Genesis

Days melted together in a blur of endless grey, each hour indistinguishable from the next, time folding in on itself as though the universe had decided to trap her in this purgatory. Morning and night no longer carried meaning—not under the constant, suffocating gaze of a world that seemed to take cruel delight in her unraveling. The fire—what had once been a contained tragedy, spoken of in reverent whispers and shrouded in ambiguity—had exploded into something grotesque. It wasn't a loss anymore. It was a headline, a frenzy, a public dissection of her life carved open and served raw to a ravenous press.

TRAGEDY STRIKES: RONALD WEASLEY AND LAVENDER BROWN FOUND DEAD IN FIRE

By Rita Skeeter, Special Correspondent to The Daily Prophet

In a devastating turn of events that has sent shockwaves through the wizarding community, Ronald Bilius Weasley—former Auror and decorated war hero—and Lavender Brown, socialite and prominent magical influencer, were found dead late Thursday night in what officials are calling a "suspicious magical fire."

Sources inside the Department of Magical Law Enforcement confirm that the blaze erupted at an undisclosed property in the countryside, and while the exact cause remains under investigation, early reports suggest the fire was not of mundane origin. Investigators noted the presence of magical accelerants, an unusually high concentration of fire-elemental magic, and the lack of protective enchantments typically found on wizarding homes.

"It's not just the intensity—it's the precision," said one member of the Magical Forensics Unit, speaking under the condition of anonymity. "Whatever this was, it wasn't accidental."

The bodies of Weasley and Brown were identified at the scene through dental records and wand cores, though officials have yet to release the full autopsy results. A spokesperson from the Office of Magical Catastrophes declined to comment, stating only that "all leads are being pursued with urgency."

The public response has been swift and emotional. Weasley, once a central figure in the defeat of You-Know-Who, had maintained a relatively quiet profile in recent years following his retirement from field duty. Brown, ever the darling of the social circuit, was last seen publicly at a charity gala in support of St. Mungo's Spell Damage Ward only three days prior to the incident.

Speculation has run rampant in both magical and Muggle-aligned circles. Was this a targeted attack, or an unfortunate accident? Was the fire a cover-up for something darker? Some in the press have pointed to rising tensions between rogue wandless factions and retired members of the Order of the Phoenix, though no evidence yet connects these groups to the tragedy.

Still others whisper of unfinished business from the war—a lingering grudge, a vengeful spell left to bloom after a decade of dormancy. With no confirmed suspects, no public suspects, and no clear motive, the unanswered questions have only stoked the flames of rumor.

Funeral arrangements have yet to be announced. The Ministry has declared a moment of silence across all departments and has promised full transparency as the investigation unfolds.

For now, the wizarding world waits—stunned, grieving, and bracing for what truths may come to light in the days ahead.

And Draco—Merlin, Draco—had become something else entirely, a presence in their home so distant, so silent, so unreadable that it felt as though he had become a ghost himself, haunting the same walls she did, existing beside her but never with her. He moved through their space in silence, his touch a memory, his words clipped and scarce, the weight of unspoken truths pressing between them like a barrier neither of them dared to cross. The air was thick with something unsaid, something sharp and splintering, and Hermione didn't know if she feared or longed for the inevitable moment it all came crashing down. Because the darkness—the one she had once believed, with the naïve optimism of a girl who still believed in redemption, was long behind them—was back. And the worst part, the part she could not allow herself to linger on for too long, was the sickening realization that perhaps it had never truly left at all.

And then there was Ron. The grief of it clung to her like smoke, thick and suffocating, seeping into every corner of her existence, settling into the marrow of her bones, heavy with a finality she could not bring herself to accept. Ron, who had been her childhood, her past, her safe place—the boy with the lopsided grin, the quick temper, the unwavering loyalty—the friend she had fought beside, laughed with, trusted more than she trusted herself. Gone. Not to war, not to some cruel twist of fate beyond their control, but to Draco. To the man she had chosen, the man she had built a life with, the man she had trusted. The cruel, unbearable irony of it all sat like a stone in her stomach, because how could she reconcile this? How could she exist in the space between love and grief, between devotion and devastation, between the man who had shaped her past and the one who defined her present?

The press did not know the truth—not entirely—but that did not stop them from circling ever closer, tearing at the edges of it, clawing at the surface, desperate for a crack, a weakness, a glimpse beneath the carefully constructed mask she had forced herself to wear. Every morning brought a new headline, each one a fresh wound, a reminder that the world was not just watching, not just waiting, but hungering for something, for anything. And if the full truth ever surfaced—if even a fragment of what had truly happened that night found its way into the public's grasp—she knew, with a certainty that made her stomach turn, that it would be the end of everything.

So she worked, drowning herself in case files and paperwork, chasing exhaustion in the hope that it would dull the ache, but memories did not abide by the constraints of office hours. They crept in when she least expected them, lurked in the quiet spaces, in the moments between sleep and waking, in the flickering glow of candlelight against her bedroom walls. Guilt settled over her like a second skin, clinging, inescapable. She saw Ron's face in the silence, heard his voice in the echoes of her dreams, felt his presence in the aching emptiness he had left behind. And no matter how many times she told herself that it hadn't been her fault, that she hadn't known, that she hadn't chosen this—she couldn't shake the sickening certainty that, in some way, she had.

And the nights—God, the nights were the worst. He was absent more often than not, slipping away into the shadows with vague explanations that felt more like half-truths, if they were even that, and she no longer had the strength to ask where he went. What was the point? The fragile, threadbare trust between them had been shattered, and she knew that if she reached for it, if she tried to gather the broken pieces in her hands, they would only cut her, sharp and unforgiving.

She had tried—Merlin, she had tried—to write to Ginny, had sat at her desk, fingers trembling over the parchment, ink pooling into unformed words, but every attempt ended the same. How did you write the unspeakable? How did you tell a woman—your friend, your sister in all but blood—that the man you loved, the man you shared a life with, had played a part in taking her brother from her? The mere thought of it made her stomach twist, her breath catch, made something raw and unbearable lodge itself in her throat until she had no choice but to abandon the attempt altogether.

And so, after yet another failed letter, another night spent staring at the blank page before her, she found herself standing before the fireplace, its flames flickering and casting long, jagged shadows across the walls, stretching and twisting in a way that felt eerily familiar. The warmth should have been comforting, should have chased away the ever-present chill that had taken up residence beneath her skin, but it didn't—not even a little. Because nothing did.

This—this fractured, aching, unbearable existence—was not the life she had fought for.

Once, she had believed in justice, in fairness, in the idea that truth and morality were absolutes, that people were inherently good, that right and wrong were not just theoretical constructs but tangible, definable forces. But now, now those ideals felt like remnants of a different life, of a girl she no longer recognized, of someone who had existed before blood and fire and betrayal had rewritten the way she saw the world. Because nothing was black and white. Nothing was simple. Everything was gray, shifting, treacherous, impossible to navigate without losing yourself along the way.

And yet—despite it all, despite the lies and the secrets, the hurt and the doubt, the ghosts and the guilt—she couldn't leave.

Because she still loved him. Fiercely. Desperately.

But love, when tangled with fear, when burdened by the weight of too many unanswered questions, when darkened by the shadow of something you cannot name, is a dangerous thing.

And Hermione wasn't sure which one would win.

~~~~~~~

She found Kingsley alone in his office, a rare island of stillness amid the storm of chaos that had consumed the Ministry in recent days. The heavy oak door clicked softly shut behind her, muffling the distant sounds of arguments, owls, and quills scratching frantically on parchment. Dusk spilled through the tall windows in fractured shards of amber light, casting long, stretched shadows across the walls. The air was thick with the scent of burnt parchment and tired magic.

He looked up, and in that moment, the carefully constructed walls around her buckled. His face—lined with fatigue, wisdom, and the weight of too many secrets—reflected the same kind of exhaustion she carried in her marrow.

"Kingsley," she said, her voice barely above a whisper, raw and splintered. "I can't keep doing this. The questions. The press. The sideways glances. Every step I take, it feels like I'm walking through ash. I can't breathe in here anymore."

He watched her quietly, his eyes sharp but kind, taking in the way her shoulders sagged beneath the invisible weight, the way her hands trembled slightly at her sides.

A long sigh escaped him—heavy, measured, and far too knowing. "You've been trying to hold up the whole bloody sky," he said softly. "It's no wonder you're crumbling. Even Atlas had limits." He rose from his chair, moving around the desk with slow, deliberate steps. "A leave of absence isn't surrender, Hermione. It's survival."

Her breath hitched. She hadn't realized she was crying until she felt the sting of tears on her wind-chapped cheeks. "I need to step away," she said. "Not forever. Just long enough to remember who I am when I'm not dodging accusations or staring down death notices on my desk. I want to remember what it feels like to think without fear."

He nodded, solemn. "Then take it. Not because you're weak, but because you're human. You've carried more than your share, and now... it's time to set it down."

He reached into a drawer, pulling out a narrow roll of parchment. With practiced grace, he unrolled it, dipped his quill, and signed her temporary release with a swift flourish. "Two months," he said, passing the parchment into her shaking hands. "And if you need more, I'll make it happen. No questions."

She stared at the form, the ink still wet and glinting in the light, and gripped it like it was the only thing keeping her afloat. "I don't know how to thank you."

Kingsley smiled, tired but genuine. "Don't," he said. "Just come back when you're ready. Not for the Ministry. Not for the press. For yourself."

She nodded, unable to speak, and turned to leave. The corridor outside was quieter than she remembered. When she stepped through the grand front entrance of the Ministry, the world greeted her not with fanfare or suspicion, but with the soft hush of evening air. It was cold, but not unkind. A different kind of silence.

She drew in a breath—not out of habit, but necessity. The chill hit her lungs like absolution. And for the first time in weeks, the heaviness in her chest loosened its grip.

Maybe it wouldn't last. Maybe the storm would find her again.

But for now—just for now—she had space. A pause in the war. A breath between battles.

A chance to become something whole again.

~~~~~~

The air at Ron and Lavender's funeral was heavy with the kind of grief that settled deep into the bones, thick and cloying, a suffocating force that pressed against the lungs and turned every breath into a laborious effort. It was the kind of silence that wasn't truly silent, broken only by the muffled sounds of quiet weeping, the occasional sniffle, the rustle of fabric as mourners shifted uncomfortably in their seats, seeking some kind of impossible solace. The sky overhead was a dull, unrelenting gray, stretched like a mourning veil across the heavens, as though even the world itself had dimmed in sorrow. She sat among the gathered mourners, her posture rigid, her hands clasped so tightly in her lap that her knuckles had turned ghostly white, her gaze unfocused as she stared past the modest ceremony, past the rows of bowed heads and solemn faces, past even the caskets that stood as a brutal testament to what had been lost. The words being spoken barely registered, the priest's voice a distant hum in her ears, drowned out by the numb, aching void that had taken root inside her chest, hollowing her out from the inside.

She had cried until there was nothing left—until the tears had run dry, until the gut-wrenching sobs had wrung her body empty, leaving only a dull and desolate ache in their wake. The grief had consumed her, swallowed her whole, and yet, somehow, impossibly, she still existed, still breathed, still sat there in that chair, watching it all unfold as though she were nothing more than an observer to her own life. It was a strange kind of mourning—one that left her feeling untethered, as though she were floating outside of herself, watching from a distance, a ghost haunting the ruins of a life she no longer recognized. The weight of loss pressed down on her shoulders, but it was not a clean, simple grief; it was layered, tangled, twisted with things unspoken, with things she could never say. Guilt. Confusion. The kind of sorrow that did not fit into neat boxes of mourning, that could not be wrapped up in condolences or buried with the dead.

The ceremony continued, but the words—words meant to honor, to comfort, to bring closure—slipped past her like water through trembling fingers, unable to settle, unable to take root. The condolences, the solemn eulogies, the murmured prayers—they all drifted over her like the wind, weightless and distant, leaving no mark, offering no peace. She felt like an intruder in her own grief, an outsider standing on the edges of mourning, unable to step fully into the sea of sorrow that surrounded her. The pain was there, sharp and unrelenting, but it was different, poisoned by truths she could not share, by secrets that had twisted themselves into her very being.

Across the gathering, she caught sight of Harry, his normally brilliant green eyes dulled, dimmed by the unbearable weight of yet another loss, another friend buried beneath the earth, another reminder of how much they had given, how much they had lost, how much they would never get back. He looked at her then, a small, weary smile ghosting across his face, a silent acknowledgment of shared pain, an attempt at comfort that only served to deepen the chasm between them, because what comfort could be found in this? There had been too many goodbyes, too many funerals, too many moments like this—standing shoulder to shoulder in grief, breaking under the unrelenting burden of it all.

Beside him, Ginny clutched his hand so tightly her knuckles had turned pale, her grip unyielding, as though she feared that if she let go, even for a second, she would shatter entirely. She had barely spoken since that night—since the moment the truth had crashed over them like an unforgiving tide, stealing the air from their lungs, leaving only devastation in its wake. The fire that had always burned so fiercely within her, the unshakable resilience that defined her, had been reduced to embers, and Hermione—selfishly, shamefully—could not bring herself to face her, could not find the words to bridge the gaping, unspoken chasm that had formed between them.

Neville stood with his shoulders hunched, the quiet strength he carried barely holding beneath the unbearable weight of yet another name added to the ever-growing list of the fallen. Beside him, Luna rested a delicate hand on his arm, her usual dreamy expression replaced by something softer, sadder, something unbearably knowing. And then, as if drawn by some invisible force, her gaze flickered toward Hermione, her piercing blue eyes locking onto her with a depth of understanding that made her stomach twist. It was not pity that filled her expression—no, it was something infinitely worse. It was knowing. A quiet, patient knowing, as if she could see the tangled, broken pieces of her soul, as if she understood every unspoken thought, every unbearable truth, every bit of guilt that festered beneath the surface.

The world blurred around her then, voices fading into nothing but background noise, the edges of reality softening until she felt as though she was suspended in time, lost in the suffocating press of whispered condolences and the finality of the caskets that stood before them. It settled in her chest, leaden and suffocating, the realization that she had fought so hard, sacrificed so much, and yet, the future she had once believed in, the one she had bled for, had been ripped apart by choices made in the shadows, by consequences she had never foreseen.

This grief was not something she could fight, was not something she could reason with or overcome with logic and determination. It was a storm—merciless, all-consuming, impossible to escape. And for the first time, she wasn't sure if she even wanted to.

As the service neared its end, she found her gaze sweeping across the sea of mourners, searching for something, anything—an anchor in the overwhelming tide of sorrow that threatened to pull her under. They were all adrift, all drowning in their own grief, all bound together by shared loss yet separated by the unbearable weight of their own individual pain. And yet, despite the overwhelming devastation, despite the crushing, suffocating agony of it all, there was something else—something quiet but resolute. In the days to come, they would have to lean on each other, would have to navigate the uncharted darkness together, bound by an unspoken promise forged not just in love, but in battle, in sacrifice, in years spent surviving against all odds. Even now, in the depths of mourning, resilience flickered, stubborn and unyielding—a defiance against despair itself.

When the ceremony drew to its inevitable close, the air filled with the murmured echoes of condolences, hollow words passed from mourner to mourner, offering no true comfort, no real solace in the face of such devastating loss. Slowly, the crowd began to thin, people drifting away like ghosts, their quiet conversations dissolving into nothing but the whisper of wind through the trees. Hermione, however, remained where she was, her feet rooted to the ground, unwilling—perhaps unable—to move, shackled to the spot by the unbearable weight of her grief, by the memories that refused to fade.

With great effort, she forced herself to stand, her legs trembling beneath her as she took a tentative step forward, drawn toward Harry and Ginny, toward the only two people who could understand the depth of what she felt, who could see the pain in her without needing it spoken aloud. They met her halfway, and the moment they reached one another, there were no words. There was no need.

Harry pulled her into an embrace, fierce and unyielding, his grip as steady as it had always been, as though he could somehow hold together the frayed edges of their shared past, keep them from unraveling entirely. Ginny followed, wrapping her arms around them both, her presence a quiet, steady anchor in the storm. And in that moment, in the warmth of their touch, in the silent strength of that embrace, she felt something shift—felt, for the first time in what felt like an eternity, that they were not completely lost. They were fractured, yes. Irrevocably changed. But not alone.

They would weather this storm as they always had—together.

~~~~~~

As they landed in front of the Burrow, the air seemed to shift, thickening with the kind of sorrow that clung to the skin like humidity on a summer night, pressing into their very bones with an unbearable heaviness, suffocating in its quiet insistence that nothing—not the sky, not the air, not the very ground beneath their feet—would ever feel the same again. Harry and Ginny exchanged a wordless glance, their grief reflected not just in the tight, drawn lines of their faces, but in the way they moved, slower, wearier, as though the weight of loss had burrowed into them so deeply that even the simple act of standing upright required too much effort. And Hermione—she felt it too, felt it in the way the very atmosphere seemed to press down on her, an invisible force curling around her ribs, wrapping itself around her throat, making it impossible to breathe without feeling like every inhale carried the taste of ashes.

There were no words that could make sense of it, no spells capable of rewinding time, no magic in existence that could stitch back together the jagged, fraying edges of what had been torn apart. The only way forward—the only choice left—was to stumble blindly through the wreckage, through the ruins of what once was, through the unbearable ache of absence, through the spaces where Ron and Lavender should have been, where their laughter should have still echoed, where their presence should have been an immutable certainty instead of an aching void.

And yet, even as grief sank its claws into her, even as mourning threatened to consume her whole, another battle loomed on the horizon, one more insidious than war, more complex than any duel fought with wands—a battle not of magic but of truth, of the kind of truths that festered in silence, that burned beneath the skin, that pulsed with an unbearable intensity in the quiet hours of the night. The truth about Draco, about the darkness that clung to him like a second skin, about the weight of the choices he had made and the blood that could never be washed from his hands. The truth about herself, about the war within her, about the love she could neither fully embrace nor entirely abandon, a love that felt like standing on the edge of a knife, precarious, dangerous, and yet—undeniable.

Let there be light.

The guest room door slammed shut behind her, the sound reverberating like a final, resounding verdict, a punctuation to the night, to the grief, to the unspoken conversations that had unraveled between her and he in the past few days. It wasn't anger—though that simmered beneath the surface, a volatile, unchecked force that lurked in the shadows of her chest, waiting for an outlet—but exhaustion, bone-deep and all-consuming, the kind of exhaustion that settled into the marrow and refused to be shaken, a weariness not just of the body but of the soul. The weight of too many unanswered questions, of too much loss, of the unbearable uncertainty of what came next pressed down on her like a tangible force, suffocating in its relentlessness.

And in her mind—because of course, he was there, because he was always there—his face appeared, sharp and defined, etched with frustration and something deeper, something raw, something she hadn't been able to name. He had wanted to talk, to reach for her, to make sense of the wreckage between them, but she had needed space, had needed to put distance between herself and the man who had upended her world, had shattered every illusion she had once held so tightly. She needed to grieve, to think, to sort through the impossible contradictions of her own heart—the love and the rage, the guilt and the longing, the grief and the unbearable pull of him, of what he was, of what he had become.

The walls of the guest room felt smaller than usual, suffocating in their silence, the air pressing in too close, too tight, too heavy. She paced, restless, her body moving because her mind was spinning too fast, too wild, a storm of emotions she couldn't quiet. Grief for lost friends. Fear for what he had become, for what he had done. And love—God, love—so fierce and tangled and terrifying that it felt like it was eating her alive, because how could she love him when there was blood between them, when the future she had once imagined had crumbled into something unrecognizable, something riddled with shadow and uncertainty?

She sank onto the bed, the mattress dipping beneath her weight, the softness of it a cruel contrast to the sharp, unforgiving edges of her thoughts. How was she supposed to reconcile this? How was she supposed to hold the love she felt in the same hands that trembled under the weight of all they had lost? How could she still crave the safety of his arms when the truth of his world had shattered hers into something unrecognizable?

Tears slipped down her cheeks, silent and searing, hot against the chill of her skin. Guilt. Rage. A sadness so deep it felt endless, as though she could drown in it and still never reach the bottom. And yet, beneath it all, buried deep within the wreckage of her soul, there was something else—a whisper of defiance, a spark that refused to be extinguished, a quiet but unrelenting voice that told her she could not let this break her. She had to fight. For the truth. For herself. For a love that, despite everything, still felt like the only beacon of light in the wreckage of her world.

He had not asked her for details about Ron's death. He had stood before her like carved stone, impassive and unreadable, but his stormy eyes had betrayed flickers of something raw, something she had barely dared to acknowledge. A quiet plea. A desperate hope. A fear that their fragile tether—already fraying at the edges—would snap entirely beneath the weight of all that had been done.

And she had shut him out.

Shame curled in her stomach, because despite the distance she had put between them, despite the storm raging inside her, there was still a part of her that needed him, that needed his steady presence, his unwavering certainty, the solidity of him when everything else felt like it was crumbling beneath her feet. Even now, when everything was fractured, when doubt gnawed at her resolve, when she didn't know if she would ever be able to find her way back to him—he was still the one constant she could not walk away from.

Taking a trembling breath, she lifted her head, her gaze falling on the door. It loomed before her, more than just wood and hinges—it was a threshold, a line drawn between past and future, between grief and understanding, between love and betrayal.

But understanding was a cruel thing. Love had rooted itself in the ashes of her old life, and now it bloomed over the grave of her best friend. How could she hold Draco close and not feel the weight of all that had been lost? How could she love him and not betray the memories of those who were gone?

And then—soft and slow—the door creaked open.

She froze, every muscle drawn tight beneath her skin, her breath caught mid-inhale, suspended like a held note in the silence. Her tear-blurred vision stung as she turned her head, blinking rapidly, her heart pounding so violently in her chest she swore it echoed against the walls. There, silhouetted in the doorway, stood the last person she expected—and the only one she both dreaded and needed to see.

He lingered there, unmoving. Tense. As though unsure if he had the right to cross the threshold, as though the very air between them had turned into glass—one wrong step and it would all come crashing down.

"May I come in?" His voice cracked as he spoke, hoarse and frayed, like something unused, or broken. A voice scraped raw by sleepless nights and the weight of unspeakable choices.

She didn't answer right away. Her throat was thick with grief, her fingers trembling as she wiped at her cheeks, smearing the remnants of sorrow with hands that had forgotten what stillness felt like. Slowly, deliberately, she gave a single nod—not forgiveness, not welcome, just… a permission. A threadbare offering of space.

He stepped into the room with the care of someone approaching sacred ground. Each footfall was quiet, deliberate, like he understood instinctively that noise would be too much, too soon. He didn't go to the couch beside her, didn't reach for her hand or try to pull her into an embrace. Instead, he sank to the floor in front of her chair, folding himself into the space at her feet, grounding himself in the silence between them. Close enough to be present. Far enough to let her breathe.

He looked up at her with storm-worn eyes, his own expression unreadable, suspended somewhere between shame and longing. And still, he didn't speak.

The quiet stretched, long and heavy, but not hollow. Not empty. It was the kind of silence that held weight. Memory. History. Something ancient and aching that tethered them together even when everything else was broken.

Finally, in a voice so soft she almost missed it, he whispered, "I'm here."

That was all.

No explanation. No excuses. No sweeping apologies that would never be enough. Just that—an anchor dropped at her feet, steady and silent, a declaration without fanfare. An offering of presence. Of something steady in the storm.

And for the first time in what felt like lifetimes, she allowed herself to exhale. Allowed herself to believe, if only for a moment, that being held didn't have to come at the cost of her own unraveling.

She leaned forward—tentative, slow—until her forehead touched his. Her eyes closed. And she let herself lean, not into forgiveness, not into absolution, but into something rawer. The ache of needing. The quiet of not being alone.

À travers le voyage extraordinaire de l'amour.

~~~~~~

She set her teacup down with a clatter sharper than intended, the sound breaking the silence like a dropped plate in an empty room. The porcelain rattled against the saucer, the noise making both of them flinch—but only one of them tried to hide it.

Across from her, Draco's jaw tensed. His fingers, previously relaxed against the polished armrest, curled inward, barely perceptible. He didn't say anything. Didn't look away.

She exhaled, long and shaky, gripping the edge of the table like she needed something to hold onto—something real in a conversation that already felt like walking through fog. The space between them was too quiet. Not peaceful— stifling . Every breath she took felt like it had to push through the weight of too much history, too many things unsaid.

"Draco," she said, and his name came out quieter than she'd intended, but with a certain heaviness behind it. "These last few days have been... a lot." She paused, searching for something better, but words failed her. "Overwhelming," she finally added, though it didn't feel like enough. "It's been grief. It's been... confusing. And whatever's happening between us, I don't even know what to call it anymore."

She glanced at him—met his eyes—and regretted it instantly. He wasn't wearing his usual mask tonight. There was no shield of polished indifference, no carefully chosen smirk. He looked tired. Not just physically. Bone-deep tired.

"The Veritaserum," she continued, her voice catching a little, "it didn't just force truths out of you. It forced things out of me, too. About how I see you. About how I see... us." She shook her head, her mouth twisting slightly. "I think I've been pretending I'm above all this, but I'm not. I can't be."

He blinked slowly, as though bracing for impact, but still didn't speak.

"That future I glimpsed while you were talking—it terrified me. Because it felt real. Like it was close enough to touch but I had no idea how to actually reach it."

Still nothing from him. Just the rise and fall of his chest, the slight shift of his weight in the chair. Silent. Listening.

"There's darkness in you," she said gently, her voice quieter now, "and I've spent so much time pretending I didn't notice. But I did. And I still stayed. I don't know if that makes me naive, or if it means I actually believe there's something worth holding onto here."

Finally, he moved. Just slightly. His hand hovered over the table, like he meant to reach for her but didn't quite dare.

"No Veritaserum tonight," she said. "Just us. I want your truth, Draco. All of it."

His eyes finally flicked to hers, the steel in them dulled by something quieter. Not fear—more like weariness. His voice, when it came, was low. Unpolished. Almost hesitant.

"When you walked in just now," he said, "I felt like I could breathe again."

Her throat tightened.

"But I need you to know," he continued, "I'm sorry. For everything. For pushing you away, for what I said that night. You didn't deserve it."

She gave a small, bitter laugh. "That's putting it mildly."

He managed a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Yeah. I know."

She leaned back, arms crossed loosely, as if trying to hold herself together. "An apology is a good start. But I need more than regret. I need truth. "

There was a pause. A beat. And then, carefully, he nodded.

"The Veritaserum," he said, "it cracked something open. I said things I never thought I'd say out loud. Things I've buried so deep I forgot they were there." He paused. "But you're right. You deserve to hear them now—when I have a choice."

He looked down at his hands, flexing his fingers like they might keep him steady. "My life isn't what I pretended it was. It's not just wealth and property and some vague charitable board meetings." His voice dropped lower. "It's darker. A lot darker. I'm not clean, Hermione. I never was. Not really."

He glanced up, his expression open in a way that startled her. "The truth is—I'm involved in things I can't walk away from. Things I grew up believing were survival. Cursed objects. Forbidden contracts. Black market deals that don't always end cleanly."

Her heart pounded harder, but she didn't speak.

"I didn't choose it," he said. "Not at first. But I stayed. I got good at it. And now it's... who I am. Or at least, who I've become."

The silence that followed wasn't empty. It was full—of the weight of what he'd said, of what he hadn't. She sat still, absorbing it, not reacting—not yet.

"And you don't hate me for that?" he asked finally, voice tight.

"I don't know," she answered honestly. "But I don't think I came here to hate you."

He swallowed hard. "Then why did you come?"

She hesitated, her gaze falling to her hands. "Because I wanted to understand. Because... for better or worse, you're still the person I think about when the world goes quiet."

He stared at her, unblinking. "And if this gets worse?"

She met his eyes. "Then we face it. Together. Or not at all."

He breathed in through his nose, jaw clenched, eyes burning with something that looked too fragile to name.

This wasn't redemption. This wasn't forgiveness.

But maybe it was the beginning of something real.

I hope you find some peace of mind in this lifetime. I hope you find some paradise .

" I spoke to Blaise the other day," she began, setting her teacup down with a soft clink that echoed ominously in the cavernous dining room.

He tilted his head slightly, his grey eyes narrowing with curiosity. "And what, exactly, did Blaise tell you?"

She didn't hesitate. "He told me Theo created the Fiendfyre."

His expression didn't falter immediately, but a flicker of something—surprise, perhaps regret—crossed his features. "Yes," he admitted after a moment. "Theo knew the plan all along. We were together… executing it."

The air between them thickened, crackling with unspoken tension. Her grip tightened on the edge of the table. "And how," she asked, her voice dangerously low, "did you convince him to do that? What lie did you spin to turn Theo into a weapon?"

His jaw tightened, but he didn't look away. "There were no lies," he said firmly. "He knows the truth—the truth about what Ronald did to you."

The revelation struck like a thunderclap. Her breath caught in her throat, her fury tempered by sudden shock. "You… used my pain to manipulate him?" she asked, her voice trembling with anger, confusion, and something else—something dangerously close to understanding.

His gaze softened, but his tone remained steady. "There was no manipulation," he repeated. "Theo isn't a fool. He didn't need convincing. We don't tolerate abuse. Not from anyone. And you may want to keep those memories locked away, but you need to understand—Ronald abused you. He slapped you, locked you up, humiliated you. What do you call that, if not abuse?"

Her heart clenched, his words scraping against old wounds she'd tried desperately to forget. "What else did he do to you?" He pressed, his voice gentler now, as if coaxing her toward a truth she didn't want to face. "I need to know, my love. Please, tell me."

Her eyes burned, tears blurring his image as he sat across from her. Blinking them back, she let out a harsh, brittle laugh, a sound that rang hollow in the tension-filled room. "Oh, Draco. How very Slytherin of you," she said bitterly. "Fishing for justifications in the past I'd rather bury."

She drew in a shaky breath, her gaze flickering away as memories surfaced, unbidden and unwelcome. "There were… moments," she admitted, her voice barely a whisper. "Cruel words that cut deeper than curses. Public humiliation designed to strip me bare, to make me feel small. He'd twist my beliefs, weaponizing my own insecurities against me."

Shame tightened her throat, but she forced herself to continue. "And yes… sometimes, it wasn't just words. Sometimes, it was worse." Her voice steadied as she spoke, through her eyes remained dark with old pain. "But the worst part wasn't the physical violence. It was how he chipped away at my spirit, little by little, until I started doubting my own worth. Until I became a version of myself I didn't even recognize."

His expression hardened, his eyes flashing with a dangerous light. Slowly, he reached out and cupped her face, his touch gentle but firm, his thumb brushing away a stray tear that had escaped down her cheek.

"Listen to me, Hermione," he said, his voice low and fierce. "Those words, those actions—they were lies. Lies born from his own insecurity. Lies meant to make you small because he was afraid of how powerful you really are."

He swiped another tear away, his thumb lingering on her cheek. "You are a force of nature, my love. Your mind is a labyrinth, your heart a beacon of compassion. You deserve poetry whispered under moonlit skies, not cruel barbs hurled in public squares."

She closed her eyes, leaning into his touch despite the storm raging within her. It wasn't forgiveness, not yet. But it was something. A fragile moment of comfort in the face of truths she wasn't ready to confront.

"I promise you, my love," he murmured, his voice a low, steady vow, "you will never have to feel that way again. You deserve to be loved, cherished, and respected. You are worth more than he ever let you believe."

A bittersweet smile tugged at her lips, her eyes dark with a complexity of emotions she couldn't quite name. "Thank you," she whispered. "But loving you... it complicates everything. You're not the hero I once imagined for myself, yet here I am—still hopelessly drawn to you."

His expression softened, the usual sharp arrogance replaced by something deeper, something raw. "Confessions can wait," he said, his voice husky, thick with unspoken meaning.

Slowly, he reached out, his fingers hovering in the space between them before finally settling against her cheek. His touch was warm, grounding, and yet it sent a shiver racing down her spine—a delicious contradiction of safety and danger, of the light she had always known and the darkness she now found herself craving.

"Right now," she whispered, her voice a seductive murmur as she leaned into his touch, "the only sin I crave is this—this forbidden dance between us."

His gaze flickered to her lips, the air between them crackling with a tension that neither of them dared break.

Her breath hitched as his thumb traced a slow, deliberate path along her jawline. She was standing on the precipice, drawn to the abyss of him, of this thing between them that defied logic and morality.

"You're a forbidden fruit, Draco," she whispered, her voice husky with desire. "Unlike anyone I've ever known."

His lips curled into something wicked, something knowing. "And yet," he murmured, his fingers ghosting along the curve of her neck, "you want to take a bite."

With every stolen glance, every lingering touch, she felt the ground beneath her shifting. The world she had always known—black and white, good and evil—was dissolving into shades of grey, where danger and desire wove themselves together in an intoxicating dance.

And as she met his gaze, her brown eyes alight with defiance, she realized she wouldn't mind the fall. Not if it meant landing in his arms, in this exhilarating, reckless waltz with the devil himself.

Me and the devil, walking side by side.

~~~~~~

Sunlight crept through the gauzy curtains, diffused by the fine layer of dust clinging to the bedroom windowpane, casting golden shards of morning light across the chaos left in their wake. The room still breathed with the echoes of the night before—books sprawled across the floor like discarded thoughts, half-buttoned shirts tossed over the backs of chairs, the scent of candlewax and smoke and skin still lingering in the air like an invocation. It was the aftermath of something not just physical but seismic—part discovery, part descent, part surrender.

Beneath the tangled mess of sheets, her body curled instinctively toward the warmth beside her, the comforting thrum of another heartbeat grounding her against the dizzying clarity of dawn. The ache in her muscles was not unpleasant. It was a reminder. Of want. Of recklessness. Of the way she'd chosen, without hesitation, to crawl into the dark with him and not once ask to be led out.

As her awareness stirred to the surface, memory came with it—fractured flashes that stitched together the tapestry of last night. The way he had looked at her like she was both a weapon and a prayer. The raw, unspoken desperation in his touch. The words that never made it past their lips but had lingered anyway, heavy as silk in the space between each breath. Shame didn't come. Nor did regret. But what did arrive was something stranger, something more dangerous.

Hope.

She turned her head slightly, her breath catching as she studied him. He lay still beside her, chest rising and falling in slow, even rhythm. Sleep had smoothed away the sharp arrogance that usually shaped his face, leaving behind something quieter, something almost boyish. The faintest trace of a smile tugged at his lips, unguarded in a way that made her throat tighten. It was cruel, almost, how peaceful he looked—like the past hadn't scorched its way through him, like he hadn't been forged in blood and privilege and secrets.

She should've felt victorious. She should've felt powerful. Instead, she felt fragile—like one wrong move might crack this moment into dust.

Had she really let herself fall into bed with him? Had she really let him kiss her like he knew her? Like he owned her?

Worse—had she liked it?

The answer burned behind her ribs before she could lie to herself.

He stirred beside her, the subtle shift of his body breaking the silence. His eyes opened slowly, sleep still fogging their silver depths, and when they found her, they didn't narrow or leer or gloat. They simply softened. And that— that —terrified her more than anything.

"Good morning, my love," he murmured, his voice rough with sleep, threaded with a gentleness that didn't match the man he was supposed to be.

She blinked, thrown by how easily the endearment curled into the space between them. "Mon cœur," she whispered before she could stop herself, the words falling from her lips like muscle memory, unbidden but not unwelcome. A thousand questions hovered at the edge of her mind, heavy with consequence, but she swallowed them back. There would be time for interrogations. For now, she needed the illusion.

He reached for her, his fingers brushing a stray curl from her cheek with a reverence that sent heat curling low in her belly. His thumb lingered, trailing lightly along her jaw as he studied her, his gaze unreadable. "I want to ask you something," he said slowly, the teasing lilt in his voice now replaced with something more cautious, more grave. "Would you come with me tonight? To one of our... gatherings."

She stilled.

The word gathering landed like a stone in her chest. A euphemism, no doubt. A soft veil thrown over something harder, sharper, darker. Not a dinner. Not a social call. A meeting . A circle of power. The shadows of empire and silence and blood.

A chill swept through her despite the warmth of the sun. Her instincts screamed no. She was logical, methodical, a woman of law and reason—not a pawn in whatever underworld ritual this was. And yet…

She looked at him again. Really looked. And what she saw there startled her more than anything he'd said.

Nervousness.

Real, genuine hesitation flickered in his expression. Like her answer mattered. Like he didn't just expect her to obey—but needed her to choose it.

Draco Malfoy. Uneasy. Vulnerable.

Her next breath trembled through her lungs. The smart choice would be to get dressed, leave without looking back, lock the door on this part of her story.

But then, she'd never been very good at the smart thing when it came to him.

"All right," she said softly, each word a stone tossed into uncharted waters. "I'll go with you."

Relief flashed across his face—not satisfaction, not smugness, but something achingly real. He nodded once, like it cost him something to let himself be seen like this. Like trusting her in return was its own kind of surrender.

And that was it. The moment the world tilted.

She had stepped across a threshold, and there was no going back. Tonight, she wouldn't just be beside him. She would be in it—inside whatever life he had been shielding her from, a life carved from shadows and sin, stitched together by secrecy and blood.

The cost was coming.

Hermione's voice broke through the low hush of the room like a soft ripple against still water, her words hesitant, but edged with an almost clinical sharpness born of necessity rather than comfort.

"Can I ask questions first?"

Draco didn't flinch, didn't scoff or roll his eyes as he might've once done in a different lifetime. Instead, he inclined his head, the motion subtle, almost reverent, his silver gaze locked on hers with an openness that was rare and disarming in a man who had spent years perfecting the art of emotional evasion.

"Of course."

She swallowed, the weight of her next words thick on her tongue, already tasting the iron tang of the answers she didn't know if she wanted.

"Who will be there?"

His mouth twitched into something that was neither a smile nor a smirk, but a grimace attempting to pass as nonchalance. He leaned back slightly, but the tension never left his body—it coiled in the corners of his posture like a serpent waiting for a reason to strike.

"Karkaroff. And his whore—" he corrected himself with a shallow breath, the sarcasm only a thin veil for the contempt etched into every syllable. "I mean, his wife. She's… well, to call her dangerous would be an insult to understatement. She's lethal in a way that doesn't rely on wands or potions, Hermione. She walks into a room and makes men twice her size forget how to breathe. She's evil, and not in the caricatured sense of the word either. The kind of evil that knows how to make you laugh just before she cuts your throat."

Hermione nodded once, slow and deliberate, processing, sorting, mentally cataloging every piece of information with the precision of someone used to triaging disaster.

"I understand," she said after a long pause, though her voice carried a falter, like she was bracing for the next revelation to crack something open inside her. "What will be your role?"

He didn't answer right away. There was a stillness in him now, but not peace—more like the kind of stillness that settles over a body just before it begins to bleed. He looked away, toward the window where twilight bled into the city skyline, then back at her, expression unreadable.

"They run a drug empire," he said quietly, like he hated the taste of the words. "And we supply them."

She blinked slowly, as if blinking could slow the world down, as if the syllables could be reversed, rewritten, unheard. But no, there they were, laid bare and honest and vile. Her mouth opened, then closed again, something stuck in her throat—grief, maybe. Fury. Love. All tangled. All warring. When she finally spoke, it was only his name, and it trembled like the start of a plea.

"Draco…"

But he cut her off before she could go further, his tone suddenly sharp, not with cruelty but urgency, as if her disappointment were a blade he saw descending and had to block with his bare hands.

"Love," he said, softer now, eyes searching hers. "I never—listen to me—I never touched any of it. Not once. Not even when I was tempted to blur the edges. It's not my style. You know me. I don't need powder or potions to lose control. We—me and Theodore—we just move the product."

She let out a sound that wasn't quite a laugh, more like the choked, bitter noise of someone trying not to break. Her brows furrowed, her hand coming to press against her temple like she could physically push the thought away.

"Oh for fuck's sake," she muttered, voice cracking under the strain. "Not Theo. Please don't tell me Theo's part of this too. He's—he's a good person, Draco. He's… he's gentle in his own way, and brilliant, and loyal and…"

"And a psychopath," Draco interrupted flatly, not unkindly, but with the kind of exhaustion that spoke of long nights and longer regrets. "A ruthless killer. You think I don't know what people say about me, what they whisper behind closed doors? But Theo? Theo and his cousin… They didn't just kill to survive. They killed because they knew how to make it art. Hundreds of people, Hermione. Hundreds. And not all of them guilty. He's my best friend, but I don't wear blinders."

Hermione stared at him, the breath caught like a stone in her chest, and suddenly the room felt too small, too quiet, too thick with secrets. Because the truth was this: she had known. She had seen it in Theo's eyes, in the way he carried silence like a second skin, in the way he looked at the world like it was a story he'd already read and lost interest in halfway through.

But knowing and hearing it aloud were two different things.

And now, with Draco sitting across from her, unapologetic but not proud, unrepentant but not cold, something in her began to unravel—thread by thread, stitch by delicate stitch.

Because loving him, she was realizing, would never be simple.

Hermione's voice, though soft, carried the weight of suspicion, concern, and a quiet dread she hadn't yet dared to fully name. It spilled into the stillness between them like ink into water, clouding the fragile peace of their morning-after calm with truths that refused to stay buried.

"Does Luna know?"

There was a beat of silence—just long enough for her heart to trip over itself—before Draco exhaled, slow and deliberate, as if he had expected the question but still resented having to answer it. His eyes didn't meet hers immediately; instead, they flicked toward the window, toward the pale light filtering through the curtains like judgment made tangible, and then slowly returned to her with something like weary certainty.

"I highly doubt Theodore would be alive if she did."

He said it without flourish, without dramatics—just quiet truth, laid bare and sharp. "Luna Lovegood, for all her soft tones and starlight logic, is not the sort of woman who tolerates deception when it comes to those she loves. And Theo—" his voice gentled, almost fond despite the darkness of the topic—"he's pathetically in love with her. It's almost tragic, honestly. He worships her in that twisted, unspoken way of his. Like she's the one tether holding him to this world. He protects them, Hermione. Her. The child. He would never do anything he believes might hurt them."

Her lips parted, the rebuttal forming before she could stop it, her tone sharpening like a blade. "But that's the problem, isn't it? They kill for a hobby. That is harming his family, Draco. You can't separate the man from his methods. You can't tell me he's keeping them safe when his hands are soaked in the kind of blood that invites retribution."

Draco didn't disagree. Not outright. He merely sighed, his fingers raking through his hair in a rare show of agitation. He didn't argue because he knew she was right, at least in part. And perhaps because the truth was no longer a battleground between them, but something darker, more binding. Something they were both tangled in, neck-deep.

Hermione's next question came before the tension could shift, before the conversation could drift away from the danger that surrounded them all like a tightening noose.

"What about Blaise?"

Draco's gaze flicked back to her, sharper now, but unreadable. Calculating. Cautious. "You already talked with him," he said, voice cool, distant. "What's your view?"

She paused, swallowing hard before answering, and when she did, it was with a reluctance that curled around her spine like guilt. "He keeps Ginny in a gilded cage. It's… beautiful, yes. Opulent. But it's still a cage. And he's doing horrible things, Draco. I can see it in his eyes. He's not hiding it anymore. I think—" she hesitated, as if saying it aloud made it more real, more damning—"I think he's proud of what he's become."

Draco's mouth quirked into something bitter, something that wasn't quite a smirk but bore the bones of one. "Sounds about right," he said quietly, and for a moment, the space between them felt like the edge of a cliff—both of them looking down, wondering if they'd already fallen or if the worst was still to come.

She drew in a slow breath, steadying herself, trying to gather the strength to ask her next question as if it were a spell with too high a cost. "Pansy?"

This time, Draco didn't hesitate. His voice came with a flicker of amusement, a faint twitch of affection that softened the sharp lines of his face. "Parkinson spends her money, annoys Neville, and makes poison for women who want to murder their husbands or seduce their lovers. Often both." He lifted a brow. "Would you expect anything less?"

Despite herself, Hermione huffed a breath that was almost a laugh—shaky and dry and tinged with exhaustion. "Well… I can stomach that."

Draco leaned back slightly, observing her with something closer to fondness now, though it remained buried beneath the wariness that never quite left him these days. "She loves you, you know," he said, his voice dropping to something gentler. "Pansy. As twisted and unhinged as she is, she said you were a good girl when I told her what happened with Lucius. She said that you didn't do it out of malice, but out of necessity. And that you had more guts than half the bastards she's known."

Hermione blinked, caught off-guard by the unexpected comfort in those words. Her chest ached—not from sorrow, not from guilt—but from the sheer weight of being seen. Not judged. Not coddled. Just seen.

"What about Neville?"

Her voice was cautious, tight with something between dread and reluctant curiosity, as if she already suspected the answer but needed to hear it aloud—needed it confirmed in the kind of voice that never shied away from the truth, no matter how ugly it might be.

He shrugged, the motion lazy, indifferent—too indifferent. "What about him? He's working. He's shagging Pansy like it's a second career. He smokes a bit of weed to take the edge off when her madness gets too sharp. Fairly normal bloke things, if you ask me."

She groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose as if trying to erase the mental image. "Gods, Draco—no. No. I wasn't asking for a rundown of their private life. I really didn't need that in my head."

A wicked smile flickered across his lips. "Well, you asked."

"Not like that," she snapped, though her voice was more exasperated than angry. "I meant—does he know? About what she's doing. About the poisons. About the women."

That wiped the smirk right off his face.

He leaned back slightly, arms folding as his expression turned thoughtful, edged with something far more serious. "Maybe. Maybe not. Neville's smarter than he lets on—he always has been. And he knows Pansy… really knows her. Enough to see through the theatrics when he wants to."

He paused, studying her carefully.

"But he enables her," Draco said at last, the words quiet but certain. "Lets her be who she is without questioning it too much. Maybe because he loves her, maybe because he's afraid of what she might become if he tries to stop her. Or maybe he just doesn't want to admit how much he likes the chaos she brings into his otherwise painfully noble life."

"He's not stupid, love. He's just… choosing not to see too clearly. And honestly? That might be the only way anyone survives loving someone like Pansy."

She was silent for a beat, the weight of those words settling on her chest like a slow-building storm. Her gaze dropped, lashes casting faint shadows beneath her eyes, lips parting as if to speak—then closing again. She looked down at her hands, fingers laced tightly together like she was trying to hold something inside herself, something fragile and furious all at once.

His voice had softened after that last confession—something rare in Draco Malfoy, whose sharp tongue and sharper pride had so often been his weapons of choice. But now, sitting across from him in the quiet stillness of a home that had once belonged to a war criminal, surrounded by power and opulence and secrets she wasn't sure she wanted to unravel, the question slipped from her lips before she could stop it. Low. Unsteady. Honest.

"And what about you?" she whispered, each word shaped by breath and exhaustion and something perilously close to love. "How should I survive loving you?"

The silence that followed wasn't empty—it was alive. Heavy with the thrum of heartbeats and the echo of a truth neither of them could outrun. Draco didn't answer right away. He didn't smirk or dodge or offer her some neat, polished deflection. He looked at her.

Really looked.

Like he hadn't let himself until now.

There was something raw behind his eyes then, something unguarded and broken and deeply, viciously human. And when he finally did speak, his voice was low and quiet and unflinchingly direct.

"You don't survive loving me, Hermione." The way he said her name—it wasn't casual. It was reverent. Damning. Like the sound of it had cost him something. "You adapt to it. You suffer it. You bend to it, or it swallows you whole."

She didn't look away. Didn't flinch. But her fingers twitched slightly in her lap, and he saw it—saw the ripple of fear or realization, or maybe both.

He leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees, silver eyes catching the low light like blades drawn beneath moonlight. "There is no version of this where you get to stay untouched, Hermione. No future where you keep your hands clean and your soul soft. You think loving me is something you can control? You think it's a choice?"

He let out a short, bitter laugh, rubbing a hand down his face like he was trying to scrub the truth from his skin. "I was forged in fire, and blood, and the kind of shame most people never recover from. My love doesn't come in pieces. It's absolute. It's brutal. It makes no apologies."

Then, quieter, as if it physically hurt him to say the words: "And if you think for one second that I won't burn down every fucking thing that threatens you—" His voice cracked, just barely. "You haven't been paying attention."

The chair creaked beneath him as he stood, the motion slow, measured, like the weight of his own body had become unbearable. He stepped around the table and stopped in front of her—not looming, not imposing, just… present. Real. Too real.

"You survive me," he said, more gently now, the edge bleeding into something mournful, "by accepting that I will never love the way you deserve. I will love you obsessively, possessively, darkly. With violence and devotion. With all the parts of me that are ruined. I will protect you with the same hands that have taken lives. And I will never lie to you about what that means."

He crouched before her, not touching her, but close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from him, the intensity of him, the sheer gravity of his presence as it tugged at the edges of her resolve.

"You want a future with me?" he asked, and there was no smirk now. No mask. Just Draco Malfoy, stripped bare. Terrifying. Beautiful. "Then you learn to love the monster as much as you love the man. And you stop hoping that I'll be anything less than what I am."

He reached up, slow, deliberate, and tucked a curl behind her ear. His fingers grazed her cheek, soft as breath. A ghost of tenderness that broke her open.

"Because I've tried, Hermione. I've tried to be good. I've tried to be gentle. And it never works. The world doesn't let men like me stay soft for long." His hand fell away, but his eyes stayed on hers.

"So, you survive me… by deciding if I'm worth the fall. Because once you jump—" his voice dropped, a vow wrapped in menace and devotion—"I don't let you go."

And in the silence that followed, she realized it wasn't a threat. Not exactly.

It was a promise.