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Chapter Text

VOLUME XIII

Chapter 1

5, September 2:52 p.m.

Shouted commands from Aurors bounced off the room's stone walls as inmates shuffled through the process.

I had been stripped of my dress robes and given Azkaban stripes and charmed wrist and ankle irons to prevent wandless magic from being performed. Dully, I noted the prison number over my chest  /\ Y 1 4 2  as an Auror forcefully shoved me onto the chair to have my hair shorn.

The shears were jagged and cold as they cut across my scalp. Snow-white locks fluttered silently onto my lap and across my bare feet, resting on the stone floor at either side of the chair. A cold kiss of a wand touched the base of my neck, followed by the sickening scent of burnt flesh as a matching prison number was branded there.

The buzzing of the clippers cut off as another Auror grabbed a fistful of material at the scruff of my neck, jerking me from the chair and pushing me into the line of inmates waiting to be herded through the court for the Minister of Magic to cast our fate. I rubbed a hand over my head, feeling the buzz cut tickle across my palm, the same cut all the inmates now sported.

I gritted my teeth against the rhythmic clanging of iron thrumming through my head as I was roughly placed in the line of shuffling feet dragging chains down the hallway leading into Wizengamot Court Room. Thankfully, the rattling of chains ceased momentarily as the remaining prisoners filled in behind.  

A line of War Crime Wizards awaiting their fate.

The heavy double doors swung wide to allow the first in line to enter the courtroom, and in unison, the line took two steps forward to fill the gap. On and on, the process went until I stood before the doors. I had kept calm until now, Occluding as much as possible during the arrest and processing, but as the doors before me opened and I took the first step over the threshold into Wizengamot, my Occulmency walls wavered, and my eyes darted around the Courtroom.

The chamber was constructed of dark, ancient stone engraved with runes. Large pillars rose to the vaulted ceilings, and flickering torchlight cast long shadows across the room. The utter silence was only broken by the rustling of robes from the gallery of Ministry Members, their plum-colored robes stark against the room's darkness. “Draco Lucius Malfoy, come forward, " the Minister of Magic shouted from his pulpit.

On numb feet, I walked to the lone chair in the center of the room; I cast my eyes to the observer's gallery. I stumbled briefly as I saw Blaise Zabini seated in the witness row, my relief almost palpable. But as my gaze roved over the observer’s gallery, there was a  notable absence, and fear clutched in my gut. Zabini was alone; the wild head of hair and fierce face I desperately searched for were missing.

I slammed my occlumency walls against that fear as I took the accused's seat. She will come; she will be here,  I chanted in my mind as I looked up to Kingsley Shacklebolt. The new Minister of Magic, dressed in black robes behind the pulpit, looked down on me with utter disdain.

In the aftermath of the war, the political power grab had been fought harder than the war to defeat Voldemort. And no one had fought harder than Kingsley Shacklebolt, determined to make a historical name for himself. His sentencing for accused war crimes had been stiff, to say the least.

“Draco Lucius Malfoy, you are accused of the following War Crimes. Kingsley stated in an almost bored tone. “Use of Dark Magic, Numerous acts of terror and violence against Wizards, Witches, and Muggles, Torture, and lastly, Murder. How do you plead?” Kingsley's voice echoed through the cavernous court for several seconds after finishing the damming list of crimes.

I was, in fact, guilty of them; however, they were all committed while working with the Order to bring down Voldemort.

Hermione had recruited Zabini and me into the Order a year ago after my parents' murders by Voldemort's hand. However, the only proof of this lay in Hermione’s memories, which she declared she would gladly hand over to the Ministry to aid in my defense.

“Section 4B article F of the Defensive Arts Code states that Unforgivables enacted in defense of the Ministry of Magic must be considered prior to rendering a verdict and sentencing,” Hermione had stated firmly, eyebrows drawn, mouth set in a hard, stubborn line.

She will come, she will be here,  I chanted again.

“How does the accused plead?” Kingsley boomed again.

She would come and give her memories for me. I trusted her.  

“Not guilty,” I managed to say in a deep, steady voice, belying my fear.

Gasps and the rustling of robes shifted through the room at my plea of innocence.

Kingsley raised his wand hand to quiet the gallery. “A diagnostic was performed on your wand at your arrest, confirming the crimes leveled against you. How do you account for that?” the Minister sneered.

“I was working with  the Order from the inside to weaken Voldemort's campaign, which ultimately weakened his forces and allowed Potter access to deliver the killing curse,” I replied, spine straight, head high, eyes level on the Minister.

A fresh round of murmurs tittered through the room at my claim.

“What proof do you have of this?” Kingsley demanded.

There was a sudden crash on the other side of the doors where Ministry Members and witnesses could enter the court, followed by a loud, decidedly female shout. All heads turned toward the doors. Kingsley quickly leveled his wand at the doors, casting a silencing charm, effectively cutting off the shouts on the other side.

“I have a witness,” I said, my head still turned toward the now silent doors, my hand motioning toward Zabini in the witness box.

Is she causing the scene behind the doors? She promised to come, and she will be here.

“Blaise Zabini, step forward and present your witness testimony,” Kingsley demanded, his expression smug.

Relief flooded me as my closest friend stood in the witness box. He cast a nervous glance my way, and I met his gaze, giving a firm nod of reassurance.

Blaise cleared his throat, then turned to Kingsley. “I know nothing of the accused working for the Order. My presence here today is merely to confirm the charges leveled against him.”

Zabini finished speaking and quickly sat down.

The air was sucked out of me. What the fuck?

“Blaise,” I tried, my voice barely above a whisper as I tried to catch my breath. I needed him to look at me, to see me. Why was my best friend- my longest friend- saying this?

“Zabini,” I ordered this time, the voice of a Death Eater of his Commander. Nothing, he kept his eyes straight ahead, focused on Kingsley.

“Silence,” Kingsley shouted at me from the pulpit.

The Minister's gaze bore down on Blaise. “Am I to understand that this is your truthful and final statement to the court?”

Blaise never looked at me again. Instead, he stared straight at Kingsley. “That is my statement. I can confirm the crimes he is accused of, and confirm he was never a member of the Order.”

The room tilted, spinning sickeningly around me.

“If there are no more witnesses, then I am ready to cast my sentence,” Kingsley boomed. His words echoed, swirling around my head. The bitter taste of betrayal filled my mouth, and I swallowed my nausea.

Where was Hermione?

Before Kingsley could utter another word, I forced the words out. “Hermione Granger. She’s the one who recruited me to the Order a year ago. She said she would provide her memories as a defense; she has the proof you need; just call her to testify.” My voice was nothing like that of the Death Eater I was as I now begged Kingsley in a shaky, unsteady plea.

Kingsley arched an eyebrow. “Hermione Granger, The Golden Girl,  recruited you , Draco Malfoy, into the Order?”

“Yes,” I implored, desperate now. “Blaise-Blaise was recruited at the same time. Look at his memories. You can confirm his against mine and Hermione’s. I was working for  you in the Order to help  the Ministry.”

“Hermione Granger is a war hero, and her time is valuable. If she intended to testify in your defense, she would have placed herself on the docket,” Kingsley said smoothly. “As to that, she is not listed as a witness, nor will I summon her to defend a known Death Eater.” He smirked, glancing at the daming mark on my forearm, ever-present though faded since Voldemort's death. Kingsley raised his wand hand and glanced around at the gathered Ministry members.

“I, Kingsley Shacklebolt, Minister of Magic, do hereby formally strip Draco Lucius Malfoy’s name from the Sacred Twenty-Eight. As the sole heir to Malfoy Manor, it and all assets under the Malfoy name will be seized by the Ministry and allocated to the war effort for rebuilding. Furthermore, I sentence Draco Lucius Malfoy to the Kiss - his body will be held at Azkaban Prison until its death.”

The World crashed down around me as the words of my fate hung in the air. Kingsley’s expression was full of disdain, but there was something else. Victory. Cunning. Deceit.

Realization slammed into me. My fate had been sealed long before I walked into this room. The sheer size of the Malfoy estate would make any Wizard or Witch desperate to claim it. The money grab was equally alluring as the political power grab since the war. I had been set up, played like a fool, strung along by the Golden Girls' false promises.

Lured in by her earnestness. By the shy, coy looks. The gentle embraces. The stolen moments we had shared away from the war. The times we had held each other unloading our grief, our trauma, our fears—a year’s worth of trust.

And then-that night. That one glorious night right before my arrest.

Her fervent promises as they took me away: that she would help me, that she would exonerate me.

But in the end, it had all been false; she had sold herself to the Order. Always for the Fucking Order.

Hermione had been like all the others, and that truth was harder to swallow than my sentence of the Kiss.

I had helped the Order. And all along, this was their plan. Use me. Use the Death Eater to get as close to Voldemort as possible. Help Potter. Always fucking help Potter, the rest of us be damned.

Then, when my usefulness ran out, take everything I had and claim it for themselves.

But Blaise- What was he to gain from this betrayal?

The sharp crack of Kingsley’s wand striking the pulpit jolted me from my thoughts. My body was numb as the Aurors lifted me from the chair.

The Aurors levitated me, my feet hovering a few inches above the ground not to slow their pace. One held each of my elbows, guiding me toward a third set of doors. We exited into a long, dark corridor. Gleaming black tiles lined the entirety of the hall, stretching endlessly ahead. My chains dragged across the tiles, sending brief sparks as we moved.

The corridor opened into a vast, brightly lit antechamber. After another sharp left turn, we arrived at the designated disapparation point, used to transport prisoners.

Wizards and Witches bustled past, carrying on their daily duties as if my death sentence meant nothing. They barely spared a glance at the Aurors securing their prisoner, preparing to apparate him away, never to be seen again.

Fucking hypocrites.

Then- movement to my right.

A set of doors slid open, clanged shut

And there she was.

Whatever warmth remained in my heart froze solid as I saw Hermione wrapped tightly in someone’s arms—her head tucked under his chin, cheek pressed against his chest, looking away from me, her body clinging to him her hands fisted into his shirt,  in what could only be described as an intimate embrace, a lover’s embrace.

Blaise.

The last thing I saw before the Aurors apparated me away was Blaise burying his face in that riot of curls. He inhaled deeply, then angled his head toward me.

His eyes locked onto mine, pinning me like a predator savoring the moment before the kill. A slow smirk curled at his lips—calm, victorious, and laced with something cruel. It wasn't just confidence; it was certainty, the kind that made my stomach twist. Whatever game they had been playing, he had always known the ending. And I was just now realizing there had been a game at all, and I’d lost.

Then-Crack.

And I was gone.

We landed with a crack so loud it rippled the ground beneath us. Disoriented and dizzy, I could not get my bearings. The pressure during the apparition was so intense that I was sure I had been splinched. We had traveled farther than I ever had before. The Aurors holding me by the arms was the only thing preventing me from collapsing.

I was levitated again before I could gather my senses, turned, and guided down an uneven stone path. The effects of the long-distance apparition weighed heavily on me- my head felt like lead, my brain reduced to mush, and pain lanced from temple to temple.

I could only stare at my feet, floating just above the jagged stones.

A loud rattle of heavy chains falling echoed through the air, followed by the thunderous slam of a drawbridge crashing onto solid ground. The noise jolted me enough to lift my head barely- to take in my surroundings.

My vision swam, the edges blurred, but I could make out an enormous red stone fortress, the walls built from crimson-hued quartz, a type of stone I had never seen before. Sunlight struck its surface, casting an eerie red fog-like haze into the air. Turrets loomed at each end, and dust still billowed from the drawbridge that had just dropped across a deep moat.

This was not Azkaban.

No

I was far from Wizarding Britain.

Forcing myself to shake off the effects of the Apparation, I took in the rest of my surroundings.

The dark ocean surrounding the island stretched endlessly in every direction. Waves crashed violently against sheer cliff walls, their salty spray curling over the jagged edges. The island was barely larger than the prison atop it, a fortress of crimson stone looming over the water.

I turned my head, searching again for any sign of land. There was none. I couldn't tell if it was by magical enchantment or if there was literally nothing else for miles.

The magic here was heavy and oppressive. I was no stranger to dark magic, and this rock I stood upon was the darkest I had ever felt, including that of the Dark Lord.

I knew with certainty that you would never leave again once you entered this place.

The Aurors stopped at the edge of the drawbridge. I could sense a magical demarcation line preventing us from going further. An enormous iron door at the front of the prison groaned open across the bridge.

A tall, thin Wizard with a hawk-like nose and long salt and pepper hair mixing into an equally long beard, and wearing tattered green robes, came through the door flanked by two others, guards perhaps.

He threw his hands in the air. “Ah! A new tenant!” he exclaimed, clapping his hands like a kid before Christmas, ready to open their gifts. “Yes, yes, it's just in time; we lost one a mere month ago,” he said with a pout and a downcast look. “But no matter! The cycle continues!”

When the Wizard reached the demarcation line, he pulled his wand from a leather holster, riding low on his thin hips. He waved it in a jerky pattern, flicked his wrist once, and the ward rippled and fell before us.

“I’ll take him from here,” he said in a sing-song voice. “Welcome to Madstone.”

His grip tightened around my elbow as he yanked me forward onto the drawbridge. Behind us, a loud crack of apparition signaled the Aurors’ departure, leaving me alone with my new captor.

Still levitated, the Warden dragged me across the bridge, my body weightless but my mind heavy and reeling.

Instinctively, I glanced over the edge.

A moat of dark, shifting water churned below.

No, not water.

Dementors.

A writhing, endless mass of them.

I quickly averted my eyes least one of them decided to suck the soul from my body. But what was the point of waiting? Whether a Dementor delivered the Kiss on the drawbridge or inside made no difference. My body would decay here at Madstone, not Azkaban, where I was sentenced to go- either way, the end was the same.

“I am Armond Samuel, Warden of Madstone,” he stated as he led me through the prison’s entrance and the stone-carved halls.

The exterior was crimson, but inside, the stones were dark gray, bordering on black. Water dripped in thin rivulets down the damp walls. Rats scurried along the edges of the corridor, and the ceaseless moans of other prisoners drifted up through the stairwells as he guided me deeper into the fortress.

“What led you here to Madstone?” the Warden asked casually as if we were having high tea in a parlor.

“Lies and deceit,” I said flatly. “I’m innocent.”

“Oh, I know,” he said with a chuckle.

I shot him a sharp look. “Do you mock me?”

“Oh no, “ he replied, a smirk tugging at his lips. “I know perfectly well that you are innocent.”

He gestured around us as we descended another flight of stairs. “Why else would they send you here, to Madstone? If you were guilty, there are many other prisons where they could have left you to rot. No, Madstone is where the Ministry sends the truly innocent. The ones they’re ashamed of. The ones they want to be forgotten.”

He stopped at an arched wooden door. “Ah, here we are. Let's have a look at your quarters, shall we?” he said with a wide grin showing a row of fetid teeth.

“I seem to have left my luggage back at the Manor,” I replied sarcastically, hoping to rile him up. Bring the dementor already. I did not want to spend another second here; I just wanted to end it, now .

“Ah, a sense of humor! I like that. Most of the poor sobs we get here break too fast for my taste. I hope you can hold on to that humor. It gives me a challenge, you see.” The fetid smile was eclipsed by an evil glint in his eye this time.

“No need to get excited there, Armond.  I was sentenced to the Kiss; unfortunately for you, there will be nothing left to break,” I countered haughtily, arching a brow and leveling him a look Narcissa Malfoy would have been proud of.

The Warden roared with maniacal laughter that echoed loudly through the prison halls.

“Oh, you are a jewel,” he said as he pulled his wand from the holster on his hip, tapped it twice on the lock on the cell door, and the door swung wide. With a flourish of his arm, he motioned for me to go before him as the levitation charm was removed.

He continued as I entered the room, “No, my dear Draco, there will be no Kiss. That is just the lie spun in the court to prevent loved ones from trying for appeals. The Ministry can't have people sticking their noses in now, can they? Imagine the chaos—the court system would stay bogged down indefinitely.”

He tsked, shaking his head.

“No, no. Madstone is much more effective. Cleaner for Ministry. Once a prisoner has supposedly had the Kiss, no one ever bothers to retrieve the body; too painful, you see, to only be able to retrieve the husk of a loved one.”

My body lurched as fear twisted painfully in my chest. No death sentence? My fate is to be locked away here in this dank, dark cell forever?

No!   This cannot be.

I tried to Occlude, to force my mental defenses in place, but the lingering effects of long-distance Apparition and the oppressive weight of this prison's dark magic made it impossible. My walls wouldn’t rise.

Don’t let him see your fear. My mother’s voice echoed in my mind. Fear is fuel for the darkness. Fear is the mind-killer.

I schooled my expression, locking away any trace of fear. Forcing myself to move, I turned to meet the Warden’s gaze. One perfect eyebrow arched, a replica of Lucius Malfoy’s sneer settling onto my lips. “Well, this is happy news,” I murmured, my voice smooth as silk.

I tore my gaze away from him, sweeping the room with a practiced indifference. It was dark and dank, and the stench of rot and decay clung to the air. Water dripped down the cold stone walls. Rats scurried along the edges, their tiny claws clicking, digging against the floor. Cobwebs hung thick in the corners.

“I do believe the accommodations are a bit lacking, though, Armond,” I continued smoothly. “If I’m to spend the foreseeable future here, I could do with a few amenities .”

Fear is the mind-killer.

When I turned back to him, his smile had faded into something more sinister—a slow, knowing smirk. His eyes gleamed, dark and amused, like a cat preparing to play with its prey.

He strolled around the cell, fingers trailing across the damp walls. Stopping before a single word- JUSTICE- carved roughly into the stone, he examined the long rows of tally marks beside it.

“People are always trying to motivate themselves,” he mused, tracing the marks with a long, dirty fingernail. “They start by counting the days, thinking it gives them control. But in the end, they lose interest, or they die.” He turned to face me, his smirk widening. “Initially, they are all full of bravado, much like yourself, but that quickly dies away too.”

Two guards appeared behind him, chains in hand. Without hesitation, they stepped forward, hooking the chains onto a pulley system hanging from the ceiling—one I hadn’t noticed before. At the ends of the chains, wide iron manacles gleamed in the dim light of the cell.

The warden shrugged off his robe and began rolling up the sleeves of his dingy white shirt. The guards moved efficiently, unfastening the  shackles placed on me by the court and replacing them with the new manacles.

“So,” he said with a wave of his hand toward the tally marks again, “I’ve devised a way to help inmates keep track of time. Usually, it’s just a simple beating,” Armond continued, his voice light, conversational. “But on their first day here, as in your case, I like to do something special. ”

The guards handed the warden the chain connected to the pulley deceive and, by extension, my wrists.

He tugged a sharp, violent pull.

Pain exploded through my shoulders as my arms wrenched above my head, my body stretched so taut that only my toes grazed the wet stone floor.

Frantically, I tried to occlude.

Nothing.

My walls wouldn’t rise.

Fear is the mind-killer.

I gritted my teeth and forced my face into the practiced mask I had worn for years. If I could not occlued, I had to find something to focus on. Don’t let him see the fear.

I brought the last image of the Ministry to the forefront of my mind and held it there until it burned into my brain. I stared at it so hard that it left an image in my literal vision: Blaise burying his face in Hermione’s hair, her arms clutching him as if she could not get close enough, the smirk on his face.

Armond stepped closer, tilting his head as he studied me.

“And if you’re wondering, just now, why me ?” He chuckled, voice dripping with mock sympathy. “The answer is simply, Why not you? ”

His smirk widened.

“Let’s begin, shall we?”

A black, dragon-scaled whip materialized in Armond’s hand. It’s tip-adorned with a juvenile dragon claw, roughly the length of my palm, most assuredly large enough to inflict a great deal of pain. With a flick of his wrist, the Warden uncoiled it. The claw clattered against the stone floor, scraping along its surface as he paced slowly behind me.

A slight sting sliced across my back, a cutting curse . My shirt split clean down the middle, the fabric slipping from my shoulders. Cold, damp air rushed over my exposed back. My mind reeled, screaming at me to prepare for what was coming.

I forced myself to focus. I had to get my walls up.

A weak, flimsy barrier formed in my mind, riddled with gaps and barely holding. But it was better than nothing at all. I concentrated, desperate to strengthen it. Sweat trickled down my temple as I summoned the image again—Blaise and Hermione—forcing myself to concentrate on it.

The warmth of Hermione’s golden curls spilled down her back. The same soft curls I had slipped my fingers through only days ago. The smooth curve of her lips as I did so, the way she had clung to me, whispered promises against my skin.

Lies.

The whip slithered across the floor. A shift of fabric then-

CRACK.

White-hot pain exploded across my back. The dragon claw bit deep into muscle, tearing through flesh. The whip recoiled, then snapped forward again, burying the claw deeper, raking it back, and plowing through skin and sinew.

I clenched my jaw, forcing myself deeper into the image before me. Detach! - I thought desperately,  I would not survive this otherwise.

CRACK.

Agony lanced through my ribs as the claw sank in and ripped back. The coppery scent of blood thickened in the damp air.

Focus.

Her hands fisted in Blaise’s shirt—the same hands that had been twined with mine- as I held them above her head. She looked up at me with wide, trusting whiskey-brown eyes.

CRACK.

Her arms were wrapped tightly around him. Her hands were fisted in his  shirt.

CRACK.

Her head tucked beneath Blasie’s chin. Her soft breaths against his chest.

CRACK.

Lies.

All of it.

A ruse.

Blaise’s smirk.

The envy in his eyes. The simmering hate I had never noticed before. How had I missed it?

A fool.

CRACK

I had been played.

CRACK.

Blaise’s lies to Kingsley.

Lies that put me here, his lies had been as loud and damning as Hermione’s absence from the court.

That fucking smirk.

 I would carve it from his face before my time was done. I vowed now, at this moment, as red-hot hatred filled every fractured space inside me.

 I welcomed it.

I let the hate fill me, fule me, fucking consume me. Make me irredeemable, I asked of it.

My Occlumency walls solidified, fortified by seething rage. The image of them, locked in their betrayal, became a permanent wallpaper binding and strengthening my Occlumency walls.

The whip continued to crack, louder now, filling the chamber with its merciless rhythm.

But I felt nothing.

The hate and rage consuming me summoned a vortex of tucked-away images that swirled to the forefront in my mind: every vile deed requested of me by Voldemort, the burning of the dark mark to do his bidding, my father's fanatical ramblings, his punishments at not being enough. My Mother's death because of her last act to help Potter and the Order, her whispered plea as she lay dying in my arms, Help them defeat him, End it.

This is how villains are made,  I thought distantly.

Then, the whip stilled, and there was a shift in the air. Heavy breathing behind me. Armond’s voice was hoarse and breathless with exertion as he said. “So nice to have a strong one back in the fold,” he murmured between gasping breaths. “But let’s not get cocky just yet.”

The whip sizzled through the air.

Pain-hot and blinding, erupted across my body as the whip lashed high on my left shoulder, wrapping forward, biting into the back of my neck, around my scalp, and whipping forward to my face.

My walls shattered and fell.

Excruciating pain ripped through me as the claw tore a deep gouge from the corner of my lip, across my cheek, up into my left eye, raking back into my hairline.

A roar of agony tore from my throat.

Armand exhaled a breathless chuckle.

“Happy first anniversary,” he crooned triumphantly.

Sniffing squeals, scratching, and the sharp sting of tiny teeth digging into my raw flesh were the things that woke me.

The room was black as pitch. My body burned with agony.

Rats.

I could feel them scrambling over me, their claws raking across my shredded back, nibbling at the exposed wounds left by the Warden’s whip. The side of my face-flayed open from the final strike-was their feast.

Panic surged through me. I tried to push myself up, to get away, but the moment I moved, pain exploded in me. A strangled cry escaped my lips. White spots burst behind my eyes. The darkness threatened to take me under again.

Then- Two sharp taps on the outdoor.

The lock slid free, and dim torchlight seeped into the cell as the door creaked open. I blinked against the sudden brightness, my one good eye adjusting slowly.

I forced myself upright with effort, pressing my right shoulder heavily against the wet stone wall. My head lolled forward, the swollen left side of my face dragging it down. Shallow, uneven breaths rattled from my chest.

I tried to inhale deeper.

Pain.

A violent cough wracked my body, fire tearing through my ribcage. Something warm and wet dribbled down my chin.

Blood.

My mind barely processed the thought—a punctured lung.

Good.

It wouldn’t be long now. If infection from the open wounds or the rat bites didn’t finish me, the deflated lung would. A twisted sort of relief settled over me. I almost smiled at the thought, but my lips were split open, so swollen that the expression never fully formed.

The soft shuffle of footsteps drew my attention.

An old, frail-looking witch entered the cell, her back hunched, her hands gnarled with age. With a flick of her wand, a torch on the far wall flared to life.

Light flooded the room.

The rats scattered, shrieking as they vanished into the shadows.

I raised a trembling hand to shield my eye from the sudden brightness.

The hag approached, stopping just outside my reach. Her lips twisted as she studied me. “Warden said, Just enough to staunch the bleeds and fix anything deadly, ” she croaked, her thick accent curling around each word.

Fuck. Of course.

I thought, as the horror of my situation settled into me, that Armond would not let his new toy die this quickly.

I clenched my jaw as she lifted her wand, the tip glowing with a dull yellow light. Flicking her wrist, she murmured an incantation.

Tiny orbs of light bloomed, arching in the air.

They drifted toward me, each one settling onto a lash mark, burrowing deep into the wounds-not to heal, but to stop the bleeding. The gashes remained open, jagged, raw.

Only slightly more attention was given to my punctured lung. I could breathe now—deeply, fully—but the broken ribs were left untouched to heal slowly, painfully on their own. The final, largest ball of light settled on my left eye. The yellow light flared briefly, restoring a bit of vision. It was blurry, like I was looking through murky water, and the periphery was lost.

Without another word, the hag turned and shuffled out of the cell. The door slammed shut. The lock clicked into place.

Silence.

My right shoulder remained pressed against the cold stone wall. Slowly, painfully, I lifted my head.

The word justice was carved into the wall before me.

I stared at it, unmoving, until the flickering torchlight burned the image into my vision so thoroughly that when I looked away, the word remained.

Next to my right hand lay a jagged piece of stone. It had crumbled from the wall, but its sharp edge remained intact.

With stiff, swollen fingers, I palmed it and forced my body to move through the pain. I stood. Stumbling forward, I caught myself against the wall, my left hand bracing my weight. My right hand trembled as I lifted the jagged stone to the cell wall.

The effort alone left me breathless. Every movement sent a fresh wave of agony through me, but still, I carved.

When I finally stepped back, my body shaking, my vision swimming, I stared at what I had drawn.

I burned the image into my mind, etching it as deeply into my soul as I had into the stone. A prisoner before me had carved the word justice , but I had struck a line through it. Beneath it, I carved a new word: revenge .

Chapter Text

Chapter 2

2, September 9:45 a.m.

3 Days Earlier

With unsteady hands, I reached out and took the post from Luna’s Owl that had landed at my flat moments ago.

“Thank you, Skrig,” I murmured, absently patting the top of its head. With a soft hoot, the Owl took flight.

 My fingers felt numb as I tore open the letter.

5, September 3 o’clock.

That was all Luna’s scratchy hand had written.

I exhaled a shaky breath. Neville had come through.

As an Auror, he had access to the inmate rosters for newly processed arrests. He’d managed to find out when Draco would appear before Wizengamot.

I let out another slow breath, allowing my shoulders to relax as I exhaled. Two days. I had time.

Relief washed over me.

The war trials were relentless, with hearings running day and night to clear the holding cells. I had feared Draco had already been processed, that they had already taken him away- even though his arrest had only been last night.

Four months had passed since Voldemort’s death and the war’s end, yet the chaos of its aftermath still raged. It had taken nearly another year after Harry’s initial confrontation with Voldemort in the forest, after he used the Resurrection Stone, for the war to conclude truly.

When Voldemort realized Harry was alive, he had gone into hiding. Narcissa Malfoy’s betrayal ultimately cost her life, as well as Lucius’s. In the wake of his mother’s brutal murder by Voldemort, Draco had approached me hesitantly, confiding in me that it had been his mother's dying wish that he free himself from the darkness and help bring an end to the war.

With the vital information from Draco and Blaise, the Order had weakened the remnants of Voldemort’s army enough that we could finally strike.

During the final battle, as Ron swung the blade and severed Nagini’s head, Harry cast the killing curse, ending Voldemort once and for all.

But victory came at a cost.

No sooner had Voldemort fallen than an unknown Death Eater unleashed a new acid-based curse, one developed in the depths of Voldemort’s army. It struck Harry before anyone could react.

Harry was dead.

Tears burned my eyes as I recalled Ron’s distraught face, his screams as he carried Harry’s lifeless body into the healer’s tent set up near the battlefield, begging me to do something. But there had been nothing left to save. The acid had melted away half of Harry’s torso and face.

Ron never recovered.

Days later, Ginny, swallowed by her own grief, had taken Ron with her back to the Burrow. I hadn’t seen or heard from either of them since. I had sent multiple missives checking in on them, all of which had gone unanswered.

Shaking my head to clear the memories, I wiped a stray tear from my face. Now was not the time for grief. Draco needed me, and I would not fail him. I had promised to provide evidence to clear his name and intended to keep that promise.

Grabbing my book bag, I strode to the fireplace, took a fistful of Floo powder, and tossed it. “Kingsley Shacklebolt’s office.”

The green flames roared to life, engulfing me. Moments later, I stepped out into the outer waiting area of the Minister of Magic’s office.

Kingsley’s assistant, Darla, barely glanced up from her desk, her expression bored.

“Appointment name?” she asked in a grating tone.

I swallowed my irritation. I had been here at least a dozen times since Kingsley took office. She knows my name.

Forcing my voice to remain calm, I said, “Hermione Granger, Darla. I don’t have an appointment, but it is imperative that I see him. I have important information- witness testimony for an upcoming trial.”

Darla didn’t bother hiding her eye roll.

A yellow piece of parchment floated toward me from the stack on her desk.

“Complete the witness intake form,” she droned. “It will be processed in three business days. Your name will be placed on the docket at that time.”

I snatched the form from the air, crumpling it in my fist. I pushed my hair out of my face and took a slow, deep breath.

“The trial is in two days,” I said, forcing patience into my voice. “I don’t have the luxury of waiting for processing. This is vital Order business- I need to speak with him now.”

Another form floated toward me.

“The Minister is in court,” Darla said, her tone flat. “Complete the form, and you'll be placed on the docket- 

In three business days,” I said in unison with her, unable to hold back my frustration. “I heard you the first time, Darla.”

Snatching the second form from the air, I crumpled both and tossed them onto her desk.

Then, without another word, I wheeled around and stormed out of the office.

I had wasted enough time here.

I found a secluded corner of the hallway, away from the bustle of people hurrying past.

Turning my back to the crowd, I reached for my wand. With a steady hand, I tapped it three times against the Order pin fastened to my book bag and whispered, “Findino.”

The arrow struck through the O of the order pin, spun wildly before settling, pointing left.

I tucked my wand back into my bag and followed its direction, keeping a close eye on the pin for directional changes.

One too many run-ins with Darla had forced me to resort to this. She was nothing more than a roadblock between me and Kingsley, one I had no patience for. That’s why I had made the pair of pins, discreetly pinning the other to his Ministry robes for precisely this situation.

I always tried to go through the proper channels first. But time and again, I’d been stonewalled. I had the distinct feeling I was quietly being pushed aside by the Order, keeping me out of the loop except for ceremonial appearances, medal presentations, and photo opportunities. It was as if I were no longer a valuable part of the system that once relied on me.

I forced that unsettling thought away. The Ministry was still in turmoil, with a massive turnover of positions, the vetting of new members, and the removal of anyone who had played a role in Voldemort’s reign. I knew it was a long process, and the dust would take time to settle.

I followed the arrow's twists and turns, and twenty minutes later, I spotted his tall figure in the entryway at the front of the Ministry, surrounded by several Ministry officials in plumb-colored robes.

I knew it was rude, but I didn’t have the luxury of waiting for a better opportunity. Steeling myself, I pushed through the circle, ignoring the murmurs of protest.

“Minister, if I could have a moment.”

“How is it that you always manage to find me, Ms. Granger?” Kingsley asked, arching a brow.

“I apologize, sir, but it’s vital that I speak with you. It’s Order business.”

I planted my feet, squared my shoulders, and braced for an argument.

Kingsley let out a short breath before gesturing me aside. “This way, Granger.” He led me away from the gathered officials to a less crowded area.

“What Order business?” he demanded.

“Draco Malfoy was arrested for war crimes,” I blurted out.

“Yes, I am aware,” he said, his tone measured. “What does that have to do with the Order?”

I took a deep breath, steadying myself as I met his eyes. “A year ago, right after Narcissa was killed, Draco approached me. I recruited him, along with Blaise Zabini. Draco was instrumental in clearing the path for Harry to reach Voldemort and deliver the killing curse.”

A flicker of shock crossed Kingsley’s face before he quickly masked it. “By whose authority did you recruit him? And what evidence do you have to exonerate him?”

“Snape approved it,” I said firmly.

“Do you have correspondence relating to missions and orders to be carried out by Draco per Snape?”

“No, sir. I was a middleman between Snape and Draco and relayed everything verbally.”

Kingsley’s expression darkened. “With Snape dead, there is no way to verify those actions or their outcomes.”

“No,” I said, shaking my head. “That’s not true, sir. Section 4B article F of the Defensive Arts Code states that Unforgivables enacted in defense of the Ministry of Magic must be considered prior to rendering a verdict or sentencing; orders witnessed can be used as a defense of anyone working to defend the Ministry.”

“Who else was present when you gave and received orders to Draco?” he asked with growing impatience.

“Only me. That was how Draco wanted it. He was in constant danger of being discovered and insisted that only Snape and I knew about his involvement.”

Kingsley sighed. “Then that is unfortunate. As we would need a witness.”

“I am the witness.” I countered. “There is a subsection in the DAC-subsection 2A that states: corroborating memories can be accepted as testimony if no other witnesses are available. I’m willing to submit my memories to a Legilimens right now. Draco’s trial is scheduled for the 5th at 3 o’clock.”

Kingsley considered this, then asked,” Where is Zabini? He needs to be brought in as well to confirm his position.”

“I can send an owl immediately. I’m sure he will come right away.”

“No, go in person. Bring him back with you. I will arrange for you to meet with the Legilimens at 11 o’clock today. Have Zabini meet me in my office at the same time so I can review his verbal testimony before he undergoes Legilimency.”

“What about my verbal account?” I asked something about the process he was suggesting, felt off.

“You will give your verbal account to the Legilimens before they review your memories. My conversation with Zabini will just expedite things. As you know, inmate processing is moving quickly. We need to work efficiently if we are to help him.”

“Right,” I said with a nod, taking Kingsley at his word. If anyone understood the urgency of our situation, it was he. Arguing would be foolish. “I’ll be back at eleven with Blaise. Thank you for your help.” I turned to leave.

“Granger,” Kingsley called after me. “Don't speak of this to anyone. The proper channels must be followed.”

“Understood,” I replied with another nod.

I all but ran to the apparition point in the Ministry.

With a sharp crack, I landed in front of the Zabini Estate. The front gate stood open. Walking through, I approached the grand double doors, reaching for the Serpent-shaped Knocker. The Door swung open before I could touch it. A small house-elf with soft pink eyes, dressed in a fresh white pillowcase, peered up at me.

“Is Miss here to see Master Zabini or Mistress Zabini?” the elf asked in a high, clear voice.

“Blaise-um, Master Zabini, it’s urgent. Fetch him quickly, please.” I instructed.

The elf disappeared with a quiet pop.

Before I could even take a steadying breath, a loud crack behind me made me jump. I spun, my hand flying to my chest.

“Well, well,” Blaise drawled, standing there with his usual lazy smile, perfect white teeth gleaming. “Look who’s come to call. Couldn’t stay away, could you, beautiful?”

He slung an arm around my shoulders, pulling me close. “Come, let’s go inside where you can ravish me at your leisure,” he teased. “Take your proper time with me.”

I rolled my eyes, pushing his arm off. “Don’t you ever give up?” I asked with an exasperated sigh.

“Come on, “ he pleaded dramatically. “Draco doesn’t have to know.”

“I’d know,” I replied flatly.

“Mmm, so would I,” he murmured, leaning in. “It would be our little secret.”

I pushed against his chest, stepping back. There wasn’t time for this routine, the same ridiculous flirtation he initiated every time we crossed paths lately.

“This is serious, Blaise,” I said, my voice firm. “Draco was arrested last night for war crimes. His trial is in two days. I spoke to Kingsley. We need to get back to the Ministry. You have an appointment at eleven. You’ll give your testimony to Kingsley about his role in the Order while I undergo Legilimency to confirm my memories.”

For once, Blaise fell silent. His usual amused expression flickered, replaced by something more calculating. His eyes darkened, his gaze turning distant as his mind worked through the situation.

“What exactly did Kingsley say?” he asked, an odd glint in his eye.

“He wants to question you before you undergo Legilimency. He also said not to speak to anyone until we return to the Ministry.”

A slow smirk spread across Blaise’s lips. “Well then, Golden Girl,” He said, reaching for my hand, “By all means, let’s go save the prince.”

With a pop, we disapparated.

I parted ways with Blaise at Kingsley’s office, but not before throwing an exaggerated eye roll at Darla, who nearly vaulted over her desk to assist Blaise. I had never seen the witch move so fast.

As I made my way to the Legilimency Department, I shifted my focus inward, preparing my Occlumency defenses. I had never been particularly skilled at occluding. Still, during the war, Snape had helped me construct a mental library, an intricate system designed to lock away sensitive and personal memories. If I were ever captured, the Order's secrets would be safe.

Pausing outside the department doors, I turned inward, retreating into the sanctuary of my mind. My mental library was warm and inviting, its vaulted ceilings stretching high, allowing for two levels of shelves. A staircase wound up to the second floor, while a soot-stained marble fireplace cast a soft golden glow across the space. A plush, deep-set hunter-green chair and ottoman sat comfortably beneath a wide window. Greenery dotted with fairy lights dangled gently from the window pane.

The bookshelves were meticulously arranged, their volumes color-coded for quick recognition. Black Leather-bound books housed war and Order-related memories. Soft yellow books held precious recollections of my parents. Red contained Hogwarts memories from before the war, and navy blue stored moments with Harry, my first and best friend. Purple held Potion's knowledge that Snape gave to me, as well as memories of us working quietly together, brewing potions. Green healing memories. But the newest additions to my collection were the slate-gray editions, which were the exact color of his eyes- my memories of Draco, personal and private.

I trailed my fingers over one of the soft gray tomes, lingering over the newest book, the spine marked VOLUME XIII. Rather than open it, I pressed it firmly back into place, ensuring it remained locked away, untouchable by anyone but me. That memory was mine alone.

Turning back to my task, I pulled several black leather volumes from the shelves, carefully selecting those containing only the meetings between Draco and myself regarding the Order. I stacked them neatly on the low table beside my chair, granting the Legilimens access only to what was necessary. Before leaving, I ran my fingers along the other books, double-checking that each was secure and undisturbed.

Satisfied, I closed the library door behind me and refocused on the real world.

Stepping into the Legilimency Department, I was greeted by an older witch I had never met. She smiled warmly, but the expression never quite reached her eyes.

No one had ever examined my memories other than Snape. I would not say he was gentle during the process; he was more clinical but careful.

I did not like the idea of someone tampering with my mind. It was my most valued asset. Some people prized their looks, others their wealth or status. But for me, my mind was everything, and I did not fancy it being toyed with.

My unease must have been obvious because the witch extended her hand gently, grasping my elbow, her smile widening as she guided me down a long hall.

 “My name is Flora. Kingsley informed me you’d be coming. No need to worry, dear. It will be quick and painless, I assure you.”

“Are you practiced in Occlumency?” she continued.

“Some,” I admitted. “Not as advanced as I’d like to be, though.”

Flora tilted her head. “I am only looking for specific memories related to the case. If you bring them forward yourself, it will feel much less invasive.”

Her voice was gentle, carrying a melodic lilt meant to soothe, but her eerie, pale green eyes told a different story. A prick of unease crawled up my spine.

“I can sense your hesitation,” she said, tilting her head slightly. “That's normal. I’ve yet to meet a single witch or wizard who enjoys having their memories examined. But come now, this is the examination room; it will only take a moment, and then you will be on your way,” she finished as the door to the room opened.

Reluctantly, I followed her into a stark white room. Every surface—walls, floor, ceiling—was blinding, sterile white. At the center stood a high-backed leather chair, its upholstery the same stark shade as the walls. In front of it, resting on a white marble stand, sat a pensieve filled with swirling silver liquid.

Flora gestured for me to sit in the high-backed chair. I hesitated before lowering into it; my muscles coiled with tension. She stood before me and slightly to the left, her wand in hand, its tip glowing a soft blue.

“Wait,” I said, gripping the chair’s armrests. “Kingsley said you needed a verbal recounting before viewing memories for verification.”

Flora tilted her head, her still-present smile never wavering. “Oh, that won’t be necessary, dear.”

Before I could react, the tip of her wand touched my temple.

The force of her intrusion was staggering-barbaric and unrelenting. It wasn’t a gentle probing of my mind; it was an attack. The door to my mental library blew inward as if it had been kicked open. I barely managed to pull myself inside, stumbling forward to see Flora standing near the low table where I had carefully placed the selected memories for review.

The black leather-bound tomes, evidence that could exonerate Draco, levitated before her. She opened the first one and tapped it with her wand.

It dissolved into a swirl of black mist.

A sharp, searing pain stabbed through my skull.

“No!” I roared, surging forward to stop her as she reached for another.

But before I could reach her, she tapped another with her wand and the book vanished.

The pain in my head intensified, driving me to my knees. Clutching my head, I tried to slam the library door shut, desperate to push her out, to sever her hold. But when I looked over, the door was hanging limply from one hinge, shattered by the sheer force of the attack.

Think. I had to think. Had to stop this.

I forced myself to my feet as her wand touched a third tome.

Black smoke curled into the air, and agony exploded behind my eyes.

“The harder you fight, the more damage will be done,” Flora mused, her expression serene. But her eerie, pale green eyes flashed with something far darker.

“Please don’t,” I gasped. “Why are you doing this? Please, stop!” I begged.

Tears blurred my vision, streaming freely as I watched the evidence, the proof that would save Draco, evaporate into nothing. Black mist curled and faded, taking his future with it. I crumpled onto my side, hands clutching my head, drowning in pain.

I glanced up through the pain and tears, all the tomes I had laid out for her gone.

NO!

Flora turned slowly, surveying my mental sanctuary with an air of detached amusement. “What a neat and tidy little mind,” she murmured. “So warm and cozy, too. You weren’t quite truthful when you said you had some skill in Occlumency, were you?” she tsked. “No, someone trained you quite well.”

She tapped her wand thoughtfully against her chin, still studying the room. “Pity I have to make such a mess of it.”

Reaching out, she grasped the spine of a soft yellow book. My heart lurched—my memories of my parents.

Panic surged through me.

She tugged. Once. Twice. Three times

The book held firm. Relief flooded me.

“Nice touch,” she noted, her voice light, almost approving. But then the glow of her wand shifted from blue to a brilliant, searing white as she whipped her wand in a circle above her head.

“Diffindo”

“NO!” I screamed.

White light exploded through the room.

A magic lasso whipped through the shelves, knocking books loose in every direction. Some tumbled harmlessly to the floor; others ripped apart midair, pages torn to fragments. Others vanished completely in black mist. Parchment fluttered down like ash, littering the ground around me.

The pain was unbearable, worse than the Cruciatus Curse or anything I’d ever known.

Through the haze of agony, I watched as Flora stepped carefully over the destruction, picking her way across my shattered mind as if stepping over puddles in the street. She barely spared me a glance as she left, exiting my ruined library without a second thought.

Lying directly in front of me on the floor was a slate gray tome. The front cover was missing, and a thin trail of black mist leaked out of the wrecked binding. Reaching a trembling hand out, I gently trailed my fingers across the spine titled VOLUME XIII.

Reality slammed back into me. Ripping me from my shattered mental library.

I was slumped in the white leather chair, sweat-soaked and shaking. Nausea churned in my stomach. My head felt like it was splitting apart. I could barely focus on the figure standing before me.

Flora.

Her wand hovered above my forehead, the same saccharine smile plastered onto her face.

“Oh, and one last thing, dear,” she cooed.

She touched her wand to my temple again, drawing out a long, silvery strand of memory. I could only watch, helpless, as she dropped it into the Penieve. The memory of this encounter swirled into the liquid and sank into oblivion.

The room spun wildly around me. My vision blurred. My limbs felt like lead.

Flora grasped my chin, lifting my face so I had no choice but to meet her gaze.

Her evil green eyes locked onto mine.

Then, with the faintest flick of her wand, she tapped my forehead.

A flash of red. 

“Stupefy”

I jolted awake, gasping for breath. My hand clutched my chest, the other pressing against my temple as a sharp pain stabbed through my skull. Disoriented and confused, I scanned my surroundings in a panic.

My flat.

My bed.

The familiar comfort of my favorite oversized Muggle t-shirt I slept in against my skin. The room was still, eerily quiet. I turned toward the window, the blinds were open, and the sun was high over the surrounding buildings.

What day was it?

It felt like I had slept a month.

My eyes flicked to the bedside timekeeper.

5, September 2:36 pm

Had I been ill? Why did my headache so terribly? How long had I been asleep?

A wave of nausea rose up my throat; I groaned, cradling my head in both hands as I slowly eased back onto the mattress. Dizziness swirled through me, threatening to drag me under again. Staring at the familiar crack in the plaster ceiling, I tried to grasp the last thing I remembered.

Fragments. Jumbled flashes. Nothing coherent.

Blaise. His estate. His arm slung around my shoulder, his lazy grin. Was that yesterday? The day before?

Darla. Her irritated expression in Kingsley’s office.

Another flicker

3 o’clock messily scrawled on a piece of parchment.

I was supposed to be somewhere. Somewhere important.

My stomach twisted. Was that today? Yesterday? Did I make it?

Anxiety surged through me. My heart pounded erratically as I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to piece the memories together. The harder I concentrated, the more they slipped through my fingers, fleeting and fractured.

3 o’clock

A distorted memory of Kingsley standing before me, his expression grim. “Where is Zabini?” his voice warped, the memory disjointed. “Meet back here with Zabini.”

Kingsley had been in his court robes.

The time flashed again

3 o’clock

I had to be somewhere.

Vital.

Urgent.

Someone needed me.

A jolt of pure panic shot through me.

I turned sharply to the clock. 2:42 pm

Heart hammering, I threw back the covers and leapt from the bed, only to lurch sideways as dizziness crashed over me. My shoulder hit the wall. I grabbed hold, steadying myself as I stumbled toward the closet.

I yanked on the first clothes within reach, slung my book bag over my shoulder, and checked to be sure my wand was secured.

Leaning heavily against the wall, I forced myself to the fireplace, grabbing a handful of Floo powder.

“Wizengamot”

The green flames roared around me, and the world pitched violently when I landed. I dropped to my knees as the green flames pushed me forward into Wizengamot's foyer. I barely managed to crawl out of the Floo before my stomach clenched. A dry heave wracked me several times. I lowered myself onto the cold marble floor just outside the courtroom, resting my throbbing temple against its cool surface.

A few passing Wizards stepped around me, all wearing Ministry Member cloaks, making their way into the courtroom, barely sparing me a glance, unconcerned.

I forced myself to lift my head, eyes searching frantically. Above the courtroom doors, a floating globe clock read 2:58 pm.

I had made it.

I struggled to my feet, swaying unsteadily.

Out of nowhere, an image of Draco Malfoy surged to the forefront of my mind, slate-gray eyes gleaming with satisfied mischief, his sculpted lips curved into a half-smile as he leaned over me. A lock of blonde hair fell over his brow, my fingers gently pushing the lock of hair out of his eyes, the texture against my fingertips like spun silk.

The memory swirled away.

I blinked. Draco Malfoy?

The memory had been hazy, but the mere thought of him sent my pulse racing. I shook my head sharply to clear it, which only worsened the dizziness.

I had to focus.

Forcing one foot in front of the other, I made my way toward the large double doors of the courtroom, only to be intercepted by a stern-looking witch in deep purple robes.

“The court is closed for hearings now,” she said briskly. “No observers. Your name must be on the docket to enter.”

I swallowed against the nausea. “Hermione Granger,” I managed, my voice strained.

The witch gave a flick of her wand, summoning the docket. Names scrolled before her, and my eyes caught on one immediately-

Blaise Zabini. Listed as a witness.

A witness? For what?

“Your name is not listed on the docket,” the witch said firmly.

“But, I need to show them something,” I blurted out.

She frowned. “Show who what?” she asked in confusion.

What was it? My mind was a blur. A gnawing sense of urgency gripped me, but the details were maddeningly out of reach.

“Court evidence,” I said, though the words felt hollow.

“Evidence of what?” The witch asked, now growing irritated with me.

I had no answer. But then, at the top of the docket still hovering in the air before the witch a name was being written in the letters burning into the floating parchment.

Draco Lucius Malfoy.

My heart nearly stopped.

Draco? On trial?

My heart kicked back again, and my pulse thundered in my ears. The room was spinning. I glanced at the clock again.

3:04 pm.

The witch shook her head. “You’re not listed-”

“Check again!” I snapped, yelling, panic rising like a tide.

Her lips parted in protest, but I barely heard her. My vision blurred. My chest tightened, breath coming too fast, too shallow. My knees buckled, and before I could catch myself, I crashed to the ground.

Gasps rippled around me—muffled voices. The world tilting violently.

Somehow, through the chaos, one word tore from my lips.

“Draco!”

Tears spilled down my cheeks, though I didn’t know why. Didn’t know why I had cried his name.

I don't know how long I lay there, sobbing, the room spinning wildly around me. As onlookers and a few witches hovered over me.

Then, Blaise was there. He loomed over me, his expression unreadable, but his dark eyes flickered with concern.

“Hey, beautiful,” he murmured, his voice smooth, familiar. “Are you all right? What happened?”

I let out a broken sob.

“I-I think I was supposed to be here,” I stammered, my head throbbing with every word. “Something’s wrong. I ca- can’t remember.”

Blaise’s gaze flickered, but he didn’t question me. Instead, he slid an arm around my waist, supporting me gently.

“I’ve got you now,” he whispered. “Come on, let's get you to a Healer.”

I didn’t resist as he guided me away, his touch grounding me as I struggled to hold onto something-anything-that made sense and felt familiar.

We had nearly reached the Healer’s department, just a few doors away, when Blaise suddenly stopped. Before I could question him, he turned me gently to face him, his arms wrapping securely around me. He tucked me against his chest, one hand cradling the back of my head, pressing my cheek against his chest.

The world spun violently again as he pressed my head to his chest, and pain lanced in my head. I closed my eyes against the dizziness and clenched his shirt in my fists, steadying myself from collapsing again.

For a moment, we stood like that, still and silent. His warm presence and the rhythm of his heart beneath my ear were grounding.

I felt his breath in my hair as he murmured near my ear,” Better?”

I nodded weakly.

His voice was a low murmur in my ear again.

“Good. I’ve got you now.” It sounded like a promise but tinged with something my addled mind could not grasp.

Behind us, I faintly noted the sound of chains rustling, followed by a crack of a disapparation as he turned me, walking me the last few steps toward the Healer’s Department. Just as we reached the door, an image surged through my mind- a flash, vivid and sudden.

Draco Malfoy.

Slate-gray eyes, half-smile on perfect Adonis lips.

I faltered, my breath catching.

And then, before I could make sense of it, the flash was gone, and we stepped through the doors of the Healer Department together.

Chapter Text

Chapter 3

Wizarding Britain

14 Months Later

6th November

         The reflection staring back at me was a stranger—hollowed eyes, sunken cheeks, deep purple smudges stark against my pale skin. The chronic headaches from the PTSD and memory loss I had been diagnosed with over a year ago had taken their toll, carving away pieces of me I wasn’t sure I’d ever get back.

        I studied the unfamiliar face, trying to reconcile it with the woman I was supposed to be tonight and the woman I was before.

My hair was styled into a loose bun, with a few soft curls left to frame my temples. The cream-colored satin dress I wore clung gracefully, its long sleeves and plunging neckline simple but striking.

        Reaching for the teardrop pearl earrings resting in a crystal dish on the vanity, I slipped them into place just as Blaise stepped up behind me, his reflection appearing in the mirror.

“That's a lovely dress,” he murmured, adjusting his tie in the mirror above my head. “Though I wouldn’t have thought of it.”

“You’re thinking I should’ve gone with the gold?” I asked, meeting his gaze in the reflection.

He smirked. “Mmm, a little too on-the-nose, Golden Girl. The red.”

“But it’s sleeveless,” I said quietly, lowering my eyes to my lap. A familiar unease twisted in my stomach just as his warm hand settled around the base of my exposed neck, fingertips trailing lightly over my skin.

I looked back up. Blaise met my eyes in the reflection, his smirk deepening. “Just glamour them.” His grip tightened slightly, controlling. “And the hair. Put it down.”

His fingers dug in firmly against my nape, a silent command. “Guests will be arriving soon,” he continued. “No grand entrance this time. Be on time in the foyer. Please.” He held my gaze until I nodded.

Then came the smile- the effortless, lazy grin, all charm and perfection. Prince Charming, in every way. Until he wasn’t.

He leaned down, kissing gently against the side of my neck just below my ear. The tenderness of the kiss was at odds with the firm grip still anchoring me in place. A contradiction meant to throw me off balance. And the effect worked.

He turned and gracefully strode from the room without another word.

I let out a shaky breath, my trembling hands fumbling to open the top drawer of the vanity. My fingers rifled through the small glass bottles until I found the one I needed, the Calming draught. I had brewed a new, more potent version just last week at work, disguising it as Pepperup Potion to keep Blaise from tossing it out again. The deep red liquid swirled as I uncorked it. Without hesitation, I took a healthy gulp, replaced the top, and slid it back into the drawer.

Steadying myself, I crossed the room to the enormous attached walk-in closet. My fingers hovered over the options before I pulled down the red sleeveless gown Blaise wanted.

Slipping off the satin dress, I let it slide to the floor in a whisper of fabric. I avoided my reflection, but my eyes betrayed me, glancing up at the mirrored wall before me.

Too thin. My ribs are faintly visible beneath my skin—the thin, silver lines marring both arms. The delicate scar across my lower abdomen gleamed under the bright dressing room lights. I forced my gaze away, quickly slipping into the red gown. The open back required me to remove my lace bra, leaving nothing but smooth, bare skin between the fabric and me.

I reached up, pulling the pins from my neatly styled hair. A shake of my head sent the thick curls tumbling down my back. Slipping into perfectly matched red heels, I returned to the vanity. I sat, picked up my wand, and cast a glamour over my arms with a practiced flick, covering the scars. Another wave and the deep purple shadows beneath my eyes vanished.

Trading my pearl earrings for square-cut ruby studs, I wiped the soft rose lipstick from my lips, replacing it with a bold, blood-red stain. One final sip of the calming draught burned down my throat before I rose.

With my shoulders squared and my chin high, I walked to the foyer. I would not be late; I would do everything right tonight.

After all, it was my wedding anniversary.

And I was the star of his show.

My heels clicked sharply against the marble floor, echoing through the silent halls as I entered the foyer. The white stone beneath my feet gleamed under the glow of the massive glass chandelier hanging high above. At the center of the round room, the emblem of a serpent coiled elegantly. To an outsider, the Zambini estate was breathtaking. To those who lived within its walls, it was anything but.

I exhaled a quiet breath of relief; I had made it before the guests arrived.

From the opposite hall, Blaise entered, his movements smooth and effortless. He held a crystal glass of Firewhisky in one hand and a flute of champagne in the other. His expression was unreadable as he approached, the dim light catching the smooth, perfect angles of his face. Without a word, he extended the champagne toward me. I took it, my fingers brushing against the cool glass.

His free hand lifted to my hair, gathering the thick mass and pulling it over one shoulder, fully exposing the open back of my dress. His dark eyes trailed over me with slow, deliberate assessment.

“Much better,” he murmured.

My fingers instinctively sought out the heavy diamond on my left hand, twirling the ring in slow, nervous circles. The weight of the stone felt like an anvil around my neck, pulling me under. The band's constriction made my chest feel tight, suffocating me. A dull, familiar throb began behind my temples.

I took a long sip of champagne, expecting the glass to refill itself, but it remained half full.

“It's not charmed,” Blaise said as if reading my thoughts. We wouldn’t want you to overindulge this evening, would we, beautiful?”

His voice dropped low as he leaned in, pressing a slow trail of kisses from my exposed shoulder up the curve of my neck, his lips brushing the shell of my ear.

“I have plans for us later, Wife,” he whispered, his breath warm against my skin. “And I want you fully engaged.”

The words sent a sharp spike of unease through my stomach, but I forced my lips into a smile, though my face felt like granite. I could only hope it looked natural.

“Hmm, a surprise,” I said lightly. “I can’t wait.”

The words tasted like ash in my mouth.

Blaise tilted his head, watching me as if searching for something beneath the surface.

His mouth parted as if to say more-

Pop.

Pop.

Pop.

The soft, rhythmic sounds of guests Apparating outside the estate pulled his attention away. A servant stepped forward, swinging the grand doors open, allowing a stream of elegantly dressed guests to filter inside.

I fixed my practiced smile in place, offering polite greetings as well-wishes were murmured and hands shook. The crowd was, as expected, composed almost entirely of Blaise’s associates: high-ranking officials, Ministry elites, and members of his ever-growing empire.

As the newly appointed Head of the Auror Division, Blaise had spearheaded the creation of a special task force dedicated to hunting war criminals. The TIDW- Taskforce for International Dark-Wizardry- was meant to be a beacon of justice. Instead, it functioned more like a Muggle crime syndicate. Shakedowns, bribes, blackmail, and quiet deals made behind closed doors.

And at the top of it all, Blaise- the Godfather of the operation and his loyal goon squad.

I had seen his men in action before.

An unbidden memory surfaced of Percy, Blaise’s right-hand man, his grip like iron around my wrist, fingers pressing hard enough to strain the bones beneath.

‘Clever girl to have made it this far,’  he had sneered, his lips curling as his cold, pitiless eyes bore into mine.

A shiver crawled up my spine. I shook my head, forcing the unwanted memory away.

Blaise and I followed the stream of guests into the ballroom, where an elegant display awaited us. The vast space gleamed with polished white marble floors, reflecting the soft glow of thousands of enchanted cables floating high in the domed ceiling. Their flickering light mimicked a starry night sky, casting a dreamlike ambiance over the room. Round tables were arranged throughout, offering guests a place to sit, while larger tables along one side held an array of food and drink, each charmed to replenish itself. White vases overflowed with midnight blue orchids at the center of every table, adding to the enchanting scene.

I moved through the room, the picture of a perfect wife and hostess. Smiling until my cheeks ached, I offered false laughter at jokes I barely registered, gave mindless answers to questions and topics I couldn’t care less about, and pretended to recognize people I had no memory of. Every movement was automatic, every interaction numb—just enough to get through the evening.

A brief lull in the chatter gave me a moment’s reprieve. I drifted to the edge of the room, pressing my back against the cold stone wall. Across the ballroom, I spotted Blaise and Kingsley, their heads bowed together in deep conversation. I exhaled for the first time all evening, savoring the fleeting moment of being unnoticed. I let my practiced smile slip, closing my eyes briefly.

“Hermione!”

My eyes snapped open at the sound of my name. I turned just in time to see Phillip Umber, the new Head Healer at the Ministry, walking toward me through the crowd. The familiar mask slid back into place as he reached me.

“Phillip! How nice of you to come,” I said smoothly, tilting my head in greeting.

He leaned in, kissing both my cheeks, a custom of his that I had never quite grown used to. His warm brown eyes swept over me with open admiration as he pulled back.

“My, you look absolutely ravishing this evening,” he said, his voice rich with genuine charm. “Everyone here is utterly envious of Blaise.” He winked playfully.

I smiled, though it felt thin. “I’m not sure that’s true, but thank you.”

“How are things in the department?” I asked the question, carrying a rare flicker of sincerity.

I missed being a healer. But as my condition worsened, the tremors in my hands had made diagnostics impossible. The delicate wand work required for healing had become a struggle; coupled with the gaps in my memory and a considerable amount of healing knowledge lost to my condition, it had become a struggle I could no longer ignore. Eventually, I was forced to step away.

Blaise had been against me working, insisting there was no need. He preferred that I remain here at the estate. But in the end, he conceded, not out of consideration, but because the image of us holding positions within the Ministry served him better.

So, I was allowed to work at the Potions Department. I was granted my freedom, which was brief, structured, and carefully monitored, but freedom nonetheless.

The change had been a blessing in disguise. At the Potions Department, I had made my one true friend, Astoria Greengrass, the only shining light in the darkness I found myself in.

Pulling myself from my thoughts, I refocused on what Phillip was saying.

“-Some truly spectacular innovations. You’d be so impressed. Come by anytime, and I’d be happy to walk you through all the changes.”

I nodded politely, but my attention flickered over his shoulder—straight to Blaise. His dark eyes locked onto mine, hard and unyielding. A familiar chill ran down my spine.

“That sounds wonderful, Phillip,” I said quickly, forcing a lightness into my tone. “I’ll stop by next week.”

I offered him a brief smile in parting. “Thank you again for coming. I should—Blaise needs me,” I said.

As I turned away, I heard Phillip’s voice behind me. “See you then.”

I barely registered it. My focus was on Blaise, on the expression in his gaze as I crossed the room. That all-too-familiar look sent my stomach plummeting. I had done something wrong, made a misstep somewhere during the evening.

When I reached him, he effortlessly slid an arm around my waist, pulling me close. To anyone watching, it was a tender, intimate gesture—just a husband pulling his wife in close on their anniversary—but the bite of his fingers pressing into my hip bone told another story.

Somehow, I kept my mask in place as Blaise, the self-proclaimed king of his court, surveyed the room before him—his domain—his subjects.

My nerves were a riot, and the calming draft was beginning to wear off. The tremor in my hands was creeping back, slow but inevitable. I clenched them into fists, willing them steady, determined not to let anyone see.

Then came the familiar, stabbing throb in my head—a warning. I knew what would follow if I didn’t take another dose of Calming Potion soon. The confusion, the fractured memories, pieces of the past colliding with the present until I could no longer tell them apart, and then, the inevitable panic attack, the final blow in an unbearable onslaught.

I could manage if I stayed on top of it, taking the Calming draft and a handful of other potions on a routine schedule. But once the visions started, it could take days to regain control.

Shifting my weight anxiously, I swallowed hard. Blaise’s grip on my hip tightened in silent reprimand. Slowly, he turned his head, his expression cold.

“Anxious for your gift later, beautiful? You can hardly keep still,” he said in a low, flat tone.

For a split second, my smile faltered.

“Yes,” I managed.

I forced myself to look back over the party. Thankfully, the crowd was thinning. Blaise’s task force, Kingsley, and a few stragglers were all that remained.

After a time, Blaise straightened, his voice smooth yet final. “Gentleman, my wife is ready to retire. She’s exhausted from the evening. Let me escort her. I will return shortly, and we can finish our business.”

Murmured goodnights followed.

I offered a polite nod. “Gentlemen, good evening.”

Blaise’s hand pressed firmly against the small of my back, a brand of possession, as he guided me away from the party and toward our suite of rooms.

The moment we stepped into the bedchamber, the doors swung shut behind us with a sickening click. Blaise stood before them, his hands behind his back, gripping the doorknobs. His head was lowered, eyes fixed on the floor.

His voice was slow and deliberate, each word enunciated with dangerous precision. “Why does it give you such pleasure to humiliate me?”

 Cold dread settled in my stomach.

“Humiliate you?” I echoed, my voice cautious. “What do you mean?”

He lifted his head, meeting my eyes with an unreadable expression. “Phillip.”

My pulse stuttered.

“You were all over each other,” he continued, his tone eerily calm. “Kissing cheeks. Touching. Laughing. Do you see him regularly at the Ministry? Have you been going to the Healers’ Department?”

“Blaise, I swear to you, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said quickly, forcing my voice to stay steady. “He was just saying hello, offering congratulations on our anniversary. He mentioned some new research, but I wasn’t even paying attention. It was nothing.”

I was scrambling, grasping for the right words to soothe whatever storm was brewing behind his eyes. I knew how quickly things could spiral if I didn’t diffuse the situation.

Before I could say more, he closed the distance between us, violently grabbing a fist full of hair, jerking my head back and to the side, his face inches from mine as he shouted.

“Do you think I’ve so easily forgotten the secrets that were kept from me? The ones your friends in that department hid?” Blaise’s voice was low, edged with venom.

His grip on my hair tightened.

“I had to find out a month after we were married. In the hallway of the Ministry, no less.” His laugh was bitter, humorless. “And you expect me to trust you?”

Suddenly, he released me, and then a second later,

A sharp crack split the air as his backhand struck my face. Pain exploded along my cheekbone, throwing my head back. My vision blurred with flashing lights.

I stumbled, my heel catching awkwardly in the rug. My ankle twisted, and I went down hard.

Then he was looming over me.

A vicious kick to the abdomen.

Air wrenched from my lungs as ragged, choked sobs spilled from my throat.

Another kick across my thighs.

“Stop it!” he screamed. “Stop crying!”

I clamped my mouth shut, biting back the sounds of pain, swallowing my sobs, curling in on myself, trying to make myself small, trying to protect what little I could.

My body trembled violently, wracked with the aftershocks of his rage.

And then, just as suddenly as it started, it was over.

Blaise dropped to his knees beside me. His hands grasped my shoulders, pulling me upright. His voice was shaking, thick with forced remorse.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “Oh, I’m so sorry, beautiful. Forgive me, please, never again. I swear it, never again.”

I stared past him, beyond him, the echo of his words ringing hollow in my ears. His hands smoothed my hair back, gliding over my head in slow, deliberate motions. He was murmuring something, but the words blurred together, meaningless.

After a year, I knew the routine. Sit still. Stay silent. Let him go through the motions. Anything else would invite another round of violence. I had learned that hard lesson early on.

His palm moved in rhythmic circles over my bare back, and bile rose in my throat. I swallowed it down, forcing myself to stay still. The next thing I knew, my hands were clasped in his, and he pulled me to my feet.

My right eye throbbed, already swelling. My hands trembled violently in his, the calming draught wholly worn off. The stabbing pain in my head had returned, whether from my condition or the beating; I wasn’t sure. All that mattered was ending this as quickly as possible.

When he pulled me toward the bed, I weakly complied, retreating into my mind as best as I could. Occluding was nearly impossible now due to my condition. Still, I crawled on hands and knees into the library in my mind.

The door hung askew. I had tried to repair it, but it never fully shut anymore and was never fully secure.

Inside, the space was cold and dark. No fire roared in the hearth. Books lay stacked haphazardly; some still lined the shelves, but the damaged ones I had attempted to mend were scattered in disorganized piles.

I crawled onto the now-worn green chair, curled onto my side, and lay still.

Distantly, I felt the red dress being stripped away -rough hands grasping, pulling, pushing. The friction of the sheets burned against my back in a violent, rhythmic motion, his weight pressing me into the mattress. My hands were held above my head in a tight, painful grip, rubbing the skin of my wrists raw.

I clenched my eyes shut, desperate to block it out, to hold together the fragile door of my mind’s library, my feeble attempt to occlude.

It was going on too long.

I could not take it.

I reached blindly for the book I always kept near the chair, the one that brought me comfort, though I could never remember why. Its slate-gray spine bore the numerals XIII in faded silver.

I clutched it to my chest, squeezed my eyes shut, and rode out the remainder of the storm.

“I have business to finish with Kingsley,” Blaise panted into my ear, his head heavy where it rested. His weight pressed against me, oppressive.

“But I’ll be back soon. Stay just like this,” he said with a grunt, lifting himself off me. The sensation of him pulling out of me was vile, causing my whole body to cringe. I rolled onto my side, away from him, pulling my knees tight into my chest. Behind me, the rustling of fabric- pants zipping up, clothes being righted. Then, the sound of the door closing.

I didn’t miss the locking charm he cast on the outer door.

Tears, hot and silent, ran down my cheeks.

My right eye was swollen, the skin over my cheekbone split, my abdomen ached, tender from the vicious kick. A bruise was already forming on my side. I laid a trembling hand over my lower stomach, my fingers brushing the faint scar there. I needed to get up and take my regimen of potions and calming draught before I spiraled. I could feel myself deteriorating by the minute. But I couldn't make myself move.

My fingers traced the scar on my abdomen again.

Blaise's accusation about Phillip replayed in my head, about secrets kept by the healers.

Causing Memories to come flooding back.

The day I arrived at Wizengamot, I was frantic and confused. Blaise had been there. Kind. Caring. He took me to the Healer’s Department, stayed with me, and held my hand as a diagnostic after the diagnostic was run. The verdict in the end was - damage to my brain. A latent form of PTSD from the war, they said.

My mind was stuck in a constant state of fight or flight. But with treatment, time, and therapy, they believed I might regain some of my memories eventually.

I remember walking out of the Healer’s Department, clutching a bag of potions and appointment cards. The healers had said they’d seen a lot of cases like mine since the war.

I was almost out the door when Poppy stopped me.

“Can I have a private moment?” she asked, glancing at Blaise.

Blaise had excused himself, giving me a warm smile. “I’ll be just down the hall.”

Once we were alone, I turned to Poppy.

“I don't know if you noticed,” she said gently, “but I picked up a pregnancy during your head-to-toe diagnostic.”

The words stunned me. I stumbled back a step.

“How far along?” I asked through numb lips.

“Very early. A week, maybe.”

A week.

My mind was a wreck. Large gaps of time were missing. I could barely process the PTSD diagnosis I had just received. But a pregnancy on top of it? It was too much.

The dizziness I had come in with had been treated and was gone, but the world spun for an entirely different reason now I was pregnant, and I had no idea who the father was.

I had kept the pregnancy to myself.

After I left the office, Blaise had asked me multiple times what Poppy had told me. I lied, saying she had just added another medication to my regimen.

Blaise had been a constant, steady presence in the following weeks. Getting the potions right had been a struggle: memory loss, anxiety, dizziness, panic attacks. I had clung to him through it all, desperate to piece together the fragments of my past.

I asked about the trial and why he had testified against Draco. I remembered they had been friends at Hogwarts, but my memory of the war was fractured, filled with significant time gaps. Blaise always avoided my questions about Draco, only saying.

He was a Death Eater. His crimes were verified. He deserved what he got.  

One night, I questioned Blaise more about Draco, feeling like I was missing a vital piece of my past. Blaise had shouted, “Why are you always asking about that piece of shit, Death Eater?” he then apologized for raising his voice at me. “I just want to help you; circling back to Draco is not productive; it's a glitch in your memory, probably because you knew I was going to be in court that day to testify, and your mind just clung to that, let it go.”

Another few weeks passed, and I began to believe Blaise may be the father. He stayed with me constantly, was so caring, and there was an easy familiarity when I was with him, my memories of him teasing me, begging me to ravish him, laughing. He always called me ‘beautiful’- never Hermione or Granger. So one night I worked up the courage and shyly asked if we had ever been intimate. He had looked like a wounded puppy, as if the fact that I couldn’t remember us being intimate hurt him. He had said, “We’re in a relationship, but it's new, that must be why you don’t remember.”

The baby had to be his, then, right? I had been so relieved. But, still, I kept the pregnancy to myself, waiting. I wanted to make it through the first trimester before telling anyone.

Then, one night, we made love. It had been sweet-loving, and he had asked me to marry him. I had been struggling so much during that time, grappling with my illness, feeling hopeless, helpless. I needed him. I needed stability.

I said yes.

We had been married for a month when I decided to tell him about the pregnancy, having just made it through the first trimester.

Tentatively, I had begun to let myself feel happy about the baby. After everything that had happened to me, I wanted this to be a bright spot, a fresh start.

We had just moved into the Zabini estate. I had cooked dinner that night, much to Bitsy’s dismay. The pink-eyed house elf fluttered around me the entire time.

 “Miss Hermione, let’s Bitsy finish now. Here, Bitsy does that, Miss Hermione.”

She hovered underfoot until finally, I shooed her out of the kitchen- though I conceded to let her set the table.

When Blaise came home, he looked at the table and the food, then smiled.

“This looks amazing.”

“I made it myself. Muggle-style. Best as I could remember anyway. I hope it tastes good.”

I was nervous. This was our first home-cooked meal as husband and wife. I twisted my wedding ring between my fingers, a nervous habit.

“I'm sure it’s perfect,” Blaise reassured me. Ever the gentleman, he pulled out my chair and led me to my seat.

We ate, and the easy companionship settled my nerves.

“Blaise, I wanted to tell you something,” I started.

 But before I could continue, he stood, walked to where I sat, grasped my hands, and pulled me to my feet. That easy grin was still on his face, but something about it felt different.

“Funny thing happened today,” He said lightly. “Poppy stopped me in the hallway and asked how you were. Naturally, I told her, ‘doing really well. Settling into domestic bliss,”

His tone remained casual, but a sick feeling crept into my stomach.

“So, imagine my surprise,” he continued, “When she said, ‘And how’s the pregnancy going?’”

My breath caught.

“Well, of course, I couldn’t let on that I had no idea,” he continued. “I mean, what kind of husband would I be if I didn’t know my own wife was carrying a child?”

“Blaise,” I started, but he silenced me with a gentle finger over my lips.

“So, I told her everything was great, progressing as it should be, and we went on our way.” He paused, “but as if that wasn’t enough of a shock, I accessed your records.”

The sick feeling spread, turning my limbs to lead.

“And what did my little eyes see?” His voice remained smooth, but his grip on my hands moved to my wrists, tightening. “The pregnancy was confirmed. Fifth of September. Fetal age: approximately one week.

“Blaise, pleas-”

He waggled his finger at me, shaking his head “Tsk, Tsk.”

The lazy smoothness of his demeanor vanished. His voice hardened.

“Whose is it?”

I flinched at the sharpness of his tone.

“It-It’s yours,” I said, the accusation cutting deep.

His eyes darkened.

“Nooo.” he dragged out the word slowly and deliberately as if speaking to a child.

“Because we never fucked until the night I asked you to be my WIFE! His voice rose with every word until wife came out as a snarl.

I recoiled, startled. I tried to pull away, but he held firm, his grip like iron around my wrists.

“Let go of me,” I said sharply.

He didn’t.

“You lied to me,” I hissed. “You said we had been together.”

“I lied to you?” he let out a harsh laugh. “That’s rich! You assumed we had fucked. And now I’m the asshole, right?”

His voice rose again

“Whose. Child. Is. It!.”

Slate-gray eyes. Perfect lips. A white-blond lock of hair fell over his face as he leaned over me.

The image hit me like a crashing wave.

“Draco?”

The name tumbled from my lips in a shaky whisper. I didn’t know if it was a question or an answer.

But the thought stopped abruptly as Blaise grabbed my face in one large hand, his fingers digging into my cheeks painfully. I could feel the crescents of his nails leaving marks in my skin. “Why do you insist on bringing him up? Draco Malfoy was nothing to you! nothing but a pampered cunt who got his due!” with his other hand around my wrist, he pushed the sleeve of my shirt up to expose the scar there, faded but permanent mudblood.

“Do you not remember who allowed this to happen to you? Who sat idly by while you were tortured?” he snarled, spittle landing on my face from his shouts. “Or perhaps that is what you enjoy- painful reminders.” He cocked his head considering a moment before punching me in the stomach so hard I collapsed to the stone floor falling backward, my head bouncing violently against the floor, and darkness took me.

I woke two days later at St Mungo’s with a skull fracture and the devastating news that I had lost the baby.

Emergency surgery had saved my life, and the healers did what they could to reverse the damage caused by the miscarriage. However, they did not know if I would ever be able to conceive again.

That was the first time I ran.

I didn’t get far; the grief, the confusion from the attack, and the skull fracture had unraveled all the mental progress I had made.

Anxiety consumed me. I didn’t know where to go; I only knew I had to get out, so I ran to the only place I could remember that had ever felt safe, The Burrow.

But the open arms I had once known from the Weasleys were gone. The house was heavy with its own grief, and I no longer had a place there.

Before I could make other arrangements, Molly had contacted Blaise. When I realized it, he was there to collect me and take me back to the Estate.

The second time I ran, I was not so rash. I planned my escape for several months down to the last detail. That time, I made it to Madrid. I secured a Muggle apartment and effectively disappeared.

It took Blaise two months to track me down. When he finally did, he sent his number one goon, Percy, to bring me back. Percy had apparated us directly into Blaise’s study at the Estate.

Blaise was waiting. He sat behind his massive, carved oak desk, leaning back in his chair. His collar was undone, his tie loose. A nearly empty glass of whisky sat on the desk beside a small wooden box. He idly tapped his wand against his knee.

“Hello, beautiful,” he crooned lazily.

I remained frozen. Fear tightened around me like a vice, a living, breathing thing inside me.

Percy had already moved to the wet bar, pouring himself a drink as Blaise continued.

“I trust you had a nice vacation. Madrid is so lovely this time of the year.”

Tap. Tap. Tap. -His wand against his knee.

I couldn’t speak. Fear struck me silent.

Blaise exhaled through his nose, then pushed himself to his feet. “At least your color looks good. Got some sun, I see.”

He moved slowly, deliberately, leaning over his desk to flip open the small wooden box.

“Fascinating wizarding work coming out of the Research and Development Department,” he mused.

He lifted a small, metallic object slightly bigger than a pea from the box between his thumb and forefinger as he stepped toward me.

“Himalayan burrowing beetle,” he said, holding up the tiny silver object. “Quite interesting. Due to the silver alloy that makes up its shell, R&D could permanently bind a location charm to it and then link it to a specific wand or wands.”

He twirled the beetle between his fingers, watching my face.

“It has an extraordinarily long lifespan, you see. It doesn’t need to feed. The silver alloy fuels the beetle with its own kinetic energy. The more it moves, the deeper it burrows, the longer it lives.”

His gaze lifted to mine.

“In layman’s terms, my dear, they’ve developed a permanent tracker that never needs to be replaced or serviced; it just keeps going.”

A slow smile. His eyes darkened, taking on that all too familiar menacing glint.

“Perfect for a wayward wife, wouldn't you agree?”

Horror swallowed up my fear as the beetle twitched in his palm.

“Blaise, I’m sorry,” I gasped. “I won't run again, I swear ple-”

“Petrificus Totalus.”

The body-bind curse hit me before I could finish. My limbs froze, paralyzed in place.

NOOOO!

I screamed in my mind as Blaise prowled toward me, the beetle in his hand.

He stopped just before me, lifting his wand above the bend of my elbow.

“Diffindo.”

A small slice split open my skin.

He waved his wand over the beetle, which twitched to life.

No. No, please, no-

Horror. Fear. Revulsion warred inside me, but I couldn’t move. My mind thrashed against the binding curse, my eyes darting wildly.

Please don't let this get under my skin!

Blaise placed the beetle just next to the slice in my skin. The beetle crawled forward and burrowed into the cut. I wanted to scream. I wanted to claw it out.

Blaise again angled his wand, murmuring a spell to close the wound. I felt the beetle burrow up my arm deep into my bicep. Tears ran like a river down my face at the revolting sensation and the violation of it.

Blaise leaned into my stiff, unyielding body, wrapping an arm around me. His hands splayed across my back as he released the binding charm—the moment the spell lifted. My body sagged against his, wracked with silent shuddering sobs. Tears streamed unchecked down my face.

He pulled me closer, pressing me flush against his body. The combination of his touch and the unbearable crawling sensation of the beetle beneath my skin shattered what little remained of me. My sobs came harder, my shaking with them.

“Mmmm, the first touch after so long,” he whispered, burying his face in my neck. “Have you been thinking of it, too?”

Another broken sob was my only response.

Blaise pulled back just enough to place a finger under my chin, tilting my face to meet his gaze. His expression was calm, but his voice, when he spoke, carried an edge like a blade pressed to my throat.

“There is nowhere you can go that I will not find you. No amount of time could pass before I would give up.”

And I believed him.

At that moment, I knew. I was never getting away.

My mind let go of the memory, and I was pulled back to the present. I still lay on the bed, naked, shaking. My arms ached from the tremors. The glamour I had placed earlier flickered, then faded away. My fingers ghosted over the thin, jagged scars littering my arms, each one a failed attempt to cut the tracking beetle from my body.

Fresh tears welled as I pushed myself upright on unsteady arms. My legs felt like they might give out as I stumbled toward the vanity.

Clumsily, I yanked open the drawer, fumbling for the Calming potion. I took three deep gulps, not caring if it was too much, then collapsed into the chair, gripping the edge to keep myself from falling.

The stranger in the mirror stared back at me.

“Who are you?” the reflection whispered.

“I don’t know,” I whispered back.

Chapter Text

Chapter 4

Madstone Prison

6th November

Lying on my side, I stared at the slow drip of water falling from the ceiling, watching as each drop fell into the small puddle that had collected in the center of the floor. My eyes were dry and unblinking as I counted the droplets.

Drip. 2,543

Drip. 2,544

Drip. 2,545

Drip. 2,546

A sudden tapping sound, followed by a scrape, made me blink. My eyes burned briefly, having been open and staring for so long. The water rippled in the puddle.

Tap. Tap. Scrape.

Had the floor just moved?

Tap. Tap. Scrape.

I was hallucinating again, had to be.

The water in the puddle trembled. Then, a stone floor tile lifted—flipped over—as fingers emerged from the pool, pushing mud and water out across the stone floor. An arm followed, then an elbow, then a shoulder. The top of a head emerged slick with mud.

I recoiled, shoving back until my spine pressed against the damp wall.

Was this real? Or just another hallucination?

The arm pushed against the floor, hoisting the head further out of the hole. A mouth appeared, gasping for air. Then, another arm clawed its way through the opening until an entire man dragged himself out and onto the floor.

A ghastly sight.

A dark, muddy demon crawling from the depths of hell. Like something out of a Muggle horror novel I had read once.

My mind had finally broken.

Then his head turned toward me. His eyes opened—a startling, unnatural shade of bright blue. He coughed and spat mud onto the floor as he gained his feet.

I remained frozen as he slowly wiped the grime from his face, turning in a slow circle and taking in his surroundings. After a moment, he spoke.

“Pardon my intrusion into your space,” he said, voice hoarse but oddly polite. “But I was under the impression I was digging across. Toward the outer wall, not up.”

When I didn’t respond, he suddenly moved toward me, bending low to meet my eyes. His presence was overwhelming- too real. I hadn’t spoken to another person since my incarceration. Armond had been here around two months ago for my one-year anniversary beating, but aside from that, this mud-covered, demon-like man was the first real contact I’d had in all this time. I had spoken plenty, although it was to hallucinations mostly. I’d even named a few rats and held regular conversations with them.

“My name is Jora Ferry,” he continued. “I’ve been a prisoner at Madstone for ten years- four of which have been spent digging this tunnel. And in the wrong direction, it would seem.”

Then he laughed. Loud. Hysterical. The sound reverberated off the walls.

When his laughter died away, I could only think to say, “I have 63,124 stones in my walls. I have counted them many times.”

He leaned in closer, his piercing blue eyes searching mine.

“Yeah,” he said, grinning. “But have you named them yet?”

A laugh bubbled in my throat- manical, unhinged.

I reached out, half expecting my hand to pass through him like a ghost. But it didn’t. My fingers landed on solid flesh—his forearm.

Understanding flickered in his expression. He patted my hand twice as if to assure me he was real.

From what I could tell, he was an older man, though it was hard to say for certain. He was covered in mud, his long hair and beard obscuring most of his facial features. He was painfully thin, and his prison clothes were even more tattered than mine.

He straightened and began pacing off the distance of the cell, muttering numbers under his breath and pausing briefly at the word "revenge" I had carved into the wall.

Finally, he crouched near the hole he had emerged from, neatly stacking the displaced tiles, and began digging,  widening the opening.

“Here,” he said, motioning for me to come forward. Then, without hesitation, he disappeared back into the tunnel, headfirst into the darkness. Hesitantly, I followed, worming my way into the narrow space.

The long, narrow tunnel led to a different cell—larger than mine—with a small window set into the stone wall.

Heart pounding, I stumbled toward it; gripping the iron bars, I pulled myself up. To the narrow gap, I tilted my face toward the sky. Dark clouds drifted swiftly overhead, but for a fleeting moment, I glimpsed a patch of deep blue.

My eyes watered, my throat burned, and a hollow ache bloomed in my chest. I quickly looked away, dropping back onto the floor, my chest heaving not only from the sight of the sky but also from the exertion of holding myself up to the window. I had lost so much weight and muscle in the last what? Fourteen months, give or take a few.

 I turned, taking in the space around me.

A rickety wooden chair and a small desk, both in equally poor condition, sat beside each other near the window—a luxury I hadn’t seen in over a year. Gingerly, I lowered myself onto the chair. The sensation of sitting, of being elevated off the ground after so long, was almost more overwhelming than seeing the sky.

I scanned the room again from my seated position. One of the stone tiles on the opposite wall, slightly lower than eye level, caught my attention. It was white quartz, smooth and polished, reflecting the dim light around the cell.

Slowly, I stood.

I crossed the room on unsteady legs and crouched before the stone, bracing myself. Then, hesitantly, I looked at my reflection.

Long, matted hair hung past my shoulders, limp and greasy, falling in tangled curtains around my face. A beard, equally filthy, obscured most of my lower jaw. My breath hitched as I reached up with a trembling hand, pushing the strands back to reveal the twisted scar cutting down the left side of my face.

It slashed through my left eye, catching the corner of my mouth. My iris, once gray, was now bright white. Though I could still see from it, my vision was murky, and the peripheral had never fully returned.

The beard hid much of the scarring, but I knew it extended down my neck, wrapping along my throat like a ghostly brand.

“You spoke of escape,” I said, my voice hoarse as I stared at my reflection.

“Yes,” Jora said from behind me.

I tore my gaze away from the reflection and pushed myself upright. Turning,I finally took in the rest of the cell. Every wall was covered in markings—hundreds of equations, diagrams, measurements, and calculations, scattered with no seemingly meaningful answers. Constellations were sketched alongside a carefully drawn lunar calendar—the work of a madman—or perhaps a genius.

“How?” I asked, my voice steadier now. “How do we accomplish it?”

Jora gestured toward one of the diagrams.

“There were only two possible paths to the outer wall, he explained. “I simply chose the wrong one. But now that we know, and with two of us digging, we will start digging on the correct route.”

“How long to reach the outer wall?” I asked.

“With both of us,” Jora considered, “Two years.”

A wheezing laugh escaped me. “Two years,” I said with a raised brow.

Jora smirked. “Oh? Is something else demanding your time?”

I glared at him, but he stepped closer, “In return for your help, I will offer you something priceless.”

“Freedom?” I asked, voice dripping with sarcasm.

“No.” Jora’s expression darkened. “Freedom can be taken away, as well, you know.” He leaned in. “I offer knowledge.”

I frowned.

“Everything I have learned about ancient magic. Legilimens, Patronuses, Runes,” he went on.

“You think you can teach me more than I already know?” I asked.

Jora grinned.

“Not think. I know.” Jora tapped his temple with a forefinger. “They do not teach the magic I know in wizarding schools.”

I considered what he was offering for my help. I would either die in this place or go insane; it was a toss-up as to which one would come first.

What did I have to lose?

And if nothing else, I finally had someone real to talk to, not just to my hallucinations.

I exhaled sharply, a wicked smile tugging at my lips. “When do we start?”

Jorah’s answering grin was sharp, almost feral.

“Now,” he said.

Jora immediately became an instructor, explaining all the methods he had developed over the four years of trial and error in his attempt to dig to freedom. “The slot on our doors opens twice daily,  once for your toilet bucket, where we will hide the dirt, and then once in the evening for your plate. Between those times, we can work without fear of discovery.”

“Alright,” I agreed. And a tiny kernel of hope flickered in my chest.

Jora had devised ingenious ways to survive over the past ten years. He showed me how he trapped and ate rats for extra protein, as the meager rations provided to prisoners were barely enough to stay alive.

He started small fires using hair cut from his head or beard, striking sparks with flintstones from the cell floor. He cooked the rats, rendering their fat from the drippings to create makeshift candles. He would drip the fat into hollowed-out rat skulls, twist locks of hair into makeshift wicks, and turn them into candles- his only light source for digging in the tunnels.

We threw ourselves into our work, Jora, with renewed vigor at having a partner to help and me with a newfound task and a bid for freedom.

We quickly found a fast-working rhythm.

Jora would go into the tunnels first, digging and pushing the dirt back behind him. I followed, filling buckets and dragging them through the narrow passage to empty into the cells, then returning to repeat the process- over and over, all day and most of the night.

During these long hours, Jorah passed on all the knowledge he had accumulated on ancient magic. When we rested in his larger cell, he scrawled complex instructions on spells, curses, runes, enhancements to legilimens, wandless magic, and all techniques lost to time. He was right; none of this had been taught at wizarding schools. Of course, it all sounded remarkable in theory, but the prison’s wards prevented any magic from being performed, let alone tested. I had no way of knowing if I could even use it -if I ever got off this forsaken rock.

I voiced my doubts to Jora one day.

“You will,” he said firmly. “On both accounts. You’ll be free of this rock and put this knowledge to use. But promise me one thing- use it for good.”

I laughed at that. “No. I’m done with good. Revenge and hate are all I have left.”

“That road will only bring you more pain, young Draco.”

I scoffed. “Then why are you here? Too much ‘good’ work?” I asked sarcastically.

Jora met my gaze with something unreadable. “No. To my shame, I have not always done good. I have hurt many- those who were deserving and those who were not, even those I loved. But none of that is why I am locked in these cursed walls.”

I tilted my head, my curiosity piqued.

“They put me here to loosen my tongue,” Jora continued. “To make me speak.”

My brow arched. “And what, pray tell, do you know? What secret is so valuable that they locked you in this hellhole for a decade, and yet you still refuse to speak of it?”

Jora remained silent for a moment, weighing whether to share his truth. Then, he leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.

“I served the last remaining Vogel - a powerful and ancient pure-blood wizarding family from Scandinavia. Their lineage was cursed, ensuring no heirs would ever be born again. But before the curse, for centuries, the Vogels were renowned for their magical prowess, vast influence, and immeasurable wealth. But as their bloodline withered, their name faded from the great circles of power, all but forgotten.

The last of them, Greybone Vogel, revealed his greatest secret to me on his deathbed. There were piles of gold and jewels, galleons beyond counting—a fortune grand enough to buy empires hidden away. But there was something far more valuable in his possession.

He leaned in closer, his breath barely a whisper.

“The Elder Wand has a sister,” he paused at my stunned but skeptical look.

“For millennia, the Vogels guarded it, passing it down in secrecy, ensuring it remained hidden from history. Its name is Veilbinder. Its core- therstral tail hair is entwined with a Phoenix feather. It's wood- Yew.

But unlike the Elder Wand, which grants power in battle, Veilbinder is bound to the threshold between life and death. It grants its true master the ability to commune with spirits and, in rare cases, summon the dead for fleeting moments. A wielder in harmony with the wand may even glimpse the threads of fate itself- foreseeing critical moments before they unfold.

“However, to use it is to tempt the veil. The more it is wielded to alter destiny, the greater the risk of being pulled beyond and lost forever.”

“And should the wand be taken by force, it will not submit. Instead, it will turn against the thief, twisting their mind until consumed by madness. ‘The wand must choose its wielder,’ Greybone warned me with his final breath.”

Jora sat back, his piercing gaze locked onto mine as if assessing if I believed his tale. “That is the secret I carry. That is why the Ministry tossed me into this place, hoping it would loosen my tongue about the location of the Veilbinder Wand. And that is why they will never let me leave alive.”

I leaned against the cold stone wall, turning Joras's words over in my mind. His story sounded more like a fairy tale than truth—another legend woven from the same thread as countless wizarding myths: lost magic, powerful wands, endless bids for power and glory.

Staring up at the ceiling, I asked, “Why not take it all for yourself? Once you knew of it, after Greybone’s death?”

Jora exhaled, shaking his head. “Why indeed,” he mumbled. Then, with a quiet certainty, he added, “Not everything in life is about power and riches, young Draco. And that was a lesson hard learned.”

His gaze darkened, distant. “I’ve hurt many-far too many, who didn’t deserve my wrath. I made a choice not to be that man anymore. So I held my tongue. And I will continue to do so.”

He gave a small shake of his head as if brushing away the weight of old ghosts.

“I made a choice once, too- to be a different man, a better man,” I said, still staring at the ceiling. An image flickered in my mind: whiskey-brown eyes gazing up at me, shy and trusting as if offering me a glimpse into her soul. I had tried to be better for Hermione, wanted to be the man she deserved and needed. But in the end, she had betrayed me like all the rest. I shook the memory away, forcing it back into the shadows where it belonged.

My voice turned hard as I added, “And look where it landed me.”

Jora studied me for a long moment before I spoke again.

“My advice?” I said, a bitter smirk tugging at my lips. “If you can’t be good, be ruthless. Virtue, it would seem, is overrated, as demonstrated by our circumstances.”

Jora remained silent and contemplative for several minutes, deep in thought. Then, he pushed himself to his feet with a decisive slap to his knee.

“Right. Well, let's get back to work, shall we?” And so we did.

Days blurred into weeks, then months, as we dug. Our work was grueling and endless, but we had developed an easy companionship. Jora had become more than just an ally- he was a true friend. If I never left this wretched place, I would still be grateful for the time spent with him. He had been a comfort in the madness, a tether to sanity when solitude would have surely swallowed me whole. Without him, I would have been left counting drips of water, naming the stones in my walls, slipping further into the abyss.

When we began digging, I had resumed marking the days in my cell. Today marked day 103 of practically living underground like a mole, digging and hauling dirt.

As usual, Jora crawled ahead of me, speaking over his shoulder, his voice carrying in the cramped space. Ever the scholar, Jora continued his rambling teachings, this time about Patronus. he had just asked me, “And what is your patronus, young Draco?”

When I felt it. A low, deep rumble.

“Jora,” I said, reaching out to tap his foot. “Did you-?”

The rest of my words drowned out as the tunnel groaned and shuddered. Then, with a sickening crack, the ceiling collapsed.

“No, no!” I shouted, scrambling forward.

A cloud of dust exploded around me, choking me. I coughed and gagged, my breath coming in ragged gasps as dirt and debris rained down. Large chunks of stone struck my forearms, sharp pain slicing through my skin, but I ignored it.

I reached blindly for Jora’s ankles, my fingers closing around them. He wasn’t moving.

With every ounce of strength I had left, I dragged him backward, inch by inch, through the suffocating tunnel. The space was too tight to turn around, making the task nearly impossible, but I didn’t stop. I forced my body to keep going, whether by adrenaline, desperation, or sheer will, I finally pulled him free and into his cell; my arms trembled with exhaustion.

Jorah lay on the floor, coughing weakly, his breath shallow and uneven—a pink, foamy spittle gathered at the corner of his lips.

“I’ll call for help, get the healer,” I said, turning toward the door. If I had to beg the guards, I would.

But his hand shot out, gripping my forearm with surprising strength.

“No,” he rasped, another violent cough wracking his body. “It’s too late for me.”

His fingers trembled as they squeezed mine. “Listen to me, Draco.” he coughed and wheezed before continuing. “What I said about Greybone’s fortune and the wand- it’s true,” he pointed a shaky finger toward the far wall of the cell. “You must- pry the reflective stone from the wall.”

“What?” I asked in confusion

“The stone in the wall,” he pointed again.

I hesitated, torn between staying by his side and obeying his final request. But his feverish eyes bore into mine with urgency.

“Hurry,” he croaked. “The white quartz stone.”

With no other choice, I stumbled to the wall. My fingers found the edges of the stone—it was loose. I dug my nails in, feeling them splinter and break as I pried the stone free. Behind it, nestled in the hollow space, was a small leather pouch bound with a string.

I grabbed it, shoved the stone into place, and rushed back to Jora’s side.

“Here,” I said, pressing the leather pouch into his palm.

But he shook his head, his breathing rattling. He weakly pushed it back toward me.

“Take it,” he whispered. “Thi- This is where you’ll find Vogel’s treasure. And the Veilbinder Wand.”

I stared at him, unable to process what was happening.

“Yo- you must keep digging. Find your way off this cursed rock. And use that fortune and The Veilbinder, do something good with it.”

I recoiled. “No. Don’t ask that of me. If I were to find it, I would only use it for my revenge; there is no good left in me.” I pleaded for him to understand.

Jorah gave a weak, wheezing chuckle, shaking his head. His trembling fingers wrapped around mine, pressing the leather bundle into my grip.

“Take it,” he repeated, firmer this time. “Only open the pouch when you’re ready to find it. It will only work once.”

I swallowed, my throat tight. “What does that mean? Jora, I don’t understand.”

His eyes fluttered. His lips parted. “Only when you’re ready,” he breathed.

 And with that, Jora Ferry, my friend, my teacher, the man who had kept me sane in this hell these last few months, let go of his final breath.

 I stared down at Jora’s lifeless body, then at the leather bundle clenched in my dust-covered hands. My fingers trembled as I reached out, gently dragging my fingers over his eyelids to close them.

Down the hall, I heard the guards approaching, the clatter of trays echoing against the stone walls.

Panic gripped me.

If I stayed, I’d be caught, and all hope of escape would be crushed. But the tunnel had collapsed. Clearing the rubble would take years longer than I could afford.

The sounds of the guards drew closer.

Quickly, I scrambled back into the tunnel, easing the stone cover over my head as I crouched in the dark, forcing myself to stay silent.

The slot on the door rattled open.

“Oi,” a guard barked, waiting for Jora to collect his meal.

Silence.

A shuffle of movement. A curse muttered under their breath. Then, the sharp slam of something hit the ground.

The lock clicked. The door creaked open.

“Oi!” the guard shouted again as they stepped inside.

A beat of silence. Then, a grunt from the second one, “Ah, mate. He’s dead.”

I heard a dull thud- one of them kicking Jora’s lifeless body to be sure he was dead. My teeth clenched, rage red hot, and bubbling roared through me. I wanted to burst from my hiding place and tear them apart with my bare hands.

But I forced myself to stay still.

“Let's bag ‘em, then go get the warden.”

Their footsteps receded down the hall.

Think, use this to your advantage, but how?

My mind scrambled.

The tunnel was gone. There was no way out. They were getting a bag. A bag for what?
        I stayed crouched, my breath shallow, thinking of every possible scenario in which I could use this accident to escape.

Minutes later, they returned. More rustling. Grunting. The sound of Jora’s body being dragged. Then the door shut. The lock clicked. Their footsteps faded once more.
        I slid the stone covering free and climbed back into Jora’s cell.

They had wrapped him in a canvas bag, thick chains woven through the eyelets.

A plan clicked into place.

I only had moments.

I had to act fast.

I asked Jora’s forgiveness as I unwrapped him from the bag, dragged his body, and lowered it into the crawl space I had just come from as gently as I could manage.

“Farewell, friend,” I said as I slid the stone back into its place, hiding his body.

I quickly lay down in the canvas bag, weaving the chain back through the eyelets, sealing myself inside.

My breaths came fast and shallow, my hands trembling as I try to lay motionless, waiting for freedom or a fate far worse.

Footsteps echoed down the corridor—the low murmur of voices. The Warden was coming.

I told myself to be calm and steady. I forced slow, controlled breaths, pushing my fear aside and using Occlumency to center my mind.

A wand tapped against the lock. The door slid open.

I heard Armond, the warden, enter with the two guards.

“Pity,” Armond mused. I hate losing the tough ones.” He sounded petulant.

I held my breath, my body rigid as he stepped closer. A pause. Then- a kick dug painfully into my ribs.

I clenched my jaw and willed myself into stillness.

“Sure, he’s dead? Armond asked.

“Yes, sir, deader than a doornail,” one guard confirmed.

“Very well. Let's get on with it. I have some anniversary beatings to deliver.”

A levitation charm lifted me from the ground.

Slowly, I began to float forward.

They carried on with idle chatter as we ascended, flight after flight of stairs. The air changed- salt stung my tongue, and the scent of the sea was sharp in my nose. I could feel the open sky drawing near.

The iron doors at the entrance to the prison groaned open. My heartbeat thundered.

I was outside the walls.

But there was still the moat—the dementors.

The chain rattled, and the drawbridge slammed down. Don’t notice me. Don’t sense me. I thought as we began to cross over the dementors.

As we crossed, I focused on the demarcation line ahead. Past that boundary, I would be able to use magic.

Lighting cracked overhead. The wind howled, whipping at the canvas bag holding me.

“Gastly weather, go faster!” the warden shouted over the rising wind to the guards as they quickened their pace.

Beneath the cover of rolling thunder, I worked the chains loose from the canvas bag's first few eyelets.

And then- I felt it.

The press of the wards.

A moment later, we passed the demarcation line.

Just a few more feet.

The warden stopped.

“Hurry! Get this done.” Armond shouted against the now-lashing rain and wind.

As the guards approached, I looked to the right, at eye level, at his wand, hanging from the warden’s belt in the leather holster slung low on his hips.

Lightning struck.

And so did I.

My hand shot from the bag, yanking the wand from his belt.

“Avada Kedavra!”

The killing curse struck Armond square in the chest. He had a shocked look on his face as he fell dead where he stood. With the warden dead, the levitation charm failed, and I crashed to the ground.

The guards scrambled for their wands. I sprang to my feet from the bag, striking them both down in quick succession before they could even raise their wands.

The storm raged around me- thunder cracked, lightning split the sky, and waves crashed violently against the cliffs. Rain and ocean spray swirled together, drenching me as I stood at the edge.

I could hear the dementors moaning and writhing now, sensing me. I could leave nothing to chance; there could be no mistakes. No hesitation.

I centered myself, feet planted firmly, focusing on everything Jora had taught me about ancient magic. His words echoed in my mind as I put his theories to the test.

 Raising my wand hand to the storm, reaching deep inside to draw from the well of energy within me. A searing force ignited at my core, expanding and surging through my veins. I pulled magic from the earth beneath my feet and the raging storm above. Electricity slithered down from the sky, crackling into my wand, buzzing with raw power in my grip.

I exhaled- steady, controlled. Then, lowering my wand, I unleashed the lightning, fused with my magic upon Madstone Prison.

Thunder roared overhead. So did I.

“Imperio!”

A searing green light entwined with the blue ether of the lightning I had harnessed streamed from my wand, slamming into the prison with unbelievable power. I held it there, my arm vibrating and shaking from its force. The walls shuddered. Stone crumbled and exploded. The fortress collapsed in on itself, reducing to rubble and red dust.

There had still been prisoners inside. But I had given them salvation- an end to their torment and torture and ensured that no one else would ever suffer within those walls again.

As the debris settled, the dementors rose from the ruins, hundreds of them writhing shadows against the storm-lit sky. They turned toward me, a swirling mass of darkness and hunger.

With no way to defeat so many alone.

I turned to the sea.

Sprinting toward the cliff's edge.

I didn’t stop. I didn’t hesitate.

With the warden's wand still in hand, I dived headfirst into the raging waters, the dementors shrieking at my heels as I plunged headfirst into the dark, raging sea.

Chapter Text

Chapter 5

Location unknown

         The following day

         7, February

         The rhythmic crash of waves and the gentle push and pull of the tide against my body dragged me back to consciousness. The sun beat down on my exposed back, its heat searing into my skin. I coughed and sputtered as I forced seawater from my lungs. Another wave washed over me, pulling sand from beneath me as it receded into the ocean.

        I pushed myself onto trembling arms, exhausted beyond measure. Somehow, Armond’s wand was still clenched in my right fist. The realization snapped my mind into focus—the pouch.

        I jolted upright, heart hammering, and scanned the stretch of beach. My breath snagged—thirty yards down the shore, the leather pouch tumbled in the surf. I tried to run, but my legs buckled beneath me. Hours of swimming, treading water, and fighting the raging sea had drained every ounce of strength. Gritting my teeth, I forced myself forward, dragging heavy, aching limbs through the sand.

        When I reached the pouch, another wave rolled in, pushing it closer. Dropping to my knees, I snatched it from the surf, clutching it to my chest as exhaustion threatened to consume me. I remained there for some time, kneeling in the wet sand, letting the tide push and pull at me while I caught my breath.

        Lifting my head, I finally took in my surroundings. The island was so small that I could see across it.

I had no geographical idea where the island was located in the world. I knew only one thing: Madstone had been far from Wizarding Britain, judging by the force of the apparition that had brought me there. But how much further had I drifted in the storm?

        Weary, I trudged up the beach toward the coast's sparse vegetation. Finding shade beneath a lone palm tree, I rested my sun-kissed back against its rough trunk and forced myself to think.

        Apparition was too risky. Without knowing my exact location, I could splinch myself—or worse. No other islands were visible on the horizon; I was in no condition to swim any farther even if there had been one.

        That left me with one question: Who could I trust?

        The wrong choice would mean death. As far as the Wizarding World knew, Draco Malfoy no longer existed, believing I had received the kiss 18 months ago. And the powers that be who had knowingly sent me to Madstone would assume I lay dead in the rubble with the other prisoners.

        This was my one chance left for freedom, and if I reached out to the wrong person, my fate would be sealed.

        I sat silently for hours, thinking and watching the sun inch toward the horizon. The choice before me was as clear as it was terrifying- there was only one person left I might be able to trust.

        The real question was: would they come?

        We hadn't exactly parted on good terms.

        But there was no other way.

        Steeling myself, I forced my aching body to stand. My shaky legs protested, but I remained upright, focusing my mind.

        I reached back, deep into my past, searching for the one memory that had ever allowed me to summon a Patronus. A bitter taste in my mouth now tainted the memory itself, but the feeling it had evoked—the curiosity, the innocent flicker of something unspoken—was what mattered.

        Lifting my wand, I let that memory, that feeling it had evoked in me so long ago, flood my mind.

        “Expecto Patronum”

        White light burst from the wand tip like a swirling electric fog, twisting and merging until it took the shape of an enormous, proud unicorn. It trotted gracefully up to me, its long mane swinging with each graceful stride.

        It turned its luminous eyes to me, waiting.

        I still remember the look of horror on my father’s face the first time I produced my Patronus for him. I had been so proud of it, so certain it was something remarkable. The memory I had used to summon it felt sweet and tender in my child’s heart.

        But the vicious slap Lucius delivered shattered that pride instantly, and my patronus dissolved into mist.

        “Do not produce that again!” he had shouted, spittle flying from his mouth, landing on my cheek; his hand clamped around my forearm, fingers digging in, though he tried poorly to soften his tone. His face was flushed, his lip curled back in a snarl.

        “There are those who would see this as a weakness, Draco. A unicorn Patronus cannot be used in the Dark Arts. Do you understand?”

        I had nodded, though, at the time, I hadn’t understood at all.

        Of course, later, when the Dark Lord returned and I came to understand the symbolism of the unicorn, I realized what my father had meant. And after I received the Dark Mark, I never tried to summon my Patronus again—until this very moment.

        Now, on this desolate shore, I stepped closer to the regal animal, leaned in, whispered my instructions, and watched it gallop away on the wind. Then, I sat back down in the sand to wait.

        Either I had chosen correctly, or Aurors would be arriving to drag me back in chains.

        The sun hung low, half-buried on the horizon, painting the sky with gold, pink, and orange streaks, reflecting off the now calm, endless ocean.

        Then, the sand around me rippled with a sharp crack, and Pansy Parkinson apparated alone—no Aurors in tow. That was, at the very least, a good sign.

        She stood before me, immaculately dressed, as always. She wore a perfectly tailored black suit and crisp white shirt, the high collar brushing against her sleek, straight bob as the ocean breeze stirred it. Her usual impassive face faltered briefly as she took in my state. I could only imagine what I looked like—tattered prison trousers, no shirt, deep scars marring my sunburned torso and shoulders, long filthy hair and beard, the scar splitting the left side of my face.

        But to her credit, she schooled her features quickly. Tilting her head, she arched an elegant brow.

        “So… a unicorn, huh?” she mused. “Imagine my surprise when Draco Malfoy’s voice came out of it. A supposed ‘Dead’ Draco Malfoy at that.”

        I had to give her credit. No gasps, no simpering, no dramatics. Just cool indifference. It was precisely why I had chosen her.

        A crooked smile tugged at my lips. “Well, I always did crave attention. And what better way to get yours than sending you my unicorn? I imagine poor Lucius is spinning in his grave.” I said, pushing myself up on unsteady legs.

        “Tell me you’re about to take me, preferably in this order- to a hot bath, meal, and a soft bed. And not back to the Ministry in shackles.”

        She regarded me for a long moment, head tilted. Then, smoothly crossing her arms, she said, “Now, why would I take a ghost to the Ministry in shackles?”

        I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.

        “And yes, all three of your requests are waiting. However,” -her eyes sharpened-” after the bath and meal, and before I let you sleep for what looks like you’ll need a solid month. I’m going to need some questions answered.”

        “Done,” I said without hesitation. “Now, please, get me the fuck off this island.”

        She closed the distance between us in three strides, grabbed my hand, and disapparated us away.        

        True to her word, all three of my requests were waiting in an elegant apartment in the heart of Paris.

        As soon as we arrived, Pansy informed me that she had cast a Fidelius Charm on the flat, ensuring I could rest and recover without fear of being detected.

Pansy had taken a position with the French Ministry, specifically the International Magical Cooperation Department (IMCD), which explained why she had been close enough to respond. As it turned out, the island I had washed up on was an uninhabited strip of land off the French Coast, meaning we had only needed a single apparition to reach the flat.

        Thankfully, my body was in worse shape than I had realized. By the time we landed, pain had ripped through me as if I had been torn in half.

         I stood under a steaming hot shower until I thought my skin would peel off. When I could no longer stand the scalding water, I stepped out, a towel slung low across my hips. Crossing to the mirror, I wiped away the condensation, revealing a stranger staring back at me.

        Pansy had laid out a hair-trimming kit on the countertop. I ignored the scissors, leaving my hair as it was—long, falling past my shoulders. Usually, I would have dried my hair magically, but the sensation of wet, clean hair felt incredible after so many months of filth.

        Instead, I picked up the grooming kit and worked on my beard, carefully moving around the scar that split my face. When I finished, I studied my reflection.

        The scar was jarring, carving a path down my face under my chin, barely touching the front of my neck. But my left eye startled me most—the iris now stark white, a shocking contrast to the stormy gray of my other.

        Good.

        A living reminder- every time I looked in the mirror- of what had been done to me, of what had been taken from me.

        With my hair long, I had expected to see my father staring back at me. But to my surprise, the sharp angles of my face, gaunt from months of starvation, distorted the resemblance. Instead, I saw Narcissa in me.

        Finally, I turned away from my reflection and reached for the soft gray joggers laid out for me—Pansy, bless her, opting for comfort over fashion. I padded barefoot and shirtless into the dining room and collapsed into the chair at the head of the table.

        Pansy sat opposite me, leaning casually back, her suit jacket undone. The table was laden with food—plates filled with all manner of cuisines, steaming and fresh. Without hesitation, I dug in. The explosion of flavors—salty, sweet, savory—was almost overwhelming after 18 months of eating nothing but rats and meager prison scraps. Yet, to my shock, I could only manage a few bites before my stomach protested, unused to real food.

         I reached for the glass of firewhisky before me and took a slow sip, letting the burn spread through my chest. Then, I leaned back in my chair, stretching my legs out under the table.

        Pansy had watched me eat in silence, head tilted, a considering look on her face. Finally, she spoke.

        “The scar, the hair…the mismatched eyes—it suits you, irritatingly so.” She said with a huff. “How is that even possible? I hate you,” she teased, giving a dramatic sigh that pulled a chuckle from me.

 Then her tone shifted serious once more. “Where were you before the island?”

        “Madstone Prison,” I replied.

        Her head snapped back. She frowned. “Madstone? Not Azkaban?”

        “Definitely not Azkaban. I was Apparated to Madstone straight from the Ministry- by two Aurors.”

        Her eyes widened. “That far? It’s a miracle you weren’t splinched.”

        “It felt like I had been,” I said dryly.

        “I’ve never heard of Madstone,” Pansy admitted. “It must be on a cloaked island near where you washed up.”

        “ I don't think many people have heard of Madstone.” I shook my head. “The warden told me- ‘it's where the Ministry sends the ones they’re ashamed of. The innocent ones.”

        She went quiet, considering that.

        “How did you escape?”

        So I told her. Everything. The betrayals in court by Blaise and Granger. Of the tortures dolled out by the Warden. Told her of Jora and our bid for escape, the tunnel collapsing, and how I was able to make my escape due to his death, how I reduced the prison to rubble.

        Then I tossed the leather pouch onto the table and told her about the Veilbinder Wand and the supposed fortune Jora had passed to me.

        When I finished, Pansy leaned back, arms crossed over her chest, processing everything I had just told her. She stared at the pouch for a long time before returning her eyes to me.

        “I read the court transcripts,” she said. “They came across my desk the day after your sentencing. I had no idea you were arrested.”

        “It was a setup,” I said, Venom lacing my words. “Kingsley knew what he would do before I stepped into that courtroom. The fucking Order-” I exhaled sharply, gripping the firewhisky glass tighter.

“It’s true. I worked with the Order. Blaise and I. For a year. Granger recruited us. Swore, she’d testify. Swore she’d use her memories to clear me. I couldn’t understand why Granger hadn’t testified or Blaise had lied. But just before the Aurors took me to Madstone, I saw them in the hallway, Blaise and Granger, hugging, clinging to each other; Blaise looked right at me and fucking smirked.” I spat the words like poison.

        Pansy exhaled sharply. “Well, you won’t like this, then,” she said. “It's not Granger. It’s Zabini. They married two months after your trial.”

        My jaw clenched so hard I felt a molar crack. A fresh wave of fury burned through me. While I had been locked away-beaten, starved, whipped, tortured, teetering on the edge of insanity- they had been on their honeymoon. My anger was so intense I could have sworn the air around me sizzled.

        Pansy stood and slipped off her suit jacket, draping it over the back of the chair. She walked to the wet bar, poured three fingers of whisky, and tossed it back in one go. Then she returned, this time taking the seat directly to my left.

        “Alright,” she said, leveling me with a steady gaze. “What's your move, and what do you need from me?”

        Pure Pansy-no bullshit, straight to the point. The bluntness of her words was like a balm on an open wound.

        I reached across the table, laid my hand over hers, and squeezed it.

        “As far as the Zabini’s go, I don’t know yet.” I said honestly, “But to start, I’m going to follow the money,” I said, my voice low and measured. “And anyone who so much as touched a Galleon of mine is going to pay for it. In blood.” I met her eyes. “I need your help tracking who benefited financially from my imprisonment within the Ministry, where all the Malfoy money went. Can you do that?”

        “I can,” she said, nodding firmly.

        “Can you help me establish a new identity?” I waved a hand over my scarred, permanently altered face. “Can I pass for someone else?”

        She paused, considering.

“The Prophet ran nonstop articles for 12 months after your sentencing. Your trial and  ‘death’ was reported on and dissected more than Voldemort’s. No one would think Draco Malfoy is walking the streets- especially looking like this,” she waved a hand in my direction. “you handsome fucker.” She smirked slightly, but her tone remained serious. “I think we can pull it off with the right documentation. But it won’t come cheap; it’ll cost. And it’ll take time-several weeks at least to build a strong cover and backstory.”

        I glanced at the leather pouch resting on the table. “If Jora spoke true, all the money we’d ever need is right there.”

        Pansy leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table. “Tell me exactly what he said about the pouch again.”

        “Jora said, ‘Don't open it until you’re ready. It will only work once.”

        We stared at the pouch silently, the weight of realization settling over us. Then, at the same time, we looked up at each other.

        In unison, we said, “It's a Portkey.”

         After tentatively concluding that the pouch contained a Portkey, we planned to activate it, but before we opened it, we needed to prepare. Pansy would have two Portkeys made to bring us back to the flat. We only needed one, but she insisted on having a backup, just in case. I agreed; we had no idea where Jora’s Portkey would take us or what might happen when we arrived.

        So Pansy left to wrap up a matter at the Ministry, which she had abandoned when she received my Patronus, and to gather the items needed before opening the Portkey.

Exhaustion pulled at me, mind and body; my eyelids felt leaden. As soon as Pansy was gone, I stumbled into one of the bedrooms, collapsed face-first onto the down-filled mattress, and fell into oblivion.

        I was in Hogwarts. Standing behind a pillar in the hall, it was nearly midnight; I waited to see if Harry and Ron would show up for the duel. Then I saw her- a mess of riotous curls, a fierce and determined expression, bounding after them. I was captivated by this young girl in a world she had only ever read about in books. I had thought her brave, and I knew what courage it took to face the things that scared you; after all, I had to face Lucius Malfoy my entire life. She stopped abruptly and whipped her head in my direction, making eye contact; I stepped out from behind the pillar.

        She opened her mouth. “Draco Lucius Malfoy, how do you plead?” she asked in Kingsley Shacklebolt's deep voice. In my child's voice, I replied shakily, “Not guilty.”

         The dream shifted.

        Darkness. Absolute and suffocating. But I could hear Hermione screaming my name. “Draco, help me, please! No, don’t - stop, please!”

        I couldn’t see her, but knew why she was crying out for me. I knew why her voice was raw, filled with pain. Bellatrix. Carving into her forearm. Frantically, I ran toward her cries for help, but I could not find her in the darkness; I ran until my legs gave out, and I fell and fell, still surrounded by blackness.

        I was now on the cold stone floor of my cell in Madstone. Across from me, in the dim light, sat Hermione. Thin. Frail. Her wet hair clung to her face, her knees drawn to her chest, and her arms wrapped around herself like she was barely holding together. She stared at me, unblinking.

        “Have we always been trapped here?” Her voice came out warped, garbled.

        My chest twisted painfully. My heart pounded erratically.

        “I think so,” I whispered.

        She didn't look away. Her wide eyes gleamed with something raw and unspoken, and a single tear rolled down her cheek.

         I jolted awake, gasping for breath, sweat-soaked and disoriented. For several moments, I didn’t know where I was. My eyes darted around the room, my pulse racing.

Slowly, reality settled in.

        I was not in that dark prison cell.

        I was free.

        “I am free,” I whispered it aloud as if to convince myself.

        I turned my head to the nightstand—4:43 a.m.

        I did not want to risk closing my eyes again- not if more of these dreams awaited me.

        I tossed back the covers, grabbed Pansy's pack of Muggle cigarettes left for me, and stepped outside onto the veranda. The night air was crisp against my sweat-filmed skin as I pulled a cigarette from the pack, lit it, and took a long drag. The burn traced its way down my throat, filling my lungs. I held it there momentarily, then exhaled sharply, watching the smoke curl and swirl into the night.

The air was cold but felt cleansing against my sweat-soaked skin. I leaned against the railing, gazing out over the twinkling lights of Paris.

And despite myself- despite all my best efforts not to, I thought of her.

I always thought of her .

 Warm brown eyes filled my mind so completely that I didn’t notice the sun creeping over the horizon. Night surrendered to morning, but I only saw her.

It was a weakness- this inability to hold hatred toward her.

As a child, my father tried to instill his prejudices in me, filling my mind with disdain for her, for her kind Mudblood. I had tried to obey, trying to push her away with a hatred I had never truly felt. I called her names and was cruel on purpose, but she never cowered. She only stood there, defiant, brave.

And now, I had every reason to hate her, not from my father’s manic ramblings. She had hurt me, lied to me, betrayed me, and wounded me to the very depths of my soul. And yet, I still couldn’t hold on to that hatred.

She had married Blaise for fucks sake! And though that news had rocked me to my core. The hot flash of anger that had roared through me had already fizzled out, leaving only emptiness in its wake.

Would I have to cut her from my heart, piece by piece, just to be free of her? My hand drifted absently to my chest, rubbing at the dull ache there. My gaze dropped, settling on the tattoo over my heart.

But even if I carved her out, even if I tore myself apart, would I ever be truly free? Or would she follow me beyond the veil, haunting me even there?

        Pushing myself and these thoughts away, I turned from the veranda and headed to the kitchen. Using wandless magic, I conjured a cup of coffee.

        I stood leaning against the counter, sipping slowly, when Pansy apparated in the living area. She carried a wide brown leather suitcase with old-fashioned push locks and a smaller black case. She crossed to the bar that separated the kitchen from the living area, setting both cases down with a quiet thud.

        “Two Portkeys and a charmed extension suitcase for whatever we might need to bring back with us,” she said, waving a hand toward the kitchen behind me, conjuring a cup of steeped tea that sailed across the space and into her waiting hands. She took a delicate sip, then raised an eyebrow at me.

        “Did you sleep?” she asked.

        “Enough,” I lied, setting my cup down. “So we’re all ready then?” I nodded toward the cases on the counter.

        “Ready when you are,” she replied. “Oh, and I brought these for you to choose from. I figured you might not want to keep using the Warden's wand.” She removed four wands from the charmed suitcase and laid them on the counter.

        She was correct; the warden's wand felt tainted. It had served its purpose in getting me off the prison island, but I did not want to pick it up again. I let my hands hover over the wands Pansy laid out in a row, trying to get a sense of them. The second one in the row, I detected a dragon heartstring core. I picked it up; it was comfortable in my hand, light, and accommodating.

        “Lumos”

        A light flared briefly from its tip. “This one will do for now. Let me get dressed, and I’ll be ready,” I said, already moving.

        I took another scalding shower to wash away the sweat of nightmares and the lingering grime of the prison. But no matter how hot the water burned against my skin, I still felt dirty. I wasn’t sure if I would ever feel clean again.

        Leaving my hair damp, I dressed in Muggle attire- loose, faded jeans that hung low on my hips, a comfortable knit sweater, and athletic shoes.

When I reentered the living area, Pansy cocked an eyebrow at my choice of clothing but didn’t say a word, I just mirrored her with an arched brow of my own as I crossed directly to her, and before she knew what I was going to do I engulfed her in a tight hug, I felt her stiffen initially then hesitantly she wrapped her arms around me when I continued to hold her.

        After a moment, I pulled back and leaned my forehead against hers.

“Thank you,” I said simply. I knew Pansy- knew that was all she would want to hear.

After another minute, I let go of her and stepped back, creating space between us. She gave a firm nod, then ran her hands over her sleek bob, tugged at her suit, and righted herself; then she opened the small black case, handing me one of the wrapped portkeys that would bring us back; I slipped it into my pocket as she picked up the charmed suitcase.

“Alright then, whenever you're ready.” She said.

I conjured Jora’s leather pouch and floated it to the counter. I grabbed Pansy’s free hand and waved my wand over the pouch, untying the string; the leather fell away to reveal an ancient Galleon coin pressed with a goblin mint that had likely not seen the light of day in Centuries.

“Fuck me,” Pansy breathed. “Draco, that's a self-replicating Goblin coin,” she whipped her head toward me. “The spell used is similar to the Gemino curse, except with these coins, it is pressed into the gold, making it true magical cloning, not just to overwhelm an intruder. If replication begins after you touch it, depending on the size of the space we are transported to, we could quickly be overwhelmed.”

“What counteracts the spell?” I asked calmly.

“Finite Incantatem,” she answered, “but it would have to be cast with a great deal of power to stop it,” she replied, her brows pulled low with concern.

“Do you trust me?” I asked.

The concern left her face. “Yes,” she said simply.

“Good,” I replied, touching the coin without hesitation. A tugging sensation pulled at my navel as we twisted through space and time, landing hard on a mountain of ancient Goblin coins like the one used as the portkey.

The mountain of coins rumbled underneath us, then began popping and replicating with astonishing speed; Pansy and I were pushed apart by the growing number of coins, as the empty spaces of the cave we’d been transported to filled.

“Finite Incantatem,”  I heard Pansy cast as a white light filled the cave, but the coins continued replicating.

“Draco!” she shouted.

I raised my wand, flicked my wrist in a figure-eight pattern, and shouted from my core, “Finite Incantatem!”  A blue light flared from my wand, shaking the entire cave. Dust and debris fell from the ceiling and walls of the cave, rattling the coins that filled the space, but the replicating stopped.

“Fuck me!” Pansy shouted from the opposite side of the cave, eyes wide, looking at me like she had never seen me before. “That was- powerful,” she finished as if at a loss for words.

I shrugged a shoulder, “Jora gave me some lessons.” I said as I took in the cave. I thought there had to be more gold coins in this cave than in Gringotts.

The cave was low-ceilinged but stretched endlessly before me.

“Lumos”

Two balls of light floated from my wand and hung above us, lighting the dim cave.

The light revealed towering mounds of gold coins. I waded through them, pushing deeper inside Pansy right behind me. Beyond the most significant section of coins, I reached a pile of dazzling jewels—diamonds, rubies, and emeralds. The sheer wealth was unimaginable. Tiaras, crowns, and necklaces glittered under the dim light. I picked up a delicate gold ring with an enormous square-cut emerald at its center and examined it before slipping it into my pocket.

“Fuck me,” Pansy breathed again as she stepped up beside me, eyes locked on the treasure.

I chuckled. “Say that again, and I might just take you up on it. I have been in prison for eighteen months, you know.” I said, only half kidding; a crooked smirk played on my lips.

She shot me a look. “I’d break you.”

“Mmm, I do love a good challenge,” I said easily, but my focus quickly returned to the cavern.

The space was far too vast to search by sight alone, and if the wand was here, it was likely hidden under some form of protection-perhaps a cloaking charm. I raised my wand.

“Accio.”

Coins cascaded from towering mounds, and jewels tumbled across the cavern floor as a deep rumble echoed from its depths. AN orange, fiery glow flickered to life within the darkness, growing brighter with each passing second. The roar intensified as the light swirled in molten shades of orange, yellow, and red.

Pansy turned to me, her voice unsteady. “Draco,” she warned.

The moment she spoke my name, a Fiendfyre appeared in the form of a dragon. Its enormous head rounded a corner, twisting, turning, writhing, and burning.

Mountains of gold coins darkened to a molten red as the beast floated above them, breathing fire over the treasure. The coins did not melt, but they blackened, smoldering like coals.

“Draco,” Pansy said again, her voice rising over the roar of the fiery dragon. Her wand was raised, her hand trembling, but her feet planted solidly, not moving back a single inch.

I steadied myself, widened my stance.

“Salvio Hexa Protego Totalum”

I shouted as a surge of indigo magic whipped from my wand in a steady stream, colliding with the advancing dragon.

The cave trembled with the collision of my magic and the Fiendfyre. Dust and debris rained from the ceiling.

Despite my magic whipping around the dragon, the beast pressed forward, its orange flames battling me, snuffing out my indigo magic. Heat blasted my face. I inhaled deeply through my nose, the heat of the beast burning the air I held in my lungs as Jora’s teachings echoed in my mind, anchoring me. With renewed strength, I thrust my arm forward, gritting my teeth, pushing my magic harder, to the edge of burnout.

Again, I roared the incantation.

“Salcio Hexa Protego Totalum!”

I couldn’t hear Pansy’s spell over the dragon's roar, but I saw her magic- a brilliant flash electric-white- collide with mine midair. Our forces merged, twining like rope, a stream of raw power surging toward the dragon.

It was mere feet away now. Fire licked at my skin, the heat searing. And then- our magic twisted together, struck as one.

The beast exploded into cinders.

Ash and embers rained down, swirling in the smoky air. My arm dropped to my side, trembling from the effort. To my right, Pansy doubled over, hands on her knees, gasping for breath, coughing against the thick haze of soot and dust that filled the cavern.

“Are you alright?” I asked quickly.

“Yes,” she said with a cough.

“What did you cast?” I asked her, she turned her head to me, still bent forward. “Aguamenti,” she replied as she straightened and brushed dust and soot from her suit, seemingly more irritated at her ruined garment than at almost being burned alive by a fiendfyre.

I chuckled at her, “Well, it tipped the scale in our favor, nice one.”

Before the air cleared, a softer sound—a faint rustling—stirred from where the dragon had emerged.

Across the expanse, a long wooden box drifted toward me, gliding through the air before settling gently in my outstretched hand. The box was old and covered in dust, seeming buried for centuries. With a steady breath, I pocketed my wand and lifted the lid of the old box. Dust and stale air whooshed out, and there it was, The Veilbinder.

When I cast Accio, searching for the wand, it must have triggered the dragon’s protection spell.

It looked nearly identical to the Elder Wand, except for its black, gleaming luster, a hue that absorbed and reflected light at once.

“Careful,” Pansy warned as my hand hovered over it.

Even without touching the wand, I could feel its power- palpable, electric. Jora’s words echoed in my mind. ‘It will choose the wielder.’

And I could feel it considering me.

It didn’t reject me, but it didn’t fully accept me either. I was caught somewhere in between.

In a way, it was calling to me—an unspoken command I couldn’t quite hear, a push-and-pull sensation. My fingers twitched, itching to close around it. I turned to Pansy.

“Get your wand ready,” I told her. ”And back away.”

“Draco, wait-”

“Pansy, do what I say,” I said in a tone that brooked no argument. “If something goes wrong, use the portkey and leave. Don’t wait for me.”

Pansy and I stared at each other in a battle of wills until she lifted her wand and backed away from me. I could have sworn I heard her mumble “Idiot” as she did so.

I quirked my mouth, shot her a wink, and then wrapped my fingers around the wand.

A surge of raw, untamed power erupted through me, like lightning crackling in my veins. The air thrummed with thick energy as if the fabric of magic was bending to my will.

This was not just a tool in my hand.

It was an extension of my soul.

The world sharpened, and my senses heightened. The wand pulsed in response to every beat of my heart—alive, aware.

A whisper of ancient knowledge curled at the edge of my mind as if the wand carried the memory of every duel, every triumph, every spell ever cast through it.

For the first time, I truly understood what it meant to wield absolute power- and the heavyweight that came with it.

With a shaky hand, I lifted the wand before me. I cast no spell; I simply held it there.

Before my eyes, an image began to take shape in the cave. A dais emerged, and a tall, ancient stone archway stood atop it, its surface cracked and crumbling. It seemed impossible that it was standing, especially without any surrounding walls to support it. Hanging from the arch was a tattered, silvery veil, sheer and delicate, gently fluttering as though touched by unseen hands from the other side.

Soft, whispering murmurs drifted from beyond the veil. I couldn’t make out the words, but instinctively, I knew my mother’s voice was among them.

I stepped closer, straining to hear her.

“Help he-”  Narcissa’s voice drifted from behind the sheer veil.

The soft broken words barely reached me before a force slammed into my ribs, knocking me backward onto a pile of coins. The wand slipped from my grasp, clattering against the cave floor.

I was on my feet instantly, ready to fight- until I saw who had hit me.

Pansy.

She stumbled backward, wand raised between us, her face pale.

“Draco, it's me. Stop!” she said, breathing hard and eyes wide. “You were about to touch the veil!”

I shook my head, dazed, trying to clear the fog in my mind—the veil. I turned back toward where the archway had been- but it was gone.

Nothing remained but scattered coins, jewels, and the dimly lit cave.

“What was that?” I asked, my voice unsteady.

Pansy lowered her wand, her hand trembling. “You summoned the veil with that wand. If you had touched it, you would have crossed over to the other side. There’s no coming back from that.”

“I didn’t summon anything,” I insisted. “It just appeared when I held the wand.”

Pansy’s worried expression hardened. “Put it back in the box. We need to know more about it before you wield it again. We do not know what we’re dealing with here.”

I nodded slowly, still staring at the spot where the veil had been. I had definitely heard my mother's voice urging me to help—but who I did not know.

“Right,” I murmured. “You're right,” I said as I bent, quickly picked up the wand, and placed it back in the box, sealing it shut once more.

“Come on, let's get this over with and get the hell out of here,” I said, prying the suitcase from Pansy’s tight grip. Her knuckles were white, and though she tried not to let them show, I saw a faint tremor in her hands from what had just happened.

I flipped open the suitcase, its extension charm activated, and we began shoveling in coins, jewels, and gold- pile after pile. But there was no way to take it all. We’d be here for a month trying to clear this cavern. Even now, I had enough wealth to last ten lifetimes shoved into the case.

I carefully placed the wand inside with the treasure, closed the lid, and snapped the tumbler shut.

“Wait,” Pansy said.

She picked up a Galleon from the floor and murmured an incantation over it. Then, with a flick of her wand, she tore a small piece of fabric from her suit cuff, magically extended it, and wrapped it around the coin before tucking it into her pocket.

“Just in case we need to come back,” she said.

Without another word, I grabbed her hand as she pulled out the portkey to return us to the flat.

A sharp tugging sensation yanked at my navel- and then we landed back at the flat.

Pansy wasted no time setting the suitcase on the table, flipping it open, and transferring an enormous sum into a separate case.

“I’ll need to meet with someone about converting these ancient coins into current Galleons,” she said. “It would raise too many questions if you used centuries-old currency to re-establish.”

She snapped the case shut. “I also have to meet with my contact about your Identity. For now, lie low and catch up on rest. The flat is charmed for food, drink, smokes, anything you need. I’ll be back in a day or two.”

I nodded. “All right, then. I’m at your mercy,” I teased, bowing at the waist to her.

She rolled her eyes but smirked. “And Draco, don’t touch that wand again until I find some information on it.”

I just nodded at her request, and then, with a soft pop, she apparated away.

I went straight to the suitcase, opened it, and took the wand case out, setting it before me on the table. I sat, opened the lid, and stared at the wand silently for a long time.

Chapter Text

Chapter 6

Potions Department, Ministry of Magic, Britain

TW: this chapter contains scenes of domestic violence/ rape/non-con- please take care reading.

10, February

        I picked up my quill and marked in my notebook: 

Attempt 107 of Potion F Trial.

As always, I wrote in the coded text I had developed—if Blaise ever went through my things, he wouldn’t understand what I was working on.

        Potion F had been my secret project for months, something I worked on in stolen moments after completing my official tasks for the Ministry. Some days, I had an hour; others, I had two. In that time, I did everything I could to perfect this potion -my escape. The way to break free from Blaise for good Potion F- Freedom. If I could only keep my mind focused and get it right.

        But my focus was slipping.

        For the past three months, my health has been in steady decline. Anxiety, headaches, tremors -all worsening since the Anniversary party’s aftermath. I was losing time now; sometimes, days would vanish without a trace.

My memory was failing me so badly that I had to rely on notes to remember what I’d done. And yet even my own coded messages sometimes felt foreign, as if I were starting over again with each attempt.

        In addition to Potion F, I had begun brewing my medications to treat my failing health and memory. The potions prescribed by the healers had long since lost their effectiveness. The calming draught I relied on now was dangerously potent, but my symptoms had worsened to the point where I had no other choice. Without it, even the simplest tasks - holding a wand, dressing myself, combing my hair -became insurmountable. My hands shook so violently from anxiety and trauma that some mornings I could barely function.

        I knew the high dosage of my self-made medication was likely contributing to my lost time, the missing days, the worsening memory lapses. But what choice did I have? I had to keep increasing the dose little by little just to make it through the days.

        I glanced at the clock—3:10 p.m.

        My stomach twisted. Any time I caught sight of the clock at or near three, nausea rolled over me, sometimes followed by dizziness. Worse, I often frantically tried to get somewhere, though I never knew where I needed to be or why the time mattered. I shook my head, forcing the feeling away, and returned to my notes.

        I scanned the coded text and began pulling out the ingredients for Attempt 107.

        I had just finished stacking them neatly when a high-pitched squeal cut across the potions lab.

        “What are you doing here?” Astoria’s excited voice made me look up just in time to see her grab and hug a striking witch.

        She was stunning—sharp and composed, with a sleek black bob and a perfectly tailored deep forest-green suit. A lighter green high-collared blouse peeked out from beneath the jacket, and polished high-heeled leather boots completed the elegant yet professional look.

        I realized too late that I had been staring.

        “Hermione, look who’s here!” Astoria’s voice rang out again as she turned toward me, her short strawberry-blonde curls (this week's look) bouncing as she pulled the woman along with her, beaming.

        Panic gripped me.

        I should know this person.

        It was happening more often—seeing someone I should remember, feeling the weight of expectation in their eyes, knowing I didn’t have the memory to match. I had learned early on that it was easier for both me and the other person if I simply pretended I knew them.

        So I did.

        Pretending spared me the awkward discussions about my diagnosis, the pity in their eyes, the hushed conversations behind my back. Despite the anxiety twisting in my gut, I slipped on my well-practiced mask, perfected my smile, and led with the line that usually did the trick.

        “Wow, how long has it been?” I asked as I stepped from my station to meet the couple in the aisle between workspaces. I was careful to keep my work out of view, especially from the unfamiliar witch. For all I knew, she could be one of Blaise’s cronies sent to spy.

        Most people took the bait of an open-ended question, offering a timeframe that helped me place where I knew them from. Then they’d start talking, filling in the blanks, and I could steer the conversation with subtle, leading questions- never revealing I didn’t remember them.

        But something about this witch told me she wouldn’t be so easily led. She tilted her head, studying me with cool interest, then replied smoothly- and just vaguely enough- “It must have been the healer’s tent in the field.”

        The healer’s tent. Had I treated her? Had she worked alongside me? I sifted through the fractured pieces of my memory, searching for her, but my memories of the war were the most difficult to recall. A blurry image surfaced -not of the war but a much younger version of her standing in the halls of Hogwarts, surrounded by other Slytherin students. But beyond that, nothing. No name. No context. She had given me precious little to work with, and I knew that pressing the wrong question- especially about the healer’s tent- could be dangerous.

        So, I kept my expression neutral. “Right, yes,” I nodded as if the memory was perfectly clear. However, I had no idea what had transpired between us. “Such a long time ago now,” I added, stalling, unsure how to navigate the conversation. My smile never faltered.

        But she was still watching me closely. Too closely.

        “Yes,” she said, her voice measured. “A long time ago indeed.”

        There was a look in her eye -that unsettled me on a deep, instinctual level. There was history here, more than a Hogwarts memory of passing in the hall. We had a deeper past.

        Before the tension could stretch any further, Astoria, oblivious, jumped in. “How long will you be here?” she asked excitedly.

        “Just a short trip, I go back to Paris tomorrow,” the witch replied, her tone light. But, I’m taking a new assignment here in Britain, and in a few weeks, I will be back for an extended period.” She turned to look at me as she finished. “It will be just like old times.”

        Just like old times.

        A chill ran through me.

        Astoria, completely missing the tension, squealed with delight. “Oh! Pansy, I’m so excited!”

        Pansy

        A name surfaced from the depths of my mind: Pany Parkinson. Then, an Image of Draco Malfoy, his arm thrown over her shoulder, head bent, whispering in her ear across from me in potions class, surfaced.

        Dizziness crashed over me as the image flickered through my mind. I reached out with a shaky hand, gripping the edge of a nearby workstation for support.        

        Astoria was at my side in an instant. “Hermione, you're as pale as a ghost. Are you alright?” she grabbed my other arm, steadying me.

        Embarrassment clashed with the crippling anxiety that always followed memories of Draco. The therapists had all insisted the same thing that my visceral reaction to memories of Draco was subconsciously tied to the day of my breakdown, triggered by the knowledge that Blaise was set to testify against him during the height of the war crime trials. They believed that the combination had triggered my PTSD.

         I knew there had to be more, but I had long ago stopped asking about Draco, ever since Blaise’s first violent attack, causing the loss of the baby when Draco’s name had slipped past my lips.

        “I-I just forgot to eat lunch today.” I stammered trying to cover. “I’m fine, really.”

Gently, I removed Astoria’s hand from my arm. Her grip was steady, meant to support and keep me from falling. I knew that.

But the way her fingers wrapped around my arm made me feel trapped. Blaise had grabbed me like that too many times. The sensation sent a shudder through me, and I cringed internally as I stepped away.

        “It was wonderful to see you again, Pansy,” I said, using her name to mask the gap in my memory.

        As I wiped my sweaty palms against my pant legs, I told myself my tone had been smooth, even. But the fine tremor running through my body made me doubt it.

        “Are you sure you’re okay?” Astoria pressed, genuine concern plain on her sweet face.

        “Yes, I’m fine. Thank you. I should just get to my station and have something for lunch,” I managed.

        Pansy inclined her head. “It was nice to see you again as well, Hermione.”

        Her expression was unreadable, but something about it was calculating -like she hadn’t missed a single detail.

        Not giving them a chance to continue, I turned away and went to my workstation, pulling out my lunch. I had no appetite but forced myself to go through the motions. I took out a few biscuits, broke off a small bite, and chewed. With each movement, the food grew heavier in my mouth, nausea threatening to make swallowing impossible.

        When I finally dared glance up, relief washed over me. The pair was back at Astoria’s station, deep in conversation, and their attention shifted away from me.

        Taking a sip of tea from my thermos, I managed to wash down the bite of biscuit. Then, drawing a steadying breath, I reached into my bag, fingers closing around the calming draught.

        Turning slightly away from them, I took a generous gulp from the bottle before tucking it back into my bag. I let the calming draught settle in my system before refocusing on the ingredients laid out for Potion F.

Taking a steadying breath, I began working through the steps, picking up my quill to jot down notes as I went. My hand trembled, making it difficult to hold the quill, but I forced myself to push through. I had to get through it. I had to get it right. Because I didn’t know how many days I had left- how much longer I could survive like this.

I went through each step of the Potion recipe meticulously.

I had successfully passed step 5, the potion turning clear as water. The indicator, yes! I silently cheered as I readied the next ingredient, following the instructions I had found in an old potion text in the Ministry’s library.

 Step 6.

Crush four balvin berries stems included to a fine dust,

Sprinkle into the cauldron counter-clockwise, let sit 30 seconds

Then stir clockwise for eight minutes and 27 seconds, until the potion emits the smell of orange peels. Note: the liquid should remain clear during this process.

        Eight minutes and 27 seconds into stirring, I began to smell lilac, not orange peels. The potion bubbled in the cauldron for several seconds, then evaporated harmlessly into the air. I wasn't sure where I had gone wrong, but I grabbed my quill to make quick, coded notes on the failure. Just as I began, a hand grabbed the back of my arm, jerking my quill across the page. I jumped and spun around to see Percy, his hateful face sneering.

        “It's twenty past five. Boss wants you back at the estate and said to remind you it's the second time you have been late getting home this week.”

        I glanced at the timekeeper on my station. I had lost track of time again.

        But I had made it past Step Five- only two more to go. Hope bloomed in my chest- I was close. Even with Percy hovering, my mind was already planning next steps.

        In the morning, I’d send an owl to Flourish & Blotts in Diagon Alley, requesting that Fenrich look into any known texts on ‘Gorgon’s Whisper’ -the actual name of the potion I’d been referring to as Potion F in my notes. Fenrich was an old friend, and with my Ministry credentials, he wouldn’t think to ask questions.

        With the plan in place, I turned to Percy. “I’m packing up now,” I said, securing my notes in my bag and tidying my station.

        His constant presence growing more intrusive lately. Blaise’s grip on me-through him- was tightening.

        He hovered behind me, watching every move I made. I could’ve sworn I felt him lean in -his face brushing against my hair as he inhaled deeply. A wave of revulsion swept through me, chills skittering across my skin. I leaned forward, trying to put space between us.

        Right on cue, Astoria glided up beside us. Without hesitation, she elbowed Percy hard in the side, pushing him back.

        “Percy, quit being a nuisance,” she said sharply. “You can wait outside while I help Hermione clean up.”        

        “I have my orders -,” he started, but Astoria cut him off.

        “Stuff you orders. Get out,” Astoira snapped, pointing a finger toward the doors. When Percy didn’t move, she pressed on.  “Last time I checked, I was head of this department- not Blaise, and most certainly not you.”

        Percy looked her up and down and then shot her a look that was half attraction, half anger—the same look he had given me too many times before. It made my skin crawl.

        But Astoria held firm, her posture regal, staring him down with cool authority. He finally stepped back, running his tongue over his front teeth, holding her gaze as he did, “Someone should show you how to use that mouth properly,” he muttered. “Instead of just using it to talk shit,”

        Astoria didn’t even flinch. “Keep it up, Percy, and I’ll have you barred from this department. You can tell Blaise I said as much.”

        Percy hesitated, then turned to leave, throwing one last remark over his shoulder at me. “You have ten minutes to meet me at the disapparition point.”

        The door closed behind him.

        “I’m so sorry, Astoria. I’ll speak to Blaise about him. He just takes his job a little too seriously sometimes,” I said automatically, my reflex to defend, to excuse. The last thing I wanted was to drag Astoria into any of this. She was the only person I had left outside the nightmare I secretly lived in.

        “Don’t worry about it,” she said, waving a hand dismissively. But I didn’t miss the flicker of concern in her eyes.” Percy’s an Idiot. Always has been. I can handle him. I just don’t like the thought of him pushing you around, that’s all. If it’s easier coming from me, I can speak to Blaise.”

        “No!” I said too quickly, too sharply. “I will. I mean - don’t worry about it. Please.” She studied me for a moment but let it go with a slight nod, returning to help me tidy the workspace.

        “What a nice surprise to see Pansy today,” she said, her tone lightening with excitement as she sorted jars beside me. Then with a playful smirk and a conspiratorial whisper, she added, “You know, I always had a bit of a thing for Pansy back in school.”

        A genuine smile tugged at my lips. “Really? And now?”

        Astoria feigned a swoon. “I mean, did you see how fabulous she looked? How could I not still have a thing for her?”

        I laughed, and the sound surprised even me. Just for a moment, the weight on my shoulders lifted.

        “We’re meeting for drinks later,” she said brightly. “You should come with us.”

        ‘Oh, thank you, but -I’d just be in the way. You two should catch up,” I replied, though my heart ached, longing to say yes. To just finish work and have a drink like a normal person. If I even remembered what normal felt like anymore.

        You're getting closer. I told myself there are only two steps left to get the potion right.

        “You wouldn’t be in the way at all. In fact, I think she’d love to see you. She had a lot of questions about you today,” Astoria added, placing the last of the jars back in place.

Pansy had been asking questions about me. My stomach turned at the thought. What questions did she ask? I smiled to mask the anxiety clawing its way up. I glanced at the clock; it had been more than ten minutes, and I did not want another confrontation with Percy.

I just shook my head, “You two have a great time. Tell me all about it tomorrow,” I said, grabbing my bag and slinging it over my shoulder. “We will catch up then.”

Astoria hesitated, as if she wanted to say more. But she just smiled and nodded. “All right then. It’s a date. Lunch tomorrow. And I’ll tell you everything.”

I smiled, gave a small wave, and turned quickly toward the door. My heart was pounding with dread at what I feared awaited me at home due to my tardiness.

The sharp click of my heels echoed against the tiled floor as I walked quickly down the corridor. My grip tightened on the strap of my crossbody bag to keep it from bouncing as I weaved through the crowd. The hallway buzzed with activity—people heading for the Floo stations or disapparation points, eager to be done for the day.

As I turned a corner, a flash of blonde entered my path, and I collided straight into someone instinctively. I reached out, catching her by the arms before we could fall. As we steadied, I realized it was Luna Lovegood. She tilted her head and said softly, “Your third aura layer is showing, you know.”

A soft squeak came from between us - her hands were cupped tightly, still caught between our bodies from the collision.

“I didn’t realize,” I replied, confused by her observation. I had no idea what a “third aura layer” was. “I’m so sorry for crashing into you, Luna,” I added, already trying to move around her. I was past the allotted ten minutes, and if I didn’t make it soon, Percy would come looking.

Luna turned with me, her cupped hands still nestled between us. Another squeak followed by a snuffling sound that was growing louder. She smiled gently. “It’s quite alright. Paths are meant to be crossed.”

We both looked down as she slowly uncupped her hand, revealing a small ball of indigo fur. It uncurled to reveal a long duckbill snout, glossy black eyes, and tiny clawed digits resembling little hands.

Before I could react, the creature launched itself at me, landing squarely on my chest, its tiny claws holding on to the fabric of my shirt. It snuffled around my chest before zeroing in on my right shoulder, pawing frantically at my shirt.

“ Uhh, Luna?” I asked, panic creeping into my voice.

“It’s a Niffler,” she said brightly. “He’s from Hogwarts Valley-injured, but I’m helping him recover.” She gently tried to pry him off me, but the Niffler clung on, its claws tugging at fabric. “You must have a metal clasp or something under your shirt, Nifflers detect metal. They can sense it, they dig for gold and silver and love shiny things.”

I froze, concentrating on the spot the Niffler had been clawing. It was still, not moving; it must have detected the Niffler, but it was there, the silver alloy tracking beetle. If the little creature could detect it, and the beetle stilled when it was near - I could finally remove it.

“Luna, I-” I started, but a smooth voice interrupted me.

“Hello, beautiful,” Blaise said as his arm snaked around my waist from behind.

I noticed Luna subtly tucking the Niffler inside her jacket the moment Blaise appeared.

“What are you two lovely ladies discussing?” he asked smoothly, his tone casual, but the fact that he had returned to the Ministry to retrieve me did not bode well.

Luna studied him for a beat. “Your second aura layer is showing. Are you upset about something?” she asked in her usual soft, whimsical voice.

Blaise chuckled, but there was no warmth in it. “What could I possibly be upset about when I have my whole world right here in my hands,” he said, pulling me tightly into his side.

Luna tilted her head. “Well, happy evening then,” she said, and with a graceful nod, turned and walked away. I watched her go until she disappeared around the corner.

Blaise was talking, but I barely heard a word. My thoughts were still on the Niffler. If it could sense the beetle and stop it from crawling away, I could remove it if it stayed still long enough. In my attempts in the past, as soon as I made an incision to extract the beetle, it would quickly burrow and crawl away.  Maybe I wouldn’t even need the Potion F after all. I just needed access to the animal, just for a moment. My mind was already racing, forming plans, when Blaise’s fingers suddenly dug into my side, snapping me back to the present.

He was still speaking, clearly expecting a response. I scrambled to catch the tail end of his words.

“First Pansy Parkinson, now Luna -and Percy told me Astroia had the gall to force him out of the Potions lab today,” he said, irritation bleeding to the surface of his words.

That caught my attention—Pansy. “How did you know Pansy was here today?” I asked, my brow furrowing. She must not have been a spy he sent to check in on me after all.

He gave me a pointed look. “I’m Head Auror, head of security. You think I don’t know who’s coming and going from my wife’s department?” he said with an edge in his tone. “For your safety, of course.”

Right. My safety. Sure.

Percy was already waiting near the Disapparation point, leaning against the wall with one leg crossed over the other, trying to look casual-cocky. I hated him.

“I’ve got it from here,” Blaise told him. “But follow up on that other thing before you head home.”

Percy nodded. “You got it,” he said, shooting me a smirk before Disapparating.

When Blaise and I arrived at the estate, I braced myself. I was ready for the shouting and wild accusations about Pansy, Luna, and Astoria -ready for fists slamming into walls or into me. But when no explosion came, the real fear set in. I wanted the punishment, in some twisted way, because I could take the bruises. I knew what to do with bruises.

This was the side of Blaise I feared most. The calm. The warmth. The illusion of love.

When he was furious, I became invisible—just a body he could strike and use, take his anger out on. But when he turned tender, his voice softened and his touch lingered, he expected me to be present, to reciprocate affection, to smile and laugh and kiss him back like I meant it.

A shiver slid down my spine like ice water.

He took my hand and led me to the dining room. My steps were uneven, but I didn’t resist. Not visibly. Never visibly.

Then I saw it.

The gift box sitting at my place on the dining table was wrapped in gold foil, a thick black velvet ribbon tied into a perfect bow.

My knees wobbled.

It was from that store. The one Blaise always bought from when he wanted to “celebrate” something.

“I was thinking,” he said, his voice like silk over a blade, “dessert first tonight.”

He smiled, gesturing toward the box. “Bitsy’s holding dinner for us, go ahead and open it.”

 My skin crawled. My lungs refused to fill.

My legs felt boneless as I stepped forward, numb and trembling. The box sat waiting for me like a warning. My hands shook as I untied the velvet ribbon and lifted the lid.

Black silk. A mound of it, soft and cold like something dead.

I already knew what it meant and what I was expected to do next.

With unsteady fingers, I reached inside and pulled out the intricate black negligee—lace threaded like spiderwebs—and my stomach curled.

I didn’t hear him approach from the roaring in my ears, but I felt him.

His hand swept my hair over one shoulder, pulling thick curls out of the way. His mouth brushed my ear, his breath hot and possessive.

“Put it on,” he whispered.

I tensed. I couldn’t help it. His fingers immediately tightened, sharp and bruising against my ribs—a warning.

I forced out a laugh—high, false, brittle. “Here? In the dining room?” I asked, softening my voice into something coy and obedient, to cover the tension he felt in my body.

He chuckled, low and dark, and I felt it vibrate against my back.

“Yes, here. Where better to have my dessert than the dining room?” he said, his mouth grazing my cheek.

“We’re celebrating. Kingsley told me today that I am to be honored at the Ministry Gala and receive a Commendation for outstanding acts during performance of duty. It's quite the achievement.”

“Lovely,” I murmured, voice thin, barely there.

He gripped the hem of my shirt and started tugging it upward.

“Now. Put it on,” He said again. Firmer. Sharper.

Don’t fight it. Just go with it. It’ll be over faster,  the words echoed in my head like a prayer I didn't believe in.

I let him undress me- shirt, bra, trousers- until I stood bare in the dining room, skin prickling under the chandelier’s light.

The house was silent except for our breathing. Bitsy would never interrupt. She knew better.

I could feel his eyes crawling over my body as I picked up the negligee.

He pulled out the chair from my usual place at the table and sat, legs spread, leaning back like a king, expecting a performance.

His gaze burned as I slipped the silk over my skin, the fabric clinging, suffocating.

He smiled.

And I died a little more.

I stood before him; his body leaned back in the dining chair. The table pressed cold and solid against the backs of my legs. The negligee clung to me, barely grazing the tops of my thighs.

“Get up on the table,” he said, voice calm but final.

My hands trembled as I pressed them to the edge. I hoisted myself up, trying to steady my breathing and not show how my skin crawled beneath the thin fabric.

 He watched me silently, his eyes gleaming with something darker than hunger—possession. Power. A twisted satisfaction in knowing I would obey, that I had to obey.

He shifted in his seat, unbuckled his trousers, and slid his hand inside his pants.

“You know what to do,” he murmured, as his hand began to move in his pants. “Like always,” he said.

Bile, like molten lava, filled my throat as I leaned back, bracing myself with one arm, I reached forward with the other. I knew what he wanted to see, and I did as he asked in the practiced way he had taught me. My flesh felt foreign as my fingers trailed over it, detaching myself from what was happening, what I knew was next to come in this scenario.

I tried to close my eyes, shut it out. “No! Open them, look at me,” he said breathless now as he continued to pump himself while watching me touch myself, his neck muscles strained, teeth clenched, then he abruptly stopped, rose from his seat to loom over me. He grabbed my legs, wrapped them around his waist, and leaned down, his eyes never breaking contact.

“Say it,” he said in an urgent whisper.

The words tasted like poison before they even reached my tongue. I clenched my jaw, but he waited. Bile, disgust, and revulsion warred in my throat.

“Say it!” he said again. One hand coming up to wrap around my throat and apply pressure. Tears that I could not control filled my eyes. And one spilled over as I pushed the hated words out of me. “I love you.”  As the words left my mouth, he squeezed my throat and viciously drove into me.

He smiled like he’d just won something. Like he always did.

The worst part? He didn't need to hurt me to break me. He already had, long ago.

I sat curled up on the cold, tiled floor of the shower, knees drawn tight to my chest, as scalding water rained down, washing over me. It did not matter how long I sat here or how many times I scrubbed my body; what had transpired on the dining table would never be washed away.

Tonight had been a particularly long “session,” drawn out, each minute worse than the last.

I had cried my eyes dry. Now, only the numbness remained, familiar and heavy,

 I tried to focus my mind, working through a plan that would get me out once and for all.

Luna. I needed to speak to Luna, carefully, without raising suspicion. That Niffler might be the key. If I get the tracker out, I could run again. But even as the thought crossed my tired mind, dread followed. Blaise would know if I removed the tracker.

Unless.

What if I left the beetle somewhere inside the Ministry? Leave it alive once removed to stay active, hide it in the potions lab. I could buy myself time. Throw him off. But that was a gamble, and I wasn’t sure I’d win.

No, the potion was still the best way. The only way, really. If I could finish it and get it right, there would be no tracking me down, no more threats, no more Blaise. He wouldn’t be coming back from the effects of the potion.

The problem was time. It could take weeks, maybe more. And I didn’t know how many of those I had left in me.

Still, I’d stick with the plan of potion F for now. Send an owl to the bookstore in the morning. See if there are more texts, notes, or anything on that ancient potion. Just a little more knowledge might be enough to finish it.

Still, I would ask Luna about the Niffler. If it turned out to be my only chance, I’d need to be ready to take it.

With that fragile plan formed in my exhausted mind, I slowly uncurled myself. My joints screamed in protest from the time I had spent folded in on myself. I shut off the water, dried off, dressed in pajamas, went to the vanity, took two large swallows of calming draft and a dreamless potion, and crawled into bed.

Mercifully, Blaise had left, stating he would be staying at his office tonight, an important project or something of the sort. I couldn't care less; all I had heard was he was leaving. I lay back, staring at the ceiling and letting the silence stretch around me. Grateful for his absence. Terrified for tomorrow.

Paris Flat

The following morning

11, February

The letters on the document I’d been reading began to blur. I had woken again at 2 a.m. -same nightmare, now stuck on repeat. Granger and I were in my cell at Madstone. Each night played out with slight variations in the details, but the ending never changed. She always asked the same question, her voice quiet, her knees drawn up to her chest as she leaned against the wall:

“Have we always been trapped here?”

And I always gave the same answer.

“I think so.”

Then I’d wake -drenched in sweat, chest heaving, the image of her eyes still burning behind mine.

Unable to go back to sleep, I went to the study wearing only the soft gray joggers that had become a staple in my wardrobe since my return. Mother would be aghast.

The elegant desk Pansy had claimed as hers was now buried beneath disorganized stacks of documents. Papers she’d collected before heading to Britain -transcripts from war trials, old issues of The Prophet from after my sentencing, and supposed death.

Each headline in the Prophet was another brick in the monument of the Ministry's rot, detailing the power grabs, the carefully staged campaigns, and the ladder-climbing politics. To the average reader, it looked like the changes needed following the war; however, I could read between the lines.

A half-smoked cigarette smoldered in the ashtray beside me. Judging by the pile of ashes, I’d smoked half a pack at least. I laid the document down, reached over, crushed it out, and lit a new one. I leaned back into the buttery soft leather of the chair and took a long drag. Held it in until my chest burned, then released it in a steady stream of smoke.

I heard the Floo flare from the front room: footsteps, the rustle of a cabinet opening, and ice clinking into the glass.

Then Pansy appeared in the doorway, shoulder propped against the frame, one foot crossed casually over the other. Her usually elegant suit was rumpled, several buttons of her blouse undone, and her jacket hung open. She held a lowball glass filled nearly to the brim with whiskey. She stared at me for a moment, her expression unreadable, then took a slow sip.

She didn’t say anything.

Something was up.

I didn’t push. I just watched her over the rising smoke of my cigarette, arching a brow in silent question.

She lowered the glass.

“I went to the British Ministry yesterday, as you know, to accept my new assignment,” Pansy said, her eyes on her drink. “While there, I stopped by the potions lab.”

My muscles tensed.

She had seen her.

Still not looking at me, she said, “Astoria Greengrass is heading that department now. I made an excuse to visit, but the real reason -I wanted to get a feel for Granger.”

Her eyes finally lifted to mine.

I felt lightheaded and a little disoriented. Then I realized I’d been holding my breath. I exhaled slowly, forcing a calm I didn’t feel. Another drag off the cigarette, a stream of smoke to cover the silence—that was all I could manage. I braced myself. I had no idea where this was going.

“I think we’ve misjudged her situation,” she said.

Well, of all things, that is not what I expected Pansy to say. “Misjudged in what way?” I managed to ask.

Her jaw flexed as she stepped away from the doorframe and walked over to sit opposite me. She took a long sip from her glass and set it on the desk.

“First of all, she looks decidedly unwell. A blood curse, possibly,” she mused.

I stilled.

“She’s painfully thin, Draco. Dark smudges under her eyes. Haggard. And-” she hesitated, tilting her head like she recalled their interaction. “I'm certain she had no clue who I was. Though she covered it well.”

“What? Are you sure? Maybe she was just playing you,” I replied, leaning forward sharply.

Pansy looked disgruntled. “I was not being played. She might've pulled it off if I hadn’t been watching her so closely. She’s clever. Skilled at masking things—it felt—practiced.”

There was something like admiration in Pansy’s voice, the corner of her mouth curling upward, just slightly.

“Astoria dragged me over to her the moment I arrived. And instead of saying something normal like, “ Hi Pansy, how are you?”, she had blinked at me and asked, “Wow, how long has it been?” No name. Just a vague, open-ended question.” Pansy took another sip of her whisky before continuing.

“Like I said -she covered it well. But I saw it in her eyes: confusion. She was thinking fast, trying to place me. So, I tested her. I replied vaguely, ‘It must’ve been in the healer's tent, in the field.” She nodded, smiled, and played along -pretending to remember. But here’s the thing: I’ve never stepped foot in a field tent, much less one with Granger in it.”

“What the fuck?” I breathed.

“And she almost fainted just standing there, talking. Maybe three minutes into our conversation. She returned to her station and, when she thought I was no longer watching, took a potion from her bag and nearly drained it.”

Pansy leaned back, arms folded, watching me.

Inside, my thoughts were a swirling mess. Granger- sick. The word echoed like a curse, igniting something sharp in my chest. The hatred I’d cultivated brick by brick faltered, desperate to hold its ground. But beneath it, something softer -more dangerous- was rising. I tried to shove it down.

I wanted to be furious. I should have been. Granger had ruined me. Lied, manipulated, left me to rot. But now all I could picture was her, hollow-eyed and trembling, and the hatred didn’t feel like enough.

Breathe, I told myself. Don’t be that idiot. Don’t fall again for the ghost of a girl who left you in ruins.

I forced the chaos inside me into something colder. Sharper. Not questions born of emotion, not the ones clawing at my throat -is she dying? Why doesn’t she remember you? Does she remember me? Is she in pain? - but the kind that gave me distance, that let me think instead of feel.

And even as I began to ask them, I knew it was already too late, and this fool had fallen once again.

“You said blood curse,” I asked, steadying my voice. “What makes you think that?”

Pansy lifted a shoulder. “Astoria has a blood curse, which led her to potions. In her spare time, she devotes herself to finding a cure for herself. She mentioned that Granger stays until the last minute every day, even after finishing her assignments, to work on potions for herself. The way she looked, sick and frail, and Astoria's own situation made me go there.”

“Why is she even in the potions department? Did Astoria know why she’s no longer a healer?” I asked, forcing calm and thinking clearly. The blood curse was just speculation at this point. We didn’t know if she had it.

Pansy nodded, swirling the whisky in her glass as she replied. “Astoria told me Granger stepped away from healing because of worsening hand tremors. According to Granger, it's the result of PTSD that began around the time of the war trials.”

“Astoria said Granger is extremely private and does not talk about her personal life much. When she nearly fainted and Astoria grabbed her arm to steady her, you would’ve thought she’d been struck by the way she cowered. Her reaction to just being touched -it was off to.”

Rage surged through me, overriding every other emotion- I pushed myself from the chair and began pacing the room, my breathing shaky. Was Granger being abused?

Before I could voice the question, Pansy kept going. “Then there was Percy.”

“Percy?” I repeated, brows furrowed. “Percy Bamble? That Prick? A few years ahead of us at Hogwarts?”

Pansy smirked. “Yeah, that one.

“The older kids called him Pervy Percy,” I recalled.

“Well, Pervy Percy was standing outside the potions lab when I arrived. Followed me when I left.”

I scoffed. “He followed you?”

She nodded. “Oh, he thought he was being clever, the git,” she said, waving a hand dismissively. I took him on a little tour, stopping at several other departments and making unnecessary stops. He finally got bored and wandered off. But Astoria and I went out for drinks later in the evening.”

I stopped pacing and lifted a brow at that. “Astroia always had a thing for you, you know.”

She shot me a deadpan look. “Of course I know. Why do you think I invited her for drinks?”  She gave a sly smile before continuing. “Anyway, at the bar Percy turned up again-. I spotted the shitbag immediately. Blaise -or someone-is keeping a very close eye on our girl Granger.

My blood was heating by the moment.

“What does Percy even do at the Ministry?” I asked.

“Oh,” Pansy said, her voice laced with disdain, “He's Blaise’s number one Auror—his go-to.

“I know I’m asking a lot, Pansy. And I’ll never be able to repay you for everything you’ve done so far. But -is there any way we can move the timeline up? Get my cover in place sooner?”

My voice came out low, strained. I need to be there, I need to see her. Them. Observe with my own eyes.”

Pansy gave a slow nod. “I’ll talk to my guy- see if we can expedite things.”

I swallowed hard, the words scraping up my throat. “I won’t be so easily led this time,” I said aloud, though I wasn’t sure if the promise was for her, myself, or just another lie I wanted to believe.

“Who is your guy, anyway?” I asked, trying to ground myself in something tangible.

Pansy tilted her head, a sly smile tugging at her lips. “Oh, I don’t think your ready for that bit of news just yet.” she said vaguely as she stood, “Im off to bed, you should catch a few winks yourself you look terrible. I’ll be in touch later today.” and with that she strode from the room the floo flashed green and she was gone.

I showered, dressed, and ate food that tasted like nothing. I didn’t sleep, despite Pansy’s suggestion. I didn’t want the dreams.

The information Pansy had given me about Granger—her current state—haunted me through the long hours of the day. The need to see her in person overrode everything else, including caution.

But what did I think I would see now that I couldn’t see before?

I’d spent a year with her. A year of stolen moments, promises made to each other, vulnerable things whispered in shadows. I had believed everything she had said, and I had believed in her. And then she betrayed me and married my best mate. Did I think I would be able to see through her now?

I had been a fool then, I chided myself. I would no longer see her through rose-colored glasses. At least that's what I told myself.

But the thought of her in pain, suffering, ill, hurt- it was tearing down every carefully placed brick in the wall of hatred I had spent 18 months building since Wizengamot.

The sun was setting over my musings when Pansy returned true to her word, stepping onto the veranda with a stack of documents. She had that cocky excited espinoge air about her. She extended her hand, offering me the stack of parchment. “Let the games begin,” she said.

I turned the top page around. It was a property deed of a Jacobean-style country home in Wiziarding, Britain, purchased under the name Riven Vogel Armstead.

When I glanced up, Pansy’s lips were pressed tight, trying- and failing- not to smile.

“Riven,” I said flatly. “You must be joking.”

She held both hands up in mock surrender.

“Hey, it wasn’t my idea. My guy says the name is “bulletproof.” But even as she said it, she was laughing inside. I could see the sparkle in her eye.

“Your guy sounds like a git,” I muttered, shaking my head. “Fucking Riven.”

Pansy, no longer trying to hide her amusement, said, “The identification paperwork is still going to take at least a week,” she said. “But with the house purchased, we can go tomorrow- lay some wards, set up protections around the property while we wait for the rest to clear, then get you back into Gringotts, and back into society.”

“Riven,” I repeated, holding up the deed.

“Oh don’t be such a prat!” she rolled her eyes “Seroiusly, Draco, who gives a shit? Yes. Riven.” She laughed lightly.

“Remind me to dot this guy of yours in the eye if I ever meet him.”

She only laughed harder. “Now that will be a sight. Pack it up, Riven. We head back to Britain tomorrow,” she added with a wink.

The sun was sinking low the following day as Pansy and I apparated in front of the Armstead Estate—our new home, temporarily until I managed to bring down the corruption within the Ministry. Then, I planned to leave Wizarding Britain for good. I was finished with it; I had been thinking I might try my hand at a Muggle life across the pond after all this.

I looked up at the house. It was three stories tall, imposing, and commanded attention. It wasn’t Malfoy Manor, but that was hardly a mark against it. I didn't miss the Manor and didn't care about the comparison. There had never been love or attachment on my part to Malfoy Manor. I did, however, take offense to crooked bastards stripping it from me for profit. And I planned to make the offenders pay dearly for it.

The Armstead estate, in contrast, was built of weathered brown brick. Its steep gabled roofs and tall, clustered chimneys rose sharply above the roofline. The main entrance sat beneath a stone portico, framed by columns, carved stonework, and a small balcony overhead.

Dratamic, to say the least.

The remainder of the grounds are covered in well-manicured rose gardens and a small hedge maze.

I turned to Pansy.

‘It’ll do,” I said, deliberately haughty. Then with a mock bow, “After you, my lady.”

She smirked, a secret little smile curving her lips as she started for the front door. She turned her head, saying over her shoulder, “Play nice, will you?”

Play nice? What was she on about?

I stepped over the threshold right behind her, just about to ask when I heard it -singing. Somewhere upstairs, echoing through the empty halls.

Falsetto.

“Stayin’ alive, stayin’ alive… ah, ah, ah, ah, stayin’ alive… ”

I froze as Theodore Nott appeared on the second-floor landing, arms raised triumphantly like he was performing for a crowd.

“Riven!” he exclaimed, wearing a lunatic grin as he skipped -fucking skipped- down the stairs, still belting out the lyrics.

“Stayin’ aliiiive…”

I gave Pansy a wilting look.

“Fucking hell. This is your guy? Bloddy Nott?

She grinned just as wildly as Theo and shrugged. “He’s the best,” she said as a way of explanation.

I hadn’t seen Theo since just after I was forced to take the dark mark. After Potter used the resurrection stone, there was a strange, suspended month when Voldemort went to ground to recoup and recruit. Theo’s family, like many others, took the opportunity and fled Britain; most of them had never been heard from again. There had long been speculation that they had all been killed by Voldemort's Death Eaters for running. That did not seem to be the case, at least for Theo.

We’d been good mates once. I suppose we still were, but there were years and a war between us now.

The fact that my entire future -my new identity, my plans, my life rested in his hands? It was unsettling to say the least as Theo was -without contest- the most unserious person I’d ever known: the class clown who never took anything seriously.

Theo hopped off the last two steps, landing with a theatrical flourish.

“Bloody hell, Pans, you weren’t kidding!” Theo said, sauntering up to me, eyes sparkling. “This new look -he is a stunner!” He waved a hand dramatically toward me, “All the king’s horses and all the king’s men definitely put this Humpty back together again.”

I turned a deadpan stare at Pansy. “You’ve put my life in the hands of this twit? Thanks, Pans.” I finished taking a deep breath through my nose for patience.

Theo slapped a hand on my shoulder, grinning like an idiot. “She’s right, I am the best. Technically, I specialize in making people disappear. But I told her, Pans ol’ girl, if I can disappear them, surely I can resurrect one. Even if it is Draco Lucius Malfoy.”

He paused, then raised his brow in a ridiculous wiggle.

“I mean -Riven Vogel Armstead.”

“Bloody Fucking Hell.” I ground out. Theo just laughed.

Pansy and Theo were in their element. They thrived in situations like this- espionage-adjacent, operating in the shadows.

I would be forever grateful to Pansy. Without her, I would have died on that island.

And Theo, to my chagrin, proved just as effective.

They both moved effortlessly behind the scenes.

Over drinks one night- one of the rare moments Theo allowed himself to be serious - he told me how his family, along with many others, had fled Volemort's army. It had been a terrifying time; Voldemort had sent Death Eaters and had hunted them relentlessly, branding their escape as betrayal.

Theo spoke of survival, how he’d become adept at forging identities, falsifying records, and manipulating the system, how he became highly advanced in protective wards, and how he’d killed, when necessary—quiet, clean, efficient—to protect his family's trail.

Others hadn’t been so lucky. Some families had been caught and executed. Theo didn’t elaborate. He didn’t need to.

And then, just as quickly, he snapped back into the version of himself everyone knew: charming, the devil-may-care attitude. And with a wicked grin, he leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “So,” he said. Who are we killing first?”

I raised a brow, leaned back, and laughed.

Yes- Theo would do nicely in my corner.

The first thing we did was ward the estate.

Theo brought everything he’d learned during his years on the run- layered protections, misdirection charms, cloaking spells - and I added the blood magic and runic work Jora had taught me.

Between us, we wove something formidable—an impenetrable web of security.

No one could enter the Armstead Estates without one of us. The blood magic saw to that.

We set up a command room on the first floor of the estate. Pansy had smuggled a staggering number of documents from the Ministry—names, records, and ledgers. We unpacked everything, tacked up timelines, to follow the money, and mapped out connections.

The days passed quickly. Fourteen of them were gone before I realized it.

Now, Pansy and I stood side by side in Gringotts. Pansy posing as my liaison for International Wizarding Affairs, facilitating my new account. Jora's treasure had been “cleaned” from the ancient coins to current Galleons by one of Pansy’s contacts. The paperwork was perfect thanks to Theo. Every document bore my new name: Riven Vogel Armstead.

By Salazar, that fucking name.

The vault was secured, and I had a new identity in hand. I was back in the system—recognized, accepted, and invisible.

As we exited Gringotts, Pansy told me she had to return to the Ministry. I told her I would meet her at the Armstead Estate this evening.

We parted ways -she toward the heart of government.

And I?

I headed somewhere I never thought I’d return to.

Diagon Alley.

Chapter Text

Chapter 7

Flourish & Blotts

Diagon Alley

TW:,sucidial ideation/ suicide attempt

25, February

        The bell above the door chimed as I stepped into Flourish & Blotts.

        It had once been my favorite bookstore, the one I had fallen in love with the first week at Hogwarts. I could spend hours lost between these shelves. Of all the things that had been eroded from my memory, this place, at least, has mostly remained untouched. I hadn’t remembered that it had been destroyed at the start of the war. But it had been rebuilt since then, lovingly restored by the new owner, Fenrich.

        I inhaled deeply. The scent of parchment and leather wrapped around me like a warm shawl. Bookstores and libraries have always had that effect on me. They calmed something in my bones that nothing else could touch.

        As I approached the front counter, Fenrich’s face lit up.

        “Hermione! So good to see you,” He exclaimed, skirting the counter to hug me tightly.

        I flinched—I always flinch at physical contact now. Fenrich must have noticed my discomfort because he let go immediately, stepping back quickly.

“I’ve stacked the books you requested at the back table. It’s nice and quiet there, so you can work undisturbed,” he added. “It was quite the chore tracking down any text on the subject, such a rare potion.” he glanced around as if to be sure no one would hear him whispering. “I even added a Muggle book with some interesting information.”

        “Thank you, Fenrich,” I replied, ready to get to work. I didn’t know how long it would be before my absence at the Ministry was noticed.

        Just then, the bell above the door chimed again. We both glanced over.

        A tall man moving with slow, deliberate grace entered the bookstore. His suit was perfectly tailored and black as night, and he walked like he owned the air around him.

        Predatory. Poised. Quietly dangerous.

        The man's head was bowed slightly as he stepped deeper into the store, obscuring his face.

        “Ah, Mr. Armstead!” Fenrich called out cheerfully.

        The man’s head lifted at his name, and the moment his face came into view, my breath caught in my throat.

        He looked carved from marble, with chiseled cheekbones, a sculpted jaw, and long white-blonde hair that shimmered like spun silk past his shoulders.

        I had to clench my fists at the sight of it; the urge to touch the silky strands was overwhelming.

        And then, he looked at me.

        The world went into slow motion; sound dulled, color bled, and the room's edges blurred until only he remained in focus.

        There was a long, jagged scar marring the left side of his face, but it only added to the terrible elegance of him. But his eyes were what held me captive, staggered me.

        Mismatched. One white, the other slate gray, the white iris had no doubt been injured by the terrible scar; a slight shudder ran through me at the thought of how painful the injury must have been, my healer instinct taking over thinking of how I would have treated the injury to minimize damage to the eye and to lessen the scar.

        It wasn’t only the mismatched colors that captivated me. It was the feeling they stirred.

        Recognition.

Deep and gut-wrenching.

But I couldn’t place it.

I fumbled through the broken shards of memory, reaching for something I couldn’t quite hold. Fenrich said something beside me, but I didn’t hear him.

The man, Mr. Armstead, had extended his hand.

I stared at it, dazed.

Then Fenrich nudged my shoulder gently, snapping me out of it.

“Hermione,” he said, “This is Riven Vogel Armstead. He’s just returned to Britain after living with extended family in Scandinavia.”

His hand was still there, patient, steady.

I must’ve looked entirely foolish, just standing there like I was caught in a spell. I unclenched my fists, wiped my damp palm on my trousers, and reached out to take his hand.

His long, elegant fingers closed around mine -they were warm, calloused, and painfully gentle as they engulfed my smaller hand, and something fluttered in my stomach at the way his fingers held mine. My eyes shot up to his face.

A flicker of emotion I could not understand flashed across his face. Sadness? Anger? Worry? Then his jaw feathered as if clenching his teeth, and his mouth pressed tight, causing the scar at the edge of his lips to turn white.

Then- a flash.

And unbidden memory struck like lightning, violent and bright. The same one that had haunted me for a year and a half. Gray eyes, a smirk ghosting across perfect lips, a lock of white-blond hair, short and tousled, falling across a familiar brow. The name slammed into my mind: Draco.

I blinked as if I could erase it, but the memory dragged me under like a riptide.

My knees tried to buckle, and I locked them stiff, refusing to fall—not here, not now.

No. Draco Malfoy had died long ago.

And yet- this stranger, this man with a scar and mismatched eyes, carried echoes of him—the shape of his jaw, the slope of his shoulders.

Too similar. Too close.

But he wasn’t Draco, he couldn’t be. Still, my heart twisted at the thought in a way I could never explain or begin to understand. There was something about Draco that my mind refused to remember; a dark void in my memory that had haunted me for 18 months.

He let go first, gently easing his hand from mine. That’s when I realized- I’d been clutching his.

Heat rushed to my cheeks. I quickly stuffed my trembling hands into my jacket pockets.

“Hermione Gran- um, Zabini,” I stammered, “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Armstead.”

My thoughts were a riot. I could hardly string the words together. The tremor in my hands had spread to my shoulders, chest, and knees. A quiet quake I couldn’t stop.

He inclined his head slightly, polite and composed. Yet there was a slight furrow in his brow.

“Riven, please. It's lovely to have made your acquaintance, Ms. Zabini,” he replied, his voice smooth as velvet, low, refined. That voice stirred something profound inside me again, like a twist of grief or longing knotted beneath my ribs.

Without thinking, I pulled a hand from my pocket and rubbed absently at my chest.

The room suddenly felt too hot. My vision wavered at the edges, and I felt dizzy.

Fenrich noticed something was off and stepped forward, gently touching my elbow.

I flinched hard. He immediately let go.

“Sorry, Hermione,” he said almost in a whisper. “Here, your table is ready. Shall I escort you?”

I was still staring at Mr. Armstead-Riven, my body locked in place. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t think. I forced myself to drag my eyes away from him and look at Fenrich.

“No, thank you; I can manage,” I said, genuinely grateful for his concern and the effort in collecting the requested volumes.

I slid my hand back into my jacket pocket, hoping to hide how they shook. My anxiety was climbing—sharp and spiked, threatening to break the surface. I clenched my teeth and tried to breathe.

I turned to Riven once more and inclined my head.

“It was a pleasure, Mr. Arm—um, I mean Riven,” I said, trembling slightly, before I turned away and made my way, unsteadily, toward the back table. The moment I reached it, my knees buckled, and I dropped heavily into the chair, hands braced on the tabletop. I took slow, deliberate breaths—in and out.

Behind me, I could still hear Riven and Fenrich speaking in low tones, but the words were too distant to make out.

I forced myself to focus on the books in front of me. You don’t have much time, Hermione. Quickly, I chided myself. I opened the first book on the stack, pulling parchment and a quill from my bag. I also retrieved a small bottle of calming draft, uncorked it, and took a deep drink, then tucked it away.

My breath evened slightly. My hands steadied.

I began to read.

With every line, my mind cleared a little more. The tight grip Riven’s presence had left on me slowly loosened its hold. Words and meaning started to come back into focus, and eventually, I was fully immersed, bent low over the ancient text, and taking notes in quick, fluid strokes.

There! I found it! V-A-L-V-I-N-I, not B-A-L-V-I-N berries. That was the error in step six. Hope surged in my chest. I could do it! I let a shaky breath out. I had begun to lose all hope. I had been unable to reach Luna since the collision in the hall to inquire about the Niffler. I had sent an owl to her department, only to have it returned with a message that she was in the field with an unknown return date.

I hurriedly made notes, scanning memories of what I could remember on berries, their properties, and where I could find the valvini berries needed.

I reached for the last book in the stack, the Muggle book.

I pulled it to myself. Interestingly, it contained Greek mythology, as told in Ovid’s Metamorphoses. I had just turned the page when I heard the bell chime again, signaling the door opening. I assumed Riven had taken his leave.

Oddly, that thought left me feeling bereft.

I tried to shake it off and return to the book.

But then-

A vice-like grip clamped down on my upper arm.

I gasped as Percy’s face entered my periphery; his face was far too close to mine, his mouth near my ear in my hair.

For a horrifying moment, I thought I heard him inhale deeply as if breathing me in.

I froze.

Bile rose in my throat.

“You know the rules,” he growled, his cold brown eyes glittering with cruel satisfaction.

I was already unraveling, still reeling from the encounter with Riven—still off balance, spinning. My hands began to shake again. My thoughts scattered like glass beads on a marble floor. And beneath my skin, the beetle moved in my right bicep. I felt it, knowing that’s how Percy had found me. I scratched at it through the fabric of my sleeve, unable to stop myself. It was too much—the feeling of it inside me, like filth, like rot, another violation.

“I needed a book,” I said hoarsely. “The Ministry library didn’t have it -I was just taking notes - I need to return to the lab, or the potion I am brewing will be ruined.” I tried.

“Then it’s ruined,” Percy cut in coldly. “You broke rule one. Never leave unescorted. You were to leave early anyway,” he said. “The Gala is tonight, and the boss wants you home to get all dolled up.” He said this with that look —that twisted, revolting mixture of contempt and desire.

He didn’t wait for me to respond. He grabbed my arm, dragging me up from the chair. I tried to gather my notes, clutching the vital notes I had made, the last pieces of the puzzle, and the hope I’d managed to claw together for Potion F, but if Blaise found my notes -uncoded, raw- he’d know. He’d know what I was attempting.

I started at the notes in my hand, their weight unbearable. With trembling fingers, I tucked them into the ancient potions book. I ripped a scrap of parchment and scrawled a note to Fenrich with shaking hands. Fenrich, please send these texts and notes to the Potions Department. I promise I’ll return them - Herm—

That was all I could write as Percy pulled my arm again. The note slipped from my fingers, fluttering to the floor, unseen, unlikely to be found.

My chest ached. Frustrated tears pricked my eyes as Percy marched me to the front doors. As we passed, I forced a brittle smile for Fenrich. His face looked startled. I could only hope he found my note on the floor under the table and would send me the potion book and my lab notes.

Then, the cold air of the street hit me, and Percy yanked me sideways into an alley. “What's a few more minutes when you're already late, princess,” he said, stepping into my space and pressing me against the wall of the building we were between.

I froze.

He pressed closer and lifted his hand.

I didn’t move.

I couldn’t.

Then he grabbed my breast, dirty fingers digging in, squeezing hard. I felt the hard length of him press into my stomach through his trousers as a filthy smile spread across his face.

Fear.

My mind screamed.

Then we were gone, Disapparated straight into the marble foyer of the Zabini Estate.

I tore away from him the second we landed. I stumbled backward, crashing into the wall behind me.

 I couldn’t breathe.

Shock. Horror. Disgust. And under it all, was a deep, unbearable grief; something snapped inside me.

I heard it.

“Get dressed,” Percy said with a sneer. “Gala’s in an hour.”

“Fuck you,” I whispered, the words breaking like glass in my throat.

Percy laughed hard and ugly. “Oh, I can arrange that to princess. Just let me know when you’re ready.” he finished making a sucking sound on his teeth.

I turned and ran up the stairs to my bedchamber, his nasty laughter following me like black smoke as I made it to the landing and down the hall to my room. I slammed the doors, locked them, and leaned back against them with my heart clawing against my ribs.

I couldn’t continue like this. I was drowning, being pulled under,  an anchor tied around my waist, and no one to pull me out. I could not tread much longer.

Potion F was the only hope I had left, the notes and texts left behind. Luna was unreachable, and the Niffller with her. No backup plan was left, and there was no safety net. No help.

My eyes landed on the bed.

A slinky black dress had been laid out for me.

It looked like a shroud to be laid over me in death.

I stepped toward it in a daze. A note had been pinned to the bodice.

I knew that harsh, commanding script Blaise had written only two words: Hair down.

Two words. But they weren’t just words.

They were control. They were command. They were ownership.

They were every fucking thing I hated.

Something inside me cracked wide open. No noise. No scream. Just a clean, awful break. And suddenly, I wasn’t myself anymore.

I watched the version of me that had survived too much, for too long, walk to the vanity and sit down.

I opened the top drawer and took out a whole bottle of sleeping draft and what remained of the strong, calming draft I had been brewing myself.

The bottles were uncorked. Had I done that? -Yes, I think I had.

 But when the liquid slid down my throat, it didn’t feel like I was drinking it. It felt like I was the one being swallowed.

I reached toward the back of the draw, my fingers curling around a pair of scissors.

I met my own eyes in the mirror. They were hollow. Not mine. Not anyone’s.

I grabbed a fistful of curls and cut.

Snip.

Again.

Snip.

The sound was sickeningly final.

Strands of hair fell like dead petals to the floor.

Again.

Snip.

The girl in the mirror was a stranger.

Her breath came in short, unsteady gasps. Her face was streaked with tears she didn’t remember crying. Her mouth trembled.

After the fourth chunk fell, her hand dropped.

I stared at the person in the mirror.

At me.

Then, I clamped a shaking palm over my trembling mouth.

The scissors slipped from my numb fingers and clattered against the floor.

What have I done? I thought in a detached way as the potions I had taken settled heavily in my system, bringing a calmness and a finality with the effects.

The room spun, and my vision blurred as I slipped from the vanity seat onto the cold, unforgiving floor. My breathing slowed, darkness crept in at the corners of my sight, the black dress- mocking me from where it lay on the bed, no longer a garment, but indeed, the black shroud, waiting to be draped over my lifeless body.

As everything dimmed, the final image that floated through my fractured, numb mind was a face split in half.

Right side- Draco Malfoy Young. That boy from school with cold gray eyes and sharp, cruel words, A memory fossilized in time. Left side- Riven Older, Scarred. The jagged wound sliced through flesh, cutting through his eye and just catching the corner of his perfect lips. A stranger I met just today.

Two versions -past and present -One boy, one man, merged into a single face that was beautiful and terrible all at once. The image evaporated into mist drifting from my mind as blackness curled around me, thick and suffocating, swallowing me whole.

One word slipped past my lips on a final whispered breath: no, a prayer.

“Draco.”

Then darkness.

Armstead Estate

I apparated straight from Flourish & Blotts to the command room of the Armstead Estate. The force of it sent parchment flying from the desk. Pansy jumped, startled.

“We need invitations to the Ministry Gala tonight,” I barked. My jaw locked, and my hands balled into fists at my side. I didn’t wait for a reply; I just started pacing.

When silence dragged on, I stopped, turned, and glared at Pansy. She leaned back in the desk chair, her face impassive and unimpressed.

“What?” I all but shouted.

“Don't you think it’s a bit risky to crash a Ministry Gala? You’ve only been back two weeks. You just got re-established at Gringotts today. It’s too soon to go that bold.” She said evenly, calmly.

“Ever heard of hiding in plain sight?” I countered. “If I’ve got nothing to hide, it's the best place to be.” I knew it was flawed logic, knew I was not thinking clearly, and I didn’t care. “Draco Malfoy is dead,” I added flatly.

Pansy just continued to study me. “Tell me what happened.”

The image of her came rushing back. “I saw Granger at Flourish & Blotts just now. You are right—something’s wrong. She is alarmingly thin, fragile.” My voice caught. I ran a hand through my hair. She’s ill, Pansy. She did not recognize me, not that I wanted her to—everything hinges on no one recognizing me, but not even a flicker on her face. Something is way off here—deeper. I can’t explain it.”

I huffed. Jaw clenched tighter.

I knew how I must look to Pansy: frantic, demanding, and unstable. But I could not stop it. She had looked like a frightened animal, small and breakable—a little bird with clipped wings.

“Then that fucking cunt Percy showed up, all but manhandled her out of the shop.” It had taken every bit of my strength of will not to walk over and snap the fuckers neck right there in the bookstore.

I reached into the inner pocket of my trench coat, pulling the books and notes Granger had left behind at the store, and handed them over to Pansy. “She’s working on something. She was frantically making notes before Percy showed up. She was hesitant to take the books and notes with her. She tried to leave a note for the store owner, but I picked it up along with the texts.”

Pansy flipped through the complex notes and the ancient potion book. Her eyes widened; she read the title and blew a low whistle. “Have you looked at these?” Pansy asked.

“Not yet; I just picked up her things and came straight here.”

“Well, no wonder she did not want to take it with her; this is dark magic,” Pansy muttered. “She could be arrested for this. Especially with the Ministry on their Dark Arts Crusade, and her husband the leader of that task force.”

I flinched at the words her husband.

“Can you get the invitations or not?” I snapped. Instantly regretting my tone, “Sorry. Pansy, I’m just -Fuck!- I don't know. I have to see her again, see her with Blaise, see them together.” The anger in my voice collapsed into something else, closer to pleading.

Pansy stared at me, expression unreadable. “I can get the invitations,” she said finally. “But Draco, listen to me. You need to stay calm; you are walking a fine line here. You must keep a low profile and ease back in. How solid are you on your cover? There will undoubtedly be curious questions for the newcomer.”

“Rock solid,” I said with no hesitation

She stood, pinched the bridge of her nose, and rubbed her eyes.

“Fine. I’ll be back in an hour. We arrive on time. We filter in with the crowd, staying to the room's edges. Observe. That's it, understood?”

“Yes, General Parkinson.” I tried to tease, but the words fell flat.

Despite myself, all that was running through my mind was the dull look of exhaustion in Granger's eyes. When I took her hand, I feared I’d crush her fragile bones if I squeezed too tightly. The Granger I had known- the one who’d fought a war, challenged everything and everyone, who burned from a fire within- was gone.

I poured myself a drink, tossed it back, and then another.

By the time Pansy returned, I was dressed in a solid black tuxedo, already pacing again, ready to go. Pansy was holding the invitations and wearing a sliver metallic gown so low-cut it was indecent, the deep V nearly reached her damn navel.

I raised a brow. “I thought we were keeping a low profile. That dress is anything but.”

She smirked, unbothered. “Exactly the point. All eyes on me means eyes off you,” she said, giving me an assessing look up and down and blowing out an irritated breath.  “And believe me, we are going to need all the help we can get in that department, you tasty fuck.” she winked.

Zabini Estate

A loud, menacing voice was in my ear, but it sounded far away, like I was underwater.

Then- smack.

My head snapped violently to the side. The sound of a slap echoed through the room.

I felt…nothing.

My eyelids wouldn’t open; they were too heavy and glued shut.

Taped, I thought. Someone has taped them shut.

“Finite!”

A wand crackled.

Again, louder

”Finite!”

“What did you take? Damn you!, what did you take?!”

Another slap, my head jerked the other way; the sound was louder this time. Flesh on flesh. But my skin didn’t sting.

I was drifting.

So tired.

Please just let me sleep. I didn’t want to come back, not here, not to him.

Hands seized my shoulders, shaking me roughly. My head lolled forward, then back again. I couldn’t hold it up; my muscles were water.

“Uhh,” I moaned. It was all I could manage.

I wanted to push him away, but my arms were dead weight.

“Bitsy!” Blaise’s deep voice roared so loudly it echoed through the room.

-pop-

Bitsy’s high-pitched wail rang through the room. “Oh no, Miss Hermione! Oh no, oh no!”

I tried to open my eyes to see if she was alright.

“Reverse the potions. Now! Hurry!.” Blaise yelled.

“Yes, Master!- Bitsy will. Bitsy makes potions go away!”

No! I screamed inside my mind. I heard the word, but my lips didn’t move.

The sound of Bitsy’s tiny fingers snapping—and then, like fire through my veins, like an antidote being administered, the draughts vanished. My lungs expanded violently with a ragged breath. My eyes flew open, blinded by light, clarity, and pain.

I was awake.

Too awake.

Blaise was gripping me hard, his fingers digging into my shoulder like claws. His face was a storm of rage. I realized we were on the floor of our bedchamber, near the vanity. The carpet was littered with hair, locks everywhere, clinging to our clothes and pressed into the carpet. It looked as if someone had swept an arm across my vanity. Potion bottles, jewelry, and hair brushes were strewn about, adding to the chaos.

Bitsy was panicking, hopping from foot to foot, wringing her tiny hands.

“Miss Hermione! Miss Hermione is better? Bitsy did it! Is Miss better now?” Her pink eyes were full of tears.

And then-

Everything hit me, crashing back on me with crushing weight.

Tears blurred my vision, hot and fast. I couldn’t hold them in. They spilled over a hot river down my cheeks.

“Just let me go..” I begged, barely louder than a whisper, looking into Blaise’s dark, furious eyes.

 My voice cracked. “Why didn’t you just let me go?”

Blaise looked stunned at my words. He truly didn’t understand, like he couldn’t fathom why I would ever try to leave him, why I’d do anything to be free.

His wand lifted, and he didn’t hesitate. His lips moved, saying words I could not make out.

A flash of red. It burst around me in a blinking flare, then drifted down like glowing dust, settling on my skin and into my body.

“You’ll never try that again,” he hissed, his jaw clenched, eyes blazing. “That spell will stop you if you try to harm yourself again, so don't think about it.”

I stared at him through tears, chest heaving.

There was no air. No way out. Not now. Not ever.

My entire body began to ache from the absence of the potions- every nerve awake and screaming; soon, my fractured mind would start to blur between broken memories and reality without the medications, followed by anxiety so severe it was utterly debilitating.

“Bitsy, clean her up. Do something with her hair—what's left of it.” Blaise snarled. “We will attend the Gala tonight,” Blaise continued, voice rising. “And you—” he jabbed a finger toward me, “ you will not embarrass me. I’m to receive an award tonight, and of all the days, this this-this is the night you decide to pull this stunt?” He gestured at me, eyes raking over the mess I’d made of myself. “What are we supposed to say? That you had a breakdown? That you hacked your hair off because you were sad?”

Bitsy darted forward, staying just out of Blaise’s reach, eyes wild as she hovered beside me. “Bitsy fixes it. Master. Bitsy makes Miss beautiful for the party.”

“Do it then,” Blaise snapped. “And hurry it up. We’re already going to be late now.”

I felt nauseous, trembling, and a deep ache curling into my gut and chest. My muscles were starting to spasm, sharp and involuntary. A cold sweat broke across my skin.

“Blaise -” I whispered, clutching at his wrist as he began to walk away. “Please. Wait. I-”

He looked down at me, his face a mask of disgust.

“I must have something,” I begged, tears falling unchecked. I can't go without my potions. My hands—look at them—” I held them up. They were shaking so badly I could barely keep them steady. “My memories will blur into reality again, Blaise, please. You remember what it was like, my anxiety.”

Blaise turned away like he couldn’t stand to look at me. He paused before turning back to me. He knelt and leaned in close. His expression was calm now -dangerously so.

His hand cupped my cheek in a mockery of tenderness.

“Bitsy. Give her just enough,” he said without taking his eyes off me. Just enough, and nothing more. You will stand beside me, smile, and say nothing that will make me regret not leaving you in that puddle of potions and shame you made on the floor.” He let go of my cheek, stood, and walked out of the room.

Bitsy stepped in with a vial, her hands trembling as she uncorked it. “Miss Hermione must be calm,” she murmured, trying to soothe me as she tilted it to my lips. The potion was cold on my tongue. Sweet and soft. Pointless, I knew the dose would not be enough.

I closed my eyes, my chest rising and falling in shallow, trembling breaths. If he had come home just five minutes later -just five minutes, I would’ve been free. The thought hollowed me out. A fresh wave of sobs tore through me, wracking my body; this was not just a failed attempt but an utter, soul-crushing defeat.

The gala, the cameras, and I would have to smile through all of it, and no one would know. No one would see the cage around me, just a beautiful dress, a different crown of hair, and Blaise standing proud beside me, the perfect man, Auror, and husband.

They would all eat the fucking lie with a knife and fork and wash it down with expensive whisky and wine as I died inside.

Bitsy snapped her fingers, bringing my attention back to the bedroom in time to see the hair strewn about the floor disappear.

Another snap, and instantly, the rest of my hair was cut to match the longest layer—it was now cut clean, even just above my shoulders. With the weight of the long hair gone, the texture transformed. It was no longer soft, loose waves. Now, tight, springing ringlets of golden coils framed my face.

In another life, I might’ve liked it.

It looked fresh. Youthful. Effortless.

But in this life? In his life? It didn't suit the version of me I was supposed to be—not the quiet, glassy-eyed woman Blaze had molded me into.

“Miss takes a shower. It helps,” Bitsy said gently, tugging on my hand. I didn't resist as she pulled me up off the floor.

I showered quickly, scrubbed too hard, and used too much shampoo for my short hair. It took three washes to get the suds out. Everything felt unfamiliar.

Wrapped in a towel, I sat down on the vanity. I noted dully that Bitsy had cleaned up the mess I had made earlier.

Bitsy waved her hand. Warm air surrounded my head, drying my curls instantly.

They sprang up again- wild and chaotic ringlets, another wave of her hand, and they fell flat. Pin-straight.

The sleek, golden strands brushed softly against my shoulders. With the curl pressed out, the length appeared slightly longer.

I blinked at my reflection. I had never seen my hair straightened before.

It changed my entire face. My cheeks looked hollower, and my lips somehow fuller. I looked older, elegant, and almost unrecognizable.

Bitsy clapped her hands together, eyes bright with pride. “So pretty, Miss Hermione is! Come, hurry!”

She tugged me toward the bed, where the dress lay waiting. She elevated it off the bed and snapped her fingers, vanishing my towel and lowering the black silk gown over my head.

I hated the way it slid over my skin, hated the way it clung. The bust was loosely gathered, supported only by thin spaghetti straps.

And, as Blaise preferred, the back was open. Entirely.

One wrong move, and it would reveal more than I was willing to show.

I caught sight of my thong peeking above the fabric. I bent quickly and slipped it off, but I felt exposed. Uncomfortable, Blaise’s plan all along, I was sure.

I picked up my wand to glamor the scars on my arms and wished for what must have been the millionth time that Blaise had not warded my wand, incapable of use against him since that one night long ago, I could only perform the most basic spells and apparate with it now, but Bitsy was faster. With a snap, my arms and puffy eyes vanished. I looked well-rested, polished, and deceitful.

I smeared a clear gloss over my lips. A glimmer of life, faked.

Teardrop onyx earrings appeared, glinting black against my pale skin. Then, black, red-bottom stilettos were on my feet. I stood before the floor-length mirror. A different person looked back. Short, straight hair that sharpened every feature. Gaunt cheeks, full lips, a sleek black dress that made my skin feel foreign. I looked older and colder, like someone who belonged to Blaise.

And I knew he would hate it because, to him, I now looked like someone he couldn’t fully control.

My hands trembled,

“I’ll need more,” I whispered to Bitsy.

Bitsy stood still for a moment, then said softly, “ Just enough, Miss. Just enough.”

“No, “ I said, turning toward her. “I need more for it to be enough. Do you understand, Bitsy? I won’t make it through the evening.”

Bitsy’s eyes darted to the door. Her hands fidgeted. She was torn, trying to help me without disobeying him.

“If I tell you it’s not enough,” I said quietly, “then it's not enough; you're not disobeying.”

She swallowed and nodded. Then, she produced a tiny vial with a trembling snap of her fingers.

A second dose, stronger but only a mouthful.

She held it out with both of her tiny hands. “Just enough,” she whispered again.

I took it carefully, holding her gaze and slipping it into a small clutch. “Thank you,” I murmured.

Then I bent and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. Her ears twitched under my lips.

Straightening, I turned away and walked to the door, back to Blaise, the mask, and the stage that was my life.

Ministry of Magic

Annual Gala

        Where the fuck were they?

        I stood at the back of the room,  just like Pansy had instructed. I tried to look casual, relaxed, and interested—even though every muscle in my body was wound tight. An untouched glass of whisky rested in my hand, a prop meant to make me seem like I was mingling and having a good time.

        We had filtered in precisely as planned, blending with the crowd that had arrived right on the hour. The place was already packed by then, bodies moving, voices buzzing. My eyes had been scanning the entrance, waiting for their arrival—still, nothing, and nearly an hour had passed since our arrival.

        I couldn’t tear my gaze away from the door. My grip tightened around the glass.

        “Wipe the scowl off your face,” Pansy said sweetly from beside me, the edge in her voice tucked neatly behind a smile. “You’re frightening the crowd and drawing attention.”

        I blinked down at her in confusion. She was still smiling-perfectly poised, perfectly pleasant-as she said, “Riven.” She used my alias as a warning. “The look on your face says you’re about to burn the building down. School your features, or we’re leaving.”

        I breathed through my nose, trying to relax the tension in my jaw. My shoulders lowered a fraction as I turned back toward the crowd.

        Just in time, a strawberry-blonde head bobbing through the crush of people headed straight for us. She was clad in Emerald green silk, a brilliant pop of color that turned heads in her wake. Astoria Greengrass. Well, this would be interesting; when we were younger, there had been heavy talks of an arranged marriage between us before the world had gone to utter shit and Voldemort had come back onto the scene.

        I had always enjoyed Astoria. She was sweet, bubbly, and kind to a fault. We would have gotten on well if fate had gone the other way.

        Astoria stopped in front of us, practically glowing with delight. “Pansy!” she exclaimed, smiling brightly. “Why didn’t you tell me you were coming? I wish I had known! I’ve been stuck with Claude Fucking Milford over there for thirty unbearable minutes.” she said, rolling her eyes dramatically.

        She laughed, plucked a champagne flute off a passing waiter’s tray, and downed half in one graceful tilt.

        “And who is this?” she asked before Pansy could answer her first question, turning her attention to me. Her head tilted with polite curiosity, her brow slightly furrowed.

        “Hello, Astoria, it was last minute,” Pansy replied smoothly. “I hadn’t planned on coming, but this is Riven Armstead. He is one of my newest clients, who has just resettled here in Britain. He’s been abroad for quite some time, in Scandinavia. When he heard about the Gala, he wanted to jump into the deep end of the social pool.”

        Astoria’s eyes sparkled. “Oh my. Well, Riven, it's lovely to make your acquaintance.” She extended a delicate hand. Rather than shaking it, I arched a brow and bowed slightly, lifting her fingers to my lips and pressing a soft kiss.

        “Indeed. Astoria, was it?” I asked, playing the role of a stranger to a woman I would have otherwise been married to.

        “Yes, Astoria Greengrass,” she confirmed. I could see the relief that passed across her face, the furrow of her brow lifting. She thought I was here as a plus-one with Pansy, not as a client.

        Her eyes quickly left me and found their way back to Pansy. She scanned her from top to toe, then said with a bright smile, “That dress is stunning, Pansy. You look fabulous,” she gushed, her voice filled with warmth and charm.

        Oh, Astoria had it bad for ol’ Pans. I chuckled to myself, and now that I thought about it, Pansy’s dress was not to draw attention away from me but to draw this particular set of eyes to her. Well played, Pans, well played.

        Clapping and raised voices from the entrance began rippling through the crowd. Cameras flashed as people stepped aside, parting like a tide for Kingsley Shaklebolt and Blaise’s Special Task Force. Then I saw them -Blaise and holy fuck. Every muscle in my body locked up.

        I had seen Granger only hours earlier, but the witch on Blaise’s arm now -she wasn’t the same. Not even close.

        She wore a barely there slinky black dress, completely backless, that barely clung to her frame, and that frame -Merlin. My stomach turned. Her hands trembled, fine shakes running up her arms to sharp, protruding collarbones. Her sternum was visible above the low neckline of the silk gown, and she turned to greet someone in the crowd, revealing her bare back. I could count her vertebrae from here. She looked like she might splinter if someone breathed too hard near her.

        The sweater and jacket she had worn earlier today had hidden how truly thin she was, no, not just thin dangerously so, skin and fucking bone.

        And her hair, once a wild, untamed halo, was chopped to her shoulders and straightened to unnatural perfection. There were no curls, no warmth, just flat golden strands. It exposed everything: the hollowness of her cheeks, the deep shadows under her eyes, and those eyes, deep brown pools, were flat, vacant.

        The Granger I’d seen at Flourish & Blotts only a few hours ago had worried me, but this Granger? She scared the fuck out of me, she was a ghost. A fragile, haunted echo of the woman I remembered.

        Yet she was wearing a mask of a smile and dead eyes; she wore it like armor. She posed with Blaise like a doll on strings, hitting each mark with eerie precision, every movement rehearsed. The cameras kept flashing. No one seemed to notice how wrong it all was.

        A quiet gasp sounded beside me. “Oh, Hermione,” Astoria whispered, her voice trembling with heartbreak. It was so soft, I don’t think she meant for anyone to hear.

        Pansy’s hand brushed my arm, grounding me, or to get my attention, but I couldn’t tear my eyes away. Blaise strutted like a bloody peacock, shaking hands, and Kingsley, the smug bastard, was beside him, preening, playing to the crowd. I immediately recognized the two Auror’s that transported me to Madstone, of course they were part of Blaise’s task force, the sight of the Aurors, Kingsley and the back stabbing best friend Blaise lit a fire in me, rage, hot and consuming, and at the same time the gutwrenching state of Granger was pulling me in half. For a split second, I genuinely wondered if I was losing my mind. I was scared of myself, of what I might do right here and now. The urge to Avada the entire room pulsed in my fingertips.

        Pansy knew, I felt her hand tighten on my arm, steady and firm like she braced to intervene if she had to.

        “I’m going to say hello,” Astoria said. I’ll be right back.” She walked across the floor, approaching Granger with care and pulling her into a gentle hug. Granger froze, her entire body stiffening as the tremors in her limbs visibly increased. She was holding herself together by sheer force of will.

        Astoria said something to Blaise. From his expression, I could tell he didn’t like what she said, but he nodded toward Granger as if giving his permission to go with Astoira. I clenched my jaw.

        When they reached us, Pansy, as poised as ever, inclined her head with effortless grace. “Hermione, your hair looks so elegant. You’re a different person,” she said.

        Granger raised a trembling hand to her sleek hair as though she had forgotten it was different. “Thank you,” she murmured. The smile was still in place, like it was made of plaster.

        Astoria continued, her tone sweet and bubbling. “This is Pansy’s client, Riven Armstead.”

        Then Granger looked at me.

        The plaster smile crumbled and fell, and her lips trembled as she stared at me. She didn’t look away, just staring her fingers splaying wide over a small clutch she had pressed tightly to her chest.

        I couldn’t move or speak. I was pinned in place by her gaze. My thoughts emptied from my head.

        Her eyes began to glisten with tears. Slowly, she lifted a trembling hand to her brow, her frown deepening as she drew her brows together in confusion.

        “I, um… if you’ll excuse me. The - um.. The camera flashes must have…” She faltered, voice shaky and scattered. “Astoria..?” She glanced around like she didn’t know where she was, like the room had shifted beneath her feet.

        “Here, hon, let's step out for some fresh air. It’s stifling in here,” Astoria said gently, reaching out and taking her arm with a fragile caution, as if she thought even the softest touch might break her.

        Granger was trembling so violently by then that I couldn’t tell if she flinched from Astoira’s contact or couldn’t control it. I started to step forward - every instinct screaming to go to her, to scoop her up and get her out of here and kill every fucking cunt in the center of the room.

        But Pansy stopped me. Her hand tightened just slightly, and in a voice only I could hear, she shifted, “No. Don’t. Not here.” I froze, shaking myself, trying to pull myself back from the edge. “We are leaving,” Pansy said firmly.

        “The fuck we are,” I hissed. “Did you not just see what I did? She needs help.” My voice was low, trembling with fury, barely controlled. The words scraped out through clenched teeth, but Pansy didn’t back down. She didn’t flinch, didn’t even blink. Instead, she stepped closer, tight into my space, unshaken by the rage radiating off me.

        “I have eyes, Riven,” she said again, using my alias, her voice like steel. “But this is not the time or the place.”

        I wanted to scream. To shove past her. To rip the whole bloody room apart until I got to Granger.

        Pansy leaned in, her tone sharp and deadly calm. “I’ve stuck my neck out for you, I’ve risked everything to help you. Everything. And now you’re going to listen to me.”

        My hands curled into fists at my sides, nails digging into my palms. I couldn’t breathe.

        “We’re leaving, now,” she said. “I swear to you, we will find a way to help her. But if you don’t walk out of here with me this instant.. Then you’re on your own from here on out.”

        She didn’t blink. Didn’t move. Just waited.

        I realized I was shaking with adrenaline; I took a deep breath through my nose. Pansy was right, if I acted impulsively, I’d blow everything. I’d risk the revenge I’d spent so long building toward and likely end up dead in the process.

        Pansy was right. I’d asked more of her than anyone should. I couldn’t turn around and betray that trust-not now. I knew what betrayal felt like, and I wouldn’t be that bastard.

        I opened my mouth to say, "Let’s go," and that’s when they approached. I didn't see them until they were already standing before us. Blaise a smug look on his face, and that redheaded twat, Pervy Percy.

        “Pansy,” Blaise drawled in a voice like syrup gone sour. “That is quite the dress,” he said, looking her up and down. She didn’t even blink. With effortless poise, she looked him over in the same manner with that signature cool disdain Pansy had perfected. “I hear congratulations are in order,” she said, breezing past the comment about her dress. “Big award tonight. Commendation?”

        Blaise’s fake smile widened like he’d practiced it in the mirror. “Yes, thank you. Hard-earned, I might add. Much effort’s gone into reform at the ministry since the war.”

        “Yes, it has, hasn’t it? Pansy replied, the politeness in her voice sharpened at the edges.

        “So you're back in Britain then?” Blaise asked.

        “For the time being. Had some new assignments pull me this way.”

        “Oh yeah? How’s IMCD position treating you?”

        “No complaints,” Pansy said, turning slightly in my direction. “This is my newest client. Blaise Zabini, this is Riven Vogel Armstead. He’s just returned to Britain. I’m helping him get sorted.”

        Our eyes met.

        And at that moment, something cold and certain settled in me. An eerie calm, the kind that only comes when you stop wondering if and start thinking when. He had been my best mate once. Now he was the reason I couldn’t sleep at night. And somehow, staring at him, I knew, without a doubt, that I’d get my revenge. This bastard would pay.

        I extend my hand. Cool, measured.

        Blaise quirked his head, narrowed his eyes slightly. “Vogel… Scandinavian family?”

        “Distant,” I answered smoothly. “The middle name is more of a generational heirloom than anything.”

        “Well.” He grasped my hand at last. “Welcome back to Britain. Hope you find your stay enjoyable.”

        I shook his hand. Held back from breaking every bone in it, but not much. I let just enough pressure bleed through. If he noticed, he didn’t show it; he just slid his hands back into his trouser pockets like none of it mattered.

        Blaise scanned our area. “Thought I saw my wife over here a moment ago with Astoria. I’m looking for her. They are preparing for the award announcements, and I know she’d want to be by my side.” He said in a preening, self-important tone that made me want to knock his teeth down his throat.

        Pansy answered, “I believe they stepped out for some air. It's a bit warm in here. I’m sure they’ll return shortly.”

        I glanced to the left - Percy was still standing there, eyeing me with a challenging glint in his eyes, and I had the urge to reach over and pluck them from his skull for him.

        Instead, I calmly reached into my jacket, pulled a cigarette from a silver case, and lit it. Welcomed the sharp burn of the smoke in my lungs like an anchor. Then blew it directly in Percy’s direction.

        Blaise was already turning. “Right, well. I’d better find her. Good to see you as always, Pansy. And pleasure to meet you, Riven. If there is anything I can do for you during your stay, be sure to reach out.”

        “Oh, I will,” I said, voice like velvet over steel. “Thank you for that.”

        Yeah, I’d be reaching out, all right.

        Blaise turned and walked off. Percy lingered a beat longer, that damn smirk still on his lips. Then he followed, disappearing into Blaise’s wake like the little shadow he was.

        “Let’s go,” Pansy ordered when Blaise and Percy were out of earshot.

Armstead Estate

        Once we arrived back at the estate, I went straight to the command room and collected the potion books that Granger had been researching at Flourish & Blotts earlier today. I sat at the desk and buried myself in the books and notes, occasionally running a finger over Granger’s sharp, slashing handwriting. The Potion she’d been working on was ancient, intricate, and vague about what the potion was used for; it was far beyond the standard Ministry fare. Why she was brewing it in the first place was a mystery. For all I knew, they'd tasked her with weaponizing it. A bioweapon, maybe. The thought made my stomach turn.

        Was that why she appeared so ill? Was guilt gnawing at her from the inside out for being involved in something so dangerous, so destructive? She was well into the enemy camp; it was not out of the realm of possibilities. She had used me for the Order. What would stop her from doing it again, this time, on a larger scale?

        But the more I thought of her - how she looked, how she acted - something didn’t add up. There was more ot this. Something I hadn’t seen yet. A missing piece. After seeing her tonight, I knew deep in my gut there was something deeply wrong with her, so thin, so fragile - I began to wonder if this potion wasn’t for the Ministry. Maybe it was for her. Perhaps it was the only thing keeping her going.

        I pulled a parchment and a quill from the desk drawer and jotted down the ingredients. If this potion were the only way I could help her right now, then so be it.

        I was already on the second page of the supply list when Pansy walked in. I didn’t look up or stop writing.

        “I know I misjudged things, “ I said. “Being in the same room with all of them… I should’ve listened to you. I’m sorry. I won’t be so rash again.”

        She didn’t respond immediately, so I finally looked up. She’d changed out of the silver gown, now wearing neatly pressed trousers and a crisp white shirt. Did she ever relax? I wondered if she ever padded around the house in an oversized Muggle t-shirt or joggers. I almost asked, but she spoke first.

        “Astoria sent a Patronus. She wants to meet. I’ll probably be out until tomorrow. We can talk then.”

        I arched a brow and gave her a half-smile. She rolled her eyes but kept going.

        “And I hope I don’t need to go into all the reasons to stay away from Hermione until we’ve had a chance to talk and think things through clearly.”

        I leaned back and gave her my full attention. “No need. I’m keeping my distance for now. You’re right—I won’t risk everything you’ve done for me. And I hope you know how much I appreciate it.”

        Pansy gave a slight nod. “Nott should be around tomorrow too. We’ll figure out our next steps.”

        She motioned toward the parchment. “What’s that?”

        “Just a list of supplies. Next step stuff. We’ll talk tomorrow. Go on,” I said, grinning. “Go get your girl.”

        She smirked. “Right. Tomorrow, then.”

        “Tomorrow,” I confirmed.

        Pansy left. A moment later, I heard the whoosh of the Floo.

        I finished my list, attached it to an owl headed for Potages Cauldron Shop in Diagon Alley, and sent it off with three times the necessary coin and a note apologizing for the late hour. I added a promise of even more galleons if the delivery arrived tonight.

        Three hours later, my tuxedo jacket lay crumpled on the floor, and my shirt sleeves were rolled up to my elbows as I got to work. The supplies had arrived at the front door, and I wasted no time hauling them into one unused room on the first floor of the Armstead Estate. There, I began setting up a lab that would rival the potion department at the Ministry.

        “Bloody hell, mate, have you been here all night?”

        Theos’ voice jolted me, but I did not lose focus or look up. My attention remained fixed on the potion in front of me. I was exactly eight minutes and twenty-seven seconds into stirring on step six when the scent of orange peels rose from the cauldron.

        “Fuck yes, finally.”        

        Just in time, too. I was down to the last of the valvini berries, and there was only one step left: the incantation. With a steady hand, I picked up my wand and said “Lapis Fatum” over the bubbling liquid. I held my breath as the potion shimmered, shifting from crystal clear to a warm amber. It held.

        “Quick—hand me that vial with a dropper labeled Mimbulus Mimbletonia on the far table,” I called to Theo, still not taking my eyes off the cauldron. The potion was holding its color, which was a good sign.

        The final test was three drops of Mimbulus Mimbletonia, the test was simple if after adding the three drops, if the potion remained in the cauldron it was a success if it evaporated into the air, well then obviously it was a failure and I would have to start again from scratch, which meant ordering more Valvini berries and losing another day on trials.

        “You look like shit, mate,” Theo said, handing me the droppered vial.

        “Thanks,” I muttered dryly.

        I held my breath as I carefully let three drops of Mimbulus Mimbletonia fall into the cauldron. The drops sent ripples across the surface of the potion, but the potion remained, did not evaporate, and stopped bubbling, stabilizing.

        “Thank Merlin,” I exhaled, running a hand through my hair and stepping back from the lab station. My back ached, and my arms were stiff. Only then did I realize how long I’d been standing there.

        “What time is it?” I asked, finally turning to Theo.

        “Half past four,” He replied.

        “Morning or afternoon?”

        “Afternoon,” he said, dragging out the word like I was the idiot.

        “Oh shit,” I had been here all night -and more than half the day.

        I reached for a vial and carefully filled it with the amber liquid, careful not to spill a single drop. Corking it, I waved my wand and marked it. The words “Gorgon’s Whisper” appeared in neat, golden script across the glass.

        “It smells like ass in here,” Theo said, pinching his nose like a child.

        I pocketed the vial, murmured a cleaning spell, and with a flick of my wand, the lab was spotless and scent-free in seconds.

        I rolled my eyes at Theo. “You can stop with the nose pinch. Is Pansy here?”

        “She sent me to get you. Said she has some information to go over.”

        “Right,” I nodded. “Let me shower. I’ll meet you in the command room.”

        Though I wanted nothing more than to linger under the hot water and let it ease the ache in my shoulders and back from hours spent hunched over the cauldron, I forced myself to keep the shower short. I dressed quickly, pulling on my new favorite attire -soft denim jeans and a knit sweater - and left my hair damp, letting it air dry.

        On my way to the command room, I stopped in the kitchen for a mug of strong, black coffee. I was taking my first sip as I entered and nearly stumbled at the expression on Pansy’s face.

        The air in the room was thick, charged with tension that mirrored the tight lines around her eyes and mouth. I masked my reaction behind another slow sip of coffee and went to the long leather couch. Whatever this was, it wasn’t good.

        I took a deeper gulp of coffee and set the mug on the low table. Leaning back into the cushions, I sprawled out casually, arms draped over the backrest, and exhaled steadily.

        “Just say it. Whatever it is, don’t sugarcoat it.”

        A sense of dread was already settling deep in my gut.

        Pansy glanced at Theo, who moved to stand just behind me, to my left. His posture was relaxed—too relaxed—carefully neutral, which only made the knot in my stomach twist tighter.

        “First,” Pansy began, her voice low but firm. “I want your word, Draco. You'll stay here at the estate after you see what I’ve found. And you’ll trust that I will do everything in my power to help you, Theo, too.”

        “Yeah, mate,” Theo added, placing a steady hand on my shoulder. “Whatever you need. I’m here for it.”

        Fucking hell.

        I didn’t know if I even wanted to know what Pansy had discovered. I sat in silence, staring at her unreadable expression. The longer I stared at her, the more sure I became that whatever was coming next would change everything.

        “You have my word,” I finally said. The words scraped out of my throat, dry and brittle. I barely recognized my voice. Every nerve in my body felt frayed, buzzing like exposed wires. Pansy gave a slight nod, accepting my vow.

“Astoira told me that when she took Hermione out for some air last night, she was a mess, shaky, disoriented, and clearly not thinking straight. Astoira said Hermione pulled a vial of some potion from a small clutch she carried and drank it without explanation. I pushed for more about Hermione, and there was something Astoira said that I couldn’t stop thinking about. Apparently, Hermione told her when she came to the Potions Department that she had to resign from Healing due to PTSD that started at the time of the War Crime Trials”. She hesitated just long enough for the dread in my gut to sink deeper.

“So this morning, when I got to the Ministry, I cast a Vestige Charm. I tailored it to track Hermione’s movements starting the day after your arrest.”

She raised her wand. “ Vestige Exhibeo.”

The charm burst into life before me—hazy and grainy, like a fog-drenched memory unfolding in three dimensions. It felt like watching a glitchy Muggle film, only far too real.

There she was—Granger—stepping into the Ministry lobby. Her hair was wild, her movements sharp, purposeful. That fire in her eyes, the one I’d always admired (and sometimes feared), burned brighter than ever. She was at Kingsley’s office, practically shouting at the receptionist. “It’s vital I see him, Order business,” she said.

The image shimmered and skipped, showing her storming off, casting a charm to follow Kingsley’s location. She found him in the Ministry foyer.

Their words were faint—ghostly echoes—but I could still hear her. Pleading and reciting Ministry law, demanding that her memories be used to clear my name. She was logical, impassioned, and desperate.

My stomach tightened.

The movie scene shifted. She left… and came back with Blaise, leaving him at Kingsley’s office. Then, she took off again—this time toward the Legilimens Department.

An older witch greeted her at the door. Their voices were muffled, distorted, but I caught it—“Kingsley said you’d be coming.”

I sat forward, the air tightening in my chest.

Granger took a seat across from the Legilimens. No hesitation. No fear. The witch placed the tip of her wand to Hermione’s temple, and the scream that ripped through the room—raw, piercing, not even fully real—made the blood drain from my head, I went dizzy, and my breath hitched. The floor felt like it tilted beneath me as I watched her convulse in the chair. Her hands gripped the armrests, knuckles white, and her mouth opened in a silent howl as the witch pressed on unrelentingly. It felt endless. Like time had frozen, and all that existed was Hermione’s pain and my complete, paralyzing helplessness.

Finally, her body gave out. She collapsed against the chair, drenched in sweat and trembling violently. And then the Legilimens—without emotion, without anything—drew the memory of their encounter from Hermione’s temple and dropped it into a Pensieve beside them.

I couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

I had doubted her.

Judged her.

And while I sat in my cell believing she had betrayed me, she had been out there destroying herself for my sake.

And I hadn’t known. I hadn’t seen.

Merlin, help me.

        The Legilimens was helping Hermione out of the chair. Her body was limp and trembling, her eyes vacant. She moved like a puppet with its strings cut, barely conscious. The witch guided her into the hallway, where Kingsley and Blaise waited.

Blaise, that smug bastard, stepped in like he’d been waiting. He caught her as she stumbled, pulling her tightly against his chest to keep her upright. She sagged into him, too weak to resist, her eyes vacant and confused.

Then Kingsley spoke. Though distorted through the magic of the charm, his voice rang clear enough to shatter me.

“Just keep her out of the way,” he said. “Do as I instructed in court, and soon you’ll have all the power and money you could ever want.” Kingsley laughed—low, and filthy. “Oh, and yeah. You get the girl, too.”

Blaise didn’t even blink. Just smiled like the damn cat who got the cream, and walked Hermione, half-conscious, toward the Floo system and then they were gone.

The image flickered briefly before the next scene came into focus—the foyer of the Wizengamot.

Hermione stumbled out of the Floo.

No. She crawled out.

She landed hard on her knees, her hands scraping against the polished floor as she dry-heaved, retching nothing. Her skin was ashen, her limbs shaking. She looked, she looked dead.

People passed by her, stepping around her like she was a crumpled bit of parchment on the ground.

No one stopped. No one helped her.

But she kept going. She dragged herself upright, hand by hand, like she didn’t even know how to walk anymore. Somehow, she made it to the doors of the courtroom.

A witch stopped her. Wouldn’t let her in. Hermione tried to argue—her voice thin, slurred. She could barely form a sentence, barely remember why she was there.

And still, she tried.

She had come, She had been there, after all of that—after being torn apart by a Legilimens, after Kingsley and Blaise used her like she was a pawn on their fucking chessboard—she still came.

She tried to stand. She tried to speak.

She fought to be heard.

The pressure in my chest was unbearable. My heart twisted so hard that it felt like something inside me was tearing. I leaned forward, elbows on my thighs, trying to catch my breath and trying not to collapse under its weight.

Because the truth was inescapable now.

She hadn’t betrayed me.

She’d been destroyed trying to save me.

And I hadn’t known. I hadn’t even imagined.

I just sat there, silent, watching her fight for me with the last broken pieces of herself—and I felt like I was drowning in the shame of ever doubting her.

        Granger kept trying to get through, still fighting, despite Merlin knows what kind of damage had been done to her brilliant, unshakable mind.

I was roaring inside, the tide turning from stunned disbelief to a white-hot fury that made my blood burn.

Then she collapsed.

She crumpled to the floor and cried out my name, her voice cracked and broken—“Draco!”—a sob tangled in confusion and pain.

Then Blaise was there.

Looking confused that she had somehow made it to the courtroom. He held her against him as he started to walk her down the corridor, then he stopped, turned her, and pulled her close against him

And then I saw it—me at the edge of the court’s foyer, about to be transported to Madstone.

He’d done it on purpose. Turned her away so she wouldn’t see me. She gripped his shirt in both fists, eyes closed tight, swaying slightly on her feet. What I had once thought was an embrace… was her holding on for dear life. Holding on because her legs were about to give out under the weight of what they’d done to her.

Then I vanished—taken away to Madstone.

And Blaise led her on to the Healer’s Department.

The image flickered, then paused. Pansy finally turned to face me.

 I was shaking. My hands were clenched so tight on my thighs, my knuckles had turned bone white, my chest rising and falling in jagged, heaving breaths.

She crossed the space and sat down on the low table right in front of me, not afraid to get close, she wasn’t afraid of what I might do, even though I was.

Pansy laid her hand gently over mine. “There’s more,” she said quietly. “But… I need your wand first.”

“Why?” I rasped, voice nearly gone, my throat like sandpaper.

“Please, Draco,” she said. “Just give it to me. I don’t want you to do something you’ll regret.” I pried my numb fingers loose and passed her my wand.

“You know I could just grab another one,” I said hoarsely. “Is my word worth so little to you?”

“Your word is everything,” she said softly. “And I just want you safe.”

She stood, slipped my wand into her back pocket, lifted her own, and waved it again. The horror movie scene resumed.

Granger and Blaise were leaving the Healer’s Department. The voices were muffled, like whispers through a wall, but I heard Poppy, the Head Healer, saying, “She’s showing signs of extreme PTSD and memory loss.” Poppy said. “She’ll need therapy. Long-term.”

Then Poppy stopped Hermione at the door. Asked for a moment alone. Blaise left.

The image held on Poppy; her voice filtered through the Vestige magic like a ghost: “A head-to-toe diagnostic picked up a pregnancy.”

Everything stopped.

Everything.

My chest constricted so violently that I thought my heart had failed. I couldn’t breathe. My eyes snapped wide, pupils dilating. Every thought in my head shattered into the same echo:

No.

No no no no no no no no no no no no—

My whole body trembled. I couldn’t move. Couldn’t look away from the image of the Healer. Couldn’t look at Pansy.

“A baby?” I whispered. “My baby… OUR baby?”

My voice barely made it out. I didn’t even realize I’d spoken aloud.

“Oh, Hermione…”

I looked at Pansy, desperate, pleading, unsure what I was begging her for.

She knelt again, voice barely a breath. “I pulled her records,” she said gently. “She received prenatal care from Poppy through the first trimester. But after that, she never returned. So I did some digging.”

She hesitated. I could feel the next words coming before they were spoken.

“She was admitted to St. Mungo’s shortly after her first trimester with a skull fracture and an unexplained placental hemorrhage.”

No.

“They did emergency surgery,” Pansy continued softly. “But she lost the baby. The notes in her records indicated the head trauma and bruising to her abdomen were consistent with abuse; her file had been redacted at a later time, I’m sure by Blaise, but there was still one note in her chart that had not been removed indicating the abuse.”

A sound tore through the room—deep, raw, and primal. It took me a second to realize it was coming from me.

I was suddenly on my feet, breath burning, body shaking with rage and grief so vast I couldn’t see through it. Suddenly, arms were around me—tight bands holding me in place.

Theo.

Pansy’s face swam into view, her wand raised like she might have to use it. Her eyes shimmered with tears. “Draco,” she said sharply. “Draco, look at me.”

But the roar—my roar—was still tearing from my throat, wrecked and raw.

“Come on, mate,” Theo said, his voice thick with emotion. “Come back. We don’t want to have to use a wand on you.”

The fury wouldn’t go. The pain was too big.

I had lost a child, we had lost a child

I had almost lost her at the hands of abuse -by Blaise’s hands.

And I hadn’t even known.

I stood there, chest heaving, arms straining against Theo’s grip like I still might snap -but then the fight was gone. Burned out in a flash of fury too big for my body to hold.

        My knees buckled, not in surrender but in something worse. I sank down hard onto the floor, like my legs refused to carry the weight of it any longer. Like the grief inside me was a weighted mass pulling me down.

        My hands went to the floor, braced wide on either side of me, fingers splayed and shaking.

 We’d both been in prison. Me in chains, her in something far worse.

        I had blamed her. Thought she’d betrayed me. Thought she had turned her back on me for him. For Blaise. I’d let that lie settle into my bones and rot there.

        Pansy was right to take my wand. Even without it, the rage inside me crackled like lightning under my skin, itching for destruction. I could get another wand in five seconds. I could raze the whole bloody Ministry to ash.

        But death?

        Death was too easy for them.

        No, they wouldn’t get the sweet mercy of death.

        By Merlin, they were going to suffer.

        I clenched my jaw so hard that my teeth ached, and still, the tremor in my shoulders would not relent. Theo was kneeling beside me now, hand on my back, silent. Pansy sat on the floor in front of me, watching me unravel with those eyes that missed nothing—not even this, not even the moment I broke. Something inside me cracked wide open, and it would never go back to the way it was.

        “I’m going to burn them to the fucking ground,” I said, voice low, shaking, with deadly intent.

        Pansy didn’t flinch.

        “I know,” she said. “That’s why we need a plan.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 8

“Run like a girl”

TW: domestic violence, abuse

        It had been two days since the gala. Today, I was finally allowed to return to work. I counted the vials again. One, two, three, four, five, six. I knew I’d already done this—several times since Blaise handed them to me this morning—but the compulsion was stronger than reason. I needed the reassurance. Six. That was all I would get to last the entire day.

Blaise had instructed Bitsy to prepare only small, single-dose vials—no larger bottles, no freedom to adjust my dosing—not since “the incident,” as he called it.

The spell he’d placed on me was supposed to prevent me from taking too much at once, but still, my tolerance was what it was. I could take all six doses now and still feel the tremors under my skin, the tight coil of anxiety digging into my chest. I’d need to find a way to brew my own today at work, but how would I hide it from Blaise? How would I get it back into the estate? Another problem to solve.

I hadn’t argued this morning. I had just taken the six vials, eager for any escape. Since the incident, Blaise had placed an anti-apparition ward around the entire estate. I had looked out my bedroom window last night and seen the faint shimmer where the ward ended, far out past the gardens, deep in the wooded stretch that wrapped around the property. It might as well have been miles.

He’d also removed every potion from the house—“for my safety,” he’d said. Now, every medication was rationed and distributed in single doses. I couldn’t leave unless Blaise or Percy apparated me out. I nodded when he told me. I said nothing about the wards or the new rules. If he had wanted a protest, I hadn’t given him one. I just wanted to get out—even if only for eight precious hours, and even if it was under tight control.

I finished dressing, slung my bag across my body, and tucked the six vials inside, counting them again as I did. One, two, three, four, five, six. In the foyer, Blaise was waiting, standing at the center of the green mosaic snake. He said nothing, but his eyes drifted to my hair. I had straightened it and glamored myself, not wanting to ask Bitsy for help again. He hated my hair short, but he hated it even more short with wild curls. So I tamed it for him. When I reached him, he gripped my upper arm—hard—and we apparated.

At the Ministry, just before pulling away, he leaned in and whispered in my ear, voice smooth and cutting. “Percy will escort you home. Don’t be late this evening. Five o’clock sharp. I have plans for us after dinner and don’t want to be kept waiting. Understood?” He pulled back, a pleasant smile on his lips, but his eyes gleamed with ownership and control.

“I’ll be on time,” I said quietly, already shrinking inward at whatever plans he had in mind.

When I arrived at my department, Astoria was already there.

“Good morning!” she said, cheerful but confused, her brows drawing together. “Blaise told me you would be out the rest of the week. Not that I’m not glad you’re here!” she added quickly.

“Oh, it was just a 48-hour bug,” I lied easily. “I’m feeling much better, and I was going stir-crazy at home.”

That was the same story Blaise had told at the gala when people commented on how unwell I looked. He’d been livid when we got home. “You just had to make the night about you,” he’d raged. “You couldn’t stand for me to receive an award without turning the attention back on yourself, like always. Oh, Hermione, are you alright? Oh, your hair—“ He mimicked their voices with a sneer, then turned that fury on me.

The beating that followed had left me unable to move, let alone go to work, the next day, so Blaise confirmed what everyone already suspected: I was sick. A virus. A week off to recover. Ever the doting husband and caregiver.

“Oh, well—I’m glad you’re here. Just promise me, if you start feeling poorly, you’ll go home immediately. Don’t try to be a hero and stay,” Astoria said.

I held up a hand as if taking an oath. “I promise,” I said, trying for a smile I didn’t feel. It must have worked because Astoria smiled back broadly.

I was heading to my station when she said, “Oh, Hermione—here. I forgot. This came for you yesterday. I meant to leave it at your station.” She handed me a nondescript parcel wrapped in plain brown paper, labeled only with my name and Ministry title.

“Thank you,” I said as I took it from her, confused.

“Were you expecting something?” she asked, noticing.

“Oh—yes. It’s an ingredient I needed for one of my new projects,” I lied. The second lie of the day, and I had only been here twenty minutes. “I just slipped—my mind’s all over the place,” I added with a small laugh. “Well, I’d better get caught up.”

I turned and walked to my station. Carefully, I placed the package on the counter and set my bag beside it. I reached into the bag, brushing my fingers over the vials. One, two, three, four, five, six. I counted as I stared at the parcel. Then I glanced at the timekeeper at my station, nine o’clock.

My fingers moved over the vials again—six. If I took one every two hours, it might carry me through the workday. I’d have to find a way to brew more and get it back into the estate. Not letting myself dwell on it, I pulled one small vial from my bag, uncorked it, and drank. I slipped the empty vial back into my bag and waited a few moments for it to begin working.

Then I turned my attention back to the package. My first thought was that it was a trick—something Blaise had sent to test whether I’d report it to him. My stomach turned. But as I peeled away the paper, it revealed a beautifully stained wooden box with a lovely gold clasp on the front.

It didn’t look like something Blaise would send—not for a test. Or maybe that was the point. I didn’t know anymore. My thoughts had been scattered since the gala. Without proper medication, I didn’t trust myself.

My hands trembled as I undid the clasp and opened the lid.

Inside was a folded piece of parchment. I hesitated, then glanced around, half-expecting Blaise or Percy to appear behind me, ready to yell: Gotcha! Why didn’t you call me immediately when you received an unmarked package?

But no one was there. Astoria was at her station, and the others around the department moved about their work.

I lifted the parchment and unfolded it. Written in an elegant script: “A hand, extended—for when you need one.”

I read it once. Twice. A third time.

Then I looked beneath the parchment—and gasped. My hand flew to my mouth.

A gleaming potion vial filled with amber liquid nestled in the red velvet. The gold script on the glass read:

Gorgon’s Whisper

Potion F!

Who? How?

It had to be Blaise, my mind insisted. It had to be a trap.

Fenrich was the only person who knew I had inquired about the potion. Maybe Percy had mentioned I was at Flourish & Blotts, and Blaise had pressured Fenrich into telling him what I’d been asking about.

I looked again at the note. It wasn’t Blaise’s handwriting. Could it have been Fenrich? Maybe he found my note and brewed the potion for me, knowing I’d been forced to leave the materials behind. But then, why not just send the books?

I quickly folded the parchment and placed it back in the box, then carefully shut the lid and slid the entire thing into my bag. My mind was spinning.

Someone had brewed this. Someone had taken a risk—a very real one. Dark arts potions like this were enough to land someone in Azkaban. Just possessing it could have the same effect.

But I had it.

Could this be my way out? Was I going to look a gift horse in the mouth? I was at the end of a rapidly fraying rope. Blaise had caged me in with spells, warded my wand, and layered anti-apparition wards around the estate. I had no defense. No freedom. And it would only get worse. As if solidifying my current state, I felt the beetle burrow beneath my skin. If ‘Gorgon’s Whisper’ didn’t work, no one would be the wiser, but if it did…

He said he had plans for me after dinner, and that thought made my stomach twist. I would take the hand being offered. I might be free tonight. The thought made me light-headed with hope.

By noon, I had a loose plan. The ‘Gorgon’s Whisper’ was nearly identical in color to my calming draft, both a warm amber hue. Brewing more calming draft today to smuggle alongside the Whisper would be too risky, so I decided to make do with a reduced dosage until I could get away and be free.

By two o’clock, I had three empty camling draft vials ready, carefully timed to match my two-hour dosing schedule. I cast a cleansing charm on each to ensure they were sterile, then carefully filled them with Gorgon's Whisper instead. To avoid confusion, I swapped the original stoppers with slightly different ones I kept at my workstation.

As an extra precaution, I used one of the department’s standard transfer cases, designed with a foam-like center to keep potions stable during transport. I placed the last three actual calming draft vials in the first three slots, followed by the three newly filled vials of Gorgon’s Whisper.

By five o’clock, I was a bundle of nerves. With only five minutes left before Percy arrived to escort me back to the estate, I drank all three remaining calming draft vials at once.

I would need the stronger dose to get through the evening, and it helped preserve the illusion. If Blaise searched my bag, it would appear I’d taken only three doses. He wouldn’t suspect the three remaining vials were anything else. If he checked, I was confident he would think nothing of it.

Percy arrived five minutes before five o’clock.

I already had my bag thrown across my body; I dipped my hand inside to ensure, yet again, that the transfer case was there, though I knew it was. However, my anxiety would not let my mind believe it; my fingers brushed the case as I walked past Astoira on my way out.

This might be the last time I saw Astoria, if everything went according to plan. The thought hit me harder than expected, a rush of emotion swelling in my chest at the idea of never seeing her sweet, familiar smile again. But I couldn’t afford sentiment. I kept to my routine, offering only a passing smile and a glance as I walked by, just like any other day.

“Bye, Astoria, see you tomorrow,” I said as I walked past her to where Percy waited just outside the entrance.

 “Bye Hermione!” she called to my back. I kept my head high as I reached Percy, he cocked his head slightly at me like he knew, like he could read my thoughts and would spoil my plans. I knew I was being paranoid, my anxiety spiraling despite the larger dose of calming draft I had just taken, days without proper medication had me in a tailspin. I forced myself to relax. Just a few more hours, I told myself. This was it; I had to hold it together.

Percy smirked and unnecessarily grabbed my upper arm, walking me toward the disapparation point.. I could feel the back of his hand and fingers intentionally brushing the side of my breast as we walked, from the way he held my upper arm, revultion warred in my stomach, but I did nothing to cause a scene, I had to do whatever I could to be able to use the potion tonight, dont rock the boat Hermione, so I pretended that his dirty fingers violating me was just the brush of fabric touching me.

 I could see the disapparation point ahead, I started counting my steps to distract my mind from Percy's disgusting touch, then we were there. He looked down at me with a smirk on his mouth, then he licked his lips like a lizard, and we disapparated. We landed in the foyer of the estate, and I stepped quickly out of his grasp and headed to my bedchamber to change and prepare for the evening.

My legs felt numb as I climbed the stairs. I entered my room, first checking the entire space to be sure I was alone before I pulled out the transfer case and slipped the three vials of Gorgon’s Whisper into my slacks pocket. I went to the closet and changed my shirt to a crisp white button-up, tucking it into my slacks, and changed my shoes to black stiletto heels, the ones with the red soles; they were Blaise's favorite. I pulled my wand from my bag, cast a fresh glamour, straightening any curl that tried to break free; I applied a deep red lip stain.

Then I set my wand on the top of my vanity. With one last glance in the mirror, I turned and, looking out the window, I saw the faint shimmer where the anti-apparition ward ended. It looked so far away, yet escape had never felt so close.

Closing my eyes, I took a deep breath in through my nose, exhaled slowly, and headed to the dining room. My heels clicked loudly as I walked through the estate. I was counting them again, trying to slow my rapidly beating heart. Blaise entered the dining room from the far side at the same time as I. He gave an approving nod in my direction, as if being on time was something I had never accomplished. I sat in my customary seat, and Blaise took his place at the head of the table.

Our dinner appeared once we were both seated. However, my stomch rolled at the thought of food I dutifully picked up my fork and began to eat, the food felt like gravel in my mouth but I chewed and swallowed regarless, the Potion vials in my trouser pocket felt like they weighted a ton like Blaise would no doubt see them, somehow know my intentions. It was silent in the room save for the scrape of utensils, so when Blaise finally spoke, his voice startled me, causing me to jump in my seat.

“I think it's time I remove the anti-conception charm. With the fortune I have amassed and my position at the Ministry solidified, it's time I start to consider my heir. Plus, it's the only rational next step; I think people are starting to wonder why we haven't produced an heir. So, beautiful after dinner, we will begin working on that.” there was a teribble glint in his eyes as he waited for my reply, I had not been able to school my features quickly enough I knew shock had gotten through I just hoped the revusion I felt was covered in time as I plastered a smile on my lips.

“That sounds lovely.” I managed to get the words out in a surprisingly steady voice. Blaise smirked, his eyes holding a gleam of male satisfaction at my docile reply.

Merlin knows what his plans for conception were. I suppressed a shudder and managed to get one more bite of food in my mouth, just as I swallowed the last bite, Blaise rose from his seat, took my hand, pulling me up with him,

“I just need to finish up a few things in my study, then I'll be up. I left a package for you on the bed,” he murmured as he leaned in and kissed my cheek.

Merlin, how was I going to get him to take the potion? It had to be before he lifted the anti-conception charm; the thought of getting pregnant with his child was enough to make me physically gag. No, it had to be now, I had to get out NOW! 

I walked at a fast clip to the liquor cabinet off the dining room, grabbed a tray, and set a lowball glass on the tray poured one shot of firewhisky into the glass, then poured a single glass of champane placed it on the tray, then with trembling hands I pulled the potion from my pocket uncorked all three vials and poured them into the whisky glass, watching as the amber colors melded together, the potion mixed perfectly, it was odorless only the pungent smell of the alcolol present.

I stuffed the empty vials back into my pocket. Picked up the tray with shaky arms and carried it to Blaises study, the door was slightly ajar I elbowed it open entering slowly Blaise was behind his desk, writing a missive, I kept my eyes on him as I entered, he lifted his head as I walked toward him a smile on my face tray before me like a peace offering, though it was anything but.

I gently set the tray on his desk. “I thought we might toast to the happy news before we, um, get started,” I laughed lightly, hoping my words carried the coy tone I had tried for. A small smile pulled at the corner of Blaise’s mouth as he rose from his chair and came around the desk to stand in front of me.

I picked up the champagne flute and his glass of whisky. The tremor in my hands was visible. I could only hope Blaise thought the tremor was due to my lack of medication and not the fact that I was handing him a poisoned drink.

Blaise took the whisky glass from my trembling hand. My heart was pounding so hard that I was sure it was echoing through the room. I watched him closely as I lifted the flute to my lips, tilting it until the champagne kissed my lips. Blaise was still holding his drink, watching me, then he suddenly reached out, taking the flute from my hand.

 “I appreaceate the gesture my dear,  but I fear, all you have done is waste some good whisky, we wouldnt want anything to hinder the begetting of an heir, now would we.” he said as he set my still full glass of champange back on the tray, he was turning to set his glass down on the tray when I heard Percy say “no need to be wasefull.”

I had not even seen him in the room; my focus had been solely on Blaise, and before my mind could process what was happening, Percy picked up the whisky glass and downed it in one go.

“No!” I yelled, reaching for the glass, but it was too late; it was gone.

I started in horror as Percy stumbled back a step, raised a hand to clutch his throat, his eyes widened in shock, his body seized, stiffening. His skin paled to a cold, ashen gray as a crackling sound echoed faintly through the room. A surge of ancient magic surged through the air as his now-gray flesh stiffened, crackled, then turned to stone; his mouth agape in an eternal mask of horror.

Though Percy was not the intended victim, a crack in my soul mended as I watched him turn to stone.

        Stone dust was was floating in the air as our shocked gazes collided tense seconds dragged out in slow motion between us then Blaise snapped out of his shock and a rage like I had never witnessed replaced the shock as he roared “You fucking Bitch!”  lunging forward clamping a hand on my shoulder, I jerked back stumbled his grip on my shirt did not let go as buttons popped free clattering loudly on the floor my shirt ripped open half hanging on my shoulders, then Blaise lost his purchace on me, stumbling forward off balance I took advantage pushing him forward with all my might.

He fell in a heap on the floor. I had never fought back before, and the shock of it threw him off more than the momentum of his fall. I had to move! Move, Hermione! a voice in my head screamed.

I darted forward around the stone statue of Percy pulling my heels off as I went I could hear Blaise gaining his feet, he was screaming “I WILL KILL YOU FOR THIS!” as I sprinted across the foyer and up the stairs taking them two at a time, my heart felt like it was going to explode, I had to get to my wand and past the antiapparation ward if I was going to survive this.

I had just cleared the last of the steps when a hand grasped my ankle, pulling me down.

I hit the steps with a sickening crack. My right shoulder slammed into the stone, and I screamed as sharp, white-hot pain lanced down my arm. Blaise was on top of me instantly, driving me into the cold stone steps. His weight crushed me.

His face was feral with anger spittle spraying my face “You fucking cunt!” he roared as he balled his fist slamming it into my face cathcing my right eye and cheekbone almost knocking me out, blackness swam in my pererfial. FIGHT HERMIONE! a voice roared in my head. Was it mine? Was someone else here? Blaise wrapped his hands around my throat, squeezing.  

“YOU want to poison me!? You whore! I should have left you as I found you! Just another soiled whore of Draco Malfoy!”  he was screaming the words as his hands tightened around my throat.

I clawed at his hands, choking, unable to get air. Blackness was invading, taking over. Fight! The voice in mind shouted again. I wedged my flaiing legs between his and jerked my knee up as hard as I could my knee finding my mark cathing Blaise squareley in the groin he sucked in a breath then gagged his hands loosened enough for me to push and pull myself out of his grasp.

 I truned and crawled up the stairs gaining my feet on the landing, I was sucking air into my deprived lungs through my swollen throat coughing and dizzy as I started to run again, holding my right arm againgt my body, my shoulder in agony my arm not working right from the blow it had taken on the stairs.

I could hear Blaise's footsteps behind me closing in as I made it into our bedchamber. I slammed the doors closed, locking them just as Blaise rammed into them from the other side.

“You think a door can keep me from you!?”  he shouted as I ran to the vanity, crashing into it, my hand wrapped around my wand just as the door behind me splintered open.

 Blaise stood there, his wand in hand, as he stepped over the reckage of the doors and into the room, an evil smile on his face.

“Come now, wife,” he said, taking me in, standing by the window holding my wand before me, aimed at him. “You know you cannot use your wand against me, put it down.”

I aimed it at the window. “Reducto!” The glass shattered, exploding inward and blowing past me and into Blaise.

A thousand tiny cuts kissed my skin as the glass blew past. I heard Blaise yell. Still, I did not hesitate as I took four running strides and dove out the window, landing hard on the pitched roof, rolling over and off the roof, landing hard on my back on the gravel path of the ground knocking the air out of me; I lay there like a fish out of water, trying for breath.

“HERMIONE!” Blaise yelled from the window above.

 I rolled onto my side, pulling myself up as air began to return to my starved lungs, my right arm limp at my side, I pulled it against my stomach, holding it there with my left hand, and ran for my life toward the apparition point. My bare feet dug into the earth, rock, grass, gravel, sticks, and thorns as I ran and ran. My breath was heaving, my lungs on fire.

 I did not dare stop, did not dare to look behind me; I only looked ahead, and there I could see the shimmer of freedom.

 I crashed into the thick wooded area surrounding the Estate, pushing through the heavy foliage branches and brambles, cutting into my skin and feet.

What was left of my shirt got tangled in a bush, and I pulled myself free, the shirt ripped free of my body. Still, I kept going. I was only a few yards away from the apparition point, my body past the point of collapse. DO NOT STOP! the voice yelled at me, and I pushed harder.

The only thing I could hear was the loud wheezing sound of my breath being pulled through my swollen throat and into my starved lungs.

 I was only a few steps away from the ward when a bright light flashed in the darkness of the woods and a hot pain erupted in my right side causing me to stumble forward rolling on the ground and past the ward, I did not take even a second to process what had ripped into my side. I gripped my wand and apparated away.

I landed with a crash in the front yard of my childhood home. I had just thought of the safest place I could remember before apparating.

I lay in the cold, wet grass for a moment, trying to take stock of my body; my shoulder was dislocated for sure, and I was covered in blood from the hundreds of tiny cuts from the exploding glass of the window. I sat up, looked down at my right side, and Blaise must have gotten me with a Sectumsempra. There was a long slice in my flesh that was bleeding rapidly; I had just lifted my wand to seal the wound closed when Blaise apparated with a loud crack.

 “Oh, wife, it was a valiant try, I dare say I started to worry you might actually get away, has your addled mind forgotten the beetle? There is nowhere you can go that I cannot follow.” He said with a triumphant sneer.

Fear slammed into me, and before he could say more, I apparated again, landing behind Flourish & Blotts in Diagon Alley. I only had a minute or two before Blaise tracked me, so I concentrated on where the beetle was in my body, there! In my right forearm, just below the bend in my elbow, I lifted my wand. “Difindo”, a small cut was made. I dug the tip of my wand into it, trying to dig the beetle out. It only burrowed deeper and crawled up my arm.

The crack of an apparition sounded, and I didn't wait to see him. I just apparated again. Landing at King's Cross Station made another slice where I felt the beetle and tried again, only for the beetle to scurry away.

Crack- Blaise.

I apparated again, landing in a bloody heap in front of 12 Grimmuald. I knew I could only apparate a few more times before I got splinched due to the injuries I had, the wound at my right side was bleeding excessively now, the slices I had made to get the beetle out open, raw, and oozing blood as I did not have time to close them before apparating.  

Suddenly, I felt the beetle scurry across my sternum. I made a long slice across my chest, trying to get ahead of it and pluck it out, but the beetle made it into my left arm and under my bicep, the long cut across my chest now a useless crimson river dribbling blood down my body.

Tears filled my eyes, I would never get away like this, I had taken my chance and it had all gone wrong he would be here any minute and I had no where else to go no where that he would not find me I gripped my wand ready to try and fight with any curse I could cast againt him when he arrived.

        Hot tears streamed down my cheeks, mixing with the blood; my right eye was swollen shut, the tears forcing their way through the bruised, inflamed skin. My wand trembled in my grip, slick with blood and sweat.

        And then, his face. The image of Draco Malfoy rose in my mind like a beacon. The one that had haunted me for eighteen months. Slate-gray eyes. A single lock of white-blond hair tumbling over his brow. That smug, perfect smile that made my heart chench and twist.

        Crack.

        Blaise appeared before me, fury etched deep into every line of his face. He didn’t speak this time. He just started walking, slow and deliberate, toward me, his wand raised, murder in his eyes.

        I tightened my hold on my wand. Locked onto that ever-present image of Draco. Poured every scrap of will I had left into it. And suddenly, I was being ripped through space, hurled through a vortex of twisting light and crushing pressure. Redirected and redirected again. It was like slamming into walls I couldn’t see, over and over, spiraling wildly through a void.

        Until I dropped. Hard.

        An explosive crack split the air as I landed on a wooden surface with bone-rattling force, bounded, and rolled off, crashing onto cold, merciless marble.

        I didn’t move. I couldn’t.

        But I was gone. He hadn’t caught me. Not yet.

        Armstead Estate

         “It’s true,” Theo said, leaning back in his chair as I flipped through a financial report, one claiming the bulk of the Malfoy fortune had been reallocated into post-war relief efforts.

        “I swear, twins!. And they were into it.” Pansy rolled her eyes. “Sure, Theodore. We believe you.”

        I chuckled at the face Theo made in response to her sarcasm, but before I could offer my own opinion on the subject -

        CRACK!

         A sound loud enough to shake the entire Armstead Estate split through the air, and the three of us were on our feet instantly, wands out.

        Something, or someone, fell from thin air, crashing straight through the space above my desk. There was a sickening thud as a body slammed onto the wood, bounced once, then hit the marble floor with a heavy, wet smack.

        “What the fuck?!” Theo shouted as I rounded the desk and dropped to my knees beside the crumpled figure.

        She was trying to sit up. Bloodied hands pressing and slipping against the marble floor, pushing her into a half-sitting position. She was gasping for air.

        “G-gget it oo-ut!” she rasped. “Gg-et it out, get it out, get ii-it out!, hurry h-he’s coming-”

        My world tilted.

        “Fucking Salazar,” I breathed. “Hermione.”

        She was unrecognizable. Her entire body was streaked in blood and filth. The right side of her face was grotesquely swollen, her eye swollen shut, bruises spreading down to her jaw. Her only clothing was a pair of torn black trousers and a white lace bra, now stained pink from blood. Her feet were bare, shredded, nothing but bloodied ribbons of flesh. Her right shoulder was hanging at an awkward angle, grotesquely out of place, the arm dangling uselessly at her side.

        “Get ii-it out”, she repeated, her voice hoarse, barely audible, her teeth chattering, body trembling from shock, “pplease, hurry-”

         “Impossible,” Theo murmured behind me, still stunned. “She couldn’t have gotten past our wards.”

        “G-get it out! She screamed now, nearly feral. She lifted her wand with trembling fingers and began slashing at the inside of her arm, digging and slicing, trying to carve something out of herself.

        “No, no.” I reached forward, gently placing my hand over hers, steadying the blood-slick wand before she could do more damage. “Hermione,” I said as gently as I could manage, “Stop. Stop.”

        At my touch, her head snapped up. Her one good eye locked with mine for the first time, and my lungs emptied in a single, shattering breath.

        Her throat was marred with hand-shaped bruises- clear evidence of strangulation. She straightened a bit more, revealing a deep, gaping gash in her side, unmistakably caused by a Sectumsempra curse. Her body shook violently from shock.

        “H-he’ll find-d me,” she said, lips trembling, teeth chattering. “If I-I don’tt get it out…he’ll f-find me.”

        “I’ll help you,” I said quietly, barely above a whisper. “You're safe here, safe with me, I promise.”

        Without breaking eye contact, I called over my shoulder. “Pansy. Get the best fucking Healer you know. Right now.”

        I tried again to take the wand from Hermione, but she clutched it tighter, her left eye darting frantically around the room.

        “He’sss coming,” she whispered, panic rising. “Please, get it out, L-Luna Lovegood. The N-niffler- c-can get it out.”

        “Alright, Hermione,” I said gently, keeping my voice soft and even. “Tell me what it is. What do you need me to get out?”

        “The b-b-beetle,” She stammered, left eye wide, lips trembling. “T-tracking beetle. It’s under my skin. I-Inside me. Right here.” She yanked her hand from mine and, before I could stop her, made another slice into the skin of her right bicep.

        “It r-runs away, though -Blaise can track i-it.” Her teeth were chattering so hard, her words broke apart mid-syllable

“Bloody fucking hell,” Theo breathed, his voice low with shock.

I felt like I might collapse inward, implode from sheer rage, horror, and helplessness, but I forced myself still. Calm. Hermione needed quiet and safety, not my rage.

“I’ll get it out of you,” I said. “But please, don’t cut yourself anymore, alright?”

I wrapped my hand around hers again. She was still gripping her wand with white-knuckledd desperation. I didn’t try to take it again, just held her hand steady.

Her left eye was wide in terror. She trembled violently, unable to stop.

“Theo,” I said, my voice low, “grab a blanket from the couch.”

“Right”, he said. A moment later, he crouched beside her. “Here, love. I’m just going to drape this over your shoulders, alright?”

Even though he said it gently, she cowered as he approached. But she let him place the blanket on her. I pulled the edges around her, tucking them close.

“Theo,” I murmured, “can you find Luna Lovegood?”

“Sure, mate. You're going to be alright with her until Pansy gets back with the Healer?”

“Yeah. Hurry. And when you find Luna, ask about the Niffler.”

“Right.” He disapparated with a pop.

Hermione jolted, gasping as if Blaise had appeared in the room.

“No, hey,” I said quickly, already knowing where her mind had gone. “He can’t get past my wards. I promise you, Hermione, you’re safe here. And even if he somehow managed to, he would not get the chance to hurt you again.” Salazar help me, a part of me wished the motherfucker would find a was past my wards so I could cut him apart limb from bloody limb right now.

Her chattering teeth made it impossible to know if she nodded or if her whole body was simply trembling too hard to stop.

“I’m going to lift the blanket and close some of your wounds until the Healer arrives. Is that alright?”

        No words. Just the same trembling. I took it as permission.

        Gently, I peeled back the right side of the blanket to expose the gash along her ribs. I was deep. Her skin was stained with blood and mottled with hues of purple. She had lost so much blood.

I cast a sealing charm. The wound closed, but the bruised skin around it was rapidly turning darker by the second. It wasn’t just trauma; it was spreading.

Then, -pop-

Pansy returned with a young witch at her side, a leather satchel slung over her shoulder. She crossed the room quickly and knelt beside us.

“I’m Penn. Healer from St Mungo’s,” she said, voice steady. “Can I have a look at you, Hermione, is it?”

“Hermione nodded, barely.

Penn pulled back the blanket. Her jaw tensed visibly at the sight of the damage.

“We need to get her into a bed,” she said, glancing at me. There was urgency in her eyes that she tried to mask. “Is there one nearby?”

“Yes”, I said. “Hermione, I’m going to touch you now. Just to move to a bed so the healer can examine you better. Is that alright?”

Hermione nodded again, more certain this time. “Y-yes. Alright.”

Ever so gently, I placed one arm around her back, doing everything I could to avoid jostling her ruined shoulder, then slid another under her knees. I lifted her. She whimpered at the contact, then again as I lifted her. My chest seized at the sound of her whimper.

Then again again as I realize how light she was in my arms, she weighed next to nothing, the thought of Blaise, his much larger, stronger body, inflicting this kind of damage on her samll, fragile body, made my blood boil with rage.

I carried her swiftly up the stairs, straight to my bedroom, and laid her down on the bed with as much care as I could manage. Penn followed close behind and pushed past me the moment Hermione touched the sheets. She raised her wand and cast a diagnostic.

The air above Hermione’s body shimmered, forming a floating image, her internal map. The display lit up almost entirely red. I felt sick.

The red glowing areas of her diagnostic included her face, neck, dozens and dozens of lacerations over her chest, arms, legs, and feet. The more severe areas glowed in a purple hue, a few ribs on her right side glowed purple, and her right shoulder. But by far the worst was the wound on her right side. On her diagnostic, the purple glow was pulsing over the wound. And now black vein-like streaks were spreading on her skin.

A concerning number of purple markers showed in her brain.

Then, something else. A single blue point darting around her right arm.

“I’m going to give you something for the pain, and a calming draft,” Penn said. “And a blood replenisher, before I begin. Pansy told me you’re a healer as well?” She smiled at Hermione despite the situation, I was sure to ease her.

“Y-yes,” she whispered.

“Are there any questions you would like to ask before I begin, or is there a significant medical history I need to know,” Penn asked in that calm, confident tone.

Hermione’s gaze skittered to me for a moment before she looked back at Penn, whispering through chattering teet,h “I have memory loss from P-PTSD, a-anxiety. I have n-not had my medications i-in several d-days, I am used to a h-high dose calming draft. A-and there is a f-f-foriegn object, a tracking b-b-beetle, i-i-i can feel it in my right b-bicep now.” She stuttered.

“Thank you for that information,” Penn said casually as if she heard on the daily that people had tracking beetles burrowing around in their bodies, Fuck! My jaw clenched again,, but I kept a calm face and composure about me;. I did not want to frighten Hermione.

“This is for pain,” Penn murmured as she tilted Hermione’s chin and carefully poured a vivid green potion down her throat. Hermione swallowed weakly. “And this,” Penn continued, holding a small glass vial,” is a calming draft -relatively high dose. I make it myself.” She administered it with care, then followed with a third vial. “Standard blood-replenishing potion.”

Within moments, Hermione’s violent tremors began to ease. The tension in her limbs softened. She sank slightly into the mattress, her body at last beginning to surrender to stillness.

Penn worked with the calm efficiency of someone used to dealing with trauma. She narrated every step before she made it, never once startling Hermione. Her movements were precise, her tone steady and soothing. Every laceration was sealed, and bleeding was halted. Her shoulder required more attention; the diagnostic revealed not just a dislocation, but a fracture at the joint, along with two fractured ribs on the same side. Penn administered a bone repair tonic, which would have to heal the fracture before resetting the joint.

Her feet were still swollen, but the shredded skin had been repaired. Penn moved the diagnostic to narrow in on her face, murmuring, “The orbital socket is intact and no damage to your eye, just severe tissue trauma. “I’ll give you something to reduce the swelling, but this kind of tissue damage will take time to heal completely.”

Hermione nodded slowly, her head dipping with heavy effort, her left eyelid heavy. The potions were pulling her under. Thank Merlin. She no longer looked like she was fighting to stay alive with every breath.

And then Penn turned to the wound on her side. Her diagnostic spell shimmered with violet and black where the curse damage had sunk deepest. “Alright Hermione, here is my plan, your shoulder is ready to be set the fracture healed, but this curse you caught has a degenrating property to it, I am going to have to excise the skin and some of the tissue before it continues to spread, then there is the issue of the beetle, I have a few ideas on how to remove it, but in any case these following procedures you will need to be put under for as they will be long and painfull, your body has suffered to much shock thus far, I have a sleeping draft that I make for field cases similar to yours, it will also allow you to rest for many hours after the procedures for healing, if you will trust me to give it to you I would like to get started now before the curse spreads any further.

Hermione's gaze found me as if asking for help in making a decision, and before I could ask a question about the procedures, I felt a light touch on my arm. I looked down. Pansy.

“Theo found Luna,” she said quietly. “She’s here. With the Niffler, are you sure you want her brought up?”

“Yes,” I replied automatically not caring about myself or my identity at this point, all I wanted was for Hermione to be safe, taken care of. “We’ll deal with whatever fallout comes. I want that beetle out of her NOW!”

Pansy gave a short nod and left the room.

A moment later, the door creaked back open.

Luna Lovegood breezed into the space like moonlight, the faintest smile on her lips. Nestled in her hands was a fluffy indigo ball of fur, no bigger than a teacup.

Her gaze landed on me.

“Oh, hello, Draco,” she said brightly, tilting her head as if greeting an old friend at a tea party. “It’s nice to see you're not dead, then.” Luna chirped in her sweet, tinkling voice.

The room froze.

But I heard it. The quiet intake of breath. The subtle shift of fabric as Hermione turned her head toward me.

Her one good eye was wide. Her lips parted, trembling slightly. The fog of pain and potions didn’t hide the sharp, dawning recognition.

She was seeing me.

Not  Riven Vogel Armstead.

But  Draco Lucius Malfoy.

“Draco?” Hermione breathed through trembling lips, a singel tear sliding from her one undamaged eye.

“Yes,” I replied softly, matching her tone.

“I’m orry to interrupt,” Penn said gently but firmly, “But time is of the essence, and I’m not comfortable delaying treatment on the cursed flesh any longer.”

“Let her help you, Hermione,”I said, never looking away from her shocked, haunted expression. “I won’t leave your side. Blaise- No one will ever hurt you again- I swear it.”

Hermione gave a fanint nod of consent, and Penn immediately administered a strong sleeping potion. Just as the effects began to take hold, Hermione whispered, “You’ve haunted me for 18 months…and I can never remember why.”

Then her eye drifted shut, lost to the draft.

It felt like someone had driven a blade straight through my heart, the sadness in her voice cutting deeper than anything else ever could.

Chapter Text

                                                     Chapter 9

Armstead Estate

TW: evidence of self-harm and long term abuse/ surgical procedure

        With my heart lodged in my throat, I watched Penn cast a cleansing charm over a now-sleeping Hermione, vanishing the soiled bra and trousers. She quickly draped a clean folded sheet across Hermione’s chest and laid another over her lower abdomen to preserve what modesty she could.

        The charm did more than cleanse; it peeled away a glamour charm, revealing Hermione’s true condition. Her straight, cropped hair sprang into wild ringlets, spilling across the pillow and framing her face. My eyes traveled over her gaunt, bruised, and battered features, then down her skeletal, scarred frame. My knees buckled; I staggered forward, catching myself on the sturdy oak footboard of the bed.

        “Salazar,” I breathed.

         In addition to the fresh lacerations Penn had just closed, her body was covered in older thin, white scars. Her arms were especially marred, some puckered and uneven, while others were surgical and lined up in uniform rows on her thighs. I feared I understood what they meant.

         Her  arms bore the desperation of her trying to extract the fucking beetle buried beneath her skin. The thigh scars, I swallowed hard. Those, I feared, were deliberate. Then I saw the long, silver scar slashed across her lower abdomen, and a wave of bile rose hot in my throat. I tore my gaze away and looked to Penn, who was calmly laying out tools to begin surgery, to remove the decaying flesh left by the Sectumsempra curse.

         Though I knew it was unnecessary, the words left me of their own accord.

        “Take care cutting her, she has paid too much in flesh as it is.”

        Penn didn’t pause. She merely glanced at me and said. “I’ll only do what’s necessary. I’m a healer, not the monster who did this.”

        Still, I couldn’t stop. My voice shook. “She had a miscarriage. The scar, it’s-”

        “I noted it on her diagnostic,” Penn said gently. “I assure you. I’ll do only what’s needed to repair the damage. Perhaps you’d like to wait outside?”

        “No.” I shook my head. “I told Hermione I’d be here. I’m not leaving.”

        Penn nodded once and began. With measured precision, she cut away the blackened, necrotic tissue. The more she cut, the more decay she uncovered. I heard her mutter an expletive under her breath. It felt like hours had passed when she finally exhaled and, with a spell, sealed the cleansed wound. The incision closed slowly under her wand, healthy tissue knitting together. As a precaution, she placed a suture dressing over the site.

        “It was more advanced than I expected,” Penn said with a frown. “I’ll need to monitor her closely for several days to ensure no rot returns. She will need to recover in bed for at least five days, need help walking, going to the loo, everything to ensure the wound does not reopen, it was quite an extensive removal of tissue.”

        I could only nod.

        “Right then. Luna, is it? How does this creature help us remove the beetle?” Penn asked, turning toward her.

        “Oh, nifflers dig for gold and silver, and love shiny things, he can detect it, I think the beetle might hold still out of instinct if the niffler is near,” Luna explained in her light, easy way.

        “Very well. The diagnostic shows a foreign body in her right arm. Let’s start there.”

        Luna stepped forward and placed the tiny puff of fur onto Hermione’s arm. The niffler immediately began snuffling, inching up her skin until it stopped, pawing insistently at her bicep.

        I looked up at the diagnostic. The blue dot had stopped moving.

        “Hold him there,” Penn said quickly.

        Luna cupped the niffler, keeping it in place as Penn made a small incision above the dot. She took a pair of long surgical tweezers and, with careful precision, guided them inside. A moment later, the metal pincers clamped down on something.

        Penn extracted the beetle and dropped it into a metal basin beside the bed. It landed with a metallic clink, its tiny legs skittering against the basin’s surface in a sound that sent a chill down my spine.

        Without thinking, I raised my wand.

        “Reducto!”

        The beetle exploded into a melted blob of silver, black smoke curling up from the mess.

        “Thank you, Luna,”  Penn said, tilting her head. I’ll have to consider nifflers in future cases; This was enlightening.”

        “My pleasure, Miss Penn,” Luna said, tucking the niffler into the inside pocket of her jacket. She turned to me. “Could I have Theodore return me to my work now?”

        “Yeah, uh, Luna, I hope I can trust your confidence. About Hermione. And me. Not to speak of this with anyone.”

        “Of course, sir. Who am I to argue with the stars when they’ve clearly made up their mind?” she said lightly.

        “Right, the stars.” Despite the situation, I felt my lips tug at the corner at Luna’s eccentric words. “So I have your word then?”

        “My word, Draco.”

        “Thank you. I’m in your debt.”

        She gave a serene smile and breezed out of the room.

        “Can you help me set her shoulder, or should I get Pansy?”

        “I can,” I said without hesitation, stepping to the head of the bed.

        “It's been out of joint a long time. The muscles will resist, so I’ll need your help with control and support while I rotate it.”

        She grasped Hermione’s arm, and I braced mine beside hers. Slowly, Penn began to raise the arm overhead, gently guiding the ball back toward the socket. The tension was immense. Then -pop- a soft, unmistakable clunk as the shoulder slid back into place.

        I clenched my jaw.

        Thank Salazar. She was unconscious for that.

        Penn stepped back, giving a slight, satisfied nod as she reviewed the glowing diagnostic hovering above Hermione's body. The red had faded significantly—a good sign. But the deep violet glow still lingered, pooling in her right shoulder and wound on her side, more worryingly, in scattered areas of her brain. At least the diagnostic was no longer flashing with urgency. That was something.

        Penn’s gaze lingered on the glow over Hermione’s head, but after a long beat, she exhaled. “She’ll be more comfortable if she wakes up in something more than just blankets. Do you have clothing for her?”

        I should. was the first thought that hit me. I shook my head no, but I walked over to the wardrobe and grabbed the Muggle t-shirt I’d worn briefly that morning while having my coffee, soft, oversized, and Clean. I didn’t stop to think about it; I just brought it over to the bed. “I’ll have some things sent over tomorrow,” I added, voice low.

        “Here,” Penn instructed, “sit her up gently, slowly. Mind the dressing.”

        Between the two of us, we moved carefully, like she might break all over again. The shirt slipped over her head, settling loosely over her small frame. It swallowed her, draping to her knees.

        The image of her bruised and battered form carved itself into my mind like a knife. I wasn’t sure what emotion flared strongest. Relief that she was still breathing. Fury that someone had dared to hurt her. Or a twisted, aching pride that she was here, in my bed, my shirt, now under my protection.

        “We need to talk,” Penn said. “Let's step into the hall.”

        I didn’t move. My eyes locked on Hermione. What if she woke up and I wasn’t there? What if she opened her eyes and thought she was alone and scared?

        “She won’t wake for some time yet,” Penn said gently.

        I gave a short nod and followed her into the hallway.

        Pansy was already there, leaning casually against the wall. Or, at least, she was trying for casual. One muscle in her jaw was flexed tight, and her eyes were sharp and dark. She didn’t say a word.

        Same Pansy, Same. I thought.

        “She’s stable for now,” Penn began, voice steady and clinical, “but the Sectumsempra Curse that hit her has degenerative properties. I’ve cleansed the wound, but there is a chance that I’ll need to debride it again. It was particularly invasive. That aside, her shoulder and eye should heal without lasting damage.”

        There was a pause. And I felt it, the shift in her tone.

        “But Draco,” she continued, “I’m deeply concerned about her brain. She said she’s suffering from PTSD and memory loss, and yes, those can have physical manifestations. But what I’m seeing? It’s more than that. The purple glow in her temporal lobe suggests direct trauma. Physical trauma.”

        Something in my stomach turned. Recalling the Vestige charm, Pansy had played only 2 days ago of Hermione stumbling out of the Legilimens' office days before I was sentenced.

        “I’ve only seen this pattern in a few cases, Penn said, eyes meeting mine. “All of them involved Legilimency. Forced entry. Repetition. Someone dug into her mind violently. And there are signs of at least two healed skull fractures.”

        I didn’t realize I’d reached for my wand until my knuckles whitened around the grip.

        Theo apparated directly between Pansy and me at that moment. “Hey, did anyone else notice how tasty Luna looked-umph, hey!” he finished as Pansy elbowed him in the ribs, glaring at him. He glared back, rubbing his side, then took in the serious scene before him and shut up.

        “As I was saying,” Penn continued. “She is also covered in old injuries,” her voice quieter now. “Her forearms and wrists are riddled with signs of healed fractures. Classic abusive injuries from grabbing, twisting, and restraint. The kind of breaks you get when someone doesn’t let go.”

        How long has this been happening?

        “Her ribs are fractured in multiple places, all old and healed. At different stages, different depths. There’s a pattern to it, Draco. This wasn’t just one incident. This was sustained. Prolonged. Years, maybe.”

        Every word she spoke slammed into me harder than the last.

        I’d know she’d suffered from some type of mind manipulation - Pansy’s glimpse into the vestige had made that much clear. And only an hour ago, she had dropped from the ether and landed onto my desk, bloodied and broken. But hearing it like this, lined out like a medical report, made it real in a way I wasn’t prepared for. Quantified suffering. Documented horror.

        How many times had she been hit, held down, ripped apart, and forced to piece herself back together again, alone?

        I wasn’t aware I’d moved until someone gripped my wand hand. I turned, murder boiling just beneath the surface of my skin.

        Pansy.

        “You promised you’d be here when she woke up. Don’t make that a lie.”

        I stared at her, my pulse crashing like waves against stone. I could barely breathe. My body was reacting before my mind could keep up. Fight. Burn. Destroy.

        But Pansy didn’t flinch. “We’re going to make them pay,” she said, voice like iron.

        “Yeah mate,” Theo interjected, “I’ll help you paint the walls with their blood. But don’t go off half-cocked and make it worse for her. She needs you here.” The seriousness of Theo’s words, so out of character for him, was enough to cut through the fog. Barely.

        I forced myself to breathe, slow and deliberate. My grip loosened around my wand. This was about Hermione, now, not me, not my need for vengeance. It would come in time. For now, I will be here for her. I pocketed my wand and walked back into my bedroom. Pulled a chair to the bedside, sat, took Hermione’s hand gently in mine.

        Her pulse beat steadily beneath my fingers. Her chest rose and fell in a rhythm I clung to like a lifeline.

        She was here.

        She was alive.

        And I would never let anyone hurt her again.

        Four hours later, Penn had to perform another debridement on Hermione’s side, cutting away more decayed flesh. Though she was confident she’d removed it all this time. she left to attend her other duties at St. Mungo’s. She left detailed potion instructions in case Hermione woke up before she returned, planning to recheck the wound in another four hours.

        Fucking Salazar, I thought as Penn exited. How much more would Hermione have to endure? How much more could she give before it finally broke her?

        Several hours after Penn left, Theo slipped quietly into the room.

        “Hey, mate,” he said in a low voice. “Why don’t you get cleaned up? Grab a bite. I’ll sit with her.”

        “No.” I snapped, too sharply. I let out a breath, catching myself. I reached up to run a hand through my hair, but froze.

        Blood. Dried and caked under my nails, crusted along my knuckles and forearms.

        Hermione’s blood.

        It hit me like waking from a nightmare. I stared at my hands, holding them in front of me as the image burned into my mind. My fingers began to tremble. I curled them into fists and looked at Theo.

        Whatever he saw on my face made his morph to match precisely how I felt deep in my soul, wild, animalistic. He grinned slowly. “Oh, yeah, mate, I’m with you. When the time is right, we find him and send him out, slow, loud, or with a whimper. Dealer's choice,” he said, inclining his head toward me.

        “With a whimper,” was my reply.

        “I got her, go wash up, you don't want her seeing you like this when she wakes, you look scary enough with the new face, covered in blood, you look downright menacing.”

        I looked at Hermione’s sleeping face. The swelling was already starting to go down thanks to the potions Penn had given her; it was still swollen, and an array of bruised hues mottled her pale skin, but it was an improvement, and I would cheer everyone.

        “I’ll be quick,” I said, pushing myself up from the armchair. My back cracked as I stretched and headed toward the bathroom.

        The hot water from the shower beat down on my arms as I watched the blood slide off my forearms and hands, streaking the white tile before swirling pink down the drain. I leaned forward, bracing my arms against the wall, letting the water pound my shoulder until it finally ran clear.

Could Hermione and I ever find our way back to each other? After all this time, after everything we’d endured, it felt impossible. The pain between us was a chasm, and we were already drowning in it, just like the water beneath my feet swirling down the drain.

Somehow, she had managed to find her way here to me despite the wards protecting the estate. I would take that as a sign from Salazar himself; that was already one impossible hurdle out of the way. Now it was my turn to take a leap for her.

I was running through the corridors of Hogwarts. Someone was chasing me—close, too close. I could feel their breath, hot and ragged, against the back of my neck. But I didn’t dare look back.

My own breath came in gasps. Sweat soaked through my shirt, clinging to my skin. Pain stabbed at my side, sharp and relentless, but I didn’t stop. I couldn’t. Not when freedom—or maybe death—waited around the next corner.

And then, there he was.

Draco.

Standing at the end of the corridor, his hand outstretched toward me. Salvation. I reached for him, tears burning in my eyes, heart in my throat. But just before our fingers could touch—“I will kill you for this,” Blaze’s voice snarled behind me, his breath searing against my skin.

Draco vanished—his image twisting into smoke—and hands closed around me from behind.

I jolted awake with a soft, broken gasp, my hand flying to my side. The pain was real, but not from running. My nightmare dissolved, but reality didn’t bring comfort—it hit like a tidal wave.

Blaze.

The potion.

Percy frozen in stone.

The fight.

My escape.

I didn’t know where I’d landed. I didn’t even remember how I got here. Just that I’d apparated in desperation, clinging to an image of a ghost I’d held onto for years. My eyes swept the room, then caught on the form slumped in the chair beside the bed.

Draco.

His head rested at an awkward angle, long blond hair falling around his shoulders. He looked utterly exhausted, and yet the sight of him stole the air from my lungs. My fingers itched to reach out and touch him, to see if he was really real.

For two years, I’d held onto a vision of him—an image burned into my mind. But now that he was here, now that I knew who he was, the contrast between memory and reality stunned me. One half of his face was still the Draco I remembered. The other was scarred, changed—a man hardened by time and pain. The combination was unsettling. Beautiful. Heartbreaking.

I stared too long.

As if he could feel it, his eyes snapped open—sharp, alert. He didn’t speak at first, just studied me in silence, then:

 “Are you in pain?” His voice was low and hoarse from sleep. His gaze dropped to my side, where my hand still clutched the lingering ache of my nightmare. I looked down. My hand trembled. I only now noticed the oversized white shirt draped over me, and beneath it, a thick bandage.

“I—” My voice caught. My mind blanked.

Draco leaned forward suddenly, reaching for my hand. His eyes locked onto mine—steady, intense. I froze, caught like a rabbit in a snare. The second his hand touched mine, I flinched.

The recoil was automatic—years of training under Blaise’s cruelty. Draco pulled his hand back at once. His fist clenched, jaw tightened, and anger flashed across his face, but I didn’t fear it. Not for a second.

It wasn’t for me. I could tell. Still, guilt curled inside me at the wounded look on his face.

 “Sorry,” I whispered, teeth catching my lower lip. What could I say to him? To this man who was both a stranger and someone I had once… maybe… loved?

Panic surged, thick and sudden. I couldn’t breathe.

What had I done?

I had come here without thinking.

Oh, God.

“They’re going to come,” I whispered, the words tumbling out, raw and terrified. “I didn’t mean to. I didn’t mean to lead them to you. I didn’t know where else to go—Percy drank it, it killed him, turned him to stone, it was supposed to be Blaze, but now—now they’ll be tracking me. I didn’t mean to bring this on you, Draco. I didn’t mean—”

I reached for the covers, tried to push them away, needing to get up, to run again because it seemed everything I touched turned to ash, but before I could move, his hands caught mine, steady and firm. Unyielding.

“You didn’t bring them to me, Hermione,” he said softly. “I’m here for them.”

His voice was quiet, like the eye of a storm, promising destruction. “Let them come.”

            I stared at him, wide-eyed and breathless, my whole body shaking with fear and pain and exhaustion.

“You’ve got a bad wound,” he murmured. “You can’t be thrashing about like this.”

My breath hitched. My throat tightened, and I felt the pressure of a thousand buried emotions rising.

“Do you remember what happened?” he asked gently. “Do you remember Penn—the healer?”

I nodded as tears began to spill freely down my cheeks.

“Well, to be honest,” he said with a flicker of a smile, “she kind of scares the hell out of me. And she’s coming back soon. If you rip that wound open again, she’ll have my head.”

His tone was light, teasing—but I could see the worry beneath it.

And somehow, it made the pressure in my chest worse. Like I might shatter completely, just from the sound of his voice.

”Here,” Draco said gently, reaching for several potion bottles lined up on the bedside table. “Penn left instructions in case you woke before she returned.” He handed me a small vial filled with vivid green liquid. His fingers were careful, deliberate—he didn’t touch me, not even by accident.

“This one’s for pain,” he said. I uncorked the vial and drank it without hesitation. My throat burned, but I swallowed it down. “A calming draught,” he added, passing me a second bottle. I drank again, obedient and wordless. “Blood-replenishing potion,” he finished, holding out the last vial. Again, he avoided even brushing my skin.

Each time, I took what he gave me, and within minutes, the familiar weight of potions settled into my limbs. The pain dulled. My thoughts slowed. My eyelids began to grow heavy under the calming spell of the draught.

“I’m just going to have a look at your side,” Draco said softly, leaning forward. “Make sure the incision hasn’t reopened. Is that all right, Hermione?”

I nodded, my head sluggish. The potions had already begun to wrap themselves around me like a thick blanket.

He pulled the covers down just enough to reach the hem of the oversized shirt I wore. Then, with careful fingers, he lifted the fabric to expose only the bandaged area. Every motion was measured respectful. He kept the rest of me covered.

And just like that, the dam inside me cracked open again. Tears welled up and spilled freely down my cheeks. I didn’t know why, not exactly, but there was something familiar in the tenderness of his touch, the quiet way he moved, the care in every gesture that made me feel fragile all over again. His scarred face looked harsh in the dim light, but his hands were soft as butterfly wings.

He focused on the dressing, his brow drawn tight in concentration as he lifted one corner away from my skin, just enough to examine the incision beneath.

I didn’t look at the wound.

I looked at him.

His jaw flexed slightly. His silver-blond hair slipped from his shoulder as he leaned over me, and without thinking, my hand lifted into the air, reaching. Reaching for that hair I used to know.

But before I could touch him, a sharp knock at the door startled us both. I jerked my hand back. He caught the motion out of the corner of his eye, and for a brief moment, his expression flickered with something I couldn’t name. Something curious, something tender.

The door creaked open, and Penn stepped in, her worn leather satchel slung across one shoulder. “Oh good, you’re awake,” she said briskly, scanning the room—and the two of us on the bed.

“Any issues?” she asked, arching an eyebrow at the sight of Draco crouched beside me, my shirt lifted just enough to reveal the bandage.

“She woke with a bit of a start,” he replied smoothly, still watching me. “I was just checking to make sure her wound hadn’t reopened.”

“All good?” Penn asked, nodding toward the bandage on my side.

“Yeah,” Draco replied, begining to step back to give Penn space at the bedside. “Here, I’ll let you be the judge of it. It didn’t reopen.”

As he let go of my shirt, I caught it—just barely. A feather-light brush of his index finger, trailing from the edge of the bandage to just above my hip. It was almost nothing.

Almost.

But it left goosebumps in its wake, and I didn’t flinch; I shivered.

My eyes snapped to his face. He was already watching me, his expression unreadable—but something in his features shifted when he noticed the raised skin. His jaw unclenched. The tension around his brow softened. Then, as if nothing had happened, he moved to the foot of the bed, silent and still.

Penn stepped into the space he’d vacated, a gentle smile tugging at her lips. “How are you feeling, Hermione?”

“A bit sore,” I said quickly, nodding. “But better. The potions helped.”

She gave a slow, understanding nod. “Your body’s been through a great deal. The soreness will likely linger for some time still.”

She peeled away the bandage with clinical efficiency. My breath caught when I saw the incision for the first time.

The incision curved around my right side, long and jagged. The skin was puckered where it had been pulled together, sutured in place with Muggle-like stitches. It was jarring to see it. Like looking at someone else’s wound, only it was mine.

“I’m sorry,” Penn said softly. “There’s going to be scarring. I had to perform two rounds of debridement. You lost more tissue than I would have liked. I’ve given you a regrowth potion, but it will take about a week for the new tissue to grow in. Until then, you need to limit movement as much as possible.”

Her explanation was brisk and clinical, letting my healer knowledge fill in the blanks.

“Thank you,” I said, voice cracking.”For taking such good care of me.” I looked up at her kind and steady face.

And that was all it took.

The tears came again, unbidden.

“How are you doing… emotionally?” Penn asked gently, eyes searching mine—no doubt seeing the sheen of tears there.

I opened my mouth to automatically say I’m fine.

But my chin quivered.

And instead of words, a sob tore out of me.

Loud, sudden, raw. It startled even me. My hand flew to cover my mouth, my head turning instinctively toward Draco, ashamed, exposed.

But the dam had broken, and tears streamed down my face in hot waves. Another sob, then another, wracked my body. I couldn’t stop them. I couldn’t even pretend to try. There was no holding it back now.

I folded in on myself, overwhelmed by the weight of it all, exhaustion, regret, fear, and grief. I collapsed back onto the pillows of Draco’s bed and wept, screamed, even.

Two years’ worth of pain clawed its way out of me in great, heaving sobs.

I heard Draco say my name in a strained tone.

Then—

A pinch. A sting in the bend of my right arm.

Through swollen, tear-blurred eyes, I saw Penn withdraw a Muggle needle from my skin. She had injected something. Something merciful.

The bed dipped behind me. Arms wrapped around my shaking body, lifting me off the mattress, holding me close. I was in Draco’s lap now, my face pressed into the warmth of his chest.

He didn’t speak; he didn’t need to. His arms were steady, present, and real.

The medication began to take hold, heavy and warm like a thick, weighted blanket. My sobs faded into hiccups, then quiet breath.

The sensation of Draco’s hands. Of being held like I was something worth saving, wrapped around me just as tightly as the drug coarsing through my veins did.

And at last, I surrendered.

To the quiet, to the dark.

When I woke, I was deliciously warm—almost too warm. A heavy quilt lay across me, but as my foggy, drug-laced brain caught up, I realized something strange.

The blanket was breathing.

I froze, eyes wide open, suddenly aware of the body pressed behind mine. A strong leg, clad in soft grey joggers, lay across my bare thighs. My t-shirt had ridden up high on my hip. Slowly, I looked down. A large, pale hand was splayed across my lower abdomen. Long fingers curled slightly, the tips tucked gently between my left side and the mattress, anchoring me in place. My back was nestled firmly against a warm chest. His chest.

As if sensing I was awake, the breath on my shoulder changed—deeper, no longer the steady rhythm of sleep, but slower, measured. Controlled.

“Don’t panic, Hermione,” Draco murmured. “It’s me. You were thrashing in your sleep. I didn’t want you to tear your stitches. I’m going to move away slowly. Are you alright?”

I nodded.

His leg slid from mine, and I felt the absence immediately—cold, exposed. Then, his hand slipped away from my abdomen, careful not to graze the bandage on my side. His breath left my shoulder, taking with it the scent of peppermint and faint tobacco.

I missed him the moment he pulled away. The thought startled me.

I blinked, turning my head in time to see him climb out of the bed. His hair was tousled, a soft, silver mess. He wore a wrinkled white t-shirt, just like the one I had on.

I was wearing his shirt. The realization hit like a flutter in my chest. Intimate. Unspoken.

His joggers hung low on his hips, and for a moment, he just stared down at me.

I tugged the hem of the shirt down and pushed myself into a sitting position, wincing as pain tugged at my side.

He was beside me in an instant. “Let me help you,” he said, voice still thick with sleep.

“I… um, I need the lavatory.”

“Right,” he nodded. “Let me help.”

Before I could protest, he scooped me into his arms with ease and carried me into the bathroom.

Once inside, he set me down gently. My legs felt like jelly. I clutched his forearm to steady myself and caught my reflection in the mirror.

I barely recognized the woman staring back at me.

My hair was a wild halo of short curls, springing in every direction. The glamour was gone, revealing every scar on my arms. Under the harsh lights, the bruises across my jaw and eye stood out in vivid hues of black, green, and yellow. A ring of bruises marred my neck, and the oversized t-shirt had slipped off one shoulder, exposing even more of the damage.

Still holding onto Draco, I lifted my free hand and traced the worst of the marks. Then, moved it to my unruly hair, trying in vain to press the curls down.

Draco looked at me through the mirror, quiet for a long moment. Then he reached out, curling one of the ringlets around his finger and watching it spring back into place. A small smile played at the corner of his lips.

“It looks great,” he said, eyes meeting mine in the reflection. “I love it short like this. If that counts for anything.”

My throat tightened.

“Do you need help—onto the toilet?” he asked gently.

Mortification shot through me like lightning.

“No!” I blurted, too loudly. “No, thank you. I can manage.”

He raised an eyebrow, not at all offended. “I can get Pansy, if you’d rather. You might feel better after a hot shower. She could assist you.”

A hot shower sounded like pure heaven, but the idea of Pansy seeing me like this, of anyone seeing me like this.  I wasn’t ready.

“I have clothes for you, if you want to change after,” Draco added. “I can cast a seal over your incision to keep it dry.”

“All right,” I nodded, voice quieter now. “But… I can do it myself. Please don’t call for Pansy.”

He didn’t argue. Just lifted a hand, summoning a folded set of white pajamas, a towel, and slippers to the bench near the shower. With another wave, the water turned on, steam already fogging the glass.

Then he turned back to me and gently removed my hand from his forearm.

“Come on,” he said, guiding me the last few steps to the toilet.

“You’ve got it?” he asked, with a look that suggested—very seriously—that he was prepared to pull my knickers down and sit me on the toilet himself.

“I’m good. I can manage,” I said quickly, a touch of panic in my voice.

He gave a slight nod, stepping back. “I’ll be right outside. If you need anything, just shout.”

Before leaving, he lifted the hem of my shirt and cast a charm over my incision—cool magic settling over the skin to protect it.

And then, mercifully, he stepped out and shut the door behind him.

I released a long, shaky breath. Thank Merlin. One more second, and he really would’ve nurse-maided me straight onto the toilet.

The shower was already steaming by the time I pulled Draco’s shirt over my head and stepped in. I sat on the tile bench and let the hot water pour over my battered body, scalding and soothing all at once. I didn’t move. I just let the heat sink into my bones.

When my skin started to prune, I reached for the shampoo that smelled like him—peppermint and something warm, like tobacco and cedar—and worked it into my hair. But I had overestimated my strength. By the time I rinsed it out, my arms felt like dead weight. I stood on shaky legs, turned off the water, and barely made it to the padded bench before my legs gave out beneath me.

I tried to dry myself, but my arms trembled with every motion. Between the blood loss and the cursed wound in my side, I was as weak as a kitten. I clutched the towel to my front, unable to even wrap it around me properly—a knot formed in my throat. I didn’t want to need help, but I did.

And I had a choice—Draco, or Pansy, who was a stranger to me in all the ways that mattered.

Draco had already seen every bruise, every scar.

Except one.

And even though I had a black hole in my memories when it came to him, I instinctively knew I could trust him. I was already shivering, with water dripping down my spine from my wet hair.

I was about to call out for him when there was a knock on the door.

“Hermione,” he called, “I’m coming in.” There was no room for argument in his voice.

He entered, eyes locking onto mine and staying there. He didn’t glance at the towel clutched at my chest or the water still rolling down my legs. His gaze held firm.

I bit my lip as nerves tangled in my gut.

He crossed the room and crouched in front of me. Without a word, he summoned another towel and wrapped it gently around my back, tucking the ends across my front. Then he waved his hand, magic surged in the air and warmth surrounded me, drying my skin in slow, swirling waves. Heat fluttered around my curls, lifting and drying them until they bounced softly against my cheeks.

Neither of us said a word; we just held eye contact.

He lifted the pajama top from the pile and, with the same care, slid the back towel away, replacing it with the shirt. I slipped my arms into the sleeves. Draco, holding the material away from my skin began to buttoned it slowly, deliberately, His elegant fingers deftly slid each button slowly into its hole, never letting his fingers brush my skin. His eyes never left mine.

I bit down harder on my lip.

When he slipped the last button into place, he let go of the fabric, the silk fluttered down to my skin like a lover's caress, a whisper, warm and soft.

Draco Malfoy dressing me -without a single touch -felt more intimate than anything I had ever experienced or remembered at least.

Then he slid the pajama bottoms over my feet, past my ankles and knees, until they stopped at the top of my thighs.

“Can you stand?” he asked, his voice low and tight.

I couldn’t speak. My mouth was too dry. I nodded.

He helped me to my feet, steadying me with one hand as he gently pulled the bottoms up, settling the waistband just below the incision on my side.

Then he paused.

He was still kneeling in front of me, his face inches from my body. The only movement I detected was the deep breath he took through his nose, his nostrils flaring slightly.

His hair caught the light of the room, only inches from my hand, shining, calling to me. I lifted my hand and brushed my fingertips through the long white strands resting on his shoulder. The sensation—silken, familiar—unlocked the image that had lived in my mind for years: pushing a lock of hair from Draco’s forehead. The texture was exactly the same.

The flash of memory and the feel of it in real life made the room tilt.

I swayed.

And it broke the intimate moment.

Draco rose swiftly, catching me in his arms before I could fall, and still without a word spoken between us, carried me back to the bed.

 I noticed it had been remade with fresh sheets, the duvet folded back. He laid me down carefully, tucking the blankets around me with such tenderness that fresh tears burned behind my eyes.

As he pulled his hands back, I reached out on instinct and caught one in mine—a desperate grip I didn’t fully understand.

I looked at our joined hands, then up at him.

“I—I can’t remember,” I whispered, my voice shaking. “I only have broken memories.” The admission tore something open inside me. My stomach twisted painfully at the thought. What if I never remembered? What if whatever we were was gone forever?

My eyes searched his, desperate.

 “We were… together?” The question trembled from my lips.

The question that had haunted me for years—one I had buried deep- asked Blaze one too many times until the fog never cleared and his temper turned violent. Until I learned not to say Draco’s name at all. Until I learned to swallow it and forget the way it trembled on my lips unsaid. My hand drifted, almost without thought, to my lower abdomen. Fingers splayed over the scar that marked the worst of what Blaise had taken from me the last time I had dared to say Draco’s name aloud. A scar that would never fade. A phantom ache bloomed there, sharp and hollow.

Draco’s eyes dropped to my hand, then snapped back to my face. His expression shattered.

His eyes glistened, agony held behind restraint.

“Yes,” he whispered, the word thick with pain. “We were.

My chin trembled, and the tears spilled over, hot and unchecked.

“I can’t remember,” I cried, clutching at the fabric over my stomach. “I want to… but it’s just gone. And I don’t know what’s real anymore.”

Draco leaned over me, slow and steady. He moved with the kind of care one reserves for broken things.

He reached for me with his other hand, covering the one I had pressed to my abdomen, anchoring me with quiet strength.

“I’ll help you remember,” he said, voice hoarse, thick with emotion. “I’ll help you, Hermione. I swear it.”

His thumb brushed over my knuckles—calming, steady, certain.

“Just trust me,” he said softly. “I’ll help you find every piece he tried to break. We’ll put it back, together.”

I stared up at him through the haze of my tears, my vision blurred, my heart splintering under the weight of his promise.

He wasn’t asking me to be whole.

He was offering to carry the pieces.

And in that moment, fragile and trembling and barely stitched together, I wanted to believe I could be found.

It had been four days since I’d woken up at what I now knew was the Armstead Estate.

The house gossip and self-proclaimed “knower of all things”, Theodore Nott, popped his head around the doorframe of Draco’s bedchamber.

I had pleaded with Draco to move me to another room, insisting he take his space back. But every time, he’d refused with an unequivocal no. Instead, he’d taken the smaller adjoining room, insisting I stay where I was.

“Hello, love,” Theo chirped in a cheeky Cockney accent.

Despite myself, the words pulled a tilt to my lips and a small chuckle from my throat. I only had one vague memory of Theo from Hogwarts, though he claimed to have known me well, and if that bothered him, he certainly didn’t let it show. Over the past two days, he’d managed to fill me in on his entire life story—without me asking a single question, I might add—even the private bits, which had made me blush more than once.

Draco would growl every time.

“Fucking Salazar, Nott. Hermione doesn’t want to hear that. I definitely don’t want to hear it. Shut it.”

Which only encouraged Theo further.

“Sure she does, don’t you, love?” he’d wink at me.

“ And stop calling her love. It’s Hermione, or Miss Granger to you, you git.”

And so it went. Round and round, until Draco would inevitably leave the room, only to return a few minutes later smelling like freshly smoked tobacco.

“Hello, Theodore,” I said now, greeting the head poking through the doorway.

“I bring tea and biscuits,” he announced, pushing the door open wider as a tray floated in behind him.

I was seated by the large window, facing the rose gardens. Theo guided the tray to the low table in front of me and plopped into the chair opposite mine.

“Draco had some business to see to,” he added, “and he asked me to look in on you.”

“Oh? What kind of business?” I asked, my brow furrowing.

“The revenge kind,” Theo said flatly.

The blood drained from my face. My stomach twisted. What was he doing? Would he be caught? Could he be hurt? What if he were sent back to prison?

Over the last few days, Draco had told me what had happened during his trial and imprisonment. And about Pansy procuring the Vestige Charm, revealing Blaise and Kingsley's deceit.

At my request, Pansy had shown me the Vestige charm—an echoing memory of my visit to the Legilimency Department. I had watched in stunned silence as the macabre scene played out, silent tears running down my face. I watched myself be put through what could only be described as an assault by the Legilimens and stumble out of the office into Blaise’s arms—Blaise and Kingsley, the betrayal of it, both to Draco and me, was almost unfathomable.

Since seeing the footage, I had spiraled into a new realm of anxiety.

Penn, concerned that it was doing even more damage to my already fragile mind, she prescribed a schedule of new calming potions due to the increase in hand tremors, headaches and a new one, nosebleeds, and Penn gently urged me to see a skilled Legilimens—someone she trusted—to intervene before things grew worse and more memory was lost or worse.

I had balked at the thought of anyone else going with my head. I still hadn’t said yes.

Pulling myself from that spiral of thoughts, I asked Theo, “When will Draco be back?” Panic was rising again. A sharp stab lanced through my temples.

I reached for the new potion Penn had given me and uncorked it with trembling fingers, drinking it down. Theo didn’t miss the motion, but pretended not to see.

“Draco’ll be back in a bit,” he said smoothly. “Don’t worry, he’ll hit me with a stinging hex if he comes back and you’re not well. I’m the entertainment, remember?” He flashed a cheeky grin.

“Anyway,” he continued, tapping his chin as if trying to recall something important, “where did we leave off yesterday…? Oh right—so I Apparated to Luna’s field study, not knowing that the juvenile Erumpents were in rutting heat—”

He stood abruptly, already halfway into the story.“—and the male Erumpent got me right here—” He dropped his trousers mid-sentence, turning to show me his left buttock, still marred by a deep green bruise.

A startled laugh escaped me.

Theo threw a wounded look over his shoulder. “I swear, my life is in peril wherever Luna Lovegood is involved. I mean, look at it!” he exclaimed, pointing at the bruise.

Laughter spilled freely from me now, just as Pansy stepped into the room.

“You’d better get your ass back in your pants, Theo,” she said dryly. “If Draco gets back early and sees this, he’s going to hit you with more than just a stinging hex.”

Theo turned toward her, trousers still around his knees. “But she likes it!” he insisted, gesturing toward me. “Who am I to deny her the continuing saga of the slippery little Lovegood who continues to escape me?”

Pansy opened her mouth for a retort—

But a flash of red light sliced across the room from the open doorway to Draco’s adjoining bedroom, striking Theo squarely on the already bruised cheek of his backside.

“Fucking Salazar!” Theo roared. “That got me right on the bruise, you sadist!”

Draco stood in the doorway, expression stony.

“The next one’s going to land somewhere decidedly south of that if you don’t get your ass out of Hermione’s face right now,” he said, tone even—though the last few words came through clenched teeth.

Theo made a disgruntled face at Draco, rubbing the spot where the curse had hit, but when he glanced back over his shoulder at me, he winked, flashing a rakish grin.

“Fine,” he said, pulling up his trousers. “I was just telling Hermione—”  As he turned to face me, his smile fell instantly.

“Oh—here, love.” He hurried forward, producing a handkerchief just as I felt the first warm trickle from my nose.

“Thank you.” I took it quickly, tilting my head back to staunch the bleeding.

“Pansy, can you send for Penn?” Draco said sharply, already stepping in front of me.

“No—please don’t bother her,” I said quickly, looking at Pansy.

“I’m fine. I just had a bit of a headache, but it’s better now. I took my potion a few minutes ago.”

The words were muffled around the handkerchief, my voice strained. I looked up at him, eyes pleading.

“Please don’t call her.” Draco stared down at me, his face tight with concern. “Then at least lie down,” he conceded.

I nodded. I didn’t want to have that conversation with Penn again. I already knew what she would recommend—a Legilimens. And I couldn’t bear the thought of that. Not yet.

Draco didn’t hesitate. He lifted me gently from the chair, carrying me the short distance to the bed. I let him, hoping it might ease his worry enough to delay that call, just for now.

He laid me down with care, tucking the blankets around me and fluffing a pillow to keep my head elevated until the bleeding stopped. His eyes stayed on mine the entire time, dark with worry.

“I’m fine,” I whispered. “I swear it.”

Theo’s head popped into my line of sight from behind Draco’s shoulder.

“I’m sorry, Hermione. If I’d known my naked male form was going to send you into a spiral, I never would’ve shown it to you,” he said solemnly—barely dodging Draco’s elbow aimed at his ribs.

His face sobered, just for a moment. “I’ll check in later. Can I bring you anything?”

“No, thank you, Theo.”

“All right then. I’m off to ambush Luna for the fourth time. Wish me luck.”

A smile tugged at my lips behind the handkerchief. “Good luck,” I replied nasally.

I heard Pansy shooing him out of the room.“You might want to check where she is before you Apparate again,” she warned.

“Now what kind of fun would that be? Come on, Pans, where’s your sense of adventure?”

Their voices trailed off down the corridor.

“Fucking Nott,” Draco muttered, shaking his head—but there was a ghost of a smile playing at the corner of his mouth.

Draco sat on the edge of the bed, the worry still written across his face. He reached for my hand and took it in his. “I know why you don’t want Penn to come,” he said quietly. “I know how you feel about Legilimens. I don’t blame you.”

His thumb brushed gently over mine.

“What happened to you was a violation, Hermione. One I can’t even imagine. But if you won’t see one of Penn’s people, will you consider me?”

I recoiled, blinking up at him.

“I’m skilled at it,” he continued as if he didn't see me flinch. “More so after Jora’s teachings at Madstone.”

My heart was in my throat. What would Draco see if I let him in? What would he think of me if he saw the things Blaise had done to me, what I’d been forced to do under his control? The degradation. The humiliation. The twisted ways he had broken me down.

I still can’t remember what Draco and I had shared. Not really. He told me we’d been together for a year, an entire year of my life wiped clean from my memory. And yet, over the past few days, something had begun to stir between us—a fragile warmth. A quiet trust, it wasn’t memory, but it felt like something real, something that could possibly be built on.

But if he saw inside my mind, if he witnessed the darkness Blaise had left behind. I was afraid he wouldn’t be able to look past it. That whatever flicker of hope I had for starting over, for finding something new with him, would be gone and shattered by the weight of what I had survived.

I removed the handkerchief from my face.

My chin quivered, tears welled hot behind my eyes—a sob caught in my throat.

“Let me in, Hermione,” Draco said, his voice gentler than I’d ever heard it. “Let me help you. Please. Let me see what was done, let me try and repair it.”

He leaned in closer, eyes earnest as if he knew where my thoughts had gone. “There is nothing I could see in your mind that would change the way I feel about you. Do you understand me? Nothing,” he said so firmly it almost sounded angry. “You are all that matters to me. You're all that's ever mattered to me.”

I felt myself swaying—emotionally, physically. The pressure behind my eyes throbbed. The bleeding had stopped, but the headache remained.

I knew it had gotten worse since I escaped Blaise and then watched the Vestige. Somewhere in my healer’s mind, I suspected the Sectumsempra Curse had caused more internal trauma—damage to areas of my brain that were already vulnerable, threatening further harm. That curse was meant to weaken a person, bleed them out slowly, to make them unravel.

“All right,” I whispered, breath catching.

Draco’s shoulders dropped slightly, relief flashing across his face.

“But not today,” I added. “Tomorrow.”

He squeezed my hand, reverent and steady. “Tomorrow then.”

I had said yes, but dread gnawed at me. What if tomorrow ruins everything? And another fragile thing in my life turns to ash.

“If you need to stop at any time, for any reason, you only have to say the word. I’ll pull out immediately,” Draco said gently.

I heard him, but his voice felt distant, like it was reaching me through water, even though he was sitting right in front of me.

Penn stood at my right, a silent sentinel with a tray of potions and two pre-loaded syringes lined up neatly in front of her. Sedatives, in case I couldn't handle what came next. Draco had insisted she be present for our first Legilimens session, hed didn’t know how I would react, and truthfully, neither did I. I’d welcomed her presence, even clung to it, because I was already unraveling and we hadn’t even begun.

My palms were slick. A bead of sweat trailed down the curve of my spine, despite the calming draft I’d taken under Penn’s guidance. I odded stiffly at Draco’s words, unable to trust my voice.

”Are you ready to begin?” He asked.

”Yes,” I managed, my lips numb and barely moving.

He reached out and took my hand, his grip steady. grounding. “Just keep your eyes on me, Hermione.”

I nodded again, locking my gaze onto his. His mismatched eyes, one stormy, the other frost, held mine with unwavering intensity. And then, like a breath on the wind, I was somewhere else.

We were standing in front of the door to my mind’s library. It was crooked on its hinges, the wood cracked and splintered. Draco stood beside me, still holding my hand. He’d entered like mist, soft and silent. If I hadn’t seen him standing there, I might never have known he was inside my mind at all.

He glanced a the door, then at me, his face was a mask, unreadable. “You’re safe with me. Always,” he wispered.

Then, without hesitation, he turned the knob and pushed the door open.

He inhaled sharply, unguarded.

I knew what he saw beyond that threshold: the wreckage, the darkness, the twisted remnants of my mind. the urge to scream “STOP” surged up violently. I wanted to tear him out, slam the door shut, hide every broken piece.

But his hand tightened around mine, a reassuring squeeze, then he let go of my hand and Draco Malfoy stepped into the ruined library of my mind.

Chapter Text

Chapter 10

The Library

        I tried to mask my reaction to the devastation before me. I managed one reassuring squeeze of Hermione’s hand before letting go, slipping my hands into my pockets so she wouldn’t see them tremble.

I forced myself to look casual, eyes forward, as I stepped into the long, dim corridor of her mind. The hallway stretched before me, lined with low, shoddily built bookshelves, haphazard, crooked, and empty. Heaps of discarded book covers and bindings strewn around the floor, their sickly brownish-gray color reminding me of an artist’s palette where every vibrant color muddied into one.

        Above the sagging shelves, the walls were a chaotic tangle of memories, flickering like broken Muggle film reels, each moment worse than the last, and Blaise was the director of every horror.

        The corridor stretched endlessly, as if each step I took extended it farther. It felt like I would never reach the faint glow waiting at the end. I forced myself not to sprint through it, not to bolt past the flickering shadows of Hermione’s private hell, but to walk, steady, deliberate, give the illusion of strength though I felt like falling to my knees and roaring at the injustice of it all.

        I fought to see it clinically, the way a Legilimens should, not as the man who loved the woman trapped in these horrors, the woman I had failed to protect.

        Breathing deeply, I occluded, locking down my emotions as tightly as I could, and looked around again through the trained eyes of a Legilimens.

        This corridor was new, I could tell. The rushed, crooked shelves, the empty bindings, this had been Hermione’s desperate attempt to lock these memories away. And she’d built it all while the images swirled above her, tore at her.

        My throat tightened despite my occlusion. It would have taken a staggering amount of will for her to build even this much protection. She had hastily thrown the shelves together, the bindings abandoned before she could fill them with the traumatic memories lining the walls, but it was a miracle Hermione had even gotten this far.

        I kept moving, sensing her behind me; I did not want her to linger here any longer than necessary. I forced myself forward, but I couldn’t help it; my gaze was drawn again and again to the flickering walls. Snippets of torment, each one more unbearable than the last.

        I had almost reached the end when one particular memory stopped me cold.

        Hermione, sitting before a large vanity, stared at her reflection with empty eyes. I watched her reach into a drawer, pull out a handful of potion bottles, and down them one after another, as if they were nothing more than water. Then she drew out a pair of scissors and began hacking at her hair, long beautiful curls falling in great heaps around her, even as tears streamed down her vacant face.

        She looked hollow, beyond despair. The scissors dropped from her limp fingers onto the floor. Her hand covered her mouth, and then she slid from the chair, falling unconscious to the ground.

        I swayed where I stood, locking my knees to keep from falling, as a realization struck me like a curse. This was the day I had seen her at Flourish & Blotts, the night of the Gala, when she’d shown up with newly shorn hair and a plaster mask with a smile.

        My hands balled into fists deep in my pockets as Blaise stormed into the scene, slapping Hermione’s unconscious body, screaming at her. A tiny house-elf appeared, quickly reversing the potions’ effects.

        And then-

        Hermione’s voice echoed through the corridor.

        “Just let me go.”

        Her face was pure devastation.

        “Why didn’t you just let me go?” she pleaded.

        Salazar, save me! I had come so close to losing her, and I hadn’t even known.

        I swallowed hard, but the knot in my throat refused to budge. I could feel Hermione’s gaze burning into my back, but I didn’t dare turn around. I was afraid she might call “stop,” and so I forced myself forward, past the horror of her failed attempt, into the chamber that waited beyond.

        The room was vast and multi-level, with a broken dome-windowed ceiling. Even through the ruin, I could see that it had once been beautiful.

A true library.

Warm.

Safe.

Now, a layer of dust coated everything. There were books still on the shelves, bright bindings of yellow, red, green, purple, and a few black. The spines stamped with titles and codes only Hermione would know, but just as many that lined the shelves now lay scattered, broken, and burned across the floor.

It appeared Hermione had tried to repair some, stacking them by color, patching the bindings with clumsy tenderness, before clearly giving up.

A large fireplace stood empty and cold. A tattered green armchair slouched under a fractured window. A skeletal vine hung from a dry planter at the sill, brittle leaves crumbling to the floor.

On the table beside the chair sat a single book.

Its stormy-gray cover torn away and carefully reattached, the leather soft and worn with touch. Unlike the abandoned piles, this book had been tended to lovingly, held in hands many, many times.

I removed one hand from my pocket, careful, reverent, and brushed just the tip of my finger against the book’s corner. Slowly, I turned it.

When the spine came into view, the air left my lungs in a shaky exhale.

VOLUME XIII.

There was a roaring in my ears. My vision swam as tears pricked my eyes. I gripped the book and lifted it from the table, my body moving on autopilot. Just from the title alone, I knew what had once been contained within.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Hermione approaching me. I spared her a brief glance, her bottom lip was caught between her teeth so hard I thought she might pierce the skin. Her hands twisted anxiously in front of her as she stepped closer, as if she might take the much-loved book from my hands.

Just as I lifted the cover, a flash of memory swirled up from the center, much like peering into a Pensieve, but I was seeing through Hermione’s eyes.

The memory was my face, unmarred, smiling, laughter in my eyes, staring down at her. My hair fell over my forehead, and she reached up with a gentle finger to brush it back.

The memory looped again and again, a fragile, thirty-second glimpse, the only piece still intact within the book’s ruined binding.

I gently closed the book just as Hermione’s trembling hands took it from mine. She clutched it to her chest, as if holding a piece of delicate glass that might shatter at the slightest touch.

“I tried to repair it, but the rest was lost,” she whispered.

Her voice was low, full of guilt, as if the wreckage done by one evil witch was somehow her fault.

“They were all lost,” she added, motioning toward the stacks of damaged books on the floor. “The entire library was filled with a black mist, which drifted out of the windows above us,” she said in a shaky voice.

She stood there before me, so small and broken, her swollen bottom lip bearing signs of how hard she had worried it. She clutched that worn gray book — the one that held only a single, flickering memory of me, and fuck, I wanted nothing more than to pull her into my arms.

Instead, I stuffed my hands deeper into my pockets, forcing myself to stay still.

I didn’t know how long I could stay in here, how long she could tolerate my presence in this fragile, broken space, so I forced my emotions to lock away, becoming the Legilimens again.

“Are all the books stacked on the ground void of memory?” I asked, keeping my voice calm and even.

Hermione nodded, biting her lip again. “Yes.”

“Do you remember your color-coded system?” I asked.

“Some,” she said. “Early on, when I tried to make repairs, I couldn’t remember all the colors. But with the volumes that were still intact, I was able to figure some of them out.”

“That’s good. Very smart of you,” I complimented her.

I noticed her hands had begun to tremble as she clutched the gray tome to her chest.

“Did you notice any pattern in which books were most damaged, or where the shelves were emptiest?” I continued.

Her eyes brightened a little, eager to answer.

“The black volumes,” she said quickly. “There were only a few left on the shelves, a large space where I think there used to be more.”

“What was contained in the black volumes?” I asked.

“War memories. Order information,” she replied. “From what I could gather from the few that were left.”

My jaw flexed. Kingsley, you fucking bastard. I’ll make you pay, I thought darkly.

Hermione’s tremors were moving up her arms now. It was time to stop.

“That’s enough for today,” I said softly. “You did really well. This helps me know where to begin to help with the repairs.”

I reached out carefully. “I’m going to take us out now, all right?”

She clutched the gray book tighter for a moment, reluctant to let it go.

“This is the only gray tome in here,” she whispered, staring down at it in her shaking hands.

When she looked up, tears spilled from her lashes, and I noticed a thin trickle of blood running from one nostril.

“It has comforted me… many, many times. Just to hold it, even though it’s only a flash of a memory that I can’t even truly recall,” she confessed, her voice dropping to a whisper, like revealing a deep, dark secret. “When Blaise would um -hurt me, I would come in here and hold this book close to me.”

I was rooted to the spot. The image of Hermione, enduring horrors, trying to occlude herself within this ruined place, clinging to that book, that small shred of memory, nearly shattered me.

With leaden feet, I crossed the small distance between us. Gently, reverently, I took the book from Hermione’s trembling hands and placed it back on the low table as if it were made of fragile crystal. Then, without a word, I took her hand and led us from her mind, as softly as I could.

The second we exited her mind, I dropped to my knees before her, where she sat in the chair by the window overlooking the rose gardens.

I reached for her.

She stiffened slightly as I pulled her into a gentle embrace, keeping my arms loose so she knew she could pull away anytime, that she would never, ever be held against her will again. I laid my scarred cheek against the crown of her curls. Her body was still trembling lightly, then, after a moment, she relaxed slightly into me. Her hands hesitantly touched my back. It wasn’t a true embrace, I could barely feel her touch, but it was enough. It was everything.

I would take it.

Take whatever she could give, even if it was never more than this right here.

“I swear to you, Hermione,” I murmured into her hair, “I will do everything in my power to restore everything you’ve lost.”

And I vowed silently that the witch responsible for the destruction of her beautiful mind would pay dearly.

I held her close as I turned to Penn.

“She has a nosebleed and tremors,” I said quietly.

Penn nodded, already approaching with two potion bottles in hand.

I gently pulled back as she handed Hermione a handkerchief and the potions. Hermione wiped the blood from her nose, the bleeding had already slowed now that we were out of her mind, and drank both potions.

“Thank you for trusting me,” I said softly, brushing a wild curl back from her temple, wiping away a lingering tear.

“You have a beautiful, strong mind, Hermione.”

Another tear slipped free as she looked up at me and whispered:

“Thank you.”

The potions worked quickly. Hermione’s tremors eased, and her eyelids grew heavy almost immediately.

Penn remained close.

“It would be good for you to lie down and rest,” Penn said gently. “Sleep if you can; it will help ease your mind. You endured a lot today.”

Hermione nodded.

I stood and helped her from the chair to the bed. She was asleep almost before her head touched the pillow. Penn and I slipped quietly from the room, leaving her to the rest she so desperately needed.

Once we were out in the hallway, Penn got straight to the point.

“How much damage is there?”

I clenched my jaw, the images of Hermione’s fractured memories flashing behind my eyes, churning nausea in my gut.

“It’s Extensive,” I said grimly. “She’s been trying to occlude and lock away the traumatic memories, but she hasn’t been able to do it properly.”

I exhaled heavily.

“I’m not sure I can recover the memories she’s lost… but I feel confident I can help her manage the trauma that’s crowding the forefront of her mind.” I shook my head, feeling tired down deep in my soul.

“It’s bad.” That was all I intended to say about what I’d seen of Blaise’s abuse.

Penn must have suspected as much; she did not look surprised.

“I’d like to run a diagnostic after each Legilimency session,” Penn said, her tone clinical but kind. “To make sure we’re not doing more harm than good. Her response afterward today was, actually, less traumatic than I had anticipated. She tolerated it quite well, I thought. Did you?”

I nodded.

“The nosebleed started during the session, that’s when I ended it, but-” I hesitated, weighing my words carefully.

“ Hermione’s become an expert at masking her pain and trauma. I’ll have to be very cautious moving forward. But yes, she tolerated it better than I expected.”

Penn considered this.

“Very well. I think weekly sessions, followed by a diagnostic, would be wise. I’ll let Hermione rest today and return in a few days.”

“All right,” I agreed.

Once Penn left, I went to find Pansy.

I found her downstairs in the command room, sitting comfortably in a low chair, a thick stack of papers balanced in her lap.

“I have a few things I need you to do,” I said by way of greeting.

Pansy simply nodded. “All right.”

Once I finished explaining what I needed, she set the paperwork down on the side table and rose to her feet.

“ You want this for tomorrow night?” she asked.

“Yes. And let Theo know, I could use him.”

Pansy’s lips curled into a sly grin.

“Oh, Theodore is going to love this.”

Not as much as I was, I thought.

I woke with a start, my heart pounding in my chest, the remnants of a nightmare clinging stubbornly to me. Blaise’s voice from the dream still echoed through my mind “I will kill you for this.” My eyes darted around the darkened room, searching. Shadows stretched across the walls, making it feel as if he were somehow here. I glanced at the timekeeper: 2:46 AM.

I had slept straight through dinner and deep into the night, the lingering effects of the potions Penn had given me after my first Legilimency session with Draco still heavy in my limbs.

My breath caught when I thought I saw movement in the corner. My heart hammered faster. Someone was there, a bulky shadow watching me. I stayed absolutely still, too afraid to even breathe.

Draco had reassured me more than once that no one could get past his wards into the estate, but once my panic started, logic was useless.

Moving carefully, I eased myself out of bed and padded barefoot across the floor toward the adjoining door, never taking my eyes off the shadow. I turned the knob slowly, squeezing through the door and shutting it softly behind me, leaning against it as if bracing for Blaise to slam into it from the other side.

My breathing was rapid, my heart roaring in my ears. As my eyes adjusted to the new room, a magical flame flickered on the bedside table. Draco was there, asleep, propped against a stack of pillows against the headboard. A discarded book lay open and facedown in his lap. He was shirtless, wearing only dark joggers or pajama pants — I couldn’t quite tell in the low light.

Regret surged in me for barging into his space uninvited, but the thought of returning to my room, to the shadows, was unbearable. I stepped hesitantly closer.

The book title caught my eye: Legilimency: A Study on Memory by Professor Hipney. I lifted my hand to wake him gently, but when my gaze moved from the book to his face, I froze.

He was already awake, had been watching me silently as I approached. His stillness was almost unnerving, but there was no judgment in his eyes, only quiet understanding.

“I um, had a nightmare and the shadows in my room-” My voice faltered and died away. Suddenly, I felt foolish, standing there in Draco’s bedroom in the middle of the night. I clasped my hands in front of me, biting my lip. He just continued to watch me.

“I’m sorry I woke you,” I mumbled, starting to turn back toward the door. Before I could flee, Draco reached out and caught my hand, gently but firmly stopping me. His gaze never left mine. With his other hand, he picked up the book, closed it, set it on the nightstand, and then scooted over, lifting the covers.

“Come here,” he said softly, tugging on my hand. “Tuck in with me.”

His voice was low and rough from sleep, but filled with such patience and warmth that my panic eased slightly. My mind hesitated at the thought of crawling into a bed with anyone, but somehow my heart, my battered, frightened heart, recognized safety in him. He had been in my mind only hours ago, seen everything I tried to hide away; what was more intimate than that?

I stepped forward and let him pull me into the bed beside him. The space where he had been sleeping was still warm, scented with peppermint and a faint hint of tobacco.

I settled against the warmed mattress, and he carefully tucked the blankets around me. Propping himself on his side, he folded a pillow beneath his head and brushed a stray curl from my face.

“Go back to sleep. You’re safe with me,” Draco murmured, his voice a soothing balm.

The warmth of his bed, his scent, and the gentle touch of his hand brushing curls from my face were stronger than any calming potion I had ever taken. Within a few slow, deep breaths, my eyelids grew heavy and drifted closed.

Just before sleep claimed me, I felt his fingers run through my curls as he whispered, “I’ve got you, Hermione Jean.”

Soft, feathering breaths brushed across my eyelids, pulling me from the deepest sleep I could remember. My lashes fluttered open to find Draco’s face just inches from mine, his head still resting on a folded pillow.

Morning light spilled through the window, casting a soft, golden glow over the room. Draco looked so beautiful, so arresting, that it felt like someone should carve his likeness in marble or paint him in oils, capturing his fierce beauty for the world to remember.

The scar on the left side of his face enhanced him. A story written on his skin that only deepened the strength he wore so easily.

While he still slept, I allowed myself the luxury of looking at him, really looking. It was the first time I could recall seeing him without a shirt, and the realization that I had seen him like this before, had known him intimately for a year and yet couldn't remember it, stabbed deep and terrible in my chest.

My gaze trailed slowly down his face. The scar wrapped beneath his jaw. And along his neck, where thick cords of muscle gave way to broad, whipcord-lean shoulders. His left arm was bent at the elbow, draped casually across his chest, partially obscuring the hard lines of his pectoral muscles.

Lower still, my eyes skimmed over his abdomen, a taut, sculpted plane of muscle, every detail sharply defined. His black silk pajama pants hung low on his hips, revealing a deep V of muscle dusted with the faintest trail of light blonde hair that disappeared beneath the waistband. A large, unmistakable bulge pressed against the silk, and I abruptly felt nervous, heat rising to my face.

Forcing my gaze upward again, I noticed something I hadn’t seen before, the edge of a mark, peeking out from beneath his arm draped across his chest. A tattoo, it seemed, etched just over his left pectoral muscle, right over his heart.

A strange, aching pull stirred inside me. A memory flickered just beyond my reach. Without thinking, I lifted my hand and traced the visible edge of the tattoo with my fingertip.

At my touch, Draco’s arm twitched slightly, then shifted away, baring the whole design. I stilled as the tattoo came fully into view:

XIII  

In neat, bold, black script.

A soft gasp escaped me.

Volume XIII.

Draco

His hand came up, pressing mine flat against the mark, right over his heart. I could feel it, hammering fast against my palm.

My eyes lifted to his. He was awake, fully awake now, a storm of emotion swirling in his mismatched eyes. Slowly, he lifted my hand from his chest, carried it upward, and placed a tender kiss into my palm.

The sensation shot through me like lightning, pulling something taut deep in my lower abdomen, a feeling that terrified me, but I wanted desperately to chase it.

Questions raced through my mind, so many that I couldn’t even pick one to voice.

My gaze darted back to the tattoo, grasping, reaching for the slippery memory that hovered just out of reach.

But then-

I caught sight of something else.

Over his ribcage, a lash mark curved, jagged, and cruel.

I pushed up into a sitting position, then onto my knees, reaching out instinctively. My fingers brushed the scar, tracing it around his side, and then onto his back.

Draco went rigid beneath my touch.

What I felt under my fingertips stole the breath from my lungs: a mass of scars, crisscrossing and slashing across his back like a brutal map of pain. A strangled gasp tore from me. Without thinking, I yanked the covers off, exposing the full extent of the damage.

Tears welled up, blurring my vision, then overflowed, falling silently and landing on the marred skin of his back.

“Oh, Draco,” I whispered, my voice trembling. I reached out again, helpless to stop myself. “What did they do to you?”

Without answering, Draco slowly turned onto his back, easing the scars from my sight. His hand lifted, cupping my cheek with such careful tenderness that fresh tears welled in my eyes.

“It’s alright. I’m okay,” he whispered. “Please don’t cry, Hermione. Come, lie back down next to me.”

My heart broke wide open at the quiet way he asked.

The healer in me knew, too intimately, the kind of agony those scars hinted at. And yet he was comforting me. Somehow, even after everything, he was still trying to take care of me.

I unfolded my legs and lay back down, tucking myself into his side, my head resting against his shoulder. His warmth beneath my cheek unraveled something tangled inside me.

Draco shifted, pulling the covers up over us both, wrapping us in a cocoon.

“I’m so sorry that happened to you,” I murmured, my voice cracking on the words. I suddenly felt so selfish, so small. Caught up in my own survival, I hadn’t truly let myself see what Draco had endured. But now the brutal scarring of his back was burned into my mind, and I could hardly fathom it.

His face was so close to mine.

Without thinking, without allowing myself to hesitate, I leaned in and pressed a kiss to the scar on his left cheek, feather-soft and trembling.

He went absolutely still. Not tense, frozen.

The way he didn’t pull away, the way he simply let me, it emboldened me.

I pulled back a fraction, my eyes tracing the path of the scar down to where it just brushed the corner of his mouth. With a breathless reverence, I reached out, tracing it with the tip of my finger before leaning in to kiss the corner of his lips. A whisper of a kiss, no more.

A flicker of the memory surfaced, his storm-gray eyes looking down at me, his mouth soft with a private smile. Chasing the memory, I leaned in a third time and pressed a tentative kiss to his lips.

At first, he didn’t move. His lips were stiff under mine, and for a breathless heartbeat, I thought I had made a terrible mistake.

But as I started to pull away, he moved, his hand finding my cheek again, his mouth softening, moving against mine with a sudden, aching hunger. He kissed me back as if he were drowning.

A low, desperate sound rumbled in his throat, and it sent a jolt through me, sparking low and sharp in my belly.

I clutched at his shoulders, helpless against the rising tide that was Draco Malfoy.

Tentatively, I flicked my tongue against the seam of his lips, an unspoken question, and he answered immediately, his mouth opening for me.

When our tongues met, it was molten, devastating.

He moaned again, louder, and suddenly I couldn’t get close enough. The heat inside me built, tightening into a pulse between my thighs, at first shocking me, then consuming me.

I pressed myself against him, desperate to feel more, to lose myself in the steady, overwhelming safety of him.

The clothes between us were suddenly unbearable, a frustrating barrier that kept me from what I needed.

He shifted then, rolling me slowly onto my back, his hand gently curled into a fist in my hair at the nape of my neck, his body pressing me into the mattress -and the world shattered.

I froze.

A flash -Blaise’s hand wrapped painfully in my hair, his weight crushing me into the mattress, forcing himself into me.

My breath seized. The terror rose, overwhelming and absolute.

 A choked sob wrenched from my throat.

 Draco jerked away from me like he’d been burned.

“Hermione, oh, Salazar, Hermione, I’m so sorry—”

His voice broke apart in the quiet, horror-struck. But I was already curling into myself, the taste of panic thick in my mouth, the past crashing down over me like a wave I could not stop.

Pulling my knees to my chest, my arms wrapping around them tightly. I couldn’t seem to get enough air. My chest felt hollow, collapsing inward, and all I could hear was the roaring of blood in my ears.

Draco stayed where he was, hovering a foot away. I could feel his panic and helplessness radiating from him.

“Hermione,” he said, his voice breaking. He was still not touching me.

I squeezed my eyes shut, as if that could shut out the images.

It was Draco. I knew it. But my body, my mind wouldn’t listen.

The bed shifted slightly as he moved, slowly, carefully, sitting at the edge near me but not reaching for me.

“Hermione, look at me, please, baby, look at me.”

I could hear the tremor in his voice, and it undid me. Hot tears spilled over, and I pressed my forehead against my knees, trying to breathe through it.

“I’m so sorry,” I choked out. “I’m so sorry—”

“Shh,” Draco murmured, his voice low, desperate, thick with emotion. “You don’t apologize, not to me. You haven’t done anything wrong. This is on me. I should have been more careful with you; I’m the one who’s sorry. Please, look at me so I know you’re okay.”

Draco.

Not Blaise

Draco would never hurt me. I knew that, on some instinctual level, my heart just knew. I lifted my head. My body stayed curled in on itself, but I raised my forehead from my knees and turned slightly to look at him.

“Something just… It’s not you,” I said quietly. “Something triggered- a memory. I’m sorry.” The words tumbled out in a mumble. “I wanted to. It’s just-” My voice trailed off. The words wouldn’t come.

Draco’s reply was soft, steady. “I would never knowingly hurt you. And I’m so sorry I let you feel otherwise, even for a moment. But we’re okay, Hermione. We’re alright, you and me. Okay?”

I bit my bottom lip and gave a small nod. He held out his hand to me. He didn’t move or rush, just waited patiently, as though he’d sit there for days if that’s what it took for me to reach back.

Finally, I uncurled an arm from around my knees and placed my hand in his. His fingers closed around mine, warm and steady, and he gently helped me from the bed.

The contact grounded me, anchored me, and I could breathe without shaking. “Let’s get some breakfast in you,” Draco said softly, a small smile tugging at his lips. As if it were any other morning, and I had not just pulled him close, then shoved him away.

His eyes held more than lightness; they held reassurance, a quiet promise that we were moving forward.

Together.

And I let myself believe it. Just a little. I nodded and followed him into the next room, not because I was entirely okay, but because I wanted to be. Because maybe this was how healing started, one step, one choice, one understanding moment at a time.

It was well past midday, and I sat curled in my favorite chair by the window overlooking the gardens. The view from here calmed me. Penn had promised that by tomorrow, exactly one week since I’d crash-landed here at Armstead, my injuries should be healed enough to start walking about some.

The bruises had faded. The wound in my side had closed. Only the occasional stitch remained if I moved the wrong way. Penn said I could walk through the gardens tomorrow if cleared by the diagnostic, and I’d already begun mapping my route in my mind.

I’d start with the large climbing rosebush, the one with the deep red blooms. Bees buzzed lazily through the air; butterflies danced over the petals. From there, I’d follow the stone path until it turned toward the hedge maze. I couldn’t see where it led—not the full shape of it—but I wanted to find out. That would be my path.

I was still tracing it in my mind when a soft knock came at the adjoining door. Draco’s voice followed a beat later.

“Hermione, may I come in?”

My heart tensed. I hated that he felt the need to ask.

It was my fault—kissing him this morning, clinging to him like a lifeline, then shoving him away when panic overtook me.

He’d been nothing but kind and understanding, but I couldn’t shake the fear that I’d fractured something fragile between us. Something we’d only just started to build in the past six days. Still, Draco had done nothing but comfort me since. He even tried to coax laughter from me over our awkward, too-quiet breakfast.

When I’d said I was tired of pajamas and longed for proper clothes, he returned with two overflowing department store bags, everything soft, luxurious, and in my exact size. Of course.

I had chosen buttery soft tan trousers and a lightweight matching jumper from the bags for today, already feeling better out of the bedclothes I had been in for six days.

“Yes, please come in,” I answered at last.

He entered slowly, cautiously, like his very presence might send me into a spiral.

What have I done?

I didn’t have all the memories between us, but I knew, I knew, I didn’t want to be without him. And I was terrified of what it would mean if I lost him now.

Draco crossed the room and stopped behind the chair opposite me. He didn’t sit. He used the chair like a barrier between us, giving me space. I understood what he was doing; he didn’t want me to feel cornered, and my stomach flipped.

I opened my mouth to apologize again, but he spoke first.

“There’s something I’d like to try,” he said, voice careful. “I know yesterday was your first proper legilimens session, and I don’t want to push you beyond what’s healthy. But I have an idea that might be easier for you, I’ll take every care not to upset you, if you will trust me to try it.”

His shoulders were tense. His jaw tightened when he finished speaking.

“I trust you, Draco,” I said softly. “Truly. Whatever you want to try, I’m willing.” I hesitated, the words catching in my throat. Before he could respond, I pushed on, like a dam breaking. “And I’m sorry—so sorry—for this morning. I just -you felt familiar. You tasted like a memory.” I faltered. What else could I say? Then you reminded me of Blaise pinning me down? That I panicked because my body couldn’t tell the difference fast enough?

God,  I thought, the guilt hollowing me out.

I’m ruined. And I’ll only ruin him, too. Dark thoughts whispered in my ear: You’re soiled. Damaged. No good.

“First,” Draco said, cutting through them with calm certainty, “you didn’t make a mistake. We share a past. You may not remember it, but I do. And this morning, I got caught up in that past, in you. I forgot, just for a moment, where we were and everything we’ve lost. That’s on me, and I will never make that mistake again. We will find our way back together, as long as it takes for you to be comfortable.”

His voice was firm, but kind.

I nodded, biting my bottom lip, but the darkness still whispered in my ears: Ruined. Broken. Unworthy.

Then Draco stepped around the chair and finally sat. Still keeping space—but closer now.

“I would like to try bring you into my mind, share my memories with you to help bridge the gap in the ones you have lost. My memories will not be the same as your own, i realize that, but I think it could help with the void while I try and help you repair the damage done in your mind, and possibly help restore the memories you lost.”

I couldn’t deny that the idea of being inside Draco’s mind intrigued me. He was always so composed, so sure of himself. To see what lived behind that steady gaze. “All right,” I said, voice steady.

“We can try it tomorrow,” he said gently. “Penn’s coming in the morning to give you the all-clear on your injuries. I’ll run the idea by her first. If she gives her blessing, then we’ll give it a go.” He paused. “I have some business this evening. I don’t know what time I’ll be back. Pansy’s staying over; she’ll be in the room just to the right. If you need anything, go to her.”

My brow furrowed with worry. “What business is it?” I asked, dread settling like a stone in my stomach.

“I’m just meeting with someone. Nothing to worry about. Theo’s going with me.”

There was a beat of silence before I spoke again. “Will you-um, will you wake me when you get back?”

He looked startled by the request. “You want me to?”

“Yes, please. Just so I know you’re alright.”

“Okay,” he said quietly. There was a moment where he looked like he wanted to reach for me, to close the space between us. But instead, as he stood, he simply slid his hands into his trouser pockets.

That was when I noticed what he was wearing.

Black wool trousers. Black combat boots, laced tightly over the cuffs. A long-sleeved black wool turtleneck. All he was missing was the hooded cloak, and he could have passed for a Death Eater.

A chill ran through me. My stomach turned.

“Draco…” My voice was shaky. “Are you going after Blaise?”

His eyes flicked to mine. “No. Not tonight at least.”

Then, slowly, he leaned down and reached out—his hand hovering, then brushing my cheek with the softest touch. Just the pad of his thumb against my cheekbone. A feather’s touch.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said softly. “It’s nothing. Truly.”

And with that, he slid his hands back in his pockets. He turned for the door.

“Pansy will look in on you,” he said, giving me one last glance, a firm nod. And then he was gone.

True to Draco’s word, Pansy knocked a few hours later. She stepped into the room carrying two crystal glasses, both filled with what looked like firewhiskey, and a folded paper tucked beneath one arm.

“Good evening, Hermione,” she said, perfectly proper in that no-nonsense voice she always used. It wasn’t that Pansy was unfriendly—quite the opposite. She was just blunt. Direct.

She crossed the room to where I still sat, staring out into the night, my mind spiraling with worry about where Draco was and what he might be doing. I knew I wouldn’t sleep a wink until he came back.

Pansy sat down and handed me one of the glasses. I took it, sipped. The whiskey burned on the way down. She leaned back in her chair.

“Don’t worry about Draco. He’s going to be fine.”

“What is he doing?” I asked. “What are they up to?”

She just shook her head. “That’s for Draco to tell you. I’m just a coordinator,” she said with a shrug, like that explained everything. Then she handed me the folded paper.

I opened it. Yesterday’s edition of the Daily Prophet.

Front and center was a photo of Kingsley Shacklebolt, his expression grim. The headline read:

Allegations Swirl Within the Ministry

The article below was short and vague:

It is rumored that an investigation is underway in the Ministry of Magic concerning misappropriation of funds. It is unclear whether the inquiry has been initiated internally or influenced by an outside source. Minister of Magic Kingsley Shacklebolt declined to comment.

I read it. Then again. And again. On the third read, I looked up at Pansy.

“This was you and Draco?”

“Some documents were leaked to the Prophet by an unknown source,” she said, one brow arched.

She took another sip of her whiskey before continuing. “Also, I thought you should know, Blaise has been busy covering his ass. There’s a forged resignation letter from Percy, and a closed Auror file on him stating Percy took a permanent leave due to family-related issues.”

I felt the blood drain from my face.

Blaise did not report the murder.

“And,” she went on, “it seems one Hermione Zabini turned in a request for an extended leave of absence—traveling abroad with your mother-in-law, it would seem. The paperwork was submitted the day after you arrived here. Signed by you, of course.”

“Wanted posters with my face on them would be better news than this,” I mumbled. “It means Blaise is looking for me; he plans on finding me and taking me back.”

Panic tightened in my chest. My breath came faster.

“This is Madrid all over again,” I whispered, mostly to myself.

“I’ve run before,” I confessed. “He finds me every time. I made it to Madrid once and stayed hidden for two months. But then he found me. Percy brought me back.”

I stared down at the whiskey glass trembling in my hands.

“That’s when he had the beetle commissioned.”

The words tumbled out, and I swallowed hard. “I can only imagine what Blaise has waiting for me now, especially after what happened with Percy.” I finished on a whisper.

The room was silent, so quiet I could hear my heartbeat pounding in my ears. I looked up and met Pansy’s gaze. Her expression was unreadable, but her eyes gleamed with something dark and dangerous.

“Hermione,” she said, her voice low and steady, “you’ll never go back. He’ll never touch you again. Draco would die before that happened—sacrifice himself a thousand times over if he had to. Blaise will never get his hands on you again. And if by some miracle he gets past Draco, he’ll still have to get through me.”

She held my gaze, and I nodded. It was all I could do. In that moment, something shifted. I didn’t feel so completely alone.

Maybe I had made a friend in Pansy after all. Not the kind you went shopping with or giggled over tea. No, she was the kind you trusted with your life—the kind who stood between you and the fire.

“Thank you, Pansy,” I said, the relief in my voice surprising even me.

She only nodded and tossed back the last of her whiskey.

“All right then. If you need me, I’m next door.” She stood gracefully, set her empty glass on the table, and exited the room without another word.

I sat there for a long while, the Prophet in my lap, reading and rereading the short article and staring at Kingsley Shacklebolt’s picture.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, hope flared in my chest. That maybe, Pansy was right.

That Blaise would never reach me again, and this house of cards I had been living in was about to tumble down.

I lifted my wand and lit the cigarette dangling from my lips. Light flared at the tip, briefly illuminating the darkening alley as I took that blessed first drag. It had rained an hour ago, and the cobblestone streets were still wet, glistening in the dim light flickering from the lamps of

Diagon Alley.

I leaned a shoulder against the wall of Madame Malkin’s Robes, idly smoking. Just a casual wizard having a quiet moment, at least, that’s all anyone passing would see. No one would suspect the truth: I was a spider, sitting at the edge of his web, waiting for the fly to step in. Just one wrong move and I’d strike, finally able to sink my fangs into something, to satisfy, even a little, this growing appetite for revenge.

Especially after yesterday, after this morning.

I was near to roaring with the need for it after being in Hermione’s mind, seeing the destruction done to her mind, and the images of Blaise’s torment.

And then, my fucking blunder this morning. I’d been so stunned when Hermione crept into my bedchamber last night. So careful with my movements, my words. I didn’t want to scare her off. The way she bit her lip, her eyes wide with nerves and something like trust, it made my damn heart leap. When she climbed into bed beside me, it felt like, for the first time in a long time, my heart started beating again for something other than just to sustain life.

And then this morning. Bloody fucking Salazar, when she kissed me, tentative, exploring.

Just a brush of lips, and it undid me: her taste, her scent, the warmth of her body pressed against mine. I’d lost myself.

I had seen, only hours before, the violations Blaise had wrought upon her in the flickering memories in her mind. The raw wounds.

And after one gentle kiss, I’d rolled her beneath me, like I had any right. I was lost to her like a drug, and didn’t stop to think, didn’t consider her, Just acted on instinct and our past she no longer remembered, and fuck, I scared her. Triggered something deep, made her feel trapped all over again.

My stomach twisted at the thought.

I shook my head and took one last drag, then crushed the cigarette beneath my heel on the slick stones.

The bell above Madame Malkin’s chimed.

I waited a beat, then stepped out of the alley, cutting off the fly mid-step, forcing her into my web.

“Why, hello, Flora,” I said, voice smooth, pleasant even.

The older witch faltered, her hand rising to her chest, brows knitting together in confusion. “Oh… do I know you?” she asked, eyes flicking over me, trying to place my face.

“No,” I said, smile sharpening, “but we’re about to get real acquainted.”

I grabbed her arm and Disapparated.

We landed in the room Pansy had prepared, a replica of the one at the Legilimen’s Department. Stark white, cold, and clinical.

Flora reached for her wand.

 “Accio” was said from the corner of the room. Her wand sailed through the air and landed neatly in Theo’s hand.

“I’ll just hold on to this for you. Cora, is it?” Theo drawled.

“Uh—Flora,” she stammered. “I think there’s been some mistake. I’m—”

“Oh, no mistake,” I said, tsking, shaking my head. “You’re Flora Appleton. Head Legilimens at the Ministry. Promoted to that position two years ago after being passed over for the better part of a decade. Now, what do you suppose finally convinced the Ministry you were ready for the job?”

I looked past Flora to Theo. “Curious, isn’t it?”

“Quite curious,” Theo said, glancing her over. “Though you do look the part. Fresh-pressed robes. A department pin, nice and shiny, on your lapel. Perhaps you’ve made a mistake, Draco.”

At hearing my name, Flora’s head snapped toward me, eyes going wide. “Draco? Draco Malfoy?”

“Impossible,” she breathed. “Draco Malfoy is-”

“Dead?” I said with a raised brow. “So they keep saying. But as you can see, Flora, I’m not so easily killed. Though it’s not from a lack of trying on the Ministry’s part.”

Theo gave a mockingly gracious nod. “Where are my manners, Flora? Here, milady.”

He took Flora by the arm, leading her to the high-backed white chair in the center of the room. She resisted, heels scraping, her face twisted in concentration. I felt her try and breach my mind. She bounced off my Occlumency walls like a gnat.

I smiled.

“Don't embarrass yourself,” I said softly, my smile sharpening. “ We both know you didn’t earn your promotion on merit.”

She squirmed as Theo guided her into the chair. He murmured a spell, and the bindings slid into place. Then he stepped back.

I leaned in, my face inches from hers.

“No, it was the rather dirty work you did for Kingsley, obliviating memories that would have proven a multitude of people innocent during the war trials, myself included in that list, but I digress,” I said, pushing away from the chair.

I straightened and stepped back.

“That’s not why you’re here tonight, Flora. No, tonight, you’re here so I can give you the same treatment you gave Hermione Granger.” I let the words hang. “Only I plan to be far more… thorough.”

Flora’s face drained of color. Her lips turned a sickly shade of gray.

“Wait—Draco, I have information. I can help—”

I raised a hand and cut her off.

“Oh, dear Flora. I’ll have every answer I’ll ever need from you in just a few moments. And then you’ll spend the rest of your miserable life having drool wiped from your chin in the ‘closed ward’ at St. Mungo’s.”

“No—please—wait!”

I ignored her plea.

“Let’s begin, shall we?” I said, my voice a low purr.

And then with brutal force, I kicked the door of her mind open—and tore through it with merciless glee.

I had just stepped out of the shower when I heard the adjoining door creak open. Still dripping, I yanked on a pair of joggers and dragged a T-shirt over my dripping head as I stepped into the bedchamber.

Hermione was there, standing in the center of the room like she’d gotten halfway to the bathroom and froze. The moment she saw me, her posture softened, like a breath she’d been holding finally slipped from her lungs.

“I thought I heard you,” she said quietly. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” I lied without missing a beat. “Got caught in some rain. Just wanted to clean up before I told you I was back.”

The truth was uglier than that. I needed to scrub Flora’s presence off of me, erase the stain of her, her voice, her pleading. I didn’t want even a trace of her filth to follow me into the same room as Hermione.

“You haven’t slept,” I noted, catching the dark smudges beneath her eyes. It was nearly three in the morning.

She shook her head. “I was worried. Pansy wouldn’t say where you’d gone. Where did you go?”

Her fingers were twisted together, knuckles white.

“Come on,” I deflected. “Let’s get you back to bed. You’ve got Penn coming in a few hours. If you want to be cleared, you need rest.”

But then I saw it, the faintest pinch of her brow. That signature stubborn line of defiance that used to crease her face before she marched into battle. It was like a ghost of who she used to be flickered to life momentarily, and something hopeful stirred in my chest.

“Draco,” she said, more firmly this time, “where were you?”

I hesitated, then told her the truth. “I went to see Flora.”

Her eyes widened. “Flora? The Legilimens from the Vestige? The one who erased my memories?”

I nodded once.

“Why?” Her voice cracked slightly. “Why would you go to her?”

My answer slid out like ice. “Recompense.”

She flinched, her lips parting in a silent gasp. “Is she, is she dead?”

And that—

That was the moment.

That question, that tone, that hint of mercy in her voice, shattered the cage deep in my soul where I had all my emotions and rage locked away, two years of anguish and pain exploded out of me.

“NO, SHE’S NOT FUCKING DEAD!” I exploded, the words ripping from my throat.

Hermione recoiled slightly but didn’t step back. Her eyes locked onto mine, wide and glassy, her lips trembling.

“Death would’ve been too kind!” I roared, pacing now, fists clenched, shoulders rigid with years of buried rage.

“She’s a fucking, walking vegetable now! Gone, hollow, a husk of what she was—and if I could, I’d restore her mind just to obliterate it again, and again, and again!”

My breath was coming fast, hot. My hands shook.

“And Kingsley—Kingsley—By Salazar fucking Slytherin, before I’m done I’ll strip him down, strip him of everything he has. His power. His name. His family. I’ll see him begging for death while prison walls close in on him, to be tortured, and maimed while madness gnaws at him, and no one will stop me.”

I turned sharply toward Hermione, voice still rising.

“And Blaise—that cowardly fucking snake—I’ll take him apart piece by piece! Joint by joint I’ll make sure he lives through every single second of it, have a healer there to repair him just enough just to break him again, day after day until, this gnawing blackness inside me is sated, when I finally feel he has paid his debt in flesh, for every vile, depraved thing he ever did to you, every touch that mared your skin, every damaging word ever spoken to you, and for MY CHILD! OUR CHILD THAT HE TOOK FROM US!! STOLE FROM US! THEN AND ONLY THEN WILL I LET HIM HAVE THE SWEET MERCY OF DEATH!”

My voice broke. I could barely breathe.

I staggered under the weight of it.

The room was silent but for the ragged drag of my breath.

When I finally looked at her, Hermione wasn’t moving. She hadn’t run. She wasn’t afraid.

Her eyes were full, huge, and shining; silent tears were streaming down her face.

Not from fear.

From heartbreak.

She looked broken, not because of me, but for me.

Her lips parted, but no words came. Just tears. Just quiet, trembling sorrow.

And I buckled at the sight.

I crashed to my knees.

The anger drained from my body like a cut artery. I was empty, shaking, hollowed out.

And then, for the first time, she crossed the room to me.

Slowly.

Carefully.

Hermione lowered herself to the floor in front of me, reached out, and I didn’t move as her arms came around me. I didn’t know how to breathe when she pressed her forehead to my shoulder, wrapping herself around me like she could hold the pieces together.

No words. No judgment. Just quiet, enduring warmth.

Hermione held me.

And I broke.

And Hermione broke with me.

Our grief, our rage, our heartbreak, it all bled together in the silence, two fractured souls fusing at the seams. There, on the floor of my bedchamber, we clung to each other like the only solid thing left in the world.

 Our quiet sobs were the only sound. Not wailing, not keening, just the soft, steady unraveling of a man and a woman who had survived too much.

In that stillness, something unspoken passed between us. The pain we’d both carried, separate and unshared until now, melted into something singular, welded together by raw, aching truth.

We didn’t need words. The sound of our souls breaking open, reaching for each other, was enough.

We stayed like that, wrecked, wrapped around each other, as the night crept on. I let myself be truly held. Let myself be seen. And Hermione never let go.

I woke the next morning alone in Draco’s bed. At some point during the night, we had moved there, wordless, drained, collapsing into the kind of sleep that only comes after adrenaline has bled out and grief has wrung you dry. It wasn’t restful or deep, just the fitful, exhausted kind of sleep filled with tossing and turning.

        Dragging myself from the bed, sunlight speared through the window and pierced my swollen eyes, sending a sharp ache through my skull. I was hours late taking my potions, and judging by the angle of the sun, Penn would be here any minute, if she hadn’t already arrived.

I crossed into my room through the adjoining door, went straight to the bedside table, and downed the potions Penn had prescribed. Then I gathered clothes for the day and headed to the shower.

        Hot water rained over me, washing away sleep and sorrow in equal measure. A few tears escaped, slipping silently down my cheeks as Draco’s anguished words echoed in my memory, how his body had trembled in the aftermath while I held him close.

        Eventually, I forced myself to turn off the water. Without glancing in the mirror, I dressed in gray slacks and a loose white knit jumper, dried my hair with a flick of magic, and stepped back into the bedroom.

Penn sat in the sitting area near the windows, her medical bag open on the table in front of her. Draco stood beside her with his back to me, arms crossed as he stared out at the gardens.

        “Good morning, Hermione,” Penn said with a warm smile. “Ready for a bit of freedom?”

        She had no idea how ready I was

         Penn gestured to the other seat. My eyes stayed on Draco’s back as I sat. He hadn’t turned around. His shoulders were stiff, and I watched as he tilted his head left, then right—an audible crack echoing as tight muscles released bone with the motion.

Then, without a word, he slid his hands into the pockets of his black trousers and finally turned to face us. He looked casual, in a wearing a white button-down shirt with sleeves rolled up to his elbows, but I could see the tension etched in every line of his body. He leaned a shoulder against the window frame, one leg crossed over the other, eyes fixed on the floor as Penn began casting her diagnostic spell.

        I kept watching him, hoping, aching, to meet his eyes, to see what lingered there after last night’s emotional storm. But he didn’t look up. Giving up, I turned to the health scan flickering in the air before me.

        The image of my body glowed in varying shades of color. My shoulder, throat, and eye had faded to a soft blush, hue indicating they were healed. My right side, where the sectumsempra had caught me, was still a light pinkish-red, almost healed. But my brain, it was still marked with deep, alarming purple. One pulsing orb in my frontal lobe flashed rhythmically, a blinking warning light. I stared, transfixed by its steady pulse, wondering which moment of trauma in the long catalogue of events had carved that damage into me.

        I could hear Penn and Draco talking, their voices muffled and distant. They were speaking about me, about my brain, about the flickering purple mass inside my skull. But I couldn’t bring myself to care. The weight of it was too much. So I let my thoughts drift instead, imagining the walk I’d take in the gardens once Penn cleared me. I imagined the sun on my face, the breeze in my hair. I tried to pretend this house was far away from Wizarding Britain, and all the atrocities that had befallen Draco and me here.

        “Hermione,” Penn said firmly, pulling me back.

        “Sorry,” I murmured, blinking back into the room. “I was just studying the diagnostic. The blinking, is that new?”

        Penn, always straightforward, nodded. “Yes. I believe it’s the source of your nosebleeds, the tremors, and worsening headaches. It could’ve been triggered by any number of things: the multiple apparitions the night you arrived, the Sectumsempra curse, or emotional overload. Likely a combination.”

        My gaze shifted toward Draco—he was finally looking at me now. His face was unreadable, completely shuttered.

        Penn continued, “Draco told me his idea to share his memories with you, to help fill the gap in your mind. I agree. Coupled with weekly Legilimens sessions, it may not reverse the damage, but it could ease the strain and stop it from worsening.”

        She looked at me carefully. “How do you feel about this plan?”

        “I trust Draco,” I said without hesitation. “He mentioned it yesterday, and I’m willing to try.”

        Draco’s eyes stayed on me. There was a small reassuring smile on his lips, but I could tell—it wasn’t reaching him. He still had a wall up.

        “Good,” Penn said, reaching into her bag. “I’ve added two more potions while you undergo Legilimens. This one,”—she held up a swirling silver vial, “is Mentis Aegis. It won’t heal the damage directly, but it forms a protective buffer around your neural pathways so Draco can work without risking further trauma.”

        She placed the vial in my hand, its contents glowing like liquid moonlight. “I’m brewing more, but this will last you until next week. One dose daily. If you notice any hallucinations or emotional detachment, contact me immediately.” Penn said firmly.

        I nodded and took the first dose under her watchful eye.

        “Here’s a Pepperup potion as well,” she added, handing me another vial. “It’ll help as you start increasing your physical activity. Slowly, Hermione. You’re healing, but you’re not whole yet.”

        Again, I nodded, taking the bottle with a small sigh. The schedule of potions, the regimen—it all felt like a heavy shackle. But I would do it. I had to.

        “Well then, if you don’t have any questions for me, I’ll be off,” Penn said briskly, waving away the diagnostic. She tucked her wand into her bag, offered a final nod to Draco and me, “Till next week, then,” she said, and slipped out the door.

        Silence fell in her wake. I sat there, staring at the two new potions in my hands for a long moment, tucking my legs under me in the deep chair. Minutes passed, then I lifted my gaze to Draco.

        “You were gone when I woke,” I whispered.

        He nodded once. “I had an appointment this morning.”

        That was all he said. The distance in his voice hurt. After everything we’d shared last night, it felt like we’d crossed an invisible barrier—but now, a wall had gone up between us.

        My brow furrowed. He was occluding. Why? I opened my mouth to ask, but then he moved, taking the seat Penn had just vacated.

“What is the last memory you have of me?” he asked gently.

I was momentarily thrown off by the gentleness of his tone and the distance on his face.

I thought about it. Dug for it. The effort made my head throb, and I tried not to let it show.

“I think… the beginning of sixth year,” I said slowly. “On the Hogwarts Express. You walked past our compartment. You looked irritated when you glanced in, angry.”

He nodded as if it made perfect sense.

I blinked.

He was nervous, I could see it now, not distant, he was occluding because he was preparing to bring me into his mind.

 His posture was casual, with his elbows on his thighs and his body leaning slightly forward, but his hands were clasped tightly, his knuckles pale.

I understood the feeling. I’d been sick with nerves when he entered my mind.

“Are you feeling up to it now?” he asked.

Afraid he might second-guess himself and change his mind, I nodded quickly, “Yes. I’m ready.”

“If it’s too much,” he continued, “or if it’s confusing, we never have to try it again. Just say stop, and I’ll bring you out right away. Same as before.”

I nodded.

He swallowed hard.

 Then held his hands out to me, palms up.

I unfurled my legs from beneath me and leaned forward, slipping my hands into his. His eyes locked onto mine.

“Ready?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said.

Almost immediately, I felt myself lift away, disembodied yet anchored by his grip, as we drifted through something unseen. We landed gently in an enormous vault. Green-tiled walls and floors stretched endlessly around us. Everything gleamed, pristine and sterile. Thousands of small brass doors lined the walls, each perfectly square, each engraved with a serpent eating its own tail around a central keyhole.

The space was extraordinary. Meticulous. And unmistakably his. Draco’s mastery of Legilimency and Occlumency had forged this place, and I couldn’t help the awe that bloomed in my chest.

He looked down at me.

“Say stop at any time,” he said quietly. “Even if you feel the least bit uncomfortable, all right?” Still overwhelmed by the sheer scope of the vault, I could only nod.

There were no labels on the doors, no markings to distinguish them, and I had no idea how he kept track of what was stored where. Then, without a word, Draco lifted his hand and gestured toward one at eye level.

The serpent on its front uncoiled, clicking and unlocking with a smooth series of sounds.

The door swung open.

A golden light glowed from within.

Draco waved again, and a small orb of that warm light floated from the box. It drifted toward me, touching my temple like a kiss.

Then the world shifted.

Like slipping into a dream, I was swept into the memory, not watching from outside, but inside Draco’s mind. I wasn’t observing his thoughts; I was living them. Feeling them. Thinking them.

Panic rose for a moment, vertigo disorienting me, but then I felt a squeeze.

I looked down. No, he looked down—Draco’s hand, not mine, was empty. But I heard his voice, soft and close, like he was whispering right into my ear.

“I’m right here. If this is too much, let me know. I don’t want to scare you.”

His voice grounded me. And knowing that his real self was still holding my hand in our world, that he could pull me out at any time, steadied me.

“No. I’m fine,”  I whispered, uncertain if I spoke aloud or only thought it.

Then, as if someone pressed play on a paused film, I—Draco—moved forward, walking with purpose toward the Hogwarts Express.

It was dizzying, surreal, I could feel everything he felt—every breath, every twitch of unease beneath his skin, every stray thought. His stride was smooth, assured, but tension coiled low in his body.

The crowded platform buzzed around me, no around Draco, with excitement, laughter, magic bursting like bubbles through the air. Students ready for the new term.

But it grated on me.

I stepped around it all and climbed onto the train.

The new mark on my left forearm throbbed faintly. I resisted the urge to scratch it, to claw it from my skin. As if the Dark Lord knew I had the thought, a darkness slithered up my spine.

Voldemort’s darkness.

I clenched my jaw, pushing the sensation down. I just wanted to sit quietly. Alone. But just as I made it to the hallway leading to my compartment,  Luna Lovegood stepped in front of me, blocking the aisle, and handing out copies of The Quibbler. I liked her, truly she was odd but kind. And still, despite my affinity for her, I could barely keep the darkness at bay as frustration twisted in my gut, I wanted to shout, “Move! no one gives a shit about the Quibbler!”

But I swallowed it down and took a deep breath, trying to calm myself as darkness swirled under my skin.

We inched forward, slowly.

To the right, a lounge car window came into view. I glanced in and I saw her.

Hermione Jean Granger.

Sunlight shot through the window and lit her hair like fire. Wild curls turned into a halo. She was frowning, mid-argument with Potter, her brows drawn tight in that fierce, determined way that never failed to make my heart stutter. Of all the unguarded expressions I’d watched cross her face over the years, this one, sharp with conviction, was my favorite.

She rolled her eyes at something Potter said, pursed her lips in that way that made it impossible to look away.

My chest tightened, fluttered. I watched the curve of her mouth, the irritation in her eyes, and wondered, achingly for what must have been the thousandth time, what it might be like to kiss her, just once.

Then, pain.

The Dark Mark flared hot, yanking me out of the daydream.

And that’s all it would ever be now, a fantasy, a daydream.

That’s all it could ever be.

I was tainted now.

Poisoned by my bloody family name, by a legacy of rot, and worst of all by the orders Voldemort had placed in my hands to carry out this year.

I had no room left for dreams.

My stomach hollowed.

Still, I looked again.

Her eyes, those bottomless, brown liquid pools, met mine through the glass. She tilted her head, curious like she saw something in me no one else ever had.

My heart kicked. I allowed myself to look at her lips one more time, then turned away.

Regret clung to my shoulders like a second skin.

And then—

I was back.

Hermione. Me again. Sitting in the chair beneath the window in my bedchamber. My hands were still cradled in Draco’s.

Present Draco, older and scared, forever changed, but somehow the same.

He stared at me, concern etched into every line of his face.

“Are you all right?” he asked. “Was it too much? I wanted to start with something simple, something you had a memory of, to see if you could tolerate it.”

I let out a shaky breath. “Simple” was not the word I would have chosen. That memory carried weight, wrapping around me and sinking into my bones. I could still feel the echo of his feelings reverberating in my chest - how he had looked at me then, as if I were something precious already lost. It was tender and shattering all at once, and I didn’t know how to hold it.

He seemed to take my silence as a warning.

“Fuck, Hermione,” he whispered. “Did I make another mistake?”

I shook my head, still trying to find the words. Slowly, I pulled one hand free from his and laid it gently over his forearm, over the pale, scarred skin where the Dark Mark had once burned dark.

My throat tightened.

I swallowed hard and pushed the words past the lump there.

“Show me more,” I said softly.

It was all I could manage.

But what I wanted to say was: show me everything.

Chapter Text

Chapter 11

Chasing the Dragon

His mind was a drug, and I was addicted.

Now, somehow, I could feel his emotions from the memory he shared interwoven with mine. It was heady and intoxicating. I wanted more. I needed more.

I was chasing the dragon,  that euphoric hit of his mind.

The memory Draco had shared with me yesterday had played on repeat in my mind, mingling with the hazy recollection of that brief encounter between us. It was mesmerizing.

I told Draco yesterday I could continue and that I felt fine. But he’d erred on the side of caution, saying, “I need to refine how to go about these sessions. Today was just a test run to see if you could tolerate it.”

I’d been frustrated at the time, but I understood. And as the day slipped by and night dragged on, I realized I had no idea how that memory exchange had affected him. Once again, I was falling short, selfish, thoughtless. It couldn’t have been easy for him to open himself up in such an intimate way.

So I promised myself I would be patient. I tossed and turned all night, repeating the vow in my head: Let Draco set the pace.

When I got out of bed, already worn down from the restless night, I was determined to walk in the gardens. Penn had cleared me yesterday, but I hadn’t gone; I’d been too wrapped up in my head.

Opening the wardrobe, I pulled out a soft, supple pair of yoga pants and a matching long-sleeved athletic shirt Draco had provided. I wasn’t about to do more than a leisurely stroll, but dressing the part helped.

Just as I turned from the wardrobe, clothes in hand, I thought I heard a woman’s voice whisper my name.

Startled, I spun back toward the wardrobe. No one was there.

Then, another whisper—but this voice was different. Guttural, deep, and ancient.

“I am the hand of fate, when the fated hand holds me.”

I whirled around, scanning the room. I was alone. A lead weight of unease settled in my gut. Has my fragile mind finally broken? Were the voices coming from within?

I thought of the potion Penn had given me, her warning of hallucinations and detachment. I’d only taken two doses: one while she was here yesterday, and one just now before I got out of bed. Could the side effects already be kicking in?

Then came a rattle from the bottom drawer of the wardrobe.

“Hermione,”  the voice coaxed, softer this time. Another rattle.

I dropped the clothes I’d been clutching and lowered to my knees. Trembling, I reached for the bottom drawer, the whispered echo of my name pulling me forward. Slowly, I slid it open.

Something was definitely moving beneath Draco’s neatly folded T-shirts. I gently lifted the fabric, revealing a long wooden box with an ornate gold clasp.

A wand box.

It looked ancient—and it was definitely vibrating.

I flipped the clasp with the tip of my finger. “When the fated hand holds me once more,” the voice whispered.

I lifted the lid and gasped.

Inside was a black and gleaming wand; it looked like it drank in light and shadow. It looked just like the Elderwand, but it wasn’t.

My hand lifted on its own, as if on puppet strings, edging forward toward the gleaming wand.

I had spent most of the night sorting through my memories, organizing them, considering how best to present them to Hermione. She’d tolerated the fragment I’d shown her yesterday remarkably well, so well that she’d spent nearly an hour afterward trying to convince me to share more.

But I couldn’t rush it. The memories I held were pieces of a life she no longer remembered, of a time that might feel foreign to her, even frightening, when seen only through my eyes.

What I hoped to accomplish was delicate: to offer carefully chosen moments, snippets of our time together, hoping they might spark something inside her.

I didn’t believe her memories were destroyed. I thought the trauma and forced Legilimency had buried them deep in her subconscious. Hermione had a strong mind. If anyone’s mind could shield itself as a failsafe, it was hers. I suspected there would be gaps, perhaps even entire days, possibly months missing, but I hoped the core of it all still lived inside her.

After another short memory session today, I planned to help her begin locking away the corridor of trauma, the most vulnerable part of her psyche right now. If I could first give her solid, meaningful memories of us, of who we had been, I hoped it might ease the discomfort she felt about me being the one to help her shield and lock away her trauma.

There were difficult memories among the ones I’d chosen—painful ones—but I wouldn’t hide them. If Hermione never recovered her own recollections, I wanted her to at least know our truth through my eyes. So I stacked memories together, fusing them into a seamless flow. Then, I left to find her.

When I knocked on her bedchamber door and received no answer, I hesitated, gently pushed it open, and called her name—still nothing. I stepped inside and froze.

Hermione was kneeling in front of the wardrobe, hand outstretched, reaching toward the Veilbinder wand.

My hand was halfway to the wand when Draco’s voice cut through the silence behind me. Then, quietly, he said, “Its name is Velbinder.” I startled, whirling to face him, the breath catching in my throat.

Draco didn’t move at first. His eyes were locked on the wand, his expression unreadable.

I blinked. Veilbinder. The name felt heavy, weighted with untold responsibility, like that of a crown.

“ It’s the sister to the Elder Wand,” he continued. His voice was calm, but there was a tension coiled beneath it. “It was among Greybone Vogel’s treasures. This wand is why Jora had been imprisoned; certain members of the Ministry wanted it for themselves, along with Greybone’s galleons. They knew Jora had the location of the hoarded treasure, but Jora wouldn’t give it up to those crooked bastards.”

He paused, jaw tightening. I waited.

“I held it once,” he said, indicating the wand with a tilt of his head. “The day I found it,” he paused, weighing his words, “The wand is absolute power, Jora had warned me the wand must choose the wielder, and though I felt the wand's hesitation that day, it still called to me, to hold it.” His gaze lifted from the wand box to me, and there was something haunted behind his eyes. “The moment I grasped  it, it summoned the Veil.”

My breath caught.

“I heard… my mother,” he admitted, barely above a whisper. “Calling me. From the other side.”

The image sent a chill down my spine—Draco, standing before the Veil, the voice of his dead mother reaching for him. I could picture it too clearly.

“I started toward it,” he said, “hand outstretched, like I was sleepwalking. And I would have touched it.”

His voice faltered. “Pansy knocked the wand from my hand just before I did.”

A long silence settled between us. I didn’t know what to say. I wasn’t even sure I’d taken a full breath.

Finally, Draco stepped closer, his voice steadying.

“Its power is immense, Hermione,” he said. “It’s like… holding time itself. The past, the present, the future, all at once. It doesn’t just obey a master. It is sentient.”

My skin prickled.

He looked tense, ready to intervene if I reached out again to touch it.

“I’m sorry, I wasn’t snooping,” I stammered. “I thought I heard my name, and then it started rattling. I just… I’m sorry.”

He tilted his head. “You heard your name?”

“Or a voice. I don’t know. I thought it was in my head, until the box started vibrating,” I said, snapping the lid shut. I tucked the wand back under Draco’s shirt, closed the drawer, picked up the clothes I’d dropped, and stood quickly.

Wanting space—from the wand, and the unsettled look on Draco’s face after I told him I’d heard a voice, I took another step away from the wardrobe, and deflected the conversation.

“I was just about to get dressed for a walk,” I said, easing around him.

“Would you like some company?” he asked.

My heart fluttered. “Yes, that would be lovely,” I said, a genuine smile tugging at my lips for what felt like the first time in forever.

His lips parted, then curved slightly to one side. “Get dressed then, witch,” he said with a teasing lilt that made my stomach somersault.

I turned and practically ran to the dressing room, a tangle of nerves and giddy excitement. The way his lips had quirked stirred something in me, a pull, the ghost of a memory. I dressed quickly, lacing up the running shoes Draco had insisted I wear out in the gardens, part of the bundle of clothes he’d brought me the other day.

When I stepped back out, Draco was waiting by the window. I paused, suddenly feeling underdressed and awkward next to him. He looked flawless in black slacks and a crisp, long-sleeved button-down black shirt—every inch of him polished, save for the top three buttons left undone and his white-blond hair falling to his shoulders—the only softness to him.

He took my breath away.

His eyes flicked over me, widening ever so slightly at the sight of my fitted yoga pants and cropped top. Self-conscious, I tugged at the hem, trying to cover the sliver of exposed skin between shirt and waistband. I nearly turned to grab a cardigan, but Draco crossed the room, hands slipping into his pockets.

He offered his arm, kicking his elbow out from his side. “Shall we?” he said, adding a wink that made my heart flutter again.

I looped my arm through his, letting him lead me out. He gently insisted I hold the banister with my free hand on the staircase.

“Don’t forget what Penn said,” he reminded me. “You’re healing, not healed. Take it slow.”

I nodded, grateful for the support. But by the time we reached the first floor, I had to pause, still holding the railing and his arm, as a wave of dizziness swept over me. I tried to hide it, but under Draco’s quiet scrutiny, I knew he noticed. He didn’t comment; he just waited patiently until I felt steady enough to continue.

We reached the French doors that opened onto the garden path. The moment I stepped outside, the humid air kissed my skin like something long lost and beloved. I drew in a breath, damp earth, blooming roses, and something faintly sweet. The overcast sky did nothing to dull its beauty.

Each breath seemed to revive me, strength pooling slowly in my limbs. Draco adjusted his long stride to match my slower pace as we wandered. I stopped often, admiring the flowers. I occasionally pluck a rose, twirling it between my fingers, mindful of its thorns, and lift it to my nose to inhale the heady scent.

The gardens were beautiful.

Draco remained quiet, watching me occasionally, as if gauging whether I was overexerting myself. Finally, I broke the silence.

“Sometimes,” I said softly, “when I look out over the gardens, I pretend this place is somewhere far from Wizarding Britain. Far from Blaise. Somewhere I’m safe, and I don’t jump at every shadow in the corner.”

Draco stopped walking. I turned to look at him.

“I’m working on that very thing for you, Hermione,” he said, his expression fierce. He lifted a hand and gently brushed a curl from my temple. Then, carefully, he took the rose from my hand and tucked it behind my ear.

“Let’s head back now. I don’t want you to push it too far,” Draco said.

Though the fresh air felt wonderful, I had to admit I was already growing weary. I hadn’t even made it to the hedge maze, but I decided I would set small goals. Tomorrow, I’ll walk a little farther. And the next day, farther still. Eventually, I’d reach the hedge maze and whatever lay beyond it, the parts of this place I hadn’t yet seen.

I nodded. “Alright,” I murmured, relenting to Draco’s urging and listening to my body. He turned us around, guiding me slowly back inside.

When we reached the bottom of the stairs, I looked up toward the second floor. It may as well have been a mountain. My legs felt like lead, and my energy was completely drained.

Draco didn’t say a word. He effortlessly swept me into his arms as if I weighed nothing. He didn’t put me down until we returned to my room, where he gently set me beside my favorite chair. With a flick of his wand, a tray of tea and warm scones appeared on the small table between the two chairs.

“Eat something, alright?” he said softly. Then he leaned in, cupped my cheek, and pressed a gentle kiss to the top of my head.

Suddenly, at the mention of food, I was starving. From the very brief walk, my body already needed nourishment. I tore a scone in half and began to eat it, chewing quickly.

             Draco walked to the window, examining the gardens we had just returned from. After several minutes, he turned and leaned back against the sill, arms crossed.

“I spent the night weaving together memories,” he said.

I swallowed my last bite of scone quickly, sitting forward too eagerly at the mention of more memories, the need for his drug paramount.

“The last thing I want to do is introduce more trauma,” Draco said quietly. “My  memories past the one I shared with you from the train, going forward, are pieces of your life you no longer remember; it will no doubt feel foreign to you, perhaps even frightening, when seen only through my perspective.”

He exhaled, long and careful. “What I’m trying to do is delicate. I’ve selected moments, glimpses of time that shaped us. I’m hoping they’ll spark something inside you. I don’t believe your memories are gone, Hermione. I think your mind buried them on instinct, a fail-safe of protection. You may never get them all back. But maybe enough. Enough to make sense of the missing time.”

I dusted crumbs from my fingers, barely hearing him, focusing only on what was coming. I slid to the edge of the chair.

“I’m ready,” I said—too fast, too eager.

Draco frowned, a slight, tense pull of his lips. “Our past is… checkered, to say the least. Some of the memories may be painful. I need your word—if you become uncomfortable, if anything feels wrong, you call a stop. Immediately.”

He said it in a tone I hadn’t heard before.

Absolute. Final.

I blinked, sobered by its weight. “You have my word. If I become uncomfortable, I’ll stop the session.”

He studied me a moment longer. I smoothed my features, swallowed the anticipation, and calmed myself.

“On your word, then,” he said, finally sitting across from me.

I didn’t reach for him, though I wanted to. I simply raised my hands and held them there between us, waiting.

“These are fragments of memory,” he warned. “Short jumps from one to the next.”

“I understand,” I replied.

Draco reached out and took my hands in his. His grip was warm and steady.

His eyes locked with mine.

Then I was falling, softly swept away into the stunning vault of his mind.

 We were in a different section, still green-tiled and lined with brass doors, but these doors were larger, at least two foot by two foot square. In the center of each, a snake eating its tail coiled around a keyhole.

“You can stop anytime,” Draco reminded me one last time, waving a hand toward the nearest door.

The snake let go of its tail uncoiled, and the door unlocked with a series of quiet clicks before swinging open.

No single golden orb this time, but a circle of orbs—each a different glowing color—floated like a miniature solar system, rotating in perfect harmony.

It was beautiful, my eyes transfixed by it.

Draco lifted his wand, guided the orbs toward me, and touched the white one. Instantly, the others fell into a perfect row. He brought the white orb to my temple.

It kissed my skin like sunlight.

And I was no longer myself.

We were in Charm's Class

First year.

As before, everything felt slightly dizzy and disorienting as I adjusted to being in Draco's memory. His thoughts folded over mine, his body beneath my awareness. His frustration, pride, and confusion wrapped around me drew me into him. Seeing feeling through him.

Professor Flitwick squeaked from his perch atop his book pile: “Swish and flick, remember, swish and flick!”

The feather on my desk remained still.

I flicked and swished. Nothing.

Irritation brewed in me, failure biting deep. Magic was supposed to obey me and yield, like my father said, but it didn’t.

A voice drew my attention from my feather:

“You’re saying it wrong.”

The Granger girl.

Her voice cut through the noise like a chime—clear and sharp.

“You do it then, if you’re so clever,”  Weasley snapped.

My eyes turned to her.

She wasn’t smug. She wasn’t even paying me any attention. Her brows were drawn, her expression focused. She pushed up her sleeves, lifted her wand, and said:

“Wingardium Leviosa.”

The feather rose.

Softly, gracefully. It drifted higher and higher, swaying as though carried by an invisible breeze.

And something inside me, something tight and angry, went still. Quieted.

I told myself it was the feather—the magic of it—how simple and peaceful it was. But even then, I knew it wasn’t the charm.

It was her.

There was a stillness about her in that moment. It was the first time since meeting her that she was quiet, reflecting a strength I didn’t yet have a name for. She wasn’t loud or seeking praise. She was just there—burning with focus, humming with magic.

It was the first time in my short, angry life that I’d felt something close to peace.

I scoffed at myself. But the memory stayed.

I filed it away, deeper than most things I remembered, tucking it in a safe place.

The memory then shifted smoothly, like a page turning in a book.

It was winter term, and a cold, hollow silence filled the manor. I moved through the enormous library with purpose, barefoot on cold marble flooring, testing out a warming charm on my feet, carrying a large spellbook. I set it open on a heavy oak desk. It was far too advanced for a first-year student. But I was determined to prove myself and be remembered among the great wizards of history.

The book was open to a chapter on casting a Corporeal Patronus. The passage read: A witch or wizard must possess a high level of magical ability, emotional focus, and mental discipline. The memory must be peaceful and powerful, full of love, safety, or hope.

Love.

I wasn’t even sure what that felt like. I couldn’t name it in myself.

Safety.

Had I ever felt truly safe?

Certainly not here—not in this cold, empty manor, my home, which was nothing but shadows and sharp edges. My father’s temper turned the air brittle. Mother moved like a ghost, calm only when it didn’t matter.

But,  there was that one moment. The feather. The stillness. The girl.

Her magic softened something in me I hadn’t known was hard.

I stepped away from the desk, raised my wand, and focused on the feather, floating gently in the air in my memory.

“Expecto Patronum,”  I whispered.

Nothing.

I focused harder, blocking out the coldness of the house, locking everything down to that one point of stillness—the feather, high in the air, drifting.

“Expecto Patronum.”

Still nothing.

I clenched my jaw and shifted the memory, just slightly. This time, I didn’t focus on the feather. I focused on the witch casting the charm. Her face. The fire in her eyes. Her silent calm.

“Expecto Patronum!”

Light burst from my wand—electric and wild. It danced and spun until it formed a graceful, proud silver unicorn.

I gasped, stumbling back a step, losing focus. The Patronus evaporated, but my heart soared, expanding until it felt too big for my chest.

I had done it—a real Patronus.

Pride swelled like a tidal wave, not cruel or arrogant. This was something pure, hopeful.

Father would be so impressed. Everyone would be impressed.

Excitement exploded through me as I ran from the room, barefoot, flying down the hall.

“Father! Look!” I called.

I skidded to a stop in the sitting room where Lucius sat, unmoving, in front of the fire with a glass of wine.

“I did it—watch! Watch!”

I raised my wand again, heart pounding.

“Expecto Patronum.”

Light swirled from my wand, forming a perfect silver unicorn. My heart was near bursting with pride. He would have to see me now. See that I was special. That my magic would make the Malfoy name proud.

Lucius surged from his chair, wine sloshing over the rim of his goblet.

The slap cracked across my cheek—vicious, sharp—and shattered that pride instantly.

The Patronus dissolved into mist.

“Do not produce that again,” he bellowed, spittle flying from his mouth, landing wet on my skin. His hand clamped around my forearm, fingers digging in.

Though he tried poorly to soften his tone, his face flushed, and his lips curled back into a snarl.

“A bloody unicorn,” he hissed. “There are those who would see this as a weakness, Draco. A unicorn Patronus cannot be used in the Dark Arts—don’t you understand?”

He gave my arm a violent shake. His eyes were wild.

No. I didn’t understand. Not at all.

Father's nails biting into my skin. The lingering sting on my cheek. The beautiful magic that had lived in me only moments ago—shattered into nothing.

Tears pricked my eyes.

“Don’t you dare cry,” Lucius sneered. “We must be ready when the Dark Lord returns. There’s no room for weakness.”

Wine spilled again, splattering onto the floor and across my bare feet, vanishing the warming charm I’d cast.

The cold floor bit instantly into my skin.

“Yes, Father,” I said quietly, obediently, swallowing hard and blinking back the tears, desperate to get away before this turned into something worse.

He shoved me backward.

“Do not produce that again,” he spat, pointing a trembling finger at me. He turned to the liquor cabinet, lifting the decanter to refill his glass—but then he stilled mid-pour.

“Draco,” he said, not looking at me, “what memory did you use for that Patronus?”

Fear licked up my spine.

If I lied, he would know. He always knew.

I swallowed. “The Granger girl,” I said. “She’s in my Charms class.”

The horror that twisted his face made me flinch harder than the slap had.

“The mudblood?” he said, his voice crackling in disbelief. “You’ll kill us all, by Salazar.”

He turned fully then, eyes wide. Afraid.

“Mudbloods are dirty—filthy—they have no place in our society. We are of pure blood, Draco—the Malfoy name. We are part of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. Do you not understand anything I’ve taught you?”

His voice rose with every word. It wasn’t an instruction. It was rage, fear, and disgust.

“She’s a dirty, vile creature. She has no place at Hogwarts. And you are to stay away from her. Is that clear?”

I nodded fast. “Yes, Father.” But I didn’t understand.

I just wanted the moment to end.

Lucius turned back to the bottle, muttering to himself.

I seized the chance and ran.

My breath sawed in and out of my lungs, ragged and shallow. My cheek burned where his hand had landed. Tears streamed down my face, hot and helpless.

I ran until the corridors blurred.

Until the memory itself blurred.

And then the page turned— I was somewhere else.

I was walking down the corridor of Hogwarts.

It was sixth year, and I was on my way to Potions class. Blaise and Pansy were going on about something I could care less about—Quidditch stats, who shagged who, meaningless noise. My left forearm burned. Not the sharp, clean pain of a cut or bruise, but the deep, festering ache of the Mark. Darkness swirled beneath my skin, not metaphorical, not poetic—real, living, crawling. It slithered over bone, raising gooseflesh along my arms. I wanted to claw myself out of my body, just to get away from it.

Then I stepped into Slughorn’s classroom, and I was assaulted.

Not with pain. Not with dread.

With scent.

It hit me so hard I staggered, just a little, barely a hitch in my step, but I felt it. Crushed rose petals. Parchment warmed by candlelight. Garden soil, wet and rich after a storm.

It didn’t make sense. Not separately. But together, the aroma slammed into my chest like a well-aimed hex. I inhaled deeply, unthinking, and the fragrance curled into my lungs, coiling there like it belonged. I wanted to keep it, hoard it, and breathe it repeatedly until it replaced the rot under my skin.

I blinked hard. Shook my head like I could throw it off.

I made my way to the Slytherin table, dropping into my seat with practiced apathy. Three cauldrons bubbled on the front bench, steam rising in lazy spirals. Slughorn stood beside them, beaming like a fat, contented cat.

“Can anyone tell me what these are?” he asked, gesturing to the cauldrons with his ridiculous flourish.

Granger’s hand was already in the air. Of course it was.

I didn’t look at her.

I never looked at her.

Except I did. Always.

And when I did, the scent surrounding me doubled. Tripled. It wrapped around me like smoke, like silk, like a noose.

She was already speaking. Confident. Annoyingly precise.

“This one’s Veritaserum,” she said, pointing to the clear potion. “It’s a truth serum. And that’s Polyjuice Potion,” she continued, nodding at the thick, bubbling second cauldron. “And this…”

Hermione paused, leaning slightly over the third cauldron, and her curls shifted, catching the light.

“This is Amortentia. The most powerful love potion in the world.”

My chest tightened.

She went on, explaining the distinctive spirals of steam and how it smelled differently to each person. “It smells like…”

Her voice softened. Her lashes fluttered just slightly. “Peppermint, a hint of tobacco, and fresh parchment.”

I stared.

She didn't look at me, her gaze was not drawn to me, like mine was pulled to her.

Jealousy, like I had never known, flared hot beneath my ribs. My hands clenched into fists beneath the desk. Who was she smelling? Who made her voice go soft like that?

I wanted to demand an answer from her. Wanted to drag the name out of her mouth like a curse.

I opened my mouth.

And snapped it shut again.

What in Salazar are you doing?

I clenched my jaw until it ached, eyes locked on the swirl of steam rising from the cauldron. It wasn’t the potion that smelled like her; it was her.

That scent filled my lungs, wrapped itself around my ribs, and claimed me from the inside out. It was mine now. She was mine, whether she understood it or not. The potion didn’t lie. It only confirmed what I already knew. And I didn’t know how to live with that truth burning through me.

Even after Slughorn clamped the lid back on the cauldron with a loud clunk, sealing the spiraling steam inside, it didn’t matter.

The scent was still in my head, beneath my skin. I could still feel it—her—coiled deep in my lungs like a living thing, refusing to be exhaled.

I couldn’t concentrate. The words in the textbook blurred. Instructions became meaningless shapes. I stirred when I was supposed to crush and dropped too much valerian root. Nearly overboiled my cauldron. Blaise nudged me with a smirk, but I didn’t even register what he said. It was all background noise.

Because every time I glanced up, she looked more and more frazzled.

Granger.

Hermione bloody Granger, who usually measured ingredients to the gram, whose brews were textbook perfection. Her brow was creased. Her lips were pressed thin. She added the asphodel too early. Her flame was too high. She stirred counter-clockwise when the book said clockwise.

And for a fleeting, irrational second, something inside me, vulnerable, stupid, and hopeful, ached.

Is it me?

Is that why she can’t focus? Is that why her hands are shaking? Does she smell me in that bloody potion? Something about me?

By Salazar, I wanted it to be true, to believe that whatever combinations of scents Hermione smelled, they belonged to him. That the same storm rattling around in his chest had found a match in hers.

That she felt it, too.

But just as quickly as that hope bloomed, it soured. Died on the vine.

No.

I closed my eyes for half a second. Drew in a breath that trembled as he held it.

I don’t wish that for her.

Because what would it matter?

There’s no future here. Not with me.

Not with what I’d become.

A Death Eater.

Marked.

Tasked with murder—Dumbledore’s, of all people. I was hanging on the edge of a knife, where if I failed, if I even hesitated, my family would suffer. My mother and father, even Myself.

I swallowed hard. My chest felt tight, brittle.

No. There was no future for us; there had never been a chance.

 She’d hate me. Eventually, she would. They all would.

 I turned his head, forcing my gaze away from her furrowed brow, the way her curls stuck to her temple with sweat, and the trembling grip she had on her silver stirring rod.

One last breath.

One last inhale of her—her scent, presence, whatever this was—and I tried to bury it deep inside. Tried to hold it close, and then I tried to let her go.

The page turned, another memory.

The scent hit me first—that cursed fucking scent!

 Even before I fully stepped into the Great Hall, there it was: crushed rose petals, parchment, and rain-soaked soil. It was softer now, like a ghost pressed into my bones, but it still found me. Wrapped around me. Claimed me.

It had been days since Slughorn’s class. Days of trying to avoid her. Trying to bury the scent, scrub it from my lungs with smoke, or cold night air, or the stench of the Room of Requirement. But every time she entered a room, it overpowered everything else. I didn’t even need to see her anymore. My body just knew when she was near.

And then I saw her—Hermione.

She was leaning towards Weasley, close enough that their shoulders nearly touched. Her voice was low, her expression open, hopeful. She laughed, just barely, brushing her hand against her curls like she did when she was nervous.

Something inside me twisted so hard I nearly doubled over. She was smiling at him. Weasley, the idiot, didn’t even notice—too busy stuffing toast into his mouth—but I saw it. I saw all of it.

That’s not for you, I thought bitterly. You don’t deserve it.

I wanted to walk over, jerk him by the shoulders and make him know. But neither did I. I didn’t deserve her either.

My heart pounded. My vision swam. Then I saw Katie Bell talking to Potter.

She was alive.

I was grateful for that. But I had failed in my task.

Again.

You’re a failure. Incompetent. The darkness under my skin whispered it in my ear. The Dark Mark on my arm burned hot—with the scent of Hermione still choking me, flooding my head. Weasley, the idiot. Oblivious to what sat next to him. And the darkness, whispering.

Suddenly, it was too much. All of it.

The memory of Katie flying backwards, screaming, her body writhing as the cursed necklace tried to steal the life from her. My fault. My plan. Even if I hadn’t meant it. Even if I hadn’t known she’d touch it.

I didn’t mean for it to happen, I wanted to scream. I didn’t mean to hurt her. I didn’t mean to be this.

The Mark flared white-hot. My lungs seized. I couldn’t breathe.

Movement caught my attention from the corner of my eye, Hermione was making to stand from the table her head tilted slightly, her eyes locked on me, concern clear on her face  it seemed as if she might make her way over to me.

No. don’t come close to me. I thought in panic.

I turned. I fled. My tie was suddenly too tight, strangling me. I yanked at it, pulled it loose as I shoved through the doors and stumbled down the corridor. My feet moved faster and faster until I was running—running from everything.

My hands shook as I reached the boys’ lavatory. I slammed the door shut, gripped the edge of the sink, splashed cold water onto my face—sharp and biting. But it didn’t help. It didn’t clean anything.

I looked up. A pale, drawn face stared back at me.

Get it together Draco. This is all hinging on you. Your life. Your parents.

But all I could think about was her. Still only her. Hermione. The scent of her. The overwhelming need to just embrace her. To hold something precious, something good, close—for once in my life. To chase away the darkness.

And suddenly, it all just came crashing down.

I choked on a sob, bent over the sink, pressing my forehead against the mirror above. My chest heaved. I tried to hold it in.

I was a Malfoy. I didn’t break.

But I did.

I sobbed—deep, racking gasps tore through me, echoing in the empty bathroom like the cries of a child abandoned by the world.

And then—footsteps.

Fucking Potter. Of course.

There were words exchanged—taunts, maybe insults. I couldn’t even remember how it started. It didn’t matter.

Before I knew it, my wand was in my hand.

And then it was instinct—blind and feral. I cast. Potter cast. Spells flew. I didn’t even care. Maybe if I lost, it would end. Maybe this time Potter would get lucky.

And then—he shouted. I saw the curse coming.

I didn’t move away.

This time, I stepped into it.

The pain was instant. Brutal. My chest split open. Warmth bloomed across my ribs, down my arms, over my hands. Blood—everywhere. I hit the floor hard. Gasping.

Finally, I couldn’t breathe. Truly couldn’t, and maybe this was it. Maybe this was the moment.

Finally. Just let it end here, I thought desperately, but then—hands were on me. Snape’s voice, urgent, almost angry. Muttering incantations, his magic pulling my skin back together.

I gasped, my fingers pulled weakly at Snape’s wrist.

“Don’t, I rasped, eyes wild. Don’t—don’t heal me.”

Snape didn’t stop. The pain faded, forced out of my body by magic, by necessity, by duty.

And I lay there. Silent tears slipping from the corners of my eyes.

Gutted by the fact that I was still here. Still breathing. Still trapped in a life, a nightmare—I never chose.

The memory bled into the next.

I stepped onto the platform of the Astronomy Tower, wand raised. My hand trembled, just slightly. Sadness clutched at me, tight and suffocating, as though it had reached straight into my chest and taken hold of my soul.

Dumbledore turned. His voice was calm and kind. “Good evening, Draco. What brings you here on this fine evening?”

I scanned the shadows. “Who else is here?” I asked. “I heard you talking.”

“Oh, I often speak to myself aloud,” Dumbledore replied, almost pleasantly. “I sometimes find that helps. Don’t you, Draco? Do you ever find yourself talking to yourself?”

I didn’t answer.

Just held my wand up and pointed at Dumbledore, my regrettable target.

He studied me. “Draco, you are no assassin.” He said gently.

Then—her scent.

It hit me like a spell to the chest. Rose petals. Parchment. Rain-soaked soil. My breath caught, and terror surged through me like ice water. The dead, frozen thing in my chest—my heart—twisted sharply.

What the fuck! Why was she here?

My eyes darted across the tower, searching. I couldn’t see Hermione. But I felt her. She was here. She had to be. The scent was too strong, too close.

No. She couldn’t be here. Not now. Not with what was coming. Not with them on their way. If Bellatrix saw her—

I tried to keep the attention on me, to pull every gaze and word away from wherever she might be hiding. Please, Salazar, please—don’t let them notice her.

I held my wand steady, my heart pounding so loudly that it echoed in my skull.

“You don’t know me,” I said. “I’ve done things that would shock you.”

“Oh, like cursing Katie Bell with a necklace she was supposed to deliver to me?” Dumbledore asked gently. “Or giving a bottle of spiked mead to Professor Slughorn? I can’t help but wonder, Draco… if those attempts were meant to fail.”

I stiffened. “He trusts me. I was chosen for it.”

I grabbed my sleeve and yanked it up to the elbow, exposing the Mark. I didn’t know where she was hiding, but I wanted her to see it. Let her see what I was now. Let her know. Stay away from me. I’m no good. I’m poison. Just being near me will get you hurt.

“They’re coming,” I muttered. To both Dumbledore and Hermione, hoping she understood to remain hidden.

Dumbledore’s eyes softened. “You’re not alone,” he said. “How?” Dumblebore asked.

“The Vanishing Cabinet,” I explained. “In the Room of Requirement. It has a sister at Borgin & Burke's. They form a passage.”

“Ingenious,” Dumbledore said, sounding almost proud.

“Draco,” he added, “years ago, I knew a boy who made all the wrong choices. Let me help you.”

“I don’t want your help,” I snapped through clenched teeth—but I wasn’t talking to him. Not really. “Don’t you understand? I have to do this. I have to kill you. Or he’s going to kill me. My mother. My father. Everyone.”

And then Bellatrix arrived, her voice a dark whisper: “Well done, Draco.”

My fear doubled.

If Hermione moved—if she revealed herself—

Stay hidden! Please don’t try to stop this. Don’t be brave. Not now.

My thoughts spiraled. My grip on my wand faltered.

“Do it!” Bellatrix hissed. “Go on, Draco!”

Snape’s voice cut through it: “No.”

He had appeared beside me, quiet and unreadable.

Stay hidden, Hermione, I begged in silence. Whatever happens, don’t move.

At that moment, I glanced down through the slats on the platform.

Potter and Hermione stood there, silent, unmoving—wands at the ready.

I made eye contact with her, shook my head subtly. NO! I tried to convey with my eyes, don’t reveal yourselves.

“Severus,” Dumbledore said, weak now, pleading. “Please.”

And then it happened.

“Avada Kedavra.”

Green light flared.

The snap of finality.

Dumbledore’s body fell backward off the tower and into the night.

Shock tore through me, cold and empty.

Sadness. Horror. And still, fear for Hermione.

I turned and ran with the others, the rush of footsteps around me a blur.

I didn’t look back.

All I could think was: Get away from Hermione. From this. From everything.

There was no coming back from what I had just helped to do.

We ran.

Footsteps pounding, shouts behind us, spells whizzing through the air. Bellatrix was shrieking with delight, wild with victory, while I felt like I was unraveling with every step.  Dumbledore was dead.

My wand was still warm in my hand. The cold night air burned my lungs.

Snape was ahead, silent, focused. The Dark Lord’s orders carried in every movement of his cloak.

Then Hagrid’s hut came into view.

Bellatrix spun, laughing, and cast a blazing curse—Incendio—and it ignited in a burst of fire. The whole hut went up like kindling. The heat roared toward us, and I flinched back, horrified.

“NO!” I heard Potter’s voice behind us—furious, broken.

I turned just as he shouted, “He trusted you!”

I saw Snape raise his wand and strike back, knocking Potter off his feet.

I stood there, frozen for a breath. All of it crashing around me.

Dumbledore.

The fire.

The green light.

I was a murderer now.  Maybe not by my hand, but by my silence. By my failure to stop it.

I was about to turn and run again when something shifted in the air.

A breeze.

Smoke, ash, the heat of flames behind us—and then—

Her scent.

That fucking scent that would be the death of me.

My knees nearly buckled. No—no, no, no.

She followed us along with goddamn Potter.

“Granger,” I whispered, but it came out hoarse, strangled. My eyes scanned the dark edge of the forest. Nothing.

Snape shouted behind us. Bellatrix was darting into the trees, laughing. I had to move.

But I couldn’t let her follow.

I slowed, letting the others pull ahead. My heart pounded so hard I could hear it in my ears. I moved into the shadow of the trees, wand raised, and whispered, “Revelio.”

The shimmer of the invisibility cloak she was using flickered as the spell grazed her.

Don’t follow me, I begged in my mind. Don’t come any closer. Don’t make me do this.

But she was still moving and closing in on me.

I clenched my jaw, lifted my wand.

“Forgive me.” I whispered.

“Stupefy!”

The curse hit her square in the chest—And for a second, it felt like it hit me too, like I’d been punched straight through the ribs, it hurt more than it should’ve. More than it ever had. Because it was her.

She fell. The Cloak of Invisibility slipped from her shoulders and pooled around her like silver water. Her eyes, wide and shocked, stared up at me, unmoving.

I dropped to my  knees beside her.

“Shit! Granger—” My hands shook as I brushed a strand of hair from her face. Leaves clung to her jumper and hair, and I plucked them off one by one like it meant something. Like it could undo the spell.

“You shouldn’t be here,” I said, voice flat, I forced it to stay that way. “You can’t follow me. You can’t—” My throat closed. “You have to stay away. They’ll kill you. He’ll kill you, Voldemort is too strong.”

I looked down at her frozen expression—lips parted slightly in surprise, eyes locked on mine. The curse holding her ridgid.

My hand hovered over her cheek, but didn’t touch. Couldn’t

“I didn’t want to hurt you,” I whispered. “Not ever. I’m trying to keep you alive.”

A twig snapped behind me. I turned. Bellatrix’s laughter was too close.

I looked back at Hermione.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “Stay down. Please. Stay safe.”

I covered her frozen body with the invisibility cloak.

Then I turned, pulled my hood up, and ran—chest burning, eyes stinging—deeper into the darkness.

The memory didn’t flow into this one like the others had. It stuttered—glitched. Hesitant, uncertain almost as if Draco wanted to stop the flow of memories here.

Then—

I—

No. Draco.

We.

I lost track of myself again. I was Draco. In him. Living this moment through his skin. His thoughts. His fear.

I stood at the top of the staircase in Malfoy Manor. Bellatrix’s shriek echoed through the halls like nails across glass. “Oh, Draco!”

I clenched my jaw at the sound. Her voice had always grated on me.

As I reached the landing, my heart—dark and slow as it was now lurched in my chest when I saw her.

Hermione.

Held tight by Greyback. Weasley was beside her, struggling.

Potter was on the floor, on his knees, Bellatrix yanking his head back by the hair. His face was swollen, bruised, distorted, but it was definitely Potter.

I forced my expression into something bored. Detached. I descended the stairs slowly, deliberately.

It had been months since I’d seen her since the night on the Astronomy Tower. The night I stunned her with a stupify curse. The night I ran. The image of her frozen face had haunted every day since.

And now—she was here?

Fuck!

Bellatrix turned as I entered the room, tugging Potter’s hair again. “Well?”

Her lips twisted upward, mad with anticipation.

“I can’t be sure,” I said carefully.

Too carefully.

My father’s hand clamped around the back of my neck, squeezing hard. His goblet sloshed wine down my shoulder.

“Look closely, Draco,” he said, his breath sour with drink. “If we’re the ones to hand Potter over to the Dark Lord… everything will be forgiven. Back to the way it was.”

But nothing would ever be the same. The darkness in this house had outgrown the walls—my father’s madness with it.

He spun suddenly, shouting at the bounty men in the room, voice slurring, eyes bloodshot. My mother reached for him and tried to calm him.

Bellatrix ignored the scene. Her focus was razor sharp. “Come closer, Draco,” she said softly, dangerously. “If this isn’t him—and we call the Dark Lord—he’ll kill us all.”

I hesitated—anything to stall. Again I tried to hedge.

“What’s wrong with his face?” I asked.

It backfired.

Bellatrix whirled on Hermione. “Did he catch your filthy disease? Was it from you, dearie?”

My lungs stopped moving.

“Give me her wand,” Bellatrix said, lips curling. “Let’s see what her last spell was.”

My mind raced. If I timed it right, I could disarm Greyback and Bellatrix. Father was barely conscious—I could deal with him.

But just as I moved to step forward, Bellatrix screamed. Her eyes locked on the Sword of Gryffindor and chaos erupted.

My mother catching me off guard pushed me aside

Then—

I was falling.

No—shoved.

Mother pushed me into the chair and, before I could react, hit me with a full-body Petrificus. My body froze. My limbs locked. Only my eyes could move.

She knew.

She knew what I’d been about to do.

I heard Bellatrix behind me then. “Cissy, put the boys in the cellar,” Bellatrix crooned. “And let’s have a little girl talk.”

Nooo!        

I screamed inside my skull, but no sound came out. I strained against the curse, my thoughts a frenzy of panic.

Across the room, I heard Hermione’s voice rise.

“I wasn’t in your vault, I don’t know where the sword came from.” Hermione stammered then, the sound of Hermione’s body hitting the marble floor.

Bile rose in my throat, I strained against the curse holding me in this fucking chair as Hermione began screaming, now from, fear, pain, and desperation.

“Draco!-”

“AHHH- Draco!- no - stop- Please! DRACO!”

“No—don’t—stop—please!”

She was screaming for me and crying my name.

I couldn’t move. Couldn’t look. I was locked in place, my vision aimed at a side table and the old globe clock ticking away the seconds. That was all I could see—that goddamn clock.

Time passed in torture.

Sweat slid down my spine as I strained against the curse, desperate to help her.

One minute.

Then another.

Each scream from Hermione was like a knife driven into my chest.

Three minutes.

“DRACO! Help me!”

FUCK!

Four.

Six.

Hermione sobbing. Pleading. My name on her lips.

Nine.

Ten.

Still screaming. Louder this time. “ARRRHHHH DRACO!”

I begged the universe to let it stop. Let it end. Let me die if I have to, just let her be spared.

Thirteen minutes.

Then silence.

Thirteen fucking minutes of torture, that ripped at my soul.

The clock kept ticking.

And a single tear rolled down my cheek.

Relief, horror and guilt roared through me.

I don’t know how long I sat there, frozen. Mother’s curse still held me prisoner—rigid, unmoving—while Hermione had gone silent across the room.

I couldn’t even let myself think about what had happened. About what I hadn’t been able to stop.

Then—crack—the sound of Apparition.

Dobby.

Weasley. Potter. Charging up the stairs.

No one noticed the elf at first. Not with Bellatrix shrieking, curses flying wild through the drawing room.

Movement stirred inside me.

A twitch. Just one finger.

But my muscles burned as the curse began to fade. Pins and needles. Blood surging back, the Petrificus curse, loosening its grip

Then—Salazar. Finally,

I shot to my feet, wand already drawn.

The chandelier groaned above, creaking. Its bolts snapping one by one.

Bellatrix shrieked, yanking Hermione toward her, blade flashing at her throat.

No!

She saw Dobby too late—the elf’s magic is already at work, the chandelier loosening giving way.

Bellatrix spun, shoving Granger toward the others—Potter’s hand already outstretched to pull her into Disapparition. Dobby and Weasley right beside them.

The chandelier gave way completely, It fell, shattering through the air in a rain of crystal and metal.

Bellatrix, arm raised, dagger ready.

Time fractured.

My heart thundered.

That dagger.

Hermione.

She was twisting into Apparition—face pale, eyes locked on mine for just a second, just long enough—

The dagger flew.

No!

I ran.

A silent scream tearing through me, feet pounding the floor, my wand forgotten.

Not for Potter.

Not for the elf.

Not for Weasley.

For her.

If that blade struck—

I lunged, jumped, dove forward into the path of the dagger sommersaulting through the air, my eyes locked with Hermiones now distorting face as apparition began to pull her away, as the dagger found its mark.

Thud.

The blade embedded itself in my upper back, a grunt escaped me as I crashed to the ground my eyes still locked on the empty spot where Hermione had just been.

Gone.

Safe.

I lay on my side just staring at that empy space as chaos, wild shouts from Belatrix, and Father echoed of the walls of the sitting room, mother was at my side saying something to me, but I could not make out the words.

Breath shuddering from my lungs as I felt the dagger being pulled from my back.

I Couldn’t move.

My chest heaved.

She was gone.

But safe.