Chapter 6
Silence settled over the house, as if it were the third resident. It fell over the rest of the day, Hermione and Draco's voices remained protected in their throats: Hermione didn't enter the room, and Draco didn't dare come out.
When lunch rolled around, she knocked on his door, balancing a simple meal on a tray. There was no response. She hesitated before pressing her ear against the door, listening. His breathing was steady, deep — he was probably asleep.
Something in Hermione’s chest twisted, but she quickly shoved it down.
She ate alone, as she always did. Turning to the window, she watched the afternoon fly by, bringing with it regret.
She shouldn’t have said that to him.
She shouldn’t have said a lot of things.
And yet, she couldn’t bring herself to regret it completely. Because he had said just as much — he had been just as cruel. They had always been like that, hadn’t they? Pushing and pulling, trading insults like weapons, like it was all they knew how to do.
Only now the damage was different. They were no longer children exchanging mere insults, fighting over grades. They were two broken adults, hurting each other over and over again, because it was easier than communicating.
Hermione didn't like the person she had become over the years. Someone who harmed in order not to be harmed, who hid behind a shield that shattered on the outside.
She tried to convince herself that it was a consequence of the tormented times of war, that it was nothing more than the fruit of a dark time.
A foolish way of trying to exonerate her from the crap she'd done.
Malfoy was far from a saint, but he was still a person. And Hermione couldn't condemn him for having no principles if she ended up in the same moral abyss as him.
She was no one to judge him.
He had been cruel, but so had she.
They were both experts at this game.
And not just now.
Suddenly, Hermione remembered the last time she had seen Malfoy, before he had washed ashore two days ago.
Another memory she preferred to keep buried in the infertile soil of her mind.
The rays of the setting sun caught her attention, reminding her that it was time to start preparing dinner.
Dinner. It was something that would definitely keep her busy.
Hermione moved on autopilot, gathering ingredients, setting water to boil. Her hands worked efficiently, chopping vegetables, slicing the fish. The motions were comforting, mechanical. Something she could control.
“You got to be on the right side. The winning side.”
Malfoy's voice echoed through her mind, recalling the words he had spoken with disdain.
It seemed that there was no way of leaving this subject aside.
Winning side. That part in particular bothered her the most. What would a winning side be, exactly? Who dictated the winner and the loser? How could Hermione feel victorious when she had lost so much too? Perhaps her loss was smaller than others, but her losses didn't matter to anyone else. No one could feel them for her. No one could fully understand.
No one ever did.
Not even her friends. Not even Harry. Or Ron.
In a world where no one is capable of loving an half person, forcing them to swallow that emptiness for the sake of a greater good, how is it possible to feel like a winner?
It is impossible.
Just as it is impossible for there to be a right side.
She gritted her teeth, tightening her grip on the knife.
Hermione's nights were always spent in the company of the weight on her conscience. Because in a war, everyone loses and everyone is wrong.
And she endured months and months of living in this limbo: between the relief of being alive and the guilt that it had cost someone their last heartbeat; between feeling so alone with the people she had always loved, and the guilt of not looking at them with the same eyes; between the will to live and the apathy towards life.
Her hands trembled slightly as she sliced through a carrot, and before she could stop herself—
A sharp sting.
She hissed, jerking her hand back, watching as a thin line of red welled up along the curve of her palm.
“Shit!” she blurted out.
Hermione barely noticed the way her hands shook as she rinsed off the knife, watching the water swirl crimson in the sink. Thinking about past times had sent her spiraling into a place she hadn’t visited in years. A place she had sealed off, brick by brick, and always tried to run from.
Until now.
Until Malfoy.
Her first instinct was to grab the first-aid kit, so she hurried to the bathroom, cradling her injured hand.
Hermione stretched onto her tiptoes, her good hand trying to reach up the shelf. Her fingers grazed the bottom of the box, nudging it just enough to make it tilt dangerously forward—but not enough to catch it. She clenched her jaw, adjusting her stance, trying again. But the sting in her other hand throbbed sharply, a burning reminder of her carelessness, and she sucked in a breath, faltering.
An arm reached past her.
Her breath hitched as a hand, steady and pale, plucked the kit from the shelf and set it down in front of her. She hadn’t heard him come in, hadn’t felt his presence until he was right there beside her.
Draco.
His presence was sudden, overwhelming, filling the small space of the bathroom before she could even process it. She hadn’t heard him approach, hadn’t sensed him at all until he was just there, the warmth of him barely an inch from her back. Close.Too close.
She could feel him hesitate, not because he was unsure, but because they were. The hours of silence that had stretched between them all day had made this moment feel heavier.
He didn’t move away.
Neither did she.
Hermione turned her head slightly, just enough to catch a glimpse of him. He was closer than she had expected. He wasn’t looking at her, only at the first-aid kit, as if his presence here meant nothing.
She swallowed, the tension between them crackling like a live wire.
“Thanks,” she murmured, voice uneven.
It felt strange to fill the air with words.
Draco didn’t respond, just leaned against the doorframe, watching as she fumbled to open the kit. The atmosphere remained charged, something fragile lingering between them. Something neither of them was quite ready to name.
Hermione’s breath hitched as she lowered her gaze — only to find his fixed intently on her hand.
His expression didn’t change, but she saw it—the slight flicker in his eyes, the way his jaw went tight when he saw the thin line of red still welling up against her skin.
His fingers flexed once, a small, involuntary movement. And for a moment, she thought—
No.
She felt it.
The ghost of something that might have been concern. Or frustration. Or something else entirely.
And then, just when she thought he might step back, might disappear like a shadow fading into the walls, his voice finally broke the silence, quiet but steady.
"You're bleeding all over the place, Granger."
Not an accusation. Not mockery.
Just fact.
Hermione swallowed and tore her gaze away from him, grabbing the kit with her good hand, grasping onto the moment as if it would ground her.
"I know."
She fumbled with the latch of the first-aid kit, her fingers feeling clumsy and stiff. The pain in her hand wasn’t unbearable, but now, under his gaze, it suddenly felt more noticeable.
Draco still hadn’t moved.
Hermione could feel him, just behind her, lingering. Watching.
Her pulse kicked up, an irritating reaction she refused to acknowledge. She ignored him, focusing instead on opening the kit, on reaching for the small bottle of antiseptic. But the moment she unscrewed the cap, the scent of alcohol stung her nose, and she hesitated.
Damn it.
This was going to hurt.
And of course, Draco had to be standing there, waiting to see just how much.
A slow exhale. She lifted the cotton pad, doused it with antiseptic, and braced herself.
But before she could press it to her wound, a hand reached forward and took it from her.
Hermione tensed, startled, as Draco plucked the cotton pad from her grasp with maddening ease. She turned her head, more than ready to snap at him, about to demand what the hell do you think you’re doing —
But the words died in her throat when she met his eyes.
Cool. Steady. Determined.
No arrogance. No smirk.
Just quiet intention.
And then, without a word, he reached for her injured hand.
Hermione stiffened, instinctively pulling back. But Draco only sighed, the sound barely more than a breath, and held out his free hand, palm up. Waiting.
"Granger," he said, with a gentle tone that she didn't know if it was a figment of her imagination "Don’t be stupid."
Her mouth parted slightly, indignation flickering to life, but before she could fire back, he reached for her hand again — slowly this time, giving her a chance to pull away.
She didn’t.
His fingers brushed against hers as he took her hand in his, angling it just enough to get a better look. His grip was firm, steady, careful in a way that made her breath catch in her throat.
And then—
The sting.
She inhaled sharply, her shoulders going taut as the antiseptic burned against her skin. Her first instinct was to yank her hand away, but Draco tightened his hold.
"Relax," he murmured, almost absentmindedly, his focus entirely on her wound.
Relax.
As if that were possible.
Hermione always took care of her wounds, whether they were visible or not. Having someone else doing it for her, and that person being nothing more than Draco Malfoy, was reason enough for not being relaxed at all.
However, she forced herself to remain still, biting the inside of her cheek as he worked. He was methodical, precise—dabbing at the cut with an unexpected gentleness that made something coil tight in her stomach.
She didn’t know how long they stood there, pressed into the small space of the bathroom, his fingers warm against hers. Draco wrapped her hand with practiced ease, securing it with a small, neat knot before finally letting go.
And just like that, the moment was over.
He stepped back. The space between them widened.
But Hermione could still feel the ghost of his touch lingering against her skin. And she knew, at that moment, that he would haunt her for some time.
She flexed her fingers experimentally, glancing down at the bandage, and said, "You didn’t have to do that."
Draco simply said it, already turning away. "I’m not a monster.”
And with that, he was gone.
Leaving her standing in the bathroom, her heartbeat annoyingly uneven, her bandaged hand curled into a fist.
He had told her what she had told him earlier, when he asked why did she took him out of the water.
“Because I’m not a monster.”
Now she felt like one.
Hermione needed a few minutes in the bathroom to organize her thoughts and calm down a bit.
When she returned to the kitchen, she couldn't believe what she was seeing.
She thought that after helping her, after that last sentence, Draco had gone back to his room, protecting himself as he had done throughout the day.
But he hadn't.
He was in the kitching, finishing dinner, cutting where she had left off.
Hermione stood frozen, watching the whole picture. There was no arrogance, no biting remarks.
He was just helping her. Just like in the bathroom.
How it made her feel, however, Hermione didn't know if she would ever be able to explain.