Settling into the bed beside her, Draco looked down at Hermione’s sleeping form. Memorized her face. The way her curls fanned out across the pillows, the stubborn furrow of her brown, even in her sleep. If this went according to plan, she would not be the same witch when she woke up again. His stomach turned into agonized knots. Sure, he had used dark magic on others. Cursed them. Played games. Watched people die. But this... this was different. He knew it was not permanent, nor out of malice. It was a dark necessity to right a wrong. To send Hermione home. She didn’t belong here and never would. 