Chapter 7
The darkness didn't last long. Cold water, poured onto Hermione's face, brutally brought her back to consciousness. She choked, gasping for air through her parched lips. She was still tied to the chair, but now it seemed even more uncomfortable—as if someone had deliberately bent its edges to dig into her body.
"You've returned to us, Mudblood," Bellatrix's voice came as if from a distance, muffled by the ringing in Hermione's ears. "Good. I wouldn't want you to miss what comes next."
Drip. Drip. Drip.
The steady sound of water provided a grim counterpoint to Hermione's weak, faltering breath. She tried to focus her gaze, but her right eye had swollen so much that she could see only through a narrow slit. She felt the metallic taste of blood in her mouth—she must have bitten her tongue during the last Cruciatus.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
That sound. Everywhere that same, cursed sound. Even here, in the main interrogation hall of Malfoy Manor.
Hermione tried to focus, but her vision still swirled. Before her stood Bellatrix, holding a silver dagger in her hands. Beside her was a small table, and on it objects carefully covered with black cloth.
"Crucio is just a foretaste, Mudblood," Bellatrix whispered, revealing the contents of the table. "Spells leave traces on the soul, but nothing compares to the... directness of physical pain."
On the table lay a set of tools—some metallic, gleaming, with sharp edges; others seemed ordinary, almost innocent, but the way Bellatrix ran her fingers over them suggested their true purpose.
"Your little friend, the blood traitor, screamed so beautifully this morning," said the Death Eater, picking up something that looked like silver pliers. "Really, I've rarely heard such a pure sound of despair. I wonder if you can scream like that too."
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Ron. Hermione felt icy fear grip her heart. What had they done to him? Was he alive? The ringing in her ears intensified, and her mind filled with images of Ron writhing in pain.
"Let's start with something simple," Bellatrix came closer, turning the silver pliers in her hands. "Fingernails. So delicate. So sensitive."
With one flick of her wand, she freed Hermione's right hand from its bonds, only to immediately immobilize it with a spell on the chair's armrest. Hermione's fingers were spread, completely exposed.
"Last chance, Mudblood. Where is Potter? What is he planning?"
Hermione clenched her teeth, staring into her torturer's face. She didn't utter a word.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
The first tearing of a fingernail caused pain so intense that Hermione was convinced she would faint. A wave of nausea swept over her when she saw the bleeding nail bed. But this was just the beginning.
Bellatrix methodically moved to the next fingernail, savoring every scream, every pleading moan that involuntarily escaped from Hermione's throat.
"You see, Mudblood, this is the problem with your kind," she spoke calmly, as if having a friendly chat. "You think you're so clever with your books and spells. But your body... your body is just as weak as any other Mudblood's."
Drip. Drip. Drip.
When the last fingernail had been torn out, Bellatrix put down the bloody pliers and reached for her wand.
"Cauterizo," she whispered, directing it at Hermione's mutilated fingers.
The smell of burning flesh filled the room as the spell cauterized the open wounds. She arched in the chair, her scream echoing off the stone walls.
"We must stop the bleeding," Lestrange explained with a cruel smile. "We don't want you bleeding out too quickly on us."
Drip. Drip. Drip.
"You know what's really funny?" she continued, brushing tangled hair from Hermione's forehead. "Your little friend, Weasley, begged for more when we finished with his fingers. 'Please, don't do this to Hermione, do it to me,' he cried. How touching."
Hermione felt tears flowing down her cheeks. The thought of Ron, suffering, begging for her safety, was unbearable.
"You're lying," she whispered hoarsely.
Bellatrix laughed, and her laughter was sharp as shards of glass.
"Maybe I am, maybe I'm not. You won't know until you see him. And will you see him?" she leaned in, her lips at Hermione's ear. "That depends only on you."
* * *
She was awakened by the brutal light of the afternoon sun streaming through the uncovered windows. For a moment she lay stunned, not knowing where she was, why her hand was pulsing with a dull pain, why she felt a sticky wetness beneath it, why she was still wearing yesterday's clothes.
Slowly, painfully, the memories began to return.
Malfoy in her apartment. His accusations. His lips on her lips. Her complete breakdown after his departure.
She raised her hand to her face, feeling the dried path of tears on her cheek. When she glanced at her right hand, she saw dried blood and glass shards still embedded in her skin—the broken potion vial she had squeezed too tightly during yesterday's hysteria.
She rose slowly from the floor, where she had apparently slept for several hours. Every muscle in her body protested against movement. Her head throbbed with a dull ache, her throat was as dry as paper. She felt like she was experiencing the worst hangover of her life.
With difficulty, she crawled to the bathroom. The sight in the mirror was even worse than she expected—a pale face with dark circles under her eyes, disheveled hair, a dried trickle of blood on her chin. She looked like her own ghost.
She turned on the faucet and mindlessly stared at the water flowing down the drain. She was like that water—powerless, helpless, at the mercy of the current carrying her. Without purpose, without direction, without hope.
She raised her gaze and looked straight into her own eyes reflected in the mirror.
"Enough," she said suddenly, her voice raspy from crying and long silence. "Enough of this."
She opened the cabinet under the sink. There stood rows of potion vials—calming, sleeping, pain-relieving, strengthening. Her entire life enclosed in small, glass containers. Her entire escape from reality.
Without further thought, she grabbed the first vial and unscrewed it with trembling fingers. She watched as the pearly liquid flowed down the drain, disappearing forever.
And then another.
And another.
And yet another.
Each emptied vial gave her a strange sense of power. As if with each ounce of poured potion, she was regaining a fraction of control over her own life.
When she got to the sleeping pills, she hesitated for a moment. Without them, nights would be a nightmare—literally and figuratively. Without them, she would have to face the memories she had suppressed for years. Visions of Ron dying in her arms. The feeling of a lost battle. The sense that she had failed.
With clenched teeth, she poured the pills into the toilet and flushed.
"What am I doing?" she whispered to herself, as the reality of what she had just done began to sink in. These potions and pills were her only protection against emotions that now, unbridled, could completely destroy her.
But some part of her, that part that was probably the last trace of the former Hermione Granger, knew it was necessary. That without this radical step, she would continue to spiral downward until she was completely lost.
She looked at her bloodied hand. She needed to tend to it—glass shards still embedded under the skin, the wound looked nasty and was already starting to throb with a dull pain. She reached for her wand, but her fingers met emptiness. She must have dropped it somewhere in the bedroom during yesterday's breakdown.
She didn't look for it. Instead, she opened the cabinet with Muggle first aid supplies.
When she finally managed to remove the glass shards, clean and bandage the wound, she sat on the edge of the bathtub, feeling sudden exhaustion. Not physical—that was nothing compared to the sense of emotional burnout that engulfed her after a night spent sobbing and pouring out all her potions.
It was almost three in the afternoon. She had lost nearly an entire day. Fortunately, she had time off—yesterday and today, a rare weekend without work, which she would normally spend on documents at home. Now she wasn't sure what to do with this time.
She went to the kitchen and automatically began preparing tea. At some point she realized she was unconsciously reaching for the cabinet where she kept spare vials of Calming Draught—she wanted to add a drop to her drink, as was her habit.
Hermione withdrew her hand as if burned.
"Just tea," she said to herself firmly. "Only tea."
Loud, insistent knocking at the door almost made her drop the mug. Not knocking—pounding, as if someone was trying to break down the door.
"Hermione! Open up!" Harry's voice, usually calm, now sounded sharp and nervous.
For a moment she considered pretending she wasn't home. She wasn't ready for a confrontation with anyone, especially Harry, who knew her too well to be fooled by her assurances that everything was fine.
"I know you're in there!" Harry called, and the knocking became even louder. "Either you open up, or I'll use Alohomora. Three... two..."
"I'm coming!" she shouted, putting the mug down on the counter with such force that tea splashed around.
She opened the door, assuming the most normal expression she could manage. Harry stood on the threshold, his hair even more disheveled than usual, and his eyes blazing with anger.
"What's so important that you're trying to break down my door on a Saturday afternoon?" she asked, trying to sound casual, though her heart was pounding like a hammer.
Harry entered without invitation, slamming the door behind him.
"What was Malfoy doing in your apartment last night?" he asked without preamble, looking straight into her eyes.
Hermione felt the blood drain from her face.
"I don't know what you're talking about," she said, looking away and heading back to the kitchen. "Would you like some tea?"
"Do you really think I'm that stupid?" Harry followed her, his voice a mixture of irritation and concern. "Yesterday at St Mungo's you rushed up to me like a storm, demanding Malfoy's address. And last night my children spent half an hour telling me about 'the tea brewer,' a blond wizard who could conjure colorful dragons and unicorns. Teddy kept changing his hair to platinum blonde."
Hermione froze by the sink. How could she have been so careless? Of course the children would tell Harry everything—they were delighted with their new "friend." She hadn't thought through the consequences of letting Malfoy into her apartment while she was watching Harry's children.
"So I ask again," Harry took a step toward her, his voice unsettlingly calm. "What was Draco Malfoy doing in your apartment last night when you were watching my children?"
Hermione lowered her head, feeling her body bend into a position of submission she had never before adopted with Harry. She felt like a child caught in the act.
"It's very possible that I might have... teleported to Malfoy's residence yesterday," she admitted quietly, not looking him in the eye. "I may also have... accused him and his wife of conspiring to poison wizards with the Claritas potion."
"You did what?!" Harry exclaimed, his eyes widening. "Hermione, have you gone mad? We don't have any evidence against Malfoy! None!"
"I know," she sighed heavily. "It was a mistake. I was... I wasn't thinking clearly. I was convinced that Claritas was behind the comas, and since Malfoy is the king of potions... Then he came to me to retaliate," she said quickly. "He was furious that I accused him."
Harry looked at her in silence for a moment, his face gradually darkening.
"That still doesn't explain why Draco Malfoy was playing with my children in your living room," he said suddenly in a much cooler tone. "Do you know what Flora told me? That 'the tea brewer' knew the name of her stuffed animal, Mr. Bear, and conjured a dragon that changed colors. And Teddy? He said you showed him your bedroom when I returned."
Hermione felt the blood drain from her face.
"If it were anyone else," he took a step toward her, and his voice suddenly became louder, "I would think he just regularly visits here. That he knows your apartment, knows the children, and that between you there's something more than just a confrontation about some potion!"
"Harry, it's not like that..." she began, but he was already worked up.
"How could you?!" he suddenly shouted. "How could you let that man into your home when you were watching my children? Do you have any idea who he is? What he's done? What his views are on Muggle-borns and blood traitors?!"
"He's changed," she tried to defend herself, but her voice sounded weak even to herself.
"Changed?!" Harry snorted in disbelief. "Draco Malfoy?! The man who let Death Eaters into Hogwarts? Who harassed you for years? Who stood and watched as his aunt tortured you in his own home?!"
Hermione flinched, involuntarily grabbing her forearm where she still had a scar from her encounter with Bellatrix.
"Listen to me carefully," he lowered his voice to a dangerous, icy tone, leaning over her. "I do not wish for Draco Malfoy to even come near my children. Not one foot. Never again. Understand? He and his family are liars, manipulators, and cowards. I don't know what's going on between you two, and frankly, I don't want to know. But if I find out again that my children had any contact with him..."
He broke off, as if unable to finish the threat. For a moment, only their quickened breaths could be heard in the kitchen.
"I don't recognize you anymore, Hermione," Harry finally said, shaking his head. "Since Ron... since we lost him, you've been different. I understand you went through hell. We all did. But what you're doing now? These crazy accusations without evidence? These secrets? These lies? Avoiding our family? This isn't you."
"Harry, it's not like that..." she began, tears coming to her eyes. She reached out her hand toward him, but he backed away as if afraid to touch her.
"Ginny and I have been worried about you for years," he continued, his voice trembling with emotion. "We've watched you disappear into work, refuse meetings, lose weight. We thought it was grief. That you just needed time. But it's been five years, Hermione! Five years! How long do you intend to destroy yourself like this? How long will you hide behind this facade of a cold Ministry professional?"
"It's not a facade," she protested weakly, but Harry just laughed bitterly.
"Really? Then explain to me why your hands are shaking? Why your eyes are bloodshot? Why you disappear for entire nights, and then come to work completely exhausted? You think I don't see? That nobody sees?"
Hermione felt her heart stop. He knew. Maybe he didn't know the details, maybe he didn't know about Malfoy and the motels, but he saw the changes taking place in her.
"I hope someday you'll become the person I knew again," he said, heading toward the door. "The person I trusted with my life and my family's lives. But until that happens, keep my children away from your... affairs. Whatever they may be."
And he left, slamming the door so hard that the glasses in the cupboard rattled.
Hermione stood motionless for a moment, feeling tears flowing down her face. She had never seen Harry so angry before. He had never looked at her with such disappointment, with such... disgust.
She slid to the floor, hugging her knees with her arms. Everything was falling apart. Her friendship with Harry. Her relationships with the Weasleys. Her career. Her life.
And the worst part was that she deserved every word she heard. She deserved much more.
Pouring out the potions was futile. This desperate act of rebellion against her own addictions was for nothing. It took just one meeting with Harry to see how broken she already was, how lost.
She would never be happy. She would never get out of this. She would never again be the Hermione Granger she once was—brave, confident girl who fought for a better world. A woman who believed in justice, in friendship, in love. All that remained was an empty shell, addicted to potions and nights spent in the arms of an enemy.
She began to rock slightly back and forth, hugging herself tighter, as if trying to comfort herself. Questions tormented her endlessly. Why was she even alive? What was so special about her that she survived while Ron died? Why wasn't she lying in the ground, and him living his life?
It would be best if she had died like Ron. If she had departed with him in those dungeons, holding his hand, seeing his last smile. Together they would be on the other side. Together and happy.
Instead, she was stuck here, in this empty shell of a life, where every breath was painful, every day was a struggle, and every night a nightmare. Where her best friend looked at her like a stranger. Where the only form of relief was giving herself to a man she should hate.
She sat like that for a while, immersed in dark thoughts, until suddenly something caught her attention. A slight shimmer in the air before her, like a small spark of magic.
Then another.
And another.
The sparks began to connect, forming an outline in the air that slowly took shape and color. From nothing, it seemed, a flower materialized—a black rose, gleaming and perfect, as if freshly cut.
Hermione's heart quickened at the sight of the familiar flower.
The rose hung in the air for a moment, then slowly, majestically began to descend to the floor. She reached for it mechanically, accustomed to this ritual. Her fingers barely brushed the velvety petals when the flower flashed and turned into black ash.
The fine particles of ash began to move, shifting across the floor, forming elegant letters.
An address. Ordinary, as always—a street on the outskirts of magical London, a room number. And beneath it a note: "In half an hour. M."
Hermione stared at the words, feeling her heart accelerate. Just an hour ago, she had been determined to break this addiction. To pour out all the potions, burn every rose that appeared, start a new life. For a brief, fleeting moment, she truly believed she could change.
But Harry's tirade destroyed everything. His fury, his accusations, his disappointment in her—it was too much. If her best friend already considered her lost, broken, untrustworthy... then why even try?
Rising from the floor, she decided she needed this more than ever before.
She no longer cared how low she had fallen. She didn't care what Ron, Harry, or anyone else would think. She needed oblivion, needed a few hours when she wouldn't have to be Hermione Granger—that broken, addicted, rejected version of herself she had become after Ron's death.
She quickly tidied herself up, changing clothes and trying to put her hair in order. She didn't want Malfoy to see the state she was in—though he probably knew anyway. He always seemed to know everything.
With one last look at the apartment that had become the scene of her downfall and humiliation, she Apparated to the specified address.
The seedy motel room was no different from dozens of others she had come to know over the past months. The same faded, grimy walls, the same creaking bed, the same suspicious stains on the carpet. The familiar setting of her downfall.
When she entered, Malfoy was already there. He stood by the window, his back turned to her, his silhouette sharply outlined against the dirty glass.
He didn't turn around. He didn't greet her. He only said "You came" in a tone that contained neither surprise nor satisfaction.
And then he lunged at her.
There was no preamble, no words, no game. Just feverishness, brutality, desperation, as if he too needed to obscure some thoughts, escape some demons. His hands were everywhere, tearing at her clothes, pressing her against the wall, then onto the bed.
He didn't kiss her. After that one, pivotal kiss in her apartment, they returned to the well-known scenario—pure physicality, zero intimacy, zero tenderness. Just two bodies seeking momentary oblivion in an act that had nothing to do with love or even affection.
Hermione submitted to it, as always. She allowed him to control every aspect of their encounter, every movement, every touch. She responded to his actions with the same feverishness, the same desperation. She welcomed the return to the status quo—it was familiar, predictable, safe in its toxicity.
And yet somewhere deep inside her, something had changed. Something had broken. Or perhaps something had awakened? For the first time, she felt that she didn't need brutal sex, didn't need pain and humiliation to forget. She needed something else—even just one tender gesture, one look that wasn't full of contempt. One touch that wasn't calculated to inflict pain or control.
But Malfoy wasn't capable of tenderness. Not toward her.
When they finished, he dressed without a word and left, as always. He didn't look at her, didn't say "goodbye," didn't offer to stay even for a moment. He simply disappeared, leaving her naked and alone on the dirty motel bed.
She lay motionless, staring at the ceiling cracked like her life. She waited for that familiar feeling—satisfaction from physical fulfillment, relief resulting from momentary emptiness, that blessed moment when all thoughts quieted, all demons disappeared.
But nothing like that came.
She didn't feel satisfaction. She didn't feel relief. She didn't even feel that well-known emptiness that always, at least for a moment, replaced the pain and grief.
She only felt dirty. Ashamed. And a deep, piercing sense that this escape mechanism, this way of forgetting, had stopped working. That for the first time in months, brutal sex with Malfoy hadn't helped. It hadn't filled that hole in her soul. It hadn't allowed her to forget.
She had failed even at this.
* * *
That same evening, Hermione lay curled up on her couch, wrapped in a blanket, although it wasn't cold in the apartment at all. The physical discomfort from her meeting with Malfoy had long passed, but the emotional emptiness had only deepened. She didn't even reach for the Calming Draught—somehow she had lost faith that anything could help her now.
A quiet, almost timid knock at the door pulled her from her numbness. She didn't react immediately, hoping that whoever it was would simply leave. But the knocking repeated, this time a little louder.
"Hermione?" Harry's voice penetrated through the wooden door. "Please, I know you're in there. We need to talk."
He didn't sound like before—sharp, aggressive, accusatory. His voice was quiet, uncertain, as if he himself didn't know if he had the right to be there after what he had said in the morning.
With a heavy sigh, she got up from the couch and trudged to the door. She had neither the strength nor the desire for another confrontation, but she knew Harry wouldn't give up.
When she opened the door, she saw her friend in a state she hadn't seen him in for a long time. His hair was even more disheveled than usual, as if he had been nervously running his fingers through it for the past few hours. His eyes were ringed and reddened, and his face bore an expression of sincere regret.
"May I come in?" he asked quietly, and when she nodded, he entered uncertainly, as if expecting she might throw him out at any moment.
They sat opposite each other—she on the couch, he in the armchair. Harry stared at his hands for a moment, as if searching in them for the right words.
"I came to apologize," he finally said, raising his eyes. "What I said this morning... how I behaved... It was unforgivable."
Hermione remained silent, not trusting her own voice. Part of her wanted to say that he was right, that everything he said about her was true. That she had become someone she didn't recognize. That she deserved every harsh word.
"I was shocked," Harry continued, seeing that she wasn't responding. "The thought of my children playing with Malfoy... It was like some absurd nightmare. But that doesn't justify how I treated you. I have no right to judge you."
Hermione felt tears welling in her eyes, but she quickly wiped them away. She didn't deserve these apologies, didn't deserve any sympathy.
"I talked to Ginny," Harry admitted, nervously adjusting his glasses. "I told her everything. About Malfoy, about the children, about our argument. You know what she said? That I'm an idiot. That the last thing you need is judgment from your best friend."
A gentle smile appeared on his face, but quickly faded.
"Hermione, whatever is happening in your life... Whatever... With whomever... It doesn't change the fact that you're my best friend. That you've always been there for me. We've been through everything together, through Voldemort, through Horcruxes, through wars and tragedies. I have no right to judge you. Never."
He reached out his hand, uncertainly, as if afraid she would reject it. She hesitated for a moment, but then allowed him to take her hand.
"I don't know what's happening with you," he said quietly. "I don't understand everything. But I want to understand. I want to help. However I can. Just... please, don't push me away. Let me be your friend. Just as you've always been mine."
Hermione felt something break inside her—some dam, some wall she had been building for years. The tears she had so desperately tried to hold back flowed freely down her cheeks.
"Harry," she whispered, her voice breaking, weak. "You don't know... you don't understand..."
"Then tell me," he moved closer, still holding her hand. "Tell me everything. I won't judge you. I promise."
And for the first time in years, Hermione began to wonder if maybe she should tell him. Everything. About the potions, about the pills, about Malfoy. About the night she lost Ron. About the eternal guilt that was consuming her. About how lonely she was, how lost she felt, how much she needed help.
She looked at Harry—at his sincere eyes, full of concern and understanding. She tried to imagine those same eyes filling with horror, then disgust, when he heard the truth.
The words formed in her mind, but as soon as she tried to open her mouth, her stomach twisted painfully. Merlin, she felt physically sick at the mere thought of uttering those words. Admitting that she was sleeping with Malfoy—the man who stood and watched as she was tortured in his own home. That her body functioned only thanks to a mixture of potions that dulled her senses. That she had never forgiven herself for the fact that Ron died because of her.
"I can't," she finally whispered, and her voice sounded foreign even to herself. "I just... I can't, Harry."
Something in her tone must have betrayed the depth of her suffering, because he softened even more, moving closer.
"You don't have to say anything," he assured her. "Not now. Maybe never. It's your decision."
"I wish I could," she confessed, and tears began to well in her eyes again. "Merlin, I wish so much I could just... get it all out. But if I said out loud what... who I've become... It would be like making it all real, you understand? And I'm not ready for that truth."
Harry gently took her face in his hands, forcing her to look him in the eyes.
"Whatever is happening, whoever you're becoming—you don't have to go through it alone. You're not alone. You never were."
These simple words, spoken with such certainty, broke something inside her. Something she had been building for years—a wall separating her from everyone who loved her. From the only family she had left.
"I... I just don't know how to talk about it," she confessed, her voice breaking like thin ice. "I don't know how to admit that everything is... not as it should be. That I am... not as I should be."
Without a word, Harry pulled her to him, holding her tightly. Initially her body was stiff, unaccustomed to a touch that didn't bring pain or control. But then, slowly, she began to relax, until her head dropped onto his shoulder.
"You don't have to be what someone expects," he said quietly, stroking her tangled hair. "You just have to... find a way to stop hurting yourself. To forgive yourself for what you cannot change."
He sat there, holding her, as her body began to tremble with quiet crying. She cried without sound, like someone who had learned to hide her pain even from herself.
"I'm sorry," she whispered into his shirt. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."
"You have nothing to be sorry for," Harry held her tighter in his arms. "I'm the one who's sorry. For not seeing. For not helping sooner. For letting you carry all this by yourself."
Hermione raised her head, looking at him through tears. There was no disgust in his eyes, no disappointment. There was only unconditional acceptance and love that she so desperately needed.
"You know what?" Harry suddenly became animated, gently wiping the tears from her cheeks. "I think we should get out of here. You've been saturated with this apartment and its energy."
"Now?" she asked incredulously, pointing to her state—eyes swollen from crying, disheveled hair, home clothes.
"Now," he confirmed firmly. "Have you been to Purple Alley yet?"
She shook her head. She had heard of this place—it was a new, trendy magical district that had sprung up over the last few years on the outskirts of magical London. Purple Alley was known for its modern approach to magic, with cafes serving international specialties and an artistic atmosphere.
"Luna told me about a new ice cream parlor that opens in the evenings," Harry continued. "They serve ice cream that changes flavor depending on your mood. And they have drinks that float above the table until you drink them. It's exactly what you need."
"Harry, I look..."
"Great," he interrupted her. "You look exactly as you should—like a person who needs magical ice cream and a friend. Come on, ten minutes to change clothes. I won't take no for an answer."
"Alright," she agreed quietly. "But if I see someone from the Ministry..."
"We'll say I kidnapped you for ice cream," he finished for her. "As the Head of the Auror Office, I have every right to do so."
Twenty minutes later, they were already walking through Purple Alley. The place was enchanting—narrow streets illuminated by magical lanterns that changed colors depending on the mood of the wizards passing beneath them. Small shops, galleries, and cafes attracted the younger residents of the magical world.
Hermione felt strange—as if part of the burden she had been carrying had been lifted from her shoulders. Not all of it, of course. She had a long road ahead of her. But the mere fact that she was here, outside, with Harry, instead of crying alone in her apartment, seemed like a small miracle.
"And do you remember Kingsley's face when the French ambassador jumped at the sight of Peeves?" Harry asked as they passed a shop with magical sweets. "Ginny still claims that's why the French are so sensitive about our schools—we have too liberal a policy toward incorporeal entities."
"Oh, as if Beauxbatons doesn't have its own specters," Hermione rolled her eyes. "Fleur once told me about the ghost of a former headmistress who terrorizes female students, checking the length of their skirts."
"Then they were lucky Umbridge didn't become a ghost," Harry laughed. "Can you imagine her rampaging for all eternity with a ruler in hand?"
"I don't even want to think about it," Hermione pretended to shudder. "It's enough that I sometimes dream of her in those absurd pink sweaters."
Hermione was just about to respond when her gaze was drawn to a flash of light reflecting off platinum hair. She stopped mid-step, the words dying on her lips.
Through the large window of the restaurant "Silver Constellations," she saw Draco sitting with his wife at a table in the depths of the elegant establishment. The light of magical candles reflected off their silhouettes, giving the scene an almost mystical character.
Celestine Malfoy looked stunning in a gown of cream silk that accentuated her slender figure and perfectly pale complexion. Draco, dressed in a dark, perfectly tailored robe, leaned toward her with an expression on his face she had never seen before. Gentleness. Tenderness.
And then, as if to finally confirm her worst fears, he gently took his wife's hand and raised it to his lips, placing a tender kiss on it. His eyes never left Celestine's face, and in his gaze was something Hermione had never experienced when he looked at her—true devotion.
That one simple gesture—a kiss placed on a hand, that adoring look—was everything she had never received from him. He had never touched her with gentleness. He had never looked at her with a gaze that contained anything beyond desire or contempt. For him, she was just a body, a tool to satisfy needs, a punching bag for his frustrations and dark desires.
A strange feeling spread in her chest—hot, burning, disturbingly similar to jealousy. It's absurd, she thought. Why would she be jealous of Celestine Malfoy? After all, she didn't want tenderness from Draco. She didn't want his respect. She only wanted what he gave her—momentary oblivion, physical numbness that allowed her not to think about the empty apartment, the nightmares, everything she had lost.
And yet... watching how his fingers gently caressed his wife's hand, how his eyes seemed soft and warm when he looked at her, she couldn't help the bitter thought: why didn't she deserve even a semblance of such treatment? Why was he only cold, cruel, devoid of any tenderness toward her?
She had always told herself that she had chosen this form of relationship. That she needed brutality, humiliation, pain—to punish herself for Ron's death, to immerse herself in blissful emptiness. But did he really have to treat her like trash? Did she really not deserve even the smallest gesture of respect?
A bitter reflection hit her with full force—it wasn't she who had chosen this form of relationship. It was him. He dictated the rules, sending those horrible black roses with addresses of seedy motels. He determined how their meeting would look. He decided when it would end. And she, too lost in her suffering, too desperate to feel anything beyond pain, simply complied.
The truth was that she never had control. She never had a choice. She was a puppet whose strings were held by Draco Malfoy, and she allowed him to do this because it was easier to pretend it was her decision than to admit how powerless she was.
"Hermione? Is everything all right?" Harry asked, carefully examining her face.
"Yes, yes," she answered quickly, too quickly. Her voice sounded foreign even to herself—too high, too tense, with a note of hysteria she couldn't hide.
"Do you want to talk about it?"
"No," she replied more sharply than she intended. "There's nothing to talk about."
She turned abruptly and moved forward, quickening her pace with each second. She needed to get away from this place, from this sight, from this feeling of humiliation that burned her from inside.
Harry caught up with her after a few steps and grabbed her by the shoulders, forcing her to face him.
"I know something is happening," he said quietly, looking her straight in the eyes. "And I know it has to do with Malfoy."
Hermione wanted to deny it, but the words caught in her throat. Harry shook his head, anticipating her protest.
"I'm not asking for details. You don't have to explain anything to me. You're an adult and make your own decisions," he sighed deeply. "And although I absolutely hate that guy, that's not what I wanted to say."
He nervously brushed the hair from his forehead, momentarily revealing the famous scar.
"I don't know what's between you and Malfoy. I don't know what you're looking for in him or what he gives you. That's your business," his voice became more firm. "But I've seen that man in action for seven years at school, and then during the war. He's a manipulator. He always has been."
Hermione opened her mouth to say something, but Harry gently placed a finger on her lips.
"Let me finish," he asked. "I just want you to know one thing. You deserve love. Real love, the kind you had with Ron. Someone who will look at you the way he looked at you. Who will see your worth. Your strength. Your heart."
Tears came to her eyes when she heard these words.
"And Malfoy, whoever he is to you now, will never give you what you had with Ron," Harry was speaking more quietly now, but with greater intensity. "Not because he's a Slytherin or because he has the Dark Mark. Because he doesn't know how to love. Not that way."
Hermione felt her legs growing weak. Harry gripped her shoulders more firmly, not allowing her to fall.
"I'm not asking you to break contact with him, whatever is between you," he continued. "I just ask that you don't believe in this spectacle he's putting on. The pretense of being a good person. Being a respected businessman. Redemption. It's all a game, Hermione. And you're too smart to get drawn into it."
Hermione stared at him, unable to respond. How did he know?
"Don't say anything," Harry gently wiped a tear from her cheek. "Just remember that you deserve more than he will ever be able to give you. And that regardless of everything, I will always be there for you. Like you were there for me. Always."