Chapter 6
Cold sweat ran down Hermione's back as the guards led her down the corridor. Her legs buckled beneath her, barely supporting the weight of her exhausted body. Each step was a struggle, each breath a reminder of her broken ribs.
When they brought her into the interrogation chamber, she immediately recognized the figure standing by the window. Black, tangled hair contrasted with the paleness of her skin. Bellatrix Lestrange.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
In the corner of the room, a leaking faucet counted the seconds. Even here, in a part of the mansion far from the dungeons, the same sound haunted Hermione—the unbroken rhythm of her nightmare.
The guards pushed her onto a wooden chair in the center of the room. Magical bonds immediately wrapped around her wrists and ankles, cutting into her already wounded skin.
"We meet again, Mudblood," Bellatrix's voice dripped with false sweetness. "I hope today you'll be more... talkative."
Hermione remained silent, staring at the stone floor. She focused every ounce of her remaining energy on strengthening her mental barriers. She could feel them—thin, cracked walls around the deepest recesses of her mind. The only defense she had left.
"Look at me when I'm speaking to you!" Bellatrix hissed, brutally grabbing Hermione's chin and lifting her face.
Their gazes met. In the Death Eater's eyes, Hermione saw a reflection of madness—a hunger for information mixed with the desire to inflict pain.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
"Legilimens!" Bellatrix shouted, aiming her wand between Hermione's eyes.
The pain was immediate. As if thousands of red-hot needles were simultaneously piercing her skull. She clenched her eyelids, concentrating on maintaining her barriers. She imagined thick stone walls, returning in her thoughts to Occlumency textbooks, to hours of practice.
Bellatrix struck her mind with waves of pure magical force. Each attack was like an earthquake shaking the foundations of her psyche. She felt her defense cracking, small fissures appearing in her mental walls.
"You're defending yourself so hard... There must be something valuable in that dirty head of yours," Bellatrix laughed, increasing the intensity of her attack.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Sweat drenched Hermione's face, and a trickle of blood flowed from her nose. Each second of resistance cost her more than she could bear. And yet she persisted, protecting what few secrets remained.
Suddenly the attack ceased. She collapsed limply in the chair, breathing heavily. The moment of respite didn't last long.
"Crucio!"
The world exploded in pain. Every nerve, every fiber of her body was burning, as if someone were pouring molten metal into her veins. A scream tore from her throat, echoing off the chamber walls. If not for the bonds holding her to the chair, her body would have been thrashing convulsively on the floor.
When the spell ended, Hermione hung limply from the chair, trying to catch her breath between sobs.
"You see, Mudblood, we can do this for hours," Bellatrix whispered, leaning so close that she felt her breath on her cheek. "Tell us where Potter is. What he's planning. And maybe... we'll end this quickly."
Hermione raised her head with difficulty. In her eyes, despite the pain and exhaustion, determination glimmered.
"I don't know... where Harry is," she rasped. "And even if I did... I would never tell you."
Fury contorted Bellatrix's face.
"Legilimens!"
Drip. Drip. Drip.
The next attack on her mind was more brutal than the previous one. Bellatrix, enraged by her resistance, no longer attempted to delicately search through memories—now she simply crushed everything in her path.
She felt her barriers crumbling. Fragments of memories began to flash through: her and Ron in the tent, Harry talking about Horcruxes, the plan to separate if they were caught...
No! With desperate effort, she found her last reserves of strength. She remembered Ron in the adjacent cell. She thought of Harry, who was somewhere out there fighting for their shared future. She couldn't give up now.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
With a scream that came from the deepest recesses of her being, Hermione pushed Bellatrix out of her mind. A sudden explosion of magic threw the Death Eater back several steps.
For a fraction of a second, a shadow of surprise appeared in Bellatrix's eyes, quickly replaced by fury.
"YOU LITTLE, FILTHY MUDBLOOD!" she screamed, raising her wand. "CRUCIO!"
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Hermione no longer screamed. She had no strength for it. Her body twitched helplessly as the spell pierced her again and again. In her head, there was one thought she clung to like an anchor: Don't give up. For Ron. For Harry. For everyone.
* * *
The evening sun cast warm, orange light through the windows of her apartment as Hermione sat on the living room carpet, surrounded by toys and three children. The day that had begun with a catastrophic confrontation with the Malfoys was slowly coming to an end, and she found unexpected solace in the chaos the children created around her.
"Auntie, look!" called five-year-old Teddy, waving a toy wand. His hair changed from purple to bright blue as sparks shot from the end of the wand. "I made magic! Like a real wizard!"
"Wow, truly impressive," Hermione smiled, simultaneously rocking one-year-old James in her arms, who was slowly falling asleep. His chubby cheeks were rosy, and his dark hair was as messy as Harry's. His eyelashes fluttered drowsily over hazel eyes inherited from Ginny.
"Look at mine too!" Flora pushed a crookedly cut paper shape toward her. Unlike her brother, she hadn't inherited metamorphmagus abilities and made up for it with creative energy. "This is you, and here's a dragon! And you're fighting it!"
"That's the most terrifying dragon I've ever seen," Hermione said seriously, trying to recognize the shapes in the drawing. "You're a true artist."
"I know," Flora replied with conviction, returning to cutting out more paper figures. "I'll make Harry too, and he'll be rescuing a princess."
"I know," she answered with confidence, returning to cutting out more paper figures. "I'll make Dad too, and he'll be rescuing a house-elf."
James finally fell asleep in her arms, and his steady breathing had a soothing effect on Hermione. At twenty-four, she often felt much older—war scars on her soul had aged her prematurely. But here, with these children, everything seemed simpler.
"Auntie, tell us about Hogwarts," demanded Teddy, moving closer with shining eyes. His hair changed to intense purple, which always happened when he was excited.
"Yes, about the ghosts!" added Flora, putting down her colored pencils and sitting on the other side of Hermione. "And about the moving staircases!"
Hermione smiled, adjusting the sleeping James more comfortably.
"At Hogwarts," she began in a conspiratorial whisper, "the stairs really do move. Sometimes they lead you where you want to go, and sometimes... where you need to be."
"And will I be able to go to Hogwarts? Like Mom and Dad?" asked Teddy, his eyes large and full of hope.
Hermione felt a pang in her heart. The Potters had never hidden from the children that they weren't their biological parents, but they decided to postpone the full truth about Remus and Tonks until later, when the children would be older and ready to understand the complicated history of the war. For now, the children only knew that they were "special" and that they lived with "Mama Ginny and Papa Harry" because their real parents "left."
"Of course you'll go to Hogwarts," she assured him. "And you'll certainly be a wonderful wizard, just like Mom and Dad."
"And me?" Flora looked uncertain. "Me too?"
"Absolutely," Hermione stroked her light brown hair.
Flora beamed.
"And which house will I be in?" Teddy wouldn't give up. "In Gryffindor like all of you?"
"The Sorting Hat will decide," she smiled mysteriously. "But you see, Teddy, each house at Hogwarts has its great virtues. Gryffindor values courage, that's true. But Hufflepuff values loyalty and hard work, Ravenclaw—wisdom, and Slytherin—ambition and cunning."
"Slytherin is for bad wizards," Teddy stated with conviction.
Hermione hesitated. This narrative—Slytherin as a den of evil—was too simplified, too harmful. She had Draco Malfoy's name on the tip of her tongue as a complicated example of a Slytherin, but she stopped herself. The irony of the situation didn't escape her notice.
"It's not that simple," she said instead. "In every house, there are good and bad wizards. It's our choices that define who we are, not the house we were sorted into."
"But I want to be in Gryffindor because I like red," he finally declared.
She wanted to respond, but Flora suddenly jumped to her feet and began hopping on the couch.
"I'm bored!" she called out. "I want to play!"
Teddy immediately caught her enthusiasm and also began jumping, his hair flashing colors at lightning speed—from purple, through yellow, to bright green.
"Yes! Let's play! I don't want to talk about school anymore!" he shouted, jumping off the couch and almost knocking over the table.
Hermione quickly placed James on a soft pillow and caught Teddy before he could knock over a vase.
"Easy, easy!" she laughed, trying to control the chaos. "I have something special for you. Wait."
She went to the kitchen and returned with a large, colorful box that she had bought that morning at a magical toy store, thinking about the evening with the children.
"Ta-da!" she called, opening the box. "A magical tea set! With real effects!"
The children's eyes widened with delight as she pulled out a miniature table, chairs, and a set of cups that arranged themselves on the carpet, expanding to the appropriate size.
"Oh my!" Flora clapped her hands, jumping up and down. "How beautiful!"
"And these," she pulled out three colorful, pointed hats, "are special headgear for tea parties. Like the ones they wear at parties in the magical palace."
"Really?" Teddy grabbed a bright green hat and put it on his head. "I'm the king!"
"And I'm a princess!" Flora put on a pink hat with stars and a small veil.
Hermione also put on a hat—purple with glittering moons—and all three sat at the table. Steam rose from the teapot, forming into small, colorful shapes—now unicorns, now hippogriffs, making the children squeal with delight.
"Would Your Highness care for some tea?" she asked in an official tone, pouring weak tea with milk into Teddy and Flora's cups.
"Yes please!" Flora called out, straightening proudly.
"And for me with three sugar cubes!" Teddy demanded.
"I'm afraid just one," she said firmly, well aware of how they react to too much sugar.
They were in the middle of the most elegant "tea" conversation about dragons and unicorns when suddenly there was loud knocking at the door.
Hermione looked toward the hallway, wondering if Ginny had come early. She wasn't expecting anyone else at this hour.
"Come in!" she called, not getting up from the table where she was just pouring tea into Flora's cup.
The door opened violently, and Draco Malfoy stood in the doorway. His face was contorted with fury, and his eyes flashed with anger.
"How dare you come to my house and threaten my w—" he broke off mid-word when his gaze fell on the scene in the living room.
Hermione in a glittering, pointed hat, sitting at a miniature table with two children. Steam rising from the teapot, forming pink unicorns. A boy with hair that had just changed color from green to shocking yellow, and a girl in a princess crown, staring at him with open mouths.
"You..." Malfoy seemed completely thrown off balance, his anger giving way to surprise.
At the same moment, a low, protesting moan came from the couch, quickly turning into loud crying. Little James had woken up and, not seeing anyone familiar within sight, expressed his displeasure in the only way he knew.
"Oh, sweetheart," Hermione immediately jumped up from the table, throwing the pointed hat off her head, and ran to the couch. She picked up the wailing toddler, hugging him to her chest. "It's alright, I'm here."
James, with a face red from crying and hair as messy as Harry's, only increased the volume of his protest, squirming in her arms.
"James is crying!" Teddy called out, rising from his chair. "I don't like it when he cries!"
"I don't like it either!" Flora covered her ears with her hands, and her lower lip began to tremble in a way that signaled an imminent burst of her own crying.
"What the hell are you doing here?" she hissed at Malfoy, rocking James. "How dare you come to my apartment at this hour? How do you know where I live?"
Draco opened his mouth to answer, but at that same moment Flora burst into loud crying.
"I still want tea!" she sobbed, throwing her pink crown off her head. "I was supposed to be a princess! You promised!"
"I wanted to talk about..." began Draco, but his words were drowned out by James's intensifying cries, who was now writhing in Hermione's arms, his face as red as a beet.
"Auntie, why is everyone crying?" Teddy also raised his voice, and his hair rapidly changed colors—from platinum blonde, through red, to deep black. "I don't like it when they cry!"
Hermione looked at Malfoy, and in her eyes appeared something that could only be described as vindictive satisfaction. If he wanted to intrude into her private life, let him see what it really looked like.
"Children," she suddenly said loudly, shouting over the general noise. "This is Draco! Draco is a professional tea brewer who came specially to finish our party! Right, Draco?"
The man looked at her with disbelief mixed with horror.
"What are you..." he began, but she was faster. In one fluid motion, she approached him and thrust the screaming James into his hands.
"Hold him for a moment," she said in a sweet voice that resonated with malicious joy. "He's hungry. I'll go prepare his milk. And you can finish the tea party with Teddy and Flora in the meantime. You like unicorns, don't you, Draco?"
"Granger, don't you dare..." he whispered, holding James with stiffly extended arms, as if the child were a bomb that could explode at any moment.
"Does the tea brewer have a hat?" Flora asked with hope in her voice, her tears miraculously drying up at the news of the game's continuation.
"Of course he does," Hermione reached for the last hat from the box—bright blue with flashing stars—and thrust it onto Draco's head before he could protest. "The tea brewer always wears a special hat. It's a sign of his profession."
"This is... absolute madness," Malfoy stammered, trying to hold the squirming James, whose crying only intensified.
"Say hello nicely to the tea brewer, Teddy," Hermione instructed, heading toward the kitchen. "And I'll be right back with food for James. Don't worry, Draco," she threw over her shoulder with a smile sweeter than honey, "it's just a toddler. Surely you can handle it? After all, you're... a professional."
Draco stood in the living room with a blue hat askew on his head, holding a crying child and watching as two other children pulled him by the robes toward a miniature table with a tea service.
"Granger!" he called after her desperately. "Come back here immediately!"
But Hermione had already disappeared into the kitchen. As soon as the door closed behind her, her fake smile immediately vanished, and her face contorted in a grimace of fury. She leaned heavily against the kitchen counter, clenching her fists so tightly that her nails dug into the skin of her palms.
"By what right," she whispered through clenched teeth. "By what right does he come to my home? To my private life?"
Her hands began to tremble—first slightly, then more and more, until she had to grab the counter to maintain her balance. Ironically, Malfoy's presence had provoked exactly the symptom she was trying to hide from the children. She needed the potion. Now. Immediately.
But she couldn't. Not with the children in the apartment. Not with Malfoy in the living room.
Malfoy. In her living room. With Harry and Ginny's children.
The thought was so absurd, so completely unreal, that for a moment she wondered if she had already taken the potion and was experiencing hallucinations. Her two worlds—the night one, dark, full of shame and self-destruction, and the daytime one, in which she still tried to be the old Hermione—had collided with the force of a tsunami.
She mechanically prepared a bottle of milk for James, warming it with a spell to the perfect temperature, but her thoughts circled chaotically. What was Malfoy doing here?
"What a bloody, selfish bastard," she muttered, tightening the bottle cap more than necessary. "He thinks he can threaten me in my own home."
She checked the milk temperature on the inside of her wrist, trying to calm the trembling of her hands. Breathe. Inhale. Exhale. She had dealt with a dark wizard who terrorized the magical world; she could handle one enraged Slytherin.
Suddenly she realized that the apartment had gone strangely quiet. James's crying had stopped. There were also no protests from Flora, nor Teddy's chaotic questions. She froze, listening. Silence.
Silence was never a good sign when small children and... Draco Malfoy were nearby.
She slowly opened the kitchen door, uncertain of what to expect.
The sight that greeted her caused her to freeze mid-step, and the bottle of milk almost slipped from her still trembling hands.
Draco Malfoy, heir to one of the most powerful wizarding families, the man who just a few days ago had pressed her against the wall in a seedy motel, was sitting cross-legged on the carpet. The blue, shimmering hat was askew on his perfectly styled hair. James, no longer crying, sat on his lap, staring in fascination at the colorful sparks flying from the end of Malfoy's wand, which formed into the shape of a small, spinning dragon.
"And then," Draco was saying in a voice Hermione had never heard from him before—soft, almost hypnotic—"the dragon flew over the forest and breathed fire, but not ordinary fire. It was magical fire that didn't burn, but shone with a thousand colors."
Teddy and Flora sat before him, open-mouthed, staring at the illusion of the dragon that Malfoy created with such precision and detail as she had never seen before.
"Could that dragon be pink?" asked Flora, tilting her head.
Without a word of protest, Malfoy waved his wand, and the dragon changed color to bright pink, which elicited delighted squeals from the children.
"What about green?" Teddy didn't want to be outdone, and his hair had just taken on an emerald shade.
Another wave of the wand and the dragon turned green.
"And checkered?!" the twins called out simultaneously, which even for five-year-olds was an excessive demand.
But Malfoy, to Hermione's disbelief, only raised an eyebrow and performed a complicated wand movement. The dragon instantly covered itself with an absurd pattern of multicolored checks, which made the children start giggling and clapping their hands.
"Now it looks like grandma's shirt!" Teddy called out, doubling over with laughter.
James, who just moments ago had been on the verge of hysteria, now babbled happily, trying to catch the small sparks falling from the dragon illusion. His little hands moved through the magical lights, which provoked bursts of joyful laughter from him.
"Can you make a unicorn?" asked Flora, moving closer. "Or a hippogriff? Or nargles?"
"Nargles don't exist," Malfoy replied automatically.
"They do!" the girl protested. "Auntie Luna said so!"
Draco rolled his eyes, but obediently waved his wand. Next to the dragon appeared a misty, indeterminate form which—as Hermione suspected—was meant to be his interpretation of a nargle.
"That's not a nargle!" Teddy called out. "Nargles are all swirly and have big ears!"
"And they smell like shoes!" added Flora.
"And they're invisible!" Teddy supplemented.
"How am I supposed to create an illusion of something invisible?" Malfoy furrowed his brow, and a familiar note of irritation appeared in his voice. "It's logically impossible."
"The tea brewer can't make a nargle," Teddy stated with disappointment, and his hair took on a subdued, blue shade.
She tried to keep a straight face, she really tried. She pressed her lips together, bit the inside of her cheek. It was all in vain. A snort of laughter escaped her mouth before she could stop it. She tried to mask it with a cough, but another snort, and then yet another, and suddenly she was laughing openly, leaning against the door frame.
"Something amuses you, Granger?" Malfoy asked in an icy tone that completely clashed with the shimmering star-covered hat on his head.
This only increased her amusement. Tears of laughter came to her eyes as she looked at his indignant expression, contrasting with little James pulling his hair and the children who were watching her with a mixture of surprise and amusement.
"Auntie is laughing!" Flora called out, clapping her hands.
"Because the tea brewer is funny," Teddy explained matter-of-factly, his hair changing to a cheerful yellow. "He has a funny hat and makes funny faces."
"Not true!" Malfoy protested, and then James took advantage of his moment of inattention to energetically pull his nose.
Draco hissed in pain, and his face twisted into a grimace that Hermione knew all too well. The same expression appeared on his face when he pinned her against walls in motel rooms, when he whispered things in her ear that she would never repeat aloud. This was the face of the Malfoy she knew—ruthless, cruel, dangerous.
For a moment she felt a pang of fear. For one second, she saw how Draco's clinical mind calculated how to get rid of the small intruder. Instinctively, she took a step forward, ready to defend the child.
Malfoy looked at her with cold intensity that clearly said he perfectly understood her concerns. The corners of his mouth lifted in a smile that had nothing to do with warmth—it was the same predatory grimace she had seen on his face when he observed her humiliation.
"Relax, Granger," he said quietly, precisely moving James's little fingers away from his face. His touch was firm but controlled—not for a moment did he lose his composure. "I'm not such a monster that I would take revenge on Potter's child."
"Auntie, auntie!" Flora interrupted them, pulling Hermione by the sleeve toward the table. "We need to pour tea for the tea brewer! He's a professional!"
Hermione blinked, pulled out of the intense eye contact she had been sharing with Malfoy. Malfoy also changed his expression—the mask of contempt and haughtiness was replaced by a mask of polite indifference.
"Yes, of course," she focused on the girl with difficulty. "Pour him some tea, darling."
Flora, with the extraordinary solemnity of a five-year-old, poured "tea" from a plastic teapot into an equally plastic cup and placed it before Malfoy.
"Here you are, Mr. Tea Brewer," she said in a ceremonial tone. "This is special unicorn tea. You drink it with your little finger up."
Malfoy looked at Hermione with an expression of cold resignation.
"With your little finger up," Hermione repeated, demonstrating the gesture—pinky finger extended while holding the cup. She tried to hide her satisfaction, but didn't quite succeed.
"For every humiliation I endure today," he said quietly, with a murderous gleam in his eye, "you'll pay later, Granger. With interest."
Despite the threat in his words, he elegantly extended his pinky finger and pretended to drink from the miniature cup. He looked both absurd and dangerous—like a predator forced to participate in a children's game, but still deadly dangerous.
Suddenly there was loud knocking at the door.
Hermione's heart stopped for a moment, and then began to beat at a speed that made her feel dizzy. Oh no. Oh no, no, no. Only one person would knock like that—decisively, but with a characteristic rhythm. Harry. Harry Potter was at the door, and in her living room sat Draco Malfoy in a star-covered hat, holding his son on his lap.
"Who is it?" Teddy asked, raising his head.
"Daddy!" Flora called out happily, jumping to her feet.
"It can't be daddy," Hermione replied quickly, feeling panic taking her breath away. "He wasn't supposed to be back until eleven."
She looked at Malfoy, who also seemed tense. His eyes narrowed dangerously, and his lips tightened into a thin line.
"Potter," he muttered with disgust. "As always, perfect timing."
A second knock, this time more insistent.
"Hermione? Are you there?" Harry's voice came from behind the door.
"Oh, Merlin," Hermione jumped up from the floor. "Malfoy, you have to... you have to..."
Not finishing her sentence, she rushed toward him and pulled James from his arms. The child, torn from his comfortable position, immediately began to protest with loud crying.
"What are you doing, Granger?" Malfoy hissed, also standing up. "Get a grip!"
"Harry can't see you here," she gasped, nervously rocking the crying James. "Not with the children. Not in this situation. He'll think..."
"That what?" he interrupted with his typical arrogance. "That his respected friend meets with the enemy after hours? Well, that would be a shocking truth, wouldn't it?"
"This is no time for your games!" she snarled, feeling her own hands beginning to tremble. James was crying louder and louder, and the knocking at the door didn't stop. "Harry, I'm coming!" she called toward the door.
And then, acting on pure instinct, she grabbed Malfoy by the arm and pulled him toward the hallway.
"What are you..." he began, but she didn't let him finish.
"Children, stay here and play quietly," she quickly instructed the twins. "I'll be right back."
She pulled Malfoy to her bedroom, simultaneously trying to calm the crying James.
"You can't be serious, Granger," Draco raised an eyebrow, looking around her bedroom with an ironic smile. "I know you have a weakness for me, but now? With Potter's child in your arms? That's a bit inappropriate, even for you."
"Shut up and sit here," she hissed, pushing him toward the bed. "Not a word. Not a single sound. And take off that idiotic hat!"
She tore the hat from his head, inadvertently pulling out a few blond hairs.
"Ouch!" he hissed with irritation. "More gently, Granger. Unless you like being brutal. Actually, that would explain some things..."
"One more word, and I swear I'll feed you Veritaserum and invite Harry for a chat!" she threatened, backing toward the door. "Don't move from here until I come back!"
She closed the door, ignoring his final, ironic look, then cast a quick locking spell. Just in case.
James was still crying when she ran to the front door. She took a deep breath, trying to calm herself, and then opened it.
Harry Potter stood in the doorway, his hair even more disheveled than usual, and his eyes tired. Upon seeing his crying son, he immediately extended his hands.
"What happened? Why is he crying?"
"Harry," Hermione tried to sound normal, though her heart was still racing madly. "What are you doing here? You were supposed to return later!"
"We finished early," he explained, taking James from her, who immediately began to calm down in his father's arms. "Ginny stayed longer with Percy, but I... wait, why did it take you so long to open? And why do you look like you've seen a ghost?"
"Me?" she nervously ran her fingers through her hair. "Nonsense! I was just... putting James to sleep, and then suddenly there was knocking and commotion, and he woke up..."
"DADDY!" her explanation was interrupted by a joyful shout as the twins burst out of the living room and threw themselves at Harry, hugging him around the waist.
"Hey, you rascals!" Harry smiled, embracing them with his free arm. "Were you good for Auntie Hermione?"
"Yes!" Teddy called out. "We were playing tea party with the tea brewer!"
Hermione felt the blood drain from her face.
"With whom?" Harry frowned, looking questioningly at Hermione.
"With the tea brewer!" Flora repeated enthusiastically. "Daddy, he could make a dragon that changed colors! And a unicorn! And I think a nargle, but the nargle wasn't very visible because nargles are invisible, and he said he couldn't show something invisible because it's illegical!"
"Illogical," Hermione automatically corrected her, feeling the situation slipping out of control.
"Okay..." Harry still looked confused. "And who is this... tea brewer?"
"The tea brewer was a toy," Hermione quickly interjected, inwardly praying that the children wouldn't betray her. "A magical toy I bought for them today. It creates illusions and talks. Very... educational thing."
"And he has the same hair as me!" Teddy added, changing his hair to platinum blonde. "But he can't change his!"
Harry froze, and an expression of deep amazement slowly appeared on his face.
"The same hair," he repeated slowly, looking directly at Hermione. "How... interesting."
"There are so many new toys in the stores," she responded nervously, avoiding his gaze. "I really wasn't expecting you tonight, Harry. Is everything all right with Percy?"
"Everything's fine," he answered slowly, still examining her searchingly.
"Did you get any new information from the Healers?"
"Unfortunately not," Harry sighed, adjusting James in his arms. "No change. But we should be going, the children are tired, and you probably could use some peace and quiet too."
"That's true," she admitted with relief, opening the front door wider. "See you tomorrow at the Ministry?"
"Of course," Harry nodded. "Children, say goodbye to Auntie Hermione."
Teddy and Flora hugged her quickly, and James muttered something that might have been "bye bye," though it sounded more like sleepy babble.
"Thank you for watching them," Harry said, already in the hallway. "And sorry for the sudden change of plans."
"No problem, I always enjoy spending time with the children," she assured him, waving goodbye. "Good night!"
As soon as she closed the door behind them, she leaned against it heavily, feeling her legs buckle with relief. That was close. If Harry had started questioning the children more closely about the "tea brewer" or if he had demanded to see the toy...
With trembling hands, she approached her bedroom and opened the door. Malfoy stood by the window, his hands clasped behind his back, staring at the night sky. At the sound of the opening door, he turned slowly.
"Did Potter believe that pathetic story?" he asked, elegantly raising an eyebrow.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?!" she exploded. Her voice trembled with fury that she could barely control. "Coming to my home? Without warning? When I'm taking care of Harry's children?! Have you completely lost your mind?!"
"I've lost my mind?" Malfoy laughed coldly, his eyes flashing dangerously. "That's quite amusing, Granger, considering that YOU barged into MY home today! You didn't make an appointment, didn't give any warning... You just appeared on my doorstep, manipulating my own house-elf to let you in!"
"This is an official Ministry investigation!" she shot back, moving closer.
"Official investigation?" he snorted with contempt. "I didn't see any official summons! No document! Just a crazy woman who burst into my home, screaming about potions and comas, terrorizing my wife!"
"Your wife stood there like a marble statue, so spare me the theatrics!" Hermione snarled, moving closer instead of backing away. "People are in comas, Malfoy! Percy Weasley is lying unconscious in St Mungo's, and you're worried that your wife heard a few unpleasant words?!"
"You crossed a line!" he hissed, his eyes narrowing dangerously. "You manipulated my house-elf to get into the house, and then you behaved like a madwoman!"
"Because THIS is crazy!" she shouted, pointing accusingly at him. "Since your wonderful Claritas appeared on the market, people have been falling into comas! And you want me to believe it's a coincidence?!"
"Are you even listening to me?" Malfoy also took a step toward her, and his voice was icy. "I was trying to tell you that Claritas—"
"What? That it's safe? That it passed all the tests?" she interrupted him furiously. "Spare me your lies! Padma had a vial under her bed!"
"If you would stop shouting for a moment," he said through clenched teeth, "and actually start listening, you might learn something that could help you. But you prefer your conspiracy theories and madness!"
"The only madness is that I even let you into my home!" she retorted. "Risking Harry seeing you here! With his children! What would he think?!"
"Oh, so now you're worried about your reputation?" he smiled mockingly. "Interesting. You see, Granger, you can burst into my home, insult my wife, accuse me of crimes without any evidence... but Merlin forbid Potter finds out we're fucking! That would be a real tragedy!"
"Don't you dare talk about it that way!" Hermione lunged at him, pushing him with all her strength. Malfoy only swayed slightly, which angered her even more. "What we do is a disgusting mistake! Nothing more! And it has NO connection to my investigation!"
"Really?" he grabbed her wrists, holding her hands as she tried to hit him. "Then why did you come to my home specifically? Why didn't you send an official summons? Or maybe you needed a pretext to see where I live? With whom? Maybe it's just jealousy, Granger?"
"You're insane!" she pulled her hands from his grip, but didn't back away. "I came because people are in comas, and you're releasing a potentially deadly potion on the market! Do you think I care about your fucking personal life?!"
"Claritas is not..."
"I don't want to hear your lies!" she interrupted him, waving her hands. "I don't care what you say! People are in comas, and you have blood on your hands!"
Something in Malfoy's eyes changed abruptly. Cold calculation gave way to pure, unbridled fury. In two steps he was beside her, grabbed her by the shoulders and pressed her against the bedroom wall with such force that it took her breath away.
"Shut up finally and listen!" he growled, his face just inches from hers. "You bloody stubborn, impossible..."
He didn't finish. Instead, he pressed his mouth to her lips in a kiss that was more attack than tenderness. Brutal, domineering, full of anger—exactly like all their encounters.
She couldn't move. She froze, completely stunned by this gesture. This was a boundary they had never crossed before. They could have the most humiliating sex in seedy motel rooms, allow themselves things she hadn't dreamed of in her wildest fantasies, but never, ever did they kiss on the lips. As if there was an unwritten agreement between them that it would be too... real. Too genuine.
For the first few seconds, she couldn't react. His lips were cold, hard, pressing against her lips with brutal determination. There was nothing tender about this kiss, nothing romantic—it was rather a continuation of their argument, another way to dominate her, force her into submission.
And yet this brutal contact provoked a reaction in her that she hadn't expected. Something deep inside her broke into pieces—some last dam, the final barrier that separated sex from something much more dangerous. A kiss. Mouth to mouth. Breath mingling with breath.
Against reason, against everything she had repeated to herself over the last months, Hermione responded to the kiss. First shyly, cautiously, like someone who isn't sure of the rules of a new game. But as soon as her lips parted slightly, Malfoy deepened the kiss, creating a new, terrifying intimacy between them.
He tasted of mint and tea. There was something disturbingly human, normal about it—as if he were an ordinary man, not a toxic addiction she couldn't free herself from.
His tongue moved along her lower lip, then invaded the inside of her mouth when she let out a soft moan. The kiss was becoming increasingly intense—stronger, deeper, more desperate. Draco threaded one hand into her hair, holding her in place, while the other still kept her against the wall.
She felt her knees weaken. It was absurd—she was accustomed to his touch, to his body, to things much more intimate than a kiss. And yet it was this act, so basic, so simple, that evoked in her a reaction she hadn't experienced for years. She felt butterflies in her stomach, a faster heartbeat, warmth spreading throughout her body.
Something about this kiss was different. More real. More personal. She could pretend that their sexual encounters were just a physical need, a way to react, to forget. But a kiss couldn't be rationalized. It couldn't be explained by any convenient theory. It was too... intimate.
Malfoy pressed her harder against the wall, and his body now adhered to hers completely, from chest to hips. She felt his heartbeat, accelerated just like her own. His hand moved from her shoulder to her waist, holding her in place, as if he feared she would try to escape. But Hermione had no such intention. Not now, when her body was responding with such intensity to the simplest of touches.
Their breaths became heavier, broken, and the kiss gained a new dimension—less struggle, more surrender to something neither of them understood. Hermione wove her fingers into his hair, holding him to herself, deepening the contact. She no longer knew who dominated in this kiss—him or her, who was the victim and who the aggressor.
Time ceased to exist. Minutes or hours could have passed as they kissed with the desperation of people who had discovered a new kind of hunger. This kiss was everything that dominated their relationship—angry, brutal, full of hatred.
Finally, Draco pulled away from her, breathing heavily. His eyes, usually cold and controlled, were now dark, almost black. For a moment it seemed he had forgotten why he came here, why they were arguing, what their discussion was about at all.
But then the moment passed. His face hardened, and his eyes regained their icy expression. He moved away from her a step, though he still held her by the arm, as if afraid she would fall if he let go.
"Claritas has nothing to do with me," he said suddenly, and his voice sounded cool and matter-of-fact, as if they hadn't just been kissing with the desperation of drowning people. "It's not my product. It is not produced by my company. I have absolutely no connection to this potion."
Hermione blinked, confused by both the abrupt end of the kiss and the content of his words.
"What?" she choked out. "But... I thought..."
"Of course you did," he interrupted her bitterly. "Because it fit your narrative, right? Evil Malfoy must be behind the dangerous potion. You didn't even bother to check who the actual producer of Claritas is, did you? You didn't verify whether my company has anything to do with this product."
She opened her mouth to protest, but closed it after a moment. Because he was right. She hadn't checked. She didn't have time? No, that wasn't true. She had simply assumed from the start that he must be involved, so she saw no need to verify what she considered obvious.
"I thought it was your product," she admitted quietly, feeling a blush of shame creeping onto her cheeks.
"On what basis?" he asked, his voice becoming sharper. "Have you ever seen a Claritas advertisement with my name? Did you check the documentation at the Ministry? Licenses? Patents? Anything?"
She shook her head again, feeling increasingly uncomfortable. She really hadn't done absolutely any research. As soon as she saw the vial at Parvati's, she immediately associated it with Malfoy because... because he was a potion mogul? Because he fit the role of villain in her mind?
"You burst into my home, accuse me in front of my wife, cause a scandal that could destroy my reputation and company..." he continued, his voice dripping with contempt, "...and all based on... what? Your delusional suspicions? Your need for a scapegoat?"
"I thought it was your product," she responded, feeling her confidence weakening with each second. "It's a natural association. You own the largest potion empire in—"
"And that was enough?" he interrupted her sharply. "That was your entire thought process? 'Malfoy has a company producing potions, so he must be behind Claritas'?"
Hermione fell silent, because he was right.
"Do you want to know who produces Claritas?" he asked, not waiting for her answer. "A small Romanian company near the dragon reserves, which has absolutely no connection to me or my company. You could have easily checked this, if only you had wanted to. But why bother? It was easier to assume right away that evil Malfoy must be guilty, right?"
"How was I supposed to know?" she tried to defend herself, but her voice sounded weak even to herself.
"I don't know, maybe by... checking?" he snorted. "By doing what you're supposedly best at? Verifying facts instead of accusing innocent people? You used to be known for always checking everything three times before drawing conclusions. What happened to you, Granger?"
That question hung between them like a heavy cloud. What had happened to her? When had she stopped being that pedantic, thorough Hermione, and become a woman acting on emotions, without evidence, without facts?
"I don't know," she admitted quietly, looking away. "I just... wanted to find an answer. People are in comas. Percy, Padma... I need to help them."
"And you thought the fastest way would be to burst into my home and start screaming?" he asked incredulously. "Not to ask, not to verify, just to accuse?"
She felt her cheeks burning with shame. Because again, he was right. She had behaved irrationally, impulsively—completely unlike herself.
"I'm sorry," she finally said, almost choking on these words. "I shouldn't have... assumed it was you. Without evidence."
Malfoy seemed completely surprised by her apology. For a moment he looked at her in silence, as if trying to assess its sincerity.
"Well, that's... unexpected," he admitted finally. "I thought you would insist on your position."
"You're right," she admitted reluctantly. "I didn't check. I assumed guilt without evidence. It's... unprofessional."
"And dangerous," he added, somewhat more calmly. "Such accusations could destroy my company. People still look at me suspiciously because of the past. One word from a war heroine would be enough for everything I've built to crumble."
Hermione nodded, understanding the gravity of the situation. Her word still carried weight in the magical world. If she publicly accused Malfoy, many people would believe her at face value, without asking for evidence.
"It's always been convenient, hasn't it?" he suddenly asked, and a new note of venom appeared in his voice. "Being Hermione Granger, heroine, friend of the Chosen One. Everyone believes you, everyone listens. You don't even have to try very hard."
"It's not like that..." she began, but stopped, seeing his mocking smile.
"Of course it is," he interrupted her. "That's why you allow yourself such nonchalance. Accusations without evidence. Manipulating my house-elf, bursting into my home. Because you know you'll get away with it. You always have."
His words were like a slap. Because in a sense, he was right—her status gave her privileges that others didn't have. People trusted her, respected her opinion, didn't question her decisions.
"But you know what, Granger?" he continued, his eyes shining with a cold gleam. "That doesn't change the fact that inside you're a wreck of a person. Addicted to potions, pills, and... well, my body. Because those are the only moments when you don't feel that emptiness, right? When you're not thinking about him?"
Hermione felt the blood drain from her face. Ron. He was talking about Ron.
"Shut up," she hissed, clenching her hands into fists. "You have no right..."
"Right to what? To speak the truth?" he smiled coldly. "It hurts, doesn't it? That someone has seen through you. That someone sees what you're really like beneath that facade of perfect Hermione Granger."
He turned and headed toward the door, his movements fluid and controlled, as if this entire confrontation hadn't affected him at all.
"Oh, and one more thing, Granger," he stopped at the exit, not turning to face her. "Next time you want to accuse someone, make sure you have evidence. And if you ever get near my wife again—even a step—Potter and the Weasleys will find out where and how you spend your nights. Jealousy suits you, but I'd prefer you keep it to yourself."
And then he left, closing the door behind him so quietly that she barely heard it. But his words still rang in her ears, wounding her more deeply than any curse.
Hermione stood motionless for several long, heavy seconds. Then she felt something inside her break—as if the last string keeping her upright had suddenly snapped. Her legs gave way beneath her and she slid to the floor, her back against the cold wall.
Jealousy.
That word stabbed into her consciousness like a dagger. It echoed back, hitting her in waves of pain. She wasn't jealous of Malfoy. She couldn't be. Draco Malfoy was just a tool for self-destruction, a way to punish herself, a toxic habit that allowed her not to think. Not to feel. Not to exist.
And yet... his wife. Celestine. That elegant, beautiful woman with porcelain skin and perfect manners. A woman who had the right to bear his name. A woman who fell asleep beside him in luxurious bedding, woke up next to him every morning, shared a life with him beyond the walls of seedy motels. That thought caused a burning sensation inside her that she was afraid to name.
She wrapped her arms around her knees, curling up like a frightened child. She tried to breathe, but each inhalation was like drawing glass into her lungs.
Slowly she raised trembling fingers to her lips, which still tingled from the touch of his lips. That kiss... Merlin, that kiss... How could she have allowed it?
Six months. For six months they had met in the worst, most repulsive places. They had engaged in brutal, soulless sex that left bruises on her body and emptiness in her soul. But there was always one boundary. One rule. They never kissed. They never looked into each other's eyes during the act. They never crossed that thin line that would transform what they did into something... more.
And now that boundary had been crossed.
"Ron," she whispered, and the name of her dead beloved sounded like an accusation in the empty room. "Ron, I... what have I done?"
For six months she had told herself that sex with Malfoy was a form of punishment. For surviving when Ron died. For being the one who insisted on helping that Muggle family in Godric's Hollow, which turned out to be a trap. For having to watch Ron die in her arms after weeks of unimaginable torture.
But the kiss? The kiss she could no longer explain as self-destruction. It was... betrayal. Breaking the last promise she had made to Ron as his body grew cold in her arms—that she would never love anyone else. That her heart would forever remain with him.
"I'm sorry," she was now crying openly, tears flowing down her cheeks, dripping onto her clothes. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry..."
The words flowed from her like a poisoned stream, repeated like a mantra that brought no comfort. For how could she ask forgiveness for something like this? How could she look anyone in the eye, knowing she had kissed Malfoy? The man who had tormented them all for years? The man who wore the Dark Mark while they fought for freedom?
She closed her eyelids so tightly that she saw colored spots beneath them. But even that didn't stop the images that attacked her mind. Ron—his smile, his laugh, the way he wrinkled his nose when he concentrated. Ron, taking her hand. Ron, whispering that he loved her. And then Ron in the dungeons, his body arched in agony under the Cruciatus, his eyes filled with pain as he begged her not to look, to turn away.
And now his body had been replaced by Malfoy's body. His lips—Malfoy's lips. His touch—the touch of a man she should hate.
"What's happened to me?" she whispered, rocking slightly. "Who have I become?"
The answer was painful: she had become a shadow of herself. An empty shell, filled only with guilt, shame, and the desire to forget. She was no longer that girl who loved books and learning, who fought for house-elf rights, who stood by Harry's side in the worst moments. She wasn't even the woman who held Ron in her arms as he died. She was someone else—desperate, broken, addicted to anything that allowed her not to feel.
She felt a growing panic attack—the familiar feeling of a constricted chest, accelerated breathing, dizziness. Reflexively, her hand traveled to her pocket, where she always carried a small vial of Calming Draught. Her fingers closed around the cool glass.
And then another painful truth hit her—this was already the sixth potion of the day. The sixth. Once, one had lasted for an entire week. Then one daily. Now? Now she took them like candy, mixing different types, experimenting with doses, desperately seeking that state of numbness that once came so easily.
She was addicted. To the potions she took to survive the day. To the sleeping pills without which she couldn't close her eyes. And to the night meetings with Malfoy, who made her forget everything for a few hours—even herself.
She clenched her fist around the vial with such force that the glass broke, cutting her hand. She felt a sharp pain, then warm wetness as blood mixed with the potion. But even this physical pain seemed distant compared to the suffering that was tearing her apart from within.
She looked at her bloodied hand with a strange detachment. Once she would have feared infection, cast a healing spell, cleaned the wound. Now? Now she stared at the blood with fascination, almost with relief. Because physical pain was simpler. More understandable. Easier to bear than the hole in her soul that she couldn't fill.
And the worst part was that no one saw her true state. No one knew what happened behind closed doors. Harry thought she was coping better. Ginny still invited her to family dinners.
She was completely, absolutely alone.
With her demons. With her pain. With her guilt.
With the brutal, chilling awareness that she probably deserved every second of this suffering.
"I hate you," she whispered, no longer knowing whether she was speaking to herself or to the absent Malfoy.
And yet, even now, in the midst of this tsunami of shame and self-hatred, some treacherous part of her mind wondered when the next black rose would appear. When she would again be able to dull the pain in his arms. When she would again feel anything besides this all-encompassing emptiness.
And for that, she hated herself even more.
"I can't go on like this," she whispered, pressing her bloodied hand to her chest. "I can't... I can't..."
But did she have any choice? She couldn't return to normal life—not after everything that had happened. She couldn't stop taking potions—the last time she tried ended in a three-day panic attack, so strong she thought she would die. She couldn't even give up Malfoy—because those few hours of oblivion had become the only thing keeping her sane.
She was trapped in her own addictions. In her own survival mechanisms that, paradoxically, were slowly killing her.
"What have I done, Ron?" she whispered, as images from the past moved before her eyes. "What's happened to me?"
Everything had been stained. All the memories, all the feelings, everything that once defined her life—now marked by Malfoy's shadow. His touch. His scent. His taste on her lips.
"I should have died instead of you," she whispered into the void. "I should have..."
Her body trembled more and more, her breath became shallow and broken. The panic attack was growing, despite the potion mixing with her blood. She felt her consciousness beginning to blur, reality passing into a kind of waking dream.
The room began to spin. The walls seemed to be closing in, tightening around her like a noose. The air became thick, impossible to draw into her lungs. She felt her heart beating so fast it could leap from her chest.
"Ron," she whispered once more, and from her throat came a sob so painful, so primal, as if it originated from the very depths of her soul. "Ron, please... help me..."
But Ron couldn't help her. No one could. She was alone—completely, absolutely alone—in the dark abyss she had created herself.
Her body slumped lifelessly to the floor as she fainted—overwhelmed by pain, guilt, shame, and that terrible loneliness that had been her only constant companion since Ron's death.
In the silence of the empty apartment, with her hand still bleeding, her face wet with tears, Hermione Granger finally broke completely.
And no one—absolutely no one—witnessed it.