A.N : Hello, everyone! Thank you so much for coming back to my story! I'm so happy to see almost 400 views since my first update! I really appreciate every single one of you. (Special thanks to those who left reviews—you're amazing!)

Here's a little secret: I'm still a very very new teenager! That means I have a ton of schoolwork, and balancing everything can be tough. Writing this story is my way to relax, so your support truly means the world to me.

This chapter is super short, but it's also really important, so I hope you'll give it a read. Thank you again, and enjoy!


Part 5

Hermione remained rooted to the spot, her palm still reaching out where she had been grabbing him. Her breath caught as she watched the figure slip into the shadows, his silhouette dissolving into the dark corridor. Yet even in the blackness, a faint glimmer of his pale blond hair lingered, stubbornly etched in her vision.

She blinked. Why could she see it so clearly? There was no light—no Lumos charm, no flickering candles. The logical part of her mind grasped at explanations: perhaps some faint reflection she hadn't noticed. But another part of her whispered something she wasn't quite ready to acknowledge.

Her hand fell to her side, and she exhaled sharply. What are you doing, Hermione? Standing here like a fool when she should be back in the safety of the dormitory. Mrs. Norris could appear any second, and the cat's sharp yowl was the last thing she wanted to hear tonight.

But even as her feet finally started moving, her thoughts refused to quiet. They spiraled back to the disjointed pieces of the scene she had stumbled upon: the book—yes, it had been open to a section on advanced healing spells. His robes had been discarded carelessly, his shirt rumpled and partially unbuttoned, as if he had been… stop it, Hermione! He hadn't been in a bath; he had been in a bathroom. There was nothing remotely intimate about it.

Except there was.

Her lips twitched into a humorless smile as she recalled his muttered protests.

"Let go of me, Granger."

"There's no room, you dolt."

"Watch it!"

That guilty look he'd shot her when Filch's lamp briefly illuminated his face—it was burned into her memory. He hadn't wanted her to see something, that much was clear.

Then there was his hand. That cold hand.

Her breath hitched as the memory surfaced—unbidden, vivid. She could almost feel the coldness of his palm. And just as suddenly, she stumbled, narrowly avoiding a collision with the Fat Lady's portrait.

"Watch where you're going!" the painted figure scolded, but Hermione barely heard her. Her mind was racing, pieces clicking into place.

That book—he was probably studying healing spells.

Why?

Without answering herself, she rapped on the portrait. The Fat Lady glared at her, clearly unimpressed.

"It's the middle of the night!" she huffed.

"I know. Wattlebird," Hermione murmured, her voice subdued.

The portrait swung open, and she slipped inside. The common room was quiet, the embers in the fireplace barely glowing. Everyone else was asleep. She moved silently, her feet brushing over the thick carpet as she climbed the stairs to her dormitory.

Her mind still raced, replaying the interaction in her head. She thought of the book, the way he clutched his side, and the sharpness in his tone. It wasn't just his usual Malfoy arrogance—he was hiding something.


Tonight was horrible-yet extremely extraordinary.

I leaned back against the wall of my dormitory, pulling off my robe with more force than necessary. The sudden movement sent a sharp, searing pain through my side, and I cursed under my breath.

As the robe fell to the floor, something slipped from the pocket and clattered onto the ground. My wand.

No—not my wand.

I froze, staring at the object. It was hers.

Granger's wand.

I clenched my jaw, running a hand through my hair. How had I not noticed? I must have given her the wrong one in the dark. That must be why her wound didn't heal perfectlyーshe had been usuing his wand.

For a moment, I considered tossing it out the window. But the image of her face—furrowed brows, curious eyes, the hint of worry in her voice—stopped me. Anyway, I cleared my thoughts, if I threw it away she will never return mine as well.

With a frustrated sigh, I picked up the wand and placed it on the edge of my desk.

Tomorrow, I'll return it.

Or maybe the day after.


Hermione sat on her bed, staring at the robes she had tossed onto her chair. Something about them felt heavier than usual. She shivered and pulled them closer, inspecting them for anything out of place.

Nothing. Just the familiar Gryffindor crest and the faint scent of rain.

She sighed, leaning back against her pillow. She couldn't shake the feeling that something about tonight was significant, even if she couldn't piece it all together yet.

And then there was Malfoy.

Her last thought before sleep claimed her was simple but unshakable:

He's hurt. Very badly.

And he was so desperate to heal it.


Questions for you…

•If you were Hermione, what would you do after finding out about this?

•Any ideas on how they'll return the wand and get it back?

Hope you'll stick around for the next chapter, too!