Guilded in Ruin

A silver fox burst through the dim glow of her office, its form flickering as it materialized atop her cluttered desk.

Theo’s voice followed—sharp, urgent, controlled, but barely.

“Granger, get here now. He’s getting worse.”

Hermione’s heart stopped.

For a single second, everything blurred—the papers she had been organizing, the flickering candlelight, even the sound of the clock ticking against the wall.

Then, she moved.

The chair scraped against the floor, her wand was in her hand before the Patronus had even faded and she ran.

Something was wrong. She could feel it—the charged static of uncontrolled magic bleeding into the air, the sheer force of it pressing against her ribs.

Her hands trembled, but she didn’t hesitate. Hermione shoved open the door.

Chaos.

Pansy’s voice was the first thing she registered, sharp and panicked—

“WHAT’S HAPPENING?!”

Theo was beside her, his usual calm cracked at the edges, his wand raised defensively over Draco’s bed.

Blaise, standing near the foot of the bed, had abandoned his usual smirk, his features tight as he muttered something under his breath.

And Draco—

Draco was convulsing, his body writhing against the sheets, as if something inside him was tearing itself apart. His breath came in ragged, uneven gasps, his skin pale and damp with sweat.

His jaw clenched in a grimace of agony, his breath ragged and uneven, and his eyes—Merlin, his eyes—

Wide. Panic-stricken.

Not him.

Not present.

Hermione had seen it before—this kind of magic. A force that twisted itself so deeply into someone’s core, it fought to consume them from the inside out.

Her breath came out shakier than she wanted it to, but her hands were steady as she stepped forward, pushing past Theo and Pansy, pressing her wand against Draco’s forearm.

The place where his Dark Mark used to be.

His skin burned beneath her touch.

Daphne stood at his side, her wand glowing as she frantically scanned his vitals, magic flaring brighter with each second.

“He’s rejecting the magic!” she called out, her voice strained. “It’s like his body is actively fighting off every healing spell we cast!”

Hermione swallowed back fear.

She wouldn’t let him die.

“We need to counteract the backlash! If his system is rejecting the healing spells, we need to find a way to anchor them before they unravel!”

Daphne nodded, already moving, her magic shifting to match Hermione’s as they worked in sync, pouring stabilization spells into Draco’s skin.

“Theo, Blaise—get me everything in the third cabinet! I need any blood-replenishing potions left!” Hermione barked, not even looking up.

The minutes stretched into hours.

Sweat dripped down the back of Hermione’s neck as she reworked every stabilization charm she had already cast, adjusting the flow of magic, shifting its direction, trying to trick his body into accepting it.

And through it all—Draco kept fighting.

His magic lashed out violently, coiling and snapping like a wounded animal, tendrils of dark energy curling up his arms, wrapping around his skin like a curse that refused to be undone.

Hermione felt the moment her magic connected with it.

It pulsed—dark, old, something twisted and ancient. And for a fleeting second, she felt it fight her.

Her hand shook.

It was alive in some way—sentient in its resistance.

But Hermione Granger had never backed down from a challenge.

So she dug her heels in, pushed back, and forced her magic deeper.

With a final surge, she pressed her wand against his forearm, pouring everything she had into unraveling the dark magic clinging to him.

And then—

The resistance shattered.

The curse fought her one last time before finally—finally—it relented.

Draco collapsed back onto the bed, his chest rising and falling in shallow, steady breaths.

Hermione sagged forward, catching herself against the edge of the mattress, her pulse thudding in her ears.

Daphne was the first to break the quiet, whispering under her breath—"He's stabilizing."

Theo let out a breath, running a shaky hand through his hair.

Pansy exhaled sharply, her shoulders still tense like she wasn’t quite ready to believe it yet.

Blaise merely muttered, “Well. That was fucking horrifying.”

Hermione ignored them all.

Her gaze was locked onto Draco—his chest rising and falling with shallow, even breaths. His face was pale, his jaw still tight, but he was no longer fighting.

The worst had passed.

For now.

Hermione let out a slow, shaky exhale.

And sat down.

The room was silent.

Finally.

After hours of counteracting the curse, of stabilizing Draco’s vitals, of fighting against whatever ancient magic had tried to take hold of him—Hermione was left alone.

Pansy had only left after multiple reassurances that Draco was breathing normally. Theo had dragged her away, muttering about how if she didn’t sleep, she’d be the next one needing a bloody Healer. Blaise had made some sarcastic comment about having better things to do than watch Malfoy sleep but still hesitated at the door.

Daphne had been the last to leave, promising to check back in later.

And now, Hermione sat in the chair beside Draco’s bed, exhaustion settling into her bones, but her mind still racing too fast to stop.

She could still feel the phantom warmth of her magic lingering on him.

The way it had seeped into his skin, fighting against whatever was trying to unravel him from the inside out.

She should leave.

She should rest.

But instead, Hermione reached for her bag, pulling out parchment, ink, and a handful of old case files she had collected from similar patients who had suffered from resistant curse wounds.

Something wasn’t adding up.

The curse on Draco was reacting differently than any of the others she had seen.

It wasn’t just resisting healing—it was learning.

Adapting.

Something about it felt… alive.

Hermione frowned, lighting the tip of her wand and scanning through her notes.

The only sounds were the occasional scratch of her quill, the rustle of parchment, and the slow, rhythmic rise and fall of Draco’s breathing beside her.

Her tea had gone cold. The candlelight had burned low.

She had written pages of notes—possible theories, counter-spells, magical analyses of curse patterns—none of them satisfying.

Still, she pushed forward.

One more hour.

She ignored the ache in her shoulders, the way her fingers cramped from gripping the quill too tightly.

Two more hours.

Her eyelids felt heavy, her mind thick with fatigue, but she refused to stop. 

She knew this feeling. That all-consuming hunger for answers—the refusal to rest until something clicked. 

And yet, for all the pieces of research she had laid out before her, she found her thoughts drifting.

Not to the curse.

Not to the theories scrawled in her notebook.

But to Malfoy.

To the way his body had nearly broken apart under the weight of dark magic.

To the way his magic had fought her—before finally yielding.

To the way she had felt, watching him slip toward the edge of something permanent.

Hermione exhaled sharply, forcing herself back into focus.

She turned the page in one of her old research books, flipping through until a title caught her eye.

The Tale of the Two Wands.

Hermione hesitated.

She knew this story.

It was one of the lesser-known myths, buried within wizarding folklore, told to pureblood children alongside tales of the Deathly Hallows.

A story of two wands—one created for absolute power, the other for absolute destruction.

The Elder Wand, the first.

And its dark counterpart, the second.

The Unmaker’s Wand.

A wand that didn’t simply cast curses—it created them. A wand that could not be wielded for healing, only harm.

Hermione frowned, skimming the passage.

A thought began to form—a whisper of suspicion in the back of her mind.

Could it be connected?

She made a note to look into it later.

For now, Draco’s curse was her focus.

She rolled her shoulders, flexed her aching fingers, and looked at Draco again. 

The first time Hermione had been truly intrigued by Draco Malfoy, it hadn’t been at Hogwarts. It hadn’t been at the Ministry trials.

It had been five years ago, at one of Theo’s insufferably extravagant dinner parties.

Hermione had been dragged along by Harry and Ginny, more out of obligation than genuine interest. She had spent the evening half-listening to Ministry gossip, half-wishing she had stayed home with a book.

Until she had wandered onto the balcony. And found Draco standing there.

Alone.

His sleeves were rolled up.

That had been the first thing she noticed.

The second had been the cigarette held loosely between his fingers, glowing faintly in the cold night air.

The third had been his eyes.

Not cold. Not sharp with condescension.

But far away.

Like he was looking at something that wasn’t there.

She hadn’t spoken to him at first.

She had simply watched—this version of Draco Malfoy, who didn’t fit into the sharp mold she had always placed him in.

And then—

“See something you like, Granger?”

Hermione had rolled her eyes, but there had been no bite behind it.

“Just surprised to see you outside of the shadows, Malfoy.”

Draco had taken a long drag of his cigarette, blowing out a slow breath of smoke before speaking again.

“Maybe I am the shadows.”

That was what had intrigued her.

Not the words themselves, but the way he had said them.

Like he had meant them.

Like he truly believed that he had no place in the light.

That had been the first time Hermione had wondered who he really was.

And now, five years later—

She was still wondering. Still watching.

Hermione blinked, shaking herself from the memory. She was still in the chair, still surrounded by research, parchment, and candlelight.

Still watching Draco Malfoy breathe.

She let out a quiet sigh, rubbing her tired eyes.

She needed to stop. She needed to sleep.

But also needed answers more than anything. So she rolled her sleeves and got back into it.

By the time Theo, Harry, and Daphne stepped into Draco’s hospital room, Hermione was drowning in work.

Stacks of parchment, half-full potion vials, and hastily scrawled notes littered the bedside table, her quill moving feverishly across the page as she documented every minute shift in Draco’s condition. The room still hummed faintly with residual magic, golden-red wisps curling through the air, evidence of the hours she had spent stabilizing him.

Her chair was pulled too close to the bed, she had forgotten about the aching stiffness in her back, the way her fingers cramped from gripping her quill too tightly. The dim candle light flickered, casting shadows across the walls, her wand still hovering over the latest set of diagnostic results.

She had stopped the curse from spreading. That was a victory.

But it wasn’t enough.

She had to understand it—unravel it, break it apart at its very foundation. Because if she could understand it, she could undo it.

And if she could undo it, she could save him.

She didn’t notice Theo at first.

Didn’t flinch when Harry stepped closer.

Didn’t even register Daphne letting out a sharp sigh, muttering under her breath about “insufferable Gryffindor work ethic.”

Because Hermione was too deep in it now—lost in the intricate weavings of curse patterns, spell resistance matrices, and magical degradation rates.

“Sweet Circe,” Theo drawled from the doorway, arms crossed as he surveyed the wreckage of notes and ink-stained fingers. “Granger, are you nesting? Blink twice if you need help.”

“If you’re not bringing me new findings, I don’t care,” she muttered, flipping through her notes, eyes darting back to Malfoy’s still form. His breathing was even now, steady, no longer shadowed by the threat of his magic unraveling.

Progress.

Harry stepped further inside, taking in the state of her workstation with an incredulous look.

“You’ve been at this for how long now?”

Hermione didn’t look up.

“I don’t know.”

“That’s not reassuring.”

“I don’t have time for this.”

Theo let out a long-suffering sigh, exchanging a glance with Harry.

“Alright, we’re doing this the hard way.”

Theo’s calm, almost lazy tone cut through the room just before he plucked the quill from her hand and tucked it neatly behind his ear.

Hermione blinked.

Once.

Twice.

Then snapped her head up, eyes flashing.

“Nott.”

“Granger.”

She scowled. “Give that back.”

“No.”

“Nott –”

“No, no. You had your turn, Granger. Now it’s ours.” He gave her a pointed look, gesturing vaguely to her disheveled appearance, the dark circles under her eyes. “You look like you’re five minutes away from joining Draco in unconsciousness, and while that would be wildly entertaining, I don’t think St. Mungo’s has the resources to deal with both of you.”

“I’m fine.”

Harry snorted. “You always say that, right before you do something incredibly reckless and Potter-esque.”

“I don’t do things that are ‘Potter-esque.’”

Theo smirked. “You’re currently running on no sleep, sheer willpower, and an obscene amount of intellectual arrogance. Sounds pretty Potter-esque to me.”

Hermione let out a sharp breath, rubbing her temples.

“Granger, have you looked in a mirror? You’re five minutes away from collapsing on top of your research.”

“I really am fine.”

Theo glanced at Harry, then back at Hermione.

“She’s lying.”

“Obviously.” Harry sighed.

Theo gestured at the parchment-strewn war zone that was her current workspace.

“You’ve been at this for hours. You look like an overworked curse-breaker who lost a fight with a bookshelf.”

“Your concern is touching,” Hermione said dryly, reaching for another quill.

Before she could grab it, Harry slid the entire stack of parchment off the table.

She let out an offended gasp, eyes narrowing dangerously. 

“Potter.”

Harry grinned unapologetically. “Look, I admire the determination, but you’re not helping anyone if you keel over from magical exhaustion.”

Theo tilted his head, pretending to consider it.

“Actually, that might be entertaining. Imagine the irony. The legendary Hermione Granger, taken down by lack of basic self-preservation.”

Hermione scowled. “You two are insufferable.”

Theo smirked. “And yet, here you are. Voluntarily spending time with us. It’s almost like you like us, Granger.”

Harry chuckled, placing a hand on her shoulder, voice dropping into something quieter, gentler.

“Hermione. You need to rest.”

“I just—”

She hesitated, her gaze drifting automatically toward Draco’s still form.

His breathing was even now, steady, no longer shadowed by the threat of his magic unraveling. Progress.

But what if something changed?

What if she wasn’t here when it happened?

What if—

“I’ll stay.”

Hermione whipped her head around, blinking at Daphne in surprise.

The blonde Healer stood with her arms crossed, wand still in hand, her gaze steady and unwavering.

“You trust me, don’t you?”

Hermione swallowed.

She did.

Daphne was one of the best Healers in St. Mungo’s—a perfectionist to the bone, almost as obsessive as Hermione herself. She would monitor every shift, document every fluctuation. And if something happened, she would know what to do.

She would call Hermione immediately.

The exhaustion hit her all at once, crashing into her like a tidal wave.

Her hands trembled faintly as she exhaled.

Finally—reluctantly—she nodded.

Daphne gave a small, satisfied smirk.

“Good. Now get out before I hex you unconscious myself.”

Theo grinned. “I knew I liked you, Greengrass.”

Harry chuckled, slinging an arm around Hermione’s shoulders. “Come on. Before she changes her mind.” 

Hermione cast one last glance at Draco.

And for the first time in days, she let herself walk away.

The familiar pull of Apparition settled into Hermione’s bones, grounding her in the warmth of her flat, but the moment she arrived, she knew she didn’t belong here. Not yet.

The air inside her home felt too still, like a place she had abandoned for too long, and now it no longer fit around her the way it once had. Everything was as she had left it—books stacked in neat, precarious piles, parchment cluttering the desk near the fireplace, a half-full cup of tea still sitting on the counter from… before. Before Malfoy’s blood on the floor. Before the hours of fighting the curse consuming him.

Now, she stood frozen in her own home, feeling like she’d walked into someone else’s life.

Not unwelcome, exactly. Just unnatural.

Harry, still beside her, shifted slightly, glancing at her in that way that meant he was watching too closely, thinking too much.

“You alright?”

Hermione let out a breath, shaking her head.

“I don’t know, honestly.”

The words left her lips too easily, and that alone unsettled her.

Harry didn’t push. He just glanced at the untouched kettle on the stove and raised an eyebrow.

“Tea?” Hermione asked out of habit, already reaching for the mugs.

“Something stronger.”  Harry replied, giving her a pointed look.

She hesitated only for a second, then flicked her wand, summoning a half-full bottle of firewhiskey instead.

Harry smirked, clearly pleased, and followed her into the living room. He collapsed onto the couch with a groan, stretching out like he had just finished an entire Auror mission that hadn’t allowed him to be off his feet in days.

Hermione poured them both generous glasses, watching the amber liquid catch the firelight. Harry accepted his without question as Hermione settled into the chair opposite him, cradling her drink between her palms.

For a long while, neither of them spoke.

And that was the thing about them, wasn’t it? They had always known how to sit in silence. The quiet wasn’t awkward—it was the kind of silence that only came with old friendships, with knowing someone well enough that words weren’t always necessary.

It was Harry who broke it.

“He’s changed, hasn’t he?”

Hermione glanced up, startled. But she didn’t have to ask who he meant.

She let out a slow breath, turning her glass in her hands.

“Yeah,” she murmured.

Harry huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head.

“If someone had told me in Hogwarts that I’d be sitting in your flat, drinking firewhiskey, and talking about how Draco Malfoy isn’t a complete git, I would’ve hexed them.”

Hermione snorted, swirling her drink. “You did call him a ‘pointy-faced arsehole’ for years.”

Harry smirked. “And I meant it.”

Hermione raised a brow. “And now?”

Harry sighed, tilting his head back, staring at the ceiling like it held the answer.

“Now, I don’t know. It’s… complicated.”

He exhaled slowly, running a hand through his hair.

Hermione leaned back in her chair, tracing her fingers absently along the rim of her glass.

“When did it change?” she asked quietly.

“It didn’t happen all at once. It was little things. Small moments.” His lips quirked slightly, like he was remembering something he wasn’t sure he should say out loud.

“The first time I noticed it was that raid in Knockturn Alley.”

Hermione nodded. She remembered. The ambush. The chaos.

And Malfoy.

Walking into the fray without hesitation.

A simple raid turned into a nightmare. An undercover operation gone horribly wrong.

And Draco Malfoy—who had been on the outskirts of the Auror department, still rebuilding his reputation—had walked into the middle of it like he had something to prove—like he had already made up his mind that he wasn’t letting Harry die.

And he had saved Harry’s life.

Not just in the way Aurors were supposed to watch each other’s backs—not just as a job requirement—but in a way that had felt personal.

Harry’s fingers tapped absently against his glass as he thought.

“I remember lying on the ground, half-conscious, trying to figure out what the hell had just happened. And then there was Malfoy. Just—there.”

His lips twitched.

“He looked absolutely furious that I’d gotten myself hexed. Like it was a personal insult to him.”

Hermione huffed a quiet laugh.

“You know he wasn’t even on duty that night?” Harry muttered, shaking his head.

Hermione frowned. “What do you mean?”

“He wasn’t scheduled. He just… showed up. Said he had a feeling something was off, that we were walking into a trap. And he didn’t say anything about it afterward. Didn’t take credit, didn’t even tell the higher-ups. He just… did what he had to do.”

Hermione’s fingers tightened around her glass.

That hadn’t been in the reports.

Harry noticed her reaction and smirked slightly. “Yeah. He never told anyone.”

“Why?” she asked, her voice quieter than before.

Harry shrugged. “Didn’t want the credit, I guess. He wasn’t looking to prove a point. He just… did it.”

Hermione’s mind reeled.

For a man who had spent so much of his life obsessed with recognition, with legacy, Draco Malfoy had let that moment pass without a single word.

Harry huffed a laugh.

“You know what he said to me afterward?”

Hermione raised an eyebrow.

Harry cleared his throat, lowering his voice into a perfectly dry Malfoy imitation.

“‘Try not to get yourself killed next time, Potter. I’m not a bloody babysitter.’”

Hermione choked on her firewhiskey.

“That—” she coughed. “That sounds about right.”

Harry laughed, shaking his head.

Then, after a pause—

“And then there was Ginny.”

Hermione frowned. “Ginny?”

“Yeah.” Harry took another sip, his expression softening in a way that only happened when he spoke about Ginny.

“You remember when we broke up?”

Hermione nodded. She’d been there for Harry during the fallout—awkward, angry lunches, quiet afternoons where he’d pretended he wasn’t waiting for Ginny to reach out.

“What I never told you,” Harry said, his smirk turning wry, “was that Malfoy was the one who convinced me to fix it.”

Hermione blinked. Stared.

“No, he wasn’t.”

“Oh, he was.” Harry grinned. “I was in the office late one night, sulking, and Malfoy walks in, takes one look at me, and says, ‘For Merlin’s sake, Potter, stop moping and just apologize to her.’”

Hermione snorted.

“I told him it wasn’t that simple,” Harry continued, his grin widening. “And you know what he said? ‘Of course it’s not simple. Nothing with you is. But you’re an idiot if you think she doesn’t want you to try.’”

Hermione’s jaw dropped.

“And you… listened to him?”

Harry sighed, shaking his head.

“Not at first. Obviously.” He took another sip of firewhiskey. “But then he gave me the most ridiculous, detailed advice—like he’d been watching us for years. Said Ginny was too stubborn to make the first move, so if I wanted to fix it, I needed to stop being a dramatic idiot and actually do something about it. He even went as far to say that I needed to remind her why we worked in the first place and if I couldn’t figure that out, maybe she deserved better.”

Hermione gaped at him.

“And it worked.” Harry grinned wider. “You know what he told me after I got back together with Ginny?”

Hermione shook her head.

Harry cleared his throat and, in a deadpan Malfoy impression, said:

“‘Congratulations, Potter. Now I don’t have to listen to you sulk anymore.’”

Hermione sank back into her chair, dazed. She had known about the breakup, of course. And the reconciliation. But not this.

“Why didn’t you ever tell me?” she asked.

Harry shrugged. “Didn’t seem important at the time. And, honestly, I don’t think Malfoy would’ve wanted me to. He didn’t do it for recognition. He just… did it.”

Hermione let out a breathless laugh, shaking her head.

That was—
That was so painfully Malfoy that she almost wanted to throw something.

Harry sighed, running a hand over his face.

“It’s weird, isn’t it? Somewhere along the way, he stopped being a problem. And he just became… part of the solution. He stopped being this… figure from my past. He became someone I trust. Someone I respect.”

He paused, then added, almost as an afterthought, “And someone I’d fight for.”

Hermione swallowed, her fingers tightening around her glass.

Harry’s gaze flickered toward her.

“What about you?” Harry asked suddenly, his gaze sharp. “When did it change for you?”

Hermione froze.

Her mind flashed back to Draco’s too-still form, to the golden glow of her magic woven into his, to the way her chest had tightened at the thought of losing him.

And before that—to the arguments, the quiet moments, the stolen glances that had lingered just a little too long.

When had it changed?

She licked her lips, gripping her glass a little tighter.

“I don’t know.”

Harry gave her a look that said he absolutely did not believe her.

But he didn’t push. Instead, he lifted his glass.

“To second chances.”

Hermione hesitated, then lifted hers to meet his.

“To second chances.”

And, unspoken—
To Draco Malfoy—who, somehow, had become one of them.