She hadn't visited him for a week. Seven long, merciless days, each one dragging by with the same gnawing ache in his chest. He was an utter mess, and the worst part was that he knew it. He paced his apartment endlessly, his footsteps beating a steady, hollow rhythm across the floorboards. Every creak of the wood, every whistle of wind against the window, every faint sound of footsteps echoing in the hall made his heart jolt with wild hope, only to drop into that familiar pit of disappointment when it wasn't her.
What the fuck was wrong with him?
He raked his hands through his hair again, tugging until his scalp burned, until strands threatened to come loose. This wasn't him. He was Draco Malfoy. He had endured a war, carried the weight of a cursed name, survived expectations that would have crushed a lesser man. He wasn't supposed to crumble over the absence of a woman, and certainly not over Hermione bloody Granger. Yet here he was, pacing like a madman, obsessing like some adolescent fool whose heart had been touched for the first time. It was pathetic, humiliating even, but no amount of reason or pride seemed strong enough to wrench her from his mind.
He collapsed onto the edge of the couch, his body folding in on itself as his head dropped into his hands. His breathing came uneven, shallow and restless, and the silence pressed in around him, thicker than stone. He couldn't escape her. Even here, in his solitude, she was everywhere. In the memory of her voice, sharp and merciless. In the flicker of her eyes when they blazed with defiance. In the memory of her touch when she had pinned him, when she had turned his world inside out and left him gasping for air.
The sound that tore from his throat was half a groan, half a growl. He leaned back, his head falling against the cushions, and stared at the ceiling like it might hold an answer. But all it held was her. That single moment, seared into his memory so vividly it felt almost like it was happening again. Her lips so close that his skin still burned from the ghost of her breath. Her hand tight around his throat, not enough to break him but enough to remind him that she could. The disdain in her words, the absolute command in her presence. He loathed how much he had liked it, loathed the way it made his blood heat and his body betray him even now, long after she had vanished.
"Get a grip," he muttered, but his voice sounded hollow in the empty room, as though even his own reflection no longer believed him.
The grip was gone. She had stolen it, taken every ounce of composure and control he thought he owned. It was like she had lodged herself into his mind, rooted herself into his veins, refusing to leave no matter how many times he told himself she meant nothing. He wanted her back. He wanted to see her again, to feel that sting of her tongue and the cut of her gaze, to hear her voice break through the silence and turn his world chaotic again. He wanted to push her, to provoke her, to see if she would snap at him with the same fire she always did, and he wanted to know if he could ever make her lose control the way she made him lose his.
His fingers drummed restlessly against his thigh, his body unable to keep still while his thoughts spiraled. Should he write to her? The idea flashed and burned out just as quickly. She would laugh at him, fold his desperation into her palm and mock him for it. Track her down? The thought was darker, tempting in its recklessness. He imagined showing up at her door, imagined the look in her eyes when she opened it, imagined her fury, her insults, maybe even her hand on him again. But even he could see how far gone that was. That was too much, even for him.
"Desperate," he muttered, the word bitter as acid on his tongue. "That's what this is. I am fucking desperate."
It was the truth. He hated the sound of it, hated how it settled like lead in his gut, but it was undeniable. He was desperate for her, desperate to hear her laugh in that cruel way that made his chest tighten, desperate to see her lips curl around words that cut him to pieces, desperate to feel the sting of her touch even if it meant being undone all over again. He wanted to run his hands through her curls, bury his face in them and breathe her in until his lungs ached. He wanted to taste the defiance on her mouth, to feel the fury and the fire of it pressed against him, to know if it was as intoxicating as every sleepless night had convinced him it would be.
His body ached with it, his skin prickling at the thought of her, his blood hot with a hunger he could neither name nor kill. He pressed his palms to his eyes, forcing a shuddering breath from his chest, but even then, even in the darkness behind his lids, she was there. Smirking. Commanding. Unyielding.
He stood so abruptly that the couch groaned at the sudden loss of weight, his restless pacing beginning again, boots striking against the floor in sharp, unsteady rhythm. He ran both hands through his hair until it stuck up in a disheveled mess, but no amount of tugging or movement could shake the thoughts clawing at him. They clung to him like some cursed hex, a relentless grip around his mind, each one more maddening and invasive than the last.
"This isn't real," he said aloud, the words sounding hollow as they bounced off the empty walls. He dragged his hands down his face, his voice cracking with the strain. "She's Granger. Choking me once doesn't mean I'm… this. It doesn't mean I'm losing my mind."
But the second the words left his mouth, he knew they were nothing more than lies he wanted to believe. It wasn't just the physicality of that moment that had unravelled him, though that alone had left him raw and shaken. It was her. It was always her. The wit that sliced through his arrogance like it was nothing. The fire in her eyes every time she dared him to step further, to push harder, to see how far she would let him go. The stubborn righteousness that made her insufferable and yet made him want to kneel at her feet just to defy it. She was relentless, infuriating, untouchable, and he hated that he wanted her for it. She was everything he was not. She was righteous. She was good. She was the light that had every right to blind him. And it drove him absolutely mad.
He collapsed onto the couch again, the cushions sighing under his weight as he fell back, head tilting until he stared blankly up at the ceiling. His jaw clenched tight, his fists curling against the fabric at his sides, nails digging into his palms until the sting burned. He wanted the ache to ground him, to shake him free of her, but it only dug the truth deeper into his chest.
"I need to see her," he whispered, the confession ripped out of him before he could stop it, soft but heavy, like a secret he had been holding for far too long.
And there it was. The truth laid bare, impossible to deny now that he had given it voice. He needed her. Needed her more than he had ever wanted to admit. More than he could ever allow himself to admit to anyone else. The weight of the realization hit him hard, like a Bludger slamming into his gut, leaving him breathless and reeling in the silence of the room.
His eyes slipped shut, but even then there was no escape. She filled the darkness behind his lids, her face painted in cruel detail, her smirk pulling at his sanity, her eyes alight with that dangerous spark that always preceded his undoing. He could hear her voice as clearly as if she were in the room, sharp, unyielding, merciless. Every word cut through his defenses like a blade he couldn't block.
"Hermione," he breathed, the sound of her name leaving his lips sending an involuntary shiver down his spine. It was not a plea, but it was not strength either. It was something raw, something he did not have a name for.
His chest rose and fell in shallow bursts, every breath trembling with frustration and need. What in the name of Merlin's blackened soul was she doing to him?
•••
It was the eighth day, and he had nearly given up hope that she would return. The week had dragged by in a haze of restless pacing, sleepless nights, and long hours spent staring at the door until his eyes ached. He had paced his apartment like a caged animal, each lap across the floorboards feeding the gnawing frustration that clawed inside his chest. Other times, he would sit motionless for hours, willing the door to open, convincing himself that if he only stared long enough, she would appear. By the time the hearth finally roared to life with a burst of green flames, he had almost convinced himself that she would never come back.
He froze where he stood, his breath caught somewhere between relief and dread. And then she stepped through.
It was not the version of her he knew, the one who arrived with fire in her eyes and a sharp word already perched on her tongue. This Hermione looked broken. Her eyes were swollen and red, the delicate skin beneath them bruised with exhaustion, as though she had spent hours crying. Her hair, usually tamed by stubborn will if not by magic, hung limp around her face, and instead of her usual sharp, deliberate clothing, she wore wrinkled pajamas that clung loosely to her frame. She looked fragile in a way that unsettled him, stripped of the armor he had come to rely on, and the sight of her carved the breath out of his chest.
"Darling?" The word slipped from him softer than he intended, his voice laced with concern, as though the syllables themselves were a hand reaching for her.
Her gaze flickered to him, brief and unsteady, but there was no spark in her eyes, no teasing smirk to ground him. "I hope nothing happened to you while I was away," she murmured, her voice thick, trembling at the edges as if it could break apart at any moment.
The sound of it sent panic shooting through him. He closed the space between them in an instant, his heart pounding as though it might burst free from his ribs. "No, no, nothing happened, I am fine, I swear it," he rushed out, the words tumbling clumsily over each other. His breath came shallow, urgency rising sharp in his chest. "But are you? Did something happen to you? Did someone hurt you?" His voice dropped low, rough with the beginnings of fury. "Tell me who it was, Granger. Just tell me, and I will kill him. I swear to Merlin, I will put him in the ground."
"I'm fine, Malfoy," she said quickly, but the words lacked all conviction. They sounded empty, hollow, a paper shield against something she could not or would not name. She turned her face away, her sadness written in every line of her body.
He stopped directly in front of her now, so close that he could see the faint lines where dried tears had trailed down her cheeks. Slowly, as though he feared the wrong touch might break her further, he lifted his hands. His fingers brushed a loose strand of hair back from her face, tucking it gently behind her ear. His thumb moved to the edge of her chin, tilting it ever so slightly upward, yet she refused to meet his gaze, her eyes locked instead on some distant, invisible point behind him.
"Darling…" His voice cracked on the word, and the sound of it felt like a plea dragged from somewhere raw and unguarded inside him.
"I'm fine," she whispered again, but it was weaker this time, her voice trembling with the effort to hold itself steady. It sounded less like a reassurance and more like a desperate attempt to convince herself of something she no longer believed. "I just needed to check on you. That's all."
He swallowed hard, his throat burning as though every word he wanted to say had turned to ash before it reached the air. His chest ached with a heaviness he could not shake. "Love…" he managed, the endearment falling from his lips with more weight than he had ever meant to give it. "You don't look fine."
Her mouth trembled as though she wanted to argue, but the mask slipped. "I am fine," she said one last time, though the words cracked apart, thin and broken. Her shoulders sagged beneath the weight of them, her entire body seeming to fold inward, as though she no longer had the strength to carry the lie.
He could not stand to watch her crumble like that. He did the only thing his instincts allowed. He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her firmly against him. For a heartbeat he braced himself for resistance, for some sharp remark or a shove against his chest, but none came. Instead, she melted into him, her head pressing against his chest, her arms circling his waist with a fierce desperation that startled him. She clung to him as though letting go would shatter her completely, and he held her in return as if she were the most fragile, irreplaceable thing in the world.
His hand smoothed up and down her back, a steady rhythm meant to soothe, though it was just as much to anchor himself. He breathed her in, the faint scent of her hair mixing with the lingering smoke from the fire, and for the first time in eight endless days, he felt the tension in his chest loosen, just a little.
He bent his head until his lips brushed against her hair, whispering into the soft curls as though the words themselves could shield her. "It's okay. I've got you."
Her head stayed pressed against his chest, and for the first time in days, he felt as though the invisible noose around his lungs loosened. He tightened his hold on her, pulling her closer until there was no space left between them, as though if he held her tightly enough he could keep her from unraveling. She didn't flinch. She didn't push him away. Instead, she clung to him with a quiet desperation that made his heart twist, her arms wound so firmly around his waist that he could feel the faint tremor of her hands through the fabric of his shirt.
When he adjusted his grip and slid one arm beneath her knees, she didn't resist. She let him lift her as though she trusted him to carry her weight, her legs curling around his waist without thought. He set her carefully on the counter, the stone cool beneath her, but he refused to loosen his embrace. His arms stayed wrapped around her shoulders and waist, keeping her tethered to him, and when she didn't let go, he stepped between her legs and pressed himself against her like a man unwilling to surrender ground.
The intimacy of the moment struck him hard. She was not just Hermione Granger anymore, not the girl who had once scorned him in school, not the woman who still wielded words like weapons whenever she chose. She was fragile and fierce all at once, and in that moment she was his to protect. He felt the weight of it settle deep in his chest, heavy and unshakable.
His voice came softer now, barely more than a breath against her hair. "Stay with me tonight, darling. Please."
She said nothing, only buried herself deeper against him, her arms tightening around his neck. He let the silence stretch, holding her as though he could pour comfort into her body through his touch. When he finally pulled back just enough to see her face, his thumb brushed lightly over the soft curve of her cheek, tracing the faint streaks of salt where tears had once dried.
"I'm going to make you some chamomile tea," he told her gently, his voice low with determination. "You stay right here. Don't move."
She gave the faintest nod, her eyes still refusing to meet his, and it was enough to keep him moving. Reluctantly, he slipped away from her warmth and busied himself in the kitchen. Every second felt longer than the last, his worry twisting tighter as the silence behind him persisted. When the kettle finally whistled and the scent of steeping herbs filled the air, he poured carefully, almost ritualistically, as though the act itself could steady both of them.
When he returned, he carried the steaming mug as though it were precious. "It's hot," he murmured, holding it out so carefully his fingers shook. "Be careful, darling."
She took it from him with both hands, their fingers brushing, the fleeting touch sparking something in him he couldn't suppress. She sipped in silence, her gaze distant, her eyes clouded with something she refused to share. He leaned against the counter near her, watching her intently, his chest pulled tight as though iron bands had been fastened around it.
"Stay with me," he whispered again, softer now, almost prayerful.
Her hand trembled slightly as she set the cup aside. Her face remained unreadable, but her voice was steady when she finally spoke. "I can't."
"Why not?" The edge of desperation bled into his tone, sharper than he meant it to be. He pushed off the counter, stepping closer. "You don't have to go. Just stay, Hermione. Stay with me, just this once."
"I need to go." She slid down from the counter, her bare feet landing soundlessly on the wooden floor.
"You don't," he said quickly, stepping into her path before she could move farther. His eyes searched hers frantically. "Stay with me. I beg you, Hermione. Don't leave me like this."
She finally looked at him then, and the look in her eyes was enough to steal the words from his tongue. Pain lived there, and exhaustion, but also something he could not place, something that twisted like a blade in his chest. "I can't, Malfoy. I have things to do. There's an event that needs organizing."
"An event?" He could barely keep the disbelief from his voice. "You're walking out of here like this, in tears, to organize a bloody event?"
She did not answer. She only brushed past him, her shoulder grazing his as she moved toward the door. This time he did not reach for her. His body screamed at him to grab her, to stop her, to drag her back into his arms, but his limbs refused to move. He could only watch her walk away, her figure blurring through the swirl of green flames as the fireplace swallowed her whole.
The silence that followed was unbearable. It pressed down on him with suffocating weight, filling the space where she had just been. He slumped against the counter, his hands trembling as though they no longer knew what to hold. She was gone again, and the ache she left behind hollowed him out.
That woman, he thought bitterly as he clenched his fists tight enough for his nails to bite into his palms. That maddening, brilliant, perfect woman. She toyed with him, teased him, unmade him, and still he knew the truth that shamed him most of all.
He would let her do it again. And again. And again.
•••
He stood frozen in place, his body rigid as the green flames licked upward and swallowed her whole, leaving nothing but the fading hiss of magic and the sharp smell of smoke. The silence that followed was unbearable. It filled the room, thick and suffocating, pressing against his chest until he thought it might crush him. The hearth still glowed faintly, but without her, the flat felt cold, lifeless, and wrong.
His thoughts raced, clashing and colliding until they formed a storm inside his skull. An event to organize. That was what she had said. His jaw clenched so tightly that it ached as he replayed the words again and again, dissecting them, searching for meaning, for truth, for lies. What event? She had been crying. Her voice had cracked. Her body had sagged against him like she had carried the weight of the world on her back. And then she had left, abandoning him with nothing but that flimsy excuse.
The idea that it could be something dull, something bureaucratic, a harmless Ministry gala or a committee meeting or some pathetic Muggle-born charity dinner did not even register in his mind. No, his thoughts did not stretch toward logic or reason. They leapt straight into fire, into suspicion, into the darkest corners of his imagination.
A date. A wedding. An engagement.
The words slithered through his mind like curses. The image rose unbidden: Hermione walking into some glittering ballroom, her curls tamed, her lips painted, her eyes soft with warmth, her hand slipping into another man's. The sight of her sitting across a table from some polished, handsy wizard, smiling at something he said, maybe laughing, maybe leaning close. His chest constricted violently. It was unbearable.
Worse still was the vision of her in white, her shoulders bare beneath silk, her mouth shaping vows meant for someone else. The phantom image of her standing across from a nameless, faceless man, promising forever. He gripped the counter so hard that the edges dug into his palms until they burned, his knuckles blanched white.
"No," he hissed, his voice low and venomous, barely more than a growl torn from his throat. "No fucking way."
He did not care if his fears were irrational. He did not care if they made no sense. The mere suggestion that someone else could lay claim to her, that someone else might touch her, steal her laughter, or break through the fierce guard around her heart, set every nerve in his body aflame. His mind betrayed him with images he could not endure. A stranger kissing her lips. A stranger holding her close. A stranger watching her eyes light up in the way they sometimes did for him, even when she didn't want them to.
No one could have her.
She was his.
The thought echoed inside him like a vow carved into stone, unshakable and absolute. Hermione Granger did not belong to anyone, and certainly not to him, yet the notion of her with someone else hollowed him out and filled him with fury all at once. It clawed at his chest, dragging sharp lines down the inside of his ribs until he felt raw, until he felt desperate.
He began pacing the length of the room, his long strides restless, his boots striking the wooden floor in sharp, angry beats. His hands flexed at his sides, opening and clenching as though he needed to seize something, break something, destroy anything that dared to hold her away from him. His body was a cage of nerves, every muscle pulled taut with restless, violent energy.
What event could possibly be so important that she had to tear herself from his arms looking as though she had been broken in two? What could demand her attention so fiercely that she would rather step into the flames than stay here with him where she belonged?
And more importantly, who was it for?
Not a date. His chest heaved as he muttered the words to himself, trying to anchor his thoughts. It was not a date. It could not be. Yet the thought alone made his stomach churn, bile rising in the back of his throat. If she had plans with another man, if she was dressing herself up for someone else's eyes, Draco would—he didn't even know what he would do. Hex him into oblivion, perhaps. Or drag Hermione back here, force her to stay, lock her in this flat until she admitted she felt something for him, anything, even if it was only rage. He did not care. He just could not bear the thought of her leaving him for someone else.
Not a wedding. His breath hitched, shallow and uneven. He could hardly stomach the thought. No. Not that. Never that. If some half-wit wizard dared to try and marry Hermione Granger, they would have to go through him first, and Draco would make damn certain they regretted ever so much as glancing in her direction.
An engagement. The word made his teeth grind. His nails dug cruelly into his palms, carving crescents into skin. Could that be it? Had she accepted a proposal? No. No, it could not be. She had not mentioned anyone. There had been no signs, no hints, no slip of the tongue that suggested her heart belonged to someone else. She would have said something. Wouldn't she?
Yet the uncertainty gnawed at him, relentless and merciless.
A horrible realization struck him then. Maybe she had not mentioned anyone because she had no reason to. Maybe she believed he did not deserve to know.
"Fuck." The word tore from his throat as he slammed a fist onto the counter, the shock of pain shooting through his knuckles, grounding him for only a fleeting second before the storm inside him rose again. His breathing turned jagged, his heart pounding erratically against his ribs as though it might break free.
No one could have her. She was his.
The thought wrapped around him like a vice, tightening with every beat of his frantic heart. Draco gripped the edge of the counter, his palms pressed so hard against the wood that his fingers trembled. He was not sure what terrified him more, the possibility that she was never his to begin with or the fact that deep in the marrow of his bones he wanted her to be. He wanted her in every way a man could want a woman. He wanted her fury and her fire, her brilliance and her damnable tendency to fix the world around her. He wanted her voice, sharp as a blade, cutting him open until there was nothing left to hide. He wanted all of it, and he wanted it to be his.
But she was not here. She was out there, somewhere he could not reach, organizing something for someone he did not know. And he was left behind, pacing like a lunatic in his own home, spiraling into a pit of desperation he had never known before.
The thought of her slipping through his fingers made his chest ache with a pain so sharp it nearly doubled him over. His temples throbbed, his head pounded with a steady rhythm that matched the frantic beat of his heart. Draco Malfoy did not beg, had never begged, but if it meant keeping her by his side, he would. He would fall to his knees before her and swear anything she wanted him to swear. He would tell her every truth he had never dared to speak, just to see her stay.
No one could have her. She was his. And one way or another, he would make certain she stayed that way.
His mind would not release the words she had left him with. An event. That was all she had said. An event. And in the vacuum of her absence, his imagination dragged him through one hellish possibility after another, each one darker, each one more consuming than the last. His pacing grew more erratic, his thoughts more unhinged, until the possibilities blurred together into a frenzy.
Charity Gala?
It could be something as simple as one of her insufferable, bleeding-heart causes. A fundraiser for elf rights, or a Muggle-born education program, or some other tedious affair that she poured herself into. Normally he would sneer at the idea and call it a waste of time, but now? Now he saw it in his mind's eye, clear as day. Hermione standing beneath enchanted lights, radiant and untouchable, her curls catching the glow as she spoke with the kind of passion that always made her too bright for the room. And below her, rows of eager men leaning forward in their seats, their eyes fixed on her, their smiles too wide, their thoughts too base.
Draco scowled at the image. He could see them now, those smug Ministry officials in pressed robes, hanging on her every word, pretending they gave a damn about her cause when all they wanted was her attention. He imagined them crowding around her after the speeches ended, hands reaching for her elbow, her wrist, her back, compliments dripping from their mouths as they tripped over themselves to impress her. And Hermione, being Hermione, would smile politely, would thank them graciously, would never see the way it ripped him apart.
Work Conference?
She could be at the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, preparing some tedious conference that she insisted was vital. That would make sense, logical sense. But his mind twisted the image until it was unbearable. What if it was not just a conference? What if it was a closed-door meeting, hours upon hours in some quiet room, just her and another wizard? What if it was one of her colleagues, someone with just enough charm to think they had a chance with her?
His fists clenched tight enough that his nails bit into his palms. His thoughts snagged on Harry Potter, as they always did, infuriatingly loyal and infuriatingly present in her life. What if she spent the evening with Potter, laughing at his jokes, leaning close to whisper some clever retort? What if their shoulders brushed as they worked, what if their hands touched over a piece of parchment, what if—
The thought made Draco's vision blur with rage. Would she let another man's hand linger against her wrist, against her waist? Would she smile for him the way she had smiled for Draco once, a smile that felt like it had been carved into his chest and left there to bleed?
The images gnawed at him until his body shook with the need to tear something apart. He could not stop the torrent. He could not stop the images of her laughter, her softness, her brilliance being squandered on someone who was not him.
A Birthday Celebration?
His lip curled at the thought. The idea of her pouring herself into something as trivial as a party for some undeserving bastard made his blood heat. He pictured it in cruel detail, because his mind would not let him rest until it had torn him apart. She would spend hours planning, thinking of what cake this prick liked, what wine he preferred, what ridiculous music would make him grin. He could see her flitting about, curls slipping loose as she hung banners or charmed the room to glow, her eyes sparkling with that determined light she always carried when she was intent on doing something perfectly.
And all of it would be for him. For someone else. For a man who was not Draco Malfoy.
The image twisted like a knife. He could almost hear the chorus of voices crying out in surprise as the lights flared, could almost see Hermione stepping out with that proud little smile she wore when she had pulled something off flawlessly. The room would roar with laughter and clapping, but his eyes, in that imagined vision, would only be on her. And then this nameless, faceless idiot would step forward, grinning like he had won the fucking lottery, and thank her. Not with words, not with a bow of the head, but with a hug.
A hug that lingered.
Draco's lip curled further, his fists clenching so tightly that his knuckles burned white. Who the fuck gets a hug from Granger? She did not give herself away like that. Her touch was not casual, not meaningless. If she gave someone a hug, she meant it, and that thought—that some unworthy prick could hold her, could feel her warmth pressed against him—made Draco's vision go red.
By the time he stopped pacing, his chest was heaving, his heart racing so violently it felt like it might tear free from his ribcage. His hands shook with frustration, his skin prickling with an itch he could not scratch, and he dragged them through his hair, tugging at the strands until his scalp burned. Anything to drown out the madness building in his mind.
"Merlin, I am losing it," he muttered to the empty room, his voice cracked and hoarse. But even as he said it, even as he tried to breathe through the chaos clawing at him, he knew the truth. He was not losing it. He was already gone.
No matter what this event was, no matter who it was for, he would find out. And if it involved some idiot trying to take her from him, he would not sit idly by. He would end it. He would make sure they regretted ever standing near her, let alone touching her.
Because no one, absolutely no one, could have her.
•••
Draco stared at her as if she were a ghost, standing in his doorway in that long black dress. The fabric pooled around her ankles and clung to her frame in unsettling ways, loose where it should have been fitted, slipping as though it did not belong to her body at all. But it wasn't the dress that held him in place like a curse. It was her eyes, or rather, the absence within them. They looked hollow, drained of the fire that usually burned behind them. Her shoulders sagged under the weight of something invisible, something suffocating, as if she were carrying grief so heavy it had carved her hollow from the inside out.
He had imagined this moment a hundred different ways during the days she was gone, but none of those fantasies had prepared him for this. She looked like a shell of herself, like someone who had been cracked open and left empty, clinging to nothing but duty and the thin thread of routine. It terrified him more than any curse ever could.
Her voice broke the silence, calm in a way that was not human calm but something brittle and forced, like porcelain ready to shatter. "Tomorrow, a doctor will come over to check on you. Just a routine check for your well-being."
She did not even glance at him as she said it, her eyes fixed somewhere beyond the room, focused on something invisible that he could not see, or perhaps on nothing at all. The words themselves barely registered. What caught him, what twisted inside his chest like a blade, was the sight of her in that black dress.
That damned black dress.
It hung on her body like mourning, whispering truths he did not want to face. The threads in his mind pulled together, each loose piece of silence she had left him in the past week suddenly forming something sharper, something unbearable. His heart lurched violently against his ribs, and the question left him before he could think better of it.
"Who was it?" His voice was quiet, so quiet it barely reached the space between them, but the weight of it filled the air all the same.
Hermione did not answer. She remained still, rigid as stone, her eyes locked on the far wall as if she could will herself into disappearing, her body carrying the kind of tension that came not from fear but from exhaustion too deep to express. Her silence confirmed more than words could, and it crushed him.
"Please, my love…" The plea spilled from him unbidden, raw and unguarded, so unlike him that he almost did not recognize the sound of his own voice. His throat tightened as he stepped toward her, his hands twitching uselessly at his sides, aching to touch her, to anchor her, to do anything that would pull her back from this abyss. "Let me make things better for you."
The words hung between them, heavy and trembling. She did not react. She did not blink. She did not even twitch at the sound of him calling her his love. For a horrifying moment, Draco wondered if she even registered that he was there at all, or if she had retreated somewhere he could never follow.
Finally, she spoke again. Her voice was flat, stripped bare of warmth or feeling, a hollow echo of the woman he knew. "The doctor comes at ten. Get yourself together and clean up this place before then."
Her tone was final. Cold. A dismissal wrapped in formality.
Draco felt his chest cave in around the words. They reverberated through the room like the tolling of a bell, each syllable sinking into him with the weight of inevitability. He wanted to scream, to shake her, to demand she look at him, see him, give him anything, even fury. Instead, he stood in the silence she left behind, drowning in it, unable to breathe as she turned from him and disappeared deeper into the flat, leaving him with nothing but her emptiness.
He clenched his jaw, the grind of his teeth so sharp it echoed in his head, each movement sending a shudder through the tightness that had already taken root in his chest. It felt like iron bands were wrapping around his ribs, pressing tighter and tighter with every beat of his heart, threatening to crush him from the inside out. The indifference in her voice, the way her words landed with no softness, no familiarity, no trace of the warmth she used to carry, felt like an open wound. He could almost feel the edges of it tearing deeper, raw and unforgiving.
"Hermione." Her name slipped out before he had even made the decision to say it. It fell from his lips on a whisper laced with desperation, trembling with all the words he could not shape into sound. The plea was not just for her attention. It was for a crack in her armor, for anything that would remind him she was still the same woman he had been clinging to only days ago. The sound of her name echoed in the room, heavy with things unsaid, and the weight of it nearly brought him to his knees.
She stilled. For a moment, she froze as though the use of her full name had pierced through the fog she had been shrouded in. His tone was not mocking or detached, not the drawl he used to wield like a shield. It was something else entirely. Bare. Honest. It carried the weight of a man stripped down to his most vulnerable state. Her eyes flickered, betraying just a sliver of surprise, before she turned to face him.
"Yes?" Her voice cut cleanly through the silence, clipped and precise, but it carried none of her usual fire. It was polite, distant, transactional, as though she were speaking to a stranger. That, more than anything, gutted him. He wanted the sharpness, the bite, even the fury that so often laced her words. He would have taken anything that proved she still cared enough to feel. But this coldness, this emptiness, was unbearable.
His throat worked around the words, and when they finally escaped, they sounded jagged, like broken glass tearing on the way out. "Who passed away?"
He did not know if he wanted the truth or if he feared it. His heart lurched violently at the possibility of what her answer might be, but the silence between them was worse. He needed to know, even if it destroyed him.
The pause that followed stretched until it felt like a noose tightening around his neck. She did not speak at first, and he thought for a terrible second that she would refuse to tell him. But then, slowly, her lips parted. Just slightly, as if prying the words loose was costing her something she could not afford to give.
Her eyes met his, and he saw it then, all of it. The grief. The devastation. The sheer rawness of someone whose world had been ripped apart in ways she had no power to prevent. For a breath, her mask cracked. The careful wall she had spent her whole life fortifying faltered, and he glimpsed the broken woman behind it. Then, just as quickly, the wall was back in place, stronger than ever, as though she had never faltered at all.
"My parents. Car accident. In Australia."
The words were blunt, stripped of any emotion, but they carried a weight that pressed on his chest until it felt like he could not breathe. His own breath caught painfully, like he had been struck. His mind reeled, not only from the information itself but from the fact that she had spoken it aloud, that she had entrusted him with this piece of her truth, however reluctantly.
He understood loss. He understood the way grief lingered, how it haunted every shadow and turned silence into a suffocating thing. He had lost his own parents in different ways, their legacy rotting around him, leaving him to carry the pieces of a shattered name. But this was different. This was Hermione. Hermione, who had always been unshakable, who had carried everyone else on her shoulders, who had seemed unyielding even when the rest of them had faltered. To see her broken, to hear her speak those words in a voice that sounded like it had already drowned in sorrow, cut him deeper than anything else ever could.
His hands twitched at his sides, useless and restless. He wanted to touch her, to take her pain and lock it inside himself, to carry it so she would not have to. But she stood in front of him, unreachable, as if she had built an invisible barrier he dared not cross.
And now here she was, standing in front of him with her world shattered, fragile in a way he had never dared to imagine. She looked breakable, her strength stripped bare, and the sight of it hollowed him out. Hermione Granger, who had fought battles no one else could have survived, who had outsmarted and outlasted and carried entire wars on her shoulders, was suddenly someone who could not be mended. She was vulnerable in a way that frightened him, because he had no weapon sharp enough, no spell powerful enough, no words strong enough to piece her back together.
"Merlin, I am so sorry," he whispered, the words slipping out like smoke. They sounded pitiful to his own ears, far too small for the enormity of her grief, for the weight pressing down on her chest. He wanted to say more, to pour something real into the silence between them, but his throat closed up before he could force it.
Her gaze sharpened with startling speed, the softness gone in a heartbeat. The wall was back, rebuilt with brutal precision, her armor locking into place so fast it made him ache to watch. "You are not permitted to make bitchy comments about my parents for at least a year."
The sting of her words caught him off guard. He blinked, his mouth parting in disbelief, as though he had misheard her. Of all the things she could have said, that was the last he expected. "No," he stammered, shaking his head, his voice cracking with disbelief. "No, I would never—" The rest caught in his throat, unfinished, the sentence unraveling before he could mend it. How could she think him capable of that cruelty?
Something in her expression shifted, softening by a fraction, though the coldness in her tone did not falter. "Be on your best behavior tomorrow, please."
The dismissal struck him harder than any hex. He wanted to rage, to protest, to make her see that he was not the enemy here, that all he wanted was to carry even the smallest fragment of her pain. But he couldn't summon anger. Not now. Not when she stood in front of him hollowed out by grief. Her words hurt, but they came from a place he could not touch, a place raw and untouchable.
Still, the ache in his chest was unbearable, a crushing weight that only grew heavier the further she pulled away. He took one step closer, as though the sheer distance between them was choking him. His voice came out hoarse, strained, almost pleading. "Are you even paying attention to me?"
Her answer was immediate, unflinching, and devastating. Her eyes flicked to him only for the briefest moment before sliding away again, detached and unwavering. "Absolutely not."
The words sliced clean through him, final and merciless, as though she had slammed a door shut in his face. He stood rooted to the spot, staring at her as the sound echoed in his mind. It was worse than being hated. Hatred meant passion, meant emotion, meant she cared enough to burn. This indifference was something else entirely, something colder, something that turned his insides to ash.
He could only watch as she turned away, the hem of her long black dress trailing behind her like a shadow that stretched endlessly into the dark. The fabric whispered against the floor with each step, a sound that might as well have been the tolling of a bell. She looked like a figure carved out of mourning itself, moving through the space as though he no longer existed.
It felt as if the walls of the room were collapsing inward, the air growing thinner, the world narrowing to nothing but the growing gulf between them. His fists clenched at his sides, the muscles in his arms trembling with the desperate urge to reach for her, to stop her, to seize her shoulders and force her to face him, to let him in. Every fiber of his body screamed at him to act, but he couldn't.
She didn't stop. She didn't glance back. The barrier she had drawn between them was impenetrable, and he could not break it.
He remained there, frozen, the silence pressing down on him like a weight he could not bear. She was slipping through his fingers, and for the first time in years, he felt powerless to stop it.
She was shutting him out. He could feel it in every glance she avoided, in the way her voice carried no warmth, in the way her shoulders stiffened whenever he tried to step closer. It was a deliberate refusal, a rejection so quiet yet so absolute that it made his chest burn. She would not let him be the one to hold her together. She would not let him be the one she turned to in her grief. And that knowledge cut deeper than any blade ever could.
This wasn't only about the loss she had suffered, though that grief hung heavy in the air between them. It was about the truth that twisted inside his chest like a knife. She didn't need him. Not now, and perhaps not ever. She was carrying her grief alone, and he was left with nothing but the hollow ache of watching her slip further from his reach.
The realization hollowed him out. He had spent so long imagining that, when her walls cracked, he might be the one she allowed in. That when the world became too heavy, she would look at him and find something to lean on. But she had built her fortress too high, and even now, when her world was breaking, she would rather face the storm alone than let him step inside.
He wanted to fight it. Every instinct inside him screamed to break those walls apart with his bare hands, to force her to see him, to make her understand that she did not have to carry this alone. But he knew. He knew forcing her would only push her further away. He could not demand her trust, not when she wasn't ready to give it. And so he stood there, locked in the cruelest kind of stillness, with his hands useless at his sides and his heart pounding in his throat.
The room felt unbearably quiet without her voice, without her presence to fill it. The silence stretched so heavy it pressed against his ribs, made the air sharp in his lungs. He had never felt so alone. Not even in the darkest nights after the war, not even when he had wandered through the ruins of Malfoy Manor with ghosts for company. This was worse. This was her shutting him out. This was her refusing him.
His chest ached with it, his heart twisted so painfully it felt as though it might split in two. He could not stop the thought that no matter what he did, no matter how hard he tried, he might never be the one to make her whole again. And the truth of it terrified him. Because if he could not be that person for her, then what was left for him?
Yet even as the weight of it bore down on him, he knew one thing with absolute certainty. He did not know how to walk away. He could not. Not now, not tomorrow, not ever. The idea of leaving her to fight her battles alone, of turning his back on her pain, was unthinkable. Even if she never let him in, even if she never looked at him with anything but cold detachment, he would remain. He would stay at her side like a shadow, like something fixed and immovable, waiting for the day she might turn her head and finally see him standing there.
Because leaving her was not an option. Not when every breath he took was already bound to her.
•••
Hermione arrived the next day, a little more color in her cheeks and some of her usual sharpness back in her expression. Draco had been pacing by the window like a restless ghost, his nerves frayed from hours of waiting, hoping, rehearsing lines he would never manage to deliver properly. When the door finally opened and she stepped through, his heart lurched so violently he thought it might stop altogether. The mere sight of her, alive and upright and still undeniably herself, soothed something jagged inside him.
"D-darling, you look…" The word slipped out before he could catch it, his voice faltering under the weight of emotion he had no control over.
She cut him off with the precision of a curse. "Shut up, Malfoy." Her tone was sharp, her stride purposeful, her black curls bouncing against her shoulders as she brushed past him with the grace of a queen who had long since tired of her court. "I don't need your bickering today."
He froze for half a second, startled, then scrambled after her like a man who had been starved and suddenly spotted water in the desert. "No, no… I wasn't going to bicker," he insisted, tripping over his own words, desperate to keep her attention. "I would never."
She turned on her heel so fast he nearly collided with her. The look she gave him could have turned fire to ice. "How was your doctor's visit? Were you a good boy?"
The words landed with devastating force. A good boy. He felt them sink straight through skin and bone and into places he had buried for years. His throat went dry, his palms damp, his knees dangerously unsteady. He opened his mouth but nothing coherent came out.
"A good… a good boy…" he repeated stupidly, as though rolling the phrase around in his mouth might change the way it hit him. His mind betrayed him instantly, unspooling flashes of memory he had worked his whole life to strangle. His mother's voice. His father's hand at the back of his neck. The desperate, hollow need to please, to be praised, to be enough. He could barely breathe.
"Yes," he croaked at last, his voice cracking with humiliating fragility. "Yes, I was."
Hermione gave him a brisk nod, as though marking a line of parchment with an average grade. "Brilliant. Is there anything else you need from me, or can I get on with my day?"
The dismissal sliced through him like a knife. He wanted to nod, to let her go, to play it safe and keep the mask in place. But the words that slipped out were raw, unfiltered, humiliating in their truth.
"Just you," he blurted.
She stopped dead. For the first time since she walked in, she actually looked at him, really looked, her head tilted slightly as if she hadn't heard him right. Her brows furrowed, confusion flickering across her face. "Sorry?"
"I just… I just need you." His voice trembled with an honesty that terrified him. He had not planned to confess, had not even admitted it to himself in full, but now it was out in the open, hanging heavy in the air between them.
Her eyes narrowed, suspicion sharpening her gaze. "Is something wrong with you? Are you having a mental breakdown? Do you feel faint? Are you dying? Merlin, you're dying, aren't you? I knew it. I knew something was off. I'm calling the healer back."
Before he could so much as move, she bolted toward the fireplace. Her wand was already raised, green sparks dancing in the air. He panicked.
"No! Granger, wait!" His voice cracked with desperation. He lunged forward, nearly tripping over the rug in his scramble to reach her. "I'm fine! I—"
But she was gone. Swallowed up in green fire, leaving nothing but the faint scent of ash and her absence.
"FUUCK!" The roar tore from his chest, ragged and furious. He threw his head back and pressed a shaking hand through his hair, gripping it so tightly it hurt. He spun in a circle, pacing, clawing at the air like he could undo what had just happened. This was a disaster. He was a disaster. Every attempt to be near her ended the same way, with him losing control, with his brain turning to mush and his mouth betraying him in ways that left him raw and exposed.
He pressed his palms against the mantel, head bowed, trying to steady his breath. Why couldn't he act normal around her? Why did the words always tumble out wrong, why did the truth always slip free when he least wanted it? He had never been good at being vulnerable, but with her it was worse, because every instinct screamed that if he let her see too much, she might decide he wasn't worth the trouble.
And yet here he was, craving her with every part of him, unraveling piece by piece under the weight of her indifference.
He slumped onto the sofa, burying his face in his hands. His palms pressed hard against his eyes until bright sparks danced in the dark, but nothing he did could quiet the ache in his chest. He was not good at this. He was not good at feelings, at honesty, at wanting something so fiercely that it shook him apart. He had built a life on distance, on armor, on indifference that kept the world from cutting too deeply. Now he was raw and bleeding, stripped of every defense, and it was her fault.
Granger. Brilliant, impossible, sharp-tongued Granger. The woman who had been a thorn in his side for years and who now lived in every thought he had, as if she had threaded herself through his very veins. She was everything he could never be and everything he wanted anyway. And he was utterly, helplessly, irreversibly in love with her. The realization was sickening. It made him restless, it made him furious, and it made him want to tear the walls down around him.
The worst part was not knowing if she saw it. If she noticed and simply ignored it, if she understood the way his chest caved in every time she walked into a room and still decided it meant nothing. That possibility was enough to make him groan aloud, the sound low and miserable, the kind of noise that embarrassed him even in an empty room.
He dropped back against the cushions, staring blankly at the ceiling. He needed a plan. He needed something to stop this descent into madness, because whatever he was doing now clearly was not working. He had to show her that he was not just the arrogant boy she had known at school. He had to show her that he could be steady, dependable, even loving. That he could be the kind of man she might allow into her world.
But how did one win Hermione Granger's heart?
He was not practiced in romance. The women he had seen since school had not required it. They had wanted the name, the fortune, the surface sheen of him. They had not wanted his heart. They had not wanted his soul. He had never learned what to do when someone asked for more than the performance he offered.
And Granger, damn her, wanted everything. Not because she demanded it outright, but because she would not accept anything less. She saw through the smirk, through the lazy arrogance, through the empty confidence he still tried to wield. She left him exposed, clumsy, humiliatingly honest. Every time he tried to keep his composure, his mouth betrayed him. He blurted things that belonged in the private thoughts of a man who had already lost, things like I just need you, with no warning, no explanation, no control.
He groaned again, dragging his hands down his face. He had to stop staring at her like she was the axis of his entire world. He had to stop letting the sight of her undo him so completely. He had to stop letting his tongue trip over itself when she spoke to him. He had to stop everything he was doing, because every misstep only confirmed what he already feared.
Maybe he could tone down the brooding. Maybe he could find a way to act as if she were not the sun itself every time she entered a room. Maybe he could at least try to look normal instead of following her like a shadow desperate for warmth.
Or maybe it was already too late. Maybe he was doomed, entirely and without escape, because no miracle could make him the man she truly deserved. And the most frightening thought of all was that he was not sure he wanted to be anyone else. Because even if it meant ruin, even if it meant heartbreak, he would rather stay this desperate, this furious, this undone, than give up the way she made him feel alive.
•••
The doctor concluded that he was in excellent physical health. Mentally, however, that was another matter entirely, though the healer politely chose not to comment. Draco almost wished they had. At least then it would not be left hanging in the room, unsaid but heavy, a silent accusation he could feel pressing on his skin.
When the door closed behind the healer, Hermione remained exactly where she was, her arms crossed, her eyes fixed on him with that unnerving precision she had perfected over the years. She did not have to speak for him to know what was coming. He had been through enough of her lectures at Hogwarts to recognize the warning signs. The crossed arms, the tight shoulders, the way her foot shifted impatiently against the floor.
"I am concerned about your mental state," she said at last, her voice clipped, professional, and utterly lacking in warmth. "You need to get ready for your next memory examination, and for that, I need you stable. A stable mindset is imperative, Malfoy. Without it, the entire process will be compromised."
He tilted his head back against the chair, trying to mask the rush of panic with an expression of carelessness. He even let out a lazy sigh, as though she were overreacting and he was doing her a kindness by listening. "I think I am okay," he drawled, though the words lacked conviction.
Her brow arched in an elegant curve, skepticism radiating from every inch of her. "Do not insult my intelligence," she replied, her voice flat but sharp enough to cut.
"I am not!" he protested quickly, throwing his hands up in the air, the picture of indignant innocence. "I am okay. Really. Perfectly fine."
The thin line of her mouth deepened, her eyes narrowing as she tapped her foot against the floor in a steady rhythm that grated on his nerves. "Right," she said coolly. "That is exactly why I am cutting you off from alcohol, starting now. You need clarity, not drunken brooding."
His head snapped up, his eyes flashing. "I do not even drink!" The words came out louder than he intended, indignant and edged with a kind of wounded pride.
Her laugh rang out, low and humorless, like a sharp blade scraping against stone. "Oh, do not lie to me," she said, each word weighted with disbelief. "You reek of Firewhisky most nights. You reek of it when you sulk around, when you pace this flat like a caged animal, when you sit there pretending you are fine."
His jaw tightened, the denial rising instinctively, but something in her eyes stopped him. She was looking at him as if she had already dissected him, already peeled back every layer, already seen the ugly truth beneath it all. It was infuriating. It was terrifying. And it was also intoxicating.
"Maybe I like the smell," he muttered weakly, but even to his own ears it sounded pathetic.
Hermione exhaled sharply through her nose, unimpressed, and shook her head. "You cannot joke your way out of this. I will not let you sabotage your own progress. If you want answers, if you want your memories back, then you have to do this properly."
"I only drink at night, okay?!" he snapped, his frustration spilling over like a dam finally giving way. "I'm lonely, Granger. Miserable. Do you have any idea what it's like to be trapped here with nothing but my own thoughts and the occasional pity visit from you? I need someone to talk to. Someone close to me. I need… Merlin, I need human connection!" He shot up from his chair, his voice trembling with a raw mix of anger and desperation. "I NEED A FUCKING HUG!"
She blinked at him, her face softening for the briefest moment before she quickly masked it with cool indifference. "Oh… I… okay," she said awkwardly, clearly caught off guard. "I suppose I appreciate the vulnerability. That's something, I guess."
Draco's shoulders sagged, a flicker of relief creeping in only to be undercut by the sting of her lackluster response. "So… can you… you know…" He gestured vaguely, hoping she would catch on without forcing him to say it outright.
Her face hardened again, her voice slicing through him with biting sarcasm. "I could find you company if that's what you're after. Someone warm, willing, and eager to give you all the attention you want. Would that suit you better?"
His jaw tightened as a pang of hurt cut straight through him. "I don't want another bloody hooker, Granger. I don't want to have sex with anyone."
"Then just wank," she replied dryly, rolling her eyes as though it were the simplest and most obvious solution in the world.
His frustration erupted like fire in his chest. "Granger, you are starting to irritate me. Stop treating this like a joke and listen for once. I am trying my hardest to open up to you, and you keep brushing it off as if it means nothing. Can't you see what I am asking for here?"
Her eyes narrowed into sharp slits. "We are not friends, Malfoy."
"Please," he whispered, his voice breaking with unfiltered desperation. "I am begging you."
Her lips curved into a wicked smirk, and her voice dropped into a mockingly sultry tone. "Oh? Supplie-moi," she purred, savoring each syllable.
He froze, staring at her with wide eyes, utterly dumbfounded. For a long moment, all he could do was gape at her, disbelief knotting in his chest.
Then something inside him shifted. His expression softened, and the raw vulnerability in his gaze cut through her sharp exterior like a blade finding the weakest point in armor. He drew in a shaky breath and, with a tremor threading through his voice, answered her in fluent French. "S'il te plaît, mon ange… Je t'en supplie. Tiens-moi. Juste une fois. Laisse-moi te sentir près de moi."
His voice cracked as the words left him, each one carrying the weight of a prayer, a plea, a confession of how completely she had taken hold of his heart. "Je ne veux rien d'autre que toi."
Her smirk faltered, her eyes widening almost imperceptibly. For once, she seemed caught off guard, as if her tongue had forgotten how to shape a reply. She opened her mouth, but no sound came. She was not used to this Malfoy, not used to seeing him stripped of arrogance or sharp wit. This was something far more dangerous, something raw and unbearably real, and it unsettled her more than his cruelty ever could.
"Please," he whispered again, softer this time, his voice breaking under the weight of the word. His eyes held hers with a desperate intensity that made her chest tighten in spite of herself.
For a moment, only a moment, the walls she had built so carefully seemed to crack. His vulnerability slipped through, piercing her defenses before she could stop it. But just as quickly, she rebuilt them, her features hardening into something cold and unyielding. She took a deliberate step back, putting distance between them, as if space alone could smother the fire in his words.
"Do not make this harder than it already is, Malfoy," she said, her tone clipped and merciless. "You will survive without a hug."
And with that, she turned sharply, leaving him rooted where he stood, crushed beneath the weight of everything he had confessed without meaning to, more hopelessly in love with her than he had ever been before.