A.N : Hi there! This chapter is quite heartbreaking—truly feels like a Dramione. Please enjoy.
I fixed my hair in front of the mirror. As always, it was a tangled mess, thanks to the nightmare I've been having every single day. Last night's dream, though, was stranger than usual. My father was there, as he always is, standing beside me with his cane. But this time, someone else was with him—a girl with ginger hair.
She frowned at him and demanded, "Show me your wound."
In the dream, I remember lifting my shirt slowly, revealing the side of my belly. My father's gaze turned sharp, accusatory, and before I could process it, the dream shattered. I woke up at Hogwarts.
I pulled on my uniform, tightening it as usual. Something felt off. Missing.
Ah, yes—the tie.
I tried to shake off the unease, but it lingered like an itch I couldn't reach. The Malfoys always had to be perfect, and without the tie, perfection was impossible. My frown deepened as I glanced at the other Slytherins, all wearing their green ties neatly. A sigh escaped me.
How ironic, I thought bitterly. I was the one who started the trading game in the first place.
"Draco, you're as lovely as ever," Pansy purred, leaning closer to me. Her sugary tone grated on my nerves.
She paused, her eyes narrowing. "Wait—where's your tie?"
Her hand inched toward my collar, but I shoved her away before she could get any closer.
"None of your business," I snapped.
"Bloody hell," she muttered, clearly annoyed but smart enough not to push further.
I exhaled soundlessly, my gaze flicking toward the common room door. You really want to know where my tie is, Pansy? I thought. It's probably tucked away in the Gryffindor Tower—under a bed or something.
But there was no way it was bothering her.
It had been bothering her all morning.
Hermione paced the Gryffindor common room, the item in question clasped tightly in her hand. A tie—a green and silver one, no less. It felt foreign in her grip, the silk fabric smooth but heavy, laden with implication. She couldn't just leave it lying around. Not here, where questions were sure to follow. And yet, hiding it felt equally fraught with risk.
Finally, with a sigh, she slipped it into the deep inner pocket of her robes, her fingers brushing the fabric for reassurance. It was safe there. Hidden. Her lips twitched into a small, wry smile as she considered the absurdity of the situation. How had she ended up in possession of his tie? She wasn't entirely sure herself. A rash moment, maybe, but it had felt like a small victory—one that might mean something.
When she entered the Great Hall for breakfast, she felt the weight of his gaze before she saw him. Draco Malfoy sat at the Slytherin table, leaning back lazily as if he owned the world. But his eyes—sharp and calculating—flitted across the room and landed on her. She stiffened.
He wasn't looking at her, was he? No, of course not. He was probably just scanning the hall for the tie. His tie. Not that it mattered. It was folded neatly in her pocket, hidden where he couldn't reach it.
Her gaze flickered back to him, and to her surprise, he seemed to fidget. One pale hand drifted up, rubbing the back of his neck. Was he uncomfortable? Nervous? Hermione smirked to herself, enjoying the rare sight of him looking anything less than smug.
It must be very strong.
Evilly strong.
I placed my wand over the mark and repeated the incantation, but nothing happened.
A tear slipped down my cheek, and my sigh echoed in the cold, empty bathroom.
Later that day, in the library, Hermione sat surrounded by books. Harry and Ron were at Quidditch practice, but she'd stayed behind, too distracted by her workload to enjoy watching the match. Yet her mind kept wandering—to the tie, to Malfoy, to the strange way he'd been acting lately.
As she returned a stack of books to the shelf, she sensed someone approaching. She turned, startled to see Malfoy standing just a few feet away. His expression was hard to read—somewhere between annoyance and discomfort.
"What are you doing here?" she asked, her voice sharper than she intended.
"None of your business," he snapped.
He slid a book back onto the shelf with deliberate force, but not just any book. That book. The one that was open inside the bathroom.
"Why are you returning it?" she asked, narrowing her eyes.
"Why shouldn't I?"
"Did you finish your healing?" she pressed, her voice sharp with challenge.
His gray eyes locked onto hers, cold and sharp. "What are you talking about?"
But Hermione noticed the briefest flicker of pain cross his face. His body shuddered, and his hand moved instinctively to his side. It wasn't just a wound, she realized. It was something deeper—something cursed.
"I don't know what you're on about, Granger," he said coldly. But as he turned to leave, she noticed the way his hand hovered near his left side, pressing against his ribs. She frowned, her curiosity piqued.
"Of course it won't work," she muttered, almost to herself. "The healing spells in that book are far too basic."
He stiffened, his gaze darkening, but then shrugged and turned to leave.
"Oh, Draco," Hermione called after him, her tone deliberately light. "I was going to borrow that book, by the way."
He stopped in his tracks, his shoulders tensing before he turned back to her with a scowl.
"If you must," she added with a faint smirk.
He stormed back to the shelf, yanked the book off, and practically threw it at her. She caught it awkwardly, fumbling with the weight.
"Just take it," he muttered.
Hermione caught it, though it nearly slipped from her grasp. She opened her mouth to retort but stopped when she saw the look in his eyes—intense, searching, almost desperate. His expression was inscrutable, but there was something behind his cold demeanor—something raw. This wasn't the same Draco Malfoy she'd met in the library at the start of term. He looked the same, sounded the same, but he was different.
"Malfoy…" she began, her voice softening. But he turned away, heading for the door.
On impulse, she stepped forward and grabbed his arm. He froze, his body going rigid.
"It's here, isn't it?" she asked quietly, her hand hovering just above his side. "Whatever's hurting you…."
For a moment, he didn't move. His expression was unreadable, but his pale skin had gone ashen.
"Don't," he hissed through gritted teeth.
And then he stumbled back, clutching his side as his face contorted in pain. Hermione gasped, her hand flying to her mouth.
"I—I'm sorry," Hermione stammered, panic rising in her chest. "I didn't mean—"
"Stay away from me!" he snarled, his voice trembling with anger and something else—fear.
"I was just trying to—"
"Don't. Talk. To me," he spat, storming away with one hand pressed tightly against his side.
His words were like venom, cutting and final. He stormed out of the library, leaving her standing there, clutching the book he'd practically thrown at her.
Hermione's heart pounded in her chest, guilt and confusion warring within her. What had she done? She'd been careless—selfish, even. Whatever was wrong with Malfoy, it wasn't just a physical wound. It was something darker, something cursed. And now she'd made it worse.
"You okay? He did something to you again, didn't he?"
Neville's voice broke through her thoughts, full of concern. She could only shake her head, her mind spinning with the memory of Malfoy's pain-stricken face.
The wound throbbed, sharper than ever.
And it was her fault.
I flung myself onto the bed, exhaling a ragged sigh. Of course, being around her was the first mistake. She had done nothing but worsen my wound. And yet, maybe she was bloody right. Perhaps it was all because she was a Mudblood. It was always about blood. That cursed book hadn't helped, either. None of the healing spells worked.
"Of course it won't work. The spells in that book are far too basic," she'd said, her tone annoyingly smug.
Her voice lingered, needling me. But I shouldn't care about that. I shouldn't care about her.
My father was always watching. Through the curse. Through the wound. A constant reminder of what I was bound to: duty, bloodlines, power. Even here at Hogwarts, I wasn't free. And maybe I never would be.
The wound flared again, white-hot pain searing through me. I stifled a scream, clenching my fists against the mattress.
That bloody Mudblood.
But what had she done wrong? Existed? Being a Mudblood wasn't her choice. And yet, I couldn't deny it: her touch had made the curse react violently, as if it were rejecting her. The reminder stung almost as much as the pain itself.
I gritted my teeth. She needed to leave me alone. That kindness of hers—it wasn't needed. It wasn't welcome. What I wanted was for her to disappear. The awkward moments between us these days were unbearable.
And then there was the Weasley girl. Should I simply ignore her and let things unfold as they would? She was nothing to me, a pawn in my father's plans. Following orders was all I could do.
I glanced into the mirror, and my reflection stared back, hollow and burning.
Hermione felt a pit growing in her stomach.
It was true, wasn't it?
She'd tried not to let the word sink in, but it struck harder than all the jeers and insults she'd endured before. Mudblood. The accident—the curse—had made it undeniable.
But who had cursed him like that? She shook her head, cutting off the thought. It wasn't her problem. It couldn't be. The best thing to do was to stay away from him entirely. To forget his secrets, his pain, and his hateful words. Getting involved would only make things worse—for him, for her, for everyone.
The next morning, as she made her way to the library, she felt someone grab her hand. Her heart tightened—was it—?
"Hey, Hermione, you've gotta rest sometimes," Ron's voice broke through her thoughts.
Of course not. She didn't know why she'd even entertained the idea. Forcing a smile, she nodded.
"I know, Ron, but—"
"No buts. You look like you haven't slept in days," he said firmly, tugging her hand. "Come on, let's go outside for a bit."
"Okay," she relented, letting herself be pulled along.
Ron's hand was warm, a sharp contrast to the icy grip that had haunted her thoughts lately.
"Harry's going to be back soon, by the way," Ron added as they walked. "I was thinking we could visit Hagrid—it's been ages. What do you think?"
"Yes," she said quietly. "That sounds nice."
They sat on a bench near the castle grounds, and for a moment, Hermione let herself feel free of the guilt, the weight of secrets she didn't want to keep. But the relief was fleeting.
The Gryffindor Quidditch team was coming back form practice, and behind them, she spotted a group of Slytherins.
Her breath caught when she saw him. Malfoy.
Ron, ever the troublemaker, got up to make sure no fights broke out. Hermione followed reluctantly, her stomach sinking.
"New seeker, is it?" Oliver Wood asked Malfoy, his voice edged with suspicion. "Who is it?"
Malfoy stepped forward, his trademark smirk firmly in place.
"Me," he drawled, enjoying the looks of shock on their faces.
"Malfoy?" Harry echoed, his voice a mix of disbelief and disgust.
"That's right," Malfoy sneered. "And that's not the only thing that's new this year."
Ron opened his mouth, clearly unable to help himself, but Hermione was too distracted to stop him. She only caught snippets of the argument until Ron's gaze fell on Malfoy's broomstick. Blaise Zabini chuckled darkly.
"Unlike some," Malfoy said, his voice dripping with disdain, "my father can afford the best."
Hermione saw the hurt flash across Ron's face, and her frustration bubbled over. She couldn't stop herself.
"Well, some people in Gryffindor don't need to buy their way in," she snapped. "They get there on talent."
She froze the moment the words left her mouth. Malfoy turned to her, his eyes cold and cutting as he stepped closer.
"No one asked your opinion, you filthy little Mudblood."
The word landed like a physical blow. Hermione's breath hitched, her face burning with shame. She couldn't move, couldn't speak.
Because deep down, she couldn't shake the thought that maybe he was right. Maybe she was just a filthy Mudblood who had no right to interfere.
Then Ron took out his wand.
Hermione barely had time to process what was happening before the spell backfired. He was thrown backward, landing hard on the ground.
For a moment, everything else vanished.
She ran to him, her breath catching in her throat. "Ron!"
He didn't speak. Just sat there, unmoving, lips parted in shock.
"Ron, just say something!" she whispered, desperate.
And then—he did.
Or rather, something did.
A thick, glistening slug slid from his mouth, landing on the grass with a sickening squelch. She recoiled, the sight twisting her stomach. A second later, another slug followed, and then another.
Oh.
Oh, Ronald.
Her hands clenched. He must have meant to say Eat slugs—his wand had betrayed him. She wanted to be horrified, wanted to scream, wanted to do anything but acknowledge the real reason why his spell had fired in the first place.
Because of Malfoy.
Because Malfoy had called her that word.
Mudblood.
The syllables burned into her, searing her chest like a brand.
Laughter erupted from the crowd—sharp, mocking, delighted. She turned, already knowing what she would see.
Malfoy.
His laughter rang the loudest. He stood there, shoulders shaking with amusement, his smirk carved into his face like it belonged there. He didn't look pale. Didn't look weak.
He just looked cruel.
As if nothing had ever changed.
As if every stolen glance, every unspoken truth, every quiet moment between them had been nothing. A lie.
The cold inside her spread, gripping her bones.
Harry grabbed Ron and started running. She followed, but her legs felt heavy—too heavy. And when they rounded the corner, she let them go.
Because the moment they disappeared, she pressed her hands to her face.
Because she could still hear Malfoy's laughter.
Because she had been so foolish.
Maybe it had all been a dream. Maybe she had been looking at a ghost, not the boy she had started to believe in.
Maybe he had never been real at all.
But then—
Something tugged at her robes, pulling her back to the present.
His tie.
Her breath hitched.
Slowly, she reached inside her robes, her fingers brushing against the soft fabric. It felt heavier than it should have, as if it carried all the weight of her own foolishness.
Why had she taken it? Why had she played that game—that stupid, secret trade between them?
Before, the tie had felt like a victory. A piece of him she had stolen, proof that there was something between them, even if neither of them dared to name it.
Now, it was just a strip of silk.
Just another lie.
"Are you okay?" Harry's voice jolted her back. He was watching her, concern written all over his face. "About… whatever Malfoy said?"
"I'm fine." The words slipped out before she could stop them—sharp, cold. A reflex.
Harry blinked, surprised. And maybe, if she had been herself, she would have softened. Would have reassured him.
Her throat tightened, but she bit her lip, swallowing it all down. The tears. The shame. The unbearable ache of something breaking inside her, something she hadn't even realized was fragile.
She wiped away her tears before Harry could see her face.
But in the depths of her pocket, Malfoy's tie still burned against her fingers.
A.N : This chapter was truly heartbreaking, wasn't it? But the real question is—are they going to end this way? The answer lies in the next chapter. Stay tuned!