Chapter 23
For a long moment after the door closed, Hermione stood motionless, staring at the spot where Draco had stood just moments before. Her lips still tingled from the intensity of the kiss, and her mind worked feverishly, trying to understand what had just happened.
"Breathe," she whispered to herself. "Just breathe."
Slowly she walked to the kitchen, mechanically boiling water, adding tea. Her hands trembled slightly, but she didn't allow herself to panic. Not now. Not after everything they had been through.
"Something happened there," she said quietly, as if convincing herself. "In that observatory. Something Kingsley doesn't know about."
She sat at the kitchen table, her hands embracing the mug of tea. The warmth of the ceramic provided a semblance of comfort in a world that suddenly seemed completely incomprehensible.
What had Draco done to defeat Celestine? What had cost him so much that now he looked at her with empty eyes, kissed without passion, left without explanation?
She thought about her experience with addiction, about how the potions took away her ability to feel fully. Maybe Draco had gone through something similar? Maybe he needed time to learn to feel again?
"I'll give him time," she decided, taking a deep breath. "As much as he needs."
The night was long and merciless. She lay in bed, tossing from side to side, her mind constantly returning to Draco's strange, absent gaze. To the emptiness in his eyes when their lips met. She dozed fitfully, waking every hour, each time feeling as if something important eluded her attention. She desperately wanted to take a potion and simply stop feeling, but she didn't allow herself to do so. Not this time. This wasn't about her, but about Draco.
In the morning, sitting at her desk at the Ministry, she made a decision. She couldn't leave it like this. Not after everything they had gone through together. She took out a clean parchment and began to write, trying to make her words sincere but not pressing:
Draco,
I hope you're feeling better today. I would like to see you—I'm not pushing, but if you could find a moment, I would be grateful for a meeting. Even a brief one.
Hermione
The answer came surprisingly quickly, as if he had been waiting at his desk for her message:
Hermione,
Unfortunately, I cannot meet today. I'm sorry.
How are you feeling? Are you sleeping well? Read about breathing techniques—they help when the temptation to reach for potions appears. If you need anything at all, let me know.
Draco
She stared at the parchment for a long moment. The letter was polite, caring even. He asked about her well-being, about her struggle with addiction. And yet... it lacked what was most important—an explanation of why he had suddenly withdrawn. Why he left, despite everything indicating they should be together.
She folded the letter and slipped it into her robe pocket. She spent the rest of the day reviewing Celestine's case files, reading Draco's testimonies, analyzing reports from the observatory.
The most disturbing element was Celestine's condition. According to the healer's report, Malfoy's wife didn't remember exactly what had happened in the observatory—her memories were fragmentary, blurred, full of gaps.
"The patient exhibits symptoms of partial amnesia regarding events immediately preceding the arrest," Hermione read, frowning. "Probably the result of a head injury sustained during the confrontation with her husband."
It didn't make sense.
With growing concern, she went to Kingsley's office. The Minister listened to her doubts with a stone face, and when she finished, he sighed heavily.
"Hermione," he said, a note of fatigue resonating in his voice, "you're looking for something that isn't there. The case is closed. Celestine Malfoy is behind Claritas, we have irrefutable evidence. Draco Malfoy, despite his complicated past, behaved like an exemplary citizen, delivering us the criminal. End of story."
"But her memory loss—" Hermione began.
"Is perfectly explainable by the effects of stress and possible trauma," Kingsley interrupted. "Some people repress traumatic events. It's a well-documented phenomenon."
She felt irritated. If she didn't know Kingsley so well, she would think he was deliberately ignoring facts.
"You're overworked," the Minister added more gently, seeing her dissatisfaction. "I think a week off will do you good. Rest, recharge. The files aren't going anywhere."
She opened her mouth to protest, but suddenly felt enormously tired. Maybe Kingsley was right? Maybe she really was looking for conspiracies where there were none, just because she couldn't understand Draco's sudden withdrawal.
"All right," she conceded finally. "I'll take a week off."
The Minister smiled with relief.
"Excellent decision. Now go home, Hermione. Get a good night's sleep."
Leaving his office, she couldn't shake the impression that something still didn't add up. But perhaps a week of rest would allow her to view everything with perspective. Maybe then it would all come together coherently—including Draco's strange behavior and the emptiness in his gaze.
For three days, she barely left her apartment. She spent most of her time at her desk, writing letters to Draco and waiting for responses, which always came—polite, caring, but never containing what she really needed: an explanation.
Draco,
I don't understand what's happening. Just a few days ago we were so close, and now I feel like you're building a wall between us. Please, tell me what happened in that observatory? What did Celestine do that changed you so much?
I have a feeling you're hiding something. Something important.
Hermione
Hermione,
I'm sorry if you feel hurt. I never wanted that to happen. At the observatory, there was a confrontation with Celestine, whom I managed to subdue. There's no mystery to it.
How are you feeling today? Are you experiencing tensions that you previously eased with potions? Remember the breathing techniques we discussed.
Draco
Draco,
Don't ask me about potions when I'm trying to understand what happened between us. I was at the Ministry, reading the case files. Celestine has memory gaps regarding the observatory. The report mentions a head injury, but that doesn't make sense if she was petrified.
What really happened there? Is that why you've withdrawn?
Please, meet with me. Even for five minutes.
Hermione
Hermione,
Celestine could have hit her head when the petrifying spell struck her and she fell. It's a typical physical reaction and could have caused a concussion. Don't look for conspiracies where there are none.
As for meeting—I really can't. Not at this moment. I have certain matters to attend to that require my full attention. This isn't a good time.
How are you sleeping? Have the nightmares returned?
Draco
Draco,
This frustrates me. You answer my letters, yet I feel as if you're thousands of miles away. I have a right to know what happened. I was part of this whole story.
And stop constantly asking about my well-being as if you're trying to change the subject. No, I'm not sleeping well. Yes, I'm not taking potions. Yes, I still have nightmares. Now you answer my question: What. Happened?
Hermione
Hermione,
I'm sorry the nightmares haven't gone away. Perhaps lemon balm with dried rose petals might help—these are natural remedies, without risk of addiction. Steep for 8 minutes and drink an hour before bed.
As for your questions—there really isn't more to say. Celestine has been detained, all evidence points to her guilt. Case closed.
Please, stop digging.
Draco
Draco,
That's not what I was asking and you know it. I'm not interested in the official version that everyone recites like a memorized formula. I'm asking about you. About what changed. About why you kissed me as if I were a stranger, then left.
And no, I won't brew myself lemon balm. I don't want remedies or advice. I want answers.
Hermione
Hermione,
Some things are better left as they are. Believe me, it's for your own good. For the good of us both.
Please, give me time. That's all I ask.
Draco
Draco,
Time? How much time do you need to explain to me what happened? Because I get the impression you're postponing the inevitable—that you're simply too cowardly for a conversation. I didn't know this side of you. You were always direct, even when the truth was painful.
What happened in that observatory that you can't look me in the eye and tell me the truth?
Hermione
After sending this letter, her days turned into endless waiting. Every hour she checked the window to see if an owl had appeared. She even started keeping the window ajar despite the autumn chill, so the bird wouldn't have to wait a moment if it came during her absence.
On the first day, she explained to herself that perhaps he was busy. That the Celestine case was consuming his time. That his mother and friend in the hospital required his attention. That he was busy working on an antidote. She meticulously found rational reasons why he hadn't yet responded.
On the second day, the illusions began to dissipate. No owl disturbed the silence of her apartment. No letter lay on the windowsill. By afternoon, she was furious—furious and hurt in a way she didn't understand herself. Why did she care so much about a response?
Because something didn't add up. Everything about this situation—his behavior, his escape, his cold kiss—was so completely unlike the Draco she knew. Even unlike the Draco she met in seedy motels to lose herself in moments of oblivion.
On the evening of the second day, sitting at the kitchen table and staring at cold tea, she made a decision. Enough of this waiting. Enough of being the nice, patient Hermione who waits for a man to deign to respond.
She stood up so abruptly that the chair fell over behind her. She didn't even pick it up.
In her bedroom, with quick, nervous movements, she pulled black pants and a navy sweater from the closet. She dressed hurriedly, not even looking in the mirror. She tied her hair in a loose bun, from which unruly strands immediately began to escape. It didn't matter.
The crack of apparition tore through the silence of the apartment, and a moment later she was standing before the gate of his home.
She hadn't even touched the iron bars when, with a soft pop, a house elf appeared right in front of her. The small creature was dressed in a perfectly starched towel embroidered with the Malfoy crest. It stared at her with enormous, globular eyes that expressed both determination and embarrassment.
"Miss Granger," the elf spoke in a squeaky voice. "Mimsy is very sorry, but Master Malfoy cannot receive anyone."
Hermione frowned. Strange that the elf appeared almost immediately, as if waiting for her arrival. As if Draco had expected that sooner or later she would come here.
"I must see him," she said firmly. "It's important."
The elf shook its head, its ears flapping violently.
"Mimsy is very, very sorry, but Master Malfoy is not receiving visitors. He is very busy. Mimsy has received clear instructions."
"I understand, but this is really urgent," Hermione tried to sound calm, though inside she was seething. "Can you tell him it's me? I'm sure he'll make an exception for me."
"Mimsy has already told Master Malfoy that Miss Granger is standing at the gate," the elf confessed, twisting its fingers in a gesture of nervousness. "Master Malfoy said he cannot come down. He said he is very sorry."
Hermione felt her face burning with anger. So Draco knew she was here, and still refused to talk?
"So this is how it's going to be?" she asked, no longer hiding her irritation. "He hides behind a house elf? Behind magical gates? He thinks he can just ignore me like this?"
"Mimsy is very sorry, but—"
"No, don't apologize, Mimsy. It's not your fault," she interrupted, then turned her face toward the manor. "It's the fault of the coward hiding in there!"
The elf took a step back, clearly terrified by her outburst.
"Mimsy must return to his duties," he squeaked nervously. "Master Malfoy ordered..."
But he didn't finish, disappearing with a soft pop, leaving Hermione alone before the tall, wrought-iron gate.
For a moment she stood completely motionless, staring at the elegant residence at the end of the gravel driveway. Somewhere there, behind those ornate windows, was Draco. Draco, who refused to talk to her. Draco, who sent an elf to dismiss her.
Something inside her snapped.
"DRACO MALFOY!" she shouted at the top of her lungs, not caring if the neighbors heard her. "I KNOW YOU'RE IN THERE! I KNOW YOU HEAR ME!"
Silence was her only answer. The elegant facade of the residence remained impassive, no face appeared in the windows.
"ARE YOU REALLY GOING TO HIDE?!" she continued, her voice trembling with anger and emotion. "AFTER EVERYTHING WE'VE BEEN THROUGH TOGETHER?! AFTER EVERYTHING YOU TOLD ME?!"
She gripped the iron bars of the gate so tightly that her knuckles turned white.
"I KNOW SOMETHING HAPPENED IN THAT OBSERVATORY! I KNOW YOU'RE HIDING SOMETHING! AND I WON'T LEAVE UNTIL YOU TELL ME THE TRUTH!"
She was breathing heavily, her heart pounding like a hammer. Her head was ringing with emotions—anger mingled with grief, disappointment with longing. How had they come to this point? How had they gone from intimate moments shared on the couch in her apartment to... this?
"DRACO!" she called once more, and in her voice was a note of desperation. "PLEASE!"
The silence that answered her cry seemed even more crushing. She was about to shout again when she heard the distant sound of opening doors.
She froze, holding her breath and staring intensely into the depths of the property. For a moment nothing happened, and then she saw him—a solitary figure slowly walking down the gravel path toward her.
He walked slowly, almost heavily, as if each step cost him disproportionate effort. When he came close enough that she could see his face, she barely held back a gasp of shock.
He looked terrible. His cheeks, always pale, now had an unhealthy, waxy tinge. Deep, purple shadows lay under his eyes, as if he hadn't slept for many days. His hair, always impeccably styled, was in disarray, and his clothes—though still elegant—bore traces of negligence she would never have suspected in him. His eyes—those eyes that once shone with determination or desire—now seemed dull and distant.
He stood right before the gate but made no move to open it. He looked at her through the iron bars, his face expressing deep fatigue.
"Hermione," he spoke quietly, his voice hoarse as if he hadn't used his vocal cords for a long time. "This isn't the best time for visits."
She looked at him, unable to believe how much he had changed in just a few days. This wasn't the confident, arrogant Draco she knew. This was barely a remnant of that man.
"How are you feeling?" he asked, and a familiar note of concern appeared in his voice. "You look tired. Are the nightmares still bothering you?"
"Don't change the subject," she responded coldly, though inside she felt a painful contraction at the sight of his condition. "I came here to talk. To find out what's happening with you."
He sighed heavily, running his hand through his hair—a gesture she knew so well, but which now seemed mechanical, devoid of his typical grace.
"Please, go home," he said gently. "I can't tell you what you want to hear. Not now. Maybe never."
"No," she replied firmly, tightening her fingers on the bars of the gate. "I won't go home. I'll stand here until you talk to me. Until you tell me the truth."
"Please, go home," he repeated, this time more quietly, almost a whisper. "This... really isn't a good time."
Before she could protest, he turned and began walking back up the path to the residence. His posture, once so straight and proud, now seemed hunched, as if he carried an invisible weight on his shoulders.
"Draco!" she called after him, but he didn't turn. "DRACO!"
She watched as his silhouette grew smaller and smaller, until finally he disappeared behind the heavy doors of the residence, leaving her alone, shocked, and with even more questions than before.
She didn't move. Even when the first drops of rain began to fall on her shoulders, even when the gravel path before the gate turned into a muddy trail, and her hair stuck to her face—she stood motionless, staring at the distant doors of the residence.
She was soaked to the skin within minutes. The cool autumn air penetrated her damp clothes, but she didn't even flinch. She had the impression that if she moved even a step away, something would irrevocably end. That this gate would forever remain closed to her.
She didn't know how long she stood there. Long enough for the shivers to turn to numbness, and for anger to give way to determination so deep it seemed almost like calm. The sky grew increasingly dark, clouds gathered over Malfoy Manor, heralding a real storm.
When the first thunder sounded, so close she could almost feel the vibrations in her bones, the main doors of the residence opened again. Draco's silhouette appeared in the doorway, then moved toward her, this time faster than before.
He reached the gate, drew his wand, and made a short, impatient movement. The iron bars slid apart, opening a passage before her.
"Hermione, for Merlin's sake, must you always be so stubborn?" his words should have sounded like a reproach, but his voice was tired, devoid of any emotional color. As if reciting a text he had memorized by heart, but whose meaning escaped his understanding.
He removed his own jacket and draped it over her shoulders in one fluid motion. He didn't ask if she wanted it. He didn't wait for her answer. He simply grabbed her by the elbow and led her along the path toward the house, quickening his pace when lightning illuminated the sky above their heads.
"You can't stand outside in such weather," he said, but his tone was mechanical, as if repeating something he knew he should say, not what he truly felt. "You'll get sick. You'll get soaked. You'll catch cold."
Hermione allowed herself to be led, intensely observing his profile. Something deeply disturbing lurked in this scene—in the way he said things that should express concern but sounded like empty phrases; in how his hand on her elbow gripped neither too firmly nor too lightly, but with perfectly measured force, as if someone had programmed him to hold her exactly so.
He led her into the residence. The enormous hall greeted them with warmth and dryness, and a house elf—the same one who had dismissed her earlier—appeared immediately, bowing low.
"Mimsy, bring a towel and tea for our guest," Draco instructed. "And prepare the Green Salon."
"Yes, Master Malfoy," the elf squeaked, disappearing with a soft crack.
Draco led her down the corridor, each of his steps measured, each gesture precise. Like a perfectly programmed automaton performing learned actions. And although his face expressed something like concern, something fundamental was missing from this picture—as if someone had painted a portrait but forgotten to add the spark in the eyes that would make it real.
Draco led her into a spacious salon whose walls were covered with dark green wallpaper with silver patterns. The room was elegant and refined, like everything in the Malfoy residence, but at this moment its impeccability was clearly disturbed.
Mimsy was bustling frantically, trying to clean up the disorder, but clearly hadn't expected guests so quickly. At the sight of them entering, he squeaked softly and accelerated his movements even more, but the damage had already been seen.
Draco immediately moved toward a low table and couch, quickly gathering empty bottles of Firewhiskey. One, two, three... Hermione counted at least five before they disappeared in his arms. Their glass clinking seemed unnaturally loud in the tense silence of the salon.
"Sorry about the mess," he said in a colorless tone. "I wasn't expecting visitors."
Hermione stood in the doorway, still wrapped in his soaked jacket, watching as Draco Malfoy—always impeccable, always perfect—gathered the evidence of what looked like a days-long drinking binge.
Her gaze fell on the table and stopped at something that made her eyes widen in surprise. An empty pack of cigarettes, ordinary, Muggle ones. Marlboro. Never, ever had she imagined Draco smoking anything, certainly not Muggle tobacco products.
He noticed the direction of her gaze and swept away the pack along with the bottles, but it was too late. She had seen enough to understand that whatever happened in the observatory had affected him much more deeply than she could have imagined.
"Please, sit down," he gestured to the couch, now cleared of bottles. "I'll bring you something dry to wear."
He stood motionless for a moment, as if hesitating whether he could leave her alone in the salon, then moved toward the door, taking with him the evidence of his downfall.
Mimsy, who had been nervously moving around the fireplace, snapped his fingers and the fire blazed brighter, spreading more warmth.
"Does Miss Granger wish for anything else?" he asked quietly, glancing at her from under lowered eyelids.
"No, thank you," she replied, still stunned by what she had seen. "Everything is fine."
The elf nodded and disappeared with a soft crack, leaving her alone in the salon, which despite its elegance and richness now gave the impression of an abandoned and neglected place. Like its owner.
She sank onto the couch, looking around the room. On the mantelpiece stood photographs in silver frames—Narcissa Malfoy gazed from them proudly and coldly. Beside it was a photograph of young Draco on a broomstick—he couldn't have been more than eleven then. In the opposite corner, she noticed a desk with scattered papers and several books—some lay open, as if Draco had abruptly interrupted his reading.
Everything indicated that since the confrontation with Celestine, something in him had broken. Something that caused the perfectly ordered Draco Malfoy to plunge into chaos that he had so effectively kept at bay until now.
A moment later, the salon doors opened again and Draco returned, holding a thick, dark green wool sweater. His gaze moved over her soaked figure, and his face took on an expression that should have been concern but seemed rather its exact imitation.
"You're completely soaked," he stated, then drew his wand and made a familiar motion. "Exaresco."
The warm blast of the drying spell passed through her clothes and hair. She immediately felt better, but Draco still handed her the sweater.
"Put this on. You'll still be cold after such rain."
She accepted the clothing, surprised by his gesture. The sweater was soft, luxurious, and definitely too big, but when she put it on, she felt enveloped not only in warmth but also in Draco's familiar scent.
He sat in the armchair opposite her, perfectly straight, with his hands resting on the armrests. His posture was too stiff, too formal. He resembled more a host receiving an unwanted business guest than a man who had held her in his arms just a few days ago.
"What's happening to you, Draco?" she asked directly, seeing no sense in beating around the bush.
"Nothing's happening," he answered automatically, as if he had expected this question. "I've just had a lot of work related to Celestine's trial. And with mother in the hospital. It's a demanding time."
"Stop lying to me," Hermione leaned forward, trying to catch his gaze. "I saw the bottles. I saw the cigarettes. I see you—you barely resemble the man I knew just a week ago."
His face remained unmoved, as if her words made no impression on him. Once, such directness would have provoked a smile, a raised eyebrow, perhaps even a flash of anger. Now—nothing.
"Difficult period, that's all," he repeated, turning his gaze away for a moment. "I've been drinking too much, that's true. And I started smoking—a stupid habit, I know. But it's nothing serious. Everything is fine, Hermione."
"Fine? You look like you haven't slept for a week. Your house looks like it's been hit by a tornado. You avoid me like the plague. And in the observatory... what happened there, Draco? What occurred between you and Celestine?"
His eyes wandered around the room for a moment, as if seeking answers in the walls, the ceiling, everywhere but within himself.
"The confrontation with her was... difficult," he finally said. "But we won. She's in Azkaban. Justice has been served."
"That's not what I'm asking and you know it well," she felt irritation rising in her again. "Something changed in you. Something happened. Celestine lost partial memory—the report mentions a head injury, but I know that's impossible if she was petrified. And you... you look as if you've lost part of yourself."
For a fraction of a second, it seemed to her that something flashed in his eyes—some reaction to her words. But it could just as well have been a shadow cast by the flames in the fireplace.
"I'm just tired, Hermione," his voice was quiet, almost apologetic. "Nothing more. I'm... exhausted. I need time. Space. That's all."
"I don't believe you," she said firmly, standing up from the couch and approaching him. "You're hiding something. Something that relates to why you suddenly stopped... why you can't..."
She couldn't finish. How was she to put into words this dramatic change she had noticed in him? This lack of reaction when he kissed her? This coldness in his eyes when he touched her?
Suddenly, driven by an impulse she couldn't explain even to herself, she rose from the couch and approached his armchair. Draco looked at her in confusion, his eyebrows lifting slightly.
"What are you doing?" he asked when she stopped right in front of him.
Instead of answering, she carefully sat on his lap, sideways, as she had wanted to do for so long. Her body seemed to remember this position—how to nestle into the hollow of his arm, how to rest her head on his chest, how to find that perfect closeness that immediately made her feel safe.
Draco froze for a moment, but then, as if remembering the appropriate reaction, he put his arm around her. His hand rested on her back—not too firmly, not too lightly, with perfectly measured force that should have been comfortable.
Hermione pressed against him, listening to his heartbeat. Before her eyes flashed all the moments when she had lain like this, listening to the accelerated, irregular rhythm when they were close. When his pulse quickened at the mere sight of her, when a mere brush of her hand was enough to make his breathing shallower, more rapid.
Now, however, Draco's heart beat steadily, calmly, without the slightest change in rhythm. Bump-bump. Bump-bump. Regular, stable. As if her warmth against his body, her hand on his chest, her breath on his neck—as if all of this made absolutely no impression on him.
Even when she shifted slightly, instinctively seeking a more comfortable position, his pulse didn't falter. It didn't accelerate for even a second, didn't disrupt its perfect, mechanical rhythm.
"Draco," she whispered, not lifting her head from his chest. "What happened to you?"
She felt his chest rise with an inhale, then fall. Breathing as measured as his pulse. As controlled as every gesture he had made since their reunion at the observatory.
"Nothing happened," he answered, his voice as colorless as before. "I'm just tired."
But his body was telling a different story. It was saying that something absolutely fundamental had changed in the man she knew. Something that meant even such intimate closeness evoked no physiological reaction in him.
She sat like that, embraced by him, listening to the steady, indifferent beating of his heart, and felt cold fear slowly filling her inside.
No, she couldn't leave it like this. She had to check if anything remained in him—of that Draco she knew, who responded to her touch, to her closeness.
Carefully, she took his hand in hers, playing with his long, elegant fingers. She had always thought he had beautiful hands—aristocratic, as he joked, though he would never admit it aloud. She ran her thumb over his wrist, feeling the regular, unwavering pulse.
Her fingers traveled higher, up his forearm and further, over his bicep, shoulder, to his neck. She gently traced the line of his jaw with her fingertip, feeling the slight stubble he would never normally have allowed.
She raised her face and looked into his eyes, then gently ran her finger over his lips—the same lips that until recently had whispered tender words to her.
She leaned in and kissed him, at first lightly, questioningly. For a moment she felt his resistance—his lips were motionless, as if they didn't remember how to respond. But then, slowly, he began to return the kiss. There was something mechanical about it, as if the body remembered the movements, even though the mind or spirit couldn't keep up.
She changed position, swinging her leg over his thighs and straddling him. His hands automatically went to her waist, stabilizing her. She pressed herself harder against him, her chest against his chest, her hips against his hips.
And then she felt it—beneath her, a hardness betraying that Draco's body was responding to her, even if his eyes remained distant. Something stirred in her—a spark of hope. If he still desired her physically, it meant something in him had survived. That not everything was lost, whatever had happened.
She moaned softly and moved even closer, feeling his hands tighten on her hips, pressing her buttocks against his groin. For a moment she thought she had broken through the barrier—that she had reached the real Draco, hidden behind that cold facade.
And then, suddenly, everything changed. His body tensed, his hands froze, and his eyes widened in what looked like panic.
"No, I can't," he muttered feverishly, pushing her away with such force that she nearly lost her balance. "I'm sorry, this... this isn't a good idea."
He jumped to his feet, literally dumping her from his lap. She had to hold onto the armchair to avoid falling. She now stood disoriented, with disheveled hair and flushed cheeks, watching as Draco backed away several steps, as if fleeing from an invisible threat.
"Draco, what—" she began, but he interrupted her, raising his hand in a defensive gesture.
"I'm sorry," he repeated, his voice now almost desperate. "I shouldn't have... I need to... I need to leave."
And before she could react, before she could say even a word, he turned and almost ran from the room, leaving her alone, stunned, and more lost than ever.
He walked through the corridors of his own home, not paying attention to the direction. Just away. As far away as possible from her. From her touch, from her warmth, from her lips that had awakened in his body a reaction so natural and so foreign at the same time.
Because the body remembered. Muscles, nerves, tissues—all functioned independently of the emptiness that filled him from within. That emptiness, born in the observatory and now dominating his entire being, was absolute. Total. Boundless as a starless night sky.
He felt it as a physical weight—as if someone had hollowed out his insides, replacing everything that was once there with a cold, dead vacuum. Each breath, each step caused this cold emptiness to move within him, rubbing against the walls of his existence like a foreign entity that had taken the place of his soul.
For that's exactly what he had lost—a fragment of his soul. Torn out, ripped apart, destroyed in a way he couldn't explain to anyone. How to explain to someone that although the body still functions, though the brain processes information, somewhere deeper, at the very center of his being, there is now only a cool, dark abyss?
He entered the first room he encountered—his study. Without turning on the light, he went straight to the bar, where his hand found the familiar shape of a Firewhiskey bottle. He unscrewed it with trembling fingers and put it to his lips, tilting his head back.
The alcohol burned his throat, flowing down his esophagus in a hot stream that for a moment—for a blessed, brief moment—made the emptiness seem less terrifying. He drank greedily, not caring that some of the liquor flowed down his chin, soaked his shirt, dripped onto the carpet.
His body had responded to Hermione. It wanted her, desired her, reacted to her touch and closeness as it always had. But where there should have been joy from this closeness, where there should have been emotions, feelings, desires—there was only emptiness.
As if someone had cut the connection between his body and soul, leaving them as two separate entities that could no longer work together. A body that remembers what it desires, and a soul—or rather its absence—that is unable to feel it.
And it was precisely this emptiness that frightened him most. The awareness that although he stands here, breathes, drinks, though his heart pumps blood and his lungs fill with air—he is only a shadow of the man he was. A shell, hollowed from within, deprived of what is most essential. Fear—the only emotion that remained to him.
He tilted the bottle again, desperately seeking solace in the burning liquor. But even alcohol, which had always been able to dull his senses, now seemed only to emphasize this emptiness, this absolute nothingness that dwelled within him.
And how was he to explain this to Hermione? How was he to tell her that although his body desires her, though his mind remembers what he felt for her—the part that knew how to love had been torn from him so brutally that it left only a bleeding void?
He wanted to be furious. He so desperately wanted to feel anger—hot, destructive, all-encompassing. He wanted rage to fill this emptiness, to flood this black nothingness that now resided in place of his soul. Anger—even the blackest, most destructive—would be better than this emptiness. It would bring relief. Anything would be better than nothing.
But even that had been taken from him.
He swung and hurled the bottle across the room. The glass shattered against the wall with a loud crash, spraying golden alcohol and sharp fragments onto the elegant wallpaper and wooden floor. The sound was deafening, the storm of glass fragments falling to the floor should have brought satisfaction.
He felt nothing.
No relief. No liberation. No fulfillment that should accompany an act of physical destruction. The emptiness remained undisturbed, indifferent to his desperate attempts to fill it.
He screamed. Loudly, with all his might, allowing the wild sound to escape his throat and fill the room. He screamed until he ran out of breath, then took in air and screamed again. And again. And again.
Once. Twice. Three times. Ten times.
But the screams were hollow—mechanical production of sound from a throat that carried no emotional content. For how does one scream in anger when one feels no anger? How to express despair when the place where it should dwell is just a black hole?
Hermione walked through the corridor, following the sounds. Screams, breaking glass, impacts. She paused for a moment at the study door, gathering courage, then pushed it open with a decisive movement.
She entered and froze.
The room looked as if a hurricane had passed through. Glass fragments lay on the floor, glinting in the pale moonlight streaming through the window. The opposite wall bore marks of impacts—dark, wet spots that could only be blood. And by it stood Draco, his forehead resting against the wallpaper, his hands hanging limply at his sides, his breath so heavy it moved his entire silhouette.
"Draco..." she whispered, her voice sounding unnaturally loud in the silence that had fallen after his screams.
He didn't move. Didn't turn. Gave no sign he heard her, though he must have known she was there.
Carefully she approached, avoiding the glass fragments. Only now did she see the state of his hands—cut, bleeding, with exposed knuckles. Involuntarily she extended her hand, as if wanting to touch him, but stopped mid-gesture, uncertain if her touch would worsen the situation.
"What have you done to yourself?" she asked quietly, her voice trembling slightly.
Draco slowly turned his head, not lifting his forehead from the wall, and looked at her. In the half-darkness his eyes seemed unnaturally bright—empty, yet simultaneously filled with something she couldn't name. It wasn't suffering, it wasn't anger—rather a complete, profound resignation.
"I feel nothing, Hermione," he said, his voice so quiet she had to strain to hear it. "I tried to feel anything. Anger. Rage. Grief. Anything. But there's only... emptiness."
Hermione felt her heart constrict painfully.
"What happened in the observatory, Draco?" she asked, knowing this time she must receive an answer. "What happened there? What was done to you?"
They sat on the cold parquet floor, among broken glass—she embracing him like a child, he with his head resting on her shoulder, his breathing shallow and uneven, as if each inhalation required conscious effort.
"Please, tell me," she whispered, gently stroking his hair. "Whatever it is, we can fix it together. But you have to tell me."
Draco flinched slightly, then laughed—it was an empty, terrible sound, devoid of any joy.
"Fix it?" he repeated, his voice echoing itself. "Some things can't be fixed, Hermione. Some wounds never heal."
"Please," she begged, tightening her arms around him more firmly, as if she could physically prevent him from sinking into that emptiness he spoke of. "I beg you, Draco. Tell me what happened. I can't help you if I don't know what we're fighting."
"In the observatory... it wasn't like everyone thinks," he began, his voice monotone, as if reciting a memorized formula. "Celestine wasn't petrified right away. First... first there was Avada Kedavra."
Hermione felt a cold shiver run down her spine.
"Avada? But nobody died, everyone survived..."
"Not everyone," Draco interrupted, his face contorting in a grimace that under other circumstances might have been pain. "You died, Hermione."
She froze, feeling the blood drain from her face.
"What are you saying? But I... I'm alive. I'm here."
He shook his head, his hands—still bloody—clenching into fists.
"Celestine cast Avada. At you. And then... then everything changed."
"But I'm alive," she repeated, feeling growing fear. "Draco, I'm alive. I'm here, with you."
She was beginning to suspect he had simply gone mad.
"Yes," he admitted, looking at her with eyes that made her heart constrict painfully. "Now you are. But first you died."
Hermione stared at him, trying to understand. What could this mean?
"Draco," she said slowly, trying to keep her voice calm, though inside she felt rising panic. "What exactly did you do in the observatory?"
Draco was silent for a long time, his eyes wandering around the room as if searching for words hidden in the shadows.
"I knew it was a trap," he finally began. "The threatening letter, the picture of my mother... Celestine wanted me to bring you. At first I thought it was her father, Antoine Rosier, behind it all. I thought he was the one behind Claritas. I thought after the dance at the symposium, he figured out there was something between us. That he not only wanted to eliminate you from the investigation, but also get rid of the woman who could ruin his daughter's reputation. I was afraid."
He swallowed hard, his eyes dry though his voice trembled slightly.
"So I prepared. I bought two cats in Knockturn Alley. Black, identical. I had a plan."
Hermione frowned, trying to understand.
"Cats?"
He looked at his hands as if seeing blood that Hermione couldn't perceive.
"One of them I transformed into you. I had your hair on my coat. I used it for a potion—my own modification, stronger than Polyjuice Potion. A potion I had been experimenting with for months."
"You transformed a cat... into me?" Hermione's voice was thin with disbelief. "And then what?"
"Imperio," he admitted, not meeting her eyes. "I controlled every movement, every word... I had to make Celestine believe it was really you."
Hermione sat like stone, trying to process what she heard. It sounded impossible. Even the best potion wouldn't fool a wizard.
"How is it possible that Celestine didn't realize?" she asked, shaking her head in disbelief. "It was a cat transformed by potion... She must have sensed something was wrong."
Draco looked at her, and in his eyes appeared a strange gleam—a gleam of fear.
"Voldemort was a monster," he said quietly, "but one of his ideas helped me escape this."
Hermione froze, feeling the blood drain from her face.
"What do you mean?" she asked, though part of her already knew, already sensed the answer.
"I created a horcrux," Draco answered so quietly she almost didn't hear. "Not like his—not for immortality. I split my soul differently, for a different purpose. The first cat... I killed it. It was the sacrifice necessary for the ritual. Part of my soul passed to the second cat. It... it gave it a bit of my humanity. Enough to fool Celestine. To make her believe it was really you."
"Draco," whispered Hermione, feeling tears come to her eyes. "You... what have you done?"
"I wasn't thinking about consequences then," he admitted quietly. "I only knew I couldn't let you die. That I couldn't bear the thought of a world where you don't exist."
"And that... fake... entered the observatory," she said slowly. "And then?"
"And then everything went according to plan," Draco replied, his face like a mask carved of ice. "Celestine cast the deadly spell. It hit... what she thought was you."
He paused for a moment, his gaze becoming distant, as if reliving that moment.
"I knew what would happen when the cat died," he continued quietly. "I knew that the part of my soul trapped in it would be destroyed. Irretrievably."
Hermione looked at him with wide eyes, unable to believe what she was hearing.
"You... knew?" she whispered. "You knew and still...?"
"Yes," he interrupted, his voice now calm, almost reconciled to fate. "The old books were very clear on this matter. When a soul vessel is destroyed, the fragment contained in it dies with it. It doesn't return to the owner. It just... ceases to exist."
"And despite that, you decided to do it?" she asked, her voice trembling. "You consciously chose to lose part of your soul?"
"The alternative was risking your life," he answered simply. "The choice was... obvious."
Hermione felt tears flowing down her cheeks. It was incredibly painful—to look at him and know that such a great sacrifice had been made for her. A sacrifice with such tragic consequences.
And then, suddenly, something in her broke. Tears gave way to fury that blazed in her like wild, untamed flames. Before she could stop herself, she struck him in the chest. Once, twice, three times—her fists hit his body with a force born of desperation and anger.
"How could you be so stupid?!" she shouted, her voice echoing off the walls of the study. "How could you do something like that?! Sacrifice part of your SOUL?!"
Draco didn't defend himself. Didn't dodge the blows. He simply sat, accepting each strike with the same empty calm with which he spoke of his sacrifice.
"You're so smart, Draco! So damn intelligent!" she shouted, hitting him again and again. "And yet you acted so unimaginably stupid! You could have come to me! We could have figured something out together! TOGETHER!"
Her voice broke on the last word, and her hands fell limply. She was now crying openly, tears and anger mixing in a painful, emotional cocktail.
"You could have trusted me," she whispered. "You could have let me help. You didn't have to do this alone."
Draco looked at her calmly, his face as motionless as a statue's.
"You can yell at me, Hermione," he said quietly. "You can hit me. But I don't feel anything anymore."
She froze, staring at him with wide eyes.
"What does that mean?" she asked, though part of her already knew, already understood the terrible truth.
"It means that your anger, your sadness, your concern..." he hesitated, searching for the right words. "I understand them intellectually. I know I should react to them. But I can't... feel them. It's as if I'm looking at the world through a glass wall. I see everything, understand everything, but nothing touches me. Nothing moves me."
He raised his hand and gently wiped a tear from her cheek—a gesture that once would have been full of tenderness, and now was merely a precise movement, devoid of emotional significance.
"I'm sorry this hurts you," he added. "I know it should matter to me. And I wish it did. Initially I thought it was just shock. A side effect. That it would pass... But with each day I become more convinced it's permanent. That I will always be... incomplete."
He paused for a moment, then continued:
"I remember what it was like to feel something. I remember what it was like to love you. I remember fear, joy, anger, jealousy... all those emotions that defined my life. But now they're just... memories. As if they belonged to someone else."
Hermione went still. The world around her suddenly stood still. Love you. Those two words hit her with the force of a physical blow, momentarily displacing all the pain and fear related to his condition.
"Wait," she choked out, feeling her heart speed up. "What... what did you just say?"
Draco looked at her with his new, terrifying indifference.
"I said I remember what it was like to love you," he repeated, as if it were the most ordinary sentence in the world. "But now it's just a memory."
"You... you never before..." she broke off, unable to finish the sentence. Her voice trembled, her hands shook even more. "You never told me that."
"I didn't tell you I loved you?" he asked, his eyebrows slightly furrowing in an expression that might have been consternation if it weren't so empty. "That's strange. I was sure that... No, you're right. I never said it. I didn't get the chance."
Hermione felt her heart tear to shreds. The confession she had subconsciously waited for throughout their time together came at the worst possible moment—when the man who uttered it was no longer able to experience that feeling.
"Only now?" she forced out, her voice breaking. "You're telling me this only now, when you already... when you can no longer..."
He looked at her with his empty eyes.
"Ironic, isn't it?" he said quietly. "When I had all those emotions in me, I couldn't name them. I couldn't say those words. And now, when they're just an empty memory... they come so easily."
His face expressed absolutely nothing—no regret, no bitterness, no sadness.
"Those words were always trapped somewhere inside me," he continued. "But they were too heavy, too... exposing. Now I don't feel their weight. They're as light as air because they don't carry any emotional consequences."
Hermione looked at him through a veil of tears. This man, who had always been a master at hiding feelings, could now speak of them openly only because he no longer had them.
"I think parts of me," he added with strange calm, "that old part, would have found it easier to die than admit what it felt."
She wiped tears with the back of her hand, trying to calm herself. She felt as if she were participating in the most absurd, most painful conversation of her life.
"So," he summarized. "I think I can say it now precisely because those words no longer frighten me. I don't feel fear of rejection, embarrassment, uncertainty... I don't feel anything."
She didn't know how to react to this terrifyingly honest confession. His words were simultaneously the most beautiful thing he had ever said to her, and the most painful.
"If you could still feel..." she began uncertainly, "would you still... would you still feel the same way about me?"
Draco pondered, as if truly giving serious consideration to the question.
"I don't know," he answered honestly. "I can't predict how my feelings would have developed. But I remember their strength at the moment when I decided to sacrifice part of my soul. They were... determining."
"How can you be so... calm?" she asked, her voice trembling. "How can you just accept what happened?"
"I have no choice," he answered with simplicity. "Without those emotions, there's no anger in me, no regret, no rebellion... I see facts as they are. Part of my soul was destroyed. It's irreversible. I can accept it because nothing else remains for me. If it helps," he added, and in his voice appeared a subtle note that might have been an attempt at consolation, "I believe that if my former self had known what would happen, it would still have made the same decision. The math was simple—your life for a fragment of my soul. I would choose the same."
"There must be a way to fix this," she said with the conviction that for years had allowed her to solve the most difficult problems. "I'll find it. You... you can't remain like this forever. I won't allow it." She took a deep breath and added more quietly: "I'll be with you. I'll stay with you until we fix this."
Draco shook his head.
"It's absolutely impossible, Hermione," he said with unbearable calm. "I wasn't good for you even when I had a whole soul. Even when I could feel. But now? Now I'm an empty shell of that man. I don't even have the motivation to change. To become someone better. That part of me that was beginning to... love you... no longer exists."
He looked at his hands, then back at her.
"Even when I was whole, I was far from perfect. Now I don't even have the ability to strive to be better. I don't have emotions that would motivate me to change."
"You don't need to be perfect," whispered Hermione. "No one is."
"But I need to want to be better," he answered without hesitation. "And now I can't want anything. There are no desires in me, no hopes, no aspirations—only cold logic. And that logic tells me you don't deserve to live alongside someone who can't love you. Who can't even try."
Hermione clenched her hands into fists, trying to stop the trembling. The cold logic of his words hit her like waves of icy water.
"So you're just giving up?" she asked, her voice sounding sharper than she intended. "You don't even want to try?"
"It's not a matter of giving up," he answered, not even blinking. "It's a matter of objectively assessing the situation. I know what real relationships look like. I remember that. And I know I can't offer you that."
He suddenly stood up, leaving her sitting on the floor. He walked to the bar, from which he took a new bottle of Firewhiskey. He unscrewed it with one precise movement and raised it straight to his lips, taking a long swig as if it were ordinary water.
"You should go home, Granger," he said, not looking at her. His voice was cool and distant, as if he were speaking to someone he barely knew.
Granger.
Hermione rose from the floor, her legs so weak she had to hold onto the edge of the table.
"You can't... you can't just throw me out like this," she said, her voice trembling with emotions that he so sorely lacked.
Draco turned, holding the bottle to his chest like a shield. He took another swig, tilting his head back.
"This isn't throwing you out," he answered calmly. "It's the only logical solution in this situation. Your presence here won't bring any beneficial results. For either of us."
"You can't know that!" she protested, approaching him. "You can't predict what will happen. Maybe there's a way, maybe together we could..."
"If you ever need help—with the Ministry, with your potions, with anything—I'll help you."
He raised the bottle in a gesture that might have been a toast if it had contained even a hint of irony, and took another long drink.
"But I can't give you anything more. There's no point pretending otherwise."
Hermione felt tears coming to her eyes again, but this time they were tears of anger.
"So that's it? We just end like this? You... you lose a fragment of your soul to save my life, and now you tell me to leave as if I were... as if I were a random guest who stayed too long?"
"It's not a matter of 'ending,'" he replied with the same deadly precision. "We barely began. There was no official relationship between us that could be ended."
She blinked, stunned by the coldness of his words. This wasn't the Draco she knew—even the Draco who for months had treated their relationship as something purely physical was never so... empty.
"Go home, Granger," he repeated, turning away from her. "Start over. You deserve someone who will love you... truly."
"And what about you?" she asked quietly, trying to control the trembling in her voice. "What do you intend to do?"
"Me?" There was nothing in his voice—no sadness, no sarcasm, no bitterness. "I'll continue my life. Run the company. Work on new potions. On the antidote. As you know, Blaise is still in St. Mungo's. The fact that I lost part of my soul doesn't mean I lost my intelligence or skills."
Hermione stood for a moment, not knowing what to say. Every word that came to mind seemed futile, meaningless in the face of his absolute indifference.
"What if... I love you too?" she suddenly blurted out.
Those words hung in the air between them, heavy and impossible to take back. She herself was surprised by their sound, by how clearly and unambiguously she had formulated them. She had never spoken this aloud before, not even to herself. Perhaps somewhere deep in her soul she had known for some time, but she was always afraid. Afraid to name this feeling that had been growing in her slowly, against all logic, against common sense.
And now, when she finally found the courage to say it... it was too late.
Draco turned slowly. On his face there was no emotion, no joy, perhaps slight surprise.
"It doesn't matter."
Hermione blinked as if he had struck her.
"What do you mean... it doesn't matter?" she forced out, feeling her throat constrict painfully.
He shrugged.
"I would very much like to care," he answered with dispassionate honesty. "Really. I remember how important your feelings were to me. But now..." He paused, as if searching for the right words. "Now I simply don't care."
Hermione looked at him, feeling something break inside her. This was a moment of purest, most perfect irony of fate—they both confessed their love when they could no longer experience it together. When words that should have been the beginning of something beautiful became only a sad epilogue.
Without a word, she turned and left, closing the door behind her so quietly, as if afraid that a louder sound might shatter the remains of her heart into even smaller pieces.