Draco's POV

The quiet of the Muggle house was unnerving.

I sat at the worn wooden table in Hermione's aunt's kitchen, fingers drumming against the surface as the faint hum of the refrigerator filled the silence. Hermione sat across from me, her hands wrapped around a cup of tea, her gaze unfocused as she stared at the steam curling into the air.

She looked tired.

Not just physically. It was deeper than that—like the weight of everything we had escaped was still wrapped around her, dragging her down.

I hesitated before speaking. "Have you thought about contacting them?"

Her eyes flicked up to mine, wary. "Who?"

I leaned back in my chair. "Potter. Weasley. Lovegood."

She stiffened slightly, her fingers tightening around the cup. "Draco—"

"It makes sense," I interrupted. "You said it yourself—if anyone can help us, it's them. They have the resources, the connections. They could hide us, protect us."

She exhaled sharply, shaking her head. "No."

I frowned. "No?"

"No," she repeated firmly, setting the cup down. "I won't put them in danger."

I studied her carefully. "Granger—"

"Lucius and Narcissa will never stop looking for us," she cut in, her voice unwavering. "And if I reach out to Harry, or Ron, or Luna, they'll be dragged into this. And I won't let that happen."

She leaned forward slightly, her brown eyes dark with conviction. "You don't understand what they're capable of. Your parents—if they find out Harry helped me, or Ron, or anyone—they won't hesitate. They'll tear everything apart to get to us."

I didn't respond right away.

Because, as much as I hated to admit it, she was right.

My father didn't have limits. My mother wasn't far behind him. They would burn the world to ash before letting us go.

I clenched my jaw. "So what, then? We just disappear forever?"

Her expression faltered for half a second. "Maybe."

That word—maybe—felt heavier than it should have.

I exhaled, running a hand through my hair. "That's not a plan, Granger. That's hiding."

She stared at me, her lips pressing into a thin line. "That's surviving."

I leaned forward, my hands flat on the table. "Is that enough for you?"

She hesitated.

And in that hesitation, I saw it—the tiniest crack in her resolve.

She missed them. She missed her friends, her life, the world she had left behind.

But she was too afraid to reach for it.

Because the second she did, my parents would rip it away.

I sighed, sitting back. "Fine. No Potter. No Weasley."

She relaxed slightly, but I wasn't done.

"But we need a plan, Hermione," I said quietly. "Because we can't run forever."

She looked away, her hands curling into fists on the table.

"I know," she murmured.

And the worst part?

So did I.

Hermione's POV

The night had settled heavily over the house, the hum of the city outside muffled by thick curtains and the cozy warmth of my aunt's home. I moved quietly, careful not to wake Draco, who had already fallen asleep on the couch, one arm tucked beneath his head, his breathing slow and even.

It was strange—seeing him like this, relaxed, without the tension and sharp edges he usually carried. He looked younger. Softer.

I pulled a blanket over him before heading to the kitchen.

My aunt was still awake, sitting at the table with a book in front of her, though I could tell she hadn't been reading. She glanced up as I entered, offering a small smile.

"Still awake?" she asked, pushing herself up.

I nodded. "Just needed some air."

"Hot chocolate?" she offered, already moving to the stove.

I hesitated before nodding. "That… actually sounds nice."

She busied herself with the cocoa and milk while I leaned against the counter, watching the way she worked. She had always been steady, always had a way of making things feel safe, even when the world was anything but.

When she handed me the warm mug, I wrapped my hands around it, savoring the heat.

"Thank you," I murmured, taking a sip.

Her gaze softened. "You don't have to thank me, Hermione. You're family. You'll always have a place here."

Something thick settled in my throat. I had spent so long feeling like I had no one—like I was running from a past that would never let me go. But my aunt had taken me in without question. No demands, no expectations. Just kindness.

"I don't know what I would've done without you," I admitted.

She squeezed my hand gently before pulling back. "You don't have to do anything alone, Hermione. Not anymore."

I nodded, taking another slow sip.

But then, inevitably, she asked, "And Draco?"

I tensed slightly, keeping my focus on my mug.

She tilted her head, studying me. "He seems… complicated."

That was an understatement.

I sighed, forcing a small smile. "He is. But he's also—" I stopped, searching for the right words. "He saved me."

Gertie's expression softened, but I could see the wheels turning in her mind.

"I know you won't tell me everything," she said knowingly. "And I won't push. But I do think he cares about you, Hermione."

A lump formed in my throat. I had spent so much time not thinking about that—about what Draco felt, about what I felt.

I cleared my throat. "I should get to bed," I said quickly, setting the empty mug down.

Gertie gave me a knowing smile but didn't push. "Goodnight, dear."

I pressed a kiss to her cheek before slipping out of the kitchen.

The hot shower was a relief, washing away the exhaustion of the day, the tension that never fully left my body. I stood beneath the stream longer than necessary, letting the steam curl around me as I tried to clear my mind.

By the time I changed into my pajamas—an old, soft t-shirt and shorts—I felt lighter. Not completely at ease, but better.

I climbed into bed, pulling the blankets up around me. The city noise outside was unfamiliar, but oddly soothing.

My eyes fluttered shut.

And then—

I dreamed.

Draco was there.

Standing in the dim light of the kitchen, watching me with that unreadable expression he always wore when he was thinking too much.

"You're staring," I murmured, sipping from the hot chocolate I suddenly had in my hands.

He smirked slightly, leaning against the counter. "You should be used to it by now, Granger."

I rolled my eyes, but my stomach twisted in a way that felt too real.

"You're different," I said quietly, unsure why I was saying it.

He tilted his head. "So are you."

I swallowed, my chest tight.

Then, suddenly, he was closer. Close enough that I could see the way his breath hitched slightly, close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating from him.

His fingers ghosted over my wrist, featherlight, as if he wasn't sure whether he should touch me.

I should have pulled away.

I didn't.

And then—

I woke up.

My heart was pounding.

I stared at the ceiling, my breath uneven, my skin warm despite the cool sheets.

What the hell was that?

I squeezed my eyes shut, forcing myself to take deep, steady breaths.

It was just a dream.

Just a dream.

And yet, as I drifted back into sleep, I couldn't shake the feeling that some part of me didn't want to forget it.