Chapter Text
Harry’s letters came faithfully every few days, each one a mixture of Auror training updates, anecdotes about the Weasleys, and gentle reassurances to Hermione. He always wrote in that warm, straightforward way of his, telling her that he was proud of her, that he understood how much things had changed, and that he wanted her to enjoy her last months at Hogwarts without unnecessary stress.
But Ron was a recurring note in his updates.
Ron’s been fussing again, Mione, Harry had written. He keeps saying he wants to see you, to set things straight. He even suggested you might be under the Imperius curse, because he can’t imagine you spending so much time with the Slytherins. I’ve tried to talk him down, but you know Ron. And you know how he feels about Malfoy. Still, don’t let it trouble you I’ll handle Ron. Just… focus on being happy where you are. I’ll see you soon.
Hermione let out a soft sigh as she folded the letter shut. Worry prickled at her chest. She had been dreading another confrontation with Ron. His temper, his stubbornness, it had worn down her patience for months before their breakup, and now she wondered if he truly couldn’t see how utterly incompatible they had always been. Their interests clashed, their goals diverged, and she was tired of trying to force a friendship that seemed permanently bent out of shape.
“Is that from Harry?”
Hermione glanced up. Pansy Parkinson had materialized at her side, sharp eyes flicking to the folded parchment still in Hermione’s hands.
“Yes,” Hermione admitted. “He’s been telling me updates from his training… and from everybody else.”
“Everybody else,” Pansy repeated with a knowing edge. “So updates from Weasley, I take it?”
Hermione gave a reluctant nod. “Yeah. It seems he’s having a hard time accepting my new friends. He even asked Harry to check if I’d been Imperiused.”
Pansy’s expression twisted into disgust. “Fucking lunatic. Honestly, knowing Weasley, he’ll use any excuse to put the blame on Draco. I mean, sure, Draco’s no saint when it comes to the Weasley family, but he knows his boundaries. And he’s close with Ginevra now.”
“Don’t let her hear you say that,” Hermione said with a laugh. “Only Blaise can get away with calling her Ginevra.”
For a moment, the levity faded, and Hermione’s voice softened. “I just thought Ron would be more like Harry. Maybe it’s a fool’s dream, but I hoped we could be friends again. Like before.”
Pansy regarded her with unusual seriousness. “Granger, if he’s really the friend you’ve always said he was, then it shouldn’t be so hard for him to forgive you for breaking up. If he can’t do that, then maybe he’s not the friend you thought he was.”
Before Hermione could reply, Theo’s voice rang across the common room. “Okay! I can see Curls frowning from here. Enough doom and gloom, let’s plan our next Hogsmeade trip!”
Hermione smiled faintly at his timing. “Harry said he can come back for the next one. He wants to spend more time with us while he’s still in training.”
“Well, good for him,” Pansy said with a wicked grin. “I’ll make sure to trick him into trying the new flavors of Bertie Bott’s. That’ll be my welcome gift.”
Hermione laughed, shaking her head, the heaviness in her chest lightened at least for now. She knew Ron would still be a shadow lurking on the horizon, but for the moment, she let herself focus on the warmth of the people around her.
****
The crisp February air carried the sound of laughter and chatter as students spilled down the cobbled road into Hogsmeade. Scarves and cloaks fluttered in the wind, and the sweet scent of butterbeer drifted from the Three Broomsticks.
Hermione walked alongside Pansy and Theo, her cheeks pink from the cold. She kept sneaking glances toward the village entrance, nerves humming. She hadn’t realized until now just how much she’d missed Harry’s presence—the steady comfort of him.
“There he is,” Blaise muttered, chin tipping toward the main road.
Harry Potter, unmistakable even in a simple wool coat, was striding toward them. His grin widened as his eyes found Hermione.
“Mione!”
“Harry!”
She rushed forward, and they embraced tightly. For a brief moment, the chill in the air vanished. When they stepped apart, Pansy gave Harry a sly little wave, while Theo clasped his shoulder like they were old schoolmates rather than rivals of years past.
“You look good,” Hermione said, beaming.
Harry chuckled. “Auror training’s brutal, but I’m keeping up. And I’ve missed this.” He gestured at the group with genuine warmth. “Merlin, it feels good to be back here with all of you.”
“Careful, Potter,” Pansy drawled, though her smirk was soft around the edges. “You keep saying things like that, and people will start thinking you’ve gone full Slytherin.”
“Maybe I have,” Harry shot back with a grin.
The group laughed, and together they drifted toward the Three Broomsticks, snagging a booth near the back. Madam Rosmerta brought over a tray of butterbeers, and conversation flowed easily. Blaise teased Theo about his obsession with treacle fudge, Pansy recounted a ridiculous duel she’d witnessed in the corridor, and Hermione found herself leaning back, savoring how natural it all felt.
But beneath the warmth, Harry carried a shadow. Eventually, it slipped through.
“So,” he said, voice lowering just enough that only the table could hear, “Ron’s still… Ron.” He grimaced. “He keeps saying he wants to meet you, Hermione. He’s convinced that if he sees you, he can ‘set the record straight.’” Harry’s tone carried heavy quotation marks.
The ease at the table faltered. Hermione’s smile dimmed, her hands curling around her mug.
Pansy’s eyes narrowed instantly. “What’s there to set straight? You broke up with him. That’s it.”
“Pansy,” Hermione murmured, though she didn’t disagree.
Harry rubbed the back of his neck. “I told him it’s not his business, that you’re happy, but… well, you know Ron. Stubborn as a hippogriff.”
Theo snorted. “Stubborn and thick as one, too.”
“Look,” Harry said firmly, leaning in. “I just want you to know I’ve got your back, Mione. Always. If Ron tries anything, he’ll answer to me first.”
Hermione’s throat tightened, gratitude flooding her. “Thank you, Harry. I just… I don’t want a fight.”
Draco, who had been quietly listening from the edge of the booth, finally spoke. His drawl was calm, but his grey eyes were sharp. “Then don’t give him one. If Weasley wants to wallow in his delusions, let him. You’ve moved on. He hasn’t. That’s his problem, not yours.”
The bluntness made Hermione’s chest ache, though she knew Draco was right.
The tension lingered for a beat, but then Blaise clapped his hands together. “Enough about Weasley. Potter’s here, and I, for one, am not letting the day be ruined by a redheaded sulk. Who’s up for Honeydukes after this?”
The mood lifted again, conversation tilting back toward laughter and teasing. Hermione caught Harry’s eye across the table, and he gave her a look of quiet reassurance.
For now, the shadow of Ron Weasley remained just that a shadow on the horizon. And in this warm booth with butterbeer and friends, Hermione let herself believe that maybe, just maybe, she could keep it that way.
****
The butterbeers were nearly finished when the door to the Three Broomsticks slammed open hard enough that several heads turned.
Ron Weasley stormed inside, his ears red from the cold or maybe from anger. His gaze swept the room until it landed on the back booth where Hermione sat wedged between Pansy and Harry.
Hermione felt her stomach drop.
“Oh, bloody hell,” Blaise muttered under his breath.
“Here comes trouble,” Pansy said flatly, sitting straighter.
Ron stalked over, ignoring Madam Rosmerta’s frown at his heavy footsteps. His eyes, blazing with accusation, went straight to Hermione.
“There you are,” he snapped, as if she’d been hiding from him. “We need to talk.”
Hermione’s fingers tightened around her mug, but Harry shifted subtly closer, protective.
“We’re not doing this here, Ron,” she said quietly.
“Yes, we are,” Ron shot back, his voice rising. “What the hell are you doing sitting with them? Malfoy, Parkinson, Zabini, Nott are you out of your mind? Harry told me you’re still hanging around snakes, but I didn’t want to believe it.”
“They’re my friends,” Hermione said firmly, though her heart was hammering.
“Friends?” Ron barked a humorless laugh. “No, they’re using you! You think Malfoy actually cares about you? You think Parkinson’s your mate? Merlin, Hermione, they hated you for six bloody years!”
Pansy’s eyes flashed, and she opened her mouth to retort, but Draco’s hand brushed her wrist a warning. Instead, he leaned forward, his voice low and dangerous.
“Careful, Weasley. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Ron’s fists clenched. “Oh, I know exactly what I’m talking about. Malfoy, you and your lot don’t deserve to be anywhere near her. And you” He turned to Hermione, his voice breaking with betrayal. “You don’t deserve to throw away everything we had for this.”
Hermione stood, her chair scraping back. Her hands trembled, but her voice was steady.
“What we had, Ron, was never what you thought it was. We argued more than we laughed. We never wanted the same things. I tried, I really tried but I can’t spend my life fighting with you.”
Ron’s face went pale, then blotchy red. His voice cracked with bitterness, rising with every word.
“So that’s it? You’d rather crawl to that greasy little snake than stay with someone who actually gave a damn about you? Was I just a placeholder until your precious Slytherin toy finally looked your way? Merlin, how pathetic is that? I should’ve known you always liked being worshipped more than being loved. You don’t want honesty, you want some smug bastard who’ll kiss your arse and feed you lies because you're too scared of someone who actually challenges you!”
He scoffed, eyes flashing.
“Don’t pretend you tried. You checked out the second someone darker, colder, and richer showed you attention. You never wanted me you just didn’t want to be alone.”
The room seemed to freeze at Ron’s words.
Hermione’s breath caught in her throat, but before she could reply, the air at the booth shifted. Draco stood, slow and deliberate, his pale fingers smoothing the front of his coat as though to contain something coiled and volatile beneath his skin.
When he spoke, his voice was silk threaded with steel.
“You dare,” he said softly, but the softness was more terrifying than a shout, “to call her that in front of me?”
Ron sneered, but it faltered under Draco’s gaze. “It’s the truth, isn’t it? She’s letting you”
“Don’t.” Draco’s voice cut through the pub like a blade. Even Madam Rosmerta froze behind the bar, a glass half-polished in her hand.
There was something unearthly in his posture now his chin tilted, eyes alight with a gleam far too close to the Black family madness he’d inherited. For a moment, Hermione thought she saw a shadow of Bellatrix in his smirk, of Narcissa in his imperious tilt, of Sirius in the dangerous glint of rebellion.
“You don’t get to put her name in your filthy mouth, Weasley,” Draco continued, stepping forward with the grace of a predator. “You think she’s your possession? That she should crawl back to you because you stamped your foot? Pathetic. You never deserved her.”
Ron bristled, fists tightening. “Watch yourself, Malfoy ”
“Or what?” Draco’s laugh was sharp, too sharp, like glass breaking. “You’ll swing your fists like some common brawler? Do it, then. See if it makes you feel like less of a boy who couldn’t keep up.”
Hermione moved quickly, her hand brushing Draco’s sleeve. “Draco..”
But his eyes were fixed on Ron, grey storm clouds gathering with a dangerous edge. His voice dropped low, cold and aristocratic.
“You call her a whore again, and I’ll show you just how much of a Black I am. My aunt would’ve carved that filthy tongue out for less, and Merlin help me, Weasley, I sometimes wonder if it wouldn’t be a public service.”
The pub gasped. Blaise muttered, “Oh, hell.”
Ron’s face went scarlet, wand half-raised but Harry shot to his feet, stepping between them. “Enough! Both of you!” His green eyes cut to Ron first. “You don’t get to insult her like that. Not anymore. Not ever.” Then to Draco: “And you you’re not your aunt. Don’t start sounding like her.”
For a tense heartbeat, Draco’s chest heaved, eyes wild, lips curved in something too close to Bellatrix’s mad grin. But then Hermione’s fingers pressed firmly into his sleeve, grounding him.
“Draco,” she whispered, voice steady but urgent. “That’s not you. Look at me.”
He did. Slowly, like dragging himself from the edge of a cliff. His expression softened fractionally, madness retreating behind the careful mask he wore so well. He gave a sharp exhale and stepped back, sneering at Ron with controlled disdain rather than open fury.
“You’re not worth Azkaban time,” Draco said finally, his tone regaining its icy calm.
Ron shook with fury, but Harry’s glare held him back. The tension was a bowstring drawn tight, the entire pub holding its breath.
Finally, Ron spat, “This isn’t over,” and shoved his way out of the Three Broomsticks, the door slamming shut behind him.
The silence he left was deafening.
Draco sat back down, still trembling faintly beneath his carefully placed smirk. Hermione slid closer, her hand staying on his arm.
Pansy broke the silence with a dark laugh. “Well. That was bloody entertaining.”
But Hermione could still feel the storm buzzing under Draco’s skin, the weight of a family legacy he was always half a step away from falling into.
And for the first time, she wondered: what would it take for Draco to stop stepping back from that cliff?
***
The castle had never felt so oppressively silent.
By the time they returned from Hogsmeade, the others had peeled off Blaise with a muttered excuse, Theo dragging Pansy away before she could start plotting revenge hexes in earnest. Harry had lingered long enough to squeeze Hermione’s shoulder and give Draco a look equal parts warning and sympathy before he went home.
That left her walking beside Draco through the drafty corridors of Hogwarts, the only sound the echo of their footsteps.
Draco’s face was carved from marble, every inch of him taut with restrained fury. His jaw clenched and unclenched. His hands flexed at his sides as though itching for a wand.
“Draco,” Hermione said softly once they slipped into an empty classroom, shutting the door behind them.
He didn’t answer, only paced the length of the room, his strides sharp and restless.
“I saw your face back there,” she continued, her voice steadier than she felt. “That wasn’t just anger. That was”
“Madness,” Draco cut in, the word spat like poison. He finally stopped pacing, whirling toward her. His eyes were too bright, silver storm clouds gone electric. “That’s what you want to say, isn’t it? I looked like her. I sounded like her. Bellatrix.”
Hermione’s throat tightened. She wanted to deny it, to tell him no, but the truth pressed heavy against her ribs. He had looked like her only for a heartbeat, but it had been there.
“I’m not her,” Draco snapped, almost daring her to contradict him. “I’m not my aunt. I’m not my bloody father. But when he called you that” His voice broke, raw in a way she rarely heard. “When he spoke to you like you were less, like you were his to belittle Hermione, I wanted to end him.”
He raked a hand through his hair, breathing hard. “And it scared me. Because for a second, I thought I could. I thought I would.”
Hermione crossed the room, her shoes clicking softly against the stone. She reached out, hesitating only a moment before placing her hand on his arm. His muscles were wound tight, trembling faintly under her touch.
“Draco,” she whispered, “you stopped yourself. That’s what matters. You’re not them because you chose not to be.”
His laugh was bitter. “Chose? You don’t understand, Granger. That rage it’s in me. My family’s legacy isn’t just a name, it’s in my blood. The madness, the cruelty it’s bred into us like a curse. You saw it. You felt it.”
“I did,” she admitted, her honesty as sharp as it was gentle. “And that’s why I know you’re stronger than it. You pulled back. You let me pull you back. That’s choice, Draco. That’s you. Not Bellatrix. Not Lucius. You.”
For a long moment, he stared at her, his chest heaving with unspent fury and fear. Slowly, his shoulders sagged, the mask slipping enough for exhaustion to bleed through.
Hermione stepped closer, pressing her forehead to his, her hand still on his arm. “You don’t have to fight this alone,” she murmured. “You don’t scare me.”
Draco’s breath hitched, and when he closed his eyes, some of the tension bled from his body. “You should be scared,” he whispered, his voice fragile now. “Because I don’t know what I’ll become if I let go.”
“You won’t,” Hermione said fiercely, pulling back enough to meet his gaze. “Because I’ll be right here. Every time you get close to that edge, I’ll pull you back. Do you hear me?”
His grey eyes searched hers wary, haunted, but with a flicker of hope buried deep. Finally, he nodded once, the smallest surrender.
Hermione let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding and, for the first time all day, Draco allowed himself to lean into her touch.
But in the corner of her mind, a chill lingered. Because she knew Ron wasn’t finished, and neither was the darkness in Draco’s blood.