Lavander haze

The slap rang out like a gunshot, reverberating through the room. His head snapped to the side, a sharp bloom of red staining his pale cheek. For the first time in his life, he looked genuinely stunned. The cruel smirk he had worn just moments ago evaporated, replaced by something raw and unreadable.

Hermione didn't hesitate.

"HOW DARE YOU PUT ME IN SUCH AN UNCOMFORTABLE SITUATION!" she roared, her chest heaving with fury. "DON'T YOU EVER TALK ABOUT ME LIKE THAT AGAIN! I AM NOT YOUR PROPERTY!"

His fingers hovered over his stinging cheek, his breath caught somewhere between shock and something darker. His storm-gray eyes, normally so composed, flickered with a dangerous mix of emotions—anger, hurt, confusion. He hadn't expected that.

"Hermione, I didn't mean—"

"No." Her voice cut through his excuse like a blade. "You don't get to decide who I am or how I should be treated. You don't get to stake a claim on me like I'm a piece of real estate in your bloody empire."

His jaw tightened, his wounded pride morphing into something cold and defensive. "I was protecting you, Hermione. You know what he did. You know how that pathetic excuse for a man still looks at you." His voice was low, lethal. "I wasn't about to let him sit there, drooling over what he lost."

"Protecting me?" she scoffed, her laugh devoid of any warmth. "You weren't protecting me. You were humiliating me. Do you honestly think that makes you any better than him?"

His eyes darkened. Something sharp and unhinged flickered behind them, an unspoken threat that curled at the edges of his carefully maintained control.

"I will not be disrespected, Hermione." His voice dropped to a chilling whisper, his anger no longer explosive but calculated, simmering. "Not by you. Not by anyone."

The tension shifted. It was no longer just an argument—it was a battle of wills, and something sinister had settled inside him.

A promise of consequences.

His jaw flexed, his teeth grinding together as he struggled to keep his rage contained. His silver eyes, usually sharp and calculating, were now darkened with something primal, possessive, lethal.

"Let's make one thing very clear, my love—" his voice was low, deliberate, each syllable laced with an unspoken promise of violence—"If I see him again, I will paint the town red with his blood."

His voice trailed off, his frustration coiling like a storm just beneath his carefully constructed facade.

"Stop this obsessive nonsense, Draco. It's beneath you." Her voice was sharp, unwavering.

A flicker of something—hurt? surprise?—crossed his face, but it was quickly swallowed by renewed fury. His lips curled into a sneer. "Beneath me?" he spat, stepping closer, his breath hot against her cheek.

"Because as much as you'd like to pretend the past is behind us the world doesn't work that way. I was a Death Eater. You think you can just wash the blood off? That all those years can be rewritten?"

His voice turned mocking, venomous, but beneath the cruel words, Hermione could hear it—the pain, the weight of everything he had done.

A small part of her ached for him.

But it wasn't enough to douse the fire of her frustration.

"That's not fair, Draco," she shot back, her breath coming quicker. "This isn't about who we used to be."

His expression hardened, and before she could react, he moved.

In one swift motion, Hermione's back hit the wall, the impact stealing the breath from her lungs.

He caged her in, one hand braced beside her head, the other gripping her hip just enough to make her shiver.

His lips brushed against her ear, his voice a deadly whisper, "Do you know what I did to him while you were at work?"

Hermione's heartbeat slammed against her ribs.

"I beat him bloody while he was stupefied," Draco continued, his tone silky, dangerous. "Made him kneel. Made him swear he'd never even breathe your name again. And then?" He exhaled slowly, his lips grazing her jaw.

"I Obliviated him."

A slow, cruel smirk twisted his mouth.

"Though I wish I hadn't. Would've been nice to let the bastard remember the fear."

His lips hovered over hers, his breath a ghost of a kiss.

"You have no idea what I would do for you," he murmured, his voice filled with reverence and something much, much darker.

He tilted his head, eyes glinting like polished steel. "Do you want to hear the tale of how I gutted Greyback?"

Hermione stiffened.

His fingers traced lazy patterns down her spine, a sick contrast to the weight of his words.

"How I whispered to him, while I carved him open, about how much I love it when you come undone beneath me?"

His smirk deepened, his voice dipping into something hauntingly tender.

"Or perhaps..." His fingers ghosted over her pulse point, feeling the frantic rhythm beneath her skin.

"...That's a story for another day."

She stood there, frozen. The illusion—the fragile, rose-colored perception of love she had built around Draco—shattered in an instant. The weight of reality came crashing down, leaving her breathless.

His love had no bounds. No morality. No hesitation.

He wished he had killed Ronald. Wished he had left Molly Weasley scrubbing her son's blood from the floor. Wished Greyback, that rabid dog, could hear how loud she screamed his name, his tortured mind forced to replay it over and over like a maddening symphony.

His lips curled into a cruel smirk, his voice as cold as the steel of a blade.

"Don't put yourself on a pedestal, Granger. You are no saint."

Her breath caught, her pulse hammering against her ribs. "Draco," she whispered, her voice unsteady, "what are you saying?"

"You heard me." His tone was dangerous, unrelenting, as he took a step closer. "You act like you're so above it all, but let's not forget the things you've done."

His gaze bored into hers, daring her to deny it. 

"Polyjuice," he began, his voice measured, merciless. "Time Turner. Imprisoning Rita Skeeter. Breaking into my family's vault." His voice dropped lower, venom laced in every word. "And killing."

A shudder rippled down her spine. She didn't move. Couldn't. Because he was right.

Her sins, laid bare, unraveled in front of her like an autopsy of her soul. And Draco? He knew. He always knew.

The sharp edge of his words sliced through her, but the pain didn't come—not in the way it should have.

Because it was the truth.

She had murdered his father. With poison, no less. Cold. Calculated. And yet here she stood, daring to judge him.

What a hypocrite.

His silver eyes darkened, something murky and unreadable lurking beneath them. Occluding, shielding, masking.

And then, without another word—without so much as a flicker of hesitation—he turned on his heel and vanished, swallowed whole by a curling wisp of smoke.

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

Hermione hadn't slept in days. Guilt clawed at her, hollowing her out from the inside. The nights blurred into restless pacing, whispered regrets that refused to fade. By the fifth day, she couldn't take it anymore. She had to see him.

The penthouse loomed before her, its grandeur suddenly suffocating. Her knuckles rapped against the heavy oak door, the sound sharp and uncertain. Inside, she heard the scrape of a chair, the rustling of parchment, a muffled curse. And then—silence.

"Come in."

His voice, rough and edged with something unreadable, sent a shiver down her spine.

The door creaked open. He sat behind his desk, sleeves rolled up, tension coiling in the sharp lines of his posture. His normally pristine desk was in disarray—scattered contracts, toppled inkpots, and a lingering air of distraction. But when he finally looked at her, his expression was carefully blank, unreadable.

" Draco," she started, her voice cracking under the weight of everything unsaid.

He exhaled sharply, his lips curling into a humorless smirk. "Are you pregnant?"

The words slapped her like a curse.

Hermione blinked. "I—what?"

He leaned back, his silver eyes flashing with something sharp and cruel. "I asked if you're carrying my child. Because that's the only reason I can imagine you'd darken my doorstep after your righteous little performance."

Shock crashed over her, making her limbs feel suddenly heavy. "I'm not pregnant," she managed, incredulous. "Why the hell would you even—"

"Then what are you doing here?" He interrupted smoothly, his voice as cold as the marble floors beneath them. "Come to deliver another lecture? Or did you simply miss the sound of your own voice?"

Her fingers curled into fists. Shame burned beneath her skin, but she refused to let it break her.

"I came to apologize," she forced out, her voice steadier than she felt.

He studied her for a moment, then sighed. "You don't have to live here anymore."

The words were a knife to the ribs.

Her stomach dropped. "What do you mean?"

His gaze flicked back to the scattered papers, as if she was no more than an inconvenient distraction. "I spoke to the Ministry yesterday," he said flatly. "You're not obligated to stay here. We only need to be in the same room once a month to maintain the bond. You're free, Hermione. Free to go live whatever life you think I've been holding you back from."

Free.

The word settled over her like a death knell.

"Draco, that's not what I want," she said, her voice trembling, raw with emotion. "I came here to apologize, to make things right between us."

He didn't look up. Instead, he twirled his quill between his fingers, a cold, calculated movement. "Why now?" His voice was flat, tinged with something bitter, something wounded.

She swallowed the lump in her throat. "Because I can't stand the thought of losing you, Draco." The confession left her lips in a whisper, thick with unshed tears.

His hand stilled over his parchment. For a fraction of a second, something flickered in his expression—something achingly human, painfully real. But it vanished as quickly as it appeared, buried beneath layers of practiced indifference.

"I'm glad the brightest witch of our age has finally come to her senses," he said, voice laced with amusement so bitter it burned. "Now you know exactly how it feels."

The quill dipped into ink, the rhythmic scratch of parchment filling the silence between them. The weight of his detachment pressed against Hermione's chest, suffocating, unbearable.

She stared at him, frozen, as if she were watching him slip through her fingers in real-time. He was shutting her out—brick by brick, wall by wall.

The dam inside her cracked. "Draco," she whispered, taking a trembling step forward. "I think you didn't hear me loud and clear." She exhaled shakily. "I am in love with you."

The quill stilled. A single droplet of ink bled onto the parchment, blooming like a stain.

Slowly, painfully, Draco lifted his gaze.

His eyes—pale, stormy, haunted— met hers, a war waging in their depths. Disbelief. Hope. Self-loathing. He looked like a man teetering on the edge of something vast and unknowable.

Then, just as quickly, he looked away. His hand clenched into a fist, knuckles whitening beneath the strain. " It will pass ," he said, his voice hollow.

Her stomach dropped. "You can't mean that."

He kept his eyes fixed on the distant corner of the room, refusing to meet hers. "I'm a Malfoy," he murmured, voice rough, almost resigned. "We're not meant for happy endings."

"That's a lie." She moved before she could think, closing the space between them. Her fingers curled around his fist, warm against his ice-cold skin.

"You don't get to decide that for us," she said fiercely, her voice trembling with equal parts fury and love. "We make our own destiny, Draco. Love isn't easy. It isn't perfect. But if we give it a chance—"

Finally, finally, he looked up at her. And what she saw nearly broke her.

A man at war with himself.

His throat bobbed, his lips parting as if he wanted to say something—something real, something that might have saved them.

Instead, he gave a hollow chuckle. "Destiny?" he echoed, shaking his head. "Star-crossed lovers, perhaps? Enemies to lovers? A happily ever after built on the ashes of a broken world." His lips curled, sharp and cruel, but his eyes were devastatingly sad.

"You read too many romance novels."

( wink wink to the readers ;) 

He rose from his chair, his movements slow, deliberate, predatory. The flickering candlelight carved sharp angles across his face, casting his expression into something both beautiful and terrifying. He reached out, capturing Hermione's chin between his fingers, his grip firm but not bruising.

"A sad little sinner, that's what you are," he murmured, his voice dark silk against her skin. "And me? I'm a murderer. That's the difference between us. I don't stop. I don't hesitate. I will never stop until everyone who stands in our way is gone." He tilted her chin up, forcing her to meet his gaze. "Just say the word, and I'll paint the town red."

A cold shiver snaked down Hermione's spine, but she refused to let him see her fear. She steadied her voice. "Draco, I know who you are… Please… just let go of me."

His fingers tightened for a fraction of a second before he laughed—a low, rumbling sound that sent another chill through her. "Let go of you?" He leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. "I am a dragon, true to my name. I don't let go of what's mine."

She swallowed hard.

"You gave me your heart and soul, didn't you?"

She nodded, barely breathing.

"Then you were mine long before this game started. I have loved you for years, Hermione. Years." He finally released her face, stepping back slightly, but his gaze still burned into her. "You think I would let you go?"

Her pulse thundered in her ears. "Draco, that is absolutely absurd. I am not your property."

His head tilted, a cruel smirk playing at his lips. "And who said I am not yours?" His voice softened, but the intensity behind it remained. "You are the very core of my existence. Every part of my being is yours."

The room crackled with tension so thick it could have shattered glass. She blinked back the tears welling in her eyes, feeling the weight of his words press down on her like a physical force.

"Draco," she whispered, her voice trembling, "love isn't about possession. It's about freedom. The freedom to choose, to grow, to be who we are, even if it's not what the other person wants."

A flicker of something unreadable crossed his face—defiance? Vulnerability? Pain? It vanished as quickly as it had come. "Freedom?" he scoffed, a bitter edge to his voice. "Do you think I had a choice in who I loved during the war? Love was a luxury none of us could afford."

He turned away from her, his jaw clenched. "But you, Granger, you had a choice. You chose the light, the side that condemned me. And yet, here you are, standing before a killer, telling him you love him."

His words struck her harder than she expected. Hermione reached for him, her fingers brushing against his sleeve. "Draco, you're not a monster. You're a man who made terrible choices, but—"

"But nothing." He cut her off, his voice sharp as a blade. "These choices define me. They stain everything I touch. Including you."

His eyes softened then, just for a moment, and when he spoke again, his voice was lower, rougher. "I... I don't know how to do this, Granger. Just say the word, and I'll be on my knees for you."

Her breath hitched. The vulnerability in his voice, in his stance, sent something shattering through her.

"I don't want you to kneel," she said, her voice trembling. "I want you to do what you feel needs to be done. I won't survive if you leave me."

The air between them shifted. Heavy. Suffocating. Intimate.

His gaze searched hers, raw, desperate, conflicted. This wasn't a love story filled with grand gestures and gallant rescues. This was something tangled and messy, a battlefield of emotions, a codependency forged in fire and war and the need to claim something—someone—that felt like home.

"Draco," she murmured, stepping even closer. "Love isn't about blind devotion. It's about understanding, even when it's terrifying."

His jaw tensed. "Understanding what?" He spat her name like a curse, but his voice shook. "That I'm a monster, stained by the darkness I serve?"

"No," she countered, fire sparking in her veins. "Understanding that everyone has darkness. It's the choices we make that define us."

He let out a hollow, humorless chuckle. "Choices?" His voice dripped with something twisted. "You, the saint of the Golden Trio, preaching about choices? You have no idea the burdens I carry."

She didn't flinch. "But you, Draco," she said, stepping close enough for her breath to ghost against his lips, "you are the light in this suffocating darkness. And I won't let them extinguish it."

Is this what Stockholm syndrome feels like? The thought slithered into Hermione's mind, insidious and unwelcome. But even as the words took shape, she knew they weren't true. This wasn't captivity. This wasn't a twisted dependency.

No, what she felt for Draco Malfoy wasn't the byproduct of trauma or survival. It was raw, unfiltered, and all-consuming. A love so tangled in darkness, so steeped in fire, that it burned away every rational argument she might have mustered against it.

This wasn't logic. This wasn't sanity. It was something far more terrifying—a choice. A conscious, deliberate surrender to the madness of loving him.

It didn't matter that he was cruel. That his hands had known violence. That his love was possessive, dangerous, all-consuming. She still wanted it. Wanted him.

Because this wasn't just love.

It was something deeper, something primal. A force of nature. A wildfire that had razed through the carefully constructed walls of her morality, leaving only embers of who she used to be.

And it didn't matter the cost. Because he was worth it.

He kissed her with a hunger that tasted of desperation, his lips fierce against hers, as if trying to brand his devotion into her very skin. A shiver ran down Hermione's spine, not from passion, but from the eerie contrast between his tenderness and the quiet menace laced in his words.

"Draco, what does that even mean?"

His hands, deceptively gentle, cradled her face, his thumbs tracing delicate circles against her skin. "There are things I need to take care of, loose ends," he murmured, his voice a low rasp, filled with ghosts. "Things you don't need to know about. Things that stain even the strongest magic."

A chill settled deep in her bones. "But I don't want to be left in the dark, Draco," she pushed, her voice trembling but firm. "Whatever you're planning, I want to understand."

His jaw tightened, the flicker of warmth in his eyes threatened by the storm brewing behind them. "There's no time for understanding," he snapped, his tone sharp enough to cut. "Just trust me. For once, trust that I'm doing this for you."

Trust. It was a word they'd tossed around in the haze of whispered confessions and tangled limbs, but now, it felt like a fragile thing, teetering on the edge of ruin.

"How long will you be gone?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

He hesitated before answering, the briefest glimpse of uncertainty flickering across his face. "A few days," he said at last, something unreadable lurking in his expression. "Plan a 'girls' weekend' with Red. Clear your head. Reconnect with your past. By the time you return, everything will be… different ."

The word different landed like a stone in her stomach. Different could mean anything. Different could mean ruined. Different could mean someone wouldn't be breathing when she returned.

Still, she nodded, swallowing down the unease clawing at her throat. "Alright. But, Draco—" she reached for him, her fingers tightening around his sleeve. "Promise me you'll be careful. Promise me you'll come back to me."

A shadow passed over his face. He studied her as if memorizing every line of her expression, as if this moment was one he would never allow himself to forget.

Then, a slow, ghost of a smile curled his lips—one that sent more fear through her than comfort. "Always."

The word lingered between them, heavy with unspoken meaning. A vow, a warning, a lie.

He kissed her again, slower this time, deliberate—his lips dragging over hers like a final goodbye. When he pulled away, something inside her clenched painfully, as if she were already mourning something not yet lost.

He stepped back, turning without another word, his footsteps fading into the vast silence of the manor.

Hermione stood frozen, her heart pounding against the dread in her chest. A trip to see Ginny. A few days to clear her head. It should have been simple.

But this wasn't an intermission. This was the beginning of an ending.

And as she stared at the empty space where Draco had stood, she realized with a sickening certainty: someone would die before she saw him again. Which one of them, that was the question.

Perhaps, in the end, this was always meant to be a winter's tale. A tragedy cloaked in inevitability.

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

Hermione. A strange name for a child, Ginny had once mused, laughing lightly over tea. "Naming you after a fucked-up play—what were your parents thinking?"

Hermione had forced a smile, but inside, something twisted.

A fucked-up play.

Yes, indeed. A tangled mess of jealousy, betrayal, and loss. A story where innocence was doubted, loyalty tested, and love nearly destroyed. Her parents had always insisted they chose the name because it embodied strength, wisdom, resilience. "A woman who held her own, even when the world turned against her," her mother had said once, tucking a stray curl behind her ear.

But did they ever stop to think about the weight of it?

Did they consider how it would feel to carry a name so deeply intertwined with suffering? How it would echo through every introduction, a whisper of trials and tribulations to come?

Now, standing here as Hermione Granger-Malfoy, her life often felt like its own cursed script. From the war, to the broken friendships, to the complicated, jagged love she had carved with Draco—was she living a prophecy of her own name? Was she merely a pawn in some grand, tragic design?

And yet, through the wreckage, she had found light. Friends who loved her. A husband whose love, though dark and tangled, was as consuming as a star. And herself—a woman not merely shaped by adversity but forged through it.

Perhaps, in the end, her parents were right. Perhaps Hermione was not just a name, but a reminder.

A reminder that she was not defined by suffering, but by survival. That she was not the tragedy, but the force that endured it. That amidst the chaos, the betrayal, the relentless trials—she would always find her way back to herself.

A warrior, a scholar, a woman who would never be undone.

With that thought, a quiet determination settled over her. She turned back to Ginny, choosing to bask in the warmth of their conversation, letting the laughter push away the shadows that lingered in her mind. Whatever came next, she would face it with the resilience her name had always promised.

As the night stretched on, the inevitable topic of their husbands arose. Ginny, sprawled comfortably on the floor with a precarious tower of pastries on her lap, let out a dramatic sigh.

"How long are they going to be on this so-called business trip?" she grumbled, plucking apart a croissant with deliberate irritation. "Blaise has been gone for two bloody days, and all I've gotten are cryptic owl updates about 'negotiations' and 'unforeseen delays.'"

Hermione traced the rim of her tea cup, a familiar weight settling in her chest. "Draco said a few days," she murmured, but even as she spoke, the memory of his intense gaze and chilling words coiled around her like a ghostly whisper.

Ginny arched a brow. "And you're buying that?"

She hesitated. "I don't know. I never thought I'd miss him this much, to be honest." She let out a soft, self-deprecating chuckle. "We've had our share of battles, but... it feels different now. More real. I think—no, I know—I'm hopelessly in love with him."

A flicker of something unreadable passed through Ginny's eyes before she smiled. "I suppose that's what love does. It sneaks up on you and makes you realize how much someone means to you, even when you least expect it."

Hermione nodded, fingers tightening around the delicate porcelain. "It's not just about the grand gestures. It's the little things. The way he makes me laugh when I least expect it. The way he holds me before we sleep, like I'm the only thing anchoring him to this world. It's all those tiny details that make me miss him."

Ginny sighed, a dreamy look crossing her features. "Yeah, it's those moments that matter the most. The little things that add up to something beautiful." Then, with a wicked grin, she added, "Blaise is an absolute gentleman. And a fantastic fuck. Also treats me like I'm the center of the universe."

And a murderer, assassin, ex-Death Eater. But then again, who said chivalry was dead?

A comfortable silence settled between them, each lost in the tangled web of love, danger, and the men who walked the fine line between devotion and destruction.

Finally, Ginny perked up. "So, what's the plan while they're away? Any ideas?"

Hermione shrugged, exhaling slowly. "Not really. Just catching up on some reading, maybe some work. But I'm open to suggestions."

Ginny's grin was positively wicked. "How about we binge-watch some Muggle films? I've got a list of classics I need to see."

Hermione laughed, the sound light and unburdened. "That sounds perfect."

As the evening unfolded, their conversation ebbed and flowed effortlessly, laughter and nostalgia weaving through the air. They were halfway through Dead Poets Society when, without warning, a brilliant silver stag burst into the room.

"GINNY, RON'S HOUSE IS ON FIENDFYRE. GET HERE AS SOON AS YOU CAN."

The words hung in the air like a death sentence. The room, once filled with warmth and ease, turned ice-cold in an instant. The glow of the television screen flickered against their pale, shocked faces.

Ginny's breath hitched, her face drained of all color. Her hands trembled as they gripped the armrest. "Fiendfyre?" she whispered, her voice barely audible over the deafening silence. "That's...that's dark magic. Who the hell would do something like this?"

Her stomach twisted into a tight knot. Her mind was already whirring at full speed, shoving aside the lingering weight of Draco's cryptic warnings. This wasn't about him. This was about Ron.

Her ex-boyfriend. Her best friend. His home swallowed in an inferno of cursed flames.

"We need to go. Now," she said, her voice surprisingly steady despite the sheer terror clawing at her insides. "Grab anything useful—Floo powder, emergency potions, cooling charms. We don't know what we're walking into."

Ginny sprang into action, her fingers fumbling as she snatched up a small, charmed pouch and stuffed in whatever she could find. "Merlin, I swear, if he's hurt—" her voice cracked, but she didn't stop.

Hermione ran a quick diagnostic spell on her wand—no malfunctions. Good. Her grip tightened around the familiar wood.

Please, let them be alright. Let us get there in time.

With a single flick, Ginny hurled a handful of Floo powder into the fireplace, the flames roaring into an eerie emerald green. The room trembled as if sensing the weight of what was coming.

Ginny turned to Hermione, her brown eyes filled with something raw, something desperate. "Let's go."

They stepped into the fire together, the magic swallowing them whole.

A sickening lurch gripped Hermione as they were yanked through space, twisting violently in the void between destinations. Fire, smoke, and an unknown horror awaited them at the other end.

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

The moment her stomach settled, Hermione's world erupted into chaos. The quaint cottage—the home that had once been filled with Ron's easy laughter and Lavender's incessant chatter—was now a roaring inferno.

Fiendfyre.

Not just any fire. No, this was a cursed blaze, insatiable and all-consuming, its monstrous tongues twisting into grotesque shapes as they devoured everything in their path. The night sky burned with its reflection, the flames licking high like hell's own hands reaching for the heavens. The acrid stench of burning wood and flesh clogged Hermione's throat, making her gag as she took in the devastation before her.

Ginny stood motionless beside her, her breath coming in shallow gasps. "No," she whispered, her voice barely carrying over the roar of the fire. "This can't be real."

A strangled scream tore through the night. Ron.

Hermione snapped into action. "We need to find them. Now!" She grabbed Ginny's wrist and pulled her forward, her own fear buried beneath the singular need to reach them in time.

They ran, the searing heat blasting their faces, sweat beading at their brows. Ron and Lavender's panicked shouts echoed from somewhere within the flames. The crackling of the fire, the splintering of wood, the desperate cries—it all blurred into a horrifying symphony of destruction.

A rush of green light burst through the chaos, cutting a path toward them.

"Harry!" Hermione choked out, relief mixing with urgency.

Harry was already moving, his face set in grim determination. "We have to get them out!" He threw up his wand, casting a powerful shield charm to push back the fire.

Hermione and Ginny flanked him, wands raised, water spells crashing against the cursed flames like waves against a cliff. "Ron! Lavender!" she screamed, her voice hoarse from the smoke. "We're coming!"

A flicker of movement—two figures near the entrance. Ron. His red hair stood out stark against the backdrop of hell. Lavender clung to his arm, coughing violently, her terrified eyes searching for them.

For a moment, a flicker of hope surged through Hermione. They were so close.

And then—

A monstrous crack split the night.

The roof buckled.

The fire roared with renewed hunger.

No. No. NO.

Ginny screamed, trying to lunge forward, but Hermione caught her just in time, wrenching her back as burning debris collapsed between them and the house.

"We can't get to them!" Hermione sobbed, her grip tightening around Ginny as the younger woman thrashed. "It's too dangerous!"

Harry's shield wavered. The cursed flames coiled around it like a serpent, hissing in triumph.

"I won't leave them!" Harry roared, magic crackling at his fingertips.

But it was too late.

The house groaned—a guttural, agonized sound—before the roof gave in completely.

Ron's face.

One last glimpse of freckled skin, wide blue eyes filled with terror, lips moving in a silent plea as the flames swallowed him whole.

A deafening crash.

Silence.

"NO!"

Harry's scream was inhuman, raw enough to tear through bone. He lunged forward, but there was nothing left to save. The fire surged, hungrily consuming what little remained.

Ginny's knees buckled. The sound that left her was worse than any scream—a broken, animalistic wail that shattered something deep within Hermione.

She dropped beside Ginny, arms wrapping around her as sobs wracked her body. "I'm so sorry," she whispered, though the words felt hollow.

Harry stumbled backward, his face a mask of devastation. His wand slipped from his fingers, clattering uselessly onto the ground. His eyes, usually so full of determination, were empty.

The fire still raged, but it felt distant now, muted beneath the crushing weight of their loss.

Minutes passed. Maybe hours.

The first light of dawn cast a sickly gold over the smoldering ruins. The house was nothing more than a charred skeleton, a grave for the two souls lost inside.

Ginny clung to Hermione, her sobs quieting into hollow gasps. Harry hadn't moved in a while.

And Hermione—

She stared at the ashes, her stomach twisting violently.

Draco.

A promise whispered in the dead of night.

"If I see him again, I'll paint the town red."

She thought she had understood him before. Thought she had seen the worst of his devotion, the lengths he'd go to keep her safe.

She was a fool.

Draco Malfoy had painted the town red—not with fire, but with the blood of the man she once loved.

The realization hit her like a curse to the chest. This was him. This was what he was capable of.

And the worst part? Some dark, twisted part of her knew he had done it for her.

For her.

The horror of it settled into her bones, freezing her in place.

She loved a man who would burn the world for her. And now, there was only one question left to answer.

How many more would have to die before she found the strength to stop him?