girl my mother introduced me to. She touched my arm, just lightly, and I threw up. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t do it.”

He looked at her now, raw and bare and ashamed.

“For years, I thought maybe I was broken. Maybe the magic wouldn’t work for me. Maybe it was the universe’s punishment. No heir. No future. Just me, and the guilt, and the name I never asked to carry.”

Hermione reached for his hand now, firmly, not letting go.

“But then…” he whispered.

“That night,” she said for him, already knowing.

He nodded. “Harry and Ginny’s wedding. You were drunk. So was I. I shouldn’t have, Merlin, I didn’t plan it, I swear, I didn’t mean for it to happen. But when you looked at me… when you kissed me…”

He blinked hard, his voice nearly breaking.

“It was the first time I didn’t recoil. The first time someone touched me and I didn’t feel like I was rotting inside. It was the first time I felt, wanted. And not because of my name, or my house, or what I could offer. You weren’t supposed to want me. But you did.”

Hermione’s eyes shimmered. She squeezed his hand, tight.

“And for the first time since the war, I let someone in.”

He turned to her.

“And I let you in.”

Silence stretched, thick, sacred.

Hermione finally whispered, “And you think that broke the magic’s silence?”

Draco’s eyes never left hers. “No. I think it answered it.”

Hermione didn’t speak.

She didn’t need to.

Her hand moved slowly, deliberately, slipping from his grasp only so she could reach higher, her fingertips brushing the side of his face, gently tilting it toward her.

Draco didn’t resist. He didn’t flinch.

He just let her.

Her thumb traced the sharp line of his cheekbone, brushing beneath the tired, darkened skin under his eye. Her touch was soft, reverent. Like she was trying to memorize him, not comfort him. Like she understood that words could never touch what he’d just confessed.

And then, with a tenderness so fragile it nearly broke him, she leaned forward and pressed her forehead to his.

Draco’s breath caught.

They sat like that breathing the same air, hearts knocking between them, time slowing to the rhythm of something deep and ancient and unspoken.

Hermione finally whispered, barely audible, “You’re not broken.”

Draco didn’t answer.

But his hand reached up tentative, trembling and touched her wrist. Held it there, against his cheek.

As if he was afraid she’d disappear if he didn’t anchor her.

As if her touch was the only thing keeping him from unraveling.

And maybe, in that moment, it was.

From the hallway, just beyond the warm spill of light from the sitting room, Ginny stood quietly with her arms crossed, leaning against the doorframe. Harry was beside her, hands in his pockets, watching the scene unfold Hermione, with her forehead pressed to Draco’s, their breaths shared in silence, wrapped in something so raw and delicate it almost didn’t belong in the world outside that room.

Ginny didn’t speak right away.

But when she did, her voice was soft. “There’s something there.”

Harry nodded. “I know.”

“I’m still worried,” Ginny added, frowning slightly. “Not about him. Not anymore. He’s not who he used to be. But the rest of them…”

Harry’s gaze didn’t leave the pair. “The parents.”

Ginny gave a quiet hum. “They’ll never let her go quietly.”

Harry finally looked at her, eyes steady. “She won’t go quietly either.”

Ginny gave a small, knowing smile. “No. She won’t.”

Without another word, they turned and slipped quietly out the front door, leaving Draco and Hermione to their silence, to their healing, to whatever fragile beginning this was.

It began with a letter.

A thick envelope, sealed with the Malfoy crest, delivered not by owl but by private courier, a subtle power play that said, We don’t need birds to reach you. Hermione opened it in the middle of the morning, hands still dusted with flour from helping Ginny knead dough. The contents were elegantly penned, but the message was cold steel beneath the parchment:

"This is a formal notice from the Malfoy Legacy Council, chaired by Lucius Abraxas Malfoy, to acknowledge breach of ancestral law via unsanctioned consort. The matter shall be investigated to determine whether external coercion or enchantment has compromised the Malfoy heir.”

Hermione read it twice. Then a third time.

“Coercion?” she whispered, her heart thudding. She could feel the blood rush to her ears, hot and thick. Ginny took the letter gently, scanned it, and swore under her breath.

The next week was a blur of Ministry whispers and strange faces. A council clerk appeared on the doorstep, tight-lipped and wand-registered, asking Hermione for a private audience. They asked invasive questions, softly at first, but then with sharpness beneath the surface.

Did Mr. Malfoy act out of his own volition the night of the incident?

Has he exhibited signs of magical influence?

What potion use was involved prior to conception?

Hermione remained calm through it all. Because she had nothing to hide. But it was clear Lucius wasn’t trying to prove something. He was trying to discredit her. He wanted the Ministry to do what he could no longer do with fists and fear: make Draco doubt himself.

Draco, meanwhile, spiraled.

He didn’t say it aloud, but she saw it. The quiet way he stayed up, rereading ancient laws that made his last name feel like a curse. The stiff way he touched her less, like some part of him was calculating every affection. The nights he stared at the ceiling, eyes wide, hands clenched.

“You’re not a puppet,” she said one night. “He doesn’t own you.”

But Draco looked at her then, so tired, so hollow, and said, “Doesn’t he?”

Lucius Malfoy did not write again. But his shadow moved like a fog. Hermione soon discovered an investigation had been quietly launched into her academic tenure at the Department of Magical Law. Old test records. Public statements. Cases she’d worked. Someone was whispering, Is she even trustworthy?

And then came the second letter, not to her, but to Draco.

“You know the law of bloodbinding, son. You swore fealty to your name when you came of age. If she will not step away, I will pursue legal redress through the Ancestral Tribunal. You are not above this. Neither is she.”

The parchment was scorched at the corner from where Draco burned it, his jaw locked, eyes darker than she’d ever seen.

“He’s trying to erase me,” Draco said, voice low and bitter. “Not just from the family. From myself.”

Hermione touched his hand, grounding him. “Then we don’t let him.”

But deep down, she felt it, too.

This wasn’t just control.

It was war.

And Lucius Malfoy had only just begun.

They gathered around the long table in the Potter kitchen. A stack of parchment in front of Hermione, maps and documents from Harry’s Auror contacts, and Ginny pacing behind them like a storm waiting to break.

“He’s not trying to ruin just Draco,” Hermione said, voice cool but charged. “He’s trying to discredit me. To make it look like I seduced Draco, manipulated him with magic, and corrupted the bloodline.” She paused. “It’s not just disgusting. It’s dangerous.”

Harry nodded grimly. “And he’s getting bolder. There’s Ministry chatter, he’s reached out to a few Pureblood traditionalists. He’s building a case.”

“Let him,” Ginny said, arms crossed. “Let him build whatever twisted little empire he wants. Because we are not staying quiet.”

Hermione didn’t smile, but her shoulders straightened. “We’re going to make this public. On our terms.”

They started with the press.

Ginny still had contacts at The Daily Prophet, Witch Weekly, and a few newer publications that valued truth over scandal. Hermione wrote a carefully worded statement, no defensiveness, no apology. Just clarity. It was framed as a reflection piece: The Ethics of Bloodlines: Why Ancestry Shouldn't Define Our Future. It spoke of power, fear, and the cost of inherited expectations.

But between the lines, it was a warning.

She ended it with a line that silenced the newsroom: “No one owns my body. No one owns my child. And no name, no matter how old or gilded, gives someone the right to decide who deserves love.”

Harry, meanwhile, did the dirty work.

He reached out to his oldest allies in the Ministry, those who still owed him, those who remembered what Lucius Malfoy had done during the war. Quiet investigations were opened. Unspoken protections around Hermione were enforced. Files appeared. Evidence surfaced.

It turned out Lucius had forged more than blood oaths in his time. He’d made illegal deals. Pushed coercive contracts onto younger heirs. The kind of documents the public would care about.

“Start talking,” Harry warned an old contact of Lucius’s. “Or when this goes to trial, you’ll burn with him.”

And people started talking.

Meanwhile, Ginny set up the interviews, controlled, powerful, honest. One with Hermione. One with Draco, surprisingly poised and eloquent. Another featuring Kingsley Shacklebolt, who made a quiet appearance to remind the public that the Ministry does not serve old power, it serves the people.

Lucius’s voice, once thunderous, was beginning to sound like an echo.

And Hermione?

She was rising.

Not as a victim. But as a force.

After all the planning, Hermione sat cross-legged on the rug in front of the fire, laughing breathlessly as Draco poked fun at the Potter family portraits, mimicking Harry stiff smile and Ginny's impossible smirk. Toffy was hovering nearby with tea, twitchy as always but quiet for once.

Draco nudged Hermione with his knee, smirking. “Tell me that’s not the face Ginny makes when someone says Quidditch isn’t a real sport.”

Hermione covered her mouth, giggling. “Stop, you’re awful.”

“I’m right.”

She leaned into him slightly, her laughter just starting to settle, when it happened.

Draco froze.

Not figuratively.

He went still, so suddenly it was like something had gripped him from the inside. His breath caught mid-laugh. His smirk dropped.

“Draco?” Hermione whispered, turning.

His eyes darted to her, wild, afraid.

His hand twitched, reaching for her, 

Then he gasped, a terrible sound, full of pain. He collapsed forward, barely catching himself on one knee, teeth clenched as if he were being dragged by invisible chains. His veins darkened, pulsing violently up the side of his neck.

“Draco!” Hermione knelt beside him, trying to grab him, but he was slipping, fading

And with a deafening CRACK, he was gone.

Hermione's hands hit the floor. Empty.

Silence. Only the fire crackled.

Toffy let out a strangled noise and dropped the tea tray, it shattered.

“No. No, no--”

“Toffy,” Hermione whispered, standing, her voice trembling. “What just happened--what was that?”

Toffy screamed.

It starts like drowning.

Not in water, but in memory.

Draco’s breath catches mid-sentence as the invisible tether yanks his magic inward. He jerks, eyes wide, stumbling back as his knees hit the floor. The world collapses into screaming pressure.

Hermione rushes toward him, but he's already vanishing, ripped from the world like a thread from fabric.

CRACK.

The drawing room of Malfoy Manor greets him like a grave.

The fire is low and cold, a flickering mockery of warmth. Heavy curtains smother the moonlight. The floor beneath him glows faintly, humming with sigils burned in ancient magic, binding runes etched with blood. His blood.

Lucius stands calmly, the silver ceremonial dagger gleaming in hand. His eyes are gleaming too, like a man who has waited too long to pull the last string.

“Blood calls to blood,” he says. “And I was very tired of waiting for you to come to your senses.”

Draco can’t move. He tries, he wants to, but the spell wrapped around him is too tight, like iron chains woven through marrow. Every breath hurts. His magic recoils in submission, rendered small and useless by the ancient rite.

“This is slavery,” he whispers.

“This is inheritance,” Lucius corrects coldly. “You belong to a line. A name. A purpose.”

Draco grits his teeth, rage burning under helplessness. “You’ve twisted everything. You’ve always twisted it. Mother knows it. I know it. You’re just a relic.”

Lucius crouches beside him, like a collector studying a ruined heirloom.

“You mistake sentiment for strength,” he murmurs. “You think she makes you whole. She makes you soft. What happens when she leaves? When the child grows and sees what you truly are?”

Draco tries to lunge. His body doesn't respond.

Lucius doesn’t flinch. He reaches out and presses his thumb to Draco’s brow, just between the eyes. The runes flare.

Pain rips through Draco’s skull like glass.

“You think I don’t know what happened that night?” Lucius hisses. “You failed me. You failed the Dark Lord. You failed the family. And now you think you can rewrite that by breeding with a Mudblood?”

He’s talking about the night Draco chose not to become him.

The night he couldn’t kill Dumbledore.

The night he lowered his wand in the Astronomy Tower.

Lucius knows. He’s always known.

It’s the moment Draco stopped being the heir Lucius wanted and started becoming someone else entirely. 

Draco gasps, his jaw trembling as he shakes his head. “I didn’t choose this--”

“No,” Lucius snaps, “you didn’t. And still, you shame us. She is filth. That child is filth. You dare bring that into my house, into my bloodline--”

“I didn’t bring them here,” Draco spits, voice raw. “You dragged me. Like a coward. Like the pathetic tyrant you are.”

Lucius strikes him.

The sound is sharp, clean, echoing.

Draco reels back, not from the pain, but from the weight behind it. There’s gloating in Lucius’s face. Satisfaction.

“You’ll stay here until this madness ends,” Lucius says. “Until the papers are filed. Until the child is gone. I’ve put up the wards. No apparition. No rescue. You will forget her. You will remember who you are.”

Draco crumples, breath ragged. There’s no fight left, only fury. Silent, helpless fury.

Lucius straightens and walks toward the door.

“You will thank me,” he says.

The door closes.

And Draco lies there, cold, shivering, not from pain, but from the cruelest realization of all:

He’s trapped.

Toffy screamed.

Not a whimper, not a cry.

A full, raw, blood-curdling scream, sharp enough to slice through walls and send shivers down every spine in the house.

He staggered backward, wringing his long ears, eyes bulging in horror as he spun in a panicked circle. “No, no, no--it can’t--he knew--Master said not to--Master knew!”

“Toffy!” Hermione rushed toward him. “Tell me what happened--what was that? Where is he?!”

But the elf was shaking uncontrollably, pacing in jagged, frantic lines, muttering nonsense through ragged breaths. “It’s too old--it’s too old--he promised--blood pulls blood, blood pulls blood--”

A pounding of footsteps thundered down the hallway.

Harry and Ginny burst into the room.

They skidded to a halt at the scene: the shattered teacups, the stunned silence on Hermione’s face, and Toffy, spiraling out of control in the middle of the room, sobbing openly now.

“What the hell happened?” Harry barked.

“He’s gone,” Hermione whispered, barely holding herself together. “Draco’s gone.”

“Gone? What do you mean gone?!”

Toffy wailed, his high-pitched voice ringing through the room as he collapsed to the floor, his small hands clutched to his head. His body trembled with raw fear, and his large eyes filled with unshed tears.

“He pulled the Chain! Master Lucius pulled the Chain!” Toffy’s voice cracked, breaking with sorrow. “He wasn’t supposed to--he wasn’t--he can’t--”

He clutched his chest as if the pain of it was too much to bear. His tiny form shook violently, each breath coming in ragged gasps.

“M-Mistress Hermione… he marked him!” Toffy whispered hoarsely, trembling all over. “When Master Draco was just a little one, in his cradle, with his soft little hands and innocent heart... Master Lucius... he... he placed the mark on him.”

He shuddered violently. “Not just a mark. A bond. A chain. A leash!”

Toffy’s voice cracked as he continued, each word more desperate than the last. “The Chain is ancient. It’s from the oldest bloodlines. A binding, a curse! Not meant for love--oh no, no! Only for power. Only for control. It is... forbidden magic... dark magic!”

He fell silent, shaking uncontrollably. “Now… now Master Lucius has pulled it tight, and Master Draco... he is gone... taken.”

“Toffy!” Ginny stepped forward, grabbed the elf by the shoulders, and slapped him.

A sharp crack.

Toffy blinked. The trembling didn’t stop, but his eyes focused.

Ginny’s voice was firm, low. “You need to tell us exactly what just happened. Right now.”

Toffy’s lips wobbled. His knees buckled. And then, finally, the truth came out in broken sobs.

“It is ancient, Mistress,” Toffy said, voice barely a whisper. “Oldest of magics… from the deep blood, the cruel blood. Passed from father to heir, tied with silence and secrets. Not used in many years--no, no, too dark, too forbidden. But some still keep it. Still use it.”

He wrung his hands, ears drooping low.

“Catenam Sanguinis, the Blood Chain… That is what it’s called. If a father marks his child at birth, old rite, secret mark, he can pull them. From anywhere. At any time. No permission, no wards, no warnings. Just pain and pulling.”

Toffy swallowed hard. “It is blood calling blood. It is chain without key.”

Hermione sat down, knees too weak to hold her.

“It’s a binding,” Toffy whimpered, his voice cracking like brittle wood. “A summoning of the blood, yes, yes! A chain that pulls from the very heart, from the soul. It breaks all wards, all shields, all protections! It does not care. It only takes.” His tiny hands wrung together as his words trembled out, his eyes wide with fear.

“Master Draco… oh, Master Draco, he--he couldn’t fight it,” Toffy gasped, his voice rising with panic. “Not even if he had wanted to, not even if he tried! The Chain... it binds him, it rips him, it tears at the soul! He--he was helpless, Mistress Hermione, no choice, no strength to resist it.”

Toffy looked at her, his face pale, his eyes wild. “It’s not supposed to be used... not allowed--but Master Lucius, he doesn’t care, he never cares! He... he pulled it, and now... now Master Draco is gone.” Toffy crumbled to his knees, the weight of his words heavy in the air. 

“How did Lucius even have that kind of power?” Harry asked, stunned.

Toffy looked up at him through wet lashes.

“Because he’s the last of the old magic, Sir Harry,” Toffy whispered, his voice quivering like a leaf in a storm. “And he--Master Lucius--he marked his son before the world could stop him. Before even the stars could turn against him.”

Hermione whispered, almost to herself, “He was in pain.”

Toffy nodded, his eyes downcast, voice trembling like a soft breeze. “It strikes at the heart first, Mistress. The pain... it begins there.”

Hermione’s heart pounded as she walked around the house, the weight of everything crashing down on her. The walls felt like they were closing in, as if the very air she breathed was thick with the tension and fear of what had just been revealed. Her hands shook, clenching and unclenching at her sides, but she had no real grasp on the situation, no control over anything, especially not over Draco, who was now somewhere under the control of that ancient, dark magic.

The image of Draco, frozen in pain before he disappeared, haunted her. His eyes, wide and filled with that silent desperation, kept flashing in her mind. It was as though she could still feel his pain, her own chest tightening in sympathy with every breath she took.

Her thoughts kept swirling, tangled with rage toward Lucius, guilt over what she couldn’t do, and fear for what Draco might be enduring. How could a father do that to his own son? The question echoed in her mind like an unanswered prayer, only deepening her feelings of helplessness.

She wanted to scream, to throw something, anything, to release the pressure building in her chest. But there was nothing. She couldn’t just be angry. She couldn’t lash out and solve this. Not when Draco’s life, his very freedom, was at stake.

Hermione stumbled into the kitchen, her hands finding the edge of the counter to steady herself. She could feel the weight of the silence pressing in on her, the deafening quiet of a world spinning out of control. The warm, inviting kitchen seemed so far removed from the chaos in her mind. This wasn’t where any of this belonged. This wasn’t how her life was supposed to turn out.

Her thoughts drifted to Ginny and Harry, how they must be feeling, how they were probably just as scared for Draco, for her. But they couldn’t know, not the way she did. They didn’t feel the weight of every single decision Draco had made, every choice that had led him to this point. How could they understand what it felt like to know that someone you cared for was caught in a web of manipulation, bound by magic that was older and more powerful than they could ever fully comprehend?

Hermione’s breath hitched, and she pressed her hand against her chest, trying to calm the rush of emotions that threatened to overwhelm her. The house, which had once felt like a sanctuary, now felt like a cage.

Suddenly, a sound from the hallway made her jump, footsteps, slow and deliberate. She didn’t have to turn around to know who it was. Ginny and Harry, both of them standing in the doorway, their faces strained with worry.

“We were worried about you,” Ginny said softly, stepping closer.

Hermione didn’t say anything. She just shook her head, her eyes filling with tears again. What could she say? How could she explain this kind of pain, this fear, to anyone who hadn’t lived it?

“I don’t know what to do, Ginny,” Hermione whispered, her voice breaking. “He’s... he’s gone. And I don’t know how to save him.”

Harry’s expression softened, and he stepped forward, his presence offering some semblance of comfort. “We’ll figure it out. You’re not alone in this, Hermione.”

But the words didn’t seem to matter. Not right now. Not when she couldn’t even begin to understand how they could fight against something as dark and powerful as the Blood Chain, or how they could undo the damage Lucius had done.

Ginny, sensing Hermione’s turmoil, moved to sit beside her, her hand finding Hermione’s and holding it tightly. “Whatever it takes, Hermione. We’ll help you get him back.”

Hermione nodded, but it was a weak gesture. She wasn’t sure how any of them could help when the battle was so much bigger than any of them. The only thing that felt real to her was the love she had for Draco, the way he’d looked at her before he was torn from her, the way his presence felt like a lifeline. And the fact that she had to fight for that, to fight for him, was the only thing keeping her standing.

But as the weight of the situation pressed in, Hermione realized one thing, she couldn’t do this alone. They would need everything, courage, strategy, and, above all, a plan to fight back against the magic Lucius had forced on Draco.

And she was determined to find that plan, no matter the cost.

Chapter Text

Theo had arrived like a storm in sunglasses.

He threw the door open with the flair of a man expecting chaos and fully intending to add to it. “I’m here!” he announced grandly, arms outstretched like he’d just apparated onto a stage. “Everyone calm down, the favorite has arrived.”

No answer.

That was odd.

Usually, someone groaned. Or hexed him.

He took a few casual steps inside, glancing around. The Potter household was… quiet. Too quiet. It wasn’t just the lack of voices, it was the stillness in the air, like the house itself had forgotten how to breathe.

Theo’s brows pulled together slightly. “Okay,” he muttered. “Creepy silence. Fun. Very murder mystery chic.”

Then he spotted Ginny by the fireplace, arms wrapped tightly around herself like she was holding something in. Her face was pale and pinched, lips pressed into a furious line. Harry stood by the window, back rigid, hands clenched on the sill. And Hermione--

Hermione was on the couch, curled in on herself like a bird with a broken wing. Her eyes were red, rimmed with swollen grief. She didn’t even flinch at the sound of his voice.

Theo’s grin faltered.

“Okay, seriously… what the hell happened?” he asked, slower now. “Where’s Draco?”

Silence stretched. Too long.

Then Harry turned. His voice was steel. “He’s gone.”

Theo’s stomach dropped. “What do you mean ‘gone’?”

“Lucius took him,” Hermione whispered, and Theo finally looked at her, really looked at her.

Her voice was ragged. Raw.

“Toffy said it was a blood ritual,” she added. “Something called the Blood Chain.”

Theo’s heart stopped.

It wasn’t confusion that came next. It wasn’t curiosity.

It was recognition.

His entire body stilled, like something ancient had risen in his chest and taken hold of his breath. “He pulled that?” Theo whispered. “He used the Chain?”

They stared at him. Theo took a stumbling step backward, suddenly pale.

Hermione stood. “Theo… do you know what it is?”

He gave a broken laugh, low and tight, like it had knives in it. “Yeah,” he rasped. “Yeah, I know exactly what it is.”

They pushed him to explain.

And so, he did.

“It was our sixth year,” Theo began, his voice raw, as if he were peeling off old skin. “Before Katie Bell. Before the poisoning. There was this… lull. Draco hadn’t done anything yet. He was supposed to. We all knew he had some task from You-Know-Who, but he hadn’t even started.”

He dragged a hand through his hair.

“He was falling apart. You could see it, like cracks in glass. Always tense, always sick. Blaise noticed first. Said we should get out, Hogsmeade weekend, remember? We’d take a detour. Just… breathe.”

Theo's hands curled into fists.

“We Apparated. And mid-flight, something ripped. Blaise and I crashed hard onto cold stone. Disoriented, bruised… confused. I opened my eyes and, there was blood. Not mine. Not Blaise’s.”

He faltered, a haunted look in his eyes.

“It was everywhere. Pooling under someone... under Draco. He was half-conscious, trembling, blood pouring from his shoulder, his arm--gods, I didn’t even know where it all came from. He’d been splinched.”

Hermione gasped softly.

Theo went on. “We were still stunned when Lucius walked in. He didn’t blink. Didn’t even ask why we were there. Just looked at Draco, his own son, bleeding to death on the marble floor, and said, ‘Coward.’ Like he was disgusted.”

Harry muttered something under his breath.

“He told Draco it was his fault. That if he didn’t carry out the task, Narcissa would be the one to pay. That if he didn’t prove himself worthy, then the bloodline deserved to end. Said a Malfoy who couldn't obey deserved to rot.”

Ginny’s face twisted with revulsion.

“I wanted to run to Draco, check if he was breathing, but Blaise stopped me. And I’m glad he did, because Lucius turned and looked at us like we were insects. He hadn’t even meant for us to land there. He’d hijacked the Apparition. Interrupted it mid-casting to drag Draco back.”

Theo’s voice cracked. “He didn’t care that he could’ve killed him. And when Draco passed out, went completely still, Lucius only then snapped his fingers. Called a house-elf to heal the wounds.”

He sat down, suddenly, as though the memory had stolen the strength from his legs.

“The elf sealed the gashes. Healed the skin. But Draco never woke. Lucius just sent us back to Hogsmeade. As if the whole thing was an inconvenience.”

There was a long silence.

“I thought he was going to die,” Theo whispered. “He lost too much blood. I watched it drain out of him. I remember thinking, this is it. This is where it ends.”

He looked up at them now, eyes brimming with a rage that had never found a home.

“It made me sick that he just sent us back to Hogsmeade, like nothing happened. Draco didn’t wake for hours. He never talked about it. But I swear, something changed in him that day.”

The room felt like it had dropped into ice.

Hermione stood completely still, her arms folded tight around herself, as if physically holding her pieces together. The image Theo painted, Draco broken and bleeding on the floor, called a coward by his own father, wasn’t something she could blink away. It rooted deep inside her, wrapping itself around her ribs.

She'd known Lucius was cruel. She'd suspected the Malfoy legacy came at a cost. But this?

This was savagery disguised as nobility.

Her eyes shimmered. She looked at Theo, voice quiet and shaking.

“He was sixteen.”

Theo nodded, guilt painting lines on his face.

“He was just a boy,” she whispered, mostly to herself. “Just a child.”

She turned away from them, walking a few paces across the room as if searching for air. She felt the pressure rise in her chest, the unbearable pressure of love and helplessness colliding at once.

“He never told me,” she said hoarsely. “After everything we’ve been through. After everything we shared. He still kept that buried.”

Harry stepped closer. “He didn’t tell any of us.”

Hermione pressed the heel of her hand to her eye. “Because he thought it was normal. That this was just... what he deserved.”

Theo’s jaw clenched, but he said nothing.

Then Hermione straightened. Slowly. Like someone gathering themselves not for a conversation, but for war.

Her voice, when she spoke next, had changed.

“We’re not waiting for a rescue,” she said. “We’re not waiting for Lucius to stop. We find him. We get him.”

Harry nodded grimly. “I’ve already sent feelers. Aurors are watching the perimeter of the Manor, but nothing’s slipped in or out.”

“They won’t,” Hermione said. “The Blood Chain... Toffy said it ignores protections. He’s probably in a locked room hidden behind wards that predate the Ministry itself.”

Ginny, who’d been quiet until now, stepped up beside Hermione. “So we don’t go through the Ministry. We go under it.”

Hermione looked at her, and slowly, slowly, she began to think.

“I need a list,” she said. “Of every known magical artifact associated with binding blood or forced summoning. Especially those outlawed before the First War.”

Theo stood. “I’ll go through the old Slytherin texts. If Lucius used the Chain, there might be something in the rituals that can sever it, or at least trace it.”

Harry grabbed his wand. “And I’ll call in an Unspeakable I trust. If there’s a way into the Manor that doesn’t trigger its alarms, they’ll know.”

Hermione stared at the map on the wall. Not a Marauder’s Map, but a topographic enchantment of England, showing ley lines and ancestral homes. Malfoy Manor was just a faint blur at the edge of the paper.

She pointed at it.

“I’m going in.”

“Hermione--” Harry started.

She turned. “He’s mine, Harry. I’m going in. Even if it’s just to bring him back in pieces. I’m not letting Lucius Malfoy take another breath of control over him. Not again.”

Her hands were trembling.

But her voice had never been steadier.

There was no sky in the room. No windows. No time.

Draco lay sprawled across the cold marble floor, breath ragged, limbs twitching weakly as the ritual etched itself deeper into his blood. The magic was ancient, so old it felt like it had bones. It scraped against his nerves like rusted knives.

His veins pulsed an unnatural black, thick shadows writhing just beneath his pale skin. Every so often, the darkness seeped out, liquid magic, tar-thick and smoking, spilling from his pores, staining the floor beneath him. It hissed on contact with the stone.

His eyes, what remained of them, were black. Not shadowed. Not bruised. Black. As if something inside him had snuffed out the light and replaced it with void.

And the thoughts. Gods, the thoughts--

You were never enough.

You let her in just so she could watch you break.

She'll never choose you over them. She pities you.

He tried to move. A hand twitched, fingers spasming. The magic lashed him for it, tore down his spine like whips of fire, forcing him back into stillness. Into silence.

Lucius’s voice echoed through the chamber, dripping with contempt, calm as snowfall.

“You are not dying,” the voice said. “You are being... unmade. Layer by layer. Until all that is left is obedience.”

Draco screamed, but it was silent. No sound passed his lips. The spell had taken that, too.

Somewhere in the dark, chains dragged against the floor. Not real ones, mental. Magical. They coiled around him, heavy, ancient, suffocating. Not even the Death Eaters had touched this kind of magic. It was older. Meaner. Made to break heirs.

The floor pulsed beneath him like a heartbeat.

He saw himself, five years old, learning to hold a wand with trembling fingers while Lucius watched in disappointment. He saw his mother reaching for him as a boy, only to be silenced by a glance from her husband. He saw blood...his, and not just from today.

And he saw Hermione.

Not as she was, but as the magic wanted her to be: looking at him with disgust. With regret.

“You disgust her,” the voice in his head said. “You ruined her life.”

He gasped, his lungs fighting for breath, no air in them, and the magic burrowed deeper, coiling around his ribs.

Still, something inside him whispered: Fight.

But it was so faint.

A flicker against the storm.

“I’m going in.”

“Hermione--” Harry started.

She turned. “He’s mine, Harry. I’m going in. Even if it’s just to bring him back in pieces. I’m not letting Lucius Malfoy take another breath of control over him. Not again.”

Her hands were trembling.

But her voice had never been steadier.

“No, you’re not,” Theo snapped.

Her glare could’ve scorched the floorboards. “He’s my--”

“It’s a death trap right now,” Theo cut in. “That place is steeped in dark magic, and if Lucius invoked the Chain, it’s not just blood binding Draco, it’s every cursed wall of that house. You won’t make it past the gates.”

Harry stepped forward. “She’s not going alone. If she’s going, I’m going with her.”

Theo whirled on him. “Oh great. Perfect. Let’s all march in like Gryffindor idiots and get turned into furniture. That’ll help.”

“Then what do we do?” Hermione demanded. Her voice cracked. “We can’t just wait--”

“We’re not waiting,” Theo said, quieter now. He looked at her, something raw in his expression. “We’re calling Narcissa.”

Hermione froze. “What?”

“She doesn’t know. I swear it. If she did, if she even suspected, Lucius would be dead already.”

Silence fell again, heavy as stone.

Hermione’s fists clenched at her sides. She wanted to reject that. She wanted to scream, Of course she knows. She’s a Malfoy. But something inside her whispered doubt. Narcissa hadn’t struck her as cruel when they’d met. Cold, maybe. Calculating. But not cruel.

“She loves Draco,” Theo added. “In her own twisted, terrifying way. But that love? It’s the only thing more dangerous than Lucius’s hate.”

Harry still looked unconvinced. “Even if that’s true, going through Narcissa could make it worse. Lucius won’t--”

“I’m not asking Lucius,” Theo said grimly. “And I’m not asking you to trust her. I’m asking you to trust me.”

Hermione’s breath trembled. Her heart was tearing itself in two. She didn’t want to sit still. She didn’t want to trust anyone else with this. But she looked at Theo, at the way his cocky mask had shattered, at the fear in his eyes, and something shifted.

“…Fine,” she whispered. “What are you going to do?”

Theo glanced at the fireplace. His jaw set.

“I have one favor left with someone very dangerous,” he said. “I’ll use it.”

Knockturn Alley: Midnight

The air stank of rot and spells that should never be named. Theo kept his hood low, moving fast through shadows, wand tucked into his sleeve. Knockturn had changed since the war, darker, quieter. The kind of quiet that meant something was watching.

He turned down an alley behind a boarded-up shop, stopped at a bricked archway that shimmered like heat. He took a breath.

Then he spoke the name.
Low. Hushed. Like it hurt to say.
“Morwen.”

The bricks melted like wax. A figure stepped out from the veil of shadows, tall, lean, genderless, face covered by a charmed porcelain mask. The eyes behind it glinted gold.

“Theodore Nott,” the voice purred, smooth and disembodied. “Well, well. Didn’t think you’d ever crawl back.”

“I need to get into Malfoy Manor,” Theo said. No pleasantries. No fear, yet.

A pause. Then a slow, distorted laugh. “And here I thought you were here for something difficult.”

“I’m serious,” Theo said tightly. “Lucius activated the Chain. Draco’s trapped. I need a way in before it eats him alive.”

The laughter stopped.

Even Morwen fell quiet at that.

“The Blood Chain?” they said. “You should be running from that house, not toward it.”

Theo’s jaw clenched. “I’m not leaving him.”

The masked head tilted. “Admirable. Stupid. Very Gryffindor of you.”

“I’m still Slytherin,” Theo said coldly. “Which means I know what this’ll cost. So name it.”

Morwen turned, robes whispering along the cobblestones. “There’s a key,” they said. “Not a literal one. A sigil. It opens hidden paths beneath the Manor, built before the wards were layered with blood. I can give you access, but…”

They turned back to him. “You owe me a favor. One binding. One unbreakable. No questions.”

Theo swallowed. That kind of deal wasn’t thrown lightly. That kind of deal wasn’t survivable most times.

But he didn’t flinch.

“Done.”

A silver ribbon of magic snaked from Morwen’s hand, wrapping around Theo’s wrist like a shackle.

“You’ve been warned,” Morwen whispered, too close now. “If the Chain is already feeding… he won’t just be dying. He’ll be becoming something else.”

Theo’s voice was low. Deadly. “Then I’ll get there before that happens.”

Grimmauld Place: Long After Midnight

The room looked like a battleground. Parchment scraps littered the floor. Books, half of them barely legal, were open in precarious towers across every surface. Runes shimmered faintly where she’d drawn diagrams across the table in magical ink, lines twisting with maddening complexity. The candles were burned down to stubs, flickering weakly.

Hermione sat rigid at the desk, hands trembling over an open page. Her lips moved silently, reading the same sentence for the hundredth time. Her eyes were wild. Haunted.

Harry stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame. He hadn’t said anything for a while. Just watched her unravel.

“Hermione,” he said softly.

She didn’t answer.

“You haven’t eaten all day.”

Still nothing.

He stepped inside and laid a gentle hand on her shoulder. She flinched.

“I’m fine,” she murmured, voice thin.

“You’re not.”

Finally, she looked at him, face pale, eyes ringed with red, sweat damp at her temples. “I think I found something,” she whispered, pushing the book toward him. Her fingers traced the passage like it was holy scripture. “The Chain, it feeds by isolating its target. Pain, fear, despair, they’re amplifiers. But if someone willingly enters the link, if they share in it, they become a buffer. A tether. It can disrupt the cycle, weaken the ritual.”

Harry read the line, then looked back up sharply. “You mean someone else can suffer with him.”

Hermione nodded, tears gathering in her lashes. “It wouldn’t break the magic. But it could slow it. Give us time. If Theo fails… it might be our only chance.”

He went quiet. His jaw worked, like he was chewing back a dozen words at once.

“I’m going to do it,” she said. “I can take it.”

“No,” Harry said immediately.

“It’s not your decision--”

“You’re pregnant.”

Hermione froze.

Harry’s voice was steady, but his hands were clenched at his sides. “You’re carrying his child. You said yourself, this magic is parasitic. It’ll take what it wants. Do you really think the Chain will ignore that?”

Her mouth opened, but nothing came out.

“If you link to him and the spell targets you,” he continued, “it might take from the baby. Or worse. You could die. Both of you.”

“I can’t just sit here, Harry!” Her voice cracked. “He’s dying. And we’re all pretending this isn’t happening fast enough to matter.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Harry shot back, eyes flashing. “You think I don’t feel useless standing here, watching you tear yourself apart trying to fix something that’s designed to break people?”

Hermione swallowed hard. “He’s been protecting me this whole time, Harry. Even when he was terrified, even when he didn’t understand what was happening to him, he still tried to keep me safe. And now he’s alone, and I can’t do anything.”

Harry looked at her then, not angry, but devastated.

“And what happens if you’re not enough either?” he said quietly. “What happens if this thing takes you too?”

Silence stretched thick between them.

Hermione looked away, eyes wet. But she didn’t answer. She didn’t have to.

“I’m not going to stop you,” he said. “You’re the smartest person I know. And the bravest.”

She bit her lip, trying not to cry.

“But if you’re going to do this,” he continued, “you’re not doing it alone. We do it right. I’ll help. I’ll stand next to you. But if something goes wrong…” His voice softened. “I won’t lose you too.”

Hermione nodded, silently.

“I mean it,” he said. “Promise me you’ll wait. Until Theo’s back. Until we know more. Until we’re ready.”

“…Okay,” she whispered. “I promise.”

And Harry pulled her into a hug. Just held her. No magic. No war. Just two friends caught in something too big to name.

It was deep into the night when the wards shattered like glass.

Hermione sat bolt upright, heart in her throat. Magic crackled through the walls, sharp and intrusive, and then CRACK someone Apparated straight into the center of the room.

Narcissa Malfoy stood there, perfectly still.

Her presence sucked the warmth from the air.

She was dressed in midnight velvet, cloak draped over one shoulder, hair swept back with not a strand out of place. In her gloved hand, she held a letter, creased, smudged, and clenched so tight the parchment had nearly torn.

She said nothing at first.

She didn’t need to.

Her eyes found Hermione. Cold. Focused. Shining with fury held behind years of pureblood discipline.

Then, slowly, Narcissa extended the letter.

Hermione took it with shaking hands. The handwriting was Theo’s. Rushed. Urgent. The message was clear: Draco was taken. The Chain is active. Lucius is behind it. I’m trying to buy time. Don’t trust anyone but her.

By the time Hermione looked up, Narcissa had crossed the room.

She didn’t speak.

She didn’t ask questions.

She picked up Draco’s scarf from the arm of the chair, soft, dark, and still faintly scented of him. Her fingers ghosted over the fabric, remembering how he’d worn it the day he left the Manor. Then, without a word, she turned to the window, hands laced behind her back like a queen surveying the battlefield she was about to walk into.

When she finally spoke, it was a whisper. Calm. Measured. Terrifying.

“He used the Chain.”

Hermione swallowed. “You didn’t know?”

Narcissa turned just enough for the candlelight to catch her eyes.

“No,” she said.

There was a pause.

Then, quiet as breath: “But he’ll regret it.”

The air twisted as Theo emerged from the dark passage beneath the east wing of Malfoy Manor. The walls pulsed faintly with magic; ancient, hungry magic, like the house itself was exhaling whispers that slithered over his skin.

He swallowed hard and stepped forward, wand gripped tight, every nerve screaming. It wasn’t the usual grandeur of the manor that unsettled him now. It was the stillness. The silence between heartbeats. The way the shadows watched him move.

The corridor curved like a serpent. At the end was a door half-cracked open, heavy with enchantments Theo could feel from meters away. He pressed through it slowly.

Inside, the air was cold and thick like syrup. The light flickered as if uncertain it wanted to exist at all.

And there, at the center of a runed circle scorched into the stone, was Draco.

Barely breathing.

He was slumped against the wall, shirt clinging to his body, skin pale as snow and threaded with black veins that pulsed like poison. His eyes were open but unseeing, irises swallowed in darkness. He muttered incoherently under his breath, words twisted by pain and dark enchantment, syllables leaking like ink from a shattered mind.

Theo nearly fell to his knees.

“Fuck, no… no, no, no.”

He crossed the circle’s edge without thinking, but the magic struck back.

A wall of force flung him across the room like a toy. He hit the ground hard, choking on air as his wand skidded out of reach.

Pain lanced through his ribs, but he forced himself upright, eyes locked on Draco.

The blood runes pulsed again.

That’s when he felt it, deep and terrible.

Not just pain.

Unraveling.

Theo pressed a shaking hand to the runes etched in the floor and understood: Draco’s soul was being pulled apart. Slowly. Methodically. One thread at a time.

There wasn’t much left to save.

Theo clenched his jaw, voice shaking. “Just hold on, mate. Just a little longer. I’m getting you out.”

Even as he said it, he wasn’t sure if it was a promise, or a prayer.

Theo barely had time to catch his breath when the air shifted, sharp, biting, unnatural.

Cold swept through the room like a phantom. The kind of cold that didn’t come from weather, but from power. Ancient. Intentional.

The shadows on the wall twitched, elongated, like they were alive.

Then, 

A voice, low and composed, curled through the silence behind him. “I always knew your loyalty was a liability.”

Theo turned slowly.

Lucius Malfoy stood at the threshold, his wand already drawn, already aimed.

His expression wasn’t angry. It was worse than that.

He looked entertained.

“Children really should stay out of grown men’s affairs,” Lucius said, tone laced with disdain. “But I suppose your father never taught you that. Oh, wait.”

Theo’s fists clenched, but he didn’t move. He couldn't. Not with Draco barely breathing behind him. Not with Lucius standing like a predator in a den of his own making.

“Haven’t you done enough damage for one lifetime?” Theo said, voice tight, sharp with fury. “Or are you just that desperate to matter again?”

Lucius tilted his head slightly. “Not quite.”

Then he flicked his wand.

There was no dramatic build, no drawn-out incantation.

Just a whisper of green.

Sickly, silent, surgical.

It hit Theo square in the chest, harder than air, softer than touch. His body snapped back once, like a string cut too tight.

No scream.

No sound.

He dropped like a marionette with its strings severed.

His head tilted slightly, lips parted.

Still.

Lucius didn’t blink. He simply scoffed at the body like it was dirt.

The hum of dark magic resumed in the background, low and menacing, still pulsing in the air around Draco’s trembling, black-veined form.

And the door closed.

Softly.