Her eyes cracked open. Her arm was oozing something other than blood and the pain was sharp. The wounds in her are burned and she was still absolutely freezing.
Something shifted in the gloom—a shape, a shadow moving silently at the edge of her vision.
Hermione tensed, panic flaring in her chest. She forced herself to focus, squinting against the darkness and the haze clouding her mind. Slowly, the figure came into view.
He was sitting in the far corner of the cell, slumped against the wall. His clothes—what remained of them—were torn and stained, a once-crisp dress shirt now streaked with blood and dirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal long, pale arms marked with bruises. His slacks were ripped at the knees, frayed edges catching the torchlight. His head was bowed slightly, the disheveled mess of blond hair catching the faint, flickering light.
Draco Malfoy.
Hermione's breath caught in her throat as their eyes met. He was watching her, his gaze sharp and unblinking, those familiar steel-gray eyes fixed intently on her face. There was something unreadable in his expression—something caught between curiosity and wariness. He didn't move, didn't speak. He just sat there, still as a statue, staring at her from across the cell.
What was he doing here? Why—?
Hermione tried to swallow, but her throat was dry, raw from screaming. "Mal—Malfoy?" she croaked, her voice barely more than a whisper.
He didn't respond. He just kept staring, his eyes flickering over her bruised and bloodied form. His face was pale, hollowed by fatigue, and something darker. There was a tightness around his mouth, a tension in his shoulders that she hadn't seen before. He looked… broken. Haunted.
But then again, she probably looked the same.
"Wha—" She swallowed again, fighting to get the words out. "What… are you… doing here?"
He still didn't answer. Instead, his gaze dropped to her arm—the arm Bellatrix had marked with that foul word. Hermione shuddered, instinctively curling in on herself, trying to hide the mutilated flesh even though she knew it was pointless. The pain was a constant, throbbing reminder of what had been done to her—what she would carry for the rest of her life.
Malfoy's eyes narrowed, his jaw clenching. For a moment, something flickered across his face—a flash of anger, or maybe something softer, something almost like regret. But then it was gone, and his expression was cold, blank as if he'd shut himself off completely.
"Why…?" Hermione tried again, the word trembling on her lips. She was so tired, so cold. She just wanted to understand. If he was here, in the dungeon with her, then— "What happened?"
Still, silence.
Hermione squeezed her eyes shut, frustration and pain boiling together inside her. She didn't have the strength to fight right now, didn't have the energy to care what Draco Malfoy thought or felt. All she wanted was to be warm, to be safe, to not be in this horrible place with these horrible people—
The sound of a soft, almost imperceptible shuffle made her open her eyes again. Malfoy had shifted slightly, his back pressing harder against the wall, his knees drawn up defensively. His hands, bruised and bloodied, rested loosely on his thighs. He was trembling, too, she realized. Not as violently as she was, but enough that she could see the faint shiver in his shoulders, the slight twitch of his fingers.
They were both prisoners here.
"Did they… hurt you, too?" she whispered, unable to keep the question inside.
His gaze snapped back to hers, and for the first time, he looked almost startled. His lips parted as if he were going to say something, but then he closed them again, his face hardening into that familiar mask of indifference.
Hermione bit her lip, fresh pain lancing through her arm. She couldn't keep this up. She was slipping away, her vision going dark again, the edges blurring into shadow. She needed to stay awake, needed to—
But it was so hard. So hard to keep her eyes open, to keep fighting. Her eyelids drooped, and despite herself, she began to slump forward, her body giving in to the exhaustion and pain.
And then something strange happened.
Malfoy moved. Slowly, cautiously, he shifted closer, his eyes never leaving her face. He kept his distance—still sitting on his side of the cell, still far enough away that she couldn't reach him even if she tried—but his presence was suddenly… closer. Warmer.
Hermione forced her eyes open, staring blearily at him. His gaze was intense, almost… searching.
But he still didn't say anything.
He just watched her, his face a mask of wary detachment, as if waiting for something—some sign, some signal. And then, very softly, very quietly, he shook his head.
What did that mean? What was he—?
But then the darkness surged forward again, blotting out her thoughts, and this time, Hermione couldn't fight it. Her eyes slid shut, her body slumping against the cold, blood-slicked stone floor, and the last thing she saw before the world disappeared was Draco Malfoy's pale, drawn face, watching her as she slipped away into the void.