Days blurred into nights, time losing all meaning in the wake of overwhelming grief. Hermione remained anchored by Ginny's side, their shared silence a language only those who had wandered through the depths of sorrow could understand. Meals were left untouched, conversations were sparse, and the nights stretched endlessly, filled with quiet sobs and the ghosts of what once was. The world outside moved on, indifferent to their pain, but within their shared bubble of loss, time stood still.
Blaise arrived like an unexpected balm, his usual sharp wit dulled by the weight of tragedy. He didn't offer empty reassurances, didn't spew meaningless condolences—he simply was. A steady, grounding presence in the storm. His arms wrapped around Ginny when her sobs became too much to bear, his voice a low murmur when the silence grew unbearable. He didn't demand words or explanations; he simply sat with her, holding the pieces of her together when she couldn't do it herself.
Hermione clung to logic, finding solace in doing. She helped Ginny sort through the remnants of a life stolen too soon—clothes, photographs, half-written letters filled with promises that would never be fulfilled. She made lists, planned errands, forced Ginny to take sips of water, bites of food. Functionality was the only thing keeping her from unraveling.
But the weight in her chest was different. It wasn't just grief—it was guilt.
Because while Ginny mourned Ron, Hermione carried the unbearable truth of what had really happened.
Draco had done this.
And every time Blaise looked at her, every time Ginny curled up against his chest for comfort, the guilt constricted around Hermione's throat like a vice.
Blaise was warm and kind, offering Ginny a softness she desperately needed. But all Hermione saw was a cruel irony—he comforted her for a loss his own best friend had orchestrated.
The walls of the cottage closed in on her, the air thick with secrets. The truth sat on her tongue, a razor-sharp confession threatening to slice through the fragile peace they had built. But she couldn't bring herself to say it.
What would happen if Ginny knew?
If she found out that the man Hermione loved had burned her brother alive?
Would Ginny crumble beneath the weight of another betrayal? Would Blaise, once a steady force of strength, turn his back on her? Would everything she had left—this semblance of a family—fall apart, leaving her stranded in the wreckage of her own silence?
Draco's possessiveness had long been a fire simmering beneath the surface. But now? Now it had consumed everything.
And Hermione was standing at the edge, staring into the flames, knowing she had to choose—truth or survival.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The air in the dimly lit kitchen grew suffocating, thick with the weight of unsaid words. The only sound was the faint crackling of the fire in the other room, its dying embers casting restless shadows along the walls. Hermione felt the tremor in her own breath as she forced the words out, her voice brittle but unwavering.
"I know what you and Draco did."
The statement hung between them, heavy as a guillotine poised to fall.
Blaise didn't flinch. His expression remained eerily composed, save for the slight tightening of his jaw. Not surprise. Not denial. Just silence.
The confirmation was there, in the way his fingers curled into the countertop, in the careful control of his breathing.
When he finally spoke, his voice was low, almost contemplative. "Do you?"
Hermione's hands clenched into fists at her sides. "I know Draco was behind it. I know you helped him. You set Ron's house on fire. You killed them." Her voice cracked, her throat constricting around the weight of the accusation.
Blaise exhaled slowly, tipping his head back as if contemplating the ceiling, as if searching for a reaction that would be appropriate. But what was the appropriate response when faced with a truth so damning?
He didn't bother denying it.
Instead, he turned fully, stepping closer, his presence looming. "And what exactly do you plan to do with this knowledge, Granger?" His voice was smooth—too smooth. It lacked remorse, lacked even the illusion of guilt.
The room seemed to shrink around them, the silence thick and suffocating in the wake of her words. The flickering light from the fireplace cast long, jagged shadows across Blaise's face, sharpening the edges of his already unreadable expression.
For a moment, Hermione thought she had struck a nerve.
Blaise exhaled through his nose, his lips pressing into a thin line before he spoke, voice measured but laced with something colder beneath the surface. "You think this is black and white, Granger? That you can weigh morality on a fucking scale and determine who's righteous and who's damned?"
His words cut through the space between them, sharp as a blade. "Let me tell you something about 'protecting your loved ones.' It's ugly. It's messy. It's doing things you never thought yourself capable of, making choices that will haunt you every time you close your eyes." He took a deliberate step toward her, his presence an imposing force of restrained fury. "And it's knowing, without a shadow of a doubt, that you'd do it all over again if it meant keeping them safe."
Hermione refused to step back, even as her pulse hammered against her ribs. "Safe?" she echoed, her voice tight. "Ginny doesn't feel safe. She feels shattered. You claim to love her, but what do you think will happen when she finds out the truth? When she realizes you and Draco have destroyed the very people she was meant to call family?"
A muscle in Blaise's jaw twitched. "She won't find out."
Hermione let out a short, humorless laugh, the sound brittle and exhausted. "You really believe that? You really think she won't start putting the pieces together? Ginny is grieving, Blaise, not blind."
His dark eyes flashed dangerously. "She doesn't need to know."
"But I know." Hermione's voice was barely above a whisper, but it carried the weight of a thousand screams. "And I have to live with it."
Blaise studied her for a long moment, something unreadable passing over his face. Then, slowly, he exhaled and leaned back against the counter, arms crossing over his chest again—not in defense this time, but in calculation.
"Tell me something, Hermione," he murmured, his voice softer now, more insidious. "Did you really come here to make accusations? To condemn me? Or did you come here looking for absolution?"
She stiffened.
"You love him." The way he said it wasn't a question, but a certainty, a quiet, devastating truth laid bare. "And a part of you—no matter how much you fight it—understands exactly why he did it."
The breath hitched in her throat.
"You don't want justice," Blaise continued, watching her with an unnerving calm. "You want reassurance. You want me to tell you that this wasn't your fault. That you're still a good person, despite the blood on Draco's hands." He tilted his head, his smirk slow and knowing. "Tell me, Granger, when you close your eyes at night, do you see the fire? Or do you see him, standing in its glow, waiting for you?"
Her stomach twisted violently, nausea rising in her throat. Because she did see him. She saw Draco in the fire. And she didn't know if he was the arsonist… or the salvation.
Blaise's smirk deepened, as if he'd read every unspoken thought that had just crashed through her mind.
"That's what I thought."
Hermione shook her head, stepping back, needing distance, needing air. "This isn't who I am," she whispered, more to herself than to him.
Blaise merely shrugged. "Maybe not." He reached for a glass of firewhiskey on the counter, swirling it lazily before taking a slow sip. "But it's who you've chosen."
Her breath caught, her whole body tensing at the implication.
"And that's the real question, isn't it, Granger?" He set the glass down, his gaze locking onto hers, dark and unwavering. "Now that you know what he's capable of… now that you know what I'm capable of…" A pause. "What are you going to do?"
Hermione opened her mouth, but no words came.
Because she didn't know the answer.
And that terrified her more than anything else.
The mask of Blaise Zabini—a man of effortless charm and unshakable composure—cracked, just for a fleeting moment. His voice, usually smooth and polished like cut obsidian, hitched with something rawer, something less certain.
"The Malfoys are my family, Granger," he admitted, and for the first time, it wasn't just a statement—it was a confession. A shadow passed over his face, sharpening the edges of his carefully crafted mask, deepening the lines of a burden he rarely let show.
"And in this twisted world," he continued, his voice quieter, heavier, "that includes you—by marriage, by circumstance, by the choices you keep making." His gaze locked onto hers, dark and unwavering, daring her to refute what they both knew to be true. "You're woven into this, Hermione. Whether you like it or not."
Her fury flared in response, bright and unrelenting. "We are not some cold-blooded mafia bound by blood oaths, Blaise!" The words tore from her throat, sharp and shaking. "This isn't about ancient alliances and blind loyalty! We were supposed to be different. Better. We fought to break cycles, not to become them!"
But even as she spoke, her voice wavered—because deep down, a sickening thought clawed at her. Had she already crossed too many lines to turn back?
Blaise tilted his head, observing her with a knowing smirk—one devoid of warmth, heavy with something colder. "Easy, fiery one," he murmured, voice smooth but laced with dark amusement. "You say that, but tell me… how many lines have you already blurred for Draco?"
The words struck her like a curse, and he knew it.
He pushed off the counter, stepping closer, his presence imposing but eerily calm. "You may not want to hear this, but listen carefully." His voice dipped, each syllable deliberate, wrapping around her like a vice. "You bear the Malfoy name now. You stand in the heart of the Sacred 28, tangled in bloodlines and legacies that don't forgive or forget." He exhaled, his gaze unwavering. "And no matter how much you fight it, mia cara, this world doesn't release its own."
She swallowed hard, her pulse roaring in her ears.
Blaise's smirk returned, cruel and knowing. "So tell me, Granger," he murmured, his voice a silk-wrapped blade. "Are you truly here to lecture me on morality? Or are you just desperate to convince yourself that you still have any left?"
The silence that followed was deafening.
Blaise arched an eyebrow, amusement flickering behind his dark eyes. "Speaking of Draco," he murmured, his voice smooth, deliberate—a caress laced with something sharper. "What's his public persona these days?"
Hermione hesitated, the weight of his gaze pressing down on her. "He, uh..." she began, cursing herself for the uncharacteristic stammer, "runs a potions supply company across Europe, I believe." The words felt feeble, as if saying them aloud might make them more true.
Blaise exhaled a slow, knowing chuckle, the sound both amused and pitying. "Ah, Granger," he drawled, swirling his wine lazily, "such a neat little fairytale you've woven for yourself." His smirk widened, razor-sharp. "Draco Malfoy, the respectable businessman. A reformed man, washed clean of his past." He leaned in slightly, voice dipping into something almost conspiratorial. "Tell me, do you actually believe that?"
A chill crawled down Hermione's spine, her fingers clenching around the edge of the countertop. "What are you implying?" she asked, forcing steel into her voice, though the tremor in her hands betrayed her unease.
Blaise's smirk darkened. "That potions trade is a well-manicured front," he said smoothly, his gaze gleaming with quiet menace. "A smokescreen for far more lucrative ventures." He lifted his glass, taking a leisurely sip before continuing. "The Malfoy fortune was never built on something as mundane as cauldrons and dragon liver, Granger. It thrives in the kind of shadows that swallow people whole."
She felt her stomach twist, an icy realization settling over her. "You're wrong," she said, but even to her own ears, it sounded more like a plea than a statement.
Blaise hummed in amusement, tilting his head. "Am I?" He took a step closer, his voice dropping to a silken whisper. "Draco has become a force to be reckoned with since our Hogwarts days. The wand he wields in a boardroom is a far cry from the one he uses for..." He trailed off, letting the weight of his silence speak volumes.
The words lodged in her throat, her heart hammering against her ribs. The careful illusion she had clung to—the idea that Draco had left his past behind, that he was merely a businessman and a husband—began to crack, fissures spiderwebbing through the carefully constructed lie.
She wanted to deny it. Wanted to tell Blaise he was wrong, that Draco had changed. But deep down, in the space she rarely dared to acknowledge, she knew the truth.
Draco Malfoy was no ordinary businessman.
And she had been foolish to ever believe otherwise.
Blaise's gaze bore into hers, the silence between them stretched taut, heavy with something unspoken yet undeniable. "You're intelligent, Granger," he murmured at last, his voice deceptively gentle, almost pitying. "But don't let your love for him blind you to reality. The Draco you know is not the Draco the rest of the world kneels before."
A cold dread slithered through her veins, an invisible vice tightening around her chest. The Draco she knew. The man who brought her tea in the mornings, who held her close in the dead of night, who whispered confessions against her skin like prayers. The same man who, according to Blaise, lurked in the shadows, spinning a web of power and destruction beneath the façade of a businessman.
Her voice was barely a breath when she finally spoke. "To do what?"
The weight of the truth pressed down on her like an iron shroud, suffocating. She had thought it was love—twisted, complicated, but love nonetheless. But this? This was something else entirely. Something colder. Something calculated.
Blaise's expression hardened, his usual lazy smirk absent, replaced with something unreadable—something dangerously close to pity. "To control," he said, each syllable landing like a hammer strike. "To eliminate. To build an empire. Draco isn't playing house, Granger. He's playing kings and conquerors."
The breath caught in her throat, her pulse roaring in her ears.
Blaise took a deliberate step forward, his dark eyes gleaming in the dim light, his voice a quiet, silken threat. "He's a predator in a bespoke suit, a wolf with a silver spoon. And you, my dear principessa," he murmured, tilting his head slightly, watching the realization dawn in her eyes, "are no longer just his lover. You're a queen on his board. And he will set fire to the whole damn town if it means keeping you in checkmate."
Hermione trembled, not from fear of Blaise, but from the awful, inevitable truth unraveling before her. The man she loved, the man she swore she understood, was not just a reformed aristocrat trying to carve a life away from his past.
No.
This Draco—the one Blaise spoke of—was something else entirely.
Ruthless. Calculating. Unstoppable.
And she had been a fool to think she could ever change him.
Hermione's nails bit into her palms, her hands clenching into trembling fists. "You burned down a house with people inside, Blaise. You make threats, you manipulate. What else would you call it?"
Blaise didn't so much as blink. "I call it survival," he said, his voice as sharp and unyielding as a blade. "You can stand on your moral high ground all you like, Granger, but the world we live in doesn't reward righteousness. It rewards power. Strength. The ability to protect what's yours before someone else takes it."
Her breath hitched, the weight of his words pressing down on her. "And that justifies everything? The lies, the violence, the destruction?"
Blaise's eyes darkened, his expression unreadable. "In this world? Yes." There was no hesitation, no remorse, only certainty. "Because if we don't do what needs to be done, someone else will. And trust me, they won't be nearly as merciful."
Hermione let out a sharp, bitter laugh, the sound foreign even to her own ears. "Merciful?" she echoed, her voice laced with disbelief. "You call what you and Draco do merciful?"
Blaise exhaled through his nose, his patience waning. "Compared to what others would do, yes," he said, his voice a low, dangerous whisper. "We're not saints, Granger, but we're not monsters either. We do what needs to be done to keep our world intact. And sometimes, that means making choices you can't even begin to understand."
"No, Blaise." Her voice was sharp now, cutting through the charged silence like a blade. "This is about power. This is about control. Draco isn't protecting anything—he's ruling it. And you? You stand by and call it loyalty."
A flicker of something—guilt, perhaps—crossed his features, but it was gone as quickly as it came. "This is the world we live in, Granger," he said, his tone measured, edged with something almost tired. "A world where lines blur and allegiances run deeper than blood. We make choices—impossible choices—to protect those we hold dear."
"By burning people alive?" she spat, her voice rising with fury. "That's your idea of protection?"
His jaw tightened, the weight of her accusation crackling between them like an unspoken curse. She saw it then, the ghost of doubt flickering in his expression. He couldn't justify the act, not really. But he wouldn't condemn it either. Loyalty—that unbreakable, suffocating bond of the Malfoys and their circle—was too deeply ingrained.
"Draco does what he believes is necessary," Blaise finally said, his voice quieter, heavier. "His methods may be ruthless, but his purpose is not without reason."
"Draco's purpose is control," she countered, her breath coming in short, ragged bursts. "He's built an empire of fear and intimidation, and you expect me to just accept it?"
The words tasted like acid on her tongue. Blaise didn't answer right away, and in that silence, she felt the weight of inevitability pressing down on her like a crushing force.
Her shoulders sagged, exhaustion overtaking anger. "This isn't the world I wanted," she whispered, her voice raw with disillusionment. "This isn't the life I wanted."
For the first time, Blaise hesitated. A flicker of something softer, something almost regretful, passed through his gaze. But it wasn't enough. "We don't always get to choose the world we live in, Granger," he said, his voice quieter now, almost—almost—gentle. "The choices we make, the allegiances we forge… they shape us in ways we never intended. But one thing never changes."
His gaze bore into hers, unwavering. "We protect our own. No matter the cost."
The air between them felt suffocating, thick with unsaid words and the weight of a reality Hermione had refused to acknowledge for far too long. The dim glow of the kitchen light barely touched the depth of the shadows lingering in Blaise's eyes, nor did it soften the brutal truth pressing between them.
"And what about Ginny?" Hermione's voice wavered, raw with grief. "Does she know what you've done? What you've become?"
Blaise's jaw tightened, his usual smooth composure hardening into something unyielding. "She knows nothing," he admitted, his voice quiet but firm. "And I intend to keep it that way. It's our job to protect the ones we love, even if it means getting our hands dirty."
Hermione exhaled sharply, a bitter laugh escaping her lips before she could stop it. "Protect?" she echoed, shaking her head. "You killed her brother, Blaise. You burned him alive in his own home. There is no universe where she will ever forgive you."
Blaise didn't flinch. "I know," he said simply. "But I would do it again."
Tears welled up in Hermione's eyes, spilling over before she could blink them away. "Why?" she whispered, her voice breaking under the weight of it all. "Why would you do something so—so irreversible?"
His expression didn't waver, but there was a flicker of something in his gaze—something unreadable, something almost resigned. "Because he deserved it." The words were final, spoken without hesitation. "We kept tabs on him for months, Granger. Every move, every interaction. He wasn't subtle—not with you. He locked you in rooms. He controlled you. That wasn't love, and you know it."
Shame and fury warred within her, leaving Hermione feeling utterly exposed. Shame for never telling Draco what had happened, for pretending she could handle it alone. Fury at Blaise, at Draco, at all of them for making choices on her behalf, for deciding that vengeance was love.
She struggled to hold onto the memories—the good ones, the ones that still made Ron feel like someone worth mourning. But they were slipping away, scorched by the fire that had swallowed his house and the truth that had finally burned through her carefully constructed denial.
"But you didn't say anything," she choked out, her voice barely above a whisper.
Blaise let out a slow, measured breath, the weight of unspoken things pressing against his shoulders. "It wasn't my place," he admitted, the edges of his voice rough, jagged. "There are rules in our world, Granger. And when it comes to Draco Malfoy—especially where you're concerned—stepping in? That's a dangerous fucking game. Even if it means standing back and watching things unfold in ways we don't always control."
Hermione's hands trembled as she gripped the edge of the counter. "So you just… stood by? Let it all happen? Because of some unspoken code?"
His face softened, just slightly, but the regret in his expression was fleeting. "It's not just a code, Hermione. It's survival. One wrong move, one misplaced word, and you don't just risk your own life—you risk the lives of everyone you love." His voice dipped, quieter now, almost pleading. "You think I didn't want to do more? You think I don't live with that?"
Her breath came fast and uneven, fury warring with heartbreak. "I thought we were friends," she said, voice unsteady. "I thought you would've cared enough to do more than just watch."
Blaise's eyes darkened, filled with a complexity she wasn't sure she wanted to decipher. "I do care, Granger. More than you know." He took a step closer, his voice lower now, laced with something raw. "But in this life, we don't always get to make the choices that sit well with our conscience. We make the ones that keep us alive."
Silence stretched between them, heavy and final.
"I'm sorry," he murmured at last, though Hermione wasn't sure if he was apologizing for Ron, for Ginny, or for the entire tangled mess they had all found themselves in.
She swallowed back another wave of tears, shaking her head. "No, you're not."
Blaise's lips pressed into a thin line, his expression unreadable once more. "Maybe not," he admitted. "But that's the price we pay, isn't it?"
And just like that, Hermione realized the horrifying truth: Blaise had never been the one she needed to convince. Because somewhere, buried beneath her grief and anger, a part of her already knew—Draco wasn't going to stop.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A tidal wave of anguish surged through her, drowning her in a deluge of memories so raw they left her gasping for breath. The walls of the room blurred at the edges, her vision narrowing until all she could see was the ghost of Ron's shadow looming over her. His voice, sharp and venomous, echoed through the hollows of her mind, a whisper of cruelty that refused to fade.
Her fingers brushed against her cheek, where the phantom sting of his slap still burned like a brand. The sound—the crack of skin against skin—was forever seared into her soul, a reminder of the moment everything shattered.
The suffocating grip of his insecurity had wrapped around her like a noose, tightening, tightening, until she could barely breathe. How had it come to this? A simple conversation with Cormac McLaggen—a fleeting exchange of words—had been enough to send Ron into a spiral of rage. And then… three days.
Three days locked in a room, darkness pressing in, her only company the cruel repetition of his voice outside the door:
"You'll learn your lesson."
The injustice of it gnawed at her bones. She had poured everything into him, bent herself into something smaller, quieter, more palatable, all in the desperate hope of holding together the fragile pieces of his ego. But what had it earned her? A prison. A bruised wrist. A voice that no longer felt like her own.
At first, it had been subtle, creeping in like an imperceptible storm. A grip too tight. An argument that left her feeling hollow instead of heard. A jealousy so sharp it could cut through steel. The first time he had grabbed her, really grabbed her, his fingers digging into her skin like manacles, she had convinced herself it was nothing. A moment of weakness. A slip in temper. It happens.
Then, the apologies became fewer. The temper became shorter. The love became ownership. And the day he slapped her, he didn't even bother to say sorry.
"It's your fault," he had spat instead, his eyes cold, detached.
Her breath hitched, her chest constricting as the memories lashed against her like a storm. How had no one else seen? How had she hidden it so well, the way he would back her into corners, his voice low and dangerous, making her feel smaller and smaller until she forgot how to fight back? The way he twisted her words, turned them into weapons, made her doubt her own mind until his reality became hers?
She had stood beside Harry Potter and faced down Death Eaters, survived war, defied Voldemort himself—and yet, Ron Weasley had broken her. Slowly, methodically, until there was nothing left of the Hermione she had once been.
But even then—even then—a flicker of defiance had burned inside her. A small, stubborn ember that refused to die.
And when he had left that door unlocked, convinced she was too afraid to run, she proved him wrong.
Now, standing in the present, the weight of those memories pressed against her, threatening to drag her under. But she was no longer that girl. She had clawed her way back, rebuilt herself from the ruins he left behind.
She was Hermione Granger. She had survived the war. She had survived him.
And she would survive this, too.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The devastation around her mirrored the wreckage of her own trust. Ron's betrayal—rooted in his festering insecurities—had ignited a chain reaction more destructive than she ever could have imagined. The past was immutable, carved into her skin like an old wound that would never fully heal. But now, with this truth laid bare, Hermione felt something shift. She could not undo what had been done, but she could decide what came next.
Her breath hitched, her chest tight with unspoken grief. "But taking a life..." she whispered, voice thick with emotion, "it's so... final."
Blaise's expression softened, but only slightly. Beneath the flicker of sympathy, there was steel—a resolve forged in the darkness they lived in. The reality he had long accepted.
"It is final," he admitted, his voice low, deliberate. "That's what makes it necessary. Permanent. There are some lines, once crossed, that leave no room for second chances. Ron crossed that line the moment he laid a hand on you."
Her heartbeat pounded in her ears. The Draco she loved—the man she believed she knew—had been shaped by this same world. A world where power dictated survival, where justice wasn't decided in courtrooms but in the quiet, bloodstained corners of reality.
She searched Blaise's face for regret, for hesitation, for any sign of remorse. She found none. Just cold certainty.
"I know what Ron did," she admitted, barely more than a whisper. "I know he was dangerous. That he hurt me in ways I still can't fully comprehend. But even knowing that…"
"You still can't accept what had to be done," Blaise finished for her, his tone utterly devoid of judgment. "And I don't expect you to. You're not like us, Granger. You have a different kind of strength, a different kind of light. But in our world, light can be blinding. And darkness—" He exhaled slowly, deliberately. "Darkness is where we thrive. We did what was necessary. To protect you. To protect Draco. To protect what we've built."
Hermione squeezed her eyes shut as the weight of his words settled deep into her bones. "And Ginny?" she choked out, "How do I ever look her in the eyes again, knowing what you've done?"
Blaise's sigh was slow, heavy. "Ginny's world is different," he said finally. "She doesn't know about the shadows we move in, the lengths we go to in order to keep her safe. And if I have anything to say about it, she never will." He swallowed hard, the first true crack in his composure. "I love her, Granger. More than I ever thought I was capable of. But that love—" His voice faltered, just for a second, before hardening again. "It doesn't absolve me. It just gives me something to protect. Something worth fighting for."
The silence between them was suffocating, thick with unspoken truths. Hermione's mind raced, tangled between the devastation of the past and the uncertain path before her.
Ron had sealed his fate the moment he became her nightmare. That much she could admit. But Draco? Draco, the man she had built a life with? Draco, the man who held her every night, whispered love against her skin, worshiped her as though she were his only religion? Had he really been part of this?
She swallowed the bile rising in her throat. "Do you really believe this is the only way?" Her voice trembled. "That this is the only way to protect the people we love?"
Blaise met her gaze, unwavering. "In our world? Sometimes, yes." His voice dipped, quiet but certain. "But Draco? Draco will always do whatever it takes to keep you safe. No matter the cost."
A chill slithered down her spine.
"Burn someone alive?" Her voice cracked. "Who did it, Blaise? You or Draco?"
He leaned back slightly, watching her carefully. If the question rattled him, he didn't show it. Instead, he exhaled a slow breath, his lips curling into something that wasn't quite a smile.
"It was Theo, if you want to be technical."
The floor beneath her might as well have crumbled.
Her fingers trembled. Not Draco. Not Blaise. Theo.
The quiet one. The thoughtful one. The one who had always seemed... detached from this world of blood and power.
The realization sent something sharp through her, something too jagged to name. "Theo?" she gasped, the betrayal stark in her voice.
"Yes, Granger," Blaise said smoothly, as if discussing the weather. "Theodore. Loverboy has his secrets, too. He's good at crafting, after all."
The words hit her like a slap. Theo, the elegant strategist. Theo, the one who always stood at the edge of things, watching. Theo, who held Luna and their son like they were the only things in the world that mattered.
Theo, who set a man on fire.
Her stomach twisted, nausea rising in her throat. How deep did this darkness run? How much had she never seen?
She had feared Draco's ruthlessness. She had braced herself for Blaise's cold, unshakable logic.
But Theo?
Theo had always been the calm one. The one with the softest smiles, the cleverest words. The one with the steadiest hands.
Of course, those same steady hands could light a match.
Hermione's mind spun, grasping for something—anything—that made sense in this twisted reality she had been thrust into. Theo. Theo. The quiet one, the rational one. The one who had always seemed more detached from the darkness that clung to Draco and Blaise like a second skin. And yet… he had been the one to strike the match.
"I can't believe it," she breathed, barely recognizing her own voice.
"You should, Granger," Blaise murmured, his tone laced with a cold amusement that sent a chill straight through her bones. "Everyone has a dark side. Theodore just happens to be more… efficient than most."
Her stomach twisted, nausea rising like bile in her throat. "Why?" she demanded, her voice raw. "Why would he do that?"
Blaise's eyes sharpened, the playfulness vanishing as something darker slid into place. Something final. "Because it needed to be done," he said, each word carrying the weight of a verdict already delivered. "Don't you understand? Ron was a threat. Theo saw that, just as we all did. He knew what had to be done, and unlike you—" he leaned in, his gaze burning into hers "—he didn't hesitate."
She recoiled as if struck, the room around her shrinking, suffocating. "This is madness." Her voice trembled, fury and grief colliding like a storm inside her. "You can't justify murder!"
Blaise exhaled a slow breath, as if she were exhausting him. As if her very resistance was an irritation, a naïve hurdle he had no patience for. "This is the world we live in, cara mia. Hard choices, impossible choices—they're still choices that must be made. Ron crossed a line. Theo made sure he wouldn't cross it again."
Hermione's nails dug into her palms, anger rising like a wildfire she could barely contain. "There had to be another way."
His lips curled, though there was no humor in it. "Perhaps," he allowed. "A slower way. A riskier way. But in our world, we don't get the luxury of hesitation. We do what needs to be done, and we live with it."
Her breath hitched, fury igniting like a live wire under her skin. "You think this is protection?" Her voice cracked with raw emotion. "You think this—this brutality is some twisted act of love? It's not. It's monstrous."
For the first time, something flickered in Blaise's expression. Something dangerous. His voice dropped to a whisper, soft and sharp as a blade. "Don't mistake necessity for cruelty, Granger. What Theo did, what Draco and I sanctioned, wasn't about revenge or pleasure. It was about ensuring that you—all of us—wouldn't fall victim to Ron's sickness ever again."
Her vision blurred with tears, her entire body trembling under the weight of the truth. "And what about Ginny?" she rasped. "What happens when she finds out? You think you're protecting her? You think she'll ever forgive you for murdering her brother?"
For the briefest moment, pain cracked through Blaise's carefully constructed mask. Real, raw pain. But then, just as quickly, it was gone, buried beneath a layer of calculated indifference.
"She'll never know," he said simply. "And if I have anything to say about it, she'll never need to. But even if she did—" His gaze locked onto hers, dark, unrelenting, a battlefield of certainty. "I'd do it all over again."
The confession landed between them like a death sentence.
"Because when you love someone," Blaise continued, his voice steady, final, "you protect them. Even if it means becoming the monster they fear."
A crushing silence swallowed them whole, the air thick with everything that had been said—and everything that still remained unsaid.
Hermione looked at Blaise then, truly looked at him. The man she had once trusted. The man she had laughed with over wine and late-night debates. The man she had thought better of.
Now, she only saw a stranger. A man who had chosen his darkness.
And a part of her knew—Draco had too.
"You're wrong, Blaise," Hermione whispered, her voice raw with emotion. "This isn't protection. This is destruction. And I won't be a part of it."
Blaise's expression hardened, a muscle ticking in his jaw. "You already are, Granger," he countered, his voice quiet but razor-sharp. "Whether you like it or not, you're part of this world now. And soon enough, you'll have to decide whether you're strong enough to survive it."
Hermione took a deep breath, her hands trembling at her sides, but her resolve remained unshaken. "I'll survive," she said, her voice steadier this time. "But not like this. Not with blood on my hands."
Blaise studied her for a long moment, his dark eyes searching hers for something—weakness, doubt, anything to prove his point. But then, to her surprise, he nodded, a slow, almost imperceptible gesture. A quiet acknowledgment. "Then we'll see just how strong you really are, Granger. Because in our world, strength is the only thing that matters."
His voice dropped lower, a near whisper, though its weight pressed down on her like a vice. "Let me ask you something, Granger. What would you do if you knew someone wanted to harm Lysander?"
She stilled. The question hit like a physical blow, cutting through her righteous fury like a knife. Slowly, she turned to face him, her heartbeat thudding against her ribs.
"I…" The word caught in her throat, hesitation clawing at her. She knew exactly what he was asking, and the terrifying part was that she already knew the answer. "I would probably kill them." The admission came out in a whisper, the weight of it suffocating.
Blaise's expression didn't shift, but something in his eyes gleamed—approval, or maybe just the satisfaction of proving his point. He inclined his head slightly, the ghost of a smirk playing at his lips. "Exactly." His voice was quiet, measured. "Sometimes, we have to do the unthinkable to protect the ones we love."
The silence that followed was suffocating, thick with the weight of unspoken truths. Hermione could barely breathe past the realization sinking into her bones.
" What a hypocrite ." The thought clawed at her, bitter and undeniable. She had condemned Draco and Blaise, she had screamed at the injustice of their actions. But if someone dared lay a finger on Lysander?
She would burn the whole world down. For any of her friends.
Ron had been a threat. He had hurt her. He had trapped her in the darkest version of herself. And Theo had simply… ended it. She was horrified. She was enraged. But she understood.
Blaise watched the turmoil play across her face, the slow unraveling of her black-and-white morality. "We're not so different, you and I, Granger," he murmured, his voice edged with something that almost sounded like pity. "We both know what it means to protect, to go to any lengths for the ones we care about."
Hermione squeezed her eyes shut, pressing her fingers to her temples as if she could block out his words. "What should I do with Draco?" she finally asked, her voice barely more than a breath. "I can't even bear to hear his name right now, let alone look at him."
She expected a mocking reply, some sardonic remark about how her entire world was crumbling because she finally saw the truth. But instead, Blaise simply stood, disappearing into the other room. When he returned, he held a small vial in his hand, the translucent liquid shimmering ominously in the dim light.
Hermione's breath hitched. "Veritaserum?"
Blaise twirled the vial between his fingers, his smirk sharp and unreadable. "If you really want the truth, this is how you'll get it." His gaze flickered over her, assessing. "Or… you could make it a fun drinking game, loosen things up a bit. Your call."
A rush of anger surged through her, white-hot. "This isn't a game, Blaise! This is my life—my marriage!" Her voice was sharp, cutting through the suffocating tension. She stepped forward, her hands shaking as she snatched the vial from his grasp. "Give it to me."
He relinquished it easily, his fingers brushing against hers for the briefest moment. "Be careful what you ask for, Granger," he murmured, his tone oddly solemn. "The truth can be more dangerous than the lies."
The glass was cool against her palm, its weight far heavier than its size. Her breath came in shallow bursts, her mind racing with possibilities.
She had already made her choice.
With a loud crack, she disapparated.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A tremor of fury coursed through her as she Apparated into the heart of their home, a place that once felt like a sanctuary but now loomed over her like a prison. The silence was deafening, thick with unspoken betrayals, wrapping around her like a vice. The air itself felt tainted, charged with the ghosts of whispered promises and shattered illusions.
Every object in the room—their meticulously curated furniture, the remnants of a life she thought she understood—stood as a silent witness to the web of deceit he had spun around her. The sleek bookshelves, the dimly lit sconces, even the half-drunk glass of whiskey on the mahogany table—it all mocked her, each detail a cruel reminder of how blind she had been.
But he was gone. Vanished. A ghost of a man who had slipped through the cracks of her reality, leaving behind nothing but unanswered questions and the chilling certainty that this quiet was only temporary. He would return. And when he did, she would be ready.
A guttural snarl escaped her lips as she tore off her robes, the fabric hitting the floor in a whisper that belied the violence in her veins. Her body moved on instinct, fingers grazing through silk and lace with a singular focus, searching, preparing. And then she found it—the dress. The dress.
Deep emerald, liquid against her skin, the one that made Draco's gaze darken, his breath hitch just slightly, as if the sight of her alone was enough to crack the impenetrable armor he wore so well. A weapon wrapped in satin.
Was this manipulation? Was she sinking into the same darkness he had pulled her into, matching him step for step in a dance she once swore she would never join? The thought gnawed at the edges of her conscience, but she shoved it down, locking it away with the same ruthlessness she had once used to survive a war. This wasn't seduction. It was strategy. A battle disguised in silk and skin.
The fabric clung to her like armor, slipping over her curves like the unsaid words that had festered between them for too long. Her reflection in the mirror was unrecognizable—no longer the naive girl who had believed in redemption, but something else, something colder, sharper.
He would return, and he would be disarmed by the sight of her. His carefully curated control would crack, his guard would slip. Just enough.
And then, she would strike. With the fury of a woman betrayed. With the precision of someone who had loved too deeply, and learned too late.
This time, the truth wouldn't just be spoken—it would be ripped from his chest.
Oh tonight Hermione would fuck Draco's mind.
The Veritaserum vial sat between them like a silent threat, a ghostly promise of reckoning. Hermione's fingers curled around the delicate glass, the coolness of it seeping into her skin, spreading through her veins until her very breath felt laced with ice. This wasn't justice. It wasn't mercy. It was war.
She knew what it meant—to strip Draco of his defenses, to rip the truth from his lips with no room for deception or escape. It was a violation of the twisted, fragile trust they had built, an act that would sever whatever tether still bound them together. And yet, she was willing to set fire to everything, to watch their world crumble to ash, if it meant dragging the truth from the darkness where he had buried it.
The air in the room was suffocating, thick with an electric charge that prickled against her skin. Doubt whispered at the edges of her mind, but she silenced it with cold resolve. There was no room for hesitation. Not now.
Then, the sharp crack of Apparition shattered the silence.
She breath stilled. Her grip on the vial tightened as her head snapped toward the doorway.
He stood there, rigid, his usual poised indifference slipping for the briefest of moments. Just long enough for her to see it—the flicker of relief in his stormy eyes, like a man expecting a battlefield but finding home instead. But that flicker was drowned almost instantly by something else.
Fury.
His gaze dropped to the vial in her hand. The blood drained from his face.
And then she saw it—real fear. Not the carefully measured control, not the feigned irritation or calculated anger he wielded like armor, but something raw, something visceral.
"My love," he rasped, his voice hoarse, unsteady. Not a demand. Not a command. A plea. "What is the meaning of this?"
The air between them crackled, a charged silence stretching between them, pulsing with all the words left unspoken. His breathing was uneven, his entire frame coiled like a predator who had just realized he had stepped into a trap.
She met his gaze with a cold fire of her own, her heart hammering but her resolve unshaken.
"We need to talk, Draco," she said, her voice steady, unwavering. She raised the vial between them, the candlelight glinting off its surface like a blade catching the sun. "And this time, I won't settle for your lies."
His entire body tensed, his breath coming slow and deliberate—controlled, but barely. She could see him calculating, searching for the right move, the perfect counter to her attack. But she didn't give him the chance.
"I want the truth. All of it." Her voice sharpened, cutting through the thick air like steel. "Especially about Ron."
The name landed between them like a death sentence.
His face twisted, his mask cracking under the weight of the accusation. Fury flashed in his eyes, but beneath it—beneath the fire, beneath the ice—was the unmistakable shadow of terror. And that terrified her most of all.
He moved toward her, a predator's instinct driving him to close the distance, to reassert his control. But Hermione's hand came down hard on the table, the vial clattering like a death knell against the polished wood. The sharp sound echoed in the silence, a brutal punctuation that halted him in his tracks. His gaze snapped to the vial, then back to her, a flicker of panic darkening his stormy eyes.
"Don't you dare," she hissed, her tone a razor-sharp warning that brooked no defiance. "We do this my way, or not at all."
The air between them buzzed with a silent, perilous charge. Draco stood rooted, the icy mask of his aristocratic facade barely concealing the tempest churning beneath the surface. Hermione, unwavering, faced him down like a queen ready to command an army.
The Veritaserum on the table stood between them, a silent arbiter in the war of trust and deceit—a potent symbol of the truth she was determined to extract, regardless of the cost.
For the first time, she saw the cracks in Draco's armor—the fear he tried so desperately to hide. This wasn't the Draco who commanded rooms with a cold stare and a cruel smirk. This was a man cornered, a beast trapped in a cage of his own making, forced to reckon with the only person who could unravel him.
He had always fought her battles, a fierce guardian shielding her from the world. But tonight, it was his turn to face the reckoning, to wear the chains he had bound himself with. Hermione was the one holding the leash now, the reins of their twisted dynamic firmly in her grasp.
His eyes returned to the vial, the flicker of recognition replaced by a grim resignation. A silent acknowledgment passed between them—he knew what lay within the vial's glass walls, knew the power it held over him. With a measured breath, he sank into the chair across from her, the tension in his body a taut wire threatening to snap.
"This is how you want to play it?" His voice was a low growl, laced with defiance but tainted by a thread of unease.
Her gaze never wavered, a blazing intensity that belied the maelstrom of emotions roiling beneath her stoic exterior. "I need answers, Draco," she demanded, each word a battle cry. "The truth. All of it."
His eyes flitted back to the vial, a trace of fear flashing before the cold mask fell into place again. "Veritaserum," he uttered, the word falling from his lips like a curse, a bitter admission of defeat.
"Yes," she affirmed, her tone steady despite the tumult within. "Why did you do it, Draco? Why did you let it happen? I need to hear it from you—without your lies, without your manipulations."
He stared at her, the weight of her words pressing down on him, stripping away the layers of deceit and leaving him exposed. There was no refuge in the shadows, no refuge in the web of secrets he had spun so expertly. Here, under her unforgiving gaze and the promise of the Veritaserum, Draco Malfoy was laid bare, with nowhere left to hide.
In the oppressive stillness of the room, she awaited his confession, the sound of her own heartbeat thundering in her ears. Tonight, she would learn the truth—the dark, twisted heart of the man she loved laid bare before her. And once the words left his lips, there would be no taking them back.
Selective transparency is not honesty.
And may the fire of who you are burn you alive until you are capable of standing in the fucking truth of it.
His jaw tightened, his entire body coiled like a spring wound too tight. The silence stretched unbearably between them, suffocating, thick with the weight of all the things he had never said. A resigned sigh finally broke the tension, and with a sharp, decisive movement, he reached for the vial. His fingers trembled—just the slightest betrayal of hesitation—as he uncorked it. For a fleeting moment, Hermione caught something in his expression. Vulnerability. Fear. Then, as quickly as it appeared, it was gone.
He tipped the vial back, swallowing the potion in one swift motion. The transformation was immediate. The steel in his posture softened, the rigid control he'd always wielded over himself slipping just enough to be noticeable. His gaze clouded, his breath uneven. The Veritaserum had sunk its claws into him.
His lips parted as if to speak, but the words stalled, stuck in his throat. He broke eye contact first—a rare, telling moment of weakness. His gaze dropped to the floor, his fingers twitching against the arm of the chair. The silence between them became unbearable, stretching out into something raw and agonizing.
She swallowed past the lump in her throat. Her voice, when she finally spoke, was quieter now, stripped of fury but laced with something far more fragile. "Draco," she murmured, the name catching on her lips, "there's something I never wanted to tell anyone about my past with Ronald."
A shadow crossed his face, but he remained silent.
Shame burned at the edges of her resolve, threatening to undo her completely. The cold rage that had carried her here, that had fueled her determination, faltered under the weight of her past. "There's so much..." she whispered, her voice nearly breaking. "So much I tried to bury."
The air shifted. The hostility between them wavered, giving way to something else—something hesitant, unspoken. Understanding flickered in his silver eyes. His shoulders dropped just slightly, his breath coming uneven. "I thought..." he finally murmured, his voice hoarse, "that you wouldn't trust me with this. With something so..." He faltered, his throat working around the words. Shame laced his every syllable, replacing the defiance she had expected.
Her sigh filled the space between them, releasing the anger that had clenched her chest for days. As the sound faded, his face flickered with something unfamiliar. Was it regret? No. Something deeper. The ghost of the boy he had once been, the boy who had spent a lifetime being taught that love was possession, that control was protection. And yet, here they were, unraveling everything.
She met his gaze, her voice stripped bare. "Draco," she whispered, thick with emotion, "please tell me the truth. Why did you kill Ron?"
The silence that followed was deafening. He stared at the floor, his entire body rigid. Then, after what felt like a lifetime, he spoke.
"Because, honestly, my love..." His voice cracked, barely a whisper. "I wanted him gone for a long time."
The confession struck her like a physical blow. A bitter cocktail of anger, betrayal, and heartbreak churned in her stomach. She had known—had suspected—but to hear him say it, so bluntly, so carelessly, was a wound she hadn't prepared for.
"Gone?" she echoed, her voice raw with disbelief. "Is that all it was? Just... wanting him out of the way?"
His head snapped up, his eyes burning with something desperate, something almost unrecognizable. "It's not that simple," he rasped, the words dragged from him like they hurt. "There's more... a tangled mess of reasons I can't explain right now." His breath hitched, his body visibly fighting the Veritaserum's compulsion, as if he could will the truth back down. But the potion wouldn't allow it.
And neither would she.
He squirmed under her relentless gaze, his usual composure crumbling beneath the weight of Veritaserum's merciless grip. A deep flush rose to his cheeks, stark against his normally pale countenance. His hands curled into fists against his thighs, his breath uneven, as if his own thoughts were suffocating him.
"The thought of you…" he began, his voice raw, almost fragile, "with him. Happy. With a family..." The words hung in the air, unfinished, as though saying them out loud would make them real.
The room vibrated with the weight of his confession. Her brow furrowed, confusion and disbelief warring within her. "Happy?" she echoed, her voice laced with incredulity. "You actually think I could have been happy with him? That I would have—" She exhaled sharply, a bitter, humorless laugh escaping her lips. "A family with Ron? That's—" She cut herself off, shaking her head. "That's absurd."
He flinched as though she had struck him. The potion's grip forced him to stay exposed, to let his carefully constructed walls crumble, leaving nothing but the raw, aching truth in their place. His breath hitched, his throat working around the words he had buried for too long.
"BECAUSE I WANT TO HAVE A CHILD WITH YOU!" The words exploded from him, torn from the very depths of his soul. His voice cracked, thick with unrestrained emotion, his hands trembling in his lap. "I WANT A FAMILY WITH YOU, MORE THAN ANYTHING IN MY FUCKING LIFE!"
The confession shattered the air between them, leaving it thick with a suffocating silence. It was as if time itself had frozen, trapping them in the enormity of the moment. Hermione's heart pounded against her ribs, each beat a hammer striking against the fragile walls of her resolve.
Her world tilted, spun, and reassembled itself in the wake of his revelation. She had known Draco Malfoy in a thousand different ways—her rival, her reluctant ally, her lover, her husband. But this? This was something new. Something raw. Something terrifying in its sincerity.
The initial fire in her eyes wavered, dimming into something softer, something aching. The truth she'd carefully tucked away, too afraid to confront, now stood before her, unveiled and undeniable. A family. Not just any family. A child. Their child .
A tremor ran through her, a deep, visceral ache that coiled around her ribs and squeezed tight. This wasn't manipulation. This wasn't a desperate attempt at control. This was real. Real and terrifying and beautiful in a way she hadn't dared to dream. His choked plea, the vulnerability in his storm-cloud eyes, unearthed something within her—a secret longing, a hope she hadn't dared whisper even to herself.
A heavy silence settled over them, thick with unspoken emotions. The air crackled with the weight of everything they'd fought against, everything they'd denied. Years of self-preservation, of careful distance, teetered on the brink of collapse.
He swallowed hard, his gaze locked onto hers, searching, pleading. A flicker of something close to hope flashed behind his stormy gray eyes, quickly swallowed by fear. He had laid himself bare, given her the power to destroy him with a single rejection.
The silence stretched, her own confession trapped somewhere between her heart and her lips. Finally, when she could no longer hold it in, her voice escaped in a breathless whisper.
"Draco," she murmured, her voice trembling with an emotion too vast to contain. "There's no one else. I never… I never considered anyone but you."
His breath stuttered, his body going rigid as if bracing himself for the weight of her words. His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed, his fingers curling against the armrests of his chair.
And then, the smallest, most fragile thing happened.
His lips parted, but no words came. No sharp retort, no defensive quip. Just a raw, desperate exhale, as if the tension that had held him together for years had finally snapped. His entire being seemed to shudder under the gravity of her confession, like a man drowning who had suddenly been given air.
The dam had broken. There was no turning back now.
The weight of her confession was suffocating, pressing down on them like a tangible force. It was a truth she had buried beneath layers of self-preservation, a truth she had rewritten a thousand times to make it easier to live with. But now, stripped of pretenses, it roared to the surface, fierce and unrelenting—a love that was not born of obligation, not something carefully orchestrated by fate, but something raw, something hers.
A terrifying vulnerability clawed at her ribs, threatening to unravel her completely. She had spent so long convincing herself that their bond was a manipulation, a twisted game of power and control. But the love—the love was real. And it had been real for a long time.
Her voice, laced with a poetic fury, broke the suffocating silence.
"Black mascara, like war paint streaked with tears, stains my cheeks. Do you see it now, Draco? The wreckage reflected in these tired eyes? Do you see the weight of your lies beneath the designer mask I wear? These shadows under my eyes—they are your handiwork. A consequence of unspoken truths, of nights spent drowning in the labyrinth of doubt you built for me."
Her voice trembled, but the anger beneath it was unyielding.
"You, selfish man, never saw the impact of your deceit. My once-steady hand trembles now, stained with smudged kohl, a testament to the sleepless nights spent wrestling with a truth I was never ready to face. Do you even understand the way you twisted me? How you made me question my own reality, my own feelings?"
You wrecked me. You ruined me.
"Maybe when you see it—truly see it—the designer mask cracking, the mascara a map of unspoken pain, the love turned to confusion, the sleepless nights written in the hollows beneath my eyes… maybe then you'll grasp what you've done. Maybe then you'll feel the weight of it. Maybe then, for once in your goddamn life, you'll hurt like I have."
She barely noticed the way he had gone still, how his knuckles had whitened from how tightly he clenched his fists. His entire body was rigid, as if bracing for a fatal blow. But she wasn't done.
"Love, please—" he rasped, but she cut him off, her voice sharp as a blade.
"You made your bed. Now lie in it. Lie in it and try to comprehend what you've stolen from me. Can you even begin to grasp it? The weight of your violence, the stain of your choices, the irreversible destruction left in your wake?" Her voice cracked, the emotion thick, suffocating. "Can you even fathom what you've done to me?"
His flinch was immediate, as if the words themselves struck him like hexes. Shame washed over his features, a stark contrast to the unfiltered desperation Veritaserum had unearthed moments ago.
His breath hitched, his voice barely a whisper. "My love... I don't deserve your love." The words hung between them, a confession laced with agony. "You shouldn't have to carry the weight of my choices."
He cast his gaze downward, his hands shaking. He had killed for her. He had burned for her. And yet, he had never felt further from her reach. Images flickered through his mind—the blood, the fire, the face of Ron Weasley as life drained from his eyes.
"I know what I've done," he whispered, his voice breaking. "I know what I am."
And yet, he would do it all over again.
Be Lilith, never Eve. Draco Malfoy, the man who once lorded over her with arrogance, the man who wielded power like a weapon, was now on his knees before her. He would let her walk all over him if it meant she would acknowledge him. If it meant she would stay.
The silence between them was thick, suffocating, heavy with the weight of everything left unsaid. Draco braced himself for the inevitable—for her anger, for her rejection, for the moment she would finally turn her back on him and leave him to the darkness he had willingly embraced. But when he met her gaze, it wasn't fury that greeted him. It wasn't disgust or even hatred.
It was grief. A grief so profound it mirrored his own.
His breath caught in his throat, his heart hammering against his ribs. "Can you forgive me, love?" he rasped, the words tasting like ash on his tongue. "Not for what I've done—I know some sins can never be washed away—but for becoming the man I was raised to be? For letting myself drown in the darkness when I should have fought harder to be something more for you?"
His voice cracked, raw and desperate. "Can we find a way forward, despite the wreckage? Despite the weight of everything we've done?"
Hermione swallowed hard, her throat burning with unshed tears. "Draco," she whispered, and his name had never sounded so broken. "Forgiveness… it's not a simple thing."
His stomach twisted, bracing for the inevitable blow.
"But," she continued, and that single word was enough to make his lungs seize, to make his heart stutter in his chest. "The potion revealed more than your sins. It showed me your fear. Your regret. And a love so deep, so all-consuming, that I never dared to believe it was real."
His breath left him in a sharp, unsteady exhale.
She closed her eyes, inhaling deeply before she spoke again. "I can't change the past. I can't undo the lives lost, the blood spilled, the pain we've caused. Those ghosts will follow us, haunt us, no matter what we do. But maybe…" She opened her eyes, searching his, looking for something—perhaps a reason to stay, perhaps a reason to go. "Maybe we can learn to live with them. Together. Not to forget, but to move forward."
She stepped closer, her voice trembling with a quiet strength that shattered him completely. "It won't be easy. It will take time. Work. More trust than either of us has ever known."
A single tear slipped down her cheek, and Draco had never hated himself more than he did in that moment.
She tilted her head, watching him carefully. "Can you handle that? Can you handle the burden of forgiveness, knowing it might never be fully given?"
Handle it?
He could handle anything if it meant she would still look at him. Still talk to him. Still touch him. Still stay.
She could curse him, wound him, rip him apart piece by piece, and he would still crawl back to her, desperate for more. If she wanted him to beg, he would. If she wanted him to atone, he would. If she wanted him to burn the world down again, he would.
As long as it meant she was still his.
As long as it meant she would kiss him. Hold him. Fuck him. Make babies with him.
He was lost, had been lost from the moment she first looked at him and saw him—the real him, not the carefully constructed mask, not the legacy forced upon him. Just him.
Draco Malfoy was a lost cause. And he didn't care.
Because the only thing he wanted in this world, the only thing that mattered, was standing in front of him, waiting for his answer.
And he would spend the rest of his life proving he was worthy of it.