Chapter 20
Hermione sat on the edge of the bed, feeling simultaneously strangely light and completely exhausted. Her body, which had been a battlefield for the last three days, now seemed to belong to someone else—it was weak, aching, but also... free. Cleansed.
She ran her hand along her arm, feeling on her skin the memory of his touch. During those three days of nightmarish detox, Draco had held her, calmed her, protected her from herself. His hands on her fever-heated skin, his lips whispering reassuring words by her ear, his arms forming a cocoon of safety around her trembling body—all of this had left an invisible mark on her that she now felt more distinctly than ever before.
She rose slowly, testing her legs. They wavered slightly, but supported her weight. This small victory brought an unexpected smile. Not long ago she had been kicking and screaming in Draco's arms, begging for the potion, her body twisting in convulsions so painful that at times she lost consciousness, fever consuming her from within, hallucinations transforming every shadow into a demon.
And today... today she could stand on her own.
She made her way to the kitchen, moving slowly, holding onto the wall for support. Her throat was dry, burning with thirst. She needed water.
Entering the kitchen, she saw traces of yesterday's struggle—cleaned up, but still visible to someone who knew what to look for. Cabinets closed too evenly, countertops too clean. Not a trace remained of vials, bottles, or tablets. Draco had taken everything.
She felt a pang—hunger breaking through the layer of numbness. Her body still demanded the potion, her nerves still screamed for chemical relief. But now, in the daylight, that craving was bearable. Like a distant hum, not a deafening scream.
Instead of searching for the potion, she poured herself a glass of water and drank it greedily, feeling the cool liquid soothe her irritated throat. And then, instead of returning to bed, she opened the cabinet where she kept coffee. Draco would return soon, and she wanted... wanted to do something normal. Something human. Something for him.
Preparing two cups, spilling aromatic beans, listening to the kettle's hum, Hermione allowed her thoughts to wander. What now? What would happen between her and Draco after everything they had gone through together? How was she to name what she felt for him—this mixture of gratitude, trust, and something deeper, more disturbing?
And Ron. Always Ron, present in her thoughts, in her heart. Was what she felt for Draco a betrayal of his memory? Did the fact that under the touch of a man who had once been their enemy she felt something other than hatred mean she had betrayed everything they had fought for together?
But for the first time in years, this thought didn't bring with it a paralyzing sense of guilt. Instead, somewhere at the edge of consciousness, another thought appeared—quiet but clear: Ron would want her to be happy. Ron, who loved her so much that he was ready to die for her—wouldn't want her to spend the rest of her life in the shadow of his death.
This thought was so unexpected, so different from everything she had allowed herself to feel for the past years, that Hermione felt tears coming to her eyes. But these weren't tears of pain or guilt—for the first time in a very, very long time, she was crying because of something else. Because of possibility. Because of hope.
The water in the kettle boiled with a soft whistle. Hermione poured it over the coffee, breathing in its aroma deeply. Normalcy. Life. Return. She didn't know what the future would bring—for her, for Draco, for them both. But for the first time in years, she was ready to find out.
She was just finishing preparing the coffee when she heard the sound of the front door opening. Her heart beat a little faster.
"Draco?" she called out, feeling a strange shyness in her voice. "Do you prefer coffee with sugar or without?"
Silence. No answer. A wrinkle of concern appeared on her forehead. Maybe it wasn't Draco? Maybe...
Before she could finish that thought, he appeared in the doorway. He looked strange—his face was tense, his eyes avoiding her gaze. Without a word, he placed the shopping bag on the counter beside her.
"I brought everything needed," he said, his voice sounding neutral, as if he was trying very hard to keep emotions in check. "It should be enough for a few days."
He began unpacking the products—bread, fruit, eggs, milk—arranging them methodically on the counter. His movements were precise, but somehow mechanical. Completely different from the warmth and closeness she had felt from him just an hour ago.
"I made coffee," she said uncertainly, pointing to the two prepared cups. "I thought we could have breakfast together."
Draco paused for a moment, as if her words had pulled him from some trance. He glanced at her briefly, then averted his gaze again.
"I have to go," he replied, carefully folding the now-empty bag. "I have... certain matters to attend to."
Hermione stood frozen, with a cup of coffee in her hand. The sudden change in his behavior completely surprised her. What had happened? When he left, he had been caring, warm, almost tender. Now he seemed lost, distant, as if something had deeply troubled him.
"You won't have breakfast with me?" she asked, not hiding the astonishment in her voice.
He turned slowly. His face, just an hour ago full of warmth and concern, was now like a mask—cool, distant, almost foreign. Something in his eyes had changed, as if some inner light had left him.
"Listen, Granger," he said, and the use of her surname after these three days of intimacy hit her like a slap. "I don't know what you imagined, but don't look for something deeper here."
Hermione stood motionless, coffee forgotten on the counter, feeling all the hopes that had been born in her that morning slowly withering.
"What happened?" she asked quietly, taking a step toward him. "When you left..."
"When I left, I was tired after three days of babysitting you," he interrupted her sharply. "I didn't want to watch you die before my eyes, so I did what I had to do. That's all."
His words were like shards of ice, sharp and cold. Hermione felt her throat constricting painfully.
"I don't believe you," she said, her voice stronger than she expected. "That's not how you behaved. That's not how you spoke."
Draco laughed briefly, without a trace of humor.
"And what did you think? That I suddenly fell in love with you? That these three days changed everything between us?" his voice dripped with sarcasm. "A grown woman, yet so naive."
She stepped back as if he had struck her. She felt the blush of shame and humiliation spreading across her cheeks.
"It wasn't naivety," she said quietly. "It was trust. I thought... I thought that after everything we went through together..."
"What did we go through?" he interrupted her again, his voice becoming even colder. "I helped you through detox. Big deal. Don't assign meaning to it that isn't there."
Each word stabbed into her heart like a dagger. After these three days, when he had seen her at her worst, when he had held her through the worst nightmares, when he had whispered words of comfort and promises of a better tomorrow—now he stood before her like a stranger.
"Why are you doing this?" she asked, and the tears she had promised herself to hold back began to gather in the corners of her eyes. "What changed from the moment you left?"
For a fraction of a second, something flashed across his face—a shadow of pain? regret?—but it quickly disappeared, replaced by cold indifference.
"Nothing changed. I simply returned to reality," he said, looking down at her. "And the reality is that you and I were a mistake from the very beginning. We satisfied each other's needs—I needed control, you needed punishment. Now that you're off the potions, you don't need that anymore. And frankly, neither do I."
These words, spoken so dispassionately, as if he were discussing the weather, hit her with the force of a physical blow. She knew there was a grain of truth in them—their relationship had begun with mutual exploitation of each other's weaknesses. But the last few days... the way he had held her, how he had looked at her, how he had touched her face...
"Want to know the truth, Granger?" he suddenly snarled, his eyes flashing with cold anger. "Do you really want to know why I helped you? Because I was sick of you. Sick of your addiction, how you clung to me, how you crept into my life. I knew that as long as you were taking those potions, I'd never be free of you."
Hermione froze, feeling each word tearing her apart from the inside.
"You think all this was for you? It was for me. To finally get my life back," he continued mercilessly. "My marriage is falling apart, Celestine suspects something. This... arrangement between us started to have too high a price."
He stepped closer, and his voice turned icy.
"Every day with you was a day I could have spent salvaging what was left of my life. So yes, I helped you through detox. Not out of care, not out of feeling, but out of pure selfishness. Because it was the fastest way to get rid of you from my life. Three days of nightmare in exchange for peace. A good investment, don't you think?"
He laughed emptily, and the sound was so foreign, so cold, that Hermione felt a physical pain in her chest.
"And you know what's most amusing? How easily you believed it," he added, his lips twisting into a mocking smile. "That anyone could really care about someone like you—broken, addicted, lost. You were so desperate for someone to save you that you were ready to believe in every gesture, every word. What did you expect from me? That I would stay? That I would give up everything for you?" he continued, his voice growing more venomous. "Get real, Granger. You were just a temporary distraction. Now that you're sober, you're not even interesting anymore."
"Draco, no..." she whispered, her face contorting in a grimace of pure pain.
Without thinking, she lunged forward, grabbing him by the shoulders. Her fingers dug into his skin with a strength that surprised them both. She was trembling all over, and her breathing became ragged, as if she suddenly couldn't get enough air.
"No, no, no..." she repeated as if feverish, shaking her head. Tears burst from her eyes, flowing down her cheeks, dripping onto her blouse. "Please, don't do this..."
She tried to catch his gaze, but he stubbornly looked somewhere above her head. With a desperate movement, she grabbed his face in her hands, forcing him to look at her.
"Look at me!" she cried through tears, her voice breaking mid-word. "Look at me and tell me all this to my face!"
Draco slowly lowered his gaze, and his eyes—those eyes that for the last three days had looked at her with care, warmth, understanding—now met her tearful gaze. He looked at her for a long time, without a word, his face like a mask carved from ice.
Hermione felt her heart pounding in her chest so hard that it hurt. Each second of his silence was like an eternity, each beat of her heart measuring time that seemed to have stopped. She stood before him, her face wet with tears, her hair in disarray, her hands still clutched at a piece of his shirt—completely exposed in her desperation.
Hope and fear battled within her with equal force. She wanted to believe that he would break any moment, that his eyes would be warm again, that he would reach out to her. But with each second of his silence, that hope died, replaced by icy terror.
Finally, after what could have been a minute or an eternity, Draco moved. Slowly, precisely, as if performing a complicated operation, he freed himself from her clenched fingers. His face expressed absolutely nothing—no anger, no disgust, no regret. As if he were looking at a complete stranger who evoked no emotions in him whatsoever.
"Never contact me again," he said at last, his voice quiet but as unyielding as a sentence.
And then he turned and headed toward the door. His steps were calm, measured, without a hint of hesitation. He didn't look back even once, even as the door closed behind him with a dull thud that echoed in the empty apartment like a final sentence.
Hermione collapsed to her knees, her hands hanging limply, her face wet with tears that now flowed silently. She felt something dying within her—a small, fragile hope that had been born in those days when he held her in his arms and whispered that everything would be all right.
The silence that fell after his departure was deafening.
During those three days of detox, she had suffered physical torment, but this pain that now flooded her was different—deeper, more primal, reaching into the deepest layers of her existence. She was like an open wound sprinkled with salt. Each breath brought a new wave of suffering.
Because she had believed. Truly, honestly believed that what had happened between them in those days was real. That the way he looked at her, how he held her in his arms, how he whispered words of comfort—that it was all authentic. That perhaps, after so many years of pain and loneliness, she had found someone who really saw her. All of her, with her demons, scars, addiction.
And now? Now she was alone, torn apart, empty. Betrayed not by him—for how could someone who was never on her side betray her?—but by her own hopes.
She looked at the kitchen cabinet where she once kept her potions. Draco had taken everything, but she knew that if she wanted, she could have new vials within an hour. The magical apothecary in Knockturn Alley didn't ask questions if you had enough galleons.
Suddenly the impulse was irresistible. She needed that numbness, that blessed torpor that her potions brought. She needed to forget the pain, the humiliation, that spark of hope that had ignited within her only to be brutally trampled.
She jumped up from the floor, swaying on uncertain legs. Without thinking much, she grabbed her coat and headed for the door. The apothecary in Knockturn. That was her only thought. Her only escape route.
But before she could touch the handle, she heard a gentle tapping on the window. She turned abruptly, wiping tears with her hand. At the window sat an owl—an ordinary, brown barn owl, the kind the Ministry used for routine correspondence. In its beak it held a small, sealed envelope.
Hermione hesitated. Was it from Harry? Or maybe...? No, Draco wouldn't send an owl. Not after what he had said. But who else would be writing to her?
With a heart still heavy with pain, she went to the window and let the owl in. The bird dropped the envelope into her hand and flew away without waiting for a reply.
The envelope was light, made of simple paper, without any markings. She tore it open with trembling fingers.
Inside was just one card, with a few lines written in a careful but unfamiliar handwriting:
"If you want to find out who really stands behind Claritas, come today to the Aston Observatory in northern Dartmoor. Use only Muggle means of transportation. I will be waiting. Hurry."
No signature. No explanation. Just these words and an address.
Aston Observatory... Hermione frowned, searching the recesses of her memory. Of course, she had heard of it—an abandoned Victorian astronomical facility, converted in the early twentieth century by the Aston wizarding family into an elixir research station. The place was closed in the seventies after a series of explosions caused by experiments with unstable ingredients.
It was a perfect location for someone who wanted to remain hidden—isolated, surrounded by the moors and heathlands of Dartmoor, forgotten by the magical community after the Ministry officially declared it a dangerous zone due to the remnants of magical experiments. According to rumors circulating among Ministry employees, in some parts of the observatory magic still behaved unpredictably, making it one of the few places where tracking apparition and other forms of magical transport was practically impossible.
And the requirement to use Muggle means of transportation... Whoever wrote this didn't want her journey to be tracked by the Ministry.
Hermione looked again at the card, and then at the door. Knockturn with its dark apothecaries suddenly seemed less appealing than the mystery behind this letter.
Besides, what did she have to lose? Absolutely nothing. Nothing at all.
This thought, instead of depressing her further, brought a strange sense of freedom. When you have nothing to lose, you can risk everything. And she had just lost everything that seemed to have any meaning—her dignity, her illusions, that fragile hope that had briefly illuminated her life.
With sudden determination, she wiped away the remaining tears from her cheeks and headed to the bedroom. She dressed quickly—jeans, sweater, sturdy boots. Into her coat pocket she slipped her wand, though she wasn't sure if it would be of any use in a place where magic behaved unpredictably. Into a small bag she threw a few basic items—some Muggle money, a spare wand, a vial of healing potion (the only one Draco had left in the bathroom).
She looked around the apartment one last time, which suddenly seemed foreign and empty. The memory of Draco still hung in the air—his scent, the echo of his voice, the trace of his presence. And it all hurt now like an open wound.
She left without looking back, slamming the door with such force that the neighbor across the hall peered out after her in concern.
The cool air hit her face, sobering her for a moment. The street was almost empty, with only a few Muggles hurrying to their homes. Hermione headed toward the bus stop, mentally planning her route to Dartmoor. By Muggle means it would be complicated—a train, then probably a bus transfer, and finally a taxi or a long walk across the moors. But perhaps that was exactly what she needed—physical exertion that would divert her attention from the emotional pain.
Who could have sent this letter? Who knew about her interest in the Claritas case, yet had reason to pass on such information? Harry? No, Harry would have signed it, not played at mysteries. Maybe someone from her team at the Ministry? But why the secrecy?
Suddenly she remembered a fragment of conversation with Draco, just before he left for the store this morning. He mentioned something in passing, as if he didn't want her to pay much attention to it. Something about Celestine's father.
Was it possible that he was behind this mysterious letter? But why would he contact her? What would he have to gain by helping her discover the truth about Claritas? Or perhaps he had something else entirely in mind—maybe he wanted to use her in some game against Draco?
She was so lost in thought, so focused on the puzzle of the letter, that she didn't notice the shadow that detached itself from the wall as she passed a narrow alley between buildings.
She felt it suddenly—a brutal jerk on her arm that pulled her into the darkness. Someone's hand, strong and relentless, closed over her mouth, stifling the scream that had barely begun to form.