Chapter 8
The bedroom was bathed in semi-darkness, only the moonlight streaming through tall windows cast silvery streaks on the floor. Narcissa sat on the edge of the bed, holding her son in her arms. Her hands, cool and delicate, stroked his hair with tenderness she never displayed in public.
Draco trembled. He wasn't crying—he had long ago learned that tears were a sign of weakness—but his entire body seemed to vibrate with suppressed emotions. His breathing was shallow and uneven, as if each inhalation caused him physical pain.
"Shhhh," Narcissa whispered, rocking him gently. "It's all over now. It's all over, darling."
"I didn't want to," Draco whispered in a voice so quiet it was barely audible. "I didn't want to do it. I heard his scream, mother. I still hear it."
Narcissa hugged him tighter, her fingers tightening on his shoulders.
"I know, son. I know," she answered, her voice resonating with a mixture of tenderness and fear. "But you had no choice. You had to do it."
He moved away slightly to look into his mother's eyes. In the pale moonlight, his face looked like a mask—pale, tense, with shadows under his eyes that seemed to eat into his skin.
"But I was the one holding the wand," he said, his voice breaking on the last word. "I was the one who spoke the spell. I made him suffer."
Narcissa took his face in her hands, forcing him to look straight into her eyes.
"Listen to me, Draco," she said with an intensity that made him freeze. "This wasn't your fault. It's the Dark Lord. It's your father. It's the war. But not you."
Her thumbs gently stroked his cheeks, wiping away tears he wouldn't allow himself to shed.
"You must be strong," she continued more quietly. "You must survive. Whatever happens, whatever they make you do—survive. For me. Promise me."
The bedroom door opened with a bang. Lucius Malfoy stood in the doorway, his face contorted with anger, his eyes cold as steel. He looked at the scene before him—at his wife cradling their son, at their intertwined arms, at the intimacy of the moment—and his lips twisted in a grimace of contempt.
"What is the meaning of this?" he growled, entering the room. "What are you doing, Narcissa?"
Narcissa raised her head but didn't let go of her son. Her eyes met her husband's without fear, though her voice trembled slightly when she answered:
"He needs rest, Lucius. It's been a difficult day for all of us."
"Rest?" he repeated, moving closer. "Comfort? Perhaps a lullaby before bedtime too?"
He stood over them, his shadow falling on the bed like a dark prophecy.
"You're spoiling him," he hissed. "Making him soft. You think that will help him survive? You think the Dark Lord will have mercy on someone who cries in his mother's arms?"
Narcissa slowly stood up, positioning herself between her husband and son. Her posture was straight, proud, despite the fear that Draco saw in her eyes.
"He is still a child, Lucius," she said quietly but firmly.
The blow was so sudden that Draco had no time to react. Lucius's hand fell on Narcissa's face with such force that she staggered, grabbing the edge of the bed for balance. A red mark immediately appeared on her pale cheek.
"A child?" Lucius snarled, grabbing her by the arm. "There are no more children in this house, Narcissa!"
He pushed her toward the door, his movements violent, full of barely controlled fury.
"Leave us," he commanded. "Immediately."
Narcissa hesitated, her eyes meeting Draco's gaze. She saw the fear in them that he tried to mask. Her own eyes filled with tears, but she quickly blinked them away.
"Everything will be fine," she whispered to her son, though they both knew it was a lie.
When the door closed behind Narcissa, a silence fell in the room so thick that Draco felt he was suffocating in it. Lucius stood motionless, examining his son from a distance of a few steps. His face was as always—cold, distant, unreadable.
"Stand up," he finally ordered.
Draco obediently stood up, forcing his body to comply despite his trembling legs. He straightened up, trying to imitate his father's posture—back straight, shoulders back, chin slightly raised.
"I saw your face," Lucius said, moving closer. "When you cast the spell. I saw what you felt."
Draco froze. He tried to maintain a neutral expression, but he felt the mask beginning to crack under his father's scrutinizing gaze.
"I don't know what you're talking about, father," he replied, trying to make his voice sound confident. "I did what I had to do."
Lucius snorted with contempt.
"Don't lie to me, boy," he growled. "I saw the disgust in your eyes. The pity. The fear." He spat out the last word as if its very taste was disgusting. "Do you think the Dark Lord didn't notice that? Do you think everyone didn't see it?"
Draco felt his heart accelerate. He tried to say something, but the words stuck in his throat.
"You are weak," Lucius continued, his voice now quieter, more controlled, which made it even more terrifying. "Your mother has spoiled you. Made you soft, sentimental, foolish."
He moved closer, so close that Draco could smell whiskey on his breath.
"But I won't allow it," he hissed. "I won't let you destroy everything I've worked for. Everything I've built for this family."
His hand shot out suddenly, grabbing him by the jaw with such force that the boy hissed in pain.
"Listen to me carefully, Draco," Lucius said, his fingers digging into his son's skin. "In the world we live in, there is no place for emotions. For mercy. For weakness. There are only those who control, and those who are controlled."
He released his son's face and stepped back, examining him with cold calculation.
"Your emotions are your weakness," he continued. "Every feeling you show, every reaction you don't control—that's a weapon you give to your enemies."
Draco stood motionless, staring at his father. He felt something breaking inside him—some last barrier, the final bastion of hope that things could be different.
"You don't understand, do you?" Lucius asked, and in his voice appeared a note of something that might have been sadness if it hadn't been so cold. "You think you can feel and survive? That you can show weakness and not be destroyed?"
He walked to the window, staring into the darkness beyond the glass.
"When I was not much older than you, my father taught me this same lesson," he said quietly. "I thought he was cruel. That he hated me." He turned to look at Draco. "Now I know he was protecting me. In the only way he knew."
He returned to his son, his steps quiet on the thick carpet.
"So now I am protecting you," he said, his voice soft, almost tender, which made his words even more frightening. "Teaching you to survive in a world that does not forgive weakness."
He drew his wand with a slow, fluid motion. Draco instinctively stepped back. When he closed his eyes at night, he could still feel the Cruciatus and the cane falling on every inch of his body.
"Father..." he began, but Lucius raised his hand, silencing him.
"I won't punish you," he said. "Not this time. Instead... I'll show you something."
He placed the tip of his wand to his own temple. A silver strand of memory hung from its end, glimmering in the room's half-light.
"This is a memory," he explained. "From the day when I made a mistake that almost cost me everything."
He approached the dresser where a small Pensieve stood—a family artifact, used for generations. He placed the memory in it, which swirled like silver mist.
"I want you to see this," he said, gesturing for his son to come closer. "So you understand."
Draco approached slowly, uncertainly. Never before had his father shared memories with him. Especially not those from the war.
"What will I see there?" he asked quietly.
Lucius looked him straight in the eyes.
"You'll see what happens when a Malfoy loses control," he answered. "When he allows emotions to take over reason."
Draco leaned over the Pensieve, and the world around him swirled. When he opened his eyes, he was standing in a dark, damp room. Before him knelt a younger Lucius—his hair was shorter, his face less tired, but his eyes... his eyes were full of fear.
Before him stood Lord Voldemort, younger, less snake-like, but equally terrifying. And on the floor lay a young woman, her body twisted in an unnatural position, eyes wide open, dead.
"I didn't mean to..." the young Lucius was saying, his voice trembling. "My Lord, she... she was nothing. A servant. I didn't know..."
"You didn't know?" Voldemort's voice was soft, almost amused. "Or rather... you didn't control your anger, Lucius? Your pride?"
The Dark Lord walked around the woman's body, examining it with interest.
"This Muggle was nothing," he agreed. "But she was under Macnair's protection. She had information. She was valuable."
He leaned over Lucius, his pale fingers lifting the young man's chin.
"And you killed her," he whispered. "In a fit of rage. Without orders. Without permission."
Voldemort's wand rose.
"Crucio."
The young Lucius's scream filled the room. Draco watched in horror as his father writhed in agony, as his body jerked in uncontrolled spasms, as blood trickled from his mouth.
The spell continued and continued, and he couldn't look away. He saw how his father's mask—the same one he had known his entire life—completely fell apart. How his face contorted in a grimace of pure suffering, how his eyes filled with tears, how his lips formed words begging for mercy.
Finally, the spell ended. Young Lucius lay on the floor, trembling, his breathing shallow and uneven.
"Remember this lesson, Lucius," said Voldemort, his voice now gentle, almost fatherly. "Control is everything. Without control, you are useless. And useless servants... I have no need for."
Voldemort turned to leave but paused for a moment.
"Next time," he added, without turning around, "it won't be you. It will be your beautiful wife. Or your newborn son."
The memory swirled and Draco found himself back in his bedroom. He felt nauseous, sweat ran down his back, and his heart was pounding like a hammer.
Lucius stood before him, observing his reaction with an unreadable expression.
"Now do you understand?" he asked quietly.
Draco nodded, unable to speak. In his mind, his father's screams and Voldemort's threat still echoed.
"This is not a matter of pride. Or tradition. Or even the honor of the Malfoy family." He took a step toward his son. "This is a matter of survival. Yours. Your mother's. Mine."
He placed his hand on Draco's shoulder, and Draco noticed something he had never seen before—a slight trembling of that hand, a shadow of fear in his father's eyes.
"Control, Draco," Lucius said, squeezing his shoulder. "Control over every thought. Every feeling. Every word and gesture. It's the only weapon we have. The only shield."
He released his son's shoulder and stepped back.
"Tomorrow you will return to the drawing room," he said, his voice cold and composed again. "You will look into the eyes of the man you tortured. And you will show nothing. No regret. No fear. No weakness."
He turned to leave but stopped at the door.
"If you don't learn to control your emotions," he said without turning around, "you will lose everything. Us. Yourself." He paused for a moment. "And I won't be able to save you."
When the door closed behind Lucius, Draco sank onto the bed. His body was trembling, but his mind was strangely calm. Something in him had changed, transformed, hardened.
He stood up and approached the mirror. He looked at his face—pale, tired, with eyes full of pain and fear. Slowly, methodically, he began to arrange his features. He straightened his back. Raised his chin. Smoothed the wrinkles between his brows. Until finally he was looking at a mask—perfect, cool, controlled.
The Malfoy mask.
* * *
He hated Silver Constellations. That pretentious decor, those silly, twinkling stars floating beneath the ceiling, that goblin silver service that left a metallic aftertaste on the tongue. But above all, he hated what this restaurant represented—the facade of a perfect life he had to maintain.
Draco Malfoy observed his wife over his wine glass. Celestine was beautiful—that couldn't be denied. Her porcelain skin, perfect oval face, refined accent, and flawless manners made her an exemplary pureblood wife. But when she looked at him with those empty, bright eyes, he felt only coldness. The same coldness that filled their bedroom and every conversation.
At least she had stopped mentioning that unfortunate incident from a few days ago when he hit her during a nightmare. Since that moment, Celestine hadn't let him forget about it. "No gentleman raises a hand against a woman," she repeated at every opportunity. Draco knew this dinner was part of his atonement—a way to finally silence the issue.
It was also a perfect way to dissuade her from the idea of filing an official complaint against Hermione for her visit yesterday. "Do you really want to waste time on such nonsense? Better think about how you'll dazzle everyone at Silver Constellations," he'd told her before they left. And as always, the appropriately planned manipulation worked flawlessly.
"What do you think of this wine?" Celestine asked, elegantly raising her glass. "The sommelier claimed it's the best vintage, but for me it's too heavy."
"It's perfect," Draco replied automatically, though he had barely noticed the taste. His thoughts were still circling around the events of the last two days—first Granger in his living room, then him in her apartment, that cursed kiss, and Potter's children. It was definitely too much for such a short time.
"I spoke with Daphne today," said Celestine, placing a perfect portion of appetizer on her fork. "Blaise's condition isn't improving. The Healers still have no idea what's causing this coma."
Draco felt an unpleasant contraction in his stomach.
"Did you visit him?" he asked, though he knew the answer. Celestine avoided hospitals like the plague—too many smells, too many diseases, too much... ordinariness.
"Of course not," she wrinkled her nose. "I sent flowers. That's enough."
"I should drop by Theo's tomorrow," Draco muttered. "Maybe he'll have some new information."
"Speaking of information," Celestine smoothly changed the subject, "I still think I should file an official complaint against that Granger of yours. The way she burst into our home was absolutely unacceptable."
Draco suppressed a sigh. Since yesterday, he had been trying to get this idea out of her head. The last thing he needed was an official complaint that could provoke a deeper investigation from the Ministry. He hadn't created Claritas, true, but not all the potions he produced would please the Ministry.
"Do you really want to waste time on such nonsense?" he asked with a perfectly measured dose of boredom. "Filing a complaint will only attract attention, and we don't need the Prophet sniffing around the company right now."
"Her behavior was scandalous," Celestine pressed her lips into a thin line. "To treat a pureblood witch with such disrespect, in her own home!"
"I've already told you, ignore it," his voice hardened. "Hermione Granger is the last person who should concern you. I have it under control."
Celestine was silent for a moment, as if weighing his words.
"Fine," she said finally. "I'll let it go for now. But if that woman comes near us again..."
"She won't," he interrupted her. "Trust me, I made it very clear to her yesterday what I think of her methods."
Celestine seemed satisfied with his answer. She smiled slightly and changed the subject.
"What do you think of that cream dress from Twilfit & Tatting's for the Notts' party?" she asked, her tone indicating that the Granger topic was closed. "The one with diamond embroidery. It will match your new robe, the dark green one."
"You'll look dazzling," he replied automatically, having no idea which dress she was talking about. Celestine had dozens of them, and they all seemed disturbingly similar to him—elegant, expensive, and completely without character. Like her.
"Do you really think so?" she asked with that particular glint in her eye that he immediately recognized. This was the moment in the evening when she expected some gesture from him, confirmation of his devotion. He had learned that it was easier to give her what she wanted than to endure the tension later.
With smoothness he had polished over the years, he took her hand and raised it to his lips, placing a brief kiss on it. His eyes never left her face, and his lips formed into a perfectly calculated mixture of tenderness and confidence.
"You'll be the most beautiful woman at the party," he said quietly, his thumb tracing small circles on her wrist. "As always."
Celestine smiled, clearly pleased with his response. She was always predictable in her vanity—a few well-chosen compliments, a small gesture of affection, and her ego was satisfied for the next few hours.
"You only say that because you still feel guilty," Celestine said, though her tone was now less accusatory and more teasing. "But I accept the compliment."
"It's not a compliment, just a statement of fact," replied Draco, grateful that his strategy had apparently worked. "At least until you stop sulking over that incident."
"You raised your hand against me," she reminded him, though without her former vehemence.
"I was having a nightmare," he replied, feeling a familiar twinge of irritation. "I've already explained that to you. You woke me at the worst possible moment."
"And that's exactly why you're sitting here with me now, instead of working on a new potion formula," she noted with satisfaction. "I appreciate this... compensation."
Draco restrained himself from rolling his eyes. How typical of her to present his penance as an act of generosity on her part.
"Now that we've discussed my imaginary faults," he skillfully changed the subject, "perhaps we can focus on something more practical? For instance, what about that new French distributor your father mentioned?"
Celestine readily took up the business topic, which was always safe and comfortable ground for her. Draco listened with polite interest, occasionally interjecting a comment or suggestion, but his thoughts wandered elsewhere.
To Granger and their last meeting. To that room in her apartment where he stole a kiss from her. Their first real kiss. It was unplanned, impulsive—actually everything he usually avoided. But something about her, about her stubbornness, about her brave confrontation with him, always threw him off balance.
And now? Now he didn't know what to do with that barrier they had crossed. With that new intimacy that had crept between them. Because a kiss was intimate in a way that sex never was. Sex could be anonymous, mechanical, soulless. A kiss... a kiss required something more.
"Draco, are you even listening to me?" Celestine's voice pulled him from his thoughts.
"Of course," he lied smoothly. "You were talking about the clauses in the contract with the French."
Celestine rolled her eyes but didn't pursue the topic. Instead, she asked:
"What about the Ministry case? I heard Potter is conducting some special investigation. Do you have any information about that?"
"Potter is always conducting some special investigation," he shrugged. "Apparently being the Chosen One isn't enough—he also has to be a superhero in the Auror Department."
"It's important that we know what's happening. Especially if it could affect the company."
"I'll take care of it," he said finally. "But I don't think it's cause for concern. Potter is still the same idealistic idiot he was at school."
Celestine smiled slightly, as if his answer satisfied her. But Draco saw something in her eyes that made him uncomfortable—as if she knew more than she was admitting.
The evening continued. They exchanged polite remarks, discussed business, plans for the future, upcoming social events. But the whole time, Draco felt as if he was playing a role in a play—every word, every gesture was carefully directed, perfectly executed, completely empty.
Only with Granger was he real. Paradoxically, only in those seedy rooms where they indulged in the most humiliating acts did he feel authentic. Only there could he drop the mask he wore every day. Only there could he be angry, cruel, weak, lost—real.
And now? After that kiss? Everything had changed. They had crossed a line from which there was no return. And although he knew their relationship was toxic, distorted, and probably destructive for both of them, it was the only thing in his life that seemed real.
He should send her another black rose. The question was: would he do it?
And would she come?
* * *
Sundays were the only day when Draco Malfoy allowed himself the luxury of sleeping in. There were no morning meetings at the company, no business to close, no clients or contractors demanding attention. Sundays were sacred—the only day when he could pretend his life belonged to him.
The sun had long since risen, flooding the bedroom with cool, autumn light, but he still lay in his enormous four-poster bed, balancing on the edge between sleep and wakefulness. Beside him slept Celestine, breathing evenly, her back turned to him. As always, even during sleep, she maintained distance—immaculate, elegant, inaccessible.
Draco turned to his other side, burying his face in the soft pillow. He had neither the strength nor the desire to confront another day of pretending everything was fine. Especially after last night's dinner at Silver Constellations, which was one big performance for an audience he couldn't even see.
And then, after returning home, he suddenly felt the need to send a black rose. The second one that same day. Against all reason, against fears that they had crossed an irreversible boundary. He couldn't restrain himself. The black rose was sent. And as usual, he expected Granger to appear at the appointed time. But she didn't come.
This was the first such situation in their six-month history. Every time he sent a rose, she appeared. Without exception, regardless of circumstances. This ritual was the only certain thing in his life. And now even that had changed.
Was it because of that kiss? Was it really so momentous? Or maybe...
His thoughts were interrupted by a sudden noise from downstairs. A dull thud, as if someone had forced the front door, and then raised voices and the trampling of many feet on the marble floor. He sat up abruptly, listening. Beside him, Celestine continued sleeping, unaware of the commotion.
"What the hell..." he muttered, reaching for the wand lying on his nightstand.
Footsteps on the stairs were becoming louder and faster. Someone was running toward their bedroom. Draco jumped out of bed, holding his wand in one hand, searching for his dressing gown with the other. He was wearing only silk pajama pants.
Before he could even straighten up, the bedroom door opened with a bang, hitting the wall with such force that the echo carried throughout the entire floor. Celestine jumped up with a scream, immediately pulling the blanket to her chest.
Hermione Granger stood in the doorway. Not alone—behind her he noticed two Aurors in official robes. But it was she who captured all his attention. She was dressed in the official robe of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, her hair pulled back in a severe bun, and her face expressed absolutely nothing—neither embarrassment at the sight of him and Celestine in bed, nor triumph, nor hesitation. Only cold professionalism.
"Draco Malfoy," she said loudly and clearly, "by the authority vested in me by the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, I come with a warrant to search this property and a warrant to bring you in for questioning in connection with the investigation into the illegal potion known as Claritas."
Draco froze, staring at her in disbelief. Was this her response to the black rose? Arresting him?
"What is the meaning of this?!" Celestine squealed, still holding the blanket under her chin. "How dare you burst into our bedroom?! Who are you people anyway?!"
"Hermione Granger, Department of Magical Law Enforcement," Hermione replied, not even honoring Celestine with a glance. Her gaze was fixed on Draco. "Auror Jenkins and Auror Ross," she indicated the men accompanying her in turn. "They have full authorization to search this house and secure any evidence related to the Claritas case."
"Granger," Draco finally regained his voice, "have you lost your mind? I already explained to you that Claritas has nothing to do with me. It's not my product. It's not produced by my company."
"Save it for the interrogation," she replied coldly. "Mr. Malfoy, you have fifteen minutes to get dressed and come downstairs. If you don't, we will be forced to use force."
"You can't do this!" Celestine jumped out of bed, wrapping herself in a dressing gown lying nearby. Her face was pale with fury and humiliation. "My husband is a respected businessman! You have no right to burst into our home and treat him like a common criminal!"
"We have a warrant, Mrs. Malfoy," one of the Aurors pulled out an official parchment with the Ministry seal. "Signed by the Head of the Auror Office himself, Harry Potter. Everything is according to the law."
Draco felt an icy shiver run down his spine. Potter. Of course Potter had a hand in this. He probably suspected something was going on between him and Granger since that evening, and now he had found a pretext to take revenge on him.
"Draco," Celestine turned to him, panic visible in her eyes, "tell them it's some kind of mistake. Tell them you have nothing to do with this potion!"
"I tried," he replied, not taking his eyes off Hermione. "But apparently Miss Granger has some personal scores to settle in this matter."
A shadow of emotion appeared on Hermione's face for a moment—something like anger or perhaps hurt—but she immediately controlled her expression.
"This is not a personal matter," she said icily. "This is an official Ministry investigation. We found a vial of Claritas with Percy Weasley. Similarly with Padma Patil and other victims. They are all in comas. And the company that supposedly produces this potion doesn't exist in any official registers."
"And that automatically makes me guilty?" Draco laughed without a trace of amusement. "Really, Granger, I thought you were smarter. Did it occur to you that this company might have deliberately covered its tracks? That it might be operating illegally? That it might..."
"Enough talk," she interrupted him sharply. "Fifteen minutes. Then the Aurors will begin the search. And I'm taking you to the Ministry."
Draco wanted to respond, but Hermione had already turned on her heel and left the bedroom, leaving one of the Aurors at the door.
"I'll go downstairs with Miss Granger," the second Auror said to his colleague. "You make sure the suspect doesn't slip away."
"Suspect?" Celestine made a sound full of indignation. "My husband is the owner of the largest potion-producing company in Great Britain! He is not a 'suspect'!"
"Celestine," he placed a hand on her shoulder, "calm down. This is just a misunderstanding. I'll go with them, explain the matter, and return."
"You can't just give in like that!" she exclaimed, panic audible in her voice. "What will people think? What will my father think?"
Draco barely restrained himself from rolling his eyes. Of course she's worried primarily about reputation, about what her family will think. Even at a time like this, it wasn't about him, but about appearances.
"Contact our defenders," he said, getting out of bed. He was wearing only silk pajama pants and felt uncomfortable under the Auror's scrutinizing gaze. "Have them meet me at the Ministry. And tell Nott to halt all transactions until this matter is clarified."
Celestine nodded, somewhat calmed by Draco taking control of the situation. He always performed best under pressure—that was one of his traits that initially attracted her to him.
"I'll remind you," Celestine lowered her voice, casting a furtive glance toward the Auror. "Granger is the same woman who burst into our home two days ago. The same one you wouldn't let me file a complaint against with the Wizengamot."
Draco clenched his jaw. Yes, that was a mistake. He should have allowed Celestine to file a complaint; perhaps it would have prevented Granger from today's show of force.
"We'll clarify everything," he said, though he wasn't sure how.
He moved toward the bathroom, but the Auror immediately blocked his path.
"Where are you going?" he asked suspiciously.
"To the bathroom," Draco replied, not hiding his irritation. "Surely you don't expect me to go to the Ministry in my pajamas?"
The Auror hesitated but finally nodded.
"Leave the door open," he said firmly.
Draco didn't respond, just entered the bathroom and began to prepare. He washed his face with cold water, trying to gather his thoughts. What the hell was happening? Why had Granger suddenly decided to arrest him? And what was the meaning of her not coming to their meeting yesterday? Apparently, she had decided to end it all in the most dramatic way possible.
While dressing, he carefully selected each item of clothing. No status symbols, no ostentatious accessories. Nothing that could be interpreted as arrogance. If he was to face interrogation at the Ministry, he needed to look like a serious businessman, not a self-important aristocrat.
When he came out of the bathroom, Celestine, still wrapped in the blanket, asked:
"What do they think they'll find? You don't keep anything illegal at home, right?"
The question hung in the air, and Draco felt irritation for a moment. Was his own wife suggesting he might be guilty?
"Of course not," he replied coldly. "As I've said, this is some misunderstanding."
"And you're sure you have absolutely nothing to do with this... Claritas?" Celestine pressed, examining him scrutinizingly.
"I'm sure," he replied firmly, though a shade of impatience appeared in his voice. "Really, Celestine? Now you're starting to accuse me too?"
"I'm not accusing you," she answered quickly, but her eyes were still suspicious. "I'm just trying to understand why the Ministry is suddenly interested in you in this matter."
"Ask Granger," Draco muttered, buttoning his shirt cuffs. "She's the one running this circus."
As he descended the wide, marble staircase, with Celestine and the Auror right behind him, his home looked like it had been hit by a hurricane. Aurors were searching every corner, opening every cabinet, examining every book. Hermione stood in the middle of the hall, issuing orders and noting something on a parchment.
"Search the laboratory in the basement," she was saying to one of the Aurors. "Pay special attention to unusual ingredients—dragon blood, unicorn horn dust, petrified mandrake leaves."
Draco approached her, ignoring the glances from other Aurors.
"You won't find those ingredients in my laboratory," he said quietly. "I don't produce Claritas."
Hermione turned to him, her eyes cold as ice.
"We'll see about that," she replied. "Now we're going. A long interrogation awaits us."
"On what specific grounds are you arresting me?" asked Draco, not moving from his spot. "Because so far I only see abuse of power and a personal vendetta."
"You're a suspect because you have the means, motive, and access to ingredients," Hermione answered. "Now we're going. The Aurors will finish the search and join us with evidence, if they find any."
"Draco, this is absurd," Celestine shook her head, her eyes flashing with anger. "First you burst into our home unannounced, accusing my husband of some imaginary crimes, and now you're arresting him without evidence? My father will hear about this. The French Minister of Magic as well."
"Good. Let them know. Perhaps they'll be eager to join the interrogation." Hermione shrugged, unmoved by the threats. "The law is on our side."
"And justice?" Draco asked quietly, so that only she could hear. "Is that on your side too, Granger?"
Their gazes met, and for a moment Draco had the impression that he saw something in her eyes that resembled hesitation. As if for a fraction of a second, the mask of professionalism had fallen, revealing the woman he knew from motel rooms—lost, broken, desperately seeking oblivion. But then she shook her head slightly, as if dispelling unwanted thoughts, and the mask returned to its place.
"Please deliver the suspect to the Ministry," she said to one of the Aurors, ignoring the question. "I'll finish the search."
"Granger," he tried once more, but his voice sounded strangely weak even to himself.
"Take him away," Hermione ordered, turning her back.
Celestine grabbed his arm, her fingers tightening on his forearm with desperate force.
"Draco, don't let them do this," she whispered, fear audible in her voice. Not for him—he suddenly understood with crystal clarity. She was afraid for herself, for her position, for what others would think. "This will destroy our reputation."
Hermione drew her wand with a fluid motion, twirling it between her fingers in a seemingly casual gesture. Her eyes, cool and calculating, rested on Celestine.
"Paragraph seventeen of the Criminal Procedure Code clearly states that obstructing an investigation or pressuring an officer of the Department of Law Enforcement is punishable," she said in a calm, matter-of-fact tone, while her wand stopped, pointing exactly between them. "Sometimes what destroys reputation, Mrs. Malfoy, is not a public investigation, but private secrets that come to light during such an investigation."
Her gaze shifted from Celestine to Draco, and in her eyes appeared a cold flash of understanding. Aware that her words carried more than one layer of meaning.
"The Ministry always maintains absolute discretion... up to a point," she added, and the tip of her wand glowed with a gentle, warning light. "It will be better for all interested parties if cooperation is full and... prompt."
Celestine stepped back, clearly disconcerted by this display of power hidden behind official jargon.
"Contact Blackstone," Draco said, gently freeing himself from her grip. "And send an owl to my mother."
His wife nodded, turned on her heel, and walked away quickly, presumably to carry out the orders issued by Malfoy.
The Aurors grabbed him by the shoulders, leading him toward the exit. Draco didn't resist. There was no point. It would only worsen his situation.
"Wait," he said suddenly as they approached the door. "Give me two minutes. I need to have a word with Mrs. Granger. In private."
The Aurors exchanged uncertain glances.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Malfoy, procedure dictates..." the older one began.
"Two minutes," Draco repeated firmly. "That's all I'm asking for."
"We can't leave you alone with Mrs. Granger," protested the second Auror. "Regulations clearly state..."
"It's fine," said Hermione, surprising everyone. "Two minutes. I wanted to clarify something before the interrogation anyway."
The Aurors hesitated, unsure if they should obey.
"You can leave the door open," Hermione added. "We'll stand right by the entrance."
"Alright," the older Auror agreed reluctantly, releasing Draco's arm. "But not a step further. And no tricks."
As soon as the Aurors stood beyond the threshold, Draco moved closer to Hermione, close enough to whisper, but not so close that the Aurors might find it suspicious.
"You didn't come yesterday," he said so quietly that she barely heard him. "Why?"
Hermione froze. Her fingers tightened around her wand until her knuckles turned white.
"Is this your answer?" he pressed. "Is this how you end what was between us? By arresting me for something I didn't do?"
Now she turned, her eyes cold and unfamiliar, as if they belonged to someone he had never met before.
"There was nothing between us, Malfoy," she replied in a voice devoid of emotion. "Nothing that mattered."
These words hit him harder than any spell. He felt something break inside him—some last thread of hope whose existence he wasn't even aware of. For six months they had met in the worst places, done the worst things to each other, but there was always some strange, twisted truth between them. And now she was denying it, erasing it, as if all those nights had never happened.
"You're lying," he said, and in his voice rang a new note—something between anger and pain. "And we both know it."
Her face twitched, as if she was fighting some strong emotion, but she quickly controlled her expression.
"Time's up," she said loudly, turning toward the door. "Potter is waiting at the Ministry. Take him away," she ordered the Aurors, looking away.
The Aurors returned, grabbing Draco by the shoulders. This time he didn't protest. He felt a strange numbness, as if the world around him had suddenly become less real. As they went outside, the last thing he saw was Hermione standing motionless in the hall of his home, looking after him with an expression he couldn't read. And then he felt the jerk of Apparition, and everything disappeared in a swirl of darkness.
They appeared in the Ministry of Magic, in one of the side corridors leading to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. The corridor was empty—it was Sunday, most employees had the day off. But they knew where to go. They led him toward the interrogation rooms, the same ones where his father had once been interrogated.
"You'll wait here for Mrs. Granger and the Head of the Auror Office," said one of the Aurors, opening the door to a small, gloomy room. "It may take a while."
Draco entered the interrogation room with his head held high, trying to maintain the remnants of his dignity. The door closed behind him with a dull thud, and he was left alone.
Only now did he allow himself to sink onto the metal chair, feeling his legs giving way beneath him. What had just happened? How had his life spiraled out of control so quickly?
Just last night he had been at home, sending a black rose to Hermione, waiting for her to appear at the motel he had chosen. Just the day before yesterday, he had held her in his arms, kissed her lips, crossed the boundary they had both avoided for so long. And now? Now he was sitting in an interrogation room, suspected of producing an illegal potion, and Hermione was pretending that nothing had ever been between them.
Was it possible that he had been wrong? That he had overestimated the significance of their relationship? That for her, he was just... a tool? A means to an end? That it wasn't the other way around? That he wasn't the one in control of it all, despite what he thought?
On the other hand, such sudden changes in her approach weren't consistent with her character. Hermione Granger had always been consistent, even in her self-destructive behavior. So what had changed?
The answer came to him suddenly and was so obvious that he felt foolish for not thinking of it earlier.
Potter.
Potter must have found out. About them. About the black roses. About everything.
And suddenly it all made sense—why she hadn't come yesterday. Why she stood in his bedroom this morning with that cold, professional expression on her face. Why she pretended that there had been nothing between them.
Hermione Granger had chosen her side. And it wasn't his side.