The isolation stretched on, endless and merciless. A month blurred into itself, each day bleeding into the next until time became meaningless. At first, Draco clung to his pride with the kind of stubbornness that had carried him through darker nights. He paced the narrow room with measured steps, muttering under his breath, forcing himself to believe he could endure the silence. If he stayed composed, if he kept his chin lifted, perhaps he could convince even the walls that he was untouchable.
But resolve was a fragile thing, and it shattered faster than he expected.
The silence became unbearable. It pressed against him like a weight, heavy and suffocating, creeping under his skin until he could feel it in his bones. Hours stretched like years. Even the sound of his own breathing began to feel like mockery. He filled the emptiness with words, shouting insults into the void, his voice ricocheting back at him with cruel clarity.
"Granger, you insufferable know-it-all!" he bellowed at the empty air, pacing in circles like a caged animal. "I hope you are enjoying this. Rotting in here is exactly what you wanted, isn't it? That smug little face of yours, pleased as can be."
Her name became his favorite curse. He conjured her image in his head just to hurl venom at it, spitting out every insult he could recall, every profanity that came to mind. He tore into her tenacity, her maddening brilliance, the way she had always found a way to look at him like she could see through his carefully built walls.
When she was no longer enough to carry his rage, he turned it on his mother. "Narcissa Malfoy," he sneered at the ceiling, his voice dripping with bitterness. "Lady of Ice and Grace. Where are you now? What good is all that scheming? You could not even keep me out of this prison. You played the part, you smiled at the right people, but when it mattered, you failed."
But it was himself he reserved the worst of it for.
His voice cracked as he muttered, "Stupid, bloody fool. You could have left. You could have walked away. But no, you clung to the sinking ship and called it loyalty. Coward." He pressed the heel of his palm into his forehead until it hurt, his breath ragged. "You ruined everything. You deserve this."
Eventually words failed him. He screamed nonsense into the still air, just to hear a sound that wasn't his own thoughts. He hurled his shoes against the walls, tore the sheets from the bed, pounded his fists into the stone until the skin split across his knuckles. He paced until his legs shook, until exhaustion dragged him to the floor. Anything, anything at all, to break the monotony.
And yet the worst of it, the part that gnawed at him most, was that he couldn't stop thinking of her.
Granger.
Her sharp eyes, her sharper tongue, the fire that lived in every word she spoke. He hated her with a depth that astonished him, hated her persistence, hated that she had the power to strip him bare with a single sentence. But her image followed him everywhere. She was in the silence with him, smirking at his suffering, daring him to unravel. He despised it, despised her, and still some part of him clung to the thought of her as though it were the only thing keeping him tethered to what remained of his sanity.
By the end of the month, he was a ruin of himself. His once pristine appearance had collapsed into unkempt hair, dark hollows beneath his eyes, a gauntness that stripped him of every ounce of elegance he had once taken pride in. His voice was rough from shouting, his fists raw and bruised from punishing the walls. He had been stripped down to the bone, left with nothing but the wreckage of the man he had been.
And yet, in the quietest moments, when the rage gave way to exhaustion, a thought lodged itself in the back of his mind.
Was this her plan? Granger's way of breaking him piece by piece until there was nothing left? Or, worse, was it her twisted version of salvation, dragging him through the fire in the hope that he might crawl out the other side changed?
The question haunted him, and he hated that he did not know the answer.
He had always been a man made of pride. Pride had been his birthright, his inheritance, the first armor wrapped around him as a boy. He had been told it was unshakable, that the name Malfoy would always protect him, that wealth and bloodline would stand as barriers against a world eager to bend others to its will. He had believed it for years, clung to it through battles and humiliations, even as the war chewed through every illusion. He had believed he could outlast anything if only he stood tall enough, sneered hard enough, held himself higher than the rest.
But here, alone in this cell stripped of every scrap of comfort, pride had become nothing but dust. It did not fill the hours, it did not silence the gnawing ache of loneliness, it did not lift the crushing weight pressing down on him. Pride had been the only thing he had clung to, and now it was useless, a hollow relic mocking him from within his own chest.
And so, for the first time in his life, he thought of surrendering it. He thought of kneeling.
The idea of begging, once a thought that would have sickened him, now gleamed in his mind like salvation. He saw himself falling to his knees before her, his head bowed, his hands shaking in supplication. He imagined her watching, standing over him, her eyes sharp as a blade, her mouth curved in disdain. He imagined what it would feel like to finally break, to spill out everything he had locked behind clenched teeth for years. He would tell her he was sorry. For the venom, for the insults, for the arrogance that had been nothing but a shield against the truth of what he was. He would tell her until the words dissolved into sobs, until they lost all meaning but none of their weight.
He paced his cell as if preparing for a ritual. His footsteps marked the rhythm of a prayer. What would she demand of him? Would she force him to kiss her feet, to prove he was nothing more than a man stripped bare of power? Would she demand oaths, binding him to her forever? Would she sit back and watch him crawl, force him to spill every filthy piece of himself at her feet until there was nothing left but a husk?
He would do it. He would do all of it.
The words came again and again, unbidden, shaping themselves into a mantra. I will do whatever you want, Granger. Whatever it takes. Just do not leave me here. Do not close the door again. Do not shut me out.
He whispered them under his breath as he walked the length of the room. He mouthed them as he pressed his forehead against the cold stone wall. He spoke them aloud when he collapsed into the chair and let his head fall into his hands. They became a rhythm, a chant, something to cling to when the silence pressed so heavily against him that he thought it might crush him.
There was still a voice, faint and bitter, that recoiled at the thought. A whisper that told him he was humiliating himself, that no Malfoy should kneel, that no Malfoy should grovel at the feet of anyone, least of all her. But that voice was weak now, barely more than an echo of the boy he had once been. A boy who thought pride mattered more than survival. That boy was gone, swallowed whole by the man who paced this cage with wild eyes and cracked knuckles.
Desperation ate through him like fire. He imagined her walking into the cell and finding him already on his knees, hands outstretched, his voice breaking as he begged her not to abandon him again. He imagined grabbing the hem of her robes, clinging to them like a drowning man to driftwood. He imagined pressing his forehead to the floor, offering himself to her judgment like a penitent before a priest. He thought of what it would feel like if she rejected him even then, if she turned her back on him while he was on the ground, stripped bare of dignity. The thought made him sick, but he still wanted it.
He wanted her to see him broken.
He wanted her to look down and know that he had given her everything.
The shame of the thought twisted his stomach, but it did not stop him. Shame had no power here. What use was pride, what use was dignity, when the silence was eating him alive? He would burn them all if it meant she would look at him again, if it meant she would speak to him with something other than disdain.
His chest ached with the weight of it. His breath came uneven, shallow, as he whispered the words once more, softer now, like a prayer meant for her ears alone. I will do whatever you want, Granger. I will give you everything. Just do not leave me here. Do not leave me alone.
He pressed his palms against his eyes until they burned, his teeth sinking into his lip. The walls loomed closer every day, and he had nothing left to fight them with.
This was not about power anymore. Not about control. It was survival. The single fragile thread that tethered him to the world beyond these walls was her, and he would crawl, beg, debase himself until there was nothing left if that was what it took to keep that thread from snapping.
And if she walked away again, he did not know if there would be anything left of him at all
••••
When she finally returned after forty-four unbearable days, the man who greeted her was unrecognizable. The Malfoy heir who had once sneered at her with venom and arrogance was gone. In his place was someone hollowed out, trembling, brought low. The sound of her footsteps in the corridor was enough to undo him. He collapsed to his knees before the door even opened, his body shaking, his face lifted toward the sound like a man starved for air.
As the door creaked wide and she stepped inside, her eyes swept over him with cool detachment. She looked perfectly composed, rested, and utterly indifferent to the sight of him kneeling on the floor like a penitent. If she felt any satisfaction, it was hidden behind the smooth mask of her expression.
"Hello, my angel," he rasped, his voice roughened by weeks of shouting into silence, the words breaking on his tongue. The sound carried both devotion and desperation, a prayer disguised as a greeting.
Her brow arched, her voice flat. "Am I?" The sharpness of her tone sliced straight through his fragile hope.
"You are," he insisted, clutching his hands together as though clasped in prayer. His body bent toward her, his face alight with pleading. "You are my salvation, my angel, my savior, the only light I have left, the only love I have ever—"
Her hand lifted, stopping him with a flick of her wrist. Her expression was one of bored disdain. "We are here to discuss begging, Malfoy, not to endure your attempt at poetic arse-licking."
The words struck him harder than any blow, and he flinched as though she had raised a hand to him. Still he did not rise. He dared not. Instead, he shuffled forward on his knees, the stone biting at his skin, his pale hands trembling as they hovered in the air between them. He wanted to reach for her, to clutch at her robes, but he held himself back, uncertain if he was worthy of even that small act.
"I'm serious, Granger," he said, his voice breaking on her name. "I'll do whatever you want. I'll crawl until my knees bleed, I'll grovel until I have no voice, I'll kiss the floor you walk on if it pleases you. Just do not leave me alone again."
She tilted her head, studying him the way one studies a strange specimen, detached and unfeeling. Her eyes narrowed, her lips curved with the faintest edge of a sneer. "You are pathetic." The words fell with deliberate cruelty, though her voice carried more amusement than hatred.
"I know," he whispered, his head lowering until his forehead nearly touched the floor. His shoulders hunched beneath the weight of her judgment. "I know I am. But I will be whatever you want me to be. If it takes stripping myself down to nothing, if it takes years, I will do it. Just… please. Let me earn your mercy."
Her arms crossed over her chest, and she released a long, exasperated sigh, as though this display were nothing more than tedious. "You expect me to believe this sudden change of heart?" she asked. "After years of sneers, lies, and that inflated ego of yours, you expect me to take your word for it?"
He forced himself to look up. His grey eyes were glassy, rimmed with red, shimmering with unshed tears. "I will prove it," he said, every word trembling with conviction. "Whatever you ask. However long it takes. I will do anything."
For a moment she allowed the silence to stretch, letting him kneel there in the hollow of his shame. Her gaze cut into him with the precision of a blade, her finger tapping lightly against her arm as though she were weighing his fate like a judge deciding the punishment for a prisoner who had already been condemned.
"Anything?" she repeated at last, her lips curving into a smirk that was equal parts dangerous and alluring. "That is a bold claim, Malfoy. I have heard you make plenty of promises before."
"This isn't a promise," he said quickly, his voice hoarse with desperation. His throat burned with the effort of holding himself together, but his words tumbled out with brutal honesty. "This is a plea. I cannot do this anymore, Granger. I am not asking for forgiveness. I am asking for a chance."
Her brows lifted slightly, her expression unreadable. She tapped a finger against her chin, pretending to consider him, her eyes cool and unflinching. "A chance," she murmured, drawing out the word like a taunt. "And what would that be for? To redeem yourself? To prove that you are not the cowardly, self-absorbed, entitled boy the world already knows you to be?"
The words cut him to the quick, but he did not rise to defend himself. His jaw tightened, the muscles straining, and then he swallowed what little pride remained. His voice was low, almost a whisper. "Yes. That is exactly what I want."
Her heels clicked sharply against the cold stone floor as she closed the distance between them, her presence towering over his kneeling form. He tilted his head back to look at her, every ounce of his defiance stripped away.
"Beg," she commanded, her voice like steel, her eyes glinting with cruel amusement. "If you want this so badly, Malfoy, then beg like the pathetic little worm you are."
He did not hesitate. His knees shifted forward across the rough floor, his hands clasping together in a gesture of prayer that felt both foreign and necessary. His voice cracked, hoarse with weeks of screaming into silence. "Please, Granger. Please, let me prove myself to you. I will do whatever you ask. I will be whatever you need. Just do not leave me alone again."
She leaned down, close enough that he could feel her breath ghost against his face, her eyes searching his with a detached curiosity. For the briefest of moments there was something there—something that might have been pity, or the faintest flicker of intrigue—but it vanished almost instantly, smothered beneath her cold control.
"You are disgusting when you are desperate," she said softly, her mouth twisting into a smirk as she straightened. "But I will admit, it is entertaining to watch."
His lips pressed together, no retort left in him. Shame and hope fought within his chest, battling for dominance. He stayed bowed before her, trembling, waiting for the sentence she would hand down.
"Very well," she said at last, her tone dripping with condescension. "You want a chance? You will have it. But do not delude yourself into thinking that I will make this easy for you."
Relief broke across his face like sunlight through storm clouds. His head bowed lower still, his voice catching as he whispered, "Thank you. Thank you."
"Do not thank me yet," she replied, turning on her heel with regal finality. She walked toward the door, her robes sweeping across the stone, and paused in the doorway. Her gaze slid back to him, cold and calculating, a promise of cruelty in her eyes. "By the time I am done with you, Malfoy, you will wish I had left you to rot."
The door shut with a sharp echo, leaving him alone once more in the suffocating room. But this time the silence did not press quite so heavily. For the first time in weeks, he did not feel consumed by despair. He had been given a chance—a narrow, brutal chance, one that might destroy him before it saved him.
And still, it was enough to keep him alive.
••••
The next day, when she returned to his makeshift cell, he heard her long before she appeared. The faint click of her heels against the stone floor echoed through the corridor, steady and precise, and to him it sounded like the toll of salvation. He sat bolt upright on the narrow bed, every muscle taut, his eyes fixed on the door as if sheer will could make it open faster.
When it finally swung wide, she entered with her usual composure, a folder of papers tucked neatly under her arm. His gaze snapped to it instantly, hunger flashing across his gaunt face, his sharp ears straining to catch the rustle of parchment.
She crossed the room with measured steps, the authority in her bearing as unshakable as ever, and placed the folder on the table at the center. The silence stretched out deliberately, filled only by the faint scrape of her hand leaving the papers behind. At last she looked up at him, one brow raised in cool assessment.
"Malfoy," she said, her voice clipped and professional, "these are your keys to freedom."
The words hit him like a physical blow. His shoulders sagged with sudden relief, his body nearly folding under the weight of it. He stumbled forward a step, his knees threatening to give way. His throat worked soundlessly before he managed to croak out, "Thank you." His voice cracked on the syllables, and then, with a fervor that bordered on prayer, "Thank you, my angel."
She froze, her eyes narrowing, her entire frame stiffening at the word. The glare she fixed on him was cold enough to strip him bare. "I am not your angel, Malfoy," she said, her tone sharp as a blade cutting through flesh. "Do not mistake this for charity."
His relief faltered into panic. He nodded quickly, words tumbling over themselves in his haste to correct. "Of course. I didn't mean—" He caught himself, swallowed hard, forced the slip back down. His voice dropped, tight with urgency. "What are the conditions?"
She tapped the folder lightly with one finger, her mouth curving into a humorless smile that held no warmth at all. "The conditions are written inside," she said evenly. "But since I do not trust you to read without twisting every line to your benefit, I will spell them out for you."
His breath hitched, chest rising and falling too quickly, his hands curling into fists at his sides. He nodded again, frantic, desperate. "Yes. Yes, of course. I'll do anything," he said, his voice trembling with a plea he could not quite contain.
She opened the folder with deliberate precision, pulling out the first neatly typed document. Her movements were unhurried, almost ceremonial, as if she enjoyed the anticipation stretching him taut. When she finally spoke, her tone was all business, flat and practiced, as though she were reciting the items of a shopping list rather than dictating the fate of a man on his knees.
"First," she began, her gaze steady and unflinching, "you will be placed under house arrest for six months. During this period, you are not permitted to leave the property under any circumstances. Your movements will be monitored by magical means."
His lips parted as if to protest, but no sound emerged. The words lodged in his throat, strangled by the raw urgency to agree to anything she demanded. He only nodded, stiff and small, his once imposing presence reduced to something meek, his body taut with the effort of submission.
"Second," she continued, her tone clipped, "I will be required to visit you every day to check on your well-being. This is non-negotiable. And before you ask, no, you cannot request a different liaison."
A flicker of something passed across his face. His brows drew together, confusion warring with resignation. The thought of her in his house every day pressed against him with unbearable intensity. It was salvation and torment tangled together, a lifeline that could choke him as easily as it could sustain him. He swallowed hard and gave a short nod.
"Third," she said, her voice sharpening, "you will undergo a full examination of your memories. A licensed Legilimens has been appointed to verify your claims and ensure nothing has been omitted. Nothing."
His stomach twisted violently, bile rising in his throat at the thought of someone tearing through his mind. His instinct was to argue, to snarl and spit at the violation, but he forced it down. He managed another nod, though his voice was barely more than a rasp. "Yes. I understand."
She lowered the parchment slightly, her head tilting as she studied him like an animal in a cage. Her eyes gleamed with something close to disdain. "Do you?" she asked softly, her tone as cold as the stone around them. "Do you really understand what this means, Malfoy? This isn't a pardon. This isn't a gift. This is a trial, and every step you take will be judged. Every word you speak will be measured. If you falter even once, they will throw you back into this cell, and next time there will be no conditions for your release. No appeals. No visits. Nothing."
He felt his throat tighten, his breath catching on her words. The image of endless silence, the weight of isolation pressing on him again, sent his body into a tremor he could not hide. "I'll do it," he said quickly, desperately, his voice cracking. "Whatever it takes. I'll follow every rule, Granger. I swear it."
She gave a short, mirthless laugh, shaking her head as if he were a child who still had not learned. "Don't swear to me, Malfoy. Swear to yourself. I'm not the one you need to impress. I don't care if you grovel, I don't care if you break yourself in half trying. This is your life. You either hold it together or you let it rot. That choice is yours alone."
His mouth opened, a protest or a plea trembling at the edge of his lips, but she silenced him with a raised hand. Her authority cut him down before he could form the words.
"Sign the papers," she said flatly, sliding the documents across the table with a sharp flick of her fingers. "Your wand will be confiscated for the duration of the house arrest. All visits will be monitored. Every rule you break will be recorded. This is not a negotiation."
The parchment lay between them like a verdict, heavy and final. His eyes lingered on the place where her hand had brushed the page, and then shifted to the waiting line for his signature. His chest heaved, his pulse a frantic drumbeat in his ears. He knew he was signing away the last remnants of his freedom, yet he also knew there was no other choice.
With trembling fingers, he reached for the quill.
He took the quill she offered, his fingers trembling so violently that he could hardly keep the point steady above the parchment. The dotted line blurred before his eyes, his pulse hammering in his ears, but he forced himself to focus. For a moment he hesitated, the last vestige of his pride rearing up in protest. Then, with a sharp inhale, he pressed the quill down and scrawled his name across the line. The signature came out shaky, uneven, a pale shadow of the once-confident flourish he had been taught as a child.
The ink glowed faintly, the letters shimmering before sinking into the parchment. A low hum of magic rippled through the room as the contract sealed itself, binding him with its weight.
"It's done," he murmured, his voice thick with a blend of resignation and fragile relief. His shoulders sagged, as though the act of signing had taken more out of him than all the shouting, all the weeks of isolation.
She gathered the papers with cool efficiency, sliding them back into the folder without a flicker of emotion. Her face remained unreadable, her composure as sharp as ever. "You will be escorted to your home tomorrow," she said briskly. "Enjoy your last night here. It may be the last time you experience true solitude."
She turned to leave, the click of her heels echoing against the stone floor, but his voice broke the air before the door could close.
"Granger."
The word slipped out softer than he intended, raw enough to halt her mid-step. She paused in the doorway and glanced back at him, her brow faintly arched in silent question.
"Thank you," he said, the words trembling with sincerity. His throat felt tight, and for a moment he thought he might choke on them. "For this. For everything."
For the briefest instant, something flickered across her face—something gentler, something he almost dared to believe was real. A softening of her eyes, a small shift in her mouth. But it was gone so quickly he could not be sure it had ever been there.
"Don't thank me yet, Malfoy," she replied coolly. Her tone was sharp enough to strip him back down to the bone. "You haven't earned it."
With that, she turned on her heel and strode out, her figure vanishing into the corridor. The door shut behind her with a heavy thud, leaving him in silence once more.
And yet this silence felt different. For the first time in weeks, it did not suffocate him. Something stirred deep within, fragile and flickering. It was not hope, not yet. Hope was too bright, too clean for a man like him. But it was something close. A glimmer, faint as a candle in the dark, and it was enough.
Enough to keep him upright. Enough to carry him through the night.
For now.
•••
His last night in the cold, sterile confines of the cell was a tangle of emotions he could hardly name. Unease clung to him, sharp as the stone walls, as he paced the narrow space that had caged him for so long. It was strange, knowing the door that had sealed him off from the world for forty-four endless days would open in the morning. Not to freedom—not truly—but to something that mimicked it closely enough to sting.
He walked the length of the room again and again, his footsteps echoing in the silence like a second heartbeat. The sound seemed louder tonight, more insistent, as though the cell itself wanted to remind him that it would still be here after he left, waiting to take him back should he falter. His mind whirled with questions that had no answers.
Anxiety clawed at his chest, tearing jagged paths through him. What awaited him outside this place? Would the so-called house arrest be a reprieve, or would it prove to be another, subtler form of punishment? A gilded cage, perhaps, lined with reminders of what he had lost. His own home transformed into a prison where every step, every breath, would be measured.
And then there was Granger.
The thought of her made his stomach twist in knots. She had called herself nothing but his overseer, her voice cold with disdain as she reminded him she was not his angel, not his savior. Yet she was the one who had opened the door, the one who had laid out his conditions, the one who would stand in his house every day to ensure he did not slip. Was she his salvation or his executioner? Did she intend to berate him until he broke entirely, to strip him piece by piece of every fragile defense he still possessed? Or—worse still—would she pity him? Would she look at him with compassion, offer him help he could not accept without feeling it twist like a knife in his chest?
That possibility was unbearable. He could withstand her scorn. He could even endure her hatred. But pity? Pity was more dangerous than any insult, because it demanded something of him he did not know how to give.
Yet beneath the anxiety, buried under the fear, something else flickered. It was faint, fragile, but it burned stubbornly against the dark. Hope. Not the kind that came with grand gestures or sweeping victories. Not the kind sung about in the aftermath of wars. This was smaller, more private, the kind that whispered to him in the dark. You will wake up somewhere else tomorrow.
It was enough to quicken his pulse, to make his pacing faster. The very thought of stepping beyond these walls, of breathing air that had not been filtered through Ministry wards, of seeing the grounds of his home even through a window, made him feel almost dizzy. He had not realized how much he craved the smallest taste of the outside world until the promise of it was placed before him.
At last he dropped onto the narrow cot, the thin mattress groaning beneath his weight. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his head sinking into his hands. The silence pressed in heavier than usual, as though the cell wanted to make certain he would not forget its voice. Every scrape of stone, every echo of his breath, seemed amplified, the stillness vibrating against his skin.
His thoughts refused to quiet. They replayed every word Granger had spoken during their last meeting. The conditions of his release repeated themselves in his head like a litany. Six months of confinement. Daily visits he could not refuse. And the worst of it all—the invasive examination of his memories. His throat tightened at the thought, dread coiling in his stomach like a snake. To have his mind laid bare, to be forced to open doors he had kept sealed even from himself, was almost more terrifying than the cell.
He pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes until the pressure made his vision spark. He told himself it was better than this. Better than the silence, better than the loneliness that had gnawed him hollow. But the truth was, he was not sure. Tomorrow would bring something new, something he could not control, and that was both a promise and a threat.
Could he survive it? Could he endure the scrutiny, the judgment, the daily intrusion into a life that no longer felt like his own? His pride, battered though it was, still smoldered in the hollow of his chest. Would he have any of it left after six months of Granger dissecting his every word, every gesture, every silence? Or would she strip him down entirely until there was nothing left but an obedient shadow of who he had been?
He lay back on the narrow cot, the thin mattress sagging beneath him, and stared up at the cracked stone ceiling. The jagged lines mocked him, silent witnesses to his undoing. Once he had walked these very halls as a free man, head held high, his family name a shield that had seemed unbreakable. He had been untouchable then, the heir to a dynasty, a young man taught to believe the world would always bend. And now? Now he was reduced to this. A prisoner in the Ministry's custody, begging scraps of freedom from the one person who had spent her youth fighting against everything he represented.
He closed his eyes, but rest would not come. Sleep was a luxury he had long since forgotten, and tonight his mind would not quiet. It spun restlessly, dragging him through the wreckage of his choices. He saw flashes of the war—moments he wished he could erase, faces he wished he could forget. He felt again the weight of every silence, every failure, every time he had chosen survival over courage.
And then she was there, as she always was. Granger. Her voice cut through the noise of his thoughts, sharp as steel, echoing in the dark. Don't thank me yet, Malfoy. You haven't earned it.
The words circled him like a noose, and yet they did not suffocate. They challenged. They demanded. They forced him to consider the possibility that he might prove her wrong, or perhaps prove her right in a way that left him broken but still standing. He did not know which outcome would come, but for the first time in weeks, he wanted to find out.
The hours crawled past with deliberate cruelty. He alternated between pacing the floor, his feet tracing the same worn path, and collapsing back onto the cot, staring into the ceiling until his vision blurred. The cold seeped into his bones, wrapping him in a chill that no blanket could ward off. By the time the first pale light of dawn crept through the barred window, his body was more drained than when the night had begun, yet his mind burned with restless energy.
He rose slowly, pushing back the weight of exhaustion, and crossed the room to stand by the door. The faint glow of morning painted the walls in muted grey, a reminder that time had not stopped, no matter how endless the days had felt. His chest rose and fell with uneven breaths, his heart pounding hard enough to make his hands tremble.
Whatever waited for him on the other side of that door, he would face it. He had no choice. And though it twisted something deep inside him to admit it, Granger had given him a lifeline. However begrudgingly, however cruelly, she had thrown him the single thread that might pull him from the abyss. Now it was his task to hold on to it, no matter how much it cut into his palms.
He stood waiting, ears straining for the sound of footsteps in the corridor. Fear and anticipation warred in his chest, each one leaving him breathless. Today the cell would open, its walls no longer his cage. Whether that was salvation or another curse, only time would tell.