Chapter 7

"Don't make this harder than it has to be, Malfoy. You'll survive without a hug."

The words echoed relentlessly in his mind, carving themselves into every quiet moment, every stillness that dared creep into his day. You'll survive without a hug.

No, he would not survive.

He'd rather die than live without her touch. The idea of survival felt meaningless, hollow. How was he supposed to function, to breathe, when the only thing grounding him—the only thing that made his wretched existence even remotely bearable—was her ?

If I held in my hands anything gold could buy, I'd still not have a thing worth giving you.

He ran his fingers through his hair, pacing the length of his room. He felt like a man possessed. He was hopelessly in love, drowning in emotions so fierce and suffocating that he hardly recognized himself anymore.

But why?

What was so special about her? Why did she have this hold on him, this unshakable power over every fiber of his being? She was infuriating. A stupid, stubborn bitch. The Golden Girl with her perfectly polished exterior, her irritating know-it-all tendencies, and that sharp tongue that could cut him down with a single word.

And yet…

And yet he wanted her with a desperation that bordered on madness.

He stopped pacing, leaning heavily against the wall. His head fell back, his eyes closing as he exhaled shakily. It wasn't just her wit, though that certainly captivated him. It wasn't just her intelligence, though he admired that too, begrudgingly at first, and then with awe as he watched her navigate every obstacle with grace and determination.

It was her . The way she existed so unapologetically, her fiery spirit, the way she challenged him, saw through him, undid him. She made him want to be more—more than the broken, bitter shell he'd become.

He clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms.

And then there was the physical aspect. He groaned, his frustration bubbling over as his thoughts veered into dangerous territory. The curve of her hips, the way her hair framed her face, the spark in her eyes when she was angry…

And her lips. Merlin, her lips. He wanted to kiss them until he couldn't breathe, wanted to know what it felt like to be consumed by her.

And her legs. That infuriating dress she'd worn just the other day had him thinking about those legs for hours. Days, if he was honest.

And then—Merlin help him—the rest of her.

He slammed his fist against the wall, his breathing ragged.

"Fuck," he hissed, dragging a hand down his face.

Why was he like this? Why was he losing his mind over her? She wasn't even his.

She probably never would be.

He sank onto the edge of his bed, staring blankly at the floor. He was in love with her—madly, hopelessly, stupidly in love with Hermione Granger. And she didn't even see him. Not the way he wanted her to.

To her, he was just some broken remnant of his former self, a relic of a past she'd rather forget.

But to him?

To him, she was everything. The spark of hope in a life he thought was devoid of it.

And the thought of losing her—or worse, never having her at all—was enough to tear him apart.

He leaned forward, his head in his hands.

He didn't know how to stop loving her. He wasn't even sure he wanted to.

•••••••••••••

She stepped into the dimly lit room, her heels clicking against the wooden floor with a rhythm that seemed to mock his miserable silence. She took one look at him, sprawled out on the couch like a discarded rag doll, and let out a derisive snort.

"Malfoy, you look like absolute shit."

He tilted his head up just enough to glare at her, his platinum hair messy, his eyes darkened with sleepless nights and self-loathing.

"Thank you for your kind words, angel. Truly uplifting. Really helps my case."

She crossed her arms over her chest, arching a perfectly shaped brow.

"Oh, so I've stepped into a pity party. How delightful. Shall I fetch the world's smallest violin for your concert of despair?"

He groaned, dragging a hand down his face as if trying to wipe away the weight of her words—or his own miserable existence.

"What do you even know about feeling like the worst human being on Earth? About wishing you'd just disappear, that the ground would swallow you whole?"

Her expression didn't soften. If anything, it sharpened, her lips curling into a humorless smile that barely masked the storm brewing behind her eyes.

"Oh, allow me to enlighten you, Malfoy. I have a rather vivid memory that might serve as an educational moment for your little existential crisis."

He sat up slightly, narrowing his eyes at her.

"And what might that be? The time you punched me in the face? Because honestly, I'm starting to think you got a sick thrill out of that."

She didn't even flinch, though a flicker of amusement crossed her face.

"Don't flatter yourself. Although, let's be honest—you probably did enjoy it. It's almost poetic how much of a masochist you've turned out to be."

He scowled, ready to retort, but she wasn't finished. She stepped closer, leaning against the arm of the couch with a predatory grace that made him feel cornered.

"No, Malfoy. I'm talking about a memory we both share, though from vastly different perspectives. A little scene in a dark manor with screaming, blood, and you standing there like a fucking statue."

The color drained from his face.

"Hermione…"

"Oh, don't you 'Hermione' me. You want to talk about feeling like the worst human being on Earth? Let me take you back to that charming little evening when Bellatrix carved me up like a holiday roast, and you just stood there. Watching. Silent."

His throat worked, but no words came out. He looked like he'd been punched in the gut, his pale complexion somehow growing even paler.

"Imagine that, Malfoy. Imagine what I felt. The pain, the humiliation, the sheer terror of knowing I might not survive the night—all while you just stood there."

He dropped his gaze, unable to meet her piercing stare.

"You think I don't hate myself for that? That it doesn't haunt me every bloody day?"

She straightened up, her arms falling to her sides. Her expression softened slightly, but only slightly.

"Good. It should haunt you. Because you're right—you should feel like the worst human being on Earth. But here's the thing, Malfoy: wallowing in your guilt and misery doesn't change what happened. It doesn't undo the past, and it certainly doesn't earn you any sympathy points from me."

He looked up at her, his silver eyes glistening with unshed tears.

"I didn't know what to do. I was terrified. If I'd done anything—if I'd tried to stop her—she would've killed me. Or worse."

She let out a bitter laugh, shaking her head.

"Oh, poor baby. Always the victim in his own story. You're right, though—she probably would've killed you. But at least you'd have died with a shred of decency, instead of living with the knowledge that you did nothing."

Her words cut through him like a blade, each syllable digging deeper into wounds he thought couldn't hurt any more than they already did.

"I'm sorry." The words were barely a whisper, but they hung in the air like a confession.

She sighed, her sharp edges softening just a fraction. "Sorry doesn't change the past. But if you really mean it—if you really want to make amends—then stop wallowing in self-pity and start being better."

He nodded, his jaw tightening as he swallowed down the lump in his throat. "I'll try."

She gave him a long, measuring look before stepping back toward the door. " Good. Because honestly, you can't get much worse." he surged to his feet, the desperation in his voice cracking through the heavy silence.

"I am so fucking sorry. I'll do anything. Anything you ask, I swear."

She froze, her expression hardening further, if that were even possible. She turned to face him fully, her eyes darkened with a bitterness so profound it felt almost physical.

"Anything, huh?" she said, her tone biting, venom dripping from every word. "You think 'sorry' fixes anything? Do you think it erases what happened?"

He shook his head frantically. "No! No, I don't—I just—I don't know how to fix this!"

Her laughter was cold, hollow, a cruel mockery of amusement.

"Fix this? Fix this? Oh, you poor, deluded boy. There's no fixing this." She stepped closer to him, her voice dropping into something far more sinister. "Do you want to know what I wish for you, Malfoy? What I truly wish?"

He swallowed hard, his hands trembling at his sides. "What?"

"I wish you all the worst things in life," she hissed. "I wish that every time you fall asleep, the last thing you hear is my scream. I wish you were the one forced to clean my blood off the floor, to scrub it from the cracks in the stone. I wish they had tortured you after.

He flinched, her words hitting like physical blows.

"They did," he whispered, his voice raw with pain.

Her smile was icy, a cruel twist of her lips that held no mercy.

"Good. That's what you deserve. We were children, Malfoy—children. I would never have stood by and watched that happen to you. I never hated you. Not even when you called me all those filthy names, not even when you were your worst self. All I saw was a scared, lost little boy. Lost in his duties, lost in who he was supposed to be."

His breath hitched, but she didn't stop.

"I would've let myself suffer before I stood by and watched my classmates endure that kind of pain. But you? You're a coward. You've always been a coward. You stood there, and you watched. And you know what makes it worse?"

He shook his head, his tears flowing freely now, his throat too tight to speak.

"You can't even admit it. You can't admit what you feel. I know you're in love with me , you sick fuck." Her voice cracked on the last words, her fury mingling with something rawer, deeper. "Do you think I didn't see it? The way you look at me? The way you follow me around like a lost dog? It's pathetic."

He tried to say something, but no words came. His voice betrayed him, choking on his own emotions.

"If there's a hell, Malfoy, I'll make sure to reserve a spot right next to me. So you can spend eternity paying for what you did." Her words hung heavy in the air, a suffocating weight that pressed down on his chest until he thought he might shatter under it.

He couldn't stop the tears now, hot and relentless as they spilled down his cheeks. He didn't try to wipe them away, didn't bother to hide his anguish. What was the point? She was right. About all of it.

He opened his mouth to speak, to plead, but she held up a hand, silencing him with a look that froze him in place.

"Save your breath. There's nothing you can say that will change the past. And there's nothing you can do that will make me forget it." She turned on her heel and walked out, the sound of the door slamming behind her echoing in the empty room.

He sank to his knees, his body wracked with sobs as her words played over and over in his mind. He deserved this. Every ounce of her venom, every lash of her words.

And yet, even in his misery, even knowing he was irredeemable in her eyes, he couldn't stop loving her.

••••••••••••••

This was truly Stockholm syndrome. It had to be. There was no other explanation for the way his mind clung to her, the way his heart broke and healed in her presence, over and over again. Granger was his tormentor and his savior all at once, and the truth—the brutal, unrelenting truth—was that she consumed his every waking thought and haunted his every nightmare.

He didn't dream of her the way most men might dream of the woman they loved. His dreams were darker, suffocating. In his nightmares, all he saw was her. The Hermione of the past, writhing in pain on the cold stone floor, her screams echoing in his ears. Her blood, her tears, her pleading eyes. And worst of all—his own reflection in her torment, standing idly by, too paralyzed, too cowardly to act.

He woke up every night drenched in sweat, gasping for breath, the ghost of her cries ringing in his ears. And yet, when he opened his eyes, all he wanted was her. Not the Hermione of his nightmares, but the one who had just walked out of his flat—the one who called him a coward, who wielded her sharp tongue like a blade and cut him down to nothing. He deserved it. He deserved her anger.

After she left that night, he had collapsed onto the floor. He didn't even make it to the couch. His knees gave out, and he crumbled like a puppet whose strings had been cut. He cried—loud, gut-wrenching sobs that echoed in the empty space around him.

This wasn't just humiliation. It wasn't just guilt. This was an unraveling.

He cried for hours, the tears soaking into the sleeves of his shirt as he buried his face in his arms. He deserved this—every cutting word, every ounce of venom in her tone. Hermione hadn't just given him a dressing-down; she had laid bare every ugly truth he had been avoiding for years.

He deserved it for standing there while she suffered. He deserved it for the years of cruelty he had shown her in school, for the slurs he had thrown at her, for the cowardice that had defined his every interaction with her back then.

And yet, no matter how much he deserved her hatred, it didn't make it easier to bear.

"What is wrong with me?" he whispered into the silence, his voice hoarse from crying. "Why can't I stop? Why can't I stop loving her?"

He wanted to hate her. It would be so much easier if he could. If he could blame her for being too perfect, too infuriating, too Granger. But he couldn't.

Instead, all he could think about was her face when she turned to leave—the flash of pain behind her eyes, buried under all that anger. He wanted to believe that pain meant something. That it wasn't just hatred she felt for him.

But how could she feel anything else?

He sat on the floor, the weight of her words pressing down on him like a boulder. His chest ached, his throat burned, and his head throbbed from hours of crying. But the worst pain was the one he couldn't escape: the knowledge that no matter how much he wanted her, he might never deserve her.

Because she was right. About all of it. He was a coward. He had stood there while she suffered. He had done nothing.

And now? Now he was paying the price.

But as he sat there, his head resting against the wall, a thought crept into his mind. It was small at first, fragile, but it grew stronger with each passing second.

Maybe he couldn't change the past. Maybe he couldn't undo the harm he had caused.

But he could fight for the future.

He could fight for her.

Even if she hated him. Even if she never forgave him. Even if he spent the rest of his life trying to earn a sliver of the trust he had shattered.

Because one thing was clear to him now, clearer than anything had ever been before: he couldn't survive without her. Not really. Not in any way that mattered.

And so, as the tears finally dried on his cheeks and the silence of the flat settled around him like a shroud, Draco made a vow to himself.

He would become the man she deserved, even if she never saw it. Even if it never changed anything between them. He would do it because he owed her that much.

Because the truth was, as much as he hated himself for it, he would always love Hermione Granger.

•••••••••••••

He had three months to go. Ninety days until the shackles of his parole fell away, until the Ministry deemed him "rehabilitated" and released him back into the wizarding world as a free man. Three months of check-ins, restrictions, and a mandated existence that felt less like living and more like penance. But the closer he got to that finish line, the more he realized that freedom wasn't what he wanted.

Because freedom meant losing her.

She had been a constant fixture in his life since the Ministry had assigned her as his case worker. At first, he had hated the very idea of her. Hermione, the Golden Cunt, the war hero who had saved the world—tasked with monitoring him. It felt like a sick joke, a final humiliation in a long string of them.

But then she had shown up, clipboard in hand, her gaze sharp and assessing, and everything had shifted. She didn't pity him, which he appreciated, nor did she treat him like dirt, which he had expected. Instead, she treated him like a project. A particularly annoying, complicated project she couldn't wait to finish.

And somewhere along the way, he had fallen for her.

Not just for her brilliance, though Merlin knew she radiated intelligence in every word she spoke. Not just for her sharp wit or the way she could cut him down with a single look. No, he had fallen for all of her—the kindness she tried to hide behind a veneer of professionalism, the way she chewed on the end of her quill when she was lost in thought, the rare moments when her laughter broke through her tightly controlled exterior.

He had fallen hard.

But the realization that he loved her was quickly followed by a darker truth: in three months, she would walk out of his life forever.

And so, Malfoy did what he had always done best—he made a plan.

He wasn't delusional. He knew winning Granger's heart would be the most difficult challenge of his life. She wasn't the type to swoon over flowers or empty compliments. She would see through any attempt at manipulation in an instant. If he wanted to steal her heart, he would have to earn it.

And that terrified him.

But it didn't stop him.

He learned that she adored Earl Grey tea but hated chamomile, that she found thunderstorms soothing, and that she couldn't stand the smell of lavender. He learned that she volunteered at a magical creature sanctuary on her days off and that she had a secret soft spot for terrible wizarding romance novels.

But more than anything, he learned just how much she had given of herself after the war. She had taken on his case, and dozens like it, not because she wanted to, but because she felt it was her responsibility.

"She's saving the world again," he muttered to himself one night, staring at the ceiling of his flat. "And here I am, trying to save myself through her."

It was selfish, he knew that. Loving Hermione felt like the most selfish thing he had ever done. But it also felt like the only real thing he had left.

As the weeks passed, he began to notice subtle changes in their interactions. Hermione's sharp edges softened slightly, her eyes lingered on his a moment longer than necessary, and her scolding tone became less frequent.

Was it possible? Could she…?

No. He pushed the thought away. Granger didn't have time for romance, especially not with someone like him.

But that didn't stop him from hoping.

As the final month of his parole approached, he decided it was time to take a risk. He had three months behind him and four weeks ahead, but time was slipping through his fingers.

He didn't just want to steal her heart.

He wanted her to choose to give it to him.

And that, he knew, would take more than grand gestures or whispered confessions. It would take patience, humility, and courage—the kind of courage he had spent his entire life avoiding.

For Hermione, he would find it.

For Hermione, he would be better.

For Hermione, he would do anything.

•••••••••••••

She stumbled into his flat, the smell of firewhiskey clinging to her like a second skin. She looked utterly unlike herself—her cheeks flushed, her curls wild, and an uncharacteristic giggle escaping her lips as she leaned against the doorframe. Draco froze for a moment, unsure if he was hallucinating. Then he bolted toward her.

"Darling, are you okay?" he asked, panic rising in his voice.

She waved him off with a drunken flourish, her words slurred but cutting. "Kindly fuck off."

He winced but kept his voice steady. "You can't Apparate like this, love. You'll splinch yourself or worse. What were you thinking?"

Her eyes narrowed, and she jabbed a finger into his chest. "Like you give two fucks. I'm here because I need to be here."

He tried to guide her toward the couch, but she swatted his hands away. "Please, come and lie down for a bit," he coaxed gently.

Her response was immediate and venomous. "Don't you dare touch me, Malfoy."

"My love, please," he whispered, his voice breaking as he tried to soothe her.

But she wasn't in the mood for soothing. She shoved him hard enough that he stumbled back a step, but before he could react, she was advancing on him, wild and relentless.

"You don't get to 'my love' me," she spat, her words dripping with venom. "When we were younger, I actually thought you were…fit. Handsome, even. But then you got yourself branded like a bloody animal. Do you know how fast any ounce of sexual fantasy evaporated after that?"

Her words cut deeper than any spell ever could, but he stayed silent, his jaw tightening as he absorbed the blow. She swayed slightly, and he instinctively reached out to steady her, but she slapped his hand away.

"You just stood there," she hissed, her voice lower now, almost a growl. "While I was being tortured. Did you get off on it? Did it make you feel powerful to watch someone else hurt so you wouldn't have to?"

"No," he whispered, his voice trembling.

She leaned in closer, so close their noses were almost touching. He could feel the heat of her breath, could smell the alcohol on her lips. Her eyes bore into his, blazing with a mixture of fury and pain.

"What happened to you, Malfoy?" she asked, her voice dropping to a cruel whisper. "Did they peg you in the throne room? Torture you for kicks? Beat you until you begged for mercy?"

He clenched his fists, but he didn't speak. He didn't defend himself. He knew she was lashing out, and he knew he deserved every word of it.

"Thank Merlin you're still handsome," she sneered. "Otherwise, I'd beat the living shit out of you myself."

He snapped.

He grabbed her face with both hands, pulling her closer with a force that startled even him. Her eyes widened in shock, but she didn't pull away.

"Don't," she said, her voice trembling with a challenge. "I fucking dare you, you sick—"

He kissed her.

It wasn't soft or tentative, nor was it the kind of kiss that could be mistaken for affection. No, it was hard and punishing, a chaotic storm of desperation and unspoken emotion that felt like both a fight and a surrender all at once. His lips crashed against hers with an intensity that bordered on violent, as though he were trying to pour every unsaid word, every regret, and every ounce of longing into that single act.

To his shock, she kissed him back almost instantly, her movements just as fierce, just as raw. Her fingers found their way into his hair, tangling in the strands as though she couldn't decide whether to pull him closer or push him away. Her nails scraped against his scalp, and the sharp sting only fueled his need to hold on tighter. Their breaths mingled, ragged and uneven, as if they were both gasping for air in the midst of a drowning sea of emotions.

Her body pressed against his, rigid yet trembling, and for a moment it felt like the entire world had narrowed down to this—her warmth, her taste, the way her lips moved against his in a rhythm that was equal parts furious and desperate. It wasn't romantic. It wasn't tender. It was fire and fury, a collision of years of anger, grief, and something dangerously close to yearning, all unleashed in a single, earth-shattering kiss.

He tightened his grip on her waist, anchoring her to him as if letting go would shatter him into a thousand irreparable pieces. And yet, even through the heat of it all, there was a quiet fear—a fear that this kiss was both the beginning and the end, that it would burn out as quickly as it ignited, leaving them both more broken than before.

But in that moment, none of it mattered. All that mattered was her—Hermione Granger—kissing him back with a ferocity that matched his own, their shared history of pain and hatred bleeding into something far more complicated, far more dangerous. And as their lips moved together in that frantic, combustible dance, he realized he didn't care about the consequences.

For the first time in his life, he felt truly alive.

When they finally pulled apart, both of them were breathless, their chests heaving as though they had run a marathon. The silence between them was deafening, broken only by the erratic cadence of their breathing. Her eyes searched his, a tumultuous storm of emotions swirling in their depths—confusion, anger, and something else. Something softer. Something neither of them dared to name, let alone acknowledge.

His hands were still on her waist, his grip firm as if he feared she might vanish if he let go. He opened his mouth to speak, to say something, anything, but the words caught in his throat. What could he even say? Apologies felt too small. Explanations felt meaningless. The only truth that mattered was standing right in front of him, staring him down like a force of nature he had no hope of resisting.

Her hand twitched at her side, her fingers curling and uncurling as if she were waging an internal war. Her lips were still swollen from the kiss, her cheeks flushed, her hair wild and untamed. She looked like chaos personified, and yet she had never been more captivating. She took a hesitant step forward, then another, and before he could fully process it, her hands were on his face.

Her touch was rough, almost punishing, as if she were trying to remind herself that he was real. That this was real. Her fingers dug into his jawline, her thumbs brushing over his cheekbones with a force that was neither gentle nor kind. Her grip was possessive, demanding, and yet he found himself leaning into it like a man starved for even the harshest semblance of affection.

She stared at him with a fire in her eyes that made his knees weak. "You have the most infuriating, stupid face," she muttered, her voice a low growl. Her tone was dripping with disdain, but the way her hands trembled betrayed her. "And I hate how much I want to grab it again."

He couldn't help the small, almost incredulous laugh that escaped him. "Then do it," he whispered, his voice hoarse, his throat dry. "Grab me. Take whatever you want, Granger."

Her eyes narrowed, her lips curving into something that wasn't quite a smile. It was sharp and bitter and laced with challenge. "Don't tempt me, Malfoy," she warned, her voice like a blade cutting through the tension between them.

"Go on," he urged, his own hands sliding from her waist to rest on her hips. "Hurt me if you want. I'll take it. I'll take anything if it's from you."

Her resolve snapped like a breaking dam. She surged forward, capturing his lips again in a kiss that was just as fierce and unforgiving as the first. But this time, there was no hesitation, no pause to consider what they were doing or why. Her fingers dug into his face, tilting his head to deepen the kiss, her body pressing into his with a ferocity that left him dizzy.

It wasn't enough. It would never be enough. She needed more. Needed to feel this, to feel alive, to drown out the cacophony of emotions that had been eating her alive for far too long. She kissed him like she wanted to devour him, her nails scraping against his scalp, her breath mingling with his in a chaotic dance of desperation.

His hands roamed her back, his fingers tracing patterns through the fabric of her dress as though trying to memorize the way she felt beneath his touch. He didn't care that she was still angry, didn't care that this was probably going to end in heartbreak. All he cared about was the fact that she was here, in his arms, kissing him with a passion that felt like both salvation and destruction.

When they broke apart again, her lips were parted, her breath coming in sharp, uneven gasps. Her chest rose and fell in time with his, but any tenderness in the moment was obliterated by the sharp glare she leveled at him. She looked at him as though he were something to be studied—an anomaly, a puzzle, a regret.

"Thanks," she said finally, her voice cold, clipped, and biting. "I needed to know what it tastes like kissing you."

He blinked, the words landing like a slap across his face. Still, he managed to muster a small, rueful smile. "And?" he asked, his tone soft but tinged with hope. "What's the verdict?"

She scoffed, rolling her eyes as if his question were laughable. "Get off your high horse, Malfoy," she snapped. "I always wondered what it'd feel like to kiss a Death Eater. You know, for science. Curiosity satisfied. That's all it was."

Her words hit him like a hex to the chest, but before he could recover, she kept going, her tone dripping with disdain. 

"And I assume," she continued, her lip curling in a mockery of a smile, "you've spent plenty of time imagining what it's like to fuck a Mudblood."

His heart sank. He stared at her, struggling to keep his expression neutral even as her words cut him open. "Hermione," he began, but she interrupted him with a sharp wave of her hand.

"Don't," she said firmly, her voice like a whip. "Don't you dare try to make this into something it's not. It changes nothing between us. Nothing."

He swallowed hard, the lump in his throat threatening to choke him. He had no idea what to say. What could he say? She had taken his most shameful truths—the mark on his arm, the thoughts that had plagued him for years—and thrown them back at him with razor-sharp precision.

But she wasn't wrong. Of course, he had imagined what it would be like to touch her, to kiss her, to have her. Not just any Mudblood—her. Only her. Always her.

Still, hearing her reduce him to nothing more than a branded ex-Death Eater with filthy fantasies was like being stabbed with a blade he had willingly handed her.

She stepped back, her expression unreadable. "Do yourself a favor, Malfoy," she said, her voice softer now but no less cutting. "Don't mistake whatever this is for forgiveness. It's not. And it never will be."

With that, she turned on her heel and strode toward the door, leaving him standing there, his chest aching and his heart in pieces.

He watched her go, the sound of the door slamming behind her echoing in his ears. Slowly, he brought a hand to his lips, still tingling from the force of her kiss.

She had called it curiosity. A mistake. A fluke.

But for him, it had been everything. And that was the difference between them—she could walk away as if nothing had happened, while he would be haunted by the taste of her for the rest of his life.