8 Days Left
Eight days. Eight miserable, excruciating days until freedom. Eight days until he would be handed his wand, his name somewhat cleared, and the chance to rejoin a world that had chewed him up and spat him out.
But what did it matter? What did any of it matter?
He stalked the confines of his flat like a caged animal, each lap across the room carving a deeper groove into the worn floorboards. The seconds dragged with deliberate cruelty, each tick of the clock a reminder that time was moving forward, yet he was standing still. The walls felt closer each day, pressing in around him, suffocating in their silence.
The thought of freedom should have been a lifeline. He should have been clinging to it, counting the hours until he could finally leave this self-imposed prison. Yet the idea of reentering a world that no longer had a place for him filled him with a strange kind of dread. The wand he would be given back, the one that once felt like an extension of himself, was nothing more than an empty promise now. It was a token of a life that no longer existed.
He had been raised to expect greatness, to live in a world where his name commanded respect, where wealth and power were not only his birthright but his destiny. That vision had crumbled to ash. Everything he had once believed in had betrayed him, and what remained was a hollow parody of the life he had been promised.
He paused mid-pace, gripping the edge of the mantel as though it could anchor him, his chest rising and falling with unsteady breaths. Eight days until freedom, and yet it already felt like a sentence. Because freedom without her meant nothing at all.
Hermione haunted him in ways he could not escape. She was in every thought, every sleepless night, every shallow breath. He told himself it was anger, that she had unsettled him, unravelled him, that her presence in his mind was nothing more than irritation that had taken root. But the truth was far uglier, far more dangerous.
He needed her.
The world could return his wand, clear his name, give him all the hollow freedoms he was supposed to want, but without her, it was all meaningless. The silence of the flat was not simply silence anymore. It was her absence. It was the echo of her voice he longed for, the ghost of her footsteps that never came.
Eight days left, and he knew with terrifying certainty that he would spend every single one of them thinking of her.
He rubbed his temples, willing himself to think of anything else, to focus on something that did not have her name attached to it. But it was no use. Hermione lived in the back of his mind, echoing through every thought like a curse that refused to be lifted. Eight days. Eight days until she would no longer have a reason to step through his fireplace. Eight days until the excuse of checking on him, of fulfilling her professional duty, would vanish. Eight days until she would walk out of his life entirely, and with her would go the only sliver of warmth he had felt in years.
"Bloody hell," he muttered, his voice breaking into the silence. The words felt too small, too pitiful, but they were all he had. His hands slammed down on the kitchen counter, the impact rattling the glasses stacked neatly by the sink. "This isn't freedom. It's torture."
The irony of it all nearly made him laugh. Draco Malfoy, who had stood at the edge of war, who had endured the weight of his family's ruin, who had stared into the hollowed face of the Dark Lord himself, was unraveling over a woman. Not just any woman, but the one who had spent most of her life despising him, the one who could barely tolerate his presence now. It should have been laughable, and yet there was nothing funny about the way she hollowed him out.
It wasn't only her beauty, though she was striking enough to undo him with a single look. It wasn't only her intellect, though her brilliance had always left him struggling to keep up, infuriating and intoxicating in equal measure. No, it was something deeper, something that clawed at him in ways he could not shake.
It was her.
Her fierce determination. Her sharp tongue that cut through his defenses with ease. The fire in her eyes when she argued, the rare flicker of softness when she thought no one was watching. The way she could infuriate him beyond reason, and then disarm him completely with a single word. She was a contradiction he could not untangle, both torment and salvation, and he had been powerless against her from the moment she stepped into his flat.
She had seen him broken. She had looked at him in his lowest state, stripped of power, stripped of dignity, and she had not turned away. That, more than anything, had ruined him. Because if she could see all of that and still sit across from him, if she could tolerate his existence even when he could not, then how could he ever hope to let her go?
And yet, she was going to leave him.
He sank onto the sofa, his legs suddenly weak, his head dropping into his hands. What would he do when she was gone? Would he keep pacing these same four walls, haunted by the ghost of her footsteps, desperate for the sound of her voice? Would he stalk the streets of London, hoping for some cruel chance encounter, only to see her at ease in a world that had welcomed her back without question? He could picture it far too clearly—her laughing with Potter, her head bent close to Weasley's in familiar conversation, her smile meant for anyone but him. He would see her thriving, and he would be left to rot, consumed by the emptiness she left behind.
He thought about the first time she had walked into this flat, her presence spilling into the room like sunlight forcing its way through storm clouds. He thought about the sting of their arguments, heated words flung like sparks, her fire matching his own and reminding him he was still alive. He thought about the rare stillness, the quiet interludes between the chaos, when her gaze would soften and the walls between them would lower just enough for him to glimpse something fragile beneath. In those moments he had dared to believe she might feel something too.
The memory made his chest ache. He wanted to believe she was not as untouchable as she pretended to be, that her indifference was a shield she wore as tightly as he wore his. He wanted to believe that when she looked at him, she saw more than a failure, more than a name steeped in disgrace. He wanted to believe that somewhere in her, hidden behind the layers of logic and control, there was a piece of her heart that beat for him.
But eight days wasn't enough. It could never be enough to undo the years of disdain that hung between them, nor enough to convince her that he was more than the shadow of a man who had once strutted through gilded halls with false pride. Eight days was nothing. He had tried to tell himself otherwise, tried to convince himself that he could rebuild alone, that freedom itself would be enough, but the truth pressed down on him like a stone. Without her, freedom was meaningless.
Because life without Hermione wasn't a life at all.
His gaze slid to the clock on the mantel, the hands moving with an indifference that mocked him. Eight days. He repeated it in his mind like a mantra, but the words tasted bitter. Eight days to make her see him, to show her that he was not just a broken relic clinging to scraps of memory. Eight days to prove that he could be more than what the world believed him to be, that he could be the man she deserved to lean on rather than the one she had to carry.
But what did he have to offer her? His name was still tarnished, spat upon by those who once bowed to it. His reputation was little more than rubble, and his fortune, though intact, felt hollow and cold. All he possessed was a heart fractured beyond repair and the desperate hope that she might glimpse something in him worth saving before the sands of those eight days ran out.
He sank back against the sofa, the worn cushions swallowing his weight. His eyes fixed on the ceiling, but his thoughts chased themselves in circles, restless and cruel. Maybe freedom wasn't what he needed at all. Maybe the thing that kept him tethered to this wretched world was not the promise of a clean slate, but her. The way she looked at him when she thought he wasn't paying attention. The way her voice sharpened when she scolded him, as though she still believed he was capable of being better. The way her presence filled the air of his flat like light spilling through a cracked door.
And if she walked out, if she slipped from his grasp without turning back, he wasn't sure there would be anything left of him to recover.
"Eight days," he whispered into the quiet, his voice unsteady. The sound echoed against the walls, pitiful and raw. "Eight days to lose everything."
The hours bled together as the night crept on, but he did not move. He sat in the half-light, drowning in the echo of her absence, haunted by the thought of what it would mean when she was gone. The idea of her laughter belonging to someone else, of her fire burning far from him, was unbearable. No, more than unbearable. Impossible. His entire being recoiled from the thought, a visceral rejection of a life that no longer held her within it.
And as the countdown ticked mercilessly forward, he knew one thing with an awful, unshakable certainty. He could not let her go. Not without trying, not without a fight, not while there was still breath in him and eight days left to prove that she was already his salvation.
•••
The creature was back. Again.
Draco stared down at the orange menace that had once more infiltrated his flat as though it had some unspoken invitation, as though the place were its personal holiday estate. Its squashed, lopsided face and perpetually narrowed eyes radiated disdain, while that abnormally fluffy tail lashed with self-importance. It was the very embodiment of everything he despised about felines.
Why was this ugly creature here? Again?
"Crookshanks," he muttered, dragging the name out like a curse. He was fairly certain this beast wasn't a cat at all. It had to be part Kneazle, or perhaps some unholy experiment gone wrong, brought into existence purely for the purpose of tormenting him.
The animal padded into the sitting room with the slow authority of a monarch inspecting his lands. His paws were silent against the floorboards, but every movement reeked of judgement. He paused by the sofa, tail curling with smug elegance, then continued onward with deliberate care, as if testing each corner of the room for weaknesses.
Draco groaned and dragged a hand through his hair, glaring at the back of the creature as though that might drive it out. "Why, Granger? Why must you unleash this monstrosity upon me?" His voice echoed off the walls, heavy with theatrical misery.
He had never been a pet person, not truly. The Malfoy estate had been full of animals in his youth, but none had ever crossed the invisible boundary between decor and companionship. The albino peacocks that haunted the lawns were meant for spectacle, all snowy feathers and piercing cries, impressive to visitors and entirely indifferent to the family who housed them. They required nothing of him beyond tolerance and an occasional glance out the window. That was as far as his patience for animals extended.
This thing, however, was an entirely different story. This thing demanded. It prowled. It claimed. It had no respect for private space or the natural hierarchy in which Draco Malfoy was very much at the top. Already the beast had leapt onto his armchair, coiled its body into the cushions, and glared at him with an expression that suggested Draco was the intruder, not the other way around.
"Of course," Draco muttered under his breath, folding his arms across his chest. "Why sit on the perfectly good floor when you can plant yourself on expensive upholstery and shed hair into the fabric?"
Crookshanks gave him a slow blink, the kind that felt more like mockery than any kind of affection.
Draco exhaled sharply through his nose. "Oh, brilliant. Now I'm being judged by a cat."
Crookshanks had decided, for reasons beyond Draco's comprehension, that he was going to personally dismantle what little remained of his carefully constructed solitude. The beast had already claimed the armchair by the window as his throne, sprawled out in all his orange, furry glory, tail flicking like a banner of conquest. Now, it seemed, he was making it his personal mission to infiltrate every waking moment of Draco's life, worming his way into spaces that were not meant to be shared.
The cat jumped onto the sofa, his claws catching on the upholstery as he hoisted himself up with deliberate slowness, as though mocking Draco with each tiny rip of fabric. Draco winced, his jaw tightening.
"Careful with that, you fiend," he muttered, narrowing his eyes.
Crookshanks turned his head and fixed him with that maddening look of smug disdain, as if to say, And what are you going to do about it?
"Don't look at me like that," Draco snapped, pointing an accusing finger. "I don't like you, and you don't like me. Let's just keep our distance, alright?"
The creature ignored him entirely. With a flourish of indifference, Crookshanks circled once before lowering himself into the very spot Draco had been about to sit in. He kneaded the cushion with his claws, purring with exaggerated satisfaction, every rumble like a deliberate taunt.
Draco scowled, arms crossing over his chest. "Fantastic. Now I cannot even sit in my own bloody flat."
The cat's purring grew louder, his half-lidded eyes practically dripping with triumph.
"Why do you even like him?" Draco muttered, speaking aloud though the question was meant for Hermione. "He's ugly, he's rude, and he is quite clearly plotting my demise. Is it because he's your familiar? Some sort of magical bond? Or are you just blind to his flaws, the same way you are about my better qualities?"
Crookshanks let out a soft chirrup, stretching languidly before curling into a ball, utterly content.
"Don't act cute. I know your game," Draco said darkly.
The truth, however, was more complicated. Crookshanks unsettled him. It wasn't simply the creature's grotesque appearance, though it was certainly… unconventional.
It was the way his eyes followed Draco's every movement with unnerving intelligence, as though he not only understood each word but judged it, weighing him with the kind of insight Draco could not stomach. It was as if the beast could see right through him, stripping away sarcasm, breeding, and bravado, exposing the truth of what lay beneath.
Draco hated it. He hated the silent challenge in that squashed little face, the way Crookshanks looked at him like a rival rather than a man. Worst of all, he hated that Hermione trusted him so completely, confided in him, poured her affection into a creature who seemed to demand nothing in return. It was a kind of loyalty Draco had never known and did not quite understand.
He hated the way Crookshanks followed her around the flat, always padding at her heels, always her shadow. Wherever she went, he was there, slipping through doorways, curling into corners, watching with those half-lidded eyes that suggested some ancient wisdom Draco could not stand. He hated the way Hermione would scoop him up or let him leap onto her lap as though the creature were entitled to her attention, her smile, her hands gently scratching behind his ears while Draco was left to stew in a sulk he refused to acknowledge as jealousy.
Worst of all, he hated the fact that Crookshanks seemed to like him.
Yes, the ugly beast he had mocked, the one he had whispered insults at under his breath, the one he had accused of plotting his slow death, had decided Draco Malfoy was worth its time. At first, he thought it was coincidence, the occasional nudge against his leg, the odd meow when he entered the room. But the pattern grew undeniable. Crookshanks sought him out now, climbing onto his lap without permission, rubbing his face against Draco's sleeve as though marking him, purring with a persistence that rattled through his bones no matter how much he pretended otherwise.
It made no sense. Cats were supposed to be discerning. Why would this one, who already had Hermione's undivided affection, insist on invading his space?
"You're trying to win me over," Draco muttered, narrowing his eyes at the ginger menace sprawled on the carpet in front of him. "Well, it is not going to work."
Crookshanks blinked, unbothered, before rolling onto his back and exposing his stomach, a silent dare.
"I mean it," Draco continued, leaning forward so they were eye to eye. "You may have Granger wrapped around your paw, but I see through you. You are not charming. You are manipulative."
The cat yawned, wide and slow, as though to show off his teeth. Draco's blood boiled.
"Fine. Be that way." He stood, brushing nonexistent cat hairs off his trousers. "But do not think for a second that I am going to—"
He cut off with a strangled noise as Crookshanks leapt with surprising agility onto his lap, curling into a heavy, vibrating ball of fur before Draco could protest. The purring began immediately, deep and thunderous, as though the beast knew exactly how much it unsettled him. Draco froze, arms stiffly raised like he was cradling an explosive.
"Granger," he called, his voice clipped and faintly panicked. "Your… thing is on me again."
She appeared in the doorway, arms folded, amusement written across her face. "Crooks likes you," she said simply, as though it explained everything.
"Well, I do not like him," Draco snapped, though his voice lacked the venom he intended.
Hermione smirked, her eyes warm in that infuriating way. "You're impossible, Malfoy."
"And yet you keep coming back," he muttered under his breath, the words slipping out before he could stop them. The corners of his mouth betrayed him, twitching upward even as he tried to hold on to his scowl.
The purring grew louder, vibrating against his thighs as Crookshanks kneaded his claws into the fabric of his trousers before finally settling with a satisfied sigh. Draco leaned his head back against the sofa and stared at the ceiling in utter defeat. How had his life come to this? Once, he had been feared, his name spoken with reverence or loathing depending on the company. Now he was reduced to sitting beneath a smug orange furball and the woman who could both infuriate and enchant him in equal measure.
Perhaps the worst part was not that he tolerated it, but that a part of him almost liked it. Almost.
Maybe the beast wasn't so bad after all. Or maybe he was just losing his mind.
Her sharp voice cut through his thoughts like a gust of winter air. "As we close in on your last week, how do you feel?"
Draco lifted his head slowly, dragging his gaze to her. She leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, the faint light from the hall catching the edges of her curls. Her face was a careful mask, her eyes unreadable, but her presence filled every corner of the room until he felt smothered by it.
"You are not my therapist, Granger," he said, sharper than he intended.
Her lips curved into a smirk, though her eyes betrayed the flash of irritation. "And yet here I am, asking you questions, keeping you company. You might try gratitude once in a while."
He scoffed and shifted beneath the weight of Crookshanks sprawled over his lap. His hand twitched, wanting to shove the beast away but unwilling to betray how much it unsettled him. "Company? Last time you brought a whore. Now this thing is clawing up my sofa. Honestly, I would take the whore."
Her smirk iced over. One brow lifted, mocking and cruel. "If that is the kind of companionship you crave, I can call Mindy again. I am sure she would be delighted to… help you with whatever it is you think you do not need from me."
The words cut. His jaw tightened until it ached. He lurched forward as though struck, his voice tearing from him before he could rein it in. "Stop this!" The room rang with the force of it. Crookshanks startled, tail lashing in irritation, but remained where he was, vibrating with stubborn purrs. "I do not need it, woman. I do not need anyone."
The air went still.
Her face hardened, the softness gone. She regarded him as if he were something pitiful, some fragile thing she had mistaken for steel. "Well," she said, calm enough to unnerve him, "that makes things easier, doesn't it?"
He froze.
Before he could speak, she turned on her heel. Her curls swung with the movement, final and merciless. "Crooks. Come, love. We are going home."
He couldn't move, couldn't breathe. The words pressed against his throat, desperate and choking. Don't leave.
But nothing came out.
She scooped the cat from his lap with brisk efficiency, erasing the last trace of her presence from his flat as if she were erasing him altogether.
"Hermione—"
She didn't stop. She didn't turn. She marched through the doorway without a pause, the slam of the door reverberating through his chest like a blow.
The silence that followed was cavernous. He sat frozen, his body numb, the absence of her presence louder than any insult she had ever thrown at him. His chest ached, a hollow splitting open as though something had been wrenched from him and would never return.
"Why?" he whispered, the sound cracking in the stillness. "Why do I always do this?"
His hands dragged over his face, his fingers pressing into his temples as though he could force back the spiral. But the truth pressed in, merciless. He had done it again. Pushed, shoved, driven her away because that was what he did best. He did not know how to keep people. He did not know how to love without breaking everything he touched.
And gods, he loved her.
The truth struck like a curse, cutting through bone and marrow. He loved her sharpness, her impossible temper, the mess of her hair and the fire in her eyes. He loved the way she argued with him until his blood sang. He loved the way she stayed when she should have walked away. She made him believe, even for an instant, that he might still be something worth saving.
But she was gone. And the silence she left behind pressed heavier than chains.
He stood abruptly, pacing the room like a caged animal. He wanted to chase after her, to beg her to stay, to explain that he didn't mean what he said. But his feet felt like lead, his body frozen by the fear of rejection.
His eyes landed on the spot where Crookshanks had been moments before, the cushions still indented with the weight of the beast. He let out a bitter laugh. Even the damn cat had left him.
"Pathetic," he muttered to himself, running a hand through his hair.
He couldn't keep doing this. He couldn't keep pushing her away and then wallowing in his own misery when she left. He had to do something, be something, for her.
Because life without her wasn't life at all.
And if that meant enduring the judgmental glare of her orange monstrosity of a cat, then so be it.
•••
3 Days Left
The flat was too quiet. Silence pressed into his ears until he thought he could hear his own pulse, heavy and uneven, thudding against his skull. The faint ticking of the clock on the wall mocked him, each second dragging out like a blade across skin. Three days. That was all that remained.
Three days until he could walk out of this prison. Three days until the Ministry put his wand back in his hand and told him he was free to go. Free to step into a world that despised him, that would never let him forget what he had been. They called it freedom, but it felt like a death sentence stretched thin.
And what was freedom, when she would not be part of it?
His gaze fixed on the table in front of him, on the amber bottle glinting under the weak lamp. The pills inside shifted with the slightest movement, a soft rattle that teased him, promised him peace. His hand shook as he reached forward, unscrewing the cap with slow precision, as if the act itself demanded reverence.
The pills rolled into his palm, small and white, their edges cool against his skin. He stared at them for a long time. Xanax had been his shadow these last weeks. It did not question him. It did not look at him with disappointment or pity. It softened the jagged edges of his thoughts, dulled the knife of his self-loathing, gave him a few hours of something close to silence.
He rubbed one pill between his fingers, tracing its shape as though it might whisper an answer. His voice cracked when he spoke, rough and empty, unfamiliar even to his own ears. "You're the only one who's kind to me."
The words barely left his lips before he tipped his head back and swallowed, chasing the bitterness with a mouthful of lukewarm water. The taste lingered, metallic and sharp, but soon the haze began to unfurl inside him. The air grew softer. His chest loosened. His thoughts slowed. The storm receded a little.
But it wasn't enough.
His eyes drifted back to the bottle. How many? How many would it take to end the noise for good? His fingers twitched with the urge to reach again, to pour the whole handful into his mouth and let it finish him.
You do not deserve this life, a voice whispered.
He squeezed his eyes shut, but the weight of it crashed into him anyway. Memories flooded like poison. His mother's face, sharp with disdain, her love always conditional. His father's shadow, demanding and cold, shaping him into something brittle and hollow. The boy who had carried a Mark on his arm and the stench of failure in his chest.
And then Hermione.
Her voice, always sharp, always sure. The way she looked at him when no one else dared to, as if there was something worth salvaging buried under the rot. She had seen him broken, seen him at his weakest, and had not turned away. She had argued with him, laughed at him, reminded him that he was still alive. She had made him believe, for one stolen moment, that perhaps he was not beyond redemption.
But she was not here now. She had walked out, and he had let her. He had driven her away with the same cruelty he used to shield himself, the same cruelty that had gutted every chance he had ever been given.
"Good," he muttered, his voice unsteady, barely audible in the heavy silence. "She deserves better than this. Better than me."
The tears came before he could stop them. Hot, relentless, they streaked down his pale cheeks, burning his skin. His hands pressed against his face, desperate to hide, as though someone might see him unravel like this. His body shook with each sob, jagged and raw, the sound tearing from him in gasps that left him trembling.
The pills on the table blurred through the haze of his tears. He wondered if they were watching him. If they were waiting. If they knew they were about to become more than a crutch, more than a shield, more than a momentary reprieve.
He whispered the thought like a confession. "I deserve to die."
The words echoed in the room, final and devastating, and no one was there to contradict him.
The thought clung to him, dark and insidious, coiling tighter and tighter until it was the only thing he could hear. What had he ever done to deserve happiness? To deserve forgiveness? Every mistake, every cruel word, every cowardly silence pressed against him like ghosts demanding repayment. The weight of it crushed the air from his lungs.
The clock ticked on, relentless, a cruel reminder that time marched forward whether he was ready or not. Each second scraped against his nerves, dragging him closer to the moment when he would have to face himself again.
His hand reached for the bottle once more, fingers brushing the smooth glass. His breath hitched, his chest tightening as if the act alone sealed his fate. For a fleeting second, he saw her face in his mind's eye, sharp and unyielding, standing in the doorway with her arms crossed, her eyes full of fire that burned straight through him.
"What would you think of me now?" he whispered into the silence. His voice cracked, brittle and raw, the words hanging in the air like ash.
The thought was unbearable. He could not imagine her finding him like that, yet part of him wondered if she already expected it.
With a sudden surge of anger, he hurled the bottle across the room. It hit the wall with a violent crack, glass splintering as the pills scattered across the floor, white shards against the darkness like a thousand tiny stars.
Draco collapsed back onto the sofa, his chest heaving as though he had run a great distance, though he had not moved an inch. The silence pressed in on him, thicker now, heavier, almost mocking. The only sound left was his ragged breathing and the steady thud of his heart threatening to tear its way out of his ribs.
He buried his face in his hands, trembling, his body folding inward as though he could make himself disappear. He told himself this was the right choice, that it was good the bottle was gone, but the emptiness clawing at his insides only grew sharper.
Far across the city, Hermione had been restless all night. She tried to read, tried to force herself into sleep, but her instincts screamed at her with a relentless urgency she could not ignore. Something was wrong. She paced her small flat for hours, chewing at her lip until it bled, her mind circling back again and again to Draco.
He had been worse these past days, quieter in ways that unsettled her. His silences were not the measured ones she had grown accustomed to, but heavier, brittle things that could snap apart without warning. His eyes, when they met hers, looked as if he were carrying something far beyond his own strength. His occasional biting remarks no longer stung. They sounded desperate, like the sharp edge of a man about to break.
And then, as if the universe itself confirmed her worst fears, her heart jolted violently in her chest. A pull, deep and terrible, seized her as though something inside her knew with absolute certainty that she was already too late.
Her breath caught, panic crashing through her veins. She did not stop to think. She grabbed her wand, the decision instinctive, and with a crack of displaced air she apparated straight into his flat.
"MALFOY!"
Her voice thundered through the room, ricocheting off the walls. The place was dim, suffocating, the curtains drawn tight to keep the world out. The air reeked of despair and stale breath.
Her eyes found him instantly. He lay sprawled across the sofa, limp and pale, his body slumped like a marionette with its strings cut.
Her heart lurched. For one terrible moment she thought he was already gone.
"Malfoy!" she cried again, her voice breaking as she stumbled forward, every step heavy with dread.
His chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths. Relief and terror tangled violently inside her. On the floor beside him, the shattered pill bottle glinted under the dim light, its contents scattered like the remnants of some grotesque celebration.
She fell to her knees beside him, hands already reaching, her entire body shaking. With no hesitation, she slapped his face, harder than she had ever struck anyone before.
"WAKE UP!" she screamed, her voice cracking under the weight of her fear and fury.
His head jerked, his eyelids fluttering weakly. A groan slipped from his lips, thick and sluggish, and for a second his gaze caught hers.
"Darling?" he mumbled, his words slurred, as though he were trapped between sleep and death.
The sound split her in half. Her fingers gripped his face, forcing his head upright so he could not slip away again. Her hands trembled, her nails biting into his skin.
"You absolute idiot," she hissed, her voice shaking. "What the hell did you do to yourself? Do you even realise how close—how bloody close—you came to leaving me standing here with your corpse?"
Her voice broke, raw and ragged, and she stopped, dragging in a deep breath, fighting to steady herself as her chest heaved.
Draco blinked up at her, confusion and shame warring in the cloudy gray of his eyes. His lashes stuck together, damp from the tears he had not meant to shed, his voice barely a rasp. "I didn't—"
"Don't you dare try to deny it," she cut in, her voice sharp enough to slice the air between them. "I know exactly what this is. I've been where you are, Malfoy. And let me tell you, it's not noble and it's not tragic. It's bloody selfish. Did you even stop for a second to think about what this would do to me?"
Her words landed harder than the slap that had roused him, striking something deep and raw inside his chest. He turned his face away, unable to endure the fire in her gaze, the sheer weight of her disappointment.
"I didn't ask you to care," he muttered, so weakly he could barely hear himself. The admission tasted bitter on his tongue.
"And yet, here I am," she snapped back, her voice trembling with fury but threaded through with something else. It was softer, desperate, almost pleading. "Because no matter how much you try to drive me out, no matter how sharp your words get, I do care. And you're not allowed to give up, Draco. Not while I'm here."
She did not give him a chance to answer. Her wand was in her hand before he realised it, her lips moving quickly through a diagnostic spell. Blue light skimmed across his body, illuminating his pallor, the tremor in his veins, the poison heavy in his system. Her movements were efficient but her hands shook as if every ounce of control cost her dearly.
"You've poisoned yourself," she said finally, her voice tight, forcing calm. "Those pills don't just dull you. They break you down. We need to flush them out before they take more."
Draco watched her in silence, his breath shallow, his guilt pressing down harder than the nausea that churned in his gut. She looked both furious and terrified, her wild hair falling in her face, her cheeks stained with tears and blotched with heat. In the haze, she seemed almost unreal, like an avenging angel sent to drag him back from the pit he had chosen.
"Hermione…" he whispered, the syllables fragile in his mouth.
"Don't talk," she snapped, not even glancing at him. "Save your strength. You'll need it."
She conjured a glass of water, her hand steady as she lifted it to his lips. He obeyed, swallowing with difficulty, the liquid burning down his raw throat. A second spell followed, her voice low and steady, and suddenly he was heaving, his body convulsing as the poison surged out of him. She held him upright through it, one hand at the back of his neck, the other braced against his chest, her grip firm yet heartbreakingly gentle.
He collapsed back when it was over, trembling and utterly spent, sweat clinging to his hairline. Hermione sank beside him on the edge of the sofa, her shoulders sagging as though she had carried the full weight of his body and his choices at once. The anger in her face cracked, leaving only exhaustion and something wounded.
"Why?" she whispered at last, her voice thin, fragile as glass. "Why would you do this after you promised me you wouldn't?"
Draco turned his head, the movement sluggish. His eyes were glassy, unfocused, but somewhere in the blur there was truth. His lips parted and closed before he managed the words, his voice broken and bare.
"Because I can't do this without you," he confessed. The words came out like a confession torn from his bones. "Because every time I think of you leaving, it feels like the ground gives way and I'm falling. I am nothing without you, Hermione. I hate myself for needing you so much, but I cannot stop. I do not know how."
Her breath caught, sharp and painful in her chest, as though his words had pierced her straight through. For a moment she could not answer. She only stared at him, at the man who both infuriated and unsettled her, the man who could be cruel and unbearable, yet who now looked utterly broken in her hands.
"You bloody fool," she said finally, her voice trembling as her throat tightened. "Do you really think I would just walk away after all of this? After everything? After you? You insufferable, arrogant, ridiculous man."
Something flickered at his mouth, the faintest ghost of a smile that never fully reached his eyes. "I think you would be better off," he murmured, as if the thought was not just truth but inevitability.
The tension that followed was thick enough to drown them both, heavy and suffocating, yet neither of them looked away. They sat locked together in the silence, every breath loaded, every heartbeat too loud. Both of them were stripped bare, exhausted and aching, yet rooted in place, unable to sever what bound them.
"Well, you're wrong," she said, her voice firm, steadier than she felt. Her eyes burned into his, fierce and unrelenting. "And if you ever try something like this again, I swear to Merlin, I will kill you myself."
His lips twitched again, faint and fragile, sadness curling behind it, but there was something else too, some flicker of gratitude he could never put into words.
"Noted," he whispered, his voice low and hoarse.
Silence stretched between them, not sharp this time but weighted, thick with everything they could not yet say. It was not the kind of silence that begged to be broken, but one that wrapped itself around them like a fragile truce, filled with the unspeakable. Regret sat there with them, but so did relief, and in that fragile balance neither one dared move too quickly.
Almost without thought, Hermione leaned forward, her body following the pull of something stronger than reason. Her hands found his face, her fingers trembling as they brushed against the roughness of his jaw. The heat of her palms steadied him, anchoring him against the hollow ache that still churned inside his chest. Draco closed his eyes, his lashes fluttering against her skin as if to drink in her touch for as long as it was offered.
"Don't you ever scare me like that again," she whispered, her voice thin and trembling, carrying the crack of something she had fought too long to hold together.
His eyes opened slowly, gray and raw, stripped of their usual sharpness. "I promise," he murmured, and though the words were quiet, they seemed to carry more weight than anything he had said in years. Something in her chest twisted painfully, because she wanted to believe him, even as she feared he could not.
She slipped her arm beneath his, steadying him as she coaxed him up from the sofa. He leaned into her more than he wanted to admit, his legs unsteady and his breath shallow. She bore the weight without complaint, guiding him down the hallway with the determined care of someone who refused to let him crumble. His head hung low, his pride cracking under the reality of his weakness, but her arm never faltered.
When they reached the bedroom, he sank down onto the mattress with a heavy exhale, dragging her with him before she could retreat. His arms locked around her like chains, pulling her against his chest. His face burrowed into the curve of her neck, and he drew in a shuddering breath, as though her presence was oxygen and he had been starved too long.
"You smell like parchment and chaos," he muttered, his voice muffled against her skin, equal parts reverence and exhaustion.
"Charming," she replied, the corners of her mouth softening despite herself. Her fingers found his hair, stroking it gently, combing through the pale strands as if soothing a restless child.
He lifted his head slowly, pressing a faint kiss to her temple, tentative and fleeting, as if he feared she might vanish if he lingered too long. Another kiss followed at her cheek, lighter still, no more than a ghost of contact. He seemed to be testing how much he was allowed, how much she might give before she pulled away.
"Why are you so insistent on saving me?" he whispered, his voice carrying something fragile, something desperate. His gray eyes searched hers, wide and unguarded, as if begging her for a truth he did not believe he deserved.
Hermione tilted her head, her lips twitching into a smirk that softened the weight of the question. "Maybe I just like you when you're clingy after you've vomited."
A low groan escaped him, and he rolled his eyes, though his arms refused to release her. "That is not funny."
"It's a little funny," she teased, her voice lightening for the first time since she had apparated into his flat. A spark of mischief glinted in her gaze, like sunlight breaking through storm clouds.
"Why are you so insufferably annoying?" he asked, his tone stripped of venom, carrying only the weary affection of someone who had already lost the fight to keep her at a distance. "Must you always be like this?"
"Must," she said simply, her grin widening.
He sighed with theatrical exaggeration, as though her presence was both his ruin and his salvation. Still, his arms tightened around her, holding her as if letting go was not an option he could endure. "You are intolerable," he said, his tone softened into something that sounded suspiciously like devotion.
"Shut up, you piece of shit," she shot back, though her smile had not left her lips. She shifted closer in his lap, her hands flattening against his chest as her eyes locked on his. Her voice dropped, low and firm. "Kiss me, perhaps?"
Draco arched one pale brow, the corner of his mouth curving into the ghost of a smirk. "Are we demanding kisses now?"
"Definitely," she replied, her tone unwavering, her gaze challenging him to refuse.
He did not.
His hands slid down to her waist, strong and sure despite the tremor still running through his body, and he pulled her against him until there was no space left to argue with. His lips found hers with a deliberate slowness, as though he feared that if he moved too quickly, she might slip away. The kiss was not desperate in its pace, but desperate in its weight. Every brush, every lingering press carried the storm of everything they had not said, all the ache that had nearly broken them.
She melted into it before she could think better of it, her fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as if anchoring herself to him. The kiss deepened gradually, tenderness giving way to something fiercer, a release of tension neither of them could have put into words. It was an apology and a plea, a confession and a promise, all wound into the simple act of lips moving against lips.
When they finally broke apart, Hermione's cheeks burned with heat, her breath short and uneven. Her heart hammered so violently that she could feel it in her throat. Draco stayed close, his forehead pressed against hers, and for the first time in what felt like forever, he was smiling without bitterness. It was faint, barely there, but it was real.
"You are impossible," he murmured, his voice roughened by the edges of emotion he was too tired to hide.
"And you are insufferable," she shot back, though her voice had softened, warm enough to make the words lose their sting. Her fingers traced idle circles over his chest, following the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, as if proving to herself that he was still here.
They lingered like that, wrapped up in a silence that no longer hurt but held. The air around them seemed lighter, though the weight of what had almost happened still pressed at the edges of the room. Neither wanted to let go, as though releasing each other might invite the darkness back in.
Draco's hand slid up her back, resting between her shoulder blades in a hold that was both protective and possessive. He closed his eyes briefly, savoring the feel of her warmth against him. "Stay," he whispered, not as a demand, but as something close to prayer.
She drew back just enough to meet his gaze, her lips curving into the faintest of smiles. "For tonight," she answered softly, though they both knew she was promising more than just a night.
Draco's breath left him in a shaky exhale, his smile widening just a fraction, the kind of smile he would only ever allow her to see. He leaned forward again, brushing his lips against hers once more, feather-light this time, as if sealing her words into something binding.
And for that night, there was no war, no past, no venom in his name. There was only the fragile, unyielding tether between them, and the quiet certainty that neither of them would ever truly let the other go.