Hermione's POV

The morning sunlight poured weakly through the small, barred window of my room as I stared at the walls, still trying to make sense of last night and Draco's strange behavior. First, he had unchained me when no one was watching. Then, this morning, I had felt a subtle shift in Lucius's demeanor. While his gaze still lingered uncomfortably, he didn't say anything, didn't provoke me the way he usually did.

Something had changed. And though I hated to admit it, I suspected it had something to do with Draco.

I shook my head, trying to push the thought aside as I made my way to the library for my next task. The grand, quiet space was becoming a sort of strange sanctuary—a place where I could focus on books instead of the twisted power dynamics of this house.

The silence, however, didn't last long.

Draco appeared in the doorway, leaning against the frame as if he'd been waiting for me. His presence made the air feel heavier, and I immediately stiffened, my muscles tensing out of habit.

"What now?" I asked, not bothering to hide the exhaustion in my voice.

He didn't respond immediately, his eyes scanning the room before settling on me. "I wanted to check on the library. Make sure you're actually doing your job."

"Of course you did," I said dryly, turning back to the shelf I was dusting.

He stepped inside, the sound of his boots against the marble unnervingly loud in the quiet room. I tried to focus on my work, but I could feel him watching me, and it made my skin crawl—not in the way Lucius's gaze had, but in a way that unsettled me all the same.

"You don't have to hover," I said finally, glancing over my shoulder.

He smirked faintly, shoving his hands into his pockets. "You really have no filter, do you?"

"Not when I'm being stared at like I'm part of the furniture," I shot back, my voice sharper than I intended.

He didn't react the way I expected. Instead of snapping back, his expression softened, just slightly, as if my words had struck a chord.

"I spoke to my father," he said after a moment, his tone quieter now.

I froze, my hand tightening around the feather duster. Slowly, I turned to face him. "You what?"

"I told him to back off," he said, his gaze steady. "And he agreed—for now."

I stared at him, unsure how to process what he was saying. This was Draco Malfoy—the boy who had called me a Mudblood more times than I could count, who had stood by as his family helped bring down everything I cared about. And now he was… protecting me?

"Why?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

He hesitated, his usual mask slipping for just a moment. "Because it's the right thing to do," he said finally, though it sounded like the words didn't come easily to him.

I narrowed my eyes, studying him carefully. "And what do you want in return? Gratitude? Loyalty? I'm not stupid, Malfoy."

His jaw tightened, but he didn't snap back. Instead, he stepped closer, his expression hardening. "You don't owe me anything," he said, his voice low and firm. "I'm not doing this for you. I'm doing this because…" He trailed off, searching for the right words.

"Because what?" I pressed, unable to stop myself.

He looked away, his hand running through his hair in frustration. "Because I'm tired of being like him," he muttered, so quietly I almost didn't hear it.

The words hit me harder than I expected. For a moment, we just stood there, the tension between us thick and suffocating.

Finally, I broke the silence. "I don't trust you," I said, my voice steady. "But… thank you. For whatever this is."

His eyes met mine, and I thought I saw a flicker of something—regret? Guilt? Humanity? It was gone as quickly as it appeared.

"You shouldn't trust me," he said simply, turning and walking out of the room without another word.

Draco's POV

The moment I left the library, I felt like I could finally breathe again. Being in the same room as her was… overwhelming, and not in a way I knew how to handle.

I replayed her words in my head—"I don't trust you"—and felt a strange ache in my chest. Of course, she didn't trust me. Why would she?

I had spent years making her life miserable, standing by while my family tore people like her apart. And now, just because I'd decided to draw a line, I expected… what? Forgiveness? Understanding?

I leaned against the wall outside the library, running a hand over my face. I didn't know what I was doing. All I knew was that every time I saw her—standing tall despite everything, refusing to break—it made me question everything I thought I believed.

And that scared me more than I cared to admit.