Chapter 19
The first sign was a sudden shiver that passed through her body. Then her breathing became shallower, and a crease appeared between her brows. Her eyelids began to flutter, and her lips moved silently.
Before he could react, she opened her eyes—wide, wild, delirious. Her pupils were so dilated they consumed almost the entire iris.
"I need..." she rasped, trying to rise. "I need..."
"Hermione," he said gently, placing his hand on her shoulder. "Everything's all right. You're safe."
She looked at him, but he could see she didn't recognize him. Her gaze was unfocused, feverish.
"Let me go!" she suddenly growled, pushing his hand away. "I must... I need my potion. NOW!"
She screamed the last word, and her voice was so unlike herself that Draco felt a cold shiver run down his spine. This wasn't the Hermione he knew—this was hunger, this was addiction speaking through her lips.
"You won't get it," he said firmly, but without anger. "You're going through withdrawal. It will pass."
She looked at him with hatred so pure that he flinched.
"You understand nothing!" she hissed through clenched teeth. "I'll die without it! I'LL DIE!"
She tried to get out of bed, but her legs were too weak. She swayed, falling back onto the bedding. The frustration and panic on her face were so intense that Draco instinctively reached out to support her.
That was a mistake. She lunged at him like a wild animal, scratching and pounding her fists against his chest.
"GIVE IT TO ME!" she screamed, her voice raw, hoarse from shouting. "WHERE DID YOU HIDE IT?! I NEED IT!"
He caught her wrists, trying to stop the hail of blows. She was surprisingly strong, considering her emaciated state—adrenaline and desperation gave her superhuman power.
"Calm down!" he tried to speak calmly, though her nails dug painfully into the skin of his forearm. "It's just your body reacting to the absence of the substance. It will pass!"
"FUCK YOU!" she yelled, struggling in his grip. "You bloody Death Eater! Murderer! LET ME GO!"
These words hit him with such force that for a second he froze completely. Death Eater. Murderer. Words he had been trying to erase from his identity for years, now spat directly in his face. His grip involuntarily loosened, his fingers relaxed on her wrists.
That was enough. Hermione immediately took advantage—she tore her hands free and pushed him away with surprising strength. Before he could react, she jumped out of bed and rushed toward the bedroom door. He snapped out of his shock and leaped after her.
Her bare feet struck the floor as she ran down the hallway. She was fast, driven by desperation and hunger for the potion, but her weakened body couldn't carry her too far. Draco caught her when she was already at the kitchen door.
He grabbed her by the waist and pulled her back, feeling her bending and twisting in his grip like a wild animal caught in a trap.
"Leave me!" she shouted, kicking and striking blindly. Her elbow hit him painfully in the ribs, but he didn't let go. "I must have them! I NEED THEM!"
"I won't let you!" he growled, dragging her back toward the bedroom.
She struggled with such force that he could barely hold her. They took each step with effort—she trying to reach the kitchen, he trying to pull her to a safe place.
"You understand nothing!" her voice was heart-rending, a mixture of fury and despair. "Without them I'LL DIE! I feel it! It's killing me!"
"It's just withdrawal!" he insisted, pressing her more firmly against himself, trying to immobilize her arms. "It will pass!"
Hermione suddenly threw herself forward with her full weight, surprising him. They both staggered into the hallway wall, hitting it with a dull thud. A picture frame fell and shattered at their feet.
"You don't know what it's like!" she screamed, her voice breaking with emotion. "THE PAIN DOESN'T STOP! NEVER!"
Her desperation was so tangible that for a moment Draco almost doubted. Perhaps she really was suffering more than he could imagine? Perhaps she really needed at least a small dose to ease the symptoms?
No. He knew that would be the beginning of the end. No dose would be the last—only the first of a new cycle.
"Hermione," he said firmly, turning her so she'd look into his eyes. "Listen to me. THIS-WILL-PASS."
For a fraction of a second, a glimmer of awareness appeared in her wild eyes—as if for a moment the real Hermione broke through the fog of hunger. But soon she sank back into the abyss of craving.
With a sudden, surprising movement she raised her knee, aiming between his legs. Draco blocked the blow at the last moment, pressing her against the wall with his entire body, immobilizing her.
"I'll take your wand," she hissed directly into his face, her eyes wild, unnaturally bright. "If you don't give them to me, I'll go out and buy new ones. You can't imprison me!"
"I can and I will if I have to," he replied calmly, though his heart was pounding like a hammer. "I won't let you destroy yourself. Even if you hate me for it."
Hermione let out a sound—half scream, half sob—and began struggling again. Her nails scratched his cheek, leaving painful marks. Blood ran in a warm trickle down his skin, but he barely noticed.
"I hate you," she whispered, her voice now icy, filled with pure anger. "I've always hated you. You disgust me. Every time you touched me, I felt revulsion."
He knew it wasn't her speaking—it was the potions, the hunger manipulating her brain. But the words still stung like red-hot needles.
"All right," he answered, feeling his own voice become rough with emotion. "You can hate me. But I'll still help you."
They stared at each other for a long moment—she with pure fury, he with determination mixed with pain. Then, taking advantage of a moment of relative calm, with a decisive movement he lifted her and threw her over his shoulder.
"WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!" she screamed, pounding her fists against his back. "PUT ME DOWN! IMMEDIATELY!"
Feeling her chaotic blows, he carefully set her down on the bedroom floor, still holding her by the shoulders, ready to react if she tried to escape.
But to his surprise, Hermione suddenly stopped struggling. Her body, tense and fighting just a second ago, now relaxed, and her face... her face underwent an incredible transformation. The fury and desperation disappeared, replaced by something that looked like... desire?
"Draco," she whispered, her voice now soft, seductive, so unlike the screams from moments before that for a moment he thought he was hallucinating. "I'm sorry. I don't know what came over me."
Her hands, which had been striking him furiously just moments ago, now slowly, gently rested on his chest. He frowned, confused by this sudden change.
"Hermione, what are you..."
"Shhh," she interrupted, moving closer, her body softly pressing against his. "I've missed you so much. I've waited so long for us to be together, alone..."
Her hands began to wander across his torso, leaving a trail of warmth. She slipped her fingers under his shirt, touching bare skin. He felt his body responding against reason—he was accustomed to their passionate encounters, to how desire replaced hatred.
"We could make use of this time," she whispered, her lips dangerously close to his. "Instead of arguing..."
Her hands traveled to his back, stroking slowly, sensually. For a moment, brief as a heartbeat, Draco allowed himself to believe. It was so nice to hear these words from her lips, to feel her touch that wasn't meant to hurt him.
At that exact moment, he felt her hand skillfully slip from under his shirt and move down to the back pocket of his pants. He realized what was happening at the last moment, but it was too late.
Hermione jumped away from him with triumphant determination on her face, clutching his wand in her hand. Her eyes, pretending desire a moment ago, now gleamed with wild hunger.
"Don't move," she hissed, pointing the wand directly at his chest. "Don't you dare move, Malfoy."
Draco froze, more surprised than frightened. Part of him admired her cunning—even in the midst of withdrawal crisis, she was able to think strategically, manipulate, exploit his weakness.
"Now," her voice was strangely calm, though her eyes burned with feverish brightness, "you will stand here nicely and not move from this spot. I'll go to the kitchen and take my potions. It's very simple."
She backed away slowly toward the door, not taking her eyes off him for a moment. The wand in her hand trembled slightly, but it pointed straight at his chest.
"Hermione," he began calmly, "this isn't..."
"Shut up!" she snarled, and sparks shot from the end of the wand. "I don't want to hear your lectures! You're not my guardian! I didn't ask you to rescue me!"
He raised his hands in surrender, but her look told him she didn't believe in his capitulation.
"I know what you're trying to do," she continued, her voice taking on an almost hysterical tone. "You're just waiting for me to let my guard down. For me to turn around. And then you'll catch me. But it won't work, understand? Not this time!"
Her breathing was shallow and rapid, her cheeks flushed with an unhealthy blush. He saw how her body tensed and relaxed in an uneven rhythm, how sweat trickled down her temple—all symptoms of the hunger taking control of her.
"Don't even try to follow me," she warned, now at the door. "I'll petrify you, I swear. You'll lie here stiff as a log until the potion calms me enough that I decide to release you."
Draco could see in her eyes that she wasn't bluffing. In this state, she was capable of anything to get the substance she so desperately needed. But he also knew that if he let her go now, all would be lost.
"All right," he said slowly. "Just... be careful. In this state, you might take too much. You could hurt yourself."
For a fraction of a second, a shadow appeared in her eyes—a glimpse of the real Hermione who, somewhere deep inside, was fighting the hunger, understanding the danger. But it quickly disappeared, replaced by hard determination.
"I don't need your advice on how to take my own potions," she hissed. "I did it perfectly before you appeared, I did it when you were busy fucking your wife, and I'll do it long after you disappear from my life."
She backed up another step, now at the threshold.
"Stay here," she repeated, her voice hard as steel. "And don't move."
With the wand aimed at him, Hermione backed out of the room. Her movements were nervous, chaotic, but the determination in her eyes remained unwavering. As soon as she was beyond the threshold, she turned and ran toward the kitchen.
Draco stood motionless for a few seconds, listening to the sound of her bare feet hitting the floor. He waited until the sounds receded enough. Then, against her orders, he went after her—quietly, on tiptoes, using his years of experience in sneaking.
When he reached the kitchen threshold, he saw Hermione frantically searching through cabinets. Her movements were uncoordinated, desperate—she opened drawers, threw contents onto the counter, slammed doors. With each empty cabinet, her frustration grew.
"They're here, I know they're here!" she muttered feverishly. "I always keep them here!"
Her hands trembled as she searched through more hiding places. Bottles, jars, and cans landed on the floor, some breaking with a loud crash. She didn't care—her entire world had shrunk to one desperate need.
Finally, she found what she was looking for—a small, inconspicuous cabinet by the refrigerator. She opened it with a jerk and let out a cry of triumph. Two final vials stood on the shelf.
"At last," she whispered, her voice trembling with relief and desperation.
Draco knew he had to act immediately. He firmly pushed the door and entered the kitchen.
Hermione turned around instantly, aiming the wand at him.
"I TOLD YOU NOT TO MOVE!" she screamed, her eyes gleaming dangerously.
In her other hand, she already held one of the vials, her fingers gripping the glass so tightly that Draco feared she would crush it.
"I can't let you do this," he said calmly, taking a slow step forward. "Give me the wand and the potion, Hermione."
"Stop!" she growled, tightening her grip on the wand. "One more step, and I swear I'll cast such a curse on you that your own mother won't recognize you!"
Draco looked at her for a fraction of a second, assessing the situation. And then, before she could react, he crossed the distance between them with one quick, confident movement.
Before she could utter any spell, he was standing right in front of her. The tip of his own wand, held by her, now touched his chest, exactly where his heart beat.
"Go ahead," he said quietly, not taking his eyes off her. "Do it. If you truly believe the potion is worth more than your life, than your future... do it."
She froze, eyes wide. Her hand with the wand trembled so badly that the tip quivered against the material of his shirt.
"D-don't... don't come closer," she whispered, but there was no longer that firmness in her voice as before.
"I'm already close," he answered, not moving. "Now choose, Hermione. Cast a curse on me and take your potion, knowing it leads you straight to the grave. Or give me the wand and let me help you."
A shadow of panic crossed her face. The wand in her hand trembled even more.
"You don't understand," her voice was now pitiful, pleading. "I can't... I can't live like this. This pain... these memories..."
"I understand better than you think," Draco said quietly. "But the potion doesn't heal pain, Hermione. It only masks it. And one day it will kill you."
Hermione shuddered, and her fingers tightened on the wand. A shadow crossed her face—as if part of her mind, that deeper, more rational part, momentarily broke through the fog of hunger and desperation.
"You don't understand," she whispered, but there was hesitation in her voice. "Without it I can't... I can't function."
"You can't now," he admitted, not taking his eyes off her. "But that will change."
The wand in her hand trembled even more. Her face, pale and sweaty, contorted in a grimace of internal struggle.
"Do you promise?" she suddenly asked, and her voice sounded like that of a small child—lost, frightened, seeking any certainty in a chaotic world.
"I promise," he answered without hesitation.
Her hand with the wand dropped even lower, though she still held it. Her eyes, reddened and swollen, didn't leave his face, searching for signs of lies, manipulation, anything that would allow her to doubt his words.
"I've studied many potions," Draco said, taking advantage of her focused attention. "They all work similarly. They attack receptors in the brain responsible for sensing pain and fatigue. But over time, they also damage those responsible for joy, for feelings, for everything that makes you... you."
Hermione swallowed hard, her breathing shallow and uneven.
The last remnants of resistance left her body, as if some invisible thread that had been keeping her upright was suddenly cut. Her shoulders dropped, her knees bent slightly. Without a word, she extended a trembling hand and returned his wand, and then, with even greater effort, the vial of potion.
Draco accepted both items with gravity, as if understanding how much this gesture cost her. He put the wand in his pants pocket and placed the vial on the counter, beyond her reach. Hermione followed his every move with a mixture of fear and resignation, her eyes clouded with tears that no longer wanted to flow.
When he gently put his arm around her and began leading her toward the bedroom, she didn't resist. Her body, weakened by struggle and emotions, yielded to his guidance. Each step was an effort, as if she were moving through thick molasses. In her head, only one thought pounded—that she had agreed to hell. Voluntarily. Of her own free will.
The bedroom seemed strangely foreign, as if it weren't the same room she had left a dozen or so minutes earlier. The bedding was rumpled, pillows scattered—evidence of her earlier nightmares. Draco helped her lie down, covered her with a quilt, though her body was shaken alternately by waves of heat and cold. He lay down beside her, not embracing her, but close enough for her to feel his presence—an anchor in the sea of suffering she was already beginning to experience.
The first real attack came a few hours later. First there were only shivers, then anxiety that grew like a tidal wave. And then the explosion—convulsions that arched her body, screams that escaped her throat against her will. Draco held her to prevent her from hurting herself, his voice a distant rustle in her ears as waves of pain passed through her one after another. Her skin was hypersensitive—every touch was like a blow, every sound like a needle drilling into her brain. For what seemed like eternity, she struggled with suffering so intense that she prayed for unconsciousness. And then, as suddenly as it began, everything ceased, leaving her exhausted, drenched in sweat, trembling in Draco's arms.
The afternoon brought a second attack, even worse. This time hallucinations joined the physical pain—she saw shadows moving on the walls, heard voices that didn't exist. There were moments when she didn't recognize Draco—she saw in him a Death Eater, a dungeon guard, her worst nightmares. She screamed, begged, cursed, tried to escape the demons that existed only in her head. And he remained with her—patient, firm, not leaving her for even a moment.
Night was the worst. Fever came suddenly, turning her blood into liquid fire. She trembled so violently that the bed shook beneath her body. Draco tried everything—cold compresses, fever-reducing potions, cooling charms. Nothing worked. Her temperature rose to dangerous levels, her skin burning and dry. Even her tears evaporated before they could roll down her cheeks.
In desperation, he filled the bathtub with ice-cold water and without warning immersed her in it, still wearing her sweat-soaked nightgown. Her scream was piercing, primal, filled with pure suffering. She tried to break free, her body fighting him instinctively, but he held her firmly, whispering words she couldn't understand through the fog of pain and fear. Her moans turned to whimpering, then to quiet, desperate sobbing. The water gradually absorbed her body's heat, and the fever slowly subsided.
In the darkest hour of night, when even the moon hid behind clouds, came a moment when she begged for death. Her body was so exhausted, her mind so tormented, that death seemed the only possible salvation. Draco didn't relent—he held her in his arms as she shook in spasms of crying, spoke to her though she didn't understand the words, stayed with her as she passed through the darkest corners of her soul.
And then, somewhere between night and day, she fell into a deep, motionless sleep. Her breathing evened out, her body relaxed, and her face, contorted in a grimace of suffering, finally smoothed. Draco kept vigil beside her, fearing this was just a temporary break before another wave of pain. But hours passed, and she slept peacefully, deeply, like someone who had passed through hell and finally found solace.
When the first rays of sunlight came through the curtains, Hermione opened her eyes. For a moment she lay motionless, as if gathering scattered pieces of consciousness. Her gaze was different—clear, present, aware. Without the feverish gleam of hunger, without the shadow of fear that had accompanied her for so long.
Slowly, carefully, she sat up in bed. She was still weak, her body exhausted by the battle it had fought. But in her eyes appeared a calmness—deep, genuine peace that Draco hadn't seen since the moment he met her.
A ray of morning sun fell on her face, illuminating it with a gentle glow. And suddenly Draco realized he was looking at Hermione—the real Hermione. Not the addicted, broken woman drowning in potions and pain. Not the cold, distant official who kept the world at arm's length. But the woman she had always been beneath all those masks—strong, intelligent, full of life.
The worst was behind them. He knew the road to full recovery would be long and difficult. He knew the hunger would return, that nightmares would still haunt her. But this first awakening, this first morning when her eyes were truly conscious—this was a beginning. The beginning of something neither of them had expected when they started this journey.
The beginning of a return to life.
In the silence that fell between them, suddenly a loud, prolonged sound was heard. Hermione's stomach growled so loudly that both of them froze for a moment. Her eyes widened slightly, and a shadow of embarrassment appeared on her exhausted face.
Draco looked at her with a mixture of tenderness and concern. It was so human, so ordinary—this simple, physiological reflex after days of nightmarish suffering.
"You're hungry."
Hermione lowered her gaze, as if ashamed of this sign of weakness. Her hands—still slightly trembling—nervously smoothed the quilt.
"No," she answered quietly, though her stomach treacherously contradicted her, again making a protesting sound. "It's really nothing."
Draco sat on the edge of the bed, gently taking her hand. It was so small, so fragile in his grasp. These same hands, which not long ago had inflicted pain on him in a frenzied attack of hunger, now lay motionless, surrendering to his touch.
"Hermione," he began, and her name on his lips sounded like a prayer. "You haven't eaten anything for three days. Your body has been through hell. You need nourishment to regain your strength."
She raised her eyes, and in them—still with dark circles beneath, but no longer clouded—appeared a spark.
"You haven't eaten either," she observed. "You sat with me the whole time."
Draco felt something tighten in his throat. This small expression of concern from her—after everything she had been through—moved him more deeply than he could admit.
"That's true," he replied with a slight smile. "I think we both need a proper meal. I'll make us breakfast."
Hermione hesitated, biting her lip—that small, familiar gesture she always made when embarrassed.
"I have almost nothing at home," she confessed quietly, as if it were a confession of a greater truth—an admission of how much she had neglected basic aspects of self-care. "I don't remember when I last went shopping."
Draco looked at her with understanding. In her eyes he saw shame—the same he knew too well from the times when Blaise found him surrounded by empty bottles of firewhiskey, unable to perform the simplest tasks.
The memory of Blaise caused a pang of pain. His friend, who once saved his life, now lay in a coma at St. Mungo's. And he visited him decidedly too rarely, immersed in work and his own demons. At the edge of Draco's consciousness also appeared a thought about Father Celestine, about everything he had learned. He knew he should tell Hermione about his discoveries, about the unicorn blood on the list, but... he looked at her exhausted face, at eyes that had only just regained consciousness after days of suffering.
A few hours' delay won't make a difference, he thought. He didn't want to spoil this fragile, precious moment of return to life with brutal facts of the investigation. That could wait. Now all that mattered was for her to regain her strength.
"I'll go shopping," he said gently. Then, suddenly realizing something, he frowned slightly. "Will... will you be all right if I leave you alone for a while? I can ask someone to bring food, if you'd prefer I stay."
"I'll be fine," she answered, her voice stronger than before. "I think... the worst is behind me. Thanks to you."
"Is there a store nearby?" he asked, gently stroking the back of her hand with his thumb.
"At the end of the street," she replied. "Not big, but it should have everything we need."
Draco nodded, but didn't move immediately. He looked at her for a moment longer, as if wanting to memorize every detail of her face. Finally, with obvious hesitation, he raised her hand to his lips and placed a gentle kiss on it.
"I'll be back as quickly as possible," he promised, his voice slightly hoarse with emotion. "Rest a little. You'll need your strength."
He released her hand and stood, heading for the door. At the threshold he turned once more to look at her—small, fragile, but no longer broken. Stronger than ever before, precisely because she had passed through hell and returned.
"I'm proud of you," he said quietly, and these words, so simple, contained everything he couldn't express—admiration, respect, tenderness.
He was about to leave when he stopped and added, as if only now thinking of it:
"When I return, we'll need to talk."
Hermione raised her eyebrows slightly, and a shadow of concern appeared in her eyes.
"About what?" she asked, her voice suddenly more cautious.
"About Celestine father," he answered after a moment's hesitation. "But that's a worry for later. Now all that matters is for you to regain your strength."
She nodded, accepting his decision, though a question appeared in her eyes that she left unspoken. Draco wondered for a moment whether he should tell her more, but he knew this wasn't the right time. First she had to come back to herself—physically and mentally.
"Rest," he repeated, giving her one last look. "I'll be back soon."
Closing the bedroom door behind him, he sighed deeply. Now, when he no longer needed to be strong for her, he felt the fatigue of the last few days catching up to him with full force. His own body demanded rest, food, normalcy. But first, he had to take care of one more thing.
He headed to the kitchen, where traces of yesterday's struggle were still all too visible—broken glass on the floor, scattered products, cabinets flung wide open, potion vials—some empty, others half-emptied.
He clenched his jaw at the sight. He knew what he had to do. Looking around for something to put them in, he noticed a plastic bag hanging on a hook by the refrigerator. He took it and began carefully placing all the vials, bottles, and pill packages he found inside. He made sure nothing remained—no hidden dose that might tempt Hermione in a moment of weakness. Then with a wave of his wand, he cleared the kitchen of glass.
When he finished, he threw the bag full of potions and glass into a large garbage bin by the front door. He allowed himself a moment of satisfaction when he heard the soft clink of glass hitting the bottom of the container. You could have done this long ago, he thought bitterly. You could have saved her earlier.
But he dismissed these thoughts. This wasn't the time for remorse. Now all that mattered was moving forward. Helping her return to life. Repairing what had been broken—in her, in him, between them.
With this thought, he stepped out onto the street, closing the door behind him.
He walked quickly in the direction Hermione had indicated. The morning air was crisp, the street almost empty—only here and there pedestrians hurried by, busy with their own affairs. His mind worked at full speed, analyzing everything that had happened in the last few days and what he still needed to do.
Celestine. Their marriage had always been a business arrangement, never a real relationship. But now, after everything that had happened with Hermione and when he suspected her father might be involved in creating Claritas... The decision seemed obvious. Divorce. Immediate and unconditional, regardless of the business or social consequences. Some lines couldn't be crossed, and producing a potion that harmed people was one of them.
Then the antidote. The results of his laboratory research were promising but still incomplete. He needed more time, more trials. Perhaps if he involved someone from outside? Someone who had access to rarer ingredients? Severus would have been ideal, but... He swallowed the bitterness at the thought of his deceased mentor. Maybe Slughorn? The old teacher still had his contacts, and his reputation might open doors where the Malfoy name now built walls.
And Hermione. He had to explain everything to her, show her the evidence he had gathered. He knew that as soon as she recovered, she would want to act immediately, return to the investigation. That's how she was—even on the verge of breakdown, her mind still worked, analyzed, fought for justice.
That was one of the things he...
Loved?
He froze mid-step.
The word that appeared in his mind hit him with the force of a stunning spell. Draco felt the ground disappear from under his feet. He staggered and leaned heavily against the wall of the nearest building, trying to catch his breath, which had suddenly become shallow and broken.
Did he love her?
It was absurd. Impossible. Inconceivable.
And yet...
He laughed quietly, in disbelief, resting his head against the cool wall. This laugh wasn't sarcastic or cruel—it was completely genuine, surprised, almost hysterical. As if he were laughing at the capriciousness of fate, which had made him—Draco Malfoy, son of a Death Eater, master of manipulation, a man with a heart bound in ice—fall in love with a woman whose life he had helped destroy.
Standing in the middle of an almost empty street, disheveled and sleep-deprived after three nights of vigilance, he suddenly understood that what he felt for Hermione was something he had never experienced before. It wasn't desire, though that was part of it. It wasn't admiration, though there was plenty of that too. It was something deeper, something that made him want to be a better man. Someone who deserved her gaze. Her smile. Her trust.
"You've gone mad, Malfoy," he whispered to himself with a mixture of amusement and surprise. "Completely lost your mind."
He pushed himself off the wall and ran trembling fingers through his hair. His thoughts swirled like startled birds, trying to make sense of this unexpected discovery.
What now? What was he to do with this feeling he had suddenly recognized? She had just freed herself from one addiction—did he have the right to offer her another? Did he have the right to assume she could ever look at him differently than through the lens of their painful past?
These thoughts were like a cold shower, bringing him back to reality. But instead of suppressing this new, unexpected feeling, they only seemed to emphasize its strength.
Because if one thing was certain, it was that Hermione Granger deserved much more than he could ever offer her. She deserved someone who would never use her weaknesses against her. Someone who would never play with her pain like cards in poker. Someone who would never, ever trade her soul for personal gain.
Someone better than him.
And this thought—instead of bringing relief, giving an excuse to escape from this unexpected feeling—evoked in him a determination he hadn't expected to feel.
Because maybe, just maybe, he could become such a person? Perhaps he could cleanse his heart of the poison of hatred and manipulation that had eaten into him since childhood? Maybe, instead of running from this feeling, he could let it guide him to a better version of himself?
"You're insane," he repeated, but this time with a smile that was both incredulous and hopeful. "Completely insane."
He continued toward the store with new energy. He knew he wouldn't solve all these issues now, in the middle of the street. But one thing was certain—he had a task before him. Hermione needed food, rest, safety. And he was determined to provide that for her.
In the store, he moved with unusual practicality for himself. He—an aristocrat accustomed to others doing such mundane things as shopping—selected products with surprising confidence. Fresh bread, honey, eggs, fruit. Light, nutritious things that wouldn't burden her weakened system. Milk, oatmeal. Herbal tea to help calm the nerves.
At the checkout, driven by an impulse he didn't want to analyze, he reached for a small bouquet of wildflowers displayed in a metal bucket. Nothing extravagant or ostentatious—simple daisies, chamomile, and bluebells that reminded him of the meadows around Hogwarts. The cashier wrapped them in plain paper, and he paid, ignoring the strange feeling as if he were doing something both ridiculous and absolutely right. Since the unfortunate incident with the portkey modeled after Hermione, he always carried some Muggle money with him.
With a bag of groceries in one hand and the bouquet in the other, he returned to Hermione's apartment. Thoughts still swirled in his head, but now they had a clearer shape, a more distinct direction.
Suddenly he heard a soft whistle above his head. Instinctively, he looked up, just in time to see the tawny wings of an owl that had just dropped something right in front of him. A small, elegant envelope of cream-colored paper fell onto the sidewalk at his feet.