Chapter 1
Darkness hung thick as pitch. Hermione lay on the damp floor, each breath feeling like it was tearing her lungs apart. The metallic taste of blood mingled with the salt of tears in her mouth. She couldn't remember when she'd lost consciousness – everything had merged into one nightmare: flashes of spells, screams, the snatchers' laughter, and then... nothing but darkness.
Somewhere in the distance, water dripped steadily against stone. Drip. Drip. Drip. Like a countdown to something inevitable.
She attempted to move. Pain exploded through every nerve, forcing a muffled sob from her throat. She clenched her teeth so hard she heard them grind. She wouldn't give them the satisfaction. They wouldn't hear her scream. Not now.
"Ron?" she whispered into the darkness, her voice sounding foreign to her own ears. Hoarse, broken, belonging to someone else. To this new Hermione being born through pain and fear.
Silence. Just that wretched dripping. Drip. Drip. Drip.
"Ron, please..." Her fingers crept across the stone floor, searching blindly until they found cold metal bars. They felt damp, sticky. She refused to wonder whether it was water or blood.
A sound came from the neighbouring cell – something between a sob and a groan. A sound so filled with agony that for a moment she couldn't recognise Ron's voice.
"Her... mione..."
She pressed herself against the bars, ignoring the cold metal biting into her skin. He's alive. Ron's alive. For now, that had to be enough.
"What have they done to you?" she whispered, though she wasn't certain she wanted to know.
The silence stretched on, broken only by that cursed dripping. Drip. Drip. Drip. Finally, she heard Ron dragging himself across the stone floor, trying to reach the bars.
"Nothing... nothing I won't survive," his voice trembled, betraying the lie. "You... are you all right?"
Hermione swallowed a bitter laugh. All right? Would any of them ever be "all right" again?
"Yes," she lied. He didn't need to know about her cracked ribs, about the blood slowly congealing on her skin. "Yes, I'm fine."
The cold seeped through her soaked clothes, gnawing at her bones. Or perhaps it was fear – an icy, paralysing fear of what the next hour would bring, the next day. Fear of how long they could hold on.
* * *
Music, lights, laughter – everything melded into a cacophony of sounds drilling into her skull like white-hot needles. Hermione felt each note, each burst of merriment, each clink of glasses shredding her nerves to pieces. The Ministry of Magic's Atrium gleamed with obscene opulence this evening, as if trying to blind everyone with its brilliance, to mask the scars the war had left on their souls. Hundreds of candles cast flickering shadows across guests' faces, twisting them into grotesque masks of joy.
Five years since victory. Five years without Ron. One thousand eight hundred and twenty-five days since his blood had soaked into the cold dungeon stones.
She stood in the shadow of a marble column, digging her nails into the soft skin of her palm so hard they left crescent-shaped red marks. Pain was good. Pain reminded her she was still alive, though sometimes that felt like the cruellest punishment of all. The scarlet dress she'd chosen that morning – another suit of armour, another mask in her collection of pretences – suddenly felt too tight, too suffocating. The fabric chafed against her skin like sandpaper, a reminder of the scars hidden beneath.
She observed the swirling crowd of wizards through a veil of her own eyelashes, feeling like a spectator at a theatre of the absurd. Every gesture, every smile, every nod appeared rehearsed, artificial, as if everyone were acting in a play whose script she didn't know. Or perhaps knew too well.
They all seemed so... unblemished. So whole. They laughed, raised toasts, danced, their faces glistening with champagne and lies. As if cleaning spells had wiped away not just the blood from Hogwarts' floors, but memories from their minds. As if the war had been merely a distant nightmare from which everyone had already awakened.
Her hands began to tremble. Again. That cursed trembling that started in her fingers before spreading throughout her entire body like poisonous ivy. With each second she felt herself losing control, every muscle tensing in anticipation of something that never came. The Calming Draught she'd taken before leaving home – a double dose, since a single one had long ceased to suffice – was dissolving in her bloodstream like watered-down ink. It always stopped working too quickly, leaving her defenceless against her own demons.
Someone laughed loudly beside her, making her jump. The glass in her hand wobbled dangerously, spilling a few drops of wine onto the marble floor. Red stains on white stone. Like blood on snow. Like...
No. Not here. Not now.
She closed her eyes, trying to focus on her breathing. Inhale. Exhale. Air passed through her throat like shards of glass. She felt sweat trickling down her back, the fabric of her robes sticking to her skin. The world spun beneath her eyelids, even as she stood motionless.
A familiar face flickered somewhere in the crowd – perhaps Neville, perhaps someone else. It didn't matter. Everyone seemed like shadows to her now, like ghosts from a past that had died with Ron.
She tried to focus on anything – the pattern of the marble floor, the weight of the glass in her hand, her breathing that grew increasingly shallow. But thoughts slipped away like water through fingers, leaving only the deafening awareness of her own weakness.
She knew what was coming. The feeling was all too familiar – as if the world were slowly losing its sharpness, as if all sounds came from behind thick glass. And then would come the trembling she could no longer hide.
The music changed to a slower melody. Couples on the dance floor began swaying to the nostalgic notes. She used to dance, too. At Bill and Fleur's wedding, nestled in Ron's arms, laughing at his clumsy steps. Now the mere sound of violins made bile rise in her throat.
Someone raised another toast. "To those who are gone!" Crystal glasses clinked like funeral bells.
Those who are gone.
Those she had lost.
Those she had failed.
Hermione felt her own glass slipping from her trembling fingers. She caught it at the last moment, spilling half its contents onto her dress. The liquid soaked into the material, leaving dark stains. Like blood. Like...
Her breath caught in her throat. The room spun before her eyes, sounds becoming distant and distorted. She needed... she had to... The vial in her handbag seemed to pull her like a magnet. She knew she should fight it. That she should be stronger. That another dose was another step into the abyss. But wasn't she already at rock bottom?
From somewhere distant, Harry's voice reached her – saying her name with the same concern with which he watched her during Wizengamot sessions, when her hands shook too much to hold a quill. She couldn't. Not in front of him. Not in front of anyone.
The first drop of sweat trickled down her temple, tracing a path through her carefully applied makeup. Another mask falling apart. Like everything in her life.
She felt her knees buckling beneath her, every muscle in her body tensing in anticipation of disaster. The world around her began breaking into pieces, like a mosaic shattering against the marble floor. She knew these signs. Knew them all too well.
Somewhere in the crowd, Ginny's face flashed by – red hair like flames, eyes filled with the same concern that suffocated Hermione every day. She couldn't let them see her like this. Not today. Not on the anniversary. Not when everyone was so desperately trying to pretend they were happy.
She gripped her handbag so tightly her knuckles turned white. The vial inside seemed to weigh as heavily as all her sins. One dose. Just one. To survive. To breathe. To keep from falling apart here, amidst the glittering chandeliers and false smiles.
The bathroom. She needed to reach the bathroom. A few steps. A few breaths. A few seconds of pretending everything was fine.
The first step was the hardest. She felt as if her legs were made of lead, as if each movement might betray her inner chaos. She squeezed through the crowd, trying to be invisible – an art she'd perfected over the past few years.
Someone touched her shoulder – perhaps wanting to stop her for a chat, perhaps merely brushing past her accidentally. She flinched as if the touch had burned her. She quickened her pace, ignoring concerned glances. Her heels clicked against the floor, increasingly loud, increasingly chaotic. Click-click-click like hammer blows inside her skull.
It was still ten steps to the golden doors. Nine. Eight. The air was becoming thicker, harder to catch. Seven. Six...
She staggered on her high heels as another wave of dizziness hit her with the force of a spell. She tried to regain her balance, but her body wouldn't obey. The world tilted at an odd angle, and she felt herself colliding with someone forcefully. She heard the crash of breaking glass, felt a hand gripping her arm, preventing her from falling.
"I'm sorry, I..." the words caught in her throat as she looked up.
Lavender Brown stood before her, wearing an elegant navy-blue dress now spreading with a large stain of red wine. Her face, marked with scars from Greyback's attack, twisted into an expression Hermione couldn't read.
"Hermione?" Lavender's voice was a mixture of surprise and something else. Concern? Disgust? "Are you all right?"
"I..." Hermione tried to focus on her former roommate's face, but the world continued to spin. The wine stain on Lavender's dress spread like blood, reminding her... no, not now.
"You're as pale as death," Lavender drew her wand, presumably to remove the stain. Her scars seemed to pulse in the dim light. "Perhaps you should..."
"I'm fine," Hermione cut her off more sharply than she'd intended. She stepped back abruptly, ignoring the dizziness. "It's just... hot in here. Sorry about your dress."
She felt Lavender's gaze on her – the same eyes that had once looked at her with jealousy over Ron's shoulder as he kissed her. Now there was something different in them. Something that made her feel naked, completely transparent.
She had to get out. Now. Immediately.
"Hermione, wait," Lavender's voice caught up with her as she was turning away. "I know today is... that it's the anniversary. If you wanted to talk..."
The words hung in the air like a curse. Anniversary. As if that word could contain the entire abyss of loss. As if it could describe the emptiness devouring her from within.
"No," her own voice sounded strange to her ears. Hoarse. Desperate. "I don't need... I just need to..."
The bathroom. The vial. Relief. That was all she needed. Everything else could wait. Had to wait.
Without looking back, she hurried down the corridor. Her steps grew increasingly unsteady, and the walls seemed to close in around her like a noose. She could hear Lavender calling after her, but the words reached her as if through a thick layer of water.
She passed the first bathroom – the one nearest to the Atrium, where the muffled sounds of music and laughter could still be heard. Too close. Too risky. Someone might find her, someone might see...
She continued down the corridor, passing door after door, venturing into a quieter, more deserted part of the Ministry. Here the lights were dimmed, and portraits dozed in their frames. Nobody ventured this far during parties – everyone preferred to stay closer to the centre of events, closer to the champagne and artificial smiles.
Finally, she reached the last bathroom on the floor – the one mainly used by archive staff. At this hour it would be empty. Safe. Away from prying eyes and false sympathy.
She pushed the heavy door, which creaked accusingly in the corridor's silence. Cold, bluish light flooded her face, reflecting in the mirrors like the ghostly flash of a spell
* * *
He observed his wife from across the room. Celestine Rosier – and for over a year now, Malfoy – was as always impeccable – her fair hair arranged in a perfect French twist, sapphire gown accentuating the aristocratic paleness of her skin. She smiled at some official from the Department of International Magical Cooperation, allowing her French accent to be slightly more pronounced than usual.
She always knew how to leverage every asset. Each glance, each gesture was precisely calculated. Sometimes he wondered if there was a real Celestine at all, or if she was merely whatever she chose to be in any given moment.
He took a sip of Firewhisky, feeling the alcohol burn his throat. The party was exactly as he'd expected – full of false smiles and empty gestures. Celebrating victory, while everyone knew the real victors lay six feet underground.
His gaze swept across the hall, registering familiar faces. Potter, surrounded by his circle of admirers, as always. His wife, the young Weasley girl, at his side – her red hair like a flame amidst a sea of elegant robes. Longbottom, now a respected professor, chatting with McGonagall. And then...
Granger.
She stood alone, at the edge of the dance floor, her scarlet dress standing out from the crowd like a fresh wound. Something in her posture caught his attention – the tension in her shoulders, the way her fingers gripped her glass.
He watched as she tried to blend into the crowd, how desperately she avoided the glances of other guests. Especially Potter, who kept glancing in her direction with that saviour-like concern painted across his face.
Most people present would probably attribute her behaviour to stress. After all, it was the anniversary, and she had lost more in this war than others. But Draco knew better. Running a network of shops in Diagon Alley, one began to notice certain... patterns. And Granger was a regular customer at one of his shops, even if she tried to conceal it under various disguises. She always came at the same time, always for the same type of potions. Increasingly stronger ones.
He noticed the moment she broke. One instant – a louder laugh, the clink of glasses – and she was gone. She slipped away so quickly that almost no one noticed. Almost.
Potter was looking around for his friend again with that characteristic expression of concern on his face. Always the same Potter – eternally trying to save everyone. He wondered if it ever occurred to him that some people don't want to be saved at all.
His gaze lingered on the empty spot where Granger had stood just moments before. Instinct – the same that had allowed him to survive for years – told him to follow her. Not out of concern. Not out of curiosity. Out of something much more primal.
He saw something in her now that he'd never noticed before. That darkness slowly consuming her, like poison seeping into veins. This transformation fascinated him – he watched as perfect Hermione Granger slowly perished, giving way to something far more interesting.
That desperation, which made her return to his shop week after week, was almost tangible. He saw it in her eyes when she thought no one was looking – that hungry, wild gaze of someone who had pretended everything was fine for too long.
She was like a wounded animal – dangerous precisely because she had nothing left to lose. And such creatures were the most fascinating – unpredictable, ready both to beg for help and to tear out the throat of whoever offered it. He knew he should keep his distance, but he'd always had a weakness for things that could be broken even further.
He wondered how far she must have fallen to break like this. How many nights she'd spent fighting nightmares before reaching for the first potion. How much time had passed before it stopped being enough. How much pride she'd had to swallow, coming to his shop for increasingly stronger doses.
The war had changed them all, but her... it had transformed her into something fascinatingly dark. Into someone who desperately needed control, only to completely lose it moments later. He wondered what it would be like – to be the one who stripped her of that last illusion of self-control.
He set down his glass and headed towards the corridor. Celestine wouldn't even notice his absence, too engrossed in her own game.
He felt growing excitement at the thought of what might happen. Granger had always been a challenge – first as an irritating Mudblood he couldn't outperform academically, now as a broken woman who nonetheless still tried to pretend she was strong. He wondered how much of that pride would remain when he found her in the bathroom, desperately trying to steady her trembling hands.
* * *
The cold water wasn't helping. Her reflection in the mirror was blurred, indistinct – or perhaps her vision was failing her. Trembling hands left wet marks on the marble countertop as she desperately tried to maintain her balance.
Too early. She'd taken her last dose of the potion far too early. She should have waited, paced herself better. But the noise, the lights, all those smiles and sympathetic glances... It was too much. It was always too much.
With shaking fingers, she reached for the small crystal vial. The last dose – the one she'd sworn to herself she'd save for later. It always ended the same way – with broken promises and even greater self-loathing.
She hated this. Hated herself for the way her hands trembled so badly she could barely unscrew the stopper. Hated that she had to hide in a bathroom like a frightened first-year. That she had to buy potions from his shop, using concealment charms, pretending to be someone else.
Drops of the potion gleamed in the lamplight like liquid gold. Once, she'd wondered about its composition, about what made it work so... effectively. Now all that mattered was that it allowed her to function. That it made everything distant, muffled, bearable.
She brought the vial to her lips. One sip. Just one. Enough to survive the evening. To be able to return there and pretend everything was fine. That she didn't wake up screaming every night. That she didn't see his dead eyes every time she closed her own.
The first drop touched her tongue when she heard the sound of the door opening. She froze, holding her breath.
"Really, Granger? In the Ministry?"
That voice. Of all the people who could have found her here, it had to be him. Malfoy's cold, drawling voice, dripping with mockery as always.
She didn't turn around. She couldn't. Not in this state, not with a vial at her lips, not with hands trembling so badly she could barely keep her balance. She gripped the cold marble of the sink, trying to calm herself. Unsuccessfully.
"Get out." Her voice sounded foreign, even to herself. Hoarse, desperate. Pathetic.
She heard his footsteps – slow, deliberate. They echoed off the tiles, each sound like a blow. He was approaching, and she still couldn't move, paralysed by something more than fear.
"I wonder..." his voice was closer now, decidedly too close, "if Potter knows that his best friend visits my shops so frequently? Under various disguises, of course."
She felt the blood drain from her face. So he knew. Of course he knew. All those concealment charms, different disguises – all for nothing.
"I don't know what you're talking about, Malfoy." She tried to sound confident, but her voice broke. She still wasn't looking his way, but she could see his reflection in the mirror – he stood right behind her, his face a mask of cold amusement.
"No?" His hand shot forward, grabbing her wrist – the one still clutching the vial. His grip was like steel. "Perhaps we should check what you're holding, then?"
She tried to pull her hand away, but he held it too tightly. She felt his breath on her neck, warm and disturbingly steady unlike her own, which came in gasps.
"Let me go." The words were barely a whisper. Even to herself, they sounded more like a plea than a demand.
"Or what?" His voice was soft, almost seductive. "You'll call Potter? Tell him that nasty Malfoy won't let you drug yourself in a Ministry bathroom?"
His other hand rested on her hip, pinning her against the sink. She was trapped – between the cold marble and his body, which radiated heat even through layers of clothing.
"I've always wondered," his voice was at her ear now, so quiet she could barely hear it over the rush of blood in her veins, "what the wizarding world would say if they saw you now. Their golden girl, war heroine... Trembling, broken, desperately seeking anything that might make you feel alive."
His words were like knives, each carefully chosen to inflict maximum pain.
"Look at yourself, Granger. The brightest witch of her age. How far you've fallen." His lips twisted into a cruel smile she could see in the mirror's reflection. "I wonder what Weasley would say if he could see you now."
Something inside her snapped. She turned sharply, her wand already in hand, pressed against his throat. But Malfoy didn't even flinch – on the contrary, he smiled more broadly, as if this was exactly what he'd expected.
"Well, well," he whispered, pressing himself harder against the tip of the wand. "So something of the old Granger remains after all. That wild spark in your eyes... I've always wondered if it was still there."
Her hand began to shake. Slightly at first, then more violently. The potion... too much time had passed since her last dose. She tried to keep the wand steady, but her body betrayed her with each passing second. Malfoy saw it – of course he did. His grey eyes tracked every tremor of her hand, his smile becoming increasingly predatory.
"Having trouble concentrating?" His voice was silk-soft, but she could hear a note of cruel satisfaction in it. He moved closer, ignoring the wand that now shook so badly she could barely hold it.
She felt it nearly slipping from her sweaty palm. The trembling was getting worse – spreading from her hands throughout her body, making her knees weak. She needed the potion. Now.
Malfoy slowly raised his hand and pushed her wand aside with one finger. She offered no resistance – she couldn't. His other hand remained on her hip, holding her in place, which at this moment was probably the only reason she was still standing.
"Open your mouth," he said quietly, almost tenderly, taking the vial from her trembling fingers. He sounded as if he were calming a frightened animal, and the comparison sent a wave of shame through her.
She hesitated for a moment, but her body begged for relief. She parted her lips, feeling more humiliated than ever before. Malfoy held the vial above her mouth, controlling each drop that fell onto her tongue. She swallowed obediently, aware of his intense gaze following every movement of her throat.
A single tear rolled down her cheek – she wasn't sure if from humiliation or relief as the potion began to take effect. His thumb slowly wiped away the wet trail, then moved to her lower lip, smearing the remnants of the potion.
"Good girl," he whispered, and those words made her cheeks burn with an even deeper flush.
She stood motionless while his thumb continued tracing slow circles on her lip. The trembling subsided, replaced by the familiar warmth of the potion spreading through her body. But with the relief came the painful awareness of her situation – standing in a Ministry bathroom, pinned against a sink by Malfoy, allowing him to feed her potion like a helpless child.
"I've always wondered," he whispered in her ear, his breath tickling her skin, "how far you would go. How low you would fall. And you keep surprising me, Granger."
With one fluid motion, he turned her to face the mirror, pressing her against the cold sink. His fingers firmly gripped her jaw, forcing her to look at her own reflection, while his other hand held her hair at the nape of her neck. He was everywhere – his body pinning her against the porcelain, his scent surrounding her from all sides, his breath burning her skin.
"See what you've become," his voice dripped with venom as his fingers dug into her skin. "Do you recognise the person in the mirror, Granger?"
His fingers slid from her jaw to her neck, not squeezing, but demonstrating control. She tried to look away, but he immediately pulled her hair, returning her to the previous position.
"No," he growled in her ear. "You will watch. I want you to see every second of your downfall."
She blinked, trying to focus on her own reflection. Her eyes were dilated, pupils consuming almost the entire iris, leaving only a narrow ring of brown. Her skin, usually pale, now burned with an unhealthy flush. Her hair, which she had so carefully styled before the party, was now tangled, single strands sticking to her sweaty forehead and neck. Her lips, painted with burgundy lipstick, were now parted, dry, trembling with each breath.
She didn't recognise this person. This woman in the mirror – with feverish eyes, trembling hands, body involuntarily arching towards a man she hated – was a stranger to her. Or perhaps too familiar, too real for her to bear.
From a distance, beyond the heavy doors, the muffled sounds of the party still reached them – laughter, music, the clink of glasses, the tap of heels. A world that seemed light-years away.
"Let me go," she whispered, but the words sounded hollow even to herself.
The scent of his cologne – woody, tart, with a hint of citrus – mingled with the smell of alcohol and her own perfume, creating a mixture more intoxicating than any potion.
For a split second their gazes met in the mirror – his eyes, cold and penetrating like steel, stared at her with an intensity that caused physical pain. She saw something in them she couldn't name – perhaps hunger, perhaps contempt, perhaps something more disturbing.
His fingers slowly moved from her nape to her shoulder, tracing a path that burned her skin. Her dress suddenly felt suffocating, the fabric chafing against her skin like sandpaper. Sweat trickled between her shoulder blades, single drops marking a path down her spine. She felt her body betraying her with each second – how it arched towards his touch, how it trembled, how it yearned.
She hated herself for it. Hated how easily she surrendered to that dark part of herself she'd so carefully hidden from the world. The part that sought punishment, pain, oblivion. That needed to feel anything – even shame, even humiliation – rather than the emptiness lurking just beneath the surface of her carefully constructed façade.
Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Ron – his face, his eyes, his blood on her hands. Heard his voice, whispering her name, before... Before...
She opened her eyes abruptly, returning to the reality of the bathroom. To the reflection in the mirror. To Malfoy, whose face was now closer, his lips at her ear, breath tickling sensitive skin.
"You're thinking of him," he said quietly, his words like a knife thrust between her ribs. "You're always thinking of him."
She didn't answer. She didn't need to. Her body tensed involuntarily, confirming his words more eloquently than any confession.
His hand moved from her shoulder to her chest, stopping just above her heart. She felt her pulse quicken beneath his fingers, her breathing becoming shallower, more ragged. Her dress – simple, with a boat neckline – suddenly seemed too thin, too revealing. His fingers were centimetres from her breast, from bare skin.
"He's not coming back," he whispered, his mouth now at her neck, hot, dangerous. "No amount of potions will change that."
The cruelty of his words cut through the fog in her mind, piercing through layers of numbness. She felt tears welling in her eyes – hot, humiliating. One rolled down her cheek, leaving a wet trail that glistened in the bluish light.
His thumb intercepted the tear, smearing it across her skin. The gesture was almost tender, which made it even more disturbing. But before she could react, his hand tightened in her hair again, harder this time, on the edge of pain.
"But I am here," his voice was different now – lower, more intense. "Now."
With one fluid motion, he turned her to face him, pressing her against the sink. Now she was looking straight at his face, not at a reflection. Reality, not illusion. His eyes were darker than she remembered, pupils dilated, consuming the grey of his irises. Lips pressed into a hard line, as if holding back words trying to escape.
She stood motionless, trapped between the cold marble and his body, radiating heat. He could hurt her now – physically, emotionally. He could destroy what remained of her dignity. Yet the worst thing was that some part of her – that dark, broken part she so carefully concealed – craved exactly that.
For a long moment they simply looked at each other – she with a face wet from tears, he with an expression balancing on the edge of contempt and dark fascination. His eyes betrayed no warmth, but held an intensity that made it impossible to look away.
"No one will save you, Granger," he said quietly, his voice low, raspy. "Not Potter, not your books, not those potions you pop like sweets."
These words struck more accurately than any physical blow. She didn't try to deny it – they both knew he was right. No one could save her from her own demons.
His hands gripped her hips, pressing her harder against the sink. There was nothing gentle in the gesture—he was taking control, staking his claim, showing his strength. He leaned in, his face mere centimetres from hers, their breaths mingling in the heavy, tense air.
She did not pull away. She couldn’t. Something in his eyes—that cold, intense hunger—resonated with the emptiness she’d carried inside for months.
“Weasley wouldn’t recognise you,” he said quietly, his gaze roaming over her face. “That strong, brave girl he loved… has evaporated.”
Her body tensed at the sound of that name, but Malfoy only tightened his grip on her hips.
“Don’t say his name,” she whispered through clenched teeth.
“And what will you do about it?” His voice was low, taunting. “Cast a spell with that trembling hand of yours?”
His hand wrapped around her throat—not choking her, but making it clear that he could. With the other, he slid his palm along her side, stopping near her chest, just below that slight curve he didn’t yet touch.
“Do you know what I see when I look at you?” he asked, his breath grazing her ear. “A shell. Empty, fragile, pretending to be human. You’re no better than I am. Yet you always thought you were— you and your friends, always looking down on me.”
His hand slid higher, brushing against the strap of her dress, which fell away, baring her shoulder and a glimpse of lace beneath.
“And now look at you. Shaking, desperate, ready to do anything just to… what? Forget? Feel something—anything—beyond guilt?”
She felt the heat of shame flood her cheeks, stinging and humiliating. The worst part was that he was right. He saw straight through her, straight to what she’d worked so hard to conceal even from herself.
“I could destroy you right now,” he said, moving his hand from her throat to her face, forcing her to look him in the eye. “I could walk out of here and tell everyone what their precious heroine is getting up to in the bathroom. Potter might like to hear a few choice details about his friend.”
“What do you want?” she managed to ask, her voice strained, though not from physical pressure—rather from the knot of emotion in her throat.
His hand moved lower, onto her thigh, hitching up her dress. The material rustled beneath his fingers, bunching around her waist. Cold air licked at her bare legs, raising goosebumps on her skin.
“Look at us, Granger. The heroine and the Death Eater. Yet here we are, ending up in the exact same place—chasing oblivion in the worst possible way.”
His other hand found the edge of her knickers—simple, black, practical, so utterly her. He didn’t cross that line straight away; he paused, giving her one last chance to back out.
“Tell me to stop,” he challenged, his voice hard, cold. “Say the word, and I’ll walk away. We’ll pretend this never happened.”
She said nothing. She couldn’t. His closeness, his scent, his strength—it all made it impossible to think. The potion was beginning to take effect, swathing her in that familiar, numbing warmth. But beneath it, there was something else—an elemental, shameful hunger his body awakened in hers.
“That’s what I thought,” he commented on her silence, the corner of his mouth twisting in a sneer that was no smile.
With one decisive motion, he tore the flimsy fabric of her underwear. The sound of it ripping was obscenely loud in the hush of the bathroom. He didn’t wait for her reaction—his fingers were already sliding into the wetness that betrayed her body.
“At least you’re honest about this,” he murmured, satisfaction mingling with contempt in his voice.
She hated her response—the dampness, her body’s betrayal, so at odds with her will. Malfoy must have sensed it, because his fingers moved slowly now, deliberately, as though testing her limits. She didn’t meet his eyes, but she felt him watching her—intensely, shrewdly, tracking every flicker of her expression.
His fingers moved higher, finding her sensitive spot. He gently rubbed that spot with his thumb, sending a wave of unwanted pleasure through her body. Her knees buckled beneath her, and her hands gripped the edge of the sink more tightly, trying to maintain balance. The marble was cold under her sweaty fingers.
'Don't think,' he whispered, bringing his lips to her ear. 'It's just a body. Your body knows what it needs.'
His breath was hot on her neck, the contrast with the cold marble against her back was almost painful. The hand that had been resting on her hip moved higher, catching the material of her dress, pulling it up even more.
His fingers moved faster, more feverishly. There was nothing gentle in his touch – he was insistent, impatient, as if he himself was losing control of the situation. The pressure increased with each second, and his breath at her ear became heavier, ragged.
Everything in her head screamed to push him away. To leave. To end this madness before it went too far. But her body – treacherous, starved body – wouldn't listen. With each movement of his fingers, the wetness between her legs became more obvious, more embarrassing.
'Look at me,' he demanded suddenly, and when she didn't react, his other hand grabbed her chin, forcing her to raise her eyes. 'I want to see your face.'
His eyes were dark with desire, his pupils so dilated they almost completely obscured the grey of his irises. There was something wild, primal in his gaze – as if he himself was surprised by the intensity of what was happening between them.
'I hate you,' she whispered, but the words sounded hollow even to herself.
Too much. It was always too much. Too much pain, too many memories, too much guilt. The calming potion was supposed to suppress it all, dull it, make it bearable. But now, under his touch, these feelings were beginning to break through the chemical barrier, reaching the surface.
Her heart was beating too fast, her breath too shallow. She felt the trembling return – not just in her hands, but throughout her entire body. She needed more of the potion. Or something else. Something that would allow her to escape from this tsunami of emotions that threatened to engulf her.
'I know,' he replied, his voice lower, more hoarse. 'But that doesn't change anything.'
His fingers didn't stop moving, finding a rhythm that made her breath quicken even more, her knees becoming weak. The physical sensations were intense, but what was happening in her mind was even worse. Visions of Ron, his body, his blood mixed with the present moment, with Malfoy, with his touch, creating a kaleidoscope of chaotic, overwhelming images.
She needed it to end. To begin. For anything to break this cycle of thoughts, this whirlwind of emotions that threatened to drown her.
With his other hand, he hastily unbuckled his belt and unzipped his pants, freeing his hard manhood. His movements were nervous, lacking their usual grace. This was no longer the composed, cold Malfoy she knew. Something in him had broken, something had changed – and she knew she was the cause.
'Spread your legs,' he said quietly, more like a request than a command.
This was the moment of choice. The moment where she could say no. She could push his hand away, step back, leave. She could return to the party, pretend that she was functioning, that she was coping, that she wasn't falling apart from the inside.
Instead, she parted her thighs.
There was something self-destructive in this, a form of self-punishment. As if she were punishing herself for having survived when Ron died. For not being able to save him. For every breath she took when his were no more.
He moved closer, rubbing against the inside of her thigh. It was hard, hot, pulsing. He watched her without interruption, catching every change on her face, every twitch of muscle, every uneven breath.
'Say it,' he demanded, stopping, not entering her yet. 'Say that you want this.'
She clenched her teeth. It wasn't about pride. It was about admitting to herself that she desired this. That she was seeking this brutal, sharp pleasure that could drown out the scream in her head, the images before her eyes, the pain in her heart.
'I want this,' she finally whispered, and her voice sounded foreign even to herself.
'Louder,' he insisted, teasing her entrance, mercilessly denying her the escape she so desperately needed. 'I want there to be no doubt.'
'I want this!' she repeated, louder, her voice breaking on the last syllable.
There was a desperation in it that she couldn't hide. A desperate need to momentarily stop the wave of emotions, the wave of memories that flooded her every day, every night, despite the potions, despite the pills, despite all attempts to silence that scream.
He must have seen it in her eyes. His hands slid down to her buttocks, lifting her slightly. She leaned back against the cold marble of the sink, instinctively wrapping her legs around his waist. He entered her in one fluid, decisive motion.
She stifled a scream, biting her lip almost to the point of drawing blood. He filled her completely, stretched her, forced her to accept him. He didn't give her time to adjust - he immediately set a fast, brutal pace. Each thrust pushed her across the marble surface, the cold stone contrasting with the heat between her legs.
With one hand he held her by the hip, with the other he braced himself on the sink, stabilising them both. His eyes never left her face - he absorbed every change of expression, every grimace, every uncontrolled twitch of her eyelids when he hit a particularly sensitive spot.
Each thrust was like a wave that threatened to break the dam she had so carefully built around herself over the past months. Calming potions, sleeping pills - all to avoid feeling. To not remember. To silence that terrible scream in her head, to stop the visions of dead Ron that haunted her every night.
And now she felt. Intensely. Painfully. Everything she had suppressed was trying to break to the surface. Each of Malfoy's thrusts, each of his breaths at her ear, each impact of her back against the cold marble - all of it evoked emotions so intense she could barely breathe.
'You look at me with such hatred,' he whispered, nibbling at her earlobe. 'And yet your body begs for more. Are you this wet for me?'
His words were like petrol poured on the fire that was spreading through her insides. She hated him for it, for the way he read her body, for how unerringly he hit every spot that sent sparks up her spine. She wanted to deny it, wanted to push him away, but her hips were moving of their own accord to meet his thrusts, her hands were gripping his shoulders, nails digging into the material of his expensive shirt.
'I hate you,' she hissed once more.
'I know,' he replied, the corner of his mouth lifting in a triumphant smile. 'That makes it even better, doesn't it?'
She closed her eyes, unable to bear the way he looked at her - as if he could see her every thought, every secret, every weakness. She needed the potion. Desperately. Something that would suppress these emotions that were now flooding her like a deluge - shame, hatred, guilt, but also pleasure so intense it blinded her.
But Malfoy wouldn't let her escape.
'Look at me,' he demanded, slowing his pace to a painful, torturous slowness. 'I want you to see who's doing this to you.'
Reluctantly, she lifted her eyelids, meeting his gaze. He looked at her as if trying to burn his mark into her soul.
His movements were now measured, purposeful. Each thrust hit perfectly the spot that sent sparks up her spine. Each withdrawal was slow, making her body tremble with anticipation, with the need to feel him deep inside her again.
Suddenly they both heard the sound of a turning handle. The bathroom door began to slowly open, letting in a narrow beam of light from the corridor.
Malfoy reacted with lightning speed. Without interrupting the rhythm of his thrusts, without taking his eyes off her face, he waved his hand towards the door. A non-verbally cast spell slammed it shut again, locking it.
'Someone's there,' she whispered feverishly, trying to push him away. 'Stop, we must...'
His hand quickly found its way to her mouth, pressed so hard she could barely breathe.
'In that case,' he whispered, 'you must be absolutely quiet.'
There was knocking at the door, first gentle, then increasingly insistent. Hermione was certain she could hear her own heart, beating so loudly it must be audible on the other side of the door.
'Excuse me? Is anyone in there?' the voice was female, young, familiar. 'I need to use the bathroom.'
She felt a wave of heat flood her face. If someone caught them - if she was recognised in such a situation - her career, her reputation, everything she had worked for...
But contrary to all logic, her body reacted differently. She clenched tightly around him, eliciting a quiet, guttural sound from his throat. The intensity of her sensations increased tenfold, every nerve was taut, every muscle trembling. Danger, risk, adrenaline - all of it mixed with physical pleasure, creating a cocktail so intense that tears welled up in her eyes.
Malfoy must have sensed it, because his lips twisted into a predatory smile. Without stopping his fucking, he put his mouth to her ear and whispered:
'You like this, don't you? You're aroused by the thought that someone might see us. That someone might see what you're really like.'
The knocking became louder, more insistent.
'Please open up! This is not a private bathroom!'
Malfoy didn't break rhythm. With one hand still pressing against her mouth, he reached for his wand with the other. A quick flick of the wrist, a non-verbal Confundus - and the footsteps beyond the door began to recede.
Hermione jerked, trying to free her face from his grip. Malfoy held her more firmly, pressing her against the sink with his entire body.
'You'll be quiet,' it wasn't a request, it was an order, whispered directly into her ear. 'Unless you want them to come back.'
She bit her lip as another thrust hit perfectly the spot that sent shivers down her spine. Beads of sweat glistened on his temples. Neither of them spoke. Only their quickened breaths and the wet sounds of their bodies mingled with the distant noise of the party.
The potion circulated in her veins, but its effect was different now - instead of numbing, it seemed to sharpen her sensations, making every touch, every thrust, every breath of Malfoy on her neck painfully intense. She closed her eyes, trying to shut it all out, but he wouldn't let her. He held her tighter, accelerating. He tilted her head back, exposing her neck, and gently bit the skin just below her ear - too gently for the brutality of this act.
She shouldn't have come here. She shouldn't have taken another dose of the potion. She shouldn't have allowed him to fuck her deeper, harder, until everything else ceased to exist, until even the visions of dead Ron faded, replaced by the all-encompassing, dizzying now.
She surrendered. She no longer fought against the pleasure, the guilt, the self-hatred. She no longer fought against anything. She simply allowed herself to get lost in the rhythm of his thrusts, in the coldness of the marble under her hands, in the heat of his body against hers.
Her breathing quickened, became shallow, ragged. She felt herself approaching the edge, felt the tension building in her lower abdomen, felt her muscles tightening, preparing for the explosion. She didn't want to come. She didn't want to give him that satisfaction. But she no longer had a choice - her body had taken control, dictating its own terms.
The orgasm came suddenly, intensely, like a lightning strike. If not for Malfoy's hand still pressing against her mouth, her moan would certainly have echoed off the bathroom walls. Instead, he could only feel her teeth clenching against his skin, her insides contracting spasmodically around him, her hips jerking uncontrollably.
Draco didn't need much more. A few stronger thrusts and his own orgasm came - deep inside her, uncontrolled, uncompromising.
For a long moment they remained joined, breathing heavily. The warmth of his body, the moisture of his sweat - all of it contrasted with the coolness of the bathroom. Slowly, he withdrew from her. His face was now unreadable, closed off.
'Do something about this mess,' he said, buttoning his trousers. 'You look like a whore from Knockturn Alley.'
Only now did it fully dawn on her what she had just done. With whom. Where. She felt the blush of shame burning her face, neck, décolletage. How his semen trickled down the inside of her thighs. How her legs trembled, barely keeping her upright.
She turned to the mirror, unable to look at Malfoy. What she saw made her stomach rise to her throat. Smudged makeup, tousled hair, a reddened neck with clear marks from his teeth. She looked exactly as he had said - like a whore who had just serviced a client.
With trembling hands, she turned on the tap, letting cold water flow over her fingers. She desperately wanted to wash everything off herself - his smell, his touch, the memory of what they had just done.
In the mirror, she saw Malfoy adjusting his tie, smoothing his hair with one confident movement of his hand. His face had already returned to its usual mask - cold, distant, unreadable. Only a slight flush on his cheeks betrayed what had just happened.
He opened the door, but turned back for a moment.
'By the way,' he added with a crooked smile, 'desperation in your eyes suits you. It matches the rest of the picture.'
Then he left, closing the door behind him with a soft click that sounded like a gunshot in the empty bathroom.
Hermione stared at her reflection as if hypnotised. The foreign face that looked back at her from the mirror had her features, but wasn't her. This woman with teeth marks on her neck, with dishevelled hair, with smudged makeup and empty eyes - this couldn't be the Hermione Granger everyone knew. The one Ron had loved.
Ron. His name hit her like a physical blow, piercing through the remnants of the potion that still circulated in her veins. What would he think if he saw her now? If he knew what she had just done? With whom? But he wasn't here to judge. He wasn't here because he was dead. And she was alive. She lived, breathed, felt. And she hated herself for it every day.
She felt bile rising to her throat. A sudden contraction of her stomach, nausea so strong that it momentarily obscured her vision. She stumbled, rushing towards the nearest cubicle. She barely made it. The vomit was bitter, burning her throat as spasms shook her.
She knelt on the cold tiles, clutching the porcelain with trembling hands. Drops of sweat ran down her temples, mixing with tears she hadn't even felt.
Another wave of nausea shook her body. Her stomach contracted painfully, though there was almost nothing left to bring up. Just bile and the remnants of the potion leaving her system. When it finally stopped, she felt exhausted. Resting her forehead against the cold porcelain, she tried to calm her breathing.
She pulled herself up with difficulty, using the cubicle walls for support. Her legs felt like cotton wool, and in her mouth she tasted a hideous, sour aftertaste. She rinsed her face and mouth with water from the tap, avoiding her own reflection in the mirror.
A cleaning spell. Then another to fix her makeup. And another to tidy her hair. Yet another to hide the marks on her neck. She worked methodically, mechanically, as if performing a routine task. Spell after spell, until the traces of what she had done disappeared. At least the visible ones.
When she finally looked in the mirror, she appeared almost normal. Almost like the Hermione Granger everyone knew. Only her eyes remained empty and lifeless.
She should have felt everything - shame, disgust, guilt. Every emotion she had so desperately tried to numb. But instead, she felt nothing. Absolutely nothing. As if what she'd done with Malfoy had burnt out the last remnants of her ability to feel. As if she'd crossed a boundary from which there was no return.
She returned to the party, conjuring a smile on her face - an empty gesture she performed automatically like a well-trained dog. Harry looked at her questioningly when she slipped back into her seat at the table. He must have noticed her long absence. She nodded reassuringly, the same gesture she used to dismiss him every time he asked if everything was all right.
For the next hour, she functioned like a perfect machine. She smiled at the appropriate moments. She answered questions. She even managed to laugh when Neville told a funny story from Hogwarts. No one could have guessed what had happened in the bathroom. No one could have suspected that beneath that perfectly reconstructed façade of Hermione Granger, there was absolutely nothing left.
And this state didn't frighten her at all. On the contrary - this emptiness was a kind of relief. She no longer had to fight the pain, the memories, the guilt. All of that had gone, leaving behind a cold vacuum.
Malfoy had given her what the potions could no longer provide - complete numbness. And though she hated the thought, though the very fact that it was with him disgusted her... somewhere deep inside, in a place where no one could see, she was grateful for this emptiness.
For the chance to, just for a moment, not feel the weight of guilt that she was the one who survived.