Had to Try
Draco had spent the better part of the day cursing Hermione Granger. Her name burned on his tongue until every insult he could think of had been hurled into the oppressive silence. The empty barn soaked up his rage and gave him nothing in return.
The air was thick with the stench of hay and damp wood. His breath came in shallow draws, dragging the stale scent into his lungs.
He was utterly alone, and it was her fault.
Above him, the rafters creaked faintly.His wrists throbbed where the chains bit into his skin. The ropes pulled taut whenever he sagged, dragging his arms higher and twisting his shoulders until the pain lanced through his back.
The worst part wasn’t the damnable pain. It was the sheer audacity. That Granger, of all people, had done this. That she, with her insufferable and self-righteous holier-than-thou attitude, had kidnapped him and forcibly subjected him to her will.
She thought this was justice?
A bitter laugh escaped him, though it came out weak, and far too close to a sob for his liking. She’d probably written a bloody essay about it beforehand, complete with citations and footnotes, meticulously planning every humiliating detail before chaining him up like this. The thought of her sitting at some desk, quill in hand, smugly deciding how best to break him, made his stomach churn with fury.
It was so Granger. Always so certain, so convinced of her moral high ground, so sure that her way was the right way. As if that somehow made her better than him. As if it gave her the right to judge him.
Draco leaned his head back and closed his eyes. This barn was vile, beneath him in every conceivable way, and yet here he was, forced to endure it. Merlin, he didn’t even want to know what littered the floor around him.
His anger burned hot threatening to eat him alive, he reached for the magic buried in his blood. It was there, faint and slippery, teasing him with the promise of freedom. If he could just focus, he could break the chains, walk out of here, and make her regret ever laying a hand on him.
He pictured it, letting the fantasy sharpen in his mind. Granger’s smug little face crumbling into fear. The flash of regret in her wide brown eyes. The satisfying moment she realized she’d underestimated him.
The thought alone should have been enough to ignite the magic, but it wasn’t.
Draco sucked in a breath, tightening his fists, his nails digging into his palms. His body trembled with the effort of trying, willing the bindings to shatter, the ropes to snap. But no matter how hard he reached, the magic slipped further from his grasp. It was there, he could feel it, just beyond his reach, but it refused to obey.
The chains didn’t budge.
He let out a strangled cry, part frustration, part despair.
As the hours went by a thought crept in, unbidden, and it clawed at the edges of his mind no matter how hard he tried to push it away.
What if she was right?
The anger flared again, sharper this time.
No.
She wasn’t right.
She couldn’t be.
And yet, the chains held firm.
Wandless magic was not going to save him. At least not right now. He hadn't needed to use it since he was a toddler.
No. If he wanted out of these chains he had to play her sick game.
That damned name.
He dragged his mind back to her “history Lesson”.
Draco had heard the tale before, of course. It was Malfoy lore but the name of the wizard who led the rebellion had been insignificant to him even as a child. All that mattered was that he had suffered for having the gall to challenge his ancestors authority.
The Malfoys hadn’t even granted him the privilege of a quick death.
They had thought up something particularly twisted. The wizard who led the rebellion was stripped of his wand, naked, bound, and tethered to a stone altar for all to see.
Enchanted blades were used. Every cut designed not just to maim but to siphon his magic, to bleed him dry in slow, excruciating slashes. The ritual had stretched on for hours, the pain so drawn out it must have felt eternal. The poor buggers magic had seeped into the earth beneath him, the ultimate sacrifice, until finally, his heart had stopped.
He remembered the smugness in which his father had told the story. He’d framed it as a necessary example.
Gods above what was that damned name.
“Har… Harleep…“No. Harkman”
His teeth clenched as it came into focus.
“Harleck. His name was Harleck!” he shouted.
A few moments later the barn doors creaked open, and Hermione entered, the morning light casting her in a halo of icy brightness. She was a vision of calm authority, her gaze steady as it fell upon him.
"Harleck," Draco rasped, barely able to form the words. "Please... for Merlin’s sake... untie me."
Hermione stopped, her eyes cool as they surveyed him. A faint, unreadable smile played on her lips, her fingers lightly tracing the necklace she wore. She stepped closer, her hand stroking his head. LIghtly playing with his platinum hair. He didn't pull away.
“Good Boy”. Hermione waved her wand and Draco dropped to the ground. His hands immediately bound together with unseen magical ropes.
Hermione waved her wand, and a small bowl appeared before him, steam curling invitingly from its surface. The rich scent of chicken broth filled the air, tantalizing and cruel. Draco’s stomach growled audibly, a humiliating reminder that he hadn’t eaten since. Merlin…how long had it been? Days? A week? The ache in his belly felt endless.
He reached for the bowl instinctively, desperate to claim it, but her fingers tightened in his hair, turning vicious.
A sharp yank wrenched his head back, and pain shot through his scalp. He hissed, his instincts screaming at him to shove her away, to strike back, but he stopped himself, jaw clenched.
Rebellion now wouldn’t fill his belly.
“We do not grab like a greedy pureblood,” Hermione said, her tone laced with cold authority. She twisted his head sharply, forcing his gaze up to meet hers. The pressure on his scalp was unbearable, her grip as unyielding as steel. “You will be polite. Respectful. Say thank you.”
Her eyes bore into his, and for a moment, he thought she might rip the hair from his head just to make a point. He swallowed hard, his throat dry and tight. His neck was fully exposed in this position, leaving him vulnerable in a way that made his stomach churn.
“May I eat?” he asked hoarsely, each word scraped from his pride.
Hermione smiled, but there was no warmth in it, only satisfaction. “You may, pet.”
She released him, and his hand shot to his head, rubbing at the stinging pain she’d left behind. He bit back a scathing remark, choosing instead to shuffle closer to the bowl. The cold wood scraped beneath him, but he barely noticed as he picked up the bowl with shaking hands.
The heat of it against his fingers was intoxicating. Greedily, he lifted it to his lips and drank. He didn’t bother to blow on it, letting the scalding liquid burn his throat as he swallowed in great, gulping mouthfuls. The warmth spread through his body, momentarily dulling the ache in his stomach, and before he knew it, the bowl was empty.
He caught himself just before licking the rim, his pride snapping him back from the brink. He wasn’t an animal. He wouldn’t degrade himself further in front of her.
Draco set the bowl down carefully, swallowing the last remnants of broth still on his tongue. He sat up straighter, fixing her with a cold glare, though the effect was ruined by his exhaustion.
“Thank you,” he said stiffly.
Hermione’s expression didn’t shift, but the glint in her eyes told him she was savoring every moment of his humiliation.
When he finally got out of here she would know true humiliation unlike anything the Malfoy history books had ever written.
Hermione began to unbutton her coat. She slipped it off slowly, revealing a long-sleeved black sweater with a plunging V neckline that accentuated her figure. The fabric clung perfectly, and the deep purple leather skirt she wore hugged her waist, highlighting the sharp contrast. That same silver necklace dangled just above her chest. It was impossible not to notice the way her corset beneath pushed her breasts up.
Draco’s gaze lingered for a fraction too long before he yanked his eyes away, his jaw tightening. He refused to finish that thought. He wouldn’t give her the satisfaction.
“How long are you going to keep me here?” he asked.
“So eager to return to your privilege, are we?....Tell me, Draco. Is this the first time you’ve ever felt true hunger? I imagine, with a servant always at your fingertips, you’ve never known suffering a day in your life.”
“So I’m to be punished for being lucky, then?” he snapped.
Her expression hardened, the faint smirk vanishing. “It isn’t luck,” she said coldly. “It’s systematic oppression that bought you your privilege. Built on the backs of others”.
She let the words hang in the air for a moment, then added, “Which brings us to lesson number two.”
Draco’s stomach sank.
“Are you ready to learn my little pureblood?”
“If I say no?”
Hermione’s eyes narrowed.
“Do you need another demonstration of what a lack of compliance looks like?”
His throat tightened, and he shook his head quickly, the memory of her earlier "demonstration" fresh in his mind.
“I’ve been pondering the same question over and over again. How best to combat a lifetime of privilege?”
“You’ve been raised practically as a boy king. Everything handed to you, every mistake smoothed over by your family name. You’ve never been denied anything. You’ve never known what it means to suffer.”
He didn’t like where this was going.
“But suffering, Draco. Hunger, thirst, pain, humiliation; these are the lessons you’ve avoided your entire life. They’re the ones that teach empathy, and I’m afraid you’ve got none.”
“You think my life’s been nothing but fairy wine and roses. Spare me your sanctimonious preaching, Granger. You have no idea what I’ve been through.” Draco snapped angrily.
“Oh, I’m sure you’ve had your struggles, Draco. But can you honestly tell me the Malfoy name hasn't cushioned every fall, excused every failure?
Draco opened his mouth, ready to spit another retort, but the words died in his throat.
How many times had his name or his wealth swept consequences aside? How many times had he walked away from something that should have ruined him?
He hated that self-righteous gleam in her eye, acting like she understood his life.
And yet, he couldn’t tell her she was wrong. Because deep down, he wasn’t sure she was.
“I think a practical lesson will be a good place to start”.
Draco’s stomach twisted.
Hermione raised her wand and the barn doors flew further open letting in a flood of cold winter sunlight that stung his eyes.
“Follow me,”
Draco didn’t need to be told twice. Anything was better than the barn. He struggled to his feet, his hands still bound, and followed her out into the cold.
The property was vast, sprawling out in every direction with no clear boundaries. To his right stood the main house, its white clapboard siding weathered with age.The brown shutters, slightly uneven on their hinges, and the sloping roof gave it a sense of history.
The porch stretched wide across the front of the house, its simple wooden columns standing unassuming and sturdy. To anyone else, it might have made for a quaint picture but Draco’s senses caught the faint hum of spellwork reinforcing the structure. Wards clung to the place, subtle and well-crafted.
The land around him was equally plain, a fenced-in field bordered by frost-covered grass that crunched under his boots. The hedgerows and bare trees seemed to hibernate in the cold, their skeletal branches reaching upwards toward the overcast morning sky.
Just shy of the tree line stood a woodshed, its cedar walls weathered and sturdy. Nearby, a stump anchored the scene, an axe embedded deep in its weathered grain.
Neatly stacked logs surrounded it, their rough surfaces freshly split.
There were no other visible buildings, but that didn’t mean much. A Disillusionment Charm or a carefully placed Obscurus Spell could hide entire wings of a house, even entire properties, with ease. He glanced around, trying to sense anything more, but the wards on the house seemed designed to hide further probing.
This place was nothing like Malfoy Manor. No grandeur, no polish. Just raw, functional efficiency. Designed with only one purpose…. To break him…
And right now, his captor was several steps ahead, her back turned to him.
Draco’s instincts screamed at him to run. He was a Quidditch player, after all, his body was built for speed, agility, precision. He was in good shape, and he knew how to maneuver under pressure. Could he outrun her wand?
He stopped mid-stride. Anything had to be better than sticking around for whatever twisted lesson she had in store for him today.
“Try it,” she said, turning around.“I dare you.”
Her voice was steady, her eyes fixed. She stood about ten feet away, her wand still in her hand, the picture of confidence.
Draco’s muscles tensed. He was good at dodging spells thanks to years of practice with his father. His instincts screamed at him to rise to her challenge.
But he resisted.
His back ached from the recent whipping she’d given him. He was cold, still hungry, and her unwavering gaze told him everything he needed to know: she wasn’t overconfident.
She was prepared.
With a quiet growl of frustration, he shook his head and closed the distance between them, falling into step behind her as she walked past the pen toward the woodshed.
“There are wards all over this place,” she said without looking back. “You could run for miles and end up right back where you started.”
Draco’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing.
“Though the wards,” she added with a faint smirk, “are the least of your worries if you try to run. Perhaps I’ll let you find that out for yourself, should you be foolish enough to test me.”
“Now onto your lesson,” Hermione said as they approached the shed.
I imagine you’ve never had to work a day in your life. Today we change that.”
Draco’s brow furrowed as she gestured toward the woodshed.
“That axe is going to be your new best friend. You’re going to strip these logs and split them bare. When you’ve made a pile worthy of a true day’s work, I’ll let you build a fire to get warm.”
He stared at her like she’d lost her mind. “I’m a wizard, and you want me to chop wood like a… like a…”
“I wouldn’t finish that sentence if I were you,” Hermione interrupted.
She flicked her wand, conjuring a sharp stone and a handful of dry twigs at his feet.
“You’ll need these,” she said with a smirk.
Draco picked up the rock with his bound hands and held it up like it was cursed. “What the hell is this?”
“Flint, Malfoy.”
“I’m supposed to make fire from a rock?”
The corner of Hermione’s mouth twitched, like she was holding back a laugh. “Figure it out. Or don’t. Either way, you’re not stopping until I’m satisfied.”
She flicked her wand again, and the ropes binding his wrists vanished.
Draco grabbed the axe, his fingers tightening around the handle as he brought it up. For a brief moment, he imagined turning it on her, slicing through her smug expression, the ridges tearing through her pale skin.
But instead, he swung it down on the nearest log. It splintered poorly, the blade catching halfway through.
Hermione smirked. “Good luck,” she said with a soft laugh.
Then, with a sharp crack, she Apparated away, leaving him alone and unbound for the first time since being kidnapped.
The second she left, Draco reassessed his surroundings. He had to get out of here. She was completely off her rocker.
He grabbed the axe and stepped away from the woodshed. A few cautious steps turned into a few more. He looked around, half-expecting something to stop him. Nothing happened.
“Fuck it,” he muttered, gripping the axe tighter.
He ran. The axe felt solid in his hand though he wished he had his wand. Still it was better than nothing.
He sprinted across the frosty ground, his breaths harsh in the cold air, the farmhouse shrinking behind him. A quick mile, then another. His muscles ached, but adrenaline and the promise of freedom pushed him forward.
Finally, the farm was out of sight. Relief hit him until it drained away just as quickly. The farmhouse reappeared, dead ahead, exactly where it shouldn’t be.
“Dammit!” he hissed, skidding to a stop. A classic Confundo ward. Of course.
Luckily, his father had taught him how to handle this sort of thing. A Malfoy couldn't be bested through trivial magical tricks.
This time, when he ran, he shut his eyes. He forced himself to turn off his senses-no looking, no listening, no giving in to the instincts that wanted him to peek. Just moving forward.
It was hard, resisting the pull to check his path, but after what felt like an eternity, the ground beneath him changed.
The frosty grass gave way to uneven earth, twigs snapping underfoot. Draco opened his eyes. A forest stretched out in front of him.
“Finally,” he muttered, adjusting his grip on the axe.
He stepped inside cautiously. Immediately, a piercing scream erupted around him, sharp and shrill. Draco recoiled, jumping back out of the forest’s edge. The screaming stopped as suddenly as it had started.
“Bloody hell?” he muttered. He couldn’t think of what would make a forest scream like that. An alarm ward, maybe? Something worse?
Either way, he couldn’t afford to wait. If he was going to escape Granger he needed to commit.
Draco crouched briefly into a runner’s lunge, then bolted. The moment he reentered the forest, the screaming returned, louder and more frenzied, echoing around him as he pushed forward. He didn’t bother trying to be quiet, dead branches snapping underfoot with every hurried step. His focus was singular: keep moving.
He pushed harder, muscles burning as his body protested, but he didn’t let up. Escape was all that mattered.
Suddenly, the screaming stopped.
Draco’s head whipped around as he ran, glancing over his shoulder as he heard twigs snapping….
And then----THUD
The collision knocked the air from his lungs, his shoulder crunching painfully as he was thrown back. It felt like running into a wall, solid and immovable. Staggering, he dropped the axe and clutched his shoulder, his breath ragged.
He looked up, blinking against the pain.
And froze.
Before him was a creature with a hulking mass of rough, stone-like hide, rising and falling with heavy breaths. Two sharp, curved horns jutted from its head, glinting a surprising orangish color. Its yellow eyes narrowed.
“Graphorn,” Draco said in shock. He’d seen sketches of them in his Care of Magical Creatures textbook, but they hadn’t done justice to the beast's massive size.
He shifted slightly and the Graphorn snorted, the sound low and rumbling, as if testing his intentions.
Draco froze, every instinct screaming at him not to move. Graphorns weren’t known to attack without cause, but they were fiercely territorial. One wrong step, and those horns would do more than bruise his shoulder.
He tried to think. He still had the axe nearby, but that would be suicide. Magic? His wand was gone. His mind raced for anything he could remember about Graphorns. Respect.
Show submission.
He flashed back to his interaction with that damned hippogriff years ago. He didn't want a repeat of that incident.
Slowly, he lowered himself, trying to appear as non-threatening as possible. “I don’t want trouble, I just need to get away from a psychotic witch”.
The Graphorn snorted again, its massive hoof pawing the ground.
Slowly. Very slowly. Draco moved to retrieve the axe where it had fallen, but the Graphorn lowered its massive horns. He froze, hands hovering in the air, and quickly abandoned the idea.
There had to be a way around it.
He took a cautious step to the side, testing the creature’s reaction, but the Graphorn pawed at the ground, its irritation growing. A low rumble escaped its throat, and Draco immediately began to back up, keeping his posture as non-threatening as possible.
It followed.
Draco’s breath hitched as the creature advanced, herding him out of the forest with slow, deliberate steps. He tried to hold its gaze respectfully, his heart pounding as he moved backward. But with each step, dread coiled tighter in his chest.
When he finally glanced behind him, his stomach dropped. The woodshed loomed just a few meters away.
“Dammit!” he yelled, his frustration boiling over.
The shout startled the Graphorn, and it let out a low, sharp bellow, stamping one of its massive hooves. Panicked, Draco turned and made a break for it. He sprinted toward the woodshed, the sound of his pounding boots drowning out everything else.
When he finally glanced over his shoulder, the Graphorn was gone, having disappeared back into the forest as suddenly as it had appeared.
He collapsed onto the axe stump, gasping for breath, his shoulder throbbing painfully. His hands were trembling, and the realization hit him like a second blow: he’d lost the axe.
“Goddsdamnit,” he muttered miserably, dropping his head into his hands. His escape attempt had been a disaster, and now, there was no doubt she’d know he’d tried to run.
He dreaded whatever twisted punishment she would have planned for him next.
Dragging himself to his feet, he shuffled to the woodshed, hoping to find another axe. But there wasn’t one. The shed was empty save a few other farm tools.
Defeated, he stood in the doorframe, his head leaning on the rough wood as he waited.
It didn’t take long. A few minutes later, with a sharp crack Hermione appeared before him.
“What exactly have you been up to, Draco?” Hermione asked, her voice deceptively calm as she surveyed the empty stump and the untouched pile of logs.
“I don’t see a single log cut. And where, might I ask, is your axe?”
Her lips curved into a faint smirk. She was mocking him. She knew.
“Just get it over with,” Draco muttered, slumping back against the stoop.
“Excuse me?” Her tone sharpened.
“My punishment,” he bit out. “Get it over with.”
Hermione’s smirk deepened. “And what exactly would I be punishing you for?”
He clenched his jaw, his teeth grinding together. He hated this game. The way she dragged it out, forcing him to spell it out like a child caught sneaking sweets.
“Cut the bullshit, Granger. You know I tried to run,” he snapped, his frustration boiling over. “Does it feel good? Proving, yet again, that you’re the smartest person in the room?”
“Yes, it does, actually.“Though not nearly as much as I enjoyed watching you meet my little pet. How did you like him?”
“The Graphorn is your pet?”
“Oh yes,” Hermione said lightly, brushing a strand of hair back. “He’s a very loyal beast. Unlike you, who doesn’t deserve the freedom I so graciously gifted you.”
She lifted her wand. Draco flinched, his shoulder screaming in protest at the movement.
With a soft pop, the shirt he was wearing vanished, leaving his skin exposed to the biting air.
“You’re injured,” Hermione said.
“What do you care?” he snapped.
“You’re under my charge while you’re here,” she replied in a firm tone.
“That makes you my responsibility.”
She gestured toward the stump. “Sit.”
Reluctantly, he lowered himself onto the cold wood, the ache in his shoulder making the movement slow and deliberate.
Hermione stepped behind him. Draco turned his head slightly, just enough to watch her out of the corner of his eye as she worked. Her wand glowed faintly as she traced small, deliberate motions in the air, murmuring spells he couldn’t quite hear. The ache in his shoulder began to lift, the sharp pain fading away.
Minutes later, the cartilage had healed, and he rolled his shoulder experimentally. No pain. Not even a twinge. She’d even erased the marks left by her last whipping.
Her hand rested on his bare skin, lingering at the base of his neck. The warmth of her touch was soothing and for the first time since he’d arrived, the constant discomfort and tension in his body were gone.
“You shouldn’t have run,” she said softly, her voice close to his ear.
“Did you really think you’d escape?”
He hunched his shoulders, his gaze on the ground shaking his head.
“But you had to try, didn’t you?” she continued, her fingers brushing lightly against his back, sending a shiver down his spine. Anything less and it would have bruised that pride of yours I imagine……
“Well, you tried….And failed. As you were always going to.”
Draco swallowed hard, a lump forming in his throat. He felt a sob rising through his chest yet again but forced it down.
“Are you ready to be a good boy and complete your lesson?” she asked, her tone maddeningly gentle.
Her hand remained on his back, the warmth seeping into his goose-pimpled skin. He leaned into her touch, his body betraying him in ways he couldn’t control.
“Finish your task,” she murmured, brushing his shoulder lightly before stepping back. “And tonight, we’ll talk about punishment.”
He nodded, he didn't trust himself to speak.
The axe reappeared at his feet with a flick of her wand. He stared at it for a moment, then picked it up without a word and turned back to the logs.
The rhythmic sound of chopping filled the air as he worked, her gaze heavy on his back, the ghost of her touch lingering far longer than he’d like to admit.