White bear

TW: Torture

Months slipped by, each one dragging in excruciating slowness, yet offering no real progress. The clock seemed to mock Draco with its relentless ticking, its steady rhythm a cruel reminder of time wasted, of days lost to dead ends and false hope. No breakthroughs. No sudden revelations. Just an endless cycle of chasing whispers and grasping at nothing.

The frustration gnawed at him like a relentless parasite, burrowing deeper into his chest, tightening its grip around his ribs with every passing day. The unresolved questions loomed over him like a storm cloud, dark and heavy, threatening to break at any moment. And yet, the storm never came—only the maddening waiting, the slow erosion of patience as he waded through uncertainty.

His mood had turned volatile, his temper razor-thin. His sharp wit, once a weapon wielded with precise charm, had become something harsher, cutting into the people around him before he even realized he was speaking. He hated how easily irritation boiled over, how the smallest setbacks sent him spiraling into frustration or self-recrimination. It wasn't like him to feel this unmoored, to be so weighed down by powerlessness.

The Draco Malfoy of old would have sneered at this weakness, scoffed at the idea of feeling helpless—but that he had never carried this burden of redemption, this fragile, wavering balance between ambition, responsibility, and happiness. He had never had so much to lose.

In his desperation for answers—or, at the very least, a distraction from the futility of it all—he turned to an unlikely source: Muggle technology.

At first, it had been nothing more than an idle curiosity, an intellectual puzzle to occupy his mind. But curiosity soon turned into fascination, then fixation. The way Muggles compensated for their lack of magic with ingenuity and innovation astounded him. The complexity of it—the intricacies of their machines, the seamless connections they had built without even a trace of wandwork—was genius. It was a different kind of magic, one constructed from science and invention rather than spells and incantations.

His study had slowly transformed into something unrecognizable, a chaotic landscape of wires, circuit boards, and blinking lights. Manuals lay scattered across his desk, their pages smudged with ink where he had furiously scrawled notes in the margins. His hands, once accustomed to wand movements and potion vials, had become adept at prying open gadgets, dissecting their insides, learning their secrets.

At first, Hermione had laughed.

"Draco Malfoy, Muggle technology enthusiast?" she had teased, arms crossed as she watched him fiddle with the smartphone he had acquired. "What's next? A toaster collection?"

But as the weeks wore on, her amusement gave way to concern.

It wasn't just a distraction anymore. It was obsession.

Late into the night, she would find him hunched over his desk, his face illuminated by the soft glow of screens, the faint hum of machinery filling the otherwise silent room. His eyes, once sharp with determination, had grown shadowed with exhaustion. His fingers moved with a restless urgency, as though he could physically force the answers to materialize if he only worked hard enough.

And she knew that feeling. She knew what it was to chase an answer so desperately that you lost yourself in the pursuit of it.

One evening, she stood in the doorway of his study, watching him in the dim light. He hadn't noticed her yet—too absorbed in whatever piece of technology he was dismantling, his brow furrowed in deep concentration.

"What are you hoping to find?" she asked finally, her voice gentle but firm.

He barely looked up, his fingers still working at the small device in his hands. "Something," he muttered. "Anything." His voice was edged with frustration, with something raw beneath the surface. "They've managed to connect the entire world without magic, Ma puce. Who's to say I can't find a way to connect the dots we've missed?"

She frowned, stepping further into the room. "Draco, Muggle technology is remarkable, but it's not a shortcut to answers. It's not going to magically solve this for you."

This time, he did look up, and the exhaustion in his gaze made her stomach twist.

"And what if it does?" he countered, his voice lower now, but no less intense. "What if the key isn't in magic at all? What if we've been blind this entire time—so reliant on spells and potions that we've overlooked something right in front of us? What if this—" He gestured to the dismantled device, to the clutter of technology spread out before him, "—is the missing piece?"

There was desperation in his words, and that's what frightened her most.

She crouched beside him, resting a hand on his arm, grounding him. "I know you hate feeling stuck," she said softly. "I hate it too. But driving yourself mad over this isn't going to help anyone."

His shoulders sagged slightly, his defenses crumbling under the warmth of her touch. He closed his eyes for a brief moment, exhaling shakily. "I just…" He hesitated, his voice thick. "I can't sit here and do nothing. I need to do something. I can't stand the waiting, the not knowing."

She nodded, understanding all too well the restless agony of feeling powerless. "Then let's find another way forward," she murmured. "Together. But don't lose yourself in this. We've fought too hard to get here."

Her words settled into him, sinking beneath the layers of exhaustion and obsession.

For a long time after she left the room, he simply sat there, staring at the chaos in front of him—the half-finished projects, the blinking lights, the endless notes that had led him nowhere.

The idea that this—these circuits, these wires—held the answers he so desperately sought had been a comforting illusion, something to cling to in the absence of real progress. But deep down, he knew she was right. He couldn't afford to disappear into this, to let it consume him.

He glanced at the device in his hands, then set it down with a quiet sigh.

The answers weren't hidden in tangled wires or glowing screens. They were in the people standing beside him. The ones who had fought with him, who had bled with him, who had believed in him even when he couldn't believe in himself.

Even if the path forward was uncertain, even if the waiting was unbearable, he couldn't afford to lose himself in the process.

Not when there was so much left to fight for.

~~~~~~

Theo had a knack for showing up unannounced, an ever-present fixture in their lives, and today was no exception. Without so much as a knock, he strode into their living room, looking as if he'd just waltzed off a train of thought so bizarre it could only come from his mind.

Hermione, who had been curled up on the couch with a book, glanced up at the sudden intrusion and barely had time to raise an eyebrow before Theo spoke, his voice booming with that confident tone of his that made everything sound like an urgent matter.

"Granger," he said, his eyes bright with that infamous gleam he always got when he was about to ask a question no one in their right mind could possibly anticipate. "I have an important question."

She looked up from her book, prepared for one of those philosophical, borderline absurd questions that Theo tended to throw at her out of nowhere. With a long-suffering sigh, she responded, "What is it? Let me guess—something about Jesus again?"

He chuckled, shaking his head, and took a seat without being invited, as usual. "No, no. But it's just as important, if not more." His eyes gleamed with the seriousness of someone who had just stumbled upon a great truth that the rest of the world clearly hadn't discovered yet.

"Alright," she said, bracing herself. "What's so important?"

Theo leaned forward, his face an open book of intrigue as if the entire universe depended on the answer to this question. "Why are pyramids shaped like that? Is it to stop homeless people from sleeping on them?"

Her mouth was half-open as she tried to comprehend what she had just heard. "What the fuck is happening?"

He crossed his arms and leaned back into the couch with a smug look, as though he had just cracked the code of the universe. "What do you mean? It's obvious. Look at the way they're built—wide at the base and sharp at the top. If you're a homeless person, you're not exactly going to set up camp on the side of a pyramid, right?"

She stared at him in stunned silence, blinking repeatedly, as if the words were too outlandish to grasp in any coherent way. "Theodore. Pyramids were built as tombs, not public utilities for stopping people from sleeping. How—why—would you even think that?"

"Well," Theo said, looking pleased with himself for having raised such an important point, "the shape just seems… a bit too strategic, don't you think? You've got a massive, flat surface at the bottom, and then it narrows to an impossible point at the top. It's like they were designed to be inaccessible. I'm just saying—it's a bit suspicious, isn't it?"

She rubbed her temples, a small headache beginning to form. "Theo, please. The pyramids were built by ancient Egyptians to honor their pharaohs. They were designed with religious and cultural significance, not as some sort of giant human repellent. You're overthinking this."

He shook his head stubbornly, his lips curling into a knowing smile as though Hermione was missing some great truth that was obvious to him. "Sure, sure. I mean, I get that it's all about religion and all, but the shape does seem a little too convenient. Think about it: these things are everywhere, especially in places where people might want to nap during the day, or—"

"Stop," she interrupted, her voice steady despite the confusion flooding her thoughts. "Theo, you're not suggesting that the ancient Egyptians were planning for modern-day problems like homelessness, are you?"

"Well," he said, scratching his chin thoughtfully, "I'm not not suggesting it. What I'm saying is that the shape might not be as accidental as we think. Maybe they were ahead of their time, like ancient architects with a bit of foresight."

She ran a hand through her hair, trying to remain patient, but she could feel herself starting to lose the plot entirely. "Theo, please, just... just stop talking for a second. You're giving me a headache," she said, covering her face with her hands for a moment. "I can't even begin to understand how you connect these ideas. How do you go from Jesus to pyramids and homelessness in one conversation?"

Theo pondered for a moment and then asked, "I have a better question. Why did they call World War I 'World War I'? It seems quite pessimistic to number it that way. Or they just know it was the start of a franchise? 

Hermione sighed and replied, "Jesus Christ… At the time they weren't numbering the wars, although I think that in the I. World war the ideal of being a "Great" war denoting the sheer scale of the conflict. The term 'World War I' came about later, denoting the sheer scale of conflict, and the casualty rate was becoming used quite a lot." 

Theo smiled a little too smugly for Hermione's liking, clearly undeterred by her lack of enthusiasm. "I mean, come on, Granger. You've got to admit it's a little funny. 'World War I'—like, they were just waiting for another one to show up, right? You've got to give it some credit for foresight. So it was called 'The Great War,' but not because it was great?"

Hermione shook her head, mentally preparing herself for the flood of nonsense that was sure to follow. "Theo, please," she said, her voice a mix of exhaustion and exasperation. "Just—stop. Leave. Go."

Theo, as expected, didn't heed her request. Instead, he continued with his trademark dramatic flair, leaning forward with the kind of urgency that could only be sustained by a person who believed they were on the cusp of a major revelation.

"Well, I do have some important news," Theo announced, his voice taking on an air of mystery. "Ginny had a son."

She blinked, utterly thrown off by this unexpected shift in conversation. She looked at Theo, then at Draco, who had been quietly listening in the corner of the room. They both sat there for a long moment, processing the weight of his words.

"What?" the Malfoy's both exclaimed in unison, their voices simultaneously tinged with confusion and shock.

"Ginny had a baby," he repeated, his lips curling into a grin that seemed to say, I know this is news to you, but I'm not going to make it easy for you to digest.

Draco, who was clearly fed up with the erratic direction the conversation had taken, glared at Theo. "You need to get your priorities straight, mate. You come barging in here asking about pyramids and then drop this bombshell on us like it's just another Tuesday."

Theo, unfazed by the chastisement, raised a hand defensively. "What? It's big news. And you lot are too caught up in your historical debates to notice. Priorities, Draco. You should try it sometime. I'm just making sure you're all in the loop."

Her expression softened as the gravity of Theo's words finally hit her. "Wait, when? When did this happen?" she asked, her voice laced with concern, suddenly all business.

"A few hours ago," he replied, his voice casual, but Hermione could hear the undercurrent of worry. "Blaise is with Ginny and the baby at the hospital right now. I thought you two would want to know."

Without even another word exchanged, Hermione and Draco exchanged a look that said everything. In an instant, they were both up on their feet, barely acknowledging Theo as they rushed to grab their things, a shared urgency propelling them forward.

"Come on, mon cœur," she said, already making her way to the door. "We need to go. Now."

Theo, having successfully derailed any semblance of normal conversation, watched them leave with a self-satisfied smirk. "See? Important news. Told you it was worth sticking around for."

Hermione didn't respond, too focused on getting to St. Mungo's Hospital to even entertain Theo's ego. The only thing on her mind now was Ginny, the baby, and how quickly they could get there.

~~~~~~

They approached the reception desk at St. Mungo's, their footsteps heavy, each aware of the silent weight that lingered between them. The nurse behind the desk barely looked up as she shuffled through her paperwork, but when her eyes met Draco's, he spoke first, his calm tone belying the undercurrent of tension.

"Excuse me," he said, his voice even, but there was a sharp edge of something that Hermione couldn't quite place. "We're here to see Ginny Weasley-Zabini. She just had a baby."

The nurse's smile was warm, perhaps a little too warm, like someone who didn't quite notice the storm hovering just under the surface. She nodded briskly, gesturing down a long hallway. "Congratulations to the family," she said, her voice cheery, too cheery. "She's in Room 312. Just follow the signs."

Her heart began to race. She could feel the weight of the moment press in on her—the years of friendship, the falling out, the harsh words, the silence. This wasn't just about meeting Ginny's baby. It was about something far heavier, far more complex.

As they walked down the quiet, sterile corridor, the sound of their footsteps felt almost deafening, echoing in the empty hall like the countdown to something inevitable. Draco's presence beside her was steady, but even he seemed to sense the tension that was building between them. He didn't speak, but his eyes flickered to her every now and then, the unspoken question hanging in the air—would Hermione forgive Ginny?

She kept her gaze forward, but her mind was a battlefield. She couldn't stop replaying the argument they'd had, the things they'd both said, the way their friendship had shattered so suddenly, so violently. She wasn't sure what to expect when they walked through that door. Would Ginny greet her with warmth? Or with cold, wounded silence?

As they reached Room 312, Draco slowed his steps. He hesitated for a moment before turning to her, his voice quieter than usual. "You ready?"

The question wasn't just about meeting the baby—it was about everything that had come before. Everything that had built to this moment. Hermione felt the weight of it all pressing down on her chest. She swallowed hard, nodding, though her throat felt dry.

"This is it," she whispered, her hand trembling slightly as she reached for the doorframe. She pressed it lightly, as if trying to steady herself, to hold her composure together for what was coming next.

Draco didn't answer right away, his eyes scanning her face, noting the faint tremor in her fingers, the faint sheen of sweat at her brow. But then, as though sensing her need for space, he nodded and stepped aside. "Let's go meet the newest member of the Weasley family," he said, but his voice was more than just comforting—it was brimming with an understanding that had been earned over the years, an understanding of just how much this moment meant to her.

"Hermione... You're here," Ginny's voice was warm, but there was something guarded in it. Her smile remained, but it didn't quite reach her eyes. Hermione's stomach twisted.

Hermione's chest constricted as she moved forward, her hands trembling as she reached out to take Ginny's hand. "Of course I'm here, my love," she said, her voice barely above a whisper, but full of meaning.

Blaise, sitting on the sofa, appeared utterly overwhelmed. His face was streaked with tears, his usually composed demeanor shattered. He had been fighting back emotions since the moment his son was born, and it was clear he was struggling to regain his usual control. His hands trembled as he wiped his face, attempting to steady himself after having fainted earlier. When he looked up at Hermione and Draco, his smile was shaky, the joy and the exhaustion mixing in his expression.

"I'm just so… moved," he said softly, his voice cracking slightly as he spoke. His words trembled with the weight of everything he was feeling. It was a raw vulnerability that most never saw from Blaise Zabini.

Draco gave Blaise a sympathetic look. His gaze softened, his usual steely reserve melting into something more understanding. "Are you alright, mate?" he asked, his voice quiet, the concern genuine.

Blaise managed a shallow breath, trying to pull himself together, though his voice still wavered. "Just a bit faint from all the excitement," he admitted, a rueful smile tugging at his lips as he fought to regain composure. "It's been an overwhelming day."

Hermione stepped closer, her eyes flicking between Blaise and the room around them. She could feel the intensity of the moment—the raw emotion in the air—but she didn't know what to say. There were no perfect words in a situation like this. They were all just learning to navigate this new chapter, one step at a time.

Clearly lying. The big scary boy couldn't handle the whole ordeal.

Draco looked back toward Ginny, his voice soft but with that familiar charm. "Can I come in?" he asked gently, giving her a warm, inviting smile.

Ginny, still propped up in bed with a tired but satisfied expression, nodded, her face lighting up with affection. "Of course," she said, her smile widening as she gestured toward them. There was a moment of warmth in her eyes as she met Hermione's gaze, but it was brief—fleeting, like the first signs of thawing ice.

They stepped into the room further, their excitement palpable despite the tense undercurrents still lingering in the air. The room was a strange mix of serenity and quiet tension, with the soft hum of hospital machinery in the background and the gentle murmur of congratulations filling the space.

Her gaze immediately shifted to the crib beside Ginny's bed. Her heart swelled as she saw the tiny, swaddled bundle inside, so delicate and perfect in his sleep. It was almost surreal. A new life, so small, so vulnerable, and yet so full of promise. This was Ginny's son, her first child, and it filled Hermione's chest with an unspoken joy.

Draco, too, couldn't seem to tear his gaze away. He approached the crib, bending down slightly to get a better look at the little one. His voice softened, a rare tenderness in his words. "He's perfect, Ginny," he said, his gaze lingering on the tiny bundle, now fast asleep. "Valerius Zabini. What a noble, historical name. It suits him."

Ginny, still watching her son with a pride that made her eyes glisten with emotion, nodded. "Valerius," she said, her voice quiet but filled with a deep sense of love. "It means 'strong,' 'healthy,' a name with roots in history. It felt right for him."

Blaise's eyes shone with a quiet pride, his face lighting up as he watched them interact with his son. There was something in the way Ginny spoke that made his heart ache with both joy and protectiveness. This child was his legacy, the beginning of something new, and the weight of it was not lost on him. It was a name that carried power and history—a name that would one day be remembered.

Hermione, who had been standing quietly, absorbed the scene. She looked at Ginny and Blaise, both glowing in their new roles as parents. The room felt peaceful in its own way, but there was still a distance between them all—a space filled with unspoken words and unresolved tension. But for now, it was enough to be here, in this moment.

As Draco looked back at them, a soft smile played on his lips. "I think Valerius is going to do great things. You've done well, both of you."

Ginny's tired smile was filled with pride. "I hope so. I hope he's everything we dreamed of."

Hermione stepped forward, her heart full of unspoken emotions. She reached out and touched Ginny's arm lightly, offering a small but heartfelt smile. "Congratulations, Ginny," she said, her voice warm with affection, despite the complexity of everything between them. "He's a blessing."

Ginny's smile flickered, her eyes momentarily darkening with something unreadable, but she nodded, giving a soft, strained smile in return. "Thank you, love."

Blaise's hand instinctively reached out to hers, his touch tender as he looked at their son once more. The day had been nothing like he'd expected—filled with surprises, fears, and joy in equal measure. But looking at his son, his family, there was nothing else he needed. In this moment, everything was right.

"Yeah, he's perfect," he murmured, his voice still thick with emotion, his eyes never leaving the crib. "Perfect."

And as they all stood in the room, looking at Valerius, the world outside seemed distant and irrelevant. In here, in this small room, everything was changing—and Blaise could already tell that the journey ahead would be unlike anything he'd ever faced before. But for once, he was ready. Ready for whatever came next, because now he had something worth fighting for.

~~~~~~

Life moved forward, but tension clung to the house like a thick fog. Draco Malfoy, always composed, was unraveling. He tried to mask it behind cool indifference, but the cracks were obvious. Every small disruption—a misplaced quill, a flicker outside the window—set him on edge. The wind rattling the panes at night left him wide-eyed, breath shallow, expecting a threat that never came.

Sleep was a rare luxury. He lay awake, his mind a storm of fears and unspoken dread, every creak of the manor tightening the coil inside him. And Hermione noticed it all.

She saw the way his hands clenched at the smallest disruptions, how paranoia curled into every corner of their home like a living thing. For all her reasons to resent him, she couldn't ignore the darkness pulling him under.

She became his anchor, grounding him with soft touches, whispered reassurances. When his jaw tightened, she reached for him. When his breath quickened, she murmured soothing words. Her gentleness was deliberate, not fragile but unwavering in its strength.

One night, lying beside him in the suffocating silence, she whispered, "Whatever haunts you, you don't have to face it alone."

His fingers curled around hers, desperate yet hesitant. "Some things… can't be shared."

She squeezed his hand, her voice steady. "Then don't share it. Just don't shut me out."

He wanted to believe her, but the dread was too deep, too relentless. It wasn't just fear—it was certainty. Something was coming. And time was slipping away.

Over the following days, she watched him closely, as if searching for the exact moment he'd fall apart, and in those unspoken glances, he could sense her worry morphing into something deeper—fear. She hid it well, burying it beneath smiles and gestures meant to comfort him, but he saw the lines of tension in her face, the slight tremor in her voice when she thought he wasn't listening. She knew he was fighting something insurmountable, something he couldn't control. And she hated it, hated feeling so helpless in the face of his unraveling.

He prepared to meet thy God .

He didn't fully understand what he was preparing for, but an unshakable sense of dread had taken root, growing stronger with each passing day. It felt as if his entire being were on high alert, as though some unseen storm was gathering, ready to break at any moment. Every fiber of him was tuned to its approach, and it left him both exhausted and restless.

In response, he had doubled down on his routines, adopting a near-military precision in his daily life. He spent hours practicing spells he hadn't touched since his Hogwarts days, honing both his magical and physical reflexes as if each wand movement or shield charm might one day make the difference between life and death. Even the simplest of spells—ones that had become second nature—he repeated until they felt as natural as breathing.

The smallest details around him began to morph into signs and portents. The familiar creak in the floorboards seemed heavier, more sinister, as if some unseen force were shifting beneath his feet. A breeze would rattle the windows, and he'd feel his pulse spike, listening intently as though it carried whispers he was supposed to decipher. Even the flickering shadows cast by the streetlamps outside felt sharper, darker, moving in ways that suggested something ominous hiding just beyond his line of sight.

And then there were the dreams. Each night, vivid, fractured visions invaded his sleep—images of dark corridors, the weight of unseen eyes upon him, the shadow of a looming figure he couldn't quite place. He'd wake up drenched in sweat, Hermione's name lingering on his lips, and would lie there, staring at the ceiling, convinced that the dreams weren't just dreams, but warnings.

Days began to bleed together in a monotonous cycle of preparation, and yet, it felt like he was running out of time. Every instinct in him screamed that whatever was coming was close, inching nearer with every tick of the clock. He found himself watching Hermione more closely, too, his eyes tracing the curve of her shoulders, the way she absently tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. He'd catch himself wondering if she sensed it too—this gathering tension, this thickening air that promised some inevitable shift. But she remained serene, the calm to his storm, and he envied her ability to carry on as though the world hadn't tilted under their feet.

And yet, the closer the unknown threat felt, the more determined Draco became. He couldn't name what he was fighting against or what lay in wait on the other side, but he'd made a vow long ago to protect what he loved. He would face whatever it was, head-on.

~~~~~~

The sun blazed high above, an unyielding fire that seared the endless expanse of sand stretching out in all directions. Draco, Blaise, Theo, and Titus stood as silent sentinels against the vast emptiness, their shadows long and sharp in the blinding light. The air shimmered, heavy with heat and foreboding, and each man was swathed in protective armor, their wands clenched tightly. A fine layer of dust coated them, mingling with sweat and grit, but none of them paid it any mind. They had long ago learned to ignore discomfort in the face of duty.

This mission was unlike any they had encountered before. They'd been pulled from their usual assignments, dropped into the arid heat of the Middle East without their usual intel or support. Their instructions were stark and absolute: leave no witnesses. The weight of this directive pressed on each of them, a silent reminder of the moral murkiness they were venturing into. It wasn't a mission they could walk away from without leaving parts of themselves behind.

"The Raven Order," as they were notoriously known among their enemies, had carved a reputation on the darkest edges of society. They were mercenaries with a finely honed skill for carnage, precision, and unwavering loyalty to their cause. Yet, despite their notoriety and experience in high-stakes missions, something about this assignment felt different.

The mission briefing had been surprisingly sparse, leaving them with little more than vague coordinates and the chillingly simple directive: "eliminate the target, no questions asked." Typically, their assignments included dossiers filled with everything from the target's background to security measures, which allowed them to anticipate every move. This time, the silence around the mission details gnawed at them, stirring an uneasy curiosity. But curiosity, they had been trained to remember, was a weakness.

They exchanged tense glances, each member harboring unspoken questions. For a group accustomed to executing plans with ruthless precision, this assignment's shadowy vagueness pressed on their instincts like a warning. But in their line of work, loyalty came before comfort, and they each knew that when their boss issued orders, it wasn't their job to ask why. Their boss, after all, was a figure cloaked in infamy—someone who had taken them all in, molded them into who they were now, someone who demanded, above all, loyalty beyond reason. And loyalty, they each knew, had a price.

Draco looked to his friends, each one a seasoned warrior in their own right. Blaise's calm exterior masked a mind that was always calculating, always planning the next move. Theo's eyes, usually filled with mischief, were now cold and focused, his wand gripped tightly in his hand. Titus, the newest but most intimidating member of their group, stood tall, his presence casting a long shadow over the others. His face was a mask of stoic indifference, unreadable to even his closest comrades. Despite—or perhaps because of—his terrifying reputation, there was something oddly reassuring about having him on their side. His mere presence was enough to silence any lingering doubts, a constant reminder that they had a weapon of pure, unyielding force among them..

"We've faced worse," Draco muttered, more to himself than to the others, though they all heard him.

"Still doesn't mean I like this," Theo replied, his voice low. "We don't even know what we're dealing with."

"Doesn't matter," Blaise said, his tone as steady as ever. "We follow orders, get in, and get out. Simple as that."

Draco nodded, though his mind was racing with possibilities. They all knew the drill—stick to the plan, trust each other, and leave no loose ends. But something about this mission felt off, a nagging sense of dread that they couldn't quite shake.

"Let's move," Draco said finally, taking the first step forward.

As they began their trek across the desert, the weight of their task pressed down on them, a heavy burden that they carried without complaint. They were soldiers, after all—soldiers who had seen the darkest corners of the world and had become shadows themselves.

As they passed through the remnants of a village that had clearly been bombed, Draco felt a cold dread settle in his stomach. The destruction was unlike anything he had ever seen, even in the darkest days of the Wizarding War. The sight of the crumbled buildings and the eerie silence of what was once a lively community was a harsh reminder of the cruelty Muggles could inflict upon each other. 

He exchanged a glance with Blaise, both of them shaken but determined to press on. They moved cautiously, their senses heightened as they sought out a safe place to regroup. Eventually, they found shelter in a well-covered house, its walls still standing despite the devastation outside. Inside, the air was thick with dust and the remnants of a life that had been violently interrupted.

Titus stood at the doorway, his expression hard, as he scanned the horizon for any sign of movement. "We set up here," he said in a low, commanding tone. His voice, as cold and unwavering as the steel in his hand, left no room for argument.

Draco nodded, still trying to process the reality of what they were walking into. This mission was unlike anything they had done before, and the horrors they were witnessing only added to the weight of what was to come.

Gathered around the dusty table in the dimly lit room, Draco, Blaise, Theo, and Titus studied the map of the surrounding area. The map was old, worn at the edges, and had clearly seen its share of conflict, just like the land it depicted. The red ink marking potential threats and targets stood out starkly against the yellowed parchment.

Theo, always one to have a trick up his sleeve, released a tracker fairy that Luna had given him for situations exactly like this. The tiny, shimmering creature flitted around the room for a moment, getting its bearings before darting out through a crack in the wall.

They waited in tense silence, each of them mentally preparing for what might come next. The fairy returned after what felt like an eternity but was likely only minutes. It hovered in front of Theo, its wings fluttering rapidly as it relayed its findings.

"No human or magical presence in the area," Theo announced, his voice barely above a whisper.

Draco and Blaise exchanged a glance, the tension in the room easing slightly but not disappearing entirely. "Good," Blaise said, his voice steady but his eyes hard. "It means we have the advantage for now."

Draco felt a chill run down his spine at Titus's words. The mission was about to begin, and despite the emptiness of the surrounding area, he knew they were far from safe.

After hours of intense strategizing, the group decided it was time to rest. The flickering candlelight cast long shadows on the walls as they rolled up the map and tucked away their gear. The exhaustion was beginning to set in, but none of them would admit it. They each had their own way of coping with the looming threat of the mission ahead.

He found a spot near the back of the room, where the walls felt sturdy, and the air was slightly cooler. He lay down on the hard floor, using his pack as a pillow, his mind still racing with thoughts of the mission and the dangers they would face.

Blaise settled in a corner, his back against the wall, his wand close at hand. He closed his eyes but remained alert, his instincts honed from years of dealing with the unpredictable.

Theo, always the last to settle, made sure the tracker fairy was safely tucked away before finding a spot near the door. He muttered a quick spell, ensuring they'd be alerted if anything—or anyone—tried to approach during the night.

Titus was the last to lie down. He stretched out on the floor, his massive frame taking up more space than the others. His eyes remained open for a while, scanning the room, making sure everyone was settled before finally closing them. Even in sleep, his presence was intimidating, a reminder of the strength he brought to the group.

As the night wore on, the room fell into a heavy silence, broken only by the occasional rustle of clothing or a deep breath. Despite the uncertainty of the mission ahead, sleep eventually claimed them, one by one. They would need every ounce of rest they could get for what awaited them at dawn.

~~~~~~

And there, in the dead of night, they made a rookie mistake—one that could cost them everything. Exhaustion had taken its toll, and in their need for rest, no one had thought to stand guard. 

At precisely 4:16 a.m., Draco was jolted awake by the sudden, cold pressure of a hand clamped over his mouth. His eyes shot open, but before he could react, before he could even register what was happening, a wave of darkness crashed over him. It wasn't just the absence of light—it was an all-consuming void, pulling him down into nothingness.

The last thing Draco felt was his heart pounding wildly in his chest, a surge of panic rushing through his veins. Then, there was nothing. Just silence and darkness.

~~~~~~

His eyes snapped open as a searing sting erupted across his cheek—a slap, brutal and calculated. His vision swam, struggling to focus in the oppressive gloom. The air was heavy, suffocating, and the dim light barely outlined the edges of the room. His head pounded like a war drum, and it didn't take long for him to realize the cold bite of ropes cutting into his wrists and ankles, pinning him to the chair like a caged animal. Panic clawed at his chest, but he wrestled it down, forcing his breath into something resembling control.

As his vision cleared, they came into focus—five figures looming like phantoms in the shadows. Their faces were shrouded in darkness, but their silence was deafening, a sinister weight that pressed against him. The air seemed to crackle with unspoken threats, each second stretching unbearably as his mind scrambled to piece together how he had landed in this nightmare.

He strained against the restraints, testing their strength, but the unforgiving ropes refused to give. The chair beneath him was rough and splintered, each jagged edge a cruel reminder of his vulnerability. Every nerve screamed for escape, but the oppressive silence told him there was no easy way out. The realization crept in like a slow poison: he was entirely at their mercy.

"Welcome to your personal hell, Malfoy," a voice hissed from the shadows, dripping with venom.

His heart lurched as a figure stepped into the faint light. Recognition dawned like a blade twisting in his chest, and a chill deeper than fear gripped him.

McLaggen.

The glint of a knife caught the light, a cruel whisper of the pain it promised, and Draco's breath hitched as his gaze locked onto the blade.

McLaggen's eyes were as cold and unrelenting as steel, his voice thick with malice. "I've been waiting a very long time for this," he said, his words slicing through the silence. He took a deliberate step closer, the blade in his hand glimmering with intent.

The oppressive tension in the room seemed to tighten its grip, and as McLaggen loomed over him, Draco felt the crushing weight of inevitability. This wasn't a moment of chance. This was a reckoning.

Draco's mind spun wildly, grasping for a way out, but every potential escape dissolved under the suffocating weight of his predicament. The gleam of the knife in McLaggen's hand was a sharp, unrelenting reminder of the stakes, and the frigid determination in his captor's eyes sent an icy dread coursing through his veins. Each second stretched painfully long, the oppressive silence only broken by the soft rasp of McLaggen's steady breathing—a predator biding his time.

The knife caught the dim light as McLaggen's grip tightened, his impatience seeping into the room like poison. "Where is she?" he growled, his voice low and menacing, coiled with barely contained fury.

Draco's jaw clenched, his silence a fragile armor against the growing threat. He forced himself to meet McLaggen's gaze, though the intensity of it felt like staring into the eyes of a beast ready to pounce. He knew what McLaggen wanted, what his twisted obsession demanded, but giving up Hermione was not an option. The thought of her safety gnawed at him, a relentless agony, but it only hardened his resolve.

McLaggen's lips curled into a snarl, and he stepped closer, the shadows swallowing him like an apparition. "I'm not asking again, Malfoy," he hissed, his words dripping with malice. "Tell me where she is, or I'll make sure you regret every second of your miserable existence."

Draco's defiant silence only seemed to stoke the fire in McLaggen's eyes. The tension in the room tightened like a noose, the stillness punctuated by the metallic rasp of the blade as it dragged lightly against Draco's cheek. The sensation was cold, clinical, yet it carried an unmistakable promise of pain.

"I've been to that mausoleum you call a house," he continued, his voice taking on a sickly, mocking tone. "I know she's there, hidden behind all those clever little spells you think make you untouchable. But they didn't stop me from finding you, did they?"

Draco remained impassive, his exterior a mask of cold indifference even as his pulse thundered in his ears. Inside, rage simmered beneath the fear—rage at his audacity, at the thought of Hermione being a target, and at his own helplessness.

"Cat got your tongue?" he taunted, his tone shifting to a cruel sneer as he pressed the knife harder against Draco's skin, a thin bead of blood welling up beneath the blade's edge. The sight only seemed to fuel his sadistic glee. "I'll give you one last chance, Malfoy. Tell me where the Mudblood is, or I'll carve the answer out of you myself."

The word hung in the air like a slap, sharp and venomous. Draco's teeth ground together, his fury rising even as the dread threatened to choke him. He didn't flinch, didn't speak, though his knuckles whitened where they gripped the edges of the chair. His silence was both a shield and a weapon, but McLaggen wasn't the type to tolerate defiance for long.

McLaggen's expression darkened, his frustration simmering into something darker, more primal. The knife left Draco's cheek, but its absence was almost worse, replaced by the anticipation of what was coming next.

"I'm done with this," McLaggen said sharply, stepping back in irritation. "Alecto, Amycus, begin the process."

Two figures emerged from the darkness—Alecto and Amycus Carrow. Their faces were expressionless, their movements methodical. They approached Draco with a cold efficiency.

Draco's heart raced, but he kept his resolve. As they grabbed his arms and began their cruel work, the pain was intense but overshadowed by his determination to protect Hermione. His mind was focused on her safety, even as the darkness closed in around him.

The pain was relentless and excruciating. As Alecto and Amycus methodically tore at Draco's nails, one by one, the sharp agony was almost unbearable. His screams echoed through the dimly lit room, a mixture of agony and desperation.

His body convulsed with the intensity of the torture. The pain became too much, and he lost control, pissing himself in sheer terror and suffering. Each time he lost consciousness, the darkness was a fleeting escape from the torment, only to be dragged back into the hellish reality by the unyielding pain. 

Through the haze of his agony, his thoughts remained a muddled mess of Hermione and the hope that somehow, someone would find them before it was too late.

~~~~~~

Hermione bolted upright in bed, her scream tearing through the silence of the dim room, her body drenched in sweat. The jarring intensity of it left her clutching her chest, as if holding her own heartbeat steady could somehow restore the calm that had vanished in an instant. The feeling was too visceral, too real—the soul bond she shared with Draco had flared to life in a way it never had before, flooding her with an overwhelming terror. Something had happened to him, something unthinkably dark.

Her hands shook as she pressed them against her heart, trying to steady herself. But the dread, sharp as a knife, lingered. The bond had been a gift in their relationship, a way of keeping them close even when they were apart. Tonight, though, it felt like a curse, a cruel reminder of the unimaginable danger he was in. She forced herself to breathe, even as every exhale came out in ragged, uneven bursts. Images she couldn't quite remember, fragments of fear and pain, filled her mind, threatening to break her completely.

Her voice wavered as she whispered a Patronus incantation, sending an otter streaking through the room. "Pansy!" she called out through her Patronus, the urgency thick in her voice. Moments later, she burst through the fireplace, her face creased with worry as she rushed to her side.

"Darling, breathe," she said, placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "Tell me what's wrong. What happened?"

Hermione tried to steady herself, but her body betrayed her as sobs escaped her lips. "It's Draco," she choked out, her voice barely more than a whisper. "Something... through the bond. It was like a flood of terror. I felt it, Pans—he's in terrible danger. I know it." Her voice broke, fresh tears streaking down her face. "I don't know where he is, I just know he's suffering, and I can't reach him."

Her eyes narrowed with fierce determination. "We'll find him, Sweetheart. We'll find him." Without a second's hesitation, she conjured a Patronus of her own, sending it out with an urgent call to Luna.

The fireplace flared to life, and Luna's face appeared, her blue eyes filled with worry. "What's happening?" she asked, taking in the panic on both their faces.

"Draco's in danger," Pansy replied. "Hermione felt something terrible. Can you come? We need all the help we can get."

Within moments, Luna was at their side. She took in the scene with silent alarm, her gaze moving between Hermione's tear-streaked face and Pansy's fierce determination. 

She knelt beside Hermione, her hand gentle on her back, helping her to breathe through the panic that had taken hold. "Mimi, we'll find him. I promise," she said softly, her voice a steadying presence.

Pansy moved to the closet, quickly pulling on dark, fitted clothes that would allow her freedom of movement. She glanced at Hermione, noticing how pale she'd become, her body nearly convulsing with fear. When Hermione's nausea overtook her, she leaned forward, retching onto the carpet as fresh waves of distress wracked her frame.

"Shh, it's okay, you're okay," she murmured, kneeling beside her and gently undoing Hermione's sweat-drenched clothes. She helped her change into something dry, her hands steady and soothing as she worked. 

She wiped Hermione's face clean, brushing a loose curl away from her forehead. "We're going to get him back," she said with a fierce certainty that held Hermione together, even if only barely.

"Luna," Pansy asked, her voice tense, "any idea where they might have gone?"

She shook her head, her face mirroring Hermione's desperation. "I don't know. He didn't tell anyone where they was going, did he?"

When Luna returned from home, she found Pansy already dressed in sleek black, her face set with an intensity that made her look almost like a warrior preparing for battle. 

Hermione, on the other hand, was pale, trembling uncontrollably. She was bent over, vomiting onto the carpet, her whole body betraying the shock and fear that had taken hold of her. Pansy was at her side, carefully supporting her, hands gentle as she undressed Hermione, wiping her face and shoulders with a cool cloth. Her touch was steady and soft, an unspoken promise of comfort, even as her own heart raced with dread.

Hermione, barely able to lift her head, whispered hoarsely, "Please ask Ginny... she might know where they are."

Pansy didn't hesitate; with a quick flick of her wand, she conjured her Patronus, sending the silvery fox dashing through the air, her urgent message relayed through clenched teeth. "Please, hurry," she muttered as she watched the light fade.

Moments later, Ginny Apparated into the room, her eyes filled with alarm as she took in the scene. She went straight to Hermione, who looked up at her with tear-filled eyes.

"Something's wrong with Draco," Hermione gasped, her voice thick with panic. "Not just Draco… I think it's all of them. They're in terrible danger."

Pansy's gaze shifted to Ginny, her tone biting yet desperate. "Red, where's Blaise? Do you have any idea where they are?"

Ginny's voice was low, tense. "Last I knew... Afghanistan. They went on a mission—Draco, Theo, and Blaise." Her words sent a chill through the room, the weight of them pressing down on everyone.

Hermione began to cry, the realization sinking in deeper. "Oh, gods. They're trapped out there, somewhere dangerous, and we can't even reach them."

Ginny dropped to her knees beside her, pulling her into a tight embrace. "We'll find them," she murmured, determination flaring in her eyes. She glanced over at Luna. "Luna, can Kippy watch Valerius for us?"

As Hermione regained her composure, she moved swiftly toward Draco's study, her mind racing. Every shelf, every drawer, every hidden compartment in the room was combed through in a frenzy. At last, her fingers closed around a small bear-shaped portkey, one of Draco's most reliable means of travel. Relief and fear warred in her chest as she clutched it to her heart.

She hurried back to the others, her face now set in grim determination. The four women stood together, clad in dark protective robes, a formidable and resolute sight. They were ready—prepared to confront whatever awaited them, bound by love and fierce loyalty to the men they cherished.

Grasping the white bear-shaped portkey tightly, they felt the familiar pull of Apparition. In an instant, the surroundings shifted, and they found themselves standing in the arid expanse of the Registan Desert. The harsh sunlight and the vast, desolate landscape greeted them as they prepared for the daunting mission ahead.

The sun blazed mercilessly overhead, casting harsh shadows across the sprawling desert, as the four women stood on the sands of the Registan. Sweat beaded on their brows, and their breaths were heavy, partly from the journey and partly from the weight of fear pressing on their hearts. In every direction stretched miles of emptiness, desolate and unyielding, with not a single sign of life or any indication of where to go.

Ginny's anxiety was barely contained. She clenched and unclenched her fists, her gaze darting over the horizon as if, by sheer force of will, she could somehow summon her husband out of thin air. Panic gnawed at her insides, twisting with every heartbeat. If Draco was in trouble, then Blaise, her husband, was almost certainly in danger too.

"Blaise!" Ginny finally screamed into the vast emptiness, her voice cracked and raw, her desperation echoing out into the unforgiving silence of the desert. Her heart ached with a fierce longing, and fear clawed at her as she waited breathlessly, scanning the desert for any sign of movement.

And then, as if summoned by her desperation, Blaise appeared. He stood before them, his face shadowed with exhaustion but etched with relief as his gaze fell on Ginny. His expression softened at the sight of her, and without a second's hesitation, he reached for her, taking her hands in his and squeezing tightly.

"My love," he said, his voice thick with worry, his eyes flickering over her disheveled appearance. "What are you doing here? You shouldn't have come—please, go home. Are you alright?"

Ginny's fingers tightened around his, her voice trembling. "We had no choice," she managed, her voice a desperate whisper. "We felt something… something terrible. Blaise, where is Draco?"

His expression darkened, the tenderness replaced by a hard edge as he glanced at the girls, each of them watching him with equal intensity. He took a steadying breath before replying, his voice laced with regret and frustration.

"Granger," he said, his voice low and heavy with guilt as he met Hermione's eyes. "Malfoy… he was taken." He paused, struggling to steady himself. "It happened in the dead of night, while we were sleeping. We didn't hear a thing—no warning, no signs. When I woke, his bedroll was empty, and the wards were broken. They took him, Hermione. Right from under our noses. I have no idea where they've taken him."

Hermione's face drained of color, and for a moment, she swayed as if she might collapse. Pansy quickly reached for her, steadying her by the shoulder, and Hermione gripped her friend's hand tightly, drawing strength from the touch.

"WHO?" Hermione asked, her voice barely a whisper, raw with anguish and fear. "Who has him, Blaise?"

"I'm not entirely sure. But they knew exactly what they were doing. They targeted Draco specifically; they were after him," he replied, his jaw clenching. The air around them felt heavy, almost suffocating. Every word out of his mouth seemed to weigh them down further.

The silence that followed was thick with unspoken dread. Hermione closed her eyes, grappling with the fear that threatened to consume her. She could feel the bond between her and Draco pulsing faintly, but it was distant and faint, like a candle barely flickering in the darkness. The thought of him suffering, of him alone and vulnerable in an unknown location, sent a shudder through her.

"We can't just stand here," she said, her voice fierce, cutting through the silence. "We have to do something. We have to find him, Blaise. Can you track them?"

Blaise's face hardened as he considered her words. "I can try, but it won't be easy. They were prepared, and they knew the terrain better than us. But I won't stop until we bring him back."

Luna stepped forward, her gaze focused and uncharacteristically intense. "Then let's not waste time," she said. Her soft voice had a steely determination that resonated with each of them. "We've come this far; we'll do whatever it takes."

They returned to the hideout, the place where Draco had been taken. The tension in the air was suffocating, and every step Hermione took felt heavier with the weight of her fear and rage.

Inside, a flickering magical map was projected onto the wall, its glowing contours casting eerie shadows across the room. Theo and another man stood over it, their faces grim, deep in conversation.

As they entered, Theo looked up sharply. His expression shifted to one of alarm when his eyes landed on Luna.

"Theodore Atticus Nott!" Luna snapped, cutting off his attempt to speak.

"Luna, my life—" he began, stepping toward her, his tone urgent and pleading. "You shouldn't be here! Please, go home. This isn't your fight!"

Her expression hardened, her usual dreamy demeanor replaced by steely resolve. "If any of us is out there, it is my fight. I'm not leaving until we bring him back."

Hermione, her arms crossed, let her gaze fall on the unfamiliar man standing beside Theo. Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Who's this?" she demanded, motioning toward the stranger.

The man stepped forward, offering a tight, almost mocking smile. "Titus Nott. A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Malfoy," he said smoothly. "I've always admired your work—"

"Save it," she interrupted sharply. Her tone cut through the room like a blade. Her gaze was unrelenting. "So, you're the butcher."

The air in the room grew even tenser. Pansy, standing beside Hermione, glared at Titus like he was a stain that refused to be scrubbed clean. Her lip curled in disgust.

Titus didn't flinch. His voice remained even, but his smirk faltered. "Yes," he admitted, his tone clipped. "I am

"Good," she said coldly, her voice laced with contempt. "We're going to need every weapon we can get to find my husband. And if you can't deliver, you're dead weight."

Titus's smirk returned, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of unease. "This job isn't for the ladies," he said, almost casually.

Before he could blink, every woman in the room snapped in unison, "Shut the fuck up."

Titus held up his hands in mock surrender. "Yes, ma'ams," he muttered.

Ginny stepped forward, her fiery hair and even fiercer expression adding weight to her words. "Besides murdering people, do you have any actual skills? Because if you're just here to look dangerous, we don't need you."

"Enough!" Hermione barked, her voice ringing through the room. "When this is over, you can kill him for all I care. Right now, I want to know where the nearest hideout is!"

Theo stepped forward cautiously, his hands raised in a placating gesture. "Hermione, please, calm down. He's my cousin."

"Like we give a fuck," Pansy said, her voice dripping with disdain. She tilted her head, her gaze sweeping Titus up and down. "Though, at least you're nice to look at. That's something."

Titus gave her a wry smile. "Thank you, ma'am," he replied, his tone deliberately smooth.

Blaise, leaning against the wall, cut through the tension with his calm, measured voice. "The nearest hideout is kilometers away. But there's a run-down residential property nearby. It could be worth checking."

"Finally, a useful conversation," Luna muttered, her tone laced with exasperation.

The group fell into a tense silence, the weight of the mission ahead pressing down on them. They exchanged glances, the unspoken promise between them clear: whatever it took, they would find Draco.

~~~~~~

Draco's vision blurred as he struggled to focus, his body aching from the torture he had endured. McLaggen's voice droned on, a constant stream of threats and demands that Draco had long since tuned out.

McLaggen leaned in closer, his voice low and menacing. "Tell me where the mudblood is, Malfoy. I'm asking for the last time."

His gaze remained defiant, his lips pressed into a thin line. He refused to give McLaggen the satisfaction of a response. Every fiber of his being screamed in pain, but he held onto one thought: he would never betray Hermione.

McLaggen, growing increasingly impatient, slapped him across the face, trying to force a reaction. "You think this is a game? Tell me where she is, or I'll make sure your suffering doesn't end here."

He remained silent, his resolve unbroken even as the situation grew more dire. McLaggen's face twisted with frustration and anger as he barked the next command.

"Okay, as you wish. Strip him!" McLaggen shouted, his voice echoing in the dark room.

From the shadows, a figure emerged—someone Draco had never seen before. The person's wand was raised, and with a flick, his clothes vanished, leaving him exposed and vulnerable.

Yet, despite the humiliation, Draco's expression didn't falter. He had been through too much, endured more than most could bear. The physical pain, the degradation—none of it mattered as long as he kept Hermione safe. His silence was his only weapon, and he clung to it fiercely.

McLaggen sneered, his frustration palpable. "Still nothing, Malfoy? You think you're strong, but you're just prolonging the inevitable. You're only making this worse for yourself."

But Draco didn't care. The threats and cruelty washed over him like a tide of darkness, but he refused to give McLaggen anything. In his mind, there was only one thought: Hermione must be safe.

A searing pain ripped through Draco as something sharp slashed across his ribs, the agony almost blinding. His breath hitched, but he refused to cry out. Instead, his mind clung desperately to the one thing that kept him going.

He could see her in his mind's eye, that radiant smile of hers that outshone even the stars. It was the smile that had guided him through his darkest moments, a beacon of light in a world filled with shadows. Her smile was more than just an expression; it was a promise of something pure, a reminder that love and beauty still existed in a world marred by cruelty. In that smile, he found hope, the strength to endure, and a reason to keep fighting, knowing that as long as she existed, there was something in this world worth living for.

Another sharp pain tore through his thigh, but his mind drifted far from the agony.

His mind drifted back to that life-altering moment when she first confessed her love. The memory washed over him like a warm embrace, filling him with a joy so profound it nearly brought him to tears. He had always believed that someone as pure and beautiful as her could never love someone as scarred and burdened as he was. But she did. She chose him, loved him despite everything. That simple, undeniable truth had become his most precious treasure, more valuable than any magic, more priceless than all the wealth in the world. It was her love that gave his life meaning, that made everything worth enduring.

Another surge of pain shot through his arm.

His mind clung desperately to the image of her eyes—those deep, honeyed pools that held a warmth capable of melting away his fears. They were filled with a desire that had always left him breathless, yet it was the calm, unwavering love within them that truly anchored him. She was his refuge, the steady light in the storm of his darkest thoughts. In that moment, as pain wracked his body, it was her gaze he held onto—the memory of how she looked at him with such tenderness, such profound understanding. It was that gaze, full of love, that kept him from shattering, even as everything else was stripped away.

And there she was—his one and only love. The bushy-haired girl he had first known had blossomed into a breathtaking woman, descending the grand stairs in a flowing periwinkle dress. It was in that moment, seeing her so elegantly poised and radiant, that he had felt an intense, unfamiliar stir within him, mostly a proper boner. From that day forward, every thought, every dream, had been filled with her. Her presence had captivated him entirely, transforming his world in ways he had never imagined possible.

His captors rested a little bit. Draco inhaled 

McLaggen decided he would try one last tactic before the final blow. He ordered a blood-curdling scream—her scream. It echoed through the room, haunting and relentless, for a grueling 28 hours. The sound was a relentless assault on Draco's senses, amplifying his agony with every echo, a grim reminder of the torment and despair that awaited them all.

Despite the relentless torment, Draco's resolve remained unshaken. An old, dark spirit within him, born from past struggles and hardened by countless trials, held firm. No matter the pain or the harrowing sounds that filled the room, he refused to break. He remained silent, his spirit unyielding, determined to protect Hermione and their love at any cost.

Mclaggen leaned closer, his voice a menacing whisper. "Isn't this enough, Malfoy?"

Draco looked at him with a weary, defiant gaze. "What do you want?"

Mclaggen's eyes gleamed with dark satisfaction. "I want you to find her."

His expression remained unchanged. "For what?"

Mclaggen's lips curled into a cruel smile. "I want her to see you. I want her to witness your end, to see your suffering." 

His gaze was steely, unyielding, as he regarded Cormac with disdain.

He leaned in closer, his voice dripping with malice. "I'll take care of her, don't worry. She'll be a nice, obedient wife. I'll have her whenever I want, however I want."

Mclaggen's eyes narrowed and he leaned closer, his voice rising with fury. "Where are you hiding her? I'll cut your dick off, because you frustrate me. Answer me!"

Cormac's face twisted into a cruel smirk as he brandished the knife, but he paused, savoring Draco's fear. He in fact didn't bluff and proceeded to cut it off.

He decided to put an illusion of Hermione's screams again. On a loop. Loud and clear. While begging Bellatrix. On a loop.

Just as Draco's world seemed to collapse into an endless cycle of pain and despair, when every breath felt like it was dragging him deeper into the abyss, a sound shattered the oppressive silence—a deep, gut-wrenching explosion that sent shockwaves through the very foundation of the building. The walls trembled violently, dust and debris cascading from the ceiling like the first warning signs of an earthquake. Then, before he could even process what was happening, the door was obliterated in a deafening blast, the force of it sending splinters of wood and shrapnel through the air like deadly confetti. Smoke curled into the room in thick, choking tendrils, swallowing everything in a suffocating haze, turning shadows into specters, blurring the line between salvation and damnation.

Through the blinding cloud of dust and destruction, figures emerged—swift, methodical, a force of nature tearing through the chaos like they were born in it. The metallic glint of weapons, the sharp bark of commands, the relentless momentum of bodies moving with precision—it was war in its purest form. He could barely make out the shapes, the people who had just stormed in, but instinct screamed at him to brace himself. His already battered body tensed, his mind clawing through the exhaustion and pain, forcing himself upright even as his vision wavered. His pulse roared in his ears, drowning out all logic.

He was prepared to meet thy God.

Because this was it, wasn't it? The moment where all debts were paid in blood. Whether salvation or judgment awaited him, he couldn't be sure. His past sins, his regrets, his triumphs, his mistakes—everything balanced on a knife's edge. Would the next second bring rescue or reckoning? Was this the moment he was finally put down like a wounded animal, or had some foolish, reckless soul decided he was worth saving?

His lips curled into something halfway between a smirk and a grimace, bitter amusement tugging at the edges of his exhaustion. If this was his end, he'd meet it standing. But if by some cruel twist of fate, this was his reprieve—then may whatever poor soul dared to come for him be ready for the storm he was about to unleash.

But not until God willed it—and, as fate would have it, she did not.

And in this universe, God went by the name Hermione Granger-Malfoy.

Standing in the center of the chaos, her breath steady, her grip unshakable, Hermione raised her wand with the kind of finality that only came from absolute conviction. There was no hesitation, no second-guessing. With a single, fierce incantation, she cast the Killing Curse. A jet of sickly green light split through the darkness, striking Cormac McLaggen square in the chest. His body seized for the briefest of moments, his expression frozen in surprise—then he crumpled, lifeless, his existence snuffed out in an instant. He had been a threat. Now, he was nothing.

The room erupted into chaos. Shadowy figures lunged at one another, spells colliding mid-air in dazzling bursts of energy, while gunfire cracked through the pandemonium, the scent of smoke and blood thickening the air. Light and darkness clashed in a brutal symphony—curses flew like streaks of lightning, bullets shattered the air like thunder. The walls bore scorch marks from spellfire, debris scattered underfoot as bodies dropped, groaning and gasping, or not rising at all.

Hermione moved with deadly precision, weaving between attacks with the agility of a seasoned warrior, her wand an extension of her fury. Every movement was controlled, every spell cast with unrelenting accuracy. She wasn't just fighting—she was dominating. Every flick of her wrist sent an opponent sprawling, every step forward carved a path through the carnage. She had fought in wars before, had carved her name into history with grit and resilience. And tonight, she would do it again.

At the center of it all, Draco remained bound, his vision swimming, his body barely holding onto consciousness. The fight blurred at the edges, the sound distorting as though he were submerged underwater. His pulse pounded sluggishly, his body battered and broken. He barely registered the hands clawing at his restraints, the violent tremors of the room as spells collided with walls.

Then—his bonds loosened.

A sudden, suffocating pull yanked him into oblivion. The pain, the noise, the blood—everything faded into nothingness. A cold void enveloped him, a weightless abyss that should have been terrifying but instead felt… almost peaceful. His body no longer ached. The wounds no longer burned. The war no longer mattered.

And then—her voice.

"I'm here, my love."

Soft. Steady. The anchor he had always clung to in the darkest of times.

It was impossibly soothing, that voice. It wrapped around him like warmth in the bitter cold, a tether to reality even as the darkness threatened to consume him. He wasn't sure if he was dying or simply dreaming, wasn't sure if this was heaven or some cruel trick of the mind. But he knew, without question, that it was her.

And in that moment, with her voice guiding him through the void, Draco Malfoy felt peace. This was afterlife. 

~~~~~~

A soft, featherlight touch ghosted across his cheek, stirring something deep within him—something distant, something lost. It was warmth, familiarity, life pressing against the edge of oblivion, coaxing him out of the abyss where he had been trapped for what felt like an eternity.

Draco's eyes fluttered open, sluggish and unfocused, as if the simple act of waking was a battle he had to fight. The world around him swam, bathed in a muted, golden glow, hazy at the edges like a dream not yet fully formed. For a terrifying moment, he wasn't sure if he had truly woken, or if this was simply another cruel trick of his subconscious—a hallucination conjured by a desperate, broken mind.

And then, through the blur of flickering candlelight and the weight of exhaustion pressing down on him, he saw her.

Hermione. His Hermione.

His breath stilled, caught somewhere between disbelief and overwhelming relief.

She was right there beside him, so close yet impossibly distant, her presence both grounding and surreal. The dim glow wrapped around her like a halo, turning her curls into a cascade of untamed gold. Her face—oh, her face—was etched with something raw, something vulnerable and fierce all at once. Her lips parted slightly, as if she, too, could hardly believe what she was seeing, as if she were drinking him in the way he was drinking in her—afraid that if she blinked, he might disappear.

His chest rose and fell unevenly, struggling to contain the storm of emotions crashing through him. His throat, raw from disuse, barely allowed the words to escape.

"Is it… you?"

The question was fragile, hesitant, trembling with something he was too afraid to name. His voice, hoarse and weak, cracked under the weight of it. His hand—trembling, unsteady—lifted toward her, fingers reaching, aching, desperate to touch, to confirm that she wasn't some cruel mirage conjured by longing.

That she was real.

She caught his hand before it could falter, guiding it to her cheek, pressing it there as though anchoring herself to him just as much as he was anchoring himself to her.

Warmth. Softness. Her.

A choked breath shuddered from his lips, something between a sob and a gasp, as the truth settled over him like a lifeline.

She was real.

Her skin was warm beneath his fingers, her pulse thrumming just beneath the surface, proof that he was no longer lost in the void. That he had made it back. That he had found her again.

Her eyes, glassy with unshed tears, never wavered as she whispered, her voice thick with emotion, yet steady as stone—

"It's me, Mon cœur. I'm here. You're safe now."

And just like that, the world—his world—tilted back into place.

A broken laugh escaped his lips, part agony, part ecstasy. "Oh, my love... Did I mistake you for a sign from God? Or have you really come to save me?" His voice cracked as he added with a faint, desperate humor, "Or just to torment me by being so close I could shatter under the weight of wanting you?"

Her breath hitched, a strangled sound escaping her lips as she gripped his trembling hand tighter, as if afraid that if she let go, he would vanish again, slip through her fingers like the past year had. Her knuckles turned white, her chest heaving with sobs that shook her entire frame.

"Hello, my life," she whispered, the words broken, gasping, raw. "I… oh God, I thought I lost you. I thought I didn't save you. I thought—" Her voice cracked, her body convulsing as she choked on a breathless sob. "I thought I was too late."

He watched her, helpless, devastated, his vision blurred not just from the haze of waking but from the sheer agony in her eyes. Hermione was crying so hard, shaking so violently, like she was breaking apart right in front of him.

Every prayer she had whispered in the dark, every desperate plea, had been answered. And now, looking at him, alive, breathing, here—her world was complete again.

Tears spilled from his silver eyes, his heart aching at the sight of her. She looked like death itself—fragile, skeletal, as if she had been slowly unraveling thread by thread in his absence. Her skin, once golden and full of life, was now pale, almost translucent, stretched too thin over the sharp angles of her face. Dark circles bruised the delicate skin beneath her eyes, evidence of endless nights spent in agony, waiting for something that might never have come.

He had done this to her.

"Shh," he rasped, his voice weak, his hand barely strong enough to squeeze hers. "I'm here, baby. Please… please don't shed another tear."

But she couldn't stop.

She crumbled forward, her forehead pressing against his, her body shaking with the weight of too much grief, too much love. "I waited for you," she sobbed, her fingers threading through his hair, holding him like she was trying to piece him back together, as if she could pull him further into existence through touch alone. "I was so afraid, Draco… I—" Her voice broke again, her body collapsing against him as she finally let herself fall apart.

His heart clenched so tightly he thought it might shatter. He gathered what little strength he had, his fingers lifting to cup her cheek. His thumb brushed away her tears, but for every drop he wiped away, another fell.

"How long?" he finally rasped, the words barely escaping his lips.

She exhaled shakily, her fingers trembling against his skin as if she were terrified to answer. "A year."

The words hit him like a hammer to the chest.

His breath stilled, his mind reeling.

"A year," he repeated, the weight of it crashing down on him like a tidal wave. "A whole year..." His voice trembled with disbelief, anguish, and something too deep for words. "I've missed so much—missed you. Hermione, I—" His voice faltered, breaking under the sheer force of emotion flooding through him.

She shook her head quickly, gripping his face between her hands, her fingers desperate, desperate to hold onto him. "You didn't lose me," she swore, her voice shaking, but her resolve unbreakable. "I was here. Every second. Every day. I never left. I waited. I waited until you came back to me. And now you have. And we—we have all the time in the world to make up for everything."

His chest ached, the weight of her words both unbearable and the only thing keeping him grounded.

His body trembled with effort as he reached for her, his fingers trailing up her wrist, tracing the sharp bones beneath her skin. "Our anniversary…" His breath hitched as the realization struck him like a knife. "We… we haven't got any chance to celebrate any of them, have we?" His voice was thick with regret, his silver eyes shimmering. "I'm so sorry, love."

She let out a broken laugh, shaking her head even as fresh tears fell. "Oh, Draco, don't say things like that. The only thing that matters is you're here. You came back to me."

Emotion welled up in his throat, making it hard to breathe.

His shaking hand reached for her face again, his fingers threading through her curls, anchoring himself to the only thing that felt real.

"I don't deserve you," he whispered, his voice reverent, his eyes glistening as he stared at her as if she were something holy. "But I swear to you, Hermione, I'll spend the rest of my life proving that I do." His voice broke, his fingers tracing her cheek, her lips, memorizing her all over again. "Just… promise me you'll never leave. I couldn't—I couldn't survive losing you."

She sucked in a sharp breath, her hands framing his face, her gaze so full of love it nearly destroyed him.

She didn't answer with words.

Instead, she surged forward, her lips crashing against his in a kiss so full of desperation, relief, love, and longing that it stole the breath from his lungs.

It was slow, achingly tender, yet fierce, as if she were branding him, sealing a vow between them that time, death, and the cruelty of the world could never break.

When she finally pulled away, her eyes were burning, shining with a determination so fierce it left him breathless.

"I promise," she whispered, the words carrying the weight of eternity. "I'll never leave you. Not now. Not ever."

He let out a shuddering breath, the relief in his gaze palpable, but the longing—the longing still burned in his bones, in his very soul.

"Hold me," he whispered, his voice raw with need, his hands shaking as they reached for her again. "Tell me I'm not dreaming. Tell me you're real."

She didn't hesitate.

With the gentlest of movements, she slipped into the narrow space beside him, her arms wrapping carefully around his frail body. She pulled him against her, her warmth seeping into his very bones, her heartbeat steady and strong beneath his fingertips.

He buried his face in the crook of her neck, inhaling her scent—home, warmth, love, salvation—like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to reality.

"You're real," he murmured against her skin, his voice trembling with awe. "And I'll never let you go. Not again."

Her hands moved in slow, soothing strokes along his back, grounding him, her touch a silent reassurance that she wasn't going anywhere.

"We'll have our time," she whispered, her voice like a lullaby. "We'll make it through this. Together."

And in that moment, with her wrapped around him, her breath against his skin, her heartbeat steady and his—

For the first time in an eternity, he allowed himself to hope.

"So long as men can breathe or eyes can see, So long lives this, and this gives life to thee."

— Shakespeare, Sonnet 18