Chapter 1
As the first rays of sunlight brushed her skin, Hermione searched her memory for the last time warmth had felt this gentle. But it was in vain. It had been too long — so long since another human touch had approached her with warm intentions. The only source of heat that was left for her was the sun, so far away as the rest of the world.
For some reason, it was on days like this that Hermione ached for human contact. One might think the coldest days were the hardest, but they did not wound her. It was the sunny ones that had the power to shatter her soul, for they reminded her of what she once had. And today was one of those days.
From her window, the beach looked like a painting. The vibrant shades of the sky danced gracefully with the soft blue of the sea. On mornings like this, Hermione played a quiet game to pass the early hours of the day—imagining which famous painter would have been skilled enough to eternalize the scene.
Monet, perhaps. Or Turner, with his golden light and blurred edges, making the world look softer than it truly was. But most of the time, it was always Monet.
In truth, that morning ritual was merely a way to keep those names alive in her mind. To ensure she wouldn’t forget them, or art, or places, or scents, or colors, or sensations— everything that had once been part of her world. Everything that had been stripped away the moment she had chosen exile over obligation. Herself over her friends. Herself over everyone.
But as painful as it was to admit, the truth was raw and cruel: some names had already slipped away. While gazing through the window, Hermione thought of a French painter, but the letters of his name blurred in her mind. She squeezed her eyes shut, as if that would help summon him back. But he was already gone.
Suddenly, the landscape before her turned gray, heavy with loss.
She kept burying the same questions in the deepest corners of her mind, over and over again. It didn’t matter, of course. "Are their faces still the same?"; "What if I saw them now, would I recognize them?".
She exhaled slowly, pressing her fingers against the cool glass of the window. This was why Hermione coped better with days bleached by coldness. Her mind simply shut down. And she drowned in silence.
But not today. Today, her mind was racing from the moment she woke. It was suffocating.
In an attempt to steady her thoughts, Hermione decided to clean the house.
It was a simple residence—modest and humble. One pillow, one glass, one plate, one chair. There were no pairs; everything she owned was singular, just like her. Sometimes she wondered how nice it would be to have two cups of tea and share them with someone. Just to sit with another person and share the silence. No words, no expectations. Just existence, together.
Aside from the loneliness it stirred in her, having so little made the task easier. She swept the floor, shook the carpet, and cleaned the windows. The same motions, the same routine. It had become muscle memory by now, something she didn’t have to think about. However, during this last task, her eyes couldn’t resist drifting back to the beach.
The sun was now shining brightly in the sky.
She imagined Monet again, brush in hand, admiring the golden glow of the morning. He would breath life into the canvas with his vibrant yellows. His keen eye would catch the faint, almost invisible clouds that adorned the view. She was certain he would fuse heaven and ocean, making it impossible to tell where one ended and the other began.
The lone bird soaring high wouldn’t go unnoticed either. Monet would use it to reinforce the freedom this scene could instill in the soul. The movement of the waves, the glistening water, the dance of light across the surface—he would capture it all, immortalizing the feeling of standing before something vast and infinite.
She was convinced his hands would be masterful, sculpting Mother Nature into an eternal painting, leaving nothing behind. The sun. The clouds. The sky. The sea. The bird.
And—
Her breath caught in her throat.
Something was wrong.
Her hands, still clutching the cloth she had been using to clean, trembled slightly as she narrowed her gaze. She blinked once. Twice. Rubbed at the windowpane, as if the glass itself was playing tricks on her.
But no. It was there.
Lying motionless on the shore.
A body.
Hermione’s heart slammed against her ribs.
For a moment, she couldn’t move. Her legs felt rooted to the ground, a cold rush of something—fear, shock, dread—crawling up her spine. Her mind screamed at her to look away, to pretend she hadn’t seen it. That it was just another illusion, a cruel trick of the sun.
But if there was one thing Hermione had learned from all her time alone, it was that the sun could be cruel to her—never dishonest.
And if any doubt had persisted, the waves rolled in, washing over the figure, dragging at the fabric of the clothing, and she knew.
This was real.
A thousand thoughts collided at once. Who was that person? How did they get here? Whoever was that person, was alive?
Before she could stop herself, she was already moving. Her feet carried her forward, bare against the cool wooden floor, then against the sand as she stumbled toward the shore. The salty wind stung her cheeks. The world felt too sharp, too loud, the blood pounding in her ears drowning out the sound of the waves.
She reached the body.
And then fear made her stop. She needed to be careful in order to protect herself from a potential threat.
Slowly, she dropped her knees beside the figure.
A man.
Hermione didn't quite understand how she felt about that realization.
Pale, drenched, utterly still. He lay on his stomach, his clothes torn, evidence of struggle, of something violence. His white shirt clung to his torso, soaked and speckled with wet sand.
Cautiously, Hermione pressed trembling fingers against his throat, searching, praying.
A heartbeat.
Weak, but there.
He was alive.
Barely.
A shaky breath slipped past her lips, relief tangling with uncertainty. A tidal wave was wrecking her mind and body when she noticed his right hand.
More precisely, a black ring with an "M" captured her attention.
It couldn't be.
No.
Not him.
Off all people. Not him.
Her fingers were still curled against his skin, warmth meeting cold. Hands trembling more than ever, she carefully turned him onto his back.
Then she saw his face.
The world seemed to tilt. Her breath stilled.
It was him.
For the first time in ages, Hermione was not alone.
She was trapped on an island with Draco Malfoy.