The chatter of students echoed through the corridors as Hermione walked with Ron and Harry, her satchel slung across her shoulder, wand loosely in hand. They were laughing at something Ron said—something about Seamus's latest failed potion—but Hermione wasn't really listening.
She glanced toward the entrance hall for the hundredth time since sunrise.
And then… there he was.
Draco.
Stepping through the grand doors, robes still slightly dusted from travel, shoulders tense, eyes downcast. Hermione's heart leapt at the sight of him. She hadn't realized how much she'd missed him in just a day. Her feet moved instinctively, breaking from Harry and Ron.
"Draco!" she called, a hopeful smile tugging at her lips.
He didn't look up.
Didn't even slow down.
Just kept walking, past her, expression blank, jaw tight.
Hermione stopped short, blinking. "Draco?" she repeated, more softly this time, confusion wrapping around her voice.
Still nothing.
Not a word. Not a glance.
Her hand dropped to her side, fingers curling against her palm.
Ron's eyebrows rose as he stepped up beside her. "Well that was charming," he muttered. "Back to old habits, I see?"
Harry, quieter, tilted his head. "Something's wrong. He didn't even look at her."
Hermione stood there frozen in place, her lips slightly parted, eyes fixed on the spot where Draco had disappeared down the corridor.
She didn't say anything. Not to Ron, not to Harry.
But something was wrong. Terribly wrong.
And whatever it was… it wasn't just coldness.
It was fear. And heartbreak.
The door slammed shut behind him.
Draco stumbled back against it, chest heaving, fingers gripping the handle like he needed something—anything—to anchor him. His heart pounded so violently it felt like it was trying to claw its way out of his ribcage.
He had ignored her.
He had looked into Hermione Granger's face—her warm, open, brilliant face—and walked past it like it meant nothing.
His stomach turned.
He yanked off his cloak and threw it across the room. It hit the edge of his desk, knocking over an inkwell that spilled thick black ink like blood across his books. He didn't care. He barely noticed.
He gripped the edges of his desk, breathing hard, knuckles white. His reflection in the mirror across the room looked pale and wild, eyes rimmed with red, jaw clenched tight.
"I had to." He told the mirror. "I had to."
But the mirror didn't argue. It didn't call him brave. Or noble. Or right.
It just showed him for what he was.
Breaking.
He let go of the desk and paced in quick, uneven strides. His mind was a hurricane—flashes of Hermione's laughter, the way her hand had brushed his in class, the way she kissed him, soft and sure and real. And now—gone. Torn from him by a threat and a legacy he never asked for.
And he couldn't tell her why.
His head snapped to the window when he heard the familiar flutter.
A note. Glowing softly. Her handwriting.
He snatched it from the air like it had burned him.
Draco, what's going on? Please… just talk to me.
You looked like you didn't even see me.
Please tell me I didn't imagine all of this.
He choked on a breath. His eyes stung.
He wanted to scream. To hex something. To undo the world.
Instead, he fell to the floor, back against the cold stone wall, and read the letter over and over again. His hands trembled violently. He pressed the parchment to his forehead like it could somehow absorb the ache splitting him in two.
He could lie. Say he didn't care. Say she meant nothing.
But she did.
She meant everything.
And that's why he had to do this.
He crawled to the desk, ink still dripping, and grabbed a quill.
He couldn't let her in. Not if it meant she'd get hurt. Not if Lucius followed through on his threat.
His hand hovered over the page for an agonizing moment.
Then he wrote:
You imagined it.
Go back to Potter and Weasley, Granger.
That's where you belong.
As soon as the words were sent, he gripped the edge of the desk again and let out a low, guttural sound—a wounded, furious noise that no one but the stone walls would ever hear.
And in the silence that followed, Draco Malfoy truly hated himself.
The note trembled slightly in her hands.
Hermione stared at the familiar slant of his handwriting, the cruel brevity of the words. Her heart raced, but everything else in her chest felt like it had frozen solid.
You imagined it.
Go back to Potter and Weasley, Granger.
That's where you belong.
Her breath caught.
No.
No, this couldn't be real.
She read it again. And again. Her eyes flicked over the letters like she was trying to decipher some hidden message beneath the ink. Maybe it was a joke. A test. Maybe he was angry and lashing out.
But every reread sent another crack through her chest.
He meant it.
She sank down on the edge of her bed, parchment still clutched in her hands. Lavender and Ginny were somewhere in the common room, laughter and chatter drifting in faintly from beyond the closed door—but Hermione was alone in the silence of her unraveling.
What did I do?
What changed?
She couldn't think of a single thing. Yesterday they'd been wrapped in each other, stargazing, kissing, dreaming. They had shared everything—he'd given her his family's ring.
And now this?
She fumbled for the enchanted parchment they'd been using. Her fingers shook as she pressed her quill to it, desperate, her heart clawing for answers.
Draco, please.
What's happened? I don't understand. We were fine yesterday.
You don't get to just erase it all. Please talk to me.
She waited.
Minutes dragged by. An eternity.
Nothing.
The parchment remained stubbornly blank.
Hermione blinked quickly, swallowing hard. Her chest burned. Her throat ached. Her entire body buzzed with confusion and the slow, creeping horror of loss.
She grabbed her cloak.
If he wouldn't write her back, he'd have to tell her to her face.