Chapter 11

Eight Days Left

Eight days. Eight miserable, excruciating days until freedom. Eight days until he would be handed his wand, his name somewhat cleared, and the chance to rejoin a world that had chewed him up and spat him out.

But what did it matter? What did any of it matter?

He paced his flat like a caged animal as usual, the seconds ticking by with agonizing slowness. His chest felt heavy, as if the weight of his impending freedom was crushing him instead of liberating him. The wand he'd once carried with pride now felt like an empty promise. The life he had envisioned—wealth, power, prestige—had shattered long ago, leaving him in this purgatory.

Because life meant absolutely nothing without her.

He rubbed his temples, trying to focus on anything but Hermione. But her name echoed in his mind like a curse. Eight days until she would no longer have a reason to come here, no excuse to check on him. Eight days until she would walk out of his life, taking with her the only spark of warmth he had felt in years.

"Bloody hell," he muttered, slamming his hands down on the kitchen counter. "This isn't freedom. It's torture."

Draco Malfoy, the man who had faced war, death, and the wrath of Voldemort himself, was unraveling over a woman who barely tolerated him half the time. But it wasn't just her beauty—though she was stunning. It wasn't just her intelligence—though she was brilliant in ways that made his head spin. It was… her.

Her fierce determination, her biting wit, the way she could simultaneously infuriate and captivate him with just a glance. The way she had seen him at his lowest and hadn't turned away.

And yet, she was going to leave him.

He sank onto the sofa, his head in his hands. What would he do when she was gone? Would he spend his days staring at the walls of this flat, haunted by her absence? Would he walk the streets of London hoping for a chance encounter, only to see her laughing with her friends, happy and moving on? Would he have the strength to endure it, or would he crumble, consumed by the emptiness she left behind?

He thought about the first time she had walked into his flat, her presence filling the room like sunlight breaking through storm clouds. He thought about the nights they'd argued, her fire matching his in a way that made him feel alive. He thought about the rare, quiet moments, when the walls between them seemed to lower just a fraction, and he dared to believe that maybe, just maybe, she felt something too.

But eight days wasn't enough. It wasn't enough to win her over, to make her see him as more than a broken man clinging to scraps of hope. He had tried to convince himself that he didn't need her, that he could rebuild his life on his own. But it was a lie.

Because life without Hermione wasn't a life at all.

He looked at the clock. Eight days, he thought bitterly. Eight days to figure out a way to make her stay. Eight days to show her that he was worth something, that he could be the man she deserved.

But what could he offer her? His name was still tarnished, his reputation in ruins. He had nothing but his broken heart and the desperate hope that she might see him, truly see him, before it was too late.

He sighed and leaned back, staring at the ceiling. Maybe freedom wasn't what he needed. Maybe what he needed was her. And if she walked out of his life, he wasn't sure he'd ever recover.

"Eight days," he whispered to himself, his voice trembling with the weight of it all. "Eight days to lose everything."

As the hours stretched into the night, he sat there, drowning in his thoughts. The idea of life without her wasn't just unbearable—it was impossible. And as the days dwindled, he knew one thing with absolute certainty: he couldn't let her go. Not without a fight.

••••••••••••

The creature was back. Again.

He stared down at the furry orange monster that had unceremoniously sauntered into his flat as though it owned the place. Its squashed face, its eyes glaring with an almost human-like disdain, and its overly fluffy tail were the very embodiment of everything he detested about cats.

Why was this ugly creature here? Again?

"Crookshanks," he muttered under his breath, as though the name itself was a curse. He was half-convinced that the thing wasn't even a cat. It had to be part Kneazle or some other magical aberration designed solely to torment him.

The cat padded into the room like a tiny ruler inspecting his domain, his gait slow and deliberate, his tail swishing behind him as if mocking his discomfort.

He groaned, running a hand through his hair. "Why, Granger? Why must you unleash this monstrosity upon me?"

He had never been a pet person, not really. Sure, the Malfoy estate had been home to several albino peacocks, but they were more decorative than anything else. They didn't demand attention or invade his personal space. They were content to strut around the grounds, looking vaguely regal and entirely disinterested in human affairs.

This... this thing, however, was another story entirely.

Crookshanks had decided, for reasons beyond his comprehension, that he was going to personally disturb his carefully constructed life of solitude. The beast had already claimed the armchair by the window as his throne, sprawled out in all his orange, furry glory. Now, it seemed, he was making it his mission to infiltrate his every waking moment.

The cat jumped onto the sofa, his sharp claws catching the upholstery as he hoisted himself up with deliberate slowness. He winced.

"Careful with that, you fiend," he muttered, narrowing his eyes.

Crookshanks turned his head, fixing Draco with a look that could only be described as smug disdain.

"Don't look at me like that," he snapped, pointing an accusing finger at the cat. "I don't like you, and you don't like me. Let's just keep our distance, alright?"

Crookshanks ignored him entirely, settling himself in the very spot he had been about to sit in. He kneaded the cushion with his claws, purring loudly as though to rub in his dominance.

Draco scowled, crossing his arms. "Fantastic. Now I can't even sit in my own bloody flat."

The cat continued purring, his half-lidded eyes oozing smug satisfaction.

"Why do you even like him?" he muttered aloud, thinking of Hermione. "He's ugly, he's rude, and he's clearly plotting my demise. Is it because he's your familiar? Some sort of magical bond? Or are you just blind to his flaws, the same way you are about my better qualities?"

Crookshanks let out a soft chirrup, stretching lazily before curling into a ball.

He glared at the cat. "Don't act cute. I know your game."

The truth was, Crookshanks unsettled him. It wasn't just the cat's appearance, though it was certainly… unconventional. It was the intelligence in his gaze, the way he seemed to understand every word he said. It was as if the beast could see right through him, peeling back the layers of sarcasm and bravado to find the insecure, hopeless man beneath.

Draco hated it.

He hated the way Crookshanks followed her around the flat, always by her side, always her first priority. He hated the way the cat would jump onto her lap, earning a smile and a gentle scratch behind the ears while he was left to stew in his envy.

Most of all, he hated the fact that Crookshanks seemed to like him.

Yes, the cat that he despised, the cat he had called ugly and cursed under his breath, seemed to have decided that Draco Malfoy was worth his attention.

It had started with small things—a nudge against his leg, a soft meow when he entered the room. At first, he thought it was coincidence, but now he wasn't so sure. The beast had begun seeking him out, jumping onto his lap uninvited, rubbing against his arm, and purring with maddening persistence.

He didn't understand it. Why would Crookshanks, who could have easily ignored him entirely, insist on invading his space?

"You're trying to win me over," he said, narrowing his eyes at the cat. "Well, it's not going to work."

Crookshanks blinked up at him, his eyes wide and unbothered.

"I mean it," he continued, leaning closer. "I'm not going to fall for your tricks. You might have Granger wrapped around your paw, but I see right through you."

Crookshanks yawned, a slow, exaggerated motion that made his blood boil.

"Fine. Be that way," he muttered, standing up. "But don't think for a second that I'm going to—"

Before he could finish, Crookshanks leapt onto his lap, curling into a ball and purring loudly. Draco froze, his arms awkwardly raised as if the cat were some sort of explosive device.

"Granger," he called out, his voice strained. "Your... thing is on me again."

She appeared in the doorway, her arms crossed and a smirk tugging at her lips. "Crooks likes you," she said simply.

"Well, I don't like him," he shot back.

She laughed softly, shaking her head. "You're impossible, Malfoy."

"And yet, you keep coming back," he muttered under his breath, though the corners of his mouth twitched upward despite himself.

He felt the deep rumble of Crookshanks' purrs vibrating against his thighs as the smug beast settled deeper into his lap. He let out a long sigh, his head leaning back against the sofa as he stared at the ceiling. How did his life come to this? The once-feared Draco Malfoy reduced to playing host to a half-Kneazle furball and the woman who absolutely infuriated and enchanted him in equal measure.

Maybe the beast wasn't so bad after all. Or maybe he was just losing his mind.

Her sharp voice cut through his thoughts like a cold wind. "As we close in on your last week, how do you feel?"

Draco turned his head to look at her, trying to ignore the way her presence seemed to fill the entire room. She leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, her expression as unreadable as ever.

"You're not my therapist, Granger," he snapped.

Her lips curled into a smirk, but her eyes flashed with annoyance. "And yet, here I am, asking you questions and bringing you company. You could at least pretend to be grateful."

He scoffed, his hand twitching as though resisting the urge to shove Crookshanks off his lap. "Company? Last time you brought a whore as company. And now this—this monster sitting in my living room. Frankly, I'd take the whore."

She raised a single brow, her smirk turning icy. "Well, if that's the kind of companionship you prefer, I can call Mindy again. Maybe she can…" She paused, letting her words hang in the air like a challenge, her tone dripping with mockery. "...help you with whatever you think you don't need from me."

His jaw clenched, the words stinging more than they should. "Stop this!" he barked, his voice louder than he intended. Crookshanks flinched, his tail flicking in irritation, but otherwise stayed put. "I don't need it, woman. I DON'T NEED ANYONE."

Her face hardened, her gaze slicing through him like a blade. For a moment, neither of them said anything, the tension crackling between them like a live wire.

"Well," she said finally, her voice eerily calm, "that makes things easier, doesn't it?"

She turned on her heel, her curls bouncing as she headed toward the door. "Crooks! Come, love. We're going home."

He froze, his breath catching in his throat. No. Don't leave.

But he couldn't say it.

He watched as she scooped up the smug beast from his lap, her movements brisk and efficient, as though she were wiping away his very existence.

"Hermione—"

She didn't stop, didn't even turn around. She marched out of the flat without so much as a glance back, the door slamming behind her with a force that reverberated in his chest.

He sat there, stunned, the emptiness of the room swallowing him whole. Something inside him cracked, splintered, as though her departure had ripped open a wound he didn't even know he had.

"Why?" he whispered to the silence. "Why do I always do this?"

He buried his face in his hands, his mind racing. He'd pushed her away, again, because that's what he did. That's what he'd always done. He didn't know how to keep people. He didn't know how to love without destroying.

But gods, he loved her.

The realization hit him like a curse to the chest, stealing his breath. He loved her sharp tongue, her unrelenting spirit, her messy hair, and her insufferable need to fix everyone around her. He loved the way she challenged him, the way she made him feel like maybe, just maybe, he wasn't beyond redemption.

And now she was gone.

He stood abruptly, pacing the room like a caged animal. He wanted to chase after her, to beg her to stay, to explain that he didn't mean what he said. But his feet felt like lead, his body frozen by the fear of rejection.

His eyes landed on the spot where Crookshanks had been moments before, the cushions still indented with the weight of the beast. He let out a bitter laugh. Even the damn cat had left him.

"Pathetic," he muttered to himself, running a hand through his hair.

He couldn't keep doing this. He couldn't keep pushing her away and then wallowing in his own misery when she left. He had to do something, be something, for her.

Because life without her wasn't life at all.

And if that meant enduring the judgmental glare of her orange monstrosity of a cat, then so be it.

••••••••••••

3 Days Left

Draco sat alone in the dimly lit flat, the walls seeming to close in around him. The silence was suffocating, broken only by the soft ticking of a clock on the wall. Three days. That's all that was left.

Three days until he would officially be free. Free to leave this purgatory, free to hold his wand again, free to step out into the world that still whispered his name with venom.

But freedom was an illusion. What was freedom without her?

He stared at the small amber bottle on the table in front of him. The pills inside shimmered faintly under the dull light, their presence a siren song. He reached for the bottle with trembling hands, unscrewing the cap with a precision that felt both deliberate and detached.

The pills clinked softly as he poured a few into his palm. Xanax, his constant companion these past weeks. It didn't judge him, didn't ask questions, didn't leave him. It was steady, reliable. It numbed the storm raging inside his mind, quieted the voices that told him he wasn't enough, that he'd never be enough.

He rolled a pill between his fingers, examining it as if it held the answers to all his problems. "You're nice to me," he muttered under his breath. His voice sounded foreign to his own ears, hoarse and empty.

He popped the pill into his mouth, chasing it with a sip of water. The bitterness lingered on his tongue, but it didn't matter. Within moments, the familiar haze began to settle over him, a comforting blanket dulling the edges of his pain.

But it wasn't enough.

He leaned back on the sofa, his head lolling to the side as he stared at the bottle again. How many would it take? How many to make it all go away?

You don't deserve this life anyway, a voice whispered in his mind.

He closed his eyes, the weight of his guilt pressing down on him like a crushing tide. He thought of his mother, her cold, calculating gaze. He thought of his father, the man who had shaped him into the person he despised. And then he thought of Hermione—Hermione, with her fierce eyes and relentless spirit, the only person who had ever dared to look at him like he was worth saving.

But she wasn't here now.

Because he'd driven her away.

"Good," he muttered to himself. "She deserves better than this. Better than me."

The tears came suddenly, hot and unchecked, spilling down his pale cheeks. He buried his face in his hands, his body shaking with sobs he couldn't contain.

He deserved to die.

Didn't he?

The thought clung to him, dark and insidious, wrapping itself around his mind like a vice. What had he ever done to deserve happiness? To deserve forgiveness?

The clock ticked on, a cruel reminder that time marched forward whether he was ready or not.

Draco reached for the bottle again, his fingers brushing against the smooth glass. He hesitated, his breath hitching. For a moment, he saw her face in his mind's eye—Hermione, standing in the doorway, her arms crossed and her eyes filled with fire.

"What would you think of me now?" he whispered into the empty room.

The thought was unbearable.

With a sudden burst of anger, he hurled the bottle across the room. It hit the wall with a sharp crack, the pills scattering like tiny white stars across the floor.

Draco collapsed back onto the sofa, his chest heaving. The room seemed impossibly still, the silence pressing in on him like a physical weight.

Hermione had been restless all night, her instincts screaming at her that something wasn't right. For hours, she paced her small flat, her mind spinning with worry about Draco. His demeanor over the past few days had been more strained than usual, his silences heavier, his occasional snide remarks brittle, as though they could shatter under the weight of his despair.

Then, as if by some cosmic intervention—or sheer panic—her heart skipped a beat, and she felt it. A wrongness, a pull deep in her chest. Something was happening.

Without a second thought, she grabbed her wand and apparated straight to his flat.

"MALFOY!"

Her voice echoed through the flat like a thunderclap.

The room was dim, the curtains drawn tight against the world. It reeked of stale air and despair. She spotted him instantly, sprawled across the sofa like a discarded doll, his complexion alarmingly pale. Her breath caught in her throat as she rushed toward him.

"Malfoy!" she repeated, her voice cracking with urgency.

His eyes were closed, his chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths. On the floor beside him lay a shattered pill bottle, its contents scattered like confetti at a macabre party.

Without thinking, Hermione dropped to her knees beside him. She slapped his face—hard.

"WAKE UP!" she yelled, her voice trembling with fear and fury.

Draco's head jerked to the side, his eyelids fluttering open. He groaned softly, his gaze unfocused.

"Darling?" he mumbled, his voice thick and slurred.

"You absolute idiot!" she hissed, her hands shaking as she grabbed his face to force him to look at her. "What the hell did you do to yourself? Do you have any idea how close—how bloody close—you came to—"

Her voice broke, and she had to take a deep breath to steady herself.

Draco blinked at her, confusion and shame warring in his hazy gray eyes. "I didn't—"

"Don't you dare try to deny it," she snapped, cutting him off. "I know what this is. I've been where you are, Malfoy. And it's not some romantic, tragic act—it's bloody selfish! Did you even think about what this would do to me?"

Her words hit him like a slap, sharper than the one that had woken him. He looked away, unable to meet her fiery gaze.

"I didn't ask you to care," he muttered weakly.

"And yet, here I am," she shot back, her voice dripping with anger and something softer—something like desperation. "Because no matter how much you push me away, I do care. You're not allowed to give up, Draco. Not on my watch."

She grabbed her wand, muttering a quick diagnostic spell to assess the damage. Her hands were deft but unsteady, her emotions threatening to overwhelm her.

"You've poisoned yourself with these pills," she said, her tone clinical despite the tremor in her voice. "We need to flush them out of your system."

Draco watched her with a mix of guilt and awe as she worked, her brow furrowed in concentration. Her hair was wild, her cheeks flushed, and she looked like an avenging angel sent to drag him back from the brink.

"Hermione…" he whispered.

"Don't talk," she snapped, not looking at him. "Save your energy."

She conjured a glass of water and pressed it to his lips, forcing him to drink. Then she performed a spell that made him retch violently into a bucket she had summoned. Tears streamed down her face as she held him steady, her hands firm yet gentle.

When it was over, Draco collapsed back onto the sofa, utterly spent. Hermione sat beside him, her shoulders slumping as the adrenaline began to fade.

"Why?" she asked softly, her voice barely more than a whisper. "Why would you do this, you promised you wouldn't."

Draco turned his head to look at her, his eyes glassy with exhaustion and something deeper—something raw and unguarded.

"Because I can't do this without you," he admitted, his voice breaking. "Because every time I think about you leaving, it feels like the ground is being ripped out from under me. I'm nothing without you, Hermione. And I hate myself for needing you this much, but I can't stop."

Her breath hitched, and for a moment, she didn't know what to say.

"You bloody fool," she said finally, her voice trembling. "Do you really think I'd just walk away after all this? After you? You infuriating, arrogant, ridiculous man."

His lips twitched into the faintest ghost of a smile. "I think you'd be better off."

The tension in the room was thick, the kind of heaviness that clings to your skin and sinks into your bones. They sat there, staring at each other, both exhausted, both raw, yet unable to turn away.

"Well, you're wrong," she said finally, her voice firm despite the tremble that threatened to creep in. Her eyes locked onto his, fierce and unyielding. "And if you ever pull something like this again, I swear to Merlin, I will kill you myself."

His lips twitched into a faint smile, though it carried the weight of his sadness. "Noted," he murmured, his voice low, tinged with something she couldn't quite name.

Silence fell between them, heavy but not unwelcome. It was the kind of silence that spoke louder than words, full of emotions neither of them was brave enough to voice.

And then, almost instinctively, shs leaned forward. Her hands cupped his face, fingers trembling against his stubbled jaw. Her touch was warm, grounding, and Draco closed his eyes for a moment, savoring it.

"Don't you ever scare me like that again," she whispered, her voice cracking under the weight of her feelings.

Draco opened his eyes, meeting her gaze. "I promise," he said softly, the words carrying a sincerity that made her chest ache.

She helped him up, supporting him as they moved to the bedroom. He was still unsteady on his feet, his body weak from the ordeal, but her arm around his waist kept him upright.

As they reached the bed, he sat down heavily, pulling her with him. Before she could protest, he wrapped his arms around her, holding her close. His face buried itself in her neck, and he inhaled deeply, as if her very presence was the air he needed to breathe.

"You smell like parchment and chaos," he murmured, his voice muffled against her skin.

"Charming," she replied, though her tone was soft, her fingers threading through his hair.

He lifted his head, his lips brushing against her temple in a tender kiss. Then her cheeks, light and fleeting, as though he was testing his courage.

"Why are you so insistent on saving me?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. His gray eyes searched hers, vulnerable and uncertain.

Hermione tilted her head, a small smirk tugging at her lips. "Maybe I just like you when you're clingy after you've vomited."

Draco groaned, rolling his eyes. "That's not funny."

"It's a little funny," she teased, a spark of mischief in her tone.

"Why are you so annoying?" he asked, though there was no heat in his words, only the kind of exasperation that comes with affection. "Must you always be like this?"

"Must," she said with a grin.

Draco sighed dramatically, though his arms tightened around her. "You're insufferable."

"Shut up, you piece of shit," she shot back, her grin widening. She shifted in his lap, her hands resting on his chest as she leaned closer. "Kiss me, perhaps?"

Draco raised an eyebrow, his lips curving into a smirk. "Are we demanding kisses now?"

"Definitely," she replied, her tone firm, her eyes daring him to deny her.

He didn't.

His hands slid to her waist, pulling her flush against him as his lips met hers. The kiss was slow and deliberate, every movement filled with the weight of their unspoken emotions. It was tender yet intense, a collision of longing, relief, and something deeper—something that neither of them dared to name just yet.

When they finally pulled apart, Hermione's cheeks were flushed, her breath coming in soft pants. Draco rested his forehead against hers, a small, genuine smile playing on his lips.

"You're impossible," he said, his voice low and affectionate.

"And you're insufferable," she countered, though her tone was warm, her fingers tracing lazy patterns on his chest.

They stayed like that for a while, tangled together in a quiet intimacy that neither of them wanted to break. For once, the world outside didn't matter. All that mattered was this moment, the two of them, and the fragile yet unyielding bond that held them together.