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Chapter Text

"RAVENCLAW!"

The Sorting Hat shouted out as the inhabitants of the blue and bronze decorated table stood up and cheered for the newest addition to their house.

The teachers clapped gingerly at the declaration, Professor Flitwick a bit louder than the others. They were seated above the students at their usual longtable, overlooking the newly renovated Great Hall. Hogwarts had been nothing more than a pile of ruins by the end of May, and had even been used as a makeshift hospital for a short time because of the sudden overflow in patients. Over the summer, as the deceased were removed and properly buried, and the last few patients were found beds in volunteering hospitals all over Europe, Hogwarts had emptied out; and by mid-June the new Headmistress was intent on readying Hogwarts for students by the 1st of September.

They had just won the Second Wizarding War –hopefully the last one for many millennia to come– and before any trials or politics, came the matter of education. And so, the newly-minted Headmistress McGonagall set forth an initiative to restore the castle to its former glory –and judging by the star-studded reviews of the castle grounds posted in the Daily Prophet a mere fortnight ago, her success had been proven, indeed.

Hogwarts was positively glowing; with the enchanted roof and the newly oiled staircases, as well as 3 new towers and a clean owlery at long last, it had been readier than ever to house the next generation of wizards.

Many valuable members of staff, as well as insurmountable numbers of students had lost their life on these very grounds, and even though the castle had seemed to forget, their Headmistress surely did not, as new portraits of every single soul fallen now had their own favorite frame placed upon the walls.

Professor Dumbledore had vehemently opposed the mere idea of portraits in the Great Hall, but true to Dumbledore fashion, had asked for his frame to be placed right behind the Great Lectern anyway. He was nowhere to be seen now, probably jumping between other portraits of his in god knows what country. Professor McGonagall took his newly noted absence as a sign to start the introductions at last now that the sorting was done, rising and clinking her glass three times to get everyone’s attention.

"Good evening, students, and welcome to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry!"

A round of applause broke out, loudest from the Gryffindor Table, as expected from her returning students.

"As your Headmistress, I would like to give my greetings to our new first years, and welcome back our old students with open arms. An amazing year of magical education awaits you!”

The barely-there chatter had now completely died down, everyone listening intently as the Headmistress spoke.

"Students, as you were made aware prior to your arrival, for this year and this year only, we have introduced an Eighth Year at Hogwarts, for all wishing to still sit their NEWTs. We have many changes in the curriculum that I personally believe you as the student body will appreciate, as well as some –sadly necessary– staff replacements.”

All of the students were buried into a solemn mood at the mention of the loss, all the while listening to McGonagall. One could hear a pin drop.

"During the war, as I'm aware most of you witnessed firsthand, the castle was wrecked and turned into ruins. 

But over the summer, we managed to restore the castle back to tip top shape."

Hermione, Ron and Harry made sure not to look anywhere other than the professor, because by no doubt, the three of them were being stared at. That seemed to happen these days, and while Ron usually basked in it, even he wasn’t in the mood tonight.

"But after all, it is just a castle.

The loss each and every one of you have suffered is tremendous, and our wounds are still fresh. A castle is nothing compared to the fallen witches and wizards. A castle can be rebuilt, but grief is trickier."

A few sniffles were heard around the Hall, as Ron started picking on the raw skin around his nails again. 

“Mate.” Harry warned, but Ron only flipped him off. Hermione made do by taking both of his hands into hers, and resting her head on his shoulder, effectively stopping him. He kissed the top of her head as a thank you.

"I will not pour salt on our wounds by announcing one by one the names of our losses. I would like instead for us to take a moment of silence for these brave souls and everything that they stood for. It is only thanks to their sacrifices that the light has been able to prevail."

The hall was completely silent for what felt like eternity. The war had taken its toll on everyone, even the aristocrats of the Slytherin table; with most of their parents either awaiting trial or already in Azkaban, if not already dead, murdered at the very hands of Voldemort. 

Professor McGonagall gazed over all of the students, and felt the tears rush to her eyes at the droplets adorning her students’ cheeks.

She spoke up at last, composing herself.

"Thank you all.” A deep breath, and with a soft sigh, Minerva McGonagall was back to usual.

“Well, now that we have our new batch of first years sorted into their houses,"

She smiled politely. The hall had now regained its liveliness, although listening to her all the same.

"I would like all students years 1 through 4 to be escorted to their dorms and get a good night's sleep. Your house Prefects will pass out the class schedules tomorrow at half past 7 in your common rooms."

As Hagrid led the younger years to their dormitories, a hum rose throughout the Hall, the rest of the students wondering what was going on. This had never happened before.

McGonagall cleared her throat and started talking again, not having to silence the hall, as the students were curious enough to quiet down on their own.

"I’m sure you are wondering why I sent the younger students away with Hagrid instead of the House Prefects, and also why you are all still here.

First and foremost, I would like to begin by asking for all of you to be a good influence on them, especially the doubled First Year class. Most of you fought valiantly in the war, at such an age where you should have only been concerned about schoolwork and not the threats of a curse to the back. Still, the war has taught you survival, teamwork, and woven into your minds that Houses do not matter in the face of hard times, and unlikely friendships are oftentimes the strongest bonds we form. I am both incredibly sorry and elated that you’ve received these lessons at such a young age. But now it is time for you to pass it along.”

She smiled widely at all of her students, the elder witch brimming with again-found hope, but even as she did so, her eyes could not help but scan the hall for a head of sleek-blonde hair.

"In summary, I merely ask for all students to not discriminate and to be kind." She continued, trying to be discreet.

Hermione was dissociating, having already had trouble finding it within herself to care about silly little school rivalries or House points. Instead, already lost in her thoughts, the tip of her finger slowly grazed over the horrendous scar on her right forearm. Bellatrix had hexed her wound so that it would never fully heal.

Harry noticed Hermione's gaze having long since drifted and the pad of her thumb tracing her scar slowly. He scooted closer to her and shook her out of the trance she was in, hugging her shortly thereafter.

"Mione, you're ok. It's ok, you're at Hogwarts with us, all of us. Look around you."

She snapped back to reality, nodding her thanks to Harry, and kept listening to McGonagall as if nothing just happened.

"...Especially to those of us whose stories were likely to have been twisted by the press or otherwise."

Professor McGonagall was almost on her tiptoes, openly looking for a glimpse of the blonde Slytherin, but to no avail.

All eyes were on the Slytherin table now, following their Headmistress’ gaze, curious. Hermione was still scratching her scar wildly, waiting for Professor McGonagall to change the subject at once, back into her trance. She was the only person who wasn't looking at the silver and green bannered table but straight ahead, not blinking. Thankfully, Professor McGonagall cleared her throat again and all eyes landed on her.

"Well, I suppose it is now time to appoint the new prefects of each house! Traditionally, we are to elect new Prefects every year, but seeing as we are shorter on students this year, the directory board has decided that it would be fitting to name only a few new students and re-badge some of the previous prefects."

The Great Hall broke into a playful buzz, with people fighting over who would become a prefect and others laughing at the complete idiocy of the competitive spirit. McGonagall let them be for the time being, smiling at the antics of the students, until she finally tapped her wand on the Lectern twice and everybody remembered the Headmistress was about to reveal the names.

"From Hufflepuff House, Hannah Abbot and Ernie McMillan!"

The two Hufflepuffs went up to receive their badges as the black and gold table cheered in delight.

"From Ravenclaw House, Padma Patil and Anthony Goldstein!"

Padma took out her existing Prefect badge and put it on whilst Anthony received one from Professor Flitwick. The Ravenclaws chanted their motto as support.

"From Slytherin, Pansy Parkinson and Blaise Zabini!"

The Slytherins were happy for their own, and Blaise got his own badge from Professor Slughorn while Pansy took out the one she had acquired in her fifth year.

"And lastly, from Gryffindor, Ginny Weasley and Harry Potter!"

The Gryffindors got up to celebrate and patted both of them on the back as they went up to where McGonagall stood. Cheers were heard all around, seeing as Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff were equally as happy.

As the entirety of the Gryffindor table stood up and broke into whistles and claps, making the usual Gryffindor commotion, Hermione Granger was the only one not up on her feet and whistling or clapping. She only watched with distant eyes as the ceremony went on, finally plastering on a smile as her friends came into view, back from receiving their badges. She hugged and congratulated the couple softly. After they sat down together and started chatting away animatedly, without a care for the entirety of the student body and staff watching them, Ron plopped back down next to Hermione and put his arm on her shoulder, pecking her cheek.

"Mione, you're already a prefect. You have been a prefect for 3 years now, it’s not this big of a deal."

"What are you talking about, Ronald?"

She was getting antsy and he could tell he was in trouble. She had used his full name.

"All I'm saying is, not getting the re-badged is completely normal."

"Honestly, Ron, I'm not even sure I want the first one anymore." She uttered. Ron only laughed and pecked her on the cheek gingerly.

"Whatever you say, Mione. But just don’t beat yourself up over it, eh?"

She supposed it was only normal that her boyfriend hadn’t taken her seriously. 

An academically gifted girl all her life, nose always in one book or the other, coming into a new magical world and being top of her class. Everyone had always expected the very most from her.

I wouldn’t have believed myself either.

"Guys, stop bickering and listen to McGonagall. She's announcing the Head students." 

Hermione quickly cleared her head at Seamus’ words, turning towards McGonagall's direction, trying to listen.

"Now that our prefects have been appointed, it is time you know about some changes to the school."

She raised her voice to make sure everybody heard.

"As is tradition, a meeting will be held by the Head Girl and Boy, where they will decide whether the Prefects of this year will have the power to deduct points. The power to award solely remains with the Head Boy and Girl and will not be debated upon. Patrols will be done in two’s every night, with the exception of common rooms, as the two Prefects of a House are the ones solely responsible for their own common rooms. Passwords of other Houses shall not be shared with Prefects, with the exception of Head Boy and Girl, who will have blanket access to any and every nook in Hogwarts.

Lastly, Head Boy and Girl will, as always, have their own 2-person dormitory, complete with a common room.”

McGonagall cleared her throat, not even hiding her long glance at Hermione. 

She was so fucked.

“And, lastly, which I'm positive won't happen, Head Boy and Girl cannot take points off of each other. Professor Flitwick will place charms for extra safety."

Professor McGonagall had told everyone the rules, but there was one detail missing: The names.

As everyone had processed the information and started wondering again who the two may be, the Headmistress quieted them down with a flick of her wand and a wave of her hand.

“Who do you reckon it’ll be, lads?” Dean was now whispering amongst the Gryffindor Seventh and Eighth Years, whereas Seamus was unabashedly collecting bets.

“Seamus…” Harry warned him to not make too much noise, but the boy didn’t care. Ginny only laughed and with a reassuring hand on Harry’s arm,

“Ok Finnigan, I’ll bite. One sickle says Head Boy’s not Harry.” Ginny said with a glint in her eye and an outstretched hand. Seamus gladly shook it. 

“Oh you’re so on, there’s no way the Chosen One isn’t Head Boy.”

"Hey! I could be Head Boy too!" Ron butted into the conversation, prompting a laugh from everyone.

“What? Am I not worthy enough for you lot?”

Hermione took Ron by the sleeve and before he could get wrongly angry, uttered.

"You’re missing 2 credits, even for pre-qualification, Ron.”

“Oh.”

And with that, Ron cleared his throat and announced to the table.

“Alright then, a galleon says my girlfriend is Head Girl!” He bellowed proudly, wrapping an arm around Hermione and gathering all the attention, which in turn made Hermione grimace and squirm.

She’d had enough time in the limelight.

She didn’t want this, no, not at all.

“I don’t think anyone would take that offer up, mate. Hermione’s been guaranteed the position since Third Year.” Neville quipped, the entire table agreeing.

“Oi Head Girl, who do you reckon you’ll be sharing the dorm with, then? Surely you’ve done all the calculations.”

And Hermione had done all the calculations, at the very beginning of Sixth Year, ending up with a misfortunate name, at least for herself. But everything had changed, and even if the Headmistress were to take the traditional calculations into account,

He wasn’t here. And he wouldn’t be.

She shrugged. “I didn’t give it much thought, perhaps Zabini?” 

"A Slytherin?" Ron gaped.

“He has the marks for it, and McGonagall’s been droning about inter-house unity for the past hour.”

“I don’t want you sharing a dorm with that git.” Ron gritted out through his teeth, prompting Hermione to roll her eyes.

“Then let’s hope I’m not the bloody Head Girl, Ronald. Merlin knows I don’t need the extra responsibility.” She hissed, not giving Ron any time to reiterate before Ginny cut in with,

"Hey, listen up, she's announcing the names."

Hermione, without another glance at Ron’s confused face, turned her attention to the Headmistress and waited patiently, praying she wouldn't get picked.

"Students, please applaud for our Head Girl," Professor McGonagall couldn’t keep the smile off her face as she talked.

“The Brightest Witch of Her Age, Hermione Granger!"

Almost everybody in the hall got up and clapped their hands wildly as Hermione was smothered with many hugs and congratulations. Professor McGonagall reached out a hand to her, inviting her to the stage in front of the teachers' table.

Truthfully, she had been expecting it. Everyone had been expecting it, and she supposed she had acted somewhat of an idiot by not talking to Minerva beforehand to withdraw herself from consideration.

And now it was too late.

If she were in the Headmistress’ position, she would choose herself too. She could not blame the elderly woman who now looked at her with too much pride in her eyes. 

It was too late.

The message to the Wizarding World had already been sent by the single announcement: Hermione Granger was back.

Everyone depended on her yet again.

And so, she did the only thing she could do. She plastered a tight smile onto her face, Occluded the thoughts rooting her to her seat, and gingerly got up, accepting the hugs and back pats from her friends all around.

Ron cleared everyone away and escorted her to the very front of the table.

"Go get 'em, babe." He whispered in her ear as he left a quick peck on her cheek, and she was suddenly all alone in a Hall swarming with students.

Occlude.

It took her two deep breaths before her eyes were glazing over again, and she smiled widely at the Headmistress waiting for her on the podium, before finally taking the few steps up to receive the badge she had previously lusted over. 

She didn’t want to be here.

Professor McGonagall had happy tears in her eyes.

She widened her smile.

The woman hugged her tightly.

"Oh, we’re all so very proud of you, Miss Granger."

"Thank you Headmistress."

Soon, the woman had let go and Hermione remained standing there, next to the Headmistress, waiting to hear who Head Boy was, eagerly waiting for this to be over. 

She revisited her old list, and prayed to all the gods out there to not to have to share a dorm with Harry. She briefly wondered if McGonagall would forgo academic achievement in honor of the war heroes she now hosted at her school, but quickly decided against it. Minerva McGonagall had style, and she was all the merrier if she could send a message, but above all, she was an educator. She would not, under any circumstance, bestow Head duty on any student she thought would diminish under the responsibility academically, which meant Ron and Neville would also not be considered.

Maybe she had been right in her uncalled-for educated guess, maybe the Zabini heir would accompany her in her new position.

Chapter Text

When the applause and whistles for Hermione finally died down and the last of her Gryffindors took their seats once again, Professor McGonagall spoke.

"And now, for the Head Boy, Draco Malfoy."

Utter silence washed over the Great Hall, even over the Slytherin Table, lasting a total of 3 seconds before the entire student body broke out into frenzied chatter.

Malfoy's out?

Was he pardoned?

But the Prophet didn't write anything.

How could McGonagall allow him to re-enroll?

His case hasn't even introduced key witnesses yet, there's been no testimonies.

That's just Skeeter's speculation, the trial's been kept highly confidential up to now.

The questions had no end in sight, as all the House tables were talking about the situation in one way or another, but one by one, the small Eighth Year Huddle at the very middle of the Gryffindor Table had subdued their conversations, eyes catching on the newly appointed Head Girl, standing eerily still next to the Headmistress. 

Her screams echoed throughout the entire manor as Bellatrix imprinted her slowly with the one word she knew she couldn't be rid of for the rest of her life. Her crazy cackles filled the entire room and traveled up to the attic, as well as Hermione's uncontrollable sobs. Having Bellatrix's weight on her was crushing, and the slow slicing of her delicate skin was enough to force her tears and sobs, although she had tried for the longest time to not make a sound, to not scare Ron and Harry further.

She could only calm herself by thinking her friends would save her soon.

Meanwhile, Ron was pounding on the walls as he shouted her name over and over again, his bloody knuckles leaving stains against the marble. 

"HERMIONE! HERMIONE!!" He bellowed, as her screams and Bellatrix's maniacal laughter was heard overhead once again, and it was unclear what Bellatrix was saying as the words were drowned out by Ron's constant shouting.

Hermione couldn't hear him as he could. Her pain was enough to silence everything around her. She could faintly make out Draco Malfoy in the back corner, watching her with an expression she couldn't quite decipher, hands glued to his sides, back ramrod straight.

Ron was the first to break the buzzing conversation with a very loud, echoing "What?!"

Harry touched his shoulder in hopes of calming him down, trying to pull him back down into his seat, but it was of no consequence. 

"No! I will not have this! No!"

Poison dripped from Ron’s words as tears built up in his eyes while he avoided looking at Hermione, knowing she would be blindly scratching that god-awful scar.

"Mr. Weasley, take a seat."

"Absolutely not! Professor, you can’t allow him inside the castle, much less make him Head Boy!"

Ron was now fully on his feet, and pushing back any hands aiming to calm him.

"Mate, not here, Hermione won't like this, come on…" Harry tried to say, but Ron, in all his anger, shoved Harry harshly into his seat.

"No! How are you not as pissed as I am, mate?! It's Draco bloody Malfoy, you know exactly what he did, and in his own home, too!"

The hall was silent once again, save for Ron's ringing voice. 

Before Harry could get an answer in, heavy footsteps were heard and the doors of the Great Hall creaked open to reveal the pale blonde who was thought to never be able to step another foot in Hogwarts halls, his once-silver eyes now dullen as they looked nowhere but forward; the Head Boy.

His steps echoed throughout the Great Hall and all of Hogwarts, thanks to boots that looked eerily like those of Death Eaters.

Ron was trembling with anger at one glance at the too-familiar blonde head of hair. Before Malfoy was even fully inside, Ron took fast steps down the middle row, whipping out his wand and pointing it directly at the Slytherin almost instantly. Everyone backed away from the tables, some fifth years even going so far as to hide behind older years, and Harry himself was held back by Ginny, who knew interference would only cause Ron and himself more harm.

"Fuck right off to Azkaban, Malfoy." Ron sneered.

Draco gave the redhead no mind, taking steady steps toward the podium, hands in his pockets.

"Ronald, I urge you to take your seat and let Mister Malfoy through to receive his badge." McGonagall said calmly.

"No." Ron snarled in Malfoy's face. "Take another step and I'll make you wish you were never born, Malfoy."

Draco kept his composure, not even meeting Ron's eyes, changing route and continuing his steps.

"FLIPENDO!" Ron bellowed.

The jinx didn't strike, deflected by a Protection charm.

Draco hadn't even raised his wand.

"Mr. Weasley, that's enough." Professor McGonagall warned him.

"EVERTE STATUM!" He said, breathless.

Draco stumbled back a few steps, but his charms held.

"Duel me, you bloody git!"

Draco left him without an answer, now almost at the podium. Ron was heaving, and in the seconds he took to rest, Harry was trying to steer Ron back to the table, to no luck.

The ginger shrugged Harry off once again, firing curses and hexes one after the other, physically advancing on Draco this time as well. 

No students or faculty stopped him.

By now, Draco's little bubble had almost cracked, but he was only standing in the middle of the hall, wand still not in his hands. 

"Take out your wand and fight me!"

"No." The Slytherin said coldly. 

"You coward! Stupefy!" The sheer force of the spell was enough to break Draco's wards, and he flew all the way to the nearest wall, back and head taking the blow as he fell to the ground.

He made no move to stand up, but Ron was seeing red.

"Confringo!" Heat enveloped Draco, but he could only sit still, dizzy as the flames engulfed him momentarily before extinguishing. Draco's lip had burst and he was bruised thanks to the two strong spells that had him slammed to the wall. 

And yet, he did not defend himself.

If she would only look at him.

Ron had stopped for a second to regain himself, giving Draco a chance to get up cautiously, stumbling to rest his head on the wall, feeling faint. Nevertheless, he was on his feet now, and Hermione was looking down at her feet in despair. Then, as Professor McGonagall now rushed to the Gryffindor table to put a stop the the feral Ron, slowly, her gaze found his eyes, and it was as if all the air in the world had suddenly evaporated. His lungs void of any oxygen, he didn't dare to break the gaze, not sparing a single glance at Harry Potter, now also running up to snatch his best friend's wand on the other side of the hall.

His voice was soft, and it would have been barely heard had the Hall not been silent except for Ron's and his own ragged breathing.

"Granger."

The two syllables awakened memories she had been trying so hard to carefully arrange and stack at the very back of her mind, kept Occluded by an entire fortress, and as her castles shook violently at the single word, her already pale complexion turned a deadly white. Her breath hitched at the intrusion, unable to feel her limbs, in full fight or flight. Draco Malfoy took one more step towards the Gryffindor, which was enough for Ron to slip his wand out of Harry's grasp and yell out,

"Expulso!"

And Draco was ready to be hit with the explosive curse, he really was. But nothing came, for Hermione Granger now stood much taller, having diverted the spell to the concrete floor without a wand, both hands raised instead.

It was only a fleeting moment, though. The magic had taken its toll on her easily. Her knees were clearly shaking as she tried to stand up straight after the strong Protecting charm she cast, and, not even caring about Ron and Harry now fighting over Ron's wand, she turned to a completely and utterly surprised Draco, who had been able to get much closer in the chaos of the Charm.

"You didn’t get executed." She said, smiling through her unshed tears, and Draco chuckled.

"And you didn’t get killed.”

Hermione nodded, scoffing wetly. 

“Suppose I’m as good as dead though.”

Draco only shrugged. “Nothing different here, Granger.” And when Hermione picked up her head, with a questioning look now set in her eyes,

"This Hogwarts stint is only probation, until the end of the trial."

Hermione nodded in understanding, adding herself,

“Mine too. Until the NEWTs, or else it’s declared.”

Draco took a small step closer to the shaking witch, looking her over once more, asking with a crease in his brow,

“It’s not back?”

Hermione answered with a brilliant, teary smile.

"Oh not at all."

And Draco was unable to get out another word before she crumpled to the floor in a heap, catching her just before her knees crashed on the cold stone.

Chapter Text

Harry was in front of the blonde in a blur, shouting Hermione’s name as he swept her up in his arms and without a single glance at Draco, took off for the infirmary, calling out to the Gryffindors for help. McGonagall, torn between keeping Ron constrained and going after her unconscious Head Girl, chose at last to follow close behind Harry, barking orders to end the feast and clear the hall.

As students shuffled out in a shocked hush, the Slytherin table—closest to the doors—emptied quickly, displeased that the fun ended prematurely. 

Before anyone else could approach Draco, now shakily breathing as he stared after the unconscious witch, a strong hand gripped his shoulder and pulled him aside, dragging him to the end of their now-empty table.

“Sit down, for Merlin’s sake,” Blaise muttered, shoving Draco onto the bench.

Pansy Parkinson was on him in seconds, muttering healing spells and swearing under her breath. “Honestly, what the fuck were you thinking, Draco? Why didn’t you deflect? Just look at you! Merlin, your ribs are absolutely shattered...”

Draco remained silent, eyes unfocused.

Blaise seated himself beside him, directing Pansy to cast specific spells to seal the worst of the injuries. Across from them, Theo Nott flopped down without grace, uncorked a silver flask, and held it out towards Draco.

“For the nerves.”

Draco took it wordlessly, downing a generous swig.

Only then did he seem to return to Earth, hissing at the burn.

“Why didn’t you tell us you’d be back?” Blaise asked.

Pansy snorted. “Oh please. He didn’t even tell us he was out of Azkaban. This is so on brand.”

“It was a twenty-four-hour custody hold, Parks.” Draco replied dully.

Pansy rolled her eyes.

“So how in Salazar’s name did you get allowed back here?” Theo asked, brows raised.

“It’s court-mandated,” Draco muttered.

“Why?”

"So they can monitor every move I make.”

Theo scoffed. “You’ve never run from them. What’s the bloody point?”

Draco shrugged. “Still better than house arrest.”

A heavy silence settled until Pansy, voice much softer now, asked, “How’s she doing, Draco? Your mother?”

The blonde clicked his tongue. “Couldn’t even look at me.”

“Draco—” she began.

“Don’t.”

More silence.

“You should really go see Madam Pomfrey,” Blaise said. “Pansy did a decent job, but your ribs are going to burn like a motherfucker if you don't get some Murtlap Essence.”

“No, no infirmary. I’ll brew some tonight if it gets bad.”

Pansy opened her mouth to object, but he was no longer listening. The words died in her throat.Draco reached again for Theo’s flask. Theo passed it without a word. Draco drained it.

“Oi, slow down,” Theo bellowed. “What’s gotten into you?”

Draco gave a humorless chuckle. “A fucking conscience, apparently. I’m as shocked as you are."

---

Draco Malfoy didn’t attend any classes the next day.

He remained in the Head dormitory - a grand space, tucked away in the Armory. His bedroom was wrapped in silver and ivory, with a large study desk and a walk-in closet. The common room was elegant, with a roaring fireplace and plush couches - one crimson, one emerald. The kitchen was modest, with two house elves tending to it. It was more than livable.

It was almost... peaceful.

He hadn’t gathered the courage to go into Hermione’s room. But eventually, curiosity won out, and he peeked from a small crack in the door.

Her space was warm and golden, with silk sheets and rich crimson curtains. A reading nook overlooked the grounds, and her clothes sat in a trunk at the foot of her wardrobe, untouched.

He wondered how she was, but he didn’t dare step foot out into the halls. He wouldn’t.

He could probably survive in the dorm for the rest of the year, anyway. 

Chapter Text

The Hospital Wing smelled like antiseptic and stillness. Sunlight filtered through enchanted windows, pooling golden light on the white-tiled floor. In the far bed, hidden behind a privacy charm, Hermione Granger stirred.

Her first breath was shallow, her second deeper- but heavy, like it hurt to inhale. The world came into focus all at once: the ceiling’s stone arch, the sharp hum of monitoring charms, the muffled voices behind a curtain.

“Is she awake yet?” That was Ron, far too loud, far too close.

“No,” Harry said, quieter. “Madam Pomfrey said to let her rest—”

“She’s been out for the entire night, mate! What if she—”

“I’m up,” Hermione rasped, her voice dry as paper.

The curtain was yanked open too quickly. Ron surged into view, eyes wide with concern and guilt as he immediately sat next to her, kissing the top of her head. “Sweetheart, you scared the life out of us. You collapsed right in the Great Hall! What happened? Are you okay? Did he hex you while you were talking?”

Hermione sat up with effort, her body heavy and aching. “Can you not shout? My head is pounding.”

“Sorry! Sorry, Merlin. I just—” Ron reached out to grab her hand. “You scared me.”

“Well I’m not dying, Ronald.” she muttered, rubbing her temple. “Plus, you didn’t have to start a duel in the middle of the feast.”

Ron flinched. “He was coming towards you.”

Hermione stared at him. “What does that even mean?”

“Malfoy. He was walking right towards you! I thought he might put a curse on you, or try to exploit your situation or something! What was I supposed to do, ‘Mione?!”

“You were supposed to not hex him across the room in front of the entire bloody student body!” she snapped.

Ron paled, then flushed. “I was trying to protect you!”

“From what? A conversation?”

Harry moved closer now, hands raised in silent truce. “Alright, let’s all calm down—”

But Ron wasn’t done. “He’s a Malfoy, for crying out loud! He’s a Death Eater. I don’t care if you and Harry think he’s reformed, the truth of the matter is, he was there, Hermione. He was in that house. And he knows something.”

“Ron—” Hermione made to interject, but to no avail.

“No. Don’t you dare tell me he doesn’t. The way he looked at you…”

Hermione’s patience cracked. “Well that’s only because he was in that house, like you just said, and— Because he—” She stopped herself, chest rising and falling. “You just can’t understand, Ron. You haven’t even tried to understand, the whole summer. I… I won’t have this fight again.”

Ron took a step back. “So you are defending him.”

“What?! That's not what I—”

“After everything he did? You’re still making excuses for him when his family goddamn broke you?”

The words hit like a slap. Harry opened his mouth to intervene, but Hermione’s eyes had already filled.

“Get out,” she whispered.

Ron blinked. “What?”

“Get out!”

“You’re not thinking clearly, ‘Mione—”

“Ron,” Harry said sharply, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Let’s go.”

“But—”

“Now.”

Harry dragged him out, ignoring Ron’s protests. The curtain swayed in their wake.

Hermione turned her face into the pillow, hiding the hot tears that slipped free.

---

It was several minutes before the curtain opened again, quietly this time. Harry stepped through alone.

“I sent him to cool off,” he said gently, not approaching the bed. “He truly didn’t mean to upset you.”

Hermione didn’t answer.

“Look, Hermione, I don’t know what happened to you. At the Manor.” Harry continued. “You never talk about it. And you don’t have to, of course, but…”

Hermione looked up, into his emerald greens. Harry swallowed.

“But considering Malfoy showed up at Grimmauld Place with Dolohov’s corpse, asking for an Unbreakable Vow –solely so we would trust his information, mind you– in exchange for the Order rescuing you... he must’ve done something good. Something right.”

Hermione exhaled slowly, without looking at him. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Okay,” Harry said. Just that. No pressure. No prying.

Silence sat between them, heavy but not uncomfortable. It never was, with Harry

Hermione curled in on herself, facing the wall, one hand clutching the edge of the blanket like a lifeline. Her voice, when it came again, was small.

“Do they know?” she asked, gulping. “About my magic?”

“No. Just the usual suspects.”

Harry took a deep breath.

“I asked Madam Pomfrey a bit about how you were able to cast that Protego last night. She says your core’s not diminished, just… unstable. Really low. She thinks it’s some kind of rebound damage. But it can recover.”

She didn’t respond.

Harry hesitated. “Hermione... We’ll figure it out. Whatever it is. I promise.”

Hermione didn’t answer. She just rolled on her side, closed her eyes—and pretended to sleep, lashes dampening the more she tried not to make a movement or sound.

And Harry didn’t leave her side the rest of the day, shedding a few silent tears himself.

Chapter Text

Days passed in a strange haze, the blur of recovery shifting into the harsh realities of her new life. Hermione had spent the first few days in the Hospital Wing, recovering from her breakdown, but now, she had been officially cleared. The moment her release was granted, she found herself faced with an awkward and uncomfortable truth - she had to move into the Head Dormitories, shared with Draco Malfoy. Spending days -no, months - so close to him, her childhood bully, her savior, her archrival, her lifeline… The mere thought filled her with a mixture of dread and reluctant curiosity.

It had ultimately been her decision, of course. McGonagall had given her the option while still in the Hospital Wing, leaving the choice entirely in her hands. She appreciated it, but it still didn’t make the reality any easier.

Ron, on the other hand, had made his feelings abundantly clear, shouting at the top of his lungs that she absolutely could not be rooming with a Death Eater. Harry had only offered a reluctant nod of agreement directed to Ron, and a conflicted shrug to her right after, leaving her with even more confusion than at the beginning of the conversation.

Hermione had sighed, gathering her courage. "I’ll be fine, Ron," she had said softly. "It’s just a room. A room and a couple of walls between us. I'll manage." The words had felt hollow, but she’d said them with as much conviction as she could muster.

And so, here she was, standing in front of the entrance to the Head Dormitory, heart hammering against her chest. The password, one that she had already been given by McGonagall, came easily to her lips, and the door creaked open with an almost comforting warmth.

The common room was cozy, with soft armchairs and a crackling fire that illuminated the room in a golden glow. Her footsteps echoed softly as she moved further inside, taking in the space with a critical eye. It was far more inviting than she had anticipated. The furniture was tasteful—deep green couches with matching armchairs. There was a large bookshelf filled with textbooks and novels she recognized, and a warm glow from the fire cast dancing shadows across the room. Her own room, tucked behind an archway on the far side of the common room, was equally as charming, if not a little too… serene for her taste. It had black and gold bed linens and soft, maroon curtains that billowed slightly in the gentle breeze from the open window. The room had the unmistakable touch of a Gryffindor Headmistress.

But what caught her attention almost immediately was the bathroom.

It was situated between their rooms, with doors on both sides - hers and Draco’s. She couldn’t help but stare at the space that connected their lives in a way she never would have chosen. She could hardly believe it. The thought of needing to walk through the bathroom to enter his space, to come face to face with him in such an intimate, unavoidable setting… It was too much. Her pulse quickened at the thought.

Thankfully, when she tried to settle into her room that night, Draco was nowhere to be found. No sounds came from the other side of the wall, no echoes of footsteps in the Common Room. He was either asleep, absent, or simply ignoring her - something Hermione silently prayed for. She didn’t need any more awkwardness between them.

But sleep eluded her, anyway. Every time her eyes fluttered closed, she was overwhelmed by the disorienting flood of thoughts and memories. Her mind kept returning to the man who was supposed to be right next door, to the painful images of him and all the Cruciatuses, and the revelations they had brought. But more than that, she kept replaying their interactions; his presence that first night, his eyes, and their timid conversation in the Hall.

The night stretched on, uncomfortable and long, with no sleep to offer any kind of escape.

The next morning, things didn’t get any better. Hermione barely had time to think as she threw on her uniform and rushed down to her first class—Potions, one of the few she could attend without using magic. The day passed in a blur of lectures and notes, but it wasn’t until lunch that the questions started.

“Why haven’t you been in Charms or Transfiguration?” someone asked, one of the younger Gryffindors, looking at Hermione with a puzzled expression. “You’ve missed the last couple of days of classes.”

“I’ve just been catching up,” Hermione replied quickly, forcing a smile. “You know how it is.”

But it wasn’t ‘how it was’. It wasn’t just catching up. She couldn’t attend those classes, not without her magic. She had learned that the hard way during her first and only attempt to rejoin them, McGonagall’s NEWT-level Transfiguration class had had her in tears by the 10 minute mark. She couldn’t focus without her mind constantly being pulled away by the raw, aching reminder of her magic's absence. But she couldn’t say that out loud—not now, not with Ron’s voice still echoing in her ears about how lucky she was to even have a future in the magical world. So instead, she kept up the charade, attending classes like Potions, Herbology, Arithmancy, and Ancient Runes, where she could simply listen and take notes. But even those few classes weren’t exactly uneventful, what with everyone’s unwarranted curiosity.

As she settled into her seat by the back in Ancient Runes, she was struck by the sudden realization that Draco Malfoy was in almost every class with her. He sat at the back, scribbling notes quietly beside Blaise Zabini or Theodore Nott, blending into the shadows of the room, as if he were nothing more than a shadow himself. 

But he was still there. 

Attending eevery single class, diligently.

She couldn’t help but wonder what he was thinking.

Did he feel as isolated as she did?

And where the hell did he sleep?

Days passed, and she never saw Draco in person, besides in the back of every classroom. There were no late-night study sessions or conversations in the Head Dormitory. No casual interactions, not even any awkward silences. It was as though they were strangers again, even though they shared so much now, compared to previous years - this strange, inexplicable connection that neither of them fully understood. 

Not that either of them had tried to, of course.

But the questions from others started to pile up. Why wasn’t Hermione in any of the main classes besides Potions? She was, after all, one of the most talented students to ever attend Hogwarts, wasn’t she? The whispers echoed through the hallways—Lucky you, Hermione. Guaranteed job, after all this, lucky you!—and they made her stomach churn. They didn’t know the truth. None of them did.

---

A week went by, and it was suddenly as if Draco had disappeared completely, vanishing into thin air.

He had stopped attending classes.

Why did he stop attending classes? 

Had they taken him?

She tried to push the questions to the back of her mind, but when she found herself sitting in Ancient Runes again, her eyes scanning the class around her for a blonde mop of hair, she saw him there, sitting quietly, scribbling away. The same Draco Malfoy, the one who had tortured her, had taken Cruciatuses for her, had been with her in the darkest of places, was now sitting silently in the same room as her, not a single soul asking where he had been for the past week.

And still, she hadn’t been able to break the silence, either.

And still, they remained strangers.

Chapter Text

The late afternoon sun filtered through the tall windows of the Headmistress’s office, casting long shadows over the stacks of parchment and hovering quills. The quiet hum of enchanted instruments filled the room, a subtle background to the tension now thickening between its three occupants.

Hermione sat primly in the chair opposite the desk, hands folded in her lap, while Draco, AWOL for the past week, was now standing inches next to her, his posture taut with defiance. McGonagall, calm as ever, adjusted her square spectacles and regarded them both with a measured look.

“For the past few weeks, I’ve taken it upon myself to manage the prefect schedules and meetings,” she began crisply. “I deemed it necessary to allow the student body and the two of you time to adjust. However, the time for adjustment is over.”

Hermione nodded immediately, her voice quiet but clear. “Yes, Professor.”

Draco gave a derisive scoff. He pulled something from the pocket of his robe - the Head Boy badge - and, with a slow and deliberate motion, placed it on McGonagall’s desk. The silver insignia clinked sharply against the wood.

“I didn’t want this in the first place anyway,” he muttered, already turning toward the door.

With a sharp flick of her wand, McGonagall sealed the entrance with a soft click. The handle refused to turn under Draco’s hand. He turned back sharply, glaring, but she was already speaking.

“Then perhaps,” she said, voice low and firm, “it would do you well to remember why I bestowed this task upon you, Mr. Malfoy, and what you stand to gain from it.”

He froze. Just for a second. His expression didn’t change, not entirely, but something behind his eyes shifted. A brief flicker of tension, recognition, maybe guilt. He didn’t argue, didn’t challenge her. Just let out a breath through his nose, heavy and resentful, and turned back around.

He didn’t sit. Arms crossed, jaw tight, he stood silently and waited.

McGonagall inclined her head, seemingly satisfied. “Wonderful. I expect reports on the first prefects meeting of the year tomorrow morning; including attendance sheets, patrol assignments, and a summary of any raised concerns.”

She looked pointedly at them both. “And I expect leadership from the both of you at tonight’s meeting. Ten o’clock. Do not be late.”

“Yes, Professor,” Hermione said again. She glanced sideways at Draco, who merely made a low, noncommittal sound of irritation deep in his throat.

McGonagall gave a small, almost imperceptible sigh and flicked her wand again. The door unlocked with a metallic click.

Draco was gone before Hermione even stood up.

---

Hermione arrived at the Prefects' Room at precisely 9:50, ten minutes early, because of course she did. The large circular room was already abuzz with quiet conversation and casual laughter, the heavy scent of parchment and old wood softened by the warm crackle of the fire in the corner hearth. She spotted Padma and Anthony chatting with Hannah and Ernie, and was mildly surprised to see Pansy and Blaise mingling as well - not just tolerating the Ravenclaws, but actually engaging.

It was almost… normal.

She exchanged light chatter with Padma and gave Anthony a knowing look when he rolled his eyes at something Blaise said. The atmosphere was friendly, calm. Comfortable.

Until it wasn’t.

CRACK.

Draco Malfoy Apparated directly into the center of the room at exactly 10:00 p.m., his sudden appearance triggering a collective jolt — and Ginny, wand already half-raised from her side, fully drew it and pointed it straight at him.

He didn’t flinch.

Just looked down the length of her wand with a dull, unimpressed stare. Then, with a tired roll of his eyes, he turned and strode toward the head of the table, sliding into the designated seat with a theatrical sigh.

“Let’s get this over with,” he said, voice flat.

A moment of awkward hesitation passed before everyone else slowly found their seats. Hermione was the last to sit, casting Draco a brief glance as she lowered herself into the chair beside him.

The room fell utterly silent.

Draco broke it with a dry, almost mocking drawl: “Anyone?”

Blaise cleared his throat, clearly used to translating for his friend. “We need to decide on patrol days and partners.”

Draco motioned vaguely to the table as if to say, Well, go on then. Let’s hurry this along.

Ernie raised a hand slightly. “Traditionally, patrols are done in pairs. Same House.”

“Well, we’d hate to break tradition, wouldn’t we?” Draco muttered under his breath, but he scribbled it down onto the official form in front of him nonetheless.

Another lull in the conversation. Hermione could feel the pressure building in the space between her shoulder blades, and was grateful when Harry finally spoke.

“Ginny and I can take Mondays.”

Draco nodded, conjured a pair of glasses onto his face with a wordless spell, and began to write. The moment looked bizarrely domestic - the steely blond Head Boy in dark robes, glasses perched on his nose, scribbling notes like he wasn’t completely detested by half the room.

Quiet whispers filled the air as each House began deciding amongst themselves.

“Put us down for Wednesdays, mate,” Blaise said lazily.

“Padma and I will take Tuesdays,” added Anthony.

Draco wrote it all down with quick, impatient strokes, finally looking up with practiced indifference as he turned his eyes to the Hufflepuff pair, still whispering between themselves.

At last, Hannah spoke up. “Thursday would be better.”

Draco nodded. “Thursday it is.”

A beat.

“But mate,” Blaise said, frowning, “that leaves you with Friday. Quidditch practice is Tuesdays and Fridays this year.”

Before Draco could answer, Ginny let out a sharp snort. “I’d ask if he’s even allowed his broom first, Zabini.”

Everyone turned.

Blaise’s face twisted into genuine shock as he looked at Draco. “Wait... Are you?”

Draco didn’t respond. Didn’t nod. Didn’t shake his head. Just shrugged like it was someone else's problem.

“I’m fine with Fridays,” he muttered, and wrote his name down beside the final slot.

That’s when Hermione moved, finally snapping out of her daze. She slid the parchment toward herself and neatly wrote her name beside his.

“Patrol’s done in two for a reason,” she said simply, not meeting his eyes.

She scanned the full list. Satisfied. Draco didn’t comment, and didn’t need to. The fact that she was taking charge now seemed to settle him more than anything else.

“There’s also the matter of weekend and Hogsmeade patrols,” Hermione continued.

A collective groan echoed around the table.

“I know, I know. I’m sorry, but it has to be done.”

“What if,” Anthony suggested, “each House just takes care of its own Common Room and floor?”

“That still leaves most of the castle unchecked,” Hermione pointed out gently.

No one looked eager to volunteer. But then, from the end of the table, Hannah raised her hand.

“I usually accompany Madam Pomfrey to Hogsmeade on free weekends anyway. Ernie and I can cover that.”

Hermione smiled warmly. “Thank you, Hannah.”

“That leaves four groups for the weekend nights,” Anthony said. “How about we alternate? Two nights in a row, one weekend per month.”

Murmurs of reluctant agreement. Blaise transfigured some galleons and knuts into makeshift coins, and the room half-laughed, half-groaned as they flipped to decide rotation order.

Hermione and Draco got the first slot. Of course.

And, as it was already Thursday, they now had three patrols in a row.

Wonderful.

Hermione cleared her throat and straightened the parchment. “Now, we need to talk about the Points System.”

A flicker of annoyance crossed Ginny’s face before she said, a little too loudly, “I vote we veto the Head Boy’s point privileges this year. In full.”

Draco didn’t even look up. “I completely agree, Weasley. Less work for me.”

Ginny bristled, clearly incensed by his nonchalance.

Hermione sighed and gently interjected, “I'm afraid it’s an earned right, Ginny. As per the school charter.”

Draco looked over at her, an unreadable expression flickering across his face.

Ginny muttered something unpleasant under her breath, and Draco sneered. She sneered right back. Hermione plowed on, undeterred.

“If we’re past that, then, does the arrangement I proposed sound reasonable to everyone? Head Students award and deduct points from any House, and Prefects only within their own.”

There were brief glances exchanged across the room - nervous, uncertain - but no one looked at the Slytherins with anything close to disgust.

Except Draco, who wasn’t looking at anyone at all.

Hermione took that as a win.

“I think we’ll be just fine with that arrangement, then,” she said, her voice carrying enough confidence for the entire room.

There were a few tired smiles and nods in return.

She quickly jotted the final notes on the parchment, added her initials, and looked up. “Alright. That’s everything. You’re free to go.”

Chairs scraped back. Bags slung over shoulders. Tired chatter resumed. The room began to clear out slowly, and for one brief moment, Hermione thought maybe, just maybe Draco might stay behind.

But it was Pansy who appeared at his side, tugging him up by the sleeve with a small whisper in his ear and a, “Come on, Draco.” afterwards, being met with no resistance from the blonde.

And just like that, he was gone. No word, no glance, no sound.

Hermione waited that night. For a swing of the portrait. For footsteps. For anything.

But she didn’t hear Draco’s door open.

Not once.

Oh.

Chapter Text

The next evening, their patrol began, and everything felt a little too familiar for Hermione’s liking. The awkward tension between her and Draco had settled into a strange, silent routine. She wasn’t sure if she was relieved or frustrated. It was easier this way, wasn’t it? After all, words had a way of complicating things. But there were still some things unsaid between them that hung thick in the air.

At exactly 10 o'clock, Hermione stepped into the common room, her eyes immediately locking on Draco, who stood in the doorway, leaning lazily against the frame. He was still dressed in his school robes, the same as he had been for the past week, and Hermione silently thanked him for it. She hadn’t been in the mood to change either, not wanting to risk feeling out of place or causing her nerves to spiral over something as trivial as a different set of clothes.

Draco pushed open the portrait without a word, and they walked side by side, their footsteps echoing softly in the quiet of the castle. The night was dark, and the chill in the air wrapped around Hermione like a reminder of how long it had been since things felt normal. As they stepped out of the common room, Draco raised his wand, casting a quick Lumos. Hermione watched him for a moment, noticing how effortlessly he cast the spell, before he flicked his wrist again, muttering the incantation for Lumos Maxima.

Thank Merlin she hadn't had to pull out her own wand and attempt a spell she knew would fail.

For a moment, she just focused on the way the light danced around them, how it felt almost like a shared space, an unspoken agreement that this patrol would pass in silence.

They walked the corridors, their steps in sync, but not a word passed between them. The quiet was almost unbearable - the kind of silence that only came when two people had things they weren’t yet ready to confront. Hermione could feel the awkwardness radiating off both of them. In previous years, she had gotten so used to Draco’s biting remarks, his sharp words; that his silence felt more dangerous than any insult he could throw her way.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Hermione broke the silence, her voice quiet but clear.

“Were you really not allowed a broom?” she asked, her gaze fixed ahead of her.

Draco was silent for a long moment, and for a second, Hermione wondered if he had even heard her. But then his voice cut through the quiet.

“People love to make up all sorts of rumors,” he muttered, a hint of bitterness in his tone.

Hermione nodded slightly, unsure whether she should press him further. She wanted to ask more, to understand why he hadn’t joined the Quidditch team this year, but something in the air told her that he wouldn’t answer that question - not yet, anyway.

They continued their patrol in silence, each lost in their own thoughts, until Draco spoke again.

“You’re missing half of your NEWT-level classes,” he said, the words almost a challenge. “Why?”

Hermione tensed, her heart skipping a beat. She knew exactly what he meant. She stopped walking, her mind racing for an answer.

“You know why,” she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper.

Draco halted in his tracks, turning to look at her, his expression one of surprise, mixed with confusion.

“But that day in the Great Hall... you cast the—” he began, his voice trailing off, unable to finish the thought.

“A fluke,” Hermione cut him off, her eyes darting away, unwilling to confront the emotions tied to that moment. It was easier to pretend it had never happened. Easier to bury it under layers of sarcasm and distance.

“Oh,” Draco said, his voice quiet, as though the weight of her words had sunk in.

The silence stretched again, this time heavier than before. They continued walking, but neither of them spoke. The night unfolded around them, the corridors empty, save for their footsteps and the soft hum of the magical light. By the time they reached the entrance to the common room, Hermione was exhausted. It wasn’t the physical strain that got to her, but the mental one—the constant dance around the unsaid words, the constant pulling away.

When Draco finally unlocked the door, Hermione’s relief was palpable. Without a second thought, she stepped inside, eager to escape the tension that still lingered between them. But just as she was about to retreat to her room, she heard a deep, calm voice from behind her.

“Granger.”

She turned around, almost instinctively, her breath catching in her throat.

“I won’t be using the common room in the foreseeable future,” Draco said, his gaze steady, his tone even. “So by all means, it’s yours.”

Before she could protest, before she could even form a response, Draco locked himself in his room, leaving Hermione standing there, a thousand thoughts racing through her mind. What did he mean by that? What was he trying to say?

She didn’t have time to think about it long, though, because her feet carried her to her own room, and she was quickly wrapped in the familiarity of her own space. But the unease lingered, clinging like smoke in the air.

---

The next day passed much like the last. Draco came back at the crack of dawn, and by the time Hermione was in the common room studying that evening, he was already gone. When he finally returned, he gave her nothing more than a brief nod of acknowledgment before retreating to his room. Hermione didn’t think much of it, focusing instead on her studies, but it was clear that the silence between them had become a routine.

The following night, just before patrol, Hermione was again alone in the common room, poring over her notes. She was tired, her mind foggy, but she couldn’t seem to stop. The weight of everything she was juggling - her studies, prefect duties, the awkwardness with Draco - pressed down on her shoulders. It was only when she looked up, distracted, that she noticed something odd: a stack of papers on the desk.

At first, she didn’t understand. The papers were extensive—Charms, Transfiguration, and Defense Against the Dark Arts notes. She frowned, flipping through them, until she reached a page at the bottom of the stack. It was a report, and as she read it, she realized with a shock that the handwriting was Draco’s.

He had given her his notes.

A mixture of confusion and gratitude swelled within her, but she didn’t know how to respond. How was she supposed to thank him for something like this? For offering something so… personal, even if it was only his notes?

That night, she went to bed with that question swirling in her mind, unsure of how to feel about it.

---

The next morning, at dawn, Hermione woke to the sound of a knock on her door, a sound that was all too familiar. She was covered in cold sweat, her mind still tangled in the remnants of a nightmare. She had been screaming, sobbing in her sleep, and the terror lingered even now.

The door burst open before she could say anything, and Ginny rushed in, her eyes wide with concern. She immediately pulled Hermione into a tight embrace, offering comfort without a word, letting Hermione clasp onto her to ground herself. After the initial shockwave was over, 

“Gin, how’d you get in here?” Hermione asked, still trying to catch her breath.

Ginny pulled back slightly, giving her a bewildered look. “The ferret fucking Apparated to the 8th year girls’ dorms and started pounding on the door. He side-Apparated me back here before I could even lift a finger.”

Hermione stared at her, utterly speechless. What on earth had possessed Draco to do that? Why?

She didn’t know what to make of it, but something in the back of her mind whispered that this strange connection between her and Draco was far from over.

Chapter Text

Draco entered the Head dorms, the door creaking softly behind him. He spotted Hermione at the study desk, her nose buried in the notes he'd left her earlier that day. Her brow furrowed in concentration as she flipped through the pages, muttering to herself in soft, almost imperceptible whispers. She didn’t notice him at first, and Draco allowed himself a moment to smile faintly to himself. There was something comforting about watching her like this - so focused, so determined. A part of him longed for a world where things were simpler, where they didn’t carry the weight of their shared secrets and painful pasts.

For now, it was just the two of them in this quiet room, their shared space.

At least, until she noticed.

Then he would run away again.

Coward.

----

The next day was always a mixture of tension and familiarity for Draco. The only class Hermione and Ron still had together was Potions, and today it was the same routine. Draco sat quietly in the back of the classroom, his eyes flickering between Hermione and Ron as they took their places. She sat next to him, as she always did, despite her evident frustration with him. The divide between them, however, was growing ever more noticeable.

Hermione worked through the lesson with a level of precision that made Draco’s lips twitch with admiration. Ron, on the other hand, seemed perpetually distracted, his hands fumbling as Hermione led them through each step of the potion-making process. It was painful to watch, but Draco couldn't help but notice how Hermione shouldered the entire burden of their partnership in silence, doing most of the work while Ron hovered uselessly.

Later that evening, after classes had ended and the corridors were emptying, Ron accompanied Hermione back to the Head dorms. The air was thick with unspoken tension, but Ron seemed blissfully unaware. They spent some time working on homework in the common room. Draco was nowhere to be found, as he had decided to spend the evening in his old common room, much like every other day, taking refuge in the solitude of his thoughts and the occasional jabs of his friends.

When curfew approached, Ron seemed reluctant to leave. "Mione, come on, let me stay. It’s late. You don’t want to be alone." He said it with a tone of finality that only seemed to deepen Hermione’s sense of unease.

Hermione hesitated, the conflict in her chest gnawing at her. She wasn’t ready, but she was too exhausted to argue. “Fine,” she said softly, her voice hollow as she crawled into bed and curled up beneath the covers. She pretended to be fast asleep as Ron went to wash up, the sound of running water filling the otherwise quiet room.

When Ron returned, he slid into bed behind her, pressing his body close to hers. “Thank Merlin you’re Head Girl, Mione. Private chambers and everything…” he murmured, pressing a kiss to her neck.

Hermione’s body stiffened, her breath catching in her throat. Goosebumps prickled along her skin as she willed herself to stay still. She could feel Ron’s lips move from her neck to her ear, and his hand crept onto her hip, fingers brushing over the fabric of her pajamas. It felt wrong. Every instinct screamed at her to stop this, but she was paralyzed, frozen in place by the weight of the moment.

He doesn’t know. Don’t make it weird. 

“Ron,” she whispered, trying to gather her composure, but when he slid his hand further, her pulse quickened in panic.

“Shh, Mione. It’s okay, just us now…” Ron muttered, his breath warm against her skin. He shifted, turning her onto her back and leaning down to kiss her fully on the lips. The kiss was soft at first, almost tender, but it quickly escalated as Ron’s tongue slipped past her lips. Hermione’s heart hammered in her chest as she felt him push further, his hand creeping from her waist to her chest, brushing over the fabric of her top.

Her breath caught in her throat, her heart racing in her chest. Ron made a noise of approval.

“Is this why you made sure I returned to Hogwarts, you minx?” He said lowly, chuckling. She tried to steady herself, to shut it all out, to Occlude it all away. But as Ron started undoing the drawstring on her pajama bottoms, the tears welled up, betraying her. Her hands shook as she sat up abruptly, pushing Ron off of her, albeit a bit harshly.

“You should go,” Hermione’s voice trembled, her eyes wide with fear.

Ron was stunned. He stared at her in disbelief. “What? What the hell, Hermione?” He stood up, scoffing in frustration. “How much longer are you going to string me along, hm?”

Hermione opened her mouth to speak but couldn’t find the words. Her mind was racing, heart pounding in her chest. She hadn’t expected this, not from Ron.

But he doesn’t know.

“Oh, save it for someone else, all I ever did was love you and this is what I get in return? Really?” Ron’s voice was rising now, anger bubbling over.

“Ron,” Hermione tried again, her voice a broken whisper, “Please, that’s… that’s not what this is about.”

“Oh, then what is it about, Hermione? Tell me! I don’t understand. I’ve done everything for you, so tell me why you can’t do this one thing for me!”

“I just don’t want to!” The words escaped her in a frantic rush, her voice shaking. “Isn’t that enough?!”

“No! No, it bloody isn’t! We’ve been together half a year, Hermione. My sister and Harry are already talking about kids and picket fences and school districts and we can’t even have a bloody kiss without you making a huge deal out of it!” His words stung, each one landing with a painful thud in her chest.

“Well, I’m sorry I can’t go at the lightning speed you want me to, Ronald!” she snapped, her anger rising in the face of his accusations.

Ron’s eyes narrowed, and he spat out, “Oh trust me, this isn’t lightning speed. You’re just a bloody prude.”

The insult hit her like a slap, and Hermione felt her breath hitch. Her vision blurred, her hands trembling uncontrollably. She opened her mouth but couldn’t form any words besides,

“Then I’m sorry you had to waste so much of your time on me.”

“Yeah, well, I’m sorry for that too.” Ron spit out, coldly, turning on his heel and slamming the door behind him.

Hermione collapsed onto the floor, curling into herself, her breath ragged as she fought to contain her tears. She held back sobs, her chest tight with the weight of everything she couldn’t say. The silence in the room was suffocating.

A few minutes passed, and she managed to gather herself. She couldn’t stay here, not in the oppressive quiet of the Head dorms. She needed to clear her head. Grabbing her cloak, she slipped out of the room and down the darkened hallways. The castle was eerily quiet at night, and she took solace in that. Her footsteps echoed in the empty corridors, each one a rhythmic thump in her ears.

She eventually made her way to the Quidditch pitch. The fresh night air hit her like a balm, but the peace didn’t last long. As she took a seat in the higher stands, she heard a whoosh - a sound that could have been someone on a broomstick, or simply the wind. She squinted, her wand now in her hand as a precaution, but she could barely see in the dark.

"Who’s there?" she called softly, unsure if it was her mind playing tricks on her.

It wasn’t long before she heard a landing. Hermione’s heart skipped a beat. Reflexively, her wand flashed with a Leg-Locker and Full-Body Bind charm, but the man easily deflected them, his smirk evident in his voice. 

“Granger, that’s two for two.” Draco remarked, clearly impressed, stepping closer with his hands raised in mock surrender.

Hermione sighed, lowering her wand as she leaned back against the cold metal stands. "I suppose you have a habit of bringing it out of me.” she muttered.

Draco sat down next to her, leaving a small gap between them. He lit a cigarette, the flame from his wand igniting the tip. He took a long drag, exhaling slowly as he looked out over the empty pitch.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, though she was half-expecting the answer.

“I missed flying,” Draco replied, his voice slightly distant. 

“What about the broom thing?”

“Rumors were only half-wrong,”

He took another drag of his cigarette before continuing. “I’m allowed a broom, just not my own.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow. “Why not?”

“Seize of all Malfoy assets,” Draco said with a shrug, as though it didn’t faze him. “But this one?” He twirled the broomstick in his hands, admiring it. “Nicked it from Blaise, just for tonight. Lucky git. Captain this year.”

They fell into a comfortable silence, and Hermione couldn’t help but let her guard down just slightly. The night was cool, the wind calm, and for a moment, it almost felt like they could both forget their lives for a while.

Draco’s voice broke the silence. “You’ve never been one to enjoy Quidditch. What brought you here?”

Hermione’s lips pressed into a thin line. She wasn’t ready to talk about it, not yet. Instead, she stood up, wrapping her cloak tighter around her shoulders. “It’s chilly. I’ll head back now.”

Draco followed suit, casting a Lumos with a flick of his wand. “Great, let’s go together. I’ve been flying long enough to get pneumonia.”

They walked back in silence after that, the tension between them palpable. When they arrived at the door to the Head dorms, Hermione broke it.

“Thank you,” she said softly. “For the notes.”

Draco hesitated, then shrugged. “You should really attend classes more often, you know.”

Hermione shook her head. “No one knows about my… condition. Besides, the professors are being lenient for now. At least until…”

She trailed off, and Draco didn’t press. He wanted her to say more, but didn’t push. They were almost inside now, where they would inadvertently separate. Hermione busied herself unlocking the portrait, and when it swung open, she murmured, “Never mind. Good night.” 

And with that, she disappeared into her room, leaving Draco standing in the doorway, lost in thought.

---

The next morning, Hermione didn’t come down to the Great Hall for breakfast. She couldn’t face Ron, not after everything that had happened. Fortunately, they didn’t have Potions that day, so there was no need to interact with him.

Harry, however, was determined to get answers, seeing as one of his best friends was conveniently missing, and the other had stormed the 8th year boys’ dorm late last night, destroying every bed in sight with the mere magic radiating off of him, zapping Neville at the touch.

He found Hermione in the library, but when she outright refused to talk about what happened, he took matters into his own hands. He marched straight to the Head dorms and knocked on the door. 

Draco answered, wand raised, a surprised look on his face. “Potter?”

“I need to talk to you,” Harry said, pushing his way in.

Draco raised an eyebrow but didn’t argue, stepping aside to let Harry in.

Ever the Gryffindor.

“Did Hermione seem off to you last night?” Harry asked after a few moments of tense silence.

Draco shrugged. “That’s not my business, Potter.”

“You live together.”

“The walls are made of stone.”

“Ron has a loud voice,” Harry pressed, not backing down.

Draco sighed, rubbing a hand through his hair. “Look, whatever happened between those two, I wasn’t here to witness it.”

“Liar,” Harry snapped. “Cut the act, Draco.”

Draco stiffened, surprised. “Excuse me?”

“I said liar. I’ve been able to tell whenever you were lying since 5th year.”

Draco was momentarily taken aback, but he kept his composure. “Fine,” he said with a scoff. “I wasn’t here, but she came to the Quidditch stands while I was flying. When I landed to check who it was, she cast two curses at me before I even knew it was her.”

Harry narrowed his eyes. “She used magic?”

Draco nodded.

“And after?”

“I accompanied her back. Like the gentleman I am,” Draco added, bitterness dripping from his words.

“Well, did she say anything about a fight?”

“No, nothing about a fight. Just… nothing.” Draco turned his gaze away, unwilling to reveal too much.

Harry stood, frustration simmering beneath his calm exterior. “Alright. Thanks, I guess.”

Before Harry could leave, Draco spoke up, his voice quieter than usual. “Potter.”

Harry turned around. “What?” 

Draco was unsure if he should mention it, but before his mind could catch up to his mouth, he was already talking.

“How long has she been Occluded?”

Harry blinked, confused. “What? Hermione’s not an Occlumens.”

Draco scoffed. “Yes, she is."

Harry’s eyes narrowed. “How would you know?”

“Takes one to know one,” Draco shrugged, his tone casual, though his eyes were intense.

A heavy silence filled the room, and Draco added, “Prolonged Occlumency is dangerous, Potter, and she’s clearly not a long-time user. She’ll hurt herself.

Don’t leave her alone for too long.”

Harry nodded slowly, a strange mix of emotions playing across his face as he left the room, his thoughts churning. 

Perhaps Draco’s probation was more necessary than he had realized.

How had he not noticed the Occlumency over his best friend's mind, and why was Draco Malfoy, of all people, warning him about it?

Chapter Text

The Room of Requirement had transformed into something warm and low-lit that evening, its usual hum softened into silence, as if the castle itself held its breath. Draco’s boots barely made a sound on the carpeted floor as he turned the corner during another one of their patrols. He hadn’t expected anything but quiet. But the low sound of giggling and a gasp - something feminine, breathless - had his brow furrowing as he crept closer.

And then he saw it.

A Hufflepuff - Maisy Reynolds, he thought to himself - barely dressed, straddling Ron Weasley in a mess of wrinkled robes and flushed skin. Her blouse hung open, skirt hitched high on her thighs as she awkwardly fumbled with his belt. Ron's shirt was clinging to him, damp with sweat. He was clearly mid-act, or had just been. The room reeked of guilt and sex.

Draco sneered. Not because he gave a damn about Weasley’s extracurriculars. But because he knew who this would destroy.

Ron spotted him and smirked, shameless. “Malfoy,” he grunted, as if it were a greeting.

Draco didn’t answer.

He lifted his wand and, with a lazy flick, disarmed Ron wordlessly. The wand flew into his hand like a loyal dog.

A second later, footsteps echoed, and Hermione Granger rounded the corner.

Shit shit shit.

Her eyes locked onto the scene: Ron, disheveled, red-faced. Maisy still half on top of him, trying to scurry off and cover herself. And Ron—guilt all over his face—scrambling to stuff himself back into his trousers.

Hermione froze.

She didn’t speak.

She didn’t cry.

She simply… changed. 

She saw red.

Her eyes clouded over with a terrifying shade of fury, pupils shrinking until there was nothing left but white-hot rage. Her hand was steady as she raised her wand—not toward Maisy, not even toward herself, but directly at Ron.

Ron looked panicked now, stepping forward, hands up. “Mione, it’s not what you think, I swear— just let me explain—”

But the incantation was already past her lips.

“Crucio!”

The red light hit Ron square in the chest.

He dropped like he’d been struck by lightning, howling as his body arched off the floor. Maisy screamed, backing into a wall, frozen in place.

But Hermione’s wand didn’t drop. Her face was twisted, wicked - grinning, almost, like some dark part of her had finally been set free.

And Draco knew, in that instant, this wasn’t just heartbreak. This was trauma, unleashed and unchecked, thanks to the 'loss' of her magic.

Well, there was clearly no loss here.

As Ron moaned in pain, Draco's feet carried him automatically to Maisy, acting without thinking, on pure reflex.

“Obliviate,” he whispered, turning his wand on the Hufflepuff. Her scream cut off mid-breath. Her eyes glazed, and she blinked in confusion.

“Go,” he hissed, pointing to the hallway. “Leave. Now.”

She fled, barefoot, without question.

One down.

Draco turned back just as Hermione’s arm twitched, intensifying the curse. Ron’s voice was a choked mess of sobs and screams.

Draco lunged into action.

“Granger!” he barked, grabbing her wrists. She fought him at first, viciously, screaming something incoherent as her eyes rolled with fury. But he didn’t let go. He held her tighter, grounding her, speaking low and firm.

“Stop. That’s enough. Hermione Granger, look at me. Now.”

His voice cracked on her name, and suddenly, something gave.

Her wand slipped from her fingers, into his hand. Her knees buckled.

Draco caught her. One hand cradled the back of her head as he pulled her close, the other tossing his own wand across the room to stage the scene. One arm circled her gently, his breath hot against her temple.

“Shh,” he whispered, brushing his thumb across her cheekbone. “Let me handle it, Granger. It’s ok. Just stay with me.”

She stared up at him, glassy-eyed and dazed, like a child waking from a nightmare.

“You’re safe,” he murmured, drawing her in closer. “Just stay quiet, alright? Say nothing. I won’t let anything happen to you. I swear it. I swear it.”

But then—pop.

Four Aurors and McGonagall Apparated into the room, wands drawn. The moment shattered.

The first Auror acted fast, summoning Hermione’s wand from Draco’s hand. Aurors 2 and 3 rushed to Ron’s still-twitching body and Hermione, lifting her away gently, though she clung weakly to Draco’s sleeve.

The last one grabbed Draco, casting a cuffing charm before anyone could even get a single word out. He examined the smoking wand in his hand and turned to McGonagall.

“This wand cast the Unforgivable, Headmistress. Do you recognize it?”

McGonagall looked stricken. “It’s—Miss Granger’s—but…”

She faltered. The reality of the situation clicked into place - and shattered again.

The Auror's voice rang out with cold finality.

“Draco Lucius Malfoy, you are hereby under arrest for forced possession and unauthorized use of a witch’s wand, as well as the casting of an Unforgivable Curse on Ronald Bilius Weasley. You have the right to remain silent—”

Hermione stirred. "No!” she cried out, breathless and suddenly panicked. “No, that’s not what happened—he didn’t—he—please—”

But she was already being pulled away.

Draco met her eyes one last time as the Aurors clamped real manacles onto his wrists. No fear showed on his face. Just one final look of gentle resolve.

“It’s alright.” he mouthed.

And he was gone.

Chapter Text

The holding cell was quiet save for the soft hum of magical wards pulsing along the stone walls. Draco Malfoy sat on the far side of the desk, wrists bound in silver-inlaid cuffs that glowed faintly with containment charms. His eyes were hollow, his mouth a straight line. He hadn’t spoken since he was taken in.

When they’d asked if he had an attorney, he said, “No.”

When they’d asked if there was any family to be notified, he said, “None worth the time.”

But Professor McGonagall had been watching him closely for months, and she knew better. She’d made the Floo call herself, bypassing restrictions just enough to reach Narcissa Malfoy - currently under probation in an isolated estate in Southern France. The woman’s face had gone pale at the news. She couldn’t leave the property, much less the country, but she had whispered, “Thank you, Minerva,” through her tears before the connection fizzled out.

Now, McGonagall sat before Draco in the Ministry’s visitor room, across from him at the cold steel desk. She looked at him not with anger, but with quiet disbelief and a desperate concern only a teacher could muster for a student she once doubted but had come to believe in.

"Mr. Malfoy,” she said, voice low but trembling slightly, “what prompted you to use such a Curse?"

Draco didn’t look at her. He simply blinked once, then stared ahead, lips parting just enough to speak.

"Let it be known in front of the law," he said, voice flat, "that I wish for my Lordship of the House of Malfoy to pass onto my mother, Narcissa Black, with everything I own and stand to inherit from my father, Lucius Malfoy, after his execution."

Then there was silence.

Not another word to Professor McGonagall. 

Not another word to the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, all throughout his questioning.

Not even to the Minister himself, after the Head Auror got tired of his silence.

Nothing.

---

Hermione woke slowly, the weight of the Dark Curse pressing against her chest. The Calming Draught lingered like smoke in her limbs. As her eyes fluttered open, she found Harry seated beside her bed in the Hospital Wing, his elbows on his knees, watching her with careful silence.

She sat up too quickly.

"Where is he?" she asked, voice raw, eyes wide, still cloudy.

Harry blinked. "He’s been given Dreamless Sleep. Won’t be up for some time."

Hermione scoffed and swung her legs over the side of the bed, ignoring the world spinning around her. “I could care less how that fucking cheater’s doing, Harry. I meant Malfoy. Where is he?"

Harry’s jaw dropped. “Wait, what? What did you just say? ‘Mione—”

“I said,” she snapped, pushing herself off the bed, “Ron was bloody well cheating on me just an hour ago. That’s what the scene was about, alright? Now, tell me where Draco Malfoy is.”

Harry hesitated.

“Harry!” She screamed.

“Alright alright! He’s at the Ministry.”

“What?!”

“They arrested him.” His voice dropped. 

“He... Hermione, do you not remember what happened?”

Hermione was fuming, boring holes into Harry’s head. She didn’t even have to say anything to get him to continue.

“He cast a Cruciatus on Ron, Mione. With your wand. We think he took it from you since his still has a Trace.”

Hermione froze, heart thudding. 

Her wand. 

Her wand. 

Her hands trembled, and then she stilled.

So that’s what Draco did.

Wordless, she turned and strode from the Hospital Wing, ignoring Harry’s calls after her. Her feet carried her on instinct, straight up to the Headmistress’s office. She knocked—twice, sharply—then pushed open the door without waiting.

Professor McGonagall looked up from behind her desk, startled. “Miss Granger—”

“Professor,” Hermione said, breathless. “Take me to the Ministry. I need to testify.”

Professor McGonagall rose from her chair slowly, her eyes narrowing behind her spectacles. “Miss Granger…”

“I know what I’m saying. I need to go. Tonight.”

There was a long silence, one thick with tension and inevitability. Then McGonagall nodded, tight-lipped. “Very well.”

It was past midnight when a special session of the Wizengamot was convened. The fifth case in Draco Malfoy’s name had been opened. The courtroom buzzed with weariness and curiosity, all of it underscored by the air of finality. This wasn’t a question of innocence anymore, it was about punishment.

It was about finding a scapegoat for the war.

The proceedings began as usual: formalities, case recap, procedural motions. Draco sat still, silent in his chair, right in the middle, as though he’d already accepted the verdict. He didn’t flinch when they announced it was time for testimonials. He would have been more surprised to hear the Weasel wouldn’t testify.

“Miss Hermione Granger,” the Chief Warlock called.

At the sound of her name, Draco's head lifted, eyes nearly popping out of their sockets. His eyes found her instantly, and as he tried to get her to look at him, there was only a quiet, desperate plea in his gaze.

Please don’t say anything.

She didn't spare a glance at him.

“Miss Granger has kindly submitted her memories for review. Bring in the Projecting Pensieve.”

There was a shuffle of movement as the equipment was brought in and prepared. Hermione stepped forward without hesitation. A Mediwitch extracted the silvery thread from her temple and placed it into the Pensieve. The memories spilled forward onto the screen-like veil above the chamber: raw, unfiltered, and frankly, horrifying.

When the memory ended, the courtroom erupted into chaos. Wizards stood to shout questions. Others whispered furiously. Some simply sat, stunned into silence at the sight of their Golden Girl, the Heroine, so easily casting the wretched spell.

Hermione leaned back in her seat, her face pale but unreadable. Two Aurors quietly locked her into the witness stand. She pretended not to see it.

The Chief Warlock banged her gavel, shouting for order until the court settled. After silence was achieved, she announced, her voice ringing clear:

“Draco Malfoy is hereby cleared of all charges pertaining to this case. His probation at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry will continue, as temporarily determined in previous hearings in his trial. This hearing is concluded.”

But no one moved.

No one quite knew what to do with Hermione Granger, because what she had revealed did more than exonerate Draco - it had incriminated her.

At the Minister’s behest, Hermione was escorted into a separate chamber - a small, magically locked room that felt more like a quiet interrogation cell than custody. Inside were Kingsley Shacklebolt, Professor McGonagall, the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, and two Healers.

Kingsley spoke first. “Miss Granger, the memory you shared has been deemed self-incriminating. As such, you will need to be charged with the use of an Unforgivable Curse.”

Hermione nodded once. “I am well aware.”

McGonagall leaned forward, her voice trembling. “My dear girl, you are not a Dark witch. Surely... surely a personal betrayal isn’t reason enough for something so extreme?”

Hermione remained silent.

McGonagall looked helplessly around the room, searching for a lifeline neither law nor reason could provide. She had tried to get Hermione to see reason, but her gaze was set, eyes clouded with finality.

Kingsley tried a gentler route. “Miss Granger, forgive me, but I recall your recent admission to St. Mungo’s, during the summer. You were undergoing treatment for extensive magical depletion, were you not? At that time, you were reportedly unable to cast even a simple Lumos. Is that still the case?”

Hermione’s hazy eyes lifted, calm. “Yes. My magic is still unstable, sir.”

“Which is to mean...?” Kingsley asked carefully.

But McGonagall interjected, “Minister, I’ve seen Miss Granger on patrol. She always carries a Muggle flashlight, do you not, Hermione?”

“I do,” Hermione said. “It’s true, I haven’t been able to cast reliably in class. Or in moments of need, for that matter.”

“And the Cruciatus?” asked Kingsley.

Hermione gave a half shrug. “Willpower, I suppose.”

The Head Auror stepped forward. “Have there been any other incidents where you've cast with success?”

“Yes,” Hermione replied evenly. “On the first day back, I cast a Shield Charm on Malfoy to block hexes from Ron. And about a week ago, I accidentally cast a Leg-Locker and Full Body Bind on a student that snuck up on me after curfew.”

“Any others?”

“Well,” Hermione said, clearing her throat, “Before we left Hogwarts, I transfigured Ronald Weasley’s Dreamless Sleep Potion into a Draught of Living Death. That was... just because.” An unsettling smile tugged at her lips.

McGonagall blinked. She couldn’t believe what she was hearing.

“Thank you, Miss Granger,” Kingsley said, clearing his throat. “We will deliberate.”

They left her alone for nearly twenty minutes. When they returned, the Minister took a seat directly in front of her.

“Miss Granger, you are to accompany the Healers back to St. Mungo’s.”

Hermione straightened. “For what purpose?”

There was a long silence, and McGonagall couldn’t meet her eyes.

Kingsley leaned in, voice low and grave. “For admission into the Janus Thickey Ward. I’m afraid this is the only way to keep you safe.” He leaned closer, now whispering, “Not to mention out of Azkaban.”

Hermione’s lips parted, but she said nothing.

“For how long?” she finally asked.

“That will be determined by your treatment team,” Kingsley replied. “You will undergo magical stabilization, core regulation, and intensive therapy. You are not to be punished for your wrongdoings, Hermione. You’re unwell. Your knowledge of advanced magic, Light and Dark, combined with your volatile core makes you a danger to others. But you are not beyond help. Hopefully, in time, and with a lot of Healing, you will be reintroduced to society as the hero you are.”

Hermione fought the urge to roll her eyes at the small pep talk as she stood slowly and extended her arm toward the nearest Healer. “Well, let’s get to it, then, shall we?”

Without another word, they took her hand and Apparated her directly to the Janus Thickey Ward.

She was admitted under maximum security protocol. Layer after layer of containment wards were placed on the walls, the windows, the floor.

And then, they left her.

Alone.

Chapter Text

Hermione woke to soft white light and a foggy hum behind her eyes. The room was too quiet. Her mind, dulled by potions, floated above the ache in her body. There was a strange sense of peace - manufactured, not earned.

A familiar voice broke through.

“Merlin’s Beard, Hermione, what happened?”

She blinked. Harry.

“Hello, Harry,” she said softly, her voice detached but calm.

He moved closer, eyes wide with something between fear and grief. “What happened to you?”

She gave a faint shrug. “I got my revenge.”

“With a Cruciatus?”

“Yes.”

He said nothing, only sat beside her on the bed and gently took her hand in both of his. He kissed her knuckles like one might a fading star.

“I don’t know how we ever came to this. The three of us…”

“There is no three of us anymore, Harry,” she said, not unkindly. “If you have a problem with that, take it up with Ron.”

“I know,” he muttered. “He’s clearly in the wrong. But, Mione… come on. Maybe he didn’t deserve such a Dark fate.”

She stared up at the ceiling. “He’ll get over it.”

“And you?” His voice cracked a little. “They’ve got you locked up and sedated to the brim. What’s going to happen to you ?”

“I don’t know.” She sighed. “For now, I’m considered a danger to society. So… either I come out of here a Dark Witch, or a Squib. Time will tell.”

The words were too even. Too resigned.

Harry’s grip tightened on her hand. “Don’t say that. We’ll get our Golden Girl back in no time. I know it.”

She smiled faintly, reached out and patted his cheek.

“You’re a good friend, Harry. Thank you.”

He kissed her palm before standing, reluctant to go.

“Do you want anything?”

“Professor McGonagall. I need to talk about school.”

---

She wasn’t expecting another visitor. Not so soon. Not him.

The door slammed open.

Draco Malfoy stormed in, fury written in every line of his body.

“What is your bloody problem, Granger, hm?!” he snapped. “I had a perfect plan, and now look at where we are!”

She blinked slowly. “Malfoy…”

“No, don’t Malfoy me. Why would you do this to yourself?!”

He was pacing like a caged animal, hands flying, voice too loud for a hospital.

“You were fine inside the castle walls. But here? Here, they’ll drown you in Dreamless Sleep until you forget how to cast a fucking Water Charm! And once your magic’s actually down to a thread, they'll let you back out into the Wizarding World as nothing but a goddamn black sheep! Is that what you want?!”

“I want to feel stable again, Malfoy!” she shouted back, dazed but defensive. “I don’t care how that’s achieved. I just want to feel like a normal person, not a ticking time bomb! Plus, St. Mungo's is a Primary Rehabilitation Center, I'm sure their first objective will be to try to restore me to my old capacity, not to…drain me.”

Draco laughed darkly at her words as he paces, running a hand through his hair in frustration,

"Why am I not surprised? Of course Little Miss Perfect doesn't know the way of the world."

He went all the way to her bedside, and leaning down, spat out,

"Granger, this isn't about treatment, it is about politics. And in a world where The Brightest Witch of Her Age has been admitted to St. Mungo's as a 'danger to society' because of her 'erratic magical core' after casting an Unforgivable on her war hero boyfriend, you bet your ass that the Ministry is going to want you permanently incapacitated."

"Kingsley's a good Minister."

"Kingsley is a puppet, and believe it or not, Wizarding Britain is still controlled by different descendants of the same goddamn families! Do you see where that puts you now, Granger? Let's go over it:

You've harmed your own boyfriend for reasons the Daily Prophet does not yet know, had to be on closed trial for Use of an Unforgivable and you were deemed so dangerous to students and faculty around that they locked you up in Sterile Azkaban! And now? Now they’re now planning on feeding you Draught of Peace every fucking morning in your bloody orange juice to keep you out of the loop, and getting you addicted on Dreamless Sleep so those Sopophorus Beans in there can chip away at your magic bit by bit until there's nothing left and you're deemed rehabilitated! Tell me how that's a sound medical plan, and not just political elimination!"

Draco was so out of breath by the time he finished his monologue that he didn't realize the tears pooling in Hermione's eyes, nor did he notice her gaze turning clearer by the moment, the haze dissipating.

The same haze which prompted her to cast the Cruciatus.

At least, not until she said,

“I… cursed Ron?”

Her hands flew to her head, pressing hard at her temples, trying to piece it together.

Draco froze.

What?

“Granger?”

And she broke.

The sobs came violently, from somewhere deep, feral, unprocessed. Draco stood there in a blind panic.

He reached for a glass of water - she spilled it.

He tried grounding her, hands firm on her shoulders - useless.

She was crumbling.

“Hey, Granger, listen, it’s going to be alright,” he tried. “There’s a way out of this. We can—”

“I Crucio’d him, Malfoy!” she screamed. “There is no way out of this!”

And then she collapsed into herself, gasping through full-body sobs.

Draco didn’t move.

Didn’t know how to move.

So he did the only thing he could.

He called for a Healer.

And he left.

Chapter Text

Draco’s words had clearly stuck.

Hermione didn’t touch the Dreamless Sleep that night. Nor did she sip the orange juice waiting innocently by her bedside, still laced with calming draughts. She poured it down the sink.

By morning, the numbness was gone.

And in its place came the gnawing, teeth-clenched edge of clarity.

She was jittery, sleepless, her mind racing with everything she’d done, everything her Occluded haze had made her forget.

Had there been other instances? 

Her hands wouldn’t stop fidgeting with the hem of her blanket. She didn’t speak much to the Healer. Barely touched her breakfast.

Harry visited again that afternoon. The moment he sat down, she said, “I need my books.”

He blinked. “Books?”

“I want to study. I want to get out of here before the end of term.” She ran a hand through her frizzy hair, untamed and thick around her face. “Please, Harry. If I can pass my exams, then - then maybe they’ll let me finish the year.”

He nodded gently. “Alright. I’ll bring them.”

But he didn’t get the chance.

That evening, the door to her room opened again.

Draco Malfoy strode in casually, confidently, as if he belonged there - with a battalion of books, tomes, scrolls, and parchment levitating obediently behind him in rows. They hovered in the air like well-trained soldiers.

Without speaking, he conjured a long table and began setting everything down in neat, meticulous stacks. A few familiar covers gleamed in the lamplight - Advanced Arithmancy, Runes Through the Ages, Magical Theory: Reinforced Concepts. There was even a duplicate of Hogwarts: A History.

Hermione sat stiffly in bed, eyes tracking his every motion.

Draco didn’t look at her until everything was perfectly in place.

“Your books,” he said finally.

Hermione raised an eyebrow, her tone sharp. “Did McGonagall put you up to this?”

“No.” He shrugged, crossing his arms. “But she told me you were still sitting your NEWTs. Thought you might need them.”

He lingered at the doorframe, expecting… something.

Gratitude. Sarcasm. Even another argument, perhaps. But Hermione said nothing.

She just kept fidgeting, thumb rubbing against her palm in agitated circles.

Draco’s eyes narrowed slightly. “You’re anxious.”

“Yeah, well.” She exhaled shakily. “No potions.”

He stilled. The silence between them was instant and weighted, words unsaid hanging like smoke in the air.

She’d listened to him. 

His jaw clenched. For a second, he looked like he might say something else. But instead, he nodded once, curtly.

“Alright, then.”

And he left, the door clicking shut loudly behind him, like punctuation to an unfinished sentence.

Chapter Text

Ron visited the Ward unceremoniously one morning, shoving open the door like he owned the place. Hermione, who had gotten progressively more stable since arriving a week ago - peaceful, even - startled at the sight of that too-familiar mop of orange hair.

And then she snapped.

The curses flew from her bare hands before anyone could say a word. A slicing hex. A blasting charm. Another on the way.

She didn’t even have her wand yet. But it came.

“Accio wand.”

The second it hit her palm, her pupils dilated. Her eyes glazed over again, the same terrifying emptiness as last time, the same spell-heavy madness blooming inside her like poison.

Another curse curled on her tongue—

But her elbows locked. Her vision swam. Her blood pressure nosedived.

She crumpled.

Darkness.

---

When she woke, it felt like someone had dropped her body from a great height. Everything ached - her joints, her throat, even the roots of her hair. Her arms wouldn’t lift. Her chest heaved in shallow, effortful breaths. She turned her head to the Core Controller Charm at the head of her bed and saw the meter at a near-flatline.

A miracle she was even conscious.

The door opened quietly. A Healer walked in briskly, alerted by whatever monitoring spell tracked her vitals.

“Miss Granger,” he said gently, already flicking his wand through a diagnostic scan. “You cast several powerful spells. Darker than what we’ve seen from you before. They drained your core rapidly, and you collapsed from magical exhaustion.”

She blinked slowly. Memories crawled back in fragments. The fury. Her wand. Ron, maybe? It was still so unclear.

She didn’t cry. Didn’t ask for anyone. She only nodded.

Because something was wrong inside her. Something ugly. Every time she was afraid, every time she was overwhelmed, her first instinct was destruction. The most violent magic in her arsenal. She didn’t know why. She didn’t even know what she was protecting herself from anymore. Maybe there was no herself left to protect. Maybe the war had stripped her down to something feral and broken.

Maybe she did deserve sedation.

That night, she asked for Dreamless Sleep.

---

Draco returned the next afternoon.

He hadn’t meant to stay. Just drop off some NEWT-level Arithmancy notes, maybe an annotated History scroll. But the moment he stepped into the room, he saw it.

The haze was back.

It clung to her like fog, dulling her eyes, flattening her face. He knew now what it meant. What it cost her.

He set the books down quietly, then sat beside her bed.

He waited.

It took a long time, but eventually, she spoke.

“Ron tried to visit.” Her voice was quiet, flat. “I lost it again.”

Draco frowned.

He didn’t understand what was happening to her. Why she turned so quickly. Why her magic surged toward ruin instead of reason.

She turned her head to him, weak and clouded, and her voice broke when she spoke again. “Why do you think this is happening? What’s it triggered by? How do I fix it? How do I go back to normal?”

He had no answers. Not for this.

So he did the only thing he knew how to do when faced with something he couldn’t fight.

And Hermione, eyes on the closing door, reminded herself that she should be used to that by now.

But she wasn’t.

Because once, in the thick of war and ruin and fear, he had stayed.

Without fail, he had stayed.

And now, when she needed him to stay more than ever, he left.

---

Draco didn’t slam the door.

He wanted to. Gods, he wanted to. But something about the way she had looked at him - tired and trembling and trying so hard to stay afloat - it gutted him. So he closed the door quietly, as though slamming it might shatter what little strength she was still clinging to.

He walked.

Fast. Down the sterile hallways of St. Mungo’s, ignoring the way his heart was beating too fast, ignoring the burn behind his eyes.

He told himself it’s fine. That she was safe now. That she was in bed, under control, monitored. That nothing he might have said would change the chaos clawing at her from the inside out.

But it was a lie.

He had left because he couldn’t bear the look in her eyes when she said, “Why do you think this is happening?”

Because he didn’t know. And that terrified him.

He had always known what to do in the war. How to play the game, how to lie, how to survive. Even when he was falling apart inside, he wore a mask. But now, here, in front of her, with no mask to hide behind, he was useless. He only knew how to destroy things, not how to fix them.

And this thing inside Hermione, this wild, wounded, furious magic - it was tearing her apart, and he didn’t know why.

And worse - he recognized it.

Because he'd seen it before. In himself.

That moment in sixth year when he stood over the sink, hands bloodied from punching the porcelain. The way his wand always itched in his hand, drawn to destruction. The nightmares that made him wake up gasping, his magic short-circuiting the lights in his room. The desperate, feral need to control something when the world spiraled out of grasp.

He’d seen it.

And he had survived it by burying it.

But Hermione couldn’t bury anything. Not her memories, not her pain, not her power.

And he had no idea how to help her.

So he left.

Because staying would mean admitting he was just as scared.

And Draco Malfoy didn’t know how to do that. Not yet.

Chapter Text

It was late afternoon when Harry arrived, cautious as ever. He stepped into Hermione’s room at St. Mungo’s, the faint shimmer of a protective charm barely brushing the walls like a whisper of blue light.

“Hey,” he greeted, eyes scanning the cramped room, half-expecting Hermione to be buried in some heavy tome or rearranging her potion vials for the twentieth time.

She looked up from Advanced Arithmancy for the Practicing Witch, flipping a page with deliberate slowness, as if the book itself might bite. “Hey Harry."

“Thought you might want a break,” he said, stepping closer with a smile. “Ravenclaw vs. Gryffindor tonight. Night game. I’ve got McGonagall’s permission, you’re officially on leave for the evening.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow, mildly skeptical. “Quidditch? Since when do you care about Quidditch again?”

Harry shrugged. “Since I found out it’s the best excuse to avoid long meetings with the Wizengamot.” He grinned.

“And you thought a Quidditch game would interest me because…?”

 “Oh come on Hermione, what would we do without our professional screamer?” Harry pouted.

She smirked, closing the book with a soft thud. “I doubt my yelling is the reason you win.”

“Oh, it definitely is. Don’t let anyone fool you.” He leaned in conspiratorially. “You’re basically our secret weapon.”

She chuckled, the sound fragile but real. “Well, then, I guess I owe you a full halftime commentary too.”

“Deal,” Harry said, his eyes warm. “But if you fall asleep in the stands, I’m dragging you back here myself.”

She nodded, a flicker of something hopeful crossing her face. “Okay. Just… don’t let me regret it.”

He didn't.

---

By nightfall, the stadium was roaring with cheers under the bewitched, star-drenched sky. The Ravenclaws glowed in silvery blue, Gryffindors burning scarlet and gold. To avoid Ron, Hermione quietly settled among the Ravenclaws, flanked by Luna and Padma. Both were more than happy to distract her with idle chatter about broom design and wingbeat patterns.

And for a moment, it worked.

Hermione found herself watching the game with genuine interest. The Ravenclaws flew with strategic elegance, but it was Ginny who caught her eye—her movements sharp, instinctive, fierce. Ginny was art in motion.

Then, from the corner of her eye, she caught a flash of glossy dark hair and a familiar pout, two rows up. 

Maisy Reynolds.

Her blood froze, then boiled.

Everything inside her recoiled. The world narrowed to a pinpoint of rage. Her nails dug into her palms. Her wand arm twitched. The haze came fast—violent, red, heavy. The urge to destroy was unbearable.

No.

"I need—" she whispered, already stumbling down the steps.

Luna called after her, concerned, but Hermione was already moving, clutching her chest, each breath tighter than the last. She fled the grandstands, half-blind with fury and nausea, weaving through the darkness toward the Armory. Her breathing hitched. Her legs buckled as she reached the threshold. She slammed into a suit of armor, sending it crashing to the ground with a clang that echoed like a gunshot.

She dropped to her knees, wheezing, eyes wild.

“Granger?!”

She spun around, wand already raised—an automatic, defensive reaction from years of war and survival.

Draco stood in the hallway, halfway through his nightly patrol, frozen for a moment as he took in her trembling form, the suit of armor toppled behind her with a crash that echoed like a gunshot, and the haunted look in her eyes,.

“Granger, what’s going on?” His voice was low but urgent, like a lifeline. “What happened?”

Her eyes didn’t focus on him at first - too much chaos inside. She was barely holding herself together, breath jagged and uneven. Her wand hand shook, sparks flickering erratically, magic raw and volatile.

Draco took a cautious step forward, then another, slow and careful, keeping his voice calm, steady. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”

She swallowed hard, like she wanted to believe him but couldn’t quite reach it yet. Her fingers twitched around the wand’s handle.

Then, without any fight or defense, Draco sank down onto the cold stone floor beside her, meeting her eyes with a softness she hadn’t expected. His presence was solid, grounding.

“What do you need, Granger?” he said gently, brushing her hair back as he did so, an unspoken promise to be there, to help. “Talk to me.”

The haze that had clouded her mind wavered like a flickering candle flame every time his fingers grazed her skin, and as his hand lingered slightly, right over her ear as he tucked a stray strand back; her wand trembled, then fell.

Her body gave a shuddering breath, and then, as if the dam finally broke, her shoulders shook with silent, desperate sobs. She clutched at her chest, like trying to keep herself from falling apart completely.

Draco reached out carefully, placing a hand over hers, warm and steady. “It’s okay,” he whispered. “You’re not alone. You didn’t hurt anyone.”

The sobs turned into ragged breaths, her nails digging into his skin as if holding on to something real was the only thing keeping her tethered.

“Fuck,” Draco muttered, checking his watch with a sharp breath. “Apparition wards are closed for tonight… Shit, um, Granger, do you want me to take you to the Hospital Wing? Yeah?”

She shook her head violently, nearly choking on a sob. “N-no. J-just... somewhere p-private. Please, I don’t want h-him to see—”

He didn’t ask who. He knew.

Without hesitation, Draco scooped her into his arms, bridal style, careful but firm. She clung to him tightly, trembling, the aftershocks of her panic still rippling through her like waves.

He moved swiftly down the hall, careful not to jostle her more than he had to.

He carried her inside their Common Room and gently laid her on her bed. But the moment the blankets brushed her skin, she cried out, “No, no no no no, not here, please not here!”

He didn’t hesitate. Wordlessly, he picked her up again and moved to his own room, setting her down like she was fragile glass.

She didn’t protest this time. She only curled inward, lost and raw.

He went for water, tea, and a cold towel, coming back to find her sitting upright, nails digging into the pillow like it was the only thing holding her together. 

It probably was, considering feathers and cotton were flying all over the room.

He crouched before her, voice soft but steady. “Hey. Tell me what you need.”

She bit her lip, eyes wide and terrified. “I… I don’t know, I j-just—” Her voice broke like a splinter.

He hesitated, then gently pried her hands from the destroyed pillows and placed them on his shoulders.

“Use me,” he said quietly. “Get it all out. I don’t care if it hurts. Dig as deep as you need.”

Her breath hitched, and then, she clutched at him like he was the only thing real in the world, burying her face in his neck, silent screams and tears shaking her body. Her nails tore at his shirt and skin, and still, he didn’t flinch.

Slowly, almost instinctively, Draco slid one hand from her trembling arms down to her wrist, fingers curling lightly around her skin. The warmth of his touch, solid and grounding, seeped through the chaos, like a calm current beneath a storm.

For a fleeting moment, their skin pressed together, and something unspoken passed between them. The suffocating haze clouding Hermione’s mind thinned just enough to let in a sliver of clarity, a breath of calm.

The raw panic that had gripped her loosened, as if tethered by the steady pulse of Draco’s touch. She inhaled shakily, the weight in her chest easing just enough to let her breathe again.

When the blood seeped through his shirt from where her hand stayed clasped on his shoulder, he still stayed, unwavering.

Slowly, the sobs quieted and her grip loosened. She slumped against him, utterly spent. Her head dropped onto the same shoulder she’d just wounded. Draco winced but stayed still, wrapping his arm around her like a shield.

They sat like that for a long time—two broken souls somehow holding each other steady, until Hermione’s breathing changed and she had passed out from the exhaustion.

---

It was past midnight when the Protean Charm'ed coin in her pocket flared, the metal searing hot against her leg. She didn’t feel it, but he saw the burn of the bronze light up in the dark.

He flicked his wrist, and the door opened to reveal Harry.

“Hermione!” Harry’s voice was loud, alarmed - until he saw her. Asleep, breathing uneven but calmer, nestled against Draco’s bloodied shoulder.

Harry’s jaw slackened. “Oh.”

Draco raised a finger to his lips. “Attack,” he whispered. “Found her in the Armory.”

A beat.

“No… murderous tendencies?” Harry asked.

“At the start.”

“And you’re unharmed?”

Draco tilted his head. “More or less.”

“…Interesting.”

“I thought so too.”

Harry stepped inside, brow furrowed. “How’d you break through to her?”

“I don’t know. I wasn’t exactly trying.”

“Interesting,” Harry echoed, now leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed. “And it turned into just… panic, after?”

Draco nodded. “Yeah. Bloody destroyed my arm with those nails though.”

Harry’s gaze dropped to the crimson patch spreading on Draco’s white shirt. Without acknowledging it, he cleared his throat and said,

“St. Mungo’s wants her by midnight.”

Draco checked the clock. 11:10 PM.

“Wards are closed,” he muttered. “We need to go see Professor McGonagall first.”

“No need, boys,” came a calm voice. “I’m right here.”

The Headmistress stood in the doorway, expression unreadable.

“Sorry to eavesdrop, gentlemen, but Miss Granger is solely my responsibility tonight and I do not intend for any more mishaps to take place. Now, Mr. Malfoy,” she said, eyes narrowing slightly, “did you just say you stopped one of Miss Granger’s rampages… without being harmed?”

“I wasn’t cursed, if that’s what you mean.”

“How curious,” she murmured, drifting into thought. Then, with a decisive snap, she flicked her wand and opened the wards. “Escort her to St. Mungo’s before midnight, Mr. Malfoy.”

And with a pop, she was gone.

The two boys stood in silence again.

Harry cleared his throat. “Malfoy, if there’s a chance you’re… somehow immune to her ministrations…”

“I know,” Draco said. “I’ll… look into it.”

Harry nodded once.

“Get her back safe, alright?” “ And he took off as well.

Draco gently shook Hermione awake, whispering her name. She stirred, confused and heavy-lidded, but clung to him again when he tried to move.

He sighed. The night had truly taken its toll on her.

“Alright, then. Come on.”

He Apparated them to St. Mungo’s, landing softly in the ward she’d come to know all too well. When he tried to place her in bed, she grabbed his sleeve again, half-dreaming.

“Stay.”

He hesitated. But her eyes, now cracked open, were almost pleading as she pouted,

“Please.”

And so, with a deep sigh, he kicked off his shoes and slid under the blanket beside her, still clothed, keeping just enough space between them.

She relaxed again, her fingers curling around his wrist like a tether.

And slowly, she fell into a deep, dreamless slumber.

---

The next morning, light filtered in through the enchanted windows. Hermione woke up alone.

She reached across the bed- nothing. No warmth, no trace.

For a moment, she wondered if it had all been a dream. The panic, the screaming, the silence.

But then she noticed crimson stains on the pillow beside her.

Not a dream, then.

Not at all.

Chapter Text

Hermione didn't expect him to come the very next day. Not really. After what happened in the Armory, after she'd fallen apart in his arms and woke up alone in the sterile quiet of her St. Mungo’s room, part of her assumed - feared - that he might decide it was too much. That she was too much.

But when Draco Malfoy did show up again, it wasn’t in any kind of grand fashion. No door slam, no smug remark, not even his usual sardonic lift of an eyebrow.

Instead, he just… plopped.

Onto the far end of the worn grey couch across from her. Without so much as a greeting, he conjured a floating desk with a flick of his wand, dropped a thick Potions tome onto it, and immediately began scribbling in a brisk, angular hand.

Hermione stared at him over the rim of her own book.

“Hello to you too,” she muttered dryly.

He didn’t respond - unless a slight smirk and the shift of his quill across parchment counted.

They didn’t talk much that day. Or the next.

Three days passed in a peculiar sort of silence - not awkward, exactly. More like... coexistent. The hum of parchment rustling, the occasional frustrated sigh from Hermione when a spell diagram didn't make sense, or the soft clink of Draco stirring sugar into tea. Once, their knees bumped under the coffee table. Neither apologized.

On the third day, though, the stillness broke.

Hermione glanced up from her notes, brow furrowed. “Malfoy?”

“Hm?” He looked up from over his glasses, perched low on his nose.

“In your notes from yesterday’s lecture—” she reached for the scrap of parchment he’d left beside his bag, “—you wrote something about fluxweed reacting differently in dark potions if brewed in lunar cycles. What does that mean?”

He looked up, surprised, then set his quill down. “It’s a fringe theory. Professor Sharp hates it, but I think he’s a dunce. Essentially, there's evidence the potency of fluxweed changes depending on whether it was harvested during a waxing or waning moon. For dark potions, waning yields a more stable base. Lunar saturation alters the magical conductivity.”

Hermione blinked.

Then blinked again.

“That’s… brilliant,” she said, quietly impressed.

He shrugged. “It’s just chemistry. Magic’s cousin, right?”

Bit by bit, the distance between them began to shrink. Not physically, since Draco always took the far end of the couch, but in other ways. That third day, he passed her a piece of chocolate without comment when he noticed her sighing over her Arithmancy problems. The fourth, she refilled his tea when he was too absorbed in footnotes to notice his cup was empty.

Each day, she felt her magic returning - not all at once, but gradually. As if her magical reserves were a basin filling drop by drop. She could feel it now: the buzzing hum under her skin when she concentrated, the whisper of a spell on her tongue. But the moment she tried to channel it outward, to move it through her wand - nothing. A sputter. A dead end.

The problem wasn’t the reserve, as the Minister had pointed out weeks ago, during her trial. She had the magic, in fact, the Medwitches had told her she had a bigger reserve than most witches of her age.

It was the output.

By the fifth day, McGonagall herself came to check in. She arrived in her polished velvet robes, sharp eyes taking in the scene: Draco bent over his notes, Hermione wrapped in a blanket, wand on the side table untouched. After pleasantries,

“Well,” the professor said briskly, “Let’s see what we’re working with, shall we?”

Draco sat back, watching silently as the Headmistress handed Hermione her wand.

“I’d like you to try a few basic charms. Nothing taxing. Lumos, to begin with.”

Hermione took a breath, focused, and whispered, “Lumos.”

Her wand stayed dark.

McGonagall’s expression didn’t shift, but Hermione’s stomach dropped. After a few more tries,

“Alright,” said the professor quietly, as she exchanged knowing glances with the blonde man. “Time for something… unconventional.”

Hermione looked up, confused—only to gasp and stumble backward, nearly knocking over her tea.

Because in the space of a blink, Minerva McGonagall wasn’t there anymore.

Bellatrix Lestrange was.

Same wild eyes, same cruel smirk, same disheveled curls and the tilt of madness in her chin. The very scent of blood and old perfume seemed to hang in the air.

Hermione’s breath hitched. Her pulse stuttered.

And then—

The room shook with magic.

With no wand, no words, no conscious thought, Hermione raised her hand, and McGonagall's Bellatrix-form began to levitate, rising into the air like a marionette yanked by invisible strings.

Her eyes were clouded, glassy and far away. She didn’t even seem to see Draco as he stepped between them.

“Granger,” he said sharply, “Granger, look at me - look at me!”

Her fingers twitched, just once, dangerously.

Draco didn't hesitate. He surged forward and cupped both sides of her face, forcing her to meet his eyes.

“Granger, it's not real. She's not real. That’s not Bellatrix. That’s Professor McGonagall. You’re in St. Mungo’s, not the Manor. The war is over. Bella’s dead, Granger. It’s over.”

Something in his voice, the steadiness despite the storm of magic around them, pierced the fog. Her lip trembled. The levitating body dropped to the floor with a thud, and Hermione gasped, breath shuddering in her chest.

“I can’t—I can’t—” she stammered, and her legs gave out.

Draco caught her before she could hit the ground.

He held her gently as her body started to shake. Tears filled her eyes, brimming and falling in hot, silent streams.

“I-it’s not real,” she whispered. “But it feels real, oh God, it feels—”

“I know,” he said, voice low.“I know. Just breathe.”

McGonagall took a step forward, and Hermione’s entire body flinched. Her head disappeared into Draco’s neck, her fists curling around his robes, knuckles white.

“Make it stop, make it stop,” she whispered over and over. “Please, I don’t care if it’s Minerva, make it stop…”

With a flick of her wand and a quiet sigh, McGonagall returned to herself.

“Back to normal, see?” Draco murmured, one hand awkwardly patting Hermione’s back. “You can look up now. It’s just the professor.”

But Hermione didn’t move. She clung to him, crying until her sobs slowed, hiccuped, and eventually ceased. Her face, pale and tear-streaked, dropped against his collarbone. She didn’t let go.

And Draco… well, Draco didn’t move either.

Eventually, he shifted slightly, just enough to tug the duvet over her trembling form and cast a Silencing Charm over the air around her as she slept, half-laid against him, half-sat up, head tucked into the crook of his neck. He looked up at McGonagall.

“Well? What do you think, is the theory—” he asked, voice rasped and guarded.

The professor tutted. “It’s interesting. She’s clearly traumatized by the memory of your aunt. But finds comfort in you.” Her eyes glittered. “Which is strange, given that - at least according to your own trial statements - you cast more curses on her than Bellatrix ever did.”

Draco’s mouth went tight. “Yes. I did.”

McGonagall narrowed her eyes. “Did you, Draco? Truly?”

Silence.

She took a step closer, and in a quieter, more pointed voice, asked, “Would you like to tell me what truly happened during her captivity at Malfoy Manor, Mr. Malfoy?”

Draco didn’t respond at first. Then slowly, almost methodically, he told her everything.

---

Long after he had finished,

“It seems to me,” the Headmistress said gently, “that you will either be her salvation… or her demise, Mr. Malfoy.”

“I know,” Draco said quietly.

McGonagall paused, her expression softening.

“I’m afraid I have to ask more of you, Draco.”

He met her eyes. “I’ll do what I can, Professor.”

“Even if she ends up hating you by the end for all the pain?”

“I’ve caused her more than enough pain already. What’s a little more?”

She gave him a rare smile. “Thank you, Draco.”

As the older woman turned to leave, Draco glanced down at the girl still resting against him.

He didn’t know how it had happened. When it had shifted.

But somehow, somewhere in the middle of the pain, the blood, the silence and spells and impossible choices—they had begun to fit.

Not neatly.

Not perfectly.

But they fit.

And it scared the shit out of him. 

Chapter Text

Draco was exhausted, but not from lack of sleep. No, he barely noticed the hours slipping by, the candles burning themselves into wax puddles. His eyes were red from reading, and a fine dusting of parchment scraps littered his bed his now-private dormitory. Ever since she got admitted to St. Mungo's, every spare moment that wasn’t spent beside Hermione, Draco poured into books on Occlumency - some dusty and cracked with age, others banned texts discreetly lifted from the Restricted Section.

The pattern was no longer a theory. It was fact.

Hermione’s eyes - their usual fierce, fire-forged focus - grew hazy and glazed before and during every breakdown. Not with tears or fatigue, but a distinct internal fog. An Occlumens's haze. He’d seen it before, on Snape’s face during the war, and once or twice in his mother, during their darkest days. But Hermione’s was different. Not wielded correctly. Not directed, not used and discarded, but a constant. 

It ruled her.

She wasn’t just using Occlumency anymore.

She was consumed by it.

He stood over the large table in the kitchen now, books fanned out in chaotic circles, parchment filled with messy, frantic notes. His quill scratched furiously as he muttered aloud.

“She’s suppressing everything. Not just thoughts or memories - every emotion, every instinct. There's no filtering, no prioritizing. She Occluded it all.”

He flipped a page, breath caught tight in his chest. “And when the walls crack, it doesn’t release pain. It releases her Darkness, because that’s what got her through the war. That’s the mask she Occluded behind.”

Draco’s hand trembled as he dropped into the chair. He couldn’t shake the image of Hermione the last time it happened—wandless, wild, her magic spilling out in invisible waves of fury.

He whispered, “Even in peace, she’s still bracing for war.”

His jaw locked as the realization struck him in full: Her mind was a battlefield dressed as a sanctuary. One she never left.

She didn’t need a Mind Healer.

---

The next morning, he climbed the spiral staircase to the Headmistress’s office, tension thrumming under his skin. He barely knocked before McGonagall’s crisp voice summoned him in.

“Mr. Malfoy. You look unwell.”

“I’ve been better,” he said tersely, brushing past the tartan chairs. “I’ve figured it out, Professor. Hermione’s not just dealing with trauma. It’s the Occlumency.”

McGonagall’s eyes sharpened. “Explain.”

“She’s a master,” Draco said. “She Occluded so intensely and for so long during the war, she doesn’t know how to stop anymore. It’s why she breaks down. It’s why she turns… Dark. Her mind can’t process feelings anymore. It just stores them like war supplies in a bunker. When the bunker bursts—” he exhaled sharply—“she explodes.”

He began pacing in front of the desk. “She never grieved. Never decompressed. Her magic is bleeding out just to maintain those mental walls. That’s why she’s drained all the time. That’s why her wandwork fails. It’s not the trauma, it’s the Occlumency.”

McGonagall rose from her chair slowly, moving to the window, her silhouette sharp in the morning light.

“She never mentioned being an Occlumens. Not once.”

Draco’s expression tightened. “I imagine she wouldn’t.”

McGonagall turned, her voice lower now, more thoughtful. “So she doesn’t need healing.”

“No,” Draco said. “She needs someone to help her tear down the walls. Someone who can enter her mind without breaking her.”

He looked McGonagall squarely in the eye.

“She needs a Legilimens."

Chapter Text

McGonagall entered the room at St. Mungo’s without her usual brisk steps or clipped tone. Instead, there was a solemnity in her expression that made Hermione’s chest tighten with dread before a single word was spoken. Following closely behind the Headmistress was an elderly witch in deep violet robes trimmed with silver thread, the hem trailing behind her like mist. Her eyes, clouded yet piercing, swept over the room with clinical precision.

“Hermione dear,” McGonagall said, her voice quieter than usual, “this is Madam Armitage. She’s one of the best medically certified Legilimens in the world.”

The woman bowed slightly, never breaking eye contact with Hermione. “Headmistress McGonagall believes your magical instability stems from the overuse and possible misapplication of Advanced Occlumency. I am here to test that theory. But be warned, child, this will be a matter of trial and error.”

“Trial and error?” Harry’s voice cut in sharply from the corner, where he’d been standing quietly, arms crossed but eyes watchful.

“Precisely,” Armitage replied, not unkindly. “There is no textbook for what Miss Granger has done.”

Hermione hesitated, glancing toward Harry. His expression softened when their eyes met, and he gave her a small nod—the kind of support only someone who had seen her at her worst could offer.

“Alright,” Hermione said, her voice small but firm. “Let’s do it.”

Armitage stepped forward slowly. “You’ll need to drop your barriers, dear. Let me in.”

Hermione closed her eyes and breathed deeply. With effort, she reached inside her mind and pulled at the edges of the fortress she had built long ago. She visualized the stone gates opening - cautiously, warily.

Within minutes, Armitage frowned. “I’m being led into a faux hall.”

Hermione’s cheeks burned. “Sorry,” she muttered. “It’s… automatic.”

“Try again.”

The next attempt went deeper. Armitage moved through corridors this time, but every door was sealed shut. She knocked on one, a soft mental tap. At once, she was bound with a mental Incarcerous - heavy magical ropes.

She gasped in real life, fingers trembling, but her reflexes were sharp, and she repelled the spell with a whip-crack of her mind. Her expression hardened.

“Open just one door, Miss Granger. One. You must pull back. There is no need to guard yourself like this anymore. The war is over.”

But the word war was a tripwire.

Hermione’s body jerked violently. Her eyes flew open, now fully glossed and gray-hazed. The air in the room changed. Hotter. Thicker.

A moment later, the Legilimens was violently ejected from Hermione’s mind as an invisible force tore through her consciousness. Armitage stumbled back with a startled cry, only to be hit with a real-world Flipendo that sent her tumbling across the room.

“Madam Armitage!” McGonagall rushed forward, wand out, casting a shield charm around her. “Potter, protection wards!”

Harry raised his wand immediately, casting layered charms across the walls of the room, locking the danger in.

Hermione’s wand smoked at the tip, still raised. Her chest heaved. Her hair frizzed wildly from the magic pouring off her. Her eyes were unseeing, fixed on a target only she could perceive.

“Get Draco here!” McGonagall barked.

The silver coin in Harry’s pocket flared to life before she finished the sentence. Seconds later, the door slammed open and Draco charged in, pale and breathless. One look at Hermione and he knew.

“Oh, fuck.” He was at her side in three long strides. “Granger. Granger, look at me.”

She didn’t.

He held her by the nape, forcing her to meet his eyes. She stared through him.

“Listen to me,” he whispered. “Pull back. You’re in too deep.”

She blinked slowly, gaze sliding past him toward Armitage. Her body shifted toward the injured woman, and Draco felt the magic tighten in the room like a noose.

He tried again, louder this time. “Hermione Granger, if you don’t pull back right now, you’re going to hurt that woman worse than you hurt Ron.”

Her eyes snapped to him.

Harry stepped forward, tense. His wand was out but trembling.

Hermione’s voice was cold. “Ron deserved what he got.”

“Not what you said three days later after the haze broke.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You were sobbing. Saying you didn’t mean to. That you’d never hurt someone like that unless something was broken in you.” Draco’s grip on her arms tightened. “You’ll regret this too, Granger. I know you will. So either pull back… or hurt me, if you must.”

Hermione shook his grip off, but then she trembled in place, unable to pull her magic back. When she opened her eyes again, beads of sweat dotted her forehead, restless, looking up at Draco through the deep haze in her orbs, he knew what she was asking for.

“Give me your worst,” he said, nodding, and it wasn’t long before Hermione’s iron grip wrapped around one of Draco’s forearms, hand curled fully over his Dark Mark, coincidentally.

He winced and cursed silently as the more she dug her nails in, the more the Dark Magic in the tattoo protested. But he whispered a few cooling and numbing spells onto the area, as much as he could muster without a wand, and the pain became bearable. Soon, Hermione stopped trembling, though her hair had frizzed wildly from the sheer heat her body had excreted while trying to pull her magic back from her Occlumency. She took a deep breath, and Draco knew the storm had passed when her bloodied nails slipped from his arm, her grip still tight but less painful over the Mark.

“Did I hurt anyone?”

“No.”

“Oh thank God.” She whispered before falling into a heap, straight into Draco’s arms, exhausted from the inner fight. She was out like a light, and Draco froze, so still that his hands didn’t move anywhere on her body except where she held onto him like a vice.

McGonagall awkwardly cleared her throat before raising her wand to lift the passed-out witch from his arms and lie her back down on the bed, covering her with blankets.

When Draco finally decided his ears and cheeks were an acceptable shade of pink and turned back to his small audience of three with feigned indifference and a shrug, Harry Potter smiled at him - an actual, real smile.

“Blimey…”

“No panic disorder this time around, huh, Mr. Malfoy?” The Legilimens teased.

“…No, I suppose not.”

The Legilimens expert and McGonagall shared a single glance before the foreign woman spoke up.

“You should apply to the Energy Healing program at Ilvermorny, Mr. Malfoy.”

“…Huh?”

McGonagall cleared her throat as if urging the Legilimens toward the right topic, and the woman perked up, beginning to explain.

“Ah, right. The reason Miss Granger’s magic is erratic is, in fact, her Advanced Occlumency. Theoretically, she should regain magical stability whenever she stops Occluding, but in prolonged cases at full capacity, we see the opposite.

Because the magic now sees Occlumency as its only outlet, it finds no reason to linger in the physical body—unless the heavily Occluded mind is thrown into fight or flight, during which it always chooses to fight. Which means the stronger the energy of the Occlumency crisis, the stronger the magic.” The Legilimens explained.

“And by extension, the stronger the violence,” Harry added, piecing it together as well.

“Why is that so?” McGonagall asked.

“Because she was taught Occlumency during a violent time, wasn’t she, Mr. Malfoy?”

This was where the story turned. All eyes were on him, expectant.

He admitted it.

“I... taught her to Occlude so my aunt and mother wouldn’t be able to break her mind.”

“Two witches of the House of Black.”

“Yes.”

“The Noble House of Black has produced the best Occlumens and Legilimens our arts have seen since the creation of the craft, Mr. Malfoy.”

“I’m well aware, m'am.”

“And you taught her enough to protect her mind from both witches’ Legilimency?”

Draco nodded slowly before adding,

“The Imperius curse, as well. Aunt Bella favored it whenever she grew tired of her subjects. In her words, if there was a wizard she couldn’t read, she’d make them sing.”

Draco could hear Harry’s breath hitch.

“And Miss Granger?”

“She never sang. I made sure of that.”

The Legilimens continued.

“So it goes without saying Miss Granger was subject to heavy Mind Magic, and trained in Occlumency out of necessity, in a very short time, not for education nor in a controlled environment.”

Draco nodded again.

“And yet, Miss Granger was able to protect her memories from the most powerful Legilimens witches this century has seen. Very successfully, if I may add.”

“So what does this all mean, then?” McGonagall asked.

“It means as bright as Miss Granger is, no witch can learn enough Occlumency to ward off a Black sister in so short a time, and surely not during imprisonment; let alone its mastery.

It should not be possible.”

“And yet it is?” The Professor was well and truly confused.

“Yes, it is.”

The woman took a deep breath and finally said,

“Which leads me to believe she was supplied with the raw magic of a master Occlumens during her training.”

The room fell so silent one could hear a pin drop.

“As such, it can be inferred that Mr. Malfoy supplied her with his own energy during her learning period, and is now doing the same with her healing.”

“Magic besides one’s own cannot heal the mind, Madam Armitage,” McGonagall interrupted.

“Oh, Mr. Malfoy isn’t healing her mind. She’s doing the healing. He’s only keeping her core stable enough for her to become lucid again, just as he once did so she could learn how to go under the haze and Occlude.”

“I’m doing no such thing.” Draco

“He’s doing all that?” Harry spoke at the same time as him.

“Yes, Mr. Potter.”

“But Hermione is lucid most days, m’am.” Harry butted in.

The woman shook her head, pulling back one of Hermione’s eyelids to reveal clear irises.

“Take note of her eyes when she wakes up. There’ll be a light haze, as opposed to attacks like today, when she’ll have gone fully stormclouds.

My guess is as good as any, I suppose, but I’m willing to bet good money that the only time Miss Granger is fully unoccluded is the period straight after these attacks and before she loses herself to exhaustion.”

“So, whenever Malfoy’s interfered.”

“Yes. Now, our aim here is to make that lucidity her normal again, at first, which can only be achieved if Miss Granger is willing to put in the work, and Mr. Malfoy is willing to accompany her as she does so.”

“But how? I’m not doing anything, how am I keeping her core stable? Shouldn’t an Energy Healer be on this case instead of me, if the course of treatment is decided as such?”

“It will have to be you, Mr. Malfoy. Energy Healing is…tricky.”

“In what capacity?”

“It’s a very rare practice, one that Legilimency only tiptoes the line of. But unlike Legilimency, it requires more work from the patient herself, as well as the cores of both magical persons needing to match to a... usually unattainable extent.”

“And mine just happens to match hers?”

“Not that it just happens to be so, but in short, yes. It is a good match."

“And what if the Healer you bring in matches better?”

“Oh no no. No Healer anyone brings in will be a better match than yourself. That is for sure.”

Draco was confused. The Legilimens took a deep breath and finally said,

“Mr. Malfoy, Energy Healing is one thing; it’s a medical practice, and although rare, is still well within the lines of each magical core. There is no crossing over, no energy transferred, no magic supplied. 

But sharing raw magic is another world entirely. It’s… it’s an ancient practice, it’s very personal. That, is why I can guarantee there will be no better match for her sessions than the very man whose magic courses through her veins.”

“Still?”

“Traces of your magic will forever be embedded in her core; as will hers, in yours.”

No one knew what to say, a deep silence.

The woman smiled, patting his shoulder. He flinched, then, finally coming to himself again,

“Look, you may see whatever I’ve been doing as partially successful, or something, but Healing? Madam Armitage, I don’t know the first thing about Energy Healing, how am I supposed to—”

“Mr. Malfoy, I don’t think you quite need me to repeat myself, do you? You will learn. You’re a master Occlumens and Legilimens, and you’ve succeeded in her stabilization three times now. You will fare quite well, I am sure.”

“...What if I make it worse?”

“You cannot make it worse. Miss Granger’s very lucky to have a near-perfect match in you, Mr. Malfoy, one that is only so, thanks to the very valuable magic you supplied her.

I predict that you will find Energy Healing comes naturally to you, at least with her. And not to worry, you will, of course, receive guidance from a professional as you tread these waters.

Granted, I must pull a few strings first, but I’m fairly certain a dear friend of ours in Cardiff would be more than willing to commute, Minerva, wouldn’t you say?”

The Headmistress had to think about what the other woman was implying, before her eyes glinted, and she was suddenly nodding in definitive agreement.

“In the meantime, I strongly urge you to write an application to Ilvermorny’s higher education programmes, Mr. Malfoy. The Black family talent cannot be wasted away when you are brimming with it, and at such a young age, too.”

Draco only stiffly nodded, glancing at Granger once before turning to Harry and saying,

“The Ministry’s going to want to put a stop to this.”

“The Ministry can't intervene in a patient’s medical treatment.” 

“They can if the patient is in Janus Thickey.”

“Then we will push our chances.” McGonagall was the one to pipe in, and both the boys nodded in respect, ending the spat.

The Legilimens sighed deeply, and said,

“I shall be off, then. Pleasure meeting you, boys. Keep me updated, Minerva, will you? I want to see how this unfolds.” 

The Headmistress exchanged hugs and pleasantries with the woman, who now took out her wand, and right before she was about to disapparate, said,

“I sincerely hope you’re successful, Mr. Malfoy. Please do not hesitate to owl me. I would be most elated to receive news of your acceptance at Ilvermorny.” And with that she popped away, to the nearest International Portkey Gate, leaving all three of them in pure shock at all the new information.

Chapter Text

Curtains swayed gently from an enchanted breeze, casting soft shadows over the bed where Hermione sat, propped against pillows. Her skin still looked pale against the white linens, and the magic monitors at her side pulsed with erratic amber light. She hadn’t spoken much all day, not to the healers, not to Harry.

Now, she sat stiffly as McGonagall paced to the foot of her bed, robes swishing. Harry leaned against the far wall, arms folded, his eyes constantly flicking between the two women.

“I know you're tired,” McGonagall began, her voice low but steady, “but we need to go over what happened during your session with Madam Armitage.”

Hermione didn’t answer. Her gaze dropped to her lap.

McGonagall continued anyway. “What happened was dangerous, yes, but more importantly, it was revealing. The magical surge you experienced wasn’t just emotional. It confirmed a theory Draco and myself had been working on.”

Hermione slowly looked up.

“She believes your magical core is destabilized because of the extensive Occlumency you've used to suppress your trauma. That much we already suspected. But the real discovery was the reasoning behind your curious reactions to Mr. Malfoy.”

Hermione flinched.

“She believes the reason Draco was able to de-haze you so quickly - and the only reason you didn’t destroy half the ward in the process - is because of a direct energy transfer that occurred during the war."

“An energy transfer?”

Harry stepped forward. “Draco admitted to supplying you from his own pool of magic during the time he taught you Occlumency, Mione.”

“He— what? But he said…” She trailed off, now deep in thought.

He had said the surge of power was just professional aid.

He shared his magic?

And almost as if she had read her mind, McGonagall cut in, continuing,

“A raw core-to-core exchange of magic, during a time of extreme duress, was how you were able to master Occlumency with such limited training, dear.”

The room fell silent. Hermione’s eyes were shut tight, mind going a million miles a minute.

At last, she mumbled, more to herself, “Because he’s a Master, both by training and ancestry…”

“Yes,” McGonagall confirmed gently. “And now that your core is erratic because your heavy misuse of that very same Occlumency, whenever his magic touches yours again, it seems to become a… stabilizing factor.”

Hermione shook her head slowly. “That doesn't mean he has to… to fix me too, does it?”

Harry and the Headmistress shared a look. She caught it.

“What?”

Harry cleared his throat, talking kindly, “His magic stabilized you when you were building the fortress, Mione. It has to be his magic to stabilize you as you tear it down, too.”

McGonagall took a step closer. “Of course, this is not to mean you and Mr. Malfoy would ever have to get into the sacred act of raw magical transfer again. No, Madam Armitage believes the only viable path is Energy Healing - a rare method that requires a compatible magical anchor.”

Harry’s voice was quiet. “And Malfoy’s the automatic match, thanks to the core-to-core exchange during the war.”

Hermione’s eyes were glassy. “No.”

“Hermione—”

“No! I refuse!” Her voice rose sharply. “Don’t you see what this would look like? If he starts using a rare form of magic on me, the Wizengamot will think he’s tampering with my mind—manipulating memories, invalidating the ‘evidence’! They’ll say this is some elaborate form of cover-up Legilimency!”

McGonagall opened her mouth, but Hermione cut her off.

“If I let him do this now, they’ll say I’m being brainwashed.”

Her voice cracked on the last word. 

“No. I won’t risk his life for mine.” She declared, with finality.

Silence settled over the room like a weight.

McGonagall looked stricken, but said nothing. Even she couldn’t refute the political reality. The room pulsed with soft amber light from the monitor charm.

Then Harry shifted.

“What if he wanted to do it?”

Hermione turned to him, startled. “What?”

“What if he said yes?” Harry asked. “What if he wanted to help? You don't know what he might be thinking, Mione, and---”

“He wouldn’t. Not now. Not with the trial—”

“But what if he did?” Harry pressed. “Would you consider it then?”

Hermione opened her mouth, then hesitated. Her shoulders sagged. “It’s not about what I want.”

“Maybe it should be,” Harry said, his voice quiet. “Let me talk to him.”

Hermione stared at him, eyes wide. “Harry—”

“Just let me ask him, Mione. No coersion, no convincing, no nothing. If he says he can't, we drop it.

But if he says yes… promise me you’ll think about it.”

Hermione didn’t speak for a long moment. Finally, she nodded—barely.

McGonagall exhaled slowly in relief and turned toward the window, the sunlight catching the silver streaks in her bun.

Harry pushed off the wall.

“I’ll find him.”

Chapter Text

That night, the library was as quiet as a tomb.

Draco sat at the far end, quill in hand, arranging and duplicating his notes. The scratch of parchment, the occasional flick of his wand—these were the only sounds that kept him company. But then... he felt it. The unmistakable burn of someone watching him.

His gaze flicked up.

Harry.

Standing between two shelves, arms crossed, a hard look on his face. He jerked his head toward the hallway in silent request. Draco didn’t move. Instead, he returned to the neat alignment of pages, focused until every parchment was precisely stacked. Then, only after slipping the bundle into a folder, did he rise and head out.

Not toward Harry. Toward the Head dorms.

But Harry followed, silent and firm as a shadow.

Draco didn’t bother shutting the portrait behind him. He left it ajar—deliberately. A silent invitation.

Harry stepped inside, the portrait sealing shut with a faint thud.

"Malfoy."

Draco was already halfway to the small table beside the couch, unstrapping his satchel.

"What do you want?" he said without turning around.

"Have you been to see Hermione the past few days?"

"No," Draco replied curtly. He placed the satchel on the desk with more force than necessary.

A beat of silence hung heavy in the air. Harry stepped closer, his voice low and loaded.

"Why did you do it?" he asked. "Why did you teach her how to protect her mind instead of letting Bellatrix take it apart? The information she had... it could have redeemed your entire family."

Draco let out a short, bitter laugh, void of humor.

"I sit for hours on end at a questioning every Monday night, Potter, and frankly, I've grown quite tired of explaining myself. I don't need to justify anything to you."

But Harry pressed on, undeterred.

"Why did you come to Grimmauld and make an Unbreakable Vow for her? Draco, you staged a crime scene for her—that day with Ron and the Cruciatus Curse. Why?"

"Lock the portrait on your way out, Potter," Draco muttered as he turned toward his room.

But the door slammed shut in front of him, sealed tight with a flare of wandless magic.

"Why did you share your magic with a Mudblood, Malfoy, hm?! Answer me!"

Something snapped.

Draco spun, fury crackling in his limbs like lightning. He surged forward, grabbing Harry by the collar and slamming him into the cold stone wall. His eyes were wild, his voice low and deadly.

"Don’t say that word ever again."

Harry, breathless but defiant, chuckled darkly. "Why are you so bothered by the very word you spat at her face for the past seven years?"

Draco recoiled as if burned. His grip loosened and he took a step back, eyes full of shame and something rawer—something that looked alarmingly like guilt.

Harry didn’t push the advantage right away. He let the silence stretch between them, thick and oppressive. Finally, he spoke.

"Have you at least decided what you're going to do about the Healing thing?"

Draco crossed his arms tightly across his chest. He closed his eyes for a brief second, Occluding, gathering the pieces of himself, and nodded once.

"I have to try."

Harry leaned forward. "Why?"

Draco hesitated. His eyes flickered with something Harry couldn't place. But then it boiled over.

"Because I owe it to her, Potter! You weren't in the Manor for a month - she was! And I—" He stopped abruptly, swallowing the words like poison. He Occluded again, visibly.

"You what? What happened in there?" Harry asked, quieter this time, but just as demanding.

Draco shook his head. "Granger hasn’t shared her memories with you, and this is not my place to divulge."

"But that won’t matter during your trial," Harry pressed. "That's not what the Wizengamot will think when the testimonials come in."

Draco scoffed without humor. "The Wizengamot has already refused to take my memories of that month to the Pensieve."

"Because you're a Legilimens?"

"...That's not to their knowledge, no."

"Then why?"

"Because I'm me."

Harry frowned. "What does that mean?"

“Scapegoat, Potter. Remember?” Draco said bitterly, his voice hollow.

Another long silence. The fire in the hearth popped softly, the only sound in the room. Draco dragged his hands through his hair, mussing the carefully slicked strands until they stood up in every direction. He dropped into an armchair like the weight of the world had finally pushed him down. Harry sank onto the nearby couch.

Then came the blow.

"Malfoy," Harry said carefully, "there’s something you should know before..."

Draco looked up, already bracing. Harry cleared his throat.

Here goes.

"Hermione doesn’t want the treatment."

The words hit him harder than any spell. His entire body stiffened.

"What?"

"She thinks it’ll tarnish your trials. That the Wizengamot will see it as cover-up Legilimency. A manipulation tactic."

Draco didn’t say anything for a long time. His face closed off entirely, unreadable. Then he gave the slightest shrug, as if to say, So what? Let them.

Harry narrowed his eyes.

"But do you want to help her? For real? Even if she doesn’t want it?"

Draco exhaled slowly. "You think I haven’t asked myself that a thousand times? Whether it’s worth it? Whether she’ll hate me for doing it?"

"And?" Harry pushed. "What’s the answer?"

Draco looked at the fire. For once, his voice was calm. Too calm.

"I don’t care what she thinks. She can spend the rest of her life loathing me, as long as she gets to live it with her magic intact."

Harry didn’t respond right away. He studied Draco, looking for a lie, a crack, some self-serving motive - but found none.

"So you're fully committing to her treatment?" Harry asked.

"Yes."

"You’re not going to quit halfway?"

"Not willingly, but if they take me to Azkaban, then..."

"Right. Ok."

A silence.

"So you truly won't disappear if it gets bad?"

Draco sighed, holding his temples. He was tired.

"It’s already bad, Potter. I’m still here."

"And if the Wizengamot uses it against you?"

"Let them. I'm rotting in Azkaban either way. At least this way she gets to live a life."

That, finally, seemed to convince Harry. He sat back, the tension in his shoulders loosening a little.

"The Azkaban thing. I want to help you," Harry said quietly.

"I don't need your help," Draco bit back.

Harry scoffed. "Typical. So arrogant, but so wrong."

"How can you help me anyway? By testifying? How much time do you reckon that’ll shave off my sentence?"

"It’s still better than nothing. And you greatly underestimate me."

"As tight as Kingsley’s grip on your dick is, Potter, you weren’t at the Manor."

"That’s right," Harry shot back. "I was at Grimmauld, where you Apparated with information on how to get her out and the body of one of Voldemort’s highest-ranked officers."

"Well, your testimony won’t be enough."

"It’ll still help cut your sentence down."

Draco looked away. He hated that Harry was right. The Wizengamot was cruel and stubborn, but even they couldn’t ignore Potter’s words completely.

"There are fourteen testimonies against me. All from Azkaban residents hoping to lessen their sentences. My mother’s memories are crucial, but the Wizengamot suspects tampering and refuses to review them.

Has anyone told you how many years I face, Potter?"

Harry shook his head.

"117."

Harry almost flinched. The number was a death sentence.

Draco’s voice was hollow again. "So no, I don’t think twenty years off the top will make much of a difference."

Harry leaned forward.

"Maybe not with you defending yourself. But—"

"You think I haven’t tried to seek counsel? No sane Warlock will have me."

"The Americans will. If I promise a testimony."

Draco hesitated. The seizure of his assets meant he couldn’t afford even a mediocre solicitor.

"The Americans couldn’t be bothered with a case like this."

"Oh, cut the act, will you?" Harry said sharply. "I know you’re only going into court without counsel because your assets were seized. You’re piss-poor, Malfoy."

Draco’s jaw clenched. "So what? Your girlfriend would know a thing or two about that, wouldn’t she?"

Harry bristled. "Low blow, but I suppose I deserved it."

He paused.

"Anyway, Malfoy, allow me to find you good counsel."

"Absolutely not."

"I’ll let you pay me back."

Draco stared at him, long and hard. His pride warred with practicality, with survival. At last, he asked,

"Why are you doing this?"

Harry’s expression softened, his voice low.

"Consider it in return for her treatment."

Draco scoffs. "I’ve already told you I won’t do this for payment—"

"Fine. Then how about this for a change? I don’t believe you deserve to die in prison. If anything, you deserve to die still in debt to me for the hundreds of thousands of Galleons the Warlock I hire for you leeches off me."

Harry extended his hand.

"So? Do we have a deal?"

Draco hesitated for a beat longer. Then—slowly, and with the barest hint of something human behind his eyes—he took Harry’s hand.

"Deal."

Chapter Text

The Prefect’s meeting began like most others: with stiff chairs, half-hearted agendas, and the self-importance of eight students pretending they had any real power. Draco sat at the very Head of the Table, as was expected of him, Head Boy and all, though the title felt increasingly meaningless.

The serious discussion lasted exactly five minutes before Hannah Abbott, with her eternally bright eyes and endless optimism, brought up the idea of hosting a Hallow’s Eve Celebration. She claimed it was McGonagall’s suggestion, which Draco found hard to believe. But as soon as the words left her mouth, the girls perked up in delight, chattering over each other about costume ideas, enchanted decorations, and dance themes.

Even the Slytherin Prefects, who normally maintained a healthy sense of disdain, seemed oddly intrigued by the idea. There were even whispers of floating pumpkin centerpieces and ghost-themed charades. Draco, however, couldn’t have cared less if Peeves himself threw a rave in the Astronomy Tower.

He sat there with his jaw set, ears tuned out, face blank. He let the conversation wash over him like static, Occluding with more discipline than he’d shown in years. It was the only way to concentrate - because the noise didn’t matter. The Halloween Ball didn’t matter. None of it did.

Only one thought managed to claw its way past his mental defenses.

Granger. 

Her mere presence –or rather, lack of- clawed at him. Her absence echoed louder than all the chatter in the room combined.

A sudden, aggressive cough jerked him out of his thoughts.

“World to Lord Malfoy.”

Ginny. Of course it was Ginny.

Draco didn’t bother masking the exhaustion on his face. He stood abruptly, letting his eyes glide over the room with a cold sweep. Judging by their expectant stares, they’d just asked him something. He hadn't heard a word.

“Get costumes. Decorate the Great Hall. Host a Ball. Do what you want. Surely McGonagall won’t stand in your way.”

He turned, ready to make his exit, but Blaise’s deep voice cut through the air like a hook dragging him backward.

“Mate, the Halloween celebration was McGonagall’s idea.”

Oh. That was... unexpected.

He shrugged, nonchalant. “All the better then.”

“Draco.” Blaise’s voice held warning now—low and familiar.

Draco exhaled sharply through his nose and turned back to the table, slumping into his seat with the grace of a petulant cat.

“What, Blaise? We have these meetings every Thursday. Surely you can’t have this much to say.”

Blaise simply raised an eyebrow and leaned back. Draco’s gaze flicked across the table again. The other Prefects were squirming, fidgeting like they were rehearsing lines in their heads. Something was coming. He could feel it.

“Well?” he said, voice dry as dust. “Spit it out, one of you, so we can all be out of here.”

The silence was thick until Padma, ever diplomatic, finally broke it.

“Some Professors have expressed concern... about the current state of leadership.”

Draco raised a brow. “Such as?”

“The Head Girl’s absence.”

He blinked. That was it? “It’s not the first time a student’s missed duties due to hospitalization.”

Padma hesitated, but Pansy didn’t. Of course not.

“Yes,” Pansy drawled, “but it is the first time someone’s gone to the Janus Thickey Ward instead of Azkaban.”

Draco didn’t even think. His hands slammed down on the table with a sharp crack, making several people jump to attention as he stood again, voice cold and clear.

“You wanna see if a Cruciatus would land you a bed next to her and not a cell next to your father, Pansy?” he said, tone deadly calm. “Be my guest. I’d love to see you try.”

Pansy blanched, visibly shrinking back in her chair.

Draco’s breath came in tight pulls, but he shut his eyes, closed the floodgates, and pulled Occlumency tight around him like armor. When he spoke again, his voice was composed. Dangerous, but composed.

“The Prefect Council does not hold the right to re-elect Head Students. As long as Granger’s enrolled, Granger remains.”

Padma tried again, voice quieter. “But the Professors—”

“Can go fuck themselves.”

Silence fell like a curtain. No one even blinked.

Draco let his eyes drag slowly across the room. “Any objections?”

No one answered.

“Good.” And with that, he turned on his heel and strode out of the room, cloak trailing behind him like a shadow that refused to be left behind.

---

There was a knock on his door.

Not the Common Room door - his actual dorm room door. Draco scowled, pushing aside the book he'd been rereading for the third time without absorbing a word. Probably Potter or the She-Weasel again, come to fetch another pair of Hermione’s pajamas or her favorite bloody shampoo.

He wasn’t in the mood.

With a grunt, he pulled himself out of bed and flung open the door, ready to snarl.

But instead of Gryffindor brats, he was met with a fuming Pansy Parkinson and an unbothered-as-ever Blaise Zabini. The second he opened the door, Pansy raised her arm and slapped him, hard, right across the cheek.

“You fucking asshole.”

Draco blinked once, then simply held his face. Pansy had small hands but the slap had real intent behind it. He didn't say a word. He knew better than to interrupt Pansy before she got it all out. She strode right into his room like she owned it, head high, shoulders back, the Slytherin princess in full regalia, and plopped onto his bed as if she paid rent.

Draco sighed and stepped aside with a begrudging gesture for Blaise to enter. They exchanged a look - Draco’s weary and expectant, Blaise’s maddeningly unreadable - and Blaise leaned casually against the desk, arms crossed.

Pansy was already in full swing.

“Low fucking blow, talking about my father in front of the lions, Draco.”

“Low fucking blow, talking about the lions’ Golden Girl right in front of them, Pansy.”

“What are you, her white knight now?”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, not this again—”

“Alright, alright,” Blaise cut in, his voice bored but effective. “Settle down, both of you. Theo’s on his way, and you know once he arrives, serious conversation goes straight out the window.”

Draco ran a hand through his hair. “That wasn’t serious conversation?”

“No, this is.” Blaise’s tone shifted, sharpening. “Patil was right in that Prefect meeting. You don’t stay around long enough to hear what’s said, and when you do, you’re so Occluded you might as well be unconscious.”

“I don’t care for gossip,” Draco said flatly.

“It’s not gossip,” Pansy snapped. “Some of the Professors are trying to get Granger expelled.”

That caught his attention.

“What?”

Blaise nodded grimly. “They met with McGonagall a few nights ago. Theo followed Slughorn in. They took a vote.”

“Theo says it was close,” Pansy added.

Right on cue, the door creaked open and Theo sauntered in with the energy of a man who had just finished an excellent nap and a petty crime.

“No, Theo says thank Salazar for Slughorn and his bloody wall of Student Collectibles,” he announced.

Draco’s brows shot up. “Slughorn voted for expulsion?”

“What? No.” Theo waved a lazy hand. “He voted against. Tiebreaker and all. Hero of the hour, really. You should’ve seen how red Professor Trimble got.”

Draco exhaled hard. “Why do the Professors want her expelled?”

There was a pause. Too long.

“Rumors,” Blaise finally said, voice softer. “That she’s gone… Dark.”

Draco’s jaw ticked. “Who?”

No one answered.

“Who?!”

Theo, at last, with a careless shrug: “The Weasel.”

“Of course.” Draco gritted his teeth. “And Potter?”

“Currently not speaking to Ratface,” Theo reported.

“But also never in any kind of social circle long enough to kill the rumors,” Blaise added.

“Fuck.” Draco sat back on his desk, rubbing his temples like he could massage the stupidity out of the entire situation. After a long moment, two small hands cupped his cheeks gently, and he blinked.

Pansy.

Her expression was softer now, almost maternal in its own terrifying way. “You can’t Occlude now, Draco. We need your head in this.”

He gave her the slightest of nods. The hands fell away.

After a few deep breaths, he blinked.

“Wait, why the hell does any of this concern us?”

The others exchanged a look. Then Pansy, voice unnervingly calm, said, “Because you care about Granger.”

Draco scoffed. “Please. I don’t care about fucking Granger.”

Blaise leaned toward Pansy. “Told you that wouldn’t work.”

He stepped forward. “Then how about this? If she gets expelled, the Ministry will pin it on you.”

Theo grinned. “Oh yeah. Imagine the Prophet headline. Golden Girl Turns Dark After Corruption by Former Death Eater, Draco Malfoy.”

“Head Students to Hell: Hogwarts’ Shame.” Blaise added.

“Scandal in the Castle Dormitories!” Theo gasped theatrically.

Draco looked like he wanted to throw them both out the window. “Merlin’s balls, alright! How do we stop it?”

“We make her invisible,” Blaise said. “No spotlight, no drama. She’s there, you’re here, she keeps her head down, and the school forgets about her for a while.”

Draco frowned. “That would require a replacement Head Girl.”

“An interim,” Blaise corrected.

“It’s either that or expulsion. And for you? Azkaban, if the Prophet gets creative enough.” Pansy.

Draco sighed. He hated how sound the logic was.

“We convene again tomorrow for the vote.”

“You have patrol,” Blaise reminded him.

“Then lunch. And don’t expect tea and fucking scones.”

“Right. Anyone in mind for the interim?” Blaise asked.

“No, Blaise. Considering you dropped this on me at ass o’clock, I don’t have a name ready at hand.”

Theo grinned. “How did you put up with him, Parks?”

“With great reputation,” Pansy said airily, “comes great tolerance.”

“Oh please,” Theo rolled his eyes. “Just say his dick’s big and be done with it. Not like you haven’t said it before.”

Draco growled, “Goddamnit, Pansy, why are you so—”

“—Sexually liberated?” she offered sweetly.

“I was going to say insufferable.”

Pansy blew him a kiss and threw herself down on his bed like a satisfied cat.

“This is very nice, Draco. Is this... What is this, a thousand thread count?”

“Please,” Blaise scoffed. “You know he’s too broke for luxury linens.”

“Alright, that’s enough. Everyone out,” Draco barked.

They left, one by one, smirking and smug, Pansy blowing another kiss at the door.

And Draco, left behind in the echo of their chaos, rubbed his cheek where she slapped him.

He wasn’t sure which stung more: the slap or the fact that they were right.

Chapter Text

The Prefect meeting was shorter than usual, thanks to it being during lunch hour, though the air in the room felt strangely tense. Professor McGonagall stood at the head of the long table, arms folded, her expression as unreadable as ever.

"We have decided," she said crisply, "to appoint Ginevra Weasley as interim Head Girl while Miss Granger remains on medical leave."

A murmur passed through the room like a breeze rustling parchment. All eyes turned to Ginny, who blinked in confusion.

“Wait, what?”

Several prefects exchanged surprised glances. A couple looked mildly annoyed.

Ginny stood, half-laughing, half-protesting. “I’ve got Quidditch, Professor. Captaincy. Practice every night. Matches on weekends. I-I can’t—”

“You can,” Harry said quietly.

She turned to him, startled. “What? You know how insane the schedule is, why would I—?”

Harry looked up then, and there was something in his face she hadn’t seen in a while. Something serious. Unflinching.

“For Hermione,” he said.

The room stilled. Ginny felt the words hit somewhere deeper than expected - somewhere just beneath her ribs. She hadn’t been to see Hermione since she collapsed. Hadn't known how to face her, not like that.

“Alright,” Ginny said finally. Her voice had dropped to a hush. “I’ll do it.”

McGonagall gave a brisk nod. “Excellent. I expect your patrol roster by the end of the week. Dismissed.”

Chairs scraped against the stone floor. Students filed out. Ginny lingered by the doorway, slipping the badge into her pocket. It felt heavier than it should’ve.

Only Malfoy remained seated, eyes down, scrolling through some parchment like the meeting hadn’t ended. Ginny glanced at him, then looked away.

She and Harry were nearly through the door when Malfoy spoke, low and indifferent.

“We’ll divide and conquer during patrols, Weasley.”

He didn’t look up.

Ginny paused, her hand on the doorframe. “Fine,” she said, not bothering to glance back.

The door clicked shut behind them, muffling the sounds of shuffling paper and crackling firelight inside the room.

They walked in silence down the corridor until they turned into the next empty hallway. Ginny slowed, then stopped.

“Harry.”

He stopped too.

She turned toward him. “Why?” Her voice was quieter now, uncertain. “Why now? Why me?”

Harry hesitated, and for a moment she thought he might dodge the question.

But then he exhaled, tired.

“Hermione’s on the edge of expulsion, Gin.”

Her heart dropped.

“She had a magical outburst at St. Mungo’s,” Harry said, voice low. “It wasn’t her fault, something went wrong, but… McGonagall and the board are watching her closely now. One more incident, and she’s gone.”

Ginny stared at him. “But... why would that deter her from—”

“She agreed to treatment on the condition that she could finish it by the time NEWTs came around. It’s the only thing keeping her grounded.” He looked away. “If she’s expelled, I don’t think she’ll even begin her sessions, let alone finish them.”

Ginny swallowed hard. Her fingers closed around the badge in her pocket.

“Why didn’t you just say that in the meeting?”

“Because she wouldn't want me to,” Harry said. “She wouldn’t want anyone to. But she needs someone here. Someone who can hold the fort down while she fights to get better.”

Ginny nodded slowly. Her voice, when it came, was barely a whisper. “Okay.”

She didn’t look back at him as they walked the rest of the way in silence.

But something in her had shifted.

She wasn’t doing this for the title.

She was doing it for the girl who’d once saved the world, and now needed saving in return.

---

“You take the east corridors. I’ll do the west. We’ll be done in half the time.”

Draco didn’t slow his stride or even glance at her. His voice was clipped, efficient, as though this wasn’t a conversation but a logistical update to a colleague he loathed.

Ginny rolled her eyes and matched his pace with ease, boots clicking beside his more measured steps.

“That’s not how patrols work, Malfoy.”

“It is now.”

He turned the corner sharply, clearly expecting her to drop it. Most people did, he suspected. One scowl from him and they retreated.

But Ginny Weasley was not most people.

She caught up without breaking a sweat. “Nope. Not doing that. You’re stuck with me, whether you like it or not.”

A muscle ticked in Draco’s jaw. “I do not.”

“I figured.”

She beamed, which only irritated him more.

“And just so you know,” she continued, “I talk a lot. You might as well get used to it.”

He made a noise in the back of his throat—something between a sigh and a muttered Merlin help me—but didn’t argue further. They walked in silence that wasn’t truly silence: Ginny filled it with easy, chatty commentary about the castle at night (“Ever notice the second-floor statue of Elfrida Clagg moves three inches left every Thursday?”), which Prefects were definitely snogging behind tapestries (she had a running list), and how she once caught Peeves using Fred’s old Skiving Snackbox stash to hex portraits into vomiting fruit punch.

Draco responded only with the occasional grunt or noncommittal shrug, but Ginny didn’t care. She wasn’t here to be liked—though if it happened, she'd count it as a win. No, she was here because Harry trusted him. Not fully, but the change in opinion was evident in the way her boyfriend talked about the blonde. Especially when it came to Hermione.

And if Harry trusted him with Hermione, that meant something bigger than either of them could say aloud.

They turned down a quieter hallway near the Transfiguration wing. The torches here burned lower, casting long shadows along the corridor.

“So,” Ginny said, her voice softening slightly, “how’s she doing?”

Draco didn’t answer immediately. His footsteps faltered for a fraction of a second.

“You know?”

“Of course I know,” she said, a bit too brightly. “Harry tells me everything.”

He stopped walking altogether.

“You know about the—” He hesitated. “the connection?”

Ginny crossed her arms and leaned back against the stone wall, giving him a long, appraising look. “I know everything. Even the part where that Legilimens lady said you’re the only one who can stabilize her core.”

Draco’s shoulders dropped, just slightly. “Fantastic. Now there are two of you.”

“Mm,” she hummed. “Might be more. You’re popular lately.”

He looked at her then, properly, for the first time all evening. She wasn’t mocking him, not really. There was that familiar Weasley fire in her gaze, yes, but it was tempered now by something else. Understanding. Maybe even a little… empathy.

And that made him more uncomfortable than outright hostility ever could.

“She’s stable,” he said finally. “For now. We haven’t started yet.”

“That’s good. Hope it goes well,” Ginny replied, and there was no sarcasm in it.

They resumed walking, this time a little more in sync. She didn’t push again, not right away. Instead, she launched into a rant about Filch’s suspicious new mop, which she swore had a personality of its own.

Draco found himself almost amused. Almost.

“…and if I see it move on its own one more time, I swear I’m reporting it to Magical Maintenance. Cursed objects are not supposed to be used for janitorial duties.”

She glanced sideways. “You’re not even listening, are you?”

“Oh I am. I just don’t care.”

Ginny shrugged. “That’s fair.”

They turned another corner, the castle dimmer here, and for a while the only sound was the soft hush of their footfalls and the occasional flicker of torchlight.

“You know,” she said eventually, “it really is a shame you’re not allowed to fly this year.”

Draco’s brows lifted slightly. “Why?”

“You were good. A decent Seeker. Kept Harry on his toes. Competitive. A bit reckless, which made it fun to watch.”

He shrugged. “I’m allowed to fly. I just need a broom.”

“Well, that’s the easy part.”

Draco said nothing.

Ginny’s gaze flicked to him again. “It’s a pity, though. I always wanted to see you play Chaser.”

He gave her a skeptical look. “Chaser?”

“Yeah. You’ve got the build for it: broad shoulders, long arms, strong upper body. I mean, you're quick, sure, but you always struck me as more analytical, not afraid to play a bit dirty, you know? And Chasers need that edge. Seeker felt too… precious.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You’ve put thought into this.”

“Of course I have. I take Quidditch very seriously.”

She tossed him a cheeky smile before continuing, undeterred, “You ever try it? Chaser, I mean?”

“No.”

“Well, you should, one day. You might like it better.”

He didn’t answer, but something about his silence was different now. Thoughtful. Ginny noticed.

She didn’t press—just kept talking, switching to a story about a match a few years ago where a Bludger cracked a Beater’s bat clean in half, and Draco let her voice fill the silence between them again.

Because now she knew he was actually listening.

Chapter Text

It was time.

The Energy Healer had been in contact with McGonagall. The days were chosen. Every other night of the week, at 11 PM.

Draco and Professor McGonagall Apparated straight to Janus Thickey, where a witch was already waiting in front of the ward. As soon as she turned around, Draco froze.

The woman walked toward them with a kind, unfazed smile, as though she had expected this meeting for quite some time. Her presence radiated calm, but there was something sharp behind her eyes, something that made Draco’s shoulders stiffen.

“Thank you for agreeing on such short notice,” McGonagall said, her tone clipped but respectful.

“It’s no worry, Headmistress. Although I would have much preferred if my own nephew had been the one to owl me. Wouldn’t you say, dear?” she replied, her voice light but directed squarely at Draco.

He Occluded, hard, locking everything behind polished glass. His pulse thundered in his ears.

The woman tutted, her expression mildly disapproving but not unkind. “Just like your mother. No life in those eyes half the time.”

She stepped closer. Her casual tone did little to mask the sharpness in her gaze.

“If you’re going to be of any help, you’ll need to stop Occluding too, dear.”

With a flicker of something ancient and commanding, Draco gasped and clutched his temple. The haze in his mind shattered like brittle glass.

“Aunt Andromeda,” he said stiffly.

“Ah. Ever the aristocrat. Yes, yes, it’s good to see you too, Draco.”

“I didn’t know you would be here.”

“Is that so?” she replied with a faint smile, clearly unimpressed.

Draco gulped. His hands were clammy, and a thousand unspoken emotions prickled behind his ribs now that his shields had been dismantled.

“Well, you do now. Shall we begin?”

He nodded, his movements mechanical, though he didn’t move a muscle.

“Come along, Mr. Malfoy,” McGonagall said gently, giving him a subtle nudge. Her gaze held a trace of compassion.

“Wait,” he said suddenly.

Andromeda paused and turned back with a questioning look.

“You and Bellatrix look alike, Aunt Andromeda. She’s triggered Granger before.”

Andromeda arched a brow, her expression unreadable. “I’ve had the pleasure of Hermione’s company more times than I’ve had yours, Draco. I’m fairly certain I know her better than you, my own nephew.”

“Oh.”

“Any more questions?”

A dozen swarmed his mind, but Draco said nothing and followed the two witches through the threshold of the ward.

Inside, Hermione sat upright in bed with a thick tome in her lap. She nearly dropped the book when she looked up and saw Andromeda enter.

“Hello, dear.”

“Dromeda!” Hermione exclaimed, leaping from the bed as the book tumbled to the floor. She threw her arms around the older witch, clinging to her tightly. The room did not explode with magic. There were no sparks. No triggers. Only warmth.

Andromeda returned the hug without hesitation. She smoothed a strand of Hermione’s curls behind her ear like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Godric, what are you doing here? It’s been so long!” Hermione asked breathlessly.

“I came for a visit. As well as a little check-up.”

Hermione tilted her head in confusion. “I’ve already had a Legilimens come and assess me, Dromeda. You didn’t need to tire yourself, truly.”

“I know, dear.”

Her tone was soft, but her eyes stayed fixed on Hermione’s face, reading every flicker of emotion.

Hermione blinked and glanced between her and the quiet figure in the corner.

“You’ll be my Healer, then, I take it?”

“Legally, yes. In practice, I’m only here to teach my nephew.”

Hermione turned toward the shadowed figure. Draco stood against the far wall, his posture rigid and his eyes shut tight. He looked pale — too pale.

“I think your nephew’s faring worse than me." she said quietly.

“Yes, well. He also needs to get used to staying Unoccluded. There’s a long path ahead in your treatment, which means he, too, will have to leave his mind vulnerable every other day.”

Andromeda turned to Draco again.

“As will you, if this experiment of ours succeeds. Now, let’s get to clearing those eyes, shall we?”

She clapped her hands once, lightly, and moved toward Hermione’s bed with purpose. McGonagall murmured her goodbyes and left the room, her robes sweeping out behind her.

“You may sit, dear,” Andromeda said kindly to Hermione, before snapping her eyes to Draco.

“Draco, come.”

He obeyed. His steps felt heavier than they should have, as though gravity itself were punishing him for what he was about to do.

Hermione caught her breath. His eyes, open now, were Unocccluded. No cold mask. No practiced apathy. Just naked exhaustion and restrained sorrow, pure silver.

“Madam Armitage told me in extensive detail what transpired between you two during the war,” Andromeda said briskly. “I’ve also received a list of triggers from Headmistress McGonagall, and I intend to save the hardest for last. Today, we start with warm-ups.”

“There are warm-ups.” Draco said, deadpan.

“Of course.”

“Such as?”

“Nothing too hard. For example, simple but fortified memories. Madam Armitage told me your Occlumency took the shape of Hogwarts castle, so, the corridors branching off your mental castle’s Great Hall, if you will. We’ll start by Unoccluding those, until every memory you’ve repressed bubbles to the surface and is dealt with like any other human.”

“And that is?”

“Emotion,” she said, matter-of-fact.

Hermione exhaled through her nose. “How am I supposed to Unocclude entire memory rooms when I can’t even get the doors open?”

“Ah, well, that depends on what comes naturally to Draco. Shall we give it a try?”

Hermione gave a single, quiet nod. Andromeda didn’t wait for further agreement.

“What memories do you keep closest to your Great Hall, Hermione?” she asked gently.

“I… I can’t remember.”

“That’s quite alright. Let’s head to where your happiest memories are kept, then.”

Hermione frowned. Her lips thinned, and she glanced at the floor, visibly struggling.

“I don’t know where those memories are, either.”

“Do you perhaps have a memory inventory, dear?”

“I used to. At first.”

“What caused it to disappear?”

“Bellatrix."

Her voice cracked. Her hands clenched at her sleeves. A shimmer of Occlusion veiled her eyes.

“Draco, you need to go in now,” Andromeda said firmly. “This is going to be more tedious than I thought. Go in and try to make an inventory. Don’t stitch it into her mind, stitch it into yours.”

Draco raised his wand, jaw clenched.

“Legilimens.”

He found himself facing a grand stone castle. Familiar. Towering. Hogwarts. But as he stepped closer, stone statues dropped from above, barricading the gates. Defensive wards. Ancient. Brutal.

“Fuck.”

“Granger, pull back,” he said, his teeth gritted. “You’ve done this before. Pull back.”

Hermione trembled, her body seized with the effort of trying to obey.

“Still dropping,” Andromeda reported calmly.

Draco acted on instinct. He grasped Hermione’s hand and guided it to his forearm, their skin meeting in a tight grip.

Tendrils of white and gold and red spiraled between them.

“That’s… perfect Energy Magic, Draco,” Andromeda murmured, astonished. “She’s trending low but stable. Stay at the entry.”

He nodded, sweat on his brow, and dove back in.

The gates opened. The statues dissolved.

He wandered down the nearest corridor. Tried a door.

It flung him back with a violent curse.

“Damn it,” he panted.

He gritted his teeth and tried again.

“Legilimens.”

“Granger, you heard her. We need all the doors in this castle open if you want your magic back.”

Hermione made a wounded sound and clenched harder.

“I assure you, nothing bad will come from that room,” Draco said, his voice firm. “It’s in view of your Great Hall, for Salazar’s sake. It’s probably the day you got Sorted or something mildly touching, at best.”

“…Okay,” she whispered.

The magic in the hall grew thick.

She gripped Draco’s forearm tightly.

The door burst open.

They were pulled inside.

It wasn’t her Sorting.

It was the Shrieking Shack. A young Harry disarmed Snape. The trio uncovered that Scabbers was Peter Pettigrew. A moment of clarity in their young lives.

The memory faded. Draco stumbled out of her mind, breathless.

“See? Not so hard to Unocclude that one, was it?” Andromeda said brightly.

Hermione opened her eyes. They were clearer. She nodded, dazed but steady.

“Do you think you can go again?”

“I… I think so. Yes.”

Draco didn’t speak. He raised his wand.

The next door creaked open, easier now.

Hermione stood in a red dress, pacing before Viktor Krum. Wedding music drifted in the distance.

She asked about Karkaroff. Krum confirmed he’d rejoined.

She raised her wand to his neck.

He showed his forearm. No Mark.

She exhaled.

Apologized.

“We can’t be too sure these days.”

Krum gently touched her face. “I’d take the Mark if I had to,” he said. “Serve as a double agent. Relay what I know to protect you.”

Hermione stared.

“Why?”

He kissed her. Softly.

“As a favor for an old flame.”

She smiled faintly. Let him kiss her again. Sweet. Brief.

“I shall need to thank Fleur again for inviting me,” he added with a wink and walked out.

The memory faded, both thrown out of her mind again.

Hermione remained still on the bed. A single tear slipped down her cheek.

“Do you keep in touch?” Draco asked quietly.

“He tries to. I haven’t written him back.”

“You should.”

Hermione nodded, a sad amile etching onto her face. “Yeah.”

Silence settled. Heavy but not hostile.

“I think we’re done for the day,” Draco said, voice low. Hermione was quick to agree.

She released his arm. Her hand came away wet.

She looked down at her hand.

Red.

Then at his skin, blistered and scorched.

Her eyes widened. “But—”

He hid his arm behind his back before she could speak.

“Don’t lose sleep over it, Granger. Nothing a Star Grass Salve won’t fix.”

And with that, he turned and walked away, out the door before she could finish.

“He’s right, dear,” said Andromeda. “I’ll make sure he gets some. You did well today. I’ll see you in two days.”

She followed Draco out quickly.

The moment the doors of the Ward closed behind them, Draco hissed and cast a flurry of charms on his arm.

“What happened?!” McGonagall exclaimed, robes floeing in the wind as she rushed over to the injured blonde.

Andromeda grabbed his arm, casting a more professional numbing charm immediately. Draco winced.

“She has a penchant for pain, that one.”

“Yes, hence the Unforgivable under a trance. But what caused this? Did you lose control of her, Mr. Malfoy?”

“No. No, he was spectacular,” Andromeda answered. “Madam Armitage was right. Draco, you must enroll in an Energy Healing program after Hogwarts. You brilliant fool.”

“I’ll get to it right after my 117 years in hell, Aunt Andromeda.” Draco snapped, blinded by the pain in his arm.

The mood soured instantly.

McGonagall cleared her throat.

“The burn?”

“Yes. It happened during first contact. Right, Draco?”

He nodded.

“She’s done it before. Dug her nails so deep into my deltoid once, I bled.”

“Merlin…”

The headmistress tutted.

“I can’t allow this to continue, Mr. Malfoy. That is a serious burn. Perhaps—” 

“No. This is the only way. I didn’t feel the cross-siphoning until she touched me. And it was strongest as she burned through.”

“But—”

“He’s right,” Andromeda interjected. “Every duo has a preferred method. There are healthier ones, yes, but Draco and Hermione seem long locked into physical touch. Touch is, at times, known to get violent. Or cause loss of control. But… it is what it is.”

McGonagall sighed deeply. She glanced again at Draco’s arm, face souring.

“Let’s get you to Madam Pomfrey, dear.”

Draco easily agreed. He drew his wand to Apparate, but before leaving, turned to his aunt.

“She misses you, you know. Perhaps you might respond to one of her letters.”

“...Cissy sent me letters?”

“She wrote to you the day Bellatrix died. And every day since. She wants to reclaim all the time lost because of her. So let her. She’s… very lonely, Aunt Andromeda. And I don’t want her spiraling into the Black Madness when I’m gone for good, too.”

And with those final words, Draco disappeared.

Chapter Text

Draco returned to the hospital two days later, carrying a bundle of parchment notes, his fingers smudged with ink from late-night scribbling. The faint scent of burnt wax and old paper clung to the edges of the stack. His wand, still stained with dark blue ink, was tucked awkwardly behind his ear, which made him look more distracted than usual.

He barely glanced at Hermione as he approached the worn leather armchair where she sat, the soft glow from the enchanted lamps casting warm pools of light over the room. Draco settled beside her, pulling out a handful of scribbly lesson notes and setting them in front of her, their edges curled and worn from frequent handling.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. They studied in silence, each lost in their own thoughts, the quiet only punctuated by the faint scratching of Draco’s quill as he jotted something down absentmindedly.

The stillness was broken by the soft arrival of Andromeda Tonks. Unlike the last session, McGonagall wasn’t with them today - her absence immediately noticeable. The room felt less formal, less clinical. More fragile.

More intimate.

Andromeda’s voice was calm but encouraging. “Hermione, this time, I want you to start by putting a hand on Draco’s shoulder."

"What..?"

"Your way of transmission is touch, dear. Thankfully you found it early on. Anyway, the skin-to-skin connection will help stabilize your core as you navigate your memories, as it did in previous episodes.

Now, Draco, you remember to keep your breathing slow. Your focus anchors her focus. She can slip, but if you slip,”

"I burn." Draco finished for his aunt. The woman nodded.

Hermione blinked, still a bit startled by the request. She glanced at Draco, who was already turning slightly toward her. With a reluctant breath, he loosened the top two buttons of his shirt, but didn’t take it off fully. The fabric parted just enough to reveal a patch of pale skin at his shoulder, but left the collar snug against his neck.

The idea of physical contact unsettled her in a way she hadn’t expected. Her fingers trembled a little as she reached out. Hermione’s hand hesitated for a moment before slipping beneath the collar’s edge to reach his bare shoulder. The warmth of his skin was immediate, and the faint pulse of his heartbeat echoed subtly beneath her palm.

She shifted her fingers slightly, exploring the smooth skin, trying to find the precise spot where her touch resonated strongest with the faint magical hum she could sense pulsing there. Her palm pressed gently, then moved in small, tentative circles, as if coaxing the magic to steady itself.

The contact had already grounded her, a lifeline in the swirling chaos of memories she was about to face. The vulnerability of reaching beneath his collar, feeling the rise and fall of his muscles, stirred an unfamiliar flutter in her chest. She swallowed the flush rising to her cheeks, focusing on the task ahead.

“Ready?” Draco murmured quietly, his voice low. “

Hermione nodded, her fingers tightening around his shoulder, the warmth seeping through her skin steadying her nerves.

"Legilimens."

---

Andromeda’s voice was a soft anchor in the quiet. “Focus on the connection. Let Draco’s presence ground you as you descend into your memories. Begin with the first floor - the safe ones, the easier memories. Only observe, don’t engage yet.”

With Draco’s steadiness beside her and Andromeda’s calm guidance, Hermione felt a flicker of hope.

They moved through the corridors of her mind: inventory lists, coded messages, patterns of enemy movement. All memories that might’ve been useful to the Dark side but ultimately hadn’t altered the war’s outcome.

The session unfolded with measured steps, memories opening and closing like doors, precise and cold. Hermione’s fingers adjusted against his skin occasionally, seeking steadier contact, sliding a little further along the curve of his shoulder, tracing faint ridges of muscle beneath her touch.

By the time they reached the session’s end, Hermione’s hand had crept further up, the pads of her fingers brushing the sensitive hollow just beneath Draco’s nape, where his neck met his shoulder. The contact was so close, so personal, that if the session had been anything less clinical, the intimacy might have been impossible to ignore.

She reined in the flutter of warmth that rose in her chest and steadied her hand as Draco gently withdrew from her mind, the tether loosening.

He rubbed his shoulder absently, as if shaking off a physical weight. “Granger, heads up, I don’t always need to be inside your head to stabilize your core with the easier memories,” he said quietly. “So if there’s anything you want to keep to yourself…”

Hermione met his eyes, her voice clipped but sincere. “I’ll tell you before we start.”

Draco gave a brief nod, the hint of a smile playing at the corner of his lips. “Good. See you in two days.”

“Goodbye, Malfoy.”

They parted with a quiet understanding, the weight of what was ahead tempered slightly by the fragile, warming trust growing between them.

Chapter Text

The second floor was quicker.

Hermione knew it the moment the staircase curved and the familiar stone archway of memory opened before them. The walls here bore no jagged ridges, no twisted shadows - just corridors, calm and flickering, like torch-lit hallways in the actual Hogwarts. This part of her mind was easier to walk through. She recognized it as the collection of moments she'd preserved in secret, even while held captive - fragments of Hogwarts, stitched together in her mind like scraps of sunlight sewn onto grey cloth.

These memories had once been her anchor. In the darkness of the dungeons beneath Malfoy Manor, she had clung to them like prayers. Harry’s laughter echoing down the Gryffindor corridor. Ron’s muddy footprints beside hers outside Hagrid’s hut. The thrum of spellwork in the library, the feel of a book's cracked leather under her fingertips.

But now, as she stood among them again, they felt...hollow. Empty containers that had already served their purpose.

“They’re like old photographs,” she murmured, watching a flicker of a memory, herself scribbling in the margins of a textbook in the common room, crook of her elbow pressed against parchment. “I used them to survive. But I don’t need them anymore.”

Andromeda, standing at her side with quiet observance, gave a soft nod. “Then we let them go. If you're believe you're ready, we can attempt a discard. This level of detachment makes it easier, but it will take more magical effort. From both of you.”

Hermione glanced at Draco. He was already sitting close. Her hand coiled over his unmarked forearm today, just enough to maintain the connection needed. His expression was guarded, but she saw the tension beneath the surface. This process took more out of him each time, she could tell. Still, he gave her the smallest nod.

“I’m fine,” he said, voice quiet, steady. “Do what you need to.” 

Andromeda led the ritual gently.

"Alright, you go in first, Draco."

And Draco cast the Legilimens spell easily, inside Hermione's mind, right next to her on the Second Floor.

Andromeda reached out now, placing two fingers over Hermione’s temple - not to enter her mind, but to help her channel the intent.

“Visualize the memories as objects. Imagine them in a room. Burn them, scatter them, seal them in a vault - however your mind chooses. Your magic will follow your will.”

Hermione inhaled slowly, then closed her eyes.

The room in her mind shifted. The Hogwarts memories condensed into floating orbs, like soft lanterns suspended in the air.

"Wonderful. Now burst them."

And Hermione tried, every orb resonating with erratic energy, but before she knew it, she was being pulled to the real world.

She opened her eyes to see a pale Draco and a worried Andromeda.

"What happened?"

"I pulled you out, dear."

"Why?"

"My sweet girl, you can't go through an entire floor's worth of memories with one burst of energy. You have to be diligent. And cautious."

"Heavy on the cautious part, Granger." Draco said, through gritted teeth, beads of sweat on his forehead. Andromeda ran her fingers through his hair, cooling him down.

"You were about to fry your Healer, sweetheart." Andromeda explained kindly to Hermione. Immediately she let go of his arm, but he kept holding on. Then, without any proper warning, he cast it again.

"Legilimens."

She was back with the orbs, Draco close by. Taking a deep breath, she reached up and touched one. It flickered briefly, and then dimmed, dissolving into thin wisps of gold that faded into the air.

She moved methodically after that. Calm. Detached.

Draco remained beside her. She felt his magic threading through her, keeping her grounded, but he didn’t speak. Didn’t intrude. At some point, she realized he'd stepped back from her consciousness entirely, allowing her full space to work, not watching the memories with her. His only presence was the grounding warmth of his skin on hers, the tether.

She was grateful for it.

“I thought I’d feel...sad,” she admitted softly, as another memory vanished with a shimmer. “But I just feel...done.”

Andromeda spoke from nearby. “That’s what healing feels like, sometimes. Not like breaking, but unclenching.”

Hermione discarded the last memory -a quiet winter morning at the edge of the Black Lake, snowflakes on her lashes- and opened her eyes. Her hand trembled slightly, and she realized her energy was surging now, as if gasping after a long-held breath. Andromeda seemed to notice it too, as she was checking the monitorization charm.

The tether was staggering.

Andromeda's eyes widened, gaze immediately snapping to Draco.

There wasn't much to see, to the untrained eye -just a slight wobble in place- but it was enough to make Andromeda step forward quickly and place a hand on his shoulder.

“Too much?” Hermione asked, concern rising.

Andromeda checked his temperature, then the monitor again.

"He'll be fine, but that's it for today. You should let go of him, dear."

And Hermione hadn't even realized they were still holding onto each other. She pulled away at once. The man's posture slipped the moment they did so.

Andromeda tilted Draco's head up to meet his eyes, asking,

"Good?" 

He waved her off, pale but composed. “Just a lot of energy shifting around. I’ll be fine.” His voice was hoarse. Andromeda let him go, convinced enough, but it was Hermione who was worried now.

“You should’ve said something,” Hermione said.

“I didn’t want to interrupt,” he muttered. “You were doing well.”

There was a silence between them, quiet, but not uncomfortable.

“Thank you for giving me space in there.”

He looked at her then, eyes shadowed with exhaustion but something else too. Something softer.

“You didn’t need me in there this time,” he said.

Hermione didn’t answer. She didn’t need to.

And then Andromeda stepped between them again, voice brisk. “We’ll stop here for today. You’ve both given enough. The next floor will be harder, if the trend is anything to go by.”

“Third floor?” Hermione asked.

Andromeda nodded. “Do you remember what you had in there?”

Hermione looked up at the stairs above, narrowing into shadow.

“Not yet.”

"Well, we'll cross that bridge when we get to it." The older witch answered.

And for now, she turned back. One day -one floor- at a time.

Chapter Text

The third floor, however, was like a graveyard.

Not cold. Not violent. But quiet - too quiet. A silence that sat under the skin like a bruise, pulsing with the memory of violence.

Hermione hesitated just outside the corridor. Her eyes, dark with exhaustion, swept the hallway lined with closed doors. Each one was identical. Each one labeled. But Draco felt the change in her before they even stepped through.

Her magic went still. Not dead, but brittle. Tight, like a thread stretched too far.

“This is the floor where I kept them,” she said at last, voice soft, but tight in her throat. “The Death Eaters. I remember now. Every one I could remember by name or face. I thought… if something happened to me, someone would need to know.”

Andromeda made a faint note on her parchment. “The energy cost will be higher here, Hermione. You’re already running low from the previous two sessions. I need you to be honest with me if it gets too much.”

“I can do it,” Hermione said immediately. Then again, quieter, as if to herself: “I need to do it.”

Draco said nothing, only taking out his wand to cast.

The moment he was in, his hand in hers flared with heat.

Her core was resisting - not out of trauma, but grief.

Not like the second floor, where memories had been filed like books in a library. This was different. These were fragments soaked in pain, curated for justice. Hermione wasn’t sorting anymore.

She was confronting.

The first door opened: Yaxley.

A shout. A flash of green light. The body of a Hogwarts student collapsing mid-run through a hallway.

Hermione flinched but didn’t stop. Her hand tightened in Draco’s, and the magic tether between them pulsed hard enough to make his head ring.

The next: Selwyn.

More screams. A burning cottage. A mother shielding a child.

Draco flinched slightly. Another pulse.

Hermione didn’t notice.

Her magical output was ramping higher with each door. She wasn’t channeling it. She was leaking it. Bleeding it through her grief. Her energy flickered visibly now, gold and scarlet sparks escaping in uncontrolled bursts like the snapping of a frayed wand core.

Draco pulsed more of his own energy into the tether to stabilize her. 

His heart fluttered in his throat.

He could feel her fatigue like it was his own. And then, under it, a slow, cold hunger. Her magical reserves were draining too fast. Her grief was a hole, and her energy was emptying into it.

“Granger,” he said quietly. “You need to slow down.”

She didn’t respond.

Next door: Travers.

He saw her muscles twitch slightly. Her breath came ragged.

Andromeda’s voice snapped sharply. “Pause here. Both of you.”

Hermione didn’t listen. She reached for the next handle -Avery- and this time, Draco caught her wrist, still inside her mind.

“Granger. Stop.”

She looked at him then, as if she hadn’t realized he was still there.

“Draco,” Andromeda warned, eyes narrowed on his pallor. “What’s your pulse rate?”

“Low.” He said, still trying to pull Hermione out of her own mind.

“You’re flushed. How many stabilization pulses have you used?”

He didn’t answer. His legs felt like stone, and the magic in his fingers had begun to prickle—burning along the tether like it wanted to retreat.

“You’re grounding her too aggressively. You need to pull back.”

“I can’t,” he said through clenched teeth. “She’s not stable enough without it. If I lose control, we both do.”

“She’s draining you,” Andromeda said flatly. “And that means if you fall, she will collapse right behind you anyway. You have to be strategic.”

“I’m trying, but she won’t stop—”

And Hermione was already reaching for another door.

The room opened on a young girl, cornered against a crumbling wall, her wand held between her teeth as she scribbled something in blood across a page.

Draco sucked in a breath. Hermione swayed.

He sent another pulse of energy into the tether, yet again, having to put his head on his own knee to not completely topple over, taking deep breaths, gripping her hand harder. His vision blurred for a moment. Sweat trickled down his spine despite the cold.

Andromeda cursed and raised both hands, casting a buffering charm around them. “That’s it. No more. Hermione, look at me.”

Draco pulled out easily, exhausted. 

But Hermione barely turned to her.

Her eyes were glassy. Dark. She was shivering now, her skin paper-pale. Her magic was surging toward him without her control—like a tide seeking a drain.

And then… the last door was shut.

The floor was empty again.

And Hermione folded.

Not loudly. Not violently. Just folded.

She let out one broken, breathless sound—part gasp, part sob—and sank to the ground, hands over her face. Her whole body trembled, silent sobs racking her frame.

But it wasn’t silence, not really. It was the kind of crying that made the air thinner. That turned gravity cruel.

Andromeda didn’t speak. She just lowered her wand slowly and nodded once, as if she’d expected this. She checked the monitors.

“Well, she’s not unstable,” she said softly, turning to Draco. “This isn’t a flare. These are emotions. Repressed too long.”

Draco nodded, trying to push himself off the couch, but his legs gave out. So he sat hard on the floor beside Hermione, breathing heavily.

His entire body was shaking. Still, he was concerned for her.

“Should I call someone?” he asked, the words catching on the edge of his tongue. “A Healer? She looks—”

“My dear boy,” Andromeda said gently, crouching beside him, “if anyone needs a Healer here, it is you. Emotions are meant to be felt. Not fixed. Let her cry.”

Still, Draco couldn’t stop watching her.

The sound of her heartbreak -so quiet, so private- scraped something raw inside him.

Andromeda reached out, touched the back of his neck; gentle, maternal. Her brow furrowed. She gave him a potion. He swallowed it down without asking of its contents. She explained anyway.

“You’re overheated. And your levels are low too.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“No,” she said simply. “You won’t. Not if we continue without adjustment. We need longer breaks. Better potion support. And you need shielding.”

“I have shielding.”

“I don’t mean Occlumency. I mean a way to short-circuit the tether when she doesn’t want to. I should have thought of this outcome before it happened, should have interfered before, Merlin…”

“I was in control, I just... didn’t want to interrupt her.”

Andromeda gave him a long look. Then glanced back at Hermione, who was curled forward now, forehead on her knees, silent and still. She sighed, tired out as well.

“I know, Draco. You’re good to her.”

After a long while, Draco met Andromeda’s gaze. “When do we leave?”

“Whenever you’re ready.”

He didn’t ask permission. He just took Hermione’s hand again, gently this time, and when she didn’t resist, pulled her close. She pressed her face against his shoulder, still trembling. He left the smallest peck on top of her head, allowing himself a moment of rest with her before pulling away, and with a soft crack, Disapparated straight to his bed.

Chapter Text

They descended again, a week later.

Or at least, that's how it felt, like descending into something colder, closer to the earth. Into the marrow of her grief.

Hermione was pale before they even started. She’d known what was next. She hadn’t asked to delay. She simply nodded when Andromeda said, “Are you ready?”

 Her jaw clenched. Her eyes were dry. But her fingers trembled where they rested in her lap.

Draco moved to sit beside her, his knee brushing hers. “I’ll only anchor,” he said, voice low.

“Touch only if she destabilizes,” Andromeda warned. “This floor might be different.”

He nodded, casting the spell. But inside, he already knew he wouldn’t be able to sit still.

Hermione closed her eyes.

---

The Fourth Floor didn’t look like the others.

It wasn’t built like a corridor. There were no rooms, no doors. Just an endless, open space - wide, white, and echoing like snowfall across marble.

And in that emptiness, ghosts stood still.

Fred. Tonks. Lupin. Lavender. Colin Creevey. Dobby. Even Dumbledore, though that memory was older. And others, quieter losses, tucked in the corners of memory - students who hadn’t made it through the Battle, civilians who’d crossed her path for only a heartbeat, and yet had clung to her conscience like wet leaves.

Faces she’d Occluded because they took up too much room in her heart. Because grief had once made her magic collapse inward instead of flare outward. She couldn’t afford that vulnerability, not when she still had a war to survive.

Now, they waited for her. Silent. Solid.

Hermione took one step forward.

The memory flickered as she neared. Fred’s voice, frozen in some remembered moment, rang out.

“You know, Granger, for someone who claims to be so clever, you really are awful at chess.”

She almost smiled. Almost.

But then the memory continued, unbidden.

“If I don’t make it, give Mum a hell of a time, yeah? Tell her I finally beat George at something.”

Her breath caught.

Fred’s image faded like smoke. Hermione’s chest convulsed. Her body shuddered in both realms. But something shifted.

Instead of imploding like before, her magic began radiating outward.

Not a flare. Not a surge.

But a bleed.

Blue energy shimmered at the tips of her fingers, trailing in slow pulses. Where it touched Draco’s skin, when he took her wrist to steady her, it burned.

“Shit,” he hissed.

His skin sizzled faintly, welts rising under his palm.

“It’s not from you,” Andromeda said immediately, monitoring with a frantic pace. “It’s her. She’s casting off emotional magic, not siphoning yours. That’s why it stings.”

“Then let’s let her,” Draco ground out. “She needs to release it.”

He kept his grip firm. Her fingers twitched in his grasp, but she didn’t pull away.

Next, Tonks and Remus stood side by side. Their silhouettes were dimmer, already losing clarity in the dust of time. A memory long buried.

Remus’s voice was soft.

“We wanted Teddy to grow up in a better world. That doesn’t happen without sacrifices.”

Tonks reached out, fingers brushing Hermione’s as the memory played.

“Tell Harry he’s godfather for a reason. Tell him to make it count.”

Their faces blurred. Hermione staggered back. Draco stepped forward, caught her.

“Don’t look away,” he said. “Let it hurt.”

“It already does.”

“Then let it burn.”

And it did.

Each memory she faced left heat marks on his skin. Not deep wounds, but enough to leave ghost-shaped scorches where her grief leaked through.

Draco bore it silently.

She looked at the last figure. Dobby.

“I should’ve saved you.” Her voice cracked, and when she collapsed to her knees in front of the little elf, sobbing into the dirt of her own mind, he crouched beside her and didn’t let go.

Her magic began to shake loose from her fingers - quiet blue sparks that flickered, dimmed, returned. She was losing cohesion. Her mind wavered. The floor shifted beneath her.

Draco grabbed her wrist.

“Let them go,” he said. “Not the memory. The guilt.”

In the mindscape, Hermione finally turned away from the figures. Not dismissing them. Just stepping forward. Not forgetting—but surviving.

They didn’t disappear.

They stayed.

But they no longer blocked her path.

She reached the end of the hall.

And opened the door.

The moment she surfaced, Hermione gasped as if drowning.

Tears were already falling. Not quiet ones this time.

She curled in on herself, pressing fists to her eyes, and sobbed—huge, wracking sobs that tore from her like fire from a broken wand.

“I should’ve saved him -them- I should’ve—” she choked out.

Draco, still dazed from the residual scorch marks trailing up his hands all the way to his biceps, tried to touch her shoulder.

"Granger—”

“Don’t. Don’t touch me. It’s my fault. I knew it. I should’ve been faster, smarter, better—”

“You couldn’t have—”

“I could have—” she cried, rocking, breath hitching uncontrollably. “Fred, Tonks, Remus -Lavender screamed for me, and I ran. I ran—”

Andromeda approached, eyes unusually tight.

“This isn’t like last time. She’s in emotional crisis. Still not stable, at least not after you let go,” she murmured. “We need to intervene before all this excess this feeds back into her core.”

“Ok, so I’ll just—” Draco began, reaching out for her.

"No, don’t touch her again. She’ll override your stability. Her magic is flaring at a dangerous frequency. I’m administering a Calming Draught.”

She withdrew a vial from her robes and knelt.

“Hermione. Look at me, darling.”

No response.

She was shaking too hard, eyes wild and far away, lost in the collapsing field of her mind.

Andromeda touched her chin gently and tipped the potion into her mouth. Hermione sputtered, but swallowed.

A few seconds passed.

Then her body slackened. Not limp. Not numb. Just… softened. Her sobs quieted to small hiccups. Her arms dropped from around her knees.

And Draco Disapparated.

---

The rush of wind hit him first, then the sting of cold air as his boots met the wet grass. Above, the moon hung low and heavy. He spotted Potter and Ginny looping through the sky on their brooms, cackling, and whistled sharply, casting a bright, unwavering Lumos.

Ginny landed hard, her ponytail whipping behind her like a banner of fire. She stalked toward him with narrowed eyes.

“Come to take House points out of spite, Malfoy? It’s our patrol night.”

Her voice was chipper, but defensive. Draco didn’t rise to meet it.

“For once in your life, Weasley, learn to listen first.”

His tone wasn’t sharp, just… exhausted.

Harry descended moments later, wand still out, reading the tension between them like weather.

“What’s going on?” he asked.

“It’s Granger,” Draco said, dragging a hand through his hair. “She’s… sort of unstable. Grieving. Deeply. Andromeda says it’s a breakthrough, but she shouldn’t be alone.”

Ginny’s brow furrowed.

“How bad?”

“Bad enough that she’s gone quiet. She’s lucid, but drowning. I came to Apparate one of you to St. Mungo’s. McGonagall doesn’t know. It has to be fast.”

There was a pause.

Ginny blinked, then stepped forward, not hostile this time, just steady.

“Let’s go. I reckon she’s had enough of boys trying and failing to comfort her for a lifetime.”

Draco didn’t argue. He just offered his arm.

---

The room smelled of ozone and wandfire. When they appeared, Hermione was still crying, but it wasn’t movement anymore. It was just… happening. Her body trembled as if her soul was still unspooling.

She sat upright in bed, eyes glazed and fixed on something no one else could see.

Ginny surged forward instinctively, but Draco caught her wrist.

“Don’t. Her magical output’s too high.”

Ginny hesitated, gaze darting to the monitor above Hermione’s bed - magic levels almost glowing red.

“Is she burning out?”

“No. She’s leaking grief magic. Excreting it. It doesn’t drain like fear - it sears.” 

“Sears?” 

Draco showed her his arms from under his robes.

“Sears.”

But before Ginny could even ask, Draco circled around to sit at Hermione’s side. The gesture -quiet, reverent- startled Ginny more than the explanation.

“Granger,” he said softly, resting a hand on her forehead.

Her skin was clammy with sweat. She didn’t blink. Just sat, crying silently.

Draco glanced at the charm again. Too high.

“Hey, tell me what you need.”

“Out,” she whispered. “I want out.”

“It’s past midnight.”

“I don’t care. I can’t breathe in here.”

He looked at her, really looked, and saw what she wasn’t saying. Then he glanced at Ginny.

“What if I brought you a change of pace in here?”

Hermione didn’t respond at first.

Then:

“What?”

Draco stood and stepped aside. And then Ginny stepped forward. Hermione’s head snapped up. Her eyes went wide.

“Gin!”

It was a sound that didn’t belong in a hospital: raw, too bright with hope. She launched forward, arms open, and Ginny caught her just in time. The hug knocked the air from her lungs, but she didn’t let go.

Hermione laughed -a breathy, strangled sound- and it crumbled into sobs almost instantly.

Ginny adjusted, climbing fully into the bed, cradling her friend in both arms as Hermione wept against her shoulder.

Draco didn’t speak. He sat, silent, hands clasped between his knees. The monitor beeped softly in the background. The light dimmed as Andromeda’s charms lowered the ward for sleep.

“Want to talk about it?” Ginny murmured.

“No.”

But the truth spilled anyway.

“I thought Bellatrix got one of you with that blade back then, you know? And I just… Godric, I wished she would just kill me right then and there. Then you were at school, and the Carrows came every three nights with a student in tow and I heard the screams, I heard all the screams, all the begging… I tried to identify the voices, but I never could, and I just thought, what if the next one's Ginny? Or Neville? Or Luna? What then?”

Ginny stroked her hair, eyes closed.

“They never got to us, Hermione. Not once.”

Hermione nodded. But it didn’t settle anything.

And then, barely audible—

"When he came for me at the Manor, I thought he loved me back.”

Ginny stilled.

Draco looked up. His jaw tightened, but he didn’t interrupt.

“He did,” Ginny whispered. “He loved you. So much.”

Hermione’s energy spiked. The diagnostic charm flashed yellow. Draco sat straighter.

“Don’t defend him,” Hermione snapped. “You know what he did.”

“I'm not defending him. I don’t even talk to him nowadays. But what you had—it mattered. Even if he ruined it.”

“Yeah, well, clearly it should have stayed a memory of the war, since he decided to cheat on me the moment we were out of it." 

"But—"

"No, Ginny! No buts!" Hermione raised her voice, zaps of magic cracking at her fingertips, and Ginny immediately cowered and apologized, whereas Draco was springing to his feet.

"Give me your hand, your levels are too high."

"I thought we were done for today."

"We were done, but you're about to scorch your best friend." 

And begrudgingly, Hermione grabbed Draco's arm, harshly and right by the Mark. Ginny gasped once she saw it, but neither Hermione nor Draco paid her any mind as Draco pulled up his chair and sat, siphoning some of her magic. Steam hissed where their skin met. The smell of ozone filled the room.

Ginny's eyes were wide open at how natural they were at it by now, and she watched the monitor.

“Easy now,” he murmured, casting a silent cooling charm with his free hand.

"Sorry." Hermione whispered, eyes closing.

“It’s alright.”

Ginny stared at them. Not just the contact, but the way he held her. Like it wasn’t pain, but penance.

“How does this even work?” she asked softly.

Hermione’s energy surged again. Draco hissed. Her eyes snapped back over to him, almost falling out of their sockets at the sight of steam again. 

“Malfoy—” She tried to pull her hand back.

He caught her wrist before she could pull away.

“Better me than her, Granger.”

“Better no one than you." she said, angry now, but it cracked into something sad.

He didn’t let go.

“You’re coming down,” he said gently. “You’re safe.”

Hermione finally stilled. Her anger softened.

“I’m sorry I snapped,” she said to Ginny. “I could’ve hurt you.”

“I’m okay,” Ginny whispered, stunned. “We’re okay.”

Hermione looked at Draco. She saw the scorches.

“Ugh, that is enough. I’m fine,” she said, trying to pull away.

He shook his head.

“Want me to call Andromeda?”

She paused.

“...Fine.”

He nodded.

“Good. Try to sleep. We’ll stay.”

Hermione curled beside Ginny, her head in her lap. Draco stayed by her side, his hand still wrapped around hers.

He didn’t move all night.

---

A medi-witch found them just after dawn.

Hermione and Ginny were tangled together, asleep.

And Draco was sat beside the bed, face slack with exhaustion, one cheek resting against Hermione’s knee, hand still in hers, palm fully blistered.

---

The walk back to the castle was silent.

Ginny kept glancing at Draco when she thought he wasn’t looking. Not suspiciously. Just… differently.

She reached Gryffindor Tower. Harry met her there, already dressed for the day.

“How is she?” he asked.

"Sleeping,” Ginny said softly. “Finally.”

Harry studied her.

"You alright?”

She nodded.

“I didn’t expect it to be him,” she admitted.

'What?”

“The one who gets it. Who just sits with her and just…takes it."

Harry’s mouth curved into a knowing smile.

“That’s how it works.”

She blinked.

“That’s… a lot to ask of him. Unstable Hermione’s kind of scary, babe. You should have seen Malfoy’s arms, scorched all over, Merlin…” 

“He volunteered."

A long pause. Harry added:

“I’m going to testify for him, you know.”

Ginny glanced back down the corridor, where Draco had already disappeared.

“How many years are they saying?”

“117.”

“Bloody hell.”

Harry nodded. “I know.”

“He doesn’t deserve a life sentence.”

Harry shrugs. “I don't think he deserves any sentence. He’s the reason both me and Hermione are alive today. Surely that has to count for something. I have to make it count.”

She thought it over, then, went to peck her boyfriend on the lips, uttering.

“I hope you succeed.”

She had meant it.

Chapter Text

Theo was the first of their circle to get his estate and full inheritance reinstated by the Ministry. After months of legal back-and-forth, character testimonials, and far too many painfully formal Wizengamot hearings, the verdict was finally delivered: all charges cleared. The moment the gavel dropped, he was officially Lord Theodore Nott, Head of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Nott, complete with ancestral vaults, crumbling manors, and a suspiciously well-preserved collection of enchanted taxidermy.

Naturally, they decided to celebrate like absolute idiots.

It began at the Hog’s Head, as all bad decisions did. Firewhisky flowed like a cursed river, their voices growing louder with every round. Blaise ordered shots until the bartender squinted at him suspiciously and muttered something about “bloody overgrown schoolboys,” but continued pouring anyway.

At some point, Pansy conjured a ridiculous paper crown and forced it on Theo’s head while declaring him “His High and Extremely Tipsy Nobility.” He wore it the rest of the night with great pride.

The Three Broomsticks was next, where they loudly toasted to the downfall of Pureblood snobbery, danced on tabletops (well, Theo and Pansy did - Draco flatly refused), and convinced a poor, unsuspecting second-year to fetch them treacle tarts from Honeydukes under the guise of “serving the aristocracy.” There was a regrettable incident involving a levitating barrel, a misfired Jelly-Legs Jinx, and an unfortunate collision with the portrait of Barnabas the Barmy, who was not pleased and spent a full ten minutes berating them in verse. They only escaped when Pansy flirted with a wall sconce, claiming it was a Ministry official in disguise.

By the time they stumbled back up the castle’s endless staircases and into the Head Students' private corridor, the lot of them were a chaotic mess of limbs, laughter, and jingling contraband Butterbeer bottles stuffed into their coat pockets like poorly hidden secrets.

Draco lagged behind, frowning at nothing in particular as he tried to walk a straight line.

“You lot are bloody menaces,” he slurred, swiping his wand in a lazy, zigzag motion to unlock the wards. “This is illegal. I’m still technically under trial, you know. You’ll get me thrown into Azkaban for smuggling carbonated beverages.”

“Oh no,” Blaise gasped dramatically. “Not Azkaban! Merlin forbid the Wizengamot finds out you consumed something with bubbles.”

“If I go down,” Draco muttered, jabbing a finger at Theo’s chest, “I’m naming you all in the confession. Especially you. And you—” he turned to Pansy, “—for attempting to bribe a sentient wall torch.”

“That sconce was flirting with me,” Pansy huffed, tossing her curls over her shoulder. “Don’t blame me if it couldn’t handle rejection.”

“Merlin’s tits, you’re all insufferable,” Draco groaned, but he was grinning by the time they collapsed onto the overstuffed sofas of the common room, limbs tangling and coats dropping like feathers onto the rug.

Theo, red-faced and hiccupping in time with Blaise’s off-key rendition of Odo the Hero, reached into his coat and pulled out a long, rectangular package wrapped in deep green velvet. He staggered slightly, blinked down at it as if surprised it was still in his hands, then held it out toward Draco.

“Oi,” he said, nudging Draco’s knee with it. “For you.”

Draco blinked, caught between a snort and a hiccup. “Did you steal me a wine bottle? Because I’m not drinking anything with a serpent label unless I’ve seen the ingredients list and the brewer’s ancestry.”

“It’s not wine, you prat.” Theo thrust it at him again, less gracefully this time. “It’s a belated war present. Y’know, since we all forgot to throw you a ‘Congrats on Not Dying’ party.”

“You all forgot my birthday and my brush with mortal peril,” Draco muttered, taking the package with only a slight wobble. “You’re terrible friends.”

“We’re delightful friends,” Blaise corrected, now lying upside down on the sofa with one leg dangling off the back. “We’re just chronically late and emotionally stunted.”

“Speak for yourself,” Pansy said, conjuring another Butterbeer from her coat and flicking it open with her wand. “I cried twice during your trial.”

“Only because you thought you were going to inherit his wardrobe,” Draco shot back, tugging at the velvet ribbon.

She sniffed haughtily, but her smirk betrayed her. Blaise nudged her ankle with his boot, and Pansy’s eyes flicked to him with the smallest smile. She didn’t move away.

Draco peeled the wrapping slowly, fingers trembling slightly - not from sentiment, of course, just from the firewhisky. Probably.

As the last ribbon fell away, the package grew, to its original size.

Inside was a brand-new broomstick.

Sleek. Shiny. State-of-the-art.

He blinked. Once. Twice.

“The Phantomstrike.” he whispered, stunned. “This isn’t even out in Britain yet…”

Theo grinned, suddenly far too pleased with himself. “Got it imported. Pulled a few strings. Called in a few favors. Maybe threatened a goblin.”

Draco looked up at him, eyes wide. “You didn’t.”

“Oh, I did. Had to sign three contracts, swear on my family name, and listen to a lecture about financial responsibility from a creature that’s shorter than my desk lamp. Worth it.”

For a long moment, Draco said nothing. Then, suspiciously quickly, he looked away and cleared his throat.

“Is Draco… crying?” Pansy shrieked out.

“No, he won’t cry,” Blaise said confidently. “He’ll scowl sentimentally into the distance and try to pretend it’s indigestion.”

Draco huffed a breath that could have been a laugh. He ran his hand down the broom’s polished handle, reverent. “Thanks, mate.”

Theo rolled his eyes. “If you don’t use it in-game, I’m rescinding it.”

“And giving it to me,” Pansy cut in quickly, raising her hand like she was volunteering for a noble cause. “I’d look incredible on a broom. Just imagine the cape options.”

“You’d fall off in ten seconds,” Blaise muttered, grinning at her.

“Only if I wanted to.”

Blaise laughed, then glanced at her - and for a second, his smirk faltered. “I think you’d actually look kind of brilliant,” he added, quieter.

Pansy blinked. A flush crept up her cheeks. She rolled her eyes but didn’t say anything, just scooted a little closer to him on the couch. Their arms brushed. Neither moved away.

Draco chuckled softly, oblivious to the world, broomstick still cradled in his lap. “You’re all mad.”

“And you loooove us,” Theo grinned, slumping sideways against the armrest and immediately knocking over a half-empty Butterbeer bottle.

There was a fizzing pop and a splash, followed by a shriek from Blaise. “That was on my robes, you uncultured troll!”

“Fashion casualty,” Pansy said solemnly, and before Blaise could retort, she grabbed a cushion and pressed it gently against his arm, blotting the spot herself. “Oh, don’t pout, darling. You’re still devastatingly handsome.”

Blaise raised an eyebrow at her, clearly caught off guard.

Pansy didn’t answer. She simply leaned in and left a kiss on his cheek like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Draco leaned back, eyes heavy but content, the weight of the broom in his lap grounding him in something he hadn’t felt in a long time: home.

Then Blaise cleared his throat and said, far too casually, “Oh, by the way, there’s a Chaser Charge in three days.”

Draco blinked. “I’m sorry, what?”

Blaise stretched, looking far too smug for someone who’d just been doused in Butterbeer. “Chaser Charge. Three days. Friendly match. Well, mostly friendly. You’re flying, of course.”

“I - what?! Mate, no, I play Seeker.”

“No no no, I’ve got an idiot on the left flank, I need you and your brilliant mind there. You’re playing Chaser.”

Draco sat up so fast he nearly knocked over the broom. “Oh dear god, did Ginny Weasley get into your head too?”

“She... may have mentioned a thing or two. She will be the death of me, I tell you. She runs those Quaffles like one would a Bludger. She’s strong, and terribly fast… Almost got my head caved in once. I need your Seeker speed in the game, Draco.”

Pansy’s head snapped up off his shoulder, expression darkening just a fraction. “Oh? I didn’t realize you were spending that much time watching Ginny Weasley’s... Quaffles.”

Blaise froze, eyes wide. “No, I mean, not like that, she just - she’s violent!”

“Mmm.” Pansy narrowed her eyes, then, without a word, snuggled back against him and wrapped an arm around his, just a tad tighter than necessary.

Draco was trying not to laugh and failing at the scene.

Blaise, flustered and blushing now, coughed loudly and said, “Anyway. She plays dirty. The last time she flew past me she shouted ‘duck’ and then actually threw the Quaffle at my head.”

“Was that the time she hit you with a no-look reverse pass and you fainted mid-air?” Theo asked helpfully from the floor.

“It was strategic disorientation,” Blaise snapped. “And I still scored.”

“Yeah, because you faceplanted into the goalpost,” Theo added.

“Minor details.”

Draco groaned and leaned his head back against the couch. “You know, I just wanted a quiet week. Maybe pet my new broom. Whisper sweet nothings to it.”

“You’ll thank me when you’re mid-air, dodging death with style. It’s a lot more fun, trying not to die constantly instead of waiting around for a golden little asshole with wings.” Blaise said, a hopeful glint in his eyes now.

“...Fine. I'll try it out.” The blonde retorted, caving in. 

“If I do die, bury me with the Phantomstrike.”

“I’ll even put it on your tombstone,” Pansy grinned, still curled up beside Blaise. “‘Here lies Draco Malfoy: Lived fast, died flying, looked fantastic doing it.’”

He sighed, broom still in his arms. “You’re all going to kill me. One way or another.”

“And you’ll still love us,” Theo mumbled, already half-asleep, the paper crown still lopsided on his head.

Draco smiled despite himself.

Because yeah. He would.

Chapter Text

The pitch was alive with noise.

Scarves rippled in the breeze like dueling flags, and enchanted instruments from the Hufflepuff and Gryffindor sections tried to outdo each other with varying degrees of tuneless enthusiasm. Somewhere, a magical brass tuba was groaning out “Weasley Is Our King” while a group of Badgers attempted to drown it with tambourines and badger-themed maracas.

From the sidelines, Draco watched the chaos unfold with arms crossed and an eyebrow arched in disdain.

“Did someone confuse this for a county fair?” he muttered.

“Come off it, Malfoy,” came a familiar voice behind him, warm and sharp as firewhisky. “You’re just mad you’re not in the air yet.”

He turned to see Ginny Weasley standing a few feet away, helmet tucked under her arm and cheeks flushed from the brisk warm-up flights. Her red hair was braided tightly down her back, her eyes gleaming with the anticipation of blood sport - or perhaps just the game.

“Nice broom,” she added, nodding at the sleek, charcoal-black Phantomstrike beside him. 

“Mommy finally buy you a personality to go with it?”

Draco chuckled. “It’s a gift. From someone with taste.”

“Does it come with instructions?” she asked sweetly. “You’ll be playing Chaser now, which means you’ll need actual awareness on the pitch. Not just a flair for dramatics.”

“I’ll manage,” he said, deadpan.

“With that overinflated ego?”

“With an understanding of physics. You know, the Muggle thing.”

Ginny snorted. “Well, while you’re busy being clever, I’ll be out here being brilliant. Try to take notes.”

With that, she winked, turned, and launched into the air without another word.

“She respects you,” Blaise said behind him, hands in his pockets, watching her with an irritatingly smug expression.

“She does not.”

“Well, she’s never trash-talked Blaise before,” Pansy chimed in from the stands, legs crossed elegantly. “It’s the Weasley style, Draco. Quidditch threats and broom insults. Textbook.”

Draco rolled his eyes and focused back on the pitch as the first match began.

---

Match One: Hufflepuff vs. Gryffindor

The whistle blew, and the chaos began immediately. Four Bludgers screamed across the sky like cursed cannonballs, forcing even the Keepers to duck.

The Gryffindor Chasers -Ginny, Dean, and Natalie McDonald- moved like a pack of wolves: sharp, aggressive, fluid. Ginny took the lead, weaving between Bludgers like she had eyes in the back of her head.

“Watch how she cuts to the right then spins,” Blaise pointed out, his voice low beside Draco. “She uses a loop-flick to feint the Keeper. Then Dean follows the arc and distracts the opposing Chaser. They’ve been practicing that.”

“She’s reckless.”

“She’s effective,” Blaise corrected. “Don’t let her bait you into defending only her. She’ll hand the shot off last second. Especially if you’re watching her broom tail, which, we usually are.” He gulped. "She's bloody fast."

On the other side, Hufflepuff was doing their best - Ernie Macmillan even pulled off a risky behind-the-back pass that had the crowd on their feet - but Gryffindor was faster. Meaner. Hungrier.

By the end of the thirty minutes, the scoreboard read:

**Gryffindor: 190**

**Hufflepuff: 130**

Ginny landed to wild applause, flushed with victory and fire. As she made her way off the pitch, the Slytherin team stepped forward for their match against Ravenclaw.

She passed Draco slowly, brushing close enough for him to feel the residual magic still crackling off her broom.

She slowed down, didn’t look at him, just murmured as she passed, “Win this round so I can eat you alive in the finale.”

Draco blinked. Blaise cackled.

“You’re so fucked.”

---

The sun had clouded over slightly by the time Slytherin and Ravenclaw took the field.

A gust of wind rolled across the pitch, flapping the green-and-silver banners in a chorus of hisses, as if the very air whispered threats. Draco mounted his new broom, fingers curling tightly around the handle. The Phantomstrike hummed beneath him like a living thing - fast, wild, impatient.

“Ready?” Blaise asked, eyes scanning the opposing formation.

“As I’ll ever be,” Draco muttered.

“You stay on my left flank. I’ll draw heat. You strike. That’s it.”

“That’s it?” Draco echoed.

Blaise grinned. “Don’t overthink. But also don’t underthink. And also, remember, it’s not a Snitch, the Quaffle will hurt to pass at first.”

The whistle screamed, and chaos unfolded.

The Bludgers went feral immediately, howling like banshees through the air. Ravenclaw’s Chasers were fast, clever, and ruthlessly coordinated. Anthony Goldstein was their spine, Padma Patil their unpredictability, and Michael Corner had a brutal overhand throw that nearly knocked their Keeper off his broom in the opening minute.

Draco darted forward -too fast, too sharp, too Seeker- and immediately overshot a pass from Daphne. The Quaffle spun past his fingers and was intercepted by Goldstein, who laughed as he streaked away.

“Got caught in the wind, Malfoy?!” Corner yelled after him.

Draco gritted his teeth and looped hard around the pitch, pushing his Phantomstrike into a tight corkscrew to dodge a Bludger.

“Cut the showboating!” Blaise shouted, whipping a no-look pass to Daphne. “Work the play, not the broom!”

Daphne - an absolute goddess in green and silver, her ponytail slicing through the air like a whip- banked left and shot the Quaffle to Draco again. He caught it this time, barely, fingers burning from the impact.

His muscles screamed at the shift -this wasn’t like Seeking, indeed. No vertical darting, no diving for a singular point of light. This was movement, all angles, strategy, peripheral vision. He was tracking too many targets, thinking in the wrong direction.

But then-

He stilled.

Watched.

And remembered what Ginny had said: “You’ve got the build for it: broad shoulders, long arms, strong upper body. I mean, you're quick, sure, but you always struck me as more analytical, not afraid to play a bit dirty, you know? And Chasers need that edge. Seeker felt too… precious.”

He recalibrated. This wasn’t an elegant play. It never should have been.

Next pass, he didn’t go for the Quaffle. He watched the Ravenclaw Keeper’s eyes. Not where he was. Where he was about to be.

And then, on instinct, he moved.

The Phantomstrike screamed forward -tight, low, silent- and he shot the Quaffle into the lower left goal ring before the Keeper even reached the post.

The crowd roared.

Blaise whooped from above. “THAT’S IT!”

“Fucking finally!” Daphne shouted, already mid-spin.

Draco fell into rhythm. He became the blade, sharp and fast and surgical. Ravenclaw started to double-team Blaise, their trained captain, leaving Draco space - and he exploited it. He used their eyes against them. He used their assumptions.

He used every bit of Seeker intuition to become a predator.

“INSIDE!” Blaise barked. Draco shifted with him.

“NOW!” Daphne called. Draco broke the feint and cut between two Ravenclaws, snatching the Quaffle from mid-air, spinning and scoring in one clean, vicious strike.

By the final five minutes, sweat was pouring down Draco’s back, and his ribs ached from dodging Bludgers that felt increasingly homicidal.

The scoreboard read:

**Slytherin: 170**

**Ravenclaw: 140**

Ravenclaw pushed hard in the final stretch. Corner managed a late goal that brought it even closer, and the stands were on fire with noise. Even the professors were on their feet now.

And then—

Daphne snatched the Quaffle from mid-pitch and hurled it at Draco, who veered up, and instead of catching it, flicked it behind him.

“BLAISE!”

The captain dived. A sharp downward arc, fast as lightning.

He caught it underhanded, twisted the trajectory, and launched it through the right hoop as the Keeper tried to track Draco, who should have had the ball.

**Final score: 180 to 150.**

Slytherin won.

The air exploded.

Blaise shouted something wordless and triumphant, slapping Draco hard on the back. Daphne whooped and looped around them in a dazzling aerial circle, grinning like the absolute powerhouse she was.

They landed to raucous cheers from the Slytherin section. Pansy was on her feet, clapping like mad, and Theo looked half-drunk with pride already.

Draco pulled off his helmet, panting, flushed, and aching in places he didn’t even know had muscles.

And there, just off to the side of the pitch, Ginny Weasley stood watching.

She met his gaze across the grass.

And with a faint, smug smile, she nodded. Just once.

I told you so.

---

By the time the sun reached its golden descent, the air above the pitch was crackling - tension, magic, and adrenaline mingling like a storm about to break.

The final match.

Gryffindor vs. Slytherin.

The crowd was feral. Students screamed from the stands, waving house banners like war flags. McGonagall had conjured extra barriers along the sidelines. Even Flitwick looked grim.

Draco mounted his broom and exhaled through his teeth. Across the pitch, the Head Girl looked every bit like a devil in scarlet, getting a pep talk from her boyfriend. Her hair was a flame behind her, her stance lethal as she kept nodding at Harry, and at last, left a peck on his lips, moving away to sharpen her focus.

Next to her, Natalie bounced in place, and Dean Thomas cracked his knuckles.

Already hovering in front of the goal hoops, Ron Weasley looked pale, serious, and pissed.

“Ready?” Blaise barked beside him.

Draco didn’t answer. He narrowed his eyes, slid on his gloves, and waited for the whistle.

It blew.

And hell broke loose.

The Bludgers launched like cannon fire. One missed Daphne’s head by inches as she ducked and screamed, “ARE YOU KIDDING ME?”

Ginny shot forward, slicing between Blaise and Draco with terrifying precision, nearly clipping his shoulder. She had the Quaffle. Draco chased.

But she was faster than she had any right to be. Every turn, every shift, she anticipated the field like she’d drawn it herself.

She scored within the first thirty seconds.

The girl was a natural. 

“SHIT!” Blaise shouted. “Tighten the line!”

Gryffindor played dirty. Every pass was a threat. Every fake was a trap. Natalie elbowed Daphne in the ribs hard enough to turn her sideways on the broom. Dean swore like a sailor and played like he had a death wish.

Perhaps he did.

Blaise scored once. Draco got one in on pure luck.

Ginny scored three in a row.

The score flew:

**Gryffindor: 90**

**Slytherin: 70**

Then a Bludger screamed across the pitch and struck Draco's shoulder. He dropped the Quaffle into Blaise's un-expecting hands mid-play, teeth clenched.

“Mate!” Blaise growled. “Shake it off!”

“I am,” Draco hissed, his entire arm on fire.

“Hit them back!”

So he did.

The next dive, Draco used his Seeker speed to fake a loop and came in low under Dean’s broom. With a vicious twist, he hurled the Quaffle like a bullet, and effectively knocked brooms with the tall wizard, sending him hurling toward Ginny flanking him.

Daphne scored before the Gryffindors were able to get back in formation, Draco catching the Quaffle behind their hoops, immediately back in play.

As he hovered, in midfield now, circling above the goalposts, his gaze locked on the Weasel, clutching the broom handle like it owed him something. His jaw was set, eyes sweeping the field - slow, distracted. Draco saw the weakness.

The rage truly bloomed.

And when it did, it was cold.

Clinical.

Searing.

He had cheated on her.

The Quaffle burned in his hand.

He tried lying to her face, then cried foul when she broke.

Draco’s fingers tightened on the leather.

He had almost cost her everything—her place here, her wand, her sanity.

He inhaled sharply through his teeth.

No one had seen Hermione that day in the Hospital Wing except Draco. No one had watched her disassociate, curl inward, magic flickering like a dying star. No one had cleaned up the wreckage of her soul.

Draco had.

Draco had.

Ron was just a Keeper.

But Draco was a weapon. 

And he had the Quaffle.

He darted left, then looped around mid-air, slicing between Dean and Blaise in a tight spiral. Ginny shouted something behind him at her ex-boyfriend/teammate, but he barely registered the conversation. His eyes were locked -narrowed- on Ron, who was drifting slightly right, adjusting his gloves.

Perfect.

Draco twisted, tucked the Quaffle close, then hurled it.

Not at the other goalposts.

At Ron’s chest.

Direct.

Dead-center.

Merciless.

It left his hand like a curse.

The red blur crossed the pitch in a blink and slammed into Ron’s sternum with a thunderous crack.

The Gryffindor Keeper gasped, eyes wide, and tumbled backward—

Off the broom.

The stadium gasped in unison.

Draco didn’t flinch.

He hovered, panting, eyes narrowed as Ron hit the ground hard. The sound of impact echoed over the pitch. For a beat, no one moved.

Then Madam Hooch blew the whistle frantically. Gryffindors screamed foul. McGonagall stood. Ginny screamed, purely rage.

“ASSWIPE!”

Draco didn’t blink. “He caught it,” he snapped. “Not my fault his chest is made of paper.”

But inside, he was still vibrating.

You deserve worse, Weasel.

You don’t get to walk away clean.

Ron groaned from the grass, clutching his ribs. Madam Pomfrey sprinted onto the field with a stretcher.

The game paused.

For five tense minutes, no one moved, the players hung mid-air.

Then McGonagall’s voice rang out, amplified:

“Continue.”

Gryffindor replaced Ron with a backup Keeper, but the mood had shifted. The lions were out for blood now. Ginny’s eyes burned like coals. She flew like she had nothing to lose. She screamed out barely-legal plays. Dean and Natalie followed like hounds on a trail.

Slytherin fought back tooth and claw. Blaise took a Bludger mid-air trying to intercept a pass. Daphne blocked Ginny once, only to get a scream of “MOVE, BITCH!” in her face, and an elbow to the stomach.

The Quaffle flew between hands like fire, no time to breathe, no time to think.

Blaise scored again.

Then Ginny.

Then Draco again, narrowly dodging two Bludger and twisting mid-air to shoot.

Then Ginny scored twice in a row.

The score was 210 to 200, with one minute on the clock.

Daphne had the ball, and their last-effort play was already painfully obvious.

This can’t end well, Draco thought as he caught the Quaffle, only to be struck in the back with a Bludger at the exact moment. The impact cut his speed, and the Quaffle fell out of his hand, into Dean’s, as he doubled over in agony.

Gryffindor scored again. The clock ran out. 

They won.

But it felt like war.

When the whistle blew, the pitch exploded into shouts and curses. Gryffindors cheered and tackled Ginny mid-air. Blaise looked murderous. Daphne spat blood into the grass, screaming something about a foul.

Ginny had thrown the last Bludger. With her bare hands.

The final 10 points were struck from the tally, but it hadn’t mattered, in the end. The Lions were still up by 10.

Draco hovered, panting, trembling, his injured shoulder a deadweight.

Ginny turned.

Met his eyes.

And -grinning, sweat-slick, gloriously disheveled- she shouted:

“TOLD YOU I’D EAT YOU ALIVE!”

Draco gave her a crooked smirk, along with a shrug.

She laughed heartily, flying closer to hover next to him, clapping him on the back.

“So? Was I right?”

Draco chuckled, ribs hurting with every move.

“Yeah.”

Ginny grinned, high from the win. 

“I always am. It’s a shame, though, I made my job harder for no reason.”

Draco turned to look at her. After a moment, she nodded cautiously.

“You’re... good, Malfoy. Not as good as me, of course, but still. You’re going to cause a problem for my team come the start of the season.” And with that, she flew away, back to her teammates. 

He descended slowly, as the Phantomstrike hummed beneath him, chest still heaving. Blaise landed with a growl in front of him. Daphne had already collapsed on the grass, starfish-shaped, whispering something about needing a whiskey and a foot massage.

As Madam Pomfrey screamed at three different players and McGonagall shouted about detentions for foul language, the banners of the four Houses waved over a pitch that now looked like a battlefield.

And in the center of it all, Draco Malfoy -newly minted Chaser, bruised and sweaty- felt more alive than he had in years.

Chapter Text

When Draco walked into Hermione’s ward at St. Mungo’s, he expected a quiet study session. What he didn’t expect was the look she gave him before he even set down his satchel: bright-eyed, suspiciously amused.

She didn’t bother with a greeting. Just said, “So. You’re playing Quidditch again.”

He gave her a look. “Let me guess. Potter couldn’t keep his mouth shut.”

“He said you were terrifying,” she said, folding her arms. “And that you obliterated Ravenclaw.”

“That's dramatic. We only beat them by thirty points.”

“And then you injured Ron.”

Draco offered a lazy shrug. “He was in the way.”

Hermione arched an eyebrow. “Of a Bludger?”

“No,” Draco said, flipping open his Transfiguration text. “Quaffle.”

She blinked. “You threw the Quaffle at him? Directly?”

“Correct.”

“Malfoy!”

He didn’t flinch. “He’s fine.”

Her mouth parted in quiet disbelief before curling into an unwilling smile. “You’re a menace.”

“I’ve been called worse.”

She shook her head but softened. “Still… no Beaters? That sounds like a disaster waiting to happen.”

“Wasn’t far off. I took an aimed Bludger to the back, courtesy of your best friend."

"Harry?"

"No. The She-Devil herself. Anyway, Blaise nearly got a concussion, and Daphne’s hair caught on fire at one point.”

Hermione blinked again. “What?!”

“She’s fine. Put it out with her wand mid-dive.”

Hermione snorted despite herself.

They studied in peace for a while, quills scratching against parchment, the May sun slanting across the desk. But she kept stealing glances at him. And eventually—

“Harry said you’ve got a new broom.”

Draco nodded. “Theo.”

She tilted her head. “Why would Theo—?”

“He gained Lordship last week,” Draco explained. “Felt like celebrating. Called it a ‘belated war present.’”

Hermione considered that. “That was… generous of him.”

“Don’t give him too much credit,” Draco said dryly. “It was probably Pansy’s idea to get me anything in the first place. She’s always had a way of coaxing gold out of his vault.”

Hermione smiled faintly. “She must care a lot about you.”

Draco’s quill paused. A small tear bloomed in the parchment where he pressed too hard.

“She’s protective,” he said after a moment. “Always has been.”

“Is she okay?” Hermione asked carefully. “With you being here most days, I mean?”

He didn’t answer immediately.

“I don’t really see how it would concern her.”

Hermione hesitated. “I just thought… weren’t you two—”

“Oh. No. That was in 5th. And a bit in 6th, near the end. Not anymore though.”

“Oh. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to assume.”

“It’s fine. All in the past now, been quite some time since we…” he trailed off. “Anyway. Nothing worth revisiting.”

Hermione nodded, fiddling with the edge of her notes. “But you’re still... close? I mean, it was a long relationship.”

“I suppose it was, but,”

He glanced up then, finally meeting her eyes.

“She’s family. We stick together.”

Hermione didn’t speak, but something shifted in her expression—an understanding, maybe. Or a quiet recognition of the way his loyalties ran deep and sharp and fiercely guarded.

The silence between them was no longer awkward. Just... layered.

And maybe that was the most honest they'd been with each other all this time.

---

Andromeda arrived without fanfare.

She greeted Hermione with a quick hug, but when she turned to Draco, her hand came to rest on his shoulder - a gentle pat that lingered just a second too long. She slipped something small into his palm.

Draco’s brow arched. “What’s this?”

“From your mother.” Andromeda smiled, and for the first time in months, real shock flickered in Draco’s eyes.

“You went.”

“And she expects you to accompany me next weekend, if the Ministry will allow it.”

“She wants to see me?”

“The Ministry’s been intercepting her letters. To me. To you. Some nonsense about house arrest protocols, though she was never actually told.” Her voice softened. “She misses you terribly.”

Draco stared at the object in his hand, speechless for a moment.

“So?” Andromeda prompted. “Will you be coming with me?”

“Of course, Aunt Andromeda. If I'm allowed,” he said, voice kinder now.

“Good boy,” she said with a grin, reaching up to tap his cheek. Her smile faded slightly as she looked between him and Hermione. “You two have found a rhythm, I think, no?”

She clapped her hands. “Great. Let’s get to it, then.”

Draco moved without hesitation, extending his arm toward Hermione. But both of his forearms were still wrapped in bandages from the burn blisters. The moment Hermione caught sight of the gauze, her expression crumpled.

Her eyes snapped up, wide with concern. “How has it not healed? Surely Madam Pomfrey has Dittany.”

Draco tried to brush it off. “It doesn’t hurt, Granger, it’s fine. Come on.”

But she recoiled from his hand like it might bite her. “Why hasn’t he healed?” she demanded, looking at Andromeda.

Andromeda hesitated. Draco subtly shook his head behind Hermione’s back, his message clear: Don’t tell her.

Andromeda sighed, lips pressed thin with guilt. “It’s her magic, Draco. She deserves to know.”

Hermione turned toward the older woman sharply, eyes intense, searching.

Andromeda softened her voice. “You’re burning him with raw power, dear. The scorches don’t respond to healing. We’ve tried. His immune system will just have to run its course.”

Hermione froze. Her hands clenched into fists on her lap, then retreated under her thighs like she couldn’t trust them not to do more harm.

“Then I don’t want to Unocclude anymore,” she said, her voice trembling with panic.

Draco let out an exasperated groan. “You have got to be kidding me.”

“What good is any of this if I’m hurting you?” she cried out, brows furrowed with guilt.

He looked away, jaw tight, unwilling to say something he’d regret. He inhaled slowly through his nose.

“I can do it on my own,” she said quietly.

Draco scoffed. “You physically can’t, Granger. We’ve been over this. Two professionals and the Headmistress explained it in great detail.”

Hermione lifted a shoulder. Shrugged. Stubborn to the bone.

Draco sank back into his chair, legs crossed and fingers interlaced on his lap, watching her with cool, almost smug detachment. “Fine. Go aheas then. Try.”

Hermione hesitated. She closed her eyes, tried to go under, but it was like diving into a whirlpool with no footing. She reached the Fifth Floor, barely, but couldn’t bring herself to open the first door. Let alone destroy any of the rooms.

She resurfaced, frustrated, and looked to Andromeda for guidance, but Draco was already standing.

“Miss Granger won’t be needing your assistance today, Aunt Andromeda,” he said, voice clipped. “Since she has all the information and wants to do everything on her own.”

Andromeda hesitated. She didn’t want to leave them mid-argument, but she caught Draco’s eyes - and was surprised. He was still fully Unoccluded. His fury hadn’t fractured the spell. He was holding himself together.

So she gave him a knowing nod, murmured a farewell, and left them alone.

Hermione turned back to Draco, stunned into silence. He responded with a mock-cheerful smile and reclined again, as if daring her.

She dove back in.

Tried harder.

But it only grew worse. The mental castle walls climbed higher, the interior darker. The chandeliers shook violently above her. Echoes of screams reverberated. A thunderous, unnatural creak rattled through the halls.

And then—

It stopped.

She turned to find Draco beside her, standing at the head of the long corridor. His gaze was unreadable, arms loosely crossed.

“Are you done being stubborn?” he asked.

Hermione nodded, breath shallow.

“Alright. Go ahead. Should be easier now.”

She hesitated before stepping forward.

Draco tilted his head. “Have you been able to recall what you stored here?”

“My childhood memories. My parents.”

He nodded, subdued. “I’ll pull back the Legilimency.”

“No, don’t,” she said quickly, surprising herself.

His eyes narrowed slightly. “What?”

“I think… it’s easier when you come in too.”

A beat of silence.

“Really?”

Hermione gave a tiny nod. “And I think… I think I burn you less because of it.”

Draco’s gaze flickered, thoughtful. He didn’t say anything. Just slowly extended his hand.

She looked at it like it might vanish. Then she took it.

Their fingers slid together, warm and unsure, but electric. Hermione's breath hitched at the contact. Draco's fingers tensed just slightly around hers.

When her other hand touched the door to the Hall, it burst open.

So did every other door inside.

They were swept into memory after memory: sun-drenched kitchens, muggle bookshelves, her parents’ laughter, ice cream melting too fast on summer afternoons. The little things. The things that made her her.

---

When it was over, Hermione opened her eyes with a smile on her face.

Her vision was suddenly full of green - deep, familiar, Slytherin green. She blinked up, breathless, and found silver eyes hovering close above hers. Almost too close.

And she laughed. A small, fragile sound that bloomed into something fuller. Her eyes crinkled, warmth chasing away the tension.

“Oh… I missed them so much…”

But the joy quickly gave way to fear. She bit her lip.

“Oh god, do you think I’ll be able to restore their memories?”

Draco's voice was steady. “A witch capable of Unoccluding her own twisted mind can reverse an Obliviate in her sleep, Granger. You have no reason to worry.”

Her smile returned, wide, unrestrained. And then, without thinking, without planning, her hand slid from where it had rested against his bare chest, arm wrapping around his neck as she pulled him into a hug.

Tight.

Startling.

Draco stiffened, breath caught, but didn’t pull away. One cautious hand rose to her waist. Barely a touch, just enough to count. She was warm. Too warm. Too close. He could feel her heartbeat against his ribs.

And just as quickly as it had happened, she was pulling back - eyes still sparkling.

That’s when her gaze dipped to his collar. Her breath hitched. His first few shirt buttons were undone, and resting boldly across his sternum was the faint pink imprint of a hand.

Her hand.

Her eyes widened in horror.

“Fabric blocks the siphon,” he said calmly, watching her face. “And you refused to risk burning off my fingerprints again, remember?”

“Oh,” she breathed, still staring at the mark.

Draco touched the area carefully. His fingers lingered over it, surprised. “It’s more like… a sunburn.”

He looked at her then, and his expression shifted—just a touch of something softer.

“I think you were right to keep me in the spell.”

Hermione tilted her head. “Yeah?”

“This doesn't hurt, Granger.”

Her face lit up. A giddy squeal slipped out before she could stop it. “Oh my god, let me see!”

She leaned in again, too excited to keep her hands to herself. Her fingers grabbed him by the half-undone shirt, yanking him close. He stumbled forward slightly, eyes wide, barely catching himself.

She ran a finger over the pink skin, inspecting it. As she did, a visible shudder ran through him. Goosebumps broke out on his arms.

Hermione paused, slowly lifting her eyes to his. She was still smiling, impossibly wide, sincere.

Her eyes were clear.

“You keep this up, and we’ll have your castle down in no time.” Draco spoke quietly, almost gentle.

Hermione laughed again -real laughter- and then, when it died down and they were left staring at each other, still so close, she breathed out,

“I’m really glad you decided to step back out onto the Quidditch pitch.”

Draco flushed. The color climbed up his neck. “I am too.”

“Gryffindor’s going to give you a hard time this year.”

“Eh. Potter and the She-Devil are a big problem, but Blaise and I have it easy with the Weasel playing Keeper, I reckon.”

Her smile faltered instantly.

Draco’s heart dropped.

Shit.

“Granger, I didn’t mean—”

“Give him hell,” she said, voice strong—her deserved anger was suddenly alive again. Burning.

And Draco, watching that spark return, couldn’t help the slow smile that curved across his lips.

Chapter Text

The ward was quieter than usual. Outside the window, dusk hung low over London, casting pale gold across the sky, filtering through the glass in warm, tired stripes. Hermione sat propped up against her pillows, a cup of chamomile tea cooling in her hands. She’d only taken a few sips, the taste too floral tonight.

Ginny had brought her a stack of the Prophet’s puzzles -crosswords, logic chains- but they sat untouched on the small bedside table.

“You know,” Ginny said from the chair beside her bed, feet curled up under her, “I’ve been meaning to ask. Have they changed your potions lately? You look... steadier."

Hermione blinked at the question, glancing down at herself. She hadn't been taking any potions since Draco came to scream at her, that very first day she was admitted.

“I suppose,” she murmured. “It’s hard to tell. The days all blend.”

Ginny tilted her head. “Or maybe it’s the sessions with Malfoy.”

Hermione stilled. Her fingers tightened on the teacup just slightly.

Ginny raised an eyebrow, sharp but not unkind. “I mean, it’s been weeks now. And I don’t know what those sessions do exactly, but you always seem calmer after them. Less... brittle.”

“I’m not brittle.”

“I didn’t say you were.” Ginny’s voice gentled. “But I think whatever he’s doing -whatever you’re both doing- is helping.”

Hermione didn’t respond to that. She stared down at her tea. The truth was... complicated. The sessions were helping. But it was getting harder to pretend they were just therapy.

Before she could reply, Harry stood from where he'd been leaning against the far wall. He brushed imaginary lint from his jumper, tugged the hem down absently.

“I’ve got to head out,” he said, a little too casually.

Hermione frowned. “Now? Isn’t it late for... whatever you’re doing?”

Ginny just looked at him with a kind of quiet knowing. Hermione clocked it instantly.

“What is it?”

Harry reached into his pocket and pulled out a coin, worn and familiar. The Protean runes along its rim shimmered with quiet light. A signal.

Hermione straightened, suspicion twisting in her gut. “Harry, what is that?”

He didn’t answer immediately. Just stared at the coin like it had something difficult to say. Then, finally, “It’s court.”

“Court?” Her voice cracked slightly. “You’re testifying?”

He nodded once, eyes unreadable.

Her heart dropped into her stomach. “For who? I thought Snape’s posthumous trial was already done.”

“It’s not for Snape,” he said softly.

Hermione froze.

“No,” she breathed. “No... Merlin, you’re joking.”

Harry didn’t move. “I’m going in for Malfoy. Submitting a few memories.”

She stared at him like she’d never seen him before.

“You’re what?”

Ginny looked between them, her expression unreadable. She wasn’t surprised. She knew.

“Mione,” Harry said gently. “I thought you knew.”

“Knew? How would I have known, Harry?”

“Well...” Harry rubbed the back of his neck. “He spends all his time with you. We figured—”

“Yeah, because he’s grenading my mind most days,” she snapped, too loud. Her cheeks flushed.

The words echoed in the quiet room. Harry and Ginny both blinked, startled.

“That’s... not how it seemed,” Ginny said slowly.

Hermione clamped her jaw shut, suddenly aware of how exposed she felt. The warmth in her chest was rapidly turning into heat behind her eyes. Of course they’d misread it. Of course they’d seen him coming and going from her room and assumed something soft, something human, was happening.

She hated that she wasn’t sure they were wrong.

“Well,” she muttered. “Now you know.”

Harry nodded once. “Yeah. I suppose we do.”

Hermione set her tea aside, fingers trembling slightly. “But... where did this come from? Why now?”

Harry shrugged, slipping the coin back into his pocket. “He’s the only one who can help you. And he chooses to. Every day. That... that deserves something, don’t you think?”

Hermione said nothing.

“He’s made bad choices,” Harry continued, voice firm but calm. “But he's also made some terrific ones. Crucial, really. And especially regarding you. I’ve seen what he did when it counted. Some of it... in person. Some of it in memory.”

He glanced briefly at Ginny. “He deserves someone who’ll vouch for that.”

Hermione looked away, blinking hard.

Harry took a slow step closer. “And look, I don’t know what happened at the Manor. I’m not asking you to tell me, either, but the fact that he’s not a trigger for you tells me everything I need to know. You trust him. At least enough to let him in.”

Hermione’s throat was dry. “He’s the only one that can get in. That’s all.”

Harry tilted his head. “Maybe. Or maybe it’s more than that.”

She didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Her heart was a mess in her chest, racing and aching and confused. Malfoy had spent so many days with her. Seen her at her worst. Touched her when no one else could. Held pieces of her soul in his hands.

It had once felt clinical.

Now... it didn’t feel like just that anymore.

Harry stepped forward and wrapped her in a hug, gentle but firm, protective and sure. She closed her eyes and let it happen, clutching the front of his jumper with stiff fingers.

When she pulled back, her eyes were glassy.

“You’re going to be late,” she said thickly, trying to smile through the crack in her voice. “Go.”

Harry gave a quiet nod. “You’ll be alright?”

“I always am,” she said, and this time, she almost believed it.

With a final look between them, he Disapparated. The sound was small, but it left a strange hollowness in its wake.

Hermione stood by the window, her tea forgotten, her mind whirring with the impossible truth:

Draco Malfoy was on trial.

And Harry Potter was going to fight for him.

-----

Draco didn’t knock anymore. Not because he felt entitled -never that- but because she’d told him once that the sound startled her. That it always sounded too sharp, too sudden.

So when he slipped into her room at St. Mungo’s that evening, it was with barely a whisper of robes and the gentle click of the door shutting behind him.

She was sitting on the windowsill, knees drawn to her chest, wearing one of the soft oversized jumpers Andromeda had charmed to never irritate her skin. Her curls were tucked messily behind her ears, and the golden dusk light caught the edges of her hair, turning them to flame.

She didn’t look at him right away.

But he could feel the energy radiating off her. It wasn’t her usual wary tension or the electric undercurrent of pre-session anxiety. It was... buzzing. Alive. Almost hopeful.

“I know,” she said softly.

He stopped. “Know what?”

She turned her head then, and her eyes shone with something he didn’t often see there—something dangerously close to joy.

“Harry told me. About the testimony.”

Draco’s heart skipped.

Her expression was alight with something fragile and beautiful. “He’s submitting memories. For you.”

Draco swallowed. Slowly stepped farther into the room.

“I see.”

“You didn’t tell me.”

He shrugged with one shoulder, eyes avoiding hers. “Didn’t think it was relevant.”

“Relevant? Malfoy, this could change everything.”

Her voice was trembling now, and when he finally looked at her, there were tears in her eyes - but not the usual kind. These weren’t from pain or trauma or frustration.

They were from belief.

She believed he might be free.

“Harry Potter is standing up for you,” she whispered, like it was the most absurd and miraculous sentence she could imagine. “Don’t you get it? You’re going to walk free.”

Draco’s throat was dry. He tried to speak and failed.

She slid off the windowsill and crossed the room with slow, deliberate steps, stopping just before him.

“I didn’t even know,” she said, voice softening. “I didn’t know the trial was... this close."

He didn’t answer.

She reached out, not touching him, but close. Her fingers hovered over the edge of his sleeve like a question.

“And you still came here. Every day. Even when you knew what was waiting.”

Draco looked down at the space between their shoes. “I said I’d help.”

“But why didn’t you tell me?” she asked, and her voice cracked around the edges. “Why wouldn’t you say something?”

He closed his eyes. Exhaled slowly. “Because if you knew.... you’d look at me differently.”

“I’m not,” she whispered. “I’m not looking at you differently.”

He looked up. And she was right. She wasn’t.

She was looking at him like he mattered.

Like he was worth defending.

Like he was more than what he’d done.

“I thought...” she said, stepping a little closer, “I thought you might be disappearing someday soon. That the sessions would just stop without warning, one day. I didn’t think I’d get a say in it.”

He didn’t trust himself to speak. Not when she was this close. Not when the warmth of her magic curled faintly around the edge of his senses like a question.

“I’m glad you’ll get the chance to be free,” she said.

He managed a smile -tight, crooked. “You’re really sure of that?”

“I am.”

And she looked it.

She believed. She really believed.

And how could he destroy that? How could he tell her that the testimonies would help, yes, but that he was staring down a sentence of 117 years?

He couldn’t.

He wouldn’t.

If she wanted to believe he’d be free, then he’d let her believe it. Just for a while.

“Thank you,” he said, his voice raw.

She nodded. Stepped even closer now. The space between them hummed like a held breath.

“You’re not the only one fighting anymore.”

His chest twisted. He reached for her hand, cautious. And right as their fingers brushed,

The door clicked open.

Chapter Text

The Prefects’ Room had long since quieted, leaving only the fire crackling low in the hearth and the soft hum of voices gathered near the long table at the back. The weekly meeting was in full swing - or rather, just beginning to find its rhythm.

Draco Malfoy sat at the head of the table, not because he particularly wanted to, but because the chair had been empty when he arrived, and no one else had dared take it since. His posture was sharp, arms crossed, silver gaze half-lidded as he let the others talk.

“Well,” said Ernie Macmillan, the Hufflepuff prefect, smoothing down his badge with officious precision, “I suppose we need to start with the Halloween Bash.”

“Halloween Bash?” Draco repeated under his breath, too low for anyone but Pansy to hear. She glanced sideways and smirked.

“Yes, Draco,” she said aloud, flipping her hair over one shoulder. “The annual party? You know; costumes, dancing, things people enjoy.”

“I forgot it existed,” he replied dryly. “Imagine that.”

Padma Patil cleared her throat. “Right. It’s scheduled for the thirty first, obviously. Eight o'clock, Great Hall. We’ll need decorations, snacks, the music rota, and of course patrol assignments.”

“Hannah and I can handle the decorations,” said Anthony Goldstein quickly, nudging the Ravenclaw beside him. Hannah agreed easily, her fingers already doodling pumpkinheads on the edge of her notes.

“I’ll coordinate with the kitchen elves,” offered Padma. “They always like a bit of advance notice.”

“Costume theme?” asked Ginny, who sat near the foot of the table, legs curled beneath her. “Last time was Magical Creatures - we should do something less… feathers and claws.”

“How about ‘Magical History’?” Padma suggested. “Dress as historical figures - Morgana, Merlin, the Founders…”

“That’ll turn into twenty Helga Hufflepuffs and six slutty Salazars,” Blaise muttered.

Several people snorted; even Harry looked vaguely amused.

“Right,” Ginny cut in. “Let’s just have everyone come as what they want and move on to the patrols.”

That was where the energy in the room suddenly waned.

Everyone glanced at the patrol chart she had conjured in the air - time slots blinking with cheerful golden light from 7 PM to 2 AM. The dance itself would run from eight to midnight, and the prime mischief hours, 10 to 1, sat ominously empty.

“I could take the 12 to 1,” Hannah said meekly.

“Yeah, there’s no way Pansy and I are patrolling after 11.” Blaise said, clearly disinterested.

“The Heads have to be at the dance until ten.” Ginny said, though everyone knew it was only partially true.

The silence stretched.

Draco tapped his quill once, then again. Finally, with a sigh sharp enough to slice air, he said, “I’ll do it.”

All heads turned.

“The whole block?” Ernie asked, blinking.

Draco leaned back. “I said I’ll do it, didn’t I?”

There was a beat of silence before Ginny spoke up, her tone dry. “You do realize you have to open the Bash with me, right? The Head Boy and Girl dance, then the toast, then you’re free to skulk away.”

Draco didn’t flinch. “That’s fine. I’ll patrol afterward.”

He said it too smoothly, too quickly.

Harry’s brow furrowed slightly. “You sure?”

“Better me than someone who actually wants to enjoy the party,” he said, eyes fixed on the patrol chart. “I’m not in the mood for costumes and candy.”

What he didn’t say -didn’t need to- hung between them.

Since the Wizengamot trial, since his name had made headlines and his face had haunted half the Prophet’s ink for weeks, he couldn’t step into the Great Hall without whispers. Couldn’t pass through the corridors without feeling eyes crawl over his back, searching for scars or sins or signs of guilt.

The idea of standing under enchanted starlight, dressed like a fool, while the entire school stared at him like a cursed exhibit… no. Patrolling sounded like bliss in comparison.

Pansy nudged his shin under the table but said nothing. She understood.

“Well,” said Ginny slowly, watching him, “that’s sorted then.”

And just like that, it was. Patrols were assigned. Plans were finalized. The Halloween Bash would proceed - costumes and sugar and spectacle. And while the others joked and plotted the music list, Draco Malfoy sat silently at the head of the table, already halfway gone.

---

The castle was quiet in the way only Hogwarts could be: not silent, but humming with ancient energy just beneath its stones. Torchlight flickered along the seventh-floor corridor as Ginny and Draco walked side by side, their Head student badges catching the glow.

It had become routine, these patrols. Fridays and Sundays, mostly. Ginny had stopped trying to fill the silence with chatter after the third one. These days, they moved comfortably between conversation and quiet, which surprised them both.

Tonight though, she was feeling talkative.

“So,” she said, nudging him with her shoulder as they passed a suit of armor polishing its own breastplate, “you going to lose the stick up your arse for five minutes and dance like a human being at the Bash? At least with me?”

Draco snorted. “Please, Ginevra. You’re dating Harry Potter. Do I need to remind you of his dance at the Yule Ball four years ago?”

Ginny flushed instantly, a hand flying to swat his arm. “Hey, he was preoccupied with the tournament! Not to mention, he was injured. It was tragic, really.”

“Well,” Draco said, smirking. “Watching him stumble through another dance would be tragic in entirely new ways.”

She rolled her eyes, but her lips twitched. “You’re impossible.”

They reached a bend in the hallway, where the windows opened to moonlight and cold October wind slipped through the stone.

Draco said after a beat, hands folded behind his back, “Am I right in assuming we’ll be waltzing?”

Ginny glanced over, only to find his nose wrinkled like he’d bitten into a lemon.

“What’s wrong with a waltz?” she asked, affronted.

He shrugged. “It’s unoriginal. Not to mention it’s dull.”

She gasped. “Dull? A proper waltz is elegant.”

“It’s predictable,” he replied. “Three-four time, same basic steps, same rise and fall. Everyone gliding in synchronized boredom. It’s the vanilla of ballroom.”

Ginny scoffed. “So what, then? What would you have us do?”

Draco barely hesitated. “Tango.”

She blinked. “Tango?”

He gave a nonchalant shrug. “It's not like anyone here could pull it off.”

Ginny stopped walking. “Excuse you?”

He paused, turning back toward her, brows raised.

“You don’t think I could tango?” she asked, arms crossed.

“You?” Draco tilted his head. “Ginevra, you play Quidditch like a hippogriff with a vendetta. You think you can master precision footwork, proper frame, and the concept of restraint?”

“Oh, now you’ve done it,” she muttered. “You think you’re any better, Malfoy?”

“Yes actually, I’ve been doing ballroom since I was 5.”

“Well, I can always learn.”

“By Halloween?” he challenged.

Ginny lifted her chin. “Yes.”

He chuckled. “And where exactly are you going to learn?”

“You." she said promptly.

Draco blinked. “What?”

“You’ll teach me.”

There was a beat. Then two.

Draco looked at her like she’d sprouted another head. “You want me to teach you the tango?”

“Yes.”

“Is this some kind of trap? Are you going to hex me halfway through a pivot?”

“Tempting,” she said, eyes gleaming. “But no. I’m serious. Teach me.”

For once, Draco had no retort. Just a stunned blink and then, to his horror, the warm sound of his own laughter slipping free before he could smother it.

“Well,” he said at last, turning back toward the corridor and resuming their walk, “don’t blame me when you fall on your face.”

“I never fall,” Ginny said smugly.

“Oh you will,” he quipped. “On the second step.”

“I’m writing that down just so I can throw it back in your face later.”

“Careful Weasley, you’re starting to sound dangerously like a Slytherin.”

“Careful Malfoy,” she retorted, grinning, “you’re starting to sound dangerously like someone with a sense of humor.”

He mock-gasped. “Merlin forbid.”

They reached the end of the hall, their boots echoing on the stone. The silence that settled between them this time wasn’t awkward — it was companionable, warm.

As they rounded back toward the stairs, Ginny bumped him again, lighter this time.

“Thanks.” she said.

“For what?”

“For not being completely insufferable tonight.”

Draco allowed himself a smile. “Give it time.”

---

The Room of Requirement had transformed itself into a sun-drenched dance studio, complete with gleaming wooden floors, a long wall of mirrors, and a wireless phonograph in the corner gently spinning a record of sultry tango music. It would have been romantic, if the two people in the room weren’t arguing like they'd been cursed into a doomed siblinghood.

“My hand goes here.”

Ginny shoved Draco’s wrist an inch higher on her back. “Not unless you want your wrist broken, Malfoy.”

“That’s where it’s supposed to go.”

“Well, you don’t get to touch me like I’m a ballroom doll!”

“I’m trying to teach you! Weren’t you the one who coaxed me into this in the first place?!” 

Ginny huffed, muttering something about smug blond ferrets under her breath. Draco raised an eyebrow.

“I heard that.”

“Good.”

They glared at each other. Then, begrudgingly, resumed position.

“Try not to stomp this time,” Draco said smoothly, guiding her back a step. “This is the Argentine tango, not troll wrestling.”

Ginny stepped deliberately hard on his foot.

“OW! Salazar's balls—”

“Oh, sorry,” she said sweetly. “Was that your foot?”

Draco hobbled back two steps, dramatically clutching his shoe. “You did that on purpose!”

“Don’t dish it if you can’t take it,” she said, smug as ever.

He muttered something that sounded almost like a Muggle curse word.

The next few minutes were spent circling stiffly, Ginny trying not to laugh at Draco’s seriousness, Draco trying not to lose his mind over Ginny’s absolutely devious footwork.

“You’re supposed to follow me,” he groaned.

“Then maybe lead like someone worth following!”

By the time they collapsed against the mirror wall, panting and laughing, they were both red-faced; from the effort, the bickering, and the strange sort of delight they took in tormenting each other.

“You’re insufferable,” Draco said between breaths.

“And you’re a piece of shit.” Ginny grinned.

As they caught their breaths in between chuckles, “I still think we should tango,” Ginny added stubbornly.

Draco groaned, flopping his head back against the glass. “Merlin help us all.”

Chapter Text

Ginny didn't feel the need to knock before she burst into Hermione's room one evening, armed with a stack of Witch Weekly magazines and a huge packet of Honeydukes dark chocolate.

Hermione was propped up on pillows, her magical core still low, but her mood better than it had been in weeks. Her curls were tamed into a loose braid, and there was a brightness to her that made Ginny's heart ease a bit.

They chatted idly - gossip about Parvati’s new haircut, the awful weather, and Harry’s latest bludger-to-the-head Quidditch incident in practice. (He was fine.)

Then Ginny, mid-unwrapping a chocolate, said casually, “So, I’ve been having Draco give me tango lessons for the Head Students’ dance at the Halloween Bash.”

Hermione blinked. “I’m sorry, what?”

Hermione looked at her for a long beat, head tilted. “Why would you be learning to tango for a Hogwarts dance?”

Ginny made a face. “Because he opened his big mouth, insulted the waltz, got smug about being the only one with any ballroom training, and, well, you know me, I’m not one to back down from a challenge. So now we’re… doing this.”

Hermione froze. “Wait. Malfoy is actually teaching you to tango?”

“Unfortunately.” Ginny looked like she regretted many life choices, even as she kept trying to hide a smile behind the eye rolls. “He’s a complete arse, though. Makes me do proper frame and everything. You’d think he was training for the Wizarding World Cup of Dance.”

Hermione stared, then shook her head. “You and Malfoy. Dancing.”

“Right? It’s exactly as horrifying as you think. He even told me I stomped like a hippogriff with a vendetta, so I may or may not have stepped on his foot hard enough to leave a sprain.”

Hermione laughed, the sound half-gasp. “You didn’t.”

“Oh, I did.” Ginny grinned. “But he’s kind of weirdly good at it. Like… annoyingly graceful. Like he was born wearing formal shoes. Though I suppose he probably was, his family considered.”

Hermione shifted, suddenly very focused on untangling a crease in her blanket. Ginny paused, watching her.

“Seriously though,” She said more gently, eyeing her friend, “he’s been good. Not that I’d ever say it to his face. But he’s… been showing up. For classes, for you, for all of it. You should’ve seen the way he volunteered for the patrol shift. Like he wanted to disappear into the background.”

Ginny shrugged, popping the chocolate into her mouth. “I think he’s lonely. Perhaps that’s what makes him funny, in the really mean, still-partially-offensive kind of way. Anyway, it makes the time pass during patrol, so.”

Hermione didn’t answer right away. She was left staring at her blanket, her expression unreadable.

Ginny tilted her head. “You okay hon?”

“Yeah,” Hermione said quickly, though her voice was softer. “Just… surprised, I suppose.”

“Well, don’t be,” Ginny said, grinning. “The melodramatic peacock’s got rhythm. He’s just arrogant enough to make a good tango partner.”

Hermione raised a brow. “And you?”

“I’m stubborn enough to keep up.”

They both chuckled, and Hermione relaxed back into her pillows, the image of Ginny and Draco Malfoy dancing a tango flickering in her mind like a strange, surreal painting.

She wasn’t sure what to make of it. 

---

Hermione sat curled up in bed, spine pressed against a stack of pillows, a half-read Transfiguration tome discarded at her side. She wasn’t reading. Hadn’t turned a page in at least twenty minutes.

She could still hear Ginny’s laugh echoing in her ears - carefree and teasing from earlier that evening, when she’d stopped by in full uniform and glowing cheeks.

Hermione had forced her smiles. Laughed, even. Something brittle and polite. Ginny had called him a melodramatic peacock and she had snorted in agreement, then her best friend had hugged her and darted off again, her robes flaring behind her.

But now, hours later, the image wouldn’t stop replaying in Hermione’s mind. It was absurd.

Draco Malfoy, dancing. Dramatic and precise, sharp lines and cold elegance, spinning Ginny across the hall like some sort of bloody prince. And Ginny - laughing, radiant, completely unaware of how… how close it all sounded.

She clenched her jaw.

It was ridiculous. Completely irrational.

Because it didn’t sound close, not really.

Ginny was dating Harry. Harry, for Merlin’s sake. And they were happy. Secure. Hermione had watched them fall into step with each other like pieces of the same puzzle. She’d proofread Ginny’s birthday letter to him. Helped her pick out a jumper just last week. Hell, she was pretty sure she would be accompanying Harry ring-shopping in a few years.

And Draco was—

Draco was nothing. Not like that. Not anyone’s.

Certainly not hers.

Draco was part of her healing protocol. Her magical tether. A complicated puzzle piece in the mess of her recovery. He wasn’t… much of anything, really. 

Except the fact that he was everything. At least for her salvation.

The tight feeling in her chest wasn’t jealousy. Couldn’t be. It was frustration, surely. Or cabin fever. Or magical depletion wreaking havoc on her mood.

She stared at the blank ceiling for a moment longer, then kicked off the blankets. The floor was cool under her bare feet, but it grounded her, reminded her she could stand, could walk, even if the magic still stuttered under her skin.

Air. She needed air.

She grabbed her cloak and slipped quietly past the sleeping curtains, not daring to look too long in the mirror in case her expression betrayed something she didn’t want to name.

---

Draco’s head throbbed like someone had tried to split it open with a blunt hex.

He pressed the heel of his hand to his temple as he sank into the green armchair nearest the Slytherin common room fireplace, too tired to make the trek up to the Armory, to his ow common room. Shadows danced across the carpet, the fire low and hissing. He was alone -Blaise had probably gone to bed, and thank Merlin for that- he didn’t have the energy to field any sly remarks about his 'scarlet-cloaked dance partner.'

A snort escaped him before he could stop it. Scarlet-cloaked: That was almost poetic.

What was worse: the fact that Ginny Weasley had stopped snarling at him, or the fact that he didn’t entirely mind?

She had nearly killed him. Not with a spell, but with sheer, bloody Gryffindor stamina. She'd roped him into the ridiculous notion that she could be taught the Argentine Tango in two weeks, and every day since then, she’d been hounding his nights with practice, practice, practice. Tonight, by the third hour of lessons when he’d finally had enough of his toes being crushed and leaned against the wall, panting, she’d smirked and said, “It’s not your toes I’m worried about. If I were you, I’d try not to sprain my superiority complex.”

He’d almost cussed her out. Until she started laughing, so contagious that he found himself chuckling along.

He was still trying to figure out why she was so… amicable.

He’d expected loathing from her. He’d been prepared for it. But instead, she treated him like something halfway between an annoying brother and a puzzle she’d already solved. It was disarming, to say the very least.

But it wasn’t Ginny Weasley who occupied his thoughts tonight. 

It never was.

It was always her.

Granger.

Still tucked away in St. Mungo’s like some fragile artifact, protected behind layers of wards and diagnostic spells. Still the center of every whispered conversation between their professors and Healers. Still the witch he shared both everything and nothing with.

They hadn’t spoken a single word about the war. About what happened in those thirty-five days at the Manor. About the Occlumency lessons. About Dolohov. About that night.

And how could they? There were no words clean enough for it.

Her days at the Manor were technically remembered now. Andromeda had said so - the Occlusion had cracked just enough to let facts through.

That was the problem.

Hermione remembered, but she didn’t feel. Not yet. And she wouldn’t, for some time, at least not until they got to those godforsaken rooms of her fortress.

She would sit across from him during Healing reviews, sometimes in bed, sometimes pacing, always sharp-eyed — but when she spoke of the floors they had yet to Unocclude, it was clinical. Hollow. Like she was reciting lines from a book someone else had written.

And somehow, that undid him more than if she’d screamed.

She didn’t flinch away from him. Didn’t yell.

Instead -Merlin help him- she trusted him.

She was soft around him. Honest. Exhausted. Her hands would tremble when their palms met during the tether, and instead of hiding it, she would tell him. Tell him she felt strange. That her magic was hurting her. That she was over-compensating, that she needed more. That sometimes she forgot how to breathe.

No one else saw that version of her.

To the rest of the world, she was still Hermione Granger: war hero, Head Girl, brilliant, unbreakable.

But to him, she was cracked glass, whispering, “Are you still with me?” while her fingers dug into his arms like she thought he’d vanish.

And he wanted to scream at her to stop. To pull away. To be angry, damn it, because anger he could understand. Anger was safe. Anger was earned.

But this? This… tenderness? This strange reliance?

It was killing him.

He didn’t deserve her honesty. Her trust. Her steady voice when she told him she wanted him in the rooms of her mind during sessions, because he made her feel more “anchored.”

As if he was anything but the reason she’d shattered in the first place.

Draco leaned forward, elbows on knees, hands curled into fists.

He wasn’t sleeping anymore. The headaches were getting worse. Every time she looked at him with that quiet unsteadiness, every time her voice shook but didn’t break, something inside him twisted tighter.

He didn’t want her kindness. He didn’t need it.

He just… needed her to be angry again. Like before everything had happened, like the swotty girl he remembered her as before the war. 

Because if she wasn’t - if she really had forgiven him, then what the hell was left of him?

What did that make him?

Not the monster she was supposed to remember. Not the savior he sometimes feared he was pretending to be.

But something in between.

And that was worse. It meant he had something to lose.

He dropped his head into his hands. The fire crackled low behind him.

Hermione Granger was still healing. Still trapped in a castle of her own mind. Still slowly stitching her magic back together with every broken thread of memory.

And she had let him in.

He hadn’t earned that right.

And yet… she’d given it.

He didn’t understand it. He didn’t want to. He only knew that her voice stayed with him, even in his sleep. That sometimes he found himself staring at his palms hours after a session, remembering the shape of her fingers.

It wasn’t affection. Of course not.

It was something uglier. Needier.

Redemption, maybe.

Or the illusion of it.

He didn’t know.

All he knew was that the ache in his skull never left anymore.

And her voice, soft and tired, kept echoing through it like a curse.

“You don’t have to put up with this.”

He wished she would scream. He wished–instead of pulling away and fucking apologizing when she started searing him– she would force him into all the pain, bleed his magic out with all the Legilimency, and burn clean through his skin until he bled out.

He could survive hatred.

It was grace that was undoing him.

Chapter Text

They stood just outside the towering black doors of the Sixth Floor. The corridor around them was colder than usual, lit only by the dim glow of shifting magical sconces. The doors were iron-bound and carved with ancient glyphs of battle: shields, swords, crumbling towers. A faint, metallic hum bled from the seams, as if the memories behind it were alive and waiting.

Hermione hovered a step back, arms rigid at her sides. Draco stood beside her, silent, but his magic was already brushing against hers in quiet readiness.

Andromeda’s voice broke the tension.

“Tell me what you're experiencing, dear.”

Hermione's brow furrowed. “I... I smell blood.”

Andromeda nodded calmly. “What do you think could be in there?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Do you think it might attack?"

Hermione hesitated. Then, “Yes.”

Andromeda shifted her attention to her nephew. “Then take a peek inside and pull back immediately. Draco, I’m talking to you.”

He gave a tight nod. “Yes, Aunt Andromeda.”

Hermione exhaled slowly. Her fingers hovered over the cold, iron handle.

“Just for a moment,” she said softly, as if trying to convince herself more than anyone else. “To see what’s inside.”

Draco didn’t move, but his voice was calm and solid.

“Better to know what we’re walking into, Granger.”

Andromeda watched them closely but didn’t interfere. “Be brief. The memories from here on out will be intense. They’ll overwhelm you both without the right protections, so get in, take a look, and get out.”

Hermione gave a single nod and pushed open the door.

The hinges creaked like a scream, and the scent hit them first - smoke, scorched flesh, blood, and burning earth. Inside was a vast war room cast in shadow, with fragments of battle scenes flickering across the walls like living murals. Each memory moved just slightly, suspended mid-spell, mid-scream, mid-death.

Hermione froze in the doorway.

“This is every battle we fought.” Her voice shook.

Pain lanced through her chest before a single foot crossed the threshold. A scream, a flash of red light, a friend collapsing. One after the other, they slammed into her like shockwaves. Her breathing quickened.

Draco’s jaw clenched as he caught her elbow, holding her steady while wrapping a thread of his magic around hers to keep her anchored.

“Come on, Granger,” he said, low and urgent. “Close the door.”

Hermione didn’t hesitate this time. She grabbed the handle and yanked it shut, her eyes wide, face pale, sweat already lining her brow.

---

Three days later, as the storm of war memories were now threatening to spill out of the gates of her mind, Andromeda Tonks returned. At the end of the last session, she had insisted they wait until every precaution was in place.

The older witch moved with calm precision, her wand gliding through the air as she traced glowing symbols over softly bubbling mini-cauldrons. Her motions were graceful, like an experienced potion master dancing through ritual. Draco stood to the side, arms crossed, eyes narrowed. Hermione sat stiffly on the hospital bed, absentmindedly twisting a loose thread in her blanket between her fingers.

“It is just as I expected,” Andromeda had said when they first returned from the Sixth Floor’s threshold. “This requires more. You’ll need potions to shield your magic and bodies, protective wards, sigils, and counter-charms for the scorch from emotional surges.”

She had warned them: this floor might take more than one session. They were firmly in the hardest parts of the process now. Patience was no longer optional - it was survival.

Now, she murmured, "Sileo Calor," and poured the contents of the glowing blue cauldron into two slender crystal flasks. The potion shimmered like bottled frost.

“This will keep your magical core from overheating,” she explained, handing Hermione a flask first. “But it will slightly dim your focus. You need to be sharp every single second. Be careful.”

Hermione nodded, though her fingers trembled slightly as they closed around the cool glass.

Draco took his without hesitation and uncapped it. He took one slow sip, throat bobbing. The cold hit instantly, like icewater settling in his ribs.

Andromeda reached for another vial. “Now for the Arcanium Draught.” She added a drop of shimmering gold into only his flask.

“This will strengthen your natural wards. Think of it as armor beneath your skin.”

Draco tilted his head. “Why just me?”

“Because her hands don’t welt, Draco, yours do.”

He didn’t argue.

Andromeda retrieved a sealed scroll and handed it directly to him. “You must draw these sigils on both of your bodies and cast the enchantments. Salvio Scorchio to repel magical burns, Fidelius Shield to guard your minds from backlash.”

Draco opened the scroll, eyes scanning the intricate sigil work. His lips moved as he memorized the strokes.

Hermione rolled up her sleeves slowly, pushing aside the fabric. She extended her arms toward him without meeting his eyes.

Draco stepped closer, hesitated just a moment, then knelt by the bed and took her right arm in his left hand.

His fingertips were steady, but his breath caught once as their skin touched: soft against scarred.

Her pulse jumped. She noticed him notice, and flushed.

He pressed his wand gently to her forearm, murmuring the incantation. A faint glow spread beneath her skin, golden and humming. He repeated the process on her other arm, then did the same to himself.

“These marks should hold,” Andromeda said. “If you feel a burning sensation, Draco, focus on the sigils. They’re your anchors.”

He flexed his fingers and watched the runes pulse gently on his wrist.

“And what about her anchors?” he asked.

“That’s all you.” Andromeda said.

His eyes darted up. “Oh. Right.”

Hermione cleared her throat and cut in. “Anything else, Dromeda?”

Andromeda gave her a small smile. “Yes. You must remain physically linked, though I suppose you know the drill by now, yes?”

They did.

Hermione adjusted her position on the bed. Draco dragged the chair closer than usual and sat, knees brushing hers. She reached for his forearms, and for a heartbeat, neither moved. Then he lifted his arms to meet hers, their hands fitting just right as their magic clicked into alignment.

Hermione’s breath hitched. Draco exhaled slowly through his nose, grounding himself in the burn of cold potion and the warmth of her hands.

Andromeda’s voice turned soft, guiding.

“Focus on the bond. Let it open, let it flow. Stabilize before diving deeper.”

Minutes passed. The room grew still, their joined magic like a low hum in the air. Their breathing fell into sync. Hermione’s fingers curled, almost unconsciously, into the sleeve of Draco’s robes.

He didn’t flinch.

“Ready?” he whispered, eyes locked on hers.

She gave the barest nod.

He cast the spell, and the castle rose again around them.

From the corner of the room, Andromeda’s voice followed them into the quiet:

“When you’re ready, open the gates. Face the memories, but don’t lose each other.”

---

The moment she stepped inside, the floor vanished beneath her.

She fell hard and fast, spiraling down a vortex of howling wind and rushing darkness before slamming into the spinning corridor of the Department of Mysteries. The floor lurched sideways. The walls twisted, warping space like a funhouse gone mad. Gravity wasn’t just skewed, it was broken.

Spells sliced past her ears. A scream  -Ginny? Neville?- echoed from somewhere to the right.

“Hermione, move!”

Not Draco’s voice. Harry’s, from the past. Her legs refused to work. Time blurred.

Yaxley’s silent curse ripped through the air.

She didn’t dodge in time. Pain exploded through her chest. She collapsed, gasping, clutching at a phantom wound.

In the real world, Draco’s grip flared. His voice pulsed inside her, a tether:

“You’re not there. It’s memory. It can’t hurt you.”

But it did. She tasted iron in her mouth.

She forced herself up, robes soaked with imagined blood.

The scene dissolved in smoke -too fast- the ground beneath her splitting again.

---

Now she was falling up.

No sky. Just height and horror. Cold stone beneath her boots, winds howling at her cloak.

Death Eaters. Spells. The scream of the castle.

 “We have to go! He’s coming—”

Luna’s voice. Her own voice. They scrambled along the ramparts as the world reeled.

Snape’s voice. The swish of a cloak. The flash of green.

Dumbledore fell.

Hermione screamed -a visceral, gut-wrenching cry- and the world snapped.

Her magic detonated. Fire roared up like a fuse.

In the real world, Draco recoiled. Sparks burst from their joined hands.

“Granger, you have to slow down—”

“I can’t!”

Andromeda’s voice crackled like a faulty radio.

“She’s destabilizing.”

He closed his eyes and shoved more magic into their bond. Her flames dimmed, barely.

But it wasn’t enough.

---

Without warning, they plummeted again into smoke and rubble.

Hogwarts corridors. Shattered glass underfoot. A body slumped against the wall. Blood dripping from the ceiling.

Hermione’s knees buckled. Her wand trembled in her grip.

“That’s when I cursed Macnair,” she said hoarsely. “I meant to kill him.”

She raised her wand again.

The ghost of the Death Eater shimmered before her, not quite real, but real enough. Her heart pounded. The air thickened.

“Granger, stop!” Draco shouted. “It’s not real! It’s not him!”

Too late.

She fired.

The spell snapped through the memory, rebounded - magic screaming wild. The wall exploded in a ripple. The floor cracked.

Draco yanked her back by the arm. She stumbled against him, nearly collapsing.

“You’re trying to win,” he said, furious. “You can’t win a memory.”

“I have to keep going—”

“No, you don’t!”

She froze — breath ragged, eyes glassy.

“You’re not in it anymore,” he said more gently. “You just have to let it happen.”

---

Then: the sudden snap of branches, and the reek of mud, water, cold air. Hermione stood on soaked earth, watching herself watch Harry drag Ron from the lake.

The sword of Gryffindor clattered beside them.

"I hated him,” she whispered. “For leaving. For coming back.”

The Horcrux cracked open. Visions screamed into the space around them.

Taunts. Twisted illusions. Harry and Hermione kissing, Ron watching. Her own voice echoing back at her, cruel and sharp.

She let herself fall, curling forward.

“It still hurts.”

“It’s all in your mind, Granger. So let it burn,” he said. “But let it burn out.”

---

Fire.

There was no falling this time, just immediate heat and horror.

Goyle cast Fiendfyre. The flames screamed like living beasts.

She ran, heart pounding, dragging Ron, shouting for Harry. The fire lunged like a serpent, biting at her heels.

The brooms. The flight. The sickening fear of not making it in time.

Her memory-self soared through the fire - just barely.

But her magic didn’t follow.

In the present, the heat consumed her. She gasped, inhaling fire that wasn’t real - but it didn’t matter.

“It’s too much—” she cried.

The moment the trio escaped the firestorm, the room imploded.

Hermione went down with it.

---

The corridor shattered like glass. The ground crumbled. She was falling again, straight toward nothing.

“GRANGER—!”

Draco’s voice pierced the void.

He threw himself after her in the mental plane, trying to catch her, to drag her out by sheer force of will, his hands already searing from the excess magic.

Andromeda shouted: “Draco get out! Now!”

With a final desperate surge of energy, Draco yanked her into the anchor room, right outside the gates. They slammed shut behind them, locking with a boom.

Hermione collapsed backwards, eyes rolling. Draco held her up to prevent any injury, lowering her down onto her pillows controllably instead. She was soaked with sweat, magic clinging to her skin like static. Her eyes were wide and unblinking. Her breathing shallow.

“I didn’t pace it,” she choked out. “I tried to survive it.”

Draco let out a shaky breath, hands trembling as he brushed damp hair from his own forehead.

 “We’ll try again,” he said quietly. “And this time we’ll stop before we hit the ground.”

---

The makeshift recovery room was quiet except for the soft clink of glass vials and the gentle rustle of linen.

Andromeda uncapped a pale blue salve and began to smooth it across Draco’s forearms, her touch steady despite the angry red burns striping his skin.

He flinched, just once, then went still again.

“Second-degree magical exposure,” she murmured, eyes scanning the damage. “You two forced the tether past capacity. Again.”

He didn’t answer. His jaw was clenched. His gaze fixed somewhere over her shoulder.

“Draco.”

Still nothing.

Andromeda’s voice sharpened, though she didn’t look up. 

“This is the second time you’ve dragged her out of a collapse. The physical toll on your body is accelerating. You’re giving too much.”

“She was falling,” he said finally, low. “I didn’t have a choice.”

“You always have a choice.”

Andromeda wrapped a bandage around the worst of the burns. The skin beneath it crackled faintly with unstable magic.

“You’ve set a dangerous precedent,” she went on. “She’s pacing to survive. You’re pacing to save her. Neither of you is healing.”

Draco’s lip curled faintly. “I’m fine.”

She fixed him with a sharp look. 

“No. You’re familiar. You know how to function while bleeding out, so you do it. That’s not the same as fine.”

He looked away. His hands flexed uselessly on his thighs.

Andromeda sighed, her voice softening.

“Draco. I know what it costs to hold someone else’s pain. I did it for both of my sisters, for your mother. But the body -the soul- has limits. If you don’t respect them, they’ll make themselves known in much crueler ways.”

He was silent for a long moment. Then, quietly:

“If I let go, she’ll break.”

“If you don’t let go, you’ll die.” Her voice was gentle but fierce. “And then she’ll break anyway.”

She finished wrapping his arm and sat back.

“Next time, I want her tethered to a stabilizer rune. You can be her primary, but not her only. She needs to learn to land on her own feet.”

Draco’s throat bobbed as he swallowed.

“She doesn’t remember how to fall,” he said. “Not safely.”

Andromeda gave a slow nod.

“Then teach her. But stop letting her take you with her.

My dear boy, you’re not a fall cushion. You’re not expendable.”

She rose, gathering the jars and gauze into a tray.

“Go back to school now. I’ll monitor her until she wakes.”

At the door, she paused, her voice turning quieter, almost motherly.

“And write to your mother, Draco. I told her what you’ve been doing, and she has some… opinions.”

And with that, the older witch left the room, and Draco was alone: arms bandaged, hands trembling, the smell of ash still clinging to his skin.

Chapter Text

They stood again before the ancient stone door, a mere two days later.

It loomed tall and weathered, carved with faded runes Hermione could almost translate, names and dates etched like scars. The magic behind it pulsed with something heavier than memory. A weight that pressed against her ribs before they even entered.

She exhaled slowly, drawing her shoulders back. Her pulse beat steady beneath her skin, quiet and brave.

She didn’t look at Draco.

She didn’t need to.

His presence was already wrapped around her like a second skin.

Behind them, Andromeda raised her wand with practiced caution.

“We have to modify the tether,” she said. “This floor’s different. Too many overlapping traumas. We need more than a basic stabilizer.”

Hermione’s brow furrowed, but it was Draco who spoke first.

“Which rune are we adding?”

“Eiwaz,” Andromeda replied. “It’s rare, but it’s strong. Should anchor her to you, if you channel it properly.”

He hesitated just long enough to betray the tension in his jaw. “And if I don’t?”

“It’ll fail,” Andromeda said simply. “And she’ll still have you.”

No further persuasion was needed.

Draco stepped forward, wand in hand. He carved the rune midair, slow and deliberate. ᛇ. It shimmered in blue-white fire before sinking into both of their palms.

The bond flared once, bright as sunrise, then settled into something calmer - deep and strong, like ocean tides. Hermione swayed under the force of it. Her eyes fluttered closed. 

“Better?” 

“I think so, but we’ll see.” Hermione sighed shakily. She opened her eyes, stepped forward, and placed both hands on the stone door.

It opened with a groan like the breath of something ancient.

---

The hallway of the Department of Mysteries spun into being like a curse.

Doors blurred by in a dizzying whirl. Torches flickered. The floor tilted beneath her feet.

Yaxley appeared. His curse shot forward - a violent whip of burgundy.

Hermione didn’t shield.

She didn’t have to.

Her memory-self hit the floor with a sickening crack, but Hermione stood tall, unmoved.

She inhaled.

Done.

The world snapped.

Draco yanked her back through the tether. The anchor point surged into view: white light, solid floor, the safety of now.

He didn’t speak.

Neither did she.

They dove again, in control this time.

---

They landed atop the Astronomy Tower.

Wind screamed past her ears. The night was split by a flash of green.

Dumbledore fell.

She watched it happen, stone-faced. Her heart pounded, but not from panic.

“Let him die,” Draco said behind her, his voice anchoring her like a hand at her spine.

She did. She let it rage, then fade.

The tower dissolved in smoke.

Two down.

---

The third was colder.

Macnair raised his wand. The curse came fast, brutal.

But Hermione just watched it slide by like mist.

“I’m not her anymore,” she said aloud. “I know what happened.”

“That’s enough for me,” Draco said, voice close. “Unoccluded.”

The memory shattered on command.

---

The snow stung her cheeks as the Forest of Dean unfolded around them.

The Horcrux pulsed on its chain. It screamed into her mind—the false kiss, the imagined betrayal. Ginny’s eyes. Harry’s hands.

But this time, Hermione did not fall for it.

“It’s not real,” she whispered, her voice trembling but intact. 

“It’s only your fears,” Draco murmured, standing beside her, steady as the tree line. “Not the truth.”

---

And then—

The Great Hall.

But not as it was.

As it ended.

Roof caved in. Smoke and fire painted everything in the colors of ruin. Spells whizzed like lightning bolts. Screams bled through stone. Blood painted the walls where banners once hung.

Hermione’s memory-self screamed.

And this time—

So did her real body.

She jerked violently, limbs twitching against the anchor cords. Her head thrashed. The tether pulsed with chaotic energy.

Draco’s eyes widened.

“This one’s different,” Hermione gasped in his mind, voice cracked and distant. “I can’t... I can’t move—!”

Fred fell.

Tonks hit the ground, green light still glowing on her back.

Lavender lay there, unmoving. Torn to shreds.

“Granger, pull out!” Draco shouted.

She didn’t respond.

He tugged on the tether.

Nothing.

He called to her again, louder this time.

Still nothing.

The stabilizer rune blazed with electric panic.

Then cracked.

The bond sparked wildly. Eiwaz flared too bright—

And then it shattered.

---

In the real world, Hermione seized.

Her spine arched off her pillows. Her arms ripped free from Draco’s hold. The cords sparked with raw magic. Her face contorted in pain. Every breath was a battle.

“Rune’s gone!” Andromeda barked. “Draco! Get her out!”

But Draco didn’t move.

He stood frozen, watching her convulse. Heart pounding. Mind blank.

He didn’t know what to do.

All the spells he knew: useless.

Everything Andromeda taught him: out of reach.

His chest ached.

“Draco! If you can’t get her out, you need to let go! Let go, you’re sizzling!”

No. That he wouldn’t do.

“Think,” he whispered. “Think, Merlin, think—”

But nothing came.

Nothing except the sound of her gasping.

Her pain.

Her name.

Hermione.

And then—

He stopped thinking.

He stood up, ignoring the dizziness, and climbed onto her bed. 

Here goes nothing.

His left hand pressed flat over her heart, magic flowing, absorbing heat. His right cupped the back of her neck, lifting her head, drawing her in.

“Granger,” he whispered low. “Breathe. Come back. It’s just a memory.”

But inside her mind, she was trapped, still reliving every second.

Seeing Colin fall.

Hearing Harry’s death.

Casting curse after curse with shaking fingers and a raw throat.

Her mind-self stood near the shattered marble staircase, dragging the wounded behind cover, wand sparking. A Death Eater’s Cruciatus Curse hit her from behind.

Hermione choked on a scream from the pain, curling into herself.

He pressed harder, pouring everything through his touch, bringing her closer. 

“Please, Draco, I can’t stop…”

Her voice cut off, in agony. His heart broke at the sound, and before he knew it, he had leaned in instinctively, pressing his forehead to hers.

And he let go.

Of fear.

Of rules.

Of everything.

He gave her what she needed.

Not logic.

Not incantations.

Not half-assed stabilizing energy.

No, pure magic surged into her body like fire through dry grass. Not gentle. Certainly not safe. But real. Brutal and honest and his.

“Granger,” he whispered, his voice a tremor, “You’re not there anymore. You’re with me. Right here. Breathe, breathe with me—"

Her head thrashed again, but he held firm for the both of them.

“You survived,” he said, louder now. “You made it out. You don’t have to carry this alone. You’re not alone.”

He felt her begin to respond, magic curling toward him, ragged and desperate.

He positioned her closer, his mouth now pressed against her temple, whispering frantic encouragement into her hair, hand shaking where it rested over her heart, on bare skin.

“I’ve got you,” he uttered. “I’ve got you.”

A pained mumble tore from her lips.

And then—

A gasp.

Shuddering. Ripping. Real.

Her head fell onto his chest.

And the 6th floor disappeared into thin air.

---

He cradled her gently, heart still racing. Her body trembled in his arms. Her cheek rested just over his heart.

Andromeda had not moved, eyes wide, wand forgotten at her side.

“The floor’s gone.” she said after a long moment. “That wasn’t me or her, Draco. That was you.”

Draco didn’t answer.

He couldn’t.

He just held Hermione tighter as her breathing steadied. As her hands stopped shaking. As her eyes fluttered open.

She looked at him, worn and wrecked and somehow still luminous.

“Thank you.” she whispered.

He swallowed hard. And before he could answer, her eyes fell closed.

---

The open-plan hallway outside Hermione’s room was dim, lit only by a floating sconce that flickered like a tired star. Andromeda stood to the side, arms loosely folded, watching Draco from beneath her lashes.

He didn’t say anything at first.

He lit a cigarette with a lazy flick of his wand, shielding the flame with one hand. The ember flared to life at the tip and cast a faint orange glow across his face.

Inhale. Silence. Exhale.

He leaned a shoulder against the wall, head tilted back, eyes closed.

His aunt waited.

“You did spectacularly in there,” she said finally, her voice quiet. “But you know that was reckless.”

“It worked.”

“So does throwing yourself in front of a Killing Curse. Doesn’t mean you should make a habit of it.”

Draco gave a faint, lopsided shrug, but didn’t look at her.

“She would’ve drowned if I hadn’t gone in deeper.”

“Yes, and next time she might take you with her.”

Her tone sharpened - not cruel, but clipped. Protective. Tired.

“You’re burning at both ends, dear, and you know it.”

Another drag. Another silence.

“You always know exactly when to act, what to do, where to touch,” she said, quieter now. “It’s unnatural. It's almost… uncanny, don’t you think?”

Draco didn’t respond. Another drag. More silence.

“I’ve worked with a lot of magical pairs,” Andromeda went on, almost to herself. “Even trained ones take years to reach that kind of attunement. Formalized symbiosis rituals… pre-structured feedback wards… months of mapping out core harmonics and leypoint convergence… It’s usually at least a decade or two, unless…”

She trailed off. Didn’t finish the thought.

Draco cracked an eye open.

“Unless what?”

“Never mind,” she said, waving a hand. “I’m too old to start jumping at magical coincidences.”

“That what this is to you? A coincidence?”

“You tell me. Do you not think it is?”

Another pause. The sconce above them buzzed faintly.

Draco looked down at the cigarette in his hand, watching the ash curl.

“I don’t think about it.” he muttered.

Andromeda arched a brow. “That’s a lie.”

He gave a dry laugh. “It is.”

“Then why haven’t you asked me what I think?”

“Because I don’t care to find out.”

“Or because you’re afraid to. You’re afraid I will know. ”

They stared at each other for a beat.

He flicked the ash off the end of the cigarette and took one last long drag.

Then Andromeda’s tone shifted, abrupt, familiar, fondly annoyed.

“Take that ridiculous thing out of your mouth, Draco. You look like Lucius in a midlife spiral.”

Draco blinked. “You let me chain myself to a traumatized Gryffindor’s unstable magic but this is where you draw the line?”

“Precisely. One of those things can actually kill you.”

He rolled his eyes, but stubbed the cigarette out against the wall with the heel of his boot. A soft hiss of ash. Then silence again.

Andromeda moved closer, gaze tracing the tension in his frame.

“You’re not fine, darling.”

“Didn’t say I was.”

“You’re giving her everything. Magic. Time. Sleep. Pieces of yourself you don’t even know you’re missing yet.”

He swallowed hard, and didn’t answer right away. Then:

“It’s not like this is something anyone else can do.”

“Because it’s not normal, Draco.”

“No,” Draco agreed softly. “It’s not.”

His gaze drifted toward the closed door, where the faint hum of stabilizing charms buzzed like background noise.

“But it works. And if it works...”

He trailed off, shoulders curving inward slightly, not in defeat, but in something more dangerous. Acceptance.

“Then I’ll keep doing it.”

Andromeda’s throat tightened. He continued,

“As long as it doesn’t break her.”

A long silence passed.

Andromeda stepped closer, eyes searching his face - that familiar blend of old wariness and new ruin that hadn’t quite settled into the boy she used to know. 

He looked older than he should. And somehow still like the boy she used to find asleep in the Malfoy gardens, book fallen open on his chest.

Without a word, she reached up and brushed a bit of cigarette ash from his hair. Her fingers lingered for a moment, smoothing it back, tucking it behind his ear like she used to when he was little and sulking through family dinners.

Draco froze, not out of discomfort, but as if something in him didn’t quite know how to receive gentleness anymore.

“Have you eaten today?” she asked quietly.

He didn’t answer.

She gave a soft sigh, then patted his cheek once, light, affectionate.

“I’ll bring you something warm. And don’t even try to argue, we’re getting color back into your face whether you like it or not.”

His mouth twitched, barely a smile, but grateful all the same.

She turned to go, but paused a step away.

“You’re not alone in this, Draco.”

He didn’t say anything. Not right away.

When she stepped forward again, something in him faltered. And before he could deflect or retreat, Andromeda wrapped her arms around him - firm, steady, one hand cradling the back of his head as if he were still that boy in the garden.

Draco stiffened. Then breathed. Then leaned into it, just slightly.

He didn’t cry. Didn’t speak.

But he didn’t pull away either.

And for a long, silent moment, he let himself be held.

She pulled back just enough to look at him -really look- and then pressed a soft kiss to his cheek.

Gentle. Maternal. Unquestioning.

“I’m proud of you, you know.” she said, barely above a whisper.

Then she turned and left, the hem of her robes brushing softly over the stone floor.

Draco stayed where he was, eyes closed, breath shallow; and for the first time in a long while, the silence didn’t feel quite so heavy.

Chapter Text

Their sessions had stalled for almost a week now. With the ball, Head Boy duties piling up, missed assignments, endless Quidditch practice - and above all, the looming court battles it was hard to find the time to sleep, let alone exert any energy on anything other than his incessant counsel. 

His Warlock was trying hard. Just last week, the memories Harry had shared of Draco dumping Dolohov’s dead body at the Order’s doorstep, making that Unbreakable Vow, and his part in Hermione’s rescue had been carefully considered. 

But this hearing was different. No witnesses were called. The Wizengamot was no longer testing the waters. They were ready to drown him.

The charges were brutal. Aggravated assault, intent to kill, first-degree murder, and, worst of all, the use of the Killing Curse. None of it was unexpected, of course; his lawyer had warned him from the start. The only small mercy was that his cooperation -providing intelligence that helped rescue the War Heroine- had gone unquestioned. That was a rare glimmer in a sea of black.

Time was slipping through his fingers like sand.

Four open cases were stacked against him like a mountain he couldn’t climb. He knew at least one would send him straight to Azkaban. The one with Hermione’s name on it felt like a noose tightening with every passing day.

He didn’t even want to think about the other three. Attempted murder of Dumbledore. Aiding Voldemort. Facilitating Death Eaters’ entry into Hogwarts. All involving Unforgivable Curses.

He was going down for the Hogwarts stunt with a very hefty sum of Galleons –Galleons he no longer had– his lawyer was clear on that. And the Hermione case? It was only a matter of how long before it followed him to the depths of Azkaban.

“The Wizengamot’s already made it clear they won’t consider my memories as evidence, sir,” Draco said quietly, in the middle of a midnight strategy session one day, haunted by the ghosts of the Ancient House of Black in Grimmauld’s drawing room.

His lawyer, Grant Sterling, the most high-profile Criminal Defense Warlock in MACUSA, barely, if ever, took note of his whining, choosing to ignore it altogether.

“Mr. Malfoy, there are only three people who can testify for you in the Granger case, and you’re one of them. Your memories haven’t been tampered with, have they?”

“No.”

“Then I need to see them. Or you walk me through those thirty-five days, day by day, hour by hour, and we build your defense. We will get you a reduced sentence.”

Draco’s eyes flicked to Harry, who stood silently nearby. “Then we’ll do this privately. In my father’s Pensieve.”

Harry interrupted, a sharp edge to his voice. “Hey, I’m the one paying for him!”

“It’s a loan, Potter.”

Draco added, voice firm, “And if she hasn’t told you, she’s not ready. Maybe she never will be. I’m not going to be the one to invade her privacy.”

Harry said nothing more. Annoyance flickered across his face, but beneath it was understanding. Draco caught the silent praise: honor, however begrudging.

“Lead the way, Mr. Malfoy.” the Warlock said, and with that, Draco Apparated them to the manor.

---

The house was nothing more than a dusty sight of white marble. His mother had been at their Loire Valley estate since the end of the war, on house arrest until further notice. No one had been here to take care of the place.

Perhaps it was for the best.

They climbed the creaky stairs to his father’s study, locked tight with a bloodline touch-lock. Now that he was head of the family by familial law, the door yielded to him.

One by one, Draco extracted memories into the Pensieve, showing his lawyer every agonizing moment of every day, cataloging each strand of memory vial by vial. When Mr. Sterling finally finished with day 35, he was pale and silent. He sank into a chair, waving Draco away as the man tried to wrestle his own chaos of thoughts into writing.

Hours passed, the quill finally stilled.

The Warlock stood, voice low and clipped. “We’ll talk back at Grimmauld.”

---

Back in the shadowed study, Sterling paced, sharp and restless.

“You killed Dolohov out of spite. Not leverage.”

“..Yes.”

“And his crimes against Miss Granger aren’t in his posthumous case file, are they?”

“No. She’s kept it quiet. Suing would’ve made it all public.”

“True, Dolohov had a public trial...”

The pacing grew more erratic. “Mr. Malfoy. Those memories you showed me... they could win your acquittal - if the court would only accept them.”

Draco gave a humorless laugh. “The Minister would sooner retire, Mr. Sterling.”

“Then we use the next best thing. There’s someone else who shares those memories. Someone whose testimony would carry weight beyond yours. Beyond even Mr. Potter’s, perhaps.”

Draco’s jaw tightened. “No. I’d rather serve the full sentence than ask her to relive all of that.”

“Her testimony would almost guarantee your acquittal, at least on the Imprisonment charges.”

“No.”

The lawyer stopped pacing, voice colder. “Mr. Malfoy, in two weeks the court will ask why you killed Dolohov. What will you say then?”

“I’ll say it was bloody payback.”

“And when they ask, ‘Payback for what?’”

Draco said nothing.

“Exactly.” The lawyer motioned for him to sit.

Draco sighed, surrendering to the inevitable.

“There are ways to redact certain memories by petitioning the Minister. Now, since Mr. Potter has testified already, and the case is high-profile enough, Shacklebolt would agree to any redactions myself or Miss Granger demands.”

“No. I’m not putting her in that position.”

“She wouldn’t have to relive a thing. She’d show only the memories she wants.”

Draco held firm on his stance. The Warlock sighed, defeated.

“Fine. No Dolohov memories.”

Draco nodded.

“Just putting it out there though, with those memories, I could’ve built you a pristine case. But even without them, her mind is a goldmine. The Wizengamot must see what you did for her, Mr. Malfoy.”

He shrugged. “I did nothing of consequence.”

“Oh yeah? Let's count." The Warlock started putting up fingers. 'You refused to torture her, at great cost to yourself. You took nine Cruciatus Curses for every one she endured, all of them self-inflicted. You healed her. Smuggled her food. You taught her Occlumency so well that not even two sisters of the House of Black or Voldemort himself could break through.”

Draco stayed silent, face hard.

“Memories of those instances could get the Imprisonment case dismissed, which would weaken the Aiding and Abetting charge entirely. Mr. Potter’s testimony is already set to clear your name in the Dumbledore trial, and your mother’s Unbreakable Vow has resolved the Hogwarts case—with only a fine remaining."

"A soaring high fine."

"Which will be payable once the asset seizure lifts. Draco. We need her testimony.”

The blonde was tense as a bowstring as he shook his head, more pale than usual.

“I can’t ask that of her.”

The room fell into sharp silence until a voice cut through it, dry and biting.

“You’re still such a coward.”

Draco blinked. Harry stepped from beneath his Invisibility Cloak, eyes steady and unyielding.

“How long have you been there?” Draco demanded, standing up, voice taut.

Harry ignored the question. “Did you really do all that for her?”

Draco kept quiet. Harry reached out swiftly, grabbing Draco by the collar of his robe and pulling him closer—close enough that Draco could feel the heat of his breath.

“I asked, did you really do all that for her?” Harry’s voice was low, fierce, demanding the truth.

Draco’s eyes flickered, a mixture of defiance and something deeper - guilt, maybe, or shame. He said nothing.

Harry’s grip tightened just a fraction. “Look at me, Malfoy. I need to know. No lies.”

The room seemed to shrink around them as Draco swallowed hard, the weight of everything pressing down. Finally, his voice came out rough but honest:

“I did what I could.”

Harry held his gaze for a long moment before releasing him with a slow breath. His eyes bore into Draco’s, searching, demanding more than words. “You did what you could?” he repeated, voice sharper now. “Is that all? Because from where I’m standing, you did a lot more than that.”

"I didn’t do it for heroics, Potter. I did it because... because I had to. She had to survive.”

Harry’s expression softened, but his voice remained firm. “Because you cared. Admit it.”

Draco’s eyes flicked away, a flash of vulnerability breaking through the hardness. “Maybe. But she’s paying the price now. Her magic’s gone. She’s—”

“She’s fighting,” Harry interrupted. “And so are you. Both of you. That’s why I’m here. That’s why this matters.” He took a breath and stepped back, tension easing just a little.

“She’d never forgive you if you spent decades in Azkaban because you refused to ask for her testimony.”

“Even if I did ask her, she can’t extract those memories until she’s Unoccluded them. Hell, she barely remembers what happened.”

“Then help her Unocclude them.”

“I am. But they’re buried deep. If she tears down one part before the rest of the castle is free, she risks permanent damage.”

“Then we work faster.”

Draco hesitated, heart pounding.

“She’s strong, Draco. I see it every day. Her energy’s higher than it’s ever been, and after your sessions, her eyes sparkle with magic. She’s close to the end now and you know it. Anyone can see it.”

“That’s why I don’t want to push her. Our pace is working.”

“Well, your pace will stop at zero if you’re in Azkaban.”

Draco’s breath caught.

“When’s the next hearing?” Harry asked the Warlock.

“Next week are the Scotland trials. The Granger case resumes the week after.”

“Two weeks. Can you Unocclude her fully by then?”

“...I need a month. Minimum.”

Harry looked to the older wizard for help.

“I can petition the DMLE for a week’s delay. That’s the best I can offer.”

“Good. Then I’ll contact Kingsley in three weeks. Tell him Hermione wants to testify but her health isn’t up to it yet. That’ll buy us time.”

“A month,” Draco muttered, trying to wrap his head around the span.

“A month. You get her fully Unoccluded, hopefully fully magical, and leave the rest to us.” 

“And if she refuses to testify?”

Harry chuckled, sharp and knowing.

“Have you learned nothing about Hermione Granger? She’d Apparate out of St. Mungo’s mid-sentence if she thought it’d help.”

And just like that, agreement was made: fragile, unspoken, but real.

For the first time in years, Draco allowed himself a sliver of hope.

He tried to Occlude the feeling, but it clung stubbornly, scattering his thoughts. He barely noticed the Warlock setting their next meeting in two days for mock cross-examinations. Soon the house was empty again, just him and Harry at Grimmauld Place, legally his now by bloodline, but unused since the war except for these grim meetings.

“Draco,” Harry’s voice was quiet.

He looked up.

“You said Dolohov’s death was payback for what he did to Hermione. It wasn’t just the Cruciatus, was it?”

Draco swallowed, caught. Silence stretched.

“Is that why she won’t ever talk about the Manor?”

“Yes.”

Harry didn’t press further. Instead, he let out a long, steady breath.

“...Then I’m glad you made sure those memories stayed out of reach.”

Draco nodded, the weight settling around him as he continued.

“Perhaps it’s best they remain Occluded as well.”

“Whatever’s best for her.”

Chapter Text

Draco knocked once, soft and hesitant, then let himself in. The door creaked just enough to announce him, but not enough to feel deliberate. He stepped inside.

Hermione was sitting upright in her hospital bed, propped against a mountain of crisp pillows, knees drawn up beneath the covers. A book rested on her thighs -Hogwarts: A History, naturally- but her eyes weren’t on the page. They lifted to him the moment he crossed the threshold.

Her face was neutral. Not cold. Not warm. Just... waiting. Braced.

Andromeda was nowhere in sight.

“Granger,” he said. His voice scraped out, sandpaper and gravel—raw from too many nights without sleep, too many words unspoken.

“Hi,” she replied, quiet but not unfriendly.

Silence settled in like dust, drifting down between them. Not oppressive. Not charged. Just there. Hovering. Breathing in the same space. Draco shifted his weight from heel to heel, then wandered toward the window without waiting for an invitation, hands deep in his pockets. He didn’t sit. Couldn’t. Sitting implied comfort. Familiarity. Things he wasn’t sure he had any right to claim.

His eyes flicked to the glass. Beyond the ward, the moon had risen—pale and distant through the enchantments. He could see the faint shimmer of protective spells humming against the cold.

“I should probably apologize,” he said at last, voice low and rough.

Hermione blinked, her brow furrowing. “For what?”

He dragged a hand through his hair, his fingers catching on a tangle near the back. He winced, then dropped the hand.

“For… touching you like that. Last time. Without asking. I wasn’t exactly thinking, and you—”

“You were helping.” She closed her book with a soft thump and folded her hands over it. “I was going to thank you, actually. It was a brilliant idea, on your part.”

Draco’s eyes met hers.

A beat.

“Oh,” he said.

“Yeah,” she echoed.

And then, for just a moment, the silence changed. Something loosened between them. Not dramatically. Not with fanfare. But like a knot pulled too tight had quietly let go, the cord no longer strangling the breath from the air.

The door opened behind him.

Andromeda entered with her usual purposeful stride, parchment tucked beneath one arm, a cloudy bottle of potion dangling from the fingers of her other hand.

“Good. You’re here,” she said briskly, glancing between them. Draco leaning at the window like he belonged nowhere and everywhere; Hermione tucked in bed, her spine tense with anticipation.

“We might not do a full session today,” she added, setting the bottle on the bedside table. “Just a diagnostic. I want to compare magical flow under different conditions.”

Draco arched a brow. “You mean like a magical stress test?”

Andromeda gave him a tight, wry smile. “You could call it that.”

“Lovely. Always dreamed of being your personal guinea ferret, Auntie.”

“That’ll have you going three for three, darling. Though I promise I’m far gentler than my sisters.”

“Mother’s quite kind, actually.” he muttered under his breath.

Andromeda ignored him, already setting her notes out.

“Assume your original position. Forearm to forearm. And stay on the fifth floor, we’re not risking either of you with anything we haven’t already Unoccluded twice over.”

Draco exhaled through his nose, the sound sharp. He pushed off the windowsill and circled to Hermione’s side. Neither of them said anything as they aligned their arms, wrists touching. The skin-on-skin contact pulsed with familiar magic—like a thread slipping into place, tugging just enough to remind them of its presence.

“Legilimens.”

They fell.

The fifth floor unfolded like breath. Golden light drifted through wide corridors, the walls steady, the atmosphere calm. The memories here were fluid, soft around the edges, like the world exhaling after holding its breath for too long.

“Describe the energy flow,” Andromeda’s voice drifted in.

Draco narrowed his eyes, focusing not on the visuals, but on the feeling beneath them. The quiet thrum of shared magic. The pulse between.

“It’s even,” he said after a beat. “Feels like a small current. Controlled. Not… hungry.”

Hermione tilted her head. “Restrained, almost. But it’s calm.”

“All right,” Andromeda said. “Pull back.”

They surfaced. Hermione let out a slow breath. Draco sat back, flexing his fingers.

Andromeda stepped closer, her gaze clinical.

“Now replicate last session’s configuration. Draco, hand on her chest, and the other at the nape.”

Draco shot her a flat look. “Of course. Casual groping for the sake of science. Why not.”

“Don’t be dramatic.” The older witch chastised.

“I’m a Malfoy, Andromeda. I’m always dramatic. You should know.”

Still, he moved.

He reached out, one hand sliding carefully across Hermione’s sternum, fingers slipping in from her now half-unbuttoned shirt, the other settling behind her neck. His touch was gentle, almost reverent—but his jaw was tight, the line of his spine drawn like a wire. Hermione stiffened at first, but didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away.

“Ready?” he asked.

She nodded once.

“Legilimens.”

They descended again.

Draco felt it instantly. A surge. Not chaotic, but deeper, richer. The stream from before had widened, strengthened. The connection no longer tentative. It was reaching.

“It’s stronger,” Hermione said, awed. “Not just steady, it’s expanding. Like it’s pushing out, not just through.”

Hermione’s voice was calm but surprised as she kept describing. “It feels like… like my magic isn’t just accepting his. It’s reaching for it.”

“Excellent,” Andromeda said. “Pull back again.”

When they emerged, Draco’s hands stayed where they were for a second too long. Then he blinked and dropped them, mouth drawn into a tight line. He didn’t speak.

“All right,” said Andromeda. “One final configuration.”

Draco looked at her warily. “What now? Want me to balance her on my shoulders?”

“No. But I do want you to take off your shirt.”

A beat.

“…I’m sorry, what?”

“You heard me.”

Hermione went stiff beside him.

Draco blinked again. “Is this another test, or are you actually just trying to break me?”

Andromeda stared at him with unimpressed patience. Draco scoffed.

“Look I may not be the kindest person but if this is a joke then—”

The older witch cut him off. “It’s not a joke, Draco. We need to test the response to full cardiac resonance, and you’re the one with intact core stability. So strip.”

Draco groaned, dragging a hand over his face. 

“Un-fucking-believable.” 

Still, he undid his buttons -grudgingly, like it pained him- and pulled off his shirt in one irritated motion.

Hermione’s eyes darted anywhere but his torso.

“Hermione dear, palms and forearms flat against his chest,” Andromeda said, unfazed. “Skin to skin.”

There was a long pause.

Hermione swallowed. “All right.”

Her fingers shook as she placed them flat on his bare chest. His skin was warm. Too warm. Beneath her touch, his heart gave a startled flutter, then settled into a rhythm. She didn’t look up. Neither did he.

“Legilimens.”

Magic tore through them, not painfully, but with force. Draco staggered slightly having to stabilize himself, bracing her with one hand as the current overwhelmed his senses.

“This is—” He let out a breath. “Bloody hell.”

Andromeda’s voice: “Use your words.”

Hermione tried. “It’s… it’s open. The current - it’s not just flowing, it’s surging."

“It’s wrapped around fully now,” Draco murmured. “Almost as if we’re tethering each other.”

“And what was it like before?”

“Like he was anchoring me. Alone.” Hermione didn’t hesitate.

“Exactly what I thought. Come back.”

They resurfaced. Hermione snatched her hands back, breath shaky. Draco yanked his shirt on with jerky, graceless motions. He didn’t finish the buttons, just enough to hide the rise and fall of his chest.

Andromeda folded her arms.

“From now on, we begin with the last configuration. Complete skin to skin, unless medically impossible.”

Draco scowled, ears pink. “Of course. Nothing screams effective therapy like being half-naked in a medical ward.” He tsked.

Hermione said nothing, a blush dusting her cheeks. 

“The body is an anchor,” Andromeda said. “Heart, spine, core. The closer you are to each other’s vital points, the more stable the current. Your bond requires that now.”

“Why?” Draco asked.

Andromeda’s gaze was sharp. “Because in moments of need, you chose to give Miss Granger more instead of retreating, my dear nephew. And in doing so, you’ve both quickened the process as well as made the bond require deeper contact. Pros and cons, really.”

Draco couldn’t find any words to oppose her. Even his stubbornness was to an extent.

The eldest Black sister folded her arms. “If you’re serious about seeing this through, you’ll need to get comfortable with each other. Physically.”

He collapsed back in the chair beside Hermione’s bed, holding his temples. 

But he was on board.

Hermione glanced at him, lips parted like she might say something. But then she didn’t.

Not yet.

Still, her expression had changed. Opened.

And in the quiet that followed -not tense, just strange- Draco realized something he hadn’t wanted to admit.

He didn’t mind the contact.

Not really.

And not for the reasons he used to tell himself, either.

Not anymore.

---

The silence stretched. Andromeda busied herself with her notes, making deliberate scratches of ink against parchment while Draco rubbed his eyes and Hermione fidgeted with the edge of her sheet.

Then, calmly, without looking up, Andromeda asked, “Do you want to try a session today?”

Hermione’s eyes flicked toward Draco on instinct, but he wasn’t looking at her—his hand had moved to his neck, thumb digging into the muscle just below his jaw. She turned back to Andromeda.

“I think I feel good enough,” she said quietly. “I slept better last night.”

There was a pause, just enough to register weight, and then Draco gave a short, humorless huff.

Andromeda glanced at him. “Draco?”

He straightened a little but didn’t answer right away. His knee bounced once, then stilled.

His first instinct was to say no. To stall. Give it another day, maybe two. There was something about the remaining floors that put him on edge, even if he couldn’t yet name why.

But time wasn’t exactly on his side. A month.

He had one month left before the trial.

If they didn’t get through all of it -if she wasn’t unoccluded by then- then none of this would matter. Not her testimony. Not his choices. Not the pain, the exhaustion, or the line he kept walking between control and collapse. He needed her to feel, to remember, to be able to sort through her mind again. And he needed to do it before they put him on a stand and tore him to pieces. 

Draco exhaled slowly. “Alright,” he said, low. “Seventh floor.”

The air shifted instantly, heavier now. Draco and Hermione both felt it. The quiet between them wasn’t aimless anymore. It had edges. Purpose.

Andromeda summoned her clipboard, flipping through pages with a precise flick of her wand. “Prepare yourselves. New standard configuration - palms to chest, bare contact. Let me know when the current’s stable.”

Draco stood slowly, already shrugging his shirt back off with practiced irritation.

Hermione adjusted the pillow behind her and rolled up her sleeves, fingers twitching. Her heart was picking up pace - she could feel it in her throat, in her palms, in the flutter of nerves down her spine.

Draco sat with her again. The same closeness. The same warmth. But now it felt heavier with intent.

He looked at her. She met his eyes.

“You sure?” he asked quietly.

Hermione nodded.

He scooted closer. She pressed her hands to his bare chest, palms flat, thumbs resting just beneath his collarbones. His skin was warm. The contact buzzed, like distant thunder.

“Here we go.” she whispered.

Draco closed his eyes. Raised his wand.

“Legilimens.”

Chapter Text

Hermione’s palms rested flat against Draco’s bare chest, trembling slightly with the first rush of magical contact. His skin was warm -fevered almost- but steady beneath her hands. 

“Her baseline’s stable,” Andromeda supplied from the far side of the room, wand poised but relaxed. “You’re synced. Don’t move too fast.”

Draco didn’t look away from Hermione’s face, even as her eyes fluttered shut. “We won’t.”

The castle unfolded like breath held too long, too tight.

Draco’s magic wove itself around hers, coaxing the mental structure into form. They rose together, past the sixth floor -the war- and reached the landing of the seventh.

It was different here.

The air was still and dense, like a forest after rain. The stone walls weren’t cracked or scorched like below. They were... clean. Intact. Too intact. The edges too sharp. The windows shuttered. The silence pressing in like snow.

Hermione stepped forward.

A long corridor stretched out ahead, doors on either side. All closed. All identical. Smooth brass handles, polished wood, not a speck of dust in sight.

Draco stayed right behind, close but not touching. Hermione moved forward as if pulled, shoulders tight, face unreadable. 

---

The Burrow. Too many people in too small a space. Sunlight through gingham curtains. Laughter she couldn’t join in.

Molly brought her tea every morning, eyes red from crying. Ginny tried to pull her into games. George said nothing but watched her like she might shatter.

Hermione smiled when they needed her to. She helped with the dishes. She sat on the floor with Teddy and let him pull her on curls. She answered every “Are you alright, love?” with a nod. Always the same line:

“I’m fine.”

The first time, she didn’t Occlude the memory. Not fully. Just the moment her voice cracked after saying it. Just the flicker of George’s pity.

Just enough to keep moving.

A thread of magic snapped inside her then. Small. Unnoticed.

—

Hermione shifted. Her hands slid over Draco’s chest slowly, fingers grazing across old scars and tense muscle, resting over his ribs. Her breath caught.

Draco exhaled. “You’re doing well,” he whispered.

“She’s going deeper,” Andromeda said, checking a ribbon of energy weaving between them. “Keep steady.”

Draco’s hand moved to her hip - not possessive, just solid. Anchoring. “I’m here.”

—

Next door. Sydney.

Dust. A photograph. Her parents on the other side of a window. Two lattes. New names. No recognition.

They looked happy.

She couldn't go in.

This time, the Occlumency wasn’t subtle. It was desperate. Her magic surged, defensive. She didn’t just Occlude the moment at the cafe. She Occluded the search. The streets. The sting of self-rejection. The guilt of what she'd done to them.

And when that wasn't enough, she Occluded the warmth of her mother’s hugs. The sound of her father’s voice.

Her childhood blurred at the edges.

---

Grimmauld Place.

Books scattered around her. Pages she couldn’t read. Her hands shaking. A deep, echoing silence under the floorboards.

The loneliness stretched like skin pulled too thin.

She silenced herself.

Not the room, herself.

No breath. No hum of magic. No heartbeat in her ears.

It was the most peace she’d felt in weeks.

So she Occluded that, too. Not just the silence, but how much she needed it.

And in the quiet, the war began to unravel behind her eyes. The months in the forest, the Horcruxes, all the death.

She buried it all beneath this new skill she barely understood.

Her Occlumency sharpened. Effortless. Automatic.

Then the nights started. Harry, screaming just down the corridor. Not every night, but enough that she flinched in her sleep.

Voldemort’s voice, echoing from his nightmares into the hallway like a curse that wouldn’t let them go.

She heard him cry. Not in pain, but in guilt.

And that -that- was unbearable.

So she locked it away. Occluded the sound of it. The knowledge that she couldn’t help him.

That she hadn’t even helped herself.

She stopped sleeping. Stopped eating properly. Stopped thinking about Ron and his tight, worried eyes and the way he wouldn’t stop touching her, as if to anchor her to something she no longer believed was real.

She had once wished he could succeed.

Now, that was Occluded too.

—

Her fingers curled against Draco’s collarbone, sliding higher, over his shoulders. Her palms flattened again. Her breathing grew shallow.

Draco didn’t flinch, but his jaw flexed.

“She’s resisting,” Andromeda noted. “Not the memories, but the return of sensation.”

Hermione’s brow furrowed. A soft sound escaped her.

Draco moved closer. “Breathe for me, Granger.”

---

The Ministry.

Lights. Flashbulbs. Reporters pushing microphones toward her. Questions like bullets. A medal heavy in her hand.

She smiled. She made her speech. They called her a war hero.

When she got home, she Occluded the weight of the medal. The applause. The phrase 'brightest witch of her age.'

And she didn't stop there. She had given up on trying to restrict the Occlumency long ago.

She Occluded the fear in the final battle. The image of Fred’s body. The feel of Ron's arms around her when she couldn't stop shaking.

She told herself it was strength.

But the truth was this: remembering was killing her.

So she chose to forget.

Not all at once.

A little at a time.

---

Shell Cottage.

A stain on the kitchen table. Blood she'd bled. A healing salve. A curse scar.

Fleur’s fingers were gentle. Bill had looked away.

She remembered how it felt to lie in bed and not know if she’d wake up again.

She Occluded that whole week. Every fever dream. Every scrape of pain. Gone.

And then, because that wasn’t enough—

She Occluded the kindness too.

—

Hermione’s arms rose. She hooked them around Draco’s neck, not pulling him in, just holding.

Andromeda’s voice softened. “Her vitals are climbing. Keep the flow steady. Don’t let her take too much, the channel’s too wide.”

He didn’t answer. One of his hands found hers where it trembled at his nape, bringing it back down, holding it right over his heart.

"You're doing so well." He whispered.

---

A narrow stairwell. Hogwarts. Late summer.

She had returned to the ruins for reconstruction efforts. They said it would help her heal.

She stood in what was once the Astronomy Tower, looking down. The breeze caught her robes.

One step forward.

One breath, one moment, one shift of weight—

She thought about it.

And Occluded the thought before she ever spoke it out loud. Occluded the feel of the wind and the pull in her chest.

Occluded her fear of herself.

And when it still returned in dreams, she went deeper.

She Occluded the guilt. The helplessness.

The grief.

All of it.

---

Another door. A sitting room. Hundreds of letters in an open basket. Ministry seals. Private notes. Fan mail. Offers. Demands.

She read none of them.

Burned them all.

And when the flames died out, she Occluded the smell of ash and parchment and ego.

The entire summer blurred.

---

Sweat beaded along Draco’s temple now. Her magic pulsed hot beneath his skin now, reactive, aching to disconnect. 

“How much longer?” He asked Andromeda through gritted teeth.

“Not much. Are you burnt?”

“No, but her magic’s still resisting.”

Hermione gripped his neck tighter with one hand, the other twitching against his chest where he held it steady.

He pressed his forehead to hers. His voice was barely a breath. “Don’t let go, Granger.”

“I’m not.” she whispered, eyes still closed.

Her magic surged.

And for the first time, it responded.

---

Another door. A white hallway. The echo of footsteps.

The hospital. St. Mungo’s.

She hadn’t meant to go.

Ron had noticed her shaking during dinner. Harry had seen the tremor in her wand hand when she tried to lift a glass. They didn’t ask, they just took her. She didn’t fight them.

She didn’t fight anything these days.

Inside, she sat between them in the waiting area. Ron held her hand like she was glass. Harry kept his arm around her shoulders. The Healers asked questions she couldn’t answer.

She kept smiling. Kept lying.

Just tired. Just stressed. No, no nightmares. No flashbacks. No, I’m eating fine.

They looked at her like she was brave.

She Occluded the appointment before it even ended.

---

The next door led to a sterile room. She sat on the cot, her wrists pale against the sheets.

The Healer ran diagnostic spells.

Nothing happened.

Her wand was in her hand. She tried again. Lumos. Alohomora.

Anything.

Nothing.

The Healer’s mouth moved, but Hermione couldn’t hear her.

Harry leaned forward, gentle, worried. Ron stared like he’d been hit.

She didn’t cry.

She smiled again. Nodded.

“It’s probably just stress.”

Inside, she Occluded everything.

Not just the spells, the Healer, the sterile sheets. She Occluded the moment Ron squeezed her hand too tightly, Harry’s silence as they Apparated her home.

And when she was finally alone, when the quiet wrapped around her like fog—

She Occluded the truth:

Her magic wasn’t gone. It was buried.

And she had done it to herself.

—

Her eyes opened slowly, and for one breathless moment, she stared at Draco’s face - so close. His eyes were wide, glassy with effort, holding back a grimace as her magic surged through his own.

“Final spike,” Andromeda said, stepping forward. “Hold, Draco. Just hold stable. It’s almost over.”

Draco let go of her hand on his chest, resting it gently on her jaw now, fingers behind her ear. “Come back,” he whispered. 

“Come back to me, Granger.”

---

The seventh floor sighed around them. A quiet ripple. Like something sacred just shifted.

And far, far below -on a floor perhaps yet unreached- the foundation of her soul exhaled for the first time in months.

---

Draco’s thumb traced slow, careful circles on her cheek, as if he could soothe the chaos inside her with just a touch.

Her eyes fluttered, distant, swimming somewhere far away. He leaned in, voice low and steady.

“Come back to me.”

She blinked again, the weight in her gaze softening just enough to catch his.

She swallowed hard, voice trembling.

“I did this to myself,” she whispered, as if confessing a secret she’d kept too long. “All of it… I was the one who locked it all away.”

Draco’s thumb stilled.

Her breath hitched. She pulled away from him slightly, and the he retreated, letting her lean against the headboard now, knees pulled to her chest.

“And I’m sorry,” she added, voice barely above a breath. “Sorry for everything. For dragging you through this mess. For the pain I caused, the pain I still cause. It was all preventable.”

Before Draco could respond, she rushed on, words spilling out like a river breaking a dam.

“Every floor. Every room. Every broken memory. I Occluded it all. I chose to suppress it. I chose to forget. And now…”

Her voice thinned.

“Now it’s become impossible to beat.”

A beat passed.

“And I dragged you into it.”

She pulled her arms tighter around her knees, knuckles white with pressure. 

Draco frowned. “It wasn’t—”

“It was,” she said sharply, turning to face him. Her eyes were glassy, rimmed with red.

“I Occluded it. I locked it all away. And because of that, because I didn’t want to feel any of it—” her breath hitched, “I nearly destroyed myself. I nearly destroyed my magic. And you—”

Her voice broke.

“You’ve been the one pulling me out of it. Watching it happen. Watching me lose everything. And it’s been my fault all along.”

The room was quiet but for the sound of her breathing—thin and uneven.

Draco leaned forward, sitting close to her on the side of the bed now. “Granger, listen to me.”

She shook her head. “No, you don’t understand—”

"I do,” he said, calm but firm. “I do.”

Her eyes met his, wide and desperate. He didn’t look away.

“You survived a war. You survived torture. And then you survived the silence that followed. You found a way to keep going when it felt impossible.”

His voice softened.

“You adapted. It doesn’t make it your fault. It makes you human.”

Hermione swallowed hard, throat bobbing.

“I’m still sorry,” she whispered. “God, I’m so—.”

"Stop.”

Draco’s voice cut through the storm—low, hoarse, and final.

"If anyone’s to blame… it’s me."

Hermione blinked. "What?"

He didn’t look at her. His jaw was tight, gaze fixed somewhere beyond her shoulder.

"I taught you the Occlumency," he said quietly. 

"That was the start of it. I showed you how to build the walls.”

A muscle twitched in his cheek. "I thought I was protecting you. From them. From what they’d do to your mind. I didn’t think—"

He let out a sharp breath through his nose.

"I didn’t think it would lead to this."

Hermione watched him, stunned.

"Draco—"

"It was raw magic," he said, the words rasping out like confession. "I forced it into you. The technique wasn’t ready. I wasn’t ready. But I didn’t care what it cost me if it meant keeping them out of your head."

His voice dropped.

"I didn’t care what it would cost you."

Slowly, finally, his eyes found hers.

"Maybe I should have."

Hermione felt her breath catch at the look on his face: drawn, haunted, guilt-ridden. Like he’d been carrying this weight in silence for years.

She shook her head, fiercely.

"No. Don’t you dare put this on yourself." Her voice wavered, but she pushed through it. 

"If I hadn’t Occluded during those interrogations, I would’ve shattered and you know it. You saved me. You gave me the chance to hold on, to fight back. You bought time. For me. For the Order."

He opened his mouth, but she pushed forward.

"What I did after the war, that was on me. I took what you gave me and used it to bury everything. I twisted it into a crutch. I abused the magic."

Her eyes brimmed, throat tightening.

"You taught me how to survive during a war by teaching me to Occlude. Instead I used it to run from everything that came after."

She dropped her gaze, voice barely above a whisper.

"And now that we’re doing this, with all these memories coming back, I don’t… I can’t even tell who I am, or what’s left of me.”

Silence stretched between them, thick with shared ghosts.

Her mouth trembled, but no words came.

And then, so quietly she wasn’t even sure she said it aloud:

“Draco, what if I don’t like what’s left of me?”

He was quiet for a long moment.

Then, softly, steadily:

“What’s left is still you. Just… unprocessed.”

Hermione let out a brittle laugh. “That’s exactly why I Occluded it all in the first place. Processing hurts.”

He nodded, slow and sure, like he knew it firsthand.

“It does. But you do it anyway.”

She turned to him, chin resting on her knees. Her voice was raw. "And what if I’m not ready?”

Draco didn’t hesitate.

“Then we brace for the impact,” he said. “And I catch what I can.”

He tilted his head slightly, holding her gaze with quiet steadiness.

“And when you can’t carry it, I’ll help you do that too.”

Hermione looked at him.

Not through him. Not past him.

At him.

There was something in his eyes. Not soft. Not pitying. But anchored. And it steadied her, too. 

That seemed to be a pattern these days.

“You don’t have to do that. It’s not - it has nothing to do with my healing.”

Draco shrugged. 

“Maybe not. But it has everything to do with you. Which means I'll do it anyway.”

She looked at him, a flicker of something unreadable in her eyes.

“Why are you being so kind to me?”

He spoke before he could pace himself. “Because you’re still in there,” he said. “And I see her. I see you, Hermione.”

Her eyes stung again. But she didn’t look away.

And when her hand moved -slow, cautious, deliberate- he met it halfway.

Their fingers laced.

No magic. No ritual.

Just warmth.

Just contact.

Just her hand in his.

Chapter Text

The Charms classroom was quiet, save for the soft scrape of shoes across stone.

Ginny’s breath came in short, frustrated bursts as she fumbled the last half-step again. Draco steadied her with a hand at her back, barely suppressing a sigh.

“You’re still rushing the pivot,” he groaned. “Let me lead.”

“I am letting you lead. You’re just slow.” Ginny shot him a glare. “No offense.”

“Some taken,” he said dryly. “Again.”

They reset. His hand found the small of her back, and the old gramophone whined softly into life once more. They moved in sync for the first few measures, navigating the narrow classroom with sharp turns and low glides. Ginny concentrated, her jaw tight, until he spun her neatly and brought the motion to a clean stop.

She blew out a breath. “Finally. We didn’t look like complete trolls that time.”

Draco stepped away, brushing his sleeves back into place. “High bar, Ginevra.”

She rolled her eyes and grabbed her robes off a desk chair. “Remind me again why we agreed to open the Halloween Bash with a bloody tango?”

“I don’t recall agreeing. I recall being ordered around. By you.”

Ginny snorted and flicked her wand at the gramophone, silencing it. “Well, you shouldn’t have insulted the waltz.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “I expressed an opinion. You were the one who was adamant on learning an ages-old dance in two weeks.”

“Eh, po-tay-to, po-tah-to.” The ginger shrugged, a devious smile on her face.

They stepped out into the corridor, shoes tapping in near-sync as they made their way toward the first checkpoint of their patrol route. The castle was quiet, the only light coming from the flickering torches along the stone walls.

After a long silence, Ginny asked, “So. When are you going to ask her?”

Draco didn’t pretend to misunderstand. He exhaled slowly, gaze fixed ahead. “I’m still not sure it’s a good idea.”

“You’re wrong,” Ginny said simply. “She’s the only one who can explain what really happened.”

He said nothing.

“She knows what you did for her,” Ginny pressed. “For the war. She’s the only person the Wizengamot might actually listen to. So what are you waiting for?”

His shoulders tensed. “It’s not that simple.”

“It is, actually,” she said. “Either you ask her, or she finds out from someone else. And let me tell you, that version? It’s going to go down a lot worse.”

Draco stopped walking.

Ginny turned to face him. Her voice dropped, not unkind, but firm. “You know her. She doesn’t like being blindsided. If you wait too long and someone else brings it up -Andromeda, McGonagall, me- she’ll feel like you didn’t trust her enough to say it yourself.”

He looked away. “It’s not about trust.”

“Then what is it?”

He hesitated. “I don’t want to make her feel obligated.”

Ginny crossed her arms. “Draco, she’s not a child. And she doesn’t do things out of obligation. If she decides to speak for you, it’s because she means it.”

She paused, watching him closely.

“And let’s not pretend this is just about the trial,” she added lightly, with the faintest smirk tugging at her lips. “I’ve seen the way you look at her. Try not to seem like you’re fighting death every time she’s in the room. It might help your case.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Don’t start.”

“I’m just saying,” she said innocently, already walking again. “The courtroom’s one thing. But if you’re too scared to talk to her about this, how are you going to handle the rest?”

Silence stretched for a beat.

“So?”

He looked back at her, jaw tense. “I’ll tell her. After she’s finished Unoccluding.”

Ginny stopped mid-step. “Seriously?”

He turned slightly, brow furrowed. “She’s barely holding together some days. The last thing she needs is me dropping that on her. The trial, me, it’s too much. She has enough to process.”

“Exactly,” Ginny snapped. “She’s processing. That’s the whole bloody point. And if you wait until the last floor of that nightmare castle of hers, when she’s raw and unravelled, it’s going to hit her like a hex to the chest.”

Draco’s expression darkened. “I don’t want to put her under any more pressure.”

“Well, you are,” Ginny said, eyes sharp. “By not telling her. You’re not protecting her, Draco. You’re only delaying the fallout.”

He looked away, jaw tight.

Ginny stepped closer, voice lower now. Not unkind. “You have to give her the choice. Let her decide whether she wants to stand up for you. Don’t rob her of that just because you’re scared.”

He didn't answer right away.

So she added, lightly -just a hint of smirk in her tone- “Unless you're worried that she’ll say no.”

His eyes flicked to hers, sharp.

“Relax,” she said, teasing softening to something gentler. “We both know she won’t.”

He didn’t respond. But he didn’t deny it, either.

Ginny met his gaze again. “So talk to her. Before someone else does. Please.”

He nodded, once.

They walked on.

Chapter Text

The drawing room of Grimmauld Place was dim and cold, the old chandelier overhead flickering with erratic candlelight. The curtains were drawn tight. Draco sat in the straight-backed chair Sterling had conjured in the center of the room. No distractions. No charm-work. Just silence, save for the slow rhythm of the Warlock's boots pacing behind him.

“Again,” Sterling said. “From the top. Clear, concise, and without self-pity.”

Draco’s jaw flexed. “My name is Draco Malfoy. I am here voluntarily to offer full testimony regarding my involvement in the Second Wizarding War—”

His voice cut in, sharp. “Too stiff. You sound like you’re reading off a Ministry pamphlet. Try again.”

Draco exhaled through his nose. Reset. “I’m here to take responsibility. For what I did. And what I didn’t do.”

Sterling came into view, circling. “Better. But responsibility isn’t a shield, Mr. Malfoy. The Wizengamot will want blood. You need to control the narrative before they write one for you.”

He stopped, hands behind his back.

“Let’s talk about Malfoy Manor.”

Draco tensed. “What about it?”

Sterling’s voice was cool. “A known base of operations for Voldemort. Prisoners were tortured there. Including Hermione Granger. And it just so happens to be your family home. Explain that.”

“I—” Draco hesitated. “I didn’t have a choice. I couldn’t leave. I wasn’t the one giving the orders—”

“And that sentence will get you torn apart,” Sterling snapped. “‘I was following orders’ won’t cut it. Try again.”

Draco swallowed, then spoke slower. “I didn’t run. That’s true. I stayed. I watched. But when I could act, when there was a crack, even the smallest, I took it. I taught her Occlumency. I got potions to her. I healed her.”

“And you expect that to be enough?” Sterling asked. “You expect them to overlook the rest of it?”

Draco stood abruptly. “Of course I don’t think it’s enough! I’m not asking for a bloody medal—”

“But you are asking for mercy.” Sterling didn’t raise his voice. It was the calm that made it brutal. “And they don’t hand that out for good intentions. They want remorse. Regret. And proof.”

Draco clenched his fists. “I’m not ashamed of saving her.”

“Good,” Sterling said. “Then stop sounding like you are. Again.”

Draco stared at the wall, took a breath, and sat back down.

Sterling gave him no reprieve.

“Why didn’t you testify to all of this at the first round of trials?”

“Because she Occluded everything I did. I didn’t want to force her to remember what I’d given her the means to forget.”

Sterling didn’t blink. “And what changed?”

Draco looked up. “She’s unoccluding now. Voluntarily.”

Sterling studied him, then asked, “Why help her at all? What was in it for you?”

Draco didn’t flinch. “Nothing. She was the only thing I could save.”

Sterling nodded slowly. “Perfect. That, you keep. Don’t embellish it. Don’t apologize for it. Just let them hear it plain.”

Silence stretched.

Sterling crossed to the desk, opened a leather-bound folder, and slid out a list of questions.

“We’re going to run it again,” he said. “But this time, I’ll ask you how many people you saw tortured. How many you didn’t stop. And why no one ever saw you bleed. Think, Mr. Malfoy. I know you're smart, the only part I'm concerned about is your resilience during questioning."

Draco’s throat was dry, but he nodded.

“I can take it.”

The American looked at him for a moment, something flickering in his expression.

“You’d better,” he said. “Because once this begins, it won’t stop.”

He cleared his throat.

“Now. You were the heir of a known Death Eater. A student of Severus Snape. You lived in the Dark Lord’s headquarters. You watched people die in your dining hall. Why the hell should anyone believe you weren’t one of them?”

Draco clenched his fists. “I was only trying to survive.”

“So was everyone else you let them torture,” Sterling barked. “Try again.”

“I... I taught Hermione Granger how to protect her mind. I passed her potions. I interfered when I could—”

“And did you ever report to the Order? Send a Patronus? A coded message? Anything besides whispered pity in the darkness of your basement?” His voice sliced closer with every question.

“No. Not until the last day.” Draco ground out.

“Why not?”

“They would’ve killed me.”

“So you let them kill someone else instead?”

Draco stood up, breathing hard.

“I didn’t let anything happen!”

Sterling didn’t blink.

“Then say that. Sit down and say that in a way the Wizengamot will believe you. Because right now? You sound like every other war criminal who ‘didn’t have a choice.’”

Draco dropped back into the chair, shaking. “I didn’t have control.”

“Bullshit. You chose resistance when it suited you, and silence the rest of the time.”

He circled again.

“You want them to show you mercy. Tell me, Mr. Malfoy, how many people begged you for the same thing before they were dragged into that manor?”

Draco’s voice cracked. “Too many.”

Sterling leaned in, unforgiving.

“And how many did you save?”

Draco didn’t answer.

Sterling’s words came quieter, but more dangerous for it.

“You didn’t even try until it was her, did you?"

Silence. Then:

Draco raised his chin. “You're right.”

Sterling finally stilled.

“I’m not proud of it,” Draco said, voice gravel. “But I won’t lie. I helped her because I could. Because she was close, and because if I didn’t do something, I was going to lose myself entirely. She was the only thing I could save. So I did.”

Sterling clapped once.

“Good, you're learning. We've found the spine of your defense. That’s your through-line. You dig your heels into it and you bleed conviction, because the Wizengamot won’t hand you a second chance. They’ll try to gut you for being born with a silver spoon and a Dark Mark for a surname.”

Draco’s eyes met his. “I know.”

Sterling gave a single, hard nod.

“Good. Because we haven’t even started the real questions yet.”

Draco’s jaw clenched.

“Let’s continue with the Cruciatus curses. You were ordered to torture Hermione Granger. What did you do?”

Draco hesitated.

Sterling cut in before he could spin a story.

“Don’t try to explain or justify. Just answer.”

He swallowed. “I cast the Cruciatus curses on myself.”

Sterling nodded once. “Good. Don’t add anything about why or how. The court won’t care about your intentions. And when they ask how you justified hurting yourself, don’t say it was for her. Say it was to maintain control. Pain is control.”

Draco frowned but nodded.

Sterling circled, boots tapping. “What about the potions, the food? Tell me.”

“I got her what she needed to survive. Anything to keep her alive.”

“No open-ended sentences, no ‘because’ or ‘I thought.’ Just facts.”

Draco sat straighter. “I brought her potions and food.”

Sterling’s eyes narrowed. “And you taught her Occlumency?”

“Yes.”

“How do you answer when they ask why?”

“It was the only way to keep her mind safe from Voldemort and Bellatrix.”

Sterling slammed a hand on the table. “No! They will see that as complicity. You cannot admit you helped her block memories. You must say it was for her survival. Period. Do not mention Voldemort or Bellatrix.”

Draco frowned.

Sterling pressed on. “Shielding her room. Tell me exactly what you say if they ask.”

Draco met his eyes. “I used protective charms to prevent others from entering.”

Sterling’s lips twitched. “Say ‘I did what I could to protect her.’ Leave the rest unsaid. The Wizengamot should fill in the blanks themselves."

He stood. “This is a battle, Mr. Malfoy. Not a confession. You will be attacked. You will be questioned on every detail. Your job is to control the narrative. Take responsibility where you must, but never admit to weakness or guilt you don’t want to own.”

Draco swallowed. “I understand.”

Sterling gave a curt nod. “Now we run it again. Harder.”

Draco didn’t move.

“Tell me, how many times did you watch Hermione Granger suffer and do nothing?”

Draco’s throat tightened. “I didn’t do nothing. I helped her whenever I could.”

Sterling stopped abruptly, voice like ice. “No, no. You’re dancing around the question again. Answer it straight: How many times did you see her tortured and not intervene?”

Draco’s jaw clenched. “More times than I can count.”

Sterling’s fiery gaze bore into him. “Why? Why didn’t you stop it?”

Draco swallowed hard. “Because it wasn’t my place to interfere directly. I was under orders. And the risk to her life was too high.”

Sterling shook his head sharply. “Wrong answer. We just went over this, Mr. Malfoy. The Wizengamot doesn’t care about ‘orders’ or ‘risk.’ They want to know why you didn’t act. What will you say when they ask why the son of Lucius Malfoy idly stood by?”

Draco’s fingers twitched. “I stayed to protect her in my way. I couldn’t risk her dying from punishment or exposure.”

Sterling narrowed his eyes. “They won’t believe that. They will say you were a coward. An enabler.”

“Then I will tell them I was a coward.” He gritted out.

The Warlock's lips twitched into a cruel smile. “That’s… refreshingly honest. But you will not say that. You will say you acted strategically, that every choice was to maximize her chance of survival.”

Draco’s voice was tight. “I acted strategically.”

As just as Draco barely got out the last syllable, the Warlock was on him again.

“Now, we go deeper. We hit your guilt - not just what you did, but what you should have done. You won’t like this part, Mr. Malfoy, but I’m afraid it’s the Wizengamot’s favorite.”

Draco’s eyes never left Sterling’s.

“Like I said, I can take it.”

Sterling smiled thinly. “You’d better.”

His gaze narrowed like a hawk spotting weakness.

“Let’s talk about what you should have done. Not what you did, but what a decent wizard would’ve done.”

Draco’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

Sterling circled slowly, voice cold and merciless.

“You were there. You saw her broken, bleeding, terrified. You had the power -magical power- to stop it. Yet you chose to watch. To wait. To allow it.”

Draco’s fists clenched tightly in his lap.

Sterling’s eyes bored into him.

“You call yourself a protector, but did you ever stop to think: What if your inaction made her pain worse? What if every moment you hesitated was another moment of agony for her?”

Draco swallowed hard, voice low. “I never stopped thinking about her.”

“Then why didn’t you act on it?” Sterling’s voice was harsh, each word a blow. “Why didn’t you find a way to stop the torture? To get her out?”

Draco’s eyes flickered with pain. “I was trapped. If I tried to act openly, I would’ve endangered her.”

Sterling scoffed. “Trapped? Or unwilling? Fear is a poor excuse for betrayal.”

Draco’s breath hitched. “I wasn’t betraying her.”

Sterling’s voice dipped to a dangerous whisper. “But you were. Every moment you stayed silent, every time you failed to scream loud enough, you betrayed her. And yourself.”

Draco’s gaze dropped. “I did everything I could.”

“Could you have done more?” Sterling asked, voice almost gentle, but the accusation cut deeper than any other.

Draco’s answer came a whisper. “Yes.”

Sterling leaned in, eyes blazing.

“Exactly. Yes. You could have done more. And that ‘more’ is what will have our defense crumbling in court.”

Silence filled the room.

Draco swallowed again, steadying himself.

“But here’s the truth. The court doesn’t want perfection. They want honesty. Ownership. You can’t hide from your guilt. You need to face it. Own it.”

Draco nodded slowly.

Sterling paused, voice dropping to almost a murmur.

“And when they ask about Dolohov—”

"They can't." He snapped. "She's allowed to omit those memories." 

"She is, but you're not. And Pensieve or not, the fact remains: you killed him. The only thing Miss Granger's omission changes is your mens rea to justify the murder. Or rather, its lack thereof."

Draco's hands were balled into fists, teeth grinding. The Warlock ran his eyes over Draco's tense posture and his sizzling fury, and inhaled deeply.

“So it is just as I suspected."

"What."

"This is your trigger."

He said nothing. Sterling kept pacing.

"If you let the Wizengamot see your red line, Mr. Malfoy, they will trample right on over it. They will use it against you. You need to be better prepared for your weaknesses than your crimes. Don't forget that."

Draco sat, frozen.

“Let's run it over then, shall we?" He cleared his throat."You killed Antonin Dolohov. You understand what that means. How do you defend premeditated murder?”

His voice was cold. “It wasn't premeditated. It was defense. Retribution.”

Sterling tsked. “Retribution is murder dressed up in a cloak. The court will say you crossed a line. You must be ready to admit it was an act of desperation, the only choice.”

Draco exhaled, eyes darkening. “It was the only choice.”

Sterling’s tone was final. “Good. Hold onto that. No hesitation. Now, tell me, what do you plead regarding the Dolohov case?”

A silence.

"They will ask this in court, Mr. Malfoy, and you will answer. You will admit it was murder. You will say you killed him to save Hermione Granger from further horrors.”

Draco’s voice was a quiet growl. “Because that’s what it was. It's not like it's a lie."

Sterling stepped back, voice final.

“I don't care what it was. All I care about is the man the Wizengamot needs to be shown. Not the boy still hiding behind excuses.”

He met Sterling’s gaze, raw and unflinching.

“Fine. Are we done?”

Sterling smiled thinly.

“For now.”

Chapter Text

Draco had only planned to drop off Hermione’s requested library delivery at St. Mungo’s and be on his way. But Ginny Weasley had insisted -practically badgered him- to come along. After several dramatic sighs and eye-rolls, he gave in.

Of course, he regretted it immediately.

As soon as they arrived, Ginny produced Hermione’s old beaded bag like some smug little magician. And before Draco could process what was happening, she was pulling out fabric and accessories, dumping them unceremoniously on Hermione’s hospital bed.

Costumes.

He blinked. Once. Twice.

Hermione looked up, caught red-handed, her smile sheepish but not at all apologetic. Ginny, on the other hand, met his stare with raised brows and a smirk that practically screamed say something, I dare you.

“Problem, Draco?” she asked, far too innocently.

He held his hands up, amused despite himself. “By all means, ladies. Be my guest.”

Ginny narrowed her eyes slightly, confused. “Huh. Thought you’d throw a fit or something. You know, Head Boy and all.”

Draco scoffed, leaning against the dresser with a lazy tilt to his posture. “Coming from the interim, sneaking the real Head Girl out of a secure ward for a school dance.”

“Oh, shut up.” Ginny muttered, but the edge in her voice had already curved into something more playful. She turned back to the bed, digging through the ridiculous pile of wings, glitter, and satin.

Draco stayed where he was, arms crossed as he watched them squabble over hemlines and masks. The scene was oddly domestic. Strangely...normal.

“You’ll need a mask.” he said after a beat.

Hermione looked up. Ginny paused mid-unfold.

“If you don’t want to rely on a Disillusionment Charm all night." he added with a pointed glance toward the glittering white feathers. “And I assume you don’t, hence the… theatrics.”

Hermione nodded once, already searching through the pile with purpose. Ginny, however, was frowning as she mumbled to herself,

“Merlin’s pants, how did I not think of that?”

Fortunately, one of the costumes in her stash included a mask: an angel ensemble, with delicate wings and all. Hermione seemed to like it. She ran her fingers over the feathers as if they were something sacred.

“Good. If you’re done, let’s go before I change my mind.” Draco muttered, and without further delay, he Apparated all three of them into the Head dorms.

The moment they arrived in the common room, Hermione froze. Her breath hitched audibly, and her eyes swept the room like it was some long-lost dream.

Draco opened his mouth to say something -he didn’t know what- but Ginny cut through the moment like a dagger.

“Mione, here, change. Quickly." she said, thrusting the costume into Hermione’s hands.

Hermione disappeared into her room without another word. Draco leaned against the fireplace, only to have Ginny clear her throat behind him. He didn’t even try to hide his irritation.

“What now?”

“I need to get dressed too, you toad.”

“And you don’t have your own room up in Gryffindor Tower?”

Ginny groaned dramatically. “It’s all the way up there! My costume’s already here. Just go.”

Draco rolled his eyes and stalked off to his room. Might as well change too.

He took his time, if only to annoy her. But Ginny still screeched at him through the door. When he finally stepped out, he was dressed in a crisp, perfectly tailored black suit. His pale blond hair was styled back with just enough effort to seem effortless, and a golden set of antlers sat atop his head.

Ginny turned, took one look, and burst out laughing.

“Oh, you have got to be kidding me.”

“I assure you, I’m not.”

“How long did that costume take to come up with? Like a second?”

Draco shrugged smoothly. “It’s all I found in my old trunks.”

“Right. Sure. Because that suit looks very old.”

“My suits are always new and pressed, Ginevra. I meant the headpiece.”

“Mhm. And what, the Ministry confiscated your ratty Halloween masks but left your dignity intact?”

“Mother doesn’t have owl privileges. Besides, she’s not even at the Manor.”

Ginny blinked. “Really?”

“Really. Nothing but letters. And even those are being intercepted.”

A silence stretched between them—awkward, brittle.

“I didn’t know.” she said quietly.

Draco didn’t respond. Just turned to check his reflection.

Ginny lifted her wand.

“Well, let’s at least fix you up a bit, no?”

“Ginny, don’t—”

Too late.

The antlers shimmered and warped in the mirror, transforming into black, curling devil horns.

Draco narrowed his eyes. “You think this is funny?”

The witch grinned. “Doesn’t it suit you better?”

“Change them back. This… this could raise questions.”

“What? Why?”

“Because a demon and an angel walking around will turn heads. Especially when the demon is me and the angel’s Hermione Granger in disguise.”

Ginny waved it off. “You’ll be patrolling the whole night anyway. No one will even notice.”

“I quite agree,” came a soft voice behind him.

He turned, startled.

And promptly forgot how to speak.

Hermione stood in the hallway, her costume hugging her like something out of a Veela dream. A white feathered mini skirt floated around her thighs, while a fitted corset bodice clung to her curves. The neckline dipped low -low enough to leave his mouth dry- and the smaller feathers delicately concealed just enough. Her wings fluttered behind her with gentle enchantment.

Ginny squealed. “You look perfect.”

Hermione flushed. “Thanks, Gin, but look at you! You’re glowing!”

“Me?” Ginny blinked. “Well yes. My dress is literally on fire.”

“Honestly, give yourself a pat on the back.” 

And she actually did.

Ginny gave herself a mock pat on the back and actually beamed at her own joke.

A knock on the door broke the moment.

Draco flicked his wrist and the door creaked open. Harry Potter stepped inside, dressed in charred greys and blacks, soot smudged across his jawline.

Ginny darted over immediately, pecking his cheek.

“Wow,” Harry murmured, spinning her in a slow circle. “You look... bloody hell, Gin.”

Draco raised a brow. “And what are you supposed to be?”

Ginny answered for him, all grins. “He’s the ash. I’m the phoenix. Get it?”

Draco gave her a flat look. “Charming. Very subtle.”

Harry grinned. “Yeah, we thought we’d leave the obvious costumes to you, mate.”

Ginny cackled. Hermione rolled her eyes. Draco didn’t rise to the bait, though he was sorely tempted.

“Mione, dazzling, as always.” Harry added, going over to twirl a now-shy Hermione around once. 

“Save me a dance?” 

And Hermione smiled, a real smile, and agreed easily. After leaving a quick peck on her hand, Harry let go and moved to stand next to his girlfriend, checking his watch. “Alright, we should go. Hermione can follow in five minutes. No sense in drawing suspicion.”

The golden couple left arm in arm, still snickering. The door shut behind them.

Hermione adjusted her wings and began pacing.

“Nervous?” Draco asked, watching her from the armchair.

She nodded. “A little. What if someone recognizes me?”

“Maybe a handful. Luna. Longbottom. But most won’t.” He stood, smoothing his sleeves. “You’ll be alright.”

“You really think so?”

Draco nodded once. “I’ll be out patrolling, if you need air. Or cover.”

“I just might take you up on that. Thanks.”

They lapsed into silence, the seconds crawling by until the five-minute mark.

Then, wordlessly, Draco offered his arm.

Hermione hesitated. “What if someone sees?”

“We’re parting ways at the end of the hallway, Granger. It’ll be fine.”

She nodded, then gently took his arm. Together, they stepped out of their common room - an angel and a demon walking into the night.

—

The fairy lights pulsed overhead as the last of the guests trickled in, House colors shimmering across the enchanted ceiling in time with the music. Students began to circle the periphery of the dance floor, curious and expectant.

At the front of the room, Professor McGonagall gave a dignified nod, signaling for the Head Boy and Interim Head Girl to step forward.

Ginny swept up the stairs first, radiating confidence, her hair braided down one side like a warrior’s crown. She took the microphone charm from its pedestal and grinned at the crowd.

“Right, you lot!” she said brightly, her voice carrying across the room. “Welcome to the Hogwarts Unity Halloween Bash. You’ve survived a ton of classes, a dozen duels, two Quidditch injuries, and at least one attempted hexing over a stolen cauldron. I say that deserves a party.”

Laughter rippled through the hall.

She beamed. “Tonight is about House unity, open minds, and extremely questionable dance decisions. So please—don’t hold back. Let’s make this one to remember!”

Applause broke out, warm and enthusiastic.

Then Ginny turned, mock-formal, and gestured to Draco with a theatrical bow. “And now, your very own Head Boy: Mister Tall, Pale, and Grumbling; Draco Malfoy!”

Draco stepped forward in his sleek black dress robes, his expression somewhere between resigned and professionally dead inside.

He took the microphone charm with two fingers, cleared his throat once, and said, “Try not to spill anything. Or duel. And if you vomit, do it outside.”

Beat.

“Enjoy.”

He handed the charm back to McGonagall with all the fanfare of a man paying taxes.

Ginny rolled her eyes affectionately and murmured to him, “A real poet, you are.”

Draco retorted, “You said I could keep it short.”

“And now,” McGonagall called, louder again, “as per tradition... the first dance!”

A few whistles came from the crowd as Draco reluctantly offered his hand to Ginny.

“No backing out now,” she whispered, taking it with a smirk.

“I hate you,” he muttered under his breath.

“I know. Smile pretty, Blondie.”

The music swelled, slow, sultry, and unmistakably a tango.

As the opening notes played, Draco’s spine straightened. He stepped in, one hand on Ginny’s back, the other clasping hers. For all his complaining, the movements were sharp and precise, his posture perfect. He led her in a dramatic dip that earned a round of applause before they even got to the chorus.

Ginny, for her part, was clearly having the time of her life. “Two weeks of practice well spent, wouldn’t you say?” she teased under her breath.

“I say you owe me at least three Firewhiskies for this,” Draco replied, twirling her easily through a smooth pivot.

“Done.”

As they moved across the floor -Draco crisp and elegant, Ginny flashing smiles- the tension in the room shifted. For the first time in a long time, it felt like the Houses weren’t divided. Just students. Just people. Watching two unlikely partners command the floor.

When the final spin ended with Ginny arched in a dramatic lean, the Hall burst into cheers.

Ginny stood and curtsied deeply. “Floor’s open!” she called out. “Get dancing, or we’ll do another one - and no one wants to see a Malfoy do salsa.”

Draco gave her a dark look that only made the laughter louder.

As the floor filled with students pairing off and jumping into their own chaotic routines, Ginny clapped Draco on the shoulder. “Well done, Blondie. I think you won more than a few hearts with that.”

“I’d like to return them for store credit,” he said flatly. Ginny cackled as she walked away.

---

Draco had since stepped off the dance floor for his patrol duties. His eyes raked the entirely of the Hall, doing a double take at Hermione now bouncing around with her friends. Something twisted quietly in his chest  - wistful, sharp, and stubborn. Just as he turned to leave for the gardens, he nearly collided with Luna.

“Draco. How have you been?”

“I’m… fine, Luna, thanks.” He grumbled, wishing to leave.

“She’s very pretty tonight, isn’t she?” Luna said with a dreamy smile.

Draco blinked, caught off guard.

Luna’s eyes twinkled. “Sometimes the ones who shine the brightest make it hard not to stare. Even if you try to look away.”

He frowned, searching her face for a joke.

Luna giggled softly. “It’s funny how the heart does its own thing, even when the mind is busy telling it not to.”

And before Draco could say anything, she skipped away, leaving him standing still, a little unsettled by how right she sounded.

---

The party had been a raging success.

The music pulsed through the decorated Great Hall like an unspoken enchantment, setting fire to everyone’s nerves. Costumes twirled, masks glittered, and for once, Hermione laughed without restraint. Ginny dragged her into a ridiculous waltz with Neville, Luna crowned her with a conjured candy corn tiara, and even Harry –with all the eyes always on him– managed to stop caring and let loose for one night.

It was fun. Real, reckless fun.

Until someone spiked the punch.

Hermione didn’t realize it at first.

In the beginning, it was just a pleasant warmth spreading through her limbs, too pleasant. Her cheeks glowed, her giggles bubbled over more easily than they should have. The candles overhead swirled in golden halos, the floor felt oddly soft beneath her feet. Ginny had just twirled her into a laughing spin near the drinks table, her glittering wings catching the light, when the dizziness hitsh, arp and sudden.

“Whoa,” Hermione muttered, reaching out to steady herself against the table’s edge. Her fingers fumbled against the smooth wood, and her mask - it shifted.

And slipped.

Only for a second. Just enough for a slant of candlelight to fall across her face, catching the angle of her jaw, the arch of her brow, the wild brown curl that had wormed its way free from the sleek angelic updo.

“Shit,” Harry hissed from beside her, instantly reacting. He stepped in fast, hand snapping up to adjust her mask before anyone could really see. He pulled it snug against her face, fingers steady, eyes locked on hers. “Mione. Your mask—”

“I know,” she whispered back, her voice unsteady. “I felt it.”

“Someone might’ve—” But he stopped himself, jaw tightening.

Because someone had.

Across the room, half in the shadows near the charmed pumpkin archway, Ron Weasley stood perfectly still. His butterbeer hung forgotten in one hand. His face had gone pale beneath the glow of the lanterns—slack, frozen. Then his eyes, wide and disbelieving, narrowed into sharp slits. No words. No movement forward. Just a bitter flick of his gaze from Hermione to Harry and back again.

Hermione blinked, pulse stuttering. For a terrifying second, she thought he might come barreling through the crowd, demanding answers, screaming betrayal - but no. He just turned away, shoulders tense, jaw locked. Said nothing. Not even a sneer.

She exhaled, and it came out shaky.

“I think he saw,” Harry murmured, watching Ron’s retreating back.

Hermione swallowed. “Yeah. I know.”

"You alright?"

“I will be.”

He squeezed her elbow gently, his grip grounding. “I’ve got your back.”

Hermione nodded, forcing herself to stand straight, even as the candlelight continued to blur at the edges of her vision. Her magic prickled uneasily beneath her skin.

And that’s when the cake incident happened.

There was a loud bang! - and everyone jumped. The leg of the dessert table blasted off. The enormous, three-tiered monstrosity of sugar wobbled, tipped, and collapsed in glorious, frosted chaos.

Shit.

Screams. Laughter. Gasps.

The Ravenclaw prefects sent the Protean alert, even though Ginny was already on scene.

And then, he was there.

Draco strode into the room like a shadow with purpose, elegant, expression sharp behind his devil’s costume. With one flick of his wand, the table was fixed. Filch was summoned with a grumble, and the elves -brilliant, hidden workers- rolled the cake out to the kitchens to patch it back together as best they could.

The party continued. A little clumsier. A little looser.

But not for Hermione.

Because Ron kept glancing. Not confronting her. Just watching. Thinking. Misunderstanding everything, as always.

When the crowd thinned and the clock edged past eleven, Draco gave Ginny a small nod -his thanks- and walked out onto the grounds in silence. Ginny appeared at Hermione’s side moments later.

“It’s time to go, hon.”

Hermione nodded, breath light. “Yeah. You’re right. I’ll head out.”

“Want me to walk you to Malfoy?”

“No no, don’t worry, I’m not drunk. Besides, if you leave now Harry might cry. He looks like he wants to eat you alive.”

Ginny raised a brow but said nothing. Hermione giggled, hugging Ginny out of the blue. 

“Thank you for this, Gin. Love you.” 

“Love you too. Get back safe, ok?”

And with a tipsy nod, Hermione left the Great Hall with careful steps, the cobblestones feeling oddly uneven beneath her kitten heels.

She didn’t make it far.

“Hey.”

Ron appeared in front of her.

She kept her head turned, slowed only slightly, and muttered, “Excuse me,” moving to the side. Her ankle wobbled. He caught her by the waist, steadying her.

She recoiled, sneering. “Get off me, Ronald.”

His hands lifted.

“So it is you, Mione. Blimey, what are you doing here?”

“I’m still a student of this school, Ronald. And this isn’t any of your business.”

“Oh really? You’re drunk off your wits and traipsing around the halls—”

“I’m not traipsing. I’m headed to the courtyard to Apparate back.”

“Fine. I’ll accompany you.”

He reached for her arm again. She jerked it back.

“I can walk on my own.”

“Have it your way.”

They walked in tense silence until, of course, Ron broke it.

“I didn’t bring a date tonight, you know.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. Hard.

“I know you won’t take me back anytime soon, but I’ll spend the rest of my days trying. I’ve been selfish. Immature. I know that. But I’m changing, Hermione. I really am.”

“Oh, and you’re proving that by bragging about coming single to the Bash?”

“Not bragging. Just… I want you to see I’m not the same wannabe womanizer anymore—”

“Not like you were ever any good at that.” She scoffed.

Ron said under his breath, “I had many offers for tonight, actually…”

She stopped. Spun on him, red in the face now, fury climbing.

“Oh, did you? And what—turned down all the girls to make yourself look virtuous?”

“I - no, that’s not what I meant—

“Well then, congratulations, Ronald, for keeping your dick in your pants. I know that’s very hard for you!”

She stomped off.

“Quite hypocritical of you to say, isn’t it?” he called after her. “It’s not like you came alone!”

Hermione froze. “What?!”

“I saw your matching outfits. I know what you’ve been doing!”

She laughed. Laughed in disbelief, all bile and no joy.

“Is that what you think?”

“Yes and it’s what anyone would think if they saw the person beneath the angel mask.”

She ran her hands over her face, getting red out of anger. She made to retort, but then bit back her words, calmly saying,

“You know, I’m not even going to bother with you. Spread all the gossip you want, Ronald, you’ve been the best at that this year, haven’t you?!”

“You cast a Cruciatus on me! I was bloody right about everything I said! And now you’re breaking rules so you can matchy-matchy with your Death Eater boyfriend! If anything, our friends deserve to know how disloyal you’ve been so they can protect themselves from the newly-minted Snake!”

She didn’t scream. Didn’t hex him.

Just spun on her heel again and kept walking. But the words chased her, crawled down her spine. Her stomach churned.

She turned a sharp corner—and slammed into someone.

A broad chest. Cold buttons. Familiar hands catching her elbows.

“Granger,” Draco said, brows drawn tight. “Are you drunk?”

“Mostly angry,” she breathed, steadying herself with two fists in his lapels. The anger caught in her throat. Her chest burned.

But then,

“Oh, how shocking!” Ron’s voice broke through the night, and Hermione flinched. “Sure, run into his arms the second someone calls you out! Crawl into the snakepit, let him corrupt you some more!”

Draco tensed. “What’s going on?”

Hermione looked away. “Doesn’t matter. Just Apparate me back. Please.”

Draco nodded and reached for his wand, but it flew out of his hand with a sharp Expelliarmus.

“Don’t run away from me!” Ron bellowed.

Hermione inhaled, then pushed off of the tall blonde and turned around.

“Are you done screaming?”

“Are you done being a hypocrite?”

“Believe what you want to believe, spread all the lies you want to spread, Ronald, alright? It’s just gossip.”

“It won’t be 'just gossip' when your job offers all vanish because you’re an unstable Dark sympathizer protecting escaped Death Eaters—”

Her wand was out.

“Say that one more time.”

Ron actually cowered at the sudden gesture. He backed up. Just a step. Then looked to Draco.

“Aren’t you supposed to be her protector?! She’s about to bloody curse me again!”

Draco smirked. “Oh, I truly hope she does.” 

He snapped his fingers, and his wand zapped back to his hand. But he didn’t lift it.

Hermione stared down Ron like a queen on a battlefield.

“You threaten me because that’s all you can do, Ronald. The entire world knows you’re not very bright. You also wouldn’t have any social standing without Harry, and at the end of the day, you’ll have to come to terms with the fact that you peaked at 17. It’s all downhill from here for you. No matter how well your gossip may travel in Hogwarts, no one will care when you can’t pass your NEWTs and only get into the Auror program thanks to Kingsley’s initiative and become the black sheep there. And mark my words, you will. By then, your words will hold no inherent power, and you will lose all trust.

So say what you want, because no one will ever believe you.”

She turned back to Draco.

And before he could even breathe, she kissed him.

Certain. Firm. Her hand held his jacket as the other slipped to the back of his neck, drawing him in closer. His arms circled her waist as if by instinct. Her lips pressed into his like an anchor, like a choice.

The moment she pulled back, she turned her head, eyes locked with Ron’s, bright, unwavering.

“Not even if you extract your memories and shove them down people’s throats.”

And with a squeeze on Draco’s shoulder and a subsequent pop! - she and Draco vanished, the echoes of her fury still ringing in the frosted air.

Back in her St. Mungo’s room, silence greeted them. With a deep sigh, she threw herself onto her bed, the wings of her costume crumpling beneath her as she yanked the mask off her head. It landed somewhere on the floor with a soft thunk, but she didn’t care. She just lay there, staring at the ceiling, trying to piece together what the hell had just happened.

“I hope you’re not Occluding.” came Draco’s voice from across the room.

“Oh please,” she muttered, rubbing her eyes with the heels of her hands. “My mind’s been so busy forcibly destroying itself these days, I don’t think I could will it to Occlude if I was fucking Grindelwald.”

Draco chuckled, low and surprised. “Charming image.”

She turned her head slightly to glance at him. He was perched in his usual chair again, one ankle resting over his knee, jacket half unbuttoned, tie loose. He looked far too composed for someone who’d just participated in a social ambush.

“You might not want to hear this,” he went on, a grin tugging at the edge of his mouth, “but you should know, that was mighty Slytherin of you, Granger. Threats, slander, deceit; a masterful mind game. You and Theo would get along.”

With a grunt, Hermione pushed herself upright, dislodging a few feathers that fluttered to the floor. She smoothed the front of her glittering dress absently and said, “Ron’s ego was big enough before the war. It only inflated tenfold afterward. Someone needed to deflate him before he floated off like one of those Prophet advertising balloons.”

“I think only you possess the tongue for that,” Draco mused. “He looked butthurt.”

Hermione snorted. “He did, didn’t he?”

Silence settled in for a breath. Then, without quite looking at him, Hermione began to fidget with the hem of her dress. Her fingers twisted the fabric, over and over.

“I’m sorry I dragged you into it,” she said quietly. “You just… happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

Draco tilted his head, considering her.

“I’d say quite the opposite,” he said. “If anything, I’m glad I was there to Apparate you out before it got heated past its necessity.”

Another silence. Not awkward, but weighted. Reflective.

“I want you to know,” she added after a moment, “I wouldn’t have cursed him again.”

“Oh, I know,” Draco said. His voice was calm, but his mouth twitched into a smirk. “I’m very well versed in your murderous tendencies by now.”

Hermione scoffed, but a laugh escaped before she could stop it. A real one. And the weight on her chest felt just a little lighter.

Then she sobered again, voice quieter. “I’m sorry about… everything else, too.”

Draco’s expression stiffened. His spine straightened a fraction, and his mental walls rose like stone around a keep. He Occluded instinctively -just for a second- burying the image of her lips on his, the heat of her skin, the startling ache it left in its wake.

“I know a scheme when I see one, Granger,” he said coolly. “And I saw yours from a mile away.”

He hadn’t. Not even close. But she didn’t have to know that.

“Still,” she said, brushing her hair behind one ear, “I apologize.”

“Not necessary.”

He leaned forward, a slow smile creeping onto his face. His eyes gleamed in the firelight.

“I may be a changed man,” he said, “but I’m afraid toying with the Weasel’s a bit too fun to put past me.”

Hermione blinked, startled. She stared at him for a moment, as if trying to determine whether he was being serious. But when Draco let out a low, wicked laugh, she couldn’t help herself - she laughed too, the sound rich and real.

“Glad we’re finally on the same page, then,” she said, grinning.

He raised a brow. “What, the page where I’m your morally flexible yet still-reluctant accomplice?”

“Exactly,” she said, lying back on the bed again. “It’s a thrilling chapter.”

Draco chuckled again, standing to fetch her mask off the floor. He handed it to her gently, his fingers brushing hers just a little too long. Neither of them mentioned it.

“Rest up, Angel.” he murmured.

Hermione’s eyes softened.

“I’ll try.” she said, meaning more than just sleep.

Draco nodded and stepped out quietly, his silhouette sharp against the soft glow of firelight.

----

As the door clicked shut, the tension in Hermione’s body dissolved like sugar in tea.

She let herself fall back, boneless, into the mattress. The wings crinkled beneath her again, but she didn’t care. Her hands flopped to her sides. Her eyes slid shut.

And the moment she did, the memory rushed in.

The kiss.

Just one brief, blistering moment -hot and charged- but she could still feel the press of his mouth against hers. Still feel the hum of it, the aftermath of a stolen moment and emotion she hadn’t meant to reveal.

She hadn’t meant to kiss him.

Not again.

That was two now.

Fuck.

She scrubbed her hands over her face, dragging in a shaky breath. You’re unwell, she told herself. Trauma bonding. Proximity. Magical exhaustion. This isn’t real. It’s just a mess of threads you haven’t untangled yet.

And still, she replayed it. Over and over again. How he hadn’t pulled away. How he’d looked at her afterward like something new had cracked wide open.

She groaned and threw a pillow over her face.

---

Draco moved down the corridor with sharp, even steps.

His Occlumency walls were up: fortified, ironclad, elegant. But even still, the memory slipped through like a draft under a closed door.

The first time.

He had buried it. Filed it away. Sealed it with runes and willpower and an entire summer of practiced detachment.

And now…

Now there were two.

He paused at the end of the hallway, leaning one hand against the cool stone. Closed his eyes.

For just a moment, for one last thorough watch, he let both memories surface. 

Then, with an effort that left his jaw tight, he compartmentalized them again.

Took both memories, trimmed and compressed them into the smallest form he could manage - a slim little book with no title, tucked far into the restricted section of his mind’s library. Hidden behind a false shelf. Secured in a case of enchanted iron. Wrapped in chains. Locked with runes so ancient he could barely remember learning them.

He wouldn’t revisit them.

He couldn’t.

But as he walked away, hands deep in his pockets, he realized with dull, quiet dread:

He’d already memorized every page.

Chapter Text

The corridors were mercilessly loud the morning after the Bash, but not nearly as loud as Pansy Parkinson, who found Draco mid-stride on the way to the Dungeons and immediately latched onto his arm like a cursed bracelet.

“Word on the street is you were seen kissing a little angel,” she sang, voice sugary and cutting.

Draco didn’t even blink. “The Weasel’s blabbing again?”

“Oh you bet.”

She flipped her hair.

“I was quick to pull the plug on it, of course.”

Draco lifted a brow. “How?”

Pansy’s grin curled like parchment catching fire. “By having a jealous fit.”

He stopped walking. “Parks, what did you do?”

“Sent him a Howler.” Her voice was positively delighted. “Everyone heard me berating him about how he could even accuse you of cheating on me when he clearly saw who it was under that mask. Full dramatics. Tears. Screeching. Total drama. Honestly, I should get an award.”

“That sounds a bit excessive.”

“Please. Thanks to me, the whole school moved on to the next bit of gossip before breakfast even ended.”

Draco narrowed his eyes. “Didn’t you go to the party with Blaise, though?”

“I attended a party,” she said airily. “But it wasn’t that party."

He waited. She basked.

“The boys and I snuck off to Hogsmeade for drinks. Then we threw an afterparty for the entire House.”

Draco frowned. “I clearly remember seeing Theo in the Great Hall.”

“He lost at Exploding Snap. Got stuck on food and punch duty.”

“And I wasn’t invited because?”

Pansy sniffed. “Oh, please, like you would have ever come. No, you were probably too busy jerking off to—”

Draco put a Silencing Charm on her before she could say any more. She jabbed him in the ribs, hard enough to make him flinch. He lifted the spell.

“I suggest you be nice to me, Draco. I saved your ass.”

“And what, you need gratitude or something?”

She grinned. “Amongst other things.”

He gave her a flat look. “I don’t like bargaining, Pansy.”

“Then I’ll make it simple and final. I want two things.”

He sighed. “Let me guess. A favor and leverage.”

“A thank you and an explanation.” she corrected, voice low and almost... sincere.

Drco paused, then slipped into the shadow of an alcove, tugging her with him by the sleeve. He turned to face her, his expression smoother than usual, almost warm.

“Thank you.”

She blinked. Once. Then smiled, slow and satisfied. “There’s the Malfoy charm.”

Draco inclined his head slightly, as if to say, Go on then.

Pansy didn’t miss a beat. “So you kissed her?”

“Technically,” Draco said, “she kissed me.”

Pansy squealed. Loudly.

Draco groaned. “Calm your bloody tits. It’s not what you think.”

“What, so you didn’t snog her?”

“No, of course not. What the fuck, is that what the Weasel’s been saying?”

She nodded, eyes wide with faux innocence. “He made it sound like it was full tongue, hands-in-hair, fireworks-everywhere. Scandalous, really.”

Draco dragged a hand through his hair, muttering, “Unbelievable.”

“Well?” she pushed.

He exhaled. “He was harassing her - threatening blackmail, slinging around all kinds of idiotic Gryffindor ultimatums. She played into it. Gave him exactly what he thought he saw. Then she eviscerated him, verbally. I was just... the punctuation mark.”

“So Granger kissed you to make Ron Weasley jealous?”

“I wouldn’t call it jealousy. It was more to make him feel like a washed-up, useless little git with nothing to his name but a pile of Quidditch posters and one functioning brain cell.”

Pansy stared. Then slowly nodded. “Damn, that girl has a tongue.”

“Tell me about it.”

A beat.

“So it wasn’t a kiss kiss?”

Draco shot her a look. “No, Pansy.”

She tilted her head. “But... would you have wanted it to be?”

“I’m not talking about this with you.”

“So there is something to talk about then?”

Draco pushed off the wall, back to his usual gliding pace. 

“Goodbye, Pansy.”

She followed anyway, grinning like a cat who knew exactly which bird to eat next.

By the time they made it to Potions, the dungeons were half-filled and echoing with lazy conversation. The temperature was ten degrees colder than upstairs, and the torches along the walls flickered like they couldn’t be bothered to do their job.

Theo and Blaise were already waiting at their usual seats, doing their best impressions of smug portraits come to life.

“Look who survived the tabloids!" Theo said, hands folded neatly behind his head.

Blaise didn’t look up. “Ah, if it isn’t Hogwarts’ most sought after bachelor.”

Draco sighed and dropped his satchel with the full weight of his annoyance. “You lot are insufferable.”

“Oh come now,” Blaise quipped. “You’re telling me you didn’t enjoy being the romantic centerpiece of Pansy’s theatrical masterpiece?”

“Front page material,” Theo added. “That screech had range, Miss Parkinson.” 

Pansy bowed dramatically.

“The praise goes to you, gentlemen. I was merely the face of the operation.”

Draco didn’t respond, just threw her a look. She smiled sweetly, like she hadn’t detonated a Howler an hour ago.

“Wait,” Draco muttered. “Did you three plan this together?”

Pansy gave an exaggerated gasp. “Planned is such a strong word—”

“—coordinated is better,” Blaise supplied.

“Strategically timed,” Theo agreed, mouth twitching.

“...You’re all mad.”

“You’re lucky we are,” Pansy said, propping her chin on her hand. “Your little garden kiss nearly set off a House war. Until I swooped in and claimed you, of course.”

Theo leaned in. “The Ravenclaw girls were swooning before the Howler arrived. It was all anyone could talk about.”

“Sure it wasn’t just the usual dose of Azkaban propaganda?”

“Oh please,” Pansy cut in, kicking Draco under the table. “You know how they like the ‘tragically misunderstood war criminal’ image you got going on.”

Draco shook his head.

“You have too much free time on your hands.”

“No, we’re just invested,” Pansy said, and there was something sharper beneath the teasing - something that made Draco glance up.

She didn’t elaborate.

Blaise leaned across the table, eyes glittering. “So. Was she good?”

Theo actually clapped, devious.

Draco didn’t look up from unpacking his parchment. “Absolutely not answering that.”

Theo, grinning, leaned in from his spot behind Blaise. “That’s a yes in Draconese.”

“I hate you.”

“No but seriously. You kissed Hermione Granger,” Blaise whispered with the reverence of someone discussing forbidden literature. “Mate, I don’t even know what House you belong to anymore. Should we kick you out of the Snake Pit?”

“She kissed me.” Draco snapped.

Pansy held up a finger. “Let the record show he’s said that twice now.”

“Deflection is admission." Blaise added.

Draco pinched the bridge of his nose. “She only did it to get Weasley off her back. It was strategy.”

“Semantics.” Blaise echoed with a smirk. He leaned back in his chair and casually draped an arm along the bench behind Pansy. Not touching her. Not quite.

Theo raised a brow. Draco blinked once.

Pansy didn’t react. But the corner of her mouth twitched as she leaned back - just barely.

Interesting.

“You’re all very cozy today.” Draco supplied, eyes flicking between them.

Blaise yawned. “Cold dungeons. Tell McGonagall to put up more heat charms, would you, our dear Head Boy?”

Theo snorted.

“Shut it, Nott.” Blaise replied without heat.

Pansy looked down at her nails with a deliberately neutral expression, though Draco didn’t miss the way her foot casually hooked around Blaise’s ankle beneath the table.

So. That was happening.

He decided not to comment. Yet.

Instead, he leaned back and gave them all a look. “Fine. You got your fun, right? Can we drop this once and for all?”

“Oh no no no, Drakey-boy,” Theo said. “I’m afraid this is a slow burn.”

“A series,” Blaise added. “Ongoing installments.”

“With character development,” Pansy gestured with mock-seriousness. “Rising tension. Burning loins, perhaps?”

“I hate every last one of you.”

“We love you too.” they chorused.

Draco exhaled hard through his nose, running a hand through his hair, the smile slipping from his face as the teasing died down. 

“Alright seriously, enough. Lay off me, yeah? I’ve got enough on my mind without all of you turning this into some bloody romantic comedy.”

The weight in his voice caught them off guard. The air shifted, growing quieter, the usual banter fading into something more serious.

Theo exchanged a glance with Blaise before leaning forward. “Trial shit?”

Draco’s jaw tightened. He nodded once.

Blaise’s smirk softened into a look of genuine concern. “When is it?”

“Eighteen days.” Draco’s voice was low.

There was a pause. Pansy’s playful smile faded as she bit her lip, fingers tightening slightly around the edge of the table.

Theo broke the silence. “Do you have a lawyer yet? Someone good?”

“Mhm,” Draco spoke quietly. “An American warlock. Cutthroat.”

Blaise nodded slowly. “And your testimony? You ready for what they’ll throw at you?”

Draco exhaled sharply, shoulders tensing. “I don’t think anyone could ever be truly ready for that.”

Pansy reached out, briefly squeezing his arm. “We’ll be there.”

Draco’s eyes flicked between them, grateful but stubborn. “I appreciate it. Truly. But you shouldn’t come.” His voice was firm.

“What? Why?” Theo’s voice rose an octave.

“It’s dangerous. It’s politics and power plays disguised as justice. I don’t want any of you getting caught up in it.”

A weighted silence passed between them.

Blaise frowned. “You’re serious about this.”

“Dead serious. Keep your distance. If you really want to be supportive, do it from afar.”

The group exchanged looks, the warmth between them now tempered by worry and respect.

Pansy gave a small nod. “Alright, we’ll back off. But we’re here for you. Know that.”

Draco gave a faint nod, swallowing the tightness in his throat.

Just then, the classroom door creaked open, Slughorn’s shaky voice filling the room and pulling them back to the present.

Theo sat up straight. Blaise pulled his hand back from behind Pansy like it had never been there. She smoothed her hair with one flick of her fingers and looked perfectly composed.

Draco caught her eye.

She diverted her gaze, the lightest blush dusting her cheeks.

He rolled his eyes, but his mouth betrayed him with the ghost of a smile.

Many changes at Hogwarts, indeed.

Chapter Text

Hermione hadn’t been gone long. Ten minutes, maybe twelve. Just enough time to get some air, feel her ribs loosen a little beneath the pressure of hospital walls before Draco arrived for their session. The corridor beyond the ward was blessedly quiet - dim, sterile, and mercifully empty.

She didn’t expect to hear her name.

It wasn’t Draco’s voice. It was unfamiliar - clipped, male, precise like the snap of a cold scalpel. She paused mid-step, her fingers trailing along the plastered wall. The door to Andromeda Tonks’ makeshift office stood slightly ajar, pale light spilling through the crack.

She should’ve kept walking.

She knew she should have.

But there was something in the way the man said her name. Something cold. Clinical.

She leaned in, just a fraction.

And listened.

“Sixteen days. That’s all the time we have.”

The voice was businesslike.

“If she’s not Unkccluded by then, we’re out of options. No testimony. No mitigating evidence. And you—”

A pause. A sneer audible even through the door.

“—will go down, Mr. Malfoy. I can only get thirty years shaved off, and that’s thanks to Mr. Potter.”

Hermione blinked.

Thirty years? What were they talking about?

“She’s making progress,” came Andromeda’s voice - calm, measured. “But it’s fragile. Emotional trauma isn’t linear, Mr. Sterling.”

“Oh, please,” the man snapped. “Spare me the Healer’s handbook. If he wants to save his neck, he’ll stop tiptoeing around her and get the job done.”

“Sir—”

“You need to hurry up with her. Increase the flow of magic. Do more sessions. I don’t care. Just move faster.”

Hermione pressed closer to the crack in the door, breath caught in her throat.

“That’s not how the sessions work,” Andromeda said.

“Mrs. Tonks,” Sterling said, his voice chilling in its confidence, “I know how they work. I’ve read every report you've submitted. And surely, surely, there’s a way to speed this up.”

“Like what?” She asked warily.

“Miss Granger responds to touch, doesn’t she? That’s the trick. It calms her magic. Opens her mind."

A long pause.

“…Yes,” Andromeda admitted, reluctantly.

“Then increase that.”

A sickening curl entered his tone.

“Seduce her, Mr. Malfoy. Lust does incredible things to a witch’s brain, I assure you.”

Hermione’s heart stopped.

That word -seduce- slapped across her face like icewater.

Her hand shot out to the doorframe, gripping the wood so tightly her knuckles blanched.

“Are you mad?” Andromeda hissed.

Sterling ignored her. “The preferred method of magical transfer being physical touch, that was your doing, wasn’t it, Mr. Malfoy?”

“That’s not — don’t twist this,” Draco said, voice low and tight. “That’s not what it is.”

“Isn’t it?” Sterling’s tone was oily now. “She’s vulnerable. Isolated. You’re the only one who can get near her without triggering a meltdown. That’s less therapy than it is leverage. And if you’re smart, you’ll use it. Otherwise you’ll be stuck in that tower forever.”

"Enough,” Andromeda snapped.

“You think the Wizengamot cares how you stabilize her?” Sterling continued undeterred. “They don’t. All they need is for her to show up lucid, functional, and willing to speak. If that means you have to cuddle and touch and kiss, so be it. Sleep with her if you must. But get. it. done.”

Hermione didn’t stay to hear Draco’s response.

She turned away and walked -no, ran- heart hammering like a wardrum, steps too loud in the hollow corridor. She didn’t know where she was going.

Only that it had to be anywhere but here.

Her chest burned. Her skin. Her stomach. Her magic.

He’d touched her. Held her. His hands on her shoulders, her face. His voice grounding her when she spiraled. His presence anchoring her through pain. She’d let him in. Trusted him. Believed -naively, recklessly- that the way he looked at her meant something.

That the tremble in his voice when he said her name wasn’t rehearsed. That the steadiness in his hands came from care, not strategy.

She’d begun to feel safe.

Worse - she’d started to feel something more.

Seduce her.

The words echoed over and over in her mind, like a jinxed refrain.

Had it always been this? A manipulation? A ploy for sympathy? A shortcut to absolution?

Had he known what his touch was doing? Had he used it?

She stumbled into a lift and sagged against the wall, vision blurred with tears she didn’t remember deciding to cry.

---

Silence.

And then a violent thud, like a thunderclap, as Draco slammed Sterling against the bookshelf. Papers scattered. A picture frame cracked against the floor. The lawyer choked on his own breath as Draco pinned him with a hand twisted deep in the front of his robes.

“Say it again,” Draco growled. “Go on. Say one more fucking word about her.”

"If you think this is going to help your case—” Sterling began, strained.

“To hell with the case!”

Draco threw him back again. This time, the shelf shook.

“You think this is a game?” His voice was blazing with fury. “You think you can sit in your little office and talk about her like she’s some object to barter for a lighter sentence? She is not some magical whore to parade in front of the Wizengamot!”

“Draco—” Andromeda tried, but he didn’t hear her.

“You want faster results?” he spat. “Then shove a wand up your own arse and see if that stabilizes your fucking emotions.”

Sterling coughed, tried to shove him off. Draco held fast.

“This isn’t about feelings—” the lawyer gasped.

"No,” Draco snarled. “This is about human fucking decency. Something you clearly traded for Galleons!"

His eyes were wild now, fury trembling in his fingers.

“You want to know the truth?” Draco’s voice dropped, rough and raw. “The magical touch -the way it transfers things- that wasn’t my doing. I didn’t plan it. I didn’t even know it was happening until it was too late. Do you think I’d want that? Knowing the only way she can stabilize is to let someone touch her, to let me touch her?”

He shoved him again, chest heaving.

“Do you think I would choose that, you heartless bastard?”

“Still,” Sterling croaked, “you should be using it—”

“I’M NOT YOU!”

The shout rattled the walls. Andromeda flinched.

“I never used her,” Draco said through gritted teeth. “Not her body. Not her mind. Not her magic. Everything I’ve done -every fucking moment- has been to help her breathe. To make sure she survived.”

He let go at last, and the warlock crumpled against the wall, wheezing, shaking, eyes wide with fear.

Draco’s voice dropped to a deadly murmur.

“f you ever speak about her like that again, if you so much as think about her like that, I’ll bury you so deep even the goblins won’t be able to find you.”

“You should leave, Mr. Sterling.” Andromeda said sharply. “Now.”

The warlock didn’t argue. He straightened his robes with shaking hands and slunk out without a backward glance.

---

Draco stood in the wreckage, fists still curled, jaw clenched so tight it ached. He was breathing hard. The taste of fury coated his tongue.

“I’d rather serve the entire sentence,” he said hoarsely, “than let her think that’s what this was.”

Andromeda only looked at him.

And though she didn’t say it, the truth was there, stark and unspoken.

It was too late.

---

Down in the lower ward, behind a locked storage door, Hermione sat curled against the wall, arms wrapped around her knees, and felt something split wide inside her.

It wasn’t the war this time. It wasn’t Voldemort. It wasn’t even memory.

It was him.

And that was a fracture no magic could mend.

Chapter Text

Draco knocked softly before stepping into the room.

No answer.

No Healer. No hum of spellwork. The sterile air felt dense with static.

Hermione wasn’t in bed.

The silence felt heavy -wrong- like it was holding its breath.

He stepped farther in, closing the door behind him. “Granger?”

The door slammed open seconds later.

And there she was.

Hair wild. Eyes bloodshot. Breathing ragged, like she’d just sprinted back from hell for the sole purpose of destroying him.

He took a step forward, concern rising. “Granger—”

“Don’t.”

She held out a shaking hand, voice sharp enough to cut bone. “Don’t say my name. Don’t you fucking dare.”

He froze mid-step.

She stalked into the center of the room, fists clenched so tight they trembled. Her magic crackled around her in unstable bursts, the air vibrating like it wanted to escape her skin.

“What happened?” he asked carefully, voice low.

“What happened?” she echoed, louder now. “What happened is that I was stupid enough to think you gave a fuck!”

His brows drew together. “I don’t understand—”

“No, you don’t, do you?” she snapped. “Of course you don’t. Because to you, this was just a means to an end.”

“I—what are you talking about?”

“I heard you.”

Draco blinked, thrown. “Heard—?”

“You and that disgusting little man in Andromeda’s office.

Realization hit him like a punch to the chest.

Oh.

No.

Hermione was already shaking her head, wild and livid.

“I heard it. The deadline. The plan. The way he talked about me like I was a fucking tool, and you just stood there and let him!”

“That’s not—”

“Don’t lie!” she shouted, her voice breaking as tears spilled over, rage filling every word. “He said it right to your face -seduce her- and you didn’t stop him! You let him talk about me like some pathetic little witch who could be manipulated with cuddles and kisses, and you said nothing.”

“I did stop him—”

“Bullshit!” Her voice cracked through the room like a whip.

He went still.

She was a storm in the center of the room, chest heaving, hair sparking with static, her magic leaking in jagged pulses that made the walls shudder.

“You’re lucky I don’t hex your fucking teeth out.”

“Hermione, let me explain—”

“Explain?” she laughed, sharp and humorless. “What are you going to explain first? That I’m vulnerable? That I’m isolated? Or that I was too fucking naive to see that this -all of this- was just another scheme from the very beginning?”

His face paled. “It wasn’t—”

“Don’t,” she snarled. “Don’t you dare say it wasn’t planned. Because it’s always planned with you, isn’t it? Everything calculated. Everything for your benefit.”

“It wasn’t like that! None of this was part of some grand plan, I didn’t even know—”

“You knew enough,” she snapped. “You knew enough to make sure you were the only one who could help me. You knew enough to let me push those sessions further every time. You knew enough to keep your mouth shut while your lawyer talked about me like I was some pathetic, broken thing you could manhandle into compliance.”

“I didn’t choose this method,” Draco said, pleading now. “I didn’t even know what the magic was doing at first, everything happened so fast, everything changed once-once it started working—”

“Oh, please,” she hissed. “You’re telling me it just happened to work best when you were touching me? What a coincidence!”

“It was new for me too!” he burst out. “I didn’t know it would be like this! I didn’t know until Andromeda said something, until we started seeing the patterns—”

“Right,” she spat. “Until the results started rolling in. Until the strategy started working. Until it became convenient.” 

Her voice shook.

“Tell me, all those times you wiped my tears, was all of that part of the plan too? Every time you held my hand, steadied my breathing - was it tactical? Was it for points?”

“No,” he said hoarsely. “No, it was never about that—”

“You pretended to care so I’d keep letting you in.”

“I do care,” he said, brokenly.

“Stop lying to me! For once in your life, Draco, stop!” she shrieked. 

There was a heavy silence as she worked to regain her breath. Then, calmer,

“You let me believe this was real. That this healing was honest. You let me trust you with parts of myself I don’t even understand yet -parts that terrify me- and all the while, you were what? Keeping score for your defense team?”

“No!” he shouted. 

She raised a hand -calm, deliberate- and silenced him instantly.

“Cut the crap, Draco."

The blonde man breathed hard, chest tight.

“You know what? I’m done.” She uttered.

His head snapped up. “...What?”

“I said I’m done.” Her voice was jagged glass. “I’m not Unoccluding anything else. Not one more memory. Not one more session. Not one more second with you.”

Draco’s throat worked. “You can’t mean that.”

“I do.”

His shoulders sagged under the weight of it.

“Look, I understand if you hate me,” he said, voice raw. “But don’t throw away the progress we’ve made. You’re close, Hermione. You’re so close.”

“I was close,” she spat. “Then you let a man speak about me like I was a playdoll with PTSD. So now? I’m done.”

“That’s not—”

“Get out.”

He froze.

“I’m serious,” she hissed. “Get out of this ward. Get out of this hospital. Don’t write. Don’t ask. Don’t even think about me. Just leave.”

“Hermione,” he whispered. “I never meant—”

“I DON’T CARE WHAT YOU MEANT!”

The lamps flared, their light stuttering violently.

“Go.”

He didn’t move.

She raised her wand, trembling with fury.

“GO. OR I SWEAR TO GOD, I WILL BLAST YOU OUT MYSELF!”

Draco’s jaw clenched. He looked like he might speak -one last plea, one final reach- but her eyes had gone far beyond rage.

What lived there now was betrayal.

The kind that doesn’t heal.

Not now.

Not ever.

So he turned.

And left.

Chapter Text

She didn’t remember collapsing to the floor.

But at some point, she found herself sitting against the wall, knees tucked to her chest, arms wrapped so tightly around herself it hurt.

Her breathing wouldn’t even out. Her magic buzzed beneath her skin like angry hornets, stinging every inch of her body. She wanted to scream. To hex the walls. To blast the cot into splinters and tear every sheet off every bed in this godforsaken ward.

But she didn’t.

She just sat there, shaking. The tears wouldn’t stop. They blurred everything. Her legs. Her hands. The pale blue ward curtains across the room. She swiped at her face, but it didn’t help. 

She should’ve known.

Of course Draco Malfoy didn’t help people out of kindness. Of course he didn’t offer to save her because he cared. There was always a reason. Always a motive. Always a plan.

She’d been a fool to think he was different. That he’d changed.

He hadn't.

She’d let him in. She'd cried in his arms. Breathed through his voice. Trusted him with parts of herself that no one had seen.

And she was just part of a strategy.

Her stomach twisted.

She dragged herself off the floor and gripped the edge of the sink with white knuckles. The mirror above it swam in and out of focus.

“You should’ve known,” she told her reflection. Her voice cracked. “You should’ve known better.”

The girl in the mirror didn’t look like Hermione Granger. She looked pale and raw and dangerous, like a wire stripped of insulation. Her hair hung limp and tangled. Her lips were chapped. Her eyes - Merlin, her eyes looked hollow.

She turned the faucet on and splashed her face, scrubbing at the tears like she could erase what had happened.

But nothing helped. The sting stayed. The ache settled deeper.

Someone knocked softly at the door.

She didn't answer.

She hoped it was him.

She hoped it was no one.

Her hands clenched again. Her core burned. That awful, stinging energy coiled tighter in her chest like a dam about to burst. She could feel it pulling wrong, destabilizing, like it had months ago, before the sessions.

She tried to cast a Stabilizing Charm.

It fizzled. Her wand sparked - then nothing.

Another failure.

She pressed her fist to her mouth to keep from screaming.

The door opened to reveal a Healer -young, kind-eyed, hand already raised with a diagnostic spell- Hermione flinched so hard she nearly knocked over the basin.

“Drop your wand.”

The girl froze.

“I mean it,” Hermione hissed, voice low and shaking. “You lay a hand on me, and I will hex you.”

The Healer backed away with wide eyes, murmuring a soft apology before disappearing down the corridor like a ghost.

Hermione sagged against the wall, her breath catching on something jagged in her chest. The air in the ward felt too thin, her skin too tight. Her magic - it was shifting again. Hot and uneven, rolling under her skin like magma.

She clutched her stomach. The pull in her core had returned, sharp and unsteady. Just like after all the attacks she’d had at Hogwarts at the start of the year. Like it had when she could barely hold her wand without it screaming at her.

A glass of water on the bedside table shattered without warning.

Hermione flinched again. The pieces skittered across the floor, catching light like tiny shards of accusation.

Control it, she told herself. Control it, dammit.

She was halfway through trying to cast another Stabilizing Charm when the door creaked open again.

“Hermione?”

It was Andromeda.

Of course it was. 

Hermione didn’t turn to look at her. She just stared at the floor, at the splinters of glass, as if trying to piece something back together that wouldn’t fit.

“I heard glass,” Andromeda said gently. “Are you—”

“Don’t,” Hermione snapped. “Don’t finish that sentence. Don’t ask me if I’m okay.” She gritted her teeth. “Just get out.”

“I just want to talk.”

“I said get out.”

A pause. Footsteps approached anyway. That alone was enough to snap her gaze upward.

Andromeda stopped just inside the doorway. Her hands were empty, her face unreadable. “I know you’re upset—”

Hermione surged to her feet, voice like a whip. “Upset? You think I’m upset?”

Andromeda froze.

“I’m not upset, I’m furious! At him for using me, at you for your complicity—”

“Dear, I was in that room because I needed to know what Sterling would say about—”

“You already knew beforehand!” she snapped. “Don’t pretend this was some strategic little one-time observation. You knew I was part of Draco's master plan for the very beginning. You helped him. You were the one pushed to increase the physical contact. You let all of this happen.”

“Oh my sweet girl, you have this all wrong, no, I was only monitoring you both, and—”

“No. No, you were managing me. Just like him.”

Her magic pulsed again, wild and sharp. A stack of medical charts trembled on the shelf behind Andromeda.

Hermione’s voice broke with fury. “All this time, I thought you were helping me. I trusted you. I let you guide him through memories that nearly killed me.

Andromeda’s lips parted, then closed. “Hermione, the situation is not what you think at all, if you would just hear him out—"

Her breath hitched. “How long, Andromeda? How long have you two been playing me?”

“Hermione...!” Andromeda gasped.

“It’s only the truth, isn’t it?” Her laugh was sharp and bitter. “You knew I trusted you. You used that. You let your nephew come in here every day and play the concerned partner, the devoted bloody anchor, while the two of you quietly orchestrated the collapse of every last boundary I had left.”

Andromeda took a step forward. “It wasn’t like that. Draco never—”

“Don’t defend him!”

Her wand was already in her hand, though she didn’t remember drawing it. The magic running through her veins felt scorched.

“You’re no better than that American asshole. At least he was honest about being manipulative. But you? You smiled through it. You called it healing.”

Andromeda looked visibly stricken. “I never lied to you.”

“Lies by omission still count.”

They stood there for a moment in silence, the air between them thick and unbreathable.

“Get out." Hermione whispered.

“Hermione—”

“I said get out!”

When Andromeda didn’t move, Hermione raised her wand - not to hex, not yet, but the warning was clear.

The older woman’s shoulders fell. Without another word, she turned and walked out, quietly closing the door behind her.

Hermione stood frozen, staring at the place Andromeda had been. Her hands were shaking again. Her throat burned.

She was done.

Done letting anyone near her. Done with softness. Done with trust.

She dragged herself onto her bed, curling in on her side like something injured and trying to hide.

This couldn’t happen again.

This wouldn’t happen again.

No one would get in. Not like that. Not again. She wouldn’t allow it.

Her fingers curled around her wand like a lifeline, and she closed her eyes, forcing herself inward - toward her mental defenses, toward the castle.

But it didn’t feel like a castle now. It felt like wreckage. Scorched beams and broken stone and memories burned down to ash.

Rebuild it.

She shoved her magic forward like a battering ram, not caring if it hurt.

She slammed the gates shut. Raised the walls. Black stone and no windows. No doors.

No one would get in.

Not Draco. Not Andromeda. Not anyone.

She wasn’t safe, but she could make her mind impregnable.

Her magic sparked painfully, resisting the violence of Occlumency after so long. But she didn’t care. She clenched her jaw and pushed harder, bricking up the entrance to the Great Hall, sealing off every hallway.

She couldn’t afford weakness anymore.

She had trusted him. She had believed him.

Never again.

---

Draco sat alone in a shadowed corner of the common room, the flickering candlelight casting jagged patterns across the stone walls. A half-empty bottle of firewhisky rested on the low table before him, its bitter burn a small comfort against the chaos roiling inside. He raised it to his lips, swallowing down the heat as smoke curled from the tip of a slender cigarette between his fingers.

The room was silent except for the occasional crackle from the dying fire. But inside him, the storm raged on, twisting and turning with every memory of Hermione’s furious eyes, every word she’d spat like venom.

He hated that she felt betrayed. Hated how her anger tore at him, each lash deeper than any curse. He hated that she was done. Done with the healing, done with trusting, done with him.

She doesn’t see the nights I watched over her when she could barely breathe.

Doesn’t see the curses I took in silence to keep her safe.

Doesn’t see the lengths I went to, to fix what I helped break.

She doesn't know the truth.

The thought of her wounded, broken, made the firewhisky burn hotter in his throat. The trial -Azkaban- loomed like a shadow in the back of his mind, a threat he knew he couldn’t ignore. He knew he needed her testimony, her voice to clear his name, to buy him a chance at freedom.

But that fear, that desperate hope for himself, felt hollow next to the ache twisting in his chest for her.

He realized he didn’t care about Azkaban any longer. Hadn't for a long time. Not really.

Not if it meant losing what little of Hermione was left inside that storm of rage.

The testimony - it didn’t matter anymore.

Ginny’s warning echoed in his mind, sharp and bitter: “Either you ask her, or she finds out from someone else. And let me tell you, that version? It’s going to go down a lot worse.”

He hated that she was right. 

He had planned to tell Hermione after the session, but even that had been too late.

His hands trembled slightly as he stubbed out the cigarette, the smoke curling up like ghosts in the cold air.

Could he keep fighting for her trust when she refused to believe him? Could he stand to watch her push him away, to see her retreat deeper into the anger, the pain?

If he walked away now, all she’d have left were the scars he’d never meant to leave.

He drained the last of the whisky, setting the bottle down with a hollow clink. 

He wanted to fight. He wanted to believe he could fix this. But the weight in his chest pressed him down until all the fight left him.

Hermione was done, she had made that perfectly clear.

Perhaps he had to be too.

Chapter Text

Four days passed.

Long enough for the fury to scab over. Not long enough for it to stop bleeding underneath.

Four days of silence. Of cracked wards and clenched fists. Of turning her face away when Ginny knocked and turning her wand on the door when Harry tried the second time.

Andromeda stopped trying after the first.

They sent others - Healers, mediators, even that nice raven-haired junior staffer who sometimes brought chocolate. Hermione ignored them all. She’d perfected the art of not listening. Of sitting perfectly still in bed, wand always nearby, eyes staring at nothing, mental walls high, unscalable. Mind locked tight.

Occlumency was easier this time. She’d snapped it shut like a trapdoor, and it had stayed that way. Her magic had dulled to a low, miserable throb, and she welcomed the numbness. Better that than the ache of betrayal.

She was done.

And then Luna Lovegood arrived.

The knock was light. Like rain on glass. Not urgent, not soft. Just… rhythmic. Patient.

Hermione had expected another Healer. Or worse, Ginny again.

She didn’t answer.

The door opened anyway.

And there she was, wearing bright mustard tights and a cape fashioned from what looked like a Quidditch banner. Her hair was in a plait full of floating paper stars.

“…Luna?"

“Hello Hermione." Luna said simply. Her voice was the same as ever. Like it didn’t belong to this dimension.

Hermione’s mouth opened, then closed.

“I wasn’t expecting you." she said at last, confused.

“Most people aren’t." Luna said cheerfully, stepping in as if she’d been invited. “I brought you a star-map. It’s not accurate anymore, but sometimes, we need to believe in old constellations. Just for a while.”

Hermione blinked again. “...Right.”

Luna floated across the room, setting the map down beside Hermione’s cot with a reverence usually reserved for sacred texts. She didn’t sit. She just stood there, fingers trailing along the edges of the table.

“Your magic is different,” she said, almost idly. “Like a thunderstorm caught in a jar.”

Hermione looked away. “You came all this way to tell me that?”

“No.” Luna tilted her head.

For a long time, neither of them spoke. The silence was oddly comforting.

Hermione stared at her. “Why are you here?”

“You haven’t been speaking to anyone,” Luna said simply. “And your magic’s turned a little grey at the edges.”

“That’s not a thing,” Hermione muttered.

Luna only smiled. “It is if you know how to look.”

Hermione sighed, but something inside her softened. She made room on the cot without thinking. Luna sat down as if she’d always belonged there.

Then Luna said, as lightly as if commenting on the weather, “I hear Draco’s been sleeping in the Slytherin common room. He keeps forgetting to take off his boots though. Very bad for the ankles.

“I don’t care.” Hermione muttered.

Luna hummed. Then she said, “His eyes look bruised, too. From lack of quality sleep, I think. Or the nightmares.”

Hermione said nothing.

“He was like that before,” Luna added. “But it’s worse now. He’s been forgetting things. Like what day it is. Or how to conjugate healing charms. Very bad for the cardiovascular system.”

Hermione’s throat tightened.

“Luna, did he say something to you?” she asked before she could stop herself.

“No.” Luna tilted her head. “But then again, people in pain don’t always speak. And neither of you are exactly the chattiest these past few days.”

That earned a weak scoff from Hermione, even if it came out more like a breath.

“I ran into him at the Halloween Bash,” Luna said. “He was too busy staring at you to talk to me.”

Hermione’s breath hitched.

“I thought maybe it was for protection. Or maybe it was because you looked like a falling star and he didn’t know what to do with that.” Luna turned a paper star between her fingers. “But whatever the reason, it wasn’t pretend.”

Hermione’s voice came out quiet and brittle. “How do you know?”

“Because he didn’t look away when he should have,” Luna said simply. “And he looked afraid. People who fake things don’t look afraid. They look smug.”

Luna smiled dreamily. “He’s not as good at hiding things as he thinks, you know. You don’t behave like that unless you care.”

Hermione’s eyes flicked up sharply. “How do you know about the fight?”

“I don't.” Luna said serenely. “But I can see the aftermath. And besides, I know what grief looks like.”

Hermione stared down at her hands. There was a long pause.

“Do you believe he means it, Luna?” Hermione whispered. “The healing. The help.”

Luna finally looked at her, gaze steady.

“I believe,” she said, “that if you hadn’t meant something real to him, he would’ve let you burn.”

“Isn’t that what he’s doing already?”

“Even if so, you should remember you’re not the one with hands and arms always wrapped in gauze.” Luna said, rising to her feet.

“He is.”

And with that, she floated out the door, star-chart forgotten.

Hermione swallowed hard.

---

Harry didn't knock this time. He just let himself in, slowly, cautiously, like she might hex him out of instinct.

Hermione didn’t look up from the book she wasn’t reading. “You again.”

Harry gave her a small smile. “Yeah.”

“You here to lecture me?”

“No,” he said quickly. “No lectures. No questions. Just - I brought you some biscuits.”

Hermione glanced at the box. Her stomach had been a tight knot for days, but she took one anyway.

“I miss you, Mione. I just want to sit with my best friend,” he said softly. “No arguments. I promise. Just company.”

She looked at him for a long time, wary. But when he pulled up a chair and sat without another word, something in her cracked a little.

They didn’t speak for a while. He picked at a loose thread on his sleeve; she broke the biscuit into crumbs on her lap. It was oddly comforting, the silence between them.

Eventually, he said, “Seamus made a potion explode on Monday. The dungeons are still orange.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow.

“Apparently he thought Fluxweed and orange rind were interchangeable.”

She huffed a laugh.

Harry grinned. “Dean’s been trying to get him to patent it. ‘Untraceable skin dye,’ he says. Marketable disaster.”

Hermione snorted. “Of course he would.”

Harry shrugged. “The Slytherins found it hilarious. Zabini offered to paint the whole corridor to match. Head Boy refused, of course. His best mates still offered to do it behind his back though.”

That made her pause. “Blaise and Theodore painted the dungeons orange?”

“Oh, no,” Harry said solemnly. “But I considered letting them do it for the bit.”

There was a pause.

“You’re not saying anything bad about them,” Hermione said suddenly.

Harry blinked. “Huh?”

“The Slytherins,” she said. “Malfoy. You’ve made three jokes and none of them were about how awful he is.”

Harry looked at her for a long time.

Then he sighed. “Because I don’t think he’s awful.”

Hermione froze.

“You know.” she said flatly.

“I don’t know everything,” Harry said carefully. “But I know enough to see something happened. Something bad.”

She looked away.

“You trusted him,” he said quietly.

Hermione didn’t answer.

“And he hurt you.”

Still nothing.

He waited.

At last, she said, “He touched me because it helped. Because it stabilized me. I let it happen. I thought—”

Hermione stared down at her hands, her voice small. 

“Anyway, it doesn’t matter now because it was all part of a strategy.”

“And what makes you say that?”

“I overheard something. In Andromeda’s office. His lawyer said…” She trailed off, voice brittle. “He said he should seduce me. That I was vulnerable.”

Harry winced, whispering under his breath, “Fuckass Sterling.”

“You know him?”

“...Yes.”

“How?”

He hesitated.

“Draco didn’t want a lawyer at first. Said it wouldn’t matter. Said nothing would.” Harry ran a hand through his hair. “I’m the one who convinced him he had a shot. And that he needed you.”

Hermione was too stunned to speak.

“I found Sterling, too.” Harry admitted.

Hermione’s eyes narrowed. “You found him?”

“He’s a lunatic, but he’s the best criminal defense lawyer in the Americas, Hermione. And Draco’s case was going to fall apart without him. So I convinced Draco to use him.”

“You convinced Draco?”

Harry nodded. “He didn’t want you involved. At all. Swore he wouldn’t drag you into it. When Sterling first brought up the idea of using your memories in court, he nearly hexed him. Said you’d been through enough. Sterling and I were the ones who insisted, who said your testimony would change everything, that if you were the one to tell the Wizengamot what he did at the Manor… they’d listen.”

She swallowed.

“I didn’t know,” she whispered.

“No.” Harry looked down. “And I’m sorry for that.”

Hermione pulled her blanket tighter. 

“He was going to ask you to testify himself, you know. Tell you everything. Ginny even told me he talked to her about it during patrol one night.”

Hermione closed her eyes tightly, the room spinning.

“When-when did the deadline start?” she gulped.

“15, maybe 20 days ago, I think.”

“So the plan didn’t exist before that?” Her voice cracked. “When I started unoccluding, he wasn’t—”

Harry grabbed her hand, squeezing it gently.

“No. He didn’t even have a lawyer then.”

Hermione was trembling.

“I know how it must have looked, the conversation you overheard,” he said softly. “But I don’t think you were ever a strategy. Not from him. Sterling? Sure. That bastard probably sees people as puzzle pieces. But Draco, he wasn’t playing a game.”

She didn’t respond.

“Did you get to hear what he said after?” Harry asked softly. “After Sterling made that awful comment.”

Hermione’s face crumpled. “I don’t know. I left.”

Harry exhaled slowly. He brushed his thumb over her knuckles.

“Mione, I think you should hear him out.”

Her breath hitched.

“You don’t see how he’s been these past few days but he’s out of it, sweetheart.” Harry said slowly, “I think… I think he may have cared more about your trust than his own freedom.”

Hermione blinked hard.

“Please, talk to him.” Harry said gently. “Just… ask him what he said. Ask him what the plan was. And let him answer this time.”

Hermione didn’t speak. She couldn’t. 

Something was pressing down on her chest, squeezing tight. Not grief. Not fury.

Something worse.

The quiet, sharp ache of realization.

She had been wrong.

Draco hadn’t wanted her testimony to save himself. He hadn’t even planned to use it, not until he’d been thoroughly convinced. Not until Harry and that revolting warlock pushed it into the strategy.

His plan had been to finish her Unoccluding before the deadline - not so she could help him. But so she wouldn’t have to, not if she didn’t absolutely want to.

But so she could finally be free. Whole. Safe.

Before he was gone.

Hermione stared at the wall, the biscuit crumbling in her fist. Her hands had gone cold.

She thought of Draco’s voice during their sessions. The steadying calm of it. The feel of his hands against hers. The way he’d looked at her, like she wasn’t broken, even when she was.

He always put her first.

Every session. Every risk. Every touch. It wasn’t about leverage. It wasn't strategy. It never had been.

It had been about her.

The hallway outside seemed very far away. The present dissolved into the sick echo of her own voice, screaming at him, blaming him. She thought of him leaving. Of the look on his face. The sound of his voice when he tried to plead with her. The quiet devastation in it.

She’d taken everything he’d given and turned it into something filthy.

And now…

Now, nearly a week had passed. So many days without progress. Without healing. 

Without Draco.

Her magic shuddered low in her chest.

What if she’d ruined everything?

Harry was still talking, his voice quieter now, almost hesitant. “I think… I think he was trying to protect you from all of it. Not just from the trial. But from the truth, too. He’s not good at emotions, Hermione. But he’s good at hurting himself to keep others safe, of being the martyr. Reminds me of myself before the war, sometimes.”

She pressed her lips together, too tightly, too fast. A pulse of static flickered across her fingertips.

She hadn’t noticed her wand was in her hand.

“I could’ve helped him,” she said suddenly, hoarsely. “I should have helped him.”

Harry’s expression turned. He sat forward. “You still can.”

“No,” she whispered, gaze vacant. “It’s too late now. I wasted time. The deadline’s in—” She faltered, her voice catching. “He’s going to go to Azkaban. And I’m the reason.”

Her magic spiked again, sudden and sharp. The ends of her hair lifted with the force of it. Light from the lamp beside her bed flickered like a faulty star.

Her throat was tight, her pulse loud in her ears. Something was cracking inside her - quiet, deep, like splintering ice beneath too much weight.

“I didn’t know,” she whispered. “I didn’t know.”

And that was the moment the first crack burst open in her newly-reinforced Occlumency wall.

Her magic flared violently—wild, uncontrolled, leaking through her skin like steam from a boiling kettle. The air shimmered. Her fingers sparked. A sharp gust of magic rippled across the room, scattering parchment from her nightstand and sending the chair Harry sat on skidding back an inch.

“Hermione—?” Harry stood quickly. “What was that—?”

“I’m fine,” she rasped, clutching the sheets. “It’s fine, I’ve got it.”

“You don’t look like you’ve got it,” he said, eyes darting nervously to the sparking edge of her blanket, which had caught a brief flicker of fire.

She shoved the magic down, pressing it inward, forcing it back behind the shoddy barriers she’d rebuilt after the fight. Her vision swam. Her head pounded.

“I just need rest,” she muttered. “Please, Harry, just go.”

“Hermione—”

“I said go.”

He hesitated, visibly torn. She doubled over, clutching her middle.

“Hermione—!”

“Harry,” she rasped. “Harry, you have to go.”

“I’m not leaving you like this—”

“I can’t control this if you’re here, go!”

Her eyes flashed. The lights in the ward flared and dimmed.

Harry flinched, but he listened. Slowly, cautiously, he backed away from the bed.

“Okay,” he said gently. “Okay. But I’m going to get someone—”

“JUST LEAVE!”

The panic in her voice made him back off, and he left, the door clicking softly behind him.

Hermione waited until she was alone.

Then she collapsed forward with a strangled gasp.

The second wave hit harder, magic bleeding from her like boiling water through shattered glass. Her Occlumency walls were shaking. She’d built them too fast, too violently, like patching shattered glass with spit and a wand, and now the pressure inside was leaking through.

Not gently.

Not safely.

Her limbs twitched. Her lungs stuttered. Her core burned, deep and dark and furious.

She curled in on herself, teeth clenched against the scream climbing her throat.

Control it.

She tried. She tried so hard.

But the damage had already begun.

She barely made it to the floor before the first seizure hit.

She fell sideways off the bed with a thud, barely catching herself against the floor. Her vision blurred, then sharpened too much, the world spinning like a Pensieve dropped mid-memory.

The seizure rolled through her like an earthquake. Her muscles tensed violently. Her magic pulsed again, even harder this time - bright and unmoored, seeking something to tether to, anything.

But he wasn’t here.

She bit down on a scream.

The air hummed. The glass of water on her nightstand shattered. The bedsheets caught fire and then extinguished in a single pulse of blue flame.

And still, she couldn’t stop it.

Her newer, weaker walls were crumbling down, leaking everything she’d tried so hard to contain.

She curled on her side, breath ragged, limbs twitching, skin burning from the inside out.

I’m sorry.

The thought echoed through the panic, through the pain.

I didn’t know.

—

Harry had barely made it halfway down the corridor before he heard something shatter.

Glass, maybe. Or bone.

He turned on his heel and sprinted back to Hermione’s room, throwing open the door.

“Hermione—!”

She was on the floor.

Convulsing.

Her body arched off the tiles in violent spasms, magic lashing outward in great, shimmering waves of gold. Her hands clutched her wand so tightly her knuckles had gone white.

The air in the room boiled with energy.

He didn’t even make it two steps before the force of a pulse knocked him back.

“Help!” he bellowed, stumbling into the corridor. “Healers! Now!"

Footsteps thundered from the ward. Two young Healers arrived within seconds, wands drawn, spells already forming on their lips.

“Containment first!” one shouted.

“She's in magical overload, is this an Occlumency fracture?”

Harry just nodded, too stunned to speak.

The first spell was cast -Stassis Maxima- but it fizzled the second it touched her.

Hermione let out a strangled sound, somewhere between a sob and a scream. Her body seized again, limbs jerking, magic bursting from her skin in volatile sparks.

One Healer hissed, “We need her Healer. Get Mrs. Tonks now!”

The second Healer activated the ward emergency alert with a jab of her wand. The crystal on the wall flared red.

Within seconds, Andromeda burst through the door.

She took one look at the scene -Hermione writhing on the floor, lips bitten bloody, magic flooding the air like wild firelight- and barked, “Out. All of you."

The younger Healers hesitated, but she raised her wand and snapped, “I said out!”

They fled.

Harry lingered in the doorway. “Is she—?”

“Get out!” Andromeda snapped, voice sharp with panic.

Harry obeyed, chest tight, heart pounding.

---

Inside the room, Andromeda dropped to her knees beside Hermione. Her hand hovered - she couldn’t touch her. The girl’s skin sizzled with heat. One brush and it would scorch.

“Oh, sweet girl,” she breathed. “What have you done to yourself?”

Hermione sobbed through clenched teeth. Her entire body trembled, eyes squeezed shut, her wand still locked in her grip like a lifeline. Magic seeped from every pore, unstable, blinding.

Andromeda didn’t waste time.

She summoned a thick tray of potions from the cabinet, uncorked four at once, and began a delicate series of levitation charms. Her voice was soft but commanding. “You have to drink these, Hermione. Even if it hurts.”

The potions hovered to Hermione’s lips one at a time. Hermione gagged, tried to fight, but Andromeda was faster. She poured them in between clenched teeth, murmuring spells to ease the gag reflex.

When the fourth potion hit, the seizure began to slow.

Her magic didn’t.

Her skin still radiated heat like molten stone. And yet she was shivering, violently, like she’d been thrown naked into snow. And her sobs -guttural, raw- shook the air.

She wouldn’t let go of her wand.

Her fingers were cramping from the grip, nails digging into her palm, but when Andromeda even tried to float it away, Hermione screamed.

So she let her keep it.

She pulled a thin blanket over her instead, layered snowing charms atop cooling ones, but none of it helped. Hermione was trapped in the eye of her own magical storm - burning and shivering, sobbing and silent, all at once.

Andromeda’s hands trembled, fear overtaking for the first time in Hermione's treatment.

Because this was beyond her reach now.

She rushed to the door and threw it open.

“Harry!"

He ran toward her at once. “Is she... what do I do?”

She didn’t hesitate.

“Go get Draco.”

Harry faltered. “He-he might not come.”

“I don’t care,” she snapped. “Find him. Drag him here if you must. Tell him she’s burning from the inside out and she won’t let go of her wand. Tell him either he comes or I put her in a magically-induced coma.”

Harry stared at her, stunned by the raw panic in her voice.

“Go!” she barked.

He turned on his heel and ran.

Chapter Text

The Head Students' Common Room reeked of bourbon, smoke, and whatever brand of apathy Theo Nott had steeped himself in that week.

Harry didn’t knock.

He pushed the door open to find them sprawled in mismatched armchairs, one playing idle Exploding Snap with no intention of winning, the other -Draco- hunched over a low table littered with cigarette butts and an almost-empty bottle of Ogden’s Reserve.

The fire cast gold over Draco’s pale skin, highlighting the bags beneath his eyes like bruises. His shirt was half-unbuttoned, his tie discarded, his hair in disarray.

He looked like hell.

“Potter!” Theo exclaimed brightly, as if Harry had shown up for a reunion. “Come for a drink or a duel?”

Harry ignored him. “I need to talk to you,” he said, voice sharp, eyes fixed on Draco.

Draco didn’t even look up.

“Don’t care,” he muttered. “Whatever it is, take it up with Andromeda or the Wizengamot or Merlin himself. I’m busy.”

Theo chuckled. “You’re drinking, mate.”

“Fine, I’m busy drinking.” Draco corrected, lifting the bottle with a wobble and taking a swig.

“Draco,” Harry said again, louder now. “It’s about Hermione.”

At that, Draco scoffed and leaned back in his chair. “Oh, right.” He exhaled a plume of smoke. “Let me guess, she’s requesting a restraining order this time?”

Harry’s jaw clenched. “You’re not listening.”

“No,” Draco drawled, “you’re not listening. We’re done. She made that painfully clear. I have no interest in another screaming match. Not with her, and certainly not with you.”

Theo was watching with mild interest, sipping something amber in a glass shaped like a snitch.

“I’m not here to argue with you,” Harry said, stepping forward. “I’m here because she’s—”

Draco waved a dismissive hand. “Still not interested.”

Harry slapped him.

It wasn’t hard.

But it was enough.

Enough to make Theo freeze mid-sip.

Enough to knock Draco’s head to the side and send a stunned silence spinning through the room.

Draco blinked. The smoke from his cigarette curled, untouched, between his fingers.

“Listen to me,” Harry said, voice low and lethal. “Hermione had a seizure.”

Draco’s expression didn’t shift.

“She’s been Occluding since your fight, and now her magic’s bleeding out—she’s burning herself and she won’t let go of her wand. No one can get near her.”

A beat passed. Harry scoffed. 

“Draco, you need to sober up. Please, Andromeda says even she can’t help her anymore, and—”

CRACK.

Draco Disapparated mid-sentence.

The silence left behind was so total it made Theo cough on his drink.

“…Well,” Theo said, glancing at the scorched mark on the carpet where his best friend had been. “That was dramatic.”

Harry didn’t reply.

He was already halfway to the door.

---

Draco didn’t remember grabbing his wand. Didn’t remember leaving the castle. One second he was in the Head Students’ Common Room, Theo’s voice slurring beside him, and the next he was sprinting through the main corridor of St. Mungo’s like a man possessed.

The doors blasted open ahead of him in bursts of wild magic. Healers shouted. People leapt out of his way. He barreled past them all without stopping, without caring, without even breathing until he made it through the innermost doors of the Janus Thickey Ward.

He only stopped when he saw her name written on a door chart -Granger, Hermione. VIP Room 2- and the woman standing outside it, wild-eyed and pale.

“Andromeda.”

She spun toward him. Her lips were tight, her sleeves stained with something glowing faintly gold. Her hands trembled.

“She’s inside.” she said, voice brittle. “We’ve tried everything -potions, stabilizing charms, magic inhibitors- nothing’s working. Her magic’s bleeding, Draco, and it’s turning on her. Her body’s trying to channel the overflow, but she can’t control it, hence the seizures, but—”

Draco didn’t wait for more. He pushed past her and threw the door open.

What he saw stopped him cold.

Hermione was on her bed now, twisted in sweat-soaked sheets, limbs rigid as though lightning had struck her. Her body convulsed erratically. Magic radiated from her skin in visible bursts—gold, like something divine and furious. Her face was deathly pale, eyes fluttering, and she clutched her wand like a lifeline.

It was the worst thing he’d ever seen.

Draco ran forward, heart in his throat. “Granger—”

The moment he touched her, his hand blistered.

He hissed in pain, yanking back.

“Don’t!” Andromeda cried, rushing in behind him. “You’ll burn yourself alive. She’s too volatile. She could kill you, Draco. I mean that.”

“I don’t care." he said hoarsely.

“Draco—!”

But it was too late.

She’d opened her eyes.

And she saw him.

Their gazes locked, and for one fragile, trembling second, everything stopped.

Her eyes filled with tears. Her mouth opened on a breathless gasp.

He knew what he had to do.

Draco sat on the edge of the bed, heart pounding. “Don’t kill me, love,” he murmured, voice rough. “I’ll deserve it, but don’t.”

Then, without another word, he pulled off his shirt.

Buttons flew. Fabric hit the floor. 

He grabbed her hands -trembling, sparking, leaving red trails where they touched his skin- and forced one firmly around his neck, the other pressed flat to his bare chest.

Her magic was painfully hot, but it didn’t scorch.

It clung.

Like it remembered him.

Like she remembered.

He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her closer until there was no space left between them. She convulsed once, violently. Then again, less so. Her breath hitched.

And then—

Then she started to calm.

The wild flares of her magic dimmed to a steady pulse. Still volatile. Still far too hot. But no longer lethal.

Her wand fell from her hand.

Draco grit his teeth through the immense heat and whispered into her hair, “That’s it. You’re alright. You’re alright.”

Andromeda stood frozen, her mouth half-open, eyes locked on the monitors. After a moment, she let out a shaky breath and began pouring stabilizing potions into Hermione’s mouth again. This time, they stayed down. The spellwork held as well.

“She’s still too hot.” Draco said softly, not letting go.

“But you’re grounding her.” Andromeda confirmed, frowning at the readouts. “The magical transfer’s active. In fact, the channel’s wider than I’ve ever seen.”

“It’s not enough,” Draco murmured. “I can feel it. I’m not enough.”

“Then anchor her deeper,” Andromeda said immediately. “Go into her mind, help her tear down the new walls so she can stabilize.”

“I can’t get in her head right now.” he said. “I’ll mess it up.”

Andromeda started pacing, a hand on her forehead. Then, with a deep sigh, she asked again,

“So you can’t anchor her through Legilimency?”

“No.”

“Can you try, at least?” 

He shook his head. “I’m not sober enough to even cast the spell right, let alone establish the connection."

Andromeda blinked, then froze.

“You’re drunk?”

“Harry found me half a bottle in. I don’t even know how I managed to Apparate here.”

For a moment, Andromeda was silent. Then she swore softly and knelt beside the bed.

“You absolute idiot,” she whispered, voice trembling at the edges. “You reckless, reckless idiot. What were you thinking, drinking on school grounds?!”

“I wasn’t thinking,” he said through gritted teeth. “Not really. Not since she—” He broke off, biting down on the end of the sentence.

Andromeda studied him, her anger deflating with a tired exhale. He didn’t look at her. Just clutched Hermione tighter, as though she were the only thing keeping him from unraveling.

“Whatever you wish to say, don’t. I don’t need a lecture,” he whispered. “Not now.”

“I’m not lecturing.” Her hand settled over his wrist, gentle, grounding. “I’m worried about you. But fine. Later, then.”

She stood and turned back to the monitors, eyes scanning rapidly. Then: “At least the transfer’s still working. Your contact’s keeping her from tipping again. Just barely though."

“Right.”

“So maybe try…” Her brow furrowed. “Try increasing the contact. We always noticed the line of transfer grew stronger with more proximity.”

Draco glanced down. Her hands were already pressed flat against his bare chest. He’d practically dragged her into his lap. They were skin-to-skin everywhere.

“I’m shirtless,” he said slowly. “And she’s wrapped around me like a second skin. What do you want me to do, crawl inside her ribs?”

Andromeda shot him a dry look. “Don’t be coy with me, Draco. I know you’re no saint.”

“I’m not—” He paused. Stared at her. “Wait. You don’t mean—”

And then he saw it.

The faintest raise of her eyebrow. 

“Oh for fuck's sake, how is that better than this?” He gestured vaguely at their tangled limbs, at the sweat and magic crackling between them. 

“Because it’s not just about touch. It’s also about intent. Magic responds to emotion, Draco. You of all people should know that. And whatever exists between you two... if there’s even a chance it’s strong enough to pull her back from fracturing her own core, then this is worth a try.”

He looked down at the girl wrapped in his arms, her fingers twitching against his skin. “She currently hates me.

“I don’t think that’s true.”

“And what if it is?”

“Then it won’t work,” Andromeda said gently. “But you’ll have tried anyway. You’ll know.”

He hesitated.

Then, with a deep breath, he cupped Hermione’s flushed cheeks, thumbs brushing sweat-soaked curls from her temples.

“Please, Granger,” he whispered. “Come back to me. Yell at me. Hit me. Merlin, after this, you can even curse me to all hell, but just…”

His voice broke.

“Just come back, alright?”

He closed his eyes, forehead pressing against Hermione's.

And he kissed her.

Soft. Desperate. Not for pleasure.

For survival.

And her magic surged.

Not violently, powerfully. It rushed through him like a current, wild and ancient, wrapping around his own and settling into something familiar. Something whole.

He didn’t let go.

She didn’t move at first.

Until she did.

Her lips shifted. Responded.

For a heartbeat that felt like a lifetime, she kissed him back.

And it was then that Draco did the hardest thing he’d ever done.

He pulled away.

Her forehead still pressed to his. Her breathing was steady now, her temperature steadily dropping. Her body had stopped trembling.

Draco didn’t dare speak, one hand still on her cheek, thumb drawing circles absentmindedly. 

Then her eyes fluttered open, and she shook her head -barely- like she didn’t want to talk yet. Like the words weren’t ready.

So he held her.

When she tried to speak at last, her voice cracked. “You’re here.”

“I’m here.”

A ghost of a smile traced her lips. 

“I’m sorry—”

“Shh,” he whispered, brushing damp curls away from her face. “Don’t. Just rest.”

She nodded, limbs heavy, eyelids drooping as her body crashed after the surge. Draco lifted her off of himself and rested her head gently against the pillows, covering her with a blanket he had conjured, the old one now turned to ashes on the floor.

She grabbed one of his hands tucking in her blanket, blinking slowly up at him as she whispered. “Stay with me.”

He looked to Andromeda.

She turned away with a tired, knowing smile, leaving the room.

And so, Draco lay back on the bed, slipping under the covers as well, gathering Hermione gently into his arms.

She curled into him without hesitation, her head resting over his bare heartbeat. Her hand still half-glowed with magic, dimming more and more by the minute, stable.

His chest ached with everything unspoken.

But she was safe.

And finally, finally, she slept.

—

Hermione woke slowly.

For the first time in what felt like years, there was no uncontrollable magic crackling beneath her skin, no roaring in her ears or tightness in her lungs. The air didn’t hum with static. Her chest didn’t feel like it would cave in. She was still whole.

Only a dull ache in her muscles, the soft cotton of her pillow, and—

Warmth.

Steady. Solid. Alive.

A heartbeat beneath her cheek.

She inhaled, slow and hesitant.

Bourbon and firewood. Cigarette smoke and something else.

Her eyes cracked open.

Draco.

He was lying on his back, one arm tucked protectively around her, the other curled loosely above his head. His mouth was slightly parted, breath even and soft. His brow was furrowed, even in sleep.

His shirt nowhere to be seen, the curve of his throat bore faint traces of magic burn. And his hand -the one not holding hers- was still red and raw, but no longer blistering.

She didn’t move. 

She just stared.

The events of the previous night came back in fragments. The kiss. The magic. His voice, saying,“Come back to me.” The way her magic had stilled beneath his hands. The way his fingers had trembled as they brushed her cheek.

He’d come to her.

He’d come immediately.

Even after everything she’d said.

Even after she told him to get out and never show his face.

And he burned for it. Walked straight into the fire of her uncontained magic. Just to be near her.

Not for himself.

For her.

Tears prickled suddenly, hot and uninvited. She blinked hard.

How could she have been so wrong?

So consumed by her misguided fury that she missed the truth buried underneath it - the race against time hadn’t been for him. It had always been for her.

He wanted her to be well before he was gone.

He had never pressured her. He didn’t even tell her the truth about the lawyer, or the plan, or the deadline—because he didn’t want to make her feel like a pawn. Not before she was free of her own shackles.

He chose her, again and again.

And she had cast him out.

Her fingers curled against his arm. He stirred beneath her.

“...Hermione?”

His voice was gravelly, low with sleep and something more fragile.

She couldn’t answer right away. Her throat was tight.

Draco shifted, head turning slightly toward her. His eyes opened just a sliver - pale, uncertain, still fogged. But the moment he saw her face, really saw her, they sharpened into focus.

“You’re awake.” he said softly.

She nodded.

A beat passed.

“Are you—?” he started.

“I’m okay,” she whispered, her voice hoarse. “Thanks to you.”

His expression crumpled at the edges, like he wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or shattered.

“Harry told me everything. I’m so sorry Draco,” she said before he could speak. “For everything. I didn’t listen. I didn’t even let you speak—”

“Don’t,” he cut in gently. “You don’t owe me anything.”

“But I do.” she insisted. “You were trying to protect me. And I thought the very worst of you. I let that man’s words twist everything. I thought... Merlin, I said such awful things—”

“You were hurt.” he murmured. “I don’t blame you.”

Her chest ached.

“I built those walls so fast,” she whispered. “Right after the fight. I thought I was protecting myself, but I was cutting myself off; from you, from my own healing... And when they cracked again, when the magic got too much—”

“You don’t have to explain.” He said quietly.

Hermione looked up at him.

He was looking at her like he didn’t believe she was really there. Like he was terrified she’d disappear.

She slid her hand over his. “You didn’t hesitate.”

A pause. Then, simply: “You were in danger. That’s all I needed to know.”

Her breath caught. She didn’t know what to say to that.

He didn’t wait for an answer. He shifted, sitting up slightly to look at her better, brushing her hair gently away from her eyes.

“You scared the hell out of me.”

“I scared myself.”

“Never do that again,” he murmured. “If something’s wrong, tell me. Yell at me. Hex me. Just don’t shut me out and almost die on your own.”

She nodded slowly.

They stayed like that for a while, the morning light creeping through the ward window in soft bands of gold.

Eventually, Draco glanced down. “You should rest more.”

“I slept.”

“A few hours doesn’t count.”

She raised a brow. “You’re one to talk.”

He gave a small, self-deprecating smile. “Fair.”

“I’ll sleep more if you do.”

His hand tightened slightly on hers. “Then I’ll stay.”

They lay back down, quiet and close.

After a few minutes, Hermione shifted slightly against his chest, brow creasing, breath catching. Draco opened his eyes slowly.

“Granger?”

Her whole body had gone tense.

He sat up slightly, supporting her as she pulled away.

And then—

“Shit.” she whispered, eyes wide.

“What is it—?”

“Draco,” she said, already sitting up, sheets half-tangled around her legs. “How many days has it been?”

He blinked, still caught somewhere between the warmth of their quiet moment and the sudden panic radiating off her.

“…Since?”

“Since the fight.”

Draco’s mouth opened, then closed. “Four. No, five now.”

"Shit,” she hissed, pressing her palm to her forehead.

“Granger—”

“We wasted five days,” she said, eyes darting around the room like she’d only just remembered it wasn’t a battlefield. “You were already on a timer, and now - now there are only eleven days left.”

Draco sat up straighter, alarm rising. “Eleven days until what?”

“Until your trial.”

He blinked. “You… remember that?”

“I never forgot,” she said, flinging the blankets aside and swinging her legs over the bed. “I just... Well, like I said I misinterpreted everything, and then I… lost perspective.” She started pacing, though her body was still pale and trembling. “But that’s not the point. The point is, you needed me ready by the time the Wizengamot convened, and now I’ve wasted almost a week.”

“Hermione,” he said slowly, like one might to a wounded hippogriff, “what exactly are you doing?”

“Calculating,” she muttered. “Eleven days. That’s not ideal. But if we double up sessions and increase the area of transfer, we might make up for the lost time.”

He rose quickly and went to her side. “You’re still recovering—”

“I don’t care.”

“You had a seizure eight hours ago.”

“Then we’d better get started before it happens again.”

He stared at her.

“And I’ll need you,” she added, half to herself, “to teach me how to properly extract memories for a Pensieve later on down the line. I want to submit them myself.”

“Hermione—”

“I know it’s dangerous,” she said quickly, waving a hand before he could object. “But now that the newest walls are down again, we can pick up right where we left off. Besides, there’s not that much left now. I can be ready. I will be ready.”

“Hermione!"

“What?”

He just stared at her.

“What?” she asked again, more softly this time, though she still hadn’t stopped pacing.

“You want to testify.”

She froze mid-step.

Her eyes met his.

“…Of course I do.”

His mouth parted. No words came at first. Just breath. Raw and unsteady.

He hadn’t even let himself hope for that, not after what she’d said. Not after the fight. Not after the silence and the screaming and the way she’d looked at him like he was nothing but another cruel strategist.

“You’re serious.” he said, almost disbelieving.

She nodded, voice softer now. “I never wanted to be your weapon. But I do want to be your witness.”

He exhaled, like something had been crushed out of his lungs. He ran a hand through his hair, then let it fall uselessly to his side.

“Merlin…” he murmured.

“Don’t go spiralling, Draco. There’s no time. I’m back now.” she said, reaching for his hand. “And we’re going to make every second count.”

He swallowed hard. His hand trembled slightly as he laced their fingers together. And for a moment, he just looked at her. Like she was sunrise after a long, endless night.

She squeezed. “We start tonight.”

He nodded slowly, still trying to believe she meant it.

“Tonight.” he echoed.

And this time, it sounded like a vow.

Chapter Text

The clock struck midnight. 

Draco stood at the window, arms crossed, his shirt still wrinkled from the hospital. Hermione sat stiffly in one of the armchairs, a notebook balanced on her knee, though she hadn’t written a word. Andromeda remained standing.

She looked… older. Not by years, but by effort. By strain. Magic exhaustion left streaks of silver through her temples, and her hands trembled slightly when she tucked a curl behind her ear.

“I know you two agreed to a session tonight, but that won’t be possible.”

Hermione blinked. “What? But you said we could use the time—”

“I did,” Andromeda said. “But not for a session.”

Hermione stiffened. “Why not?”

“It’s not you,” Andromeda replied. “You stabilized well. He didn’t.”

She inclined her head toward Draco.

Hermione turned just in time to catch the subtle way Draco flinched under the light. He didn’t meet her eyes.

“I’m fine,” Draco muttered.

“You’re not,” Andromeda said sharply. “You’re scorched, your energy reserves are dangerously low, and you’ve been running on adrenaline and guilt since you burst through the doors of St. Mungo’s a full 24 hours ago.”

Draco exhaled through his nose. “It worked, didn’t it?”

“That’s not the point.”

Hermione frowned, glancing at him more closely now. He was pale -too pale- and there were clear burns along the curve of his neck. His hands, half-clenched, still bore the raw pink of yesterday’s contact wounds. There were shadows under his eyes that looked more like bruises than fatigue.

“I said I’m fine.” Draco repeated, more forcefully this time. “If we’re wasting time just because I’m a little tired—”

“You nearly collapsed in the corridor earlier,” Andromeda snapped. “I’m not going to sit here and let you burn yourself to ash just to prove a point.”

Draco opened his mouth, but Andromeda didn’t let him continue. She stood slowly, rounding the desk to face him.

“I’m not asking for a full night’s sleep,” Andromeda went on. “I’m asking for a few hours. Let your magic replenish. Let your body recover. You’re the anchor, Draco. If you collapse in the middle of her mind, neither of you will come out."

Silence fell.

Hermione’s fists clenched. “Then he won’t go that deep, he’ll just stay on the surface. I’ll guide myself through the rest.”

“That’s not how this works,” Andromeda said, quieter now. “You know that.”

“I wasted five days,” Hermione said, her voice cracking at the edges. “I can’t afford to waste any more.”

Andromeda sighed.

“We don’t have to be idle,” she offered gently. “We can still go into the mindscape. No unoccluding. Just a walk. An inventory. That, at least, won’t drain either of you.”

Hermione looked between them -Draco’s jaw tight, Andromeda’s tired but firm- and gave a small, reluctant nod.

“Fine,” she said. “But the real sessions begin in 24 hours. I don’t care what kind of state either of us is in. We don’t have the time.

Draco gave a humorless chuckle. “Spoken like a true Gryffindor.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Don’t make me regret apologizing to you.”

And he almost smiled.

Andromeda waved her wand, drawing a soft circle of light in the center of the room. “Alright then. In and out. No lingering.”

Hermione reached for Draco again.

He hesitated only a second before moving next to her, lacing his fingers with hers.

Then the world tilted, and the Castle rose up around them once more.

---

It was quiet tonight.

Not peaceful. Not truly. But still.

The halls felt cooler than before, the air heavy but not suffocating. Somewhere in the distance, a pulse echoed softly beneath the stone, like a heartbeat in the floorboards.

They stood together at the Anchor Point on the ground level where it always began. Draco hadn’t let go of her hand.

“Let’s see what’s still shut.” he said.

Hermione nodded and turned toward the spiral staircase.

The ascent was slow. Measured.

They passed the surface memories on the first floor, the hallucinations on the second, the grief and trauma carved across the third and fourth. Some doors were still open, some dark but quiet.

But by the time they reached the sixth floor, the temperature shifted.

A shimmer in the air. A faint thrum.

Draco frowned. “Do you feel that?”

Hermione paused. Then: “Yes. It’s the Owlery.”

They turned the corner and approached the door.

Unlike the others, this one pulsed faintly with reddish light. Like it was holding something in. Warning them away.

Draco laid a hand against the frame. “What is it?”

Hermione stared at it for a long moment. Then she whispered, “Ron.”

Draco said nothing. But he gave a single, silent nod, and drew a mark with his wand against the stone beside it - something like a magical bookmark.

“Next,” he said gently.

They moved on.

It was slower now.

The next door waited at the base of the castle, a hatch beneath the central staircase leading down to a long, echoing spiral. Hermione’s steps faltered at the top.

She didn’t have to say what it was.

Draco spoke for her. “The Manor?”

She nodded.

He marked it.

When they emerged back into the hall, she was pale.

They kept walking.

The Dark Tower stood farther off in the distance. A spire of jagged obsidian reaching high into the unseen sky of her mindscape. The air around it was wrong: sharp, cold, metallic.

Hermione didn’t approach.

“That one’s Voldemort." she said.

Draco didn’t argue. He etched the mark beside the path and turned away quickly, as if the closer he stood to the tower, the louder it got.

The Turris Magnus was next. It loomed over them like a monument, colder and grander than the rest of the castle - intimidating, but not hollow.

Hermione’s shoulders squared. “Bellatrix.”

Another silent nod. Another mark.

They walked back toward the heart of the mindscape now, toward the taller towers circling the upper floors.

A quiet chill greeted them as they approached the Astronomy Tower.

Hermione hesitated.

Draco said nothing at first. His eyes lingered on the door, its surface mottled silver, the stars above it faintly blinking as though alive.

“This one’s mine, isn’t it?” he said softly.

Hermione nodded.

There was a long pause.

Then she added, “I think it’s the last one.”

Draco turned toward her. “Not quite.”

She blinked.

“I saw it on the way up,” he said. “Below everything else. A trapdoor. Hidden, but not sealed.”

"The dungeons.”

Draco’s brows knit. “What’s in there?”

She didn’t answer at first. When she did, her voice was quieter than ever. “Things I’m not ready to name.”

And he knew.

“You don’t have to open that,” he said. “Not ever. It can stay buried if you want.”

Her eyes flicked to him; grateful, wary, tired. Then down to where their hands were still loosely clasped.

“Thank you,” she said.

He didn’t let go.

---

They left the mindscape gently, no magic torn, no gates opened. Just a step backward, and a shimmer - and they were back in Andromeda’s office, blinking against the low candlelight, Hermione’s hand still curled in Draco’s.

Andromeda was waiting.

“Well?” she asked softly.

Hermione sat back down, spine straightening as she picked up the quill she'd dropped earlier.

“We’ve got six,” she said.

She wrote:

* Owlery – Ron

* Basement – Malfoy Manor

* Dark Tower – Voldemort

* Turris Magnus – Bellatrix

* Astronomy Tower – Draco

* Dungeons 

Then: “Five to open. One to leave.”

Draco hovered beside her chair, watching as she inked the words with purpose.

Andromeda gave a slow nod.

“It’s a lot,” she said carefully. “But it’s doable. If we pace it right.”

Hermione’s quill didn’t pause. “We don’t have time to pace it.”

Draco crouched beside her, one hand lightly brushing her arm.

“Then we’ll prioritize it.”

She met his gaze.

And nodded.

They had a map now.

They had a plan.

And in 24 hours, they’d begin again.

Chapter Text

The hospital room was chilly, save for the occasional puff of steam from the tea Hermione had long forgotten on her tray. The overhead lights had been dimmed, casting everything in a clinical, blue haze.

Draco sat on the edge of her bed like he wasn’t sure whether he was meant to be comfortable or on trial. His shirt was rumpled again -either from sleep or stress, he couldn't be sure- and he was absently flicking a quill open and shut in his fingers, the ink getting everywhere.

Hermione watched it twitch with a half-smile. “You know, most people fidget with nerves. You do it with aggressive stationery.”

He arched an eyebrow. “You’re one to talk. I’ve seen you flatten an entire stack of parchment by hand when you’re spiraling.”

She shrugged. “Parchment has never betrayed me.”

Draco let out a quiet huff of amusement, not quite a laugh. “Unlike some people, I suppose?”

Hermione glanced at him sidelong. “Mm. To be fair, I did apologize. I know now that I was being a paranoid, emotionally constipated disaster.” She sipped her lukewarm tea, grimaced. “So really, just a Tuesday.”

Draco snorted.

There was a pause, quiet but easy.

“I’m glad we cleared it up,” he said after a moment, voice low.

She smiled faintly. “Me too.”

He leaned back against the bedpost, letting his head rest against the frame. “Although I think I preferred it when you were just glaring daggers at me. Less complicated. Less... touchy.”

“You mean less kissy,” Hermione said innocently, flipping a page in her book without looking up.

Draco choked.

“I mean,” he recovered, “less prone to emotional volatility and actual physical violence.”

She gave him a wicked grin. “Is that what you call the magical burns? Emotional volatility?”

“Your hands were throwing sparks!"

“They were not.”

“They were. Ask Andromeda.”

“Absolutely not.”

The door creaked open. Andromeda entered briskly, already unsheathing her wand. Her eyes swept over them once, lingering slightly on their shared laughter, and she sighed like she’d walked in on two schoolchildren mid-prank.

“I want to see both your energy levels.” she said by way of greeting.

Draco groaned and flopped back across Hermione’s quilt. “It’s like being caught by a very elegant boggart.”

Hermione smirked. “She’s right though. You look like you’ve been hit by a train.”

“I’ve been hit by you, which fares worse.”

Andromeda pointed her wand. “Hermione dear, you first. Sit up straight. No dramatics.”

Hermione passed her mug to Draco. “Hold this. And don’t drink it, it’s terrible.”

He took it gingerly, watching her as she sat up and squared her shoulders.

Andromeda’s wand glowed to life.

“Let’s get started.” she said.

The scan was quick. A soft sweep of light over her chest, her hands, her temples.

The results flared green.

Stable.

“Your magic’s steady,” Andromeda said with a nod. “Slightly elevated, but within safe bounds.”

Hermione gave a tight nod.

Then Andromeda turned to Draco. “Your turn. And no sulking.”

“I never sulk.” he said. “I brood with elegance.”

He hesitated, then shifted forward, holding out his hand.

Her wand passed slowly over him.

First his sternum: yellow.

Then his wrists: orange.

His neck: amber-red.

And finally, his left palm -where the skin was still faintly raw from the magical transfer- flared a dangerous crimson.

Andromeda’s brow furrowed deeply.

“You haven’t replenished,” she said sharply. “At all.”

“I’ve slept,” Draco muttered.

“Sleep isn’t the same as magical rest and you know it.”

He didn’t look at her.

“Draco, your reserves are still terribly low. Honestly I don’t understand how your body hasn’t caved in by now.”

Hermione’s eyes flicked to him, startled.

“Then let me anchor this session,” she said quickly. “Let me carry it—”

“You can’t,” Andromeda cut in.

“But you just said I was strong enough.”

“You’ve always been strong enough magically. The channelling's what's still erratic. That’s what Draco’s been holding stable up to today.”

Hermione grumbled.

“Besides, he’s still the Legilimens. He’s still the anchoring wizard.” The elder witch took a deep breath, looking over her nephew’s face with worry,

“This has to go through him. To the end.”

Hermione looked between the two of them.

Andromeda and Draco - no longer healer and patient, but something older. Deeper. The bond of blood, tempered by war.

Andromeda’s hand hovered over Draco’s cheek for a long moment, and her voice softened.

“I can bolster a runic circle,” she said. “I’ll draw it myself, reinforce it with my own signature too. It’ll take some of the strain off of you.”

Draco looked away, jaw clenched.

But he nodded once.

Andromeda moved with precision, tracing the rune circle around Hermione’s bed with the tip of her wand. Her lips were tight, eyes shadowed with fatigue, but her magic was steady. The runes shimmered red against the floor, flickering as they locked into place.

The room smelled of dragon’s blood and salt.

“Final ward sealed,” she said softly. “That’ll be the anchor.”

She straightened, then turned to face the two of them.

“I’ll be just outside the room, but I won’t interrupt unless something goes terribly wrong.”

Hermione startled slightly. “Wait, you’re not staying?”

“You’re not comfortable with me in here anymore."

Hermione flushed.

Andromeda didn’t press. “You don’t need to explain, my dear. You’re entitled to privacy.”

Draco glanced at her, one brow arched.

Hermione gave a small nod. “Thank you.”

Andromeda rested her hand lightly on Hermione’s shoulder. “Call if anything shifts too suddenly.”

Then she turned, stepped out, and closed the door with a soft click.

---

Hermione was already in place, propped against the headboard, eyes focused. Still pale. Still worn. But steady now. Ready.

“Any dizziness?” he asked gently.

“Just the usual,” she said, attempting a faint smile. “But I don't think the Ronald Weasley archives will pose too much of a problem.”

Draco swallowed hard. “Alright.”

He sat cross-legged across from her, and took her hand.

The moment their skin touched, the magic pulsed alive.

Hermione inhaled sharply as their connection snapped into place; familiar, hot, a little wild.

Draco’s eyes fluttered shut. “Occlumency down?”

“Down.”

“Ready?”

“Yes.”

“Alright then,” he murmured. “Let’s start.

Legilimens.”

—

The West Tower was a ruin.

Or perhaps more accurately, the ruin of a ruin.

Not the messy, teetering sort of wreckage that followed natural chaos - but deliberate destruction.

As if someone had stormed through, tearing doors off their hinges, shattering floorboards, ripping paper and fabric into ash.

The air was still. But it felt like it should have screamed.

Hermione stood just inside the threshold, staring down the empty corridor.

Draco hovered at her side.

He said nothing.

She didn’t move.

Not until she exhaled slowly and held her arm out toward him.

He linked their arms together, quiet, careful.

“Do you still want me in?” he asked.

She didn’t answer.

Just pulled him forward.

---

The early years were untouched.

Childhood crushes. Study sessions. Ron’s bubbling laughter. Their first chess match. The Yule Ball.

But Sixth Year-

Everything changed.

The stairs between levels had collapsed. Torn portraits, charred parchment, and broken memories littered the floor like shrapnel.

Hermione stepped in with trembling shoulders.

Draco moved to her side at once, his arm brushing hers. He didn’t speak.

He didn’t need to.

This was no longer a simple Owlery, no longer a floor of memories.

This was the wreckage of her heart.

A memory lay like rubble on the floor. Draco crouched and picked it up.

Lavender and Ron laughing in the Gryffindor common room. A kiss. A dozen more. On the train. A broomstick. In the corridor between classes.

Hermione’s jaw clenched. She didn’t stop the memory.

Tears escaped her closed eyes, trailing down her cheeks without permission.

Draco looked at her.

She didn’t speak. He didn’t either.

But when she reached blindly for him, he caught her hand and held tight.

They moved forward together.

---

The war memories came next.

Not the battlefield.

Ron abandoning Hermione and Harry on the road.

The cold. The fear. The betrayal.

They watched the moment Ron screamed at Harry. Watched him throw things, spit cruel words, cast a stinging hex at the tent wall.

They watched him storm off into the dark.

Watched Hermione cry in the corner of the tent, muffling sobs with a blanket, her wand clutched so tightly her knuckles turned white.

When the memory faded, Hermione held onto Draco’s shoulders, grip tight as she kept herself upright.

Hermione didn’t break then. Not even when her frozen hands trembled in against his bare skin. 

“We can stop.” Draco murmured at last. She shook her head, determined.

“No.”

Then she pulled him back in.

---

The next memory was sharp with urgency.

Ron carrying her from the Manor on his broom. Her body limp, her magic faltering.

The escape. The Portkey. Grimmauld Place.

Chaos.

Hands all over her. Hugging. Careful touches. Pitying eyes.

A strategy meeting. Ron fighting with her. With Harry. Accusations. Cold silences.

Hermione cried in the corner, voice hoarse from spells and pain.

“Draco...” she had found herself whispering once.

No one replied.

No one offered comfort.

Draco’s jaw clenched.

He didn’t comment.

But when Hermione leaned into him during the next vision, her shoulders shaking, he pulled her closer.

---

They barely paused before diving into The Chamber of Secrets.

Hermione destroying a Horcrux.

She was sharp, focused, fierce; Ron right behind her.

Then they kissed.

Draco pulled himself back, giving her space as the memory unfolded. He didn’t watch. 

Couldn’t watch.

When it ended, Hermione fell softly against him, eyes closed, exhausted.

“I needed to check your levels,” Draco said, voice careful, hiding his white lie.

She hummed faintly in response.

And dragged him back in.

---

There were two last doors - newer, sturdier.

Draco poured what magic he could into breaking the Occlumency. It took effort -more than Draco expected- but eventually, the spell cracked. The protection peeled away, and Hermione pushed through. 

They found Ron and Hermione together, studying in their shared common room, not Gryffindor’s.

This was new.

Late hours. Soft smiles. Jokes she used to laugh at. Deep into the night, they moved to Hermione’s room.

Ron excused himself to the lavatory.

Hermione slipped beneath the covers, pulling them tight, eyes closed, brows still tense.

Draco knew where this led.

He moved to stop the Legilimens spell, drawing his wand to end the connection.

But Hermione caught his wrist.

Tight.

“I want to see it." she said.

And the room shifted.

---

The fight was brutal.

Ron shouting.

Slurs. Accusations. Words that cut deeper than wands ever could.

Hermione screaming back, voice breaking.

Her magic sparking without control.

She had told him to get out.

She had told him never to come back.

And then she had collapsed, alone again, her fists clenched in the dark.

---

They surfaced slowly.

Hermione slumped against Draco, breathing like she’d run a marathon.

He cradled her close, checking the warmth of her hands.

“You alright?”

She didn’t answer right away.

“I went out to the Quidditch stands that night,” she whispered.

“You were there. The next day too. And all the days after, either Harry or Ginny stayed with me until I slept.”

“Well, you keep good company.”

She nodded.

“I do. One of them even gets his skin burnt off for me.”

Draco’s lips twitched faintly.

“I had nothing to do with that night.”

“Sure,” Hermione drawled.

A long pause.

She looked up, afraid to lift the hands on his bare skin.

“Any damage?”

Draco shook his head.

“Good. Then let’s get this over with.”

---

The Cruciatus memory came last.

The spell she cast.

The Aurors.

Maisy screaming.

Ron - far in the background, writhing on the floor.

Everything was blurry, raw, fast.

Draco tried to speak to her in the memory, to stop her.

He had failed.

The memory sped through the Hospital Wing.

She talked with Harry.

Tricked McGonagall.

Testified against herself.

Then, St. Mungo’s. She was trapped in a haze, drugged, watched closely.

There were heavy footsteps on the ward.

A tall figure pacing.

Platinum hair glinting.

The man yelled.

Hermione fought back.

And when he finally touched her—

All the color returned.

She gasped awake in real time, jolting in the bed with a strangled breath.

Draco caught her as she shivered, guiding her carefully back down against her headboard.

He didn’t say a word. Just waited until the glow of her magic settled into something strong and steady.

---

The rune circle dissolved, red sparks floating upward, but Hermione didn’t move. She sat with her knees drawn to her chest, eyes wide. Her voice, when it came, was quiet.

“Ron was selfish. Jealous. Cruel at times. But I loved him. I thought he was my partner. But he broke me—left me shattered when I needed him most.”

Her fingers gripped Draco’s wrist tighter, knuckles pale.

Draco’s eyes darkened, jaw tightening, a flicker of something fierce beneath his calm exterior.

“He was a fool,” Draco said quietly, voice edged with something Hermione recognized - something unspoken. “You deserved better. Much better.”

His gaze lingered on her a moment longer than necessary.

“I hated watching him take you for granted. Always turning a blind eye, acting like you were invisible.”

Hermione glanced up, catching the subtle tension in his voice, the way his fingers curled just a little around hers.

She swallowed.

Then, slowly, she shifted closer - not much, just enough that their knees brushed, their shoulders touched. Her hand moved, fingertips brushing the inside of his wrist where she still held him.

Draco stilled.

The space between them shrank, not with any grand gesture, but with the kind of nearness that held its breath.

Hermione’s voice was barely a whisper. “You never looked away from the worst parts of me."

His eyes flicked to hers.

For a long moment, neither of them looked away.

Something deep and quiet passed between them - recognition, gratitude, tension thick with what hadn’t yet been spoken.

Hermione gave the smallest smile. A real one. Not forced, not tired, her.

And Draco, still holding her gaze, let his fingers shift to weave fully between hers.

It wasn’t a confession. Not yet.

But it was something.

And neither of them pulled away.

Chapter Text

The moment Draco stepped into the hospital room, the air felt different.

Alive.

The rune circle had already been drawn - Andromeda’s handiwork, precise and glowing faintly red. Wards shimmered around the bed like invisible scaffolding, humming with layered containment spells. The fire was low, the blinds drawn, and the scent of burnt sage clung to the air.

Hermione was sitting upright on the bed, wand beside her, hair tied back, eyes sharp. She looked ready.

Too ready.

Draco closed the door behind him with a soft click.

“You know,” he said, approaching slowly, “we don’t have to do one every day.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“We’ve still got time,” he added. “Eight days. Technically we could’ve taken this evening off. Let things settle.”

“I don’t want to settle.”

Her voice was firm. Not angry. Just… done with wasting time.

“We lost five days already,” she said. “I told you, I’m not losing another.”

He stopped beside the bed, studying her. “You’ve barely slept.”

“I’ll sleep when you do.” She challenged.

“I’ll have you know—”

“Draco,” she said, voice low and urgent as she cut him off, standing up to take off her outer robe in the process, now in nothing but a low-cut nightgown, “Just shut up.”

And before he could react, she grabbed his wrist and pulled him closer to start undoing all of his shirt buttons.

“Granger—”

“Stop wasting time. There, now,” She said just as the last button popped free, and with determination, placed his hand flat over her own chest, mirroring the movement right after.

Her skin was warm. Her heartbeat was fast.

Her magic jumped at his touch, coiling tight and eager, like it had been waiting for this.

He froze.

“Hermione—”

“I’m not fragile,” she said. “Not today.”

Draco didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. The space between them went razor-thin.

She looked up at him, eyes steady, jaw set; and even with the hollows beneath her cheekbones and the tension in her shoulders, there was something fierce in her expression. Something like challenge. Something like trust.

He didn’t let go. Didn’t argue.

His other hand came up, slow and reverent, brushing the inside of her elbow.

“Alright,” he murmured.

His voice was quiet. But it shook.

There was already a faint tremor beneath his skin. One he hoped she wouldn’t notice.

Then, closing the last inch between them, he pressed his forehead to hers.

She let him.

A breath passed between them.

“Legilimens.”

---

It was always cold first.

Wet cold. Not the kind that stung or numbed, but the kind that soaked. The kind that settled in her marrow and never left. Her clothes were always damp. Her skin always clammy. The stones beneath her bare feet were slick with mildew and mucus and old blood - never fully dry, never truly warm.

Low ceiling. Cracked floor. One rusted drain in the corner. Mold creeping along the base of the walls. Her fingers twitching from exhaustion even in sleep. A crust of bread. A tin bowl. The smell of sweat and bile and something fouler - infection.

Her bones ached constantly. Her hips were bruised from lying on stone, knees rubbed raw, fingers swollen.

She let Draco see all of it with her.

No filters.

“I remember crawling,” she said, voice hoarse. “Because my hips were too bruised to lie on. I would crawl just to keep blood moving in my legs. I think—” she sucked in a sharp breath, “—I had an infection. My skin, my thighs—there were cuts that didn’t heal.”

She saw her feet, cracked and bleeding. Her hair, tangled into knots so thick she couldn’t lift her arms high enough to comb through them. Her mouth, dry and ulcered, lips split and caked with dried blood. Her clothes, stiff with sweat and grime. The stench of it, rot and damp and the constant, sour reek.

She actually saw the cuts then. The ones that never closed. The ones she scratched open in her fever-high because she thought there were bugs beneath her skin.

She saw herself curled into a ball in the farthest corner, forehead pressed to the wall, whispering spells with no wand - just for the sound of her own voice.

Draco stood very still.

Her fingers never left his neck.

And though he remained silent, a bead of sweat slid down his temple. His magic was steady, but the pressure to keep it that way was mounting fast.

---

The light never changed in the basement. There were no windows. No torch. Time lost all meaning.

Once, she thought her heart had stopped because she hadn’t felt it in hours. She lay on her back, eyes unfocused, and watched the stone above her warp and pulse.

She dreamed of water. She dreamed of food. She dreamed of touch. Not kindness. Just pressure. Warmth.

And flickering in the corner of some of those dreams:

A shadow.

A figure kneeling beside her.

A hand pressing a potion to her mouth.

A whisper, low and urgent.

She didn’t look at him.

Not yet.

---

Her body jolted. The memory of fever hit like a slap: her limbs seizing, sweat soaking through her shirt, mouth open in a silent scream. Her skin had burned, then frozen. She had begged the ceiling to let her die.

“I think I was septic,” she said suddenly. “Once. I couldn’t keep water down. I remember seeing shapes on the ceiling that weren’t there. I remember… dreaming that I was dead and the room was heaven.”

A small laugh escaped her lips, bitter and dry. “What a heaven.”

Magic pulsed weakly in her fingertips.

“I held on to the idea of the sun,” she said. “That was it. Just that it was warm, and it smelled like summer. I used to close my eyes and pretend I was on the roof of Grimmauld Place, face up to the sky.”

Draco moved then.

He stepped forward, wrapping his arms around her shoulders. She didn’t fall, not quite, but she leaned heavily into him, forehead tucked beneath his chin, hands fisting in the bunched fabric at his sides.

Her magic crackled faintly between them.

His flared in response, then stuttered. Just for a second.

But it returned. Just enough.

---

He saw her hallucinations next.

The moth made of flame hovering just out of reach.

Her mother sitting cross-legged on the floor, silent and blurred.

A whisper behind her ear: you’re nothing now. you’re nothing at all.

She tried to swat it away with trembling fingers.

Draco held her tighter.

Her knees buckled. He sank with her, kneeling, drawing her into his lap without question. Her arms went around his shoulders, desperate and firm, her fingers curling into his back like talons.

And they were back inside.

She saw her body wasting away.

The patches of skin gone yellow.

The shaking that wouldn’t stop.

The moment her stomach stopped accepting food.

The moment she coughed up blood and had to swallow it back down.

Her body spasmed in his arms.

Draco didn’t speak.

He gripped her tighter, one hand fisted at the small of her back, the other pressing her head to his shoulder. She was breathing raggedly, half-magic and half-memory, sweat glistening across her neck and chest.

He clenched his teeth as the stabilizing rune on the floor flickered.

Only once.

He caught it in time.

---

And still, in the edges of all those memories:

There he was. Not clear. Not center-stage. But present.

Sometimes a pair of boots near her sleeping area. Sometimes a voice, muffled behind the door. Sometimes a hand steadying her elbow as fever broke.

Hermione didn’t linger on him. Not yet.

But she let him see that he was there. That he always had been.

Draco’s breath hitched. He nearly lost his grip.

He squeezed his eyes shut once. Then refocused. Gritted his jaw.

---

The vision faded slowly.

She didn’t open her eyes right away.

She was still in his lap, his breath hot against her temple, their bodies flush. One hand splayed against the curve of her spine, the other cradling the back of her skull. Her fingers pressed lightly into his chest, curled in the fabric of his shirt like anchors.

Then, she returned.

Pulled herself upright, breath shaking, skin damp with sweat.

Her magic buzzed, faint but present, flickering just beneath the surface like a long-dormant ember.

“That was just the beginning.” she whispered.

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just waited.

Her voice, when it came, was quiet.

“I didn’t even realize I’d hidden that part separately. I thought it didn’t matter. Because nothing specific happened there. It was just… a cellar.”

She tilted her head, resting her cheek against his collarbone.

“I supposed I… I thought I would die in there. A little more every day.”

Her magic pricked at her skin now, a low hum, spiraling outward from her core and reaching toward him, steady and slow like the return of blood to a numbed limb.

Her fingers brushed his neck.

He didn’t flinch.

She tilted her head up. Just slightly. Enough that their foreheads met.

She wasn’t crying this time. No, there was a smile on Hermione Granger’s face, even as her muscles betrayed her.

Because she'd felt it. All of it. All over again.

And she had lived.

“But I didn't die down there.”

A pause. Draco’s eyes closed.

“No,” he said. “You didn’t.”

Her magic - a pulse, stronger now, wrapping around him like mist. He felt it in the base of his skull, in the soft burn of his palm. She didn’t shy away from it anymore. She let it flow.

But the moment it touched him, his own magic hiccupped. Like a flame in the wind.

He forced it to hold steady.

Then she pulled back. Just far enough to see his face.

And for the first time in days — in weeks — she let her thumb brush the edge of his jaw. Not out of ritual. Not for healing.

Just because she could.

His breath caught.

Neither of them moved.

“Thanks to you.”

His arms went rigid around her - not from resistance, but from the sheer effort of not falling apart.

Hermione stayed close, her body trembling from the aftershocks of memory. But she looked at him even then, eyes glassy and fierce.

“You were always there,” she said. “Even when I tried not to see it. Even when I locked it all away. You kept me tethered.”

She didn’t say it like a confession.

She said it like the truth.

And Draco… broke.

Just a little.

His head bowed, and for the first time in a long time, he let himself breathe her in. Not just her scent or her warmth - but her, alive, still here, still choosing to look at him.

Hermione leaned in -slow, certain- and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek.

It wasn’t hurried. It wasn’t careful. It landed, with weight, with warmth, with gratitude.

When she pulled back, her hand lingered, ghosting a line over his jaw, down his neck.

Draco stared at her, completely still.

And then—

The runes beneath them blazed gold.

And magic surged through her chest like a heartbeat reborn.

—

The door creaked open.

Andromeda’s footsteps were brisk, but she stopped cold in the threshold.

Hermione pulled back instinctively, startled- but didn’t let go of Draco entirely.

Andromeda stared at them, her gaze flicking first to the runes on the floor -glinting constantly now- then to Hermione, then to Draco, then back again.

“You felt that,” Hermione said, her voice a little breathless, a little disbelieving. “It worked.”

Andromeda’s brows furrowed, and she stepped inside, scanning Hermione with her wand before she even spoke.

“Your core is reading active,” she murmured. “Merlin’s bones, Hermione, it’s really coming back.”

Hermione let out a laugh that cracked at the edges. “Try me.”

Andromeda handed her her wand from the bedside table. “Basic spell.”

Hermione didn’t hesitate, untangling herself from Draco and standing up on wobbly feet.

Lumos.

The tip sparked to life, pale and flickering, but real. Hers.

The breath she let out was halfway to a sob. “It’s back,” she whispered. “It’s actually back.”

Andromeda crossed the room in three quick steps and hugged her.

Hermione gripped her tight, laughing now, a wild, joyful sound she hadn’t made in weeks.

Neither of them noticed Draco stiffen.

Neither of them noticed the way his hand dropped from Hermione’s back as she stood, or the way his breath hitched.

He was already on his feet.

Already turning away.

Already walking out the door.

---

He didn’t go far.

Just enough for air.

He pressed one hand to the wall in the corridor, waiting for the tremble in his arms to stop. For the spinning in his skull to settle. His legs were shaking harder than they should’ve been.

He couldn’t feel the tips of his fingers.

---

Inside, Hermione still hadn’t sat down. She stood, wand still alight, casting a third spell just to be sure. Then a fourth.

It worked every time.

The glow was growing steadier with each try.

And when she spun around -finally, beaming- Draco wasn’t there.

Her smile faltered just a little. “Where—”

“He needed air,” Andromeda said softly, brushing a lock of hair from Hermione’s damp temple. “Let him breathe, darling.”

—

The hospital ward was too bright.

Too close.

He took the corner too fast, nearly clipped a cart, muttered an apology to a mediwitch who frowned after him, and pushed open the side door to the hospital yard with shaking fingers.

The evening air hit him like a punch to the lungs.

He staggered into the shadows behind the nearest column, yanked a cigarette from his pocket with trembling hands, and lit it with a wandless spark that nearly singed his coat.

He inhaled like it was oxygen.

Then leaned back against the wall, exhaling a shaky breath into the cool darkness.

His hands were still trembling.

He stared down at them.

Not because of the cigarette.

But because they had just held her.

Held her through a memory no one else in the world had seen. Felt her magic crawl across his skin. Watched her come back from the edge — because of him.

Thanks to him.

She’d said so.

And she’d kissed him.

Draco closed his eyes and let his head thump softly against the wall.

Fuck.

Chapter Text

Draco didn’t hear the footsteps.

He was too busy staring at his hands, still trembling faintly, as if they might fly off without warning. The cigarette between his fingers burned slowly, almost reverently, smoke curling around his knuckles. His other hand was braced against the cold stone wall, holding him upright.

The sharp scent of tobacco filled the air.

A breeze caught the edge of his coat.

Then, a shadow moved into his peripheral vision.

Draco didn’t startle. Just exhaled.

Harry Potter leaned against the same wall a foot away. He didn’t say anything. Just extended a hand, palm up, eyes on the horizon.

Draco blinked. Fished in his coat pocket. Pulled out the pack and held it out silently.

Harry took one. Lit it wordlessly with a practiced flick of his wand.

They smoked in silence for a long moment, the quiet between them thick but not tense.

Eventually, Harry broke it.

“You look like crap.”

Draco huffed a humorless breath. “Yeah, no shit.”

Another beat of silence.

Then, without looking at him, Draco murmured, “She’s getting her magic back.”

Harry’s eyes flicked toward him, bright.

“...Yeah?”

Draco nodded once. Another drag. “It’s working. She cast two spells before I left. Wand still shook like a leaf, but at least it's real magic again. Completely hers.”

Harry’s shoulders relaxed, if only slightly. “That’s... fuck, that’s incredible.”

He stared at the smoke curling from his own cigarette for a second, then said, quieter, “It’s all thanks to you, you know.”

Draco didn’t respond right away.

The air cooled further.

But something in Harry’s expression shifted. Tightened.

Draco noticed.

“You’re not just here to bum a smoke, are you?” he said finally.

Harry sighed. Rubbed a hand down his face.

“No.”

“Then out with it.”

Harry hesitated.

Draco turned to fully face him, eyes sharp despite the exhaustion pinching at the corners.

“Potter.”

“The trial’s been moved up,” Harry admitted.

Draco’s stomach dropped.

“How much?”

“Two days.”

There was a long pause. Draco’s jaw clenched. “Why?”

Harry’s voice turned bitter. “Robards, Head of the DMLE, made a surprise visit to St. Mungo’s.”

Draco didn’t move.

“He stopped by the Longbottoms first. Walked past Hermione’s room on his way out. Saw her chatting with Andromeda. They say the conversation was… animated.”

Draco’s cigarette wobbled between his fingers.

Harry’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Anyway, Robards told Kingsley that if she’s well enough to walk and talk, she’s well enough to testify.”

Draco exhaled slowly through his nose. “So they’re cutting down our time.”

“They’re trying to be lenient, they said. Said they’ll give her another day or two to ‘compose herself,’ but—” Harry scoffed. “It’s bureaucratic bullshit if you ask me.”

Draco didn’t speak.

He stared down at his hands again. The smudge of ash across his fingers. The small burn near the knuckle from lighting his cigarette too fast. The faint tremor still visible.

“She’s not ready,” he said, voice low. “Not yet.”

“I know.”

“We haven’t even touched Voldemort. Or Bella. Or—” His breath caught. “Me.”

“I know.”

Draco finally looked up, eyes hollowed and hard. “Then what the fuck do we do?”

Harry’s mouth tightened.

“We get her ready anyway.” he said.

And this time, Draco didn’t argue.

But his silence screamed.

Flicking ash from the tip of his cigarette, Harry asked quietly, “Are you going to be alright?”

Draco didn’t look at him. Just took another drag and muttered, “I’m fine.”

Harry turned his head, expression unreadable.

“You’re not.”

Draco said nothing.

“I’ve seen this before,” Harry said, voice steady. “During the war. With healers. Cursebreakers. People who pushed too hard for too long. Your magic’s fraying.”

Draco’s shoulders stiffened.

Harry’s gaze didn’t waver. “You’re overextending. I can feel it. It’s like standing next to a short-circuiting wand.”

There was no venom in his tone. Just… quiet certainty.

Draco let the cigarette fall and ground it under his heel.

Harry didn’t stop.

“Will you be strong enough to finish this?” he asked, softer now. “To get her ready in time?”

Draco’s throat worked.

He didn’t answer right away.

Didn’t have one.

Not a real one.

So he said the only thing he could.

“I have to be.”

And Harry, who’d once said the same words to himself too many times to count, just nodded.

He didn’t believe it.

But he understood.

Harry looked over at him again. Really looked.

“So. You going to tell her today?”

Draco’s eyes dropped to the cigarette between his fingers. The ash had grown long, unshaken. He didn’t answer.

“She’s going to want to know,” Harry added, voice softer now.

 Draco inhaled - sharply. Exhaled like it burned.

“I know.” 

Silence stretched again.

“I can’t do it.” His voice was quiet. Flat. “Not today. Not after that session. Not after she just got a piece of herself back.”

Harry didn’t push.

“She’ll take it better from you,” Draco said, voice almost a whisper now. “Just… not me. Not tonight.”

Harry gave a small nod. The kind of nod you gave when there was no winning move.

“I'll tell her."

---

Hermione was sitting cross-legged on her bed when Harry stepped into the hospital room, wand in hand, a halo of soft golden light hovering just above her fingertips.

“Lumos maxima,” she whispered, and the orb flared brighter, then dimmed, then brightened again as she laughed - genuinely, frely, breathlessly.

“Oi,” Harry said from the doorway, grinning wide. “Are you trying to blind someone or just showing off?”

Hermione’s head whipped toward him. “Harry!”

Before he could say another word, she launched off the bed and threw her arms around him. He caught her easily, staggering back a half-step with a huff of breath and a laugh of his own.

“You’re magical again,” he said into her hair, arms tight around her.

“I know!” she said, drawing back just enough to beam at him. Her cheeks were flushed, her curls frizzy with sweat, but she looked more alive than he’d seen her in weeks. “I mean, it’s not all back. Not yet. But it’s there. I felt it.”

“I felt it, too,” he said honestly. “Even downstairs. It was like the air changed.”

She grinned so wide it almost looked like it hurt. “Do you want to see?”

Harry’s eyebrows shot up. “What, your magic or your victory dance?”

“Both,” she said, then twirled dramatically back toward the bed, wand raised like a conductor’s baton.

“Alright then, let’s see it.”

She cast again, her voice confident, her motions fluid: Lumos. Leviosa. Silencio. Protego.

Each spell sparked to life, bright and solid. Her shield charm wobbled, but it held.

Harry clapped. “Bloody brilliant, Hermione.”

She dropped her wand hand, chest rising with rapid breaths, and beamed. “I feel like me again,” she whispered. “Not fully, but… I’m not broken anymore.”

“No,” Harry agreed. “You’re not.”

They both stood quietly for a moment, catching their breath. The joy settled into something calmer; something warm, grounded.

Hermione tilted her head. “You’re awfully quiet for someone who just witnessed a miracle.”

Harry gave a small, crooked smile. “Just soaking it in.”

Her brow furrowed, a flash of that old instinct catching something in his tone. “Harry.”

He met her eyes.

“What is it?”

He hesitated. Only for a moment.

Then he stepped closer, his voice gentle. “There’s something I need to tell you. And I swear, if it were only up to me, I would’ve waited till morning.”

The smile drained from her face. “Tell me.”

Harry rubbed the back of his neck. “The DMLE -well, the Head, Robards- he visited the Longbottoms. Apparently caught sight of you chatting with Andromeda.”

Hermione blinked. “And?”

“He didn’t think you looked very... infirm. Not enough, anyway. Said he saw no reason to extend leniency on the trial schedule. He’s moved Draco’s date up.”

Her eyes darkened. “By how much?”

"Two days.”

She froze. Her knuckles whitened where she gripped her wand.

“That’s—” she swallowed, “—then we only have six days left.”

“I know.”

Her lips parted, then closed again. She looked like she might argue, or panic, or collapse, but none of that came.

Just one word, tight in her throat:

“Draco?”

“I just told him downstairs. He asked me to break the news to you,” Harry said softly. “Said he didn’t have it in him to do it himself. Not after the day you had.”

Hermione’s shoulders folded inward slightly. Her wand dropped to her side.

“We need to work faster.” she whispered.

Harry didn’t disagree.

He stepped closer again and touched her arm. “You’ll get there. He’ll get you there.”

She nodded once, eyes still fixed on the floor, but her breath was steadier. Her spine straightened by degrees.

And slowly, she looked up. Fire in her eyes again.

“Then we start again tomorrow,” she said. “No breaks.”

Harry didn’t argue. He only said, “He’ll hate that.”

Hermione gave a bitter smile. “He can live through six more days.”

She didn't dare say what they were both thinking.

If he doesn’t, he won’t get to live at all.

–

It was nearly midnight when Hermione found him.

She hadn’t expected him to be in the ward still -Andromeda said he’d gone out for air hours ago- but as she wandered past the side corridor leading to the old records room, she saw it.

A glow.

Not magical. Just soft, warm lamplight slipping under the door.

She hesitated only a second before gently pushing it open.

Draco was sitting in a wooden chair, long legs stretched out, back against the wall, a single lamp floating overhead. One of his sleeves was rolled up. A healing salve lay unopened on the desk beside him, untouched. He looked pale. Washed out. Hollowed in the cheeks and under the eyes.

But his eyes were open.

And when he looked up at her, he didn’t flinch.

Hermione stepped inside and closed the door behind her.

“I was wondering when you’d come,” he said quietly, voice rough with exhaustion.

Hermione crossed the room slowly. “I was giving you time.”

“To run?”

“To breathe.”

He gave a humorless little huff. “Didn’t do much of either.”

She stopped a foot from him, standing beside the desk. “You should be resting.”

“And you should be celebrating.”

She ignored that. “You didn’t wait to see me cast anything.”

“I didn’t need to,” he said. “I felt it. The entire ward did.”

Silence stretched between them.

Hermione let her hand drift toward the unopened salve. “You’re still shaking.”

“Yeah.”

“You’ve been overdoing it.”

He said nothing.

Hermione sat on the edge of the desk, facing him, her legs brushing his. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I didn’t want you to stop.”

She stared at him.

“You’re not made of magic, Draco.”

“I was, once.”

There was no arrogance in it. Just quiet resignation. Almost grief.

Hermione reached for his wrist and took his hand. It was cold. Still trembling faintly.

She held it anyway.

“I spoke with Harry,” she said.

He exhaled long and slow. “I figured.”

“Why didn’t you want to tell me yourself?”

Draco closed his eyes. “I couldn’t. Not tonight. You were... Gods, Hermione, you were glowing. You were yourself again. I couldn’t ruin that.”

She was quiet for a moment. Then, with a rawness she didn’t bother to mask:

“You can’t ruin it if you’re the reason it happened.”

His eyes opened.

“Look, we’re down to six days and I—” He cut off. Looked away. “I’m not sure I can hold it together that long. The sessions we have left, they’re… taxing, to say the very least. Both of us will need replenishing.”

Hermione leaned forward. Her knees pressed into his. Her hand rose to his cheek, tentative, soft. She brushed her thumb along the edge of his jaw.

“Then thank Merlin you don’t have to hold it alone anymore.” she whispered.

Draco’s throat worked. “I don’t think you understand how close I am to burning out.”

“So take care of yourself,” she said, fiercer now. “And let me carry my own weight for once. Stop worrying about me, at least out-of-session.”

He looked at her then, really looked, and something in him gave.

Not crumbled. Not shattered. But allowed itself to rest, just for a second.

“Alright,” he said.

Hermione bent forward and pressed her lips gently to his cheek. Again.

It was quiet. Thankful. A promise more than a question.

When she pulled back, he still hadn’t moved.

She squeezed his hand once more. “Go back to Hogwarts, Draco. Sleep in your bed. Get your 8 hours, then get 8 more.”

A beat.

Then she stood and started for the door.

Halfway out, she paused and looked back at him, silhouetted in the lamplight.

“You don’t have to be strong all the time.” she said.

Then she left.

And Draco finally breathed.

Chapter Text

Five days.

That’s all they had left.

Andromeda wasted no time reminding them.

“You’ve unoccluded the Manor and Ronald. That leaves the Dark Tower, Turris Magnus, and the Astronomy Tower. All three will fight you. They’re not just memories. They’re trauma. The worst of it.” she said, already drawing runes on the floor with chalk and salt.

Hermione sat on the edge of the bed, back straight, hands folded too neatly in her lap. Draco stood beside her, arms crossed, face unreadable.

Andromeda continued without looking up. “I believe each one will take at least two days. That’s if we’re lucky. “If your mind,” she glanced at Hermione, “and your magic holds up.” the older witch finished, straight up pointing at her nephew.

Hermione frowned. “I don’t like those odds.”

“I didn’t think you would.”

“Is there a way to go faster?”

Andromeda paused. The chalk hovered above the rune circle, her shoulders stiffening.

“None that you'd like.”

Hermione didn’t flinch. “That’s not what I asked.”

A beat of silence.

Then Andromeda sighed, setting the chalk down carefully before turning to face them.

“There are ways,” she said slowly, “but they depend on one thing.”

Hermione tilted her head. “Which is?”

“Synchronization. You need to be completely in sync: mind, magic, and body.”

Draco’s brows furrowed.

Andromeda met his gaze. Then Hermione’s.

“You don’t need me to tell you what your greatest weapon is, do you?”

Hermione blinked. “What?”

Draco straightened. “She means touch, Granger. The deeper the contact, the easier it is for me to keep you rooted in the present.”

Andromeda nodded, adding, “The stronger the anchor, the safer the dive. Which means even if you go too far, you won’t get lost. You won’t confuse then with now. Because you’ll feel him.”

Hermione said nothing. Neither did Draco.

The silence stretched, thick with heat and unspoken things.

Andromeda, to her credit, didn’t linger.

“Well then. You know the drill. I’ll be just outside. Holler if you need me.” She gathered her things, flicked her wand to seal the runes in place, then opened the door. “And don’t be stupid.”

And she was gone.

---

The room was silent.

Not tense. Not uncomfortable.

Just… full.

Hermione looked at Draco.

“Well,” she said after a moment, tone light. “We’ve been in more compromising positions.”

Draco’s mouth quirked in silent agreement.

A pause.

“Feeling better today?” she asked.

“Slept for fourteen hours.”

“Good.”

Another pause. It loomed between them, full of memories neither had said aloud.

Hermione cleared her throat, then stood. She crossed to him slowly, stopping just in front of him. She reached up, fingers brushing the hem of his shirt. She slid the fabric up carefully, exposing his abs, his ribs, his chest, the pink marks of her magic, old and new. He didn’t look away. Neither did she.

She set the shirt aside.

They moved together toward the bed, in the center of the rune circle today - familiar now, ritualized. She sat first. He followed. Their knees brushed. Her eyes locked with his.

Draco exhaled.

“Are you sure?”

Hermione nodded once. “I’m sure.”

Then, softer, with a kind of fragile boldness:

“Draco.”

“Hm?

“Do whatever’s necessary, alright? No limits."

His breath hitched. Just slightly.

She reached for his neck.

And the runes began to glow.

---

It always began with the air.

Stagnant. Cold. As if the room itself forgot how to breathe.

She saw flashes first; memories not as events, but as atmospheres.

The way the temperature fell several degrees the moment he stepped through the Manor wards.

How all the magic in the house recoiled from him, how her own magic curled back into her bones, cringing like an abused dog.

How the shadows themselves moved when he passed.

She saw the moment she first heard him laugh.

Not at her. Not even near her. From three rooms away.

But it cleaved straight through her spine.

---

Then the voices.

Voldemort didn’t raise his voice often. He didn’t need to. Power didn’t have to shout when it could whisper.

She remembered him laughing as Bellatrix explained her progress with “the Mudblood.” Remembered him asking Lucius, voice slick and amused, how the Manor’s walls were ''holding up under the screaming.'

---

The real memory began.

The day he called her forward.

She was on her knees in the throne room. Her face swollen. Lip split. Hands bound.

He hadn’t spoken at first. Just circled.

Observing.

Bellatrix had dropped her at his feet and begun a gushing stream of praise, twisted devotion, cruelty disguised as amusement. But he hadn’t even looked at her.

Until he did.

And when he did, the entire world shifted.

His eyes were not just red — they were empty. Not hollow. Not void. Just wrong.

His gaze landed on Hermione like a weight, and something inside her recoiled.

---

In the present, Draco flinched. He felt the magic spike.

But Hermione kept going.

—

That cold, detached voice.

Not angry. Not cruel.

Just... clinical.

Like he was simply asking her how something worked, not torturing a human being.

“Tell me how the sword reappears,” Voldemort asked. His voice was smooth. Flat. Like silk soaked in venom.

Hermione didn’t answer. She’d choked on her own breath.

Blood in her throat.

She’d tried to spit it at him - that was in the memory too.

He hadn’t flinched. He’d just smiled.

A small, thin, inhuman smile.

“You do not fear death. Curious.”

He crouched then, eye-level.

That face.

Those red eyes.

That voice, so close she could feel it in her bones:

“Perhaps we ought to try something more... personal.”

He reached out.

No wand.

Just mind.

"Legilimens."

---

Hermione screamed both in the memory and in the present. Her magic slammed into Draco like a shockwave.

He held on.

In the vision, her head had snapped back. Her limbs trembled. Her vision flooded with blood.

Voldemort was in her mind. Sifting. Scraping. Tearing.

He pulled at every open thought, peeled back every corner of her resistance like flesh. He pressed against her pain. Her panic. Her self.

Hermione in the memory fought back with everything she had. Her Occlumency walls rose, but she hadn’t mastered them yet.

It hurt.

Oh, it hurt.

He smiled as he watched her froth at the mouth.

“You’ve been trained. By whom?” He murmured aloud, almost tender. 

She didn’t answer.

She couldn’t.

The pain was too much.

He dug deeper.

Not for information, but for the pleasure of breaking her.

Images fluttered before her: her parents. Ron. Harry. A library. Crookshanks. The Burrow.

Draco.

She slammed them back down, each one like snapping a trap shut.

Her body collapsed to the floor.

But he wasn’t done.

---

Draco muttered a spell to douse the runes, but it wasn’t enough. The energy was still peaking - raw, uncontrolled, on the brink of splitting her open.

In the present, Hermione’s entire body arched backward. Her mouth opened but no sound came out.

Draco swore under his breath.

Seizure.

A wild surge of energy exploded out from her core, and the runes shattered under them.

She screamed - not from pain, but from involuntary memory.

Draco dropped his wand and caught her around the waist.

She convulsed again.

“Fuck, Hermione—”

Her fingers, twitching moments ago, suddenly stiffened into claws. Her legs spasmed.

Not again.

“Hermione—” Draco’s arms tightened, grounding her, but it was too late.

Her mouth opened. Her eyes went wide — but this time, she screamed.

“No-NO-no, please--don’t-get out--get OUT—”

Her hands flew up, striking blindly at Draco’s chest, at his face, at the air around him.

“I can’t... I can’t take it again--I’ll tell you, I’ll tell you, just—”

Oh Merlin.

She wasn’t with him anymore.

She was back in the memory.

And she thought he was Voldemort.

---

Draco froze for half a second, stunned.

Then it clicked.

The Legilimency. The pressure. The tearing sensation. Her body hadn’t just relived the moment - it had absorbed it. And now that Draco was connected to her, mind to mind, magic to magic;

She thought he was still in her head.

She was lost.

“Granger—” he said sharply, hands cupping her face now, but her eyes didn’t see him. They were locked on something behind the veil of memory.

“Stop it, please, STOP—” she sobbed. “I can’t, I can’t, not again—”

“It’s me,” Draco said, louder now. “Hermione, look at me. You’re not there. You’re not at the Manor. You’re in the hospital. It’s me-Draco—”

She blinked. A flash of lucidity.

Her eyes found his. Focused.

“D-Draco?” she whispered.

A fragile breath of hope.

Then gone again.

She screamed as the Voldemort in her mind struck harder, diving deeper into her imagined mind.

“No! GET OUT--stop, STOP—!”

She clawed at her skull like she could rip the connection out herself.

“HELP ME—!”

Draco’s chest seized.

She wasn’t going to last much longer like this.

Then her hands found him. His face. His throat. Clinging to him like a lifeline.

She gasped, breathless:

“Draco, help me. Please. Pull me out. Pull me out.”

She was crying now. Full body sobbing. Desperate.

Draco didn’t think. He moved. 

Whatever's necessary.

His hands threaded into her hair, and he pressed his mouth to hers, not tentative this time, but anchoring. Urgent. Real.

And for one beautiful, wrenching second, she stilled.

---

Her body shuddered from the shift.

The memory wavered. Cracked.

Her magic surged, this time toward him, not against him. Her hands clutched the back of his neck, pulling him closer, mouth trembling against his.

He kissed her harder.

“It's not real,” he whispered against her lips once she made to pull away. “It’s not real. It’s over. You’re with me. I’ve got you.”

The memory flickered.

And then—

Her head surged forward, mouth finding his in a panicked kiss.

He caught her. Didn’t resist.

Her entire body were shaking. The contact was clumsy. She didn’t need romance, she needed contact, connection, energy.

Magic poured out of her.

Then, finally,

Light.

Heat.

A tearing snap.

The circle shattered.

Her scream cut through the light, and everything went still.

---

Hermione sagged in his arms.

Breathless.

Spent.

But here.

---

She lay still against him.

Unmoving.

Limp.

Eyes closed.

Her chest rose and fell, but only just; soft, slow breaths like whispers against his skin. Her body was heavy, relaxed in a way it never had been. Not after a session. Not ever.

He shook her once. “Hermione?”

Nothing.

He cupped her face, brushed his thumb over her cheek, trying to get her to look up at him.

Still nothing.

His heart dropped.

No.

No, no, no-

He stood too fast, half-carrying, half-lifting her out of the destroyed circle, his own chest still bare, shirt forgotten. Her fingers slid down his back, limp. Her head lolled against his collarbone.

“Andromeda—!”

His voice cracked.

He didn’t wait.

He ran.

---

The door slammed open so hard it rebounded.

“Andromeda!”

She looked up from a stack of potions in the hallway just outside the infirmary annex, startled. “What—Draco?”

“She collapsed, she j-just—” He stumbled forward, Hermione in his arms. “She finished the entire session b-but she collapsed, she’s not waking up—”

He was pale.

Panicked.

His hair was sticking to his forehead with sweat, his breath ragged.

“Put her down,” Andromeda said calmly, already crossing the room. “Let me—”

“Do something!” Draco snapped, rounding on her. “She’s--she’s not waking up, what if she-what if her mind—”

“Draco.” Her voice was firm now. “Let me look at her first.”

He clenched his jaw, knelt stiffly, and lowered Hermione to her bed like she was made of glass. His hands hovered over her shoulders, twitching to touch, to shake, to hold—

Andromeda pressed her wand gently to Hermione’s temple.

Her eyes flicked once.

Twice.

Then she huffed a sigh.

“Draco.”

“What?!”

“She’s fine.”

He stared.

“She’s… what?”

“She’s sleeping.”

“Sleeping?”

Andromeda raised a brow. “You’ve never passed out from magical exhaustion before?”

Draco’s mouth opened. Closed.

“She’s just fine,” Andromeda repeated. “She burned through a considerable amount of stored trauma, unlocked a near-lethal memory, broke through the Occlumency wall and a magical block in the span of an hour. Her body did what yours should do more often: it shut down and went, ‘that’s enough.’”

Draco blinked, still on the floor beside the cot.

His hands curled into fists on the sheets.

“Why didn’t you say that immediately?” he muttered.

“I tried.” She arched a brow. “You were busy barking at me like a wet kneazle.”

“I wasn’t—”

She gave him a dry, sideways look. He scowled.

Then Andromeda tilted her head, looking him over once, then again, and this time she chuckled.

“What?” he snapped.

She gestured delicately toward his mouth.

“You took my advice.”

Draco went utterly still.

“Your lips are red,” she continued, inspecting him with clinical nonchalance, “and slightly swollen.”

Draco’s ears went pink.

“I was grounding her.”

“Mmhmm.”

“She was seizing!”

“Of course.”

“She thought I was him, I had to—”

Andromeda turned toward the potion shelf, still smiling.

“No judgment here, darling. It was my idea, remember? Just a heads up though, next time,” she called lightly, “if you're going to snog the trauma out of a girl, maybe start with a cooling charm. You have magic burns all over your chest. Again.”

Draco was suddenly all too aware of the fact that he was naked from the waist up. He grabbed his shirt from the nearest chair –or rather, whatever scraps were left of it– and shrugged it on, trying to do the remaining buttons with as much finesse as he could muster.

And from the cot, Hermione let out the faintest sigh in her sleep, a slight smile decorating her serene face.

Chapter Text

Hermione woke slowly.

Her body ached thoroughly, like every nerve had run a marathon and then collapsed. Her limbs felt heavy, her head thick with sleep, but for once… it wasn’t unpleasant.

She blinked up at the ceiling, soft sunlight stretching across the plaster.

Alive.

Whole.

Still here.

She turned her head.

Draco was asleep in the chair beside her.

Slumped sideways, chin tilted toward his chest, arms folded - as if he'd tried to stay upright and given up somewhere around dawn. His hair was a mess. His shirt was rumpled. One of his boots was half-off. He looked like hell.

She smiled faintly.

Still here, she thought again. And not just her.

She didn’t move for a while. Just watched him breathe.

The door creaked open.

Andromeda stepped into the room quietly, her wand already in hand, though she paused at the sight in front of her: Hermione propped against her pillows, awake and calm, and Draco collapsed in the chair like a marionette with its strings cut.

She sighed once, then crossed the room in a few purposeful steps. Instead of speaking right away, she perched lightly on the arm of Draco’s chair, one hand reaching down to smooth his hair.

Her touch was gentle, almost absent-minded, but unmistakably affectionate. She ran her fingers through the tangled strands, brushing them away from his face, fixing a stubborn bit at the crown, patting once, twice, like she used to when he was young and too proud to ask for comfort.

“He looks awful,” she said lightly.

Hermione smiled. “Has he been here the whole time?”

Andromeda nodded, still combing her fingers through Draco’s hair. “Didn’t leave. Not even when I threatened to dose him unconscious.”

That made Hermione laugh softly. “Sounds like him.”

Andromeda glanced down at him, her hand pausing in its motion. Her expression shifted - something unreadable passed through it. Pride, maybe. Or guilt. Or fear.

“Stubborn boy,” she murmured. “Always was. He used to fall asleep in my lap just like this when he was little. Same position, too. Arms crossed like he didn’t need anyone.”

Hermione looked at Draco. Really looked.

The tilt of his chin. The faint bruising under his eyes. The lines of exhaustion etched deep, even in sleep.

And the way he leaned, just slightly, toward his aunt’s touch.

“I think he needs more than he lets on,” Hermione said quietly.

Andromeda didn’t answer at first.

Then, softly, “Don’t we all.”

Draco’s head fell onto his aunt’s arm, and he stirred awake with the sudden contact. His eyelids fluttered.

“Good morning.” Hermione supplied as Draco yawned, trying not to blush at the now visible sight of the pink trails she’d left over his neck and collar. 

Get it together, Hermione. All of this is supposed to be clinical.

Then, thankfully, without even lifting his head, Draco broke the tension by saying, groggily, “You snore, Granger.”

Hermione gave a huff. “Do not.”

He cracked one eye open. “You do when you’re magically comatose.”

She rolled her eyes and leaned back against the pillow. “How long was I out for anyway?”

“Twelve hours,” he said, stretching slightly but not moving from the chair. “Give or take.”

Her brow lifted. “You kept count?”

“You drooled a little, too.”

“Now I know you're lying.”

He smirked, then rubbed his hands over his face. “How do you feel?”

Hermione paused. Then, slowly, “Like my head's been stepped on by a hippogriff. But lighter, somehow.”

Draco nodded. “Yeah. That sounds about right.”

She looked down at her hands. Flexed her fingers. Magic pulsed, steady, present.

“Try it out.” Draco supplied. Hermione looked to Andromeda for confirmation. The elder witch urged her on, still perched on the arm of Draco's chair.

Hermione reached for her wand on the bedside table.

Draco blinked himself more awake as she held the wand in both hands, closed her eyes, and focused.

"Expecto Patronum."

A bright shimmer burst from the wand’s tip, wispy and silver, swirling in the air like fog catching light.

It wasn’t corporeal. But it was there.

Draco sat up straighter.

Hermione opened her eyes, watched it dissipate with a breath.

Finally.

He gave a quiet exhale. “Well I’ll be damned.”

She looked at him, a little smile blooming across her face - not triumphant, but deeply satisfied. “I haven’t been able to do that since… well. You know.”

He gave a slow nod. “Yeah.”

Andromeda abruptly stood, smoothing her robes and raising her wand. “Alrighty then, since you’re casting Patronuses before breakfast, I assume you won’t object to a little check-up, hm?

She performed a long, sweeping diagnostic arc over Hermione before the young witch could answer, her lips pursed in concentration as pale gold light skimmed over skin and sank into the space around her.

“Core’s holding,” she said. “Some cracks, but no leakage. Good magical flow.”

She turned to Draco. Her brow furrowed.

Hermione watched as Andromeda leaned down, brushing a thumb across Draco’s temple, then letting her magic settle deeper through her wand. The hum of her diagnostic magic shifted - lower, slower, darker. She frowned almost immediately.

“You're running on embers.” she muttered.

“I know.” Draco could only agree, too tired to go into a spat. 

The guilt in Hermione’s expression was instant.

Hermione swallowed. “So what does that mean? He’s-he’s okay, isn’t he?”

“He will be. If he rests.” Andromeda said pointedly at her nephew.

Hermione hesitated only a second. “So when can we go again?”

Andromeda raised her eyebrows sharply. “Excuse me?”

Hermione sat up straighter, her voice quickening. “The next session. We only have four days left. We have to keep going. We don’t have time to wait—”

“You’re not doing anything today,” Andromeda cut in.

Hermione blinked. “But—”

“No.” Her tone left no room for negotiation. 

Hermione blinked. “But I have to—”

“No.” Andromeda’s voice left no room for debate. “You may feel better, but even your core is still raw. And Draco—” she flicked her wand toward him, and the glow sputtered again “—won’t last another round. Not unless you want him comatose by sundown.”

Hermione’s voice trembled now. “You don’t understand, Andromeda. If we don’t finish this -if I can’t fully remember everything- I can’t testify. And if I can’t testify—”

“I understand perfectly,” Andromeda snapped. “You’re not the only one who wants him safely out of Azkaban. But if you rush this, you will fail. And you’ll take him down with you.“

Hermione froze. She looked at Draco, expecting him to protest. Expecting him to argue, to stand up and say he could handle it.

He didn’t.

He just leaned back into the chair, eyes closed.

Silent.

Still.

Didn’t even open his mouth.

Her expression changed instantly. She stared at him, her lips parting like she might say his name.

But no sound came out.

Because that was the answer.

The mere fact that he didn’t object -didn’t push, didn’t argue, didn’t even try- was worse than anything he could have said.

And Hermione noticed, for the first time since the older witch had walked in that very first day, Andromeda looked genuinely afraid.

---

The door closed softly behind Andromeda as she excused herself from the room not minutes later, uttering careless nothings about needing to check Hermione's potion stock and help the medi-witches with the count.

She didn’t stop moving. She crossed straight to the fireplace, plucked the tin of Floo powder from the mantel, and tossed a pinch into the flames.

“Malfoy Estate – Loire Valley, France.”

They flared green.

She leaned in.

“Narcissa.”

A pause. Then the fire shimmered, and the blonde woman appeared; poised as ever, seated at the edge of a high-backed chair. Her pale hair was swept neatly over one shoulder, her robes an elegant ivory. A book rested open on her lap.

She raised her eyes and blinked. “Andromeda.”

Andromeda didn’t smile. “Have a moment?”

Narcissa gave a graceful nod, setting the book aside. “Of course.”

She stepped toward the hearth, kneeling down. The firelight softened the sharp angles of her face, casting warmth over features that rarely showed it.

“What’s happened?”

“Draco.” Andromeda said, without preamble.

Narcissa’s posture shifted. “Is he hurt?”

“No. But I’m worried.”

That earned a faint tilt of the head. “You’re always worried.”

“Not like this.”

Andromeda exhaled slowly. “He’s burning himself out, Cissy. He’s been giving too much in the sessions. Every day. More than he should. I constantly warn him, and he always objects. But this morning, after yesterday’s session... He didn’t even argue with me when I said he needed a break. Didn't even say a single word. Just went with it.”

Narcissa didn’t react right away. She simply smoothed her hands over the fabric of her robes, voice steady as ever. “He’s been like that since he was a boy. It’s always all or nothing with him. He's stubborn—"

“This is more than that.”

“I appreciate the concern, but you know as well as I do that he’s never paced himself. Not during the war. Not after. And especially not when it comes to someone he—” she paused delicately, “—cares for.”

Andromeda’s expression hardened. “Still, he’s so pale, Cissy. So pale. His core's flickering too. The diagnostic scan this morning showed depletion at the edges. And his natural replenishment is too slow. Almost nothing’s coming back.”

That finally drew a pause.

Narcissa’s mouth parted slightly. “He's never been one to heal slowly.”

Andromeda shook her head. “I know. I'm telling you, it’s not normal exhaustion. It’s not just magical overuse. Something’s draining him, Cissy. Actively. And I don’t think it’s the sessions. I’ve been monitoring the process for a long time, but this… this is new.”

A long silence stretched between them.

When Narcissa finally spoke, her voice was very quiet.

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

“No,” Andromeda said. “It doesn’t.”

Narcissa looked away for a moment - not in dismissal, but in calculation. Her eyes narrowed, but her voice stayed calm. “Are you suggesting… something internal?”

“I don’t know.” Andromeda hesitated. “But I’ve never seen this kind of burnout pattern. Not even after full possession. Full magical possession, Cissy.”

Narcissa didn’t blink. But the perpetual chill in her posture wavered - not gone, but loosened.

Andromeda added, gently now, “I’m only informing you because you know him better than anyone. Because you’ve seen him fraying and unraveling.”

Narcissa’s tone, when it came, was lighter but still sharp. “He does that. The unraveling. He did it for me. He did it for the cause. Now—”

She didn’t finish the sentence.

Andromeda did it for her. “Now he’s doing it for her."

Narcissa’s lips pressed together. “...Yes.”

Andromeda’s voice softened. “So what happens if he runs out?”