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Pain.
It was the first thing Hermione Granger felt, a deep, bone-crushing ache that radiated through her entire body. Her limbs were sluggish, her head throbbed with every beat of her heart, and her throat burned as though she had swallowed glass. Every breath sent fire through her ribs, a sharp, stabbing agony that made her want to curl into herself, but even the thought of movement was unbearable. The sterile scent of antiseptic filled her nostrils, mixing with the distant echo of hurried footsteps and the sharp beep of a heart monitor.
She was alive.
Barely.
The memories crashed into her all at once.
The alleyway. The suffocating darkness. The sharp, metallic scent of blood. Her blood. The rough ground scraping against her palms as she struggled. A shadow looming over her, breath hot against her ear.
And then...the knife.
Her fingers twitched. Panic surged through her, cold and violent. She had fought. She had screamed. But he was too strong. He had pinned her down, fingers curled around her throat. His grip had been tight, merciless. The world had begun to blur, her lungs burning, her vision flickering between darkness and the glint of silver, the blade he had pressed against her skin.
But she had fought.
She had reached for something, anything. Her fingers had closed around a rock.
And she had struck.
A sickening, wet thud.
She had felt it, bone giving way under her desperate blow. A gasp of pain. A body recoiling. She had hit him on the left side of his head.
The sound echoed in her skull, a dull, meaty impact she couldn’t shake.
Her breathing hitched.
A fresh wave of agony rolled over her. The pain in her throat was unbearable, raw and bruised from where his fingers had crushed her windpipe. The skin felt tight and swollen, each swallow a torture in itself. Her ribs ached as if they had been cracked, each breath forcing a whimper from her lips. The sharp sting along her forearm made her stomach churn, she remembered the knife slicing through her skin, remembered the warmth of blood trickling down her wrist.
She swallowed, wincing.
A warm, familiar weight pressed against her hand.
She flinched.
"Hermione."
The voice was soft, but there was something heavy beneath it. A storm barely restrained. She turned her head sluggishly, her gaze locking onto Ron Weasley’s freckled, pale face. His eyes were red-rimmed, stormy with something unreadable.
His grip on her hand tightened. "You’re awake," he breathed, like a prayer answered.
Her throat was too dry to respond. She could barely move. The world still felt wrong, tilted, hazy.
Ron swallowed hard, leaning closer. His voice was hoarse. "You were attacked, Hermione. But… we got him."
A chill spread through her veins.
"Who?" Her voice was barely a whisper, but she already knew the answer. The moment she asked, the moment she let the name settle on the tip of her tongue, she knew.
Ron’s fingers tightened around hers. His gaze burned into her. And then, softly almost satisfied, he said, "Draco Malfoy."
Something inside her cracked.
Her breath came faster, her chest rising and falling in rapid succession. The name dug its way into her skull, sinking in deep, inescapable.
Draco Malfoy.
The memories slammed into her, vivid and unrelenting.
She had seen his face in the darkness. She had felt his weight pressing her down. Heard his voice, low and rough, whispering something she couldn’t understand.
Draco Malfoy had tried to kill her.
Her fingers curled weakly into the bedsheets.
Ron exhaled sharply, as if steadying himself. "He was already a suspect, Hermione. The Aurors have been tracking him for months. There were patterns; Muggle-born victims, the brutality, the precision. And then--" he stopped, his expression darkening, "--he attacked you."
Her stomach twisted violently.
Ron brushed a strand of hair from her forehead. "But it’s over now. He’s in Azkaban."
Azkaban.
A part of her wanted to feel relief. She was safe. It was over.
But another part of her, the survivor in her, wasn’t satisfied.
She needed to see him.
She needed to look Draco Malfoy in the eyes and ask him why.
"I want to go to Azkaban."
Ron’s entire body stiffened. "No."
She turned her head sharply, staring at him. "I need to see him."
His jaw clenched, the muscle in his cheek twitching. "Hermione, no. There’s no point--"
"There is." Her voice wavered, but her resolve didn’t. She had spent years facing down nightmares, uncovering truths, standing her ground. And she would do it again.
Ron’s lips pressed into a thin line. "Fine," he said, voice laced with something dark.
But Hermione wasn’t paying attention anymore.
She had yet to see Draco Malfoy’s face.
Hermione’s breath hitched, and suddenly, her fingers clutched at her wrist. Something was missing. A familiar weight, a constant presence--
Her bracelet.
Her heart pounded wildly in her chest.
It was gone.
“Hermione, don’t do this.”
Ron’s voice was firm, his hand gripping her wrist as she sat on the edge of her bed, lacing her boots. His blue eyes searched hers, pleading. “Seeing him won’t change anything. He’s a monster, Hermione. He tried to kill you.”
“I need to see him,” she said, yanking her hand free.
“No, you don’t.” Ron stood, his frustration palpable. “All you’ll do is traumatize yourself more. I put him away, he's locked up, where he belongs. You don’t owe him anything--”
“This isn’t about him,” she snapped, standing up. “It’s about me. I need to face him, Ron.”
Ron exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “You almost died, ‘Mione. Please-- just let this go.”
But she couldn’t. No matter how much Ron begged, no matter how much she wanted to listen to him, something inside her refused to let this go.
So she didn’t.
The stone corridors of Azkaban were suffocating, damp and cold. Each step Hermione took echoed eerily, her stomach twisting tighter with every passing second.
Then, she saw him.
Draco Malfoy sat in the farthest cell, his back against the wall, wrists resting limply on his knees. He was thinner, his sharp features hollowed out, his once-impeccable hair now disheveled and falling into his face. But his eyes, his silver eyes were as empty as a corpse.
He looked up when she stepped forward, but he didn’t speak. Didn’t react. Just stared.
“You tried to kill me.”
Her voice was calm, but the weight of those words filled the space between them like poison.
Draco didn’t move.
Hermione’s fingers curled into fists. “You’re not even going to deny it?”
Silence.
“Say something!” she demanded, her voice cracking. “Anything!”
Nothing. Just that same vacant, dead-eyed stare.
Hermione sucked in a shaky breath, her nails digging into her palms. And then, she saw it.
A scar.
On the left side of his forehead.
Her heart pounded. She had hit her attacker. She knew she had. Hard enough to leave a mark. And there it was... proof, staring back at her, carved into his skin.
A rush of emotions slammed into her at once, satisfaction, anger, nausea. She had done that to him. Had fought back and left something permanent.
So why, then… did she feel like something was wrong?
The thought was fleeting, slipping away as fast as it had come. She shook herself, forcing the unease away.
“You don’t even care, do you?” she whispered, taking a step back. “They say you’re pleading guilty. That you’re not even fighting this.”
Draco remained silent.
Hermione turned, every nerve in her body frayed, and rushed out of the prison, desperate for fresh air. But as soon as she stepped out, she froze.
Ron was waiting for her.
He stood near the prison gates, arms crossed, his jaw clenched tight. He didn’t look surprised to see her.
He knew. He had known she would come.
Ron’s expression darkened. “What the hell were you thinking?”
Hermione opened her mouth, but before she could even form the words, Ron grabbed her arm, tight, too tight.
“I told you not to come here,” he said, his voice low and angry.
For the first time, Hermione hesitated.
For the first time… something in Ron’s eyes felt off.
The Burrow was alive with warmth and laughter. The scent of Molly’s cooking filled the air, and the chatter of the Weasley family intertwined with the occasional burst of laughter. It was the first time in weeks Hermione felt something close to normal.
She sat beside Ginny at the long dining table, a mug of tea cradled in her hands. Across from her, Ron was deep in conversation with George about some ridiculous prank product, his eyes alight with amusement. It was almost too easy to forget. Almost.
Harry nudged her gently. “It’s good to see you smiling,” he said with a small grin. “You’ve been through hell, Hermione. You need this.”
She nodded, though a tightness lingered in her chest. She appreciated the effort, she really did. But something inside her still felt restless, unsettled, like she was standing on the edge of something she couldn’t quite see.
Then--
THUD.
Something heavy hit the floor.
The sound cracked through the air, a deep, hollow noise, and suddenly Hermione wasn’t at the Burrow anymore.
She was on the cold ground, the weight of her attacker pressing down on her, his breath hot against her skin. Her hands scrambled for something, anything, until they found a rock. Heavy. Solid.
She swung.
A sickening thud echoed in the night as she struck her attacker’s head. He recoiled, his grip loosening just enough for her to shove him off. The rock had hit the right side of his head.
Her breath caught.
Draco’s scar…
It was on the left.
Her chest tightened, her vision swimming as reality slammed back into her. She was at the Burrow. Safe. But her hands trembled, her stomach twisting into knots.
Draco’s scar was in the wrong place.
She looked up, heart hammering against her ribs. Around her, the Weasleys carried on, laughing, eating, unaware. No one noticed her shaking hands, the way the color drained from her face. Not even Ron.
For the first time, Hermione felt something colder than fear curl inside her.
Something was very wrong.
"I thought I lost you forever," Ron whispered, his fingers brushing over Hermione’s wrist. "After we broke up, I was so lost."
Hermione forced a small smile, though her stomach twisted. They had been apart for three months before the attack. Three months of trying to move on, of telling herself that what they had wasn’t working. Then the attack happened, and Ron had been there. Every step of the way, he had been there, holding her hand, helping her breathe through the nightmares, keeping her safe.
It made sense, didn’t it? To fall back into familiar arms after coming so close to death?
But now…
Now something wasn’t right.
She stared at Ron as he continued talking, his voice warm, full of devotion. Too warm. Too full of devotion. She thought about Draco’s scar, the wrong placement. The wrong details.
If Draco wasn’t the killer…
Then who was?
A cold shiver ran down her spine. Ron had been the one to catch Draco, the one to tell her not to see him in Azkaban. He had been so sure it was Draco, so insistent that she stay away from the investigation. Stay away and recover. Let him handle it.
Why?
Her hands clenched into fists as her mind began racing. The memories sharpened, the way Ron had been the first to suggest Malfoy as the prime suspect, how he had kept her away from the case, how quickly he had gotten back together with her after she almost died.
Had she ever actually seen the evidence against Draco? Or had she just believed what Ron and the Aurors told her?
Something clawed at her chest, a nauseating, gnawing feeling that she couldn’t shake. She needed to know the truth.
Hermione waited until late at night, when the Burrow was quiet, before slipping from bed. She moved cautiously through the house, her heartbeat thudding in her ears as she entered Ron’s room. It was a mess, old clothes, discarded Auror reports, Quidditch magazines, but she wasn’t looking for those.
She dug through his drawers, through his work things, careful not to make a sound.
And then she found it.
Tucked away at the bottom of an old shoebox, hidden beneath layers of parchment and rubbish, was something that shouldn’t be there.
A bracelet. Simple. Delicate. Blood crusted around the edges.
Hermione’s breath hitched. She had seen this before.
Not just anywhere.
It was hers.
The bracelet she had lost during the attack.
The world tilted. Her hands trembled as she reached for it, her fingers brushing against something else. Fabric. Dark, stiff, soaked in something long dried.
Blood.
Hermione staggered back, the breath stolen from her lungs. The truth crashed down on her, suffocating, inescapable.
It wasn’t Draco.
It had never been Draco.
The real killer had been beside her all along.
Hermione plays along. She pretends she found nothing. She pretends everything is normal, but inside, she’s terrified.
She knows Ron will kill her if he realizes she’s onto him.
Every conversation, every glance, she forces herself to act as if nothing has changed. She laughs at his jokes. She lets him hold her hand. She lets him kiss her. The thought makes her sick, but she swallows it down.
She makes a plan to expose him, to gather undeniable proof before going to the Aurors. But Ron is watching her every move.
She digs deeper. Late at night, when she’s sure Ron is asleep, she sneaks into his things. She goes through his drawers, his wardrobe, his locked trunk.
And then she finds it.
A small wooden box, shoved beneath stacks of old letters. Her hands tremble as she lifts the lid.
Inside, nestled between scraps of parchment and trinkets, is her bracelet.
The one she lost the night of the attack. The silver chain is stained with something dark. Blood. Her blood. Hermione’s breath catches in her throat.
She digs further. There are other things, things that shouldn’t be there. A button from a coat she remembers seeing in one of the crime scene reports. A single earring, one she recognizes from a missing victim’s photo. A folded note, the edges stiff with dried crimson. She forces herself to unfold it. The words are smudged, but she can make them out.
She looked so pretty trying to hold her insides in.
Hermione chokes back bile. Her fingers go numb. She can’t breathe.
Ron did this. He killed them. He tried to kill her.
She forces herself to think, to move. She hides the box exactly as it was. She washes her hands, even though she can still feel the grime of his secrets on her skin. And she pretends. She pretends nothing has changed.
Tomorrow. She will give all the evidence to the Aurors and turn him in herself.
Hermione wakes to the sound of her bedroom door creaking open. A shadow looms over her. A sharp glint of metal catches the moonlight. Her blood runs cold.
She barely rolls away in time. The knife sinks into the mattress where her chest had been. She kicks out, sending Ron stumbling back, but he recovers too quickly.
“You should have left it alone,” he snarls, voice dripping with rage. His eyes are wild, unhinged, nothing like the man she once knew. He lunges again, faster this time.
Terror grips her, but she refuses to die like this.
Hermione fights back.
She grabs the lamp from her nightstand and smashes it across his face. Glass shatters, but Ron barely flinches. He tackles her to the ground, hands closing around her throat. His grip is iron. Her lungs burn. Spots dance in her vision.
Not like this. Not by his hands.
She claws at his arms, at his face, but he doesn’t relent. His lips twist into something between a sneer and a grin. His weight crushes her.
Her fingers scrape against the floor, searching, desperate, until they find something solid.
Her wand.
With the last of her strength, she presses it against his ribs and gasps out a spell.
“Expulso!”
The blast sends Ron flying. He crashes into the wardrobe with a sickening crunch, slumping to the floor in a heap. Blood drips from a gash on his forehead, but he groans, stirring. He’s not done. He won’t stop.
The door bursts open.
Harry stands there, wand raised, eyes wide with horror. “Bloody hell--”
Ron moves, faster than either of them expected. He lunges at Harry, knocking his wand from his hand and snapping it underfoot.
“You think you can take me?” Ron growls, eyes burning with madness. “You think you know me?”
Harry doesn’t hesitate. He throws the first punch. It lands hard, snapping Ron’s head back, but Ron is too far gone to feel it. He retaliates, slamming his fist into Harry’s ribs. The two crash against the dresser, toppling it over.
Hermione scrambles to her feet, dizzy from the impact against the floor. Ron turns on her, eyes dark with fury.
“I did it for you,” he snarls. “You were supposed to love me. You were supposed to choose me.”
He lunges, but Harry catches him from behind, yanking him back. They grapple, exchanging vicious blows. Harry manages to get Ron in a chokehold, but Ron breaks free with a sharp elbow to the ribs. He grabs a shard of the broken lamp and swings wildly, catching Harry’s arm. Blood spills. Harry grits his teeth, dodging the next attack and landing a brutal punch to Ron’s jaw.
Ron stumbles back, disoriented. Hermione seizes the chance. She raises her wand.
“Stupefy!”
The spell hits Ron square in the chest. He collapses, unconscious.
Harry breathes heavily, cradling his injured arm. He looks at Hermione, at the shaking wand in her grip, at Ron’s unmoving form.
“He hasn’t been himself,” Harry murmurs. “The past few months... something was off. But these last few days, I knew--” He clenches his jaw. “I should’ve seen it sooner.”
Ron is caught. The truth is out. The case is closed.
But the damage is done.
Hermione is shattered.
And Draco is still in Azkaban.
Draco Malfoy was free.
The Ministry cleared his name, issued a public statement, and compensated him for the wrongful imprisonment. But none of it mattered. Freedom didn’t erase the months he’d spent in Azkaban, locked away in the dark, surrounded by the screams of the damned. It didn’t erase the way the Dementors had stripped him bare, leaving him nothing but raw, hollow survival.
When Hermione saw him again, he was a shadow of the man she had known.
The arrogance, the sharp wit, the fire that made him Draco Malfoy, it was gone. His skin was paler than ever, stretched too thin over sharp bones. His grey eyes, once filled with scorn or reluctant amusement, were dull now, empty. When she tried to speak to him, to say something, he didn’t flinch, didn’t scowl. He just stared at her with quiet, exhausted indifference.
And that was worse than hate.
“Draco,” she said, barely above a whisper. “I--I didn’t know. I swear I didn’t know.”
He gave her a slow blink, as if the words took too long to process. Then he shook his head. Not in anger, not in disbelief. Just tired.
“I know.”
Two words. That was all. Then he turned and walked away.
And then he was gone.
Days passed. Then weeks. Then months.
Draco Malfoy disappeared. Not just from her life but from the Wizarding World entirely. No one knew where he had gone. His Gringotts vaults were emptied. His manor was sold. He left behind nothing but a memory, a ghost of a man who once existed.
Hermione searched. She didn’t even know why, what could she possibly say to him now? What could she do to fix something so irreparably broken? Still, she searched. And found nothing.
The night was cold when she returned to Azkaban’s visitor chambers, the same place where she had first confronted him. The same place she had accused him. The same place she had believed he was the monster.
The cell was empty now. Just stone walls and silence.
Hermione exhaled shakily and stepped forward, pressing her fingertips against the iron bars that no longer held him.
Her throat tightened. Her eyes burned.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
But there was no one left to hear it.