Fight for Suvival
Hermione
Fuck.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Hermione leaned back against the cold brick wall, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, her breathing uneven as she tried to make sense of what had just happened. Her skin still felt flushed, too much warmth rolling under it, her body betraying her in ways that made her stomach churn. This wasn’t part of the plan. None of it was. The entire point of showing up here tonight was to shut Malfoy up for good—to put an end to his ridiculous idea that he had some kind of claim on her. She had been unsure how exactly to go about it, but this certainly wasn't any part of it. She was supposed to waltz in, look like a million bucks—according to Ginny, at the least, and walk out leaving him alone, far from her and with a much better understanding of the very clear boundaries separating them.
Instead, she’d let him get under her skin. Again.
“Shit.” she muttered under her breath, pressing the heels of her palms against her eyes.
The faint bass of the music from the dance floor thudded in the background, a relentless reminder of the chaos she’d just stepped out of. She couldn’t even blame Ginny for this one, although her roommate was at least partially responsible for the outfit—the corset, the shorts, the boots that practically screamed "look at me." Ginny had been emphatic the best way to have fun and put Malfoy in his place was to look too hot for anyone to handle. Hermione would have been fine in her usual outfits, her trusty jacket and a pair of flat docks. But she couldn't deny that her friend had done a good job picking clothes that made her look and feel powerful. Hermione had reluctantly gone along with it at first, telling herself that it was a necessary evil to get Malfoy off her back—somehow. But she hadn’t planned on feeling like this.
She hadn’t planned on this, period.
Her hands fell back, dangling at her sides, fingers curled into fists as her mind replayed the scene from earlier. The way his hands had felt on her waist, his lips brushing against her neck, the possessive growl in his voice as he whispered things she had no business remembering. Her cheeks burned with shame and fury in equal measure. She hated him. Hated how easily he could make her feel small and out of control. And yet, her traitorous body had reacted.
Anger started to boil over in the pit of her stomach once more, remembering the whimper—a fucking whimper—coming out of her own mouth. She hadn't enjoyed it. She really hadn't. Her body and her mind had been two separate entities in this moment, one eager for any kind of touch and attention it had been denied for too long, the other spewing hate and fury for Malfoy and his intrusion upon her body.
She had been tense like a frayed rope ready to snap before she ran into him. She hadn’t even known this was a racing event. If she had, she wouldn’t have come. Cars weren’t just a fear for her; they were a trigger, a flashpoint for memories she couldn’t afford to dredge up. Not again. One breakdown had been more than enough for her. But as long as she wasn’t inside one, she could manage. She’d told herself that over and over when she had arrived to realize it wasn't a typical party in the way Ginny had made it seem. And, for the first hour or so, she’d almost believed it.
Despite the noise, the crowd, and the faint smell of gasoline in the air, Hermione had actually started to enjoy herself. She’d smiled more in the past hour than she had in weeks. Even her conversation with Blaise—annoying as he was—had been... entertaining. He’d spent most of it regaling her with an exaggerated account of Malfoy’s reaction to her arrival, complete with over-the-top impressions and dramatic gestures. It was ridiculous, but she’d laughed despite herself. Blaise, it turned out, wasn’t half as unbearable when he wasn’t flanked by his entourage.
But then Malfoy had found her. Or maybe she’d found him. She couldn’t even remember how it started anymore, only the way it had ended: with her pinned against a wall, his thigh pressed between hers, his breath hot against her ear as he growled things that he had no business telling her. Her mind was still reeling but something unfurled in her body at the pressing friction against her sensitive spot, the tension in her shoulders and back easing, replace by warmth and a mounting sensation and—he had stopped. And everything came back into clear focus, including the horrified realization that she had let him go this far when she had had no desire for it.
Fuck.
“Are you okay?”
Hermione flinched, her head snapping up to find Theo standing a few feet away, his expression unreadable. His hands were shoved into the pockets of his jacket, his posture deceptively casual. But there was something off about him tonight—something sharper, more restless. She could see it in the way his gaze darted around the empty space, as if looking for something that wasn’t there.
“Fine,” she snapped, her voice sharp, eyes murderous.
She wasn’t in the mood for company, least of all from one of Malfoy’s minions. All she wanted was to get away from this wall, from this dark corner and deny her own memories of the event until it ultimately erased them entirely from her psyche meaning—in all logic—that it never happened in the first place. Yes, that was the new plan.
Theo raised his hands in mock surrender, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Noted. Don't bite my head off.”
Hermione glared at him, daring him to push further, but Theo only laughed softly and took a few steps in her direction, simply leaning back against the wall beside her. He tilted his head up, staring at the sky as if the answer to some unspoken question might be written there.
“I’ve been meaning to talk to you,” he said after a moment, his voice quieter now, almost contemplative.
Hermione scoffed. “Well, I’m not staying here with the babysitter Malfoy appointed me to make sure I behave like a good dog.”
Theo turned his head to look at her, his gaze sharper than she expected. “You shouldn’t,” he said simply. “If I were you, I’d leave. This party, this place, him. All of it.”
Hermione frowned, the words landing heavier than she anticipated. There was something in Theo’s tone—a kind of detached honesty that made her chest tighten. He didn’t sound like he was trying to manipulate her, or even convince her. He sounded like someone speaking from experience. Slowly he let himself glide against the wall and she watched as he sat down on the cold ground, knees bent, forearms resting lazily on them and hands dangling down in front of him.
“But you won’t.” Theo added, a faint smile ghosting across his lips.
Hermione sighed, her shoulders slumping as she leaned back against the wall. “You sound very sure of yourself.”
“It’s not hard to predict someone who’s at least half as stubborn as they are smart.” His chuckle was humourless but the faint smile tugged at his lips still.
She glared at him, but the bite in her expression was half-hearted at best. He wasn't wrong. Leaving would make everything easier, it'd make her whole 'Malfoy problem' go away. But she wouldn't. Easy wasn't the way she did things, ever. Nothing worthwhile came from easy. And she had plans, she didn't want to let it all go to waste because of one nuisance. A nuisance that was starting to get more real estate in her head than she felt comfortable with, but just a nuisance nonetheless.
Without thinking much about it, her whole body and mind exhausted from the intensity of the moment that had just ended, she gently let herself slide down as well, resting on the floor beside him. Just for a second, she told herself. To catch her breath, get her mind back on track. But something felt off, something felt like maybe she needed that second here, now. With him.
They sat in silence for a long moment, the muffled bassline of the music filling the space between them. Theo's head pressed against the wall, tilted back, eyes on the starts shinning weakly overhead once more and after a beat Hermione followed suit. She didn't remember much about what little Astronomy she had learned, couldn't name most constellations, but there was something soothing about the night sky. Something peaceful. It always met her, impartially, with no judgment, cool and calm and all-encompassing, the stars shinning down like so many beacons to follow and wishes to make. It reminded her how small she was in this universe, but it also made her feel connected—to people sitting under the same sky, people she hadn't seen in years, people she didn't even know were alive or dead.
“How did you figure it out?” Theo asked suddenly, his voice breaking the quiet.
Hermione frowned, turning to look at him. “Figure what out?”
He tilted his head toward her, his gaze steady. “Daddy didn't love you. Momma was a whore. Etcetera, etcetera.” he repeated the words she had spoken in the warehouse that night.
It felt like it had all happened an eternity ago, when in reality she had barely regained her physical and mental strength after the dam had broken—not long after she had spoken those very words to them. Things had taken a turn from weird to weirder and into weirdest territory since, thanks to Draco Malfoy himself, and she hadn't stopped to consider that maybe the events—and the words spoken—had affected them in any measure too. Back then she'd said what was weighing her down, she wasn't thinking, she wasn't even able to.
So the question caught her off guard, her mind scrambling for an answer. She shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “I guessed.”
“No you didn't.” Theo said, his tone flat. “No one on campus knows." he added, blinking slowly in her direction with a long inhale. "It’s been driving me crazy trying to figure out how you found out.”
Hermione’s stomach twisted uncomfortably, her mind flashing back to that moment in the warehouse. Of course it hadn’t been a blind guess. She’d pieced it together from fragments, reading them the way someone who had walked through fire could recognize the singe marks on someone else. Draco’s trouble with his father's approval were painfully obvious—the way he demanded everyone’s attention, always needing to be the best, the sharp anger that surfaced whenever someone bested him or he perceived even the slightest disrespect. It was textbook, like watching a little boy still buckling under the weight of expectations no child could ever carry, belittled for failing to meet them.
Blaise’s playboy persona practically screamed mommy issues. The way he instinctively read body language, like he’d grown up needing to gauge someone’s mood before they even opened their mouth. The way he found comfort in impermanence, fucking his way through half the school, not because he needed to, but because it gave him control. It was as if settling down was off the table entirely, like the only thing he trusted was transience. Hermione didn’t need to know the specifics to guess—a child who had seen too many men come and go, who had been told, either explicitly or in actions, that love was a scam and people only cared about you if you had something to offer, something physical.
And Theo… Theo’s "defective" state had been clear once Hermione had started paying attention. The difference between his subdued, lethally smart, near-expressionless self and the moments where he seemed to fray at the edges was impossible to miss once you knew to look for it. The sharpness that sometimes bled into a chaotic intensity, like he was battling two states of mind, two realities. She couldn’t diagnose him—she wasn’t a doctor—but in the world of rich, elitist circles, anything that deviated from perfection was treated like a stain on the family name. It wasn’t hard to imagine parents who would call their own child defective if he didn’t fit their exacting standards and decide to put them out of sight, and out of mind as a punishment for not being flawless.
It was in the way they moved, the cracks in their facades that only someone who’d seen the bad side of humanity could recognize. She’d seen it in herself, in others like her. But she wasn’t about to explain that.
“It doesn’t matter,” she said finally, her tone dismissive. “I got lucky.”
Theo tilted his head slightly, his lips quirking into a faint smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, as if he'd seen the cogs running in her brain and the look in her eye had been enough to give the real answer away. He leaned forward, resting his chin on one of his knee, and his voice dropped, softer now, as if he were talking to himself as much as to her.
“You know, the three of us—me, Blaise, and Draco—we didn’t start out like this. Not really. But life has a funny way of warping things, doesn’t it?”
Hermione frowned, the shift in his tone catching her off guard. She didn’t interrupt, though, some instinct telling her to let him keep going. Whatever Theo was going through—this 'defective' state as she hated that she had called it—it was clearly one of those moments when he had transitioned from his calm and composed self to the more erratic stranger she'd only encountered briefly before. But it seemed... significant.
Theo exhaled a short laugh, bitter and sharp. “Draco’s the glue, in case you were wondering. Always has been. People think it’s Blaise because he’s charming and easy-going, but he’s just good at playing the part. Draco? He’s the one who kept us together back then—arguably who still keeps us together now, even when we probably shouldn’t be.”
Hermione arched an eyebrow. “Keeps you together? You make it sound like you’re all falling apart.”
Theo’s gaze flicked to hers, something dark and unspoken lurking behind his eyes. “We are. We’ve been falling apart for years. Blaise hides behind fake smiles, I just... hide, period, and Draco... well, Draco tries to control everything because it’s the only way he knows how to keep himself together. That’s why he’s so obsessed with you, you know. He can’t control you, you're a wild variable and it’s driving him insane—in a good way... I think.”
Hermione’s chest tightened at his words, her mind racing as she tried to process what he was telling her. All of this was miles away from the image each of them had given her since she'd arrived. Yes, she had surmised that they weren't bad people—not in the way she knew people to be bad, seeking pain, fear and death for nothing but a rush of pleasure—but simply rich boys with a chip on their shoulder and not a single healthy coping mechanism in sight. But still, reconciling what she experienced of them with the words tumbling out of Theo's lips was proving jarring to say the least.
“Why are you suddenly telling me all this?”
“Because you’re different,” Theo said simply, his voice matter-of-fact—this to him was a fact, she could see it in his eyes, even if she couldn't comprehend why. “You see through us. Through him. It’s like you walked in and held up a mirror, and for the first time, we had to actually look at ourselves. And you don’t even know you’re doing it.”
She opened her mouth to respond, to tell him he was wrong. She had done no such thing, she'd simply tried to survive and had landed on their path—where she had not wanted to be in the slightest. She didn't try to put their issues to the forefront, to force them to face themselves. It wasn't her role, she was nobody to them. All these talks about her being special, about her seeing them for who they really were... It made no sense to Hermione. But Theo kept going, oblivious, his voice gaining a strange, almost frantic edge.
“You guessed right, by the way,” he continued, his gaze sharp and piercing. “About all of it. Draco’s father, Blaise’s mother, me. You guessed right because you’ve been around real darkness, haven’t you? The kind that doesn’t just scar—it reshapes you.”
He sighed and looked back up to the stars. She couldn't deny him this kernel of truth. She had, in ways even the scarred boys they might have once been couldn't begin to comprehend. She wished nobody ever had to.
“Draco’s father tried to break him. Took everything soft and vulnerable in him and twisted it until all that was left was anger and ambition. Blaise... he’s never cared about anyone except his mother, and she only ever cared about herself. And me?” Theo let out another bitter laugh. “Let’s just say I learned early on that some... issues—some people—are better off in the background. Out of sight, out of mind.”
Hermione stared at him, her breath catching as his words settled like stones in her chest. She didn’t answer, couldn’t answer. Her throat felt tight, her mind a whirl of thoughts she couldn’t organize. Theo smiled faintly, the expression almost gentle, though it didn’t quite match the intensity of his gaze.
“You’re not what I expected you'd be when you showed up,” he said again, his voice soft. “But I think you’re exactly what we needed.” He leaned his head back against the wall, his eyes closing briefly. “You’re an enigma, G.” he murmured, his voice almost wistful. “It’s been... interesting trying to figure you out.”
Hermione turned to him, her brow furrowing. There was something unsettling about the way he said it, as if he were speaking in past tense. Before she could respond, Theo pushed himself to his feet, dusting off his hands. He extended one toward her, a faint smile curving his lips.
“Come on,” he said. “You don’t belong sitting on the ground.”
Hermione hesitated, but eventually placed her hand in his. He hoisted her up with ease, his grip warm and steady. For a moment, he held onto her hand, his thumb brushing lightly against the back of it. His gaze locked with hers, and she saw something there—something raw and unsettling, a flicker of vulnerability beneath the surface. Before she could say anything, he released her hand, turned around and simply walked away, his steps unhurried and his posture loose. Hermione watched him disappear into the crowd, her chest tight with unease. Something about the encounter felt final, as if Theo had just closed a chapter she hadn’t realized she was a part of.
“... Fuck” she muttered under her breath for what felt the thousandth time tonight, running a hand on her face. She needed to find Ginny. She needed to get the hell out of here.
With a sigh, she pushed herself off the wall and stepped back into the fray, determined to leave the chaos—of Theo’s words, of the memories of Malfoy's hands and lips on her, of the revving of engines that sent a chill down her spine every time—far behind her.
The crowd was suffocating. Bodies pressed too close together, the bass from the music thrumming through the ground and into Hermione’s bones. It should have been grounding, a tether to keep her present, but all it did was churn her insides, making her feel heavier and more aware of every directions something—someone—could come at her without her being able to anticipate it. Her thick square heels clicked against the pavement as she moved through the sea of faces, elbows knocking into her as she searched for a flash of red hair, cursing the uncomfortable and unpractical choice of footwear. Ginny. She needed to find Ginny and get the hell out of here.
Her mind was a storm, Theo’s words spinning endlessly like a carousel she couldn’t get off. Draco’s the glue. Blaise is a performer. Theo, the invisible one. The cracks they all wore like second skins were suddenly visible, refracting in her mind like light through shattered glass. She didn’t want to care—about them, about him, about any of it—but the weight of Theo’s voice, the rawness of his confessions, made it impossible to ignore. And now her chest felt tight, her anger splintered and unfocused, too tangled up in things she didn’t understand.
“Granger.”
The voice was sharp, cutting through the noise like a knife, but it was the sudden grip snaking around her middle and pulling that made her spin around, fist poised to be raised, ready to unleash every ounce of pent-up fury she had left on whatever poor sod had dared lay hands on her. “Who the hell do you think—”
Her words caught in her throat as she came face-to-face with Draco Malfoy. His hair was slightly mussed, his expression thunderous, and his eyes—those infuriating, stormy eyes—burned with a ferocity that made her almost want to take a sizable step back. The rest of her sentence dissolved, unspoken, as the weight of his anger crashed over her. He didn’t look pleased to see her. In fact, he looked downright furious.
"It's strange..." he said, his voice low and sharp, barely audible over the thrum of music. "I vividly remember telling you to stay put." His arm stayed around her centre, pressing against her back now, not tight enough to hurt but firm enough to make a point, his grip radiating a tension that made her skin prickle. “You can't be in the crowd right now.” he continued, stepping closer, his tone sharpening to a dangerous edge as he leaned slightly to be heard better over the chaotic assault of sounds around. “Go back there and wait.”
Hermione squared her shoulders, her hands curling into fists at her sides, meeting his fury head-on. “I can handle myself, Malfoy,” she snapped, her voice cutting through the noise like a whip. “And you don’t get to tell me where I can and can’t be. I think I made it's clear it's none of your business.”
Draco’s jaw tightened, his teeth grinding audibly as he stepped even closer, their faces inches apart. The space between them crackled with tension, his stormy eyes darkening with something between fury and frustration.
“It is my business,” he growled, his voice rough and barely restrained. “You think I can afford to worry about every asshole here who wants to get their hands on you? I already have enough shit to deal with.”
Hermione raised an eyebrow, the defiance in her expression only fuelling the fire in his. Who the fuck did he think he was? Something in her gut made her want to clap back in a way that she knew would sting. He had been acting so weird about this whole claim thing, maybe it was time she leaned into it, if only to shut him up.
“Oh, so this is about your convenience, is it? Poor Malfoy can’t multitask? It's my bloody choice if I want someone here to touch me—but, apparently, it’s not about what I want, it's about your ability to handle it.” she shrugged. "Tough luck. I'll do what I please, and who I please. Always have, always will. So bite back the possessive stalker crap."
His reaction was immediate, visceral. His grip around her waist tightened for a split second before he released her, his hand curling into a fist at his side as if he needed to physically restrain himself. His eyes flashed with something wild, his lips pulling back in a snarl.
“Don’t,” he bit out, his voice trembling with barely suppressed rage. “Don’t you fucking say that.”
“Why not?” Hermione challenged, her tone icy. “Because it pisses you off? Because you can’t stand the idea of not having control over everything and everyone around you? Newsflash, Malfoy: I’m not yours to control. The faster you get the memo, the better off we'll both be.”
He exhaled sharply through his nose, his jaw tightening as his gaze swept over her, as if confirming she was, in fact, still in one piece. A strange reaction. She had expected him to shout, spew some idiotic remarks about his indubitable claim on her or threaten some form of retaliation. That was his style. That was their dynamic. Not whatever that look in his eyes was, as if he was genuine concerned about something and she was standing right in the middle of it all.
“This isn’t about us.” he said, his voice clipped. “There are people here tonight that I need you to stay away from."
She raised an eyebrow, crossing her arms over her chest. “Oh, like you? Should I be running in the opposite direction right now then?”
His eyes darkened, a flicker of something dangerous passing over his face. “This isn’t a fucking joke.” he groaned. “You have no—"
“Malfoy!”
A voice echoing loudly over the crowd behind him cut Draco off, clear and brash and dripping with an amusement that felt forced and tasted sour. Draco froze against her and Hermione looked over his shoulder to see two burly men pushing their way through the crowd, their eyes fixed on them. Draco turned around, subconsciously—or consciously, maybe, she was unsure—taking a step to the side as if to obstruct the newcomers' view of her. One of them, tall and broad with a cruel grin, let out a low whistle as his gaze shifted to Hermione for a second before Draco's back slid in front of her.
“Well, isn’t this interesting,” he drawled, his voice thick with that same play-amusement. “Since when have you taken to keeping your used toys around Draco-boy?"
“You’re not supposed to be here.” Draco said with deadly calm.
The second man, stockier but no less imposing, snorted. “Oh, come on. It’s a party, isn’t it? Thought we’d drop by, see how our old friend Malfoy’s doing.” His eyes darted to Hermione again, a predatory gleam in them that made her stomach flip uncomfortably. “Didn’t know you’d brought a date, though. She's... Cute. You don't mind sharing do you?”
“Leave.” Draco bit out, his voice like sharpened stone. His stance was tense, his shoulders squared as he positioned himself more stubbornly like a shield between Hermione and the two men. She could feel the tension radiating off him, the crackling energy that spoke of barely restrained violence.
“Relax,” the first man said, holding up his hands in mock innocence. “We’re just here to talk. Catch up. Isn’t that right, Goyle?”
Hermione’s mind raced, piecing together fragments of conversations she’d overheard earlier. Crabbe and Goyle. That's what Blaise had said when he had come to fetch Draco. She hadn't thought much on it—hadn't cared, to be perfectly honest. For all she knew, they were friends of his that he needed to greet. She had been a little more preoccupied with finally being free of his touch—and free to mentally self flagellate about the treachery of her body. Now it became pretty apparent that this was who these men were—and they did not look friendly. She didn’t know the specifics, but the way Draco’s entire demeanour had shifted told her enough. This wasn’t just posturing. He was bracing for danger. This was a tension she would never mistake for anything else.
Draco opened his mouth to retort, but before he could say anything, another voice—coming from the other side this time, forcing Draco to turn around, partially facing Hermione—joined the fray.
"We’ve got a problem."
Blaise. His voice was tight and when Hermione slightly shifted on her feet to look up at him, the expression on his face was unlike any shades of playful smiles she'd constantly seen in wearing in the past. The sharp set of his mouth, the deep line between his eyebrows. He looked genuinely concerned, if not... panicked?
"Tell me something I don’t know," Draco muttered between his teeth, his tone dripping with sarcasm as he gestured toward Crabbe and Goyle with a sharp, annoyed flick of his hand.
His posture was still rigid, his frame squarely shielding Hermione from the two men even as he turned to face Blaise, effectively blocking them from her view. Hermione’s eyes darted between them, her stomach twisting at the tension crackling in the air. Before anyone could say anything more, Blaise pulled a small plastic bottle from his pocket and tossed it at Draco. It clattered against his chest before he caught it, the empty bottle rattling as he inspected it.
"He got into the stash I keep for him," Blaise said, his voice edged with frustration and a hint of the panic Hermione thought she might have detected on his face. "Dumped the whole thing."
Draco frowned, shaking the empty container in disbelief before discarding it to the ground, finding no use for it now that it was empty. "So? He stops taking his pills all the fucking time. What’s new?"
From the corner of her eye, Hermione saw him reaching into his jacket pocket. He pulled out a similar bottle—white with a yellow top screwed on and a labelled neatly taped around its middle—and rattled it, the sound of pills shifting inside filling the tense silence.
"I’ve still got mine in case of emergency," he said with a shrug, as if that would resolve the situation.
Crabbe—or so she assumed—let out a low laugh from behind him. "Yeah, where is your little third of the throuple, anyway? Thought he’d be glued to your side like the little chihuahua lap dog he is, as usual."
Draco ignored the jab, although the tight clenching of his jaw left no doubt he had heard the comment. His glare cut into Blaise as he opened his mouth to retort. Hermione tuned it out, feeling an unsettling prickle tug at the back of her brain, triggered by this bit of conversation she'd just witness. Her chest tightened with the implications she was starting to piece together. Without thinking she snatched the small bottle from Malfoy's hand. His eyes drifted down to her, one eyebrow raised in a question, but quickly enough he looked back up to continue his conversation with Blaise.
Her fingers fumbled with the plastic container to read the label. Aripiprazole. The name of the medication was unfamiliar, but she squinted, her mind racing to connect what little she knew. She recognized enough of the pharmaceutical jargon on the label to narrow it down: antipsychotics. Probably something for schizoaffective disorder or something adjacent. Her stomach churned as realization settled.
This was Theo’s issue. His erratic behaviour, the sharp shifts in his personality—he had been off his meds every single time. It all clicked into place like a horrifying puzzle snapping together. The voices around sounded like a dull hum as her thoughts spiralled, the pieces rearranging themselves in her mind. She didn’t tune back in until Blaise’s voice cut through the haze.
"The problem isn’t just the pills," Blaise said, his tone rising in urgency. "I saw him jump into your car. The race is about to start."
The words hit Draco like a slap, his entire body going still as the implications sank in. “You’re fucking kidding me,” he said, his voice low and dangerous.
“I’m not,” Blaise snapped. Hermione had never heard his tone so sharp. “You know what happened the last time.”
As if prompted to, Draco’s hand went to his chest, rubbing at it absently as if to soothe an ache Hermione couldn’t see. She watched the exchange, her stomach tightening with unease as more pieces of the puzzle began to slot into place. Antipsychotics weren't anything to trifle with and if Theo was indeed suffering for what she assumed, going off his meds here and there—let alone regularly—could have dire and long-lasting effects on his brain. Or make him do something stupidly reckless, even in Viper Court standards.
“You let him go off his meds?” she demanded in sheer disbelief, her tone more than a little accusatory. “Do you have any idea how dangerous that is?”
Draco’s eyes snapped to hers, his expression darkening. “This isn’t the time, Granger.”
“What happened the last time?” she pressed, ignoring his warning tone and turning to Blaise, as if Draco would be too stubborn to humour her. “What does he think he’s doing?”
Blaise hesitated, his gaze darting to Draco, but it was Draco who answered over her shoulder, his voice flat—if not for the faint hint of... what? Desperation?
“He tried to crash. On purpose.”
Hermione’s breath caught, her mind reeling as the words sank in. She thought back to Theo’s cryptic comments earlier, the way he’d spoken like everything was already decided, like he was a man walking toward his own ending. Her chest tightened, the last pieces snapping together with horrifying clarity.
“And you’re just standing here!?” her voice rose with anger. “You’re not going to stop him!?”
Draco and Blaise froze, their panic finally showing in the hesitation that kept them rooted in place, in the look they exchanged, like wounded deer caught in headlights. If it had been any other moment, Hermione would have absorbed the look on their faces and taken the time to realize this was real fear—not for them, but their friend—that sent their bodies into shock. But there was no time and instead Hermione swore under her breath, her anger boiling over.
She leaned down to slide the zipper of her knee-high boots down, grabbing the swede fabric and wrenching her feet out of them—the heels would hinder her too much. With more force than necessary she shoved the shoes against Draco's chest, his hands rising around them like on autopilot, his eyes finally dragging down to look at her and slowly—so slowly it would have been comical if not for the rush coursing through Hermione—his eyes widened, pupils dilating and mouth opening as he finally understood what was going through her reckless, stupid mind.
“Cowards.” she spat.
And with that, she spun on her heel and bolted toward the track, her bare feet slapping against the asphalt as she ran.
The world blurred around her, her focus narrowing to the starting line where the slick black car she saw Draco lean against earlier sat, its engine revving like a beast waiting to be unleashed. The sound alone chilled something deep in her core and she felt her body wanting to seize, to shrink back, away from its source. The only thing keeping her forward was the look on Theo's face when he had said those last words to her. The tone. The weight. What if he tried to crash again? What if he succeeded this time? Hermione would not watch someone die in front of her eyes. Not again.
Please, not again.
It didn't matter if she knew Theo, if she liked him, if she cared. She didn't have answers for any of those things. She didn't need them. She didn't want them. What mattered was that she had seen too much death and destruction and it was time she paid karma a little something back—time she made things better instead of worse, for once in her life. Nothing else played in her mind as she ran and ran, barely registering the way tiny gravels embedded themselves in her sole, the fabric of her tights rupturing under her feet and pure, unfiltered terror already trying to bubble its' way up her throat.
She could see Theo in the driver’s seat now, his hands gripping the wheel tightly, his expression distant and unhinged. Three strides. Two strides. One stride and she was standing at the car, the design reverberating all the neon and flashing lights around in a kaleidoscope of colours she could've found lovely in any other circumstance. Something in her—the traumatized little girl that still clung at the edges of her heart after all these years—screamed, yelled, cried out with all the air inside its metaphorical lungs that she couldn't do this. She couldn't get in. She couldn't take the risk and relieve it. Not again. Never again.
Then he will die. Just like she died. Because of you. Always because of you.
It took a split second for the decision to be made—not a smart one, not a safe one. One that was foolish and reckless and all-in-all absolutely horrible from any possible angle. Hermione yanked the passenger door open and climbed in, slamming it shut behind her. Theo’s head snapped toward her, his eyes widening in surprise.
“What the fuck are you doing?” he exclaimed in what almost sounded like a disbelieving shrill.
“What the fuck are you doing?” she shot back, her hands shaking, instinctively reaching for the seatbelt.
For a moment, he just stared at her, his expression unreadable. Hermione glanced out the window, her breath catching under the weight of realization of where she was—where she had voluntarily put herself—and she spotted Draco and Blaise finally in motion, running full speed toward the car, their panic evident even from this distance. Her chest tightened as the reality of the situation pressed down on her. When she turned back to Theo, she realized he had seen it too. His gaze flicked to the side mirror where the two figures grew closer with every second, and something shifted in his expression—a grim determination that sent a jolt of fear through her.
Without a word, Theo’s foot slammed on the gas, and the car shot forward, the roar of the engine swallowing Hermione’s gasp of terror.
Her knuckles whitened as she gripped the edges of her seat, her heartbeat slamming against her ribs in an uneven, frantic rhythm that threatened to pull her under. Panic clawed at her throat, like sharp nails digging to unearth the memories she’d tried so hard to bury as they began flooding back with a vengeance. Her lungs felt like they were seizing, the air thin and insufficient no matter how desperately she tried to pull it in. The blur of the road ahead was unbearable, each flash of light and shadow making her stomach twist and her voice break in her throat before she could even think about screaming.
Her fingers dug into the fabric, her nails biting through as if she could anchor herself there. Tears slowly started to burn her eyes, blurring her vision until she couldn’t tell where the track ended and the chaos in her mind began—this road and another road, one far away, one from a long time ago merging on top of one another in her head. She squeezed her eyes shut, thinking it might help, but the darkness was worse. It was so much worse. The sound of the engine, the vibrations rattling through her bones, all of it pulled her back to a place she’d sworn never to revisit. She wanted to scream, to cry, to claw her way out of this moment, to open the door and throw herself out no matter the amount of damage it would do to her body. She didn't care. Anything but here.
But she couldn’t. She wouldn’t.
Her voice broke when she shouted, “What the hell are you doing?” It wasn’t anger that sharpened her words; it was pure, unfiltered terror. The seatbelt bit into her collarbone, and she flinched with every sudden swerve of the car. Her body was trembling, her breathing uneven as she fought—and was losing—against the rising tide of panic.
You can’t fall apart now.
The thought came like a lifeline, something to hold onto even as her body betrayed her. She forced her eyes open, her gaze snapping to Theo. He was all frantic tension and quiet intensity under the blurry film over her eyes, his knuckles white against the wheel. He didn’t answer her. He didn’t even look at her. His focus was singular, locked onto the road ahead, and it only made her panic worse.
“Theodore!” she yelled again, her voice cracking. She hated how weak it sounded, how small. The tears that had been burning her eyes finally spilled over, streaking her cheeks as she tried to push the fear down, to lock it away where it couldn’t interfere. Not now. “Stop the car! This isn’t—”
“Why do you still feel?” Theo interrupted, his voice cutting through her panic like a blade. His tone was sharp, biting, like the crack of a whip. He sounded desperate. Pained. Suffering. “How can you still feel after everything? After whatever happened to you?”
Hermione’s breath hitched, her mind stuttering as his words hit home. Her panic tangled with confusion and anger, her chest heaving as she tried to pull herself together. She couldn’t afford to fall apart. Not here. Not now. “What are you talking about?” she demanded, though her voice was weaker now, trembling under the weight of her spiralling thoughts and the relentless hum of the engine ruthlessly rumbling under her locked body.
Theo’s grip on the wheel tightened, his arms flexing as the car veered sharply to the left. Hermione’s stomach flipped, and she clamped her eyes shut again, the tears spilling faster now and a shrill dying in her throat. Her nails dug into the seat, her knuckles stark white as she held on for dear life. The vibrations of the car rattled through her chest, her heart hammering so hard it felt like it might burst.
You are not dying today. You are not there. He is not him.
“I see it,” Theo said, his voice quieter now but no less intense. “I see it in you. You’ve been broken. Over and over again. And yet you feel. You smile. You laugh. You care. Even when you don't show it, it's right there, all over your face. Why? HOW!?”
He finally turned his head to look at her, his eyes wild and glassy, like a storm barely held in check and all she wanted was for him to focus back on the road. He was shattered, from the inside, unravelling right in front of her eyes, she could read it all over his features, in the set of his quivering jaw, in the look of utter defeat already adorning his eyes. She wanted it to stop. His pain. The car. Everything.
“I’m broken too.” Theo continued, his voice cracking on the last word. “But I don’t get to feel. Not like you." he laughed then, the sound manic, angry. "Not unless the demons come out to play!" His fingers tapped against his temple with a smile that was as terrifying as the road ahead. "So why? Why do you get to be whole when I can’t even find my fucking pieces!?”
Hermione forced her eyes open, her vision blurred by tears and fear. Her hands trembled as she pushed against the storm inside her, willing herself to focus. “Theo,” she said, her voice soft but shaky, “you’re not broken.” Her throat burned with the effort it took to speak, the words scraping against the closed pathways of her throat like shards of glass.
He laughed at that, a hollow, bitter sound that made her flinch. “Don’t lie to me, Hermione. You’re better than that.”
“I’m not lying,” she said, her voice rising despite the tremor in it. She reached out, her hand trembling violently as she placed it over his on the gearshift. The effort it took to move her arm felt monumental, her muscles screaming against the weight of her terror. It ached. It hurt. Everything was too much. He flinched at the contact but didn’t pull away, his gaze darting to their hands before snapping back to the road. “You. Are. Not. Broken.” she repeated, enunciating each word, her tone firmer now, though her voice still cracked under the strain. “And neither am I.”
Her lungs felt like they were on fire, her chest heaving as she struggled to control her breathing. She tried to focus on Theo, on the way his grip faltered slightly as she spoke, on the way his knuckles softened just a fraction. Focus on him, she told herself, not the road, not the speed, not the noise.
“You don’t understand,” Theo said, his voice breaking. “You can’t possibly understand.”
“Try me,” she shot back, her voice hoarse but determined. Her tears blurred her vision again, but she didn’t wipe them away. “Tell me what’s in your head, Theo. Tell me why you think this is the answer.”
He didn’t respond at first, his jaw clenching so tightly she thought it might shatter. The silence stretched between them, heavy and suffocating, as Hermione’s fingers dug into his hand, anchoring herself as much as she was trying to anchor him. Finally, he spoke, his voice barely above a whisper.
“They told me I wasn't whole, that I was defective, a fucking disgrace.” he said, his words jagged and raw. “My parents. The doctors. Everyone. They told me I wasn’t enough, that I wasn’t right. And I believed them. For years, I believed them.”
Hermione’s chest ached, her heart twisting painfully at the vulnerability in his voice. “They were wrong.” she said softly, her voice breaking as fresh tears slipped down her cheeks. Her fingers tightened over his, trembling but resolute. “They were wrong, Theodore."
He shook his head, his laughter bitter and broken. “You don’t get it, G. I don’t even know what ‘right’ is supposed to feel like anymore. All I know is this.” He gestured vaguely to himself, his hysterical state, the car, the blur of the track outside the window. “It's all play pretend, it's all muted and in black and white. All the fucking time. This... this is the only thing that feels... real.”
“This isn’t real.” Hermione firmly denied. “This is running. You are running." her fingers squeezed his harder. She swallowed her fear, the shake in her voice, the terror gripping at her insides and the pain the tension brought to her entire body.
This is about him. You were exactly like him once. You know how he's feeling, small and pathetic and unfit to survive. Don't you, Needle?
"And for what? If you destroy yourself, you're just doing their job for them. Your parents. The people who want to see you fall.... The demons." she gritted her teeth to keep her voice steady, her jaw threatening to lock under the strain. "They win. If you break, they win."
He let out a shaky breath, his grip on the wheel loosening slightly. The car’s speed began to drop—barely, but Hermione was all too aware of every single bump in the road not to notice—the engine’s roar quieting into a lower hum. Hermione let out a slow breath, a spark of hope flickering in the pit of her stomach despite the sheer terror still flooding her entire system.
“You’re not defective,” she said, her voice soft but unyielding. “You’re not broken. And you don’t have to prove anything to anyone—not your parents, not the doctors, not anyone who ever made you feel like you weren’t enough. The only thing you have to do is live. On your terms.” her breathing was erratic but her words remained firm—so did her grip on his fingers. She felt out of her body, as if talking to the younger version of herself, the one that could've used those words as much as Theo did now. "You have road blocks. We all do, even if yours are harder to overcome. But you choose how debilitating they are. You choose if you can be happy, if you can thrive. Your life can be as miserable or as glorious as you want it to be." A soft crack of her voice broke through her monologue but still she powered through. "You're a fucking survivor Theodore. Start acting like one."
Theo’s hands trembled on the wheel, his knuckles losing their whiteness as he relaxed his grip. His breathing was uneven, his chest rising and falling as if he’d just run a marathon.
Hermione reached into her pocket, her fingers closing around the pill bottle she’d taken from Draco. She held it out to Theo, her hand steady despite the adrenaline coursing through her veins. “Start here,” she said, her voice gentle. “Take your meds. And then keep going. One step at a time.”
He stared at the bottle, his expression conflicted, his hands twitching as if he didn’t trust himself to take it. For a moment, Hermione thought he might throw it back in her face, but then he cursed under his breath, his voice breaking on the last word. The car screeched loudly the tires skidding against the asphalt as Theo slammed on the brakes, veering dangerously sharp towards the side of the road. Hermione entire body seized, every joint locked, every thought gone and only pure, unaltered panic remaining. She may have screamed, she wasn't sure.
Suddenly the car stopped dead in its tracks. Hermione was out the door before it had fully stopped, her legs shaking so violently it was a wonder she stayed upright as she stumbled onto the track. The cool night air hit her like a slap, sharp and bracing, but it did little to soothe the raw panic still clawing at her chest. Her lungs heaved, but the air felt thin and useless, barely making it past the constriction in her throat. Somehow she reached the side of the road. She doubled over, crouching down near the small expanse of grass that bordered the track, her hands braced on her knees, trembling as she dry-heaved, her stomach twisting painfully even though there was nothing to expel.
The world felt too loud, too bright. Her body was vibrating with leftover adrenaline, her heart pounding like a war drum, and every sound—the distant rumbling of other cars, the faint chirp of crickets and the distinctive thuds of car doors slamming shut somewhere in her vicinity—was amplified to a deafening roar. She squeezed her eyes shut, but that only made the images worse: the blur of the road, the screech of tires, the relentless roar of the engine. Her hands dug into her knees, nails biting into flesh—her thighs full of cracks and holes all along her legs now—as she tried to swallow down the receding panic, forcing it back inch by inch.
Her breaths came in sharp, shallow gasps, her ribs aching with the effort. Dried trails from previous tears stretched along the skin of her cheeks.. Every muscle in her body felt like it was locked in place, refusing to obey her as the memories and fear tried to tightened their grip once more, squeezing her until she felt small and pathetic, like a child cowering from the dark. She dry-heaved again, her body fighting back against itself.
It’s over, she told herself desperately, her thoughts fragmented and small. You’re out of the car. You’re safe. It’s over. But the reassurance rang hollow, drowned out by the echoes of the past and the visceral, suffocating terror still clinging to edges of her like a second skin that didn't quite want to be shed even as she tried to slow her breathing.
“Granger!”
Draco’s voice cut through the haze, and she looked up just long enough to see him and Blaise running toward her, a car abandoned somewhere behind them, their expressions a mix of panic and relief. Blaise reached Theo first, his hands gripping his friend’s shoulders as he said something Hermione couldn’t hear. Draco, meanwhile, made a beeline for her, his eyes scanning her from head to toe as if to confirm she was still in one piece.
“Are you okay?” he asked, his voice rough, his hand coming to rest on the small of her back as she leaned forward to dry-heave again.
Hermione nodded, though the movement was shaky. “I’m fine.” she said, her voice hoarse.
Draco’s gaze softened slightly, his hands sliding down to rub her back in slow, soothing circles. “It's okay, baby, I've got you.” he murmured, his voice low enough that only she could hear. “I've got you. You’re okay. You’re okay.” he repeated in a breath, as if to himself as much as to her.
And for a second she couldn't get herself to hate it. To hate him. She needed the touch to ground herself back to reality. Needed another voice than her own to remind her she wasn't there anymore. And he was providing that. Unprompted, he chose to provide it.
Theo approached then, his movements hesitant, his expression stricken, his shoulders hunched as if bracing for impact. “Hermione,” he started, his voice thick with emotion, breaking on each syllable. “I’m sorry. I'm so sorry. I didn’t—”
Draco turned toward Theo, his face a storm of conflicting emotions. Worry and anger warred for dominance, his hands twitching as if unsure whether to comfort or throttle. Hermione caught the hem of his shirt before he could take a step, her fingers weak but insistent.
"Don't."
She forced herself to straighten, the tension locking her body screaming in protest as she pushed herself upright. Each movement was an effort, her limbs aching and heavy, but she wouldn’t let Draco take this moment. She had to.
She walked to Theo herself, her bare feet scraping against the asphalt, every step feeling like a mile. Theo stood frozen, his face pale and his shoulders hunched, looking more like a frightened boy than the sharp, unflappable figure he often pretended to be. His hands trembled at his sides, and his lower lip quivered, his eyes wide and glassy with unshed tears. He looked remorseful. Panicked. Small. And in him, she saw herself—the raw, jagged pieces of someone trying to hold together what little remained.
The moment she stopped in front of him, her body reacted before anything else and Hermione’s fist shot out, connecting squarely with his jaw. The impact sent his head snapping to the side, his hand flying up to cradle it. She felt the sharp jolt in her own knuckles, a brief sting that paled in comparison to the ache radiating through her whole body. Theo didn’t flinch or stumble further. Instead, he turned his head back to face her, his expression solemn, and nodded slowly, as if to say, I deserve that.
His lower lip trembled, his eyes watering as he tried and failed to steady himself. Beside them, both Draco and Blaise stepped forward instinctively, their faces twin masks of shock and worry. Blaise reached out as if to intervene, but Draco caught his arm, though even he looked ready to step in. Hermione saw it all in her periphery, the way they moved like a unified force, their concern for Theo radiating between them. The look of sheer worry a perfect copy in both their eyes. She recognized that sort of love—love you reserved to family. Not the kind that came from blood, but the kind you chose, the kind that chose you back, unconditionally and fiercely. The kind she had once felt for her own brother too.
Before they could close the distance, Hermione moved again. She grabbed Theo by the front of his jacket and pulled him into a hug, her arms wrapping tightly around him. The action was abrupt, raw, and left no room for hesitation. Theo stiffened at first, his breath hitching, but the tension melted away as he broke. His arms came up slowly, wrapping around her as he buried his face into her shoulder, his body shaking with quiet, shuddering sobs that finally broke through his composure.
Draco and Blaise stopped in their tracks, their sharp worry replaced with something softer—empathy for Theo's pain, surprise at a scene playing out they might have never witnessed before, confusion tinged with relief. They stood there, silent and still, as Hermione held Theo, her fingers gripping the fabric of his jacket as if to anchor him, to remind him that he was still here, still whole, still surviving.
Theo—feeling the weight of himself, his feelings and his choices—started to sink down toward the floor and Hermione followed his movement, her knees scrapping roughly against the asphalt without a single hesitation or grunt of pain. She stayed there, rubbing his back silently, letting his emotions tire themselves out against the crook of her neck, his tears seeping into the fabric of her shirt.
After what felt like an eternity—once Theo's sobs seemed to slowly subside—she finally pulled back, her hands resting on Theo’s shoulders as she looked him in the eye.
“You have people looking out for you.” she said softly, her head tilting slightly towards Blaise and Draco a few steps away. She slid her hand down to his, placing the bottle of pills against his palm. “But you have to take care of yourself. Promise me.”
Theo nodded, his grip on the pill bottle tightening as he whispered, “I promise.”
Hermione squeezed his hand before pushing herself to her feet, her legs unsteady beneath her, her knees bleeding slightly. She turned to Draco and Blaise, her gaze sharp the panic that had sapped most of her energy only minutes before.
“Take care of your brother now.” she simply said, her voice firm but her eyes full of quiet understanding—and thinly veiled command.
And without waiting for a response, she turned and started slightly limping down the track, her bare, painful feet silent against the asphalt. He was alive. He didn't die. Thanks to her. Maybe she could do it. Maybe she could brin more than pain and blood. Maybe, one day, she could repay all the karma she owed. Even if it took her a whole lifetime to do so. It had started here, with Theo—with them. But she didn't want to acknowledge the truth this unearthed. Not yet.
So she walked, and she didn’t look back.