The Serpent's Redemption // DRAMIONE

13 Days Left

The healer visited again, clipboard in hand, face carefully neutral. After a long examination, he gave him the diagnosis: anxiety disorder.

Lovely. Just what he needed—another item to add to the list of things fundamentally wrong with him.

He stared at the healer as though he'd just been told his arm had fallen off. "Brilliant," he muttered sarcastically. "Maybe that's why I'm so bloody anxious all the time—because now I have to worry about having anxiety!"

The healer gave him a pointed look but wisely said nothing, scribbling something in his notes before leaving with a curt nod. He slammed the door behind him, his frustration simmering just beneath the surface.

But as soon as the silence of the flat settled in, his thoughts, unbidden, drifted back to her. To Hermione.

It was her fault. It had to be. She was the only thing occupying his mind these days. Every fleeting thought, every breath he took—it all seemed to circle back to her.

Her fault. Definitely.

Not his mother and father, who had emotionally stunted him from birth. Not the mommy issues that made him crave her approval like a starving man craves bread. Not the daddy issues that left him with a gnawing need to prove he was worthy of anything at all.

Not his textbook case of Obsessive Love Disorder, where every waking moment was consumed by fantasies of her and only her. Not his Borderline Personality Disorder, which made his emotions swing between "she's my savior" and "she's ruining my life."

Not his Dependent Personality Disorder, which had him convinced he couldn't function without her in his life, as though she were the air he breathed.

Not the PTSD that haunted him from the war, the screams of his victims—and hers—echoing in his mind at night.

Not the Obsessive-Compulsive Personality Disorder, which had him meticulously planning how to win her over, each detail polished to perfection.

Not the Adjustment Disorder, because who the hell could adjust to this? To having everything—money, privilege, status—stripped away and being left with nothing but an endless loop of "what if" and Hermione Granger.

No. Definitely not those things.

It was Hermione. Her fault.

She haunted his every thought, every movement. The way her hair would fall across her face when she pushed her glasses up her nose as she read a report. The soft hum she made when she thought no one was listening. The fire in her eyes when she argued with him, as if she were the only one allowed to be right—and she probably was.

He groaned, rubbing his temples. The doctor was wrong; it wasn't just anxiety disorder. He needed a new diagnosis—Granger Disorder.

He ran his hands through his hair, pacing the small flat like a caged animal. He should hate her for this, for turning his brain into an endless loop of "Hermione, Hermione, Hermione." He should despise her for making him feel this way—for ruining him.

But he couldn't. He wouldn't.

It was as if his mind had betrayed him, aligning itself against him in some grand conspiracy where the sole objective was to worship her. Her laugh, her wit, her maddeningly brilliant mind.

And Merlin help him, her body.

It wasn't just love—oh, no. It was obsession. It was madness. It was her face in his dreams, her name in his prayers, her rejection in his nightmares.

If he thought the diagnosis of anxiety disorder was the worst thing he'd heard today, he was wrong. Because the real diagnosis was staring him in the face, and it was her.

And he didn't know whether to fight it or give in completely.

••••••••••••

Hermione finally had her long-overdue therapy appointment. Years of pushing it off, pretending she was fine, and convincing herself she didn't need help had all crumbled under the weight of her reality.

The therapist had been calm, kind, and professional, gently leading her through her tangled mess of emotions. But hearing the diagnoses said aloud? That had shattered her.

When she returned home, she barely made it through the door before the tears started. Heavy, ugly sobs wracked her chest, and she slid to the floor, her back pressed against the wall as if it was the only thing holding her upright.

The words the therapist had used echoed in her head:

Obsessive-Compulsive Personality Disorder. The incessant need for control, the relentless perfectionism that had consumed her for as long as she could remember.

Complex PTSD. The nightmares, the flashbacks, the unshakable fear that lingered in the shadows of her mind.

Generalized Anxiety Disorder. The constant, suffocating worry about everything and everyone.

Avoidant Personality Disorder. Her desperate need to push people away to protect herself from being hurt.

Mild Depression. The quiet, gnawing emptiness that came and went like a ghost.

And worst of all, Survivor's Guilt. The heavy, crushing weight of living when so many others hadn't.

She hated her life. She hated the person she had become. She hated that she had spent so many years holding it together for everyone else, only to find herself unraveling now.

She pulled her knees to her chest, her tears soaking the fabric of her jeans. Why couldn't I have just been ordinary? she thought bitterly. Why couldn't I have been born into a normal family, with a normal life? Why did I have to be a witch, of all things?

She couldn't even call her friends for comfort. How could she? Harry, Ron, Ginny—they had all suffered in their own ways. They had their own traumas, their own nightmares. How could she burden them with hers?

Her parents—oh, her parents. They were the people she longed for most in moments like this, the ones she had always turned to when she felt lost. But they were gone. Buried in a grave she hadn't even been able to attend. The ache of missing them was as fresh as the day she had first heard the news.

She needed someone. Anyone. Just someone who could hold her, tell her she wasn't alone, tell her that somehow, someday, this would get better. But there was no one.

For now, there was only Crookshanks. Her old, grumpy, but fiercely loyal cat padded over to her and curled up beside her. She buried her face in his fur, her sobs muffled by his soft coat.

"Looks like it's just you and me, Crooks," she whispered through her tears. "Just you and me."

And so she sat there, clutching the only thing in the world that felt solid, as the hours dragged on and her tears refused to stop.

••••••••••••

She arrived at his flat in the evening, looking as exhausted as he felt. The air between them was heavy, saturated with unspoken words and mutual misery.

He turned to her as she stepped through the fireplace, her shoulders slumped, her eyes rimmed with red. Despite himself, he managed a half-smile "Darling."

He gave her a long, deliberate once-over, his sharp eyes taking in her disheveled state. "With the utmost respect, you look like absolute shit."

She raised an eyebrow, her lips twitching into the ghost of a smirk. "That makes us twins, doesn't it? You're hardly a picture of health yourself."

Draco let out a frustrated sigh, dragging a hand through his messy hair. "Why do you do this, Hermione? One moment you're kind, and the next you're colder than an Azkaban cell. Why are you doing this to me?"

She didn't answer immediately, instead collapsing onto the edge of his sofa, her head resting in her hands. When she finally spoke, her voice was flat, devoid of emotion. "Must be my APD if you're asking my therapist."

He blinked, caught off guard. "And if I'm asking you?"

Her head snapped up, and her eyes met his, sharp and unyielding. "I'm not in the mood for your games tonight. I just want to see Crooks."

His blood ran cold. His mind raced, and a pit of dread settled in his stomach. "You have a fucking boyfriend?!" His voice cracked. "How could you break my heart like this,?"

Her expression twisted into something halfway between disbelief and irritation. She pinched the bridge of her nose as if warding off a headache. "Could you shut up for one minute, Malfoy? That's probably why you have anxiety."

He gawked at her. "Wait—you read my medical chart?"

She shot him a sharp look. "Be thankful it wasn't about your STD or STI."

He reeled, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. "Hermione!"

She crossed her arms, leaning back against the sofa with an air of exaggerated patience. "Crookshanks is my cat, you absolute idiot."

He froze, his face coloring. "Oh... Je m'excuse." He muttered, as if it would soften the blow to his dignity.

Her eyes narrowed, her tone dripping with disdain.

"Pourquoi es-tu si pathétiquement désespéré?" She repeated it in French, each syllable laced with venom.

He let out a defeated groan and sank into the armchair opposite her, burying his face in his hands. "I'm not hopeless, Granger. I'm just…" He trailed off, unable to finish.

She let out a dry laugh, bitter and humorless.

"Oh, you're hopeless, alright. And somehow, I'm even more pathetic because I'm here."

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The silence was heavy, punctuated only by the faint crackle of the fireplace. When Draco finally looked up, his eyes met hers, and for once, they weren't guarded.

"You're not pathetic, Hermione. Not even close."

Her expression softened—just a fraction—but it was enough to make his chest tighten with longing. She shook her head, her movements sharp and decisive as she stood up quickly. "I need to go."

"Please, don't," he whispered, his voice raw, the words escaping as a desperate plea.

She paused, her hand hovering over the fireplace. She didn't turn back, but her voice was quieter this time. "Don't make me regret staying, Malfoy."

He watched her, helpless, as she sank back onto the sofa, the tension between them hanging thick in the air. It was an unbearable mixture of anger, longing, and something far more complicated—something neither of them dared to name, let alone confront.

He sat on the edge of the armchair opposite her, his elbows resting on his knees, his hands clasped tightly together as if holding himself in place. His gaze never left her face, searching for something—anything—that might tell him what she was thinking.

"Did you read my entire evaluation?" he asked at last, his voice hesitant, barely above a whisper.

Hermione's lips pressed into a thin line as she folded her arms across her chest. "Of course, I did. It's my job to do so."

He swallowed hard, bracing himself. "And…what do you think about it?" His voice cracked slightly, betraying the vulnerability he was trying so hard to conceal.

Her eyes narrowed, her tone clipped. "Why would I think anything about it? It's not my place to have opinions about your mental health, Malfoy. Besides," she added, tilting her head, "what difference would it make? We're not so different, you and I. We're the same person, just in different fonts."

He blinked, stunned by her response. "That's not true," he argued softly, shaking his head. "You're nothing like me."

A wry smile tugged at the corner of her mouth, but it didn't reach her eyes. "Oh, there's no doubt that I'm better than you," she quipped, her tone laced with her usual sarcasm. "But that doesn't mean we aren't fundamentally the same."

He stared at her, his heart pounding in his chest. "What do you mean?"

She sighed, leaning back against the sofa, her gaze fixed on a spot somewhere beyond him. "We were both products of our environments. You were raised with privilege and bigotry; I was raised with love and opportunity. But at our core, we're just flawed humans trying to make sense of the mess we were handed. Nothing special, Malfoy. Nothing extraordinary."

Her words hit him like a punch to the gut. "You think you're flawed?" he asked, incredulous.

Her laugh was bitter, humorless. "Don't act so surprised. You've seen it, haven't you? My temper, my obsession with control, my inability to let things go. I'm no better than you—just different."

He shook his head vehemently. "No. No, you're wrong. You are better. You're brilliant, compassionate, and brave. You fight for what's right, even when it costs you everything. That's not flawed, Hermione. That's…incredible."

Her gaze snapped to his, something flickering in her eyes—disbelief, perhaps, or maybe fear. "You don't know me as well as you think you do," she said quietly, almost to herself.

He leaned forward, his voice steady but intense. "I know enough. I know that you see yourself as broken, but you're not. You're strong in ways I can't even comprehend. And yes, we've both made mistakes, but that doesn't make us the same. It makes us human."

For a moment, she said nothing, her expression unreadable. Then she stood abruptly, her movements sharp and purposeful. "I need to go," she said, her voice tight.

"Please don't," he begged, rising to his feet.

She hesitated, her eyes darting to his. Something in his voice—desperation, perhaps, or sincerity—made her pause. But then she straightened, her mask of indifference firmly in place once more.

"Goodnight, Malfoy," she said, her tone clipped as she turned on her heel and walked toward the door. Her back was straight, her pace measured, but her heart thundered in her chest, each beat a maddening reminder of how much he affected her.

But then she stopped abruptly, her hand hovering over the doorknob as if she'd forgotten something. She turned back toward him, her expression unreadable.

"Hermione?" he asked, his voice uncertain, almost hopeful.

"Oh," she said casually, as though it wasn't a big deal. "I forgot something. Come here."

His stomach flipped, and he rushed to her side, his long strides closing the distance between them in seconds. "What is it?" he asked, trying to keep his voice steady, though his heart was threatening to leap out of his chest.

Before he could say anything more, she surprised him. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she pulled him into an embrace, standing on her tiptoes to reach him fully. For a moment, he froze, caught off guard by her sudden warmth. 

But then he responded instinctively, his arms circling her waist and pulling her closer to him. His hands trembled slightly as he held her, the realization that she was willingly in his arms overwhelming him.

"Thank you," he murmured, his voice barely audible. He wasn't sure what he was thanking her for—for staying, for this moment, for being Hermione—but the words felt right.

They stood like that for what felt like an eternity, neither one willing to let go. Her head rested against his shoulder, and his cheek brushed against her hair, inhaling the faint scent of her shampoo.

He tilted his head slightly, his fingers gently grazing her jawline as he lifted her face to meet his gaze. Her eyes searched his, and for a fleeting moment, he felt like she was looking past every defense he'd ever built, seeing him in a way no one else ever had. His heart pounded as his eyes flickered to her lips, lingering there for a moment too long.

She noticed. Of course she noticed. And the corner of her mouth quirked up, just slightly. There was no hesitation, no second-guessing. She kissed him. Her lips met his in a way that was both unexpected and inevitable, soft and tender but charged with an undeniable passion. It wasn't hurried or frantic; it was deliberate, almost reverent, as though the moment demanded nothing less.

His mind went blank. All he could feel was her—the warmth of her lips, the softness of her skin, the way her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt as if she never wanted to let go. He kissed her back, his movements slow and careful, savoring the way she melted into him. The kiss deepened, and it was as if the world around them dissolved, leaving only the two of them in that moment, connected in a way that neither of them could deny.

When they finally broke apart, they stayed close, their foreheads pressed together. Both of them were breathless, their chests rising and falling in sync. Hermione's hands lingered on his shoulders, and his fingers remained lightly on her jaw.

He smiled, a soft, genuine smile that reached his eyes. "Goodnight, Angel," he said, his voice low and filled with something deeper than affection.

Hermione's lips twitched, as though she was fighting the urge to smile back. She stepped back slightly, her fingers brushing against his as she let her arms fall to her sides. "Goodnight, Malfoy," she replied, her tone more gentle than before.

She turned and walked out the door, but this time, there was a warmth in her chest that hadn't been there before. He stayed rooted in place, his fingers lightly brushing his lips as if to remind himself that the kiss had actually happened.

Neither of them knew what the morning would bring, but for now, they each clung to the memory of the most romantic, tender kiss either of them had ever experienced.

••••••••••••••

The next evening, she swept into his flat, her usual briskness in full force. But this time, she wasn't alone. Trailing behind her was the ugliest creature he had ever laid eyes on. It had a squashed face, an unruly mop of orange fur, and an attitude so palpable that it practically radiated smugness. Draco blinked, momentarily speechless.

"Darling," he greeted her, his voice cautious as his eyes narrowed on the bizarre creature. "Good evening."

"Hello," she replied, her tone cheerful as she stepped further into the room. She set her bag down on the counter and gestured toward the creature that had already begun prowling around like it owned the place. "I brought someone over for you to meet."

Draco took a deliberate step back, eyeing the animal with a mix of confusion and alarm. "May I ask… what in Merlin's name is that?"

Her eyes narrowed dangerously, and she crossed her arms over her chest. "Don't be rude! He's a kneazle. And he understands what you're saying, so I'd watch your tone if I were you."

He raised an eyebrow, glancing down at the orange furball that was now sniffing disdainfully at his perfectly polished shoes. "A kneazle," he repeated flatly. "That's your explanation? Because from where I'm standing, it looks like someone cursed a pumpkin and gave it legs."

Her lips pressed into a thin line, but there was an unmistakable glint of amusement in her eyes. "His name is Crookshanks, and he's my cat. And he's incredibly intelligent, much more than some people I could name."

He sighed dramatically, pinching the bridge of his nose as though this revelation was just too much for him to handle. "Of course he's your cat," he muttered under his breath. "Of course you would have a creature that looks like it crawled out of a potions experiment gone wrong."

"Apologize," she demanded, her tone firm.

He looked at her incredulously. "To him?"

"Yes, to him," she snapped, pointing at Crookshanks, who had now hopped onto one of Draco's armchairs and was making himself at home.

He exhaled deeply, leaning down slightly so he was at eye level with the kneazle. "Apologies, good sir," he said with mock seriousness, giving the animal a slight nod. "It's a pleasure meeting you. You look rather... unique."

Crookshanks blinked at him, unimpressed, before proceeding to lick his paw in what could only be described as utter indifference.

She stifled a laugh, covering her mouth with her hand. "He likes you," she said, her voice betraying her amusement.

"Likes me?" he echoed, straightening up and glaring at the creature. "He hasn't clawed my face off yet, so I suppose that's as close to affection as I'm going to get."

She smirked, settling onto the sofa and watching as Crookshanks began prowling around the flat, inspecting every corner as though deciding whether it met his standards. "He's just testing the waters. Kneazles are very discerning, you know."

Hecrossed his arms and leaned against the counter, his gaze still fixed warily on Crookshanks. "Well, let's hope he doesn't find me lacking. I'd hate to disappoint the little tyrant."

"Don't call him that," she said, her voice softening slightly. "He's been with me through everything. He's… my family."

His teasing expression faltered, replaced by something softer. He looked at her, really looked at her, and saw the affection in her eyes as she watched Crookshanks make himself comfortable. "You care about him a lot," he said quietly.

"I do," she admitted, her fingers idly playing with the hem of her sleeve. "He's been there for me when no one else could be."

He nodded slowly, his gaze drifting back to Crookshanks, who was now curled up on the armchair, staring at him with half-lidded eyes that seemed to say, Don't mess this up, Malfoy.

"Well," he said finally, pushing off the counter and walking toward Hermione. "If he's important to you, I suppose I can tolerate him. But if he destroys my furniture, we're going to have words."

She smiled, a real, genuine smile that made his heart twist in a way he wasn't entirely prepared for. "Deal," she said, her voice warm.

Draco sat down beside Hermione, keeping a cautious distance from the orange furball prowling across the room. Crookshanks had been giving him that unnervingly intelligent stare all evening, and Draco was convinced the cat was plotting something sinister.

He adjusted his position on the sofa, doing his best to avoid direct eye contact with the creature. But before he could relax, Crookshanks suddenly leaped onto his lap, landing with surprising grace for something so… fluffy.

He froze, his entire body stiffening as though he'd been petrified. His wide eyes darted toward Hermione. "Do… do something," he hissed, his voice laced with panic. "He's going to kill me."

Hermione, seated beside him with a book in hand, didn't even look up. "He's not going to kill you, Draco. He's just saying hello."

"This is not a hello," he said through gritted teeth, glancing down at the ugly creature now settling comfortably on his lap. "This is a hostage situation."

She finally looked up, suppressing a laugh as she took in the sight of Draco—pale, stiff, and utterly out of his depth—with Crookshanks sprawled across him like he owned the place. "You're being ridiculous. Crookshanks is adorable."

"Adorable to you," he snapped, his voice rising an octave as Crookshanks began kneading his claws against his thigh. "This thing is trying to claw its way to my femoral artery."

She rolled her eyes, setting her book aside and leaning closer to inspect the scene. "He's making biscuits. That's a sign he likes you."

"Biscuits?" he echoed, incredulous. "Is that what you call this barbaric behavior? He's turning me into a pincushion."

She snorted, clearly enjoying his discomfort. "He's being affectionate. Relax. If he really didn't like you, you'd know it by now."

He raised an eyebrow, watching as Crookshanks finished his kneading ritual and settled down, purring loudly. The vibrations traveled through his lap, and despite himself, Draco couldn't help but find the sound oddly soothing. Still, he wasn't about to admit that to Hermione.

"Affectionate, huh?" he muttered, tentatively raising a hand. He hovered it awkwardly above Crookshanks' head, as though the beast might bite him at any moment. "What am I supposed to do now?"

"Pet him," Hermione instructed, her tone patient but amused. "He likes it when you scratch behind his ears."

Draco hesitated, then finally let his hand descend. He gave Crookshanks a tentative pat on the head. The cat responded by leaning into his touch, his purring growing even louder. Draco blinked, surprised.

"There you go," she said with a smile. "See? He likes you."

He scoffed, though his fingers instinctively began scratching behind Crookshanks' ears. "I'm not sure if I like him, though. This might all be an elaborate ploy to lull me into a false sense of security."

"Or," she countered, her smile widening, "maybe he can sense that deep down, you're not as much of a git as you pretend to be."

He rolled his eyes but didn't stop petting the beast. Crookshanks, for his part, was now fully sprawled out on his lap, looking utterly content. "Or maybe he just has poor taste," he muttered, though there was no real bite to his words.

She leaned back against the sofa, watching the two of them with a look that was equal parts amused and fond. "You know, I think Crookshanks is a better judge of character than most people. If he likes you, that's saying something."

"Fantastic," he deadpanned, though a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "I've won the approval of a grumpy furball. My life is complete."

She laughed softly, and he felt a warmth in his chest that had nothing to do with the cat on his lap. For the first time in what felt like forever, the flat felt less cold, less empty. As Crookshanks purred contentedly and Hermione's laughter filled the room, Draco allowed himself a small moment of peace.

"Fine," he said after a moment, his voice softer. "He's… tolerable."

Hermione's smile turned triumphant. "I knew you'd come around."

He smirked, leaning back into the sofa as he continued petting Crookshanks. "Don't push it, Granger. One step at a time."