Chapter Text
The winter chill seeped into the old stones of Hogwarts, casting the castle in a dreary gray that matched Draco’s mood perfectly. He slipped his hands into his pockets, burying himself deeper into his cloak as he passed through the nearly empty corridors. Hogwarts, usually filled with the hum of conversation and laughter, felt unsettlingly quiet over the winter holidays, this year extended to a full month away. Most students had gone home, leaving behind only a few who, like Draco, had nowhere else to go—or simply couldn’t bear the thought of being anywhere else.
He walked aimlessly, letting the silence wrap around him like a thick fog. He welcomed it; isolation was what he wanted. His plan for the holiday was simple: keep his head down, keep to himself, and make it through each day in solitude. He’d spent months dodging the contemptuous glances of his classmates and the silent judgments of his professors. This winter break was supposed to be his reprieve from it all.
But his hope for a peaceful holiday had shattered when he learned that Hermione Granger would be staying, too. Wasn’t it enough he’d been sharing the Head dormitory with her every day since they returned for eighth year?
Of all people, she had to be the one he’d be stuck with.
The bitter irony of it gnawed at him. Hermione Granger was the last person he wanted to face, especially now. Every time he saw her, he was dragged back into his memories—those dark, unrelenting scenes that haunted his nightmares. He couldn’t look at her without being reminded of the things he had done, the things he’d been forced to do, and the things he’d allowed to happen.
That night at Malfoy Manor loomed over him like a specter. Her scream had pierced through the walls, cutting through the cold silence of his home like the keenest blade. He’d stood there, helpless, a coward, forced to witness her suffering and to hear every agonized breath she took under his aunt’s wand. He’d told himself he couldn’t do anything, that he had no choice. But deep down, he knew that was a lie. He hadn’t done anything—not even looked her in the eye. And the weight of his cowardice had settled over him like a shroud he couldn’t shake.
When he reached the entrance to the Head dormitory, he hesitated, closing his eyes for a moment. It was too quiet, too empty, and in that emptiness, his memories threatened to resurface. They crept in like poison, leaving him breathless and tense, pulling him back to moments he wished he could erase.
He reached for the door handle, but it swung open before he could touch it. Startled, he looked up to see Granger standing there, her hand on the door. She regarded him with a calm expression, her eyes steady and unreadable.
“Malfoy,” she greeted, her voice neutral.
For a second, he could only stare at her, his mind struggling to catch up. She’d changed since the war; there was a hardness to her, an edge that hadn’t been there before. The last time he’d seen her this closely had been under very different circumstances, and the memory of it struck him like a punch to the gut.
He forced himself to respond. “Granger.”
His voice came out cold, sharper than he intended, but it was easier that way. Any hint of warmth or softness would only make things worse. She didn’t flinch, her expression remaining calm, but he thought he saw a flicker of something in her eyes—perhaps disdain, or maybe it was just pity. The thought made his stomach churn.
“I was just heading to the library,” she said, her tone clipped, polite. “The common room is all yours.”
Draco felt a strange twist in his chest at her words. She was offering him space, acknowledging his presence with an unspoken courtesy that he knew he didn’t deserve. She should hate him, should despise every ounce of his being after everything he’d done. But instead, she treated him with the same detached civility she might show a stranger.
“Fine,” he muttered, stepping past her into the common room. He could feel her gaze linger on him for a moment, but he refused to meet her eyes. She was gone a second later, her footsteps fading down the hall.
The common room was dimly lit, a fire crackling in the grate and casting a warm glow over the dark wood and deep, plush chairs. It was cozy, welcoming even, but to Draco, it felt suffocating. He crossed to the window, staring out at the snow-covered grounds, hoping the chill of the glass against his forehead might ground him.
He was such a coward. He could feel it in every step he took, every breath, every glance he avoided. He had tried to bury his guilt, tried to shove it down and smother it with excuses and justifications, but nothing worked. The war was over, but its echoes lingered, reverberating through him like a constant hum that he couldn’t silence.
Draco pressed his head against the window harder, closing his eyes. He didn’t want to think about Hermione Granger. He didn’t want to think about anything, really.
But his mind was relentless.
The memories clawed their way to the surface, dragging him back to that cursed night at Malfoy Manor, the moment Bellatrix’s wand had found its mark. Granger’s scream—he could still hear it now, even months later, raw and anguished, filling every corner of his home, searing itself into his mind. He hadn’t done anything to stop it. He hadn’t even looked her in the eye, too afraid of what he might see.
Coward, his mind whispered, the word curling around him like smoke.
-x-
Draco’s sleep was restless, plagued by nightmares that tore through his mind with brutal intensity. Images of the war flashed before his eyes: dark corridors, flashes of green light, the cold, dead stares of those he’d left behind. And then there was Granger, her face twisted in agony, her voice echoing through the darkness, calling for help that he’d never given.
He woke with a start, gasping for breath, his heart pounding like a drum in his chest. His hands gripped the edges of his mattress, his knuckles white, as he tried to steady himself. But the darkness pressed in on him, thick and unrelenting, suffocating him with memories he couldn’t escape.
Draco sat up, running a hand through his sweat-dampened hair. He needed air, needed something to pull him from the endless depths of his own mind. He tugged on his robes and slipped out of his room, hoping the quiet of the common space might offer him some semblance of peace.
But when he entered, he froze. Granger was already there, curled up in an armchair by the fire, a blanket draped around her shoulders, her face illuminated by the warm glow of the flames. She looked up at him, her expression wary.
For a moment, they stared at each other in silence, the weight of their unspoken history hanging between them like a fog.
“Couldn’t sleep either?” she asked softly, her voice a quiet murmur in the stillness.
Draco clenched his jaw, struggling to find his voice. He wanted to tell her to leave, to give him the space he so desperately craved. But the words wouldn’t come. Instead, he gave a curt nod, moving to sit in the armchair opposite hers.
The silence stretched between them, heavy and suffocating. Draco could feel her gaze on him, but he refused to meet it, keeping his eyes fixed on the flames. He didn’t deserve her sympathy, didn’t deserve her kindness. And yet, some part of him ached for it, craved it like a balm for his wounds.
Finally, Granger broke the silence. “You seem…different this year.”
Her words caught him off guard, and he felt a flash of irritation. Of course he was different. Everything about him, his life, had changed, whether he wanted it to or not. He was no longer the arrogant, self-assured boy she’d known. He was something else now—something broken, something hollow.
“People change,” he replied shortly, his voice colder than he intended.
Hermione didn’t respond right away, and when she did, her voice was softer, almost hesitant. “I suppose we’ve all have.”
Draco’s fists tightened in his lap, the memory of her screams echoing in his mind. He wanted to tell her, to apologize, to say something that might ease the guilt that weighed on him. But he knew she wouldn’t want his apology, wouldn’t want his remorse. She had every right to despise him, to view him as nothing more than the coward he’d proven himself to be.
So he said nothing.
The silence stretched on, thick and heavy, and Draco felt the weight of it pressing down on him, suffocating him with memories he couldn’t escape. Every glance she gave him, every word she spoke, only reminded him of the things he’d done, the things he could never undo.
Finally, Hermione stood, pulling the blanket tighter around her shoulders. She looked at him, her gaze searching, as though she was trying to see beyond the mask he wore.
“Goodnight, Malfoy,” she said quietly, turning to leave.
Draco watched her go, his chest tightening as the door closed behind her. He was left alone with his thoughts, the silence pressing in around him like a dark, endless torture.