Chapter 21
Draco felt his soul tearing into a million pieces as he spoke all those lies. Each word was like a dagger driven into his own body. When he looked into her eyes—those eyes that for the past few days had gazed at him with something that could have been the beginning of trust—and saw them filling with pain, he felt as if he himself was dying bit by bit.
For her safety, he repeated in his mind. This is all for her safety.
He left her there, in the apartment, completely shattered. He turned and walked out, not looking back, though it cost him more willpower than he had ever had to muster before. Even standing before Voldemort, he hadn't felt so torn apart.
In his head, the words of the letter that the owl had dropped at his feet still echoed.
"Come to the Aston Observatory in northern Dartmoor at midnight. Bring the mudblood with you. This is not a request. The consequences of disobedience will be... severe."
Attached to the letter was a magical photograph that turned his blood to ice. Narcissa sat in a chair with her hands bound by magical restraints. Her face remained pale but proud—even in captivity, Narcissa Malfoy did not lose her dignity. In the photo, the tip of a wand could be seen pressed against her throat. He didn't recognize it, but then he had never paid attention to what kind his father-in-law used. Narcissa in the photograph didn't flinch, though her eyes, looking straight into the camera, conveyed a clear message to her son. Even in this situation, she showed no fear. The image repeated in a short loop: wand at throat, flash of red light, slight twitch of his mother's facial muscles, and then the same again.
No, Draco could not take Hermione with him. He couldn't put her at such risk. Not after what she had been through. Not after those terrible nightmares he had witnessed. Not after she had slowly, with such difficulty, begun to open up. He couldn't throw her back into the abyss of suffering.
Antoine Rosier was unpredictable. Despite his sophisticated exterior, despite his titles and positions, Draco knew this man was capable of anything. And if he had gone so far with Claritas, if he was behind all those comas—there was no way Draco would risk exposing Hermione to a meeting with him.
Draco's knuckles turned white as he gripped his wand. The thought of his mother in that man's hands made him feel an icy weight in his stomach. Narcissa had survived the war, survived the fall of their family, even survived Lucius's imprisonment in Azkaban. He couldn't let her become another victim.
But he couldn't sacrifice Hermione either.
He could still smell her hair, still remember the warmth of her body against his. She carried too many scars, too much pain. She needed someone who would protect her, not drag her deeper into darkness. And now he stood at a crossroads where every path led to suffering.
He cursed under his breath, looking at the moors stretching before him. Dartmoor looked harsh even in daylight—empty, wild, and unwelcoming. In the distance loomed the grim bulk of the observatory, an old stone structure whose walls cast sharp shadows in the afternoon sun. No shelter, no cover—only open space where any movement could be spotted from afar.
Time. He was running out of time. Each minute brought him closer to the meeting with Rosier, and he still wasn't sure if his plan had any chance of success. The vision was clear, the individual steps—less so. Makeshift solutions, desperate spells, and that one, final act that would change everything.
He ran a hand through his hair, leaving it in complete disarray. If his father could see him now—disheveled, with dark circles under his eyes, with trembling hands—he would surely dismiss him with an icy look and one of those comments that cut like knives between the ribs.
But Lucius wasn't here. Only he was, with a cage under his cloak and a few items purchased hastily in Knockturn Alley, including vials containing substances that disgusted even him.
If he had more time... If he could prepare better... If he could consult with someone who really knew about such rituals...
But there was no time. There were only the next steps on the hard ground, hands gripping the wand so tightly that his knuckles turned white, and that growing certainty that he probably wouldn't come out of this alive. He knew that what he intended to do was unforgivable. That it would haunt him for the rest of his life, if by some miracle he survived. But he hoped that if he ever got to tell Hermione about it, she would understand.
That someday he would be able to tell her why he had to lie to her so cruelly. Why he had to leave her shattered in that apartment. Why he resorted to methods that would sicken even the most hardened dark wizards. And Draco had no idea what Antoine Rosier wanted.
He was approaching the observatory. Once an impressive building, now abandoned and gloomy, it cast a long shadow over the moors. It could be a perfect backdrop for a ghost story. Ironic that this was exactly the kind of story he intended to write here.
He stopped in the shadow of a large boulder. He needed to review the items purchased in Knockturn Alley once more, make sure everything was ready. Each element had to work perfectly if he wanted to get out of this with his mother. And with his soul, though the latter was already seriously endangered.
Whatever happened, he would have to live with the knowledge that he had crossed a line that even his father hadn't dared to cross. But if it saved Hermione and Narcissa... if it gave him a chance to stop Rosier... then perhaps it was worth it.
The thought of her pierced his skull with unbearable pain. He hoped she was sitting safely in her apartment—broken, angry, perhaps even plunged into despair so deep that she had reached for the potions again. He hated that vision, but a broken Hermione was infinitely better than a dead Hermione. Potions could be withdrawn a second time. Bringing someone back to life was much harder.
Immediately after leaving her apartment, he sent a Patronus to Potter. The mere thought of asking that self-righteous prat for help was like swallowing a live snake, but he had no choice. He didn't know who else he could turn to without detailed explanations. And there was no time for those.
"Apparate to Hermione's. Immediately. Don't let her leave the apartment. Don't ask why—Claritas."
He hoped—at this point it was more desperate wish than hope—that Potter had any reserves of common sense left. That he would do what was asked, if only for Hermione's sake.
Potter was her best friend—at least he used to be. If anyone could protect her, it was him. And though he would never admit it aloud, he knew Potter was a powerful wizard. Perhaps not the most brilliant—here Draco couldn't suppress a crooked smile—but certainly capable of rising to the occasion.
He could only hope that the complicated history between him and Potter wouldn't cause him to ignore the message. That old grudges and suspicion wouldn't outweigh Hermione's safety. Because if Potter didn't listen... if Rosier somehow reached her...
Draco clenched his fists so tightly that his nails dug into his skin. No. He couldn't think about that now. He had to focus on the task. On the plan that, though mad and full of gaps, was all he had.
When he had prepared everything, he carefully hid the items under a massive boulder. No casual passerby should find them, and if something went wrong... well, it wouldn't matter anymore. He hesitated for a moment, then opened the cage. The quiet sound of the hinges seemed disproportionately loud in the emptiness of the moors.
He headed toward the observatory, feeling increasing resistance with each step. Every meter cost him more effort, as if his body instinctively resisted what his mind was planning. The sun breaking through clouds at the corner of his eye made the shadows on the moor seem deeper and more ominous than they should be in the middle of the day.
Reaching the building took him longer than he expected. The old stone structure looked even more foreboding up close—crumbling cornices, cobwebs in recesses, broken windows. The perfect landscape for what was about to happen here.
He pushed the heavy wooden door, which creaked in warning. He didn't close it completely, leaving a narrow gap—caution learned through years of war. It was always good to have an escape route.
The interior of the observatory was cool and dark. The air carried the smell of mustiness and something else—metallic, barely perceptible, which he instinctively identified as magic. Powerful, old magic.
He took out his wand and tightly wrapped his fingers around it. This gesture always gave him an illusory sense of control, which he so desperately needed now. Slowly, he moved deeper into the ruined building, carefully placing his steps on the damaged floor. Stone stairs led upward, to the main observation hall. If Rosier was anywhere here, it would be there.
He paused for a moment, listening. In old buildings, walls had a habit of carrying sounds in the most unpredictable ways. He heard something—a faint creak, somewhere above.
"Expelliarmus!"
A flash of light tore through the air, hitting him straight in the chest with the force of a physical blow. The wand was ripped from his hand, leaving behind only a phantom feeling of warmth on his skin and a pulsing pain in his wrist. He felt the magic tearing away not just his wand, but all his self-confidence, which was already hanging by a thread. In an instant, he changed from a wizard ready to fight into a defenseless victim, exactly like when he stood before the Dark Lord.
The wood hit the wall somewhere behind him with a dry crack that sounded like a sentence. And then a silence fell so deep that he could hear only his own accelerated breathing and the rush of blood in his ears, pulsing to the rhythm of his heart, which now pounded in his chest like a trapped bird.
At the top of the stairs, in streaks of dust swirling in a narrow beam of light, stood a woman. Bright rays falling through the broken window illuminated her silhouette, creating an almost angelic halo around her, which stood in terrifying contrast to the cold, merciless expression on her face.
Not a man. Not Antoine Rosier.
Celestine.
The shock was like a slap to the face. His body reacted before his mind could process what he was seeing—he stepped back, instinctively, his hand still clenched around the wand that was no longer there. A futile gesture that made the corner of his wife's mouth twitch in an icy smile.
His wife.
His wife.
This thought refused to settle in his head, didn't fit the image of the woman who now looked down at him. This foreign, cold being, whose gaze pierced through him as if he were nothing more than an obstacle to be removed.
Celestine stood straight and perfectly calm. She wore an elegant dark green dress, a shade that reminded him of Slytherin, though he knew she couldn't know this symbolism—she hadn't attended Hogwarts, didn't know the houses, their colors and meanings. Yet she chose green—the same green he wore when he first invited her to dinner, the same one that adorned their wedding invitations.
Her light hair, as always gathered in a tight, elegant bun, revealed sharp facial features that he had always found beautiful in a cold, unattainable way. Too perfect to be real. Like a sculpture that could be admired but not loved. Now, however, he saw not a trace of beauty in them—only the ruthless calculation he had always suspected but which she had never allowed him to see.
"Celestine," her name sounded foreign on his lips, as if he were pronouncing it for the first time. And perhaps he was? Perhaps he had never really known her?
He watched as she slowly descended the stairs, the wand in her hand not wavering for a moment—aimed straight at his chest, ready to fire a deadly spell at the slightest suspicious movement.
Her face remained impassive, but in the eyes he once considered full of elegance, he now saw something that froze the blood in his veins. Absolute certainty. Absolute ruthlessness.
When she reached the bottom, she looked slowly around the room, then focused her gaze on him again, raising one perfectly shaped eyebrow slightly.
"Where is the mudblood, Draco?" she asked, and the French accent he had always found charming now sounded like nails on a chalkboard.
"She's not here," he replied, trying to make his voice sound confident. He felt sweat running down his back, and his thoughts galloped, trying to find a way out of a situation where even the smallest mistake could cost him his life. "I didn't bring her."
Celestine shook her head with an expression of feigned disappointment on her face, like a teacher displeased with a student.
"You knew there would be consequences, mon chéri," she hissed the last word with such contempt that he felt almost physical pain. "I was clear. Bring Miss Granger."
Draco took a step toward her but stopped when the wand twitched in warning. He needed to buy time. He needed to keep her talking.
Maintaining appearances cost him an incredible effort. Every muscle in his body was tense, sweat ran down his temples, and his heart was pounding so hard that he was sure Celestine must hear it. Yet his face remained almost calm—years of practicing a mask of indifference under Lucius's watchful eye finally proved useful. Only a slight trembling of his left eyelid might betray his true state.
"It's not nice to rummage through your wife's things, Draco," she said with a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "One might find things not meant for your eyes."
He felt the blood drain from his face. She knew. She knew he had found and read the letter that changed everything, that opened his eyes to the true mechanism behind the Claritas case. It wasn't her father who left the unicorn blood trace there, but her.
"How did you know?" he asked, seeing no point in denying it. The longer she talked, the more time he would gain.
Celestine laughed, and the sound, once melodious and seductive, now sounded like shards of ice striking metal.
"I place spells on every letter, mon cher. Precisely for moments like this," she moved her wand through the air, tracing a pattern he recognized as an alerting charm. "The moment your fingers touched the parchment, I already knew. And yet..." she tilted her head like a curious bird of prey. "You were so... how do you say... dense that you didn't even think to check for such basic things."
He swallowed the bitterness and humiliation. She was right. He had made a novice's mistake.
"I underestimated you," he admitted with unwavering calm in his voice, though everything inside him was screaming. He noticed how her face brightened slightly at the compliment. Vanity—that was her weakness, one he could exploit. "You were always better than I thought. Cleverer. More... cunning."
He saw her wand hand relax slightly. Good. Very good.
"But I still don't understand," he continued, feigning confusion. "Why all of this? This whole Claritas... the comas... the Ministry's involvement... it's an enormous risk. You could have simply..."
"What?" she interrupted. "Asked for a divorce? Quietly faded into the shadows?" Her laugh was like the sound of breaking glass. "Oh no, Draco. A Malfoy's wife doesn't leave empty-handed. Especially not when her husband betrays her with a mudblood."
He felt his stomach tie into a painful knot. Further confirmation. She knew about Hermione. All this time she knew.
Celestine observed him carefully, her gaze sliding over his face, stopping at his eyes, which—as he well knew—betrayed him at this moment more than he would like to admit.
"Yes, Draco. I knew," she said quietly, almost caressingly. "Did you really think I wouldn't notice?"
She stepped a pace closer, and her wand didn't change position for a moment. The holly tip now pointed exactly at the spot where his heart beat.
"I figured it out after the first few times," her voice was like velvet dragged across ice. "Those sudden business trips of yours, all those nights when you returned smelling of someone else's perfume, someone else's skin. Those stains on your collar, those hairs whose color didn't match any of your supposed clients..."
She paused for a moment to savor every second of his humiliation. The smile that appeared on her face would probably be considered beautiful by someone who didn't know her well enough, but Draco saw in it only the cruelty he had always suspected in her but could never prove.
"I'm not as stupid as you thought, mon cher. I have eyes. I have ears. I have people who report to me about your every move."
Draco felt the blood drain from his face. She had spies. Of course she did. This woman standing before him left nothing to chance.
"I also know perfectly well that you spent the last three days with her," she continued with satisfaction, watching his face harden. "Yes, Draco. Every. Single. Night. This time you didn't even leave a letter with an explanation."
He felt sweat running down his temples, his neck, soaking into his shirt collar. Droplets fell from his hair onto the floor, forming tiny, dark spots on the dusty stone. His breath—shallow and uneven—seemed to echo off the old walls of the observatory.
"What is all this for, Celestine?" he asked, trying to make his voice sound confident, though he felt his chin tremble. "This whole Claritas, these comas... all of this just to get revenge on me?"
He couldn't comprehend the scale of this intrigue. Each, even the smallest element must have been planned with precision worthy of a potions master. Every ingredient, every reaction, every side effect... This couldn't be improvisation. This must have been a plan that matured for months, if not years.
Celestine tilted her head, and her eyes—those cold eyes he once thought beautiful—now gleamed in the half-light like those of a predator waiting for the right moment to attack.
"Are you afraid, Draco?" she asked, ignoring his question. "Are you trembling so much for your mother's life?"
Her gaze slid over his face, stopping at the drops of sweat adorning his temples. The smile that appeared on her lips was like a cold blade cutting through the air.
"Relax, I won't do anything to her," she said lightly, as if talking about the weather, not someone's life. "That would entail too much responsibility. Your mother was needed only to lure you here. To ensure you would do exactly what I want."
Draco felt relief so strong that his knees almost buckled beneath him. But he didn't allow himself to show weakness. Not now. Not before her.
"So all this... Claritas..." he began again, desperately trying to understand the scale of madness he found himself in.
"My project, yes," she interrupted, and a note of pride appeared in her voice. "Such an... elegant way to achieve several goals at once. Revenge on you, taking over your fortune... Did you really think I would have so little dignity as to let you cheat on me with a mudblood without consequences?" Her voice became sharper, more venomous. "That I would stand aside while you dishonor the Rosier name by associating with someone so... impure?"
Celestine took a step toward him, and her wand didn't waver for a moment. It still pointed straight at his heart.
"Claritas was just the beginning, Draco. First, you will be accused of producing a defective potion. Then, when you're in Azkaban, your wife—poor, betrayed, but loyal to the end—will take over the estate. And finally..." Her smile widened, revealing perfect white teeth. "Finally, Hermione Granger will die in an unfortunate accident. Perhaps an overdose of those elixirs she's so fond of? Or suicide caused by grief that her lover turned out to be a murderer?"
He stood motionless. His body didn't tremble—he wouldn't allow it. Every muscle was tensed to its limit, every nerve screamed, but he remained still. Hundreds of lessons from his father, hundreds of blows with the silver cane for the slightest show of weakness, hundreds of hours standing before the Dark Lord with an emotionless face—all of this now allowed him to maintain a stone face. His mind was clear and sharp, as always in the face of mortal danger.
"Who helped you make this potion?"
Celestine straightened up, her face expressing genuine indignation. Draco had to admit she was a perfect actress—throughout their relationship, he hadn't noticed anything that might indicate such depth of deception.
"I made it myself," she answered with a note of pride in her voice. "From beginning to end. Every ingredient, every proportion, every stir and distillation."
Draco raised an eyebrow in a gesture he had practiced before the mirror since he was seven years old. The same gesture with which his father could shame the highest Ministry officials.
"You?" he asked with open disbelief. "But you can't brew even the simplest pain-relief potion. I've seen you try. Remember how last year you melted your favorite cauldron trying to make a headache potion?"
A shadow passed over Celestine's face—a barely noticeable contraction of muscles around her mouth, a slight narrowing of her eyes.
"You're not the only one who can pretend, Draco. You pretended to be a loyal husband. I pretended to be an inept witch. I bet it was easier for you to believe that your wife was a beautiful but useless ornament. Easier to convince you that you were better than her."
Draco felt a sting—unpleasant but familiar. He knew she was right. It was easier for him to believe he had married a woman who was beautiful but not particularly talented. It gave him the advantage he so desperately needed after the war.
"But the truth is," Celestine continued, her voice now almost soft, "that before I turned eighteen, I was already a potions master. My father employed the best teachers from all magical Europe. And I... I had talent. Natural, pure talent. The fact that you never noticed it is just proof of your arrogance."
He ran his hand through his hair, in a gesture meant to look nervous, though in reality it was perfectly calculated. His face took on an expression of genuine admiration, and something like appreciation appeared in his eyes.
"I must admit, you surprised me," he said, his voice now soft, almost seductive. "I always suspected there was more to you than you showed, but this..." he spread his hands in a gesture of capitulation. "this is truly impressive, Celestine. Claritas is an extremely complicated potion. It requires mastery that even the best brewers in Britain don't possess."
She watched him carefully, but the corner of her mouth twitched slightly. Draco knew this expression—he had seen it hundreds of times when he paid her compliments during their first dates, during their engagement ball, at their own wedding. Vanity was her weakness, and he knew well how to exploit it.
"Modifying the basic composition, perfect selection of proportions, appropriate brewing pace..." Draco shook his head with feigned admiration. "That required true genius. You're more talented than Slughorn, than Snape... perhaps even more talented than I am."
He saw her eyes begin to sparkle. She had taken the bait, just as he expected. For a moment she looked almost like a young girl hungry for praise, not a ruthless woman who had planned the coma, and perhaps the murder, of several wizards.
"If I had known earlier that you had such talent..." his voice became even softer, almost intimate. "Perhaps everything would have turned out differently between us."
And then he overdid it. Celestine's face immediately changed—her features hardened, her eyes narrowed to slits, and her lips tightened into a thin line.
"Stop!" she shouted, her voice like the crack of a whip in the quiet room. "Do you think I'm stupid? That I don't see what you're doing? All these flatteries, these sweet words!" her wand twitched dangerously, sending sparks that bounced off the stone floor. "You're only doing this so I won't make you bring your mudblood here!"
Draco stepped back, his face taking on an expression of wounded innocence. Perfectly played, like everything else in this scene.
"You're getting upset unnecessarily," he said calmly, though his mind was now working at top speed. "I'm just trying to understand the full extent of your plan. That's all. The portkey was your work too?"
"Of course," she replied, not hiding the pride in her voice. "I modified it personally. I was sure it would take you much longer to get out of the Black Forest. I thought you would be stuck there longer."
She took several steps to the side, not taking her eyes off him, not lowering her wand even for a moment. Her movements were fluid, almost dance-like, as if she were leading some macabre waltz.
"And my absence from the Symposium would be noted as evidence of my guilt," he finished, slowly putting the puzzle pieces together. "The Ministry would take it as my mistake. As an escape."
Celestine nodded, her face brightening as if she were talking to an exceptionally bright student.
"Exactly. It was to be the first red flag. The first signal to the Aurors that something was wrong. And if you had also missed the presentation where you were supposed to provide the exact composition of Claritas..." she spread her hands in a theatrical gesture, "that would have been like a confession of guilt."
Draco felt a cold shiver run down his spine. This plan wasn't just sophisticated—it was diabolical in its precision. Every element, every step had been carefully thought out. Nothing had been left to chance.
"Enough of this talk," Celestine cut the air with her wand in a sharp, impatient gesture. "Send a Patronus to Granger immediately. She is to apparate to this area. Now."
Her voice became harder, more commanding. This was no longer a request—it was an ultimatum, behind which stood an unspoken threat.
"I sent her a letter," she added, her eyes flashing dangerously. "But your little mudblood apparently didn't deign to accept the invitation. Perhaps she'll listen to you."
Draco felt a shadow of relief, as delicate as the brush of a butterfly's wing. Maybe Potter wasn't as stupid as he had always thought. Maybe he had listened to his request and didn't let Hermione leave the apartment. Maybe...
A quiet creak interrupted his thoughts. The observatory door, which he had left slightly ajar, opened slowly, letting in a streak of afternoon light. In this light, like a specter, stood Hermione Granger.
Draco was overwhelmed by a wave of heat so intense that he felt dizzy. Sweat immediately appeared on his forehead, and veins pulsed at his temples. The muscles of his body tensed to their limits, and his breathing became shallow and broken. To any observer, he must have looked like a man paralyzed with fear.
"Hermione..." he managed to say, his voice sounding as if each syllable cost him disproportionately much energy. He swallowed hard, feeling his throat involuntarily tighten. "You shouldn't be here."
His eyes never left the figure standing in the doorway. The intensity of his gaze was almost physical—as if all his concentration, all his will and strength were focused on this one point, in this one line of sight connecting him to her.
It was an unreadable look—a mixture of so many emotions that none stood out. There was a shadow of terror, a flash of determination, a spark of something that might have been hope, but also deep, choking anxiety. But above all, there was effort—visible in the tension of muscles around his eyes, in slightly furrowed brows, in the way his pupils contracted and dilated rhythmically, as if struggling to maintain focus.
"Ah, Miss Granger," Celestine's voice was sweet as honey mixed with poison. "How nice of you to finally join us."
The flush that appeared on his cheeks wasn't a healthy pink—it was rather an unnatural, unhealthy shade that emphasized the paleness of the rest of his skin. A drop of sweat hung on the tip of his nose, then fell silently onto the stone floor.
He stood motionless, like a statue carved from marble, but his body betrayed immense tension—every muscle visibly strained. It showed in the way his jaw clenched rhythmically, in how the vein at his temple pulsed faster and faster, in the stiffness of his posture, which seemed unnatural even for his usually straight figure.
"I didn't want you to be here alone," said Hermione in a voice that sounded exactly like her own—yet it rang somewhat hollow, as if devoid of any emotion. "Not with her."
Draco closed his eyes for a fraction of a second—so briefly it might have looked like a slightly longer blink. When he opened them, he shook his head slightly, his face now expressing even greater tension.
"You were supposed to stay where you were," he said quietly. "This wasn't... the plan."
His breathing accelerated even more, and the droplets of sweat now covering his entire face glistened in the light coming through the windows like miniature diamonds. He looked like a man who had run many miles without rest—exhausted, at the edge of physical endurance, yet still forcing his body to make an incredible effort.
From the corner of his eye, he glanced at Celestine, then focused again on Hermione. He looked at her as if nothing else mattered at that moment.
Hermione slowly raised her hands, showing she had no wand. Her movements were stiff, as if each limb movement required a conscious decision. Her hair surrounded her face like an unruly halo, motionless despite the gentle draft gusting through the old observatory.
"I came alone," she said in a voice that sounded like an echo of itself. "Without a wand. Without help."
Draco clenched his teeth so hard he felt a sharp pain radiating along his jaw. Drops of sweat dripped from his eyebrows, momentarily blurring the image before his eyes. He wiped them away with a quick, almost spasmodic movement of his hand.
"Good. Very good," Celestine's voice was soft as velvet and equally suffocating. Her eyes never left the wand aimed at Draco's chest. "Let's get to the heart of the matter, now that we're all here."
She turned slightly toward her husband, and on her face appeared a smile that contained not a gram of warmth—only the cold, calculated satisfaction of a predator who has just cornered its prey in a dead end.
"Send a Patronus to the Ministry, Draco," she said in a tone that left no room for objection. "Immediately. Confess that you created Claritas. That you are responsible for all these... unfortunate accidents."
Draco swallowed with difficulty, but his throat was so dry that this simple reflex caused him physical pain. He felt each second stretching into eternity, each breath becoming harder than the previous one.
"And if not?" he asked, his voice hoarse as if he hadn't used it for many days. He tried to focus on Celestine, but his eyes kept darting toward Hermione, as if he couldn't stop himself from monitoring her position in space.
"Then the mudblood dies," Celestine replied with the same courtesy with which she might offer tea.
Draco suddenly straightened up, and his posture changed almost imperceptibly. A strange gleam appeared in his eyes—something between desperation and... confidence? A single drop of sweat trickled along his temple, stopping at his jawline.
"I won't do it, Celestine," he said, his voice sounding strangely calm, as if he had suddenly found a source of strength within himself. "I know well that you're lying. You would never kill her."
Celestine blinked—the first sign of genuine surprise he had noticed in her. Her wand trembled almost imperceptibly.
"Why do you think so?" she asked, and in her tone appeared something that wasn't there before—a note of uncertainty.
He took a small step forward. His lips curved into a half-smile, although sweat still trickled down his face and his hands trembled.
"Because I'll ask you nicely," he replied, looking straight into her eyes. "And I know you love me, Celestine. You always have."
Celestine froze. Her face, always so perfectly controlled, momentarily revealed a kaleidoscope of emotions—shock, disbelief, anger, and something that might have been... longing?
"Send the Patronus," she said, but her voice had lost its steely certainty. "Do it now."
Draco shook his head, and droplets of sweat scattered around him like miniature rain. His chest rose and fell at an ever-increasing pace, but his gaze remained unwavering.
"No," he answered simply.
Celestine raised her wand higher, now aiming at his throat.
"Is that your final decision?"
"Yes."
For a long, tense moment, absolute silence reigned in the room. Only Draco's heavy, uneven breathing and the gentle rustle of wind outside the window could be heard. Celestine looked at him, her eyes seeming to penetrate through all the layers of his facade.
And then—slowly, hesitantly—she lowered her wand.
"You've always been incredibly arrogant," she said quietly, her shoulders dropping slightly as if releasing long-held breath.
Draco exhaled a breath he didn't know he was holding. A single drop of sweat hung on the tip of his nose. For a fraction of a second—so briefly it was almost imperceptible—his eyes glanced at Hermione, then back to Celestine.
And at that very moment he saw it—a flash. Tiny, almost unnoticeable flash in her eyes. A warning he didn't have time to use.
Celestine was already moving, her wand rising upward in one fluid, deadly motion, aiming not at him, but at...
"AVADA KEDAVRA!"
A green flash tore through the air, momentarily illuminating the entire room with a ghastly, venomous glow.
Draco watched in slow motion as the beam of the murderous spell cut through the space between Celestine's wand and Hermione. Seconds stretched into eternity, and every atom in his body screamed in protest against the inevitability of what was happening.
The green light struck Hermione's chest with a brutality that seemed impossible. Her body jerked as if an electric pulse had passed through it. Her eyes—those brown eyes in which he had lost himself so many times—widened in shock, and then... went out. Like a blown candle. Like a star that suddenly ceased to exist.
She fell to the ground. Without a scream. Without a fight. She simply... ceased to be.
Draco's knees hit the stone floor, though he didn't remember the moment he fell. In his chest exploded pain so overwhelming, so absolute, that for a moment he was certain he had been hit by the spell. That his life was ending.
The pain radiated from the center of his being, spreading throughout his body like poison. There was no part of his existence that didn't howl in agony. Every cell, every blood vessel, every nerve fiber—everything screamed simultaneously, creating a symphony of suffering that couldn't be endured.
He felt something breaking inside him—not metaphorically, but literally. As if someone were tearing him apart from within, ripping out piece by piece of his being.
The pain was so intense it took away his ability to think. Took away his ability to breathe. Took everything. Left only pure, raw agony that burned him from the inside like white-hot metal.
"No," he whispered, though he wasn't sure if the sound actually left his lips. It could have been just an echo in his dying mind. "No, no, no..."
He felt something tearing itself from within him—not from his body, but from a deeper, more fundamental part of his existence. As if someone were forcibly ripping out a fragment of his soul, tearing it to shreds.
Because that's how it was. Part of him was dying. A part he would never recover, no matter how long he lived. A part that had been forcibly torn away and destroyed before his eyes.
He doubled over, pressing his hands to his chest as if trying to physically prevent his being from falling apart. The sound that escaped his throat resembled nothing human—it was a primal, animal howl of pain so deep it transcended the boundaries of what a human should be able to endure.
"What a theatrical performance," Celestine's voice broke through the fog of agony only for a moment before a wave of pain swallowed it again. "Did you really care for her that much?"
Draco didn't answer. He couldn't. His consciousness was shrinking, reduced to a single point of pure suffering. He felt his soul—that part which constituted his essence—trembling and writhing in agony. How it was breaking apart and bleeding energy he would never recover.
In this moment, he was completely, absolutely certain he was dying. That it was impossible to survive such all-consuming pain. That no one could endure such brutal tearing of their own being.
And then, slowly, the pain began to recede. It didn't disappear—rather it retreated like a wave, leaving absolute emptiness in its wake. A black hole where part of his soul once existed.
This emptiness was almost worse than the pain. It was absolute. Total. Cold as the vacuum of space and equally boundless. Draco felt as if someone had hollowed him out from within, leaving only a shell, a husk of who he was.
He knew with absolute, terrifying certainty that he had just lost a part of himself. A part that would never return. That had been torn from his soul so brutally that it left a wound that would never heal.
But... he was still alive. Still breathing. And somewhere out there was his mother, somewhere Narcissa Malfoy still waited, defenseless and unaware. And before him stood Celestine, her wand now lowered as she watched with satisfaction his breakdown.
Draco braced himself with his hands against the cold floor. His fingers gripped the stone so tightly that he broke several nails. His shoulders trembled, but this was no longer the trembling of pain. It was something else. Something that was beginning to germinate within him despite the all-encompassing emptiness.
A sound escaped his throat. Timid, quiet, almost inaudible. Then another, somewhat louder. And another. Until finally his entire figure was shaking, and from his mouth came laughter—sharp, broken, almost hysterical.
Celestine stepped back, her face expressing pure consternation. Her wand rose again in a defensive gesture.
Draco raised his head. His face was wet—from sweat, from tears, from saliva—but the expression it bore didn't match a man in mourning. His lips were stretched in a smile that contained not a gram of joy—only the cold, cruel satisfaction of a predator.
Slowly, with a grace that didn't fit someone who had just been writhing in pain, he stood up.
"Seriously, Celestine?" he asked. "You fell for it?"
His laughter cut off as suddenly as it had begun, leaving behind a silence so thick it was almost tangible. He now stood upright, and in his eyes—those gray eyes that moments ago were drowning in a sea of agony—now shone a cold emptiness.
"Did you really think that I..." he shook his head in disbelief, his lips twisting into a mocking smile. "...that I love a mudblood?"
Celestine froze, her eyes narrowing suspiciously.
"What are you playing at, Draco?" she asked, her voice sharp as a razor. "Just now you were writhing on the floor like a man whose heart had been torn out."
He took another step toward his wife, and something in his posture changed subtly—tension gave way to controlled grace, which she had always admired in him. This transformation was so sudden, so complete, that Celestine involuntarily stepped back.
"You thought it was her?" he laughed, and the sound was as cold as his eyes. "That she's what I care about? Brilliant, truly brilliant."
"Stop!" she hissed, raising her wand higher. "You think I'll believe this nonsense? After everything?"
His voice was soft, almost silky—the same voice he once used to whisper compliments to her in Parisian restaurants, with which he made his marriage vows, with which he promised her the world at her feet.
"I was screwing her, yes," he admitted with a nonchalance that would be shocking if it didn't sound so authentic. "But only because I had to release my frustrations on someone. And I didn't want to do that with you. Not with someone so... precious."
"You're lying," Celestine replied, but something in her voice had changed. Uncertainty. A shadow of doubt. "I saw you together. I saw how you look at her."
He took another step toward Celestine, passing Hermione's motionless body lying on the stone floor. As he passed, his boot encountered the deceased's outstretched hand. Without a moment's hesitation, almost casually, he kicked aside the hand that blocked his path, as if it were nothing more than an inanimate object. This gesture—so cold, so calculated—seemed to speak more than any words.
He was now so close to Celestine that he could reach out and touch her face. His eyes never left her gaze—intense, magnetic, hypnotizing.
"Did you really think I would choose a ministry bureaucrat over you? Over a woman who just proved she's ready to kill for me? Who created a plan so brilliant that even I was fooled?"
"Why should I believe you?" she asked, but her wand trembled slightly, betraying her hesitation. "After everything?"
He took one more step, completely eliminating the space between them.
"Because you love me," he answered with absolute confidence, as if stating the most obvious fact in the world. "And I love you. I always have."
Celestine shook her head, though her hand with the wand lowered slightly.
"You're lying," she said, but her voice had lost its earlier certainty. "I saw how you looked at her. How you touched her. That wasn't pretend."
He didn't answer. Instead, in one lightning-fast motion, he lunged forward, crossing the distance between them. His hands grabbed her face, and his mouth found her lips in a kiss so violent, so intense, that it drove her into the wall behind her.
Celestine moaned in surprise, her hands automatically rising to push him away. She struck him in the chest, tried to break free from his grip, her body tensing in protest against this sudden invasion.
But Draco didn't yield. His lips moved on hers with a desperation that seemed too authentic to be feigned. His hands held her face with a force that balanced on the edge of pain, but simultaneously with a tenderness that contradicted the brutality of this gesture.
"Stop..." she mumbled into his mouth, but her resistance weakened with each second.
He didn't stop. His kisses became even more urgent, more intense. One of his hands slid to her neck, the other to her waist, pulling her to himself with a force that left no room for refusal.
And suddenly, as if something in her broke, Celestine stopped fighting. Her body, tense just a moment ago, relaxed, surrendering to his touch. Her hands, which moments ago were pushing him away, now embraced his neck, fingers tangling in his hair.
She returned the kiss with the same intensity with which she received it. Their bodies pressed against each other as if trying to erase any boundary between them. The wand, which just moments ago had been pointed at him, slipped from her fingers.
It didn't have time to hit the floor.
Draco in a lightning-fast motion caught it mid-air, his fingers closing around the wood with the precision of a Seeker catching a Snitch. In the same second, he tore his lips from hers and pushed himself away from her with such force that Celestine staggered, losing her balance.
"Petrificus Totalus!" he shouted, and the spell shot from the tip of the wand, hitting her straight in the chest.
Celestine's body instantly stiffened. Her eyes, a second ago half-closed in passion, now widened with terror and disbelief. Her hands, stretched toward him, froze in the air like those of a statue, and her lips, still wet from his kisses, stopped in the middle of forming a question she never got to ask.
She fell to the floor with a dull, unpleasant thud, her body rigid as a board, eyes staring motionlessly at the ceiling. Only her pupils moved feverishly, betraying that inside this immobile shell, the woman was still aware of everything happening.