Chapter 9

Draco woke hours later, his body aching but his mind surprisingly clear. His gaze flickered to the floor, and his heart tightened at the sight of her. Hermione was curled up awkwardly on the carpet, her hair wild, her face etched with lines of worry even in sleep. He couldn't help himself. He reached out, his hand trembling as he gently smoothed a thumb over her cheek.

She startled awake at his touch, her brown eyes snapping open in alarm.

"Darling…" His voice was hoarse, barely more than a whisper.

Her worry was immediate, sharp, and cutting through the haze of sleep. She scrambled to her knees, leaning toward him. "Are you okay? Do you feel anything? Are you better?"

"Give me your gorgeous hands," he murmured, holding his own out.

She hesitated but gave in, letting him pull her up from the floor. He tugged her closer, guiding her to sit on the edge of the bed. With a flick of his wand, the sweat-soaked sheets disappeared, replaced by fresh ones. Another spell cleaned him up, leaving him feeling slightly more human.

As she perched on the edge of the bed, her worried gaze locked onto his. "Promise me," she demanded, her voice hard and unyielding. "Promise me you will never do anything like that again. Ever."

His throat tightened, but he didn't hesitate. "I promise."

The sincerity in his voice made her chest ache. He reached out, pulling her closer, gently but insistently, until their bodies were pressed together. Her warmth was a comfort he hadn't realized he needed. He buried his face in her hair, kissing her temple softly.

"Thank you," he whispered, his voice raw. "For… you know. For saving me."

She pulled back slightly, just enough to meet his eyes. "Of course."

"I mean it," he insisted, his fingers brushing against hers. "I promise, I won't make myself a task again."

Her expression softened, though her voice still carried a sharp edge. "You are not a task, Malfoy. Don't ever think that."

He let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. "But I am. You'll see. We've only got a few weeks left, and then you'll just…"

She tilted her head, narrowing her eyes. "And then I'll what?"

He swallowed hard, his voice breaking as he continued, "You'll abandon me. I'll never see you again. And I—" He stopped himself, turning his face away, but she grabbed his chin, forcing him to look at her.

Her fingers stroked his jaw gently, her touch grounding him. "Would you like me to visit you after this is over?"

His head snapped up, his pale eyes widening. "Yes!" His voice cracked with desperation. "Please, darling. I don't know what I'll do without you in my miserable life. You're the only reason I'm still breathing."

She exhaled, trying to maintain her composure, though her heart was pounding. "Perhaps," she began, her tone light but tinged with something vulnerable, "this is just Stockholm syndrome. Maybe you don't actually fancy me, and—"

"No!" he cut her off, his voice filled with urgency. "Hermione, stop. You don't get to do that. You don't get to brush this off like it's nothing."

She opened her mouth to respond, but he pressed on, the words spilling out of him like he couldn't hold them back anymore.

"I am in love with you," he said, his voice trembling with emotion. "Utterly, completely, hopelessly in love with you. And not because you saved me, or because you've been helping me through this hellhole of a situation. I love you because you're brilliant and fierce and maddeningly stubborn. Because you're the only person who's ever made me feel like I'm worth more than the mistakes I've made. You see through all my bullshit, Hermione, and you stay anyway."

She stared at him, stunned into silence, but he wasn't done.

"I love the way your mind works, the way you argue with me and put me in my place without a second thought. I love the way you care so deeply, even when it hurts you. And yes, I've imagined what it would be like to be with you—really be with you—but it's not just that. I want all of you, Hermione. Your brilliance, your kindness, your fire, your flaws. Everything."

His hands trembled as he reached for hers, holding them tightly. "I know I don't deserve you. Hell, I'm probably the last person on this earth who does. But I love you. And I will spend every day trying to prove that to you, if you'll let me."

Her throat tightened, and for a moment, she couldn't speak. The raw vulnerability in his voice, the sheer intensity of his words, left her shaken.

"Draco…" she whispered, her voice barely audible.

"I'm not asking you to say it back," he said quickly, his grip on her hands tightening as if he were afraid she might slip away. "I just—I needed you to know. Because even if you walk out of this flat tomorrow and never look back, I'll still love you. I'll always love you."

Her chest ached as she stared at him, his pale eyes searching hers for something she couldn't quite name. She didn't know what to say, didn't know how to process the weight of his confession.

But she knew one thing for certain: she couldn't walk away. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

••••••••••••

30 days left.

Draco could feel the weight of every single hour ticking by, each moment pulling him closer to an end he wasn't ready for. His hands fidgeted restlessly, his foot tapping against the cold wooden floor of his flat. His anxious energy consumed him, leaving him on edge. He knew it was ridiculous—every examination had come back perfect. He was innocent.

Innocent.

The word made his stomach turn. Draco Malfoy, innocent? How laughable. The entire situation reeked of irony, and the more he thought about it, the angrier he became. Theodore Nott—his so-called "friend"—had been the one to smuggle out a bloody time-turner, and because of that cursed Dark Mark still etched into his arm, they'd pinned it on him. It was easy to mistake them. Too easy. Just another branded Slytherin caught in the tangle of guilt by association.

What was he? A placeholder? A scapegoat? A sacrifice for something bigger? Draco had no idea. Merlin knows what they hoped to accomplish by locking him up for this long, but it didn't matter now. All his examinations had come back clean. He would be free.

Free.

The word tasted bitter on his tongue. Because freedom no longer seemed like something to look forward to—it tasted like emptiness, like solitude. What kind of life was he returning to? The Manor he despised? The cold, hollow rooms filled with nothing but his mother's perfume and his father's ghosts? He shuddered to think about it.

And then his thoughts drifted, unbidden, to her.

Hermione Granger.

Merlin, what a problem she was. A problem he couldn't solve no matter how many sleepless nights he spent overthinking every look she gave him, every biting word she hurled his way, and every single time she saved him—physically and emotionally—without even realizing it.

How was it possible to love someone so maddening, so impossible? How was it possible to want someone who seemed to despise him with every fiber of her being?

He ran his hands through his hair in frustration, letting out a low groan.

He had to make her love him. Somehow.

The thought made him freeze for a moment. Make her love him? The idea was laughable. She wasn't someone you "made" do anything. If anyone could match his stubbornness, it was Granger. She was a force of nature. Brilliant, sharp-tongued, and maddeningly unforgiving.

The memory of their last exchange hit him like a punch to the gut. Her words—so cutting, so cruel—had left him shattered. But he deserved it. Merlin, he deserved far worse. He'd stood there in that grand, empty hall during the war, watched her scream, bleed, and break, and he'd done nothing. Nothing except hate himself for the rest of his miserable life.

How could she ever love someone like him?

He sighed, rubbing his hands over his face. Thirty days. Thirty days left to do the impossible. Thirty days to win over a woman who seemed determined to make him pay for his sins in ways that no prison cell ever could.

And yet…

He still couldn't stop thinking about her.

The way her hair frizzed around her face when she was flustered. The way her lips pursed when she was about to verbally eviscerate someone—usually him. The way her eyes sparkled with intellect, even when they were narrowed at him in disgust.

The way she had looked at him that night, kneeling at his side, begging him to stay alive.

"Don't do this to me, Draco. Please."

The memory sent an ache through his chest that he didn't know how to soothe. She had been so desperate for him to live, and yet she still acted like she didn't care about him. Like she didn't stay up at night thinking about him the way he thought about her.

He clenched his fists. No. There had to be a way to fix this. A way to show her that he was more than a mark on his arm, more than the mistakes of his past. A way to prove to her that he wasn't a coward.

But how? How?

The idea of romance made him want to laugh. What did he know about it? His relationships had always been hollow—meaningless entanglements that never touched anything real. Flowers? Chocolate? Poetry? He doubted Hermione would give him the time of day for something so cliché.

No, she wasn't the kind of woman to be swayed by cheap gestures. If he wanted her to see him, really see him, he would have to tear himself open. Show her everything—every ugly, broken piece of himself. But that terrified him more than anything else.

He pushed himself off the couch, pacing the room like a caged animal. He couldn't sit still. Not when his mind was spinning so violently. Thirty days. He had thirty bloody days to try to pull off a miracle, and it felt like the walls of his flat were closing in on him.

He needed a plan. He needed something to hold onto, because the thought of her walking out of his life forever was unbearable.

No, he wouldn't let that happen.

"I'll make her see," he muttered to himself, his voice shaking with determination. "I'll show her that I'm not the same Draco Malfoy I was."

The words hung in the air, fragile and unconvincing.

But what choice did he have?

For once in his life, he wasn't fighting for his family's approval or his own pride. This wasn't about power or appearances or surviving a war he never wanted to fight. This was about her. About holding onto the one person who had ever made him want to be better.

He'd fight for her. For the chance to have something real.

Even if he failed.

Even if she left him broken at the end of it all.

Because he was already broken without her.

And maybe—just maybe—if he tried hard enough, she would see him. Not as a Death Eater. Not as a coward. But as Draco. Just Draco.

And that, he thought, might be enough.

•••••••••••••

24 days left.

Hermione was losing her mind. Completely and utterly losing it.

What was she supposed to do with Malfoy?

Every time she thought about him—and Merlin, she was thinking about him far too often—it left her with a tangled knot of emotions she couldn't unravel. Anger. Frustration. Annoyance. Confusion. And something else entirely that made her want to smack herself in the face.

She liked him.

No. She didn't like him. She couldn't possibly like him. She simply… noticed things about him. That was all. Like the way he had that ridiculously sharp jawline, practically carved from marble. Or the way his sleeves were always rolled up just enough to reveal the veins running down his forearms. Or how his stupid muscles shifted beneath his clothes when he moved.

"Stop it," she muttered to herself, pacing in her flat. "You are not allowed to find Malfoy attractive. You are a grown woman, not a hormone-addled teenager."

Her inner voice snorted back at her. Are you sure about that? Because you're thinking about him an awful lot.

She groaned, pressing the heels of her hands into her eyes as if she could scrub the thoughts away. She wasn't thinking about him that much. Except maybe she was. Maybe she was thinking about the way his shirt stretched across his broad shoulders, or how his hair—infuriatingly perfect—always fell in his eyes in a way that made her want to reach out and push it back.

And then there was the matter of his hands. Merlin's beard, his hands.

Those long fingers. The ones that looked like they were made to insert into her…—No. No!

She needed a bloody exorcism.

"Get a grip!" she hissed to herself, gripping the edge of the kitchen counter for support. She stared down at her reflection in the polished surface, her expression wild. "What is wrong with you?"

Maybe it was her hormones. Yes, that had to be it. She was ovulating or something equally traitorous, and her body was sabotaging her brain. It was biology, plain and simple. A chemical reaction to an undeniably fit man who happened to be nearby. It was no different than noticing a well-built stranger on the street. Nothing to be ashamed of. Completely natural.

Except the stranger wasn't someone who'd watched her be tortured. The stranger wasn't someone she'd spent years hating.

The stranger wasn't Draco Malfoy.

And yet here she was, thinking about climbing him like he was a tree.

Hermione let out a strangled noise of frustration and collapsed into the chair at her table, burying her face in her hands. "This is ridiculous. This is completely and utterly ridiculous."

It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair that he looked like that. It wasn't fair that he'd turned from a sniveling little ferret into someone with cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass and shoulders so broad she could probably sit on them. It wasn't fair that his voice—low and raspy, always with that damn drawl—sent shivers down her spine every time he said something as simple as "Granger."

And it definitely wasn't fair that her brain was now conjuring up visions of him shirtless. Or worse.

"Jesus Christ," she muttered, slamming her forehead against the table with a thud. She stayed there, breathing heavily against the wood, wishing it would somehow cool down the heat simmering in her cheeks. "I need therapy. I actually need therapy."

Her mind wandered, unbidden, back to that kiss.

That terrible, soul-consuming kiss she'd shared with him. The one she'd spent weeks trying to forget. She had kissed him out of rage, out of desperation, out of sheer curiosity. And yet here she was, replaying it in her mind like it was some forbidden secret.

The way he'd gripped her face. The way he kissed her like he wanted to destroy her and worship her all at once. The way she'd melted against him, utterly incapable of pushing him away, no matter how much she wanted to.

No. No. Stop it. STOP IT.

She sat up abruptly, breathing heavily as if she'd just run a marathon.

This wasn't her. She wasn't the kind of woman who got distracted by a pretty face and strong hands. She wasn't the kind of woman who swooned over someone she should loathe with every fiber of her being. Hermione Granger was rational. Logical. Level-headed.

Except she was none of those things when it came to him.

"Malfoy, you absolute menace," she muttered bitterly, her arms crossed tightly over her chest as if to hold herself together. "Why couldn't you have stayed ugly and pathetic? It would've made my life so much easier."

Of course, he hadn't. He had to go and grow into someone who was, quite frankly, illegal to look at for extended periods of time. He had to go and be witty, and sharp-tongued, and maddeningly vulnerable in a way that made her want to simultaneously strangle him and pull him into her arms.

This was his fault. It had to be. Malfoy was trying to ruin her life.

And the worst part? It was working.

She stood abruptly, pushing her chair back so forcefully it scraped against the floor. She needed to do something. She needed a distraction. Anything to keep herself from spiraling further into this pit of lust and frustration.

She eyed the stack of books on her desk, a safe haven of distraction, but even they seemed to mock her. Nothing could help her right now. Not logic. Not reason. Not Hozier, no matter how hard she tried to play his music on repeat to drown out Malfoy's voice in her head.

Her brain was officially a lost cause.

She rubbed her temples furiously, muttering to herself like a lunatic. "It's just physical. It's just physical. It's not like I want to marry him. I just… I just want to peg him. Once. For therapeutic reasons. That's perfectly normal, right? Totally healthy."

Her reflection in the window gave her no answers, only a vague look of concern.

Hermione groaned and collapsed back into the chair, her head lolling against the backrest. Twenty-four days left. That was all. She could survive this. She could suppress these feelings and get over it. She'd done harder things in her life.

Right?

…Right?

Her inner voice wasn't so sure. Because deep down, beneath all the anger and denial, she knew the truth. She knew that Draco Malfoy had wormed his way into her head, and no amount of logic or hatred could chase him out.

And that realization—no matter how much she tried to fight it—was the most infuriating thing of all.

•••••••••••••

20 days left.

Draco was unraveling.

He had spent the better part of the morning chopping onions, searing meat, and furiously scrubbing down his kitchen after an explosion of flour had left a fine layer of white dust over everything. He didn't know what the bloody hell he was doing—cooking wasn't something a Malfoy was raised to do—but he had to get this right.

It was a stupid, sentimental plan. A meal. For her. On their last day. A token. A plea.

A desperate attempt to get her to stay.

Every day when she arrived, all stern eyes and clipped words, she seemed further away. The distance between them was widening, and it gnawed at him like rats in his stomach.

She was going to leave him.

The thought made his fingers tighten dangerously around the knife handle.

She was going to walk away without looking back, and that was something he couldn't allow. He wouldn't allow it.

The food sizzled on the stove, a sharp hiss breaking the silence as he stared blankly at the countertop. His chest heaved, his breathing uneven. The idea of her leaving him—vanishing from his life like she was never there—felt like a curse. He didn't know how to exist without her anymore.

She can't leave me.

The thought came from somewhere dark, somewhere primal. It flickered across his mind like a spark in the dark.

Because if she left, then what was he? Nothing. A hollow shell. A man who'd tasted salvation and had it ripped away.

She was the only light he had in his miserable existence. The only warmth that had ever broken through the cold fortress he called a heart.

If she left him—if she abandoned him to the darkness again—he would shatter.

He wouldn't survive it.

His hand trembled as he put the knife down on the counter. He wiped his palms on a dish towel, his mind spinning. His thoughts—once steady and ordered—were fracturing. Twisting. Warping into something darker.

She couldn't leave. She wouldn't.

If she tried to leave, he'd follow her. Wherever she went, he would be there. Lurking in the shadows. Watching. Waiting. A ghost in her life.

If she tried to move on, he'd tear through anyone who got in his way. Any man who thought he could touch her—look at her—would regret it. She belongs to me.

The words echoed in his skull, low and venomous.

His grip on the towel tightened until his knuckles turned white. The room felt stifling, like the walls were pressing in on him. He felt unhinged, like he was teetering on the edge of something vast and uncontrollable.

Don't be ridiculous. You're losing it.

He shoved the towel aside and braced his hands against the countertop, staring at the swirling patterns in the marble as if they might anchor him.

But the darkness in his mind didn't stop. It festered.

If she left, he would find her. He'd follow her until she couldn't ignore him anymore. He'd haunt her doorstep, her dreams, her waking hours. Until she realized she was his. Until she understood that he was the only one who would ever truly know her—truly see her.

He thought of locking her away.

The image came unbidden, sharp and clear, like a cruel whisper in the back of his mind. He'd keep her in a room—somewhere safe, somewhere she couldn't escape. Just him and her. Only him. She wouldn't need anyone else. No one would ever see her again, ever touch her again.

She'd be his. Completely, utterly his.

He closed his eyes, sucking in a sharp breath as his heart thundered in his chest.

Merlin, you're sick.

The thought jolted him, and he straightened abruptly, stepping back from the counter like it had burned him. What the hell was wrong with him? Who thought things like that?

"You're pathetic," he muttered bitterly to himself, running a hand through his hair. "Absolutely pathetic."

But no matter how hard he scolded himself, the possessive thoughts lingered like smoke in his lungs.

She was his. She didn't know it yet, but she was.

And he would do anything—anything—to make her see it.

The sound of the food burning on the stove snapped him out of his spiral, and he rushed to salvage what he could, swearing under his breath.

As he worked, he tried to focus on his plan. It was simple, really: he would cook for her. Show her that he was capable of being good—of being the kind of man she might want.

And if that didn't work…

He swallowed hard. He didn't let himself think about what he might do if that didn't work.

But deep down, he knew. He would let the darkness take him.

Because he couldn't lose her. He refused to lose her.

She was his salvation. His obsession. His undoing.

And if she tried to leave him, she'd find out just how far he was willing to go to keep her.