A bond that saves

His lips barely brushed hers before he pulled back, savoring the anticipation that crackled between them like a live wire. His fingers, rough and warm, traced the curve of her spine, eliciting a delicious shiver that ran down to the very tips of her toes.

"A long morning?" she teased, breath hitching as he pressed her back against the counter, his body a solid, unrelenting presence against her bare skin. "Are you planning to ruin me, Longbottom?"

Neville chuckled, the sound low and rich, reverberating through her. "Darling, you walked around naked for an hour expecting me to crack. If anyone's getting ruined this morning, it's you."

She barely had time to react before his mouth was on hers, hot and insistent, stealing her breath, his hands gripping her hips with just enough force to make her whimper against him. He lifted her onto the counter in one swift motion, his palms pressing into her thighs as he parted them with deliberate slowness.

Her heart pounded as he stepped between her legs, his gaze dark, hungry, unreadable. She had seen him this way before—composed but utterly consuming, like a slow, deliberate fire spreading through her. He trailed a finger down her throat, over her collarbone, lower still, brushing over her breasts, barely touching, just enough to make her arch into him, desperate for more.

"You're playing dirty," she murmured, her hands gripping the fabric of his shirt, tugging at it impatiently.

"I'm playing fair," he corrected, voice dipping into something deeper, more dangerous. "You wanted this, didn't you? You wanted my attention? My hands on you?"

She gasped as he rolled a thumb over her nipple, teasing, sending a rush of heat straight through her. "Yes," she admitted, the single word breathy and needy.

He smirked, pleased, before dipping his head to capture the sensitive skin at the base of her neck, his teeth grazing just enough to leave her skin tingling. He dragged his lips lower, his hands guiding her to lean back against the cold marble surface, the contrast of heat and chill making her pulse race.

Her fingers scrambled at his belt, needing to feel him, to have him, but he caught her wrists, holding them still against the countertop. "Patience, love," he murmured against her skin, his tongue flicking over her pulse. "I want to enjoy you."

Pansy groaned in frustration, but the sound quickly turned into a moan when his hands slipped lower, spreading her thighs further apart, his grip firm, possessive. His gaze locked onto hers as he trailed soft, open-mouthed kisses down her stomach, his lips painting a slow, torturous path toward where she ached for him most.

"Neville—" her voice faltered as he pressed a kiss just above her center, deliberately avoiding where she needed him. "If you make me beg, I will kill you."

He laughed, the vibration of it sending sparks through her. "Darling, you're already begging."

And with that, he buried himself between her thighs, and all she could do was let go.

She gasped, fingers tangling in his hair as he licked and teased, his name slipping from her lips in broken, desperate syllables. He was thorough, relentless, taking his time unraveling her inch by inch, drawing out each delicious pulse of pleasure until she was a trembling mess beneath him.

And just as she was on the edge, her whole body taut, ready to shatter, he pulled away.

"Fucking hell, Neville!" she snapped, her voice ragged, her body trembling.

He grinned, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as he stood, his cock straining against his boxers, proof of just how much he enjoyed wrecking her. "I told you," he murmured, sliding a hand up her thigh, teasing her all over again, "it's going to be a long morning."

He scooped her up effortlessly, carrying her toward the bedroom as she clung to him, her nails digging into his shoulders. "If you don't fuck me right now, I swear—"

He silenced her with a hard, claiming kiss, walking them both straight into their room and onto the bed, where he planned to ruin her completely.

~~~~~~

Pansy was growing increasingly uneasy. She'd noticed Draco's transformation over the past months—the way he'd grown distant, consumed by this endless hunt for the person responsible for his attack. It had started as a lingering tension in the air, something she couldn't quite put her finger on. But as days turned into weeks, and weeks into months, she could see the toll this mission was taking on him, not only physically but mentally, and she feared it would soon eclipse him entirely.

She'd tried to reach out to him, to ease him back to a semblance of peace, but he had pushed her—and everyone else—away, caught in the grip of an all-consuming need for retribution. Draco's obsession had become all he could focus on. She understood that what he was doing wasn't only about vengeance; it was about proving to himself that he was still in control. But the more she watched him, the more it felt as though he was slipping out of reach, spiraling down a path she feared might consume him entirely.

Now, he'd asked Theo and Blaise to join him on a mission—one that Pansy knew carried immense risk. A lead had finally surfaced, one that might lead him to the person who had nearly taken everything from him. Draco's call for help meant he was beyond the point of rationality, and though Theo and Blaise had always been his closest confidants, she worried about what they might be stepping into alongside him. Theo was level-headed, and Blaise was cunning, but Pansy knew that their loyalty to Draco ran deep. They would follow him into whatever storm awaited, no matter how treacherous, and that thought gnawed at her.

Anxiety settled heavily in her chest as she imagined what could go wrong. She knew Draco was resourceful and capable; he'd proven that a hundred times over. But something in his recent behavior seemed different, more reckless, as if he were willing to risk it all—his safety, his relationships, even his future—for this single, all-consuming mission. She feared this obsession would strip him of the very essence of who he was, leaving only a shell of the man she knew.

It wasn't only Draco's safety that worried her, though; Theo and Blaise were both stepping into the line of fire because of him. And if something happened to them...Pansy didn't know if she could forgive Draco for taking them down this dark path with him. She didn't know if he could forgive himself.

She felt powerless, torn between her loyalty to Draco and her growing fear for him and his friends. She wished she could offer him peace, pull him back from the edge, but knew she was fighting against something too deep-rooted. All she could do now was wait, consumed by the dread of what this mission would bring, and silently pray that they would all return in one piece.

~~~~~~

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.

"Love, 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," she 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 were going, did he?"

Luna quickly popped home to notify the house elf to keep the children and animals safe.

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 again, 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. 

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

Luna's 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," Hermione 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. "The butcher."

"Good," Hermione 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.

~~~~~~

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 year. An agonizing, merciless, soul-crushing year. That's how long it took for Draco Malfoy to finally claw his way back from the abyss.

It wasn't like the last time Hermione almost died—when she had hovered on the brink, her body battered, her spirit tested, but never broken. That time, there had been a certainty, a quiet, unspoken understanding between them all that she would fight her way back, because she was Hermione Granger and that's what she did. She defied the odds, spat in the face of fate, and dragged herself, inch by inch, out of the darkness. But this… this had been different. This had been hell.

No one—not Theo, not Blaise, not even Hermione, who clung to hope like it was the only thing keeping her upright—knew if Draco would ever wake up again. The days stretched endlessly, bleeding into weeks, then months. The healers stopped offering reassurances, their polite smiles fading into carefully measured silences. He had suffered the kind of torture that fractured men beyond repair, the kind that left scars on the soul as much as the body. He had been shattered, broken into pieces so small that no one knew if they could ever be put back together again. His heart still beat, his body still breathed, but his mind had retreated into some unreachable void, leaving Hermione in a world of waiting, in a purgatory where grief and hope waged war every single day.

Pansy and Neville visited Hermione as often as they could, but their presence did little to pull her back from the abyss she was slowly, steadily sinking into. She was a ghost of herself, a skeletal echo of the woman she had once been. The sharp-witted, fiercely determined Hermione was gone, replaced by something fragile, something hollow. Her clothes hung off her frame, her once-strong shoulders slumped under a weight no one could lift. Her eyes—once so bright, so full of fire—were dull, empty, like she was already halfway to becoming a specter of grief. She moved through the days without purpose, without direction, existing but never truly living. She was floating, lost in the cruel, endless limbo between mourning and denial, too stubborn to let go, too shattered to move forward.

Pansy had never been good at quiet grief. She did the only thing she knew how to do—she raged.

She stormed into Draco's sterile, suffocating prison of a room and screamed at him. She hurled words like weapons, her fury ricocheting off the whitewashed walls, filling the emptiness with something real, something alive. She cursed him for almost dying, for being a selfish bastard, for putting Hermione through this, for putting all of them through this. She called him a coward, a weakling, a pathetic excuse for a man. She shouted until her throat burned, until her voice cracked, until the weight of her words pressed against her ribs like a vice. She railed against him for abandoning Theo, for leaving Blaise to bear yet another burden, for forcing them all to stand at his bedside, day after day, waiting for a miracle they weren't sure would ever come.

She did it every single day.

And every single time, it was Blaise who pulled her out.

It became their routine. Pansy would storm in, her blood boiling, her fury consuming every inch of her, and Blaise would follow shortly after, gripping her by the arm and dragging her away before she could break apart completely. He never told her to stop. Never told her to calm down. Never tried to silence the tempest of rage and grief that poured out of her, because he understood. Because he carried it too.

Looking at Blaise was like looking in a mirror.

He had the same hollow eyes, the same bone-deep exhaustion etched into his face, the same unbearable weight pressing down on his shoulders. The same look that Theo wore on the rare days he was around, though Theo had long since retreated into himself, a man unraveling in slow motion. They all bore the same expression—the unspoken belief that this was their fault. That if they had been smarter, stronger, faster, Draco wouldn't be lying there like a corpse waiting for someone to finally bury him.

And so, they waited.

A year passed. A year of silence and pain. A year of clinging to hope with bloodied fingers. A year of waking up every morning and wondering if today would be the day they gave up. A year of watching Hermione fade, watching Theo disappear, watching Blaise grow colder, watching themselves become something unrecognizable.

And then—finally—on a day like any other, on a day when no one expected anything to change, on a day when hope had grown thin and fragile, Draco Malfoy opened his eyes.