Chapter Text
1. Fallen Angel, Great Demon, and the Nun
Rain fell like broken silver threads, pouring down endlessly onto the thatched roofs of the dilapidated capital city.
Hermione stood in the middle of the cold stone square, her hands tightly bound behind her back with rough rope. Her warm brown eyes now held only a heartbreaking resolve. The pure white nun’s habit she wore was torn in several places, the hem caked with mud, yet she still held her head high.
Before her rose the high steps of the royal palace, where the king sat upon a throne carved with dragons, his eyes as cold as a sunless winter.
“You and your band of followers have defiled the faith of my subjects,” the king’s voice rang out, slow but sharp as a blade. “Your religion is nothing but a sham. I have no need for those who pray to a god long dead.”
Hermione pressed her lips together tightly, her hands clenched until they turned white. She had known this day would come from the moment the first edicts were posted on the monastery gates. She had watched her sisters in the order being dragged away in the night, their cries mingling with the sound of hooves and rattling chains. She was the last one left not because she was stronger, but because she was too stubborn, too convinced that silence could sometimes be more terrifying than words.
“Exile,” the king declared, his tone flat as if reading a sentence prepared long ago. “To the farthest northern lands, where no one remembers the light of faith anymore. There, you will preach to ghosts and crows. If you survive the winter, consider it a miracle from the god you worship.”
The crowd around her burst into laughter dry, brittle laughter like dead leaves being crushed underfoot. No one felt pity. No one objected. Only the cold wind swept through the square, carrying the smell of smoke and ash.
Hermione was shoved onto an old oxcart, beside a few sacks of dry bread, a leaking water jug, and a small wooden cross she clutched so tightly her knuckles turned white. The cart rolled away, leaving the capital under the indifferent gazes of those who once knelt at her feet in prayer.
The journey lasted weeks. The farther north they went, the harsher the land and sky became. Trees grew sparse, then vanished entirely, leaving only desolate fields of withered yellow grass and cracked dirt roads that resembled the skin of the dead. The rain stopped, replaced by thick, bone-chilling fog.
Finally, the oxcart halted before a small village nestled in a valley. No one came out to greet them. Only the distant barking of dogs and the wind whistling through ramshackle roofs. The driver roughly pulled her down, tossed her belongings after her, then turned the cart and left without a word.
Hermione stood silently in the middle of the dirt road, gazing toward the end of the village. There, atop a small hill, stood a church or rather, what remained of one.
It looked like a skeleton gnawed away by time. The tiled roof was almost completely gone, the bell tower leaned dangerously as if about to collapse, and the main door hung from a single rotten plank. Weeds grew through the cracks in the stone floor, twining around decayed pillars. Not a single candle. Not a single prayer. Only the wind howling through broken windows, like the lament of a faith that had already died.
She stepped inside. Her worn cloth shoes touched the freezing stone floor. The smell of mold, rotting wood, and ancient earth rushed into her nose. On the altar, the statue of the Virgin Mary had been worn smooth by time only a pair of hollow eyes remained, staring down at her.
Hermione knelt, placing the wooden cross on the altar.
“I’m here now,” she whispered, her voice so soft even the wind could carry it away. “Even if I’m the only one left, I’m still here.”
No one answered.
No divine light flashed. No bells rang. Only the sound of rain beginning to fall, pattering on the broken roof, dripping onto the stone floor drop by drop like belated tears.
And so she began.
Alone.
Every day, she swept away the debris, wiped the dust from the altar, patched the holes in the roof with scraps of cloth she found in the village. The villagers looked at her with distant eyes sometimes pity, sometimes mockery. They called her “the fool in white robes,” “the girl from the capital who came here to die.” No one stepped into the church. No one brought her even a single piece of bread.
But Hermione never complained.
Every morning, before the sun could dispel the fog, she hoisted two wooden buckets onto her shoulders and walked more than ten kilometers to the lake deep in the forest. People said the lake was cursed. They said it was full of beasts and things that should not exist. They said no one who approached it ever returned.
Hermione still went.
Her footsteps marked the thorny, muddy path. Her small shoulders hunched under the weight of the water. Sweat soaked through her white habit, but her eyes remained bright, resolute like a tiny flame burning in the deepest darkness.
Until one day.
A day when the rain stopped falling.
A day when the fog lifted, revealing a lake surface still as a shattered mirror.
On an ancient stone pillar standing alone in the middle of the lake, a figure sat.
Pure white.
Beautiful to the point that breathing became painful.
Large white wings bound tightly by pitch-black iron chains the chains rose from the unfathomable depths of the lake, wrapping around him as if wanting to drag him into the dark abyss. Short black hair, disheveled, black as a starless night sky. And those eyes emerald green, deep and sorrowful enough to make her heart clench.
He lifted his head and looked at her.
A clear, gentle, yet distant voice echoed through the silent space:
“Why are you here?”
“You… can see me?”
The water buckets on Hermione’s shoulders fell to the ground.
The sound of water rushing out.
She stood there, eyes wide, heart pounding so violently she feared it would shatter inside her chest.
It was the first time she met an angel.
His name was Harry.
The Fallen Angel had been there for a very long time so long that even he no longer bothered to remember. The pitch-black iron chains bound his pure white wings tightly, stretching up from the unfathomable depths of the lake like an eternal curse.
He was not punished for some heinous crime, but for the one sin that God would never forgive: a lack of faith, a lack of love for humanity.
Hermione learned of this through the chattering whispers of the forest sprites. They were tiny, translucent like morning mist, fluttering around her every time she walked the narrow path to the lake. They buzzed near her ear, their voices shrill like shattered silver bells:
“The fallen angel is very grumpy, miss. Always so gloomy, always so silent. He’s been sitting there for hundreds of years his mind went mad long ago. No one dares go near him. Someone tried once, and just from his gaze, they trembled so hard they forgot the way home.”
Hermione listened, but she was not afraid. She only smiled softly, gently stroking a sprite that had perched on the shoulder of her white habit. And the strangest thing was: she could see them. Not everyone could see the sprites only those whose hearts were as clear as the lake at dawn could behold those tiny beings. That was why the sprites were even more surprised, and grew to love her even more.
Yet Hermione dared.
Every day, after filling her two buckets to the brim, she did not hurry back. She sat down by the lake shore, only a few meters from the stone pillar in the middle of the water, and opened her worn, tattered Bible. Her voice, gentle and clear, rose in the silent space:
“Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth. Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy…”
She read it again and again, day after day. On rainy days, she still sat there, shielding the book with the soaked hem of her habit. On days when the wind cut like knives, she still read, her breath turning into thin white mist.
When she grew tired of reading, she told stories. She spoke of the poor village, of barefoot children running along the red dirt road, of the old woman whose joints ached so badly she could not stand, of the boy who had burned with fever for three nights straight. She spoke slowly, as though telling an old friend she had not seen in years.
“I’m treating the villagers,” she said to him, her voice soft like a breeze skimming across the lake. “No matter who they are, I treat them. Almost for free. They just need to bring something a chicken egg, a handful of wild herbs, even a pebble or a clump of mud is fine. I will heal them.”
The villagers called her foolish. They whispered behind her back: “That girl from the capital must have gone mad. Treating people for free who will pay her?” But Hermione only smiled and continued. The old village healer once told her: “You can’t keep healing for free forever, child. There must always be some kind of exchange, even if it’s just a word of thanks.”
Hermione nodded, but deep in her heart she knew: a word of thanks from someone who had regained their health was already the greatest gift of all.
Every day the forest sprites chattered in her ear:
“You’re so silly, Hermione! The villagers are just taking advantage of you. They bring you worthless things and demand you cure every ailment under the sun. Don’t you see them laughing behind your back?”
Hermione only shook her head gently, her warm brown eyes gazing toward the lake.
“I’m very happy to be able to help them,” she said, her voice as light as a whisper. “Very happy.”
On the sixtieth day.
Sixty days of coming here, sitting by the lake, reading scripture, telling stories. He had never once replied. Those emerald-green eyes simply watched her in silence cold and distant, as though she were a passing breeze that would soon vanish.
But that day, just as Hermione closed her Bible, he curled his lip.
A very faint, almost imperceptible smirk.
“Foolish humanity,” his voice rang out, clear and freezing, like the first crack of ice in spring.
Hermione raised her head.
She looked straight into those emerald-green eyes, without a trace of fear, without a moment’s hesitation. And then she smiled.
A radiant smile like the very first ray of dawn piercing through thick fog, illuminating a dark corner of the lake.
“Thank you, Lord Angel,” she said, her voice warm in an almost miraculous way.
He froze.
For the first time in hundreds of years, those emerald eyes flickered. Not because of her words, but because of that smile so bright that even the iron chains around his wings seemed to tremble ever so slightly.
He said nothing more.
But Hermione knew: today, for the first time, he had truly seen her.
Not as a foolish human.
But as something he had not seen in a very, very long time.
A small, stubborn ray of light that refused to go out in the midst of eternal darkness.
That morning, mist still lingered on the wild grass around the church. Hermione was sweeping dry leaves in front of the door, each slow, steady stroke of the broom matching the rhythm of her own heartbeat. She never expected anyone to come she never had. Yet there were footsteps.
The figure appeared from the path leading into the village tall, walking with leisurely grace as though this entire land already belonged to him. Platinum-blonde hair fell softly across his forehead, shimmering faintly in the weak sunlight that filtered through the gray clouds. His skin was almost translucent, his storm-gray eyes deep, cold, and so beautiful that one had to hold their breath.
He stopped at the church steps, tilting his head slightly to look at Hermione.
“I’ve come to pray,” his voice said, low and smooth as black velvet.
Hermione looked up, her brown eyes lighting up with a rare, genuine joy. For the first time in all these lonely months, someone had stepped into this crumbling church with the intention of praying. She set the broom aside, wiped her hands on the frayed hem of her habit, and smiled gently.
“Please come in, sir. The church may be old and worn, but it is still a place for the soul to return to.”
She guided him carefully showing him where to step on the uneven stone floor, telling him about the weathered statue of the Virgin Mary, gently explaining how to light candles and kneel in prayer. Her voice was warm, patient, without the slightest suspicion.
Then suddenly, he turned to look at her.
Those gray eyes locked onto hers, like a whirlwind sweeping everything around them away. His impossibly beautiful face made Hermione’s heart skip a beat. He stepped closer too close his breath carrying a strange scent, like sandalwood burning slowly on a winter night.
He took her hand, long, icy fingers tightening gently.
“I am lonely,” he whispered, his voice so sweet it was almost dangerous. “Can you… warm me?”
Hermione started slightly. She gently withdrew her hand, pressing it to her chest as though to steady her racing heart.
“I’m sorry, sir,” she said, her voice still gentle but firm. “I can only pray with you. I cannot give you anything else.”
He did not let go. He pressed forward, gray eyes narrowing as though searching for something within her gaze. Then he frowned, his voice dropping, tinged with surprise and faint irritation.
“You’re not… enchanted?”
At that moment, the air suddenly grew heavy.
From between the leaves, from the dark corners of the church, dozens of tiny sprites appeared. They flew in chaotic swarms, their translucent bodies sparkling like mist, tugging hard at Hermione’s hair to pull her backward, away from him. They scrambled to pick up small pebbles from the ground, hurling them relentlessly at the stranger, their shrill cries rising like an angry chorus:
“Get away! You demon!”
“Don’t touch our sister!”
He was provoked. A dangerous glint flashed in his gray eyes. Then he sneered, a smile so cold it pierced to the bone.
In the blink of an eye, his true form was revealed.
Huge black wings spread wide, pitch-black feathers like the night come alive. Two long, curved horns sprouted from his platinum-blonde hair, sharp and gleaming with metallic light. A long, pointed tail lashed through the air with a whip-like crack.
He roared, his voice deep and thick with murderous intent:
“I’ll skewer every single one of you little sprites!”
One hand shot out like lightning, seizing the nearest tiny sprite in mid-flight. The little creature thrashed desperately in his grip, letting out a pitiful cry.
Hermione lunged forward.
Without hesitation, she grabbed his wrist with both hands and used every ounce of strength she had to pry his fingers open, freeing the poor sprite. Her hands trembled, but her voice remained calm even though her breathing came in quick gasps:
“If you did not come here to pray, then please leave.”
He released his grip. The sprite fell, trembling, and fluttered shakily back to its companions.
He stared at Hermione, gray eyes narrowing. Then he slipped his hands into his pockets, tilting his head as though studying her like a puzzle he had never encountered before.
“You’re not afraid of me?”
Hermione shook her head slowly, but with absolute certainty.
He suddenly burst out laughing.
The sound rang clear and brilliant, like moonlight in the dead of night. That smile was so breathtakingly beautiful that the entire space around them seemed to brighten just a little.
He bowed his head slightly, platinum hair falling across his forehead, gray eyes sparkling with a dangerous yet alluring light.
“My name is Draco,” he said, his voice soft as a passing breeze. “Remember it well, little girl. Because I’ll be back.”
Then he turned, black wings folding gently, and vanished into the morning mist.
All he left behind on the church floor was a single black feather, shimmering like obsidian under the faint sunlight.
Hermione stood there, hands still shaking.
But she was not afraid.
She only let out a soft sigh, bent down to pick up the feather, and gently placed it on the altar where the candles had long since gone out.
Because she knew: no matter how beautiful the darkness might be, it was still darkness.
And she had chosen the light, no matter how fragile that light might be.
Demons love to hover around her.
He made no effort to hide it. There was no need. He often floated high above, black wings beating lightly in the wind, platinum hair falling across his forehead, storm-gray eyes quietly following every step Hermione took below. She carried two heavy buckets of water, her small shoulders hunched under the weight, walking steadily along the thorny, muddy path. Each footprint she left in the earth was like a quiet, stubborn declaration that she would not give up.
Draco tilted his head, his low voice drifting down from above, laced with mockery and curiosity:
“Why do you try so hard? It’s obvious you could just leave this place behind.”
Hermione did not stop. She only shook her head gently, her messy brown hair sticking to her flushed cheeks from the wind and exhaustion. She continued carrying the water, each ripple in the buckets like a silent prayer.
Draco watched her, day after day.
He saw how much she loved healing the villagers. Saw clearly how they only wanted to take advantage of her. The vegetables she grew in the small garden behind the church, the herbs she painstakingly gathered deep in the forest, the wild fruits she found among the thorns they wanted it all, then handed her a handful of mud, a pebble, or sometimes nothing more than an indifferent glance. Hermione accepted it all, smiled, laid her hands on their wounds, and whispered prayers of healing.
Draco sneered, his voice echoing through the air:
“Foolish.”
Hermione looked up. Her warm brown eyes met his gray ones. She smiled a clear, bright smile like the first ray of sunshine after a long rain.
“Thank you, Lord Demon.”
Draco sprawled lazily in midair, black wings spread like an invisible hammock. He yawned long and dramatically, voice drawling with boredom:
“Boring.”
Yet he stayed. And he enjoyed teasing her.
Once, he swooped down close fast as a cold gust snatched the small wooden cross that hung around her neck. Instantly, smoke rose from his pale skin, a sizzling sound like meat on hot coals. He hissed, tossing the cross back to her with a grimace:
“Damn, is that real? You’re from the temple, aren’t you?”
Hermione nodded, gently picked up the cross, blew off the ash clinging to it, and put it back on.
Draco laughed mockingly, gray eyes flashing with dangerous amusement:
“Oh, look at that stupid king exiling even the temple. This whole kingdom will crumble soon enough.”
From then on, he truly began to pay attention.
This foolish girl was from the temple. No wonder she was so good at healing. Every day she kept doing good. With her abilities, if she were in the capital, she could have been wealthy beyond imagination. Nobles would line up at her door, throwing money like trash just to have her touch them, to be healed by her. Yet she chose to stay here, in this desolate land, among people who only knew how to take.
Draco rested his chin in his hand, floating idly. Whenever he was bored, he came by.
He whispered sinful words into her ear sweet as honey laced with venom. Tempting her to break her vows, to sink into pleasure with him, to let him pull her into the darkness, to let him show her things a nun was never allowed to even dream of.
Hermione never blushed. Never trembled. Never grew angry.
She looked at him with clear, transparent eyes, then smiled gently:
“You’re really funny.”
Draco froze. For the first time in hundreds of years, he felt… his words were useless.
He wasn’t angry. Just a strange feeling crept into his chest something he had thought was long gone.
He watched her the small girl who still carried water every day, still healed those who didn’t deserve it, still smiled even when the whole world turned its back.
And he whispered, this time without mockery:
“You really are… the biggest fool I’ve ever met.”
Hermione did not reply. She simply kept walking, buckets swaying gently on her shoulders.
But in that moment, when sunlight broke through the gray clouds and fell upon them, Draco suddenly realized something.
He no longer felt bored.
And for the first time in centuries, the demon began to look forward to tomorrow just to see that smile one more time.
After days of only hovering high above and watching, Draco finally decided to descend to the ground.
That day the sky was unusually clear no rain, no thick fog. Hermione, as always, hoisted the two old wooden buckets onto her shoulders and walked slowly along the rough path into the forbidden forest. Draco appeared beside her no longer floating, but actually walking on the earth, his black wings folded neatly behind him like a living cloak.
He crossed his arms, his tone arrogant yet tinged with faint irritation:
“Little sister, let me handle this for you. I’ll just bring the whole damn lake back here for you, so you won’t have to haul water ten kilometers every single day.”
Hermione paused, turning to look at him. Her warm brown eyes blinked softly, then she gently shook her head.
“No need, Lord Demon. Just enough to use is fine. There are other creatures in the forest who need water too.”
Draco froze. He stared at the small girl in front of him, a genuine look of astonishment flashing through his gray eyes.
“What the hell does this girl eat to turn out so good-hearted?” he muttered, his voice a mix of bewilderment and faint irritation.
And from that day on, he began trailing after her like a shadow.
Every day twenty kilometers round trip under the weak sunlight or the biting drizzle, Draco walked beside Hermione. Sometimes he even carried one of the buckets for her, though his mouth never stopped grumbling:
“Honestly, I never thought I’d end up carrying water for a nun.”
Hermione only smiled, saying very little.
That day, when the two of them finally reached the shore of the lake hidden deep in the forbidden forest, Draco narrowed his eyes toward the center of the water. On the ancient stone pillar, the Fallen Angel still sat there, pure white wings bound tightly by pitch-black iron chains. Harry suddenly lifted his head; his emerald-green eyes narrowed slightly as he sensed the presence of a stranger.
“What are you doing here?” Harry’s voice was icy, devoid of any emotion.
Draco curled his lip into a mocking half-smile:
“Blind? I’m taking a stroll.”
Hermione quickly stepped forward, her voice gentle as always:
“Lord Harry, this is Draco. And Lord Draco, this is Lord Harry.”
Before Harry could react, Draco moved like lightning slipping an arm around Hermione’s waist from behind and pulling her tightly against his chest. He leaned down, whispering into her ear loud enough for Harry to hear:
“I already know who he is, darling.”
In an instant, the lake surface trembled violently.
Water surged up from the depths as though stirred by an invisible hand. In the blink of an eye, dozens of transparent water spears condensed into existence each one sharp as an ice blade, glinting coldly under the faint sunlight filtering through the canopy. They hovered in midair, slowly spinning before abruptly forming a perfect arc, their deadly points aimed straight at Draco. The air around the lake grew heavy, so cold that Hermione’s breath turned into thin white mist. Tiny droplets sprayed from the tips of the spears, falling onto the lake and creating concentric ripples like a silent warning that, with a single thought, they could tear everything apart.
Draco reacted instantly. He released Hermione, twisting away in the nick of time. He ducked behind her, towering a full head taller, glaring and cursing:
“You lunatic! Locked up too long and gone mad? I thought angels were forbidden from killing!”
Harry didn’t answer immediately. Those emerald-green eyes remained locked on Draco. One spear larger than the rest, twice as long slowly detached from the arc and hovered just inches from Draco’s face. It rotated gently, its razor-sharp tip pointed directly at his chest, emitting a faint hissing sound like wind through cracked stone. The water inside was so clear you could see the bottom of the lake reflected through it a silent, sharper threat than any words.
Only then did Harry speak, his voice cold as frost:
“You, I can kill.”
Draco sneered, black wings spreading slightly as if ready for battle, though a flicker of caution passed through his eyes:
“Want to fight, huh?”
The atmosphere suddenly stretched taut, like a bowstring about to snap.
Hermione hurriedly spread her arms between them, her voice calm yet resolute:
“That’s enough, both of you. Please don’t.”
Then, as she had done for so many days, she sat down by the lakeshore, opened her worn old Bible, and began reading the same passages she had read to Harry hundreds of times. Her voice was gentle and clear, like a cool stream flowing between two opposing forces.
Draco leaned down, whispering in her ear with heavy sarcasm:
“Nun, the Fallen Angel is beyond saving. You could read a thousand Bibles and it still wouldn’t help him.”
Right at that moment, the largest water spear trembled slightly, its tip inching closer toward Draco like a final warning.
Hermione looked up, smiling softly at Harry:
“Then I’ll just pray for the angel for the rest of my life.”
The massive water spear suddenly dropped, splashing back into the lake and dissolving into gentle ripples, taking the rest of the arc with it in silent disappearance.
Those emerald-green eyes flickered.
Not from the scripture.
But from that smile once again, so radiant that even the darkness at the bottom of the lake had to retreat, and even those icy spears had to abandon their intent.
Draco let out an exaggerated yawn, the long, bored sound echoing through the stillness of the old church. He hovered in the corner of the room, black wings flapping lazily as if trying to chase away a nonexistent drowsiness. His gray eyes were fixed on the small figure at the weathered wooden table.
Hermione was still there, back slightly hunched, tired eyes nevertheless shining under the faint blue-green glow of the drifting sprites. They floated slowly around her, casting a gentle light like lost stars, just bright enough for her to see each herb leaf, each drop of salve falling into the glass vial.
The wall clock had struck nearly two in the morning, yet she was still diligently grinding powders, mixing ointments, preparing for the villagers who tomorrow morning would again bring a few chicken eggs or a handful of wild greens in “exchange” for healing.
“Fool,” Draco muttered, his voice low, almost to himself. He rested his chin in his hand, long slender fingers idly twirling a few strands of her messy brown hair, wrapping them around his finger before letting them slip free. “Staying up this late again to make medicine for those greedy villagers. Aren’t you tired, nun?”
Hermione didn’t look up, only smiled softly, her voice light as a breeze:
“You should go rest early, my lord.”
Draco snorted irritably, black wings flaring briefly before folding again as if restraining his annoyance.
“Demons don’t need sleep, darling,” he drawled, voice dripping with mockery. Then he leaned even closer, the slow-burning scent of sandalwood wafting from his breath against her ear. “Or perhaps… you’d like to sink into pleasure with me? I could give you dreams far sweeter than these sleepless nights.”
Hermione remained calm, her hand stirring the vial steadily. She only shook her head gently, smile still soft as crescent moonlight:
“No need, Lord Demon. I’m fine.”
Draco flopped down sulkily on the edge of the table, long legs crossed, watching her with a mixture of irritation and curiosity. He stayed silent for a while before suddenly speaking, tone casual as if discussing the weather:
“How did you get so close to the Fallen Angel?”
Hermione paused for a second, then continued grinding the leaves, voice light:
“Just by chance.”
“Oh, just by chance you managed to befriend an Archangel?” Draco smirked, inspecting his nails under the sprites’ glow as though the words were nothing more than a harmless joke.
Hermione looked up for the first time that night, brown eyes wide with genuine surprise:
“Archangel? What do you mean?”
Draco shrugged, voice still nonchalant, though a spark of amusement flickered in his gray eyes at her innocence:
“He used to be an Archangel. One of the strongest in the heavenly host. Later betrayed, went mad, and got chained to that lake. Quite pathetic, really.”
Hermione fell silent. Her hands stilled on the pestle, eyes staring into the dark emptiness ahead, as though trying to picture a once-radiant Harry standing at the pinnacle of light now dragged down to the depths by black iron chains. Her lips pressed together gently, not out of fear, but from a quiet sadness that slipped into her heart.
Draco watched her, waiting for a reaction a sigh, a question, or at least a flicker of surprise. But Hermione only exhaled softly, then continued her work, her voice gentle as a whisper:
“So… that means I should read the scriptures for him even more.”
Draco let out a low, dry chuckle that echoed in the late-night stillness.
“You really are the biggest fool I’ve ever met,” he said, but this time there was no mockery in his tone. Only something very strange like helplessness, like admiration carefully hidden away.
He said nothing more. He simply hovered silently beside her, watching the faint blue-green glow of the sprites illuminate the tired yet resolute face of the small girl. And in that moment, the demon suddenly realized: no matter how much he tried to tease her, no matter how seductive his darkness might be, the fragile light from her would always prevail not through strength, but through tireless persistence.
Hermione continued preparing medicines throughout the night under the pale blue light of the drifting sprites, like a silent prayer in the midst of darkness.
Draco began helping Hermione with the work.
Not because he had suddenly become kind-hearted. Not because he wanted redemption or salvation. Simply because… he couldn’t stand watching the tiny girl struggle alone with the crumbling ruin called a “church.” Every time she tried to hoist a heavy beam onto her shoulder, legs trembling under the strain, or when she climbed the rotten wooden ladder to patch the roof, brown hair tangled and dusted with grime, he felt something uncomfortable worm its way into his chest like her fragile perseverance was poking at an old wound he thought he had long forgotten.
He repaired the roof.
Broken tiles lay scattered across the stone floor, sharp as the blades of time. Rotten beams, black with mold, crumbled into dust at the slightest rough touch. The holes in the roof had grown larger over the years, letting the cold wind from the desolate lands slice through like invisible knives, cutting through the thin fabric of Hermione’s habit every night. Draco climbed up there, hammer and nails in hand, doing it the human way. No magic. No powerful beat of black wings to lift the entire roof in one go. Because Hermione had said, her voice soft yet firm, brown eyes looking straight into his:
“I want everything done by hand. That way it truly feels like repair. Magic may be faster, but it doesn’t leave the warmth of human effort.”
So Draco had to do it for real.
For the first time in decades, the proud demon found himself squatting on the sagging roof under a starless gray sky. Sweat poured down his pale face, plastering his usually neat platinum hair into a bird’s nest.
His hands the same hands that once held the lives of millions now gripped a heavy hammer, driving each tile into place. Each strike rang out dry and sharp, mingling with the wind whistling through the gaps. He cursed nonstop under his breath, vicious words that would surely make Hermione shake her head gently if she heard.
But he kept going.
After finishing one row of tiles, he climbed down, hauled another beam from the pile of old materials in the village, his black cloak smeared with dust and pine resin, then climbed back up again. His black wings trembled faintly with each labored breath, as though even they were helpless against this bizarre persistence.
Then came the long benches, loose and wobbly, ready to collapse if anyone sat down too hard. Draco sat cross-legged on the freezing stone floor, back against the cracked wall, knife and chisel in hand, meticulously carving away excess wood and hammering nails back in one by one. The tiny nails looked almost comical in his large palm, glinting under the weak light of the circling sprites. His hands trembled not from effort, but from holding something so small, so fragile compared to the power that once destroyed entire continents.
He muttered to himself, voice full of self-loathing:
“I’ve gone completely mad. Stupid. Cupid must have shot me right in the heart. A demon fixing chairs for a nun what could be more humiliating?”
But he kept doing it.
And in return, every time he finished something a new row of tiles sealed tight, a bench reinforced sturdy Hermione would look up from her own work. Her warm brown eyes would shine like a small fire in the winter night, and she would smile. A clear, sincere smile, without the slightest doubt or calculation.
“Thank you, Lord Demon.”
Just that one smile, and Draco felt his entire world of darkness… brighten just a little. As though a weak ray of sunlight had slipped through thick clouds, touching the deepest place in his chest a place he thought had died long ago.
The sprites couldn’t stand it.
They swarmed around Hermione like a hive of angry bees, translucent bodies sparkling pale blue, chattering nonstop in her ears, shrill voices full of worry and fear:
“Stay away from him, Hermione! He’s a great demon! He’s swallowed entire continents thousands, millions of lives vanished under his claws! Kingdoms fell, rivers ran red with blood, he laughed while the sky turned crimson! Don’t trust him, don’t let him near!”
Hermione only gently stroked a trembling sprite perched on her shoulder, her finger light as though afraid to hurt it. Her voice was soft and warm:
“Thank you for worrying about me, little ones. But I know.”
Draco stood a few steps away, still holding the freshly carved beam, sweat beading on his forehead. He heard every word. He snorted, lips curling into a mocking smile, voice dripping with sarcasm but also self-deprecating, as though laughing at himself:
“What? I was a little wild in my youth, that’s all. Now I just want to fall in love is that not allowed?”
The sprites screeched in unison, furious, darting around his head like they wanted to poke his eyes out, tiny glowing bodies like arrows of light. Draco waved them away lazily no real force, just enough to scatter them then they hurriedly flew back to Hermione like children seeking shelter.
He turned to look at her. His gray eyes were no longer cold as before, but carried something very strange almost… tender, almost… helpless.
“You really aren’t afraid of me?” he asked, voice low, no longer mocking, only genuine curiosity.
Hermione paused in wiping dust from the altar, raised her head, and looked straight into his eyes. Those brown eyes were clear, without a ripple, yet held an unshakable faith.
“I’m afraid of the darkness,” she said slowly, each word carefully weighed, “but I’m not afraid of the one who carries it. Because I believe that even in that darkness, there is still a little light. And I want to find it.”
Draco fell silent. For the first time in centuries, he didn’t know how to respond. Her words were like an invisible blade not painful, but cutting deep into a place he thought had long gone numb.
He only turned away, continuing to hammer the last nail into the bench. The steady sound of the hammer echoed through the old church, mingling with the wind howling through broken windows, the worried chattering of the sprites, and the strange, powerful beating of a demon’s heart.
But amid all those sounds, only one thing truly moved his heart: Hermione’s smile when she stepped closer, gently touched the newly repaired bench, and looked up at him with sincere gratitude.
And he knew, no matter how many times he told himself otherwise, he would keep doing it repairing the roof, fixing benches, carrying wood, sweating just to see that smile one more time.
Just one more time.
But deep down, he understood: one more time would never be enough.
Every time he followed Hermione deep into the forbidden forest, Draco had to listen to her read scriptures to that Fallen Angel. Her voice was gentle and even, like a stream flowing over stones, each word soaking into the cold air around the lake. Draco sat on the shore, black wings drooping, yawning so wide his jaw nearly dislocated.
“Bored to death,” he muttered, eyes half-closed as he stared at the still lake surface. “Reading the same old words over and over you’ll probably grow moss before I do.”
Harry still sat on the stone pillar in the middle of the lake, white wings bound tightly by black chains, emerald-green eyes quietly following Hermione.
But every time Draco opened his mouth, those eyes flashed with danger. The two of them had nearly come to blows countless times. Fight? Who was afraid? It wouldn’t be the first time. Over the decades, Draco and Harry had skewered each other more times than could be counted sometimes with black fire, sometimes with ice, demon blood and angel blood mixing at the bottom of the lake into dark red streaks that slowly faded over time.
This time was no different. Draco stuck out his tongue in provocation, hiding behind Hermione like a naughty child, voice drawling with challenge:
“Hey, old angel, feel like trying again today? I miss the feeling of skewering your wings.”
Harry tilted his head slightly. A water spear silently condensed, hovering right in front of Draco, its sharp tip pointed straight at his throat.
Hermione hurriedly spread her arms, voice gentle but firm:
“Lord Draco, please don’t tease Lord Harry anymore.”
Then she turned, smiling at him a warm, gentle smile like spring wind blowing across ice. Draco froze, black wings trembling faintly. She was so soft, so small. Every time he wrapped his arms around her waist from behind, it felt strangely perfect, as though his entire world of darkness could, for a moment, be sheltered by that fragile light.
He sighed, released her, and muttered:
“Fine, fine. I’ll shut up.”
And so, several more months passed.
Draco still trailed after Hermione every day. Still grumbled when listening to scriptures, still nearly fought with Harry, still hid behind her whenever a water spear hovered. But he didn’t give up. He still came, still sat there, even if his mouth complained and his eyes drooped.
Then one drizzly afternoon, as Hermione was reading the passage “Blessed are the meek…,” Draco suddenly sprawled out on the withered yellow grass by the lakeshore. He propped his hands behind his head, stared up at the gray sky, and let out a long, weary sigh.
“Alright,” he said, his voice no longer sarcastic, only tired and resigned. “I can’t stand this patience game anymore.”
Hermione stopped reading, raised her head to look at him.
Draco sat up, rain-dampened platinum hair falling across his forehead. He looked straight at Harry for the first time not to provoke, but to… expose.
“He’s not actually imprisoned,” Draco said, voice flat as though recounting an old story. “He could leave that lake anytime he wanted. Those iron chains are just for show. He hates humanity so much he doesn’t want to go. Hates it so much he’d rather sit here for centuries than step out there, where people keep living, keep betraying, keep hurting each other.”
The air around the lake suddenly fell into a suffocating silence.
The sprites stopped fluttering, hovering motionless in midair like frozen jewels. Hermione’s eyes widened as she looked toward Harry. Those emerald-green eyes did not waver, but for the first time, they were no longer cold. All that remained was a profound sadness, like the bottom of the lake that had never known light.
Harry lowered his head slightly, short black hair falling to cover his eyes.
“You talk too much, demon,” he whispered, voice hoarse as though unused for a very long time.
Draco shrugged, stood up, and brushed the grass from his black cloak.
“I’m just telling the truth. Anyway, nun, go on and keep reading. After all… maybe he still needs to hear a few more lines.”
He turned his back and took a few steps toward the forest, but then stopped. Without looking back, he spoke softly, just loud enough for Hermione to hear:
“But if one day he finally decides to step out… remind him not to make you cry, alright?”
Hermione smiled and gently placed her hand on the Bible.
“I will remind him.”
And she continued reading.
Her voice was still as gentle as ever.
But this time, at the bottom of the lake, the pitch-black iron chains trembled ever so slightly not from power, but from something very small, very fragile: a ray of hope that had been absent for far too long.
Draco was truly sulking now.
Let him sulk, let him crave more if he wanted. If she wanted to play the saint, fine. Why should he care about frail, short-lived humans weak creatures that could be knocked down by a single cold gust of wind? He had thousands of beauties ready to kneel at his feet women so stunning even the moonlight grew jealous, women willing to offer body and soul just for a single glance, a single touch from hands that had once stained entire continents with blood.
So Draco wandered off.
He stirred up war in some dull kingdom just a whisper in the ear of a greedy king, a mocking smile before a pack of power-hungry nobles, and rivers of blood flowed, screams echoing across the gray sky. He stood atop the highest tower, wind whipping his platinum hair, gazing down at the blazing red battlefield like a living painting, yet his heart felt no thrill anymore.
Then he spent nights in carnal pleasure with princesses and queens long nights of flesh in opulent chambers, candlelight shimmering on pale skin, red wine overflowing goblets, gasps mingling with soft laughter. But it was all empty ecstasy, like an old song played once and then silenced, leaving no echo.
He roamed with his ancient demon followers creatures with tattered wings and glowing red eyes like embers, always eager, always waiting for him to return to the days of old: when he drove the heavens mad, tore the sky with black fire, and laughed amid the ashes.
They gathered around him, hissing praises, but Draco only stretched lazily, sprawling across the lavish bed in the palace of last night’s goddess. Beside him lay two breathtaking beauties, skin white as snow, long silken hair cascading, curling against him like lazy cats, eyes sparkling in anticipation of a single sweet word.
He stared up at the golden-carved ceiling and let out a long, weary sigh, voice dripping with boredom in the quiet room:
“There’s nothing fun anymore. Heaven’s gotten so dull these days.”
No one was strong enough like that Fallen Angel to make him… to make him feel alive.
Betrayed once, and look how it ended. So stupid.
Then Draco drifted again among the nobility from one palace to another, from lavish banquets to drunken nights. Chandeliers glittered, music flowed sweetly, silk gowns glided like rivers but it was all illusion. He didn’t keep count, but time slipped by faster than he expected.
One year.
A whole year had passed.
That day, he was strolling along the polished stone street of the bustling capital, two beauties clinging to his arms, their silvery laughter ringing like bells. The air was lively, scented with roses and wine; crowds pressed against opulent stalls. Suddenly, from a group of nobles gathered outside a tavern, he overheard a conversation their voices rose amid the noisy chatter, yet strangely clear.
“…Out in that godforsaken backwater where dogs eat rocks and chickens eat stones there’s this nun who can heal. Really good at it, they say she can mend wounds that should be impossible. And she doesn’t even charge! You can give her anything even a handful of mud!”
One of the beauties beside Draco the blonde with the fiery red silk dress burst into shrill laughter, covering her mouth as if afraid to smudge her lipstick:
“Is there really someone that stupid?”
Draco froze in the middle of the crowd.
He nodded, voice low, almost a whisper:
“Yeah.”
But in that instant, memories crashed over him like a violent wave, sweeping everything else away.
Warm brown eyes, deep and clear as the lake at dawn, where the first ray of sunlight pierced through thick fog. A sweet, pure smile that made even darkness retreat. Her sitting by the lakeshore reading scripture, voice so gentle it hushed the wind. Her smile when he finished fixing a bench, when he laid the last tile, when he grumbled but still sat there listening to her read. She was never afraid of him not even when he was the great demon, not even when his hands had once been drenched in the blood of continents.
In truth, throughout this entire year, he had never stopped remembering her.
Remembering every tiny detail: the way she gently stroked the sprites on her shoulder, the way she bit her lip when concentrating on mixing medicine under flickering light, the way she shook her head softly when he teased her. Remembering the soft, fragile feeling when he wrapped his arms around her waist from behind so small, so delicate he feared one tight squeeze might shatter her in his embrace.
Draco stopped walking in the middle of the street.
The two beauties beside him looked at him in surprise, but he paid no attention. His gray eyes gazed far away, toward the horizon toward that desolate land, toward the old church with its newly tiled roof, toward the cursed lake and the Fallen Angel still sitting there, waiting for something only he and Hermione truly understood.
He smiled faintly the first real smile in a year, not born of pleasure, but of a nameless longing, both sweet and painful.
“Maybe… I should go back and see if that foolish little girl is still alive,” he muttered, voice so low only he could hear.
Then he turned, black wings unfurling slightly beneath his cloak, and vanished from the bustling street in an instant, leaving the two stunned beauties and the chattering crowd behind.
A year of wandering, a year of flesh and war but in the end, he still returned.
Not for heaven. Not for power.
But for a smile, a pair of brown eyes, and a small nun who was still waiting for light in the darkness.
Draco descended from the gray horizon, his massive black wings beating gently against the cold wind that carried the scent of barren earth and decaying leaves. He had imagined the same old, dilapidated scene he left behind: roof full of holes letting rain drip drop by drop, cracked walls streaked with moss and mold, the rotten wooden door hanging crookedly as if about to collapse. But as the silhouette of the church slowly came into view in the deep valley, he halted midair, wings instinctively stilling.
The church… had been almost completely restored.
The roof was now covered in fresh, bright red tiles, laid tightly and evenly, not a single gap left for the cold wind to slice through like knives. The ancient stone walls had been freshly plastered, smooth and clean, with only a few small cracks remaining as traces of time. The heavy wooden door had been replaced with sturdy oak, its iron hinges polished and gleaming; when pushed, it opened with a soft, pleasant creak instead of the eerie groan of before.
Inside the nave, warm golden light from newly lit candles spread softly, illuminating the spotless altar. The statue of the Virgin Mary no longer bore a face worn smooth by years her stone eyes now seemed gentler, as though smiling down. Everything had been done by hand, with sweat and patience no trace of magic, no sign of supernatural power.
The sprites immediately swarmed around him like a hive of angry bees, darting and hovering right in front of his face. Their translucent bodies sparkled with faint blue light, their shrill voices full of pride mixed with reproach:
“It was all done by the nun herself! She earned the money by healing people, and she repaired everything on her own! She didn’t ask anyone for help not even a bit of magic!”
But then their voices grew softer, filled with indignation and sorrow:
“And yet the villagers claim it’s thanks to their help that things are the way they are today. All the money, fabric, and precious gifts sent by nobles to thank her they took everything, not leaving behind even a single word of gratitude. She still happily let them take it all, still smiled when they brought her a handful of mud or a single chicken egg, even though they showed her no appreciation at all. They just think she’s foolish.”
Draco narrowed his eyes. A sharp, dangerous glint flashed through his cold gray gaze like the edge of a blade. He imagined those ungrateful wretches kneeling at his feet, blood pooling across the red earth.
“And there’s more,” one tiny sprite trembled, its body flickering more weakly than usual, continuing, “A few months ago, some man even tried to rape the nun. He was drunk and sneaked into the church at midnight. Fortunately, the Fallen Angel helped he dragged the man down into the depths of the lake. If not… who knows what would have happened.”
Draco felt a burning heat rise in his chest, as though black fire were scorching him from within. Ungrateful scum. One day he would wring each of their necks. He pictured the blood, the screams echoing through the air, the familiar thrill of destruction. But then he drew in a long, deep breath and restrained himself. Not now. Not while she was here.
He stepped into the nave.
Hermione was sweeping dry leaves in front of the altar, the old bamboo broom moving slowly and steadily in her hands. Her white habit was frayed at the edges, patched in places with scraps of cloth, yet it remained spotless, radiating an untouchable purity. When she heard the familiar heavy footsteps, she looked up. Her warm brown eyes widened, then immediately lit up like the first sunlight after a long rain as though she had been waiting for this very moment throughout the entire year.
“It’s been a long time, my lord,” she said, her voice gentle and so sincere that the surrounding space seemed to grow warmer. The candle flames flickered softly, as if whispering along with her.
She stepped forward, holding a small bundle of wild daisies tiny pale yellow flowers with delicate petals, picked from the roadside grass. A few still held morning dew that sparkled, others slightly wilted from the cold wind, but the bouquet was neatly tied with a blade of dry grass, as though she had carefully chosen each bloom. She offered it to him, cheeks faintly flushed with shyness, voice soft:
“It’s not much… This is all I have.”
Draco froze.
He stared at the bouquet in her hands ordinary wild daisies, nothing like the richly scented roses in luxurious palaces, nothing like the extravagant bouquets nobles once presented to him on intricately engraved silver trays. Just wildflowers growing by the roadside, battered by cold winds and worn by sun and rain.
Yet she offered them to him as though they were the most precious treasure in the world. Her small hands trembled slightly from the cold, but her eyes were warm and utterly sincere.
He reached out and took it. His long, slender fingers brushed against hers. Cold. Yet warm in a way he couldn’t explain like that warmth seeped through skin, through bone, reaching the deepest part of a demon’s chest.
Then he smiled.
The first genuine smile in a long year. A smile so beautiful that the sprites circling around them suddenly fell silent, then burst into delighted laughter in unison. Their clear, bell-like giggles echoed throughout the nave, filling the cold space with rare, joyful sounds.
Hermione looked at him, her brown eyes sparkling like the lake under early morning sun:
“You have a beautiful smile, my lord.”
Draco bowed his head slightly, hiding the rare tremor in his gray eyes. He gently placed the little bouquet of daisies on the altar, next to the old wooden cross she had cherished for so many years. The pale yellow petals trembled softly in the light breeze slipping through the door crack.
“I… came back,” he said quietly, voice low and almost a whisper, as though afraid to shatter this fragile moment.
Hermione only smiled. She asked no questions about why, offered no reproach for the year he had been gone.
She simply said, her voice gentle as a passing breeze:
“I’m glad you’ve returned.”
And in that moment, beneath the flickering candlelight, amid the sprites’ delighted chattering and the faint scent of wild daisies in the air, the proud demon felt, for the first time: perhaps a simple bouquet of daisies and a sincere smile were worth more than a thousand beauties, more than the heavens that once intoxicated him.
He said nothing more.
He simply stood beside her, shoulder to shoulder, watching the warm light spread through the church a church she had rebuilt with her own small hands, with a heart free of resentment, and with the unwavering belief that even darkness could be warmed.
Draco stayed at the monastery with her.
Not because he had suddenly found faith. Not because he wanted redemption or to become a good person. Simply because… he no longer wanted to go anywhere else. This place, cold and desolate and full of ungrateful people, had her the only one who made him feel he wasn’t entirely darkness.
One morning, Hermione brought him a newly tailored set of priest’s robes. A long black cassock with a high collar, a simple rope belt, and a wide-brimmed hood. She handed it to him, brown eyes shining with hope:
“You’ll be the priest here, helping me with the work. The church is stable now; we need someone to guide the villagers.”
Draco clicked his tongue, eyeing the outfit as though he’d been forced to swallow bitter medicine.
“Me? A priest?” He smirked, voice dripping with sarcasm. “A demon wearing priest robes aren’t you afraid lightning will strike us down?”
Hermione only smiled and gently placed the robes in his hands:
“I believe you’ll do well.”
And he actually wore them.
Every day, a few women from the village came to confess. They knelt before the grille, trembling voices recounting petty sins, but Draco with his ability to read human thoughts heard every filthy fantasy hidden behind their words of repentance.
He knew they came not for forgiveness, but out of curiosity about the “handsome new priest,” wanting to get a closer look at his face, imagining things they shouldn’t. He refused them all. No absolution, no blessings just a cold command to go home and live more decently.
He obediently played the role of a priest at least on the surface solely to please Hermione. He didn’t believe in those dusty old Bibles, didn’t believe in promises of paradise or salvation. He just wanted to stay by her side. Seeing her smile when she looked at him in that black cassock, hearing her gently remind him “Today you read the scripture very well, my lord,” was enough to make him endure an entire day of listening to fake confessions.
Hermione still went to the lake every day to read scripture to Harry. Her voice remained gentle and clear, even when drizzling rain fell or thick fog blanketed everything. Sometimes she no longer read the Bible; instead, she told him everyday stories: about the village child who had just recovered from a fever, about the hen that laid an unusually large egg, about the little bouquet of wild daisies she picked by the roadside.
Harry still sat on the stone pillar, white wings bound tightly by iron chains, emerald-green eyes quietly listening. He never replied, but he never looked away either. Every day, he listened as though her words were the only thing still anchoring him to this place.
If Hermione ever turned away even for just a second to carry water or pick up leaves Draco and Harry would immediately lunge at each other.
Black wings spread wide, black flames licking around Draco’s fingers. Razor-sharp water spears condensed from the depths of the lake, aimed straight at his chest. Growls, icy hisses the air around the lake stretched taut like a bowstring about to snap.
But the moment Hermione turned back, the two of them instantly… became peaceful.
Draco flopped down on the grass, arms crossed, pretending to stare at the sky. Harry lowered his head, black hair falling over his eyes, as though nothing had happened. Hermione only shook her head gently and smiled:
“You two were being naughty again, weren’t you?”
Draco clicked his tongue: “We were just… discussing theology.”
Harry said nothing, but the corner of his mouth lifted ever so slightly a very small, very rare smile.
And so the days passed.
A demon dressed as a priest, a Fallen Archangel chained at the bottom of a lake, and a small nun standing between them the only one keeping the two from truly destroying each other.
Draco would never admit it, but he knew: he was here not for faith, not for the church, not for the villagers.
But for her.
Because every time she turned to him, that smile made him forget he had once been a great demon, once made the heavens tremble in fear.
He just wanted to stay by her side.
And perhaps, that was enough.
Sometimes, when morning mist still clung to the lake surface and the cold wind had yet to dissipate, a few angels would quietly appear.
They came from heaven, their pure white wings spotless, a gentle light radiating around them like a hazy halo. They glided lightly over the water, their clear voices ringing like distant silver bells, calling Harry by his true name the name only heaven knew:
“Harry, that’s enough. You have atoned sufficiently. Come back. Heaven still awaits you.”
But the Fallen Archangel simply sat motionless on the stone pillar, white wings bound tightly by pitch-black iron chains, emerald-green eyes gazing down at the still water. He gave no answer. Not a word. Not a movement. Only the wind passing through the chains, making them clink like his own silent sigh.
The sprites whispered to Draco, their shrill voices full of worry:
“They’ve come many times already. Each time they beg, but he doesn’t care. He just sits there as though heaven no longer exists.”
When their calls went unanswered, the angels began to turn their gaze toward Hermione.
They saw her as sin.
“She is the one who seduced the Fallen Archangel into depravity,” one angel whispered, voice cold as ice. “She is the reason he no longer wishes to return to heaven.”
Draco, upon hearing this, was utterly baffled. A flash of contempt lit his gray eyes:
“Are you idiots? Seduce? All she does is sit there reading scripture and telling stories.”
But those angels hated Hermione intensely.
They saw her as the cause, the temptation, the lowly thing that had dragged a once-radiant Archangel down to linger in the depths of this cursed lake. They never spoke directly to her, but their presence carried a bone-chilling cold, making the air around the church feel heavier.
Hermione always bowed her head and apologized to them.
Every time they appeared even just a fleeting shadow in the mist she would kneel, voice soft:
“I’m sorry if I’ve done anything wrong. I only wanted to help.”
She never resented. She never hated.
Before she could finish, the lead angel the one with the largest wings and the brightest halo cut her off, voice sharp as an ice blade:
“Silence, lowly human. You are the cause. You seduced, you tempted, you dragged an Archangel into this earthly hell. You are unworthy to stand before him, unworthy of forgiveness.”
Hermione bowed even deeper, silent tears falling onto the damp ground. She offered no defense. She never defended herself.
But Harry heard.
His emerald-green eyes suddenly flared with an ancient, icy fire like flames from the dawn of creation. The chains on his wings rattled, as though even the metal trembled in fear.
He raised his head.
Just one look.
No words. No movement. Just a single gaze.
But it was enough to freeze the entire group of angels in midair.
Their halos flickered erratically, white wings quivering like leaves in a storm. The lead angel the one who had just condemned Hermione suddenly paled, eyes wide with terror. He backed away, voice shaking:
“You… you still…”
Harry slowly stood up.
The sound of iron chains dragging across stone rang out like distant thunder. Though sealed for centuries, though his wings were bound, though his power had been locked away by heaven itself with the holiest of chains, the primal instinct of an Archangel remained intact, terrifying, and uncontrollable.
He took one step forward. Just one.
The lake surface trembled. Water sprayed outward as though shoved by an invisible hand. The angels recoiled in unison; some even tumbled into the water, their halos dimming visibly.
Harry’s voice rang out, low and deep, each word carving itself into the air:
“Don’t. Touch. Her.”
Not a question. Not a threat. Simply a statement cold, absolute.
The lead angel trembled, trying to maintain dignity but failing miserably:
“Harry… you have fallen. You no longer have the right ”
Harry cut him off, his voice quieter, yet strong enough to make the sky itself seem to shake:
“I said. Don’t. Touch. Her.”
A wave of freezing cold spread from him. Not the warm halo of heaven, but something darker, more ancient the power of an angel who had fallen, who had tasted suffering, who had learned to love and rage like a human.
The angels panicked. They turned and fled, wings flapping chaotically, halos scattering like wind-torn light. The lead angel was the last to leave. Before vanishing into the mist, he looked back at Harry one final time, voice quaking with dread:
“You… you’re still this strong? Even sealed… even after centuries…”
Harry sat back down in his place on the stone pillar, white wings folding, chains clinking softly once more as though nothing had happened.
But the angels did not stop.
They began to sabotage the church. Newly laid tiles suddenly fell in the windless night, freshly plastered walls cracked open as though clawed by invisible talons, candles on the altar snuffed out without a breath. They wanted to drive her away, wanted her to leave so Harry would have no reason to stay.
Yet Hermione silently repaired everything again.
She swept up the debris, applied fresh plaster with her small, trembling hands, re-laid the roof under drizzling rain. She did not cry. She did not complain. She simply worked, as though it were the most natural thing in the world.
In the end, Hermione’s kindness received not the slightest recompense.
Then the rumors began to spread.
“Hermione is harboring a demon, healing people for some sinister plot.”
“A nun living together with a great demon? There must be some scheme behind it.”
Draco found it so absurd he almost burst out laughing:
“A scheme involving the handfuls of mud they give her? Or chicken eggs and wild greens? How ridiculous.”
They called her a witch, a seductress of souls, someone who came here to cause trouble and destroy faith. The rumors spread far and wide, growing more vicious by the day. The long lines of people who once queued at the monastery for healing disappeared. The church fell silent once more, doors bolted shut, only the wind howling through the cracks.
Sometimes vandals struck: stones shattered windows, fire scorched the corners of walls, filthy words were scrawled across the stone. Hermione silently repaired it all.
There were times when villagers threw stones at her as she walked the red dirt road. Small pebbles struck her shoulders, her back; some hit her head, drawing blood. Several times Draco nearly lost control black wings spreading wide, black flames licking his fingers, ready to burn the entire village to ash. But Hermione would grasp his hand, her voice steady even though it trembled:
“Don’t, Lord Draco. Don’t hurt them.”
She remained patient with them. Patient even as they hurt her. She hoped that one day the villagers would change. Because she believed in humanity believed that behind the ingratitude and fear, there was still a spark of light, no matter how faint.
Draco looked at her. His gray eyes were no longer cold; they held a pain he could not put into words.
“You really are… the biggest fool I’ve ever met,” he whispered, but there was no mockery in his voice anymore. Only helplessness, and something very close to… love.
Hermione smiled, though her eyes were red and swollen from pain:
“I believe they’ll understand someday.”
And she continued.
Continued repairing the church.
Continued reading scripture to Harry.
Continued healing those few who still dared to come, even if only with a handful of mud or a guilty glance.
Because she believed.
And perhaps it was that very belief fragile, persistent, never extinguished that truly made heaven, demons, and the Fallen Angel pause and look.
Pause and think.
That perhaps light does not always come from heaven.
Sometimes it comes from a small nun standing in the middle of a desolate land, still smiling even when the whole world turns its back.
On a day of torrential rain, when the sky was so gray it seemed ready to collapse, black clouds churning violently, lightning tearing across the heavens like giant blades.
Rain poured in sheets, crashing onto the church roof that had been repaired countless times, seeping through the remaining tiny cracks and forming small waterfalls across the cold stone floor.
Hermione was sweeping the courtyard, the old bamboo broom moving slowly in her hands. Her white habit was soaked through, clinging to her slender frame, revealing delicate lines yet trembling from the cold.
Rainwater streamed down her face, mingling with sweat and nameless tears, but she still smiled when she saw the angels suddenly appear amid the storm as though she had already accepted her fate.
They were no longer gentle as before. Their pure white wings now gleamed with cold, razor-sharp light like blades of ice; swords of radiance burned fiercely in their hands, illuminating the dark courtyard.
They surrounded her in a perfect circle. The air around them grew heavy, so cold that her breath turned to white mist that lingered in the rain. Their voices echoed amid the thunder, unified like a verdict:
“You have kept him here too long. Today, you must leave.”
Hermione knelt right in the middle of a puddle, bowing her head respectfully as always. Her wet brown hair clung to her cheeks, her voice soft but resolute:
“I’m sorry if I’ve done anything wrong. But I only want to stay here.”
Draco wasn’t there at that moment. He was out on the damned errand she had asked of him: delivering medicine to an old woman in a village several miles away. He had grumbled the whole way, black wings drenched in the rain, black flames around him repeatedly extinguished by water, yet he still went because she had asked, and he could not refuse.
When he returned, the rain still fell relentlessly, the sound of water hammering the stone like thousands of needles piercing flesh.
From afar he saw: half the church roof had collapsed, the newly laid tiles now shattered and scattered, rainwater pouring in like a flood, mingling with thick crimson blood that spread across the stone floor in long, winding trails like rivers of death. All around lay fallen angels, their pure white wings now stained red with blood, swords of light extinguished, bodies motionless in pools of bloody water.
In the center of it all, Harry the Fallen Archangel knelt on the cold stone, cradling Hermione’s blood-soaked body in his arms. His white wings were now soaked crimson, blood pouring from deep gashes across his chest and wings, dripping steadily into the rain and creating ripples of red. Two streams of blood-tears ran down his face, falling to mix with the rain no one could tell where the tears ended, where the blood began, where the rain fell.
Hermione’s breathing was barely a whisper.
She lay in Harry’s arms, blood soaking her white habit in long streaks from the wound in her chest down to her stomach, down to her legs. Her brown eyes were still open, still warm even as the light within them slowly faded, like the last candle before a gust of wind. She looked at Harry, giving a weak smile, lips trembling:
“Don’t cry, my angel.”
Then she turned to Draco the one who had just stepped in, black wings trembling violently from shock and rage, black flames licking around him but repeatedly snuffed out by the rain. She looked at him, her smile still gentle as the very first day, even as blood bubbled from the corner of her mouth:
“See you in the next life, alright?”
The villagers came pouring in from every direction, showing no mercy. They screamed in the rain, holding torches whose flames were repeatedly extinguished by water, blaming her witch, demon, seductress of hearts, the one who provoked the wrath of angels. They set fires; flames caught despite the rain, licking at broken wood, old Bibles, the little bouquets of wild daisies she once gathered, black smoke rising in thick clouds to mix with the downpour.
Harry looked at Draco. His emerald-green eyes now held only endless pain, so profound it made even the demon shudder, as though the entire heaven had collapsed within that gaze.
“Do it,” he whispered, voice hoarse and broken.
And Draco did.
He held back no longer. Black wings spread wide, darkening an entire corner of the sky; black flames erupted like a living nightmare, no longer quenched by the rain.
He stepped through the burning fires, through the panicked screams. He didn’t kill them one by one. He destroyed the entire kingdom this village, the capital, those who had thrown stones, taken her money, turned their backs on her. Rivers of blood flowed, flames spread wide, the sky burned red like the end of days, screams mingling with thunder.
When it was over, only ashes remained, and the rain still fell without cease.
Draco knelt beside Hermione, trembling hands touching her face that was slowly growing cold. Harry still held her, blood-tears still falling, but he said nothing more.
Draco took the small wooden cross from around her neck the old wooden cross she had always worn, now searing hot from black flames. When he touched it, his skin sizzled and burned down to the bone, yet he did not let go. He opened his mouth and swallowed the cross whole, the agony like fire consuming him from the inside out, as though his very soul was being torn apart.
He whispered, voice hoarse, black tears falling onto Hermione’s face:
“In the next life… I will find you.”
The rain continued to fall.
The church lay in ruins.
But amid the ashes, a small bouquet of wild daisies still remained pale yellow petals wet, soaked in rain and blood, yet never wilting.
Like her promise.
See you in the next life.