Chapter 7
Hermione had never seen Draco Malfoy cook before. She wasn’t sure why the sight of him standing at her counter, sleeves slightly rolled up, slicing vegetables with an absent sort of efficiency, made something uneasy twist inside her. Maybe because it was too normal. Too strange.
Too… human.
“You’re staring, Granger.”
Hermione huffed, crossing her arms over her chest. “I wasn’t staring.”
“Don’t worry, I’m not about to poison your food.” He finished chopping the carrot and reached for another. “You’re clearly prone to self-inflicted injuries, and I’d just rather not have to eat one of your fingers."
Words that could easily have been said with sarcasm, found Hermione devoid of any emotion. She knew she had to give him a proper answer, but the tension between them was still awkward enough for her to develop a dialog.
Unconsciously, she moved her uninjured hand to the other, stroking the bandage.
For the next few minutes, they worked in silence. Well, he did. She just stood there, watching him with barely concealed suspicion.
Apart from the brief interaction, neither of them seemed to know how to fill the silence where they were walking carefully.
It was a fragile sort of peace.
By the time the food was ready, Hermione hesitated as she set the table, staring at the single plate and set of utensils. She hadn’t thought about it earlier. Until now, it wasn’t necessary to consider the logistics of having another person in her space, since they never ate at the same time. There were times when Draco didn’t even eat, sleeping over the meal.
Malfoy followed her gaze, then exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "Of course you only have one of everything."
Hermione’s cheeks burned. "I didn’t exactly expect company."
He simply ran a hand through his hair, and then, without a word, he pulled out the chair — but instead of sitting, he stepped aside, leaving it for her.
Hermione frowned.
"You eat half, then I eat half."
Her lips parted slightly, surprised at how simple he made it sound. "That’s—"
"The only option," he finished for her, arching an eyebrow. "Unless you want to eat off the pan."
“It doesn’t matter, actually, since there’s only one fork.”
Another silence settled, this one more unbearable than the last.
Finally, Draco exhaled sharply and thrust the fork toward her. “Just eat.”
Hermione hesitated.
“And no, I won’t die from your germs. I’d rather risk that than die of starvation.” Draco said.
She huffed but didn’t argue. Instead, she sat, and, with an awkward pause, picked up the fork, while Malfoy stood behind her, leaning against the stall.
The first few bites felt strange, the tension between them palpable as she tried not to think about how he was just there, waiting. Hermione chewed slowly, wondering if this absence of sound between them was strange for him too. Was he too alert, too aware of everything around him like she was?
It didn't take long for her question to be answered.
"Does it taste okay?" he asked, in a failed attempt to create conversation.
Hermione merely nodded in the affirmative. The food was good, but there wasn't much more to say about it. Actually, she almost laughed at how absurd it was, this shot in the dark at civility between them.
When she was halfway through the plate, she got up to change positions. "Here."
Draco didn’t hesitate. He sat, eating normally. And it was bizarre, watching him eat from her plate, use her fork, sit at her table like he belonged there. The whole situation was ridiculous, surreal in a way she couldn’t quite grasp.
While he was eating, Hermione started cleaning the kitchen to keep away those thoughts. The water running from the tap and the sound of the cutlery hitting the plate filled the room. When the latter stopped, Hermione heard the chair being dragged away and put back.
"Why didn’t you use your wand?"
Draco's voice sounded too close to her ear, his skin almost scraping against hers as he put the plate in the sink.
Hermione felt her heart skip a few beats, and at that moment she wished she could take it out of her chest and throw it out the window. She concentrated on washing her plate, never looking away from the trickle of water running down the drain, trying not to get the bandage wet. "What?"
"When you cut yourself. You went to get a first-aid kit instead of healing it with magic. Why?"
Hermione felt that question strip her layer by layer. She knew that, sooner or later, he would broach the subject. But that didn't mean she wanted to open that pandora's box. Especially not with him. It was too intimate a subject for hands that hadn't even touched Hermione's surface.
Her throat felt tight. "Muggle’s old habit, I guess. I don’t know."
He didn’t look away. "Yes, you do."
Hermione clenched her jaw, looking away again. "It’s not that simple."
Draco was quiet for a long moment, his fingers drumming against the counter. Then he let out a breath, shaking his head slightly. "Nothing ever is with you, is it?"
“Fine.” She put the plate down in the sink and turned to face him. “What about yours?”
“What are you talking about, Granger?”
“Your wand.” she said, putting her bandaged hand on her waist. “I didn't see you using yours either. And what the hell is that curse of yours that almost kills you one day and then is completely fine in the other?”
Draco remained silent.
“I guess nothing’s ever simple with you either.”
None of them would talk about their matters.
Draco stepped back, his gaze unwavering. “You're always going to expect the worst from me, aren't you?”
But he did not give her time to answer. He turned back and went to the room, apparently not interested in hearing what she had to say.
It was better that way. Hermione herself wasn't sure what would come out of her mouth.
They weren’t friends. They weren’t even allies. No man had yet played with the alphabet enough to discover the word that defined them. Perhaps it didn't even exist. Maybe the two of them were made of a material that couldn't ever be labeled.
Hermione and Draco were nothing more than fate's failed attempt to cross two parallel lines. The two of them were fated to walk on roads that would never meet—not really. And whatever momentary truce they had just shared over dinner didn’t change that. He was still Draco Malfoy. She was still Hermione Granger. It wouldn't be in each other's presence that they would drop the armor that the rest of the world had forced them to carry.
***
The cemetery was silent, shrouded in a thick fog, the air damp with the smell of wet earth. Hermione knelt beside Ginny's grave, carefully arranging the fresh flowers. It had become a ritual, a quiet moment when she allowed herself to cry, to remember. The stone was cold under her fingertips and she traced the carved letters of Ginny's name, a knot forming in her throat. It had been months since Hermione's days had become grayer, without her friend's showy red hair to add some color to them. In fact, the only glimpse left of that hair tone was through Ron and Arthur.
No other Weasley had survived.
They all held a special place in Hermione's heart, but it was at Ginny's grave that she stopped most often. Perhaps if she loved her less, she would be able to live away from her for longer.
It had been a quick death, at least. Hermione hadn't witnessed it, and for that she would always be grateful. After all, there's no greater tragedy than seeing a close friend pass away.
Perhaps a younger sister.
Ron saw it all.
A choked sob brought Hermione back to where she was.
Turning his head towards the noise, she saw, a few rows away, in front of a simple, unremarkable grave, a boy kneeling. He was young, no more than seventeen, and his body was bent over as he wept. His shoulders were shaking violently, his hands were clutching the earth as if he were holding on to something already lost. His face was contorted with sadness, and the sight of it sent a shiver down Hermione's spine.
Because she recognized that face.
Not his, but his father’s.
The air became thin.
The resemblance was unmistakable—the sharp cheekbones, the narrow nose, the dark eyes clouded with emotion. She knew this man, the one buried beneath the soil. She remembered his face twisted in rage, his wand raised, his mouth curled in a snarl as he fought to kill her. She remembered how she had stopped him first.
She would never forget the face of any of the people the war had forced her to kill. She couldn't say the same about the names, — death doesn’t give time to get to know them.
But at that moment, watching the boy's fingers caress his father's name, Hermione hated herself for living in ignorance. A name that meant nothing to her was remembered every day by someone else.
The only memory she was entitled to was the moment she had killed him.
It was a death that had marked her. She could still see the way his body had collapsed, the way his lifeless eyes had stared at her as blood soaked the ground.
It was a war. It was necessary. That was what she had told herself.
But now, here was his son. A boy. A boy who had no part in that war, no blood on his hands. A boy who was grieving his father the way she was grieving her friend. Two sides of the same bleeding coin.
Hermione felt an unfamiliar heaviness settle in her chest.
She should leave. This wasn’t her place. And yet, she stood frozen, unable to look away.
When she finally turned and walked back to the Burrow, the image followed her like a ghost.
***
The fire crackled, casting flickering shadows on the walls. Hermione sat stiffly in an armchair, her hands wrapped around a cup of tea that had long gone cold. The conversation with Harry had not gone the way she had hoped.
“I don’t understand why this is bothering you so much,” Harry had said, arms crossed, his tone edged with frustration. “You saw the son of a Death Eater crying. That’s sad, sure. But you did what you had to do, Hermione. We were at war.”
Hermione clenched her jaw. “I know that. But that doesn’t mean it wasn’t awful.”
Harry shook his head. “You’re acting like you regret it.”
She exhaled sharply. “I don’t regret stopping him, Harry. I regret that it had to happen. That it was so—” She faltered, struggling for the right words. “That it was so violent. That his son has to live with it. That we all have to live with it.”
Harry scoffed. “That’s war. It’s not pretty.”
Hermione’s patience snapped. “You make it sound so simple! Like it’s just black and white. Like they were all just monsters who deserved to die and that’s the end of it.”
“They were monsters, Hermione.” His voice was cold now. “You’re acting like they were victims. They weren’t.”
She shook her head, anger boiling beneath her skin. “And what about their families? What about that boy? Should he suffer because of his father’s choices?”
“That’s not our problem.”
Hermione’s breath came fast and shallow. “You were once that kid.”
The room went silent.
Harry’s expression darkened, something sharp and unreadable flickering in his green eyes.
Hermione pressed on, her voice quieter but unrelenting. “War took your parents too, Harry.”
“Don’t.”
She could see the effort he was making to contain the rage within himself.
But she couldn’t stop.
“You know what it’s like to grow up with nothing but a grave to visit. You know what it’s like to be left behind.”
His face twisted with anger, his voice rising. “Don’t you dare compare me to the son of a Death Eater.”
Hermione flinched but held her ground. “I’m not saying you’re the same. I’m saying loss is loss. Pain is pain. We’re all people. And if we can’t recognize that—”
“I said don’t !”
Harry’s fists were trembling, his jaw clenched so tight she thought it might break. And then, without another word, he turned and walked away, leaving her alone by the fire.
***
When Hermione woke, she was gasping, her body rigid with fear.
The house was pitch black. No moonlight seeped through the curtains. No gentle glow from the embers of the fire. Just darkness. Cold, suffocating darkness.
Her breath quickened.
It was irrational, but the absence of light felt like an absence of safety, an absence of something solid to hold onto.
Scrambling from the sofa, she made her way to the hearth, her fingers clumsy as she lit the fire.
The flames roared to life, their golden glow washing over the room, and only then did she exhale. The warmth chased away the panic, settling deep into her bones.
Hermione sank down in front of the fire, knees pulled to her chest, staring into the flickering light. The nightmare still clung to her, the weight of the argument with Harry, the boy in the graveyard, the guilt she couldn’t quite name.
The war had been over for almost three years, but Hermione felt like she was living through a worse one every day. And every night.
Just like in the nightmare, Hermione let the fire keep her company, until the pious flames lulled her into a deep sleep, this time more serene.