What had her life become? Kissing filth? The very thought twisted in her stomach like poison.
Hermione stormed out of Malfoy's flat, her heels striking the pavement with sharp, angry clicks. Her fingers trembled as she pulled her coat tighter around herself, though the night was not cold enough to match the chill she needed. The air stung at her cheeks, sharp and biting, but it did nothing to cool the blaze of emotions raging beneath her skin. Her pulse thundered, her breath came too fast, and her lips still burned from the force of his mouth on hers.
Kissing Malfoy. The idea itself was enough to make her shudder. What sort of desperate, deranged lapse in judgment had that been? What fleeting madness had possessed her to let it happen, to want it?
As if.
She could almost hear her mother's voice as if it had been summoned by the shame pulsing through her veins. Hermione Jean Granger, what on earth were you thinking? Kissing that Death Eater trash? Do you have no sense of self-respect left? The words were not real, but they rang through her as though her mother had stepped out of the grave to deliver the scolding herself.
Her mother would be horrified. She would turn in her grave at the thought of her daughter allowing herself to be tangled up with Draco Malfoy of all people. A boy who had once sneered openly at her bloodline as though it were a contagious disease. A boy who had made her school years a battlefield of insults and contempt.
No, not a man. He could not be called that. Malfoy was still the same spoiled child she had known at Hogwarts, the arrogant little prince who thought cruelty was power and cowardice was survival. The Dark Mark burned into his arm was proof enough of who he truly was and what he had chosen to stand for. It was a stain that would never wash away, no matter how carefully he tried to polish his image.
And yet here she was, standing under the pale light of the streetlamps outside his flat with the taste of him still fresh on her lips. Her hand twitched upward before she stopped herself, resisting the urge to wipe her mouth, because she knew it would not erase the memory. The kiss clung to her as stubbornly as his scent, as though it had branded itself into her.
Perfect kisses. The words came unbidden, bitter and furious in her mind. He had kissed her with a precision and intensity that left no room for doubt, and the worst part was that it had been good. Too good. She had hated every second of knowing it, hated the way his desperation had made her knees weak, hated the way his silver eyes had widened afterward, vulnerable and searching, as though she had become his last tether to the world.
She hated him for all of it. For daring to touch her, for daring to kiss her as though she belonged to him, for daring to make her want it. Because the truth she could not swallow, no matter how she tried, was that she had kissed him back.
Not out of pity. Not because she was drunk on firewhiskey fumes that clung to the night air around him. Not because of any temporary madness she could excuse away in the morning. She had wanted it. She had needed it. Her body had betrayed her, answering his with a hunger she could not explain.
And that, above everything else, was what left her shaking on the dark street. That was what clawed at her insides with merciless hands. For one reckless, heart-stopping moment, she had wanted Draco Malfoy. And worse, she had wanted him in a way that felt primal, maddening, and utterly self-destructive.
Hermione let out a harsh laugh that startled a cat slinking through the alley, its glowing eyes fixing on her with sharp irritation before it darted back into the shadows. She nearly barked out another laugh at the sight. A perfect metaphor, she thought bitterly. She was the cat, spitting and hissing at her own reflection, furious at what stared back, confused by it, unable to make peace with it.
"This is ridiculous," she muttered under her breath, her voice louder than she intended. The words steamed into the cold night, harsh and jagged. "I am not doing this. Not with him."
Malfoy. Of all people. The very thought of his name pressed against her ribs like something poisonous. He was a terrible Edric Klauser lookalike, all pale skin and sharp aristocratic features, beauty carved in angles without warmth. That stupid, arrogant face of his. The one that had been designed for sneering, for cruelty, for smirks that had once made her blood boil. A face so sharp it could cut glass, as though sculpted by Michelangelo himself if Michelangelo had been a colossal, insufferable prick.
And then there were his eyes. Those cold silver eyes that had somehow changed when they looked at her tonight. Not sharp, not cruel, not mocking. They had softened, just enough to make her chest ache. He had looked at her as though she were something rare, something fragile and untouchable, something he could not believe had been placed in his reach. He had looked at her as though he wanted to ruin her and protect her in the same breath, as though the contradiction did not split him in two.
"Malfoy," she hissed into the stillness of the street, spitting his name like a curse, as though the sound alone might cast him out of her thoughts.
I hate you, Malfoy, she told herself, forcing the words to echo in her mind. But they rang hollow, brittle, like glass about to crack. Did she hate him? Did she truly? Or did she only hate what he did to her? The way he loosened her grip on herself, made her forget the years of reasons she had stacked like bricks between them. The way one kiss had stripped her bare, left her reeling, made her body betray her for one unforgivable moment.
And what about him? Did he even deserve her hatred anymore? She wanted the answer to be yes. She needed it to be yes. She wanted to cling to the memory of Malfoy in that manor, standing in the corner with wide, pale eyes, doing nothing while she screamed, while she bled, while Bellatrix carved her into something less than human. He had stood there. He had watched. He had done nothing. That memory was supposed to be her shield against him forever.
But then she remembered the look on his face tonight. That flicker of vulnerability that slipped past his walls. The tremor in his voice when he called her my love. The way his hands had shaken, just slightly, as he clung to her as though he might break if she pulled away. And worst of all, the kiss. The way he kissed her as if the world had ended and she was the only thing left worth saving.
"Ugh!" she groaned, dragging both hands through her hair, tugging until her scalp burned. She tilted her head back toward the stars that peeked through the clouded sky, as though the night itself might give her clarity. "Why am I even thinking about him? He's nothing. He's—"
Her voice caught, breaking on the words. Because the truth, the one she did not want to admit, was that she no longer knew what he was.
She had spent years shaping him into the villain of her memory. Years holding him in her mind as proof of everything rotten in the world. Draco Malfoy, coward, bigot, Death Eater, tormentor. A boy who would never change, who was incapable of redemption. That belief had been steady ground beneath her feet, the one certainty she could always hold on to when forgiveness seemed impossible.
And tonight, he had cracked it. Just a sliver, just enough light spilling through to shake her. And she despised him for it. She despised him for making her question, for making her falter, for loosening the grip she had on her righteous anger.
Because if he was not the monster she had built him up to be, then what did that make her? What did that make her fury? What did that make the years she had spent carrying her pain, the nights she had lain awake reliving his inaction? If he had changed, if he was something more than she had allowed herself to believe, then she was the one who had been clinging to a shadow. And that was unbearable.
She shook her head sharply, as though the motion might fling the thoughts out into the dark. She could not let herself go there.
"No," she said aloud, her voice ringing across the quiet street with grim finality. "He is still Malfoy. He is still a Death Eater. He is still filth."
And yet.
And yet.
The words lingered like smoke she could not clear, clinging to her even as she walked away, her footsteps echoing through the night.
As she turned the corner toward her flat, she felt the ghost of his lips on hers, warm and lingering. She tasted the faint trace of desperation, of regret, of something she wasn't ready to name.
I hate him, she told herself again. But her resolve was already crumbling.
Because deep down, in a place she refused to acknowledge, Hermione knew this wasn't over. Not yet. Not even close.
•••
Thanks to that horrific kiss, all she could think about was him. Malfoy. Draco bloody Malfoy. The man who had ruined not only her teenage years but, apparently, also her adult brain. It was unbearable, like being hexed with a curse that replayed the same scene over and over again no matter how furiously she tried to block it out.
Her fingers tapped restlessly against the arm of her chair, a staccato rhythm that matched the storm inside her head. She had paperwork spread across the table that needed signing, a dinner party she had foolishly agreed to plan, and a potion brewing in the next room that would turn toxic if left unattended. Yet she could not make herself move. Not for any of those important things. Instead, she sat there, glaring at the ceiling as though it might hold the answer to why her mind insisted on looping back to him.
That kiss.
That bloody kiss.
A kiss she hadn't even wanted.
Except you did want it, a traitorous voice murmured from the back of her mind, insidious and unshakable.
"Shut up," she snapped, louder than she meant to, startling Crookshanks from his perch by the window. The old cat gave her a withering look, his luminous eyes narrowing before he resettled himself, tail flicking in judgment.
She scowled right back at him. "Don't you start."
It wasn't like she had enjoyed it. No. Certainly not. It had been… functional, if one could call it that. A lapse, a mistake, a chemical reaction sparked by fury and exhaustion, nothing more. A means to an end. What end, she had absolutely no bloody idea, but it was not desire, not attraction, not anything that could excuse the way her body had betrayed her.
And yet, the images kept forcing themselves into her thoughts. The way his hands had clutched at her as if letting go would have killed him. The desperate pressure of his lips, punishing and raw, as if he were pouring his entire miserable existence into that single kiss. The way he looked at her when they pulled apart, vulnerable in a way she had never thought possible for him.
Hermione groaned and shoved herself up from the chair so abruptly that it nearly toppled backward. "No, no, no," she muttered under her breath as she paced across the living room. She needed to scrub her mind clean. Preferably with a cactus. Or bleach. Something strong enough to erase every lingering trace of Malfoy from her memory.
She marched into the kitchen, yanked open the cupboard with unnecessary force, and grabbed the nearest glass. Water. Yes, water. Hydration would help. Or wine. Wine might be better.
She poured herself a glass of red and downed half of it in one gulp, the burn settling low in her chest. Maybe distraction was the key. And there was always one man who could successfully distract her: Andrew Hozier-Byrne.
Now there was a man who understood emotions. The kind of man who could put longing into words that made your soul ache in the best possible way. The raw vulnerability of his lyrics, the poetic weight of his heartache, the way he could sing about ruin and make it sound like salvation. That was everything Draco Malfoy was not.
And yet.
Somehow, Malfoy had managed to worm his way into her thoughts like a stubborn curse that refused to lift.
"The audacity," she muttered darkly, taking another sip. "Some horny Hozier wannabe, that's all you are, Malfoy."
Because that was the truth of it. Pale, brooding, entitled, with his aristocratic scowl and his silver eyes full of regret. Trying to convince her, with one reckless kiss, that he was drowning and she was the only lifeline he wanted. Good gods, Andrew would never. Andrew would serenade her under the stars, barefoot in a field, gently brushing his guitar strings as he crooned about devotion. He would not kiss her like a man who wanted to consume her whole. He would not look at her like salvation and ruin in the same breath.
She set the glass down with a clink, harder than necessary, her frustration bubbling over. "What did it even mean?" she demanded of the empty room. "What was that, Malfoy? Desperation? Guilt? Some warped sense of attraction you've convinced yourself of? Or was it just another game, like when we were children and you thought pain was a form of entertainment?"
Her voice rang against the kitchen walls, unanswered.
She pressed her palms flat against the counter, her knuckles white, her breath coming quicker than it should. That was the worst part. She would never know. And the not knowing was what made her stomach twist and her chest ache, because the kiss had been far too much for nothing, far too loaded for someone she was supposed to hate without question.
And the most infuriating thing of all was that she could still taste him.
The more she thought about it, the angrier she became. It built slowly, like heat simmering under her skin, until every nerve felt alight with irritation. Who the hell did he think he was? Walking back into her life as if nothing had happened, as if the past could be rewritten with one reckless kiss. All tortured and brooding, all sharp lines and haunted eyes, acting like a single touch of his lips could erase years of pain, betrayal, and blood. As if she were foolish enough to fall at his feet simply because he had pretty eyes and a tragic story.
She gave a harsh little laugh that rang hollow in the quiet of her flat. "He wishes."
But deep down she knew the kiss wasn't the worst of it. It was everything that came after. It was the way he had looked at her when they pulled apart, like she was both his salvation and his punishment. Like she was the one thing in this world that could save him and destroy him in equal measure. It was the way his voice had cracked when he told her, "You're the best thing that's ever happened to me," with such raw, aching honesty that her chest had tightened in spite of every wall she had built to keep him out.
And it was the way he had meant it.
"No," she snapped, forcing the word into the air like a curse, her hand trembling as she yanked her wand from the counter. She leveled it at nothing, at the empty space in front of her, as if sheer willpower could expel him from her thoughts. "I refuse to let Malfoy derail my life."
Crookshanks gave a sharp meow of agreement, his tail twitching as though he approved of her declaration. Yet when she looked over at him, the unimpressed weight of his glare made it clear he wasn't buying a word of it.
"Traitor," Hermione muttered, dropping her wand with a sigh and leaning against the counter for support. She pressed her palms flat against the cool surface, grounding herself, trying to collect her scattered thoughts. She needed order, a plan, something she could cling to before she unraveled completely.
Step one: Ignore him. Utterly and completely. No eye contact, no conversation, not even the satisfaction of knowing she had noticed his presence. If he wanted to grovel, he could do it to the shadow she left behind.
Step two: Focus on herself. Work. Projects. Reading until her eyes blurred. Anything to fill the hours so completely that there was no space left in her head for a brooding, silver-eyed Slytherin who had made a career of complicating her life.
Step three: Drown herself in Hozier. Play him on repeat until every thought in her skull was crowded with lyrics about forests and devotion and love worth dying for. Fill her veins with music so full of soul that it left no room for the memory of Malfoy's voice.
She smirked faintly, straightening her shoulders. "That'll do."
For a moment she almost believed it. But when she turned away from the counter, the memory of his lips was already waiting for her. The heat, the desperation, the unmistakable weight of need in every frantic movement. It crept back in like smoke through a crack in the door, unbidden and unwelcome, curling tight around her lungs until she could hardly breathe.
Hermione swallowed hard, her throat thick, her chest aching in ways she refused to name. For the first time in her life, she wondered if there were some things even she could not outsmart, no matter how carefully she built her walls, no matter how precise her plans.
Unfortunately, not even Andrew could save her this time. She had blasted his music at full volume for an hour straight, letting every note rattle the walls of her flat, but instead of banishing thoughts of him it had only made things worse. Every lyric, every aching chord seemed to twist itself into a narrative about Draco Malfoy and that bloody kiss.
Take me to church? More like take me straight to St. Mungo's, because clearly her brain was beyond all hope of saving.
With a growl of frustration, she slammed her laptop shut, the sound echoing like a gavel in the room, final and merciless. Crookshanks, lounging on the sofa like some tiny, ginger king, lifted his head just enough to glare at her before resettling into a puddle of disinterest. He looked far too pleased with himself, as though he had been watching her spiral with quiet judgment all along.
"You're all I have left, Crooks," she declared with dramatic flair, throwing herself onto the sofa beside him. He responded with a long, disgruntled meow, his amber eyes narrowing at her before he flicked his tail across her arm as if to remind her of her place.
"Oh, don't give me that look," she huffed, trying to scratch behind his ears, only for him to squirm free and leap onto the coffee table. From his new perch, he sat tall, regal and smug, staring down at her as if she had deeply offended his royal sensibilities.
"Really?" she asked, glaring back at him. "You're going to act like this is a personal attack?"
His tail flicked again, a sharp little warning that made her want to hex something.
"Fine," she muttered, crossing her arms. "Be that way. At least you don't talk back. Unlike certain blond morons who think one kiss is going to make me forget how utterly insufferable they are."
Crookshanks yawned in response, stretching out one paw as though to say, Leave me out of this disaster, woman.
Hermione narrowed her eyes. "Don't you dare pretend you're innocent. You were there. You saw the state I came home in. Do you know what he said to me? After the kiss? He told me, 'I'll take anything if it's from you.' Can you believe that? Me. The woman he used to call a Mudblood in front of his little Slytherin entourage."
For a brief second, Crookshanks tilted his head, as if actually considering whether she deserved a shred of attention. But the moment passed, and he blinked slowly instead, the very picture of feline indifference.
Hermione groaned, pacing now as if her cat were a licensed therapist on a clock. "I don't even know why I'm upset. It's not like I want him to like me. In fact, I would prefer if he stayed so far away from me that I forgot what his ridiculous face looked like. But no, he has to go and say things like that. He has to look at me like I'm the only person in the entire bloody world who matters. It's infuriating, Crooks. Utterly infuriating."
Crookshanks let out a sharp chirp, the sound halfway between a complaint and a warning, his tail swishing dangerously close to her half-empty wine glass.
"Don't start with me," she snapped, jabbing her finger at him. "You're supposed to be on my side. Instead, you're sitting there acting like you're the one whose entire life has just been turned upside down by a single kiss."
That was the final straw, apparently, because Crookshanks jumped from the table with an exaggerated flick of his tail and sauntered toward the kitchen with his nose in the air, every step radiating disdain.
"Fine!" Hermione called after him. "Walk away! I don't need you either!"
Her voice rang hollow in the silence that followed, and she collapsed back onto the sofa with a heavy sigh. She pressed her palms into her face, muffling a groan. This was ridiculous. She was ridiculous. How had she let Draco Malfoy of all people crawl under her skin like this? He was supposed to be the enemy, the ghost of her teenage years, a living reminder of everything she had hated about that part of her life.
Instead, here she was, pacing and ranting at her cat, obsessing over the feel of his mouth on hers like some lovesick fool.
It was humiliating.
It wasn't as if she hadn't been kissed before. She had dated Ron, for Merlin's sake. She had kissed him in hallways between classes, after Quidditch matches, outside the Burrow while the summer air smelled of cut grass and smoke. She had kissed him when she was happy and when she was scared, and every single one of those kisses had been… fine. They had been solid and warm and comfortable, like slipping into a familiar jumper. They had never left her dizzy or unmoored. They had never left her feeling like she was standing at the edge of a cliff with the ground crumbling beneath her feet, waiting to see whether she would fall or be caught.
That was the problem, though, wasn't it? Malfoy's kiss hadn't been fine. It hadn't been polite or gentle or safe. It had been chaos, wild and consuming, as if he had wanted to set her alight just to watch her burn. It had been fire pressed against her mouth, desperation dripping from every touch, and it had left her shaken in a way she hated to admit.
And she hated it. She hated him for kissing her like that, hated herself for answering him with the same reckless hunger. She hated that her body had betrayed her before her brain had a chance to catch up.
The sharp clatter of Crookshanks' food dish in the kitchen interrupted her thoughts. She flinched, dragging herself upright from the sofa. The insufferable creature had apparently decided to take his revenge for being ignored by pawing at his empty bowl until it scraped across the floor.
"Unbelievable," she muttered as she trudged into the kitchen.
Crookshanks sat primly by his dish, his amber eyes glowing with smug entitlement. She bent down to refill it, pouring the kibble in with far more force than necessary.
"You're lucky," she told him with a sigh, watching as he immediately dug in. "You don't have to deal with men. You've got it easy."
He responded with a smug little chirp, tail twitching as if in complete agreement.
"Of course you agree," she said, rolling her eyes. "You think you're better than everyone. You're a cat. You get to sit around all day licking your fur and acting like the rest of us are pathetic."
Crookshanks didn't even lift his head, too focused on his meal to acknowledge her rant. She leaned back against the counter, watching him eat as though his disinterest could somehow anchor her. She tried to push Malfoy out of her mind, tried to focus on the small, ordinary sounds of kibble crunching between feline teeth. But the harder she tried, the louder his words echoed inside her head.
I'll take anything if it's from you.
The memory of his voice, low and wrecked, scraped across her nerves. She groaned aloud and snatched her wine glass from the counter, downing what was left in one long, determined gulp. The burn of it did nothing. All it did was sharpen the image of him in her mind, the way he had looked at her like she was salvation and destruction in the same breath.
Why had he said it like that? Why had he sounded as if every word had been carved out of him with a blade? She had heard Malfoy's voice in a hundred different registers over the years. Sneering, taunting, furious, smug. She had never heard it like this. She had never heard it stripped bare, trembling with something he should not have been capable of feeling, let alone admitting.
She pressed the heel of her hand against her forehead as if she could force the memory back into the recesses of her mind. But no amount of wine or blasting Hozier at full volume was going to drown this out. Not tonight. Maybe not ever.
•••
The guilt arrived in waves, relentless and suffocating, each one stronger than the last until she felt as though she were being dragged under by a tide she could not fight. It did not come as a dull ache or a whimper of self-pity. Hermione Granger did not wallow. She never had. What she did was seethe, sharp and focused, her mind turning over each detail until it was worn raw. What she did was brood, cataloguing every mistake and lining them up in neat rows to be examined and dissected. And most of all, what she did was plot.
This wasn't guilt in the ordinary sense. This was rage wearing the mask of remorse, the kind of fury that turned inward first and then lashed outward, desperate for something or someone to blame. She hated herself for kissing him, hated him for kissing her back, and hated the universe for being cruel enough to let it happen in the first place. It felt like some cosmic jest, the kind of prank fate plays when it wants to remind you how little control you really have.
The worst part was that she couldn't get him out of her head. Draco Malfoy. Draco bloody Malfoy. The same arrogant, sharp-tongued prat who had spent his adolescence sneering at her and spitting the worst word he could conjure as if it were his personal sport. Now he had the audacity to haunt her, and worse, she had the gall to let him.
It wasn't just the kiss, though she could still feel it, the press of his mouth against hers like a bruise that would not fade. It was the way he had looked at her afterward, silver eyes burning with a kind of devotion that frightened her more than any insult he had ever thrown. It was the way he had whispered her name, reverent and broken all at once, as if she were something holy. It was the way he saw her, not the façade she carried into battle or into work, but her, stripped bare, vulnerable, and furious. She could not stand it. She could not forgive it.
The anger at least was a balm. It burned hot and bright, cutting through the guilt with a fire that kept her standing. Anger was familiar, controllable, something she could wield like a weapon. What unsettled her was the truth she did not want to name, that the thing she hated most was not that it had happened, but that a part of her wanted it to happen again.
She flopped back against her sofa with a groan, her eyes fixed on the cracks in the ceiling plaster as if the lines might rearrange themselves into some divine answer. "This is stupid," she muttered, her voice rough with exhaustion. "He's stupid. I'm stupid. Everything about this is stupid."
Crookshanks, perched like a king on the armrest, let out a low, judgmental meow that rumbled like disapproval made flesh.
She turned her head to glare at him. "Don't look at me like that," she snapped, her tone far too sharp for a creature who only cared about his next meal. "I know what you're thinking, and you're wrong."
Crookshanks blinked slowly, his amber eyes gleaming in the dim light, the very picture of disdain. He didn't even need words to remind her that cats always knew when you were lying, especially to yourself.
Hermione groaned and pressed her palms into her face as if she could smother the thoughts clawing their way up from the pit of her mind. "This is all his fault. Malfoy and his stupid hair, his stupid face, his stupid lips. And me, for being stupid enough to kiss him."
The words hung heavy in the room, followed by a silence so taut it felt like the air itself was listening. The guilt rushed back in like a tide, pulling her under, but this time it was joined by something darker. Something she had no desire to name aloud. She hated him for kissing her, yes, but she hated him more for making her feel anything at all.
And the truth that pressed hardest of all was that she did not just want to punish him. No, punishment was too neat, too clean. What she wanted was destruction. She wanted to see him shatter under the weight of his own emotions, to watch the cracks form until he broke apart completely. She wanted to make him feel the same torment he had stirred in her, and maybe, if she were being truly honest with herself, she wanted to savor it.
The thought alone was enough to tug the corners of her mouth into a sly, wicked smile that would have unsettled even her closest friends. If he wanted her so badly, fine. Let him want. Let him burn. She would give him exactly what he thought he craved, but only on her terms. She would take every ounce of control he once tried to steal from her, twist it back into her hands, and force him to kneel at her feet. By the time she was finished, he would not know if he should worship her or beg for mercy.
"Peg him," she muttered suddenly, the words slipping free before her mind could catch them. She froze. The phrase lingered in the room like smoke, absurd and yet strangely perfect.
Her lips parted, and then the laughter came. Not light, not warm, but sharp and jagged, carrying the edge of hysteria. "Oh, wouldn't that just be the ultimate punishment? Make him kneel. Make him beg."
Crookshanks, stretched lazily on the sofa arm, let out a chirp of pure disapproval, flicking his tail as though even he was too dignified for this spiral.
"Oh, hush," she said with a dismissive wave, though her voice cracked with something closer to glee than reason. "It's not like I'd actually do it. Probably. Maybe."
But the thought did not leave. It burrowed, the image of Malfoy—so polished, so arrogant, so painfully sure of himself—reduced and undone beneath her. It was intoxicating, too much to banish with a shake of her head. She tried. She told herself this was madness. She told herself she needed to get a grip. But the vision lingered, vivid and impossible to ignore.
"This is madness," she muttered again, pacing, her steps quick and uneven. "He's just a man. A stupid, irritating, infuriating man who—ugh!"
The word tore out of her like a scream. She seized the nearest throw pillow and hurled it across the room. It slammed against the wall with a dull, useless thud before sliding down in defeat. It looked as pathetic on the floor as she felt standing there.
But the release brought no peace. If anything, it stoked the fire already raging in her chest. She could not let him win. She could not let him keep this hold over her. He had haunted her once before, and she had sworn never again.
Her spine straightened with the memory, and a new determination settled in her bones. Hermione Granger did not lose. Not to anyone. And certainly not to Draco Malfoy.
She turned sharply on her heel and marched toward her desk. If she was going to survive this ridiculous spiral, she needed a plan. Something precise, methodical, and as close to foolproof as human brilliance could allow. A list of strategies, perhaps. Contingencies. A full framework of emotional warfare.
One way or another, she would regain control of this situation. And if the only way to do that was to make Draco Malfoy regret every decision he had ever made, then that was exactly what she would do.
•••
The next morning, Hermione arrived at his flat with fire in her veins and a plan sharpened to a blade. Her wand was tucked into the waistband of her most daring outfit, a sleek black dress with a slit that ran scandalously high along her thigh, high enough to make even her question her judgment when she had put it on. The look was deliberate, every inch of it meant to remind him—and herself—that she was the one in control. She looked like a weapon disguised as a woman, and she knew it.
She stepped through the fireplace with a whirl of green flame and brushed soot from her dress with a practiced flick, her chin lifted as if she owned the place. Her heels clicked against the polished floorboards, each step echoing her confidence into the silence of the flat.
"Malfoy! Are you awake?" she called, her tone sharp, meant to rattle him.
Silence answered her.
Her brow furrowed as she looked around. The kitchen was empty, no steaming tea waiting, no half-finished toast cluttering the counters. The bathroom door stood wide open, the tiles beyond spotless and cold. The air carried no trace of him. The stillness pressed against her chest, heavy and wrong.
"Draco?" she called again, louder this time, though the sound wavered at the edges.
Still nothing.
The confidence she had wrapped around herself like armor faltered. A knot of dread formed in her chest, twisting tighter with each passing second. She moved quickly now, her heels striking hard against the floor as she strode toward the bedroom. Her hand closed around the door handle, and she pushed it open without hesitation.
And there he was.
He lay sprawled across the bed, pale as parchment, his body drenched in sweat and trembling in violent shudders. His hair was plastered to his forehead, damp and tangled, and his lips carried a faint, terrifying shade of blue.
Her heart stopped.
"Draco!" The name tore from her throat, raw and desperate. She rushed forward, dropping to her knees beside the bed, her hands finding his face as if the act alone might drag him back. His skin was clammy, cold to the touch, and for a long, horrifying moment, she thought he was already gone.
Then his eyelids fluttered weakly, his silver eyes glassy and unfocused.
"Darling…" The word cracked from his lips, a broken whisper that chilled her more than silence ever could.
Her gaze darted toward the nightstand. There, lying discarded like an afterthought, was an empty potion vial. The sight hit her like a punch to the gut, her breath catching as her vision blurred with sudden, furious tears.
"No. No, no, no. Gods, don't do this to me," she whispered, her voice trembling as it cracked apart. She clutched his face tighter, shaking her head as if denial alone could rewrite reality. "Don't you dare do this to me, Malfoy. Not like this. Not now."
Her hands slid from his face to his shoulders, gripping hard, dragging his limp body toward the edge of the bed with strength she didn't know she had. Panic flooded her veins, but her movements were quick, focused, driven by something deeper than fear. She would not let him slip away.
Her wand whipped through the air, frantic and unsteady, summoning a bucket from the bathroom that clattered to the floor beside them. She muttered incantations through trembling lips, her voice breaking on the syllables, her magic flaring unevenly.
"Stay with me," she begged, her voice shattering as she pressed her hand against his chest, desperate to feel the rise and fall of breath. "Stay with me, Draco, do you hear me? You do not get to leave me like this."
Her tears fell hot and fast, dripping onto his skin, but she did not notice. She poured every ounce of her will into the spells, into the frantic rhythm of her shaking hands, into the sheer stubborn refusal to let him go.
Because if he died here, if he slipped away in her arms, then every kiss, every look, every broken word would become an ending. And Hermione Granger was not ready for this story to end.
The spell took hold like a cruel mercy, and within moments his body lurched forward with violent convulsions. His chest heaved, his throat wrenched, and he began to retch into the bucket she had barely managed to place in time. The sounds tore through the quiet room, ugly and jagged, but to her ears they were salvation. It meant he was still here, still fighting, still reachable.
Hermione braced him upright, one arm locked firmly around his shaking shoulders while her other hand threaded through his sweat-soaked hair, trying to steady him, trying to soothe what could not be soothed.
"That's it," she whispered fiercely, her voice breaking despite her best efforts to remain calm. "Get it out. You're going to be fine. You're not leaving me like this, do you understand? You're okay."
Her own words trembled as much as her hands, yet she forced them out, speaking into the frantic rhythm of his convulsions as if sheer willpower could anchor him.
The retching slowed at last, each heave weaker than the one before, until his body sagged in her arms. His breaths came shallow and ragged, rattling through his chest in uneven gasps. Hermione set the bucket aside with a flick of her wand, vanishing its contents in an instant before summoning fresh towels and a glass of water with hands that would not stop shaking.
She wiped his face gently, her knuckles brushing against clammy skin, the towel absorbing the sweat, the tears, the remnants of his collapse. Her fingers trembled with every movement, but she refused to stop. She needed to keep moving, needed to keep doing, because the alternative was to collapse entirely.
When his eyelids began to flutter closed, she panicked. She caught his chin in her hand, shaking him lightly, her voice rising with urgent authority.
"Don't you dare fall asleep on me, Malfoy," she snapped, though fear tangled with fury in every syllable. "You don't get to close your eyes. Not now. Not like this."
A groan slipped from his lips, barely more than a ghost of sound, and his head lolled against her palm.
She pressed the glass to his mouth, tipping it carefully. "Drink this," she commanded, her tone as sharp as if they were back in a classroom and she was dictating instructions he could not ignore. "Small sips. Do it now."
He obeyed weakly, swallowing a few gulps with visible effort before his body gave up again, sinking back into the mattress. The glass shook in her hand, water spilling over her fingers as she pulled it away and set it aside with a clatter against the nightstand.
Hermione's legs gave out beneath her. She crumpled onto the floor beside the bed, her forehead pressing against the edge of the mattress as though she needed its solidity to keep herself grounded. Her breaths came shallow and ragged, breaking through clenched teeth, each inhale sharp and uneven.
Her hands refused to still. They twitched uselessly in her lap, damp with water and sweat, proof of how close she had come to losing him.
When she finally lifted her gaze to him, her eyes burned, not only with relief but with something darker. Anger churned beneath her ribs, sharp and merciless, born from the sheer terror of nearly watching him slip away.
"Do you have any idea what you just did?" she whispered, her voice shaking as she stared at him. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, her words punctured by gasps. "Do you even care what you would have left behind? What that would have done to me?"
Her throat tightened, the words almost collapsing into silence. She clutched at the blanket by his side, her knuckles whitening with the force of her grip, as though holding onto him through fabric might tether him to this world.
She hated him in that moment, hated him with a depth that felt like drowning, but she hated herself more for the relief that consumed her now that he was breathing again.