Chapter 5
Hermione ignored the comment. "What do you think you’re doing?"
Draco hummed, tapping a book spine.
"Assessing the hospitality situation."
"Go back to bed, Malfoy."
"Mm. No."
She stepped forward. "You’re barely standing."
"And yet," he said, dragging his fingers across the edge of the table, "I am." There was something in his tone—calculated. Like he was testing her, waiting for her reaction.
Hermione felt her patience snap. "I don’t care what kind of twisted Slytherin logic you think you’re using, but you’re not going to walk around like you own the place."
That got his attention.
Draco turned toward her then, something sharper in his expression. "Trust me, Granger. This is the last place I’d want to own."
There it was.
That same snide, superior attitude she had grown to hate over the years, the one that slithered into his voice when he was trying to push buttons.
And for a split second, Hermione considered letting it slide. She was ready to step back, turning away, choosing peace.
But then his gaze dragged over the room again, like he was judging it, like he was judging her — and something inside her snapped.
"And suddenly, I have a Death Eater sleeping under my roof."
The words slipped off her tongue before she had even felt them in her mouth, like spears thrown in Draco's direction.
He froze.
For a brief moment, he let her believe that she had shut him up.
And then his gaze met hers again. All the teasing, all the lightness — it was all gone.
Hermione barely had time to register the shift before his voice cut through the air like a blade.
"Careful, Granger," he said, low and cold. "You’re starting to sound like them."
The weight of that accusation hit her hard.
Them.
It hit like a slap, but she refused to let it show.
"You think I don’t know what you see when you look at me?" Draco took a step closer, voice dropping even lower. "Like I’m something rotten. Something that doesn’t belong in your perfect, righteous world."
Hermione’s throat tightened. "I never said that."
"You didn’t have to."
“You—" She exhaled sharply, forcing herself to keep steady. "I pulled you out of the sea, Malfoy. I kept you alive."
"And I’m sure you hate yourself for it," he shot back.
The words hit like a knife to the ribs.
Hermione stiffened, her pulse roaring in her ears. "Do you want me to?"
Draco’s expression flickered.
For just a fraction of a second, something passed over his face. Something raw. But it was gone in an instant.
"Wouldn’t be the first time," he muttered.
"I —"
"Forget it," he snapped, turning away from her.
But Hermione wasn't ready to let it go.
Because suddenly, it wasn’t just this argument. It wasn’t just this moment. It was every fight they had ever had: in hallways, in classrooms, across dueling platforms. Every time they spit venom at each other, thrown insults like daggers.
Hermione felt like an open wound and, at that moment, she wanted to see him bleed too.
“Is that what you think?" she shot back, voice sharper now. "That I pulled you out of the ocean just to torture you?"
Draco let out a bitter laugh, running a hand through his hair. "Please, we all know the answer to that.”
"That’s not the point!"
"Isn’t it?" He turned to her fully now, eyes blazing. "You can’t stand me. You hate me. So why the fuck did you save me?"
Hermione took a step closer. "Because I’m not a monster."
Draco scoffed. "Oh, spare me the righteous Gryffindor act. You did it because you can’t help yourself. Because saving people is all you’ve ever known how to do." His lips curled. "Even when they don’t deserve it."
Something inside Hermione ached. Something ugly and unbearable, but she refused to let him see it. Instead, she lifted her chin. "You’re right," she said quietly. "You don’t."
Something changed in his face.
If Hermione had to guess, she would say that her words had found the weakest point in his wound. And she hated herself for that. Hated that she didn’t want to be the one to make him look like that.
Draco inhaled sharply, the tension in his shoulders turning to something coiled and dangerous.
Then, just when she thought he was about to say something—to hit back just as hard—he did the opposite.
He shut down. He became unreadable.
"Good to know," he whispered.
Then he turned away, like that was it. Like the conversation was over.
“Don’t walk away from me,” she snapped.
Draco stilled but didn’t turn back.
Her voice dropped, dangerously quiet. “You always do that, don’t you?”
His shoulders tensed. “Do what?”
“Walk away when things get too real.”
That did it.
He turned, expression razor-sharp. “I’m sorry, was I supposed to stand here and let you remind me what a failure of a human being I am?”
Hermione mocked, folding her arms. “I don’t need to remind you. You already believe it.”
His jaw clenched. “Fuck off, Granger.”
She stepped closer. “You’re the one who made this into a fight.”
He let out a bitter laugh. “Oh, so I forced you to call me a Death Eater?”
“I was angry. I didn’t mean to.”
Draco tilted his head. “Right. Because you’re such a good person.”
She flinched. Not because of his words, but because of the way he said them — like he was mocking her, like he was laughing at the very idea.
“Why are you like this?” she whispered.
He scoffed, shaking his head.
“Oh, don’t pretend you don’t know, Granger.”
“I don’t.”
He gave her a long, hard look. His eyes lingered on Hermione's for so long that for a moment she felt she could read his soul if she tried. “You really don’t get it, do you?”
Hermione’s patience snapped.
“Then explain it to me, Malfoy. Explain why you’re standing here, in my house, after I saved your miserable life, acting like I’m the one who did something wrong.”
His face twisted, eyes flashing with something ugly. “Because you did.”
That stunned her.
She took a step back. “Excuse me?”
Draco looked away, running a hand through his hair. “You should’ve let me drown.”
Silence reigned over them again, becoming the only noise to be heard.
“You don’t mean that,” she said, barely above a whisper.
Draco let out a scornful laugh “Don’t I?”
Hermione hated this, the way he looked at her, like she had done something horrible to him by keeping him alive.
Her voice was softer now, but no less steady. “You really think I should’ve just let you die?”
Draco held her gaze, unwavering. “Yes.”
Something burned inside her heart.
“So that’s it?” she said, stepping forward. “You just — what? Gave up?”
Draco’s throat bobbed. But he didn’t answer.
She laughed, but it was a hollow, sharp sound. “God, Malfoy, you really are a coward.”
Draco’s eyes flashed, something dark and dangerous igniting in them. They were burning, Hermione could feel the flames, contrasting with the coldness of the words
“Right,” he sneered. “Because running away to a fucking island to hide from the rest of the world is so brave.”
Hermione thought that perhaps a punch would have left less painful marks. He looked at her and saw every weakness, every part of herself that she swept under the carpet.
He stepped closer, gaze pinning her in place. “You think I’m a coward, Granger? At least I stayed. At least I tried.”
She felt something inside her withered. “You don’t know anything about what I did.”
His eyes burned into hers. “I know you left.”
Hermione’s fingers curled into fists. “You have no idea what I—”
“I know you left them behind.” His voice was razor-sharp, deliberate. “Potter. Weasley. Everyone.”
Hermione flinched. A triumphant smile adorned his face, but he couldn't hold it for long. It wasn’t smug. It was bitter.
“You don’t get to talk about them.”
Draco’s expression hardened. “Why? Because it hurts to hear the truth?”
What hurt the most was to hear the names she didn’t hear in ages. She didn't even bother to visualize them in her mind, let alone dare to verbalize them. Thinking about Harry and Ron was the part of herself that did the most emotional damage.
“What happened, Granger? What was so unbearable that you had to disappear?”
“Shut up,” she threatened, although her voice sounded too fragile for effect.
“Did you think you didn’t deserve to be there anymore?” His voice dropped lower. “Or were you just too much of a coward to face them?”
Something snapped inside her.
“Don’t you dare talk to me about cowardice!” she shouted.
Draco stilled, but she didn’t stop.
“You don’t get to stand here and act like you’re better than me!” she spat. “You—you followed orders like a good little soldier while people were tortured in front of you! You watched and you did nothing!”
His whole body went rigid. His breathing was slow. Controlled.
“Yeah,” he murmured, voice eerily soft. “I did nothing.”
Hermione's stomach lurched at the bitter taste of Malfoy's words, who made her realize, maybe for the first time, how much weight he had been carrying. And how much she had just added to it.
As bad as it was, she had no regrets. Because he wasn’t wrong about her either.
She had run.
She had left everything behind.
His hand slammed against the wall behind him. “You think it was that simple?” he snarled. “You think I just stood there because I wanted to?”
“You didn’t stop it,” she shot back.
“I couldn’t!”
Hermione scoffed, shaking her head in disagreement. “There’s always a choice, Malfoy.”
He laughed, but the humor had forgotten to appear. “Keep your Gryffindor righteousness to yourself. You think you would’ve done any better? You think you’d have survived if you were in my place?”
Her jaw clenched. “I would have fought.”
Draco’s expression twisted. “And you would have died.”
That answer left her at a loss for words, yet she refused to back down. “At least I wouldn’t have stood there and watched.”
His face darkened. “You have no idea what I watched.”
“Because you pretend it didn’t happen. You act like you weren’t part of—”
“I never had the luxury of pretending! I did what I had to do to stay alive,” Draco’s voice was loaded with something Hermione couldn't name. “I did what I had to do to keep my family alive. Do you know what it’s like to be owned, Granger?”
When she didn’t answer, he shortened the distance that remained between them, so close to each other as never before. “To have someone else’s will carved into your skin, to be a pawn in a war you didn’t want?”
Her throat tightened. “We were all pawns.”
“No. You got to be on the right side. The winning side.”
“The right side didn’t mean survival.”
Draco’s lips pressed into a thin line. “But at least you could look at yourself in the mirror.”
Hermione's heart raced.
Because she couldn’t.
She hadn’t looked at herself properly in years.
Draco saw the hesitation, the flicker of something behind her eyes, and he pounced.
“You think you’re so much better than me,” he murmured. “But you’re just as much of a coward as I am. You abandoned them.”
She felt his words bite into her skin, letting the poison settle throughout her blood.
When she didn’t respond, he continued.
“Tell me, Granger,” he murmured. “What the hell happened that made running away easier than staying? What was it? Guilt? Shame?”
The words hit her like a curse.
“I should’ve left you in the ocean,” she mumbled.
A muscle in his jaw twitched, but he didn’t speak.
She turned away before she could see the look in his eyes. Before she could regret saying it.
At that precise moment, Hermione was absolutely certain: years could pass, but they would never stop being on opposite sides of a war. Two pawns destined to hate each other because they were controlled by different hands.
Not in the way that mattered.
Because war or not, past or not — there were wounds that didn’t heal.
And this was one of them.