Chapter 3
Hermione woke before the sun.
The air inside the cottage was cold, damp with the lingering traces of salt and night, but that wasn’t what had stirred her from sleep. Something pressed against the edges of her consciousness, heavy and unshakable, like the weight of a presence she hadn’t invited.
She lay still for a moment, listening.
The rhythmic crash of waves. The distant cry of gulls. Nothing unusual. And yet, everything was changed.
With a quiet sigh, she pushed herself upright, wincing at the stiffness in her limbs. Last night had left her drained, and the memory of it—of him—settled like stone in her chest.
Draco Malfoy was in her house.
In fact, he was in that precise moment sleeping where she had slept all these nights.
The thought should have felt absurd, impossible even. During all those years at Hogwarts, they didn’t even breathe the same air. This had to be a joke. But as her gaze flickered toward the shadowed form on the bed, reality settled in like a slow, creeping tide.
His breathing was shallow but steady, his body unmoving beneath the thin blanket she had thrown over him. In the dim morning light, the sharp planes of his face looked even more hollowed out than she remembered. His skin was drawn tight, his lips pale.
And the curse—dark tendrils of ink slithering just beneath his collar—had not faded.
Hermione’s fingers curled into the blanket pooled at the edge of her own small sofa. She should have felt relief. He was alive. That meant there was still time.
But the question remained. Time for what?
A shudder passed through her. She forced herself to her feet, rolling the tension from her shoulders as she stepped toward the small stove in the corner of the room. The floorboards creaked under her weight, the sound loud in the hush of the morning.
She had just reached for the kettle when a voice, hoarse and fractured, shattered the silence.
“Brilliant,” he rasped. “I really am in hell.”
A sharp breath left her, somewhere between a scoff and a sigh. “No, Malfoy. You’re in my house.” Said Hermione, has she entered her room.
It felt strange to hear her own voice again, after so many months without a reason to use it. She was shocked to discover she was still able to talk.
“Worse,” he muttered, letting his head fall back against the pillow.
She decided to ignore his comment. "How are you feeling?"
Draco tilted his head slightly against the pillow, considering. "Like I got dragged out of the ocean by someone who resents me for it."
Hermione’s jaw tightened. She stepped closer, voice cold. "I could’ve left you there."
Something flickered across his expression—so fast she almost missed it.
"I know," he murmured.
Hermione exhaled through her nose. "You’re welcome, Malfoy."
His lips twitched—almost a smirk, but not quite. “You always this hospitable, or am I just special?"
“Hardly.”
Then Draco exhaled sharply and attempted to push himself upright. The effort lasted all of two seconds before a violent tremor wracked his body, sending him collapsing back against the mattress with a strangled curse.
Hermione watched, unmoving.
Even in his weakness, the stubborn defiance was still there, burning in the tight set of his jaw, in the way his fingers curled into the sheets.
"Where are we?" he asked after a long pause.
"An island."
"Helpful."
She didn’t elaborate.
Draco let out a slow breath. "How long?"
"You washed up yesterday."
His brows knit together. Hermione caught the brief flicker of confusion before his expression smoothed over again, guarded.
"You don’t remember?"
He hesitated. Then, with a tired scoff, he muttered, "Nothing worth mentioning."
Hermione studied him, eyes narrowing slightly. He was lying. She could see it in the way his gaze shifted, in the careful control of his breathing.
"You’re staring, Granger."
Hermione stiffened. His voice was rough, but the smirk tugging weakly at the corner of his mouth was unmistakable.
"I wasn’t staring," she said flatly.
And yet, before she could press further, his entire body went rigid. Hermione barely registered the movement before his breath hitched—sharp and pained.
Then, all at once, his body jerked.
A strangled noise tore from his throat, his spine bowing slightly as his hand shot up to grasp at his collar.
Hermione inhaled sharply.
The curse—those dark, slithering veins—was moving.
The tendrils pulsed, creeping further across his skin, like something alive, like something feeding. Draco gritted his teeth, breath shuddering. His hand clenched into a fist against his chest.
"Get… back," he rasped.
Hermione’s instincts screamed at her to do the opposite. So she stepped forward instead.
His breath came in ragged gasps, beads of sweat breaking across his forehead. The veins pulsed again, winding further up his throat, creeping toward his jaw.
Draco let out a choked sound, his whole body trembling with the effort to fight against whatever was overtaking him. His jaw locked, muscles straining against the pain.
Then, just as suddenly as it had started, it stopped. Draco sagged against the mattress, chest heaving. For a long moment, the only sound was the rasp of his breath and the distant crash of the waves outside.
Hermione let out a slow, shaky exhale, her pulse hammering against her ribs.
His gaze found hers, hazy and raw. Hermione had seen magic do terrible things. She had seen curses carve through flesh, take lives in an instant. But this…her memory couldn't recall anything like this.
Draco let out a soft, humorless laugh. "You look like you’ve seen a ghost."
"You’re cursed."
"Brilliant deduction, Granger. Truly groundbreaking."
She didn’t respond. She could still feel the weight of the moment pressing down on her, lingering like an unspoken warning.
Draco shifted slightly, his exhaustion evident in the way his limbs barely moved. "Not your problem, Granger," he muttered.
Her nails dug into her palm. "It is now."
"Should’ve known," he smirked weakly. “Bloody hero complex."
“Since you are collapsing in my own bed, I guess it makes it my problem too.”
“Jesus, Granger” he choked “When you put things in that way…”
Draco trailed off with a ragged breath, eyes fluttering shut for a moment before forcing them open again. He was fighting it. The exhaustion. The curse. Maybe something else, something heavier that neither of them had dared name yet.
Hermione’s arms folded tightly over her chest. “You need rest.”
“I need answers.”
His voice was hoarse, but the sharpness in it remained. Typical. Even on death’s doorstep, Malfoy was still difficult.
She exhaled through her nose, tilting her chin slightly. “And you’ll get them. When you can sit up without nearly passing out.”
Draco made a sound—half scoff, half resigned breath—but didn’t argue. Instead, he let his head rest against the pillow, gaze flickering toward the ceiling. The first rays of sunlight pierced through the bedroom window, sparking some life into Draco's face and illuminating it.
His eyes slid back to her, more calculating than before. “Why are you here?”
The question sent a chill down her spine.
Hermione hesitated, just for a second.
Then she turned toward the small table by the hearth, reaching for the kettle she had abandoned earlier. “Why are you?”
Silence.
When she glanced back at him, his expression was unreadable.
“Fair point,” he murmured.
She poured hot water into a cup, watching steam curl into the air. Her fingers tightened around the handle.
Draco shifted slightly. “What’s your theory, then?”
Hermione frowned. “About what?”
He gestured weakly at himself. “This. Me. Washing up on your private little exile.”
She studied him carefully. “You were cursed.”
“Again—brilliant deduction.”
She rolled her eyes. “A curse that didn’t kill you outright. One that brought you here.”
Draco’s jaw tensed. His fingers twitched against the blanket. For a moment, he looked like he might say something. But then he just let out a slow exhale, his body sinking further into the mattress.
The exhaustion was winning. Again.
Hermione took a step closer, pressing the warm mug into his unsteady hands. His fingers curled around it automatically, though she noticed the slight tremor in them.
“We’ll talk later,” she said.
Draco didn’t protest this time. He just huffed quietly, murmuring something she couldn’t quite catch before his eyes slipped shut again.
She watched him for a long moment.
Hermione frowned, watching the slow rise and fall of his chest. The tension in his body had eased, the pain subsiding—for now. But as her gaze traced over him, cataloging every visible sign of the curse, her stomach twisted.
Something was different.
Her breath hitched.
His veins—the ones darkened by the curse—had shifted. They weren’t retreating, but moving, rearranging beneath his skin as if settling into a new pattern.
No, not a pattern. A shape.
She stepped closer, heart pounding as she watched the tendrils slither and coil, aligning into something almost recognizable.
Letters.
Hermione’s pulse roared in her ears. Her knees bent instinctively, bringing her closer, eyes scanning his collarbone, the side of his throat.
It wasn’t random. It wasn’t just spreading.
The curse was writing something.
Whatever had brought Draco Malfoy to her, whatever had nearly drowned him, whatever was still inside him—was trying to tell her something.
Hermione felt her stomach lurch.
RUN. The curse was forming the word “RUN”.