Chapter 2
She was awakened by the feeling of warmth trickling down her neck. Blood. Another ear bleed after the latest session of Cruciatus. Her body was a complete map of pain—every nerve, every muscle burning with searing fire. She didn't even have the strength to be concerned about it. Pain was her constant companion now, just like that cursed dripping of water against stone.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
The sound echoed off the damp dungeon walls, drilling into her skull like a bore. Monotonous. Relentless. Maddening. She tried to swallow, but her throat was as dry as parchment. How long had they been here? Days blurred together, measured only by successive interrogation sessions and that incessant dripping.
"Hermione?" Ron's voice from the adjacent cell was weak, barely audible. Each syllable seemed to cost him an incredible effort. "Are you asleep?"
"No," she whispered, pressing her cheek against the cold bars. The metal was damp and sticky against her skin. "I can't."
"Neither can I," his words were almost inaudible. "Every time I close my eyes..."
He broke off abruptly, as if the very sound of his voice caused him physical pain. Hermione listened to his ragged breathing, trying to assess how badly he was injured. The darkness had sharpened all her other senses to their limits.
She moved closer to the bars, ignoring her aching muscles' protest. She stretched her arm through the cold railings, trying to reach his cell. Her fingers met only empty space.
"Ron?"
Silence answered her. Just that damned dripping.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
* * *
Glass crunched under her heel. Hermione halted mid-step, looking down. A broken pair of spectacles lay on the polished floor of the Ministry corridor. She picked them up carefully—the gold frame was twisted, and one lens was cracked.
"My glasses!" A breathless voice sounded behind her. "Excuse me, madam... oh."
She turned around. An elderly wizard in navy blue robes froze mid-step. His eyes widened in that characteristic expression—as if he'd just come face to face with an enraged Hungarian Horntail. A murmur of hushed conversations ran through the corridor, followed by silence.
Somewhere in the distance, a door slammed. Someone quickly ducked behind a corner. The wizard before her swallowed loudly, his Adam's apple bobbing nervously. She raised an eyebrow, watching as beads of sweat appeared on his forehead.
"I... I'm sorry... I didn't mean to..."
She drew her wand. The man cowered.
With a single flick of her wrist, the glasses repaired themselves with a soft chink. She handed them to him wordlessly, watching as he pushed them back onto his nose with trembling fingers. His eyes, now clearly visible behind the lenses, darted everywhere to avoid meeting her gaze.
She walked past him, the click of her heels echoing off the corridor walls. Behind her, life slowly returned to normal—whispers grew louder, doors opened and closed, people peered from around corners. As always.
Sometimes she wondered what they actually said about her. Rumours spread through the Ministry faster than spells. Her every word, every look, every gesture was analysed and accrued new meanings. Some claimed she could read minds. Others—that she knew more curses than the entire Department of Mysteries. Ridiculous. If only they knew...
She stopped in front of her office door. Her name and title gleamed in golden letters on the mahogany plaque. She drew her wand to deactivate the protective enchantments.
She pushed the door open. The cool air of the office brushed against her face. Everything was exactly as she had left it—every document, every quill, every inch of space under her control. Almost everything.
In the middle of her perfectly organised desk lay a black rose.
Her fingers tightened around her wand so hard that her knuckles turned white. Audacity. Pure, unforgivable audacity. As if this were all some sick game. As if they hadn't long ago established rules, as if they hadn't drawn clear boundaries between what was permitted and what was forbidden.
For a long moment, she fought against the overwhelming temptation to simply burn the flower. It would be childishly satisfying—to watch the black petals shrink and turn to ash, to disappear without a trace. Just as all traces of what had been between them should disappear. But curiosity—that same curse that always drove her forward, that compelled her to explore the darkest corners of the library—won again.
She brushed the velvety petals with the tip of her wand, trying to ignore how her fingers trembled. The rose quivered at her touch, as if animated by its own dark life—beautiful and ominous at once, like everything that came from him. Slowly, with grace worthy of its sender, it began to unfurl. Black petals spiraled in the air, arranging themselves into words written in that familiar, elegant handwriting.
"The rules have changed. Nine o'clock. Crown Inn, Whitechapel."
The writing gleamed silver and vanished, leaving behind only a shadow of scent—a mixture of roses and something sharper, more disturbing. Those perfumes... Merlin be her witness, how she hated that scent. How she hated that she could recognise it anywhere. That it awakened memories of nights she shouldn't remember. Of touches that should disgust her.
Crown Inn. Her stomach twisted into a tight knot. Another rundown motel on the outskirts of the city, where nobody asks questions, where the receptionist doesn't even look up from his newspaper. Grimy walls covered in faded floral wallpaper, a creaking bed with questionably clean sheets, yellowed curtains permeated with the smell of cigarettes. The perfect place for someone who wants to remain unnoticed. For someone in hiding.
For someone who is punishing themselves.
She stared at the spot where the black petals had been swirling moments before. Station Hotel last week. Before that, that squalid room above the Chinese restaurant. Now Crown Inn. Each place worse than the last, each more hidden, more forgotten.
Once, she had tried to find some pattern in it, some sense. Now... now she simply waited for the next message, the next rose, the next address. And each time, she convinced herself it would be the last.
Sometimes, in those rare moments between one meeting and the next, she wondered about the real reason for these constant changes. Perhaps it was about his wife—but the way his eyes always scanned new surroundings first, how his fingers nervously tapped rhythms on his wand when someone passed in the corridor... No, this wasn't fear of a betrayed spouse. There was something of a cornered animal in his movements, something primal and dangerous at once.
No. She wouldn't go. Not this time. She would leave him waiting in that squalid room, with his black roses and dark secrets. Let him stand by the window, watching for her silhouette in the rain. Let him discover that he doesn't have as much power over her as he thinks. Let him wait until his own demons begin to whisper in his ear. Until he starts to wonder if perhaps this time he'd gone too far.
Let him feel at least part of that fear, that uncertainty, that hunger with which he had been feeding her for months.
Perhaps he would even leave a lamp burning, just as she does on those nights when he doesn't come. Perhaps he would listen for footsteps on the stairs, mistaking every sound for the click of her heels. Perhaps his hand would tighten around his wand as hers did now—in anticipation, in fear, in hope. Perhaps he would stare at the clock, watching as the hands crawled across the face, measuring the minutes of his failure. How long would he last? An hour? Two?
Or perhaps he would simply shrug and Apparate back to his perfect wife, to his perfect home, leaving behind another dirty hotel room and another scratch on her pride.
Sometimes she wondered what their married life looked like behind the closed doors of the manor. Not that she would ever ask—some questions are better left unanswered. But she imagined their home—cold, sterile, with separate bedrooms at opposite ends of the corridor. Him in his study, her in her boudoir. Passing each other in hallways like elegant strangers, touching only when etiquette demanded it.
Even at all those Ministry functions, where they paraded as the perfect couple, she had never seen any real intimacy between them. No casual touches, no glances across the room, no stolen smiles. Just a perfectly choreographed spectacle of marital harmony. He—the handsome heir to a fortune, she—a beautiful French witch. Like they'd stepped off the cover of "Witch Weekly."
They probably don't even share meals. Him too busy with his potions empire, her—with her social obligations and tea parties with the elite of the wizarding world. And the nights? Perhaps he visits her bedroom once in a while, when the pressure of his bloodline becomes unbearable. A mechanical act, performed with the same precision with which he signs his contracts. Without passion, without desire—just the duty to produce an heir.
She wondered if, in such moments, Celestine closes her eyes and pretends to be elsewhere? Or perhaps she lies rigid, staring at the canopy of the bed, counting down the minutes? Or maybe... maybe it is he who closes his eyes, imagining someone else in her place?
She shook her head. It didn't matter. She shouldn't be thinking about this. She shouldn't be imagining their bedroom, their life, their marriage. It wasn't her business. She was just... what exactly? A mistress? No. That word suggests some form of affection, some semblance of a relationship. And what was between her and Malfoy... that was pure desperation. Need. Obsession.
And perhaps that's exactly why he came to these seedy rooms. Because there, at least, he didn't have to pretend. He didn't have to be the perfect heir, the perfect husband, the perfect pureblood wizard. There he could be who he truly was—a broken, bitter, cruel man.
She sighed heavily. In the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, stacks of documents requiring her attention were piling up. She reached for the first one—a report on illegal dragon blood trading in Knockturn Alley. Three wizards detained, two escaped. Standard procedure.
Another case—a shop owner in Hogsmeade accused of selling magically modified Muggle artefacts. She examined the attached photographs—flying vacuum cleaners that scattered dust around the house instead of cleaning it.
A quiet, hesitant knock at the door interrupted her reading.
"Come in," she said without looking up.
Marcus Belby slipped uncertainly inside, nervously clutching a folder of documents. He'd been working in the department for almost a year, but still seemed intimidated by her presence.
"M-Ms Granger," he began, shifting from foot to foot. "Sorry to disturb you, but we've received an appeal against the fine for that shop in Diagon Alley... the one selling illegal protective amulets. The owner claims he wasn't aware of the new regulations."
Hermione sighed, flipping through the documents.
"All right, leave it with me. I'll review the case and let you know by the end of the day how we'll resolve it," she said, placing the folder on a stack of other documents. Belby nodded and hastily retreated from her office.
She glanced at the clock—it was approaching five. Just one more hour and she could return home. To her empty flat, where only bottles of Calming Draught and sleeping pills in the medicine cabinet awaited her. To a flat where the silence was so deafening that she often turned on the radio just to hear human voices.
She glanced again at the spot where the black rose had lain not long ago. She could swear she still smelled its scent. She raised her hand to her temple, trying to suppress the growing headache. Lately it had been appearing more frequently, usually when the effects of the potion began to wear off.
Her gaze fell on the Daily Prophet lying on her desk, which she hadn't had time to read during lunch. Across the entire page gleamed a glossy advertisement—an elegant small bottle containing a dark, opalescent liquid. "Claritas—achieve your full potential," proclaimed the slogan. Underneath, in smaller print: "Breakthrough potion for concentration and mental clarity. Coming soon to the finest apothecaries."
She grimaced. Another "revolutionary" potion that promised to solve all problems. She turned the page with slight irritation. As if the wizarding world needed even more mind-altering substances.
She was tempted to reach for the drawer of her desk, where she kept an emergency vial of her own potion, but she restrained herself. It wouldn't do for someone to walk in and see.
She returned to reviewing the documents, but the words blurred before her eyes. Crown Inn, Whitechapel. Nine o'clock. She didn't want to think about it, yet her mind circled around the subject like a moth around a flame—dangerously close to self-destruction.
Would she really leave him alone this time? Let him wait? She imagined his face contorted with irritation as nine o'clock passed, then ten, and still she didn't appear. She imagined that fury in his eyes when they next ran into each other at the Ministry. It would be... satisfying.
At precisely six o'clock, she closed the folder of documents. Tomorrow morning she would deal with the appeal from the amulet shop. Now she just needed to get home, take a hot bath, and forget about the black rose.
The Ministry was slowly emptying, with only a few employees still sitting over urgent matters. Hermione walked through the atrium, carefully avoiding eye contact. She had to admit, one benefit of her "Ice Queen" reputation was that people rarely tried to engage her in conversation after working hours.
At the exit, she noticed a small group of employees from the Department of Magical Product Control, engaged in lively discussion.
"...so I'm saying it has to be approved before it hits the market. Claritas sounds too good to be true," said an older witch with her hair pulled into a tight bun.
"I heard half the Ministry has already ordered it. You work twice as fast, remember everything..." a younger wizard replied, but fell silent when he saw Hermione passing by.
She ignored it. She had her own problems, decidedly too many problems to worry about some new potion that would, at best, turn out to be another dud, and at worst—another addictive substance that would ruin many wizards' lives.
She Apparated to her flat in the Muggle part of London—a decision she had made deliberately after the war. No magical neighbours, no familiar faces, no questioning looks. Just the anonymity of the big city, where nobody knew who she was, what she had lived through, whom she had lost.
She switched on the light in the hallway. The mirror hanging on the wall mercilessly revealed her pale face and the shadows under her eyes that even a charm hadn't managed to conceal. She looked away, not wanting to confront her own reflection.
In the kitchen, she poured herself a glass of water, leaning against the worktop. The ice-cold liquid flowed down her throat, bringing momentary relief. The empty, sterile flat seemed to regard her with disapproval. No photographs, no mementos, nothing personal. A flat like a hotel room—a place to stay, not to live.
She looked at the clock. It was approaching seven. In less than two hours, Malfoy would be waiting at Crown Inn. For her. With that ruthless self-assurance, with the conviction that she would come, because she always had. The same conviction that made him send black roses directly to her office, breaking their unwritten rule about keeping this... whatever it was... away from their real lives.
She hesitated, the vial still in her hand. She examined her reflection in the window—pale face, dark circles under her eyes, lips pressed into a thin line. She didn't recognise herself. Who was this woman? What remained of Hermione Granger, the brightest witch of her age?
Suddenly she felt a surge of determination she hadn't experienced for months. No. She wouldn't go. Not this time. She put the potion vial back on the shelf, with more force than she had intended. She would no longer escape into numbness. She would no longer allow Malfoy to control her life, sending his black roses whenever he pleased.
Time to end this. Now.
She was flooded with a wave of adrenaline she hadn't felt in a long time. It was like an awakening, as if she had been living in a half-dream for long months, and now suddenly opened her eyes. For a moment she almost laughed—it was so simple. She simply wouldn't go. She would leave him there, let him wait, let him wonder, let him feel at least a fraction of the uncertainty she had lived with for months.
She poured the rest of the purple potion down the drain, watching as the liquid swirled and disappeared. She felt a strange lightness. Fear? Yes, there was fear of what would come, of the pain, of the memories that the potion had kept at bay. But there was also a spark of something that looked suspiciously like hope.
She went to the bathroom and turned on the tap in the bathtub. A hot bath, a real bath, not the hurried shower she usually took—this would be the first step. The first step towards... what? Normality? Healing? She didn't know, but something inside her screamed that this was the right path.
She added lavender oil to the water, a gift from Ginny for her last birthday, still unopened. The scent filled the bathroom, evoking memories of times when life was simpler. As she undressed, she noticed how much weight she had lost—protruding collarbones, ribs visible under her skin, sunken stomach. Her body was like a map of neglect, on which every month of mourning could be read.
She sank into the hot water, allowing the warmth to penetrate her tense muscles. For a long time, she simply lay there, listening to the silence of the flat, to the drops of water hitting the porcelain, to her own breathing—calmer than usual.
Malfoy was probably getting ready to leave now. She imagined him standing in front of a mirror, adjusting his perfect tie, running his fingers through those impeccably styled blond hair. Telling his wife some practised lie. How he would wait in that nasty hotel room, growing more furious with each passing minute. The image filled her with strange satisfaction.
She washed her hair, thoroughly, unhurriedly, as if this simple ritual was something special. Perhaps it was. Perhaps this was the first real act of self-care since... actually, since when? Since Ron's death? Earlier?
She got out of the bath and wrapped herself in a thick towel. She dressed in the most comfortable clothes she had—old tracksuit bottoms and a soft jumper. Tonight belonged to her, only to her. Maybe she would make herself a cup of tea. Maybe she would even read a book—something she hadn't done for pleasure since... she couldn't even remember when.
In the kitchen, she put the kettle on and reached for the tea caddy. She felt strangely calm, as if making this one decision—not to go to Malfoy, not to take the potion—had released some pent-up energy within her.
It was approaching eight. She smiled to herself. Malfoy was just getting impatient now, checking his watch. Perhaps he was already climbing the stairs to the room. Perhaps he was already ordering whisky.
As she was pouring water into the mug, there was a soft tapping on the window. An owl. At this hour? She approached the window and let the bird in—a small brown owl that she immediately recognised. It belonged to the Weasleys.
She froze with her hand outstretched for the letter. This was... unexpected.
With a strange tremor, she untied the letter from the owl's leg. The parchment smelled of the Burrow—a mixture of herbs, warmth, and home cooking.
She unfolded the letter, recognising Molly's flowing handwriting, slightly shaky, as if she had written in haste.
"Dear Hermione,
I don't even know if I'm doing the right thing writing to you so suddenly. I've sat down to write this letter so many times and put the quill down just as often! Ginny keeps telling me: 'Mum, give her time, give her space'. And Harry says the same. 'Give her time'—they said. So we've given that time, my dear. Months have turned into years, and we're still waiting for you to come back to us.
Today happens to be the fifth anniversary... you know... since Fred has not been with us. Five years without my little boy! Arthur keeps telling me it gets easier with time, but I still wake up every morning with such a weight on my heart, as if it were the first day. And then I get up and prepare breakfast, and send everyone off to work, and wait for them to return... because what else could I do, right?
These five years have taught me a few things about grief, my dear. That there's no single way to handle it, you understand? That each of us carries it differently in our hearts. My George... oh, he still sets two places when he eats alone. Percy has completely buried himself in paperwork, and Charlie ran off to those dragons of his in Romania—but he was always a wanderer!
But everyone, sooner or later, comes home. Maybe not always in person—Charlie rarely manages to get away from that Romania of his—but their hearts are always here. Because family is our... what do they call it... anchor. A place you can always return to, no matter how far you've drifted.
I was sorting through Ron's wardrobe yesterday. I know, it's taken me terribly long, but only now have I found the strength. His old school robes, books, those funny Chudley Cannons posters... I also found that fluffy hat I made him for his seventh year—remember? He absolutely hated it, but he wore it anyway so as not to hurt my feelings. He always had such a good heart, our Ron.
I'm writing to you today because I was looking through old photo albums. Those summer pictures in the garden! Your smiles! You and Ginny sitting under that big oak tree with books, while Ron and Harry try to splash you with water! Ah, those were beautiful times, weren't they? Before all this... you know. Before we lost so much.
I saw you at the Ministry last week, you know? You were walking down the corridor, so thin and pale, and you looked so... lonely, my child. I was about to rush over, hug you, invite you to dinner, but Percy caught my sleeve: 'Not here, Mum'—he said. And perhaps he was right? Perhaps the Ministry isn't the place for such conversations.
Harry says you've been promoted, that you now have your own office and assistants! Ron would be so proud, you know? He always said you were the brightest witch he had ever met. And he was right, my child.
I had a dream yesterday, you know. We were all sitting at the table in the Burrow. You were there too! And I was just serving those cheese casseroles you like so much. And in that dream it was so... peaceful. The way it should be. I woke up in tears because I missed seeing you at our table so terribly!
Ginny says you work terribly hard, that you hardly leave the Ministry. Harry worries about you, you know? We all worry. Percy sees you sometimes in the corridors, says you've lost weight. Are you eating proper meals at all? Certainly not!
So much time has passed, dear... Isn't it time to come home? Even just for Sunday dinner? There will always be a place for you at the table and an extra portion of casserole.
Because the Burrow will always be your home, Hermione. And I will always love you like my own daughter.
Hugging you very, very tight,Molly
- I'm keeping that purple jumper I made you for Christmas four years ago. I know you haven't had a chance to wear it, but it's waiting for you. Just like all of us."
Hermione dropped the letter from her trembling fingers. The parchment fell to the floor, and she sank to her knees, as if suddenly her legs had given way beneath her. Something in her chest broke—as if a dam she had been building for months, years, suddenly could not withstand the pressure.
She was flooded with a wave of pain so powerful that it took her breath away. Tears, suppressed for months, for years, now flowed down her face in hot streams. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't think. The world around her was spinning, blurring, drowning in tears.
It was all her fault. Her stubbornness. Her conviction that she always knew best. Her unstoppable desire to help. It was because of her that Ron died—in suffering, in solitude, far from everyone he loved.
"Ron would be so proud, you know?"
Those words burned like red-hot coals. No, Ron wouldn't be proud. Ron would be alive if it weren't for her. He would be breathing, laughing, sitting at the table in the Burrow. They would be planning a wedding. Perhaps they would already have children. A whole life ahead of them, annihilated by her decision.
And now Molly, the woman whose son she had taken away, was writing to her with love. Calling her daughter. Keeping a place for her at the table. Preserving a jumper that Hermione had never worn, because she couldn't face the family of the man she had killed with her stubbornness.
How could she ever look Molly in the eye? How could she sit at the table in the Burrow, next to the place that Ron should be occupying? How could she accept their love, their care, knowing that if it weren't for her, Ron would still be alive?
The brightest witch of her age. That's what they always called her. And yet at the most crucial moment, she had failed. She hadn't protected the man who would have given his life for her.
With a violent motion, she tried to wipe away her tears, but new ones flowed, as if years of suppressed grief had all at once found release. Her body shook with uncontrollable sobs, and she no longer had the strength to stop them.
"And I will always love you like my own daughter."
No, she wasn't their child. She was the person who had taken their son away. The person whose stupidity had cost their beloved boy his life. The person because of whom the empty place at the table in the Burrow would never be filled.
Perhaps that's why it was so easy to sink into this toxic relationship with Malfoy. Because deep in her soul, she believed she deserved punishment. Deserved pain. Deserved humiliation. And perhaps that's why the potions—because she couldn't bear the awareness of what she had done. She couldn't bear the weight of responsibility that suffocated her every day.
She looked at the clock through the mist of tears. Twenty past eight. Malfoy was already there. Waiting for her.
She needed him. She needed that daze, that emptiness that came when her body responded only to pain, to physical sensations, forgetting—if only for a brief moment—about the far worse torment of the soul. About the memories that haunted her in nightmares. About Ron's voice that she heard when she closed her eyes.
Because going to the Burrow? Looking Molly in the eye? That would be like admitting that she had survived while Ron had died. That she breathed while he rotted in the ground. That she lived, though she deserved death more than he did.
With a face wet from tears, with a soul heavy with guilt, she rose from the floor. She felt that every movement cost her an incredible effort, as if she were moving through deep, thick snow. She grabbed her coat and wand. Apparition was like an escape—from the letter, from the memories, from that terrible, unbearable truth.
Whitechapel greeted her with rain—icy, merciless, matching her state of mind. Drops hit her face, mixing with tears. Crown Inn stood before her like a grim promise—dirty, seedy, a place where nobody would ask questions, nobody would care, nobody would expect her to be more than she was now—a woman who deserved punishment.
With trembling fingers, she opened the door. Inside it was dark and dreary—a smoky bar room, a few suspicious patrons at tables, a tired barman who barely looked up when she entered. Nobody asked, nobody judged. A perfect place for someone running from the past, from guilt, from the demons that chased her.
The room was upstairs. Malfoy had left the key at reception—under a false name, of course. The receptionist pointed her to the stairs without a word, without unnecessary questions. She climbed slowly, feeling her legs trembling with each step.
Number 7. Last on the right. She stopped in front of the door, feeling her heart pounding in her chest. She knew he was in there. Waiting. At this moment, she hated him almost as much as herself. For being there. For coming. For allowing her to forget—if only for a moment—about the guilt that was suffocating her. About the pain she deserved.
She inserted the key into the lock and turned it. The door opened with a creak.
He was standing by the window, his back to the door. His silhouette stood out sharply against the dark sky and the rain lashing against the dirty pane. He didn't turn when she entered, though he certainly heard the squeaking hinges. His fair hair gleamed in the half-light of the room—the only source of light was a small lamp on a rickety bedside table.
"You're late," he said coldly, not looking at her. His voice carried irritation and impatience. "I don't like waiting, Granger."
She didn't answer. She had no strength. She could feel tears still flowing down her cheeks, which she couldn't stop. She closed the door behind her and leaned against it with her back, as if seeking support in anything to keep from falling.
Only then did he turn. His eyes—cold, grey, inscrutable—moved over her face without a trace of interest, as if looking at a piece of furniture in the room.
"Really, Granger?" He raised an eyebrow, and that familiar, mocking smile appeared on his lips. "Are you crying? How touching."
He slipped his hand into the pocket of his elegant coat with nonchalance, as if they were at a Ministry reception rather than in a seedy hotel room. As if her tears were merely a minor inconvenience, not worth his attention.
"I hope you'll get over this quickly," he said, looking at his watch. "I have a tight schedule today."
That indifference, that ruthless contempt for her suffering, was like a slap. But that's exactly what she needed, wasn't it? That coldness, that brutal honesty, that punishment. Not compassion. Not care. Not gentleness.
"We can reschedule if you'd rather sob all night," he added, a note of impatience appearing in his voice. "Although I must admit I'm disappointed. I always thought you were stronger."
"No," she choked out, wiping the tears from her face with one decisive movement. "We won't reschedule."
Without words, she approached him, removing her coat with one violent motion. Tears still glistened in her eyes, but the mask of professionalism she wore at the Ministry now changed into a mask of determination. Determination to forget. To lose herself in something that wasn't guilt, pain, memories.
There was no time for undressing—robes were impatiently pushed aside, buttons unfastened only as much as necessary. In their touch there was no love, only desperation. A need to forget so strong it cut off oxygen.
He never pretended to care. He never tried to be more than he was—a man seeking pleasure, control, a momentary escape. And for that she hated him. And for that she needed him. Because at least he was honest in his indifference.
Their bodies moved in a rhythm familiar from dozens of previous meetings. Her back pressed against the door, his breath ragged at her neck. His movements were confident, determined, ruthless—yet today it was she who dictated the pace. It was her desperation that set the rhythm.
Each touch, each movement, each physical sensation pushed the memories further and further away. Molly's letter, the jumper, the past, the guilt—all of it paled in comparison to the intensity of the moment, to the fire that consumed them.
She closed her eyes, allowing tears to flow freely. He didn't notice them. Or didn't want to notice. His eyes were half-closed, his breathing quickened, his hands tightened on her hips with a force that would leave bruises tomorrow.
In the half-light of the room, accompanied by rain striking the window, their bodies intertwined in a dance that had nothing of love in it, but everything of desperation. Of need. Of the hunger to forget.
When pleasure finally came, it wasn't a quiet, peaceful wave, but a tsunami that swept everything away—thoughts, memories, guilt. For that one blessed moment, she wasn't Hermione Granger. She wasn't the woman who had failed. She wasn't the one who had survived when Ron had died.
She was just a body, just a sensation, just a moment.
And then, as her mind began to return, as awareness of everything she had lost began to creep back in, Malfoy pulled away from her with his usual cold precision. Without words. Without tenderness. He adjusted his clothes, smoothed his hair. As if nothing had happened. As if he hadn't seen her tears, her pain, her desperation.
And for that too, she was grateful to him. For not trying to pretend it was something more than it was. For allowing her to preserve that last bit of dignity.
Because if he had shown even a shadow of compassion, even a trace of concern, she would have fallen apart before his eyes. And that she could not forgive herself for.
For a moment he looked at her—at her still tearful face, at her trembling hands, at her dishevelled hair. There was neither compassion nor contempt in his gaze. Only that cold, analytical interest of someone studying a curious specimen.
He reached into the inner pocket of his coat and took out a small vial filled with a deep purple potion.
"Take this," he said, handing her the vial. His voice was colourless, devoid of any emotion. "It will help you sleep. Without dreams."
Hermione looked at the vial but didn't take it.
"It's not one of those cheap rubbish potions you usually buy," he added, raising an eyebrow. "It's my own recipe. Stronger. More effective. No side effects."
She took the vial, not meeting his eyes. Their fingers brushed for a moment—cool against hot, steady against trembling.
"Desperation in your eyes suits you," he said quietly, his voice suddenly taking on a different tone—deeper, almost intimate. "You should wear it more often."
Before she could answer, before she could even look up, he was already at the door. His hand rested on the handle, but he didn't press it immediately. For a moment it seemed he wanted to add something. That he had something else to say.
But the moment passed. Without a word, he opened the door and left, closing it behind him with a soft click.
She remained alone in the room, which suddenly seemed even smaller, even more dreary. In her hand she clutched the vial of potion—a promise of sleep without nightmares, without memories, without guilt.
The rain outside increased in intensity, drumming on the dirty window like thousands of fingers demanding entry. She slid to the floor, resting her back against the door. With the vial still clutched in her hand, she allowed tears to flow again—this time without witnesses, without judgment, without a mask.
Alone, just as she deserved to be.