Chapter 24 - Raven

The ravens came without a sound, black wings slicing through the night like blades, descending with an eerie grace that made the carnage below feel almost sacred. Their beaks, slick and gleaming, tore methodically into the mangled corpse strewn across the cobblestones, each wet, fleshy rip accompanied by the sickening crunch of bones splintering under relentless assault. The alley reeked of copper and decay, a nauseating cocktail of blood, rot, and something deeper, something older, as if the earth itself had opened to swallow the soul of the man who had died screaming.

Draco stood at the edge of the scene, shrouded in shadow, his breath slow and measured, his storm-colored eyes reflecting the pale gleam of moonlight. There was no flicker of hesitation on his face. No trace of empathy. He watched with the unflinching calm of someone who had witnessed far worse and had grown accustomed to the darkness that followed. The faint flutter of feathers in the air did not startle him. The gruesome feast unfolding before him stirred nothing in his gut. He had been emptied of guilt long ago.

"Are you certain he's dealt with?" His voice was low, almost gentle, but every syllable carried the quiet finality of a noose being drawn tight. There was no doubt in it. Only demand.

A few steps away, Titus exhaled smoke through his nose in a long, deliberate drag. The ember at the end of his cigarette glowed like an open wound against the dark. His face, as always, was unreadable, the kind of face that had once watched men burn and not blink. "Dead men don't talk, Malfoy," he said without a hint of concern, as if he were commenting on the weather. "And this one won't be leaving so much as a shadow behind."

The body on the ground, if it could still be called that, had been reduced to something unrecognizable. A bloated mass of torn flesh, limbs twisted at unnatural angles, his skull half-caved in from repeated blows. The man had once been a Ministry liaison. A nobody. But he had dared to pass information to enemies of the Raven Order, and that choice had led him here, to this forgotten alley where birds picked his remains clean while the night looked on in silent approval.

His final expression, now locked in death, was one of such pure, visceral terror that even the ravens seemed momentarily reverent as they fed. It was not just death that had claimed him. It was fear. The kind of fear that turned marrow to ice and left behind no soul worth saving.

Draco's gaze never shifted. He seemed to study the grotesque ruin as though committing every detail to memory. The crimson pool creeping outward, the way blood clung in thick ropes to the raven's feathers, the fractured ribs that jutted out like jagged stakes. To anyone else, it might have looked like barbarity. To him, it was a message.

This was no mere punishment. It was a declaration.

He finally spoke, more to himself than to Titus, his voice barely above a whisper. "Fear takes time to grow. Let it spread. Let it sink into the bones of anyone watching. Let them wake in the night wondering if they'll be next."

Titus chuckled softly, a low sound that didn't quite reach his eyes. "You're colder than I gave you credit for. Starting to think you enjoy this."

Draco turned to him then, slowly, his expression unreadable but laced with something hollow and hard. "This isn't pleasure. It's necessity. I will never allow anyone to threaten what's mine. Not now. Not ever."

His words hung heavy in the air, heavier than the scent of death, heavier than the silence that followed. Then, without another glance at what remained of the traitor, he stepped into the dark, the sound of wet tearing still echoing behind him as the ravens continued their quiet work.

The alley did not cry out. It had seen worse and would see worse again. The blood soaking into the cracks of the ancient cobblestones would not be its last. The walls had long ago learned to keep secrets, to hold screams in their mortar, to drink death like wine. And somewhere beyond the suffocating stillness of the night, beyond the gnawing silence broken only by the wet tearing of ravens' beaks, the Ministry would stir. Another name would be added to their list of unresolved disappearances. Another ghost to haunt their corridors. Another whisper on the wind about the man they all feared—the one who wore his name like a crown of blades, the one who never raised his voice but still made people tremble, the one who watched from the shadows with a mind like a scalpel and hands trained for blood.

He didn't blink as he stared at the corpse, his silver eyes catching the faint moonlight and reflecting it with a glint more animal than human. He studied the body with the calm scrutiny of a collector examining a finished piece, memorizing the angle of the limbs, the way the blood had cooled against skin, the grotesque stretch of a face forever frozen in terror. By day, he wore tailored suits and polite smiles, spoke in measured tones about trade and politics, and nodded at the right names in the right rooms. But by night, Draco Malfoy shed his mask like dead skin and stepped into the underworld with all the precision of a born predator. Here, in the dark, he did not ask permission. He took.

"Fear takes time to set in," he murmured quietly, his words meant more for the air than for Titus. "It doesn't land all at once. It grows. It rots. It spreads like infection. Let them wake in cold sweats. Let them wonder which one of them is next."

Titus, still watching the ravens rip sinew from bone with something close to admiration, let out a dark laugh. He tapped ash from the edge of his cigarette, grinding it beneath his boot like a lazy punctuation mark. "You've developed a taste for this now, haven't you?" His voice was dry, amused. "Revenge suits you, Malfoy."

Draco's lips curved, barely. A hollow, joyless imitation of a smile. "This isn't revenge," he said, his voice clean and clinical, as if discussing something as mundane as inventory. "Revenge is messy. Impulsive. This is control. Order. This is the world learning to behave."

Titus tilted his head slightly, giving him a look that was equal parts approval and curiosity. "Call it whatever you want, mate," he muttered, the corner of his mouth twitching. "But whatever this is, you're bloody good at it."

Their boots echoed softly as they turned away from the carnage, each step a quiet dismissal of the man left behind. The ravens remained, feasting, their wings black as oil, their feathers streaked crimson. They did not flinch. They did not flee. It was as if they belonged to the night itself. As if they had been waiting.

The alley, slick with blood and shadow, welcomed the silence again like an old friend, every brick steeped in malice. It had become something more than just a crime scene. It had become a shrine.

Hours later, inside the quiet of their hidden safe house, Draco sat at the long wooden table, the glow of candlelight painting shadows along the sharp planes of his face. Before him lay names, scrawled in harsh ink across worn parchment—names of enemies, informants, traitors, men who had crossed him or might consider doing so. The list changed daily. Some were crossed out already. Some waited. Every name was a sentence, and he was the judge, jury, and executioner.

Titus leaned in the doorway, arms folded, watching him. The grin hadn't left his face. "You're building something, Malfoy," he said, his voice thick with a kind of grim reverence. "Not a business. Not a crew. Something bigger. A kingdom made of secrets and silence. A bloody empire, brick by brick, body by body."

Draco didn't look up. His quill continued its methodical path, black lines bleeding across paper like veins. When he finally spoke, his tone was razor sharp and stripped of pretense. "This isn't about an empire," he said. "It's about security. About control. About making sure no one touches what's mine."

And that was the truth. What was his. Hermione. Their unborn child. The life they were meant to have, the safety they would never be granted if he didn't carve it into existence himself. The world was too cruel, too reckless, too eager to tear good things to pieces. And he was tired of reacting. Tired of waiting. He would act first. He would make the world afraid to breathe in her direction.

She didn't understand. Not yet. She still believed in courts and justice, in forgiveness and redemption. But he had seen the world's true face. He had bled on its altar. Mercy was a myth. Redemption was for fools. And forgiveness? That was just weakness painted in gold.

"Someday," he said under his breath, his voice barely audible, "she'll see that everything I've done—everything I will do—is for her."

Titus chuckled. "For her, eh? Haven't heard that one before."

Draco said nothing. His quill hovered over the next name, ink glistening, trembling with the weight of fate. He didn't even read the name. It didn't matter. All that mattered was that this person stood in the way. And that meant they had already lost.

He set the quill aside and leaned back slowly, his eyes narrowed, burning cold. "We move tomorrow. Let the Ministry scramble. Let them whisper. Let them panic."

As the clock struck midnight, the house stilled. Outside, the wind stirred through the trees and somewhere far above, the ravens circled once more, their caws sharp and unnatural, cutting through the dark like blades. Draco folded his hands beneath his chin, the candlelight flickering in his eyes. His expression was tranquil. Unbothered.

But inside him raged a storm.

There would be no hesitation. No remorse. No peace until every threat was extinguished. Every enemy erased. Every inch of the world around her carved into something safe. Something clean.

He would protect her. Even if it meant becoming the very thing she feared. Even if it meant becoming a monster.

~~~~~~~

Cormac McLaggen had become a problem. An eyesore. A festering insult that Draco intended to eradicate with the kind of precision that left no room for misinterpretation. He watched the man with silent fury, his sharp smile and casual charm infecting every room he slithered into, especially the ones where Hermione happened to be. The bastard lingered too long, talked too loud, stood too close. His laugh grated. His compliments stung. And worst of all, he touched—small, meaningless gestures meant to appear harmless. A brush of fingers. A hand at the small of her back. A whisper near her ear like he had earned the right.

Draco had counted every one.

What burned wasn't just irritation. It wasn't simple jealousy. It was something darker, heavier. Possessive. Violent. Ancient. Hermione was his. Not in the polite, civilized way society liked to wrap relationships in ribbons and titles, but in a way that carved itself into the bone. She was his chaos and his clarity. His obsession and his home. She was not to be looked at. Not to be touched. Not to be fucking entertained by anyone else.

Especially not by a man like Cormac McLaggen.

And the fool didn't even realize he'd already crossed the threshold. He had wandered too far into Draco's territory, oblivious to the silent red line he had trampled over again and again. Draco didn't do warnings. He didn't do second chances. What he did do—what he had perfected—was annihilation. Quiet. Untraceable. Absolute.

He had already begun.

Cormac wouldn't just be removed. He would be dismantled. Slowly. Thoroughly. He would wake up in the middle of the night with a scream locked in his throat, his skin crawling with the sense of being watched, his world tilting under the weight of an invisible noose. Draco would unravel him, thread by thread, until even the thought of Hermione turned his blood cold with fear.

This wasn't just about love. This was about dominance. About control. About reminding every pathetic parasite circling her that she was spoken for. Claimed. And if they couldn't see the mark, they'd feel it.

Draco Malfoy didn't share. And he would bury the world before he watched another man lay even a shadow on what was his.

He needs an exorcism.

Tonight's Ministry gala was meant to be an exercise in strategy, an opportunity to remind the wizarding elite that the Malfoy name still carried weight—but all of that faded the moment she stepped into the room. It was as though the world took a breath and forgot to release it. Everything around them blurred, dulled, fell away. And there she was.

Draco stood frozen, struck dumb in a way that defied language. She moved with effortless grace, wrapped in a gown the color of midnight spun into silk, the fabric catching the light with every step like starlight had agreed to obey only her. But it wasn't just the gown. It never was. No stitch of clothing, no spell of glamour, no flash of gold or crystal could capture what Hermione Granger truly was. She was incandescent. She was ruinous. She was his.

He had always been drawn to her—first with curiosity, then with something far more volatile. But this was different. This was reverence. Worship. She had become the axis upon which his world tilted, the quiet center of a storm he never wanted to escape. His love for her was not soft, not tender—it was sharp and sacred, forged in the fire of their past and tempered by the quiet rituals of everyday intimacy. Every glance from her disarmed him. Every touch healed something in him that he hadn't realized was broken.

To the Ministry, she was a political force, a celebrated mind, a woman carved from resilience and intellect. But to Draco, she was everything. She was the Hermione who stole all the covers in her sleep, who argued with portraits when they spoke out of turn, who whispered his name in the dark when she thought he wasn't awake. She was his miracle and his undoing.

And tonight, with McLaggen's name already burning in the back of his throat like poison, Draco could barely tear his gaze from her long enough to remember the plan. The threat. The man who thought he could speak to her, look at her, joke with her, as if she belonged to no one. As if she hadn't already been chosen.

She had undone him. With her laugh. With her stubbornness. With her quiet, maddening grace. And still he could never quite believe she'd chosen him in return.

He stepped toward her, breath catching like he was a boy again, not a man shaped by war and politics and shadow. He reached for her hand, lacing his fingers with hers as if to ground himself in the only truth that mattered.

"I will kill him," he murmured softly, low enough that only she could hear. It wasn't dramatic. It wasn't bluster. It was a fact. As certain as the pulse in his veins. "But first, I want to show you off."

And with that, he kissed her knuckles—not for show, not for charm—but with the aching reverence of a man who knew he was in the presence of something divine. Because she was not simply the woman he loved.

She was the reason he hadn't let the world burn.

As they entered the grand ballroom, he couldn't help but watch her, mesmerized by the way she moved. She didn't merely walk; she commanded the space, effortlessly drawing every eye without even trying. Her laughter rang out, light and genuine, a melody that made his heart ache in the best way.

He trailed a step behind her, content for a moment to simply watch her, as though he could commit every detail to memory. But the spell broke when he caught sight of him, already making his way toward them. The sight set something primal alight within him, a possessive instinct he could barely contain. McLaggen' s easy smile and self-assured manner grated on his nerves more than he cared to admit.

Without thinking, he closed the distance between him and her, his hand finding hers and clasping it tightly. She glanced at him, surprised by the sudden gesture, but before she could question it, he leaned in and murmured, "You are dazzling tonight, my love. Every glance sent your way reminds me just how fortunate I am to call you mine."

Her eyes softened, her expression melting into something tender. "You always know just what to say," she whispered back, squeezing his hand in reassurance.

His jaw clenched the moment his eyes landed on McLaggen . It wasn't the first time he had tested his patience, but tonight, his jealousy simmered dangerously close to the surface. The man was always too close to Hermione—smiling, leaning in just a little too much, and finding excuses to touch her arm or brush a stray lock of hair from her face. Every interaction set his nerves on edge.

He watched McLaggen from across the grand ballroom, seething as the man's gaze lingered on her longer than necessary. Who does he think he is? He thought bitterly, tightening his grip on the champagne flute in his hand until his knuckles turned white. He forced himself to remain composed, though every fiber of his being screamed to storm over and stake his claim in a way that would leave no room for misinterpretation.

Hermione, of course, was oblivious to his inner turmoil. She moved through the room with effortless grace, charming everyone she met with her wit and elegance. Dressed in an exquisite midnight-blue gown that hugged her figure perfectly, she looked every bit the queen he knew she was. And yet, all he could focus on was the unwanted attention she was garnering—not just from strangers, but from him.

"Mon cœur, are you alright?" her voice broke through his reverie as she returned to his side, concern flickering in her eyes.

"I'm fine, darling," he replied smoothly, though the tension in his posture said otherwise. He placed a possessive hand on the small of her back, pulling her closer as though proximity alone could shield her from McLaggen 's attention.

Just as he feared, rat face chose that exact moment to approach, his ever-charming smile plastered across his face. "Malfoy's," he greeted, his tone infuriatingly pleasant. "You both look splendid tonight."

"Thank you, Cormac," she responded with a polite smile. "It's a lovely event."

He barely managed a curt nod, his eyes narrowing as he sized up the other man. McLaggen was charming, yes, and unfortunately easy on the eyes. But what truly grated on his nerves was the way he spoke to Hermione—as though he had every right to her attention, as though Draco himself didn't exist.

"May I steal Hermione for a dance?" the rat asked, his tone light but his intention unmistakable.

He didn't give her a chance to respond. "Actually, no," he said, his voice cold and clipped. He wrapped an arm firmly around her waist, pulling her flush against his side. " My wife and I were just about to enjoy the dance floor ourselves."

She blinked in surprise at his sudden possessiveness, but before she could object, he was already leading her toward the center of the room. The music swelled, and he spun her into his arms with a practiced ease, holding her close as they began to waltz.

"What was that about?" she whispered, her brow furrowed in confusion.

"That," he said, his voice low and dangerous, "was me ensuring that McLaggen knows exactly where he stands."

She sighed, but there was a faint smile tugging at her lips. She knew him well enough to recognize his jealous streak, and though it could be exasperating at times, there was something endearing about the intensity of his feelings for her. "You know we are just a friend, right?"

His eyes darkened. "A friend who looks at you like he wants to be something more. And as long as he keeps doing that, I'm not going to pretend it doesn't bother me."

She leaned in closer, resting her head against his shoulder. "You don't have to be jealous, you know. You're the only one I want, love."

Her words eased some of the tension in his chest, but his eyes still flicked over her shoulder, tracking McLaggen 's movements like a predator watching his prey. "I trust you. It's him I don't trust."

As they continued to dance, his possessive grip on her waist didn't loosen. He wanted everyone in the room—especially Cormac McLaggen —to see that she belonged to him. Every twirl, every step, was a silent declaration: Mine.

But Hermione decided to soothe him in her own way. She leaned up on her toes, brushing a soft kiss against his jaw. "Relax, love. You're ruining your own evening by letting him get to you."

He exhaled slowly, forcing himself to release some of the tension coiled in his muscles. "I can't help it," he admitted quietly. "The thought of losing you… it drives me mad."

"You're not going to lose me," she assured him, her voice steady and sure. "But you might lose your mind if you keep glaring at him like that."

His lips quirked into a reluctant smile. "Fair point."

As the dance came to an end, he kept her close, unwilling to let her out of his sight. McLaggen lingered at the edge of the room, and his jaw tightened once more. But this time, he didn't let it consume him. He had her in his arms, and that was all that mattered.

Still, as they made their way back to their table, he leaned in close to her ear, his voice low and possessive. "If McLaggen tries anything else tonight, I'm not responsible for what happens."

A plan coiled in his mind like a snake ready to strike. He would wait for the opportune moment, when the hum of the crowd faded to background noise, and they could speak without eyes watching. It had to be clear, brutal, final. No ambiguity, no second chances. This was his wife. His to protect. His to keep.

He caught that rat by the balcony, far from the glittering lights of the ballroom, the cool night air sharpening the tension between them.

" McLaggen ," he greeted, his voice a blade cloaked in ice.

He turned slowly, a smirk tugging at his lips as if he'd been expecting this. "Malfoy. I was wondering when you'd stop skulking and come say hello."

He ignored the jibe, stepping closer, his gaze fixed and unyielding. "Stay away from my wife," he said in a low, dangerous tone. "Consider this your only warning."

McLaggen's smirk widened, but it didn't reach his eyes. There was something darker lurking beneath the surface. "Warning? That's rich, coming from you. Jealousy doesn't suit you, Malfoy. Makes you look... desperate."

His jaw tightened, his patience thinning to a razor's edge. "This isn't jealousy," he said, voice cold enough to frost the air. "This is a boundary. One you've already crossed."

He chuckled, low and mocking. He took a deliberate step forward, closing the space between them. "Boundaries? Interesting word, coming from a man who thinks owning someone is the same as loving them. She's not a trophy, Malfoy."

His eyes darkened, a storm brewing beneath the surface. "You don't know anything about what she is to me. But I'll tell you what she is not—yours."

His amusement flickered, replaced by something sharper, more dangerous. He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a whisper, every word laced with venom. "You can't keep her locked up in your gilded cage forever. She'll get tired of you. And when she does, I'll be there."

His fists clenched at his sides, every instinct screaming at him to put an end to this right now. But he didn't move. Not yet. "Say that again," he said, his voice low, deadly calm.

His smirk returned, but there was no warmth in it. "You heard me. You're not as untouchable as you think, Malfoy. Maybe it's time someone reminded you."

He stepped closer, their faces inches apart, tension crackling in the air like a live wire. "Try it," he whispered, his voice a lethal promise. "And I'll remind you why no one crosses a Malfoy and lives to tell the tale."

For a moment, they stood there, locked in a silent battle of wills. McLaggen's eyes gleamed with something almost predatory, but he didn't flinch. He didn't blink.

Finally, Cormac pulled back, his expression unreadable. "Careful, Malfoy. Possessiveness can be dangerous. It makes men reckless. Vulnerable ."

He watched him retreat, his own heart pounding with tightly leashed rage. This wasn't over. Not by a long shot.

As Cormac disappeared back into the crowd, he stayed rooted to the spot, the air around him electric with tension. He didn't trust him—not for a second. He had seen the glint in the rat's eyes, the promise of escalation.

Tonight, a line had been drawn. And he knew that before the night was over, one of them would be forced to cross it.

McLaggen's glare burned into his back, but he didn't bother to glance over his shoulder as he strode away, each step measured, purposeful, his heart hammering in his chest like a war drum. Protecting Hermione wasn't just a promise he'd made to her—it was his entire existence. And if that meant confronting every threat, dismantling every challenge, then so be it. He would do it without hesitation, without mercy.

Returning to her side, his eyes softened as they fell on her. She turned to him, her brows knitting together in concern as he reached for her hand, his grip steady but firm.

"Everything alright?" she asked, her voice low but edged with curiosity, her gaze searching his face for answers.

He forced a calm smile to his lips, though the tension lingered in the set of his jaw. "Yes, love. Everything's fine," he replied, his tone smooth but clipped. "Let's enjoy the rest of the evening."

She didn't press, but her eyes lingered on him for a moment longer before she nodded, a soft smile gracing her lips. "Alright. If you're sure."

The rest of the night unraveled in a blur. He stayed close to her, his hand never straying far from hers, his gaze a constant sweep of the room.

Cormac was still there, lingering like a shadow at the edges of his vision. Every smile the rat sent her way, every polite laugh she gave in return, felt like a thorn burrowing deeper into his skin. His instincts were on high alert, a predator scanning the room for the slightest sign of danger.

Hermione floated through the evening with her usual grace. Her laughter was light and unburdened as she charmed their friends, but he could barely hear it. His mind was a battlefield, warring between the need to keep his composure and the overwhelming desire to rip the rat out of the room entirely.

As the gala finally drew to a close, he escorted her to their waiting carriage, the cool night air offering little solace to his restless thoughts. The city lights shimmered in the distance, casting fleeting patterns across the cobblestone streets. Inside the carriage, as the world outside blurred past, he pulled her into his arms. He held her tightly, as if doing so could shield her from every threat, every shadow that sought to harm her.

"I love you," he murmured, his voice raw with emotion, the words almost trembling as they fell from his lips.

She tilted her head back, meeting his gaze with those warm, honey-brown eyes that always seemed to steady him, even in his most chaotic moments. "I love you too," she replied, her tone soft but unwavering, a soothing balm to his frayed nerves.

~~~~~~~

As they stepped into their home, the warmth of the dimly lit living room should have offered comfort, a sanctuary from the outside world. But he wasn't ready to let the night end just yet. No, there was still a game to be played, a lesson to be taught. The moment she turned to hang up her cloak, he was behind her—quick, deliberate, inescapable.

His hand caught her jaw, firm but controlled, his touch possessive in the way that made her breath hitch, that sent a thrill down her spine.

"Do you enjoy teasing me, my love?" he murmured, his voice dark and smooth, but laced with something dangerous, something simmering beneath the surface like an untamed fire.

She blinked up at him, feigning innocence, her eyes wide, her lips parting in a trembling pout that she knew would only stoke the embers of his frustration. "Draco," she whispered, voice dipping between surprise and defiance, a melody meant to provoke. "Whatever do you mean?"

His grip tightened slightly, tilting her face up to meet his gaze, his silver eyes sharp enough to pin her in place. He leaned in, close enough that she could feel the warmth of his breath ghosting over her lips, close enough that the space between them was charged, sparking, electric.

"You know exactly what I mean," he growled, his voice low and deliberate. "The way you touched his arm. The way you laughed at his pathetic jokes. Do you think I didn't notice? Do you think I didn't feel it?"

Her pulse quickened, the anticipation thrumming in her veins. He was playing into her hands, just as she had hoped.

"I was just being polite," she teased, her voice soft but laced with mischief, her lips curving slightly despite her best efforts to appear unaffected. "You were the one ignoring me half the night. What was I supposed to do? Stand in the corner and wait for your attention?"

His eyes darkened, his lips curling into something wicked, something that sent a shiver of anticipation through her.

"You're supposed to remember who you belong to," he murmured, his voice dropping into something velvety and sinful. "And it's not McLaggen."

Heat pooled in her belly at the sheer possessiveness in his tone, but she lifted her chin in defiance, unwilling to surrender so easily.

"And if I enjoyed watching you squirm a little?" she challenged, arching a brow. "What then?"

His grip loosened just enough for his hand to slide lower, his fingers brushing against the delicate skin of her throat, a silent promise, a warning, a claim. The touch sent a thrill racing through her, her breath catching in her throat.

"Then I'll have to remind you," he whispered, his voice like silk and steel, a slow drag of something inevitable.

She smiled then, teasing and inviting, the spark of challenge lighting her eyes. "I'd like to see you try," she purred.

A low chuckle rumbled in his chest, dark and full of promise. "Oh, you'll see," he murmured, pulling her closer, until her body was flush against his. His lips brushed against the shell of her ear, his breath sending a delicious shiver down her spine. "By the time I'm done, you won't even remember his name."

She tilted her head, her lips hovering just shy of his, her breath mingling with his in the charged space between them. "Is that so?" she murmured, her voice sultry, teasing. "You think you can make me forget?"

His hands slid to her waist, his fingers pressing just enough to make his point, to remind her who was in control.

"I don't think," he whispered, his smirk dark and knowing. "I know."

She let out a soft laugh, the sound wrapping around him like a silk ribbon, before she reached for his hand, her fingers lacing through his as she stepped back.

"Then prove it, Malfoy," she challenged, leading him toward their bedroom.

The door barely had time to close before his hands were on her, urgent yet unhurried, rediscovering every inch of her as if she were something sacred. She undressed him with agonizing slowness, her fingers gliding over every plane of muscle, every scar, every place that was his and hers alone.

"I've missed this side of you," she murmured, her voice soft for just a moment, her hands resting against his chest.

He caught her wrists, stilling her, his eyes locking onto hers, a storm of passion and something deeper swirling within them.

"I'm sorry," he admitted, the words barely above a whisper. "I let myself get carried away."

She cupped his face, her thumbs brushing against the sharp angles of his cheeks. "It's okay," she assured him, her voice warm, forgiving. "I love how passionate you are. But right now, I just want to feel you."

And then she kissed him—deep, languid, claiming him the way he always sought to claim her. Her tongue traced the seam of his lips, coaxing him into surrender, into a rhythm as old as time itself.

She stepped back, her dress slipping from her shoulders, pooling at her feet like a whispered invitation. The sight of her stole the breath from his lungs, and for a moment, all he could do was stare, his fingers twitching at his sides.

"You're a goddess," he murmured, reverence laced in every syllable.

She climbed onto the bed, straddling him, teasing him with the heat of her body pressing against him. Her breath was hot against his ear as she whispered, "Do you like the way I feel?"

A guttural groan tore from his throat, his hands gripping her hips with enough force to brand her.

"You drive me mad," he admitted, voice raw with need.

She moved, slow and deliberate, her body molding to his in a rhythm as natural as breathing. Their connection was unrelenting, each kiss, each touch, each whisper a thread weaving them together, binding them tighter.

When she finally guided him inside her, their moans tangled in the quiet of the room, a symphony of pleasure and possession, of love and longing.

"Yes," she gasped, her head falling back, her body arching into him. "Just like that."

His arms wrapped around her, holding her closer, his lips trailing fire along her skin.

"You're mine," he growled, his voice a possessive rasp.

"Forever," she whispered, nails digging into his shoulders. "Don't stop. Please."

Her plea undid him. He was lost in her, consumed by the way she felt, the way she needed him.

"I'm close," he warned, his voice strained.

"Cum in me," she begged. "Please, Draco—give me a baby."

Something in him shattered, pleasure crashing over him in waves as he spilled inside her, his grip on her tightening as if he could keep her there, keep them in this moment forever.

She cried out, her body trembling as her own release followed, the sensation magnified by the warmth of him claiming her from the inside out.

They collapsed together, breathless, their bodies still entwined, their heartbeats still in sync.

For a moment, the world was silent.

Then, he whispered, vulnerable, hesitant, "Don't say things like that unless you mean them."

She lifted a hand, brushing back the damp strands of his hair, her lips curving into a smile filled with certainty.

"I mean every word," she murmured, pressing a kiss to his temple. "Give me a baby, Draco. Yours. Always yours."

His silver eyes burned with something raw, something endless, and he knew—he knew—he would give her anything.

Everything.

Because she was his. And he was hers.

~~~~~~~

Hermione paused in the doorway, her brow knitting the moment her gaze landed on the elaborate bouquet that dominated the library desk. Crimson roses, absurdly large and lush, bursting from their crystal vase as though desperate to be noticed. She narrowed her eyes. Not him. Not a chance. Draco had exquisite taste—orchids, wildflowers, lilacs in spring—but never red roses. Too obvious. Too gauche. Too not her .

She set her tea down slowly, suspiciously, and approached the arrangement like one might approach an unfamiliar beast. The fragrance was heady, overpowering, cloying in the way only something too sweet ever could be. Tucked between the tightly wound petals, she spotted it: a folded envelope, thick and heavy with expensive paper, wax-sealed in the old-fashioned way that screamed melodramatic desperation.

Her stomach turned.

She broke the seal and unfolded the letter. The writing was elegant, almost exaggeratedly so, each stroke clearly meant to impress. She didn't want to read it. But she did.

My dearest Hermione,

Forgive the boldness of my gesture, but I could not bear another moment of silence. The roses are only a whisper of what I wish I could give you—tokens pale in comparison to the fire you reignited in me. When we danced last night, even for those fleeting seconds, I felt something real. Tangible. Electric. And you,gods, you were breathtaking. You always are, but last night? You were incandescent.

Tell me, do you ever feel the walls closing in around you? The chill of being admired as property rather than loved as a person? I watched him—hovering behind you like a warden, his hands on you as if he feared the world might steal you away. Is that love? Or is it possession dressed up in silk and promises?

You deserve more.

More freedom. More joy. More than a man who sees you as a prize and nothing more. I see you, Hermione. I always have. I see the furrow in your brow when you're working, the way you cradle your teacup when you're deep in thought, the warmth in your smile when you laugh without caution. I see the woman the world praises from afar but does not dare to understand.

And I have not stopped thinking of you. Not once. Every quiet moment, every breath, brings with it the memory of you—of us, or what could have been. And should have been.

Let me remind you of what it feels like to be chosen, not because someone owns you, but because they cherish you without restraint. Come to dinner. No need for theatrics, no explanation required. Just come. For you. For me. For that unspoken thing that has always lingered between us.

Tomorrow at eight. I'll wait, whether you arrive or not.

But please, Hermione… choose yourself for once.

Yours, hopelessly, breathlessly, eternally,

Cormac

P.S. Wear gold. You looked like Aphrodite the last time you did, and frankly, I haven't known peace since.

She stared at the letter like it had personally insulted her intelligence. Her fingers twitched, not with surprise or flattery, but with a slow-burning irritation that threatened to catch fire if she so much as glanced at that ridiculous signature again. Yours, eternally? Oh, grow up.

The sheer audacity. The delusion. What kind of insipid fairytale was Cormac McLaggen living in, exactly? Did he genuinely think she'd be seduced by purple prose and a bouquet that looked like it had been conjured from a third-year's idea of "romance"? He wrote like a man who'd watched one too many melodramatic Muggle films and fancied himself a tragic hero. Pathetic.

With a sharp exhale, she tossed the letter onto the desk like it was infected, her eyes narrowing on the blood-red roses as if they were accomplices to this assault on her patience. Red roses. Of course. The most boring, overcompensating flower on earth. She half-expected a stuffed bear and a poem written in glitter pen to accompany them. She'd seen more subtlety from a howler.

And the letter. Gods, the letter. She could barely make it past the first paragraph without rolling her eyes so hard she gave herself a headache. Trapped in a cage? Please. If Draco kept her in a cage, it was lined with velvet and books and came with regular orgasms and a warded door she would reinforce herself. This wasn't some gothic tragedy. She wasn't some helpless, wilting ingenue in need of rescue. She was Hermione bloody Granger-Malfoy. And she loved her husband with a kind of ferocity McLaggen couldn't begin to understand. If he thought Draco was controlling, that was only because he'd never seen what it looked like when a man knew exactly how to worship his wife.

She knew better than to show the letter to Draco. Not because she feared his wrath—although let's be honest, he'd turn Cormac into a stain on the sidewalk without blinking—but because this? This wasn't even worth the fuel it would take to ignite Draco's rage. Cormac wasn't dangerous. He wasn't a threat. He was an embarrassment. And she wouldn't dignify his simpering attempt at seduction by treating it like anything more than what it was: pitiful.

Dinner? With him? What exactly did he imagine they'd talk about? Her passion for curse-breaking and his uncanny ability to make every conversation about himself? His apparent obsession with other people's wives? Maybe she'd bring a mirror and let him flirt with the only person he's ever truly loved—his own reflection.

No, she decided, squaring her shoulders as she picked up the bouquet and casually vanished it with a flick of her wand. The next time he tried to insert himself into her life, she wouldn't just ignore it. She'd remind him—publicly, efficiently, and with surgical precision—of exactly who he was dealing with.

And if he thought a letter was bold, he clearly had no idea how cruel a pissed-off Hermione could be when she was bored.

She smirked as she picked up a pen, her mind already crafting the perfect response. If he thought he could unsettle her, he was sorely mistaken. With steady hands and a sharp wit, she penned her reply:

Cormac,

Thank you for the bouquet. While red roses are not to my personal taste, I appreciate the gesture. They've found a temporary home in our guest lavatory, where their dramatic flair is well-suited to the aesthetic.

I must admit, I was surprised by your letter. Not by its contents, but by your continued inability to grasp boundaries that have long since been made clear. Let me be unequivocal: I am married, by choice and with no reservations, to a man who neither cages nor coerces me. My loyalty to Draco is neither owed nor enforced—it is freely given, and entirely immovable.

Your commentary on our marriage dynamic is not only misinformed but also irrelevant. I suggest in future you direct such musings to someone who invites them.

Regarding your dinner proposal, I must respectfully decline. My schedule does not permit time for revisiting ill-advised flirtations from years past, particularly with individuals who persist in viewing me through the lens of nostalgia rather than reality.

I hope you will, in time, come to terms with the distinction between admiration and delusion. Until then, I trust this letter will serve as a final clarification of where we stand.

Regards,

Hermione Granger-Malfoy

She folded the note neatly and tucked it into an envelope. As she sealed it, she imagined the look on his face when he read it, and the thought brought her a wicked sense of satisfaction.

"Let him stew on that," she muttered to herself, feeling smug as she returned to her day, leaving him and his absurd little fantasies firmly behind.

For now, she'd keep this to herself. She had better things to do—like planning an evening that would remind her just how much she loved the man she called her husband. Cormac and his ridiculous fantasies could rot in irrelevance.

~~~~~~

He came through the front door just after midnight, the heavy thud of it closing behind him echoing through the otherwise silent house like a warning bell. His white shirt was no longer white. Crimson streaked across the fabric in jagged splashes, drying in shades that ranged from violent scarlet to rust-dark brown, and the collar clung damply to his throat. Blood—some fresh, some not his—speckled the hem of his trousers, staining the cuffs where they met his boots. The smell of iron was immediate, metallic and raw, and it hit her in the chest like a slap.

She froze in the archway leading into the hallway, her teacup forgotten in her hand, her eyes locked on the image of him like she was trying to convince herself it wasn't real. But it was. It always was. And even after all this time, after all the compromises she'd made to love the man he had become, this was still the part that twisted her stomach into knots and clawed up her throat in a panic she barely contained.

He looked up and met her gaze, and for a split second something human flickered behind his storm-grey eyes—regret, maybe. Guilt, thinly veiled beneath exhaustion and bloodlust. His voice was quiet, but frayed at the edges. "I'm sorry, my love," he said quickly, like if he said it fast enough it wouldn't carry the weight it did. "There wasn't time to clean up."

He didn't wait for permission, didn't wait for comfort. He walked past her, brushing the edge of her sleeve with his as he went, leaving a smear of red behind like a signature. The scent followed him—iron, smoke, something darker—and she stood frozen for a long moment before finally setting the cup down with a clink she barely registered.

Her pulse pounded beneath her skin. Her hands curled into fists at her sides—not out of rage, not entirely, but from the sheer force of will it took not to scream. She knew better than to ask for details. She had accepted the silence. But acceptance didn't mean immunity, and the sight of him like this—blood-slick, teeth gritted, jaw tight—would never stop hurting.

She followed him on silent feet, her breath shallow, her spine straight. The bedroom door was ajar, and through the crack she saw him already stripping. His shirt landed on the floor with a heavy thud, soaked through and obscene in its suggestion. He fumbled with his belt, his movements rushed, as if the act of undressing could somehow undo the night. It couldn't. They both knew it.

"Draco," she said softly, but there was a knife's edge to the way she said his name. It wasn't just a plea. It was a demand.

He stilled, his shoulders rigid as he turned to face her, the half-undone belt still hanging from his fingers. There was blood on his chest, a smear near his collarbone that hadn't dried yet. He hadn't even healed the small cut on his temple.

The mask cracked for a moment. The hardness in his expression flickered, replaced by something raw and fragile when he saw her face. She wasn't crying. She wasn't angry. She was just... exhausted. Quietly, soul-deep exhausted. And that was somehow worse.

"We've talked about this," she said, stepping inside and closing the door behind her with a soft click. Her voice was controlled, but he could hear it—the fracture beneath the surface, the quiet plea buried in the composure. "I know what you do. I've made peace with that. But coming home like this, letting me see it like this? It's too much, Draco."

He exhaled harshly, tossing the belt aside and reaching for her hand. She let him take it, but she didn't step forward. "I know," he said, his voice lower now, stripped of all bravado. "I know, and I hate it too. I never want you to see me like this. I never want you to be touched by the things I do."

She held his gaze, eyes searching his face for something he rarely let her see. Vulnerability. Weakness. A crack in the armor. "I don't need apologies," she said quietly. "I need you to think about what it does to me. To us. Every time you walk through that door covered in blood, you drag a piece of that world into this house. Into this bed."

He stepped closer, slowly, cautiously, and brought her hand to his bare chest, letting her feel the steady, unrelenting thump of his heart. "This world is ugly," he said. "But everything I do, I do to protect the only beautiful thing I've ever had."

She didn't pull her hand away, but her lips twisted in a frown. "You say that like I asked you to become this version of yourself. I didn't. I fell in love with a man who's capable of terrible things, yes, but I still believed he could choose not to be terrible when it mattered."

He cupped her face in his hands then, gently, reverently, his thumbs brushing away strands of hair from her cheek. "I'm not doing this to be terrible. I'm doing this to survive. To keep you safe. To keep what we've built from being torn apart."

Her chest rose and fell beneath the pressure of her breath. Her eyes shimmered with something complicated, something that hovered between fury and love. "You're good at building walls, Draco. But not everything can be protected with blood."

He didn't answer. Not with words. Instead, he kissed her, his lips slow and searching, full of a desperation he didn't know how to speak. She melted into him because she always did. Because her love for him was a kind of violence too—a soft one, but no less consuming.

She pulled away just enough to whisper against his lips, "Try not to come home like this again. Please."

He rested his forehead against hers, his breath unsteady. "I promise," he said.

He kissed her then, slow and deep, a silent plea for forgiveness and an unspoken vow of devotion. She melted into him despite herself, letting the warmth of his embrace momentarily overshadow the darkness that seemed to follow him wherever he went.

Out of nowhere, a Patronus appeared in the room—a small unicorn.

"Come quickly, Mimi, Ginny's trying to kill Theo," Luna's voice was frantic.

They Apparated into the Nott mansion, their eyes widening at the sheer chaos in front of them.

The scene was pure mayhem. Ginny, her eyes blazing with rage, wielded a knife as she charged at Theo, her furious shouts reverberating through the air. Theo was ducking and weaving, narrowly dodging each attempt as shattered glass and broken furniture scattered beneath his feet. Blaise, hands outstretched, was desperately calling Ginny's name, trying to reason with her, while Luna, equally disoriented, was pulling a blanket around herself, clearly caught off guard.

Draco, seeing the madness unfold, didn't waste a moment. With a quick motion and a flash of intent, he froze Ginny in place with a spell, her body suspended mid-stride, the knife still raised threateningly.

"What the fuck is happening?" Hermione yelled, taking in the destruction—the upturned couch, broken vases, and an oddly familiar chaos that was almost surreal.

Luna, pulling the blanket tightly around herself, hurried to Theo, her eyes filled with worry. They'd clearly been interrupted in their intimate moment, adding an odd layer of absurdity to the situation.

He looked around the destroyed living room, his expression a mix of exasperation and disbelief. "Blaise, what is this?" he demanded, gesturing at the wreckage.

Blaise's shoulders slumped as he gave a resigned sigh. "She knows," he muttered.

His brow furrowed as he rubbed his temples. "Know what, exactly?"

"Come on, babes, let's get you dressed," she said softly, guiding a visibly rattled Luna toward the hallway and away from the madness.

"Explain," he demanded, his voice low and deadly as he turned back to the men.

Theo pointed toward the couch indignantly. "This madwoman barged in while I was making love with Moon—"

"Not you, Nott," he interrupted, his eyes narrowing. "Zabini, tell me why your pregnant wife just chased Nott around the room with a knife!"

Blaise's gaze dropped to the floor, looking every bit like a man who had been defeated. "She... she asked about things, and I thought I owed her honesty," he said, the words barely a whisper.

Draco let out a humourless laugh, rubbing his temples as he tried to grasp the absurdity of it all. "Explain to me, Zabini, how a woman with a pale ass and a temper like a hurricane has managed to utterly control every decision you make. After 25 years, did it not occur to you that maybe, just maybe, we're leaking sensitive information?"

Theo, still trying to process what had just happened, opened his mouth to speak but quickly closed it when he caught his glare.

He shook his head in frustration. "For Merlin's sake, Nott, get dressed. I'm tired of looking at you strutting around like some sort of exhibitionist. We get it—you have a huge cock. So am I. Congratulations."

Theo glanced down at himself, still in the remnants of a dishevelled state, and turned to grab his clothes. As he dressed hastily, the tension in the room settled into an awkward silence.

Meanwhile, Hermione returned with Luna, both of them dressed, though Luna looked slightly flushed. She glanced at Theo, her eyes warm despite the chaos, and offered him a small smile.

Blaise finally looked back up, clearing his throat awkwardly. "Look, I was just trying to be honest with her—about everything. But it's…complicated."

He sighed, crossing his arms. "Complicated? Zabini, she nearly gutted your best friend like a fish. I'd say we've moved past complicated."

"What, you don't understand, Malfoy?" Blaise's voice rang out, thick with frustration and defiance. "I'm not going to lie to my wife the way you do."

His expression twisted, his voice low and cutting. "I don't lie to her, not anymore. So leave my wife out of this. I tell Hermione everything—every bloody detail of what I do, every dark piece of my work that most people couldn't stomach. She knows it all because she can know. She doesn't like it, but she understands. We have a bond that you and Red will never come close to experiencing in your lifetime." He paused, his eyes glinting with a dangerous edge. "Maybe if you stopped hiding your sins, maybe if she knew the worst of you, you'd understand what real honesty and trust look like."

Get your wife to kill your mother, you'd understand what real honesty and trust feels like," he said, his voice edged with a dark, cold snarl

Blaise looked stunned. "What the hell are you talking about?"

His gaze was unrelenting, fierce. "You heard me. Sometimes you have to confront the ugliest truths to move forward. Set Ginny free from whatever's haunting her, and maybe—maybe—you'll get close to what Hermione and I have."

He straightened, a look of sheer impatience crossing his face. "Now, for Merlin's sake, handle her. I'm done with this mess. I don't care if she's my second-favourite Weasley; she can't just tear through here with a knife like a lunatic."

~~~~~~

The Parkinson sunroom, a gilded cage of opulence and elegance, seemed to shrink under the weight of tension. Sunlight filtered through stained glass windows, casting fractured colors across the gleaming mahogany and marble surfaces. Pansy, perched on a velvet chaise, exuded an icy poise that only the closest of friends could see right through. Dressed in a fitted black cocktail dress, her heels tapped a soft rhythm against the floor as she surveyed the gathered crowd. The family. Her family—both by blood and by the bonds they'd chosen over the years. And tonight, those bonds were fraying.

The relentless ticking of the grandfather clock punctuated the silence, each second a countdown toward an inevitable confrontation. Pansy's gaze flicked around the room, landing on familiar faces—Draco, stoic yet simmering with barely-contained frustration; Hermione, her hands tightly clasped in her lap, eyes serious; Blaise, whose usual smirk was absent, replaced by a rare vulnerability; and Ginny, with her jaw set in defiance, eyes a fiery blend of resentment and hurt. Luna, ever serene, stood at the center, a gentle calm to Pansy's storm.

"Well," Pansy finally broke the silence, her voice a brittle whisper. "Let's get this over with." Her eyes narrowed, sweeping the room with a look as cold as steel. "Care to explain why everyone's gathered in my home for this… intervention?" The words dripped from her lips like venom, daring anyone to respond.

Luna took a breath, her gaze unwavering as she looked at Pansy, then the others, her calmness a soothing balm to the tension. "There's a rift in this family. It's tearing us all apart, even if some of us refuse to admit it." She took a deep breath, her eyes sweeping over each face. "I invited everyone here to neutral territory so that we can have a civilized conversation. It's time to confront everything we've buried."

Pansy's jaw clenched, her fingers curling around the edge of the chaise as she forced herself to remain seated. She cast a quick glance at Neville, who stood behind her, his eyes filled with quiet support. His hand brushed her shoulder, and for a fleeting moment, she felt grounded.

"Go on," Neville encouraged Luna, his voice gentle but firm, though he looked just as tense as the rest. He'd always been the peacekeeper, the steady rock in their turbulent circle, and tonight was no exception.

Luna took a deep breath, steeling herself as she surveyed the room. Her usually gentle demeanor was now resolute, her gaze steady as it traveled from face to face. "We're here to address the escalating tension that's tearing us all apart," she began, her tone leaving no room for evasion. "Ginny, I need you to explain your actions toward Theo. Blaise, we need clarity on why you confided in her so completely. And Draco…" Her voice hardened as she fixed her gaze on him. "I expect a justification for why you involved everyone in this turmoil."

A heavy silence followed, thick with unspoken grievances and wounded pride. Ginny shifted uncomfortably in her chair, her hand instinctively moving to her swollen belly as if to shield herself. Her eyes flicked to Blaise before she spoke, her voice wavering with a mix of frustration and pain. "I needed to know the truth," she said, her tone laced with an edge of desperation. "I couldn't go on pretending everything was fine, surrounded by lies. I felt like I was suffocating, and no one seemed to care."

Blaise's expression softened, but a deep sigh escaped his lips, as if he bore the weight of the room's tension alone. "I told her the truth because I felt she deserved to know, not just as my wife but as part of this… family." His voice grew quieter, tinged with regret. "But I hadn't anticipated how much it would unravel her. I thought knowing would bring her peace, but it only added fuel to the fire."

Draco's face remained a cold mask of frustration, arms crossed as he leaned back, seemingly unaffected by the storm around him. "I owe no explanations to anyone," he said, his tone defiant, though a flicker of something—guilt, perhaps—passed over his eyes as they locked with Hermione's for the briefest of moments.

The silence shattered as Ginny's voice rose, raw and trembling. "How can you possibly deny killing my brother?" Her words echoed through the room, a blade cutting through the collective pretenses they'd all tried to maintain. Her eyes blazed with a desperate plea, a fury that masked the deep hurt beneath. "You all talk about family, about loyalty. But you're all complicit in hiding the truth—each one of you!"

H ermione, who had been silent until now, flinched as Ginny's words struck a nerve. She held little Lysander in her lap, who slept peacefully, oblivious to the storm raging around him. Her hand moved to stroke his downy hair, her eyes a mask of tense restraint as she looked away, her composure cracking but barely held together.

Blaise took a deep breath, his gaze unwavering as he looked at his wife. "Baby girl, listen to me," he began, his voice gentle but firm. "I know Ron was your brother. I know you loved him, and you saw the best in him. But sometimes… sometimes the people we love aren't who we think they are."

Ginny's face twisted in a mix of disbelief and anger, a storm of emotions she was barely containing. "You're telling me my brother was a monster, just like that? Without giving me a reason to believe any of this?" Her voice was edged with defiance, but Blaise could see the hurt beneath.

Theo, who had been silently observing from the corner of the room, crossed his arms and let out a quiet sigh. "Ask Saint Potter, why he hadn't spoken to Ron in years," he said flatly, his voice devoid of emotion. "Ask him what Ron did to sever that bond. You might think we're biased, but ask him and see if you still think Ron was perfect."

Hermione shifted uncomfortably, her fingers nervously twining in her lap. She looked at Ginny, her expression one of sorrow rather than accusation. "Ginny… he was your brother, but he wasn't a saint. He was... complicated." Her voice wavered as she chose her words carefully, not wanting to wound Ginny but knowing she couldn't hide the truth anymore. "Ron… wasn't always the best partner. Not for me, not for anyone."

Ginny's face contorted in rage and disbelief, her voice rising to a scream that shattered the tense silence. "So that's your excuse? That's why you had him killed?"

The accusation hung in the air like poison, and for a moment, no one moved or spoke. But then her gaze sharpened, and a fire ignited in her eyes. "No one 'had him killed,' Ginny. He was abusive. Abusive, not only to me, but to every woman he ever claimed to care about. You can sit there and cling to this idealized memory of him, but that doesn't change what he did." Her voice grew raw, each word cutting through Ginny's defenses like a knife. "How can you not see that? How can you be pregnant, ready to bring life into this world, and still look at all of us—the people who have done nothing but support you—with so much contempt?"

Ginny's face fell, the fury draining from her expression as the reality of her words took root. For a moment, she looked like a lost child, and when she finally spoke, her voice was barely a whisper. "What… what did he do?"

Draco, who had been watching the exchange with barely contained frustration, softened as he saw the hurt and confusion in Ginny's eyes. Without a word, he scooted closer to her, his hand reaching out to grasp hers in silent support.

Hermione took a shaky breath, her voice dropping as she began to reveal the painful truth she had kept hidden for so long. "He… he was cruel, Ginny. Manipulative. It wasn't just me, but all the women he was with. He controlled us, belittled us. And when we tried to stand up for ourselves, he'd… make us pay for it. Have you never noticed Lavender's bruises? The excuses she made for her 'clumsiness'? How she pulled away from everyone who tried to get close?" her voice cracked, her pain visible as she relived the trauma. "I can't count the times I covered up my own bruises. Made excuses to myself and to others. And I kept thinking, 'This is my fault. Maybe I'm just too difficult, maybe I just don't understand him.' But it wasn't my fault, Ginny. It wasn't any of ours."

The weight of her confession hung heavy in the room, and Ginny staggered, the ground beneath her feeling as though it had been ripped away. Her hands trembled, her vision blurring with tears, and with a strangled sob, she turned and stumbled toward the door. The room was silent as they heard the heavy slam, the sound of her footsteps echoing as she fled from the truth.

In the stillness that followed, she slumped back, her face a mask of pain and exhaustion. She pressed a hand to her forehead, her voice breaking as she murmured, " I wondered for a long time what my life could have been if I'd healed, instead of just coping with things that were never my fault."  

Her voice was barely audible, her words tumbling out like a confession. "And then… I found Draco. The true Draco. The one who saw me, not the broken pieces, but the person I was beneath all that pain."

Draco's face softened, and without hesitation, he reached out, taking her hand in his own. "Darling, you don't have to wonder anymore," he whispered, his voice filled with a quiet intensity. "None of this was ever your fault. You are brave, Hermione. Stronger than anyone in this room." He squeezed her hand, his thumb gently brushing over her knuckles as he offered her the comfort and support she had so long been denied.

Theo, who had been silent, let out a quiet sigh as he looked around the room. "We all carry our own scars," he said, his voice uncharacteristically solemn. "Some of us bear them on the inside, some on the outside. But they're all a part of us, part of this… family we've chosen. And right now, Ginny's carrying more than she can bear alone. She'll need time, but she'll come back to us. We just have to be ready when she does."

Blaise nodded, his expression grave. "Ginny's world just shattered, and it's going to take her time to rebuild. But she's not alone. We're here for her, whether she realizes it yet or not."

Lady Lemongrass stirred from her spot by her feet, snuffling softly and resting her head on her lap, as if sensing the pain in the room.

Hermione smiled faintly, stroking the dog's soft fur as she took a deep breath, letting the comfort of her friends wash over her.

"I think that's the point," she whispered. "Found family. People who stay, even when it's hard. Even when everything feels impossible."

Pansy, who had been silent until now, looked around at each of them, her gaze fierce yet compassionate. "We all have our sins, our regrets. But it doesn't make us unworthy of love. We've all made mistakes, and we'll probably make a thousand more. But this family… we chose each other. And that means something."

The room fell into a contemplative silence, each of them lost in their own thoughts, their own wounds. But in that quiet, something shifted—a bond that, though bruised and tested, held firm. For the first time, it felt like they could heal. Together.

And somewhere beyond the closed door, Ginny walked, her thoughts swirling like a tempest, but her heart still bound to the family waiting inside, ready to catch her when she fell.

~~~~~~

Hermione arrived at the Zabini mansion, her heart pounding in her chest. The once elegant house was now a chaotic battlefield. Furniture was overturned, shards of broken china littered the floor, and an eerie silence hung in the air. It was as if a storm had raged through the house, leaving destruction in its wake.

She found Ginny sitting alone on a garden bench. Her voice was firm as she began, "Ginerva, listen to me. I've had enough. You're going to listen, whether you like it or not. I know you're incapable of doing that on your own, so I'm going to cast a silencing charm on you."

"Ron forbade me from attending social events, especially if he couldn't come. He intercepted my letters, scrutinising both Magical and Muggle communications, cutting me off from my support system. His possessiveness deepened, alienating me from friends by accusing you all of being bad influences or trying to lure me away. When confronted, he flatly denied his controlling behaviour, insisting I was exaggerating or delusional. He blamed me for his outbursts, claiming my behaviour provoked him or that I was the problem. He eroded my self-confidence by questioning MY intelligence, memory, and judgement, making me doubt my own sanity. He would shower me with affection and attention, creating a false sense of security that made leaving impossible. And then, he imprisoned me, Ginerva. Your brother is no saint." 

she revealed the harsh truth.

"Your brother was a monster. I was ecstatic to break free. It seems he's found solace in Lavender's arms."

Exhausted and vulnerable, her chest heaved. The truth, once locked away, now hung heavy in the air. A swift movement of her wand cast a silencing spell over Ginny.

"Blaise found out everything about your brother. He told Draco, and now Ron is dead. This is why all of this happened." she had a cold mask on. 

The area was heavy with tension. Her voice, when it came, cut through the silence like a knife. "I am not going to surrender myself to you. You used my accident as a weapon. You keep attacking my husband because all he has done this entire time is to keep me safe." Her words were laced with anger and defiance. Her breath came in short, ragged gasps. She could feel her heart pounding in her ears.

Her voice was cold, calculated. A stark contrast to the warmth of the garden. "Your own husband took part in it, yes, but all he has done this entire year or so is keep you in your princess tower. Locked away from the truth. Locked away from your brother's miserable life and the family business that all of the Slytherin's appear to do." Her eyes seemed to bore into her, demanding a reaction. 

Her expression softened, the sharp edge of her demeanor giving way to something rawer, more vulnerable. "I'm not trying to be cruel," she said, her voice quiet but steady. "But it's agonizing to see someone live comfortably in a gilded cage, oblivious to the world that's falling apart just outside. You have a responsibility—not just as a wife, but as a person—to open your eyes. To see the truth. To understand how your choices ripple outward."

Her tone hardened, resolve sharpening each word. "I care about you, Ginny. But I care about my family more. I can't stand by while you choose ignorance over accountability."

She took a step back, her voice dropping to an icy whisper. "And if you find it easy to speak ill of me, it's only because if you spoke honestly about yourself, no one would listen—or care."

Her gaze lingered for a moment before she turned away, her parting words cutting like a blade. "Goodbye."

Her eyes flashed with anger as she turned on her heel. The conversation was over. There was nothing more to say. With a sharp flick of her wand, she disappeared in a blinding flash of light, leaving Ginny standing alone in the garden, their words hanging unanswered in the still air.

~~~~~~

Hermione arrived home with a cold mask of her own. He paced the room, his anxiety palpable.

"My love, how did it go?" he asked gently.

"As you can imagine, dearest. But I didn't let her talk; I needed to say my piece," she answered, walking to the wine cellar.

She returned with two glasses and a bottle of their favourite wine. As she poured, he watched her closely, concern etched in his features. She handed him a glass and met his gaze, her eyes speaking volumes.

Without uttering a word, the look they exchanged was enough. It conveyed the exhaustion, the pain, and the unspoken understanding that no words could fully capture. She took a deep breath and sat beside him, feeling the weight of the day lift slightly as they found solace in each other's presence.

" In the grand scheme of things, we are just tiny specks that will one day be forgotten ," he said, pulling her close to him. "So it doesn't matter what we did or how we'll be remembered. The only thing that matters is right now."

"Amen," she agreed, nestling into his embrace.

~~~~~~~

The night split open with a sound so sharp it seemed to tear through the very fabric of the world—a crack of thunder that didn't just echo but roared through the bones of the house like the harbinger of something cruel. It dragged her from sleep with brutal force, wrenching her out of a dreamless haze and dropping her into a moment so stark and real it made her gasp. Her eyes snapped open. For a suspended second, she lay frozen beneath the covers, disoriented, the air still vibrating with the aftershock of the storm. Her heart thudded once, twice, and then she heard it—a sound far more chilling than thunder, more intimate, more primal.

"Hermione!"

His voice.

Not the voice she knew—measured, composed, smooth as silk even in the darkest of moments—but broken. Hoarse, ragged, drenched in a terror that turned her blood to ice. It was the kind of scream that stripped away pretense, that tore something essential from a man's soul, and it made her breath seize in her throat like she'd been struck.

She was moving before she could think, the sheets tangled and falling behind her as she threw herself out of bed. Panic flooded her system, a cold, suffocating tide that left no room for logic. The floor was freezing beneath her bare feet but she barely felt it, her body driven by instinct, propelled by the sound of his voice echoing down the corridor like a summons from something ancient and wounded.

The house was dark. The kind of dark that distorted space, where every shadow seemed to stretch and pulse with hidden menace. A lone nightlight cast a dim, trembling glow that did little to pierce the gloom, instead throwing strange, elongated shapes across the walls as if the house itself were watching. But she didn't need light. She knew where he was. Felt it in her chest, in her bones, in the invisible string that connected them—pulled taut now, drawn tight with fear.

And then she saw him.

And the breath she'd been holding left her body in a strangled rush.

He was collapsed against the wall at the end of the corridor, half-sitting, half-crumpled, like a puppet with its strings cut. His body slumped at an unnatural angle, his limbs trembling, chest rising in uneven, shallow gasps. The moonlight caught the sweat on his brow, and it shimmered like frost. His skin was so pale it looked almost blue beneath the dim light, and his silver eyes—usually cutting, sharp, brilliant—were dull, distant, glassy with shock and pain.

But it was the blood that hit her like a slap.

A strangled sound tore from her throat, not quite a scream, not quite a sob, something animal and instinctive and broken, as she dropped to her knees beside him with a thud that jarred her bones. Her hands trembled violently, not from cold but from the sheer tidal wave of panic that surged through her, rising so fast it threatened to drown her where she knelt. She reached out with shaking fingers and caught hold of his uninjured arm, cradling it tightly against her chest, desperate to anchor him, to anchor herself, to feel something solid as the world threatened to cave in around them.

"Draco," she gasped, his name escaping her lips like a plea, sharp and ragged with fear, each syllable trembling as though it could barely carry the weight of what she felt. "What happened? Who did this to you?"

His eyelids fluttered, slow and uneven, like they were too heavy to lift. His breathing was shallow, laborious, and his body sagged against the wall, barely holding itself upright. For one terrifying moment, he didn't respond, and she swore she could feel the earth tilt beneath her, the world contracting to the narrowing space between his next breath and the void that threatened to swallow it.

Then, finally, he parted his lips, and a whisper escaped—a faint rasp, barely audible over the hammering of her heart.

"I'm fine," he breathed, as if the words alone could convince her, as if speaking them wouldn't cost him something vital. "It's... nothing. I just… got careless."

The laugh that burst from her came out more like a sob, wild and disbelieving, half-hysterical in its denial. Nothing? Her eyes flicked to the blood slicked across the floor, to the way it soaked into his clothes, warm and dark and still spreading. Her hands were already soaked, her fingers slick with it, and she pressed them hard against the wound, trying to stop the impossible, to hold back the tide with sheer will alone. The blood kept coming. And her pulse surged with it.

"You're not fine," she snapped, the edge of her voice slicing through the thick air, too sharp, too loud. "You're bleeding everywhere, you can barely sit up—this is not nothing. You need help, Draco. Now. You need me."

His hand moved then, weak but deliberate, and covered hers. The contact was trembling, cold to the touch, but the message behind it was unshakable. Stop. Stay. Breathe. It was the touch of a man who knew he was slipping and wanted her to hold him here, even if only by a thread.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, and the sound of it broke something inside her. Not because of what he said, but because of how he said it. Not with the arrogance or bravado she'd grown used to, not with the sharp precision of his usual control. But with softness. With weakness. With a kind of regret that stripped him bare. "I didn't want to wake you."

She stared at him, heart splitting with too many emotions to name—rage, terror, helpless love—and her breath caught, thick with the sting of tears she refused to shed.

"You stupid, stubborn, infuriating man," she choked, her voice cracking as her hands pressed harder, more frantic now, her grip tightening like she could will his body to stop losing blood. "Don't you ever apologize for needing me. Don't you dare think I'd rather sleep through this—through you falling apart in the hallway like this. You stay with me, do you hear me? Stay with me. I'll fix this. I swear I will."

Her hands moved quickly now, though they still trembled, still bore the phantom of fear whispering that she was already too late. But she forced her mind to clear, shoved the panic into a cage inside her chest and locked it shut. She had trained for this. Studied for this. And Merlin help her, she would not lose him. Not here. Not now.

She muttered a diagnostic charm under her breath, her wand hand slick but steady, the spell casting a soft glow across the gash. It pulsed in time with his heartbeat—a terrifying, sluggish rhythm that made her stomach clench. She would close it. She would bind it. She would pour every ounce of magic she had into him if that's what it took.

She pressed her hands against the gaping wound in his arm with a trembling urgency that bordered on desperation, her fingers slick with blood and magic, her voice quivering as she whispered the incantation under her breath. The words slipped out in broken fragments, almost drowned by the thunderous beat of her heart crashing against her ribs like a war drum. A pale light began to glow beneath her palms, dim at first, then brighter, more insistent, as her magic reached down into the broken flesh, threads of golden energy weaving themselves into the torn muscle, knitting sinew and skin with the painstaking slowness of someone stitching together a life unraveling far too fast.

But it wasn't enough.

The bleeding slowed, yes—but it didn't stop. It continued, sluggish and stubborn, a cruel reminder that her magic was fighting uphill against the damage, and she wasn't winning. Not yet. Not fast enough. And with each tick of the clock, each tremble of his chest, each flutter of his lashes as his body drifted closer to that dangerous line between consciousness and the void beyond it, she felt her own panic sharpening into something primal. His breathing had grown more ragged, catching in his throat like glass, and the warmth in his grip was fading, his hand going limp in hers as though he was slipping away inch by inch and taking her entire soul with him.

"Come on," she begged, her voice breaking into a whisper that was more prayer than spell, her forehead dropping to his shoulder as her arms shook from the effort. "Please, Draco. Don't do this. Don't leave me. Don't you fucking dare."

Her magic surged again, this time wild, untamed, pouring out of her like a tide breaking through a dam. It wasn't controlled, wasn't polished—it was raw, instinctive, drawn from the deepest corners of her being where fear lived beside love, where rage and tenderness coexisted in equal measure. Her vision blurred as sweat dripped into her eyes, her entire body trembling from the drain, from the sheer, bone-deep exhaustion setting in—but she didn't falter. She couldn't. She would rip herself in half before she let him go.

The wound beneath her hands pulsed once, then began to close more rapidly, the torn edges of his skin meeting as if called home. Inch by inch, the gash faded until there was only a faint, ghostly scar where chaos had once lived, a silvery line that shimmered faintly in the low light. Her breathing hitched violently as she pulled a clean cloth from the nearby drawer, pressing it gently to the sealed wound, not to stop the bleeding now—but to soothe it. Her hands were shaking so hard she nearly dropped it. Her limbs ached with spent power. Her mouth tasted like copper and adrenaline. But still—she stayed.

And then—just as she started to sag under the weight of it all—his hand, the one she thought had gone slack forever, tightened around hers. Not weakly. Not barely. But firmly, deliberately. The kind of grip that said I'm still here.

She looked up, almost afraid to hope, her breath catching as their eyes locked.

His gaze met hers, pale and rimmed with pain, his skin still too pale, his body still far too fragile—but his eyes burned with life. With awareness. With something deeper than either of them had words for. Something that stopped her heart and restarted it all at once.

Pain. Gratitude. Adoration. Awe. All layered beneath a sheen of exhaustion. But alive.

"You're doing it," he whispered, his voice frayed at the edges but full of wonder, as though she were the first miracle he'd ever seen. "You're saving me, love."

Her throat closed, her vision shattered into a blur of tears she no longer tried to hold back. They spilled freely, tracing silent paths down her cheeks as she nodded, unable to speak at first, too full of the weight of what could've been, of what almost was.

"I'll always save you," she whispered at last, her voice low and fierce and soaked in every vow she'd ever made without speaking aloud. "Always. Even when you think you don't deserve it. Even when you don't ask. I will always come for you."

And she held his hand tighter, as if that alone could bind him to the world.

Because maybe it could.

Later, when the house had fallen into a hush and the adrenaline had begun to ebb from her bloodstream like the fading edge of a storm, she curled up beside him on the couch, her body folding around his as if by sheer force of will she could shield him from the violence that had clawed its way into their world. A thick wool blanket was pulled tightly over them both, tucked around his torso with the same tenderness she used when holding fragile things, as though she could keep out not just the cold but everything else that might still be lurking—memories, nightmares, the ghosts of blood that hadn't yet dried on the floor.

His breathing, though still uneven, had steadied into a rhythm that gave her something to hold on to, each exhale like a whispered promise that he was still here. His skin, earlier drained of all color, now held the faintest flush of returning life, and the makeshift bandages wrapping his chest were spotted with only the smallest traces of red, no longer bleeding, no longer growing.

Her hand moved in silence, tracing the angle of his jaw with the lightest brush of her fingertips, as though touching him too firmly might undo all the healing she had fought so hard to give him. Her voice, when it came, was barely audible—more breath than sound—but it carried the weight of everything she felt. "You're safe now," she murmured, each syllable a vow wrapped in softness. "I won't let anything happen to you. Not again. Not ever."

His fingers found hers beneath the blanket, still weak from blood loss but warm and real, anchoring her to this moment. He squeezed gently, a flicker of strength in his touch that made her throat tighten. "I know," he whispered, the gravel of exhaustion dragging at his voice. "Thank you."

She said nothing in return. There was nothing to say that could carry the enormity of what sat heavy on her chest.

She sat quietly, her legs drawn up beneath her, one hand resting on the edge of the couch for balance, the other still curled around his. She didn't even realize she was staring—her eyes fixed on the rise and fall of his chest, memorizing every breath, every twitch, every sigh. As if by watching closely enough, she could convince herself he would never stop breathing again.

Because suddenly, with the stillness came the crash—the delayed weight of fear hitting her like a tidal wave. The memory of him slumped on the floor. The smell of blood. The sound of his voice cracking like glass. The unbearable realization that if she had been just minutes later, if her spell had faltered, if he had lost any more blood—he would have died.

Her fingers began to tremble before she could stop them.

This wasn't just fear. It was rage. It was helplessness. It was the dawning awareness that the life they shared—this quiet, precious, maddening life—was always going to exist on a knife's edge. That loving him meant loving the possibility of loss every time he walked out the door. That no matter how tightly she held him, how much magic she poured into his skin, there would always be things she could not protect him from.

But this—this night—she could protect him from.

She pressed closer, burying her face against his shoulder, letting her body wrap around him like a barrier, as if her love alone could be a ward against the darkness.

She wouldn't let this happen again. Not like this. Not ever.

He stirred with a faint, broken groan, his eyelids fluttering as though the very act of waking required more strength than his body could afford. But he found her. Even through the haze of pain and exhaustion, his gaze locked onto hers, and he saw it instantly—the way her posture was coiled like a bowstring, every breath she drew thin and sharp, her frame trembling with the raw pressure of everything she wasn't saying.

"I'm not going anywhere, love," he rasped, the words scraping out of him with a roughness that betrayed how close he'd come to not making it back. But his voice, frayed and cracked though it was, held firm. It was a vow. Something final. Something sacred.

She choked on the swell of emotion in her throat, unable to speak for a beat. Then her grip on his hand tightened, fingers trembling against his. "You better not," she whispered, her voice barely audible but weighted like iron, heavy with fear, fury, and something deeper—something primal. It was a threat to the universe itself. A promise carved from bone and blood and every sleepless night they'd endured together.

He didn't respond with more comfort. He simply moved his thumb in slow, aching circles across her knuckles, grounding her. Reminding her that he was still here. That despite the blood, the silence, the trap—he had come home.

"I mean it," he murmured again, softer this time. Not to convince her, but to remind himself.

Then he sighed—a long, tired exhale that seemed to hollow out the room. She saw it before he even said a word—the moment his eyes shifted, the flicker of guilt, the flash of hesitation.

And then, almost too quietly to catch, he said it.

"It was a trap."

Her breath stopped mid-chest.

Her head snapped up, her gaze hardening, jaw set like stone. "Who?" she asked, low and dangerous.

He looked away for a second, just a second. Not out of fear. Out of calculation. Out of knowing what the truth would cost them both.

But the decision had already been made. She could see it settle in his shoulders. In the weary drop of his eyelids. In the way he spoke next, not like a man evading, but like someone protecting something far more precious than his own safety.

"It doesn't matter," he murmured, a whisper soaked in finality. "What matters is that I made it back to you."

But she shook her head slowly, disbelieving, and her tears, silent and slow until now, began to spill over the rims of her eyes, sliding down her cheeks unchecked.

"No, Draco," she said, her voice low and shaking, but fierce as fire. "It does matter. Because if they come for you again…"

Her hands tightened, curling into fists against the blanket draped across him. There was nothing delicate in her expression now—only steel. Only a promise sharpened to a blade.

"I'll be ready."

------------------------------------------------------------

Titus's name is from House Pet by NinaBinaBallerina

Read her work of art, is is more than perfection.