Hermione stumbled through the portrait hole of The Fat Lady in a daze.
The fire was crackling, the common room alive with the soft murmur of students unwinding for the night, but all of it felt muffled—like she were underwater. Her limbs moved on instinct, dragging her up the spiral staircase to her dormitory where Ginny and Lavender were already in their pajamas, talking and laughing softly.
The moment they saw her face, everything stopped.
"Hermione?" Ginny was up in an instant, crossing the room. "What happened?"
Hermione didn't answer. She just shook her head, hands trembling, and walked right past them to her bed. She crawled onto it fully dressed, pulling the green flowy shirt she had once worn for Draco tight around her body as if it could still offer comfort. Her fingers absently brushed over the place where his signet ring used to rest—now gone, returned after the last conversation.
"Hermione, talk to us," Lavender said softly, sitting at the edge of the bed. "Please."
She opened her mouth. Nothing came out. Then, finally—"He left me."
Ginny's expression dropped. "What? Why?"
Hermione curled on her side, facing the wall. "He wouldn't say. He just… looked right at me like I was nothing. After everything. After us. And then he walked away."
Ginny sat on the other side of her, placing a hand gently on Hermione's back. Lavender frowned, brushing Hermione's curls away from her damp cheeks.
"You don't believe it, do you?" Lavender asked. "That he meant it?"
"I don't know what to believe," Hermione whispered. "But… I felt it. He was hurting. I know he was hurting. So why is he doing this?"
Neither of the girls answered.
And for the first time in a long time, Hermione Granger didn't want answers. She didn't want to read. Or study. Or fix anything.
She just wanted to be alone in her grief.
The following days were harder. She showed up to class, but barely spoke. Her quill didn't move as quickly. Her hand shook when she opened her books. Her eyes were rimmed with red but no tears came anymore.
Even Ginny and Lavender didn't know what to say.
And every time she looked across the room, saw Draco hunched over his desk, dark circles under his eyes and hands clenched tightly in his lap—
She felt like she was watching two people fall apart in the same room, miles apart from each other.
Draco sat alone beneath the old oak in the courtyard, its branches barren with the season, mirroring the weight sitting on his chest. His bag lay forgotten beside him, books unopened. He hadn't slept. He hadn't eaten. He had perfected the art of staring through people, pretending not to notice the ache in his gut every time Hermione walked by.
He could still feel her hands on his. Still hear her voice breaking as she begged him not to throw them away.
He squeezed his eyes shut.
"Oi."
Draco looked up. Blaise.
He wasn't alone.
Ron Weasley stood beside him, hands in his pockets, an unreadable look on his freckled face.
Draco's brows furrowed. "What is this, some weird intervention?"
Blaise ignored the sarcasm. "You look like hell."
"Thanks, Zabini. Always the charmer."
Ron stepped forward. "We're not here to trade insults."
Draco leaned back, tone hard. "Then what are you here for, Weasley?"
Ron hesitated. "Because I'm watching her fall apart, Malfoy. I am watching the strongest person I know become a ghost of herself. And I think it's time someone told you: You're losing the best thing you've ever had. And for what?"
Draco clenched his jaw. "You wouldn't understand."
"Try me," Ron said evenly.
Blaise folded his arms. "We know something happened at the Manor. You came back different. Cold. Shaken. But whatever your father said—whatever fear he planted in you—it's got nothing on what you're doing to her. And yourself."
Draco said nothing. His gaze fell to the stone path in front of him.
Ron exhaled slowly. "Look, I'll be honest—I hated this thing between you and Hermione when it started. Thought you were playing her. But you weren't. And somewhere along the way… watching you two, I started to feel something I hadn't felt since the war ended."
Draco finally looked up at him.
"Hope," Ron said quietly. "Watching her fall for someone she was supposed to hate. Watching you love her in return. It helped… fix something in me. After Fred died, I didn't think anything could. But you two? You were proof that healing's possible. That change is possible."
Draco's throat tightened.
Ron's eyes burned with sincerity. "So, yeah. I'm here telling you to fix this. Not just for her. But for you. And maybe, for the rest of us too."
Silence lingered for a long time.
Draco turned his head away, eyes stinging.
"I don't know if I can," he muttered.
Blaise stepped closer. "You can. And you should. Because if you don't, you'll regret it the rest of your life."
Ron nodded. "You already love her. That's the hardest part. The rest is just bravery."
Draco's voice was hoarse. "You think she'll even take me back?"
"She's Hermione Granger," Ron said with a crooked smile. "She sees the truth in people even when they don't. But if you wait too long…"
He didn't have to finish.
Draco stood slowly, the weight of it all pressing down on him like stone. But he looked out across the courtyard, toward the castle, where he knew she'd be—
And for the first time in days, he let himself hope.