The Serpent's Redemption // DRAMIONE

She hadn't visited him for a week. Seven excruciating days. He was an utter mess, and he knew it. He paced his apartment endlessly, his footsteps echoing off the cold, empty walls. Every creak of the floorboards, every rustle of the wind outside, every distant sound of footsteps made his heart leap, only to sink again when it wasn't her.

What the fuck was wrong with him?

He ran his hands through his hair, tugging at the roots in frustration. This wasn't him. This wasn't supposed to be him. He was Draco Malfoy, for Merlin's sake. He didn't pine after anyone—especially not Hermione bloody Granger. But here he was, obsessing over her absence like a lovesick teenager. It was pathetic.

He slumped onto the edge of his couch, his head falling into his hands as he tried to steady his breathing. The silence of the room was deafening. He couldn't stop thinking about her—her sharp tongue, her fiery eyes, the way she looked at him like she could see right through him. The way she'd pinned him against the wall, her hand around his throat, her voice dripping with disdain and power.

He groaned, leaning back against the couch and staring up at the ceiling. That moment had been seared into his brain, playing on an endless loop. The way her lips had hovered so close to his, her breath warm against his skin. The way her grip had tightened, just enough to make him feel utterly at her mercy. He hated how much he had liked it.

"Get a grip," he muttered to himself, though the words rang hollow.

But he couldn't shake the feeling. It was like she had planted herself in his mind, her presence lingering in every corner of his thoughts. He wanted more of her. He needed more of her. He wanted to see her again, to hear her biting sarcasm, to feel the tension crackling between them. He wanted to challenge her, to see if he could push her to the edge the way she pushed him.

His fingers drummed restlessly against his thigh as his thoughts spiraled further. What would it take to get her back here? Should he write to her? No, she'd probably laugh at him. Track her down? No, that was too desperate.

"Desperate," he muttered bitterly. "That's what this is. I'm fucking desperate."

The thought made him feel sick, but it was the truth. He was desperate to see her, to talk to her, to touch her. He wanted to run his fingers through her wild curls, to feel their softness against his skin. He wanted to taste the defiance on her lips, to see if it was as intoxicating as he imagined.

He stood abruptly, his pacing resuming as he tried to shake the thoughts from his mind. But they clung to him like a curse, each one more maddening than the last.

"This isn't real," he said aloud, as if saying it would make it true. "She's Granger. Choking me once doesn't mean I'm… this."

But even as he said it, he knew it wasn't just the physicality of that moment that had him spiraling. It was her. Her wit, her fire, the way she challenged him at every turn. She was everything he wasn't: righteous, relentless, good. And it drove him mad.

He collapsed back onto the couch, his head falling against the cushions as he stared blankly at the ceiling. His hands clenched into fists at his sides as he tried to fight the growing ache in his chest.

"I need to see her," he whispered, the words slipping out before he could stop them.

And there it was—the truth he couldn't deny. He needed her. More than he cared to admit, more than he wanted to admit. The realization hit him like a Bludger to the stomach, leaving him breathless and reeling.

He closed his eyes, his mind filled with nothing but her. He could see her face, her smirk, the way her eyes lit up when she was about to put him in his place. He could hear her voice, sharp and unyielding, cutting through his defenses like a blade.

"Hermione," he murmured, the sound of her name on his lips sending a shiver down his spine.

What the fuck was she doing to him?

•••••••••••••

It was the 8th day, and he had nearly given up hope that he would see her again. He had spent the week oscillating between pacing his apartment like a caged animal and staring at the door, willing it to open. So when the fireplace roared to life and she stepped through, he froze, caught somewhere between relief and dread.

She didn't look like herself. Her eyes were puffy and red, as though she'd cried for hours, and her usually impeccable appearance was replaced by wrinkled pajamas that hung loosely on her frame. She looked fragile, desperate—miserable. The sight of her knocked the air out of his lungs.

"Darling?" His voice came out softer than he intended, laden with concern.

Her gaze flickered to him briefly, but she didn't smile. "I hope nothing happened to you while I was away," she said, her voice thick and unsteady.

He stepped closer to her, his heart thundering. "No, no, I'm fine. But are you? Are you hurt? Did someone hurt you?" His words tumbled out in a rush, panic rising in his chest. "Tell me who it was, and I'll kill him. I swear I'll—"

"I'm fine, Malfoy," she interrupted, though her tone lacked conviction. She looked away, her sadness palpable.

He was in front of her now, so close that he could see the faint streaks of tears dried on her cheeks. Slowly, hesitantly, he raised his hands to her face, brushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear. His thumb tilted her chin upward, but she avoided his gaze, her eyes fixed on some distant point.

"Darling…" he murmured, his voice a plea.

"I'm fine," she said again, but it sounded more like she was trying to convince herself than him. "I just needed to check on you. That's all."

"Love…" His voice broke, the word heavy with unspoken emotion. "You don't look fine."

"I am fine." Her voice cracked this time, and her shoulders slumped as though the weight of her words was too much to bear.

He didn't know what else to say, so he did the only thing he could think of. He pulled her into his arms. She didn't resist; in fact, she melted into him, her arms wrapping around his waist tightly. He held her like she was the most precious thing in the world, his hands smoothing over her back in a soothing rhythm.

He whispered into her hair, "It's okay. I've got you."

Her head rested against his chest, and for the first time in days, he felt like he could breathe again. He tightened his hold on her, pulling her closer as though he could shield her from whatever pain she was carrying. She didn't pull away. Instead, she clung to him like he was her anchor.

After a moment, he adjusted his grip, sliding one arm beneath her legs. She let him lift her without protest, her legs instinctively wrapping around his waist. He carried her to the counter and set her down gently, never breaking their embrace. Her arms remained around his neck, and he stepped between her legs, pressing himself against her as if to remind her she wasn't alone.

The intimacy of the moment wasn't lost on him. She wasn't just Hermione Granger anymore; she was his angel, fragile and fierce all at once, and he felt an overwhelming need to protect her. To make her feel safe.

His voice was soft as he spoke against her hair, "Stay with me tonight, darling. Please."

She didn't respond, only tightened her hold on him. He let her sit there, enveloped in his arms, as the silence stretched between them. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he eased back just enough to look at her.

"I'm going to make you some chamomile tea," he said, brushing his thumb gently across her cheek. "You stay right here, okay?"

She nodded faintly, her eyes not meeting his. Reluctantly, he stepped away and busied himself in the kitchen. It only took a few minutes, but his worry grew with each passing second that she didn't say a word. He returned to her with a steaming mug, holding it out carefully.

"It's hot," he murmured. "Be careful, darling."

She took the cup from him, her fingers brushing against his briefly. She sipped the tea in silence, her gaze distant. He leaned against the counter, watching her intently, his chest tight with worry.

"Stay with me," he said again, his voice barely above a whisper.

Hermione set the cup down, her expression unreadable. "I can't."

"Why not?" His voice rose slightly, his desperation slipping through. "You don't have to go. Just stay—"

"I need to go." She slid off the counter, her bare feet landing softly on the floor.

"You don't," he insisted, stepping in front of her to block her path. "Stay with me. I beg you, Hermione."

She looked up at him then, her eyes filled with something he couldn't quite place. "I can't, Malfoy. I have things to do—an event to organize."

"An event?" His voice was incredulous. "You're leaving like this to organize a bloody event?"

She didn't respond, only brushed past him toward the door. He didn't stop her this time, though every fiber of his being screamed at him to. He stood frozen as he watched her walk away, her figure disappearing into the green flames of the fireplace.

The silence that followed was suffocating. He slumped against the counter, his hands trembling. She was gone again, and the ache in his chest was unbearable.

That woman, he thought bitterly, his fists clenching at his sides. That maddening, brilliant, perfect woman. She was playing with him. Toying with his heart, his soul, and leaving him to pick up the pieces.

And damn it, he knew he'd let her do it all over again.

••••••••••••••

He stood frozen as the green flames swallowed her, leaving the room unbearably quiet and cold. His mind raced, spiraling into dark, possessive thoughts. An event to organize?

His jaw clenched as he replayed her words. What event? The idea that it could be something as innocuous as a Ministry gala or some Muggle-born charity dinner didn't even cross his mind. No, his brain immediately jumped to the worst conclusions.

A date? A wedding? An engagement?

The thought of Hermione walking into a room to meet some polished, handsy wizard made his blood boil. The image of her in a white dress, standing across from some nameless, faceless man, exchanging vows, was enough to make him grip the counter until his knuckles turned white.

"No," he hissed through clenched teeth, his voice low and dangerous. "No fucking way."

It didn't matter if his fears were irrational or unfounded. The mere suggestion that someone else could lay claim to her—to her laugh, her wit, her goddamn heart—set his whole body ablaze with anger. His mind betrayed him, conjuring scenarios he couldn't stomach: some idiot holding her hand, kissing her, making her smile in a way that used to be reserved for him.

No one could have her. She was his.

The words echoed in his mind like a vow, like a truth that had been etched into his very being. Hermione Granger didn't belong to anyone, and that included him, but the thought of her with someone else was unbearable. It clawed at him, threatening to tear him apart.

He began pacing, his long legs carrying him back and forth across the room. His hands flexed at his sides, itching to grab something, throw something, do something to shake this consuming feeling.

What event could possibly be so important that she had to leave like that, looking broken and exhausted? And more importantly, who the fuck was it for?

Not a date, he decided firmly, though the thought alone made his stomach churn. If she had plans with another man, Draco would—he didn't know what he'd do. Hex him into oblivion? Drag Hermione back and lock her in this godforsaken flat until she admitted she felt something for him? Anything?

Not a wedding. His breath hitched at the mere idea. No. Not a wedding. If someone was stupid enough to try and marry Granger, they'd have to go through him first. And he'd make damn sure they regretted ever laying a finger on her.

An engagement? His nails bit into his palms. That couldn't be it. That wouldn't be it. She hadn't mentioned anyone. There hadn't been any hints, any casual mentions of a significant other. Right?

A horrible realization struck him then. Maybe she hadn't mentioned anyone because she didn't feel the need to. Maybe she didn't think he deserved to know.

"Fuck." The word tore from his throat as he slammed a fist onto the counter, the sharp pain grounding him for a moment. His breathing was ragged, his heart pounding erratically in his chest.

No one could have her. She was his.

Draco gripped the edge of the counter, his mind reeling. He wasn't sure what scared him more—the possibility that she wasn't his or the fact that, deep down, he wanted her to be. He wanted her in every way a man could want a woman: her fiery temper, her impossible brilliance, her maddening need to fix him. He wanted all of it.

But she wasn't here. She was out there, somewhere, organizing something for someone, and he was left alone, pacing like a madman and spiraling into possessive despair.

The thought of her slipping through his fingers was unbearable. It made his chest ache and his head pound. Draco Malfoy didn't beg, but if it meant keeping her by his side, he would. He would get on his knees and tell her whatever she needed to hear.

No one could have her. She was his. And one way or another, he'd make sure she stayed that way.

His mind couldn't let it go. Hermione had said an event, but his imagination painted an entire spectrum of horrific possibilities. Each one grew more outrageous as his pacing continued, his thoughts spiraling further into madness.

Charity Gala?

It could be something as simple as one of her insufferable do-gooder events—a fundraiser for house-elf liberation or a Muggle-born education initiative. Normally, he'd roll his eyes at the thought, but now? Now, he saw her standing on a stage, radiant and composed, while a crowd of eager men ogled her from below.

Draco scowled. He could see them now: sharp-dressed Ministry officials leaning forward to catch every word that fell from her lips, their eyes lingering a little too long on her neckline. Filthy vultures. They'd trip over themselves to talk to her after the event, offering compliments, pretending to care about elf rights just to get closer. And Hermione, being Hermione, would smile politely, not realizing how much it fucking hurt to imagine it.

Work Conference?

She could be organizing a conference for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. That would make sense. But then his thoughts twisted: what if it was a closed-door meeting with some pompous Auror? What if she had to spend hours in a room with someone like Harry Bloody Potter—laughing at his jokes, brainstorming, being a team?

His fists clenched at the thought. What if it wasn't just professional? What if some idiot in her department thought they had a chance with her? What if she let them? Would she laugh at their jokes like she used to laugh at his? Would she let them touch her wrist, her waist—her?

A Birthday Celebration?

His lip curled at the thought of her organizing a surprise party for some undeserving bastard. Some smarmy childhood friend from Hogwarts, perhaps. He could see her putting thought into every detail: what cake they liked, what music they preferred. Her smile would light up the room as she revealed the surprise, and some unworthy prick would thank her with a hug—a hug that lingered just a second too long.

Who the fuck gets a hug from Granger?

By the time he stopped pacing, his heart was racing, his hands trembling with frustration. He ran them through his hair, tugging at the strands as though that might stop the madness in his mind.

"Merlin, I'm losing it," he muttered. But even as he said it, he knew the truth.No matter what this event was, he would find out. And if it involved some idiot trying to take her from him, he'd make sure they regretted it.

Because no one—absolutely no one—could have her.

•••••••••••••

Draco stared at her as if she were a ghost, standing in his doorway in that long black dress. The way it hung on her frame, loose in places it shouldn't have been, was unsettling. But it wasn't the dress that caught his attention—it was the emptiness in her eyes, the way her shoulders sagged under the weight of an invisible burden. She looked as though she'd been hollowed out, as though she were barely holding herself together, running on nothing but the fragile thread of duty.

Her voice was calm—too calm, the kind of calm that felt unnatural, like a mask barely holding back a storm. "Tomorrow, a doctor will come over to check on you. Just a routine check for your well-being."

She didn't even glance his way as she spoke, her gaze fixed on some invisible point far beyond the room, as if she were somewhere else entirely. But he barely heard her words. 

His attention was drawn to the dress—that damned black dress. It seemed to whisper a truth he didn't want to face. And then, with a sickening lurch in his chest, the puzzle pieces fell into place.

"Who passed away?" he asked softly, his voice barely above a whisper, cutting through the thick, suffocating silence.

Hermione didn't answer him. She just stared blankly past him, her gaze fixed on some distant, unseen place, her shoulders rigid and unyielding, as though she were trying to disappear into the emptiness around her.

"Please, my love..." The words spilled from his lips before he could stop them, an instinctive plea. "Let me make things better for you."

She didn't even flinch at the term of endearment, didn't so much as twitch. It was as if the words never reached her, as if she couldn't hear him at all. For a split second, Draco wondered if she'd even registered his presence.

Then, finally, she spoke again, her tone cold and distant, completely detached from anything resembling emotion. "The doctor comes at 10. Get yourself together and clean up this place before then."

Her words hung in the air like a final dismissal.

He clenched his jaw, his teeth grinding together as a deep, unbearable tightness settled in his chest. The feeling was like a vice, constricting with every beat of his heart. Her indifference, the coldness that hung in the space between them, was more than he could bear. It was a wound that felt like it was tearing him apart from the inside.

"Hermione," he said, the name slipping out in a voice that trembled with unspoken emotion, a desperate plea for something—anything—to break through the wall she had built around herself. The word echoed between them, heavy with all the things he couldn't bring himself to say.

She paused, caught off guard by the force of his call, and for a brief moment, the silence was thick with anticipation. It was rare for him to use her full name—usually, he spoke to her with a mocking tone, with distance—but this was different. This was raw, vulnerable. Her eyes flickered with something like surprise before she turned to face him.

"Yes?" Her voice was clipped, distant, polite, but utterly devoid of warmth. The words felt transactional, a hollow echo in the room, as if she were merely going through the motions of conversation. It wasn't the woman he knew—sharp, passionate, engaging—but someone much colder, much farther away. And it hurt. It hurt more than he cared to admit, more than he was willing to let himself feel.

"Who passed away?" he asked softly, his voice cracking as he forced the words out. He wasn't sure if he wanted the answer or if he dreaded it, but he needed to know.

For a long, tense moment, she didn't speak. Then, her lips parted, just slightly, as if letting something heavy slip free. Her eyes, red and swollen, locked onto his, and he saw it then—the sheer rawness of her grief. 

The mask she always wore, the ironclad wall she'd so carefully constructed around herself, seemed to falter, just for a breath, before it snapped back into place. "My parents. Car accident. In Australia."

His breath caught in his chest, as though the words had physically hit him. Grief wasn't something he was unfamiliar with. He'd lost his own parents, his family's legacy crumbling to dust around him. But this? This was Hermione. Hermione—strong, unyielding Hermione, who always seemed to hold everything together, who carried the weight of the world without ever showing it. 

And now, here she stood, broken in a way he had never imagined. She was fragile, vulnerable, someone he couldn't fix, and it cut deeper than he could have expected.

"Merlin, I'm so sorry…" he whispered, the words feeling too small for the depth of the sorrow he saw in her eyes.

Her gaze hardened in an instant, the wall snapping back up with swift, brutal efficiency. "You are not permitted to make bitchy comments about my parents for at least a year."

Draco blinked, momentarily stunned by the sharpness in her voice, the audacity to issue such an order when she was in so much pain. "No. No, I would never…" His words faltered. How could she think that?

Her expression softened, just a fraction, but the coldness in her voice didn't waver. "Be on your best behavior tomorrow, please."

Her dismissal was a slap in the face, but he couldn't bring himself to be angry. It was clear she needed space, needed time to process this loss on her own terms. But the ache in his chest grew unbearable, a weight pressing down on him that only intensified with each second she pulled further away.

He took a step closer, his voice more desperate now. "Are you even paying attention to me?"

She didn't hesitate. Her eyes flickered briefly to him, then moved on. "Absolutely not."

Her dismissal, so final, so brutal, hit harder than he expected. He stood there, frozen, watching as she turned, her black dress trailing behind her like some kind of mourning shroud. It felt like the world was closing in on him, the space between them growing farther with each step she took. His fists clenched, his whole body aching with the need to reach out, to stop her, to hold her and make her let him in.

But she didn't stop. She didn't look back. And he couldn't make her.

She was shutting him out. He could feel it—her refusal to let him be the one to comfort her, to be the one she turned to in her grief. And it hurt in ways he couldn't put into words, deeper than anything he had ever felt.

This wasn't just about losing her; this was about her not needing him. Not now, and maybe not ever.

And as much as it tore him apart to think it, he knew he couldn't force her to open up. Not when she wasn't ready. Not when she had built walls so high he couldn't see over them.

He stood there, in the silent, empty room, feeling more alone than he ever had. His chest ached, his heart ached, and he couldn't stop the feeling that, no matter how hard he tried, he would never be the one to make her whole again.

But he didn't know how to walk away. Not now. Not ever.

••••••••••••••

Hermione arrived the next day, a little more color in her cheeks and some of her usual sharpness back in her expression. Draco had been pacing by the window like a restless ghost, waiting, hoping, desperate for any sign of her. When he saw her step through the door, his heart stuttered, the mere sight of her like a balm to his frayed nerves.

"D-darling, you look..." he began, his voice faltering under the weight of his emotions.

She didn't even let him finish. "Shut up, Malfoy," she snapped, breezing past him with the grace of a queen and the attitude of someone who'd just decided they were done with the world. "I don't need your bickering today."

He blinked, startled but undeterred. "No, no... I wasn't going to bicker," he stammered, following her like a puppy desperate for attention. "I would never."

She turned on her heel, fixing him with a look that could have frozen hell over. "How was your doctor's visit? Were you a good boy ?"

Her words hit him like a Bludger to the chest. A good boy ? His unresolved mummy issues nearly sent him spiraling right then and there. His breath hitched, and he felt his knees weaken slightly.

"A good... a good boy..." He repeated her words dumbly, his brain short-circuiting. "Yes," he finally croaked out, his voice cracking in a way that made him want to bury himself six feet under.

"Brilliant." she gave him a curt nod, as though she were grading him on a mediocre essay. "Is there anything else you need from me, or can I get on with my day?"

"Just you," he blurted out before he could stop himself.

She froze mid-step, turning her head slightly to look at him. Her brows knitted together in confusion. "Sorry?"

"I just... I just need you," he repeated, his voice trembling with an honesty that surprised even him.

Her eyes narrowed, suspicious. "Is something wrong? Are you having a mental breakdown? Do you feel faint? Are you dying? Oh, Merlin, you're dying, aren't you? I knew it. I'm calling the healer back."

Before he could stop her, she bolted toward the fireplace, her wand already in hand to summon the Floo.

"No! Granger, wait!" he shouted, his voice cracking with panic. "I'm fine! I—"

But she was gone in a flash of green flames.

"FUUCK!" he roared, throwing his head back and running a hand through his hair. This was a disaster. He was a disaster. Why couldn't he act normal around her? Why did his brain turn to mush and his mouth betray him every time she was near?

He slumped onto the sofa, burying his face in his hands. He wasn't good at this. He wasn't good at feelings, at being vulnerable, at wanting something—someone—so badly it hurt. He'd spent his entire life mastering the art of indifference, and now it was coming back to bite him in the arse.

Granger was the most brilliant, infuriating, sharp-tongued woman he'd ever met, and he was utterly, hopelessly, irrevocably in love with her. And she didn't have the faintest clue. Or worse, she knew and simply didn't care.

He groaned, flopping back against the cushions. He needed a plan, some way to show her that he wasn't just the arrogant prat she'd known at Hogwarts. That he could be someone she could rely on, someone who could love her the way she deserved to be loved.

But how? How did one steal Granger's heart? He'd never been good at romance, and his usual charm—what little he had—didn't work on her. She saw through his bravado like it was made of glass, leaving him stripped bare and vulnerable in a way that both terrified and thrilled him.

Maybe he needed to tone down his fuckboy tendencies. Maybe he needed to stop blurting out things like I just need you without any context. Maybe he needed to stop staring at her like she hung the stars in the sky every time she walked into the room.

Or maybe he was completely doomed.

••••••••••••

The doctor concluded that he was in excellent physical health. Mentally, however… well, that was a different story entirely, though the healer politely chose not to comment.

She stood with her arms crossed, her sharp gaze boring into him as the doctor left. She looked like she was ready to deliver one of her trademark lectures, and he braced himself.

"I'm concerned about your mental state," she said flatly. "You need to get ready for your next memory examination, and I need you to have a stable mindset. It's imperative."

He tried to appear nonchalant, leaning back in his chair. "I think I'm okay."

She raised an eyebrow, her expression dripping with skepticism. "Malfoy, don't insult my intelligence."

"I'm not!" he protested, throwing his hands in the air. "I am okay. Really."

Her lips pressed into a thin line as she tapped her foot. "Right. That's why I'm cutting you off from alcohol starting now. You need clarity, not drunken brooding."

"I don't even drink!" he shot back indignantly.

Her laugh was cold, sharp, and entirely dismissive. "Oh, don't lie to me. You reek of Firewhisky most nights."

"Only at night, okay?!" He snapped, his frustration boiling over. "I'm lonely, Granger! Miserable! Do you have any idea what it's like to be trapped here with nothing but my thoughts and the occasional pity visit from you? I need someone to talk to. Someone close to me. I need—Merlin, I need human connection!" He stood abruptly, his voice trembling with a mix of anger and desperation. "I NEED A FUCKING HUG!"

She blinked, her face briefly softening before she quickly masked it with indifference. "Oh... I… okay," she said awkwardly, clearly caught off guard. "I, uh, appreciate the vulnerability. That's... something, I suppose."

Draco's shoulders slumped slightly, relief mingling with the sting of her lackluster response. "So… can you… you know…" He gestured vaguely, hoping she'd catch on without him having to outright beg.

Her face hardened again, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "Well, I can find you company, if that's what you're after. Someone warm and willing to give you attention. Sound better?"

His jaw clenched as a pang of hurt shot through him. "I don't want another bloody hooker, Granger. I don't want to have sex with anyone."

"Then just wank," she shot back, rolling her eyes as if this were the most obvious solution in the world.

His frustration boiled over. "Granger, you're starting to irritate me. Stop this nonsense and listen! I'm trying my hardest to open up to you, and you keep brushing me off like it means nothing! Can't you see what I'm asking for here?"

Her eyes narrowed. "We are not friends, Malfoy."

"Please," he whispered, his voice trembling with desperation. "I'm begging you."

Her lips curved into a wicked smirk, and her voice dropped into a mockingly sultry tone. "Oh? Supplie-moi."she purred. 

He froze, staring at her, utterly dumbfounded. For a moment, all he could do was gape at her in disbelief.

Then, something in him shifted. His expression softened, the raw vulnerability in his gaze cutting through her sharp exterior like a knife. He took a deep breath and, with a tremor in his voice, answered her in fluent French. "S'il te plaît, mon ange… Je t'en supplie. Tiens-moi. Juste une fois. Laisse-moi te sentir près de moi."

His voice cracked as he spoke, his words a prayer, a plea, an admission of just how deeply she'd consumed his heart. "Je ne veux rien d'autre que toi."

Her smirk faltered, her eyes widening slightly. For once, she seemed at a loss for words. She opened her mouth to respond, but nothing came out. She wasn't used to this Malfoy—this raw, open, vulnerable version of him who wasn't hiding behind sarcasm or arrogance. And it unnerved her.

"Please," he repeated, his voice barely above a whisper, his eyes locked onto hers with a desperate intensity that made her heart stutter.

For a moment, just a moment, her walls cracked. But she quickly rebuilt them, her expression hardening as she took a step back, away from him, away from the weight of his confession.

"Don't make this harder than it has to be, Malfoy," she said coldly, her voice sharp enough to cut. "You'll survive without a hug."

She turned on her heel, leaving him standing there, crushed and more hopelessly in love than ever.