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Chapter Text

In Hermione’s defense, some ingredients simply had to be gathered by moonlight. 

She should not have been blamed for this being the case, just as she should not have been blamed for the fact that mother and father still refused to permit her out of the castle at night, even knowing that Hermione had under-moonlight ingredients to collect. They had been very strict about her curfew ever since she had nearly suffocated while trying to find hinkypunk eggs (“the quicksand incident”, as it soon became known). The presence of Royal Guards down on the paths below Hermione’s bedroom attested to as much.

Luckily for Hermione, the guards mostly focused on the door, leaving the gardens below her windows less surveilled.

Every night for three weeks, Hermione had been clambering out of said window and down a rope she made of bedsheets knotted together. From there it was a brisk, brief walk to the neighboring river, where she would trudge through a bit of mud to procure a fresh snippet of Devil’s Snare blossom under the light of the midnight moon. One snippet was needed a day for the twenty-four days of the potion’s brew cycle, and the snippet had to be freshly picked—gathering a bunch at once wouldn’t do. 

For weeks this process had been going seamlessly and Hermione had no reason to anticipate that this night would be any different. Which was why it was most startling when she made it all the way down the side of the castle wall only to turn in the normally empty garden and find a member of the Royal Guard watching her.

“Oh, bugger,” Hermione said. 

“Your highness.” 

He had the nerve to sound amused.

Hermione looked up at him, irritated. The guard was quite tall, but other than that it was too dark for her to see his features. 

“I have a quick errand to attend to,” Hermione said, trying to walk past him. 

“My apologies,” he said, stepping into her path. “All members of the Royal Guard are under strict orders to prevent you from leaving the castle after dark.”

“I’m—I’m permitted to go out tonight,” lied Hermione. 

The guard looked at her for a moment before turning his gaze up the castle wall to the rope of bedsheets hanging out of Hermione’s window. He did not say anything. 

“Oh, alright,” she huffed. “I’m not allowed out. But I’m making this potion—an improved recipe on Pepperup Potion, to be precise—and I need Devil’s Snare blossom. Picked under moonlight, you see. And I know it’s against the rules but I’ll only be a few minutes.”

“Devil’s Snare blossom?” he repeated. Then, a short pause. “Is that to offset the nausea in the original recipe?” 

Hermione’s eyes widened. Finally, someone who understood!

“Yes, that’s exactly right!” 

“Interesting. Wouldn’t you need to add the blossom multiple days in a row for it to make a meaningful difference?”

“I have been! I’ve been going out every night for the last twenty-one days,” Hermione said, pleased. “And I only need to do so for three more days before this phase of brewing is complete. So now that you understand—”

“Hold on. You’ve been sneaking out of the castle every night for twenty-one days?”

“Um...”

“I’m afraid I’m going to have to escort you back inside,” he said, his words suddenly clipped. “You should also know that we added a new station point here as of yesterday morning, so this particular blind spot is no more. ”

He bowed at Hermione and gestured politely in the direction of the castle door as if he had not just both ruined her evening plans and given her some very unfortunate news all in one fell swoop.

“Now hang on just a moment,” Hermione said, irritatedly planting her hands on her hips. “This potion is very important to me. And I’m nearly at the finish line! Can’t you just let me go tonight? And… and turn a blind eye for the next two days?”

“A blind eye to the rope made of bedsheets coming out of your window, you mean?” 

The surprise that Hermione felt at being spoken to so impertinently by a member of the Royal Guard was quickly overshadowed by defensiveness. She had been doing this for three weeks without being caught, if you please, and didn’t much care for the guard’s tone.

“I—I’ll have you know that I usually Disillusion the bedsheets!” Hermione hissed.

He was silent for a long moment.

“My deepest apologies, your highness,” he said, voice carefully neutral. “I was not aware that you usually… Disillusion the bedsheets.”

“Oh, sod off,” Hermione snapped, feeling like a petulant child but too upset to care. “No, don’t you dare try to escort me to the door. I’ll just climb back up through the window.”

She did so, glowering the whole way. It was not easy and the door probably would have made more sense, but it felt like a matter of pride somehow. Towards the top she turned to see if the guard was still there. Perhaps he’d gone elsewhere and she could quickly run to the riverbank and get her potions ingredient after all?

But there he remained, watching to make sure she climbed all the way up. He spotted her looking and gave an insolent little wave. Hermione made a much ruder hand gesture in return before tumbling over the ledge of her window back into her room. 

She spent all night angrily scribbling notes on how to salvage her potion, which was the only reason she was awake to hear the small clink of something against her window around sunrise. Hermione pulled the curtain back and frowned.

It appeared to be a small flower pot, hovering lazily right outside her bedroom. The container was full of wet soil and a few living green shoots of Devil’s Snare, dotted with white blossoms. Hermione’s eyes went wide and she promptly stuck her head out the window to look down into the garden. The guard from the night before was still on duty. He was facing away from her, back straight and arms at his sides—the picture of a polished soldier. Even his hair, which, now that it was no longer dark outside, Hermione could see was a sort of white blond, was carefully swept to the side without a strand out of place. But on his black boots Hermione could see the telltale grey splatter of river mud. 

Hermione looked back at the flower pot quizzically. It was only then that she found the small note, no more than a scrap of parchment, attached to the side.

Feels rather like you should have thought of this. Easier than sneaking out every night, no?  

Hermione’s hands shook with rage. 

Obviously she’d thought of it. Of course she’d thought of it! As if it wasn’t the very first thing she’d tried, keeping some live Devil’s Snare in her room so she wouldn’t have to go to the river each night. How dare this guard imply that he knew better than her? And so brazenly!

She stomped down the circular stone staircase from her bedroom into the gardens, bursting out of the door still in her nightgown. She heard her lady’s maid follow anxiously, calling out for Hermione to please put some clothes on, your highness, but she ignored her.

“What is the meaning of this?” Hermione asked the guard, brandishing the flower pot in one hand.

The guard bowed instantly at the sight of her, and Hermione waited impatiently for him to straighten up. What use were these formalities when he had already insulted her so personally?

“Your highness,” he said. In the daylight he seemed taller, somehow. She was surprised to see he looked only a few years older than her, with sharp, disarming features. His gaze flitted down to her white nightgown before carefully returning to meet her eyes. “I merely wished to assist.”

“Assist?” she repeated. “And you thought to imply that I had not considered this method? That a silly girl like me couldn’t possibly have come up with the idea of taking live blossoms and harvesting them from my room?”

“I did not mean to insult—”

She stepped up close to him and shoved the flower pot into his chest. 

“They must remain connected to their root source,” she hissed. “Obviously. Perhaps you will not think so lowly of my intelligence next time.”

The guard did not say anything and Hermione huffed angrily at his sudden reticence. 

“And what is your name?” she demanded. “I’ll have the Head of Guard know of this impudence.”

“Malfoy,” he answered at once, as if he had been just waiting for her to ask. “Draco Malfoy.”

Hermione just sniffed and turned back to the castle.

“Your highness,” he called out. “I hope you will forgive me saying that there is a connecting charm on the flower pot to the riverbank. The blossoms remain attached to their root source. I had hoped this would keep them usable for your purposes.”

Hermione stopped in her tracks. 

A connecting charm.

Why, that was brilliant. And a hugely complex piece of magic. She wondered if he performed it in the traditional manner or if he’d used some distance-agnostic version…

“I see,” she said evenly, schooling her features into appearing completely unimpressed. “Not that it makes a difference, mind you. Still rather presumptuous to assume…”

She trailed off before walking back to him, cheeks red, and snatching the flower pot back. Then she scurried up the steps back to her bedroom.

He was still an ass, she thought, setting the pot in a shaded portion of the room and misting some water onto the vines. 

── ✵ ──

A week later Hermione was walking from the library back to her bedroom when she looked up from her book to see Malfoy standing guard on the garden paths. Her cheeks turned pink and she walked faster, trying to avoid his eyes. She was still embarrassed from their last interaction and did not want to see the smug look in his eyes.

He coughed quietly.

“What?” she snapped.

“Nothing. I was just coughing.”

“Oh, just go on then. Gloat—I know you want to. You were right about the blossoms, they worked marvelously. There! Are you happy?”

Malfoy only looked at her.

“And yes, congratulations!” Hermione went on somewhat hysterically. “I didn’t think of the connecting charm. I don’t know how I missed it, but there you go.”

Malfoy looked around and, seeing that the paths were empty, leaned forward with a playful smile.

“Don’t be such a grump. You got the ingredients you needed, isn’t that all that matters?”

“Who asked for your help anyway?” Hermione sniffed. “I would have been fine.”

“Probably. But it would have been rather unfortunate if you got stuck in quicksand again.”

She shot him a disgruntled look.

“How do you even know about that?”

He smiled lazily.

“A little bird told me that’s why you’re no longer permitted out of the castle at night.”

“Your little bird is misinformed. The real reason I’m no longer allowed out at night is because I wouldn’t stop murdering annoying guards.”

Malfoy breathed a little laugh.

“Very cute.”

His head was tipped down to look at her, a few blond strands falling over his eyes and a fond smirk on his face. Hermione was suddenly very aware of how large he was and how close they were standing to each other. She swallowed and stepped backwards, face hot.

Malfoy straightened up, cleared his throat.

“Sorry,” he said. 

He did not say why he was apologizing but they both knew. Nobody—certainly not a member of the Royal Guard—was supposed to talk to her like that.

“It’s fine,” Hermione mumbled, not looking at him. She hurried away.

No sooner was she back in her quarters than Hermione darted to the window and peered out from behind the curtain into the gardens. Malfoy was looking down at his feet, an expression of mild frustration on his face. Then he straightened up, jaw tight, and turned to look right at her window. Hermione quickly snapped the curtain shut. 

It was not like Hermione to be distracted, but the next few weeks found her far less focused than usual on her studies and extracurricular pursuits. 

Something about Malfoy had certainly lodged itself in her brain. She learned that he was fresh off a highly-decorated stint in the army and had joined the Royal Guard only a month or so prior. She also learned that she was hardly the only one to find the tall blond man interesting. It was not uncommon for Royal Guards to be highly desirable—the blue-clad soldiers represented the crème de la crème of the King’s Army, after all—but even by their standards Malfoy seemed to be making quite a splash. Everywhere Hermione turned she heard lady’s maids giggling his name, or saw noblewomen of the court dropping handkerchiefs at his feet. 

This irritated Hermione greatly, a sentiment that she chose not to examine too closely. Anyway, what business was it of hers if Malfoy was popular with the ladies? She tried to put him out of her mind.

She had managed to draw her focus to her next potions project one evening when she thought she heard his voice coming from a secluded corner of the gardens. In spite of herself, Hermione was curious. She followed the noise, froze when she heard a woman giggling.

“Mm, Draco…”

Hermione flushed. She should leave. This was most inappropriate for her to be eavesdropping on. But her breath caught when she heard him groan next, low and breathy.

“Yes, just like that sweetheart…”

Hermione had never heard a man’s voice sound like—that.

“Open your eyes, Draco,” Hermione heard the woman whine. “You never look at me…”

Hermione crept closer, gave up on pretending she was going to leave. She desperately wanted to hear more. Malfoy and the woman were just between those bushes there, based on the sound of their voices. Hermione’s cheeks were hot and a strange twisting feeling was building in her lower stomach. Maybe she could even sneak a peek…

Her foot caught on a stone and with a horrified squeak Hermione tumbled forward, right into the bushes and into view of Malfoy and the mystery woman, who screamed.

“Your highness!” the woman exclaimed, rushing to cover herself. “M-my apologies, my goodness, we were just—I was just leaving—”

Hermione—through a haze of panic and humiliation—recognized the woman as some countess or the other. She was beautiful, with dark brown hair and flushed pink lips. The woman was in some state of undress but quickly pulled her clothes over herself and rushed away, cheeks bright red. 

Malfoy was breathing hard, his usually well-kempt hair in disarray. He straightened his uniform, not meeting Hermione’s eyes. For the first time ever he seemed flustered. 

Hermione had to get away from him. She was far too aware of the faint flush on his cheeks, far too aware of the fact that she had been spying when this whole thing happened. She muttered a quick apology and turned to leave, the image of Malfoy’s mussed appearance burned into her brain.

“I’m not on duty,” he called out suddenly, voice strained.

Hermione stopped in her tracks, mostly out of not knowing what to do.

“Okay,” Hermione responded faintly.

“I just—didn’t want you to think that I would shirk my responsibilities. For something like this.”

“Of course not.”

The conversation seemed to be finished, so Hermione resumed walking hurriedly. But then Malfoy spoke again, words rushed as though he could not keep them in.

“It’s casual,” he said. “With the countess. That is to say—casual means I’m not seriously involved with her.”

Hermione felt delirious. Why was he telling her this? Couldn’t he see that all she wanted to do was leave?

“Yes,” she said, lightheaded. “I know what casual means.”

“I’m sorry,” he said instantly. “I didn’t mean to assume you didn’t. I just… since you are an innocent—”

“There’s nothing wrong with being an innocent,” Hermione snapped, humiliated. This was a very bad time for him to be making her feel naïve. “It is proper for a princess to be innocent.”

Malfoy’s jaw tensed and Hermione felt her eyes flutter shut. She could feel his gaze like it was a physical touch.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “Don’t be embarrassed.”

He seemed about to say more but Hermione didn’t stop to listen, took quick steps back to the castle with her cheeks burning.