Chapter Text
First Breath
Red…
Yellow…
Blue…
Green…
…
Light flickered behind the eyelids—shifting like molten jewels, like distant city lights seen through thick glass. It pulsed, colors bleeding into one another until they swallowed everything.
It came from nowhere — only a quiet, consuming presence, flooding every corner of awareness.
Weightless. That was the first clear sensation.
The body was there, but distant—numb, untethered, as if wrapped in something warm.
Breathing came slow, uneven. Each breath came with a faint echo, stretched and far away.
The world was steeped in thick amber. The air felt syrupy; even the sound, light, and time itself moved slow and distorted.
Then came a pull — an effort toward waking.
…
The eyelids lifted, heavy, and the world came back in fractured pieces.
The ceiling swam into view. A chandelier hung there, intricate in design, swaying gently… left… right… left… right… in a slow, hypnotic rhythm.
Nothing stayed still enough to make sense.
The room blurred at the edges, colors slid into one another, as if the world itself couldn’t decide what it was.
The kind of haze that followed a Confundus Charm.
The thought rose and broke apart before it could fully form, leaving faint ripples in its wake.
Confundus Charm?
The words felt familiar somehow, tugging at something just out of reach— along with a wave of dizziness, and the instinct to stay alert.
That word— Confundus— rattled somewhere deep. Familiar. Wrong.
Then another word surfaced.
Magic.
And with it— Hogwarts.
Magic. Hogwarts.
The two words felt like keys turning in a rusted lock— hesitant at first, then grinding, forcing something sealed to shift. The mind was thick with fog, stuffed with static, yet beneath the numbness something deep inside seemed to stir in response.
Heat bloomed low and steady, spreading outward in quiet waves. It pulsed through the chest, the arms, the fingertips— alive, insistent, familiar in a way that defied memory. Each breath seemed to feed it, each heartbeat driving it faster, until the whole world seemed to hum in sync.
Magic was surging through the veins.
Movement— just the act of turning the head— took effort. The neck resisted, stiff and aching, like joints long left to rust. With the motion came awareness: something was fitted tightly around the head, pressing cool against the scalp. Not metal exactly, but not soft either— smooth, firm, almost like leather.
It didn’t feel like the kind of heavy machine built to restrain. More… deliberate. A headgear, maybe. Thin strands extended from the back of the head piece, faintly lit from within, pulsing with a slow glow as they ran toward a small box by the bed. The machine gave off a steady hum, wrapped in a soft white light.
The robe that covered the body was unfamiliar. Fabric brushed against the wrists. On the left hand, something cold and solid sat heavy against the skin.
A ring, snug around the base of the ring finger.
The metal was etched with winding lines, something coiled and intricate. The finger traced the grooves without thinking, and a strange familiarity stirred.
It looked like it should mean something. It didn’t — not yet.
The gaze wandered—slow, uncertain, like a weary traveler from somewhere unknown.
Walls stretched pale and bare, soft ivory with nothing to break the stillness.
A bed— too soft, too foreign—anchored the shape; beside it, the machine hummed in rhythm. In the corner sat a single empty chair, silent and alone.
The gaze kept searching, drawn by an unspoken need to find something that could define what was happening.
And then came the realization.
There was no mirror...
Not a single one in the room.
No reflection. Nothing to confirm there was a person here at all.
Something about the missing mirror itched. That absence was somehow worse than the emptiness in the mind. It shouldn’t have mattered, there was no reason it should.
The door opened without warning.
A woman in Healer’s robes stepped inside, the lime green fabric brushed softly against the floor. She offered a gentle, measured smile. Her voice was calm, practiced.
“You’re awake?” she said. “Can you hear me? Do you feel any pain?”
The words reached, distant but clear enough to understand. Muscles tried to respond, but the body didn’t seem convinced it belonged to them. The throat burned, each swallow dragging.
There should’ve been words. A name, at least. Something to claim.
Nothing came.
Only silence—wide, endless, hollow as a void.
Name. Past. Place.
Everything that should have made up a person had been wiped clean—erased by something absolute and merciless, leaving not even a trace behind. The emptiness was even worse than pain. It was the sensation of falling through endless dark, reaching for something tangible but finding only air.
The healer waited, a faint crease forming between her brows. She didn’t rush.
Instead, with a small flick of her wand, a cup lifted from the bedside table and drifted forward. The rim brushed against dry lips, tilting just enough for cool water to touch the tongue. It slid down the aching throat, soothing for only a moment— but it was enough to remind the body it still existed.
“Don’t force it,” the healer said softly. Her voice carried that practiced calm, every word measured, steady. “You’ve been through something… very severe. It’s not wise to force the memories yet. They will return when they’re ready. The mind heals on its own— if you give it time.”
Trauma.
The word hung there.
It fit, somehow.
What kind of trauma? A battle? An accident? Or something worse? The thought went nowhere.
But somewhere inside the emptiness, something flickered. A pulse, sharp and bright, cutting through the fog like a flare in the dark.
One thought, fierce and unstoppable, rose to the surface—
Where’s Hermione? I need to find her. I need to keep her safe.
Hermione…
Who was Hermione?
The name struck hard —sharp, electric— setting off a rush of emotion with no shape to it. Panic. Desperation. And beneath it all, a kind of tenderness so raw it almost hurt. It felt carved into the bone, instinct more than thought.
I have to find her. I have to keep her safe.
That thought burned sharper than fear, steadier than the confusion. It was the only thing that felt real, the one truth keeping the world from falling apart.
The fragments of thought began to surge — chaotic, restless, rushing to answer the pull of that name. They weren’t memories, not really—just flashes, sensations, scraps of something torn apart and scattered:
… Crowds screaming, the Quidditch pitch a blur of red and green—wind tearing at robes, the flash of gold darting past…
…A damp dungeon, torchlight trembling against stone, shadows twisting along the walls, the air thick with despair.
…A manor—quiet, suffocating—portraits watching from the walls, a chandelier.
…A castle in the golden hour, staircases shifting, armor whispering, a secret promise made at the end of a corridor.
…Steam curling through the air, pearl like liquid swirling in a cauldron, the faint tang of citrus in the steam.
…Pages whipping through the air, dust spinning in the light, familiar voices arguing, low and tense.
…And then the flash of green light, too bright to breathe through— the fall, the scream, the silence that swallowed everything.
Each fragment vanished before it could settle, leaving only the echo of what it carried— fear, pride, longing, grief that clawed straight through the chest.
All of it spun around one name.
Hermione.
And with every pulse of it, the need to find her, to keep her safe, burned hotter— until nothing else remained.
The fingers tightened without thinking, the metal ring bit against the knuckle, sharp enough to sting. The carved serpent seemed to press into the skin, leaving an invisible mark that burned faintly.
Then everything stopped.
The storm of fragments stilled, and one image came into focus—so clear and vivid, as if it was happening right here, right now.
A round room stretched wide around them, lined with towering shelves that disappeared into the vaulted ceiling. Leather-bound books, silver instruments clicking softly in the glow. On the walls, portraits of old headmasters stirred—some feigning sleep, others watching with mild, curious eyes.
The hand was held in another’s—warm, sure, fingers laced tight.
A silent promise in the grip.
The head turned. A spill of brown curls. A familiar profile— brows drawn in focus, brown eyes bright with intelligence and that unwavering resolve.
A girl.
Hermione.
The name rose like a heartbeat, instant and absolute.
Her.
It’s her.
A rush of emotion hit — an instinct to shield her, to pull her close and keep her safe no matter the cost.
Across from them, behind a tall desk carved with intricate patterns, sat Albus Dumbledore. The blue eyes behind those half-moon glasses were sharp as blades, cutting straight through to the soul, yet his face carried a heavy, measured focus—grave, almost sorrowful.
Then came a voice—clear, young, trembling with restrained fear and a desperate kind of resolve.
“I understand how it sounds, Headmaster,” the voice said— tight, controlled, every word measured. “But I’m not here to convince you. I’m done pretending I don’t see what’s coming. I’ve seen enough to know which side I refuse to die on.”
The hand in the hold—warm, steady, unmistakably Hermione’s— tightened, the pressure passing through like a silent vow.
In the deep brown of her eyes, a reflection—
A boy.
Pale, with neatly combed blond hair and grey eyes. His jaw was tight, lips pressed thin, as if holding back something that might break him. Pride and fear tangled in every line of his face.
“My only condition,” the boy’s voice — low, urgent, the sound of someone gambling everything left to give. “I’ll give you everything I can. But you have to protect her. No matter what happens, you keep Hermione safe.”
A pause. The blond boy’s eyes flicked from Hermione to Dumbledore, the weight of his words heavy in the air. Then quieter, steadier —
“…and when it’s over, you’ll ensure the Malfoy family’s safety.” His voice cut through the silence— the tone was flat, but sounded almost like an order.
“That’s my condition.”
Dumbledore’s gaze moved between Hermione and the boy, slow, deliberate. In those piercing blue eyes, a whole world seemed to weigh and shift.
At last, he lifted his head—just once, barely a nod. But it was enough.
The image began to ripple, like a reflection breaking apart under water. Shapes blurred, colors bled, and the memory dissolved—fading back into the hospital ward, where color and light swayed softly with the chandelier.
The room was quiet again, except for the low hum of the machine.
That boy— the pale blonde boy, the one who’d stood beside Hermione, facing Dumbledore, trading himself for her safety.
Draco Malfoy.
The name rose from somewhere deep, steady and certain—
It’s what the mind hadn’t managed to forget.
It rose like something vast and ancient coming awake— cracking through the silence, shaking everything loose.
It wasn’t just a name. It was something snapping into place, the sound of a thousand scattered puzzle pieces locking together. It carried too much—every impossible feeling tied to the girl with brown curls, Hermione— and the heavy pull of blood, legacy, and the name that had always been a cage.
Your name.
Your name should be Draco Malfoy.
The thought hit like impact, yanking everything back into the body lying in the hospital bed— breath, weight, heartbeat.
Draco Malfoy.
A Malfoy. A spy. And someone who’d fallen for Hermione Granger, someone who stood at the edge of the dark.
Pain pulsed behind the skull, deep and rhythmic, each beat a reminder of something dragged violently back into place.
The world tilted, swimming in light and distant sound, but through it all, one thought cut clear— hot as fire, steady as instinct.
Where’s Hermione?
I need to find her.
I need to keep her safe.