Chapter 11
She felt the absence of pain before she even fully registered her surroundings. It was almost foreign, the sensation of waking up without the dull throb in her lower spine. Hermione inhaled deeply, letting the scent of fresh linens and faint traces of lavender from the pillow fill her lungs. The mattress cradled her body in a way she hadn’t realized she missed so much. She could melt into it, sink into its comfort and pretend, for just a moment, that everything was fine. That she hadn’t spent the last several nights curled up on a too-narrow couch, fighting sleep, drowning in thoughts she didn’t want to have.
She let out a sigh, stretching her arms above her head, feeling the satisfying pull of muscles awakening from sleep. Her fingers brushed against something solid.
Something warm.
A slow, creeping awareness trickled into her mind as she processed the presence beside her. The slight rise and fall of breath. The solid weight of a body mere inches away. Her fingers had barely grazed it, but it was enough. Enough for her entire body to go rigid, for her eyes to snap open, wide and alarmed, her heart suddenly hammering against her ribs.
A body beside her.
Her breathing hitched as her gaze flickered downward, and she saw it—broad shoulders. Blonde hair. The unmistakable presence of Draco Malfoy lying next to her.
A sharp inhale. Her mind raced, cataloging every detail, every possibility.
The night before had hit her like a bucket of cold water. She knew, with absolute certainty, that nothing improper had happened, but that didn’t stop the pounding in her chest. What had possessed her to stay? To let him hold her hand like that? To let him To let him see her as a source of comfort? But then she remembered the way Malfoy had sought her hand—hesitant at first, before gripping it with an urgency that made something deep inside her falter. The fact that he hadn’t wanted her to leave, that his voice had carried something almost pleading beneath its usual sharpness, had unsettled her in a way she couldn’t quite name.
And then there was the way their bodies were close. Too close. Close enough for her to feel his warmth, the constant rise and fall of his breathing, the undeniable presence of another person in a way she hadn't allowed herself to feel for a long time. It was a heat that didn't warm, but that made her insides burn.
And as if all this wasn't enough, he still dared to see her. Not just look, no. Malfoy’s gaze had always been a weapon—cutting, sharp-edged, laced with disdain. But last night, it had been something else entirely. Heavy. Searching. As if he had been looking for something in her, something he wasn’t sure he would find. Describing what he did like that would be too shallow. He saw her. He plunged headlong into the immensity of her eyes. For the first time in a long time, Hermione felt that she was still someone who deserved to be seen. And the worst thing was to think that Hermione hadn't looked away.
That was the moment that unsettled her the most. Not his touch, not his nearness, but the way she had let herself hold his gaze, caught in it, unwilling or unable to break away first. The way her heart had stammered in response.
It was ridiculous. Impossible. She was overthinking it. Reading into things that meant nothing. And yet, she could still feel the ghost of his fingers against her palm, stroking her thumb with a dose of delicacy.
It was bizarre to think that, for the first time in years, the two of them had actually talked. Until then, all they seemed to be able to do was hurl insults, accusations and words filled with hatred. At no point did they remember that the other was also human, that they bled in the same way. Hermione had never stopped to think that Malfoy's chest was made of flesh like her own, not stone. The pain wasn't impenetrable.
Facing him made everything even more real. Hermione swallowed hard, carefully shifting onto her side so she could see him properly.
So that's how the sun found him every morning, asleep with a serene air. His hair was a mess, strands falling over his closed eyes, his breathing deep and even. She put a hand over his head to check his fever, but thankfully, it was gone. He looked younger like this, softer, stripped of the perpetual scowl he usually wore.
Her fingers twitched, unsure if she should pull the sheets up higher, slip out of bed, or simply close her eyes and pretend none of this was happening. The rational part of her screamed that she needed to leave—that she had already crossed some invisible line she couldn't quite define. But another part, the part that had stayed up late listening to the slow, tired sound of Malfoy’s voice as he had spoken without his usual sharpness, couldn’t move.
Because she too had seen him. Not just the boy who had tormented her at Hogwarts, not just the Death Eater’s son or the Slytherin Prince. She had seen Draco Malfoy, a man weighed down by things he never spoke about. A man who had looked at her last night not with contempt, but with something else entirely—something almost fragile.
And what could she do with this version of him? How would they keep going after that night? She bit her lip, frustration curling in her chest. Why was this affecting her so much? Why did it feel like something inside her had shifted, as if she had unknowingly stepped off the path she had always been so sure of? Hermione Granger prided herself on understanding things. But for the first time in a long time, she had absolutely no idea what to do next.
The sheets rustled, and Hermione tensed, heart pounding as Malfoy stirred. For a moment, he simply shifted closer, as if seeking warmth, and her breath caught. But then, his body went still again, and she exhaled shakily.
This was too much.
She needed to go.
With painstaking caution, she began to slide out of bed, holding her breath as she stood, eyes darting back to Malfoy. He didn’t stir. Relief flooded her chest as she turned away, moving toward the door as silently as possible.
Without thinking much about it, she started making breakfast. It was automatic—the familiarity of routine kept her from spiraling.
The kettle whistled as Hermione poked through a small bag of dried herbs she'd collected. There were a few left—nothing like what she'd been used to, but she added them to the boiling water, trying to create something that vaguely resembled the tea she had so often made for herself back home.
The smell of fresh fruit filled the kitchen, as it did every morning. It was a tasty breakfast, but nothing compared to the comfort of the meal at home: her parents' house. There, the smell of buttered toast and coffee emanated from the kitchen early on. No pancakes or maple syrup, or Hermione wouldn't be the daughter of two dentists. They used to call for her when the table was ready, and Hermione would quickly go downstairs to enjoy the little family time her parents' work allowed them. It was usually little things like this that caused the most havoc in Hermione's mind.
“So, you’ve been keeping someone else around on this little island, and I haven’t noticed? I’m impressed.”
She was so lost in her thoughts, absentmindedly pouring the tea into a mug, that she didn’t hear him coming until his voice broke the silence. Her breath hitched. She spun around so fast that her heart might have leapt into her throat.
Malfoy stood in the doorway, arms crossed, smirking—but it wasn’t his words that froze her. It was what he was wearing. Hermione’s stomach twisted. They weren’t just any clothes, they were the ones she left for him the other day.
They were her father’s.
Her throat closed up. The image hit her like a hex to the chest. Her father used to wear that exact shirt on Sunday mornings, padding around the house with a cup of tea, making jokes that her mother would roll her eyes at but secretly love. He would sit at the table reading the newspaper while Hermione curled up with a book, feeling safe, feeling home.
And now Draco Malfoy was wearing her home. He was standing in front of her in those clothes, looking so out of place yet somehow like he belonged, and it made her want to cry.
Draco’s smirk faded. “Granger?”
She turned away, snorting incessantly for the tea to cool. “I—” Her voice betrayed her. She cleared her throat and tried again. “Breakfast is almost ready.”
A pause. She could feel his eyes on her, studying, prying. Draco let out a breath, stepping further into the kitchen. “Whose clothes—?”
“They’re my father’s.”
Suddenly, the house was engulfed in a heavy, lingering silence. She felt it stretch between them, thick and heavy. The moment the words left her mouth, she wished she could take them back. She didn’t want to explain, didn’t want to talk about it. Didn’t want to think about how much she missed him.
She refused to turn around. She grabbed the only plate and started placing the fruit onto it with mechanical movements. If she kept moving, maybe the ache in her chest wouldn’t settle in completely. Maybe she could outrun it.
Draco didn’t respond right away, too busy processing the scale of what he had just heard. Hermione could feel him there, still standing in the doorway, the weight of his presence pressing against her back. He hadn’t moved closer, but he hadn’t left either.
“They’re comfortable.”
It was such a simple statement, but something about the way he said it made her grip the plate tighter. The fruit on the plate blurred slightly, her vision wavering.
“Good,” she said stiffly, forcing a level tone. “Glad they serve their purpose.”
Draco exhaled sharply, the sound almost amused. “Didn’t say I liked the style, Granger. Just the fit.”
Hermione let out a dry, humorless laugh. “Well, considering we’re stuck on an island, I doubt fashion is a priority.”
She finally turned to face him, expecting another smirk, another careless remark. But he wasn’t smirking. He was watching her, gaze unreadable, hands resting casually in the pockets of her father’s trousers. Something about that made her chest tighten.
“Guess that makes two of us, then,” Draco said, tilting his head. “Not much point in dressing to impress when we’re the only ones here, is there?”
Hermione narrowed her eyes. “Are you trying to say I don’t impress?”
A smirk ghosted across his lips, and just like that, the tension shifted.
“Oh, you impress, Granger,” he murmured, stepping closer, eyes flicking down at her, slow and deliberate. “Just not with your fashion choices.”
She huffed, rolling her eyes, but the heat in his gaze sent a ripple down her spine. It was ridiculous—absolutely ridiculous—that a comment from Draco Malfoy of all people could make her feel like her skin was suddenly too tight. As if the body she had always inhabited was suddenly too small for the confusion that filled her.
She turned back to the plate, ignoring the way her fingers trembled slightly.
“Breakfast,” she said firmly. “That’s what we’re focusing on. You need to eat to regain energy.”
Draco hummed, leaning against the counter beside her.
“Right. Breakfast.” He plucked a piece of fruit off the plate, tossing it into his mouth. Then, with a teasing glance in her direction, he added, “You know, if I’d known all it took to fluster you was me wearing some old bloke’s clothes, I’d have done it sooner.”
Hermione whirled toward him, eyes blazing. “You are impossible.”
Draco smirked, clearly pleased with himself. “And yet, here you are, still tolerating me.”
She glared. “Don’t have a choice.”
He popped another piece of fruit into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. There was something very mesmerizing about the way Malfoy brought his long, slender fingers to his mouth.
She turned away before it could settle too deep.
“Eat your damn breakfast, Malfoy.”
His smirk returned, but it was softer now.
“Yes, ma’am.”
As Hermione sipped her tea, she watched out of the corner of her eye as the fruit on Malfoy’s plate disappeared at an alarming speed. He wasn’t just eating—he was devouring. His fingers moved fast, his jaw working as if his body finally remembered what hunger felt like. She didn’t say anything at first. Given the conditions of the last few days, he deserved to eat like he’d just escaped Azkaban.
Still, she couldn’t help herself.
“Planning to breathe at some point?” she asked, raising an eyebrow over her mug.
Malfoy gave her a look mid-chew, pointedly not answering until he swallowed. “I nearly died, Granger. I think I’m entitled to a dramatic recovery meal.”
“That was yesterday’s excuse. Today you’re just being greedy.”
“I’m regaining strength,” he said, grabbing another piece of fruit. “It’s practically medicinal.”
Hermione smiled behind her cup, then softened slightly. “So… are you actually feeling better?
Malfoy chewed, swallowed, and then shrugged. "Considering I spent the last forty-eight hours convinced I was dying—yes, I suppose I am."
She snorted. "Dramatic as always."
He shot her a look. “I was cursed, Granger. I’m allowed a little melodrama.”
She exhaled slowly, gripping the edge of the counter. "When are you going to explain what that curse actually is?"
Draco paused, his expression hardening for a moment. He looked at her as if weighing his options, then gave a half-hearted shrug, “I told you, it’s complicated.”
“I just wanted to understand what kind of curse is that you have that write words on your skin—”
"What are you talking about?" Malfoy interrupted, brows furrowed. Hermione studied his face, looking for any sign that he was messing with her, but he only looked confused. Genuinely confused.
She hesitated. "You really don’t know?"
"Know what, Granger?"
She licked her lips. "It wrote something on your skin. Twice."
Draco straightened. "It did what?"
Hermione nodded, her pulse quickening. "The first time was right after I found you on the shore. Your arm—it had words on it. ‘Run Soon.’ I thought maybe you knew what it meant."
His face remained unreadable, but something flickered behind his eyes. He was thinking, putting pieces together. But he didn’t say anything.
She pressed on. "And then..." She swallowed, suddenly feeling warm. "The second time was after—after the bathroom."
Draco arched an eyebrow., a mischievous glint flashing in his eyes. "After the bathroom?"
Hermione winced slightly, realizing how it must have sounded. She quickly glanced away, but Draco was already leaning against the counter, his smirk growing.
"Ah," he said slowly, his voice lower now, "that bathroom." He let the words linger between them, clearly enjoying the discomfort he was causing her. "I was wondering when you'd bring that up."
Hermione’s face burned as she quickly looked down at her mug, trying to regain her composure. She cleared her throat, ignoring his comment. "Anyway...The curse wrote something else on you. ‘Torn between.’"
“Brilliant,” Draco muttered. “So I’m linked to some unknown magic that enjoys carving poetic messages into my skin.”
She shot him a sharp look. “It might mean we can track the source. If I could use my wand, it would be so much easier—”
If I could use my wand... The thought circled her mind like a constant ache, a gnawing reminder of everything she couldn’t do. Her wand. It was like a piece of herself that she couldn’t access, a lifeline severed without warning. It was more than just a tool; it was her connection to everything that made her Hermione Granger.
Her fingers curled tighter around the edge of the counter, nails pressing into the wood as if that might ground her. The sting of not being able to defend herself, to fix this, to do something... It gnawed at her, deep and relentless. She had always been able to rely on her wand, to find a solution when things seemed impossible. But now? Now she was powerless.
Draco’s gaze flickered to her hands before meeting her eyes. “I could help you with that.”
She blinked. “What?”
His expression was unreadable, but there was something in his voice—something softer than before. “I could help you get comfortable with magic again.”
Hermione’s heart stuttered in her chest. She felt exposed, like he had peeled away something she wasn’t ready to confront.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said quietly, turning away.
“It’d be practical, wouldn’t it? You only have one chair, one fork—seems inconvenient now that there are two of us.”
Hermione exhaled, rolling her eyes. “So your grand solution is to teach me magic so you can have your own plate?”
Draco shrugged. “More for your sake than mine. You’re the one stuck with me.”
She swallowed hard, memories flashing in her mind—of shaking hands, of spells going wrong, of the sheer panic that gripped her every time she even thought about picking up her wand.
Hermione wanted to push him away, to remind him that they weren’t friends, that something like that asked for a connection based on trust and everything they did not have. But when she looked at him—standing there in her father’s shirt, offering help instead of mockery—she couldn’t find the words.
Instead, she nodded once. It was small, hesitant. But it was something.
Draco smirked, grabbing a piece of toast. “Good. Because if we’re going to figure out this curse, you need to be at full strength, Granger.”
And with that, he just stole another slice of fruit, but not from his plate. Instead, he picked a slice of banana that was still remaining in the small bow where Hermione prepared everything. She had put that aside for her, and then here he was, popping it into his mouth with a smug look.
She stared at him. “That was mine.”
“You snoozed. I chewed.” He gave her a satisfied grin. “Island rules.”
Hermione rolled her eyes. “You’re infuriating.”
“Recovering from a deadly curse,” he said with a smirk, “and doing it with impeccable style.”