Chapter 6

fools in a fable

FOOL

a person who acts unwisely or imprudently;

a silly person. trick or deceive (someone);

dupe

Ron had nearly died from poisoned cider he'd drank in Slughorn's office, and now, somehow, things were falling back into place. Hermione noticed a change in his gaze, less suspicious and more warm, in the way he laughed with her again like he hadn't since the Christmas debacle. Facing death made him see things clearer. It jolted him into sanity. She knew that far too well. Her close calls with death had taught her that a sense of clarity often accompanied it.

Perhaps that's what Malfoy needed. Just a tiny dose of something nasty, nothing lethal. Just enough to scare him into being less of an insufferable git.

In the meantime, she threw herself into her studies. She had aced her apparition test, achieving it on the first try while others stumbled. She'd mastered nonverbal spells when her classmates could manage a spark without saying the incantation aloud. Her professors nodded with approval, her peers murmured with admiration, and by all accounts, she was thriving.

Yet…

Hermione found her mind drifting, her quill hovering over the parchment as her gaze wandered to where Malfoy sat, his face shadowed and drawn. She couldn't help herself.

Her gaze would seek his in the Great Hall, classrooms, or corridors. She'd catch a glimpse of him, hunched over some task, his hair falling into his eyes, and she'd remember how those hands had moved over her skin, firm and insistent. The heat of his mouth on hers, the way he'd devoured her like he needed her to breathe.

She bit her lip, her focus faltering again.

No matter how hard she tried to push him from her mind, his face lingered, and his touch burned in her memory. She was supposed to focus on the war, on surviving, but every time she closed her eyes, she saw Malfoy. Malfoy, she felt.

She couldn't stop wanting more.

While she thrived, she could see him unravelling, coming apart at the seams, and all she could do was watch. Watch as the boy she lo—no, the boy she had come to care for—fell deeper into whatever was devouring him from the inside out. His face had taken on a hollow, haunted look, shadows under his eyes growing darker with each passing day, his steps heavier, more burdened.

She wanted to shake him, scream at him to let her in, to let her help, but he kept shutting her out. Faced with no other options, she simply observed.

She watched, helpless and angry, as the boy who had once burned so brightly continued to dim.

Hermione's mind spun with possibilities, each darker and more troubling than the last.

What could be wrong with Malfoy?

At first, she thought it was stress—anxiety about his father, the shame of his family's fall from grace. The longer she watched him, the more she realized it was deeper and more insidious. A crushing weight pressed down on him, heavier with each passing day.

Was it guilt? Had he done something terrible, something unforgivable, that was eating him alive? She'd seen guilt before, but not like this. An internal torment gnawed at him, making him react irrationally and constantly anticipate disaster.

Maybe it was fear—fear of something far worse than school, family or status. Her mind flickered to Voldemort, his terrifying presence looming over them like a boggart.

Was he being threatened? Blackmailed? Forced into something?

Her thoughts turned darker still. What if he was sick—dying, even? It showed in the pallor of his skin, the way he shrank into himself, hollow and fading.

A chilling thought crossed their mind: Could Harry be right? What if he was marked?

What if he bore the Dark Mark? Branded on his skin like a death sentence.

What if he was bound to Voldemort's service, caught in a web of darkness and blood?

She pictured it—the black tattoo burned into his flesh, a brand of ownership, of allegiance to a monster who demanded the unthinkable.

Even she hesitated to think that Voldemort would give the Dark Mark to an underage wizard who had just passed his apparating test, despite Harry's firm belief otherwise.

Each scenario sent her heart pounding faster, her breath catching in her throat. She was spiralling, her mind plunging into the darkest corners of possibility. Something was wrong with him—something terrible. And she had a sinking feeling that whatever it was, it would only end in disaster.

Harry dove into training with Dumbledore. Between those sessions, relentless Quidditch practices, and the grind of schoolwork, he had no time for anything else.

Yet somehow, Malfoy remained his fixation, a thorn lodged deep under his skin. Every day, every night, Harry's eyes would dart to the Marauder's Map, tracking Malfoy's every move, every step, every turn.

The night Hermione caught Harry storming out of Gryffindor Tower, jaw clenched and trouble written on his face, she had a sinking feeling it involved Malfoy.

She followed on instinct, her footsteps light and quiet. A knot of unease twisted in her stomach, a sense that something was wrong, though she couldn't pinpoint why. It had nagged at her all evening, like an itch she couldn't scratch.

As she trailed him through the darkened corridors, she stayed a few paces behind, ducking into alcoves when he glanced back, her breath shallow and quiet. The castle was silent, the flickering torchlight casting long shadows that danced along the stone walls.

She followed Harry up to the sixth floor, her nerves prickling with each step.

Harry was on a mission, his wand already drawn, his grip tight.

He slipped into the girls' bathroom; the door creaked on its hinges as it shut behind him. Hermione lingered outside, her heart drumming against her ribs. She pressed herself against the cold stone, straining to hear, but the air was thick with silence.

"Sectumsempra!" Harry's shout tore through the stillness, his voice laced with alarm and something that sounded like panic.

Without thinking, Hermione bolted forward. She shoved open the door to the girls' bathroom, the heavy wood slamming against the wall with a bang that echoed through the tiles. She skidded to a stop, breathless, her eyes wide as she took in the scene before her, her earlier dread solidifying into a cold, hard knot in her chest.

Harry stood beside her, panting, with his wand held out at the ready still.

And Malfoy…

Malfoy lay sprawled on the cold stone floor, his limbs at odd angles, as if he had been tossed there by some cruel hand. Long, deep gashes marred his chest and face, the flesh split wide, and blood was pouring out in sickening rivulets. The cuts seemed to deepen before her eyes, more slashing across his pale skin as if an invisible blade were continuing its savage work.

Hermione's breath caught in her throat. The surreal and horrifying scene left her frozen in place, paralyzed by shock.

Malfoy's low groan, a sound of pure agony, shattered the fog in her mind, snapping her back to the present. She dropped to her knees beside him, her fingers trembling as they fumbled for her wand. Her mind raced, trying to grasp where to begin, how to stop the blood that was already soaking through his once-white shirt, turning it a dark, gruesome crimson.

"Harry, what did you do?" Her voice rushed out, thin with panic, hands hovering over Malfoy, unsure where to begin.

The blood kept coming, staining her hands, her robes, the floor beneath them.

Harry stood frozen, his eyes wide, his wand hanging limply at his side. "I—I didn't mean to—" he stammered, his voice small and hollow. He looked in shock, his face ashen as he stared at the scene he had created. "I didn't mean to—"

"Fuck," Hermione cursed, her heart thundering in her chest as she pointed her wand at the nearest wound.

She began casting every healing spell she could think of, her voice shaking with the force of her desperation.

"Episkey! Vulnera Sanentur!"

The spells barely slowed the bleeding; the cuts were too deep and numerous. Malfoy's blood continued to pool around them, warm and sticky, soaking into her robes, painting the bathroom floor red.

"Ferula!" she cried, her voice cracking as she tried to stem the flow, conjuring bandages that turned crimson as they soaked up more blood than they could hold.

Her hands moved, casting and recasting spells, her mind frantically trying to remember anything else, anything that might help.

But the gashes kept opening, the blood kept pouring, and nothing was working.

A sense of calm began to overtake her, bringing the world into sharper focus as her body numbed. She continued to work, a laugh or a scream starting to bubble up from inside her. Her whole body began to shake as she surveyed the scene.

Here she was, a Mudblood coated in Pureblood. The absurdity made her chuckle slightly.

Malfoy's eyes fluttered open at her crazed laugh, his lashes trembling as he struggled to focus on her face. His pupils dilated, glassy with pain, and his breath came in shallow, ragged gasps. His gaze seemed to settle on her, a flicker of recognition cutting through the haze.

"Thank Merlin," he rasped, his voice so faint she had to strain to hear it. "I'm dead."

Hermione's heart plummeted, her pulse roaring in her ears.

"You are not dead, Draco Malfoy," she screamed, hysteria seeping into her body. "I haven't given you permission to do that!"

"My mistake." A ghost of a smile pulled at his bloodied lips, one she hadn't seen in what felt like a lifetime. "If I were in heaven, you'd be naked… I'm not going there, anyway."

And then his body went limp.

Fuck. His body went limp.

Hermione stared in disbelief for a moment, her breath hitching in her throat.

No. No, this wasn't happening.

She could feel the panic bubbling up, clawing its way out of her chest. The edges of her vision blurred as she realized he was slipping away from her into that dark, cold place where she couldn't reach him.

A scream tore from her throat, raw and piercing, ripping through the bathroom like a banshee's wail. It wasn't just fear—it was fury, it was grief, it was the desperate, primal refusal to let him go. She didn't care if every student in Hogwarts heard her, didn't care if it shattered the very stones around her.

She leaned over him, her hands pressing down on his chest, feeling the warm blood seeping between her fingers.

"Wake up," she demanded, her voice breaking, her hands shaking. "Draco, wake up! You don't get to leave, you bastard, not now."

She gripped her wand tighter, her mind whirling through every healing spell, every charm, every damn bit of magic she could think of, as her breath came in panicked bursts. The blood continued to seep, but she wasn't giving up.

Snape swept in, his dark cloak billowing. Assessing the scene, he knelt beside Malfoy and began casting healing spells.

Hermione didn't hear any of them. Her ears rang so loudly that they overpowered her senses, blurring the world.

She sat back on her knees, staring at Malfoy as the cuts began to close and under Snape's ministrations. He was breathing shallowly. The remaining colour had drained from his face, leaving the dark blue under his tired eyes more prominent - like bruises.

Snape barked something at Harry.

Hermione ignored them as she continued to study Malfoy, her head tilting. She reached out to touch him, wondering if he felt as cold as he looked.

Red smeared across his jaw, still warm to the touch. Hermione examined her hand, turning it over.

Red paint. How strange.

"She's in shock."

Someone grabbed her by the shoulders, trying to move her body. She fought them, reaching out and taking hold of Draco's hand.

They couldn't take her away.

He might wake up thinking he's dead again.

She needed to be there, to assure him he was still alive.

"We'll take them both," someone else said, a commanding presence. "She'll need a strong, calming draught after this."

Malfoy levitated before her, his hand falling from hers. She twisted so that he stayed in her sight the whole way to the infirmary.

Hermione sat on the edge of the bed next to Malfoy's, her eyes fixed on his still form as Madam Pomphrey worked. She barely noticed the healer trying to close the curtain between them, her focus entirely on his chest's shallow rise and fall. But as the healer closed the curtains, almost removing Malfoy from her line of vision, the strands of Hermione's hair began to lift and spark, little bolts of magic shooting out like a nest of electric serpents in warning.

Pomphrey hesitated, her eyes flicking between Hermione and Malfoy. With a resigned sigh, she chose the path of least resistance, leaving the curtain half-drawn and continuing her work.

Hermione's gaze remained locked on his face, her breath hitching with every flutter of his eyelids. She was vaguely aware that professors had escorted them here—Snape for sure, his presence a dark blur on the edge of her consciousness—but the rest were just shapes and sounds. All she could focus on was Malfoy, the way his laboured breaths filled the space between hers.

His once-white shirt had faded to a dull, crusted brown, clinging to him like a second skin. With a swift, practiced spell, Pomphrey removed the ruined fabric, revealing the angry gashes that still marred his skin. She worked quickly, her hands steady as she wrapped a bandage from Malfoy's left shoulder to his right hip, her face drawn and serious.

Pomphrey paused for a fraction of a second, her expression flashing alarmingly.

Hermione's eyes darted over Malfoy's body, searching for a fresh wound, for any sign that he was still bleeding. But Pomphrey swallowed hard and continued dressing the injury, her face smoothing back into professional calm.

A shiver ran through Hermione, starting at the base of her spine and radiating out to her limbs. She couldn't stop the shaking that gripped her, her teeth beginning to chatter as she hugged herself, trying to still the tremors wracking her body. Madam Pomphrey glanced at her as she finished her work, repositioning Malfoy and pulling a blanket over his chest.

He looked peaceful, his face relaxed in a way she'd never seen before.

Hermione had never watched him sleep; there was always that unspoken rule, a line they never crossed—no falling asleep in each other's arms, no lingering beyond the stolen moments. They always returned to their own lives as if nothing had happened.

"There is a calming draught on the side table," Pomphrey said, nodding toward the small vial filled with a pale, lavender liquid. "You'll need to take that. Normally, I'd send a student back to their dormitory with that and a sleeping draught. I'll make an exception and let you stay overnight for observation, but only if you take the potion now."

"I need to speak with her," Snape drawled. "Potter's with Dumbledore, but I'm curious what these three are doing out of bed, wandering the sixth floor in a girls' bathroom at this hour."

Pomphrey glanced at Malfoy and then back to Snape. "I have to speak with the Headmaster myself. She's still in shock, Professor Snape. I doubt you'll get much of anything from her."

Snape nodded, and Pomphrey turned back to Hermione. "Once you answer Professor Snape's questions, take your potions and get some rest. I'll be back soon."

Pomphrey glanced back toward Malfoy one last time before exiting the hospital wing.

"Could you explain why you three were out past curfew?" Snape's drawling voice snapped Hermione's attention away from Malfoy's breathing. "From what I gathered from his mumbling, Mr. Potter cursed Mr. Malfoy. But why were you there, Miss Granger?"

Her hands started to shake, the trembling making its way up her arms. The room's temperature dropped steadily.

"Harry thought Malfoy was up to something, so he's been following him around," Hermione confessed. "I was just following Harry to make sure he was okay. It's been a rough year for him."

Snape's face tightened up in that way only he could manage. A clear indication that he thought she was lying. She didn't care what he thought. She just wanted him to leave so she could check on Malfoy.

"I'm sure," Snape drawled. "Although, I don't find that grounds enough to use a dark curse on another student."

A dark curse? Was that the spell Harry used? Impossible.

"What? No." Hermione shook her head. "No. Harry would never."

"And yet he did." Snape studied her briefly, his eyes drifting towards Malfoy and back again. "If you hadn't been there, Mr. Malfoy would have died. If I hadn't known the counter-curse and administered it in time, he would have died. Mr. Malfoy is very lucky, but I feel he would have been luckier not to have met Mr. Potter tonight."

Hermione swallowed hard, frowning as her gaze drifted back to Malfoy. If no one else had been there tonight, Harry would have killed him.

Harry would have killed him.

Hermione refused to believe it was intentional. Harry wouldn't even use deadly curses on Voldemort, for fuck's sake.

Yet, had Harry realized the full consequence of that curse?

"I've put in my support to have Mr. Potter expelled for this," Snape commented. "If Draco's father weren't in prison, he'd demand it. But we both know Potter will probably squirm his way out of his punishment again, like always."

She didn't understand why Snape was still there, talking to her. She'd answered his question, which she could have done in the morning.

"Is there anything else you need from me, Professor?" Hermione asked. "I'm tired."

Snape scowled as he examined her again. "I suppose not. Not for now, anyway."

Snape's robes billowed as he exited the hospital wing, but Hermione had already returned to Malfoy.

There was no way she was leaving Malfoy's side tonight. Her hands shook as she uncorked the vial and downed the contents in a single gulp, the bitter taste coating her tongue. She could feel the calming effects spreading almost immediately, her muscles beginning to relax, the warmth returning to her limbs, the sharp edge of her panic dulling.

Hermione padded to Malfoy's bed. She slipped under his blanket, careful not to jostle him too much, her movements slow and deliberate.

Gently, she laid her head on his chest, just above his heart, on the side untouched by bandages. She could feel the faint warmth of his skin beneath her cheek, the rhythmic, shallow thump of his heartbeat.

Her arm wrapped around him, pulling herself closer, feeling the warmth of his body seep into her, grounding her trembling form. She shut her eyes, breathing in rhythm with his, the night's chaos still whirling in her mind.

Her grip tightened, reluctant to release him, as if the moment she did, he might slip away again.

He could have died. Would have if she hadn't followed Harry.

"Please don't leave me, Draco," she prayed into the darkness.

She listened to the soft, steady rhythm of his breathing, willing it to continue, willing him to stay.

And, as exhaustion pulled her under, she drifted off to sleep, her body moulded into him, refusing to let him go.

Hermione awoke in the dim, early morning light creeping through the windows, disoriented. She groaned. It was much too early for class. The sun was barely visible above the horizon.

The events of the previous evening rushed back in a flood. Harry shouting a curse, Malfoy on the floor pale and bleeding out. Blood. There had been so much blood.

Someone's fingers were threading through her hair, soothing and repetitive, and she realized with a start that her pillow was moving beneath her.

Hermione shot up, pulling back, her heart hammering in her chest.

Malfoy let out a sharp breath, his face contorting with pain as he glanced up at her.

"Godric, I'm sorry!" Hermione stammered, the fog of sleep clearing from her mind as the reality of what she'd done settled in. She had climbed into bed with him—him, of all people—while he was seriously injured. She must have lost her mind.

Scrambling off the bed, heat bloomed on her cheeks from embarrassment and panic. Before she could move more than a few inches, his hand, weak but insistent, grabbed her wrist.

"Don't," he whispered. "Stay."

Hermione turned to look at him. His eyes burned bright, cutting through the darkness, almost glowing in the moonlight filtering through the window. Despite the shadows under his eyes and the lines of pain across his face, his gaze was clear. Focused. He was present beside her, the fog that had enveloped him long gone.

"Draco." Her voice broke, a choked sound halfway between a plea and a prayer.

Relief washed over her. Her bottom lip trembled, and before she could stop herself, she collapsed against him, her head finding the crook of his neck as she let the tears flow.

Malfoy sucked in a breath, his muscles tensing under her weight. His arms moved slowly, as if testing their strength, before one wrapped around the back of her head, holding her close, and the other rested at her back, rubbing gentle circles that grounded her.

"I thought you were dead," she confessed, her sobs muffled against his skin. Her voice was raw, every word heavy with the fear that had gripped her heart since that awful moment in the bathroom.

"I guess it didn't stick," he replied with a weak attempt at humour.

Hermione pulled back, wiped her eyes with her hand, and glared at him.

"There she is," he murmured, a faint smirk ghosting across his lips. "Didn't take long for me to earn your ire again, Granger."

"You make it sound like you'd prefer if it had stuck," she accused, her voice hardening as she remembered his words in the bathroom. How he'd said them, with genuine relief, made her stomach twist.

His smirk faded, and he looked away, his gaze turning to the window and the starry night beyond. The silence stretched between them, heavy and taut.

"I guess that doesn't matter now," he murmured, his tone distant, like he was somewhere far away again.

"Of course it matters," Hermione argued. "Malfoy, I—"

Malfoy's head whipped back to her, eyes scanning her face with a sudden, sharp intensity, searching for any sign of danger or harm.

"What is it?" he asked, almost panicked.

Hermione's eyes locked on his left arm. She hadn't noticed it at first, distracted by the fact that he was alive, his heart still beating beneath her cheek. But now, reality stared back at her, the weight settling like a boulder in her stomach. She was lying on his left side, which wasn't injured. She remembered he was left-handed—of course, he'd used that arm, moving without thought as he'd played with her curls while she slept beside him.

Now, her eyes glued to it. A hideous black tattoo marred his skin, the ink embedded into his flesh: a skull with a serpent slithering from its gaping mouth.

The Dark Mark.

The realization crashed over her like a tidal wave, drowning out all rational thought. Her breath hitched, and she sucked in quick, shallow gasps, trying to steady herself, but it was impossible. That mark—that symbol of death—burned into the arm of the man who held her, the arm that had comforted her.

A Death Eater. He was a fucking Death Eater.

Her mind spiralled. Pomphrey must have seen it. She'd gone to talk to Dumbledore. Was this why?

Oh God, Harry was right all along. All the times she'd dismissed his fears, brushed off his suspicions—he'd been right.

Malfoy had aligned himself with the monster who wanted her dead. The thought pierced her like an arrow, stealing the air from her lungs.

Hermione leapt from the bed, staggering back as she tried to find balance in a world that had gone entirely sideways. The cold of the stone floor on her feet shocked her senses, waking her from the remaining bleary remnants of sleep. Her hand shot up to her mouth, trying to stifle the cry of alarm that bubbled up. Her wide eyes snapped to Malfoy's face. His gaze fixed on her, filled with a horror that mirrored her own.

They stared at each other in mutual horror on two different sides of an expansive canyon.

Malfoy opened his mouth, then shut it again, gritting his teeth.

"When?" Hermione demanded in a forced whisper.

Malfoy looked down, his face shadowed with something she could almost call shame. "Near the end of summer, after they sentenced Father."

Hermione nodded, her body moving almost mechanically.

"That explains your behaviour all year, right?" The hurt twisted deeper, sharper. Her voice trembled with betrayal. "Because you remembered what I am? You remembered that I'm nothing but a filthy mud—"

Malfoy's hand shot out and pulled her closer again, the other covering her mouth with a suddenness that stole her breath. The same hand attached to the arm marked with that vile, hateful symbol.

"No," he said, his voice raw but steady. He winced in pain from the sudden movement, but his features remained fixated on her. "No."

Hermione glared at him over his hand, her eyes brimming with tears. He withdrew his hand, his fingers lingering for a moment before he tucked the offending arm beneath the covers as if trying to hide it, to erase what she'd seen.

Tears spilled over, hot and unchecked, burning tracks down her cheeks. She felt like she was falling, the ground giving way beneath her. The weight of it all crashed over her—the realization, the betrayal.

She'd slept with a Death Eater.

It was like a slap to the face, a cruel, cold reality settling into her bones. Her body shook with the force of it, her mind screaming at the injustice, the impossibility. This boy she had come to know in ways she'd never known anyone else was part of the very thing that sought to destroy her.

And yet, there he was, looking at her with those clear, pain-filled eyes like he wanted to reach across that chasm between them and pull her back.

Malfoy sighed, resigned. "I'm trying to protect you, Granger. Please just let me."

"Protect me?" she scoffed. "You do realize one of your Dark Lord's tenets is the annihilation of people like me, right? How does joining his forces protect me?"

His eyes snapped back to hers, blazing with anger. His jaw was so tight that she could see the muscles working beneath his skin.

"It wasn't an option not to," he snarled. "My father is imprisoned, my aunt is a psychopath, and he was in my house threatening my mother."

"What?" The word escaped her lips as a whisper, all the fight draining out of her like water from a cracked glass.

"Surprised to learn the Dark Lord uses unscrupulous methods?" he said with a dark, bitter laugh. "I'm punishment for my father's failure. He's using my mother to keep me in line. If he finds out about you, it'll put a mark on your back, Granger. A bigger one. We can't risk getting caught. Not anymore. I'm not the only Death Eater at Hogwarts—" His voice dropped to a low, dangerous whisper. "And we all have our orders."

She stared at him, her breath shallow, her chest tight with the weight of his words.

"And what are yours?"

Briefly, he seemed like he might reply. His lips parted, his eyes flickering with a shadow of something vulnerable, but then he swallowed hard and looked away, his face shutting down like a slammed door.

He wasn't going to tell her.

The realization hit her like a punch to the gut. Was it because he didn't trust her? Because he thought she would run straight to Harry, to Dumbledore, with everything she knew? And why shouldn't she? She should tell them everything—every dark secret she'd uncovered, every whispered confession.

It was her duty.

But the thought of severing this fragile thread still holding them together made her stomach twist. An invisible axe hovered between them, waiting to fall, to sever the tangled strings of fate that had bound them so unexpectedly. One strike, one decisive move, and they could both be free of this madness—free of each other.

It would be so easy to end it now.

He was right. Nothing lay ahead for them but heartache, pain, and death.

She closed her eyes, trying to find the strength to pull herself away. It was impossible for her to both look at him and walk away. Her feet felt like lead, but she willed herself to move, to put this behind her forever and return to the safety of certainty.

But before she could turn, his hand shot out again, fingers wrapping around hers with a desperate grip.

She turned back to him. His face set with a stoic resoluteness; his jaw clenched so tight she could see the muscle twitching beneath his pale skin.

He looked ready to fight the fates. To build his own loom and weave their ending himself. To change it all.

"You said before that I'm selfish," he began. "I know that. I'm callous and selfish and covetous. But I've never wanted anything, Hermione Granger, more than I want you."

Her name on his lips shot through her, as it always did when he let it slip. She closed her eyes briefly, savouring the feel of it between them. Her heart stuttered at the thought of letting him go.

She'd never wanted anything as much as she wanted Draco Malfoy, either.

But he'd joined the opposite side of a war. He was a Death Eater. How could she reconcile how much he meant to her and how much he shouldn't?

"I thought you wanted to let me go," Hermione said.

"Never. "But nobody has ever considered my wants," he admitted, closing his eyes. "I've been at war with myself since I returned to Hogwarts. I want you all the time—your body, your mind, your soul—you. But at the same time, everything in me tells me to protect you. To stay away to keep you safe."

"I don't need you to protect me."

"I know, my vengeful little witch," he replied, a soft huff of amusement escaping him despite the tension. "But I also don't know how to move forward, knowing that it puts you in even greater danger."

Hermione's brows knit together, her expression softening. She cupped his cheek, and he leaned into the touch. He didn't care that her skin remained coated with his own crusted, dried blood; the warmth of her touch was something he hadn't realized he needed so badly.

"I'm so tired," he mumbled. "This is all too much. Does Potter get enough sleep?"

Hermione couldn't help but laugh, a slight, breathless sound that broke the tension. "Not nearly as much as he'd like you to believe, Malfoy."

He let out a small, almost relieved chuckle, his eyes opening to meet hers, softer now. "Figures. He always looks so bloody sure of himself."

"Not always," Hermione replied, a small smile tugging at her lips. "But he pushes through."

He looked at her, something like admiration flickering in his tired eyes.

"You make it sound so simple," he whispered. "As if we still have a say in what happens."

"There's always a choice, Draco," she breathed, her thumb brushing along his cheekbone, wiping away some of the grime. "Maybe not an easy one, maybe not one without consequences, but there's a choice."

He held her gaze, his breathing steadying, and for a moment, she could see something shift in his eyes—a glimmer of hope, a spark of defiance. His hand tightened around hers, not letting her go.

"Then maybe we should make our own choice," he murmured, almost to himself, "and see where it takes us."

Her gaze lingered on him. She wanted to be mad, to scream and break things. To curse and hurl accusations about the mark that now marred his beautiful skin. But she couldn't find it in her. Not when his gaze fixated on her, as if she were the only thing in the world that held any significance. It was evident that he had no desire to take the Dark Mark.

But could she be with him? Could she still have him, as tenuously as she did, knowing that the Dark Mark lurked beneath his sleeve?

Could she survive not having him? Becoming strangers once more, enemies to lovers, back to enemies?

Everything else faded away, leaving only them suspended on the edge of the unknown as the room held its breath. And Hermione didn't feel afraid of falling.

"I think mine will always bring me back to you," she confessed.

Malfoy's eyes searched hers, his breath shallow, as if he were holding on to every word she spoke. The quiet confession seemed to hang between them, delicate and trembling like a single thread in a vast web. His hand, still wrapped around hers, tightened just a fraction, enough for her to feel the slight tremor of his resolve wavering.

He had always felt like he was walking a tightrope, each step pulling him closer to disaster. With her, perhaps a different path existed.

"Granger," he began, his voice a little less steady than he would have liked. "I don't want to get you hurt. I don't want you caught in the crossfire of everything coming. But… Merlin, help me. I don't think I can let you go, either."

Her heart stuttered. It wasn't a confession of love, but it wasn't not one either. Had he been pushing her away all year to keep her safe? To keep her out of harm's way of Voldemort? Didn't he realize that as Harry Potter's close friend and a Muggleborn, she already had a target on her the size of the continent?

"Then don't," she said, as if it were the easiest thing in the world. "Don't let me go. We'll figure it out."

He shook his head. "You're asking for trouble, you know that?"

"I think I've gotten quite used to trouble," she replied, her smile growing as she leaned closer. "I'm not scared of it. And I'm not scared of you."

Malfoy's lips twitched upward despite himself, a genuine, crooked smile breaking through. "You should be. I'm a bloody mess."

"And I'm a nightmare to deal with, so we're a perfect match," Hermione teased, her eyes glinting with that spark he adored.

For a moment, the weight of everything ahead felt lighter, the oppressive darkness lifting just enough for him to see a sliver of light.

"All right." He shook his head in disbelief. "All right. We give it a go. Properly this time. No more pretending it doesn't mean something."

Hermione's breath hitched in her throat, and she nodded, the reality of his words sinking in.

"In secret," she added, her expression growing serious. "For now."

"Agreed," he said, his tone turning solemn. "Just us. At least until…" He trailed off, not wanting to voice the darker possibilities, the threats that loomed over them. Or to let hope blossom when the future looked grim.

"Until we figure out a way through this," she finished for him. She leaned in, closing the space between them, her lips brushing against his.

For a moment, there was nothing but the warmth of her breath, the press of her body against his, and the feel of her hand still clasped in his.

"We're insane, you know that?" he whispered, his lips curving into a smile against hers.

"Probably," she agreed, her smile wide and genuine. "We might just need a bit of crazy."

They stayed like that for a while, tangled in each other, in the precarious hope that they could carve out a space for themselves amidst the war, amidst the looming shadows. It was a small thing, but it was theirs - a private decision in a world with few options.

And for now, that was enough. It had to be.