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The rusted iron gate shrieked when Hermione pushed to enter, a long, resentful cry that pierced the fog.
She lifted her wand, gripping it tight to withstand her shivering. ‘Lumos.’ Pale light spilled through the mist, painting a thin path to the house crouched beyond the dead trees. Malfoy Manor; Wiltshire’s ghost.
After her ordeal during the war, she had promised herself she would never return. Yet the Ministry letter in her pocket had been brief:
Miss Granger,
Malfoy Manor was recently re-registered in your name. A magical inspection is required before clearance.
No signature. No explanation. The only surviving Malfoy disappeared years ago. Draco. It wasn’t the first time she had thought of him. Wondered.
And here she was, on the edge of the world, with the October wind curling around her cloak and bitterness souring her tongue.
The gardens were in ruin: roses long dead, fountains cracked open, ivy strangling marble angels until their faces were moss green and crumbling. Each step crunched frost and broken stone. When she reached the front door, it swung inward, slow unlike her breath.
‘Typical,’ Hermione muttered. ‘Even abandoned, the place still wants to show off.’
‘Not abandoned,’ said a voice above her.
She froze.
Draco Malfoy stood at the top of the once grand staircase, framed by shadow. His hair caught the dim light like tarnished silver; his shirt was unbuttoned at the throat, sleeves rolled back, skin almost luminous against the dark banister.
For a moment, she thought he must be an echo, some cruel trick of the Manor.
‘Granger,’ he said in greeting, almost smiling. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I could ask you the same thing.’ Her wand shook despite her best efforts. ‘This house was thought empty, and you—absconded.’
‘I never left.’ He descended a step. ‘It doesn’t let me.’
The door slammed shut behind her, and she jumped, her heart leaping to pound in her throat.
The sound rolled through the hall like thunder. Her wandlight flickered, guttered, and went out. In the faint glow of dying sconces, Draco stilled, the rigidity of posture projecting a façade of calm.
‘Don’t panic,’ he murmured through the side of his mouth. ‘It notices.’
‘It?’
‘The house. Best not to sound frightened. It enjoys that.’
‘I’m not frightened,’ she lied, hiding her shaking hands behind her back.
Under his breath, he laughed, the old drawl softened by exhaustion. ‘Still a typical Gryffindor, I see.’
***
At a leisurely pace, they strolled through the corridors together. The portraits whispered as they passed—sibilant, overlapping voices that seemed to know her name. Not a single ‘Mudblood’ was uttered as if they had worse to worry about. Dust swirled like frigid breath. Every door led to another hallway.
‘Are we lost?’ Hermione asked.
‘It’s lost,’ Draco answered. ‘We’re merely two souls trapped inside a spiralling vortex.’
He pushed open a door, revealing the infamous drawing room she remembered from another life: green velvet drapes, serpentine silver fixtures, dark wood furnishings. The fire ignited on its own, flames green as envy. He poured two glasses of firewhiskey from a crystal decanter that looked untouched by time.
Politeness prodding, she took one. ‘Have you been living here alone all these years?’
‘Sort of. For the most part.’ He touched his glass to hers with a clink, his eyes flinty and guarded. ‘The company of an insufferable swot may not improve the ambience, but I’m thankful for it, nonetheless.’
She rolled her eyes. ‘You really haven’t changed.’
‘Some of us prefer consistency, Granger.’ A smile ghosted his lips, hauntingly beautiful. ‘You still barge into my home uninvited.’
‘I was sent.’
Draco’s brows tugged down. ‘By whom?’
Hermione hesitated before answering, ‘No one signed the letter.’
‘Then perhaps the house invited you. I knew it wasn’t finished playing with me.’ He sighed then, resigned to whomever or whatever had brought her here.
His assumption hung heavy, unsettling the brief moment they had shared, but the walls seemed to hum in quiet agreement.
***
They wandered again, seeking an exit. Time was as devious as the house, ticking to its own rhythm. The staircases changed direction; the air thickened with old perfume and candle smoke. At times, Hermione thought she heard music—a melancholic mumble, like a lullaby played under water.
A door creaked open to a smaller chamber filled with mirrors. Dozens of them, all clouded. Her reflection stared back a dozen times. Then, impossibly, one mirror cleared, showing the two of them at Hogwarts: arguing in the library, her cheeks flushed, his smirk cruel yet thrilling.
Hermione’s breath caught. ‘Is that—’
‘The house remembers everything,’ Draco said softly. ‘Especially what we left unspoken.’
Another mirror brightened: the night of the Battle, smoke and rubble, his hand yanking her away from falling debris. She hadn’t known he’d been near her.
‘It’s showing us lies,’ she hissed.
He shrugged, but his tone was thoughtful. ‘Perhaps it’s showing us truths never noticed.’
She spun toward him, ready to retort, but stopped when she saw his expression—something fragile, almost fond. ‘You saved me that night?’
‘I was saving myself,’ he dismissed with only a half shrug this time—uncharacteristically modest. ‘You just happened to be standing there.’
Masking her surprising sentimentality, she threw him a flat, dubious look. ‘Is that really how you saw it, Malfoy?’
‘What does it matter now?’ His irises glinted silver. ‘Besides, you never did like owing anyone anything.’
Tension thickened, and the air between them grew warmer. She caught herself glancing at his mouth before she flitted her gaze away. The mirrors misted over, their memories obscured by time and circumstance once again.
***
Lights dimmed, the Manor groaned, and the wooden floors shuddered underfoot.
In a hushed voice, Hermione noted, ‘It’s angry.’
‘It’s jealous,’ Draco corrected. ‘It doesn’t like competition.’
‘Competition for what?’
He smiled faintly. ‘My attention.’
Suddenly, the room exhaled—curtains fluttering without wind, and Hermione’s pulse jumped. She felt a tug at her sleeve, as though invisible fingers were imploring her to stay. Draco stepped closer, his hand resting lightly on her elbow.
‘Don’t let it touch you,’ he warned, concern edging his voice.
She swallowed her fear to reply, ‘You make it sound like it’s sentient—like it’s alive.’
‘It is.’
After steeling herself against a full-body shudder, Hermione glanced down at his hand on her arm, at the faint glow beneath his skin where her wandlight caressed it. The warmth she expected wasn’t there. He was as cool as marble left outside on a winter evening.
‘Draco—’ she began.
Before she could finish, he withdrew, the movement sharp and reflexive as though her observant curiosity was a knife forged to flay him open. ‘Let’s keep moving, shall we?’
***
They returned to the grand hall, but it was different now—the walls breathed soft sighs, and portraits watched through sorrowful eyes. Across the room, the fire burned whitewashed gold instead of green. Draco sat on the edge of the marble hearth, the light sculpting shadows beneath his jaw.
‘So, Granger,’ he said, voice low, teasing again, ‘do you still save lost causes?’
‘Only the ones that deserve it.’
He stared up at her, expression unreadable. ‘Then I won’t keep you.’ There was that melancholy again.
Hermione sat opposite him, wary but drawn. Between them, silence was a weight bearing down on their shoulders. He poured more firewhiskey, and she didn’t flinch when his icy fingers brushed hers as he handed her the glass.
The touch lingered. Despite the chill, a thrilling heat tingled up her spine and filled her face. But, unlike usual, the firewhiskey was tasteless.
‘You can leave anytime,’ he reminded her, his eyes downcast. ‘You don’t belong in a place this… cold.’
‘And you?’ she enquired, unease churning her stomach.
He hesitated, jaw clenching. ‘Not anymore.’
The confession disturbed her. ‘You make it sound like a death sentence.’
‘Perhaps it is.’
‘Then why stay?’ she pushed, the tightening knot in her chest aching.
He scoffed. ‘You think I have a choice? When have I ever, Granger?’ The slow shake of his head spoke of his long-suffered defeat.
The candles flickered; the fire flared. Shadows danced along the walls like malevolent pixies. His gaze followed them, then returned to her.
‘You shouldn’t have come,’ he whispered.
‘Because your house is haunted?’
Another shake of his head. ‘Because I am.’
***
Above the mantel, a portrait stirred. Narcissa Malfoy, painted in muted tones, opened her eyes. ‘He tried to leave, child,’ she said to Hermione, voice like soft silk unravelling. ‘But the house claimed him. It needed him.’
Heart thudding behind her ribs, Hermione rose. ‘What does she mean?’
Draco’s impassiveness broke, his expression collapsing into a rawness Hermione had never witnessed from him. ‘Mother, stop.’
But the portrait continued, ‘It keeps him trapped here with us, unable to move on. My darling son. He couldn’t bear it.’
Hermione whirled on him. ‘Draco, what is she saying?’
He didn’t answer.
Her wand trembled in her hand, and the light spilled across him—through him. For an instant she saw the wall behind his shoulder, faint and distorted.
Cold flooded her veins and tears sprang to her eyes. ‘No.’
He released a tired sigh. ‘The Manor was built with old magic. Blood and oaths. When I tried to… leave, it wasn’t happy and snatched me back before I could move on.’
The revelation nearly floored her. Her trembling legs continued to threaten that possibility.
‘You died here,’ she breathed. ‘You… killed yourself?’
He nodded once. ‘I could no longer live with the guilt. The loneliness. Unfortunately, those emotions lingered—a terrible echo of pain that bled into the Manor’s foundations. Sometimes, when it’s starved for company, it lends me a corporeal form.’
Hot tears spilled down her cheeks. ‘That’s impossible.’
‘That’s magic, sweetheart.’ His smile was wavering, but it was there in its impossibility.
She stepped closer, hand rising of its own accord. On his cheek, the lightest touch of her palm made him shiver. ‘But you feel real.’
‘For tonight.’ His voice was a hoarse whisper. ‘It gave me that much.’
‘Why me?’
‘Through my memories, it knew you—your fire,’ he said, his hand covering hers as he leant into her touch. ‘I suppose it craved some warmth again.’
***
Smoke licked the musty air when the fire crackled out. Through a high, cobwebbed window, Hermione could see the faint wisps of morning which coloured the paling night sky. The house seemed to whisper goodbye on a heaved sigh.
‘It’s ending,’ Draco said, but there was no relief in his demeanour. ‘When the sun rises, so do the wards. I’ll fade until the next time someone remembers.’
She shook her head fiercely. ‘There must be a way—’
‘There isn’t.’ His hand cupped her cheek, achingly gentle. The cold of him sunk deep into the pit of her, but also something lasting—a pulse, faint and steady, like a memory clinging to life. ‘Don’t waste your brilliance chasing ghosts, Hermione.’
Her name on his lips undid her. ‘You don’t get to tell me what to do, Draco Malfoy.’
‘Then remember me,’ he amended, his eyes sparkling as they lit upon every inch of her face. ‘As the person I wish I could have been for you. A person who could still never deserve you.’ With a look full of longing, he tucked a curl behind her ear and stepped back.
Dawn’s light brightened, slicing a line between them. His edges began to blur and fade.
‘Draco—’ She reached for him, but her fingers passed through air, colder than frost’s shadow.
He smirked, his old-school arrogance returning to the stage for a final bow. ‘Next Halloween, Granger. If you dare.’
Shrouded in silence, she stood there until the house grew still again, until the last trace of him vanished with the dawning of a new day.
When she stepped outside, the fog had cleared. Behind her, Malfoy Manor remained hollow and haunted, windows blank as eyes, too old and knowing.
As Hermione walked down the path, a whispering wind rose from the east, carrying the faintest echo.
Hermione.
And with it, a promise that even a ghost could keep.