Chapter 11
Cold. That was the first thing she felt as she regained consciousness. Piercing, damp cold that penetrated to the bone. Her eyelids were heavy, as if held by an invisible force. With effort, she opened her eyes.
She was again in a cramped, stone cell. A different one. The only light came through a small, barred opening in the door. The air was stale, permeated with the smell of moisture, blood, and urine.
"Ron," she whispered, her voice barely audible, her throat burning like fire.
She spotted him in the corner of the cell, lying on dirty straw. His face was as white as chalk, his lips blue. He was breathing—shallow and uneven, but breathing. Hermione felt a wave of relief so strong that she momentarily lost her breath.
She crawled to him, ignoring the pain of her own injured body. The stump of his leg was wrapped in scraps of fabric—she had torn her blouse to create a makeshift bandage. The material was soaked with blood, but the bleeding had at least partially stopped.
"Ron," she repeated, gently touching his cheek. "Ron, can you hear me?"
His eyelids fluttered, and after a moment he opened his eyes—cloudy with pain and fever, but conscious.
"Hermione," he whispered, his voice so weak that she had to lean in to hear him. "You're alive."
"Yes," she answered, trying to smile despite the tears welling in her eyes. "We're both alive."
Ron tried to move and hissed in pain. His gaze traveled down to where his leg should be. A shadow of understanding crossed his face.
"So it wasn't a nightmare," he said quietly.
Hermione shook her head, unable to speak. She gently adjusted the bandage, trying not to look at the mutilated limb.
"They threw us in the same cell," she finally said. "They already know I don't have any information either."
Ron nodded, his eyes half-closed with exhaustion. He raised a trembling hand and touched her cheek, wiping away tears.
"Hermione," he said, and there was new strength in his voice. "Listen to me."
She looked into his eyes, seeing in them a determination she hadn't expected from someone so weakened.
"If you have a chance to escape," he said slowly, each word costing him effort, "you must do it. And leave me behind."
"No," she protested immediately. "Never. I won't leave you."
Ron smiled weakly.
"You've always been stubborn," he whispered. "But this time you have to listen to me. I... I won't get out of here on my own. Not with..." his gaze traveled again to the stump of his leg.
"I'll think of something," Hermione said feverishly. "I'll find a way. We'll get out of here together."
Ron shook his head, and the effort of this simple action made him wince in pain.
"Hermione," he said firmly. "Promise me. If you have a chance, you'll escape. You have to live. You have to help Harry. That's... that's more important than me."
She opened her mouth to protest, but Ron squeezed her hand with surprising strength.
"Promise me," he repeated.
She looked at him for a long moment, seeing in his eyes something she had never noticed before—absolute certainty that what he was asking was right.
"I promise," she finally whispered, though the words tasted like ash.
Ron exhaled with relief, and his grip on her hand weakened.
"Good," he said quietly. "Good."
His eyes began to close, exhaustion and pain taking over.
"Don't leave me yet," whispered Hermione, moving closer to embrace him.
"Never," Ron replied, though his voice was barely audible now. "Even if... even if you leave me... I'll always be with you."
His breathing became deeper, more regular—he fell into an uneasy sleep. Hermione held him close, as if by sheer force of will she could maintain life in his body.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Hermione listened to that sound, allowing it to fill her mind, replacing fear and despair with something simpler—a rhythm that continued, regardless of everything.
"I'll find a way," she whispered to the sleeping Ron. "I promised I'd leave you if I had a chance. But I didn't promise I wouldn't try to get us both out of here."
In response, she heard only his shallow breathing and the relentless drip, drip, drip of water falling onto the stone floor.
* * *
Hermione sat at her desk in the Ministry, mechanically sorting documents related to the Claritas investigation. She had come to work much earlier than usual, wanting to avoid curious glances and whispers. After yesterday's scene with Harry during the hearing, and then their private argument, she knew rumors were already circulating through the corridors.
The sleepless night in an empty hotel room, where she had waited for Draco who never appeared, left her physically and emotionally exhausted. She wasn't crying anymore—the tears had dried up somewhere around four in the morning, replaced by numbing fatigue.
"Miss Granger?" a voice at the door pulled her from her thoughts.
Kingsley Shacklebolt stood in the doorway, his tall figure filling almost the entire passage. He looked tired, but his eyes were alert and attentive as always.
"Minister," Hermione quickly stood up. "Please come in."
He closed the door behind him and sat in the chair opposite her desk, declining with a gesture when she offered him tea.
"Difficult day yesterday, wasn't it?" he asked without preamble.
She nodded, not knowing what to say. She wondered if the Minister had come to express disapproval for her publicly challenging Harry's evidence.
"I wanted to thank you," said Kingsley, surprising her. "For maintaining rationality and following procedures, even when others were acting on emotion."
"Not everyone shares that opinion," she replied quietly.
"You mean Harry?" Kingsley sighed. "Harry is an excellent Auror. He has instinct, determination, and courage. But sometimes... sometimes he gets too involved. He's too desperate to catch the guilty party—any guilty party—to solve the case."
"He has good intentions," Hermione felt the need to defend her friend, despite the pain he had caused her.
"Of course," Kingsley agreed. "We all do. But in a situation like this, when people are suffering and the answers aren't obvious, we need someone who will remain cool and rational. Someone like you."
She felt a blush creeping up her cheeks. After Harry's accusations yesterday, Kingsley's praise was like a balm for her wounds.
"The Wizengamot couldn't convict someone based on such flimsy evidence," the Minister added. "That wouldn't be justice, and that's precisely what we've fought for all these years. Let the investigation continue. The potion has been officially withdrawn from sale, but people who took it earlier are still being admitted to St. Mungo's. We need every available mind to solve this puzzle."
"Are there any new leads?" she asked, involuntarily engaging with the topic.
"A few," Kingsley nodded. "We're organizing a banquet on Saturday. Officially, to reassure the public and show that the Ministry is taking action. Unofficially—to gather key people related to the case in one place."
"A banquet?" Hermione raised her eyebrows in disbelief. "In this situation?"
"Especially in this situation," Kingsley confirmed. "People need to see that we're not giving up. Besides, we've managed to secure a private sponsor who will financially support the entire investigation. Their identity will be announced during the banquet."
"Who is it?" she asked curiously. "And why would someone want to finance a Ministry investigation?"
Kingsley smiled mysteriously.
"Details are still being worked out," he answered evasively. "You'll learn everything at the banquet."
"And Harry?" Hermione asked, unable to prevent the tremor in her voice. "Will he be there too?"
"Harry is currently busy with fieldwork," Kingsley replied. "He'll return on Saturday, just in time for the banquet."
Hermione felt mixed emotions—relief that she wouldn't have to face Harry right away, but also anxiety at the thought of their inevitable confrontation on Saturday.
"I'm counting on your presence, Hermione," Kingsley added, standing up. "Your attendance will signal to the public that the Ministry's best minds are working together to solve the problem."
He nodded to her and headed for the door, but paused for a moment.
"And remember," he added, "regardless of what Harry said—you did the right thing."
After he left, Hermione sat in silence for a long time, contemplating his words. The Minister's praise somewhat eased the pain of yesterday's events, but couldn't completely soothe it.
* * *
The week separating her from the banquet merged into one stream of overworked days and sleepless nights. Hermione threw herself into work with the desperation of a drowning person clutching at a last lifeline. She arrived first, left last, reviewing files until late, analyzing the ingredients of Claritas, trying to find any lead to the cause of the mysterious comas.
Yet she had done all this before. She spent the first two days checking every document related to the Romanian company that officially produced the potion. Everything seemed to be in order—licenses, certificates, safety tests.
On the second day, she began visiting St. Mungo's. A depressing silence reigned in the ward for Claritas victims, interrupted only by the steady beeping of magical machines monitoring vital functions. Patients lay motionless, their eyes closed, breaths shallow. Percy, Padma, three ministry employees, two Aurors, a retired Hogwarts professor, a mother of three children...
"No changes," Healer Chang would say, shaking her head. "Vital signs stable, brain activity accelerated."
Hermione would sit by Percy's bed, staring at his pale face, so similar to Ron's, yet so different. A sob would escape her throat, which she immediately suppressed. She had no right to tears. No right to grief.
On the third day, she began increasing her potion doses. Her standard calming concoction stopped working, so she added a stronger one. Then another. The mixtures became increasingly dangerous, but she didn't care. Anything not to feel.
"You look terrible," Luna told her candidly when they ran into each other in the Ministry atrium. "Could it be nargles? They sometimes attack people in mourning."
"In mourning?" Hermione laughed bitterly. "I haven't lost anyone."
But that wasn't true. She had lost Harry—his trust, their friendship. And she had lost... whatever it was with Draco.
Throughout the week, she watched every owl, every letter she received. Each time correspondence appeared, her heart would race. A black rose. Maybe this time? Maybe today?
But it never came. Not one. The answer was eloquent enough.
Whatever connected her to Draco—that toxic, destructive relationship—had categorically ended. For some reason, this awareness hurt more than it should. She shouldn't feel regret. She should feel relief that this destructive spiral had been broken.
But she didn't feel relief. She felt an emptiness that grew deeper with each day. She felt a longing that increased rather than diminished. And she needed so badly to disconnect from it that she reached for increasingly powerful substances.
By the fourth day, her hands trembled so much that she had to use a stabilizing spell to write. Nights became a nightmare—sleep wouldn't come without a double dose of sleeping potion, and when she did fall asleep, she was haunted by visions of Percy in a coma, Harry shouting accusations, and Draco turning his back on her.
She would wake up drenched in sweat, with a scream on her lips. Potion. More potion. More and more.
On the fifth day, the eve of the banquet, Hermione looked in the mirror and again didn't recognize the person staring back at her. Pale skin, dark circles under her eyes, disheveled hair. Thinner than ever, with protruding cheekbones and collarbones visible beneath her skin.
"Who have I become?" she whispered to the empty apartment, expecting no answer.
She knew she had to pull herself together before tomorrow's banquet. She needed to look normal, professional, like the Hermione Granger everyone knew—competent, composed, confident.
Not like the shell she had become. Not like the woman who waited all night in a hotel room for a man who didn't come. Not like the person whose hands trembled and whose thoughts wandered in dark corners of shame and guilt.
On the day of the banquet, her nerves were stretched to the limit. Stress built with each hour until finally she had to take a double dose of calming potion to stop her hands from shaking. The thought of facing all those people—colleagues, officials, journalists—made her nauseous.
Just a few weeks ago, they whispered about her with respect. They feared her stern judgments, her uncompromising approach to regulations. "Granger's coming"—that phrase would cause panic among lazy ministry officials.
And now? Now they would whisper about something completely different. About her public clash with Harry Potter. About her defense of Draco Malfoy. About her unexpected change of position.
"Unstable," "unpredictable," "crazy"—these words would certainly circulate behind her back. Maybe they were even right? Maybe she really was losing her mind, if she allowed herself... all of this?
"At least Draco won't be there," she said to herself, fastening the last button at her cuff. That was the only comforting thought. After the humiliation of the trial, after she had publicly accused him of contributing to the suffering of so many people, and then just as publicly withdrawn those accusations—there was no chance he would appear at a ministry banquet.
She decided on a simple but elegant outfit. Black, fitted high-waisted pants. A white silk blouse buttoned up to the neck, with silver buttons at the cuffs—professional but feminine. No ornaments except for small pearl earrings she had received from her parents for her twentieth birthday. She tied her hair in a tight, elegant bun—no loose curls, no frivolity. She wanted to look serious, competent, like someone who had complete control over herself and the situation.
Reality couldn't be further from this image.
She had to apply makeup with the help of a hand-stabilizing spell—her hands trembled too much to precisely apply mascara. Foundation concealed the paleness of her complexion and the dark circles under her eyes, but couldn't mask the sickly thinness of her cheeks.
"You can do this," she repeated to herself, staring in the mirror. "It's just a few hours. Smile, be polite, but distant. Don't talk to Harry if possible. And under no circumstances show what you're really feeling."
But what was she actually feeling? Fear? Yes. Shame? Without a doubt. But there was something else. Something she didn't want to name, but which appeared every time she thought of Draco. Longing? Desire? Or maybe just an addiction demanding to be satisfied?
She shuddered and tightened her fingers around the vial of potion she intended to take with her. Just in case.
The Ministry banquet was held in the Main Ballroom—a spacious room rarely used since the war, now renovated and gleaming with splendor. Crystal chandeliers floated beneath the ceiling, casting warm light on the gathered guests. Elegant tables set with exquisite dishes. An orchestra playing subtle music in the corner of the hall. Everything perfectly arranged to create an atmosphere of calm and control—exactly what magical society needed now.
Hermione slipped into the hall through a side entrance, trying not to attract attention. She took a glass of champagne from a tray floating in the air, more as a prop than with the intention of drinking. Something that would allow her to occupy her hands and avoid awkward handshakes.
She hadn't even managed to take a few steps when she heard the first whispers. Two older wizards from the Department of International Magical Cooperation glanced in her direction, then leaned their heads in a confidential exchange. A young secretary from the Department of Magical Transportation immediately looked away when their eyes met.
"Hermione!" Ginny's voice cut through the buzz of conversations. "Here you are!"
The red-haired witch approached her, smiling warmly. Dressed in an elegant emerald gown, she looked stunning.
"Ginny," Hermione tried to smile. "I didn't know you were coming."
"Harry returned from Romania today," she explained, kissing her on the cheek. "He barely made it in time for the banquet. He's... well, not in the best mood."
"He didn't find anything?" she asked, trying to sound professional.
"He found a Romanian company that actually exists, but it looks like someone stole their name and trademark," Ginny lowered her voice. "The real owners had no idea about Claritas."
Hermione frowned. This confirmed her suspicions that the whole case was more complicated than initially thought.
"That means someone deliberately created fake permits and certificates," Hermione whispered. "Someone who knew exactly how to trick the ministry's quality control system."
"Harry thinks it must have been someone from the inside," Ginny nodded. "Someone who knows the procedures."
Hermione was about to respond when the sound of a spoon tapping against a crystal glass interrupted their conversation. Kingsley Shacklebolt stood on a platform in the central part of the hall, waiting for the guests to quiet down.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he began in a magically amplified voice when silence fell. "Thank you all for coming in these difficult times. As you know, we've gathered today to confirm our commitment to resolving the crisis related to the Claritas potion."
Hermione noticed how those gathered shifted uneasily at the sound of the potion's name. The fear was still fresh.
"Although the potion has been withdrawn from the market, we still need to find a way to help those who have fallen victim to it," Kingsley continued. "Therefore, I am pleased to announce that the Ministry of Magic has received significant financial support for research and development of an antidote."
A murmur passed through the hall. Hermione tensed, remembering the mysterious sponsor Kingsley had mentioned.
"I wish to officially thank and introduce the donors whose generosity will allow us to intensify our efforts," Kingsley smiled, and Hermione had the impression that his gaze rested on her for a moment. "I proudly announce that Mr. Antoine Rosier, a prominent French entrepreneur in the magical medicine industry, has donated five hundred thousand galleons for research into an antidote. Although Mr. Rosier could not be with us personally today, he is represented by his daughter and son-in-law—Mr. and Mrs. Celestine and Draco Malfoy!"
Hermione felt the champagne glass almost slip from her suddenly numb fingers. Malfoy? Here? Kingsley's words hit her with the force of a stunning spell, making her momentarily unable to catch her breath. Her heart accelerated to a dangerous pace, and she heard the dull rush of blood in her ears. It was impossible. Not after the trial, not after her accusations.
Draco and Celestine Malfoy emerged from the door behind the platform. She—dazzling in a champagne-colored dress that emphasized her slender figure and perfectly complemented her fair skin and golden hair. He—in a perfectly tailored black suit, with emerald cufflinks that gleamed in the light of the crystal chandeliers.
The couple stood beside Kingsley, creating an image of the perfect, aristocratic marriage. Draco was holding his wife by the waist. Celestine smiled with dignified courtesy, perfectly playing the role of her father's ambassador.
"Is everything all right?" Ginny whispered, looking at her with concern. "You suddenly went pale."
Hermione couldn't answer. Her throat tightened, and her mouth dried like paper. Her gaze was fixed on Draco's hand resting on his wife's waist—the same hand that had recently explored every inch of her body, drawing sounds from her whose existence she had not previously suspected.
"Mrs. Malfoy, as Mr. Rosier's daughter, will oversee the use of the funds," Kingsley explained. "And Mr. Malfoy has additionally offered his knowledge and experience in fighting this crisis."
"That's a surprise," Ginny muttered, observing the couple on the podium. "I didn't think Malfoy would get involved in this matter."
Hermione remained silent, for what could she say?
"May I have your attention." Kingsley's voice again filled the hall. "Our fight against Claritas is entering a new phase. Miss Granger, could you join us?"
Hermione froze upon hearing her name. All eyes in the room turned to her. She felt Ginny gently pushing her toward the podium.
"Go," she whispered encouragingly. "This is your chance."
With legs like lead, she moved through the hall. Each step required enormous effort, as if she were fighting through a thick fog. When she reached the podium, Kingsley gestured for her to stand beside him, opposite the Malfoys.
"Miss Granger, as the head of the Claritas task force, will coordinate our efforts," Kingsley explained. "But I have one more important announcement. Mr. Malfoy, as the owner of the largest potion-producing company in Great Britain, has agreed to personally engage in our investigation."
Hermione felt her stomach tie in a knot. No. This couldn't be happening.
"Mr. Malfoy," Kingsley turned to Draco. "Perhaps you could explain the scope of your involvement yourself?"
Draco released his wife's waist and stepped forward. His gray eyes met Hermione's gaze for a moment, and then he addressed the gathering.
"As a specialist in the field of potions, I feel a personal responsibility for what is happening in our industry," he began in a confident, calm voice. "Although Claritas is not a product of my company, I have the knowledge and resources that can help identify its ingredients, understand the mechanism of action, and—most importantly—develop an antidote."
He paused for a moment, and his gaze again rested on Hermione.
"I have no experience in conducting investigations or finding perpetrators," he continued. "That's what competent Aurors and employees of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement are for. But I can offer full access to my laboratories, research teams, and personal assistance in developing a potion that will awaken the victims from their comas."
The room erupted in applause. Hermione stood frozen, her mind working feverishly, trying to understand what was happening. Draco Malfoy, the man she had almost sent to Azkaban, now stood beside her on an official stage, offering help in solving the Claritas puzzle.
"Thank you, Mr. Malfoy," Kingsley nodded approvingly. "And that leads me to the final announcement. Starting tomorrow, we are appointing a special team consisting of our best specialists. Miss Granger will handle the legal and procedural side, Mr. Potter, who returned from Romania today, will manage the field investigation, and Mr. Malfoy will be responsible for laboratory research and developing an antidote."
Hermione felt her blood turn to ice. She was to work with Draco? Every day? Alongside Harry?
"I look forward to this collaboration," Draco's voice pulled her from her shock. He extended his hand to her, his face remaining perfectly composed. "I count on our combined skills to quickly solve this puzzle, Miss Granger."
Hermione looked at his outstretched hand. For a second she hesitated, then, aware of hundreds of eyes watching her, she extended her own hand.
"Of course, Mr. Malfoy," she replied, trying to make her voice sound professional and confident. "The priority is to help the victims."
His hand closed around hers—warm, strong, familiar. The touch lasted only a moment, but she could still feel it long after he had released her hand and returned to his wife's side.
"I propose a toast to a new stage in our fight against Claritas!" Kingsley addressed the audience. "To the cooperation that will allow us to overcome this threat!"
The room erupted in applause, and Hermione stood on the podium, wondering if any of the people present could see how hard she was trying not to fall to pieces.
How would she survive working with Draco? How would she face Harry? She knew only one thing—she needed a double dose of potion to get through this night.
She left the podium on shaky legs, feeling the gazes of the gathered guests upon her. She heard whispers, seeing out of the corner of her eye how people leaned toward each other, commenting on the unexpected turn of events. The new team. Collaboration with Malfoy. All of this must have been the subject of heated speculation.
As soon as she reached the edge of the hall, Ginny immediately appeared at her side, gently grabbing her elbow.
"Hermione, what does all this mean?" she asked in a hushed voice. "Why is Malfoy suddenly getting involved in the case? Did you know you would be working with him?"
"I..." Hermione swallowed with difficulty, feeling her throat tightening more and more. Her hands began to tremble so strongly that she had to clench them into fists. "I'm sorry, Ginny. I need to go to the bathroom. I'll be right back."
Without waiting for her friend's response, she quickly headed toward the exit from the hall. She felt sweat breaking out on her forehead, and her breathing becoming shallow and jerky. She needed the potion. Now. Immediately. Otherwise, she would fall apart in front of everyone.
She went through the corridor, instinctively heading to a distant bathroom. Not to the one closest to the ballroom. To the same one where everything had begun.
She pushed the heavy wooden door and entered. The bathroom looked exactly as she remembered it. And it had the same atmosphere of intimate elegance that had been the backdrop for her first downfall.
Here, almost seven months ago, during a similar ministry reception, she had met Draco Malfoy. Here, at these same sinks, the first words full of venom and hidden desire were spoken. Here she had given herself to him for the first time, allowing his hand to muffle her cry of pleasure.
And now she had returned, alone, with trembling hands and a desperate need for numbness.
She quickly checked all the stalls, making sure she was alone. Then she pulled out a vial of calming potion from her small purse. Her fifth dose of the day. Far exceeding the safe limit.
She looked at her reflection in the mirror. Pale face. Dilated pupils. Trembling lips. The professional image she had so carefully built was crumbling before her eyes.
"What are you doing with your life?" she whispered to her reflection, unscrewing the vial.
Without waiting for an answer she wouldn't hear anyway, she tilted the vial and drank its contents in one decisive gulp. The bitter taste of the potion filled her mouth, but it was a familiar feeling, almost soothing.
She rested her hands on the cold marble of the sink, waiting for the potion to take effect. She breathed deeply, counting the seconds until she would feel the familiar numbness that allowed her to function. Three... four... five...
Her hands stopped trembling. Her breathing evened out. Her heart slowed to a normal rhythm. The potion was working, spreading a false calm through her body, a chemical stability that allowed her to put on a mask of control.
"I will survive this," she said firmly to herself, straightening up and adjusting her clothes. "I survived the war. I survived Ron's death. I will survive working with Malfoy too."
But deep inside, in a place that even the strongest potion couldn't reach, she knew she was lying.
The bathroom door opened with a quiet creak. Hermione froze, still staring at her reflection in the mirror. She didn't need to turn around to know who had entered. She would recognize that step anywhere—confident, measured, ruthlessly controlled, like everything about him.
Draco Malfoy stopped a few steps behind her. In the mirror, she could see his reflection—his straight posture, perfectly tailored suit, cold gray eyes that now stared at her intensely.
"I knew you would be here," he said quietly.
"What do you want?" she asked, discreetly hiding the empty potion vial.
He ran his hand over the marble sink, looking around the bathroom with a strange, nostalgic expression on his face.
"Isn't it ironic?" he finally asked, ignoring her question. "This is where it all began. In this same bathroom. At a similar reception."
Hermione tightened her hands on the edge of the sink, feeling how the potion, despite its power, was unable to suppress the wave of anxiety that flowed through her.
"We have nothing to talk about," she replied stiffly.
"No?" he raised an eyebrow. "Yet you slipped away from the banquet and came exactly here. To the place of our first meeting. Sentiment, Granger? Or are you looking for something you've lost?"
He moved closer, and his eyes glinted dangerously in the dimmed light of the bathroom.
"Don't interpret my actions through the lens of your own twisted fantasies," she replied, trying to sound confident. "It's just a coincidence."
Draco smiled coldly, not taking his eyes off her. He approached in one fluid motion, causing her to instinctively back away. Her back touched the cold wall. Before she could react, he placed his hands on her hips with a certain, commanding gesture.
She froze. His body was too close, his scent—familiar, tantalizing—filled her nostrils, triggering a wave of unwanted memories. One of his hands moved lower, to her buttock, and a shiver ran through her body.
She knew this touch. She knew what would come next. In a moment, he would press her harder against the wall, his lips would find that sensitive spot on her neck, and she would again forget everything—her professionalism, morality, Ron...
But Draco had other plans. His fingers slipped deftly into the back pocket of her pants, pulling out the empty vial of calming potion. He immediately stepped back, holding the container between his fingers and examining it carefully.
"Of course," he said, turning the glass vial in his hand. "A coincidence. Like the empty vial of calming potion in your pocket."
Hermione felt her cheeks burning—both from shame and humiliation. How dare he approach her like that? And how could she, even for a moment, think that...
"Give that back," she snapped, extending her hand. "It's none of your business."
"Are you trying to kill yourself, Granger?" he suddenly asked, ignoring her demand. His voice was strangely calm, devoid of its usual mockery. "Because if so, there are faster and more effective methods than overdosing on calming potions."
She felt a pang of anxiety. She hadn't expected such a question—nor that it would sound almost like concern.
"Don't be absurd," she replied, straightening up. "It's just a way to... function more easily."
"Function?" he repeated in disbelief. "You call this functioning? You can barely stand."
"It's none of your business," she repeated, crossing her arms over her chest. "Give back the vial and leave."
For a moment they measured each other with their gazes—she angry and ashamed, he cool and composed.
"It's not too late to stop," he said suddenly, and in his voice appeared a note she hadn't heard from him before. Something that in anyone else's mouth might have sounded like concern. "Before you lose control completely."
"I don't need your advice," she hissed. "Or your false concern."
He smiled—it wasn't that mocking grimace she knew so well, but something more complicated. A mixture of cynical amusement and something she couldn't name.
"Who said I care about you, Granger?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. "Maybe I just don't want you to destroy yourself because I reserve that right for myself."
Hermione clenched her fists, feeling growing anger breaking through the numbness caused by the potion.
"So that's what this is about?" she asked, raising her chin. "You want to destroy me? Take revenge for the trial?"
Draco narrowed his eyes, looking at her with strange intensity.
"The trial was just a symptom," he answered after a moment. "Not the cause."
"What do you want then?" she pressed, trying to ensure her voice didn't betray how much her hands were shaking. "To humiliate me? Make me regret ever standing in your way?"
"Fascinating," Draco muttered, as if conducting scientific observation. "You always bring everything back to yourself. To your guilt. To punishment that must come."
He turned the empty vial in his fingers.
"Maybe it's not about you, Granger," he said quietly. "Maybe it's about what you've become. About the fact that you can no longer think rationally because you're too focused on your own pain."
Hermione stepped back, feeling his words strike too close to the truth to ignore.
"Leave," she said simply, pointing to the door. "We have nothing to talk about."
Draco observed her for a moment in silence, and his face was as unreadable as always. Then, to her surprise, he nodded slightly.
"As you wish," he replied quietly. "But I'll keep this."
He raised the empty vial he was still holding.
"As a memento," he added with a cold smile. "Proof that the great Hermione Granger also has her weaknesses."
He turned and headed toward the door, but paused for a moment without turning around.
"Consider who's really destroying you, Granger," he said quietly. "Me? Or perhaps you yourself, with each successive vial? See you tomorrow at work."
Without waiting for a response, he left, leaving her alone with a question to which she didn't want to know the answer.
She had to return to the banquet. She had to... pretend. Just a bit longer.
She splashed cold water on her face, fixed her makeup with a spell, and smoothed her dress with trembling fingers. Leaving the bathroom, she took a deep breath, as if preparing to plunge into icy water.
The banquet hall hit her with a wave of stimuli—too bright lights from the crystal chandeliers, too loud music from the string quartet, too intense perfume scents. Everything seemed to pulsate, press upon her, invade her skin.
Across the hall, she spotted Harry talking with Kingsley. He didn't even look in her direction, though he must have noticed her return. Ginny stood nearby, talking with Luna. She didn't want to join their conversation.
So she headed toward a less crowded corner of the hall, hoping to wait out the worst part of the banquet there. Maybe in half an hour she could slip away without drawing attention to herself.
She found a small niche behind one of the enormous columns, partially hidden by heavy velvet curtains. She leaned her back against the cool marble, trying to calm her breathing. Her hands were still trembling, and cold sweat was beginning to run down her back.
"Mrs. Granger," the voice she heard was soft and melodious, with a distinct French accent.
Hermione opened her eyes, which she hadn't even realized she had closed. Celestine Malfoy stood before her.
"Mrs. Malfoy," she nodded stiffly, straightening up despite increasing dizziness.
"I didn't want to interrupt... whatever you're doing here," Celestine looked around the shadowy niche with a slight smile, "but I thought we should talk. In light of recent events."
Hermione remained silent, lacking the strength to maintain a conversation, especially with Draco's wife.
"I just wanted to make it clear to you," the French woman continued, her voice remaining polite though cold, "that I do not wish for your presence in my home any longer. After what happened."
"I understand," she replied, forcing herself to stay calm.
"I've also informed our house-elf not to let you in under any circumstances. Even if you claim to be there in an official capacity. That's what official summons and documents are for, isn't it?"
Her tone was sweet, but her words sharp as a razor. Hermione felt a blush of shame creeping onto her cheeks. Celestine was right—she had intruded into their home without an official warrant, manipulating the elf.
"It was an exceptional case," she tried to defend herself, though her voice sounded weak even to herself.
"Of course," Celestine agreed politely. "An exceptional case explains breaking protocol, manipulating our elf, and making accusations without evidence. Fascinating how the standards of the British Ministry have... evolved since the war."
Hermione clenched her hands into fists, feeling her nails digging into her skin. The pain helped her focus her thoughts, which were becoming more chaotic with each moment.
"The trial has already taken place," she reminded her coldly. "Your husband was cleared of charges."
"And yet here we are," Celestine sighed theatrically. "You, hiding in a corner like a frightened child. And I, forced to ask you to leave my family alone."
Hermione felt her knees weakening. Memories that she usually suppressed with potions were beginning to press against the edges of her consciousness.
"Is that all?" she asked, fighting nausea.
"Almost," Celestine ran her hand over her perfect necklace. "I also wanted to point out that contrary to what you might think, Draco is not alone. He has a family that supports him. A wife who loves him. A home where he feels safe."
She looked at Hermione with an expression that could be taken for sympathy, if not for the coldness in her eyes.
"And you, Mrs. Granger? Who do you have? Who stands behind you when everyone turns away from your... unfortunate decisions?"
This question hit Hermione with the force of a physical blow. Ron was dead. Harry had stopped talking to her after the humiliation of the trial. Ginny was loyal to her husband, so sooner or later she would probably distance herself too. Most of her acquaintances from Hogwarts had lost contact with her after the war.
She was alone.
"That's none of your business," she replied, feeling her voice catching in her throat.
"You're right," Celestine admitted, stepping back. "It's not my business. I just wanted to clarify the situation regarding our home."
At that moment, Hermione noticed movement behind Celestine's back. Draco was approaching them, his platinum hair gleaming in the light of the chandeliers. He moved with elegance and confidence that she had always admired in him, even when she hated him.
"Here you are, darling," he said, embracing Celestine by the waist with such natural tenderness that Hermione felt a stab in her heart. "I've been looking everywhere for you."
He leaned down and kissed his wife on the cheek, and his hand rested on her hip in a gesture so intimate as if they were alone. Celestine smiled at him with love, the authenticity of which was the most painful blow.
"I was just talking with Mrs. Granger," she said, nestling against him with perfectly measured delicacy. "Explaining... the situation."
"Oh?" Draco looked at Hermione as if he had just noticed her. "Granger. I didn't expect to find you here."
There was no malice or mockery in his voice. Only cold indifference, as if she were a casual acquaintance, not a woman with whom he had shared the most intimate secrets for six months.
"I was just leaving," she replied, straightening up with difficulty.
"No need," Draco waved his hand nonchalantly. "It's a public place. You have every right to be here."
His hand stroked Celestine's arm in a tender gesture. He leaned over and whispered something in her ear, to which she laughed softly, resting her head on his shoulder.
"Draco, darling," his wife said, looking at him with adoration that seemed so authentic it was painful. "You promised me a dance, remember?"
"How could I forget?" he replied, and in his voice appeared a note that Hermione had never heard from him before. Warm, full of feeling, almost... loving.
Celestine turned to Hermione for a moment more.
"I hope you understood my request," she said politely. "And that we won't have to revisit it."
"Request?" Draco raised an eyebrow, looking at his wife.
"Nothing important, darling," she stroked his cheek with tenderness that made Hermione have to look away. "Territorial matters. As befits a wife caring for her home."
Draco nodded, as if he perfectly understood what she meant, then glanced briefly at Hermione.
"Have a pleasant evening, Granger," he said, his voice polite but completely devoid of emotion. As if he were talking to someone he barely knew.
He put his arm around his wife and led her toward the dance floor, where several couples were already dancing. The entire way, he didn't leave Celestine's side for a moment, his hand resting on her back in a gesture both protective and evidently possessive.
Hermione watched them disappear into the crowd, then take to the dance floor. Draco embraced Celestine with an elegance that must have been the result of years of training. They moved together like a single being, perfectly in sync, beautiful, wealthy, and worst of all, happy.
They looked in love. Truly in love.
The feeling that flowed through her was so intense and unexpected that she staggered, grabbing the column to keep from falling. She couldn't name it. She wouldn't allow herself to name it. Because naming that feeling would be admitting something she couldn't accept.
That what she felt, watching Draco Malfoy dancing with his wife, wasn't just jealousy of his happiness.
It was jealousy of her.
Of the woman who could touch him publicly. Who bore his name. Who knew him beyond the walls of seedy motels and dirty bathrooms.
"No," she whispered to herself, closing her eyes. "No, no, no."
But it was too late. The thought had nestled in her mind, impossible to expel.
She was jealous of Celestine Malfoy. Of her right to Draco.
And that meant her feelings toward him went beyond the hatred and desire she had convinced herself of.
This awareness, combined with the fading effect of the potion, was unbearable. She had to get out of here. Immediately.
With one last look at the dance floor, where Draco was just leaning down to whisper something in Celestine's ear, Hermione headed toward the exit, feeling her world falling apart.
* * *
The crack of apparition resounded in the elegant entrance hall of the Malfoy residence. Draco still held Celestine by the waist, his fingers resting on the silky material of her dress. Despite the late hour, the house wasn't dark—magical lamps lit automatically, welcoming the owners with a gentle, warm light.
"The banquet was exhausting," he said, removing his outer robe with one fluid motion. "I hate such events."
Celestine looked at him with a slight smile, hanging her cloak on the stand by the entrance.
"Really?" she asked, raising an elegant eyebrow. "Yet you seemed exceptionally... engaged."
Draco stopped mid-step, turning to his wife with a questioning look.
"Engaged?"
"You were exceptionally affectionate," she explained, coming closer. "Quite demonstratively so. I don't remember the last time you touched me so often in public."
Draco felt irritation. He didn't like it when someone analyzed his behavior. Even—or perhaps especially—Celestine.
"I was simply playing my role," he replied coldly. "It was an evening when all eyes were on us. On you, on me, on our family. We had to look appropriate."
His wife tilted her head, observing him with that irritating perspicacity he sometimes noticed in her.
"Appropriate for whom?" she asked quietly.
Draco didn't answer. He wasn't in the mood for this conversation. For any conversation. He felt growing frustration that had been bubbling in him all evening, from the moment he saw Granger in the bathroom, with her empty vial of calming potion. Just as addicted as when he had seen her last. Maybe more so.
What use was that woman if she could be just as corrupt as he was?
Instead of answering, he approached his wife with one quick step. He cupped her face in his hands and kissed her—violently, unnaturally, with a desperation he had never shown before. Celestine made a surprised sound, but immediately responded to the kiss, her hands climbing to his shoulders.
It wasn't their first kiss—they had been married for years, sharing a home, a bed, a name. But he rarely initiated this type of intimacy. Their marriage was more a transaction than a relationship—she got the prestige of the Malfoy name, he got the influence of her family in France. They did sleep together occasionally, but it was more fulfilling an obligation than true passion. At least on his part.
Now, however, he was kissing her with a desperation he didn't understand himself. His hands wandered over her body, squeezing too hard, too violently. He didn't care. He didn't care about anything except the desire to erase from his memory the image of Hermione Granger, her sunken cheeks, dilated pupils, and trembling hands.
"Draco..." Celestine gasped when he tore his lips from hers to attack her neck. "What's gotten into you?"
"Quiet," he growled, pushing her toward the stairs. "Just... quiet."
She led him obediently, backing toward the bedroom on the first floor. She stumbled on the second step, but he held her with a strong arm, not interrupting the kisses. His fingers tangled in her carefully styled hair, ruining the hairdo her personal stylist had worked on. Her heels fell onto the marble steps with a soft clink, but neither of them paid attention.
They reached the bedroom without interrupting their intense kisses. Draco pushed the door, which opened with a soft creak. A fire burned in the fireplace—the house-elves always made sure the rooms were prepared. The delicate light cast soft shadows on the walls, and through the tall windows, the starry sky was visible.
Celestine backed up until she reached the edge of the bed. She fell onto it, pulling Draco with her. Her hands moved to his shirt, unbuttoning it with a skill he had never noticed in her.
"I didn't know you could be so... passionate," she whispered as his lips moved along her neck, leaving a moist trail. "You're always so controlled..."
"I told you to be quiet," he repeated, tightening his hand on her hip.
He didn't want words. Words always complicated everything. He only wanted to lose himself in physicality, in simple, animal reflexes that required no thinking. He wanted to forget. About Granger. About her addiction. About how she looked when he saw her last in that squalid motel, her face contorted in ecstasy under his touch.
Celestine's dress had a complicated fastening that he could never decipher. He pulled the material too violently—there was a crack of tearing silk.
"Draco!" his wife gasped indignantly. "This dress cost..."
"I'll buy you a new one," he interrupted her, allowing the shreds of material to fall to the floor.
Celestine froze for a moment, looking at him with a mixture of surprise and concern. Then her face brightened in a smile that didn't reach her eyes.
"In that case..." she murmured, returning to unbuttoning his shirt. "Let me take care of you."
With nimble fingers, she freed him from his shirt, revealing a pale torso marked with several scars—souvenirs of past mistakes, fights, humiliation. She ran her hands over his skin, examining every inch with a new kind of interest, as if seeing him for the first time.
Draco closed his eyes, allowing her touch to fill his senses. But instead of Celestine's small, elegant hands, under his eyelids he felt those others—slightly broader, with ink under the nails, with small calluses from a quill on the index finger. Granger's hands.
He pushed away the memories and grabbed his wife's face, kissing her again—harder, more violently, almost punishing her for the thoughts that haunted him.
Celestine slid off the bed, kneeling before him on the carpet. Her hands moved to his pants, unbuckling his belt, then the buttons. Draco looked down at her, at her light hair that now fell in disarray around her face, at her perfectly symmetrical features. She was beautiful. Objectively, undeniably beautiful. Like a statue carved by a master. Perfect in every inch.
And she moved him not at all.
Her fingers slipped behind the waistband of his pants, pulling them down along with his underwear. Draco exhaled through clenched teeth, feeling the cool air on his bare skin. Celestine looked up at him, and a note of surprise appeared in her eyes.
His body wasn't responding.
She moved gently along his thigh, and then her hand traveled upward. Draco closed his eyes, trying to concentrate. To imagine something that would arouse him. Anything.
"It's all right," Celestine whispered, leaning in to kiss him on the stomach. "It happens sometimes. Let me..."
Her lips moved lower, and Draco forced himself not to back away. Not to push her away. She was his wife, for Merlin's sake. His rightful, legal wife. And he had the right to want this. He had the right to desire her.
But his body had other ideas.
Celestine was determined. Her mouth and hands worked with experience and skill, trying to elicit a reaction from him. He stared at the bedroom ceiling, at the elaborate stucco in the shape of dragons that he had specially ordered from Italy. He tried to focus on the physical sensations—on the warmth of her mouth, the moisture of her tongue, the rhythmic movement of her hand.
Nothing.
With each moment, he felt growing rage. At himself. At his body, which was betraying him. At Celestine, who was too delicate, too elegant, too... perfect.
And at Granger, who had somehow ruined everything.
After a few minutes, she finally gave up. She sat back on her heels, looking at him with an expression he couldn't read.
"Something wrong?" she asked quietly.
Draco turned his head, unable to bear her gaze. Humiliation burned him like fire.
"I'm tired," he said through clenched teeth. "It's been a long day."
"It's not fatigue," she replied calmly, rising from her knees. "It's something else. Someone else."
Draco felt his blood freeze. Did she know? Had she guessed?
"I don't know what you're talking about," he replied, pulling his pants back up. His movements were nervous, lacking their usual grace.
"It's about the trial, isn't it?" she asked, sitting beside him on the bed. "About all those accusations. About Granger."
Draco froze at hearing that name from her lips. He felt his heart accelerate.
"Don't be ridiculous," he growled, standing up abruptly. "The trial is in the past. I was acquitted."
"But you're still affected by it," Celestine pressed. "I see it in your eyes when her name comes up. I saw it today when I was talking to her at the banquet. Something changed in your face when you approached us."
"Enough," he cut her off sharply. "I don't want this conversation."
"Draco, you can tell me..." she began, reaching out toward him.
"I said ENOUGH!" he roared, his voice echoing off the bedroom walls.
Celestine withdrew her hand as if he'd struck her. A shadow of fear appeared in her eyes, which she immediately extinguished.
"Leave me alone," he said more quietly, not looking at her. "I need... a moment."
She sat motionless for a moment, her face a mask she had learned to wear through years of marriage to him. Without a word, she stood up, picking up her silk robe from the floor. She draped it over her shoulders and headed toward the door.
"You know where to find me if you change your mind," she said, closing the door behind her with a soft click.
When he was alone, Draco stood motionless for a moment, listening to the silence. Then, with a violent motion, he punched the wall. Pain exploded in his hand, spreading in a wave up his forearm. But he didn't care. He struck again, harder, feeling the skin on his knuckles split.
"Cursed Granger!" he hissed, striking a third time. "Cursed, bloody stubborn..."
He swore again, more vulgarly this time, kicking the nearby dresser. The beautiful antique porcelain trembled, and one of the vases fell to the floor, shattering into small pieces.
Draco stared at the broken vessel, at the white fragments scattered across the dark carpet. And suddenly he felt fatigue—so deep it almost overwhelmed him. He sank down on the edge of the bed, burying his face in his hands.
What was happening to him? Why couldn't he just forget? Cast her from his memory, like all those others who had passed through his life?
What was it about Hermione Granger that even when he tried to lose himself in his own wife's arms, her image stood before his eyes? Her contorted face as she took a calming potion. Her trembling hands. Her eyes, which seemed to say, "Help me."
He knew he should hate her. After she tried to destroy him with accusations about Claritas. After she invaded his home. After everything she said during the trial.
But he didn't hate her. And that was worse than hatred.
Because if he didn't hate Hermione Granger, then what exactly did he feel for her?
That was a question he didn't want to know the answer to.