Theo burst out of the fireplace like a curse in a Greek tragedy, coughing dramatically as soot flew in every direction. One shoe shot across the room. His scarf whipped off his neck like it had decided to quit. By the time he landed in a heap on the rug, he looked like he'd survived a small explosion. Hermione, curled up in her armchair with a steaming mug of tea and a half-folded copy of Witch Weekly's Magical Theory Digest, didn't even flinch. She glanced at him with the calm apathy of someone who had witnessed this exact entrance more times than she cared to count.
"The end is upon us," Theo declared, dragging himself upright like a soldier returning from war, then collapsing onto her chaise lounge with the force of someone mourning both love and fashion in equal measure. "Granger, I bring devastation. Utter ruin. A complete collapse of all joy and structure in my life. We're talking biblical levels of personal apocalypse. Dust. Rubble. I'm emotionally bankrupt and spiritually on fire."
Hermione closed her book with a soft thud, took a long sip of tea, and exhaled slowly through her nose. "What is it now? Did you just find out Destiny's Child isn't getting back together?"
Theo froze. His head whipped around. His entire body stilled like he'd just heard the death toll of someone he loved. "They're not getting back together?"
Hermione squinted at him, instantly regretting the comment. "Theo. That ship sailed years ago. Beyoncé's been solo longer than some people have been alive."
He looked gutted. "No. No. I refuse. That can't be true. Granger. Granger, look me in the eye and tell me that's not one of your cruel little Muggle tricks."
"You literally wore a sequined cape to that party for her last album."
"Oh thank the stars," he breathed, visibly wilting in relief as he sat upright again. "She's still among us. Glorious. Powerful. An icon reborn. Michelle was lovely, of course, but Beyoncé? Beyoncé is proof that gods walk the earth."
Hermione raised a brow. "Alright, pop culture resurrection complete. Can we move on to the real tragedy you Floo-bombed my flat over?"
He looked at her, eyes wide, then pulled a throw pillow into his chest like it was the only thing keeping his heart from falling out. "I'm not exaggerating. I think I'm actually cursed."
She blinked. "Cursed."
"Yes." He stood abruptly, pacing across the rug as if the floor were a stage and the audience was the ghost of his last good decision. "Something's happened. Something dire."
"Let me guess," Hermione said, arms folded. "Your new robes got wrinkled."
"Worse."
"You got rejected by the witch who runs that enchanted café?"
"Worse."
She gave him a look. "You've misplaced your diamond-handled beard comb again."
He gasped like she'd slapped him. "Have some respect, Granger. This is serious. I am afflicted. Spiritually derailed. My very core is compromised."
She tilted her head, amused in spite of herself. "Alright then. I'll bite. What's the curse?"
He stopped pacing. Looked up at the ceiling like it might offer divine clarity. Then turned back, hand pressed to his chest. "I'm in possession of... feelings."
Hermione blinked.
"Actual. Ridiculous. Horrible. Heart-mangling feelings," Theo whispered, like he was admitting to murder. "The kind that make you want to write letters you never send and listen to French music alone in the bath. The kind that make your voice catch when you say someone's name. I cried at a coffee commercial yesterday."
"You always cry at those," she said.
"Not because the coffee was good, Granger. Because the woman gave her gran a jumper. And she hugged her. And it reminded me of... Oh, who am I kidding. I'm finished."
He fell face-first onto the chaise with a groan, arms stretched wide like he was offering himself to the heavens.
Hermione smiled into her tea. "Alright. Spill it. Who is it this time? Please tell me it's not that divination tutor you embarrassed yourself over last spring."
He didn't answer at first. She looked over and saw that his face had gone strangely still.
"It's not her," he said finally, voice low and careful. He turned the pillow over in his hands like it was a secret he hadn't decided whether or not to tell. "It's Luna."
Hermione set down her mug.
Theo nodded solemnly, still clinging to the pillow like it might save him from complete emotional collapse. "Yes. Luna. Her. The vision of starlight and soft insanity. She wore radish earrings to the Ministry gala, Granger. Actual radishes. Dangling. And I swear to every deity in existence, I have never wanted to propose to someone faster in my entire life."
Hermione just looked at him for a long second. Her face twitched, torn between laughter and exhaustion. "You've officially lost it."
He clutched the pillow tighter. "She is my sanity. She's the only thing keeping me from spiralling into the abyss. She glides, Hermione. I watched her cross the courtyard last Tuesday and I swear to you, her feet didn't touch the ground. She moves like moonlight has taken human form. I saw her feed a cherry tart to a bowtruckle and I haven't recovered."
Hermione rubbed her temples. "So, you're in love with Luna."
"Yes. Irrevocably. Hopelessly. Inconveniently." He whirled toward her, eyes frantic with awe and panic. "And I am completely unequipped to handle it. I was not built for this. My entire personality is allergic to sincerity. She smiled at me in the greenhouse and I dropped my wand. In front of Professor Sprout. It clattered. There was an echo."
Hermione let out a laugh she had been holding back, one hand pressed to her mouth to soften it, but it slipped out anyway, light and amused. "Oh, Theo."
He sank to the floor beside her chair and laid his head dramatically on her knee, the picture of suffering. "What do I do? I can't tell her. What if she stares at me with those dreamy eyes and says something painfully polite like, 'You're rather interesting in an unintentionally floral sort of way,' and then walks off into the Forbidden Forest to marry a tree?"
Hermione ran her fingers through his hair like she was calming a hysterical cat. "Then you follow her into the forest and marry her there. Mushrooms for confetti. A bowtruckle ring bearer. I'm imagining soft lighting and perhaps a harp."
He sat up, wide-eyed. "Don't do that. Do not paint me fantasies with your wicked tongue. That sounds perfect. And that's the problem."
He stood again, back arched, hands raised toward the ceiling in anguish. "It's too perfect. I want it too much. She's going to realise I'm just a man who cries during storm scenes and keeps broken things because he gets emotionally attached to objects with tragic backstories."
Hermione folded her hands in her lap and tilted her head. "You're literally assigned to marry her. You won the Marriage Law lottery. She's already yours."
He turned slowly to face her like she'd suggested something sacrilegious. "You think this is good timing? You think it's ideal to realise I'm in love just before being magically chained to the object of my yearning? This is the worst possible moment. I've been cultivating an air of mystery and selective detachment for years. And now I'm in love with someone who collects bottle caps and talks to ghosts."
Hermione sipped her tea. "Would you rather be stuck with someone you hate? Most people don't get lucky in this situation. You're the rare exception."
"That's what terrifies me," he cried, spinning in a circle like he needed to burn off the panic. "What if I mess it up? What if I try to flirt and she tells me I have the energy of a confused garden gnome?"
Hermione leaned forward with a glint of mischief. "Then you roll with it. Maybe gnome energy is her type."
He clutched the nearby lamp like it had answers. "She sparkled the other night. Actually sparkled. There was a halo. I saw it."
Hermione sighed, fond but exasperated. "That was glitter. Enchanted shimmer gel. Pansy gave it to her."
"Well then Pansy has stumbled upon the elixir of the gods. That glitter changed my molecular structure. I am not the same man I was before I saw it."
Hermione got up and walked over to him. He was kneeling on the floor now, holding the lamp like it might absorb his emotional turmoil through osmosis.
She placed a hand on his shoulder and spoke softly. "She won't think you're unremarkable. Luna sees things others don't. She sees people as they are, not just the parts they show. You see her too. You don't treat her like a curiosity. You see her whole."
He looked up at her, eyes wide and vulnerable. "But what if I say something weird and she drifts away on a breeze? What if she hears me and doesn't feel anything at all?"
"Then she'll let you down gently. Or she'll say yes and you'll spend the rest of your life in a cottage full of enchanted spoons and nocturnal animals." Hermione smiled. "Either way, you'll survive."
He stood slowly, hands on his hips, breathing like a man who had just climbed an emotional mountain. "If I survive this, I want you to plan the wedding. I'll be too busy having panic attacks in the fabric swatches."
"I look forward to it," she said, already imagining the chaos.
He nodded once, solemn as ever. "Pray for me. I'm about to ask Luna Lovegood to have tea with me. And she once stared into a thestral's eyes and said, 'You have very calming energy.' I'm absolutely doomed."
· ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·
Draco returned to the manor late that evening, frost clinging to his coat collar and the cold still sharp on his skin. His mind was somewhere between unfinished work notes and the distinct memory of Blaise's smug grin, which had somehow lasted the entire meeting. He expected the usual—silence thick as velvet, shadows stretching across the walls like familiar ghosts, that ancient hush that never quite left Malfoy Manor no matter how many fires were lit.
Instead, the second he stepped inside, he stopped short. Somewhere deep in the house, something was thudding. Not subtle, not distant. Loud. Rhythmic. Aggressive. It took him a moment to place it. Beyoncé.
No, not just Beyoncé. Beyoncé at full volume. Diva. Echoing off the marble and the old portraits and the hand-carved wainscoting like the manor had spontaneously decided to host a club night.
He froze where he stood, one gloved hand still resting on the doorframe. The lyrics hit him square in the chest.
"Take it to another level. No passengers on my plane."
And then came the real chaos—two unmistakably human voices, shouting along. Not singing. Just absolutely going for it. One male, already straining. The other, unmistakably Hermione Granger, screeching with abandon.
Draco closed his eyes for a moment and took a long breath. Then, with the reluctant air of a man walking into a magical disaster site, he followed the bass thumping through the manor, past one of the parlours and the smoking room and down the corridor where the real madness lived.
The living room was a scene out of a fever dream. Wine glasses everywhere. Someone's sock on the chandelier. A glittering feather boa draped over the candelabra. And in the middle of it all, Hermione and Theo, arms around each other's shoulders like drunk war veterans, singing as if the fate of the wizarding world depended on it.
Hermione's hair was in complete rebellion, wild and frizzed from sweat and dancing. Theo was barefoot and shirt half-untucked, swinging his glass in the air like he was trying to toast the ceiling. The two of them stumbled and swayed, knocking into the furniture like very enthusiastic poltergeists.
Draco leaned against the doorway, arms folded. "What in Merlin's name is going on?"
Both of them turned, wide-eyed and blinking, as if they hadn't considered the possibility of being caught mid-performance. Theo beamed. His eyes were glossy and his shirt looked like it had lost a duel. "Draco! You made it! Just in time. We're having a Beyoncé appreciation night. It's cultural."
Hermione staggered forward, clutching her wine glass in one hand like it was sacred. "He's not wrong," she said, loud over the music. "We're taking it to another level." She pointed a finger in the air. "No passengers on our plane!" And then she dissolved into giggles and spun herself directly into the couch.
Draco glanced down at the floor, nudged a sock aside with the toe of his shoe, and looked back up. "And here I thought you were going to be reading something educational tonight. Maybe plotting someone's downfall. You know, something age-appropriate."
Theo groaned and collapsed backward into the cushions. "You don't understand. I'm suffering. I'm in love."
Draco raised an eyebrow. "Still with Lovegood I assume?"
Theo pressed a hand to his chest. "She sparkles. She literally sparkled the other night. There was glitter, Draco. She shimmered. It was like looking at a dream wrapped in moonlight and peppermint. I think I saw a halo."
Hermione returned to the couch, flopping beside him with far too much energy for someone who had clearly emptied several bottles of wine. "He's convinced she'll reject him and go live in a tree," she said, clearly unconvinced.
"I'm serious," Theo cried, sitting up straight. "I would live in that tree with her. I would become bark. I would photosynthesise if it meant she'd love me."
Draco tried very hard not to laugh. "I'm sure she'd appreciate the dedication."
Theo leapt to his feet, one hand over his heart. "She haunts me. Like an unbottled patronus. I can smell her tea from across the greenhouse. I saw her last week petting a fwooper and whispering to it in gobbledegook. I almost cried."
Hermione patted his arm, eyes twinkling. "And I told him to just ask her out. You know, like a normal person."
Theo pointed at Hermione like she had personally betrayed him. "You don't understand, Granger. This isn't casual. This is epic. This is mythic. I'm on the edge of a great love story, and if I open my mouth, I might ruin it."
"Or," Draco said, "she might say yes. And then you could stop drinking all of my wine."
"Coward," Theo whispered, narrowing his eyes. "You don't know fear until you've imagined Luna Lovegood looking at you with soft pity. I couldn't take it."
Before anyone could offer another retort, Theo flung his arms wide and turned toward the fireplace. "But enough. I must go. My heart is too tender. My wine too empty. My socks—missing." He stumbled, caught the edge of the couch, then tried to recover with a twirl that only made Hermione snort wine out of her nose.
"Bravo," she said, clapping lightly. "That's theatre."
Theo tossed an invisible scarf over his shoulder. "I bid you both farewell. May your lives be less cursed than mine."
And with one final, overly dramatic whirl, he stepped into the fireplace, tossed a pinch of powder, and vanished in green flame.
The silence that followed was heavy, thick with leftover laughter and the faint echo of Beyoncé in the background. Draco exhaled slowly and ran a hand through his hair.
Hermione was still curled into the corner of the couch, cheeks flushed and laughter clinging to her like static. Her hair had started to fall loose around her face, wild and soft, and her eyes were warm with that unfocused, wine-blurred sparkle that made everything seem like it was glowing from the inside. She looked too comfortable. Too beautiful. Too much for Draco's nerves, which were already worn thin from the day.
When her gaze met his, she grinned, slow and lazy, like she had all the time in the world and nothing to prove.
He crossed the room at an unhurried pace, the rug muffling his footsteps, his eyes fixed on her as if she were something rare he couldn't quite believe belonged in his house. "Hello, my drunken little princess," he said, voice low and indulgent, drawn out in that familiar way that turned teasing into something intimate.
He sat beside her, easing down carefully like any sudden movement might ruin the moment. He turned slightly, enough to study her properly, and let a half-smile tug at his mouth—one of those quiet ones that held more meaning than anything clever he could say.
Hermione giggled at the sight of him and gave a sloppy little toast with her nearly empty glass. Her gaze stayed locked on his, like she'd forgotten there was anything else in the room. "Hello, Prince," she said with a sigh that sounded too dreamy for her own good, and before he had the chance to react or stop her or even think, she leaned in and kissed his cheek.
Not a quick peck. Not something careless or thoughtless. It was slow. Careful. Soft in a way that made his stomach twist up and heat settle low in his spine.
It should have been nothing. A kiss on the cheek. People did that all the time. But with her, it always meant more than it was supposed to.
His body betrayed him instantly. A slow, spreading burn lit beneath his skin, tracing from the spot her lips had touched all the way down his chest. He felt himself go still, too aware of how close she was, how warm she felt beside him, how goddamn soft she always managed to be. His breath hitched. He tried to force it steady and failed.
This wasn't just attraction. This was her. It had always been her. And no matter how many times she acted like they were just joking, just playing, something about the way she touched him always left his thoughts in pieces.
Hermione leaned back again, still smiling like nothing had shifted between them, as if she hadn't just cracked something wide open in him. Her fingers trailed down the front of his shirt, slow and absentminded, like she belonged there. Like touching him was second nature.
"Did you miss me?" she asked, voice thick with wine and something sweeter underneath, the kind of softness that turned him inside out.
He bit the inside of his cheek, eyes closing for the briefest second. It was too much. She didn't even know she was breaking him.
"Incredibly, love," he said, and there was no teasing in it. Just truth.
He dipped his head and pressed a kiss to the top of her curls, hoping the motion would steady him, hoping it would remind him of his limits.
But she only sighed and melted into his side, curling in like she was made to fit there. And her hand slid lower with slow curiosity until her fingers hovered just above the waistband of his trousers. His entire body went tight, every nerve flaring awake.
He caught her wrist gently, firm but not unkind, and guided her hand back to his chest. "Alright, princess," he said, his voice quiet and strained, the words catching somewhere between warning and apology. "You've had a bit more to drink than you think. And as much as I'd love to lose the plot right here, we're getting you to bed before I completely forget my self-control."
She pouted, lower lip jutting out like a challenge. He had to look away to keep himself from doing something stupid.
Hermione let out a sigh and flopped back into the cushions, the very picture of wounded dignity. She crossed her arms and gave him a look like he'd just cancelled Christmas. He didn't believe it for a second. That pout had calculation behind it.
She knew. But she wasn't as innocent as she looked when she touched him like that and smiled like she did. Not anymore.
Draco exhaled slowly, dragging a hand through his hair. His thoughts were a mess. She was going to ruin him if she wasn't careful. Scratch that—she already was.
Still, he stood up and grabbed the blanket from the back of the couch, shaking it out before draping it over her. She blinked up at him sleepily, her lashes heavy, her smile softer now. She shifted once, just enough to let herself settle under the weight, and let out a breath that sounded almost like contentment.
He sat back down beside her and watched her eyes flutter closed.
This was the worst idea he'd ever had. Letting her into his house. Letting her crawl into his life like it was nothing. Letting her kiss him, even by accident.
And still, as he watched her fall asleep on his couch like it was her rightful place in the world, he knew with a kind of quiet certainty that he wouldn't trade this moment for anything. If she was going to undo him, he would let her.
Because for once, being undone didn't feel like losing. It felt like finally giving in to something he'd been too afraid to want.
And Merlin, he wanted her.
· ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·
A month had passed. Just enough time for the days to start blurring into one another, for things to feel almost normal again. Hermione had begun to believe the worst was behind them. That this strange, quiet life inside Malfoy Manor had taken on a kind of rhythm she could survive. The war had grown distant in her mind, not forgotten, but far enough away to stop waking her in the middle of the night.
Then, on a morning that should have meant nothing at all, her worst nightmare arrived. Not with an explosion. Not with smoke or screams or shaking ground. No panic, no blood, no warning. Just the soft whisper of owl wings passing overhead, the faint knock of something light dropping through the letter slot, and the tiny, innocent sound of parchment sliding across marble. A sound that would echo in her memory long after this moment passed.
She crossed the hallway slowly, her bare feet brushing against the cold floor as she stooped to retrieve the envelope. White. Crisp. Sealed with deep red wax, stamped with the Ministry's crest. Polished. Formal. Harmless at a glance.
But the second her fingers touched it, something inside her flinched.
A chill raced up her spine before she'd even broken the seal. It wasn't fear, not exactly. It was older than that. Older and deeper and woven straight into her bones. The kind of instinct you didn't question, the kind that told you when the world was about to shift beneath your feet again.
She opened the letter with a numb kind of calm. The words inside took shape slowly, then all at once.
Ministry of Magic Decree: Marriage and Procreation Requirements
Dear Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy,
We are writing to inform you that, in accordance with the newly established Decree for the Preservation of Wizarding Kind, all married couples are now legally required to produce at least one child within three years of their union. This measure has been enacted to ensure the survival and continued prosperity of the wizarding population.
Failure to comply with the decree will result in severe penalties, which may include substantial fines, enforced community service, or, in extreme cases, imprisonment. We understand that this mandate may cause concern, but it is crucial that you and your spouse fulfill this obligation to avoid further action.
Should you require assistance or guidance on matters of family planning, fertility, or any related concerns, please contact the Department of Magical Family Services at your earliest convenience. Our experienced and compassionate staff are available to provide support and address any questions you may have.
We trust you will handle this matter with the seriousness it deserves and fulfill the Ministry's expectations.
Sincerely,
Kingsley Shacklebolt
Ministry of Magic
Whitehall, London
She stood frozen, staring down at the page like it was something alive, something watching her.
Her hands began to shake.
The letter itself seemed weightless, but it trembled between her fingers like it carried the full weight of history, of every choice ever taken from her, every decision made by others and passed to her like orders in neat envelopes.
The ink blurred. The Ministry's flawless script swam before her eyes, elegant curls and formal wording suddenly meaningless. Her breath caught in her throat. Her vision blurred further. And then, the first tear slipped loose.
One drop on the parchment. Then another. She didn't even try to stop them. They came hot and fast, streaking down her face as the letter slipped lower in her hands.
She read it again, just to be sure. And again.
It didn't change.
A child. That was what they wanted. No, not wanted. Demanded. Within three years. Not a suggestion. Not a conversation. Not a dream shared between two people who wanted it together. A deadline. An order.
Or else.
This was about control. About obedience. About turning her body into a number on someone's report, a line in a ledger, a symbol of recovery for a society that hadn't stopped bleeding.
No choice. No privacy. No room for a second opinion. No time to wonder what it meant to bring a life into a world like this.
The letter slid from her hands, but she didn't even notice it go. Her fingers were clenched too tightly, knuckles pale, nails digging into the torn edges of parchment like they could claw some kind of sense out of it. The once-perfect paper crumpled in her lap, crushed under the pressure of fists that didn't know what else to hold on to. And then it happened.
The first sob tore out of her throat before she could stop it. Raw. Guttural. The kind of sound that felt like it left wounds behind. Her body folded in on itself, arms wrapping around her stomach, not out of instinct or comfort but out of sheer desperation, as if she could hold herself together by force alone.
The room around her didn't seem so large anymore. The walls of the manor, usually so distant and stately, felt like they were pressing in from all sides, cold and watchful. Even the sunlight felt wrong. It streamed in through the tall windows too brightly, too harshly, like it had no business being here, shining down on something this ugly and private. Like it wanted to expose everything inside her she didn't have the strength to hide.
This wasn't the life she was promised. This wasn't what they fought for. It was supposed to be over. The fighting. The fear. The choices made for her. They had clawed their way through hell to reach this after, this version of peace, and now she was trapped again, only this time it wasn't a war or a wand held to her throat. It was a piece of parchment. A letter. A line of cold instructions written by men who had never once sat in the mud beside her, who had never known what it meant to lose everything and still keep going.
She wanted to scream. Throw something. Vanish. But there was no escape. No room untouched by the law. No distance far enough to outrun the kind of decree that followed you into your own home, into your own skin.
Her sobs grew louder. At first they had been silent, almost restrained, like she was trying to keep them in. But that didn't last. They spilled out of her in waves, shaking her from the inside. Her body couldn't contain them anymore. The sound of her grief filled the room, echoing down the stone corridors like it had nowhere else to go, as if the walls themselves were meant to hear it. She wasn't just crying. She was unraveling. Collapsing into something raw and broken and utterly spent.
The letter had said so little, but it had taken so much.
Its words were tidy. Its message, clinical. Just a rule. Just a requirement. A deadline with consequences. But every sentence cut like a blade. A demand for a child. A body turned into a contract. A future handed down without consent. No conversation. No care. Just an expectation. As if she and Draco were breeding stock. As if she were a number to be tallied. As if her body had become public property the moment she said her vows.
And now the weight of it settled on her chest, thick and suffocating. She couldn't breathe properly. Couldn't think. Her body curled tighter, as if trying to protect itself from something invisible but very real. Her arms clutched her middle. Her spine curled like she was bracing for impact. But the blow had already landed.
This was what powerlessness felt like.
Total. Unforgiving. Inescapable.
The realization settled like cold iron across her back. Her whole body began to shudder. Not from cold, but from something deeper. Something helpless. The kind of trembling that happens when there's nothing left to do but break.
Her sobs weren't delicate. They weren't cinematic or dignified. They were ugly. Loud. Ragged. They scraped their way out of her chest without permission, echoing like thunder in the silence. There was no logic left. No speech to prepare. No plan to make it better. Just this. Just pain. Raw and formless and far too much.
The letter hit the ground with a small sound, almost gentle. But there was nothing soft in the way it landed. It curled in on itself where she had gripped it, edges creased and torn like it had been in a fight. And maybe it had. Maybe she had fought it with the only weapons she had left. Her tears. Her voice. Her refusal to be quiet.
She didn't look down. She didn't reach for it again. She knew what it said. She would never forget it.
Instead, she stayed where she was, hunched forward on the cold floor, face buried in her hands. Her body shook with every breath. And every breath felt like work. Her grief wasn't just about the letter. It was about what it meant. What it confirmed. That everything she had done, every law she had helped pass, every battle she had fought, every inch of progress—they had still taken this from her. The right to decide. The right to wait. The right to say no.
She had believed in that system. She had given her blood and her name to it. And now it had come for her womb with ink and wax and polite signatures.
This wasn't sadness anymore. It was betrayal.
The very office she had once stood behind. She had believed it could be reformed. She had believed it could be different. That they could change things from the inside out.
Now they were legislating her body like it was a policy.
Demanding something sacred without a whisper of permission.
Not even asking if she was ready. If she could survive pregnancy after everything her body had endured. If she even wanted this with Draco. If she could imagine bringing a child into a world that still didn't know how to stop taking from her.
She couldn't imagine it. Not right now. Not like this.
She stayed there for a long time. Long enough that the light shifted on the floor beside her. Long enough for the tears to dry on her face, leaving her eyes sore and her throat raw.
Nothing about her had changed, but everything felt different now.
And the letter just sat there, waiting. As if it hadn't just torn her apart.
And Draco… sweet Merlin, Draco.
Their marriage was still so new, still unsteady, still wrapped in the kind of uncertainty that no one wanted to speak aloud. They were trying.
Tentatively. Clumsily. With quiet gestures and awkward mornings and silences that sometimes felt safe and sometimes felt like walls. But this wasn't love. Not yet. Not the kind that carried lullabies on tired lips. Not the kind that held tiny socks in trembling hands. Not the kind that knew how to wrap a newborn in warmth and call it joy.
She didn't even know what they were. Some days she felt almost close to him. Other days, she couldn't tell if the space between them was shrinking or growing wider. And now, the Ministry had the gall to demand something so permanent. So intimate. They wanted her to give them a child, with a man she was still learning how to be herself around. They wanted her to make a family out of uncertainty. They wanted her to turn duty into a birthright.
It wasn't a choice. Not when it came sealed in red wax and written on letterhead. It was expectation. Obligation. A requirement dressed up in formal language. They didn't ask if she felt ready. They didn't ask if she even wanted children. They certainly didn't care if she wanted them with Draco.
So she wept.
She wept because there was nothing else to do. No spell for this. No clever plan. No speech that could fix what had just been taken from her. Her arms folded around herself as her body shook, tears pouring hot down her face without pause. They soaked into the fabric of her robes. They blurred the room around her. They hollowed her chest out with every gasp.
The floor beneath her felt too solid. The ceiling too far away. The whole world tipped sideways and left her clinging to the edges. Her throat ached from the sounds she couldn't hold in. Her lungs burned with every breath that failed to settle.
She wept because the fight had been stolen from her.
She had survived a war. Stood trial. Rebuilt a broken world with her own bloody hands. She had clawed her way back from grief and guilt and fear. And still, somehow, this was how they saw her. Not as a leader. Not as a witch. Not as a woman who had earned her rest. Just a vessel. Something to be filled. Something to be counted on for one more thing.
And now there was a deadline.
A timeline written by someone who had never met her, who didn't know what she had lost or what she was still learning to live with. Someone who didn't care if she was terrified. Someone who saw her name on a list and thought of statistics, not scars.
It was unbearable. And yet, she bore it. Right there on the floor, with her hands curled into the fabric at her waist, with her knees drawn up tight, with her whole body bowed under the weight of something she never agreed to carry.
· ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·
Draco came home slower than usual. His steps dragged across the marble floor, heavy and hesitant, like his legs were carrying someone else's weight.
The letter was still in his hand, crushed a little now from the way his fingers kept tensing, relaxing, clenching again. He hadn't let it go since the Ministry aide had slipped it to him with a quiet nod and a too-casual "Urgent. Private." That was always how they did it. No one raised their voice anymore. No one shouted orders or threats. They just handed over paper, dressed it up with wax and ribbon, and let the damage bloom in silence.
The seal was already broken. The words inside had sunk deep, deeper than he wanted to admit. He hadn't read it more than once. He didn't need to. Every line had carved itself into his skull. Every sentence still echoed.
He stepped into the entrance hall and stopped there, surrounded by high ceilings and cold stone and too much space. His eyes didn't focus on anything. They just hovered, flicking from wall to chandelier to floor like he was looking for some clue that would explain how everything had gone so wrong so quickly. He felt like he was drowning in a house that had never felt like home.
It wasn't a letter. It was a sentence.
A command written in ink and sanctioned by the people who were supposed to have changed. The war was meant to have meant something. There had been speeches. Reforms. Promises. He had believed them. At least a little. But here it was, another rule dressed up as a favour to the future. Another decision made without asking.
They wanted a baby.
Not planned. Required. Within three years. No room for hesitation. No time for love. Just deadlines. Just rules. Just the sharp reminder that his life didn't belong to him yet. Maybe it never would.
His stomach turned. He took another step forward, then stopped again, hand curling tighter around the parchment. His mind kept spinning, fast and ugly. A baby. A child with Hermione. A child they hadn't even talked about. A child with a woman he had barely touched.
They hadn't even kissed properly.
That thought hit hard and fast, a bitter punch to the chest.
They had moved around each other like polite ghosts, awkward in the kitchen, careful in the halls. She had smiled at him once, properly, and it had lit something in him that he still didn't have the courage to name. But that was it. That was all they had. And now he was meant to put a child inside her. Like it was that simple. Like it was just… expected.
He felt sick. Actually sick.
His jaw clenched. His hands were shaking. The air in the manor felt too thin to breathe.
He was still a virgin.
The truth came up from somewhere dark and old and full of shame. It burned its way through his thoughts and lodged itself in the middle of all the other chaos. He had never said it aloud. Not even to himself, not really.
But it had always been there. Waiting. Mocking. He had been too afraid. Too cold. Too careful. He had made excuses. Focused on politics. Avoided intimacy like it was a trap.
And now it was here anyway. All of it. The fear. The exposure. The demand. And worst of all, Hermione.
Not that she was the problem. She wasn't. Not even close. She was brilliant. Sharp. Stronger than anyone he'd ever known. And he respected her more than he had ever respected anyone. But that was the problem, wasn't it? She mattered. What she thought mattered. What she felt mattered. And he didn't know if she would laugh. Or pity him. Or just look at him with that kind of disappointment he'd spent years trying to forget.
He walked faster.
The echo of his boots hit the floor harder with every step as he moved through the manor. Down one corridor. Then another. The letter was still in his hand. Crumpled. Useless. He wasn't even reading it anymore. Just feeling it there, a solid reminder of everything he couldn't fix.
He had to talk to her.
Even if it was the worst idea he'd ever had. Even if she looked at him and didn't say anything at all. He needed to see her. Needed to know if she had read it too. Needed to know if she had broken like he had. Because if she hadn't, if she had read that letter and just calmly folded it and gone on with her day, then he wasn't sure he could bear that.
He was already unraveling. If she was fine, if she had already accepted it, then he didn't know what that made him.
He stopped in front of her door.
His hand hovered for a moment. Just hovered there, suspended between impulse and dread.
She scared him.
Not in the way his father had. Not in the way war had. This was something different. This was the fear of being seen. Of standing in front of someone who could strip every mask off with a single glance. She always saw through him. Always had. And right now, he didn't want to be seen. Not like this.
But if she had cried, if she was still crying…
He knocked.
Once.
Then again.
Then he waited.
Heart pounding.
Hands shaking.
There she was. His wife. Brilliant, impossible, too much for this world in the best and worst ways. She sat at the edge of her bed like something enormous had settled on her shoulders and refused to lift.
Her hands were clenched tight in her lap, her back curled in on itself like even the act of sitting upright had become too much. The letter lay beside her, crumpled, discarded but not forgotten, still radiating the same quiet poison it had carried through the post.
Her face was pale in a way that made his chest tighten. Not sick pale, but hollow. Worn out. Like all the colour had been drained away one tear at a time. Her eyes, usually so sharp and full of that stubborn intelligence he both admired and feared, were red and swollen. Her lashes stuck together from crying, and her cheeks were blotched, streaked, miserable. She looked broken in a way he didn't know how to fix. And it destroyed him.
Three steps carried him across the room before he even realised he was kneeling in front of her. It was instinct, not logic.
His knees hit the floor with a quiet thud, and he reached for her like something in him had snapped. He didn't say anything at first. Couldn't. He just stared at her face, his own panic rising with every second that passed. She looked like she was barely holding on.
His hand hovered near her cheek. He didn't touch her yet. Just looked. And his heart beat harder, faster, loud in his chest like it wanted to claw its way out.
"I'm so sorry," he whispered. The words felt thick in his throat, rough and raw. He wasn't even sure what he was apologising for anymore. The letter. The Ministry. His failure to be what she needed. His silence. All of it. None of it.
She nodded slightly, like the apology hadn't surprised her. Like she'd been waiting for it.
"So am I," she said, barely audible.
Her voice wasn't hers. Not the one he was used to hearing, the one that barked orders in the library or corrected him with sharp-eyed certainty. This voice was paper-thin, delicate, the kind that made you want to turn the world off for a while just so she could breathe in peace.
His eyebrows pulled together as he finally brushed his fingers against her cheek, gentle, careful. "Why are you sorry?" he asked, genuinely lost. "This isn't your fault."
She shook her head. Looked down. Wouldn't meet his eyes. And then, like it hurt to say, she whispered, "Because they picked me. Because you ended up married to someone who isn't pureblood."
That sentence hit like a curse.
Her voice broke at the end, and fresh tears spilled down her face, helpless and quiet, sliding over skin that had already been soaked with them. She didn't even wipe them away. Just sat there, shaking slightly, like her body had run out of ways to resist.
Draco went still.
It took a second before he could breathe again. His jaw clenched. His heart twisted into something ugly and furious and helpless. Not at her. Never at her. At the world. At the Ministry. At every single person who had made her feel like this.
"No," he said, firm but soft. He moved closer, kept his hand on her cheek. "Don't say that. Don't ever say that. You're not… you're not some consolation prize. You are the best part of this disaster, Hermione. The only part that makes any sense."
Her eyes were glassy, unfocused. He wasn't sure she could even hear him properly. So he kept talking. Quietly. Gently. Honestly.
"I don't care what blood you have. I don't care what anyone says about who belongs with who. You're the one I want. You're everything."
His voice cracked at the end, and he hated that it did. But it was true.
She didn't answer. Just crumpled a little more. And when her body began to fold in on itself, her sobs rising again, he didn't stop to think. He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her into his lap.
It was slow. Careful. He wasn't sure she'd let him. But she did. She melted into him like she didn't know how else to keep standing. Her arms came around his neck, loose and trembling, and her face buried itself against his shoulder with a sound so soft, it barely counted as speech.
He held her. One hand at the small of her back, the other at the back of her head. His fingers threaded gently through her curls. He rocked her slightly, trying to keep them both steady.
"It's alright," he murmured, barely louder than a breath. "You're safe. I've got you. You're alright now."
She clung to him. Knees tucked up around his sides, arms tightening every time her breath hitched. And he didn't let go. Not even when his legs went numb or his back started to ache.
He kissed her temple. Her cheek. Every tear he could catch before it fell. His lips moved over her skin like he was trying to learn her sorrow by heart.
"You're the best thing that's ever happened to me," he whispered. "You give me hope, love. You're the only reason I'm still trying. I don't care what the Ministry wants. I don't care what anyone expects. You are mine. And you're perfect."
She lifted her head slowly. Her eyes found his. Wet. Confused. Full of something too complicated to name.
"Malfoy," she whispered, the word barely there. "I never wanted this. I never wanted to be someone's obligation. A name on a list. A body in a law."
Her lip trembled. His heart broke again.
"I know," he said. His thumb traced the line of her cheek. "I know. You wanted choice. So did I. And you deserved it. But we'll find a way through this. Together. We'll fight it. I'll fight it with you."
She stared at him like she didn't know whether to believe him.
"We'll make them see us," he added. "Not just statistics. Not just names. Us."
She blinked. A single tear fell again. He caught it with his mouth before it reached her jaw.
"You're not a rule," he whispered, resting his forehead against hers. "You're not a law or a punishment or some number in a file. You're not a mistake. You're the only thing that makes any of this bearable."
He didn't say the next part out loud. Not yet. But it was there, sitting behind every word he'd spoken. The truth of it. The weight of it.
He was falling in love with her.
And he had no idea if that would ever be enough.
So he just held her. Kissed her forehead. Let her sob into his shirt. And stayed there, on the bedroom floor, with his arms wrapped around the only person who made him want to survive this mess.
Then, in the kind of moment that made the rest of the world seem suspended, like time had been cracked open and scattered in slow, glittering fragments, she turned her face toward him. Her eyes were still wet, her lips slightly parted, and her expression was unreadable at first—until she moved.
It wasn't timid. There was nothing shy or cautious in the way she surged forward, closing the space between them without hesitation. Her lips met his with a kind of desperate certainty that knocked the breath right out of him.
He hadn't expected this. Not from her. Not like this. But she kissed him like she had nothing left to lose, like all the pain and all the longing she'd been holding inside had found a single way out.
It wasn't soft. It wasn't polite. It was wild, bruising, full of need. A clash of grief and survival and something that might have once been hope. Her hands tangled in his shirt. His own hands found her waist and held on tight, fingers curling hard enough to ache, as if anchoring her could stop everything else from slipping away.
Her mouth was warm, tasting faintly of salt and something sweeter beneath it, and when she breathed against his cheek between kisses, he felt it like a jolt straight through his ribs. His mind had gone quiet. There was no space for thought now. Just instinct and her. Just this.
The world dropped away.
There was no Manor. No Ministry. No parchment decrees or forced futures. Just her body in his hands and the sound of her breath and the tremble in her shoulders as their mouths moved together like a storm they had both tried and failed to outrun.
He kissed her deeper, slower now, his lips reverent, his touch easing from wild to tender. Every pass of his mouth over hers was a silent vow, something wordless and raw. He mapped the shape of her sighs. He swallowed every sound she gave him, holding each one like it was holy.
And when they finally pulled apart, breathless and quiet, they didn't speak at first. Their foreheads were still nearly touching. Their noses brushed. Her chest rose and fell like she'd just survived something.
He looked at her then.
Her lips were swollen. Her eyes were glassy, but steadier than before. There was no apology in her expression. No regret. Only something gentle blooming behind her lashes. Something deeper than either of them could explain.
"Draco," she whispered, his name a fragile thing on her lips.
He lifted his hand, touched her mouth with two fingers before she could say more.
"Not now," he said softly. "Not when you're still carrying everything like it's all yours to hold. Let it go, just for a bit. Let me handle something for once."
She blinked slowly. Her throat moved in a swallow. But she didn't pull away.
"You mean everything to me," he said, quieter now. "Every single thing. Whether you hear me or not. That truth won't change."
He could see it in her eyes—she hadn't truly registered the words. Not yet. She was still too far under. Still swimming through the noise and the pressure and the weight of everything that had come before. And that hurt, more than he was ready to admit.
But he didn't let it show. Instead, he stood, slow and steady, his hand brushing hers as he moved. He offered it to her without words, waiting.
She looked up at him from the edge of the bed. A little stunned. A little dazed.
He slipped an arm around her waist and pulled her to her feet, steadying her like she might tip. His voice was quiet but sure. "Let me run you a bath. One of the good ones. Hot. Soft. You won't have to think about anything. Just let me take care of you for a little while."
Her brow pulled tight. "I don't need—"
"You do," he said. "You don't have to say yes. I'm still going to do it."
Before she could protest again, he gathered her into his arms. She didn't resist. Her cheek found his collarbone like it belonged there. Her arms stayed limp, resting across his chest. And as he carried her through the corridor, her eyes slipped shut.
He felt her breath against his neck. When she stirred again, there was something different in the way she looked at him. It wasn't peace, not yet. But it was softer than before. Less guarded. A kind of tired trust settling in behind the grief.
In the bathroom, he placed her gently on her feet, his hands steady against her waist. He raised his wand and wordlessly sent her clothes away, careful to keep his eyes on her face, not her body.
Steam began to rise from the filling tub, the surface swirled with hints of lavender, chamomile, and something else she once mentioned loving on a summer holiday. He added rose petals with a flick of his wrist. They floated on top like scattered promises.
"Go on," he said gently. "It's for you."
She hesitated. Her arms folded over her stomach, fingers tight on her forearms. Her feet didn't move.
But something in the water pulled her forward.
She stepped in slowly, toes curling against the warmth. Then her legs followed. And finally, with a long, shaking breath, she let herself sink into it.
Her head tipped back against the edge. Her eyes closed. Her arms floated lightly beside her.
And for the first time since that cursed letter had arrived, her body went still. Not from fear. Not from shock. From calm.
Draco sat down on the cool floor beside the tub, resting his elbows on his knees, gaze fixed on her face.
"How does it feel?" he asked.
There was a pause before she answered. Then, a small voice—no longer tight with tears.
"Nice. It feels nice. Thank you."
He nodded, his chest easing just a little. "You don't need to thank me. This should have been the bare minimum from the beginning."
She didn't argue. Just closed her eyes again, like the fight had finally dulled enough for her to stop needing to swing.
"I mean it," he added, quieter now. "You don't go through any of this alone. Not anymore."
She opened her eyes again. Met his.
"I'm scared," she said.
"I know," he replied. "Me too. But I'm here. I'll hold you through all of it. Let me carry some of it, alright?"
She didn't speak. But she didn't let go of his hand when he reached for it under the water.
And in that quiet, somewhere between the steam and the softness and the slow, steady breathing, something changed.
· ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·
But even the gentlest miracles don't last forever. Sooner or later, the world comes knocking. And for Hermione, that knock came two days later.
Two small days. That was all she got.
Two days where the quiet felt borrowed, where peace didn't quite belong to her but pretended to. Just long enough for her to believe the lie, or maybe not a lie, but something close. She let herself think that this marriage, this house, this man—this walking question mark of a man—might become something less like a sentence and more like a choice. Maybe even something good.
Draco had been kind. Not constantly, not perfectly. But kind in the moments that mattered. He had watched her when he thought she wouldn't notice. He had listened to her with a patience she hadn't expected. His touch had been cautious, deliberate, never demanding. Just enough to trick the fear inside her into falling asleep.
But nothing stays asleep forever.
Reality always comes back. And when it did, it brought everything she had worked so hard to push down—the shame, the self-loathing, the sharp sting of regret.
The kiss.
God, that bloody kiss.
It hadn't been a slip. It hadn't been a moment of curiosity or something she could laugh off later. It had been desperate. Hungry. A kiss that reached straight through her ribs and tore something loose. Something she hadn't even known was buried until it came clawing to the surface, gasping for air.
And now, she couldn't stop asking herself why.
Why did she let it happen? Why him? Why now? Why had it felt so terrifyingly good?
She had thrown herself at him. At Malfoy. At the boy she'd hated, at the man she'd married without ever really knowing. She had reached for him with a kind of hunger that made her skin crawl when she thought about it too long. And the worst part—the part that made her stomach turn—was that she hadn't hated it.
She had wanted it.
Every damn second of it.
The warmth of his hands. The sound he made when she kissed him harder. The way his body curved into hers like he'd been waiting for it too. It hadn't just been a kiss. It had been a confession with no words. A surrender wrapped in fire. And now it clung to her, heavy and hot and impossible to shake off.
She paced her room in circles, her bare feet brushing across the carpet in quiet frustration. She muttered to herself like she was losing her grip. "Stop thinking about it," she hissed. "Just stop."
But her brain didn't listen. It never did.
She could still feel the way his fingers tugged at her hair. She could still hear the catch in his throat when she pressed against him. She could still taste the salt of her own tears on his lips.
It wasn't the kiss that scared her.
It was what it revealed.
She didn't just want more kisses, more touches, more late-night moments tangled in silence. She wanted something deeper. She wanted the part of him that wasn't for show. The part he kept hidden. She wanted to know what lived behind his careful glances, what he meant when he looked at her like she was more than an obligation.
And that terrified her in a way nothing else had.
Because of all people, why did it have to be him?
Why Draco Malfoy?
And the worst bit? He had kissed her back. Not politely. Not with hesitation. He had kissed her like he needed it too. His hands had found her without question. His mouth had moved with hers like they were made for it. Like he'd been waiting just as long.
Something had broken open between them.
Something real.
"Ugh," she groaned, throwing herself onto the bed with all the grace of someone in a proper spiral. She dragged a pillow over her face and screamed into it, muffled and long. "This is so stupid."
Since when did Hermione Granger lose the plot over a kiss?
Since when did she catch herself staring into space, thinking about the curve of someone's mouth or the shape of their shoulders or the exact moment their voice dropped into something softer?
She needed to get a grip.
So she did what she always did when emotions got too messy. She shut it all down. She built the walls. High ones. Thick ones. The kind she thought even he couldn't break through.
And when he came into the room the next morning, quiet and cautious like he knew the mood had shifted, she was already hidden behind them.
"Morning, princess," he said, standing in the doorway like he wasn't sure he was welcome. "Did you sleep alright?"
She didn't look up.
"Fine," she said flatly.
No warmth. No inflection. No room for anything but distance.
He blinked, confused. He hadn't expected coldness. Not after that night.
She was closed off. Arms crossed. Eyes empty. The woman who had kissed him like it meant everything had vanished. In her place stood the old version of her—the one who didn't trust him, didn't want him near, didn't believe in softness.
He stepped closer, slower this time.
"What's happened?" he asked carefully. "Did I do something?"
She pulled away from him without even touching him. Her whole body recoiled. "Don't call me that."
His brow furrowed. "Call you what?"
"Princess." Her voice was sharp now. Distant. Cold. "Don't call me that. I don't want you near me."
He stood there, not knowing where to put his hands. "What's going on?"
She wouldn't meet his gaze. Her jaw clenched. "Why did you let me kiss you?"
His chest tightened. "Let you? Hermione, I kissed you back."
"Well, you shouldn't have," she snapped. "It was a mistake."
His throat tightened. "It didn't feel like one."
"It was." Her words were brittle. Sharp. She crossed her arms tighter around herself. "I wasn't thinking. I was a mess. I'd just found out the worst thing imaginable and I... I don't know what I was doing."
She paused.
Then her voice turned venomous.
"I suppose now I know what it's like to kiss a Death Eater."
The words landed like a slap across the face.
"I'm not," he said, his voice cracking. "I wasn't—"
"You were there."
Her voice rose now. Louder. Fiercer.
"That night. At the Manor. You saw what happened to me. You saw what they did. I looked up, and you were there. And you did nothing."
Draco froze.
He wanted to speak. To explain. To say something, anything.
But he couldn't. Because it was true.
He had stood there. He had heard her scream. He had watched them hurt her. And he had done absolutely nothing.
She stepped closer, her eyes wild with grief. Her voice dropped to a whisper, and it felt worse than any shout.
"The girl who believed people could change,? That girl is long dead." she said, barely audible. "She died that night. Right there. On your drawing room floor."
There was no spell strong enough to fix what she had just broken.
He tried to breathe, but the air felt thick. Her words sat heavy on his chest. His mind scrambled for something to say, but nothing came close to what she needed to hear. Nothing could change what had happened in that room. Nothing could unmake the blood or the silence.
"I..." he started, his hand lifting, trembling with everything unsaid. "Please. Just listen to me."
But she had already made her decision.
She closed the last of the distance with her whole body shaking from the effort of holding it together. Her eyes shone with something sharp and unforgiving.
And then, without a word, she spat in his face.
He stood there, frozen, not from shock at the act itself but from the force behind it. The spit clung to his cheek, slow and sticky as it slid downward, but it wasn't the sensation that made his breath stutter. It was the fury behind it. Not performative, not petty—this was something deeper.
This was hatred that had rotted in silence, hatred that had waited for years, and now it had found its moment. Her rage had a taste. And it was bitter.
His jaw tightened. His breath faltered. He felt the rivulet trace a hot line along his cheekbone and still, he didn't move.
He needed to feel it. He needed to know exactly what he meant to her.
When he finally reached up to wipe it away, his fingers trembled. He didn't do it quickly, didn't try to hide his shame. He brushed the moisture from his face slowly, like it was something sacred, something he had earned.
And then, because he didn't know what else to do, because his entire body was screaming for somewhere to put the humiliation, he let out a hollow, bitter laugh and muttered, "Well. That was... quite pleasant."
It wasn't funny. It wasn't clever. It was just instinct. The last-ditch effort of a boy who had grown into a man with no armour left.
But he barely got the words out before the next blow landed.
Her palm cracked against his face with a sound that split the air, sharp and final. His head snapped to the side, eyes clenching shut as the sting bloomed bright across his skin. He inhaled sharply, lips parting on the breath, but said nothing. He didn't raise a hand to stop her. Didn't curse. Didn't even flinch after the fact.
When he looked back at her, she was already shaking, her body coiled with fury she could no longer contain. Her chest rose and fell too fast. Her hands were curled into fists. Her eyes glistened with unshed tears that had no intention of being kind.
"That's what I think of you, Malfoy," she said, her voice brittle and cracking but still sharp enough to wound. "Not the man you pretend to be now. Not the husband you try to play when it suits you."
Her voice dropped. Not softer. Just heavier.
"Just you. The boy who watched."
Every word landed like a weight to the gut. Not thrown. Placed.
He stood there and took it.
His cheek still burned. His hands hung at his sides like they didn't belong to him anymore. His throat closed up tight, too tight to speak. He'd been hexed, broken, dragged through every kind of pain the war could offer, but nothing had ever split him open like this.
He hadn't known how much of her fury had been held in reserve, just for him. Not the others. Not even Bellatrix. Him.
It was the most brutal thing anyone had ever said to him.
And it was true.
Because no matter what he said now, no matter how many sleepless nights he had spent wondering what he could have done differently, it didn't matter. No matter how many careful glances he gave her across the breakfast table, no matter how gently he touched her wrist when she looked tired, none of it erased the image she had of him.
She would always remember that room. She would always remember what he did not do.
And he would always be the boy who stood there and watched her bleed.
Not because he wanted to.
But because he didn't stop it.
Because he had been afraid.
And now, he was nothing to her but proof that sometimes the most painful monsters are the ones who never raise a wand at all.