Chapter 1
The castle had never felt so hollow.
Snow pressed against the windows, pale frost feathering the glass as February deepened. Outside, the grounds were blanketed in a pristine sheet of white, untouched but for the occasional flurry stirred by the wind. Students hurried between classes, cloaks wrapped tightly around their shoulders, their chatter muffled and subdued.
Hermione Granger had once thought the weight of winter was beautiful here—how the ancient stone corridors felt warm against the cold, how the libraries seemed quieter, cozier. But that was before. Before the war. Before she realized silence didn’t mean peace.
It meant absence.
The castle felt heavier this year, its magic dimmed in a way she couldn't quite explain. Maybe it was just her. Maybe she was imagining it. Or maybe Hogwarts had felt the cracks too, despite the spells cast to mend its broken walls.
They called it their eighth year. A choice, the Ministry had said. A final chance to sit their exams, rebuild, offer some semblance of normality. Return and finish what the war had stolen.
But Hermione hadn’t returned to rebuild anything. She was here to finish. Quietly. Completely.
Once her exams were over, she would disappear.
The plan had settled into her bones months ago, as cold and inevitable as the snow outside. A decision that felt so sharp, so final, that she no longer questioned it. She would tell her friends she was leaving the magical world for good, that she needed distance to heal. There would be no letters left to explain the absolute absence of her they'd find if they ever came looking. Let them believe she had moved on, returning to the Muggle life she'd left behind.
It would be easier that way.
Easier than making them watch her break apart, piece by piece.
A quill trembled in her hand, ink bleeding slightly where the nib pressed too long against the parchment. Her eyes blurred as she stared at the half-written essay before her, words fracturing into meaningless lines of text.
A sharp inhale. She pressed her thumb into her palm, grounding herself. Focus. Finish the essay. Finish exams. Finish.
That was the plan. That was the point.
Four months. She could make it. Deep breath. She tried not to think about how the last five had dragged by like the bodies of her classmates when all of the dust had settled and a war had been won.
Won. As if it were something to be celebrated despite all of the ghosts it had left behind. All of the blood and loss. So much fucking loss. It was the noose around her neck as she walked the corridors, an ever-lingering ache. The ache that wouldn’t leave, wouldn’t stray from her side for even a second’s reprieve. That hollow, gnawing weight in her chest, spreading deeper each day. Grief, they called it. But it wasn’t just grief, was it?
No, it was something colder. Heavier.
Loss lingered. It didn’t break all at once, didn’t shatter like glass. It bled slow, a wound beneath the skin where no one could see it rotting away.
And the worst part—the part she could never explain to them—was how tired she felt. Not the kind of tired that a night’s sleep could fix. Not even the kind that healing potions or Pepper-Up drafts could touch.
It was deeper. Exhaustion woven into her bones, a quiet certainty that she didn’t belong here anymore. That this world—this life—had already taken more from her than she’d ever had to spare.
And she couldn’t keep pretending she had anything left to give.
She could still hear them sometimes. The echoes of those final days. Screams. The rush of spellfire against stone. Ron’s voice shouting her name through the smoke, Harry’s face streaked with dirt and blood—
Her hand clenched around the quill until the nib snapped.
Ink bloomed across the parchment, staining her half-finished essay in a black, spreading stain.
“Damn it,” she cursed, brow furrowing deeply as her hands crumpled the paper as the impulse won out. Ink stained her palms as she released the material, looking a bit like some kind of Rorschach test design rejects. She could have laughed, likely would have a year ago, but now she just stared at the blotchy skin.
Deep breath in.
Hold, 1, 2, 3.
Release, 3, 2, 1.
Repeat.
She’d tried therapy after everything had settled down, spent several dozens of hours in a Muggle office with a practical stranger in a stuffy room, painting a version of what the last several months had looked like for her. She’d hoped to find a way through the mess it all had left behind, that it had made of her. But there were no safe spaces to tuck into now. The war had made sure of that.
Not even her parents, who she’d rushed to find when everything had settled down. She should have done more research, should’ve ensured she had a full grasp on the spell before she cast it upon the two people she loved more than anything or anyone in the entire world. But the brightest witch of her age had done irreparable damage to her parents' memory when she’d obliviated them months prior, her fear and desperation having exasperated the effect to a degree no spell, charm, potion, or prayer could mend. Hermione had effectively orphaned herself.
Therapy had helped her process that to some degree, but really the breathing exercises were the only thing that she’d walked away with that seemed to offer any real fraction of relief these days.
So she breathed.
In. Hold. Out. Again.
The ink dried against her skin, smudged and dark, but she barely felt it anymore. The ache, the constant pressure in her chest, seemed to expand with every breath rather than ease. As if drawing in air only reminded her there was nothing filling the space inside her, nothing left.
A chair scraped against the stone floor nearby, jarring enough to pull her out of her thoughts. She blinked, eyes flicking up just in time to see a flash of pale hair moving toward the entrance of the library.
Malfoy.
Hermione forced her gaze back to the ruined essay in front of her, the familiar knot tightening in her stomach.
She didn’t hate him anymore. That bitter, tangled mess of anger and resentment had burned out months ago, lost in the wreckage of everything else she hadn’t had the strength to carry. No, what lingered now was something quieter. Something worse.
He was healing. She’d seen it, in the small ways—the way he spoke more now, softer, when called upon in class. The ease with which he returned a book to Madam Pince, his hand steady instead of trembling like it had so often last autumn. The way his shoulders didn't droop as he walked the halls anymore, back straight and chin up as he laughed along with friends.
She would’ve felt happy for him. If she could feel anything at all.
But there was only numbness.
Her fingers brushed the parchment again, trying and failing to smooth the ruined ink stain. Words had always been her sanctuary, her anchor, but even that felt...tainted now. She couldn’t focus long enough to string coherent thoughts together, let alone write them down.
The ache twisted deeper.
Four more months. Then it would be over. Neatly. Completely.
A voice broke through her thoughts, hesitant but gentle.
“Hermione?”
Her head snapped up, heart stuttering in her chest. She had zoned out yet again and it seemed Malfoy was long gone now. Instead, it was Neville that stood a few feet away now, clutching a book to his chest, concern etched plainly across his face.
She hated that look. Hated how easy it had become for people to see straight through her.
“Yes?” she replied, her voice quiet but steady enough.
He shifted, awkward. “I, uh...I just wanted to see if you were—if you needed help. With your work, I mean. You’ve just been sitting here a while.”
A while. Time had felt so slippery lately. She hadn’t even noticed how long she’d been there. Had she already missed dinner?
She mustered a weak smile, closing the text book that had sat long forgotten in the corner of the table. “I’m fine, Neville. Really. I’m just a bit tired, should probably call it an early night.”
He nodded, but he didn’t leave. His gaze lingered, searching.
“Are you sure? You know...you can talk to me. Or Harry. Or...anyone, really.”
Her throat tightened painfully. He meant well. Of course he did. But there was nothing to talk about. Nothing anyone could fix.
So she just nodded, eyes dropping back to the ruined parchment. “I know. Thank you. Really. But I’m fine.”
A beat. Then, finally, Neville nodded and left her to the silence once more.
She breathed again.
In.
Hold.
Out.
And still, the ache remained.
The castle felt different now.
Hogwarts, for all its age and history, seemed smaller these days. The corridors stretched long and often quiet, the air sometimes heavier, as though the castle itself had been forced to swallow everything it had witnessed. Or maybe that was what grief did—made even familiar spaces feel foreign.
Draco Malfoy had thought often about what it would be like to return. A year ago, he'd never imagined he'd step foot back here, not after everything. Not after standing trial, not after the whispered conversations in the Ministry’s cold marble halls, not after the Daily Prophet had torn the Malfoy name to absolute shreds. But the Ministry had been insistent. A “final chance for reintegration,” they'd called it, forcing the children of both sides back to the same stone walls that had barely survived the war.
He’d complied. He always did now. Compliance was easier than the alternative. Easier than the constant need to defend himself, to prove he wasn't his father.
It wasn’t that the glares had stopped. There were still glances, cutting and sharp. There were still students who whispered as he passed, voices too low to catch but filled with enough venom that the meaning was clear. But it had dulled. The hatred no longer burned quite so hot. The whispers had quieted just enough to become bearable.
But there was something different in how he carried it now. Or perhaps, how he chose not to.
Draco Malfoy wasn’t the person he had been before the war.
It wasn’t just the absence of cruelty or the calculated sneer he had once worn like armor. It was more subtle than that. He sat near the back of the classroom. Didn't attempt to out-do his classmates. Avoided speaking when his voice wasn't welcomed.
But it wasn’t guilt, not exactly. Not anymore.
The guilt had been unbearable in those first months. The weight of what his family had done, the things he had nearly done—he’d spent nights drowning beneath it, feeling it curl cold and relentless in his chest. But that weight didn’t crush him the way it once had. It lingered, yes, but it no longer defined him.
And he was starting, just barely, to imagine life beyond it.
It wasn’t redemption. He didn’t believe in that word anymore, not for people like him. But there had been small things. Quiet victories.
A Ravenclaw girl had asked to borrow his notes last week. The Headmistress no longer flinched when calling his name during roll. Theo had even convinced him to attend a Hogsmeade weekend last month, and nothing terrible had happened.
Small things.
Draco folded his arms tighter across his chest as his gaze passed over the frost-laced windows in the Great Hall. Snow drifted lightly outside, blanketing the grounds in pale white. For the first time in months, the sight didn’t make his stomach twist.
He was learning, perhaps, how to exist again.
And for now, that was enough.
"You look like you're brooding again," Theo's voice cut through the quiet as he nudged him with an elbow, the usual half-smirk playing on his lips. His fingers tapped idly on the goblet in his grasp, a quiet metallic melody that had been known to grate Draco’s nerves in the past.
Draco exhaled slowly, watching the mist of his breath dissipate before shaking his head. "I'm not brooding, Theo. Just thinking. You ought to try it some time."
Theo raised an eyebrow, his smirk unwavering. "Thinking, is it? And here I thought you were just perfecting your 'haunted aristocrat' look. Should I give you a moment, or is this the part where you start composing poetry about your inner turmoil?"
Draco rolled his eyes. "You're insufferable."
"And you're predictable," Theo shot back, shoving him lightly. "Come on, let's go see if Blaise finally sealed the deal with that Hufflepuff girl. Unless you're planning to stare at frost patterns all night of course."
The corner of Draco's mouth twitched despite himself. "Lead the way then, you absolute muppet."
As they made their way toward the entrance of the Great Hall, voices drifted from the Gryffindor table, just loud enough to catch Draco's attention. He wouldn't have noticed if not for the mention of her name.
"Hermione didn't show up for dinner again," Ginny Weasley was saying, concern etched in her tone. "I'm starting to get worried. She's been...distant lately. You've noticed too, right?"
Ron muttered something too low to catch, but Draco heard the edge in his voice. Harry's reply followed, more measured. "She says she's fine. But you're right...something does seem a bit off."
Draco slowed his pace just enough to catch the words, gaze shifting toward the Gryffindor table. Granger was in fact nowhere in sight, but hadn't he seen her in the library earlier? Nothing had looked out of the ordinary then, the witch just immersed in her studies as she was often known to do. It was possible that the Gryffindors just didn't know how to handle life without the pressures of saving the world, and thus had projected some fictitious concern onto the frizzy haired witch.
Regardless, Draco said nothing, simply tucking the information away as the two boys left the hall.
As they stepped out into the cold corridor, Theo continued talking, oblivious to Draco's momentary distraction. And yet, Draco's thoughts remained behind, the image of an empty seat at the Gryffindor table lingering far longer than it should have.