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Chapter Text

Hermione

Hogwarts looked untouched. As if Voldemort did not infiltrate its walls and murder and maim many of the residents of the school.

The castle stood proud against the soft blush of dawn, its turrets bathed in gold like the war had never touched it. The stones gleamed—scrubbed clean, repaired, repolished. Not a scorch mark remained on the walls. No rubble. No blood. No haunting graffiti from the Carrows' reign.

It looked... perfect.

Hermione stood at the edge of the Black Lake, her trunk beside her, the early mist curling around her ankles. The air smelled like September—crisp, alive, and cruelly nostalgic. Somewhere, a distant thestral let out a cry. She hadn’t realized she’d been holding her breath until it left her in a trembling exhale.

The castle didn’t bear scars.

But she did.

As she stepped forward, her boots crunched on the gravel path, and with each echoing footfall, memories rose unbidden: the thrum of battle beneath her skin, the screams, the spells, the silence that followed. She had imagined returning a thousand times, but not like this. Not with a fractured soul, and no one left to tell her how proud they were.

The grand oak doors opened as if expecting her, warm light spilling onto the stone steps. It looked like home. It even smelled like home—parchment, pumpkin spice, and polished wood.

But it wasn’t.

Not yet.

She needed to do this. To finish this properly. To complete her education. To have something to show for the past eight years. Something positive. Something constructive. Not regrets. Not gaping emotional wounds that often threaten to overcome her.

So yes, she would do this. She'd do this to the best of her ability. She'd excel as her parents always hoped she would. Where they would have praised her diligence, her wit, her intelligence because while they did not understand her world, they understood excellence.

She could do this for them. At the very least.

They didn’t remember her when they died.

Hermione had known it would be painful. She had prepared herself, in the clinical, rational way that only she could—researching memory charms, the limits of Obliviation, the possibility of restoration. She had weighed the risks. Made the decision. Done what was necessary.

She had wiped herself from their minds to keep them safe.

And a drunk driver had taken them anyway.

Two lives, gone in the crush of metal and fire, without ever knowing they had a daughter who loved them fiercely. Who carried their picture in her wallet. Who had fought a war they never knew existed.

There was no goodbye. No closure. Only cold, impersonal hospital paperwork. Only boxes of untouched mail, addressed to "Monica and Wendell Wilkins"—letters that would never be opened.

The worst part wasn’t the loss. It was that they’d died as strangers.

Some days, she felt nothing. Just a grey silence inside her chest where the grief should be. Other days, it hit like a tidal wave—anger, guilt, unbearable longing. A hundred unsaid things clotted in her throat.

And now, she was back at Hogwarts. Her world was intact again. The library. The classrooms. Even the portraits had resumed their usual snoring.

But she wasn’t whole.

She wasn’t the same girl who’d left this castle with blood on her hands and spells on her lips.

She was the girl who made the hardest choice—and still lost everything.

She moved through the world like someone half-awake—functional, composed, but hollow in the places that used to be warm. People said she was brave. Strong. Resilient. But none of those words reached the part of her that still lay curled inside, whispering that love wasn’t enough. That doing the right thing didn’t always save the people you loved. She didn’t cry anymore, not because it didn’t hurt, but because the grief had sunk too deep to surface. It lived in her now—in her bones, in the way she avoided mirrors, in the way she flinched at the sound of tires screeching. She was surviving, yes. But she was not okay. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

She sat at the far end of the Gryffindor table, spine straight, hands folded in her lap, as though posture alone could hold her together. The Great Hall looked exactly as it always had—floating candles above, enchanted ceiling painted in the bruised lavender of approaching evening, house banners fluttering gently in a breeze that didn’t exist.

Laughter echoed from clusters of returning students. Some things had changed—fewer faces, more shadows in people’s eyes—but the energy remained. She was surrounded by it, but apart from it, like someone pressing their hands to glass.

Across the room, at the Slytherin table, he sat alone.

Draco Malfoy wasn’t looking at anyone, but Hermione felt the tension radiate off of him like heat. Shoulders stiff. Jaw clenched. Like he was waiting for a blow that hadn't come yet—or maybe one he believed he still deserved. There was no one flanking him now. No entourage. No cruel smirk. Just a boy who looked too old for seventeen.

Their eyes met for a flicker of a second.

She looked away first.

Not because she was afraid. But because she saw it.

The same hollow space behind his gaze.

The same fragility in him—like someone trying to hold themselves together with scotch tape. The same grasping at something, anything, to keep from falling apart.

Chapter Text

Hermione

On paper, she was doing everything right.

Hermione woke early, kept to a routine. She made her bed. She went to class. She showed up to Prefect meetings on time. She wrote in her planner with neat, colour-coded precision. She took her potions twice a day—the ones the Healer prescribed to help her sleep, to stop the panic attacks that crept in like fog when she wasn’t looking.

She was even seeing someone. Once a week in the newly established Wellness Wing, tucked near the hospital wing. A soft-voiced Healer named Madra Lane who never pushed too hard, but always saw straight through her.

“It’s okay not to be okay,” she’d said once, gently. “Even when you’re the kind of person who’s always been okay for everyone else.”

Hermione hadn’t known what to say to that.

She was trying. Trying to eat well. To sleep. To honour her parents in the only way she could now—by surviving. Living. Doing things properly.

But she didn’t know what she needed. Not really.

Some days, she craved silence so fiercely it hurt. Other days, the silence felt like it was going to swallow her whole. And everywhere she went, she wore her composure like a well-ironed uniform. Perfect. Expected. Impossibly heavy.

Academically, she was thriving—or so it appeared.

She was enrolled in Advanced Arithmancy, Ancient Runes, Charms, Transfiguration, Potions, Defence Against the Dark Arts, and Magical Theory. No one batted an eye at the overloaded timetable. She needed the distraction. The work kept her hands moving, her mind busy.

Without it, she unraveled.

Harry and Ron had written her often at first, sending letters from Auror training. She wrote back, always with warmth and pride—but the letters had slowed, then thinned, until it was just polite updates every few weeks. They were chasing dark wizards in leather boots and adrenaline. She was sipping calming draughts between double Charms and trying not to cry in the library.

She didn’t blame them.

Her new circle was small. Ginny, though she was in sixth year, offered her anchoring hugs and quick, teasing smiles whenever they crossed paths. Luna sat with her sometimes in the library, saying the strangest things at exactly the right moments. 

Still, she felt alone more often than not.

She was surrounded by people. But no one really saw her.

And honestly? She wasn’t sure she wanted them to.

Sometimes, she saw him in the corridors.

Not often. Just enough for it to become a sort of background presence—like a draft she couldn’t quite place. He didn’t walk with the same entitled swagger anymore. His steps were measured now. Careful. He didn’t meet eyes if he could help it.

He always sat at the end of the Slytherin table, just far enough from the others to make it clear: he wasn’t part of anything anymore.

Once, she passed him on the third-floor landing—her arms full of books, his hands jammed deep in his pockets. He didn’t look up, but she felt the moment stretch as they crossed paths, the air between them tightening like a held breath.

She didn’t know why she noticed. Maybe because no one else did.

Or maybe because she recognized the quiet in him. That barely-there echo of someone who didn’t know how to be in the world anymore.

She wasn’t watching him.

Not really.

But sometimes, when her mind wandered—mid-lecture or during patrols—her thoughts would drift his way. Just flickers. Nothing solid. Nothing she could name.

Just questions that never reached her lips.

And the feeling that he, too, was walking around in pieces.

She sank into the wide, squashy armchair across from Healer Lane and exhaled slowly, like the act of sitting down might finally let her rest. The room smelled of bergamot and old parchment—calm and familiar, but never quite enough.

Healer Lane didn’t speak right away. She never did. Just waited with kind eyes and a clipboard she rarely wrote on.

“I’m sleeping more,” Hermione offered, as if that was enough. As if that was everything.

“That’s good,” the healer said gently. “And how do the dreams feel?”

Hermione hesitated, picking at a loose thread on her cuff. “Far away,” she said finally. “Like I’m watching someone else live through them.”

Healer Lane nodded, not pressing. Just allowing.

“I’m doing all the things,” Hermione went on. “Taking my potions. Eating. Studying. Walking the grounds. Pretending.” Her voice caught, just a little. “It should be enough.”

“And is it?”

Hermione looked down at her hands, clenched so tightly in her lap the knuckles ached. “No.”

There was a silence after that—not heavy, not awkward. Just honest.

“I saw Malfoy today,” she said suddenly. “Third-floor landing. I wasn’t—” She paused. “It’s not about him. I just… noticed him. He looks like someone who’s trying not to fall apart in public.”

Her voice lowered, quieter now. “I think I understand that.”

There was a silence, soft and open. Healer Lane didn’t fill it. She never did.

Hermione stared at her hands again. “It’s strange,” she murmured. “There were others. Plenty of others who… did worse. Or at least just as bad. But I never think about them. I never notice them.”

A breath.

“I notice him.”

She didn’t say more. Didn’t know what more there was to say. The thought didn’t make sense, but it lodged itself somewhere deep. A quiet knowing she couldn’t explain, couldn’t shake.

Healer Lane simply nodded.

“You don’t have to know why yet,” she said gently. “Some threads pull long before we realize what they’re tied to.”

Hermione’s throat tightened.

She didn’t know what she was reaching for.

But maybe, just maybe, she’d started pulling.

Chapter Text

Hermione

The thread began to unravel on a Wednesday evening in mid-October.

Looking back, Hermione still couldn't decide if she should’ve just gone straight to the Common Room, buried herself in a book, and ignored the whisper of a prefect’s report. But Hermione Granger didn’t ignore rules—or duels.

It had been a long, odd sort of day. Muggle Studies in the morning had been more frustrating than usual—some of the younger students still didn’t grasp electricity—and Transfiguration had dragged. Ancient Runes had been tolerable, mostly because she’d managed to solve an inscription that stumped even Professor Babbling.

By the time the bell rang for supper, her head was already pounding. She'd promised Harry and Ron she'd meet them later in the Common Room to catch up, but a whisper from a second-year about first-years planning a midnight duel had sent her into motion.

Crookshanks trailed at her heels as she patrolled the third-floor corridor, his crooked tail twitching with suspicion. The hall was dim, lit by flickering torchlight and the lingering scent of stone warmed by the day.

“Go back, Crooks,” she muttered. “This won’t take long.”

She found nothing, of course. Just quiet.

She sighed, rubbing her temples, already rehearsing the lecture she’d give the second-year for false reporting. Then she turned to leave—and walked straight into someone.

Her wand was out in a second. So was his.

“Malfoy,” she spat.

“Granger,” he said, guarded, eyes shadowed and expression unreadable.

Of course it was him.

“Out after hours,” she said tightly, already annoyed.

“I’m a Prefect too,” he replied, voice flat.

“Could’ve fooled me,” she muttered.

He didn’t rise to the bait. Just stared, silent and still.

Then—Filch’s heavy footsteps echoed down the hall. Mrs. Norris let out a low, anticipatory yowl.

Hermione swore under her breath.

Draco’s eyes flicked to a narrow door in the wall. He opened it without a word and slipped inside.

Hermione hesitated, Crookshanks watching her with narrowed eyes.

“Oh, fine,” she grumbled—and followed.

The door shut with a dull thud.

Darkness.

Silence.

And too little space.

Hermione froze—her arm brushing against Draco’s. Her breath caught.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” she whispered.

“Trust me,” he muttered, voice clipped. “I’m not thrilled either.”

She shifted awkwardly. Her elbow caught his ribs. He hissed.

“Good,” she said, tone sharper than intended.

He let out a dry, humorless laugh. “Still charming, I see.”

She said nothing. Crookshanks, pressed between their feet, gave an irritable growl and settled in with a huff.

From outside came the slow steps of Filch pausing just beyond the door.

Hermione held her breath.

Then—silence.

The footsteps faded.

Still, they didn’t move.

“Do you always lurk like this?” she asked, her whisper edged with nerves.

He didn’t answer immediately. When he did, his voice was low. “Do you always chase ghosts through corridors?”

“I take my job seriously.”

“Of course you do.”

The sarcasm was mild, but it made her bristle. A cobweb tickled her cheek. She swatted at it, frustration rising.

She hated small spaces. She hated him. She hated how being this close to someone she loathed made her heartbeat faster for all the wrong reasons.

“You know,” she whispered, “I haven’t forgotten what you did. Any of it.”

A pause.

“I haven’t either,” he said. Quiet. Honest.

She blinked, caught off guard by the admission.

“Second year,” she said bitterly. “I heard you laughed. When I was Petrified.”

A longer pause.

“I know.”

She turned away in the dark. “I’m not asking for an apology.”

“You shouldn’t,” he said. “I don’t have one.”

That stunned her. No cruelty in it. Just truth, worn and threadbare.

“I hated you,” she said, voice raw.

“I hated me,” he replied, with no hesitation.

Her breath hitched. Crookshanks nudged her ankle, purring—of all things—and she found her eyes stinging.

“Why did you come back?” she asked.

He didn’t move. Then—slowly—he reached behind him and cracked the door open.

Light spilled in.

But he didn’t step out.

“You asked why I came back,” he said. His voice had changed—gravel edged with bitterness. “I didn’t. The Ministry ordered it.”

Hermione stiffened.

“Reintegration through education,” he sneered. “It’s not about redemption. It’s about optics. We’re symbols now.”

She stared at him, unable to look away. He wasn’t just bitter—he was exhausted. Caged.

He stepped out and vanished down the corridor.

Hermione remained still, Crookshanks winding around her feet.

Not pity. Not exactly.

But something inside her cracked. Just a little.

A fissure in everything she’d believed about him.

The castle door creaked open wider—on its own, naturally.

“Hogwarts,” she whispered, stepping into the hall. “You always know.”

Draco

He didn’t run.

He never ran.

His steps echoed down the stone corridor, even and slow, but inside his chest everything felt uneven. Off.

Why had he even opened his mouth?

He could’ve walked away, let her think whatever she wanted. It would’ve been easier. Cleaner.

But he hadn’t.

Now her words haunted the silence: “I haven’t forgotten.”

Neither had he.

The flickering torchlight cast long shadows as he turned the corner, the air colder the closer he got to the Slytherin dorms. The castle never let him forget what he’d done—not with the glares, the silence, or the scars beneath his sleeve.

She’d looked at him like he was a puzzle she didn’t want to solve—but couldn’t help trying.

That was worse than hate.

He reached the entrance to the common room, muttered the password, and slipped inside without a word to anyone. Blaise raised an eyebrow from his armchair, but Draco ignored it, heading straight to the dormitory.

He needed to shut the door. Shut her out.

But her voice—tight, sharp, familiar—lingered in his skull like a splinter.

Hermione

It was late—later than she’d intended—by the time Hermione returned to the Gryffindor common room.

Her cheeks were still warm, her collar slightly askew, and she was very aware of the lingering sensation of fingers wrapped around her wrist. She tugged her cloak tighter around her and ran a hand through her curls in a poor attempt to recompose herself.

It was just a broom closet.

Nothing happened.

But the look Draco Malfoy had given her—that angry, disarmed flash in his eyes—still clung to her like static.

The green flames in the hearth were already flickering as she knelt before them. Right on cue, Harry’s face emerged in the fire, followed closely by Ron’s.

“You’re late,” Ron said, but there was no edge in his voice—just the mild ribbing of someone who still remembered who she’d once been to him.

“I know, I know,” Hermione exhaled, settling onto her knees. “Some first years were reportedly dueling in the Charms corridor. False alarm.”

A lie. But only halfway.

Harry grinned faintly. “Still playing Head Girl and Auror all in one.”

“It’s who she is,” Ron said, his tone teasing but fond. “Always saving someone.”

Hermione tried to smile. “Not tonight.”

There was a beat of silence. The kind that only existed between people who knew each other too well—and had been through too much.

Harry’s voice softened. “You okay?”

She hesitated. “I’m tired. Hogwarts is… Hogwarts. But it feels different. Like we’re trying to rebuild something none of us remember how to live in.”

Ron nodded. “Sounds familiar.”

His smile faltered, the shadows under his eyes catching the firelight. “It’s weird, you know? Walking through the Ministry halls and thinking about how we used to sneak in, scared out of our minds. Now we wear badges and call it a career.”

Harry gave a low chuckle, but it didn’t last. “Every time I draw my wand, I flinch. Half the time I think it’s going to be a killing curse coming back at me.”

Hermione’s throat tightened.

Ron stared at the flickering fire. “I miss Fred,” he said quietly. “Sometimes I hear George laugh, and for a second—just one bloody second—I forget.”

Hermione didn’t speak. She couldn’t. Her heart sat heavy in her chest.

Harry nodded. “We’ve all lost pieces of ourselves.”

Hermione finally found her voice. “But not each other.”

Ron looked at her, and something in his expression shifted. There was warmth, affection—but not longing. Not anymore.

“We were never meant to be more than this, were we?” he said, not bitter, just certain.

Hermione’s eyes met his. “No. We weren’t.”

Harry didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to.

They sat in the silence for a while—three friends, fractured by war but bound by survival.

Eventually, Harry spoke again, lighter this time. “So, did McGonagall finally give in and admit the portraits are gossiping about her?”

Hermione smiled, grateful. “She’ll never admit it, but I’m fairly certain she hexed one of them silent yesterday.”

They laughed—short, tired, but real.

Soon after, the flames dimmed. Promises were made for another call next week, and one by one, their faces faded.

Hermione sat there a moment longer, staring into the fireplace.

Only when the room had gone still did she let her shoulders sag.

She touched her wrist absentmindedly, where Draco’s grip had seared into her memory.

She wasn’t sure what had just started between them.

But she was certain of one thing:

It wasn’t over.

Chapter Text

Hermione

The newly reinstated Debate Club was more than just another extracurricular—it was a Ministry-endorsed initiative, carefully structured under the guidance of the four Heads of House. Its purpose was clear: to give students—particularly sixth and seventh years—a safe, intellectual space to unpack the moral wreckage left behind by the war. Open dialogue, differing perspectives, and uncomfortable questions. The goal wasn't to win, but to learn how to think—and feel—with depth, empathy, and reason.

The setting was familiar yet changed. The high-arched chamber where Lockhart had once foolishly introduced the Dueling Club had been repurposed. Gone were the dueling platforms. Instead, wide stone steps circled the edges of the room, forming an informal amphitheater. Velvet cushions were charmed into place before each session. In the center, a single raised dais held two chairs and a small round table—where the chosen debaters would face off.

Hermione sat high on the third step, legs crossed, a quill hovering beside her, parchment already half-full with scribbled observations. Professor McGonagall had personally encouraged her to join, hinting that it would be a constructive outlet for the way her mind needed to unravel things. She wasn’t entirely sure yet—but it felt like the sort of thing she should do. And so she did.

Today’s topic was printed neatly on a floating banner above the dais:

“Forgiveness vs. Accountability: Can You Truly Have Both?”

Currently, a poised Ravenclaw girl with braids wrapped tightly around her head stood opposite a sharp-jawed Slytherin boy Hermione didn’t recognize—probably a returning student. Their voices echoed across the chamber, calm but intense.

“But forgiveness isn't a free pass,” the Ravenclaw said steadily. “It’s about allowing yourself to heal, not excusing what was done. That’s why both are possible. We must hold people accountable—but we can’t imprison ourselves in the process.”

The Slytherin crossed his arms. “You say that as if everyone’s actions are equal. As if someone who lied to protect their family is in the same category as someone who killed for the Dark Lord. That’s idealistic, not realistic.”

A few students murmured at that. One or two nodded. Hermione caught herself doing the same before quickly stopping. That was the magic of this place. It stirred things. Made you face the parts of your mind you kept too tidy.

She leaned back slightly, glancing around. Her eyes flicked across the crowd—and there, against the far wall, alone and unreadable, stood Draco Malfoy.

He wasn’t sitting. He wasn’t taking notes. He looked like someone who had been forced to come and hadn’t decided if he would stay. And yet, his eyes were locked on the debate—not bored, not dismissive, but something else entirely. Something sharper.

Hermione looked away before she could analyze it. But a question had already sparked somewhere inside her.

Would he ever speak in this room?

Would she?

The halls were dim, lit by flickering torches, and by the time she reached the small room just off the hospital wing, she was already bracing herself.

The room was cozy, designed to be intentionally unlike any other part of the castle. The fireplace always crackled warmly, and there were too many cushions and soft rugs, like something out of a Muggle therapy office instead of Hogwarts.

"You're early today," said Healer Madra Lane as she looked up from her chair by the hearth. She was young—not much older than the older students—but there was something in her demeanor that felt ageless, or maybe just unshakeable.

Hermione nodded and sat down without speaking. The tea was already poured.

"I heard about the Debate Club," Madra said gently after a few moments of silence stretched between them.

Hermione’s brows lifted slightly. “I figured you would.”

“McGonagall has a way of keeping the staff informed—especially when she’s rooting for someone to step forward.”

“You know,” Madra continued, “debate isn’t always about winning or proving a point. Sometimes it’s about finding the edges of what you believe. Understanding your own shape.”

“You don’t have to stand on the dais yet. But if it called to you—even just a little—it might be worth listening.”

Hermione didn’t answer, but she sipped her tea more slowly this time.

The embers popped gently, and somewhere beneath all the broken pieces she carried, something began to stir—something that looked suspiciously like courage.

The days at Hogwarts had begun to settle into a rhythm—imperfect, but grounding in their own way.

Hermione’s mornings were ruled by the kind of intellectual intensity she craved: double Potions on Tuesdays, Arithmancy and Ancient Runes on alternating days, and Transfiguration on Thursdays. Each class demanded her full attention, which suited her just fine. Concentration brought structure. And structure kept the memories at bay.

Afternoons were no less demanding. Defense Against the Dark Arts and Charms filled most of them, requiring her to be sharp and quick on her feet. Mondays were the worst—Ancient Runes followed by Charms and Defense left her drained by evening. But Hermione didn’t complain. Exhaustion was better than quiet. Quiet left room for remembering.

She still made time for her duties as a Prefect, patrolling corridors and guiding younger students when necessary—especially the nervous first years who still flinched at loud sounds or avoided corners like shadows might spring to life.

Her weekly sessions with Healer Madra Lane had become something of a reluctant habit. Every Wednesday, she found herself seated in that softly lit room, sometimes speaking, sometimes silent. Madra never pressured her. Sometimes just being in the space was enough. Sometimes it wasn’t.

Saturdays were usually for library marathons, scribbled essays, and the occasional Prefect meeting. Sundays were quieter, at least in theory. She’d promised Harry and Ron she’d meet up with them when she could—usually after a quick check on whether the first years were behaving or staging yet another unsanctioned duel in a dusty corridor.

The routine didn’t fix anything.

But it helped her keep moving.

And right now, that was all she needed.

Today, she sat in the Healer’s office, knees tucked beneath her, tea warm in her hands.

“The Debate Club met this week,” Hermione began. “Forgiveness versus accountability.”

Madra arched a brow with interest. “And?”

“It was intense.” Hermione took a breath. “One seventh year—Declan Thomas, Slytherin—argued that forgiveness is weakness if there’s no accountability. Another—Maya Sangha, Ravenclaw—countered that without forgiveness, healing stalls. There was shouting. But it was... honest.”

Madra gave a small nod, folding her hands in her lap. “Did you participate?”

Hermione shook her head. “I observed. Took notes. I thought about what I’d say, but…” She looked away. “It’s harder than it used to be. Everything feels grey now.”

“You don’t have to have the answers,” Madra said gently. “Just the courage to keep asking the questions.”

Hermione looked at her, then away again. “Draco Malfoy was there.”

Madra tilted her head slightly.

“I wasn’t... watching him. Not exactly.” Hermione’s voice softened. “But it’s hard not to notice someone you once hated. And who hated you.” She fidgeted with the edge of her sleeve. “He didn’t speak. Just watched. But his eyes—they didn’t look cruel. They looked tired.”

There was a beat of silence.

“Maybe,” Madra said, “he’s still figuring out what he believes too.”

Hermione didn’t respond right away. But something about that thought nestled into her.

After the session, Hermione headed down to the Quidditch pitch, Ginny having dragged her into a promise to watch the match. Gryffindor versus Ravenclaw.

The game was wild, fast-paced, and filled with laughter and adrenaline. Ginny flew like her broom was part of her soul, and Hermione couldn’t help but smile at her friend’s sheer joy.

They met afterward near the changing rooms.

“You came!” Ginny beamed, sweaty and flushed. “You actually left your books!”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Don’t get used to it.”

Ginny bumped her shoulder. “I’m glad you’re here.”

So was she. For now.

And in the shadows of the stands, Hermione once again caught sight of pale hair and a stormy expression.

Draco Malfoy. Always on the fringe. Always silent.

She didn't know why she kept noticing.

But she was beginning to wonder if she was meant to.

Later that evening, Hermione found herself standing before the long noticeboard outside the Great Hall. Neatly pinned to the center was the Debate Club parchment, the next topic written in bold:

"Justice or Mercy: Which Builds a Better Future?"

She read it once. Twice. Her heart beat steadily, like footsteps on stone.

She thought of Ginny, windblown and laughing.

She thought of Declan and Maya, their voices rising in passionate disagreement.

She thought of Madra Lane’s soft words. Of courage and questions.

And she thought—against her better judgment—of Draco Malfoy. Silent, still watching like someone who wanted to speak but didn’t know how.

Hermione reached out and, with a quick stroke of her quill, signed her name beneath the list of speakers.

Hermione Granger — Affirmative.

She stared at the ink for a moment, anchoring herself in the decision.

This wasn’t about him. It wasn’t even about the club.

It was about her.

Choosing to try.

Choosing to speak.

Choosing to heal.

Chapter Text

Hermione

The room was packed.

Word of the Debate Club’s latest topic had ignited conversation across every inch of Hogwarts. Students spilled into the chamber like water through cracked stone, the noise swelling as they jockeyed for seats. The same hall that had once echoed with spellfire now thrummed with a different kind of tension.

Torches burned steadily along the walls. A long platform had been raised at the front, a table set with goblets of water, scattered parchment, and too many eyes. Professor McGonagall, poised and unsmiling, sat at the center. The Heads of House flanked her, and a portrait of Snape glowered from a high corner, silent but ever watchful.

Hermione Granger stood to one side of the platform, fingers cold and fists clenched. She was the affirmative speaker—representing mercy.

The opposing side remained unannounced.

McGonagall rose. “Today’s debate topic: Justice or Mercy—Which Builds a Better Future? Each side will present an opening statement, followed by rebuttals and final arguments. No magic. Only the power of thought.”

Hermione inhaled deeply, nerves crawling over her skin.

And then—

Movement. On the right.

A figure stepped out of the shadows.

Draco Malfoy.

Gone was the preening arrogance of his younger years. He wore plain, black robes. No house colors. No emblem. His expression was unreadable—calm, almost detached—but his presence hit the room like a held breath.

Murmurs. Whispers. A hush followed in his wake.

Hermione’s stomach dropped.

Of course it was him.

He took his place with quiet precision, not sparing her a glance.

McGonagall gave no pause. “Miss Granger. You may begin.”

Hermione stepped forward, willing her voice steady.

“Mercy,” she said, “is not surrender. It’s not an erasure of justice. It’s the decision to choose hope over retribution. It’s the belief that people can change. That healing is not only possible—it’s necessary. Without mercy, we rebuild nothing. We only relive the past, endlessly.”

A murmur of agreement rippled.

She sat.

Malfoy rose slowly, deliberately, as if he had all the time in the world.

He didn’t raise his voice.

“Mercy,” he began, “is a beautiful idea. But ideas don’t stop wars.”

Silence.

His tone was even—too even.

“I’m not here to argue out of bitterness. Or guilt. I’ve seen what mercy looks like. I've seen it handed out like a gift... and used like a weapon. Mercy let some people walk away. Mercy let others be buried quietly. Mercy, for many of us, came too late.”

He folded his hands behind his back.

“I’m not opposed to redemption. But justice is structure. Justice says: what happened matters. Mercy says: maybe we can move on. The problem is, some people never can.”

He looked out over the crowd. “So I ask: What future are we building if we’re too eager to forget the past?”

Then he sat.

No dramatic pause. No smirk.

Just stillness.

Hermione stood again, sharper now. “No one is asking to forget. We’re asking to forgive. There’s a difference. Mercy isn’t about absolution. It’s about possibility. About refusing to believe that anyone—anyone—is beyond repair.”

Draco leaned forward, voice quiet but firm. “You talk like change is inevitable. Like it’s just a matter of time and kindness. But some people... some people don’t change. And others spend every day trying, only to be reminded of who they were.”

Hermione blinked. “Are you saying you haven’t changed?”

He didn’t answer immediately.

When he did, his words were soft. “I’m saying change is hard. And messy. And lonely. And it doesn’t come wrapped in mercy—it comes in silence. In nights you can’t sleep. In apologies no one wants to hear.”

The silence was heavy.

Professor Flitwick cleared his throat, opening the floor for final thoughts.

Hermione’s voice broke that quiet. “So what? We give up? We let pain win? Let bitterness become policy?”

“No,” Malfoy replied simply. “We tell the truth. Mercy means nothing if it’s offered too easily. If it’s not earned.”

“And who decides what’s earned?” she challenged. “You?”

He shook his head. “No. But I know what it feels like to wonder if you ever could earn it.”

That landed.

Hard.

For a moment, the world seemed to narrow around them.

“I’m here,” he added, “not because I asked to be. But because someone—somewhere—believed I might still matter. That belief didn’t feel like mercy. It felt like pressure. Like being watched. Like being afraid to take up space. That’s what people forget.”

Hermione was quiet for a long time before she whispered, “I don’t want to forget.”

Their eyes met. And held.

Then Professor McGonagall stood, bringing the debate to a formal end—but no one applauded. The applause felt... insufficient.

The room slowly emptied, the crowd quieter now, introspective.

Later that evening, Hermione sat alone in the library, trying to read—but finding herself staring into space instead. Her mind kept circling his words. His face.

There was something in him—something broken but deliberate. Like someone who had rebuilt himself, not into something new, but into something that could survive.

And somewhere in the quiet, she realised:

He hadn’t been trying to win.

He’d just been trying to be heard.

The Great Hall was its usual chorus of clinking cutlery, bursts of laughter, and overlapping chatter. Sunlight streamed through the enchanted ceiling, casting a gentle glow over golden platters piled with roast potatoes, stewed vegetables, and buttered rolls. Students milled about, shuffling for seats, filling goblets, reaching for seconds.

Hermione wove through the tables distractedly, her plate untouched in her hands.

She hadn’t planned this.

She’d told herself she wouldn’t. That yesterday’s debate had been enough. That the note she left was a gesture, not a thread she meant to keep tugging.

And yet—here she was.

Scanning faces. Skipping past her usual table.

Searching.

She spotted him at the far edge of the Slytherin table. Alone, as usual. A half-finished plate of food pushed aside, untouched save for a single roll torn into pieces. He sat slightly turned away from the hall, eyes cast downward, like the world around him was just noise he no longer felt a part of.

She hesitated.

Then made herself move.

“Malfoy.”

He didn’t look up at first.

Then he did. Slowly. Expression unreadable.

Hermione stood by the edge of the bench, arms folded loosely over her chest, trying not to let her nerves show. “Do you mind if I sit?”

His eyes flicked to the empty space beside him, then back to her. There was no smirk, no snide remark. Just a tired shrug.

“I suppose.”

She sat, trying to ignore the few heads that turned curiously in their direction.

Silence.

Hermione toyed with the edge of her sleeve. “I wanted to say… you were good yesterday. At the debate.”

He raised an eyebrow, but didn’t speak.

“I mean it,” she continued, voice soft but steady. “You made people think. Me included.”

Draco let out a breath—not quite a scoff, not quite a sigh. “I wasn’t trying to impress anyone.”

“I know,” she said, watching him. “That’s probably why it landed the way it did.”

He turned his gaze back to his plate. “They all think I’m just bitter. Damaged. Angry.”

Hermione tilted her head slightly. “Aren’t you?”

His lips twitched, but not into a smile. “I suppose it’s hard not to be, when the world keeps asking you to explain who you are using stories you never got to write.”

That stilled her.

He finally looked at her again, and this time, his voice was quieter. Honest.

“I spent years watching people die. Listening to screams in walls I couldn’t break through. Pretending I believed in something I knew was wrong because the alternative was... death. Or worse.” He swallowed. “And now I’m back here. With... parchment. And toast. And debates about mercy.”

Hermione didn’t look away.

“And it’s like—how do you pick a side when you’re not even sure what you still believe in?”

The question hung in the space between them.

Hermione leaned in slightly. “You said yesterday that you don’t know if you deserve mercy. But you keep showing up. That has to count for something.”

His jaw clenched. “Or maybe I just don’t know where else to go.”

Hermione was quiet for a long moment. Then: “Maybe showing up is the first step.”

They sat in stillness, the noise of the Great Hall fading around them. Draco’s fingers tapped once, twice, against the edge of his goblet. A nervous tic she might’ve missed a few months ago. Not now.

“I don’t know why I’m sitting here,” she murmured.

His mouth quirked, dry and sardonic. “Granger, if you’re waiting for some clever insult, I’m out of practice.”

She laughed—soft and unexpected.

“No. I meant… I don’t know why I keep noticing you lately.”

He looked startled by that. Not flattered. Just… confused.

“Maybe it’s the hair,” he muttered. “Post-trauma chic.”

Hermione smiled faintly. “It’s not the hair.”

A beat.

“I think it’s because I’ve always seen you one way. And now I’m starting to think that version of you was never real.”

He didn’t respond right away.

Then he said, barely above a whisper, “It was real. Just not the whole story.”

Hermione nodded.

“I’d like to hear the rest.”

For the first time, he looked at her like he didn’t quite know what to do. Not with her, and certainly not with himself.

But he didn’t tell her to leave.

And that, she thought, was something.

Draco

The castle had gone quiet. The kind of quiet that felt too wide, too hollow—like the silence after a scream. The stone walls of the Slytherin dormitory radiated a damp chill, but Draco didn’t feel it. He hadn’t felt much of anything for a while, really—not warmth, not comfort, not safety.

He lay in bed, perfectly still, eyes fixed on the canopy above. The green velvet was familiar, but tonight even that felt alien. His breaths were shallow, quiet, as if he feared waking something in the dark. And maybe he did. Maybe it was already awake.

The dormitory was thick with sleep sounds—shuffling sheets, the occasional sniff or sigh—but Draco’s world was too loud. Every crack of the ancient ceiling, every groan of shifting wood, became an echo of things long past.

He blinked, and he was back in the Manor.

The flash of green light. The shriek of a curse. The ragged breath of someone—was it Granger?—bound and bloodied on the floor.

His jaw tightened. His fingers curled into the sheets. But still, the memories came.

He could smell it now—burning wood, singed hair, damp earth soaked in blood. It was never gone, not really. Just hidden. Tucked behind smiles and sarcasm and perfectly ironed uniforms.

A sudden bang—someone in the next dorm slamming a drawer—made him jolt upright, breath caught in his throat. For a moment, he wasn't in Hogwarts. He was in the drawing room again. His father was shouting. His mother, silent and trembling. A wand raised. A choice made.

Draco’s hand reached for his wand on instinct. Shaking fingers. Shallow breath. He pressed the cool wood to his chest, grounding himself, trying to remember where he was. When he was.

Not there. Not now.

He swung his legs over the bed, the floor cold against his feet. He didn't dare light a candle—light was too harsh, too real. Instead, he moved in shadows, slipping out of the dormitory and into the deserted common room. The greenish water through the windows danced like ghosts on the walls.

Draco sat heavily on one of the couches, dropping his head into his hands. His hair fell forward, curtain-like, shielding him from the world. From himself.

The debate had gone well. Or at least, that’s what they said. Hermione Granger had even complimented him.

The mask he wore—the poise, the arrogance, the dry wit—it cracked more often these days. Especially when she looked at him like that. Like she saw something. Not the boy who’d jeered at her in second year. Not the coward who stood by as she screamed on his parlour floor. But someone real. Someone trying.

But it was hard. Every step forward was like walking through mud. Thick with guilt. With grief. With ghosts.

He stared at the fireless hearth, willing it to spark. Do something. Anything. The silence screamed louder than any battle ever had.

Sometimes, he thought about running. Not from school—but from memory. From himself. But there was nowhere to go. No safehouse in his mind. No clean slate. Just the aftermath. The ruins of a boy who once believed in purity and power—and who now barely believed in sleep.

A sound behind him—a footstep? No, probably his imagination—made him tense again. Always alert. Always waiting for something bad to happen.

That was what war did, wasn't it?

It didn’t kill you. Not completely. It just kept you waiting to die.

He didn’t cry. He never did. Not since the first time he saw a friend die. His body had learned to hold back—tears, words, trust. But his shoulders sagged now, heavy with invisible weight. With stories he would never tell.

The kind you couldn’t heal with a wand.

Draco stayed there until dawn crept through the lake’s murky waters, painting the common room in sickly greens and silvers. He didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

Just survived the night.

Again.

He wondered when breathing wouldn't be so much fucking effort.

Hermione

The Gryffindor common room was quiet in the early morning, the first golden rays of sunlight streaming through the tall windows. Hermione sat curled up on a worn armchair near the fire, the Daily Prophet spread out on her lap.

She scanned the headline aloud, her voice low but sharp: “Ministry Launches ‘Restoration Initiative’ Amid Growing Unrest.”

Ginny flopped down on the couch nearby, crossing her arms with a skeptical glance. “Another one of their grand plans, no doubt.”

Neville shuffled in, carrying a steaming cup of tea. He glanced at the paper and shook his head. “’Tribunal overwhelmed,’ ’delays,’ ’frustrated families’... sounds like a disaster waiting to happen.”

Hermione folded the paper carefully, her expression serious. “The Ministry talks about fairness and healing, but they clearly don’t have the resources or the insight to handle the reality on the ground. Thousands of families lost homes, heritage, and trust. You can’t just fix that with paperwork and speeches.”

Ginny’s eyes darkened. “No wonder there’s so much anger. When people feel ignored, or worse, punished for their past, resentment grows like wildfire.”

Neville set down his tea, voice steady. “And here at Hogwarts, that tension is already creeping in. Some students from old pureblood families are bitter and withdrawn, while others are confused or afraid.”

Hermione’s hands clenched around the paper. “This isn’t just politics. It’s personal. If the Ministry doesn’t listen and act wisely, the wounds will deepen—and the next generation will inherit that bitterness.”

Ginny’s voice softened, almost a whisper. “We can’t let that happen. We’ve seen what hatred can do.”

Neville nodded firmly. “Maybe we’re the ones who have to build the bridge—between the past and what the wizarding world needs to become.”

Hermione looked at them both, determination shining in her eyes. “Then we start here—right where we are.”

The crackle of voices interrupted them from the hallway outside. Through the archway, a group of Slytherin students appeared, led by Pansy Parkinson, her sharp eyes fixed on Hermione.

“Well, well,” Pansy said, her voice cold and cutting. “Reading the Prophet so early, Granger? Trying to keep up with the Ministry’s latest farce?”

Ginny rose immediately, her posture stiffening. “And what would you know about farces, Parkinson? The Ministry’s trying to fix what your lot helped ruin.”

Pansy’s lip curled into a sneer. “My family lost everything fighting for what’s rightfully ours. Maybe if you understood true loss, you’d stop pretending to care.”

Neville stepped forward, voice steady. “We know loss. But clinging to the past and old grudges won’t help anyone.”

One of Pansy’s friends snickered. “Sounds like Gryffindor’s full of themselves now—talking about unity while sneering at tradition.”

Hermione’s eyes flashed. “It’s not about tradition or pride. It’s about justice. About making sure no one else suffers.”

Pansy’s gaze hardened. “Justice? You don’t get to decide what that means for us. And was your pretty debate not all about mercy? How quickly you have changed your tune.”

Hermione just stared at the witch.

The tension in the corridor thickened, words hanging heavy in the air. Without another word, Pansy turned sharply and led her group away, their footsteps echoing down the stone hallway.

Ginny let out a breath she hadn’t realised she was holding. “This isn’t just politics anymore. It’s personal.”

Neville’s face was grim. “If things keep escalating, Hogwarts might not be safe from old grudges much longer.”

Hermione folded the Prophet and tucked it under her arm. She said nothing.

Over the next few days, things fell into a strange, careful rhythm.

Hermione and Draco passed each other in corridors and common spaces with brief nods or curt “hello”s. No fire. No snark. Just a quiet, brittle civility. And yet… she always knew where he was in the room. As if her senses recalibrated the moment he entered.

He never quite looked at her directly, but sometimes—sometimes—she caught him watching her out of the corner of his eye. Not in a predatory or smug way, the way Malfoy used to. This was different. Warier. Like he was listening for a sound that hadn’t come yet.

She didn’t know what to make of it. Or of herself.

Why did he linger in her thoughts long after their conversations had ended? Why did her pulse quicken at the memory of him speaking—not as an enemy, but as a person with thoughts, conviction, depth?

It unsettled her.

And she was tired of being unsettled.

“You need air,” Ginny said, folding her arms.

They were in the library, Hermione surrounded by books she wasn’t really reading.

“I have air,” Hermione replied, gesturing vaguely at the high windows.

Ginny raised an eyebrow. “Stale castle air doesn’t count. You haven’t laughed in days, and you’re weirdly quiet, which is my job. So. Outing.”

“Outing?” Hermione repeated, skeptical.

“Yep,” said Luna, appearing behind a shelf as if summoned. “To Hogsmeade. The sun is in a good position for tea and mischief.”

Hermione gave her a look. “Is that a Lovegood horoscope or a national one?”

“Both,” Luna said dreamily.

Ginny grinned. “So? You in? We’ll drag you out of your head, whether you like it or not.”

Hermione hesitated. She was tempted to say no. To burrow back into her books, to pretend she wasn’t thinking about grey eyes and fragile pride and nightmares in silence.

But the truth was, she needed the outing. She needed Ginny’s no-nonsense comfort and Luna’s strange, soothing clarity. She needed space.

“Alright,” she said at last, standing up. “But if we’re going to Hogsmeade, I’m picking the place. And we’re not buying any cursed trinkets.”

Luna tilted her head. “What if the curse is a helpful one?”

Hermione gave her a look. Ginny looped her arm through Hermione’s, victorious.

As they left the library, the girls laughing softly, Draco passed them from a distance, his eyes brushing over Hermione for just a second too long.

She didn’t notice.

But Luna did.

The golden hours of the afternoon melted into soft light as the girls wandered further down Hogsmeade’s cobbled lanes, arms looped, cheeks pink from the cold.

Ginny and Hermione walked in step, while Luna trailed just behind, her eyes catching the way light shimmered on frost-tipped leaves.

“I missed this,” Ginny said, voice low, as they passed by a window filled with enchanted snow globes. “Us. Like this.”

“We’ve all been so tangled in our own heads lately,” Hermione replied. “It’s easy to forget how much we need each other.”

“You mean how much you need us,” Ginny teased, nudging her with a shoulder. “It’s alright. You’re allowed. Even the great Hermione Granger gets to fall apart a little.”

Luna smiled dreamily. “Falling apart is a necessary part of becoming something new.”

Hermione laughed despite herself. “Why does that actually make me feel better?”

“Because it’s true,” Luna said simply.

They settled onto a bench tucked behind Zonko’s, Luna pulling out a bag of pear drops she’d charmed to taste like emotions. “This one’s serenity,” she said, handing Hermione a glowing blue sweet.

Hermione popped it into her mouth. The sudden wash of calm was almost disarming.

For a long while, they just sat—no rushing, no fixing, just being. Their silence was full of trust.

Then Neville Longbottom appeared, his arms full of small potted plants wrapped in brown paper, glasses fogging up in the cool air.

“Oi!” Ginny waved. “Longbottom!”

Neville stopped, blinking. “I thought I heard voices I liked.”

“Planning to repot all of Hogwarts?” Hermione asked as he approached.

He grinned, cheeks flushed. “Professor Sprout’s letting me set up a winter greenhouse for extra N.E.W.T. work. Thought I’d stock up while I was here.”

“Still the herbology hero,” Ginny teased fondly.

“I like plants,” Neville said with a shrug. “They grow slow. They don’t judge you when you need time.”

Luna nodded like he’d just read poetry. “That’s beautiful, Neville.”

He blushed, but held her gaze for a moment longer than usual.

Hermione noticed the way Ginny's expression softened as she looked at the two of them, the tiny tilt of her lips betraying a quiet wish.

“Wanna walk back with us?” Ginny asked.

Neville hesitated. “I would, but I’ve got to pop into Tomes and Scrolls first. I’ll catch up?”

They nodded, and he gave a shy wave before vanishing around the corner.

The three girls rose, linking arms again.

“Do you ever think about how far we’ve come?” Hermione asked.

“Every day,” Ginny said.

“I think we’re still coming,” Luna added softly. “Still becoming.”

And as they walked back to the castle together, the sun dipping low and their shadows long behind them, they felt—if only for a moment—whole.

Draco

A few nights later, in a shadowy alcove off the Slytherin common room…

Draco leaned against the cold wall, arms crossed, watching Pansy pace. Theo leaned silently nearby, hands in his pockets. Blaise stood in the corner, unreadable as always. None of them had spoken yet—Pansy was wound too tight to interrupt.

“I told Longbottom to keep his sanctimonious little nose out of our business—our house’s business,” she spat. “And suddenly Granger’s jumping in like she’s Head Girl again, and the Weasley brat’s mouthing off about ‘toxic legacies’ and ‘healing the school.’ Healing?” She barked a bitter laugh. “They want to gut everything that’s ours and call it progress.”

Draco exhaled through his nose. “What did you say?”

“I said my family lost everything fighting for what was rightfully ours. That maybe if she understood true loss, she’d stop pretending to care. And then bloody Neville tries to deliver a speech about unity. Like I needed a lecture from the Herbology Hero.”

“One of your friends probably made it worse,” Blaise said dryly.

She whirled on him. “Aren’t we? Because it feels the same—just with prettier words. ‘Justice,’ ‘healing,’ ‘unity’—all code for erasing us. They want us quiet, ashamed. Like we didn’t bleed too.”

Draco’s gaze dropped to the floor. He didn’t want to say it, but the words had been circling his mind for weeks.

“We were on the wrong side, Pansy.”

Her head snapped toward him. “Excuse me?”

Draco looked up. Calm. Steady. “We backed a cause that hurt people. Maybe they’re right to tear it down.”

Pansy stared at him, betrayed.

Blaise raised a brow, as if waiting for the fallout.

But Draco didn’t flinch. “Maybe they’ve got a point.”

The silence that followed was suffocating.

“You sound just like them,” she whispered.

“Maybe I do,” he said, voice low. “But maybe it’s because they’re not all wrong.”

He pushed off the wall and walked past them, not looking back. Behind him, footsteps didn’t follow.

Let her hate him. Let them all stew in their pride. He was done bleeding for legacies that left scars.

Chapter Text

Draco

She nodded when they passed—just a flicker of acknowledgment. He returned it, as always, with a tilt of his head. Routine. Predictable.

And yet, it wasn’t.

Not anymore.

Something about her had changed. Or maybe… he was only just noticing.

He noticed it first in the library. She stood a few shelves away, spine straight, a finger running along titles with quiet purpose. There was a steadiness to her, the way she took up space—not loudly, but with a kind of unshakeable certainty. She belonged. Not just here, in this room of dust and parchment and knowledge, but in the world. As if she had earned her place through sheer force of will. And she wasn’t leaving.

He hadn’t thought of her like that before. He actually hadn’t given her any real thought.

Granger had always been the Mudblood with a mouth too sharp and a sense of right too righteous. But this—this girl standing before him now—she was more than that.

Not soft, never soft. But grounded. Composed. Despite surviving a war.

He couldn’t help but respect it.

When she turned and caught his eye, he didn’t look away. Neither did she. Just a faint, polite flicker of acknowledgement, and then she returned to her book.

It unsettled him more than he liked.

In Potions, she passed him the dragon scale before he asked, their fingers brushing for the briefest moment. Neither of them commented on it. He gave a curt nod. She didn’t smile.

It wasn’t warmth between them. It was something colder. Stranger. Like two people who had survived a storm on opposite sides of the sea.

Something quiet had begun to thread between them—a pull, subtle and slow, like warmth blooming beneath the skin. Not tension. Not peace. Just… knowing.

Draco found himself watching her in small, stolen glances.

Noticing how she tucked her hair behind her ear when she was reading. The way her mouth moved silently when she thought no one was watching. The neatness of her notes. The slight smudge of ink always on the edge of her hand.

It was infuriating.

She had no right to be interesting. No right to be—admirable. Not to him.

He told himself it was curiosity, nothing more. A natural reaction to a mind as clever as hers. Respect, perhaps, the kind you gave an opponent worth debating.

But deep down, something stirred. Unsettling. Foreign.

A quiet pull toward the girl he had spent years trying to hate.

It made him restless.

One evening, he drifted past a forgotten classroom on the third floor—quiet, dusky, the kind of place time forgot. The door was slightly ajar, candlelight breathing through the crack like a secret.

He paused.

Inside, she was alone.

Hermione Granger stood at the center of the room, her wand raised with deliberate precision. Desks had been pushed aside, making space for movement. Floating around her were glowing sigils—intricate, spinning patterns of light that pulsed in midair. Charms, complex ones, layered and silent, rotating in rhythm like a celestial map.

She moved with focus. No hesitation. Each flick of her wrist corrected an orbit, balanced a glow, smoothed a ripple of unstable magic. The air itself thrummed with it—low and electric, like the room recognized her power and bent around it.

She was beautiful in that moment. Not in the soft, obvious way. In the way a storm is beautiful. Controlled. Contained. Unapologetically alive.

He lingered in the doorway, caught in the hush.

She hadn’t seen him. Or maybe she had, and simply didn’t care. Either way, she didn’t break the spell. Her brow furrowed slightly as she redirected a charm with a whispered correction, the candlelight catching the edge of her jaw.

He’d never seen her like this. Not just smart—commanding. The kind of competence that made people listen. That made magic listen.

And gods, it stirred something deep.

The war had carved them both into new shapes. But this—this was who she’d become.

And he couldn’t look away.

He told himself, again, that it didn’t matter.

That she was still Granger, still everything his father had warned him about. Everything his mother feared he might become.

And yet…

When she  passed by him the next morning, after breakfast, her eyes flicked to his, and this time, he felt it:

Flutters.

And in that moment, he knew he wasn’t imagining it.

Hermione

The weeks leading up to Halloween drifted by in a swirl of amber leaves and candlelight. Hogwarts transformed as it always did — great pumpkins lined the stone corridors, lanterns floated like gentle will-o'-the-wisps, and enchanted bats flitted above enchanted ceilings. The magic felt quieter this year. Or maybe Hermione was just noticing different things.

She was busy — predictably so. Between Prefect duties, Debate Club preparations, and her ever-growing stack of essays, there wasn’t much time for anything else. But every so often, something... shifted. A glance across the library. A presence in the corridor that lingered just a little longer than necessary.

Draco Malfoy was always there. Just far enough to ignore, but close enough to notice.

They seemed to inhabit the same spaces more often now — not by design, she told herself, but by some quiet, unspoken pattern. The library, in particular, became a shared silence. They never spoke, not really. Just an occasional flick of the eyes, the faintest nod if their paths crossed near the bookshelves.

One afternoon, she left a book on a desk — Ethics of Magical Intervention — the same one he’d eyed during Debate Club prep. No note. No explanation. She wasn’t even sure he saw her leave it. But two days later, it was gone.

He never said thank you.

She didn’t expect him to.

Halloween came with its usual spectacle: whispers of enchanted sweets, rumors about Peeves and possessed suits of armor, and an enchanted ceiling charm that promised to project memories of Halloweens past. The castle buzzed with anticipation.

Hermione watched it unfold, distantly.

She spotted Draco in the library that morning — tucked in a corner behind a stack of journals, half-hidden in shadow. For a moment, she considered turning back. But instead, she approached, slow and careful.

“I’m not moving,” he said without lifting his eyes.

“I’m not asking you to.” Her voice was neutral, calm. She didn’t sit.

A beat of silence.

“There’s a new ceiling charm for the feast tonight,” she said, half-turning to go. “It might be worth seeing.”

No invitation. Just information.

She didn’t wait for an answer.

Later, during the feast, with the Great Hall glowing with echoes of past celebrations, she caught sight of him — standing at the back, alone. Not part of the crowd, but not absent either.

Their eyes met.

No smile. No nod.

Just awareness.

And still, somehow, it meant something.

The Great Hall glittered once again under a hundred hovering orbs of soft golden light. The same enchanted ceiling now shimmered with a late-autumn dusk, violet and charcoal clouds rolling gently above. Hogwarts had developed a taste for formal debates after the last one, and tonight’s promised even more spectacle.

On one side of the raised platform stood Blaise Zabini—impeccably dressed, confident, elegant in his Slytherin greens with a faint smirk curving his lips. Opposite him was Luna Lovegood, barefoot, wearing deep navy velvet robes that trailed behind her like a second shadow. A diadem of woven twigs and glowing stones crowned her loose blonde waves. A tiny pendant in the shape of a sleeping Runespoor blinked gently at her throat.

The topic: "Emotion vs. Logic: Which is the true strength of the human experience?"

Professor Flitwick stood at the centre as moderator, beaming with barely contained excitement. The hall buzzed with anticipation, a ripple of whispers skating over the student crowd.

“Mr. Zabini, you may begin.”

Blaise stepped forward smoothly. “Emotion is chaotic. Unreliable. It is the thing that causes people to make decisions they later regret. Logic, on the other hand, is clean. Predictable. It has built civilizations, solved curses, and—crucially—doesn’t cry at weddings.”

Soft laughter rolled across the hall.

He lifted a brow. “We admire emotion, but we depend on logic. That’s why you trust your Healer to use potions, not intuition. Why your broom is designed with mathematics—not vibes.”

Polite applause. The Slytherins looked smug.

Flitwick nodded. “Miss Lovegood?”

Luna drifted forward, hands loosely clasped. “I’d like to thank Blaise for reminding us all how very dull life would be if we relied only on things that make sense.”

A few snickers. Blaise’s eyebrow twitched.

She continued, dreamily, “Emotion is the thread that ties us to each other. Without it, there’s no courage, no forgiveness. No friendship. No love. Even Crumple-Horned Snorlacks only mate for life when they feel emotionally safe.”

There was a pause—half confusion, half awe. Draco, from the back of the room, leaned forward.

Luna tilted her head. “You can make a wand with logic. But you need love to use it for anything worthwhile.”

A soft murmur of agreement rose. Even some Ravenclaws sat a little straighter.

Blaise cut in during the rebuttal round. “With all due respect to the mating rituals of magical beasts, I prefer facts over folklore.”

Luna blinked slowly. “And yet, even the most logical people hope to be loved. That’s not logic. That’s something braver.”

Silence. Stillness.

Then—thunderous applause.

Flitwick conferred with the judges (McGonagall, Sprout, and surprisingly, Madam Pince). After a few muttered moments, he raised both hands.

“The judges are… evenly split.”

A rumble of reactions.

Flitwick smiled. “The debate is a draw!”

Blaise muttered something under his breath—something about "bewitching nonsense"—but Luna just turned toward the audience, gave a little curtsy, and then wandered offstage like a wandering faerie queen.

As the crowd dispersed, Draco stood still. Watching her.

“That girl might be mad,” Blaise said beside him, wiping invisible lint from his sleeve, “but she’s smart as fuck!”

Draco’s voice was low, thoughtful.

“Yeah. She is.”

And for the first time, the idea didn’t bother him at all.

Draco

The Great Hall was nearly empty, the buzz from the debate settling into an uneasy quiet. Draco stood near the raised platform, his gaze distant, when Hermione approached from the side, clutching her books.

“You followed that debate pretty closely,” Draco said, eyes narrowing slightly as he glanced at her.

Hermione raised an eyebrow. “You think I’d miss something like Luna Lovegood standing up to Blaise Zabini?”

He smirked faintly. “She’s… something, isn’t she? ”

“She’s unpredictable, sure,” Hermione replied. “But Blaise made some good points, too. Logic has its place.”

“Maybe,” Draco said, shifting his weight. “Speaking of logic, we have that potions essay due soon. Seems we’re paired for the assignment.”

Hermione frowned. “By who?”

“Professor Slughorn. You were still arguing with Parkinson when he announced it.”

She sighed, eyes rolling slightly. “Lovely. Just what I needed.”

“You’re welcome,” he said, dry.

Hermione started to turn, but then paused — and looked at him, really looked at him.

“I don’t hate you, you know,” she said, almost offhand, but with unnerving clarity.

Draco’s expression didn’t change, but his posture stilled completely.

“You shouldn’t say things like that,” he replied quietly, after a beat.

“Why?” she asked. “Because you want me to? Or because you don’t believe it?”

A flash of something passed behind his eyes — something brittle and confused.

Hermione didn’t wait for an answer. She just turned and walked away, curls bouncing slightly, the echo of her words hanging in the air like a spell he hadn’t known she could cast.

Draco watched her go, jaw tight, heart stuttering in a way he didn’t appreciate.

He didn’t believe her.

But he wanted to.

And that was the problem.

The library was unusually quiet for a weekday afternoon. Low sunlight slanted through tall windows, casting long golden bands across dusty floors. Shelves groaned with ancient volumes, and the only sound was the soft scratch of quills — and Draco Malfoy, muttering under his breath.

“This ingredient list doesn’t make sense,” he said, voice low and precise. “You can’t just add belladonna and expect the stabilizer to hold. Unless you want your eyebrows singed off.”

Hermione, seated beside him at the long table, didn’t look up. “That’s why you use valerian root to buffer the toxicity. It’s in the footnote.”

“I don’t waste time on footnotes.”

She set her quill down. “That explains a lot.”

Draco glanced sideways at her, mildly amused. “Careful, Granger. That almost sounded like sarcasm.”

Hermione arched an eyebrow. “I’m evolving.”

He smirked, then leaned over the textbook again. “Still wrong though. You’re using four grams. The formula only calls for two.”

She frowned. “You’re sure?”

“Try it in the lab if you like,” he said, shrugging. “Unless you’d rather argue with someone who’s been brewing since before he could write his name.”

Hermione scanned the line again — and grimaced. He was right.

“You’re good at this,” she muttered.

Draco’s expression didn’t change, but there was a flicker of quiet satisfaction behind his eyes. “What, potions or being right?”

“Both. Annoyingly.”

He leaned back, arms crossing. “Shame you spent most of school assuming I had nothing in my head but broomsticks and bloodlines.”

Hermione’s head tilted slightly. “You gave us plenty of reason to assume.”

His smirk faded. “Fair.”

A pause stretched. Quiet. Brittle.

Then: “Maybe I was taught not to respect certain kinds of intelligence,” he said, too casually.

Hermione’s quill stopped mid-stroke.

She didn’t look at him. Just said, very softly, “Unlearning things is hard. But not impossible.”

Draco was silent. Not defensive. Not mocking. Just… still.

After a beat, he said, quieter, “I’m trying.”

She nodded once, and they both turned back to their work. The silence returned, but it was no longer jagged. It settled between them like something earned.

When Hermione reached for her spare quill, her sleeve brushed his arm.

Neither of them moved.

Not immediately.

Then Draco shifted, slowly — a small inhale, barely audible.

“You’re different,” he said, like the thought had just formed.

Hermione looked over, wary. “Than what?”

He considered. “Than what I told myself you were.”

She didn’t smile, not this time. Just met his eyes.

“So are you.”

He didn’t respond. But when she turned back to her notes, he kept looking.

And for the first time, he didn’t want to look away.

Draco didn’t need to hear her voice to know she’d seen the parchment.

He felt it.

The stillness that followed, like she was holding her breath — or holding something in.

He kept his eyes on the vial in front of him, swirling aconite with idle precision, pretending not to notice.

Pretending he wasn’t already counting the seconds until she’d say it.

Across the dungeon, Slughorn hummed his way into his office, fat robes trailing behind him like a retreating storm. The silence that followed was thick, expectant.

Then Granger spoke.

“I’ve been partnered with Malfoy. Again.”

He smirked, lips barely twitching.

There it was.

The Weasley girl made a sharp noise, half wince, half amusement.

Longbottom choked on air. “You what?”

Draco didn’t turn around. Just listened.

“That can’t be random,” the Weasley muttered.

Draco rolled the vial between his fingers, watching the liquid catch the dim light.

Of course it was Slughorn. The man loved theatrics. Loved watching sparks fly, even if they came from reluctant sparks and clashing egos.

But Draco wasn’t angry.

He didn’t mind being partnered with her. Not really.

She was competent — precise, irritatingly thorough, annoyingly right more often than he liked.

She challenged him. Not with cruelty or arrogance, but with logic. With steadiness. With those sharp, too-clever eyes that made it very hard to lie — even to himself.

He’d rather work with her than half the classroom, even if she sighed every time their names were read together like the universe itself was conspiring against her.

And maybe it was.

Or maybe — maybe — he didn’t mind.

Later, in their assigned brewing alcove near the back of the dungeon, Draco stood waiting, arms crossed, a slight smirk tugging at his mouth.

“I suppose you’re going to protest,” he said as Hermione approached, setting her satchel down on the bench beside him.

“I’m going to brew,” she replied evenly. “Slughorn paired us, not me.”

Draco’s smirk widened. “So you’re not thrilled, then? I’m wounded.”

“I’m focused,” she said curtly, unrolling the scroll with the potion instructions.

It was a complex restorative draught—multi-phased, requiring weekly additions, lunar timing, and obsessive monitoring. The kind of potion that demanded patience. And proximity.

“Why us?” Draco asked after a moment, scanning the list of ingredients. “There are other high achievers in this class.”

Hermione shrugged. “Maybe Slughorn thinks we’ll either kill each other or create something extraordinary.”

Draco gave a low laugh. “He’s not wrong.”

They worked in silence for a while, slicing asphodel and weighing powdered moonstone. Occasionally their hands brushed reaching for a vial. Hermione didn’t flinch, and Draco didn’t mention it. But the air seemed heavier than it should have been.

“You and Blaise seem close,” Hermione said suddenly, not looking at him.

Draco glanced at her. “He tolerates me. Better than most.”

A few moments later, Hermione started speaking. To fill the silence.

“Luna was impressive in the debate,” Hermione said, watching the flame beneath the cauldron dance. “I didn’t expect her to keep up with Blaise.”

“She didn’t,” Draco said quietly. “She outmatched him. He’s still pretending he’s not impressed.”

Hermione smiled, just slightly. “You noticed too.”

Draco offered her a look. “You’re not the only one with a brain, Granger.”

“Prove it,” she said, nudging the knife toward him. “Chop the hellebore exactly 2.5 millimeters thick. If it oxidizes, it’s ruined.”

“Bossy,” he muttered. But he rolled up his sleeves.

And as they bent over the cutting board together, hands occasionally brushing again, neither mentioned how oddly natural it all felt.

As Draco measured out the crushed scarab beetle, Hermione glanced toward her bag, where the top of Crookshanks’ ginger head peeked out, nestled in a fleece-lined carrier.

“You brought your cat to Potions?” Draco asked, eyeing the bag warily.

Hermione sighed, not looking up from her notes. “He’s not well. I didn’t want to leave him alone all day.”

Draco tilted his head slightly. “He looks half-dead.”

“He’s old,” Hermione said, sharper than she meant to. Then, quieter, “And he hasn’t been eating much. Madame Pomfrey gave me a calming draught to mix into his food. But he just... sleeps.”

Draco looked at her for a moment. Not mockingly. Just watching.

“I thought he was part Kneazle,” he said finally.

“He is,” Hermione replied. “Which means he hides pain well. Too well.”

For a moment, the bubbling cauldron was the only sound between them.

Draco cleared his throat. “When my mother’s peacocks got sick, she said the worst part wasn’t the mess, it was the waiting. Not knowing if anything would work.”

Hermione blinked. That was—surprisingly sincere.

“Did they make it?” she asked.

“One did.” He shrugged. “The other attacked a gardener and had to be put down. Mother was furious.”

Despite herself, Hermione let out a small breath of laughter. “That sounds like a Malfoy peacock.”

Draco looked oddly pleased with that.

Hermione reached for the next vial but paused. “He was with me through everything. The war, the tent, the quiet after... I know he’s just a cat—”

“He’s not,” Draco said, his voice low but firm. “He’s yours.”

That silenced her. She gave a small nod and turned back to the brew.

They continued working side-by-side, the potion swirling into a rich amethyst hue. Crookshanks shifted slightly in his bag, tail twitching once before stilling again.

Neither of them said anything else, but the silence was no longer cold.

The fire crackled low in the grate, casting amber shadows across the green-and-silver tapestries. Blaise lounged on one of the leather sofas, legs stretched out, a book closed and forgotten beside him.

Draco dropped into the chair across from him, loosening his tie. He smelled faintly of wormwood and thyme—ingredients from the day's brewing session.

Blaise didn’t look up at first.

Then, casually, “So. You and Granger.”

Draco blinked. “What about us?”

Blaise finally met his eyes, mouth twitching at one corner. “You’ve been glued to her side all week. The cauldron fumes getting to you, or is there something I should know?”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Slughorn paired us. It’s a month-long assignment. I didn’t exactly volunteer.”

“No, but you’re not complaining either.” Blaise raised a brow. “You usually complain. Loudly. About everything.”

Draco leaned back. “She’s competent. Organized. ”

Blaise gave him a look. “Not the defense I thought I’d hear.”

Draco shrugged. “We want top marks. She’s—focused.”

“Focused,” Blaise echoed, deadpan. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”

Draco shot him a look. “Don’t be an arse.”

“I’m just saying,” Blaise drawled, folding his hands behind his head, “you don’t even look annoyed when she talks anymore. That’s new. Remember fourth year? You used to mutter ‘insufferable’ every time she raised her hand.”

Draco didn’t answer. Instead, he stared into the fire, jaw tight.

Blaise studied him for a moment longer. “She’s still not one of us, you know.”

Draco’s voice was quiet, almost distracted. “Neither am I. Not really.”

The fire popped loudly.

Blaise didn’t reply.

He just leaned back, watching his friend like someone waiting to see if a storm was going to break.

Hermione

Hermione sat hunched over a large tome on potion stabilizers, ink smudged across her hand, notes meticulously sorted on parchment around her. Crookshanks lay curled nearby, dozing lightly with a faint wheeze in his chest.

Luna slid into the seat across from her with the ghost of a smile. She had a small satchel of books and a butterbeer cork necklace that caught the light.

“You’ve been spending a lot of time with Draco Malfoy,” she said serenely, as if commenting on the weather.

Hermione didn’t even look up. “We’re brewing a complex restorative draught together. It’s complicated.”

Luna nodded slowly. “Still. You don’t frown when you say his name anymore.”

Hermione’s quill paused.

“And you bring extra notes to each session,” Luna added, tapping the edge of the table lightly. “Even though he’s perfectly capable of doing his share.”

“I like being prepared,” Hermione muttered, finally glancing up. “He’s… less awful than he used to be.”

“Hmm,” Luna said thoughtfully, watching her. “I think he tries not to be, when he’s around you.”

Hermione looked away. “Don’t start.”

“I’m not starting anything.” Luna tilted her head. “I just notice things. Like how he watches you when you’re not looking.

They sat in quiet for a beat, the rustle of pages and the occasional clink of ink bottles filling the space.

Then Luna added dreamily, “I think some people change in subtle ways. Like polyjuice potion—it’s not always dramatic. Sometimes it starts with the smallest stir.”

Hermione blinked at her. “That’s… oddly poetic.”

“I get that a lot,” Luna said, smiling faintly.

Just then, the doors to the library creaked open. Ginny Weasley strode in, her Quidditch kit half-undone, cheeks pink from the cold air outside and windswept hair barely tamed by a tie.

“There you are,” she said, dropping into the seat next to Hermione and stealing one of her spare quills. “I’ve been looking everywhere.”

“You’ve got mud on your sleeve,” Hermione said automatically.

Ginny glanced down and wiped at it with a sigh. “Pitch was a disaster. Bradley, our beater, slammed into the goalpost and nearly took Katie down with him. Idiot. What are you two chatting about?”

“Draco Malfoy,” Luna answered cheerfully.

Ginny raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

Luna smiled. “No reason.”

Ginny looked between the two of them, then to Hermione, who had gone a bit pink. “Oh,” she said, leaning back. “That kind of conversation.”

“It’s not that kind of conversation,” Hermione snapped, perhaps a little too fast.

Ginny just smirked. “Sure, Hermione. Whatever you say.”

The cauldron simmered with a soft hiss, the vapors curling lazily toward the high-arched ceiling. The old abandoned, classroom they were working in had been abandoned by second-years who’d stolen it earlier that week, leaving the room pleasantly quiet — except for the bubbling, and Draco Malfoy’s increasingly dramatic sighs.

Hermione stirred clockwise. Exactly three times. The potion glowed a soft amethyst — not perfect, but close.

Across from her, Malfoy squinted down at her notes like they’d personally offended him.

“This doesn’t track,” he muttered. “You wrote five drops of dandelion essence. The recipe says three.”

“I accounted for magical variance in the valerian root,” she replied without looking up.

He scoffed. “Of course you did.”

She stopped stirring.

“You’ve got a tone,” she said, glancing up at him. Her voice was even, but her patience had already worn thin.

He tossed his quill down — dramatic, messy — ink bleeding across the edge of the parchment. “I’ve got a tone because we’re three hours in and it still smells like burning soap.”

Hermione blinked, mouth tightening. “No. You’ve got a tone because I didn’t nod and swoon when you corrected my formula.”

He turned to face her, eyes sharp. “I didn’t ask you to swoon.”

“You didn’t have to,” she said coolly. “You just expect it.”

A silence dropped between them like a weight.

Hermione’s pulse was too loud in her ears. She wasn’t angry, not really. She was tired. Tired of people who dismissed her, who misunderstood her, who made everything harder than it had to be — and yet…

She was also tired of pretending she hadn’t noticed the way he leaned in when he read, or how precise his hands were when handling delicate ingredients. Tired of pretending that every brush of fingers or flicker of eye contact didn’t leave a strange, unsettled heat in her chest.

She hated that he was good at this.

Hated more that he was good at getting under her skin.

“Of course Slughorn partners me with the last remaining aristocrat in the building who still thinks teamwork is just the part where everyone agrees with him,” she snapped, too hotly.

Malfoy’s jaw tensed. “Don’t start with the bloody aristocrat bit. I haven’t mentioned blood status once.”

“No,” she shot back. “You don’t have to anymore. It’s all in the way you wrinkle your nose when I suggest something. In the way you pretend you’re tolerating me when you’re the one who keeps lingering.”

His lips parted — as if to argue — but nothing came out.

Because she was right.

And they both knew it.

She turned away, pressing a palm to the table to steady herself.

“I don’t have the energy to entertain whatever wounded pride you’re protecting today,” she said quietly. “Let me know when you want to work like a partner. Not a prince.”

Draco said nothing.

But after a long, tense pause, she heard the subtle scrape of a stirring rod being picked up.

The soft clink of glass.

And still, he didn’t leave.

Draco

Draco didn’t leave the classroom until long after Granger had gone.

He sat there, elbows on the table, eyes on the half-empty cauldron, watching the purple potion go cold.

He should have been angry. She’d snapped at him, challenged him, made him feel — cornered.

But instead, he felt… rattled.

She wasn’t supposed to be like this. So composed, so infuriatingly precise. Not kind, exactly — but clear. Like she’d drawn a line around herself and dared the world to cross it. Dared him.

And maybe he wanted to.

That thought curled through his chest like smoke — unwanted, unsettling. He exhaled sharply and ran a hand through his hair.

She was still a Mudblood.

He didn’t say the word aloud — not anymore — but it lived in him, in the back of his throat, like a bad taste he’d never quite scrubbed clean.

But when she looked at him — really looked — she didn’t flinch.

And that did something to him. Something he hadn’t prepared for.

He gathered his things slowly, lingering over the pages she'd scribbled on, noticing how her handwriting slanted when she was frustrated.

And before he left, without thinking, he tore off the corner of one page — one of hers — where she'd written the correction he refused to acknowledge out loud.

He folded it into a sharp, neat square and tucked it into his pocket.

No reason.

Just… because.

And as he stepped into the empty hallway, shadows stretching long across the floor, he whispered under his breath:

“Bloody hell.”

Chapter Text

Hermione

The wind in Hogsmeade carried a sharper bite in November—brisk and damp, steeped in chimney smoke and the faint scent of mulled cider drifting from open doorways. The trees were mostly bare now, black silhouettes against the pewter sky. Halloween had come and gone, but the memory of glowing jack-o’-lanterns still flickered behind frosted windows, some already replaced with early enchanted Yule charms.

Hermione pulled her cloak tighter as she stepped off the worn cobblestones and approached the quiet café Luna had recommended. She hadn’t expected company—just a quiet tea with Ginny and perhaps Luna, a moment of normalcy in a world that felt increasingly less so.

What she got instead was a surprise.

“Don’t be mad,” Ginny said, standing just inside the doorway with that unmistakable spark in her eyes. “They’re in the back. I told them you wouldn’t hex me in front of the teacups.”

Hermione blinked once. “They?”

She followed Ginny on instinct, ducking beneath floating tea lamps and shelves of enchanted jam jars until she reached the final table—where Harry Potter and Ron Weasley were waiting, all familiar smiles and steaming mugs.

Harry stood to pull her into a hug. “You look good,” he said. “Tired, but good.”

Ron grinned. “Prefect and still punctual. Honestly, I don’t know how Hogwarts runs without you.”

Hermione gave a soft laugh and took the seat opposite them. The café was warm, its mismatched chairs and lace-trimmed tablecloths a blur of nostalgia. Yet as she settled into her seat, she couldn’t quite relax.

Harry and Ron dove into tales of Auror life—chasing dark remnants of old alliances, the thrill of raids, the strange quiet of post-war bureaucracy. Hermione listened with a smile, but something inside her itched. They were still chasing shadows. She was still living with them.

“I’ve been keeping busy,” she offered. “The Debate Club’s become... interesting.”

Ron made a face. “Still debating everything, then?”

She smiled thinly. “It’s more than arguing. It’s about rebuilding thought. Empathy.”

Ron shrugged. “Just seems like a waste of time with some of the people they let back in.”

Harry glanced between them, sensing it.

“Like Malfoy?” Ron added. “Heard he spoke last week.”

Hermione stirred her tea. “He did. It was… complicated.”

Ron huffed. “Complicated is one word for it. Honestly, he should count himself lucky he’s not in Azkaban.”

“No one’s forgetting what he did, Ron.”

“You sound like you’re forgiving him.”

“Of course not,” she said too quickly.

The lie sat oddly in her mouth—dry and uncomfortable. Not quite true. Not quite false.

She stirred her tea again, more for something to do than for taste.

When had “not forgiving him” stopped being honest?

The conversation shifted. Harry asked about Ancient Runes. Ginny kicked Ron under the table. Laughter returned—but Hermione didn’t quite follow it. Part of her had drifted already.

“I need some air,” she said softly, standing.

The chill outside slapped her cheeks pink as she stepped into the narrow alley behind the shop. The cobblestones were slick with frost, and the sky had shifted toward dusk—lavender bruises spreading between tall chimneys.

She leaned against the wall, eyes closed.

Too much. Too fast.

Footsteps approached.

She didn’t look up. Not at first.

But the moment stilled around her before the sound even stopped.

She opened her eyes—and there he was.

Draco Malfoy. Alone, coat collar turned up, scarf loose around his neck, his hair ruffled from the wind.

His pace slowed, then stopped entirely as he saw her.

Neither spoke.

Then—

“You alright, Granger?”

The question was simple. Unpolished. No drawl, no bite.

Hermione stared at him.

“Just... readjusting,” she said.

He nodded once, as if that explained everything.

And maybe it did.

Behind them, the village murmured—floating laughter, shop doors creaking, the tinkle of enchanted bells. But they stood outside of it. Just for a moment. Two people trying to breathe in a world that hadn’t figured out how to let them.

Hermione tilted her head. “What are you doing out here?”

He shrugged. “I like the quiet.”

She almost smiled. “You always hated Hogsmeade trips.”

“I hated being seen on Hogsmeade trips.”

They looked at each other.

Really looked.

And then it passed.

He nodded again, half-turning away.

“I’ll see you in class.”

“Yeah,” she said softly. “See you.”

And then he was gone.

She stayed there a little longer, letting the cold sink in.

When she finally stepped back inside, Ron and Harry had gone.

Ginny looked up from her tea and gave her a small, knowing smile. “Better?”

Hermione sat back down.

She didn’t answer.

But she didn’t feel quite so unsettled anymore.

The nightmare hit like a wave—unexpected and crushing.

It began in darkness. Thick, suffocating darkness that stretched endlessly, swallowing her whole. She couldn’t move, couldn’t see, couldn’t breathe. There was only the sound of her own heartbeat, quick and frantic, and the scrape of metal on stone. And then, a voice. A voice that shouldn’t be there.

“Granger.”

She froze. It wasn’t the warm, familiar tone of Draco she knew. No, this voice was cold—sharp, laced with venom, a memory she’d buried deep within herself. It was his aunt’s voice. Bellatrix Lestrange.

Hermione’s breath caught in her throat, and she tried to scream, but no sound escaped her lips.

The darkness split open like a curtain, revealing a scene she knew all too well. The Malfoy Manor. The walls were dark, the flickering light of the torches casting long, twisted shadows. The air was heavy with dread, thick with the scent of old blood and fear. She was back there again.

Hermione’s heart pounded in her chest as the scene unfolded. She was tied to a chair, her arms bound tightly, her legs shaking beneath her. She could feel the cold stone floor beneath her—cold like the grave. She was alone, but not alone, trapped in a room that felt like a tomb.

And then, Bellatrix appeared. She was towering over Hermione, her mad, wild eyes gleaming with excitement.

“You’re nothing, Granger,” Bellatrix sneered, her lips curling into a sick smile. “A filthy Mudblood, a pathetic waste of space.”

Hermione flinched as Bellatrix’s wand was thrust in her face, but she couldn’t look away. She couldn’t look away from the insanity in her eyes, from the hatred that burned so bright it almost seemed to burn her skin.

“Do you know what I do to people like you?” Bellatrix whispered, her voice a cruel hiss. “I make them suffer.”

Hermione tried to swallow, her throat dry. The pain from the past was crashing over her again. The memories of that night, of that torture, rushed back as if it were happening right now. The screaming, the burning, the feeling of being utterly helpless. The hopelessness.

The worst part was that Draco was there—standing in the corner of the room, his face expressionless, his body rigid. His pale blue eyes flicked over to her once, but he didn’t move. He didn’t speak. He didn’t stop her aunt from raising her wand.

His silence was worse than any curse.

The curse hit her before she could even brace for it, searing through her like fire, like ice, like a thousand jagged knives. She gasped in pain, her body convulsing in the chair, but there was no mercy, no respite. The world was spinning, a blur of flashing light and agony, and all she could hear was Bellatrix’s cruel laughter.

Draco was still there, standing in the corner, watching.

He didn’t even flinch.

“Please...” Hermione whispered, her voice hoarse, barely audible through the pain. “Please stop.”

But Draco didn’t move. He didn’t come to her rescue. He didn’t even speak.

Hermione’s vision blurred with tears, the world spinning around her as Bellatrix continued her twisted game. The pain was unbearable, but it was Draco’s indifference that cut deeper. The way he stood there, unmoving, a spectator to her suffering.

And that’s when it happened.

The dream fractured, splitting like glass, and in the broken pieces, she saw Draco again. Not the Draco she’d known, not the one who had slowly shown glimpses of change, but the Draco she had feared, the one who had betrayed them all. The Draco who had stood silent and cold in that room, as his aunt tormented her.

The Draco who had left her alone.

In that shattered space, his voice cut through the chaos, hollow and distant, like an echo of something she had once known.

“Granger... it wasn’t personal.”

She didn’t know whether to scream or to cry, the words felt like a blade in her chest. It wasn’t personal.

It wasn’t personal. She had wanted to believe that. She had tried to believe that. But the truth was standing there, staring her in the face. He had let it happen. He had let her be broken.

“No...” she whispered, shaking her head. “No, it wasn’t like that. You didn’t—”

But the words died in her throat as the scene around her warped again, twisting and shifting into something worse, something darker.

And then—

She woke up.

The bed was too warm, but it didn’t matter. The darkness that had consumed her dream still lingered. The fear. The hurt. The betrayal. Her heart was pounding in her chest, her skin clammy, her hands trembling as they gripped the sheets. She could still feel the searing pain of Bellatrix’s curse, the weight of Draco’s silence pressing against her chest.

The room was silent, save for the distant ticking of the clock on the wall, but Hermione couldn’t shake the sound of Bellatrix’s laughter, the weight of Draco’s indifference.

She buried her face in her hands, trying to quiet the memories, trying to push the pain away, but it lingered, like a shadow that wouldn’t let go.

It had been years. Why was it still here?

The door creaked open. Ginny’s voice, soft and cautious, filtered through the haze of the nightmare.

“Hermione?”

Hermione didn’t answer. She didn’t have the words. Not for this. Not for the darkness that still clung to her.

It wasn’t personal.

But it had felt like it.

And it still did.

The silence in the lab was suffocating.

Not tense. Not icy. Just… hollow.

Hermione hadn’t really spoken to him in a week. Not beyond the necessary instructions—add that, stir this, don't scorch the lacewing. Her voice was clipped, her posture too rigid, and she refused to look at him for longer than she had to.

It was a different kind of punishment—quieter than a hex, but sharper. More personal.

Draco said nothing, as he always had. He didn’t know how to breach the wall without knocking it down entirely. But when her hand slipped—just slightly—spilling a measured pinch of nettle ash across the table, she exhaled a brittle breath and stopped moving.

He turned then, cautious. "Granger—"

“Why?”

The word cracked through the room.

He froze.

She didn't look at him. Just stared at the mess on the table like it was a map to something she'd lost.

“Why didn’t you help me?”

Draco’s stomach dropped.

“You were there,” she said, louder now, her voice fraying at the edges. “You saw what she did. You heard me scream. And you—did nothing.”

She turned to face him, and the look in her eyes—God, he’d take a curse to the chest over that look.

“I wasn’t expecting you to be noble, Malfoy. I know exactly what family you come from. But I thought—” Her voice broke. “I thought if anyone knew what fear felt like, it would be you.”

Draco’s throat tightened. “I did know,” he said, quietly. “I do.”

“Then why?”

The question hung there, heavy and shaking.

He looked down at his hands. Pale. Steady. Useless.

“Because I was a coward,” he said.

It wasn’t an excuse. It wasn’t anything but the raw, ugly truth.

“I was sixteen, and I was terrified, and I thought if I moved—if I so much as breathed—I’d get my mother killed. Or myself. Or you.”

Hermione blinked hard.

He continued, voice flat now, the way confessions sound when they've been scraped dry. “I told myself I couldn’t stop her. That someone else would. That maybe you’d survive anyway.”

Her face flickered—pain, fury, grief—all of it worn thin.

“You think that makes it better?”

“No,” he said. “I think it makes it worse.”

Silence.

She let it sit. Let it sting.

Then her voice turned quieter, sharper.

“Why do you care now?”

He looked up.

Her eyes locked on his like knives.

“I’m still a Mudblood, right? Still not good enough to exist in your world. Still beneath you.”

The word landed like a slap in the room—ugly, brutal, deliberate.

Draco flinched. Not from the word. From her saying it. From the way she said it, like it still sat under her skin, festering.

“No,” he said. “You never were.”

She let out a short, humorless breath. “You didn’t stop her. You didn’t even look at me.”

He closed his eyes briefly. Then forced them open.

“I couldn’t bear to.”

That stopped her.

Not because it was gentle—but because it wasn’t.

His voice cracked on it. Just barely.

“I watched what she did to you. And I did nothing. That lives with me, Granger. Every fucking day.”

The air in the lab grew heavier.

She turned back to the cauldron. Stirred once. Twice. Her knuckles were white around the spoon.

“This pain, the aftermath, is like a malignant wound that needs to be cut out.And removing the infected area hurts like a bitch,” she muttered.

He stayed quiet, watching her hands.

“I don’t expect you to forgive me,” he said. “But I’m here. I want to be here. Even if all I can do is help clean the wound.”

She didn’t answer.

But she didn’t leave.

And neither did he.

She cleared her throat a little while later. “It’s been a bad week.”

That admission—simple, raw—softened something in the room.

She didn’t owe it to him. But she gave it anyway.

Draco leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “No kidding. You only nearly stabbed me with a stirring rod twice.”

Her mouth twitched. Just slightly. Almost a smile.

“I’ll aim better next time,” she said.

“Charming,” he muttered. “Looking forward to it.”

The tension eased. Not gone, but stretched thin enough for air to get through.

She stirred the potion once more. Then, he passed him the next ingredient without a word.

He took it.

And they kept working.

They worked in silence for a few more minutes, the scrape of parchment and soft simmer of the cauldron the only sounds between them. The tension had eased, but it hadn’t vanished. It hung between them like fog—thinned, but not yet cleared.

Hermione exhaled quietly and began packing up.

Before she could talk herself out of it, she said, “I’m going to Hogsmeade tomorrow.”

Draco didn’t look up. “Hm. Good for you.”

“I thought…” She hesitated. “Luna and Ginny are going. Parvati. Neville. Dean and Seamus too.”

That made him pause.

“And I was thinking… maybe you’d want to come too.”

Now he looked at her.

“With Theo and Blaise,” she clarified. “If you want.”

He blinked once, then frowned. “Why?”

She bit her lip. “Because I’ve been awful to be around this week. Because I’m not… proud of it. And because I think… maybe you deserve to be around people who aren’t constantly clawing at your throat.”

His mouth opened, but no words came out.

“I’m not asking you to join a picnic,” she added, a bit rushed. “Just… walk through town. A drink, maybe.”

His expression was unreadable. “You think your friends will be thrilled about me tagging along?”

“I didn’t ask them.”

That surprised him.

She shrugged. “They’ll manage. They’re good people.”

He stared at her.

“I thought you didn’t do casual invitations,” he said finally.

“I don’t.”

She looked down at the bag she was clasping too tightly. “But maybe it’s time I try.”

Draco leaned back against the bench, watching her like she was some kind of riddle. Not mocking. Just... unsure.

“You’re not the only one who’s had a bad week,” he said finally. “But I’ll come.”

She gave a small nod. “Alright.”

“And Granger?”

She paused at the door.

“You don’t owe me an apology.”

She turned to look at him. “I disagree.”

Draco watched her leave without saying another word.

And for the first time in days, the lab didn’t feel quite so cold.

Hogsmeade was buzzing with early December bustle. The first snow hadn’t yet stuck, but the air smelled of ice and pine, and storefronts twinkled with enchanted frost. A wreath floated itself onto the Honeydukes door. Enchanted scarves fluttered in windows. Somewhere, Zonko’s was setting off minor explosions of festive cheer.

Hermione pulled her mittens on tighter and scanned the cobbled street. Luna had brought a flower crown—made entirely of icicles—and was twirling beside Seamus, who was already halfway to the Three Broomsticks. Dean was trying to sketch the street as they walked. Parvati and Ginny were deep in conversation about the latest Witch Weekly scandal, arms linked.

And then there were the others.

Theo Nott, all quiet eyes and ironic detachment, nodded at her politely. Blaise offered a flash of white teeth and said something under his breath to Draco, who just rolled his eyes.

Hermione looked at Draco.

He met her gaze briefly, gave a small nod.

No sarcasm. No smirk. Just presence.

It was strange. Not bad.

They hadn’t planned to walk in a group, but momentum made it so. She found herself walking alongside Luna and Parvati for a while, but somehow—through the natural choreography of shifting conversations—Draco ended up beside her.

He wasn’t talking. But he didn’t drift away either.

They passed a notice board fluttering with parchment. A new Ministry decree had gone up—one aimed at regulating the use of former Death Eater assets. The ink wasn’t even dry.

Hermione stopped.

Draco did too, just behind her.

“Of course,” she muttered, reading it. “They’re just going to seize the properties? Without trial?”

“Not all of them,” Draco said, voice quiet. “Only the ones tied to active curses. Or… suspected curses.”

She glanced back at him. “And who decides that?”

He looked away.

“Thought so,” she said.

He didn’t defend it. “I’m not thrilled either.”

Further up, Ginny called, “We grabbing Butterbeer or freezing first?”

Luna pointed to Madam Puddifoot’s. “That place looks nice.”

Dean snorted. “Only if you’re proposing, Loons.”

Luna shrugged. “Not today.”

Everyone laughed, even Blaise.

They chose the Three Broomsticks instead—warm, wide enough to seat them, and bustling with conversation. Hermione let herself relax, just a little, as everyone pushed into the booth.

Seamus ordered a ridiculous round of Firewhisky-spiked butterbeer.

“War’s over,” he declared. “If we can’t toast that, what can we toast?”

But the war wasn’t really over. Not in the way that mattered.

She saw it in how Neville flinched when someone knocked over a chair behind them.

In how Dean checked the exits.

In how Draco sat a little too straight, a little too quiet, eyes darting to every wand on every belt.

It came to a head when someone bumped into their table. A boy—older, maybe a few years above—stared openly at them, lingering on Draco.

“You lot make a strange table,” he said. “Half the damn war in one booth.”

Parvati stiffened. “Move along.”

The boy didn’t. “Funny how quick people forget who tortured who.”

Draco didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

Hermione stood. “We didn’t forget,” she said. Her voice was calm. Sharp. “We’re just choosing not to rot in it.”

The boy stared at her. Then spat at the floor and walked out.

Everyone at the table was quiet for a moment.

“Bloody hell,” Seamus said softly. “Cheers to that, then.”

Someone clinked their mug.

Eventually, the mood lightened. Laughter returned. They talked about upcoming exams, Theo’s attempts at brewing wine from mushrooms, Blaise’s utter failure at dating Hufflepuffs (“Too sincere,” he claimed), and Ginny's plan to hex mistletoe all over the Gryffindor common room.

But through it all, Hermione felt Draco beside her.

He didn’t speak much.

But every so often, he looked at her.

And this time, she let herself look back.

Not with forgiveness.

But maybe… with possibility.

When they stepped back out into the crisp air, Ginny tugged Hermione aside. “You good?”

Hermione nodded. “Better.”

Draco lingered a few feet away, talking to Theo.

She glanced back at him.

“Invite him again sometime,” Luna said dreamily from behind. “He looks less like a statue now.”

Hermione gave her a look. “You’re impossible.”

Luna just smiled.

The walk back to the castle felt different today. The snowflakes, now falling thicker, seemed almost deliberate, swirling around them in a way that made the world feel quieter, more private. For a moment, Hermione felt as if time had slowed, just enough for her to breathe, to think.

"Good work today," she said, glancing over at Draco. "The restorative potion. We aced it."

His lips quirked into the ghost of a smile, and there was a softness to his gaze that caught her off guard. "You’re welcome," he replied, his voice a little lower than usual.

She didn’t know why, but it felt... good, hearing that. Not just the acknowledgment, but the way he said it. Like he meant it. Like he was actually present with her, for once. They both had poured so much into that potion, but it was more than just about the marks. It was the way the moment had unfolded—so methodically, so in sync—that made her heart flutter just a little.

"Don’t act so humble," she teased, trying to steer her thoughts back to something light. "You were a huge help. Honestly, I thought we were going to scrape by, but that last step, you really nailed it. I mean, who knew you could be so precise?"

He shot her a smirk, but it wasn’t as biting as usual. "I can be precise when I want to be."

Her eyes narrowed slightly, not in annoyance but in curiosity. “That’s the trick, isn’t it? You don’t always want to be.”

His expression softened for a split second. Maybe it was the quiet of the snow falling around them, or maybe it was the comfort of their shared success, but something about his gaze made her feel... seen. In a way that wasn’t mocking. In a way that was almost, dare she say, genuine.

Hermione cleared her throat, a little flustered by the unexpected moment of connection. “Anyway, I thought you’d be satisfied with a mediocre result. But, really, we did it. We made a pretty damn good potion.”

His gaze lingered a moment longer before he looked away, as if trying to hide something. "It wasn’t just you," he muttered, almost like an afterthought, his voice soft. "You were... right. We worked well together."

She couldn't help the smile that tugged at her lips. Her cheeks were warm, but she pushed the feeling aside. "Well, don’t get used to it," she said lightly, her tone teasing, but inside, she was just... content. She didn’t want to admit it, but there was something about him—when he wasn’t being horrible—that she enjoyed.

“I’m not," he replied, his voice suddenly more guarded. But his gaze flicked back to her, and she noticed something in the way he looked at her that wasn’t so dismissive anymore.

It made her heart race.

"Right," she said, nodding, though her mind was still caught in the moment. She shifted slightly, her voice quieter now. "I’m glad we finished it together. It’s... it’s been a while since I’ve had a partner I could actually trust in Potions."

Draco’s lips pressed together, but she didn’t miss the subtle shift in his posture. He was listening. Really listening. “Well, I can be useful when I want to be,” he said, his voice low and steady.

She glanced over at him, her breath catching just slightly in her throat. God, why was this so hard to admit? There was something in his eyes—a depth, a sincerity—that made her want to stay longer. To keep talking. To enjoy the rare moment where he wasn’t the smug, arrogant boy she was so used to.

It would have been easy to keep walking back to the castle, to retreat into the comfort of familiarity. But there was an undercurrent of something else, something undeniable, pulling her in.

She shifted on her feet, her fingers playing nervously with the edge of her cloak. "I… I don’t want to go back yet. Not just yet."

His eyes flicked to hers, sharp, observant. She was sure he saw the subtle shift in her demeanor. The hesitation. And yet, he didn’t push. He only tilted his head slightly, as if waiting for her to say more.

Hermione found herself staring at him for longer than was comfortable, but she didn’t look away. She didn’t want to. "I suppose I can stay a little longer, if you’re not in a rush," she said, her voice a little more tentative than she intended.

There was a glint in Draco’s eyes now, something almost mischievous, but it wasn’t mocking. "I’m never in a rush when it’s you," he replied, his voice smooth, almost teasing.

The words hung in the air between them, a shift that neither of them had anticipated but both had quietly acknowledged. Hermione felt a warmth spread through her chest, something unfamiliar but not unwelcome. She wasn’t sure if it was the intimacy of their shared work or something else, but it was like the world around them had quieted for just a moment.

She swallowed, her heart racing. "Well," she began, trying to regain some control over the conversation. "We should—"

But Draco cut her off with a small chuckle, his tone dripping with sarcastic ease. "I suppose we should stop standing in the middle of the snow like two lost idiots, huh?”

Hermione smiled, her shoulders relaxing. It wasn’t much, but it was enough. "Right. You’re absolutely right."

But as they began walking back toward the castle, she didn’t feel the usual discomfort. The usual distance. There was something easier about it now, something familiar, something that had the potential to become... more.

Chapter Text

Draco

Christmas at Malfoy Manor had once been a glittering affair—full of firelight, polished silver, charmed snowflakes, and perfectly wrapped gifts piled high beneath towering trees. Now it felt like walking through the ruins of a memory.

Draco had returned home for the holidays. Hogwarts was quiet during Christmas, but even that kind of silence was better than the one that filled the Manor now—thin and cold, crawling up the walls like frost. He hadn't wanted to come back, but there hadn't been a choice.

The Ministry had mandated he return home for the holidays—part of a patchwork initiative requiring former affiliates of known Death Eaters to spend ‘reflection periods’ under supervised environments. For Draco, that meant the Manor. Officially, it was called community-based reintegration. Unofficially, it was the Ministry not having enough staff to keep eyes on every ex-Slytherin. The press liked the optics of it—sons of war criminals quietly homebound.

Lucius was gone. Azkaban. Life sentence. No possibility of parole.

His trial had been brutal. The Wizengamot had no interest in mercy—not with his record, not with the testimonies and evidence that poured in after the war. For all Lucius’s pleading about family and coercion, the court had seen him for what he was: a man who had traded his soul for power and influence, and who’d lost everything in the end. His wand had been snapped. His assets were seized. He was banned from holding a wand and publishing under his name. His magical signature had been locked down, flagged across every registry in Britain.

The Ministry’s new oversight division had developed a system post-war—experimental, and highly controversial—that could detect the use of a flagged wizard’s magical signature across the British Isles. Any attempt at spellwork would trigger a parchment-thin alert at the Department of Magical Compliance. Narcissa once said the Ministry’s new restrictions reminded her of being under the Trace—only harsher, like a kind of magical house arrest, even from within Azkaban. Even behind Azkaban’s walls, he hadn’t escaped the Ministry’s gaze.

Narcissa had visited him once. Only once. She never spoke of what she’d seen.

She remained at the Manor under magical house arrest—a quiet sentence in its own right. The Ministry had weighed her role in the war, her final lie at the Battle of Hogwarts that spared Harry Potter’s life. It had saved her from Azkaban, but not from surveillance.

She was permitted to live on the grounds—but could not leave them. Unless permission was granted. Her wand was monitored; her letters, screened. Her Floo was disconnected from the Network. No visitors without clearance. No unsupervised correspondence. The terms were strict, but she complied. Gracefully. Always gracefully.

Still, Draco could see the cost.

She moved through the house like someone walking through water—slow, deliberate, careful not to make ripples. She sat at the same window every afternoon, reading the same page for hours. She gardened more than she ever had before, even in the dead of winter.

When he arrived home, she embraced him gently, her fingers curling around his wrist like she was checking for signs of life.

“I’m glad you’re here,” she said. And she meant it.

But Draco wasn’t.

He hated every moment spent in these halls. They were haunted—not by ghosts, but by what had been lost: dignity, power, certainty. His father’s voice echoed in the wallpaper. His own mistakes seemed etched into the marble. He wanted to be back at Hogwarts, where at least the air didn’t feel like it blamed him.

And yet, Hogwarts wasn’t exactly welcoming either. Most people still looked at him like he might hex them the moment their backs were turned. Some days, he couldn’t blame them. Some days, he wasn’t sure he wouldn’t.

But still—it was better than this.

Narcissa never said as much, but she needed him to do well. To finish. To become something—anything—beyond what Lucius had been.

She reminded him with every passing glance. Every quiet dinner. Every carefully packed item when it was time to return.

“You must finish, Draco,” she said softly, standing beside the front door before he left. “You don’t have the luxury of failing.”

He nodded.

Because he didn’t.

The Manor was waiting if he did.

And he wasn’t sure he’d survive another visit.

He should’ve kept his mouth shut.

It had just slipped out—like air from lungs, like instinct. Too easy. Too honest.

“I’m never in a rush when it’s you.”

The words kept circling back, curling into the silence of the Manor like smoke. He hadn’t meant to say them aloud. Not like that. Not where she could hear them.

Merlin, the look she’d given him.

Not annoyed. Not amused, either. Just... surprised. Like he’d shifted slightly out of frame, and she was trying to figure out what she was seeing.

He’d covered it, of course. A smirk, a shrug. Classic misdirection.

And now, with nothing but the low hum of the Manor’s wards and the aching cold that refused to leave the corners of his room, he couldn’t stop replaying it. Her fingers tucked into her sleeve. The little furrow in her brow. The way she hadn’t said anything right away—just looked at him like he was more puzzle than nuisance.

She probably hadn’t thought about it again.

She probably hadn’t even told anyone. Especially not Potter. Or Weasley.

Still. He had said it.

And worse, he had meant it.

There was something about her now—about the way she filled quiet spaces, how she didn’t shrink from the gaps that war had left in all of them. She wasn’t trying to fix him. She didn’t even seem to want anything from him.

But she saw him. Or maybe she was just willing to look.

And he couldn’t decide if that was comforting… or terrifying.

He rolled over and stared at the ceiling. The room stretched wide around him, colder than it should be, like even the walls were withholding warmth.

He didn’t belong here. Not anymore.

At least at Hogwarts, things followed a rhythm he could understand. Quiet days. Predictable schedules. The stares were there, yes, but they didn’t carry the same haunted judgment as the Manor’s portraits. No footsteps echoing like accusations. No silence sharpened by history and guilt.

He hated how much that mattered.

He closed his eyes.

Just one more week, he told himself. Then he could go back.

Not to anything certain. Not to anything safe.

But to something that, in spite of everything, didn’t make him feel quite so lost.

Hermione

The Burrow, December 28th

“So,” Ginny said, flopping down dramatically onto Hermione’s bed and wiggling her eyebrows, “how’s your Christmas heartbreak going?”

Hermione snorted from behind her book. “I’m not heartbroken.”

“You’re moping.”

“I’m reading.”

“You’re rereading Hogwarts: A History, which, frankly, is your version of sulking. You haven’t even snapped at Ron in two days.”

Hermione pressed her lips together to hide a smile. Ginny was relentless when she caught wind of anything even resembling a crush. “Fine,” she said, setting her book aside with exaggerated patience. “If I were moping, hypothetically, it would be over something... confusing.”

Ginny perked up immediately. “Confusing in a tall, brooding, Slytherin sort of way?”

Hermione groaned. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re deflecting.” Ginny rolled onto her stomach, chin in her hands. “Come on. Tell me what happened.”

There was a long pause. The kind that made the air in the room feel quieter than before. Hermione pulled her knees up, folding them beneath her on the patchwork quilt Mrs. Weasley had made years ago. She looked out the frosted window, where flakes were just starting to fall again.

“It’s not like that,” she said softly.

“But it’s something.”

Hermione hesitated, then nodded. “Before we left... We had a walk back from Hogsmeade. He said something.”

Ginny waited, patient for once.

“He said he’s never in a rush when it’s me.”

Ginny blinked. “That’s... wow!”

Hermione gave a short, disbelieving laugh. “It’s ridiculous. It shouldn’t matter. But the way he said it—like he meant it. But he didn’t say anything when I gave him that note.”

Ginny sat up straighter. “Wait—what note?”

“After our debate. Mercy versus justice. I handed him something after class. Just a few lines. I didn’t know if we were friends. I didn’t know what we were. I just didn’t want things to be cold.”

“And he never brought it up?”

Hermione shook her head. “Not a word.”

Ginny frowned. “That’s a very Draco thing to do, honestly. Intense, then silent. Makes you question if you imagined the whole thing.”

“Exactly!” Hermione threw her hands up. “He’s confusing. One moment he’s... quiet, thoughtful. Sarcastic, of course. But there’s kindness. Then he vanishes behind that cold front. It’s exhausting.”

“But you like him.”

Hermione hesitated, her voice softening. “I think I respect him. Which I didn’t expect. I thought I’d go back and find him still arrogant, still closed-off. But he’s been... different. Not perfect. But real.”

Ginny watched her carefully. “You think he read your note?”

“I know he did. He doesn’t miss anything. And I know he’s trying, in his own way. But sometimes I wish he’d just say what he means.”

Ginny grinned. “So you want him to be less Slytherin?”

Hermione smiled faintly. “I want him to be less... afraid of being sincere.”

They sat in silence for a few heartbeats, the kind that said more than words.

Ginny leaned over and nudged her. “Well, if he’s not in a rush, then maybe you shouldn’t be either.”

Hermione laughed. “Maybe.”

“And just so you know,” Ginny added slyly, “if he ever hurts you, I will hex his hairline clean off.”

“Very comforting, thank you.”

They laughed, and for a moment the room was filled with warmth, with shared history and sisterhood. And even if nothing made sense yet, at least Hermione didn’t feel alone in the wondering.

The Burrow, Later That Evening – December 28th

The Burrow was quieter now. The tree lights blinked lazily from the corner of the sitting room, and distant thuds upstairs signaled someone — probably George — dropping something too heavy.

Hermione stood at the sink, absently drying mugs. Ginny sat at the kitchen table behind her, twirling a spoon between her fingers.

“You’re doing that thing,” Ginny said casually, “where you look like you're focused but your brain is somewhere six corridors away.”

Hermione sighed. “I’m just tired.”

“Liar.”

She didn’t argue.

Ginny waited a beat. “Is this still about the note?”

Hermione shook her head. “It’s not about the note. Not entirely. It's more… him. The way he’s been. Since we came back.”

Ginny tilted her head, curious. “What do you mean?”

Hermione leaned against the counter, drying cloth still in hand. “He hasn’t tried anything. Not really. He’s never cornered me, never lingered too long. Just… watches, sometimes. Not in a creepy way,” she added quickly, “but… attentively. It’s like he’s always noticing, but never interrupting.”

Ginny hummed thoughtfully. “He respects your rhythm.”

“Yes! Exactly. In the library, in study groups — he doesn’t talk unless he has something to add. But when he does, it’s—”

“Surprisingly insightful?” Ginny offered.

Hermione gave her a tired smile. “Yes. And sometimes, I’ll look up and he’ll already be looking at me. Not staring, just... observing. Then he looks away like it’s nothing. Like I imagined it.”

Ginny’s brows lifted. “And that doesn’t drive you absolutely mad?”

“It does,” Hermione exhaled, the frustration finally surfacing. “Because I can’t tell if he’s waiting on something or if I just imagined the whole thing. Maybe he’s just... being polite.”

Ginny arched a brow. “Polite doesn’t explain the way he watches you during debates like you’re a riddle he enjoys not solving.”

Hermione gave her a skeptical look.

“I’m serious,” Ginny went on. “He’s not in your pocket, no—but he notices things. The way your tea goes untouched when you're stressed. The rhythm you fall into when you're focused. He matches it, without making a show of it.”

Hermione looked away, her voice quiet. “It’s maddening. He’s not pushing. He’s not demanding anything. But he’s there. Like… background music I’ve started memorising.”

Ginny grinned. “Maybe he’s not close yet. But he’s not far, either.”

Ginny folded her arms across the table. “And that line. The one from Hogsmeade.”

Hermione swallowed. “‘Never in a rush when it’s you.’”

“He meant that.”

“I know.” Her voice was quiet. “That’s the problem.”

Ginny’s expression softened. “Because you don’t know what to do with that kind of sincerity?”

Hermione shrugged helplessly. “I’m used to attention being loud. Obvious. Ron flailed. Viktor hovered. Draco… exists. Steady. Present. But it’s not performative. It’s just… consistent.”

Ginny’s eyes gleamed. “And you’ve started to like it.”

“I’ve started to need it,” Hermione admitted, a touch of dismay in her voice. “Which is terrifying.”

They sat in thoughtful silence, the fire’s glow dancing across the kitchen tiles.

Ginny, after a long pause, said gently, “You don’t have to be where he is. Not yet. But you do owe it to yourself to admit what you feel.”

Hermione bit her lip. “I’m scared to want something that calm. I’m used to proving myself — not being seen without asking.”

Ginny smiled. “Maybe that’s the point. He’s not asking you to earn it. He just sees you. No performance. No prizes. Just you.”

Hermione looked down at her hands, then out the window where frost clung to the glass like delicate lace.

“I think I’m starting to see him, too,” she said.

Ginny leaned back in her chair, arms crossed and eyes narrowed with mock calculation. “You know, now that he’s shaken off all that pureblood superiority rot… he’s actually kind of—dare I say—boyfriend material.”

Hermione choked on her tea. “What?”

“I’m just saying,” Ginny said, grinning. “Tall. Broody. Mysterious. Sharp dresser. Intense eye contact. Has a tragic past. Honestly, if I weren’t happily dating the human equivalent of sunshine, I’d be concerned.”

Hermione gave her a look. “You are insufferable.”

Ginny smirked. “You say that, but you didn’t deny it.”

Hermione sighed, pushing her mug aside. “It’s not that I don’t see it. I mean… objectively, yes. He’s not who he was. He listens. He cares, even if he doesn’t always say it out loud. And he’s… kind, in a way I didn’t think he could be.”

Ginny wiggled her eyebrows again, smug.

“But,” Hermione continued firmly, “even if he does like being around me, that doesn’t mean it’s going anywhere. Not like that. I doubt it would ever reach those levels.”

Ginny blinked. “Why not?”

Hermione hesitated. “Because people like him don’t stay with people like me. And no, don’t start—” she cut off Ginny’s rising protest. “It’s just… I don’t do easy. Or casual. I overthink, I plan too much, I talk too much. I’m not charming or low-maintenance or seductive. I’m… me.”

Ginny tilted her head. “And you think he doesn’t see that?”

Hermione shrugged. “Maybe he sees it. Maybe he even likes it. But liking someone and choosing them — that’s different.”

There was a pause, quieter than before.

Then Ginny said, more thoughtful now, “I don’t know what his endgame is—but it doesn’t feel like nothing.”

Hermione didn’t respond right away. Her fingers traced the rim of her mug, eyes distant.

“Maybe,” she said softly. “But one nice line and a few decent moments doesn’t mean he’s choosing anything.”

Ginny tilted her head. “No. But it might mean he’s thinking about it.”

…Wait, wait—Snape’s portrait was actually there?” Ron’s face twisted somewhere between horror and amusement as he dropped into a chair.

Ginny smirked as she poured more tea. “Front and center. Hung right above the platform like he was presiding over court.”

Harry blinked, bemused. “Wasn’t that the first Debate Club meeting? The one McGonagall made a whole speech about?”

Hermione nodded, amused. “It was her idea to include him. Said it would symbolize unity and honour his role in the war.”

Ron scoffed. “Because nothing says unity like Snape’s deadpan stare judging your every word.”

“Oh, he didn’t speak,” Ginny said, mock-serious. “But he didn’t have to. Every time someone made a halfway decent argument, he looked like he was considering whether to expel them posthumously.”

Harry snorted. “Classic Snape.”

Hermione grinned. “The whole room went quiet the second someone mentioned ‘Slytherin reform.’ I thought one of the portraits would combust.”

“McGonagall’s really pulling out all the stops, huh?” Ron said, eyeing the plate of biscuits. “First that co-teaching disaster with Sinistra and Sprout, now this.”

“She’s determined to make the houses work together,” Ginny said. “Even the professors have to assign interhouse projects. I heard Flitwick paired Ernie Macmillan with Blaise Zabini. Can you imagine?”

“They probably nearly dueled over quill colour,” Hermione muttered.

Ron raised his eyebrows. “And this is optional?”

Ginny and Hermione exchanged a look.

Hermione shook her head. “We have to attend. But speaking is optional.”

Ginny gave Harry a pointed look. “Count yourself lucky you're off at Auror training. At Hogwarts, we’re being force-fed unity.”

Harry laughed. “Suddenly risking my life in field exercises sounds more appealing than debating in front of Snape’s disapproving glare.”

Hermione smirked into her tea. “Yeah, well. At least your instructor isn’t mounted in a gold frame and silently judging your syntax.”

Ginny raised her mug with a grin. “To house unity — one forced pairing and haunted club meeting at a time.”

As the laughter settled and the clinking mugs grew quiet, Ron leaned back in his chair with a sigh. “You know, Hogwarts sounds like chaos—but I think the Ministry’s still worse.”

Harry nodded. “They’ve launched something called the Restoration Initiative. Whole department built around ‘healing societal rifts.’ But it’s more press releases than progress.”

Hermione scoffed. “I’ve read about it. It’s a patchwork of half-baked ideas and magical photo ops. No real funding, no trauma specialists, barely any input from the communities most affected.”

Ron looked grim. “They’ve got a whole floor sorting cursed heirlooms and confiscated Dark artefacts, but not a single program to deal with the trauma of, I don’t know, growing up in a war.”

Ginny gave a quiet nod, her expression thoughtful. “At school, you can feel it. The tension. The kids from old pureblood families—they’re not saying it out loud, but you can see it. Resentment. Like they’re walking around waiting to be punished for something their parents did.”

Hermione’s eyes met hers. “And then some others are just waiting for them to be punished. There's no space for nuance. Everything’s still divided.”

Neville had said the same, Ginny remembered. In Herbology Club meetings, it came out subtly—comments, posture, silences that screamed. The war hadn’t ended in their heads.

“We're all so busy pretending things are fine,” Harry said, his voice quieter now. “But that bitterness—it’s festering. If we don’t deal with it properly, we’re just handing the next generation a loaded wand.”

Ron nodded. “Last week, a trainee said something about ‘legacy loyalty,’ and I swear half the room nearly drew wands.”

“Legacy loyalty,” Hermione repeated, frowning. “That’s exactly the kind of rhetoric that gets people hurt.”

Ginny crossed her arms. “There was a shouting match in the Great Hall last month. Over what counts as ‘justice’ now. One student said his dad was in Azkaban unfairly. Another’s sister was murdered during the war. There’s no guidebook for this.”

“No,” Hermione said softly. “But there should be a plan. We can’t just keep pretending the world snapped back into place.”

Harry glanced around at them all. “We need to build something better than that. Or at least lay the bricks.”

They sat for a moment in the silence that followed. Not heavy—but real. Then Ron reached for another biscuit and muttered, “Well. Suppose we better do it before Snape’s portrait starts haunting us for getting it wrong.”

Ginny smirked. “Too late. I’m pretty sure he already disapproves.”

They all chuckled, but the weight of the conversation lingered—a shared understanding that healing wasn’t automatic, and peace required more than silence.

Ron reached for another biscuit and said through a mouthful, “The Parkinsons got walloped with a fine last month. Three hundred thousand Galleons or something mad like that.”

Hermione blinked. “That’s obscene.”

“They supported Voldemort,” Ron said flatly. “What did they think was going to happen?”

Ginny raised an eyebrow. “You think Pansy personally funded him?”

Ron shrugged. “She cheered him on every chance she got. I’m not crying for her.”

“But she’s still in school,” Hermione said. “Trying to finish N.E.W.T.s while her family’s being gutted by the Ministry. It’s not about defending her—it’s about what kind of world we’re building now.”

Harry chimed in, calmer. “Some of the fines are fair. But others feel like the Ministry’s playing optics instead of justice.”

“Oh come on,” Ron said, turning to him. “Don’t start getting soft on them. You didn’t see how smug they were during the war—how many backed him just to stay rich and on top.”

“I saw it,” Harry replied. “But that’s why it’s complicated. Fear made a lot of people complicit. Doesn’t mean they’re all evil.”

Hermione leaned forward. “And doesn’t mean they should all be punished the same way. Blanket fines without education, without a pathway back, only fuel bitterness. What are we offering them besides shame?”

“Shame’s a good teacher,” Ron muttered, crossing his arms. “You know what it taught me? Not to sell out my soul for safety.”

“And how many of those kids had a choice?” Ginny asked quietly. “You think Astoria Greengrass told her father where to spend their fortune? You think Theo Nott could’ve said no when the Carrows walked into their house?”

Ron didn’t answer for a beat. Then, grumbling, “Still doesn’t mean we let them off easy.”

“We’re not,” Hermione said. “We’re asking for a better way.”

Harry looked between them. “If we don’t help them heal, they’ll grow up bitter and dangerous. That’s how wars start again.”

Ron was quiet for a moment. Then: “Just don’t ask me to feel sorry for Pansy sodding Parkinson.”

Ginny snorted. “No one’s asking you to knit her a sympathy scarf, Ron. Just maybe don’t throw more fuel on the fire.”

The group fell quiet again, not in tension, but in the heavy awareness that they were walking a tightrope—between justice and peace, punishment and progress.

Hermione stirred her tea and said, “We can’t let this generation inherit our unfinished war.”

And none of them disagreed.

Outside, the wind howled against the windowpanes, a winter storm tapping at the glass like a reminder of everything just beyond their reach.

Ron leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, expression unreadable. “Just saying… it’s a lot easier to talk about fixing the world when you’re not the one it broke.”

Hermione gave him a look—soft, not scolding. “That’s why we have to try harder. So it doesn’t break anyone else.”

Ginny nudged Harry with her shoulder. “You think the Ministry’ll listen to people like us?”

Harry gave a tired smile. “They already do. They just don’t always hear us.”

The four of them sat for a moment in silence, warm tea between them, fire crackling nearby. In a world still learning to mend, it was moments like this—safe, honest, imperfect—that felt like their own kind of magic.

“Alright,” Ron said, standing up with a stretch. “Someone better save me a slice of pie before Percy gets here and lectures it into a coma.”

They laughed, and the heaviness lifted just a little.

Tomorrow, the world would be waiting. But for tonight, they were just friends in a kitchen—scarred, growing, and trying.

The Burrow had settled into its usual night-silence: crackling embers in the hearth below, the occasional thump of something shifting in the pipes, a distant snore from Ron’s room. Hermione sat upright in bed, legs tucked to her chest beneath the thick quilt, her book forgotten on the nightstand.

She hadn’t read a word.

The line had been drumming in her head for three days now. Not replaying like a memory—no, that would be manageable. It persisted, took up space, echoed in the back of her thoughts even as she tried to move on with her day.

"I’m never in a rush when it’s you."

He had said it. Smoothly, yes—but without theatrics. Just enough sincerity to be undeniable. She hadn’t known what to say then, and she still didn’t.

Ginny’s voice lingered too, softer but no less invasive: “Maybe he’s thinking about it.” Hermione drew a sharp breath and exhaled slowly through her nose. What unsettled her more—that he might not be thinking of it at all? Or that he might be, and somehow, so was she?

She pressed her knuckles lightly to her forehead. This was ridiculous. She was too old, too rational, too her to be this tangled up over one line. But she couldn't untangle it, not completely. Not when it had come from him—unexpected and quiet and maybe more truthful than either of them had intended.

Chapter Text

Draco

Draco's gaze lingered on the Ministry owl perched by the window, its feathers ruffled slightly by the cold wind that had slipped in through the cracks. The owl was a familiar presence, its duty clear: delivering the Ministry’s latest reminders of its ever-watchful eye. The parchment it carried was always the same, a reminder that there was no escape, not even here, not even in the solitude of the Manor.

He unfurled the letter with a sense of inevitability, eyes already scanning the usual lines. His schedule for the upcoming term, the same classes, the same faces — nothing new. The routine was monotonous, but that wasn’t what held his attention. No, it was the reminder, printed in bold:

"All spells performed are logged and tracked. Magic usage will be under strict review. Any irregularities will be subject to immediate investigation."

The words pressed down on him, heavier than the parchment itself. It wasn’t new information. He had known the Ministry would be watching. He had known the spells he cast would be recorded, tracked, and scrutinized. But each time the reality of it hit, it felt like something more invasive, more suffocating. The weight of constant surveillance gnawed at him. His magic, his own power, was no longer his. Every flick of his wand, every charm, every incantation was monitored, analysed. His wand — a symbol of his bloodline, his identity — was flagged. No longer something to wield freely. No longer something that belonged to him.

Draco’s hand trembled as he clutched the parchment, the edges crumpling beneath his grip. His chest constricted, breath shallow — a sensation he hadn’t felt since Voldemort haunted the halls of Malfoy Manor. But this was different. Somehow worse. He hadn’t escaped a master; he’d merely replaced one. At least Voldemort had been clear in his cruelty. The Ministry was a quieter kind of tyrant — suffocating behind smiles and scrolls.

They’d taken something from him. Something sacred. His magic no longer felt like his own.

Every spell now echoed with scrutiny. Each wand movement carried a weight, a doubt. It was like treading a razor’s edge — one misstep and he’d fall. The ease, the instinct, the raw surge of power he’d once known... gone. In its place, a hesitant pause before each cast. A fracture in his confidence that magic could still obey him. Even here, in the empty halls of Malfoy Manor, he could feel it — the eyes of the Ministry, watching, recording, waiting for him to slip up. The Manor, once a fortress of Malfoy power, now felt like a gilded cage, one where every corner was monitored, every movement under surveillance. His magic was no longer his own. His mind no longer his own. He wasn’t free.

He thought of last week, in Transfiguration — a simple switching spell. He’d done it a hundred times before, wand steady, intention sharp. But the moment he moved, there’d been a flicker — like magic itself had hesitated. The spell had fizzled mid-air, the desk half-transfigured, shuddering between its old and new forms as the class stared.

McGonagall hadn’t said a word. Not then.

That delay — a half-second pause in the current — had never happened before the Ministry’s interference. And now, it lived in his wand hand like a tremor.

The familiar discomfort lingered, the sharp awareness that at any moment, he could be judged, his every move logged. The words on the parchment were just another layer of the same reality: there was no escape from the Ministry’s grip. No privacy. No freedom.

Draco let the letter fall to his side, his grip still tight, his pulse still quickening. Even in his own home, even in his most private moments, he was always being watched. His father’s absence only made it worse. Without Lucius’ authority, the Manor seemed emptier, more exposed. It was as if the walls themselves were listening, waiting for something he couldn’t control. Though, to be honest, Lucius has not had any authority for quite some time.

He stared at the owl, still perched at the window, waiting for its next task. The silence in the room pressed in, suffocating. He could almost hear the hum of magic around him, the constant undercurrent of monitoring, waiting to spring into action at the slightest misstep.

His wand. His magic. His mind.

None of it belonged to him anymore.

Draco turned his attention back to the Manor — its sprawling corridors and pristine silence — and felt the ghosts of his childhood stir around him. This place, once echoing with footsteps and his mother’s measured voice calling him to dinner or lessons, now felt like a museum of a life long gone.

But his mother was here. Narcissa.

Not a shell, no — not truly — though the war had hollowed certain parts of her. Her elegance remained intact, her composure unwavering, but behind her eyes lived a grief he recognized all too well. Still, she tried. She left his favourite tea steeping in the drawing room. She waited up, reading in silence, until she heard his footsteps overhead. She spoke gently, almost cautiously, as if trying not to spook the fragile peace they’d found.

And he loved her for it. Fiercely.

He hadn’t said as much — neither of them were prone to emotional declarations — but when she looked at him too long, when her hand lingered a moment too long on his arm, he knew. She was happy he was home. Even if neither of them knew what that word meant anymore.

Yet the Manor still pressed in on him. The silence was heavier now, not oppressive, but aching. He missed something he couldn’t name — not just a person or a place, but a sense of certainty.

Draco wasn’t sure if the version of normal he sought even existed anymore. But for now, his mother’s quiet presence, her quiet love, was enough to keep him tethered. At least for a little while.

Draco didn’t think about the words anymore. Not directly, anyway. They had settled into him, not like a splinter, sharp and foreign, but like something organic. A part of him now. He’d stopped questioning why he said it. The real problem was what it had started.

Because ever since returning to Hogwarts, Hermione Granger had become a quiet undercurrent in everything.

He noticed her without meaning to — always. The shape of her in his periphery, the way her hair curled when she let it down, the rhythm of her footsteps in the corridor before she turned the corner. He could track her without even looking up. He could feel her aura. His body just seemed to react whenever she was remotely nearby.

And it wasn’t just her presence, it was the details. The way her lips quirked when she disagreed with something but didn’t want to argue. The way her fingers curled around the edge of a book when she was thinking deeply. The way she tilted her head when she listened, like she was trying to hear more than just words.

He wanted to know what that version of her looked like up close. Wanted to know if her skin tasted like the autumn air that always seemed to cling to her. If she’d lean into his touch, or go tense and defiant. It was maddening — this hunger for something he hadn’t earned, hadn’t asked for, but couldn’t shake.

And he was angry about it. At her. At himself.
At the way she had become familiar to him without his permission.

It wasn’t romantic — not in the way he’d ever imagined love might come for him. It was messier than that. Rawer. Like craving. Like compulsion. Like magic.

And he didn’t know what scared him more — that he couldn’t control it.
Or that he didn’t want to.

The snow had not yet begun to fall when the owl arrived.

The world outside Malfoy Manor was still, the winter air biting at the edges of the grey morning. A pale light crept in through the tall windows, brushing the dust-coated furniture in strokes of silver. Draco sat alone in the drawing room, a book resting forgotten in his lap, his gaze fixed on the frost-laced glass as if it held answers to questions he hadn’t yet dared to ask aloud.

He hadn’t spoken to anyone in days. Not truly. The house-elves scurried around in silence, careful not to disturb him, and his mother had retreated to her own wing, her grief and weariness wrapping around her like a second skin. Since the war, since the trial, since everything, there had been a strange kind of stillness between the walls of the Manor. Not peace. Never peace. But a silence too heavy to be ignored.

And then came the letter.

It was unassuming at first glance—just a scrap of parchment folded neatly, Theo’s familiar slanted handwriting cutting across it with casual brevity. “Will visit before term. Don’t go mad before then.” No date. No flourish. Just Theo, as always, keeping it simple and giving Draco just enough to cling to.

He didn’t realise how tightly he had been holding onto the thought until the days began slipping past. Theo, Blaise, Pansy—they were the remnants of something old, something before. Before Azkaban. Before the Mark. Before that conversation in the snow.

Before her.

Draco shifted in his chair, his hands flexing restlessly. The silence was no longer comforting—it was oppressive, filled with things he couldn’t say aloud. Memories of a voice he shouldn’t miss, a gaze he shouldn’t crave. Hermione Granger. The name echoed in his thoughts with the same quiet rebellion that had haunted him since the encounter.

It hadn’t meant anything. It couldn’t mean anything.

The visit came sooner than Draco had expected. He had hardly registered the passage of time, his days spent locked in a haze of thoughts that circled back to her, to the sensation of her standing there in the snow, to the words he could never quite shake. But the letter from Theo had been brief, only a few lines, promising to visit before term resumed. The words were casual, too casual, as if to dismiss any significance, any weight to the visit. And yet, Draco had found himself looking forward to it, despite the uncertainty that had crept into his chest.

Theo, Blaise, and Pansy arrived one frosty afternoon, the familiar trio of old friends breaking through the fog of Draco’s isolation. They entered with their usual flair, loud and brash in a way that should have been comforting. Blaise, always with a smirk on his lips, greeted him with a knowing glance. Pansy’s sharp eyes seemed to take in the Manor with a certain distaste, while Theo, as ever, seemed the most grounded, his gaze searching Draco’s face with an almost clinical interest.

"Did you really think you could keep us away, Malfoy?" Blaise teased, his voice light, but there was an edge to it, one that made Draco’s skin prickle with unease.

"Wouldn’t dream of it," Draco muttered, though the words felt hollow. His mind was elsewhere.

Theo caught his eye, the concern in his expression unmistakable. There had been too many months of silence between them, too much space to leave things unspoken. “You’ve been quiet, Draco. Too quiet.” He didn’t say it with judgment, but with a kind of resignation, as if he already knew the answer.

Pansy, on the other hand, wasted no time with pleasantries. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” she remarked, her voice laced with sharpness. “Or maybe it’s the Ministry breathing down your neck.”

Draco’s jaw tightened. The Ministry. Always the Ministry. He had forgotten how easily his friends could bring it up, how easily they could remind him of the pressure that hung over him, the constant sense of surveillance that gnawed at him. He hadn’t even realized he was tense, hadn’t recognized how tightly wound his nerves had become.

“Everything’s fine,” Draco said, though his voice didn’t quite carry the usual weight of certainty. He had never been good at pretending everything was alright, but it had become a reflex to hide the truth.

Blaise, ever the one to needle him, raised an eyebrow. “Sure, Malfoy. You’ve been so fine lately, I can barely tell.”

Theo cleared his throat, stepping in to cut the banter short. “Enough, Blaise.” His tone was sharp, a rare moment of seriousness cutting through their usual sarcasm. “What’s going on, Draco? You’re not yourself.”

The question hung in the air, thick and uncomfortable. Draco’s gaze flicked to Pansy, then to Blaise, and finally rested on Theo. The silence stretched between them. He didn’t want to talk about it. Didn’t want to admit how much he felt like he was unraveling, how each moment felt like a delicate balancing act. But Theo’s gaze wouldn’t let him ignore it. Not this time.

“I’m fine,” Draco repeated, his voice quieter now, less sure. His hand reached out, almost instinctively, for his wand, a movement so ingrained it felt like second nature. But then he stopped, the reminder of his flagging, his restricted use of magic settling like a weight in his chest. He dropped his hand, unwilling to admit the depth of his frustration.

Pansy, ever the cynic, tilted her head and narrowed her eyes. “You’re not fine. You’re avoiding something.”

Draco’s throat tightened. He couldn’t explain it. How could he? How could he explain to them that his thoughts kept returning to her, to Hermione Granger? That every moment felt like it was pulling him closer to something he didn’t understand? The words he had said to her haunted him. He could feel the guilt of it, the growing fixation that made everything else feel like a distant echo. The truth was, he was struggling to stay afloat, and his obsession with Hermione wasn’t helping.

“I just…” Draco’s voice trailed off, frustration bubbling up as he struggled to put his feelings into words. “It’s nothing. Forget it.”

Theo didn’t buy it. He never did. The quiet intensity in his eyes deepened, and for a moment, Draco felt like he was about to be pulled under, drowning in a sea of things he hadn’t said, things he couldn’t say. But before either of them could say anything more, Pansy stood, her posture regal, her expression carefully blank.

“Honestly, Draco, if you’re going to be like this, maybe you should just say something. Or stop hiding behind that perfect little mask of yours.” She turned sharply on her heel, heading toward the grand staircase with the kind of dismissive huff only she could manage.

Blaise chuckled, his tone light, but the look in his eyes suggested he, too, understood the weight hanging over Draco. He stayed quiet, a knowing look passing between them before he followed Pansy’s retreating form.

Theo lingered, his gaze softening as he watched Draco from across the room. “You can’t keep everything in, mate. It’ll eat you alive. Whatever it is, you don’t have to do it alone.” His voice was lower now, almost a whisper, as if he feared being overheard. “But when you’re ready to talk, I’ll be here.”

Draco nodded, though his throat felt tight. Theo didn’t press him any further, and with a final look, he followed Blaise and Pansy upstairs, leaving Draco alone in the vast, empty space of the Manor once again.

The silence was deafening, and in it, Draco could almost hear his own heart pounding, feel the weight of his thoughts pressing down on him once again. The Ministry, Granger, the friends who had come to visit, all of it swirling together in a haze that he couldn’t escape. His hand rested on the bannister, his fingers curling tightly around it as if trying to hold onto something, anything, that wasn’t slipping through his fingers.

He couldn’t run from it. Not the Ministry. Not his magic. Not her.

Not anymore.

The visit dragged on into the evening, and as expected, the dynamic between them quickly settled into its usual rhythm. Draco had been bracing himself for the usual back-and-forth banter with Blaise, the light teasing that he had come to expect. But today, there was something sharper in Blaise’s grin, a knowing edge that made Draco’s skin crawl.

“So, Malfoy,” Blaise drawled, sitting back in the plush chair by the fireplace, swirling his drink with a casual ease. “I heard something interesting.” His eyes glinted mischievously. “Care to tell me about the little conversation you had with Hermione Granger the other day?”

Draco’s chest tightened, and for a moment, he thought he might choke on the air. The memory of their conversation, the snow, the words he hadn’t meant to say, suddenly felt like an overwhelming weight in his chest.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Draco muttered, turning his gaze to the fire, hoping the shifting flames could distract him. He wanted to change the subject, wanted the teasing to stop before it went too far. But Blaise was relentless, leaning forward, a smile curling on his lips.

“Oh, come on, Draco.” Blaise’s voice dropped to a more intimate tone, as if he were sharing a secret. “The way you looked at her, standing there in the snow... You didn’t seem like you were just talking about the weather.” He paused, letting the words settle. “That was more than just a casual conversation, wasn’t it?”

Draco clenched his jaw. His hands curled into fists, but he was careful not to react too visibly. He didn’t want to show how much it affected him, how those words had wormed their way into his thoughts.

“Blaise, drop it,” Draco snapped, trying to force an edge into his voice. But it came out flat, weak. His thoughts kept returning to Hermione, to her expression, the way she had looked at him, and how those words had escaped his mouth like a betrayal. “It was nothing.”

Blaise raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. He leaned back again, watching Draco with a knowing smirk. “Nothing, huh? You really expect me to believe that? You, of all people, with Granger? This must be something truly special.”

The implication in his tone made Draco’s stomach churn. He knew Blaise was just trying to get under his skin, but the insinuations about Granger —their meaning, the weight of them—pushed all the wrong buttons. He hated that he was even thinking about it, about her, in this way.

Before Draco could respond, Pansy’s sharp voice cut through the tension, filled with a surprising level of fury.

“Are you both completely bloody stupid?” she snapped, her eyes flashing with anger as she turned on Blaise. “I swear, Blaise, if you don’t shut up about Granger, I’ll hex your tongue right off. I don’t know why you’re even bothering Draco with this nonsense. It’s pathetic.”

She was standing now, hands on her hips, eyes blazing. Her fury was something else, a heat that seemed to radiate from her as she glared between Blaise and Draco.

Blaise looked genuinely taken aback, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright,” he said, a grin still tugging at his lips. “No need to get your knickers in a twist. I was just having a bit of fun.”

Draco, however, barely registered the words. Pansy’s outburst, her anger on his behalf, sent a strange flicker of gratitude through him, though it quickly mixed with an uncomfortable knot in his stomach.

“Granger’s not the issue,” Pansy continued, still fuming. “The issue is you two letting that mudblood get into your heads. Especially you, Draco.” Her voice softened slightly, though the tension remained. “You’re better than this. You don’t need to be messing around with someone like her. Not now. Not when everything else is falling apart.”

Draco’s chest tightened, and the anger, once dormant, surged inside him. "I don't need you to tell me what I need, Pansy," he said coldly, his words biting, though a flicker of guilt flashed across his face. “Not now. Not ever.”

Pansy glared at him for a long moment, her lips pressed into a thin line. Then, with a frustrated sigh, she turned sharply on her heel, stomping toward the door. “Fine. But don’t say I didn’t warn you when everything goes to hell.”

Blaise just chuckled, shaking his head as he leaned back in his chair, his earlier teasing tone replaced with something more reflective.

Draco remained silent, the words from both of them bouncing around his mind. Pansy’s anger, Blaise’s relentless teasing, all of it felt like an intrusion. It didn’t matter what they thought. It didn’t matter that they were making fun of him.

What mattered was the gnawing fixation that had lodged itself in his chest. The way Hermione’s image seemed to haunt him. The way he could almost hear her voice, feel her presence, even when she wasn’t there. And the fact that he had already said too much, too fast.

Draco Malfoy was losing control, and he hated it.

Theo, Blaise, and Pansy had already settled into the drawing room by the time Draco returned. Pansy was still standing by the window, her arms crossed tightly, her eyes narrowed as she watched him approach. There was a strange, uneasy silence between them, one that had only deepened since their earlier exchange.

Blaise, ever the one to stir the pot, leaned back in his chair, his gaze flicking from Draco to the others. "You know, Draco," he began, his voice laced with amusement, "I never thought I’d see the day when you were the one who looked... distracted."

Draco didn’t respond immediately. His thoughts were still far from the conversation at hand, still tangled up with the memory of Hermione in the snow, her words, her presence — something he couldn’t quite shake. The strange, unrelenting pull she had on him had started to feel like an itch he couldn’t scratch. He didn’t want to be thinking about her, but there she was, lurking in the back of his mind.

“Not now, Blaise,” he muttered, not even looking at him.

But Blaise wasn’t going to let it go. "What’s got you so distracted, then? Got a crush on Granger or something?" he teased, his grin widening. "Or is it just the Ministry getting to you? I hear they’re watching your every move now."

Draco’s jaw tightened. He could feel his patience wearing thin, the simmering anger bubbling beneath his skin. He wanted to lash out, to shut Blaise down completely, but the weight of the Ministry’s scrutiny held him in check. He couldn’t afford to snap. Not now, not with everything riding on his behavior.

“Enough,” Draco said sharply, his voice low and cold. “I don’t need you baiting me, Blaise. Not today.”

Pansy, who had been quiet up until now, finally spoke, her voice tight with something Draco couldn’t quite place. “It’s pathetic,” she muttered, glaring at him. “The way they’ve reduced you to this... puppet. You’re not even allowed to act like a Malfoy anymore.”

Her words stung more than he’d care to admit, but Draco didn’t let it show. Instead, he turned his attention back to Theo, who had remained unusually quiet up until now.

Theo, who had been leaning against the wall, sighed heavily and pushed himself off with an air of resignation. “Pansy’s right,” he said, his voice unexpectedly soft. “But you’ve always been good at hiding it. The Ministry’s grip on you is tightening, and I don’t think you can outrun it forever, Draco.”

Draco’s mind raced. Theo’s words hit closer to home than he wanted to admit. It wasn’t just the Ministry’s eye that was suffocating him. It was the growing fixation on Granger, the way her face kept reappearing in his thoughts, the way she made him feel things he didn’t understand. Every part of him wanted to escape, to break free, but there was nowhere to hide.

“I don’t need your advice,” Draco muttered, but his tone lacked conviction. He knew Theo was right. The tension was building, and he wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep it all in check.

Pansy’s gaze softened for just a second, but then she turned and walked out of the room without another word. Blaise, sensing the shift in the mood, leaned back in his chair, a rare flicker of seriousness crossing his face.

“Keep your head, Draco,” Blaise said, his tone more earnest than usual. “You’re walking a fine line.”

As the door closed behind Pansy, Draco sank into one of the armchairs, trying to ignore the ever-present tension in the air. He didn’t have answers. He didn’t know how to navigate this — his own mind, the Ministry’s control, the growing chaos inside him. He felt completely and utterly trapped. Again.

Narcissa lingered at the top of the staircase, just out of sight from the drawing room below, where voices rose and collided like poorly aimed spells. She hadn’t meant to listen — not at first. But Blaise’s laugh had carried upward, and with it, something in her spine had stiffened.

“I never thought I’d see the day when you were the one who looked... distracted,” came Blaise’s voice, all silk and mockery.

Draco’s response was low, clipped. She couldn’t catch the words, but she didn’t need to. She knew that tone — the tightness behind it, the irritation wrapped around exhaustion. She’d heard it often, lately. It unsettled her more than she’d admit.

Her feet moved silently, out of habit more than intention, down the shadowed corridor that overlooked the open room. She didn’t want to intrude. But she had to see.

And then: “Got a crush on Granger or something?” Blaise again, the name spoken with almost gleeful disbelief.

Narcissa’s hand closed around the bannister. Granger. Her.

The girl—no, the woman—who stood for everything her world once despised. Brilliant, yes. Brave, even. But still... a reminder of war. Of sides. Of loss.

And Draco — her son — entangled in that?

She had suspected something was shifting in him. The silence when Granger’s name was mentioned. The way he seemed to vanish into thought when no one else was watching. A slight change in posture. A faint look of longing when he thought himself alone.

Still, hearing it aloud set her nerves on edge.

Below, Draco’s voice cut through like a blade. “Enough, Blaise.”

And then Pansy. Predictably sharp. Predictably cruel.

“It’s pathetic,” she sneered. “The way they’ve reduced you to this... puppet. You’re not even allowed to act like a Malfoy anymore.”

Narcissa flinched. Not at the insult — at the truth laced within it. The boy she raised had been bound for legacy. Now he walked through life as if shackled, constrained at every turn. And still, it was Granger who occupied his thoughts?

Theo’s voice followed — steadier, but heavier. “Pansy’s right. You’ve always hidden it well. But the Ministry’s grip is tightening, Draco. You won’t outrun it.”

Her breath caught. Theo’s words struck something in her that she didn’t want to name. Because she had seen it — the quiet descent, the restraint that bled into silence, the way Draco sometimes looked like he wasn’t entirely present. She understood his despair. Understood the choices that had cornered him here.

But understanding did not mean acceptance.

And Hermione Granger — clever, kind, idealistic — could only complicate things further. Narcissa had no illusions about what that kind of attachment would cost. The world hadn’t changed as much as people liked to pretend. Blood still mattered. Politics still whispered. And love, when misaligned with power, became vulnerability.

Draco muttered something — too low to hear — and the conversation below began to wane. But Narcissa knew better. The real conversation was only beginning.

She remained there, poised in the hush that followed, one hand resting lightly on the bannister. Her eyes lingered on her son, head bowed slightly as if the weight of the room pressed down on his shoulders alone.

She loved him. That had never changed. But love was not the same as indulgence.

And Draco — Malfoy heir, bearer of a name too heavy for sentiment, could not afford this particular distraction.

She would have to speak to him. Soon. Before this infatuation became something irreversible.

Before whispers became consequences.

There were obligations. Promises still binding. Lines they could not afford to cross — not again. Not with everything they had left to lose.

Narcissa turned from the railing, her expression cool, composed.

Her son was slipping.

And she would not stand by and let him fall.

Draco sat in the dimly lit study, the flickering light from the hearth casting long shadows across the polished wood of the desk. His hands hovered over the parchment, the quill poised but unmoving. The letter in front of him was unfinished, the ink halfway through the first sentence. He could barely bring himself to finish it.

He had started it hours ago—after the conversation with his friends, after Blaise’s teasing had eaten away at his resolve. It hadn’t been easy, but he had felt the impulse to reach out, to say something, anything, to Hermione. She wasn’t like the others. He couldn’t stop thinking about her.

But even now, as he stared at the delicate loops of his handwriting, the words felt... wrong. Too simple. Too vulnerable. How could he possibly explain what had been growing in him, an ache that had only intensified since Christmas? How could he put into words what he’d barely been able to admit to himself?

Dear Granger...

His quill scratched the parchment once more, but the words faltered. He wanted to say something meaningful, something real, but what did he have to offer? He was the one under the Ministry’s thumb, the one being watched, monitored at every turn. How could he burden her with that? How could he even ask her to care? He had already made an impression, one he wasn’t sure he could undo.

His eyes flicked to the fireplace, watching the flames dance, but his thoughts were elsewhere. He had said it to her—“I’m never in a rush when it’s you.” The words had come out too easily, and they had haunted him since. He couldn’t stop thinking about the way she’d looked at him when he’d said it, the faint surprise in her eyes. The awkward silence that had followed.

Had she thought about it? He hoped she had. He was fixated on it, fixated on her. But the more he thought about it, the more it seemed like he had no right to. He had no place in her world. She was everything he had never been—strong, smart, free. And here he was, a boy who had spent too long hiding behind his family’s name, too long tangled in the Ministry’s web. Could he even be what she needed?

The quill in his hand scratched across the parchment again, but he still didn’t know what to say. His mind swam with fragments of thoughts, but none of them made it onto the paper. And so, the letter remained unfinished, its words unsaid, its intentions hidden even from him.

He leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes for a moment. He didn’t need this. Not now. Not in the middle of everything else. But the thought of her lingered, and the weight of the unspoken words pressed down harder than anything else.

Chapter Text

Hermione

The library smelled like parchment and frost.

A cold draft slipped in through the tall stained-glass windows, curling between shelves and tugging at the corners of loose parchment. The lamps burned low, casting a gentle amber glow over polished tables and forgotten quills. Only a handful of students had returned early from the holidays — their presence scattered and quiet, like half-formed thoughts drifting through the aisles.

Hermione sat in her usual corner, near the arithmancy section, tucked behind a stack of transfiguration texts and two open notebooks. It was still early enough that her breath fogged faintly in the air, but she didn’t mind. There was comfort in the quiet. In the ritual of reorganizing her world after time away.

She was halfway through redrafting a spell diagram — quill hovering mid-curve — when something shifted.

Not a sound. Not a word.

But presence.

She looked up.

Draco Malfoy stood at the end of the aisle, half-cast in shadow and winter light. His cloak was still dusted with snow, hair slightly mussed, like he hadn’t bothered with a mirror. But his posture was unmistakable. That coiled stillness. The way he held himself like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to stay or turn and vanish.

Their eyes met.

“Granger,” he said, voice smooth but low — almost cautious.

“Malfoy,” she replied, setting her quill down slowly. “Looking for a book or just haunting the shelves for dramatic effect?”

He smirked faintly. “Bit of both.”

She nodded to the empty chair across from her. “Well, if you’re planning to lurk, you might as well do it sitting down.”

He moved, deliberate but not lazy, and took the seat. His cloak brushed the chair legs with a whisper, the melting snow at his hem already forming a quiet puddle on the stone floor.

They didn’t speak immediately. The quiet between them was expectant, not awkward. As if the castle itself was holding its breath.

“I thought about writing,” he said at last, his fingers brushing the edge of the table.

Hermione blinked. “You thought about it?”

Draco gave a small shrug. “I wasn’t sure if we were… there yet.”

Her lips curved, just a little. “And where exactly is ‘there’?”

He hesitated. Then looked up. “Letter-writing territory.”

She let the moment stretch, the quiet soft around the edges. “So instead, you tracked me down in the library?”

His gaze flicked to hers, a small glint of amusement there. “Maybe I missed you.”

The words landed gently, but they carried weight. Something in her chest tightened — not unpleasant, but real.

“Only maybe?” she teased, voice quiet but warm.

Draco looked down at her parchment again. His thumb grazed a curl of ink on the page. “I don’t like committing to absolutes.”

Hermione studied him, her smile fading into something softer.

He exhaled through his nose. “I didn’t know if I had the right to miss you.”

That stopped her.

Something tender folded in her ribs. She didn’t tease this time. Didn’t deflect. Just watched him — saw the quiet sincerity there, the way he looked like he wanted to take it back and offer it again, properly.

She offered a small, grounding smile. “Next time,” she said, “write.”

His gaze lifted. Steady now. Open.

“You’d answer?”

She didn’t look away. “Every time.”

The silence that followed was warm, full — like something had just quietly clicked into place.

Draco leaned back slightly. “So we’re there, then?”

Hermione raised an eyebrow. “There?”

“That level,” he said. “Letter-writing. Talking. Possibly owl-sharing — assuming I’m not too emotionally volatile.”

She laughed under her breath, that lovely, involuntary kind of laugh. “You absolutely are. But I think I’ll allow it.”

He grinned, small but real. “Generous.”

“Only with people who maybe miss me.”

They sat in that gentle hush for a while longer, parchment between them, candles flickering above, snow still falling just beyond the windows.

And for the first time in a long time, neither of them felt like they were waiting for something to go wrong.

Just... waiting for what might come next.

Draco exhaled slowly, like some part of him had been holding that breath for weeks.

A quiet settled between them — warm and measured. The snow continued to fall just beyond the window, slow and silver. The library felt almost cocooned, like the war had never quite touched it here.

“So,” she said lightly, returning to her notes, “did the Manor survive Christmas, or did it finally collapse under the weight of family tension and poor taste?”

He huffed. “Still standing. Cold. Spectral. Thoroughly over-monitored.”

Her gaze flicked up. “Still watching your spellwork?”

“Down to the wand twitch,” he muttered, expression bitter around the edges. “It's like performing under a microscope — only the microscope is armed and deeply suspicious.”

Hermione frowned. “That’s...”

She trailed off, then tilted her head, tone soft but firm. “Well. Some of that suspicion... you earned.”

Draco’s jaw flexed, but he didn’t argue. Just looked down at the table, fingers drumming a silent rhythm against the wood.

“But,” she continued, more gently now, “even people who’ve done terrible things deserve the chance to do better. Especially when they want to.”

His gaze rose slowly. There was no smirk this time. Just something unreadable flickering behind his eyes.

“Is that what you think I’m doing?” he asked. “Trying to do better?”

“I think you’re here,” she said, meeting his look. “And you haven’t hexed anyone. So yes, I’d say that counts.”

The corner of his mouth twitched. “Low bar.”

“Your starting line was subterranean, Malfoy.”

His laugh — soft, genuine — surprised them both.

And just like that, the tension eased. Not gone, but shifted. Replaced by something quieter. Truer. Another beat passed. She tried to picture it — the Manor with its too-tall ceilings and impossible silences. Narcissa drifting through it like a ghost. Draco alone, spiraling under surveillance. Watching himself become someone he hadn’t agreed to be.

And yet he was here. In front of her.

Trying.

“And Blaise?” Hermione asked. “Theo?”

“They visited,” Draco said, tipping his head back. “Brought sarcasm. Pansy brought... an entire thesis on how I’ve ruined everything.”

Hermione’s mouth curved. “Of course she did.”

He exhaled through his nose — not quite a laugh. “They were themselves. Familiar. Loud. Slightly exhausting.”

She paused. “And loyal?”

He hesitated. “In their way. Theo’s the only one who really listens. Blaise mostly mocks me. Pansy—”

He stopped, shaking his head. “Pansy thinks loyalty means keeping everything exactly how it was.”

“Not wrong,” Hermione said, a little quieter now. “Just... afraid.”

He looked at her, a flicker of something defensive rising. “Afraid of what? You?”

“No,” she said, holding his gaze. “Afraid of what it means if people like me are allowed to matter. To belong.”

His shoulders drew back. Not angry. Just... hit.

“I’m trying,” he said quietly, after a long moment. “To belong somewhere that doesn’t hate what I used to be.”

Hermione swallowed hard. “You don’t have to have it all figured out. But showing up?”

She offered a small smile. “That’s something.”

He smiled too — not smooth, not sharp. Just real. “That’s a first for me.”

“No,” she said, watching him carefully. “You’ve always shown up. You just used to wear better disguises.”

That made him laugh, soft and slightly self-conscious. But he didn’t deny it.

They sat in the hush of the library, parchment and parchment-thin tension between them, the scent of snow on the air and old books around them like quiet witnesses. She didn’t reach for her quill again. He didn’t rise to leave.

And in the silence, something softened.

No declarations. No confessions.

Just the slow, deliberate act of staying.

Ginny

Ginny spotted her the moment they stepped into the library. Predictably, Hermione had claimed her favourite table — parchment spread in neat rows, ink bottle uncapped, posture already halfway into a dissertation. What wasn’t predictable was the person sitting across from her.

Malfoy.

Ginny slowed, catching Luna with one hand and nudging Neville with the other.

“Well, look at that,” she said under her breath, lips curving. “A Slytherin in the wild. And not even hissing.”

Neville squinted toward the far table. “Is that—Malfoy?”

Luna hummed. “They’re sitting quite close, aren’t they?”

Ginny’s eyes narrowed, amused. Hermione was leaning forward slightly, her expression soft and animated. Malfoy looked… relaxed. Not smug. Not sneering. Relaxed. Almost like he belonged there. Which, frankly, was unsettling.

“Should we come back later?” Neville asked.

Ginny grinned. “Absolutely not.”

She led the way, the three of them weaving past sleepy second-years and an impatient Madam Pince.

“Interrupting anything?” she asked breezily as they reached the table.

Hermione startled just a little, blinking up. “Ginny! Luna, hi. Neville.”

Draco shifted in his seat with all the grace of a cat caught in a sunbeam.

Ginny’s gaze flicked between them, slow and subtle. Hermione’s cheeks had the faintest glow — not embarrassment, but something warmer. Draco’s jaw had tightened slightly, but his hand hadn’t moved from the edge of her parchment. Hmm.

She gave him a polite nod. “Malfoy.”

“Weasley,” he returned, just a beat too late to sound indifferent.

Luna sat down without asking, dropping a small pouch of candied ginger onto the table like it was perfectly natural to join a clearly private conversation.

Neville hovered, awkward but well-meaning. “We didn’t mean to interrupt—”

“Yes, we did,” Ginny corrected, sinking into the seat beside Hermione. “But we’re doing it nicely.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, but she didn’t look annoyed. Not really. She looked... grounded.

“Don’t mind us,” Ginny added, reaching for a piece of ginger. “Just making sure Hermione hasn’t been lured into any questionable life choices while unsupervised.”

“I’m sitting right here,” Draco muttered.

Ginny smiled innocently. “And I’m simply making observations. Like how neither of you seems particularly eager to leave this table.”

Hermione opened her mouth — maybe to argue, maybe to deflect — but Draco beat her to it.

“I was just about to go, actually,” he said, rising smoothly. But his eyes lingered on Hermione for a moment too long, unreadable and calm.

Ginny watched that gaze like a hawk.

Hermione glanced up at him, then quickly back down. “Thanks for... stopping by,” she said lightly.

Draco gave the smallest nod. “Next time, Granger.”

And then he was gone — not hurried, not flustered, just... gone.

Ginny waited until he’d fully disappeared before turning back. “Okay. So. Are we pretending that wasn’t weirdly domestic or are we going to talk about it?”

Hermione shot her a withering look, but her smile gave her away.

Luna, meanwhile, was already sipping her tea. “He looked at her like she was a Patronus.”

Ginny grinned. “That’s one word for it.”

Neville just blinked. “That was... calmer than expected.”

Hermione sighed into her palms.

“You’re all impossible.”

“And you,” Ginny said sweetly, “look suspiciously satisfied.”

Hermione peeked at her through her fingers. “I’m allowed to have a conversation.”

Luna nodded sagely. “Especially with someone who makes her look... calm.”

Neville looked confused. Ginny just leaned back in her chair, smug.

“Right,” Hermione muttered. “This is why I don’t talk to you lot about anything.”

Ginny raised an eyebrow. “And yet, here you are.”

Hermione didn’t answer — just shook her head and picked up her quill again, but the corner of her mouth twitched like she was fighting off a smile.

Draco

The fire in the Slytherin common room crackled low, casting sharp-edged shadows across the greenish stone walls. The lake outside pressed cold and quiet against the windows, the water dark and still — like it was listening.

Draco sat in one of the corner armchairs, legs stretched out, elbow propped on the armrest. He hadn’t lit a lamp. He preferred the half-dark lately. Everything felt clearer when it wasn’t so visible.

Across from him, Theo leaned back on the leather sofa, his school jumper rumpled, an old book open on one knee. He hadn’t turned a page in ten minutes.

“Let me guess,” Theo said, without looking up. “You went to the library intending to be alone and came back with your entire nervous system short-circuited.”

Draco didn’t bother denying it. “I didn’t go there by accident.”

“No,” Theo said, glancing up now. “I figured.”

They sat with the sound of the fire for a while, letting the weight of the past few weeks — the break, the return, the undercurrent of exhaustion that always followed war — settle like ash.

“You ever think about it?” Theo asked eventually.

Draco turned toward him. “Think about what?”

“Everything. The war. The parts we don’t talk about.”

Draco's gaze dropped. “I think about nothing else.”

Theo’s voice was quiet. “I meant... the decisions. The moments. The lines.”

He didn’t have to specify.

Draco thought of the Astronomy Tower.

Of Dumbledore’s eyes — steady, exhausted, impossibly kind, even then.

Of the room at Malfoy Manor.

Of Bellatrix kneeling in front of Hermione, wand pressed to her skin.

Of the way she screamed — not once, not briefly, but again and again.

He hadn’t looked away.

He hadn’t spoken.

His feet had stayed planted while her blood marked the floor.

And the worst part — the part he could never say aloud —

was that a part of him had been relieved it wasn’t him.

“I remember all of it,” he said, throat tight.

Theo nodded like he understood. “Some days I think I’ve moved on. And then I’ll smell firewood or see someone flick their wand a certain way, and I’m back there. All over again.”

Draco swallowed. “It’s not behind us. It’s just... quieter now.”

Theo didn’t answer immediately. Then, after a beat: “You ever wonder if we deserve anything after it?”

Draco blinked at the flames. “Define anything.”

Theo tilted his head. “Good things. Peace. People who look at us without flinching.”

Draco exhaled slowly. “I don’t think it’s about deserving. I think it’s about surviving long enough to try again.”

Theo looked at him then — really looked. His expression wasn’t pitying, but searching. Measured.

“You’ve changed,” he said.

Draco huffed. “Bit late to notice, isn’t it?”

“No,” Theo replied. “It’s not that. You’ve changed in a way that doesn’t feel like a performance.”

Draco met his gaze. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

Theo shrugged. “It means I see the way you carry yourself. The way you speak. You used to deflect everything with arrogance. Now you let things land.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Theo added, too casually: “Saw you in the library earlier.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Of course you did.”

Theo raised his brows. “I was impressed. You were in deep conversation with someone who used to hex you for sport.”

“She hasn’t done that in a while,” Draco muttered.

Theo smirked. “And how lucky for you.”

Another pause. The fire cracked.

“She’s different too,” Theo added quietly.

Draco didn’t reply, but the shift in his posture was subtle and telling.

“I’m not asking for details,” Theo said, hands raised. “I just think... maybe if you let it be something, instead of trying to define it, you won’t keep unraveling every time you see her.”

Draco glanced over. “I’m not unraveling.”

Theo arched an eyebrow.

Draco let out a reluctant breath. “Fine. A bit.”

They both sat in the warmth of that truth for a while.

Theo reached down, picked up the book he hadn’t touched, and finally flipped the page. “We’re not the same boys we were, you know.”

“I know,” Draco said, voice quiet.

“We were terrified.”

“We still are,” Draco murmured.

Theo nodded. “But we’re also still here.”

Draco didn’t respond. But something in him — something tense and frayed and watchful — let go just enough to breathe.

The fire crackled low in the grate, throwing long shadows over the stone walls. The lake pressed dark and heavy against the windows, the green-tinged light rippling across the ceiling like breath held too long.

Draco slouched in one of the old leather armchairs — one leg hooked over the other, posture studied but weary. Theo was opposite, curled into a threadbare sofa that probably predated Merlin, a book balanced in his lap, entirely unread.

They’d spoken for a while — quietly, the way boys do when they’ve survived something but haven’t quite named it. The war lingered in everything. In silence. In posture. In the way they both knew where the other’s wand was at all times.

Theo’s voice broke the quiet. “You think it ever stops?”

Draco glanced at him. “What — the nightmares, or the guilt?”

Theo gave a small, sardonic smile. “Yes.”

Draco exhaled. “No. But you get better at pretending it has.”

They lapsed into silence again, the kind that didn’t ask to be filled. It was comfortable, in a bleak sort of way.

Then the common room door creaked open and ruined everything.

“Oh, splendid,” came Blaise’s voice, too loud, too cheerful. “A support group meeting. Shall I fetch the biscuits?”

Draco groaned audibly. “And here I was, enjoying the peace.”

Theo didn’t even look up. “Took you long enough.”

Blaise breezed in like he owned the place — scarf still on, boots damp from snow, hands full of sweets he clearly hadn’t paid for.

“I was delayed by a prefect,” he said grandly, flopping onto the sofa’s arm. “Apparently, smuggling in chocolate from the kitchens is frowned upon. Who knew?”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “You realise it’s term time, not pantomime season?”

“Don’t be jealous just because I’m the only one here with a personality.”

Theo gave him a deadpan look. “You mean ego.”

“Semantics.”

Blaise’s gaze flicked to Draco, narrowed slightly. “So. Word on the staircase is you were spotted in the library.”

Draco didn’t blink. “I go to the library.”

“You were with Granger.”

A beat.

“I was talking with Granger.”

Theo looked up then, gaze a little too keen. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”

“Oh, bugger off,” Draco muttered, dragging a hand through his hair.

Blaise smirked. “It’s just — you’ve got that look.”

“What look?”

“The one that says, ‘I had a meaningful conversation and now I don’t know what to do with my feelings.’”

Draco shot him a glare. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you,” Blaise said sweetly, “are besotted.”

Theo bit back a laugh. “It’s true. You’re different around her. Like you’ve stopped holding your breath.”

Draco leaned forward, voice flat. “Are you two quite finished?”

“Oh no,” Blaise said cheerfully. “We haven’t even started on the poetry.”

Theo nodded, solemn. “I’d like a recitation. Bonus points if it rhymes with ‘bushier than most.’”

“I will hex you both,” Draco said. “And make it look like an accident.”

Blaise leaned back. “Honestly, I think it’s good. Healthy, even. You're letting someone in. A Gryffindor, no less. We love a redemption arc.”

Draco snorted. “Says the man who once tried to break up with someone by sending a cursed cupcake.”

“That was one time.”

“She ended up in St Mungo’s.”

“She got better.”

Theo cut in, his voice quieter but pointed. “Do you actually like her?”

Draco hesitated. Not out of uncertainty, but because he knew how much the answer would matter the moment he said it aloud.

“Yes.”

Blaise blinked, startled by the honesty. “Well, bloody hell.”

Theo just nodded. “Good.”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “Just good?”

Theo smirked. “Better than writing sonnets, isn’t it?”

Draco rolled his eyes. “I hate both of you.”

“You love us,” Blaise said.

“You tolerate us,” Theo corrected.

“Barely,” Draco muttered — but there was a trace of warmth behind it now.

Blaise stood, dusting sugar off his hands like he’d accomplished something noble. “Right, I’m off. Don’t stay up too late brooding. It’s bad for the complexion.”

He wandered off, humming to himself.

Draco leaned back again, staring at the fire.

Theo didn’t look up from his book. “You’re not the same.”

Draco didn’t respond. Not right away.

Then, quietly: “I know.”

The common room door groaned open again.

Theo didn’t even glance up. “Let me guess — Blaise forgot his dramatic exit line.”

Draco stayed silent. He already knew who it was.

He could hear it in the measured footsteps, the careful stillness she carried with her like perfume.

Pansy.

“Well, well,” she said lightly, stepping inside. “Thought I’d find you two still brooding by firelight.”

Theo muttered, “And yet you came anyway.”

She didn’t bother responding. Instead, she moved toward the hearth with slow, deliberate steps — her coat still on, her expression unreadable.

“Didn’t take you long to find your way back to old habits,” she said, gaze landing squarely on Draco. “Late-night plotting. Low lighting. Discreet corners. I’m feeling very nostalgic.”

Draco didn’t stand. “If you’re here to reminisce, you’re five years too late.”

She smiled — the kind that cut instead of soothed. “I’m not here for memories, darling. I’m here because everyone’s talking.”

Theo looked up now, brows raised.

Pansy leaned on the back of the opposite chair, cool and casual. “The library, Draco? With Granger? Honestly, the subtlety — or lack thereof — was almost painful.”

“I was talking to her,” he said flatly.

“And I’m sure the candles just happened to dim romantically on their own,” she said, voice dipped in honey. “You always did like a bit of theatre.”

Theo shifted in his seat. “You spying again, Pans?”

She didn’t take her eyes off Draco. “I don’t need to spy. I pay attention.”

She circled the edge of the hearth now, slow and smooth. “I also pay attention to her. And I’ve been wondering — is this a phase, or have you finally lost your mind?”

Draco’s expression didn’t change. “You don’t get to talk about her like that.”

Pansy raised her brows. “Oh? But you get to parade her through corridors and pretend it won’t come back to bite her — or you?”

“She’s not a secret.”

“She’s a liability,” Pansy snapped — just once, sharp and clear before her tone smoothed again. “You think this castle forgets? That names like hers and yours suddenly mix just because the war’s over?”

Theo muttered, “She’s not a cauldron ingredient, Pansy. You don’t stir and hope for the best.”

But she ignored him. “You want to talk about danger, Draco?” Her voice was low now, close. “Try bringing her into our world. The parties. The politics. The old families. Do you think they’ll look at her and see a clever witch with war scars? Or a mudblood in your bed?”

Theo winced. “Christ.”

Draco stood then, slow and controlled. “Say that again,” he said, voice quiet but sharp.

Pansy didn’t flinch. “I don’t need to. You already know.”

She moved closer, her voice dipping lower still — just between them now. “Your mother didn’t say it outright, did she? But I know Narcissa. She’s waiting. Watching. And you can’t stand the thought of disappointing her again.”

Theo’s gaze flicked from one to the other, tension humming now. “Alright, everyone breathe—”

Pansy didn’t break eye contact. “You think this is love, or penance? Because either way, it won’t last. Not when everything else starts to close in.”

“They’re not even dating,” Theo said dryly. “You’re talking like they’ve picked wedding china.”

Draco didn’t look at him. “I’m not—”

He hesitated.

His mouth opened — then closed again.

Pansy froze.

And that was all the answer anyone needed.

Theo blinked. “Well, fuck.”

Draco’s jaw worked, but his voice was steady when it returned. “I didn’t ask for your blessing, Pansy. And I don’t need it.”

“No,” she said softly. “But when it all falls apart, don’t expect me to pick up the pieces.”

She turned, already moving.

But before she left, she paused at the door — voice like silk over steel.

“She’ll never understand what it means to be one of us, Draco. No matter how much she reads.”

Then she disappeared.

The door clicked shut.

Draco didn’t move.

Theo sat back, let out a low breath. “Well. That was cheery.”

He looked over. “You alright?”

Draco didn’t answer.

He just stared into the fire, hands curled tight around the arms of his chair.

Theo watched him a moment longer, then muttered, “This better not end in poetry.”

Draco exhaled, slow and quiet. “No promises.”

Draco

The Slytherin dormitory was quieter than usual — cloaked in the familiar greenish gloom, the lake shadows casting ripples of soft movement across the ceiling. Draco lay on his side, one arm folded beneath his head, staring at nothing. The silence should have been restful.

It wasn’t.

His thoughts circled relentlessly, pulled back to the library, to Granger’s smirk, her quick tongue, the way her gaze had held him when she said, “Every time.”

He’d meant to return to studying. Instead, he found himself retracing her words, the slight curve of her smile, the way the tension that usually coiled in his chest had eased just being near her.

And then, just as quickly, Narcissa’s voice echoed in his mind — sharp, unrelenting.

Flashback: Malfoy Manor, the Morning Before Term Resumed

His trunk had been nearly packed, wand tucked into the side flap, robe folded with clinical neatness. Narcissa stood at the window, her spine regal, her hand resting lightly on the sill.

“Hermione Granger, the mud-muggleborn”, she said, not turning around.

Draco paused. “Mother—”

“We clearly need to have a serious discussion about your current choices”

Her voice wasn’t cruel. But it wasn’t warm, either. Not in the way it used to be, when she’d hold him after nightmares or brush snow from his cloak. Now, it was cool steel wrapped in velvet.

He didn’t answer.

“I heard them,” she continued. “Your friends. They were loud, but I didn’t need their words to know. You’re distracted. And distraction, Draco, is dangerous.”

He folded his arms, bracing. “It’s not—”

“She’s a war heroine,” Narcissa interrupted, finally turning to face him. “Intelligent. Admired. And utterly incompatible with the life you were raised to inherit.”

“I’m not inheriting anything,” he said quietly.

She gave a tight, unreadable smile. “Not yet. But the world hasn’t changed as much as she’d like to think. There are still expectations. And she doesn’t belong in them.”

Draco met her eyes. “She doesn’t belong in your expectations.”

Narcissa inhaled through her nose, a flicker of hurt flashing across her face before vanishing behind poise.

“I want you to survive, Draco. That’s all I’ve ever wanted. To see you come out of this world with something left. You think she can give you that? What will happen when you’re pulled into rooms she can’t enter? When your name means scrutiny instead of safety?”

“She already knows what scrutiny feels like,” he snapped.

Silence stretched between them.

“I won’t stop you,” Narcissa said at last. “But don’t mistake my restraint for approval. You are still a Malfoy.”

Draco nodded. “Then let me be the first one to redefine what that means.”

Back in the Dormitory – Present

He exhaled slowly, rolling onto his back. The ceiling above him shimmered faintly with lake light, like ghosts drifting through water.

He loved his mother. Fiercely. But he would not let old loyalties — or the echo of a name — decide his future anymore.

Whatever this thing with Granger was, whatever it might become… he would take it as far as she allowed him to. Whether it ended in disaster or something more, he’d face it.

For once, it would be his choice.

And he wasn’t going to run from it.

Hermione

The castle had finally quieted.

From the open window above her bed, Hermione could hear the distant creak of the lake shifting against its banks, the rustle of wind through the bare branches in the Forbidden Forest. The stars hung low and bright, sharp pinpricks in a velvet sky.

Her quill lay abandoned on the desk. Her notes forgotten.

She couldn’t stop thinking about the way he’d looked at her in the library. How he’d sat across from her like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to stay — and yet didn’t leave. The way his voice had gone soft when he said, “Maybe I missed you.”

Hermione rolled onto her side, eyes open in the dark.

Malfoy — Draco — was changing.

Not all at once. Not perfectly. But there was something quieter in him now. Something tired, yes, but... real. Like a boy who had once built walls just to survive and was now trying to decide if he could live without them.

He was still sharp, still maddening. But his snark no longer felt like a shield. It felt... like honesty. The kind that only came from someone who’d been stripped bare and didn’t have the energy to lie anymore.

She didn’t know what they were. Not yet.

But for the first time in a long time, she didn’t feel the need to define it. She just wanted to feel it. Let it unfold.

A soft thump made her sit up.

Crookshanks.

He padded into the room with none of his usual arrogance, his ginger fur duller in the moonlight, his gait slower. Hermione’s chest ached at the sight of him — her beautiful, strange half-Kneazle, now thinner than he had any right to be.

“Hey, you,” she whispered, slipping off the bed.

He settled at her feet, curling in on himself with a soft huff of breath. She sat down beside him, folding her legs, gently stroking his back.

“You’re not allowed to do this,” she said softly. “You’re not allowed to start fading.”

Crookshanks blinked at her, slow and tired.

“I’ve already lost too much,” she whispered. “You don’t get to be next.”

Her hand trembled slightly as it passed over his fur. He nuzzled her palm, weak but still present.

Hermione swallowed around the lump in her throat. “I need you to hold on.”

There was no answer. Just the sound of her breath, the steady quiet of the castle, and the frail purr against her hand.

Outside the window, a wind stirred the branches again — low and soft like a whisper.

She leaned forward, pressing a kiss to the crown of his head, eyes stinging.

“You’ve always stayed,” she murmured. “So stay a little longer.”

And in the stillness that followed, she curled up on the rug beside him, wrapping a blanket around both of them — the girl who’d survived a war, and the cat who had always come home.

Chapter Text

Hermione

“I ran the diagnostics myself,” Hermione said as soon as she entered, Crookshanks cradled neatly in her arms like a library book she refused to return. “Again. Twice. His temperature's dropped two degrees since yesterday morning. Respiratory rate is irregular. He's no longer responding to auditory stimulation.”

Madam Pomfrey raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Hermione swept past her and laid Crookshanks down with the same gentle precision she used in Potions.

“I also brewed a restorative elixir,” she added, pulling a small vial from her cloak. “Infused with powdered thistle root and dried gillyweed — both used in feline revival tinctures. It’s not standard, but I believe—”

“Hermione.”

“I know you’ve said there’s nothing more to be done,” she interrupted, voice firm, tone clipped and clinical. “But I disagree.”

Madam Pomfrey studied her.

“You’re trying to save him,” she said simply.

“I’m trying to do what’s necessary.” Hermione straightened Crookshanks’ red blanket. “He’s not ready. He’s... still got time left in him. ”

Pomfrey didn’t argue. “You’ve been in here every day.”

“Yes. Because unlike grief, data can be measured. Observed. Corrected.”

The silence between them was weighted but not cruel.

“I know the signs,” Pomfrey said gently. “I’ve seen hundreds of creatures — magical and not — reach this place. You know them too.”

Hermione didn’t flinch. Her spine was straight. Her hands steady.

But her voice came colder now. Measured.

“Signs can be misleading. I’ll be back later to check on him.”

And with that, she turned on her heel — cloak trailing behind her, posture sharp, jaw clenched.

She didn’t crumble in the hallway. Didn’t pause outside the infirmary doors.

But she didn’t go to the library either.

She turned instead — quietly, deliberately — toward the Gryffindor Tower. Toward the people who knew how to sit in silence without demanding explanations.

Draco

She passed him again.

That made it the fourth time that week — four near-collisions in empty corridors, four glances that slid off him like rain off stone, four moments where she looked right through him.

And he’d had enough.

“Granger.”

She didn’t stop walking.

“Hermione.”

Her shoulders stiffened. The pause was brief — barely a breath — before she turned around.

“What?” she asked. Not sharp. Not soft either. Just… tired.

Draco stepped closer, jaw tight. “Have I done something?”

She blinked. “What?”

“You’re avoiding me,” he said. “You didn’t answer my last note. You barely look at me in class. I’m not stupid.”

Her eyes flashed. “I never said you were.”

“No,” he said coolly, “you just started acting like I don’t exist.”

Hermione crossed her arms. “I’ve been busy.”

“We’re all busy,” he snapped. “But I didn’t realise I’d been bumped down to ‘acquaintance’ status while you restructured your social calendar.”

She flinched. Just a little. But enough.

“You don’t know everything, Malfoy.”

“Clearly,” he said. “Because this—whatever this is—is new. You’re cold. You’re distant. I show up, and you vanish. If this is your idea of friendship—”

“Don’t,” she cut in, voice rising. “Don’t stand there and make this about you.”

He went still.

“I’m sorry I haven’t dropped everything to validate your progress report,” she continued, heat building in her cheeks. “But not everything is about how well you’re integrating or how nicely you’ve learned to flirt in a library.”

His mouth opened—then closed.

“What the hell is this about?” he asked, quieter now.

She looked away. “Nothing.”

“It’s not nothing.”

Hermione shook her head, jaw tight. “I don’t have time for this.”

“Right,” he muttered. “Because Merlin forbid I take up five minutes of your precious time.”

Her eyes snapped back to his. “Don’t,” she said, low and dangerous.

But it was too late. His voice had that edge now — the one she hadn’t heard in months.

“Who is it this time?” he said bitterly. “Potter? Weasley? One of the endless people who get to see the real version of you while I get whatever scraps are left?”

Hermione stared at him like she couldn’t quite believe he’d said it. Like she wanted to hex him. Or cry.

She didn’t do either.

Instead, she said, “Go to hell, Malfoy.”

Then she turned and walked away. Again.

And this time, Draco didn’t follow.

But his fists curled at his sides, useless and shaking.

Because he didn’t know.

Because she hadn’t told him.

And because somehow, even after everything, he still cared more than he should.

Hermione

By the end of the week, Hermione hadn’t slept properly in days.

Her robes were rumpled from too many hours curled on the Infirmary’s stiff chairs. Her hair — once carefully tied back for the sake of order — now fell in haphazard waves. And Crookshanks had stopped responding entirely. He simply lay there, curled into the folds of the same worn scarf, barely breathing, his golden eyes unfocused.

Hermione didn’t cry.

She administered potions like clockwork. Reviewed charm theory in silence while sitting beside him. Corrected Luna’s notes when asked, even though her voice was stretched thin and her fingers trembled when she wrote.

She needed structure. Needed purpose.

Because without them, she would start thinking about the silence where her parents used to be. The echoing memory of the day she found out they were killed. In a mundane car crash.

And now Crookshanks, her last link to that old life, was slipping through her fingers, too.

She sat on the floor near the fire, Crookshanks in her lap. Ginny beside her, reading silently. Neville on the couch, fiddling with a plant stem. Luna had brought her a blanket with little moons on it.

They didn’t ask questions.

They just stayed.

And Hermione loved them for it — even if she couldn’t say it.

“He’s still with you,” Luna said softly, nodding to the cat. “He’s choosing to stay. For now.”

Hermione stroked his fur, slow and careful. “He’s stubborn,” she said, voice tight. “Like someone else I know.”

Ginny glanced at her, brows raised. But didn’t press.

Hermione didn’t mention Draco.

Didn’t mention the spat. Or the look in his eyes when she’d turned away from him.

He hadn’t tried to speak to her since.

And a part of her hated that. Another part — the part that was holding everything else together — was glad. She couldn’t afford to be needed by him right now.

Draco

He saw them from across the courtyard — Hermione tucked beneath her scarf, Ginny and Luna flanking her, Neville beside them with his usual quiet steadiness.

They looked like a family.

She looked like she didn’t need him at all.

He clenched his jaw and turned away before she could see him watching.

Hermione

The envelope was thick with snow-damp around the edges and sealed with Harry’s unmistakably messy scrawl.

‘For when you need us.’

It had arrived with the morning post, tied to a small tin of chocolate buttons and a ridiculously crumpled paper flower that could only have come from Ron. She hadn’t opened it until now.

The fire in the Hospital Wing hearth crackled low, casting flickering light across the polished floor and sterile rows of empty beds. Crookshanks lay curled beneath a thick woollen blanket enchanted for warmth — Madam Pomfrey’s doing — his breathing shallow, his body still.

Hermione sat beside him, back straight despite the hard wooden chair, one hand resting gently on the edge of the mattress. He hadn’t eaten in days. He no longer stirred when she spoke.

Hermione sat cross-legged, the letter open on her knees. Her eyes scanned the words carefully, her face impassive.

Hermione,

We know you’ll pretend to be fine. We know you’ll say you’re ‘coping.’ So this is us saying — we believe you. But we’re also here if you’re not.

You don’t have to talk. Or explain. Just say the word and we’ll show up. We don’t need an owl. We’ll know.

I still dream about the night at Malfoy Manor.

Sometimes I wake up angry. Sometimes I wake up afraid. But I always wake up knowing we made it because of you.

We love you. Please let yourself feel something other than obligation.

—Harry

P.S. Ron spelled a Fanged Frisbee to bark your name and now it won’t stop. He says it’s your emotional support object.

Hermione laughed, once — barely a sound — and pressed her lips together so tightly they turned white.

She folded the letter with slow precision and placed it back into the envelope. No tears came.

She wasn’t ready to fall apart.

She had things to do. Potions to rebrew. Notes to reorganise. Crookshanks to check on.

Love was a comfort, yes. But comfort was a luxury.

And she had work.

Theo

The morning buzz of the Great Hall passed like fog — low murmurs, scraping cutlery, the occasional flap of an owl overhead. At the Slytherin table, Pansy Parkinson sat with the practiced grace of someone who considered breakfast a performance.

“Apparently,” Blaise said, draping himself lazily over the bench, “Granger hasn’t left the infirmary for two nights.”

Theo glanced up. “She’s still with the cat?”

“Ginny says it’s barely breathing,” Blaise said. “Crookshanks is on his way out.”

Pansy didn’t miss a beat. “Honestly, I never understood her obsession with that creature. It always looked diseased.”

Theo gave her a look. “He’s been with her since third year.”

“And what a thrilling emotional anchor that must be,” Pansy replied, dabbing her lips with a napkin. “A mangy, half-Kneazle symbol of her inability to let go.”

Blaise let out a low whistle. “Bit harsh, darling.”

“I’m not saying she shouldn’t care,” Pansy said, tone light but eyes sharp. “I’m saying she’s being ridiculous. It’s not the war. It’s not her family. It’s a cat.”

Theo didn’t speak — just stirred his tea slowly.

But Pansy went on. “She’s always been like this. Throwing herself into things that can’t love her back. Books. Causes. Half-dead pets. Malfoy.”

Blaise choked slightly on his juice.

Pansy just smiled.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that. We’re all thinking it.”

Draco

The fire in the Slytherin common room crackled low, casting long shadows against stone walls and bookcases no one touched anymore. Draco sat in one of the deeper armchairs, eyes fixed on the fire, though his hands kept moving — tugging absently at a frayed bit of stitching on the cuff of his jumper.

He hadn’t spoken to her in days.

Not since the corridor.

Not since she’d told him to go to hell.

And the worst part?

She hadn’t looked back.

Theo dropped into the seat across from him without ceremony, folding his arms over his chest like he planned to stay.

Draco didn’t look up. “If this is about breakfast, I don’t want to hear it.”

Theo didn’t blink. “It’s not about breakfast.”

A pause. Then—

“It’s about Hermione.”

Draco’s hand stilled. “What about her?”

Theo leaned forward slightly. “She’s not doing well.”

“Crookshanks?” Draco asked, too fast.

Theo nodded. “Bad. Pomfrey says it’s a matter of hours now. Maybe a day.”

Draco looked away again, jaw tight. “She has people. Potter. Weasley. Ginny.”

Theo didn’t move. “Sure. But you’re not just people, remember?”

Silence.

“She hasn’t asked for anyone,” Theo continued. “But Ginny says she’s barely sleeping. Won’t leave the infirmary. And before you ask—no. She’s not talking about you.”

Draco’s throat tightened.

“I know you’re pissed,” Theo said. “But maybe get over it. Whatever happened, whatever she said—this isn’t about you anymore.”

Draco still didn’t look up.

Theo waited a moment longer, then stood.

“She doesn’t need your apology,” he said, quietly. “She needs her friend.”

And with that, he left.

Draco sat in silence, the fire crackling beside him. The stitched cuff in his hand finally came loose — the thread snapping without warning.

She was asleep in an armchair in the far corner of the Hospital Wing, curled up like a child. Crookshanks lay on the adjacent bed, unmoving beneath a woollen blanket enchanted for warmth. The air carried a stifling stillness — thick with the kind of grief that clings to the skin like fog.

Draco stood in the doorway, motionless for a moment. He’d expected something grim. He hadn’t expected this.

She looked so small — knees tucked beneath the red blanket pulled up to her chin, fists clenched around the fabric even in sleep. The fire behind her crackled low, casting long shadows that made her seem even more fragile in the pale light.

Crookshanks, meanwhile, looked like he was barely tethered to life at all. His chest rose with a thread-thin breath that shuddered in and out. He wouldn’t make it through the night. Draco knew it. And he knew she would never forgive herself if she slept through the end.

“Granger,” he said softly, stepping closer. He placed a hand on her shoulder, careful and gentle.

She startled awake, blinking rapidly. “D-Draco?” she murmured, her voice rough, uncertain.

She rubbed her eyes, and then — as memory returned — she snapped her head toward the bed. Her chair scraped the floor as she rushed to Crookshanks’s side.

Draco watched her silently. Her face was paler than he remembered, gaunt and grey around the edges. Her uniform hung a little looser. Her hands trembled as she touched her familiar.

She was not doing well. And while she had been holding herself together with tape and teeth, he’d been sulking over a petty spat. Like a child. Like the version of himself he kept pretending he’d outgrown.

This term… she’d become important to him. And if he wanted her in his life — really in it — he needed to be the kind of person she could rely on. Even when she couldn’t ask for it.

He cleared his throat gently. “Granger, can I get you something from the kitchens?”

She didn’t look up. “No. Thank you, but no.”

“You need to eat something.”

“I can barely manage breathing right now,” she snapped. “So no — I won’t be eating or drinking anything. Please refrain from telling me what I need to do.”

Draco flinched, but didn’t back off. “Granger…”

She turned toward him. “Why are you here?”

“He’s slipping, Granger. I didn’t want you to face that alone.” he said simply. “And we’re friends. That’s what friends do.”

Her expression faltered. For a moment, something shifted behind her eyes. She inhaled — a real, heavy breath — like she hadn’t let herself breathe properly in days.

“I want to be here for you,” he said. His voice was quiet. Steady.

Something in his voice — steady, unafraid — broke the dam she’d been holding.

The sob began low in her chest, barely audible — a drip of water on stone. Then came the storm.

She shook with the force of it, collapsing into herself with ragged cries. Draco stepped forward and gathered her into his arms without hesitation. She buried her face into his shoulder and cried like it physically hurt. It did. He could feel it in the way she clung to him — fists twisted in his shirt like she was drowning.

He held her. Rocked her gently. His hand rubbed slow, rhythmic circles against her back. He said nothing. There was nothing to say.

Her sobs came in waves, crashing and retreating, only to rise again — the storm building and falling over and over.

An hour passed. Maybe more.

Eventually, the silence returned. She grew still, though her breaths came in sharp hiccups, and her hands still trembled against his chest.

And then — the shift. He felt it the moment she remembered who he was. That she had broken down in his arms. She pulled away suddenly, wiping her face with the back of her hand as she grabbed a tissue from the side table.

Her face was blotchy, her nose red. Her lips trembled.

She looked hollowed out. But not empty.

He could see it — the way the well had been drained. But somewhere inside, it was already refilling.

“I’ll get you some tea,” he said quietly. “You need something in your system.”

She nodded once. Absent, but not opposed.

Draco didn’t say more. He just gave her a gentle squeeze, pressed a kiss to her temple, and slipped away.

In the kitchens, he collected a teapot, warm bread, some fruit, and a few sweets. Something small. Something grounding. Something human.

When he returned, she looked up — and her face softened. Her shoulders dipped just enough to let him back in.

He set the tray beside her and sat down again.

He didn’t speak.

He simply stayed.

Hermione

The next morning

The air was still.

Too still.

Hermione blinked awake, her limbs stiff from the armchair. Her eyes went first to the bed.

One look told her everything.

Crookshanks was gone.

He lay there — still, small, impossibly quiet. His body wrapped in the same blanket, but no breath stirred his chest. No twitch of tail. No warmth.

The realisation didn’t come all at once. It came in pieces. A tightening of her throat. A sharp cold that shot through her limbs. Her heart felt like it seized, then restarted with a jolt that knocked the air from her lungs.

A small, sharp gasp escaped her — and then she cried.

Not like before.

This was quieter. But deeper.

Her shoulders shook, her face buried in her hands, and the sound of her grief filled the room like smoke.

Draco woke beside her — still slumped against the other chair. He stirred and then, in a heartbeat, he was there.

He knelt in front of her, arms wrapping around her shoulders, pulling her into him. He held her like she was breaking — because she was.

He didn’t try to fix it.

He simply stayed.

Madam Pomfrey entered quietly, drawn by the sound, and took one look. Her eyes softened with the kind of knowing reserved for people who had lived long enough to understand this kind of loss.

“Oh, my dear,” she murmured. “I’m so sorry. I’ll make all the arrangements.”

Then she left them alone.

Hermione cried against Draco’s chest for what felt like a lifetime. She clutched him like he was air — like he was keeping her upright.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t speak.

He just let her fall apart.

And when the sobs slowed, when her breathing turned jagged and shallow, he held her face in his hands and said, “You need to say goodbye.”

The pain that followed hit so hard it made her double over. Her hand went to her chest. She gasped. For a moment, she couldn’t breathe at all.

“Granger—” Draco’s voice broke. He pulled her back gently, stroking her cheek. “Breathe. Please breathe. Crookshanks needs you to say goodbye.”

He pressed his forehead to hers. “Come on, darling. You can do this. I’m with you. I’m not going anywhere.”

And somehow, through the grief, through the pain, she did.

She breathed.

And he stayed.

She sat beside him one last time, her fingers trembling as they brushed the tips of his fur. He was cold now. Still. But she imagined — just for a second — that he was still purring somewhere, in some hidden fold of time only they could access.

Her voice came out quieter than she expected, but steady. Like she owed it to him not to fall apart. Not yet.

“Thank you,” she whispered, stroking the space between his ears. “For staying so long. Longer than you had to. Longer than I deserved.”

Her throat tightened, but she didn’t stop.

“You understood me in ways no one else ever has. You just… got me. No questions. No conditions. You always knew when to curl up beside me. When to headbutt me out of my spirals. When to just sit quietly and exist with me.”

She exhaled, shaky. Her hand stilled against his fur.

“You were more intuitive than my parents. Smarter than half the professors. And kinder than most people I’ve ever met.” A sad smile. “You saw me. All of me. Even the parts I kept hidden.”

She leaned down, pressing a kiss to the top of his head, her tears dripping into the blanket.

“You anchored me when I was drowning. You kept me tethered to something real. You reminded me who I was when I forgot.”

Her voice cracked then, just slightly.

“And I think... I think a part of me believed you’d never leave. That you’d always be curled at the foot of my bed, judging my essay drafts or stealing toast.”

She closed her eyes. Let herself feel it.

“But you gave me more years than anyone expected. And I will carry you with me — always. In every quiet morning. In every red thread. In every part of myself that still remembers what home feels like.”

She leaned her forehead against his.

“I’ll be okay,” she whispered, voice shaking. “I promise I’ll find a way to be okay.”

A pause.

“I love you.”

And with those last words, she let go.

She covered Crookshanks with the red blanket — the one he’d always claimed, the one that still carried the faint scent of her lavender lotion and his fur.

She made sure it reached past his ears. Covered his tail. Tucked around him like she had a hundred times before.

Then she stared at him.

Blanket-wrapped, still, impossibly small.

A beat passed — long, breathless.

And then she sat. Slowly. Her knees buckled beneath her as she lowered herself onto the chair and folded forward, resting her forehead against the edge of the bed.

She began to cry again.

Not with the violence of the night before — not the storm — but something quieter. Heavier. Grief that settled deep in the chest and refused to move.

Each breath shook.

Each sob came like a tide pulling her under.

Draco stood silently beside her, one hand resting between her shoulder blades. He didn’t speak. Just moved his fingers in slow, grounding strokes. His presence was steady — a quiet sentinel — the only still thing in the chaos inside her.

Then the door creaked.

Footsteps.

A soft scuffle.

Her friends had arrived.

Ginny, Luna, and Neville entered the room like a hush of wind, their faces open with quiet sorrow. Ginny carried a bundle of tissues. Luna had a single white lily in her hand. Neville looked like he wanted to punch a wall on her behalf.

They approached carefully.

They didn’t speak at first.

Just gathered around her in a small, unbreakable circle.

One by one, they leaned down, whispered condolences, touched her shoulder, wrapped their arms around her. They didn’t try to make it better.

They just stood with her in it.

Draco moved to step back. To give her space. To leave them to it.

But her fingers tightened around his hand with sudden force — a death grip, unwavering.

He froze.

She didn’t look up.

She just held on.

And that was all the answer he needed.

So he stayed.

Chapter Text

Hermione

Life moved on.

That was the worst of it.

How quickly everything returned to normal — or the post-war version of it, anyway. Classes resumed. Quills scratched parchment. Prefects argued over curfew violations. The staircases groaned and shifted like they hadn’t just carried her body, hollow and shaking, down to the hospital wing in the middle of the night.

It all just… went on.

So she did too.

Sort of.

She buried herself in routine, with a precision that bordered on cruelty. Her bag strained with extra books. Her schedule left no gaps. She rewrote entire essays that had already earned praise, just to feel the ache in her fingers. She cross-referenced footnotes, sharpened quills until they splintered, worked herself into exhaustion. Sleep came only in accidental moments — her head dropping onto parchment, ink blotting the side of her face.

She avoided the Gryffindor dormitory whenever she could. It held too many memories. The firelight on Crookshanks' fur. The way he used to paw at her feet when she sat on the rug with her notes. The blanket he used to steal from her bed.
She couldn't bear it.
So she claimed a corner of the library. Made it hers. Stacks of books. A blanket transfigured into a seat cushion. Silence thick enough to sink in.

No one said anything.

Ginny didn’t push. She just met Hermione at the Great Hall each morning and walked her to class. Sometimes she asked questions. Sometimes she didn’t. Occasionally, she’d knock her shoulder into Hermione’s with that quiet, fierce affection that didn’t need words. Hermione would smile without meaning to, murmur a thank-you, and keep going.

Luna left her quiet gifts — a polished stone that fit perfectly into Hermione’s palm, a loop of red string tied in a delicate knot, a folded paper flower with a note that simply said breathe. She never explained them. Hermione never asked.

Neville made sure she ate. Not always well, but enough. He would sit across from her in the library and place a wrapped sandwich beside her notes without saying a word. Once, she found a flask of hot tea beside her when she’d nodded off over Arithmancy.

They anchored her. But they couldn’t reach the deeper chaos unraveling beneath her skin.

And she never said his name. Not once. Not aloud. Not even to herself.

Crookshanks.

Even thinking it hurt.

Draco kept an eye on her from a distance. She felt it — not constantly, but enough.

In class, when her spells faltered by the second syllable. In the corridors, when she moved too quickly, like she was being chased by memory. In the library, late at night, when most students had long since gone to bed.

He never said anything.

But she felt it — that quiet pull, the way his gaze lingered just a beat too long.
She didn’t look back.

The sun was setting too early again.

Hogwarts’ corridors had that strange, stretched hush that came with late winter evenings — the kind that made every footstep echo too loudly, every flickering torch feel too dim.

Hermione moved through it like a shadow. She had a book clutched to her chest — one she didn’t really need, one she’d already read twice — and her eyes were fixed somewhere far beyond the stone walls.

She nearly missed him.

“Granger.”

She startled slightly, stopped mid-step.

Draco stood a few feet away, half in shadow, hands in his pockets. He looked as though he’d been debating whether or not to speak — and had only just made the call.

“Library again?” he asked, not unkindly.

She nodded, too quickly. “Yes. I’ve got revisions.”

“It’s February,” he said mildly.

“I like to be ahead.”

A pause. Her fingers tightened on the book.

He studied her — not probing, not prying, just… watching. Noting the hollow set of her cheeks. The tightness around her mouth. The bruise-dark circles beneath her eyes.

“You look—” he started, then shifted. “Tired.”

“Well spotted,” she snapped. Sharper than she meant to be. “I’ve got a lot to do.”

Draco blinked, just once.

Something flickered across his face — the barest trace of surprise, maybe even hurt — but it was gone before she could name it. He gave a single nod.

“I won’t keep you, then.”

She felt it immediately — the chill of her own defensiveness. How quickly it had leapt up between them, like a wall. How it hadn’t been him she was angry at, not really.

“Draco,” she said, softer. “I’m sorry.”

He looked at her. “You don’t need to apologise.”

Then he turned and left.

Hermione stood there for a long moment, pulse ticking at her throat.

She hadn’t wanted to be cruel.

But she was so tired of being fragile. And she was tearing at the seams.

The thing about burning out is that you don’t always smell the smoke.

At first, it was manageable — a few extra essays, more detailed revision charts, another colour-coded timetable pinned to her bedside. But somewhere between midterms and moon cycles, Hermione crossed the threshold from structured to suffocating.

She didn't notice at first.

Not when she redid her Potions notes a third time. Not when she stopped taking meals in the Great Hall. Not even when her quills started snapping mid-sentence, ink splattering across pages already too full.

Her hands ached. Her eyes burned. Her mind whirred with spells and deadlines and the kind of grief that refused to name itself.

It was only when Ginny stole her ink bottles that she realized she was being watched.

“Enough,” Ginny said one night, lifting the stopper from a half-empty vial and hiding it behind her back. “You haven’t even brushed your hair. Are you possessed?”

Hermione glared over the top of a parchment. “It’s exam season.”

“It’s February.”

“I am fully aware of it”

Ginny crossed her arms. “You haven’t spoken to me properly in a week. You flinch when I mention his name. And you’ve rewritten that essay twice.”

“It needed work,” Hermione said stiffly.

Ginny sighed, softer now. “So do you.”

Hermione didn’t respond.

In the common room, Neville arrived with tea. Herbal blends in little corked jars, each labelled in his careful scrawl — for tension, for calm, for dreamless sleep. “Luna helped pick them,” he said. “We thought… you might want options.”

She thanked him. Smiled even. But the teas sat untouched on her desk, quietly steeping in their own rejection.

Luna was more subtle. She left things in Hermione’s bag — a stone that felt warm in her hand, a red thread wrapped around a bookmark, a folded slip of parchment with a hand-drawn creature on the front and a poem inside. Hermione didn’t say anything, but she folded the note gently and tucked it into the back of her Arithmancy book like a secret.

They were all trying. Reaching in whatever ways they could.

But Hermione had gone somewhere they couldn’t follow. And she wasn’t sure she wanted to come back.

Life was debilitating.

She wasn’t sleeping well. Her appetite vanished entirely. There were days she couldn’t remember when she last laughed — real laughter, the kind that didn’t feel like it had to apologize for existing.

She knew she was snapping more. Catching her reflection and barely recognising the tension in her own jaw, the flatness in her eyes. She would stumble over a word and rage at herself. Forget her wand once and spend the entire lesson hollowed out by shame.

But she couldn’t stop. Because stopping meant feeling. And she wasn’t ready for that.

Draco hadn’t spoken to her since the hallway.

But she felt him, always just on the edge of things — a steady weight in the room, like gravity. Watching without pressure. Present without intrusion.

It made her heart twist, strangely.

She caught him looking at her once during lunch. Just a flicker. A moment. But she saw it — the question in his eyes, the hesitation.

She didn’t hold his gaze.

She didn’t know if she could take kindness right now. Not from him. Not from anyone.

So she worked. And she walked. And she faded.

It was well past curfew. The castle had gone quiet in that peculiar way it only did after midnight — as if the stone itself had fallen asleep.

Hermione moved like a ghost between the shelves. Her wandlight was low, more shadow than flame. The Restricted Section was silent but not still, lined with books that whispered when touched, covers that pulsed like breathing things.

She knew she shouldn't be here.

But the logic that usually governed her had frayed. And tonight, all she could hear was that frantic, familiar voice inside her head: Do something. You always do something.

So she was doing.

Her fingers trailed over cracked spines — Preservation of Magical Essence, Posthumous Rebinding of Familiar Tethers, Forbidden Resurrection: A Theoretical Discourse. The last made her pause.

She slid it off the shelf.

The dust made her cough — a thin, startled sound in the hush. She pressed it to her chest and turned, ready to disappear into a reading nook where no one would find her.

But she wasn’t alone.

“Granger?”

She froze.

He was leaning against the far archway, half-lit by a narrow shaft of moonlight from the high, vaulted windows. Arms crossed. Hair a little mussed. Not smirking. Not smug.

Just… watching.

“I—” she started, but her voice failed. The book trembled in her hands. “What are you doing here?”

Draco stepped forward slowly, not like a threat — more like someone afraid of startling a wounded thing.

“I could ask you the same,” he said quietly.

Hermione tightened her grip on the book, like it might shield her. “I’m researching.”

“In the Restricted Section,” he said. “At midnight. On resurrection spells.”

She didn’t answer.

He let the silence stretch — not accusing, just waiting. Then he added, softer: “You don’t have to do this.”

Her throat closed. “He was all I had left.”

Draco didn’t speak.

She looked down at the book, then back at him, eyes wide and wild with everything she hadn’t said aloud.

“My parents died in a car crash,” she whispered. “Still under the charm. They died not knowing who I was. Not remembering their own daughter. I gave up everything to protect them and they died thinking I never existed.”

Her voice cracked. “Crookshanks... he was the only one left who remembered the version of me before all of this. Before the war twisted everything.”

Draco’s expression didn’t change — but something in his shoulders shifted. His hands uncurled slightly.

“Granger—”

“He was just a cat,” she said, trying to sound dismissive, but her voice wavered. “And still. He stayed. He knew me. I don’t have a lot of people who know me.”

“You don’t have to bleed yourself dry to prove that he mattered,” Draco said, quiet and sure. “He did. But so do you.”

She stared at him.

Then down at the book in her hands — trembling now, not with magic, but with her own fingers.

She didn’t stop him when he stepped forward. When he gently took it from her, closed it, and placed it back on the shelf.

And when his fingers brushed her wrist — tentative, careful — she didn’t pull away.

“Come on,” he said softly. “You don’t have to be alone in this.”

She let him guide her from the stacks, her steps slow, her hand still caught in his.

And for the first time in weeks, the ache in her chest loosened. Not healed. Not gone.

But quieter.

Like maybe, if she didn’t fight it — she wouldn’t fall.

She’d just land somewhere safe.

Draco didn’t press.

After that night in the Restricted Section, he didn’t follow her with questions or expect anything from her. He didn’t pry into the grief she kept wound tight beneath her skin. But she started noticing him more — not as a distant watcher, but as something quieter.

Present.

If she stayed late in the library, he’d pass by and set a cup of tea near her elbow. Never said it was from him. Never stayed to talk.

If her hands were full of books in the corridor, he’d take one from her without comment and hand it back at the door.

If someone muttered something cruel under their breath when she walked past — and they always did, still — Draco was suddenly just a step closer to her side. Not looming. Not dramatic.

Just... there.

At first, she bristled. She didn’t want to feel looked after. Didn’t want anyone treating her like glass.

But he wasn’t coddling her. He wasn’t hovering.

He was there. Quiet, consistent, and just enough to remind her: she didn’t have to carry everything alone.

In Charms, she forgot the incantation for a simple spell — something she hadn’t done since second year. The silence that followed felt unbearable. Her cheeks flushed, her hands clenched around her wand.

Draco didn’t laugh. He didn’t smirk.

He just nudged his parchment a little closer, where she could see the word written clearly in his slanted script.

Her heart stuttered.

She didn’t thank him out loud — but she didn’t need to.

One afternoon, she found herself sitting by the Black Lake, books in her lap, her eyes not moving over the pages.

She didn’t hear him approach, but when she finally looked up, he was lowering himself onto the grass beside her. Not too close. Not too far.

They didn’t speak for nearly twenty minutes.

But the sun felt warmer that day.

And when she finally closed her book and rested her chin on her knees, she said, “I don’t know how to stop being angry.”

Draco didn’t ask for clarification.

He just said, “Me neither.”

And that, somehow, helped.

She was already on edge.

A classmate had dismissed her spell theory as “too theoretical.” McLaggen had made a joke about “losing her edge” since her cat died. Someone else had scoffed in Charms when she’d offered a correction — muttered know-it-all, just loud enough to sting.

But it wasn’t any of that that finally broke the dam.

It was a Slytherin — fifth-year, careless — who brushed past her on the stairs and muttered: “No wonder Malfoy’s sniffing around. Mudbloods and damaged goods.”

The world went white.

“What did you just say?”

Her voice cracked like a whip through the corridor. Students stopped. Heads turned. The boy — tall, smug — blinked at her in surprise. Maybe he thought she wouldn’t call him on it.

She advanced before she even realized she was moving.

“You want to say that again?” she snapped, wand already in her hand. “Say it to my face.”

“Relax, Granger, it was just a—”

“Say it.” Her voice was thunder now. “Say it so I can hex your teeth out and maybe the rest of the school will finally understand what rots inside your mouth.”

Gasps. Footsteps. Teachers moving down from the end of the corridor. Ginny calling her name from somewhere behind, low and urgent.

Hermione’s wand tip sparked.

She was shaking — not from fear. From fury.

No one was intervening fast enough. The boy had gone pale. She could feel the magic coiling, pressing against her knuckles, wanting release. She wanted it too. She deserved it.

But before the spell came — before the air snapped — a voice cut through the space between them.

“Granger.”

She turned — sharp, furious — and there he was.

Draco. Already halfway between her and the boy. Not rushing. Just walking, steady, composed. His expression unreadable.

She stared at him. Daring him. Don’t you dare stop me. Not you.

But he didn’t scold. Didn’t tell her to calm down.

He just stepped close — close enough that she could feel his presence like a pressure on her chest — and said, quietly:

“You’re too powerful to waste magic on him.”

Her breath caught.

His eyes held hers — not daring, not warning. Grounding.

“You know what he wants. Don’t give it to him.”

She didn’t lower her wand.

Not yet.

But her arm trembled.

And slowly — with more restraint than she thought she had left — she stepped back.

Draco didn’t look away.

He lifted a hand — not commanding, not possessive. Just offering. And Hermione, still pulsing with heat and fury, took it.

They walked away together. Past the boy. Past the stares. Past the teachers who had finally arrived too late.

No one spoke.

But everyone saw.

And Hermione? She didn’t regret a second of it.

But she did glance at Draco, once, as they turned the corner — and the fact that her hand was still in his?

She didn’t let go.

Not yet.

The castle lights faded behind them, the air outside sharp with early spring chill. They walked in silence through the fading light until they reached the slope behind the greenhouses — quiet, secluded, overlooking the lake.

Only then did Hermione release his hand.

Only then did she speak.

“I was really going to hex him.”

Draco didn’t laugh. Just glanced over at her, hands tucked into his coat pockets. “I believe you.”

She let out a slow breath, visible in the cold. Her fingers still twitched like they hadn’t let go of the magic yet. “You didn’t try to stop me.”

“I didn’t need to.”

A pause.

She crossed her arms, more for comfort than defiance. “You didn’t look surprised.”

“I’ve been waiting for you to snap for weeks,” he said, tone even. “Honestly, I thought it’d be Weasley.”

That drew a tiny smile — the barest lift at the corner of her mouth. “She tries so hard.”

“She does.”

Another long pause.

Hermione sank down onto the low stone ledge beside the path, drawing her knees up to her chest. She looked tired in a way sleep wouldn’t fix — but calmer now, the edge softened. “I just… I hate that it still hurts. That after everything — all the things I survived — a single word can still make me feel like I’m nothing.”

“You’re not,” he said simply.

She looked at him.

“I know,” she whispered. “But I want to be past it. I want to be above it.”

“You’re not a saint,” Draco said. “You’re a person. One who’s been through enough.”

His voice wasn’t sharp. Not mocking. Just honest.

They sat quietly, the wind tugging at their sleeves, the grass still brittle with winter. When Hermione finally spoke again, her voice was low.

“You were… very calm. Back there.”

“I wasn’t,” he said, glancing sideways at her. “I just… didn’t want you to do something you’d hate yourself for later.”

She blinked at him. “Why?”

Draco didn’t look at her when he answered.

“Because you already carry too much.”

That silenced her.

Not because she didn’t have a reply — but because it was the first time someone had said it so plainly. No sugarcoating. No soft gloves. Just truth.

The moment stretched between them — not heavy, not awkward — just real.

And when he finally stood and offered her his hand again, she took it.

Not out of necessity. Not out of habit.

But choice.

She visited the grave one evening, just after dinner.

No one followed. No one knew.

The spot had been carefully marked in the narrow clearing beside the greenhouses, tucked into the edge of the garden where Crookshanks used to sun himself when she smuggled him out. Pomona had let her choose it. Said it was where the gillyroot grew best. Said it was peaceful.

It was.

Too peaceful.

Hermione sat cross-legged in front of the smooth, flat stone they’d used to mark it. She hadn’t brought flowers. Or food. Or any kind of token.

Just herself.

And a thousand thoughts she hadn’t said aloud.

“I should’ve done more,” she whispered.

The wind tugged at her sleeves. Somewhere nearby, the greenhouses creaked in the settling cold.

“I should’ve known sooner. Should’ve seen how tired you were. Should’ve made you eat. Should’ve—”

Her voice cracked.

She rubbed her eyes with the sleeve of her jumper, furious at the tears. They weren’t dramatic. They didn’t fall in poetic little streaks. They just hurt.

She inhaled, voice smaller now.

“You were the only one who never asked me to be more than I was. You didn’t care if I had answers. You didn’t care if I was useful. You just… knew me.”

Her hands tightened in her lap.

“I would’ve given anything to save you.”

She hadn’t cried like this at the funeral.

But now, here — with only dirt and silence and the bitter scent of soil around her — it came in waves. Not sobbing. Not rage.

Just quiet grief.

A surrender of sorts.

When she returned to the castle, her steps were slow. Her eyes stung. She didn’t go to the dorm. Didn’t go to the library.

She went to the Astronomy Tower.

And Draco was already there.

Not waiting for her — just there, hands in his pockets, staring out at the dark stretch of sky as if it might offer answers. When she stepped into view, he turned, his expression unreadable.

“Thought you might be here,” she said softly.

“I thought the same.”

They didn’t speak for a while.

But when he offered his arm, she took it — and when he pulled her gently into his side, she let herself lean.

Just for a moment.

Just long enough to believe she might still come back from this.

Ginny

The sun was already slanting through the high windows by the time Ginny finished dressing. Students were filing out of the dorms, hair still damp, robes half-buttoned, tired and talking about nothing.

Hermione’s bed was still drawn closed by its curtains.

That, by itself, wasn’t alarming. Hermione loved her privacy. Always had.

But it was the quiet that set Ginny off. The kind of stillness that wasn’t peaceful. The kind that hung heavy. The kind that felt... off.

She tapped once on the post. “Hermione?”

No answer.

She pulled the curtain back gently.

Hermione was curled on her side, covers pulled to her chest, eyes open — but unfocused. The skin under her eyes was sunken and grey. Her hair was matted at the roots. A tray of uneaten toast sat on the nightstand beside her, cold and curling.

Ginny sat on the edge of the bed. “Hey.”

Nothing.

Hermione blinked. Slowly.

“I’m going to be late,” Ginny said, trying for a light tone. “Want to walk with me?”

No response.

Ginny reached for her hand.

Hermione flinched.

Not violently. Not even noticeably. But enough.

Enough to break Ginny’s heart.

She tried, at first, to do what she always did — talk her out of it. Laugh her out of it. Tell stories about Seamus falling into the fountain again or Professor Tinker’s latest beard disaster. She tried offering tea. Tried offering silence.

Nothing worked.

Days passed.

Hermione didn’t leave her bed. She didn’t brush her hair. She didn’t speak unless spoken to, and even then her replies came delayed, if at all. Luna left a constellation charm by her bedside — it dimmed by the hour. Neville cried once when he came to visit, thinking she’d fallen asleep and seeing she was still awake.

Ginny hadn’t wanted to do this.

But on the fifth day, she left the dormitory, jaw set like steel, and made her way down the dungeons. She didn’t know if Draco would be in the Slytherin common room or if she’d have to hex someone to find him.

She didn’t care.

She found him near the corridor leading to the Potions classroom. Alone. Reading. His posture stiffened the moment he looked up and saw her face.

He said, “Weasley.”

Ginny’s throat felt raw. “She’s not eating.”

Draco’s eyes darkened.

“She’s not sleeping. Not really. She hasn’t left her bed in days.” Ginny shook her head, furious at herself. “I don’t know what else to do. And you—”

She swallowed, hard.

“She let you hold her. In the hallway. She let you touch her when none of us could get close. I don't know what you are to her, Malfoy, but I know you matter.”

He said nothing.

“She’s drowning,” Ginny whispered. “And if you don’t help her, I’m afraid we’re going to lose her too.”

That was all.

She turned and left.

And Draco?

Draco got up and followed.

The air inside the girls’ dormitory was stifling.

Warm, unmoving, filled with the scent of closed-off space: old parchment, cooling candle wax, something faintly sour. Curtains were drawn. No light streamed in. The fire had long since gone out.

The silence was thick — not peaceful, but oppressive. The kind of silence that stuck to the roof of your mouth and made your ribs feel too tight.

He stepped in quietly, every footfall muffled by the rug.

And then he saw her.

Hermione lay curled on her side in the narrow bed, wrapped tight in a tangle of blankets that looked like they hadn’t been moved in days. Her hair was knotted, clinging to her cheek where it had pressed into damp skin. Her eyes were open.

But vacant.

No books beside her. No quill. No signs of her anywhere — not the Hermione he knew. Just the echo of her shape, half-hidden beneath covers and grief.

He swallowed.

“Granger,” he said gently.

No reply.

He moved closer. Sat at the edge of the mattress. “Hermione.”

Still nothing. Her breathing was shallow. Her lips were cracked. Her fingers lay limp where they’d fallen against her chest.

His chest ached.

“Come on, darling. Say something.”

Not even a flicker.

Draco rubbed his hands down his face. He could feel the helplessness clawing up his throat — the same feeling that had haunted him for years, watching people suffer behind glass, behind names, behind bloodlines. He hated it. Hated this.

So he did the only thing he could think to do.

He toed off his shoes, peeled off his coat, and climbed gently into the bed beside her.

She flinched — just barely.

But it was something.

Draco didn’t touch her. Not at first. Just lay beside her, facing the ceiling, breathing as quietly as he could. He could feel the heat of her body beneath the blankets. Could hear the shallow stutters in her breath. Could smell the soft, familiar scent of her hair — lavender and parchment and something deeply her, even now.

After a long minute, he turned to face her.

She didn’t move. But her eyes — finally — shifted toward him.

Just a little.

He reached out slowly. Rested his hand over hers.

Her fingers twitched.

She made a small sound in her throat — not a word, not a sob. Just a crack in the dam.

And then, without a warning, tears slid down her cheeks.

Not loud. Not gasping. Just gentle and steady, like a leak in something long-sealed. She didn’t hide it. Didn’t wipe them away.

He moved closer.

Curled his hand around hers. Rested his forehead against hers.

And said, softly, “I’m here.”

That was all.

No fixing.

No promises.

Just presence.

And in that bed — in the too-warm, too-quiet space of her grief — Hermione let herself cry, knowing someone was there to hold her through it.

Not to save her.

Just to stay.

Chapter Text

Hermione

Draco was still asleep.

His face was turned slightly toward her, lashes brushing the top of his cheek, mouth parted just enough to make her stomach flutter for reasons she didn’t care to name. The pillow had left a faint crease along his jaw. His hand rested near hers, fingers curled like he might reach for her even in dreams.

He looked peaceful like this. Not the usual kind of peace, either — not practiced composure or that chilly, sculpted detachment he so often wore like armour — but something quieter. Vulnerable. Unmade.

Hermione let her eyes linger.

She’d always known he was attractive. That much had never been up for debate — not in school, not even when she’d hated him. Sixth year, especially, something had shifted in how he moved, how he carried himself. There had been a weight behind his eyes that she’d caught only in glances, never in words. A kind of desperation she hadn’t had language for yet.

She’d hated him anyway.

He'd made it easy.

But now...

Now she didn’t just notice his cheekbones or the way his hair fell across his forehead. It wasn’t about how long his fingers were or how his voice dropped when he wasn’t deflecting.

It was the way he saw her.

Not in the dramatic, storybook way. But in a quiet, deliberate way that made her feel uncovered. Real. Not necessarily aesthetic.

He watched her without judgment. Held space for her grief without trying to tidy it away. He listened — really listened — and didn’t try to fix her. And when he reached for her, it wasn’t with pity or discomfort, but with clarity.

Like he wanted to understand.

And that — that was what undid her.

Her friends loved her. She didn’t doubt that.

Ginny was fierce and loyal, her tether to fire and reality. Luna, gentle and strange in all the ways that mattered — soft edges where Hermione had none.
Harry had always stood beside her like a shadow with a scar, holding her silences like they were spells he couldn’t cast.
And Ron — loud, fumbling, familiar — had loved her once, maybe still did in that boyish way of his.
Neville saw her too, sometimes. Quietly. But even he didn’t quite understand the war she fought inside her own mind.

They were her people. Her constants.

But sometimes, even in the middle of their laughter, even when their shoulders pressed against hers in solidarity, Hermione felt like an odd piece in the wrong puzzle.

Like they accepted her because she was Hermione, not despite her sharp edges, her relentless drive, her inability to let things go — but because of them.
Because those traits made her useful. Predictable. Dependable.

She’d grown used to being the anchor. The answer. The brain.
But not the person.

Never the person someone looked at and said:
I want you, not for what you give - but because you're you.

She had become the safety net. The strategist. The steady one.

And sometimes she wondered, late at night, whether anyone would choose her if she stopped being all those things.
If she broke.
If she let herself be just a girl, in the wake of grief, trying to breathe.

But then there was Draco.

Draco — infuriating, sharp-tongued Draco — noticed. He asked questions. He sat beside her in silence and didn’t rush to fill it. He challenged her, teased her, but never made her feel like she had to earn his attention. His presence was just… there. Constant. Solid.

And wasn’t that what it meant to be loved? To be understood without explanation?

Her gaze dipped to the curve of his collarbone. The slope of his throat. The faint shadow of stubble he never quite managed to shave clean.

She shouldn’t want him.
She did.

But it wasn’t just the shape of his mouth or the press of his palm against hers that made her ache.
It was the way his voice softened when he said her name — like it was something sacred.

The way he didn’t flinch when she was quiet. Or angry. Or wrong.
The way he didn't try to fix her sadness, only stood inside it with her.

It was the way he’d crawled into bed with her in the darkest stretch of her life — not to touch her, not to take anything, but to hold her. To stay. To listen to the silence.
He had stayed.

Her chest tightened.

She wanted him. Not just his hands, not just his mouth.
She wanted the way his mind worked — quick and dry and relentless.
She wanted the way he listened — not just to her words but the pauses between them.
She wanted the way he looked at her, like he didn’t need her to perform intelligence or resilience or usefulness — she was enough, already.

And the truth, the dangerous truth, was that she wanted to let herself want him.
To unravel a little.
To stop holding so tightly to control, and instead, let his fingers trace the edges of her.

She didn’t know what they were.
Didn’t know what they were becoming.
She wasn’t even sure if she could offer him anything real yet — anything steady. Her grief still curled like a thorn around her ribs. Some days, she couldn’t breathe. Others, she didn’t want to.

But she knew this: she wanted to be understood. Needed it.

And for the first time in her life, she wasn’t begging for someone to see her.
He already did.
And gods help her — she wanted him to keep looking.

She reached out, slowly, barely brushing her fingers against the back of his hand where it rested on the blanket. His skin was warm. Real.

Draco stirred slightly but didn’t wake.

She let her fingers curl lightly around his.

Not tightly.

Just enough to know she could.

***

Draco woke to the sensation of being watched. And…touched. His hand had extra warmth on it. External.

The watchfulness wasn’t unkind. Not the way he was used to — with suspicion or malice or curiosity sharpened to cruelty — but something... softer. Still. As if the gaze on him wasn't looking through him, but at him.

When he opened his eyes, Hermione was already awake.

She was lying on her side, head resting in the crook of her arm, curls a little wild from sleep. Her eyes — warm, if a little guarded — were fixed on him. And for a split second, she didn’t look away.

That surprised him.

So did the look on her face — not embarrassed. Not startled. Just present. Open. Like she'd been thinking too much. Like she'd seen something in him she hadn’t quite figured out yet.

He blinked, unsure what to say.

Then, dryly: “You watching me sleep? Bit predatory, Granger.”

She smirked faintly. “Someone has to keep an eye on you.”

“Merlin help us if I start drooling.”

“Too late.”

He gave a quiet laugh and shifted slightly under the blanket, muscles stiff from the cramped position. But he didn’t mind. Not even a little. Not when she was looking at him like that — like he wasn’t something she regretted letting into her space.

Like he might even belong there.

“You feeling any better?” he asked gently, voice still low with sleep.

She shrugged one shoulder beneath the blanket. “Sort of. Maybe. I think I just needed to stop pretending I was fine.”

“That’s progress,” he said. “Pathetically Gryffindor, but progress.”

She rolled her eyes. “You’re insufferable.”

“I’m delightful.”

“You’re here,” she said.

Just two words — but something shifted in her voice when she spoke them.

Softer. Less sure. Almost reverent.

Draco glanced over, and this time he really looked at her. Not just her eyes, but the way she was holding herself — like she’d been carrying something too heavy for too long.

She turned onto her back, staring at the ceiling like the words might be easier to say if she wasn’t looking at him.

“I haven’t said thank you,” she murmured. “For staying. For not expecting anything from me. For just… being here.”

He started to speak, but she lifted a hand, just enough to pause him.

“Let me finish.”

Her tone was steady — but there was something beneath it. Not cracks. Just weight. The kind of weight people only let out when they’re tired of holding everything in.

“I’ve spent a long time feeling like I had to earn people’s patience. Their kindness. Like if I wasn’t being useful, I didn’t quite belong.”

She exhaled through her nose. Not a sigh — just the sound of something settling.

“My friends love me. I know that. But sometimes I think they love the version of me that’s always fine. The one who keeps moving.”

A pause.

“But you didn’t ask for that version. You didn’t ask for anything. You just... showed up. And you stayed.”

Her eyes finally met his. Clear. Direct.

“That’s not nothing, Malfoy.”

He didn’t know what to say. Not right away.

Because something about her words scraped against the rawest part of him — the part that had never really believed he was someone worth staying for.

But she was looking at him like he was. Like she meant every word.

And then, quieter:

“You’re important to me.”

The room felt still. The kind of stillness that doesn’t demand anything — it just is.

Draco didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

But for the first time in years, he felt like he could.

It hit him like a punch he didn’t see coming.

Because no one had ever said that. Not like this. Not unprompted. Not without agenda. People had needed him, wanted him, used him — but no one had called him important just for being who he was.

He had always been a Malfoy first. A name. A bloodline. A legacy.

Never just Draco.

He reached out, almost on instinct, and brushed her cheek with the backs of his fingers. Soft. Careful. Reverent.

She leaned into it — just a little.

And still, he didn’t move closer. Didn’t let himself hope too hard.

Because she wasn’t ready.

Because her grief still wrapped itself around her like a second skin. And because she had become — somehow — the most important thing in his world.

So he dropped his hand, settled it over the blanket between them.

“You’re important to me too,” he said, quieter now.

And if his voice cracked just slightly, neither of them mentioned it.

***

Hermione sat up slowly, dragging the blanket with her, still warm from where Draco’s shoulder had been.

“Well,” she said, clearing her throat and pushing hair from her face. “I think it’s time I try to act like a person again. You know — hygiene, functioning limbs, basic dignity.”

Draco smirked. “Ambitious.”

She swung her legs over the edge of the bed. “I’ve always been that.”

“Tell me how it goes. I’ll alert the Prophet if you successfully brush your hair.”

“Watch it, Malfoy.”

She stood, stretching slightly — arms overhead, jumper riding up just a fraction. Her spine arched, slow and languid, the movement revealing a strip of bare skin above her waistband.

Draco’s gaze flicked down — quick, involuntary — catching on the warm line of her stomach.

He looked away almost instantly, eyes snapping back to the ceiling like it might offer mercy.

It didn’t.

Hermione saw it. The slip of his control. The way his jaw clenched just slightly, how his fingers flexed once on his knee.

And gods — it hit her like a punch to the ribs.

Not just that he’d looked.

But that she’d liked it.

The grief had dulled her senses for weeks — made everything grey and weightless. But this? This was colour again. Heat. The sharp flare of awareness low in her belly, crawling up her spine like fire.

She turned to face him fully.

And he moved — slowly, purposefully — rising to his feet as if drawn by gravity itself.

The air between them thickened, suspended, crackling like it might spark.

Three quiet steps.

That’s all it took.

His left hand came to rest low on the small of her back — firm and anchoring. His right lifted, knuckles grazing her jaw before fingers brushed just beneath her chin, tilting it gently.

Hermione’s breath stuttered.

Everything in her froze — except her pulse, which screamed.

His voice, when it came, was low and rough. Velvet with an edge of smoke.

“Not now,” he said. “But when the time comes…”

His thumb swept a slow arc across her cheekbone — reverent, like she was something sacred.

“…I will thoroughly have you.”

The words detonated behind her ribs.

She inhaled sharply, chest rising against his. Her hands clenched the blanket still draped around her shoulders, gripping fabric like it might tether her to the ground.

“Draco—” she whispered, but it barely sounded like speech.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t press.

Just waited.

“I don’t think I’m ready,” she said. “For how consuming this might be.”

Her voice trembled — not with fear, but truth. Honesty laid bare.

“I don’t want to lose myself in this before I’ve found myself again. I want to be… whole. A partner. Not just someone you have to hold together.”

His gaze never left hers.

There was no judgment in it. Only heat. And something quieter. Fierce and steady.

Understanding.

“I’ll take you in any form,” he said, voice quieter now — but no less intense.

“Strong. Broken. Sick. Grieving. Brilliant. Terrified. Smug. Quiet.” He leaned in just enough for her to feel the shape of the next word form on his breath:

“Aroused.”

Her breath hitched.

She didn’t move.

Neither did he.

He was so close she could see the gold flecks in his irises, the tension in his throat where he swallowed hard.

“Any way you’ll have me,” he said, “I’ll want you.”

She couldn’t answer.

Not with words.

Her heart thrashed behind her ribs. Her lips parted, but no sound came. Her knees felt weak. Her hands burned to reach for him.

But she didn’t.

And neither did he.

Instead — after the longest, tautest silence — he exhaled slowly. His hands dropped.

And with infuriating, devastating control… he stepped back.

Just one step.

But enough to leave her breathless in his wake.

“Get dressed, Granger. We have Potions later.”

“Right,” she said faintly, voice almost comically uneven.

“And we’re partners again. So you’ll need to carry us.”

She gave him a look.

“Also,” he added, already moving toward the door, “I want to beat Theo in debate club, and I need you at full capacity for ego support.”

“Nothing motivates me like your desperate need to feel superior.”

He smirked. “I know. That’s why we work.”

She watched him go, stunned into stillness.

A second later, the door creaked open — and Ginny nearly collided with him in the hallway, arms full of what looked like toast and tea.

She blinked. Once. Twice.

“I said,” Ginny muttered, looking after him as he passed, “help her, Malfoy. I didn’t say fuck the depression out of her.”

Draco barked a laugh and kept walking.

Ginny stared into the room, saw Hermione frozen with wild eyes and flushed cheeks, and just sighed.

“I knew you were going to make this difficult.”

***

“I knew you were going to make this difficult.”

Ginny stepped into the room, her boots thudding softly on the stone floor, arms still full of a tray of toast, jam, tea, and something vaguely orange she’d convinced the elves was fruit.

Hermione hadn’t moved.

Still standing near the bed. Still staring at the spot where Malfoy had been.

Still flushed.

Ginny gave her a look. “I’m assuming that wasn’t just a very intense study session.”

Hermione blinked at her, lips slightly parted. She looked completely undone in the most confusing way — like she’d just been kissed without being kissed, like her soul had been exhaled through the tips of her fingers.

“I—he didn’t—I mean—” Hermione floundered, then groaned and dropped onto the edge of the bed. “Oh, shut up.”

“I didn’t say anything,” Ginny said sweetly as she set the tray down. “Yet.”

Hermione grabbed a slice of toast and tore off a corner like it had personally offended her. Her hands were still trembling.

“He said…” She stopped, shaking her head. “I don’t even know what he said. I just know my legs forgot how to work and now I feel like I’ve been... marked for future ruin.”

Ginny sat beside her, grinning. “Well. That’s rather poetic. It’s a good thing you have a single room this year.”

Hermione glared at her.

“Don’t worry,” Ginny added, nudging her shoulder. “He left looking smug but still clothed. So I’m assuming it was the emotional kind of undressing.”

“Ginny,” Hermione said, mortified, covering her face with both hands. “Please. Stop talking.”

But Ginny didn’t.

Because underneath the mortification, there was colour in Hermione’s cheeks again. Her eyes were glassy, yes, but no longer empty. There was something burning behind them now — hunger, maybe. Or need. Or simply the slow relighting of a spark.

“You look better,” Ginny said softly.

Hermione peeked between her fingers. “Better than what?”

“Than the Hermione who couldn’t get out of bed,” she said, no sarcasm now. “Better than the girl who wouldn’t eat. Who was disappearing in front of us.”

Hermione dropped her hands. She stared at her lap.

“I’m trying,” she whispered.

Ginny nodded.

“I want him,” Hermione said. “I really do. But I want to want him for the right reasons. Not just because he showed up when everything else fell apart.”

Ginny didn’t smile at that. She didn’t tease.

She just reached over and took her friend’s hand.

“You get to want him for any reason you like,” she said. “But if you need time — take it. If you need space — we’ll guard it. And if you need help — you’ve got more than one person now willing to carry some of the weight.”

Hermione’s eyes filled — not spilling, just shimmering — and she gave Ginny’s hand a squeeze.

“You’re not a burden, you know,” Ginny added. “Even when you’re a little crazy. Even when you forget how to speak human.”

A breath of laughter escaped her. “Thanks.”

They sat like that for a while. Toast between them. Tea cooling slowly. The window open just a crack, letting in a breeze that smelled like the promise of spring.

It wasn’t perfect.

It wasn’t even healing, yet.

But it was something close to hope.

***

Draco

Draco walked the castle corridors like a man moving through mist.

Not lost — not exactly — but slowed. Blurred around the edges.

His steps echoed faintly off stone, familiar and cold underfoot, but his mind wasn’t on where he was going. Not really. He could’ve walked the route to the Slytherin common room blindfolded.

He barely registered passing portraits or flickering torches. Barely noticed when the staircase shifted under him.

All he could feel was the lingering press of her eyes on him. The shape of her in his arms. The breath between them when she’d said she wanted him, but wasn’t ready. That she wanted to be a partner, not a burden.

As if she ever could be.

Gods, she had no idea what she’d done to him.

No idea what it meant — to be needed like that, trusted like that. No one had ever chosen him without some calculation behind it. He had always been a name first. A Malfoy. A symbol of something rotten or revered, depending on the company.

But with her…

She’d looked at him like he was worth something on his own merit. No name. No legacy. Just him.

And it was terrifying.

He’d fallen before she ever gave him a reason to hope. Now that she had — now that she’d said she wanted him — he wasn’t sure what to do with the depth of it. This thing unfurling in his chest, deep and dark and warm, like magic older than anything he understood.

It wasn’t obsession. Not anymore.

It was devotion.

And it had nothing to do with proving anything to the world. Not the Ministry. Not the Slytherins. Not even to her.

It was a choice.

He chose her.

Every day, if she’d let him.

Even when she snapped. Even when she pulled away. Even when she didn’t have anything to give but silence and grief and her stubborn refusal to ask for help. Especially then.

Because something in him — maybe something buried since the war, maybe something new — needed to be that steady place for someone. For her.

He reached the entrance to the Slytherin dorms, murmured the password, and stepped inside.

The green glow of the common room greeted him, cool and quiet.

His shoulders felt stiff. His chest, tight.

But there was something different, too.

The weight of guilt had not lifted — not entirely. He still felt it when he thought of the past. Of who he’d been. What he’d seen. What he’d allowed.

But when he thought of her…

There was a thread of light now. A direction. A way forward.

And he wasn’t going to waste it.

***

Draco had barely made it five steps into the Slytherin common room before Blaise’s voice cut through the quiet like a Stinging Hex.

“Well, well,” he drawled from the emerald-striped sofa. “Look who finally decided to grace us with his presence. Merlin, Malfoy — you disappear all night and reappear looking like a romance novel.”

Draco rolled his eyes, loosening his scarf and ignoring Blaise completely as he made a beeline for the fireplace.

Behind Blaise, Theo looked up from his book, raising a brow. “Please tell me that’s not the same shirt from yesterday.”

“Have I missed the part where either of you became my mother?” Draco muttered, sinking into the armchair.

“No,” Blaise said cheerfully, “but we are your social buffer. Which means when you vanish after dinner and show up looking dishevelled and brooding, we’re allowed to ask if you finally got laid.”

Draco shot him a flat look.

Blaise grinned wider. “So? Was it Granger?”

Draco exhaled through his nose, unamused. “I spent the night comforting her. Not defiling her.”

“That’s… almost noble.” Blaise tilted his head. “For you.”

Theo set his book down. “She’s not doing well?”

Draco hesitated. “She’s grieving. Crookshanks. And… other things.”

Theo nodded slowly, something unreadable passing through his gaze.

Blaise’s grin faltered, just slightly. “You didn’t stay just to comfort her, though. Don’t lie.”

“I didn’t touch her.” Draco’s voice sharpened. “Not like that.”

Theo studied him. “But you wanted to.”

Silence.

Draco didn’t respond.

He didn’t have to.

Theo leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “So what is this, then? A fling in the ruins of your reputations? Or are you planning to court her properly?”

That made Draco’s head snap up. “What?”

“You heard me,” Theo said mildly. “You know what pureblood custom requires. Chaperoned interactions. Gift-giving. Calling tokens. Intent charms. If you're serious — and I mean serious — you know what that means.”

Blaise snorted. “He spent the night in her bed and now we’re talking about calling tokens? Next we’ll be debating engagement rings.”

“Why not?” Theo countered, still watching Draco. “If it’s just fun, say that. But if you’re even thinking about more — even feeling more — and you don’t plan to offer her the protections and respect that come with it, then you’re playing a dangerous game.”

Draco’s jaw clenched. “We’re not even together.”

“You want to be.”

Draco didn’t deny it.

Theo’s tone gentled — not mocking now, just honest. “Then figure out how you’re going to navigate this. She doesn’t know our customs. And she won’t tolerate being made to feel less because of them.”

Blaise gave a low whistle. “You’re both mad if you think this ends cleanly.”

“I’m not looking for clean,” Draco said, his voice quieter now. “I’m looking for… right.”

Blaise blinked.

Theo’s expression shifted — not quite approval, but something close.

“You don’t need all the answers,” he said. “But don’t pretend this doesn’t matter to you.”

Draco leaned back, staring into the flames. The weight of what Theo said settled heavily in his chest.

He didn’t know what this would become.

He didn’t know if Hermione wanted any of it — if she could ever accept a life with someone like him, tangled in centuries of prejudice and pressure and ghosts.

But he knew this:

He wanted her.

He wanted her in every iteration of her life. Grieving, brilliant, infuriating, soft. He wanted to be the person she could lean on. The one who stayed.

And maybe — just maybe — he was willing to learn how to deserve her.

Blaise broke the silence with a theatrical groan. “Great. So now you’re a romantic.”

“Hardly,” Draco muttered.

“Well, warn me next time before you go full ‘devoted suitor’. I nearly choked on my own sense of superiority.”

Draco allowed a small smirk.

Theo, watching them both, gave a single nod before returning to his book.

Just as Draco stood to head for the showers, Theo added, without looking up, “Power couple. If you two ever figure it out.”

Draco paused.

Blaise raised an eyebrow. “If they don’t combust first.”

But Theo just turned a page, unconcerned. “She’s a force of nature. And you, Malfoy — you’ve always been drawn to dangerous magic.”

Draco didn’t reply.

But as he walked away, a flicker of something — longing, maybe — settled low in his chest.

And it stayed there, pulsing quietly, all the way to the corridor.

***

The scent of toast and roasted tomatoes hit him before he even reached the doors.

The Great Hall was half full — steam rising from mugs, owls darting overhead, first-years blinking blearily into their porridge. The usual chaos. Predictable. Comfortable in its way.

Draco stepped inside, hands in his pockets, scarf still looped lazily around his neck. His eyes flicked over the crowd, disinterested—until they weren’t.

Midway down the Gryffindor table.

Granger.

Wrapped in that hideous scarf she refused to part with. Hair still damp at the ends. One sock pushed lower than the other. Her hands cradled a mug like it contained the last drops of reason in the world.

She was laughing. Properly. Head tipped slightly back. Ginny said something with a dramatic flourish, and Hermione actually smiled — not tight, not brittle. Just... real.

Draco froze.

Not visibly, of course. He was a Malfoy. He didn’t freeze. He observed. Casually. Like someone might observe a sunrise. Or an incoming curse.

And then she looked up.

Saw him.

She didn’t smile right away — just stared for a second, like he’d thrown off her rhythm. Like she wasn’t expecting to find him watching. Then she tilted her head, blinked once, and let the corners of her mouth curl up.

Barely. But enough.

He let one side of his mouth lift in return. It wasn’t much. But it was honest.

“You’re staring,” came a voice at his elbow.

Draco didn’t flinch. “You’re talking,” he said without looking.

Blaise, ever the shadow with coffee, hummed. “Should I fetch a goblet of pumpkin juice? Or are you getting drunk off your own longing this morning?”

“I’m admiring my academic rival,” Draco said blandly. “She looks moderately less feral. That’s progress.”

“She looks radiant,” Blaise countered, grinning. “Your witch has rejoined the land of the living. Bet you’re absolutely chuffed.”

“She’s not my—” Draco cut himself off, sighing through his nose. “You know what, fine. Let’s pretend she is. It’ll save time.”

Blaise raised a brow. “So… we’re pretending you didn’t sneak off last night to lie beside her in bed like a tragic protagonist in a banned romance novel?”

Draco gave him a look. “Is this the part where you faint from scandal or write to my mother?”

“Already owled Narcissa. She sends her approval and a polite suggestion you comb your hair.”

Draco rolled his eyes and stepped further into the Hall. He didn’t need this. What he needed was coffee, quiet, and—

“She’s getting better,” he muttered, eyes flicking back to Hermione, who was now buttering a scone and laughing again. Softer this time, like she’d let something heavy slide off her shoulders.

“And when she’s back to full Granger-mode?” Blaise asked, tone unusually neutral.

Draco shrugged, adjusting his cuff. “I’ll be here.”

Blaise blinked. “That’s… weirdly mature.”

“I know,” Draco said dryly. “I hate it.”

Blaise let out a low whistle. “You really are in it.”

Draco didn’t answer. Just kept walking.

But in his chest — quiet, steady — the truth pulsed:

She was still healing. Still grieving. Still unsure.

But when she was ready — truly ready — he’d be exactly where she left him.

Arms crossed. Sarcasm primed. Devoted, disastrously.

And hers.

Chapter Text

Hermione

Three days.

Three days of shallow, broken sleep. Of lying awake in the dark, staring at the hangings of her four-poster bed until dawn began to paint shadows on the stone walls. Three days of going through the motions while something inside her shriveled, brittle as old parchment. Again. Hermione didn’t need a clock to tell her when it was morning anymore. Her body knew. Her bones ached from the tension of never truly resting. Her mind buzzed with half-thoughts and fractured dreams. Even Crookshanks’ absence had started to feel like another presence. A phantom weight at the foot of her bed. An ache in the shape of fur and comfort and goodbye.

She sat upright in the middle of the Gryffindor common room, arms curled around a mug she hadn’t sipped from in over an hour. Her notes were spread in front of her in careful, colour-coded stacks. Runes. Arithmancy. Potions. Charms. The ink bled slightly where her hand had trembled.

Across from her, Ginny watched with thinly veiled concern. Hermione hadn't noticed at first—too caught up in rewriting the same sentence in her Transfiguration essay for the third time.

“You okay?” Ginny said softly.

Hermione looked up, startled. She tried to form a response, but the words tangled in her throat. All she could manage was a blink.

“I’m fine,” she said. It came out hoarse. Too quick.

Ginny didn’t press. Not yet. But her eyes lingered longer than usual. Hermione didn’t have the energy to explain. Or lie.

The truth was, sleep had become an elusive slag—tantalizing, necessary, but impossible to grip. Like trying to catch fog in a jar. Her thoughts never stopped. Her body never surrendered. She felt suspended between worlds: too tired to function, too wired to rest. And under it all, the grief sat like a lodestone on her chest.

Grief.

She’d read about it. Studied it. Muggle psychologists had labeled five neat stages—denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance. But those stages were a myth. A fantasy wrapped in the illusion of control. Hermione Granger had always believed in structure, in plans, in methodical progression.

But grief wasn’t linear. It wasn’t organised. And it wouldn’t allow her to keep control.

It didn’t wait its turn. It didn’t ask permission. It didn’t care about her NEWTs, or her colour-coded planner, or her carefully structured day. It came in waves—shattering, unpredictable, cruel. One moment she could almost breathe. The next, she was suffocating.

And the sleep deprivation was making everything worse.

Hermione pressed a hand to her temple, wincing at the pressure building behind her eyes. A low hum had taken residence in her skull, buzzing beneath every thought. It made it hard to focus. Harder to feel like herself.

She hadn’t eaten dinner the night before. Or the night before that. Just tea and maybe a dry biscuit, if she remembered. The thought of food made her stomach twist. Everything tasted like ash. Even pumpkin juice turned her mouth bitter.

She shook her head, trying to banish the fog. She had Ancient Runes in thirty minutes. She needed to be sharp.

"You know you can talk to me, right?" Ginny said, breaking the silence again. This time, her voice was softer.

Hermione forced a smile. “Of course.”

But she didn’t. Not really. She couldn't. Because how could she explain the shape of her grief? How it coiled around her ribs and whispered cruel things in the middle of the night. How it wasn’t just her parents anymore, but Crookshanks, and the war, and the weight of being alone. How she still dreamed of fire and metal, of the way her mother’s handwriting looked on an unopened letter addressed to Monica Wilkins.

And how, three nights ago, she had slept.

Soundly. Deeply. Without interruption. With Draco beside her.

The thought should have made her recoil. Should have filled her with shame or anger or something productive.

Instead, it made her ache.

But she would not ask again. She couldn't. That would be ridiculous. Ludicrous. She wasn’t some lovesick girl, crawling into a boy's bed for warmth.

Even if it wasn’t about romance. Even if it was just—safety. Silence. Rest.

No. She couldn't. Wouldn't.

She had to learn to do this alone.

By the time she reached Ancient Runes, she could barely hold her quill steady. The runes on the board swam in her vision. Her notes were scattered, disjointed. Professor Babbling called on her twice. Hermione answered once. The second time, she blinked and said the completely wrong translation.

The class stared.

Hermione, the girl who always had the right answer, who never faltered, felt the room tilt. She forced a laugh. "Sorry, I meant Ehwaz, not Mannaz."

Professor Babbling raised a brow. "Miss Granger, are you unwell?"

"Just tired," she muttered.

After class, she rushed out before anyone could speak to her. She barely noticed Luna calling after her, her voice distant, like it was coming through water.

She stumbled into the girls' lavatory and gripped the edge of the sink. Her reflection stared back—pale, eyes rimmed red, hair half-tamed. She looked like a ghost of herself. A mockery.

Sleep. She needed sleep. Just a few hours. Even one.

But her bed had become a battlefield. The quiet there too loud. The emptiness next to her too sharp.

And still, she could not ask him. Could not let herself want that again. Could not allow herself to be codependent on someone who used to mock her in hallways. Who once called her names that echoed in her bones.

Even if he didn’t anymore.

Even if he looked at her now like she was something breakable and brilliant.

She pressed her fingers to her temples and counted backwards from ten. It didn't help.

The next day was worse.

She snapped at Ginny in the common room. Yelled at a second-year for leaving chocolate frog wrappers in the corridor. She skipped her therapy session with Healer Lane and spent two hours reorganising her notes for Magical Theory until her vision blurred.

At dinner, she sat with her food untouched, staring at her plate. Blaise passed by and gave her a once-over. He didn’t comment, but his glance lingered.

Draco was at the Slytherin table. She felt him there, as she always did. Not looking at her. But present. A tension just under her skin.

She looked away.

Sleep did not come that night either.

When she closed her eyes, her mother’s perfume haunted her. The sound of her father’s laugh. Crookshanks’ weight on her legs. And beside all that, an empty space where a boy with silver eyes once sat quietly beside her until morning.

She turned onto her side and stared at the wall.

The grief hadn’t faded. It had just shifted. It lived in her skin now. In her breath. In the way she flinched when someone said the word "parents." In the way she avoided the owlery because the sight of untouched letters made her stomach drop.

Sleep was a casualty of it. Sanity, perhaps, too.

And still, she refused to bend. Refused to ask. Because if she did, it would mean she needed him. It would mean he had become part of her coping mechanism. And that felt too dangerous.

Too intimate.

Too much.

So she lay there. Awake. Alone. Cracking.

And when the tears came, silent and raw, she did not wipe them away.

Draco

But this did not last.

Draco found her the next day. Not by accident. Not by fate. He sought her.

The library was half-empty, the air heavy with dust and candle smoke. Sunlight filtered through high windows, slanting across the worn tables like golden prison bars. Hermione sat in a far corner, surrounded by parchment and ink and the illusion of progress. Her hand trembled as she annotated a passage from Magical Theory , but the words clearly didn’t register. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her posture stiff, as if sheer willpower could hold her together.

He stood in the doorway, watching her.

Then he approached. Quiet steps. Like a predator. With a flick of his wand beneath the table, Draco cast a quiet Silencio over their corner of the library. He knew what was coming. Knew how sharp the words might turn.

“You look like hell,” he said flatly.

She didn’t flinch.

“Bugger off, Malfoy.”

But he didn’t. Of course he didn’t. He dropped into the seat across from her, elbows on the table, grey eyes locked on her face like he was trying to decipher a curse.

“You haven’t slept.”

She ignored him.

“You’re slipping,” he added. Softly, dangerously. “Your answers in class. The way you snapped at Boot. Skipping Healer Lane. You’re unraveling, and everyone sees it.”

“Get out,” she hissed.

He tilted his head. “Even the great Hermione Granger needs help, you know. Or has the concept of a support system never occurred to you?”

Her fingers curled into fists. “Don’t patronise me.”

“Why not?” he said. “You’ve built your identity on being fine. On being composed. Top marks. Perfect essays. Perfect speeches. Perfect grief. But it’s a lie. You're human, Granger. And you’re falling apart.”

She shot up from her chair, parchment scattering. Her voice cracked like lightning.

“They’re gone!”

The library could feel the tension even though no one could hear what was being said.

She didn’t stop.

“They’re gone, Malfoy!” she shouted. “My parents. Crookshanks. The only beings who ever loved me without condition. Without questions. Who accepted me—every version of me. Not out of obligation or tolerance, but love. They were my foundation. My family. My truth. And now they’re just... gone.”

Her voice cracked, wild and brittle. Her hands trembled.

“So no, I don’t need a support system. Because I had one, and it’s ash now. I had love, and it died. I had peace, and it was ripped away. So don’t you dare stand there with your cold logic and your clever tongue and act like you understand.”

Draco stood slowly. He didn’t shout. He didn’t flinch.

“You think I don’t understand loss?” he said, voice low and vicious. “You think I didn’t lose friends? My reputation? My autonomy? I’ve lost the right to walk down a hallway without a whisper. To speak without being doubted. I lost the right to be seen as anything but what I was—a symbol of a family name soaked in blood. Don’t talk to me about grief like it only wears your face.”

“You haven’t lost anyone,” she snapped. Her voice trembled, not with fear, but fury. “You have your mother. Your father—yes, in Azkaban—but he’s still alive. Still breathing. You still have your name. Your money. Your influence. You didn’t even serve Azkaban time. You’re being watched? Monitored? Frankly, I think that’s warranted.”

His jaw clenched, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he said, quietly, “I know.”

She blinked.

“I know,” he repeated. “It’s warranted. I deserve to be watched. I deserve the suspicion. But that doesn’t make it easy. And you—” He pointed at her then, sharp and sudden. “You understood that. I thought you did. I thought, for once, someone saw it wasn’t black and white.”

There was a beat. Then his voice turned. Bitter. Low.

“But maybe I was wrong. Maybe I mistook pity for care. Because this—” he gestured between them, hollow and burning, “—this cruel bitch version of you? She’s made it crystal clear.”

Hermione flinched.

He kept going. “I thought you cared, Granger. I thought you saw me. Not the name. Not the past. Me. But maybe you were just collecting guilt like tokens. Maybe I was just another sad case you felt good fixing.”

Her eyes welled, furious. “You bastard—”

“I offered you peace,” he snapped. “You told me I mattered. You said it. And now you spit it back like it was poison. So which is it, Granger? Do I matter, or am I just convenient when your world breaks?”

Hermione reeled back, breath ragged. Her voice dropped, hollow and hoarse.

“I hate that you were there when I fell apart. That you saw me like that. That I woke up beside someone who used to spit the word 'Mudblood' like it was poison. I hate that it was you. And I hate that part of me felt safe anyway.”

Draco didn’t look away.

“Good,” he said. “Hate me. At least that means I still matter.”

The silence stretched.

Then she laughed—bitter, broken. “You want to matter? You want to be my saviour now? Your redemption arc starts with me, is that it?”

“No,” he said. “I want you to stop bleeding in silence.”

Hermione turned away, chest heaving.

“Go to hell, Malfoy.”

“Already there,” he said. “And you keep dragging me deeper.”

She froze.

That was the cruelty of it. The intimacy of it.

She turned to him, slowly.

His expression had cracked. Just a fraction. Just enough.

Her voice was softer now, but laced with steel. “Why are you doing this?”

He swallowed. “I don't want you to shatter.”

A pause.

“And because if you do, Granger... I might not know how to put you back together.”

She stared.

And for once, she didn’t know what to say.

Around them, the library breathed. Dust motes drifted in sunbeams like memories.

Neither of them moved.

And the silence, for once, was not empty.

It was full of everything they hadn’t said.

Blaise and Ginny

At the opposite end of the library, tucked behind a lazily floating shelf of enchanted biographies, Blaise Zabini sipped a tiny espresso from a conjured porcelain cup. He watched the Draco-Hermione meltdown unfold like it was theatre. Silencio-ed or not, the body language was deafening.

The door creaked open, and Blaise didn’t need to look up to know who it was. Ginny Weasley strode into the library like she’d been summoned by the rising tension in the air. Her eyes locked on the standoff between Hermione and Draco.

She reached him in two strides, hands clenched.

“Are you seeing this?” she hissed.

“Front row seats,” Blaise murmured, sipping his espresso.

“I’m going over there.”

He reached out and caught her wrist without looking up.

“Don’t.”

She glared at him. “He may hurt her.”

“He would never hurt her,” he said calmly. “They need to blow off steam.”

Ginny waited and observed the storm between her friend and Malfoy.

Ginny said. “It’s like watching two thunderclouds try to flirt by throwing lightning at each other.”

Blaise raised his espresso in solemn salute. “And to think, Muggle-borns call that trauma bonding. We just call it courtship.”

Ginny wheezed. “Bloody hell. Is this what counts as foreplay in your circles?”

“Only if you’re lucky,” Blaise replied smoothly. “If you’re unlucky, you get betrothed at twelve and develop an allergy to the word ‘dowry.’”

Ginny looked at him, horrified and intrigued. “Merlin, was that a thing for you?”

Blaise’s lips twitched. “Let’s just say I got very good at feigning swoons at pureblood socials. By the time I turned fifteen, half the matriarchs assumed I was deathly allergic to responsibility.”

Ginny cackled. “You’re awful. I like you.”

“I’m delightful,” he said, smug. “And selective. Which is why I’m here instead of over there in the splash zone.”

They both glanced over. Draco was standing too straight. Hermione’s hands were fists. Blaise could see the tension humming off them like static from a cracked wand. He didn’t move—Draco never did when it came to her. He held fast, as always. Even now, fury and pain in every line of his body, he held position like a soldier at the edge of surrender. Books trembled slightly on the nearby shelf like they were bracing for impact.

Ginny sucked on her quill thoughtfully. “Think they’ll kill each other?”

Blaise shrugged. “Unlikely. If he wanted her dead, she’d already be hexed. And if she wanted him dead, she’d write a twelve-parchment thesis on why he deserved it first, present it to the Wizengamot, and then kill him with a footnote.”

“I’d read that thesis,” Ginny said. “Probably cite it.”

They watched in silence a little longer. Ginny took a step forward, clearly ready to storm across the library. Blaise reached out and caught her wrist.

"I just want to check on her", she whispered.

"No," Blaise said. "She’d hex you if you interrupted. And he... he stays. That’s how you know. He’s not walking away."

True to Blaise’s word, Draco did not leave. Instead, after a long, aching silence, he moved.

Not with rage. Not with pride. But slowly. Deliberately.

He stepped forward and pulled Hermione into his arms.

Her fists beat weakly against his chest once—twice—then stilled. Her breath hitched, sharp and pained. And then she melted into him, just for a moment.

Blaise turned his gaze away.

"And you thought he would hurt her," he murmured.

Ginny said nothing. But she didn’t argue again.

Ginny exhaled. “Right. I’m going to need a stiff drink and a nap after that.”

Blaise nodded. “So. Drinks?”

Ginny looked at him. “Are you asking me out?”

He looked appalled. “Weasley, please. I have taste.”

She punched his arm. “Oi!”

“I’m wounded,” Blaise said dramatically, cradling his shoulder. “You come into my sacred space—”

“This is a library.”

“—and impugn my honour—”

“Please. You sold your honour years ago.”

“—and now you question my aesthetic preferences.”

Ginny grinned. “I’m chaos. You love it.”

He narrowed his eyes. “I tolerate it. Barely. Like an inherited house-elf with opinions.”

She gasped. “You absolute arse.”

“Correct.”

They exited the library in sync, the energy of the fight behind them still clinging to the air.

“So,” Ginny said as they made their way through the corridor. “You think it’s real? The Hermione-and-Draco situation?”

Blaise considered. “Oh, absolutely. He’s doomed. He just doesn’t know it yet.”

“And she?”

“Already halfway down the slide, pretending she’s not enjoying the ride.”

Ginny sighed. “That’s so romantic. And also deeply unsettling.”

Blaise nodded solemnly. “Like all worthwhile things.”

They reached the staircase, which immediately shifted beneath them with the melodramatic flair of Hogwarts being inconvenient on purpose.

“I swear this castle is trying to kill me,” Ginny muttered.

Blaise held out a steadying hand, which she took without thinking. “Get in line. I think it tried to eat one of my shoes in third year.”

“That was the poltergeist prank. Fred and George made it sentient.”

“Of course it was.”

They fell into step again.

“Tell me more about these Pureblood customs,” Ginny said. “Do you really get courted with enchanted roses and bloodline documents, or were you full of shit?”

Blaise groaned. “Unfortunately, it’s very real. Courting tokens, formal dances, oaths exchanged under full moons... it’s all a glorified pageant. Mostly designed to ensure no one marries outside the sacred twenty-eight.”

Ginny rolled her eyes. “How absolutely medieval.”

“And incestuous,” Blaise added cheerfully.

Ginny mock-shuddered. “No wonder you’re all deranged.”

“We’re not all deranged,” Blaise protested. “Some of us are just fashionably unhinged.”

“Please,” she said. “You wear silk cravats to breakfast.”

“It’s called aesthetic dominance.”

“It’s called pretentious bullshit.”

Blaise smirked. “Tomato, tomahto.”

They paused as two third-years skittered by, whispering loudly about the library fight.

Ginny rolled her eyes. “Great. The gossip wheel has spun.”

Blaise shrugged. “Let them talk. Maybe it’ll distract from the fact that I accidentally turned my last date’s hair green.”

Ginny blinked. “That’s... oddly progressive of you.”

“It was meant to be silver,” he said mournfully. “For house unity.”

She wheezed. “You tried to Slytherin her into bed, didn’t you?”

“I regret everything,” Blaise muttered.

They reached the Great Hall and paused.

“Lunch?” Ginny asked.

“Do you even eat normal food?”

“I was raised on Molly Weasley’s cooking. I’ve survived seven years of post-Quidditch hunger rage. Try me.”

He gave her a sideways glance. “You know... if you weren’t terrifying, I’d almost admire you.”

“If you weren’t so bloody polished, I might think you’re human.”

They smirked at each other.

Blaise gave her a sideways glance. "And here I thought you were off-limits—what with being deeply, disgustingly in love with the Chosen One."

Ginny rolled her eyes. "Please. I can flirt and still go home to Harry bloody Potter. It’s called range."

"Of course," Blaise said dryly. "And I suppose Potter sits at home polishing his heroic halo while you terrorize the library with me."

"He bakes treacle tart when I’m stressed," Ginny said smugly. "Domestic bliss and all that."

"Revolting," Blaise muttered. "No wonder you’re slumming it with me for balance."

They laughed.

A strange comfort settled between them. Unspoken. Solid.

Ginny nudged him. “So we’re friends now, yeah?”

He groaned. “Is that official?”

“It is if I send you a calling card.”

Blaise gave a theatrical sigh. “Fine. But it better be monogrammed.”

“It’ll be glittery,” Ginny said, grinning.

“I’ll burn it.”

“Friendship, everyone,” she declared as they pushed open the doors. “It’s a fucking circus.”

“Complete with clowns,” Blaise added, holding the door for her.

Ginny threw her head back and laughed. And somewhere behind them, in the quiet of the library, a storm still lingered.

But they, for now, had found their own weather.

Draco

He didn’t leave. True to Blaise’s word, Draco stayed.

After a long, aching silence, he moved—not with rage, not with pride, but slowly and deliberately. He stepped forward and pulled Hermione into his arms.

Her fists beat weakly against his chest once—twice—then stilled. Her breath hitched, sharp and pained. For a moment, she melted into him.

They stood like that, not speaking. Just breathing. And when the silence finally broke, it was Draco who spoke—his voice rough like gravel, but quieter than she'd expected.

“Maybe... maybe you could work on a plan to survive. With help.”

She didn’t answer. Her face stayed buried against his robes, her hands fisted at his sides, clinging like she was afraid to let go.

“Your friends love you,” he said. “They might not always understand you—but they love you. They want to help.”

She pulled back just enough for her glassy eyes to meet his. Searching. Hesitant.

“I don’t want to be a burden,” she whispered.

Draco shook his head. “You’re not. You’re grieving. You’re fighting. You’re brilliant, and maddening, and more stubborn than a vault-locked hippogriff—but you’re not alone. Not anymore.”

Her forehead dropped back to his shoulder, and something in Draco’s chest eased. Not relief, not yet—but the tight, choking knot of fear inside him slackened. Just a little.

She pulled away again, gently, but he didn’t let go right away. His eyes studied her face—drawn, pale, red-rimmed—but still hers. Still sharp. Still fierce, even in the wreckage.

Some days, he thought she might splinter apart with the weight she carried. But she hadn’t. Not yet.

And gods, she was still standing.

“You always think you have to do everything alone,” he murmured. “Like asking for help makes you weak.”

She didn’t speak. Her mouth parted slightly, but no words came.

“I get it,” he said, voice softer now. “I spent most of my life pretending I didn’t need anyone. Like needing meant danger. Like love was a trap.”

He exhaled. “But maybe it isn’t. Maybe love is a hand on your back when you’re too tired to keep climbing.”

Her eyes lifted to meet his, and he held her gaze.

“And maybe,” he added, “you can still be strong and ask for help. Maybe the two things aren’t enemies.”

She said nothing, but she didn’t look away. Slowly, he stepped back, giving her space. Her fists unfurled.

“Just try,” he said gently. “Try letting them in. Potter. Weasley. Ginny. Lovegood. Longbottom. They love you. You’re not a burden to them.”

Her voice came quiet and raw. “How can you be so sure?”

“Because they haven’t left,” he said. “And neither have I.”

She didn’t answer, but her eyes flickered—like something inside her had caught light, small but stubborn.

Draco took a breath. The adrenaline was fading now, that hollow crash that always followed intensity. His body still hummed with it, but his face settled into something calmer. Controlled. The old stillness returning—but this time, it wasn’t a shield against the world.

It was steadiness—for her.

He needed to be the one thing that didn’t crack.

“Listen,” he said. “You don’t have to fix everything tonight. Or tomorrow. Or ever, really.”

She blinked at him.

“You just have to survive,” he continued. “That’s it. Not thrive. Not impress anyone. Just—stay. Let them in. Let them help you do the boring, exhausting, necessary thing of living.”

She looked at him—drained, hollowed, but still listening.

“I know what it’s like,” he said, quieter now. “To feel like your pain is embarrassing. Like your struggle is something shameful. But it’s not. You’re not too much. You never have been.”

His voice caught, but he didn’t let it break.

“You are not your grief. You’re not your trauma. You’re Hermione bloody Granger. And even in pieces, you’re still the most brilliant person I’ve ever met.”

A beat passed. Then—

“And apparently, you make me say sentimental rubbish I’ll never live down.”

Her lips twitched.

Progress.

Draco finally stepped back, just far enough for her to stand on her own.

Draco hadn’t planned to touch her again. Not here. Not with so many eyes. But when her face tilted up and he saw the strain behind her stillness—the raw vulnerability she tried so hard to swallow—he moved before thinking.

His hand rose to her cheek, fingers brushing gently along the curve of her jaw.

She didn’t pull away.

Didn’t even blink.

Just breathed.

And then he leaned in and pressed a kiss—slow, reverent—to the center of her forehead. Not out of pity. Not performance.

Something older. Quieter. Something that felt like promise.

Pansy

From her perch in the shadow of the second-floor gallery, Pansy Parkinson saw everything.

She hadn’t come looking for it. Not exactly. She’d only wanted a book—something light, charming, meaningless. But what she got instead was a front-row seat to an utter disgrace.

Granger. And Draco.

Together.

It was offensive. Not just because it was her Draco—though it was—but because of the sheer audacity of it. The indecency. The absolute abandonment of sense.

They were mid-fight when she spotted them. She could tell by the tension in their bodies, the sharp hand movements, the way Granger’s eyes flashed like a storm about to break. Draco’s mouth moved quickly, sharply. His posture coiled with intensity.

But no sound reached her ears.

The bastard had cast Silencio.

Pansy nearly laughed—how poetic. Even their arguments were kept private. Sacred.

Still, she watched. Entranced. Appalled. Furious.

Granger was trembling, that much was obvious. Not with fear—no, never that—but with feeling. And Draco—his eyes were locked on hers, burning. His face was thunder and grief and want, all tangled up in something almost gentle.

And then he touched her.

His hand came up slowly, like she might vanish if he moved too fast. He cupped her cheek—her cheek—as though it were delicate, something he cherished.

Pansy’s stomach turned.

Then came the death blow: he leaned forward and kissed her forehead.

It wasn’t a joke. It wasn’t lust. It wasn’t even weakness.

It was tenderness.

It was devotion.

And it made Pansy want to scream.

Draco didn’t do this. He didn’t offer softness. He didn’t kiss girls like they were precious. He didn’t risk everything for someone who couldn’t possibly understand what it cost.

But now?

Now he was watching Granger like she hung the bloody moon. Like there was no one else. Like he’d finally stopped running from everything he was raised to believe.

When they left the library, they didn’t hold hands, but they didn’t need to.

Granger brushed his sleeve. Draco touched the small of her back without thinking.

It was possessive. Quiet. Natural.

And it ruined Pansy’s night.

Because this wasn’t sex. That would’ve been simple. Expected. Laughable.

This was dangerous.

Because this was love.

Not adolescent infatuation. Not trauma bonding. Not an impulsive wartime rebound. No. This was that terrible, spine-deep kind of love that rewired a person.

And it would destroy Draco.

Pansy’s nails dug into her palm as they disappeared down the corridor.

He didn’t even glance back.

The Draco she’d grown up with—cold, proud, calculating—was dissolving right in front of her. And Granger was the acid doing the work.

No one had warned him. No one had warned her.

But Pansy would.

Because if there was one thing she understood—better than love, better than friendship—it was preservation.

And Granger? She was a threat.

To tradition. To control. To Draco himself.

Pansy reached into her bag and drew out her finest stationery—crisp, white, veined with gold. The kind reserved for real emergencies. Social crises. Strategic communications.

She uncapped her ink with slow, deliberate fingers. A glint of polished cruelty in her eyes.

It was time to write to Narcissa.

If Granger thought she could steal something that never belonged to her…
She was about to learn how pureblood girls played the game.

And just how far Pansy Parkinson was willing to go to win.

Chapter Text

Hermione

Asking for help didn’t come naturally to Hermione Granger.

She could recommend it in theory. Quote studies. Preach the value of community support. But when it came to herself—when it was her voice that needed to say the words, her hand that needed to reach out—something inside her always locked tight. A defensive spell she couldn’t quite undo.

Still, she said yes.

Not out loud. Not in a dramatic declaration. But in the small ways that mattered more. A nod. A half breath. A moment of stillness that said: She’ll try.

The first day of April brought a hesitant spring. The frost had begun to retreat from the edges of the castle windows. The Black Lake shimmered with morning mist, soft and silver. Crocuses bloomed behind the greenhouses. And Hermione, for the first time in weeks, woke up before her alarm without feeling like she was being dragged from the depths of a nightmare.

Progress.

Not recovery. Not yet. But something.

The plan had been waiting on the library table. A scroll tied with red ribbon, slipped beneath her mug.

Ginny had said simply, “We thought you might want this.”

Hermione had unrolled it with hesitant fingers. Five categories, each scrawled in familiar handwriting:

• Nutrition
• Sleep
• Physical Training
• Mental & Emotional Support
• Relapse Protocol

The names behind the structure were clear.

Neville had drafted the food rotation, annotated in green ink with magical supplements and meal timing. Ginny’s strict handwriting blocked out sleep times, caffeine cutoffs, and study limits with military precision. Luna’s curving script floated across the emotional health section like a soft charm. Draco’s name wasn’t written anywhere, but Hermione knew which parts were his—the measured strength training plan, the calm repetitions, the word “discipline” spelled with clean edges.

There was also a new addition:
Three runs a week with Ginny. Non-negotiable. Early mornings. No excuses.

At the bottom of the page, Healer Lane’s final clause had been written in Hermione’s own hand.

If I begin to fall again,
I allow the people I trust to catch me.
This is not failure. This is love, choosing action.

She had signed her name beneath it.

That had been two weeks ago.

The structure worked.

Neville coordinated her meals. The elves had been instructed to serve her automatically, so she wouldn’t forget. Grains. Warm greens. Protein. Fruit. No more skipped breakfasts. No more tea-for-dinner habits. He sat with her at meals when he could. Sometimes they didn’t talk. But he always noticed.

Ginny enforced bedtimes. No study past nine. Wind-down routine: stretching, breathing, potion if necessary. Her bed was always warmed. If Hermione stayed up too late, her bag snapped shut on its own. Ginny claimed plausible deniability.

Three mornings a week, Ginny dragged Hermione out to the Black Lake trail. Sometimes they ran in silence, their breath clouding in the cool air. Sometimes they traded sarcastic complaints about NEWTs, professors, and boys. Ginny ran like she had something to burn off. Hermione ran like she was chasing herself out of the dark.

Luna hosted meditation twice a week. No pressure. Just space. Quiet breathing. Sometimes mantras. Sometimes nothing. Luna never expected anything from her—but somehow, she always knew what to offer.

And then there was Draco.

Three times a week, Hermione met him in the Room of Requirement.

It shifted into a private gym—mats, free weights, soft sconces glowing along the walls. Draco’s pale skin almost shimmered in the low light, his blond hair always just slightly disheveled like he’d run a hand through it in frustration. His lean frame was stronger than it looked—shoulders broad beneath rolled-up sleeves, forearms corded with quiet strength. He didn’t smile much. Didn’t push. Just offered structure. Reps. Posture. Steady hands when she needed spotting. Measured silence when she didn’t.

The proximity did things to her.

When he stood behind her during deadlifts, she could feel the heat of his body—solid, steady, close enough that the faint scent of cedar and parchment settled under her skin. When his hand closed over her wrist to adjust her grip, his long fingers calloused from years of Quidditch, her breath caught. When she stumbled, he caught the weight—then held it, and her, just a beat longer than necessary, his touch firm, his chest rising and falling against her back.

Neither of them said anything.

But it was there. The charged stillness. The careful not-touching. The shared heat.

And it built.

She started wearing thinner shirts to train—soft cotton clinging to the lines of her back, curls pulled high into a messy bun that left the curve of her neck exposed. She said it was for comfort. She told herself it was for comfort. But she noticed when his eyes lingered, storm-grey and sharp, tracking her movements with a focus that felt like it could strip her bare. He noticed her noticing.

The air between them thickened—like it was waiting.

She never asked if he felt it too.

She didn’t need to.

On April 10th, two weeks in, Hermione wrote in her journal.

Her handwriting was small, but steady.

I ate breakfast today. I lifted 20 kilos. I slept six hours without dreaming. I wanted him to touch me and didn’t feel ashamed of it. I am not healed. But I am here.

She paused after the last word. Let her quill hover.
Here.

It wasn’t a grand victory. It wasn’t the moment she had imagined where everything would suddenly click into place, where grief would pack its bags and leave. But it was something. A stake in the ground. A declaration, however small: I am still here.

She traced the last letter absently, the ink smudging faintly beneath her thumb.

That night, Luna invited her outside.

She stood barefoot in the grass, the pale curve of her ankles brushing the dew. Her silvery-blonde hair drifted in loose waves around her shoulders, catching the moonlight like strands of starlight. There was something forever untethered about her—her gaze soft and distant, as though she were watching something that lived just beyond the edge of sight.

Luna’s presence hummed like old magic—a quiet, anchoring force that made you feel as if the world had been waiting for you to slow down. She didn’t radiate fragile peace. Hers was the kind of calm that withstood storms. That endured.

When she smiled, it was slow, certain, and knowing. Like she already understood things Hermione hadn’t yet dared to name.

Not the Room of Requirement. Not the library. Just the astronomy tower garden—where the stone walls fell away and the sky pressed close. Spring had been hesitant this year, but the grass was soft now, and the air smelled faintly of rain that had passed through sometime in the evening.

They sat together, knees brushing, backs against the cool stone ledge, the sky stretching endlessly above them.

The meditation bell chimed softly beside them. Once. Twice. Its sound dissolved into the quiet like a ripple in a pond.

Luna didn’t tell her to breathe. She didn’t tell her to clear her mind. She simply sat. Present. Weightless. Like always.

Hermione let her head fall back against the stone. The stars above them were sharp and endless. She felt the slight pull of the earth beneath her — the way gravity tugged at her ribs, her spine, her bones. It grounded her in a way she hadn’t expected.

Her chest rose and fell slowly.
Her mind wandered.
It circled back.

The wind tugged strands of her hair loose from her braid. She didn’t fix it.

Minutes passed. Maybe more.

Then, in the kind of soft, wandering voice that never asked anything of her, Luna spoke.

“You don’t owe peace to anyone,” she murmured. “Least of all yourself.”

Hermione’s throat tightened.

Because she had been fighting for peace like it was a debt. Like she was supposed to reach some untouchable stillness to make herself worthy again. She had been measuring her days by progress and perfection and invisible markers only she could see.

But Luna’s words unraveled something.

Maybe she didn’t have to conquer it. Maybe she could just exist with it.

Hermione didn’t respond. Not out loud.

But the words stuck.

Long after the meditation bell had gone silent, long after Luna slipped away to let her sit alone, they lingered.
They folded into her like the steady rhythm of her own breath. Like a truth she’d known but never dared to claim.

You don’t owe peace to anyone. Least of all yourself.

And that — maybe — was the beginning of something, too.

Draco rarely spoke during training.

But on April 12th, as he steadied her arms during a particularly miserable press, he drawled, “You’re stronger.”

Hermione huffed, breath catching. “Physically?”

He arched a brow, unimpressed. “Obviously. And possibly less annoying. A rare improvement.”

Her lips twitched. “I’ll keep working on the annoying part.”

“Don’t. I might start liking you too much.”

It should have sounded mocking. But it didn’t.

Later, when he handed her water, their fingers brushed. He didn’t let go right away.

His thumb lingered along her knuckle. “I’m not in a rush.”

Hermione’s pulse kicked. “I know.”

He tilted his head, watching her carefully. “But just so we’re clear—waiting isn’t easy for me.”

She met his gaze steadily. “Waiting for what?”

A slow smirk. “For the part where you finally stop pretending I don’t wreck your concentration.”

Hermione’s throat went dry. “You’re insufferable.”

“I’ve been told.”

He stepped back, the spell between them fraying just enough to breathe.

They didn’t talk about it again. But they didn’t need to.

The weight of it pressed beneath their skin all the same.

But even as her body grew stronger and her mind steadied, the world outside whispered something different.

Neville brought it up one morning at breakfast, his voice careful. “The Prophet ran another piece,” he said. “About the Golden Trio.”

Hermione didn’t look up from her tea. “Let me guess—Harry’s valiant, Ron’s steady, and I’m a destabilizing influence again.”

She said it like a joke.

No one laughed.

In Potions, a Slytherin girl had made an idle comment to Pansy—just loud enough to carry. “Funny how some people climb without the right roots.”

Hermione didn’t turn. She didn’t need to. She could feel the weight of old names clinging to her spine.

But Draco heard it.

And when they met later for training, he wasn’t his usual self. His movements were still precise, his corrections sharp, but there was something else threading through his stance—something tighter, heavier.

Anger.

When he adjusted her grip during deadlifts, his touch was firm, almost rough. His hand lingered on her elbow too long, not teasing, not playful—tight with something unspoken.

“Draco?” Hermione asked, breathless, her pulse thudding from more than exertion.

His fingers flexed, and for a moment she thought he wasn’t going to answer.

Then, quietly, he said, “Why don’t you care?”

She frowned, lowering the bar carefully. “Care about what?”

He stepped back, arms folding across his chest. His jaw was set, the lines of his face carved in stone.

“The articles. The comments. The things they’re saying about you.”

Hermione wiped her palms on a towel, keeping her voice light. “It’s nothing new.”

“That doesn’t make it right,” he snapped.

She blinked at him, surprised by the sharpness in his tone.

“They’re slandering you. Defaming you. They’re deliberately dragging your name because you don’t fit into their precious system.” His eyes flashed. “And you just let them.”

Hermione’s throat tightened. “What would you have me do, Draco? Chase down every journalist? Write a dozen rebuttals? There’ll always be another headline.”

“They’re trying to reduce you to a cautionary tale,” he said, stepping closer. His voice was low now, but it vibrated with restrained fury. “They’re using your name to tell other Muggle-borns where their place is.”

She crossed her arms, not out of defense, but out of habit. “I’ve survived worse.”

“That’s not the point,” he bit out. “You shouldn’t have to survive this.”

She searched his face, heat rising behind her ribs—not from his proximity, but from the weight of what he was offering her.

“You want to fight for me,” she said quietly.

“I can handle it,” he said, voice rough. “If you want me to.”

His hands dropped to his sides, but he didn’t step back.

The offer sat between them, heavy and real.

For a moment, she wanted to say yes.

But then—

“Not yet,” Hermione said softly. “For now, I can handle it.”

His jaw flexed like he wanted to argue, but he didn’t. Instead, he reached for the towel she held and tossed it aside, his fingers brushing hers deliberately as he took it.

“Just say when,” he said, his voice steadier now. “I’ll burn them all down for you.”

She smiled, small and fierce. “I know.”

And somehow, that was enough—for now.

Some nights were still hard.

She had relapses. Moments where she forgot how to breathe. Nights she didn’t sleep. Meals she couldn’t finish.

The relapse clause gave her cover. Neville would show up. Ginny would tug her out of bed. Luna would sit quietly. Draco would say nothing, just stand near.

It wasn’t easy.

But she wasn’t alone.

That was what mattered.

And in those small, private moments—on a training mat, in candlelight, across a breakfast table—something delicate and dangerous was forming.

Not just recovery.

Not just survival.

But something like want.

And slowly, something like love.

It started with a headline.

“THE GOLDEN GIRL’S GREY MORALITY?”

Not front page. Not scathing. Just quietly buried on page four of the Daily Prophet—unsigned, vaguely sourced, and thick with implication.

Hermione didn’t bother reading the whole thing.

The first paragraph was enough:

“Sources within Hogwarts confirm erratic behaviour, concerning boundaries, and deeply troubling alliances…”

She folded the page in half with steady fingers.
She didn’t tear it.
She didn’t flinch.

Across the table, Ginny made a sound that was more growl than word. “Anonymous cowards. Of course.”

Hermione buttered her toast with surgical precision. “It’s not the first time.”

“No. But it’s timed,” Ginny said, her voice sharp, her eyes sharper. “This isn’t random. Someone’s setting a stage.”

Hermione didn’t answer.

But the weight of Ginny’s words pressed in now.
Because Draco had said the same thing—yesterday. He’d been furious about the last article, about her indifference, about how easily she let the world carve her up and walk away. He’d offered to handle it. To burn it all down for her.

She’d told him she could handle it.
She’d thought it was still just noise.

But as she sat there, she noticed the sideways glances from the Ravenclaw table.
The whispers in the corridor that cut off when she passed.
The way Professor Vector’s gaze lingered a second too long before flicking back to her scroll.
The way it all suddenly felt more… organised.

This wasn’t just noise.

It was deliberate.

It was beginning.

It settled around her like a net. Not yet tight, but closing. Closing fast.

And yet, the only thing that mattered that morning was this:

As she left the Great Hall, Draco passed by. He didn’t stop. He didn’t speak.

But his fingers brushed hers—quick, firm, intentional—like a vow pressed into her skin.

It was brief.
But it steadied her.

It was small but so powerful.

They trained in silence that evening.

Sort of.

The Room of Requirement had shaped itself into a wide, dim-lit space, smelling faintly of cedar and steel. The mats were soft underfoot, the torches humming low. The air held warmth — not enough to sweat immediately, but just enough to loosen muscles and breath.

Hermione wore a fitted black training top, sleeves pushed to her elbows, and dark leggings. Nothing extravagant. Practical. Still — when she bent to stretch, palms flat to the mat, her hips shifted back, spine curving low and slow.

She didn’t see the way Draco stopped mid-step behind her.
Didn’t see the way his jaw clenched.
But she felt the air shift. Heard the delay in his inhale.

When she stood to reset her stance, he stepped behind her — closer than usual.

“You’re leaning too far forward,” he said, voice low.

“I’ve got it.”

“Let me show you,” he murmured.

His hand settled at the small of her back. Barely there. Warm. Steady. Her pulse jumped. He adjusted her posture, slow, deliberate, like every second was etched in stone. When he let go, her skin burned through the fabric.

They kept moving. But something in the room had changed.

Every rep after that felt slower. Denser. Like gravity had thickened between them.

Pansy

The next Prophet article arrived two days later.

Not about her — not directly. It spoke in symbols.

“There is concern,” it read, “that post-war figures have grown too comfortable breaking tradition, erasing boundaries, entangling themselves in dangerous intimacy with legacies they do not understand.”

Underneath it, someone had scrawled Granger in pencil across the margin of the copy left in the Slytherin common room.

She never saw it. But Pansy did.

And Pansy smiled.

Hermione

That night, Hermione sat beside Draco in the library. She didn’t ask if he wanted company. She just pulled out her notes and sat close enough that their knees touched beneath the table.

He passed her a fresh roll of parchment. Their fingers brushed — longer than necessary.

She didn’t pull away.

She didn’t say anything.

But when she leaned toward him to mutter something about exam theory, her hair fell across his shoulder. He didn’t flinch. He tilted slightly into it.

The air between them smelled like parchment and ink and something deeply, devastatingly human.

He found her again the next night. Not in training. Not by accident.

Just after dinner, as she was packing her bag in the common room, she felt his presence at her back — steady, familiar.

“Walk with me,” he said.

She didn’t ask where. Just followed.

They crossed three corridors, two stairwells, and passed a tapestry she couldn’t remember ever noticing before. The sky outside the tall windows was violet and fractured with clouds. Somewhere, the scent of wet stone and woodsmoke drifted through a cracked window.

They stopped near a cold stretch of hallway with a ledge she liked to sit on sometimes. A place no one lingered.

“I’m not worried,” she said softly, arms folded across her chest.

He leaned against the wall beside her. “About what?”

“The Prophet. The whispers. The way Parkinson keeps eyeing me like I’ve stained her bloody family crest.”

His brow twitched. “You should be.”

She looked over, dry. “Thanks for the pep talk.”

Draco’s expression didn’t shift. But his eyes did — cooler now, sharp. “This isn’t about petty rumors. It’s about legacy. Structure. Bloodlines. The rules beneath the rules.”

She inhaled slowly. “I’m used to people doubting me.”

“I’m not talking about doubt.” He pushed off the wall and turned to face her fully. “This is leverage. They’re setting pieces on a board.”

Hermione’s heart ticked faster. But her voice didn’t waver.

“Then let them play.”

He didn’t move away. He stepped closer. Enough that their arms nearly brushed. Enough that the air between them felt charged.

“You’re not just you anymore,” he said. “You’re... involved.”

She tilted her head. “Are we calling it that?”

His eyes flicked to her mouth — barely. “What would you call it?”

“I don’t know,” she whispered. “But I’m not hiding.”

“You don’t have to.”

A beat passed.

Then, quieter: “But you should know... they’ll use anything they can. Against you. Against me.”

“I know.”

“And you can still back away.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

Draco’s hand twitched at his side. For a moment, she thought he might touch her. Cup her jaw. Pull her in.

But he didn’t.

He just gave her the look he only ever used in private — something between reverence and restraint.

And then he said nothing at all.

Hermione was already warm when Draco entered the Room of Requirement.

She stood at the weight rack, hair twisted into a messy bun that never quite stayed, stray curls clinging to her damp neck. Her skin was flushed from effort, her breathing even, her eyes focused with that steel-edged determination that made her nearly impossible to look away from.

Draco didn’t speak. He simply crossed to her, nodding once, and she handed him a set of rep counts like they were partners in something unspoken. They always had been.

She took position, rolled her shoulders back, and exhaled.

He stood behind her, close but not touching.

“Back straight,” he murmured.

“I know.”

“Feet farther apart.”

She adjusted.

He placed a hand lightly at her hip, the pads of his fingers warm through the fabric of her leggings. Not lingering—just correction.

But it didn’t matter. Her stomach still fluttered.

He was so composed, always, and yet she could see it now—the way his jaw ticked when she arched wrong, the barely-there sound he made when she bent a little too far forward, the way he inhaled through his nose like restraint was a muscle he trained harder than any other.

The scent of him was sharp and fresh—bergamot and rain and something darker she couldn’t name. It clung to her skin more than the room’s warmth did.

When she switched positions, he offered her a towel.

Their fingers brushed. His eyes caught hers.

The silence between them thickened.

Hermione felt it pool in her spine and rise to her throat. It would be so easy to say something, to break this odd little ritual they’d crafted. But if she did, it would all unravel.

So she said nothing.

But she stayed close.

Later, she struggled with a new form—the bar heavier than usual, the angles wrong. She cursed under her breath and bent again, her grip slipping.

Draco caught it without hesitation. One hand steadying the bar. One hand steadying her.

His breath brushed the side of her neck. Warm. Controlled.

“You’re holding tension in your shoulders,” he said lowly.

“I’m aware,” she gritted out.

“Then let me help.”

“I can do it.”

“I know,” he said simply. “But you don’t have to.”

That silenced her more than anything else.

He adjusted her arms carefully, guiding her elbows back into place, his fingertips skimming along her skin with clinical precision—and yet nothing about the touch felt neutral.

When he let go, she was still burning.

They finished late.

Hermione sat back against the mirrored wall, drinking water, sweat cooling along her collarbone. Her chest rose and fell in a slow rhythm, her limbs humming with post-exertion fatigue.

Draco leaned against the wall opposite her. Watching. Always watching.

She wiped her wrist across her brow, then looked up at him. Really looked.

His hair was damp at the nape. His sleeves were rolled, forearms bare and tensed. There was something brutal and elegant about him, like a spell barely held in check.

“Are we pretending this isn’t happening?” she asked softly.

He didn’t blink. “I’m not pretending. I’m controlling it.”

“That sounds exhausting.”

He huffed a laugh. “It is.”

She stood slowly and walked toward him, her steps unhurried but deliberate.

“You’re not worried this is a mistake?”

His expression didn’t change. But something in his eyes did.

“Not for a second.”

Hermione stopped in front of him. She was close enough to feel the heat radiating off him. Close enough to see the stubble along his jaw, the way his throat moved when he swallowed.

Her voice dropped. “Then why haven’t you—”

“Because if I kiss you,” he said, “I won’t be able to stop.”

She didn’t move. “What if I don’t want you to?”

Draco’s hand twitched at his side. His eyes searched hers.

Slowly, carefully, he reached up and brushed a curl from her cheek. His fingers trembled. When they grazed the line of her jaw, her breath hitched audibly.

Then—lower still—his thumb traced the corner of her mouth.

Hermione’s hand rose instinctively, gripping the front of his shirt. Just fabric. Just tension.

She thought he might give in. Gods, she wanted him to.

But he stepped back.

“I told you,” he said, voice rough, “I’m not in a rush.”

Her lips parted. “But I—”

“I know,” he said, softer this time. “Believe me, I know.”

He didn’t kiss her.

But he left her standing there with every nerve in her body awake, her heartbeat in her mouth, and a quiet, aching promise that this—whatever this was—meant everything.

The Daily Prophet ran another headline.

“Golden Girls and Glass Houses”

The article didn’t mention her name.

It didn’t need to.

“Insiders at Hogwarts say tension has risen around one war heroine whose emotional instability and intimate alliances have started to raise concern among traditional families.”

Hermione didn’t flinch when she saw it.
She just set her tea down—calm, deliberate—and reached for her notes.

But Ginny noticed. Of course she did.

They sat across from each other in the library, the morning light spilling in through the stained glass windows, cutting across the table in fractured reds and golds. Hermione looked bathed in it—her brown curls haloed in warm light, the soft freckles across her nose illuminated like constellations. Her expression was distant, composed, lips set in a neutral line. Untouchable.

Ginny leaned forward, her own copper hair catching the streaks of sunlight like polished fire. Her shoulders were tense beneath her Quidditch jacket, her hand curled tightly around her mug.

She lowered her voice. “You know they’re aiming these at you.”

Hermione didn’t look up. “Then they’re lazy.”

Ginny’s jaw tightened, her green eyes sharp. “You’re not alone, Hermione. If this starts to spiral—”

“I’m fine.” Hermione’s voice was smooth, but her knuckles whitened briefly where she gripped her quill.

“You’re not. But you’re better.” Ginny’s voice softened, but the weight of her concern pressed through. “And that makes you dangerous again. A threat.”

Hermione stilled. The rhythm of her quill tapping the parchment faltered—once, twice—then stopped.

The sunlight shifted, cutting sharper across the table, catching the faint silver chain of the pendant at Hermione’s throat—the one Draco had given her. It glimmered briefly, like a silent promise.

“I’ll handle it,” she said, steady now.

Ginny didn’t budge. “You don’t have to handle it alone.”

Hermione finally looked up, and her walls cracked just enough to let something honest pass through. Her expression softened—not much, but enough for Ginny to see it.

“I’m not,” Hermione said quietly. “Not anymore.”

Pansy

Across the castle, Pansy Parkinson leaned against the wall outside Advanced Charms and watched the two of them pass.

Draco and Granger.

Walking just far enough apart to feign propriety. But anyone with a brain — or eyes — could see the charge between them. The way she tilted her head when he spoke. The way he slowed his step to match hers. The way they didn’t touch, but radiated something that made people stare.

Pansy didn’t smile. But her lips curved slightly.

The whispers had started.

She had fed the first one herself.

A note left folded on a desk. A mention over tea. A pointed question to a Ravenclaw prefect.

She didn’t need to scream scandal. She only needed to seed it.

Because whispers, when repeated enough, became truths.

Draco

That night, Blaise caught Draco as he left the training room.

“You’re playing with fire.”

Draco wiped his forehead with a towel, not stopping. “Then I hope it burns the right things down.”

“Don’t be poetic. Be smart.” Blaise followed him down the hall. “You’ve already lost footing with the Sacred 28. You think they’ll ignore you bedding the brightest Muggleborn in the country?”

“I’m not bedding her.”

“Yet.”

Draco stopped.

Blaise raised his hands. “Look, I’m not judging. I just want you to survive this.”

“I’m not hiding her,” Draco said evenly.

“Then they’ll come for both of you.”

Draco didn’t answer.

But he didn’t deny it either.

Draco

The following morning, they walked to breakfast together.

Not intentionally. They just left the library at the same time.

She was tucked against his side, still flushed from a study sprint, a streak of ink on her jaw. He didn’t brush it away. But he did let his hand drift close to her lower back as they walked.

In the Entrance Hall, a hush fell.

It wasn’t what they were doing. It was what they weren’t doing. The quiet, almost intimate way they stood beside each other. The space that should have existed between them, but didn’t.

As they paused by the Great Hall doors, Draco leaned in — slow, deliberate — and pressed a kiss to the top of her head.

Soft. Familiar. Intimate in a way no one expected.

Hermione looked up at him — surprised, but not afraid.

Then they split — wordless — to their own house tables.

The whisper hit like wind through dry leaves.

By the time Pansy took her seat, three girls had already leaned in to ask if she knew anything.

She smiled. “Not yet.”

Pansy

The whisper caught like fire on dry parchment.

By the time Pansy Parkinson slid into her seat at the Slytherin table, the Great Hall was already thrumming with it — a low, electric crackle that passed faster than anyone could control.

It wasn’t just that they’d walked in together. It was the way he touched her. The way he kissed the top of her head. Soft. Familiar. Like it wasn’t the first time.

It unsettled people.

No declarations. No spectacle. Just… them. Moving as though the space between them had always been his to cross.

A Ravenclaw girl, flushed with the high of fresh gossip, leaned toward Pansy before her tea even settled. “Did you see that? Did you know? Are they—?”

“Oh, Pansy,” another chimed in, voice alight with hunger, “he kissed her. In front of everyone.”

Pansy sipped her tea slowly. “Well,” she drawled, “it’s about time he had some fun.”

The girls blinked, startled. “What?”

“You didn’t think he’d actually be serious about her, did you?” Pansy’s smile sharpened, her tone thick with patronizing sweetness. “Granger’s convenient. That’s all.”

Across the table, Blaise lowered his paper just enough to raise an eyebrow, but he didn’t interfere.

Pansy’s voice slipped silkily through the knot of girls, soft and insidious.
“She’s perfect for it, really. Clever enough to keep him entertained. Loud enough to make people look. Brave enough to let him in.”

She let that settle. And then she went in for the cut.

“And I’m sure she’s eager to show her gratitude in other ways.”

The girls tittered, scandal blooming across the table.

“She does seem the type to get… attached,” one offered, emboldened by Pansy’s lead.

“Poor thing,” Pansy sighed dramatically, “so used to being the smartest, but not smart enough to realize when she’s being used.”

Another girl gasped, leaning closer. “You really think he’s just using her?”

Pansy’s eyes glittered, mean and certain. “Darling, this is Draco Malfoy. He knows exactly what he’s doing. He always has.”

Her smile thinned. “He’ll get bored.”

Blaise’s lips twitched, the only sign of his restraint. “Are you sure you’re not the one who’s bored, Parkinson?”

Pansy turned her gaze on him, icy but unbothered. “Oh, I’m very entertained.”

She reached for her spoon, casually stirring her tea as if the match was already won.

Let Granger enjoy it for now.
The real game was still coming.

Hermione

They were training, as usual.

The Room of Requirement had shifted again — wide wooden floors warmed by golden sconces, tall mirrors reflecting soft light, the faint scent of lavender clinging to the air. A breeze slipped through the arched window, cooling the heat rising steadily between them.

This had become a rhythm. Safe. Predictable.
Until it wasn’t.

It started when he stepped in behind her to correct her form.
Nothing he hadn’t done before. His palm settled low on her back, steady, grounding.

But then his breath ghosted over the curve of her neck.

He was explaining something — something about her grip, the angle of her shoulders — but his mouth was too close, his breath too warm, the air too still.

She shivered.

Not subtle. Not restrained. A full-body tremor that she didn’t even bother to hide.

That was the breaking point.

His hand tightened on her waist before he could stop himself. His breath caught, low and sharp, like something in him had just torn wide open.

“Granger,” he rasped, his voice wrecked and low, “say stop.”

But she didn’t.
She wouldn’t.

Instead, she shifted back into him — on purpose — pressing the line of her spine against his chest, letting the sharp edge of his belt dig into her lower back, feeling the fierce heat of him pressed along her body.

“Why would I do that?” she whispered, her voice dangerously soft.

His restraint trembled, his hands lingering, one curling just under the hem of her shirt, thumb tracing slow, dangerous circles against bare skin.

“You’re dangerous,” he said, his breath rough against her ear.

“You like that about me.”

His hands gripped her waist, holding her tight, as though he might lose her to the gravity of his own restraint.

“You’re testing me,” he said, teeth clenched. “You want to see if I’ll break.”

“I think you’ve been waiting to,” she murmured, tilting her head to brush her curls across his cheek. “I think you want me to break you.”

His low laugh rumbled against her skin.
“You think you can handle me breaking?”

“I want to try.” She let her hips press back against him, teasing, just enough to make him groan — a sound low, desperate, raw.

His hands roamed higher, trailing up her ribs beneath the thin fabric of her shirt. He spun her to face him, pressing her back against the wall, caging her in with his body.

Storm-grey eyes caught hers — sharp, open, hungry — but there was something else in them too. Something more fragile. Something real.

His hands cupped her waist like she was something precious. His thumb brushed reverently across her ribs, his other hand sliding to cradle her face, his fingers curling into her wild curls like he needed to hold something steady.

Her heartbeat kicked, fast and frantic, tripping over itself.

His lips hovered over hers. So close. Barely a breath between them.

“You’re not playing fair,” he whispered.

“I’m not playing,” she whispered back, her breath shallow, her chest rising against his. “I don’t think I ever was.”

His thumb traced the edge of her bra, skimming the delicate skin there, and she arched into him, unguarded, wrecked.

His forehead dropped to hers. His breath shook.

“You don’t know what you’re asking for.”

“I do,” she said, sure now, desperate now. “I’ve always known.”

Her pulse thundered so violently she thought he must feel it beneath his hands. Her whole body vibrated with the need to fall into him — to surrender to this, to him.

Her hand clutched his shirt, anchoring herself as the realization slammed into her.

If this happens —
If she lets this happen —
Nothing will ever be the same.

Not her life. Not her future. Not who she will become.

This will change everything.
There will be no going back.
No safe distance. No polite denial.

And she wants it.
Gods, she wants him.

She swallowed, her throat tight, her heart hammering.

And then she said it. The words low and clear, pressed right against his mouth:

“Draco, I want you.”

His breath hitched. His hands trembled against her waist.

She could feel the fracture inside him — like that was what he needed to hear, like that was the thing holding him upright all along.

“You’re mine now,” he whispered, wrecked.

“Yours, ” she whispered back.

His restraint shredded.

His body crashed into hers — his hands tightening, his lips grazing hers —

Chapter Text

His body pressed into hers, wild heat searing across every part of her he touched.

Her breath caught and shattered, ragged and desperate, matching the thunder of his heart pounding beneath his shirt—wild, uncontrolled, mirroring her own.

His storm-grey eyes locked on hers—dark, hungry, and trembling with something fragile and dangerous all at once.

His breath hitched—sharp, ragged—his lips hovering, impossibly close, heavy with the weight of everything they’d denied.

Months of restraint, stolen glances, silent longing shattered like glass between them.

Neither of them had control anymore.

Only the fierce, desperate need to fall—hard and fast—into the ruin and salvation of what they were becoming.

So when their mouths finally met, it wasn’t careful.

It was catastrophic.

Draco kissed her like something in him had broken. Like he’d waited too long and wasn’t going to wait anymore. His mouth crashed against hers with a hunger that had no place in reason.

And Hermione—gods—she kissed him back like she couldn’t breathe without it.

The feeling was euphoric. Decadent. Almost dizzying.

His body pressed against hers—solid, hot, real—and she hadn’t realized, not truly, how much she wanted this until now. Until him.

She’d wondered how he might taste, how he might touch her, but this—this wasn’t fantasy. This was wildfire. Messy and consuming.

They fumbled—lips clashing, noses bumping—but neither pulled away. They learned each other in the slip of lips and the rough drag of teeth, in the quiet, breathless chaos.

And gods, it was overwhelming.

She didn’t know a kiss could feel like this.
So consuming. So impossibly sexual.

His hands were on her waist, her ribs, her lower back—everywhere—like he couldn’t decide where to touch first, only that he had to.

She whimpered against his mouth, and his answering sound—guttural, low, completely unguarded—made her knees weaken.

She’s going to ruin me.

The thought hit him as she tugged at his collar, dragged him closer. His lips moved over hers with a kind of reverence that bordered on worship—but rougher, more desperate.

Her fingers slid into his hair and pulled, hard, and Draco growled into her mouth, his hands tightening on her hips like he might lose his mind.

She didn’t know it could feel like this.
She didn’t know wanting someone could make her whole body burn.

She kissed like she wanted to devour him. And he let her. Gladly.

Mine.

The word pulsed in his chest, pounded through his veins.

Her hands moved beneath his shirt—skin on skin, warm and reckless—and he shuddered against her, nearly losing what little control he still had.

He dropped a hand from the wall, dragging it up under her shirt, tracing the bare skin of her side, the line of her ribs. She gasped, her body arching into his, and he bit gently at her lip in response—then soothed it with his tongue.

Every touch lit him up. Every sound she made drove him harder, deeper, more undone.

She kissed him like she wanted more. All of him. And he was already halfway gone.

His hand slipped behind her neck, fingers curling into her hair as he kissed her harder—slower, now, but more dangerous. Tongue sweeping over hers, lips dragging over her jaw, her throat.

She moaned.

It wrecked him.

He pressed his body flush against hers, and she gave—perfectly, instinctively—hips tipping forward, hands dragging along the hard lines of his back, her mouth opening wider for him.

His breath stuttered. His control was slipping.

Every kiss deepened, darkened, threatened to pull them under.

He wanted her.
He wanted her like this. Like forever. Like he’d die if she ever pulled away.

Her fingers scratched down his spine. His name caught in her throat.

And Draco—already too far gone to pretend otherwise—slipped his hand lower, dragging it slowly down her thigh, over the curve of her hip, pressing her harder into the wall as his mouth returned to hers with raw, bruising heat.

They were past the point of pretending. Past the point of thinking.

This was need.

This was them.

And he wasn’t stopping yet.

Her back hit the cold stone wall again, and she gasped—not from the kiss this time, but from the icy bite pressing into her spine.

She didn’t want to stop. Not for anything. But the ache was starting to win.

“Draco,” she whispered against his mouth, breath catching as his teeth grazed her lower lip, “the wall’s… awful.”

He paused, just enough to open his eyes. They were dark. Blown wide. Beautifully wrecked.

She caught his gaze and nodded toward the open space behind him—soft, safer, something less brutal than carved stone.

He followed her look, then returned his eyes to her mouth.

A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. Faint. Breathless.

“Moving this to the floor?” he murmured. “Granger, if this is how you proposition someone, I’m appallingly underprepared.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Do you want to stop kissing me?”

His breath shuddered. “Not even slightly.”

“Then lie down, Malfoy.”

They moved together, stumbling and laughing into the space behind them, their mouths never fully parting—just breath and teeth and need between kisses. Hands tugged at fabric and clutched at skin, greedy but clumsy, as if their bodies were still figuring out how to want and be careful at the same time.

Draco lowered her with surprising gentleness, one hand slipping beneath her hair to cradle her head as she hit the floor. He pressed a kiss just beneath her ear—unthinking, instinctive, reverent.

She shifted beneath him, catching his eye.

“This is not exactly graceful,” she whispered, grinning.

His lips brushed the corner of her mouth, smirking. “Speak for yourself. I’m devastatingly agile.”

She huffed a laugh—but then his hands found her waist again, sliding up beneath her shirt, slower this time. More assured. And her laughter caught on a gasp as her body arched into his touch.

“I remember that sound,” he murmured, voice low and pleased.

Her leg hooked over his hip without thinking, and his breath faltered as he leaned into her—testing, adjusting, learning.

They were quick learners.

They used the little they knew—where to touch, where to press, how to move just right—and it was enough to leave them both breathless.

His tongue danced with hers like a dirty tango—hot and wicked and impossibly precise. He sucked at her tongue gently, teasing, and molten heat surged through her—liquid fire, low and insistent, pooling in her core.

Hermione moaned, open and unguarded.

She couldn’t get close enough.

Her fingers curled into his shirt, fussing at the fabric, desperate to feel more—to feel him. Skin to skin. No barriers. No hesitation.

She’d never felt this out of control.

And she never could be. Not with anyone.

But with him?

She wanted to be.

He’d earned this. Every inch of her trust. Every shattered defence. Every wild, aching piece of her.

He had proven himself—again and again—that he could handle her.

All of her.

The parts that trembled. The parts that demanded. The parts she didn’t let anyone else see.

She felt liberated beneath him. Like her want wasn’t something to be contained or cautioned—but something he welcomed. Matched. Worshipped.

His hands roamed—slow and steady, then urgent—like he couldn’t stop touching her. Her ribs, her waist, the bare skin just beneath her shirt. He touched and touched and touched, and each pass of his fingers lit her up all over again.

She arched beneath him, kissed him harder, her hands tangling in his hair, pulling him closer, always closer. Like if she could just get close enough, she might disappear into him entirely.

She wanted to be one with him. Nothing between them. No distance. No breath. No doubt.

“Hermione,” he groaned against her mouth, voice frayed. “You’re going to destroy me.”

She kissed him like that was the plan.

She was everywhere. Under him, around him, against his mouth, in his hands — the only thing in the world that felt real.

Draco couldn’t think. Didn’t want to.

Her taste was in his mouth. Her hips shifted beneath him like she knew exactly how to undo him. And gods, he let her — gladly, helplessly.

Her fingers tugged at his clothes with restless need, and it shattered what little composure he had left. Her hands were hot and frantic, her lips open and desperate beneath his.

She wanted him.

Not just emotionally — not carefully, not thoughtfully. Not the version of him she comforted or leaned on. She wanted this — the dark, aching, physical him.

And he… he wanted to fall.

To lose himself completely in her. To feel her under him, around him, moving with him. To forget every name, every rule, every reason.

But just as his hand slipped to the edge of her waistband — just as he felt her arch, surrendering to him without hesitation — a sharp thought sliced through the haze.

Not like this.

It wasn’t guilt that stopped him.

It was clarity.

He wanted her, yes — gods, more than anything — but not as a fever dream. Not as something he stole from a moment of weakness.

He wanted her as an equal.

As his.

And with that came weight.

The weight of legacy. Of blood. Of rules etched into him since he could walk. Some part of him — the part raised on structure and control — whispered that this moment mattered. That if he didn’t slow down now, he would dishonour her as much as himself.

Because he couldn’t just be the man who took.

Not with her.

She wasn’t some fantasy to lose himself in. She was the girl who had trusted him — with grief, with silence, with her worst nights. And if he loved her the way he feared he did, he had to prove he was worth that trust.

His mouth broke from hers with a rough gasp, and he pressed his forehead to her shoulder, panting. His hand stilled at her waist.

“Hermione…” His voice was wrecked. Barely human. “I have to stop.”

He didn’t move, not right away. He couldn’t. His body was shaking with restraint, every nerve still lit from where she’d touched him. His blood thundered in his ears.

“If I don’t stop now,” he whispered, “I won’t.”

She didn’t move either.

She was trembling beneath him, her breath coming just as uneven, her fingers curled in the fabric of his shirt. She didn’t pull away.

But she didn’t push him further.

It was enough. That trust.

They lay together in the quiet, skin still warm, limbs tangled beneath the sheets. The earlier heat between them had simmered into something slower, steadier. Draco’s hand traced slow lines along her back, as if grounding himself in the shape of her. His chest rose and fell against her cheek, and Hermione felt... safe. Unexpectedly, inexplicably safe.

So when his voice came — low, careful — it surprised her.

“There’s something I need to explain,” he said.

She made a small hum of acknowledgment, not moving. “Alright.”

“In pureblood culture,” he began, his fingers still moving, “there’s a formal process for courting someone. Proper courting — not just dating. It starts with a letter of intent.”

Hermione stirred slightly. “A letter?”

He nodded. “Written by hand. A declaration. No ambiguity. Then comes a token — magical, crafted with intent. It’s personal. It’s meant to bind meaning to magic.”

She lifted her head, intrigued now. “So not just tradition. There’s actual enchantment involved?”

“Yes. Then there’s a letter to my mother, so it’s formally acknowledged. If everything progresses, the engagement gets recorded in the blood ledger.”

Hermione stilled.

He felt it immediately — the tension that wasn’t there a moment ago.

She looked at him carefully, her voice measured. “You know I wouldn’t be accepted into that, right?”

Draco exhaled slowly, not looking away. “I do.”

“Then why bring it up?” she asked, not unkindly. “Why use a system that’s... designed to exclude me?”

His jaw tightened, but not with anger — with restraint.

“Because it’s still the only way I know to show I’m serious,” he said. “And not in passing. Not privately. But publicly. Permanently. It’s my way of saying I’m in this — if you’ll have me.”

Hermione searched his face, uncertain. “But doesn’t using their system validate it? Doesn’t it say their rules still matter?”

“I don’t care about their rules,” Draco said, voice low and certain. “Not anymore. But I do care about the parts of it that aren’t rotten. The parts that taught me how to honour someone properly. With reverence. With intent.”

His throat moved, and something in his voice softened.

“I’ve spent most of my life surrounded by power and legacy and fear,” he continued. “But I’ve never seen anything as powerful as you. And I want to choose you the way I was taught to choose something sacred. Not just in private. But where everyone can see.”

Hermione’s heart thudded. But still, she hesitated.

“You don’t have to prove anything to me, Draco. I don’t need tradition to validate what this is.”

“I know you don’t,” he said. “But I do. Not to validate you — to honour you.”

He paused, then added, quieter:

“I know it sounds mad. I know how broken the structure is. Bloodline. Class. All of it. But not everything about it is poison. Some parts are... beautiful. The intentionality. The devotion. The making of something that lasts.”

Hermione’s expression shifted — still thoughtful, but softening.

“This is how I show commitment,” Draco said. “Not possession. Not control. Just… devotion. If you let me.”

She studied him. “So it’s not about fitting me into your world. It’s about reshaping what it means to belong in it.”

“Yes,” he said, a little breathless. “Exactly.”

A beat of silence passed.

“Gods, I’ve gone mad over you,” he murmured suddenly, the emotion breaking loose. “Completely.”

Her breath caught.

“I can’t think straight around you. I can’t sleep. I can’t eat unless I know you’re safe. I am—” he gave a soft, dark laugh, “—dangerously obsessed with you.”

“You’re not alone,” she whispered. “I think about you all the time.”

He kissed her then — slow, deliberate. A promise in the shape of his mouth.

“I’ll send the letter,” he said against her lips. “Properly.”

She pulled back slightly. “When?”

“Tomorrow.”

Her eyes widened. “You’re serious.”

He gave her a crooked, wrecked grin. “Of course. I know what I want. And I want you.”

“You’re going to cause a scene.”

“Good,” he said, brushing his thumb along her cheek. “Let them see me choose you.”

And somehow, in the quiet that followed, Hermione felt steadier than she had in weeks.

Because it wasn’t just that he wanted her.

It was that he wanted to honour her. In a world that never had.

They stayed wrapped around each other, the warmth between them deepening—not just from the heat of skin and breath, but from the thrilling newness of belonging. Each casual touch, each lingering brush of fingers, was a quiet celebration: here was someone who chose them, wholly, without hesitation. It was exhilarating, empowering—like being lifted, not by force, but by the right person’s steady hand.

She kissed him again—slower this time, deeper. No urgency, no frenzy, just the steady pull of need to be near him, to feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath her palm. Her hand rose to cup his jaw, fingers tracing the line of his face as the world around them softened and faded.

Draco closed his eyes, surrendering to the moment, to the way she led with such gentle care—care that made something ache quietly in his chest. This kiss wasn’t about hunger; it was about having, about releasing every guarded piece of themselves and letting the walls fall away, brick by brick.

When she pulled back just enough to rest her forehead against his, their breaths mingled, calm but charged, holding the weight of everything left unspoken.

They stayed like that for a long while, limbs tangled, breaths slow and even. Neither spoke at first, content to exist in the quiet gravity of each other’s presence.

Finally, Hermione’s thumb brushed lightly over his cheekbone as she asked softly, “What’s your favourite colour?”

Draco let out a breathy laugh. “After all that, you ask me that?”

She smiled against his skin. “It’s a valid question.”

“Silver,” he answered easily.

“Of course.”

“And you?”

“Periwinkle blue.”

“That’s oddly specific.”

“It’s soft. Calm. Like breathing.”

He hummed thoughtfully. “Of course your favourite colour sounds like a sigh.”

She smirked. “Surprised?”

“Not at all. It suits you.” His gaze lingered on the flushed curve of her cheek, the gentle swell of her lips. “Everything about you ruins my sense of direction.”

He hadn’t meant to say it aloud, but he didn’t pull back.

A pause settled between them, and then Hermione’s voice dropped, quiet and searching. “What scares you the most?”

Draco blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift. “That’s quite a leap from colours.”

She shrugged. “We’re already here.”

He was silent a moment, then answered, “Being forgotten. Not by history, but by the people who truly knew me.”

Her chest tightened. “You think people will forget you?”

“For years, I was the version of myself they expected. I’m afraid that the moment I stop being useful — or interesting — I’ll disappear.”

She didn’t reply, just slid her hand into his and squeezed gently.

He brought her fingers to his lips, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. “And you? What do you fear?”

Swallowing, she whispered, “Losing people. Again.”

His gaze softened, understanding deep and immediate.

“I know it’s already happened,” she said, “but sometimes I think if I let anyone close, I’ll lose them too. That maybe I’m cursed to lose the ones I love.”

“You’re not cursed,” he said without hesitation.

“You don’t know that.”

“I do.” He tucked a stray curl behind her ear. “Because I’m still here.”

Their eyes locked — something fragile and fierce passing between them. She didn’t answer; she simply leaned in and kissed him again, slow and sure, a promise wrapped in silence.

As Hermione moved toward the door, Draco’s hand found hers again, fingers entwining in a quiet, unspoken claim. Neither spoke—there was no need.

She paused, their eyes locking in the soft glow of the room. A small, knowing smile tugged at the corner of her lips, mirrored by the faintest curve on his own. In that look, everything was said: belonging, trust, a promise without words.

Draco lifted his hand, brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear with a tenderness that made her heart skip. She leaned into the touch, her breath catching, her whole body folding toward him like a key fitting perfectly into a lock.

Slowly, reluctantly, she pulled back just enough to rest her forehead against his. Their breaths mingled, steady and slow—two halves finally whole.

No words. No grand declarations. Just the quiet certainty that they were each other’s now.

With one last gentle squeeze of her hand, Draco released her, watching as she slipped away—carrying the warmth of this moment with her, and leaving a piece of himself behind.

The next morning

The Great Hall was humming with its usual morning noise—scraping cutlery, rustling parchment, owl wings slicing the air. The enchanted ceiling was a soft grey, light mist brushing over a pale morning sun.

Hermione sat at the Gryffindor table, trying to read, though her eyes hadn’t moved from the same line in ten minutes. Ginny and Neville were deep in a debate about Quidditch fouls. Luna sat beside them, quietly threading a blue ribbon through her hair.

Hermione wasn’t listening.

She was watching the door.

She wasn’t sure what she expected. A dramatic entrance? A grand speech? It was Malfoy, after all.

But when the owl came, it was quiet.

A sleek grey bird swept into the hall with uncanny precision, cutting clean through the cluster of flapping feathers above, ignoring every other student as it dove straight for her.

It landed directly in front of her plate.

Hermione stared.

So did half the hall.

The envelope was thick. Heavy parchment. The Malfoy crest sealed it in silver wax. A thin silver ribbon wrapped it once, tied in perfect symmetry.

She could feel his magic humming through it—quiet, deliberate, certain.

Ginny let out a low whistle. “He didn’t.”

Luna smiled dreamily. “Oh, but he did.”

Neville blinked. “He’s really doing this publicly?”

Hermione’s fingers closed around the envelope.

Her hands were steady. She didn’t expect that.

Her heart wasn’t.

She broke the seal and unfolded the parchment. The entire hall quieted—not silent, but expectant, like a storm was gathering just off the coast of their breakfast.

To Miss Hermione Jean Granger,

I write to you in full and formal intent, requesting the honour of courting you according to the ancient rites of my house and heritage.

I offer this declaration publicly, not because tradition demands it, but because you deserve to be chosen where everyone can see. Because I want no question about who I stand beside.

You have undone every belief I once held. You are brilliance and fury and quiet and wit. You terrify me. You steady me. And I would consider it a privilege to try and be worthy of you.

It is my intent to offer a token of my magic—a piece of myself. I ask permission to begin this courtship properly, with patience, reverence, and clarity.

I am, unreasonably and entirely, yours.

Draco Lucius Malfoy

She read it twice.

The whispers were already spreading across the tables—urgent, breathless, incredulous.

“He sent her a letter—”
“A formal one—”
“Is this real?”
“To Granger?”
“Is he even allowed—”
“He doesn’t care.”

She looked up.

Draco watched her from the Slytherin table.
He didn’t move. Didn’t smirk. Didn’t blink.
He just stared like she was the only person in the room.

Theo sat beside him, relaxed and quietly pleased, sipping his tea like this was exactly the moment they’d been waiting for—Draco finally getting it right.

Blaise leaned back, a wicked grin spreading across his face. “Well, well, look who finally decided to stop playing with fire and actually light something up.”

Pansy—two seats down—looked like someone had slapped her across the face with a frozen fish, jaw tight, eyes blazing with barely concealed fury.

Hermione’s chest tightened like a vise.
Her breath caught—shallow, uneven—but she forced herself to stand, slow and steady.

The room seemed to hold its breath with her.
Not quite silent—more like the quiet before a storm.

The professors noticed. Every single one.
McGonagall paused mid-sip of her tea, eyes sharp and unreadable.
Flitwick’s usual sparkle softened into something almost proud.
Even Hagrid straightened, clearing his throat as if to hide his surprise.

No one said a word.
But the weight of their attention pressed down on her, heavy and impossible to ignore.

She crossed the hall, each step steady but her heart pounded against her ribs like a wild thing desperate to escape.

And when she reached him, all the rehearsed doubt and caution dissolved.

She didn’t hesitate.

“I accept,” she said—clear, calm, deliberate. Not loud, but with a voice that demanded no permission.

In that moment, she could almost feel the invisible thread—thin but unbreakable—winding tighter between them, pulling taut with every beat of their hearts. The red string of fate, woven long ago, stretching across time and space to tie them irrevocably together.

Draco’s mouth curved into something like a smile, slow and genuine. His eyes never left hers—sharp, unwavering, fierce.

“You’ll have your token soon,” he promised.

“I’ll be expecting it,” she replied, every word a quiet declaration of ownership.

Without a word, he stepped closer, the space between them shrinking until the world narrowed to just their breaths.

His hand brushed a stray curl behind her ear—careful, reverent.

Then, just for a heartbeat, his lips brushed hers.

Light. Chaste. Deliberate.

Not a surrender, but a promise—an unspoken vow carried in the press of his mouth, brief but impossible to forget.

When he pulled back, his storm-grey eyes held hers, dark and steady.

“I’m yours. Completely.”

Hermione’s heart thundered—wild and open—in the silence that followed.

Hermione’s footsteps echoed softly against the polished floor as she made her way back to her table.

Whispers fluttered around her like a living thing—soft, curious, cautious, and sharp with judgment.

“Did you hear that?”

“She actually said yes.”

“Bold… or reckless?”

“Do you think she knows what she’s doing?”

“Pureblood scandal in the making.”

“She’s playing with fire.”

She could feel every gaze tracing her path, every unspoken question hanging heavy in the air.

Her heart hammered fiercely, wild and unsteady beneath her ribs, but her face remained calm, composed.

Inside, though, everything was unraveling—raw and vulnerable.

For the first time, she had been so blatantly wanted—claimed—seen.

And it left her feeling exposed, trembling on the edge of something terrifying and beautiful.

As she settled into her seat, Ginny caught her eye and smiled—a knowing, mischievous curve that warmed Hermione’s chest.
“That man,” Ginny said softly, “he’s utterly captivated by you.”

Hermione’s lips lifted in a small, quiet smile, touched by the weight of that truth—how deeply, irrevocably Draco had chosen her.

Beside Ginny, Luna blinked serenely, her voice barely more than a breath.
“The red string draws taut,” she whispered, eyes dreamy and distant. “The universe sighs when such bonds are claimed.”

Neville, sitting close by, looked utterly stunned, eyes wide like he’d just glimpsed a secret revealed.
“Blimey,” he breathed, voice thick with disbelief. “I never saw that coming.”

He shook his head, the surprise still settling like dust.
“Hermione… you just—wow.”

Hermione fought back a laugh, fingers curling around the edge of the table as the steady warmth of her friends wrapped around her like a shield against the storm inside.

In her mind, the invisible thread between her and Draco pulled tight—strong and unyielding.

No matter the trials ahead, nothing could unravel what had been quietly, fiercely born.

She drew in a steadying breath, trying to calm the whirlwind within, but knowing it was impossible.

Because this was only the beginning.

Chapter Text

Draco

The week had been heavy with whispers.

Not just because of the letter. Not just because of the visible shift between Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy. But because change—real, undeniable change—was starting to settle into the halls of Hogwarts. Slowly. Unevenly. But visibly.

The final debate for the year had taken place that morning in the Great Hall, chairs spelled into neat rows, professors watching closely from the sides.

Two fifth-years stood at the front: Selene Avery, a poised, blonde Slytherin whose family name echoed through pureblood society like a hymn, and Noah Thomas, a muggle-born Gryffindor with ink-stained fingers and wild brown curls who spoke with a kind of quiet fire.

The topic: “Does the Pureblood ‘Monarchy’ Serve Any Purpose Beyond Division and Classism?”

Hermione had sat beside Draco near the back, shoulders tight, heart thudding. They hadn’t spoken much before it began. The air between them buzzed with something quieter than nerves, louder than caution.

Draco had murmured, “Remember how we hated each other in fifth year?”

She didn’t answer.

Because she remembered too well.

The debate began.

Selene’s voice was steady, rehearsed. She spoke of tradition, of cultural preservation, of magical heritage. Her tone was controlled, precise, every word chosen to sound noble.

Noah didn’t match her polish. But gods, his words held weight. He spoke of access. Opportunity. Fear. He spoke of being told he didn’t belong in a world where his magic was called dirty. His voice cracked when he said, “I didn’t even know what a wand was until I was eleven. Now I’m told mine matters less.”

Selene’s rebuttal was sharp. Intelligent. Barbed. “Tradition binds us together.”

Noah’s reply was softer: “Some traditions choke us.”

The hall had gone quiet.

No spells were cast. No magic flashed. But something shifted.

The professors didn’t interrupt. They didn’t need to. The students were listening.

Really listening.

And for a brief, impossible moment, there was something in the air that felt like possibility.

Healing.

Afterward, as the Great Hall emptied, Hermione and Draco lingered. Watching the two students — one pureblood, one muggle-born — bump shoulders as they laughed at something neither of them had said into the mic.

“They’re friends,” Hermione said, quietly.

Draco’s voice was unreadable. “That wasn’t possible. Not back then.”

“No,” she said. “But it might be now.”

Draco didn’t respond right away.

Then, quietly, he said, “You terrify me.”

And Hermione looked over at him, startled.

Not knowing yet that his heart had already fallen.

Draco

He didn’t mean to follow the sound of her voice down the corridor.

Didn’t mean to linger just outside the open library doors like some deranged house-elf, heart thudding like a first-year’s. But when he’d spotted her across the courtyard earlier—head bent, curls spilling over her shoulder, quill moving at a murderous pace—it had taken every ounce of discipline not to walk straight up and kiss her in front of the entire castle.

Not that anyone would be surprised anymore.

The letter had seen to that.

Hermione Granger had accepted a public, formal declaration of intent from Draco Malfoy in the middle of the Great Hall. He could still hear the gasps. The stunned silence. The whispers that hadn’t stopped since.

So yes. Everyone knew.

They were courting.

It changed everything. And nothing.

Draco still found her here: focused, unrelenting, surrounded by the rest of the eighth-years and buried in NEWT prep. Luna sat cross-legged beside her, calmly doodling constellations into the margins of her parchment. Neville looked as though he hadn’t blinked in a decade. Dean had taken to muttering obscenities at his textbook under his breath. Padma and Parvati were arguing about transfiguration theory like it was a sport. Lavender, oddly, was contributing.

And Hermione—Hermione was in command.

“No, Dean,” she said firmly, not unkindly. “If you cite the original intention of the charm but misquote the phrasing, you’re going to invalidate your own argument. Page 394—third paragraph down.”

Dean groaned but obeyed.

Draco leaned against the doorway and watched her. Quietly. Shamelessly.

She was radiant when she worked. Her mind was a blade, her voice a rhythm, and every sharp note of her instruction only made him want to kiss her senseless. He watched her mark a passage in Padma’s notes, glance up to correct Neville’s syntax, and return to her own essay without missing a beat.

She was bossy. Brilliant. Entirely in her element.

And he adored her.

He cleared his throat gently as he stepped forward.

Seven heads turned.

Hermione’s eyes found his first. And in that single, unguarded second, he saw it: her breath caught. Her lips parted. A flush rose along her cheekbones — not with embarrassment, but with something far quieter.

Shyness.

Hermione Granger. Shy.

It unmade him.

“Malfoy,” Lavender said, tone suspicious. “We’re working.”

He lifted the tray in his hands. “I come bearing gifts.”

Hermione blinked. “Is that—?”

“Coffee,” he said. “And eclairs. ”

Dean perked up. “You’re alright, Malfoy.”

“Don’t make a habit of saying that,” Draco muttered.

He placed the coffee beside Hermione’s notes with reverence, letting his fingers brush hers for just a beat longer than necessary.

Her hand lingered.

“I wasn’t expecting you,” she murmured.

“I know.” He sat beside her with quiet confidence. “But I needed to be near you.”

Dean cleared his throat. “Right. Okay. So we’re just… doing this now.”

“Courting,” Luna said dreamily, eyes on the floating sketch above her notes. “It’s very old magic. It settles in the bones.”

Parvati hummed. “He did send that letter in front of the whole school. You can't really pretend this is casual.”

Hermione gave a tiny shake of her head, cheeks pink, eyes fixed on her notes.

Draco watched her fall silent—not because she didn’t want to speak, but because she didn’t know how to be this version of herself in front of everyone yet.

He understood that.

So he didn’t push.

He just leaned closer, his voice low and steady. “I like watching you like this.”

Her brows lifted, but her mouth curved. “Bossing everyone around?”

“Exactly that.”

“It’s not bossy. It’s efficient.”

“It’s perfect.”

She glanced at him then. Eyes soft. Lips parted.

But she said nothing.

And neither did he.

Not aloud.

He just reached for her hand beneath the table, let their fingers tangle together out of sight, and stayed right there—beside her. With her. Proudly.

Because everyone knew.

But that wasn’t the point.

The point was that now, he was allowed to belong to her—publicly. Properly. And maybe imperfectly.

But it was the best kind of ruin.

Draco

Theo had agreed to chaperone under one condition: that he be allowed to heckle them the entire time. So far, he was thriving.

“Merlin’s bollocks,” he muttered as they stepped through the gates of Hogsmeade. “She’s got a clipboard. This isn’t a date — it’s a bloody ministry audit.”

“She likes to be organised,” Draco said mildly, hands tucked into the pockets of his charcoal cloak.

Hermione didn’t hear them. She was scanning her itinerary with calm efficiency. “Scrivenshaft’s first,” she said. “Then tea at the Three Broomsticks. Then Honeydukes. I allotted fifteen minutes for general meandering.”

Theo made a strangled sound. “You scheduled meandering?”

Draco’s lips quirked. “That’s my girl.”

Hermione flushed, but she didn’t comment — just tucked the clipboard under her arm with her usual poise. He noticed the way her fingers twitched slightly when he said it though, and he stored that away. She had no idea how much he noticed. How much he liked noticing.

At Scrivenshaft’s, things veered dangerously close to catastrophe. Draco kept bumping into shelves and displays like an idiot because he was too distracted watching her finger the edges of different parchment stacks like she was choosing between lovers. She read product descriptions aloud like they were sacred texts and frowned at him every time he scoffed.

“This one adjusts to your natural writing rhythm,” she said, holding up a sleek midnight-blue quill.

Draco eyed it with suspicion. “It looks like it writes mid-eulogy.”

“It’s practical.”

“It’s dreadful.”

“It’s enchanted to improve legibility—”

“On your handwriting?” He arched a brow. “Darling, that’s a full-time job.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You’re insufferable.”

Theo, standing between quill stands, pretended to stab himself with a peacock-feather pen.

They left the shop with Hermione clutching a new set of note-scrolls and Draco wondering how, in Merlin’s name, one woman could look so lovely while lecturing him about ink viscosity.

At the Three Broomsticks, they didn’t touch, but their coats brushed every time they shifted. Hermione ordered rosehip tea and ginger scones with practiced grace. Draco — whether to challenge her or simply to be contrary — ordered firewhisky, which earned him a tight-lipped glare.

“You’re drinking firewhisky at noon?”

Draco stirred it with mock elegance. “I was raised on pretense and quiet suffering. This is breakfast.”

Theo, biting into a scone he claimed not to like, muttered, “This is foreplay. Can I get a fork?”

Draco ignored him. His attention was on Hermione, who was buttering her scone like it had personally offended her.

“You didn’t have to sneer at the pastries,” she said flatly.

“I didn’t sneer,” he said, sipping the firewhisky with no small amount of drama. “I simply commented that they tasted like remorse.”

She rolled her eyes. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re—” He stopped. Her brow lifted. “—unreasonably good at arguing while still being mostly wrong.”

Theo slid a sickle across the table in her direction. “Emotional maturity at its finest.”

Hermione’s mouth twitched, and suddenly the tension eased. She slid her tea toward Draco. “Burned your tongue, didn’t you?”

He took it from her without comment and drank it just to prove her right.

They lingered longer than necessary. Hermione made him try the scones. He made her try the firewhisky. Theo ordered treacle tart and declared them both the worst couple he’d ever observed, then promptly excused himself to flirt with the bartender.

Outside, the cold bit at them, but they walked close, sharing a single pair of gloves between them — Draco had given her his left. She hadn’t asked.

Honeydukes was less chaotic. Hermione bought two of everything, then handed Draco a raspberry-centred sugar quill without looking at him.

He stared. “I didn’t tell you I like these.”

“You didn’t have to,” she said, brushing past him to pay.

Something in his chest twisted. It wasn’t romantic. But somehow, it was.

They wandered further than planned, ending up near the fence surrounding the Shrieking Shack. The wind curled around them, gentle but biting. Hermione leaned on the old iron rail, gloved fingers tracing the frost-laced ridges.

“I didn’t think this would be what it was,” she said.

“What did you think?”

“I don’t know. Less arguing about cutlery.”

Draco glanced sideways. “You forgot the clipboard.”

She huffed a laugh. “It was a very good clipboard.”

He was quiet for a beat. The kind of quiet that felt full.

“You terrify me,” he said.

Hermione’s smile faded. “What?”

“You’re the only person I’ve ever wanted to impress without knowing how. I don’t know the rules with you. It’s maddening.”

Her breath caught.

“I don’t need you to impress me,” she said quietly.

“I know,” he murmured. “That’s the problem.”

He looked at her then — really looked. Her eyes, wide and bright. The flush on her cheeks. The wind in her curls. The tension coiled in her fingers where they gripped the rail.

And something in him snapped.

He stepped closer, slowly, as if testing the space between them. She didn’t back away.

“Hermione,” he said, low and rough, “be my date to the Anniversary Ball.”

She blinked. “Draco—”

“Say yes.”

She stared at him — the man she once loathed, now standing so close she could smell the cedar of his cloak and the faint trace of firewhisky on his breath.

“Yes,” she whispered.

And before the word had even finished falling from her lips, he kissed her.

It was not soft.

It was molten. Hungry. Possessive.

His mouth claimed hers like it was already his — and maybe it was. Her body responded instantly, spine arching into him, hands clutching at his coat. His fingers curled around her waist, anchoring her, and her knees nearly gave out from the heat of it.

The kiss deepened — tongue brushing against hers, breath shared in quick, gasping pulls — and she felt it everywhere. In the shiver that danced up her spine. The ache low in her belly. The dizzying, intoxicating way her heart thundered.

She moaned softly into his mouth, and Draco’s grip tightened. His hand slid up her back, threading into her hair as if he couldn’t get close enough.

From somewhere behind them, Theo groaned.

“For the love of Salazar — do you want me to freeze out here while you dry-hump against a murder shack?”

Draco didn’t pull away.

But he did smirk into her mouth.

When he finally broke the kiss, it was only enough to lean his forehead against hers, breathing hard.

“See you at the training, Granger.”

Then he stepped back, hands still tingling, and took a deep, steadying breath.

Hermione was still catching hers.

And Theo, muttering under his breath, trudged past them with exaggerated disdain. “If you two start humping over the hors d'oeuvres, I’m not intervening.”

Draco didn’t answer.

He was still too focused on the taste of her lips.

Hermione

The next morning, the Room of Requirement glowed warm with enchanted torches, already rearranged into a sleek training space. Hermione was rolling out her shoulders when Draco entered, looking effortlessly lethal in black joggers and a fitted, long-sleeved shirt.

She raised a brow. “You’re late.”

“You’re early,” he countered, striding toward her.

“Semantics.”

“Foreplay,” he said under his breath.

She flushed. “This is training.”

“Mm.” He stepped in behind her and adjusted the angle of her stance. “Today’s a strength set. Bench presses, weighted squats, and maybe—if you behave—I’ll let you throw me around a bit.”

Hermione snorted. “Tempting.”

The workout started as usual: technical, intense, silent save for breathing and commands. But the space between them crackled. Every time his hands steadied her, she lingered. Every time she grunted through a rep, he clenched his jaw.

Then, halfway through, he called a break.

And pulled a velvet box from his bag.

Hermione blinked. “What’s that?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just stepped closer and opened the box.

Inside was a necklace — fine silver chain, anchored by a small circular charm etched with an intricate rune. It shimmered faintly with layered protection and promise.

“A token of intent,” he said. “From me to you.”

Her breath hitched.

“I thought—”

“You said yes,” he said. “To the ball. To me. This is the next step. It makes things more… official. Public. It means you’re mine.”

She raised a brow. “Bit possessive, aren’t we?”

His voice dropped. “Do you mind?”

She stared at him — her trainer, her partner, her… maybe. Then slowly, she turned around, swept her hair aside.

“Put it on me.”

Draco’s fingers trembled only slightly as he fastened the chain. The charm fell just above her collarbone.

She turned.

“Looks good on you,” he said, hoarse.

“Feels good.”

He stepped closer.

“Can I kiss you?”

She didn’t answer.

She pulled him in.

This time, when their mouths met, it wasn’t just heat.

It was hunger laced with reverence. Teeth. Tongue. Groans swallowed.

Draco pushed her gently against the padded wall, kissing her like she was salvation, like he was seconds from losing his mind.

Her hands slipped under his shirt, and his hitched breath told her everything.

When his thigh pressed between hers, her hips moved instinctively, grinding softly. He swore. She whimpered.

“Fuck,” he murmured. “You’re going to kill me.”

“You started it,” she gasped.

“I gave you a token, not an invitation to ruin me.”

“Too late.”

He kissed her again — deeper this time — and let himself imagine a hundred more days just like this. Just her. Just them.

And for a moment, everything outside the room ceased to exist.

Hermione

The late afternoon sunlight spilled through the curtains, casting long, warm shadows across Hermione’s cluttered desk. Textbooks lay open, parchment scattered, quills rolling free — a battlefield of half-finished spells and hurried notes. Yet none of it held her attention.

Her mind was tangled, a knot of worry and determination.

The Anniversary Ball was hours away, and the weight of what lay ahead pressed heavily on her chest. Between the relentless demands of NEWT preparation and the ever-present buzz around her relationship with Draco Malfoy, Hermione felt the precarious balance of her world teetering.

Everyone knew now.

The letter of intent, delivered openly in the Great Hall, sealed their courtship in the eyes of the wizarding world. Whispers would follow, doubts would spread like wildfire, and she could already feel the unspoken questions weighing on her.

What would Harry think? Ron? Could they understand what Draco had come to mean for her? The quiet strength that had held her steady through the worst — through grief, through depression, through losing Crookshanks — was more real than any rumour or prejudice.

Her fingers trembled as she picked up a fresh piece of parchment and dipped her quill in ink.

This was harder than any spell she’d ever cast.

Harry—

I’m going to be honest — this might come as a shock.

Draco Malfoy and I are seeing each other. Dating, whatever you want to call it.

I know it’s sudden, and I know it might feel like a betrayal.

But I’ve been dealing with a lot, and it hasn’t been easy to say this aloud.

The truth is — I’m happy. Safe. I feel like I belong when I’m with him.

Please trust me.

Love, Hermione.

She paused, rereading the words. Raw and unguarded.

Turning to a new sheet, she began again.

Ron—

This is difficult to write, so I’m just going to rip the band-aid off.

I’m dating Draco Malfoy.

I know what you’re probably thinking — that I’ve lost my mind.

But I haven’t.

I know our history, and I know what Draco was to us.

But he cares about me now. He’s changed.

So please, just trust me.

I promise he’s been good to me.

I know you want me to be happy and loved.

That’s exactly how I feel with him.

Sealing both letters with the silver wax, Hermione let out a slow breath. Relief flickered faintly beneath the storm of her emotions.

Soon, the door creaked open and Ginny stepped inside, already dressed for the evening in a stunning deep crimson gown embroidered with gold threads that shimmered like embers in the firelight. Her fiery hair was swept into a loose braid, woven with tiny roses that mirrored the passion and courage in her eyes.

Luna followed, graceful as ever, in a flowing seafoam-green dress that cascaded like gentle waves. Delicate silver beads sparkled through her pale hair, catching the soft glow of the lamps. Her makeup was ethereal — pearly shimmer dusted her eyelids, and silver mascara made her eyes gleam like stars.

Hermione stood at her vanity, fastening a delicate silver chain around her neck — Draco’s token.

It settled against her collarbone like a secret only they shared. The charm pulsed faintly, a rhythm matching her heartbeat, its soft glow warm with layered protection spells. He had made it with his own magic. His intent. His promise.

Luna tilted her head, watching quietly. “That’s not just jewellery,” she said softly.

Ginny came closer, eyes narrowing with curiosity — and then widened in recognition.

“Is that—?” She stepped forward, her voice hushed but electric. “That’s an intention token, isn’t it?”

Hermione didn’t deny it.

Ginny let out a low whistle. “So it’s official. You’re properly courting. Merlin, Hermione.”

“It’s beautiful,” Luna whispered, her eyes dreamy. “It looks like it was made for your magic.”

Hermione smoothed the charm with trembling fingers. “It was.”

Her voice was quiet. But certain.

Then she stepped into her gown — silver and sleek, the fabric hugging every curve like liquid moonlight. The open back revealed delicate straps tracing her shoulder blades — elegant and exposed — a quiet nod to his favourite colour, though she hadn’t chosen it for that reason.

Not consciously.

Her hair was pinned loosely, tendrils curling softly around her face — the very strands he loved to tuck behind her ears. Her makeup was understated but intentional: smoky silver shadow deepening the storm behind her eyes, a rose-tinted balm catching the shape of her mouth like something sacred.

Her slippers shimmered with each step, catching candlelight like starlight on snow.

Ginny stepped behind her, draping a matching silver wrap over her shoulders, fingers lingering for a second longer than necessary.

“You’re glowing,” she said, her voice soft with knowing.

Hermione gave a quiet breath of laughter. “It’s just fabric and magic.”

“No,” Luna said gently. “It’s him. And you.”

Hermione didn’t answer. She couldn’t. Her throat was too full of everything unspoken.

She looked at herself again in the mirror. Not the girl who buried herself in books. Not the girl who ran toward battle with trembling hands and unwavering conviction. Not even the girl who’d been broken open by grief.

But the woman she was now.

The woman who had chosen — again and again — to love.

Ginny stepped beside her. “Ready to face the world?”

Hermione reached for her clutch, exhaled slowly, and nodded. “Yes.”

But that one word carried everything beneath it — the tension, the courage, the unrelenting hope.

Because tonight, the world would see her. They’d see the silver at her throat, spelled with a boy’s magic and devotion. They’d see the way she stood, unbending, unashamed. They’d see her strength and mistake it for softness.

And they wouldn’t understand.

But Draco would.

And that was enough.

Because despite the doubts and cruel whispers, despite the memory of a life interrupted — she knew one thing with clarity that shimmered brighter than any gown:

She belonged.

Here. With him.

And the ache inside her chest — warm and aching and infinite — was something beyond desire.

Something like devotion.

Something like falling, and finding, and never wanting to land.

Draco

Draco stood at the base of the stairs outside the Gryffindor common room, posture elegant, expression unreadable, but heart racing like a schoolboy.

The Fat Lady had sung a teasing love song when he’d arrived — loudly — until he fixed her with a pointed glare. Still, he waited. And when the portrait swung open and Hermione stepped through, the world momentarily narrowed to nothing but her.

She wore silver.

Not just silver — but a vision of it. Her gown clung like moonlight, sleek and gleaming, hugging her body with elegance and reverence. The back dipped low, exposing the graceful lines of her spine, but it wasn’t the dress that knocked the air from his lungs.

It was the token.

The delicate silver chain lay around her neck, the charm resting just above the swell of her collarbone — softly pulsing, spelled to resonate with his own heartbeat.

She wore his intention. Openly. Boldly.

Draco swallowed hard.

Hermione paused, watching him with soft, uncertain eyes.

“Hi,” she whispered.

He stepped forward slowly, hand outstretched. Instead of taking her hand, he brushed his fingers just above the charm, where it sat like a promise.

“You’re… radiant,” he murmured.

She smiled — small, breathless — and tucked a loose curl behind her ear.

He held out his arm. “Shall we?”

With a nod, she slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow, and together, they walked into history.

The Great Hall had been transformed. Starlight shimmered on the enchanted ceiling, and hundreds of floating candles flickered above elegantly dressed students. The long tables had vanished, replaced by a glossy dance floor and clusters of gilded seating. Chandeliers hovered overhead like constellations.

The moment they entered — his hand guiding her gently through the archway — heads turned.

Flashes of magical cameras ignited.

Students gaped. Staff blinked. Even McGonagall gave a brief pause from her post near the front.

But no one could take their eyes off the token.

The charm glowed faintly against Hermione’s skin, unmistakable in its intent.

Draco kept his expression neutral, but his hand tightened slightly on hers. Hermione felt it — the tension, the weight of being seen.

“Steady,” he murmured.

She tilted her head toward him. “Are they all staring at you or me?”

He smirked. “Us.”

They moved through the crowd, and students whispered as they passed.

"That’s a courting token, right?"

"It has to be. Malfoy gave it to her?"

"She’s wearing it in public—”

“Gods, is she mad?”

Hermione kept her head high.

Ginny nudged Luna with her elbow and grinned. “Told you she’d wear it. Look at the poor bloke — he’s unravelling.”

Luna nodded serenely, her gaze drifting to Draco. “He looks like he’d hex time itself just to keep her beside him longer.”

Theo and Blaise approached not long after, each exchanging a look with Draco that said volumes. Theo arched a brow.

“You’re either madly in love or wildly stupid.”

“Both,” Draco replied without hesitation.

The evening passed in a blur of polite conversation, formal dances, and watchful glances. Even Harry and Ron managed civility — Ron, looking between the token and Draco’s hand on Hermione’s back, had said only, “Just don’t hurt her.”

Draco had nodded, solemn. “I won’t.”

But the quiet intimacy between them — the looks, the touches, the heat simmering just under propriety — did not go unnoticed.

Whispers surrounded them wherever they moved.

A Malfoy courting a Muggle-born.

And she accepted.

The tension in the room was thick with disbelief and fascination.

But Draco had eyes only for her.

Until—

A soft voice cut through the music.

“Draco.”

He turned.

Narcissa Malfoy stood near the outer edge of the ballroom, framed in pale blue silk and silver embroidery. Regal. Composed.

And beside her—

Astoria Greengrass.

Hermione froze.

Astoria was breathtaking. All poised elegance and delicate cruelty, her dark hair swept into a flawless twist, her gown a pale shade of frost that made her eyes glint like sharpened glass.

Narcissa offered a faint smile.

“You must be Miss Granger. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Hermione extended a hand. “Thank you, Mrs. Malfoy.”

Narcissa’s eyes lingered on the token. Then shifted to Draco.

“I received your letter of intent,” she said softly. “It caused quite a stir.”

Draco tensed. “I meant every word.”

“I’m sure you did,” she replied coolly. “Though I must admit… I’m confused.”

Hermione blinked. “Confused?”

Narcissa’s lips curved. “Well. I had thought my son was already engaged.”

Hermione’s spine went rigid.

And then — as if summoned by some cruel twist of fate — Astoria stepped forward.

“Evening, Miss Granger,” she said smoothly. “I do hope there’s been a misunderstanding.”

Her eyes flicked to the token. Her smile didn’t reach them.

“In our circles, such declarations carry weight. You’re wearing his intent. And yet…”

She tilted her head.

“Some things aren’t so easily undone.”

Behind her, Pansy Parkinson appeared, arms folded, mouth twisted into something between amusement and disdain.

Hermione didn’t flinch. Didn’t step back. She simply stood tall — silver and still — the charm at her throat pulsing like a second heartbeat.

“Miss Granger,” Narcissa said, voice sharp as glass, “allow me to introduce Draco’s fiancée… Miss Astoria Greengrass.”

Chapter Text

Draco

Earlier that day

They were still tangled on the training mat in the Room of Requirement — flushed, breathless, her muscles sore in the best way.

The sunlight flickered across Draco’s face, casting golden shadows against the planes of his cheekbones. He was still laying behind her, shirt clinging to his chest, hand trailing slowly along her spine like he couldn’t quite stop touching her.

Hermione shifted slightly, leaning back into his palm.

“Talk to me,” she whispered.

His brow lifted. “About?”

She looked over her shoulder, eyes sharp but soft. “Everything.”

And because he knew what she meant — of course he did — Draco sat back and gave her all of it.

He told her about the customs. The expectations. The way courtship worked in his world — the intention letters, the family politics, the tokens, the public scrutiny. He told her how the blood ledger recorded bonds, how names were bound and sanctioned by magic older than stone.

And then, quietly, he told her about Astoria.

The agreement made when they were children. The formality of it. The silence. The fact that the contract still technically existed, though it had never meant anything to him. And how that silence had now taken shape again — looming, inconvenient, bitter.

Hermione sat very still, her expression unreadable.

“I didn’t want you to hear it from anyone else,” he said. “You deserve better than being blindsided.”

Her throat bobbed as she swallowed. “You could get in trouble for breaking it, couldn’t you?”

He hesitated. “Yes.”

Her breath hitched. “And yet…”

“And yet,” he said, voice rough, “I sent you a letter of intent. And gave you my token. And brought you here. Because I’d rather face all of them than not be near you.”

Hermione’s eyes shimmered — not with tears, but intensity. Awareness. Want.

“You’re a very good boyfriend,” she murmured.

Draco blinked. “Well. I try—”

And then she straddled his lap.

Her thighs settled around his hips with terrifying precision. She was still in her sports bra, damp from effort, her skin warm and flushed, hair mussed, braid half undone. He couldn’t breathe.

“Granger—”

She leaned in, brushing her nose against his.

“How far,” she whispered, “can we go?”

His breath caught. “What?”

Her mouth curved, slow and teasing, as her fingers toyed with the edge of his collar. “Don’t play dumb. You’re pureblood. You know the rules. How far is too far… after a token has been accepted?”

His brain short-circuited. Her weight. Her warmth. The scent of sweat and lavender. Her voice.

“Technically?” he rasped. “After the token, the rules… loosen.”

“Loosen?”

He swallowed.
“There’s… room. For physical affection. For connection. They assume—if the intent is serious—you’ll want to be close. The traditions allow for it. But it has to be… consensual. Reverent. Still proper.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow.

“Reverent?” she echoed, tilting her head. “Is that your way of telling me I’m allowed to kiss you if I do it politely?”

Draco blinked, caught off guard.

Her fingers slid into his hair — not hesitantly, but not entirely sure of themselves either. Just... curious. Tender.

She smiled. “Good to know.”

Then softer, under her breath — not quite teasing anymore:

“Because I don’t really want proper.”
“I want you.”

A pause.

“And I’d like to be close. Unless that violates some arcane courting code I haven’t read yet.”

He didn’t laugh.

He just looked at her — like he was absolutely done for.

His hands clamped to her hips like a lifeline.

“I need to know,” she continued, breath ghosting over his mouth, “that I’m yours. That this—this thing between us—isn’t just theory and intention and beautiful tradition. I want to feel it.”

His control fractured. He didn’t move for a heartbeat — then he surged up and captured her mouth with his.

It was heat. Fire. Months of tension exploding into flame.

His hands slid under her thighs, pulling her tighter against him. She gasped into his mouth, hips rolling instinctively, and he groaned — deep and guttural — like she’d just shattered something inside him.

Her fingers found the hem of his shirt and dragged it upward, exposing skin. Her lips left his only long enough to kiss the hollow of his throat, to suck gently just above his collarbone.

“Gods, Hermione—”

She licked the spot.

He cursed.

His hands slid up her back, touching skin like it was sacred. He could have her. Right now. She was pliant and hungry and wrapped around him like wildfire.

But—

He pulled back slightly, gasping for air.

“Not tonight,” he said, forehead pressed to hers. “Let’s not rush this. I do not want to mess this up.”

Her eyes, dark with want, fluttered. “You won’t.”

He shook his head, hands trembling as they traced the slope of her ribs. “There is all the time in the world. I would prefer you in a massive bed where I can enjoy you for hours. We have a lot happening today. It’s a difficult day. So, let’s wait. I do not want to overshadow our first time.”

She blinked at him.

And something in her expression softened.

She pressed her lips to his jaw. “Okay.”

Draco exhaled slowly, brushing her curls from her face.

“I’ll see you tonight,” he said. “At the ball.”

Hermione nodded. “Warn me about your mother?”

He huffed a humorless laugh. “She won’t like this. She won’t like you.”

Hermione’s spine straightened. “Too bad.”

He kissed her again — slower this time, reverent, lips parting like a prayer.

And when they finally broke apart, he whispered, “But I do. Gods, I do.”

Hermione

At the ball

Hermione barely blinked.

The room had gone quiet around them, or perhaps it was just her mind — sharpening, narrowing, focusing like the point of a blade. The word fiancée rang like a curse, but her expression remained untouched. Perfect. Impeccable. Every lesson she'd ever absorbed from watching purebloods navigate power and politics settled into her spine like armour.

She didn’t flinch. She didn’t gasp. She simply smiled.

It was small. Controlled. Utterly maddening.

“A pleasure,” she said, extending her hand.

Astoria took a moment too long to respond. Her fingers were cool, her grip delicate — the way one might hold a snake by the neck. Her lips curved in a smile far too polished to be genuine.

“I’ve heard so much about you, Miss Granger,” Astoria murmured, voice like spun glass. “You’ve made quite the… impression.”

“Miss Greengrass,” Hermione said with a courteous tilt of her head, voice calm but edged with quiet steel, “it’s lovely to finally meet the woman so many speak so highly of. Though I must admit, it’s always surprising when reputation and reality don’t quite align.

Pansy’s smirk twitched.

Narcissa’s gaze sharpened.

The moment Narcissa said it — fiancée — the world tilted, just slightly.

Hermione didn’t blink.

“I wasn’t aware we were doing strategic revelations this evening,” she said lightly, gaze fixed on Narcissa, not Astoria. “How perfectly timed.”

Her voice was pleasant. Almost warm. The kind of tone that sounded like tea being poured — all civility, hiding the scald.

Narcissa didn’t flinch. “I merely thought it proper, given the setting.”

“Proper,” Hermione repeated, tasting the word like something she found on the bottom of her shoe. “How thoughtful.”

Astoria shifted. No one else moved.

Not yet.

Hermione didn’t look away.

And she didn’t smile.

Beside Narcissa, Astoria Greengrass smiled — all teeth and poise. Her gown was flawless, every hair pinned with surgical precision. She exuded effortless grace — but her eyes were wrong. Calculating. Watching.

Hermione knew that look.
She’d read it in every drawing room scene from Pride and Prejudice to The Picture of Dorian Gray — the quiet calculations behind a teacup, the polite tension of women trained to wound with a smile.
Astoria wasn’t just here to observe.

She was here to win.

“I do hope our paths won’t cross too uncomfortably in the future,” Astoria said, her voice smooth as pressed silk. “These things can get… tangled.”

Hermione tilted her head slightly, studying her with cool interest. “Tangling requires threads. I didn’t realise we were tied to anything.”

Astoria’s smile didn’t waver, but Hermione saw it — the flicker of annoyance.

She pressed on.

“With all due respect, Lady Malfoy,” Hermione said, turning back to Narcissa, voice velvet-edged and unwavering, “you should stop forcing your son into arrangements he’s outgrown.”

A breath caught — Narcissa’s, maybe Pansy’s. Astoria’s nails tapped her glass.

“You keep choosing bloodlines and politics over his happiness and then claim it’s love,” Hermione continued, eyes locked onto Narcissa’s. “But love doesn’t trap. Love doesn’t parade history over someone’s future.”

She stepped forward, just half a pace — enough to shift the air.

“And I suggest you start becoming comfortable with the idea of me. Of us. Because one day, you may be toasting to a wedding you didn’t plan. To a future you couldn’t curate.”

Her voice stayed soft.

“But I will never choose anything — or anyone — over him. And your beautiful, half-blood grandchildren will be raised with more than tradition. They’ll be raised with choice.”

She didn’t need to say love. Not here. Not to them.

That was hers and Draco’s.

She gave Narcissa a slow, gracious nod. Then her gaze flicked to Astoria.

“Lovely to meet you,” she said gently. “I can see how the contract came to pass. You’re very polished.”

And with that, she turned.

Not sharply. Not with vengeance.

Elegantly.

Her dress shimmered as she moved, the silver catching the candlelight like stardust spun into silk.

She left them standing there — Narcissa too stunned to summon words, Astoria too proud to call after her, and Pansy watching with something like the beginning of regret.

She didn’t wait for Draco. She didn’t need to.

She made it halfway down the empty corridor before her lungs gave out.

The walls blurred, not from tears, but from the tightness closing in around her. Her back met the stone. Her hand pressed to her chest, trying to slow the thundering panic. Not now. Not here.

She closed her eyes.

You knew. You knew. You knew.

But it didn’t matter.

Knowing something could hurt and feeling it crash through you were two different things entirely.

The corridor was mercifully empty.

Her chest seized.

She pressed the heels of her palms into her eyes, fingers trembling.

And that’s when she heard footsteps.

No. Not now. Not like this—

“Granger?”

Draco’s voice.

Soft. Alarmed.

She tried to straighten. Tried to gather herself, but it was too late.

He’d already seen.

He crossed the space in three strides. “Hey—hey. Look at me.”

She shook her head once, jaw clenched, throat too tight to speak.

His hands hovered — careful, reverent — before one came to rest at the nape of her neck, the other steadying her arm.

“Breathe with me,” he whispered. “I’ve got you. Just breathe.”

She was humiliated. Not from the panic itself — no, she knew too well what it meant to crack under pressure — but from the fact that they had pushed her to it. That they’d staged their theatre so precisely. That they’d tried to make her feel small.

And that she’d almost let them.

“I didn’t expect this,” she choked, voice barely audible.

Draco’s hand moved to her jaw, thumb brushing her cheek. “I know.”

“I thought—I knew about the contract, I thought I could handle it—”

“You did handle it.” His voice sharpened, protective now. “You didn’t blink. You looked them in the eye and didn’t give them a single piece of you.”

“But I feel like I’m drowning, Draco,” she whispered, closing her eyes against the sting. “Like I’m losing before we’ve even begun.”

“No. They want you to think that,” he said. “They want you to feel outnumbered and outplayed. But I’m telling you—” he cupped her face again, firmer this time “—they’ve already lost.”

She opened her eyes.

His were stormy and sure.

“I’m not marrying her,” he said, voice low and steady. “I told you everything because I never wanted you blindsided. I knew they'd play dirty, but I never imagined—”

He cut himself off. His jaw clenched.

“I’ll walk away from all of it. Every custom. Every legacy. Every expectation they’ve shackled me with. Just say the word.”

Hermione blinked, chest still tight, but her pulse started to slow.

She waited three breathes.

“I don’t want you to walk away from yourself,” she said, hoarsely. “I want to fight beside you.”

His gaze flicked down to her mouth, then back up again.

And then, quieter: “That’s what scares them, you know.”

She swallowed. “What?”

“That you’re not just standing in the way. You’re standing with me.”

She didn’t know what made her do it — exhaustion, defiance, the unbearable pressure of having to stay composed all night — but she stepped forward, curled her fingers into the front of his robes, and rested her forehead against his.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

“I need you tonight,” she murmured. “Just… your arms. Your voice. I need to feel something good.”

Draco exhaled slowly, his breath brushing against her skin.

“You’ll have all of it,” he said. “Everything I have. Everything I am. I’ll see you tonight.”

He didn’t kiss her.

Didn’t push.

He simply held her, heart to heart, and let her fall apart silently in his arms — because he understood that strength wasn’t always loud. And love wasn’t always spoken.

Sometimes, it was standing still.

And sometimes, it was knowing exactly when not to speak.

Narcissa

Narcissa watched Draco disappear after the girl, his spine straight, jaw tight, fury barely masked behind formality. Hermione had gone first — composed, radiant, untouched by the chaos they'd hoped would shake her.

She had not cracked.

She had smiled. She had delivered her words with scalpel precision and then walked away without looking back.

Narcissa didn’t follow. She didn’t need to.

She saw everything she needed in her son’s eyes.

“She didn’t even blink,” Pansy said beside her, voice low and uncertain. “Not when you said it. Not even when you introduced—”

Astoria cut her off with a sharp flick of her eyes.

“She expected resistance,” she said. “She expected disapproval. But not the public declaration. That surprised her. Still…” Her voice flattened. “She handled it.”

Pansy folded her arms, glancing at the guests now murmuring behind their gloved hands. “You think she’s a threat?”

“She’s a problem,” Astoria replied coldly. “Not because of where she comes from. But because he looks at her like he’s already lost the war and doesn’t care.”

There was a pause. Wind brushed over the balcony. The firelight from the ballroom flickered across their faces, throwing long shadows.

“She’s clever,” Narcissa said.

It wasn’t praise.

Not quite.

But not dismissal either.

“She’s dangerous,” Astoria muttered again.

“She’s in love with him,” Pansy offered. “That’s why she survived tonight. That kind of devotion—it makes people do impossible things.”

Astoria’s lips curled faintly, as if the very word tasted bitter.

“Love,” she repeated, the way one might say infection. “Please. Don’t romanticise what is clearly a distraction.”

But Narcissa looked sideways at her. And for the first time, saw it.

The blind spot.

Astoria, for all her elegance, for all her calculation and composure — did not understand it. That wild, irrational thing that rooted Hermione’s strength. The way she wielded loyalty like a wand. The way she’d stared them down not for herself — but for him.

It was the flaw Voldemort had once had.

A refusal to see the power in love. Because it didn’t follow logic. It didn’t care for bloodlines or contracts. It moved mountains. Toppled empires.

And Astoria — like the Dark Lord before her — believed it made people weak.

That would be her mistake.

“She’s in his bloodstream,” Narcissa murmured.

Astoria stilled. “What?”

“She’s already changed him. ”

Astoria’s voice dropped. “She doesn’t belong here.”

“And yet,” Narcissa said lightly, “she remains.”

Pansy was silent now, chewing her lip.

Astoria turned, her gaze burning. “Then we make her leave.”

She said it without heat. Without drama. Just ice.

And that — that chill — told Narcissa more than any scream might have.

Astoria wasn’t done.

She was just beginning.

But Narcissa had seen the truth tonight. No matter how the pieces were arranged — no matter what stories the Prophet printed or how tightly the old families clung to their hierarchy — Hermione Granger was already winning.

And if she could survive this?

She could survive anything.

Hermione

Draco didn’t speak. Not right away.

The room hummed with quiet. The kind of quiet that wasn’t empty — but full. Full of everything unsaid, everything felt, everything she wasn’t ready to face.

Hermione stood with her back to the door, slowly unpinning the last twist of her hair. Her hands shook, though she wasn’t sure if it was from exhaustion or adrenaline. The silver folds of her gown lay folded over the back of her chair, a relic from a night she wished she could peel off her skin.

She’d already changed — soft pajama shorts covered in ridiculous dancing teddy bears and an oversized Gryffindor jumper that kept slipping off her shoulder. It was warm, comfortable, and entirely inappropriate for a former war heroine and current public enemy of Pureblood etiquette.

But tonight, she didn’t care.

The door creaked.

“I locked that,” she said softly.

“I know,” Draco answered, his voice low.

She didn’t turn. “You came.”

“You asked me to.”

Finally, she looked over her shoulder, and something in her chest settled — not calmed, not soothed, but grounded. His presence always did that now. She hated how much she’d come to rely on it.

He closed the door behind him and stepped inside.

“I’m sorry,” she said abruptly, her voice high and taut. “I just—I had to get out. I couldn’t breathe in there. It was like being in a cage made of old rules and older bloodlines, and everyone’s eyes were saying what their mouths were too polite to speak.”

Draco tilted his head, but didn’t interrupt.

“And it’s just—gods, how do they believe this deeply? How can they live and breathe this, pass it down like heirlooms?” she continued, words tumbling now. “They fought a war over this. A war, Draco. Entire generations raised on the idea that blood makes you better. That dinner table conversations and arranged dances and formal rituals are sacred — holy, even. As if kindness is vulgar and compassion is weak.”

She finally looked at him fully. “You warned me. About the stares. The expectations. Her. I thought I could handle it. And I did. But I didn’t expect it to feel like that. Like I was drowning in legacy. Like I’d never be enough, no matter how many battles I win or laws I help change.”

He didn’t answer with words. Just crossed the room and reached for her.

She didn’t flinch. His hands slid beneath her jumper, palms warm on her waist, grounding. She shivered at the contact, eyes fluttering shut for just a moment.

“I know I said just sleep,” she whispered.

“I know.” His voice was low, almost reverent.

But then his lips brushed hers — barely a kiss, more a promise.

And suddenly, she was kissing him back.

Slow. Deep. Searching. Her hands curled into the fabric at his shoulders, dragging him closer, needing the weight of him, the realness, the heat. His mouth moved against hers with practiced control, and she matched him — but there was no war between them here. No tension, no posturing. Just heat and ache and the relief of being understood.

He pulled back slightly, gaze dark and unreadable, like he was waiting for her to draw the line.

She reached for the hem of his shirt.

That was her answer.

He undressed with the kind of grace that came naturally to him — every movement unhurried. He kept his pajama pants on. She kept her jumper on but removed her pajama pants.

He inhaled sharply, but said nothing. Just traced her side with reverent fingers, watching the goosebumps rise beneath his touch.

They moved to the bed — not quite laughing, but brushing shoulders and hips in a way that felt natural. Familiar.

He kissed her again, deeper now, his hand curling into the back of her hair. She moaned into his mouth, arching against him, her legs tangling with his. She could feel the length of him pressed to her thigh — hot, insistent — but he didn’t grind against her, didn’t rush. He kissed down her jaw, her collarbone, between the soft swell of her breasts. His fingers explored her thighs, her hips, her ribs, touching her like he was learning a language with his hands.

She gasped when his palm slid between her legs over the soft cotton of her shorts, and he paused — watching her, always watching.

Her answer was a breathless, “Don’t stop.”

He didn’t.

His touch grew firmer, more precise, dragging soft moans from her lips that she barely recognized as her own. She writhed beneath him, fingers gripping his shoulders, her breath catching. He worshipped her with his mouth and hands like she was something holy. She came undone with a quiet cry, burying her face in his neck.

After, she pulled him down beside her, not letting go. Skin to skin, their breathing slowed together, hearts finally steadying.

He tucked the blanket around them both, his arm slung low around her waist, holding her close.

For a long time, neither spoke.

Then she whispered, “Thank you. For coming.”

His lips brushed her hair.

“You don’t have to thank me.”

She didn’t respond. Just nestled closer.

And when her breathing evened out, almost asleep, he murmured, so quietly it barely stirred the air:

“I’ll protect you. Even from them.”

She didn’t answer.

But her fingers curled tighter into his side.

And he stayed.

Just to sleep.

Just to hold her.

And for the first time in too long, it felt like enough.

Hermione

The first thing Hermione felt was warmth.

Not the usual haze of morning or the comfort of thick blankets — but the unmistakable weight of another body, pressed along her back. Steady. Familiar.

Draco.

His arm was draped across her waist, anchoring her without holding too tightly. His breath stirred the curls at her neck. One of his legs was tangled gently with hers under the sheets. His skin was warm. Real. Present.

She let herself have that, just for a few seconds — the rare permission to feel safe.

Then—

Clack.

A sharp thump against the window jerked her eyes open. Wings blurred past the glass. Something heavy smacked into the sill again.

Draco stirred behind her, groaning low. “Tell me that’s not the Prophet.”

Hermione pushed the blanket aside, sat up, and waved her wand toward the latch. The window creaked open, and a large tawny owl shoved its way through without grace or patience.

It dropped the paper right onto the bed between them and launched back out again with a grating screech.

The roll bounced once, then settled — already smudging ink across her duvet.

Draco sat up behind her, rubbing his face with one hand. “Do I even want to know?”

She didn’t answer.

Not yet.

Her fingers unrolled the parchment slowly.

She read the headline. Then read it again.

WAR HEROINE’S MIDNIGHT TRYST? DRACO MALFOY SEEN ENTERING GRANGER’S DORMITORY

Exclusive: Sources claim repeated late-night visits. Unchaperoned weight training. Concerning proximity between war hero and reformed heir.

No photo. No timestamp. Just the suggestion. Just enough implication to start a fire.

Her jaw clenched.

Draco looked over her shoulder. The second he saw the bold text, his breath left him in a hiss. “Of course.”

He took the paper from her, scanned it top to bottom. The tightness in his face was immediate. Familiar.

Anger. But worse — guilt.

“They’ve been waiting for something like this,” he said flatly. “One vague sighting, and they run with it.”

Hermione wrapped the blanket tighter around herself. “It’s deliberate.”

Draco’s eyes narrowed as he scanned the byline, then the wording. “This… this is Astoria.”

Hermione blinked. “You’re sure?”

He nodded once, sharp. “She’s calculated. Controlled. She’d never risk her name on the ink — but this? This is her script. Perfect phrasing. Polite enough to print, loaded enough to gut.”

Hermione took a slow breath. “And Pansy?”

He looked up. “Feeding her. Gossip. Hints. Pansy plays dumb — but she hears everything. She’s always listening. And she’s never silent unless she’s passing information somewhere else.”

Hermione’s mouth twitched — not quite a smile. “So we’ve been surrounded.”

“Carefully. Quietly. Probably since the start.”

She folded the paper in half, precise.

There was no panic in her now.

Just heat. Quiet, contained fury.

And under that?

Clarity.

They wanted her scandalised. Cornered. Shamed. Reduced to a body beneath Draco Malfoy’s window. A fleeting obsession. An embarrassment to be quietly discarded.

Unworthy.

But she wouldn’t give them that.

They don’t get to define me.

Not again.

Not ever.

She had walked through fire — real fire. Torture. War. Sacrifice. She had broken and rebuilt herself more times than she could count. She had nothing to prove to these girls and their fragile bloodlines.

And she wasn’t losing him.

Not to whispers. Not to politics. Not to some silk-draped smear campaign.

She turned to look at Draco.

Hair tousled. Shoulders bare. Jaw set. He looked like someone ready to tear something down just to keep her standing.

He was hers.

Somewhere between the books and the debates, the bruised glances and whispered apologies, the potions - she had fallen in love with him.

And now she knew.

I love you.

Not because he saved her. Not because he soothed her.

Because he saw her.

And she was not letting him go.

She reached for his hand.

“We don’t let them win,” she said.

Draco’s eyes flicked to hers — dark, grounded. “No.”

“We don’t run. We don’t shrink. We don’t give them control.”

His jaw relaxed slightly. “We fight back. We outmanoeuvre them”

Hermione’s voice was soft but razor-sharp. “Together.”

And in that moment, with the Prophet still folded between them like a weapon yet to be used, she leaned in and pressed a slow kiss to his shoulder.

Then whispered, fierce and certain:

“Let them come.”

Chapter Text

Hermione       

Three weeks later

It had been three weeks since the Prophet ran the headline. Three weeks since the owl had thumped against her window like a curse. Three weeks since she’d opened the paper and watched her private life become public property.

She still heard it sometimes — that awful phrase, “Midnight Tryst.”

Like they’d been caught in a broom cupboard. Like she was something salacious. Disposable. Conquered.

Hermione pressed her lips together and focused on the Arithmancy equation in front of her.

The library was stifling this late in the season, but the wide windows were enchanted to mimic breezes and spring light, even if outside it was all grey fog and Hogwarts damp. Around her, a familiar chaos had settled: rustling parchment, muttering stress, Dean cracking his knuckles for the hundredth time, Seamus whimpering into his Transfiguration notes like they’d personally betrayed him.

They were all fraying, and the end wasn’t even here yet.

She sat at the centre of the storm — a round table stacked with textbooks, ink bottles, and the slowly crumbling patience of eight students who’d overcommitted.

Lavender and Dean had just slipped away under the guise of “resting their minds.” Hermione hadn’t looked up when they left. She hadn’t looked up much at all lately.

Across from her, Blaise Zabini yawned dramatically, looking as bored as if he’d wandered into the library by accident.

“Tell me, Granger,” he drawled, “do you enjoy this? Watching us all disintegrate like particularly nervous flobberworms? Or is this just your version of foreplay?”

Hermione didn’t lift her head. “I’d hex you for that, but I’m too busy becoming qualified.”

Draco made a quiet, appreciative sound beside her. “She’s right, Zabini. Your flirting lacks originality.”

Blaise smirked. “So you agree she flirts?”

Draco’s quill snapped in his hand. He didn’t respond.

Hermione turned a page with the quiet fury of someone pretending not to notice the lingering tension just to her right. He’d been like this for days now — sharp-eyed, short-tempered, and staring at her like he wanted to drag her somewhere private and either kiss her senseless or argue until one of them gave in.

They hadn’t been alone since the night after the Prophet article. Not properly. Not without chaperones, classmates, or the ever-watchful eyes of Ministry liaisons disguised as “visiting scholars.”

She missed him.

It was absurd. He was right there. Breathing next to her. Occasionally brushing her knee under the table like he forgot himself. But it wasn’t the same.

And he knew it.

He was watching her now. She could feel it.

“Anyway,” Blaise said, lounging back in his chair like the velvet sofa he probably owned, “it’s been weeks. You’ve survived the fallout. The articles are still printing, but less salacious now. Don’t you think it’s time we, I don’t know, responded?”

Hermione’s hand stilled. Her eyes locked onto the same paragraph she’d been rereading for the last five minutes.

“Responded how?” Neville asked, sounding cautious.

“Counterplan,” Blaise said. “Or at least a public correction. Some subtle damage control. Maybe an exclusive interview where Granger graciously forgives wizarding society for being unforgivably stupid.”

“We agreed—” Hermione began tightly.

“You agreed,” Blaise said mildly. “The rest of us were just here.”

Hermione finally looked up, and there was something dangerous in her eyes.

“I said,” she said, voice like steel wrapped in silk, “I will deal with it after NEWTs. That hasn’t changed.”

A pause. Theo and Seamus froze. Luna just kept underlining a sentence about magical echolocation.

“And what if waiting makes it worse?” Blaise pressed. “What if silence is taken as guilt?”

Hermione’s voice didn’t rise — it dropped. “Then they’ll have made a mistake.”

Draco was still watching her. Still silent. His jaw was clenched, one finger tapping slowly on the cover of his Potions workbook.

“You think I don’t know what’s at stake?” she asked, and there was a quiet fury in her voice now. “Do you think I’ve forgotten the whispers, the howlers, the Ministry memo implying I should keep a lower profile? I read every article. I burned every letter. And I still came here. I still sit beside him. I still hold my head up.”

A pause.

“But I will not let them ruin this for me.” She tapped her notes. “These exams. This future. This is something I can control. Something I earned. And I will not let their poison make me smaller.”

Everyone was very, very still.

“If you’re here to study,” she said, tone sharp, “you’re welcome to stay.”

Then, sweeter. Softer. More terrifying:

“If you’re here to distract me, leave.”

Theo stood up. “I need the loo.”

Seamus fled without an excuse.

Only Luna remained unfazed. Blaise, to his credit, raised both hands and opened a book.

The silence held.

And beside her, Draco was still watching.

The aisle was quiet, hidden in the far-right corner of the library. Hermione had come for a book, but truthfully, she just needed air. Her spine ached from hours hunched over notes. Her wand hand was cramped. And her chest—

Her chest hadn’t stopped tightening since the Prophet printed her name like a curse.

Three weeks had passed since the article. Three weeks of library marathons, cramped study sessions, whispered judgment, and being watched. Always watched. Even now, a sixth-year at the next table kept sneaking glances through the shelves like Hermione might combust at any moment.

And Draco—gods.

She hadn’t been alone with him since the night he held her. Touched her.

Since she’d curled into his body, wrapped in his warmth and protection, and slept like she hadn’t since the war.

She always slept like a baby when he was there.

She missed him.

Desperately.

But she hadn’t said it. Couldn’t say it. Not when NEWTs were so close. Not when every spell, every formula, every law revision was another thread tying her to the version of herself her parents once believed in.

She reached for Advanced Transmutational Theory. Her hand shook.

Behind her, footsteps.

Not loud.

But him.

She didn’t turn.

“You’re stalling,” Draco said softly.

“I’m studying.”

“Mm.”

That sound — low and knowing — curled around her spine.

He stopped just behind her. She felt the heat of him at her back, the quiet restraint of his breathing. He wasn’t touching her. Not yet.

“You haven’t kissed me in twenty-one days,” he murmured.

Hermione blinked.

“That’s… a very specific number.”

“It’s been hellishly specific.”

She huffed — not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh.

“I miss you,” he said. Quiet. Steady.

The words stole her breath.

“I’m right here,” she whispered.

“No, you’re not.”

He stepped closer. Still didn’t touch. But she could feel the tension radiating off him. Like a dam about to crack.

“I know why,” he said. “Why you’re avoiding anything that isn’t NEWTs. I know what your parents meant to you. I know what it means to be excellent, especially when you have something to prove. I’m not mad at you, Hermione.”

Her chest seized.

“But I feel we need to be more proactive. I can handle some of this for you. If you’d allow some help. Especially from someone who cares about you, who needs you to be okay.”

“This is something I can do something about. This is my world. Malfoys were once their rulers.”

She turned around.

Draco was there — golden in the dusty light between shelves. His face tight, jaw clenched like holding back anything more would shatter his control.

She looked at him and ached.

The memory of his hands on her skin, his mouth on her neck, the way he’d possessed her.

And she wanted.

Gods, she wanted.

But it wasn’t just about needing to kiss him. It was about her. About not knowing how to be this vulnerable when the whole world was watching. About holding herself together with study guides and ink stains and logic.

But he didn’t ask her to unravel.

He just waited.

And that — that — made her knees weak.

“I care about you,” she said, barely audible. “More than I know what to do with.”

Draco’s throat bobbed. His fingers flexed. “I know.”

“I’m sorry I haven’t—” she looked down, swallowed. “I haven’t known how to do both. You and NEWTs. I’m scared if I stop moving, I’ll break apart.”

“Then I’ll be the one to glue you back together.”

He stepped into her space.

And this time, when he kissed her, it wasn’t careful.

It was messy. He was undone.

His hand cupped her jaw, firm and reverent, while the other pressed low on her back, pulling her in like he needed to feel every inch of her.

His mouth was heat and hunger, slow but all-consuming — the kind of kiss that said I remember you. I miss you. I want you .I need you.

Hermione whimpered into it — surprised at the sound, at how badly she’d needed this, needed him. Her fingers twisted into the fabric at his chest, anchoring herself to something real.

She tasted fire. And memory. And need.

When he pulled back, it wasn’t far.

He pressed his forehead to hers, his breath hot against her cheek.

“I’m trying,” she whispered. “I’m really trying.”

“I know.” His voice broke. “But maybe let the people who love you, help you.”

Hermione inhaled at that.

Love?

Then, steadier: “After NEWTs. You’ll have all of it. Me. The counterplan. Every last word I’ve saved up for Astoria Greengrass and her pureblood propaganda machine.”

Draco huffed something like a laugh.

“And you’ll accept our help? Our intimate expertise?”

“Yes.”

He kissed her one more time. Short. Hard.

Then he stepped back.

And walked away — like he hadn’t just lit her entire body on fire.

Hermione leaned back against the shelves, lips tingling, heart unsteady.

And finally, finally, the pressure in her lungs loosened.

It began the night of the anniversary ball.

Not with a shout or a slap, but a single word from Narcissa Malfoy: fiancée.

Hermione had known. She had prepared herself for confrontation, for disdain. But not for Astoria Greengrass gliding into the ballroom on Narcissa’s arm. Not for the word to fall from lips so sharp and practiced that it cut without raising a voice.

She hadn’t flinched. Not in front of them. She’d smiled. She’d delivered her reply with grace and steel. But the moment she’d escaped into the corridor, her lungs had collapsed.

That was three weeks ago.

Since then, the fallout had only grown.

It began with a headline. Not a howler, not a whisper behind her back—a bold, black-lettered confirmation in The Wizarding Standard:

IS HERMIONE GRANGER FIT TO REPRESENT THE POST-WAR GENERATION? By Cicely Goldbrand, Senior Political Correspondent

Hermione didn’t read it immediately. Draco had already slipped the folded page into her bag over breakfast, jaw set. "Know thy enemy," he’d muttered.

She found it between her Arithmancy notes. The headline was damning, but it was the tone that stayed with her: precise, polite, venomous. The author didn’t slander. She implied. Questioned. Wondered aloud whether a Muggle-born witch involved with a war criminal could truly represent justice in a fragile society.

Hermione folded the paper. Neatly. Carefully. Then tucked it under her desk and forced herself through Ancient Runes.

By lunch, she felt it. The eyes. The turned shoulders. Even Lavender looked down at her tray.

That night, she journaled.

I am not the girl they’ve described. I am not reckless. I am not his conquest. I love him—or I think I do—and that makes me more anchored, not less.

She would not cry. She would not give them that.

The next day, she made her 7:30 therapy appointment with Healer Lane.

"You look tired," her therapist said.

"I’m fine."

"You don’t look fine."

Hermione gritted her teeth. "I’m studying for NEWTs. And being dissected in the national media."

"Tell me how your body feels."

She blinked.

"Like everything’s too loud. Like my skin doesn’t fit. Like I’m watching myself from outside."

The therapist didn’t reply. Just let it hang.

Eventually, Hermione whispered, "They hate me more for being with him than they ever hated him."

Her voice cracked. Her hands wouldn’t stop shaking. She left the office and vomited in the girls' bathroom.

But she made it to Charms. She always made it.

By midweek, The Prophet had joined the fray. An op-ed appeared:

SHOULD MUGGLEBORNS BE ALLOWED TO ALTER THE LEGACY OF WAR?
By Argus Thorne, Retired Wizengamot Associate

Hermione closed the paper, calmly. She didn’t flinch. She didn’t run. She walked to the edge of the grounds and ran three laps around the lake, her lungs burning, her breath ragged. By the third lap, she cried. Not because of the words. But because they still got to her.

Later in the library, she noticed Pansy Parkinson watching her from behind a stack of Magical Law journals.

Draco sat across from her, hand clenched around a quill, jaw taut. He didn’t say a word. He didn’t need to.

Ginny pulled her aside near the library stairs. "We read it. This slander needs to stop."

"I know."

"Are you alright?"

She gave him a look. "No. But I’m surviving."

"You don’t deserve this."

She blinked. "I chose him, Ginny. No one tricked me."

"That doesn’t mean you deserve this kind of hate."

Hermione sighed. Her voice was thin. "Doing the right thing doesn’t mean doing the popular thing."

Another article followed, days later:

FROM SYMBOL TO SCANDAL: THE FALL OF A WAR HEROINE
By Clarisse Duvane, Society Editor

It quoted headmistresses, philanthropists, former Ministry aides. All very respectable. All very concerned.

"She was meant to represent something pure."

"She could have rebuilt the world."

"Now she's aligned with its shame."

Her next therapy session, she couldn’t look her therapist in the eye.

"You’re holding your breath," the woman said.

"I’m trying not to scream."

Her sleep worsened. She found herself waking up gasping. Flashing back to battlefields and firelight and Malfoy Manor. The sound of Bellatrix's laughter. Cold stone floors. Screaming.

She doubled her potions regimen. Scheduled two more mindfulness sessions. Carved space into her planner for journaling. Morning and night.

Still. The voices came.

In the halls. In the library. Near the Great Hall.

"Mudblood whore."

"Can you believe she lets him touch her?"

"She wants to be a pureblood so badly."

Draco walked beside her. Always. She could feel his restraint like a shield.

Once, he turned.

"Don’t," she whispered. "You know they’re watching."

His knuckles were white. "They don’t get to speak to you like that."

"They will. Because I’m with you. And they hate that."

He didn’t reply. Just walked her to class and lingered a beat too long at the door.

By the weekend, she missed breakfast. Spent the morning staring at her dorm ceiling. Got up. Brushed her teeth. Pulled on her jumper. Sat at her desk and wrote:

If I can survive this week, I can survive the next. If I can survive the next, I can outlast all of them.

In the mirror, she looked pale. Hollow-eyed. Still standing.

A letter appeared on her pillow that night. No signature. No seal.

You survived the war, but you won't survive this.

She folded it. Didn’t mention it. Didn’t burn it.

Instead, she made herself eat dinner. Studied. Joined Luna and Neville for a silent evening in the greenhouse.

She didn’t cry. Not in front of them.

That night, Draco passed her a note during study group:

Come find me if you need a quiet place. Or just me.

She didn’t look up. Just nodded.

And then she wrote:

I am tired of being dissected. I am tired of being strong. But I will not be erased.

They will not decide what I am. Or who I love.

I will not bend.

Draco

Draco’s birthday fell on a warm Friday evening, the kind where the world seemed to slow down for just a few hours, as if granting him permission to breathe. The past three weeks had been unrelenting—NEWTS looming, vicious headlines, hostile stares in hallways, and cruel words hurled at Hermione’s back. Both of them were bent under it, worn down like sea glass, but tonight, just for a little while, Draco carved out something soft.

They didn’t make a grand show of it. Hermione knew he hated fuss. So Blaise and Theo charmed a small corner of the Room of Requirement into an upscale wizarding lounge. Velvet couches, deep navy curtains, enchanted lanterns flickering low, and jazz drifting from an old phonograph that never needed winding. Luna brought wildflower cakes that changed flavor with every bite. Neville supplied a bottle of elderflower fizz, and Seamus, in true Seamus fashion, smuggled in contraband Firewhisky through a clever illusion charm hidden in a stack of NEWT prep parchments.

Hermione arrived a little late, wrapped in a sleek black dress—simple, elegant, and entirely inappropriate for the Hogwarts dress code. She didn’t care. She wore it for him. The dress dipped low in the back, clung to the curve of her waist, and bared her collarbone in a way that made Draco lose his ability to follow conversations for at least ten minutes.

He sat back on the velvet couch, one arm draped lazily behind her, fingers just brushing her shoulder through the fabric. He hadn’t even touched her properly yet—not really—but the awareness between them was a taut string, drawn tighter with each passing minute.

They talked. They laughed. For a while, it almost felt normal.

But underneath it all: the ache.

They hadn’t been alone in weeks. Not since the kiss in the library. Not since her whispered promise that they’d fight back after NEWTs. And fight back they had. Hermione worked herself to the bone—studying until her eyes blurred, fighting the public smear campaign with quiet resilience, facing Healer Madra Lane in therapy with dogged honesty.

But she hadn’t touched him. Not like she needed to.

Draco could see it in the way her fingers curled tightly around her glass, in the way her leg bounced subtly beneath the table, in the way she kept glancing at his mouth like she was trying to memorize it all over again.

She looked tired. Frayed at the edges. But stunning.

When the others finally filtered out—Blaise muttering something about curfews and Theo herding Seamus toward the exit—Hermione lingered. She stepped close, her fingers tugging at the collar of his shirt as she murmured, “Happy birthday.”

Draco’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. He looked at her—really looked.

And something in him snapped.

“I’ve missed you,” he said hoarsely.

She stepped between his legs, hands sliding up his chest, slow and sure. “I know.”

Then he kissed her.

Not a tentative brush or the slow burn of a stolen library moment.

This was hungry. Decadent. A kiss that bordered on desperate.

Her lips parted beneath his and she let out a soft gasp, her hands clutching the collar of his shirt to pull him closer. He rose to meet her, arms wrapping around her waist, hoisting her gently into his lap.

She straddled him without hesitation, her dress sliding up her thighs. The silk was cool against his palms, but her skin was hot, flushed with want. Her hands slid into his hair, tugging gently, and he groaned—low and guttural, like the weeks apart had built into something unmanageable.

His tongue swept into her mouth with practiced control, but there was urgency now. Reverence sharpened by longing.

He dragged his mouth away, only to trail his lips down the line of her jaw.

“Fuck, I missed this,” he whispered against her skin.

She didn’t answer. Just tilted her head, giving him more. He took it—sucking gently at the spot below her ear, then down her neck, where her pulse beat like a war drum.

His hands slid up her sides, tracing her ribs, the dip of her waist. He didn’t slip under the fabric—but gods, he wanted to. Every inch of her called to him. She tasted like vanilla and jasmine and defiance. She smelled like something he wanted to drown in.

Her hips rocked once—instinctively—and he gasped into her mouth.

She pulled back, breathless. “Too much?”

“No,” he said, voice thick. “Not enough.”

Her hand slid to his chest, palm flat over his heart. “Draco.”

He stilled.

“I needed time. I know it hurt, but—”

“You don’t have to explain,” he murmured.

“I do,” she insisted. Her voice was soft but urgent. “I was trying to keep everything from collapsing. The therapy, the articles, my image, your safety, my marks—gods, I’m still trying.”

He nodded once, jaw tightening.

“I have nothing left of them,” she said suddenly. “My parents. Just… their names. Their memory. I had to do well. I had to do it right. For them. For me.”

Draco’s fingers softened. He drew a line from her shoulder to her elbow with the back of his knuckles.

“I know why you pulled back,” he said. “It doesn’t mean I liked it. Doesn’t mean I didn’t lie awake wondering if you were slipping away.”

She leaned in, her lips brushing his temple. “I care about you. A lot. And I’m here. Still here.”

He turned, caught her mouth again. This time, it was slow. Deliberate. His hands roamed, relearning her shape.

One hand cradled the back of her head, the other slid to her thigh, pushing the hem of her dress higher. Still over the clothes. Still just skin against silk. But enough to draw a shudder from her spine.

She whimpered into his mouth. He swallowed the sound greedily.

Her fingers moved beneath his shirt, skating across the hard lines of his stomach. She traced the scar that cut along his side—one he rarely let anyone touch. But she did, without hesitation, without flinching. As if it was just another part of him to love.

He broke the kiss long enough to rest his forehead against hers.

“I want all of you,” he whispered. “One day. Soon.”

“You will,” she promised.

They stayed like that for a while.

Not chasing the high, not rushing to climax, but steeping in the slow burn of rediscovered intimacy. He kissed her neck. She kissed the hollow of his throat. His hands pressed firmly against her back, holding her close like she might slip through his fingers.

Eventually, she leaned back slightly, studying his face.

“I adore you,” she said breathlessly.

“You do?” he admitted.

“I do.”

He smiled then—small and real. The kind of smile that softened his entire face.

He pulled her close and reveled in the profound knowledge that she was his. And he was hers.

Later, when they finally left the Room of Requirement, Hermione’s lipstick was smudged, and her legs were unsteady beneath her, but Draco barely noticed. His shirt hung crooked, buttons mismatched, and his hair was a chaotic mess—as if he’d been hexed—but none of that mattered. Nothing did.

Because the air between them thrummed with something raw and fierce, a current that scrambled his thoughts and rewired his very brain. His heart hammered so loudly it felt like it might burst free of his chest, and every breath she took imprinted itself on his skin like a spell he never wanted to break.

He had loved her for longer than he could admit without losing control. This wasn’t just affection. It was an obsession that clawed at his insides, relentless and consuming, leaving him breathless and tethered all at once.

In that charged silence, Draco understood something deeper than any words could say: she was his gravity, his anchor, the one who bent his world out of shape and made the chaos worthwhile. No matter what storm awaited, he would face it, not because it was easy, but because she was worth every scar, every sleepless night, every whispered doubt.

She hadn’t just made a promise to fight beside him.

She had claimed him entirely.

And in his veins, a fierce devotion blazed—unyielding, unbreakable, and utterly his.

Hermione

The NEWTs were relentless. Every day blurred into the next—a swirling storm of spells, potions, and endless theory. Hermione’s mind felt like it was stretched thin across a thousand threads, each demanding perfect attention. Her fingers ached from constant note-taking, her eyes stung from rereading complex incantations until the words bled together. Failure wasn’t an option, but sometimes it felt dangerously close.

Yet even in the chaos, there were moments of light.

Ginny was a fierce presence beside her, offering quick smiles and sharp jokes. “If you don’t stop quizzing me on potion ingredients, I swear I’ll hex you into a toad,” she muttered once, but her grin betrayed how much she admired Hermione’s drive.

Luna hovered nearby, her dreamy voice cutting through the tension. “Maybe the solution isn’t to cram harder,” she said softly. “Sometimes you have to let the magic settle. Like how flowers need quiet soil to bloom.” Hermione had to bite back a smile at the thought of her strict timetable being compared to a garden, but Luna’s calm made the pressure ebb just enough.

Neville, steady as ever, brought a quiet reassurance. His newfound confidence in herbology shone through, and when he joked about mandrakes being the “loudest students in the greenhouses,” Hermione’s laughter echoed through the study hall, breaking the tension.

Draco was always close, though he never pressed. Theo and Blaise were usually with him, teasing Draco mercilessly whenever his gaze lingered on Hermione. But Draco’s support was constant, subtle—a bottle of calming potion slid discreetly her way, a protective glance when a sneering prefect passed by, or a reassuring squeeze of her hand during a particularly grueling transfiguration exam.

One evening, after a long session poring over ancient runes, Draco’s voice broke through her exhaustion. “You’re going to give yourself brain damage if you keep this up,” he said, a hint of a smirk playing at his lips.

“I can’t afford to stop,” she replied, tired but determined. “These exams mean everything.”

He leaned closer. “Then let me be your emergency break.”

That was Draco—never loud with his feelings, but fierce in his devotion.

They were all stretched thin, nerves frayed and patience worn, but they leaned on each other—Ginny’s fire, Luna’s calm, Neville’s steady kindness, Blaise and Theo’s teasing, and Draco’s quiet protection. It was this fragile, chaotic circle that kept Hermione going.

Because even when the world outside seemed set on tearing them down, here in the thick of NEWTs, with her friends and Draco beside her, she believed they could survive anything.

The doors to the Three Broomsticks flew open with the kind of dramatic flair that could only come from students freshly liberated from their final NEWT exams. The pub, already buzzing, roared with the arrival of Hogwarts’ seventh years. Glasses clinked, someone burst into a cheer, and Madam Rosmerta looked as though she’d already resigned herself to the chaos.

Hermione stood at the threshold, windblown, exhausted, and breathless with something she hadn’t felt in weeks—relief.

Ginny squeezed her hand. “We survived.”

Hermione let out a laugh, sharp and giddy. “Barely.”

They moved as a group—Ginny, Luna, Neville, Theo, Blaise, Draco, and Hermione—gravitating to a large booth in the corner. The room was loud, the air thick with smoke and butterbeer foam, the scent of spiced meat pies and warm bread hovering like a spell. For once, no one seemed to care who sat with whom. Even Theo was smiling. Blaise was already halfway to the bar.

“Best table in the house,” Ginny said, sliding into the booth beside Luna. “And no professors to judge me for drinking three firewhiskies in a row.”

Hermione settled between Draco and Ginny, her legs aching and her head pleasantly light. When Draco’s hand brushed her knee under the table, she didn’t pull away. She leaned into him, just enough.

It felt good. It felt earned.

Then the door opened again, and the pub’s noise dipped for a breath as Harry and Ron stepped inside.

Hermione’s eyes widened. She stood automatically. Ginny gasped beside her, and then she was rushing forward.

Harry met her halfway, arms wide, and they crashed into each other, laughing. Ginny’s arms wrapped around his neck, her head buried in his shoulder.

“Merlin, you’re tall,” she murmured.

Harry kissed her—just like that. No hesitation. Not the stolen looks or glances across a crowded room they'd exchanged for months. No coded messages or awkward conversations. Just Harry and Ginny, openly, finally.

“Miss me, Red?” he grinned.

“Don’t make me hex you in public.”

Hermione turned to Ron, who stood with his hands in his pockets, looking sheepish.

“We got leave,” he said, grinning as he pulled her into a hug. “Didn’t want you thinking we’d forgotten.”

Her throat tightened unexpectedly. “You really came.”

“Course we did,” Ron said, softer now. “We heard what’s been said about you. Thought it was time we showed our faces.”

Hermione didn’t miss the flicker of wariness in his eyes as he looked past her to the booth—where Draco sat, arms crossed, posture tense but controlled. Blaise and Theo flanked him, casual but alert.

“Come sit,” Hermione said firmly.

Harry and Ron followed her back, sliding into the bench across from the Slytherins. There was a moment—brief but sharp—where time seemed to wobble.

Then Blaise broke it with a drawled, “We’re one big dysfunctional family now, yeah?”

That earned a snort from Theo and a laugh from Neville. Luna clinked her glass against her butterbeer in silent approval.

Draco didn't speak, but when Hermione slid back into the seat beside him, he let his hand rest on her thigh beneath the table. Not possessive. Anchoring.

She leaned into him just enough to feel it.

They ordered drinks. Someone conjured celebratory sparklers. A Gryffindor seventh year started a rowdy rendition of the Hogwarts school song, off-key and loud. Ginny curled against Harry’s side, fingers tangled with his beneath the table, occasionally stealing kisses without shame.

Ron talked strategy with Theo, surprisingly curious about spell efficiency and wand stance under duress. Luna kept handing Blaise absurd trivia cards she’d enchanted to change every five minutes—he read them aloud in increasingly incredulous tones, as if refusing to admit he was enjoying it.

Hermione laughed more in that hour than she had all term.

And yet—beneath the celebration, the undercurrent remained.

It was Blaise who shifted the tone.

“We should talk,” he said suddenly, voice too level, too smooth to be casual. “Now that everyone who matters is here. Granger, we have delayed, stalled long enough.”

The warmth cooled. The table quieted.

Hermione straightened. Across from her, Harry and Ron looked up at once.

Draco’s posture didn’t change, but the hand on her leg tensed.

“About the campaign,” Blaise clarified.

“Pansy’s interviews?” Ginny said. “The papers twisting Hermione’s words?”

“It’s bigger than gossip,” Blaise said. “It’s coordinated.”

Theo leaned forward now, tone clipped and precise. “Pansy passed information to Astoria Greengrass. We have confirmation she’s the source. The articles, the slanted op-eds, the Ministry leaks? They’re coming from France.”

Hermione’s stomach sank.

“Why would Astoria—” Ron began.

“She wants Draco,” Hermione said quietly. “Always has.”

Theo nodded. “She’s not just pining. She’s dangerous. She’s Sacred Twenty-Eight. Daughter of the Greengrass line, educated at Beauxbatons, aligned with several pureblood families on the continent. She sees this”—he gestured to Hermione and Draco—“as a threat.”

“Not just to her pride,” Blaise added. “To the structure.”

Harry frowned. “The structure?”

“Pureblood society doesn’t function on feelings,” Blaise said. “It functions on alliances. Appearances. Legacies. Marriage is political currency, especially post-war. Draco was expected to restore his family’s name through a high-society match. Hermione Granger doesn’t fit that mold.”

“She rewrites it,” Draco said flatly.

Everyone turned to him.

He didn’t flinch.

“She rewrites all of it,” he continued. “Astoria sees that as rebellion. As betrayal.”

“And she’s punishing you both for it,” Harry said slowly. “In the press. Through back channels. Smearing Hermione to make her look unstable. Dangerous. Like a mistake.”

Hermione felt the old heat rising—shame, fear, indignation.

“She wants to force a withdrawal,” Blaise said. “Either Draco ends it, or she makes it politically impossible for the relationship to survive.”

“She’s clever,” Theo said. “Strategic. She’s not throwing curses—she’s planting seeds.”

“Well then,” Ron said, “maybe it’s time someone salted her bloody garden.”

A shocked silence followed.

Ron blinked. “What? I can be metaphorical.”

Luna patted his arm. “That was lovely, Ronald.”

Draco looked at Harry, eyes sharp. “You’re Aurors now. Can you track her sources?”

Harry nodded. “We can’t act officially. But we have contacts.”

“And the truth matters,” Hermione added, voice low. “Even if it takes time. Even if it hurts.”

They nodded—Harry, Ron, even Ginny, fierce and protective beside him.

“We'll hit back with fact,” Blaise said. “And strategy. Letters from professors. From classmates. Public support. Quiet allies. Astoria knows the media, the perception is what matters. People only care about perception.”

Theo raised his glass. “Then we change the narrative.”

It wasn’t loud, or heroic, or glamorous. But in that booth, surrounded by people who had fought wars both literal and invisible, Hermione felt the air shift.

They weren’t alone.

Later, after the crowd had thinned and the laughter faded into a soft hum, Hermione found herself sitting on the front steps of the Three Broomsticks. The air was cooler now. Crisp. Calmer. Draco stood beside her, one hand holding hers, the other tucked into his coat pocket.

She stared out at the horizon, the familiar ache settling in her chest.

“I’ve been thinking,” she said finally. “About my parents’ house.”

Draco glanced down at her.

“I haven’t gone back. Not properly. Not since the war. It’s just... sitting there. Their things. The rooms. Everything frozen.”

He said nothing. Just waited.

“I don’t know if I want to sell it. Or keep it. Or turn it into something new. But I do know I can’t sort through it alone.”

His hand tightened around hers. “You won’t have to.”

She looked up at him. The pub lights flickered behind them, casting long shadows across the cobblestones.

“You’d really come with me?”

“I’ll help you pack every box,” he said. “I’ll carry what hurts until you don’t have to.”

The lump in her throat nearly choked her.

She nodded, blinking hard.

And when he bent to kiss her—slow, reverent, grounding—it felt like more than affection.

It felt like promise.

Chapter Text

Hermione

The Muggle taxi slowed to a halt in front of a modest cream-bricked home, its navy shutters bleached by years of sun, the hedge sprawling unchecked as if no shears had touched it since her last departure. Hermione sat rigid in the backseat, her knuckles bone-white against the door handle. Draco, beside her, said nothing—but his hand covered hers. Anchoring. Gentle.

She hadn’t returned since the funeral. Since her parents’ bodies had been lowered into the earth in a secular ceremony where no one spoke of magic, where she had stood alone—her world absent, the people who might have steadied her unable to cross into this one.

“Ready?” Draco asked softly, carefully.

“No,” she admitted.

Still, she pushed open the gate.

The garden beyond had grown untamed. Ivy strangled the wrought-iron posts, its glossy leaves twisting upward. Her mother’s wind chime—a string of ceramic moons and suns—shifted in the breeze, releasing brittle notes into the overgrown air. Hermione’s throat closed, her breath catching on memory.

Draco did not let go of her hand as the gate creaked shut behind them.

At the door, her fingers faltered on the key. The lock gave, reluctant, and the wood moaned as it opened. The smell struck her at once—lavender soap and lemon polish. Time had not erased it. Her heart hammered as she stepped inside.

The hallway was unchanged. The umbrella stand. The photographs in their frames. Her father’s jacket hung on its peg, waiting for shoulders that would never return. The stairs rose before her, their shadows lengthening like a path she feared to climb.

Hermione stood frozen. Draco hovered just behind, patient.

“I… I don’t know where to start,” she whispered.

“Wherever you need to,” he said. “Or not at all today.”

She shook her head. “No. I need to. I need to face it.”

He only nodded.

She led him into the lounge. Dust dulled the lavender that lingered there, but the shape of home clung stubbornly. Her mother’s reading chair sat in the window’s light, cushions hollowed by years of use. A crimson throw folded across the arm glowed fiercely against the faded fabric. A chipped teacup balanced on the shelf. Gardening magazines sagged in crooked stacks.

Hermione reached for one, her fingers trembling above the glossy cover, but she stopped—knowing, somehow, that if she touched it the fragile illusion would break.

Her gaze drifted to the hearth. Crookshanks’ basket sagged in the corner, empty. Beside it, a frayed red ribbon—once tied to his collar—lay abandoned on the floor, the last stubborn echo of him.

Her legs buckled. She fell to her knees, clutching the basket as if her grip could bring back the warmth, the rumbling purr, the watchful amber eyes. A sob wrenched free of her chest—ragged, unrestrained. Not the tears she had shed before, in exhaustion or shock. This was different. This was surrender.

For the first time, she wasn’t holding it back.

All the years of love, the sudden void, the merciless truth that her parents—and Crookshanks—were gone forever crashed over her in one relentless wave.

Draco was there in an instant, solid beside her. She hadn’t seen him move, only felt the steadiness of him at her side.

“I don’t want to let go,” she gasped. “Because if I do—what if they disappear completely?”

He didn’t reach for easy lies. He didn’t say they weren’t gone. He wasn’t that kind of liar.

Instead, he touched her cheek, tender, reverent. “Then don’t let go,” he murmured. “Keep them. In here.” His hand pressed gently over her chest, over the frantic beat of her heart. “And here.” His fingers brushed her temple. “And maybe here.” He lifted her hand, kissed it, pressed it to his chest.

“I’m here,” he said softly. “You don’t have to do this alone.”

Hermione buried her face in his shoulder. This time, she did not resist. She did not try to hide. The grief pressed down heavy, suffocating, but she let it come—let it rip through her instead of locking it away.

The silence of the room was thick with ghosts, the crimson throw catching the sun like a wound. Light spilled in long streaks across the floor, red and gold, painting them in grief and memory.

For a long time they stayed curled on the floor, fingers entwined, as the echoes swelled around them—her father’s tuneless whistle, her mother’s quick laugh, the phantom rustle of Crookshanks at her feet.

Hermione wept, fully and without restraint. Not for the first time, but for the first time without running. For the first time, she let the weight of it crush her.

And in that breaking, in Draco’s quiet presence beside her, she finally began to face it.

August opened with a slow ache and the bitter tang of dust. The Granger house stood exactly as it had before—walls unbroken, windows intact, yet hollow with absence. A shell full of ghosts.

Hermione unlocked the door with steady fingers. The wards fell away easily; she and Draco had layered them months ago, protective but unobtrusive. There was no pause, no lingering. She stepped inside because there was nothing left to run from.

The air struck her at once—dry, stale, tinged with dust and lavender polish. It clung to her throat as though the house itself remembered her parents and would not let her breathe without them. Every detail pressed in with merciless clarity: her mother’s teacup on the shelf, the neat stack of gardening magazines, the hollow basket by the fireplace where Crookshanks used to curl.

She wasn’t skirting the memories anymore. She was wading straight through them, each step weighted, inevitable.

Her parents were not coming back.

Draco didn’t ask questions. He simply stayed close as she walked through the front hallway, brushing her fingers across the framed photos, the stacked paperbacks, the half-dismantled chessboard on the side table. He carried her boxes without needing instruction. When she stood frozen in the doorway of her father’s study, he stepped behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist, grounding her with the slow rise and fall of his breath against her back.

She melted into him.

The entire month passed that way—clearing, sorting, grieving. They found old yearbooks and university scarves, receipts from family holidays, a stray slipper her mother must have lost beneath the couch. And in the top of her parents’ closet, a dusty cardboard box filled with childhood drawings Hermione didn’t even remember making. Draco sat cross-legged on the floor one evening, holding a crayon sketch of a lopsided unicorn. “Is this an early symbol of your obsessive personality or a failed attempt at magical realism?”

She laughed for the first time in days. Then she crawled into his lap and kissed him.

There were other moments like that. Quiet, charged, aching in their sincerity. Sometimes she would lie on her childhood bed, staring at the ceiling, and Draco would stretch beside her, his fingers resting lightly on her wrist, tracing the edge of her pulse.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he murmured once, lips brushing her temple.

“I want to.” Her voice was hoarse. “But I can’t yet.”

“Then we wait.”

Outside, the press kept up their noise. The Daily Prophet ran another op-ed questioning Hermione’s mental fitness and Draco’s motives. Astoria, from the safety of France, continued to feed the flames, working through Pansy—who, in Hermione's bitter opinion, had found her calling as a professional gossip.

But Blaise Zabini had launched his own campaign.

“We give them a story,” he explained over wine one Saturday evening in Theo’s Notting Hill flat. “Not a scandal. A tragedy. A redemption. A love story."

Hermione raised an eyebrow. “You make it sound like we’re marketing a novel.”

“We are.”

Theo, lounging with a glass of Firewhisky, chimed in. “Pureblood culture is theatre, Granger. You don’t just fall in love—you defy legacy, challenge alliances, make the public swoon."

Draco gave Hermione a small, amused look. "Apparently I’m the brooding heir and you’re the brave, beautiful Muggle-born who changed everything."

“You forgot brilliant,” Hermione said.

“And stubborn.” He leaned in. “And utterly, inescapably mine.”

She flushed.

Blaise grinned. “Perfect. Put that in your next interview.”

By mid-September, the shift had started.

Hermione turned twenty on the 19th. It wasn’t a big celebration—just a dinner at Luna’s cottage, surrounded by familiar faces. Neville brought a potted plant that grew tiny silver bells. Harry and Ginny arrived hand-in-hand, glowing. Ron hugged her so tightly she nearly cried.

Draco gave her a bracelet with a single enchanted stone. It pulsed gently against her skin whenever he touched her.

“You’re always spoiling me,” she whispered, teasingly.

“Always.”

Her birthday wasn’t mentioned in the Prophet, but Witch Weekly ran a surprisingly kind profile that week: Hermione Granger: From War Hero to Healer of Legacies?

Blaise winked when he handed it to her. “Told you. Darlings of the press in no time.”

It wasn’t magic, but it felt like a win.

October brought colder nights and the smell of woodsmoke.

The Halloween party at Harry’s new home in Godric's Hollow was a blur of laughter and dancing, old jokes and new alliances. Hermione came as a phoenix. Draco came as himself—dark suit, green cufflinks, mask of quiet confidence.

Ginny teased them all night. "Look at you two, brooding in corners and being devastatingly attractive."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "We are networking."

Ron grinned. "Is that what the kids are calling it now?"

The party was in full swing, glittering and loud, with floating pumpkins bobbing above their heads and charmed cobwebs glittering in the corners. Harry’s new house was warm, full of laughter, music, the scent of spiced cider and something treacly burning in the kitchen. Someone—probably Luna—had enchanted the punch bowl to sing soft sea shanties.

Hermione had been caught in conversation with Neville and a flustered junior Auror who kept mispronouncing her name, while Draco had migrated to a quiet corner with Theo and a bottle of firewhisky. Their eyes had met across the room more than once.

The kind of gaze that lingers. Lingers, and smoulders.

Ginny danced past at one point and elbowed her. “He’s been staring at you for the last twenty minutes like you’re the secret to immortality.”

Hermione flushed. “We’re just—”

“Don’t even try it,” Ginny sang, already twirling away.

Eventually, Draco appeared at her side, the sharp angle of his jaw softening with the drink, his cufflinks glinting in the candlelight.

“Granger,” he murmured, low enough that no one else could hear, “if I have to watch Ron dance with a skeleton in drag for one more minute, I might hex myself into next week. Come with me?”

She hesitated—barely.

Then she nodded.

They slipped up the stairs unnoticed, her fingers brushing his as they ascended. He led her down the hall, past closed doors, until he found one slightly ajar. A guest room, modest and tidy, with a soft bedspread and an enchanted window that showed drifting starlight.

Hermione closed the door behind them. The noise of the party dulled immediately, replaced by the thud of her pulse in her ears.

She turned—and he was already close.

Too close.

The space between them wasn’t silence so much as tension held taut between breaths.

“Are we hiding?” she asked, not moving away.

He smiled crookedly. “Temporarily exiled.”

“To do what, exactly?”

Draco reached out and gently untucked a strand of hair from behind her ear. His touch was careful, reverent.

“I just needed to be somewhere where I could look at you properly,” he said.

She huffed, nervous. “You’ve been looking at me all night.”

“Not the way I want to.”

Her breath caught. His hand had shifted—fingers brushing her jaw now, trailing down to the hollow of her throat, where her pulse stuttered under his touch.

They swayed forward at the same time. Her mouth met his, familiar and urgent, and it was clumsy in the way that only came when both people had been pretending all night that they weren’t desperate to be alone.

His hands slid to her waist, holding her like she might disappear. She gripped the lapels of his jacket and pulled him closer.

They didn’t undress. Not fully. They didn’t need to.

His mouth moved to the edge of her jaw, down the line of her throat. She gasped softly, grounding herself with both hands pressed to his chest.

When they finally pulled apart, breathless, he didn’t let her go.

Instead, he rested his forehead against hers. Their breathing slowed together.

And then—quietly, brokenly—he spoke.

“I feel like it was always going to be you,” he said. “Like we were inevitable. Something written long before either of us knew how to read it.”

She stilled, completely.

Draco’s thumb brushed the edge of her cheek, his voice rough but steady.

“I love you. Not just in some momentary way. I’m continuously falling—every look, every laugh, every time you argue with me just to prove you’re right.”

Hermione gave a breathy, tearful laugh.

He kissed her temple.

“I love you,” he whispered again, deliberate now, every syllable an oath. His thumb lingered against her jaw as though he could brand the moment into memory. “I’m so in love with you it terrifies me. And if the world burns again tomorrow, I want you to know this—I chose you. I will always choose you. No matter the shape of the world, no matter what stands in our way—I will find you. I will always be pulled to you, as if the whole of me was made for you.”

Tears pricked at her eyes before she could stop them.

She looked at him then, properly. His tie askew. His hair mussed from her fingers. The vulnerability in his eyes devastating.

Hermione cupped his face in both hands, heart thundering in her chest.

“I believe you,” she whispered.

He swallowed, hard.

“And you?” he asked, voice low, almost afraid.

She didn’t answer. She kissed him again instead—slow, aching, everything unspoken folding between their mouths.

Later, they lay tangled atop the guest bedspread, clothes still half-on, her leg slung over his. The party downstairs had mellowed to a warm hum. Laughter floated faintly through the floorboards.

Draco drew circles on her back. Her cheek rested over his heart.

Neither of them spoke for a long time.

But she felt it. All of it.

Like something sacred had been named.

And once spoken—it could never be taken back.

November brought fog and sharp wind, the kind that rattled through alleyways and clung to cloaks no matter how tightly drawn. But it also brought traction. Momentum. The beginnings of a quiet shift that Hermione hadn’t dared hope for just a few months earlier.

The headlines were no longer cruel.

They were photographed volunteering at a Muggle children’s clinic in York — Draco in rolled-up sleeves, holding a squirming toddler with a suspiciously familiar pout while Hermione explained levitation charms with hand-drawn diagrams. The photo had gone mildly viral. Malfoy Heir Laughs with Muggle Child was one headline. Another read, Granger and Malfoy Bring Magic to the Masses. No one had used the word scandal in weeks.

Hermione gave a keynote at the Magical Integration Conference in Edinburgh. Her voice had been steady. Clear. She’d cited the intergenerational consequences of trauma, outlined policy recommendations for educational equity across bloodlines, and fielded even the thorniest questions with unflinching grace. Draco had sat in the front row, sharp in grey and green, clapping long after everyone else.

He was quoted in The Walpurgis Review a week later, defending cross-class magical reform. Blaise had arranged it. “Soft radicalism,” he’d said. “Make them feel clever for agreeing with you.” And it worked.

More importantly, people began smiling at them in public.

An older witch with stormcloud hair stopped Hermione outside Flourish and Blotts, patted her hand, and whispered, “You’re braver than I ever was, dear.”

A group of students at Fortescue’s dropped their spoons when Draco brushed a kiss to Hermione’s temple. One girl squeaked. Another blushed so fiercely she dropped her sundae. They didn’t run. They just stared — hopeful, uncertain, awestruck.

But the moment that undid Hermione happened outside a soup kitchen near Tottenham Court Road, where they’d spent the afternoon stacking crates and warming cider. A small boy — maybe eight, freckles dusted across brown skin — tugged Hermione’s sleeve. Wordless, he held up a crumpled drawing: two stick figures holding hands beneath a rainbow, one with unmistakable wild curls, the other pale and sharp in a green scarf.

The caption was scrawled in purple crayon.

LOVE WINS.

Hermione blinked down at it. Then up at the boy, who offered a crooked smile, shrugged, and ran off.

She held the drawing all the way home.

Later that week, as they walked the quiet, lamp-lit path back to her flat, she reached for his hand.

Their fingers linked automatically. Easily.

“You’re changing things,” Draco said, voice low and warm against the chill. “People are… seeing.”

“We are,” she murmured, squeezing his hand.

He stopped walking.

She turned to face him, wind catching her hair. He tucked a strand behind her ear with a softness that made her chest ache.

“And even if it doesn’t last,” he said. “Even if the press turns again. If the politics shift. If the worst happens…”

Hermione’s throat tightened. “Draco—”

“I’ll still be here.”

She searched his face, blinking against the sting in her eyes. “How can you be so sure?”

His hands framed her face now, thumbs stroking gently over her cheeks, grounding her. “Because you’re my choice,” he said. “Every day. Every future. No matter what.”

It was too much. And yet never enough. She didn’t have the words to match him, not yet — not when the fear still coiled somewhere deep, cold and ancient and war-shaped.

But she took his hand again and led him up the stairs.

That night, she let him undress her slowly.

Not because she felt ready, but because with him, she didn’t need to perform readiness — it just was. Her grief didn’t vanish. Her uncertainty didn’t evaporate. But it didn’t control her either.

He didn’t rush. He touched her like she was a discovery. His fingers mapped the curve of her spine, the slope of her ribs, the hollow beneath her throat. When he knelt to press a kiss to the inside of her knee, she threaded her fingers into his hair and felt herself unravel.

Every touch was reverent. Every sigh a promise.

His mouth found hers again, their kiss deepening as they fell together onto the bed. There was nothing frantic in it. Just heat and gravity and the quiet understanding that they would never be the same after this.

When he moved inside her, she gasped — not from pain, but from the overwhelming rightness of it. His hand found hers, fingers entwined. His forehead pressed to hers. They breathed in sync, slow and shuddering, and when she whispered his name — just his name — he nearly broke.

“Hermione,” he breathed, reverent, wrecked. “You feel like home.”

They moved together in a rhythm that felt inevitable, like tides or sunrise or the pull of fate itself. She kissed the scar at his shoulder, the one he’d gotten protecting Theo in the final weeks of the war. He kissed the spot just above her navel, soft and sacred. The rest — the moans, the whispered curses, the broken gasps — blurred into a symphony only they would ever know.

Afterward, they lay tangled in the stillness, her head tucked beneath his chin, his hand stroking lazy lines along her hip.

She could have stayed there forever.

But she needed to say it.

Her voice was hoarse. Raw.

“I love you.”

The silence that followed wasn’t cold. It was warm. It was full.

And then — a laugh, quiet and stunned and helpless.

He smiled against her shoulder. “Took you long enough, Granger.”

She laughed too, the sound wet with tears.

And somewhere far away, in a gilded estate in France, Astoria Greengrass shattered a wine glass in her hand.

Chapter Text

Hermione

The light was dim and tender, shadows stretching long across the room. Hermione lay draped against Draco, her body still thrumming with the echo of all they had shared. His arm curved around her shoulders with solid weight, protective even in rest, his fingertips sketching absent circles over her skin. The air was thick with the mingled scents of sweat, candlewax, and something distinctly theirs — a warmth that clung, intimate and unshakable. For a long while they were silent, content with the quiet, the steady rhythm of breath. Then Hermione shifted, propping herself up on one elbow so she could see his face.

Her voice was soft, but clear. “I am an ambitious person,” she began.

Draco’s brow arched slightly, but he didn’t interrupt.

“I have dreams and plans,” she continued. “Important ones. Powerful ones. I’ve always known that about myself. And I’m not afraid of those dreams — they feel like my purpose on this planet. Even after everything I’ve been through — war, grief, loss — my purpose remains. I can still see it.”

Draco’s eyes softened. “That’s very you,” he murmured.

She gave a small smile. “I’ve been attracted to people before. Been with a few. But it never altered the vision. Never shifted my determination. Even when grief made everything heavier, when I thought I couldn’t carry on, the execution was still there.”

Her gaze flicked to his, holding it. “And then you.”

Draco inhaled sharply, but she pressed on, words tumbling from her like truth she’d carried too long.

“When you entered my world, when you pierced that bubble that always kept us apart — when you looked at me, really looked, and learned me, wanted me, loved me… even without saying the words — when you understood me, and centred me…” Her throat tightened. “That was when I wanted to centre you. To change the vision to include you. To adjust. To make space.”

His lips parted, but still he stayed quiet, as though afraid the sound might break her open vow.

“My ambition — my career — they’re everything to me. I’m single-minded. Stubborn. I care about ethics, but I understand power. Resources. I’m not naïve. It’s why I’ll succeed.” Her voice gained a fierce edge, her eyes alight.

And then, gentler: “But I thought I’d have to do it alone. Settle. Or remain alone forever. I thought no one could walk beside me without blurring who I was.”

Her hand slid down his chest, resting over his heart. “But with you, I get to be me… but better. Stronger. Not a different person — an evolved one. Loving you has expanded me. My vision. My consciousness. My ability to be more.”

Draco’s throat worked, as though the words were sticking. His grey eyes were wide, almost disbelieving.

“You are why I will become the best version of myself,” she whispered. “I didn’t know I needed this. Didn’t even know to want this. But I do. And I love you.”

She leaned closer, her mouth trembling just above his. “And I will always find you, Draco. In every life.”

The silence that followed was sharp, almost unbearable.

And then he pulled her to him so suddenly it stole her breath, crushing her against his chest as though he needed her words embedded in his bones.

His voice was rough, wrecked, barely audible. “Hermione Granger, you’ve just ruined me.”

Her laugh was wet, broken. “Good. Then we’re even.”

And he kissed her again, like he was trying to fuse their futures into one.

It was not hurried, not desperate. It was slow, measured, intentional — as though he wanted to taste every word she had just given him. Each brush of his lips was reverent, deliberate, as if he were sealing her vow into memory.

He shifted over her, lowering himself gently until he was nestled between her thighs, never breaking the kiss. His movements carried the same precision, the same patience, as though he wanted every heartbeat of her to know he was listening, that he understood.

And then he joined her.

The pace never changed. Steady, sure, a rhythm like a heartbeat. He did not rush, did not falter. He matched the kiss — deep, slow, endless — until Hermione thought she might dissolve beneath the weight of it.

She felt his love in the act, every movement infused with it. It spread through her like diffusion, sinking into her blood, her bones, her very soul.

Pleasure rose slowly, unbearably, each wave higher than the last, until it crested all at once — blinding, starlit, bursting behind her eyes like a constellation made flesh. She gasped against his mouth, clutching him closer, drowning in the wonder of it.

And all through it, in the same steady rhythm, his mouth pressed against her skin, his voice breaking with each word.

“I love you.”
A kiss, a thrust, a vow.
“I love you.”
Another, raw, unstoppable.
“I love you.”

And she was more.

More than grief. More than fear. More than ambition. She was light, love, fire — everything she had ever been meant to be. Because she was his. And he was hers.

Hermione lay half draped across his chest, still flushed and glowing, her hair a wild halo against his skin. He idly traced circles along her arm, watching the way her curls spilled over him. The silence was warm, sated, but her mind — as always — ticked forward.

“So,” she said, voice dry, though her eyes sparkled with mischief. “Minister of Magic?”

Draco’s brows lifted, amusement tugging at his mouth. “Ambitious, Granger. Even for you.”

“Maybe,” she murmured, feigning nonchalance. “Would you be okay standing beside a powerful witch?”

He gave a short laugh, the sound vibrating under her cheek. “Okay? Granger, Malfoys gravitate toward power. We love power.”

Her lips quirked, but her eyes narrowed as she tested him. “So you only love me because I’m powerful?”

His head tipped back against the pillow, and he gave her a look — half exasperated, half fond. “If only,” he said dryly.

She arched a brow. “If only?”

Draco rolled, pinning her beneath him with practiced ease, his hair falling into his eyes as he gazed down at her. His smirk softened into something far more dangerous, far more sincere.

“If power was all I loved,” he said slowly, “I’d be halfway across the Channel by now, polishing Astoria Greengrass’s family crest and preparing to live a very comfortable, very soulless life.” His fingers brushed her cheek, feather-light. “But instead I’m here. With you. Because you’re maddening, brilliant, impossible… and because even when you were nothing more than an infuriating bushy-haired know-it-all, I wanted you. Long before you were powerful. Long before you knew it.”

Her breath caught. “Draco—”

He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper meant for her alone. “Don’t insult me by reducing what I feel for you to ambition. You’re not a throne, Hermione. You’re the crown.”

Her throat tightened, emotion pricking behind her eyes before she could stop it. She reached up, cupping his jaw, her thumb brushing his skin. “You make it very difficult to argue with you.”

“Good,” he murmured, capturing her mouth in another slow kiss. When he pulled back, his smirk returned, gentler this time. “But for the record, yes — I’ll stand beside you. Minister, professor, revolutionary — whatever you decide to become. And Merlin help anyone who tries to stand in your way, because they’ll have both of us to answer to.”

Hermione laughed softly, though her chest ached with the weight of his words. She tugged him back down to her, whispering against his lips, “Dangerous combination.”

“The most dangerous,” he agreed, and kissed her again.

Draco’s thumb traced the curve of her cheekbone, his eyes dark and intent. “You’ve told me what you want for your career — power, reform, justice. That’s you through and through. But what about your life?”

Hermione blinked at him, startled by the gentleness of the question.

“My life?” she echoed cautiously.

“Yes,” he pressed, voice low. “What do you want when it’s just you? When the speeches are done, when the world isn’t asking anything of you. What do you see then?”

She opened her mouth, then closed it, caught by the sheer enormity of being asked — of being seen. For so long, her answers had always been about work, about service, about proving herself. But now, in the dim hush of the room, with his heartbeat steady under her palm, another vision rose up. Fragile. Precious.

“It’s simple,” she said finally, her voice unsteady but certain. “I want a cottage. Nothing grand. On the edge of everything, where the noise of the world can’t reach us. A home with sunlight in the mornings and quiet at night. A garden where wisteria winds lazily over stone walls, where the air smells of earth and bees, not marble and dust. Large enough for our books and our memories, but not a museum. Not a manor. Just… ours.”

Draco’s lips parted slightly. His hand tightened around hers.

She went on, her words gathering momentum as the picture grew clearer in her mind. “I want dinners every night — nothing extravagant, just meals at our table. Friday nights for dates, even if it’s takeaway in front of the fire. Saturdays for crafts, or exploring, or laughing until we ache. I want… an ordinary rhythm. With you.”

Her throat caught, and she hesitated. Then, very softly: “And a baby.”

The word dropped like a stone in still water.

Draco froze. His eyes widened, his breath catching audibly. “A… baby?”

Hermione’s cheeks flushed, but she didn’t look away. Her hand slid down to rest against his chest, over the frantic beat of his heart. “I never thought I’d want that,” she admitted, voice raw. “For years, I imagined only books and work and purpose. I thought that would be enough. But with you —” She swallowed hard, her eyes shining. “—with you, I can picture it. Our child. Not as an obligation or an accident of tradition, but something chosen. Something born from love. I can only see it with you.”

Draco’s breath hitched. For a moment he seemed younger than she had ever seen him — nineteen, fragile, stripped bare of the arrogance he wore like armour. Slowly, as though disbelieving, he lifted his hand and pressed it over hers where it rested against his heart.

“You’d give me that?” His voice broke. “Knowing me — knowing everything — you’d…” He shook his head helplessly, as though words had abandoned him.

Tears prickled at Hermione’s eyes. She reached up, cupping his face with both hands, forcing him to see her. “Draco, listen to me. You are not the boy you were told to be. You are the man who stayed, who fought, who chose different. You are the man I love. And yes — I’d give you that. Gladly. Because it’s not about deserving. It’s about choosing. And I choose you.”

The silence stretched between them, thick with everything unspoken.

Then Draco surged forward, kissing her with a reverence that shook her to her bones. His hands framed her face as though he feared she might vanish, his whole body trembling with the weight of it.

When he pulled back, his eyes were bright, almost glassy. “You’ll undo me,” he whispered, his voice wrecked.

Hermione smiled through her tears. “No. I’ll build you.”

He stared at her like she’d rewritten the laws of the universe. And then he kissed her again, slow and deep, sealing the promise between them.

The Christmas lights outside blurred into soft pools of color, but inside Hermione’s home, a different kind of warmth thrummed steadily beneath the quiet hum of the evening.

Draco was there.

Not merely visiting, not lingering for a night or two—he was here, woven into the fabric of her life. They shared the same space, the same routines, the same breath.

He slept in her room, in her bed, and they had fallen into a comforting rhythm of closeness—physically intimate often, in ways that were neither rushed nor fragile, but a natural extension of the fierce love that bound them. The world outside might be harsh and unforgiving, but here, in this room, they were safe and unguarded. Their nights together were quiet confessions of need and trust, a slow, tender discovery of each other’s bodies and hearts.

Mornings were soft and unhurried. Draco’s fingers would trace the curve of her arm as they lay tangled beneath the heavy quilts, and she would wake to the steady beat of his heart—a sound more certain than any promise.

By day, he was an invisible anchor. She found him in her kitchen, quietly preparing breakfast, or sitting nearby as she studied, his gaze never leaving her, full of fierce devotion. They spoke little; words were unnecessary when the language of touch and presence said everything.

Their love had deepened far beyond the tentative, fragile beginnings. It was solid now—unshakable. They moved together with a familiarity born of months spent navigating fear and hope side by side.

Physically, emotionally, spiritually—they were one.

And yet, the shadow of the outside world crept closer.

The Burrow was alive with the cozy chaos of family and friends, the air rich with Molly’s cooking and laughter. Hermione slipped into a quiet corner with Ginny and Luna, plates of treacle tart barely touched as the warm glow of the hearth wrapped around them.

Ginny’s eyes sparkled with mischief as she leaned in, voice low and teasing. “So, spill it. How’s Draco, really? I’ve seen the way you look at each other—like you want to… well, you know.”

Hermione’s cheeks warmed, a small, knowing smile curling her lips. “He’s… amazing. Patient, yes, but when he wants you, it’s like a slow-burning wildfire—unrelenting, impossible to ignore.”

Luna’s serene voice floated over them. “It’s fascinating, the dance of intimacy between two people so deeply connected. Like magic unfolding slowly but deliberately.”

Ginny nudged Hermione, a teasing grin playing on her lips. “Don’t leave me hanging—are you two, you know… getting properly acquainted?”

Hermione bit her lip, heat rising. “We are. It’s intense. But tender too. I never imagined I’d want someone so much that it’s like this constant ache and comfort all at once.”

Ginny blinked, suddenly a little flushed herself. “Gods, Hermione, you’re making me blush.”

Hermione laughed softly. “It’s not just desire. Draco understands that ambition and passion aren’t separate. He respects that I’m not ready to drop everything for… well, us just yet.”

Ginny raised an eyebrow, mock-scandalized. “Not ready? You make it sound like you’re holding him at arm’s length.”

Hermione shook her head, eyes sparkling with confidence. “No, it’s more like… I want it all—the career, the future, and him. But on my terms. Draco’s not bothered. He says he’s in for the long haul, whether I’m coming or going.”

Ginny smirked, breath catching a little. “Typical Malfoy confidence. I bet he’s got plans to wear you down with that smolder.”

Hermione leaned back, grinning. “Maybe. But I’m not exactly easy to wear down.”

Luna smiled serenely. “That tension is what makes it powerful. Like the charged air before a lightning storm.”

Ginny shook her head, laughing. “Honestly, you two are practically setting the room on fire just with your looks.”

Hermione bit her lip, the heat in her cheeks deepening. “Well, it is Christmas. Some heat is necessary.”

The three friends laughed together, the world outside falling away for a moment as their little bubble crackled with something electric—and deliciously real.

Draco

The quiet grandeur of Malfoy Manor felt colder than usual that Christmas evening. Flickering candlelight cast long shadows across the richly adorned walls, but Draco sat by the hearth with a stillness that unsettled the usual opulence. His fingers curled lightly around a glass of deep red wine, but his thoughts were elsewhere—focused, fierce.

Narcissa entered, her footsteps soft yet purposeful. Her eyes, sharp and measured, searched his face with the weight of a thousand unspoken judgments.

“Draco,” she said softly, but every word carried a measured tension, “you are spending far too much time with Granger.”

He lifted his gaze to meet hers, steady and unflinching. In that moment, there was no boy she once knew—only a man shaped by war, loyalty, and love deeper than she could easily comprehend.

“She is my choice,” Draco said, his voice low but unwavering. “Not a whim or rebellion. Not a mistake.”

Narcissa’s lips pressed into a thin line, but her eyes betrayed something deeper—conflict, concern, and perhaps a flicker of understanding. “You know the whispers, the danger. Astoria’s influence… Pansy’s meddling. This courtship threatens everything we’ve preserved.”

He nodded slowly, not with submission, but with the grace of one who has already borne those battles in silence.

“I know,” he said. “I know Astoria and Pansy seek to fracture what Hermione and I have built. But their schemes don’t define us.”

A pause. Narcissa’s gaze softened, as if for a brief moment she glimpsed beyond the surface—the core of her son’s soul, raw and unshakable.

“Draco, love is not always enough,” she whispered, almost to herself.

“But it is mine,” he replied, voice reverent, almost a prayer. “She is my light in a world that often feels dark and fractured. I love her with everything I am. No shadow of bloodline, no whisper of past alliances can change that.”

He stood then, a quiet strength radiating from him. “I will protect her, stand by her—always. If that means standing alone against my own blood, then so be it.”

Narcissa studied him, the mother who had once cradled a frightened child now witnessing a man who had claimed his own destiny.

Her voice broke, a fragile blend of pride and sorrow. “Then I see your soul, Draco. And while I may not fully understand it, I cannot deny it.”

He stepped forward, lowering his voice. “Thank you, Mother. That is all I ask.”

They shared a long, heavy silence—the fragile truce of love and duty woven quietly between them as the fire crackled low.

The Granger house, once heavy with silence and loss, now breathed softly with the glow of a crackling fire. The scent of burning pine and warm cocoa wrapped around Hermione like a balm, chasing away the sharp edges of the past. She nestled against Draco on the thick woolen rug, his arm resting lightly across her shoulders, grounding her in a way no words ever could.

The weight of the book in her hands felt comforting—familiar stories unfolding in Draco’s calm, deliberate voice. Each syllable was a soft thread weaving them closer together in this quiet sanctuary. His words warmed the room more than the fire, steady and sure, like him.

Her fingers traced the rim of her mug, feeling the gentle heat seep into her palms. The bittersweet aroma of dark chocolate mingled with the faint musk of Draco’s cologne—woodsy, clean, utterly his.

“I never thought this would be my life,” she whispered, voice trembling with fragile hope. “Not this kind of happiness. Not here. Not with you.”

Draco’s jaw tensed, a flicker of something raw and honest flickering in his pale eyes. His lips curved into the faintest smirk, like a secret only she was meant to see.

“You make it hard not to believe in things like that,” he murmured, the words low, almost sacred.

Her breath hitched at the way his voice softened—barely more than a breath, but full of everything he couldn’t say outright.

“It’s not just about what we’ve lost,” he continued, fingers brushing a stray lock of hair from her temple, his touch rough yet gentle. “It’s about what we’re building now. Slowly. Imperfectly. Ours.”

She leaned into him, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath her cheek, the solid strength that anchored her swirling emotions. Her heart pounded, full and fierce, a pulse she hadn’t known she’d missed.

“I never thought I’d find this,” she breathed. “Peace. Joy. Love.”

Draco’s hand slid down to cup her face, thumb tracing the curve of her cheek with reverence. “You deserve it,” he said simply, the conviction in his voice raw and unyielding.

She pressed a gentle kiss to his shoulder, tasting the warmth of him—earthy, real, intoxicating. Her breath trembled with the ache of it all: loss, survival, and this fragile, blazing new beginning.

And there, in the flickering firelight, with the world outside frozen in winter’s hush, Hermione felt something she hadn’t dared hope for—home.

The days between Christmas and New Year’s slipped by like a slow, tender spell. The house hummed with quiet joy, every corner holding soft traces of shared laughter and whispered secrets.

Mornings began with the gentle light filtering through frost-kissed windows, Draco already awake beside her, his breath warm against her neck. Sometimes they stayed tangled in the sheets, reluctant to face the day, savoring the simple comfort of skin against skin.

They brewed endless mugs of tea and hot chocolate, each sip a quiet ritual. Hermione found herself humming as she stirred, watching Draco as he read aloud from a book she’d dragged from the dusty shelves—the cadence of his voice filling the rooms with life.

On one lazy afternoon, they wandered through the nearby woods, breath misting in the crisp air. Hermione’s fingers intertwined with his, and when he squeezed her hand, a spark traveled straight to her heart. They paused beneath the bare branches, and Draco pulled her close, the world narrowing to just the two of them.

Back at home, the kitchen became their favorite refuge. Hermione chopped vegetables with practiced ease while Draco tackled the impossible task of stirring a pot without burning the sauce. Their laughter bubbled up, filling the house with warmth more potent than any fire.

Late nights were often spent by the fire, wrapped in a shared blanket, tracing patterns on each other’s skin—soft touches that spoke volumes of the love growing between them. Sometimes, Hermione caught Draco watching her with a tenderness that made her breath catch, the unspoken promises in his gaze as clear as daylight.

New Year’s Eve

When the last day of the year arrived, the city buzzed with anticipation. But for Hermione and Draco, the world outside faded away.

They dressed simply—him in a crisp dark shirt that hugged his lean frame, her in a soft emerald dress that caught the firelight just right. Hand in hand, they stepped into the chilly night, the stars glittering like scattered diamonds overhead.

At a quiet gathering of close friends—Ginny, Harry, Ron, Luna, Neville, Blaise, Theo—they shared stories of the year past, hopes for the one to come. The air was thick with warmth and good cheer, the kind that lingers long after laughter fades.

Draco caught Hermione’s eye across the room, a slow smile spreading over his face. She felt her cheeks flush, the steady thrum of love filling her veins like wildfire.

As midnight approached, they moved to the terrace, the city lights sparkling below them. Draco slipped an arm around her waist, pulling her close.

“Happy New Year,” he murmured into her hair.

She tilted her face up, their breaths mingling in the cold night air. “Happy New Year,” she whispered back, the promise in her voice as palpable as the fireworks that soon burst across the sky.

They kissed then—soft at first, then deeper, more urgent, as if sealing every hope and fear of the coming year into that moment.

And as the fireworks blazed above, Hermione knew that whatever the future held, they would face it together—bound by love, fierce and unbreakable.

The January mornings were sharp and clear, the kind that made the breath visible and the world feel still and new. Hermione woke early, the thin winter light filtering softly through the curtains. When she padded quietly into the kitchen, she found Draco already there, standing by the stove, the soft clink of spoons and mugs punctuating the silence.

He looked up, his usual composed expression softened by something almost tender. The faintest smile tugged at his lips as he handed her a steaming mug. “Cinnamon and a touch of nutmeg. Thought you could use a little extra warmth.”

Hermione took the cup, the fragrant steam curling into her face, the rich, spicy scent grounding her. She wrapped her hands around it, feeling the heat seep into her cold fingers. Draco’s presence behind her was steady—his warmth seeping through the thin fabric of his sweater.

They moved to the small kitchen table, settling in side by side. Her elbow brushed his as they reached for sugar, and the slight contact sent a familiar spark dancing up her arm. She caught his glance—grey eyes flickering with amusement and something softer, more intimate.

He teased, voice low and rich, “You’re distracting me with those eyes.”

She laughed softly, the sound filling the quiet room. The unspoken promise in their shared smile was as comforting as the hot coffee between them.

Later that week, the city’s wintry charm beckoned them to wander hand in hand through narrow streets lined with frost-covered windows. The air was crisp and carried the faint scent of wood smoke and baked bread from nearby bakeries. They slipped into a tiny bookstore, the kind with creaky floors and a faint musk of old paper.

Hermione’s fingers traced the spines of books, the paper rough beneath her touch. Draco stood close behind her, his hand resting lightly on her waist, grounding her amidst the quiet magic of the shop. She pulled out an old anthology of poetry, flipping through yellowed pages with reverence.

She began reading aloud, her voice soft and musical, filling the small space with the cadence of verse. Draco’s breath hitched slightly as she read, the words weaving between them like invisible threads.

When she paused, he stepped closer, voice husky with admiration. “You make even the oldest words feel new again. Like they belong to you.”

Hermione looked up, cheeks flushed, heart pounding at the sincerity in his tone. The warmth of the moment settled over her, a gentle reassurance that this—this love—was real and rare.

Evenings were their sanctuary. One night, snow fell thick and silent against the windows, blanketing the world in white. Inside, the fire cast flickering shadows, and Hermione sat close to Draco, their hands intertwined beneath the table.

His thumb brushed soothing circles over her knuckles, a quiet gesture that spoke volumes. She felt the tension ease from her shoulders, the tight coil of anxiety unwinding with each steady stroke.

“I’ve never wanted anything as much as I want this,” Draco whispered, voice rough but sincere. The vulnerability in his words was rare, precious.

Hermione’s breath caught, chest swelling with an aching tenderness. “Neither have I,” she confessed, voice barely above a whisper. Their eyes met, holding a thousand unspoken promises.

“I love learning you,” she whispered, voice thick with feeling, the words both a promise and a prayer.

Draco’s eyes fluttered open, dark and shimmering with emotion. He reached up, his hand cradling her face with reverence, thumb stroking the curve of her cheek. “You’re the only one I want to teach,” he murmured, voice low and husky, the intensity in it settling deep in her bones.

Their breaths mingled in the warm, fragrant air. Every touch was electric—slow, deliberate. No haste. No need to fill silence with anything but the sound of their hearts beating in tandem.

Her hands slid from his jaw down the slope of his neck, into the thick waves of his hair, tugging gently as if anchoring him to her. He groaned—a low, guttural sound that reverberated through her chest—and pulled her closer until their bodies pressed tightly together.

Her lips found his, soft and reverent at first, tasting the faint salt of his skin, the heat of him. The kiss deepened, urgent but controlled, a dance of passion and tenderness. His hands roamed her back, memorizing every curve, every breathy gasp that escaped her.

They moved together with a rhythm older than time—slow and consuming, every touch a declaration, every sigh a vow. The world outside ceased to exist, stripped away until there was only the heat of their bodies, the ache of their need, and the quiet reverence of love laid bare.

When they finally broke apart, breaths heavy and mingled, Hermione rested her forehead against his, the steady thump of his heart grounding her in the fierce, beautiful now.

“I love you,” she whispered, the words trembling with a depth she hadn’t dared speak before.

Draco’s fingers brushed a stray lock of hair from her face, his smile small but fierce. “I love you too, Hermione. Always.”

In that moment, wrapped in the warmth of the bath and the quiet power of their love, they knew—this was forever.

Each day was a thread in their tapestry of love—delicate, enduring, and fiercely real. Hermione felt it deep in her bones: this was no fleeting passion but something steady and true, a refuge and a wild flame all at once.

And though the future remained uncertain, they faced it hand in hand, hearts entwined.

February

February settled over the city with a sharpness that made the warmth of their home feel like a sanctuary. The bitter wind howled outside, but inside, Hermione and Draco built a quiet world of their own—one filled with small rituals that tethered them to each other and kept the outside chaos at bay.

Mornings began slow. Draco would brew coffee, filling the flat with rich aromas, and they’d sit by the window, wrapped in blankets, hands intertwined, watching frost glitter on the panes.

The physical closeness they shared was steady, familiar now—marked by gentle touches and stolen kisses, the kind that lingered on skin and memory. They explored each other slowly, reverently. There were nights when Hermione would fall asleep nestled against his chest, listening to the steady drum of his heart—a rhythm that promised safety and constancy.

Their conversations grew deeper, too—talking about futures, hopes, and fears. Hermione’s ambition shone brightly, and Draco’s devotion never wavered. He saw her dreams as sacred, often whispering encouragement just when she doubted herself.

One night, after a long day of research and interviews, Draco surprised her with a dinner cooked from scratch. It was simple but perfect—a testament to the quiet love that had grown between them.

“You don’t have to do this,” Hermione said softly, touched.

“I want to. It’s not about the food,” he smiled, “It’s about you.”

That vulnerability—bare and unguarded—made her heart ache with love.

March

March brought early blossoms and longer days, but also a creeping sense of unease. The whispers in the magical community hadn’t stopped. The smear campaigns from Astoria’s camp persisted, their venomous tendrils reaching into newspapers and social circles alike.

Yet, Hermione and Draco faced it together, their unity a fortress.

They made more public appearances—charity events, lectures, even informal dinners with friends and allies. Draco’s charm was effortless, his presence commanding but warm. Hermione found herself buoyed by his confidence, her own voice growing stronger with each passing day.

Their relationship blossomed in the quiet moments between the public’s gaze.

One evening, after a gala, Hermione returned home exhausted, the weight of scrutiny heavy on her shoulders. Draco met her at the door, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face.

“Come,” he said quietly, “Let me take care of you.”

They retreated to the bedroom, where whispered words and gentle touches melted away the day’s harshness. The way Draco looked at her—eyes full of fierce tenderness—made her feel seen in ways no one else could.

Their physical connection deepened—less about urgency, more about reverence. They explored the delicate balance of pleasure and comfort, trust and discovery. Every kiss, every touch was a reaffirmation of the love they’d fought so hard to protect.

April

By April, the air was thick with the promise of change. The flowers in the garden bloomed defiantly despite the lingering chill, and so did Hermione’s hope.

The press had begun to shift—slowly, painstakingly. Blaise’s campaign to recast their story as a powerful, star-crossed love was gaining traction. People were starting to root for them, to see not scandal but strength.

Yet beneath the surface, danger lurked.

One crisp spring morning, as Hermione and Draco walked hand in hand through a blooming park, an owl arrived with a heavy parchment tied in black ribbon. The seal bore a crest she knew all too well—the Greengrass family.

She broke the seal with trembling fingers.

The summons was clear and devastating: Astoria Greengrass was challenging the Wizengamots' ruling. The ancient betrothal contract, binding Draco to Astoria by law and blood, was still valid.

The words burned on the page like a curse.

Draco’s jaw tightened as he read beside her, eyes darkening. The weight of the past crashed back into their present—threatening to undo everything they had built.

Hermione’s heart pounded, fear and fierce resolve battling inside her.

“Fucking bitch!” Draco spat.

But the question hung between them, sharp and unrelenting:

Would their love be enough to withstand the storm that Astoria was about to unleash?

Chapter Text

Chapter 22

From the Wizengamot Legal Codex, Section VII: On Courtship, Engagement, and Marriage Amongst the Ancient Houses of Britain

(Revised Consolidation, 1792, with Amendments ratified 1876 and 1923)

• 1. Definition of Courtship
  1.1. A courtship shall be understood as a declared and exclusive bond between two witches or wizards, undertaken with the clear intent of entering into matrimony.
  1.2. A courtship may not be construed as casual attachment. It bears standing as the preliminary stage of marriage, binding in both law and custom.
  1.3. Upon declaration, the courtship shall be recorded with the Office of the Wizengamot Registrar or otherwise witnessed by the lawful Heads of both Houses concerned.
• 2. Authority and Consent
  2.1. No courtship between heirs of Ancient or Noble Houses shall be valid without the consent of both families.
  2.2. The authority of consent is vested in the matriarch or, in her absence, the senior-most guardian of lineage.
  2.3. In the case of a witch or wizard lacking a recognized family, or where bloodlines are considered disrupted, the Wizengamot shall act as custodian of consent, judging the courtship by conduct, honor, and legitimacy.
• 3. Conduct and Decorum
  3.1. Parties to a courtship shall conduct themselves with propriety in all public assemblies, balls, feasts, and Wizengamot functions.
  3.2. Scandalous displays of physical intimacy, public impropriety, or reckless endangerment of the family name shall be considered a breach of the Articles of Courtship.
  3.3. Private meetings are permitted under circumstance, but in cases of Houses of High Standing, it is customary that a companion, retainer, or elder be present.
• 4. Exclusivity and Obligation
  4.1. A courtship shall be exclusive in all matters of the heart. To entertain or pursue another during the course of courtship is to commit breach of contract.
  4.2. The suitor bears special obligation to safeguard the dignity and honor of the witch courted. This obligation may be discharged by duel, petition, legal redress, or other means deemed sufficient by society.
  4.3. Failure to defend the honor of one’s betrothed is cause to deem the suitor unfit for continuation of the contract.
• 5. Legal Recognition and Standing
  5.1. A registered courtship shall be recognized as a lawful compact, preliminary to marriage.
  5.2. Any act of slander, libel, sabotage, or malicious interference against either party shall be deemed an attack against the union itself and may be prosecuted under interference statutes.
  5.3. Where one party is of Ancient or Noble blood, attacks upon their intended are understood to carry equal severity as attacks upon the family name.
• 6. Dissolution and Penalties
  6.1. A courtship may be dissolved only by:
  6.1(a) Joint decree of both family Heads;
  6.1(b) Judgment of the Wizengamot in cases of irreconcilable breach;
      6.1(c) Death or permanent incapacitation of one party.
  6.2. The offending party to a broken courtship shall forfeit rights of dowry, inheritance, and legacy attached to the arrangement.
  6.3. A dissolved courtship shall remain a matter of public record. The stain of broken faith attaches to the name of the offending party, and this record shall not be sealed except by full pardon of the Wizengamot.
• 7. Tokens, Traditions, and Symbolic Acts
  7.1. Courtships are affirmed through tokens of intent:
  7.1(a) A token of courtship, distinct from betrothal, symbolizing the promise of exclusivity.
  7.1(b) The invitation of the witch or wizard to the suitor’s ancestral seat, thereby welcoming them to the legacy of the House.
      7.1(c) Joint appearance at Wizengamot function or public assembly, to be understood as tacit sealing of intent.
  7.2. These symbolic acts are not merely gestures of affection, but binding evidences in the eyes of law and custom.
• 8. Breach, Slander, and Interference
  8.1. To spread falsehood or malicious rumor against one party of a registered courtship is to interfere with lawful compact and is subject to penalty.
  8.2. Penalties may include censure, fine, loss of inheritance rights, or, in grave cases, imprisonment.
  8.3. The courtship shall not be considered dissolved by such interference, unless so decreed by the Wizengamot.
• 9. Legacy and Enforcement
  9.1. The preservation of lawful courtship ensures the continuation of magical legacy and stability of wizarding society.
  9.2. The Wizengamot shall enforce these provisions without fear or favor, as courtship is the cornerstone of dynastic continuity.

Thus decreed, so held, and so bound by the Wizengamot of Magical Britain.

The Codex of Courtship lay open on the long oak table, its parchment yellowed with centuries of bloodline ink. The consultation chamber smelled faintly of polish and parchment dust, heavy with the gravity of precedent.

Hermione sat straight-backed, her notes precise, quill poised though her parchment was already filled with sleepless nights of work. Draco lounged beside her, posture deceptively casual, though his jaw was tight, fingers drumming once against the chair arm. Across from them, Narcissa Malfoy was composed marble — silken robes, spine rigid, her eyes fixed on the Codex as though it were both weapon and scripture.

At the head of the table, Barrister Selwyn Hartcroft adjusted her spectacles, her sharp profile catching the lamplight. “We are here because Astoria Greengrass has filed petition under Codex §5.1, claiming her family’s betrothal contract with House Malfoy remains binding. Until judgment, Mister Malfoy’s position is precarious, and Miss Granger—” her gaze flicked toward Hermione, cool but not unkind “—your very presence will be argued as breach.”

Hermione’s quill bit into parchment as she steadied herself. “The contract, if it even exists in enforceable form, is weak. The Greengrass family failed to renew it in 1996. The Registrar’s index confirms the lapse. They’ll try to argue implied continuance under §3.2, but that requires consent. Draco never signed.”

Draco’s lips curved faintly, sardonic. “I was rather busy dodging war crimes at the time.”

Hartcroft’s mouth twitched. “Correct, Miss Granger. But precedent can be twisted. We need more than technicalities. We need narrative. Intent.”

Narcissa’s voice slid in, smooth as glass. “They will argue impropriety. The kiss at the Ministry Gala. The photographs. The Prophet headlines. All of it will be called proof of recklessness — a Muggle-born corrupting my son’s judgment.”

Hermione flushed but didn’t look away. “Then we frame it differently. Under §7.2, public appearances constitute recognition of a lawful courtship. I stood with him at the gala, at the Equinox hearing, at Malfoy Manor. Those are affirmations, not improprieties.”

Hartcroft inclined her head. “Precisely. Symbols matter. But we must address the Blood Ledger. The Greengrass betrothal was inscribed there, which gives their claim the appearance of permanence. The Ledger will not accept your name, Miss Granger — not as a Muggle-born. It was never built to recognize you.”

A chill swept Hermione’s spine, though she had suspected as much.

Draco’s voice cut through the silence, smooth but edged with steel. “I’ll force it to record what it does not want to see. If Astoria clings to faded ink, I’ll carve Hermione’s name fresh — by my hand, by my blood. Let the Ledger choke on it.”

Narcissa’s gaze sharpened, incredulity flaring. “You would deface the Ledger? It was written to preserve centuries of line, and you would risk its magic for her?”

“Yes,” Draco said simply, his hand brushing Hermione’s under the table, deliberate and steady. His voice was calm, aristocratic, but his eyes burned with devotion. “Because she is mine, whether the Ledger acknowledges it or not. And I will not let Astoria, or any relic of blood superstition, dictate my life.”

Hermione’s throat tightened, but her voice was firm. “If the Ledger refuses me, that refusal becomes proof of the prejudice stacked against us. Let them show themselves for what they are.”

For a moment, Narcissa only stared at her, pale eyes assessing, cold as frost. Then, faintly, something shifted. Not approval — never that. But a thread of reluctant acknowledgment. “You would use even rejection as a weapon.”

Hermione’s chin lifted. “Then we let their prejudice become our evidence. If the Ledger refuses me, it condemns itself.”

Hartcroft’s quill scratched against parchment, brisk and sharp. “Then it is settled. We argue the lapsed renewal, the public recognitions, the malicious interference — and, if forced, we weaponize the Ledger’s bias itself. Effective, undeniable.”

Draco leaned back, his arm brushing Hermione’s, voice smooth but intimate. “Then we go in as more than ourselves. I as heir who bends the Codex to my will. You as the witch who chose me despite everything. Together, we make them admit what already exists.”

Narcissa’s lips curved faintly, razor-sharp. “Recognition is not given. It is taken. Very well. Force them, then. That is the Malfoy way.”

Hartcroft snapped the Codex shut, the sound echoing like a verdict. “Then we are prepared.”

Hermione

The Burrow smelled of woodsmoke and onions frying, the kind of homely scent that clung to its walls no matter the season. Downstairs, voices rose and fell in overlapping bursts — Arthur chuckling at something, Ron arguing with George, Molly’s steady percussion of spoons and pans. The laughter threaded up through the floorboards, uneven but warm, as if the whole house was stitched together by sound.

Hermione sat on Ginny’s quilt, knees drawn up neatly, her back against the cool pane of the window. The patchwork blanket scratched at her palms where she pressed them flat, grounding herself. Beyond the glass, the orchard was painted in the long shadows of dusk, the crooked trees moving faintly in the wind. The comfort of the Burrow only sharpened the weight in her chest — she didn’t quite belong in its easy chaos anymore.

Ginny shut the door with a soft click, sealing off the noise below. She crossed barefoot to the bed and flopped beside Hermione, her hair a copper spill across the quilt. Lavender lifted faintly from the pillow where her head had landed.

“You look like you’ve just gone ten rounds with a Dementor,” Ginny said.

Hermione let out a short breath that might have been a laugh. “One barrister. With a side of Narcissa Black. Nearly the same thing.”

“Tell me.”

Hermione didn’t rush. She sat very still, eyes on the darkening orchard, the firelight from downstairs flickering against the low ceiling. When she finally spoke, her voice was level, even. “Hartcroft went through everything. The Codex. Astoria’s claim. All the ways they could twist the law to make me illegitimate.” Her nails pressed against the quilt’s seams, careful, contained. “At nineteen, I should be planning for my future. Instead, tomorrow I’ll stand before the Wizengamot to defend my right to love.”

Ginny studied her. “You hear yourself, right? Nineteen, and you’re about to challenge the oldest laws we’ve got — for Malfoy. That’s not you, Hermione. You’ve always been the careful one, the logical one. This is…” She shook her head slowly, the lamplight glinting off her hair. “This is madness.”

Hermione turned then, and Ginny saw the light in her eyes — not frantic, not desperate, but sharp, unwavering. “I know it isn’t like me. And it is madness. But Ginny—” her voice dropped, precise, deliberate—“ I used to think love was supposed to feel like chaos — sparks and whirlwind and being swept off your feet. With him, it wasn’t like that. It was steadier, deeper. The noise in my head quieted. Things fell into place. As if it was always meant to be like this. For the first time, I felt… anchored. As though no matter how the world turned, I had finally found where I belonged.”

Ginny frowned, her lips pressing thin. “Settled?”

“Yes.” Hermione smoothed the quilt again, but her hands were steady. “My thoughts never stop. You know that. I spiral, I overwork, I tie myself into knots. But with him… it eases. He steadies me — my mind, my body, my soul. With him, I don’t vanish. I become more myself.”

The house creaked around them, the sound of a dropped pan and Molly’s reprimand muffled through the floorboards.

“But on paper—” Ginny began.

“On paper, he was never right for me,” Hermione said, firm, unflinching. “He was cruel, arrogant, everything I once swore I hated. But the war dismantled him. And the way he rebuilt himself… that’s who he is now. That man is mine. Perfect for me, exactly as he is. This him was always meant to be mine.”

Ginny stared. Hermione’s hands were folded in her lap now, neat, deliberate. Her tone hadn’t broken once, though the weight in her words made Ginny’s chest tight.

“I love him,” Hermione said, each word deliberate, immovable. “Not with the kind of love that flickers or fades — but with the certainty that tomorrow isn’t promised, and I refuse to waste what I’ve been given. The war taught me that truth. Maybe it seems too much, too fast, too soon. But it’s real. It’s right. And I will not deny it, not to myself and not to anyone else.”

Hermione’s hand lingered in Ginny’s when a faint, unmistakable crack sounded from the orchard. Her chest tightened—not in fear, but in the anticipation of recognition.

Ginny’s brows shot up. “You… invited him here?”

Hermione shook her head, whispering, “No. He knows better than that.”

Footsteps followed along the gravel path, deliberate, precise. A polite knock sounded on the Burrow’s door just as Hermione descended the stairs.

Draco appeared in the doorway, his presence tightening the air as if the kitchen itself paused to make room for him. The clatter of dishes, the faint buttery scent of Molly’s baking—all of it seemed to hush.

“Mr. Malfoy,” Mrs. Weasley exclaimed, pressing a hand to her apron, cheeks turning pink. “Welcome to our humble abode.”

Draco inclined his head with crisp precision. “Good evening Mrs. Weasley. Your home is… warm.”

Arthur’s smile spread, genial and genuine. “Welcome, Draco. You’re most welcome here.”

Ron leaned back in his chair, a smug grin tugging at his mouth. “Told you he had it in him. Malfoy just saves the good manners for shock value.”

Ginny smirked, her gaze darting to Hermione before settling knowingly on Draco. “Terrifyingly polite,” she drawled. “And still looking at her like she’s the only light in the bloody place.”

Draco’s silver eyes flicked to Hermione, and in that instant, the kitchen melted away. Their breaths caught. Every week apart, every letter unsent, every fleeting thought condensed into the small space between them.

“Hi,” Hermione whispered.

“Hi,” Draco returned, equally breathless. Their eyes spoke volumes—longing, relief, adoration—all restrained in a single, perfect look.

Hermione took his hand, the briefest touch that sent warmth racing up her arm. “Come with me,” she murmured, leading him toward the living room. “We need a moment alone.”

Once inside, they stood close, hands entwined, letting the quiet hum of the Burrow frame them. Hermione settled beside him as the fire snapped low in the grate. The light caught on his cheekbones, sharp and pale, and for a moment she couldn’t hear the bustle of the Burrow at all. Just the fire, the shadows, the echo of another night months ago — when it had only been the two of them in her own sitting room, the same firelight painting their skin. A night that had left her marked in more ways than one.

A few months ago

The firelight painted their bodies in gold and shadow, each flicker catching the sheen of sweat, the ripple of muscle, the arch of straining skin. Heat rolled through the small room, the crackling logs keeping time with the rhythm they built together — steady, urgent, entirely their own. The slap of skin against skin blended with the symphony of breathless gasps and half-choked moans, a sound raw and human and completely unrestrained.

Draco moved within her with ruthless precision, yet there was reverence in it too — every thrust deep and deliberate, every kiss claimed as though he meant to consume the very air between them. His mouth pressed against hers between ragged breaths, his tongue stroking in time with the push of his hips. His hands were everywhere — her waist, her thighs, her breasts, even the delicate curve of her neck — greedy, yes, but not careless. Each touch felt like a layering of intention, sensation stacked upon sensation until Hermione thought her body would split open from the sheer immensity of it.

She had no anchor left, no careful mind or logical shield. The voice that always urged restraint, that scolded her for excess, was gone — burned away by fire and sweat and need. She was nothing but feeling, swept under and carried along by the tide of him. The sound of her own voice startled her — loud, broken, shameless, spilling into the dim-lit air. “Yes—yes, oh gods, yes—please—don’t stop—” The words tore out of her unbidden, instinctive, as she surrendered everything she had ever held back.

Draco’s pace climbed with hers, faster, harder, then slower again — torturing, coaxing, drawing out the climb until every nerve in her body begged for release. The pressure coiled, unbearable, until it snapped all at once. Hermione’s back arched, her body seizing in waves, the sensation ripping through her so violently she thought for one impossible instant that her soul had leapt out of her flesh. Stars exploded behind her eyes, blinding, infinite, dazzling — and then she sank back down into herself, trembling, remade.

When she could breathe again, Draco was still moving above her, chasing his own release, his face twisted in something between pleasure and reverence. The sight of it undid her all over again — the raw devotion etched into his every line, as if he were offering himself up to her with every last thrust. When he finally gave in, his body shuddered against hers, and he buried his face in her neck, groaning her name like a vow.

Silence followed, thick but tender. Only the crackle of the fire and the sound of their ragged breathing filled the room. Hermione lay beneath him, trembling, dazed, as though she had been shattered and rebuilt in the span of minutes. Her hands slid up his back, slow and tentative, tracing the fine tremors still running through his muscles.

Would it ever be less than this? she wondered hazily. Could it ever turn ordinary, when every time with him felt like this — like stepping out of her body, like brushing the edge of heaven and earth at once?

The fire popped, sending sparks upward. Draco shifted, rolling to his side but keeping her gathered close, his breath still uneven against her temple. His hand moved in idle patterns over her arm, slow and grounding, tracing skin still humming from the aftershocks.

Hermione sighed into the warmth of him, boneless, her cheek pressed against his shoulder. For a while there was only the hush of their breathing and the glow of the hearth. She might have drifted like that forever, safe in the cocoon of firelight and him.

But then his hand stilled, thumb brushing across the ridged skin of her forearm. The change was subtle, yet she felt the shift at once — the way his body tensed, the way the air thickened with something unsaid.

Draco’s mouth tightened into something sharp. “Only a Malfoy house could host something this grotesque,” he said at last, voice low, bitter. “Trust my family to think they were degrading you, when all they did was carve proof you were stronger than them. Stronger than all of us.”

Hermione flinched, but his grip didn’t ease. His silver eyes burned as he lifted her arm higher, angling it toward the firelight. “Your blood spilled onto those floors, Granger. Onto my family’s precious wood. And it stayed. No polish, no wards, no cleansing charm will ever undo it. Malfoy Manor carries you now, not them. You branded it the moment you survived.”

Her throat worked. “I don’t feel branded with power. I feel… defiled.”

Draco’s jaw clenched, his voice almost breaking. “No. Not defiled. Marked. Marked because you lived when they wanted you gone. Marked because you fought your way out of a place I could barely breathe in. Do you understand?”

Before she could answer, he bent his head, pressing his lips to each jagged line. Not hurried. Not careless. Every kiss was deliberate, as though he were writing over Bellatrix’s cruelty with his own devotion.

Hermione trembled, her eyes stinging. “Draco…”

He lifted his gaze, and there was no hiding it anymore. His voice cracked, rough but reverent. “I can’t erase it. I can’t take it from you. But I swear to you, I’ll spend the rest of my life making sure you never mistake this scar for shame again. It’s survival. It’s strength. And I—” His breath hitched, as if the words scraped his throat raw. “I love you for it. Every line. Every scar. Every version of you.”

Her tears fell freely then. She pressed the scarred hand to his cheek, and he closed his eyes, leaning into it as if it were holy.

Present

Hermione

The memory clung to her like smoke, the firelight of her flat bleeding into the flicker of the Burrow hearth. Even now, with his hand twined in hers in this crowded house, Hermione could still feel the press of his lips against her scar, still hear the vow he had spoken as if it had cost him a piece of himself.

She blinked, the present folding back into focus — the muffled laughter from the kitchen, the creak of the old floorboards above, the hum of life carrying on while the two of them stood apart. Draco’s hand was still warm in hers, his presence just as steady, his gaze just as unflinching as that night.

Draco’s voice, low and precise, broke the silence. “So the barrister meeting… everything we prepared, the Codex, the precedence, the narrative…” He let it trail off, gaze locked on hers.

Hermione nodded, recalling every tense moment at the long oak table, Hartcroft’s clipped precision, Narcissa’s calculated scrutiny. “I have gone over every law and clause. We are as prepared as we can be but I feel…unsure. Like we are not doing enough.”

“We have done enough,” Draco added softly, brushing his thumb against hers. “Every public appearance, every monitored action… you were flawless. Even when they expected you to falter, you were steady.”

Hermione’s chest swelled. “You were brilliant. Calm, collected… strategic. I… I missed this.”

“I missed you,” she breathed, the words slipping free before she could dress them in restraint.

Draco’s grip tightened at once, his thumb brushing the inside of her wrist. “As have I. Too long.” His gaze softened, aristocratic composure cracking to reveal something raw, unguarded. “And now I’m here, and…” His voice frayed; the silence carried what words could not.

Her chest constricted. She leaned infinitesimally closer, letting her forehead brush his. “I love you,” she whispered, as though the words themselves might shatter if spoken too loudly.

His reply was steady but aching, each syllable weighted. “I love you, too. More than I knew I could. More than I can say.”

They lingered, savoring the quiet, the warmth, the electricity of proximity. Every week apart, every stolen glance, every restrained moment coalesced into this small, perfect space.

Eventually, the Burrow’s reality intruded. Draco shifted toward the door, posture still impeccable, but Hermione saw the tension in his shoulders, the tightening of his jaw. Weeks apart had sharpened their desire; every glance, every touch they’d denied themselves, surged between them now, impossible to contain.

Her hand clenched his, pulling him back a fraction, and Draco hesitated—just a fraction—before he gave in. He leaned forward, lips pressing to hers in a kiss that was urgent, possessive, desperate. Hermione responded immediately, pouring all the longing she had swallowed into the embrace. Her fingers threaded through his hair, tugging gently, as if to anchor him to her, to make sure he wouldn’t vanish before she had claimed him.

The kiss deepened, tongue brushing briefly, teasing, tasting, seeking—each movement edged with lust and need. Every second was charged, a fire that had been smoldering for weeks, threatening to consume them. Hermione’s body pressed closer, her chest against his, feeling the taut muscle beneath his robes, the heat of him radiating into her. Draco’s hands traced her sides, sliding cautiously but with intent, memorizing, claiming, holding her like he feared she might be snatched away.

It was hunger and tenderness entwined: desire tempered by the knowledge that they had to pull back, yet too much longing pressed against restraint. Hermione could feel the ache of absence in every brush of his lips, the pressure of his hands, the way his body pressed into hers while still holding himself just enough to prevent crossing the line too far.

When they finally drew back, breaths ragged, foreheads resting together, Hermione’s chest heaved with need and relief. Their eyes locked, shimmering with desire, passion, and the knowledge of weeks apart. Draco’s voice, low and rough, barely above a whisper, broke the silence:

“Tomorrow,” he said. “We hold the line tomorrow.”

Hermione nodded, trembling, fingers still clinging to him as if she could anchor him there forever. The Burrow—the warm, chaotic, safe chaos of it—felt impossibly small, yet fiercely intimate. Every heartbeat, every lingering touch, every shiver of desire confirmed it: he was hers, utterly, and she was his.

Hermione and Draco returned to the kitchen. Draco stepped forward, nodding politely to each family member.

“Mrs. Weasley,” he said smoothly, inclining his head, “thank you for such a warm welcome despite our past conflicts.”

Molly’s cheeks flushed, hands tightening on her apron. “Well… I never thought I’d say this, but you are exceedingly… charming.”

Arthur beamed. “Thank you for being there for Hermione when we could not.”

Draco’s aristocratic composure was flawless as they stepped back into the warm bustle of the kitchen. He inclined his head politely to Arthur, offered Molly a perfectly measured farewell, even tolerated Ron’s lingering stare with the faintest arch of a brow.

Then, with all the restraint of a man buttoning his armor back into place, he turned to Hermione. He bent just enough to press his lips against her cheek — not rushed, not careless, but deliberate. A gesture so chaste it could have passed for courtesy, and yet the tenderness of it made her chest ache.

His mask was firmly in place again when he straightened, voice smooth. “Until next time.”

As the pop of his disapparition faded, the room filled with silence. Ginny exhaled first, her smirk softening into something almost wistful. “That man loves you,” she said simply.

Arthur nodded, a glimmer of nostalgia in his eye. “Malfoys were always passionate, though not often in ways worth admiring.”

Molly dabbed at her eyes with the edge of her apron, voice thick. “Oh, Hermione. He looks at you as if you’re the only thing keeping him upright.”

Hermione’s fingers lingered on her cheek where his lips had touched, a faint smile playing across her lips. She let out a quiet breath, heart still fluttering, feeling the warmth of him linger in the room long after he had gone.

Tomorrow, they would hold the line.