They were in the Gryffindor common room, late into April, the news of Dean and Ginny's break-up fresh and the most talked-about thing at Hogwarts.
Well. Most talked-about thing next to Ron and Lavender's break-up.
Lavender had been passive-aggressive toward Hermione — for want of a kinder description. She'd seen her and Ron leaving the boys' dormitory together and leapt to the worst possible conclusion, not knowing Harry had been there the whole time under his Invisibility Cloak.
"She won't stop crying."
"Ginny?" Ron wondered.
Hermione stared at him for a moment. "No. Lavender. Remember her?"
Ron made a face. "Right. Forgot she existed for a second."
Hermione gave him a withering look over the top of her book. "Charming."
"Well, it's not as if she's being reasonable," he muttered, slouching further into the sofa.
"Reasonable?"
"She jumped to conclusions! How is that my fault?"
Harry glanced from one to the other but stayed out of it.
Hermione huffed. "Conclusions you made no effort to correct."
Ron scowled, picking at a loose thread on the armrest. "What was I supposed to say? 'Sorry, Lavender, it wasn't what it looked like — Harry's here, he's just invisible'?"
"You could have started with 'we weren't snogging'." She offered.
"Doesn't matter much, does it?" Ron shrugged. "We were nearly done anyway. And if her conclusions helped me get out of it, I'm not exactly complaining."
Harry groaned as Hermione shut her book, staring at the red-haired boy as though he'd just sprouted a second head.
"What?" He asked. "It doesn't affect you."
"Everyone thinks we're together!" She argued.
"You act like that's such a terrible thing."
Harry dropped his head into his hands.
"Given that I'm seeing —!"
Ginny dropped into the seat beside Hermione with a look that said, you owe me, and smoothly cut in. "Has anyone spoken to Dean since we broke up?"
Harry jumped at the opening. "Yeah — he seems fine. Solid bloke. Not too hard done by."
"Good. I genuinely didn't want to hurt him."
"Sorry," Ron said, turning back to Hermione. "Who are you seeing?"
Her eyes darted to Ginny, who gave a barely perceptible shake of her head.
"No one," Hermione said, waving her hand as if physically swatting the words from the air. "I misspoke."
"So why did Dean and you break up?" Harry pressed, trying again to steer things.
"Just not a match," Ginny said. "He's sweet, but I like a bit more… adventure." She chose the word carefully. Spice would have been her first choice if her brother weren't sitting right there.
"You misspoke?" Ron asked, entirely ignoring Ginny and Harry, to everyone's irritation. "You never misspeak."
"Maybe you should talk to me more often, then," Hermione said through her teeth. "I misspeak quite a lot. Just ask —"
"Me," Ginny cut in, looking at Hermione like she'd just accidentally taken a sip of Veritaserum.
Hermione blinked.
Oh Merlin, what is wrong with me? she thought.
Ginny turned briskly back to Harry. "Anyway! Loads of homework — OWLs are coming up and they're absolutely destroying me."
"Is it Krum again?" Ron asked.
Ginny was going to feign tears just to get him to stop asking Hermione questions. Truly.
"I beg your pardon?" Hermione asked, staring at him incredulously.
"Krum. He never quite got over you, did he? Is it him?"
Hermione opened her mouth, closed it, then looked directly at Harry for a fraction of a second too long.
Ron caught it.
"Harry?!" He yelled.
Harry visibly recoiled. "No! No — no. No!" He pointed a finger at Ron, then at Hermione, shooting her a look that said very clearly, do not drag me into this.
"I should be offended by that," Hermione said pointedly.
"Sorry, I just — no! I mean, you're brilliant, Hermione, honestly, and I — I love you, but I also know —"
Ginny closed her eyes. "Don't finish that sentence."
"I saw the look!" Ron argued.
"There was no look!" Harry said. "And even if there was, it wasn't a look look — just a look!"
Hermione threw up her hands. "What does that even mean?"
Harry flailed slightly. "It means it wasn't a romantic look! It was a friendly look! A 'stop talking before you ruin everything' look!"
"Oh, that's much better," Ron muttered, face scrunching.
"Oh, for Merlin's sake," Ginny whispered.
Hermione was staring at Harry, who wanted nothing more than to vanish on the spot.
It was not a thanks for saving me look. It was very firmly an if I go down, you're going down with me look.
"I'm going to ask Blaise out!" Ginny announced.
Ron blinked. "What?"
Ginny cleared her throat, voice a touch louder than natural. "I said — I'm going to ask Blaise Zabini out. On a date."
"You've gone completely mental," Ron said, expression caught somewhere between horror and personal affront.
Hermione swallowed, looking at Ginny. "That sounds wonderful, Gin. He's very kind."
"Kind?" Ron sputtered.
Ginny nodded. "And funny. Much better suited to me than Dean ever was."
Ron was still gaping. "Funny? Zabini? The bloke who never smiles?"
"Blaise smiles," Hermione and Ginny said together.
"He's a Slytherin!"
"Thank you for the house update," Ginny replied flatly. "Next you'll be telling me water is wet."
"And he's — he's friends with Malfoy," Ron added, as if this sealed the matter entirely.
Hermione rolled her eyes. Harry stood up.
"I need your help," he said, offering no further context, grabbing Hermione by the arm and pulling her toward the portrait hole before anything else could explode.
---
Pansy had been watching.
Not long.
A couple of days. A week or two at most.
It was the beginning of May when she finally moved.
She'd noticed the way the youngest Weasley had been pulling away from Thomas. Seen her gravitating closer to Hermione and Potter.
Then the news broke. Weasley had ended things with Thomas.
Pansy had initially suspected Ginny had developed an interest in Blaise — but after several days of nothing, no lingering glances, no engineered corridor run-ins — she arrived at a different conclusion entirely.
No. The girl didn't want Blaise. Pansy was now fairly certain she wanted Potter.
Pansy was not jealous.
She wasn't.
Truly.
Jealousy was irrational. Petty. A childish emotion for people who didn't know how to win.
Pansy Parkinson did not lose, and if she did, she most certainly did not pine.
Still. Her eyes lingered a little too long on the way Ginny leaned toward Potter at breakfast, laughing at something he'd said like he was the wittiest person at Hogwarts.
He wasn't.
It wasn't jealousy.
It was strategy.
Reassessment.
A recalibration of her position on the board.
"Hello?" Daphne sang, "Earth to Pansy."
Pansy looked up. "What is it?"
"I asked whether pink or blue would suit me better for the gala in France this summer."
"Blue. Always blue. It's your colour."
Daphne nodded. "Did you hear Weasley and Thomas broke up?"
Blaise's lips twitched into the faintest approximation of a smile. "Did they?"
Pansy stood. "Blaise, be a dear and walk me to class. I'd like to get there early."
This had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that Potter appeared to be leaving the Great Hall at precisely that moment.
"I haven't finished eating," Blaise said.
"I don't care."
He grumbled, but got up.
They were out of the Great Hall in short order.
"We're tailing Potter now?" He drawled.
"I don't tail people."
"You've matched his exact pace."
"I'm walking to class."
"You don't have Charms."
Pansy was not jealous.
She was simply reclaiming territory.
And if Potter didn't appreciate it?
Well. He'd been more than appreciative enough the first time.
Pansy lost him somewhere around the moving staircases.
She'd been two careful steps behind — strategically, obviously, not in pursuit — and then a staircase shifted, sending a group of fourth-years directly between her and Potter. By the time she'd navigated around them, he was gone.
She cursed under her breath and turned a slow circle, scanning the corridor. No sign of him. No messy hair, no loosened tie swinging as he rushed somewhere.
---
Harry was following the dot on the Marauder's Map, Malfoy's name stationary in a bathroom on the fourth floor.
He hadn't even been looking specifically — well, he had, but primarily to check whether the Room of Requirement was free so he could attempt to get in and retrieve the Half-Blood Prince's book.
But as he walked, he changed course, following the Map toward the bathroom instead.
He heard Malfoy before he reached it — a shout, the sound of something shattering. He sounded completely undone.
---
Draco had stormed into the bathroom he knew was usually deserted, gone into a cubicle, and immediately been sick.
His stomach clenched and spasmed, and for a moment he simply hung there, forehead pressed to the cool metal of the cubicle wall, his breathing ragged, mouth sour with dread.
The letter was still in his pocket.
His hands shook as he reached for it, unfolding the parchment with trembling fingers — though the words were already seared into him.
The Dark Lord has been patient. Failure will not be tolerated. You will watch as your mother learns what happens to traitors. Your aunt is eager. You will beg to be killed before the end.
He stormed out of the cubicle and to the sinks, a guttered sound tearing from his throat as he seized an abandoned glass from the shelf and hurled it at the mirror.
Shards rained down like silver, scattering across the floor as the mirror fractured into a web of cracks. His voice died into a broken gasp, the weight pressing down on his chest like the Cruciatus itself.
He braced both hands on the sink, shoulders heaving, staring at the broken reflection that stared back at him — his own face, distorted and split.
He could see it. His aunt's delight. The particular gleam in her eye.
His mother's face.
Once renowned for her cold beauty, it had grown sharp with worry — drawn thin by sleepless nights and carefully maintained composure. Every new line carved by fear, every hollow carved deeper by the pressure bearing down on all of them.
He wasn't certain when the tears had started — only that it was growing harder and harder to breathe, his fingers white on the porcelain as his free hand yanked his tie loose.
The Dark Mark pulsed beneath his sleeve, hot and unrelenting. A brand of ownership. Of doom.
And then — without warning — she was there. Hermione, vivid in his mind.
She didn't know.
Not about the Mark.
Not about the letter.
Not about what the Dark Lord didn't merely threaten — promised.
She'd be horrified if she knew.
Not just horrified — furious. She'd lash out, words first, then spells. He'd seen her do both. But beneath the anger, there'd be something worse.
Pity.
Draco could endure hatred. He'd been shaped by it. But pity?
Pity would destroy him.
Having the girl he so — admired — look at him as something broken and irreparable.
He'd crumble.
And perhaps that was the truth of it — why he hadn't told her. Why he hadn't shown her.
Because beneath whatever fury she'd have for the Mark and everything it stood for, he was terrified she'd stay.
Because Hermione Granger had a stubborn streak wide enough to split mountains.
And if she stayed — if she saw him properly, all of him, and didn't run, didn't scream, didn't hex him to pieces —
Then he'd have to face it.
All of it.
The guilt.
The shame.
The knowledge that somewhere along the way, he'd become someone worth staying for.
Even when everything he was went against everything she stood for.
A Muggle-born.
Harry Potter's best friend.
Brilliant.
Stubborn.
His.
He was still staring down at the sink, his shoulders shaking, tears dripping into the basin, when he looked up into the fractured mirror.
He'd expected to see his own reflection, as broken as he felt.
He hadn't expected to see Potter staring back at him from across the room.
Draco spun around, dropping the letter as he reached for his wand.
His Hex missed Potter by inches, blowing apart the wall sconce beside him. Potter threw himself sideways, thought Levicorpus! and flicked his wand — Draco blocked the Jinx and raised his wand again.
There was a loud bang and the waste bin behind Potter exploded.
Potter threw a Leg-Locker Curse that ricocheted off the wall beside Draco's ear and shattered the cistern. Water erupted across the floor.
Water gushed everywhere, pooling fast across the tiles, mingling with shards of mirror and porcelain. The air went thick and charged with the sharp tang of fear and magic.
He wasn't thinking. He doubted Potter was either. This was pure instinct — the voices in his head screaming that he couldn't fail, that he couldn't let Potter find out.
Hermione's face flashed through his mind again as he barely dodged one of Potter's Hexes. She'd be furious that he'd duelled Potter. She'd never forgive him.
Potter's spell clipped his shoulder and snapped him back into the moment. "Merlin — Potter!"
The curse that left him came on pure reflex.
Something he'd heard so many times at the Manor. From his aunt. From his father. From the Death Eaters who'd made it their home.
"Cruci —"
"SECTUMSEMPRA!" Potter bellowed.
The sound that followed was silence — and then the dripping of water that had soaked through his shirt, and the tears already on his face.
He saw Potter's expression. The horror. The realisation. The way his wand arm dropped to his side like he didn't know what he'd done. Like he couldn't decide whether to step forward or run.
Draco staggered. His wand slipped from his fingers and clattered to the wet floor.
Then he felt it — not at once, but building — white-hot and wild, as if he'd been slashed open by something that hadn't known when to stop.
His knees gave out. He went down.
The crimson bloomed and spread through the water pooled beneath him, like something out of a nightmare.
The cold seeped in immediately — tile biting into his knees, water soaking through his robes, the chill reaching bone. He barely registered it. The pain was distant. As though it were happening to someone else entirely.
He didn't scream.
He didn't have the breath.
His lips moved around something soundless and wet — and it might have been no, or please, or Hermione.
He couldn't feel the floor anymore.
Couldn't feel the water. Couldn't feel the pain.
Only a numbness so absolute it felt like falling asleep while drowning.
His vision pulsed — white at the edges, red at the centre. Shapes moved above him. Someone was shouting, he thought. Or perhaps that was the echo of the duel still ringing in his skull.
A flash of dark hair and pale skin dropped to its knees beside him.
Brown eyes. Not Potter's green.
Brown eyes he knew very well.
Her mouth was moving, his name on her lips, over and over.
She grabbed his face — her hands cold and trembling, the blood smearing across his skin as she ran her thumbs over his jaw, his cheeks, into his hair.
Her expression wasn't horror. It was fury. Her head snapped up, and her mouth moved in sharp, rapid bursts as she screamed at someone — Potter, it had to be. Draco couldn't hear the words, but he knew that look. That vicious, protective fire Pansy rarely let anyone else see.
She was moving, unbuttoning his shirt to assess the damage, trying to determine what she could do to stop the bleeding. Incantation after incantation spilled from her lips, and her face grew paler with every wound she uncovered.
Tears slipped from her eyes. And though he could no longer feel pain, he knew the spells weren't working — because when Pansy looked at him again, when she grabbed his face again, she let out a sob he could have sworn he heard clearly.
Stay with me. Don't close your eyes.
But as his eyes rolled back, her voice dimmed, replaced by something else.
"Honestly, Malfoy." Her voice was clear and warm in the falling dark, gentle despite everything. "You just had to hex Harry, didn't you?"
It was light, and familiar, and felt like coming home.
Despite the blood. Despite the cold. Despite Pansy's voice disappearing into the distance — a small smile found its way onto his face.
"Hermione," he breathed, as the lights went out.
---
It started as a whisper.
Like the first breath of wind before a storm.
By lunch, however, it was a tempest.
Some said it had happened in the dungeons. Others said a bathroom. A duel gone wrong. A Hex gone too far. A spell no one recognised. An Unforgivable, perhaps.
They said Draco Malfoy had lost consciousness. They said he staggered to Snape's office. That he screamed before he fell. That he didn't.
"He's in the Hospital Wing."
"He's not."
"He died."
"My sister said Madam Pomfrey vanished three vials of blood."
"I saw Narcissa Malfoy."
"No, you didn't."
"Well, I saw very expensive robes."
"They say he was cut open. Head to toe."
By mid-afternoon the rumour had mutated further.
"I heard Potter found him with Weasley's sister in a cupboard."
"I heard it was all a scheme to get Lucius Malfoy out of Azkaban."
"I heard Potter didn't even do it. That he just found him."
The professors remained tight-lipped throughout the day, their faces carefully arranged into expressions that gave nothing away.
In the corridors, students lingered in clusters, watching every professor's face, every locked door.
In the Ravenclaw common room, a group of fifth-years compiled a list of possible spells.
In the Hufflepuff dormitories, someone was taking bets on the reason.
Up in Draco's dormitory, Pansy sat on his bed. Still covered in blood — his blood — a haunted look hollowing her eyes.
No one had asked her to move. Theo sat at his desk. Blaise paced.
The silence was as thick as the copper smell clinging to Pansy's once-white sleeves.
Someone — perhaps Daphne — had tried to clean her up. A damp cloth, a wand. Neither had worked. The stains wouldn't shift. Or perhaps Pansy hadn't allowed them to.
She held Draco's tie in her lap, clutched like a lifeline. As if letting go meant accepting the worst.
"I don't understand," Blaise muttered.
Pansy said nothing.
Daphne crouched beside her, hand on her knee. "Pansy. Talk to us. What happened?"
"There was so much blood," she whispered.
Blaise stopped pacing. "We gathered that. But what happened?"
"It wouldn't stop." She tightened her grip on the tie. "I tried everything. Every healing charm I know. It just kept coming."
Theo rubbed his face with both hands. "Merlin."
"I cut him."
Daphne tilted her head. "No, Pans, you're getting confused. Whatever happened, it wasn't you —"
She shook her head. "His arm. The — the Mark. I saw it when Potter ran off to get help. And I didn't know what to do. I grabbed a piece of glass from the floor and —"
"You what?" Theo said, very quietly.
Pansy didn't look up. She stared at the tie as if it were the only thing anchoring her to something sane.
"I panicked," she whispered. "I wasn't thinking. He was already bleeding so much, and the sleeve was torn, and I saw it. And I thought — they can't see it. Not like this. Not while he's unconscious and there was nothing I could do and Potter had just gone —"
Her voice cracked. She looked up at her friends, tears spilling again. "They'd use it against him. You know they would. He's barely surviving the pressure he's under already, and I just —"
Daphne's hand tightened on her knee. "Pans —"
"I did it." Flat. Empty. "I made the bleeding worse. But it worked. Madam Pomfrey didn't ask a single thing about the Mark. Not one word."
Daphne rubbed her knee. "You bought him time." She whispered.
"You cut him," Theo said.
"She saved him," Daphne said, her head snapping toward him, as if her words alone could shield Pansy.
Pansy screwed her eyes shut. "If Potter saw it, he gave nothing away. He'll tell her if he did."
---
Up in Gryffindor Tower:
"Has anyone seen Hermione Granger?"
"She's in the library."
"Probably in class."
"Do you think she was there?"
In the common room, Ginny sat very still and listened.
"Harry won't say what happened."
"He's going to be expelled."
"Bloody Malfoy probably deserved it."
"Will everyone just shut up?!" Harry finally snapped. It was late, and he was beyond exhausted.
The room went silent. Neville sank back into his armchair. Dean looked away. Even Seamus, who'd been stirring the fire with performative bravado, froze.
Ginny didn't move. She watched Harry from her spot by the fireplace, legs pulled to her chest.
Harry crossed the room and dropped down beside her, dragging a hand over his face.
"You've still got blood on your shirt," Ginny said quietly.
Harry glanced down. Just a small stain on the white fabric — but it was there. He swallowed.
Ron clapped his back. "Bloody hell, mate. I know Malfoy had it coming, but you might've let us in on it." He muttered. "Merlin knows I'd have liked a front row seat."
"I've got detention with Snape every Saturday until the end of term," Harry said. "McGonagall nearly took my ear off."
The portrait hole swung open.
Hermione walked in, her hand twitching against the strap of her bag.
The portrait swung shut behind her. Her eyes landed on Harry, and the words barely made it out of her mouth. "What did you do?"
Harry looked up at her.
She was pale. Shaken. Nothing at all behind her eyes.
He swallowed.
Her bag hit the floor.
She was crossing the room before she'd thought about it, before her mind had caught up with her body — and she wasn't sure either one had caught up with her mouth in hours.
People stepped aside as she passed.
"Harry, what did you do?!" She was in front of him now, both hands slamming against his chest — without rhythm, without aim. Not to hurt him. To shake it out of him.
Harry flinched. His heart hammered — not from adrenaline, but from the raw desperation in her voice.
"Hermione —"
"Tell me what you did to him!"
Harry staggered back, moving a chair between them. "He came at me first! He attacked —"
"What did you use? What did you say?!" Tears were running down her face now.
Harry moved, trying to create space, painfully aware of the whole common room watching — frozen, silent, barely breathing — but all he could see was Hermione.
Hermione in all her fury, and pain, and terror.
Hermione, who knew everything and was still searching his eyes as if they alone held the truth.
"I didn't mean to — Hermione!" She was pushing him again, hitting him. "He pulled his wand —"
"Don't you dare!" She sobbed. "Don't you dare make this his fault — he's — God, Harry, I don't even know if he's —!" She pushed him with genuine force this time.
Ron moved toward them. "Hermione, it's just Malfoy."
She let out a sound that was no longer words — grief and fury and panic, all wound into something raw and wordless.
Ron tried to take hold of her arms. "Hermione, it's Malfoy!"
"Is he alive?!" She wrenched away from him.
"Pansy was with him. She stayed. I went for Snape —"
It was ugly and ragged and entirely beyond reason — her whole body shaking as she seized Harry by the front of his robes and shoved him against the sofa arm, nearly knocking Ginny off.
"What did you do?!"
"I used a spell! From the Prince's book." Harry could barely get the words out.
"What spell?!"
Harry's breath caught.
"What spell, Harry?!" Her voice tore out of her as if it cost her something vital — as if knowing the incantation might somehow let her undo it.
"Merlin, Hermione!" Ron yelled. "You're acting like it matters!"
"He matters!" She swung around to face him.
For a moment, she forgot how to breathe.
"It was from the Prince's book," Harry said. "I didn't — I've never even heard of —"
"You used a spell you didn't know?!" She grabbed an abandoned glass of water from the table and hurled it at the wall. It shattered. Harry stepped back, frozen. "What did it do?!"
"It cut him!" Harry said. "It slashed through him. Is that what you want to hear?"
Her knees buckled.
Strong arms caught her at the waist before she reached the floor. A solid, sure presence at her back, steadying her.
"Granger." Blaise's voice, close to her ear.
"Let me go." She sobbed.
"Hermione."
"He could've killed him."
"'Mione." Sharp. Grounding. What Draco called her.
Blaise didn't let go.
Not as Hermione turned in his arms, fists clutching at his robes instead of Harry's, sobbing into his chest.
Ron stood frozen, mouth open, staring as Blaise held her with the ease of someone who'd done it before. He looked at Ginny, who'd come in with the Slytherin. "What in Merlin's name —"
"He's alive," Blaise said, his voice soft but steady. "He's alive."
A ragged sound slipped from Hermione's lips. Blaise shifted, one hand moving to the back of her head.
"Ron —" Ginny stepped forward, placing herself between him and Blaise.
"Get your hands off her." Ron snarled.
Blaise didn't dignify that with a response.
"You're crying over Draco Malfoy." Ron's voice rose, high and disbelieving. "You attacked Harry! You're in Blaise Zabini's arms! Have you lost your mind?!"
Hermione didn't answer.
Couldn't.
Ginny had both hands pressed to Ron's chest, not forcefully, but firmly enough. Stop. Not now.
Ron had made up his mind.
"He's a Death Eater in training!"
"Ron." Ginny's voice was sharp.
"She's crying over him!" He pointed at her like she'd committed some unforgivable betrayal. "Are you seeing this?"
Blaise's hand moved in slow circles against her back.
"He's been nothing but cruel to you!" Ron pressed. "He called you — he's been awful since day one!"
"Ron!" Ginny snapped.
"What?!" he shouted. "She's been sneaking around behind our backs all year! That's what this is! And what — you're in love with him now?!"
The sob caught in Hermione's throat, her body going entirely still.
Ron stared at her. "You're — you can't be serious." He whispered.
She couldn't lie. For once in her life, she simply couldn't make the words come out.
"He's using you! He's probably laughing about it with his lot — probably bragging that he's got the Golden Girl on a leash —"
"Careful, Weasley," Blaise cut in, voice very quiet.
"No! I want to hear her say it!"
Ginny caught Blaise's eye, a brief flash of meaning passing between them. Go.
He nodded. And with Hermione tucked against his side, he guided her out of the common room.
---
They made it perhaps ten feet down the corridor before Blaise let go, and Hermione slid down the stone wall to the floor.
Her hands were red, her throat raw, her chest still heaving.
She felt like she didn't fit in her own skin.
She'd forgotten Blaise was there until she heard his footsteps.
Back and forth.
Back and forth.
"Merlin," he muttered. "Merlin, Merlin, Merlin."
She looked up at him through the curtain of her curls. "I have to see him."
Blaise spun on her. "You need to calm down before you do."
She blinked.
He crouched in front of her, forearms on his knees, and dropped his voice. "I didn't —" He stopped, reconsidered. "Granger. We didn't understand how serious it was."
"Blaise —"
"You just attacked Potter."
"I thought he was —" Her voice cracked. "He could have killed him."
"And what — hitting him hard enough was going to undo it?" He asked. Then, quieter: "You're in love with him."
He leaned back on his heels and exhaled like this headache had been a long time coming. "Granger."
Hermione said nothing.
Blaise tilted his head. "Does he know? Does he —"
"No." She whispered. "I mean… we care for each other. He knows that. We… love's a strong word."
Blaise stared at her. "You just tried to murder Potter."
She flushed. "I didn't try to murder him." A lie, and not a convincing one.
He looked at her with the expression of someone with a great deal more to say, and the restraint not to say it.
He knew. About the Dark Mark. About the cabinet. About what Draco had been unravelling in secret for the better part of a year.
He knew what was coming.
And she didn't.
Muggle-born. Golden Girl. Brightest witch of her age.
She loved him — and she didn't know what he'd done. What he'd been forced to do. What he'd been Marked to do.
Blaise watched her. Then, quietly: "He's hurt. Badly. Lots of cuts."
"Why are you telling me that?"
"Because if you go in there looking like this, you'll terrify him," Blaise said. "He's not gone. But you need to pull yourself together first."
She wrapped her arms around herself, nails digging into her elbows.
"I didn't know — I didn't even know he was hurt until I heard people talking —"
Blaise exhaled. "And then you tried to tear Potter apart in the common room. So now everyone knows."
No judgment. Just the fact of it. It's out now.
He was quiet for a moment, his expression older than sixteen. Then he softened. "You can fall apart later. You can cry and break things and hex Potter into next week. But right now he needs to see you. Not whatever that was upstairs."
Hermione nodded once.
Blaise stood and offered her his hand.
"You alright?"
"No," she said. "But I'll manage."
He nodded. "That's the Slytherin way."
Hermione managed something close to a laugh.
---
The Hospital Wing doors swung shut behind her. Blaise was gone, back to the dungeons, probably managing whatever fallout was waiting for him there. Hermione stood just inside the entrance and let the quiet settle around her.
Draco was sitting up, propped against a pile of pillows with a book open in his lap, wandlight hovering at his shoulder. His hair was a wreck, his face bruised and swollen — but he was awake.
He was alive.
And it undid her entirely.
She wanted to sob. She bit it down.
Blaise had told her: be normal.
She could do that.
She stood at the threshold for a moment longer.
Draco looked up from his book, something crossing his face that might have been relief — or the ghost of it. "You look dreadful."
She exhaled. "You're one to talk." She said, walking toward him.
As she neared, the full damage became visible — fresh wounds running down his exposed chest, exhaustion carved into every line of his face. She sat down in the chair beside him.
"You haven't come to finish what Potter started?" He asked.
Hermione paused. Was that what had flickered across his face when she walked in? Not relief — fear?
"No." Her voice wavered. "Gods, Draco. No."
He must have heard it. Because his expression shifted, something in his tone going quiet.
"Bad joke," he murmured, closing the book. "Merlin, I'm going to curse Potter into next week."
"Get in line," Hermione muttered, her eyes tracing the cut along his jaw.
He noticed. Of course he did. "If you want a photograph, I'll sign it."
"It's my right," she said.
"Your right?"
She nodded. "As your girlfriend."
He clicked his tongue. "Good to know I'm apparently irresistible even half dead."
"Does it hurt?"
His lips twitched. Every time he tried to deflect her with a joke, she ignored it. "Only when I move. Or breathe. Or smile. Pomfrey says I'll live."
Hermione moved without thinking, reaching out to touch the edge of the cut on his jaw.
He held very still.
"Will it scar?" She asked. "Why hasn't she — there are Dittany pastes, there are healing draughts she could use —"
"She says the curse…" His throat moved. "It'll scar, Granger."
Her fingers brushed the edge of the wound, something close to grief crossing her face.
Draco looked away — not turning from her, just away. "It's not as though my looks were my best quality."
"That's not why I liked you."
He swallowed, trying not to let the hurt show as he shifted, hissing softly at the effort.
She noticed the shift — and she kissed him. Soft. Careful. Everything she couldn't say.
You almost died.
I didn't know what I'd do.
I love you.
I was so frightened.
I nearly killed Harry.
I love you.
Don't move, it'll hurt.
I love you.
There were so many rumours.
I love you.
I love you.
I love you.
He didn't reach for her the way he wanted to. His body wouldn't allow it. So he kissed her back, still and aching and real.
He pulled away long before Hermione would have liked.
"Pomfrey could come in."
"I don't care."
"She'll throw you out. It's past visiting hours."
"She can try."
There was something fragile in her voice. Something trembling underneath. Draco could feel it — in the way she wasn't pulling away, in the way her hand was still on his face as if he might vanish if she let go.
She turned away for a moment, composing herself before turning back.
Without hesitating, she pressed him gently to one side. "Move," she murmured, already climbing in before he could object.
He made a sound — half protest, half pained grunt. "Merlin, you're a menace."
It was a tiny bed — barely a twin — but Hermione didn't seem to care as she pressed herself against his side, her head settling against his shoulder, arms wrapping around his nearest arm.
Draco exhaled slowly, then tilted his head until his cheek rested against the top of her curls. He didn't speak. His fingers flexed against the edge of her thigh — tender, barely-there pressure, as if confirming she was actually there.
"Didn't take you for a cuddler."
"I'm not."
"My arm disagrees."
Hermione said nothing, eyes falling shut, listening to the soft rise and fall of his breath, the quiet pulse she could feel through her hand at his wrist.
Alive.
"Are you enjoying the book?" She asked quietly.
Draco glanced at the cover. "I like Elizabeth."
Hermione smiled faintly against his shoulder. "Remind you of anyone?"
"She's not nearly as bossy."
She pinched his side gently. He hissed through his teeth. "All right — she is. She's exactly like you. Happy?"
"Quite." She tilted her head to look up at him.
They fell into silence again — comfortable and warm — Draco fighting to stay awake, Hermione drawing absent shapes against his skin.
"Keep doing that and I'll fall asleep," Draco murmured.
She hummed. "I'll keep watch."
He smiled as his eyes began to close. "You really shouldn't be here, Granger."
"Scared I'll ruin your reputation?"
"Scared Snape will walk in."
Hermione raised her head slightly. "Do you want me to leave?"
His eyes stayed closed, lashes trembling against the bruised curve of his cheekbone. She waited.
"No," he finally said.
She settled back in. "Good."
"Are you going to fall asleep on me?"
"Probably."
He shifted slightly, the bed creaking beneath the movement. He was fading — she could hear it in every breath — but fighting it.
"I'm never letting you out of my sight again," Hermione whispered, not needing a response, simply needing to say it.
Draco's fingers twitched against her thigh but he didn't speak. Maybe he was already asleep. Maybe he was pretending to be.
She didn't blame him either way. Silence was easier.
God, things were becoming real.
He didn't know what she'd done upstairs. He didn't know what she'd said, or what Ron had said. He didn't know what she'd nearly become in that common room.
He was asleep, and her eyes drifted to where the blanket had pooled at his lap, his arm exposed just below the rolled cuff of his sleeve.
She could look.
She'd seen his arm a hundred times.
Hadn't she?
Her hand crept slowly toward it. She swallowed as she pushed the fabric back.
A breath left her. She was right.
She'd been right the entire time.
But as she moved to let go, she caught it.
The faintest shimmer of residual magic. A glamour, faltering at the edge.
Her finger ran over the skin. The charm flickered, revealing black ink against pale skin — a striking, terrible contrast — and the jagged cut that ran through the centre of it, courtesy of Pansy's desperate attempt to bury it.
She touched it. Of course she did. She had to know if it was real. The skin was slightly raised where the Mark bore its claim — and her heart was loud in her ears.
It was one thing to suspect. To worry. To fear. But to see it.
He hadn't told her.
Of course he hadn't.
He didn't move.
Didn't pull away.
Didn't explain.
Didn't deny it.
"You're awake," she whispered. Not a question. Not an accusation. Just an understanding that he'd let her find it.
"Hermione…"
The whisper shattered something in her.
She closed her eyes, feeling him watching her — steady, quiet, full of the kind of exhausted guilt she knew he must have been carrying for months.
"How long?" She didn't recognise her own voice.
"I was going to tell you —"
"How long, Draco?" She hissed.
"Last summer."
Hermione's breath caught. She dropped his arm and brought both hands up to her face.
"I didn't ask for it," he said, still staring at the ceiling. "That won't mean anything to you. I know. But I didn't. I didn't want it."
And there it was — the piece of him he'd never let her see. The part that was afraid. That knew he'd made a thousand wrong choices and couldn't believe he deserved anything worth keeping.
He didn't say he was sorry.
He didn't say it wasn't what it looked like.
He looked at her like he knew it might be the last time she'd let him.
"Gods," she whispered. "You —"
"Hermione —"
"Don't." She dropped her hands and looked at him. "Don't say my name like that."
He swallowed.
She shook her head, staring into his eyes — eyes she thought she'd understood. "You let me fall in love with you," she said, so quietly it was nearly swallowed by the room.
He shook his head. "No. No — you don't love me."
"I do." The words hurt on the way out. "You let me fall in love with you, and the entire time —" She was shaking her head. "Christmas. The library. All of it. It was built on a lie."
"No." The word broke from him, too fast, too fierce. "No, none of it was a lie."
"You let me believe —"
"I didn't know how — I didn't think —"
"You didn't think what? That I'd find out?"
"I thought I wanted it! I did want it, once." His voice cracked, and that was worse than shouting.
She couldn't respond. Her body was shaking too hard to hold words.
"I didn't think you'd ever find out."
"Brilliant," she snapped. "So I was just supposed to fall asleep in your arms while you disappear off to his service every night? No problem at all?"
He shook his head. "Don't do that. It's not like that. I haven't —"
"Then tell me what it's like."
His expression broke open. "He wanted to punish my father."
Hermione went still at that.
He wanted to punish my father.
She didn't need him to say it plainly. The implication was there — punish him for failing, for getting caught, for what it cost them.
"My mother begged him not to Mark me. But I was convenient. I was leverage." His voice cracked. "You have to believe me."
His breathing was uneven. He was trying to stay composed, trying not to show how desperately he was waiting for her to get up and leave.
"They'll kill me," he added. "If I fail. They'll kill my mother."
He didn't want her pity — she was going to leave anyway. He just needed her to understand.
Hermione stared at him.
At the boy she had come to love.
At the face she had memorised, the voice that played in her head, the eyes she'd spent months learning to read.
The boy she didn't know.
At the Mark on his arm. The scars on his chest. The faint, permanent lines of shame and fear on his face.
Then, as if the thought had been building without her permission — "What's the mission?"
Draco didn't answer. His silence was answer enough.
She shook her head. "Tell me it's not the cabinet."
Still nothing.
Her head tilted. "The one you've had me helping you with for months —"
"I tried to get you to stop."
"You used me!"
"I didn't. I just wanted to be around you. I wanted —"
"You should have told me!" Her hand flew to her mouth to cover the sob. "I kissed you. I trusted you!"
"I know." He reached out and brushed the tears from her face.
"I loved you."
"You don't." He repeated it as if saying it enough times might make it true.
"I do." Her voice was hollow with the weight of it. "And I don't know what to do with that."
His jaw worked silently.
His eyes met hers — full of guilt and devastation, and underneath it all, a flicker of hope he had no right to.
"You let me fall in love with you," she whispered again, trembling. "And now I can't undo it. I can't unfeel it."
Then, quieter still — "You kissed me."
"How could I not?" He breathed, as if she'd asked him to stop existing.
"You touched me." She hissed.
He shook his head. "No. I didn't. Not — not like that. I was certain of it. I made sure."
He swallowed. "I didn't let myself cross that line. I wanted to. Merlin knows I wanted to," his voice dropped to something broken, "I couldn't stop thinking about what it would be like to have you. I didn't let myself."
He repeated it. "I didn't let myself."
Hermione stared at him, and for a brief, painful moment she thought she saw it — a man trying to hold himself to the only boundary he'd thought he could keep.
"You think that's the line?" She whispered, her expression fracturing.
His mouth opened, and nothing came out. Because how could he explain it? That in his twisted, desperate logic, that had been where he'd drawn it. As if not crossing into something physical made the rest of his deception less real.
"I've seen your arm before. There was nothing there."
"I used a Glamour Charm."
She laughed — small, broken, awful. "I've been defending you to everyone. And you've been lying this entire time."
"I never lied."
"You didn't tell me." She said. "You hate me."
"I don't."
"You hate what I am. What I stand for."
"No." His voice was nearly a sob. "I hate what I am."
And that hit harder than any Jinx.
She stared at him, trying to reconcile the boy who kissed her like she was something worth keeping with the Mark on his arm.
She turned away, as if looking at him was too much.
"If you fail, he kills you. And your mother."
Draco nodded once.
Her voice was barely audible, terrified of the answer. "And if you succeed?"
"If I succeed," he whispered, "Dumbledore dies."
Hermione's throat closed. Her whole body went cold.
"I never wanted to hurt you."
"I hate you."
His eyes slipped shut as the words landed — as though he'd known they were coming and had long since decided to let them.
He didn't argue. Didn't beg. Didn't fight it.
And somehow that made it worse.
She sat there in the dark of the Hospital Wing, the air thick with loss and the terrible weight of choice.
"Say something," she whispered.
He didn't.
She turned to look at him. "Do something! Choose something! I don't — I have nothing left to give, Draco! Merlin — I hate you! I hate you because I love you!"
Hermione's breath came out ragged, the words ripping through her like shards of glass, her hands twisting the blanket between them as if it could hold her together.
Draco didn't move.
Didn't flinch.
Didn't breathe.
She loved him. She hated him.
Both were true.
His fingers twitched — just slightly — before curling into fists, knuckles white, jaw clenched like he was holding himself together through sheer force of will.
"I don't know what to do," she whispered.
"Miss Granger."
The voice cut through the air like an incantation.
Hermione spun around, every muscle locking into place.
Snape stood in the doorway, cloaked in shadow, eyes dark and unblinking.
"It is past visiting hours."
Hermione couldn't speak. Couldn't quite stand.
Snape didn't look at Draco. He didn't need to.
"Detention."
She still hadn't looked away from Draco, waiting — silently willing him to give her something to hold onto. Something that would force her to stay.
"Miss Granger," Snape repeated.
Nothing from the boy in the bed.
"I hate you, Malfoy," she said.
And she walked out.