Meeting at the Ministry

Hermione burst into Kingsley's office like a storm, her breath coming in sharp, ragged gasps, rage radiating off her in waves.

Her vision blurred with fury as she slammed the door behind her, the sound echoing like a curse.

"How. Could. You?"

Her voice was deadly quiet, shaking with the kind of barely-contained wrath that promised destruction. Her hands clenched so tightly at her sides that her nails bit into her palms, but she barely felt the pain.

"After everything—after all the Order members we lost, after all the battles I fought, after all the times I bled for this world—you have the audacity to condemn me to this?"

She didn't wait for an answer.

With a violent jerk, she yanked up her sleeve, shoving her arm forward like a declaration of war.

The ugly, jagged scar—M U D B L O O D—glared up at them both, a permanent reminder of pain, of humiliation, of the night she had nearly been broken.

Her voice cracked, raw and vicious.

"This is the man you force me to share a life with?"

She let the words hang in the air, thick and suffocating.

"The same man who stood there while his deranged aunt carved this into my fucking skin?"

Her breath was heavy, her pulse a deafening roar in her ears, but she didn't back down, didn't waver. She dared Kingsley to look her in the eye and tell her this was about unity. Dared him to justify this like it was anything but a betrayal.

Kingsley rose slowly from behind his desk, his broad shoulders tense, the weight of his position and the decision that had already been made etched deeply into his face. His mouth opened as if to say something, but after a beat of hesitation, he simply let his hand fall back to his side.

"Hermione, please," he said, his voice thick with regret, but also with something else—something exhausted, as if he'd had this fight with himself a thousand times already and lost every single one. "Believe me, I fought against this law with every fiber of my being. The Wizengamot… they were relentless. They believe this is the only way to heal the deep wounds of the war, to prevent the prejudices from festering again."

"Heal?"

The word ripped out of her throat, her fury so visceral it practically shook the walls. She took a sharp, unforgiving step forward, the kind of step that sent grown men cowering—but not Kingsley. No, he stood his ground, but his expression crumbled beneath her rage.

"This is a mockery of healing, Kingsley!" Her voice cracked, but not with weakness—with the sheer, uncontainable magnitude of her rage. "You think forcing me to live with a Malfoy will somehow erase the past? That waking up next to him every morning, seeing his face, his name, his family's legacy in my own home—will somehow make me forget the horrors I faced? The friends I lost at their hands?"

Kingsley exhaled heavily, his chest rising and falling like a man who had already lost before the battle had begun.

"Hermione…" he started again, and for a moment, he looked so tired that a small, insignificant part of her almost felt sorry for him. Almost. "We already talked about this. I never wanted this for you. The Marriage Law is something I fought against, but the Wizengamot pushed it through. They believed it was the only way to unite our fractured world."

She let out a barking laugh, sharp and completely devoid of humor.

"Unite?" she sneered, her tone laced with venom, her body shaking with fury. "You think forcing me to marry Malfoy will unite anything? He represents everything I fought against. Everything I suffered because of. Everything I will never, ever forgive."

He flinched.

For a moment, just a second, guilt flashed across his worn, battle-hardened face, and it only fueled her anger.

He knew. He knew exactly what he was asking of her.

And he had done it anyway.

"I know it's not fair, Hermione," Kingsley said quietly, stepping toward her, his voice gentle but helpless. "I know how much you've sacrificed. But the law is binding, and there's little I can do to change it now. The soul bond… it's meant to ensure stability, to prevent the old prejudices from resurfacing—"

"Stability?" she cut him off, her hands slamming onto his desk with a force that sent a stack of papers tumbling to the floor. "This is not stability, Kingsley. This is a nightmare. You're not ensuring peace—you're ensuring control. You're condemning me to a life I didn't choose, with a person who embodies my worst memories, and for what? Some bullshit idea that shackling war survivors to their oppressors will magically erase centuries of hatred?"

She could feel her anger morphing—twisting into something sharper, something heavier, something that felt dangerously close to betrayal.

And Kingsley—Kingsley looked defeated. His shoulders slumped, his eyes dark and hollow, as if he carried the weight of every failure on his back.

"I'm so sorry," he said, quiet, but not weak. "If there were another way, I'd take it. But the law is the law. I can't change it. All I can do is offer my support and try to help you through this as best as I can."

She scoffed, a bitter, humorless sound, as the overwhelming reality of her situation crashed over her.

"I don't want your support, Kingsley." Her voice was quieter now, but somehow, infinitely more dangerous. She took a step back, shaking her head, her breath unsteady. "I want my life back. I want my freedom. I want to wake up in the morning and know that the choices I make are my own."

Kingsley reached out, as if he could offer her something—anything—to make this easier.

But she pulled away. Too raw. Too furious. Too utterly fucking betrayed.

She spun on her heel, her robes billowing behind her as she stormed toward the door, the rage in her chest so suffocating she could barely breathe.

Kingsley didn't call after her.

And somehow, that hurt more.

Escaping was damn near impossible, not when the spawn of Satan himself—or, as the Ministry now liked to call him, her dear future husband—stood just ahead, his unmistakable platinum-blond hair gleaming obnoxiously under the Ministry's enchanted lights like a fucking beacon of doom.

"Granger, please—talk to me." His voice, frantic and raw, cut through the noise of the atrium, drawing the attention of far too many onlookers. His expression—pleading, desperate, stripped of all the arrogance she had spent years despising—only made her rage boil hotter.

"I am begging you," he continued, louder now, as if sheer volume could force her to listen. "Please don't run away from me."

That was it.

The anger, the grief, the suffocating weight of her own helplessness—everything she had kept contained, boiling beneath her skin for months—erupted.

Before she could even think, before logic or restraint could stop her, her feet carried her straight to him, and with all the force she could summon, she swung.

Her fist connected with his aristocratic face with a sickening crack.

Malfoy staggered backward, his hand flying to his nose, his pristine, too-perfect features now stained with bright red blood.

The entire atrium fell silent.

People stopped in their tracks, papers half-signed, conversations abandoned, eyes wide with shock and horrified fascination. It wasn't every day you saw Hermione Granger, war heroine, Golden Girl, pillar of morality, punch Draco Malfoy in the face.

"GRANGER!" His voice was muffled, his fingers still clutching his nose as scarlet dripped onto the marble floor, but through the pain, through the sheer audacity of the moment, he still managed to sound somewhat impressed.

"What the fuck was that for?!" he demanded, half-shocked, half-pissed, and maybe, just maybe, a little bit amused. "Merlin, there's the menace I remember."

"For everything!" she yelled, her voice shaking, her fury uncontainable now, unfiltered, unchecked, unhinged. "For the pain you caused, for the memories that haunt me every single day, for the fact that I have to marry you against my will! For the fact that every time I hear your name, I don't think of some reformed, Ministry-approved version of you—I think of the girl who screamed for her life on your drawing room floor!"

Malfoy's breath hitched, his body going rigid. His silver eyes, wide and stunned, held something she didn't want to name.

Guilt. Recognition. The weight of a past neither of them could escape.

He stood there, blood still dripping, his chest rising and falling as if she had knocked the air out of him in more ways than one. His hands, still shaking slightly, lowered from his face, revealing the damage she had inflicted—a deep crimson streak across his pale skin, a split lip, a face no longer quite so perfect.

"I know you hate me," he said, voice hoarse, stripped raw, the weight of too many buried regrets pressing against his ribs. "And I deserve it."

Her throat tightened, because she knew he meant it.

He took a slow breath, grounding himself, forcing his usual composure back into place—but it wasn't the same. The smirking, smug Malfoy she knew was gone.

"But running away won't solve anything," he added, his tone quieter, steadier now, so infuriatingly level-headed that it made her want to hit him again. "We have to face this together, whether we like it or not."

Her eyes burned, the weight of it all pressing too hard, too fast, too unbearably heavy. She turned away, unwilling to let him see the cracks forming, unwilling to let him witness the war raging inside her.

"I don't want to face anything with you, Malfoy," she whispered, her voice fracturing as she clenched her fists. "I just want to be free."

A moment passed, heavy and suffocating.

Then, softly, carefully, like he was stepping over shattered glass, he took a single step closer.

"I understand," he murmured, and damn him, damn him for actually sounding like he did. "But we don't have a choice. The sooner we figure out how to make this work, the better it'll be for both of us."

She shook her head, her breath uneven. "I can't do this. I can't pretend everything is okay."

"You don't have to pretend," he said, his voice unexpectedly gentle. "We can find a way to coexist, even if it's difficult. We can figure this out together."

"Why do you care so much, Malfoy?" Her voice, still sharp, still wounded, was laced with something deeper now, something raw. "Why are you trying so hard to make this work?"

For a moment—just a second—his carefully constructed mask of arrogance slipped.

And in its place, she saw something unguarded. Something real.

"Because I don't want to be the person who ruined your life any more than I already have," he admitted, his voice quiet, almost pained. "Because I owe it to you to try and make this as bearable as possible."

She stared at him, her mind reeling, grasping, searching for a lie, for a smirk, for the Draco Malfoy she had built her hatred around.

But all she saw was truth.

A truth she wasn't ready for.

She inhaled sharply, steadying herself, then nodded once.

"Fine," she said, her voice low, controlled, dangerous. "We'll try. But don't expect me to forgive you. And don't expect this to be easy."

A ghost of a smile flickered across his bloodied lips—not cocky, not smug, just relieved.

"I wouldn't expect anything less," he said, voice almost fond, before adding, "I'd do anything you asked me to do."

Her brows shot up.

"Anything I ask from you?" she repeated, her tone dripping with disbelief and sharp-edged sarcasm. She crossed her arms, arching a brow. "At this point, Malfoy, I want to walk you like a dog."

The faint trace of a smile died instantly from his face.

But instead of snapping back, instead of retreating into arrogance, he just held her gaze and—with quiet, unsettling sincerity—said: "If that's what it takes to show you that I'm serious, then so be it."

This bitch was absolutely mental. That was the second time today he'd had that thought about his future wife, and at this rate, it wouldn't be the last. Merlin help him. She was going to be the best shag of his life.

She blinked, momentarily thrown off by his utter lack of resistance. He didn't scoff, didn't roll his eyes, didn't sneer as if the very idea of submission was beneath him. He simply stood there, unmoving, accepting, waiting—his silver eyes steady in a way that made her insides coil with something she refused to name.

For the briefest second, guilt twisted in her chest, a fleeting, insignificant thing, but she smothered it beneath the weight of everything else—the years of hatred, the memories carved into her skin, the war she had barely survived while people like him stood on the sidelines, too afraid, too privileged, too complicit. Whatever momentary softness she might have felt was swallowed whole by something uglier, sharper, much harder to ignore.

"You don't understand, Malfoy," she bit out, her voice low but trembling with emotion she refused to suppress. "This isn't just about you and me. This is about everything you and your family represent, about every second of my life I spent knowing people like me would never be enough for people like you. It's about every insult, every slight, every law that told me my blood made me less, every person I loved who died because of that belief. It's about the fact that I have fought too hard, given too much, to be forced into this ridiculous excuse for unity. How the hell am I supposed to trust you? How am I ever supposed to forgive you?"

She wasn't sure why she had even asked—she wasn't looking for answers, wasn't looking for comfort, wasn't looking for some grand declaration that would make it all go away.

But Malfoy didn't scoff, didn't bristle, didn't throw her words back in her face the way he used to. Instead, he looked down, his entire body weighted with something she might have mistaken for shame, but no, not quite—this was different, heavier, something that settled deep in his bones and wouldn't let go.

"I know it's a lot to ask," he admitted, his voice quieter, slower, like he was carefully choosing every word. "And I don't expect you to forgive me, not now, maybe not ever. But I want to try. I need to try. I want to show you that I'm not the same person I was. I want to prove to you that I can be better."

She studied him, waiting for the smirk, waiting for the flicker of insincerity, waiting for some sign that he was playing a game she didn't know the rules to, but she saw nothing except bare, open honesty, something she hadn't thought him capable of. It didn't change anything, didn't erase the past, didn't make her any less furious that her future had been stripped from her, but it left her feeling off-balance, like she was standing on ground that had suddenly shifted beneath her.

"Fine," she said at last, her voice steadier than she felt, the exhaustion creeping into every syllable. "But don't think for a second that I'm going to make this easy for you. You have a lot to prove, Malfoy."

His throat bobbed as he swallowed, nodding, his expression more solemn than she had ever seen it. "I understand. And I'm prepared to do whatever it takes."

And for the first time, she believed him.

Because the way he was looking at her—steady, unwavering, stripped of every ounce of the arrogance she had spent years despising—told her he meant every word.

He will let her walk him like a dog.

As they stood there in the middle of the Ministry atrium, the silence stretching between them, she felt the weight of their situation pressing down like a physical force, suffocating and relentless. The world around them moved on—Ministry workers hurried past, papers shuffled, voices hummed in the distance—but for a moment, it was just the two of them, standing on the precipice of something uncharted, unwanted, and utterly inescapable.

She still loathed him, still felt the sharp edge of anger in her chest every time she looked at him, still wanted to scream at the injustice of it all. But buried beneath that fury, beneath the years of resentment and grief and everything they could never take back, was something else. A flicker of something dangerously close to hope.

Maybe—just maybe—they could find a way to survive this.

Not forgive. Not forget. But survive.

Her fingers curled into fists at her sides, her breath still uneven, but when she spoke, there was no hesitation.

"Let's go to my place, Malfoy."

It wasn't a question. It wasn't an invitation. It was a command.

His head tilted slightly, silver eyes studying her, assessing, searching, and for a second, she thought he might push back, might remind her that he was Malfoy, that he didn't take orders from her, that he was still a spoilt little prince who had been raised to believe people like her weren't worth listening to.

But instead, his lips curved—not quite a smirk, but close, something softer, something unreadable.

"Anything for you."

His voice was smooth, even, laced with something she didn't trust, something she refused to acknowledge as a hint of amusement, as if this whole situation was a challenge he was willing to accept.

Her jaw tightened, but she turned on her heel, leading the way without looking back. If he wanted to follow her, if he wanted to prove himself, if he wanted to pretend for even a second that he could be anything other than what he had always been, then he could damn well keep up.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

At her small, but warm cottage, she moved with mechanical precision, reaching for the same tea she knew Malfoy preferred. It was a simple thing, brewing tea, something she had done countless times, and yet today, it felt different. Foreign. Heavy with unspoken tension.

She poured two cups, the fragrant steam curling between them, a bridge in the silence they didn't quite know how to cross. As she curled her fingers around her own cup, letting the familiar warmth seep into her skin, she willed herself to relax, if only for a moment. The ritual was comforting, grounding her in something real, something that wasn't a legal contract or a fate she hadn't chosen.

Across from her, he took his own cup, his movements slower, more calculated, as if he was waiting for her to speak first. For a moment, the only sounds in the room were the occasional soft clink of porcelain against wood, the rhythmic ticking of the old clock on the mantel, and the unmistakable weight of everything left unsaid.

Finally, she inhaled, steadying herself, before breaking the silence.

"This is really hard for me, Malfoy."

Her voice was softer now, more measured, but no less firm.

He tilted his head slightly, silver eyes watching her, unreadable as ever. He didn't respond immediately, just sipped his tea, waiting—because, for once, he seemed to understand that this wasn't something to he could fix with clever words or sharp wit.

As if sensing the tension between them, Crookshanks chose that exact moment to leap onto the table, his fluffy ginger form landing with a soft thud between their cups. His large, squashed face surveyed the room, yellow eyes full of judgment, as if he alone held the power to decide whether this arrangement was even remotely acceptable.

He blinked at the feline intrusion, then let out a quiet, disbelieving scoff, his lips twitching at the corners. "Well, hello there, ugly creature," he muttered, his voice betraying a flicker of something almost—almost—akin to amusement.

She arched a brow, setting down her tea. "Ugly?" she repeated, leveling him with a look that suggested he reevaluate his life choices immediately. "You do realize that's my cat you're insulting?"

He leaned back slightly, eyeing Crooks with thinly veiled skepticism. "I assumed you would have put him out of his misery by now," he said smoothly, though there was no real bite to it. "He must be ancient."

She rolled her eyes. "He's aged better than most pureblood ideals, I'd say."

His lips twitched again, but before he could fire back, Crookshanks flicked his tail dismissively and, to her sheer bewilderment, hopped off the table and sauntered straight over to him.

She watched, stunned, as her notoriously suspicious, borderline elitist cat brushed up against his leg, rubbing his head against the pristine fabric of his expensive robes like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He stilled, staring down at the animal as if waiting for some hidden attack, some long-delayed Weasley-sponsored prank, but Crooksmerely purred, the deep, rumbling sound filling the quiet space between them.

With visible hesitation, he reached out a hand.

She narrowed her eyes, fully prepared for her cat to bite, scratch, or at the very least, reject him outright. But instead, Crookshanks leaned into the touch, rubbing against his palm as if this was something they had done a thousand times before.

The world had truly gone mad.

He blinked, then—and this was perhaps the most alarming part of the entire evening—a ghost of a smile flickered across his lips.

It wasn't his usual smirk, full of arrogance and hidden meaning. It wasn't cocky or cruel or something meant to unsettle her.

It was just… soft. Maybe even a little genuine.

Hermione, still watching the scene with blatant suspicion, finally broke the silence. "He's usually not that friendly with strangers," she murmured, tilting her head.

Malfoy kept his focus on the cat, fingers trailing absently through Crookshanks' fur, his expression unreadable once more. "Maybe he senses that I'm trying to change," he mused, his voice quiet, almost contemplative. Then, glancing up at her with something lighter, something laced with wry humor, he added, "Or maybe he just knows we need all the help we can get."

She took a deep breath, steadying herself as the weight of their situation pressed down on her shoulders once more. This wasn't just about survival; this was about reclaiming whatever control she had left, about making sure that, despite the absurdity of this forced arrangement, she wouldn't lose herself in the process.

"Malfoy, we need to be clear about our boundaries and expectations," she said, her voice firm, measured, but unyielding. "I need to know that you respect my independence, my career, and my right to live my own damn life. I won't be some pureblood trophy wife, paraded around like an accomplishment to redeem your family's image, and I sure as hell won't be giving up my work at the Ministry. My career is non-negotiable."

Malfoy, to his credit, didn't so much as flinch. His expression remained serious, focused, as though he had already anticipated this. He nodded, silver eyes steady as they held hers.

"I understand," he said, his tone devoid of mockery, of anything but sincerity. "I don't want to control you or limit your freedom. You can continue your work, and I'll support you in whatever way I can. I wouldn't expect you to be anything less than what you are."

She searched his face, looking for even the faintest trace of dishonesty, of hidden motives, of the old Malfoy lurking beneath the surface. But there was nothing—no smirk, no sneer, no calculating glint in his eye. Just seriousness, determination, and something else that almost looked like guilt.

Satisfied, at least for now, she exhaled slowly and continued.

"And I need to know," she said, her voice softer now, but no less firm, "that you're committed to making this work without resorting to the old prejudices and behaviors that your family is known for. This cannot—will not—be built on the old foundations of blood superiority or tradition. If we are to make this work, we build something new. Something based on mutual respect."

He was silent for a long moment, his gaze locked onto hers, unreadable and strangely vulnerable. Then, finally, he took a slow, steady breath, as if grounding himself before speaking.

"I promise, Granger," he said, voice lower, quieter, but no less certain. "I'm not the same person I was. I know my family's legacy, and I know what it's done to people like you—to you, specifically. I won't ask you to forget that, and I won't insult you by pretending I can erase it. But I am trying to be better. I want to be better. I want to build something new with you, even if it's difficult. Even if it takes time."

There was something about the way he said it—something raw, something real, something so utterly unexpected that it caught her off guard.

She swallowed, nodding slowly, allowing herself to feel just a sliver of relief. A small, cautious glimmer of hope bloomed in her chest—not enough to change anything, not enough to erase her anger, but enough to make her believe that maybe, just maybe, this wasn't completely impossible.

"Alright," she said, exhaling. "Then let's start with the basics. We need clear communication and boundaries. We need to be honest, even when it's hard, even when it's inconvenient. Whatever this is—whatever this becomes—it cannot be built on lies."

Malfoy inclined his head slightly, his voice steady as he met her gaze. "Agreed. We can do this, Granger. It won't be easy, but we can find a way to make it work."

For a long moment, they just sat there, the tension still thick between them, but no longer suffocating, no longer something pressing down on them with no room to breathe. It was still strange, still unfamiliar, but perhaps that was the only way this could begin—not with acceptance, not with understanding, but with the mutual recognition that neither of them had a choice.

Between them, Crookshanks stretched lazily, his bushy tail flicking against his leg as he let out a contented purr, utterly unaffected by the gravity of the conversation.

She let out a slow breath, fingers curling around her tea, watching as he reached out, absentmindedly scratching Crookshanks behind the ears, as if this wasn't the strangest damn night of either of their lives.

Maybe, just maybe, this wasn't entirely hopeless.

The road ahead was still uncertain, riddled with complications and inevitable clashes, but for the first time, she allowed herself to believe—just a little—that they might survive this.

She scoffed internally, rolling her eyes so hard she was surprised they didn't get stuck. Make this work? Oh, that was rich—even for her.

Draco Malfoy, poster boy for elitist prickery, standing there looking like he'd just sauntered off the set of some Mount Olympus reboot, all sharp cheekbones, expensive robes, and that insufferable air of pureblood entitlement, wasn't exactly inspiring visions of a happy, harmonious union. A dark, brooding Zeus, maybe—the kind that would throw lightning bolts just for the drama—or perhaps even Hades himself, with those cold silver eyes and that permanent look of condescending amusement, like he was one comment away from reminding her she didn't belong in his world.

But beneath all that ridiculously sculpted arrogance, beneath the expensive cologne and well-bred smirk, something had flickered—something she wasn't sure she trusted, wasn't sure she wanted to acknowledge, but couldn't quite ignore.

And that pissed her off most of all.

The tension between them was almost suffocating, thick enough to choke on, a living, breathing thing that wrapped itself around the room, refusing to loosen its grip. His words—calm, even, irritatingly sincere—hung between them, but Hermione couldn't shake the deep-rooted mistrust curling in her chest like a thorny vine. Years of resentment, memories burned into her skin and carved into her soul, could not be erased with a few well-placed sentiments.

She saw him watching her, his sharp gaze tracking the flickers of anger, doubt, exhaustion that warred across her face. He exhaled, long and measured, before leaning back in his chair, his fingers tapping idly against the table, his patience not quite feigned but not entirely natural either.

She took a slow sip of her tea, more to buy herself a moment than for the warmth, the familiar taste grounding her even as her thoughts swirled dangerously.

"Starting somewhere is one thing, Malfoy," she said finally, voice cool, clipped, controlled—the kind of control that only came from barely restraining herself from launching the entire tea set at his infuriatingly perfect face. "But expecting me to forget everything that happened, everything your family did, is another."

"I'm not asking you to forget," he said, his tone deceptively even, quieter now, but there was something serious beneath it, something weighty, something dangerously close to regret. "I know I have to earn your trust. And I will do whatever it takes to show you that I'm different now."

She remained silent, eyes narrowing as she studied him, watching for the lie, for the inevitable smirk, for the flicker of superiority that always lurked beneath the surface whenever he spoke. But it wasn't there.

That was almost worse.

Crookshanks, ever perceptive, moved closer, rubbing against her arm, a soft purr vibrating through his chest as if sensing her turmoil, her uncertainty, the battle raging inside her.

She let out a sharp, humorless scoff. "You look like a Greek god," she muttered, the words slipping out before she could stop them, laced with bitterness she didn't even try to mask. Her gaze flickered over him, his annoyingly **perfect cheekbones, the sharp cut of his jaw, the way his ridiculous aristocratic face had only gotten better with time, which was truly offensive.

He arched a brow, something unreadable flickering behind his silver eyes.

"More like Zeus," she continued, tilting her head as if assessing him like a painting she wasn't sure she liked. "But you are most definitely Hades."

A flicker of something—humor? Regret? Recognition?—flashed across his expression. A slow, almost rueful smile tugged at the corner of his lips, a ghost of something too fleeting to name.

"I suppose that's fair," he admitted, voice lower now, almost careful. "I've certainly caused enough havoc in your life to qualify as a demon, wouldn't you say?"

She let out a breath—not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh, but something close to both—before setting her teacup down with a delicate clink, the motion so controlled it was almost dangerous.

"This isn't about appearances," she said, meeting his gaze head-on, her voice steel wrapped in silk. "This is about actions. Words are easy. Promises can be broken on a whim. But actions—actions speak louder than any empty vow."

Something dark and sharp and unshakable unfurled inside her, and she refused to temper it, refused to let it be softened by his quiet confessions or careful sincerity. She would not be fooled by good intentions.

"I will not be another pawn in a game, another mythic woman wronged by a powerful man," she continued, her voice clear, unwavering, laced with defiance. "Not like Persephone, stolen away into a life she never asked for. Not like Hera, forever living in Zeus' shadow, forced to endure his whims. Not like Helen, a prize to be fought over, her own desires irrelevant to the men who claimed her. Not like Medea, driven to madness by betrayal, nor like Medusa, condemned for the sins of another."

She took a deep breath, her fingers curling into fists against her lap, every muscle in her body tight with resolve, with fury, with the raw, unrelenting demand to reclaim her own agency.

"I refuse," she said, her voice a low, quiet vow, more powerful than any shouted declaration, "to become another cautionary tale."

He didn't speak immediately, didn't try to argue, didn't try to soften her words with empty reassurances or easy lies.

Medusa. The name struck something deep in him, something he couldn't quite name, something uncomfortable and far too fitting. He had read enough Greek and Egyptian mythology to know what she meant—the gorgon cursed, not for a crime, but for being a victim. Medusa, the survivor. Medusa, the avenger. Medusa, the woman turned into a monster because men feared her power.

It unsettled him how easily Granger aligned herself with that name, how naturally it fit into the sharp edges of her rage, the way she spoke of cautionary tales like she had already resigned herself to becoming one.

Survival. Strength. Overcoming assault, cruelty, betrayal.

And fuck, if she wasn't the living embodiment of it.

He watched her, his face a warzone of emotions, each flicker of thought fighting for dominance—shock, understanding, something dangerously close to regret. His jaw tightened, his breath slow and deliberate, as if he were choosing his next words with more care than he ever had in his entire life.

"Granger," he said at last, his voice low, steady, stripped of all its usual bravado, and for reasons she refused to acknowledge, the sound of it sent a shiver racing down her spine. "I will never touch you like that. Never. Ever. I won't even come close to you if you tell me not to."

Her eyes flickered with a mix of relief, a flicker of something softer that she quickly suppressed, and a stubborn flicker of anger that refused to be extinguished. 

"It's not just about that, Malfoy," she countered, her voice regaining its characteristic strength. "It's about control, respect, and trust – a foundation this marriage sorely lacks. It's about feeling safe and valued within the confines of this forced union. This isn't just a Ministry-sanctioned inconvenience or a political pawn game. It's my life. My autonomy. My choices are being snatched away and replaced with expectations that don't consider my desires."

The weight of her words settled heavily between them, a stark reminder of the chasm that still existed despite the fragile hope that had bloomed earlier. He looked away, a muscle in his jaw clenching and unclenching. The truth of her statement hung heavy in the air, a silent acknowledgment of the power imbalance inherent in their situation.

He nodded slowly, his gaze lingering on her. He absorbed her words, the weight of them settling in his stomach. "I understand, Granger," he finally said, his voice gruff. "And I promise, I will respect your autonomy and your choices. This marriage – forced as it is – does not give me any right over you. You have my word."

You are my world, my gravity, the force that keeps me orbiting, even when I swore I would never be pulled in. I have spent years hating you, wanting you, needing you in ways that defy reason, and no matter how much you fight me, no matter how much I deserve your wrath, I will always crawl back to you.

A faint smile ghosted across her lips, fleeting and fragile, a mere whisper of something resembling possibility, blooming in the quiet space between them. The road ahead was long, riddled with obstacles, thick with resentment and history, but for the first time, she wasn't sure they were walking it alone. Perhaps, just perhaps, there was a way to navigate this storm, not as enemies, not as strangers, but as two people forced into the same impossible fate, bound by something neither of them wanted, yet had no choice but to endure.

She took a steadying breath, her pulse still uneven, her mind still torn between instinct and reason, before finally meeting his gaze head-on. "This is… unfamiliar territory for both of us," she admitted, the vulnerability in her voice soft but unshakable, edged with a quiet kind of defiance. "But maybe, just maybe, we can figure this out together."

He watched her carefully, his sharp silver eyes scanning her expression as if committing every flicker of hesitation to memory, mapping out every wall she had built, every defense she refused to lower. His lips parted slightly, and for a moment, she thought he might scoff, might retreat behind the armor of biting remarks and well-rehearsed indifference. But instead, his voice—**lower, steadier than she expected—**cut through the tension between them.

"I'm committed to doing that, Granger," he said, his words carrying the weight of something more than just reluctant obligation. "I know I have a lot to prove, and I'm willing to put in the effort."

His gaze held hers, unwavering, and for the first time, she saw something almost unreadable pass through his features—something restrained, something too raw to name.

She felt a flicker of something in her chest—not quite trust, but not entirely doubt either. It was a fragile thing, easily crushed beneath the weight of their history, but it was there nonetheless. Something new. Something untested.

"Alright," she said after a pause, her voice measured, deliberate, as if forcing herself to acknowledge this truce without giving away too much. "We'll start with that. But don't think for a second that I'll tolerate any slip-ups. This is too important."

There was no mistaking the steel in her voice, no room for doubt in the sharp glint of her eyes.

"Understood," he said simply, no arrogance, no smugness, just quiet acceptance, as though he had already braced himself for the long road ahead. "I won't let you down."

His words settled between them like a promise—one she didn't trust, one she wasn't ready to believe in, but one that had been spoken nonetheless.

A moment of tense silence stretched between them, charged with the unspoken complexities of their situation. Then, with a deep breath, she pushed back from the table, the quiet scrape of wood against stone breaking the moment.

"Well," she said, briskly, as if shaking off the gravity of their conversation, "we should probably get some rest. We have a long day of navigating this… arrangement tomorrow."

Malfoy rose as well, his movements fluid, but not without a hint of curiosity flickering across his face. "Indeed," he murmured, his voice somewhere between amused and contemplative. "Perhaps a truce for the night, Granger?"

She paused, considering his offer, weighing it in her mind, before finally offering a curt nod. "A truce," she agreed, but her tone carried a warning. "But don't think this makes us friends, Malfoy."

A ghost of a smirk touched his lips, fleeting and unreadable, a flicker of something too complicated to be amusement, too familiar to be indifference.

"Wouldn't dream of it, Granger."

For the first time since this nightmare began, she felt a small, cautious shift in the air—not trust, not peace, but the barest glimmer of possibility. It was fragile, untested, and riddled with uncertainty, but it was something. Maybe, with time and effort, they could find a way to coexist, to navigate this together, to build something functional, if not whole.

But for now, she remained vigilant, determined to keep her guard up, to protect herself from the very real possibility that this would all come crashing down around her. Only time would tell if his supposed commitment to change was genuine or just another layer of well-crafted deception.

The thought lingered in her mind, circling like a vulture over something already doomed to die, when curiosity finally won out.

She glanced at him once more, arms crossed, eyes sharp. "Why did you move out of the Manor?" she asked, forcing herself to sound casual, though something inside her whispered that the answer would matter more than she wanted it to.

He hesitated. Not long, but just long enough for her to notice. His hand trailed along the rim of his teacup, fingers tapping against the porcelain, a barely perceptible tension in his posture before he finally spoke.

"The Manor…" he started, his voice quieter than before, rougher, as if he had spent years crafting the words but never quite found the right ones. "It holds too many memories. Unpleasant ones."

She stilled at that, her breath catching slightly.

"You know," he continued, finally meeting her gaze, his silver eyes darker than usual, "that you weren't the only one who suffered torture from my aunt's end of the wand."

Her stomach clenched.

"It's a place steeped in the past," he admitted, his voice carefully neutral, but the edges of it worn with something she couldn't place. "A constant reminder of who I used to be, of what I allowed to happen. I needed to break away from that. I needed a fresh start, somewhere I could… try to build something else."

Her expression softened, just slightly, the flicker of suspicion in her gaze momentarily replaced by something quieter.

"I see," she murmured, though her voice lacked its usual sharpness. "But why now? Why not sooner?"

He exhaled, running a hand through his hair, and for the first time, he looked truly vulnerable.

"I suppose I was afraid," he confessed, and the honesty in those words hit harder than she expected. "Afraid of change. Afraid of stepping out of my family's shadow. It was… comfortable, in a twisted way. But after the war, after everything that happened, I realized I couldn't keep living in that darkness. I had to make a choice—stay trapped in the past or try to become something better."

His words hung heavy in the air, a stark admission that surprised even him.

She studied him, her mind spinning with possibilities, with skepticism, with a cautious intrigue she wasn't sure how to handle.

"Something better," she echoed, and there were a hundred ways to interpret those two words, a hundred ways to question whether this was genuine growth or just another carefully constructed performance.

She nodded slowly, weighing his words, then asked, "And do you think you've succeeded?"

His lips twitched into a small, self-deprecating smile, something bitter, something real. "I'm still trying," he admitted. "It's not easy, shedding years of ingrained beliefs and behaviors. But I'm committed to it. That's part of why this marriage… as difficult as it is, it's a chance for me to prove that I can be different."

She studied him, measuring his sincerity against years of mistrust.

"I appreciate your honesty, Malfoy," she said at last. "But actions speak louder than words. You'll need to show me that you're serious about this change."

"I will," he promised. "I know I have a lot to make up for, and I'm prepared to do whatever it takes."

The room fell into a contemplative silence, the weight of their conversation settling around them. She still wasn't sure she believed him, but there was something—perhaps not trust, but the barest flicker of hope—that they could navigate this together.