Breaking Point
22 January 1997
The Room of Requirement was colder than she expected. Dust hung thick in the air, swirling in the dim light as Hermione followed Malfoy through the maze of forgotten relics and discarded artifacts. The silence between them stretched taut, heavier than their footsteps.
She hated that she had started noticing the way his shoulders tensed, the way his fingers twitched as though they ached to grasp onto something unseen.
“You’re going to show me something?” she asked, breaking the quiet. Her voice was steady, but beneath it, her pulse thrummed with unease. It had been nearly two weeks since their last charged encounter in the library, even longer since he had kissed her in a moment of reckless desperation. Yesterday, a note had found its way into her bag, the slanted script unmistakably his: Tonight. Room of Requirement.
For once, she was grateful she hadn't changed course. Harry and Ron were growing restless, convinced her plan was failing. Malfoy had become more guarded than ever, retreating further into himself. But this note was exactly what they'd hoped for, an insight into whatever Malfoy was up to.
Now, he came to an abrupt stop, so suddenly that Hermione nearly collided with him. His hands curled into fists at his sides, his head bowing slightly as if bracing himself for something inevitable. When he turned to face her, the dim light cast deep shadows beneath his eyes, accentuating the exhaustion etched into his features.
“You want to know what I’ve been up to, Granger?” His voice was hoarse, stripped bare. “Fine.”
He stepped aside, revealing a large, worn cabinet. The once-polished wood was now dulled with dust, its ornate carvings hidden beneath years of neglect. Cobwebs stretched across its edges like cracks in a fragile facade.
Hermione frowned. “A cabinet?”
Draco swallowed, the muscles in his throat tightening. His gaze flickered—hesitation, just for a moment, before he spoke.
“A Vanishing Cabinet,” he murmured. “There’s another one. In Borgin and Burkes. They’re connected.”
A moment and the realization sank in like lead in her stomach. A sick, creeping dread slithered up her spine, settling cold in her chest. All her reading, all that "useless" knowledge Ron snickered at occasionally was super helpful in keeping her up to speed in this magical world she wasn't born into.
“You—”
His hand raked through his hair—a nervous habit, she realized, it was new this year. “I’ve been fixing it.” His voice wavered, eyes shifting away from hers, as though saying it aloud made it more real. “When it’s done… they’ll come through.” A sharp inhale. “Death Eaters.”
Hermione felt the floor tilt beneath her.
They had all theorized about what Malfoy was plotting, imagining secret meetings and hidden dark objects. But this? This wasn’t just scheming. This was a doorway.
An invasion.
Hogwarts wouldn’t be safe.
“Draco…” She wasn’t sure what she meant to say; only that she had to say something and she certainly hadn’t prepared for this.
He let out a hollow, bitter cough of a laugh. His hands gripped the fabric of his robes like they were the only thing holding him together. “Do you think I want this?” His voice cracked, his exhaustion bleeding through. “Do you think I have a choice?”
Hermione had never seen him like this before. Not the arrogant, sneering boy who had tormented them for years. Not the proud Prince of Slytherin. Just a sixteen-year-old standing on the edge of something he couldn't control.
She took a slow breath. “You do have a choice.”
Draco laughed again, but it was empty, humorless. “No, I don’t.”
And yet, wasn’t this a choice too? Telling her—inviting her into the storm he had been desperately trying to weather alone? He had spent months convincing himself he could shoulder it, that this was his burden to bear. That he had no other path.
But now, she was here.
She studied him, her gaze unwavering. His clenched jaw, the tension in his hands, the way his shoulders seemed locked in a never-ending battle with himself. The cracks in his carefully constructed mask were beginning to show.
And she hated that she could see them.
Draco felt himself wavering. He regretted that note the second he had left it in her bag, but a deeper, quieter part of him had been waiting for her to find it. Surprised even more that she actually showed up.
Now, she was standing in front of him, unafraid, and he still couldn’t decide if he wanted to push her away or pull her closer.
Steeling herself, Hermione took a step forward. Her fingers found his wrist—warm, tense, trembling. She told herself all Christmas break that she wouldn't initiate anything physical with him unless absolutely necessary, but that thought hadn't stopped her from moving to him in that instant.
“Then let me help you.”
His head snapped up, eyes wide, almost frantic. “Are you insane?” His voice was sharp, but the anger felt misdirected and uncertain. “You can’t help me.”
He knew she would say this. He had known the moment he let himself be caught. Maybe Potter and Weasley had put her up to it—maybe this was just another reckless Gryffindor attempt to fix something unfixable.
But her grip was steady, anchoring him in place.
Let her save me from myself, a voice inside him whispered.
And for one maddening second, he almost wanted to let her.
“I can try,” she said softly.
Draco stared at her, unmoving. Her fingertips barely brushed the inside of his wrist, but it was enough. Enough for her to feel his pulse—fast, uneven, like something caged and desperate to break free.
Then, suddenly, he yanked his arm back.
“You’re going to get yourself killed,” he muttered, his voice unsteady.
Hermione didn’t flinch, over the years, being accomplices with Harry, she was made of tougher stuff. “Then so are you.”
His breath hitched, and for the first time, he truly looked at her.
She was standing so close. Too close.
He had spent years trying to convince himself that she was nothing more than an annoyance, an adversary, a nuisance. Someone who rivaled him intellectually and had more natural magic in her little finger than some purebloods. But now, with her gaze steady and her touch lingering like a promise, he knew—
She was something far more dangerous than that.
His hands curled into fists, his body stiff with tension, as if he were trying to hold something back. She watched as the mask he wore every day—the one he had spent so long perfecting—began to fracture before her eyes.
For a moment, she thought he might lash out, that he might yell or spit something cruel and venomous just to push her away; like he'd done in the past.
But he didn’t.
Instead, he just looked at her.
And for the first time, Draco Malfoy looked truly afraid.
And Hermione knew, without a doubt, that she was in deeper than she had ever intended to be.