A cage with no key
The days all blurred together now.
Wake up. Make breakfast. Clean the flat. Do the shopping. Cook dinner.
Rinse. Repeat.
Hermione used to love working. She had spent years proving herself at the Ministry, climbing the ranks despite the whispers that she was just a Muggle-born, just a woman. She had fought tooth and nail to get a position in Magical Law Enforcement, working cases that mattered. Cases that changed lives.
Then, one day, Ron decided she didn’t need a job.
“A wife should be home,” he had told her, voice coated in something syrupy and condescending. “Why should you have to work when I can take care of us?”
At first, she resisted. She argued. But Ron had a way of making her feel guilty, of twisting her protests into accusations. “So, what? You don’t trust me to provide for you? You think you’re better than me? You think your work is more important than our marriage?”
Little by little, he won.
She turned in her resignation. She stopped seeing her coworkers. She let go of herself.
Now, she spent her days trapped in this flat, trying not to suffocate.
The grocery list crinkled in Hermione’s hand as she hurried through Diagon Alley, keeping her head down.
She hated running errands.
Not because she minded shopping—but because Ron always set a time limit. If she was out too long, if she took too long picking ingredients, if she dared to stop for even a moment, he would accuse her of wasting time.
“It’s not hard, Hermione,” he had snapped just yesterday. “You go in, you get what we need, and you come home. Merlin, it’s like you drag your feet on purpose.”
So today, she rushed. She avoided eye contact. She kept her steps quick and purposeful.
She had just turned the corner near Flourish and Blotts when she slammed into someone solid.
“Whoa—” A firm grip caught her shoulders before she could stumble.
Hermione froze.
“Granger?”
She knew that voice. Deep. Smooth. Familiar.
Slowly, she looked up—and found Draco Malfoy staring at her, brows furrowed in surprise.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Draco looked different. The same sharp features, the same grey eyes, but older, more tired. His hair was shorter than she remembered, his clothes simple yet expensive. But what caught her attention was his expression—surprise shifting into something softer.
“Haven’t seen you in ages,” Draco finally said, studying her. “You in a hurry or something?”
Hermione swallowed, heart racing. “I—I was just picking up a few things.”
She tried to step back, but Draco’s hands were still on her arms, steadying her.
“Right,” he said slowly, not letting go just yet. His gaze flickered over her face, and she saw the exact moment he noticed something was off.
She shouldn’t have stopped.
She shouldn’t be talking to him.
“I really should go,” she rushed out, trying to move past him.
But Draco, always quicker than he looked, stepped in front of her. “Hold on.”
Hermione stiffened. “Draco—”
“Granger,” he interrupted, his voice quieter now. “Are you alright?”
Her stomach turned.
She forced a smile, but it felt wrong. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”
His jaw tightened.
Draco had always been observant. Too observant.
Hermione knew she didn’t look like the woman he remembered from Hogwarts. She was thinner now. Paler. Her eyes had deep shadows beneath them, and her clothes—nothing but plain, dull sweaters and long sleeves, even in mild weather.
And Draco saw it.
His eyes lowered briefly, taking in the way she held herself too stiffly. The way her right wrist was red.
A mark from Ron’s grip the night before.
Hermione yanked her sleeve down.
Draco’s gaze darkened.
“You’re married to Weasley, yeah?” he asked, but something about the way he said it sounded off. Careful.
“Yes,” Hermione answered immediately.
Draco tilted his head, still watching her. “And how’s that going?”
“Good,” she lied.
His lips pressed into a thin line.
She felt trapped under his stare. Like he could see straight through her, past the mask, past the lies—straight into the parts of her she tried to bury.
“I should go,” she whispered again.
Draco didn’t move.
Then, finally, he stepped aside. “Yeah. Alright.”
Hermione exhaled, relieved. She nodded quickly and turned to leave—
“Granger.”
She stopped.
Draco’s voice had lowered.
“If you ever need anything,” he said slowly, “you know where to find me.”
Hermione’s chest tightened.
She said nothing. Just walked away.
And the entire time, she could feel his eyes on her back.
By the time Hermione reached their flat, her hands were shaking.
She fumbled with the key, breath shallow. If she could just get inside, if she could put away the groceries, if she could— The door swung open before she could turn the knob. Ron stood in the doorway.
Hermione went cold. She knew that look. Dark. Expectant.
“You’re late,” he said flatly.
“I—I lost track of time.”
Ron’s eyes narrowed. “Try again.”
“I—I bumped into someone—”
“You what?” His voice dropped.
Hermione hesitated. “Just—just an old friend—”
“Who?”
Her stomach knotted. “It doesn’t matter, I—”
“Who, Hermione?”
She swallowed. “Draco Malfoy.”
The air changed.
Ron stepped forward, his entire body radiating rage.
“You’re joking.”
“N-No, I—”
His hand snapped out. Before Hermione could react, fingers closed around her wrist—tight.
“You expect me to believe you just ran into him?” Ron hissed, eyes burning. “That he wasn’t waiting for you? That you weren’t meeting him behind my back?”
Hermione gasped in pain. “Ron—stop—”
“You think I don’t know what kind of woman you are?” His grip tightened.
Tears burned at the corners of her eyes.
“I didn’t—I swear—”
The first blow came fast.
A sharp, brutal yank—her body slammed into the wall, pain exploding through her ribs. She choked on a breath, heart pounding.
Ron wasn’t done.
His hand whipped across her face, sending her staggering.
“Ron—” Her voice broke.
“You’re my wife,” he seethed. “And you belong to me. You don’t get to—”
A loud crash—the lamp beside them shattered as Hermione’s arm knocked into it, pain searing up her side.
Ron stood over her, breathing hard.
For a second, there was silence.
Then, like flipping a switch, Ron exhaled sharply and ran a hand through his hair.
“You make me do this, Hermione,” he muttered. “You always push me.”
She lay there, too stunned to move, chest heaving.
And as Ron turned away, Hermione realized She couldn’t live like this.
Not anymore.