Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Hogwarts, May 2nd, 1998.

Blinding lights, screams, the stench of blood and dust.

Then suddenly, a flash of light before her eyes.

And then, darkness.

These were the first things Hermione Granger remembered upon waking.

Her head throbbed terribly, and as she reached up to touch it, her fingers found clotted blood tangled in her hair.

She sat up with effort.

She was filthy—covered in dirt and blood—her arms littered with cuts and bruises earned in battle.

Oh, it had been brutal. Far worse than they had imagined.

They had trained for months, but nothing could have prepared them for something of this scale.

The Death Eaters seemed to multiply, fighting without fear; they were like machines—cruel, merciless, willing to die for a Lord who cared nothing for them.

The students had fought bravely, all of them.

Except the Slytherins. Cowards, that’s what they had been.

But despite their courage, despite all they had sacrificed, it hadn’t been enough.

The enemy was too strong, too well-organized.

The enemy knew.

People like Pansy Parkinson and Millicent Bulstrode had told their Death Eater parents about every hidden passage and vulnerable spot in the castle.

And so, they had fallen.

As the heavy weight of that thought settled over her, Hermione looked around and saw dozens of people—her classmates, her professors, anyone who had dared to resist.

Beside her, Ginny sat curled in a corner, and Ron was stroking her hair as she stared blankly at the floor.

They hadn’t just lost Fred in the fight—Bellatrix had managed to kill Molly as well. There was no sign of the other Weasleys.

Hermione’s wide hazel eyes scanned the room, searching for Harry—hoping to find him among them—but then, a memory hit her like a punch to the gut.

"We got him, my Lord! We got him!" And Harry, dragged away by the filthy hands of two Death Eaters.

Before she could even react to the sight of her friend, that infamous flash of light—later revealed to be a Stupefy—had struck her down.

The last thing she saw was a head of pale, nearly white-blond hair.

And a wand, pointed directly at her.

No. Harry wasn’t with them. Perhaps he never would be again.

Tears began to sting her eyes, but she forced them back.

She would not cry. No.

She had to be strong—for Ron, for Ginny, for Harry, and for her parents. Merlin, how foolish she had been to erase their memories. No one would come looking for her now. No one would hold her and say that everything was going to be all right.

Suddenly, a strange chant pulled her from her thoughts.

She peered beyond the wall of bodies beside her and saw him, huddled in the farthest corner: Colin Creevey. His face was dazed, fingernails cracked and clawing at his own cheeks, mumbling the same words over and over again:

"He will save us. He will save us."

The Death Eaters standing guard grew restless, and the others begged him to be quiet, but Colin went on and on and on.

One of the guards—broad and brutal—stepped forward. He didn’t even need to draw his wand.

He snapped Colin’s neck with one hand.

Just like that.

Amid the screams and sobs of all who bore witness.

No, Colin, Hermione thought bitterly, perhaps no one will save us.

And then, with a dull thud, the door to the room creaked open.

Chapter Text

The dull sound of the wooden door slamming against the wall startled everyone present in the small room. From that same door, a sliver of light allowed Hermione to better focus on those around her. In a corner, there were Professor Flitwick and Professor Sprout; near them, Hagrid’s massive body was covered in chains and bruises—it had taken about ten Death Eaters to bring him down.

Closer to Hermione was a group of students, including Seamus Finnigan, Dean Thomas, Anthony Goldstein, and Luna—sweet little Luna, who still seemed lost in her own world, completely unaware of her surroundings.

Oh, if only she could detach herself from reality like that too!

Meanwhile, a group of men entered through the heavy door. The one in charge looked like a commander in the Death Eaters army. The heels of his shiny black boots echoed throughout the hall, creating an even more ominous atmosphere. On his right holster, a gun; tied to his thick belt, a rope whip.

How ironic, Hermione thought, they seek to hurt us with the same Muggle weapons they’ve always despised.

Behind him, a slimy, pathetic figure seemed to almost squeal—it was Peter Pettigrew, the scum of the wizarding world, the traitor of his own friends.

Why Voldemort hadn’t disposed of such a useless creature yet remained a mystery to Hermione.

Closing the procession were two unknown Death Eaters and, finally, Lucius Malfoy.

Hermione’s heart skipped a beat; the scar inflicted by that man’s sister-in-law still burned on her arm, a constant reminder of her impure origins.

The men stopped in front of the prisoners and ordered them to stand.

Ginny didn’t move; too weak, too drained, she remained curled up on the floor like a bundle.

“Ginny, Ginny, please get up,” Hermione pleaded.

But the girl still wouldn’t move. Only Ron’s quick intervention—lifting his sister into his arms—prevented disaster.

Those men had no scruples; they fed on the suffering of others and took pleasure in it. Having the opportunity to eliminate one of them immediately would have been an enjoyable occurrence.

While everyone kept their eyes down, Hermione stole a glance toward the back of the room.

Draco Malfoy, Blaise Zabini, and Theodore Nott had entered through the still-open door. They stood against the wall, as if unwilling to participate in what was happening. Zabini couldn’t even look at the crowd of students, women, and men with whom he had shared seven years of his life. Theodore wrung his hands nervously.

For a moment, a compassionate thought flickered in Hermione’s mind; they were just kids like her.

Kids sent to the slaughter for a war that wasn’t theirs. She wasn’t even sure if they had fought in the battle.

But this understanding vanished the moment she met Draco Malfoy ’s grey eyes.

Cold, arrogant, contemptuous. He looked ahead as if seeing mere insects, insects that wouldn’t be a crime to crush. Draco knew he was walking a fine line; he had disappointed the Dark Lord, failed the only task assigned to him, and had fled the true battle. Yet, he had the fortune of being Voldemort’s right-hand man’s son, and he knew that was the only thing keeping him alive. One more mistake, and it would be the end for him.

Lucius scanned the prisoners and spoke. “Well, here you are. The great fighters of Hogwarts, the friends of the Boy Who Lived, reduced to a pile of blood and dust. Where has your loyalty brought you? Where is Harry Potter now?”

A low murmur spread through the room. Hermione was stunned. She couldn’t believe her companions were actually considering his words. Next to her, Ron clenched his fists until they turned white, while Ginny, upon hearing Harry’s name, burst into silent sobs.

“We all know that your only sentence should be… death. But our Lord, in his infinite mercy, wants to give you one last chance! Stand with us, fight for the Dark Lord, help us extinguish the last sparks of the Resistance!”

As Lucius continued his false, flattering speech, only one word echoed in Hermione’s mind: resistance.

Not everything was lost, not everyone was dead—there was still hope. A small, faint hope in this world of darkness and death.

Certainly, probably not for her. She doubted she would leave this hall alive. But for everyone else, yes, for future generations. Voldemort could still be defeated.

She squeezed the hand of her red-haired boyfriend, who looked at her with new eyes—eyes of hope. He must have reached the same conclusion.

“So, who will step forward?” Malfoy Sr. finished.

From the back rows, a boy limped forward. His brow was bleeding heavily, and a black bruise surrounded his entire right eye: Seamus Finnigan.

“Well done, boy, very well done. A bit battered,” Lucius said, provoking mocking laughter from his men, “but I’m sure we’ll find a place for you.”

Seamus stared into his eyes with hatred and spat in the Death Eater’s face. “Better dead than fighting alongside animals like you.”

The general, who had been silent until then, pulled his pistol from the holster and shot him in the head.

The massacre had begun.

Chapter Text

The same script used for Finnigan repeated itself almost identically for five or six more students. No one hesitated in the face of Lucius’s proposal, and no one betrayed their cause. Their bodies lay lifeless on the ground, and blood began to stain the white marble floor. Among those left, the atmosphere was eerie.

How much longer would this massacre last? How many more innocents would die?

The last to fall was Professor Flitwick. Once his body crumpled to the floor like a dry leaf, Peter Pettigrew slithered from behind Lucius Malfoy ’s back and, with a repugnant bow, said, “Lucius, don’t you think it would be better to keep some of them alive... you know, for the labor camps? Voldemort would be pleased to see them suffer in person.” As he spoke, he placed a hand on the Death Eater’s shoulder, only for Lucius to turn with a furious glare and shake it off in disgust.

“Well then,” he addressed the prisoners, “divide yourselves; males to the right, females to the left. Do not utter a single word, not a single complaint must escape your filthy mouths, or you’ll join your friends on the floor.” And with that, he kicked Finnigan’s lifeless hand out of his way.

“You will now be separated and taken away. You have chosen the wrong path. You will never see your friends or family again; you will be forced into the lowest ranks of society. We will break you and crush you until you beg for a swift death.”

Like the rest of her companions, Hermione no longer held back her tears; but hers were silent, slow, proud. She would not give that monstrous being the satisfaction of reveling in her suffering. Deep in her heart, she wondered how it was possible for a man to harbor so much hatred for his own kind, to treat them like mere cattle without an ounce of regret.

As the two groups of men and women formed, Ginny clutched onto her brother’s hand and screamed, “Don’t leave me, don’t leave me too, please. Don’t leave me!”

She was inconsolable; Hermione managed to pull her away from Ron, who placed a final, intense, sorrowful kiss on her lips before stepping into the adjacent line. Hermione held Ginny tightly in her arms, almost like a mother shielding her child.

Lucius approached the two girls, and Hermione immediately placed herself in front of Ginny in a protective stance, glaring at the blond Death Eater with hatred. He towered over her by at least eight inches, but she was not afraid. She trembled, but from rage. Every fiber of her being longed to lunge at Lucius and tear him apart. To make him pay for the lives he had taken, for the terrible fate he was condemning her companions to, for all the contempt he had poured on her and the Weasley family over the years. But she couldn’t. She was unarmed, defenseless. She was not afraid to die—no, not that. But she knew that if she even dared to raise a hand against that despicable creature, someone else would pay the price. And she was too honest, too Gryffindor, and above all, too kind to allow anyone to suffer because of her.

“Well, well, look who we have here. The Mudblood and the blood traitor. Tell me, filthy little half-blood, does the wound still burn?” Lucius sneered as he roughly grabbed Hermione’s arm, yanking her away from Ginny and nearly knocking her to the ground. “Here it is, my friends, behold the mark of disgrace.”

The other Death Eaters laughed, Pettigrew rubbed his hands together lasciviously, and Hermione’s gaze fell on Draco.

He had been there the night his aunt had tortured and branded her like an animal; he had heard her screams, seen her tears fall, and watched her blood run beneath the sharp blade of the dagger. And he had done nothing. Coward, once again.

His face betrayed no emotion. He was cold, apathetic, seemed made of stone. And Hermione, in that moment, did not realize just how close her thought was to the truth.

Turning her gaze back to Lucius, the last word she heard him say was “Mudblood.”

Yes, I am a Mudblood, she wanted to scream at him; I am a Mudblood just like the madman you follow, who uses your children as weapons of war, who brands you, who tortures you, who punishes you, and who destroys millions of innocent lives. But her lips remained sealed; the tension and accumulated rage were too great. Only a solitary tear slid down her cheek.

The man observed her and said, “For you, the labor camps would be too kind a fate. You deserve worse. You deserve to be enslaved by the very people you have always despised and who hate you with all their hearts. Draco, come here.”

The boy lifted his gaze, surprised at his father’s words. What was happening? He hadn’t been told he would have any role; he was only there to observe and learn. He hesitated for a second before stepping forward, followed by Zabini. Theodore had left earlier, urgently summoned by someone.

Draco and Zabini seemed like two sides of the same coin; the former was pale, blond, with eyes so gray they resembled ice. His build was lean but well-proportioned, his white shirt hinting at the muscles in his arms, and the rolled-up sleeve exposed the bluish veins beneath his fair skin, along with the Dark Mark, black as pitch, giving him an aura of mystery and cruelty.

Zabini, on the other hand, had a darker, olive complexion; his wavy hair fell loosely over his forehead, and his deep blue eyes were as intense as the sea off the coast of Italy, his homeland.

Once the two boys were beside Lucius, he resumed speaking. “Draco, from today, the Mudblood will be your slave. She will live at the Manor and obey your every command. Zabini, you may also choose a servant. Nott has already informed me that he will take Abbott.”

At that moment, Hanna, behind them, let out a sigh of relief. The situation was terrible—she would be a servant—but she and Nott had shared a brief relationship at school, and deep down, she convinced herself that he would treat her with at least a little kindness.

Blaise chose Ginny, who didn’t resist in the slightest. By now, she was empty, like a wisp carried by the wind. Her eyes had no more tears, her pupils were fixed; she seemed completely absent. As he spoke Ginny’s name, Zabini locked eyes with Hermione, as if trying to communicate that he was doing it for them, to keep them together; as if to prove that he wasn’t a monster. But Hermione didn’t care.

She hated them all, each and every one of them.

Draco spoke for the first time and, addressing his father, said, “I will not keep this filth in my house. Absolutely not. Let someone else take her. It is an insult to my eyes just to look at her!”

But Lucius grabbed him violently by the collar, disregarding the presence of his subordinates, and shouted, “You will do as I command, you incompetent fool. You have already acted on your own once—I will not allow you to tarnish the Malfoy name again!”

Then, turning to the Death Eaters present, Lucius said, “Take all the others away, the three girls are coming with me.”

From the men’s line, Ron began shouting and struggling; he wouldn’t abandon his sister and his girlfriend. The commander struck him with the butt of his pistol and shoved him forward, removing him from Hermione’s sight. She could do nothing but scream, “I’ll find you, Ron, I promise. I love you.”

Her shout faded into a whisper as she saw all the prisoners being led out of the room, taken toward an unknown destination and a dark, uncertain fate.

“Don’t worry, Mudblood,” Draco sneered with cruelty, “soon you’ll be joining your beloved underground.”

That was too much for Hermione; she couldn’t take it anymore. She looked Malfoy in the eyes and, with pure rage, spat, “You filthy, failed Death Eat—” but she couldn’t finish her sentence.

The boy struck her across the face with a slap, and due to the weakness that had overtaken Hermione’s body after many days, she collapsed to the ground. Her lip was split, and blood stained the dirty shirt she was wearing.

“Next time, you won’t be so lucky. Now get up before I finish you right here on the spot.”

Hermione tried to get up but couldn’t—she was too weakened by days of starvation and the wounds from the battle that still ached. Zabini cautiously approached her and, taking her by the arm, gently helped her to her feet.

Maybe not all of them are monsters, Hermione thought to herself.

At that moment, she felt a sharp tug at her navel.

They were Disapparating.

Chapter Text

Apparition had left Hermione feeling dizzy, and she clung to Ginny’s arm for support. Ginny, however, remained completely unresponsive to everything happening around her.

As soon as she opened her eyes, Hermione found herself standing before the imposing wrought-iron gates of Malfoy Manor, an image still seared into her memory. Lucius Malfoy roughly grabbed Hannah Abbott by the arm and, after informing the others that he would be taking her to Nott Manor, apparated, leaving Ginny and Hermione in the hands of Blaise Zabini and Draco Malfoy.

Seeing sunlight for the first time after being locked away in the dungeons by their captors made the girls’ eyes sting. The day was bright but cold and windy; the biting air lashed against their war-wounded skin, and the chill seeped into their bones, made worse by the few tattered rags they had on.

As Malfoy approached the grand gate, it creaked open with a piercing screech, allowing the group to enter. The manor grounds were vast and meticulously kept—probably at the cost of relentless house-elf labor, Hermione thought bitterly. White rose bushes lined the cobblestone path leading to the entrance. The front door was massive, at least three meters tall, made of heavy wood with an ornate golden knocker shaped like a serpent.

Draco didn’t even need to knock; the door swung open, revealing a small bald head with two large, bat-like ears peeking from behind it.

"Welcome home, Master. The Mistress is not in. Cloppy can be of service? Cloppy wants to serve Master Draco," the tiny house-elf said, wringing the hem of its tattered robe between its fingers.

Hermione immediately felt a wave of pity for the creature—despite being treated with cruelty and contempt, it still seemed devoted to its oppressors.

"Get out of my way, you stupid creature," Draco sneered, kicking the elf and sending it sprawling to the floor.

Hermione had already lifted her furious gaze to him, ready to shoot daggers with her eyes, when she noticed something strange—Draco was clutching his chest with his left hand, a grimace of pain twisting his face. Blaise watched his friend with a look of concern, but also resignation, as if he knew something Hermione did not.

What she hadn’t realized was that when Draco had struck her in the dungeon, splitting her lip, he had felt the same searing pain rip through his own body.

As she remained lost in thought, a sharp voice echoed through the entrance hall.

"Welcome back, Draco. Thank you for not bothering to inform your future wife of your whereabouts," a girl said, curling her lips in evident irritation.

"Astoria, I don’t believe my whereabouts are any of your concern," Draco retorted coolly.

So, the dark-haired beauty standing before them was Astoria Greengrass, younger sister of Daphne Greengrass. Hermione remembered her sister well—how could she not? Daphne had long blonde hair that cascaded over her shoulders and striking blue eyes that gleamed like gemstones against her porcelain skin. Walking through the halls of Hogwarts, she looked like a goddess, and nearly every boy had fallen under her spell. Naturally, she had ignored them all. Too haughty to lower herself to speak with ordinary wizards, she spent her days in the company of her fellow Slytherins. However, unlike most of them, Daphne Greengrass could not be called cruel. Vain, certainly, and somewhat aloof. But never cruel—not even toward students from other houses, not even toward Hermione herself. The same could not be said for Astoria, who was now glaring at Hermione with an expression of both disgust and fury.

She stepped closer, scrutinizing Hermione and Ginny from head to toe before turning to Draco and sneering, "The Mudblood and the blood traitor? What are they doing in our home? Surely you don’t think I will stand for this madness."

"Your home, Astoria? Since when? Last I checked, the Mistress of this house is still my mother, not a spoiled brat like you. The Weasley girl belongs to Blaise, and Granger to me. And as much as I despise having her around, this was my father’s decision, and you will abide by it."

Blaise shot Draco an amused look; the Italian boy had always despised the insolent little girl standing before him. So different from her sister Daphne—whom he was secretly in love with—Astoria thought she could call the shots simply because of her betrothal contract with the Malfoy family. A contract Draco would gladly break, if not for Lucius Malfoy’s opposition.

"Oh, I see. She’s your new mudblood whore, then?"

Hermione felt her blood boil. After everything she had endured—being treated like a slave, robbed of her dignity—she now had to suffer such an outrageous insult.

The words left her lips before she could stop them. She narrowed her brown eyes into slits and hissed, "I am no one’s plaything, you stupid little girl!"

She clasped a hand over her mouth too late; the damage was done, and she knew she would pay for it.

Astoria’s face twisted with fury, her cheeks flushing red. She pulled out her wand without hesitation and spat, "Crucio!"

A blast of the Cruciatus Curse struck Hermione square in the chest. A thousand needles seemed to pierce her skin, fire burned through her veins, and the air was ripped from her lungs. She crumpled to the ground, clutching her throat as her breath came in shallow gasps. Astoria didn’t relent—she continued and continued to strike.

Hermione clenched her teeth, refusing to scream. She would not give that Slytherin bitch the satisfaction of hearing her in pain. But when the curse hit her again, her already weakened body gave in, and a strangled cry escaped her lips.

At that very moment, Ginny’s head snapped up as if jolted from a trance, and she threw herself over her friend, trying to shield her from the relentless curse.

"That’s enough."

Draco’s voice rang through the hall. Astoria, offended, lowered her wand and stormed away toward her chambers.

Hermione remained on the floor, her head resting against the cold marble, her breath shallow and rapid, pain coursing through her entire body. Ginny cradled her head in her lap, stroking her hair with trembling hands, hot tears streaming down her face as she whispered, more to herself than to Hermione, "It’s going to be okay. It has to be okay."

Draco watched the scene with detached indifference before turning and walking toward his father’s study.

Blaise, visibly irritated by his friend’s behavior, instructed Cloppy to see to the girls’ injuries and followed Draco inside.

When he entered the study, he found Draco slumped in a leather armchair, his shirt unbuttoned at the collar, a bottle of Firewhisky in his hand.

"Were you really going to let Astoria kill her?" Blaise asked coolly.

"I didn’t think you cared about a Mudblood, Blaise. If you want, I can lend her to you for a few hours," Draco drawled.

"I’m not like you, Malfoy. Remember that. I play along with that madman only because of my loyalty to you and Nott."

And it was true. Blaise had always been a different kind of Slytherin—he had socialized with students from other houses, never sided with Voldemort, and had very reluctantly agreed to take the Mark.

Blood status distinctions meant nothing to him.

Draco took another sip of Firewhisky before rising and leaning against the window frame, exhaling deeply.

"It happened again, didn’t it?" Blaise’s voice pulled him from his thoughts. "You shouldn’t ignore your pain, Draco. You know what the curse says…"

"The curse is nothing but a foolish superstition invented by my insane grandmother, Zabini. I won’t discuss this again. Am I clear?" Draco snapped.

Blaise sighed and left the room to check on the prisoners.

Draco shrugged, sat at his desk, and opened the drawer. There it was. The crumpled parchment that had plagued him for two years.

Just a stupid superstition, he told himself.

He slammed the drawer shut.

Chapter Text

While Draco and Blaise were discussing the former’s unease, Cloppy had helped Hermione up from the floor and led the two girls upstairs. Ginny seemed to have regained her senses, and the pain had started to resurface as well. She had lost a brother and her mother; the rest of her family was missing, Ron locked away Merlin knows where, and now she had to submit to the will of a filthy Slytherin.

Hermione, walking beside her, was noticeably limping; the effects of the Cruciatus were still lingering, but despite the pain, she managed to smile at her friend. Ginny allowed herself a moment of solace—she wouldn’t have to face this tragic situation alone.

The girls walked down a long corridor adorned with portraits of the Malfoy family's ancestors. The walls were white, and from the ceiling hung large chandeliers made of black crystal, mirroring the color of the floor. There were no windows, and the atmosphere was dark and eerie. Hermione wondered how anyone could live in such a place; nothing about it resembled the warmth and affection of a home, and for just a fleeting moment, she felt pity for Draco.

At the end of the corridor, they stopped in front of a black wooden door. Cloppy pulled out a massive ring of bronze keys from the pocket of her tattered tunic, inserted one into the lock, and opened it.

The room could have been mistaken for a Muggle infirmary. The walls were painted white, and large cabinets filled with vials, gauze, bandages, and various ingredients lined the perimeter. In the center stood a leather examination bed, flanked by two wooden chairs and a small table. A window allowed sunlight to stream in, reflecting off the vials and casting small rainbows on the walls. Cloppy closed the door behind her and motioned for the girls to sit.

"Cloppy must treat you. Miss, you have very bad wounds. Please, please, sit."

Cloppy gestured to Hermione to lie down on the bed, and the girl complied. The cool, soft leather pillow provided the most pleasant sensation she had felt since the battle had ended. The small elf opened one of the large cabinets and pulled out some bandages, a small vial of blue liquid, and a plum-colored jar.

"Please, please, Miss. You drink this vial. This is a potion to make you feel better. Master does not know that I am giving it to you, but I saw how much you suffered from that nasty curse. Master Draco suffered too when Master Lucius was angry."

Hermione couldn’t believe it. Lucius Malfoy used the Cruciatus Curse on his own son? No wonder Draco had grown up the way he did, perhaps.

Ginny looked at Hermione, worried, and as the elf fussed with the bandages on the table, she whispered, “Are you sure you want to drink that stuff? What if it’s poison? We can’t trust her, Herm…”

“Ginny, we don’t have another choice. And if it were poison, all the better. Maybe that would be a more dignified end than serving a Malfoy.”

And with that, she drank the bitter-tasting potion.

A pleasant warmth spread beneath her skin, making her feel reborn. The elf then began applying the strange ointment from the plum-colored jar to all her wounds and carefully wrapped them with the bandages. Her touch was gentle and precise, as if this were something she did daily.

"Does Miss need care too?" Cloppy asked, turning to Ginny.

“No, thank you. But would it be possible to take a bath?”

"Of course, Cloppy will now take the young ladies to the bath!"

With that, she led them out of the small infirmary.

The bathroom door was directly across the hall, and as soon as it opened, the two girls felt as if they had stepped into a dream. At the center of the room was a large sunken bathtub with stone steps leading down into it. The faucets were gold-plated, and clouds of fragrant foam floated atop the water. The walls were adorned with stunning frescoes of nymphs and fairies, and the ceiling had been enchanted to resemble a bright blue sky. Around the grand stone columns at the corners of the room, vines of white, fragrant flowers intertwined. It felt as though it didn’t even belong to the dark Manor they had found themselves trapped in.

Cloppy handed them towels and bottles filled with scented soaps and essences before departing, promising to prepare something for them to eat.

The girls discarded their tattered, dusty clothes, and Ginny immediately submerged herself in the warm water, feeling rejuvenated. Hermione, however, only washed herself with a sponge—she couldn’t risk getting her freshly bandaged wounds wet.

As she dried herself with a large towel, a troubling thought gnawed at her mind.

“Doesn’t it seem odd to you that they let us use this bathroom? I mean, just look at it. It’s… magnificent. And we’re nothing but servants.”

Ginny stepped out of the bath and had barely wrapped herself in a towel when the door suddenly burst open, and a furious Astoria stormed in, shattering their fleeting moment of peace.

“Who the hell gave you permission to come in here, huh? Filthy little opportunists. You’re nothing but slaves. Did you really think you could bathe here?”

At that moment, Cloppy re-entered with clean clothes for the girls, only to be met with the wrath of the Slytherin.

"You! This is your fault! Useless creature! Now I will punish you as you deserve."

Just as she was about to draw her wand, Blaise stormed into the room, glaring at her with hatred.

“Don’t you dare lay a hand on any of them, or you’ll regret it!”

“How dare you order me around, you blood-traitor? Just wait until Draco hears about this—you won’t be so cocky then!”

“Oh really, Astoria? And who do you think Draco will side with? His best friend or the girl he wouldn’t marry even under the Imperius Curse? The girls were just washing up under MY orders. So get lost.”

"This isn’t over, Zabini," the brunette hissed before storming off toward Draco’s study.

"Are you hurt, Cloppy?" Blaise asked the elf, who was trembling behind a column.

“Cloppy does not deserve your kindness. Cloppy is stupid. Cloppy should have taken the young ladies to the servants' bath. Cloppy will now punish herself!”

She began banging her head against the stone wall.

“For Godric’s sake, Zabini, stop her!” Hermione shouted.

The boy approached the elf and, stroking her head, assured her that punishment wasn’t necessary and that she could return to the kitchen—he would take care of the young ladies.

Realizing the two girls were still wrapped in towels, he quickly averted his gaze and flushed red before muttering that he would wait for them downstairs.

“You’re lucky, Ginny. Blaise seems like a decent guy. I’d never forgive myself if something happened to you,” Hermione whispered as she put on the clean clothes.

They were simple—a white shirt and black trousers, along with her beloved sneakers.

“Oh, Hermione… I’m so sorry. I don’t want to leave you here. Malfoy is a monster. I can’t let them hurt you. What would Ron say?”

At the mention of her brother’s name, Ginny’s eyes filled with tears, and she began to cry softly.

“Shh, Ginny. We’ll find him, you’ll see. You heard them—Lucius mentioned a resistance! They’ll rescue us, I’m sure! Now, let’s go downstairs. Zabini is waiting.”

As they entered the foyer, they spotted Astoria in a corner, trying to explain her rage to Draco, who didn’t even bother to look at her. Offended, she disapparated, and Hermione let out a sigh of relief.

“Weasley, we need to go,” Blaise said.

After the two friends embraced, promising they would never be separated, he approached Hermione and whispered, “I’ll protect her, I swear,” before Disapparating with Ginny.

Silence fell. The tension between them was palpable.

Draco was the first to speak.

"I feel sorry for you, Mudblood, but your protector has just Disapparated with that filth of a friend of yours. From now on, things will change; you will do exactly what I tell you, when I tell you, and most importantly, without talking back. I don’t even need to tell you what happens otherwise, do I? You’ll sleep in the servants' quarters—that's where you belong. And forget about your Muggle clothes. Something more modest will do just fine."

With a flick of his wand, he Transfigured Hermione’s clothes into a plain, worn-out grey dress. On her feet, he conjured simple leather sandals with thin straps wrapping around her ankles. She felt the cold creeping in, but she would never admit weakness in front of her tormentor. The fabric left much of her skin exposed, revealing her long, pale legs—on which Draco lingered for a moment before remembering, with disgust, to whom they belonged.

"Now, get out of my sight. I’m feeling generous, so I’ll allow you to rest tonight. Don’t even think about showing up in the kitchens. You’ll eat if and when I say so. Oh, one last thing, Granger."

He flicked his wand again, and a leather collar materialized around Hermione’s neck. "In case you get the foolish idea of escaping… with this, I will always know where you are and what you're doing. If you break the rules, a jolt of electricity will course through your filthy body. Brilliant, isn’t it? Let me give you a little demonstration."

A sharp shock surged from the collar, radiating through Hermione’s limbs from her spine. The pain was excruciating, but she refused to yield. Draco laughed at her suffering, but his amusement was cut short by a searing pain in his chest, stronger than all the others.

For two years, he had lived with that dull ache; two years of visits, the best Healers from all over the world had come to Malfoy Manor, all delivering the same answer: "The young master has no heart condition."

Idiots. Useless, incompetent idiots. As if that wasn’t enough, that ridiculous prophecy had resurfaced from the Manor’s library—speaking of a sick heart, a doomed fate, and other such nonsense.

"So, you’re in pain too, huh, Malfoy?"

Hermione’s taunting words pulled him from his thoughts. Damn that Mudblood. No matter how hard he tried to break her, she was always there, always ready to fight back. But he would make sure to crush her Gryffindor spirit. He would wipe that defiant smirk off her face if it was the last thing he did.

"Clearly, that wasn’t enough for you, filthy Mudblood!" he snarled, raising a hand to strike her across the face when the doors of the Manor burst open.

"Draco, what the hell are you doing?"

Chapter Text

"Draco, what the hell are you doing?"

Narcissa Black Malfoy had just entered the room. She was a beautiful woman, likely around forty years old, Hermione thought. She possessed an innate elegance, her gaze was haughty and proud. Her blonde hair was neatly held back by a hair clip, and the robe she wore was strictly green, made of a silk-like fabric that looked incredibly expensive.

"And most importantly, why is Miss Granger in our home?" The Lady had quickly regained her composure, the result of years of training and discipline that had shaped her into the perfect pureblood woman.

Hermione wondered how she knew her name, but she immediately remembered that Narcissa had been present while Bellatrix carved into her soft flesh—and, like all the others, she had done absolutely nothing to stop it. A cold shiver ran down her spine.

"Mother, welcome back. Lucius has decided that from today the Mudblood will be my personal servant. Any protest I had was ignored," Draco replied, his tone carrying a hint of bitterness as he recalled his father.

"You know my opinion on such terms being used in my presence. If with your father I must show tolerance due to the obligations that bind me to him, I will not be as lenient with you. I also expect you to treat Miss Granger as I have taught you. You bear the Malfoy name, but Black blood runs through your veins as well. And aside from some glaring exceptions…" she said, her words implicitly directed at her sister Bellatrix, "we Blacks have always been a family of broad views. Keep that in mind. In any case, I have returned only to change into something more appropriate. Tonight, I will be dining with Andromeda, so tell your father not to wait for me—not that he ever has, anyway."

Hermione's eyes widened at this revelation. What was happening? Narcissa Malfoy openly expressing disdain for her husband?

"Your aunt also asked about you, and as you know, little Teddy is now in her care. He is your cousin, Draco, and I expect you to at least go and meet him. He is a very beautiful child, just a few months old, but already showing his mother's Metamorphmagus abilities. I believe Miss Granger was a close friend of his parents. Perhaps she could accompany you on the visit."

For the first time in a long while, Hermione felt a genuine smile forming on her lips, and she was about to respond when Draco erupted in anger.

"I have no intention of visiting that filthy half-blood brat or that weirdo of an aunt!"

Narcissa was momentarily petrified by her son's words. She had spent months mending her relationship with her lost sister, and yet that ungrateful boy showed no respect for his own family.

"You are becoming more and more like your father, and that will only bring you suffering. Good evening, Draco. Miss Granger." And with that, Narcissa disapparated.

Hermione could have sworn she saw a lone tear trail down the woman's pale cheek.

She clenched her fists so tightly her knuckles turned white. She felt nothing but hatred and disgust for the pathetic excuse of a man standing before her. Not only did he have no respect for her and her friends, but he even seemed to despise his own flesh and blood. She wanted to scream at him, punch him, explain to him that his beliefs were nothing but garbage—but she knew it would be useless. You can't help someone who doesn't want to be saved.

Instead, she simply lowered her head in defeat and said, "May I retire now?"

He merely gestured with his hand, too lost in his thoughts to bother replying to a mere servant.

Cloppy, appearing from the kitchens, took Hermione by the hand, ready to lead her to her quarters.

Once the elf and the girl were out of sight, Draco made his way to the sitting room. He approached the grand liquor table and poured himself a glass of Firewhisky before settling onto the large white leather couch that dominated the space. He swirled the fine crystal glass, watching the golden liquid catch the light—then, suddenly, he hurled it against the stone fireplace in a fit of rage. Shards scattered across the room, and a large stain spread across the black marble floor.

Draco buried his face in his hands, his head pounding with an unbearable migraine.

He had treated his mother terribly. She had been the only one to support and comfort him through those dark years. She had tended to his wounds when, upon receiving the Dark Mark, his arm had burned as if consumed by fire. She had wiped his tears when he realized he had been thrown into a situation far greater than himself. She had defended him, even against Voldemort himself, when the Death Eater Council wanted to punish him for failing to complete his sole assigned task: the murder of Dumbledore.

Because his mother was like a delicate flower struggling to grow among weeds. Her kind soul had been corrupted and tormented by the very marriage she had fought so hard for—too in love with Lucius to recognize the monster she had chosen as her partner.

At first, things had been good. The Manor had been filled with joy and light. Then Tom had come—or rather, Voldemort—and turned Malfoy Sr.'s heart to stone and hatred.

Narcissa had been forced to denounce even her own family. Constantly compared to her sister Bellatrix, the perfect Death Eater, she withdrew into her suffering—only finding solace after Draco was born. She had poured all her love into that child, but soon enough, even that small joy was taken from her.

"You're too soft, Cissy. Stop coddling him, Cissy. He's a Malfoy, and Malfoys don't need love, Cissy." These were just some of the phrases Lucius repeated to her daily. And when words were not enough to keep a mother from her child, actions would suffice. Malfoy Sr. beat her, accusing her of making Draco weak.

At first, she fought back, masking her bruises and pain with a smile for her son. She had refused to give in, even when the truth was staring her in the face—Draco was becoming just like his father.

When he returned home for the winter holidays during his first year at Hogwarts, the first thing he said to her was:

"Aren't you ashamed of sending me to a school full of Mudbloods and blood traitors? I am surrounded by filth, and filth must pay for its crimes."

Narcissa had felt her heart shatter. What had become of her sweet golden-haired boy, who once clung to her skirts when he was afraid and who used to beam at everyone he met?

But if even the awareness of losing her only son wasn't enough to break her, Lucius would make sure she did.

During Draco’s second year, the two of them had a violent argument. Narcissa had been unwell—plagued by cramps and nausea. Their fight, as always, was about Draco’s upbringing. But this time, she went too far. She slapped her husband, accusing him of turning their son into a monster like himself, of making his heart as cold as stone, and of ruining their family by serving a madman with deranged, twisted ideals.

For the first time in years, she felt relief—like shedding a burden she had carried for too long.

But Lucius would not let such an offense go unpunished.

He Crucio’d her. Again. And again. And again. Until she collapsed in agony. Blood gushed from between her thighs in an unstoppable tide. A healer was summoned immediately.

Because taking a Malfoy to St. Mungo’s? That was out of the question. Too much gossip, too much scandal. Lucius had to maintain the illusion of the perfect family.

The healer did what he could, but when he was done, he turned to Lucius with a grave expression.

"I'm sorry, sir. We could do nothing to save the baby girl. The situation was too dire. We had to take drastic measures. The lady will never be able to have children again."

Lucius glanced at his wife, who desperately hoped for a sign of love. Instead, he sneered.

"A girl? Bah. Better that she met the fate she deserved."And with that, he left the room.

That was the exact moment when Narcissa's heart shattered. She had lost a daughter she never knew she was expecting, she would never again be able to hold another fruit of her womb in her arms, and her husband treated her like a thoroughbred horse that, having broken a leg, could only be put down.

When Draco returned that summer, he immediately noticed that something was wrong.
His parents never stayed in the same room for more than a few minutes unless forced to by official ceremonies. His mother had become cold, almost like a doll made of flesh. Only in the solitude of her room did the Lady allow herself to cry bitter, endless tears; she would never tell her child anything. She wouldn’t let him endure even a quarter of the hell she had gone through.

But as we know, things often don’t go as one would wish.
Draco, almost by accident, found Narcissa’s diary; he knew he shouldn’t have read it, but he couldn’t help himself. And as he skimmed through those pages filled with pain and death, in which his mother had also written about all the atrocities committed by his father against innocent victims, his eyes filled with tears. When he discovered the death of the sister he had never known, a wave of nausea overtook him, and he had to run to the bathroom to throw up everything.

One would expect that a boy who uncovered such horrors would develop a visceral hatred for the cause of all that suffering—his father. But Draco’s mind, almost as a defense mechanism, shifted all his anger onto something else: love.

It was love’s fault that his mother had suffered; it was love’s fault that she had refused to despise those who were inferior; it was love’s fault that his sister had died.
The Slytherin became even colder, even crueler. And that was when the terrible pains began.
Every time Draco tormented, cursed, or struck someone, his heart was overwhelmed by excruciating spasms that took his breath away.

Everyone had noticed. Zabini had even tried to show him the connection between inflicting pain and experiencing it. But Draco was deaf to any advice; even when he found that stupid prophecy, he shut his eyes to the evidence.

Ah, how he wished he could ask his mother for help—but it was too late.
He had set out on a path, and he would see it through. Also because, although he wouldn’t admit it even under torture, Draco feared his father—he even hated him.
And more than anything, he feared death.

The uncontrolled flow of his thoughts was interrupted by the sound of an Apparition.
Lucius now stood menacingly before him.

“Draco, can you explain what you’ve done this time?” he said, clutching a crumpled letter in his hands. “This was just delivered to me by one of the Greengrass servants. It seems that Astoria ran to her father in tears, saying she can no longer endure your abuses. This is a warning, Draco: Romulus is losing patience. One more mistake, and he will terminate the marriage contract.”

“Then let him!” Draco sighed in exasperation. “Getting rid of that leech would be a blessing.”

“You ungrateful little fool. You just don’t understand. Romulus is one of the most influential members of the entire Ministry. A marriage with his daughter would secure you an important job and a prominent position, while also bringing further prestige to our family—the family you have tarnished with your cowardice! Less than a year from now, you will marry that girl and get her pregnant. You will give us a worthy heir and raise him according to the education I have imparted to you. Otherwise, you will pay the consequences. You may be my son, but I assure you, I would not hesitate for a second to eliminate you with my own hands if you were to become an obstacle or a disgrace. And keep that filthy Mudblood of yours in check—I have been more than generous in allowing you to keep her. I will hold you personally responsible for any of her actions. Now clean up this mess and go to bed. Tomorrow, Minister Parkinson will be having lunch with us; there are important matters that must be discussed.”

And with that, Lucius headed to his room, leaving Draco in a state of deep agitation.
Parkinson was the Minister of Internal Security, and his visits could only mean one thing: trouble.

Chapter Text

Hermione followed Cloppy through the grand corridors of the Manor. The servants’ quarters were located on the ground floor, with an entrance near the kitchens. A small wooden door opened onto a long hallway where several other doors led to individual rooms; hers was the third one.

Cloppy handed her the keys to her room and took a step back.
"Cloppy will leave now so the young miss can rest. If the young miss needs anything, she calls Cloppy, and Cloppy will come at once."

Seeing the house-elf heading back toward the corridor’s entrance, Hermione stopped her and asked if her quarters were nearby as well.

"Oh no, young miss. House-elves cannot have their own rooms. We sleep in the stables, near the horses. We are very happy. Goodnight, young miss."

Typical of the Malfoys to leave poor, defenseless creatures out in the cold when their home could have easily accommodated them all.

Hermione opened the door to her assigned room and found herself in a modest chamber that had nothing in common with the Manor’s lavish splendor. A small window overlooked the estate’s magnificent grounds, and a narrow wrought-iron bed stood against the wall, which clearly needed a fresh coat of paint. The only other pieces of furniture were a small trunk at the foot of the bed and, just beneath the window, a simple desk with parchment and an inkwell. As if she had anyone to write to, anyway.

The tiny private bathroom had no door. Inside, a stone bathtub worn by time, a sink, and a toilet barely fit in the limited space. In one corner, a mirror with rusted edges reflected her image back at her. She hadn’t seen herself in a long time, and the sight shocked her. Deep blue shadows surrounded her eyes, and her complexion was nearly cadaverous. Tearing her gaze away from her pitiful reflection, she surveyed the room again. Nothing. No paintings, no flowers, no decorations. It looked like a prison cell.

Hermione sat down on the bed—hard as stone and without so much as a sheet or pillowcase. A dusty, crumpled blanket had been tossed onto the trunk, though she had no idea what she would store inside it. She owned nothing. No clothes, no personal belongings.

She adjusted her wrinkled bandages and ran a hand through her tangled curls. As she did, her fingers brushed against the cold outline of the collar around her neck. She searched for the clasp, but the moment she tried to unfasten it, a sharp jolt of magic surged through her, forcing her to stop.

Damn Malfoy. He had thought of everything.

Sighing, she walked toward the window. The night was peaceful, the moon shining brightly in a cloudless sky. A gentle breeze rustled the leaves of the ancient trees, and the water of a small pond shimmered hypnotically. She had no idea what time it was—probably just past midnight.

Her stomach gave a low, uncomfortable growl. She hadn’t eaten in at least two days, and hunger was beginning to gnaw at her.

Determined to ignore it, she unlatched one of the wooden windowpanes, letting the cold air wash over her as she took a deep breath. Her thoughts drifted to her friends. Where were they now? Ginny was surely safe; Hermione trusted Zabini’s good intentions. Ron and Luna were imprisoned somewhere, and she could only hope they were together and being treated well—though that was highly unlikely, considering that even half of the Death Eaters were as ruthless as her captor.

Then her mind turned to Harry. Was he still alive? Was he safe? Had the so-called resistance Lucius had mentioned managed to find him?

Her thoughts were abruptly interrupted by the creak of her bedroom door opening. Hermione’s heart pounded. Who could it be at this late hour? Cloppy, bringing food, perhaps?

Her hopes were shattered the moment she met Draco’s cold grey eyes. He was standing in the doorway.

"Do you like your accommodations, Mudblood?" he sneered.

So, now he even had the nerve to be sarcastic. Hermione decided to ignore him, hoping that if she refused to engage, he’d get bored and leave her alone.

"I see you’ve chosen to play the silent game. Even better—your ugly face is irritating enough as it is. Being spared your pompous tone is truly a gift."

Of course, Draco was lying through his teeth. What irritated him most about the Mudblood staring at him in disgust was being ignored.

"In any case, I came to deliver your new uniform. My father pointed out that you certainly can’t serve at the dining table or wander around the house in those rags—it would be disgraceful, especially in front of our guests. So… here you go." He tossed a crumpled bundle of fabric onto the bed.

Hermione unfolded the mess of clothes, and her heart skipped a beat. Her "uniform" looked like one of those Muggle Halloween costumes one could easily find in a questionable shop.

The top was a black blouse—far too tight—with puffed sleeves and a scandalously deep neckline. The skirt, also black, was stiff, short, and indecently revealing. The outfit was completed by a frilly white apron. At least the black heels were mercifully modest.

"If you think I’ll wear this ridiculous outfit, you’re completely delusional," she snapped.

"Perhaps you don’t understand. You’re not in a position to decide. You will wear this uniform because I am ordering you to. And you will also plaster a delightful smile on your face—unless you want to face the consequences. Did you really think you could show up dressed like some common beggar?"

"And instead, you want me to look like a common whore?" Hermione’s patience snapped. In seven years at Hogwarts, she had never used such crude language. She had always been the model student—polite and well-mannered.

Draco immediately masked his surprise with a bark of laughter. "Oh, please, Mudblood. Who would find you remotely appealing? Only that filthy blood-traitor Weasel could ever think of you as remotely attractive."

The insult struck Hermione’s pride like a dagger. It was true—she had never paid much attention to her looks. She had always been too busy studying to bother with clothes, makeup, or any of the frivolous things other girls fussed over. The only time she had made an effort was during the Yule Ball, and even then, it had been just to make Ron jealous—not that he had even noticed.

Oh, Ron. Her sweet, clumsy Ron.

They had secretly gotten together a few months before the final battle. He had found her crying in the Astronomy Tower, overwhelmed by the war and all the lives lost. He had held her in his strong arms, cradling her like a child, then gently lifted her tear-streaked face and kissed her. It had been a tender, innocent kiss, and in that moment, her heart had soared.

Draco’s voice cut through her memories like a blade. "Speaking of wizard…" His tone was sickeningly smug. "Let me remind you that your beloved Weasel is still in our hands. You wouldn’t want to be responsible for his suffering, would you?"

Bastard. That’s what he was. A cruel, manipulative bastard. He had tightened the noose around her neck, and she had no way out. Before, she could have endured physical pain in defiance, but now the stakes had changed.

This was an ultimatum. Disobey, and he dies.

Hermione’s eyes widened, and she opened her mouth to retort—but no words came out. Only a strangled sound. Lowering her gaze, she admitted defeat.

"Good. I see we understand each other." Draco turned to leave. "Oh, and one more thing."

A glass of water and a metal plate with a piece of stale bread appeared on her desk. "Eat everything. You look half-dead, and I won’t have you embarrassing me in front of our guests tomorrow."

Then, he was gone, leaving Hermione alone in her misery.

Blinded by rage, the girl grabbed the plate and hurled it towards the door where Draco had stood just moments before. It hit the floor with a dull thud, but when Hermione turned back towards the desk, she realized that the plate and the stale piece of bread had been restored to their original place—intact. And there they would remain until she decided to eat.

Damn second-rate wizard, he was always one step ahead of her.

She sat reluctantly on the small wooden chair and forced down two bites of bread. Her stomach was knotted with tension, and she had to summon all her willpower not to gag.

She took a sip of water, then crawled onto the bed and lay down. Within five minutes, she was already asleep—exhausted by the long and difficult days behind her—lost in a beautiful dream where she and her friends were running happily through a vast, endless meadow.

A single tear slipped onto the pillow.

Chapter Text

Morning arrived too soon. The girl was roused from sleep by a soft knocking at the door. Blinking the weariness from her eyes, she stretched. Uncomfortable as it was, the bed was the most restful place she had lain in weeks.

The door swung open, and in bustled Cloppy, beaming, a tray balanced in her tiny hands. Upon it sat a steaming cup of tea, a pot of jam, and a thick slice of bread.

"Master has given Cloppy permission to bring breakfast to Miss! Cloppy hopes Miss likes it! Cloppy can change it if Miss is not happy!"

Hermione had barely been awake a minute, and the sudden onslaught of words left her disoriented.

"N-no, Cloppy, it’s perfect. Thank you, that was very kind of you."

"Cloppy is happy to make Miss happy! Cloppy likes Miss very much. And Mistress Narcissa likes Miss too! But Cloppy is not supposed to say that—" The elf gasped and began tugging at her own ears in punishment.

"Don’t worry, Cloppy," Hermione reassured her gently. "That will be our little secret."

Cloppy bobbed her head enthusiastically before hurrying out, and Hermione made her way to the adjoining bathroom.

Unwinding the bandages from her arms, she found that her wounds had almost fully healed, leaving only faint bruises as the last remnants of battle. Sinking into a warm bath, she allowed herself a moment of quiet before drying her hair and pulling it into a neat bun, stray curls framing her face.

She took a sip of tea, nibbled on a piece of bread slathered in cherry jam, and—if only for a moment—felt something close to peace.

That peace shattered the instant her gaze fell upon the uniform draped over the trunk. It lay there like a silent threat, watching her. Suppressing a surge of anger, she reached for the garment, slipping it over her body. To her dismay, it no longer fit as it once had; the fabric hung loose over her frame, a reminder of the weight she had lost. The skirt barely reached mid-thigh, and the apron cinched uncomfortably tight around her chest, emphasizing curves she had spent years concealing beneath shapeless jumpers. In addition to that, she had also noticed that in the night the miserable collar of leather was turned into steel, an obvious touch of... disgusting elegance.  She would not let it break her. Squaring her shoulders, she stepped out of her room and made her way to the grand hall.

The dining table was already set. A pristine lace tablecloth stretched across its length, topped with gleaming crystal goblets, silver cutlery, and fine ceramic plates etched with the golden crest of the Malfoy family—a serpent, coiled and watchful. The vast glass doors stood open, sheer silk curtains billowing in the morning breeze.

"You finally decided to grace us with your presence, Mudblood."

Draco had arrived.

He was dressed in an elegant black suit, tailored perfectly to his frame, with a crisp white shirt that looked painfully expensive. His platinum hair was slicked back, and a silver chain hung around his neck, bearing a dagger-shaped pendant.

Hermione found herself staring. Just for a moment. And only because—if he weren’t such a cynical, manipulative bastard—one might have called him handsome. Not her, of course. But others might.

"If you keep looking at me like that, you’ll wear me out, filthy little Mudblood."

Caught. Heat flared in her cheeks as she quickly averted her gaze.

Draco smirked. "Your task today is simple. The elves will serve the meal. You will stand beside the table, pitcher in hand, and ensure our guests’ goblets remain full. This is an important luncheon—matters of national security will be discussed. I don’t need to tell you that not a single word of what you hear is to leave this room."

His tone left no room for argument.

"Now go to the kitchens. Margaery will show you what to do."

Hermione was all too happy to be rid of him, slipping away toward the Manor’s vast kitchen.

Upon entering, she spotted another girl, her back turned, stirring a pot over the stove.

"Hello… are you Margaery?" Hermione asked hesitantly.

The girl spun to face her. She was taller than Hermione by a few inches, her figure soft yet strong. A simple grey skirt and cream apron complemented her white top, and her fiery red curls tumbled over her freckled face.

"That’s me. You must be Hermione—the new housemaid. They told me you’d be arriving."

Housemaid. How generous. A servant to that insufferable, spoiled prat—that’s what she really was.

Margaery tilted her head. "You look familiar… Did you go to Hogwarts?"

Hogwarts. A sharp pain stabbed through Hermione’s chest. "I… I did."

"I thought so. I was a Hufflepuff. Sat my N.E.W.T.s two years ago. It’d be nice to talk properly later, if you’d like. But for now, the guests will be arriving soon. Here—" She handed Hermione a pitcher brimming with deep red elven wine. "I’ve been where you are. The meetings, the stares… They’ll look at you like you’re nothing more than an insect beneath their boots. Ignore them. This war will end, and justice will come for all of them."

With that, she turned back to her cooking, leaving Hermione with a small, inexplicable ember of comfort in her chest.

By the time she returned to the hall, the guests had arrived.

Draco. His father, Lucius. Narcissa, who had long since stopped pretending this charade didn’t disgust her. And then there was Pansy Parkinson, squeezed into an atrocious fuchsia velvet dress, throwing desperate, longing glances at Draco, while her father—a stout, balding man—sat beside her.

Lunch was served, and Hermione stood in silence, pitcher in hand, as the men indulged in their usual pretentious chatter.

"How are your overseas holdings?"
"And your wife, how does she fare?"
"What did you think of the Bulstrodes’ last gathering?"

On and on it went.

Draco, clearly restless, shrugged off his suit jacket, leaving it draped over the sofa. His white sleeves were rolled up, his fingers drumming impatiently against the table.

"With all due respect, Minister Parkinson, I doubt you came here for mere pleasantries. Perhaps it would be best to get to the point."

A sharp glare from Lucius. But the minister only chuckled, setting down his cutlery.

"Ah, the boy has a point. There is a reason I called this meeting on such short notice. You remember the prisoners you delivered to us?"

Hermione froze. Her grip tightened around the pitcher.

"There’s been an… incident. Somehow, many of them have escaped."

Her heart slammed against her ribs. A surge of hope flared in her chest, uncontrollable, undeniable. A smile tugged at her lips before she could stop it.

Draco caught it. His steely gaze bore into hers, a silent warning.

Lucius’s fist struck the table, rattling the silverware. "Escaped? How?!"

Parkinson exhaled through his nose. "That is what we are still determining. But all is not lost. We have captured their leader. A red-haired boy… Ronald Weasley."

The world tilted.

"He has refused to speak. But I imagine your methods will prove… persuasive. Time is short, however. By noon tomorrow, he will be executed before the remaining prisoners, as a warning."

Then—

The sharp shatter of glass.

Hermione stood frozen. The shattered pitcher lay at her feet, fragments slicing into her palms, crimson wine mingling with fresh blood on the marble floor.

She heard nothing. Not Pansy’s shriek of outrage. Not Lucius’s bark of fury. Not the minister’s curious murmurs.

All she saw were Draco’s eyes, locked onto hers. His hands gripping her wrists.

Then—darkness.

Chapter Text

"Hermione, Herm, wake up!" 

The girl slowly opened her eyes and was met with a shock of fiery red hair and a freckled face, framed by two shining blue eyes.

"Oh my God, Ron! It's you!" the curly-haired girl gasped, throwing her arms around his neck.

"Of course, silly. Who else would it be? Malfoy, perhaps?"

Ron's crystalline laughter filled the air. They were in the Hogwarts grounds, bathed in the golden glow of the sunset. The Black Lake shimmered under the last rays of sunlight, casting a serene atmosphere around them.

"You don’t understand, Ron, I had a terrible dream! Voldemort had won, I was a prisoner in Malfoy Manor, and you—! I can’t even bear to think about it!" Hermione buried her face into the crook of her boyfriend’s neck, as he trailed a series of tender kisses over her hair.

"Shh, it was just a dream. You’re here now."

"Don’t ever leave me again. Please. Never again."

"Never again, I swear."

Suddenly, Ron’s face began to blur, the air around her grew muffled, and a distant voice called her name.

No, no. I want to stay here. Let me stay with him.

"Miss Granger? Hermione, how do you feel?"

A soft cloth dabbed at her pale face. Narcissa Malfoy sat at her bedside, trying to maintain a composed demeanor, but Hermione had already found a place in her heart. Seeing the girl suffer like this tore her apart.

Around Hermione’s wrists, lacerated by shards of glass, fresh bandages had been carefully wrapped. A Blood-Replenishing Potion had been administered at regular intervals.

"I… what? Where am I? No, no—Ron! Ron, where are you?!"

Hermione, now fully awake, screamed uncontrollably. Her own mind had played a cruel trick on her. How could it have been a dream? How could she have imagined a pain so real?

Narcissa, sitting at the edge of the bed, wore a worried and somewhat embarrassed expression, it was her family’s fault that this girl was suffering.

"You fainted, Hermione. You lost a lot of blood and Draco brought you to his chambers and called Cloppy to tend to you. You are doing much better now; your wounds are healing, and in a few days, you’ll be fine."

"You think so?" the Gryffindor spat bitterly. "My boyfriend is about to be executed for rebelling against this madness, and I am at the mercy of the worst family in the entire wizarding world! Do you really believe I’ll ever be fine?"

She instantly regretted her words. The blonde woman, who had just lowered her gaze after the harsh attack, did not deserve such cruelty. She had taken care of her, watched over her as if she were her own daughter.

"I’m sorry, Narcissa… I shouldn’t have—"

"Don’t apologize, dear. Your anger is more than justified. And believe me, if there were anything more I could do, I would."

Narcissa sighed. "For now, you should rest. Draco and Lucius left in a hurry for the prisoner camp. They won’t be back until evening."

"They left to torture my Ron, I assume."

Hermione’s voice had a chilling, detached tone, as though she had yet to fully process the weight of her own words.

Narcissa froze and quickly excused herself under the pretense of fetching clean bandages. She couldn’t bear the young girl’s gaze any longer. So young, yet already forced to witness her world being torn apart, piece by piece.

Left alone, Hermione drifted back into a restless sleep, aided by the calming potions she had been given to ease the pain.

Only one word left her lips: Ron

Meanwhile, Draco had accompanied his father to visit the prisoner. He hadn’t been required to come, yet something had pushed him to do so—an unexplainable, relentless force.

Perhaps it was the need to escape that wretched house, to distract himself. Every time he closed his eyes, all he could see was the face of the Mudblood.

Wide, terrified brown eyes, a pale, tear-streaked face, lips twisted in agony. And then, crimson blood flowing from her fragile skin—he could even smell it.

He couldn’t explain why he had carried her away so suddenly, shielding her from the eyes of the guests, who would have undoubtedly reveled in her suffering—especially his father.

Lucius had bellowed at him furiously, but Draco had ignored him, bringing the unconscious Gryffindor to his chambers. She was so light, so warm. He could feel her ragged breath against his skin. And for the first time in his life, a shiver ran down his spine.

Surely a shiver of disgust he told himself.

He had ensured she received immediate treatment and then fled—like a coward. Facing the emotions that stirred within him would have been far too difficult.

Could losing a loved one really drive someone to madness? That was the only word Draco could think of to describe her at that moment. Just before he left, he had seen her curled up on the floor, rocking back and forth, arms wrapped around her knees, shaking her head in silent denial.

She, always so composed, so meticulous, so irritating —reduced to a sobbing, trembling bundle.

As soon as he had left his room, he had rushed through the entire house; he had slipped out of the grand entrance, ignoring Pansy's complaints, and found himself in the garden.

Near the small pond, his mother had placed a beautifully carved stone bench. He sat down and began to take deep breaths before lighting a cigarette. With the smoke forming fleeting waves around him, the taste of tobacco on his tongue, and his lungs burning, Draco took a moment to reflect on the absurdity of the situation.

Had he just felt compassion for someone? And for her of all people—the one he was supposed to hate with every fiber of his being? He, the prince of the serpents, the heir to one of the most ruthless Death Eaters in history, helping a Mudblood; perhaps the worst Mudblood of all.

As expected, he had tried to justify his actions with weak excuses— wanting to spare the Parkinsons from witnessing such an unpleasant scene, not wanting to disappoint his mother... He had even gone so far as to think that he had helped her just to keep the precious rug from being further stained with her filthy blood .

Excuses, all useless excuses. The truth was that he had acted on impulse, without thinking, with the sole purpose of saving her. And for a moment, he had felt a warmth in his chest, right where his heart was—a sensation of peace, as if he were doing exactly the right thing.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his father heading toward the Manor gates. He wore a heavy cloak fastened at the neck with a golden ribbon, his right hand gripping his loyal black ebony cane with its silver-crafted handle. Draco rose from the bench and approached him.

"Father, if it does not trouble you, I would like to accompany you to the prisoner."

Now, Draco stood in a filthy, foul-smelling room, staring at Ronald Weasley, who knelt before him, hands bound behind his back, face bruised and bloodied.

Lucius Malfoy’s voice was impatient. "For the last time, Weasley, where are your friends? We know you helped them escape, likely with aid from the Resistance. Tell us, and we may spare your life."

Ron did not speak. He would never betray them. He would rather die. And it seemed death was closer than ever.

His blue eyes locked onto his tormentor’s, burning with defiance. Draco envied that strength. He was alone, surrounded by Death Eaters who had tortured him for hours, yet he still did not break.

"So be it."

Lucius cast another Cruciatus Curse . Ron’s body convulsed, but he refused to scream.

Dying didn’t scare him. He would see his mother and brother again. What truly tormented him was knowing he would never see his family again—never hug Ginny, never kiss Hermione one last time.

"We have your Mudblood, remember? You wouldn’t want her to suffer for your silence, would you?"

Ron’s head snapped up, his face a mask of terror. His eyes met Draco’s, filled with nothing but hatred for him and everything he stood for.

Ron’s lips parted as if to speak—but then closed. She would never forgive him if he betrayed them.

"My Lord," Peter Pettigrew squeaked, "he won’t talk. Perhaps his execution would serve our cause better."

Disgust twisted in Draco’s gut. Vile, spineless rat.

"Very well. No need to wait until tomorrow. We’ll execute him now. Moonrake, have the prisoners brought to the square" Lucius ordered the Death Eater standing guard. "Father, I have known Weasley for a long time. Let me try speaking to him alone—I can be persuasive," the blond interjected cautiously.

"Don't expect to get anything out of him. As you've seen, even I have failed, and you are certainly not my equal. And above all, do not let yourself be swayed by pity, it seems to me that you've already behaved disgracefully enough today." With that, he gestured for the guards and Pettigrew to follow him out.

Left alone with the redhead, Draco stepped closer and muttered, "Do you have a death wish, Weasel? Because in case you haven't noticed, my father isn't joking."

"What’s this, Malferret? Are you worried? If I didn't know you were a damned Death Eater like your father, I might almost be touched," Ron spat blood near Draco's shoes in contempt. "I will not betray my friends. I am not afraid to die. Better a dignified death than living as a slave under a filthy murderer."

"And you don't think about your beloved Mudblood?"

"Don't you dare even mention her" Ron's eyes darkened to a stormy blue, his voice hard and threatening. "You are not worth a quarter of Hermione. The very act of saying her name should be forbidden to you."

Draco felt something tighten inside him at those words and turned sharply toward the exit. But before he could leave, Ron called after him, "If you have even a shred of a heart, Malfoy, tell her that I love her and always will. Promise me!"

His words were cut short by Lucius' return. "Well? Has the prisoner talked?"

"No, Father, but I believe that if we just waited—"

"Wait? And what exactly should we wait for?"

"I could try again, or he might be useful for a trade with the resistance."

"The resistance has nothing we want, Draco. The boy dies today."

"Father, no!"

Lucius’ slap landed squarely on Draco’s pale cheek. Blood began to bead at the corner of his lip. "Do not ever oppose me again, or the next to die will be you, you worthless fool. You are a disgrace as a Death Eater and a disgrace as a son."

Ron was dragged into the square by force; the prisoners were lined up before him. Everyone knew him—some by reputation, others personally, he would serve as the ultimate warning to those who dared challenge the Dark Lord.

As the Death Eaters pulled him from the room, Draco managed to whisper, " I promise ." He wasn’t sure if Ron had heard him, but simply uttering those words made him feel, for a brief moment, a little less guilty. Even though he wasn’t the one who would actually cast the fatal curse, an unbearable weight pressed down on his chest. For the first time, he realized that the ideals he had been raised with had done nothing but turn him into a ruthless killer of innocents.

The execution was swift. Lucius cast the Killing Curse , and Ron collapsed lifelessly to the ground—yet in his eyes, the shadow of his defiance still lingered, even in his final moments.

As the green light shot from his father’s wand, Draco was forced to lower his gaze. A wave of nausea surged through him, and he had to fight the urge to retch.

While the guards struggled to control the wailing prisoners, Draco disapparated. He didn’t care about his father, the other Death Eaters—not even about Voldemort himself.

He found himself in the Manor’s hall and, as if in a trance, walked to the mudblood’s room. He found her asleep, her cheeks streaked with dried tears.

As if sensing his presence, Hermione stirred, and when she saw him, she met his gaze directly. No words were needed. She understood immediately. And she broke down into uncontrollable sobs.

"I tried, Granger… I really did," he murmured.

But the only word that left her lips was, " Murderer "

At that moment, Narcissa arrived, instinctively running to embrace the girl. Looking at Draco with contempt, she ordered, "Leave."

"Mother, you have to believe me—"

"Go. Now!" With a nonverbal spell, she shoved him out of the room and locked the door.

Draco rested his forehead against the doorframe and sighed. A single tear traced its way down his cheek.

Chapter Text

Draco decided that lingering outside that door would be nothing but counterproductive. Hermione’s sobs were tearing him apart inside. Honestly, why couldn’t that damned Gryffindor understand that it wasn’t his fault? He had tried to save Weasley; he had even gone against his own father, and yet she dared to treat him like this.

And what else was Lucius supposed to do? The Weasley boy had helped many of his comrades escape—prisoners of high importance, including members of Dumbledore’s Army. Lovegood, Thomas, Brown—they had all fled. Weasley had known the risk. Death had been the only plausible punishment, especially after his refusal to cooperate.

And yet, Draco couldn’t shake the feeling that something about it all was terribly, dreadfully wrong.

It wasn’t the first time he had seen someone die. There had been the Muggle Studies professor first, then the casualties of the battle, then those who had refused to join the Death Eaters. And yet, never before had he felt like this. Of course, he had never killed anyone himself, he kept telling himself his time had not yet come, but deep down, he knew what held him back: fear.

Being marked by the Dark Lord, bearing the Dark Mark—that was one thing. But murder… that changed you, tt stained your soul beyond redemption. And he wasn’t ready, just as he hadn’t been that cursed night when he failed to complete the task set for him.

The memory of that night brought back another face—Snape; no one had seen him since. There were whispers among the Death Eaters of treachery, but Draco couldn’t believe it. He had killed the old headmaster without hesitation—why would he switch sides? And yet, his absence from the Great Battle had not gone unnoticed, even by the Dark Lord himself, though he did not seem too troubled by it.

Draco tore himself away from the door, shaking off the weight of his thoughts, and made his way to his study. He needed company, and no one was better suited than Zabini and Nott. He penned two short notes, tying them to the leg of his regal owl, which took off immediately to deliver them.

Then he sank into his large leather armchair, a glass of Firewhisky in hand, and waited.

It wasn’t long before the sharp crack of Apparition echoed from the sitting room.

“Draco?” Blaise’s voice was a welcome relief.

“I’m in the study, Zab.”

The dark-haired boy stepped in, his expression grim. “What the hell happened?”

“Nothing, why?” Draco said, feigning innocence. “Can’t I simply want to see my friends?”

“Don’t be an idiot. You know exactly what I’m talking about. Weasley. And don’t give me that shocked look—the whole bloody wizarding world is talking about it. This is going to spark retaliation, you can’t possibly think the resistance will take this lying down!”

“You’re talking about Weasley’s death?” Theodore Nott had just entered the study.

“Oh, fantastic. So it’s a fucking public news now,” Draco muttered with a loud huff.

“Pettigrew has been running his mouth, parading the execution around, describing it in gruesome detail—disturbingly so,” Theo said, settling onto the sofa and lighting a cigarette.

Blaise still had his eyes fixed on Draco, dark and unwavering. “Ginevra was devastated. Luckily, Daphne’s with her now.”

Theo choked on his smoke. “Daphne? Daphne Greengrass is at your house? What the hell—”

A loud thud interrupted him—Draco’s fist had just slammed into the wooden desk.

“Ginevra? Since when is she ‘ Ginevra’ to you?” Draco spat.

“She’s just a girl, Draco.”

“She’s not just a girl—she’s a blood traitor.”

“She’s a person, you insufferable idiot, just a person. But I don’t expect you to understand how one should treat people,” Blaise shot back, stepping closer. Their faces were mere inches apart now, sparks of fury crackling between them.

“Guys, calm down…” Theo attempted to mediate, but Blaise cut him off. “Stay out of this, Theo. This is between me and him. For seven years, Draco, I have put up with everything—every snide remark, every arrogant comment—because you’re like a brother to me. But this? Do you honestly think Potter and his friends won’t seek revenge? We’re all in danger—me, you, Theo, Daphne… And you’re here whining about a name? You’re just like your father.”

With that, Blaise turned towards the door.

“I tried, Blaise…” Draco’s voice was barely above a whisper, but it was enough to make his friend freeze.

“What do you mean?” Blaise asked, not turning around.

With a flick of his wand, Draco lifted the glamour concealing the bruises on his face, revealing his split, swollen lip.

“This is what I mean. I tried everything to stop my father. I even stood against him. And this is what I got for it.” His voice was low and hollow. He had never intended for his friends to know what had happened, nor what he had endured. “And as if that wasn’t enough, I even swore to Weasley that I would deliver his final message to the Mudblood… Look at me now.”

“Are you actually going to keep your promise?” Nott asked.

“Of course. I am a Malfoy, and Malfoys always keep their word.”

The tension in the room finally ebbed, and the three boys returned to their seats. After a while, Draco smirked at Blaise. “So, you and Greengrass, huh? Took you long enough.”

“What? What the hell are you two talking about? You and Daph have always hated each other,” Theo exclaimed.

“Theodore, you’re a lost cause. You’ll never understand women,” Draco teased.

“Oh, by the way, did you enjoy my father’s little ‘ gift ’?” He was referring to Abbott.

“You mean that harpy who’s supposed to be my servant but instead has me wrapped around her little finger? Oh yes, thank you. Truly delightful. One of these days, I might just kill her.”

“I doubt that,” Blaise laughed, and Theo blushed furiously; no, he wouldn’t do it.

And he wouldn’t have had the courage to confess that when Lucius had returned to the Manor to hand Hanna over to him, his heart had skipped a beat with emotion.

Yes, to the rest of the world, she was nothing more than a servant, but to him… to him, she was simply the woman he wished he could marry.

If only those foolish laws, which everyone was forced to abide by, hadn’t stood in the way…

The afternoon passed with laughter and confessions, but when his friends left, Draco couldn’t shake Blaise’s words.

The resistance would never let this go. Weasley wasn’t just anyone—he was part of the Golden Trio, an Order member. He now lay in a mass grave, and Draco bore the same name as his killer; that put him in a very precarious position.

Later, as he climbed the stairs, he ran into his mother. Her gaze was icy—until she noticed the bruises. A pale hand reached out, brushing his face. She didn’t need words to know who was responsible.

“Hermione woke up not long ago. You should speak with her.”

“She hates me, Mother. She hates everything I represent. Do you really think she’d believe me? And even if she did, what would it matter? She’s just a servant. I owe her no explanations. What happened was inevitable, and I won’t let a Mudblood make me feel guilty.”

“No, of course not. I suppose that bruised lip was your father’s way of thanking you for a job well done.”

And just like that, she walked away, leaving Draco reeling. Here was his mother, who had struck and sunk him in one sentence; she had fully understood the situation without even needing explanations. And he had also awakened the doubts of Draco that now came to flood his mind.

When he reached Hermione’s door, he hesitated. She had just lost her fiancé and as much as that relationship disgusted him, he didn’t want to add to her suffering.

He knocked. Silence. He took it as an invitation.

She stood with her back to him, wrapped in a white shawl—Narcissa’s doing, no doubt - observing out from the window. 

“You’ve come to remind me I’m just a servant, haven’t you? Don’t worry, Malfoy; i will go back to my work tomorrow..” she said icily.

“No… I came to see how you were.”

She turned, her brown eyes blazing with grief and fury; how could that smug Death Eater ask her such a thing after witnessing Ron’s death? Could it be that he had not even a shred of humanity? Now he was even staring at his feet, as if he were the victim, the one with the torn heart.

"I don’t think you’re really here to hear about my health. So I would ask you to come to the point and leave " Draco realized that he had addressed the same words that he had used with Minister Parkinson; it was therefore a smart girl.

Draco took a breath. “I promised Weasley I would deliver his final words. He wanted you to know that he loved you and always will.”

Hermione collapsed to her knees, sobbing. And before he knew what he was doing, Draco knelt beside her and pulled her into his arms and he realized at once that he was feeling the same warmth he had when he had first held her in his arms. She surrendered to the contact, letting out all her tears and soaking his white shirt, while the medallion with the sword scratched against her soft skin. Then, as if struck by a jolt, she pulled away, falling backward, her eyes wide in shock.

“What the hell are you doing, Malfoy?”

He stood up abruptly, confused, and muttered, “I... I have to go.” Then he left, slamming the door behind him, leaving her alone.

Hermione wrapped her arms around herself, the intense scent of the boy still clinging to her skin, and closed her eyes.

She felt guilty. Dirty.

How could she have returned Malfoy’s embrace so easily? How could she have let herself melt into the arms of her tormentor?

Far from that room, in the silence of his own chamber, the blond stared at his reflection in the large mirror of his wardrobe. Then, suddenly, his fist shattered the silvered glass.

Thoughts stormed through his mind. What the hell had come over him? He had held her, and—worse still—he had felt at peace. He had inhaled the scent of her wild curls, and he had liked it. He had even been offended when she had pulled away, as if his mere touch disgusted her, as if he were the one to be avoided like the plague.

He was the one with pure blood. He was the one who was rich, the one on the right side, the one to be respected and feared.

With a flick of his wand, he repaired the mirror, then headed for the shower.

That night, he would distract himself. He would drink, and why not? He might even find company in the arms of some pretty witch. Tomorrow, he would feel better. Tomorrow, he would have his head straight again.

He swore to himself that he would never again show any interest in that filthy Mudblood .

He would go back to being the Draco he had always been.

Letting the water wash away those strange sensations, he dried himself off and dressed carefully before Apparating near the restaurant.

His evening was about to begin, and Hermione Granger was already fading into nothing more than a forgotten thought.

Chapter Text

Upon arriving at the restaurant, Draco immediately joined his friends. At the table, along with Daphne, Theo, and Blaise, sat Goyle, Flitt, and Pucey—the crème de la crème of Slytherin House and the ranks of the Dark Lord. Fortunately for Draco, Astoria wasn’t feeling well and had to miss the evening. Not that anyone minded the situation; the dark-haired Greengrass girl was poorly tolerated by most of her house due to her spoiled and capricious nature. The table was soon laden with exquisite dishes and fine wines, which immediately lifted the spirits of the boys. They certainly had no money problems and probably wouldn’t have to shell out a single Galleon from their pockets; the Death Eater elite was feared and respected by all, and that was enough to ensure a warm welcome wherever they went.

After dinner, the boys decided to spend the rest of the evening in one of the most luxurious clubs in all of Diagon Alley. The venue was impressive, with a marble entrance featuring large columns on all sides and soft lighting; inside, the dance floor was surrounded by black leather couches and crystal tables. They were seated in a private area, away from prying eyes and unwelcome company. 

Alcohol began to flow freely, and soon the Slytherins, except for Daphne and Zabini who didn’t enjoy that kind of fun, found their minds clouded by the fumes of firewhisky. The rest of the night passed among licentious company and consumed cigarettes until dawn arrived and the venue closed.

The first rays of the sun also struck Hermione’s tear-streaked face; the night had been a constant alternation between guilt that stole her breath away and a weak sleep interrupted by nightmares. She sat up and placed the soles of her feet on the cold floor, which sent small shivers up her thighs. Getting up, she opened the window to let in the light and headed to the bathroom, where she indulged in a long, refreshing shower. During her insomnia, she had come to a terrible yet necessary conclusion: she would have to start living again despite everything, even if her life couldn’t exactly be called a life. The Death Eaters had taken away her friends, her love, and her freedom, but she would never allow them to break her completely.

tt didn’t seem like Malfoy wanted to break you last night, dea r her inner voice said. 

“Shut up, shut up... nothing happened last night, and anyway, that kind of thing will never happen again.” The girl, staring at herself in the large mirror, realized she was talking to herself and, shaking her head, began to pat down her unruly curls.

While carefully putting on her uniform, Hermione heard some knocks coming from the bedroom door. When she opened it, she found the little house-elf with a tray containing breakfast and a letter sealed with wax.

“Good morning, Miss, you’re up early. Miss Margaery has prepared breakfast for you. But now Cloppy must give you some bad news, Miss Hermione. You see, since Cloppy cannot enter Master Draco’s room, she must deliver this letter in place of Cloppy.”

Hermione, who had settled at the small table and poured herself some tea, nearly choked on the drink. No, it couldn’t be ; she wouldn’t set foot in that being’s room even in her dreams. It was already a lot to deal with them during the day, let alone wake him up.

“No, Cloppy, I’m sure there’s a mistake. And I don’t think Master Draco —” a low hiss escaped her lips as she pronounced his name—“would be pleased if I woke him up. It’s better to wait until he wakes up and deliver it to him at breakfast.”

“I’m sorry, Miss. Cloppy knows your situation, but this letter is too important and cannot wait at all.” The elf left the envelope on the unmade bed and, casting a sympathetic glance at Hermione, left the room.

The Gryffindor was seething with anger, and a knot of tension gripped her stomach. Her intention had been to avoid Malfoy like the plague, and now she was forced to venture even into his room—unheard of!

Leaving the remnants of breakfast on the tray, she gathered her courage and took the letter, then headed towards the door. Observing the small missive, she noticed that the wax was green and the seal bore the figure of a dragon; it appeared to be very important, and the girl was tempted to open it, only to remember that her movements were being monitored by the collar.

Bitterly, she exited the hallway, crossed the grand entrance hall, and began to ascend the stairs, only then realizing that she had absolutely no idea which room belonged to the Slytherin. She passed the first floor, where she recalled the infirmary and the bathroom were located, and went directly to the second.

Here, the stairs opened onto a large anteroom with decidedly baroque decor leading to three dark wooden doors. One was open, revealing a simple yet elegant room, with a made bed and empty wardrobes with slightly ajar doors indicating it was the guest room.

At this point, Hermione had two options left, but she knew that knocking blindly in hopes of finding the right one was not a viable option; she could disturb Narcissa or, worse, find herself facing Lucius—the last person she would ever want to see at that moment.

Fortunately for her, the Malfoys were so vain that they had even placed small gold-plated nameplates near the doors to indicate their ownership. 

Finding Draco’s, she knocked very gently and received barely audible grunting in response; as soon as she opened the door, her nostrils were invaded by a stale, smoky odor that made her head spin.

The room was shrouded in dim light, large green curtains covered the small window, and the rays of the sun, striking the light walls, barely allowed her to distinguish the outline of the objects. The bed was canopied, and the curtains matched the color of those at the window. In one corner was a large, multi-door wardrobe that seemed to be at least two hundred years old, a mahogany desk with a leather chair, and a full-length mirror framed in wrought iron.

The floor was black, and a small door likely led to the bathroom. The room was in complete disarray; several bottles of liquor lay abandoned on the floor, along with a pile of clothes, in which Hermione noticed a striking electric blue mini dress that surely couldn’t belong to the Slytherin.

“Can I know what the hell you want at this hour, Mudblood?” Draco’s voice was still thick with sleep and whisky, and his hair fell messily over his face and shoulders, which were bare like his chest.

The girl, embarrassed, didn’t have time to respond before a mane of fiery red hair emerged from the blankets. “Draco, go back to sleep,” the annoying voice belonged to a half-naked, curvaceous twenty-year-old whom Hermione imagined to be Draco’s conquest for the night.

“And what the hell are you still doing here? I told you to get lost, Ramona. What were you waiting for, another round?” said the blond scornfully, and the explicitly sexual comment made the Gryffindor shudder in disgust.

“But I’m Harriet...” the redhead tried to say but was immediately interrupted by the boy. “Yeah, yeah, listen, I don’t give a damn who you are, now pick up your rags and get the hell out of here.”

Poor Harriet abandoned the blankets half-naked and, trying to cover her breasts with her hands, gathered her clothes and headed to the bathroom. After changing, she disappeared from the room, trying not to show Hermione her embarrassment.

“These little whores think they’re special after just one night—ridiculous.” Saying this, Draco got out of bed and opened the window, flooding the room with light.

Naked from the waist up, he wore a pair of white silk pajama pants that hugged his muscular thighs and firm buttocks. Hermione stopped for a moment too long to observe him, and the boy, not missing the opportunity to embarrass her, exclaimed, “Like what you see, huh? But don’t get any ideas, Mudblood; I wouldn’t touch a girl like you even if you were the last woman on Earth.”

The girl, recovering immediately, was filled with rage at his words and replied sharply, “Don’t get any ideas yourself, Malfoy. I was just thinking about how disgusting you are; treating those poor girls like animals and, at the same time, betraying your dear fiancée Astoria. I wonder what she would say if she found out.”

Draco stormed toward the girl and pushed her against the wall, bringing his hand to her delicate, white neck. “Never again dare to meddle in my private life, blood traitor, or I swear you’ll regret it.” Draco’s eyes were filled with hatred, and the grip of his hand became tighter, making it hard for poor Hermione to breathe, and she began to feel faint, letting the letter fall from her hands.

That sudden movement, along with the usual pain in his chest that the blond had learned to ignore, distracted him, and he released his grip, allowing her to start breathing again.

“What the hell is this?” Draco said, taking the envelope in his hands and studying it.

“I guess it’s a letter,” Hermione replied sharply.

“Stop being clever and read it to me.”

“What? Why should I read it to you? It’s none of my business.”

“You have to read it because I’m ordering you to. You wouldn’t want me to tighten my grip this time, would you?”

Saying this, he took a few more steps toward the girl, who, swallowing in fear, opened the envelope and began to read:

“My dear Draco, this afternoon, my father and I will be going to the Manor for tea with you and your parents. The meeting will serve to clarify important details of our marriage. I know you refuse to accept this situation for now, but soon you will realize how excellent a wife I can be and, hopefully, a wonderful mother. I kindly ask you to avoid serving that filthy half-blood at the table, as I wouldn’t want her to behave inappropriately, especially in front of my father. See you later, your Astoria.”

After Hermione finished reading, silence fell between the walls of the room. Draco leaned against one of the posts of the canopy bed and stared at the floor, deep in thought.

“So you’re really getting married.”

“Oh, please, Mudblood, don’t be so disappointed. Would you have preferred that I marry you?”

The boy expected a sharp retort typical of the Gryffindor know-it-all , but instead, Hermione surprised him by uttering a simple yet direct phrase that struck him more than he could admit.

“You know Malfoy,  I thought you were the lucky ones, but I realize only now that you’re doomed to a life without love, married to people you can’t even stand. It’s all terrible.”

And it truly was; because if only Draco stopped to reflect on the impending marriage, he felt breathless and his head throbbed. He wouldn’t want to spend even five minutes in the company of that terrible girl, and yet he found himself forced not only to have her as a wife but also, probably, to get her pregnant.

“You wouldn’t understand these things, blood traitor, and anyway, this marriage isn’t happening,” he said. “I don’t care what that stupid letter says. Anyway, you read it; you’re not welcome. So, considering that the meeting is only a few hours away, I guess you can spend your time on other matters, and now get lost.”

Saying this, the blond headed toward the bathroom while Hermione went back to her room, happy to not have to spend any more time in his company.

It was already past five at the Manor, and tea had already been served. As Draco had imagined, the meeting had been terrible, and the tones had escalated even more than he expected.

The Greengrass had come to the Malfoys convinced they were only there to finalize the last details of the wedding, but instead, they were met with fierce opposition that even Lucius had been unable to mitigate.

The boy had categorically expressed his refusal of the union, well aware that, in any case, all that resistance would serve little purpose and that only a catastrophe or Astoria’s betrayal could save him.

There were too many interests at stake, and neither Romulus Greengrass or Lucius Malfoy would ever cancel the agreement, even though Romulus had threatened to do so if he saw Astoria suffer again.

Now, however, despite the girl crying in his arms, he was more determined than ever to see that contract through. Draco didn’t even listen to the end of that conversation and headed to the sitting room, opening a bottle of whisky and sinking into the couch.

Chapter Text

Hermione had spent a relatively peaceful afternoon, far from the venomous serpent who had dismissed her that morning. Once she had finished her tasks, and taking advantage of the fact that the Malfoys were occupied with their afternoon tea, she had slipped into the garden, settling herself upon the grand stone bench.

The spring sun, surprisingly warm, caressed her skin, while delicate pink water lilies floated idly upon the surface of the pond. As she watched the gentle ripples spread across the water, her mind was suddenly transported to the Black Lake of Hogwarts—not as picturesque, perhaps, but brimming with memories.

She recalled the countless hours spent by the Black Lake’s edge, revising spells with Harry and Ron or chatting with Ginny; the petty gossip and everyday woes that once seemed so pressing now felt as sweet as honey compared to her present circumstances. Oh, how she longed for the sharp remarks of Pansy Parkinson, the grating giggle of Lavender Brown, or even one of Professor Trelawney’s dreary predictions.

But that world—the enchanted castle that had been her home for seven long years—had been reduced to ruins under the blind wrath of Voldemort. The Dark Lord had unleashed his full fury upon those ancient walls, turning them to dust. To him, nothing of that place, so impure and unworthy in his eyes, was fit to remain.

Lost in thought, Hermione barely noticed as the sun dipped below the horizon, draping the sky in fiery orange. The pleasant warmth of the afternoon waned, replaced by the sharp bite of the evening chill. She rose from the bench, realizing how quickly time had slipped through her fingers, and made her way back toward the manor to prepare for the evening meal.

The grand clock in the entrance hall read half past six, yet of the Malfoys—or anyone else, for that matter—there was no sign. The house was cloaked in an eerie, suffocating silence, making it feel even colder and more forbidding.

Entering the tea room, she found the crystal table still set, chairs left askew, and a napkin discarded upon the floor—clear evidence that something had transpired in the room. Retracing her steps, she noticed that the door to the drawing room was slightly ajar, a sliver of golden light spilling from within. With cautious curiosity, she leaned in, peering through the gap.

The sight before her stole the breath from her lungs.

The flickering firelight cast dancing shadows across the floor, which was littered with shattered glass, torn parchment, and the broken remains of what had once been the Malfoys’ prized heirlooms. Upon the disheveled sofa lay Draco in such an unnatural position that, for a fleeting moment, Hermione feared the worst. One leg dangled precariously over the edge, while the other was sprawled across the cushions. One arm was draped over his face, the other clutching a half-empty bottle of liquor.

His shirt hung open, revealing the expanse of his pale, smooth chest—marred only by the familiar silver chain bearing a small dagger pendant, an ornament he never parted with, and the stark white scars left by Sectumsempra , a lingering souvenir from Harry. His platinum hair was a tousled mess across his forehead, and for a moment, Hermione wasn’t sure if he was even breathing.

Her first instinct was to shut the door and walk away, pretending she had seen nothing. But the same unfailing kindness that had always set her apart would not allow her to ignore him.

Step by careful step, she approached, wary not to touch him. But even as she leaned in, she remained too far to discern the rise and fall of his chest. Summoning all her Gryffindor courage, she edged closer and, hesitantly, placed her small palm upon his chest.

The sudden contact sent a jolt through her, a shiver racing down her spine. She had to force herself not to recoil.

Relief flooded her when she felt the slow, faint rhythm of his breathing. It was weak, but steady. Assured that he was alive, she turned to leave, but before she could step away, an iron grip closed around her delicate wrist.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing, Mudblood?”

Draco’s voice was thick with sleep and the haze of alcohol, his tone rough and low.

“I—I saw the room was in ruins and just wanted to make sure everything was alright,” she stammered, as if grasping for an excuse to justify her presence at his side.

“And you needed to touch me for that?” His voice was laced with amusement, though she knew better than to mistake it for kindness. “You’re not trying to kill me in my sleep, are you, Granger?”

His words were spoken with a lazy sort of drawl, as if he found the whole situation vaguely entertaining. But Hermione had endured too many of his taunts to believe for even a second that Draco Malfoy possessed a sense of humor. Instinctively, she bristled, her reply slipping out before she could stop it.

“I’m not the one who kills people, Malfoy.”

His expression twisted in an instant, morphing into something dark and dangerous. His jaw tightened, his storm-gray eyes narrowing to slits.

In a blur of motion, he was no longer lounging on the sofa but standing before her, his sudden proximity sending her pulse into a frantic rhythm. Hermione stood frozen, rooted to the spot by fear.

The memory of his hand around her throat surfaced like a specter from the past, and she staggered backward on instinct—only to find herself pressed against the cold, unforgiving wall. Draco loomed over her, a sinister smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

“This is becoming quite the habit, Granger. You’re not starting to enjoy it, are you?”

His breath, laced with the mingling scents of tobacco, mint, and whiskey, ghosted against her skin. His hands, firmly planted on the wall beside her, boxed her in, caging her like prey beneath the unwavering gaze of a serpent. And like a snake, he inched ever closer, drawing her into his coils.

He slipped a knee between her legs and with one hand began to climb up on the thigh, much too close to the hem of the skirt of the uniform.

Hermione wanted to scream and drive him away but she was immobilized by both fear and a feeling of warmth in the navel area; no boy had ever gone so far with her, The contacts with Ron had been there but always very chaste and innocent and now just her worst enemy was making her experience sensations never imagined.

The head began to swirl as Draco began to caress her thin neck and, without wanting it, she found herself indulging his touches and his caresses.

Even the boy, now lost in that erotic dance and addicted to the smell of Hermione's peach, heard the crotch of his pants pull annoyingly, and this was enough to bring him immediately back to reality.; caught in counterattack - It would not have been absolutely possible that a pureblood like him could feel even a little of attraction for a filthy mudblood reacted instinctively and did the only thing that worked for him, he humiliated her.

He made her neck lie back, his hand between her soft hair and, as he approached her ear with his lips, he whispered " You’re just another whore, Granger ".

Hermione was hit by a cold shower and all the feelings of lightness experienced until just before gave way to deep shame and blind anger; anger towards her who had been deceived as a fool and anger towards him who once again had shown himself to be the worm that he was.

She slammed her legs shut and, resting her hands on the boy’s chest, moved him violently almost shouting "Get up now, Malfoy"

"Oh, come on. Don’t be so demure; we all know what you would like. Just ask me, Granger, and I might as well think about please you. On the other hand you are not so bad to be impure and inferior and it happens that I have a certain desire to vent my instincts" And thus saying, he came back to fully lean on her body, determined to degrade her completely "You know, today was a very heavy day for me. Astoria does not want to understand that I do not intend to get married, I am still too young and can definitely aspire to have something better. As I said, I’m very stressed and you could help me relax. You won’t regret it, halfblood, I’m very good at what I do. And then the idea of owning a slave of mine is really very tempting despite your social position..."

His hand stuck itself in the folds of the girl’s dress, which was now overcome with fear and that, reacting without thinking, feeling violated by that rude contact, she slapped a straight slap on the blond’s cheek.

The sound was deaf and his hand stopped immediately; probably the Prince of Snakes would never have thought that the Gryffindor would dare so much and, mindful of the fist of the third year, he was seized by an unprecedented anger.

He laid his hands on her neck again and this time decided that he wouldn't fail; that whore had gone way too far, and he didn’t know what to do with such a servant. The Granger would have paid a high price for her rebellion, and the more he thought, the angrier he was and the tighter his grip.

Hermione was almost not breathing anymore, her face was turning pale and her lips were as pale as snow; she tried in vain to scratch the face of the hated enemy but without results, Draco seemed now almost possessed.

The girl thought to herself that, all things considered, death might not be such a terrible end compared to the life that awaited her. Almost resigned, she let her arms fall limply against her body and closed her eyes, waiting for the end that, however, never came.

Instead, a monstrous scream echoed through the air, and moments later, her neck was freed from the blond’s iron grip. Now, he was kneeling on the floor, one hand clutching his chest and the other pressed against the black marble as if to steady himself.

His breath came in ragged gasps, and small spasms coursed through his limbs.

Run, Hermione, run! This is your chance whispered a small voice in her head. But she couldn’t move—not even a step. The strangulation had weakened her, and, much to her dismay, she felt a pang of pity for the boy in front of her, who looked as though he was in terrible pain.

Meanwhile, the agony in his chest slowly began to fade, and he managed to drag himself to the couch, collapsing onto it as he buried his head in his hands.

"Malfoy," Hermione tried to whisper, receiving no response. "Malfoy, what’s happening to you?"

"Water… bring me water," he rasped.

Without hesitation, the girl darted out of that damn room and headed straight for the kitchen. As she entered, she scanned the space for Margaery, intending to ask her for a pitcher of water. She spotted the redhead slipping cautiously out the door leading to the garden.

Curious, Hermione followed her and watched as the girl approached the great stone wall enclosing the entire estate. Hermione wondered what she was doing, and her question was soon answered—Margaery was pushing aside the ivy-covered branches that clung to the stones, her hands feeling along the wall as if searching for something.

Suddenly, the moment the redhead touched a crevice between the bricks, a hidden passage opened to the outside world, and a hooded figure emerged from behind it.

Hermione inched closer, her breath catching as the two figures whispered in hushed voices. When her gaze finally settled on the newcomer, her heart skipped a beat.

No, it couldn’t be.

"Is it really you?"

Chapter Text

“Is that you, Hermione? What are you doing here? We all feared the worst!”

The cloaked figure turned out to be none other than Neville, dear Neville . Hermione felt an overwhelming joy; finally, a friendly face. The two embraced amid tears, and Hermione noticed how much her friend had changed in such a short time. His face bore scratches, and his cheeks were drawn, far from the chubby ones that had characterized the boy in their early years, while his physique, now manly, appeared robust and well-proportioned.

As the initial surprise faded, it was time for questions.

“We thought you were a prisoner! Or worse, that you were dead! No one had heard anything after the battle, and then we learned about Ron...” The boy had to pause to choke back tears. “And the survivors of the escape told us how you and Ginny were taken away by that wretched Malfoy.”

“Yes, now I’m in his employ… Ginny has fared better; Zabini treats her very well and has been supportive after the news of Ron’s death... But what about you? How did you escape? And how do you know each other?” she asked, glancing toward Margaery.

“During the battle, I was gravely injured and lost consciousness. The Death Eaters serving Voldemort must have thought I was dead because, when I woke up, the battle was already over. I was surrounded by death and rubble. I wandered through the ruined castle, searching for survivors, and I found George and Arthur, who had managed to hide in a small secret corridor in the dungeons when they realized the battle was lost. Staying there, however, wasn’t safe, so we headed toward the Forbidden Forest, where Firenze welcomed and helped us; and there, we found Harry...”

“Harry, oh my god, Harry is alive! I must tell Ginny! We thought he was dead!” Hermione couldn’t hold back her tears.

“It’s not that simple, Hermione. We did find Harry, but he was unconscious. Since the battle, he hasn’t recovered, despite our efforts and the powerful magic of the centaurs. When we hoped for a slight improvement after he woke, we realized that the one who had awakened was not our friend but a shell, almost devoid of soul. I don’t know what happened between him and Voldemort during the clash, but now he just stares into the void. Snape said it might be the result of very dark magic....”

“Snape? What the devil does he have to do with this? He’s a damned traitor; he killed Dumbledore!”

“No, Snape has always been on our side, Herm. He helped us find shelter, saved Tonks, who was thought to be lost, and is acting as a liaison between us in the Resistance and the remaining members of the Order, who are now on the run. We didn’t think there were many of us left, but we’re growing day by day, thanks to Ron, who managed to help Lavender, Luna, and many others escape. He was the one who introduced us to Margaery; she’s been immensely helpful with food supplies and has also provided valuable information about the Malfoys' movements.”

“You knew?? You knew and kept me in the dark about everything? How could you?” Hermione glared at the redhead. For days, she could have told her that her friends were alive, and she had done nothing.

“I couldn’t, Hermione... you were distraught, and I didn’t know how you would react. Forgive me, please.”

“It’s not her fault, Mione. We imposed strict secrecy on everyone. There are so many things I want to tell you, so many people who want to hug you... But it’s not the time yet; we must be cautious. The dark army is weakening day by day; there’s unrest among the magical population, even among the loyal followers. We need everyone’s support.”

“Tell me what I can do. I want to help you; I won’t allow Ron and all the others to have sacrificed their lives for nothing.”

“There is something… but it’s too dangerous. We won’t discuss it; I would never expose you to such danger,” said the boy, shaking his head.

“Neville, look at me; I have nothing left. The only reason I keep living is the hope of giving our children a better future. Please, tell me what I must do.”

“We need an insider. The Malfoys are one of the most influential families in Voldemort’s empire. We must uncover their moves and learn their plans, and the only one who could provide that is someone very close to them; in this case, you. But it’s really risky; you might have to do things you don’t want to do, things you could regret for the rest of your life…”

“I will do it.”

Silence fell over the small group of three friends; Neville didn’t know how to convince Hermione not to expose herself. She was increasingly determined to do so, and Margaery looked at them thoughtfully.

“Neville, if anyone can do it, it’s Hermione; you know that...” the redhead tried to suggest.

“You don’t understand; she’s my family. She’s one of the few I have left. Ron…Ron would never forgive me... I can’t.” A tear traced down the dark-haired boy’s cheek, and Hermione threw herself into his arms. “Oh Neville, I promise everything will be alright, but you have to let me do this. You know me; you’re just like me. We can’t stand by and watch others suffer, and Malfoy isn’t that terrible… oh my god, Malfoy is still waiting for me ! I—I have to run; he might get suspicious! When will you come back next?”

“I’ll be here in two days. For now, start testing the waters without exposing yourself. When I return, we’ll put a plan in place, and I’ll tell you everything you don’t know yet.”

The girl planted a kiss on his cheek and dashed into the kitchen, where she hurried to grab a pitcher of water.

How much time had passed? Had Draco sensed something? Or worse, had he perhaps seen something? She walked so quickly that she left small drops of clear water on the floor behind her.

Upon reaching the living room door, she stopped and took a deep breath, trying to compose herself. What had just happened had shaken her; she finally had confirmation that her friends were all right, or at least almost all of them. What could have happened to Harry? And most importantly, how could she approach Draco without arousing suspicion?

“You took your time, half-blood,” the blonde said, snatching the pitcher from her hand.

“I... I couldn’t find Margaery,” Hermione tried to explain.

Draco shrugged and poured himself a glass of water, which he gulped down in one go.

“Are you feeling better, Malfoy? What happened to you?”

“You don’t need to worry about me, blood traitor, nor should you speak of what you’ve seen to anyone, or it will be worse for you.”

The same old Malfoy; how could she have ever thought he would open up to her so easily? That he would reveal such personal information simply by asking?

“May I leave now? Dinner will be ready soon, and I need to set the table.”

“Of course, go ahead,” he dismissed her with a slight wave of his hand.

The challenge had only just begun.

Chapter Text

Dinner had passed relatively uneventfully, save for Lucius’s disdainful glances and Draco’s cold demeanor—something Hermione had long since grown accustomed to. The only noteworthy moment had been the announcement that, the following day, taking advantage of his parents’ departure, Draco would be hosting a grand reception at the Manor, to which only the crème de la crème of Slytherin House had been invited. The blond had also made it very clear that the Gryffindor would be expected to serve the guests and that she most certainly “ wouldn’t be allowed to skulk in her room all evening.”

Naturally. She was his possession, and he wanted to ensure she was put on full display.

Though the prospect filled her with unease and more than a little revulsion, these feelings were dulled by the joy of having reunited with Neville and the thrill of her newfound role as a spy.

She had spent the night mulling over Draco’s mysterious pain and had reached the conclusion that it was triggered by violent or stressful events; the cause itself, however, remained elusive.

That morning, she rose early, had breakfast, donned her uniform, and set about cleaning in preparation for the evening’s grand affair, keeping a keen eye out for any possible clues hidden within the house.

She had already tended to most of the rooms when she found herself standing before the door of Draco and his father’s study. She had never set foot inside unless both Malfoys were present, but the temptation was too great to resist. After all, Draco was still asleep, Lucius had already left on business, and Narcissa would soon be joining him.

With trembling hands and cold sweat beading on her forehead, she lowered the heavy handle and slipped inside.

The room was nearly immaculate, save for the desk, which was strewn with parchment and documents. A window stood slightly ajar, letting in the crisp spring morning air.

Stepping onto the vast black rug that stretched across the white marble floor, she made her way around the desk and nudged aside the grand leather armchair, its surface worn with age.

Her sharp eyes scanned the scattered papers, hoping to uncover something useful to the Resistance. But aside from reports on the prisoner camps and endless lists of Malfoy properties, nothing seemed relevant to her cause.

Disheartened, she turned to leave—when a small drawer, left slightly ajar at the edge of the desk, caught her attention. It was one of those hidden compartments that, once shut, could only be found by those who knew precisely where to look; the fact that it had been left open was nothing short of a stroke of luck.

Carefully, delicately—moving its contents as little as possible to avoid detection—she peered inside.

A pocket watch, its silver casing engraved with the initials of Draco’s grandfather. A black glass letter opener. Several wax seals bearing the Malfoy crest. A stack of fine stationery, adorned with intricate gold filigree.

All exquisite, but utterly useless.

As she pushed the drawer shut, her finger pressed inadvertently against a hidden mechanism. With a soft click, the false bottom slid away, revealing a secret compartment beneath.

Now, in her many years at Hogwarts, Hermione had learned that certain things were better left undiscovered. The wise course of action would be to close the drawer and leave.

However, she had also learned that following one’s instincts— and breaking a few rules —could often lead to rather interesting outcomes.

And so, bolstered by the daring spirit of Godric Gryffindor himself, she reached into the hidden compartment and withdrew a small, crumpled piece of parchment, its age evident in every brittle fiber.

The thread binding it was of the finest green silk, frayed with time.

Taking great care not to damage it further, she loosened the knot and unrolled the parchment, feeling its delicate, rough texture beneath her fingertips—so fragile it seemed ready to crumble at the slightest movement.

Inside, penned in elegant cursive with a quill, was a message embellished with flourishes so ornate they bordered on the baroque.

Difficult to decipher.

But certainly not beyond the brightest witch of her age.

With steady patience, she sank into the grand leather armchair and began to read.

"The marble armor shall rise unyielding,
and like a flame, it shall consume
the beating core of the radiant serpent
when it surrenders to the Dark Path.
Yet the crimson essence, forbidden to him,
shall be the key to..."

"To fighting the funereal darkness..."

Narcissa’s voice jolted Hermione from her reading, and as soon as she realized the situation, she let the parchment slip from her fingers and sprang to her feet.

"Narcissa... the drawer was open, I saw the scroll and—"

"You don’t need to explain yourself, dear," the woman said, offering a tired smile as she lowered herself onto the settee. "For years now, my family has tried in vain to decipher that prophecy..."

"Does it have anything to do with Draco’s constant pain?" Hermione asked, intrigued.

"Precisely. The parchment’s history is ancient, tracing back to a time perhaps even darker than this one. Magic ran unchecked across the land, and order was upheld by some of the most powerful wizarding families in the kingdom—including, as you might guess, the Malfoys, through means... not entirely lawful. One day, during yet another uprising, Draco’s ancestor and his soldiers found themselves battling the rebels of a small village. Before they were slaughtered, the villagers cursed him and all his descendants, foretelling that one future Malfoy heir would suffer a slow and agonizing death, tormented by the very darkness he had sown."

Years passed. Centuries. And since no Malfoy seemed to suffer the effects of the curse, it faded into obscurity—along with the prophecy—until Draco began to experience these pains. We don’t know what triggers them, we don’t know how to cure them, we don’t know how much time he has left... and knowing I might lose him..."

At the sight of Narcissa’s silent tears, Hermione couldn’t help but feel a pang of sympathy.

After all, Narcissa was not to blame for anything but marrying a Malfoy. She was just a mother who loved her son and had to watch him suffer.

With quiet reverence, Hermione returned the parchment to its hiding place, shut the drawer, and stepped closer to the grieving woman.

"Narcissa, I’m truly sorry I can’t do anything. If I could help, I would..."

"Hermione, you are in a dreadful situation because of my family, and I already count myself lucky to have your friendship. I don’t know what I would do in your place. But if I may ask one small favor—please, do not mention what I’ve told you to Draco. He does not like people knowing his weaknesses."

Hermione nodded, but deep inside, unease coiled like a serpent. Should she report what she had learned to the Resistance so they could use it against Draco? Or should she keep her promise to Narcissa?

Her thoughts were interrupted by the creak of the door swinging open.

The Prince of Slytherin had arrived.

"Mudblood, what the hell are you doing in here? Mother? Why are you crying? Has she dared to harm you?" Draco’s voice was laced with fury.

"Oh, don’t be foolish, Draco," Narcissa sighed. "Hermione is a delightful young woman, and these are merely the tears of a mother reminiscing on times long past. Nothing to concern yourself with. Now, I must take my leave. It was a pleasure speaking with you, Hermione. And as for you, Draco, do try to behave like a gentleman f or once ."

With her usual grace, Narcissa swept out of the room, leaving the two alone. The tension in the air grew thick, and Hermione, sensing it, made to follow the Lady—but was halted by Draco’s cold voice.

"You’re excused this time, Granger. But make sure you never set foot in this room without my permission again, or I won’t be so forgiving."

"Another threat, Malfoy?" she quipped, her tone dry.

"Oh no, my dear. A promise." His smirk was razor-sharp. "But let’s not waste time on pointless chatter. Tonight, as I told you, you’ll be present at the gathering. And for the occasion, your usual uniform will be replaced with a classic black dress. I don’t want anyone thinking I allow harlots to wander my halls."

"Isn’t that exactly what you do?" she shot back, her voice laced with venom.

"I see you haven’t lost that sharp tongue of yours, little kitten. Careful, or you might start exciting me," he smirked, his voice dripping with mockery.

"You’re disgusting, Malfoy. Do you have anything else to say, or can I leave? You know, the house won’t clean itself."

"Ah, you’ve finally learned your place. You may go. And remember— should you ever desire it, I might even be inclined to satisfy your needs ."

Furious, Hermione stormed out of the room.

That arrogant, insufferable snake!

Oh, he would see. That damned Slytherin would see exactly who would have the last laugh.

And it wouldn’t be him.

Chapter Text

The girl flung open the door to her room in anger, forgetting to close it behind her, huffing and muttering under her breath.

"Arrogant, arrogant and conceited. Spoiled little brat—‘ should you ever desire it, I might even be inclined to satisfy your needs. Oh sure, keep dreaming, Malferret. Not even if you were the last man on this damned earth!"

"Hermione, is everything… um, everything alright?"

The red, curly head of Margaery peeked through the door.

Caught off guard, Hermione spun around, staring at her friend with wide eyes before exclaiming, "Oh my God, Marge, you scared me! I thought I had closed the door. Yes, of course, everything’s fine."

She let herself collapse onto the creaky mattress, burying her face in her hands, her shoulders sagging. Finally, after holding them back for far too long, her tears began to fall, soaking into the white apron on her lap.

Noticing her state, the cook hesitantly approached, settling beside her. With uncertainty, she placed a tentative hand on Hermione’s shoulder. She wasn’t sure what to do. After all, they weren’t exactly friends—just two unfortunate girls bound together by their place in the same rebel group.

"I know we haven’t known each other for long, and I also know you might not trust me, given… well, everything I kept from you. But it pains me to see you like this, and I think talking about it might help."

Hermione lifted her head, her eyes glassy with tears, her nose red from crying. She studied the girl beside her for a long moment.

Could she understand? Had she, too, lost friends and family in this damned war?

And above all, how much could she actually tell her? If she mentioned her “ close encounter ” with Malfoy, would Margaery judge her? Would she even tell Neville?

But the weight of those inexplicable feelings had been eating her alive for days now.

"You see, ever since Ron died," Hermione began, sighing heavily, "it feels like time has stopped for me. Like I’m trapped in a dream I’ll wake up from any moment. I promised myself I’d move forward, that I’d be strong for him, but the truth is… this is tearing me apart. Sometimes, at night, I just stare at the wall, my mind completely blank, and the tears come on their own before I even realize it."

"And now Malfoy is using my weakness against me, making me feel like a puppet in his hands—powerless, unable to fight back. Yesterday, he even treated me like one of his whores. He wanted… something from me, and the worst part is—I almost fell for it, Marge. Can you believe that? God, how could I? I’m a terrible person. What would Ron say? And the others…?"

She couldn’t even finish her sentence, overcome with sobs, and threw herself into Margaery’s comforting embrace.

"Shh, Hermione, don’t cry. You are not terrible. Don’t say that, and don’t even think about it. Do you have any idea what you’ve been through? For Godric’s sake, you’re only eighteen, and you risked your life without hesitation to save everyone from a terrible fate. You’re a hero. But even heroes break, Hermione. You need to stop pretending to be strong just to please others—it will destroy you. As for Malfoy, having a moment of weakness is human. You needed comfort, and he saw your vulnerability and exploited it—l ike a true Slytherin. Maybe Neville was right. Maybe you shouldn’t get too close to him. It might be too dangerous. As soon as he returns, I’ll talk to him. We’ll find another solution."

"No, absolutely not!" Hermione shot back, lifting her head defiantly. "Neville can’t know anything. You have to promise me, Margaery. This mission was entrusted to me, and I will never let Malfoy manipulate me again!"

Then, realizing she had been a bit too harsh, she offered a genuine smile and added, "Thank you for listening. You didn’t have to, but you were kind enough to. I hope I can return the favor one day. But… what about you? How did you end up here?"

The cook seemed troubled by the question and abruptly stood up.

"Oh, well, it’s a long story, and unfortunately, I have to go prepare dinner. But I promise I’ll tell you everything another time."

Margaery wasn’t ready to reveal what had happened to her. The pain and shame were still too great to face.

"Oh, look, Hermione—getting up, I must have knocked this off the bed."

She bent down, picking up a bundle wrapped in white paper.

"Do you know what it is?"

"Honestly, no. Probably another one of Malfoy’s surprises ," Hermione muttered, curling her lips in distaste.

“Anyway, I’ll take my leave now. The food for those spoiled little brats won’t cook itself. See you later, Herm."

Once Marge had left the room, Hermione made sure to lock the door, then sat back on the bed and examined the small package carefully. It had been wrapped with a certain elegance, and in one corner, a note from the sender was written:

"Here’s your dress for tonight. At least try to make yourself presentable, my dear Mudblood. And get ready—it’s going to be a long night. DM ."

She unwrapped the package furiously, but as soon as its contents were revealed, she froze in shock.

The dress—entirely black—was simple, yet it was precisely that simplicity that made it so beautiful. The fabric looked almost like silk, and the design followed an empire waist, cinching at the torso before flowing down gracefully.

Hermione hesitated. A battle raged inside her—the temptation to accept the gift versus the bitter awareness that Malfoy only wanted to parade her around as if she were his possession .

But when she looked at herself in the mirror, all thoughts seemed to fade away. For the first time in months, she saw herself as beautiful.

The dress fell just above her knees, hugging her slender hips, with a subtle sweetheart neckline that highlighted her figure without being vulgar. On the back, right at the dimples of her lower back, a small black bow rested delicately—she instinctively reached to adjust it.

She finished getting ready quickly, tying her curls into a simple high ponytail, allowing a few rebellious strands to frame her face, which she left bare of any makeup.

Once she was done, she observed the final result and, brushing her fingers against her reflection, whispered, "Oh, Ron… if only you could see me now. I wonder what you’d think of me."

Pushing back her tears and swallowing the lump in her throat, she took a deep breath, grasped the doorknob, and stepped out toward the dining hall. If they were going to try to break her, she would do it standing tall.

The elves had meticulously polished and arranged the house; the table was set buffet-style, adorned with every imaginable dish, fine crystal glasses, and the most exquisite white porcelain plates.

The guests would be arriving soon, and the tension in the air was palpable.

As she wandered through the room, trailing her fingers along the soft linen tablecloth, the sharp sound of footsteps against marble made her pause.

Turning around, she felt her breath hitch in her throat.

Draco Malfoy stood before her, wearing a pearl-gray shirt and perfectly tailored black trousers that accentuated his toned, muscular frame. His hair was still slightly damp from a bath, slicked back yet with a few stray strands falling rebelliously over his icy blue eyes.

Get a grip, Hermione. Don’t be stupid she whispered under her breath.

"What was that, Mudblood?" Malfoy shot her a sideways glance. "Oh, never mind. Don’t trouble yourself thanking me for the dress and for saving you from looking like a ragged beggar, will you?"

"I never asked for this dress, nor would I be here if I had any choice, Malfoy. So forgive me if I don’t feel inclined to thank you for throwing me to your pack of hungry wolves," Hermione snapped, her voice rising slightly as anger began to swell within her.

"You're welcome, little Mudblood," Draco murmured, stepping closer until he towered over her. "If they’re too cruel to you tonight, just remember—you can always find comfort in my chambers after dinner."

His voice was smooth, his tone taunting, and before she could recoil, he tilted her chin upward with two fingers, his glacial gaze locking onto her warm hazel eyes. A shiver ran down her spine.

She was saved from the tense moment by the chime of the doorbell, followed by the hurried, excited footsteps of Cloppy, who rushed to open it.

Seconds later, Zabini and Daphne stepped into the hall. They looked simply stunning. Blaise wore an impeccably tailored black suit, while Daphne sported a strapless, scarlet-red dress with a sweetheart neckline and a slight train.

"Daphne, you look absolutely radiant," Draco remarked, stepping away from Hermione to press a small kiss on Slytherin's hand. "Blaise, you’re looking quite sharp yourself."

"Oh, please, Draco, save the pleasantries for my sister. She actually enjoys wasting time on such nonsense," Daphne replied with a smirk.

"I thought Astoria wasn’t coming tonight?"

"She probably won’t arrive until late, but she asked me to let you know she’ll visit tomorrow for tea."

Hermione caught the subtle disappointment in Draco’s voice but had no time to dwell on it before Zabini approached her.

With surprising politeness, he inquired about her well-being and reassured her about Ginny, who—though still shaken—was slowly starting to recover.

As they spoke, the Manor filled with the most influential Slytherin heirs of the wizarding world.

When Theodore arrived, the trio was finally complete.

The guests were elegantly dressed— some even excessively so —and exuded an air of superiority from every pore. Many didn’t even acknowledge Hermione’s presence, while others cast her disdainful glances, whispering behind their hands and letting out sharp, condescending giggles.

Hermione, consumed by anxiety and a fair dose of anger, paced the hall, ensuring that everything was in its proper place while waiting for the right moment to slip away.

"You don’t seem to be enjoying yourself much, huh?" a deep voice spoke from behind her.

The Gryffindor turned around to find a young man, around twenty years old, with honey-colored hair and large brown eyes.

"I’m not here to have fun, I’m afraid. I’m only here to make sure everything runs smoothly," she replied, lowering her gaze and wringing her hands.

"Well, in that case, it seems to me you’re doing an excellent job, Miss...?"

"Hermione. My name is Hermione."

"Pleasure to meet you, Hermione. I’m Markus."

As he introduced himself, he took her hand and placed a delicate kiss on it.

Embarrassed, Hermione quickly withdrew her hand and, muttering an excuse, made her way to the small sitting room where the elves had placed the guests’ coats. Luckily, it was empty. She leaned against the small table under the window, staring out into the darkness of the night, her heart pounding and her breath coming in short, anxious gasps.

Meanwhile, on the opposite side of the grand hall, Draco clenched his glass of whiskey tightly, his silver eyes narrowing into slits as he observed the scene.

"Yeah, Zabini, I’m telling you, that was a clear foul. They shouldn’t have won, it was obvious—"

"Blaise," Draco cut off Theo’s Quidditch rant, his voice sharp. "Who the hell is that prissy little peacock that was circling the Mudblood a minute ago and is now watching her like he wants to devour her?"

"I think his name is Dovark. Marcus Dovark. Some distant cousin of Pucey, from a Scottish wizarding school. But why do you care? You’re not jealous, are you, Malfoy?" Blaise smirked, clearly amused.

Draco scoffed. "I just don’t like filth playing with my property."

And with that, he downed the rest of his drink in one go and strode off, heading in the direction Marcus had disappeared.

"Still alone, Hermione?"

She turned sharply, only to find herself face to face with the same young man from before. But something in his gaze had changed—it was darker now, almost predatory.

"I—I just needed some fresh air. But I should get back. Malfoy will probably be looking for me."

"Oh, come now, my dear. That spoiled brat can surely survive a few minutes without you. Besides, you said you’re here to make sure everyone is satisfied, and believe me, I know exactly what would satisfy me right now."

He licked his lips.

Hermione took a step back, preparing to run, but before she could move, a steel grip closed around her arm. In a heartbeat, she was slammed violently against the wooden table.

"Let me go, please. Please, you’re hurting me!" she pleaded, struggling desperately.

But Marcus had no intention of letting go.

"Everyone knows you’re Draco’s whore," he sneered. "So tonight, you’ll be mine. I don’t think he’ll mind sharing."

His hand tore at her sheer stockings, his nails raking across her soft skin. Then, like an animal, he descended upon her, biting and licking at her neck with vicious hunger.

Hermione thrashed, trying to fight him off, but his grip was too strong. Panic seized her, tears spilling down her cheeks as she screamed, knowing exactly what was about to happen.

Her mind flew to Ron—the only man she had ever imagined giving that part of herself to, the one she had saved it for all these years. And now, a monster was about to take it from her, treating her like nothing more than a piece of meat.

The sound of fabric tearing echoed in her ears. Her dress was ripped in multiple places, her black bra now fully exposed. A searing bite marked her chest like a scarlet letter.

She was losing strength, her cries turning into whimpers—until a voice, colder than ice, sliced through the air.

"Take your filthy hands off her, you worthless scum."

Marcus stilled. The grip on her wrists loosened.

Hermione curled into herself, covering her chest with trembling hands, her body racked with silent sobs as she pressed herself into the corner of the room.

"Malfoy," Marcus chuckled, turning to face him. "Perfect timing. Want to join in? Or does the Prince of the Serpents prefer keeping his little pet all to himself?"

Draco’s wand was already drawn, his features carved in stone.

"I don’t recall inviting you here. In fact, I don’t even recall ever seeing you before," he said, voice low, dangerous. "You walk into my home, you dare take advantage of my hospitality—by attempting to violate my servant? I should make you suffer for this, Dovark ."

Draco took a slow step forward, his wand never wavering.

"But I’m feeling generous tonight. So I’ll make you a deal. Get the fuck out of my sight— now —and I’ll pretend none of this ever happened."

The two young men faced each other, their wands clenched tightly in their fists, fury burning in their eyes.

Marcus sneered. Then, with a flick of his wand, he shot a Stupefy straight at Draco.

Malfoy deflected it effortlessly.

And then he struck back.

" Crucio ."

The opponent collapsed to the ground, writhing in agony. Hermione sprang to her feet, ready to beg Malfoy to stop, but she was too late.

Draco’s body suddenly went rigid, then convulsed violently. His eyes rolled back into his head, and his breath came in ragged, broken gasps.

Marcus, still struggling from the pain, seized the opportunity to escape, slipping away unnoticed.

Hermione immediately dropped to her knees beside Draco.

His forehead was slick with sweat, his limbs spasming uncontrollably. She tried to hold them down with the weight of her own body, desperate to stop the violent tremors.

And then, without warning, the convulsions ceased.

He went utterly still. Limp. Lifeless.

"Malfoy. Malfoy, look at me, damn it—Zabini! Zabini, hurry!"

She screamed his name, shaking his body, but there was no response.

The tension of the assault, the fear, the helplessness—it all overwhelmed her at once. She broke down into sobs, clutching at Draco’s shirt, shaking him as if she could force him to wake up.

That was how Blaise found her when he burst into the room.

"Blaise, please, you have to help him!" Hermione’s voice cracked, raw with panic. "He’s not breathing! He was fighting, and then... then he just collapsed! I don’t know what to do!"

She turned, her wild eyes darting between him and Cloppy, the house-elf who had rushed in at the commotion.

"No, don’t touch him! Don’t you see he’s suffering?"

She lashed out, shoving Zabini back, her hysteria mounting. She was beyond reason, beyond logic, lost to her terror.

Blaise knew there was only one thing left to do.

"Forgive me, Hermione— Stupefy !"

Chapter Text

In the dead of the black night, a hooded figure moved swiftly through the alleys of a deserted Diagon Alley.
The sharp sound of heels echoed against the cobbled stone, and her breath turned into small clouds of mist in the chilly air, just above freezing.

Stopping before a grand red door, the figure knocked insistently until a small house-elf appeared to open it.
"Welcome, miss. The master has been expecting you. Allow me to take your coat."

With a careless toss, she flung her sapphire-green cloak at the elf and ascended the staircase, her gaze sweeping the surroundings with evident disgust. Stopping on the first floor, she pushed open the door of a bedroom without bothering to knock.

"Astoria, my dear, do come in. Make yourself at home ," said the master of the house, seated on the edge of the bed, carefully preparing a pain-relief potion.

"This dung heap? My home? Hardly," the young Greengrass scoffed. "For a noble pureblood, you really do live in squalor."

"At the moment, my family's finances are… less than ideal. But I assure you, soon I’ll be able to provide you with all the comforts you deserve, my dear. What brings you to me at this ungodly hour? Did you miss me?"

"Spare me the pleasantries, Dovark. I entrusted you with a simple task, and yet you let that filthy Mudblood slip through your fingers."

Markus Dovark glared at the dark-haired girl, then gestured toward the large, violet bruises covering his ribs.
"You failed to mention just how protective Malfoy was of his little servant. I even took a Cruciatus for you, princess. The least you could do is thank me."

"Thank you?" she sneered. "You boast about being the best wizard in your Charms class, yet you were caught off guard like a useless Muggle. Thanks to you, not only is the Mudblood safe, but my future husband now lies in bed in a vegetative state, Dovark. You're lucky I don’t end you myself."

Anger had taken hold of Astoria, but realizing she was shouting, she immediately composed herself. Outbursts like that were hardly befitting of a young pureblood from a respectable family. Taking a deep breath, she began again.

"If nothing else, your pathetic failure has confirmed my suspicions. Draco cares for that Mudblood. I don’t yet know why or to what extent, but I do know one thing for certain—it must be dealt with immediately. And this time, I will handle it myself. That worthless little half-blood will have no escape."

With those words, she turned on her heel, ready to leave the room, when Markus called after her.

"Aren’t you forgetting something , Greengrass? I help you, and in return, you give me something in exchange," he said, licking his lips suggestively.

"I wouldn’t lower myself to share a bed with you, Dovark, not even if you had brought me Granger’s head on a silver platter," she sneered. "The elite do not mix with filth—never. And you and your family are filth. Your reward was supposed to be claiming that Mudblood for yourself, the only one on your level, after all. But alas, you squandered your chance."

Dovark, furious, grabbed his wand and pointed it at the Slytherin, who, entirely unfazed, burst into laughter.

"Oh, please. Don’t be foolish. You wouldn’t be able to harm me even if I were Petrified," she taunted. "Face it, Markus, there’s nothing you can do to me. My elves knew I was coming here, and if I don’t return, they have very specific instructions on what to do. Do you remember that pathetic little Muggle girl your father saved from certain death after Voldemort razed her village to the ground? I know for a fact that your parents are keeping her in their home, parading her around as their Squib niece. Tell me, how do you think the Dark Lord would react to that?"

The boy froze, his face draining of color as his wand lowered. Slowly, he sank onto the edge of the bed, utterly defeated.

"Good. I see you understand," Astoria said smoothly. "You and I never spoke. This conversation never happened. And you never received any orders from me. I trust that it is clear."

With that, she retrieved her coat and swept through the doorway, disappearing once more into the darkness.

"Ennervate."

Hermione’s eyes fluttered open as she struggled to make sense of her surroundings.

Judging by the hard, uncomfortable surface beneath her, she was on the floor. Turning her head toward the window, she saw that it was still nighttime. A pounding headache throbbed behind her temples, and sharp aches shot through various parts of her body.

Looking down at her arm, she noticed a series of scratches, some shallow, others deeper. Pressing a trembling hand to her chest, she felt a patch of raised skin—some sort of injury.

"Are you alright, Granger? Can you sit up?"

A male voice pulled her from her self-examination.

Forcing herself into a sitting position, Hermione peered around the dimly lit room, searching for the source of the voice.

Standing before her, wand still pointed at her face, was Blaise Zabini.

"Zabini? What the hell—why are you pointing your wand at me?" she asked, her voice laced with irritation.

"I had to revive you from the Stunning Spel l. And for the record, I’m sorry I had to use it, but you were hysterical, and I didn’t know how else to calm you down," he admitted. "I needed to help Draco, but you wouldn’t let us near him—"

The mention of that name sent a flood of memories crashing into Hermione’s mind.

The black dress. The encounter with Dovark. The attempted assault. The agonizing bite marks searing into her skin. The sheer, paralyzing terror coursing through her veins—reliving it all in a single, excruciating instant. And finally, Draco’s voice. Draco, pulling her back from the nightmare.

"Malfoy—how is he?" she blurted out, panic rising in her chest. "He passed out—he wasn’t responding—and then you all arrived, but I didn’t know what to do and—"

Her words dissolved into a choked sob as fresh tears spilled down her face.

"Oh, Blaise, it was horrible. I could feel his hands on me, and I couldn’t stop him! If it weren’t for Malfoy—he saved me, but then—he wasn’t breathing, and I kept calling him, and he—he—"

"Hermione," Zabini knelt before her, gently taking her face in his hands and forcing her to meet his gaze.

"Listen to me. Draco is fine. He’s out of danger. Everything is over. But you need to calm down, you need to rest, and you need to let yourself be healed."

"I want to see him," she said, her voice steady despite the trembling in her body.

The dark-skinned boy shook his head, displeased.
"I don’t know, Hermione. Right now, you’re exhausted from stress, you’re injured and weakened. I don’t think it’s a good idea. Besides, the doctor said Draco needs rest too, and Lucius could return at any moment—someone must have warned him by now. Do you have any idea what would happen if he found you in the same room as his son?"

"Please, just ten minutes. I don’t know if he meant to do it, but he saved me, and making sure he’s all right is the least I can do."

The blue-eyed boy hesitated for a moment, then, raising his hands in surrender, sighed.
"Alright, Gryffindor, there’s no stopping you, is there? Here, wear this—your dress is torn from the fight, and you must be freezing."

He placed his black satin jacket over Hermione’s shoulders as she slowly got to her feet, struggling slightly.

The two walked in silence through the corridors of the Manor, passing by the grand hall where the party had taken place. The room was in complete disarray—glasses and bottles of liquor were scattered everywhere, but there was no sign of the guests. Only Theo and Daphne remained, sitting on one of the large sofas, waiting for news about Draco. The blonde Slytherin girl gave Hermione a small smile as she passed, while Theodore simply lowered his gaze, almost as if he felt guilty for what had happened to her.

After all, it had been one of their own who had done this to her. They , who prided themselves on being superior, who would never have considered mingling with those beneath them, had proven to have the same base instincts as beasts.

Past the hall, they reached the grand marble staircase that dominated the entrance hall. Step by step, they ascended to the second floor, where Cloppy and the doctor stood. The physician had just finished examining Draco and was preparing to leave, handing the little elf a list of instructions for his care along with his fee.

Blaise bid the doctor farewell and led Hermione to Draco’s door. After opening it, he gestured for her to enter but warned her not to stay longer than necessary.

Hermione stepped inside and gently closed the door behind her. The air was thick with the scent of medicine, and the shut windows did little to ease the sense of claustrophobia creeping over her.

Moving cautiously toward the grand canopy bed, she took care not to make a sound—both to avoid waking Draco and because she feared his reaction upon seeing her there. After all, he was in this state because he had protected her.

Reaching the foot of the bed, she felt a wave of relief upon realizing he was sleeping peacefully.

The blanket was loosely draped over him, leaving his pale, relaxed torso exposed, rising and falling steadily with his breath. His arms rested at his sides, his head slightly tilted to the left, his platinum hair falling over part of his face.

Gathering her courage, she stepped closer until she was standing right beside him, her knees pressing lightly against the soft mattress.

He looked so peaceful in his sleep, so innocent —almost as if arrogance and cruelty had never been a part of him. But then, her eyes landed on the Dark Mark, stark against his toned arm, a permanent reminder of the world she was trapped in. A brand of disgrace, seared not only into his skin but into his very soul.

After watching him for a few moments, she decided it would be best not to wake him. She had come to thank him, but she could do so another time. Just as she turned to leave, a quiet voice stopped her in her tracks.

"You need to stop staring at me while I sleep, Mudblood, or I might actually think you fancy me."

"Malfoy, I’m glad you’re feeling better. I see you haven’t lost your sarcasm," she replied, turning back to him. "I just came to check on you… and to thank you. If it weren’t for you, I don’t know how things would have ended. But I should let you rest now, especially since I need to change—I can’t exactly go around dressed like thi—"

" Did I make it in time ?"

His question caught Hermione off guard. For the first time in her life, she was speechless.

"I need to know if I made it in time. I need to know that he didn’t… well, you know..—" he trailed off, visibly uncomfortable.

"You made it in time, Malfoy. I just have a few scratches and bruises, that’s all."

As she spoke, she instinctively pulled Blaise’s jacket closer around herself, but the motion had the opposite effect. The oversized garment, already precariously draped over her small frame, slipped from her shoulders, falling soundlessly to the floor and leaving her nearly exposed.

Draco’s gaze traveled over her, taking in the full extent of her injuries. Her dress was in tatters, barely clinging to her, and her arms and legs were covered in scrapes and bruises from when she had been thrown against the table. Even her lips bore the evidence of her ordeal. But what horrified him most was the deep, angry bite mark on her chest, surrounded by dried droplets of blood—a vile brand of shame that marred her pale, fragile form.

Draco reached out a hand, as if to comfort her, but she flinched away. His fingers froze midair before he let them drop uselessly onto the mattress.

"I won’t let anyone take advantage of you, Mudblood. That’s a promise."

" The promises of a Slytherin are like air, Malfoy—empty and intangible ."

He started to protest, pushing himself up, but a sharp pain seized his chest, forcing him to collapse back against the pillows with a groan. Hermione instinctively moved closer, startled by his reaction, and in doing so, found herself sitting on the edge of his bed, right beside him.

They had never been this close before. A strange energy crackled between them, an unspoken tension hanging in the air. Draco, as if caught in a trance , leaned toward her.

Hermione wanted to run. She wanted to scream, to push him away, to cry. But she couldn’t do anything— she could only stare into those icy eyes .

The blond, moving very slowly, raised his hand to Hermione’s face and, with delicate fingers, tucked a rebellious curl behind her ear, brushing against her cheek, now flushed crimson with emotion.

At that slightest touch, both felt an almost electric shock surge through their bodies— an energy so new and invigorating it nearly stole their breath away . For Draco, it was as if the pain of the past hours had become nothing more than a distant memory, something that had never even happened.

He had never felt this way before.

Frightened, Hermione immediately recoiled. She stood up and took a few hurried steps away from the bed.

"I shouldn’t… this is a mistake. It was just a mistake," she stammered, likely trying to convince herself more than him.

Draco, meanwhile, was staring at his own hand, utterly confused.

"You felt it too, didn’t you, Mudblood?" he asked. When Hermione didn’t answer, his confusion quickly turned to anger.
"Don’t deny it. Don’t make me feel like I’m going insane, damn it. What the hell was that? Some kind of spell? It had to be you— I want to know what you did to me !"

His temper flaring, he jumped to his feet and grabbed her roughly by the arm. She wrenched free with a sharp pull and nearly shouted back at him,

"You’re insane! I didn’t do anything! And how could I have, anyway? I don’t even have my wand! Just know this—it will never happen again, because I wouldn’t come near you even under the Imperius curse . I thought you’d changed, but you’re just the same arrogant, idiotic Slytherin as always!"

And with that, she spun on her heel and stormed out of the room.

The brief moment of harmony had shattered, leaving behind an indelible mark on both of them. Something had changed in that room, something that would soon be impossible for anyone to ignore.

Meanwhile, in the grand yet ominous hall of a dark castle, a group of men had gathered. Black tapestries adorned with skulls and serpents hung from the towering walls, and the atmosphere was as chilling as it was spectral. Only a few scattered candles flickered in the vast darkness of the night.

At the far end of the room, seated upon a massive throne, was the Dark Lord himself. His long black robes starkly contrasted against his cadaverous complexion, and his loyal Nagini slithered slowly around the base of his seat.

Clusters of Death Eaters whispered amongst themselves, their excitement palpable. Something was shifting—something was about to change.

Suddenly, the great doors swung open with a thunderous crash. Greyback strode in, dragging along another figure, much smaller and slighter than himself.

Voldemort rose from his seat and, gliding across the cold stone floor as if floating, completely ignored the werewolf. Instead, he approached the newcomer.

"There you are, my precious sparrow . I have been eagerly awaiting your visit. Does the Resistance still believe you are on their side?"

"Of course, my Lord," the mysterious figure replied, bowing low to kiss his skeletal hand.

"What news do you bring me this time? Are there any planned attacks? Have you finally discovered their main hideout?"

"Not yet, my Lord. I have not been allowed into the inner circle—they keep us all separated in small groups to prevent anyone from uncovering their headquarters," the figure admitted, stepping back slightly, as if fearful.
"But they are starting to trust me. Soon, I will find out where they are hiding. I have also heard whispers of a spy… someone very close to some of your Death Eaters ."

"Good, very good,sparrow. I see you are making progress. Soon, we shall celebrate over the corpses of the Resistance."

His crimson eyes gleamed as he tilted the figure’s chin up with a single bony finger.

"A spy, you say? I want a name. Do not disappoint me— you know what happens to those who fail me ."

With a flick of his wrist, he motioned for Fenrir to take the guest away. Then, he returned to his throne, deep in thought.

This latest revelation unsettled him. Who could be harboring a traitor under their very roof, completely unaware? And more importantly, could this spy have overheard secrets that were never meant to leave this chamber?

Absentmindedly running his fingers over the scaly skin of his serpent, the Dark Lord made a silent vow.

Whoever this traitor was… he would personally see to it that they met their end at his hands.

Chapter Text

Hermione had just stormed out of the room of the " arrogant and stupid Slytherin " when she found herself face-to-face with three pairs of eyes staring at her. Zabini, Daphne, and Nott were gathered in the antechamber, waiting for her with evident impatience.

"So, how's Draco?" asked the blonde Slytherin.

" Still an asshole , as always," Hermione snapped, turning to leave—only for the door behind her to fly open, revealing a very irate Draco Malfoy.

"I’m an asshole?? You put a spell on me—a charm, a hex, something—and now you’re going to tell me exactly what it was, because I ORDER YOU TO!"

Zabini tried to step between them, but Hermione shoved her way past him until she was standing directly in front of Draco. From an outsider’s perspective, the scene might have looked almost comical— like David facing Goliath —but for those present, it was anything but amusing.

Pure hatred crackled between them, their gazes locked in a furious clash, their hands twitching at their sides, ready to strike if needed.

" You order me? YOU ORDER ME ?" Hermione shouted. "You have no right to order me around, Malfoy. I already told you—I have no idea what you’re talking about. I didn’t do anything! That fight with that guy must have given you hallucinations!"

"I order whatever I want, Granger. Like it or not, you belong to me . You are mine, and I can do whatever I damn well please with you!" he shot back, glaring down at her from his superior height.

"Yours? Ha! I'd rather spit in your face than be yours! If only I could—"

The argument, which was seconds away from turning into an all-out brawl, was interrupted by an acerbic voice from the stairs.

"Draco, what the hell is going on here?"

Hermione rolled her eyes in frustration. Perfect. Just what she needed—Malfoy’s fiancée.

Sure enough, Astoria had just entered the antechamber, met with distinctly unwelcoming stares.

"Astoria? What are you doing here?" Daphne asked, not even bothering to hide the irritation in her voice.

"I’m here for my future husband, obviously . Thanks for not thinking to inform me, Daphne—Lucius took care of that for you." Then, brushing past her sister, her gaze landed on Draco. "I thought I’d find you bedridden and in pain, but instead, here you are, arguing with… this servant."

She let the last words drip with contempt as she glanced disdainfully at Hermione.

"Thanks for stopping by, Astoria, but as you can see, it was completely unnecessary. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to be alone with my friends." Draco turned to walk away.

"Are you dismissing me, Draco? Me—your loving fiancée ?"

"Oh, spare me the dramatics, Greengrass. You’re making me nauseous. If you came here, it’s because you want something, but right now, I have neither the patience nor the slightest inclination to listen to you, let alone indulge you. So, if you’d be so kind—get lost."

With a final, thinly veiled insult thrown at her future husband, Astoria turned on her heel and descended the stairs. The slam of the front door echoed through the hall, signaling her departure—a sound that brought a collective sigh of relief from those left behind.

From a corner, Hermione had quietly observed the entire exchange. As soon as Astoria was gone, she tried to slip away unnoticed, but Draco caught her by the wrist.

"Where do you think you’re going, Granger? I’m not finished with you yet! You owe me—"

He never got the chance to finish his sentence. At that exact moment, he, Theo, and Zabini all clutched their heads in pain.

"Damn it," Theo muttered, tense. "He’s calling us. And when he calls like this, out of nowhere—it’s never a good sign."

Blaise turned to Daphne. "I have to go, love. Wait for me at home."

The blonde bid farewell to the boys—and to Hermione—before Disapparating. Hermione watched, feeling a stab of irritation. She could Apparate. Lucky her .

"Let’s go. Keeping him waiting is never a good idea," Draco said as he prepared to leave. "You—stay here. This conversation isn’t over."

"Oh, sure," Hermione scoffed. "Because I have so many options to leave this place, don’t I, Malfoy?"

But as soon as she finished speaking, she realized she was alone. The three boys had already Disapparated.

Anxiety gnawed at her. She had no idea why Voldemort had summoned them so suddenly. Did it have something to do with her friends? Had the Dark Lord discovered something?

She thought about finding Margi, but then remembered the girl had gone out—escorted, of course—to Diagon Alley.

With nothing else to do, she decided she might as well tidy up the sitting room. At least it would keep her mind from wandering to darker thoughts.

Meanwhile, the three young men had arrived at the hideout. The atmosphere was as eerie as ever, and it didn’t take them long to realize that nearly all of the Dark Lord’s followers had been summoned.

Draco noticed that his father was missing but didn’t dwell on it. Lucius was one of the most trusted; he conversed with Voldemort privately and certainly wouldn’t mingle with the rest of the affiliates.

Once everyone had gathered in the grand hall, the Dark Lord made his entrance, accompanied by his faithful Nagini. He took his place at the center of the room, scrutinizing his assembled followers before speaking.

"Word has reached me that one of my devotees, one of my most cherished protégés , has been treating one of the servants I so generously bestowed upon him with far too much… affection. "

A murmur of disgust rippled through the Death Eaters. Mingling with filth? Who could have stooped so low?

Only one among them remained utterly still—almost petrified. Tiny beads of cold sweat trickled down his forehead as a mixture of terror and grim realization spread beneath his skin.

The Dark Lord came to a stop in front of Theo, gazing at him with an almost pitying expression.

"Nott, did you really think I wouldn’t find out?"

At that moment, the doors burst open, and two Death Eaters entered, dragging the bruised and battered body of a girl—Hannah Abbott.

Draco and Blaise’s eyes widened in shock. They were the only ones who knew Theo’s secret. Who else could have betrayed him?

The girl was thrown to the floor between Theo and Voldemort, not daring to lift her head, paralyzed by fear. Fear for herself, but even more so for Theo. She knew what he was being accused of. They had fallen in love, but within the ranks of the Death Eaters, love between unequals was condemned— especially love for a servant .

"I thought that by giving you this slave, I would strengthen your loyalty to me," Voldemort mused, his voice dangerously soft. "And yet, you mock me by falling in love with her?"

Theo opened his mouth to respond, but the Lord cut him off.

"Don’t bother justifying yourself, Nott. Your father has already confessed everything to me, and you know what fate awaits traitors."

Malfoy and Zabini instinctively moved forward, ready to stand by their friend, to fight for him—but Voldemort shot them a sly, almost amused smile.

"Boys… boys. You don’t actually think I would kill one of my most loyal followers, do you ?"

With his long, blackened nails, the Dark Lord dug his fingers into Theo’s cheeks, his crimson eyes seeming to pierce through his very soul. Then, without warning, he released him and moved behind Hannah, who remained kneeling on the cold floor.

The girl, realizing her end was near, summoned every ounce of courage she had left. She slowly lifted her face to look at Theo, and without speaking, mouthed a silent “I love you.”

Theo’s hand flew to his wand, ready to strike down the monster that dared call himself his master—

But Draco, moving discreetly, seized his wrist and murmured, "He’ll kill you. Not now."

Hannah’s execution was excruciating. Voldemort could have used magic, ended it instantly— but this was meant to be a lesson for all . This is what happens to those who betray him.

The girl’s delicate throat was sliced clean through, and as life drained from her, her body collapsed into a growing pool of blood. No one dared look away from the gruesome spectacle.

Two burly men hauled her lifeless body away, and the Dark Lord turned back to address his followers.

"Let this serve as an example to all of you. I have been merciful to young Nott because he has always been faithful to me—and because, in the end, Miss Abbott was at least a pureblood. But if this were to happen with a half-blood… or worse, a Mudblood—I assure you, I will kill you with my own hands. You may leave."

At those final words, Draco felt a shudder run down his spine.

Was that… meant for him? Impossible. There had never been anything between him and Granger. And yet… he could have sworn Voldemort had been looking directly at him.

"Draco! Draco, damn it!"

Blaise’s voice jolted him from his thoughts.

"We need to get him out of here, now!"

Draco gave a sharp nod, and together, the three young men Disapparated back to the Manor.

Hermione was just leaving the kitchens when she heard the sound of Apparition followed by a terrible scream—one that sent shivers down her spine and tore at her heart. She immediately ran towards the living room, and the sight before her took her breath away.

Theo had just thrown the furniture across the room, his face twisted in grief, tears streaming down his cheeks, and his eyes burning with deep, uncontrollable rage. Draco and Blaise were desperately trying to hold him back.

"I’ll kill him, do you hear me, Draco? I’ll kill him, fuck! I want to see him dead! DEAD!" Theo kept shouting, his voice raw with fury.

"Stop shouting, Theo, for fuck’s sake. Do you want someone to hear you? Do you want him to kill you too? Is that what you want?" Draco snapped back.

"I don’t care. I don’t give a damn anymore. She’s dead, do you understand? She’s dead. He tore her away from me before I could even say goodbye. I’m a coward . It should have been me, not her," Theo said, dropping to his knees on the carpet, sobbing silently.

Blaise pulled Draco aside and whispered, "This is getting dangerous. Voldemort has gone completely insane. We’re nothing but pawns to him now. We have to do something."

As the two whispered urgently to each other, Hermione, who had been standing quietly in the background, hesitated for only a moment before stepping closer to Theo.

She didn’t know if it was a good idea, but her heart was too kind to let him suffer alone. Kneeling beside him, she did the first thing that came naturally—she embraced him.

Theo collapsed into her arms, sobbing. "They killed her, Granger. They killed my Hanna. My sweet Hanna! She was innocent, she never hurt anyone."

Hermione had already guessed what had happened, but hearing it confirmed hit her like a punch to the stomach. Memories of late-night patrols with Hanna, their cheerful conversations in the Prefects’ lounge, flooded her mind. They had never been best friends, but she couldn’t stop the silent tears that escaped her eyes—not just for Hanna, but for Theo, who was now utterly shattered.

Theo lifted his tear-streaked face, locking his dark eyes onto Hermione’s. "You could be next, Granger. You have to run. Get out of here. Run ."

Hermione instinctively recoiled, fear creeping into her expression. It was only then that Draco noticed her presence.

"What the hell are you doing here, Mudblood?" he growled, stepping toward her.

At that moment, as if something inside him had snapped, Theo jumped to his feet and got right in Draco’s face. "You can’t protect her, Malfoy. They’ll kill her too, and you know it. It’s only a matter of time before they come for her."

Hermione stood frozen, eyes wide, while Blaise decided it was time to get Theo out of there. There had been enough pain for one day.

"Come on, Theo. You’re coming with me. You need to rest," Blaise said, grabbing his friend. Without another word, he Disapparated, taking Theo with him.

Draco and Hermione were left alone.

The tension between them was thick, almost suffocating. Hermione hadn’t realized she was staring at him so intensely until Draco turned to her and snapped, furious, "What the hell are you looking at, Mudblood? Are you judging me?"

Caught off guard, Hermione opened her mouth to reply, but Draco cut her off.

"I know what you’re thinking. That we’re monsters, right?" he hissed, stepping dangerously close to her. "That we don’t care about our friends’ suffering, that we chose this, that we enjoy watching people die right in front of us."

He was so close now she could feel his breath on her skin. Draco knew perfectly well that Hermione had done nothing wrong, but rage, pain, and helplessness had twisted together into something dark, something uncontrollable . He needed to lash out at someone, and the only person there was her.

His hands shot out, gripping her wrists tightly.

"You think we enjoyed being branded like dogs? While you and your perfect little friends got to choose the side of good, we were turned into heartless murderers, right? I can see it in your eyes, Mudblood," he spat, his grip tightening.

Her wrists burned from the pressure, and the more she struggled, the harder he held on. Strength was draining from her arms; she was terrified—terrified of the boy in front of her, of what he might do. Would he actually kill her ?

"Malfoy, please, you’re hurting me," she whispered, voice trembling.

But he wasn’t hearing her. He wasn’t seeing her. In his mind, it wasn’t Hermione’s wrists he was crushing—it was Voldemort’s throat. He needed to end it, to kill him, to erase that monster and all the suffering he had caused.

"Draco, let me go, please," Hermione whimpered, feeling her bones begin to crack under the pressure.

If pain could ever truly be understood, Draco felt it that day. Seeing his best friend shattered, his world crumbling—years of fear, humiliation, and frustration had exploded all at once, and Hermione was caught in the storm.

"DRACO, LET ME GO! PLEASE!"

Her desperate cry finally broke through. He looked down at his hands, realizing what he was doing. A shock ran through his body, and he recoiled as if burned. He felt disgusting, monstrous. He immediately let go, stepping away as she cradled her wrists, now bruised and turning purple.

"I… I’m sorry. I don’t know…" He ran a shaking hand through his hair before collapsing onto the couch, head buried in his palms. "You shouldn’t come near me, Mudblood. I’m dangerous. There’s too much darkness inside me. I can’t control it anymore. I could have killed you."

" But you didn’t ."

The rational part of Hermione—if she had any left—should have told her to listen to Theo’s warning. To run. To escape while her " master " was vulnerable and broken. But just like that time when he had tried to strangle her, she ignored it.

Luna had always told her back at school, You Gryffindors are too stubborn for your own good.

Following her instincts, Hermione moved closer and sat beside him.

"You didn’t," she repeated. "You stopped yourself. There’s still hope. You don’t have to live like this. You can fight back. The Resistance—" She hesitated, almost mentioning Neville and the others, but stopped herself. She couldn’t put them in danger. "The Resistance is real. You can join them, you can—"

Draco let out a hollow, bitter laugh. "You’re so naive, Mudblood. He would kill us all. Don’t you get it? Your friends are already doomed. We’re all doomed."

"Good always wins in the end, Malfoy. You just have to have hope," Hermione insisted, though she wasn’t sure she believed it anymore.

" Good is dead, Grange r. How can you be so stupid?" he snapped, turning to her sharply.

Hermione wanted to be strong, wanted to stand her ground, but hopelessness crashed over her like a wave, and her eyes filled with tears.

Seeing that— seeing her pain —something inside Draco shattered.

Gently, almost hesitantly, he reached out, cupping her face in his hands. "You’re so innocent, Granger. So pure… so…"

He never finished his sentence. Instead, he leaned in, pressing his lips softly against hers.

But someone was watching from the shadows .

Chapter Text

Hermione was utterly taken aback by that small, chaste kiss; the blond’s lips were soft, and he smelled of tobacco and mint. Her rational mind screamed at her to pull away at once—after all, she was kissing her tormentor—but something stopped her. She felt the need to hold him close, to not let go, because he awakened sensations within her that she had long thought dead—irrational, impossible feelings.
As these thoughts raced through her mind, she felt Draco’s hand brush against her neck, followed by a strange lightness in that very spot. He pulled away and dropped a piece of steel into her lap—the collar he had placed around her neck on the very first day.
"I no longer have a reason to keep this on you, Mudblood. I know you won’t run. And besides… now you know what would happen if you did."
His voice had returned to its usual cold, calculating tone. Then, without another word, he turned on his heel and left the room.
Hermione remained frozen, staring blankly ahead, turning the collar over in her trembling hands while a storm of thoughts raged in her mind. She followed Draco with her eyes as he disappeared beyond the doorway, wondering what had just transpired between them.
Two sworn enemies. A Slytherin and a Gryffindor. A Death Eater and his slave. It was wrong in every possible way… and yet, she did not regret it. The memory of Ron sent a sharp pang of guilt through her chest, but she pushed it aside. In that moment, there was only space for the bewilderment brought on by that fleeting moment of tenderness.
She rose to her feet, hoping her legs wouldn’t betray her, and made her way to her chamber. Perhaps the night would grant her some clarity… or so she hoped.

Of course, the hope of a peaceful night had been in vain.
She had spent the entire time tossing and turning in her sheets, trying to make sense of what had happened the night before; but, needless to say, she had failed.
It all felt so absurd that she even entertained the idea that she had merely dreamed it. But when she caught sight of her reflection in the small bathroom mirror and saw her bare neck—devoid of the collar—she knew her thoughts had been foolish.
She needed to talk to Draco. But she wasn’t at all sure he would be willing to provide her with any explanations. To him, it had likely been nothing more than a moment of weakness, brought on by the horrors of the previous afternoon.
Dressing in her usual uniform, she made her way to the dining hall to have a quick breakfast before she was expected to resume her duties in the manor.
At that same moment, in the dim solitude of his own chambers, Draco was drowning in his own thoughts, cursing himself for what he had done.
Of course, Granger was attractive. But she was still a Mudblood. A slave.
Draco Malfoy had had countless affairs with just as many women, but not a single one had ever made him feel what Hermione had managed to stir in him with just her mere presence.
And that—more than anything—unnerved him.
What the hell was that little Mudblood doing to him?
He had felt something strange, something unfamiliar, when she was in his arms… but before he could make sense of it, the Dark Lord’s summons had interrupted any chance at further contemplation.
That damned summons.
If he closed his eyes, he could still see Hannah Abbott’s blood dripping from her pale throat. He could still hear Nott’s broken sobs echoing in his ears.
Surely, the horrors of the day had simply driven him to seek solace in the frail Gryffindor. That was the only possible explanation.
He needed to regain control. To stay focused. To make sure it never happened again.
Shaking his head, he pushed himself up from the bed, stripping off his pajama bottoms and reaching for a crisp white shirt and a simple pair of black trousers. A heavy day awaited him—rumors of rebel movements had surfaced in abandoned estates, and he, along with his most trusted companions and several other Death Eaters, had been tasked with investigating them.
For the briefest moment, he wondered what he would do if they actually found the rebels.
Would he kill them? Would he be able to? Was his loyalty wavering, just like Theo’s and Blaise’s?
Stupid thoughts, Draco. Stupid and—above all—dangerous, even for you, he scolded himself.
Shaking away his doubts, he finished buttoning his shirt and headed towards the dining hall.

The two met again, for the first time since the night before, in the grand hall of the manor.
Hermione was setting the table for breakfast when she felt the unmistakable presence of the young Malfoy behind her.
She wanted to say something—so many things—demand an explanation for the gesture that had haunted her all night.
But he wouldn’t even look at her.
There you go, princess, what did you expect? That he’d declare his undying love and you’d live happily ever after?
That irritating little voice in her head wouldn’t stop mocking her.
Gathering her courage, she turned to face Draco, determined to get the answers she needed.
But before she could utter a single word, her gaze was drawn to the top of the staircase—where the menacing figure of Lucius Malfoy was descending.
It had been days since anyone had seen him in the Manor. She hadn’t even noticed his return.
Yet, there he was, his expression as contemptuous as ever, regarding her as though she were nothing more than an insect.
But there was something else in his gaze—something vile, something repulsive, something almost… lustful.
She ignored it.
After all, he was a Malfoy. One could assign him all the unpleasant adjectives in the world without the need for further explanation.
"Good morning, Father," Draco said, his senses alert, already suspecting that something was amiss. "I hadn’t noticed your return. Was your business trip successful?"
"Obviously, Draco," his father replied coldly, absentmindedly skimming the front page of The Daily Prophet. "I didn’t take you for someone interested in the family’s finances. You’re usually more preoccupied with squandering our wealth."
Draco’s irritation was evident. He had spent his entire life trying to earn the approval of the proud blond man standing before him, but nothing had ever been enough.
Not his excellent academic performance.
Not his victories on the Quidditch field.
Not even the Dark Mark burned into his arm.
Nothing had ever pleased Lucius Malfoy.
And so, over time, their relationship had turned glacial, their exchanges limited to official gatherings and bitter, cutting remarks.
"And I do it rather well," Draco muttered under his breath, instantly regretting it.
"Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have patrols to attend to—some rebels have been spotted near the Dark Lord’s castle."
With that, he grabbed his cloak and Disapparated.
That last bit of information made Hermione’s stomach twist.
She needed to get word to Neville immediately.
By the way, how much time had passed since their last meeting? Those days had been so hectic that she had even lost track of time. After promising herself that she would talk to Margaery as soon as possible and arrange a meeting, she anxiously realized that Draco’s departure had left her alone with Lucius. It was the first time this had happened, and an uneasy feeling took hold of her. She glanced at Malfoy senior, who didn’t seem to be paying her any attention, and thought to take this opportunity to leave, heading towards the kitchen under the pretense of clearing the table.
Grabbing the empty teapot and taking a couple of steps away, she suddenly heard the blond man’s cold voice addressing her.
"Miss Granger, where are you rushing off to? Stay, you wouldn’t want to leave me here all alone. Have a seat."
The girl froze in fear, and for a moment, the idea of running away as fast as she could took root in her mind. But she quickly berated herself for being so foolish. Lucius could curse her in a second—perhaps even kill her—and she now had a reason to live: the Resistance.
Slowly turning around, she fixed her gaze on the Death Eater's deep, ice-blue eyes, which instantly reminded her of Draco’s. She approached the large table and, pulling out one of the heavy chairs, sat down, folding her hands on the marble surface.
Lucius stood up gracefully and positioned himself directly behind the girl.
"Last night, I happened to witness something I never thought I would see in my entire life. You—the Gryffindor heroine, the sister of Harry Potter," he pronounced the name with as much disgust as he could muster, "abandoning yourself to earthly pleasures with my son, a Death Eater, and your captor, no less. Quite the shocking revelation, wouldn’t you say, Miss Granger?"
Hermione was petrified. How had he seen them? It had been just a moment, a touch so brief it was barely tangible even to her and the Slytherin.
"I see I’ve caught you off guard, Miss Granger. But don’t worry, I certainly didn’t linger to watch. I’ve heard rumors about you Mudbloods, you know? Lately, many of you have been rightfully imprisoned and enslaved, and it seems your reputation precedes you. You’re deceitful, slippery—essentially prostitutes who sell themselves to the highest bidder in exchange for, what? A warm meal, a clean bed, perhaps even a prestigious social position."
As he spoke, Lucius moved closer and closer to Hermione until she could feel his warm breath on her neck. Suddenly, he grabbed her arm and forced her to stand, turning her toward him, her back and legs awkwardly pressed against the long marble table. His grip tightened more and more, and her back ached terribly, the hard edge of the marble almost piercing through the thin fabric of her uniform.
"I never would have thought you’d stoop to such cheap tricks—and even less that my son would fall for them so foolishly. Of course, even for a mudblood, you certainly have some qualities, Miss Granger—qualities that aren’t so well hidden, as I can see”
His hand began to caress her leg, moving dangerously close to her most intimate areas.
“L-let me go,” she tried to murmur, her vision blurred with tears.
"What was that, Miss Granger? I didn’t quite catch it," the blond man said, as his other hand moved toward the buttons of her blouse.
“Let me go. Let me go right now, please,” Hermione said, finding a thread of voice and a sliver of courage, pushing Lucius away with her outstretched arms.
“So, our little mudblood doesn’t go with just anyone, I see. My son must be quite privileged. And yet, there’s a little problem in all of this, my dear. As you know, our Dark Lord does not approve of mixing blood—especially not with servants. You must have heard about poor Miss Abbott; she cried like a baby when the Dark Lord slit her throat from ear to ear," he said with a malicious smile creeping across his face.
"If I ever so much as suspect my son of keeping company with a filthy mudblood like you again, I will report him myself. And then, when that fool perishes under the Dark Lord’s unforgivable curse, I will make sure you are mine—and I will torture you in ways that will make you beg for death as a mercy. I trust I have made myself clear, Miss Granger."
And with that, he Disapparated.
Hermione was overtaken by violent tremors. She collapsed onto her knees and began to cry silently. She was terrified—terrified of what Lucius might do to her. And, though she probably didn’t want to admit it to herself, she was also afraid for Draco’s life.
His father had been clear—he wouldn’t hesitate to condemn his only son to death. The shame of mingling with a mudblood was simply too great.
As she tried to steady herself, an idea flickered in her mind. It was dangerous—probably deadly—but it was the only way out for her… and for Malfoy.

Draco had just returned to his room after dinner and had immediately thrown himself onto the bed. That evening, Margaery had servei at the table, telling him that Hermione hadn’t been feeling well. The temptation to visit the girl in her chambers had been strong, but what excuse could he possibly use to justify his visit? Despite the kiss from the night before, he was still her master—he had no reason to concern himself with her health.
The day had been fruitless, and despite having searched at least a dozen estates, they had found no trace of the rebels. His men were in low spirits, all of them worried about how the Dark Lord would react once he learned of their failure.
With these thoughts weighing heavily on his mind, and with the image of the mudblood girl lingering in his memory, he slipped into a deep sleep.
In the dead of night, a hooded figure moved through the silent, dark house. It cautiously approached Draco’s bedroom door, hesitating for a moment before turning quickly toward the kitchens.
Hermione knew she was being reckless, but she saw no other way to protect both herself and the boy. She swiftly grabbed a few pieces of bread and some water, stuffing them into a small bag she had found in her room, and then made her way to the garden.
Her hands fumbled as she searched for the secret passage Margi and Neville had revealed to her. With her heart pounding, she pushed open the small door, allowing hope to flood her body.
The icy night air whipped against her face, her cloak offering little protection, and she chattered her teeth from the cold. But for the first time in months, she was breathing the air of freedom.
She didn’t yet know where she would go—somehow, she would find the rebels—but for now, that wasn’t her concern. She turned one last time toward Malfoy Manor, letting her gaze sweep over the towering stone walls before heading toward the clearing that would lead her into the forest.
She walked quickly, stumbling, her breath short with anxiety—until a chilling voice, one she recognized instantly, made the blood freeze in her veins.
“Do you really think I’m that stupid, Granger?”

Chapter Text

"Do you really think I’m that stupid, Granger?"

Damn it , how had he found her? She had been careful not to make a sound, had chosen a moment in the dead of night, certain that every member of the household would be asleep—yet Draco was there, standing before her, staring with that icy gaze.

“You’re probably wondering how I discovered you. It’s quite simple—a Death Eater never sleeps. We can’t afford to. We must always be vigilant, always ready in case someone tries to take our lives... or tries to escape.”

The curly-haired girl took a step toward him, shaking her head. “It’s not what you think, Draco, I can explain—”

“Draco?” he cut her off sharply. “Since when have we switched to first names, Mudblood? Have you forgotten your place? Or have you deluded yourself into believing that ridiculous kiss actually meant something? Oh, for Salazar’s sake, filthy Mudblood, you are so pathetic.”

His words were laced with mocking laughter, but inside, he felt that familiar pain creeping in—this time sharper, more piercing. And along with it, something else . A strange sense of disappointment that unsettled him more than he cared to admit. What had he expected? That she would stay with him forever, never attempting to run? Even he, in her position, would have fled—perhaps done something even worse.

But she was different. And for one foolish moment, he had truly believed that things could change.

Malfoy didn’t realize it, but inside him, an uncontrollable rage was building—a fury born from betrayal. He had been lenient with her, treated her well, fed her, kept her warm—and this was how she repaid him?

The more he thought about it, the angrier he became. The hatred burned brighter, his heart twisted in an indescribable grip. To hell with it, he thought , this time, you won’t break me.

“As for your so-called explanation—I don’t care. I wouldn’t have expected anything different from a traitor like you. You must have thought the cruel Malfoy from Hogwarts no longer existed. I can’t wait to prove you wrong .”

And with that, he cast a Stupefy.

Hermione collapsed to the ground, helpless under the force of the spell, cast with far too much anger. Even unconscious, she was beautiful, Draco thought for a fleeting moment—but he quickly shook his head. This is not the time to be sentimental. Granger had betrayed his trust—a trust that was nearly impossible to earn—and for that, she would pay.

He had been sitting in his usual armchair for hours, puffing smoke from his cigarette, lost in thought, when he heard the familiar crack of Apparition behind him.

Theo made a beeline for the liquor cabinet, grabbing a bottle of Firewhisky with unnecessary force before collapsing onto the leather couch. Things had only gotten worse in the two days since Hannah’s death. He spent his time drinking, staring blankly at the wall—perhaps waiting for his beloved to return, or for the courage to join her.

“I don’t think this is helping, Theo. You need to process what happened. I know it’s only been a short time, but you can’t keep destroying yourself like this,” Blaise said, appearing beside him.

The blond, who had remained silent until then, slowly turned his chair toward his two friends, sarcasm dripping from his voice. “Well, what a pleasant surprise. To what do I owe the honor?”

Nott mumbled something incoherent, but Draco hadn’t expected much of a response from him. It was a miracle he could still stand. So instead, he looked at Zabini.

“I need to speak with Hermione,” the dark-haired boy said. “Ginny accidentally found a copy of The Daily Prophet reporting her brother’s death, and you can imagine how devastated she was. Daphne and I don’t know how to handle it. I thought maybe her friend could help calm her down.”

“We’re all going to die sooner or later,” Theo muttered, his gaze vacant.

“For Salazar’s sake, Nott, I swear I’m going to Crucio you myself,” Draco snapped in frustration. “Anyway, I’m sorry, Blaise, but Granger is currently unavailable. She’s locked in the Manor’s dungeons, and I’m afraid she’ll be staying there for quite some time.”

“Oh, locked in the dungeons, I see…” Zabini murmured absentmindedly before realizing the weight of what Draco had just said. He nearly shouted, “ Why the hell did you imprison Hermione ?”

“Yes, Draco, Blaise is right. Why?” Theo asked, momentarily distracted from his bottle.

“I’m glad to see you two are so concerned about the Mudblood,” Draco sneered. “I punished her because she tried to escape. She got exactly what she deserved.”

The three boys fell into silence, each lost in their own thoughts. Then, tired of their accusatory stares, Draco exploded.

“What the hell was I supposed to do? Let her go? Maybe even congratulate her and help her reunite with her precious friends? No, gentlemen, that’s not happening. Think, just for a moment, about what the Dark Lord would do once he found out… I value my life, thanks.”

“I don’t want to serve him anymore…” Theo whispered.

“Bloody hell, Theo, speak up—I can’t hear you when you mutter like a damn girl.”

“I said, I don’t want to serve him anymore, Draco. And you should be tired of this too.”

Draco shot to his feet, stormed to the door, and sealed the study with a nonverbal Silencing Charm. “Are you insane? Don’t you know that in this house, even the walls have ears? And what do you think you’ll do? Get yourself killed? Oh, brilliant plan, really. As if that would bring Abbott back. Go ahead—be a hero.”

Theo stood abruptly, grabbing Draco by the collar, his repressed fury spilling out. “You damned Malfoy, don’t you dare talk about her. DON’T YOU DARE! I don’t care if he kills me. In fact, do it yourself if you want. But I won’t take another order from that monster. I’m done with this madness. What do you think is going to happen when he’s finished with Potter’s friends, huh? He’ll start killing his own followers, anyone who makes even the slightest mistake! Are you really that blind?”

Blaise quickly stepped between them, forcing them apart. He wouldn’t let anger ruin their friendship. Someone had to keep a clear head. Someone had to remain in control.

“Theo, that’s enough, please,” he said, turning to Draco. “He’s upset, but he’s right. I was in Knockturn Alley yesterday, and all anyone talks about in every pub is discontent. Some want to organize a revolt; a few of our friends are even talking about joining the Resistance...”

“The Resistance? Puh! I spit on the Resistance,” Malfoy shouted. “ Filthy traitorous dogs —that’s what they are. Mostly a bunch of useless Gryffindors who only feel powerful in groups, hiding like rabbits in their filthy burrows without the courage to face us in open battle. What could they possibly offer us, huh? You’re so deluded to think they would welcome you with open arms after everything that’s been done to them? Foolish, that’s what you are. And you, Nott, do you really want to be a hero? Then go on, go get yourself killed; if the rebels don’t do it, the Death Eaters will, and this time, I won’t be there to cover your back.”

Theo threw the bottle to the ground and Disapparated, shooting a final hateful glance at his friend.

Blaise bent down to collect the shards of glass, shaking his head. “Can’t you see what they’re doing to us, Draco? They’re pitting us against each other, we who have always been like brothers . This isn’t our battle, and it isn’t even yours; not to mention you know well the burden that rests on your shoulders, or have you forgotten the curse?”

“To hell with you, cursed Zabini, with your endless whining. I can take care of myself, and I can manage my prisoners. If you have nothing else to say, you can leave.”

The dark-haired boy was resigned now; for too long, Draco Malfoy’s heart had been shaped by the anger and racism of his father and his entire family, and sooner or later, he would pay the consequences.

“ Suit yourself, brother ,” Blaise said, emphasizing the last word with a stone-like confidence, before disappearing as he had come, leaving the blond with a heavy heart and far too many questions swirling in his mind.

Hermione’s eyes had grown accustomed to the darkness of her cell; she kept wondering how long she had been trapped in that damp, decaying space, waiting to learn her fate. Hours could have passed, maybe even days; she would never know, as the sunlight didn’t reach the dungeons of Malfoy Manor. Ah, they had designed those prisons well, perfect for breaking even the strongest and most defiant spirit.

In the spectral silence, her ear caught the muffled sound of footsteps, followed by the creaking of the old, rusty door of her cell.

A hooded figure stealthily approached her, and as soon as the cloak was removed, Hermione recognized, in the dim light from the doorway, a shock of fiery red hair.

“Marg, is that you?”

“Hermione, oh my god, what has that monster done to you? How long have you been here? You must be freezing; here, I brought my cloak and something to eat,” she said, placing the heavy woolen garment over the thin frame of the Gryffindor and pulling a piece of bread and a flask of cool water from her bag. “I brought you what I could without drawing attention; this morning, Draco was visibly nervous and let slip about your imprisonment.”

The girl drank eagerly and wrapped herself in the warm cloak, but she couldn’t bring herself to touch the bread due to the knot of nerves in her stomach.

“You shouldn’t have come here, Marg; it could have been dangerous. If he had discovered you…”

“But he didn’t!” her friend replied with a warm smile that briefly warmed Hermione’s heart. “I absolutely had to come and check on you, especially because Neville would never have forgiven me…” and as she said that name, her cheeks flushed—a detail not missed by the curly-haired girl, though it passed to the background for the moment. “I have good news, Herm. We’re organizing a massive attack; we’ve gathered an army and want to take advantage of the Death Eaters’ moment of weakness to achieve a significant victory! But first, we absolutely have to free you! I’ll talk to Nev tonight, and we’ll set everything up; you don’t have to worry about anything! The time for redemption has come, finally! And I believe, for the first time, we might have unexpected reinforcements!”

Then, without giving Hermione time to respond, Marg continued, “I have to go now; Malfoy could be here any minute,” but I’ll be back, don’t doubt it. You’ll be free soon!” And with that, she dashed away just as quickly as she had come.

Free soon? How could that be? Malfoy had eyes everywhere; they would never manage to free her… on the other hand, if they did, that would mean fighting against him. Would she be ready? Of course, what a question; there couldn’t be any doubts! But still, there were doubts; what if she could convince him to rebel against Voldemort, to choose a better life? Silly ideas from a foolish girl , she told herself.

She was so absorbed in her thoughts that she didn’t even notice her captor standing right in front of her, watching her with a rather wicked smile.

“And now, let’s get to the matter at hand, Mudblood”

Chapter Text

Draco let his gaze roam through the damp cell, observing how this place was so eerie and cramped that it sent chills even down his spine; the mudeblood was huddled in a corner, clutching a worn cloak likely found in the very same cell, abandoned by some unfortunate soul.

Hundreds of prisoners had passed through the Manor, and most had never seen the light again. The boy still remembered the first time he was forced to witness one of his father's interrogations. It had been during his second year at Hogwarts, precisely while he spent the Christmas holidays at home—though they had always had very little of a holiday; during that time, the followers of the Dark Lord were gathering, awaiting his true physical rebirth, and the persecutions against traitors and blood traitors had grown sharper and more violent.

The imprisoned boy couldn’t have been more than twenty, roughly the age Draco was now, but what remained etched in the blond’s memory was the defiant and disgusted look in his eyes, one that had not bent even after Lucius’s countless tortures. That disgust would be something Draco would see many times as well, especially whenever he faced rebels or dealt with prisoners. Many would break, others showed nothing but a damn fear of death, but some did not; some held tightly to their pride, even at the cost of their lives. And so it had been for that brave boy, who died in agonizing solitude in a dark cell for a cause that would ultimately see him defeated.

The blond Slytherin obviously considered them fools; after all, the war had been won long ago. Yet the rebels continued to fight, refusing to surrender, fully aware that they were without hope. But a small part of his heart admired them for their pride, for their courage to stand firm against anything, a courage he had not possessed, having preferred to enslave himself to a madman with delusions of grandeur. They were kids to admire, if only they weren't on the wrong side.

And one of them was certainly Granger; he could see in her hazel eyes that she would never give up, that she would continue to fight even to the death, and that she would always see him as a heartless murderer. But what drove Malfoy madder than anything else was that in her gaze, he also found compassion, pity, almost regret; the slave who felt sorrow for her tormentor , condemned to a fate greater than himself. All of this was absurd, for fuck’s sake! She should have been afraid, she should have trembled at his entrance into a room, begging him to spare her, sobbing like a child. And yet that damned girl showed not the slightest hint of terror, and this was something the blond simply could not accept.

"I see you’ve come to put an end to my suffering, Malfoy," she said with a hint of sarcasm.
God, how he wished to curse her until that know-it-all teacher look faded from her face.

"I see you haven't lost your confidence, mudblood. Perhaps a few more days in the dungeons would bring you to your senses, or maybe a little spell could do the trick," said the blond, pulling his wand from his trousers.

Hermione was taken aback; she certainly didn’t want to endure another Cruciatus , still remembering its devastating effects. But on the other hand, she would never bend to plead for mercy.
Searching her mind for a solution, she absentmindedly touched her neck, and suddenly a realization washed over her like a rushing river; the collar was gone, and along with it, the magical blockage. Sure, she didn’t have a wand, but she was the brightest witch of her age after all . Perhaps a non-verbal spell? Yes, she had to try; it was her only chance.

The spell was very simple, almost elementary for someone like her; she took a deep breath and focused so intensely that her head throbbed, whispering, " Accio wand !"

Immediately, the magical object flew gently from Draco's hands to settle delicately between her fingers. Both students were stunned, but the curly-haired girl wasted no time, rising unsteadily to her feet, leaning against the wall due to her weakness while aiming the wand at the blond with both hands.

Draco was visibly shocked and also worried, but he decided to keep his cool, managing a laugh as he said, "Well done, Granger, I’m truly surprised. Now, though, stop playing the fool and give me back the wand before you hurt yourself."

Before he could finish, Hermione shouted " Bombarda !" unleashing a fireball that narrowly missed Draco, leaving scorch marks on his expensive trousers. It was clear the spell hadn’t worked as intended; the girl struggled to control the wand, both because it wasn’t hers and due to her exhausted body.

As the fireball exploded against the rocky wall of the cell, she collapsed to the ground, letting go of the wand, which landed directly between her and the blond. Drawing on her last reserves of strength, she attempted to crawl on her knees to reach it, but Draco, quicker than she, knelt down and aimed his wand threateningly at her throat.

The two were incredibly close, and the tension was palpable; Draco, on his knees, loomed slightly over her, who was leaning against her leg with her arms pressed firmly against the floor to support the frail body. Eyes locked into each other’s, blue fused with brown in an intertwining gaze that felt timeless.

"I should kill you for your affront, mudblood, and believe me, it would be quite enjoyable," Draco said, sliding his wand sensually almost to the curve of her breasts before adopting a serious, threatening expression. "But you’ve been entrusted to me, and I would never want to face the Dark Lord's wrath if anything were to happen to you."

Oh, sure, nice bullshit you’ve come up with, Draco, his annoyingly persistent inner voice chimed in. You know Voldemort couldn’t care less about the death of a mudblood, especially Potter’s best friend. It’s you who doesn’t want to kill her because you’re a coward.

Shaking his head to quiet his conscience, the blond roughly grabbed Hermione by the arm, forcing her to stand as he headed towards the cell door, saying, "Now move and clean yourself up if you want to continue serving in the house; you can’t present yourself like this, you’d make me look bad."

"Oh, I think you already manage to look bad on your own, Malferret," Hermione retorted, only realizing afterward that she had just said the worst thing she could at the worst possible moment. After all, she had just tried to kill him, and it wasn’t wise to push the already fragile patience of a Slytherin.
But the damage was done, and she might as well vent once and for all.

"Don’t look at me like that, Malfoy; I certainly haven’t gone mad. If you think for a second that I would serve you of my own free will you and that pack of murderers you carry around with you are completely deluded. I will never bend to you, do you hear me? I will never be your property , even if it costs me my life. You are just an insufferable, spoiled, arrogant, and stu-"

The blond moved so quickly that she didn’t even see him until her back was pressed against the hard rock, his hands on either side of her head, trapping her in a grip from which she could not escape.
“ Repeat it , if you have the courage,” Draco’s voice came out in a sinister, guttural hiss like she had never heard before; his pupils were reduced to pinpricks, not missing a single one of her movements, while his arms tensed, the black mark looming even more macabre and ominous just inches from her face.

As the girl silently recited her last prayers within, the Slytherin did something that stunned them both and would have such great consequences that neither could have ever imagined; he launched in towards her mouth like a storm and took possession of it with a kiss that tasted of hatred, fear, hidden desires, and resentment for what he was, for what she was, and for what they could never be together.

The mudblood found herself bewildered, and when Draco’s tongue sought entry to her lips, she could not resist; he was rough and violent, as if possessed, and she didn’t know how to oppose him, almost drawn by a force greater than either of them.

Her small hands pressed against the boy’s muscular chest attempted one last, timid resistance while his hands plunged forcefully into Hermione’s soft, curly hair, creating a sensation of ecstasy; the fabric of his trousers tightened uncomfortably, and with his white teeth, driven by an uncontrollable excitement, he pinched the lower lip of the Gryffindor and bit it passionately, sending little shivers of pleasure coursing through her entire body.

Then, as if jolted back to the awareness of doing something utterly wrong, he pulled away abruptly, panting, and stepped back from her, staring at her with wild eyes before rushing out of the cell, not before kicking the iron door hard and cursing.

As he climbed the stairs of the dungeon, he called for Cloppy, and as soon as the elf materialized, he ordered her to retrieve Hermione from the cell and clean her up; the next morning, she would have to serve breakfast as usual.

Arriving in his study, he slammed the door violently, unbuttoned the top buttons of his shirt, and opened the window, letting the cold air of that winter evening rush in.

He poured himself his usual glass of firewhisky, deciding to indulge a bit more than usual, and threw himself onto the sofa; his head spun wildly, the blood pulsing in his veins felt like it was burning his skin. Her hands on his chest had scorched him, and her lips had awakened a desire for more, to push further, to make her his, right there in that miserable cell.

What the hell was happening to him? He shouldn’t have let himself go with a servant, especially not with a mudblood; yet something had compelled him to surrender to the overwhelming passion that still stirred within him at that moment.

Pausing to reflect, he realized there was only one thing to do; he approached the desk, grabbed a quill and inkwell, and wrote a few lines on a piece of parchment: “I’m waiting for you in my room, don’t be late. D. ” 

Then he moved to the window and called for his owl, which arrived gliding softly and departed just as it had come.

He downed the liquor in a single gulp, the burn in his throat igniting, and headed towards his room; he wouldn’t have to wait long.

As he had anticipated, not long after, he heard the sound of apparition and the door to his room opening.
“I’m glad you called for me, Draco. I thought you had almost forgotten about me.”

Deliberately ignoring the girl’s words, which buzzed in his mind like an annoying hum, he pushed her toward the bed and, disregarding her hysterical giggles and attempts to stop him, he tore her dress off with as much violence as he could muster.
Hermione had awakened a desire in him that needed to be satisfied; the means of doing so didn’t matter to him.

He threw the girl onto the soft mattress and turned her onto her stomach, unwilling to look at her face, as if trying to convince himself that the naked body beneath him actually belonged to someone else; with little grace, he recited a protection spell and, spitting on his hand and moistening his member like in the worst muggle porn films, entered her without caring whether she was ready or not.
What good would worrying do? She was always ready for him; as far as he knew, she had always been ready for everyone.

He began thrusting violently, blow after blow, and as the girl screamed in pleasure and begged him to continue, in his mind, he envisioned Hermione's soft body, her hair, her eyes, her hands on him; would it be like that with her? No, Granger was made of different stuff; she was delicate, perhaps even a virgin .
This thought excited him to such an extent that, with one last thrust and a groan, he came and then pulled away from the girl; the magic was over, and the return to reality made him feel filthy.

“I must admit, I missed all this, Drackie. What do you say we stay here and maybe repeat the experience tonight?”
As he got up, he looked at the girl sprawled lewdly on the bed with disgust and replied, “You can do whatever the hell you want, Astoria, but don’t think this will ever happen again,” before heading toward the bathroom.

The scalding water cascading over him couldn’t wash away the horrible sensation he felt; he despised himself for having used Astoria and for his thoughts about the mudblood.
They were wrong, obscene, and shameful; he was a Death Eater, one of the best, one of the most powerful, and he should never have felt those things for an inferior being like a mudblood, for the Granger, who had hated and mocked him all those years. Yet, that was how it was, and he could see no way out of it.

Returning to his room, he found his future wife blissfully asleep and stopped to watch her; Astoria was beautiful, a perfect Slytherin, so elegant even while resting... but she wasn’t her. She didn’t have her brown eyes filled with a longing for freedom and rebellion, she didn’t have her wild, untamable hair, and she didn’t have her small yet curvy body in which he would gladly lose himself forever.

And on the wave of these thoughts, he fell asleep, sinking into a troubled slumber where the only face he saw was that of his eternal enemy.

For Hermione, that night had been a nightmare; she hadn’t managed to close her eyes even for a moment. After Cloppy had brought her back to her quarters, she refused to eat, her stomach clenched in a vice of tension, and she threw herself into bed.
The swirling thoughts wouldn’t give her a moment’s peace; whenever she closed her eyes, she saw Ron's face, Harry's, and all her friends. How could she have surrendered to Malfoy like that? He was the enemy; it was for people like him that Fred, Molly, Colin, and all the others had died; how many had he killed? How many more would he kill before understanding how stupid and senseless this war was?

He would kill her too, of that she was certain; perhaps he would first enjoy himself for a while, treating her like his personal toy. What a blow it would be to trap Potter’s sister, the hero of the rebels; surely, he must be having a world of fun making her his personal whore, exposing her for what she truly was.

And yet, there was something in his eyes, something in his kiss that was so violent yet so passionate at the same time. Was it possible he could act so well? Why, with all the women he could have, did he behave this way with her?
Don’t you get it, stupid? To him, you’re just a fun pastime, a proof that, deep down, you can’t resist his charm either, a redemption for all the years you showed yourself to be superior; you can’t possibly think you genuinely appeal to him?

“Shut up, shut uuuup!” she found herself shouting into the darkness of the night, only to realize she was screaming at herself, against the rational part of her that had never abandoned her and on which she had always relied.
She had made an unforgivable mistake by yielding to the Slytherin’s seductions, a mistake that should never have happened again; it was time to talk to Marge and organize her escape before the situation became even more compromised than it already was.

She would run away and never see him again, except on the battlefield.
And there, what would she do? Would she manage to fight him? To see those icy blue eyes extinguish forever or worse, rot in an Azkaban cell? She wasn’t sure, and that thought terrified her far more than the war ever had.

Wiping away the warm tears that had stained the miserable blanket on her bed, she surrendered to sleep, dreaming of the blond’s face. T hey didn’t know it, but even in their dreams, a bond had begun to form, destined to shake the foundations of the magical world.

Chapter Text

Draco’s chamber lay in shadow, and the vast, empty bed made it immediately clear that Astoria had gone. No matter—he hadn’t even needed to ask.

Turning his gaze toward the window, he noticed that the darkness of the night had yet to yield to the new day. It must have been around three, perhaps four—what in Merlin’s name was he doing awake at this hour?

As he pulled himself upright, his thoughts strayed at once to the evening before—and, more pressingly, to the night.

Falling into Astoria’s arms—Merlin, how had he let himself sink so low? And all because of that damned Mudblood. He needed a solution, and fast, or he was bound to go utterly mad.

As he wrestled with his thoughts, the door creaked open, and on instinct, he seized the wand he always kept at his bedside. Peering into the dimness, he made out a figure moving toward him. And when at last his vision adjusted, his heart all but stopped.

"You—what the bloody hell are you doing here?"

Granger advanced toward him, bare feet silent on the stone floor, her body draped in nothing but a thin nightgown that left precious little to the imagination.

"If you’ve come to kill me, I warn you—it won’t be so easy," the blond sneered, attempting to mask the tension curling in his gut.

The girl didn’t answer. Step by slow step, she reached the edge of the bed and, crawling forward with a feline grace, drew up before him. Still seated, utterly dumbfounded, he barely had time to react before she placed a single finger against his lips.

"Shh."

Then she pushed him back, guiding him to lie supine.

"Alright, Granger, what the bloody hell is going on?" Draco whispered, his voice hoarse, excitement surging through him uncontrollably.

Hermione straddled him, lifting her nightgown ever so slightly as her small hands ghosted over his chest—taut, tensed muscle beneath her fingertips. She dipped to press a kiss against his throat, fingers tangling in his pale hair as she rocked against him in a way that sent his senses into a spiral.

Overcome, Draco surged forward, intent on capturing her lips in a searing kiss—only for her to shove him back down, a forceful hand against his chest.

His mouth parted in protest, but then he saw it.

Her eyes.

Blazing crimson, the very shade of Voldemort’s.

His breath hitched—too late.

With a feral snarl, she lunged at his chest, claws raking deep. Pain tore through him as she sank her fingers into his flesh—ripping, tearing—until she wrenched something free.

A heart. His heart.

Draco watched in horror as the thing pulsed in her grip—not red, not bloody, but black and gleaming, marble-like in places.

"Do you see it, Draco Malfoy?" she murmured, voice dripping with a terrible mirth. "This is what will kill you. You haven’t much time left."

Then she laughed—a sound unhinged, chilling, sending icy terror down his spine.

"No—let me go. Let me go, damn it—"

Draco shot up in bed, breath ragged, skin slick with cold sweat. His heart thundered in his chest—still there, still beating—but the phantom pain of her claws lingered.

Just a dream. A ridiculous, wretched nightmare. But it had felt so real.

Forcing his breathing to steady, he turned to the other side of the bed. Astoria lay there, peaceful, utterly oblivious.

Typical , he thought bitterly. She’d taken what she wanted, and now she couldn’t be bothered with the rest.

Dawn was breaking. Knowing he wouldn’t find sleep again, he rose, deciding a shower might wash away the remnants of that godforsaken dream.

That morning, Hermione awoke in the foulest mood she’d ever known.

She stormed into the tiny bathroom, took a quick shower, and, once dressed, seated herself at the small table where the house-elves left her breakfast every morning, without fail.

She sipped a glass of pumpkin juice, eyes drifting to the window. The day was a perfect one—crisp, bright, with the winter sun casting golden light across the Malfoy gardens. The first buds had begun to bloom, breathing life back into the frozen earth.

A perfect day for a trip to the Black Lake, for watching Harry and Ginny steal tender kisses while she feigned disgust, nose buried in some massive tome on Herbology. Of course, Ron would have ruined her studious retreat within minutes, snatching the book from her hands with that ridiculous, heartwarming grin of his, demanding they all go for breakfast—because food, for Ron, had always come first.

The image played in her mind, so vivid, so achingly familiar, and yet—

The tears came fast, hot, pricking at her eyes before she could stop them.

What remained of that idyllic picture?

Ginny—broken, a mere shadow of the girl she’d been.
Harry—trapped between life and death, comatose, unknowing if he’d ever wake.
And Ron—Oh, Ron.

The mere thought of him—his stormy blue eyes, the freckles dusting his nose, the way his hopelessly tangled red hair felt beneath her fingers on cold nights before the Gryffindor common room fire—Her heart clenched, threatening to stop entirely.

It was over. All of it, gone—faded like snow beneath the sun.

And she, the so-called " brightest witch of her age ," had been powerless to stop it. Worse still—she had let herself fall into the arms of one of those responsible for it all.

"Fool," she hissed, slamming a fist against the table. The teapot toppled, its amber contents spilling across the floor.

A knock at the door jolted her from her thoughts.

Cloppy entered, struggling under the weight of a tray heaped with an absurd array of breakfast foods, prepared for two. 

Hermione’s stomach twisted. And when the elf hesitated, eyes round and sorrowful, the words that fell from her lips confirmed her worst fears.

"Master Draco will be taking his breakfast in his chambers today," Cloppy said meekly. "And as his… personal maid , you are to serve him."

Hermione stiffened. Maid.

The word sent hot fury rushing through her veins.

Cloppy flinched at her reaction, but Hermione was already marching to the door, slamming it behind the elf without another word.

Maid. The very thought of it made her blood boil.

Why couldn’t that pompous git just call things by their name? She was a slave , nothing more than a servant—no, a prisoner !

Oh, of course—c himed in that infuriating little voice inside her head —your mood has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that the charming blond spent the night with someone else. What did you expect, princess? That you’d be the only one? That after that breathtaking kiss, he’d whisk you away from here, straight to your future home, surrounded by butterflies and blooming flowers? Or wait, don’t tell me—you actually thought he might join the Resistance? Oh, Hermione, you are so stupid!

No, of course she wasn’t. Come on, this was Draco Malfoy—the heir to one of the greatest dark wizarding dynasties, a devoted Death Eater. He would never abandon the cause for a Mudblood like her.

...And yet—what if he did?

Calling herself a fool once again, she grabbed the tray with a huff and stormed towards the so-called prince’ s chambers, stomping like an enraged hippogriff about to charge its prey. Reaching the door, she didn’t even bother knocking before shoving it open and stepping inside.

Terrible idea, Hermione Granger. Terrible, terrible idea.

She was not prepared for the sight before her—Draco Malfoy, half-naked, wrapped in nothing but a white towel slung low around his hips. His damp blond hair was tousled, droplets of water glistening on his broad chest, making him look like some kind of marble-carved deity.

"Hasn’t anyone ever taught you to knock ? Seems like a pretty basic concept, even for a Gryffindor," he sneered.

"I-I… I brought your breakfast. If there’s nothing else, I’ll just—” she stammered, her mind still reeling from the entirely inappropriate thoughts that had invaded it.

"No, we need to talk. You can go back to your chores once I’m done with you."

Cold, indifferent, commanding— a true Malfoy through and through , she thought, irritated.

“Draco, don’t forget about this afternoon,” came Astoria’s lilting voice as she stepped elegantly out of the bathroom, perfectly dressed, without missing the opportunity to throw a look of utter contempt at Hermione. “My parents and I will be coming for tea, and Daphne as well. Probably with that imbecile of a fiancé. I really don’t understand how she can stand him, honestly, just looking at him is enough to—”

She never got to finish that sentence.

Draco’s hand shot out, gripping her wrist with an iron hold as he leveled a sharp glare at her. “Don’t you ever speak about Blaise like that again, Greengrass. Or I promise you, those will be the last words you ever utter.”

Hermione blinked in surprise. Malfoy, standing up for someone? Sure, he and Zabini were friends, but she never imagined Draco actually caring enough to defend him.

Astoria, though visibly startled, masked it quickly, continuing in a sickly sweet voice, “I’d also prefer if the Mudblood wasn’t serving us today. I wouldn’t want my parents to suffer a heart attack.”

Draco’s smirk was positively wicked.

“Believe me, Astoria, nothing would make me happier. But if you’d prefer, I can always have our house-elf serve you. Of course, she’s terribly clumsy. If I recall correctly, last time she managed to spill tea all over my father’s guests. Not to mention hygiene concerns, obviously. ” He let the words linger, watching with satisfaction as her face twisted in mild disgust.

“Well, if that’s the only option…” Astoria sighed, then turned to leave. “Anyway, I’ll see you later, love. Do try to be on time.”

And then, as if dropping a bomb, she added with a coy smirk, “Oh, and Draco? Last night was incredible , as always.”

With that, she disappeared, utterly unaware of the devastation she had left in her wake.

A heavy silence settled over the room.

Hermione stood frozen, twisting the fabric of her apron between her fingers, the only outlet for the fiery rage bubbling beneath her skin. Meanwhile, Draco had seated himself at the table, leisurely flipping open the Daily Prophet , idly stirring his coffee as if nothing had happened.

Without so much as lifting his gaze from the paper, he spoke.

“Given recent events, I’ve made a decision about you, Mudblood . As you well know, Theodore has been rather lonely since Hannah’s death. And since your… services are no longer essential to me, I’ve decided to give you to him. After today’s tea, I’ll arrange for your transfer.”

He took a slow sip of his coffee, entirely unfazed, as if he had just announced the weather.

Of course, no one could possibly imagine the turmoil raging inside his soul. He was tormented—he never would have made this decision if there had been any other way to put an end to whatever was beginning to blossom between him and the Mudblood.

So far, he had managed to control himself, but now—the need for her was clouding his mind, suffocating every rational thought.

He would ruin himself. His status, his family— her .

And that , above all else, was why he had to push her away.

Noticing Hermione’s silence, he prodded, hoping to provoke a reaction. “What’s the matter, Granger? Cat got your tongue?”

“Did I… do something wrong?” she whispered, instantly cursing herself for the pathetic display. Did she actually think playing the victim would work ?

She needed to wake up —to think —and fast . This house was her only connection to the Resistance; losing it meant losing any way to reach Neville, to help her friends—to stop this damned war.

Oh, sure—how noble of you. This definitely has nothing to do with the fact that you wouldn’t be able to see Malfoy anymore, right?

Damn that inner voice. It was always one step ahead of her.

“I’m not punishing you, Granger,” he said flatly. “It’s simply a decision I made. And I don’t like being contradicted.”

“Oh, really? And you actually think you can decide for me , Ferret ?” she snapped, her voice rising. “I am not your damned property ! You can’t just toss me around like some worthless thing !”

Draco’s cold eyes lifted to hers. Slowly, he pushed his chair back, stepping towards her in measured, deliberate strides.

And then—smirking—he murmured, “That’s where you’re wrong, little Mudblood. You are my property. I can do whatever I like with you, and by now, you should have learned that. What’s the matter? Backing away?” He tilted his head, watching as she instinctively retreated. “That’s strange—you didn’t seem so eager to back away last night.”

“And you didn’t seem so eager to send me away last night, Malfoy.”

Bloody hell .

That damned, damned Mudblood.

With one single sentence, she had struck straight at his weakest point—had ripped the truth from him before he could even stop her.

A sudden wave of fury crashed over him. He stormed towards her, grasping her chin between his fingers, forcing her to look up at him. His stormy grey eyes burned into hers.

“Listen to me, Mudblood, because you won’t hear this again,” he hissed. “I don’t know what the hell you’ve done to me, but I swear to you—the thought of you disgusts me. I would never touch you willingly. And if you’ve deluded yourself into thinking that stupid little kiss meant anything—you are sorely mistaken. And dangerously so! I. Do. Not. Mingle. With. Filth. Ever. Remember that.”

Merlin, what a bastard. A cruel, heartless bastard .

And the single tear that slipped down her cheek? It was all the proof he needed of that fact.

He wanted to wipe it away with his lips. Wanted to rip that damned uniform from her body and take her—on the floor, in the bathroom, on the bed.

In ways her Gryffindor mind couldn’t even begin to imagine .

What the fuck was wrong with him? This attraction was unnatural. It was wrong .

He had to crush it— kill it—even if that meant sending her straight to the Dark Lord’s prison camps.

No. You can’t do that, Draco, and you know it. Would you really want to see her broken?

Shattered by exhaustion, by torment? You know what would happen to her there.

The same thing that happened to Weasel. They would kill her. Without a second thought.

The image of Hermione—lifeless, cold—sent an icy shudder down his spine.

No. That was out of the question.

But keeping her here? That was out of the question, too.

Giving her to Nott was the best solution.

Theo would treat her kindly—would help her forget the horrors of the past.

Hell, they might even…. fall in love.

The thought sliced through him, sharp and unforgiving, twisting in his gut like a knife.

But there was no other choice.

And deep down, she knew it, too.

Swallowing back a sob, Hermione averted her gaze.

“…Is there anything else?” she asked hoarsely. “May I go?”

“Leave. And don’t forget to be on time for tea. The guests do not appreciate tardiness,” he said coolly, watching her walk away.

Why hadn’t she asked for an explanation? Why hadn’t she begged him to let her stay—to throw herself into his arms?

Because she was a damn Gryffindor, that’s why.

And that was what was truly driving him mad.

A few hours later, the guests were engaged in an utterly dull conversation about which color best complemented the damask tablecloths, followed by a heated discussion on what the bridesmaids should wear at the wedding.

"Their gowns," Lady Greengrass had immediately clarified, "must not —under any circumstances—steal attention from the radiant star of the evening: my beautiful Astoria!"

Narcissa feigned interest in the future bride and her mother, silently wondering whether this was truly the best match Lucius could find.

Meanwhile, the two patriarchs were engaged in a discussion about the latest Ministry policies, while Draco, Blaise, and Daphne offered the occasional nod of acknowledgment—just enough to appear somewhat involved.

They were all just waiting for this farce to be over.

In the corner, Hermione sat gracefully , waiting for someone to call upon her for “her services ” as that damned Slytherin had so graciously put it earlier.

Honestly, in some cases, a Cruciatus didn’t sound entirely unreasonable.

The idyllic scene was interrupted by Cloppy, who discreetly approached Malfoy Senior and murmured something about an urgent matter requiring his attention—one that, apparently, would not take long.

Moments later, Goyle Senior stepped into the room.

Massive and imposing— just like his son—he had clearly passed down both his dim-witted expression and his lack of intelligence.

"Romulus, Lucius, My Lords … I apologize for the interruption," Goyle muttered awkwardly.

“For Salazar’s sake, get to the point ,” Lucius snapped, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"I won’t take up much of your time—just need a signature. We need to transfer a group of rebel prisoners and require your authorization, Lucius. The process is set for two days from now—assuming you have no objections, of course."

That caught Hermione’s attention.

She leaned forward slightly , straining to hear as Lucius roughly snatched the parchment from Goyle’s hands and began reading aloud:

" Transfer of prisoners from Base Camp to Bibury Camp —hmm, a very long journey," he noted. Then, turning to Goyle, he added, "Do not use Portkeys —the rebels could track them. And be discreet . Any mistakes, and I will personally hold you responsible.”

With a flick of his quill, he scrawled his signature, handing the document back to Goyle, who gave a curt nod before vanishing.

Tea dragged on for another half hour, but Hermione could barely sit still.

She knew exactly what she had to do.

And it had to be done now .

Once the guests had finally left —Lucius and Romulus to the Ministry, Astoria and her mother thankfully returning home (much to Narcissa’s relief), and the three Slytherins retreating to Draco’s study—Hermione rushed to the kitchens.

And as soon as she entered, a brilliant smile spread across her face.

The person she needed was right there , standing before her.

"Margaery, listen to me—this is urgent ."

She took a deep breath, steadying herself before delivering the words that would change everything .

"You need to contact Neville. Immediately. It’s time to act."

Chapter Text

Two days earlier, Hermione had made a very deliberate choice—she had sided with the Resistance.

She had played a role in something that could put many lives at risk.

It had been the right thing to do.

But that didn’t stop the anxiety from gnawing at her.

As she absently adjusted the cushions in the Manor’s sitting room, her mind raced through all the things that could go wrong.

What if they were discovered ? What if someone betrayed them? What if Draco found out she was involved?

“Leave that cushion alone, Mudblood . I doubt it’s done anything to deserve that kind of treatment.”

She jumped at the voice behind her—Draco had entered the room, making his way toward the breakfast table.

He flopped onto the loveseat, reaching for the Daily Prophet .

Nothing interesting. But how could there be?

Every article was strictly censored by a squadron of Death Eaters assigned to publish only pieces that praised the order and peace Voldemort had supposedly brought to the world.

No space for rebellions . No mention of uprisings .

That would ruin the regime’s carefully crafted image .

He took a slow sip of tea—only to be interrupted by the heavy clang of the iron door knockers at the entrance.

Moments later, Cloppy entered the room, ears drooping.

“My Lord,” the elf murmured, “a Death Eater urgently requests your and your father’s presence.”

Draco sighed, bored , before lazily summoning his Patronus to deliver the message to Lucius, who had gone to Knockturn Alley on business.

By the time his father arrived, the Death Eater had already seated himself in one of the parlor’s armchairs, casting a look of utter disgust at Hermione.

Lucius, visibly irritated , strode into the room.

“Well?” he snapped. “What exactly is so urgent that it requires my immediate attention?”

The Death Eater hesitated.

“My Lord… the rebels that were meant to be transported to Bibury this morning…” he faltered.

“They’ve escaped .”

Lucius’ face twisted in fury, veins pulsing at his temples as his breath sharpened .

“What do you mean, escaped ?” he demanded, barely keeping his rage in check.

“Well… I was hoping you could tell me, my Lord. The guards escorting the prisoners were intercepted by a squad of Death Eaters, and their leader ordered the prisoners to be handed over to him.”

Lucius’ eyes blazed .

“And why in Merlin’s name would I have anything to do with that ?” he hissed.

The Death Eater swallowed nervously.

“Well, my Lord… I was told the leader of the squad… was you .”

For a moment, Draco seriously thought his father’s rage alone might make the entire Manor collapse.

Someone had tried to frame Lucius Malfoy. Draco almost laughed .

Not because he cared. Not because he liked his father.

But because the idea of Lucius being caught in a trap was… frankly, entertaining .

Still, someone was going to pay for this—whether it was the real culprits or the poor guards now suffering under Lucius’ tirade of insults .

“Fools. Incompetent fools,” Lucius spat. “I assume they didn’t bother verifying my identity through the family seal , did they? Useless creatures. The Dark Lord should choose his servants more wisely .”

His fist slammed against the table, causing the glassware to rattle as his voice thundered through the room.

“They will pay for this. All of them. With their lives .”

The Death Eater hesitated. “But, my Lord… if it wasn’t you, then who was it?”

Draco finally spoke, his voice cold.

“The rebels.”

His father turned toward him.

“They used Polyjuice Potion ,” Draco continued. “Someone must have gotten hold of one of your hairs, somehow . It’s the only logical explanation.”

He paused for effect.

“But I’m sure the Dark Lord will have no doubts about your loyalty, father .”

The distaste in his tone was almost imperceptible . Almost.

Lucius scoffed. “The Ministry is full of imbeciles . They wouldn’t notice a rebel under their nose even if he held a Muggle gun to their throat .”

He straightened his robes.

“I will personally speak to the Dark Lord. This will be resolved. And many heads will roll .”

With a sharp crack , Lucius Disapparated—followed closely by the Death Eater.

Draco sank into the armchair.

Meanwhile, Hermione—who had witnessed everything from behind a column— fled to the kitchens, her heart pounding .

The first step of the plan had worked .

Now, there was only one thing left to do.

And then— then —it would be perfect 

Two days earlier

Margaery had barely sent the owl before Neville arrived at the Manor’s secret garden gate.

“Damn it, Margi,” he hissed. “You know it’s dangerous for you to contact me—what’s going on?”

Hermione stepped forward. Her expression was apologetic .

“I’m sorry, Neville. I asked her to contact you.” She took a breath.

“I just found out the Death Eaters are transferring a group of rebel prisoners in two days. I thought it could be an opportunity for the Resistance… but maybe I was wrong.”

Neville’s eyes lit up .

“Yes—yes! That’s huge !” Then his excitement dimmed . “But also impossible ,” he admitted. “Their convoys are heavily guarded. Those guards would die before disappointing him . We have numbers, sure—but not enough. If we try , we’ll lose people. And we can’t afford that.”

“About that…” Hermione murmured.“I have an idea.”

Twenty minutes later, Hermione stealthily navigated the Manor’s halls.

She knew exactly what she was looking for. But this was risky . If she got caught —it wouldn’t just be her life at stake.

Reaching Lucius’ office, she found the door… unlocked . Perfect .

She pushed it open and slipped inside, shutting it silently behind her.

Lucius’ study was immaculate . Dark wooden furniture cast the room in shadowy gloom , perfectly reflecting its owner. The fireplace’s embers smoldered faintly. Lucius hadn’t left long ago . Even better.

She scanned the office, heart pounding .

Near his white armchair— the only light-colored thing in the room —she searched the fabric and the floor beneath.

Nothing.

“Oh, come on ,” she muttered.

And then— there .

At the edge of the black carpet. A single, nearly white hair. Lucius Malfoy’s.

Carefully, she plucked it up and sealed it inside a small glass vial she’d taken from the kitchens earlier.

Heart racing, she slipped out of the office and hurried back to Neville.

The rebels had managed to save only a little Polyjuice Potion after the battle.

But a little was all they needed .

Handing Neville the vial, Hermione met his eyes.

Serious. Determined. “There’s one more thing we have to do,” she said. “And we have to do it now .”

…

When the curly-haired girl returned to the living room, she found Draco lost in thought.
The boy was wondering what the rebels’ next move would be. Freeing an entire group of prisoners meant having Voldemort’s entire army on their heels—had their action really made any sense?
Then he reminded himself that most of the rebels were Gryffindors, and with a surge of irritation, he thought that those of their ilk would be capable of marching straight into death rather than abandoning even a single one of their companions. Useless fools—this way, they would surely get themselves killed.
But what did he care, after all? Fewer rebels around meant less need for search parties.

"Idiots," he muttered with a smirk. "They’re making our job easier."

He turned towards Hermione, intending to ask where on earth she had been all this time, when he found himself face to face with a newly Apparated Zabini, whose expression did not bode well.

"What the hell is it now? Is today just full of good news?" Draco said sarcastically.

"Trust me, when you read this, you’ll lose the urge to joke," Blaise replied, handing him a crumpled parchment. "This morning, I went to Theodore’s house—I hadn’t heard from him in days, and given recent events…I was starting to worry. When I arrived, I found the door wide open, the house-elves locked in the cellar, and half the house ransacked, as if there had been a fight. No sign of him, but on the table, there was this note."

The blond snatched the missive from his friend’s hands and read aloud:

"Dear Malfoy, the time for confrontation has finally come. We have taken Nott. You have something we want, and now we have something you surely want. If you’re not too afraid to face us, come to the ruins of the castle. Bring Granger with you, or your friend won’t live to see tomorrow.

The Phoenix Rebels."

Draco crumpled the note in blind fury and threw it to the ground before grabbing an ancient porcelain vase and hurling it straight into the roaring fireplace. The flames crackled hungrily as they consumed the new material.

" The Phoenix Rebels … that pathetic filth even dares to give itself a name. Bah! I spit on their threats! Voldemort will be informed at once. I’ll find them all, even if I have to burn every inch of that bloody castle to the ground, piece by piece !" he shouted, before slumping against the back of the sofa, seized by his usual pain.

"Don’t be an idiot, Draco! You know you can’t react like this, for fuck’s sake! Do you want to get yourself killed? Or worse— kill yourself ?" Blaise snapped, referring implicitly to the prophecy that had loomed over his friend for far too long. "I’m angry too, but we have to think. The rebels aren’t stupid—they just proved it. They must have cast spells around Hogwarts, and we can’t do anything reckless that might put Theo in danger."

Draco seemed to ponder his words before exclaiming decisively, "They’ve asked for a meeting, and that’s what they’ll get. I have no intention of endangering Theodore, but rest assured—if things go south, I won’t hesitate to send that pack of traitors to join their dear dead friends." He turned to Hermione, nearly growling, "Get ready— you’re finally going to see your friends again ."

The castle was nothing like Hermione remembered. She had just Apparated alongside Draco and Blaise, and all around them, there was nothing but ruins and devastation, a far cry from the ancient splendor of her beloved home.

In the distance, Hagrid’s hut still bore the scars of the flames that had consumed it, and high atop a crumbling tower, a tattered flag flapped weakly in the wind. The air was thick with death and suffering; it was as if one could still hear the screams of all those who had perished in the last, terrible battle. A lone tear escaped down Hermione’s cheek.

The two Slytherins stood firm, their eyes scanning their surroundings without a moment’s pause, their ears tuned to the slightest sound. They knew the rebels would arrive soon. Everything else was uncertain— even whether they would make it back home alive.

In the distance, a small group of figures began to take shape, growing clearer with every step. As they neared, their faces became recognizable: Neville leading the charge, Lovegood at his side, then the lone surviving Weasley twin, Thomas, and Goldstein—who was dragging along a battered-looking Nott. At least, that’s what Draco thought .

When the two factions finally stood face to face, the blond let out a scornful laugh.

"Bloody Godric, Longbottom, I see you’ve brought the cavalry," he sneered. Then, suddenly serious, in that way that never ceased to startle Hermione, he added, "You wanted to see me, and here I am. Now, hand over Nott, and no one gets hurt."

"Malfoy, it seems this war hasn’t taught you anything—you’re still the same arrogant Slytherin," Neville said coldly. "I’d love to comply with your request, but I’m afraid that won’t be possible."

Blaise stepped forward, tense. "What the hell does that mean? We did what you asked. We came for our friend, and you won’t stop us from taking him!" he declared, his hand inching toward his wand.

"They won’t stop you. I want to stay."

Theo’s quiet words left Draco and Blaise stunned. No, this couldn’t be real. He had to be under the Imperius Curse —he would never say such a thing otherwise.

"Don’t look at me like that. Not you two—you know me better than anyone," Theo murmured. "Why would I return to the Death Eaters, huh? That bastard took everything from me. He took the love of my life without an ounce of remorse, with that disgusting smile on his face. And if joining the Resistance is what it takes to see him die in agony, then so be it. And believe me—you should do the same. The Death Eaters’ fate is sealed. How long do you think it will be before he starts disposing of all of us? They can fight him."

" They ?" Draco spat. "You miserable traitor. For seven years, Blaise and I have been your family. We were there when Abbott died. We tried to console you. We are your brothers. And now you abandon us? For what? To go get yourself killed for a cause that isn’t even yours? Why the hell did you want this meeting, huh?" he shouted, fury boiling in his veins, his icy gaze burning with hatred.

"Because otherwise, you never would have come, Draco," a voice said behind them.

Turning, Blaise whispered in disbelief, "No… It can’t be. How is he here?"

The cloaked figure of Snape stood before them, his long raven hair falling over a face deeply scarred by war.

"You’re a traitor too," Draco hissed. "My father always suspected you played both sides, but I never wanted to believe it. How could you? After you had me marked like a dog, after you swore loyalty to my family?"

"Your father is a fool, Draco. I beg you, don’t make the same mistakes he did. The Resistance is stronger and more widespread than the Dark Lord imagines, but we are still weak. Join us. This is no longer your war."

Draco was about to retort, but Blaise interrupted, locking eyes with his friend.

"Maybe we should consider it, Draco... You’ve had doubts about this war—about our future. Maybe…"

"Maybe?" Draco repeated bitterly. "You too, Blaise? Them and their hands were stained with our friends’ blood. Us, with ours stained with theirs. And now you talk of alliances? Of betrayal? For what? I will always be the filthy son of a Death Eater—the one who didn’t stop Weasley from dying. No. I will never betray. Not even if it kills me."

"Well said, Malfoy. You truly are your father’s son," Neville mocked. "Go, then—but not before you release Hermione!"

The curly-haired girl, silent until now, lifted her head sharply.

"I want to stay with him," she declared.

The reaction was immediate, as she expected. 

George sneered, "Didn’t take you long to become the Death Eater’s whore, did it, Granger? While my brother and mother rot underground— you disgust me ."

His words cut her deeply.

But no. She could not cry. She could not show weakness. She had made her choice. And she would see it through.

“Where was the well-known Resistance when I had to use the Memory Charm on my parents, uh, George? Or when I was taken prisoner? And you, Neville, where were you when they killed Ron in cold blood? It happened because of you " he said looking up at Luna and Dean " Ron was killed for your damn freedom. You should have been in his place! ", she added with a dark and macabre tone.

Draco had been shocked by the words of the curly girl but the situation was becoming tense, he saw the agitation flow in the handful of rebels, hands stretched on the chopsticks, ready to strike the one who had once been their mate and now turned her back on them with the worst of betrayals.

He had to get away from there as soon as possible; he grabbed Hermione’s arm and then turned to Blaise "When you come to yourself, you know where to find me. As for you," he said, looking at the group in front of him, to which Snape had also added "be sure that we will see each other again…very soon."

And so saying he and Hermione vanished into thin air.

Luna stepped closer to Neville, barely holding back tears. "Are you still sure we made the right choice? What if he kills her? What if—"

"We had no other choice, Miss Lovegood," Snape interrupted. "Miss Granger was clear—the only way to bring Draco Malfoy to our side is to make sure he trusts her. The plan is in motion. There’s no turning back now."

"And them?" Thomas interjected. "How can we trust them? They're—well, you know, Slytherins."

"Believe me, Thomas, I’ve lost far more than you in this war. I want nothing more than to see every last one of the Dark Lord’s followers burn," Theo growled. "And if that isn’t enough for you... let me remind you that it was your friend Neville who sealed the Unbreakable Vow. "

Blaise watched the group in stunned silence, trying to make sense of what was happening. Trust? A plan? An Unbreakable Vow? Had it all been a deception? Was he supposed to keep Draco in the dark about everything? No. Not a chance. He wouldn’t betray his friend’s trust like that.

"Love—"

But Zabini didn’t have time to turn around before a Stunning Spell hit him square in the chest.

"I’m sorry," the blonde whispered, tucking her wand away.

"I was starting to think you wouldn’t make it, Daphne," Theo said, turning to the Slytherin girl. "How do you think he’ll take it when... when he wakes up?"

"I don’t know, Theo. I just know that, for the first time since this war started, I feel like I’m on the right side. And maybe that’s all that matters."

"And Draco…?"

"Draco... Draco will come back when he finally understands what’s truly worth living for. I’m sure of it."

Or dying for , the blonde thought with a shiver of fear.

George stepped toward the two former Slytherins, casting a satisfied glance at the unconscious Zabini. "Well, then. Let’s go win this war."

Chapter Text

Since they had Apparated back to the Manor, Draco had not moved from the grand window of the drawing room, the silence broken only by the crackling of the firewood burning in the hearth.

The Slytherin kept tormenting himself, wondering where he had gone wrong. How had he failed to notice that his two best friends— his two brothers —had drifted so far away from him? At what point had all his certainties begun to crumble without him realizing it? Since when had he been… alone?

It wouldn’t take long before Blaise, too, would side with the rebels, perhaps even taking Greengrass with him.

And after all, could he really blame them? Wouldn’t it be… understandable?
Wouldn’t it be, even for just a moment, nice to dream of a different life?

Foolish illusions. He could never have a different life.

He was Draco Malfoy, son of Lucius Malfoy, right hand of the Dark Lord and heir to one of the oldest magical families in the world.

No matter what he did, no matter where he went, no matter whom he chose to stand against, this would always be his lineage.
And his curse.

And then there was her. The Mudblood. Who would have ever expected it? She must have gone mad, certainly—perhaps even fallen victim to Stockholm Syndrome. It was the only logical explanation for her actions. And yet, he had never given her any reason to believe otherwise. 

Had he? He hadn’t, right? And just as certainly, he felt nothing for her. Oh no?

Then why, when she had chosen him, had it sent a shock through him, a pleasant and unexpected surprise that, in some strange way… had reassured him?

“Malfoy…”

The very subject of his thoughts had just pulled him from his trance.

“You’ve been standing there staring into nothing for an hour… I was wondering if… well, if you were alright.”

“ Positively splendid , Mudblood. The rebels grow stronger by the day, the Dark Lord’s army is made up of incompetent fools incapable of performing the simplest tasks, my father is about to be accused of treason, and oh, how could I forget? My dearest friends have just decided to throw their lives away to join a group of desperate misfits, renouncing everything we once believed in. Yes, Granger, I’d say I’m absolutely fantastic.”

“Not everyone has turned their back on you, Malfoy… I haven’t,” the girl whispered timidly.

“Oh yes, you haven’t….Interesting…very interesting…”

Draco began, stepping dangerously close to the Gryffindor, circling her as if he were a serpent ready to ensnare its prey; he needed to understand, to know why she had chosen him; the idea that she had rejected her friends made him completely crazy, an uncontrollable desire grew inside of him. 

“I was just wondering what led to that particular decision, Granger. What made you betray the friends of a lifetime? What thoughts are swirling inside that little mind of yours?”

Hermione hadn’t even noticed him moving closer until she found herself mere inches from him, his fingers resting under her chin, his eyes locked onto hers.

Too close.

His gaze both paralyzed and drew her in. It was as if the deepest part of her wanted to drown in those stormy blue eyes, to unravel every hidden piece of the Slytherin and feed off that contact.

Struggling to remain clear-headed, she forced herself to rely on her meager Occlumency skills and shut her mind—she couldn’t let him see everything. Not when there was so much at stake.

But Draco had no interest in reading her thoughts . He, too, was irresistibly drawn in by the proximity, by the intimacy thickening the air between them.

“Tell me, Hermione , why did you choose me?” he murmured, his voice rough.

Hearing him say her name, Hermione knew that this was the moment she had been waiting for . She had broken through, just for a second, past the icy barrier of the blond, and she had to seize the opportunity now, before he closed himself off again.

And so, without stopping to think, she erased the space between them and pressed her timid lips against his.

It was the invitation he had been waiting for.

Overcome with an uncontrollable need, Draco responded with fervor, demanding more—his tongue teasing hers, his hands tangled in her hair as if to pull her closer, to keep her from escaping. His body pressed her against the wall of the drawing room, trapping her like prey.

“Malfoy… not here,” Hermione managed to whisper, barely pulling away from his burning lips.

Without a word, Draco Apparated them both into his bedroom, sealing the door and casting a Muffliato charm before reclaiming her lips as his own.

His hands roamed over her body, guided by an uncontrollable force rising from deep within him. A fire spread beneath his skin, consuming him.

He needed more.

He needed her so much it hurt.

The more rational part of Hermione was trying to resist those famished attacks but Draco was making her experience unexplored emotions that scared her but she wanted at the same time; responding to his kisses, she put her fingers in his hair, causing a groan in the Slytherin. 

He took off his shirt and with little grace tore the girl’s clothes, leaving her in intimate; his eyes wandered on her, so gracile, so... desirable . 

His hands clenched on his breasts, his delicate fingers now to tease every part of that body which he was eager to make his own.

Hermione realised she was paralyzed; she timidly unlaced the blond man’s trousers, which were soon left on the floor with his other clothes.

Without realizing it, she found herself retreating back towards the big bed, his body on top of her; hitting with her legs the mattress, in a short time she found herself lying down, Draco who had not even left her lips for a moment and was now standing over her, the erection now pressing on her thighs.

It was at that moment that Hermione understood: this had always been the fate of her plan, her decisions had brought her to this exact moment, she had to give up the innermost part of herself for the Greater Good, she had to hold Draco to her in an inexorable way. 

She had to capture his soul and to do so, she had to lose her own.

She let Malfoy’s hands lick every inch of her skin, which she could almost feel burning under his touch; she tried not to lose control completely, to remain lucid but the Slytherin was now taking possession not only of her body but also of her mind.

Draco couldn’t help himself anymore, he needed to make it her own , there and now. 

With not a little vehemence he opened Hermione’s legs, continuing to bite and massage the inner thigh closer and closer to her centre; he longed for it in a way he had never felt before.

It was almost a primal instinct that had led him towards her, to unite in one single thing.

Hermione was now tensed like a violin string as she heard the member of him asking for access to her most intimate part; she had not to get carried away by emotions, she had to stick to the plan... Because she was just following the rules, right? 

When Draco was on top of her, he could barely control his desire when he noticed that the girl was completely blocked.

“Granger... you are…?" He could hardly believe it

"Yes... I am... well, you know, a virgin," she said timidly, almost ashamed.

The Slytherin was immediately frozen, the idea that she was still a virgin, untouched , driving him mad; he wanted to be the first to make her experience the pleasures of the flesh, the first to receive that precious gift which she had so long kept, to feel she opening for him….

No, it was so wrong; even he couldn’t stoop so low!

"Mud.. Granger, we can’t do that; you’re a virgin.. I mean I don’t think..."

"But I want it!" she exclaimed, almost fearing his detachment "yes well... if I must die in this war, then I want to at least see what it feels.. And I’d like that to be you " 

Hermione had never been a good liar, and she looked into the blond’s eyes to see if there was anything in it, even the slightest doubt.

But Draco was now in another dimension; i’d like that to be you were the words he didn’t expect but needed to hear.

He decided that it would be gentle, that he would give her all the attention and pleasure possible; for the first time Draco Malfoy had decided to put another person in front of him.

Taking all the time necessary, he walked down Hermione’s body leaving a trail of glowing kisses along her breast, belly and then down the inside of the thigh until gently touching for the first time the center of pleasure of the Gryffindor.

The girl startled - she was not used to that contact - she did not know what to expect, maybe she was afraid... ; but when he began to gently caress her intimate area first with his lips then with his fingers, she felt emotions and sensations that she had never even dared to feel in all her life.

Draco felt the girl opening under his wise touches, a slight trembling of her legs made him understand that it was going well, that it was taking her to its peak; finally reaching the point of maximum pleasure, Hermione emitted a small choked groan, the cheeks completely red and warm and the breath still irregular.

It was time, Draco knew; she would never be more ready.

He made his way over her body until he positioned himself between her legs; he quickly cast a contraceptive charm and then captured the eyes of the brunette on his own.

"Are you sure you’re ready? We can still stop..."

Liar; he had reached the point of no return, felt hungry, had to own her, wanted to be first and he wanted her to feel that she belonged to him, completely.

She had chosen him : she had chosen him in front of her friends, she was choosing him now at that moment giving him what she had most precious.

And for the first time in his life, Draco did not feel wrong; a heat was flowing from his chest but it was neither excitement nor desire. 

For the first time it felt... only Draco. 

"No, I’m ready." she whispered.

You’re doing it for the plan, you’re doing it for the plan. But she also knew she was lying to herself. 

“I won’t hurt you, Hermione , believe me."

Opening for the first time in a long time in a real smile, Draco made space slowly inside her; he felt her twitching from the annoyance but had no hurry, was giving her all the time to get used to that new feeling, continuing to kiss and caress her, to comfort her with small whispers.

When he felt that the intimacy of her was getting used to, he started to push slightly trying to stay focused so as not to go crazy even if it was very difficult; he felt her so tight, so f ragile under him and the thought of being the first was driving him out of his mind completely.

Hermione wrapped her hands around his back, her fingernails left scratches on his pale skin, slowly beginning to accommodate his pushes that were gradually more rhythmic; he felt her relaxing under him, she welcomed him within herself as no other had done so far.

He tried with all his strength to restrain himself; he did not want to think of himself, of his pleasure, he just wanted to give it to her, to make that first time as something unforgettable; while the intensity increased, the girl no longer tried to control her little moans, the breath becomes shorter and shorter, the hazel eyes fixed in his. 

For Merlin, she was a goddess . 

When he felt her reach the climax of pleasure, he sank into her more voraciously, he needed to make her completely his own, to unite in one thing, to merge with her. 

Hermione was now trembling uncontrollably; never in her life had she tried such a thing, she almost feared it, the girl felt overwhelmed by all that pleasure, almost transported to another place, to another reality, in ecstasy.  

She thought of nothing, friends, Hogwarts, war, the plan... For her there was only that moment, being close to Draco with all her body, feeling him incredibly hers.  

And shortly after her, he also felt his pleasure arrive, uncontrolled, almost primitive; and with a growl came inside of her.

There were no more Granger and Malfoy, Slytherin and Gryffindor, won and defeated... There were only them, Draco and Hermione and their bond that went beyond the body, beyond the mind, which by now both had sensed.

There would be no turning back now, they both knew; but neither of them cared.

Leaving her gently, the blond man lies on her body, his head on her breasts and she caresses his hair.

They should have talked about it, analyzed what had happened but not now, neither of them dared to move so as not to interrupt that magical moment that had been created.

And in doing so, they both fell asleep. 

Chapter Text

Draco was the first to wake, and the moment his eyes flickered open, the weight of what he had just done struck him like a punch to the face.

Lying beside him, bare, her hair tousled across the pillow, her face softened in peaceful slumber, was Granger. He buried his face in his hands, his mind already racing through the consequences of his actions.

It had been foolish. Utterly, damnably weak. What in Merlin’s name had possessed him? Reassessing the Mudblood, even indulging in the occasional idle thought about her, was one thing. But this? Fuck, this was something else entirely. 

A battle raged within him. One part of him loathed himself, recoiled at the sheer disgrace of it—he had tainted his name, his family’s name. But the other part knew the truth. 

This hadn’t been just base desire.

Draco Malfoy could have any woman he wanted, with nothing more than a flicker of interest. That had always been the way of things.

But what had happened with Granger hadn’t been just sex. It had come from somewhere deeper, a pull he couldn’t explain. She had chosen him, over her friends, over everything she had known. And the way she looked at him— Merlin, the way she looked at him —it was a way he might have always wanted to be seen.

“Draco…” Hermione’s voice was a whisper as she stirred.

He parted his lips to reply—

And then, he felt it. The Manor’s wards fell in an instant, and the Dark Mark upon his arm burned hotter than it ever had before.

He was here.

And Draco knew exactly why.

Hermione’s awakening was far less gentle.

Draco had shaken her roughly, his voice cold and commanding as he ordered her to dress and come downstairs. The Dark Lord had arrived, and she was to serve at the table, as always.

As the blond pulled on his robes, Hermione searched his face for any lingering trace of what she had felt only moments before, of that undeniable connection between them.

But it was gone.

Vanished beneath the same familiar Slytherin indifference.

Perfect, Hermione. Not only did you just give away the most precious thing you had to your worst enemy, but you got absolutely nothing in return. And you even enjoyed it.

Draco cast her one last glance, a silent warning to hurry, before striding out of the room.

She felt wretched. Dirty. The memory of what had just happened still sent shivers down her spine—sensations she fought to suppress with all her might.

And beyond that, the realization that her plan wasn’t unfolding as expected made her feel something new.

For the first time in her life, Hermione Granger felt like a fool.

What had you expected, really? That he’d confess some great love for you? That he’d draw his wand and stand against Voldemort for your sake?

You’re pathetic.

Damn you, damn you to hell, conscience.

Once dressed, she opened the door to Draco’s chambers and stepped out. As she descended the grand staircase of Malfoy Manor, a wave of apprehension and dread crawled over her skin, raising goosebumps along her arms. She had yet to enter the drawing room, yet she could already feel the oppressive aura of evil that Voldemort had brought with him.

At the grand table sat Lucius, Narcissa, and Draco. A little further down, Peter Pettigrew, Astoria, and then him—the Dark Lord. His long black robes pooled onto the floor, where Nagini slithered lazily at his feet, her pearlescent skin gleaming under the great chandeliers of the Manor.

Hermione moved swiftly, making herself as invisible as possible as she slipped into the kitchen. She retrieved a pitcher of wine, took a deep, steadying breath, and stepped back into the drawing room. She approached the table cautiously, careful to keep a safe distance, hoping— praying —she would not be addressed.

"Lucius, Lucius… you have disappointed me," Voldemort’s voice slithered through the air. "You know why I am here. I know that you do ."

"My Lord, I swear to you, I had nothing to do with what happened to the prisoners… You know I would never betray you," Lucius stammered.

For the first time, Hermione saw something new in Lucius Malfoy’s cold, grey eyes.

A fucking fear.

"Lucius, my dear, I can feel your… unease ," Voldemort whispered, his voice laced with cruel amusement. "I do not believe you are betraying me. You understand what the consequences would be."

The Dark Lord was now moving around the table, gliding, almost floating, until he came to a stop before Lucius, his wand raised to the man’s forehead.

"It would be incredibly foolish of you," he mused. "So then, I must ask… who? Who has betrayed you, Lucius? Could it have been your men? Or perhaps… Draco ?"

His pale, spidery fingers came to rest on Draco’s shoulder.

Hermione’s heart skipped a beat.

She knew the truth. Draco had nothing to do with this.

Because it had been her.

She had stolen Lucius’s hair. She had convinced Neville to act. She was the one responsible for this betrayal.

"Was it you, Draco?" Voldemort’s voice was soft, almost curious. "Have you failed me yet again? I chose you, Draco Malfoy. I marked you. You belong to me . And yet, you have failed to complete the simplest of tasks. I wonder if… yes…perhaps I should rid myself of you after all. Crucio. "

Draco’s face contorted in pain as every nerve in his body ignited with searing agony. 

But he forced himself not to break. He squeezed his eyes shut, breathing deeply as the curse wracked through him, burning through every inch of his body.

He had built a tolerance to pain—thanks to Aunt Bellatrix, who had spent the summer before his sixth year ensuring that he was "fortified." She had subjected him to every manner of torture, finding satisfaction in his screams.

When Voldemort finally lifted the curse, Draco’s eyes flickered open. The only visible sign of his suffering was the sweat glistening on his forehead.

"My Lord, if I may…"

Astoria’s voice broke the silence.

Every Malfoy in the room turned toward her with a mix of fear— and loathing .

"There was someone else who knew of the prisoners," she continued, her voice smooth, deliberate. "Someone who is in this room and may have informed the Resistance."

Her malefic gaze slid towards Hermione.

A wicked smile curled at her lips.

Hermione’s breath caught in her throat. Astoria was playing her hand brilliantly. This was her revenge. Her chance to rid herself of the filthy little Mudblood once and for all.

For a fleeting moment, Hermione almost admired her cunning .

Then the terror set in.

She forced her mind to close itself off, but she knew she only had seconds.

She was not a skilled Occlumens. She did not have Draco’s strength to withstand torture.

All she could hope for was to bury the most important memories—the ones that could lead Voldemort straight to the Resistance.

She was afraid.

Afraid of putting her friends in danger.

Afraid that Voldemort would discover that the Resistance still existed.

And, deep down, she was afraid of dying.

She had thought about her death many times. But to die here, in Malfoy Manor—after days of servitude, after giving herself to Draco, of all people—there was something darkly ironic about it.

Voldemort turned towards her.

She could feel his putrid yellow eyes probing at her mind, feel his presence creeping closer.

His breath—rancid and vile—ghosted over her skin.

She squeezed her eyes shut.

She refused to let her last sight in this world be the monster standing before her.

But then—

"It is not her you seek, Tom . It is me."

Hermione’s eyes snapped open.

She was frozen, stunned, unable to believe what had just happened.

This was impossible…

It couldn’t be —

The room was left in stunned silence as Lucius stared at his wife in disbelief, his eyes burning with a fire that could have incinerated anything in his path.

Narcissa Malfoy stood tall, facing Voldemort with her head held high in defiance.

" I betrayed you. Not Lucius, not Draco. Me. And believe me, I would do it a thousand times over if it meant seeing you defeated."

Draco struggled to process what had just happened: his mother had betrayed Lucius, had betrayed the Dark Lord, and now she was openly admitting it.

He knew what that meant— death .

Fear invaded his mind, his hands trembled as he fought the urge to scream. His gaze desperately sought his mother’s, pleading for an explanation, begging her to take it back, to sit down… but it was too late. 

Fate had already been sealed.

Voldemort slithered toward the woman, wrapping his deathly pale hand around her waist. "Narcissa, my dear , I have always known you were the most powerful in your family; such an intelligent witch… what a disappointment, what a waste of magic…" His vile lips hovered too close to the delicate skin of her neck.

"My Lord, what shall we do with her? Hm? Do you want to kill her now? Maybe with a few rounds of the Cruciatus ?" Pettigrew squeaked disgustingly, licking his lips.

"Patience, patience, my loyal friend… Lady Malfoy will receive all the honors a woman of her stature deserves," Voldemort hissed. "A half-blood’s death would not suit her. No, she deserves something greater… something memorable . Lucius, can I count on you to escort your dear wife to the dungeons of our headquarters? I would hate to be forced to leave our dear Draco an orphan…"

"I no longer have a wife, My Lord."

Draco looked at his father with pure hatred; that bloody bastard . 

He couldn't believe he was turning his back on his mother like this. 

He wouldn't allow Narcissa to die—he would kill them all, his father, his men, even Voldemort himself…

As he prepared to leap to his feet, his hand already gripping his wand, he saw the Mudblood take two steps forward. 

He froze, his blood running cold with a fear even greater than before; but he didn’t have time to understand what was happening because his face fixed on the girl’s strange expression. She seemed almost...confused. 

" Don’t do it, Hermione ."

Hermione didn’t understand where that woman’s voice inside her head was coming from. She looked around to see if anyone else had heard it—until her hazel eyes met Narcissa’s.

"I know what you’re planning. Don’t do it. I’m already dead, but you… you can live. Promise me you’ll save Draco. "

Of course… Narcissa Malfoy was a Legilimens —how had Hermione not thought of that? 

She knew her secret, she guessed what Hermione had done. And yet, Narcissa had chosen to sacrifice herself for her, for them all, perhaps for the entire magical world .

Tears welled in Gryffindor's eyes. "I can’t… he’ll kill you," she whispered, barely audible.

" Please, Hermione, you must promise me. Promise me you will save him, at any cost ," the woman turned to her son one last time, trying to pour all of her love into that one final glance.

"I… I promise."

It was the last thing she could say before Pettigrew, Lucius, Narcissa, Voldemort, and Astoria disappeared, leaving her and Draco alone in the grand drawing room.

The blond's eyes had turned into black pits of rage, his knuckles clenched around his wand, now ghostly white, his breath ragged.

He spun toward Hermione, grabbing her arm with a crushing grip and hissing, "Tell me where the fuck they are, Granger."

"I don’t know what you’re talking about, Malfoy," Hermione stammered, for the first time, truly afraid.

Draco tightened his grip even more, his fingers bruising the pale skin of her arm. "Your damn friends— don’t fucking play dumb with me, Granger. TELL ME WHERE THE FUCK THEY ARE!" 

His voice roared, uncontrolled, flames of hatred flickering in his stormy eyes; of the boy who had held her in his arms until a short time before, of their bond, of that magic which united their bodies and souls nothing was left. 

Draco Malfoy had returned the cold and cruel Death Eater of always; and this terrorized her, perhaps for the first time. 

Hermione  was really afraid he might kill her, there, in that precise moment . 

"You’re hurting me… Draco, you’re hurting me. I don’t know where they are, I swear, I don’t know…" Hermione sobbed, unsure of what pained her more—the bruises on her skin or the weight of guilt crushing her heart, knowing she was the cause of his rage and suffering.

Seeing her tears, Draco let go of her abruptly and turned away, gripping his head with his hands, fingers threading through his blond hair.

Think. He had to think .

Suddenly, he grabbed Hermione’s hand. The last thing the curly-haired girl felt was the searing pain of unexpected Apparition.

When she opened her eyes, she found herself in the ruins of Hogwarts. 

The air was bitterly cold, and the creeping fog was beginning to veil the crumbling castle.

"Where the fuck are you? I know you’re here. Come out, you bastards!"

Draco yelled, his wand raised.

He knew they were there, knew the protective spells would have alerted them of his arrival. He was waiting.

And from the mist, the Rebels emerged.

Chapter Text

Draco couldn’t have said how long he had been in that room; minutes, hours… perhaps even days had passed. 

His tired eyes wandered from the small window to the wooden door, to the persian rug at his feet, and then to the white walls… all so relentlessly white .

He knew he was in the hands of the Rebels, and in a way, that made him feel… almost reassured.

But he also knew he had been disarmed and—although he considered himself a highly skilled wizard—he was not yet able to perform magic without his wand.

And so, all he could do was wait. 

And the more he waited, the more his anger grew. The thought of what could be happening to his mother never left his mind, not even for a second. 

It was unlikely that she was dead—no, Voldemort needed time to arrange something memorable. 

But on the other hand, for all he knew, weeks could have already passed since the Resistance had captured him…

"Not that many days have passed, young Malfoy; don’t worry."

Snape's voice brought him back to reality. 

Damn Legilimens… and damn traitor .

Lifting his eyes to the professor, he noticed the figures of Neville, Luna, and his—f ormer —friends Theo and Blaise standing behind him. 

No sign of Granger , he thought with slight irritation, immediately remembering to occlude his mind.

"You came looking for us, and now we’re here, Malfoy. Tell us what you want and leave."

"No offense, Longbottom, but I’d rather speak with someone a little… higher up than you. Don’t tell me you’re the one leading the Resistance. Fuck, that would mean you’re in worse shape than I thought," the blond sneered before shifting his gaze to the two Slytherins standing in front of him. "Blaise, Theo, you look well… I’m glad you’re having fun while the world outside moves on without you. Have you already changed houses? Maybe red and gold suit you better?"

"Believe it or not, Draco, we’re here to help you… It’s not too late to make the right choice, not even for you," Theo said, looking at him with pleading eyes.

"Are you even listening to yourself, Theo? The right choice, helping me … For Salazar’s sake, they must have brainwashed you. I expected this from Blaise, though—Greengrass have him by the balls…"

"Fuck you, Draco, don’t you dare talk about Daphne… I told you, Theo.. he’d never change his mind…"

By now, the boys’ voices had risen in anger, overlapping each other, while Luna tried in vain to restore peace to a situation that was practically compromised.

" Silence. "

Snape’s imposing tone restored order.

"Silence. Mr. Longbottom, Draco requested a meeting with the Resistance, and a meeting with the Resistance he shall have. End of discussion ."

"Professor, with all due respect, we can’t trust him. He’s a damn Death Eater—he wouldn’t hesitate to see us all dead if he had the chance."

"It seems quite evident that Mr. Malfoy is currently completely harmless, Neville ."

The Gryffindor knew from Snape’s tone that the discussion was over.

"As you wish… professor. I just hope this decision doesn’t lead to our downfall," he muttered before storming out, slamming the door behind him.

Hermione sat on an old couch in front of the fireplace in Shell Cottage’s grand hall, and for the first time in a long while, she could say she felt at home. She gently stroked Ginny’s red hair as the younger girl lay asleep, exhausted from crying, dried tears still tracing clear paths down her pale face.

The curly-haired Gryffindor couldn’t have put into words what she had felt when she was finally able to hug Ginevra again. The two girls had held each other for hours, crying, without speaking… each could feel the other’s pain, the suffering, the dangers they had endured, the joy of reuniting…

Then Ginny had taken her to see Harry, and Hermione’s world had crumbled. 

Her friend was there, with his dark hair falling over his eyes, his scars, his large hands—but that was only his body. 

Otherwise, he lay there like an abandoned doll, his eyes empty, only the slow rise and fall of his chest proving he was still alive.

Of what had once been Harry Potter, nothing remained, and no one could explain why.

Bringing her teacup to her lips, she found herself gazing out the large window, her thoughts drifting far away. 

She had only been there for two days, but the amount of information to process was overwhelming… and not all of it pleasant .

The cottage was still under the Fidelius Charm and had become one of the last refuges for the Order— or what remained of it . 

Along with Ron, Molly, and Sean, who had died in the Battle of Hogwarts, Hermione had been informed that Hagrid, Shacklebolt, and Fleur had also perished in the prison camps. 

Not that things had gone any better for the members of Dumbledore’s Army—most of them were either dead or still imprisoned, and their rescue was anything but certain.

Those who had survived had to live every day with the wounds of both body and soul. 

Like Bill, who was now raising a child without a mother. 

Arthur, reduced to an empty shell, too shattered by all the losses he had endured. 

Ginny, who had lost two brothers, her mother, and who watched the love of her life lie in bed, soulless…

Hermione felt guilty. What could she truly say she had lost? 

Yes, Ron was dead. Some of her friends, too… 

But could she really allow herself to grieve? To feel sorry for herself? Hadn’t things actually turned out better for her? She had been fed, sheltered—unlike the other girls forced to work in the camps or worse…

"You’re still tormenting yourself, Miss Granger."

Professor McGonagall’s gentle voice made her smile. 

The frail body of the professor bore the merciless marks of all she had endured during the months of imprisonment before her liberation.

"I’m sorry, Professor. It’s just that everything still feels so… surreal . All those deaths, all those imprisoned students…" a tear rolled down Hermione’s cheek.

"We did not choose to survive, Miss Granger. What we can do is ensure that the deaths of our loved ones are not in vain and fight to the very end, even at the cost of our own lives."

Of that, Hermione was certain. 

Now that she had the chance, she would fight until her last breath—even if it meant dying in the process.

And she was sure that someone else would fight alongside her…

At least, she hoped so.

The meeting between Malfoy and the members of the Resistance had been arranged in the villa’s dining room: on one side of the table sat Draco, alone, while on the other, lined up, were Neville, Bill, Snape, George, and McGonagall. 

Behind them stood Dean, Professor Sprout, and Theo.

They must be the ones running the show , the blond thought, letting his gaze wander to the other young people sitting near the walls of the large room: Blaise, Daphne, Luna, and two or three others he couldn’t identify. 

And then, at the far end—her. Granger .

She was wearing Muggle clothes, a short-sleeved pink T-shirt and a pair of jeans. 

Her hair was tied up in a half-ponytail, with a few stray curls falling onto her forehead, and the deep shadows under her eyes made it clear that she hadn’t had an easy time either.

Draco found himself seeking the Gryffindor’s gaze—partly as a challenge, partly out of necessity. 

Something about her presence made him feel less alone. 

But Hermione made sure not to meet his eyes, keeping her gaze fixed on the floor.

“Well, Mr. Malfoy, here we are. We’re ready to hear what you have to say,” Professor McGonagall began.

“I want to make it clear that I’m not here for some ideological change,” he sneered, glancing at Theo and Blaise, “or for any reason other than pure revenge and a mutual exchange of favors. Voldemort has something I want back—someone…” A barely perceptible grimace of pain flickered across his face before his expression turned cold and fixed on his interlocutors once again. “Clearly, I can’t hope to defeat the Dark Lord alone. Unfortunately, I need help— and you lot are the closest thing to help left in the wizarding world .”

“So, if I understand correctly, Malfoy,” Bill said calmly, “you’re asking us to help you in exchange for… gratitude?” A quiet chuckle rose among the assembled group.

“Don’t take me for a fool, Weasley. I know very well that even you Gryffindors wouldn’t do something for nothing. I’m proposing an exchange of favors. As far as Voldemort knows, I’m still one of his most loyal supporters—I’m not compromised in his eyes, or in the eyes of the other Death Eaters. I know their movements, their hideouts; I could describe Voldemort’s palace by heart. If you want to win this war, I can be very useful to you. And judging by your numbers… that’s exactly what you need.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Draco,” Snape smirked slyly. “What you see here are certainly not all the members of the Resistance. But we prefer to be cautious. The people in this room are only those in whom the inner council has complete trust. Besides, Charlie is in charge of maintaining contact with the Resistance across Europe, and others are—”

“I don’t think it’s wise to reveal anything more for now, Professor,” Neville interrupted, glaring at Draco.

“Listen… I don’t care about earning your pathetic redemption , nor do I care about gaining your trust. If my help doesn’t interest you, I can walk out that door this very moment—”

“And you think we’d just let you walk away, Malferret ? Ah, you really must have lost your mind,” Dean sneered.

“And who’s going to stop me, Thomas? You?” Draco retorted sarcastically.

“I don’t trust him,” George stood up. “He’s a damn Death Eater, a Slytherin. His father personally tortured our friends—he killed Ron! Has anyone forgotten that?”

Silence fell over the room. No, no one had forgotten. 

And how could they?

“I think you should give him a chance,” Theo murmured.

“Yes… after all, you don’t have to forgive him. You just have to work together for a common cause. Not all Slytherins are the same, Weasley,” Blaise added smoothly.

“You know exactly what I mean, Zabini…”

“We could ask Hermione,” Luna’s voice rang out above the rest. “Oh, well, I mean, they spent many months together, and judging by the Wrackspurts b uzzing around her head, she must have a lot of thoughts about it,” she said, smiling at the curly-haired girl and slipping her arm under Theo’s, who looked at her with a mix of feigned annoyance and genuine surprise.

“I…” Hermione hesitated, stepping forward toward the large table. “Well, as you all know, my past with Dra—” Shit “—with Malfoy hasn’t exactly been… pleasant.” 

At that word, both Draco’s and Hermione’s hearts skipped a beat, their minds locked onto a single, precise memory. “But I also believe that any possible help against the Dark Lord is necessary, regardless of where— or who —it comes from. Moreover, I know for a fact that Malfoy cares deeply about succeeding in his mission—so much that he might even risk his life for it.”

“And what noble mission would that be, Malfoy? Let’s hear it,” George mocked.

“Voldemort has taken my mother,” Draco replied, his voice firm. “And he’s going to kill her—probably in the worst way imaginable.”

Hermione, Bill, George, Snape, and McGonagall had been locked in that room for hours, yet they still hadn’t reached a verdict. 

Draco sat in front of the fireplace, feeling the judging stares of the other Resistance members on his back. 

Only Daphne, before leaving after the meeting, had given him a quick hug before hastily retreating up the stairs.

“Would you like some tea, Draco? You seem very nervous. Maybe I could bring you a book. I’d love to give you a copy of The Quibbler if they hadn’t stopped publishing it…”

“Please, Loony , don’t hover over me. Now is really not the time,” Draco rolled his eyes in annoyance.

“You know, Malfoy, I don’t think you’re evil. I just think you found yourself in a situation bigger than you.”

Draco looked at the blonde, surprised. 

For the first time, she had said something that actually made sense.

“Thanks, Lovegood. Now that I have your very important opinion, I feel so much better.”

Always be cruel.

“Leave him be, Luna. Charm has never really been his strong suit, unfortunately,” Theo said, sitting down with Blaise in front of Draco as the blonde girl shrugged and walked away.

“Luna? Don’t tell me now you like her too, Theo,” Draco teased in mock disgust.

“I’m sorry about your mother, Draco. Blaise is too. We’ll do whatever it takes to help you—believe it or not.”

Draco was caught off guard. A punch to the stomach would have shaken him less. 

He hadn’t expected his friends to welcome him back like this. In fact, he had expected the opposite. 

He knew he had treated them poorly, that he hadn’t been a brother to them, that he had turned his back on them. And yet, here they were. He was grateful—but he was too proud to say it.

He barely had time to thank them with a glance before the dining room doors swung open.

“Well, Mr. Malfoy, deciding on your fate hasn’t been easy, but we’ve reached a conclusion,” McGonagall declared. “We believe that mutual assistance can only benefit our cause—and yours. However, there will be limitations: first, you will be subjected to an Unbreakable Vow , just as your companions Nott and Zabini were before you. We must always be informed of your whereabouts, and you will be forbidden from using your wand inside Order Safe Houses. Is that clear?” She peered at him over her glasses, her expression as stern as ever.

“Crystal clear…” Draco muttered, irritated.

Think of your mother. Think of your mother. Think of Granger—no, you idiot, think of your mother.

“Thank Hermione, Ferret ; if it was up to me, you’d be already dangling, hanged on the tallest tower in Hogwarts” George spat before storming out, followed by Dean and Ginny. The redhead cast a reassuring look at Hermione, as if silently promising that she would handle her brother.

Thank Hermione? What the fuck was that supposed to mean?

Draco barely had time to process the fact that Granger had defended him before Snape spoke again.

“Well, young Malfoy, we’d like to know your next move… I assume you didn’t come here unprepared, without a plan.”

Oh, they could be sure of that.

He had a plan. And he was going to see it through—until the very end.

Chapter Text

The mist rose mysteriously from the surrounding countryside as the three figures approached, trying to make as little noise as possible; they knew they had only one chance, and failure was not an option.
Draco was terribly nervous, and for his plan, he had chosen to bring along the only people he trusted completely: Theodore Nott and Blaise Zabini.

Upon reaching the house, the boys checked for any protective enchantments, which, as they had suspected, were absent. 

Foolish creature , he hadn’t even thought to protect himself.
Silently, they opened the front door and were immediately enveloped in darkness; the house’s owner was probably already asleep—it was the dead of night, after all.

A strong, stale odor immediately filled their nostrils as they advanced toward the bedroom, wands already drawn. 

Once they reached the door, they threw it open with a sharp movement, and Nott, pointing his wand at the figure lying in bed, firmly pronounced, " Petrificus Totalus ."

Peter Pettigrew lay before them, immobilized, eyes wide in terror and surprise, his mouth twisted in a grotesque grimace. 

A small, miserable man—nothing more than a sewer rat.
Only then did Draco allow himself a sigh of relief; the first part of the plan was complete.
And in an instant, he, Nott, and Zabini Disapparated, taking Pettigrew with them.

“Absolutely not, Malfoy; torture is out of the question.” McGonagall's voice echoed through the room, her barely veiled irritation clear to everyone present.

After the three boys had returned with Pettigrew and locked him in one of the rooms of Shell Cottage while awaiting his fate, a heated discussion had erupted between the Council and Draco Malfoy.
A discussion in which neither side seemed willing to back down.

“I fully understand your position, Mr. Malfoy, but I must remind you that the Order’s stance has always been very clear: we do not resort to the use of Dark Magic, under any circumstances.”

“And how did you expect to make Peter Pettigrew talk, Professor? By offering him tea ?” Malfoy was furious—this waste of time was driving him mad.

“I remind you who you are speaking to, Malferret; as long as you are in this house, you will abide by our rules. Unless, of course, you’d rather keep Pettigrew company.” George spat.

“Professor McGonagall, I understand your reasoning, but this time, I believe Draco is righ—”

“Was I not clear enough, Mr. Zabini? Do I need to repeat myself?”

Hermione’s gaze darted back and forth, wanting to intervene but not daring to open her mouth. 

What could she even say? That she agreed with Malfoy? That she wanted to torture Peter Pettigrew with her own hands until she heard him scream in pain? 

A cold shiver ran down her spine at the thought. 

She had never been like this before— how much had this war changed her? When did it happen?

“Professor, you know I agree with you,” Bill interjected, trying to keep the woman from getting even more upset, “but I fear this time there are no alternatives. Peter Pettigrew has the information we need, and if Malfoy’s method can help us…”

“Severus can certainly prepare Veritaserum to make him talk…”

“Twenty-eight days? You want to wait TWENTY-EIGHT DAYS for answers? For Salazar’s sake, we might as well let ourselves be killed now,” Malfoy sneered.

“That is enough.” Snape’s sharp voice had the desired effect of silencing the room, much to Malfoy’s satisfaction. “Minerva, I understand your... Gryffindor desire to avoid drastic measures, but Bill is right; we don’t have time. We need to access Pettigrew’s memories, and we need to do it now.”

Then, turning toward the three Slytherins, he added, “I trust you will proceed with discretion—I’d rather not disturb the other members any further.”

Draco didn’t wait for anyone else to object; he shot to his feet and strode toward Pettigrew’s cell, with Blaise and Theodore following closely behind.

“Don’t forget to silence the room.”

“Draco, for fuck’s sake, stop for a second. Can we at least talk about this? There has to be another way to get what you want…”

“Another way, Blaise? The more time passes without that rat talking, the less chance I have of saving my mother. If you don’t want to take part, don’t. I won’t judge you. But if you decide to step into that room, know that I will do whatever it takes— and I mean whatever —to make him talk.”

With that, he moved toward the door.

“Come on, let’s go…” Theo sighed in resignation. 

He and Blaise knew they couldn’t leave Draco alone—especially now, when his desperation for answers might push him to risk his own life.

The three entered the cell. Pettigrew sat there, bound to a chair, trembling, submissive, just as he had been his entire life. 

Draco had often wondered how Potter’s parents had ever trusted their lives to such a pathetic creature.

Once Theo had silenced the door, Draco stepped toward Pettigrew, rolling up the sleeves of his shirt to reveal the pitch-black tattoo on his forearm, while Theo and Blaise took their seats behind him. 

A grimace of disgust flickered across Pettigrew’s face.

“Good evening, Peter… Did you sleep well?”

“Malfoy, y-you little traitor, I am sure your f-f-father will hear of this… and so will the Dark Lord. Oooooh yes, I am sure he will punish you…” Pettigrew squeaked.

"You know, Peter," the blond said, not even bothering to acknowledge the Death Eater, "if there’s one thing that the bastard of a father of mine taught me, it’s how to get what I want."

Grabbing a chair, he straddled it, draping his arms lazily over the backrest in front of him. "As it happens, my dear Peter— can I call you that? —what I desire right now is information, and you are the only one who can give it to me."

"You must be insane, Malfoy, if you think I’ll give you anything of my own free will."

Draco’s face twisted into a chilling smile, his eyes nearly black with rage. 

"Oh, but that’s the fun part of this story, Wormtail. I’m not asking you to give it to me. I’m going to rip it out of your slimy body along with your last breath."

Voldemort’s servant had started trembling ever so slightly, tiny beads of sweat glistening on his pudgy face. 

But in one last act of defiance, he sneered.

"Whatever you do to me, the Dark Lord will do to that whore of a mother of yours, Draco Malfoy."

Theo and Blaise exchanged glances. 

They both knew—already—that this barely veiled threat had just awakened the most monstrous part of Draco. 

They braced for the worst.

" Diffindo ."

A sharp pain shot through the blond’s chest.

Before Wormtail could even process what had happened, his pinky finger dropped limply to the floor, a small trail of blood trickling from his right hand. 

A searing, unbearable pain made him convulse against the chair.

"Oh dear, how careless of me. I must have hit your hand, Peter… you were saying?"

"You little bastard…" Pettigrew growled, clutching the wound to try and stop the bleeding.

" Sectumsempra ."

A deeper, sharper agony. Ragged breathing. Arms tensed, trying to endure the pain.

This time, a series of gashes of varying depth opened along the prisoner’s legs. 

His agonized screams filled the air of the cell. Theo forced himself to look away to keep from vomiting.

"For fuck’s sake, Pettigrew! Just tell us what we need to know—do you want to die?" Blaise shouted, standing up from his chair in anger.

"G-Go to h-hell, Zabini… y-you’ll be next… t-to die…"

Draco burst into laughter.

"Well, well, Peter, I didn’t expect you to be this resilient… Crucio ."

A sharp stab of pain that made him jolt upright. His heart pounded wildly. Cold seeped into his bones .

The rat-like man crumpled to the floor, convulsing, the pool of blood beneath him spreading wider. Drool dripped from his mouth.

"Stop… please…" he tried to whisper through the tremors.

"I didn’t hear you, Wormtail. Speak louder. Did you say… more? Crucio !"

His arm went numb, his wand slipped from his weakening grip, his chest ached, and a crushing weight pressed against his heart.

"Draco, for fuck’s sake, you’re killing him! STOP!"

"Shut up, Nott."

Draco’s gaze was burning, his mind somewhere far away as he cast the curse again and again and again.

For him.
For his mother.
For their lives.
For his friends, forced to die.
For her. Hermione.

"I’ll talk! I’ll talk… take my memories, take whatever you want, just please make him stop!"

Pettigrew’s voice was a shrill, desperate wail. He was nothing but a wreck of a man now, drowning in his own blood and spit, unable even to catch his breath after enduring the curse so many times.

But Draco never heard him. 

Because as he cast his final Cruciatus , his wand slipped from his fingers, his body collapsed onto the ground, and his breath caught in his throat.

One name echoed in his mind as he felt himself fading.

Granger .

And then—darkness.

Chapter Text

Draco jolted awake as if he'd just taken his first breath after a century underwater.

Disoriented, he scanned the room, trying to piece together what had happened. The last thing he remembered was Peter Pettigrew’s face twisted in agony, the acrid, metallic scent of homunculus blood filling the air. 

Then—nothing. Darkness.

The place he had woken up in bore a striking resemblance to the Hogwarts infirmary: a vast hall lined with hospital beds, each accompanied by a small armchair, and cabinets upon cabinets filled with tiny vials containing potions, creams, and mysterious concoctions of various colors and consistencies.

Damn it. He must have passed out again. That’s why he was here.

And as he thought, the memories came flooding back—spells cast at Pettigrew, Blaise shouting at him to stop, the relentless pain in his chest that had left him weak, powerless.

Bloody hell, this was driving him insane.

He was a Slytherin—a Death Eater, for Merlin’s sake. One of the best. And now, here he was, sprawled on a hospital bed, wrapped in a ridiculous white gown, condemned by his own magic.

It was so damn unfair.

Lost in his thoughts, it took him a moment to notice the small figure curled up in the armchair in the corner of the room. A thin blanket barely covered her frame, wild curls spilling over her face, eyes shut, breathing slow and steady.

Granger .

She was there, right beside him, fast asleep.

Even in sleep, her expression wasn’t peaceful—her delicate features were marred by a pained grimace, deep shadows under her eyes betraying exhaustion. 

Draco’s gaze drifted to her hands, clenched even in slumber, as if she were trapped in a state of constant worry.

For a moment— just a moment —Draco allowed himself to recall their last… close encounter.

Salazar help him, that infuriating little Gryffindor was driving him mad.

What kind of spell had she cast on him to leave him like this? Would he give in again—to her warm lips, to the body he had lost himself in, over and over?

No. NO. Out of the question.

Yes, he had been weak.

But he would never— never —give in to Granger again.

As he battled his own conscience, a noise behind him made his instincts kick in. 

Years of Death Eater training had him snapping upright, wand aimed at the two figures emerging from the shadows.

"I'm sorry to break it to you, Draco, but that wand won’t do you any good. McGonagall made sure you wouldn’t be able to harm a fly," Theodore drawled, smirking as he and Blaise approached the bed.

"Fuck off, Nott. That damned old hag—"

"It’s good to see you alive, Draco," Blaise interrupted with a small grin. "And I have to say, it’s nice to see you’re still the same insufferable bastard."

"What can I say, Zabini… I haven’t lost my touch." Draco sneered, flicking a glance toward Granger, careful not to be caught.

"She hasn’t moved from that chair, you know?"

Shit. Caught.

"It’s been four days, Draco. She’s practically lived in this infirmary—barely got up to eat, and only because the Weasel dragged her away on the second day," Theo continued. "I really don’t understand why she’s going through all this trouble for a bastard like you."

Draco ignored his friend’s jab, his mind spinning.

Granger had been worried about him? She had stayed by his side, night and day, refusing to leave… Why the hell did that thought make his chest feel so—

No. No way.

"Clearly, she’s got nothing better to do, Nott," Draco said coldly. "She shouldn’t expect any gratitude from me."

Good. Ice-cold bastard as always.

Theo shook his head, exasperated. It was clear Draco wasn’t about to abandon his arrogant ways anytime soon.

"Get some rest, Draco. You need it," Blaise said, giving him a final look before nudging Theo toward the door.

Draco didn’t miss the concern in his friends’ expressions. They knew something. Something was weighing on them—something he didn’t know.

And he would find out.

Casting one last glance at the sleeping Gryffindor, he lay back down. 

His mind a storm of thoughts, he drifted into sleep once more.

The first light of dawn spilled into the infirmary as Draco stirred from his sleep. 

His gaze immediately landed on the armchair where, just a few hours earlier, Hermione had been curled up.

It was empty.

In her place, neatly folded, lay a white turtleneck cardigan, a pair of black trousers, and matching black boots.

They had to be for him, he thought to himself.

Still feeling weak, he rose from the bed, slipped into the clothes left for him, and stepped out of the infirmary. The distant murmur of voices guided him towards the grand dining hall of the manor.

“Mr. Malfoy, delighted to see you up and about. Come, take a seat—we were just talking about you.”

McGonagall gestured toward an empty chair at the table, levitating a steaming cup of tea in front of him. Snape acknowledged him with a small nod, followed by Bill, while George and Neville made a point of ignoring him altogether.

Seated next to the professor were Theo, deeply engaged in conversation with that oddball Lovegood, Blaise, Daphne—who was the only one to greet him with a genuinely warm smile—and Hermione.

She barely lifted her head when he entered. 

She looked exhausted, drained… her face shadowed with worry.

Why the hell is everyone looking at me like I’m a bloody dead man walking?

As he sipped his tea, Snape brought him up to speed.

"Your plan seems to have worked, young Malfoy. Pettigrew has given us a wealth of useful information—the locations of some of our imprisoned allies, the Death Eaters’ upcoming attacks, and, most crucially, details that may help us save Mr. Potter..."

“You know, Malferret… he would’ve told us even more if he hadn’t died from your damned curses!" George spat, his voice laced with fury.

"Thank me later, Weasley," Draco shot back, a slow, wicked smirk curling his lips.

"As Professor Snape was saying..." McGonagall lowered her glasses, fixing both George and Draco with a piercing glare before continuing. "We have finally uncovered what happened to Mr. Potter on the day of the battle. Unfortunately, Harry was struck by a curse—a powerful and dark one. His soul is currently trapped in a limbo. He is not dead—not yet—but he is not truly alive either. He is, for lack of a better term, bound… by something."

“Could you explain that better, Professor?” The usual Malfoy sneer was gone, replaced by something startlingly close to genuine curiosity.

“It’s a blood curse, Malfoy,” Bill interjected. “Voldemort used his own blood as a vessel to imprison Harry’s soul in this state of endless torment. And only Voldemort’s blood can break the curse.”

That cunning, ruthless bastard.

It was—Draco had to admit—an almost brilliant strategy. Instead of killing Potter outright, Voldemort had done something far worse: he had condemned his soul. 

And with that, he had sent a chilling message to the entire Resistance.

He had fooled them all, letting them find their beloved hero alive in the Forbidden Forest that night, only to force them to confront the cold, inescapable truth—

Potter was screwed. 

And there was nothing they could do to save him.

All they could do was watch. Watch as his body withered away, day after day after day.

At least, that was what Voldemort thought.

"Now," Bill continued, "we need to find a way to get close enough to him to take some of his blood. Just a single drop—a tiny amount is all we need. And thanks to the information Pettigrew provided, we now know how to break the curse and bring Potter’s soul back."

A heavy silence fell over the room.

Breaking the curse was one thing… but getting close to Voldemort? Without being killed—or worse?

Bloody hell. That was a real problem.

“The plan is this: with the help of Polyjuice Potion, someone from the Order will take the form of Peter Pettigrew. He was the only one who could approach Voldemort without raising suspicion. Most likely, someone else will have to pose as a captured prisoner—it’s necessary for at least two people to go on this mission… to increase the chances of success. Professor McGonagall will use the intel we have to create a detailed map of Voldemort’s stronghold. Whoever is chosen for this mission will have to memorize it—every room, every exit, every damn inch of that place must be burned into your mind. Understood?” George’s voice cracked multiple times as he laid out the plan.

It was a suicide mission. Everyone knew it.

And deep down, every single person at that table secretly hoped their name wouldn’t be chosen.

“I volunteer for the mission.”

“Bloody hell, Bill, absolutely not!” George shouted. “Do you want your son to grow up an orphan? Hasn’t losing Fleur been enough? I’ll go—”

“No, I will.” Dean’s voice was quiet, almost as if he hoped no one would hear him. “I mean… well, you have already lost too many people in your family….”

Voices rose, overlapping one another. Everyone was trying to shout their own name the loudest, desperately attempting to spare someone else from the painful fate awaiting them.

"I’LL GO ON THE MISSION!"

Hermione hadn’t even realized she had shouted until she felt every pair of eyes in the room turn toward her.

“I’ll go on the mission,” she repeated, softer this time.

She sank back into her chair, trying not to break apart, but the weight of the past months was crushing her, pressing down like an unbearable force.

“Since this war began, I’ve felt like I haven’t done enough—like I haven’t done what I should. All of you—every single person in the Order—have risked your lives, fought, struggled… it’s time for me to do my part.”

A single tear slid down her cheek.

“I can’t keep watching my friends die. I wouldn’t be able to bear losing any of you. Not again. Please, I beg you, send me on this mission.”

McGonagall and Snape exchanged glances. They both knew that once Hermione Granger set her mind on something, there was no force in the world that could stop her.

“Miss Granger… this mission is incredibly dangerous. There is a very real chance that you won’t come back alive.”

“I know, Professor. And I’m ready to take that risk.”

“Well… if that is your decision—”

Draco stood abruptly, staring at Hermione as if he could incinerate her on the spot. 

His fists clenched, lips pressed so tightly together that they nearly disappeared.

He was angry. No—he was absolutely, furiously livid.

What the hell was that stupid Gryffindor thinking? Huh? That she’d just waltz in there and get herself killed? Was she trying to be some kind of martyr?

Stupid, reckless, insufferable Mudblood.

“The most suitable person for this mission is me,” he declared, his voice cold as steel. “You all know it. Voldemort still trusts me—I won’t even need to use that damned Polyjuice Potion. I’ve always been one of his most loyal Death Eaters, and if anyone can get close to him and still hope to walk out alive, it’s me. The rest of you would be dead the second you set foot in that damned place. And don’t worry, I’ll do it.I’ll risk my life for your precious Potter . But only under one, very specific condition.”

“And what would that be?” Snape asked, though he already knew exactly where this was going.

“Granger cannot, under any circumstances , be part of the mission.”

Hermione’s jaw nearly hit the table. A ripple of murmurs spread through the room, eyes flicking between Draco and Hermione, confused and stunned.

Snape didn’t give anyone the chance to argue.

“So be it, Draco. As for the second person to accompany you, it will be me,” Snape continued. “When the Dark Lord sees that you are delivering me to him as a prisoner, any doubt about your loyalty will vanish. You’re right—it’s the best chance we have.

Besides… I promised your mother I would protect you until the end. And I intend to keep that promise.”

“But Severus—” McGonagall tried to protest.

“Minerva, my decision is final. Mr. Malfoy, we will discuss the remaining details later. You are dismissed.”

As everyone left the room, still reeling from what had just happened, Draco could have sworn —for just a second, a single fleeting second—that he saw something like admiration flash in Neville’s and George’s eyes before they turned away.

Blaise and Theo had barely turned toward Draco, ready to demand what the hell he was thinking volunteering for this suicide mission, when a sharp, furious scream cut through the air.

They spun around.

Hermione stood in front of Draco, her small frame dwarfed by his height, but her presence burning with sheer, uncontainable rage.

Her arms were rigid at her sides, fists clenched so tightly her knuckles had gone white. 

Fury twisted her features, radiating off her in waves.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing, you damned Slytherin?”

Chapter Text

“What the hell do you think you’re doing, you damned Slytherin?”

"I've no idea what you're on about, Mudblood," drawled Draco, brushing past the bushy-haired girl without so much as a glance. With practiced ease, he strode out of the Great Hall and into the sitting room, finding it blessedly empty.

With an air of nonchalance, he poured himself a glass of whiskey, sinking into one of the armchairs before the crackling fire. He had barely lifted the glass to his lips when a flash of white light shattered it mid-air, sending shards flying and amber liquid splattering across the rug.

"Bloody hell, are you out of your mind?! You could've taken my hand off, for Merlin’s sake—"

"Oh, trust me, Malfoy, there are far worse ways I could hurt you with this wand. Don't tempt me to show you."

A storm of dark curls and fiery rage stormed into the room, followed closely by Zabini and Nott, who wouldn’t have missed this spectacle for the world.

"I'm going to ask you one more time. What. The. Hell. Did. You. Think. You. Were. Doing?"

"I really haven't the faintest idea, Granger," Draco smirked, rising from the chair as though entirely unbothered. "Unless, of course, you’re referring to the fact that I just saved your sorry arse and that of your little friends by volunteering for what is essentially a suicide mission. In which case, you're very welcome. Though, I must say, I expected more... gracious expression of gratitud e." He poured himself another drink with a slow, deliberate smirk.

"Depulso !"

Another jet of light sent his glass flying straight into the fireplace, where it exploded in a burst of flames. Theo yelped as sparks nearly caught his robes.

Draco’s grip on his patience thinned. His grey eyes turned to steel.

"You’re testing me, Mudblood," he said in a dangerously low voice, stepping towards her. "Your precious Order may have taken my wand, but don’t think for a second that I need it to hurt you."

"Don't play dumb with me, Malferret," Hermione spat, jabbing a finger into his chest. Her feet were firmly planted, her brown eyes alight with fury. In that moment, she looked like a younger, wilder version of Professor McGonagall, and Theo and Blaise couldn’t help but marvel at the sheer terror she inspired.

The two Slytherins attempted to intervene, but one withering glare from the Gryffindor shut them up immediately.

"Alright, alright... by all means, ignore our existence," Theo muttered, throwing himself onto the sofa, thoroughly entertained.

Hermione turned back to Draco, eyes burning. "What was that pathetic little scene with Snape? The Granger girl will under no circumstances be allowed to join the mission, " she mimicked, deepening her voice in a mockery of his drawl.

Draco snorted in laughter, which only made her angrier.

At last, Hermione drew her wand. For the first time in months, she felt alive . Magic surged through her veins, fueled by months of captivity, pain, and fear. It clawed its way to the surface, a beast begging to be unleashed.

"How dare you presume to control me?" she seethed, stepping closer with each word, her wand pressing ever so slightly against the pale skin of his throat. "To tell me what I can and cannot do? I am not your property, Malfoy. You hold no power over me. Never again will you decide my fate, you pompous, arrogant, insufferable prick !"

Oh, how she wanted to hurt him. To unleash all the dark, forbidden emotions roiling inside her, emotions she hadn’t even known she was capable of feeling. She felt powerful . Untamed . Dangerous .

"You should be grateful you’re still useful to the Order, Malfoy," she whispered, "or I swear I’d Cru—"

Draco lunged.

His hand closed around her wrist, yanking her forward, their faces mere inches apart. His stormy eyes bore into hers, an unsettling mix of fury and something else, something dark and unreadable.

"You want to do what , Granger? Huh? Stun me? Curse me with a Cruciatus , maybe? How would it make you feel to have me at your mercy, huh? A week ago, you were trembling in my dungeons, praying I wouldn’t decide to kill you—and look at you now, Gryffindor ; so proud, so… cruel .”

Hermione struggled against his grip, but it was useless.

“Tell me, Mudblood , how does it feel to have all this power? What does it feel like to know I’m defenseless, completely in your hands? Let me tell you how it feels.

You like it. It excites you—even arouses you. I can see it in your eyes…

Because it’s the same thing I feel every single fucking day.”

Hermione wrenched her arm, but his grip was iron.

"Looks like you’re finally revealing your true self, Mudblood," Draco murmured, licking his lips. "I must say, I’ve been waiting rather eagerly for this side of you to come out. Come on Granger, do it. Hurt me, show me how ruthless you can be... But make sure to do it all the way because if you just give me a chance to get up, I swear I’ll make you regret..."

"Draco, that’s enough—"

"Shut up, Blaise. Shut. Up. "

The blonde’s voice was cold, emotionless.

"Tell me, Granger," he sneered. "Did you really think I volunteered as some noble sacrifice for your pathetic little war? That I did it out of the kindness of my heart? That I wanted to save you? That I could not accept to see your beautiful face beheaded by the Dark Lord?"

A small, treacherous part of him knew that was exactly why.

That, for some cursed, incomprehensible reason, he couldn’t bear the thought of her dying. That he hated how reckless and self-sacrificing she was.

But that was the part of him he had buried. The part he refused to acknowledge.

"You did think that, didn’t you?" he chuckled darkly. "I can see it written all over your stupid, naïve little face." He leaned in, voice dropping to a whisper. "Poor little, stupid, Gryffindor. You should’ve learned by now, Granger. Never trust a snake. "

With that, he released her and turned to the fire, jaw clenched, eyes unreadable. He couldn’t look at her. He needed to shut down his mind. To be cold . Distant .

"The only reason I volunteered," he said, voice detached, "is to save my mother. The only reason I’m here is because I want Voldemort dead . And the only person who seems capable of making that happen is lying in a bloody bed, half-alive. This mission depends on getting that blood, and I’ll be damned if I let anyone fail.

That’s why I stopped you from coming along, Mudblood. Because I refuse to let some weak, reckless little girl play soldier when my mother’s life is on the line. That’s the only reason. So for Merlin’s sake, stop wasting my time with your bloody questions."

Hermione was struggling not to cry, her face aching from the effort of forcing back the bitter tears that threatened to spill down her cheeks. She had her answer. Malfoy had thrown the truth in her face like a punch, a cold shower that extinguished every flicker of emotion she had felt until that moment.

She wanted to hate him, to feel anger, resentment… it would have been easier.

And yet, she felt nothing. Images of that night spun in her head—how he had made her feel… special, unique, his .

Had she really been so foolish? Had she truly not sensed the danger?

She was the one who was supposed to ensnare him—that was the plan. Make him surrender, bind him to her, so that he would become a weapon for the Order. And yet, without even realizing it, she had been the one to fall. She had been the one who, along with her virginity, had given him a piece of her heart.

And the worst part was that he hadn’t even needed to ask for it, or worse, demand it. 

She had given it freely, because beyond the plans, beyond the mission, beyond the war… she had seen something in Draco. 

She had felt something when he was inside her—a light, a connection… one that he had just, inexorably and cruelly, shattered.

They were back to being enemies, strangers who, by chance, found themselves on the same side of this wretched war game. Nothing more.

With the last shred of pride she had left, she looked Malfoy in the eye and spat the cruel truth right at him—only to regret it a second later.

“You’re going to die anyway, Draco Malfoy.”

Shit. She had ruined everything.

The damage was done. The truth that everyone had tried to keep hidden until now had just been exposed.

“What the fuck did you just say?” Malfoy whirled around to face her, his eyes blazing with fury and shock.

Sensing the situation spiraling out of control, Blaise sprang up from the sofa and grabbed Hermione by the shoulders, attempting to drag her out of the room. “That’s enough, Granger… let’s go. You don’t have to do this, not like this…”

But Draco was faster. He stepped in front of Blaise, blocking his path.

“What the fuck did she just say, Blaise?” The blond’s eyes bore into his friend’s, disbelief flickering in their icy depths. He couldn’t believe even Blaise was turning against him.

“Draco, listen, we need to talk… there’s something you need to know…” Even Theo had joined them now, the tension crackling in the air like a curse about to be unleashed. The weight of the long-hidden secret pressed down on them, making the air almost suffocating.

“ I said you’re going to die anyway, Draco Malfoy ,” Hermione repeated, her voice steady, cold. The rage had taken hold of her again, her words slicing through the silence like sharp blades. “When you collapsed in Peter Pettigrew’s chambers, you weren’t waking up. No one knew what to do. Even Snape was worried—he tried everything in his arsenal. Risking exposure to the Death Eaters, he went into the Forbidden Forest to find Firenze… your last chance. As you well know, Centaur magic is among the most powerful forms of healing in existence. It took hours of spells, but finally, we had an answer: your heart is cursed, Malfoy. The prophecy was real, and your mother was right all along. Every day, your flesh gives way to marble, little by little, as your heart turns to lifeless stone. 

Every Dark spell, every curse, every act of cruelty… brings you closer to death.

And there’s no cure.

It’s an ancient curse, a magic so strong it’s irreversible, even for you.

That’s why you collapsed when you attacked Dovark. That’s why you can’t cast a Cruciatus without feeling like you’re about to pass out. That’s why it took you so long to recover after interrogating Pettigrew. Because your heart is failing, Malfoy. Day after day after day … and it’s your own doing. It’s your cruelty that’s killing you, hanging over you like the Sword of Damocles from the moment you were born.”

Hermione felt drained.

She had foolishly thought that throwing the truth in his face would make her feel better, that it would bring her some kind of relief. But instead, she just felt sick.

She hadn’t wanted to tell him like this. She had spent days preparing for this conversation, trying to find a way to soften the blow—because the thought of Malfoy dying was destroying her more than she cared to admit.

“Is it true?” Draco’s voice was hollow, his gaze flickering between Theo and Blaise as if searching for an escape, as if hoping it was all just some cruel joke from Granger.

But when he saw the pain etched onto their faces, he knew.

This wasn’t a trick. This wasn’t some petty Gryffindor revenge.

His fate had been sealed before he was even born, and there wasn’t a single damned thing he could do to stop it.

Blaise spoke first. “Firenze is still working on a counter-curse to break the prophecy. It’s not over yet. We still have time—”

“Yes, Blaise is right,” Theo cut in. “We wanted to tell you, Draco, we really did. But it never seemed like the right time or the right way… and then with this whole bloody mission…”

“Oh well, friends… looks like Granger found the perfect way,” Draco sneered.

With his usual, infuriating composure, he locked away every trace of emotion behind his flawless Occlumency shields.

Brushing past the trio with icy indifference, he fixed Hermione with a piercing stare—his final, merciless dagger before leaving.

“I’m going on this mission, Mudblood. Don’t waste your breath worrying about me—you said it yourself. I’m going to die anyway. I just regret not giving you the satisfaction of doing it with your own hands.”

And with that, he was gone.

Cold gripped Draco and Snape’s bones as they made their way toward Voldemort’s palace. The plan was simple—they had gone over it for hours and hours.

They had considered every possible complication, and had come up with alternative solutions for even the most unlikely setbacks. 

Every chance of failure had been reduced to nothing.

Failure wasn’t an option. There would be no second chances. If they were discovered, they would die. That was the only certainty.

Draco was tense. The bombshell the Mudblood had dropped on him just hours ago was still wreaking havoc in his mind, making it impossible to think—and that infuriated him even more. He forced himself to raise his Occlumency barriers. He couldn’t allow his emotions to betray him, not now.

He needed to be clear-headed. Ruthless. Precise.

He needed to be Malfoy , not Draco.

He had to do this for his mother—to save her.

And he had to do it for Snape, who was counting on him.

“Let’s go over the plan one more time.”

“For Salazar’s sake, Professor, please … we’ve been through this hundreds of times already.”

“Draco, this is not a game. We cannot make mistakes. I swore to your mother that I would protect you, and I will—but this mission is bigger than us. We have one single, only chance.”

“Fine, fine… Once we reach the perimeter of the palace, I will send my Patronus to the Dark Lord, requesting a private audience. This will give us an advantage in case we need to resort to Plan B…”

A cold shiver ran down Draco’s spine. He didn’t even want to think about that option.

“When Voldemort agrees to see me, I will pretend to have captured you and will offer to turn you in. While I distract him by explaining the situation, you must disarm me and begin attacking him—wounding and distracting him as much as possible.

At that moment— that exact moment —I will take the opportunity to collect a few drops of his blood.

Then, you will grab me and, pretending to kill me while holding your wand to my throat, you will force me to Apparate. Voldemort isn’t stupid—he will have undoubtedly cast anti-Apparition spells on anyone he does not consider a loyal follower.”

“What do we do if we get caught?”

“We won’t—”

“What do we do, Mr. Malfoy ?”

Draco hesitated for a moment, his hand slipping into his pocket, fingers curling around the small vial of Dragon Venom that Charlie Weasley had given to him and Snape.

Because Snape knew—if they were captured alive, it would mean the end of the Order. The end of everything.

Only the highest-ranking members of the Council knew about this exit strategy —himself, Snape, McGonagall, and the two eldest Weasley brothers.

Not George. Not Neville.

Not Blaise, Daphne, or Theo.

Not Hermione.

“…Whatever is necessary to keep them from interrogating us,” Draco murmured.

He exhaled, tightening his grip on the vial.

“We will have to kill ourselves, Professor.”

Chapter Text

Hermione couldn’t tear her eyes away from the large clock in the infirmary, the seconds slipping by as if they were hours.
One, two, three, four…
How long had it been since Snape and Malfoy had Disapparated?
An hour? Two?

No, perhaps much, much less.

The large cauldron before her began to emit ominous puffs of steam, the liquid inside thickening to the consistency of lava. Damn it —she had ruined yet another potion.

Since arriving at the Order, she had tried everything to make herself useful.

She had volunteered for reconnaissance missions— too dangerous.
She had offered to assist in hostage rescues— absolutely out of the question.
She had even attempted to sneak out of Shell Cottage at night to search for herbs and ingredients for their infirmary—only to be dragged back like a child by an infuriated Neville.

She felt, beyond any reasonable doubt, completely useless .

Her salvation had come from Professor Sprout, who, upon seeing Hermione’s desperation, had suggested she take charge of monitoring and restocking the Order’s meager supply of potions. 

Ever since Madam Pomfrey had lost her life in the Final Battle and Snape had become a member of the Inner Council, the Order had suddenly found itself without a healer and without a potionist. 

So, Sprout had stepped in to fill the role, occasionally aided by Ginny or Luna. However, both girls were invaluable to the missions, and for the professor—who had, until then, been forced to manage everything on her own—Hermione’s permanent presence in the house had been nothing short of a blessing.

Naturally, the curly-haired witch hadn’t needed to be asked twice. 

Not that she had ever been a genius at Potions—if anything, it had always been the subject that challenged her the most. 

But the thought of occupying her time with something useful made the days far easier to endure. More importantly, it was an excellent way to keep her mind occupied—at least until a certain blond had Disapparated from the villa just a few hours earlier.

With a flick of her wand, she vanished the ruined potion and, irritated, resumed chopping the Mandrake. She needed to brew a simple yet highly useful Blood-Replenishing Potion, and the fact that she was struggling with it was driving her mad.

So utterly absorbed in her work, she didn’t notice the figure entering the infirmary behind her. And when she finally turned to find someone standing there, she let out a small yelp, the knife slipping from her hands in fright.

“Hermione, I’m so sorry—I didn’t mean to startle you! If I had known you were here, I would have knocked!”

“Margaery, it’s you…” Hermione exhaled, offering a weak smile as she tried to steady her breathing.

Ever since the war had ended, her entire nervous system had lived in a constant state of anxiety and alertness. And with a bitter realization, she understood that there hadn’t been a single moment since her capture when she had truly relaxed.

She was always on edge, always prepared to face enemies or defend herself from possible dangers—day and night, whether at Malfoy Manor or Shell Cottage.

Last night, when Draco was touching you, you were actually quite relaxed… dare I say, in ecstasy.

“Oh, will you stop it…”

“Did you say something, Herm?” the Hufflepuff girl looked at her in confusion.

“I… no, forgive me, Marg… In any case, I’m happy to see you. What brings you here?”

The girl pulled out all the ingredients she had managed to procure from the black market: mistletoe berries, salamander blood, and even dittany—practically impossible to find since the war had begun.

“Aren’t you afraid Lucius will notice what you’re doing with his money?” Hermione asked, worried.

“Lucius Malfoy… He’s so obsessed with this damned war that he wouldn’t notice even if I emptied the entire infirmary at the Manor. Besides, I have my contacts down in Diagon Alley… I’ve become quite the expert in negotiations!” she said with a laugh. “I’m sorry I couldn’t bring more, but unfortunately, Malfoy’s goons have been keeping me on a short leash lately… There’s tension among the Death Eaters— the Dark Lord is restless, and his loyal dogs are always on high alert, ready to kill anyone even remotely suspicious…”

Hermione swallowed hard, a shiver running down her spine as her thoughts immediately drifted to Malfoy and Snape.

“Is something wrong, Herm? You know, I couldn’t help but notice your… nervousness.”

“Draco is on a mission… I mean, Malfoy , Malfoy is on a mission.” Shit.

“Oh… I see…”

Margaery lowered her gaze, trying to avoid the curly-haired witch’s eyes.

For Godric’s sake, is it really that obvious…?

“I know what you’re thinking, Marg… but it’s not like that, I don’t—”

“Have I ever told you how I ended up at Malfoy Manor, Hermione?”

Hermione tilted her head in surprise, watching as the Hufflepuff girl pulled up a chair and gestured for her to sit beside her. 

Hermione had long suspected that Margaery was hiding something deeply painful, ever since they had lived together at the Manor. But despite her notorious curiosity, she had always refrained from asking anything that might upset her.

That was why this sudden openness from the redhead left her momentarily stunned.

Margaery let out a long sigh. It was never easy to tell her story—the shame burned like a scar etched into her soul.

“You see, Herm… I haven’t always been the way you know me. Back in our Hogwarts days, my family was one of the most powerful in the wizarding world. I imagine you’ve heard of the Averys…”

Hermione’s eyes widened. Of course, she knew about the Averys—they were one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, a family that had produced countless Slytherins and, more importantly, several devoted followers of the Dark Lord.

“I know what you’re thinking, but no… I’m not a Death Eater,” Margaery said, rolling up the sleeve of her dress with a forced smile. “As I was saying… As you can imagine, bearing such a surname comes with privileges but also many, many burdens. And, much to my father’s dismay, I inherited almost everything from my mother’s side of the family—including my Hogwarts house.

You can well imagine how my family took the news of my Sorting into Hufflepuff… I became the laughingstock of my family and, of course, the laughingstock of Slytherin. 

My first two years at Hogwarts were a nightmare. I was shunned by my own house because of my family’s reputation, and I was shunned by my own blood for having disgraced the honor of the Sacred Twenty-Eight.

I wanted to run away—to abandon the wizarding world, hide in some Muggle city, start over… until my third year, when I met Adam Flint.

Oh, Hermione, if only you had seen him. He was nothing like his brother Marcus—he was kind, selfless, and I fell for him. Madly.

Of course, our relationship had to remain a secret. Despite my being an Avery, his family would never have approved of their son being with a Hufflepuff. 

But those years were the happiest of my life… until, as you well know, the Dark Lord returned to the wizarding world. And then everything changed.

At first, Adam tried to stay away from his family’s beliefs. He had never cared for such things. But when his father took the Mark, something inside him broke. 

He became cold, cynical, almost… cruel.

He started despising those he deemed inferior, following Voldemort’s ideology. And he told me that the only way for us to stay together was for me to reclaim my heritage— to become the perfect, pure-blooded Avery once more.

And I fell for it… because I loved him more than my own life.

I did things in those two years—things I am not proud of…” The girl’s face was tight, and Hermione could feel the effort she was making not to cry. “I pushed friends away, I betrayed people I cared about… all for him . Being worthy of Adam Flint was the only thing that mattered to me.

Until he took the Mark and became a Death Eater. A murderer.

He gave me a choice: take the Mark and finally be worthy of being his wife—or disappear from his life forever.

And I swear to you, Hermione, there was a moment— just a tiny moment —when I thought about giving in, about abandoning my humanity for the man I loved.

But I couldn’t do it,” she smiled bitterly. “And that was my damnation.

Adam made sure everyone knew of my betrayal—the other families, my father, even the damned Dark Lord himself. And so, my father decided he had had enough of me—that I had shamed my ancestors for too long.

During a gala at Malfoy Manor, he dragged me before Voldemort and offered to kill me right then and there, in front of everyone— a pathetic display of his devotion to the cause.

It was Draco who saved me. He convinced his father that having an Avery at his service would be a mark of prestige, a symbol of the Malfoys’ dominance over the others.

And so it was. I became the Malfoys’ servant, their housemaid…

And despite everything, despite the hatred I feel for all of them, I will never be as grateful to anyone in my life as I am to Draco Malfoy.”

Silence fell between the two girls, the tension thick in the air.

“Why are you telling me all this?”

“I think you already know the answer, Hermione. And I also think that your judgment of yourself is tearing you apart. Is it really so wrong to find something that makes us feel good in the midst of all this pain?”

Hermione didn’t have time to answer because Neville Longbottom had just entered the infirmary, his eyes locked onto the Hufflepuff standing in front of her. 

Striding over to Margaery, he pulled her into his arms, their faces barely an inch apart before Neville captured her lips in a passionate kiss—only to suddenly realize Hermione was standing right behind them.

“Mr. Longbottom, we have company. Didn’t you notice?” the redhead said mischievously, her eyes locked onto Neville’s as he turned redder than a tomato.

“Hey, Herm… I didn’t see you there… sorry, you know… but Miss Avery here forgot to notify me of her arrival, and it’s been five days since I last heard from her,” Neville said, his gaze returning to Margaery. 

And for the first time since Hermione had known him, she saw anger flicker across his face.

“You know it’s not easy for me… Lucius is raising his guard… I came as soon as I could. But what do you say we continue this conversation in your room… Neville?” she teased with a playful smile.

The Gryffindor was caught off guard as the girl dragged him toward the door. 

Just before disappearing from view, she turned back and winked at Hermione.

“Remember what I told you, Herm!” she whispered before vanishing.

"Is it really so wrong to find something that makes us feel good in the midst of all this pain?"

That sentence kept echoing in Hermione’s mind, gnawing at her like a parasite.

No, it wasn’t wrong.

Then why did she feel so damn dirty, so wrong, so disloyal?

Because had she agreed to take part in a plan that put her innocence at stake? Because had she given in so easily?

Because had she even enjoyed it?

Because Ron had died so recently?

Because she had given herself to a Slytherin?

Or because she had given herself to Draco Malfoy ?

Draco Malfoy, who had saved Margaery.

Draco Malfoy, who had brought her back to the Order.

Draco Malfoy, who had volunteered for a suicide mission.

Draco Malfoy, who had Disapparated.

Three. Bloody. Hours. Ago.

Chapter Text

The towering presence of Voldemort’s palace loomed ever larger before them with each step they took, and an icy chill spread relentlessly beneath their skin—a silent omen of the death that lurked ahead.

Patronus. Disarm. Blood. Apparition.
Patronus. Disarm. Blood. Apparition.

Draco repeated these words like a mantra as he drew his wand, steeling himself to send the message to Voldemort. He had always struggled to summon his Patronus, ever since the lessons at Hogwarts.
It was maddeningly frustrating. It made him feel utterly incapable. But, above all, it forced him to confront a bitter truth: Draco Malfoy had no happy memories.

“Focus, Draco. You can do this.”
Snape’s voice pulled him back to reality.

“I don’t know if I can, Professor. I never have…”

To hell with this wretched plan. Why couldn’t he just use an owl? Or Apparate straight into the palace?

Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath, his wand clutched tightly in his right hand.
Come on, Draco. There has to be something.

And as he scoured his mind for even the faintest glimmer of happiness, he felt it—sudden, unexpected—lurking in the deepest corners of his memory.

"Darling, come here quickly… Be quiet, or you’ll scare her away."

A small platinum-haired boy with sky-blue eyes and an emerald-green coat ran breathlessly through the snow-covered grounds of Malfoy Manor. The flakes drifted softly from the sky, blanketing the world in pristine white. Sunlight shimmered against the ice, casting brilliant patterns of light across the landscape.

"But, Mother, I don’t see her! It’s all so white… You’re tricking me, aren’t you? There’s nothing here… I want to go home!"

His bright blue eyes welled with tears, and his once-radiant smile faded into a pout. Narcissa Malfoy chuckled softly, ruffling his pale hair with gentle fingers.

"There, my love, stand right here… Follow my finger."

Draco squinted, his breath hitching—
And then, suddenly, he saw it.

A white fox, bounding through the snow, its tiny pup trailing close behind, struggling against the deep drifts. 

The mother never took her eyes off her pup, ever watchful, ever protective.

"I see her! The white fox! Mother, I see her! Look, she has a baby! He’s so cute! Can we keep him?"

"No, Draco, we can’t," Narcissa murmured, her voice warm and gentle. "Look how happy they are. How free they are. Do you see how the mother watches over him? 

Remember this, my love. Just like that beautiful fox, I will always be by your side, watching over you. 

Even when you cannot see me.

I love you, Draco"

"I love you, Mother…"

"Expecto Patronum," Draco whispered.

A dazzling burst of silver erupted from his wand—
And in its wake, a magnificent white fox sprang into existence.

As the echo of his leather boots resounded against the marble floor, Draco followed Severus Snape down the corridor, the professor’s hands bound behind his back.
For the first time, it truly sank in—
The plan had begun.

Voldemort had answered his Patronus.

He would welcome Draco with the utmost delight.

And he was eager—so very eager—to discover the surprise the young Malfoy was bringing him.

That day, the palace felt deserted. Since stepping inside, Draco had only spotted a handful of guards—no Death Eaters of any real importance. 

The realization unsettled him more than he cared to admit.

As he reached the Dark Lord’s chambers, he cast one final, knowing glance at Snape to ensure everything was in place before knocking.

The great doors swung open.

And in that instant, Draco understood—
Understood why he had seen no one on his way there.

The Death Eaters were already gathered inside.

They stood in a silent, menacing circle around Voldemort, who sat atop a grand throne at the heart of the chamber, his faithful Nagini coiled at his feet.

Bloody hell. We’re screwed.

Shoving Professor Snape forward, Draco forced himself to focus, quickly assessing the figures standing before him.
To the Dark Lord’s right: the Carrow twins and Goyle Sr.
To his left: Dolohov and Yaxley.

It could have been worse. All things considered.

Lucius was absent.
That, at least, was a small mercy.

And Draco took grim satisfaction in remembering that his dear aunt—that vile woman—was rotting six feet under.
Ron Weasley had seen to that personally, casting the Killing Curse the moment he watched his mother, Molly, fall to Bellatrix’s spells.

At least the Weasel had done one useful thing in his life.

"Draco, come in, my dear boy… Make yourself comfortable."

Draco felt Voldemort’s wicked gaze fix upon him, cold and searching. 

As a reflex, he immediately shielded his mind with Occlumency.

"My Lord…" He stepped toward the throne, bowing low, straining to suppress the fury that burned hotter inside him with every passing second.

"Well, Draco… What brings you here? Have you come to visit your beloved mother?"

Laughter erupted through the room.

I will kill you all. One by one. Tear your limbs from your bodies and let you drown in your own blood.

Draco swallowed the bile rising in his throat and forced a wicked smirk onto his lips as he addressed the Dark Lord.

"My Lord, I have no mother. The only reason I would ever wish to see her would be to kill her myself."

"Well said, my boy."

"Bravo, Draco!"

"That’s the spirit!"

Cheers and approving shouts rang through the hall, only to be silenced with a single, effortless motion of Voldemort’s hand.

"Good, Draco, very good… I see your wits have not abandoned you. Your father Lucius was quite concerned about that, you know…"

His "father" Lucius. That pathetic hound. He would be the last to die. 

First, Draco would make him watch as every last one of his delusions crumbled before his eyes.

"Then you will be pleased to know," Voldemort continued, "that I have chosen a most fitting end for your mother. A true Pureblood’s death. In exactly one month—the anniversary of my rebirth—she shall be executed before all my followers. A glorious, honorable end! Don’t you find it poetic, Draco? I trust your loyalty will allow you to stand by my side in the front row when the time comes."

Close your mind. Strangle your emotions. Do. Not. Falter.

"My Lord, my loyalty to you has never wavered. Not for a moment. And to prove it, I have brought you a gift. I hope you will find it… most pleasing."

With that, from the far end of the chamber, Severus Snape was dragged forward by two Snatchers, thrown at Voldemort’s feet like common filth.

A suffocating silence fell over the Death Eaters.

Severus Snape—
Voldemort’s former right hand.
The Dark Lord’s most trusted lieutenant.
Now lay bound before them like a helpless Muggle.

Whispers and murmurs rippled through the chamber.

"I thought he was dead…"
"Where has he been hiding all this time…?"
"Kill him… Flay him alive…"

"SILENCE."

Voldemort had risen from his throne, and in his eyes burned flames of hatred fierce enough to reduce the entire palace to ashes.

"Silence, my lords."

He moved forward, almost gliding, his black robes trailing soundlessly across the floor. 

As he approached Severus, his gaze locked onto the prisoner’s eyes, unblinking, piercing.

"Very well, Draco… very well. Now, tell me… where did you find our dear Severus?"

Even as he spoke to the young Malfoy, he never once looked away from Snape.

"During an exploration of Godric’s Hollow, my Lord. He was hiding in the ruins of the old Potter house… When I found him, he begged me to let him go. He said the Order could help me, he pleaded in every possible way…"

"Wretched worm," Alecto spat. "You are not worthy to bear the Dark Mark."

"Now, now, Alecto… show some decorum. I’m certain our dear friend Severus will have something to say in his own defense."

At the exact moment Voldemort turned his back on Severus to address Alecto—
The plan was set into motion.

And it caught Draco completely off guard.

With a single, wordless spell, Snape wrenched his hands free of the bindings, tearing the wand from Amycus’s grip. The Death Eater barely had time to react before the sickly green light of the Unforgivable Curse struck him square in the chest.

He was dead before his body hit the ground.

"This wasn’t the plan, Professor."

"Don’t lose focus, Draco."

Snape’s voice rang through his mind as Draco stepped closer to Voldemort.
To any outsider, it would have appeared as though the young Malfoy was moving to protect his master.

But he and Snape knew the truth.

Severus unleashed a storm of dark magic upon the gathered Death Eaters, catching them completely off guard. The thunderous explosions, the rising chaos, the sheer destruction had thrown them into momentary disarray.

Diffindo. Repulso. Impulsus. Concussio. Folgoramus.

Spells tore through the air, lighting up the chamber with flashes of red, green, and white. Smoke, debris, and flame choked the room, thickening the air with ash and the stench of blood.

The two Snatchers lay motionless, their bodies twisted, drowning in their own gore.

Goyle Sr. had been slashed deep by a Cutting Curse, while Dolohov fought desperately to counter Snape’s onslaught.

Draco had always known Snape was a formidable wizard—
But this…
This was something else.

Perhaps the greatest duelist he had ever seen.

"I WANT HIM ALIVE! ALIVE!!!" Voldemort shrieked, using Draco’s body as a shield.

"Be ready, Draco."

Before the blond could fully register what was happening, a Bombarda detonated beside him, obliterating the throne and sending him sprawling to the ground—leaving Voldemort utterly exposed.

Draco gasped, the acrid smoke stinging his lungs. 

His head throbbed, his vision blurred by the blood dripping from a gash above his brow.

"Why, Severus? Tell me WHY you did this!" Voldemort howled.

"For Lily… Sectumsempra !"

At the last second, Voldemort deflected the curse—
It rebounded, striking Alecto dead on.

She had no wand. No defense.

Her body was torn apart before their eyes, deep gashes ripping through her flesh, blood pouring in rivers across the stone floor.

And Draco—Draco saw himself.

In the Prefects’ Bathroom.

Bleeding. Helpless.

His stomach lurched.

But there was no time.

With Voldemort distracted, Severus locked eyes with Draco and gave him a single nod before hurling a Diffindo at the Dark Lord.

It struck true.

For the briefest of moments, pain twisted Voldemort’s pale features. 

A deep gash split open along his right arm, dark crimson drops falling to the floor beneath him.

"Now, Draco, the time has come."

As Severus resumed his relentless spellcasting, Draco took advantage of the chaos, crawling along the floor. He reached the small pool of blood that had gathered behind Voldemort and, after glancing around to ensure no one was watching, he pulled out the vial and levitated exactly five drops inside with his wand.

It had only taken a few seconds—
But it felt like a lifetime.

Around him, everyone was too preoccupied with the battle to notice what he had done.

Everyone except Alecto.

Lying on the floor, choking on her own blood, she stared at him in horror.

Draco looked at her with pure hatred, his lips curling into a twisted smile.

It was intoxicating. Watching her die.

He wanted to see them all die.

He wanted to hear them beg for their lives.

He wanted to kill them himself.

But then—
A single thought struck him like a slap.

He had never killed before.

Slipping the vial into his pocket, he pushed himself to his feet, locking eyes with Snape.

It was done. It was time to go.

The battle still raged around him. 

Patronus. Disarm. Blood. Disapparate.

Patronus. Disarm. Blood. Disapparate.

But as Draco stood there, waiting for his wand to be wrenched from his grasp, Snape did something that took him completely by surprise.

He surrendered.

He let his wand fall to the floor.

And then he looked at Voldemort.

A gaze filled with defiance.

Draco froze.
He didn’t understand.
He searched Snape’s face for answers, tried to break into his mind—
But the professor had closed it off.

This wasn’t right.
This wasn’t right at all.

Voldemort’s guards poured into the room.

For those who entered at that moment, the scene before them was like something out of a Muggle apocalypse film—
Dust. Smoke. Fire. Ruin.

And blood.

An unfathomable amount of blood.

Their own and their enemies’, staining their robes, their skin, soaking the floor beneath them.

"Why, Severus… why did you choose to betray me?"

Voldemort sounded almost… wounded.

"I took you in when you were nothing. I made you who you are. I saved you from a pitiful, empty life… and this is how you repay me? And for what… for love ?"

"It will be love that kills you, Tom ."

Snape laughed bitterly.

Dolohov spat on him. "Let me kill him, my Lord. Let me do it for you."

"Silence, Dolohov, before I decide to kill you instead."

Voldemort turned sharply.

Draco felt his gaze land on him.

Please, Salazar, no…

"You will kill him, Draco. As your reward."

"My Lord, I… I—"

"Are you hesitating again, Draco Malfoy? Would you prefer to kill dear Narcissa instead? Shall I bring her here, right now?"

Draco was frozen.

Terror coursed through his veins, his heart— Or whatever remained of it —pounding wildly in his chest.

He started counting.

Dolohov. Yaxley. Goyle. Seven guards.

He could take them.
He could kill them.

"You can’t kill them all, Draco. You have to do it."

Snape’s voice slid into his mind, slow, deliberate.

"I can’t… I can’t kill you. Why is you doing this? Why? You was supposed to follow the plan…"

"Because he has to trust you, Draco Malfoy. Because you are the Order’s only hope. Because you are the only hope to save your mother."

"Well, Draco? Still hesitating… still refusing to obey your Lord?"

Draco raised his wand.

His arm trembled.

He couldn’t focus.

He couldn’t breathe.

Just like then.

Like with Dumbledore.

Like when all of this had begun.

"He won’t do it, my Lord, he doesn’t have it in him—"

"I would serve you better, my Lord; let me kill him—"

"We should call his father. Kill his mother—"

Silence.

He wanted them all to just shut up.

His blue eyes locked onto Snape’s, searching for something—
A way out.

But there was nothing.

Nothing at all.

"Do it, Draco Malfoy. Don’t disappoint me again."

"Do it, Draco. Kill me. It’s your only chance."

"Do it. Or I will kill your mother right now."

"Do it, Draco. The war is in your hands. I am ready."

"DO IT!"

"DO IT!!!"

"Avada Kedavra."

Chapter Text

Draco expected to feel something—pain, unconsciousness, discomfort… anything.
Nothing. He felt nothing.

The only thing he could do was stare at Severus’s body, lying lifeless before him.

Breathing in, he tried to gather his thoughts.
He was in Voldemort’s palace; he had taken the blood; Snape was dead.

No, he wasn’t dead— Draco had killed him.

A sudden wave of nausea hit him as the realization crashed into his Slytherin mind.
He had killed Severus Snape—his professor, his godfather... Draco was a murderer.

For all the years he had served the Dark Lord, one thought had always brought him solace, had almost excused him: You have never killed, Draco Malfoy.

Sure, you’re a Death Eater, you’ve hurt people, you’ve tortured, you’ve torn families apart, imprisoned the innocent... but you have never killed. 

You are not a murderer.

Bloody hell. Now he was.

Looking around, he realized that all eyes were on him.

He had to pull himself together. He had to take back control.

Snape had been clear—Voldemort had to trust him. The outcome of the war depended on it.

Snape... t he man you just killed, Draco.

Hot tears threatened to well up in his eyes.
He couldn’t allow it. Not here. Not now.

Occlude. Occlude.

“My Lord...” He fought against himself as he forced a wicked smile onto his lips, bowing before Voldemort, his wand still clenched in his right hand. “I hope this kill makes up for my previous failure...”

“Good, Draco. Very good.” Then, turning to his Death Eaters, Voldemort announced cruelly, “The body of our dear Severus shall be hung in the town square—let this serve as a warning to all. This is the fate of traitors.”

The Death Eaters roared in triumph. They had just witnessed an execution—one of their greatest pleasures—and, more importantly, they had realized something: the power struggle had just been reignited.

For years, Severus Snape had been, without question, Voldemort’s right hand. 

It had bred envy, resentment. Many had wanted him dead.

With his removal, there was now room for someone else—an opportunity to climb the ranks and earn the Dark Lord’s favor.

Draco knew this.

And he also knew that he had been the one to kill him, which once again placed him in Voldemort’s good graces—while simultaneously painting a massive, glowing target on his back.

Dog eats dog. That was how it worked among their kind.

“You may go. The show is over.”

As the Death Eaters and guards began to leave the hall, Voldemort’s cold, slimy hand wrapped around Draco’s arm. The blond’s heart skipped a beat.

“You have done a great service for your master, Draco Malfoy. This will not be forgotten. I cannot say the same for your friend, Theodore Nott.

I have been merciful to him—the boy is weak, but I granted his father’s pleas to spare his life. Yet, I hear he has failed to attend his patrols. I would hate to regret my generosity…You understand me, don’t you, Draco?

I am quite certain there are many who would serve me with greater devotion... and you know how much public executions fuel the spirits of my soldiers.”

The threat was clear as day.

“I will personally ensure Nott finds his way back to the right path, My Lord,” Draco replied firmly. “If there is nothing else…”

“You may go, Draco. And send my regards to Miss Greengrass. As for Mr. Zabini, inform him that I shall require his services soon.”

Draco took in the information.

Voldemort didn’t know about their betrayal. That was an advantage.

Bowing deeply, he Disapparated.

He found himself standing before Shell Cottage. 

The wind rustled through the treetops, and his Apparition had surely been noticed by the house’s occupants.

They would be coming to him any moment now.

Trying to steady himself, he closed his eyes and massaged his temples; his head felt like it was about to explode.

When he reopened his eyes, his gaze fell to his hands. Blood.

Everything came rushing back like a flashback, and the adrenaline—the only thing that had kept him from collapsing, from betraying himself—dissolved. 

His body felt weak, his legs barely able to hold him up, and the lump in his throat nearly choked him.

Blood. There was blood everywhere—on his hands, on his face, on his robes.

His blood. His enemies’ blood. Severus’s blood.

The weight of what he had done was crushing him, a boulder pressing against his chest. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think clearly, his vision was starting to blur.

Panic. It spread through his veins like poison.

In a frenzy, he strode towards the house. He had to clean himself.

Wash the blood away, Draco.

He burst through the door, wild-eyed. No one was in sight.

Wash the blood away, Draco.

He took the stairs two at a time, practically tearing the bathroom door off its hinges. 

His long black coat was thrown into the corner of the room, his white shirt—though there was barely any white left—ripped off and flung to the floor.

Wash the blood away, Draco.

He turned on the tap, letting the freezing water cascade over his hands. 

The shock of the cold brought him back to himself, if only for a second.

Then he made the mistake of looking up.

His reflection stared back at him from the mirror.

His already pale complexion was deathly white. His brow was split, the wound deep and ugly, and his hair was a wild, tangled mess. 

But it was his eyes that struck him the most—wide, hollow, bloodshot with tiny crimson veins streaking through the whites, a testament to the strain of holding back his tears.

And like his hands— blood.

His right fist lashed out before he even realized it, shattering the reflective surface before him. 

He had to erase that image—from his eyes, from his mind.

He scrubbed his hands harder, harder, until his skin burned raw.

To keep from crying.
To keep from breaking.
To erase from his mind what he had become.

Until, out of the corner of his eye, he caught movement behind him.

He turned.

The other occupants of the house stood in the doorway.

And as he met their eyes, he realized at once what they were seeing.

A murderer.

The ropes of George’s Incarcerous bound Draco’s arms so tightly that the blood struggled to circulate, leaving his limbs completely numb.

That damn Weasley looked ready to kill him.

He had been dragged into the dining room of the Villa, and before him—lined up like a firing squad—stood Professor McGonagall, her eyes brimming with tears, George and Bill Weasley, Neville Longbottom, and Luna. 

Behind them, Theo and Blaise.

What a damned déjà vu.

And last, her. Granger. She was looking at him with a mixture of terror and pity, almost disbelieving.

Damn Mudblood, why was she looking at him like that? Why did her gaze make him feel so… guilty ?

"For the last time, Malfoy. What happened at Voldemort’s palace?" George spat, fury laced in every word.

The interrogation was repeating itself, over and over again.

"I’ve told you a hundred times already, Weasley. Snape attacked the Death Eaters. I managed to steal Voldemort’s blood, and then Severus asked me to kill him. What else do you want me to say?"

"You’re lying, you filthy Death Eater!" George’s slap landed hard against his face.

"For fuck’s sake, Weasley, he’s told you everything he knows, leave him alone!" Blaise interjected, hand flying to his wand, ready to defend his friend.

"Step aside, Zabini or I might start thinking you’re a damned traitor too."

"Why the hell would I have killed him, huh? Tell me, Weasel, enlighten me !" Draco’s anger was reaching its breaking point.

"Since when do you need a reason to kill, Malfoy?" Neville shouted. "I told you we couldn’t trust him! We should kill you like the filthy dog you are—just like you did to Severus!"

" No one. Will kill. Anyone ," Professor McGonagall’s voice cut through the tension like a blade, snapping everyone’s heads toward her.

"Mr. Longbottom, I understand your anger, but Mr. Malfoy is right—he had no reason to kill Professor Snape. And I remind you all of his Unbreakable Vow…"

"For fuck’s sake, I can’t believe it—you’re siding with this bastard too, Professor?"

"If you don’t trust him, then look at his damn memories, Weasley. Pulling one out should be easy enough for a wizard like you," Nott sneered.

"Well, George, Theo’s right… we could look at his memories," Luna added softly, glancing away with a blush.

Draco and Blaise exchanged startled looks. Since when was Loony Lovegood on their side?

"Oh, sure, Nott, I could just rip his bloody memories out of that thick skull of his—except your lovely Death Eater friends destroyed the Pensieve when they burned Hogwarts to the ground!"

"We could try Legilimency…" Hermione murmured.

"For Merlin’s sake, Hermione, do you want to speak any louder?!" George shouted at her.

A low, threatening growl rumbled from Draco’s throat at the way the redhead spoke to her.

"I said…" Hermione repeated, voice steady this time, "we could try Legilimency."

"He’s a damn Occlumens. No one in this room could get inside his head without coming out completely shattered. Screw the traditional methods—we should torture this bastard until he talks!"

"Your brain would probably come out even more shattered than it already is, George Weasley," a new voice interrupted, smooth and cutting. 

"But as luck would have it, you happen to have me here. And I consider myself a rather skilled Legilimens…"

Draco thought he must be dreaming. It couldn't be. He was supposed to be dead .

"Don’t look at me like that, Mr. Malfoy," the man continued with a smirk. "I might almost think I frighten you."

Alastor Mad-Eye Moody had just stepped into the room, followed closely by Charlie Weasley.

"Thank you for coming, Alastor. I wouldn’t have disturbed you—I know how important the work you and Charlie are doing across Europe is—but unfortunately, this matter… was of vital importance."

"No trouble at all, Minerva. Besides, good old Charles here was more than eager to stop by and say hello to his brothers… isn’t that right, Charlie?"

The redhead responded with nothing but a smile.

"As for us, Mr. Malfoy, I believe I am here to peer into your memory."

A cold shiver ran down Hermione’s spine.

Peer. Into. His. Memory.

How far back would Moody go?
How much would he search?
And, most of all, what would he see?

Draco seemed to sense her discomfort, locking eyes with the curly-haired witch.

No. There was no way in hell Moody could have access to that particular memory.

He was a damn good Occlumens—hell, one of the best.

He would let Moody see what he wanted him to see. 

He would relive Snape’s murder for him, then throw him out of his mind.

End of story.

"Are we wasting more time, or can we finally put an end to this damn trial?" Draco snapped, irritated.

As the Auror delved into his memories, Draco noticed that his technique had a certain… gentleness to it.

As a boy, the Slytherin had been trained in Occlumency by his aunt Bellatrix; needless to say, every session was torture—he would always come out of them drained, with a pounding headache and a desperate urge to vomit.

Moody, on the other hand, moved cautiously through his memories, avoiding those Draco wanted to keep hidden and focusing solely on the mission at the palace.

He and Snape Disapparating.
Snape drawing his wand.
Draco collecting the blood.
And then… the murder.

Alastor watched that scene over and over and over again.

Draco’s mind began pushing back, as if trying to shield him from his own trauma.

The boy began to squirm in his chair, his hands fighting uselessly against the tight ropes.

He didn’t want to see.
He didn’t want to relive what he had done.

Severus’ voice in his head.
The Death Eaters’ screams.
Voldemort’s gaze.

And then—the Unforgivable Curse.

Severus’ body collapsing lifelessly to the ground.

When Moody finally withdrew from his memories, Draco found himself gasping for breath, his chest rising and falling erratically.

Two silent tears slid down his face.

He thought—hoped—no one had noticed. 

After all, everyone was too busy staring at Moody.

Everyone except Hermione.

When she saw those two tears stain his pale skin, she felt a painful twist in her stomach.

"The boy told the truth," Moody declared. "I’m afraid your thirst for vengeance will have to wait, this time, George."

With a flick of his wand, he released Draco from his bindings.

The blonde rubbed his numb wrists.

"I… I don’t understand," Neville muttered, confused. "Why would Professor Snape do something like that? It doesn’t make any sense…"

"I already told you, Longbottom. He wanted Voldemort to trust me."

Reaching into his pocket, Draco retrieved the precious vial and placed it on the table.

"And it looks like I did a damn good job."

Every pair of eyes in the room locked onto the small bottle.

There it was—Voldemort’s blood.

The antidote that could bring Harry Potter back to life—and, if all went well, give him the power to end this war.

"Miss Granger, quickly, come with me. You too, Luna. Professor Sprout and I will need all the help we can get—we must start working immediately."

Hermione stole one last glance at Draco, and the blonde could have sworn he saw something in her eyes.

Gratitude.

As the witches left the hall, a chill settled over the room.

The boys glared at one another, making no effort to hide their mutual hatred.

"Right, gentlemen," Moody’s voice boomed. "Let’s not waste time. Whether Potter returns or not, we need to come up with a plan for this war."

"What are your resources?" Zabini asked.

George was about to object—he didn’t agree with involving the three Slytherins in strategic planning—but Bill silenced him with a deadly glare.

It was time to set aside personal vendettas.

Charlie stepped forward, conjuring a large map of Europe onto the table.

"As for England, our safe bases are here, here, and here," he pointed out. "Meanwhile, we know of prison camps in Bibury, Aberfeldy, and Grimsby."

"There’s another prison camp in Little Hangleton," Theo added. "It’s the least guarded—mostly women and children; in total 15, 20 soldiers at maximum” 

"Thank you, Nott." Charlie nodded. "Now, regarding our forces… I won’t lie to you. This war has weakened us. We have about a hundred witches and wizards. Many of them are students, young recruits. 

From France, Madame Maxime has assured us she can send around fifty of her girls, and the Resistance in Romania has promised another seventy."

"Plus two dragons," Bill added.

"Forget about Durmstrang. We can’t trust them. We’ve tried reaching out to Ilvermorny, but I’m afraid the Americans will stay out of this—it’s not their war." 

" Not yet ," Zabini murmured.

A common thought spread among the men: if they failed to defeat Voldemort, the entire wizarding world—not just England—would fall under his control.

And then, it would truly be the end.

Draco studied the map before him.

Not even two hundred operatives.
Four prison camps to liberate.
And no guarantee that the freed prisoners would even be able to fight.

This wasn’t a strategic plan.

It was a fucking suicide mission.

"I, Zabini, and Nott can work both sides," Draco finally spoke.

The two boys looked at Draco and he nodded to them, later he would explain everything.  "Voldemort still believes we’re his loyal followers, and that gives us an advantage. Given the growing discontent among the Death Eaters, we could try to recruit a few of them—but it’s bloody risky. There are only two or three people I might trust…"

He took a deep breath.

"Other than that, we need to organize the rescue teams, train the recruits… and we’ve only got one month."

"One month?" Bill echoed, stunned.

But Moody had already figured it out.

"Yes, Weasley. In exactly one month, the Dark Lord will celebrate his grand feast, the anniversary of his rise to power. And in exactly one month, we will attack Voldemort, in his Palace, when he least expects it.

And we will end this war, once and for all."

Chapter Text

When the meeting had ended the night before, Draco had returned to his room and immediately taken the opportunity to have a bath; he needed to rid himself of all the tension, and nothing was better than hot water to wash away blood and guilt.

Once he was done, he had dragged himself to his bed and collapsed into a restless sleep, waking up only—judging by the position of the sun—in the early afternoon of the following day.

The Order had given both him and Theo a room, while Blaise and Daphne continued to spend the night at their respective homes. 

They had to be vigilant, careful not to raise suspicions about their loyalty to the Dark Lord.

To be frank, Draco was certain Lucius cared very little about where he spent his nights; even before Narcissa had been arrested, father and son had barely spoken, their interactions limited to cold glances and sharp words.

And after his mother was no longer at the Manor, things had only gotten worse. 

The less time Draco spent within those walls, the better it was for both of them.

His room was on the second floor of Shell Cottage and was furnished in a simple, almost spartan manner—like the rest of the house, for that matter. 

Draco found it somewhat shabby, but considering it belonged to the Weasley family, i t was perfectly understandable.

In truth, Draco liked William. He found him a decent sort—he could almost have been a Slytherin—and he even felt sorry for Fleur and their son, now being raised as an orphan by the Frenchwoman’s parents.

Bill was often away to visit him, though lately, things had become even more dangerous in both England and France; the risk of being captured by Death Eaters or Snatchers was high, and losing Bill Weasley as well would be catastrophic for the Resistance.

Besides Draco and Theo, Neville, Luna, George, Ginny, and Dean Thomas also lived at the Cottage, while Professor Sprout, McGonagall, and Moody—along with Bill—had chosen to settle in the nearby outbuilding, which had been built at the start of the war.

The rest of the group was scattered across two or three other safe houses, about which Draco knew very little—and cared even less.

Ah, and of course, Granger lived there as well. 

Draco was particularly curious about where her room was; every time he had tried sneaking a glance into the bedrooms of the house, he had never seen it.

It almost seemed as though she was hiding from him .

Getting out of bed after such a long sleep, he had hoped to feel refreshed, but it had been far from restorative. He was trying to focus his mind on the here and now, carefully filing away everything that had happened the day before.

He pulled on a pair of dark jeans and a black V-neck sweater, leaving his hair—still damp from the night before—messily tousled. 

Looking at himself in the mirror, he felt so… Muggle without his usual Death Eater attire.

Observing his reflection, he found himself wondering what his life might have been like if he had been born without magic, into an ordinary family. 

He would probably have been the typical popular high school student, a football player dating the prettiest girl in school.

He would have attended one of those posh universities—Yale or Oxford, perhaps—and ended up with some dull Muggle job, like a stockbroker or a lawyer.

So painfully normal.

But no—he had been born into one of the most powerful and infamous families in the wizarding world. He had taken the Dark Mark at sixteen and killed his first person at nineteen.

What a load of shit.

Leaving his room, he glanced around cautiously before heading to the sitting room—he needed a drink to calm his nerves, and he knew Bill kept a stash in the cabinet by the fireplace. 

The good Weasley wouldn’t mind if he helped himself.

Passing by the large corridor window, he caught sight of Weasley, Longbottom, and Thomas in the garden, practicing Merlin-knows-what kind of spell.

Oh well—at least they were out of his hair for a while.

It was around 2 PM, which meant McGonagall, Lovegood, and Granger were probably locked away in the infirmary, working on the antidote that was supposed to wake up Potter.

In truth, Wormtail’s memories hadn’t been particularly useful in that regard. 

They had confirmed the nature of the curse and pointed to Voldemort’s blood as the key to breaking it, but beyond that, the Order was still fumbling in the dark.

Firenze’s knowledge and the few books they had salvaged from the destruction of Hogwarts had narrowed down the possibilities, but there was still much to be done to find the right formula.

And time was running out.

As he entered the sitting room, Draco noticed that Blaise and Theo were already there, seated in two large armchairs by the fire, their backs to him, unaware of his arrival.

"For Merlin’s sake, Blaise, get off my back… I’m telling you, nothing happened, alright?"

"Alright, alright, Theodore Nott, don’t get all worked up, keep your filthy little secrets to yourself. I’m just saying that if you needed some comfort for your melodramas between the legs of that Ravenclaw, no one would judge you. 

Bloody hell, you’ve shagged half of Hogwarts, and now you’re scandalized over something like this? You’ve really changed…"

"Hannah changed me…" Theo’s brown eyes darkened for a moment. "In any case, Luna … The Lovegood isn’t the kind of girl for a one-night stand… and right now, I’m certainly not in the right headspace to give her anything more. And if you really want to talk about someone who has shagged half of Hogwarts, you should be referring to a certain blond we both know…"

"I’m glad my reputation precedes me, my dear friends," Draco’s voice caught them off guard, and the blond laughed as he poured himself a glass of Firewhisky, settling into the seat beside them.

"In any case, Theo, you’re mistaken. I shagged half of Slytherin class, not half of Hogwarts… there’s a difference ."

"Oh, of course, great Malfoy, please forgive our slip! We almost forgot that for a witch to end up in your bed, she had to present her pedigree first!"

"For this time, you are forgiven, Zabini. But only because I am extraordinarily merciful…"

The three boys burst into laughter, and for a moment— just for a moment —they felt like they were back in their dormitory at Hogwarts, carefree and drunk. 

But the harsh reality was that a war raged around them, people were dying, and their lives were hanging by a dangerously thin thread.

"In any case, what was that nonsense last night? You, me, and Zabini...still loyal to Voldemort…?"

"The Dark Lord—Salazar alone knows by what stroke of luck—suspects nothing. I n fact, he’s even invited me to bring you back to the ‘ right path ,’ Theodore."

Seeing that his friend was already gearing up to argue, Draco cut him off. 

"I know what you think, you’ve made yourself fucking clear, Nott. But this is the best chance we have. Just show up to those damn patrols and plaster on a couple of fake smiles, nothing more. That way, he won’t suspect anything, we won’t end up hanging in the town square, and you can keep shagging Lovegood… Whatever the hell you even see in that lunatic…"

"For the last time… I. Am. Not. Shagging. Lovegood."

"Oh no, not yet. But Merlin, do you want to," Blaise teased.

"Funny, Zabini. But it won’t happen… honestly, that would be like seeing Malfoy shagging Granger."

Blaise and Theo burst into laughter at the absurd thought, while Draco kept his eyes fixed on the fire crackling in the fireplace, a completely frozen expression on his face.

"That would be ridiculous, wouldn’t it, Draco?"

Silence.

Shit.

"Oh fuck… DON’T TELL ME YOU SHAGGED GRANGER!"

"Would you lower your damned voice, Theo? I swear on Salazar, if you don’t shut your filthy mouth, I’ll strangle you myself."

"Sorry, sorry… It’s just that… bloody hell, you and Granger? I mean… fuck…"

"I’m thrilled that my sex life leaves you speechless, but I think it’s abundantly clear that this… mistake … must never leave these walls.
And no, Blaise, you can’t tell Daphne. Fuck, that witch would make my life a living hell…"

"Damn it, Malfoy, you always take all the fun out of things," Zabini muttered.

The three Slytherins sat in silence for a few minutes before Theo, once again, broke it.

"So?"

"So what, Nott…"

"Bloody hell, you’re shagging Granger—the Golden Girl, Harry Potter’s honorary sister—and you’ve got nothing to say about it?"

"Nothing to say, exactly. It happened once, it was a terrible mistake, and it won’t happen again.
Never. Again. And now, can we drop the subject?"

As he forced himself to label what had happened with Hermione as a mistake, part of him was burning with frustration.

How could it be a mistake, the way he had felt? 

How could he dismiss as a mere slip the emotions that had surged through him?
That warmth, that connection, that intoxicating sense of being so… alive ?

No. No. NO.

He had to shut these thoughts down immediately, permanently.

He couldn’t afford to think about Granger—her ridiculously wild curls, her ordinary brown eyes, her maddeningly tight little life, her breasts, her arse that was so fucking per—

Enough, for Merlin’s sake, Draco, pull yourself together!

And just as his mind was conjuring a very detailed image of Granger’s arse, the "owner" of said arse walked into the sitting room.

Her hair was pulled up in a messy high ponytail, a few stray curls framing her face. 

She was wearing tight jeans that clung to her in all the right ways and a simple white shirt that let the outline of her black bra show through.

"Granger," Theo grinned. "What a pleasure to see you, we were just talking abou—"

Before he could finish his sentence, a sharp elbow to the stomach knocked the breath out of him, Draco glaring at him as if he could set him on fire on the spot.

"Sorry to interrupt," Hermione said, unfazed, "I was actually looking for you, Malfoy. I was wondering if we could talk…"

"Theo, weren’t we just leaving?" Blaise shot a look at Nott.

"Leaving? Where?" Theo asked, puzzled, before catching the pointed stare Zabini was giving him. "Oh… Oh yes, right, we were just leaving. Well, Draco, I’m sure we’ll have time to continue our conversation. Hermione…"

And with a smirk, the two Slytherins left the room.

"So, Granger, what's so urgent?"

Hermione let her gaze linger on the Slytherin for a few seconds.

It was the first time they had been alone since that night.

First, there had been Narcissa's arrest, then the Order, Draco's mission… and never a moment to talk to him.

She wanted to ask him so many things, to know what that night had meant for him, what he had felt while making love to her, to apologize for what she had said to him…

"Poor little stupid Gryffindor… you should have learned by now not to trust a snake…"

The memory of the words he had thrown at her the day before hit her like a punch.

"I was wondering if you could take a look at this formula… you were one of the best in Potions back at Hogwarts," she said, regaining her composure and handing him her notebook.

Their hands brushed for a second, and a warmth spread through the pit of her stomach.

Draco's eyes were focused on the formula, and Hermione couldn’t help but notice how incredibly attractive he was.

Strands of blond hair fell over his eyes, which were an intense shade of blue; his muscular, toned arms were crossed by visible veins that stood out against his pale skin, his expression so incredibly intense as he read, biting his lower lip almost imperceptibly.

Had it always been this warm in the sitting room?

"How many different formulas have you already tried?"

"So far, two… with no success. Last time, though, Harry opened his eyes for a moment and looked at us… we thought we had it, but then he went back to staring into space..." Hermione couldn’t contain her frustration. "This is the only potion we found that might match the curse indicated by Pettigrew; Firenze says, however, that Voldemort could have enhanced it, God only knows with what…"

"The Asphodel suppresses the Knotgrass; if it were up to me, I’d replace it with Belladonna essence, no more than two drops. And I’d also try adding one more gram of Dittany. How much blood do you have left?"

"We have two more tries…"

"Mmm, I see. Otherwise, the formula seems functional, but you’ll need to wait—the Asphodel infusion needs at least a couple of hours of resting time to work properly, you should know that, Granger…"

"Yes, well… Potions wasn’t exactly my best subject…"

"Alright, if that’s all…"

Cold. He was so damn cold.

Draco stepped past her, heading for the door, but Hermione’s voice stopped him in his tracks.

"How are you, Malfoy?"

What a stupid question. Hermione cursed herself the moment she asked it.

"I mean… these last few days can’t have been easy for you…"

Draco locked his eyes onto hers, an insolent smirk on his face.

"What exactly are you referring to, Mudblood? The fact that I basically have only a few hours left to live, as you made sure I understood?" Touché. "Or, wait, maybe the fact that I’m a murderer, that I killed one of the few people who ever gave a damn about me? The fact that the entire Order hates me? The fact that my mother is going to be executed in a month?"

With each question, the blond had taken a step closer. Now he was right in front of Hermione, towering over her by several inches. He could feel her warm breath on his skin.

"I, uh, I meant… never mind, forget it…" she lowered her gaze. "For what it’s worth, I don’t think you’re a murderer, Draco…"

Malfoy lifted her chin with two fingers, forcing her to look him in the eyes.

"Say that again, Granger."

"I don’t think you’re a murderer, Draco." She met his gaze with determination. "I think you were incredibly brave, and that few would have been able to do what you did. I think you’re a fundamental asset to the Order, and that Snape knew that. I never thought you did it by choice, Malfoy."

"I saw your face yesterday, Granger. You were afraid… of me."

Draco couldn’t stop himself—he brushed his fingers against Hermione’s cheek, feeling his last shred of restraint slipping away.

"For you, Draco. I was afraid… for you. You were gone for so long… I feared you were…"

"Say it, Granger…"

"Dead."

A lone tear traced down her cheek.

Why was she telling him all this?

Why was she opening her heart to him again?

She knew she couldn’t trust him, she knew he would hurt her… yet she couldn’t stop herself.

She needed him.

"I’m already dead, Granger. You told me so yourself, remember?"

Draco wiped away her tear with his thumb before bringing it to his lips, his eyes shutting at the salty taste.

God, how he wanted her… all he wanted was to throw her onto that couch, tear her clothes off, and show her just how alive he really was.

"You seem anything but dead to me, Draco…"

Her hand slid slowly down his chest, feeling his muscles tense under the thin fabric of his shirt.

"You’re playing with fire, Granger…"

"Maybe I want to burn, Malfoy…"

Draco did not let her tell him twice; he took possession of her mouth, demanding access with his tongue.

Hermione threaded her hands through his hair, drawing him to her, closer, tighter; she wanted to feel him completely hers.

Without pulling away from her, he pushed her against the wooden coffee table, making her sit down, her legs around his waist; with a gesture he ripped off her shirt and lowered himself to lick her breasts, fumbling with her bra to rip it off.

“Wait...Draco what if someone comes in?”

“I don't give a shit, Granger...I don't give a shit at all...”

With a flick of her wand, the curly-haired girl made sure to close the door and then threw herself on Draco's mouth again; she felt less clumsy this time, less awkward, the Slytherin was awakening a passion in her that she did not know she had.

Without gentleness, Draco also made her pants disappear in a second, leaving the girl in front of him in her underwear; he began to run his hands down Hermione's body, dwelling carefully on her panties.

“Damn, Granger, you're already wet...”

Hermione could not hear him; she was completely enveloped by all the sensations she was experiencing; her only desire was to feel him inside her.

Her small hands moved to his pants and, with some difficulty, she unfastened his belt, leaving him in his boxers; his erection stood out clearly from the gray fabric.

Hermione's body shuddered as Draco's fingers slid inside her, his thumb stimulating her clitoris; she felt the pleasure growing by the second, it was an almost uncontrollable sensation; she knew she was close.

“Come on, Granger, let yourself go...”

The girl's moans now filled the room, Draco took possession of her throat continuing to move in and out of her with his fingers until, with a scream, Hermione came on his fingers.

The Gryffindor had never felt anything like it; she felt completely drained of strength, her breathing broken, but Malfoy had only just begun.

He brought two fingers close to Hermione's mouth and forced her to open it.

“Taste Granger, feel how good you are!”

Hermione obeyed him unblushingly , without shame.

She wanted more and more .

“Draco...” she moaned into the Blond's mouth.

“Say it, Granger, tell me what you want....”

“I want you.”

Draco forced her legs open, pulled his member out of his boxers and brought it close to Hermione's opening.

“I won't be so gentle this time, Granger. I'm going to make you scream, to take you on this table...so if you want to back out, now is the time.”

In response Hermione clutched at him.

Grabbing her by the neck, he coerced the girl into standing, turning her with her back to him; opening her legs with his, he pushed her forward, her body against the table and entered in her impetuously, beginning to thrust harder and harder.

Hermione felt like she was going crazy; it wasn't like last time, he was fucking her angrily, fiercely, making her completely his against that table...and this was taking her to her limit.

Gripping the table with her hands, she began to feel the pleasure growing inside her, more and more intense, more and more.

“Draco, I'm going to..oh, God...”

“Not yet, Granger, hold on a little longer...I want to look into your eyes as you scream my name...”

Stepping out of her for a second, he turned her around and put her back sit on the table, immediately enter in her again.

“I...I can't resist, please...”

“Look at me, Hermione, look at me as you cum for me...good girl, like this...”

Shouting his name, Hermione reached the orgasm, her trembling legs grasping the thighs of the blond who, roaring, came in turn inside of her. 

It had been so fucking intense, they were both breathless, his body leaning against hers for support.

As their breathing became regular again, Hermione cast a contraceptive spell on herself and then fixed her eyes back into Draco's.

They had sex again, on that desk, in such a vulgar way that just thinking about it turned the girl's cheeks red; but it had felt so damn good. 

She had felt so entirely full of him, so fulfilled, she couldn't explain it either.

As Draco pulled away from her, as they were getting dressed , he realized he had begrudgingly detached himself; had it been up to him, he would have spent hours losing himself in the Mudblood, taking possession of her body piece by piece by piece.

Shit, that shouldn't have happened.

It really shouldn't have happened.

Again.

“Maybe I'd better go, you know McGranitt will be waiting for me...”

“Yeah..yeah sure...I'll go...well, somewhere...”

Fuck, could it be possible that just two minutes before he was sinking into her and now he was acting like a kid on his first crush?

“Will you let me know about the formula?” 

“I... yes of course, thanks again Draco.”

The girl broke into a warm smile and then left the room and Draco couldn't help but think how beautiful she was.

His beautiful damn Mudblood. 

Chapter Text

Hermione had spent the last few hours staring at the large cauldron in front of her, waiting for the infusion time of asphodel to be sufficient and for something—anything—to happen. Every now and then, she would rise from her chair and glance at her own reflection in the bubbling, violet liquid.

Nothing. Absolutely nothing had changed.

In truth, she wasn’t entirely sure what she was expecting. Draco had told her to wait, and so she had. After all, he was one of the best potion-makers of their year.

And so, once again, she found herself slumped in that uncomfortable chair, arms crossed, patience wearing thin, her senses keenly attuned to the slightest possible change in that damned concoction.

Once again, nothing.

Hermione had never liked waiting. Not even back at Hogwarts. She had never liked waiting for the start of term while stuck at home during the summer holidays. She had never liked waiting for Ron and Harry to finish breakfast in the Great Hall or for Ginny and her endless primping sessions before a Hogsmeade outing. She had never liked waiting in that freezing tent during the long, cold nights the Trio had spent hunting Horcruxes.

And she certainly didn’t like waiting now—in that infirmary, on that chair—for any sign of change in that wretched potion.

Because waiting meant her brain couldn’t focus on something useful. Worse still, it meant she had time to think.

To think about her old life. About her parents, lost forever. About her friends, now dead. About the war.

To think about him .

About his sharp ways, his damned Mark, his platinum hair, his deep, unreadable eyes. 

And, most of all, about the fact that less than three hours ago, she had given herself to him— again.

For no apparent reason.

The first time she and Malfoy had slept together, she had rationalized it. She had told herself it was for the Greater Good, part of a carefully crafted plan that would push the Slytherin to betray everything he had ever believed in and side with the Order.

And she had to admit, with very little modesty, that things had gone exactly as she had imagined.

Well done, Hermione.

But that had been the first time. A different story.

Now, sitting in that infirmary, in that chair, waiting for any sign of change in that damned potion, her mind couldn’t come up with a single logical reason why Draco Malfoy—just hours ago—had taken her, turned her inside out like a worn-out sock, and bent her over that damned mahogany desk.

And more importantly, why—against all logic—she had let him.

And enjoyed it.

And that was how Luna and Professor McGonagall found her—lost in a whirlwind of thoughts, hair a tangled mess, muttering incoherent sentences under her breath while cursing herself and her wretched conscience.

“Hermione, any news?” The Ravenclaw asked.

“Still nothing, unfortunately. But the infusion time has passed... I’d say we can try?”

The tension between the three women was palpable, the fear of failure overwhelming. 

They had used the second-to-last drop of Voldemort’s blood for this attempt—if they failed, their chances of saving Harry would be reduced to nearly nothing. 

And that simply could not happen.

“Do you believe we can trust Mr. Malfoy’s instructions, Miss Granger?”

“He’s one of the best potion-makers I’ve ever known, second only to Snape…”

The mention of their recently departed professor sent a lump rising in her throat. 

She had never been particularly fond of Severus Snape, but knowing what he had done for all of them had drastically changed her view of him.

“So yes, Professor. I think we should trust him.”

“Well then, girls, let us waste no more time.”

Hermione retrieved a glass vial from one of the cabinets and stepped toward the cauldron. Carefully, she dipped the ladle into the potion, collecting just enough of the violet liquid before pouring it into the vial.

Then, the three women walked toward Harry’s bed.

He had been brought to Shell Cottage months ago, and since then, he had never left that infirmary.

He lay motionless on the pristine white sheets, trapped in that catatonic state. 

On the bedside table beside him were Ginny’s fresh flowers, his glasses, his wand, and a photograph—one of him, Hermione, and Ron, taken by Molly at the Burrow during their fourth year.

In the picture, Harry’s hair was still slightly longer than usual, and he was smiling as he turned toward Ron, who, wrapped in his Irish Quidditch team scarf, was making a ridiculous face at Hermione. She, in return, was scolding him with her signature stern-prefect glare.

It felt like a lifetime ago.

No—it was a lifetime ago.

Because after that happy day, everything had changed.

Ron was dead. Harry was in a vegetative state. And she had been made a prisoner of their enemies.

Nothing remained of those three young, innocent Gryffindors anymore.

With a trembling hand, Hermione brought the vial to Harry’s lips and poured the potion into his mouth. His throat jerked slightly—probably just a reflex—as he swallowed.

The curly-haired witch kept her eyes fixed on her friend’s face, waiting for a sign… a flicker of his eyelids, a twitch of his lips, the slightest movement of his brow.

Nothing.

Harry Potter remained as still as ever, as if nothing had happened.

Lowering her head, she sank onto the bed and took Harry’s hands in her own. Hot tears spilled from her sad, tired eyes.

She had failed. Again.

She had failed in the only task the Order had given her—to save Harry. To save her friend.

How could she have gone wrong again ? She had followed both Firenze’s and Draco’s instructions to the letter!

Had she forgotten an ingredient? Perhaps an extra gram of dittany?

What had gone wrong?

And now, with only one attempt left… how could she possibly hope to get it right?

It was lost. Everything was lost.

“Stay strong, Hermione, stay strong... Don’t give up, we’ll try again! We still have one more chance…”

“It’s useless, Luna.” Hermione’s voice was broken by sobs. “I failed. I couldn’t save Harry. I’m so useless—I had one job!”

“Miss Granger, I am quite certain that Mr. Potter would not want to see you in this state. Come now, dear, you must find your strength! Miss Lovegood, let’s go and fetch some tea for Miss Granger—she’s in dire need of it…”

Hermione found herself silently thanking the professor for having the decency to leave her alone.

All she wanted right now was to sit there with Harry and cry.

The guilt was suffocating her, and she couldn’t bear to see the pitying expressions of those around her—those who looked at her as if she were a wounded animal.

She gave McGonagall a faint nod, but just as she did, something at the edge of her vision caught her attention—a barely perceptible movement behind her.

No. It couldn’t be.

She spun around, and the glass vial she was still holding slipped from her fingers, shattering against the floor.

“Luna—Luna, quickly! Go get Ginny!”

Draco walked through the corridor of Shell Cottage, the Galleon of Dumbledore’s Army burning in his hand, signaling Moody’s summons.

After their last meeting, the group had agreed to use the enchanted coins as a means of communication. Draco found it frankly ridiculous.

They all lived in the same bloody house, twenty-four hours a day. 

Did they really need some special method to talk to each other? Were they supposed to be some sort of undercover agents ?

Well. Technically, he was, he thought bitterly.

Reaching Theo’s door, he knocked once before pushing it open without much ceremony.

“Draco, what the fuck. What if I was busy?”

“Busy doing what , Theodore? Fooling around with the Lunatic ? She’s in the infirmary with Granger at this hour, trying to wake up Saint Potter. And in any case, it wouldn’t exactly be news , would it? Need I remind you that back at Hogwarts, you brought a different witch into your dorm every night…?”

“You’re still the same insufferable prick, Draco,” Theo muttered, throwing a pillow at his face.

“Speaking of Granger ,” a smirk stretched across the Slytherin’s lips, “I believe we had some unfinished business , Drakie.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “She came to me for help with Potter’s potion. I gave her the ingredients, she left. End of story , Nott. I told you, nothing is ever going to happen between me and Granger again .”

But even as he spoke the words, his mind betrayed him, drifting back to just a few hours ago— back to when he had been buried deep inside Granger.

He could still smell her on his skin, still feel the warmth of her body, the heat of her bare flesh against his.

For Salazar’s sake, that witch was driving him mad.

It had been so different from the first time. It had been… almost primal .

Draco knew he was treading dangerous ground.

Granger wasn’t like all the others he had taken to bed.

She was still the enemy—someone who despised him, someone he despised in return. It had always been that way, and it would always stay that way.

So why did that enemy make him feel so damn good?

Why did he still crave her—her touch, her kisses, the way she gasped beneath him?

Why couldn’t he get the Mudblood out of his head?

Merlin help me.

The two boys made their way toward the annex, the location Moody had chosen for their meeting.

They knew Zabini had been summoned as well, but as they had agreed beforehand, the dark-haired Slytherin had chosen to head to Knockturn Alley instead for a meeting with the other Death Eaters—something about scouting abandoned villages for signs of resistance.

That way, he could both keep up appearances and gather crucial information for the Order.

Draco was glad to be working with Zabini and Theo.

They had been his best friends for as long as he could remember, and knowing he wasn’t alone in this made him feel slightly better—though a part of him was still afraid.

If anything went wrong… if Voldemort discovered them… there would be only one punishment: death.

And the thought of his best friends ending up like Weasley made his stomach twist.

No. He couldn’t think like that.

It. Would. Not. Happen.

Upon arriving at the meeting point, they pushed open the door and stepped into the small sitting room of the Shell Cottage annex.

It was sparse, hastily arranged in the aftermath of the battle when things had started going downhill.

Large windows overlooked the beach, and a dark wooden table stood in the center, maps already spread out by Moody. A few chairs, a fireplace, and the lingering scent of cigar smoke made the air feel thick.

Seated around the table were George, Neville, Dean Thomas, and Bill.

Draco felt a twinge of disappointment at the absence of Charlie—one of the few Weasleys he could actually tolerate.

As the two Slytherins entered, they were met with the usual scornful glares from their former classmates.

For Salazar’s sake, these Gryffindors were insufferable .

As if it wasn’t enough that they were risking their pureblood arses to save them—they still had the nerve to look at them like that.

Theo, ever the peacemaker, decided to lighten the mood. 

If they were all stuck fighting this war together, they might as well not tear each other apart in the process.

“Well, well, Longbottom—I must say, you’re looking particularly chipper today. Wouldn’t have anything to do with a certain pureblood, now would it?” The Slytherin smirked suggestively.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Nott.” Neville’s lips pressed into a tight line.

“Oh, come now, don’t be shy… I saw you the other day… with Avery .” Theo’s grin widened. “I must say, excellent taste in witches, Neville. I never would’ve guessed.”

Draco’s eyes widened, his sharp gaze snapping to Longbottom.

“Avery? My Avery?”

That lying little snake —she had been betraying him all this time.

Not that he had expected any grand display of gratitude.

After all, she was practically their housemaid, and he was well aware that she had never liked the Malfoy family.

But he had saved her damn life—how dare that Hufflepuff traitor turn against him?

“I don’t believe Margaery is your bloody property, Malfoy,” Longbottom shot back, his wand drawn. “And I’d suggest you keep your Death Eater hands off her before I make you regret it.”

“Well, well, Paciock, finally grown a spine , have we?” Draco taunted. “Relax, I don’t usually kill women.”

“No, of course not, Malfoy,” George interjected, his voice sharp as a blade. “You only kill friends . Like Snape.”

The words hit him like a curse.

He could feel the rage bubbling up inside him, barely contained.

Only Theo’s pointed stare—pleading with him not to do something reckless—kept him from lashing out.

Weasley should count himself damn lucky that Draco didn’t have his wand right now. Otherwise, he’d be more than happy to send him off to join his dear brother.

“Ah, gentlemen, I see nothing’s changed ! Lovely.”

Moody limped into the room, a cigar clenched between his fingers.

“Hate to interrupt your delightful little tea party, but I assume you’re all eager to know why I called this meeting.”

With a flick of his wand, the large map before them floated into the air, unfurling itself in front of the group.

A glowing circle marked a single name:

Aberfeldy.

“The prison camp? What does that have to do with us?” Dean asked.

“Excellent question, Thomas.”

Moody took a drag from his cigar before exhaling slowly.

“Tomorrow—at this very hour—we’re attacking and liberating the Aberfeldy camp.”

The silence that followed was thick with unease.

“Moody… with all due respect…” Neville’s voice was barely above a whisper. “Isn’t that… a suicide mission ?”

Moody grunted, unimpressed.

“Malfoy—can I call you Draco, son?—is right about one thing. Our best chance to strike at Voldemort and finish him will be in a month.

Until then, we have to weaken him. Hit him from every side.

The more damage we do, the easier it’ll be to bring him down.

The more camps we liberate , the more wands we’ll have on our side.

This is a war of numbers , and right now , we’re losing.”

Theo leaned forward. “Wouldn’t it be easier to go after Little Hangleton ? It’s the least guarded camp…”

Moody’s expression darkened, but before he could speak, Draco cut in.

“The Order has no intention of touching Little Hangleton, Theo,” he said “ You said this yourself last time—it's mostly women and children in that camp, and right now, they're not the priority.

We need soldiers.

That's why they’re focusing on Aberfeldy.

Because if the Death Eaters decide to take revenge on the prisoners in Little Hangleton… it wouldn’t cost us any military strength.

It all feels so… un-Gryffindor .

Am I wrong, Moody?"

His cold, accusatory gaze landed on Mad-Eye.

"It’s war , Malfoy… We have to make hard choices."

Bill’s voice cut through the tension, snapping the others back to reality.

Dean, Neville, and George still wore identical expressions of disbelief.

Since when had they become soldiers ?

Since when did they have to decide who lived and who died ?

“This mission is high risk , there’s no use denying it,” Bill continued.

“We won’t be alone—we’ll have reinforcements. Goldstein, Wood, Corner, McLaggen, and Jordan have already been notified. They’ll be arriving tonight from the other safe houses.

Charlie will Apparate here tomorrow with sixteen recruits from the Romanian forces. No dragons for this operation—we’re keeping a low profile.

Zabini’s in. He also informed us that several Death Eater patrols will be conducting reconnaissance near London tomorrow, which means fewer guards at the camp.

Counting me, Dean, Neville, and George, that puts us at twenty-five .

Moody won’t be joining us. The negotiations with the American Prime Minister aren’t going as planned, and we need to focus on that front as well…”

“How many guards?” Neville asked.

“We don’t know for sure…”

“There are forty —Snatchers and soldiers combined,” Draco cut in sharply. “The camp is under Yaxley’s command.”

“Bloody hell … that’s almost double our numbers,” Neville muttered.

“Nott, Malfoy—are you in?”

Draco was tempted to tell them no.

To tell them to go to hell .

He had already risked his life for the Order once . Why the fuck would he do it again, especially for a mission that was likely to fail ?

“I’m not leaving Blaise alone. I’m in,” Theo answered.

Fuck .

Idiots.

They were going to get themselves killed .

Draco simply gave a curt nod, his jaw clenched in frustration.

Moody spoke again.

“The three of you can’t risk being recognized—it would be too dangerous and could jeopardize everything we’ve planned.

For that reason, you’ll use basic Transfiguration spells to alter your appearance. Yaxley cannot know who you are.

If there are no further questions, gentlemen , the meeting is adjourned.

Best of luck to you all.”

That evening, the group gathered in the sitting room of Shell Cottage.

The tension was thick —no one could sleep.

Dean, Neville, and George sat sprawled on the couches, joined by Anthony Goldstein, Corner, McLaggen, Jordan, and Wood, who had only just arrived.

The Slytherins , of course, had not been invited.

As half-empty bottles of Firewhisky were passed around, they found themselves recounting the past few months—Neville filling them in on everything that had happened since the Slytherins’ arrival, while the others shared their stories from captivity.

For a fleeting moment, it almost felt like they were back at Hogwarts—just another late-night gathering in the common rooms.

“I see you are having a lot of  fun without us…”

Hermione stepped into the room, Luna trailing behind her.

For the first time in months , there was a smile on the Gryffindor’s face.

Seeing her old friends—friends she hadn’t seen since the Final Battle—brought tears to her eyes.

She couldn’t believe they were alive.

It felt impossible .

Almost like a dream …

And yet, it wasn’t the most unbelievable thing to happen that day.

“Alright, alright, calm down…” Hermione wiped at her eyes, taking a steadying breath.

“Luna and I need to tell you something.

But only if you promise not to scream…”

“Oh, come on, Hermione, don’t play Head Girl here too…” George teased, slamming the whisky bottle onto the table, his face frozen in shock.

His sister had just stepped through the door, holding onto someone—someone pale, weak… but incredibly alive .

Harry Potter.

Every gaze in the room locked onto Ginny and Harry. A deafening silence settled over them.

It wasn’t possible.

It just couldn’t be possible.

It had to be a dream, a bloody hallucination.

Too exhausted to speak, Harry simply managed a faint smile and raised his hand in greeting—but even that small motion caused him to collapse against Ginny, his strength completely failing him.

Hermione rushed to his side, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and helping him into one of the armchairs.

He was alive.

Harry was alive .

He was weak— so weak. It had taken hours for her and Ginny to explain everything that had happened in the months he’d been gone.

Every piece of news was a fresh blow, every death, every loss weighing down on him more and more.

And when they told him about Ron …

It was unbearable.

Hermione had tried to be strong, but the tears had come in floods, and the three of them had clung to each other, sobbing like children.

But they would get through it.

They would move forward.

Harry would recover, and they would win.

For the first time in months , Hermione felt something she thought had been erased from her mind.

Hope.

And deep in her heart, she knew exactly who she owed it to.

Draco.

Draco Malfoy had saved Harry Potter.

No one— no one —would have ever believed that.

She had to find him. She had to thank him.

Maybe she would even find the courage to tell him how much he meant to her…

If there was still hope—if this war would truly end —maybe there could be a happy ending for him, too.

Maybe he could redeem himself.

Maybe he could change.

And she wanted to help him.

She needed to help Draco Malfoy.

Just like he had helped all of them.

She shot up from her seat.

Around her, voices were rising—her friends, still in shock, swarming Harry with hugs and questions.

She barely took a step when Neville’s voice stopped her.

“Hermione, where are you going?”

“I… I have to go, guys. There’s something I need to do.”

“Oh, hell no, Hermione! You sit your arse down and have a drink— now !” George ordered, and the others cheered in agreement.

Luna grabbed her hand and pulled her back down beside Harry, who took her hand in his, squeezing it gently.

She was home.

Finally.

“Okay, but just one …”

“Oh, come on, Granger, don’t be a nerd ! We could all be dead tomorrow!” Corner added, his tone dark but teasing.

One glass turned into two. Then three.

Laughter and drunken shouts filled the room as the boys updated Harry and the girls on the mission ahead.

But upstairs, someone wasn’t celebrating.

Draco Malfoy.

He tossed and turned in bed, frustrated—no, fucking furious .

He would have cast a Silencing Charm on his room if McGonagall hadn’t confiscated his wand.

Instead, he had to endure the damned shouting from those idiots downstairs.

For two long hours.

His nerves were already on edge—the next day, they were walking into a death trap , and he needed rest . He needed a clear mind .

Then, he heard her voice.

Granger.

What the hell was she doing down there? In the middle of the night?

Of course, she was probably enjoying herself , surrounded by her beloved war heroes.

Especially Goldstein .

That bloody Ravenclaw had spent years trying to get into Granger’s knickers—and all of Hogwarts knew it.

And now, they were down there together.

In the middle of the night.

In a fucking house in the middle of nowhere .

What a load of shit.

You’re not actually jealous, are you, Draco?

The thought alone infuriated him.

He shot up from his bed and stormed toward the door.

It was time to go kick someone’s arse .

“Wait, Harry… wait ,” George slurred, drunken and utterly obnoxious .

“You wanna know the funniest part? Malfoy fights for us now… Can you believe that? That bloody Death Eater is risking his arse for us .”

Harry’s eyes widened, his expression unreadable.

“Neville, shut my brother up right now or I swear on Godric I will strangle him,” Ginny snapped.

Neville grabbed George, attempting to haul him to his feet, but Harry turned to Ginny, his voice hoarse.

“Malfoy… is here ?”

“Harry, he’s changed…” Hermione intervened. “The potion you took—”

“Oh, he’s here all right,” George cut her off with a drunken laugh.

“And do you want to hear something even better ?”

Hermione’s stomach dropped . Her blood ran cold.

No, no, no.

Not like this.

She didn’t want them to know like this .

She didn’t want Harry to find out like this .

“That idiot is here because Hermione seduced him!” George cackled.

“Can you believe it? She seduced Malfoy! And the fool fell for it!

Hermione, you goddess , you have to tell us how—”

The sound of shattering glass echoed through the room.

A chill swept through the air, suffocating and ice cold .

Hermione’s breath hitched.

She felt someone behind her.

Please, please, please, God—let it not be him.

Slowly, she turned around.

And there he was.

Standing just a few feet away.

A broken crystal glass in his clenched fist, blood dripping onto the floor.

Rage radiated off him like a storm, his body wound tight like a bowstring.

She knew this look.

She knew him.

His blue eyes were black with fury, freezing her in place.

And the way he was looking at her…

Like she was the enemy .

Like she had betrayed him.

There was no Draco anymore.

Only Malfoy .

The Slytherin .

The Death Eater .

And he was staring at her like he wanted to kill her.

Damn, she was totally fucked.

Chapter Text

Tick. Tick. Tick.

The deafening silence that had settled over Shell Cottage’s living room was broken only by the barely perceptible sound of crimson drops of blood dripping from Draco’s pale skin, landing with eerie precision on the ancient wooden floor.

He didn’t seem to notice. His grip on the shards of glass only tightened, pushing them deeper into his flesh.

Focus on the pain, Draco. Focus. On. The. Pain.

The sharp edges burrowing into his skin had a strangely therapeutic effect for the Slytherin—physical pain was a welcome distraction from something far more devastating tearing through his chest: betrayal.

A storm of thoughts raged in his mind; a thousand questions he longed to hurl at those terrified hazel eyes staring back at him; a thousand whys lingering on his tightly sealed lips.

Why did I let you in?
Why did I allow you to get so close?
Why did I expect you to be different?
Why did you betray me?

Used.
Deceived.

And then, right on cue, the familiar, icy embrace of Occlumency took hold. 

Like an old friend, he could feel it slithering through his veins, numbing his heartbeat, emptying his mind of doubt, and replacing hatred with the emotion he knew best— absolute, unwavering indifference.

Those wretched Gryffindor fools had dared to play him, had thought they could use him as a pawn in their wretched schemes, had sent him to die, had forced him to kill…

Now, he would return the favor. All of them.

"I'm flattered to always be on your mind, filthy Weasley. But I suggest you sober up quickly—we have a mission at dawn, and we need you focused. Although… believe me, the thought of watching you writhe under a Death Eater’s curses fills me with a thrill I can hardly put into words…”

Ruthless. Cold. Merciless. A true Death Eater.

Hermione watched as Draco’s darkened gaze deliberately avoided hers.

She had become invisible to him—no glance, no acknowledgment. 

Only a cruel smirk, ghostly against his pale lips.

Everything that had existed between them— if anything had ever been real at all —was gone, devoured by the flames of the hatred he now felt for her.

And the worst part was that she had no one to blame but herself.

Draco shifted his gaze to Harry, his lips curling into a wicked grin.

“Oh, what a pleasure to see you alive, Potter… and in such fine health.” His icy blue eyes narrowed dangerously. “Though, I must say, not thanks to your dear friends. They sent me—the Death Eater standing before you—to do their dirty work, you know? Isn’t it just hilarious, Potter, that you owe your life to me? Me. The damned Draco Malfoy.

What was it George used to say? Don’t you find life poetic ?

Of course, you could have gone to Voldemort yourself, or killed Snape, dear Weasley, but let’s be honest—you never would have had the guts. Perhaps your younger brother could have. 

Merlin, now he was brave. A true Gryffindor. I’m sure you’d never have been as strong as him. For Salazar’s sake, I can only imagine how you would have screamed if you had been in his place while they tortured him… Funny, isn’t it? It’s always the best ones who go first, isn’t that right, Potter? I’d wager that if everyone in this room had a choice… they would have chosen Ronald over you, George…”

“Shut your damn mouth, Malfoy…” Goldstein hissed.

“What’s that, Goldstein? I didn’t quite catch those pathetic words tumbling out of your mouth… Perhaps you should find your balls again—you’re going to need them. Especially now that the Mudblood is within everyone’s reach…”

He shouldn’t have said it. He knew that.

Even without looking at her directly, he could see Granger’s cheeks flush crimson with shame, her eyes glistening with unshed tears.

“ Take. It. Back. Right now. ”

George slurred, spitting the words as he struggled to his feet, his wand clenched tightly in his trembling hand, breath heavy with alcohol.

“George, please… stop…” Ginny sprang up, stepping in front of her brother to hold him back, cupping his face between her hands and forcing him to look at her. “Don’t do anything stupid. Please, look at me… you have to calm down.”

Draco watched the ridiculous display with a sneer, letting out a derisive laugh before turning his back on them, ready to leave.

That was what finally pushed George over the edge.

“Oh, how sweet—you almost make me feel sorry for your half-dead family…”

“I’ll kill you, you filthy Death Eater—” George roared, wand raised, aiming straight at the blond’s back.

Hermione, seeing the tip of George’s wand spark to life, acted on pure instinct.

She stepped between them.

“What the hell are you doing, Hermione? Move. Out. Of. The. Way,” George growled, his wand still fixed on its target.

Draco barely turned his head, watching the scene unfold behind him.

“You don’t want to kill him, George, you know you don’t. This isn’t you… Ron and Fred wouldn’t want this. Please…”

“I love you, Hermione, but if you don’t move right now—”

She didn’t budge.

“You’re protecting him? Bloody hell, Hermione, have you seen who he is? Do you have any idea what he’s capable of? And you actually want to defend him? What the fuck is wrong with you? You’re not maybe….?”

George’s look of pure disgust hit her like a physical blow.

She could feel the weight of everyone’s stares pressing down on her.

She knew what George was about to say.

No. She hadn’t fallen for him.

Had she?

How could she?

He was a monster. A Death Eater. An enemy.

So why was she standing there, in front of George’s wand, ready to take the hit just to protect him?

“I’m not… I’m not defending him, George… But you know you can’t kill him. We need him…” she tried to say, though her voice lacked conviction.

“The only thing I know,” George said, stepping closer, “is that if you don’t move this second, Hermione, I won’t hesitate to move you myself.”

“ That’s enough !”

Harry’s deep, weary voice rang through the room.

“That’s enough, George,” he continued, sinking back into the armchair, looking weaker by the second.