The days bled together.
Hermione walked through the halls with her usual books clutched tight to her chest, her usual purpose in her step—but everything felt off. Like the world was tilted slightly on its axis, and nothing had quite settled back into place.
Draco hadn't spoken to her since that night. Not a glance. Not a word. He didn't sit beside her in class anymore. Instead, he'd taken to the far side of the room—alone. No Blaise, no Pansy. Just him and the wall.
And it was slowly eating her alive.
She tried not to look. But she always did.
He sat there, quill gripped too tightly in his hand, notes in front of him untouched. There were shadows under his eyes now. His posture was stiff. Hollow.
He looked like a ghost of himself.
Hermione turned back to her own parchment, trying to refocus on the textbook in front of her. The words swam.
She couldn't take it anymore.
After class, as everyone filed out, she caught Pansy and Blaise just outside the door.
"Can I talk to you both?" Her voice was barely above a whisper.
Pansy blinked. "Of course."
Hermione looked between them. "What happened? Did something happen? Why is he acting like this?"
Blaise exchanged a glance with Pansy.
"We don't know," Pansy said after a moment. "He came back from his father's a few days ago… different. Cold. Angry."
"He won't talk to us either," Blaise added. "Barely says a word outside of class. He's been sleeping in the library half the time. You think we're in the dark too, Granger? We're not even holding candles."
Hermione stared at them, breath catching. "So… he didn't tell you anything?"
"Nothing." Blaise sighed. "He's shutting everyone out."
"I think he's hurting," Pansy said quietly, eyes softer now. "And I think you're the reason. Not in a cruel way. I think… something happened. And he's trying to protect you."
"Or destroy himself trying," Blaise muttered.
Hermione felt the ache settle deeper into her ribs. "I don't know how to help him if he won't even let me try."
Draco leaned against a wall outside the Great Hall, lights dim, the enchanted parchment in his pocket untouched. He couldn't bring himself to destroy it. He also couldn't bring himself to look at it.
His hands shook as he held an old photograph of Hermione — laughing, hair wild, a Gryffindor scarf around her neck. She hadn't known he'd snapped it during a study session with the others. But he had. And he'd kept it.
His jaw clenched.
He missed her like he missed air. But if this was the cost of her safety, he'd pay it a thousand times over.
Even if it was killing him.
The castle was quiet at this hour, the students having filtered into the Great Hall for dinner. The stone corridor glowed with the soft amber hues of enchanted sconces along the walls.
Hermione spotted him.
Leaning against the far end of the corridor, near the arched window overlooking the courtyard, Draco Malfoy stood in solitude, arms crossed, face tight with something unreadable. He hadn't noticed her yet.
Her footsteps echoed.
He turned at the sound, stiffening when he saw her. "Granger," he muttered, already pushing off the wall to leave.
"You don't get to walk away again," Hermione said, stepping in front of him, hand pressed to his chest. Her touch was enough to make his jaw clench.
"I don't think you want to hear anything I've got to say," Draco said coolly, eyes fixed somewhere over her shoulder. "Unless you're here to ask how I finally came to my senses."
She flinched. "Is that what this is? You just… came to your senses?"
He gave a short, humorless laugh. "I should've never started anything with you. You're better off."
"You don't mean that."
"I do," he said sharply, eyes finally locking with hers. "Look at you. Gryffindor's brightest. War heroine. The Chosen One's best friend. And me? I'm a Malfoy. A name drenched in blood and dark magic. I should've never touched you."
Hermione stared at him, eyes wide and burning. "Why are you saying this now? After everything?"
"Because I needed to remind myself of the truth," Draco spat, taking a step back. "This? You and me? It was a mistake. A fantasy I entertained for too long."
"Stop it," she said, voice trembling.
"I don't love you, Granger."
The silence that followed was deafening.
Hermione swallowed hard, but didn't step away. "You're lying."
Draco's eyes flickered, just for a second, betraying the crack behind the mask.
"You don't get to decide what I feel, Draco. You don't get to tell me what was real and what wasn't."
His fists curled at his sides. "Why can't you just hate me?"
"Because I know you," she whispered, her voice breaking. "And you don't get to push me away just to protect me—"
"You think this is about protection?" he hissed, stepping closer now, anger and desperation flashing through his features. "This is about reality. My father would rather burn the world than see us together. You and everything you know is in danger, Hermione."
She blinked. "So that's what this is. He threatened me."
Draco didn't answer. That was enough.
Tears pricked her eyes. "You idiot," she breathed, reaching for him—but he turned his face away, too afraid of what he'd do if she touched him again.
"I'm not walking away," she said, voice firmer now. "Not unless you mean it. Not unless you look me in the eye and tell me you want me gone. For real."
Draco looked at her—and said nothing.
That silence was louder than any answer.
Hermione didn't let up. She stepped in, relentless, her presence cutting through the cold walls Draco had so desperately thrown up.
"Look at me," she whispered. Her voice cracked, but her hands didn't tremble as she reached out and grabbed his.
He flinched.
But she pulled them toward her, pressing them to her cheeks, to the damp heat of her tears. His breath hitched. The moment his palms touched her skin, it shattered something inside him.
"I'm right here, Draco," she pleaded, voice thick. "I've always been right here. So don't—don't shut me out because you're scared."
He squeezed his eyes shut, jaw trembling.
"You're not protecting me by hurting me," she said, her forehead nearly pressed to his now. "You're just proving that your father still has control over your life."
Draco's heart slammed against his ribs. He wanted to kiss her. Merlin, he wanted to wrap her in his arms and disappear with her. He wanted to scream, to rage, to tell her everything—how he'd been to the Manor, how Lucius had threatened the only people she had left outside of Hogwarts. How that bastard knew exactly how to gut him.
But he couldn't. He wouldn't risk it.
"I'm begging you," Hermione breathed, "see me. Trust me. We've been through too much for you to pretend like none of this meant anything."
His lips parted, a shallow gasp of restraint escaping.
She was so close. So real. So maddeningly stubborn and kind and brave that it nearly brought him to his knees.
But he shook his head slowly.
"I can't," he rasped.
Her grip tightened around his hands. "Draco—"
"I can't, Hermione," he said again, voice louder, hoarser. "If I let you in again, if I let myself believe this is something we could hold on to, he'll destroy everything. Your family. Your future. And I couldn't survive that. I couldn't survive being the reason you lost everything."
"You already are," she whispered, voice fragile. "Because I'm losing you."
He stared at her. He wanted to break. He almost did. But then his father's voice echoed in his head like poison.
Draco pulled his hands from her face, as gently as he could manage, and stepped away.
"Don't follow me again," he said, quietly this time.
And he turned—leaving Hermione standing in the corridor, trembling, her arms falling limp to her sides.