Chapter 22
Hermione struggled with all her might, digging her nails into the forearm that encircled her waist. Survival instinct took control of her body—kicking and striking blindly, she tried to hit her attacker in a vulnerable spot. Her heel connected with something hard—perhaps a shin—but the grip only tightened.
"Mmmmpf!" she tried to scream through the hand covering her mouth, but the sound was effectively muffled.
The hand over her mouth was strong, but not brutal. It didn't press painfully, but firmly enough to prevent her from making any sound. This subtle difference penetrated her panic, causing her to hesitate momentarily in her struggle.
"Calm down, for heaven's sake," a quiet, urgent hiss right by her ear made her freeze. That voice... she knew it perfectly.
The attacker, sensing her sudden stillness, slightly loosened his grip.
"Hermione, it's me," he whispered, and this time she had no doubts. "Don't scream."
Slowly, carefully, the hand slid from her mouth. She turned abruptly to face her "attacker."
"Harry?" she gasped, still fighting to catch her breath. "What are you... why..."
Harry Potter stood before her, wand at the ready and finger pressed to his lips in a gesture commanding silence. His eyes, always alert, now scanned the surroundings with an Auror's practiced precision. He looked different than usual—not physically, but something in his posture, in the tension of his body, made him seem almost foreign.
"We'll talk, but not here," he hissed, casting a nervous glance toward the street.
"Harry, wait!" she pulled her arm from his grasp, but he immediately caught her again, this time by the wrist. "What's happening?"
He didn't answer, only pulled her deeper into the alley, where the shadows were thicker and light from the main street barely reached.
"Harry Potter!" she hissed, digging her heels into the cobblestones. "Explain to me immediately what's going on! I can't go with you now. I have something very important to do."
Harry paused for a moment, looking at her intensely.
"Whatever it is, it will have to wait," he said firmly, glancing around nervously. "I need to talk to you. In your apartment."
"But I really can't—"
"Hermione," he cut her off sharply. "Trust me. This can't wait."
Something in his tone—that strange, urgent tone she almost never heard from him—made her fall silent. He took advantage of her momentary hesitation to pull her along toward her apartment.
"At least explain what this is about," she tried once more, stumbling on the uneven cobblestones. "I have an appointment. It's really important, Harry!"
"More important than your life?" he asked quietly, not looking at her.
This response effectively closed her mouth. For the rest of the way, she walked behind him in silence, though her mind worked at top speed, analyzing every possible reason for such strange behavior.
When they reached her apartment, he forced her to stand aside while he entered first, wand ready for use. He moved with a caution and precision she knew only from Auror operations.
"Harry, what are you doing?" she asked when he finally allowed her to enter her own apartment. "I'm starting to really worry."
He didn't answer. Instead, he began methodically searching the apartment, casting detection spells in every corner, checking every room, every cabinet, every shadow. His wand moved in complicated patterns as he whispered incantations she recognized from wartime.
"Homenum Revelio," he muttered, and when nothing happened, he continued: "Specialis Revelio... Finite Incantatem..."
She stood in the middle of her living room, watching her best friend behave as if her apartment were a potential crime scene. With each second, her astonishment and concern grew.
"Harry, for Merlin's sake!" she finally erupted. "Either you explain to me immediately what's happening, or I'm leaving right now."
Harry suddenly stopped, turning to her with a strange expression on his face.
"Nothing," he said, clearly surprised. "No tracking spells. No eavesdropping. Nothing."
He looked so confused that she felt her anger giving way to growing concern.
"And what did you expect?" she asked quietly.
Harry lowered his wand and ran his hand over his face in a gesture of fatigue.
"Malfoy sent me a Patronus," he finally said. "He told me to watch over you and under no circumstances let you leave the apartment."
Hermione froze.
"Draco sent you a Patronus?" she repeated incredulously. "To you?"
Harry nodded, sitting heavily on her couch.
"I was surprised too. He said it had to do with Claritas. That at all costs I must keep you at home."
She felt a strange feeling flowing through her mind—like a tiny spark of hope she didn't want to acknowledge. Draco was trying to protect her? Was it possible that all those horrible things he'd said to her earlier—that she meant nothing to him, that she was just entertainment—were lies?
She immediately suppressed this thought. She couldn't allow herself such naivety. Not after everything that had happened between them.
"Harry," she said slowly, sitting beside him. "Draco mentioned Antoine Rosier to me earlier. We didn't get to talk because..." she broke off, not wanting to go into details about their last argument. "Anyway, it seemed important to me."
Harry frowned.
"Rosier? His wife's father?"
Hermione nodded, then stood and went to her bag. She pulled out a folded piece of paper.
"I received this today," she said, handing him the letter. "I was just on my way."
Harry unfolded the paper and read aloud:
"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."
He looked up from the letter, his face contorting in a grimace of fury.
"Have you completely lost your mind?!" he exploded, crumpling the letter in his hand. "You were going to go there? Alone? Without notifying anyone? Without backup? To some abandoned observatory at the call of an anonymous sender?!"
Hermione stepped back, surprised by the intensity of his reaction, but quickly regained her balance.
"Don't yell at me!" she retorted, snatching the crumpled letter from his hand. "I'm an adult and I work in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement! Do you think I can't take care of myself?"
"Evidently not, if you were voluntarily planning to walk into such an obvious trap!" Harry began pacing around the room, gesticulating violently. "Any Auror in first-year training would recognize this as a classic trap! For Merlin's sake, Hermione!"
"And since when do you care so much about me?!" she shouted, feeling long-suppressed frustration finally finding release. "You've practically ignored me since Malfoy's trial! You don't speak to me for weeks, and now suddenly you burst in pretending to be a concerned friend?!"
Harry stopped mid-step, as if she had physically struck him. A shadow of pain flashed across his face, quickly replaced by anger.
"That's not fair and you know it," he said, lowering his voice to a dangerous level. "I had my reasons."
"What reasons? You were offended that I didn't support your crusade against Malfoy?" she laughed bitterly. "All those years I stood firmly behind you, Harry, but when I disagreed with your opinion just once, you simply cut me out of your life!"
"It wasn't a difference of opinion!" Harry erupted. "It was Malfoy! The man who humiliated us for years, who let Death Eaters into Hogwarts, who stood on Voldemort's side!"
"And who was acquitted by the Wizengamot!" she raised her voice as well. "Wasn't it you who always said we should trust the justice system? Unless that system doesn't agree with your opinion, then suddenly it's worthless, right?"
They stood facing each other, both breathing heavily, with faces reddened by anger. For a moment there was a tense silence, broken only by their accelerated breathing.
Harry was the first to lower his gaze. His shoulders dropped, and an expression of regret appeared on his face.
"Hermione, I..." he began, his voice now much quieter, almost humble. "It's all complicated. I just..."
"There's no time for this now, Harry," she interrupted him firmly, looking at her watch. "I'm almost certain Draco went there. We need to go there. Immediately."
Harry frowned, clearly surprised by her determination.
"Where does this certainty come from?" he asked. "How do you know Malfoy is there?"
"I just know," she answered, grabbing her bag and heading toward the door. "And since he sent you a Patronus asking you to stop me... He must be in danger."
Harry blocked her path, standing between her and the door.
"Wait," he said firmly. "We should notify Kingsley. This is an official Ministry matter, Hermione. If it really involves Claritas, we need backup."
"There's no time for bureaucracy!" she nearly shouted, desperation clear in her voice. "Every minute could be crucial! I'm going there, Harry. With you or without you, but I'm going."
She looked him straight in the eyes, and in her gaze was a determination so strong that Harry knew he couldn't stop her—unless he used force, which he wouldn't allow himself to do.
"If you go alone, you'll probably fall into the trap too," he noted, his voice sounding resigned.
"Then come with me," she answered simply. "Please, Harry."
A few seconds later, they were standing on Dartmoor moor. Purple heather stretched to the horizon, swaying gently in the wind. In the distance loomed the dark, sharp shapes of granite formations characteristic of the area.
"Where exactly is this observatory?" asked Harry, looking around.
"Somewhere north," Hermione pointed in the direction, drawing her wand. "Point Me."
The wand spun on her palm, stopping in the northeast direction. They set off in silence. The air was cool and damp, carrying the promise of rain. Heavy, gray clouds rolled across the sky, and the last rays of the setting sun gave them an ominous, blood-red tinge.
They walked long without a word, each lost in their own thoughts. The moor around them became increasingly wild and harsh. In the distance, the first rocks appeared, heralding the beginning of more mountainous terrain.
"I'm sorry," Harry finally spoke, breaking the silence. "For how I've been acting these past months."
She didn't answer.
Harry jumped over a shallow stream running between the heather. His face, usually so confident, now expressed something rarely seen in him—uncertainty.
"You know, after the war..." he began awkwardly, weighing his words. "I was obsessed with threats. I looked for them everywhere. With Malfoy... with everyone."
Hermione quickened her pace, but Harry continued.
"I guess we all carried away our scars," he sighed, pushing through clumps of heather. "Ginny casts tracking spells on me whenever I'm on duty longer than planned. James has more protective charms over his crib than Hogwarts has over the entire castle."
He paused for a moment, running his hand through his hair in a gesture that always betrayed his nervousness.
"Every night I get up to check if my son is breathing," he confessed quietly. "Sometimes several times. I see threats even where there are none."
Hermione sighed deeply and stopped. Something in his confession touched a chord that resonated too painfully with her own experiences.
"That doesn't excuse what you did," she said bitterly. "I was alone. Completely alone, Harry. I needed a friend. And you turned away from me over one difference of opinion."
"I know," he admitted quietly.
"No, you don't," she shook her head. "You think you're the only one who can't sleep at night? That only you see shadows under the bed? We all carry our demons, Harry. The difference is that I didn't turn away from you when you needed help."
She gripped her wand so tightly that her knuckles turned white.
"But this is neither the time nor place for such conversations," she cut off sharply, pointing to the observatory looming in the distance. "We can come back to this later."
"Hermione..."
"No," she interrupted him firmly. "We'll talk later. Now let's focus on what's ahead of us."
The moorland slowly gave way to more rocky terrain. Granite boulders, which Dartmoor had in abundance, emerged from the ground like ancient, silent sentinels. On the top of the nearest hill, against the increasingly dark sky, the silhouette of the observatory was outlined—a solitary, dark dome of stone and metal.
"There," she pointed, feeling her throat tighten involuntarily.
As they approached the building, they had to pass a single boulder that stood like a stone guardian on the path. In its shadow, partially hidden in the grass, Hermione noticed something that gleamed faintly in the fading daylight.
"Wait," she said quietly, grabbing Harry's arm. "There's something there."
She approached the stone and knelt. On the ground lay several empty potion vials—their glass, clean and transparent, bore traces of the characteristic, opalescent residue left by some magical mixtures. Next to them rested a small metal cage with open doors.
She picked up one of the vials, turning it in her fingers. A few drops at the bottom gleamed faintly—too little to determine what potion had been used, but enough to know it was a high-quality product.
"Someone was here," she whispered, feeling fear grip her insides. "Recently."
Harry crouched beside her, examining the cage.
"Do you think it could be..." he began, but Hermione had already stood up, her eyes fixed on the observatory.
"We need to hurry," she interrupted him, her voice now different—there was no fear in it, only iron determination. "He's there. I'm sure of it."
They moved quickly up the slope, each step bringing them closer to the building that seemed to emit an aura of danger. When they were almost at their destination, Harry grabbed Hermione's arm.
"Wait," he whispered. "We should have a plan. We can't just walk in there."
But Hermione wasn't listening anymore. Something inside her had snapped—that thin barrier between reason and desperation. Without thinking, she ran toward the entrance of the observatory, ignoring Harry's shout behind her.
"Hermione, no!"
The heavy wooden door gave way under her push with a dull groan. She burst inside, wand ready in her hand, defensive spell on the tip of her tongue.
"Lumos Maxima!" she shouted, and bright light flooded the interior of the building.
She looked around frantically. The interior of the observatory was almost completely empty—one large room with a high ceiling. The walls were bare, devoid of any decorations or equipment.
"Draco?" she called, and her voice echoed off the stone walls, returning to her multiplied. "Draco, are you here?"
Behind her came rapid footsteps—Harry ran inside, also with his wand at the ready.
"For Merlin's sake, Hermione!" he hissed. "Are you trying to get us killed?!"
But Hermione wasn't listening anymore. Her gaze was drawn to an irregular shape against the wall, barely visible in the shadow cast by the pillars. She moved closer, directing her wand light toward it.
On the floor, curled in an unnatural position, lay the dead body of a cat. It was a large animal with black fur, now dull and covered with something that looked like gray ash. Its eyes—wide open in a posthumous grimace—had a strange, silvery color, as if covered with a metallic coating.
She involuntarily stepped back, feeling her stomach rise to her throat.
"What is this?" she whispered, more to herself than to Harry.
Harry approached, bending over the dead animal but not touching it.
"I don't know," he answered quietly. "But whatever caused this wasn't natural."
She looked around the empty room again, feeling rising panic.
"Where is he?" she whispered, her voice breaking slightly. "The letter... the cage... those vials... Everything indicated he would be here."
Harry grabbed her arm, forcing her to look him in the eyes.
"We need to go to the Ministry," he said firmly. "Immediately. This is beyond both of us. Kingsley needs to know about this."
She hesitated, casting one last glance at the empty space of the observatory. The dead cat with strange, silvery eyes, the mysterious vials outside, the abandoned cage... It all formed a picture she couldn't yet fully decipher, but which filled her with growing terror.
"You're right," she admitted reluctantly. "Let's go."
They almost ran out of the building, Hermione several steps ahead of Harry. She ran as if pursued by demons. Each step brought her closer to the boundary of anti-apparition spells, while simultaneously taking her further from the answers she so desperately sought. Where was Draco? What happened to him? Was he still alive?
"We should be able to apparate now!" she shouted when they reached the spot where they had appeared earlier.
Harry nodded, extending his hand. Hermione grabbed it without hesitation, and a second later the world around them blurred, and the familiar feeling of compression enveloped their bodies.
They appeared in the atrium of the Ministry of Magic. At this hour, there were many wizards who looked at her as if she were completely mad.
"To Kingsley!" she called out, not slowing her pace.
They rushed through the atrium, ignoring the surprised looks of witnesses. They jumped into the elevator, and Harry punched the button leading to the Minister of Magic's level.
The elevator moved too slowly—much too slowly for Hermione, for whom each second seemed an eternity. When the doors opened, she burst into the corridor, rushing toward Kingsley's office. Harry barely kept up.
Two Aurors standing by the door to the Minister's office flinched, seeing them running up.
"Let us through!" Harry shouted, showing his badge. "It's urgent!"
Not waiting for their reaction, Hermione pushed the door and burst inside. Kingsley Shacklebolt sat behind his desk, surrounded by stacks of documents. At the sight of Hermione storming into his office, he jumped to his feet.
"Granger? Potter? What the—"
"Malfoy... observatory... Claritas!" she spat out words, fighting for breath. "Antoine Rosier... it's a trap!"
Kingsley circled his desk, approaching her with concern painting his face.
"Calm down, Hermione," he said calmly but firmly. "Take a deep breath and tell me exactly what happened."
Barely catching her breath, she spilled out the whole story—the letter she received, Harry's intervention, their expedition to the observatory. She told about Draco's strange behavior, his warnings about Antoine Rosier, and the desperate Patronus sent to Harry.
Kingsley listened in silence, his face remaining impassive, which itself was strange. When she finished, he didn't look surprised or concerned. Instead, a shadow of what could be considered satisfaction appeared on his lips.
"Malfoy was here fifteen minutes ago," he announced calmly.
Hermione froze, not sure if she had heard correctly.
"What?" she finally managed.
"Draco Malfoy," Kingsley repeated, crossing his arms over his chest. "He was in this office a quarter hour ago. He brought his wife, Celestine, with him. Completely petrified."
"Celestine?" she repeated the name as if it were a foreign word in an unknown language. "But... how? I don't understand..."
The Minister gestured to the chairs in front of his desk.
"Both of you, sit down," he instructed. "It's a longer story."
He told them everything—how Draco appeared in his office, bringing the petrified Celestine, about the accusations he presented against his own wife, about evidence related to Claritas. According to Kingsley's account, she was behind the whole operation, using her husband's laboratories and resources to produce the illegal potion.
Hermione listened with growing disbelief, her mind working feverishly, trying to connect all the pieces of the puzzle.
"And what about that cat?" she finally asked, interrupting the minister's flow of explanations.
Kingsley frowned, looking at her with consternation.
"What cat?"
"In the observatory. There was a dead cat."
The Minister shook his head.
"Draco didn't mention any cat," he replied. "Apparently it's just a coincidence."
She decided he was right.
"Where is Celestine now?" she asked, trying to stay calm.
"In a cell in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement," Kingsley answered. "Awaiting trial. The preliminary hearing is scheduled for tomorrow morning."
Hermione nodded, then asked the question that troubled her most.
"And where is Draco?"
Kingsley sighed, spreading his hands in a gesture of helplessness.
"Unfortunately, I have no idea," he admitted. "He left the ministry practically right after making sure his mother was safely transported to St. Mungo's. He didn't say where he was going."
She thanked him for the information, already heading toward the exit. Her mind worked frantically, wondering where Draco might have gone and why he hadn't mentioned the dead cat in the observatory.
"Oh, by the way, Granger," Kingsley spoke up, stopping her mid-step. "I'm glad you're feeling better."
Hermione turned slowly, frowning.
"Pardon?"
Kingsley looked at her with slight surprise.
"Dragon flu," he explained. "Malfoy sent an owl a few days ago with information that you wouldn't be coming to work due to illness. He wrote that it was quite a severe case. I was concerned."
Suddenly everything became clear. Those days when he helped her through the detox from calming potions... He had made up an excuse for her. He made sure no one would ask questions about her absence.
"Yes," she said after a moment, forcing a natural tone. "Everything's fine now. Thank you for your concern, Minister."
"Good to hear," Kingsley smiled slightly. "Rest some more. You can return to work when you feel up to it."
"I will," she replied, heading for the door. "Goodbye, Minister. Harry."
"Hermione, wait!" Harry moved after her. "Can we talk?"
But Hermione had already made her decision. Without stopping for a moment, she ran to the apparition point and with a quiet crack disapparated to her apartment.
* * *
Draco sat in Hermione's apartment, feeling a void so vast and deep that it seemed like a physical wound. Each breath was an effort, each heartbeat—a painful reminder of the cost he had paid.
His hands trembled uncontrollably, despite his attempts to steady them. This wasn't the usual effect of fatigue or stress. It was something deeper, more fundamental—as if something had been torn from the very core of his existence, leaving a bleeding, unhealable wound.
The observatory. Celestine. The green flash of the spell. The body falling to the floor.
He clenched his teeth so hard he felt a sharp pain in his jaw. Even though he knew—knew—it wasn't the real Hermione, the image of her body hitting the stone floor was branded in his mind as if with a hot iron. Eyes fading. Body limp. The end.
The emptiness he now felt was a real, physical gap. As if someone had taken a piece of his soul.
And that's exactly what had happened.
He tilted his head back, closing his eyes. Salty drops of sweat ran down his temples, mixing with something that might just as well have been tears. He couldn't remember the last time he had cried.
"Where is she?" he whispered into the emptiness.
Potter was supposed to watch over her. He was supposed to make sure she remained safe, away from the observatory. Away from Celestine. Away from him—because even he himself wasn't sure if he was still the man he had been that morning.
What a cruel twist of fate! To survive, he had to watch the death of someone who looked exactly like her. To protect her, he had to see her dead. To win this game, he had to sacrifice what no wizard should ever sacrifice.
He felt so damn tired. Every muscle in his body throbbed with a dull ache—not sharp, not piercing, but deep, as if reaching to the very marrow of his bones. His magical core, always so stable and strong, now trembled like a candle flame in the wind, threatened with extinction at the slightest breeze.
He knew what he had done in the observatory—and it was knowledge he could never reveal to anyone. Not because it was an act of Dark Magic, although of course it was. But because anyone who knew of such a deed would never look at him the same way again.
Especially not her.
A sudden crack of apparition behind the door made him jump up violently. The lock glowed with a delicate, blue light.
Draco froze. His heart, already weakened by what he had gone through, now accelerated to a dangerous pace. The handle moved slowly, the door began to open. What would he tell her? When he saw her face—the same countenance he had seen fading in the glow of the Avada—how would he be able to look her in the eyes?
He had no more time to search for answers to these questions. The door opened, and Hermione stood on the threshold.
For several heartbeats, she simply stood, frozen, staring at him with wide-open eyes. Her face expressed absolute disbelief.
Draco rose slowly from the couch, his body protesting against the sudden movement. He tried to say something, but his voice stuck in his throat.
"Draco..." escaped from her lips, a barely audible whisper. "Draco..."
And suddenly she moved. Not slowly or carefully, but abruptly, crossing the space between them in a few quick steps. Her hands—the same hands he had seen lifeless on the stone floor—now touched his face, shoulders, chest, as if she couldn't believe he was really standing before her.
"You're here. You're really here," she repeated, and her fingers moved across his body, checking if he wasn't an illusion, if he wouldn't dissolve under her touch.
Suddenly she took his face in her hands, forcing him to look straight into her eyes. Her fingers trembled on his cheeks, warm and so wonderfully alive. Tears glistened in her amber eyes, but there was also something more fundamental there—determination and relief, which fought with fear.
Draco automatically placed his hands on her face, like a mirror image of her gesture. The touch of her skin under his fingers was real.
"Hermione," he began, his voice hoarse as if he hadn't spoken for a long time. "What I said to you then... in your apartment... it wasn't true. None of those words. I had to do it to protect you. So you wouldn't go to the observatory. I had to make you hate me enough to stay away. Celestine wanted to lure you there, she wanted you to..."
"I know," she interrupted him, her thumbs caressing his cheeks. "I know, Draco."
Her eyes, the same ones he had seen dead and extinguished, now looked at him with an intensity that should have overwhelmed him. Should have evoked a wave of relief, a surge of happiness that she was alive, that she understood everything, that she forgave him.
But he felt absolutely nothing.
As if in the place where these emotions should be, there was only an empty space. Cold and dead as a vacuum. His mind registered that he should feel joy—a powerful, crushing wave of happiness that his plan had worked, that she was safe, that she understood everything without words. But his heart—or whatever remained in his chest—did not respond to these signals.
He looked into her eyes, feeling an unnatural calm. Not anger, not fear, not joy—simply... nothing. As if all the colors of emotion had been drained from him, leaving only a gray, faded specter of who he had been just that morning.
"Draco?" she asked quietly, noticing the change in his eyes. "Is everything all right?"
He nodded, not trusting his own voice.
He had certain suspicions—terrible, impossible to accept suspicions that swirled on the edge of his consciousness. But he didn't want to think about it. Not now. Not yet.
But he had to check. He had to make sure.
Slowly he leaned toward her, feeling her warm breath on his lips. He brushed her lips gently, almost shyly—like a first kiss between teenagers, not like a touch between two people who had already shared so many intense moments.
Nothing.
He pressed his mouth harder, deepening the kiss. Her lips parted under the pressure of his, her hands tightened on his shoulders. He felt the physical aspects—the warmth of her mouth, the moisture, the texture—but nothing beyond that.
With a desperation he himself didn't understand, he embraced her more tightly, pulling her so close that they almost became one body. He was kissing her now with an intensity bordering on madness—as if through this physical act he could regain what he had lost. His hands tangled in her hair, her breathing quickened, and her body arched toward him instinctively.
Once, this moment would have filled him with flame. Once, from her touch alone he felt an overwhelming wave of desire. Just last night, her kiss was like the strongest happiness elixir, which he couldn't get enough of.
But now? Absolutely nothing.
Mechanical movements, physiological reactions, muscle memory—all of it worked as it should. His body responded. But where there should have been desire, longing, passion—there was only a terrifying, icy emptiness.
He broke the kiss, moving away from her to the distance of a breath. He looked into her eyes—dilated, full of emotion, so alive—and saw in them everything that he lacked. Everything that had been torn from him.
She looked at him questioningly, her cheeks flushed, lips swollen from the kiss. She didn't understand what he had just discovered. She didn't know what he had just lost. And perhaps that was the worst—that he would never be able to tell her.
"What I told you this morning," he began quietly, his voice controlled, too controlled, "in your kitchen... it wasn't true. None of those words."
Hermione reached out toward him, but he gently moved away, avoiding her touch.
"But now..." he hesitated, searching for the right words. "Now I can't, Hermione. I just can't manage it."
"I don't understand," she whispered, her eyes searching his face for any clues. "What happened? What did she do to you?"
He shook his head, as if he himself couldn't comprehend it.
"I need time," he said. "To think. For... everything. I need to sort out certain matters. With myself."
"Draco..."
"If you have any problem, you can write to me," he interrupted her, and his voice now sounded mechanical, as if he were reciting memorized formulas. "I'll help you with everything, always. But apart from that..."
He didn't finish, but he didn't have to. Hermione looked at him with growing disbelief, her face expressing a whole range of emotions—from shock, through pain, to anger.
"What does this mean?" she asked, her voice taking on a sharper tone. "After everything that happened? Now you just... leave?"
He looked at her for a long moment, and in his eyes was something so deeply sad that Hermione felt a stab in her heart. It wasn't the look of a man who leaves by choice. It was the look of someone who had lost something fundamental.
"I'm sorry," he said simply.
And he left before she could even move, closing the door behind him with a quiet click that sounded in the empty apartment like a sentence.