ME AND THE DEVIL- Dramione

Tu étais formidable1, j'étais fort minable

Nous étions formidables.

The past year had dissolved into a fog of unconsciousness, an endless abyss where time moved on without him, indifferent to the moments it had stolen. The unyielding march of days had stripped Draco of experiences he would never regain, leaving him adrift in a void of unspoken words and missed opportunities. Memories of the world he had left behind were fractured and blurred, mere whispers of a life once lived. Yet, amidst the hollow ache of lost time, there was one undeniable truth that burned like a beacon, guiding him back to himself: he had her.

The morning sunlight streamed through the expansive windows of the penthouse, bathing the room in a soft, golden glow. The air was filled with the lively sound of upbeat music, the melody blending harmoniously with the comforting sizzle of batter hitting a hot pan. She was in the kitchen, moving with an effortless grace as she prepared breakfast. Her cheerful hum punctuated the rhythm of her movements—a sway of her hips here, a playful spin there, as if she were performing a private dance choreographed by her own contentment.

The sight was enough to stop Draco in his tracks. From where he stood, leaning against the doorway, he felt a sense of profound gratitude swell within him. She wasn't just his wife; she was his sanctuary, his solace, the embodiment of everything he held dear.

Unable to resist, he crossed the room and wrapped his arms around her from behind, pulling her close. The scent of vanilla shampoo and the faint sweetness of vanilla from her pancakes enveloped him. He buried his face in her neck, pressing a soft kiss to her skin.

"Good morning, my life," he murmured, his voice still husky from sleep.

She smiled, leaning back into his embrace. "Good morning, dearest," she replied warmly, her voice carrying the same affection that never failed to ground him. She tilted her head slightly, giving him better access to the spot he loved to kiss. "Sleep well?"

"With you beside me? Always," he answered smoothly, tightening his arms around her for a moment before reluctantly releasing her so she could return to flipping pancakes.

As she plated the first batch, she glanced over her shoulder, her expression suddenly hopeful. "Harry and Cho are coming over for lunch today. Is that okay with you?"

He chuckled, amused by her tone. "Of course," he said, a teasing grin spreading across his face. "I wouldn't miss an opportunity to host the savior of the wizarding world. Maybe I should practice bowing before he arrives."

She rolled her eyes, swatting lightly at his arm with the spatula. "Not funny, love. He knows about your accident and everything you've been through. Be nice."

His grin softened, a flicker of something more serious passing through his expression. "Will you ever tell him what's really been going on with us these past three years?" he asked, his tone low but gentle.

She froze for a moment, the question hanging in the air between them. When she turned back to him, her eyes were steady, a hint of defensiveness sparking in their depths. "I would never!" she said firmly. "It's not something I want to share with him."

Seeing the fire in her gaze, Draco raised his hands in surrender, a small smirk playing on his lips. "Calm down, darling. I was just teasing."

She huffed, clearly not amused. "What would I even tell him? 'Oh, by the way, Harry, my husband and I have been navigating life's ridiculous twists and turns, complete with comas, accidents, and near-death experiences'? No, thank you. I'll stick to the truth... with a few little white lies sprinkled in for flavor."

His smirk turned into a genuine smile, his gray eyes softening. "That's my good girl," he said approvingly, leaning down to steal a quick kiss.

She shook her head at him, muttering something about his impossible sense of humor, but the corners of her mouth twitched upward in spite of herself. She couldn't stay annoyed with him for long—not when he looked at her like she was the only person in the world who mattered.

As she turned back to the stove, he took a moment to watch her again, the light catching the curve of her cheek and the way her hair fell loose around her shoulders. He knew how much she carried on her shoulders, how fiercely she protected their life together. And he loved her all the more for it.

"You know," he said, leaning against the counter now, "if I'd known married life would include gourmet breakfasts every morning, I might have proposed even sooner."

She laughed, a bright, melodic sound that filled the kitchen. "Oh, don't start with your flattery now, Malfoy. You can help by setting the table."

"Yes, ma'am," he replied, giving her a mock salute before moving to retrieve the plates and silverware. As he worked, he couldn't help but think about how much he cherished these simple, quiet moments. After everything they'd endured, they felt like the greatest treasure.

The music played on, the pancakes continued to stack, and in that sunlit kitchen, surrounded by the promise of a new day, Draco felt a deep, unshakable peace. Whatever challenges lay ahead, they would face them together. That was all that mattered.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The front door of the penthouse swung open, revealing Harry and Cho standing arm in arm, their faces glowing with happiness. Hermione immediately rushed forward, her excitement bubbling over as she pulled them into a warm embrace.

"Harry! Cho!" she exclaimed, her voice alight with joy. She hugged them tightly, her enthusiasm infectious. "Congratulations! This is such wonderful news."

"Thank you so much," Cho replied, her smile radiant as she placed a protective hand over her growing baby bump. Her eyes sparkled with a mix of excitement and contentment. "We couldn't wait to share it with you."

He appeared from the hallway, his sharp features softening as he took in the scene. "Well, if it isn't the dynamic duo," he said with a smirk, striding over to join them. He extended a hand toward Harry, his expression warm. "Congratulations to you both."

"Thanks, mate," Harry said, shaking his hand firmly. There was an ease between the two men that had grown over the years, their old animosities long since buried. "It's been a whirlwind, but we're thrilled."

"Come in, sit down!" she said, ushering them toward the cozy living area. "You have to tell me everything. How are you feeling, Cho? Any cravings? Morning sickness?"

Cho laughed lightly as she and Harry settled onto the plush couch. "Oh, it's been a journey, let me tell you. The cravings have been wild—last week, I made Harry hunt down pickled plums at midnight."

Harry groaned good-naturedly, raking a hand through his messy hair. "It's true. I've been at the mercy of her pregnancy whims, but honestly, I wouldn't have it any other way."

He arched a brow, clearly amused. "And here I thought the Chosen One could face any challenge. Apparently, nothing is as formidable as a pregnant wife."

"Don't knock it until it's your turn," Harry shot back with a grin.

She waved them toward the dining table, where an impressive spread awaited. "I hope you're hungry," she said, gesturing to the array of pancakes, bacon, fresh fruit, and an assortment of juices. "I may have gone a little overboard, but it's not every day we get to celebrate such exciting news."

Cho's eyes widened as she took in the feast. "Hermione, this looks incredible. You've outdone yourself."

"Only the best for you two," she replied, practically beaming.

As everyone took their seats, he poured coffee for the table and leaned back, looking at Cho with curiosity. "So, when's the big arrival?"

"Early December," Cho answered, her hand absently resting on her bump. "It feels like forever and no time at all, all at once. We're so excited."

"I can tell," she said, her gaze flickering to Harry, who was positively glowing with pride. "And how are you holding up, Harry? You look... less stressed than I expected." She grinned teasingly.

Harry chuckled, shaking his head. "Honestly? I'm great. Cho's been handling everything like a pro. She's amazing."

"She always was the sensible one," Draco quipped, his lips twitching into a playful smirk. He raised his glass of orange juice. "A toast—to new beginnings and to the two of you for surviving the madness so far."

The glasses clinked together in celebration, the sound mingling with the soft music playing in the background. As they dug into the meal, the conversation flowed effortlessly, as it always did among friends. Hermione and Cho became engrossed in a lively discussion about nursery themes and baby names, while Draco and Harry exchanged updates on the latest happenings in the wizarding world.

Throughout the meal, her gaze would occasionally flicker to him. Her brown eyes, warm and filled with a quiet kind of affection, softened whenever they lingered on him. Despite everything—the trials, the uncertainties, and the scars left behind—moments like this reminded her of how far they'd come. It wasn't perfect, but it was theirs, and the love they had built was enough to steady them through anything.

Draco, too, seemed more at ease than usual, the tension he often carried in his shoulders replaced with a rare calm. He caught her eye during one of her glances, offering a small, knowing smile. She returned it with a slight blush, feeling the familiar flutter of happiness that came with realizing just how much he meant to her.

As the lunch wound down, Hermione stood, smoothing her apron. "I'm so glad we could do this," she said, gathering plates and mugs with a practiced ease. "It's moments like these that remind me how important it is to pause and just... enjoy life."

Cho, sitting beside Harry, reached out to squeeze Hermione's hand. "Thank you for hosting us. Honestly, it means more than you know."

He leaned back in his chair, a rare, genuine smile gracing his lips. "She's right," he said, his voice quieter but no less sincere. "It's good to have friends who make everything a little lighter."

She glanced around the table, her heart full as she took in the relaxed smiles and shared glances of their closest friends. These were the moments worth treasuring—the quiet, everyday joy of connection.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Afterward, as Hermione and Cho busied themselves in the kitchen, their soft laughter mixing with the sound of running water, Draco and Harry drifted toward the sitting area. Draco, ever the host, retrieved a decanter of fine whiskey from a cabinet and poured two glasses, handing one to Harry before settling into the armchair across from him.

Harry took a sip of the amber liquid, leaning back in his seat. "It's been a while since we've had the chance to sit and talk," he said, his tone contemplative. "Too long, really."

Draco swirled his glass thoughtfully, the faint clink of ice breaking the quiet between them. "Yes," he admitted, his expression reflective. "Things have been... complicated. For both of us, I think."

Harry's green eyes studied Draco carefully, a seriousness overtaking his expression. "I've been meaning to ask—how are you really doing? I mean, after everything."

For a moment, Draco was silent, the question hanging in the air like an open wound. Finally, he took a measured breath. "It's been a year of recovery—physically, mentally, emotionally. I'm better now, but... there are still parts of it that linger. Shadows I can't quite escape."

Harry leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. His voice was steady, filled with the kind of understanding that only came from his own battles with the past. "You've been through hell, Draco. No one would blame you for struggling."

His lips pressed into a thin line, his gaze falling to the glass in his hands. "It's not something I could talk about. Not even with Hermione. She's done everything she could to support me, but..." He hesitated, the vulnerability in his voice stark. "Some things are too dark to share. Too heavy to place on someone else."

Harry's brow furrowed, his concern evident. "You know, you don't have to carry it all alone. Hermione's there for you, and so am I. You've got people who care, Draco."

His eyes met Harry's, and for a moment, the guarded walls he so carefully maintained seemed to crack. "I know," he said quietly, his voice rough with unspoken emotion. "And I can't tell you how much that means. I just... I didn't want to burden anyone."

Harry smiled faintly, his expression a mix of understanding and encouragement. "We're your friends, Draco. Burden or not, that's what we're here for. You don't have to be strong all the time."

Draco looked away, swallowing hard, but a glimmer of relief softened his features. "I'll keep that in mind," he said after a pause, his voice steadier now. "Thank you, Potter. Truly."

Harry smirked, taking another sip of his drink. "Anytime. But let's not make this a habit—I have a reputation to uphold."

Draco chuckled, a low, genuine sound that broke some of the tension between them. "Don't worry. I wouldn't dream of it."

The two men sat in comfortable silence for a moment, the weight of unspoken words balanced by the quiet camaraderie that had grown between them. In the kitchen, the sound of Hermione and Cho's laughter carried over, filling the space with warmth. For the first time in a long time, everything felt... right.

"That's not how it works, Draco," Harry said firmly. "We're friends. Friends help each other, especially in the darkest times."

He smiled faintly. "You're right. It's just hard to shake off old habits, I suppose."

Harry's gaze softened. "I get that. But letting people in can make a difference. Hermione's been incredible through all this, hasn't she?"

His expression softened, and he nodded. "She's been my rock. Even when I was at my lowest, she never gave up on me. I can't tell you how much that means."

Harry nodded, understanding. "She's always been like that. But it's clear she's found someone who truly appreciates her."

His eyes met Harry's with earnestness. "I do. Every day I'm grateful for her. I know I'm not always the easiest person to be around, but she sees something in me that I didn't even see in myself."

Harry's face broke into a small, approving smile. "You know, it's good to see you like this. It shows how far you've come. You're not the person you used to be."

"Thanks, Harry," Draco said, his voice softening. "That means a lot coming from you."

Harry placed a hand on his shoulder, a gesture of genuine camaraderie. "We've all changed, and that's okay. What matters is that we're here for each other. And right now, that's what counts."

Draco nodded, a sense of relief washing over him. "Yes, it is." He took a deep breath, his fingers tightening around his glass as he prepared to address Harry with a weighty apology. The conversation had moved into more personal territory, and Draco knew this was a moment he needed to confront his past. Harry, sensing the shift in tone, gave him a nod of encouragement.

"Harry," he began, his voice steady but tinged with emotion, "there's something I've been meaning to say. I owe you a long overdue apology. It's not just about the events that happened recently, but about everything that's transpired between us over the years."

Harry looked at him, his expression attentive but neutral. Draco continued, gathering his thoughts.

"Going back to Hogwarts, I was always driven by so much fear and pressure. I remember the first year, when I was just a boy trying to prove myself. My actions were driven by my father's expectations and the Slytherin ambition to surpass Gryffindor in any way we could. I targeted you, Harry, not just because of what you represented but because of what I was told to believe."

Draco paused, looking away momentarily. "In the second year, with the whole Chamber of Secrets fiasco, I was caught up in the way I was raised. I didn't fully understand then how wrong it was to perpetuate that kind of hatred. I let my family's prejudices cloud my judgment."

He took another sip of his drink, steeling himself to continue. "By the third year, when I tried to get you and your friends expelled with the whole Hippogriff incident, I was just trying to undermine you any way I could. I was too proud to admit that I was wrong or to see past my own narrow viewpoint."

His voice grew more intense as he recalled the events. "The fourth year was when things escalated further. When I was forced to become a Death Eater, I was coerced into making choices that I now deeply regret. I wasn't thinking clearly, and I made mistakes that hurt so many people, including you. I was complicit in things I should never have been part of."

He met Harry's gaze directly. "During the fifth year, when I was part of Umbridge's regime, I participated in bullying and tormenting you and your friends. I was too afraid to stand up for what was right. I didn't realize then how much pain I was causing. It was cowardly, and it was wrong."

His voice faltered slightly. "The sixth year, with the attacks on Hogwarts and the attempts on Dumbledore's life, was a dark time. I was pressured into things that I should have fought against, not participated in. I see now how my actions, driven by fear and desperation, were beyond reproach."

He sighed deeply. "And then, even after the battle, when I was part of the aftermath, I still struggled to make amends. It took me too long to understand the extent of the damage I had done and how much I had to atone for."

His expression was filled with regret. "Harry, I am truly sorry for all the pain I've caused you over the years. I was wrong, and I let my own fears and prejudices guide me into making terrible decisions. You've shown me nothing but resilience and kindness, even when I didn't deserve it. I wish I could go back and change everything, but all I can do now is ask for your forgiveness and hope to make things right from here on out."

Harry listened quietly, absorbing his heartfelt apology. The weight of sis words seemed to settle between them, bringing a sense of resolution to their troubled history. Harry's response was calm but genuine.

"Draco, I appreciate your apology. It's clear you've been through a lot and have taken responsibility for your actions. It's not easy to face the past and admit mistakes. I'm willing to move forward from here, and I hope we can both find a way to heal from everything we've been through."

Draco nodded gratefully, a mixture of relief and hope in his eyes. "Thank you, Harry. That means more to me than I can express."

The two men shared a moment of mutual understanding, bridging the gap that had long existed between them.

As they continued their conversation, the weight of the past seemed to lift a little, replaced by a renewed sense of connection and understanding. For both men, it was a moment of healing, a step forward in their journey of friendship and recovery.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Draco sat in the shadowed corner of his study, the fire crackling softly in the hearth. The room was steeped in silence, save for the rhythmic ticking of an antique clock on the mantel. His hand trembled slightly as he lifted a glass of whiskey to his lips, the amber liquid glinting in the firelight like molten gold. He took a deliberate sip, letting the sharp burn trail down his throat, hoping it would smother the unease twisting in his chest. But no amount of alcohol could drown out the cold truth that had lodged itself in his mind like a jagged shard of glass.

He was not invincible. He was not untouchable.

The brush with death had been closer than he could bear to admit. A curse, dark and deadly, had been aimed directly at him, its lethal intent palpable in the air. He could still hear the sharp, malevolent hiss as it cut through the silence, still feel the rush of displaced air as it narrowly missed its mark. It had left a reminder behind—a jagged, searing scar etched into the flesh of his arm. Every throb of pain it now radiated was a cruel reminder of how tenuous the thread of his life had become.

The memory played on a loop in his mind, vivid and unrelenting. The chaotic blur of the fight, the flash of green light that he had barely avoided, the acrid scent of burnt fabric as the curse grazed him—it was all too real, too vivid. He had faced danger countless times before, but there had always been a certain distance to it, a sense of control. This time, he had felt the icy breath of death against his neck.

He leaned back in his chair, his gaze fixed on the flames as they licked and flickered, their light casting erratic shadows across the room. They seemed alive, mocking him with their careless dance. He had always understood, intellectually, that death was a risk—a hazard woven into the fabric of his world. It came with the territory, the choices he had made. But until now, it had never felt real. Not like this.

Now, it was a looming specter, a constant presence hovering just out of sight but always felt. Mortality was no longer an abstract concept or a whispered possibility. It was tangible, suffocating, an icy grip tightening around his chest.

The study, his usual sanctuary, felt stifling. The walls seemed to close in on him, the heavy bookshelves and ornate furnishings suddenly oppressive. He set the glass down with a soft clink, his fingers lingering on its edge. For the first time in years, he felt small. Vulnerable. Mortal.

He clenched his jaw, his fingers curling into fists as frustration warred with fear. How had it come to this? How had he let himself get so close to the brink? And yet, in the back of his mind, he knew that the answer didn't matter. What mattered was what he did now, how he moved forward.

But the uncertainty gnawed at him. He was a man who thrived on control, on calculated precision. And yet, death was the ultimate uncertainty, the one variable he could never account for, never outwit.

His thoughts drifted to Hermione. What would she say if she knew how close he had come? Would she rage at him, demand answers, or would she simply look at him with those soulful, knowing eyes and remind him of all the reasons he needed to stay alive? The thought of her, of the life they had painstakingly built together, sent a new kind of ache through him—one born of love and a desperate need to protect what mattered most.

He dragged a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. He couldn't allow himself to spiral. Not now. There was too much at stake. He reached for the glass again, but this time, he didn't drink. Instead, he stared into the amber depths, as if the answers he sought might be hidden within.

The fire crackled louder, snapping him out of his thoughts. He straightened in his chair, the flicker of vulnerability in his eyes replaced with something harder, more resolute. He couldn't change what had happened, but he could ensure that he was better prepared. Smarter. Stronger.

The specter of death might linger, but it would not claim him today. Not if he had anything to say about it.

He took another sip of whiskey, the warmth spreading through him doing little to quiet the chaos in his mind. What had he been doing all this time, tempting fate and convincing himself he was immune to the consequences? He'd seen others fall—friends, enemies, even his own family—and yet he had clung to the arrogant belief that he was different. Special. Untouchable.

But now, that illusion was cracking, and the lie he'd built his life on was unraveling thread by thread.

The creak of the door broke the suffocating silence, and Hermione stepped into the room. Her presence was a balm, her silhouette outlined softly by the golden glow of the fire. She didn't speak immediately, her sharp eyes assessing him, taking in the stiff set of his shoulders, the empty glass trembling slightly in his hand, and the haunted shadow in his gaze.

"Draco," she said finally, her voice soft but insistent, like the grounding pull of gravity. She crossed the room cautiously, kneeling in front of him to meet his eyes. "What's wrong?"

For a moment, he didn't answer. The whiskey burned as he drained the last of it, the glass landing on the table with a hollow clink that seemed to echo endlessly. He dragged a hand through his hair, the weight of the confession pressing heavily on his chest. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and raw, like an open wound.

"I almost died, Hermione," he admitted, the words tasting bitter and foreign on his tongue. "And it wasn't some grand, heroic act. It wasn't a noble sacrifice. It was stupid—careless. A split-second mistake, and it nearly cost me everything."

Her expression shifted, concern deepening into something more profound as she reached for his hand, lacing her fingers through his. "But it didn't," she reminded him gently. "You're here. You're alive."

He turned his head, his storm-gray eyes locking onto hers. They were filled with something she rarely saw in him—raw, unfiltered fear. "But for how long?" he whispered. His voice was shaky, a threadbare echo of the man he tried so hard to be. "I've been so consumed by… everything—this life, this world—that I never stopped to think about how fragile it all is. How fragile I am."

Her heart clenched at the vulnerability in his words. It was a side of Draco he rarely allowed to surface, and it broke her to see him so consumed by doubt. She shifted closer, squeezing his hand tightly as if to tether him to her. "We're all fragile, Draco," she said softly, her tone steady and comforting. "That's what makes us human. None of us are invincible."

He closed his eyes, his jaw tightening as he struggled to steady himself. "I've spent so long trying to be strong. To be untouchable. It's how I survived—how I convinced myself I could keep you safe. But now… I feel like I'm unraveling. Like I'm losing control."

She reached up with her free hand, cupping his cheek and guiding his gaze back to hers. "You don't have to be invincible, Draco," she said, her voice gentle but firm. "You don't have to carry this alone. You're allowed to be scared. You're allowed to need help. That doesn't make you weak—it makes you human."

Her words hit him with the force of a tidal wave, washing over the walls he'd so carefully built around himself. For the first time in what felt like forever, he allowed himself to lean into her touch. Her hand was warm against his skin, her steady presence anchoring him in a way he hadn't realized he needed.

"What if I'm not strong enough?" he murmured, his voice barely audible. The question hung in the air, heavy with doubt and self-reproach.

"You are strong enough," she replied without hesitation, her voice unwavering. "But strength doesn't mean never feeling fear or doubt. It means facing them, even when it feels impossible. And you don't have to do it alone. I'm here, love. I'll always be here."

Something in him cracked, but it wasn't the shattering he feared. It was a release, a letting go of the impossible weight he had carried for so long. He exhaled shakily, some of the tension easing from his frame as her words wrapped around him like a lifeline.

He pulled her closer, his forehead resting against hers, the simple contact grounding him in a way the whiskey never could. "Thank you," he whispered, his voice rough but filled with gratitude. "For being here. For understanding."

She smiled softly, her fingers brushing through his hair. "Always," she whispered back. Her heart swelled with love for the man before her—flawed, broken in some ways, but so fiercely determined to rise above it all.

For the first time that evening, Draco felt the icy grip of fear begin to loosen. Hermione's presence didn't erase the fragility of his existence or the specter of death that loomed over him, but it reminded him of something just as real.

Hope. Connection. Love.

And as the firelight flickered around them, he dared to believe that maybe, just maybe, those things would be enough.

Together, they sat in the quiet of the study, the fire crackling softly beside them. The dim glow of the flames danced across their faces, illuminating the raw emotion etched into their features. Draco leaned back in his chair, his fingers still loosely entwined with Hermione's, grounding him as he began to come to terms with the reality he had spent so long avoiding.

It wasn't easy. Coming to terms with his own mortality felt like unearthing a buried wound—painful, unrelenting, and necessary.

"My love," he murmured, his voice rough with emotion. He hesitated, his grip on her hand tightening as if afraid she might slip away. "How do you deal with it? Your own… near-death experience?"

Hermione froze for a moment, the question hitting her like a cold gust of wind. She didn't answer right away. Instead, she let out a shaky breath, her free hand tracing absent patterns on her lap as memories she tried to keep buried surged forward. "Healer O'Connor helps," she said finally, her voice quiet and strained. "But it's always there, Draco. Every day. The PTSD, the flashbacks... the helplessness. It's like a shadow I can't escape." Her voice cracked, and she blinked rapidly, trying to stem the tears threatening to fall. "I blame myself constantly. For what happened. For surviving."

His jaw tightened, and a pang of anguish twisted in his chest. Seeing her, who he had always regarded as the embodiment of strength, reveal such vulnerability made his own struggles feel both heavier and oddly less isolating. He released her hand only to cup her face gently, his thumb brushing away a tear that had slipped free. "It was never your fault," he whispered fiercely. "Never. And what happened to me—that was my fault. My recklessness."

She shook her head, fresh tears spilling over as she covered his hand with hers. "You're not the only one who feels that way," she said softly, her voice trembling with emotion. "But blaming yourself won't bring peace. It won't make the memories go away. I know that because I've tried. For so long, I've tried."

His lips parted as if to respond, but the weight of her words settled in his chest like lead, silencing him. He turned his gaze to the fire, the flames reflected in the stormy gray of his eyes. "The flashbacks… they're unbearable," he admitted hoarsely. "Every moment, every sound, every detail… it's all still so vivid. And I can't stop wondering—what if next time, I don't get to walk away? What if I leave you—" He broke off, his voice faltering as a lump rose in his throat.

She leaned forward, her hands moving to his cheeks, forcing him to meet her gaze. "Don't," she said, her tone firm despite the tears glistening in her eyes. "Don't let the 'what-ifs' consume you. We can't predict what will happen tomorrow, my love. None of us can. But we can choose how we face today."

"But what if it's too late for me?" he whispered, his vulnerability raw and unfiltered. "What if I can't escape this darkness? What if it swallows me whole?"

She pressed her forehead to his, her touch grounding him in a way nothing else could. "It won't," she said, her voice steady and resolute. "Because you're not alone in this. And no matter how dark it gets, I'll be here. We'll face it together, step by step. You're not fighting this battle alone."

Her words were a lifeline, pulling him back from the edge of despair. He let out a shaky breath, his body relaxing just enough to feel her warmth against him. "I don't know if I can ever forgive myself," he admitted after a long silence. "But for you, Hermione… I'll try."

"And that's enough," she said, her voice filled with quiet strength. "Trying is enough."

In the stillness of the room, they clung to each other, their scars—both visible and invisible—binding them as tightly as their love. The road ahead was uncertain, fraught with pain and setbacks, but in each other, they had found a beacon of hope.

Healing Came in Different Forms

For Hermione, healing was a relentless pursuit. Every week, she sat in a therapist's office, confronting the horrors she had endured. The process was slow and agonizing—a careful excavation of memories she had tried to bury. She faced the flashbacks, the guilt, and the deep-seated fear that she was permanently broken. Yet, with each tear shed and every small victory, she felt a glimmer of herself returning. Therapy wasn't just a remedy; it was a reclamation of her own strength.

For Draco, healing was less linear. The whiskey bottle became a daily ritual—a bitter elixir that numbed the ache but offered no real solace. It dulled the edges of his pain, quieted the ghosts that haunted him, but it also chained him to the very despair he sought to escape. He knew it wasn't a solution, just a fleeting reprieve, but facing his demons head-on felt insurmountable. The bottle was his shield, his temporary escape.

She saw it. She noticed how his hand lingered on the glass, how his shoulders slumped under the weight of his unresolved grief. She didn't push him—she knew better than anyone that healing couldn't be forced. But she stayed, her quiet presence a constant reminder that he didn't have to face it alone.

Some nights, he would wake in a cold sweat, the vivid replay of his near-death choking him in the dark. Hermione would hold him, her arms steady and unyielding, whispering words of comfort until his breathing evened out. Other nights, it was her who needed solace, her own nightmares pulling her back to the brink. And Draco, despite his own struggles, would cradle her against his chest, reminding her that she was safe, that she was loved.

Healing wasn't linear, nor was it easy. But together, they carved out a fragile, imperfect path forward—one where love became their anchor, their guiding light in the darkness. They had each other, and for now, that was enough.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Enough is enough!" Hermione's voice cracked through the suffocating silence, trembling under the weight of her fury, fear, and desperation. She froze in the doorway of the study, her heart plummeting at the sight before her.

He lay sprawled across the cold, wooden floor, an empty whiskey bottle dangling loosely from his fingers. The acrid stench of alcohol filled the room, mingling with the faint traces of smoke from the dying embers in the hearth. His once-pristine features were dulled by weeks of self-inflicted ruin, his hair disheveled, his cheeks hollow, and his eyes—when they opened briefly—glassy and devoid of clarity.

Her chest tightened as he stirred, muttering weakly in French. "C'est ce que je veux. Je veux mourir." 

The words hit her like a slap, the cold finality of them stealing the air from her lungs. For a moment, she stood frozen, the fragile veneer of her control cracking under the weight of his despair. A shiver of panic shot through her, icy and unforgiving. But then, like a dam breaking, anger surged through her veins, hot and volatile, burning away the paralysis.

"Oh, fuck off,m!" she snapped, her voice trembling, torn between rage and heartbreak. She stepped closer, her hands shaking as she shoved the bottle away from his slack grip. "Get yourself together, for fucks sake! You're not the only one suffering, you selfish bastard!"

He flinched at her words, his brows knitting together as if her voice were cutting through the haze clouding his mind. He let out a bitter laugh, dry and humorless, as he pushed himself upright with unsteady hands. "Selfish?" he slurred, his voice hoarse and thick with drink. "You think I enjoy this? You think I chose this?"

"I don't care if you enjoy it or not!" she shot back, her fists clenching at her sides. "You're destroying yourself, and you're dragging me down with you! Do you even see what you're doing to us?"

He scoffed, leaning heavily against the edge of the desk for support. His gray eyes met hers, bloodshot and defiant. "Don't pretend you're some saint in all this," he snarled, his tone laced with venom. "You think you've got it all figured out, don't you? Your therapy sessions, your endless talking… Does it even help? Or are you just pretending you're better than me because you can sit in a chair and cry about your problems?"

Her jaw dropped at the cruel jab, the sharpness of his words cutting deeper than she expected. Tears welled up in her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. "At least I'm trying," she said, her voice breaking. "At least I'm not drowning myself in whiskey every night, pretending that makes it all go away."

He laughed again, the sound hollow and bitter as he staggered to his feet, swaying slightly. "Trying?" he repeated mockingly. "You think you're fixing anything? Look at you—standing there, yelling at me like it's going to change a damn thing. You're just as broken as I am, Hermione. Maybe worse."

The words hit their mark, but instead of crumbling, Hermione's anger flared brighter. "I may be broken, Draco, but at least I'm not giving up! At least I'm fighting to make things better, for myself, for us—"

"Us?" he interrupted, his voice rising. "Don't kid yourself. There hasn't been an 'us' for months. You're too busy fixing yourself to notice that I've already fallen apart."

His admission hung in the air like a dagger, sharp and unforgiving. Hermione's hands trembled as she took a step closer, her voice low and trembling with raw emotion. "I notice, Draco," she said, her words cutting through his drunken haze like a blade. "I notice every single day. And I keep trying—trying—because I love you. Because I can't stand the thought of losing you."

"Then stop trying!" he roared, his voice cracking under the strain. "Stop trying to save me, Hermione. I'm not worth it. I've never been worth it!"

His head lolled to the side, his expression twisted into a grotesque mask of pain and resignation. His eyes, once piercing and alive with cunning, were now dulled, vacant, like the light within him had long since burned out. The sight of him like this—broken, hollow, a shadow of the man she once loved—made Hermione's heart ache, but the rage that coursed through her veins drowned out any sympathy.

"You think this is what you want?" she hissed, stepping closer, her hands trembling as they curled into fists. "You think dying is the answer? That it'll make everything better? That it'll make the pain go away?"

"Leave me alone, bitch!" he slurred, his words like venom, dripping with spite.

Her breath hitched, the insult hitting her like a slap. She stood frozen for a moment, her mind struggling to reconcile the man before her with the one she used to know. But the shock quickly gave way to an explosive fury, a heat that consumed her entirely.

"You dare call me that?" she spat, her voice trembling with disbelief and fury. "You're lying here, drunk out of your mind, wallowing in self-pity, and you have the audacity to call me a bitch?"

He sneered, dragging himself into a sitting position with a groan, the effort seeming monumental in his drunken state. His hair hung in damp, disheveled strands across his forehead, still wet from the water she'd thrown at him moments ago. He wiped his face with the back of his hand, his expression twisted into something cruel.

"How dare I?" he mocked, his voice sharp and cutting. "How dare you barge in here and act like you're some kind of savior? Like you're better than me?"

Her chest heaved with the force of her anger. "DON'T YOU DARE TWIST THIS!" she shouted, her voice breaking. "I came in here to help you because you're too much of a coward to help yourself!"

"Help me?" his bitter laugh echoed through the room, a cold and hollow sound. "You think throwing water on me and yelling like a shrew is helping? Merlin, you're pathetic, Hermione. Absolutely pathetic."

Her mouth opened, the words catching in her throat as if she'd been physically struck. She blinked, her vision blurring with unshed tears, but she refused to let him see her crumble.

"You think I'm pathetic?" she said, her voice shaking but still sharp. "Look at yourself, Draco! You're lying on the floor like a—like a drunk, bitter—"

"Say it," he snarled, cutting her off. He staggered to his feet, leaning heavily on the edge of the desk to steady himself. "Say what you really mean. A failure? A waste of space? Go ahead. Tell me something I don't already know."

She shook her head, her hands trembling with rage. "I didn't come here to hurt you. But you don't need me for that, do you? You're doing a fine job of it all on your own."

"Spare me the moral high ground," he snapped, his voice rising to a roar. "You think you're so perfect, don't you? Sitting in therapy, talking about your feelings like it makes you better than me. But you're just as fucked up as I am. Maybe worse."

Her jaw tightened, her body trembling with the effort to keep her emotions in check. "I'm not perfect," she said, her voice low and trembling. "But at least I'm trying. At least I'm not giving up like you."

"Trying?" he sneered, his tone dripping with mockery. "What are you trying for, huh? Some delusional happily-ever-after where you fix me, and we live in wedded bliss? Newsflash, Hermione: I'm not fixable. I've been broken beyond repair for years, and you're a fool for thinking otherwise."

Her resolve snapped. She stepped closer, her voice trembling with unrestrained anger. "You don't get to decide that for me,m! You don't get to sit there and wallow while I fight every single day for us—for you! Do you even care what this is doing to me? Do you even see me anymore?"

"See you?" His laughter was cold and hollow. "All I see is someone who can't let go of the fantasy. You're not fighting for me. You're fighting for yourself. To ease your guilt. To feel good about yourself. Don't pretend this is about love."

Her breath hitched, her vision blurring as his words cut her to the core. "How dare you," she whispered, her voice shaking with disbelief. "How dare you reduce everything we've been through to this—to your drunken, self-pitying delusions. You may have given up on yourself, but I will not let you drag me down with you."

"Then leave!" he roared, his voice echoing off the walls. His chest heaved as he glared at her, his expression wild and desperate. "Go on, Hermione. Walk away. You're good at that, aren't you? Leaving when things get hard."

The accusation struck her like a slap, the air leaving her lungs in a painful rush. She turned to him slowly, her eyes blazing with a mix of fury and heartbreak.

"You are despicable," she said, her voice low and deadly. "You're drunk, you're angry, and you're a coward. And you know what? If you keep pushing me away, one day, I will leave. And when that day comes, you'll only have yourself to blame."

Her voice cracked as she turned on her heel and stormed toward the door.

"Go on!" he shouted after her, his voice breaking. "Run, bitch! That's what you do best!"

The door slammed shut behind her with a force that rattled the walls, leaving him alone in the deafening silence. He sank back into the chair, his head in his hands, the bitter taste of his own words lingering like poison in his mouth.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hermione sat on the edge of her childhood bed, her hands gripping the faded quilt her mother had sewn years ago. The weight of her emotions pressed heavily on her chest as she glanced around the room that had once been her refuge. Everything remained untouched, perfectly preserved like a snapshot frozen in time. Posters of her favorite books and bands still lined the pale blue walls, their edges curling slightly from age. Her bookshelf, crammed with novels that had once been her escape, stood proudly in the corner, and the stuffed animals, worn and frayed from years of affection, stared back at her from their familiar places.

But instead of the comfort she had hoped to find, she felt an overwhelming emptiness. The room, with all its innocent charm, seemed like a cruel joke now—a relic of a version of herself she could barely remember. It was a time when she had believed in the simplicity of right and wrong, in happy endings, and in the idea that love, above all, could heal and save.

That girl felt like a stranger. The woman sitting on the bed was weighed down by the cracks in her life, the sharp edges of choices that had led her somewhere she could no longer recognize. The memories of her past happiness felt distant and alien, as though they belonged to someone else entirely.

Her gaze fell to the quilt beneath her hands, its once-vivid patterns now muted by time. It was soft, comforting in texture but cruel in its symbolism. It spoke of safety, love, and the kind of warmth she had long since lost. The life she had built with Draco had none of that softness; it was jagged and cold, built on passion that had long since curdled into something darker, something unrecognizable.

A lump rose in her throat as she hugged her knees to her chest, pulling herself into a protective cocoon. Memories she had tried to bury clawed their way to the surface. She thought of the laughter they had shared in the beginning, the fiery connection that had once burned so brightly between them. How had it turned to this? To venomous words, manipulation, and walls that grew higher and higher between them with each passing day?

It had been a week since she had walked out of the Malfoy penthouse, her heart pounding as the heavy door slammed shut behind her. A week since she had left behind the cold, sterile grandeur of a home that had never truly been hers. Every inch of that place had seemed haunted—not by ghosts, but by Draco's demons. Demons that had clawed at him so fiercely they had begun to bleed into her. She had tried to fight them, to save him, but instead, she had lost pieces of herself in the battle.

She closed her eyes, letting her head fall against the bedpost. The thought of him was a double-edged sword. She missed him—missed the man she had fallen in love with, the man who had shown her glimpses of vulnerability beneath his icy exterior. But that man seemed so far away now, swallowed by the anger and bitterness that had taken root in him. The cruelty of his words still echoed in her mind, cutting deeper than she cared to admit.

And yet, it wasn't just his darkness that scared her. It was her own. The way she had let herself be consumed by him, the way she had justified his behavior over and over again because she thought she could fix it. Fix him. The lines between love and self-destruction had blurred so completely that she no longer knew where one ended and the other began.

The sharp, cutting words he had thrown at her replayed endlessly in her mind, each one a dagger she couldn't remove. They twisted deeper with every replay, their weight heavier than the silence in her childhood room. Yet, it wasn't just the words that haunted her. It was the helplessness. The suffocating realization that no matter how much love or effort she gave, she couldn't save him—not from the darkness that consumed him, nor the self-destruction he seemed to embrace like an old friend.

She was startled from her thoughts by a soft knock on the door, followed by her mother's gentle voice. "Hermione, sweetheart, you have a visitor."

Her gaze broke from the book in her lap—one she hadn't been reading, merely holding as a distraction. Her fingers rested on the same page she'd been staring at for hours, the words blurring into meaninglessness. "Who is it?" she asked softly, her voice strained with the exhaustion of too many sleepless nights.

"It's Luna," her mother replied warmly, the name carrying a subtle note of reassurance, as though she knew Hermione needed her friend's gentle presence.

She hesitated, a knot forming in her chest. Relief flickered at the mention of Luna's name—her unwavering calm and whimsical outlook were like a balm for her frayed nerves. But guilt quickly followed. Luna would see through her fragile composure in seconds. She always did. Still, she nodded, forcing a faint smile. "Okay. Send her up please."

Moments later, the door creaked open, and she entered the room, radiating her usual unassuming serenity. She wore a flowing pale blue dress, the color of a summer sky, paired with one of her eccentric necklaces—this one strung with Valentino initials. Her wide, curious eyes scanned the room, taking in its preserved simplicity before settling on Hermione with a knowing, compassionate gaze.

"Mimi," Luna greeted her softly, using the nickname that only she could say with such ease and affection. Her voice was a melody, light yet grounding, and it wrapped around Hermione like a comforting embrace. Closing the door behind her, Luna approached, her expression a mixture of concern and quiet understanding. "Your mummy said you've been here a while."

She nodded, her voice barely above a whisper. "I just needed… space. Time to think." Her words felt heavy, as if even speaking them aloud took more effort than she had to give.

Luna didn't reply immediately. Instead, she crossed the room in her usual graceful, almost ethereal way, and sat down beside her on the bed. Her presence filled the space with a quiet comfort that made Hermione feel seen without being judged. The silence between them wasn't awkward; it was purposeful, the kind that allowed wounds to breathe.

Finally, Luna spoke, her tone gentle yet direct. "I heard about Draco." She tilted her head slightly, her soft blonde hair catching the light. "I know things have been difficult."

She felt her throat tighten, the lump that had been lodged there for days now impossible to swallow. "It's been awful," she admitted, her voice trembling. "I tried so hard to help him, babes. To be there for him. But it's like he's drowning, and every time I reach out, he pulls me under with him." Tears welled in her eyes, blurring the image of her friend sitting beside her. "He said things… things I can't forget. Words that hurt so much I don't know if I can recover."

Luna reached out, her hand warm and steady as it covered hers. "Pain makes people lash out," she said, her voice as soft as a lullaby. "It doesn't excuse it, but it explains it. Sometimes, when someone is hurting so deeply, they push away the person they need the most."

She shook her head, the tears slipping freely now. "I just… I don't know what to do anymore. I feel like I've lost him. And worse, I feel like I'm losing myself."

"You haven't lost yourself," she said firmly, her eyes holding Hermione's with an intensity that belied her usual dreaminess. "You've been carrying a burden that isn't yours to bear. Loving someone doesn't mean sacrificing all of yourself, Mimi. It's not about fixing their broken pieces at the cost of breaking your own."

Her sobs escaped in broken gasps as Luna's words pierced through the emotional haze she had been trapped in. "But I love him," she choked out. "I can't just walk away. What if he needs me? What if he can't get better without me?"

Luna's grip on her hand tightened, a small but unyielding gesture. "Mimi, listen to me," she said softly but with an edge of steel. "He has to want to get better. You can't do it for him. You can't pour all of your light into someone who refuses to step out of the shadows. That's not love. That's losing yourself."

She looked down, tears splattering on the quilt. "I just wish it didn't have to be this way."

Luna smiled faintly, a bittersweet expression that carried both sorrow and hope. "I know. Life is rarely fair, especially to those with hearts as big as yours. But you deserve love that doesn't leave you questioning your worth. You deserve a love that makes you feel whole, not fractured."

The room fell silent again, save for Hermione's quiet sniffles. Slowly, she leaned into Luna, resting her head on her friend's shoulder. "Thank you," she whispered hoarsely. "I don't know what I'd do without you."

Luna's arms came around her in a gentle hug. "You're not alone, Mimi. You'll find your way. And when you do, you'll remember just how strong you are."

For the first time in weeks, Hermione allowed herself to believe that might be true. Luna's unwavering belief in her felt like the first tiny step toward healing, and though the road ahead still felt impossibly long, she could at least see the faint glimmer of a path forward.

Luna sat across from Hermione in the cozy corner of her room. The soft clinking of teacups and murmured conversations filled the air, but in their little bubble of closeness, it felt as though the world had quieted. Luna's pale blue cardigan slipped off one shoulder as she leaned forward, her hands cradling her mug of chamomile tea. She looked radiant today—more luminous than usual, as though she were carrying a secret too wonderful to contain.

She raised an eyebrow, setting down her own cup. "You've been smiling like a Kneazle who caught the canary since you sat down. What's going on, Luna? Did you find another Crumple-Horned Snorkack expedition to join?"

Luna giggled, her laughter as light and musical as the wind chimes hanging by the tearoom window. She shook her head, her blonde hair catching the golden sunlight streaming in. "No, nothing like that." Her voice softened, a hint of mischief in her tone. "But you're right—I do have something to share."

She tilted her head, curiosity sparking in her eyes. "Well, don't leave me hanging, babes. Spill."

Luna's gaze softened, and for a moment, she simply looked at Hermione, her smile growing impossibly warmer. Then she reached across the table, placing her hand gently over Hermione's. "I'm pregnant."

For a heartbeat, she just stared at her, as if the words needed time to settle in her mind. Then her face lit up with pure joy, her hands flying to her mouth in a gasp of disbelief. "Luna! Are you serious? Oh, my goodness!"

Luna nodded, her smile widening into a beam of happiness that lit up the entire room. "I am," she said, her voice a little tremulous, as though she herself still marveled at the reality of it. "Theo and I are going to have a baby."

She was out of her seat in a heartbeat, circling the tiny table to pull Luna into a fierce, unreserved hug. "Oh, Luna, that's the most wonderful news!" she exclaimed, her voice thick with emotion. "I can't believe it—you're going to be a mum again!"

Luna hugged her back, her arms wrapping tightly around her friend. "And you're going to be the most brilliant auntie," she whispered, her voice trembling with happy tears.

She pulled back slightly, her hands still gripping Luna's shoulders as she searched her friend's face. "You're glowing, Luna. Truly. I don't think I've ever seen you look so happy. How's Theo taking it? He must be over the moon."

Luna's eyes sparkled, her cheeks flushing a delicate pink. "Oh, Theo cried when I told him," she admitted with a soft laugh. "And then he spent the next hour swearing to make the manor completely baby-proof again by the end of the week." Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. "He's already ordered books on magical parenting. I think he's read three of them in two days."

She laughed, dabbing at her eyes as tears of joy pricked at the corners. "That sounds like Theo—calm and composed on the outside but secretly in a tizzy underneath."

Luna grinned. "He's already talking about teaching the baby all about astronomy and showing them the constellations from the garden. He says he wants our child to know how vast and beautiful the universe is."

She let out a soft sigh, her heart swelling with happiness for her friend. "Luna, you're the most incredible mother. That child is going to grow up surrounded by so much love and wonder."

Luna squeezed her hand, her voice soft but filled with unwavering certainty. "And they're going to have the most amazing role models in their life, starting with you. I want them to grow up knowing what strength and kindness look like, and you embody both, Hermione."

Her heart caught in her throat at the sincerity of her words. She laughed through her tears, shaking her head. "Don't make me cry even more, Luna. I'm already a mess."

They both laughed then, their joy filling the small space between them like sunlight breaking through clouds. As they settled back into their seats, the conversation turned to baby names, nursery ideas, and Luna's excitement about introducing her child to the magical and Muggle worlds alike.

For the rest of the afternoon, the tearoom seemed brighter, warmer, as though it had been touched by the magic of Luna's news. And for Hermione, the joy of that moment was something she would carry with her forever—a reminder that even in the most unexpected places, life had a way of creating beautiful new beginnings.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A week. Seven days. 168 hours. 10,080 minutes. 604,800 seconds.

Draco lay in his enormous, empty bed, the weight of time pressing down on him as heavily as the silence that now consumed Malfoy household. Once a sanctuary of opulence and power, the house now felt suffocating, its grand halls echoing with an emptiness that mirrored the void inside him. The ornate ceiling above him blurred as he stared unseeing, his body motionless save for the slow, shallow rise and fall of his chest.

It wasn't just the physical toll of his illness—the weakness in his limbs, the fever that ebbed and flowed like a relentless tide—it was something deeper, more insidious. It was the gnawing ache that had taken root in his chest the moment she had walked out the door. Hermione. Her name was a whisper in his mind, a ghost in every corner of the manor, haunting him with what he'd lost.

He turned his head slightly, his gaze falling on the untouched bottle of whiskey on the desk across the room. It mocked him, a bitter testament to his failure to drown the memories of her laugh, her touch, the fire in her eyes when they argued. He had always prided himself on his strength, his ability to command and control. But now? Now he was powerless, lost in the void she'd left behind.

The sheets, once cool and crisp, now felt suffocating, a cruel reminder that her warmth no longer filled the space beside him. Every corner of the house seemed to conspire against him, betraying him with echoes of her presence—the faintest trace of her perfume lingering in the air, the book she'd left on the library table, its pages dog-eared where she'd stopped reading.

He closed his eyes, willing himself to shut out the memories, the unbearable ache of missing her. But it was futile. The silence was relentless, pressing down on him, suffocating him with the knowledge of his own inadequacy. He had driven her away, he knew that. His words, his actions—everything he had done had pushed her closer to the door. And now, she was gone.

The seconds ticked by, each one heavier than the last, stretching into an eternity of regret. For the first time in his life, Draco Malfoy—the man who had always believed he could face anything—felt utterly, completely broken.

He stared at the empty space beside him, the bed colder than it had ever been. Where her warmth had once lingered, there was now nothing but a gaping void, a silence so profound it seemed to seep into the marrow of his bones. Her absence filled the room like an oppressive fog, heavier than any weight he had ever known. The comfort of her presence, the quiet reassurance of knowing she was there, was gone. In its place, a loneliness that no amount of alcohol or self-pity could ever hope to numb.

Each second stretched into eternity, a suffocating countdown to an inevitable descent into despair. The ticking of time, once a background hum, now felt like a reminder of all that had slipped beyond his grasp.

Her last words echoed in his mind, sharp and cutting. The tremor in her voice, a mix of fury and heartbreak, burned into his memory. He could still hear it clearly—the way she'd looked at him, eyes brimming with hurt, the love she had once so freely given, now tainted with the weight of his cruelty. The sting of her rejection was a constant, cruel reminder that he had driven her to this point. The guilt gnawed at him, an insistent ache that twisted inside his chest, leaving him raw and empty, unable to find even the faintest trace of peace.

The silence around him pressed in, suffocating him as he grappled with the enormity of his actions. How had he let it come to this? How could he have lost her—really lost her? The realization hit him with all the force of a physical blow. It wasn't just the luxury, the power, the wealth that defined him anymore. Those things, once so intoxicating, now felt like a gilded cage, trapping him in his own misery. She had left him, and nothing he owned, nothing he had, could fill the hole she had left behind.

How could she? The thought twisted in his mind, sharp as a blade. It came out as a question, bitter and angry, but beneath it, there was a softer, quieter voice—a voice he couldn't ignore any longer—that whispered the truth he'd been avoiding for so long: She had every right to leave me.

He was miserable. A truth he had spent so long denying, pushing away with anger, with bitterness, with the walls he'd built around himself. He had driven her away, over and over, until there was nothing left for her to cling to. The venom in his words, the self-destructive path he had chosen, all of it had pushed her further from him. She had fought for him, for them, but in the end, there had been nothing left to fight for.

Now, with the weight of her absence pressing down on him like an immovable force, he finally began to understand the depth of what he had lost. The ache wasn't just in his chest—it was all-encompassing, a gnawing pain that radiated through every fiber of his being. It was a wound that went far deeper than he could have ever imagined, and it hurt in a way nothing else ever had before. He had shattered something irreplaceable, something he hadn't even realized he had until it was too late.

And the worst part? He knew there was no fixing it. The emptiness she had left behind was a chasm, vast and unyielding. No amount of whiskey, no fleeting moments of self-pity, could ever hope to fill it. Draco, slumped in a chair with a blanket draped over his shoulders, stared numbly at the dying embers of the fireplace. The warmth of the flames barely touched the cold that had settled inside him, the cold that no amount of external comfort could soothe.

He had been using the bottle as a crutch for so long, trying to drown his pain, but it had only dragged him deeper into his own darkness. The realization hit him hard, like a sharp slap: he couldn't hide from this anymore. He had to change. He had to face the reality he had created for himself, the one where his reckless actions had led to this moment—this unbearable, soul-crushing emptiness.

His eyes stayed fixed on the flickering flames, each crackle and pop a painful reminder of his choices, the decisions that had led him here. He had built this prison with his own hands, brick by brick, and now he had to live with it. He had to confront the shadows, the ugly parts of himself he had long ignored, and find a way to rebuild from the wreckage. But for now, all he could do was sit in the oppressive silence, the weight of his guilt pressing down on him like a thousand tons, knowing—deep in his gut—that he was the one to blame for everything.

Summoning the last of his resolve, he floo-called Theo and Blaise. His fingers hovered over the flames for a long moment before he finally plunged them into the fire, watching the swirl of green ignite the room. Within the hour, both friends arrived at his doorstep, their expressions a blend of concern, curiosity, and the unmistakable weariness of those who had seen him at his lowest and were unsure of what they would find this time.

Theo was the first to speak, his voice steady but laced with an undercurrent of concern.

"Draco, you look like hell. What's going on?" He stepped inside without waiting for an answer, his sharp eyes scanning the disheveled state of the study. The scattered papers, the half-empty glass of whiskey, the dim light that seemed to hang in the air like a fog—it was all too familiar, too telling.

Blaise followed, raising an eyebrow as he took in the scene, his gaze flicking over the untouched bottle of whiskey with a skeptical glance. "You called us. This better be important," he said, though the edge to his voice softened once he noticed the deep exhaustion in Draco's posture, the weariness that went beyond the physical.

He struggled to steady his breath, swallowing hard against the knot in his throat. His voice came out rough, hoarse from too many sleepless nights spent in the silence of his own thoughts. "I need help." He paused, running a hand through his hair, the weight of the words hanging in the air like an unspoken admission. "I'm done with this—" He gestured to the whiskey bottle on the table, the symbol of everything he had clung to in the absence of meaning. "I can't keep doing this to myself. I don't know how to fix things, but I know I need to start somewhere."

Theo's gaze softened as he crossed the room, his usual cool demeanor faltering just enough to reveal the concern beneath. He was the kind of friend who would never sugarcoat the truth, but right now, there was an unspoken understanding in his eyes, a recognition of how far Draco had fallen. "Good. Admitting it's the first step." He paused, his brow furrowing slightly as he glanced at Blaise, who nodded grimly. "What exactly do you need from us?"

He sighed, the heaviness of his regret weighing him down. It felt like every word was a burden, each one a small step towards a reckoning he wasn't sure he was ready for. "I need advice. I need... support. Something. Anything. I can't keep facing this alone. I don't want to keep falling back into the same destructive patterns." His voice cracked slightly as he continued. "I need to find a way to make things right—not just for me, but for everyone I've hurt."

Blaise's sharp eyes softened as he exchanged a brief glance with Theo. He let out a long breath before speaking, his voice more serious than it had been moments before. "We can help. But it won't be easy. You're going to have to commit to this—no half measures. It's going to take more than just talking; it's going to require real, sustained effort."

Theo nodded in agreement, the weight of the words settling in the room. "We're here for you. But you need to be ready to face the consequences of your actions. There's no quick fix, no magic solution. You've got to be willing to put in the work if you want things to change." He placed a hand on Draco's shoulder, his voice firm but gentle. "You've made the first step. But it's going to be a long road."

His eyes glistened with a mixture of gratitude and trepidation as he looked up at them, the vulnerability he rarely allowed himself to show now fully exposed. "I'm ready to do whatever it takes," he said quietly, his voice a tremor of emotion. "I've made too many mistakes, and I can't keep making the same ones. I need to change. I need your help to figure out how."

There was a long silence as both Theo and Blaise studied him, the weight of the situation pressing down on all of them. Then, Theo spoke again, his voice softer, almost hesitant. "Where is Hermione now?"

The question seemed to hang in the air, pulling at his chest like a thread he didn't want to unravel. He closed his eyes, breathing in slowly as if trying to collect himself. When he spoke, it was almost a whisper, as though the words themselves might shatter him. "I don't know," he admitted, his voice heavy with regret. "She left a week ago. I haven't heard from her since."

Blaise's expression hardened, though there was a flicker of sympathy in his eyes. "Congratulations, Draco. You managed to push her away completely. She didn't deserve this."

Draco's face fell, his heart sinking further into the pit of guilt that had taken root inside him. "I know," he whispered, his voice barely audible. "I really did ruin things. I just—" His voice cracked, the raw pain of his realization breaking through. "I didn't see it coming. I didn't realize how far I'd fallen until it was too late."

Theo's hand remained on his shoulder, a solid anchor in the storm of his emotions. His voice was steady, firm, yet laced with compassion. "It's not over yet. You've got to make things right, not just for her, but for yourself too. You've taken the first step by reaching out for help. Now you need to keep going. You're not alone in this."

Blaise nodded, his expression serious but not unkind. "It's going to be a long road to redemption. You'll have to face everything you've done, every consequence that comes with it. But if you're truly committed to change, you've still got a chance. It won't be easy, and it won't be quick, but you have a chance."

He sat silently for a moment, the weight of their words sinking into him like a stone in water. He let out a shaky breath, the path ahead seeming impossibly long and uncertain. But for the first time in a long while, he felt a small flicker of hope—a light, fragile and far off, but there all the same.

"I want to make things right," he said quietly, his voice steadying as he spoke. "I know I have a lot to prove. But I'm willing to try."

Theo gave him a firm squeeze, his face softening into something that might have been a rare smile. "Then let's focus on the path ahead. We'll help you through this. But remember, it's going to take time, and Hermione might need more time before she's ready to hear from you. But we'll be here."

He nodded, feeling the fragile strength of his resolve build within him. "Thank you," he said, his voice low but filled with determination. "I'll do whatever it takes. I need to start by making myself better, and maybe, just maybe, I can find a way to make amends with her."

As the three of them sat down to discuss the steps forward, his heart felt a little less heavy. The road ahead was daunting, but with his friends by his side, it felt a little more bearable. And for the first time in a long time, there was a glimmer of something—something like hope—that suggested maybe, just maybe, redemption wasn't entirely out of reach.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The dim light from the flickering fire cast long shadows across the room as he sat at the low table, his hands clasped tightly together. Across from him, Theo and Blaise observed him with a mixture of concern and expectation. The air was thick with tension, the weight of the conversation hanging heavily between them. His face was an unreadable mask, yet his eyes betrayed the turmoil swirling within. He had asked for their help, but even now, he wasn't sure if he was prepared for the challenge ahead.

Theo's eyes hardened, and for a moment, Draco felt like a child again, standing before an angry teacher who had no patience left for his excuses. Theo's calm voice was laced with a venomous edge that cut through the room like a blade.

"Draco, listen to me, because I'm only going to say this once," he began, his tone clipped and sharp. "You think this is going to be easy? You think a couple of apologies or some empty promises will fix the mess you've made? You've wrecked her, Draco. You've hurt her in ways that go far beyond what you can even comprehend right now. And I'm sick of watching you sit here, acting like this is some fucking game. It's not. It's real life. Hermione's been through hell—because of you."

Draco opened his mouth to speak, but Theo didn't let him.

"No, Draco," he cut him off, his voice rising with a fury Draco hadn't seen in years. "Don't even try. Don't try to tell me you're sorry or that you've realized your mistakes. Because the truth is, you've only realized that you're fucked, not that you've actually hurt someone beyond repair. You thought you could just toss her aside when it got hard, didn't you? You pushed her away when she needed you most. You couldn't even see it coming, could you? You're so wrapped up in your own damn self-pity that you didn't notice how far you'd fallen until it was too late."

Theo stood up now, pacing the small room, his voice dripping with frustration. "And now you want to fix it? Do you even know how? No, of course you don't. Because if you did, we wouldn't be having this conversation right now. You need to understand something very clearly, Draco: this isn't about you anymore. You don't get to decide the timeline. You don't get to decide when it's time to apologize or when it's time to show you've changed. You fucked up. Now it's her turn to decide if she wants to even look at you again."

Draco swallowed, feeling like he'd been punched in the gut. Theo wasn't done.

"Let me break it down for you," Theo continued, stopping in front of Draco with a look that was colder than any he'd ever seen. "You need to get your shit together, for you. I don't give a damn about what you think will make Hermione want you back. I care about you not spiraling into oblivion because it's clear you're on the edge of that, and if you think your little 'realization' is enough to pull you out of it, you're sorely mistaken. You're an absolute mess, Draco. You're a fucking wreck. And the first thing you need to do is take a long, hard look in the mirror and admit that."

Draco's face flushed with a mixture of shame and anger, but he held his tongue, knowing better than to interrupt.

"You're going to get help. You're going to get your act together, and you're going to stop fucking around with your destructive habits. No more hiding behind whiskey. No more avoiding your problems like they'll magically fix themselves. You're going to put in the effort, because if you don't, this will be over before it even begins. You don't get to take the easy way out. Not anymore."

Theo's eyes bore into him, cold and unforgiving. "And when you're ready, when you've actually changed—not just pretended for a couple of weeks to get her back—then, and only then, will you be able to make amends. But don't expect it to be smooth. Don't expect her to just fall into your arms because you finally figured out that you've been an asshole. It's going to be a hell of a lot harder than you think. And you might not get the redemption you think you deserve."

Blaise, who had been quiet up until this point, exchanged a glance with Theo before speaking in a more measured tone. "You've got a long road ahead of you, Draco. But this isn't going to happen unless you get your priorities straight. No more excuses."

Draco nodded slowly, the weight of Theo's words sinking deep into him. He'd known it wouldn't be easy, but Theo had made it painfully clear just how much work was required to undo the damage he'd caused. There was no more hiding, no more pretending.

"You're right," Draco muttered, his voice rough. "I've been a fool."

Theo's gaze softened just slightly, but the harsh edge remained. "We'll help you, but only if you're serious. Stop wasting time with apologies, and start proving you can be better."

Draco nodded again, his chest heavy with the weight of it all. He had no illusions now. The road to redemption was long, and it wasn't going to be kind. But if there was any chance of earning Hermione's forgiveness, he'd have to earn it through sheer grit and hard work. No more excuses.

Blaise's sharp eyes never left Draco's face, the intensity in his gaze cutting through the air like a knife. "What are you willing to do?" he asked, his voice hard, unforgiving. "Are you ready to actually change everything—not just for her, but for yourself? Because if you're asking for help, you'd better be prepared to put in the work. No more excuses, no more half-assed attempts. This isn't something you can fix with a pretty little speech."

Draco's frustration was palpable. He ran a hand through his hair, his mind racing as he grappled with the enormity of the situation. "I'm willing to do whatever it takes," he muttered, his voice low. "But I don't even know where to begin. I've fucked up so badly, I don't know what it would even look like to make things right."

Blaise's eyes narrowed, his expression a mixture of impatience and disgust. "No. That's your problem, right there. You're still wallowing in your own pity party, acting like you don't know how to fix this. You want her back? Then start by owning up to the fact that you've been an absolute bastard. And for the love of Merlin, stop acting like you can just wish away all the damage you've done. You think she's going to just forgive you because you say the right things? You're out of your mind if you believe that."

Theo, who had been silent until now, leaned in, his voice cool but deadly serious. "Blaise is right. This isn't a 'get Hermione back' project. This is about you. You're the one who needs fixing first. If you're not ready to face the fact that you need help, that you need to change for yourself—not just for her—then none of this matters. You've been avoiding it for too long, and look where it's gotten you. You want her back, fine. But that means taking a long, hard look at who you are and confronting the mess you've made of yourself."

His face flushed, but he couldn't argue. Theo was right.

Blaise's voice snapped him back into focus. "Theo's right. You've been lying to yourself, thinking you can just make things better with a few promises. It's not enough. Words mean nothing without actions. So stop pretending like you've got it all figured out, because you don't. You've been avoiding your demons, and look where it's gotten you—sitting here, begging for a second chance from a woman you've destroyed. You need to prove to yourself that you're even capable of change before you think about dragging her into this mess again."

Draco's eyes stung with the weight of their words, but he didn't look away.

"And don't even think about contacting her until you've actually changed," Blaise continued, his tone colder now, like a warning. "You don't get to just show up and expect her to fall back into your arms because you finally decided to pull your head out of your arse. You're going to need time—time to get your shit together. Time to stop drowning in whatever self-destructive habits you've been indulging in. You need help, and it's high time you admitted it."

Theo nodded in agreement. "You start by dealing with your shit. That is the first step. Seek professional help, get your drinking under control. I don't care if it's hard. I don't care if you hate every second of it. You do it, and you do it for you, not for anyone else. And once you've started that journey—once you've made actual progress—then you can think about making amends. But only then. And don't think you're going to fix everything with a couple of letters or sweet words. It's going to take a hell of a lot more than that."

Draco swallowed, his throat tight. He'd known it would be difficult, but the rawness of their words hit him harder than he'd expected.

"Alright," he said after a long pause, his voice strained but steady. "I get it. I'll do it. I'll work on myself. I'll make the changes. And when I'm ready, I'll write to her. I'll show her I'm serious."

Blaise gave a low, almost inaudible snort. "Don't make promises you can't keep. We've seen you fail too many times to just take your word for it. You have to do this, not for her, not for us, but because it's the only way you'll ever earn the right to even look her in the eye again."

Theo's expression softened slightly, but his voice remained firm. "We're here for you, mate. But this isn't about getting her back. It's about becoming someone you can be proud of. And you've got a hell of a lot of work to do before you can even think about that."

He nodded, swallowing the bitter taste of truth. His mind was a whirlwind of self-loathing, but there was something in him, something raw and desperate, that knew they were right. He had to change. There was no other choice.

"I won't let you down," he said quietly, though there was a shakiness to his words. "I'll do whatever it takes."

Blaise and Theo exchanged a glance, their expressions unreadable. But neither of them said a word as they turned their attention back to him. It was clear the road ahead would be grueling, but for the first time in a long while, Draco felt like he had no other choice but to walk it.