The briefing room smelled like burnt toast and too many refills of terrible Ministry coffee. A gray haze of early morning light filtered in through the enchanted windows, reflecting off the scattered parchments and glowing runes hovering above the table.
Callum stood at the front, hair tousled, sleeves rolled up, eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep—but there was a restless, electric energy in his movements.
Ron leaned back in his chair, coffee in hand, eyeing Callum with a smirk. "You look wrecked, mate."
"I haven't been home," Callum said, his voice hoarse. He tapped his wand to the center of the map projection with a decisive motion. "But I found it. Or at least, part of it."
"Found what?" Hermione asked, already leaning forward.
"The signature—this magical residue—it's not just from the ritual. It's old magic, twisted, almost parasitic. And it's tied to all the artifacts."
Draco leaned forward, expression dark. "You're saying the pieces are connected."
Callum nodded, then flicked his wand again. Glowing threads of magic snaked across the map, pulsing with a faint, sickly green light. They linked the sites the teams had already cleared—a warehouse in Camden, a shop in Diagon Alley, hidden vaults. "They're not just cursed items," he said. "They're conduits. Someone's been planting them—intentionally—at key points."
Hermione's stomach turned as the implication sank in. "Blood magic," she said quietly. "Each object is part of a larger spell."
As the words left her mouth, a sudden chill threaded down her spine. Not the kind born of fear or realization—but something colder. Deeper.
She pressed her hand against her arm without thinking, as if trying to rub the sensation away. It didn't help.
Callum kept talking, but his voice dimmed beneath the low hum that had started to pulse at the base of her skull.
Not again.
Hermione blinked hard, focusing on the glowing threads on the map. She didn't say anything—not yet—but Draco's gaze flicked to her, sharp and immediate. Like he felt it too. Or maybe he just knew her too well by now.
The cold wasn't gone.
It was waiting.
"Exactly," Callum confirmed. "It's ritualistic. Cumulative. Every time one of these is activated—especially when it draws blood—it feeds something. Like pieces of a summoning circle lighting up, one by one."
The room fell into a heavy silence. Even Dawlish stopped bouncing his leg.
Aurora crossed her arms, gaze fixed on the glowing threads. "This isn't just about trafficking anymore, is it? We're looking at a bloody ritual?"
Her eyes flicked to Draco's across the table—sharp, searching. He held her gaze for a beat, then gave the slightest shake of his head.
Not yet. Not here.
Callum didn't look away from the map. "I don't want to call it until we see the site," he said, voice low. "But based on what Miriam and I found yesterday—and what I've been tracking through the signature—yeah. I think some kind of ritual is happening."
He tapped the projection, watching the threads pulse faintly beneath his hand. "These aren't just cursed artifacts. They're placed with purpose. Charged. Activated. It's not theoretical anymore."
He glanced up, jaw tight. "Someone's feeding something. And they're nearly done."
He waved his wand again. A new mark blinked into existence in the north corner of the map—an isolated site surrounded by dark forest and silence.
"I followed the trail of residue. This is where it all leads. A staging ground."
Harry leaned in, tapping the blinking spot. "And what is this place?"
Callum nodded. "Magical spike at 3:07 this morning. Same resonance as the other sites—but stronger."
Ron let out a low whistle. "That's near the old logging camp, yeah? Nothing out there but forest and snow."
"Exactly," Draco muttered. "Perfect place to hide a ritual site."
Dawlish scoffed. "Or it's just another magical fart in the forest. We're chasing shadows while they set up shop somewhere else."
Callum's jaw tightened. "It's not a guess, John. I've been tracing this signature for weeks. It's not random. This—" he jabbed a finger at the projection, "—is deliberate."
Hermione, who'd been quietly absorbing everything, finally spoke. "If we're right and this site is active, we can't wait. Every second we hesitate could cost lives. We need eyes on it—now."
Draco nodded. "I'll lead it."
Harry gave him a wary look. "Let's not jump the wand. We need to coordinate this right, or we'll lose whatever advantage we have left."
Callum stared at the glowing mark, his brow furrowing deeper.
"It wasn't just a spike," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. "It was a heartbeat."
"Alright," Harry began, his voice cutting through the quiet buzz of the room. "We've got a breakthrough on the magical signature, but we still need to act fast. Let's get a team on the ground and see what we're dealing with."
His eyes flicked toward Draco, who stood quiet and still, watching the map like it might shift beneath his gaze. "We need to know exactly how far this goes."
Then, turning—"Theo, Ron. I want eyes on Vance. Quiet, thorough. If she's hiding anything, I want to know."
Theo gave a lazy salute. "Subtle's my middle name."
Ron was already pushing his chair back. "And I'll make sure he doesn't get distracted by her shoe collection."
Just as Draco opened his mouth to add something, the door to the briefing room swung open with a sharp creak. Neville stormed in, looking more disheveled than usual—robes wrinkled, hair sticking up in wild directions, urgency in every step.
He didn't bother with greetings. Without a word, he strode straight to the blackboard, pulled out his wand, and muttered a quick sticking charm. A large sheet of parchment slapped into place with a sharp snap. He turned, face grim, eyes scanning the room.
"I know what they're doing," Neville said, voice low and steady. He looked at Harry, Ron, and Miriam—then stopped on Hermione.
"I know who they're targeting." His gaze didn't waver. "They're after Muggle-borns."
The room froze.
Hermione's breath hitched. She sat up straighter, eyes narrowing.
Neville stepped closer, quieter now. "The blood magic tied to the ring—it's not just old. It's selective. It's designed to draw in Muggle-borns. That's why it pulled you in, Hermione. Why it wouldn't let go."
A chill spread like frost across the room. Hermione stared at him, pale, lips parting—but Neville continued before she could speak.
"It's a lure," he said. "A siphon. The blood magic responds to Muggle blood. That's the key. That's why she was vulnerable."
Miriam's voice was soft but certain behind him. "That would explain the resonance pattern. It always spiked near Muggle-born signatures—Callum and I saw it in the data, but… we didn't connect it."
Draco, tense and silent until now, straightened abruptly. "That's why she couldn't resist the ring," he muttered, a muscle twitching in his jaw. "It wasn't weakness. It was engineered."
Harry leaned forward, voice tight. "The artifacts, the ring—what's the connection?"
Neville drew in a breath. "I'm not sure what the ring's exact purpose is yet—it's different from the others. But I can tell you this: they're all part of the same ritual. A sequence. It's building toward something bigger. And they're using Muggle-borns as the fuel."
He hesitated—then added, quieter:
"They believe Muggle-born blood is a stain on magic. This ritual… it's not just summoning. It's a purge."
The room was silent for a long moment. The weight of what Neville had said hung in the air, the tension growing thick.
Hermione didn't speak. Her fingers curled tightly in her lap, knuckles white. A muscle twitched in her jaw, and for a moment, it looked like she might say something—but she didn't. She just stared at the map, like she could will it to make sense.
Everyone knew that if they didn't act fast, the consequences could be catastrophic.
Harry was the first to speak, his voice steady but urgent. "We need to stop this—now." His gaze swept the team. "We'll do whatever it takes."
Draco's jaw tightened. "I want whoever's behind this to know they picked the wrong targets."
Hermione, still absorbing Neville's words, gave a slow, firm nod. "We'll stop it," she said quietly. "Together."
The team stood in silence, tension hanging in the air like a storm about to break. Their mission was clearer than ever. And there was no time to waste.
The team trudged through the dense woods, the early morning mist still clinging to the trees. Callum led the way, his eyes scanning the horizon, but Neville's grip on his wand was tight, ready for any surprise. Dawlish, however, couldn't seem to stop fidgeting, his boots crunching on the undergrowth as he muttered under his breath.
"This place gives me the creeps," Dawlish said, his eyes darting around. "It feels like we're being watched."
"Focus," Harry snapped, glancing over his shoulder. "This is the lead we have."
"Right, right," Dawlish muttered, clearly irritated but trying to mask it. He followed a few paces behind Callum, who was using his wand to check for any magical signatures.
"Stay sharp, Jr.," Draco growled, his eyes narrowing in Dawlish's back.
Dawlish didn't even glance over his shoulder. "Don't worry, Malfoy. I can handle myself," he shot back, the edge in his voice clear. "I don't need a babysitter."
Draco's jaw tightened, but he didn't respond immediately, his focus remaining on the terrain ahead. His irritation was building, but he kept his eyes trained on the surroundings. He wasn't about to let Dawlish's reckless attitude get anyone killed today.
Callum stopped suddenly, kneeling to inspect a footprint in the mud. "This could be it," he murmured, brushing aside some leaves to reveal a strange, faint symbol etched into the ground. "The signature's stronger here. We're close."
Harry nodded, but before he could say anything further, Dawlish surged ahead. "What are we waiting for?" he spat, his voice filled with impatience. "Let's just take them. We know it's here."
"Dawlish, don't!" Harry shouted after him, his voice sharp with warning, but it was already too late. Dawlish, acting like it was his mission to lead, charged ahead toward the clearing, reckless as ever.
"Dammit," Callum muttered under his breath, his hand tightening on his wand. "That bloody idiot."
Without waiting for orders, Dawlish rounded the corner of a large, gnarled tree—and that's when everything went wrong. A burst of dark magic erupted from the clearing, striking the air in a crack of thunderous force. The blast sent Dawlish flying backward, crashing hard against a thick trunk, the sound of his body hitting the wood sharp and sickening.
"Dawlish!" Harry shouted, running forward
with Callum hot on his heels.
Draco, who had been a step behind, saw the danger immediately. Without a second thought, he charged forward, wand drawn, and shouted, "Finite Incantatem!"
Neville's face was pale as he aimed his wand, scanning for any more incoming spells. "He's down. We need to move, now."
But Harry couldn't move fast enough. He had one thing on his mind—getting to Dawlish before the next round of attacks came. The forest was too quiet now. They were being hunted
Just as Harry reached Dawlish, a second explosion rang out from behind them—this time, not from the clearing, but from the shadows to their left. Callum immediately responded, throwing up a defensive shield as Neville shot a retaliatory hex in the direction of the attack.
"Get Dawlish out of here, Potter!" Draco barked. "We need to get him back to the Apparition point. Now."
Harry barely had time to register his presence before Dawlish—still dazed—reached for his wand again, trying to aim it in the direction of their attackers.
"No!" Draco shouted, his eyes wild. "Not again, you reckless idiot!"
The moment was too fast for anyone to truly react. Dawlish, in his haste and panic, aimed his wand at the shadows and fired—his spell harmlessly deflecting off a tree.
Without thinking, Draco pushed forward, his instincts driving him to act. He threw himself into the clearing, diving toward Dawlish to shield him from the next attack. A powerful spell slammed into Draco's side, knocking him to the ground with a sickening thud. The sound of bone cracking echoed in the air as Draco gasped in pain, clutching his side, his breath coming in shallow, frantic bursts.
Draco stumbled, his face pale as he fought to stay on his feet. His grip on Dawlish loosened as he fell to the ground, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
"Draco!" Harry yelled, rushing to his side.
"Get him out of here," Draco choked out, eyes narrowing as he fought to stay conscious, the world around him spinning. He tried to push himself up but winced in pain. His hand went to his side, and blood started to seep through the fabric of his jacket.
Callum was already at Dawlish's side, pulling him up and half-carrying him away from the clearing, his own pulse racing. But Harry's eyes were locked on Draco, his voice urgent. "We need to get him back. Now."
It felt like time was slowing. Draco's body was already starting to weaken, the adrenaline wearing off, and his mind felt foggy. He struggled to stand, trying to shake off the pain, but his legs gave way beneath him, forcing him to fall to his knees.
Dawlish, still reeling from the shock, managed to stand with Callum's help, his face pale but determined. "I... I didn't mean—"
"No time for apologies," Harry snapped, his voice sharp. "We get out of here, now!"
The team quickly made their way back, with Draco's condition worsening by the second. "Draco, stay with me," Harry muttered.
They materialized back at St. Mungo's with a sickening pop. Draco slumped in Harry's arms, unconscious but breathing—barely.
The clearing had fallen silent again, save for the faint hum of lingering magic.
A shadow shifted at the tree line.
The figure didn't move as the last echo of Apparition faded into stillness. His eyes, dark and watchful, lingered on the spot where Draco had fallen. A faint smile curled his lips—amused, perhaps, or satisfied.
Behind him, two cloaked cultists stepped forward.
"The bloodletting has begun," one whispered.
The figure didn't speak. He raised a hand toward the symbol carved faintly into the mud. The Sigil. The circle split by a vertical line. It pulsed once with quiet, unnatural light.
"Soon," he murmured, so softly even the trees seemed to lean closer. "Soon she'll come to me."
The air in St. Mungo's was sterile and filled with the faint hum of magic, the low murmurs of healers moving about their duties. Harry paced restlessly by the bed where Draco lay, his face pale and drawn. The healer was working swiftly, muttering incantations as they cast spells over Draco's prone form. His breathing was shallow, his injuries more severe than Harry had initially realized.
"Is he going to be okay?" Harry asked, his voice tight with concern.
The healer didn't look up, but her voice was calm and professional. "He's stable for now, but these kinds of injuries require time to heal. We'll need to monitor him closely. The spell's effect was aggressive, and there's internal damage. He'll need rest."
Harry clenched his fists at his sides, the anxiety gnawing at him. He hated waiting—hated not knowing.
A soft sound of footsteps made Harry look up, and he saw Dawlish, still pale but managing to stand with Neville's help. He looked uncomfortable, shifting slightly on his feet as he took in the situation.
Harry shot Dawlish a glare that could melt stone.
"This is why we don't go off-script," Harry muttered, his anger simmering beneath the surface.
Dawlish flinched, guilt clearly written across his face, but he said nothing. For once, he seemed to understand the gravity of the situation.
"Where's Callum?" Harry asked, his voice a bit sharper than he meant it to be.
Neville winced at the tone. "He's… handling things with the rest of the team. I'm just here to… well," he shrugged, motioning to Dawlish, "keep him out of further trouble."
Harry didn't acknowledge him, instead turning back to Draco, his mind fixed on the immediate task at hand. He needed to get word to Hermione. She had to know what had happened, even if he wasn't entirely sure how to explain it.
"Someone needs to tell Hermione," Harry muttered, looking at Neville.
Neville nodded. "I'm on it." He quickly stepped away to send a Patronus to Hermione.
Harry swallowed hard, his throat tight. He stared at the floor for a moment, his mind racing. "I have to tell his parents..." The words felt heavy, like a weight settling in his chest.
He paused, his hand trembling slightly as he reached for his wand. Telling them—especially Lucius—wasn't going to be easy. The thought of it made him uneasy, the responsibility pressing down on him. But it had to be done.
"How long will it take?" Harry asked again, voice more strained this time.
"It's hard to say," the healer replied, lifting a vial of potion to Draco's lips. "It depends on how quickly his body responds to the healing magic. I'll keep you updated."
Harry nodded, though his stomach was a tight knot of worry.
"I'll stay," Harry murmured, sinking into a chair next to Draco's bed. He couldn't leave now—not with Draco in this state. Not when everything had gone wrong because of one reckless move.
Meanwhile, Dawlish lingered in the corner, awkwardly shifting on his feet, clearly out of place in the sterile medical environment.
"Do you know how bad it is?" Dawlish asked, cautiously stepping forward, his voice small.
Harry shot him a sharp look. "You've done enough, Dawlish. You'll have to wait just like the rest of us."
The weight of the words settled on Dawlish's shoulders, and he nodded, muttering an apology.
Harry returned to Draco's side, his gaze fixed on his unconscious friend, wondering how long it would take for Hermione to get here—and if Draco would be okay when she did.
The conference room was quiet, save for the rustle of papers and the occasional tap of Miriam's quill. Hermione was seated at one of the desks, her brow furrowed in concentration as she pored over a series of ancient magical texts. Across from her, Aurora was scribbling notes, and Miriam was coordinating something with the Ministry's paperwork.
Hermione tried to focus on the task at hand, but a gnawing unease sat heavy in her gut. Everyone had been on edge lately, and though she told herself to stay grounded, the worry clung stubbornly, fogging her thoughts.
A soft knock on the door made her look up, and Neville stepped in, his face drawn and tense. Hermione immediately recognized the look. Something was wrong.
"Neville?" she asked, rising from her seat. "What is it? What's happened?"
Neville stepped forward, his gaze flicking briefly to Miriam and Aurora before focusing back on Hermione. "Hermione… it's Draco," he said, his voice uncharacteristically soft. "There's been an incident. He's at St. Mungo's."
Hermione's heart dropped into her stomach. "What happened?" she demanded, her voice shaking as the room seemed to close in on her. She wasn't sure if she was bracing herself for the worst or if she could hold on for another moment.
Neville took a breath, his expression serious. "We were tracking down a lead. Dawlish—he rushed ahead without orders, and it turned into a situation we weren't prepared for. Draco stepped in to save him, and he took the brunt of it. He's hurt, Hermione. Badly. We need to get to St. Mungo's."
Aurora and Miriam exchanged a glance, both recognizing the urgency in Neville's tone. Miriam immediately stood. "Go, Hermione. We'll handle things here. You need to be with him."
Hermione nodded, her hands trembling as she grabbed her bag. "Thank you," she whispered, too overwhelmed to say much more. Her heart was pounding in her chest, her thoughts only on Draco now.
Neville didn't waste a moment. He led her out of the office, the pace quick and steady as they rushed to the Apparition point. Hermione's mind was spinning with questions, none of them making sense. How could this happen? Why wasn't she with him? She needed to be there. She needed to see him, to make sure he was okay.
Within moments, they arrived at St. Mungo's. The bright white glow of the hospital's magical lights struck her like a wave, but it felt cold—clinical. The chill in the air mirrored the dread settling low in her stomach.
They rushed inside, Neville leading her straight to the lift. "Spell Damage Ward. Emergency level," he said tightly.
Hermione didn't wait. She surged ahead, her steps quickening as she pushed through the swinging doors, eyes scanning for him. She was close now. He was alive. He had to be.
When they reached his room, Hermione's breath caught at the sight of him. Draco lay unconscious in the bed, a blur of healing spells arcing softly across his body. His face was pale, his jaw mottled with bruises, but his chest rose and fell with steady breath. A diagnostic charm hovered beside his head, displaying his heart rate and oxygen levels in glowing script. Relief crashed over her—overwhelming and immediate—but it didn't stop the sting of tears in her eyes. She moved forward, legs unsteady, until she reached his side.
"Hermione," Harry said gently as he rose from his seat beside the bed, his voice low. "He's going to be okay. He's a fighter."
She nodded, but her focus never left Draco. She took his hand, pressing it to her cheek. "Draco," she whispered, the name a breathless prayer. "Please wake up. Please be okay."
Neville stood back, his gaze shifting between them before he respectfully stepped out of the room, giving Hermione the space she needed.
Hermione turned, her eyes livid as they locked on Dawlish, still hovering awkwardly in the corner. "What. Happened." Her voice was low, sharp, laced with ice.
Dawlish straightened, jaw tight like he was bracing for impact. "I moved too quickly. Gave us away. Malfoy… he—" He exhaled, eyes dropping. "He pulled me out. Took the hit instead."
He still wouldn't meet her eyes. "He shouldn't have had to."
Hermione turned back to Draco, brushing his hair gently from his face, her fingers trembling. "Get him out of here, Harry," she said, her voice flat and hard.
Harry squeezed her shoulder—firm, reassuring—then turned to Dawlish, his tone cold as steel. "Ministry. Now. We're taking your report straight to Kingsley."
The door shut behind them with a decisive thud. Kingsley Shacklebolt looked up from his desk, his expression unreadable. "Sit," he said calmly, though the weight in his voice said more than enough.
Dawlish sat stiffly, hands clenched in his lap. Harry remained standing.
"Explain," Kingsley said, folding his hands.
Dawlish swallowed hard. "We were in the forest. I moved too quickly. Gave us away. Malfoy intervened and took the hit meant for me."
There was a pause. Heavy. Charged.
"Protocol was clear," Kingsley said at last, voice low and deliberate. "You ignored it."
"I thought it was safe—"
"You thought, and now one of our lead operatives is unconscious in Spell Damage because of your ego."
Dawlish flinched, but said nothing.
"Effective immediately, you're suspended. One week. No field duty. Report to internal review. Dismissed."
Dawlish stood, jaw tight, and left without a word.
Kingsley looked to Harry. "How bad?"
"Spell damage across his ribs and left lung. They stabilized him, but it was close."
Kingsley nodded grimly. "Go. Tell his family. And thank him—when he wakes up."
The grand doors of Malfoy Manor opened before Harry could knock twice. Misty, the Malfoy's house-elf, peered up at him with wide, nervous eyes. "Mister Potter, sir! Why is you here?"
Harry gave a brief nod. "Fetch your masters. It's urgent."
Misty vanished with a soft *pop, and moments later, Narcissa appeared in the doorway. Her posture was flawless, every inch the lady of the house—but her eyes were already scanning his face, sharp with worry.
"Draco?" she asked.
Harry softened. "St. Mungo's. He's stable. He saved someone's life today."
Lucius appeared behind her, his face pale. "Potter." His voice was harsh, filled with clear dislike, but there was a note of concern beneath it. "What happened?"
Harry stepped inside, lowering his voice. "Draco was injured on assignment. A rogue spell meant for another agent. He took the hit—shielded the other operative."
Narcissa's hand clutched at the edge of a side table, but she held her composure.
Lucius was still. "How bad?"
"Bad," Harry admitted. "But he's breathing on his own. They think he'll make a full recovery."
A beat passed. Then Narcissa moved quickly—almost breaking form—as she reached for her cloak. "Take me to him."
Harry nodded. "Of course."
The corridor outside Draco's room was quiet, dimmed by evening light filtering through enchanted windows. Harry led Narcissa and Lucius toward the door, but Narcissa stopped just before they reached it.
Through the glass, she saw her son.
Draco lay still in the bed, pale against the white sheets. Spells glimmered faintly over his chest. But what caught her attention first wasn't the magic—it was the woman sitting beside him.
Hermione Granger.
She was holding Draco's hand, her fingers laced gently with his. Her other hand moved slowly through his hair, her touch careful, reverent. Her eyes were red, but her posture was calm, focused. Protective.
Narcissa's breath caught, though she said nothing.
Harry glanced at her, uncertain. "Do you want a moment?"
"No," she said quietly, and stepped inside.
Hermione looked up the moment the door opened. She stood, straightening instinctively, but didn't let go of Draco's hand.
Their eyes met.
"I'm sorry," Hermione said softly. "I didn't want to leave him alone."
Narcissa approached the bed, gaze flicking from Hermione's tear-lined face to the man lying between them. "You didn't," she said at last, her voice composed but low. "You were here."
Lucius remained silent in the doorway, watching carefully.
After a moment, Narcissa looked back to Hermione, eyes sharp with perception. "You care for him."
"I do."
There was no hesitation in Hermione's voice.
Narcissa nodded once, then turned her attention fully to her son, reaching out to lay a hand over his.
Lucius stepped further into the room, his gaze fixed on Draco. The usual sneer that twisted his mouth was absent, replaced by something stonier. Controlled.
When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter than expected, but no less sharp.
"He's always been reckless when it comes to those he cares for."
His eyes flicked briefly to Hermione, just long enough to be deliberate.
"It seems… nothing has changed."
Hermione didn't flinch under his scrutiny. "He saved someone's life," she said evenly.
Lucius sneered. "And look where it got him." He shot Hermione a glare, then turned his cold eyes to Harry. "I expect the Ministry to answer for this recklessness."
Harry's jaw tightened, but his voice stayed calm. "We'll answer for it. And we'll deal with the agent responsible."
He met Lucius's glare evenly.
"But don't mistake Draco's choice. He didn't take that hit because of Ministry orders. He did it because it's who he is now."
A charged pause followed.
"You should be proud of him."
Narcissa's hand stilled over Draco's. She looked between them—Harry and Lucius—her expression cool but resolute.
"Enough," she said softly, but with unmistakable authority. "This is not the time for blame."
She looked to Harry, her voice gentler. "Thank you… for bringing us."
Then to Lucius, pointedly: "And he doesn't need our outrage. He needs our presence."
Lucius's jaw worked, but he said nothing.
She turned back to her son, brushing a thumb over his temple as if smoothing away the weight of everything unsaid. "He'll wake. He's always been stronger than people think."
The room had grown quieter as the hours passed. Healers came and went in gentle intervals, checking the diagnostic charms, murmuring updates. Draco hadn't stirred. The soft glow of the spells reflected off his pale skin, casting him in an ethereal light.
Lucius remained by the window, stiff-backed and silent, arms folded behind him. Watchful. Cold.
Narcissa sat beside Draco now, and Hermione had taken the second chair, pulled close. They had lapsed into light conversation—Narcissa asking about work, the holiday markets in Diagon Alley, even an idle comment about the state of Ministry-issued boots.
It was all surface, and they both knew it, but the effort counted.
Finally, Hermione glanced toward Lucius, her voice quiet but steady.
"You didn't seem surprised to see me here."
Lucius's gaze didn't move from the darkened window. "No, I heard the rumors." he said after a beat. "Draco's always been… contrary."
Hermione blinked.
Lucius turned then, looking at her with eyes cool and unreadable.
"He was raised to know better. To understand the importance of—tradition. Lineage. But he's always had a habit of… challenging expectations."
It wasn't a compliment.
Hermione's spine straightened. She opened her mouth, but Narcissa cut in smoothly.
"Lucius." Her voice was soft, but sharp as a blade.
He exhaled through his nose, but said nothing more.
Narcissa turned to Hermione, her hand gently brushing Draco's hair.
"Pay him no mind." She smiled faintly. "He hides discomfort behind old habits."
Hermione's throat was tight, but she managed a nod. Narcissa's fingers smoothed the edge of a blanket before she added, as if it were the most natural thing in the world:
"You'll join us for Christmas dinner, of course."
Hermione looked up, startled.
"You've been here longer than either of us. He'll want you there."
Lucius's eyes narrowed slightly, but he said nothing. Narcissa didn't look at him.
Hermione hesitated—then nodded.
"I'd like that."
The early morning light filtered through the enchanted windows in a soft, grey wash. The room was still, save for the quiet hum of monitoring spells and the steady rhythm of Draco's breathing.
Lucius stood near the foot of the bed, hands clasped behind his back, watching Narcissa carefully.
"You haven't slept," he said quietly.
Narcissa sat in the chair closest to Draco, her posture graceful but weary, eyes fixed on her son's face. "Neither have you," she murmured.
"I'm not the one who spent the last ten hours keeping vigil and making sure Miss Granger ate something," Lucius said dryly. "Go home. Rest."
"I'm fine."
"You're not," he replied, gentler this time. "You'll be no good to him if you fall over from exhaustion. I'll have Misty stay with him."
At that, Narcissa hesitated.
Lucius stepped toward the door. "I'll summon her."
From the bed, Hermione stirred.
She blinked groggily, her neck aching from the awkward angle where she'd fallen asleep—her head still resting on the edge of the mattress, her fingers curled loosely around Draco's. She sat up slowly, brushing hair from her face as she looked toward the Malfoys.
"I'm sorry—I didn't mean to—"
Narcissa turned to her at once, voice soft. "No need to apologize. You stayed."
Hermione nodded, her hand brushing Draco's as she stood.
"You should go home too," Narcissa said gently. "Shower. Sleep in your own bed for a few hours."
"I'm fine," Hermione said automatically.
Narcissa offered a small, knowing smile. "He would want you to rest."
Hermione hesitated—then nodded. "Just a few hours," she said quietly. "I'll be back before he even notices."
She looked down at Draco one last time, brushing her fingers along his hair before turning to leave.
Lucius watched the quiet exchange, saying nothing as he stepped into the hallway to summon Misty.
The door clicked shut behind her, but the silence inside felt thunderous. Hermione stood in the middle of her flat, still in the same clothes from yesterday, her wand hand limp at her side, her fingers aching from clutching Draco's for so long.
She moved through the space slowly, like a ghost in her own home—dropping her bag on the sofa, toeing off her boots, forgetting to cast the warming charm.
Her reflection caught her in the mirror above the mantle. Eyes puffy. Hair wild. Shoulders heavy with too much she hadn't said.
She finally let herself feel it.
The fear that had clawed at her when Neville said Draco's name.
The ice that had settled in her chest when she saw him pale and still.
And the quiet, aching truth she hadn't admitted even to herself until she'd sat holding his hand all night.
She loved him.
Somewhere along the way, through arguments and banter, loyalty and long nights in the field—she had fallen in love with Draco Malfoy.
And now, the thought of not hearing his voice again, of not seeing him smirk at her across a shared file, was more than unbearable.
She sat on the edge of her bed, rubbing a palm over her eyes. Her stomach twisted—not just with worry, but with guilt, and longing, and all the things she hadn't said yet.
"You idiot," she whispered into the quiet, voice cracking. "You absolute idiot. Why did you have to jump in front of him?"
There was no answer, only the faint sound of the city outside her window.
Hermione curled up on top of the duvet, exhaustion finally pulling her under.
The fire crackled in the massive hearth, but it did nothing to thaw the chill in Lucius's tone.
"A Muggle-born, Narcissa." He paced, voice like a blade. "Of all the foolish, ill-considered—dangerous—choices he could've made."
Narcissa sat on the sofa, legs crossed, a teacup balanced delicately in her hand. She didn't look up from it.
Lucius continued, seething. "He's already under scrutiny. You know how many eyes are waiting for him to slip. And now—now he's handed them the perfect story. The Malfoy heir and Granger?"
He spat her name like it tasted foul.
Narcissa's voice was calm, cool, and final.
"He nearly died, Lucius."
Lucius stopped mid-pace, glaring at her.
She lifted her gaze, sharp and unwavering. "He is lying in a hospital bed because he chose to save a man who despises him. Because he did what was right, not what was safe. And the woman who held his hand through the night—the woman who loves him—is one of the finest people I have ever met."
She stood, setting the teacup aside. "You may not like it. You may not understand it. But I will not let you poison it."
Lucius's mouth twisted. "You'd have him throw away generations of legacy—"
"I'd have him live, Lucius." Her voice cracked like thunder in the stillness. "I'd have him be free to choose his own happiness. The world has changed. You can either accept that… or be left behind."
The silence that followed was heavy.
Lucius turned away, jaw clenched, but he said nothing more.