The moment hung suspended between them—fragile and raw.
Hermione's breath hitched, the dam she'd built for years crumbling beneath the weight of memories she never shared.
She trembled, lips parting in a silent sob.
Draco's arms tightened instinctively, pulling her closer until there was no space between them.
"Let it out," he murmured, voice low and steady.
And she did.
Tears spilled free, tracing paths down her cheeks as her body shook with the force of all the pain she'd locked away.
Flashbacks tore through her mind, jagged and relentless:
The first time she'd been called "Mudblood" — whispered cruelly by a classmate in the dusty corridors of Hogwarts, the word slicing sharper than any spell.
The sneers from pureblood families at Christmas dinners, where she sat the outsider, the "lesser" girl who wasn't welcome no matter how brilliant she was.
The nights of loneliness, hiding books beneath her pillow, wishing for a world that would see her for who she truly was.
And then the war — the curses, the betrayals, the torture…
Her fingers clenched at Draco's robes, nails digging into the fabric as if to hold herself together.
"I'm broken," she whispered, voice raw. "Not just from Lucius or the war… but from everything before. Childhood. Teenage years. The way I was never supposed to be."
Draco pressed a kiss to the top of her head, his breath warm against her hair.
"You're not broken, Hermione." His voice cracked with fierce love. "You're the strongest woman I know."
"But I'm ruined inside," she said, pulling back just enough to look at him, her eyes red and shining. "Some days it feels like the hate is still wrapped around me like a cloak, and I don't know how to shed it."
Draco's hands cupped her face, thumbs brushing away the tears. "Then I'll help you."
"Help me how?"
"By carrying you when you can't stand. By holding you when the past tries to drown you. By reminding you every day that you're loved—beyond the pain, beyond the hate."
She trembled again, exhaustion weighing down her limbs.
Without hesitation, Draco bent, scooping her into his arms as if she weighed nothing.
Hermione let herself be carried — no fight left in her tonight.
As he carried her to bed, the world outside faded into silence.
In his arms, she was safe.
Not whole, not healed. But safe.
And for the first time in a long time, that was enough.