Something inside her had been rewired, twisted and reshaped into something unfamiliar, something jagged, something she could no longer recognize as her own. It wasn't just the nightmares, though they came relentlessly, night after night, dragging her from sleep drenched in sweat, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps as though she had been drowning in something invisible, something suffocating, something she couldn't escape no matter how hard she clawed at the surface. It wasn't just the exhaustion that settled into her bones, the kind of weariness that made it difficult to tell where the nightmares ended and reality began, where waking up didn't feel like relief but simply another layer of the same endless torment. It was the way she had begun to unravel, thread by thread, coping in ways that felt more like destruction, habits that should have soothed her but instead only anchored her deeper into the abyss.
The first bad habit was easy enough to explain—smoking. A vice she had never even considered before, something wholly foreign, a rebellion she had once scoffed at but now clung to as if nicotine could somehow steady the frayed edges of her nerves. She had taken it up with little thought, lighting the first cigarette with shaking fingers, inhaling deeply as if she could exhale the anxiety, the guilt, the unbearable weight of everything she refused to say out loud. But the cigarettes did nothing to quiet the storm inside her; they burned, they filled her lungs with smoke, they made her head light and her fingers tremble, but they did not fix her. They did not stop the spiral. They did not silence the voices that whispered cruel things in the darkest hours of the night.
Then there was the other habit—the one she never spoke of, the one she kept locked away behind carefully constructed walls of silence and denial, the one she convinced herself was just another form of control. An eating disorder, though she could barely bring herself to name it, because naming it meant acknowledging it, meant admitting that it wasn't just a passing phase, wasn't just another fleeting self-destructive impulse. No, this was deeper, darker, rooted in something far more insidious—the desperate need to regain some semblance of control over a life that had spun so wildly, so violently out of her hands. The hunger was her clarity, her punishment, her tether to something tangible in the midst of chaos.
She pinched the skin on her wrist, pressing down hard, hard enough to feel the sharp sting, hard enough to remind herself that she was still here, still real, still tethered to the physical world even as her mind spun into places she didn't want to go. I'm so hungry, I can't sleep. The thought gnawed at her, hollow and cruel, a reminder of the cycle she knew too well—eat, purge, regret, repeat. It was a silent war, a private battle waged in the quiet moments when no one was watching, when she could convince herself that she was in control even as the reality of it all slipped further and further from her grasp.
Her gaze drifted toward the darkened window, catching sight of her own reflection staring back at her, a body she could never quite bring herself to accept, a body that felt more like a stranger's than her own. The sight of it sent a sharp pang through her chest, not quite hate, not quite sadness, just a deep, lingering discomfort that she couldn't shake. I don't really like my body, but knowing it's my only body, I should probably call somebody. The thought flickered through her mind, a whisper of something half-formed, something that felt almost like a plea, but she shoved it down just as quickly as it had come. Because who would she even call? Who would she even tell?
Ginny was out of the question—too perceptive, too relentless, too unwilling to accept silence as an answer. Ginny would look at her with that infuriating mix of concern and stubbornness, would push and pry until she cracked open like a book she didn't want anyone reading. And Pansy—Pansy had fought this war herself, had clawed her way out of bulimia with a ferocity that was both admirable and terrifying, and the last thing she wanted was to place another burden on her shoulders, to remind her of a battle she had fought too hard to escape.
But Luna…
Luna was different.
Maybe, just maybe, Luna would understand.
Hermione tumbled out of the fireplace with all the grace of a newborn foal, her limbs shaky, her breath uneven, her mind a frenzied tangle of desperation and confusion. The rush of magic still prickled along her skin, the embers of the Floo crackling behind her as she staggered forward, barely registering her surroundings before her gaze landed on them—on that, on him, on her—and everything inside her came to a crashing, screeching halt.
Her breath caught violently in her throat, her pulse hammering against her ribs, the chaotic swirl of her thoughts suddenly freezing into a singular, unrelenting clarity as her eyes took in the scene before her.
Theo was sprawled against the plush sofa, his head tipped back against the cushions, his shirt unbuttoned and hanging open, his fingers gripping Luna's waist as she moved over him with an unrestrained ease, her pale, delicate hands pressing into his chest for balance. His mouth was slightly parted, his breathing labored, and his half-lidded gaze was entirely focused on the blonde straddling him, her body moving in a slow, sensual rhythm, her expression one of pure bliss. His hands, wicked and unhurried, roamed over her bare skin, one slipping up to tease at her breast while the other rested possessively at her hip, guiding her movements, encouraging the unhurried, languid roll of her hips.
The atmosphere had been thick with heat, with whispered moans and the intoxicating crackle of pleasure that filled the air—until Hermione's horrified gasp shattered it all like a glass hitting the floor.
"Oh my God!" she blurted, her voice high-pitched, strangled, utterly aghast.
The room, which had moments ago been alive with the quiet, intimate sounds of their pleasure, suddenly fell into a stunned, almost eerie silence, a silence so profound it was as if the walls themselves had absorbed the weight of her intrusion.
Theo's head snapped up, the sharp movement jerking him from his pleasure-induced haze, and the second he registered who had just stumbled into his very private moment, his expression twisted into something murderous, fury flashing behind his dark eyes like a thunderstorm waiting to break.
"Get out, Granger!" he roared, his voice slicing through the air like a whip crack, the heat of his anger burning into her, making her entire body stiffen in place.
Her mouth opened and closed uselessly, her face rapidly turning a mortified shade of crimson as she staggered backward, her wide, horrified eyes darting between Theo's furious scowl and Luna's entirely unbothered expression.
"I—I'm so sorry," she stammered, voice trembling, hands flailing uselessly as she tried to avert her gaze, tried to erase the image from her brain, tried to pretend she hadn't just walked straight into something so intimate and raw that she felt like an intruder in someone else's dream. She stumbled over her own feet in her frantic attempt to retreat, her limbs too disjointed, too clumsy, her brain short-circuiting under the weight of this entire fucking situation.
And then, because apparently this moment wasn't already mortifying enough, Luna—completely naked, still very much on top of Theo—tilted her head in that calm, dreamlike way of hers and said, ever so gently, as though this were a perfectly reasonable conversation to be having while straddling a man:
"How can we help you, Mimi?"
The casual way she said it, the softness of her voice, the effortless, almost detached way she acknowledged Hermione's presence as if she were simply commenting on the weather—while still fully seated on Theo's lap—nearly sent Hermione into a fit of hysterical screaming.
A strangled noise escaped her throat as she tore her gaze away, swallowing hard, her pulse erratic, her hands clenched into tight fists at her sides. She needed to leave. Needed to evaporate. Needed to cease existing entirely.
But the words escaped her lips before she could stop them, before she could consider what the hell she was even doing there in the first place.
"I—I didn't know where else to go," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper, thick with something vulnerable, something hesitant, something that shouldn't belong in this moment, but did anyway.
For a moment, a flicker of something unreadable crossed Theo's face—something briefly resembling concern—but it was gone as quickly as it came, buried beneath a heavy sigh as he ran a hand down his face, looking thoroughly done with the entire situation.
"Granger," he groaned, exasperation thick in his tone, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I'm really starting to think you have a thing for voyeurism. But if you insist on staying—" He shot her an unimpressed look, arching an eyebrow as if she were the inconvenience here, as if he were the one suffering in this scenario. "At least turn around."
Hermione made an incoherent, distressed sound in the back of her throat, her hands flying up to cover her face as she spun on her heel, her entire body practically vibrating with embarrassment as she all but ran toward the kitchen, needing somewhere, anywhere to collect herself before she collapsed into a mortified heap on the floor.
As soon as she crossed the threshold, she braced her hands against the countertop, inhaling deep, shaky breaths, forcing herself to steady the erratic pounding of her heart. The walls of the kitchen felt like a sanctuary, like a temporary reprieve from whatever fresh hell she had just walked into.
And yet—through the half-open door, she could still hear them.
Could still hear Theo's unimpressed grumble. Could still hear Luna's soft, melodic laughter, a sound that held no shame, no awkwardness, no anything resembling the kind of tension Hermione was currently drowning in.
And somehow, somehow, despite the sheer insanity of what had just happened, despite the fact that her entire body still burned with mortification, a small, reluctant part of her found some twisted sense of comfort in their presence.
Luna appeared moments later, now wrapped in a soft, flowing robe that barely rustled as she moved, her presence a gentle contrast to the storm raging inside Hermione. She stepped into the dimly lit kitchen with the kind of quiet grace that made it seem as though she had always been there, as though she had been waiting for this very moment to unfold. Her clear blue eyes, luminous in the half-light, softened as they fell upon Hermione—who sat rigid at the kitchen table, her fingers clenched so tightly that her knuckles had turned bone white, her shoulders slumped beneath an invisible weight she could no longer bear alone.
Without a word, Luna took a seat beside her, her touch featherlight as she rested a comforting hand over Hermione's own, her warmth steadying, grounding, offering a lifeline without demanding anything in return.
"What's wrong, Mimi?" she asked, her voice as gentle as a whisper through the trees, a quiet invitation rather than an interrogation. No urgency, no pressing demand for explanations—just patient, boundless understanding, as though she already knew that whatever was coming would take time.
Hermione inhaled sharply, her throat constricting as she fought to form the words, fought against the crushing tide of shame that threatened to swallow her whole. Her gaze dropped to the table, her voice barely more than a fractured whisper as she forced herself to admit the truth out loud.
"Luna… something is wrong with me," she choked out, her voice raw, cracking beneath the weight of it. "Something's… broken."
The words felt dangerous, like releasing a secret she had kept locked away for far too long, like giving form to the monster that had been lurking just beneath the surface. She swallowed hard, her breathing uneven, her pulse hammering in her ears as she forced herself to continue before she lost the courage to say it at all.
"I… I slept with Draco," she admitted, her hands tightening into fists against the wood, her nails digging into her palms in a futile attempt to hold herself together. "Right after he—right after he dropped a severed head in my fireplace." The confession tumbled out in a rush, sharp-edged and chaotic, a mixture of disbelief and self-loathing twisting inside her.
And the worst part?
Her chest tightened as the words lodged in her throat, as the truth burned its way up from the depths of her shame.
"The worst part is…" She let out a ragged breath, her face flushing dark as she dropped her head into her hands. "His violence, his intensity—it turns me on." The admission came out strangled, like it had been torn from her, like something poisonous she had been forced to expel. "I wanted him right there, in that moment, with all the horror and chaos around us. It wasn't fear. It wasn't disgust. It was—" She shook her head, a bitter laugh escaping her lips, self-contempt curling around the edges of it. "What does that make me, Luna? How could I be that twisted?"
Her voice cracked on the last word, thick with a suffocating mix of shame and confusion, as she finally forced herself to meet Luna's gaze, her brown eyes brimming with vulnerability, searching desperately for something—anything—that might tell her she wasn't beyond saving.
But Luna didn't recoil. She didn't flinch or frown or tilt her head in judgment.
She simply listened.
Her expression remained serene, unwavering, as she let Hermione spill every tormented thought, let the raw edges of her pain unravel in the space between them, never rushing to fill the silence, never interrupting with reassurances she wasn't ready to hear. And when Hermione finally stopped—when the weight of her own confession threatened to crush her—Luna reached out, drawing her into a soft, steady embrace, her arms a quiet sanctuary, her fingers threading gently through Hermione's wild curls in a soothing rhythm.
"Oh, Mimi," she murmured, her voice a quiet melody of warmth and understanding. "You're not broken. You're human. And you're hurting."
Hermione stiffened slightly in her hold, but Luna didn't release her, didn't let go—not when she could feel the tremors running through her friend's body, the way she was fighting herself even now.
"Trauma doesn't play by rules," she continued, her voice lilting, thoughtful, as if she were pulling her words from the stars themselves. "It doesn't fit into neat little boxes, doesn't follow logic or reason. Sometimes it pushes us to strange, messy places we don't always understand. Sometimes, the things that should terrify us don't. Sometimes, darkness draws us in rather than repelling us." She pulled back slightly, brushing a stray tear from Hermione's cheek, her fingers cool, delicate. "But that doesn't make you bad. It doesn't make you wrong. It just makes you… here. Struggling, like any of us would."
Hermione inhaled sharply, something unraveling in her chest, something fragile but real. "But it feels so dark," she admitted, her voice barely more than breath, as though saying it too loudly would make it more real. "Like I've crossed a line I can't come back from."
Luna shook her head, her eyes still locked onto hers, steady and sure. "You're allowed to feel what you feel, Mimi. It doesn't define you. Desire and trauma—sometimes they tangle together in ways that don't make sense, in ways that aren't fair. But that darkness? It doesn't own you. No matter how it feels right now."
Hermione let out a shaky breath, the tightness in her chest loosening ever so slightly, the razor-sharp edges of her guilt dulled by Luna's quiet certainty.
"I just…" She exhaled, pressing the heels of her palms into her eyes. "I don't want him to see me as weak. I want to be strong. But then I find myself drawn to that part of him—the part that's so raw, so powerful. It's like he knows the pieces of me I try to keep hidden."
Luna tilted her head, a small smile tugging at her lips. "Sometimes, the people we love the most see us more clearly than we see ourselves." Her thumb traced absentmindedly over the back of Hermione's hand. "Draco sees you, Mimi—all of you. And maybe that's why it feels so intense. He loves your strength, but he understands your darkness, too. That doesn't make it dangerous. That just makes it real."
Hermione swallowed thickly, her throat tight, her chest aching in a way that wasn't entirely painful.
"But what if I can't fix it?" she whispered, her voice barely there, her tears soaking into the fabric of her robe. "What if this darkness never goes away?"
Luna held her closer, smoothing down her hair in slow, gentle strokes. "You don't have to fix it all at once," she murmured, her words threading through Hermione's doubt like the softest of lifelines. "Or even on your own. You have people who love you, people who want to help you through this." She hesitated before adding, "That includes Draco. He's right there, Hermione. Let him in. Let him understand. He loves you—just as you are."
She squeezed her eyes shut, gripping Luna's hand like a lifeline, feeling the weight of her friend's words settle deep inside her, filling the empty, aching spaces she hadn't realized were there. She let out a slow, unsteady breath, as if exhaling even a fraction of her shame, her confusion, her fear.
"I don't know what I'd do without you," she admitted, her voice thick with gratitude, her heart no longer quite so heavy.
Luna smiled, brushing another tear from Hermione's cheek. "You'll never have to find out, Mimi," she said softly. "You don't have to face this alone—not now, not ever."
They sat like that for a long moment, the silence between them no longer suffocating, no longer heavy with unspoken things. And when Hermione finally pulled back, wiping at her eyes, she managed a small, tentative smile.
"I'll talk to Draco," she whispered, voice steadier now. "I'll try to let him in."
"Good," Luna murmured, her expression one of unwavering faith. "And remember—healing isn't a straight path. But you're not lost, Mimi. You're just finding your way."
~~~~~~
The scent of roasted herbs and sizzling butter filled the kitchen, wrapping her in warmth the moment she stepped inside. He stood at the stove, sleeves rolled up, his brow slightly furrowed in concentration as he stirred the simmering pot. He looked like he belonged there, like this had become second nature to him—yet tonight, there was a tension in his shoulders, a sharpness to his movements.
"Hello, love," she murmured, stepping closer. "Smells amazing."
He turned, and for a fleeting moment, the worry on his face vanished, replaced by a boyish grin. "Hello, my love." But even as he kissed her temple, his touch was lingering, almost desperate, like he was reassuring himself that she was real.
"I have something for you," he added, flicking his wand. A small, elegant box floated into her hands.
Her brow furrowed. "Draco… what's this for?"
He shrugged, too casually. "Just because. Open it."
She untied the ribbon, the velvet box cool beneath her fingers. Inside, nestled in soft satin, lay a pearl Valentino necklace, delicate yet stunning. Tiny crystals caught the light, shimmering like constellations.
Her breath hitched. "Darling… this is beautiful." Her fingers brushed over the pearls, her eyes glistening. "Thank you, Mon cœur."
"Turn around," he murmured, unclasping it with careful precision. As he fastened it around her neck, his fingers lingered at her pulse point, his lips brushing the sensitive skin beneath her ear. But just as she turned to face him, his expression shifted—serious, guarded.
"Yes, it's charmed," he admitted.
A flicker of suspicion crossed her face. "Charmed?"
"It has runes," he said carefully, watching her reaction. "Ones that monitor your heart rate and stress levels."
Her stomach dropped. "Draco, you—" She swallowed. "You spelled my jewelry?"
His jaw tensed, a flicker of guilt flashing across his face. "You don't tell me when you're hurting. You hide it. This lets me know without you having to."
She exhaled sharply, torn between frustration and something else—something softer, because she knew him, knew the fear beneath his control. "You can't just—"
"I can," he cut in, voice tight. "And I will if it keeps you safe."
The weight of his words pressed between them. He wasn't just being overprotective—he was terrified.
Her shoulders slumped. "Draco… you don't have to carry this alone."
His heart clenched. "I have to," he whispered. "Because if I don't, who will?"
She hesitated, then took a deep breath. "Then… will you carry this with me?" Her voice wavered. "Because I think something's wrong with me."
His entire body stilled. His hands, which had been resting lightly on her arms, tightened instinctively. "What?" His voice was hoarse. "What do you mean?"
She swallowed hard, her throat thick with unshed tears. "I've been… starving myself."
His breath left him in a sharp exhale. "What?" The word barely made it out, strangled by the sheer panic in his chest.
"It started small," she said quickly, voice shaking. "I just… wanted control over something. But it spiraled. I barely sleep. I feel guilty when I eat, and when I do…" She swallowed, looking away. "I undo it."
His grip on her arms tightened—not enough to hurt, but enough to anchor himself. "Hermione," he whispered, his voice breaking. "Why didn't you tell me?"
Tears spilled down her cheeks. "Because I was ashamed. Because I didn't want you to see me like this." She let out a shuddering breath. "But I can't do it alone anymore."
He exhaled, pressing his forehead against hers, his entire body shaking with restraint. "You don't have to do it alone," he murmured, brushing her tears away with his thumbs. "You never have to do it alone."
She closed her eyes, breathing in his scent—warm spices, crisp parchment, home. "I didn't want to be a burden."
His hands moved to cup her face, his expression fierce. "You could never—never—be a burden." His voice cracked at the last word, raw and full of something deeper than fear. "Do you know what I felt when I thought I was losing you? That night? Do you know what it did to me?"
She stiffened. "Draco—"
"I can't—" His voice wavered, but he pushed through. "I won't go through that again."
A sob broke from her chest, and suddenly, she was in his arms, clinging to him like he was the only thing keeping her grounded. He was the only thing keeping her grounded.
"I need you," she whispered against his chest.
"I'm here," he murmured, voice unsteady. "And I'm never leaving."
That night, he did everything—he fed her small bites of dinner, coaxing her through every hesitation; he ran a warm bath, washing her hair with gentle hands, pressing soft kisses to the curve of her shoulder; he brushed out her tangles, murmuring reassurances until her tense muscles finally relaxed.
He didn't let her out of his sight.
And for once, she didn't fight it.
Because maybe, just maybe, she needed him just as much as he needed her.
~~~~~~
The atmosphere in Draco's study was oppressive, thick with an unspoken tension that coiled in the air like a living thing, pressing against their chests, making the very act of breathing feel labored. The crackling fire in the hearth should have lent some semblance of comfort, but tonight, its warmth felt stifling, the flickering glow casting jagged shadows across the room that only deepened the weight of the silence stretching between them.
Blaise sat slumped in a deep leather armchair near the fireplace, his broad shoulders curved inward, his head bowed, as though the very fabric of his being had been stretched too thin, fraying at the edges. His fingers curled tightly around the tumbler of firewhiskey in his grasp, the amber liquid sloshing slightly with the force of his grip, as if it were the only thing tethering him to the present, the only thing keeping him from unraveling completely. The usual effortless charm, the arrogance, the carefully cultivated nonchalance that defined Blaise Zabini—gone. In its place was something raw, something almost hollow, a man sitting in the wreckage of something he never thought he could lose.
Across from him, Theo was sprawled in another chair, his long legs stretched out in front of him, his posture deceptively lazy, but his sharp, calculating gaze flicked between Blaise and Draco with the precision of a predator watching its surroundings, waiting, assessing. Unlike Blaise, there was no outward sign of distress, no slump in his shoulders, no shake in his hands. He was the very picture of composed cynicism, but even he couldn't mask the unease that simmered just beneath the surface, an almost imperceptible stiffness in the way he sat, the way his fingers drummed idly against the armrest, the way his expression tightened ever so slightly as the silence stretched on.
And then there was Draco, standing near the window, his silhouette cutting a sharp figure against the darkness beyond the glass. He didn't move, didn't turn, his back to them as he stared out into the night, his hands clasped behind him, his body so still it was almost statuesque. But his silence was not passive—it was heavy, charged, the weight of his thoughts pressing into the very walls of the study. His presence alone commanded the space, and yet it only served to make the tension in the room feel even more unbearable.
It was Theo who finally broke the suffocating stillness, his voice slicing through the quiet like a blade honed to a razor's edge.
"You're not just brooding over her leaving," he said, his tone measured, his words deliberate. "This is about the baby, isn't it?"
Blaise inhaled sharply through his nose, but he didn't lift his gaze. His voice, when it finally came, was rough—hoarse, strained, as if the words had to be dragged out of him against his will.
"She's carrying my child, Theo." He exhaled shakily, his fingers tightening around the glass, his knuckles going white. "My child. And she ran." His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, his jaw clenched so tightly it looked as if he might shatter his own teeth. "How the hell am I supposed to be alright with that?"
Theo leaned forward then, resting his elbows on his knees, his expression unreadable, his voice even.
"She didn't run from the baby, Blaise." He let the words settle for a moment, knowing they would land like a hammer, knowing there was no sugarcoating what had already happened. "She ran from you. From us. From this life." His gaze didn't waver. "She couldn't handle it."
Blaise's head snapped up then, his dark eyes blazing with something volatile, something desperate.
"And why the hell can your wife handle it?" he snapped, his voice rising with the force of his frustration, his grief sharpening into anger. "How come Saint Luna is just fine with you being a fucking killer?" The words dripped with venom, the bitterness in them undeniable.
The room shifted, the energy darkening in an instant.
Theo's expression turned cold, dangerously so, the tension in his frame going taut as he sat up straighter, his easy demeanor vanishing like smoke in the wind.
"Don't mention my wife again in that tone," he warned, his voice low, controlled, but carrying an edge of something lethal, something that could turn violent if pushed further. "Luna understands because she's lived it, Blaise. She knows what it's like to take a life." His jaw tightened. "She's not some porcelain doll you can shatter with a cruel word. She understands things you don't."
Draco, who had remained silent until now, finally turned from the window, his sharp features betraying the barest flicker of surprise.
"Luna… killed someone?" His voice was carefully measured, but there was disbelief there, a hesitance to reconcile that image with the ethereal, dreamlike girl he had once known.
Theo's gaze snapped to Draco, his expression unyielding. "She's not the whimsical little girl from Hogwarts anymore, Malfoy," he said, his tone biting. "Stop treating her like some saint sent to earth." He exhaled through his nose, shaking his head slightly. "She's just as flawed as the rest of us. Maybe even more so." His fingers tapped against the armrest before he added, bluntly, "She killed her grandfather."
Draco's brow furrowed, but he said nothing.
Theo continued, his voice steady. "He was abusive to her mum. That's all you need to know."
Silence settled heavily over the room again as he processed the information before he finally inclined his head, his tone quieter, more deliberate.
"I apologize," he said, sincerity laced in his words. "That's… brave. I'm happy for her. For both of you."
Blaise, still burning with his own barely contained emotions, scoffed, his anger seeking another target.
"Besides the shock of Luna bloody Lovegood being a killer," he sneered, his lips curling, "what's Granger's reason for staying with you?" His voice was mocking, sharp, almost cruel. "Why hasn't she run for the hills yet?"
Draco's expression didn't shift, but something in the air did.
A dangerous stillness settled over him, something cold and cutting flashing through his grey eyes. His voice, when it came, was soft, but there was steel beneath it.
"Watch your tone, Zabini," he said, each word slow, deliberate, carrying the weight of an unspoken warning. "You're skating on thin ice today, and you're disrespecting our wives."
Then, he stepped closer, his presence growing heavier, his gaze locking onto Blaise with a quiet intensity that made even Theo sit up a little straighter, muscles tensing in case things escalated.
"Hermione killed my father," he said, his voice calm, almost eerily so. "Let me remind you of that." He let the words sink in before continuing, his tone unwavering. "She killed him because of me. Because she loves me. She wanted to set me free from my demons."
The room fell into a heavy, suffocating silence.
Blaise looked away, his anger dulling, his expression tightening as the truth of it all sank in. He stared into his glass, his jaw clenched, his throat working as he tried to swallow down the emotions threatening to surface.
Theo let out a slow breath, leaning back in his chair, his fingers tapping against his knee.
"Love makes people do impossible things," he murmured, almost to himself. "Things we never think we're capable of."
Draco returned to his place by the window, his profile sharp against the dim firelight. "Her love is what keeps me standing," he admitted quietly. "It's why I fight. It's why I survive. And it's why I'll never let anything—or anyone—threaten what we've built."
Blaise said nothing. He simply sat there, staring down at the firewhiskey in his glass, lost in thoughts he couldn't escape.
Despite everything, Ginny wasn't coming back.
~~~~~~
He stepped out of his study, the weight of Blaise's confession pressing against his chest like a physical thing, heavy and suffocating, settling into the hollow space between his ribs. The conversation still echoed in his mind, the rawness of it, the grief and anger entangled so tightly that he wasn't sure Blaise himself knew where one emotion ended and the other began. He exhaled slowly, trying to shake off the tension before making his way down the corridor.
He found her curled up on the sofa, a book resting in her lap, though her fingers only toyed with the edges of the pages, tracing absent patterns along the worn spine. She wasn't reading—he knew her well enough to tell. Her gaze was distant, her body tense in that way that told him she was bracing for something, preparing for a conversation she had already played out in her head before he even spoke a word.
"Darling," he murmured cautiously, stepping into the room. "Red left Blaise. He just told me."
Her eyes flicked up, cool and unreadable, her expression carefully composed in that way she had perfected over time—a defense mechanism, a shield forged from intellect and restraint.
"Well… it is what it is, isn't it?" she said, voice light but edged with something sharper, something brittle.
He hesitated. There was no surprise in her tone, no softness—only steel. She was holding herself together, but he could see the cracks just beneath the surface.
"Don't look at me like that," she snapped, snapping the book shut with a sharp flick of her wrist. "I'm still mad at her."
He sighed, nodding. "I know. She was cruel. She crossed a line." His lips twitched slightly, as if trying to coax some warmth back into the conversation. "Besides, she's not even my favorite Weasley."
She tilted her head, curiosity flickering in her frustration, a small chink in her otherwise impenetrable armor. "Do you have a favorite?"
"I think everyone's is Charlie," he replied as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
A reluctant smile tugged at her lips, despite herself. "Honestly… yes."
Encouraged, he stepped closer, hands deep in his pockets. "Do you want to talk to her?"
The warmth vanished from her face instantly. "No."
He sighed. "Hermione—"
"No," she repeated, standing abruptly, the book tumbling onto the cushions as frustration bled into movement. "I'm not going to apologize. She hurt me." Her breath hitched slightly, and she pressed her lips together, as if physically restraining herself from allowing the full force of her emotions to surface. "She said one thing—just one thing—that broke something inside me. How could she?"
She started pacing, her hands flexing at her sides, her voice growing tighter, more strained. He didn't interrupt. He knew her well enough to let her get it out, to let her untangle the mess of thoughts spinning through her mind.
"What if…" she hesitated, her breath shaky. "What if everyone thinks like she does?"
His brow furrowed, but she didn't give him a chance to interject.
"What if they all see me as…" Her voice wavered, and she shook her head as if she could physically rid herself of the thought. "As weak. As pathetic."
She swallowed hard, her throat working against the emotion building inside her.
"What if they look at me and all they see is a woman who couldn't even stand?" Her voice cracked, pain bleeding into her words now, her control slipping. "Who couldn't even—" She broke off, inhaling sharply. "Who had to be taken care of like a child?"
He felt something clench painfully in his chest.
"What if I was just a burden?" she whispered, barely audible now. "What if I still am?"
His breath left him in a sharp exhale, something cold and visceral slicing through him at the mere suggestion that she could ever believe that.
"Hermione—"
"What if—"
"You were never a burden," he cut in fiercely, his voice raw with conviction.
In three strides, he was in front of her, closing the space between them, his hands gripping her shoulders, grounding her, forcing her to look at him, really look at him.
"Never," he repeated, voice lower now but no less fierce. "Do you hear me?"
Her lips parted, her chest rising and falling with uneven breaths, her eyes shining with unshed tears.
"I would do it all again," he told her, voice thick with emotion. "Every moment. Every sleepless night. Every single second of it." He shook his head, his grip tightening ever so slightly. "Do you have any idea how many nights I sat awake, praying—praying for you to keep fighting? Do you know how many times I wished I could take your pain for myself?"
His voice dropped to a whisper, his next words breaking something open inside him.
"It broke me. But never—never—did I see you as anything less than the strongest person I know."
A tear slipped down her cheek, silent and slow. "Draco…"
His jaw clenched, and something flickered behind his eyes—something darker, something older, something that had been gnawing at him long before this conversation.
"It was my fault you almost died," he said, the words nearly breaking apart as they left his lips. His voice cracked, thick with something heavy and unbearable. "That's the truth, isn't it? If I hadn't—"
"No."
She cupped his face with both hands, shaking her head with quiet insistence, her touch warm, grounding.
"I don't see it that way," she murmured, her thumbs brushing over the sharp lines of his cheekbones. "I never have."
"But I do," he admitted, voice barely more than breath. "Every single day."
Silence stretched between them, fragile yet weighty, something raw and unspoken passing between them in the dim light of the room. Then, slowly, she leaned forward, pressing her forehead against his, their breaths mingling in the small space between them.
"I love you," she whispered, voice steady despite the lingering emotion clinging to the edges of it. "And I'm here. I'm still here. Because of you."
His arms wrapped around her then, pulling her close, his grip almost desperate, as if by holding her he could shield them both from the past, from the weight of what they had survived, from the things neither of them could ever take back.
"And I'll spend the rest of my life proving I deserve that love," he murmured against her hair, his voice quiet, reverent. "Because you are my everything."
She closed her eyes, breathing him in, letting the warmth of him settle over the fractures inside her.
And for the first time in a long time, she believed him.
~~~~~~~
She returned to work, immersing herself in her tasks with a facade of normalcy that only those closest to her might have seen through. Her days were meticulously structured, filled with meetings, research, and the quiet rhythm of paperwork. To the untrained eye, she was the epitome of professionalism—focused, efficient, and unyieldingly composed.
Yet, her colleagues couldn't help but notice the subtle shifts. She arrived earlier than usual, staying later, as though her office were a sanctuary from something unspoken. Her smiles were polite but never quite reached her eyes, and her laughter—once a warm, familiar sound—had grown rare. She was always pleasant, but there was an unmissable edge of detachment, as if she were present in body but not entirely in spirit.
Out of respect, or perhaps a fear of breaching her carefully maintained walls, no one addressed the change. They carried on as though everything was as it had been, engaging her in work-related discussions but steering clear of personal matters. There were moments when someone might glance at her a second too long, as though they wanted to say something, but the words never came. She seemed to prefer it that way, keeping everyone at arm's length with an unspoken request for space.
Her desk became a fortress of books and parchment, a reflection of her attempts to distract herself. She tackled every task with a vigor that bordered on obsession, determined to stay busy, to keep her mind from wandering into dangerous territory.
In quieter moments, when the office was still and the world outside her window began to darken, she allowed herself a fleeting pause. She would stare at the parchment in front of her, the words blurring together as memories threatened to creep in. But she would shake them off, forcing herself to refocus. This was her escape, her lifeline, and she clung to it fiercely.
Her colleagues noticed, of course. They exchanged knowing glances when they thought she wasn't looking, their concern evident in the way they left cups of tea on her desk without a word or offered to take on tasks she could have easily managed. But none dared to ask, none wanted to intrude on whatever storm she was weathering.
Hermione, for her part, appreciated their silence. She wasn't ready to explain, to unpack the emotions that churned beneath her calm exterior. Work was safe, predictable, and in a life that felt increasingly chaotic, it was the one thing she could control. So, she continued on, her facade intact, her colleagues' quiet support unacknowledged but deeply felt, as she fought to reclaim a sense of normalcy in a world that felt anything but.
~~~~~~
They attended Sunday dinner with her parents, and for the first time in what felt like years, there was no undercurrent of tension, no silent scrutiny. Instead, there was warmth—a quiet but profound sense of connection that neither Draco nor Hermione had dared to expect. The evening marked a turning point, a gradual healing of old wounds, and she felt a closeness that outshone even her most cherished childhood memories.
The familiar sight of her parents' cozy home brought a smile to her face as they approached. It wasn't extravagant, but it was inviting, with a soft glow spilling from the windows and the faint outline of her mother moving in the kitchen. He hesitated briefly on the doorstep, brushing his hand over Hermione's for reassurance, before she squeezed it in return and opened the door.
The aroma of roasted vegetables, herbs, and something distinctly sweet wrapped around them like a warm embrace. "Mummy, we're here!" She called out, her voice carrying through the house.
Her mother appeared almost instantly, wiping her hands on an apron that had clearly seen years of love and use. "There you are! Just in time—dinner's almost ready." She pulled Hermione into a hug, lingering for a moment before turning to him. "Draco, dear, it's lovely to see you again. Come in, come in."
David emerged from the living room, a glass of red wine in hand. "Ah, there's my girl!" he said, grinning broadly before pulling her into a warm hug. "And Draco, good to see you, son. Hope you're hungry—I think your mother's cooked enough for an army."
He managed a small, genuine smile. "Thank you for having me again. It all smells incredible."
Hermione caught his eye as they shrugged off their coats, noting the faint tension in his shoulders beginning to dissipate. For all his confidence and poise in other situations, family settings were still uncharted waters for him, and she admired how he navigated them with quiet grace.
They moved to the dining room, where the table was laid with mismatched but charming dishes, candlelight dancing across the surface. As everyone took their seats, her mother brought out the last of the dishes, a proud smile on her face. "There we go. A little bit of everything, just the way you like it."
Dinner was lively. Her parents shared stories from their younger days, tales of family holidays and misadventures that had Hermione laughing so hard she wiped tears from her eyes. Draco, who at first had been quietly polite, soon found himself swept up in the warmth of the conversation.
"Did Hermione ever tell you about the time she tried to make a potion with her school chemistry set?" her father asked, a mischievous twinkle in his eye.
"Daddy!" she groaned, though she was laughing.
David grinned. "She turned the kitchen pink for two weeks. We thought it might be permanent."
He chuckled, his eyes sparkling as he looked at her. "I can't say I'm surprised. That sounds very on-brand for you."
She rolled her eyes, but her smile betrayed her amusement.
As dessert was served—a sticky toffee pudding that her mother had perfected over the years—the mood grew softer, more reflective. David raised his glass of wine. "To family," he said warmly, his gaze lingering on Hermione. "To new beginnings and second chances."
She felt her throat tighten, overwhelmed by the sincerity of his words. She raised her own glass, smiling through the emotion that threatened to spill over. He followed suit, his expression calm but touched, his glass raised slightly higher than the others.
Later, as the evening wore on, they lingered at the table, the conversation shifting to lighter topics. Hermione leaned back in her chair, watching as her mother and Draco discussed the finer points of herbology, something that had surprised her to no end.
When it was finally time to leave, her parents walked them to the door, her mother pressing a Tupperware container of leftovers into her hands. "Just in case you're hungry tomorrow," she said with a wink.
As they walked back to the car, the crisp night air nipping at their cheeks, she slipped her arm through his. "That went well," she said softly.
He nodded, a faint smile lingering on his lips. "It felt… normal. Good. Like family."
She leaned her head against his shoulder, feeling a contentment she hadn't experienced in far too long. "It was perfect," she murmured. And for the first time in ages, it truly felt like everything was falling into place.
~~~~~~
Hermione felt like a False Rose of Jericho, caught in the delicate, miraculous moment between death and resurrection, between desolation and rebirth. A plant so often mistaken for lifeless, curled in upon itself, brittle and withered, only to unfurl with the kiss of water, revealing that it had never truly been dead—only waiting. Waiting for the right conditions, for warmth, for nourishment, for something to remind it that it was still capable of thriving.
And wasn't she the same?
For so long, she had been suspended in a kind of emotional dormancy, her heart locked behind walls of exhaustion and grief, her spirit parched from the weight of all she had endured. The trials she had faced had stripped her down to something skeletal, something that had once seemed insurmountable, impossible to rise from. But now—now, with each small act of kindness, with each moment of tenderness, she felt something within her begin to shift, to unfurl, to reach for the light again.
Her love for him—once tangled in tension, rooted in something that had both nourished and threatened to consume her—had begun to bloom anew, much like the rose's quiet, unassuming revival. It was in the warmth of family dinners, in the way laughter spilled effortlessly between them over simple joys, in the grounding comfort of hands that held hers with patience rather than demand. It was in the quiet spaces, in the gentle moments where love did not need to be spoken but simply existed, wrapping around her like sunlight through an open window.
Each day brought new growth, slow and steady, as though her very soul were being watered drop by drop, coaxed back into something soft and alive, no longer merely surviving but daring—aching—to flourish. The past had left its scars, deep and unforgiving, but even wounds could heal with time, with care, with the persistent belief that renewal was not only possible but inevitable.
As she looked around at the faces of those who had remained by her side—unwavering, steadfast—she saw in them the quiet reflection of her own resilience, a beauty she had not always recognized within herself. They had been her soil, her sun, her rain. And like the False Rose of Jericho, she had endured the barrenness of her hardest seasons, had curled inward, had waited, unsure if life would ever return to her.
But it had.
And now, she was blooming again—slowly, cautiously, but undeniably—reaching for the future with hands that no longer trembled, with a heart no longer afraid to hope.