Draco's POV

The tension in the manor had shifted. It wasn't just the usual cold, oppressive atmosphere that came with being a Malfoy; it was something darker, heavier. Something I couldn't ignore, no matter how much I tried.

Hermione had changed.

She moved like a shadow now—silent, subdued, her defiance snuffed out like a candle caught in a gust of wind. Her shoulders, once square with determination, were hunched. Her quick wit and sharp tongue had gone quiet, and every time I saw her, she avoided my gaze.

I knew my mother had spoken to her. I didn't need to ask to know how that conversation had gone. Narcissa was a master at cloaking venom in civility, and Hermione was already teetering on the edge.

And then there was my father.

I clenched my fists as I paced the halls, my mind racing with thoughts I didn't want to entertain but couldn't push away. Every time I thought about the way he looked at her, the things he said, the way he'd touched her—I wanted to put my wand to his throat.

He was vile. A monster. And every day that I stayed silent, every day that I let him do as he pleased, I felt like I was becoming just like him.

The thought made my stomach churn.

I found her in the servants' quarters that evening, sitting on the edge of her cot with her back to the door. She was staring at the floor, her hands resting limply in her lap. She didn't even flinch when I knocked lightly on the open door.

"Granger," I said softly, stepping inside.

She didn't respond, didn't even look up.

I hesitated, unsure of how to approach her. I'd never been good at this—comforting people, talking about feelings. That wasn't how I was raised. But seeing her like this, so small and broken, made something twist painfully in my chest.

"Granger," I tried again, sitting down in the chair across from her. "You've been quiet lately."

Still nothing.

"Look," I said, leaning forward, "I know things are… awful right now. I know my mother said something to you, and I know my father is—" I stopped, my throat tightening. "He's a bastard. I know that. And I hate him for it."

Her head lifted slightly at that, her eyes meeting mine for a fleeting moment before dropping back to her lap.

"I mean it," I said, my voice growing more urgent. "I hate him. The way he treats you, the way he looks at you—it makes me sick. If I could—" I stopped myself, taking a deep breath.

She didn't need to hear about the murderous thoughts that had been keeping me up at night.

"I'm sorry," I said finally, the words foreign and awkward on my tongue. "For… all of it. For him. For her. For this entire house."

She let out a bitter laugh, so quiet I almost didn't hear it.

"You're sorry," she said, her voice flat. "That doesn't change anything, Malfoy."

"I know it doesn't," I said quickly. "But—" I hesitated, searching for something, anything, that might break through the wall she'd built around herself.

Then an idea struck me.

"What's your favorite candy?" I asked abruptly.

She blinked, finally looking up at me properly. Her brows furrowed in confusion. "What?"

"Candy," I repeated. "Chocolate frogs? Sugar quills? Licorice wands? What do you like?"

She stared at me like I'd grown a second head. "Why does it matter?"

"Just tell me," I said, leaning back in the chair.

For a moment, she didn't answer, and I thought she might ignore me again. But then she sighed, her voice barely above a whisper. "Peppermint toads," she said reluctantly. "And butterbeer."

"Peppermint toads and butterbeer," I repeated, filing the information away. "All right. I'll bring you some tomorrow."

Her eyes narrowed. "Why would you do that?"

"Because," I said, standing up and shoving my hands into my pockets, "you look like you need something to remind you that life isn't completely horrible."

She didn't respond, but I thought I saw something flicker in her eyes—something hesitant, almost hopeful.

I stepped toward the door, pausing to glance back at her. "And Granger?"

She looked up at me, her expression guarded.

"You're allowed to hate this house," I said softly. "You're allowed to hate all of us. But don't let it take away who you are. You're stronger than that."

With that, I left, the knot in my chest loosening slightly for the first time in days.

Hermione's POV

I stared at the door long after he'd gone, his words echoing in my mind.

Peppermint toads and butterbeer.

It was such a small, ridiculous thing, but the fact that he'd asked—that he'd cared enough to ask—left me feeling strangely off-balance.

I didn't trust him. I couldn't. But for the first time since I'd arrived at this wretched place, I felt a flicker of something other than despair.

And that, in itself, was enough to make me wonder what the hell was happening to both of us.