Lavander haze

The slap cracked through the room like a curse cast without warning, a searing flash of violence that shattered the stillness. His head jerked violently to the side, the sound echoing off the marble walls like judgment. A hot, vivid bloom of red surged across his cheek, the mark of her fury etched into his skin like a brand. And for the first time in all the years she'd known him, Draco Malfoy looked utterly stunned—stripped of his arrogance, of that cold, aristocratic mask he wore like armor. The smirk he had worn like a weapon moments ago disintegrated, leaving only the raw edges of something far more fragile. Something he didn't understand.

But Hermione didn't flinch. Didn't breathe. Didn't regret.

"HOW DARE YOU PUT ME IN THAT POSITION!" she screamed, her voice thunderous, wild, the kind of rage that was born from humiliation and betrayal. Her chest heaved, her fists clenched, her entire body trembling with the force of it. "IN FRONT OF THEM? IN FRONT OF ME? WHO THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU ARE?"

His hand hovered in the air, still grazing the stinging welt across his cheek. His breath caught somewhere between disbelief and something darker, something feral. His storm-grey eyes, usually so measured and unreadable, sparked with a volatile chaos—rage, hurt, something that threatened to spill into destruction.

"Hermione," he started, voice rough and unfamiliar. "I didn't mean—"

"No." Her voice sliced clean through his words like a dagger made of ice. "No, you don't get to spin this. You don't get to claim me like I'm some prize you've won, like my body and name and presence are fucking possessions you parade around in public to piss on the ghosts of your rivals."

The air turned heavier, suffocating. He took a single step closer and her hand twitched at her side, warning him not to.

"I was protecting you," he growled, low and guttural, the veneer of self-control cracking around the edges. "You know what that pathetic little bastard used to do. You know how he looked at you like you were disposable, like he deserved you. And now he sits there, smug and pitiful, watching us like he's entitled to something he let rot."

Her laugh was hollow—sharp enough to draw blood. "No, you were claiming me. You were marking territory, like a fucking dog. That wasn't protection, Draco, that was a public execution. Of my dignity. Of us." She spit the words out like venom, and still he just stood there, jaw ticking, breath shallow.

"You think you're noble? You think you're different from him?" she sneered. "All that cold-blooded Malfoy bullshit wrapped up in a prettier box. Do you honestly believe your possessiveness is some form of love?"

His eyes narrowed to slits. And what was behind them—whatever fury lived in his ribcage—it twitched, awakened. "You don't understand," he said, voice eerily calm. "You never understand. I've been quiet, I've let them talk, I've swallowed the looks, the whispers. But I won't be made a fool of. Not by him. Not by you."

"You think this is about you being embarrassed?" she shouted, incredulous. "You humiliated me! You used me like a pawn, like a fucking object, to prove some ancient point in a war no one is still fighting but you!"

"I will not be disrespected," he snapped, voice dropping to a hiss, low and ice-cold, as if respect was the only currency he had left. "Not in front of those people. Not in front of him. And especially not by the woman who's supposed to stand beside me."

She recoiled like he'd struck her again, the words punching the air from her lungs.

"I'm not your fucking trophy, Draco," she whispered, but her voice shook now—shook with rage and sorrow and something dangerous unraveling fast. "I'm not your prize. I'm not your shield. And I'm not the girl who's going to let you tear down everything I am just to keep your pride intact."

His breath came hard through his nose, like a bull before a charge. "You are mine," he said, quieter now, more menacing in its certainty. "You belong to me, Hermione. You chose me. You said yes. And now you want to what? Rewrite the rules?"

There it was. The toxicity laid bare, the quiet threat that had always lived in the cracks between their devotion.

"No," she said, shaking her head slowly, her voice low and bitter. "I want to remind you that I'm not your fucking possession. I'm your wife. Not your weapon."

His jaw clenched hard enough to crack teeth, the tendons in his neck taut with restrained fury. The air around him shifted, sharpened, like it was suddenly charged with static. His silver eyes—once sharp, elegant things honed for courtrooms and duels—were darker now. Dilated. Deranged. They burned with a possessiveness that no rational mind could temper, something primal, something ancient and unholy that slithered beneath his polished surface and snarled whenever her name was spoken by the wrong lips.

"Let's get something perfectly, painfully clear," he began, each word measured like the swing of a guillotine, his voice low and husky and wrapped in velvet and venom. "If I see him again—if I even smell him—I will gut him in the street like an animal and paint the cobblestones red with his blood. I'll make it a masterpiece."

The silence that followed was electric, a loaded pause thick with everything he wasn't saying. His hands flexed at his sides, as if he could already feel the weight of a blade in his grip. The storm brewing behind his eyes was no longer hiding behind decorum—it was snarling to be set loose.

"Stop it," Hermione snapped, her voice cutting through the tension with practiced precision, but not without a tremor beneath the surface. "This obsessive, possessive madness—it's beneath you. Or at least, it used to be."

For a heartbeat, something flickered across his face—shock, maybe, or the echo of hurt—but it was gone before she could confirm it. His expression twisted, morphing into something cruel, something jagged.

"Beneath me?" he repeated with a venomous laugh, stepping in close until his breath tickled the side of her face. "Darling, everything I've ever been—everything I've clawed myself up from—is already beneath you. Don't flatter yourself into thinking you're somehow above the darkness. You chose me. That makes you complicit."

He leaned in closer, voice slipping into a low, dangerous murmur, each word soaked in bitterness. "You think love rewrites history? That it purifies everything I've done? I was a Death Eater, Hermione. A real one. Not a child playing dress-up in black robes. You think you can just rinse the blood off me with wedding vows and pretend it never happened?"

Her lips parted to respond, but he wasn't finished.

"I was forged in cruelty. Tempered by war. Do you know what that makes me, my love?" His voice dipped lower. "It makes me capable."

She swallowed, but stood her ground, her chin lifting defiantly. "That doesn't excuse this. It doesn't excuse what you did."

His smile was slow and chilling. "You want excuses?" His hand shot out, not to strike, but to pin her against the wall, firm but calculated. His palm landed beside her head, his body pressing into hers, dominating without bruising. She gasped, breath stolen from the force of it, her body pinned and trembling—not with fear, but with the sick realization that part of her didn't want to move.

He caged her there, one arm braced, the other wrapping around her waist with a grip that bordered on reverent. "You want to know what I did to him while you were sipping coffee at your desk?" he whispered, his voice dangerously soft, silk hiding a blade.

Her breath hitched.

"I stunned him mid-step, dragged him into an alley, and beat him until his own mother wouldn't recognize his face. I broke his wand. I made him beg. I made him kneel." His lips brushed the shell of her ear, voice almost intimate. "And then I looked him in the eyes and Obliviated every second of it. Scrubbed his skull clean like he was nothing."

A low, satisfied breath escaped him as he pulled back just enough to meet her wide, unreadable gaze.

"I only regret that I didn't let him remember the sound of his own screams."

"Draco—"

"No," he growled, pressing a finger to her lips. "You don't get to act shocked now. You knew what I was when you said yes. You didn't marry a saint. You married me."

His eyes gleamed—sharp, obsessive, in love with her in a way that defied gods and sanity. "You want to know the truth?" he whispered, voice curling like smoke. "I'd do it again. I'd do worse."

Her silence dared him to continue.

His fingers ghosted down her spine, feather-light. "Would you like to hear the story of Greyback?" he asked casually, as if asking about the weather. "I whispered your name into his ear while I opened him up like a letter. Told him how you laugh. How you look when you come. Told him he'd never touch anything good again."

She stiffened beneath him. Her heart slammed inside her ribs.

His smirk deepened, but there was no warmth in it. Just the echo of violence disguised as devotion.

"I would ruin every man who ever looked at you with anything less than worship," he said quietly. "Because that's what you deserve. Devotion. Obsession. Me."

And then he leaned in, lips hovering just above hers, breath hot and maddening.

"I'm not sorry."

He let the words hang there like smoke.

"I'll never be sorry."

He wished he had killed Ronald—no, butchered him. Left his body sprawled like a cautionary tale at Hermione's feet, bones shattered, his heart in Draco's palm, still twitching. Wished Molly Weasley had found her darling boy's skull caved in against the fireplace hearth, red staining the grout, her hands raw from trying to scrub the blood away—forever trying. He wanted her grief to echo through the walls of the Burrow, a hymn to what happens when you dare look at what's his.

And Greyback—oh, Greyback. That rotting animal. Draco wished he'd left him alive just long enough. Long enough to hear Hermione moan his name the way she did last night, each breathless plea a dagger twisted into old, festering wounds. He wanted the bastard's mind to fracture under it, haunted by the symphony of her voice rising and breaking, again and again—his name, not Ron's, not anyone else's—Draco's. Wanted him clawing at his own ears, desperate to stop the loop, but unable to forget it. To escape it.

He wanted the whole bloody world to remember—Draco Malfoy doesn't share.

His voice was low and cruel, curling around the room like a noose tightening inch by inch. His lips twisted into a smirk that held no mirth, only contempt—the kind that could freeze fire, sharpen ice, and make anyone question whether they'd ever truly known the man behind the mouth.

"Don't you dare put yourself on a pedestal, Granger," he sneered, the name suddenly sounding like an insult from his lips. "You are no saint."

Hermione's breath hitched, her spine stiffening as if struck. Her pulse thundered beneath her skin, every beat echoing with dread. "Draco," she whispered, her voice a trembling thread of disbelief, "what are you saying?"

He stepped forward, slow and unhurried, each step deliberate, predatory. The air between them crackled, thick with everything unspoken, everything venomous. His eyes, once so capable of devotion, now looked through her with cold precision.

"You heard me." His voice was colder than midwinter, cutting through her like broken glass. "You act like you're above it all. Like your hands are clean and your conscience unburdened. But let's not rewrite history to soothe your ego, Hermione."

She opened her mouth, but no words came. There was nothing to say. Because he wasn't wrong.

"You were always so righteous," he hissed, circling her like a vulture scenting blood. "The golden girl, the war heroine, the moral compass. But I remember everything. I remember exactly who you are when the rules don't work in your favor."

He leaned in, breath hot against her cheek, voice like venom seeping into her skin. "Polyjuice. Time Turner. Imprisoning Rita Skeeter in a jar like a bug. Breaking into the Lestrange vault. Breaking laws when it suited you. And let's not forget…" He paused, his eyes boring into hers, deadly calm. "…murder."

The word hit her like a slap. Her knees nearly buckled.

Her throat burned with unshed tears, but she didn't move. Couldn't. Not under the weight of his truth.

"You think you're better than me?" he snarled, no longer calm, no longer calculated—just raw, wounded rage wearing the mask of disdain. "You think your reasons were noble? That your darkness came with conditions? Spare me."

Each word was a lash, flaying her open in ways no curse ever could.

"You stood there at his funeral, in black, playing the grieving daughter-in-law. You comforted my mother. You took my hand. And you lied with every breath. You're not clean, Hermione. You're just better at pretending."

Her heart was pounding, her lungs aching. She wanted to scream, to fight, to deny—but she couldn't. Because everything he said was true.

He took a single step back, enough to look at her fully, his silver eyes glinting with something darker than hatred—disappointment, maybe. Or betrayal.

"And yet here you are," he spat. "Looking at me like I'm the monster. Like I'm the broken one. But you—" he gestured to her, disgust curling his lip "—you're just as ruined as I am. You're just better at hiding the rot."

Her vision blurred, tears biting at the corners of her eyes. She felt like a little girl again, cornered, ashamed, guilty—but this time, there was no one to tell her she had done the right thing. Not even herself.

And then, without another word—without so much as a flicker of softness, of remorse, of anything—he turned on his heel. No theatrics. No parting blow.

Just a soft crack as he Disapparated, vanishing into the ether like smoke fading from a battlefield.

And she stood there, shattered in the silence, the weight of her sins pressing down like stones on her chest.

Because the worst part wasn't the rage.

It was that he saw her for exactly who she was.

And he wasn't wrong.

~~~~~~

Hermione hadn't slept in days. The guilt gnawed at her like termites burrowing into the beams of her soul—slow, silent, but devastating. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw his face: the way it had twisted in fury, in pain, in something so heartbreakingly disappointed it made her sick. Her nights became a loop of restless pacing and silent, breathless sobs against the cold edge of her pillow, of whispered regrets that dissolved into nothing. By the fifth day, she couldn't take it anymore. The silence was too loud. The ache, too much. She had to see him. Had to say something before the rot inside her became permanent.

The penthouse loomed before her like a mausoleum—opulent, monolithic, and drenched in the kind of luxury that now felt more like a punishment than privilege. Her fingers hovered for a beat too long before rapping sharply against the heavy oak door. The knock echoed, crisp and uncertain. Inside, she heard the scrape of a chair, the shuffle of papers, the mutter of a curse. And then—complete stillness.

A pause. Then, flatly: "Come in."

His voice was rough, rasping, not like the Draco she remembered but a colder echo of him, threaded with something unreadable. The sound of it sent a chill crawling up her spine.

She stepped in slowly, the door creaking like a warning. He was behind his desk, sleeves rolled to his elbows, the collar of his shirt slightly wrinkled—evidence that he hadn't slept either. Tension coiled in the sharp lines of his posture, in the twitch of his jaw. The pristine order of his study had been demolished: ink-stained parchments littered the surface, several contracts askew, a shattered quill glinting like a splintered bone.

When he looked up, his expression was blank. Not guarded—blank. Like he'd emptied himself out to keep from bleeding.

"Draco," she began, and her voice cracked, betraying the tremble that had taken root inside her ribcage.

He let out a breath through his nose, short and cutting. Then he tilted his head, a cruel smirk ghosting across his lips. "Are you pregnant?"

The words hit her like a slap, open-handed and vicious.

She froze. "I—what?"

He leaned back slowly, the leather of his chair groaning under the shift, his silver eyes gleaming like shattered glass. "I asked if you're carrying my child. Because frankly, that's the only reason I can imagine you'd show your face here after that little moral tirade you performed. Am I wrong?"

Her breath caught. The contempt in his tone was acid, corroding whatever resolve she had left. "I'm not pregnant," she snapped, shocked. "Why the hell would you even—"

"Then why are you here?" he cut in, smooth as silk and twice as cruel. His voice dropped to a dead calm, like the eye of a storm. "Have you come to absolve yourself? To perform penance? Or did you just miss the sound of your own voice preaching at me?"

Her fists clenched at her sides. Her throat burned. The shame curled in her gut, thick and sharp, but she forced herself to stand straighter. "I came to apologize," she said, and gods, it cost her to say it aloud. "I—I was wrong."

He blinked slowly, unimpressed. "Congratulations," he said dryly. "That makes two of us. Except I didn't humiliate you in front of every person I love."

She flinched.

A long silence stretched between them, and then, as if bored by her presence, he turned back to the papers on his desk, rifling through them with cold precision. "You don't have to live here anymore."

The words hit harder than she'd expected. Like a knife driven into her ribs with mechanical detachment.

Her voice was barely a breath. "What do you mean?"

He didn't even look at her. "I contacted the Ministry," he said flatly. "As long as we're in the same space once a month, the bond won't be considered violated. You're no longer obligated to stay here. You can pack your things and go play out whatever fantasy you think I've been keeping you from."

Her heart stuttered. That word again. Obligated. He was trying to cut her loose. She knew it. But he wasn't just offering freedom—he was using it like a knife.

"Draco, that's not what I want," she said, her voice trembling, a breath away from breaking. It came out raw, stripped bare by sleepless nights and the weight of too many words unsaid. "I didn't come here to play the victim. I came to apologize. I came because I want to fix this—us—before it's too late."

He didn't lift his head. Didn't even flinch. The quill between his fingers continued to turn with surgical precision, as if her presence was nothing more than a dull hum in the background. "Why now?" he asked, and though the words were soft, they were soaked in a bitterness that tasted like blood. "Because your silence got too loud? Because you ran out of ways to justify your pride?"

She swallowed hard, the back of her throat burning. "Because I can't stand the thought of losing you," she said, barely above a whisper. The confession fell between them like glass, delicate and shattering. "Because living without you feels like slow death."

The quill stilled. His hand froze mid-sentence, ink blotting against the parchment in a spreading bruise. For a fleeting moment, something almost human flickered across his face—grief, maybe. Want. The ache of remembering what it meant to care. But it vanished, swallowed whole by the glacial calm he wore like armor.

"I'm thrilled the brightest witch of our age has finally descended from her moral high ground," he murmured, eyes still fixed on the page. His tone was laced with something darker than sarcasm—something cruel, bruised, and bleeding. "Now you get to feel what it's like when the person you love looks through you like you're just another mistake."

The scratching of his quill resumed. Cold. Rhythmic. Final. The sound filled the room like a closing door.

Hermione stared at him, breath catching in her throat, her vision blurring at the edges. It felt like watching him disappear in real-time—each word, each silence another brick in the wall he was laying between them. And he was fast. Ruthless. Surgical in the way he pushed her out.

She stepped forward, the movement small but desperate. Her voice trembled. "Draco."

No response.

She swallowed down the panic clawing at her chest and said, louder this time, "I think you didn't hear me properly."

He paused again, the quill hovering.

"I'm in love with you." The words spilled from her like a lifeline she was begging him to grab. "I love you. I didn't realize how much until I almost lost you. And I don't want to spend the rest of my life regretting what I didn't say."

The quill dropped.

A single bead of ink bled across the parchment, spreading like a wound.

And slowly, painfully, he looked up.

His eyes—pale and storm-gray—were a battleground. Anger. Longing. Self-loathing. Hope. He looked like a man standing on a cliff, one step away from throwing himself into the sea just to stop the storm inside him from howling any louder.

But then—he looked away.

He clenched his jaw so tightly the muscle ticked beneath his skin. His hand balled into a fist on the desk, trembling from the force of restraint. "It will pass," he said eventually, and his voice was devoid of anything human. Hollow. Like he'd scraped it from the bottom of a locked drawer in his chest.

She flinched as if he'd struck her. "You don't mean that."

He still wouldn't meet her eyes. His gaze was fixed on some distant corner of the room, far away from her. "I'm a Malfoy," he said flatly, almost as if reciting an old curse. "We don't get happy endings, Hermione. We get legacy. We get expectations. We get blood on our hands and silence in our beds. That's what we're built for."

"That's a fucking lie," she snapped, stepping closer. Her hands trembled, but her voice didn't. "You don't get to decide that for both of us. You don't get to throw away what we have because it doesn't fit some tragic narrative in your head."

Her fingers curled gently around his fist, her warmth bleeding into his frozen skin.

"Love is messy," she said. "It's not supposed to be easy or clean or painless. But it's real. And I know you feel it too. I know you do."

Finally, finally, he looked up. And what she saw in his eyes—brutal vulnerability, devastation, a terrifying depth of feeling he couldn't contain—almost destroyed her.

He opened his mouth. For a second, it seemed like he might say something true, something naked and terrifying and real.

But instead, he let out a bitter laugh. One that sounded like it hurt.

"Destiny," he said mockingly, shaking his head. "Right. Star-crossed lovers. Enemies to lovers. A tragic romance built on war and poison and regret. How very poetic." His lips curled, sharp as a knife. "Maybe you should write a book. I'm sure it'll fly off the shelves."

He rose from his chair with a kind of terrifying grace, every movement slow, deliberate—predatory. The flickering candlelight threw jagged shadows across his face, sharpening the angles of his jaw, his cheekbones, turning him into something carved from fury and devotion. Beautiful. Terrible. Worshipped and feared in the same breath. He reached for her, fingers curling around her chin, firm—not painful, not yet—but commanding, a silent claim.

"A sad little sinner," he murmured, voice like dark velvet dragged across glass, his breath warm and heavy against her skin. "That's what you are. And me?" He tilted her chin higher, forcing her to meet his eyes, silver and sharp, burning with something rabid. "I'm not a sinner. I'm a fucking executioner. A killer. That's the difference between us. You hesitate. I don't. I never will. I will destroy anyone who so much as breathes wrong in your direction, Hermione."

He leaned in closer, his lips a whisper from hers. "Just say the word," he murmured, slow and deadly, "and I'll paint the fucking streets with their blood like it's modern art."

A cold shiver rippled down her spine. But she held firm. Refused to step back. Refused to let him see the fear he fed on. "Draco… I know who you are," she said, voice trembling but steady enough. "Please… just let me go."

His fingers twitched, tightening for just a breath before he laughed—low, feral, the sound dragging across her bones like teeth. "Let go of you?" he whispered against her ear, every syllable a dagger. "I'm a dragon, Granger. I don't let go of what's mine. I burn the world until it turns to ash in my claws."

Her breath caught. Her chest ached from how fast her heart was hammering.

"You gave me your heart," he said, his voice almost reverent now, laced with a kind of psychotic devotion. "You handed it to me. Don't act surprised when I treat it like something I own."

She swallowed, fighting the whirlwind rising inside her.

"Then you were mine before you even knew it," he said, stepping back just enough to look at her fully. "Do you really think I would let you go now? After everything? After what we've done?"

"I am not your property," she said sharply, defiantly, though her voice cracked with emotion.

His head tilted, a cruel smile unfurling across his lips. "And who said I'm not yours?" he spat. "You don't think I'd slit my own fucking throat if you asked nicely? That I wouldn't ruin myself a thousand times over just to keep your name on my tongue?"

His eyes—sharp, wild, starving—devoured her, like he was trying to memorize her before something unspeakable tore them apart.

"You are the axis my world spins on," he said, softly now, too softly. "You are the air I breathe when I should be choking on ash. I'd raze kingdoms for the right to touch your skin."

She blinked fast, the weight of his words dragging her down, drowning her in something she couldn't name—love, maybe. Or something cruel that wore love's mask.

"Draco," she whispered, "love isn't about caging someone. It's not about branding them. It's about letting them choose you. Every day. Even when it hurts."

His face twitched. Something cracked behind his eyes, just for a heartbeat.

"Freedom?" he echoed, bitterness curling in his throat. "You think I ever had a choice in loving you? I was doomed to you. You became the sun and the storm and the sword I stabbed myself with, and you think I get to choose whether I want you?"

He turned away, fists clenched, his back a wall of tension. "You chose the light, Hermione," he said quietly. "You chose the right side. The one that hunted me. Hated me. And now you're here, in my arms, telling me you love me? How fucked is that?"

She reached for him, fingertips brushing his sleeve. "You're not a monster," she whispered. "You're a man who was broken by a war he didn't start, forced to survive by becoming something he never wanted to be."

His shoulders shook with a silent laugh. He turned, eyes gleaming with something unhinged. "No, Granger. Don't romanticize me. Don't turn me into some sad, misunderstood antihero. I am the monster. I chose the violence. I liked it."

His voice dropped, dangerous and intimate. "I liked what I did to him. Do you want to hear it? Do you want to know how I shattered Weasley's wand with my boot? How I dragged him by his collar like a dog and made him beg? Do you want to hear what I whispered into Greyback's ear while I carved him open, slow, methodical, telling him every single reason why you'll never scream for anyone but me?"

Her knees went weak. The words soaked into her, twisted, terrifying. But gods—so honest.

"I am what this war made me," he said, stepping into her space, voice dropping to a murmur. "And you're the only reason I haven't gone completely mad."

A moment passed. A breathless beat of silence.

"I don't know how to love you without hurting everything around me," he whispered. "But say the word, and I'll fall to my knees. I'll worship you. I'll tear myself apart for you."

She exhaled, broken and breathless. "I don't want you on your knees, Draco," she said shakily. "I just want you. As you are. Scars and all."

He stared at her, chest heaving, eyes wild. This wasn't healing. This wasn't soft. This was a battlefield, a war between their damage and their devotion.

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 like a man starved—desperate, devouring, the kind of kiss that left no room for air, only for possession. His mouth moved over hers with a brutal tenderness, not gentle, but final , as if trying to carve his devotion into her bones. And for a breathless moment, she let him. Let the illusion wrap around her like silk pulled too tight.

But then—Hermione felt it. That shiver. The one that slithered down her spine not from passion, but from dread. It wasn't just the press of his body against hers, or the way his fingers trembled slightly where they held her jaw. It was the quiet, awful truth she tasted in his kiss: this wasn't just longing. It was goodbye.

"Draco," she whispered against his lips, pulling back just far enough to search his eyes. "What does that even mean?"

His hands—warm, soft, wrong in how lovingly they cupped her cheeks—didn't falter. His thumbs moved in slow, reverent circles, but his voice was a rasp dragged from some deep, haunted place. "There are things I need to handle. Loose ends." His gaze flickered, not away from her—but through her. "Things you shouldn't have to see. Things that even magic tries to forget."

Her breath hitched. That hollow, glacial thing in her chest stirred, curling around her ribs like it knew something she didn't want to admit. "Draco," she said again, firmer this time, swallowing the rising panic. "Please don't shut me out. I can handle the truth—whatever it is. I want to understand."

His eyes darkened, and the warmth that had flickered there briefly was eclipsed by something colder. Older. "No," he said, sharper now. "This isn't about understanding. This isn't a conversation. This is me doing what needs to be done, and you— "you" —trusting me enough not to stop me."

Trust. The word landed like a curse. They'd spoken it in softer moments, whispered it into skin and shadows, but now it sounded brittle. Fragile. A lie that begged not to be shattered.

"How long will you be gone?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper, as if raising it might break the world open.

He hesitated, and it was that pause— that hesitation—that made her stomach twist. "A few days," he said eventually, the words slow, deliberate, calculated. "Take some time. Plan a girls' weekend with Red. Drink wine. Complain about your husbands. Laugh." His smile didn't reach his eyes. "By the time you come back, everything will be… different ."

The way he said different made her blood run cold. Not better . Not solved . Just— different . And somewhere, in that cruel shift of syllables, Hermione felt the truth crack through her like lightning.

Someone was going to die.

"Draco—" she reached for him, her fingers curling around the sleeve of his coat like she could anchor him there, in the now, in the safe . "Promise me. Promise me you'll come back."

He didn't promise right away.

He just stared at her— through her—as if trying to memorize the shape of her soul before it slipped from his grasp. And then, slowly, his lips curled into a smile so ghostlike, so empty , it chilled her more than any silence ever could.

"Always," he said.

The word hit the air like a prophecy.

He kissed her again—slower now, deeper, dragging it out like it was the last thing tethering him to what was good in the world. And when he pulled away, she felt it in her marrow—that this wasn't intermission.

It was the beginning of the end.

He turned without another word. No final look. No moment of weakness. Just the sound of his footsteps echoing through the hall, growing quieter with every step. Like he was walking into the night with blood on his mind and her name clutched like a weapon.

Hermione stood there, the silence roaring louder than any scream. Her lungs refused to expand. Her body, rigid. Her heart pounding against the truth she could no longer pretend not to see.

He wasn't going to "tie up loose ends."

He was going to kill Ron.

And the worst part—the truly horrifying part—was that somewhere, buried deep beneath her fear, a small, feral part of her understood. Ached. Agreed .

And that made her even more afraid.

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

~~~~~~

The night wrapped itself around him like a shadowed cloak, concealing his every move as he ventured toward his unknown destination. The true purpose of the mission remained veiled in secrecy, a dangerous wager that could alter their fates forever. In the dimly lit room, Theo, Draco, and Blaise stood shoulder to shoulder, the oppressive silence pressing in on them. Their expressions were grim, eyes glinting with steely resolve as they meticulously reviewed the plan one final time. The soft, intermittent flicker of a dying lamp was the only sound that disturbed the stifling quiet, underscoring the weight of what lay ahead.

Draco stood at the centre of the room, his face set in stone, his voice cold and unwavering. The tension in the air thickened as he began to speak, his words laced with a fury simmering just beneath the surface.

"We've gone over the plan," he began, his gaze sweeping across the room. His eyes burned with a controlled fire, sharp and unforgiving. "This isn't just another mission. We are doing this for Hermione. He—Ronald Weasley—crossed a line that no one comes back from. He dared to lay a hand on my wife, dared to abuse her. And now he's doing the same to his own wife. This is one of the things we do not, and will never, tolerate."

His voice grew harder, colder with each word. Draco's jaw clenched as he steadied his breath. "No one harms our loved ones. No one. Not now, not ever. We are not our fathers, bound by their twisted codes of power and cruelty. We've built something stronger—something that isn't controlled by fear but by the strength of loyalty. And we will always protect our family, no matter the cost."

The room was silent for a moment, every man present absorbing the weight of Draco's words, understanding the severity of what lay ahead. The flickering light above cast shadows across their faces, giving them an almost spectral appearance, like silent sentinels poised for battle.

With a unified, almost primal response, they echoed his resolve in one voice.

"To our family."

The words hung in the air, vibrating with the weight of an unspoken vow. It wasn't just a statement of intent—it was a cold, unflinching declaration. This wasn't about mere revenge or some strategic manoeuvre. No. It was about protecting the one thing that transcended all else: family. And anyone foolish enough to threaten that bond would soon discover just how far they were willing to go, just how deep into the abyss they would descend.

Draco's eyes were narrowed to slits, his wand gripped so tightly his knuckles turned white. The dim light of the room seemed to grow darker, the shadows creeping in as if they too understood the gravity of what had just been set in motion. There would be no hesitation. No second chances. No mercy. This was their line in the sand, and no one crossed it without paying in blood.

He stood off to the side, his gaze flickering toward the device in his hand. Its presence seemed to pulse with an eerie energy, a silent reminder that the final step was upon them. His voice was low, almost a murmur, as he finally spoke. "Everything is set. The detonation sequence is primed, timed to perfection. The entire area has been scoped. There's no way out for him."

His words were devoid of emotion, but his eyes betrayed the storm brewing beneath the surface. This was no simple task, not when the target was Ronald Weasley—brother in law, friend to Draco's wife, once an ally in their shared war. But those ties were long severed. Weasley had crossed a boundary that could never be forgiven.

Blaise's expression was unreadable, though his fingers tapped rhythmically on the arm of his chair, betraying a mix of anticipation and nervous energy. His voice was almost too calm, a dangerous edge lacing his words. "We need to be precise. There's no room for error. We end this cleanly, without leaving a trace."

Draco exhaled slowly, his eyes hardening into something sharp and lethal. "No mistakes," he said, his tone final, unyielding. "We do this right, or we don't do it at all. This is the last time we clean up anyone's mess. If we fail, there won't be a second chance."

His gaze shifted between his two allies, both cloaked in the same unrelenting resolve that weighed heavily on his own shoulders. His voice was steady, though a tremor of anticipation ran beneath it. "Agreed. We finish this. We start in thirty minutes."

The silence that followed was oppressive, each man lost in his own thoughts as they readied themselves for the task ahead. This wasn't just about removing a problem—it was a statement, a grim message sent from the shadows. Their target would soon understand that the old rules didn't apply to them. They had created their own, and in their world, betrayal was a fatal mistake.

They stood in the shadow of the Weasley house, the air thick with tension. The night was deathly still, save for the quiet whisper of the wind through the trees. The house loomed before them, unaware of the fate that awaited it. They shared a brief, silent exchange, their eyes reflecting the shared understanding of what had to be done.

His breath was slow and measured as he stared at the window, behind which lay their objective. His fingers brushed the edge of his coat, slipping into the pocket to retrieve the device. It was small, unassuming, but inside it contained a force of destruction that even the most skilled wizards feared: Fiendfyre.

Without a word, he moved with quiet purpose. His hand, steady and unshakable, lobbed the device through the window with a subtle flick of his wrist. For a heartbeat, there was only silence. Then, the air seemed to ignite with a dangerous hum as the Fiendfyre erupted in a blaze of malevolent magic.

The flames tore through the room, hungry and unstoppable, consuming everything they touched. Fiendfyre wasn't like ordinary fire—it had a will of its own, a dark, destructive sentience that sought out its prey. The inferno roared to life, twisting and writhing as it spread, its tendrils devouring the house with a ravenous speed.

They stood in the shadows, watching the fire with grim satisfaction. The heat from the flames was fierce, though none of them flinched. They had seen worse, done worse. This was just another necessary act, another sacrifice to ensure the safety of those they loved.

As the Weasley house began to collapse under the weight of the Fiendfyre's assault, Blaise spoke softly, his words nearly lost in the crackle of the flames. "There's no going back now. We're committed."

Draco's expression remained cold, his eyes never leaving the fiery destruction before them. "There was never any turning back."

Theo, his face half-shadowed by the dancing light of the fire, finally tore his gaze away from the house. His voice was quiet, almost contemplative. "He'll understand now. This was inevitable."

The fire raged on, a violent testament to the cost of betrayal. As the final embers consumed what remained of the Weasley legacy, the three men turned away, their steps measured and deliberate as they walked into the night, leaving behind only the ashes of a once-prominent family.

Their message was clear: In their world, there was no forgiveness for those who harmed their own.

~~~~~~

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?