Chapter 18
The International Potions Symposium dragged on for three more days, each painfully similar to the previous one. Hermione quickly learned to recognize the rhythm of these meetings—morning lectures, afternoon panel discussions, evening banquets and receptions. Initially, she tried to participate actively in debates, convinced that information about Claritas would mobilize the community to immediate action.
She quickly discovered, however, how naive that assumption was.
"Fascinating research, Miss Granger, absolutely groundbreaking," an elderly wizard in exquisite robes said to her during the second day of the symposium, only to immediately transition to a story about his new yacht that magically adapted to weather conditions.
Hermione observed the participants with growing bitterness. Even after Draco's announcement that the potion contained illegal and cursed unicorn blood, even after the presentation of data about coma victims—discussions quickly returned to trivial topics, gossip, and business negotiations.
People in elegant robes, with champagne glasses in hand, exchanged empty pleasantries and joked as if dozens of people weren't lying unconscious in hospitals, balancing between life and death.
"Do they even realize the gravity of the situation?" she asked in a half-voice to Draco when they accidentally passed each other at the refreshment table on the third day.
He shook his head, his face momentarily losing its usual mask.
"For them, it's just another conversation topic," he replied quietly. "A theoretical problem, not a real one."
Since that dance on the first evening, they had barely spoken. Draco was constantly surrounded by a group of wizards who wanted to discuss his research, challenge his conclusions, or propose collaboration. Celestine never left him for more than a few steps; her dress changed every day, but her watchful gaze remained the same.
Hermione spent most of her time discreetly observing the hall. Her official role as ministry representative gave her a pretext to participate in conversations, but she rarely truly engaged in them. Instead, she listened to conversations, trying to catch any clues that might lead her to connections between Claritas and its mysterious manufacturer.
Antoine Rosier behaved most suspiciously, often moving away from the group to conduct hushed conversations with various people. But even his behavior could have a completely innocent explanation—he was, after all, an influential businessman with numerous contacts.
Despite all her vigilance and observation skills, she didn't notice anyone truly suspicious—at least not in a way that would be useful to the case. What she did notice was an entirely different kind of "suspicious behavior."
With some surprise, she discovered that the symposium—apart from official lectures and banquets—was also a place for much less official interactions. Pairs of participants regularly disappeared for short periods, returning ten or twenty minutes later with slight blushes on their faces, adjusting their robes or smoothing their hair. No one paid attention to this, as if it were part of the expected protocol.
"It's always like this," Catherine Bouchard, a French potion researcher, told her in a low voice. "International conferences are an opportunity to... let's say, establish closer cooperation." She smiled meaningfully, observing an older wizard leading a younger colleague toward a deserted corridor. Hermione was surprised to discover in herself a strange lightness at the thought that Draco, despite all his flaws, wasn't one of these "disappearing" people.
"Why do I even care?" she asked herself on the third evening, standing on the balcony of her room. The answer she found deep in her mind was too disturbing to address.
The last day of the symposium was a relief in itself. No breakthrough in the investigation, no discoveries that might indicate the culprits.
After the farewell banquet, during which she and Draco exchanged only one brief glance, she returned to her room and packed her suitcase. The set of elegant robes went back into a magically reduced box. She hesitated for a moment with the azure dress, the memory of the dance still too vivid. Finally, she folded it too and put it away, locking away with it the memory of that evening.
In the morning, standing in the lobby of Hotel Enchantement with her suitcase in hand, she observed the last goodbyes and exchanges of business cards. Once more, she scanned the hall with her eyes, looking for something—anything—that might be a clue. But nothing caught her attention.
A few minutes before nine, she approached the Portkey administrator—an older wizard in a gray-blue robe with the insignia of the French Ministry of Magic.
"Hermione Granger, Portkey to London at nine," she said, handing him her pass.
The wizard nodded and gave her a silver hairbrush.
"Five minutes, Miss Granger," he replied politely.
Hermione looked around the lobby, as if searching for someone with her eyes. Draco and Celestine were to return later that day by the Rosiers' private Portkey. There was no chance for... for what exactly? A goodbye? A final conversation? She didn't know herself what she expected.
The brush in her hand began to vibrate gently, signaling its approaching activation. Hermione closed her eyes, preparing for the unpleasant sensation of Portkey transport.
The last thought that flashed through her mind was the memory of the dance—the blue of her dress, the warmth of his hand, the music to which their bodies moved in perfect harmony. And then the Portkey took her back to London, back to reality, where she was a lonely woman with a folder full of notes and a head full of unanswered questions.
Upon returning from Paris, Hermione found a short note from Kingsley on her desk, granting her two days off in recognition of her intensive work during the symposium. In any other situation, she would have protested, convinced of her indispensability, but this time the feeling of relief was so overwhelming that she nearly collapsed into her chair. Two days for herself. Forty-eight hours break from pretending everything was fine.
In her empty apartment, she was greeted by silence and dusty shelves. Without wasting time, she headed straight to the kitchen cabinet where she kept her supply of potions. The cool liquid flowed down her throat, bringing immediate relief. Tense muscles relaxed, the weight in her chest decreased, and her mind stopped obsessively analyzing every minute spent in Paris. She sank onto the couch, allowing the potion to envelop her in its chemical comfort.
She hadn't planned to fall asleep—she just wanted to rest, sort out her thoughts, prepare for the upcoming return to work. But the potion, combined with physical and emotional exhaustion, quickly pulled her into a deep, dark abyss of sleep. She awoke suddenly, in the middle of the night, with a quiet cry on her lips and hands wet with sweat. The same nightmare. The same dungeons. The same moisture of earth under her fingernails. The same inability to save Ron.
Without thinking, she reached for the darker vial she kept on the bedside table precisely for such occasions. She no longer cared about dosage or dilution—she drank the contents in one gulp, feeling the bitter liquid burning her throat before spreading a wave of artificial calm throughout her body. For the rest of the night, she drifted on the border between sleep and wakefulness, in a place where nightmares couldn't reach her, but reality didn't have full access to her either.
She spent her first day off in a state of semi-consciousness. Hours merged together, creating an endless sequence of hazy images and muffled sounds. A bath. Cold toast she couldn't swallow. More potion. An attempt at reading, ending in failure when the letters began jumping and mixing on the pages. Potion again, stronger this time, from the green vial she used only on the hardest days. Long, empty staring out the window, watching people hurrying somewhere, living their normal lives. Looking at old photographs that caused so much pain she had to reach for another vial to suppress the wave of despair.
In the evening, in a rare moment of clarity, she tried to write down her observations from the symposium. Prepare a report for Kingsley. Draw some sensible conclusions. But her mind, clouded by potions, refused to focus. Instead of logical analysis, she produced a chaotic stream of thoughts in which dancing with Draco mixed with Celestine's gaze, and the memory of the nightmare at the motel overlapped with observations of disappearing couples at the symposium. Everything was tangled, illegible, useless.
On the second day, the potions stopped working as they should. She needed more, stronger ones, more frequently. She reached for a reddish mixture bought in Knockturn Alley, which she had promised herself never to use during the day. The liquid induced intense hallucinations—fragments of memories, fantasies, and nightmares mixed together, creating a nightmarish collage of images. At one point she was in the Hall of Mirrors, dancing under an enchanted ceiling full of stars. A moment later, she found herself in a dark forest, soaked to the bone. And then back in the dungeon, with hands full of wet earth. Sometimes she heard Ron's voice calling her from a distance. Other times she felt Draco's strong arms embracing her in a protective gesture.
In rare moments of sobriety, she was haunted by a feeling of shame so overwhelming that she immediately reached for another dose to suppress it. How could she allow herself such laxity? Such complete surrender to weakness? She was Hermione Granger—unwavering, strong, independent. And yet, she lay on the couch, surrounded by empty vials, her mind shattered into thousands of pieces.
Somewhere amidst the chemical fog, she realized that this time she had crossed a line. That this was no longer occasional use of potions to alleviate symptoms of trauma, but full-fledged addiction. That the spiral she had fallen into led in only one direction. But this awareness was too painful to face. It was easier to take another dose. And another. And another.
On the evening of the second day, in a rare flash of lucidity, she tried to prepare for work. She laid out clothes for the next day. Organized documents from the symposium. Set an alarm. All these were mechanical activities, performed with the automatism of someone who doesn't fully understand their purpose but knows they should be done.
And then she reached for the last vial. The potion hit her system like a battering hippogriff—powerful, overwhelming, almost painful in its intensity. The room spun, objects lost their contours, and her own body seemed simultaneously heavy as lead and light as a feather. She tried to reach the bedroom, but her legs refused to obey. She collapsed onto the floor in the living room, barely conscious, lost in stupor.
That's how her two days off passed—in a spiral of self-destruction fueled by potions, where each dose led to another, each hour merged with the next, and reality gradually lost its meaning. It wasn't rest. It wasn't even escapist oblivion. It was slow, methodical self-destruction.
On the third day after returning from Paris, Hermione Granger failed to show up for work for the first time in her life.
* * *
Since returning from Paris, the laboratory had become the only place where Draco could find peace. Bent over the cauldron, he precisely measured phoenix tears, watching as the liquid changed color from deep purple to delicate blue. The antidote was developing more slowly than he wished, but each day brought small progress. If only he could focus exclusively on his work.
The problem was that working on the potion didn't occupy his mind sufficiently, leaving too much room for memories from France. Hermione in the azure dress under the starry, enchanted ceiling. Her body nestling against him during the nightmare at the motel. The sound of her laughter, so unexpected and pure that he almost felt physical pain when he first heard it.
He frowned, adding another ingredient to the mixture. It made no sense. What he felt was irrational, dangerous, unnecessary. He shouldn't be thinking about Granger. He shouldn't be wondering if she was coping with returning to work, if she still suffered from nightmares, if she was using all those potions that numbed her mind. It wasn't his business.
And yet, despite his best efforts, his thoughts constantly returned to her.
The situation wasn't made easier by the icy atmosphere at home. Celestine hadn't spoken to him since their return, flitting through the manor corridors like an offended ghost. The few times he had tried to start a conversation were painful reminders of why their marriage had never gone beyond a business arrangement. Her eyes, always cool and calculating, now blazed with cold fury every time she looked at him.
He knew it was about the dance. One dance at an official ball, which in others' eyes was perhaps unconventional but still within the bounds of protocol. Yet for Celestine, it was a slap—a public humiliation she would never forgive him for.
Draco sighed, setting down the silver spoon. The potion needed to stabilize before adding the next ingredient, which gave him a few hours' break. Perhaps he should use this time to talk with his wife? Try to repair this strange, sterile relationship in which they had both been stuck for years?
He left the laboratory, heading toward the eastern wing of the manor, where Celestine had set up her private apartments. Even in marriage, they preferred to maintain separate spaces—another proof of how little connected them.
He stopped before tall white doors decorated with silver ornament. He expected them to be locked, as usual when Celestine was in a mood to sulk. To his surprise, the doors yielded slightly under the pressure of his hand.
Celestine's room was as completely different from the rest of the manor as one could imagine. While most rooms were kept in dark, elegant tones, her apartment was bright, almost garish. White furniture, cream walls, champagne-colored velvet curtains. The space, which his wife had filled with the most expensive cosmetics, perfumes, clothes, and jewelry, looked like it had been torn from a Parisian fashion magazine.
But Celestine herself was nowhere to be seen.
Draco frowned. Usually at this hour she would be engaged in her complicated beauty ritual—hours spent before the mirror, applying creams, potions, and spells that maintained her perfect appearance.
Only after a moment did he remember that she had mentioned something about visiting Astoria. Of course, he had completely forgotten, absorbed in his work and... other thoughts. He didn't usually pay much attention to her social plans, and she seemed to prefer it that way.
He was about to leave when his eye caught something that didn't fit with the perfect order of the room. From under a silk pillow on the bed protruded the corner of a parchment—a letter someone hadn't managed to hide properly.
He hesitated. He wasn't in the habit of spying on his own wife. Their marriage, though far from ideal, was based on mutual respect for each other's private spheres. On the other hand, something about this letter, so carelessly hidden, aroused his instinctive vigilance.
For a moment he stood motionless, fighting with his own conscience. Finally, convincing himself that it was just a moment of weakness, he approached the bed and extracted the parchment.
The letter was written in elegant, decisive handwriting he didn't recognize.
"My dear Celestine,
Your mother asks that you visit us at the estate before the end of the month. She claims we see you too rarely since you moved to England. While I have the opportunity, I must write that I observed Draco's presentation at the symposium with pleasure. I must admit I am impressed by how professionally he handled the Claritas topic, despite the controversial nature of the discoveries. Perhaps he is finally becoming the son-in-law I always wanted for you.
His laboratory is gaining increasing renown in our circles, which may prove beneficial for family interests. During our next meeting, I would like to discuss potential greater cooperation.
With fatherly love,Antoine"
Draco exhaled with relief. Just an ordinary letter from his father-in-law, even surprisingly complimentary. He was about to put the parchment back when something caught his attention. In the lower right corner of the sheet was a barely visible mark—a small fingerprint left by some substance. Darker than ink, with a subtle sheen that didn't match ordinary parchment.
He frowned, bringing the letter closer to his eyes. The substance had a specific reddish-brown hue. As a potions master, Draco had dealt with hundreds of ingredients, and this particular color seemed disturbingly familiar. He gently rubbed the mark with his fingertip, then smelled it.
A metallic, sweetish scent. His mind immediately supplied the answer he didn't want to accept.
Unicorn blood.
He stared at the spot on the parchment in disbelief. This couldn't be real. He must be mistaken.
Carefully, he folded the letter, slipping it back under the pillow exactly as he had found it. Leaving Celestine's room, he tried not to leave any traces of his presence. Only when he was in the corridor did he allow himself to quicken his pace.
He burst into the laboratory, slamming the door behind him and immediately casting a locking spell on it. From his robe pocket, he took out a handkerchief on which he had preserved a small sample of the mysterious substance, carefully collected from the letter before replacing it.
With trembling hands, he prepared a testing kit. A few drops of reagent, a separating spell, a crystal dish to observe the reaction. He worked quickly, with precision honed over years. Every movement was automatic, while his mind raced forward, considering increasingly disturbing possibilities.
When the final component touched the sample, the mixture glowed with a characteristic silver light that left no room for doubt. It was unicorn blood.
Draco collapsed heavily onto the laboratory stool, feeling a cold shiver run down his spine. Antoine Rosier, his father-in-law, a man with an impeccable reputation in the world of potions, had contact with an illegal substance whose use had resulted in dozens of victims.
The puzzle pieces began to arrange themselves in his mind into a frightening picture. Antoine had seemed strangely interested in the progress of the investigation from the beginning. He was the first to suggest that Draco represent the British Ministry at the symposium. He had also offered to finance additional research on Claritas.
What if... what if it was all part of a plan? Funding the investigation to control its direction. Directing suspicion elsewhere. And then, when everything started moving in a dangerous direction, sabotaging the Portkey so Draco couldn't present his findings.
There was only one thing he didn't understand—why would Antoine risk everything to produce an illegal potion? He already had a fortune, a respected position in society, established political influence. What could be worth such a risk?
He needed to talk to Hermione. She was leading the investigation, she had access to information he didn't possess. Together they could connect the facts, find evidence. Acting alone would be not only unwise but dangerous. If Antoine was indeed behind Claritas, he was prepared to take drastic measures to protect his secret.
Draco rubbed his temples, trying to collect his thoughts. He couldn't just barge into the Ministry and accuse his father-in-law without concrete evidence. The mark on the letter alone wasn't enough—it could be explained in a thousand innocent ways. He needed more, much more, before deciding to act.
Minutes later, he was traversing the corridors of the Ministry of Magic, heading toward Kingsley's office. Despite his earlier considerations about caution, he felt there was no time to lose. If Rosier was indeed behind Claritas, he needed to talk to Hermione as soon as possible.
He turned into the corridor leading to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement when he nearly collided with a figure coming from the opposite direction.
"Potter," he muttered, recognizing him. The Head of the Auror Office had dark circles under his eyes and a tired face, as if he hadn't slept for several days.
Harry stopped, measuring him with a suspicious gaze.
"Malfoy? What are you doing here?"
"Looking for Granger," Draco replied, trying to sound neutral, though the tension in his voice was palpable. "Is she in her office?"
Something in Potter's posture changed; he became even more alert.
"And what do you want from her?" he asked, folding his arms across his chest. "Didn't you have enough... cooperation in Paris?"
Draco suppressed rising irritation. This was exactly what he needed—wasting precious time on verbal skirmishes with Potter.
"It's important," was all he said, trying to step around the auror.
Harry didn't yield, blocking his path.
"However fascinating your private consultations may be, Malfoy," he said with sarcasm, "I'm afraid your romantic plans will have to wait. Kingsley said Hermione isn't in the Ministry at all today."
Draco froze, surprised by this information.
"She didn't come to work?" he repeated, feeling a sudden unease. Hermione Granger absent from the Ministry? That was as improbable as Hagrid refusing to care for a dangerous creature.
"Since when do you care?" Harry narrowed his eyes, but a note of interest appeared in his voice.
"Since it's strange," he replied, too focused on the new complications to continue old school wars. "Granger never misses work. Especially now, during an investigation."
Could it be that Rosier was already acting? That somehow he had learned of their suspicions and decided to eliminate Hermione? He didn't wait for Potter's response. The sudden thought of Hermione in danger made him feel a cold shiver running down his spine.
"Fine, Potter, I don't have time for this," he growled, turning abruptly.
Without looking back, he passed the surprised auror and almost ran down the corridor toward the atrium. Several ministry employees looked at him in surprise as he passed them with quick steps, but at that moment he didn't care what they thought.
The only thing that mattered was reaching Hermione before it was too late. Even if his suspicions proved unfounded, even if he made a fool of himself—some risks weren't worth taking. Not after everything that had already happened.
As soon as he crossed the boundary of the anti-apparition zone, he turned on the spot and disappeared with a quiet crack.
* * *
Hermione drifted between worlds. She existed everywhere and nowhere simultaneously, lost in a spacetime whose rules had ceased to apply. She felt piercing cold invading her marrow, as if someone had replaced the blood in her veins with icy water from the deepest parts of the Hogwarts lake. Yet simultaneously she burned with an unnatural heat, pulsing beneath her skin, igniting her from within like Fiendfyre. Two opposing states, impossible to coexist, yet she experienced them simultaneously, with every cell of her body.
Thoughts in her head raced and halted without warning, colliding in a chaotic dance without rhythm or meaning. Memories, dreams, nightmares—everything merged into a kaleidoscope of images so intense they were almost tangible. She tried to focus her gaze, find an anchor point, anything that might stop the spinning world, but reality disintegrated under her gaze, changing shapes with terrifying fluidity.
Colors around her lived their own lives. The blue of the dress in which she danced with Draco in Paris spread like ink on parchment, transforming into the grim gray of the dungeons where she was imprisoned during the war. In one moment darkness seemed to consume everything, suffocating her with the weight of its presence, only to give way to the blinding brilliance of stars reflecting in the mirrors of the Parisian ballroom. Light and darkness fought for dominance, and she, trapped between them, lost her sense of what was real.
The walls around her breathed like a living being—expanding and contracting in a rhythm she couldn't grasp. The floor undulated beneath her feet as if it were a lake's surface rather than solid ground. Sometimes she felt herself floating in the air, other times she felt crushed to the earth by an invisible weight. Gravity changed its rules according to its own whims, leaving her defenseless against capricious changes.
Sounds reached her distorted, as if heard through a layer of thick water. Ron's whisper, calling her from the darkness, pierced her heart like a shard of ice. She tried to answer, but her lips refused to obey, forming silent words that dissolved in the air. She heard Harry's stern, concerned tone but couldn't understand the words, as if he were speaking a language she had never learned. And then a new voice—low, commanding, familiar. A voice that evoked both irrational fear and unexpected comfort.
Amid this chaos of sensations, her emotions were like a storm on a turbulent sea—anger intertwined with despair, fear with longing, grief with desire. Each feeling appeared with dizzying intensity, consuming her completely, only to give way to another, equally powerful one. She had no time to breathe, to understand, to adapt.
She felt touches on her body—hands moving across her arms, neck, face. She didn't know if they were real or part of the hallucination. Each contact carried with it history, emotions, memories. Ron's warm and loving hands, which she knew better than her own—gentle, careful, always uncertain, as if he feared he might hurt her with his strength. Harry's strong and caring hands, fraternal, familiar, bringing the sense of security she always found in his presence. And then others—cool, decisive, precise. Hands that touched her with a mixture of desire and contempt, fascination and hatred. Hands she had come to know too well in the recent months of her life.
Reality changed without warning, transporting her from place to place, from time to time. For a moment she was in a dungeon, and wet, sticky earth invaded under her fingernails as she desperately tried to dig a grave for Ron with her bare hands. The feeling of helplessness and despair was so overwhelming that it seemed her heart was tearing to shreds. The pain was physical, tangible, too real for her to bear.
Then suddenly she found herself in a dark room, where rain beat against the window in a monotonous, relentless rhythm. Tap. Tap. Tap. Each sound was like a hammer blow, echoing in her head, triggering a wave of panic so intense she couldn't breathe. She trembled, trying to cover her ears, escape the sound that summoned the worst memories.
And then immediately she was in the Hall of Mirrors, her body moving to the rhythm of music she couldn't hear but instinctively felt every note. Someone's arm encircled her waist—strong, decisive, commanding. A touch that sent shivers down her spine, a mixture of fear and excitement she could never fully understand. The feeling of being desired, noticed, appreciated—so deeply detached from her daily experiences that it was almost painful in its intensity.
Reality shattered into fragments that refused to form a coherent whole. Time stopped flowing linearly, the past mixed with the present, dreams with nightmares. She couldn't distinguish what was real and what merely a creation of her poisoned mind. This uncertainty evoked a paralyzing fear in her—the feeling that she was losing control over the one thing she could always rely on: her own mind.
And then everything changed. Suddenly, sharply, painfully.
Her knees struck cold tiles with such force that pain shot through her legs up to her hips. This pain—real, physical, tangible—was like an anchor that for a moment stopped the spinning world. Hard reality broke through the fog, demanding attention. The cold ceramic of the bathroom toilet, whose edge she desperately clutched, was the first stable element in the chaos of her world.
And hands—decisive, strong hands—holding her hair with surprising gentleness, brushing it from her face while another hand, mercilessly practical, brutally inserted fingers into her throat.
Hermione felt a sudden, violent contraction of her stomach, as if someone had clenched a fist around it and brutally twisted. Her body arched in a spasmodic reflex she couldn't control. Terror mixed with relief as the forcibly induced vomiting cleansed her body of excess toxic substances. Once, twice, three times. Each subsequent contraction was somewhat less intense but still painful, humiliating, bringing her back to life against her will.
Tears came to her eyes—partly from physical exertion, partly from a sense of complete exposure, vulnerability, shame. Her throat burned with living fire, as if she were swallowing red-hot coals. Her mouth filled with a bitter, metallic taste that seemed impossible to remove. Never in her life had she felt so powerless, so devoid of control, so... human in her weakness.
"Once more," she heard a voice above her, sharp and decisive, undoubtedly belonging to Draco.
She wanted to protest, to beg for mercy, for a moment's respite. But before she could formulate any thought, she felt his fingers in her throat again, merciless and determined, forcing a reaction she couldn't suppress. Another wave of nausea, another painful contraction that shook her entire body. The mixture of potions she had taken too many of left her system, bringing both relief and suffering.
Humiliation burned her from within more intensely than any physical pain. That he, of all people, saw her in such a state—dirty, weak, pitiful. That it was his hands holding her hair as she vomited. That it was his voice breaking through the fog in her mind. She would have preferred anyone else—Harry, Ginny, even some unknown healer. Anyone but Draco Malfoy, who had always seen only weaknesses in her that he could later feed upon.
For a moment the world blurred before her eyes again. Colors began to spin, voices mixed with the noise in her ears. Her sense of reality was slipping away again, displaced by the deceptive visions of a poisoned mind. And then she felt a strong grip on her shoulders again—sharp, almost painful, but paradoxically soothing in its reality. This pain was real, this touch was real. And slowly, with difficulty, her consciousness began to break through the numbing fog.
Draco stared at Hermione's face with a mixture of relief and concern. Her eyes, unfocused and cloudy just moments ago, were slowly regaining sharpness. He held her firmly by the shoulders, knowing that this physical contact was now her only connection to reality. He felt under his fingers how slight tremors ran through her body, how she struggled to break free from the fog imprisoning her mind.
The bathroom where they knelt was small and cluttered—so unlike the sterile, elegant space in his own home. Towels thrown on a hook instead of carefully folded, cosmetics scattered without clear order, several books standing on a shelf above the sink—as if even in the bathroom she couldn't stop reading. It was all so intensely... Granger.
"Are you coming back to me?" he asked, not recognizing his own voice—too soft, too caring, completely foreign to his ears.
He tracked every change in her face—how her pupils slowly contracted to more normal sizes, how the trembling at the corners of her mouth gradually ceased, how her breathing became deeper and less chaotic. Each of these small signs of improvement brought him a strange relief, disproportionate to the situation.
"Granger," he said again, a bit louder, shaking her slightly. "Look at me. Focus on my voice."
Hermione blinked several times, as if trying to understand where she was and what was happening. Her gaze finally found his face, and in her eyes flashed the first real understanding of the situation.
"Draco?" she whispered, her voice hoarse and weak. "What are you... doing here?"
A good question. What was he doing here, really? Why, when he saw her in such a state, was his first instinct not to leave, not to exploit her weakness, but to help? Why was he sitting on the dirty bathroom floor, holding her in his arms as if his own life depended on it?
"Saving you from your own stupidity," he answered, but the statement lacked its usual malice. "What were you thinking, mixing so many potions?"
Her face contracted, and tears appeared in her eyes. Draco immediately regretted his words. Of course this wasn't the time for accusations. She was lost, frightened, just extracted from nightmarish hallucinations that he knew all too well from the war times.
"Sorry," he said quickly, surprising himself. "I shouldn't have..."
He broke off, seeing that Hermione was beginning to lose touch with reality again. Her eyes became glassy, and a slight tremor passed through her body. The potions were still circulating in her system—vomiting had removed only part of the toxins.
He reached for a glass standing by the sink. He filled it with cold water and brought it to her lips. She obediently took a sip, rinsed her mouth and spat. Her movements were mechanical, as if operating on autopilot. Her face was damp with sweat, and under her eyes were dark shadows that Draco only now noticed—a sign of long-term exhaustion.
"Once more," he instructed, offering her water again. "Now swallow some. You'll be dehydrated."
She obediently followed the command, but her hands shook so badly that water spilled down her chin. Draco wordlessly wiped it with a towel, trying to ignore the strange tightness in his throat.
"Come," he said, putting his arm around her. "You need to lie down."
She tried to take a step, but her legs buckled beneath her. She swayed dangerously, letting out a soft groan of frustration. Draco didn't hesitate for a moment—in one fluid motion, he lifted her into his arms.
Her lightness surprised him. Of course, he had seen her without clothes many times, had touched her body, but only now, holding her completely in his arms, did it truly register. She was frighteningly light, like a child, not like an adult woman. Through the thin fabric of her shirt, he could feel her ribs—too defined, too protruding. Her hip bones stood out sharply, and her arms seemed fragile, as if they might break from too tight a grip.
"Merlin, Granger," he thought with a sudden pang of concern. "When was the last time you ate properly?"
He didn't say this aloud. Instead, holding her securely, he moved toward the bedroom. Her head fell limply onto his shoulder, wet hair sticking to his neck. He could feel her rapid, shallow breathing on his skin.
Walking down the hallway, he realized that her apartment was a reflection of herself—seemingly functional, but beneath the surface falling to pieces. Stacks of books, carelessly tossed clothes, empty potion vials—all created a picture of someone maintaining a facade of normalcy while her life spiraled out of control.
Just like she herself—the perfect Ministry lawyer on the outside, and inside a fragile woman who now fit entirely in his arms, lighter than she should be.
He carried her down the hallway to the bedroom, which he remembered from his last visit to this house.
The bedroom was chaotic, like the rest of the apartment—piles of books, documents, clothes scattered on a chair. Draco pulled back the covers and gently laid Hermione on the bed. With one motion of his wand, he lit the bedside lamp—dimmed, non-aggressive.
She turned her face to the wall, her shoulders beginning to tremble. When she spoke again, her voice was breaking, on the verge of tears.
"Leave," she whispered, not looking at him. "Please, leave my apartment."
Draco froze, surprised by this sudden change. For a moment he thought the potions were speaking through her again, but her voice, though weak, was fully conscious.
"I'm not leaving you in this state," he replied, trying to make his voice sound firm but not harsh.
Hermione turned sharply, tears glistening on her cheeks.
"Don't you understand?" her voice rose, taking on a desperate note. "I can't... I can't bear you seeing me like this. Not you."
She spoke the last word with such bitterness that Draco almost physically felt its weight. He looked at her helplessly, not knowing how to react. Her face was contorted in a grimace of humiliation mixed with something deeper, more painful.
"It's already too late for that," he said quietly. "I've seen you. And I'm not leaving."
"Why?" she asked, her voice breaking, turning into a muffled sob. "To have more ammunition? To throw this in my face during our next argument? 'Remember, Granger, when I held your hair while you vomited? When you begged me to stay?'"
Her words hit him with the force of a physical blow. Did she really think of him that way? Was their relationship so toxic that she couldn't believe in his sincere intentions?
With horror he realized she was right. That was exactly what their relationship looked like—they stabbed each other with daggers, using every weakness as a weapon in their never-ending skirmish.
"Not this time," he said, sitting on the edge of the bed, ignoring her attempt to move away. "I won't use this against you."
"Why should I believe you?" she asked, wiping tears with the back of her hand in a gesture that seemed strangely childish and defenseless to him. "For months we've been playing the same sick game. Why would now be any different?"
Draco was silent for a moment, considering how much he should tell her. About his suspicions regarding Rosier. About how she might be in danger. But above all, about how the sight of her fragile body in his arms had changed something in him.
"Because," he began slowly, carefully choosing his words, "some things are more important than our history. Than who we've been to each other."
She looked at him suspiciously, her eyes still glistening with tears, her body trembling slightly. The potions still circulated in her blood, making clear thinking difficult.
"Just leave," she repeated, though with less conviction. "I don't need your pity."
"It's not pity," he answered immediately. "It's..." he broke off, not finding the right word. What was it exactly? Concern? Responsibility? Or something deeper?
"It's what?" she pressed, her voice now more irritated than broken.
"It's... complicated," he finished helplessly. "But I won't leave you alone. Not today."
He pulled a chair to the bed, sweeping a stack of books off it with one motion. He sat down, crossing his arms over his chest, as if preparing for a long vigil.
"You really don't have to..." she began, but broke off as another wave of shivers passed through her body.
"Sleep, Granger," he interrupted firmly. "You need rest. And tomorrow... tomorrow we'll talk."
Hermione looked at him for a moment longer, as if wanting to say something, but finally her eyelids dropped, too heavy to keep open. Her breathing slowly evened out, though her body was still periodically pierced by tremors.
Draco watched her fall asleep, with a mixture of relief and concern. He knew a long night awaited them, full of nightmares and hallucinations. But he was ready. For the first time in a long while, he felt he was doing something that truly mattered.
Outside the window, dusk was falling, casting shadows on her tired face. Draco didn't move, didn't take his eyes off her. He kept vigil.
The night proved exactly as difficult as he had predicted. Hermione woke up periodically, torn from sleep by nightmares or hallucinations induced by the potions. Each time it took several minutes before she recognized where she was and who was watching over her.
The first awakening occurred around midnight. Her body suddenly arched into a bow, and a terrifying scream erupted from her throat, causing him to jump from his chair. Her eyes were wide open but unseeing—fixed on some nightmare known only to her.
"No! Please, no!" she screamed, her voice hoarse and desperate. "Don't touch him! Take me instead!"
He was immediately by her side, trying to gently hold her shoulders as she thrashed like in an epileptic seizure.
"Granger," he said firmly. "Wake up. It's just a dream."
But she couldn't hear him. Her voice changed to a pitiful, animal-like moan that pierced right through him. It was a sound of pure suffering—raw, primal, stripped of all dignity. Draco felt something break inside him, hearing this sound from the lips of a woman he had always admired for her strength.
After several minutes she finally calmed down, her eyes regaining focus.
"Malfoy?" she asked, disoriented. "What are you...?"
"I'm here," he answered simply. "Everything's all right. It was just a dream."
He could have moved away from her bed, returned to the chair, maintained distance. But instead he stayed, holding her hand until she fell asleep again.
The second awakening was worse. Around two in the morning, Hermione suddenly began muttering in an uninterrupted, feverish stream of words.
"Dig deeper... they must be deeper... they'll find him... birds... ravens... I won't allow it... they can't take him..."
Her fingers began scratching at the sheet, as if digging in earth. Her face bore such a profound expression of despair that Draco had to look away. When he looked back, he saw tears flowing down her cheeks, though her eyes remained closed.
"I don't have a wand..." she mumbled. "I have to use my bare hands... too shallow... they'll find him... they'll come back... Ron, I'm sorry... I'm sorry..."
Draco felt a shiver run down his spine. He knew what she was reliving at that moment—the memory of burying Weasley's body with her own hands.
"Listen to my voice, Hermione," he said quietly, taking her hands in his to stop her from scratching at non-existent earth. "You're not there. You're here, in your apartment. With me."
He hated the sounds she was making—those quiet, broken moans, those sobs so deep they seemed to come from the very abyss of her soul. But he forced himself to listen. To not turn away. To not run.
This was his penance. For every cruel word. For every deliberately inflicted wound. For every time he had used her weakness against her.
"It's my fault..." her voice was now so quiet he could barely hear it. "My fault... I should have stopped him... I shouldn't have... Harry was right... my fault..."
He moved closer, carefully stroking her tangled, sweat-dampened hair.
"It's not your fault," he said firmly. "You did everything you could. You survived. That's what matters."
He didn't know if his words were reaching her, but slowly her breathing calmed, and her body relaxed. She fell asleep again, this time with his hand resting on her shoulder.
The third awakening was the worst. Just before dawn she opened her eyes and looked directly at him—but there was no recognition in her gaze, only pure, primal fear.
"No," she whispered, violently backing away to the headboard. "No, please..."
Draco understood immediately—she didn't see him. She saw a Death Eater. An executioner. Maybe Bellatrix. Maybe Yaxley. Maybe Carrow.
"It's me," he said, trying to make his voice soothing. "Draco. I won't hurt you."
But that only made things worse.
"You're lying," her voice was shrill with fear. "You always lie. Don't touch... please don't touch..."
Her body began to shake so violently that he feared she might hurt herself. He helplessly watched as she pressed her knees to her chest, rocking back and forth in a primitive gesture of self-soothing.
And then she began making those sounds—quiet, muffled howling, like a wounded animal, like someone who had learned that loud crying only makes things worse. It was worse than screaming, worse than sobbing. It was the sound of someone who had lost all hope.
Draco sat motionless, allowing that sound to burn into his memory, to eat into his soul. This was his punishment. For who he was. For what he represented. For what his family and people like them had done to people like her.
He didn't try to touch her this time, knowing that in this state his touch would only frighten her. Instead, he began to speak—quietly, calmly, monotonously—about everything and nothing. About how her apartment looked. About the books he had noticed on the shelves. About the cat he once saw crossing her yard.
Slowly, very slowly, the sounds stopped. Her breathing evened out. And when she looked at him again, there was recognition in her eyes.
"Draco?" she whispered uncertainly.
"Yes," he answered gently. "It's just me."
"I'm sorry," she said, her voice so quiet he almost didn't hear it. "I thought... I thought you were someone else."
"I know," he replied, carefully extending his hand. To his surprise, she accepted it, allowing their fingers to intertwine. "But that's in the past now. There's only the present."
She fell asleep for the last time, holding his hand like an anchor that kept her in the safe harbor of reality.
Dawn found him at Hermione's desk. He was exhausted but alert. Several times he had checked her condition—her breathing was now deep and regular, her skin had regained a healthier hue. The worst was over, or at least so he thought.
He took parchment and a quill from the drawer. The letter had to be careful, professional. He couldn't reveal Hermione's true condition—he knew how much she wouldn't want that. But at the same time, he had to ensure she had a few days of peace to fully recover.
Dear Minister,
I regret to inform you that Hermione Granger has fallen ill and will not be able to come to work for the next few days. The healer's diagnosis indicates acute magical exhaustion combined with dragon flu. He has recommended absolute rest and isolation for a minimum of three days.
Due to the contagious nature of the illness, I suggest that any urgent matters be passed directly to me—as a consultant on the Claritas case, I will continue working on the investigation despite Ms. Granger's absence.
Respectfully,Draco Malfoy.
After sending the letter, he returned to the bedroom and stood in the doorway, observing the sleeping Hermione. She looked more peaceful, younger. Fragile and strong at the same time.
He wondered fleetingly what she would say if she knew he had sent a letter on her behalf. She would probably be furious. But it didn't matter. The most important thing was for her to have time to recover. And then—then he would tell her everything. About Rosier, about the unicorn blood, about his suspicions.
But first she needed rest. And so did he.
Carefully, he sat on the edge of the bed, deciding to close his eyes just for a moment. He was almost certain now that the worst had passed. Hermione was strong—she had survived the war, dungeons, the loss of her beloved. She would survive this too.
And he would be there when she woke up. For some reason, that thought didn't frighten him as much as it should have.
A soft clink roused him from sleep. He jerked up abruptly, disoriented. He didn't remember when he had fallen asleep—the last thing he recalled was watching Hermione's now calmer breathing and deciding to close his eyes "just for a moment."
With alarm, he noticed the bed beside him was empty. The rumpled bedding and thrown-back covers indicated that Hermione had risen recently. From the kitchen came quiet, muffled sounds—as if someone was carefully searching through cabinets.
"Damn," he muttered, jumping to his feet.
He crossed the hallway in a few quick steps and stopped abruptly at the kitchen threshold. She stood at the counter, her back to him. In her trembling hand gleamed a small vial of opalescent liquid. She was already raising it to her lips when Draco understood what was happening.
"No!" he shouted, leaping to her in two bounds.
With one motion he grabbed her wrist and jerked it down, knocking the vial from her fingers. The glass container hit the floor tiles, shattering into dozens of sharp fragments. The potion splattered across the floor, leaving opalescent stains.
"What are you doing?!" Hermione cried out, wrenching her hand from his grip. Her eyes glittered feverishly, and anger contorted her face. "How dare you!"
"How dare I?" he growled, not releasing her wrist. "You're trying to stuff yourself with that filth again! After everything you went through last night!"
"It's none of your business!" she shouted, violently struggling. "It's my life! My choices! I didn't ask you to rescue me!"
Draco felt anger rising within him. He was furious—at her, for so easily returning to self-destructive habits; at himself, for being so stupid and not thinking to search the apartment and throw out all the potions.
"Let me go!" she screamed, trying to free her hand. Her body, still weakened from a night full of nightmares and hallucinations, swayed dangerously.
"Calm down," he said, trying to hold her in place. "You'll only hurt yourself."
"As if you cared!" she snarled, fighting his grip with renewed strength. "As if anyone cared! Let me go!"
She jerked so hard that Draco had to release her hand to avoid twisting her wrist. Hermione lost her balance and staggered back a step. Her bare foot landed directly on the broken glass. She cried out, her face contorting in pain.
Sharp fragments of glass embedded themselves in her delicate skin. Draco watched in horror as blood began to seep from under her foot, forming small, scarlet puddles on the floor.
He expected anger, shouting, another wave of accusations. He was prepared to forcibly prevent her from further harming herself.
Instead, she did something that completely surprised him. Her face twisted in an expression of such pure, childlike pain that Draco froze in place. Hermione's lower lip began to tremble, and her eyes filled with tears. In an instant, she changed from a proud, composed woman into a lost, wounded little girl.
"It h-hurts," she whispered, as tears began to stream down her cheeks.
A moment later her body shook with sobs—not the stifled, controlled crying of an adult, but an uncontrolled, childlike outburst of despair. She crouched down, hunched her shoulders, pressed her hands to her face, and began to cry as if something in her had finally broken.
Draco stood paralyzed, not knowing how to react. This was Hermione Granger—a woman who had survived torture by Bellatrix and other Death Eaters, who faced the toughest negotiators in the Ministry. And now she was crying like a small, injured child who had lost all hope.
"Hermione," he said quietly, crouching beside her. "Hey, it's just a small cut..."
But he knew it wasn't the glass that caused her tears. It was merely the drop that made the cup overflow—the last small pain in an endless series of sufferings she could no longer bear.
Her sobbing intensified, turning into spasmodic weeping that shook her entire body. She made a series of quiet, heartbreaking sounds—as if even now, immersed in despair, she was trying to suppress her reaction.
"I can't anymore..." she whispered through tears. "I c-can't go on like th-this... everything... everything h-hurts..."
This Hermione—tearful, trembling, unable to control her own emotions—was so distant from the woman he knew that for a moment he didn't know how to proceed.
"It hurts... it hurts so m-much..." she whispered, wrapping her arms around herself as if trying to hold herself together. "I don't want to live like this... I can't anymore..."
Draco felt his own throat tighten. Without a word, he extended his arms and pulled her to him—carefully, as if she were made of fragile glass. For a moment he felt resistance, and then she collapsed into his embrace, burying her face in his shirt. Her body shook with crying, and tears quickly soaked through the material.
"Shhhh..." he said quietly, stroking her hair. "I know it hurts. But you're not alone."
He hugged her tighter, feeling how light she was, how very fragile. Her hands clutched at his shirt with the desperation of a drowning person. Instinctively, he began to rock her gently, like a child in need of comfort.
"It's not worth it..." she whispered between sobs. "Nothing makes sense anymore..."
Draco felt a cold shiver run down his spine. These words, spoken in such a resigned tone, sounded like final capitulation. Like someone who had lost the will to live.
"That's not true," he said firmly, taking her face in his hands, forcing her to look at him. "You're the strongest person I know. I won't let you give up."
Her eyes—reddened, swollen from crying—looked at him without understanding. As if he were speaking a language she no longer comprehended.
"I'm so tired..." she whispered, and her voice held exhaustion so deep that he again felt a tightness in his heart. "So terribly tired..."
"I know," he replied quietly, wiping tears from her cheeks. "And you can rest."
His gaze moved to her foot, from which blood still seeped, forming a small puddle on the kitchen tiles.
"But first we need to take care of your foot," he said, changing his tone to more practical, though still gentle. "You're bleeding."
Hermione looked down, as if only now remembering the wound.
"It's... it's nothing," she whispered, trying to wipe her face with the back of her hand.
He didn't consider it necessary to respond. Without asking for permission, he gently lifted her from the floor. Hermione was so exhausted from crying that she didn't even protest. Her body was limp in his arms, her head falling onto his shoulder.
"This might sting a bit," he warned, examining the wound. Glass fragments were deeply embedded in her delicate skin, and blood still seeped from several places. He made a precise motion with his wand, and the small glass fragments began to slowly extract themselves from her foot, one by one, flying straight into his outstretched hand. Hermione hissed quietly, tightening her fingers on the edge of the couch, but didn't move her foot. Her face, still wet with tears, contorted in a grimace of pain.
From the pocket of his coat, which he had thrown on the couch yesterday, he pulled out a small vial of thick liquid—Essence of Dittany, a basic component of every wizarding first-aid kit. He uncorked it and carefully dropped a few drops directly onto the wound.
Where the liquid touched the skin, greenish vapor appeared, and when it dissipated, the skin began to heal. Hermione observed this process with strange detachment, as if it were happening to someone else.
"In a few hours there won't even be a trace," he said, corking the vial and putting it back in his coat pocket. "But you should rest your foot for a while."
She looked at her foot, now without visible wounds, just slight redness where the glass had been embedded. Her eyes filled with tears again.
"Thank you," she whispered, not looking at him.
Draco hesitated for a moment, then sat beside her on the couch. Not too close, to avoid invading her space, but close enough for her to feel his presence.
"You should eat something," he said gently.
Hermione slowly shook her head. Her gaze was fixed on the floor, her shoulders still trembling slightly from crying. When she finally looked at him, her eyes were filled with such vulnerable honesty that he felt something within him soften.
"I'm not hungry," she whispered. She hesitated, then added more quietly, as if admitting something shameful: "I'm cold."
Indeed, her body was trembling. Whether from exhaustion or emotional shock—her skin was pale and cool to the touch. Without a word, he reached for the blanket lying on the back of the couch and covered her shoulders.
"Better?"
She tightened her fingers on the edge of the blanket but didn't stop trembling. Her eyes glazed over with tears again.
"No," she whispered, and in that one word was so much pain, so much resignation, that he couldn't believe how many emotions could fit in such a small body.
For a moment they sat in silence, he—not knowing what to say, she—lost in her own thoughts. And then Hermione did something unexpected. Slowly, as if afraid of rejection, she moved closer and rested her head on his shoulder.
He froze, surprised by this gesture. This wasn't like their previous encounters—charged with desire, aggression, manipulation. This was something more raw, more honest. A human need for closeness in a moment of despair.
"Stay with me," she said so quietly he almost didn't hear her. "Just for a while."
He hesitated only for a moment, then put his arm around her, drawing her closer. She immediately nestled against him, as if seeking warmth and protection from a world that had become too painful to bear.
"I feel so alone," she confessed, her voice breaking on the last word. "I'm so tired. So very tired."
"I know," he repeated, holding her tighter. "Come, you need to lie down."
He stood up and gently helped her rise. She swayed slightly and instinctively grabbed his arm for balance. Without thinking, he lifted her, carrying her in his arms for the second time that morning.
Her head rested on his shoulder, and her hands automatically encircled his neck. She smelled of salt—from tears—and something sweet that was her own scent.
In the bedroom, he laid her gently on the bed and carefully covered her with a quilt. He was about to move away when her hand tightened on his wrist.
"Don't go," she said. Her eyes were open, full of uncertainty and something that might be shame. "I... I don't want to be alone."
He looked at her for a moment, wondering what he should do. All his instincts told him to maintain distance, not to get too deeply involved, not to let her see how much this situation affected him.
But there was something in her eyes—something so sincere, so vulnerable—that he couldn't refuse.
"All right," he said quietly. "I'll stay."
He carefully sat on the edge of the bed, still unsure exactly what she expected from him. Was he just to sit with her until she fell asleep? To talk? Or perhaps...
She moved, shifting to the other side of the bed, making room for him.
"Lie down next to me," she said, and in her voice there was no longer shame, only fatigue. "Please."
He hesitated, but only for a moment. Slowly, carefully, as if handling something incredibly fragile, he lay down beside her, on top of the quilt, maintaining some distance.
Hermione looked at him, and in her eyes appeared a shadow of a smile—the first in many hours.
"I won't bite you," she said quietly.
"I know," he answered, but didn't move. He wasn't sure where the boundaries were now, what the rules were for this new, unnamed relationship.
Suddenly he thought: to hell with it. To hell with all the rules, all the boundaries, the entire complicated dance they had been performing for months. If she was going to see him as he truly was—without masks, without games—then so be it.
With one fluid motion, he slipped under the quilt beside her. Hermione looked at him, surprised, but didn't move away. Her eyes—still moist from tears—followed his every movement with a mixture of uncertainty and hope.
He opened his arms, and without hesitation she nestled against him, as if it were the most natural place in the world. He embraced her, feeling her small bones under his fingers, the warmth of her skin through the thin material of her shirt.
A last, solitary tear rolled down her cheek—testament to the pain still within her. Without thinking, he leaned in and kissed that wet spot, tasting the salty trace of her suffering.
Hermione froze, her breath stopping for a moment. Draco also went still, afraid he had crossed a line. But instead of pulling away, she raised her face to him, seeking his gaze.
What he saw in her eyes took his breath away—a pure, raw need for closeness, a need to be touched not out of desire, but out of tenderness. Something she had never received from him.
He leaned down and gently kissed her forehead. Then her temple. Then her cheek. Each kiss was as light as the brush of a butterfly's wings, as delicate as a promise. It wasn't sexual—it was something more basic, more primal. The human need for contact, warmth, acceptance.
His lips moved across her face, collecting the last traces of tears, caressing heated skin. He kissed her closed eyelids, the tip of her nose, the line of her jaw. Each successive kiss seemed to calm her, relax her, bring relief.
Under his touch, her body gradually lost its tension, like a flower opening in the warmth of the sun. Draco felt something within himself opening too—some closed, carefully guarded place he had never let anyone enter.
"You have never touched me like this," she whispered, her voice so quiet he barely heard her. "As if I were... precious."
These words, spoken with such sincere astonishment, made Draco feel a pang of pain.
"You are," he said, and in his voice was something he didn't recognize himself—some depth that had never been there before. "You are precious."
Hermione looked at him for a long moment, as if searching his face for evidence of a lie. She must have found something else, because her eyes filled with tears again—but this time they were different tears, not from pain, but from some deeper, harder-to-name emotion.
"Don't cry," he whispered, kissing the corner of her mouth where moisture gathered. "Please, don't cry anymore."
That gentle kiss hung between them like a question. Hermione went still, her breathing becoming shallow. For a moment they looked at each other in silence—she with uncertainty mixed with desire, he with a sudden awareness that he had crossed an invisible boundary.
Instead of pulling away, she raised her hand and touched his cheek. Her fingers were cool, but the touch on Draco's heated skin sent a shiver through him. Without words, slowly, to give her a chance to withdraw, he leaned in and this time brushed his lips against hers. Lightly, questioningly.
She responded in kind—uncertainly, as if she had forgotten what it was like to kiss someone without anger, without a struggle for dominance. Their lips met and parted in a slow, careful dance. It wasn't like their previous encounters—violent, charged with aggression, provocative. This was something new, unnamed.
He deepened the kiss, stroking her hair with one hand, drawing her closer with the other. He tasted the salt of her tears, the warmth of her mouth, that basic, primal essence of Hermione he had never allowed himself to truly feel before.
She changed under his touch—her body, tense and hunched just moments ago, now relaxed, moved closer, sought warmth. Draco sensed a hunger in her—not sexual, or at least not only. A hunger for closeness, for touch that wouldn't hurt.
The kiss lengthened, became more intense, but still maintained that strange gentleness. Hermione pulled away first, breathing quickly, her eyes gleaming in the half-light of the bedroom.
"I don't know what we're doing," she whispered, but there was no protest in it, only honesty.
"Neither do I," he admitted, caressing her cheek. "But it doesn't matter. Not now."
He pulled her back, and she offered no resistance. Her body softened in his arms, conforming to his shape, as if finding a place that had always been waiting for her. He felt under his hands her protruding bones, the warmth of her skin, the gentle trembling that passed through her body with each new touch.
Their lips met again, this time with greater certainty. The kiss was deeper, yet still devoid of that raw desperation that had always accompanied them before. Instead of struggle, there was acceptance. Instead of control—surrender.
Hermione's hand slipped under his shirt, touching the bare skin of his back. There was no seduction in this gesture—rather a need for contact, a direct connection.
"I'm cold," she whispered against his lips. "I'm cold all the time."
Draco pulled her even closer, allowing his warmth to become her warmth. He wrapped the quilt around them, creating a cocoon in which the outside world ceased to exist.
"I know," he answered quietly, kissing her temple. "But it will pass."
He didn't know if he was telling the truth. Would that cold ever pass—the one she had carried within herself since the dungeon, since Weasley's death, since all the losses and pain? But at this moment, he could at least ensure her physical body stopped trembling.
She fell asleep almost immediately. Her breathing became deep and steady, and her body relaxed in his arms. Draco observed her face—now peaceful, almost childlike in sleep, without the tension she always carried while awake.
The sun moved across the sky, coming through gaps in the curtains, creating flickering patterns on the bedroom walls. Although it was midday, the silence and calm in the apartment gave the impression that the world outside had ceased to exist.
Draco watched the sleeping Hermione, feeling a strange peace. The worst was behind them—or so he thought. She had survived a night full of nightmares and hallucinations, the morning breakdown, and now her body was regenerating in healing sleep. When she woke up, they could talk, plan their next steps, consider how to deal with Rosier and Claritas.
How very wrong he was.