Chapter 1
"Put the boys in the cellar! I’d like to have a little conversation with this one, girl to girl," Bellatrix spat, her voice dripping with venom as Narcissa and another Death Eater dragged Ron and Harry further into the shadows, leaving Hermione alone under the maddened gaze of the witch.
Terror gripped her chest, sharp and suffocating, as Bellatrix loomed over her. There was a dangerous gleam in her eyes, a look that promised nothing but pain. Every inch of Hermione's body screamed at her to run, but the cold stone of the room and the sheer weight of Bellatrix’s presence kept her rooted to the spot.
"That sword is meant to be in my vault in Gringott’s," Bellatrix sneered, her lips curling in a smile that was far more cruel than it was pleased. The anger in her voice was palpable, as she took a step closer. Her long fingers, slender and unnervingly elegant, curled around Hermione's throat, lifting her just enough to bring their faces closer. "How did you get it? What else did you and your friends take from my vault?!"
Hermione’s mind whirled, trying desperately to form a coherent thought. Her vision blurred from the mixture of fear and the increasing pressure on her neck. She gasped for air, her chest tightening as she struggled to speak, but no words came. The panic flooded her chest, and her heart hammered in her ears, drowning out all else.
"Didn’t take anything!" she managed to choke out, her voice trembling, cracking under the weight of her fear. “Please,” she sobbed brokenly, her breath coming in sharp gasps. “I didn’t take anything!"
Bellatrix's eyes narrowed, her lips twisting into a venomous grin. “Don’t lie!” she hissed, her voice dropping lower, colder with every passing second. Her hand moved quickly, pulling a gleaming dagger from her belt, its silver edge flashing in the dim light. Before Hermione could react, the Death Eater had her pinned to the floor once more, her body held in place by cruel, unyielding strength. The blade pressed to Hermione’s forearm in a smooth, calculating motion.
“I don’t believe it,” Bellatrix purred, her voice now a deadly whisper.
Tears streamed from Hermione’s eyes as the cold blade dug into her skin, and before she could stop herself, a strangled sob broke free from her chest. The sharp, burning pain of the cut surged through her, and the tears flowed faster, mingling with the terror that consumed her.
But then, just as the blade threatened to deepen its cruel mark, a voice cut through the air.
“Stop.”
The command was soft, calm, but it held an undeniable authority. Every head turned, and the room fell silent as Draco Malfoy appeared in the doorway, his silhouette framed by the dim light of the corridor. His face was unreadable, but his posture - tall and rigid - spoke of someone accustomed to power. There was something in the air, a stillness that seemed to hold everyone in place. Even Bellatrix paused, her eyes narrowing in suspicion.
“I’ll do it,” Malfoy said, his voice low but firm, cutting through the tension with ease.
Bellatrix’s gaze flickered over him, her curiosity piqued but her expression unreadable. “You think you can break her, boy?” she sneered, her eyes glinting with a cruel challenge.
Malfoy’s reply was a barely noticeable nod. “I’ll take care of her,” he said, his tone cold, detached.
Hermione stared up at him, confusion and terror swirling within her chest. “Malfoy, please,” she whispered, the words barely escaping her throat. "Please don’t.” She struggled against the weight of the Death Eaters holding her down, but it was futile—there was no escaping this nightmare.
His gaze flickered briefly to her, but it was as if he had already shut her out. His eyes—those grey, cold eyes—betrayed nothing. No sympathy. No compassion. Nothing.
Malfoy reached down and took the dagger from Bellatrix without a word. The silver edge glinted under the low light, and the sound of the blade being turned over in his hands sent a shiver down Hermione's spine. Her chest tightened further as he moved away from her, taking slow, deliberate steps. The room held its breath. Even the air seemed to grow heavier, as if the very walls were waiting for what would come next.
Hermione continued to sob, her cries punctuated by desperate, broken pleas for mercy, but Malfoy did nothing to reassure her. His face remained as impassive as ever, his movements cold and measured. She could feel the weight of the blade in the air, the dread pooling in her stomach, twisting into something darker, more suffocating.
Then, in a fluid motion, Draco Malfoy dropped to his knees in front of her, his strong thighs bracketing hers in the exact same position that his aunt had held only moments before. His proximity was suffocating, and she instinctively tried to shrink away, but the Death Eaters held her firmly in place, pinning her to the cold floor.
"Draco, please," Hermione cried, her voice breaking, and that single word seemed to stop him, just for the briefest of moments. She had never called him by his first name before - not like this. There was something in her voice now, raw and desperate, that she hadn’t intended. But in that second, the harsh lines of his face seemed to soften, just enough for her to see something flicker behind his eyes - something familiar. Something almost human.
“Draco, please, I’ll do anything,” she begged, her voice shaking with the weight of her fear. “Just don’t—”
He met her gaze, his grey eyes darkening as he leaned in even closer. His lips brushed her ear, his voice a low whisper that sent a shiver down her spine.
"Scream."
Hermione’s eyes widened in panic. “No! Please—”
Before she could finish, the dagger was plunged into her skin, and a cry of pain tore from her throat. But what she hadn’t expected was the strange, almost disorienting sensation that followed. The pressure of the blade, though it cut into her flesh, was almost...calming. A numbing sensation spread through her arm, and the pain she had braced for never came. Instead, she felt her body’s instinctive reaction - her chest tightening, her breath hitching, as if her body was already starting to shut down.
Another scream broke from her lips, this one raw and primal, as the blade dragged across her skin in a slow, deliberate motion. The lack of pain only made it worse. She didn’t know if he had struck an artery, but the warmth of blood began to pool beneath her arm, spreading out in a cold, thick wave.
Would she bleed out here? Die alone, on the dusty wooden floor of Malfoy Manor, with no one to mourn her? She had barely registered the thought when another scream bubbled from her throat, choked by the hopelessness that clung to her like a heavy cloak. She wasn’t ready to die - not here, not like this.
Bellatrix clapped her hands, her laugh high and manic, reverberating around the room like the sound of a cracked bell. “Oh, how delightful! Doesn’t she scream so prettily? Keep going, Draco!”
Malfoy didn’t respond. His movements were smooth, measured, like a skilled artist at work, each stroke of the blade perfectly calculated. Hermione screamed again, her body trembling with each breath, her vision swimming in and out of focus. She didn’t know how much longer she could bear it. Her arms and legs twitched weakly, but it was as if the world was slipping away from her. The others were too enthralled by the performance to notice the faint sheen of sweat forming on Malfoy's brow or the way his jaw tightened imperceptibly.
Eventually, after what felt like an eternity, Bellatrix let out a frustrated sigh. She waved a dismissive hand, her voice dripping with disdain. “She’s no fun anymore. Weak little mudblood,” she sneered. “Come, we have much to celebrate tonight! Let the boys rot for a while. Draco, do finish up here and join us."
With a chorus of dark chuckles, the Death Eaters filed out of the room, their footsteps fading into the distance. Bellatrix was the last to leave, her gaze lingering on Hermione’s battered form for a brief moment before she disappeared down the corridor after them.
The room was silent now. The only sound was the labored breathing that came from Hermione, shallow and broken. Her body trembled, cold and soaked in sweat, as she tried to make sense of what had just happened.
Draco Malfoy slowly stood, wiping the blade clean on the hem of his robes. His back was to her, but she could feel his presence like a shadow in the room. She could barely summon the strength to speak, but when she did, her voice was little more than a hoarse whisper.
“Why?”
For a long moment, he didn’t answer. The silence stretched between them, heavy and suffocating, until he finally turned to face her. His expression was unreadable, the mask of indifference firmly in place.
“Because it had to be me.”
Hermione’s eyes, unfocused and fading, searched his face for any hint of emotion, but there was nothing there. Not even the mocking arrogance he had worn so proudly before. Nothing. Just the same emptiness she had come to expect.
He turned away without another word, his footsteps slow and deliberate as he made his way to the door. But as he reached for the handle, he paused, his back still to her. Then, so soft she might have imagined it altogether, he spoke again.
“Vulnera Sanentur.”
And then there was nothing.
The memory lingered, echoing in Hermione's mind as if the very air around her held it captive. She blinked herself back to the present, her surroundings slowly coming into focus. Her eyes fixed on her reflection in the bathroom mirror, tracing the pale scar that marred her forearm. It was a constant reminder of the war, of everything she had endured and nearly lost, and of that night in Malfoy Manor when her life had almost slipped away. The scar, faint but permanent, was the only proof she had left of the agony she had experienced - and survived. Her fingers hovered over the letters etched into her skin, absently running over the jagged line that marked the moment the world had tilted on its axis.
Eighth year.
The weight of those two words settled heavily over her, like a stone sinking in her chest. She had never imagined this year would be like this - so quiet, so fractured, and so full of ghosts. She inhaled sharply, as if trying to draw in something to steady herself. Her hands shook slightly as she splashed cold water on her face, hoping the icy sting would jolt her out of the tangled mess of memories. But no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t escape the truth that lingered beneath the surface: that night in Malfoy Manor had changed her forever.
She wasn’t the same person who had walked through these halls just a year ago, nor would she ever be. Despite the months that had passed since the Battle of Hogwarts, Hermione still felt as though she was clawing her way back to herself, piece by fragile piece. The laughter of her friends, the warmth of the common room, none of it could undo the weight of her memories. They followed her like shadows, constantly reminding her of all that she had witnessed, all that she had lost.
A soft knock at the door pulled her from her thoughts, snapping her back to the present.
“Hermione? Are you alright?” Ginny’s voice was muffled, but there was no mistaking the concern that threaded through the words.
Hermione cleared her throat, the tightness in her chest making it harder than usual to speak. She quickly wiped her hands on her robes before opening the door, forcing a smile as she faced Ginny. “I’m fine,” she said quickly, though the words didn’t sound as convincing as she’d hoped. The slight tremble in her voice betrayed her.
Ginny raised an eyebrow, her expression softening. “You’ve been in there for ages. We’re supposed to be meeting everyone in the common room for dinner.” She paused, her eyes studying Hermione with a knowing gaze. “It’s the first night back. No hiding.”
Hermione felt a lump form in her throat at the reminder. Ginny’s words stung because they were true. She had been hiding. Hiding from her past, from her memories, and from the people who were there to support her. She forced another smile, though it felt brittle on her face. “I’ll be right there.”
Ginny gave her a final, scrutinizing look before leading the way down the familiar spiral staircase to the Gryffindor common room. The noise from below grew louder as they descended, the buzz of students returning to Hogwarts filling the air. The room was alive with excitement, mingled with a palpable sense of nervousness. The same castle, the same stone walls, but everything felt different. It bore as many scars as they did, and perhaps it always would.
When they reached the common room, Ron and Harry were waiting by the fireplace. Their conversation halted as the girls approached, and Ron grinned.
“Took you long enough,” he teased, but there was warmth in his voice, a welcome comfort after all they’d been through. He slung an arm around Hermione’s shoulders as she joined them, pulling her into the circle. “Ready to face the Great Hall?” he asked, his voice light.
Hermione nodded, her stomach twisting into knots at the thought. The Great Hall was where they had celebrated victory, but it was also where the aftermath of the war had felt the most real. The last time they’d all been there, the air had been thick with smoke and ash, the banners charred and crumbling from the rafters. It felt like a lifetime ago. Now, she had to walk into that room and pretend that everything was normal. Pretend she wasn’t haunted by what had happened to her, to them all.
And then, of course, there was him.
Draco Malfoy. The name still sent a jolt of emotion through her chest, but she hadn’t spoken to him directly since the war. She had written that letter on his behalf - an appeal for clemency - but she wasn’t sure if they had even received it. His actions during the final battle had earned him some measure of leniency from the Ministry, though Narcissa had been a large part of that. She had defied Voldemort himself to protect Harry, and in doing so, she had helped secure her family’s freedom.
But Lucius Malfoy hadn’t been so fortunate. The elder Malfoy had been sentenced to life in Azkaban, his unwavering loyalty to the Dark Lord ensuring his punishment. Draco and Narcissa had been placed under house arrest, monitored closely by the Ministry.
Despite the constant reports in the Daily Prophet, Hermione hadn’t learned that Malfoy would be returning for eighth year until the announcement of the Hogwarts rebuilding initiative. The news had hit her like a shock to the system. She wasn’t sure how she felt about it, even now. But it was too late to turn back. She had to face him, had to navigate this new version of reality that seemed both familiar and utterly foreign.
As they entered the Great Hall, the flickering candles cast a warm glow over the room. The enchanted ceiling above mimicked the soft hues of a setting sun, as if to remind them that life was continuing, that the world had not ended even if it sometimes felt like it had. Hermione hesitated in the doorway, her eyes scanning the long tables. Her gaze landed on a familiar platinum blonde head bent in conversation with Pansy Parkinson.
He looked different. Older, sharper, as if the weight of the past year had carved itself into his features. His arrogance had softened, no longer the haughty sneer that once seemed to define him. Instead, there was something more subdued in his expression. He glanced up, his gray eyes locking onto hers from across the room.
For a moment, everything else in the hall seemed to fade away. The chatter, the movement, the hum of life around them all disappeared as Hermione held his gaze. There was no recognition in his eyes. No warmth, no hostility, just a cool, detached look that sent a chill down her spine. He looked at her as though she was nothing more than another face in the crowd, before turning his attention back to Pansy, as if the moment had never happened.
“Earth to Hermione,” Ginny’s voice broke through the silence, nudging her arm.
Hermione blinked, tearing her eyes away from Malfoy and forcing herself to smile, though it felt like she was carrying the weight of a thousand unspoken words on her shoulders. “Let’s eat,” she said, her voice sounding foreign in her own ears.
But as they sat down, Hermione couldn’t help herself. Her gaze slid back toward the Slytherin table, where Draco sat with the same quiet composure he’d worn that night in Malfoy Manor. And though she hated herself for it, a small part of her wondered if he ever thought about her scars as much as she thought about his silence.