Taste of Fear
Hermione
The room was suffocating. Small, bare, and silent in a way that clung to the edges of her thoughts like damp cotton. The walls were concrete, cracked and stained, with a single, low-hanging bulb overhead. When Malfoy had left her alone there, the darkness had engulfed it all—made it all so much easier to imagine another room instead of this one. It had smelled like oil and rust when he’d shoved her inside, the faint, stale tang of neglect permeating everything. The smell was different and she had had to clung to that with every inhale. This room didn't smell like blood had soaked so deep into the concrete its scent was a permanent feature.
This wasn’t that place. She’d told herself that over and over in the short time she’d been left alone. She’d dug her nails into her palm and closed her eyes, muttering under her breath like a prayer: You're not back there. No blood on the floor. No chair waiting ominously in the centre. No scratches, scuff marks and stains that each held a memory engraved in her psyche. Just an old storeroom with junk stacked on a shelf and no ventilation. That was all.
And yet, her muscles didn’t unclench. Not when she had arrived. Not now. Her head still throbbed faintly from where she’d collided with his face. She could feel the tension radiating off her body like it might crack her open from the inside. Her split lip burned, even as she resisted the urge to slide her tongue over it. Worth it.
She’d thought about the way he’d taunted her. The sound of the knife—cold metal on metal, the thinly veiled euphoria in his tone. He’d been waiting for something, she realized—for her to flinch, maybe. Or fold. But the truth was, she had barely even seen or heard him in that moment. What she’d seen was another room, other hands—calloused and steady, and the voice, his voice listing things already drilled into her.
Keep your teeth apart. Grit them too hard to endure the pain and they’ll crack.
Breathe shallow. An elevated heartrate will make you bleed out faster.
Sing or hum—because silence is what they’ll use to mentally break you.
She’d hummed in her head as Draco Malfoy had smirked down at her, knife in hand. When he had taunted and prodded. When he had pushed the knife through the cotton of her shirt, revealing parts of her she didn't want to be seen. The song had become louder in her mind as she tried not to look up, not to witness the look on his face when he saw it all. She could imagine it all too well. Disgust and pity warring with each other. How else could anyone look at how broken—how ruined—her body was? And just like it had worked back then, it had worked now. For a moment.
Because then he’d leaned closer, and that was all she had needed. It wasn’t the knife. It wasn't the way his fingers ghosted over her waistband in a silent threat to reveal her further. It wasn’t even him. It was the events of the whole day. It was the years of repressed memories and fury. It was the space itself. The concrete, the bareness, the way every angle of it looked too much like home. For a terrifying second, she’d felt herself slipping back, down, into a different time and place. Somewhere far worse than this, where the concrete wasn't stained from oil, but coated in blood. Where the walls weren’t cracked from age, but dented from impact.
She’d blinked hard, forcing herself to stay in the present. To stay here, in this cold, lifeless room, with Draco Malfoy’s face tilted smugly at her. This wasn’t that place. It wasn’t even close. It would never be again.
His face was bloody now, the bridge of his nose smeared with crimson, and his t-shirt—some designer thing that probably cost more than her scholarship, regardless how mundane it looked—was absolutely soaked with it. The colour looked good on his pale skin, her brain provided as background commentary. He didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he didn’t care. That was more likely. His blade caught the light as he took one stride towards her and she couldn't even muster to flinch. Why would she. She was angry, she was tired—gods she was so tired, most of her energy going into trying to keep the memories at bay now. She couldn't crack, she couldn't break, she wouldn't give anyone that power over her, that satisfaction. She had already come too close to it in the car.
"You think you're gonna find this funny much longer?" His voice was sharp, cutting through the silence like a whip.
She hadn't even realized she was still smirking up at him. The smile had crept up on her lips at the satisfying crack of his nose—a gut response, or maybe it was muscle memory by now. Violence, pain, blood. It shouldn't bring her any sort of pleasure, any sort of comfort. This was all she wanted to avoid. And yet those muffled curses as he held his face, blood gushing through his fingers, had resonated deep in her chest for a second. Worth it, she had thought again, and for a moment she found it hard to remember why that train of thought was wrong.
Draco didn’t wait for an answer. He was already crossing the room, sliding the blade behind her to cut at his own tie—what a waste of material when he could've simply unknotted it. All the while he seemed to lean back just enough, like he was expecting another hit or bite to come. Maybe she should've given him just that, but what would have been the point? Regardless how much damage she made, it wouldn't solve the primary issue, only soothe a deep part of her that wanted to see that smug grin he often wore reduced to pained silence. After a second he grabbed her arm with a grip that wasn’t quite painful but left no room for resistance.
Hermione didn’t bother resisting. She let him haul her up, her legs stiff and unsteady from sitting too long on the cold, unforgiving floor. The jacket that already precariously hung to the side of her arms, fell limply down to the crook of her elbows, the torn shirt following the flow of the movement, exposing more skin with each gust of air. His fingers pressed into her skin just a fraction harder than necessary, and she wondered if he even realized he was doing it. Probably. Malfoy didn’t strike her as the kind of man who did anything by accident.
He dragged her toward the door, and then further into the main room—a warehouse she had barely gotten a glimpse of when they first arrived. It was a cacophony of mismatched pieces, makeshift furniture, oil spills and car carcasses. It reeked of stale smoke, oil, and faintly acrid sweat—a sensory assault that only deepened the claustrophobia Hermione had carried out of the closet.
Theo and Blaise were sprawled near another crate that doubled as a makeshift table, their postures an elaborate performance of disinterest. Blaise’s long legs were propped against the edge, a half-empty bottle dangling from his fingers, while Theo, ever the picture of detachment, shuffled a deck of cards with fluid precision. Both men straightened immediately, their gazes locking onto her with the kind of intensity that made her skin prickle. She knew what she looked like—what they could see. She looked like she’d been through a war. And maybe she had, just not the kind anyone else in this warehouse could fathom.
"What the fuck happened!?" Blaise’s voice was low, but there was an edge to it that hadn’t been there before.
His dark eyes flicked from Malfoy’s bloodied face to Hermione’s split lip before finally—inevitably—glide down to her torn shirt and the skin on full display there. Some part of her wanted to cross her arms, to hide herself from view—not because of some misguided desire to be prude, to shield the hills of her breasts or the dip below her navel from their eyes. No. It was because she didn't want to see it. The look. The one that said: 'You are broken beyond repair. You are disgusting. You stopped being a woman when you became a monster.'
Theo didn’t say anything at first. He just watched, his sharp blue eyes narrowing as he took in the scene. She could see the gears turning behind them, the calculations stacking up like neat little rows of dominoes. The scars on her skin held his attention the longest, his gaze lingering on the ridges and lines as though cataloguing each one for later analysis and for a second—just a second—something flickered in his eyes. Not pity. No, never pity. Something colder. Clinical. It felt almost good. Cold calculation or intrigued assessment she could handle.
"She’s got a temper." Malfoy said, his tone dripping with mockery as he released her arm and reached up to swipe at the blood still trickling from his nose. He winced audibly at the contact, but the sneer that followed was unshaken. "Tried to make a point."
"A point." Theo repeated, his voice flat. His eyes didn’t leave Hermione, and she felt the weight of his scrutiny like a physical thing. He wasn’t looking at her. He was dissecting her. Cataloguing every tell, every twitch, every thread of a story she wasn’t telling.
"She headbutted me." Malfoy added, as though that explained everything. At least he had the decency to say it through gritted teeth, like his pride was modestly hurt from it.
Blaise let out a low whistle, his lips curling into a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. "And here I thought you had a way with women."
Hermione said nothing. She didn’t trust herself to speak, not with the way her pulse was still thrumming in her ears, loud and insistent. Or the way the memories were one wrong move away from winning the battle against the last of her mental defences—something she couldn't afford. Instead, she squared her shoulders, lifting her chin just enough to meet Theo’s gaze head-on. If he wanted to unpick her like a lock, let him try. It felt safer to focus on his expression than to tempt a look at Blaise or Malfoy. She didn't know how their eyes would look as they roamed her skin.
Theo didn’t speak, and neither did Blaise. The room was thick with unspoken questions, the air heavy with tension. Malfoy stood just behind her, his presence a sharp-edged thing she couldn’t quite ignore. The knife was still in his hand, the blade catching the dim light like a silent reminder. He wasn’t pointing it at her, but he didn’t need to. The weight of it was enough. In the silence, Hermione could hear his voice again, low and steady.
Don't show fear. If you fear them, they win. They must fear you.
Her lip curled, just slightly, into something that wasn’t quite a smile. Not this time, she thought.
"Well," Blaise drawled after a moment, breaking the silence with a lazy smirk that didn’t quite mask his unease. "What now?"
Draco’s grip found her arm again and tightened around it, dragging her forward with a kind of brute efficiency that didn’t bother with ceremony. With a sharp motion, he released her, shoving her back onto one of the crates. The rough wood bit into her legs as she landed, her hands gripping the edges instinctively to steady herself. Draco loomed above her, his knife dangling loosely from his hand—not pointed at her, but not exactly benign, either. It was a reminder as clear as if he’d spoken it aloud: don’t test me.
"Now," he said, his voice low and cold, the blade of the knife tapping rhythmically against his thigh—the movement calculated. "We get some real answers, or else—"
His gaze slid to her, and for a second, Hermione thought she saw something flicker there—something that almost looked like curiosity. But it was gone as quickly as it came, buried beneath the weight of his arrogance. He didn't finish his sentence, letting it hang there—no doubt out of some performative desire to make it sound more ominous. Pathetic.
She met his gaze with a calm she didn’t quite feel, her voice steady as she said, "Good luck with that."
"Just try to lie, Granger." Malfoy smirked back, the dare in his voice not the least subtle—and neither was the lazy arc her drew in the air with the blade.
For some reason—call it gut instinct—Hermione’s eyes flicked to Theo, who was watching her with unsettling focus. She’d seen enough of him already to suspect what was coming next, and when he finally spoke, her suspicions were confirmed.
“Let’s start simple.” Theo said, his tone conversational but sharp. "Is your name Hermione?”
A stupid question would—under any circumstance—require a stupid answer. She caught it right on the tip of her tongue. The sarcastic bite, the cutting comment, the joke she really didn't need to be making right now. She wanted to bite back—better, she wanted to bite, period. But she wasn't stupid or suicidal, even if nothing since she met the Viper Court seemed to indicate as much.
"Yes."
"Good." Theo lips quirked ever so slightly. "Are you a scholarship student?"
"Yes."
Hermione resisted the urge to roll her eyes. She knew what he was doing—the attempt wasn't even half bad. Establishing a baseline was 'Interrogation 101'. Asking questions he already knew the answer to, to figure out how her face sat, how her features behaved themselves when she was telling the truth. Of course someone with Theo's skills would be perfect for those kind of exercises. Hermione would bet—without even glancing in his direction—that Draco was very proud of himself for thinking he had found a bulletproof way of spotting lies from truths out of her.
But lying was an art form. One she’d studied—and avoided—more times than she could count. Nobody, not even the best liars, had a perfect poker face. There were always tells; the trick was knowing how to spot them—or how to offer partial truths that skirted the edge just enough to not trigger the impulses that made you body give you away in the first place.
"Is your father a dentist?"
The question caught her off guard, though she didn’t let it show. As if to prove a point, she barred all her teeth in what resembled a mock smile—almost a predatory one. “Yes.” she said simply. “Perfect smiles run in the family.”
Theo’s lips twitched, the faintest hint of amusement breaking through his otherwise impassive expression. “Good.” he repeated in a murmur. “Now we know what it looks like when you’re telling the truth.” his eyes left her face—Hermione thought the movement was almost reluctant—and glanced at Draco and Blaise instead. "Go ahead."
"What's with the ugly jacket?" Blaise's voice came out without missing a bit. The soft tsk coming from Draco's direction indicated he was none to pleased his turn to play 30 questions had been skipped. Tragic.
"It was a gift." she said, training her eyes on his face, expression neutral. She tried so hard not to think about him, about the history behind that jacket, the memories, the promises. "From my brother."
Blaise’s eyebrows lifted, the faintest trace of surprise flickering across his face. His eyes darted to Theo who gave him an imperceptible shake of his head. “Aren't you an only child? Your file says so."
She wasn't even surprised they had hacked into her student file—it hadn't been the only thing they found their way into in search of information or more ways to torment her days, she was sure. Just like she was sure they had been met with a big wall of nothing. A slow smirk spread across her lips as she shrugged one singular shoulder and Blaise's eye found Theo's again, who's brows were ever so slightly knotted.
"She's not lying." he announced with a shrug of his own. “Were you in the car when your mother died, and is it how you got those scars?”
Hermione’s stomach twisted, but her expression remained neutral. “You could say that.” she replied, her voice steady.
It wasn’t a lie, not exactly. One of her scars had come from that day. The very first of a long list. But she couldn't think about the accident—accident, even the word set her nerves on fire. This had been the worst day of her life. For all the pain she endured, nothing to this day had compared. It was the day she had learned hard truths, the day she had seen the darkness behind the perfect veneer. The day she had stopped being herself and had been forced to become someone—something else. The event that had spiralled into her being the Frankenstein monster in front of them all. Still, she could feel Theo’s gaze sharpening, his mind filing away the nuance of her answer.
“Layers upon layers." Blaise pipped up. His voice was it's usual amused drawl, but even Hermione could tell it was forced, a pale copy of the real thing. The air had started to shift the moment they had seen the patchwork on her body—if she was being honest, it had started earlier than that, in the car. But nobody, least of it herself, would acknowledge it. "A regular little Russian doll of secrets.”
Draco’s patience finally snapped. He stepped forward, the knife in his hand gleaming under the dim light, and Hermione’s eyes landed on it—not for the first time since he had pulled it out. There was much she could do if the blade had been nestled in her hand instead.
“Enough,” he said, his voice low and dangerous. He stared down at her, his grey eyes hard as steel. “No more riddles.”
Hermione met his gaze, refusing to back down. Her heart was pounding in her chest, a wild, erratic rhythm that threatened to drown out her thoughts. But she’d faced worse than Draco Malfoy in the past. She’d faced men with far less to lose and far more to gain.
“Or what?” she taunted, her voice steady despite the storm raging inside her. “I’ve swatted flies meaner than you, Malfoy. You’re just another amateur playing with fire.”
For a moment, the room was silent, the tension thick enough to cut. Then Blaise let out a low, appreciative whistle, breaking the spell. Draco didn’t respond. His eyes never left Hermione’s, and for a brief moment, she thought she saw something flicker there—something that wasn’t quite anger, but wasn’t far from it, either. She filed the moment away, somehow knowing, deep in herself, it would matter later.
“This is getting dull.” Blaise said finally, breaking the silence that had stretched just a beat too long. His voice was light, but the undercurrent of mischief was undeniable. “If she won’t answer outright, maybe we up the stakes. Make it fun.”
The crate creaked faintly under the weight of Blaise’s boots as he leaned back, his grin sharper now, his attention flicking between Draco and Hermione like he was watching the opening act of a particularly promising play. Theo’s cards had stilled, fanned between his fingers in perfect, deliberate order. The only movement came from Draco’s knife, which he balanced against his knuckles, spinning it in deceptively lazy arcs.
Draco didn’t respond immediately. His eyes were fixed on Hermione, sharp and calculating, like he was still trying to decide if she was worth the hassle she was putting him through. Hermione’s gaze didn’t waver, but her fingers curled around the edge of the crate beneath her, steadying herself. The tension between them was brittle, like glass threatening to shatter at the wrong word. And it was nothing compared to the frayed edge of her own thoughts—her own emotions. Control, she repeated to herself. Or maybe he was whispering it in her head. She couldn't quite tell the difference anymore—and that scared her above all else.
“And how exactly would you propose we do that?” Draco asked, his tone cold enough to frost the very air around him.
Blaise shrugged, a lazy roll of his shoulders that made his next words all the more jarring. “Five Fingers Fillet." he announced, a glint in his eye. "Classic. Fast. Plenty of room for... mistakes.”
"The knife game?" Theo’s brow twitched, just a fraction. “I’m not sure that’s the best idea...” he said carefully, though his voice lacked any real objection.
It was more a statement of fact than concern, as though he were an audience member pointing out the obvious flaws in a horror movie character’s plan. Hermione didn’t flinch. Her eyes shifted briefly to the knife in Draco’s hand, then back to Blaise, whose grin had spread into something feral. Theo had noticed and she knew he had. The way her eyes had been flicking to the blade every so often, how her fingers imperceptibly tensed against the crate every time she thought about holding it in her palm. Smart man. Even without Theo’s careful observation—without thinking about herself in the equation—she was aware how dangerous this could become. She’d seen enough foolish boys with sharp objects to understand the precise blend of arrogance and recklessness it took to suggest something like this.
Children. Stupid, immature, rich kids. They didn't understand a thing about the weight a blade carried, they didn't know the impact a cut could have. It was all fun and games for them—everything always was, even now, with Draco's grin peeking through dried blood, the red stain of his shirt clinging to his skin, they still found the humour in it. It made the thing inside Hermione's chest snarl and bare its' teeth.
Draco’s lips curled, a shadow of a smirk. “Fine. You first.”
“Don’t mind if I do.” Blaise’s grin didn’t falter as he leaned forward, kicking his boots off the crate with a thud. "One question per successful round, yeah?"
The knife passed smoothly between Draco’s hands, its blade flashing before Blaise snatched it mid-spin. He twirled it once, testing the weight, before placing his hand flat on the crate, fingers splayed. Hermione's eyes zeroed in on the very tip of the knife, the way the sharp edge of the blade curved just right into a threatening point. Just like home—the thought rushed in, unbidden and she clenched her teeth to push it out. It wasn't that place, they weren't those people. The evening wouldn't end the same. She took a slow, deliberate inhale to centre herself.
The room seemed to still as Blaise plunged the knife down, the blade darting between his fingers in a blur. His movements were quick but precise, the rhythmic tap of metal against wood filling the silence. He was good—not that Hermione was surprised by it, he seemed like the kind of man who enjoyed taking those sorts of childish risks for the thrill, the attention, the recognition. He wasn't good enough—sloppy, rushed, reckless—but he was good nonetheless.
When he finished, he withdrew the knife with a flourish, holding it up like a magician revealing the end of a trick. “And that,” he said, tossing the blade back to Draco, “is how it’s done.”
“You always were more speed than skill, Blaise.” Draco shook his head with an amused smirk and caught the knife effortlessly.
"It got me a question, didn't it?" Blaise smiled, all teeth bared. "So, kitten... Have you ever been fucked?"
"Classy." Hermione spat, rolling her eyes. If she had needed any more proof those men—those boys—didn't take anything as seriously as their commitment to immaturity, this was it. The question wasn't a hard one, but out of all the things he could've wondered about, after everything they'd done to get her there, of course this was what Blaise Zabini wanted to get out of her. "Yes."
Blaise lips twitched and he looked ready to ask for details, his eyes quickly flicking to Draco before landing back on her. Malfoy, standing still next to him, clenched his jaw so hard she saw the tick of a muscle flutter in his cheek. He looked pissed—surely because he hated the idea that Blaise had wasted a question on something moronic. Although that kind of quiet intensity surprised even her, for a fraction of a second. It seemed to amuse Blaise however, who parted his lips, a new comment forming on his tongue.
Theo’s chuckle was low and brief as he rose from his perch, stepping forward and sliding himself so smoothly in between Blaise and Draco that someone less perceptive might have not detected the way it all felt like he was trying to defuse whatever tension had suddenly built. His eyes went from the knife, to Hermione's face and back to the knife again—assessing, always.
“Let’s see if skill can match speed, then.” he murmured, the knife spinning once in his hands the same way she had seen his cards do, before he sat himself on one of the crate and placed the blade down with the same clinical precision he applied to everything.
Theo’s movements were slower than Blaise’s, more measured, but no less deliberate. Each strike of the blade was exact, calculated, as if he were performing an experiment rather than a game. A memory tried to bubble up to the surface. Precise hands. A glint in the light. The pitter-patter of blood on concrete. No. She kept her eyes trained on the knife, the movements, the rhythm. Control.
When Theo finished, he didn’t bother with theatrics. He held the knife between two fingers, his eyes trained on her face—and Hermione couldn't tell anymore what he might be seeing there, what story her eyes told. She wanted to appear unimpressed, unamused. Unbothered. But with each second that ticked by, with each question, with each time the blade caught the light of the room just so, her grasp on the ugly things inside herself was slipping—and the visceral need to keep them at bay was all that was still keeping her going, standing straight. Theo's silence stretched on for what felt like eternity. Enough for Blaise to nudge his shoulder.
"How did you 'brother' die?"
Everything stopped. The air coming in her lungs. The blood rushing to her heart. Time. All of it. Hermione's fingers instinctively clung to the fabric or her jacket around her wrists. Theo always did see too much. She didn't know if it was a fleeting glint in her eye when she'd mentioned her brother, the way she used the jacket's texture as a soothing technique or something else entirely, but that particular bullseye settled deep in her throat.
No, no no. Do not think about him. Do not picture the way his eyes always shone bright. Do not remember the pure sincerity of his smile. Do not replay the memory of that night—of his back disappearing from the train station, of what happened after. She couldn't. Couldn't handle the memories, couldn't bare to think about the promises kept or broken. Couldn't start wondering again—hoping again.
"He didn't." she offered, and it was the truth. Not because it was the reality, but because she didn't know—or she had tried to hang onto the lie she repeated to herself, even if the truth was glaring to see. "I just haven't seen him in a long time." she added, a single shoulder pulling up in a shrug.
Her demeanour felt so detached, so composed. But inside she couldn't breathe. Think. Control. Something deep in her was starting to unravel, a thread that was slipping through blood soaked fingers after being locked away for years with no key in sight. And Hermione was internally scrambling to prevent it—and slowly, surely, failing.
Theo stared but said nothing, a small nod his only reaction. Then, gently, he put the knife down on the crate between them. His eyes never looked down at it, only held Hermione's gaze in a way that felt odd—as if he was waiting to see if she'd take the bait, wanting to see how things would unfold. The knife was right there, just one move away from her fingertips. And he wanted to see what she'd do with that freedom he was dangling in front of her.
Draco moved, his fingers reaching for the knife—eager to take his turn, to finally question her like he had seemed obsessed with doing every single time they had come head-to-head. But without taking her eyes from the knife, Hermione's voice cut through the silence before she could think better of it.
"My turn."
Her voice sounded deep, resolute—dangerous. The leash on her emotions, her memories, her control was slipping and the shaky fingers of her psyche would soon not be enough to hold it all together anymore. There was a long pause in the room where it seemed like nobody breathed. She didn't care, she didn't even know what she was planning to do anymore. Instincts had taken over, as if her whole mind had given priority to damage control, to preventing the dam for breaking, and didn't have enough manpower to keep the rational thinking part of her brain wired. A smarter man—a safer man—would have refused outright. But instead, Draco’s smirk turned razor-sharp as he leaned closer, sliding the knife across the crate toward her, taking a sit right in front of her.
“Your funeral, Granger.”
Hermione stared at the knife for a moment, her mind racing through possibilities. She reached for it with deliberate slowness, willing her fingers not to shake. Three to one odds were not in her favour if she tried anything drastic, but her gaze lingered on the blade—small, sharp, and painfully familiar in her grip. She could feel their eyes on her, waiting, calculating, the tension in the room coiling tighter with every second that passed. She could hurt one of them, maybe two. But they were taller, bigger and she was outnumbered. She was also far from anywhere. Bloodshed wouldn't help—only soothe the beast gnawing at her insides, the one she wanted to starve and smother.
Her fingers brushed the handle as she lifted it. The weight was solid, grounding. She exhaled through her nose, shutting out the noise of the room as she placed her hand on the crate, fingers spread.
“Any day now.” Draco drawled, though his voice was quieter than before, a low hum of something unreadable beneath the surface.
Hermione didn’t respond. She looked up at him, at Blaise, at Theo. Their smiles were gone, each a picture of focus, intrigue and tension—each portrayed in different strokes and colours. With a slow intake of breath, she closed her eyes, and kept them close. The gasp that rippled through the room was almost satisfying when she let the knife rip through the air in its downward trajectory. The sharp tip hit the crate next to her pinky. Between her thumb and index finger. Against the edge of her ring finger. The rhythm was steady, flawless, each strike landing exactly where it was meant to. And faster. Faster than Theo. Faster than Blaise. Faster. The quiet thrill of it coursed through her as she felt the muscle memory of years come flooding back. His voice echoed in her head: A blade is just an extension of the hand. Wield it like a limb. Make it bend to your will.
When she finished, she didn’t place the knife down. Instead, she drove it into the crate with all the strength her tired arm still possessed, only opening her eyes when the blade sank into the wood just a hair away from Draco Malfoy’s hand. It nicked at the skin of his pinky finger—just barely—the tiniest drop of blood sliding down onto the yellow wood of the crate underneath. The impact was sharp, deliberate, and the silence that followed was deafening as her eyes found his.
Her pulse thundered in her ears, but she didn’t let herself dwell. Instead, she acted. When Draco began to move his hand away with gritted teeth, she was faster, grabbing his wrist and pressing the knife harder against his skin. Theo tensed, Blaise pulled himself up, but neither of them moved. They weren't that stupid. Draco's smirk twisted into a flicker of surprise before darkening into something unrecognizable. She leaned forward, her voice sharp and bitter, pressing the knife against his skin just hard enough that one single push of her fingers would cut at the taut canvas that was the side of his hand.
"You think you're dangerous?" she asked, her tone dripping with venom. "Because... what?" she raised an eyebrow with a scoff.
Her voice, her face, her eyes—all of it was slowly morphing, slowly falling into an unhinged cadence, toeing a line that should've have been too dangerous for her to teeter on the edge of. Below, in the abyss of it, was everything she kept locked up. Everything she forced herself not to remember. Everything she tried never to be again.
“Daddy didn’t love you enough?” She didn’t wait for his reaction before her gaze flicked to Blaise. “Momma was a whore?”
The words landed like a slap, and Blaise’s ever-present grin faltered for just a second before he forced it back into place, though it didn’t reach his eyes this time. She turned her attention to Theo, whose expression remained unreadable but whose sharp eyes seemed to see through her.
“Shipped you off because you were defective?”
Theo’s lips twitched, not quite a smile but something closer to acknowledgment. He didn’t flinch, but his silence spoke volumes. She had watched them almost as much as they had watched her. Seen through them like Theo had through seen her. Maybe she was shooting in the dark—but people were predictable, their reactions, their lives, the people they became, it was always the same stories, the same triggers. She may not known them but she knew a dozen just like them. Hermione could feel the tension in the room thickening, coiling tighter with every word she spoke. She pressed harder, not letting herself stop.
“You’re not dangerous.” she spat, her voice rising. “You're a fucking joke. Just bored little rich boys playing at being bad, waving knives and throwing punches like it makes you the big bad wolves.” A laugh, dark and short escaped her lips, the split in the skin—barely mending—cracked again, a single drop of blood trailing down her chin. "Don't make me laugh. You have no—"
Draco yanked his hand away, the sudden movement breaking her hold. He lunged, his expression a storm of fury and something deeper, more volatile, ready to take the knife away from her, put her back in her place. Not anymore. She was faster. The knife spun in her hand with practiced ease, and in an instant, it was pressed against his throat. Her knee braced against the crate between his legs, pressing uncomfortably hard against his crotch, her free hand fisting in his shirt to hold him in place—the blood coating it soaking her fingers in crimson.
The air between them was electric, crackling with tension. Draco’s breathing was heavy, his grey eyes locked onto hers with a ferocity that should have made her flinch. But she didn’t. If anything, she leaned closer, her voice dropping to a low, dangerous whisper, every word spoken from deep within her throat, escaping through gritted, aching teeth.
“You think this—” she tilted her head towards the rest of the room. "this is dark? You think this is violence?" she asked, her words laced with poison dripping from her tongue. “You think hacking a few emails and throwing a few threats around makes you powerful?" she chuckled darkly but there was no humour in it, just pure unfiltered rage and something else—something deeper etched in her soul and her very being, the first reflections of someone she tricked herself into thinking she had buried long ago. "You don't know darkness." she said. "You don't know what real pain looks like, what fear tastes like. What it feels like to have it crawl under your skin and stay there like fucking living thing." she continued, her hand steady, knife pressed firm against flesh. Even Malfoy didn't dare move, the look in his eyes undecipherable. "You wouldn't last a day beyond your precious castle walls, where real people aren't playing. They're surviving."
Her grip on his shirt tightened, her fingers trembling now, not from fear but from the raw, unrelenting anger coursing through her. She could feel the memories clawing their way to the surface, vivid and unrelenting. The scars on her skin seemed to burn, a constant reminder of what she’d endured, of the pain she’d survived.
“You don’t scare me, Malfoy.” she said, her voice steady but sharp enough to cut and something passed in his grey eyes at her words—for the briefest of seconds. “You never will.”
Her hand tightened on the knife. The memories came rushing back before she could stop them—hands, rough and calloused, pinning her down. The familiar coldness of the chair against her spine. The sting of steel against her skin. The commands—the lessons, low, clinical and cruel, echoing in a darkened room. Her breath hitched, but she forced herself to meet Draco’s gaze.
"The scars on my body weren’t put there by boys like you. You couldn’t even imagine…” she trailed off, choking on the words before she could finish.
Before she realized it—too caught up in her own demons, Draco’s hand shot up, grabbing her jaw, tight and possessive, his fingers digging into her skin with a force that demanded obedience. He leaned forward, ignoring the knife now nicking deeper into his skin. A thin line of blood welled at the blade's edge, but he pressed closer, as though daring her to drive it further. As if he didn't care, didn't feel the sting of it anymore. His face was so close to hers now that she could feel the heat of his breath against her cheek. His eyes were a storm, swirling with fury unlike anything she’d ever seen from him before. It wasn’t the petty anger she’d provoked with her earlier defiance or the smirking irritation she’d come to expect. No, this was something raw and unrestrained, a tempest that felt as if it could tear the air from the room.
“Who?” he demanded, his voice low, a furious rumble down his throat. For a second she froze, unsure she had heard him right, unsure what he meant. “Who did this?”
She wanted to brush it off, hurt him more, push him away—anything, but for a second, the intensity in his gaze and the steel in his voice reminded her of someone else—someone who had looked at her with the same stormy eyes, not out of fury but out of love. Someone who had cared so much that he’d risked everything to keep her safe. Someone who had thought his own life was insignificant enough if it meant she could be happy—away from all of it, away from him. The thought hit her like a punch to the gut, and her grip on the knife faltered, the memories clawing their way to the surface unbidden. She couldn’t see that look on anyone else’s face, she didn't deserve it, not again. Please, not again. Especially not in Malfoy’s eyes. Not after everything he’d done. It made her chest tighten, her pulse hammering so hard she thought it might choke her.
She forced herself to move, to break the moment before it consumed her. With a sharp motion, she slapped his hand away, the sting of the impact echoing in the heavy silence of the room. She let go of him, yanking herself back and stabbing the knife into the crate with a force that made the blade quiver, the sharp sound of metal meeting wood cutting through the tension as she scrambled to her feet, taking one step away from it all—wishing she could run away from his gaze, run away from herself, and the incoming crash. But it was too late.
It hit her, all at once. The emotions she’d been holding at bay, the memories clawing their way out of the shadows. The scent of blood seemed to hang in the air, thick and suffocating, as if it were everywhere, clinging to her skin, her clothes, her hair. The image of her mother’s necklace, gone now, stolen from her like everything else, flashed through her mind. Every moment, every choice, every promise, every sacrifice that had led her here crashed over her in a relentless wave, leaving her gasping for air. She was drowning. She was dying.
And all she could do was laugh.
It started low, bubbling up from somewhere deep inside her, jagged and manic. The sound tore through the room, raw and unhinged, each burst more erratic than the last. She doubled over slightly, one hand gripping the edge of the crate for support as her laughter filled the space. It wasn’t funny—none of it was funny—but she couldn’t stop. The absurdity of it all, the weight of everything she’d carried and lost, refused to let her stay silent. The sound was broken, manic, unhinged and ugly—a living thing crawling its' way out of her by sheer unrelenting force, taking her control with it.
She was dimly aware of their eyes on her, the way the tension in the room had shifted. Blaise’s smirk was gone, replaced by something closer to unease. Theo had gone still, his sharp gaze narrowed as he studied her like she was a riddle he couldn’t quite solve. And Draco—Draco was still standing there, his jaw tight, his hand lingering near his neck where her blade had been. His eyes burned with a storm of emotions she didn’t want to name, but she could feel them pressing against her like a physical weight.
After what felt like hours, her laughter slowed, tapering off into uneven breaths as she straightened, chuckles turning into gasps that soon—to her horror—gave way to sobs. Her legs felt unsteady, her body suddenly too heavy, as though the floor might give way beneath her at any moment. The anger that had carried her this far ebbed away, leaving only exhaustion in its wake. A deep, bone-shaking pain and rawness she didn't want to face, had avoided for years. Her thoughts were disjointed, fragments of moments and sensations she couldn’t piece together. Tears started to pool at the corner of her eyes, sliding down her skin, mixing with the blood on her chin and falling in faintly red rivulets down her bare chest, sliding between the dips and lines of her scars—now more than ever a physical representation of what her insides looked like.
Draco hadn’t moved. He stood where she’d left him, his jaw tight and his expression unreadable—the intensity in his eyes had shifted to something other. The faint line of blood on his neck was the only sign of their earlier clash, and even that seemed incidental, as though it didn’t matter. Theo and Blaise exchanged glances behind him, their unease palpable in the tension hanging between the four of them. There was no hint of amusement, intrigue or the ever-presence arrogance they had all so masterfully displayed for weeks. They simply stood there, looking at her unravel in real time, unsure how to proceed. It wasn’t often they were at a loss for words, but then again, Hermione was proving to be anything but predictable. Even to herself.
“Don't move.” Draco said finally, his voice low but commanding.
There was an edge to it she hadn't heard before, but she couldn't focus on that, on him, on anything. Her shoulder were shaking, sobs racking through her whole body unbidden. She was horrified, wanted it to stop, to find that place of calm she always lived in. But she couldn't. She was broken—well and truly shattered. She didn't even have the strength to care anymore. About them seeing her like that, about them winning the stupid game they had played against her nerve. About what they could do to her now that she stopped fighting.
Without waiting for a response, Draco turned sharply on his heel and walked toward a duffle bag slumped against one of the far walls. His steps echoed in the cavernous space, the sound punctuating the charged silence. Hermione didn’t move, though she felt the weight of Theo’s sharp gaze on her. Blaise leaned back against the crate, attempting to appear casual, but his fingers tapped a restless rhythm against the wood. She ignored them both, her legs wobbling under her, her eyes following Draco as he rummaged through the bag with methodical precision. He pulled out a plain black T-shirt and turned back toward her, his expression unreadable once more.
He tossed the shirt in her direction. It landed against her bare chest, her hand coming up to catch it on instinct—even though every single one of her limbs were now shaking, the tremor in her shoulders caused by the sobs barely receding for a second at a time.
“Put it on.” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument.
Hermione stared at him for a long moment, her hands twitching, tears blurring her vision in a burning, uncomfortable sensation. The remnants of her shirt clung to her in tatters, blood-streaked and torn, the fabric a mocking reminder of just how much she’d endured tonight. Her jacket hung loosely over her shoulders, the only barrier between her and the suffocating weight of the air pressing against her bare skin.
“I’m fine.” she hiccupped, though the words rang hollow even to her own ears.
“You’re not.” Draco replied, stepping closer. There was no mockery in his voice, no trace of the sneering tone she’d come to expect. Just quiet insistence. “Put it on.”
She sighed, her shoulders slumping as the fight drained out of her. She didn't have the energy—the need to fight that had drove her this far. It was gone, replaced by bone-deep tiredness and the growing emptiness inside her chest where her heart should have been. With a deliberate slowness, she shrugged off her jacket, the weight of it slipping from her shoulders and landing on one of the many crates unceremoniously. Her fingers fumbled with the remnants of her shirt, pulling the ruined fabric over her marred shoulders and tossing it aside. She felt exposed, her scars stark against her pale skin in the dim light, but she forced herself to keep moving. Her hands found the T-shirt, the material soft and unfamiliar against her fingers, and she pulled it on quickly, the hem brushing against her hips. It smelled fresh, clean—like peppermint and Lucky Strikes. And for just a second, the scent enveloped her, drowning the smell of blood all around, making her breath hitch and another tear trail down her cheek.
Draco was still watching her, his gaze steady but unrelenting. She refused to meet his eyes, focusing instead on smoothing the fabric of the shirt, as if it might somehow make her feel less vulnerable. The silence stretched taut between them, heavy with unspoken words. What now? Would he throw her back into the closet, leave her there for a night while he gloated about his win over her psyche? Force her back into the car, speeding near the cliffsides to see how many more tears he could draw out of her? Or simply mock her openly, finding pleasure in knowing this was what a checkmate in their game of wits looked like?
“Turn around,” he said—and the word sounded almost soft.
Her head snapped up, her eyes narrowing. “What?”
“Turn around.” he repeated, his tone firmer now. “Just do it, Granger.” he then groaned in irritation when she didn't comply fast enough for his liking.
Hermione hesitated, her instincts screaming at her to push back, to fight, but she was too tired. Too raw. With a muttered curse, she turned her back to him, her arms crossing over her chest as though she could shield herself from whatever came next. It didn't matter what he would do to her—a quick, painless strike or yet another game of his. She didn't care anymore. She couldn't feel anymore.
She heard him step closer, the warmth of his presence at her back sending a shiver down her spine, her shoulders tensing through the tremors. His movements were careful, deliberate, his breath against the back of her head slow and steady in a way she almost envied now. And then she felt it—the cool metal brushing against the dip of her neck. Her breath caught in her throat as her fingers reached up only to find the familiar smoothness of her pendant. Draco's hands worked the clasp, sliding it into place with an ease that felt practiced. The necklace settled into the hollow of her throat, its familiar weight grounding her in a way she had missed and needed more than even she, herself, had realized.
She didn't... understand. More tears burned at the corners of her eyes almost immediately, hot and insistent, and she blinked rapidly, trying to force them back. But it was no use. The emotions she’d been holding at bay all night—the anger, the grief, the exhaustion—continued to surge forward all at once, choking her. She could still hear him shuffling behind her but she couldn't turn around. To do what? Say what? 'Thank you?'. For breaking down barriers she spent years building? Stealing and damaging the last remnants of her family she had? Or for... this. This strange kindness he was suddenly showing her when he had finally gotten everything he wanted.
This was the worst of it all, somehow. She didn't know how to take it, didn't know what it meant, didn't even know why he bothered. He should be laughing, gloating, taunting. Not... this. As if on cue, his hands—warm against the cool air now invading every inch of the warehouse—slid her jacket back onto her shoulders, letting the material settle over her without leaving his hands to linger. She heard him take one step back and still she didn't move.
“This... doesn't change anything.” she said hoarsely, her voice barely above a whisper. Her fingers tightened around the pendant, her shoulders hunching as she tried to steady herself. “You're still an absolute piece of shit.”
She turned her head slightly, just enough to catch his expression from the corner of her eye. He looked at her with an intensity that made her chest ache, as though he were seeing through every layer she’d built around herself and refusing to look away. A small, soft chuckle escaped his lips—the sound so at odds with the clear storm still ranging in his eyes. It lingered, steady in the gaze he still pinned her with.
Her throat felt too tight, her emotions too raw, and all she could do was hold onto the necklace like it might keep her from falling apart. The tears were slowly starting to diminish, hot and silent, carving fewer and fewer paths down her cheeks as she stood there, unmoving—her chest empty, her body exhausted and her mind confused.
Despite everything—his games, his actions, his words and the way this whole evening had devolved—a single thought nagged at the back of her tired brain. For the first time that night—or ever since she had met the Viper Court—the silence between them felt less like a battle and more like a truce.
"It changes everything.” Draco’s voice echoed, quiet but firm.