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Chapter Text

September 1st

A deep clash of thunder rumbled through Hogsmeade station. Hermione could feel it in her bones – the overwhelming power of nature always made her feel melancholic. Through the rain-battered compartment windows, she watched the squealing students disembark and dash through the downpour with arms above their heads.

Hermione was alone at the back of the Hogwarts Express, checking for lingering students as she made her way to the front.

A letter sat heavy in her pocket:

Ms. Granger, McGonagall had written. An urgent matter has come to my attention: It turns out our potions master needs some convincing to return to the classroom this year. I’m sorry to ask this of you, but I will need you to supervise the students on the train. I do not usually ask this of students, but there is no one else I would entrust with this task.

Everything was last minute, as seemed to be tradition at Hogwarts, and this time Hermione Granger was left to manage the pieces.

Because she was responsible.

The perfect role-model.

Always good.

Two years ago, she would have been bursting with pride to have such a responsibility.

Now? Dread settled in her heart.

She was exhausted.

Hermione reached the first carriage and took a deep steadying breath, opened her umbrella – a pretty watercolour design that reminded her of her mum – and stepped out into the downpour. The rain thudded loudly on her umbrella and drops ricocheted off the ground to splash onto her bare legs.

She looked around. Ginny and Luna had gone ahead as she’d told them to, and the last of the stragglers were stepping up into the carriages. The thestrals stood ready and restless. One at the back of the line snorted and stomped its feet.

She approached and watched the creature. Thestrals were really rather fascinating despite their morbid appearance. She felt comforted, somehow, by looking at them. They were a study in opposites: morbid, spindly, and haunting on the outside but all calm strength and elegance within. Thestrals were the tinge of darkness that appeared in the world after death; not thought about often, but once viewed, they caused a variety of reactions in people: fear, sadness, awe. Death made one see the world differently, for better or for worse.

How many students could see them now?

Hermione sighed and took a steadying breath. She’d been standing there for too long. The carriages at the start of the line were beginning to move.

She stepped into the last carriage and was half-inside when she noticed another figure and froze.

Startled grey eyes met hers.

They stared at each other for a heartbeat before all expression left Malfoy’s face. His mouth set, he sat up straighter, and his eyes hardened.

He was always good at that: keeping all forms of expression off of his face and replacing it with an air of boredom. She’d seen it often enough.

With a creak of a wheel, the carriage jolted, and she lost her footing.

Hermione groaned as her knees hit the floor hard and she caught herself on the padded bench. She winced at the pain in her knees, and it took her a moment to realize – to her utter mortification – that she was grasping onto Malfoy’s thigh as though it was a lifesaver.

She looked up at him in horror and could have laughed at his expression. His hands were up, like he had been about to touch her and thought against it, and brow was creased in displeasure as he looked down on her.

It was such a typical Malfoy look that it brought her a weird sense of relief. At least one thing in the world was the same.

She hauled herself up and slid inelegantly into the bench across from him.

“Sorry,” she offered.

When no scathing insult or witty remark came, she glanced over at him. He wasn’t glaring or smirking or sneering. Instead, he was observing her legs with a little notch between his brows.

Her knees, now mildly stinging, were beginning to look red. She’d have to put a salve on it later.

“What, no witty remark?” She said, unable to take the silence.

He raised an eyebrow.

“No, ‘These robes are vicuna wool, Granger, you owe me 500 galleons for touching them!’?” She said in his posh accent – he always over enunciated the hard consonants.

His lip twitched at that.

After a minute he gave in, “It’s a cashmere blend, Granger, and only worth 100. But that type of insult is reserved for Weasley, not you.”

She pursed her lips, but couldn’t resist asking, a little hesitantly, “And what type of insult do you have reserved for me then?”

His eyes flashed silver, sending a chill down her spine. “None,” he told her.

She raised her eyebrows. “None?”

“I never plan your insults, they come to me spontaneously,” he smirked, and turned to look out the window with a smug expression.

She snorted and did the same.

The castle loomed closer, so she hugged her arms and focused on the scenery outside.

The heavy rainfall descended onto the trees of the Forbidden Forest. Dusk was approaching, and the orange lanterns lining the path glowed hazy in the distance.

She breathed in the scent of wet earth and trees.

It smelled like Hogwarts – so different than the faint smogginess of London cars and the scent of hydrangeas growing in front of her parents’ house. Different than the musty smell of Grimmauld Place, or the grassy fields around the Burrow. It smelled like classes and homework and lazy days by the lake. It was the smell of youth - something she’d once thought she’d never smell again.

Lightening flashed in the dark sky above the castle, and a loud crash of thunder reverberated through the carriage.

All at once, images flooded her brain:

The sound of castle walls breaking.

Bright flares of curses.

Terrified faces and shots in the dark.

Flashes of green.

Bodies in the great hall. So many bodies, forever etched in her memory.

And rain.

So much rain.

The day after the battle, it had rained for days. Hermione had stood in the rain under those dark stormy clouds, cried over the idiocy of humankind and wondered why a bunch of teenagers had to fight in wars. She had stood there, rained on by the universe, and had felt so small and insignificant – like a speck of dust, irrelevant in the vastness of space and time.

And when the rain had finally stopped, Ron had taken comfort in his family, Harry was spending his days with Ginny, and Hermione – wrecked with guilt and sadness about her parents – had cried alone.

Hermione blinked and the carriage came back into her vision. She unclenched her hands to find her nails had carved little waves into her palms.

Her throat was thick, and tears welled up, blurring her vision, before tumbling down her cheeks. She tried to wipe away the wetness, but her tear ducts just doubled their efforts, so she pressed the heels of her palms to her eyes and just cried.

The sound of Malfoy clearing his throat prompted her to take a deep breath. She looked over at him, fully aware of how red and puffy her face probably was. There was no hiding it.

All thoughts evaporated when she looked down at his outstretched hand.

Her eyes flickered up to his again. Malfoy didn’t look away, but his jaw twitched, betraying his impassive expression.

As though to lighten the seriousness of the situation, he gave her an exasperated look, rolled his eyes, and said, “Just take it, Granger.”

Hermione did just that.

It was a dark grey handkerchief with an ornate French pattern sewn in shimmery threads and the initials D.L.M. in a fancy cursive script in one corner.

She stared at it, bewildered.

Draco Malfoy wasn’t laughing at her, teasing her, or calling her names.

He was being… considerate?

An irrational feeling bubbled up from her stomach and erupted into a wet laugh.

His expression turned wry. He probably thought she was mental. She certainly felt mental.

It felt great to laugh, she realized. She hadn’t laughed in a long time.

“Something funny?” He asked, eventually.

She couldn’t help the grin that crept onto her face. “Oh, not at all. The fact that you keep an embroidered handkerchief in your pocket is perfectly normal,” she said.

She dabbed her eyes with said handkerchief and more unintentional laughter bubbled out.

“Fuck off, they’re useful,” Malfoy grumbled halfheartedly and turned back to the window.

He was right. It was also clearly imbued with some self-cleansing and self-drying charms. An impressive bit of magic.

Hermione took that moment to look at him properly. She had only seen him twice since sixth year ended, so it took her by surprise that he hadn’t retained the youthful softness of his features or his slim build. His silver hair hung loose over his forehead, impeccably cut, but left unstyled. He looked older, slightly more filled out, and there was a sharpness to his jaw that hadn’t been before.

But the biggest difference was not, in fact, physical: there was an uncharacteristic lack of hostility in his demeaner.

Something deep in her chest twinged, and the strangest thing happened: she had the sudden urge to apologize for teasing and thank him for the handkerchief.

Thankfully, the corner of his lip twitched up and knocked her back to her senses.

She let out a breathy laugh and contemplated the absurd concept of Malfoy being considerate.

No, she thought. That wasn’t absurd. He had friends after all, didn’t he? It wasn’t unthinkable that he was good to his friends. What was absurd was the idea of him being considerate of her.

“I’ll have you know, handkerchiefs have been around for millennia. They have significance beyond their perceived use,” Malfoy said suddenly.

“Hm?” Hermione looked up at him in interest as he started speaking.

He seemed to take that as a good sign and continued:

“In the sixteenth century they came into vogue amongst wizarding kind and were both functional and symbolic. The different fabrics represented one’s status in the social hierarchy and the colours carried some significance. Silk was favoured amongst the rich, while cotton was rampant amongst commoners. Their uses and meanings have varied over the centuries, so you’d have to know the context at certain points in history to conduct a meaningful analysis of them.”

As he spoke, the most pleasurable sensation spread its way from the crown of her head and down her body. It was a combination of everything: the scent of Hogwarts, the smooth, even tones of his voice, the sound of the rain. The peaceful sensation flowed through her veins and steamrolled the stress right out of her.

She could have groaned except that it was a sensation she secretly enjoyed way too much. And one that she had to work hard to hide over the years. She sank into her seat and rested her head back while keeping her eyes on him.

“In the early twentieth century, there was a pandemic throughout Europe,” he continued, watching her with keen eyes.

“The influenza,” she said.

“Right in one, Granger. Wizardkind don’t usually suffer common muggle diseases, as you know, but the influenza pandemic was everywhere, especially in Europe. It just presented with different symptoms for us: it was considerably less lethal, but fever and delusions were common. The influenza spread fast, and people started condemning traditional handkerchiefs for retaining germs. Muggles at the time were producing single-use tissues, and they became the preferred option for obvious sanitary reasons.”

“That makes sense,” she said, cursing at how breathy she sounded. The relaxing sensations coursing through her body slowly converged between her legs as they always did when a good story was being told. It usually took quite a bit longer, but she suspected that both his attention on her and the relaxing quality of his voice had something to do with just how good it felt.

She had to keep telling herself that it was Malfoy talking, but for whatever reason, that seemed to make it worse. She pressed her legs together, both compounding and constraining the feeling.

“Handkerchiefs eventually became obsolete in the muggle world,” Malfoy said. “To some effect, this change also bled into wizarding populations. They became démodé amongst the general populace but remained à la mode in high society.”

He said démodé and à la mode with a perfect French accent, and she felt a prickle in her neck.

Trying to get her reactions under control, she sat up a little straighter and pushed her hair behind her ears. She cleared her throat.

“Let me guess, the Malfoys have always had them?”

He shrugged. “As any proper wizarding family would.”

She fingered the silk between her fingers. “And what does this one signify? The grey silk?”

Malfoy’s expression changed. He looked down at the handkerchief in her hands with an indescribable emotion.

“I’m sure you can put together a hypothesis,” he said eventually, with devious smirk.

A challenge.

He was giving her a puzzle.

She bit back a smile when she said, “Don’t think I won’t.”

The rickety wheels halted with a sudden jolt, causing the pleasure between her legs to flare. She bit her lip and quickly composed herself.

What was it was about him that made her physical reactions so strong? And over a conversation about handkerchiefs, of all things.

For the second time that day, she wondered about her sanity.

But now was not the time for that.

They were at the castle.

“Here,” Hermione said, holding out the now-crumpled handkerchief.

Malfoy looked at it with some measure of amusement.

“Keep it,” he said with a knowing smirk, “for your research.”

He disembarked.

After a moment, Hermione put the handkerchief in her pocket and followed.

She’d been wrong: Malfoy wasn’t the same. They’d had a civil conversation. No insults, no animosity, no anger. Maybe he was as exhausted with the past as she was.

For months, she had been able to suppress that rush of pleasure that she sometimes got when people spoke about subjects that fascinated her, but in a single ten-minute carriage ride, Malfoy had stoked that fire once again.

This was going to be an interesting year.

On the way to the feast, Hermione made a stop in one of the hidden alcoves to relieve herself of the pleasurable ache between her legs.

She showed up to the great hall ten minutes late with a distinct flush on her cheeks.

Chapter Text

The first busy days of semester morphed into weeks of routine, and an autumn chill grew within the walls of the castle, along with Hermione’s mortification.

Sitting at the Gryffindor table early for breakfast on a Friday morning in October, Hermione circled the memory of that fated carriage ride and what she’d done afterward.

If she tried to rationalize it to herself, she could say that her reaction to Malfoy had been so strong because she hadn’t attended classes in over a year. Sure, there had been a few fascinating discussions during the war that she’d normally have been able to enjoy, but there had been more urgent matters at hand, so it had been ages since able to feel the relaxing pleasure that came from listening to others speak and share their knowledge.

Hermione knew she was different. Normal people didn’t feel aroused by hearing people teach. And her reactions varied person by person. The strength of her response depended on a number of factors: confidence, eloquence, evenness of voice, volume level, her immediate environment, and even gender – most, but not all, were men.

She could survive without cerebral conversations and fascinating lectures, but she’d dearly missed it. Had she really been so deprived that all it took was one conversation with Draco Malfoy to make her forget herself and seek release in the bloody hallway?

She’d never before touched herself somewhere so public, and in retrospect, she cursed herself for being so careless. What if someone had gone looking for her?

That orgasm though… the sheer relief she’d felt; it had wiped away the day’s tension and left her feeling able to breathe.

She desperately wanted to feel it again.

So, she’d made an effort to avoid Malfoy. She couldn’t face him. Because if she did – if it happened more than once – then it would become a pattern. And she couldn’t make a habit of getting turned on by Draco Malfoy.

Was he attractive? Objectively, yes.

Had he been a blood supremacist? Also, yes.

Had he changed? Possibly. War changes people. But to what extent? She didn’t know. This was a boy who’d spent the last seven years insulting her:

‘No one asked your opinion, you filthy little Mudblood.’

‘But don’t touch my hand, now. I’ve just washed it, you see, don’t want a Mudblood sliming it up.’

‘If you’re wondering what the smell is, Mother, a Mudblood just walked in.’

The memories played in a loop in the back of her mind. Could she forgive herself if she started fantasizing about him? She didn’t have an answer to that one.

So, she’d stayed away. She’d sat far from him in Potions, Arithmancy and Ancient Runes, the three classes they shared. She resolutely ignored conversations about him. She’d even tried to avoid looking at the Slytherin table during meals.

She’d failed of course.

He stood out this year. Well, Malfoy always stood out, but this year he stood out for a few different reasons: One, he’d stopped wearing his uniform up to code. At times, he came to classes wearing his white oxford and slacks, sans tie, and at others, he skipped the uniform entirely. And two, his forearms were covered in tattoos; he made no attempt to hide them, yet despite technically breaking school rules for having them, none of the professors ever said a word about it.

That was another reason to avoid him, she lamented. She found tattoos attractive. There had been a tattoo studio in the same building as her parent’s dentistry practice in Hampstead, and in the summers, she’d befriended the owner’s son, who’d been a year older than her.

But that was another story.

A bag landed onto the bench across from her, and Ginny sat down in a huff.

“Malfoy’s such an ass,” Ginny proclaimed. “Do you want to hear what he did last night?”

Hermione inwardly sighed. There was no escaping him. “What did he do now?”

“I caught him with a bottle of whiskey on rounds. I docked him forty points, and he laughed and said, ‘who gives a fuck,’ and then he said, and I quote, ‘Scurry like the weasel you are and fuck off back to bed.’”

Hermione cringed. She itched to look at the Slytherin table.

Don’t look.

“Fucking prick. He’s no different than last year when he was storming around the castle like a dark cloud, being a lackey for the Carrows. I wish he would rot in Azkaban,” Ginny continued, scowling.

Hermione frowned. Malfoy had looked terrified at Malfoy Manor last spring when they’d been found, not quite the image Ginny had conjured. “That’s a bit harsh, isn’t it? He was a kid, and being an ass isn’t technically a crime.”

“Well maybe it should be! Seventeen is of age in the wizarding world,” Ginny said. “It’s old enough to know better. Just look at him this year, he doesn’t listen to rules, he doesn’t wear his uniform. He thinks he’s above everyone else, as always. He doesn’t have a bit of remorse. It’s no surprise he doesn’t have any friends this year. I’m not sure who would be idiotic enough to associate with him at this point.”

“I don’t think it’s that simple, Gin,” Hermione started to say, but stopped at the look of accusation in her friend’s eyes.

“Why are you defending him?”

“I’m not! It’s just,” she sighed. “Nevermind.”

She didn’t want to fight with her only friends at Hogwarts this year. Black-and-white thinking was all too rampant these days, and Ginny had subscribed to it as well, so Hermione had learned to tip-toe around the subject for fear of starting a heated argument. She knew that the wounds of war and loss were still fresh, and that people needed to place blame, but the way it seemed to perpetuate hatred and animosity drained her energy.

Hermione bit her lip and took a sip of tea, unsure of what to say. She wasn’t great at navigating friendships with girls. Boys were decidedly easier.

“Did you hear Slughorn is starting the Slug Club again?” She said, changing the subject.

“Yes! I swear on Merlin’s saggy tits that Slughorn gets worse every year.” Ginny let out a noise of exasperation. “He wants me to invite Harry. Can you believe it? He is using the fact that I’m his girlfriend to try to get him to come to his parties even though he’s already graduated.”

Hermione bit her tongue – Harry hadn’t actually graduated – and gave Ginny a sympathetic smile. “Just tell him Harry doesn’t have the time.”

“I know,” Ginny pouted and forked some bacon and potatoes onto her plate. “But is it terrible that I kind of want him to come, just so I can see him more often?” She scrunched up her face. “No, I am terrible. A good girlfriend wouldn’t subject her man to that.”

Hermione laughed and took a bite of her buttered toast (already cold from her existential Malfoy-attraction crisis).

“Wanting to see him most certainly does not make you a bad girlfriend,” Hermione said.

“I supposed I can make him come to the stupid dinners and then make it up to him after, if you know what I mean,” Ginny grinned and waggled her eyebrows.

Hermione struggled for an answer that wasn’t ‘Ew, he’s like my brother.’

“Hermione, you look lovely today,” Luna’s dreamy voice interrupted her thoughts. She sat next to Ginny, a beacon of blue in a sea of red. “Your cheeks are a rather pretty pink. What are you ladies talking about?”

“I’m thinking of promising Harry sexual favours to get him to come to the Slug Club,” Ginny said.

“Oh,” Luna said. “Is Harry going to come visit? How lovely! What are you going to promise him? You said he loved it when you did that reverse cowgirl thing and put his thumb in your -”

Hermione inhaled a crumb and started a coughing fit.

Luna passed her a glass of water, which she downed in one shot. “You didn’t step in a puddle yesterday, did you? Because the water diddles can tickle your lungs.”

“I’m fine,” Hermione choked out. She’d learned to ignore the bulk of Luna’s ridiculous statements; she found she rather enjoyed Luna’s when they didn’t argue about what was real.

“You sure? I can give you some peppermint oil, it might help.”

“It’s just, you’re talking about Harry,” Hermione explained, making a face. She wasn’t a prude, really, she’d just never had girlfriends before who would openly talk about sex. She still wasn’t used to it.

“Hey! Harry is objectively sexy,” Ginny grinned.

Luna nodded. “He’s not my type–”

“Thank Merlin, or I’d have to kill you.”

“–but it’s not unconscionable to imagine he’s good in bed.”

The girls laughed at the horrified look on Hermione’s face.

“Alright,” Hermione grimaced. “What’s your type then, Luna?”

Luna’s eye took on a mischievous glint. “At the moment, I’m into the dark and mysterious. Do you know Evan? He’s in Ravenclaw with me. He’s sitting over there by the podium.”

Hermione looked. “The guy with the red hair?”

“No, the other one.”

“The one with the wavy black hair and glasses?” Hermine asked.

“Yes.”

“… The Harry lookalike?” She struggled not to laugh.

Luna blinked and looked at the boy. “Huh.”

Hermione bit her lip as she shared an amused look with Ginny.

“But he’s dark and mysterious. Witty. Sexy. Vastly different than Harry,” Luna said, matter-of-factly. “We like to experiment,” she added with a wink.

“What have you guys done?” Ginny asked.

“Spanking. Candle wax. Ice cubes. Wrestling.”

Hermione’s eyebrows rose. “Wrestling?”

Luna shrugged, smiling. “What? It’s fun. You should try it.”

Hermione’s face felt hot. She was jealous of Luna and Ginny’s confidence. They did what they wanted without judgement.

Even if she wanted to, who would she try those things with? Everyone was younger than her at school. She and Malfoy were the only returning students in her year, and that was not happening.

She took another bite of toast. It tasted like sawdust, so she followed it with a sip of lukewarm tea.

“Oh, by the way, do you have time to read over my history of magic essay?” Luna asked Hermione. “It’s due Friday, but I’d like a second opinion on the influence of frogs in the second goblin war.”

“Oh, me too!” Ginny exclaimed and fished her essay out of her bag. “I have this care of magical creatures essay due Monday. Could you look it over for me?”

“Sure,” Hermione took both of their essays with only the slightest hesitance. They were short ones, thankfully, but they would be a lot of work. Ginny loved quidditch more than school, so her assignments were the bare minimum, and Luna liked to sneak in the most ludicrous stories into her history essays that Hermione knew were entirely made up.

But they were friends, so she took the essays with a smile. “Of course, I’ll look at them tonight.”

She’d have time after she finished her own Charms essay. Hopefully.

She’d be fine.

Hermione opened her satchel to deposit the essays for later perusal when her hand touched silk.

She felt the cool material slip between her fingers and sighed. In her efforts to avoid all thoughts of Malfoy, she’d resolved not to think about the meaning behind the handkerchief and had abstained from researching about it. Her fingers twitched. She looked at it thoughtfully.

Unable to resist, she glanced up at the Slytherin table and found Malfoy. Unlike the other students at the table who wore their robes for warmth, he wore only a crisp white oxford, unbuttoned at the collar and sleeves rolled up, revealing his tattoos. The effect was startling: the brightness of his blond hair and white shirt glinting in the morning light was offset by the dark shadows under his eyes and the tattoos peeking out from beneath the sleeves.

She watched Malfoy pick up his tea and mindlessly lift it to his mouth. He set it down and turned a page in the book he was reading.

Right at that moment, he looked up at her, and his piercing grey eyes turned her blood to stone. Her heart leapt in her throat.

The moment for it to be considered a meaningless glance passed, and Malfoy’s expression turned from neutral to inquisitive. He cocked an eyebrow.

Look away. Look away. Look away.

She couldn’t look away.

His eyes roamed her face and settle on her mouth. A slow little smirk crossed crept up onto his face. Hermione stopped breathing.

The moment was broken by Luna’s outstretched hand entering her vision. “Here, you’ve got crumbs on your face,” she said.

Oh.

Oh.

Her mortification was building again.

Face flaming, she took the offered napkin and snuck a look at Malfoy.

His gaze had returned to his book, but the smirk had remained.

At that moment, the owl post streamed in through the windows, distracting her. Furious at herself for not being in control of her emotions, she put the essays in her bag and closed it. Harry’s new tawny owl, which Ginny had named Circe, landed on the unlit candelabra and held out a leg.

Hermione stood and untied two letters, one address to her and the other to Ginny, while Luna broke off a piece of bacon to feed to Circe.

She sat and opened her letter.

Hermione –

Grimmauld Place is so much brighter now that we’ve switched out the curtains and managed to finally disillusion and quiet Walburga. I went to that furniture store you mentioned off of Hampstead High St. and found a fantastic sofa set for the living room. And you’re right, by the way, wizarding furniture stores are rubbish compared to the muggle ones. Does Wizarding Britain have something against comfort??

She chuckled at that.

Auror training has been a lot of work so far. Some days we train, but every Monday we’re assigned a topic to research. It’s a lot of library time. You’d probably have loved it. I heard next week’s topic is going to be about warding spells. You couldn’t help us out with that one, could you? Give us some tips?

Hermione rubbed her forehead. Both of the boys had an aversion to research. She’d send them her favourite annotated warding books. Well, she supposed she could write up a summary as well and send it tomorrow.

Ginny says that Malfoy’s been a right prick this year. Hearing her stories makes my blood boil. Hope he’s not harassing you too much.

I’m thrilled that you have Ginny and Luna, but I really miss you! It’s just not the same living in different places, you know?

Hang in there! And give Ginbug and Luna hugs for me.

Harry

P.S. Ron says hi.

Hermione ignored the anxiety that she got from reading those last words and looked up at her friend in amusement. “Ginbug?”

Ginny had the decency to blush. “He’s started calling me that in the summer. I kind of hate it, but I also kind of don’t? Give that here. What did he say?”

Hermione handed over the letter, not bothered in the slightest if the girls read it. After a moment, Ginny looked pensively up at Hermione. “Ron didn’t write you anything?” She asked.

Hermione shook her head.

“Why did you two break up again?” Ginny asked, hesitantly.

Hermione swallowed. She dreaded talking about it.

“I’m sure Hermione has a reason for not telling us, Ginbug,” Luna said solemnly, prompting a side eye from Ginny.

Ginny pouted, and said, “Just tell me this: Do you ever think you’ll get back together? Like, is there ever a chance?”

Hermione sighed. “No, I don’t think so. Look, I love all of you, even Ron, as a friend, and I don’t want to make anyone choose sides, which is why I didn’t say anything. For a while, I thought we’d be together, but there are things that I will never be able to look past. Can we leave it at that?”

Both Ginny and Luna nodded and the three of them took a sip of tea before standing up to get ready for the day.

“I’ll see you two in Potions this afternoon, I have a lunch meeting with McGonagall,” Hermione said, and gave both of them a quick hug (“from Harry”) before they went their separate ways.

At precisely one o’clock, Hermione stood in front of the Gargoyle, doubled over and catching her breath. She’d snuck to the kitchens during her free period so she could eat something quick before her meeting, which meant that she’d had to make it up seven stories, which would have been good and manageable, had she not come across two moving staircases. Thanks to the detours, she had to run up the last two staircases to arrive on time.

“Shortbread,” she huffed, and the Gargoyle moved to reveal the spiral steps.

Hermione stepped up and let it take her to the top.

Once she was standing in the threshold of the Headmistress’ office, Hermione froze at the feeling of panic that suddenly possessed her.

For a minute, she was back in the days after the final battle when they all met together to discuss rebuilding and funerals.

The room looked the same. McGonagall hadn’t changed much except for the bookshelves, which held an expanse of transfiguration volumes.

Hermione looked around for a full minute before she realized she was alone. She frowned and rummaged in her pocket to re-read the note she’d received requesting the meeting.

Friday, 1 o’clock.

It was now 1:03. Had she meant next week? Professor McGonagall was rarely late to anything.

She could do nothing but wait, so Hermione looked around the office and trailed her fingers over the spines of the large leather transfiguration volumes.

She found a newer-looking binding with a curious title, Transmutations vs. Transfigurations, A Case Study, and pulled it from the shelf.

She sat in the chair facing the Headmistress’ desk and cracked it open.

Ten minutes passed.

Then twenty.

She chatted small pleasantries with Dumbledore’s portrait (“It’s nice to see you again, my dear! What are you reading? Ah! Good to see that you are keen on newly published works. Minerva got that in just last week.”) and Snape’s (“What do you expect from Ms. Granger? She is always meddling in things that aren’t hers.”) and even Phineas Nigellus Black (“No, the house doesn’t look better. That idiot boy is desecrating Black belongings!”).

Thirty minutes passed.

Hermione sighed and looked at her watch. Had Professor McGonagall forgotten their meeting? Had something happened to her?

Forty minutes passed.

Hermione chewed on her lip in worry. She had to get ready for class at two and make her way to the dungeons.

At 1:44, Hermione stood up and returned the book to the shelf. She started to walk toward the Gargoyle when the room flashed green.

Professor McGonagall stepped out of the fireplace, saw Hermione, and gasped out a “Good Heavens!” with a hand to her chest. “My dear, you nearly scared the life out of me.”

Hermione stood there like a deer in headlights, feeling embarrassed. “Er… sorry for that. I thought we had a meeting?”

McGonagall looked at the time and her brow creased. “Hermione, my dear, I am terribly sorry. I got caught up with a private matter and completely forgot. Do forgive me. Sit, please,” she gestured towards the chair and sat herself behind the large antique desk, looking tired and a bit frazzled.

Hermione resumed her seat of the last forty minutes.

Professor McGonagall steepled her fingers and observed Hermione for a full minute before speaking.

“The war has taken a toll on many of us. I’m sure you can agree. How are you handling everything?”

“Oh, I’m… alright.”

“Being back at school, are you managing the workload?”

“I think so,” Hermione said. “It’s quite busy but I’m on top of my homework and readings for now.” Hermione barely had time to sleep what with classes, her homework, helping her friends with theirs, and her own research, but she would never admit it out loud.

“I see.” Professor McGonagall pursed her lips. “And what are your aspirations after graduating?”

“Oh,” Hermione hesitated. “I’m still figuring that out actually.”

“Have you ever thought of becoming a teacher?”

Hermione’s eyebrows rose in surprise and then furrowed.

“I hadn’t really considered it. Not seriously, anyway,” she admitted.

Truthfully, she’d never wanted to be a teacher. She always thought she’d go into research or maybe work for the ministry. Now, she just wanted to figure out how to get her parents back. Her future could come later.

“I see. Well, I have an unusual proposition for you.” Professor McGonagall looked at her with what could only be called guilt. “You are one of the best students I’ve ever had the pleasure of teaching. You’ve mastered every spell in my class with a level of expertise rarely seen by students.”

McGonagall sighed and Hermione fidgeted.

“Thank you,” Hermione said to fill the silence.

“Something has come up and I will need to be elsewhere for the next few months, which means that I need to find an instructor to cover Transfiguration classes while I’m gone. The political climate is still… volatile – by which, I mean the ministry is in shambles and can’t even sort out their own internal affairs – and I am hesitant to hire someone who has not been thoroughly vouched for, as I’m sure you can understand based on certain past hires at this school. After much consideration, I think the best course of action would be for you, Hermione, to teach my first-year classes. You would receive a salary, of course.”

Hermione’s jaw dropped.

“You… you want me to teach a class?”

“Only if you agree to it. You could get hands-on experience to see if teaching were something you would like to pursue later. And of course, teaching experience would bolster any resume.”

“But… I’m still a student! I haven’t even graduated or completed my NEWT in Transfiguration.”

The headmistress smiled at that. “We both know that you could pass the exam tomorrow.”

Hermione’s mind raced. Did she even want to teach? Would she even have the time?

“Who would teach the other years?” She asked.

“Seventh years such as yourself will be set a project to work on in the interim. Professor Vector will be teaching the second-years, Professor Sinistra the third and fourth years, and Professor Flitwick the fifth and sixth years.”

Hermione did the math in her head. It was a lot to ask the other teachers to supplement their already full schedules.

“And who would take those classes if I don’t?”

“Professor Slughorn, maybe. I will arrange something, do not concern yourself with that. I wanted to offer you the opportunity first.”

Slughorn had skills in transfiguration – Harry had told her about the armchair – but he had a rather stunted awareness of the needs of others. Hermione tried to picture him teaching transfiguration to first years and inwardly cringed.

She didn’t really want the extra responsibility; honestly, her heart felt heavy at the request. But she could use the money. When she sent her parents to Australia, she’d lost access to her family’s funds.

Besides, what was a few more hours a week? She could do it if she managed her time well.

…Right?

Hermione sighed, disregarding the pit of anxiety forming in her stomach.

“Okay, I’ll do it.”

Hermione showed one hour late to potions.

Professor McGonagall had walked her through the curriculum and her new responsibilities. She would start next Friday.

She’d be teaching six hours a week: a double Hufflepuff-Ravenclaw on Wednesday afternoons, and a double Slytherin-Gryffindor on Fridays before lunch. Professor McGonagall had already ensured that classes would occur during her free periods. McGonagall had handed her the class lists and curriculum notes to look over.

Hermione walked into Potions in crisis mode. What had she agreed to?

She walked robotically to her usual seat next and stopped short when she came face to face with a pair of seventh year Slytherins she still didn’t know the names of. One of them sneered and said, “What?” prompting the girl next to him to look up and stare.

Hermione ignored them and looked around in confusion. The class seating had been rearranged. Ginny was absorbed in slicing a root, and chatting in low tones with her partner, a Gryffindor girl named Erica.

Luna spotted her and waved. She waved back.

Hermione turned around and groaned.

Draco Malfoy sat alone at the back of the class, the only student without a partner.

Just her luck.

She supposed she couldn’t avoid him forever.

Taking a steadying breath, she trudged over and all but collapsed onto the bench next to the sullen boy whom she had not spent all morning thinking about.

She rubbed her tired eyes. “Where’s Slughorn?”

Malfoy shrugged. He was focused on writing something in his black notebook. “Fuck if I know. He dipped out half an hour ago without saying a word.”

Hermione chewed on her lip. “He didn’t say when he was going to be back?”

“He’s not the most responsible teacher, is he?” Malfoy said dryly. “This class is a fucking farce.”

“Maybe you’re just bitter that you’re not in his precious Slug Club,” she retorted.

He finally looked at her then, disbelief written on his face. “And you want to be in his bloody Slug Club?”

Her face heated. “Well, not exactly, but” –

“But what? He’s a sycophantic buffoon with a distinct lack of sense. Even you have to agree.”

“Even I – I do not have to agree with anything!” she huffed. She didn’t disagree, per say, but that was another thing entirely.

She pouted and his eyes dropped to her lips. Traumatized from the morning, she rubbed the back of her hand over her lips just in case there was something there again.

Malfoy seemed to find that amusing.

Tossing the topic aside, she pulled out her potions textbook and flipped through the pages. “What are we making today?”

“Oh, come on Granger. What’s the fun in that? Take a guess.”

She shot him a glare, about to tell him off, but then she spotted the glint in his eyes. He nodded toward the table.

Another challenge.

Fine. She could do that.

Hermione stood, tucking her hair behind her ears, and took stock of the table.

The first thing she noticed was that Malfoy had meticulously placed everything on the cutting board. The ingredients were already prepped and organized into neat little piles: thinly sliced valerian root, chopped peppermint spring, chamomile leaves, ground moonstone (she could tell by the shimmer), a sprig of wormwood, a little bowl of syrup (she wasn’t sure what), dragon scales, and yellow flowers she didn’t recognize (starthistle, maybe?).

She frowned. Peppermint, chamomile, and valerian had calming and healing properties. With the wormwood, it could be euphoria potion or an advanced draught of peace. But starthistle, if that’s what it was, had many different uses, each of which varied depending on the combination of ingredients. Moonstone might indicate a sleep potion, but the dragon scales… they had a dampening effect.

It could be…

She looked around and found the missing piece.

She picked up the discarded stalk and smelled it. Lavender. He’d already added it.

Turning back to him, she said. “Dreamless Sleep.”

Malfoy leaned back and gave her a satisfied smile. “Well done.”

She would never get used to seeing a smile on his face.

Hermione resumed her seat on the bench and flipped to the page on Dreamless Sleep near the end of the book. She ran her finger over the ingredients. “What’s the starthistle for? It’s not here,” she asked.

“It’s my own addition,” he said.

Hermione stared. Was he for real?

“But what’s the effect? Why did you add it?”

Malfoy wrinkled his nose. “Because I don’t like the taste of Dreamless sleep.”

She furrowed her brow, going through her mental appendix on potions ingredients.

“Are you saying that the starthistle interacts with another ingredient to make it tasteless?” She asked.

“No, not tasteless,” he said, twirling a quill in his fingers. “Haven’t you ever had starthistle tea? It’s sweet.”

“I have not,” she admitted bitterly.

“No? It’s usually used to stimulate the appetite when a child falls ill. Pretty common knowledge. But I suppose you wouldn’t know that having grown up muggle,” he added.

Of course. Pureblood traditions she hadn’t grown up with. Hermione narrowed her eyes at him, but he just shrugged.

“Starthistle is a unique flower because it blooms in winter and dies at the end of summer,” Malfoy said, his voice suddenly calm and free of animosity. “Its potency builds for eight or nine months, and you have about a week to harvest them at full potency before they start to wilt. It’s a difficult ingredient for that reason. For centuries, potion masters thought they could only use it that one week in the year, but eventually they discovered that it could be dried and rehydrated without losing its potency.”

Oh god.

It was officially a pattern.

The tension of her day drained slowly out of her muscles. She closed her eyes and breathed in.

The feeling was too good to deny.

“The more potent it is, the sweeter the taste,” Malfoy continued, “Starthistle doesn’t react with any of the ingredients in the Dreamless Sleep potion, so there is no effect on the potion’s essence, but if you add it in at the very end with about two minutes left, and let it dissolve, it’ll sweeten the brew without turning bitter from the heat.”

Hermione had all but melted into her seat. Her muscles had relaxed, and the familiar pleasant tingles had started to make their way through her body.

A timer went off, breaking the spell. She opened her eyes and looked at him. He watched her with a carefully crafted lack of expression. After a second, they both looked away and stood up to peer into the potion, which roiled and emitted the subtle scent of lavender.

They brushed shoulders, and Hermione jerked away.

They worked silently, each knowing exactly what to do. Malfoy handed her the syrup, which she gently poured in. She stirred clockwise five times while he sprinkled the powdered moonstone into the potion.

After setting another timer, Malfoy lounged back against the bench and rolled his sleeves to his elbows.

Hermione eyes wandered over the inked skin. A medley of colourful florals covered his left arm and indistinguishable swirling images in grey and black – smoke and something else, maybe? – covered his right.

Malfoy ran a hand through his hair, and his bicep strained through the fabric. He gave her a funny look, before taking the syrup bowl from her hand and setting it down. His fingers grazed hers and sent a jolt through her. This was dangerous territory. She clenched her hands.

“See something you like?” He was looking at her with a mocking half-grin.

Damn. She’d been staring. She sat down again.

“No,” she muttered. “I was wondering about your tattoos.”

“What about them?” He asked, edgily.

Hermione couldn’t repress her curiosity. “Why did you get them?”

Malfoy’s expression darkened and he shrugged. “Because the mark was a fucking brand and I couldn’t stand looking at it,” he said finally, staring at the table in front of him.

Hermione thought of her own scar, and her heart ached. She knew what it was like to look at it every day and be reminded of things she didn’t want to remember.

“Those are muggle tattoos,” she said, after a while. “Did you go to a muggle tattoo artist?”

She searched his face and saw the debate in his eyes.

“I did. In muggle London,” Malfoy said eventually. He crossed his arms.

She blinked at him in shock and a smile threatened to appear. “Really?”

A hint of pink flushed his cheeks. He nodded.

“Where did you go?”

“Why? You want to get one?”

“No, that’s not –“ She started, but stopped at the idea hit her. She hadn’t considered it before, but covering her scar was not the worst idea. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

He watched her curiously for a minute before speaking. “I found a shop nearby Diagon Alley,” he admitted. “I went to the first tattoo studio I saw.”

He angled his body towards her, too close for comfort, and showed her the flowers that covered his dark mark. He leaned in and whispered conspiratorially, “I found this guy, told him to cover the mark with whatever the fuck he wanted, and he chose thistle because he said I looked ‘prickly.’”

Hermione let out a laugh of surprise, drawing looks from the students around them. “You’re joking,” she whispered back.

“Serious as Snape.”

Hermione huffed a confused laugh, unsure if that comment was meant to be serious or not. “Your tattoo artist is very astute,” she said.

The timer went off.

For the next thirty minutes, they worked in silence, finishing the potion, and at ten to four, Malfoy took out eight vials and started siphoning the brew into each one.

When the bell chimed at four o’clock, Professor Slughorn emerged from his office in the back room.

“Well done! Well done! Yes, yes. Set your vials on my desk and make sure to clean your stations before you go,” Slughorn exclaimed loudly, talking as though to himself and not his students.

Hermione’s jaw dropped. “Was he there the whole time?” She looked at Malfoy in horror.

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “What did I tell you?”

Hermione huffed and frowned at their professor.

“Here,” Malfoy said and handed her four vials of Dreamless Sleep. “You clearly need them.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” She demanded, but he just smirked in reply.

Rolling her eyes, she put them in her bag and noticed he had done the same.

“Aren’t you going to give Slughorn a sample?” she asked.

He snorted. “No.”

“Why not?”

“Because he doesn’t give a fuck, what do you think?”

Hermione huffed her frustrations, grabbed a vial and the note of absence she’d gotten from McGonagall. She approached Slughorn’s desk.

“Professor,” she started, and stopped short when she saw the other students’ samples.

What the hell?

These were not Dreamless Sleep.

In fact, they looked like a simple antidote.

Damnit Malfoy!

She whipped her head around to glare at the blond Slytherin, but he was gone.

“Ms. Granger! Have you submitted your potion?”

She stared at Slughorn, perfectly annoyed, and clenched the vial in her fist.

Professor Slughorn either had no idea or didn’t care that she’d been an hour late to class and hadn’t even noticed that she and Malfoy had brewed something entirely different.

“No. We had a mishap,” was all she said.

She stuffed the note back into her pocket and left with a renewed sense of determination for her transfiguration classes next week. She would definitely be a better teacher than that.

Chapter Text

It took Hermione less than a minute to assess that she was, in fact, not cut out for teaching.

“... hate transfiguration, it’s so hard.”

“I know, and McGonagall is so strict!”

Sitting in the absurdly big wooden armchair behind the teacher’s desk in the transfiguration classroom, Hermione observed the first years as they trickled in. She felt decidedly nervous. The truth of the matter was that as much as she’d tried to prepare for her first class, there was no manual for teaching.

On the weekend, she’d snuck off to a muggle library and done research on Dewey, Freire, Vygotsky, and Bruner, among others, and did a deep dive into educational philosophy throughout the week, but what she’d learned is that there wasn’t one correct way to teach or manage a classroom. She needed to take the research into consideration and make an informed decision, but she hadn't even had enough time to skim all of the seminal works on her list. What she'd gathered, though, was that she should be customizing each class to meet every student's needs and strengths. But how? Differentiate, be flexible, blah blah blah. Researchers liked to give theoretical, but not practical, advice. She just wished there were structured guidelines to follow.

McGonagall’s curriculum outline was skeletal, describing only which pages in the book to cover, which spells to teach, and the lesson's goals. It was clear that McGonagall’s extensive teaching experience precluded her from mentioning anything else.

And thus, Hermione was feeling tremendously underprepared, like she had accidentally wandered into a doxy den with no protection, just waiting to make a wrong step and get bitten.

Her dread grew little by little with the snippets of conversation she overheard. The students spoke as though she weren’t sitting right there in front of them.

Hermione felt like she was already failing. Should she have stood up? Made a grand entrance?

“I wonder who’s going to be teaching us now?” A Gryffindor girl asked her friend excitedly.

“I hope they’re nice,” her friend replied in a groan. “I can’t handle another McGonagall.”

“I hope they’re young and handsome!”

“Gross, Lind! You’re such a perv!” A black-haired Slytherin boy said from behind her with a dramatic face of disgust.

Sean Digger, Hermione noted. Slytherin, wavy black hair (keep an eye on him).

McGonagall had left little notes about each student, and the first thing Hermione had done was memorize them, which was easy since there were only twelve students in the entire class. These days, Hogwarts was in the news more for being a recent war zone than anything else, so unsurprisingly – to Hermione at least – many parents had opted to send their eleven-year-olds abroad to start their magical education. The result was a record-low intake.

“Me? I heard you tell Adam you were hoping the new prof was going to be hot and sexy,” Lind replied, hands on her hips. She was a little redheaded girl with a splash of freckles and a cute button nose. Ava Lindsey, Gryffindor, red hair, eager and diligent.

Sean Digger smirked and shrugged. “I mean, it would be an improvement. Maybe we’d all actually pay attention in class.”

“You wouldn’t be paying attention to the class,” Ava Lindsey retorted with an eye roll.

“Psh! You’re such a swot. I bet you’d secretly prefer a stuffy old professor so you can concentrate so hard on learning and nothing else.”

“Shut up Digger! At least I do learn!”

In the course of their conversation, Ava and Sean took their seats on opposite sides of the classroom. Ava sat down with a huff and crossed her arms, sending him a dirty look. Sean held up two fingers.

By the time all students had arrived, there was a distinct line down the middle of the classroom: green on the left and red on the right.

Still, nobody had bothered to notice Hermione.

At exactly 10:30, she stood up.

If she looked at her favourite professors, they all earned her respect within the first few minutes. If Hermione was being honest, she wasn’t quite sure how to do that. She cleared her throat, and a few startled students looked around, confused.

Oh my god.

Realization hit her and she wanted to curse herself. She’d completely forgotten.

Earlier in the day, she'd disillusioned herself to avoid Slughorn in the hallways because she didn’t have time for another pointless, taxing conversation about the next Slug Club Party and how great it would be if she’d invite all her war hero friends.

Damnit. Well, at least she would make an entrance.

Hermione dispelled the illusion. As expected, a few students jumped in their seats and cried out, startled.

"Bloody Merlin!" The loudest voice above all belonged to Adam Wheeler, Slytherin, blond hair, friends with Mr. Digger. He looked like a ghost had passed through him. She almost wanted to laugh. God, she really shouldn’t be a teacher.

"I apologize for that," Hermione said, smoothing down her skirt just to have something to do with her hands.

“Where’s the professor?” A black-haired Slytherin girl asked with narrowed eyes. Hope Lee, Slytherin, sleek black hair, bit of an attitude.

Hermione inwardly groaned. Great, clearly Professor McGonagall had left the explaining up to her.

“Well, I’m sure you’ve all heard that Professor McGonagall is attending to a personal matter and will be taking a short break from teaching classes. I’ll be teaching you in the meantime.”

Silence.

“Why are you wearing a uniform?” asked Veronica Higgins, Gryffindor, brunette, head in the clouds.

“Yeah, aren’t you a student?” Sean Digger asked in a belligerent tone. Sounds of assent filled the room.

Hermione took a deep breath and held up a palm to calm the room, only to be ignored as the chatter continued.

Think. What had McGonagall done? Snape? They’d only had to stand to get attention. Respect literally followed them around.

Ava was watching Hermione keenly and started shushing those around her. Hermione liked this girl already.

“Thank you.” She said, giving the girl a little smile. “My name is Hermione Granger.”

A few blank stares mixed with frowns of vague recognition.

“I was unable to attend Hogwarts for my seventh year,” she continued, “so I’m currently back to complete my NEWTS. Professor McGonagall asked me to teach you as a favour.”

“Why didn’t you attend last year?” said Jade Jackson, Slytherin, blonde hair, smart but quiet.

“Isn’t it obvious?” Adam cut in, sneering. “She’s probably a mudblood. They weren’t even allowed at Hogwarts last year.”

Mudblood.

Mudblood.

Mudblood.

Filthy little mudblood.

The word echoed in the sudden silence of the room, and Hermione’s blood went cold. A numbing sensation flashed through her, leaving a fissure in her heart along the way.

After everything.

After every bloody thing she went through to defeat a blood supremacist movement, a muggleborn-hating madman and his followers, only to be called a mudblood by a first year Slytherin.

She didn’t know how long it was before she managed to compose herself. All she knew was that twelve pairs of eyes were on her.

“Adam Wheeler,” Hermione said, a tremble in her voice underlying her attempt to stay calm. “Do not ever use that word in this classroom.”

Adam stared at her defiantly.

“Do you understand?” She repeated, strongly.

“Yes,” Adam mumbled, scowling.

Hermione took a deep breath and cleared her mind. “Does anyone have any questions for me before we start class?”

“Professor?” A Gryffindor boy raised his hand. Amir Ahmad, Gryffindor, curly black hair, asks a lot of questions.

Hermione pursed her lips. Professor. That didn’t feel right. “I’m not a professor, please call me Ms. Granger. Or just Hermione”

“Ms. Granger, you’re Harry Potter’s friend, right?” He asked, wide-eyed and innocent.

Merlin save her. Forever doomed to be Harry Potter’s sidekick.

“Yes, I am,” she conceded, hoping to quickly dismiss the subject.

Another blonde Gryffindor girl raised her hand. Anna Cowley, Gryffindor, blonde hair, aversion to homework. Hm.

“Miss, are you Harry Potter’s girlfriend?”

Eyes perked up at the question.

“What? No!” This was not going as planned.

“Do you have a boyfriend?” piped Indie Rosser, Slytherin, strawberry blonde hair, likes to gossip.

“I’m not answering that,” Hermione said firmly.

“Why not?”

“Because that’s personal. Do you ask the other professors questions like these?”

“You just said you’re not a professor.”

"That means no boyfriend, Indie," Hope whispered loudly.

“I’m still your teacher,” Hermione said calmly, feeling anything but calm inside. “And no, Hope, it just means I’m not answering.”

Amir’s hand shot up. “What’s wrong with Professor McGonagall?”

“Is she dying?” A tanned Slytherin boy with curly hair cut in. Chase Dubois, Slytherin, brunette, enigmatic.

“Chase!” Jade swatted his shoulder.

“What? She’s bloody old, isn’t she?”

"No, she is not dying,” Hermione told them. Well, she hoped that wasn’t the case. She hadn’t asked.

More hands shot into the air, but Hermione decided that the class had been derailed enough.

“That’s enough for now. If you have any real questions, you can ask me after class. Let’s get started with today’s lesson.” She picked up the textbook and opened it. “Raise your hand if you’ve read Chapter Four: Density and Weight.”

Most hands lowered, with the exception of Ava, Hope, Sean, Jade, and Jamal.

Jamal Edwards, Gryffindor, short black hair, diligent.

That left seven students.

Hermione blinked at them. “I was told you’d already started Chapter Four last week. Was this not assigned reading?”

Ava raised her hand. “It was, Professor! But they all figured they could fool the new teacher.”

Students grumbled and glared at her. Mutters of traitor and swot could be heard from the Slytherin side. Ava held her head high and ignored them.

Hermione sighed. “Thank you, Ava. Alright, we’ll start here. You have thirty minutes to read the chapter quietly, and then we will discuss it. For those of you that have already read it, read it again, and pay particular attention to the visualization techniques.”

Students groaned and pulled out their books and quills.

Hermione sat down behind the teacher’s desk.

Across the room, Adam elbowed Sean in the ribs and whispered in a not-so-quiet voice, “Looks like you got your wish! She’s young and hot.”

Hermione cleared her throat and sent a sharp look at the boys. "Are you two aware of what ‘reading quietly’ means?”

"It means keep your hole shut and don't talk to friends, right?" Sean said with a grin.

Hermione raised a brow. Cheeky bugger.

"Then do that,” she deadpanned.

"Yes, Ms. G," Sean Digger said with a little smirk.

The first ten minutes went by without a hitch, but at the fifteen-minute mark, a rustle of papers made Hermione raise her eyes suspiciously. She narrowed them as she observed Anna passing a note to Veronica under the table, and Sean shooting little balls of paper towards the Gryffindor side of the room.

Hermione wanted to put her head down on her desk and groan. Instead, she ignored them, and went back to writing her notes. She would figure out how to deal with misbehaviour before next time.

At the thirty-minute mark, she cleared her throat and stood up again.

“I assume you are all finished?” She looked around the room.

No answer.

Ms. Cowley,” she said.

“Yes?”

“What was the first rule of visualization?”

Anna looked up like a deer caught in headlights and said, “Uh… I don’t know, Professor.”

“Did you or did you not read the chapter just now?”

Anna shrugged.

Great. Hermione took a deep breath.

“Ms. Rosser?”

Indie looked up with wide eyes. She chewed on her lip, flipping through the pages half-heartedly. “Um, you have to visualize the result in your mind?”

“Well, that is the point of this chapter, Ms. Rosser, but it’s more complex than that. Mr. Waters?” She asked Luke Waters, Gryffindor, sandy hair, outgoing.

The boy ruffled his hair as he thought. “I don’t know, sorry Miss G.”

Was that becoming a thing? A glance at Sean showed a look of glee at the use of the new nickname.

“Anyone?”

Ava raised her hand, and Hermione nodded towards her. “Yes, Ms. Lindsey?”

“The first rule of visualization is that not only do you have to think about appearance, but also material properties like weight and viscosity."

“That is correct.” Hermione smiled at the girl. “Five points to Gryffindor.”

Hermione didn’t actually know if she had the authority to give and take points, but the words had just slipped out of her and she wasn't about to take them back.

“Know-it-all,” Sean coughed. Ava glared.

Although Ava knew the answers, it was clear to Hermione that many of the students had not absorbed anything they’d read, if they’d even read it at all.

With a wistful glance at the clock on the wall, Hermione grabbed a piece of chalk and dove into a twenty-minute summary of the visualization techniques. When she finished, she said, “If you haven’t taken any notes, you’d better do so now, because I’ll be quizzing you on this next week.”

A handful of students finally picked up their quills and started writing.

“For the next hour, I’m going to give you each a rock, and we will practice transfiguring it into a lump of wood. - Adam, Sean, why are you talking?” She glared at the two boys.

“Sorry, Miss G.”

Tired, frustrated, and already all but ready to quit, Hermione explained the process one more time, demonstrated the transfiguration, and let them practice.

For the rest of class, it was one frustrating thing after another.

Sean and Adam kept sending stinging spells to the Gryffindor girls, starting an argument.

“Digger, Wheeler! I’m going to kill you!” Ava huffed.

“Stupid bloody lion. Like she could kill us,” Adam taunted, speaking to Sean.

Sean managed to hit Veronica’s rock with a spell, sending it flying away. Veronica raised her wand angrily at Sean.

Hermione wanted to scream into a pillow. Instead, she raised her voice, and said, “You four, stop that. And see me after class.”

When the clock struck 12:30, Sean, Adam, Veronica and Ava stayed in their seats while the room emptied.

Hermione crossed her arms and stared at them for a full minute. Ava looked guilty, Veronica was inspecting her fingernails, Adam was glaring at his hands, and Sean was looking at her, legs bouncing restlessly.

“Do you all want detention?” Hermione asked sternly.

Panicked looks crossed their faces.

“Or perhaps, points deducted?”

Everyone remained quiet.

“This is your one and only warning. I will not tolerate this kind of behaviour in my class. Next time, it’ll be a detention, and you will not like what I will have you do. Now apologize and you can go.”

“Sorry, Professor.”

“Sorry, Miss G.”

“Not to me,” Hermione said, at her wit's end. “Apologize to each other.”

A few mumbled apologies later, the quartet ran out the door, and Hermione collapsed into her chair.

Hermione walked into afternoon potions feeling like the dead.

After that disaster of a first class, she'd sat in a comatose state in the transfiguration classroom trying to figure out what went wrong and furiously making a plan to fix it. By the time she'd gotten to the great hall, the tables had been cleared and she realized she had only ten minutes before Potions.

Hungry and miserable, Hermione trudged into the potions classroom and stopped short in front of their shared bench.

Malfoy was already there, slouched in his seat with a far off look on his face.

She fingered the strap of her bag and slowly made her away around the table. She set her bag down with a thud.

Nothing. He was clearly off in la-la land.

"Malfoy?"

He blinked and turned his head to look at her, confusion plain on his face.

"Everything alright?" She asked, eyeing him with concern.

Malfoy’s pupils came back into focus, and he sat up straighter. He ran a hand over his eyes and looked up at her.

At first, his gaze was wary.

Then it was tired.

Then curious.

His eyes roamed her concerned face, and widened in interest as he took in her hair, before running down her body and back up again, bemused.

"Think I should be asking you that,” Malfoy said, leaning back.

Today, he was wearing a black muggle hooded sweatshirt instead of his uniform, and it made him look very attractive while simultaneously softening his usually crisp appearance. She liked the effect… he seemed more human, somehow.

Hermione's throat went dry before she fully took in what he said. She looked down at herself. "What? Why?"

Malfoy gestured lazily to her general form like he couldn’t find the right words. "You look like you've been hit with a lightning curse,” he said, eventually.

Rolling her eyes, Hermione slid into her seat, relishing the relief her body felt at being able to relax. "What are you on about?"

"Did you fight with a troll? Face off an erumpent?"

She gave him a weird look.

"Your hair has become… an entity. Pretty sure I saw it spark just now," Malfoy drawled, the tilt of his mouth belying the insult.

"Ha ha," Hermione said dryly. Taking a mirror from her bag, she looked at herself. He wasn't lying. Her hair had doubled in size. She smoothed it down with her hand. She’d probably spent the last hour running her hands through it and messing up the curls. And there was definitely some static. Oh God.

A tilt of the mirror reminded her that she'd also loosened her tie and unbuttoned the top of her shirt. Setting the mirror down with a huff, she redid the buttons and tightened her tie.

“It is what it is. Deal with it,” she muttered tiredly, running her fingers through her hair and leaning her head back to look up at the ceiling.

"Calm down, Granger, I wasn’t complaining. In fact, you had the right idea before. Take the tie off, undo more buttons, relax a little. It won’t kill you." She looked over at him, and then down to his sweatshirt.

"What’s next, ditch the uniform entirely? Nice hoodie, Malfoy," she smirked. "Got another one? We can rebel against the dress code together,” she said sarcastically.

"Fuck off," he mumbled. His cheeks tinged pink.

Feeling slightly vindicated that it was now his appearance under the microscope, she looked around the room.

Hermione watched as Ginny and Luna walked in the room together. Ginny grabbed Luna’s arm and made a beeline for Hermione.

“Herms, where have you been?” With a dirty side glance at Malfoy, Ginny dug into her satchel and pulled out something wrapped in brown paper. “You weren’t at lunch, so I brought you a sandwich.”

Starving, and genuinely touched, Hermione wanted to cry for how much she appreciated her friend just then. She took the sandwich and took a bite. “Mmm," she moaned in satisfaction. It was her favourite: roasted chicken. "Have I told you I love you? You have no idea how hungry I was.”

“Hello, Hermione, Draco,” Luna said with a smile. Hermione mumbled her hello through a mouthful of food.

Malfoy’s head snapped up. He looked conflicted. “Lovegood,” he replied eventually. “Alright?”

“I’m very well, thanks. You?”

He just shrugged, and Luna nodded in understanding.

“It’s okay to not be alright. That’s quite normal after everything, you know,” she said serenely.

Hermione looked nervously at Malfoy. He looked like he was biting his cheek. His nostrils flared and he looked away.

“How was your class this morning?” Ginny asked. “You look a bit …”

“Frazzled,” Luna finished, nodding sagely. "What happened?"

“I, uh, can we talk about it later?" Hermione asked awkwardly. She finished her sandwich and crumpled the brown paper.

The girls nodded.

“Library after dinner?” Luna asked.

“Of course.”

“Perfect, we’ll talk then,” Ginny said. “Malfoy, a displeasure as always.”

“Get bent, Little Weasel,” he sneered.

Ginny glared, turned on her heel, and walked away.

Hermione sighed loudly and looked over at Malfoy. “Do you have to be so rude to her?”

“Excuse me?”

“Ginny, I mean. She says she caught you out drinking twice, and you told her to fuck off and called her names.”

"I also just told you to fuck off."

"That's different, you didn't mean it," she said matter-of-factly.

Malfoy smirked. "Sure about that, are you?"

Without a second’s hesitation, she said, “Of course.”

That silenced the smirk. He searched her eyes for something before looking away.

"Granger. You heard her. She was rude to me first. She’s always rude to me first. What do you want me to do, just sit there and take it?” He scoffed.

Oh, Ginny. Hermione's chest ached.

"No, it’s just – Can't you just be civil?”

"Again, why?"

“Because..." She trailed off.

He crossed his arms and looked at her expectantly.

"Because," she repeated with more conviction. "I am utterly sick of prejudice. I don't want to hear any more about Slytherin versus Gryffindor, how awful you are, or how you should be in Azkaban. Is it too much to hope for some peace after everything we've been through? People want vengeance. They want repercussions, but if it goes on, we're all no better than... And all of these animosities are being inherited by newer generations. Nothing has changed!" Her voice rose in volume and pitch, and she finished with a big huff and crossed her arms.

Malfoy narrowed his eyes. “Alright spit it out. What the hell happened to you? That hair doesn’t get like that over nothing.”

Hermione wanted to cry; she wanted to scream, she wanted to kick the desk, but she held it in, as always. Words, however, burst out of her: “I just, I can't. I can't take it anymore. First years are spewing prejudice. One of them called me a mudblood."

The word rang between them.

"What the fuck? Who?" Malfoy demanded, livid.

She shook her head, grasped her forearm and felt the words of her scar with her thumb.

"Who the fuck was it, Granger?" She could practically feel his stare on the side of her face.

"A boy named Adam."

"Slytherin?"

She nodded.

"Fucking first years.” Malfoy's words came out tense and angry.

"You were like that too once," she said quietly. M. U. D. She traced the raised letters on her arm nervously.

Her eyes flickered over to him, briefly. He was staring at the table, jaw tight. “I’m trying not to be anymore.”

Hermione hugged herself, overwhelmed at his words. Draco Malfoy was really trying, wasn't he? Part of her wanted to remind him of all the shitty things he'd done, but she could tell he was different: the tattoos, the muggle clothes, the fact that his insults were teasing instead of vicious.

“I figured,” she said, gently. Malfoy looked up and searched her eyes. His eyes were particularly penetrating today, like they could read her soul.

She looked away, heart racing.

Slughorn chose that moment to make his entrance and announced that they were going to be brewing Amortentia.

“It’s a typical NEWT level potion. I believe two of our students have done this before, but we didn’t get around to it last year, so Mr. Malfoy, Ms. Granger, consider it a review," Slughorn said jovially, like he was bestowing them a gift.

Hermione stayed back as the seventh years crowded around the cauldron at the front of the class for the demonstration.

Malfoy stood up and started arranging their table. “Get the ingredients, I'll set up,” he said.

“What, you're actually going to follow the lesson today?” She said wryly, still bitter about the previous week. "No Pepper-ups or Draughts of Peace?"

“Why, you running low? Just say the word," he smirked.

He laughed when she responded with a shrill, "No! Amortentia is fine."

"What did you think of the taste?” He asked, looking up at her with a smug grin.

“The Dreamless Sleep? I haven’t had it yet," she admitted.

The truth was, she'd spent every night in the last week researching how to teach.

All for naught, thus far.

“Have one tonight, Granger, you look like hell.”

“Just what every girl wants to hear,” she mumbled under her breath and then went to get their ingredients.

As Hermione had discovered last week, they worked together efficiently. Without needing to say anything, they chopped and prepared the ingredients into neat little piles. Malfoy turned on the flame, and she added the ingredients while he stirred.

When the last ingredients were in, and a timer was set for thirty minutes, Hermione put her head on the table, closed her eyes, and ruminated on the nature of her being.

Why did she have to take the teaching job?

Why hadn’t she said no?

Hermione had felt deep down that it would be too much, but she’d said yes anyway.

How did one say no, really? Why was it so hard to say such a short word?

She had two months left of classes to teach, and it was going to wreck her if she didn’t find a way to control a classroom full of first years who fought with each other, didn't do the work, and called her a mudblood. First years who had no idea of her reputation, who thought she was just another student. Harry Potter’s friend. Not a fighter who’d spent years becoming the best that she could be in order to defeat Voldemort’s regime. Who'd proven her magic skills many times over. Who deserved respect.

Really, she’d been fighting for respect for the last seven years. She was so sick of trying to prove herself worthy of it.

A sudden pleasant brush of her hair prompted Hermione to open her sleepy eyes.

She watched as Malfoy very gently picked up a chunk of her hair with the tip of his wand and moved it. The sensation reminded her of her mum brushing her hair with her fingers and humming a tune as she fell asleep.

“Malfoy, what are you doing?” She asked in a whisper.

“Your hair is too close to the cauldron,” he murmured. “You’re either going to catch fire or contaminate the potion. I mean, catch fire all you like, but do you really want whoever drinks the potion to become obsessed with you? For all you know, Slughorn tests the potions himself. Is that what you want? Oh wait, he’s already obsessed with you. Nevermind."

“Shut up” Hermione grumbled, but when Malfoy's lip tilted up, and he moved another section of hair, she closed her eyes involuntarily. A part of her was acutely aware that she should be swatting him away, but she had no energy for it.

"Do you know the first time amortentia was mentioned in literature?" Malfoy asked.

An involuntary sigh left her body. She could fall asleep to his voice; it was so calming.

“Nope. Enlighten me,” she said with her eyes closed.

“It was first mentioned in the 1367 first edition of Book One of the Dragomides Chronicles.”

That caught her attention. Hermione lifted her head and sat up; curiosity piqued. She was well versed in muggle literature, but her knowledge of magical fiction was rather lacking.

“What are the Dragomides Chronicles?” She asked, feeling her hair on the left side of her head. It was sticking up. He’d done a bloody sticking charm.

Giving him an exasperated look – to which he responded with a smirk – she cast a spell and unstuck it. She conjured a hair tie and gathered her hair into a messy bun on top of her head.

“It's a fantasy adventure series,” Malfoy said, ignoring her dirty look. “I read it when I was around ten.”

“You read kids’ books that are more than 600 years old?” Hermione asked, surprised.

“Reign in your judgement, Granger. The story is a classic. There are more recent editions that get updated with language trends, of course. Old English isn’t really accessible to kids, is it?”

“And here I was imagining a posh little Malfoy reading old English. Have to say, I’m a little relieved you weren't that much of a ponce,” she teased.

He scoffed, running a hand through his blond tresses. "Like you weren't reading Shakespeare at that age."

Hermione deigned not to comment on his (correct) assumption. “And what’s it about? The Dragomides Chronicles?”

Malfoy leaned forward, elbows on the table, and she could see the muscles of his bicep and shoulders ripple beneath the black cotton. He looked over at her as he spoke.

“It’s about a young boy named Eric who is outcast from a family of lords and ladies because his magic doesn’t show up by age fourteen.”

Hermione relaxed in her seat and let herself enjoy the mystical effect his storytelling voice had on her. That same relaxing pleasure began to build throughout her body.

“They think he’s a squib, so they send him away to live with an old uncle in the countryside. But the uncle is nothing more than a slave-driver. He makes the boy do everything for him, hunting and cooking and cleaning, while the old man spends every night getting drunk and sleeping with all sorts of beautiful young women.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow. “That's in a children’s book?”

“Different times,” Malfoy shrugged and leaned in closer. She could smell his cologne, a clean, woodsy scent. Mm.

“One day," he continued, "the boy finds a recipe titled Amortentia and realizes that his uncle has been making this potion. It smells like pure heaven to him: like honey and lilacs and metal, but he doesn’t know what the potion does.”

As he spoke, Malfoy scooted closer on the bench so he could lean in and speak quietly in the low murmur of the classroom. The material of his sweatshirt brushed lightly against her arm, and the pleasant hum of his voice took on a mildly sexual tint – purely her imagination, she was sure. He was so close that his breath fluttered the stray curls by her ear.

The proximity intensified the feeling of pleasure slowly began to build in her core, and she realized how far gone she was. There was no stopping it.

He’s a bully, he’s a bully, he’s a bully, she tried to tell herself. It didn’t help because he wasn’t a bully anymore, really. He gave her sleep potions and handkerchiefs, and said he was trying to be better.

Nope. Stop thinking like that. She scolded herself.

Malfoy continued: “Eric's uncle catches him with the potion one night and beats him. Eric’s magic finally kicks in in self-defense: he accidently explodes the house, and his uncle is killed. He runs away and survives in the wild for weeks before he comes upon a band of men in a cave. They call themselves the Dragomides Guild. They are an exceptionally powerful and intelligent group of wizards that ride dragons and keep the peace in the ages by investigating royals and high society.”

His breath tickled her neck, and it could have been his lips, for all the shivers that it gave her.

She crossed one leg over the other and leaned into the building pressure. If only she could rock in her seat and find some relief. She’d do it too if he wasn’t right there watching her. Orgasms were one of the best ways to relieve tension in her body, and God, if there was ever a day she needed one, it was today.

She held her hips steadfast, but her hands gripped the table.

“Eric is inducted into their order and is finally trained in magic. But there is something happening in the world. Women are being abducted and brainwashed, the princess as well. So, the Dragomides Guild infiltrates the court and Eric poses as wait staff for the King’s brother. One day, he smells Amortentia, and he discovers what it is and that somebody has been dosing the ladies with it. The court potions master tries to kill him, but Eric escapes on the castle dragon, saves the princess, and gathers his order to defeat the King’s brother, who was behind everything. The princess, now sober, falls in love with Eric and they get married. He becomes a prince and one-ups his family who abandoned him."

“Poetic justice," Hermione breathed. She released her hands from the edge of the desk and sat on them.

“Indeed. Along the way, he smells lilac from a unicorn’s wood, representing purity, the honey from the princess’ perfume, representing love, and the gold of his crown, representing power."

"What he desired most was power, love, and a pure life, because he never had those as a child," she surmised.

"Yes."

She turned her head to look at him, and swallowed at how close he was. “So, it’s a romance?”

Malfoy's lip quirked up and his eyes roamed her face. “No, it’s an epic adventure with the barest hint of romance at the end.”

Hermione looked at his lips – they were so close – and had the very strange thought that kissing him would feel amazing.

Which is definitely something she should not be thinking.

She cleared her throat and looked away. “You said that was the first mention of amortentia in literature. Do you mean in fiction? Or anywhere?”

“Both,” Malfoy leaned away and stretched his arms along the back of the bench they shared. His arm tickled her back. “That’s the interesting thing. There is actually a debate amongst historians about which came first, the story or the potion.”

“Really? But the scents, they're a real effect of the potion, albeit rife with symbolism,” Hermione mused.

“Yes, but also, the effect of the potion is a little bit different than how we know it. The women act like they are completely brainwashed.”

“That could be for literary effect. Or perhaps the potion has evolved over time. It has been 600 years.”

Malfoy nodded in thought. “It’s fascinating, isn’t it?” He said with a strangely peaceful look on his face.

Hermione bit her lip. “It is. But I have to say, it’s no wonder old wizarding families are so conservative when your kids’ books embody 600-year-old values.”

His smooth forehead furrowed, and a notch formed between his brows. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“Well," she explained, hesitantly. "The story is about a man saving women from being drugged by a love potion. Are there even women in the Dragomides Guild? I mean, even the princess falls in love with her saviour. Her only value is as a sexual object, and marriage is the reward. Feminists would have a lot to say against it.”

“Those are not pureblood values. It’s just a story," he said defensively.

“No? Then what about all this marrying off young business? Pansy and Daphne were always going on about marriage.”

Malfoy’s expression hardened, but then he let out a breath, and as he did so, the animosity in his face lessened.

“Maybe you should suggest some future edits. How about making the protagonist a girl instead? Have her save a Prince? Or even better, save a Princess and marry her. Re-educate the future pureblood aristocracy through literature,” he said sarcastically.

“That's a great idea. Maybe I will!” She would do it, too, to spite him. And then she'd rub the new edition in his face when it would inevitably come out.

Malfoy scoffed, but his lip lifted in a modicum of a smile.

When the timer stopped, they both stood up and looked into their cauldron. The pearly sheen looked perfect.

Hermione leaned in and inhaled deeply.

The last time she'd smelled amortentia had felt like a lifetime ago. She’d had a crush on Ron, her parents had still been there, and she had yet to experience real war. How different she'd been. She’d smelled freshly mown grass, spearmint toothpaste, new parchment, and… Ron. Not at all what she smelled now.

The new smell had a visceral effect: her stomach clenched, her heart ached, her eyes watered, and her legs gave out.

Great. Now she was crying in front of Malfoy again.

Hermione sat back down and fumbled in her bag for the handkerchief. She dabbed at her eyes.

Malfoy sat down as well, rolling his eyes. “What is it then? An ex-boyfriend? Don't tell me it's Weasley."

She sniffed and shook her head. “Peonies, cigars, and... They remind me of my parents,” she admitted. Why did she always feel compelled to tell him the truth? It was like her mouth had no filter around him.

“You miss them?” He asked. She looked up in surprise at his question. He looked genuinely curious.

She nodded. She missed them more than he could know.

Malfoy got quiet and introspective after that.

“Books?” He asked after a while.

"Hm?"

"Your third scent. Is it books?"

She felt her face heat. Was she that obvious?

He chuckled.

“What do you smell, then?”

“That’s personal.”

That's personal. Ouch. Was she crossing boundaries like the first years did with her? Her cheeks flushed. The rejection stung after what she’d just shared. Was that how her students had felt when she'd shut them down?

“So not lilac, honey and gold, then?” She gave him a half-grin, trying to regain her composure.

Malfoy shook his head with a low chuckle. “Have you figured out the meaning behind the handkerchief yet?” He nodded towards it.

“No, not yet.”

“If you ever do, I’ll tell you then, what I smell in the Amortentia." His eyes flickered up to hers just then and Hermione’s heart pounded in her chest.

She cursed herself for not starting her research earlier.

Malfoy smirked as though he could read her mind.

That evening, Hermione dropped her bag at a table in the library, and after a fruitless search for books about handkerchiefs, she spent half an hour collecting tomes on pureblood traditions.

Hermione returned with an armful of books and an ache in her back to find Luna sitting at the table, writing on a scroll of parchment with a fluffy, bright blue quill.

“Hey, Luna,” she said, depositing the books down. “Where’s Ginny?”

“Hi, Hermione. Ginny said she wanted to fly for a bit, so she’ll be coming later.”

“Right,” Hermione shook her head with a laugh. She wasn’t surprised. Ginny could never sit still for hours on end in the library.

Hermione sat down and opened a book titled, Pureblood Marriage Traditions.

She ran her hands over the rich, rough material of the pages. Feeling a deep bitterness within her at the world she was excluded from, she trailed a finger over the table of contents and chose a chapter titled, “Early Relationships.” She flipped to the chapter and relished the sound of the old pages being turned. There was something so satisfying about handling old books.

She skimmed over the paragraphs, nose wrinkling at the mentions of declarations of intent and parent’s approval, before landing on a section labelled Courtship Rituals.

Once a young lord or his parents have chosen a suitable pure-blooded bride, and initial contact with the bride’s family has taken place, then a courtship may begin. Traditionally, dates are chaperoned, and physical contact is limited. As a result, various methods of private communication are common. Among these are the passing of love notes and tokens wrapped in silk handkerchiefs. Handkerchiefs were popular because they were a token to be carried around at all times, and whenever used, the young lady would be reminded of the young lord courting her.

Hermione blushed at that. There was no way he had intended that… right?

Once a dozen chaperoned dates were completed, the marriage contract was signed, and …

Merlin, this had to be antiquated, right? Hermione turned to the cover and scanned for the date. 1975.

She blinked. There was no way…

“Luna, can I ask you something?”

“Of course.” Luna stopped her writing and looked up expectantly.

Hermione lifted the cover. “These pureblood traditions… Do people still actually follow them? Marriage contracts and chaperoned dates and all that?”

Luna brushed the end of her quill along her lips as she contemplated the question.

“I imagine it’s just like muggles. The royal families have to follow traditions, of course, and people in high societies may have certain standards and expectations, but that’s not everyone, is it? Some families follow traditions, and others don’t. Some people think my family is weird,” Luna smiled. “No, I know what you’re going to say, but it doesn’t bother me at all. We’re just different and not everyone understands that. But there is such a freedom in being different, you know? When nobody expects ‘normal’ things from you, it’s quite freeing. We can act how we like and make our own lovely traditions. The Weasleys are the same, because they’ve forsaken traditional pureblood values, so they are not expected to go through with that traditional pureblood nonsense,” Luna said, gesturing at the book. “My dad doesn’t care about that stuff, and my children won’t either.”

“That makes sense,” Hermione said, feeling somewhat relieved. At least it wasn’t that prevalent.

“On the other hand,” Luna continued, “I feel sorry for people like Draco Malfoy.”

“Malfoy? Why?” Hermione asked. Her hands tightened around the leather edges of the book, feeling its rough texture.

“The Malfoys are one of the oldest wizarding families out there. They’re one of the Sacred 28, you know. Where he has all the expectations thrust upon him, I have none. There are consequences for him.”

“What kind of consequences?”

“Oh, I imagine if he were to forsake some of these traditions, he would lose his inheritance, possibly get kicked out of the line of succession.”

“But he’s an only child, would they really do that?"

“Yes, but his father may choose to sire another child. His mother is still young, she could bear another.”

“So, you’re telling me if Malfoy were to get married, he would have to go through all of these ridiculous hoops, chaperoned dates, marriage contracts, and everything?”

“Most likely. His parents are quite traditional. They might even choose a wife for him.”

Hermione’s stomach dropped. She felt mildly sick. Why did that bother her so much?

The door to the library slammed open, and Ginny appeared, ignoring an angry glare from Pince, and made her way to their table.

“Okay, I’m here!” Ginny said excitedly, “Now tell us all about your first class as a teacher and why you were in Potions looking like you’d flown through a tornado.”

Hermione spent the next thirty minutes recounting her miserable day and commiserating with her two friends. The books on pureblood ideology lay abandoned.

At Ginny’s insistence, they left the library early for a Friday night butterbeer at the Three Broomsticks, where Hermione spent some quality time chatting with her friends and being glad for the distraction.

Hermione got back to the dorm late and slightly tipsy thanks to the butterbeer bombs Ginny had made them with her hidden flask of firewhiskey.

Once she had washed the horrible day off and was warm and cozy in her bed, Hermione uncorked and downed a very pleasant-tasting Dreamless Sleep.

Chapter Text

She was in the library. A stack of pureblood books danced on the table, eluding her attempts to grab them. She cried, and they laughed at her.

Granger.

She was in the transfiguration classroom standing at the front, watching helplessly as Harry and Ginny pelted Malfoy with paper airplanes, laughing while he got smaller and smaller with every throw.

Granger.

She was in the Great Hall. It was empty, and she alone sat at the Gryffindor table. She could hear vague voices laughing in the hallways: Harry’s, Ginny’s, and Ron’s, but they were nowhere to be found. The voices receded and left her in total silence.

Granger.

She woke up and found herself in bed. Someone was behind her. A warm presence. Hands moved the hair from her neck, and she felt a light kiss on her nape, sending a delightful shiver through her.

Granger.

The kisses turned into scratching. She didn't like it.

Ouch.

Wake up.

Hermione blinked open her eyes. It was still dark out. A glance at the time showed it was barely 6 in the morning. She groaned.

The dreams faded quickly from her mind, leaving behind melancholy and longing.

Something prickled her neck and she swatted at it. She scrambled to look over her shoulder and blinked at what she saw.

It was an owl.

Sleep addled her brain and she stared at in confusion, wondering if she was still dreaming.

Sitting up, Hermione took the letter from the little owl and summoned a treat for the little sleep-disturber. The owl flapped its wings and flew back out the open window.

A glance at the letter’s handwriting told her everything she needed to know, and she tossed it on her bedside table with a heavy sigh.

She lay back down and threw a hand over her eyes with a groan. What a way to start the day. There was no way she was getting back to sleep now.

Granger. His voice echoed from her dream. Why was his voice in her head so much?

With a sigh she threw off her duvet and prodded over to the open window. The stars were beginning to fade with a hazy glow along the east horizon. The grounds down below were foggy and wet.

Knowing the others were asleep, Hermione stripped off her threadbare oversized Billy Idol Rebel Yell tee, stepped out of her knickers, and made her way to the bathroom.

The hot steam of the shower chased out the morning chill.

A look in the mirror made her pause. Her hair was an unattractive cloud of frizz, as it usually was after a night of tossing and turning.

Her mind strayed to the man in her dream and the kiss on her neck.

She wanted it to be real.

She imagined her hair was a mess from a night of playful sex rather than the result of sleep. She touched her lips. Would they be pink and swollen from kissing? Would there be love bites on her breasts to cover her scar?

Her nipples were hard. She trailed her fingers gently over them and closed her eyes.

In her mind, a man stood behind her, touching her, trailing his fingers down to her stomach, kissing the back of her neck.

Granger.

It was his voice, him behind her, an echo from her dream.

She opened her eyes and looked at the wide-eyed girl in the mirror.

Her cheeks were flushed.

Her eyes were dark.

Her heart was pounding.

It was fine.

It was just a fantasy.

Just a dream.

Showered and dressed, Hermione sat on her bed with one leg tucked under her and her wand pointed at her head. The letter sat untouched in front of her. Her wand acted as a curling iron as she attempted to section off pieces, wrap them around and dry them slowly with a heating charm. She’d wanted to make a better impression than the previous Friday, but now she was regretting it. She never had the patience for hair styling.

At seven, Ginny walked in wearing yesterday’s clothes.

“Oh good, Hermione! You’re up.”

Hermione turned to her and raised her eyebrows. “I thought you were sleeping.”

Ginny grinned wickedly. “I snuck out last night to meet Harry in Hogsmeade.”

“Oh.”

Hermione’s stomach soured; she hadn’t seen Harry in ages, and she missed her best friend. Realistically, she knew that Harry would want to see Ginny more than her, that friends and girlfriends were a different thing, so she pushed down the bitter feeling and determined to be supportive.

“Is that from Ron?” Ginny sat down on Hermione’s bed and picked up the letter.

“Yeah,” Hermione said, arms above her head as she struggled to reach the curls at the back. “You can open it if you want.”

“Really?” Ginny looked up at her for confirmation. At Hermione’s shrug, she opened the letter and read silently.

“What does it say?” Hermione asked, cringing. “Do I want to know?”

Ginny pursed her lips and looked up at Hermione, as though gauging her reaction.

“Well,” she started. “The idiot says hi, that he’s sorry for not writing sooner. Thanks for helping them with research for their training, blah, blah, blah. He asks how you like rooming with me – you love it, obviously,” Ginny said, grinning up at her.

Hermione smiled. “Obviously.”

“He asks how this year has been, and how he hopes Malfoy hasn’t been harassing you. He says to stay away from the untrustworthy snakes and just try to have a peaceful year for a change. He says it’s too bad no one else returned in your year. He hopes you’re not lonely. Psh! You have me, why would he say that?” Ginny paused. “And he says he’s been seeing another Auror trainee, and that he wants you to hear it from him first. Her name is Germaine, and she said he had to tell you before pictures of them get out.”

Well then.

Hermione’s heart stung. Even though it had been her choice, their breakup had hurt her as much as it did him, but it was things like this that made her even more sure of her decision. Ron was the same: blaming the Slytherins, pitying her, and never doing anything on his own initiative.

Ginny wrinkled her nose and held up the letter. “Want me to burn it?”

That elicited a laugh from her. “No, give it here.” Hermione leaned forward to snatch the paper, but Ginny laughed and twisted away. She followed, and Ginny pushed her away playfully, causing her to lose her balance and fall off the bed, dragging Ginny by the arm with her, until they collapsed into a fit of laughter on the floor. Ginny rolled off Hermione and lay on her back, giggling. She looked over at Hermione.

“You know, you should really consider dating. Sex is an amazing remedy for stress and bad feelings,” she added with a grin. “Get your mind off my idiot brother.”

“It’s not on Ron,” Hermione said.

Ginny raised her brows. “Is it on someone else?”

Hermione shook her head.

“There are a few guys in my year you might like. I can introduce you.”

Hermione thought about it. It would take her mind off Malfoy. What was one year younger, really?

“I’ll think about it,” she said.

“Oh shit!” Ginny jumped up, and proceeded to tear off her clothing, leaving it in a pile on the floor as she searched her drawers for something. “I’ve got practice at 7:30. I’m going to be late!” She found her quidditch kit and put it on in record time. “Do you want to walk down with me?”

“Sure,” Hermione said, happy to have a distraction.

As they walked, Ginny talked, telling her about all things quidditch, and Hermione's mind wandered.

They reached the great doors and stepped out into the crisp morning. The fog had yet to dissipate, lending an eerie quality to the atmosphere, and very likely working to undo the effort she’d just made on her curls.

Ginny elbowed her lightly. “You haven’t been listening to anything I’ve been saying, have you?”

“What? Of course, I have!” Hermione lied.

“Oh? What have I been talking about for the last ten minutes?”

“Uh… quidditch?” Her eyebrows pinched together in a guilty expression.

Ginny rolled her eyes. “If I didn't know you, I might be offended.”

Hermione's held back a smile. “I'm sorry, you know how I get about quidditch. My brain rejects it.”

“You like hearing about the Goblin Wars but quidditch bores you.” Ginny shook her head, laughing. “I will never understand it.”

“Yes, well, vice versa I suppose. But I will pretend to listen if you like.”

“Nah, I won’t subject you to any more quidditch today,” Ginny said. “How are you feeling for your second Slytherdor class?”

Hermione bit her lip. “I'm a little nervous, honestly. The Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs –”

“Ravenpuffs,” Ginny interjected. She’d started calling Hermione’s classes by nicknames. “Oh, don’t look at me like that! You know it’s cute.”

“The Ravenpuffs; were amazing. They listened, they did the work, they didn’t question my authority. The Slytherins and – the Slytherdors,” she amended at Ginny’s look, “are different. Like fire and ice. They don’t work well together. They can barely be in the same room, really.”

Ginny linked an arm through Hermione's. “You've been researching and preparing for days. I'm sure it'll be fine. You're you. These little first year twerps don't know how lucky they are to have you teaching them. So, you'll just have to show them, yeah?”

Hermione sighed. “Right.”

The girls walked in silence. As the courtyard appeared through the fog, Hermione caught sight of a tall black figure topped with white-blond hair.

Draco Malfoy stood leaning against the grey stone wall. Smoke rose from his fingers, and she looked down at his hand to see a glowing red tip.

Was he smoking a muggle cigarette?

Malfoy looked up at her from under stark eyebrows and caught her gaze. He lifted his hand and took a drag, slowly blowing out the smoke.

Then he winked.

Hermione stumbled, which drew Ginny's attention to Malfoy's lone figure. Ginny narrowed her eyes and pulled on Hermione’s arm.

As she was dragged away, Malfoy smirked.

“I don’t like the way he looks at you,” Ginny said darkly.

“What? How does he look at me?” Hermione asked.

“Like he’s biding his time before a kill.”

Hermione’s heart sank.

“He’s just Malfoy, Gin. He’s not a monster,” she said, eventually.

Ginny remained silent for the rest of the walk.

Fire and Ice.

Could they ever coexist?

Ava was the first to show up to her Slythedor class.

The little girl practically ran to her seat, dropped her bag, and bounced up to the front of the classroom.

“Professor Granger!”

“Just Hermione, please, Ava,” Hermione said.

“Professor Hermione,” she amended earnestly, and Hermione bit back a smile. “I learned all about you this week. They call you the smartest witch of your age! You were top of every class, and you fought in the war!”

Hermione was determined to be friendlier today, but she didn't even have to fake it with Ava; the girl's attitude was endearing.

“You did your research,” she said, smiling.

“I did! I asked some of the older students in Gryffindor about you and talked to some professors.”

“Lind’s been mooning over you all week, Miss G!” Sean called out as he entered the classroom. “I think she’s about to start a fan club.”

Ava rolled her eyes, and said loudly to Hermione, “Digger owled his parents as soon as class ended last week to complain that we didn’t have a real professor. They owled back saying you’re a war hero, and he’s been telling everyone about you too.” Ava said officiously and then sat back down in her seat.

Sean glared at Ava. “I have not!”

Ava stuck her tongue out at him.

Adam appeared, rolled his eyes as he saw Sean and Ava’s interaction, and took his seat quietly. He glanced at Hermione and looked away quickly.

Chase entered the room, cuffed Adam on the shoulder, and took a seat in front of him. He was followed by Hope, Jade, and Indie, who all took their seats, eyeing Hermione with interest.

The rest of the Gryffindors arrived just before the bell and took the same seats as the week before.

Class started out much better than she’d hoped.

It started with a quiz.

She gave them each a piece of paper and had them list the five rules of visualization, to the students’ dismay. The activity was not meant for evaluation, as students thought, but as a review to make sure the information was in their minds for the day’s class, and once they were done writing, Hermione told them as much, to the relieved faces of Hope, Indie, Luke, Veronica, and Jamal. Ava, Sean, and Amir, on the other hand, looked disappointed.

Next, she had students compare their lists to fix any mistakes, then she called on a few students for the answers, which she wrote on the board.

When they finished, Hermione was elated. There were no insults thrown, no notes being passed, no bad behaviour at all. Perhaps her approach was going to work, after all.

“Now that we’ve reviewed,” Hermione said, “We’re going to read the first half of chapter five.”

A few students groaned.

“Look,” she said. “I know many of you hate reading this thick, boring text. So, I’m going to make it easier on you. Here I have a list of 8 questions. All you need to do is skim the text and find the answers. You can work in groups of three.”

“But Professor?” Amir raised his hand. “Isn’t it better to read the whole thing?”

Hermione smiled. She felt great affection for the students who were eager to learn.

“Yes, Amir. Of course, it is better. But scanning a text for specific information is actually a very useful skill for research. A proper read-through of the chapter will be recommended homework.”

Without extensive reading, the students were able to focus much more easily, as she’d expected.

The mood was good, and the class atmosphere was amiable. That was, until it was time for the practical portion. The part she was nervous for.

She had a plan, and she hoped to Merlin it would go well.

"We're going to try something a little different for the practical portion of today's lesson,” she told them, fear settling in her stomach. There was a chance this could go badly, but it was necessary. “You've each been paired with someone outside of your house. Listen for your name and change your seats.”

Hermione ignored the cacophony of moans and groans and read out the pairings she’d chosen.

“Sean and Ava.”

Sean and Ava glared at each other. Neither made a move until Ava rolled her eyes and gathered her books to go sit beside the Slytherin.

“Adam and Luke.”

Adam roughly shoved his books into his bag and sat next to Luke. Both boys crossed their arms and glared in opposite directions.

“Hope and Veronica.”

Hope made a face and sat down next to Veronica with a huff and a sneer.

“Jade and Amir.”

Amir, good natured as he was, sat down next to Jade without complaint. He gave her a shrug and a half-grin, and Jade looked impassively back at him.

“Indie and Jamal.”

Jamal went to sit next to Indie with a sigh.

“Chase and Anna.”

Chase had already started making his way to Anna, who gave him a wary look and moved her books to make space for him.

Hermione set them to work.

The class was silent at first. Eventually people started to speak, and Hermione’s stomach started to sink.

“This is bullshit,” Adam grumbled. “We should be allowed to sit where we want.”

Hermione stood up at the podium and gave him a stern look. Neither Snape nor McGonagall would have been proud; Adam ignored her.

His partner, Luke, looked unimpressed, but sat quietly with judgment written on his face.

Hope let out a sound of agreement. “Seriously, Hermione, couldn’t you have partnered me with literally anyone else?”

“Well, it’s not like I wanted to work with you, either!” Veronica exclaimed. “You’re such a Slytherbitch.”

“Stop,” Hermione said. “That’s enough.”

“Oh, yeah? Well, you’re just a dumb airhead, you Gryffinslut! You should have been in Hufflepuff.”

“Hope, shut up!” Ava said, defending her friend.

“You shut up!”

“Can you all just shut up and get to work?” Jamal asked. Indie sat next to him, biting her fingernails. “None of us want this, but just deal with it.”

Indie gasped and turned to hit Jamal in the arm.

“What the hell!” He yelled.

“What’s wrong with working with me?” She exclaimed. “What did I do to you?”

“You’re a Slytherin, that’s what’s wrong!” Anna shot out.

“You say that like you aren’t in the inferior house, Cowley,” Sean said.

“Oh, go slither back to the dungeons, Sean!” Luke said, standing up. “Maybe they should lock you up down there too. We all know your families were death eaters!”

Sean and Adam lunged at Luke at the same time. Adam got there first and landed a solid punch to Luke’s nose. Luke groaned, holding his face while blood dripped down. And suddenly all the students were up and out of their seats, yelling at each other.

Hermione stood there in blatant disbelief. It was only the second class and she had one bloody nose, a handful of curse words, and a full-blown house fight.

God, she didn’t want to have to supervise a detention with every bloody student in the class.

Hermione stood there, mind racing.

Her wits left her, and instinct took over. She raised her wand.

The classroom filled with screams as every single student was lifted high in the air and propelled further apart. She let them hover for a moment before dropping them down gracefully.

With another swish of her wand, she cast a sticking charm, and silenced their cries of protest.

Hermione closed her eyes and took a steadying breath. Her shaky exhale was loud in the false silence of the room.

When she opened her eyes, she took her time to look at every single student.

Some were watching her fearfully, sharing looks with their friends. Others were trying to talk. A few were looking at her in awe.

“Now that you’re finally quiet, listen up,” Hermione said, her voice lethal and barely above a whisper.

“This is not okay,” she said, gesturing around. “Violence and insults over house rivalries are not okay. In fact, house divisions are utter shite. House stereotypes are utter shite! The world is changing. You know that, right? You don't have to be one thing. You don't have to conform to your social status, blood status, or house stereotypes.”

“Rise above it,” she impassioned. “Are all Slytherins bad? Of course not. Have there been Gryffindor death eaters? Yes. Are Slytherins not brave? Are Gryffindors not ambitious? Are neither of us clever nor kind-hearted? It’s all madness. We all have all these traits within us. Houses are not about that. They're about creating a community and a feeling of belonging. If you ask the hat where you want to be, you’ll probably get put into that house. The hat is roughly a thousand years old," she added. "Just because something is old doesn't mean it's right. It just means thousand-year-old prejudices are still being perpetuated.”

She suddenly knew what she had to do.

She pulled at her Gryffindor tie, pulled it over her head and held it up at arm’s length in front of her. “I'm certainly not defined by my house, nor am I limited by it. I refuse to participate in this ridiculous hatred between houses anymore.”

She threw the red and gold tie onto the ground, and with a flick of her wand, her tie went up in orange flames with a whoosh.

She watched the flames flicker on the shocked faces of the students.

With another flick, Hermione released all the spells.

Nobody moved. The students remained silent and immobilized, staring at her like she was mad.

Maybe she was.

Speaking quietly, she added, “There are reasons I’ve mixed up the houses. This class is not for socializing with your friends. You’re here to learn. And if you recall, last week, most of you were not paying attention. Did you think I didn’t notice? This is also the second time a fight has broken out in this classroom based on house divisions, and it will be the last. It’s a problem, and this is how we’re going to fix it. And if you hate it so much, then just know that the way out of this is good behaviour. Understand?”

A few students nodded.

“Good. Now get your acts together and if you’re not going to be friendly to each other next class, don’t even bother to come. I’m sure your parents would all love to get that letter.”

Hermione sat down, but the students hadn’t moved.

“You’re dismissed,” she said. There was still half an hour remaining, but her hands were shaking, and she didn’t trust her voice anymore. It was better to cut class short and pick up the lesson next week.

At her words, the students quietly packed up their stuff and left.

Hermione’s post-class stupor only lasted twenty minutes this time.

She breathed deeply and looked up at the dark dusty ceiling. She imagined what Hogwarts would have been like without houses. Would she have had different friends? Would she have made stronger connections with Padma, whom she’d always liked, or would she have dated Terry Boot, who she’d always found attractive? Would she have found common ground with Malfoy?

Her outburst felt good, like a release of all the feelings she’d been bottling up for half a year. It felt good to once again voice what she believed in.

On the other hand, she’d just used powerful magic to physically separate and silence a bunch of children. And then she lit a fire in the classroom in front of said children. And rebelled against the school uniform code.

What a great role model she was. Hadn’t she said she wasn’t cut out for teaching? For all she knew, students could be owling their parents about their fully mad and dangerous teacher at that very moment.

With a sigh, Hermione slunk down into the chair like she was a child herself.

What’s done was done. She couldn’t take it back. And if she were honest with herself, she didn’t even want to.

Above all, she felt good. She felt wild and reckless. She wasn't McGonagall or Snape or Flitwick; she sure as hell wasn't Trelawney or Slughorn. She was herself. And if being herself meant being a little mad and unpredictable, then so be it.

By the time she got to lunch, the adrenaline faded into doubt. She sat at the Ravenclaw table with Luna, who was finishing up the last touches of her most recent history essay.

She told Luna all about her class in whispered tones. Luna’s laugh tinkled through the quiet chatter of the Great Hall.

“Should I not have done that?” Hermione asked worriedly, eyebrows pinching.

Luna smiled. “I don’t know anything about teaching, or how your students will react, but I’m proud of you for making a stand. In fact,” Luna tugged off her blue and black Ravenclaw tie and placed it in her bag. “I’m not going to burn mine like a madman, but I’ll stop wearing it to support your movement.”

“Madman?” Hermione grimaced.

Luna patted her hand lovingly. “Sometimes you can be a little scary,” she said with a wink. “But I love it.”

Hermione pouted, unsure if that was a compliment, but pleased, regardless, of her friend’s support.

“Give that here, Luna. I’ll edit it for you,” she smiled.

“Thanks,” Luna smiled broadly and handed over her essay.

The potions classroom was cold, damp, and dark; the only warmth came from the yellow glow of torches and candles floating above them. Two students were already sitting at the ancient oakwood workbenches when Hermione arrived fifteen minutes before class.

Two heads spun in her direction, and Hermione gave them both a weak smile. The Slytherin girl who never seemed to like her rolled her eyes and went back to her work. The other was a Gryffindor with short brown hair. Hermione’s eyes lingered on him. She remembered Ginny’s words from the morning. Was this one of the ones Ginny was talking about? He was rather handsome. His dark eyes had a twinkle to them as he watched her.

Maybe she should try to expand her social circle. Perhaps new friends, or even a shag, would take her mind off the Boy Who Was Clearly Wrong for Her.

She shook herself and went to sit down. Settling in, she withdrew Luna’s essay and set her favourite fountain pen on the table. She glanced up again and saw the seventh year was still watching her with a curious little half-smile. Hermione gave him one of her own, tucked her hair behind her ears, and picked up the history of magic essay.

It was an abomination.

As the minutes went on, she started to regret her offer. She read the essay over once for a general impression, then again, to note any structural issues, and on the third read through, she started to annotate.

She tried to be diplomatic:

Instead of, ‘Are you just making this stuff up?’ she wrote, ‘Where does it say Abraxans were in the Goblin War? You should cite this.’

Instead of, ‘Where are you getting this misinformation?’ she wrote, ‘Your second argument needs more proof.’

Instead of, ‘What does this have to do with anything?’ she wrote, ‘The logic in your conclusion could use some tidying up. How about…’

Something nudged her foot, and Hermione looked down.

A muscular thigh, clad in black denim, rested mere inches from hers. Her eyes lifted to take in his crisp white cotton shirt and the rich black material of his cloak.

“No tie, Granger? Don’t tell me you’ve forsaken the dress code. Is the world ending?”

Malfoy’s voice drew her eyes up, echoing her dream and taking her mind directly back to imaginary neck kisses and inappropriate thoughts. She stared, flustered, at the sight of his perfect face – the angular jaw, the teasing tilt of his lips, the perfect aristocratic nose, the stunning grey of his eyes, and the naturally arched brows, a shade or two darker than the pale blonde on his head. He really was unfairly beautiful.

“What can I say? I’m officially a rebel,” she said with a breathy laugh. “Did you just get here?”

He raised a single brow, and she knew at once she'd missed something. “Class started five minutes ago. I’ve been here for ten.”

She looked up at the clock.

It was 2:05.

Huh.

With a sheepish grin, she put Luna’s essay away, took out her potions book, and placed it on her desk.

“I was absorbed in Luna's essay,” Hermione whispered, finally cognizant of the hushed tones of the classroom. “She wrote about the benefit of birch trees in the third goblin war because the Goblins rode on Abraxans and Abraxans ate bark from the birch trees.”

He stared at her like she was speaking gibberish.

“They don’t though,” he said, brow furrowing. “Eat bark, I mean. And the Goblins didn't fucking fly…”

She gave him a significant look. “I know.”

“Ah,” he said, tapping his fingers haphazardly on the table. “And why are you editing Lovegood's essay?”

Why indeed? A pit of anxiety formed in her stomach. Why had she offered to do it? She’d done so because she was happy for Luna’s support. The thought suddenly sobered her good mood. She’d tuck that away for later introspection.

Hermione shrugged. “Luna’s my friend.”

Slughorn was speaking, and she tried to tune in. What was today’s lesson? He hadn’t written it down yet.

“... very important potion to know…” Slughorn’s voice sounded above the low chatter.

Malfoy cleared his throat and Hermione's eyes drifted from Slughorn back to the restless blond next to her. He was twirling a quill in his right hand, drawing her focus to his long fingers and clean, trimmed fingernails. She watched, mesmerized, as the tendons in his hand danced. His tattoos peaked out from beneath the cuff of his shirt.

He was not paying an ounce of attention to their professor. He always did what he wanted though; she shouldn’t be surprised.

A tiny smirk drew her eyes to his lips again and she watched, transfixed, as he spoke.

“Have you heard of Peridot Graves?”

Hermione wracked her brain, but the name wasn’t familiar.

She searched Malfoy’s grey eyes as though they held the answer. “I don’t think so.”

“You probably haven’t. Her story is absent in most history books,” he said with a knowing gleam in his eyes. “Do you want to hear it?”

A reluctant curiosity grew within her. They both knew she couldn’t resist that kind of knowledge.

Hermione looked towards the front where Slughorn was speaking, and then back at Malfoy, warring with herself. She half wanted to shush him, and half wanted to listen to anything he said. She hoped the flush of warmth in her face was hidden in the dim lighting of the dungeons.

Hermione could practically hear the smirk.

“This story will interest you, Granger. I promise,” he murmured.

His voice promised something. It promised to make the hairs on her neck prickle and her heart race faster – as it always did, as it was doing now.

She wondered if he somehow knew. Was he just making conversation? Or was he aware of the effect he had on her? The thought terrified her.

“And what makes you think that I’d find your story interesting?”

Malfoy’s eyes roamed her face, and he smiled lazily.

“Because it’s about a witch who’s a lot like you.”

A lot like you.

What did he mean? Was she smart? Annoying? A muggleborn?

“How so?” She asked, pulling her hair over one shoulder out of nervous habit and looking ahead.

Slughorn had finally written the potion on the board: Antidote to Amortentia. She turned to the page in her textbook, and her finger trailed along the list of ingredients absentmindedly. Wiggentree twigs, nightshade, fluxweed, bluebell, extract of gurdyroot…

“Peridot Graves was a metamorphmagus,” he spoke so softly that she had to lean her head in to hear. “She discovered the uses of fluxweed in potions. She wasn’t officially a potions master, but she had an instinct for it. She invented the Polyjuice potion, despite not actually getting any credit.”

Hermione bit down a sigh and sank into the familiar feeling of relaxation that always accompanied his stories. It was quickly becoming her favourite way to decompress.

“You know, in that regard, she reminds me a lot of you, Granger. She was the brilliant one, but other wizards took the credit.”

Her distracted gaze snapped back to him in shock. She ignored the mild dig on her friends and tried to suppress the sudden prickle behind her eyes.

Draco Malfoy, former nemesis, thought she was brilliant and deserved more credit. God, why did that make her emotional?

He leaned his head in closer and continued cheekily, “Do you still want to listen to Slughorn go on about sodding twigs, or do you want me to continue?”

She was itching to hear more. By the look on his face, he knew it too.

“Words, Granger. You're usually good at those,” he added when she didn’t answer.

She glared at him, but her mouth betrayed her. “Yes.”

He looked amused. “Yes, what?”

“Just tell the damned story, Malfoy,” she said, sure her face was on fire.

He chuckled, a satisfied gleam in his eyes.

“Graves was an orphan,” he continued quietly. “It's unclear about her blood heritage, but she grew up with muggles – like you – and was always in trouble for being different. Eventually, the headmaster found her and brought her to Hogwarts where she quickly excelled with a deep thirst for knowledge – sound familiar?”

His silky voice whispering in her ear was making her feel unmoored. Her body felt alight with a buzzing pleasure.

“Like you,” he continued, “she spent her time in the library, learning everything she could. She often snuck into the restricted section and learned about all sorts of… forbidden things.”

Forbidden things…

Wait... what?

“What kind of forbidden things?” She asked, afraid to hear the answer.

Malfoy cocked his head, a grin forming on his lips. “You tell me. She’s basically you. What forbidden things have you learnt there?”

“I like to learn everything,” she admitted. It was true. She’d spent years flipping through restricted books out of curiosity. Knowledge was power, after all, even if it was dark.

“Everything?” He bit his bottom lip, holding back laughter.

“Shut up. Like you were any different,” She grumbled.

He hummed his assent and continued, with a restrained grin on his face. “Graves was a Ravenclaw, no surprise, but during her time at Hogwarts, she had a fling with a Slytherin. They would sneak out after curfew and fool around. One night, they were caught fucking against the stacks in the restricted section.”

The shock of the sentence sent a wave of numbness through her. A glance told her his eyes were alight with mischief.

“She was entirely naked, but he was fully clothed, so guess who got blamed?”

Malfoy saying the word naked made her breath leave her body. She couldn’t speak.

“They faced expulsion. The boy’s parents were furious and accused Graves of corrupting their perfect son and demanded she be expelled. He let her take the blame. She was essentially an orphan and had nobody to fight for her, so she was expelled at sixteen.”

Her brain returned to reality faster than she did and spoke without her permission:

“That wasn’t very smart of them. There are alarms that go off if you sneak into the restricted section without a –” She stopped, remembering herself, and bit her bottom lip. “Although I suppose in those days, there may not have been. Regardless, some of those books are either cursed or can be a bit, er… loud. If they even knocked one off the shelf…”

Malfoy leaned in closer, pressing his arm against hers, and whispered, “Granger, are you actually admitting you’ve had sex in the restricted section?”

Her jaw dropped. “I – that’s not – what?”

“Is that something you like? Hiding in the stacks, trying not to make a sound as some bloke makes you see stars?” He asked with a playful smirk.

“I – what? No!” She scolded and swatted his arm, too flustered to string the proper words together. The heat of his arm against hers did nothing to calm her.

Library sex was, in fact, a recurring scenario in her fantasies, but she wasn’t about to admit it.

He leaned back and gave her a wolfish grin. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of, Granger.”

She wished the floor would open up and swallow her whole.

Malfoy chuckled and continued his story.

“Graves was expelled, but because of the nature of the offense, she didn’t lose her wand privileges. But she was young and had no family or fortune, so can you guess what she did?”

Indignation forgotten, Hermione held her breath, waiting.

“With no home or career prospects, she wandered Britain collecting ingredients for potions and selling them. She did this for a few years, and only had enough money to survive. One day, she was peddling in Knockturn Alley and befriended a young woman – a prostitute – who was always around. After living years barely getting by, Graves desired some stability and a place to live, so she followed in her footsteps. Graves became quite famous in the seedy inns in Knockturn Alley. Wizards and witches from all walks of life would pay her a fortune to be whatever they wanted her to be. As a metamorphmagus, she could become an approximation of someone else with little effort.”

“That seems like a huge violation of someone’s privacy,” Hermione pursed her lips in disapproval.

Malfoy shrugged. “It was an underground affair, and her clients were quite discreet, but despite that, she was eventually caught. However, prostitution was quite accepted at the time and despite the outrage, she was not charged with a crime. Instead, she took the enormous sum of gold that she’d earned and bought the inn where she’d been conducting her business. But now as the owner, she had a lot of time to research and continued to satiate her own personal desire for knowledge. For there was nothing that satisfied her as much as learning something new.” He looked at her pointedly with a little smirk. “Another point that you seem to have in common.”

Her heart pounded. Did he know? Did he notice the way that she was gripping onto the table and squeezing her legs together?

“She’d been selling sex for years,” he continued, “and she knew that that type of role-play in bed was the most lucrative by far, so when she discovered the uses of fluxweed, she spent all her free time developing a potion that turned you into someone else. She was smart. She was the type of witch that could accomplish anything she put her mind to, and she did. She created the Polyjuice potion so that other women like herself could transform into another person for an hour and get galleons from fucking rich wizards with dirty secrets, while protecting their own identities. It’s even said that they catered to all sorts of horrid sexual fetishes, like various beasts –”

“Gross,” Hermione breathed, and shook her head. “But also, not possible.”

“Oh?” His eyebrows rose in surprise and waited for her to elaborate.

She cleared her throat, “You can’t use animal hair. It doesn’t work.”

He looked at her like he was trying to see through her skull and into her brain. “You tried to turn into an animal,” he concluded. “When?”

“No,” she said. The words were out before she could stop them. “I brewed Polyjuice in second year and accidentally used cat hair. I was in the hospital wing for weeks.”

Draco blinked at the admission, and then shook his head in amusement. “Hermione Granger, brewing fucking Polyjuice in second year. You are a little rebel,” he said. “Why did you do it?”

Oops.

Hermione bit her lip at that, trying to rein in her guilt at the memory. It was, she knew, one of the more questionable decisions she’d made in her youth. She was a rebel with a conscience after all; her morality was always at war with itself.

Malfoy caught on to her hesitation. “What? Were you trying to impersonate me or something?”

“Or something,” she muttered. Words stuck in her throat. “What happened next?” she asked thickly. “In the story?”

He looked at her suspiciously, but let it slide. “As I said, Polyjuice was created for the sex industry. People paid galleons to satisfy certain kinks. In a way, she helped many girls work up their fortune enough to leave the sex industry within a year. She was a bit of a hero for it and became an activist for prostitute rights and fair treatment – another point you have in common.”

“I’m not a hero, Malfoy.”

He scoffed. “Don't be daft. Of course, you fucking are,” he said like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "And who can forget S.P.E.W.? You were always fighting for equality.”

“Well, someone has to,” Hermione muttered under her breath, but a pleased glow filled her chest at the knowledge that Draco Malfoy, of all people, remembered her efforts with house elves, and even pronounced it correctly. “I can’t believe you remember S.P.E.W.”

“How could I not? Everyone was talking about how presumptuous it was for a muggleborn to come in not knowing anything about pureblood culture and trying to change it. Plus, that ridiculous acronym.”

That doused the glow in her chest. “Is that what you thought too?”

“Of course.”

“Do you still think that?”

“No.”

“What changed?”

Malfoy licked his lips and stared at the table in front of them.

“Two years of servitude under a murderous psychopath and a month in Azkaban,” he said dryly.

It took her a second to process what he’d said. Her heart ached for him. It ached a lot these days. How could she have forgotten? She’d been so focused on trying to still see him as a bully that she hadn’t even really considered what he’d gone through.

Malfoy shrugged and forced a humourless smirk. “Do you want to hear the rest?”

She nodded.

“Unfortunately, Graves was murdered at the age of 30, and the potion’s recipe was found by that opportunist ex-boyfriend of hers who sold it to the ministry for a fuckload of galleons. He’s the one who usually gets credit for inventing Polyjuice.”

“Did he kill her?”

“Unclear.”

Hermione’s mind circled around the story, simultaneously angry that yet another woman’s contribution was swept under the rug, and grateful that he’d told it to her.

“So,” she started, pursing her lips, and giving him a look. “You just compared me to an accomplished… murdered prostitute?”

Malfoy laughed, breaking down the wall of discomfort that had started to grow between them. White teeth flashed and he ran a hand to ruffle his hair. “It’s on you if that’s what you took from that story.”

“You’re not foretelling my death, I presume?” She asked dryly.

“Granger, you just survived a fucking war with a target on your back. I think you’ll be fine. You’ll probably outlive us all. ”

“Reassuring, thanks,” she muttered.

After a few minutes of heavy silence where they both pretended to watch Slughorn, Hermione turned to him. “How do you know this story?”

His gaze turned devious. “I just made it up,” he said.

“What?” she squeaked. Then, having realized she’d attracted the attention of others, she sank in her seat and hissed, “Are you kidding me? You just made all that up?”

The gall.

Disbelief and indignation built up inside of her for getting so invested in a lie.

But then, she spotted his grin.

He leaned close again and their arms brushed once more. “No need to have a cow, Granger, I was joking. I found her memoir in the Malfoy library years ago.”

“You…!” Hermione scoffed in disbelief and sat back, crossing her arms. “Prat,” she breathed.

A fire burned where their arms touched, but she kind of liked it so she didn't move away.

“I’ll let you borrow it one day,” Malfoy said, watching her. She turned to look at him, and her anger inexplicably dissipated. She was struck by a giddy feeling in the pit of her stomach.

“Fine,” she said softly, feeling off-kilter from the content expression on his face.

The air between them was suddenly charged, and it occurred to her that she liked this. She liked the feel of his arm, his attention, his teasing.

Malfoy smiled faintly, and her own lip quirked in response.

The sound of wood scraping on the stone floor broke the moment. Students around them scattered to set up their cauldrons and get their ingredients.

She watched as Malfoy got up and sauntered over to the storage room, and then scanned the page. She took a steadying breath. Her blood felt like it was singing.

They started the potion in silence, preparing the ingredients side by side. But as soon as Hermione grabbed the bluebell, Malfoy’s large hand wrapped around her wrist.

“Not yet,” he stopped her. “That one should be done at the last minute. The fresher the better.”

“It doesn’t say that in the book,” she frowned, looking down to read the page again.

“Because it’s a student book. Just trust me.”

She looked at his hand on her wrist. Trust. That was a big word.

“No,” she said, pulling her hand away and turning to look up at him. “Tell me how you know that, and more importantly, why it works better."

“An Advanced Inventory of Adaptable Ingredients by Avery Ingrit. Chapter 11: Fanciful Flowers. Would you like a citation?”

She narrowed her eyes. “That had better be a real book. I'm looking it up after class.”

“What can I say? Avery Ingrit likes alliteration,” Malfoy watched her, amused. “Although I'll do you one better and lend it to you as well. Fair?”

“Yes,” she tried to grumble, but her face betrayed her as something resembling excitement seeped into her, swimming throughout her body. She'd always dreamed of having someone to share books with.

He turned his body and mirrored her posture with a mischievous look. “Now, I can tell you all about the bluebell, or you can wait for the book. Up to you.”

The low, husky voice was back, blasting heat through her body like a fire.

“Tell me,” she said.

“Are you sure you can handle it?” He leaned in closer.

“What do you mean?” She asked, suddenly fearful.

He smirked.

Oh god. Did he know?

A shock zipped through her at the thought, and she felt a sudden pulse between her legs. She turned to grip the table for support.

“I don't know what you're talking about,” she said offhandedly.

A low chuckle escaped him. “If you say so.”

He reached forward to pick up the bluebell and Hermione let in a sharp breath when she felt the warmth of his chest on her back, only for a second, before it retreated. He remained close, barely touching, as he held up the flower in front of her. She glanced nervously around the room, but nobody was paying them any attention.

Hands moved the hair from her neck, and she felt a light kiss on her nape, sending a delightful shiver through her.

Stop.

Stop thinking about that cursed dream. It was only a dream.

It would never be real.

“Tell me what you know about the bluebell,” Malfoy said quietly, oblivious to her struggle.

She cleared her throat and looked down at the flower he held up in front of her. “It’s got excellent amplifying properties. If used correctly, it’ll increase the potency of poisons and antidotes, but with certain combinations, it can counteract toxic ingredients,” she recited.

“Very good,” he praised, and she felt a pleasant tingle on her neck. “But here’s something interesting about the bluebell. This flower looks delicate on the outside, but it’s actually rather tough and resilient. Think of it like armour that protects its most magical and desired properties. You need to stroke the petals gently until the flower decides to let down its guard.”

He gently rubbed a petal between his fingers and gave it to Hermione to try. She did as he said.

“Perfect. Just like that. If you just cut it like the book tells you, it will be less potent. When you prepare it carefully like this, you just pluck the leaves whole and put them in. They’ll dissolve into liquid upon touching the potion. It’s so strong that it doesn’t need time to simmer and can be put in at the end.”

Malfoy retreated, leaving Hermione to stroke the bluebell while he continued the potion. When it was almost finished, he gestured and said, “It’s all you.”

Hermione plucked the petals and dropped them into the cauldron.

“Good girl,” he said and nodded towards the vial. “Now bottle it up.”

Heat pricked her neck as she felt simultaneously indignant and turned on by his language. She did as he said and looked over at him.

“Good. Now, clean up the rest,” he said, and took the bluebell stem from her to vanish it.

Hermione took her wand from her sleeve pocket, vanished the rest of the potion, cleaned their cauldron, and organized everything neatly before putting the sample vial in the stand at the edge of their desk.

She stood back, satisfied, and looked around to see the other students’ progress. Unsurprisingly, they were the first ones finished. Luna and her partner were bottling their brew, and Ginny was chopping something – probably the bluebell – with a look of frustration. She caught Hermione’s eye and gave her a helpless grimace.

“You know,” Malfoy said, with a streak of mischief. “You’re like this flower, too. Strong, potent, resilient. You’ve got a hard shell, but if someone treats you nicely, you’ll do anything.”

Hermione spun around to face him. “That’s presumptuous,” she crossed her arms, “to think I’m that easily manipulated.”

Draco smirked and he leaned on the table behind him with his arms crossed. “Is it? You just did everything I told you to without complaint.”

Her jaw dropped, and subsequently snapped shut. Indignant, she shot him a glare. “Jerk,” she said angrily, and sat down with her arms crossed.

Ten minutes later, when all students’ potions were bottled up, Professor Slughorn took the stage once more.

“Now, let’s see how well you’ve done! Do you have the confidence to take amortentia and drink your own antidotes?”

Hermione panicked. She should have paid more attention. Damn Malfoy and his distractions. She looked over at him to gauge his confidence.

He noticed and rolled his eyes. “Have some faith, will you?”

“I would if you hadn’t distracted me so much…”

A smug grin slipped onto his face, but he kept his eyes on Slughorn, who was making the rounds and inspecting the potions. Slughorn stopped in front of their workstation.

Slughorn took their potion and held it up to the light. He looked between them carefully.

“Ms. Granger, Mr. Malfoy, for two students who did not pay attention the entire class, you seem to have produced an extremely high-quality antidote. How puzzling.”

Shame filled her. “Professor, I’m so sorry. It won’t happen again.”

A few seventh years giggled.

“Now, now. Come on then, Ms. Granger. Let’s test out your antidote and we’ll forget it ever happened,” Slughorn said, smiling jovially. “Up to the front now. Both of you.”

Dread filled her. She swallowed and stood up, noting the tense expression on Malfoy’s face.

“Are you really going to make us drink amortentia for class? That can’t be above board,” Malfoy bit out, remaining in his seat.

Slughorn's expression faltered, but he waved his hand, brushing him off. “It’s a controlled environment, and there is no other way to test your antidotes, now is there?”

“You just said our potion was perfect,” Malfoy protested. “Isn’t that enough?”

“I said you seem to have made a high-quality potion, Mr. Malfoy, but as this is a student class, we must test it. It's always good to experience a potion so you can recognize it in the future. Now, up to the front. Unless you'd prefer a mark on your record for disobedience?”

As much as Malfoy was right, Slughorn's argument was quite logical. Hermione nodded.

With a stony look on his face, Malfoy stood up, mumbling extremely high quality under his breath.

As they arrived at the front, Slughorn held out a vial of amortentia and looked between them. “Now which of you will be the test subject?”

Malfoy looked at Hermione and nodded toward the vial in challenge.

She bit her lip. It would be educational to experience Amortentia, to know how it felt. But it would also be humiliating, acting in love with Malfoy in front of everyone. What if she accidentally revealed everything?

The idea filled her with horror.

Hell no, that was not going to happen.

Hermione quickly snatched up the vial, found a stray hair from her robes, and added it. She held it out to him with a smirk of her own.

He raised a sceptical eyebrow and reluctantly took the vial. “I'm not going to be mooning over your cat, am I?”

She breathed a laugh. “No. You'll definitely be mooning over me.”

Malfoy's lip quirked up. He tipped his head back and drained the vial.

The class collectively held their breath.

Slowly, Malfoy’s grim expression lifted. His eyes lost their sharpness. The little notch between his eyebrows softened, and a goofy, lovesick smile grew on his face as he looked at her.

It was disconcerting.

“Malfoy?” Hermione said, hesitantly. “How do you feel?”

“Brilliant,” he smiled widely.

"Um. Why?" She cringed at herself.

Malfoy stepped closer to her. His right hand came up to trail his fingertips along her cheek, and she hitched a breath. “You’re here. What else could I want?”

Hermione’s heart simultaneously sung with pleasure and stung with melancholy. Slughorn was cruel, she decided.

This was cruel.

“What do you like about her, Malfoy?” Ginny called out.

Malfoy glanced at her redheaded friend and scowled. “What's not to like? She's fucking perfect,” he cut out.

Hermione glared at her friend only to receive a mischievous grin and a shrug.

“Perfectly imperfect,” he added, puppy dog eyes roving her face.

Her heart thudded.

This was what she feared: he was saying things he would never think in his right mind.

His palm, warm and heavy, moved to her hair, and he stepped even closer. “Your hair is a lot softer than I imagined.”

“You've imagined touching my hair?” She whispered in shock.

“I love your hair. It's so fucking wild. Raw. Untamed, just like you.” He leaned down and whispered in her ear. “How do you feel about hair pulling?" His fist closed around her hair, and he pulled gently, nuzzling just below her ear. “During sex?”

A shock of desire went through her system.

It was too much.

“Malfoy…” she said. “Stop.”

He sighed and pulled back. Then he pouted. The man literally pouted.

“Come with me, Granger,” he entreated.

“What? Where?”

“Anywhere. The dorms, the library, the lake. I honestly don't give a fuck. I just want to be alone with you. Without these idiots watching.” He gave the class a dirty look. “Unless you're into that,” he added as an afterthought. “I want to kiss you,” he said, moving into her again. “I want to make you feel good. Make you see stars. Anything you want.”

Gasps and laughter filled the room.

Oh god.

Her face heated.

Hermione cleared her throat. “Okay, I think that’s enough.”

Malfoy looked crushed.

“Can you drink this for me?” She held out the antidote to him.

He looked down, picked it up, and stared at it.

“Malfoy?” She asked. “Please?”

He looked up at her and studied her face but didn’t move.

“You can kiss me,” she croaked out. “After you drink it.”

“Really?” He asked, perking up. Eagerness was a strange look on him.

“Mm,” she hummed, unable to bring herself to say words.

He downed the potion and dropped it. The clang of the vial hitting the floor echoed as he stepped into her space once more and leaned down to kiss her.

Hermione squealed and put her hand up to cover his mouth before he could do it.

It took about 10 seconds for the potion to take effect. She watched as Malfoy’s eyes went from betrayal to confusion, to something darker and wild.

She could feel the softness of his lips and the slight roughness of the day’s stubble. She ripped her hand away, heart racing.

They stared at each other.

“Well done! Sit down, sit down.” Slughorn boomed loftily over the raucous class. “Top marks! Now wasn’t that fun? Who’s next?”

Hermione woke herself up from the shock.

She felt sick. Her heart pounded and her stomach twisted with false hope.

Goddamn Slughorn.

Hermione returned to her seat, gathered her bag, and stalked out of the classroom.

Once outside, she collapsed back against the rough stone of the dark dungeon hallway and stared at her hand.

Her palm still tingled from the touch of his lips.

Chapter Text

Hope was a dangerous thing when it lay close to the heart.

At eleven, Hermione had hoped to finally find a sense of belonging in the magical world, but instead, in the past seven years, she had been cast as an outsider, called a mudblood, been literally hunted, and told she was unsuitable to learn magic or have a wand.

At fifteen, she had hoped her friends would support her initiative to stop house elf abuse, but instead, she'd been laughed at, citing tradition and their pervasive beliefs that House Elves innately ‘enjoyed’ being enslaved. The disappointment of their disapproval still made her sick.

Between the ages of fifteen and eighteen, she had hoped that Ron would notice her and return her feelings, but instead, he had made her cry in a pretty dress, always given her the cold shoulder if he didn’t agree with her actions, consistently disregarded her feelings, and eventually abandoned her. When he had finally had the sense to like her back, he couldn’t support her when she’d needed it the most.

After the final battle, she had hoped that she would see her parents again and find a way to restore their memories, but instead, she’d been told by experts to give up because what she’d done was irreversible.

Each time her hopes were shattered, they left a scar on her heart, and the closer to her heart they were, the bigger the scars they left.

She had enough scars already.

So, she told herself not to hope that Malfoy had any feelings for her. She told herself not to put hope in the feeling that she could be herself with him, without having to edit her opinions or censor her intelligence. She told herself not to start hoping for things that weren’t real just because she’d experienced a taste of them when he’d taken the Amortentia.

But her heart rarely listened to her mind, and it was currently putting up a fight.

So, she skipped dinner and took herself up to the astronomy tower, to find space to let her heart and mind battle it out, and one way or another, hopefully settle the ache in her chest.

Her shoes echoed off the stone steps, and her thighs ached as she climbed until she emerged into the open-air tower. She looked up at the dusky blue sky. The sun had set behind the hills and forests to the west, while darkness crept in from the east.

She breathed in the clean, cold autumn air, and looked out at the sweeping panorama.

Dumbledore’s death had left a shroud of unease lingering at the top of the astronomy tower.

The ramifications of his death had been monstrous. The magical world had erupted in hatred and prejudice overnight. Whatever protection she’d felt at Hogwarts had vanished in an instant, sending them all on different paths, scrambling to survive.

That included the other victim of that night: a boy of barely seventeen who had been cast aside and abandoned.

What Malfoy had said in class unsettled her: she was woefully oblivious to his side of the story past that night. She knew he hadn’t wanted to kill Dumbledore; Harry had mentioned how Malfoy had lowered his wand, how he’d been tempted by promises of protection.

Bullshit promises, she knew. Dumbledore had just been killing time waiting for Snape to arrive. Once dead, there was no way he could have protected Malfoy.

Even Dumbledore, who she’d once thought had cared deeply for all students, had forsaken Draco Malfoy for the 'greater good.'

A pit of anger grew in her stomach, adding a sourness to her melancholy.

The sky had gotten dark throughout her ruminations, and a chill had started to permeate her bones, so Hermione conjured a wool blanket and a jar of bluebell flames, cast a warming charm, and sat down.

The enchanted flames flickered and pulsated. They had no heat of their own, but she’d always felt comfort in watching them.

Unfortunately, the bluebell flames only served to remind her of bluebell flowers.

She felt a renewed sense of hurt at the recollection of that moment in potions class. Malfoy had been flirting, she was sure of it, but had he done it just to embarrass her?

He had claimed she would do anything if people were nice to her. Was it true?

She liked to help people she cared about. She prided herself on being a good friend. Was that so terrible?

Not that her efforts were appreciated most of the time though.

Hermione sighed and lay back on the wool blanket to look up at the stars overhead.

She identified the constellations she could see:

Cassiopeia.

Capricorn.

Perseus.

Ursa Major.

Ursa Minor.

And …

Draco.

She whispered the name, feeling it on her tongue. He was everywhere: in the flames, in the sky, in her mind.

Draco, the constellation.

Draco, the man who’d almost kissed her.

Draco, the man who’d wanted to make her see stars.

Except that he didn’t, not really.

And it was the stars that made her want to see him.

Her eyes traced the constellation a few more times. Dark clouds were rolling in, slowly swallowing the stars in darkness.

She sighed.

To her, he couldn’t be Draco.

He was Malfoy, heir to one of the largest estates in magical England.

Malfoy, the man who could never marry a muggleborn.

Malfoy, with whom she had too much bad history for anything real to be possible.

Malfoy, not Draco, because she didn’t need the shards of more shattered hopes to put another scar on her heart.

She pawed at her chest; the ache remained.

A distant thumping and a giggle woke her from her spiral of thoughts. A pair of cloaked students emerged from the stairwell and proceeded to throw themselves against the wall. By the muffled sounds, she could tell they were snogging.

Of course, the Astronomy tower was still used for hookups on a Friday night. She should have known.

Some things never changed.

Hermione stood up and vanished the blanket and jar of flames. The students were too caught up in each other to notice she was there.

She cast a disillusionment charm and slipped by them, right as she heard a belt buckle being undone.

It seemed everyone was getting some except for her.

The next day, Hermione skipped breakfast, got up late and spent a lazy morning reading in bed with Crookshanks on her lap.

While they’d been on the run, she’d left Crookshanks at the Burrow. When she’d returned to get him, it had taken the discerning cat a few months to warm up to her again. Now, he usually spent his days roaming the castle on his own, but he always knew to appear when she desperately needed some cuddles.

Hermione shared a love of reading with her mum, whose tastes tended more towards entertainment than education. Her mum would give her the ‘best ones’ after she finished them, and so Hermione had acquired a collection of romance novels.

It had been ages since she’d had time for some pleasure reading, so she took full advantage of her current solitude to do just that. She sat on her bed, stroking Crook’s fluffy orange fur, and read Lord of Scoundrels, immersing herself in the early 19th century romance.

At noon, Crookshanks stretched and got up. Hermione did the same, donned a soft grey skirt that went to her mid thighs and a thick yellow plaid sweater, and left the dorms.

She read on the way down to lunch, balancing her hefty bookbag on her right shoulder, and holding the paperback open in her left hand.

The story was wildly unrealistic, and definitely set in the limitations of its time, but she loved the protagonist, an independent, witty, highly capable woman, and the chemistry she had with the male lead, a sinful man with a sad upbringing. Both characters had their flaws, but it made them more interesting, and the story more addictive.

Ach!

Her next step landed on thin air, and she felt fear clench in her stomach as she dropped. She landed hard on her elbows on the step behind her and hissed in pain. It took a moment to realize she’d inadvertently fallen through the vanishing step.

Her shoulder bag had landed intact on the stair in front of her, but she’d lost her book.

Looking around, she found it near the landing at the bottom of the staircase.

Heavy steps approached, and a dark-haired seventh-year Gryffindor appeared – the one she’d deemed cute in potions.

She watched in horror as he picked up her paperback and looked down at the cover. His eyebrows shot up.

How embarrassing.

He grinned up at her. “Need a hand?”

“Please.”

He walked up the steps to meet her and held out his hand. She grasped it and managed to pull herself out of the trick step, but she stumbled and caught her balance on his chest. His hands went to her shoulders to steady her. He stood one stair down from her which made them an even height. He was tall, something she hadn’t noticed when he was sitting down.

Their faces were level, and much closer than comfortable. She dropped her hands from his chest, and he stepped back and held out her book.

She took it and hugged it in her arms.

“Thanks, um…”

“Duncan.”

“Right. Thanks Duncan,” she said.

“Interesting book,” he said in a teasing tone. “Not at all what I pictured Hermione Granger to be reading.”

“Is there something weird about me reading a romance novel?” she asked defensively.

His eyes crinkled. “Not at all. Now that I think about it, it suits you perfectly.”

Was he… flirting?

Hermione laughed awkwardly and gestured vaguely ahead of her. “Okay, well, I’m on my way to lunch. See you around, Duncan.”

She stepped around him and walked down the stairs.

“Hermione,” he called out.

She turned back.

“Do you want to study with me sometime?” he asked with a smile.

She blinked in shock.

“Oh. Um, sure, why not?” she said after a moment. What had she said about making new friends and dating other people? Maybe this was the opportunity she needed.

He grinned. “Great.”

“Great,” she echoed weakly, and gave a little wave before bolting down the stairs, nerves fluttering.

When she made it to the Great Hall, Ginny and Luna were nowhere to be found. Hermione sat at the Gryffindor table alone and ate a quick plate of pork roast and salad before digging into dessert.

She rarely liked desserts, having grown up with parents who’d abhorred sugar, but there were two exceptions to her rule: sugar quills and ice cream. She couldn’t resist when ice cream appeared for dessert. The sugar bomb was her way of rebelling, she supposed.

She filled her bowl with a mix of chocolate and cherry.

When the first spoon touched her tongue, she groaned in satisfaction and closed her eyes as the cold ice cream melted in her mouth. She savoured the cool sensation as it trickled down her throat and the bright sweet taste of cherry, sharp on her tongue.

“Hermione,” Ginny said, sitting down across from her. “I’m all for you having orgasms at lunch, but you’re attracting attention.”

Hermione looked up, wide-eyed, and took the spoon out of her mouth.

Luna sat down next to her. “Have all the ice cream orgasms you want, Hermione. I’m impressed that you don’t care who’s watching,” she said with a wink.

Hermione shook her head in silent laughter. “Don’t ruin this for me. Ice cream is just about the only thing that gives me any pleasure these days. And this book, I suppose.” She gestured to her novel, which was sitting on the table next to her.

Ginny snatched up the book and inspected the cover. She whistled.

“Hermione, you little fox! You've been holding out on me. If I'd known you were reading romance, you might have actually convinced me to read a book once in a while,” Ginny grinned and handed the book back. "Can I borrow it when you're done?"

Hermione rolled her eyes but smiled anyway. “Of course. I think you’d like it. Both protagonists are rather unhinged.”

"And the sex? There's good sex, right?"

"You'll have to read it and see," Hermione said, laughing.

“So, is this what you’ve been doing since you bailed on class yesterday?” Ginny asked, never one to sit quiet on an elephant in a room.

Hermione sighed, put her book back on the table, and busied herself with smoothing out the cover.

She could hardly figure out her own emotions, let alone talk about them to her friends. They wouldn’t understand. Well, Ginny wouldn’t. Luna? Hermione glanced at the blonde girl. She was a wildcard.

“What happened after I left?” Hermione asked hesitantly, occupying her hands with another spoon of ice cream.

“Well,” Ginny said. “Malfoy looked like he wanted to curse everyone. It’s probably a good thing you left. He looked livid.”

“Did he say anything?” Hermione asked, and then cringed at her own question.

“No,” Ginny said slowly. “The ferret just sat there looking like he wanted to murder Slughorn for the rest of class. But anyway, then the rest of us tested our potions.”

“How did it go?” Hermione asked.

Ginny whacked the table gleefully. “You missed so much! Luna started making out with Andria, and Slughorn had to intervene and practically force the antidote on her. You should have seen his face; it was so awkward.”

“Serves him right,” Hermione scoffed. “The whole concept was flawed. We should have been given Amortentia geared towards someone who wasn’t in the room. It’s not fair or kind to make people do that when there are real world consequences. Also,” she raised her eyebrows at Luna, “Andria?”

“What? She’s hot,” Luna said innocently.

Ginny grinned. “Andria was into it too. You should have seen them.”

Hermione turned towards Luna. “What did it feel like? Taking the Amortentia?”

Luna looked down in thought, and then right into Hermione’s eyes. “It felt like all was right in the world because Andria was right there, but I also felt terrified that she would leave. I wanted to please her and keep her with me at any cost.”

Hermione swallowed a gulp of ice cream and put her spoon down. God, was that how Malfoy had felt about her for those five minutes?

“Gin, what about you?” she asked.

Ginny pouted. “I failed the assignment.”

“Erica’s the one who drank the Amortentia. She was shouting poetry at Ginny, but their antidote wasn’t very effective,” Luna explained. “Slughorn hadn’t anticipated it, so he had to go back to his stores to get an extra.”

“It was awkward as hell, but at least she didn’t try to kiss me,” Ginny said. “Actually, the only ones who tried to kiss anyone were Luna and Malfoy.”

“Really?” Hermione asked in surprise. She’d assumed it was a common reaction to Amortentia.

“Yes!” Ginny said. “I still can’t believe you got Malfoy to take the potion instead of you! That was brilliant! I have to say, it was so cathartic seeing a death eater pining over a muggleborn.”

Hermione bit her tongue. Her heart stung at her friend’s words. “Cathartic. Right…”

She could understand that from Ginny’s point of view, that’s how it had seemed, but the reality was much more complicated.

“What’s going on with you and Draco?” Luna asked casually, filling her bowl with candy floss ice cream.

“W-what do you mean?” Hermione stuttered.

“He likes you,” Luna said simply, her deep blue eyes watching her knowingly. “He tried to kiss you.”

For a moment, she could hear nothing but the sound of her own heart thudding against her chest.

“It was just the Amortentia,” Hermione grimaced. “He obviously didn’t mean any of it.”

Luna had spoken like the concept of Malfoy liking her was nothing out of the ordinary. Perhaps Luna could be an ally for her cursed feelings. But Ginny, who had just choked on her juice at Luna’s words, was another story.

"Wait, you actually think Malfoy has a thing for Hermione? No way. Hermione’s the last person in the world he’d go for,” Ginny said.

Ouch.

“That’s not what I meant,” Ginny said when she caught sight of Hermione’s expression. She glanced at Luna. “It's Malfoy. There’s no way he’d be into a muggleborn. He's always only cared about blood."

Hermione’s nails dug into her palms. It was getting harder and harder to let Ginny’s comments against Malfoy go.

“Didn’t either of you listen in class?” Luna asked, looking between them.

Shame and panic flashed through her. Had she missed something important? Damn Malfoy for stealing her attention so thoroughly. Now she’d have to do some additional background reading on Amortentia to fill in the gaps of her knowledge.

She eyed Ginny, who unabashedly shrugged.

At their silence, Luna continued, “Amortentia creates a strong obsession. But what you do and say depends on your existing relationship. That’s why it’s so dangerous. When Ron was drugged a few years ago, he barely knew Romilda, so he just thought she was amazing. Erica was not into Ginny, so she just recited poetry. But I am attracted to Andria,” she said, shrugging, “I openly admit it, which is probably why I kissed her. Malfoy has known you for more than seven years, and existing feelings can be amplified. He wasn’t reciting poetry or saying generic things, you know. He was going on about your hair and saying things he wanted to do to you.”

Hermione’s heart raced. If that were true, then Malfoy might actually…

No. She couldn’t think of him like that. She couldn’t give those little tendrils of hope the chance to take hold.

“You and Draco were talking for most of the class. Even Slughorn noticed,” Luna stated. “What were you two talking about?”

The blood drained from her face. Luna was too perceptive, as usual. Or maybe Hermione wasn’t as good at hiding it as she thought.

“We were just talking,” Hermione said weakly.

“Just talking?” Ginny asked. “What does he say to you anyway? He’s not taunting you with slurs or anything, right?”

“No! Of course not. He’s perfectly civil. We talk about… about history.”

Ginny stared at her, uncomprehending. "Why?”

Ire flashed through her. “Why not? He's a great conversationalist,” Hermione said defensively.

Ginny’s puzzled expression deepened.

“Look, we’ve been getting along more recently. Is that such a terrible thing? We’re the only two in our year that returned.”

Ginny rolled her eyes. “You don’t have to talk to him just because he’s the only one in your year. Besides, haven’t you noticed what Malfoy’s been like this year?”

“Have you?” she countered, honestly wondering how they were seeing such different things.

“Hermione,” Ginny leaned in and spoke quietly. “He’s not just a school bully anymore. He’s a full-fledged death eater that has done awful things. He’s said nothing but rude things to me and anyone else this year. He snaps at everyone. His own house avoids him like the plague. Teachers fear him, and most honestly ignore him. Don’t look at me like that. You and he were talking all class and Slughorn is too much of a coward to even say anything until the end. There’s a reason for it: he’s a death eater with shitty morals and an even shittier attitude. He’s bad news.”

Hermione looked across the room at the Slytherin table. She found him easily, dressed in a black button-down shirt, arms rolled up and tattoos on display. He made a lonely picture: a lone star that no one wanted to approach for fear of being burned. It was as though a magnetic force surrounded him, repelling everything in his near vicinity. There was nobody on either side of him, and in fact, nobody seemed to be paying him any attention at all.

Her heart twinged.

Malfoy had one hand on a book and another on a spoon of ice cream on which he was leisurely licking. She felt her mind wander to that wicked tongue and what it could do. Hermione licked ice cream off her own spoon and watched him, heart pounding at the strength of the attraction she felt.

She brought her attention back to Ginny and Luna and braced herself for confrontation.

“You and I have seen very different things this year, Ginny,” she said. “What I see is that Malfoy is a bit more rebellious, but he is rebelling against what he grew up with. He doesn’t care what people think. He’s not a death eater anymore, nor does he still care about blood. He has muggle tattoos, smokes muggle cigarettes, and wears muggle clothes. He generally keeps to himself. He can still be an ass but he’s not malicious. In fact, he’s actually done a few things I’d call considerate. He’s not rude to me at all. He’s different. He’s really not as bad as you make him out to be.”

Ginny’s jaw dropped. “I can’t believe you’re actually defending Malfoy. Luna, back me up here.”

Luna looked between them. “Ginny, Draco can be a bit rude to you, yes, but you can be a bit rude to him too. But Hermione’s nice to him, so he’s different with her. She’s the only person I’ve seen him say more than a sentence to since the start of the year. He laughs when he’s around her. His eyes are constantly on her, awaiting her reaction to something he’s said. Haven't you noticed?”

Hermione’s battered heart constricted. If any of that was true, not only was Luna more perceptive than she’d given her credit for, but her own resolve was inclined to crumble.

Ginny looked between them with an unsettled frown.

Hermione felt a wall begin to form, and deep in her soul, she felt acutely uncomfortable. This was what she had feared: that speaking her mind would put a strain on the only two friendships she had at Hogwarts this year.

Hermione quelled her guilty feelings and gave Ginny a small smile. She gathered her things and stood up. “I’m going to head to the library and get some work done before we meet Harry and Ron tonight. I’ll see you later?”

Ginny nodded, though she didn’t smile in return. “We’ll come find you when we’re ready to go.”

Hermione couldn’t settle her heart enough to concentrate on her Arithmancy homework, her Transfiguration project, her Defence Against the Dark Arts readings, or her Herbology report.

She needed a bigger distraction, so after much contemplation, she decided to lose herself in research for her next History of Magic essay, even though it wasn’t due for another three weeks.

After talking to Madam Pince for guidance, she found herself in the dark windowless stacks at the back of the library, full of dusty leather tomes.

She ran her fingers along the old, gilded spines, trying to make out the titles in the dim lighting. She scanned for the book she needed and found it on the top shelf. Great.

There were no stools in the vicinity, so Hermione stretched onto her toes to try and pull at the spine. It was wedged tightly between the other books. She couldn’t get a grip on the leather, and her fingers slipped.

“Fudge,” she muttered.

She felt a heat behind her at the same time she heard his deep chuckle. A beautifully tattooed arm reached up and pulled out the book.

Hermione could smell his clean, woodsy cologne before she turned around. She took a deep breath to brace herself and pivoted to come face to face with Malfoy’s Adam's apple. He was standing close, looking down at her.

Looking - and smelling - incredibly attractive.

Malfoy’s inquisitive silver eyes were on fire with the orange-yellow glow of the torch on the wall above them. “I hope you’re talking about the sweet and not the daft politician with his head up his own arse,” he drawled.

She hadn't known how she'd expected him to act, but it wasn't like this, like nothing had happened. Maybe he wasn’t as affected as she was. It would make sense; he probably didn’t have trouble separating reality from fiction, like she had been struggling with for the past day. If he could act normal, so could she.

“Neither. It’s a PG euphemism of the F word,” she replied, eventually. “I was never allowed to swear at home, and it became a habit.”

“Peegee?”

“Short for parental guardian. It’s a rating for muggle movies, which means suitable for children if an adult is present.”

“You’re an adult, Granger. You’re allowed to say fuck,” he said with amusement as he looked down at the book in his hands. “Bowman Wright? Naughty.” His lips curved into a smug smirk, and she stared at his provocative mouth as the words registered and sent a thrill through her.

Malfoy handed the book to her with a quirked brow. She took it and hugged the tome to her hammering heart.

Everything felt different since the Amortentia. She felt as though all her senses were on high alert: she was acutely aware of the sound of his breathing, of the feel of the leather book in her sweaty palms, of the dryness of her lips as she licked them, of the heat of his gaze wherever it trailed, and of the flow of blood in her own veins.

“What’s naughty about Bowman Wright, Malfoy? He just invented the snitch,” she said, narrowing her eyes up at him in suspicion, wondering what exactly he knew that she didn’t.

“Not just the snitch.” His smirk widened, and his eyes lit up in a challenge.

“Just tell me,” she said, voice steadier than she felt. Her limbs buzzed in anticipation.

Having Malfoy’s full attention always made her heart race. He was watching her with those teasing eyes, still standing closer than socially acceptable. God, why did she always feel so out of control around him? Like all she could do was react to his presence.

He looked the picture of nonchalance with his hands in his pockets, even as he took a step closer. Hermione stepped back and felt the hardness of the wooden shelves against her back.

Her heart raced but she couldn’t look away from his silver gaze.

“You know the popular story, I presume, that the snitch was initially a bird, and that eventually they commissioned Bowman Wright the metalsmith to create the golden snitch as we know it today," he said in a low silky tone. She nodded. "What you don’t know is that he actually lobbied to do it because he had inadvertently already created something similar for another purpose entirely.”

Malfoy’s eyes turned wicked. That expression was going to undo her. The one that held promises of secrets to be told. The one that relished in her responses.

“Can you guess what he had been trying to make?” he asked, lips curved with a hint of a smile.

Hermione’s mind raced through the possibilities.

“Something like the snitch?” she thought out loud. “There’s really no way to know without more information. In what way was it similar? Was it a ball? Did it fly? Were its movements random or a pattern? And you suggested it was something naughty…”

No. There was no way.

He noticed the moment it clicked, and his smile widened when she narrowed his eyes at him.

“You’re not saying…” she trailed off. Heat crept up her neck.

He raised a brow in expectation.

“You’re really going to make me say it?” she asked, glaring half-heartedly.

He grinned in return. “I thought we’d established you’re an adult, Granger. Say the words if you can,” he challenged.

She closed her eyes, cheeks flaming. It was a good thing the lighting was dim. “You’re saying he made… a sex toy?”

“Correct,” he said with a laugh. “Was that really so hard?”

Hermione bit her bottom lip, too preoccupied to answer. Two thoughts clambered for her attention:

One, what did it look like? And more relevant, what kind of sex toys did wizards have? That wasn’t something she’d ever thought about before.

And two, why was Malfoy always bringing up the topic of sex? If his goal was to fluster her, he certainly succeeded. Was this his idea of another joke?

She eyed him suspiciously.

“Fuck off. You must be making that up,” she said.

His eyebrows raised.

“What?” she asked innocently. “I’m an adult after all. Didn’t you just tell me to use the F word? That’s your catchphrase, isn’t it?”

Malfoy opened his mouth, then snapped it shut.

She let out an involuntary giggle at his expression. “You want to say it, don’t you?”

He pursed his lips, looking half annoyed and half amused.

“I’m not making it up,” he said instead. “The wings on a snitch are only an homage to the fact that it was a bird. The sex toy - as you put it - did not have that, nor did it fly around randomly. He sold them on the black market.”

“But that kind of sex toy is a more recent thing in history, isn’t it?” she asked. “For muggles especially, it’s really been the last few decades that it’s become such a big thing. Of course, there were less advanced ones historically, but…” She trailed off, catching herself.

Why was she talking to him about sex toys? Jesus. She had to get out of this conversation. Keep her distance and protect her heart. Right?

She shook her head.

His eyes sparked in interest. “You’ll have to teach me all about muggle sex toys sometime, Granger. But come on, are you really saying you believe that witches weren’t fucking their broomsticks a millennium ago?”

Hermione felt her cheeks heat further in embarrassment. “Witches don’t fuck their broomsticks!”

“Oh, that’s right," he grinned. "You don’t like brooms, do you? What props get you off then? Those muggle ones?”

She stared at him, exasperated.

Frustrated at herself for letting him affect her so much, and determined to leave him flustered for a change, Hermione leaned in conspiratorially and whispered, “Will you leave me alone if I tell you?”

“Tell me,” he commanded with a playful grin.

“The horns on the Statue of the Minotaur,” she whispered dramatically.

His jaw slackened and he froze. His eyes flickered down her body, and she realized in absolute horror that he was trying to picture it.

“Malfoy! That was clearly a joke! Stop thinking about it,” she scolded, mortified. His look sent a wave of desire through her core.

A sly sexy grin crept onto his face, and he shook his head. "You can’t say shit like that and expect a bloke to forget it. It's going to be etched in my mind forever."

She rolled her eyes. "Alright, then I will leave you and your dirty mind to your dirty thoughts. I'm out of here.”

She made to leave, but Malfoy stepped in front of her, blocking her path.

"I may have a dirty mind, but you brought up the minotaur. I'm not responsible for that thought,” he said with a light smirk.

“Maybe not, but you did say you'd leave me alone if I told you."

She sniffed and tried to step around him again, but before she could take more than one step, he took her wrist in his fingers to stop her.

She looked up at him and hesitated. All amusement had left his face. He was looking carefully impassive. He looked between her eyes, searching for something.

“Do you really want me to leave you alone?" he asked. There was a larger question hidden in the way he was looking at her. He wasn't teasing anymore.

No, she didn't want him to leave her alone. She only itched to be closer. She couldn’t lie to herself about that.

Hermione’s breathing became shallow, and her mind raced, searching for an answer in his eyes.

Her mind pulled her in two directions: one half told her to leave, and the other told her to stay and find out the truth. But it was her foolishly hopeful heart that tipped the scale, and she slowly stepped back to lean against the shelves once more.

Malfoy’s fingers slipped from her wrist, but his eyes remained on hers, watching her closely.

“What was it like? Taking the Amortentia?” she asked, eventually.

After a moment, he breathed a laugh.

"Want to steal one from Slughorn's stores? You can wax poetic about my hair, or whatever the fuck you want. Even the score."

She huffed in amusement and shook her head. “Do you remember everything? Were you conscious of it all?" She hugged the book tighter to her chest as though it would shield her from his answer.

Malfoy's expression sobered once more. "Yes, but it's a little bit hazy around the edges, like a dream. It’s a mindfuck, realizing afterwards that you weren’t in control of your thoughts. It’s not like the imperius or legilimency where you can fight against it. Your brain can’t comprehend that it’s been drugged while it’s happening. So, unless you enjoy having your free will ripped away, stay the fuck away from Amortentia."

Her heart fell at the implications of his bitter words. Why was she being so stupid these days? She’d only been thinking about the embarrassment of saying things they didn’t mean, not the real emotional ramifications of being the one to drink it.

Malfoy ran a hand through his hair, taking in her silence. “Why did you run away?" he asked.

Hermione hesitated. She could lie, but she didn’t really want to. The truth was embarrassing, but that was her normal state around him anyway, so what difference would it make?

“The things you said, when you took the Amortentia… I felt…" She trailed off, searching for the words.

“It felt too real,” she admitted quietly. She stared at a button on his shirt, unwilling to see him laugh at her. "And I know it wasn't, so…"

Her face flamed and her heart pounded in the silence between them.

"Granger," he said.

She looked up at him and froze at the intensity of his look. He took the book from her arms and placed it on the shelf behind her, then stepped in closer.

"Tell me what I said," Malfoy ordered.

She looked up at his dark gaze. His pupils had almost eclipsed the grey. "What?" she asked, heart racing.

"Be a good girl and tell me what I said under the influence of Amortentia,” he repeated softly.

She stared up at him in fear. She was morbidly curious what he would say, but terrified that it would destroy her.

"You, um, said you love my hair,” she whispered.

Malfoy surprised her by reaching up and tugging at an errant curl. She held her breath.

“I do,” he told her. “I fucking love it. There is nothing more Hermione Granger than this hair.”

Wild. Raw. Untamed. Just like you.

A shock went through her, and her hands tingled as she took in what he said.

His lip twitched and he tucked the curl behind her ear. His fingers skimmed her ear and sent a shiver of pleasure down her body.

Her mind spun.

"What else did I say?" he asked in a low murmur.

She searched his eyes. They were warm and teasing, lending their heat to stoke the fire of hope in her chest.

"You said you wanted to be alone with me."

"And look at that," he said, cheekily. "We're alone now."

Her heart stuttered.

"Keep going," he prompted.

Hermione cleared her throat, and she held her hands behind her so she wouldn’t be tempted to cool her flaming cheeks with the backs of them. “You said you wanted to kiss me and make me come – I mean, see stars,” she said, looking anywhere but at him.

After a long moment, Malfoy’s fingers went to her chin, guiding her gaze back up at him. His eyes roamed her face hungrily, and his thumb brushed her lower lip for a moment before dropping, and Hermione forgot how to breathe.

“Do you remember the carriage ride to the castle?” he asked with a little mischievous smirk. “You were tense, exhausted, crying. As soon as I started talking to you, you visibly relaxed. Your forehead smoothed, and you looked oddly at peace. At first, I thought that’s all it was, but then it happened again in Potions. I watched closely at the way you would relax and squirm in your seat, and the little breaths you took when I said certain things, and I knew you were getting turned on by what I said. I want to see what you look like when you find that release – when you’re so overcome with pleasure that that overworked brain of yours shuts off and just fucking feels. I want to be the one to make you feel it. So yes, Granger, I want to make you come.”

I want to make you come.

The words rang in her mind, and her body filled with a buzzing sensation. She stared into his grey eyes, unseeing, as the world as she knew it fell away.

Her breath failed her.

She felt like she was free falling.

He knew her deepest secret.

And he wanted to make her come.

“Oh my god," Hermione whispered, panicking. She covered her face with her hands and took a shaky breath.

A million emotions fought for space in her brain, but three came to the forefront and paralyzed her: fear, humiliation, and desire.

He knew everything. There was no way to recover from this.

“Granger, stop.” Malfoy took pity on her and pulled her hands away from her face.

She looked up at him, brow pinched. She swallowed.

“For years I just thought you paid such rapt attention in class because you were a massive swot. Don’t you know how fucking sexy it is?” He looked truly bewildered. “That you’re turned on so easily by just words? By learning something?”

“You think it’s… sexy? Not weird?” she choked out.

“Granger. Everything about you is sexy.”

Oh. Wow.

She felt a hit of desire at his words.

“So, do you get turned on by teachers? How does it work?” he asked. “You’re not sitting in class getting turned on by fucking Slughorn or McGonagall, are you?”

That snapped her out of her stupor, and she made a face. “God, no!”

She took a few calming breaths. She was in too deep now so she might as well tell him.

“It's rather particular,” she admitted, clearing her throat. “It's not everyone, and it generally must be a combination of intellect, competence, and the right tone of voice. So, some classes, yes.”

A smug expression crossed Malfoy’s face, and he gave her a lopsided smile. “What’s your favourite class for this feeling?” he asked.

“You’re going to think I’m mad,” she said.

“Tell me.”

If he kept smiling at her like that, she would probably tell him anything.

“History of Magic,” she said, grimacing. “Binns drones on and on; it’s so relaxing, and there’s just something about his accent. It's centuries old.”

He laughed.

“See? You think it’s weird.”

“Weird and sexy as fuck. You get turned on by a ghost, Granger. Embrace it.”

Fear wrangled its way up from the pit of her stomach and took the stage in a shaky exhale: “You’re not going to tell anyone, are you?”

Malfoy looked bemused. “That you get your jollies from ghosts droning on about the Goblin Wars? Nobody would believe me.” He paused. “Actually, that’s pretty in character, but they’d probably think it was a metaphor for your general swottiness.”

She flushed and covered her face with her hands again. “Oh my god,” she groaned. “Can you just… pretend I didn’t say any of that?”

"No,” he said. “That's the second thing you've told me today that is entirely unforgettable.” She could hear the grin in his voice.

A rustle made her peek through her fingers. Malfoy was looking down at his shirt. He undid the first button, then the second.

“What are you doing?” she all but squeaked.

He looked up at her. "I'm going to show you something,” he said.

"Under your shirt?" She gulped, eyes on his fingers.

He paused, and a smirk played on his lips. "Yes."

Hermione’s mind blanked. He was undressing. In the library.

He got down to his navel and stopped.

“I started seeing my tattoo artist in July,” he told her. “I had just gotten released from Azkaban, and I felt nothing but rage those first few weeks. He attributed my attitude to, I don’t know, fucking adolescence. But then I told him how I'd ended up in prison, and by the third week, we’d become friends. One night, I went drinking with him and his mates. I was, admittedly, completely wasted, and told him how much I'd fucked up and how the entire world despised me. And Julian, he claimed he had a superpower, that he could perform magic with his tattoos, and he wanted to give me a tattoo that would make people see me in a different light. Obviously bollocks, but I was half a bottle of whiskey down, and agreed. Passed out in the tattoo chair and woke up with this.”

He pulled his shirt open to the left, exposing his chest.

Oh.

God.

She bit her lips to stop the burst of laughter that wanted to come forth.

On his chest was a little pink ball the size of a snitch with big blue eyes, stubby arms on its waist and brow furrowed in the most adorable scowl you’d ever seen.

She looked between the tattoo and his eyes.

“You have a Jigglypuff tattooed on your chest,” she said, voice thick with suppressed laughter.

“Indeed,” he drawled. “I’ve been told it’s a muggle character of sorts – almost asked him how the bloody hell he knew what a pygmy puff was.”

Hermione started laughing and couldn’t stop. She wiped away tears of mirth.

When she had calmed down enough, he cast her a wry grin. “This is vastly more embarrassing than getting off to Ulric the Usurper. I can never take my shirt off again."

Before her brain could get on board, her hand reached out and touched the scowling Jigglypuff with the tip of her index finger. She traced the outline. “It’s adorable,” she giggled. It was scowling like a mini benign Draco. "I think Julian was on to something.”

Catching herself, she began to pull her hand away, but he caught her hand in his and placed it flat on his chest. She could feel his heart beat strong and fast under her palm.

Before her brain could catch up with the sheer insanity of the fact that her hand was touching Draco Malfoy’s bare chest, her fingers started an exploration of their own.

They trailed up from the tattoo and under his collar, pushing his shirt further open to reveal a series of swirling dark tattoos that started around his collarbone and disappeared beneath the crisp black sleeve. Her fingers went down again, eliciting a sharp inhale, before resting on a quote on his ribcage.

Veritas amarissima dulcissimis mendaciis melior.

“The bitterest truth is better than the sweetest lies,” she whispered.

When he didn’t respond, she looked up. His eyes were dark and searching hers.

His eyes roamed her face, lingering on her lips. His ribs expanded beneath her fingers with each shallow breath.

His hand reached up to cup her neck, and his thumb came to rest on her cheek.

“Granger,” he said in a strained whisper. “If you're planning to run away again, do it now."

He was giving her an out, she realized. She could leave, suppress her feelings, forget about him, and protect herself from future heartbreak. Or she could stay and follow where this unknown path would take her, heart be damned.

Malfoy searched her eyes and brushed his thumb along her cheek. When she made no move to leave, he leaned in until his lips were a hairsbreadth from hers.

He was going to kiss her, and she wanted nothing more than to let him.

Her fingers dug into the hot skin along his ribs, pulling him closer, and in return, his left hand inched up under her sweater to caress the smooth skin of her waist. She hitched a breath.

He was everywhere – his scent surrounded her, his breath mingled with hers, his touch set her on fire.

She closed her eyes and tilted her face up.

His nose lightly brushed hers.

“Hermione!”

A loud whisper sounded from beyond the shelves.

Hermione’s eyes widened as fear gripped her.

After a moment’s hesitation, Malfoy stepped back, eyes closed in frustration. Hermione’s hand dropped from his torso.

Ginny rounded the corner. “There you are! I’ve been looking–” She stopped short and narrowed her eyes.

Hermione took a steadying breath and took a step away from Malfoy. He turned as well, and Ginny’s jaw dropped.

“Did I interrupt something?” she asked, voice tight.

“No–” Hermione started saying, but she glanced at Malfoy and words left her. His expression had hardened, all traces of warmth gone, and he was glaring at the redhead.

Ginny blinked, dumbfounded. “Right… Hermione, we’re headed to Hogsmeade early to do some shopping before meeting the boys. Do you want to come?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’ll be right there. Give me a minute.”

Ginny left and Hermione turned to Malfoy, whose gaze was narrowed on the buttons he was doing up.

The smooth expanse of his chest became unreachable once more.

The space between them suddenly felt vast, as though they stood on opposite ends of the universe.

They looked at each other. Malfoy’s face was impassive.

“Well, I should…” She trailed off.

“Yeah,” he said, nodding towards the library entrance, effectively dismissing her.

She turned and walked, pausing only once at the end of the aisle to glance back.

He was facing away from her, shoulders slumped, and fists clenched tight.

Chapter Text

Draco Malfoy dug his nails into his palms and grit his teeth in a misguided attempt to hold onto his control.

He felt it slipping.

He kept his back to Granger’s retreating steps. Her footsteps faltered at the end of the aisle, and he knew she was looking back. It took everything in him not to turn around.

One might think Draco Malfoy was good at regulating his emotions, but the truth was rather the opposite: he felt shame, hurt, guilt, resentment, and loneliness so deeply that he’d spent years building a wall around his heart to keep them contained. When he could numb them, he could survive.

But right now, that wall was down.

Fucking Weasleys. He’d gone against every self-preserving instinct in his body to let down his guard for all but 10 minutes, and the hairbrained ginger had to choose that bloody moment to show up and look at him like he was the scum of the earth.

Hey Death Eater.

He knew Granger valued her friends above everything else, but why did she have to be friends with the Weasleys, the family that probably hated him the most in the wizarding world?

If Ginny Weasley hadn’t shown up when she did, he would have kissed Granger. He would have finally known what her full bottom lip tasted like. It had been a deep rosy pink from being anxiously dragged between her teeth, the indelicacy of which would have normally disgusted him, but on her, he couldn’t get enough.

He had been so close.

That mark on your arm says otherwise.

Something simmering, something effortlessly natural, had been developing between them for weeks. He thought she’d sensed it too, but maybe he’d been wrong. The fear on Granger’s face and the speed at which she had denied having anything to do with him was like a dagger to his heart, reminding him what the entire world thought of him and proving once again that the universe had nothing but negative karma to throw back at him for all his misdeeds.

Why was it so fucking hot in the library? He wiped the sweat from his forehead.

Draco did not consider himself delusional. Clearly Weasley’s arrival had knocked some sense back into her.

The sting of rejection lingered in his chest.

He understood it. It wasn’t a surprise. He knew he would spend the rest of his life facing the consequences of his many unconscionable decisions.

But it still fucking hurt.

No Death Eaters allowed here!

The entire wizarding world hated him, which he’d come to accept.

I heard he’ll kill you if you look at him!

But was he so unredeemable?

I hope you die, like everyone you helped kill!

He was drowning in his own mistakes.

Fucking Death Eater. You're lucky they’re letting you out. You should be rotting here forever.

Since he was born, he’d been walking out to sea, following one foot after the other, one wrong decision after another, until he was at the bottom of a vast ocean, void of light or direction. He was in too deep to ever come out.

Didn't they tell you?

He'd never get out. Not when everyone was so bloody concerned with keeping him there.

One owl from me and you’ll be back in a cell tomorrow.

Draco’s pulse beat loudly in his ears, and he couldn’t breathe.

He was dying to get out, desperate for even the barest hint of light to guide him to the surface, but nobody fucking noticed. Nobody except for Granger.

The dark looming shelves were closing in around him, pressing in on him, suffocating him.

He braced himself on the bookshelf and tried to get the impending panic under control, but his breaths were too shallow. He was lightheaded.

He sat down hard on the floor, and books fell off the shelf around him.

His mind spiralled.

He ran shaky hands through his hair and grabbed on tight as his thoughts whirled uncontrollably and his breath came faster. Flashes of memories filled his mind, and he was helpless to stop them.

Breathe.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

Slow the fuck down.

Fucking

Breathe.

On the best and worst day of his life (or The Battle of Hogwarts as the Daily Prophet liked to call it), Draco Malfoy had been kicked down by Aurors, restrained, and taken directly to a cell in Azkaban.

Prior to that, all he could remember was standing with his parents in the Great Hall amidst the hushed aftermath of destruction and death. The dead lay along the perimeter of the hall, while the survivors sat at the tables, holding onto each other like their worlds were fucking ending. They just defeated the enemy. They should have been celebrating.

Draco didn't belong there. He felt like an imposter. He’d played his part in making them cry, in killing their loved ones. Dumbledore’s death had made it easy for the Dark Lord to overtake the ministry, and though Draco hadn’t been the one to cast the killing curse, he might as well have been. He’d brought the Death Eaters into Hogwarts; he’d made it happen.

Even though Draco had seen it with his own eyes, he couldn’t believe the Dark Lord was really dead. He dug his fingernails into the mark, half expecting a summons. Was the war really over? Would he finally be able to escape the hell that was the Dark Lord’s reign? Fear sat in his stomach – fear that not all was as it seemed, that the Dark Lord would arise once more to kill them all. He was too scared to hope.

He felt an astronomical weight on his chest. He was only seventeen. How had his life ended up so bleak?

He knew the answer to that question as soon as he thought it: they stood right next to him, after all. His mother laid a hand on his shoulder, but he shook it off, unable to stomach her affection. His father, standing next to her, gave him a disapproving look. Draco returned it with a scowl. He had a million things to say to his father, but he bit down on his tongue and turned his back to his parents.

He felt sickly jealous as he watched Potter, Weasley, Lovegood, and Longbottom, who sat amidst the Weasley clan. They held onto each other in comfort and solidarity. They'd fought for what they'd believed in, and they had each other when things got hard.

But wait…

Where the fuck was Granger?

Panic filled him as he searched the hall for her. He was sure he'd seen her after the battle.

He felt a deep relief when he found her, followed by a spike of anger.

Granger was alive – thank Salazar – and was handing out blankets and tea to younger students and bereaved witches and wizards. She looked haggard. Smudges of dirt on her face made her look like she’d gone through hell and back, and her eyes were red from crying.

Why was she the one taking care of everybody else? Why did she have to be so fucking caring all the time? She should just sit down, cry with her friends, and let other people take care of her for a change. She’d been through more than most of them in that hall, he knew, so why wasn’t anybody giving her a fucking blanket and a cup of tea? He glanced back at her friends. Not one of them was looking in her direction.

Draco was so focused on Granger that he didn’t even notice the aurors in black appear. Before he knew what was happening, he was knocked down onto the cold stone floor, violently handcuffed, and then hauled away as everyone watched.

There was no trial, no interrogation, nothing.

They stripped him of his robes and wand, gave him a grey wool uniform, and threw him unceremoniously into a cell. The iron door slammed behind him, footsteps retreated, and then there was silence.

Azkaban was both a respite and a hell.

He found a desperate sense of relief in the quiet. He no longer had to fear the Dark Lord or his maniacal worshippers in every corner of his house. There was nobody to practice their cruciatus on him, no murderous snake to avoid, no Carrows – may they rot in hell – whispering cruel instructions in his fucking ear or threatening him with the imperius when he didn’t comply. There was no more strategizing to avoid punishment, no more time practicing to mute the effect of his cruciatus on others. He no longer had to defend his mind from Bellatrix, Snape, or the Dark Lord.

There was no longer a need to occlude, so he let down his occlumency for the first time in, well, a year.

He could just be.

But then he quickly realized it was too fucking quiet, and he had nothing but his own horrendous thoughts to pass the time.

He thought every day about how he’d ended up in the role he’d played, and the role his parents had played in getting him there, how naïve he must have been to believe everything they told him.

He thought about how his disillusionment had been gradual. It had started before fourth year when he’d seen the sick things they did to those muggles at the World Cup. From then on, whenever he saw his father with his old friends – the Death Eater crowd – he felt a sense of deep unease. He had been fifteen when Cedric Diggory died, and the severity of what was going on hit him hard. By the end of fifth year, his father had been in Azkaban, the Dark Lord had taken over the Manor, and Draco’s life had become hell.

He thought about how helpless he’d felt as he’d watched the Dark Lord torture his mother for his father’s fuck up in the Department of Mysteries, how he’d stood in front of her anyway, and how the Dark Lord had found it amusing.

The boy thinks he's a man? I'll give you a task worthy of a man. You’ll want to make sure to succeed though. It would be such a shame to snuff out such a pure bloodline.

He’d cackled and Draco's ears had rung with white noise and horror.

From that moment, the Dark Lord’s attention had been on him. The next day he'd been branded into service and told to kill the one wizard that even the Dark Lord couldn’t. He had just turned sixteen.

A year later, Dumbledore was dead, and Draco was unwillingly entertaining murders at his dining room table, and living with a bloodthirsty snake, a handful of psychopaths and sycophants, including his father, and the fucking Dark Lord himself.

By then, Draco had encased his heart in a box of steel. He had shut himself down so hard that the worst horrors he lived through only dented it.

He thought about fear. He’d learned to hide it behind silence and barbed comments, but the fear never left. It existed as a constant low hum of anxiety, hidden within that little steel box. Keeping it at a low vibration became his number one priority. He had to, to survive. If he showed his fear, he would be dead. Every time someone was murdered in front of him, every time he was forced to cast the cruciatus, every moment he spent in the Dark Lord’s presence, he’d shut the walls to his mind, strengthened the defences around his heart, swallowed the bile that threatened to come out, and just fucking survived.

He thought about how his fear had resurfaced when Potter, Weasley, and Granger showed up on his doorstep, dragged in by the snatchers. He’d seen Granger, determined and wild, standing up to his psychotic family, while he’d stood there, frozen in terror. He’d had one thought at the forefront of his mind: he wished he could be like her, to stop living in fucking fear.

He’d heard stories from Bellatrix and Rodolphus about how the Azkaban dementors hollowed you out, reducing you to a shell of a human, but Draco had been living as a hollowed-out shell for years. Being surrounded by dementors at least meant he could feel things again.

He heard Granger’s screams every night as he relived his worst nightmares. He spent days staring at the walls in a morbid depression, thinking of nothing but all his worst memories. He felt nothing but the sting of knuckles pounding on the dirty stone walls in a release of emotions, and the rough wool blanket on a too-hard bed that made his back ache. He heard nothing but the sound of his own screams echoing down the empty black halls. He saw nothing but stone walls, with not even a window to look out of. He tried and failed to hold onto his mind in those moments of panic – those times he couldn't get enough air in his lungs and felt as though his world would collapse in on itself.

He would have wondered if they’d forgotten about him, if it weren’t for the plate of shit food given through the slot in the door three times a day.

Would he spend his life there? He had no fucking clue.

Had he been such a terrible person that he deserved a life in Azkaban?

Maybe, but he didn’t want to be that person any longer.

Draco was taken out of Azkaban as abruptly as he’d been thrown in a cell.

Footsteps sounded beyond the iron doors, and Draco, shirt off and hair dirty, sat motionless against the far wall.

It was too early for dinner, wasn’t it? Or was it lunch? He didn’t fucking know anymore. How could he, when there wasn’t even a fucking window from which he could see the sky?

His fingers scratched along the scabs of his left forearm. He couldn’t see much in the dim light of the cell, but he knew it looked disgusting. It was just as well, the mark made him want to tear his own skin off. Fuck the lights.

The footsteps stopped in front of his door. He imagined he must be the only one in his cell block as they only ever came to him.

Metal scraped against metal, and Draco stared, confused. Something clicked, and a deep groaning screech of rusted hinges echoed through the room as the door opened inward.

Draco stared, uncomprehending, as two men in black entered and aimed their wands at him.

“Get up,” one ordered.

He blinked at the bright white light coming from one of the wands. “Why?” he croaked, voice like gravel from disuse.

The man rolled his eyes. “I said, get up, fuckhead.”

Draco growled as the two men reached down and roughly hauled him up by the arms.

“Get moving,” one of them barked, shoving him roughly in the back. He stumbled and fell hard on his knees and hands on the stone floor of the cell.

“Fuck you,” he spat out, which was the wrong thing to say.

A steel toed boot kicked him in the ribs, and a hand grabbed his hair and smacked his face on the floor. He tasted iron in his mouth.

“Fucking Death Eater. You're lucky they’re letting you out. You should be rotting here forever.”

He stood up before they could kick him down again and glared at the guards.

He considered fighting them back, but he didn’t have a wand and he wasn’t stupid. Self-preservation was his greatest instinct; it was how he’d survived until now.

Draco spat blood at their feet and stayed silent as they hauled him down the dark hallways of Azkaban, to a boat that took them to the mainland, and then finally to a floo connection.

Once at the ministry, he was returned his wand and the robes he’d been wearing at the final battle, which were still scorched on the ends, and dirty with grime and dust from the crumbling castle. After staring at them for five minutes, he transfigured them into plain black robes, and shrugged them on.

They told him he was to attend Hogwarts for an additional year on probation under the watchful eyes of professors who would be reporting to the ministry throughout the year, and then they left him in the atrium.

Draco stood alone, watching the row of floo fireplaces for what felt like an eternity.

The Manor was the last place in the world he wanted to be, but he had nowhere else to go, so he shoved those feelings away and stepped through to the Manor sitting room, decorated in familiar velvet Victorian sofas with intricately carved dark wood. He wanted to vomit.

He heard a rustle and whipped around, heart pounding. Fear paralyzed his body, but it wasn’t the fucking snake, and it wasn’t the Dark Lord, it was just his mother. Draco closed his eyes and wiped sweat from his forehead. His hand shook.

“Oh, Draco!” Narcissa gasped and ran to him. Her hands were on his face in an instant, as she caressed his cheeks and brushed a finger over his bruised jaw and bloody lip.

As if she cared.

Heat prickled behind his eyes. He felt a strong urge to cry, but instead, he reinforced that steel wall around his heart.

“Why didn’t you come?” He asked once he’d gotten himself under control. He hated that he sounded desperate. It hit him suddenly that he was still aching for a real show of affection from his parents. Fucking pathetic.

“I’m so sorry my love, I wanted dearly to greet you at the ministry, but didn’t they tell you? Your father and I are under house arrest.” Her eyes moved to the doorway.

Draco followed her gaze and froze.

“Son.” Lucius Malfoy looked the same as always: healthy, arrogant, scot-free.

Fuck. You.

“Why aren’t you in Azkaban?” Draco grit out.

His mother, sensing his anger, put a hand on his chest to calm him down, or hold him back, he wasn’t sure. Draco shrugged her off.

“Draco dear, your father’s trial was three weeks ago, he’s been home since then,” his mother said.

Trial? What the fuck? His father only got a week in Azkaban while he had a whole month?

The injustice fucking hurt. His father deserved a life sentence for dragging him into his fucking mess in the first place.

“Congratulations father,” Draco scowled. “You've done it again.”

“Done what again?” Lucius’s derisive tone made his skin crawl.

“Tricked the fucking ministry into thinking you aren’t just a sycophantic piece of shit.”

“Draco!” his mother admonished him.

Lucius’s lip curled but he said nothing.

“And when is my trial?” Draco demanded, looking at his mother again.

She stuttered. “Well, it was a few days ago. D-didn’t they tell you?”

Disbelief and rage coursed through him. “You’re saying they held my trial without me?”

“Well, my love, they’ve been expediting a lot of Death Eater trials.”

They shirked human rights for… expediency? Sounds about right for the fucking ministry.

“I'm not a fucking Death Eater,” Draco grit out. He had never wanted to be. They should know that.

“That mark on your arm says otherwise,” his father said.

“And whose fault is that?” Draco asked, voice hard. He looked between his parents. His father raised a derisive brow, and his mother remained silent.

He’d done it for her, and she was fucking silent. He fortified his steel heart to deflect the arrows their silence threw and blocked them out.

Feeling furious, betrayed, and unforgiving, he left them without another word.

He didn’t speak to either his mother or father for weeks.

He didn't do anything for weeks.

He burned all correspondence without reading them. Owl post arrived from Pansy, Theo, and Blaise, but he threw them into the fire, unopened. He wasn’t ready to see them, and he wasn’t sure if he would ever be.

He wanted nothing to do with his life before Azkaban. He didn’t want to see his parents, he didn’t want to live in his house of nightmares, he didn’t want to see his old crowd of friends. The idea of it made him throw up and sweat bead his forehead.

The Dark Lord was dead, and Draco didn’t know how to act anymore.

A few weeks after his return to Malfoy Manor, he made a trip to Diagon Alley.

He flooed to the Leaky Cauldron and was greeted with a roomful of glares. The barkeep, Tom, got in his face and yelled, “No Death Eaters allowed here! Get out.”

Stunned, and ears hot, Draco quickly made his way to Gringotts. As he passed Knockturn alley, his heart beat fast in his chest. He saw a flash of black robes, and pulled out his wand, thinking it was a Death Eater. It wasn’t.

People in every direction stared at him. He tried to ignore it. Reporters watched him from behind flashing cameras. He held up two fingers.

By the time he approached Gringotts, Draco’s breath came fast and shallow, and his pulse pounded in his ears, drowning out his ability to hear.

In Gringotts, every goblin that bothered to look up glared at him. He couldn’t see Griphook, thank Merlin.

He stood in line, and a middle-aged witch in purple robes and a ridiculous yellow hat stopped in front of him and spat on his shoes. “I hope you die, like everyone you helped kill!” She said in a shrill voice. Giving him the dirtiest look she could muster, she stalked out of the bank and left Draco stunned in her wake.

Face hot, he glared at the onlookers until they looked away, then he vanished the vile spit on his shoe, and continued to survive.

When he got to his vault, he took out a hefty sum of gold, and exchanged a percentage of it for Muggle pounds. Then, he stalked back through the Leaky, flipping off Tom on his way, and exited out into muggle London.

He took a deep breath as the anxiety of wizarding London was replaced with the anxiety of muggle London.

What the fuck was he supposed to do now?

He stood on the pavement at a loss, and then he saw it: a shop with a neon sign in the window that read, Tattoo.

He went in.

The room was cleaner than it looked from the outside. A variety of posters and paintings decorated dark grey walls, and a man who looked to be in his early twenties stood behind a counter, writing in a notebook. He wore a black shirt with the odd letters AC/DC in large print. Intricate designs covered his arms and neck.

“What can I do for you?” The man asked, looking up.

Draco stood still, fear fucking with every single nerve in his body.

It was just a muggle. Logically, he knew there was no reason to fear anything.

But…

What if he was found out?

What if he made a stupid mistake out of ignorance.

What if…?

Stop. Breathe.

In.

Out.

“You here for a tattoo or what?” The man asked again.

Draco nodded. He felt like an idiot, and he did not like it.

“Have a seat, I’ll be right with you.”

Draco sat at the metal table and waited. Two albums lay open in front of him. He flipped through them and realized they were all images of tattoo art. None of the pictures moved. Weird. But the man was a decent artist, he would give him that.

The muggle introduced himself as Julian and sat down across from him. “So, what do you want to get?”

“What?”

“Your tattoo.”

“Right,” Draco muttered, running a hand through his hair. He held out his left arm and pulled up the sleeve. “I want this covered.”

Julian leaned in to look closely at the dark mark, then up again at Draco. “You want a cover-up? Can I ask why?”

“Because I fucking want to,” he spat out before he could control himself, and then immediately regretted it. He should probably be nicer to the man about to give him permanent ink.

Julian looked him over. “How old are you, mate?”

“Eighteen. Why?”

He shrugged. “Have to check, and this one looks faded.” He picked up Draco’s arm by the wrist and angled it to get a better look. “Which means it's old. When did you get it?”

“Two years ago. I was sixteen.”

“Huh. You know it is illegal to tattoo kids under eighteen, yeah? This is the whole reason. People often regret the decisions they make at sixteen, so they shouldn’t be permanent.”

No fucking shit.

“You can report them, you know,” he added. “They could lose their license and go to jail.”

Draco let out an incredulous laugh. He shook his head. The thought of a muggle authority trying to lock up the Dark Lord was ludicrous. “It's fine. He’s dead,” he said.

Julian quirked a brow at his statement.

“I didn’t kill him,” Draco added defensively.

“Never said you did,” Julian said with a grin. “So, what do you want to cover it with?”

“I don’t care. You’re the artist, can’t you come up with something?” Draco said edgily and leaned back in his seat.

Julian chuckled. “Alright, mate, I'll mock up a design and we can set up an appointment.”

“Can't you do it today?”

Julian looked at his watch. “I’ve got some time later, but you'll have to stick around,” he said.

Draco nodded, crossing his arms. His leg bounced in nervous energy. “Okay,” he agreed. He didn’t want to go home anyway.

“Why don't you tell me about yourself so I can come up with something you'll like.”

Draco’s brow furrowed and he ran a hand through his hair.

What the fuck was there to tell?

His entire personality growing up had been his status in life: he was a Malfoy, a pureblood, he was the heir to an important bloodline, he had a powerful father, he loved everything Slytherin.

All were things he wanted to forget since he’d become a Death Eater, gone to Azkaban, and decided he hated his entire life and all the people in it.

Fuck.

What could he say when he hated everything he was.

“My name is Draco. My life is fucking shit. Not sure what to tell you.”

“Likes? Dislikes?”

As he thought, his brow furrowed. These were simple questions. Why were they so hard to answer?

“No snakes, no skulls, no death.” He paused, then added, “And no lions, ravens, or badgers.”

“That’s it?”

Draco shrugged.

“So,” Julian said slowly, a smirk tugging at his lips. “You want your tattoo to be all sunshine and roses? You’re not giving me much to work with.”

Draco glared. “Just cover the damned mark.” Tattoo, fuck.

Julian shook his head with a smile. “Let me draw something up.”

By the time the sun went down, Julian was covering the mark with purple thistles and all their foliage with thick black lines and bold colours.

The flowers were so much the opposite of everything in his life that he liked it.

He left feeling lighter than he’d felt in years.

For the rest of the summer, he was able to forget everything for a while. He lived out of a muggle hotel and went out into the city to enjoy the anonymity. The tattoo had been the best decision of his life. He went back the next day and planned his entire left arm, then the right. He spent time together with the muggles, and he liked them. Sure, they didn’t know anything about magic, but that meant they didn’t know anything about him.

Before the summer was over, he took the train back to Wiltshire, to his mom’s weeping embrace, and his father’s cold nod. He stood stoically, heart too deep in steel armour to feel anything, said the proper meaningless words, and locked himself in his room for a week. Then, when September 1st came around, he left with a short goodbye.

On the platform at King’s Cross, the dirty looks returned.

On the train, students recoiled in fear, and conversations died when he walked by. He overheard a group of Ravenclaws whispering, “I heard he’ll kill you if you look at him!”

Draco saw her hair first. He would recognize those voluminous curls anywhere. One minute Granger was standing frozen, hesitating to mount the carriage because of him, and the next, her arms were wrapped around his thigh after having lost her balance as the carriage jolted into action. She stared up at him with those big golden-brown eyes, filled not with malice, but endearing embarrassment, and what looked like… relief? He was so in shock from the physical contact that he couldn’t react, and was thankful when she hauled herself up, and sat across from him.

He spotted her red knees and was briefly reminded of seeing her handing out blankets and tea to others while she buried her pain. The irritation he’d felt the first time resurfaced.

He was fully prepared for a scowl and a hateful remark, but she apologized and made a joke, as though joking with him were a totally normal thing to do. He didn’t think they’d said a civil thing to each other in seven years.

“What, no witty remark?” She said in a terrible impression of him. “No, ‘These robes are vicuna wool, Granger, you owe me five hundred galleons for touching them!’?”

Draco knew it was a joke at his expense, but he felt the urge to smile. Instead, he held it back and gave a mild retort.

They lapsed into silence.

As they got closer to the castle, she started crying, and he knew why because he felt it too. It felt as though they were riding into the final battle – to the fighting, the fear, the deaths – all over again. For all he knew, she hadn’t been back since the battle of Hogwarts, like him.

He didn’t like seeing women cry, but especially Granger, because he always felt like it was his fault. It was his fault that her name was dragged through the mud, his fault that his parents and therefore the Dark Lord knew she was Potter’s friend. It was his fault that she got tortured in his own home, his fault he couldn't stop it.

He felt the silk handkerchief in his pocket for an entire minute before giving it to her.

To his surprise, she accepted it and laughed.

His heart did a weird flip.

And though she was laughing at him, it was also the first time she’d ever laughed because of him, and it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen, because nobody had looked at him like that in ages.

He wanted to make her smile more, so he started telling her about the history of handkerchiefs, and to his surprise, she seemed to enjoy it.

Draco looked around the Slytherin common room, a bad mood settling in his muscles, making him tense and irritable. At dinner, he’d realized that he and Granger were the only two in their year, but it didn’t occur to him until now what that meant: he would be sharing a dorm with the seventh years.

The Slytherin seventh year boys were all sitting on their beds, chatting, and laughing with each other. As soon as he entered, the voices died down and they all looked at him, and then avoided his gaze. One boy nodded his head at the others, and they all got up and left the room.

Good. At least the idiots wouldn’t bother him. If they left him alone, all the better. Slytherin was still rife with sympathizers anyway.

He just needed to get through one school year and then he would be done. If he could survive one month in isolation in Azkaban, he would have no problem surviving ten months surrounded by people who hated him. At least he would have classes and books to pass the time.

In the morning, one of the seventh years cornered Draco as he was exiting the bathroom, fully dressed and hair still wet.

“Malfoy,” the seventh-year student said. He was taller than Draco by an inch, and altogether bigger, but the boy still failed to look intimidating.

Draco glanced down at his bouncing feet. “Irving,” he drawled, and crossed his arms, waiting to hear what the boy had to say.

The bloke looked nervously at his tattoos.

“Look, Malfoy. The other lads are scared of you. They don’t want to be associated with a publicly known Death Eater in this political climate.”

Draco narrowed his eyes. The fuckwits were scared of him? Great.

“Th-they want to avoid as much interaction as possible. So, we were thinking of s-setting up a schedule for showers and daytime use of the dorms.”

Draco stared, ice filling his chest.

Who the fuck did these idiots think they were? Slytherins were supposed to take care of their own.

He took a step towards Irving, who backed away nervously, arms up.

“You can all fuck right off,” Draco said lethally. He grabbed his wand, summoned his bag, and left the dorms.

Fuck them.

At breakfast, he sat across from some younger students. The kids looked at each other in fear, and quickly finished their breakfasts in silence and left.

At 7:49, he got an owl requesting his presence in Slughorn’s office at 8:00.

He rolled his eyes and made his way down to the dungeons.

He knocked on Slughorn’s door. There was no response, so he leaned back against the wall and waited.

At 8:05, he tried again. The door unlocked.

Slughorn sat at his desk, rifling through papers. The idiot didn’t even look up.

“You wanted to see me?” Draco asked, irritated.

“Mr. Malfoy,” Slughorn said disapprovingly. “You're late.”

“I was here at 8. You're the one who didn’t answer.”

Slughorn looked up with scorn. “Don’t take that tone with me.”

Draco grit his teeth, and Slughorn looked back at his papers. After a minute, he spoke:

“As your head of house, it falls on me to oversee your year of probation. One owl from me and you’ll be back in a cell tomorrow, so you’d do well not to step out of line.”

Draco’s hands fisted at his sides. “Is that all?” he asked.

Slughorn paused but didn’t look up.

“The less we see of each other this year, the better. You're dismissed.”

Apparently Slughorn meant it. A month and a half into the term and he’d started entirely ignoring Draco in class. He didn't comment on his potions, so Draco stopped handing them in.

He was partnerless in most classes, and though some students worked in threes to avoid working with him, not a single professor said anything. He preferred to do things alone, anyway.

When Draco decided to stop wearing his uniform, the only one who had lifted an eyebrow was McGonagall, and even she didn’t say anything.

Every single cursed person in the castle seemed hell-bent on avoiding him, even Granger. He only knew because he couldn’t seem to take his eyes off her – she was hard to miss with the way her unruly chestnut curls announced her presence every time she walked into a room.

On a Thursday in October, he was without a partner again in Herbology. While the other students had four hands for their harvesting, Draco had only two, so his Giant Butterwort managed to latch on to half of his arm. He’d ended up with a bloody wrist, and a disapproving look from Sprout as he incinerated the offending leaf.

He left class and ignored the way his arm stung, the way his heart pounded, and the way the stone walls were closing in on him as he trudged to the hospital wing.

Madam Pomphrey gave him an ointment for the injury, a calming draught, and a little pat on the shoulder that made him want to cry. He didn't know why such a small gesture of sympathy affected him. Pomphrey was one of the only staff that was kind to him.

That night, he sat alone on an alcove window ledge, numb from whiskey, staring out the tinted glass into the rainy night.

“Hey Death Eater,” a hostile voice said.

Ginny fucking Weasley. Head girl and thorn in his side.

He scowled, took a sip, looked back out the window, and ignored her.

“Hand over the whiskey, Malfoy, and go back to bed. It’s past curfew.”

At least she wasn’t scared of him. That was refreshing.

“Not a chance. Feel free to fuck off,” he told her.

“That's not how this works, Malfoy. Forty points from Slytherin,” she said, hands on hips.

He laughed. What a fucking joke.

He stood up and towered over her. “Go ahead, I don’t give a fuck. Now scurry along little weasel, and you fuck off back to bed.” He said scathingly, and left, bottle in hand.

“... Vincenzo Rossi and Duncan McDougal. Luna Lovegood and Andria Grewal. Now change seats and get to work.”

As students stood up to sit with their new partners, Draco remained glowering at his bench at the back of the dimly lit room. Heat crept up his neck, and he spun his quill in his fingers distractedly.

Slughorn hadn’t even called his name.

Fuck him. If he wouldn’t even include him in his lessons, then Draco wouldn’t do the lessons.

He got up and decided to dedicate his time in the potions lab to making something useful. By the time the others students were starting their antidotes, Slughorn had left the fucking classroom, which Draco took advantage of to take all the expensive ingredients he needed from the potion’s stores.

Granger arrived an hour into the lesson, looking tired and disoriented as she took in the changed seating plan.

She bit her bottom lip in concentration as she looked around, and Draco thought about that moment at breakfast – he’d looked up to find her watching him in contemplation, looking adorably oblivious to the toast crumbs on her cheeks. She’d looked embarrassed at being caught, but she hadn’t looked away.

He turned his attention back to his potion. As much as he wanted it, he knew she would choose to work on her own over working with him.

To his surprise, she proved him wrong by plopping down next to him, looking weary.

“Where’s Slughorn?” she asked.

“Fuck if I know. He dipped out half an hour ago without saying a word.”

“He didn’t say when he was going to be back?” she asked with a concerned look on her face.

Draco wanted to roll his eyes. How was he the only one who saw what a fucking tosser they had for a professor? “He’s not the most responsible teacher, is he? This class is a fucking farce,” he settled with.

“Maybe you’re just bitter that you’re not in his precious Slug Club,” Granger retorted.

He turned to her in disbelief. “And you want to be in his bloody Slug Club?”

“Well, not exactly, but –”

“But what? He’s a sycophantic buffoon with a distinct lack of sense. Even you have to agree,” he scoffed.

“Even I – I do not have to agree with anything!” she huffed. As annoyed as he was, her resolve was endearing. She pouted, and his eyes dropped to her lips. Granger noticed him looking and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. He bit back a smirk.

Flustered, she moved her attention to her textbook. “What are we making today?” she asked.

He decided to make a little game of it. “Oh, come on Granger. What’s the fun in that? Take a guess,” he said, and watched her keenly for her reaction.

She perked right up and took it upon herself to beat his challenge. Looking determined, she stood, and tucked her hair behind her ears – like it did anything – and looked at his workbench.

She was fascinating to watch in that moment: he could see her brain working, categorizing all the ingredients in her mind, and cross-referencing them with the first stage of his potion.

“Dreamless Sleep,” she concluded, looking at him for confirmation.

She looked so proud of herself when she figured it out. He couldn’t help but smile.

“Well done,” he said, leaning back on the bench.

Draco felt her lack of animosity wash over him in a comfort that he hadn’t felt since, well, the last time they’d spoken. He itched to be closer to her, and he wanted to keep talking to her, so he did.

When she asked about the starthistle, they fell into such an ease of conversation. She listened to him, and she asked questions. She didn’t get mad at him for changing the recipe; she’d been impressed and wanted to know all the answers. She’d trusted his knowledge on the subject, and it made him want to tell her more.

She looked so relaxed and at ease when he spoke.

It was fun, and it made him feel powerful.

“I just, I can't. I can't take it anymore. First years are spewing prejudice. One of them called me a mudblood,” Granger said. She all but whispered the last word, but it sent a jolt of guilt and anger through him.

"What the fuck? Who?" Draco demanded. He had a visceral reaction to her words – his fists tightened, and a rush of anger settled in his chest. He wanted to break something.

He was going to find out who said it and kill them.

Granger just shook her head and looked down. She looked so defeated at that moment. His eyes trailed over her face. Her cheeks were pink, even in the dim lighting of the room, and her dark eyelashes cast shadows onto her cheeks. Her lips trembled. Draco’s heart clenched. He didn’t like seeing her sad.

"Who the fuck was it, Granger?"

"A boy named Adam,” she said, and the weight of her admission hit him hard. She was trusting him with that information.

"Slytherin?"

She nodded.

"Fucking first years,” he grit out. Kids that age had no clue what they’d all been through. This Adam had probably been safe at home in mummy and daddy’s house for the whole fucking war. But then again, maybe he came from a family of Death Eaters too. He had to have learned that behaviour somewhere. Regardless, Draco was going to hunt him down and have a little chat.

"You were like that too once.” Granger said the words softly, but they landed hard.

She was tracing her arm, and his heart sank when he realized why, and just how much he needed to make up to her. He had been the one to call her a mudblood for years, after all. His own family had scarred her with the fucking word.

He felt wretched.

Draco looked away and stared at the table in front of him. He wished he could apologize, to make up for every horrible thing he’d ever told her, but the right words were beyond his reach. “I’m trying not to be anymore,” he said instead.

“I figured,” she said quietly.

He looked up at her in shock. All he could think was, how was she so bloody perfect, and why hadn’t he noticed sooner?

That class, he decided to help her relax by telling her about the Dragomides Chronicles. It was then that he noticed it: not only was she feeling relaxed from his stories, but her breath also came just a little bit faster, she squeezed her legs together, and her eyes occasionally fluttered back like she was in pleasure. If he hadn’t been so focused on her, he might have missed it.

When she relaxed, his heart rejoiced.

When she smiled, his pulse quickened.

When he noticed those little reactions, a wave of longing swept through him.

The next week, he’d arrived to potions to see Granger already seated and absorbed in reading a scroll. She was brushing the end of her feather quill along her pink lips in thought.

She was so fucking beautiful – the light freckles on her nose, the rosy colour to her lips, the dark lashes that fluttered as her eyes scanned the page in concentration. She was adorable, tired, and oblivious to her appearance. Her shiny curls were wild as usual, her shirtsleeves were haphazardly rolled up at different lengths, she’d forgone the tie, and she had an ink smudge on her cheek. She was purely, unequivocally, authentically herself, and it was sexy as fuck.

He caught himself staring and took his seat next to her.

She was so absorbed in whatever she was doing that she didn't notice him.

Class started, but he couldn’t take his eyes off her. Her brow wrinkled and her lips twisted in a wry expression as she wrote. Five minutes later, he nudged her foot with his.

He was impatient to talk to her. He had a story planned for her today, and he would test his theory.

Draco saw Hermione pick up the bluebell and grabbed her wrist. Her skin was warm and soft. Her pretty eyes looked up at him in question.

“Not yet,” he muttered. “That one should be done at the last minute. The fresher the better.”

“It doesn’t say that in the book,” Granger frowned, leaning down to review the text. He smiled.

“Because it’s a student book. Just trust me.”

“No,” she said, pulling her hand out of his grip and turning to look up at him. “Tell me how you know that, and more importantly, why it works better."

Merlin, the challenging look in her eyes was attractive as fuck.

He wanted to kiss her.

Instead, he smirked and answered her question. “An Advanced Inventory of Adaptable Ingredients by Avery Ingrit. Chapter 11: Fanciful Flowers. Would you like a citation?”

Granger looked at him suspiciously. “That had better be a real book. I'm looking it up after class.”

“What can I say? Avery Ingrit likes alliteration,” Draco said, hoping what he said next would turn her look of accusation into something more positive. “Although I'll do you one better and lend it to you as well. Fair?”

“Yes,” she said. She tried to hide it, but Draco could see a little smile begin to form. Mission accomplished.

“Now, I can tell you all about the bluebell, or you can wait for the book. Up to you.”

If she wanted him to tell her the story, he would, but he’d give her the choice. He’d prepared the story of Peridot Graves to test his theory, and today’s class confirmed his findings: she was getting aroused whenever he taught her something. He’d been half-hard the entire class just thinking about it. He decided to push a little further to see how far he could go.

“Tell me,” she said.

“Are you sure you can handle it?” He asked, leaning in closer. He could feel the warmth of her body near his.

“What do you mean?” She looked scared, and she suddenly turned to grip onto the table. She was so lovely when she was flustered.

He smirked.

“I don't know what you're talking about,” she said, voice wavering.

He chuckled. She knew, but if she was not ready to admit it, he’d let it slide for now.

“If you say so,” he murmured and reached forward to pick up the bluebell. He had no shame at all in admitting that he leaned in close because he wanted to see her reaction.

He wanted her so fucking much, and based on the sharp inhale he heard when his chest touched her back for just a second, he thought she might want the same.

He could only hope.

Stewing in his fury, Draco waited until the other students had left, and then approached Slughorn’s desk.

As usual, the buffoon ignored him by busying himself with useless papers. This idiot was supposed to be his head of house, but he wouldn’t even look at him.

Draco cleared his throat, prompting Slughorn to sigh and finally look up.

“What do you need, boy?” Slughorn said.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” Draco told him, voice hard, “making the students drink Amortentia.”

Slughorn’s brow furrowed, and his faux smile faded to a harsh line. “What I decide to do in class is none of your concern,” he said.

“No, it is very much my concern,” Draco countered, trying his hardest to keep his face impassive and not glare at the professor. “Because your students are suffering the consequences.”

“Are you threatening me, Mr. Malfoy?” Slughorn said. “Because I am your head of house, and threats will go on your record, and I’m sure you don’t want that.”

Draco stared, exasperated.

“You don’t get it,” he said. “Are you so fucking oblivious that you didn’t just see Hermione Granger run out of the classroom?” He pointed towards the door. “You had seventh years drugged and kissing like it was a bloody peep show, while others were clearly mortified about their own actions under the influence, and you dare call it fun? Do you think it’s fun, fucking with people’s emotions like that?”

Slughorn’s face went white.

“Ah, I see what this is. You’re embarrassed with the way you acted with Ms. Granger –“

“I’m not fucking embarrassed, I’m fucking traumatized!” he snapped. “Haven’t you taken Amortentia yourself? If you had, you’d know how violating it is. I just spent the last three years trying to keep people out of my head, trying to protect my thoughts and defend against the imperius. Don’t you have any idea what that kind of invasion feels like, when something or someone is slithering around in your mind, controlling your thoughts, and compelling you to do and say things you don’t want to? Mind altering potions should not be taken for fun. At the very least you should have made it a choice.”

“You could have gotten Ms. Granger to take it,” Slughorn rebutted.

Draco grit his teeth. He was going to wring Slughorn’s neck if this went any further.

“That girl just fought a damn war for you,” he said, “while you sat idle among Death Eaters in the fucking castle last year. You think she needs more trauma?”

Slughorn stared at him, wide eyed. “We both know who the Death Eater was, Malfoy. One more word out of you and it's an owl straight to the ministry. Be very careful with your words.”

“Why?” Draco said, feeling his anger begin to erupt. “You really want them to see what a fucking joke you are? Go ahead. I've got the memories.”

“Y-you’re not your father, boy. You can’t scare me. If you're so adamant about protecting your mind, you’re not going to share your memories,” Slughorn stated, as though saying the words aloud made them true.

Draco took a deep breath.

In.

Out.

“Try me,” he said, unleashing his full glare upon the professor. “But if you can’t tell the difference between free will and compulsion, you’re no better than a Death Eater yourself.”

Draco fumed throughout the whole evening.

After a quick meal, he decided to run around the quidditch pitch.

Running was much harder exercise than flying, so he had taken to it in the summer to regain his strength and provide an outlet for his anger.

As his muscle memory did its work taking him around the pitch, he focused on his breathing: in through the nose and out through the mouth. The frigid air made his nostrils stick together and his lungs burn, but he welcomed the feeling.

Fuck Slughorn.

Fuck everyone. They could all go to hell.

Except Granger, of course.

She was the only person who accepted him. Or at least, he thought she did. He always told her the truth, and she had yet to question it.

He enjoyed her company, more than anything.

As expected, his feelings had come out under the Amortentia. He’d almost kissed her for Salazar’s sake. When he’d regained control of his mind, he’d wanted to grab her delicate hand from where it had covered his mouth and kiss her properly. He’d wanted it with every fibre of his being – still did.

But somehow, he’d scared her off. She’d looked terrified. He’d wanted to follow her and make sure she was alright – he knew instinctively that she wasn’t – but he hadn’t wanted to give Slughorn a reason to add ditching classes to his record. Not that it made a difference now that he’d threatened the man. He hoped that Slughorn hadn’t actually owled the ministry, but he supposed if the aurors showed up tomorrow to haul him off to a cell again, he’d find out then.

After ten laps, he stopped in the middle of the quidditch pitch and looked around. It was dark and quiet. All he could hear was his own unsteady breath, and the sound of the wind howling above the forest.

He looked up at the stars in the dark sky and his namesake stared back.

In Ancient Greece, the wizard by the name of Ptolemy, arguably wizardkind’s most famous astronomer, had mapped out the sky and named the stars after famous events and wars from his time. Draco the constellation was named after the dragon called Ladon, who had guarded a golden apple tree among the beautiful nymphs of Hesperides. The power-hungry wizard named Hercules killed Ladon, stole the golden apples for his own glory, and condemned Ladon’s soul to the skies. The stories of Ladon varied over the years – names changed, the objectives changed – but one thing remained constant: the dragon was always defeated and imprisoned in the sky for being too powerful, too dangerous.

Draco always thought that was ridiculous. The so-called heroes of the stories always killed or imprisoned the dragon because they feared anything that had more power than they did. The dragons never attacked first. They were not innately evil after all; they just protected what they found precious.

People always acted out of fear. He knew because fear was the driving factor in his whole cursed existence.

Was that his fate? Would people always want to lock him away out of fear?

Dark clouds rolled in, covering the constellation, and Draco ran another ten laps.

He needed to see Granger. He would find her tomorrow.

Draco sat on the floor, head leaning back against the shelves in that darkened, rarely used section of the library, the one with obscure books that only Hermione Granger looked at for fun because she was one of a fucking kind.

At some point, the lights in the library had been turned off. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been sitting there, but it must have been a while.

He thought of Granger – her smile, her laugh, her disgruntled reactions – and he breathed slowly. The oxygen calmed his heartbeat.

He’d told her everything once she’d brought up the Amortentia. She’d been so damned adorable, acting shy about her secret, but his intention hadn’t been to make her feel bad, so he showed her his embarrassing tattoo to get her to laugh and stop worrying.

But then she’d touched his chest and his heart felt like it would burst. Human touch was underrated, and he wanted hers so badly.

The allure of her delicate floral scent and the feel of her warm skin had awakened a primal need within him. He’d gotten instantly hard.

But he hadn’t wanted to scare her. With their tumultuous history, he couldn’t know for certain what she wanted, so it felt right to err on the side of caution. He’d gone slow.

He’d touched the smooth skin of her cheek, and she’d pulled him closer. He’d warned her to leave, but she’d stayed. He’d touched her soft skin under that fuck ugly sweater, and she hadn’t run away. She’d been hesitant, but he was sure she’d lifted her lips towards his.

She’d wanted it too… until they’d almost been caught, and fear had lit up her eyes.

Maybe she wasn’t ready, but he wasn’t going to give up. He would become worthy.

He thought of her in the carriage ride, and that first friendly laugh. He thought of their symbiotic teamwork in potions, and her look of determination whenever he issued her a challenge. He thought of the way she’d smiled at him after he’d told her he’d lend her Peridot Graves’ memoir. His heart had sung in accomplishment in that moment.

There had been a sliver of light behind that smile, breaking through the darkness and beckoning him back to the surface.

All he wanted to do was make her smile again.

She made him feel at peace.

And Merlin, he wanted her so fucking much.

All of her.

But more than anything, he wanted to prove to her – and to himself – that he was someone that could cause pleasure, not just pain.

Chapter Text

Hermione’s steps faltered one row before the tables, as she was struck by an acute sense of loss.

Everything felt wrong.

She could hear Ginny and Luna chatting at her table just past the bookshelf. She turned and looked back in the direction of the dark shelves she’d just come from, feeling a pull.

She was shaken to her core.

Draco Malfoy had uncovered her secret, and not only had he thought it was sexy, but he’d shown her something embarrassing in exchange. He’d almost kissed her, and she’d wanted him to. Desperately.

She itched to go back and… what? Make things right? Apologize for the interruption? Kiss him?

But she knew she couldn’t. The moment had passed. She’d seen his face and how quickly he’d shut down.

Was it for the best? She’d spent the last few weeks determined not to let herself feel something for him. If she believed in signs, then would this be a sign to stop before things went too far?

“Hermione?” Ginny whispered, peeking around the bookshelf. “You coming?”

“Coming,” she said, and though her feet moved, her heart pounded in regret.

It wasn’t until they were on the path to Hogsmeade that the interrogation started.

“Alright, spill. What were you doing with Malfoy? And were you undressing him?” Ginny’s face portrayed the puzzlement and awkwardness they were all feeling.

Hermione sighed. She supposed that was one logical interpretation of what Ginny had seen.

“No, it’s – he was trying to – he was showing me – Nevermind, there is really no easy way to explain it. Please don’t ask,” she finished weakly with a positively woeful expression that entreated them to take pity on her.

Ginny gave her a look that said, I know something is up, and we’ll be chatting about this later, and then they fell into silence. After a minute, Luna started whistling a tune.

It was a Spice Girls song. Hermione blinked and did a double take at Luna, who responded with a wink. She hadn’t known Luna liked muggle music.

Hermione sang the words in her mind as Luna hummed.

Unable to stop herself, she pictured what she and Malfoy would be like together. Would it be fun? Full of banter and intellectual conversation? Or would their shared history overshadow everything? She wasn’t sure.

Images of tattoos, his bare chest, his smirk when she said the word sex toys, the dazed look on his face when she stupidly joked about the minotaur, the heated look in his eyes when he said he loved her hair.

God, she was gone for.

“Can I ask you guys something?” Hermione asked, a thought entering her mind.

Both girls looked at her in question.

“What are wizarding sex toys like?”

Ginny laughed. “Hold on. You call them toys?”

Hermione’s face flushed, embarrassed that they were laughing. It was an odd feeling, seeing your own cultural conventions from an outsider’s perspective. “Yes. Don’t you?”

“Witches and wizards usually call them intimate implements or pleasure apparatus,” Luna explained with her usual nonchalance. “But sex toy sounds more fun, doesn’t it?”

“It does,” Ginny agreed, grinning widely. “And you have no idea how happy I am that you’re asking, but to give you a proper answer, I think we need to take a little trip to Angelica’s,” she said, sharing a knowing grin with Luna, who nodded her agreement.

Once they arrived in Hogsmeade, the girls took her past Honeydukes, Scrivenschafts, and the Three Broomsticks. They pulled her down a small alleyway at the far end of the village and stopped in front of a black building with an unmarked dark green door. She looked around, but there were no signs.

“You have to be seventeen or up to get in here,” Ginny said quietly, “otherwise the wards won’t let you in.”

She opened the door and stepped inside. Hermione followed.

The interior was clean, bright, and inviting, not at all what she’d pictured from the outside.

Her jaw dropped as she looked around. She took in the items lined up on white shelves along white-painted brick walls. There were ropes, whips, a wall of dildos, and other implements she couldn’t fathom the use of.

Ginny was being dragged away by a shop assistant, who was showing her a new product.

“... got this in! What you do on one device appears on the other. Couples who have long distance relationships love this item. As you can see, whatever you put through one side, shows up on the other. And it works both ways…”

Hermione quickly tuned them out, grimacing at the idea of knowing anything about Harry’s sex life. She looked around for Luna and found the girl standing in front of the wall of dildos.

Hermione stepped up beside her. She was inspecting a rather large shapely one with a bulb on the bottom.

Werewolf, the sign read.

Hermione blanched. She looked at the others.

Centaur. Giant. Giant squid. Ghost. (It was transparent.) Wizard 1. Wizard 2. Wizard 3. Etc.

Jesus. At least the wizard ones were reasonable sizes.

“Is that even possible?” She asked Luna weakly. “It's rather large.”

“Oh, all of these are adjustable,” Luna said. “You can change them to any size you like.”

Well, that made more sense.

“It’s rather fascinating, isn’t it? All these different kinds,” Luna said.

“Fascinating is certainly one word for it.” Disturbing might be another, but who was she to judge?

She left Luna and looked around more.

There was a female mannequin, with two flower-like shapes covering the nipples, and one on the clit, expanding and contracting in a fluid way.

“Interested in this one?”

Hermione jumped at the voice and turned to see a young shop assistant.

“These are very popular amongst witches. You can control the suction and vibrations with a spell,” she said with a little smirk.

“Oh, well that's… Thank you. I'm not here to buy. I was just curious,” she admitted, feeling entirely out of her element.

“Are you sure? You can try first if you like, we have tester rooms in the back.”

Hermione blinked. “Uh… no, thank you.”

“Well in that case, let me give you a tour.”

Hermione agreed to be pulled along through the displays. There was a shelf of lust potions, lubrication potions, Polyjuice, and Amortentia – how those were both not illegal she’d never understand – and, surprisingly, WWW Patented Daydream potions.

They passed a BDSM shelf and got a full explanation of self-tying ropes that had safe words to release and chokers which tightened on their own but always let up before things could become dangerous.

While the shop assistant was going on about the different settings of the dildos, Hermione’s mind drifted to Malfoy.

You’ll have to teach me all about muggle sex toys sometime, Granger.

Heat prickled her neck. She wondered how much he knew about all of this.

“Do you have any… quidditch related products? Like a snitch?” Hermione asked her guide.

The lady took her across the store. Hermione was horrified to see there were a shocking variety of broom attachments, dildos and clitoral stimulators that increased with broom speed, and harnesses “to make sure you don’t fall off.”

“For snitches, we have this,” the lady told her conspiratorially, showing her a silver snitch with white feathers for wings. “Its soft feathers vibrate as it flies along the surface of your body.” The lady turned it on and ran it along Hermione’s palm. “Feels nice, right?” She grinned. “The thing is, if you try to grab it, it'll just move somewhere else on you.”

“So how do you stop it?”

“You catch it,” she said with a smile. “That’s the fun of it. Are you a seeker?”

Hermione shook her head. “I hate quidditch,” she said.

“Ah, then your boyfriend?”

Hermione felt her face flush at the word. Her heart sped up at the thought. She cast a nervous glance around. Ginny and Luna were thankfully preoccupied.

The lady smirked. “Oh, he’s a secret boyfriend, I see.”

“No, not quite,” Hermione told her as a pit of anxiety formed in her chest.

Next to the broomstick additions, there was a rack of silk lingerie and slips. She reached out and touched a beautiful short robe in soft lilac, feeling the smooth material slide between her fingers.

Her mind went to the grey silk handkerchief in her bag, and she had an idea.

“Gin, Luna! You head over to the Three Broomsticks first. I’ll meet you there.”

“Wait a sec, girlie, where are you going?” Ginny turned.

“The bookstore.”

Ginny wrinkled her nose and gave her knowing smile. “Don’t get lost browsing the shelves for two hours and miss dinner!”

“I’ll be quick! Promise.”

Hermione was only twenty minutes late and three books heavier. An Extensive History of Colour, Gift Symbolism Throughout the Centuries, and An Updated Guide to Pureblood Traditions, were tucked away in her beaded bag for future handkerchief research.

When she arrived at the pub, she spotted them at the corner table. Harry has his arm around Ginny and was caught in a debate with Ron. Luna was quietly sipping her butterbeer. She saw Hermione first and waved.

“Hermione!” Harry shouted when he followed Luna’s gaze. He got up and enveloped Hermione in a warm hug. Hugs were rare for Harry, so she took the opportunity to wrap her arms around his middle and hold him tight. “I missed you so much!”

Tears welled up in her eyes at the familiarity of his embrace and his smell. Living in a tent and going through life-or-death situations together had created a bond like only shared trauma could. They were family.

“Me too,” she sniffed. “It's been months.” She tried not to think about the fact that he had seen Ginny a handful of times since.

Images flashed through her mind in memory: the times they spent leaning on one another in the middle of a forest, run down and defeated by their lack of progress in finding horcruxes; living at Grimmauld place afterwards, trying to adjust to being around normal people again; watching each other across the room with knowing looks.

But then Harry had gotten used to things. He’d spent more time around the Weasleys, and around Ginny. He’d met with Kingsley and sorted out Auror training. He’d gotten into the groove of normal life much more easily than she had.

And when she’d broken up with Ron, she’d started to see less and less of him. She’d known that even though Harry was like her brother, Ron would always be his best friend, so she’d given them space.

She’d missed him dearly.

Harry hugged her tighter and she melted into him. “It’s been so weird not having you around all the time. I wish you'd have started at the ministry with us.”

“You know I needed to complete my education,” she said, sniffing.

“Ahem.”

Hermione glanced up to see Ron standing with an awkward grin. She let go of Harry and turned to him.

“Hi, Hermione,” he said and took her into a one-armed hug. “Alright?”

Hermione nodded. Though their short relationship had caused a lingering fog of tension between them, Ron seemed friendlier today. That was good. She let go with a gentle pat on his back.

They sat down, and Ginny pushed a luxe black bag filled with pink tissue towards her on the bench. “A little early Christmas present from me and Luna,” she said with a wink.

Ron and Harry rubbed their necks awkwardly.

“Harry saw in the bag, thinking it was Ginny’s,” Luna said in a sing-song voice. “If you’re wondering why the boys are being awkward now.”

“I miss the days when I knew nothing about your sex life, Hermione,” Harry said with a pained expression.

Hermione bit her lips to stop from laughing. “Me too, Harry, trust me.”

Harry looked at Ginny suspiciously, but the girl winked, and his face screwed up in discomfort.

Hermione put the gift in her beaded bag for later. She wondered which item they got for her, and desperately hoped that it wasn’t a werewolf dildo.

“Thanks,” she said to the girls. She turned to the boys and asked, “How’s Auror training? Tell me everything!”

They ate dinner as they talked, and as they did, the pub grew louder and livelier with the buzz of patrons typical of a Saturday night.

Auror training was vastly different than either Ron or Harry had thought. In the mornings, they spent most days in a classroom learning how to react in certain situations and looking at case studies. In the afternoons, they shadowed existing Aurors about their jobs, which could either mean sitting and learning how to do paperwork, or if you were lucky, meant going out to investigate something. On Fridays, they trained in duelling. Harry, whose go-to was the Expelliarmus, struggled with some of the more harmful curses. Ron, on the other hand, was better at offensive spells than defensive ones. Mondays were dedicated to research.

They both complained about the ins and outs of it all, but they loved it. It was clear as daylight.

Hermione beamed at them.

So what if they were doing better than her? They both deserved happiness. Even if she wasn’t quite there yet.

The conversation turned to her.

“How’s Hogwarts? I hear they’ve shoved you in with the seventh years,” Harry asked.

“Yes, but it's fine,” she said, and stopped at his and Ron’s shared scowl. “What?”

“I can’t believe Malfoy returned,” Harry said gravely. “Sorry you still have to deal with him.”

Hermione’s heart dropped. She was not ready for this conversation.

“Is he bothering you? He’s not still calling you a mudblood, is he?” Ron asked darkly.

Hermione rolled her eyes. Way to go Ron with the insensitivity.

“Don’t the two of you start,” she said.

“Why? The wanker got off easy!”

“He did his penance. That’s not up for you to decide, Ron!”

“Why are you defending him?”

God, it was like it ran in the family. Hermione glanced at Ginny, but the girl was just sitting quietly, watching them.

“I–” Hermione started but cut off when she realized she couldn’t explain it. “Because he’s not here to defend himself!”

“Thank Merlin for that. I sure as hell don’t want him around,” Ron snarled.

Hermione sighed, frustrated but unsure how to proceed. Their hatred of Malfoy was too deeply ingrained. “Can we please stop talking badly about Malfoy? He’s just been through a war, same as us.”

“She’s right, Ron,” Harry said. Hermione looked at Harry in relief. He was always the more reasonable of the two of them.

“What? But Hermione, he’s called you a mudblood since forever,” Ron persisted.

“Will you stop saying that word?” She asked loudly, exasperated. “Come on, Ron.”

“I'm not calling you one obviously.”

“That’s not the point.”

“It’s Draco Malfoy we’re talking about. Why are you getting angry at me?”

“Because you're being unreasonable. People can change.”

“You think Malfoy can change? What a fucking joke! I didn’t expect you to be so thick headed, Hermione.”

She reeled back in shock at his words.

As usual, the claws came out when something didn’t go Ron’s way. This evening was not going as planned. Hermione had no idea what to say, for fear of making things worse.

Fear filled her as she imagined an even bigger rift forming between them. That was the last thing she wanted.

“Oi!” Ginny said sternly, throwing a piece of bread at her brother, which he ducked. “Don’t be such a prat.”

“Draco’s aura is different this year,” Luna said, out of the blue. “It's dark blue but it wants to be sky blue.”

Harry, who’d been watching the exchange worriedly, frowned at Luna and said, “What does that mean?”

“It means just that, of course,” Luna said dreamily.

The identical looks of confusion on Ron and Harry’s faces were comical. They fell into silence as each tried to work out what Luna meant.

“Hermione, did you tell them you’re teaching transfiguration this year?” Ginny asked pointedly.

“Oh, right. No, I hadn't.”

Harry balked. “What, you mean like teaching classes?”

“Yes, McGonagall asked me to do it as a favour. It’s just the first-year classes.”

“Hah!” Ron chortled. “I can just imagine you standing there all strict like McGonagall! How many students have you given detention to yet?”

“None, actually,” she said, sighing. “But I have a Slytherin and Gryffindor combined class that keeps fighting. I’ve been struggling a bit to get them to work together, but I have some ideas–”

“Just give up, Hermione,” Ron cut her off, “Slytherins and Gryffindors have never gotten along, and they never will. Don’t force it.”

Hermione clenched her teeth.

Keep things friendly. Don’t make a scene. Don’t kill him. She chanted to herself.

The last thing she wanted to do was ruin the one time they’d all spent together in months by fighting with Ron. She could ignore him.

“Hi,” a pretty voice said. Hermione looked up and saw an attractive blonde with perfectly clear skin and silky-smooth hair standing next to their table. Ron’s chair scraped on the floor, and he stood up to plant a kiss on the girl’s cheek.

“Everyone, this is Germaine, my girlfriend,” he said, smiling proudly.

Hermione blanched. She looked at the others. Harry looked distinctly uncomfortable and was eyeing Hermione with trepidation. Ginny looked shocked, and Luna was watching the new girl appraisingly. Clearly none of them had expected their new addition.

Harry stood up and got another chair. “Gem, didn’t know you were coming! Have a seat," he said.

Harry called her Gem. That meant they were close.

“Thanks Harry,” Germaine said kindly and put her bag down on the chair. “I think I'll just head to the loo first,” she said awkwardly.

“I'll come with,” said Luna. The two girls left, and then Ginny was glaring at Ron. “What?” he asked defensively.

“We need to have a chat,” Ginny said, and she dragged Ron around the corner.

Hermione sipped at her butterbeer, trying to get her bearings.

Though the pub was loud, Ginny’s voice cut through.

“Ron, why didn’t you say she was coming?”

“Do I need permission to see my girlfriend?”

“That was not the point of today, and you know it! We haven’t all hung out in ages. This was supposed to be a time for catching up with your best friend! You haven’t seen Hermione in months.”

“What, so now I can’t even introduce my girlfriend to my friends?

“You mean flaunting your new girlfriend in front of your ex?”

“Hermione broke up with me, remember?”

“You are such a–”

“I swear I didn’t know,” Harry started, but Hermione cut him off with a raised hand.

“I'm fine, Harry,” she said, giving him a placating smile. “I'm going to go get another drink.”

She made her way through the Saturday night crowd to the bar and sat on a stool. Madam Rosmerta was busy at the other end of the bar. She tapped her fingers on the rough oak bar top and waited.

“Hey,” a deep voice sounded behind her, and she turned her head as Duncan came up beside her. “What’s a pretty lass like you doing alone on a Saturday night?”

Hermione snorted. “Was that a pickup line?”

He grinned and shrugged.

“I'm not alone. I'm with my friends,” Hermione sighed. “Well, I was. I’m currently avoiding an awkward situation.”

“In that case, I'm at your service if you need to escape,” he said with a charming grin.

“How kind of you,” she shook her head in laughter.

“Can I buy you a drink?” he asked.

Hermione felt heat rush her cheeks. Did she even want him to buy her a drink? Normally she would be thrilled to have a cute boy flirt with her, but all she could think about was blond hair, grey eyes, lazy smirks…

And almost kisses.

“Not necessary. I get free drinks here,” she told Duncan with an apologetic smile.

“What can I get you dears?” Madam Rosmerta asked, appearing in front of them.

“Something strong, please,” Hermione grimaced.

Madam Rosmerta winked. “I've got the perfect thing. It's a caramel apple cocktail with a cinnamon firewhiskey. How does that sound?”

“Like heaven.”

“And for your date?”

“I'll have a straight firewhiskey on ice,” Duncan said, before Hermione could refute the statement.

Hermione’s cheeks flamed at the misunderstanding.

They got their drinks, and Duncan held his out. “Cheers,” he said.

Hermione tapped her glass against his and took a sip. The first taste was sweet caramel, followed by a hit of sour apple on her tongue, with a cinnamon aftertaste as the firewhiskey burned down her throat. It was delicious. Her moan of appreciation was drowned out in the buzz of chatter.

“Duncan!” Ginny said as she came up behind Hermione. “Don’t tell me you’re hitting on our beloved war hero!”

Hermione choked on her drink and started a coughing fit. Ginny patted her back.

Duncan smirked. “None of your business, Red.”

“Well, I’ve got to steal her away again. Flirt with her later, would you?”

Mortified, Hermione allowed herself to be pulled away by Ginny. She glanced back at Duncan's grinning face. He winked.

Grey eyes flashed. He lifted his hand and took a drag, slowly blowing out the smoke. Then he winked.

The redhead pulled her aside. “Ron’s an idiot. Don’t let it bother you, okay? Just have a good time with us and ignore him.”

“I'm fine. I was just caught off guard,” she said, trying to convince herself more than anything, and by the look on her face, Ginny knew it.

As they sat down, Germaine, who was tucked under Ron’s arm, was animatedly talking to Luna.

“They call the three of us the Inseparable Trio at work because we're always doing things together as the youngest ones,” she said. “We've been through a lot together, eh boys?” She elbowed Harry, who nodded with a grin.

The blood in Hermione’s veins turned to ice.

Trio?

This beautiful, kickass Auror trainee had gotten so close to both Ron and Harry that people called them a trio.

Hermione swallowed her bitter jealousy in a long sip of her cocktail.

Okay. They had new friends. That didn’t mean she wasn’t still their best friend. People were allowed new friends. And girlfriends.

That was no reason to be jealous.

“Are you alright Hermione?” Harry asked, looking concerned.

“Yeah, I'm fine,” she said with a fake smile.

Not that she was being replaced or anything.

Hermione forced her feelings down and looked between Ron and Harry. “How did you find my notes on wards?”

Harry’s eyebrows puckered as they always did when he looked guilty, but Ron smiled broadly.

“Our lecture on wards last week turned into a practical outdoors instead,” he said.

“So, no essay?”

“No, thank Merlin! They taught us everything in class.”

“But did you read my notes?” she asked.

An ‘oh shit’ look crossed Ron’s face and he rubbed the back of his head. “Yeah, yeah, of course.”

“Before or after the lecture?”

“Uh.”

She stared. “You didn’t even read them, did you?”

She’d written her notes out twice so both boys had a copy, with a little more explanation for Ron where she knew he needed it. And he hadn’t even looked at them.

Ron had the decency to look ashamed. “It’s just been so busy.”

“You’ve been too busy?” Hermione deadpanned.

“Yeah, Hermione–”

“You’ve been so busy that you couldn’t read the perfectly summarized and concise overview of advanced ward techniques that I wrote for you to help you do your job?”

“Harry read it,” he said. “And shared it with our head Auror, who taught us everything you said. So, I still learned it.”

Hermione blinked rapidly as she took in what he said. She looked at Harry for confirmation, but he chose that moment to duck out and go to the bar. Perhaps sensing an argument, Germaine and Ginny followed him.

“Harry gave my work to your superior Auror, who used it for teaching?” She asked Ron.

“Yeah. So, you see, they thought it was great. There’s no reason for you to be upset.”

No reason to be upset…

“I'm not upset,” she lied.

She didn’t want to get into a fight. She didn’t want to put another wedge between them. She would just have to get on board, or she’d be in danger of losing her friends more than she already had.

“Oh, come on, Hermione. Don’t be mad. It wasn’t even me who asked for it, you know? And it’s not like you spent a lot of time on it, right? That kind of thing is easy for you. What’s the big deal?”

Wow.

That stung.

If someone treats you nicely, you’ll do anything.

Malfoy’s words came to the forefront of her mind, and she suddenly understood his meaning. She’d do anything to make her friends happy so that they would keep her.

She knew it, yet she was still doing it. The thought sobered her.

She always put in 200% to help her friends, but Ron didn’t even care. He thought it was easy. She’d spent an entire half day she hadn’t had. She’d needed that time for researching how to teach, for writing her own essays, and for editing Ginny and Luna’s, not to mention that she’d been sorely neglecting her research on reversing memory charms.

“It’s fine,” she said, more to herself than him.

“Is this because I brought Germaine?”

Hermione toyed with the stem of her drink. “No, Ron. I'm happy that you found someone.”

Just because her heart was being clawed at didn’t mean that it wasn't true. She wasn’t jealous. Not about him, anyway. She didn’t want to be with Ron, every interaction tonight had confirmed that tenfold, but it didn't mean their breakup wasn't hard for her. She would be happy for him once the pain lessened.

“Right. Okay, I'm going to get another drink. You want one?”

“No, thanks.”

He left her alone at the table. Hermione sipped the last of her drink and scanned for Luna, but the girl’s blonde hair was nowhere to be found. She looked around.

Ron had his arm around Germaine at the bar and was speaking into her ear as she giggled up at him.

Harry and Ginny were at the mouth of the loo corridor, making out.

Duncan had his arms around his friends, singing songs.

Everyone had their people, the ones closest to them.

Except for her.

The raucous atmosphere of the dark, familiar pub suddenly felt foreign. Everything moved in slow motion. The tinny music playing over the sounds of witches and wizards drinking and laughing turned into white noise in her ears.

Hermione numbly grabbed her coat and bag and walked out of the Three Broomsticks and into the dark night.

A cold wind blasted over her, sending her hair flying and her skirt ruffling. She stood still for a moment and breathed in deeply, letting the cold air clear her mind.

She shrugged on her coat and started walking down the street.

A noise that sounded like someone in pain stopped her. She peered into the alleyway next to the Three Broomsticks and stopped short when she saw Luna’s ice blonde hair. Luna was being held up against the wall by her raven-haired beau. Hermione heard the sound again, but she realized it wasn’t pain, it was pleasure. She turned away in embarrassment.

Even Luna had someone.

Who did she have?

Hermione apparated to the Hogwarts gates and started the long walk back to the castle.

On the walk, she tried to decipher what it was exactly that she was feeling. Her friends were happy. Harry and Ron were happy in their new jobs and relationships. Ginny was happy with Harry. Luna was enjoying her sexual freedom – props to her. Even Duncan, who she barely knew, was happily spending time with his friends, like she used to be able to do with hers.

Hermione wanted the people she loved to be happy. After the hard year they all went through, they deserved a little peace and joy.

Why was she feeling so bitter? disappointed? sad?

She wasn’t quite sure what she was feeling.

And so, she did what she usually did to distract herself from painful thoughts: She headed to the library.

The castle walls were cold and rough under her fingertips as she walked past torchlit hallways and suits of armour.

When she entered the library, it was dark and empty, as expected. It was past curfew so most of the students were locked away in their dorms.

She cast a soft yellow light to hover above her and made her way to the tables.

Hermione took her coat off, sat down, pulled out An Extensive History of Colour and set it on the table.

She stared at it.

And what does this one signify? The grey silk?

I’m sure you can put together a hypothesis.

She thought of his devious smirk, his teasing smile as he talked of golden snitches and sex toys, the feel of his skin, his hardened expression when she’d left.

She sighed and put her head in her arms.

She felt guilty for how she’d left him. They’d almost kissed, for heaven’s sake. She’d tasted his breath, felt his warm skin.

But now what? Where did they stand?

She’d spent all evening thinking of him, of how he'd shut down when she’d left, of the teasing, impudent, sweet things he said to her, and of the look in his eyes when he said he wanted to make her come.

God, she wanted him so much. There was no use denying it now.

Hermione sighed. She needed a bigger distraction than researching the very thing that she wanted to avoid thinking about.

She decided to work on the History of Magic essay she’d been about to start that afternoon. Hopefully she could get through the book without thinking of sex toy snitches.

With a sigh, she stood up, and made her way to the back of the library to retrieve the book. If she were lucky, it would still be there.

The empty aisles were eerie, cloaked in a darkness that held all the monsters of her imagination. She looked ahead and avoided peering into them. As often as she’d snuck into the library in the dark, it still creeped her out to walk through the stacks at night.

She walked all the way to the back of the library where the oldest and most fragile tomes were kept, the ones that demanded delicate care and smelled like musty wood and old leather.

She turned into the last aisle, and her heart gave a jolt of fear as she spotted a dark figure on the ground.

She screamed. Or she would have if her gasp hadn’t strangled it.

She raised her wand instinctively, and it took a moment to register that the black shape at the end of the aisle was human, and another to realize just who exactly it was looking up at her.

“Jesus Christ, you almost gave me a heart attack,” Hermione said, putting a hand to her forehead, and looking at the ceiling to gather her bearings.

She took a deep breath, and placed the light higher between them, lighting him up more.

He looked like a deer caught in headlights.

Moments passed between them. Neither moved as they observed each other.

She took stock of the scene in front of her. Malfoy was sitting with his back against the shelves, one knee up with his hand resting on top of it, twirling something she couldn’t see. His shirt was still undone at the top, and the collar was uneven. His hair, normally perfect, was sticking up this way and that, like he’d been grabbing it or ruffling it. A few books had been knocked off a shelf and lay haphazardly on the floor.

“What are you still doing here?” She asked. Hours had passed since she’d left.

“Thinking,” he said, and rubbed his eyes.

She studied his face for a sign of what she’d seen before. Was he angry? He didn’t look angry, per se, just… expressionless. Occluding, then.

She approached him slowly, conscious of his eyes tracking her movements, but she ignored his face in favour of the books around him.

Did he throw them? She pursed her lips. No, Malfoy respected books. Besides, they looked more like they’d just fallen.

But why had they fallen? And why had he left them?

She frowned and bent over to pick them up. One by one, she smoothed their pages, closed them, and placed them back on the shelf.

When she finished, she looked down at Malfoy, wondering what exactly had happened. His head was back, but his resigned gaze was upon the cigarette he was twirling between his f–

She stopped and stared.

“You can’t smoke a cigarette in the library, Malfoy!” She scolded quietly. “These are brittle old books. What if a spark hit one and caught fire?”

His eyes lifted to her then, and mild amusement flashed through them. “That’s why it’s currently unlit in my hand.”

He was no longer occluding, and the difference was stark – like looking through clear glass rather than dark murky water.

She let out a heavy exhale, and with that her irritation dissipated. How was it that a single look from him could pacify her, make her feel calm? Even something like a mildly snarky remark felt like… comfort. Like approval. How did he do that?

He was drawing her in again with those overly perceptive eyes, and she could see a hint of sadness in them.

And suddenly, she didn’t want to leave. She didn’t want to do research. She didn’t want to be alone. She wanted to be with him, tucked away in the back of the library, isolated from the dark world beyond.

Why shouldn’t she do what she wanted? Everyone else did.

So, she plucked at her Gryffindor courage, and did exactly what she wanted to do.

Smoothing her skirt, she sat down on the floor next to Malfoy, and scooted close so that her arm pressed against his.

She could feel his body heat radiating through her thick sweater.

Malfoy tensed, and though she could feel his gaze on her face, she didn’t look at him. Instead, she reached over and plucked the cigarette out of his hand. He let her do it.

She inspected it, acutely aware of the heat of his arm where they touched. It looked like a muggle cigarette: a filter on one end, tobacco wrapped in thin white paper on the other. She brought it to her nose and smelled the earthy and astringent yet sweet aroma. She wrinkled her nose. Yes, it was definitely a muggle cigarette.

“Do you smoke?” Malfoy asked, voice low.

Hermione shook her head. “No. Cigarettes can make your teeth yellow.”

“They can do what?”

At his affronted tone, Hermione looked at him. His lip was curled in disgust as he eyed the offending item in her hand.

She bit back a smile. “The tar from tobacco smoke turns the enamel yellow.”

“Aren’t there ways to prevent that?”

“You could go to a dentist and get a tooth whitening treatment, sure, but it’s not perfect. A glamour could work too, but it’s not a permanent fix. Unless perhaps someone made a potion to repair and whiten tooth enamel.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me. With all the muggle illnesses that wizards are resistant to, you’re telling me yellow teeth is what we get?” He shook his head and huffed an unamused laugh.

“Mm hm,” she hummed.

They lapsed into silence, staring at the darkness beyond their little hideaway.

Feeling bold and reckless, Hermione leaned her head on Malfoy’s warm shoulder.

After a few long heartbeats in which neither of them breathed, he shifted slightly and wrapped his arm around her, warm and protective. His fingers curled around her upper arm, pulling her in closer to his chest.

She was aware of every point of contact, from his fingers resting hesitantly on her arm to the feel of his muscles beneath her cheek. She could hear his heartbeat, and she wondered if he could feel hers, pounding as it was.

“Have you been drinking?” He asked softly, and the rumble of vibrations under her ear made her heart stutter as she took in how close they were.

“A little,” she admitted.

“Define a little.”

“One drink. I’m perfectly fine, no stars, no spinning.”

“No stars, huh?” he teased, and heat rushed through her at the memory it evoked.

Yes, Granger, I want to make you come.

Malfoy’s thumb trailed lightly on her arm, sending a frisson through her.

“Did you know there’s a library where you can see the stars?” Malfoy said. She wondered how he sounded so calm when she wasn’t even sure she could speak without trembling.

She turned her thoughts to his question, and her mind rushed through all the libraries she knew. It stopped on one, and she almost laughed at the audacity.

“Are you going to make me see stars here, Malfoy?”

God, why did she say that? Heat crept up her cheeks.

She could feel Malfoy’s body tense before he released a silent laugh.

“Only if you want me to,” he breathed against her hair, his voice containing an unmistakable smirk. “But that's not actually what I meant. I had another library in mind.”

Of course, he did.

“Which one?” she asked, bringing her hand up to cool her left cheek.

“Do you know the story of the Library of Alexandria?”

She did, to an extent, but she wanted to hear him say it.

“Tell me,” she said.

“In the Hellenistic period,” he began, “the Macedonian King, Alexander the Great, conquered the Persian Empire and created his own. He founded a city on the Mediterranean coast of Egypt in the third century BCE.”

“Alexandria,” she whispered. Her muscles began to loosen in anticipation of a good story. She settled into Malfoy’s arm, warm and comfortable around her.

“Well spotted,” he said with a hint of sarcasm. She felt the amused acknowledgement rumble through her. “Never would have guessed that the Library of Alexandria resided in Alexandria.”

“Shut up,” she grumbled.

“Really? If you don’t want to hear it, I can just–”

Her head snapped up, cutting him off. He was watching her with a half grin playing around his mouth.

“Tell the story, please,” she said, and dropped her head back onto his chest.

He chuckled. “In Alexandria, as you correctly surmised, Alexander the Great began the reign of Macedonia in the Mediterranean. Alexandria became a great political power as well as a hub of culture and art. It attracted great minds of both the muggle and magical worlds.”

As he spoke, she felt the slight rumble from his chest, the warmth of his body against her side, the comforting weight of his arm around her, and she smelled him – raw, natural man with a hint of his signature woodsy scent. She fell fast into the familiar feeling of bliss: her muscles let down their guard, and she relaxed into the calm that his words gave her.

“Magic in those days was supposedly a little different,” he continued. “Wands had yet to be invented, so magic was a lot harder to learn. Some people were adept at wandless magic, but most were not, so there were few experts. Runes were the most prominent and powerful forms of magic at the time. Being a mage was rather like a chosen profession for those who had developed the ability.”

Pleasant tingles swept over her scalp, down her spine and through her limbs, amplifying the relaxation and converging in her core. She squeezed her legs together slightly at the growing feeling of arousal.

Malfoy’s fingers traced up and down her arm, making her heart race.

“When Alexander the Great died,” he continued, “Ptolemy I Soter, one of his generals, inherited his land in Egypt and began the Ptolemaic dynasty. It is said that Ptolemy I Soter was a great historian, and collector of knowledge. He decided to build a library to rival all libraries, one that would house all the books in the world. He sent missives to all the rulers in the surrounding empires to request access to the most important books. His scribes made copies, but Ptolemy I Soter kept the originals, returning only the copies and forfeiting any deposits of good faith. He also created a book tax, so that when ships docked in Alexandria, they had to give up all the original books in their possession in exchange for copies.”

“He was a book thief,” Hermione said, both indignant and impressed.

Malfoy chuckled. “Yes, maybe. Some magical historians theorize that he had wizards in his court and that mind manipulation was involved.”

“Terrible,” she scoffed.

“Quite,” he said, amusement tingeing his tone. “For a few centuries, the Library of Alexandria thrived and attracted all sorts of scholars, historians, mathematicians, and philosophers from all around the Mediterranean. You would have fit in there, Granger. There were so many books that they had to invent systems to keep track of them.”

“I wish I could have seen it,” she said wistfully.

Malfoy’s fingers started to play with the ends of her curls. The resultant tingle on her scalp sent a blissful shiver through her.

“The Library of Alexandria also provided an opportunity for the greatest witches and wizards of the time to converge and philosophize about magic. Many historians theorize that this was when they developed most of the spells we use today. The ones with Latin roots at least.”

“That’s fascinating,” she breathed. A sense of wonder filled her as she imagined a huge open library with tall pillars and shelves lined with thick tomes and scrolls. She imagined soft lighting as the sun beamed in, with a view of the sparkling Mediterranean Sea out the window while all the best witches and wizards converged to literally change the course of magic. Her head felt light and tingly in bliss.

“After a few hundred years of the library's success, Julius Caesar attacked Alexandria. As the story goes, he burned the boats in the harbour, and it spread to the city. Even the greatest wizards of the time couldn’t put it out. The library was burnt and many of the ancient tomes were lost forever. Luckily, however, the library had become so large that they had started using other locations to expand their collection.”

A low hum of desire coursed through her veins, setting her senses alight. She shifted, and a growing sense of pleasure thrummed between her legs.

Malfoy continued playing with her hair. Was he aware of the effect he was having on her?

“One of them was in the Serapeum, the Temple of Serapis,” he continued in dulcet tones. “Interestingly, Serapis was a god created to try to blend the cultures of a growing multicultural society: the Macedonian Greeks and the Egyptians. Serapis was an amalgamation of Zeus and Osiris.”

That was interesting.

“I thought the Greek and Roman gods were a muggle belief,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady. “Did witches and wizards believe in them too?”

“It’s possible. Our cultures were not so separate back then,” he said quietly. “They were more entwined in many ways. And ultimately, we are not all that different. Wizards and muggles alike can be superstitious. Most will pray for good luck, or buy talismans or what have you, not because they truly believe it will help, but for the small chance that it might. It's human nature.”

“Are you superstitious, Malfoy?” He paused his ministrations on her hair. She looked up at him. He was staring straight ahead. A muscle jumped in his jaw.

“No,” he said eventually, looking down at her with a forced smile. “I don’t believe in luck or false hopes.”

Hermione’s heart clenched. She could understand his bitterness. It certainly wasn't good luck that he was told to be a murderer at 16 by the most dangerous wizard since Grindelwald. Seeing this side of him was something she never knew she needed, but now she was desperate for more of it. She snuggled her head back into his chest, and his hand released her hair to squeeze her arm.

“Conquerors,” Malfoy continued, speaking into her hair, “especially religious ones, tend to prohibit old beliefs so that the populace will accept the new. They forbade certain subjects, which meant that books were often destroyed. Every new empire wanted to write its own history.”

Her scalp tingled at the feel of his lips so close.

Her arousal was getting stronger with every soft-spoken word. Her clit was already so sensitive. She squeezed her legs together and shivered at the flash of pleasure it sent through her, letting out a little moan. Embarrassed, she hid her face in his chest and held back a groan. It did little to help, since she breathed in his intoxicating scent.

The hand on her arm lowered to her hip, sending a jolt of desire between her legs, before slowly rising under the hem of her sweater to land on the bare skin just above the waistband of her skirt. She hitched a breath, and a thrill went through her. His fingers traced patterns on her bare skin as he spoke.

“When Christianity was prescribed by the Roman Empire, they forbade the worship of the pagan gods – the Greek and Roman gods. Christian vigilantes desecrated many temples and libraries, including the temple of Serapis, which housed the last remaining books of the Library of Alexandria. Thus was the end of the library in the fifth century AD.”

She let the sensations wash over her body as though he wasn’t there watching her, holding her, setting her skin alight and pulse racing with the mere brushes of his fingers.

Her clit was pulsing with desire, and she brought a knee up for more pressure. She gasped at the feeling. Her skirt bunched up, revealing the skin of her leg. She wanted release. She wanted to touch herself and get herself over the edge. Her hand inched closer, but instead, she grasped the cloth of her skirt in a fist as she squirmed.

She lifted her head again, and the hunger in Malfoy’s piercing gaze startled her. Grey eyes, dark in shadow but still managing to shine, held her captive.

Her breathing was unsteady, her body was on fire, and desire coursed through her veins like magic, but her mind felt peaceful. How could such a beautiful, contradictory man make her feel more relaxed, more at peace than her friends? Effortlessly. She wanted him, his kiss, his touch, his conversation, his teasing, his stories. Her heart could suffer later.

She lifted a hand to his face, to the dark circles under his eyes, down to the hint of blonde whiskers on his jawline, to the harsh line of his lips, parted and relaxed, and wondered once again how they would feel against hers. She exhaled a shaky breath and let her hand drop.

His eyes settled on her lips. The hand that was tracing up and down the skin of her side faltered.

After a moment that could have lasted anywhere between half a second or a thousand years, he leaned in and closed the gap.

His soft lips pressed against hers, warm and sweet. He held still for a moment, breathing heavily against her lips, waiting.

When she leaned into him and brushed her lips along his, he kissed her in earnest, capturing her lips, tasting her, feeling her. She moaned at how excruciatingly perfect it was.

Malfoy echoed the sound with a strained moan in his chest. His free hand came up to cup her face, and he kissed her deeper, more fervently. His lips moved against hers, prying, prodding, sucking, licking. She licked his lower lip, desperate to taste him, and then suddenly their tongues were battling a sensual war, seeing who could draw the sweetest sounds out of the other.

He guided her onto his lap. She lifted a knee over his legs to straddle his thighs. Her raised height put their faces at a more even level.

Malfoy broke the kiss to look down at his hands where they grazed up the skin of her thighs. He stopped just under the hem of her skirt to draw small circles with his thumbs. She whimpered at the flash of arousal his bare touches sent through her.

He looked at her like he could hardly believe she was there, that they were doing this.

She felt the same.

Sitting on him, saying nothing… it felt right. Touching him felt right. Kissing him felt like nothing she’d ever known before.

Her hands moved to the nape of his neck, and she played with the ends of his hair. “You said there was a library with stars,” she whispered, swallowing her nerves.

He huffed a strangled laugh and squeezed her thighs.

“Yes, I did.” He cleared his throat and continued, “Nicias of Nicaea, a Greek wizard historian at the turn of the millennium, foresaw the library’s destruction,” he said, voice husky. “Though it was centuries before the temple was destroyed, there was still unrest, so he took many of the books – primarily magical – and transferred them to a new library of his own making, hidden from all the conquerors and kings of the time.”

He leaned in to press a kiss onto her neck, drawing out a gasp.

“For years, it was only legend that said he’d built the library into a rock formation somewhere in Egypt,” he said and pressed another kiss just below her ear. “It was said to be shaped like a dome, with a large skylight in the ceiling for natural light during the day, and moonlight at night.” He kissed the corner of her jaw, and his hands caressed her thighs. “The location died with Nicias, until about a hundred years ago when a manuscript was found with the encrypted location. A Persian semiotician named Saeed Ghassemi cracked the code and discovered the cave fully intact in a shroud of protective runes.”

His soft voice became raw, breaking on the last words as his lips brushed her ear.

“But if there was a hole in the rock to show the stars, then how was it never found from a fly over?” She asked breathlessly.

He pulled back. His eyes were dark and heavy with desire. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, and the corner of his lips curved up.

“The runes kept up the disillusionment past his death and protected the library from the elements. People wouldn’t have been able to see it if they didn’t know what to look for.”

“Can I go there? To the library? If I visit?”

His heavy-lidded eyes, so close, flickered between hers. “Do you want to see the stars?”

“Yes,” she breathed. “And the books.”

“Then I’ll take you there.”

Warmth spread through her in a feeling that could only be described as euphoric. She wanted it so badly, to travel the world, see ancient libraries, and read thousand-year-old books. And he wanted to take her there. She felt overwhelmed – with emotions, with the physical sensations he was giving her, with the strength of desire coursing through her.

She leaned forward and ever so slowly pressed her lips on his once more. He sank into the kiss with a groan, sucking her bottom lip, then the top, as his hands travelled further up underneath her skirt to her hips.

He traced the line of her knickers with his thumbs before wrapping his hands around to grip her and pull her flush against him.

They both moaned in unison as her core met the significant bulge in his trousers.

God, he was so hard and radiating heat. She shifted her hips against him, and it sent a wave of pleasure through her as her clit finally found the pressure it needed. She did it again.

“Fuck,” he groaned into her mouth. He gripped her hips harder and slowly ground against her.

Hermione’s head fell back in pleasure.

He took the opening to kiss down her neck, sending flashes of heat through her. His hands slid underneath her sweater and up her bare back.

His kiss was replaced by his forehead as he nuzzled into her neck. “No bra, Granger? You’re fucking killing me,” he said, voice cracking with need.

“I don’t like bras,” she said breathlessly. “If I can get away with not wearing one, I will.”

Her hands came up between them and started undoing the buttons on his shirt. She wanted to see his chest again.

“Fuck bras,” he said, voice raw. “I fully support your free tits.”

Her laugh turned into a moan as he bit down lightly on her collarbone and his hands trailed around her ribcage to trace the undersides of her breasts.

“How are you so fucking perfect? Every bloody thing about you is irresistible.” His thumbs brushed over her nipples, making her breath catch.

She finished undoing the buttons of his shirt and she tried to push it off his shoulders. He leaned in towards her and captured her lips once more as his arms reached back to roughly pull the shirt off and throw it aside.

She pulled back from his kiss and grabbed the front hem of her thick sweater. She hesitated for a moment and then pulled it over her head and tossed it aside.

Malfoy exhaled and stared at her tits with a look so dark, so reverent, that she lost any doubts. His hands came up, moulding them and playing with her hard nipples. Every brush of his fingers made her breath catch.

Her fingers splayed over his chest. She traced the silver scars he carried, just barely visible in the dim lighting, and she looked at his full tattoos for the first time. His left arm was a medley of flowers, colourful and bright, all the way from his wrist to his shoulder. His right was a medley of flames and smoke in shades of grey, dotted with stars.

Her hands ran down his chest, past his rib tattoo to his toned stomach and the V line of his pelvis that cut off at his waistband. She felt his cock twitch against her.

He was sinfully perfect, brought to real life from her deepest, darkest fantasies.

His lips captured hers again, and she wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling their naked chests flush together.

“You feel so good,” he mumbled against her mouth. “So fucking beautiful, Granger.”

She gasped into his mouth when he grabbed her hips and ground into her, harder than before.

“Malfoy,” she said breathlessly against his lips. “Are you trying to get me expelled? You have me half naked in the library. We both know how that story goes.”

He laughed, and dragged his teeth along her neck, eliciting a mewl.

“Better not get caught then,” he said, nipping at her earlobe.

She swatted at his chest, and he grinned widely at her.

She could look at that smile forever.

With a devilish look, he grasped her tightly under her arse, and moved to his knees. Hermione squealed and held on tightly to his shoulders.

“What are you doing?”

“I want to be on top, but the floor is dirty,” he grumbled. He stood up and his hands moved from her arse to her thighs, and she wrapped her legs around his waist.

He leaned her against the shelves with a kiss onto her neck. “Next best thing.”

Hermione ignored the books digging into her back and enjoyed the feel of his hot skin against hers. Her sensitive nipples brushed against his chest, and she moaned into his neck. With the new angle, he pressed his cock against her core with more precision, and she felt the length of him rock against her center.

God, he felt amazing.

“How do you usually relax?” He asked suddenly, pressing kisses to the sensitive skin beneath her ear.

“Why?”

“Because you’re always so fucking tense. You came in looking like you had the world on your shoulders. What makes you melt?”

Her brain was mush. She couldn’t think. She could only feel.

“You,” she breathed. “This.” It was the truth, but one she hadn't intended on admitting.

Malfoy kissed her deeply. She held onto his shoulders as they rocked their hips together, finding that delicious friction that made her moan.

He pulled back and leaned his forehead against hers, breathing heavily. “Do you want to see stars tonight? In this library?” he asked, voice ragged.

“Yes,” she whispered, catching her breath.

He set her feet down on the ground. A hand came to her chin, and he searched her eyes.

“Just to be entirely clear, I’m going to make you come,” he said, lips swollen pink, looking at her with a deep hunger. “You're not going to run away again, right?”

Hermione’s hands played with the skin at his waist, linking behind his lower back and pulling him closer.

“I didn't run away before.”

“You did,” he whispered, looking strangely vulnerable. “Twice.”

Twice? Earlier today they were interrupted, and what, was he talking about the Amortentia? Her heart twinged. She had left in both situations.

“I'm not running away,” she told him, firmly.

“Good,” he muttered with a slight smirk. “That’s good, because you look so fucking beautiful right now and it might kill me to stop.” He leaned in and whispered, “These perfect tits.” He ran a hand down to tweak a nipple. She gasped at the sensation that flashed through her. His smirk widened.

“This perfect skin.” He dropped to his knees and kissed her stomach.

He ran his hands up under her skirt, lifting it up and pressing a kiss above the waistband of her knickers, which sent a pulse straight to her already sensitive clit. Her hand went to his hair to steady herself and he looked up with a satisfied smirk.

His fingers hooked into the sides of the black lace, and with one last entreating look he pulled them down slowly.

Heart in her throat, and nerves prickling in anticipation, Hermione stepped out of the black material.

“This beautiful cunt. I can’t wait to taste you,” he murmured.

She watched his face in horrified fascination and delirium as he held her skirt up with a hand pressed to her stomach and took her in with hungry eyes. He leaned in and pressed a kiss to her left hip bone, and another one to the crease. She gasped at the fire it sent through her.

“So fucking irresistible,” he groaned. His right hand came up the back of her left leg and grabbed a handful of flesh, squeezing, before trailing down again and lifting her leg. He peppered gentle kisses down to the inside of her raised knee.

He placed her knee over his shoulder and ran his hand along her thigh, holding her in place.

Hermione’s hands scrambled for purchase. One held onto the shelf above her, and the other fisted in his hair.

She cried out as his mouth landed on her clit. His tongue slowly swirled around it and a flame of pleasure hit her.

“Tell me what you’re feeling,” he mumbled against her. He pulled back, and his tongue delved in her opening and then licked up through her slit. “Fuck, you taste amazing.”

“You – that – god that feels good,” she gasped.

He hummed in approval as his tongue laved at her clit.

“Good girl, give me more,” he said against her.

A shockwave of pleasure emanated from her core at his words, and she gripped his hair harder, moving her hips against him.

“Your tongue, swirling – sucking on my – omigod – keep doing that.”

He hummed against her, and the vibrations sent a jolt to her core. She was getting close.

His free hand left her stomach and traced her opening. “You’re so fucking wet,” he groaned. “Think you can take my fingers?”

She keened in response.

“Words, Granger,” he said.

“Y-yes, I can – Ahhh – take your f-fingers,” she stuttered, breathing hard, moving her hips against the feel of his tongue.

“You're so fucking good, Granger,” he mumbled.

A long finger slid into her. He moved it languidly in and out as his tongue stayed focused on her clit.

She clenched around him as he drew out more rushing waves of pleasure from her.

“Oh god, keep going, please. More,” she begged.

He inserted another finger along with the first and curled them in and out, in and out, slowly massaging the sensitive spot inside of her, creating waves of pleasure with every curl.

Her pleasure was growing, building, becoming too much. Any moment it would erupt.

“Tell me when you're close,” he groaned into her.

“I'm so close,” she gasped.

His movements quickened and he thrust his fingers hard and fast. He sucked down hard on her clit, and her pleasure swelled into an impossible crescendo and then she erupted. Fire flashed through her as her vision exploded in white. She clenched hard around him, shaking as shockwaves of intense pleasure crashed throughout her body. His fingers left her to keep her hips steady, but his mouth remained until the waves died down to a low hum of satisfaction and release.

Holy shit.

She breathed, basking in the feeling.

Like the calm after a storm, she felt renewed. An incredible feeling of release permeated her entire body. She felt like jelly.

Her hand softened its grip in his hair.

Malfoy pulled back and looked up at her with a huge grin. He wiped his face, then stood up and kissed her deeply. She could taste herself on him and it was both strange and incredibly sexy, until he pulled back and she noticed that his chest was wet.

“Oh my god,” she gasped, and covered her mouth in mortification. “Did I…?”

His grin widened. “I can’t believe you scolded me for having an unlit cigarette when you’re over here squirting around these old books. What are we going to do with you, Granger,” he teased. “Destroying books with that beautiful cunt.”

Her jaw dropped and she covered her eyes, horrified.

“Malfoy!” She groaned. “Is there damage? Did I ruin anything? I can’t look. Oh my god, I’m so mortified.”

He laughed deeply in his chest and pulled her hands away from her face, planting another sensual kiss on her lips. “I'm kidding. No books were harmed in your pleasure, you loon. And your mortification can fuck right off. That was the hottest thing I’ve seen in my entire life.”

Before he could witness her reaction, Malfoy bent down and picked up his wand, cleaning both of them with a charm. Then he picked up her sweater, and struggled righting it before pulling it over her head. He helped her arms through the sleeves one by one, pulled out her hair from the collar, and smoothed it around her with a little smirk.

He went down on his knees again and found her knickers. He picked up one foot, stepping it through, and then the other, before pulling them up her thighs.

Hermione watched, stunned and embarrassed, yet also incredibly touched and turned on.

Her hand went to his silver hair on its own accord, smoothing down where it had gotten dishevelled.

Malfoy looked up at her with heated eyes. His hand raised to caress her forearm, and he turned his head and pressed a kiss to her mudblood scar.

All the air in the room disappeared. The air crackled between them.

Grey eyes locked on hazel, saying a million things in a single glance.

Her heart clenched at the emotions that threatened to overwhelm her. With a shuddering breath, she gave him a little smile.

Malfoy moved to stand up and grabbed her elbow for support.

“Ouch!” She hissed at the pain she felt and rubbed her elbow.

Malfoy recoiled. Then, with narrowed eyes, he took her arm and rolled her sleeve up to inspect her elbow.

His eyes hardened. “What the fuck is this?” He growled at the bruises. “Who…?”

Hermione couldn’t help the warmth that spread through her at his concern. “The vanishing staircase,” she said.

A notch of confusion appeared between his brows.

“I fell through it this morning and landed rather hard. If you’re looking to avenge me, that might be a bit difficult as you’d be going up against a 1000-year-old castle,” she added, trying but failing to repress a grin.

He frowned.

“How the hell do you forget that step? First years learn to avoid it within a week.”

“I was reading.”

He gave her an unimpressed look, took his wand, and cast a healing spell. Then he rolled up her other sleeve and did the same. “This should help, but you should still put a bruise balm on it before bed,” he said.

She nodded.

“Why didn’t you heal it?” he asked.

Hermione shrugged. “I forgot about it. It’s not a big deal, really.”

He mumbled something under his breath that sounded like “bloody ridiculous,” and then reached down to pick up his own shirt.

He adjusted the front of his trousers, and Hermione’s eyes dropped to the significant bulge at his crotch.

Oh god, he was still hard. He’d given her so much pleasure, but she’d given nothing in return. How could she be so selfish? She should have…

“What?” Malfoy asked, looking up at her. By his expression, she knew her anguish must be written all over her face.

She bit her lip. “You’re hard,” she said, as though that explained everything.

He huffed a laugh and shot her a smirk. “I saw you naked. I saw you come. I tasted you, for fuck’s sake. Of course, I’m hard.”

“You could have let me…” She trailed off.

“For the love of Merlin, do not finish that sentence,” he ordered, voice straining. “I’m hard enough as it is.”

“But–”

“It’s fine, Granger. I can take care of it myself.”

She swallowed, shocked into a daze by the image of Malfoy stroking his own cock, and taking care of it.

He shrugged on his shirt and proceeded to do up the buttons.

Hermione stepped forward, swatted his hands away, and took over for him. He let her.

His eyes roamed her face. “You looked tense when you came in. What did the Pothead and Weasel do?” he asked.

“Don’t call them that,” she scolded with a disapproving look before asking, “How did you know?”

“The other Weasley said you were meeting the boys,” he said sarcastically.

She sighed, keeping her gaze on the buttons and gathered her thoughts.

“Sometimes I just feel like everyone is living in one solar system, each their own planet with their own moons and their own orbits, and I’m nothing but a lone comet just passing by.”

That was it, she realized. The feeling was the melancholy of diverging paths. The realization struck at her heart, and she felt sad. Her fingers faltered.

He observed her for a moment. “Being a comet has its benefits,” he told her. “You get to see the planets once in a while, they'll always be there, but you're not stuck in one small orbit, with a limited number of moons for company. You get to visit all the planets, travel space, and get closer to other stars than any planet ever will. You’re not limited like they are.”

“But I'll be drifting forever. Alone.”

“No. Comets have their paths too, but they always come back to the sun. You’ll find your home.”

Her heart filled with warmth and butterflies.

She lifted on her toes and touched her lips to his. Malfoy leaned down, following the pull of her lips.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

“For the delightful orgasm?” He asked cheekily.

She huffed a laugh and pushed him away. “For that wicked tongue of yours and all it can do,” she said with a grin, and picked up the Bowman Wright book from where it still sat on the shelf and left the aisle.

Malfoy followed her to the tables. He picked up her new book on colours and looked at it as she packed up her bag.

“Are you still formulating a hypothesis?” he asked, flipping through the book.

“I told you I would,” she said, tucking her hair behind her ears and holding out a hand.

He handed her the book with a little smirk. “Good.”

When they exited the library, Malfoy stuck his hands in his pockets and looked at her.

“Bruise balm,” he said, glancing at her elbows. “Don’t forget.”

Her heart pitter-pattered, and she said, “Alright.”

With that, they parted ways.

As she walked to Gryffindor tower, she felt her universe shift, just slightly.

Out of their isolated bubble in the back if the library, Hermione wondered,

Now what?

Chapter Text

She forgot the bruise balm.

Her elbows were still sore Sunday morning when she rolled over and propped herself up to reach for her wand on the side table.

Sitting up, Hermione conjured herself a large glass of water, and downed it before flopping onto her back, wand in hand. She stared up at the closed burgundy curtains around her bed as the world spun just a little bit.

It wasn’t the alcohol that was swirling around in her bloodstream, but the memories of the previous night.

An emotional hangover.

She felt like she was on two extreme ends of an emotional spectrum. On one end, there was a desperate sort of sadness, as though the events of last night had kindled a fire within her, burning her emotions until every feeling she’d been suppressing swirled out of her like smoke, choking her, threatening to overwhelm her until she was entirely burnt to timbre and there was no going back.

She was feeling a little dramatic, yes.

Ron’s behaviour had not been surprising, he was oblivious on a good day, but could be outright rude on a bad one. He was still bitter about how she’d ended their relationship.

And Harry... She had expected to have some good Harry time, maybe go off together and have a chat about life while commiserating and supporting each other like they’d used to, but Harry had been attached to Ginny all night and had been talking to Ron and Germaine about work. And Germaine…

Their new best friend. Not only that, but a girl who was beautiful, fit, outgoing and an auror trainee to top it off. Ugh.

After she’d broken up with Ron, a crack had developed between her and the boys. She’d thought time would repair it, but she realized last night that they’d all let it widen to a canyon. She felt like she was on one side and the boys were on the other, a great abyss between them, and she didn’t know how to get back across.

She felt numb with rejection and loneliness.

Making friends had never come easily to her. She knew she didn’t make a good first impression. There were parts of her personality that people generally had trouble digesting: her righteousness, her drive to be better, and her nosiness, to name a few; but she couldn’t change those parts of herself.

She only had a handful of good friends, really, and they were becoming distant.

Comets have their paths. You’ll find your way home.

On the other end of that emotional spectrum was a hum of excitement. Butterflies had taken up residence in her stomach. Last night had been life changing.

God, Draco Malfoy was… unexpected.

He was all tattoos, lean muscles, heavy lidded looks, featherlight touches, and sinfully hot lips curved into a smirk.

Her pulse sped up just thinking about the way he’d touched her, the way their bodies had felt together, the way his tongue had felt against her clit.

The way he’d called her perfect. Good girl.

The way he’d looked up at her from his knees.

The way that he’d kissed her neck, sending shivers through her.

The way his lips had brushed her scar.

The way he’d so gently dressed her as though he knew she needed that extra little bit of care.

God.

What would happen now? Would he want to do it again?

Desire flowed through her just thinking about it.

But first thing’s first. Hermione groaned, and forced herself to sit up, untwisting the oversized t-shirt she’d slept in as she did. She reached for her beaded bag and stuck her arm in, rummaging around the organized chaos. She found the bruise balm and pulled it out.

She rubbed the balm on her elbows, thinking of the way Malfoy had taken care of her last night. She’d taken care of herself for so long that his simple gestures had staggered her, touched her deeply.

She put the bruise balm back in its place in the organized chaos of her bag. Her hand brushed against a paper bag, and Hermione reached in again to pull out the black Angelica’s bag and put it on her bed.

She was a little scared to open it.

Her mouth dropped at what she saw. There was not one, but four items in four black boxes, each with gold lettering.

She took out the biggest one first, which read Silk Robe (Lilac).

She opened the box and sucked in a breath. The colour was a gorgeous, luminous pastel shade of lilac.

She peeled off her sleep shirt, shivering as the chilly morning air hit her, and slipped on the robe. She moaned as the cool, luxurious silk slid over her bare skin. It felt amazing.

Since she was the only one in the room, she let the robe hang open, and reached in the Angelica’s bag for another box.

It was labelled Periwinkles for Pleasure. Inside were two flowers – the nipple covers that she’d seen on the mannequin. She held one up and inspected it. It was smooth on both sides, and was made of a thin, soft material. Curious, she slipped it over her nipple. Almost like a magnet, it immediately latched on, but did nothing. She searched the box and found a piece of paper with the instructions: Tap to control vibrations. Swirl to control suction.

Heart racing, she tapped once, and a gentle vibration made her gasp. Her nipples immediately hardened, and the vibrations travelled through her body in a buzzing pleasure. She traced a circle, and a new feeling joined the first. It was a gentle sensation, pulling at her nipple and releasing it.

She threw her head back, gasping at the combined sensations. Her toes curled in reflex.

Holy shit. She understood why the sales assistant had said it was popular.

The dormitory door creaked, and Hermione jumped. She tore off the flower and put it back in the box, before wrapping the silk robe tighter around herself.

“Oh good. Hermione, you’re up!”

Ginny threw her things down and bounded over to sit at the foot of Hermione’s bed. “Ooooh, you opened it!”

Flustered and still buzzing from the sensations she’d just felt, Hermione fumbled with the box. “Just two so far,” she said, holding up the flowers. She hoped her cheeks were not as red as she feared.

Ginny smirked, and her eyes ran down Hermione’s body. “The sales assistant was right, that robe suits you. I mean, I already knew you were hot, but damn.”

Hermione looked down. The lilac robe was so silky that it had already slipped open in the middle, leaving a trail of skin between her breasts. Flushing, she pulled it tighter once more.

“Sorry,” she muttered, tying a knot with the belt to hold it together. Her nipples were still hard and showing through the silk. Great. “This robe is so beautiful though, I love it,” Hermione said, smiling up at her friend.

“Never apologize for being hot,” Ginny grinned. “Open the rest. I’ll explain everything.”

The next box was labelled Pleasure Apparatus (Ghost). She flushed crimson.

Oh god.

With a glance up at Ginny, she opened the lid. Inside, on black velvet, was a transparent blue dildo, in the general shape of a man’s cock – thank god for that at least.

She picked it up and looked at Ginny, eyebrows raised in scepticism. “Ghost?”

“Okay, here me out,” Ginny said conspiratorially. “I know it sounds weird, but Luna and I chose this one for you because it has the most options out of all of them. It has six different initial shapes to choose from, and girth and length are all adjustable. You can choose opacity level from mostly opaque to invisible if that’s something you’re into. And since it’s a ghost, you can control temperature, and it has a variety of vibration and movement pattern options. And I don’t know if you know, but these things move on their own, you just kind of lie down and let it do its thing.”

Hermione stared.

“Thought you might appreciate this one since you like to know everything,” she gave her a knowing smirk.

Hermione bit down on her lips. “You’re right,” she said, eventually, laughing. “That is thoughtful. And overwhelming. Holy shit.”

You get off to a ghost, Granger. Embrace it.

She flushed and tucked that mortifying memory to the back of her mind, glad that Ginny didn’t know what she was thinking.

Ginny laughed. “I know right? I only have a wizard one, so you’ll have to tell me how you like it.”

Hermione placed it back in the box and reached for the last one.

“I should tell you,” Ginny began. “We chose the ghost but the saleswitch recommended the others. I have no idea why, but she was very insistent that you would like this one.”

Hermione looked down. Silver Snitch. Her heart stopped.

No way.

She opened the box, and the silver snitch with white feather wings stared up at her, threatening to expose all her secrets. She replaced the cover.

“Are you going to tell me why she was convinced you’d want a snitch?” Ginny asked with a wry grin. “The girl who can’t pay attention to a two-minute quidditch conversation?”

“Nope,” she said, biting her cheek.

Thankfully, Ginny just laughed and leaned back against the footboard.

Hermione put the boxes back in the bag. “Thank you for all of these, really,” she said. “It’s a lot to take in, but I do appreciate it.”

“As long as you enjoy them,” Ginny said with a wicked grin.

Hermione smiled in return, thankful for Ginny’s ability to diffuse tension with humour.

“Where did you go last night?” Ginny asked delicately, a hint of concern seeping into her tone.

Hermione set the bag on her side table and leaned back against the headrest, mirroring Ginny’s posture. She thought for a minute on what to say. “I came back to the castle. I just…” She trailed off, fiddling with the end of the silk belt.

“You were disappointed in Ron and Harry, weren’t you?”

Hermione looked up at Ginny in shock. How did she know?

“I could see it on your face,” Ginny explained. “Both of them were being idiots, honestly.”

“It’s just, it’s been so long since I’d seen them. And you’re right, I was disappointed. I was expecting it to be more like old times, but things have changed,” Hermione said.

“Ron was being more of an idiot than usual – I’m not that surprised, honestly – but I expected more out of Harry. We argued about it after you left,” Ginny said.

Hermione’s stomach dropped. “You did?”

“Yeah, I'm sorry Hermione, really. Ron was completely out of line bringing Germaine and being such a prick to you in general. I gave him a good verbal lashing.”

Hermione inwardly cringed. That would only make Ron double down.

“I don't know Ginny,” she admitted. “It almost feels like we're just drifting apart. I thought our friendships would stand the test of time, but it’s only been three months and they've already forgotten about me.”

As her feelings became voiced, the metaphorical fire inside became bigger, laying waste to her emotions. Her eyes prickled at the smoke, threatening tears, but she blinked them away.

Ginny looked at her in sympathy. “Come on,” she said, after a moment. “Get dressed, let’s go find Luna and raid the kitchens. I’m starving!”

∞∞∞

When she went down to lunch, her eyes scanned the Slytherin table, but Malfoy was nowhere to be seen.

He wasn’t in the library either. Or at dinner.

Everywhere she went, Hermione glanced around the Great Hall for a glimpse of Malfoy’s blonde hair. She peered around busy areas of the castle. She even looked up at every student who entered the library, but he was nowhere to be found.

She spotted him at dinner on Monday, but he was absorbed in a book, and didn’t look up no matter how she willed it.

On Tuesday, Malfoy made eye contact at lunch. His grey eyes were curious, and his mouth curved into a pleasant little smirk as she twisted her hair up and secured it with her wand before sitting down alone to eat a quick lunch. Not five minutes later, she was jumping out of her seat to head to the library. She tried to catch his eye as she was leaving, but he wasn’t looking.

Later, in the library, she had gotten so absorbed in her essay that she’d missed dinner and had to sneak into the kitchens for a snack.

By Wednesday morning, she was questioning everything. They’d kissed. They’d done… sexual things. Why hadn’t Malfoy sought her out?

Had it just been a one-time thing for him? Had it meant nothing? Would he just show up to potions on Friday and pretend like everything was the same?

When in reality everything was different.

At breakfast, Circe and a small brown owl were there to greet her. She took the letters and watched the birds fly out through the high windows.

She opened the unknown one first. It was from McGonagall.

Dear Hermione,

I hope you are well. I have heard from several parents about your classes. They have expressed concern about the class being taught by a student, and some have made complaints related to your methods of teaching. However, I have assured them, as I assure you, that you have my entire, implicit trust. Do not worry about the parents. Carry on.

Sincerely,

Minerva McGonagall

Hermione folded the letter neatly and tucked it away in her bag.

Well, even though parents and students were clearly unhappy, at least now she didn’t have to be worried that she’d be sacked.

She picked up Harry’s letter next, nervous about the content. She hadn’t quite figured out her feelings yet. Her fingers fiddled with the rough edges of the parchment nervously before opening it. At a glance, she could tell there was nothing from Ron; it was all Harry’s scrawling handwriting.

Hermione,

Where did you go on Saturday? When I got back to the table, you were gone, and nobody had seen you leave. Is everything all right? Were you upset because of what Ron said?

I really wish you could both just put things in the past and get along again. The three of us were so close before, and I don’t know about you, but I really miss that. I know you’re trying, but I just think Ron just hasn’t really had any closure, you know? He told me he doesn’t even really know why you broke up. Sometimes when we get drunk, he still goes on about it. It’s been four months… Don’t you think enough time has passed that you can meet up with Ron and hash things out? I’d really love for us all to be friends again like before.

I wish we could get dinner, just you and me, but it’s just been so busy here. But if you want to make a visit to Grimmauld Place to see me and Ron on a weekend, feel free to come anytime. Your room will always be there for you. Otherwise, we’ll see you at Slughorn’s party in a few weeks?

Love,

Harry

Hermione stared at the letter in her hands and read it over three times. Disappointment left a sour taste in her mouth.

She sighed and furrowed her brow as she re-read the words.

Had dating Ron really ruined their friendship for good?

Harry always asked her to fix things because Ron was too bloody stubborn to let things go, especially when he was in the wrong. In all their years as friends, it always fell to her to fix everything, and she was so, so tired of it.

Hermione rummaged through her bag for some spare parchment and her favourite eagle feather quill.

She put quill to parchment to write a reply, but her hand remained still. What would she even write?

With a sigh, she began,

Harry,

I wasn’t feeling well on Saturday, so I decided to go back early. Sorry I didn’t tell you. I really miss you and Ron, and I know our breakup has made things weird. Maybe you’re right that I need to talk to R-

Her hand faltered, and her lip curled. No. Fuck that. She was not the one in the wrong, and it wasn’t her job to fix it when it was her heart that was hurt. She crossed it out and started again.

Harry,

Sorry I left without saying anything. I don’t have time to go to Grimmauld Place in the next few weeks, I’ve been terribly busy with teaching and NEWTS, but do let me know if you find time for dinner.

With an annoyed huff, she put her quill down. It still sounded too apologetic, and she had nothing to be sorry for. After a moment, she picked up her quill again and wrote, fervently,

Harry,

What you and Ron said yesterday hurt me a lot, and to be quite frank, I think you both owe me an apology.

I’m so sad that we’ve grown distant, but it’s not only my fault. I feel like you both have this amazing new life without me. And you’re both thriving with new best friends, girlfriends, and jobs you love. I’m honestly so happy that you’re both happy, but it hurts that I’m not a part of your new life.

I have no idea how to fix this. You figure it out.

All my love,

Hermione

Hermione stared at the letter for a full minute before casting an Incendio and watching the orange flame eat up the parchment, burning it to ash on her plate. A glance around told her none of the first years were nearby, which was good, otherwise she’d probably get a reputation as a pyromaniac. She ignored the weird looks from her neighbours at the Gryffindor table, and stuffed Harry’s letter in her bag, out of sight. She wouldn’t reply until she had a modicum of an idea what to say.

One thought permeated her whole body: it shouldn’t be this hard to talk to someone she considered her best friend.

They’d been her best friends – the closest people to her – for seven years, and the only two people in her life for a good part of one.

Sometimes she thought their friendship was borne of trauma. Her, Harry, and Ron had always been the closest when bonding over traumatic experiences – fighting the troll, solving mysteries, saving Sirius, rebelling against Umbridge, hunting for Horcruxes, robbing banks, infiltrating the ministry, being on the run, hiding from Snatchers, running from Death Eaters, fighting Voldemort.

They’d all been through a lot, hadn’t they?

She’d been consistently risking her life for their friendship since they were first years.

And the down times in between when they’d had a normal existence… Well, she’d latched on and tried her darndest to be a good friend, even though at times they complained and found her annoying, as most people did.

Had they really chosen to be friends? Or had they just been thrown together by circumstance? She really wondered, sometimes.

But now, when they were no longer forced together by the confines of a common room or a tent, was the time for choosing.

And they weren’t exactly choosing her, were they?

∞∞∞

As Hermione was walking to her Wednesday afternoon Ravenpuff class, a hand reached out to pull her into the hidden alcove behind the tapestry of Trawg the Tragic.

Her yelp was quelled by a large hand over her lips. A warm, hard body crowded her into the stone wall.

Playful grey eyes looked down on her, and before she could react, the hand on her mouth threaded through her hair, and Malfoy leaned down to capture her lips with his. She reacted automatically, relaxing into him, and opening her mouth to his probing lips. He tasted like green apple and smoke.

Their tongues met, and the silky feel of his sliding languidly against hers brought back memories of that night in the library. She felt her heart race with desire. Her nipples tightened, and a buzzing pleasure filled her body. She pulled him in closer and felt him, half hard already, against her. She moaned into his mouth.

No, no, no, she had class in ten minutes. She was the teacher. She couldn’t be late.

Hermione pulled away first. Malfoy’s eyes were bright, and a hint of a smile played on his delectable lips. The smell of smoke pulled her attention to the lit cigarette between his fingers, which he was holding out to the side, away from her. He must have been smoking in the alcove when she was walking by.

“Why are you so bloody hard to find?” he said. “Not avoiding me, are you?”

“What?” She stared in shock, searching his face for a sign of… anything really, but his face betrayed nothing. “You’re the one who’s hard to find!”

“Tried, have you?” he asked, giving her a disbelieving eyebrow raise.

“I, well…” she frowned. She hadn’t really. “No. I've been a bit busy.”

He exhaled a laugh. “Right.”

“But I was hoping to run into you,” she breathed.

He looked at her appraisingly, then shook his head with silent laughter and took a step back. He pulled the cigarette up to his mouth and inhaled. He turned to exhale a plume of smoke out of the open window in the alcove.

From his position angled towards the window, she could admire his frame: He stood tall, with perfectly trained posture. She could see his shoulder blades through the tailored black cashmere sweater he was wearing – sans cloak, didn’t he ever get cold? – and she admired the curved slope of his back towards his thin waist. He was lithe and toned with the vitality of an athlete. She wondered what he did for exercise.

“The prospect of yellow teeth not put you off smoking?” Hermione asked, clearing her throat.

He shrugged and looked back at her with a knowing smirk. “You did say that could be prevented with a potion to repair any damage to the tooth enamel. I couldn’t find any specifically for that, so I figure I’ll just create one.”

The air left her lungs in shock. “You’re just going to… invent a potion?”

“Why not?”

Hermione shook her head. She struggled with advanced potion making because of the complexity involved. It took a lot of mental cataloguing of ingredients and their interactions to be able to create new potions successfully. Being named a Potions Master took years of study and recognition. The fact that he could just create potions was enormously attractive.

“Can you really do that?” she asked.

“Maybe,” he asked, shrugging. He turned back to her and searched her eyes. “How are the elbows?”

He took another drag and then put out the cigarette on the stone window ledge. Then with a lazy swish of his index finger, it was gone. He turned back to her with an expectant look.

“All healed,” she said, letting the reminder of the gentle way he’d taken care of her ignite a warmth within her, pulling a smile from her lips.

“Tell me the truth, you forgot the bruise balm didn’t you?”

“I remembered on Sunday morning,” she told him sheepishly.

He shook his head.

“Nothing else broken? Did you walk into any walls? Fall down and bang up your knees? No other injuries you’ve been neglecting?” he asked, looking up and down her body dramatically with a little smirk.

Just my heart.

She pushed down that thought, gave him a wry grin, and said, “I'm fine, but thank you.”

He searched her face for a moment, sucking in his cheek, and then looked back out the window.

“What?” she asked.

“Nothing,” he said, shaking his head. He rummaged through his black leather satchel and pulled out a book. “Here.”

He held it out and she took it, looking down at an old leather brown cover with the faded words, An Advanced Inventory of Adaptable Ingredients by Avery Ingrit.

Hermione fingered the edge of the well-loved book, surprised. She half expected he’d been joking when he’d mentioned it in potions. She felt overwhelmed, grateful, excited. The butterflies were back, fluttering around inside her, making her giddy.

She hugged the book to her chest and beamed up at him. “Thank you,” she said, tears welling up behind her eyes. He probably thought she was crazy, getting emotional over a book.

Malfoy stepped in closer to her again, and a hand came up to brush her hair behind her ear. “Page thirty-one. Another one that reminds me of you,” he said with an affectionate smirk. “Do you have class now?”

She checked her watch. She had one minute. Oops.

“Yes, shoot, I have to go! See you… later?” she asked, biting her lip.

Malfoy looked between her eyes and her bitten lip for a few seconds, before saying, “Tomorrow night, eight o’clock in the courtyard?”

Unable to stop the smile from creeping up, she said, “Yes. See you then.”

∞∞∞

After a successful Ravenpuff class, dinner with Ginny and Luna, and a few hours finishing up her History of Magic essay in the library, she packed up, dressed in her cosiest pyjamas (a soft pink flannel set), and settled into her bed. Crookshanks hopped up and lay down at her feet.

She flipped through the potions book to page thirty-one.

There was a small slip of paper with the words, wild, like Granger, in a neat cursive script. Hermione smiled. Of course his handwriting looked like a calligrapher’s dream. She wondered if he’d meant for her to see it.

She tucked the slip of paper into the spine and started reading.

Underneath a drawing of a bushy brown plant with curly tendrils creeping every which way was the title:

Cuscuta, also known as Witch’s Hair

She choked back a laugh, accidentally startling Crookshanks, who looked at her, disgruntled, before stretching and flopping down in the opposite direction.

Well, that explained it. The picture did look like an artistic rendition of her hair after a night of sleep to frizz it up.

Was he just making a joke? She bit her lip, unsure how she felt about that. Malfoy had said he’d liked her hair. There had to be more to this.

She traced a finger over the old page and read on:

I much prefer the colloquial term, Witch’s Hair, for obvious reasons.

Most people think of Witch’s Hair as a parasitic plant with nothing of value. That is, of course, not the case, or I would not have included it.

Witch’s Hair is indeed parasitic; it needs other plants to live and to thrive.

When Witch's Hair attaches itself to other plants, it amplifies that plant’s magical properties. For example, when Witch’s Hair attaches to Nightshade, the Nightshade becomes twice as powerful a toxin in potion making.

If you cut away the bond between them, then both sides will become weaker, and the host plant will never fully recover.

If you're lucky enough to find Witch’s Hair in the wild, you have struck gold, because the amount of pure magic flowing through this plant is unmatched. The host plant and Witch’s Hair have a reciprocal relationship. Not only is the host’s plant’s potency improved, but it also makes the Witch’s Hair stronger and more powerful by sharing its energy. The more hosts and variety of hosts a plant has, the more potent its own abilities become, and its effect on others.

Witch’s Hair as an ingredient strengthens bones and many internal organs. (He’d underlined bones.) Though rare, and expensive, it has been used for many a health elixir.

In summary, despite common thought, Witch’s Hair attaches to a specific variety of host plants, making both itself and the plants hosting it better and more powerful.

It is the only plant in the wild known to have this effect.

Well then. It was clearly about more than hair, but she wasn’t exactly sure what to take from it.

Hermione ran her fingertips over the words as she contemplated their meaning. If she was the cuscuta, then did he mean that she made others better? Or that she needed other people just as much as they needed her? That she left people in worse shape than she found them? She’d have to ask him about it later.

She stuck her nose in the book and kept reading until her eyelids became heavy and she slipped into a deep sleep.

∞∞∞

After dinner on Thursday, Hermione made a trip to the kitchens, picked up two tumblers of spiced hot chocolate, and made her way to the Grand Entrance. She wrapped a big red scarf around her face and snuggled into her warm winter cloak and exited through the large doors and out into the cold night. She followed the dark castle walls towards the courtyard. The wind howled above her, whipping loose tendrils of hair in all directions.

The courtyard was built off the castle, three arched walls with a myriad of stone benches, little alcoves, a large fountain in the centre, and an unobstructed view of the night sky. Hermione always liked the courtyard, but as she had so little downtime, she rarely made it out there.

Night had long since fallen in the Scottish countryside. Torches flared from the sconces around the walls as she entered, lighting up the area in a soft yellow glow.

She sat down on a bench and took a sip of scalding hot chocolate to stay the cold.

She looked at her watch. It was 7:55. She was early.

At 8:00, she started tapping her fingers on her knee – a nervous habit she’d had since she was little. Malfoy was always early to class. She assumed he’d be punctual.

But there was a lot that she didn’t know about Draco Malfoy. What did she know about him, really?

He was an enigma: a reformed Death Eater who didn’t believe what he used to, had muggle friends and tattoos of flowers. He smoked, he drank firewhiskey after hours, he rebelled against the dress code and did what he wanted in potions. He always retaliated when someone was rude to him, but he was polite otherwise. He liked to tease her. He was far too handsome to be real, kissed like a fallen angel, and could get her wet with nothing but words. His brain was incredible – the things that he knew, the fact that he read books for fun, that he just absorbed so much knowledge and wanted to share it with her… He was everything she wanted.

Her relationship with Ron had always felt a bit immature. It had been an awkward transition from friends to lovers: fumbling kisses, awkward, uninspiring sex, and unromantic conversations.

But whatever this was that she had with Malfoy was sexy, fun, and exhilarating, and Draco Malfoy was all man – there was not a drop of immaturity about him.

She glanced down at her watch. It read 8:13. The glow she was feeling faded.

Why was he late? Did he get caught up with something? Had she gotten the time wrong?

No, he’d said 8 pm in the courtyard, she was sure of it.

Had she been forgotten… again?

8:18.

She hadn’t heard any approaching footsteps. She hadn’t seen a soul since she’d left the castle.

The chill of the night air began to permeate her cloak; she shivered and wrapped her scarf tighter.

Malfoy’s hot chocolate sat untouched on the bench. She stared at it.

Had she gotten everything wrong? Had she been too optimistic?

8:27.

Where was he?

Had something happened to him?

She was torn between worry and rejection, but both raged within her to kindle her anxiety.

Oh god. Had he changed his mind? Was it over before it started?

The more she thought about it, the more it nagged at her that he hadn’t wanted her to reciprocate after he’d given her an orgasm. Did he have limits to whatever this was?

Surely it wasn’t related to her blood status… right? The idea stung, and she quickly scolded herself.

He’d changed.

But two things occurred to her: Malfoy had never outright talked about his beliefs. She was making a lot of assumptions. Was he not what she thought?

Hermione pulled her legs up and hugged them for some extra warmth and stared at the torch across from her.

After a while she put her head on her knees.

No.

The Draco Malfoy she knew now was not the same as before. He looked at her with dusky, heady eyes, and had played with her hair as they’d sat together, both seeking companionship, just the two of them.

8:56.

She sighed, heart aching. She’d so dearly hoped to see him, to spend some time chatting and getting to know him more.

She wanted to kiss him again.

She wanted to do a lot more than kiss him if she were being honest.

It was times like these when she wished the magical world had more advanced modes of communication. There was really no way to find him. Phoning would be so much easier. But no, she had to wait and find out.

She hoped that nothing had happened to him, but she dreaded the alternative: that he’d forgotten their date.

Five minutes later, she stood up and walked back to her dormitory.

∞∞∞

Hermione arrived early to her Slytherdor class and sat in the big wooden armchair behind the desk, ruminating on the disaster that had been last Friday, and trying not to be distracted by the fact that she’d be seeing Malfoy in Potions later. She was still nervous about what he would say.

Last week, her class had erupted into chaos, fist fights, and screaming matches. She’d used magic to silence and hold student’s captive. She was sure if there as a guidebook for teaching, that class would go down as an example of what not to do.

She felt oddly calm, though, like she’d already hit rock bottom and things could only go up. Whatever happened, would happen.

Ava showed up early, as usual. The little girl ran up to Hermione and bounced on her toes in front of the teacher’s desk in excitement.

“Good morning, Ava,” Hermione said, grinning at her antics.

“Professor!” Ava said, smiling widely. “I know last class you were angry at us, but what you did was so cool! I’ve never seen magic like that! And you shut up Digger and Adam, which is always amazing. I think some of their parents complained though. You’re not leaving, right? I don’t want a new teacher.”

Ava said all this very fast, and Hermione felt a surge of affection for the girl. Ava reminded her of her younger self, always eager to talk to professors.

“No, I’m not leaving, don’t worry,” Hermione reassured her, and then tilted her head as she tried to figure out what was different about the girl. Ah, she was lacking the red and gold. “Where’s your tie?” Hermione asked.

Ava’s answer was interrupted by the old creaky classroom door opening and students piling in. Hermione stared in shock as she looked at everyone.

Every single student in Gryffindor had taken their tie off.

Ava looked at her. “You were so cool last week that we all decided to stop wearing our ties, like you. The Gryffindors, at least.”

Hermione raised her eyebrows and looked around.

“Although, to be honest, I think most of them just want to do it so they can break the school rules,” Ava added in a whisper.

Yes, that made more sense. Most of these students would be more eager to break the dress code than try to get along with each other.

Regardless, she couldn’t help a smile from creeping up onto her face.

“Hermione?” Hope called out. “Where are we sitting?”

“Same as last time,” Hermione said so everyone could hear her, “with your new partners.”

Ava sighed and pouted.

“Problem?” Hermione asked, not unkindly.

“It’s just that Digger hates me. He’s always picking on me, calling me names, annoying me.” Ava puffed up her cheeks in annoyance.

“I’m sure he doesn’t hate you.”

“He does,” Ava mumbled, and went to her seat.

Sean and Adam came in last.

Adam sat down with a glare, throwing himself angrily into his seat next to Luke, who was glaring in the opposite direction.

Sean plopped down next to Ava and gawked at her.

“Where’s your tie?”

Ava shrugged and told him haughtily, “We’ve decided to stop wearing them like Professor Hermione.”

Sean looked at her curiously for a moment before looking around.

Then he shrugged and loosened his own tie, pulling it over his head and throwing it in his bag. “Okay,” he said shrugging and slouching back in his seat. “Oi!” he said, getting the attention of his classmates in Slytherin. “The Gryffs have stopped wearing ties.”

Indie looked around curiously and took hers off. Chase shrugged and did the same.

Adam, Hope, and Jade kept theirs on.

Hermione observed the pairs as they settled into their assigned seats.

Jade was writing something with a fluffy fuchsia quill in her notebook while Amir tried to get a glimpse, prompting the girl to angle her book away from him with a raised eyebrow.

Anna was biting her fingernails, glancing at Chase curiously as he looked around the class with an enigmatic expression.

Jamal was red-eared, staring at the table in front of him, and Indie looked bored.

Veronica was absorbed by a set of small pictures in her hands. She was showing one to Anna, who sat a row below her. Hope was looking at the pile enviously. “Are those the Wand Wailers?”

“Yeah,” Veronica said defensively. “So?”

“Jax is my favourite,” Hope mumbled, still eyeing the cards.

After a minute, Veronica carefully looked through her pile and selected one. “Here,” she said, putting it down in front of Hope.

Hope stared at it in surprise and picked up the picture. She looked at Veronica as though trying to figure out if it would explode, but when it didn’t, she stared at the photo with a little smile.

“You can have it. Epiphane is mine, so you can have Jax,” Veronica said.

“... Thanks,” Hope said, awkwardly.

Hermione bit the inside of her cheek in relief and mild amusement. If sharing a dorm with Lavender and Parvati had taught her anything, it was that sharing a love of celebrities was a sure-fire way to become friends. Hermione, of course, hadn’t known any of the magical celebrities.

She stood up. Everyone went quiet and all eyes fell on her.

She blinked in shock.

Well, that was different. Had she somehow earned their respect with her outburst?

She cleared her throat. “I see that you've all taken my words to heart and that you have all shown up today, so that’s a great start. For today’s class, please be civil to each other. Any kind of fighting whatsoever will get you detention tonight, and I can guarantee that you will regret it. It will not be any old boring detention washing cauldrons, writing lines, or sorting old files. It will be challenging work. So, you are all warned. Misbehave at your own risk.”

Class started with a concise review of the visualization steps, and then she assigned them to work on something small.

“We’re going to focus on texture and viscosity. Your task is to master turning a rock into rubber. Come find me to demonstrate when you think you’ve managed it,” she told them before letting them get to work.

Throughout the class, Hermione watched the students carefully. Most of them worked quietly and independently, save for two pairs.

Jade mastered the task first, and once she had demonstrated rock into rubber, and rock into cotton, she set about begrudgingly correcting Amir’s wand movement and telling him how she’d done it. That was a good sign.

Sean, on the other hand, was throwing bits of paper at Ava, who was glaring at him.

“Sean,” Hermione said sternly, “This is your first warning. Do not throw things at Ava or anyone else. Focus on your task.”

Ten minutes later, Sean was whispering things to Ava, who kept rolling her eyes, glaring, and trying to ignore him. “Digger!” Ava said, “Please just shut up and let me work.”

“Sean, last warning,” Hermione said. But the satisfied look on his face was all too worrisome.

“Digger!” Ava shouted, not fifteen minutes later. Hermione looked up from her desk again and spotted the girl picking something out of her hair. “Ugh. What is wrong with you?”

Hermione sighed. There went her evening. “What happened?”

“Professor! He transfigured his rock into slime and put it in my hair!”

“What? I didn’t throw it,” Sean said defensively.

“You two, come here.”

They did. Hermione swished her wand and made the slime disappear. Ava patted down her hair in relief, then sent an angry glare at Sean.

“Sean, detention tonight. Meet me outside of the Great Hall at seven-thirty,” Hermione said.

“Yes, Ms. G,” he said, not sounding the least bit remorseful.

Class concluded with five student’s successful transfigurations. She set the rest to practice and help each other for homework.

“I expect both students in your current pairings to successfully transfigure a rock into rubber by next Friday. Help each other if you need to. Any pairs who have not succeeded will have additional work in the form of an essay to help you absorb the material we are learning – both of you, so helping each other would be in your best interest.”

After a few groans and grumbles, she dismissed the class for lunch.

∞∞∞

Malfoy was missing at lunch, and by the time Hermione arrived at Potions, worry had bubbled up and settled in her stomach.

As soon as she entered the room, she scanned around for a sign of him. Their desk was empty, and his blond hair was absent.

“Good weekend, Hermione?”

She looked over at Duncan’s Scottish lilt and found him seated nearby. “It was great. You?” she said distractedly.

“Would have been better with you,” he said with a grin.

She laughed awkwardly. Thankfully, at that moment, Duncan’s friend came over to slap him on the shoulder and steal his attention.

Hermione slipped away and sat down at their table.

She stared at the empty seat next to her.

When class started, Malfoy’s absence was palpable. If he was missing class, then something must have happened. Could he be in the Hospital Wing?

She was so distracted by her thoughts that she completely ignored Slughorn’s explanation of the Mirage Potion they were to make.

She was staring at the door to the classroom, willing Malfoy to appear when she heard another door shut and saw that Slughorn was once again sequestered in his office.

Unbelievable.

Fuming at Slughorn’s utter lack of regard for teaching, she set up her cauldron, cutting board, knives, mortar and pestle, and then made her way to the ingredients closet.

Luna was in there by herself.

“Hi Luna,” Hermione said with barely contained rage.

“Hi,” Luna said as she struggled with opening a jar of dragonfly wings. “Everything alright? You look like you have an infestation of glimmerdrats.”

Hermione gestured erratically towards the classroom, displaying her frustration. “It’s just Slughorn, he's... he's terrible!” she huffed, crossing her arms.

“Ah, yes he is rather. I miss Professor Snape,” Luna said.

“You do?” Hermione raised her brows.

“Sure. He was exceptionally rude, but he was reliable, and he had high expectations. He always taught us his own modified recipes and watched us carefully for safety. Slughorn never deviates from the book and leaves us alone half the time.”

“Yes.”

“Where's Draco?” Luna asked.

“I'm not sure,” she admitted.

“Oh? I thought you were close with him.”

“So did I,” Hermione admitted, and then looked at Luna. “We kissed on Saturday,” she blurted out. “More than that, actually.”

“That's nice,” Luna looked at her, eyes twinkling.

“You don't sound surprised.”

“It's clear as day to anyone looking properly. Draco desires your attention. And you desire his. You're like two magnets drawn to each other. And I think, without outside forces like the others in your year or a war between you keeping you apart, you finally have a chance to follow the pull and connect.”

Hermione wanted to cry. It felt like such a relief that she had one person on her side. She couldn't find the right words, but Luna understood and patted her arm.

“Ginny wouldn't understand,” Hermione said.

“Yes I think most people won't,” Luna said absentmindedly as she stood on tip toes to search the shelves. “They see him as an enemy.”

“He's not,” Hermione huffed.

“I know that, but people find it hard to see past a bad history, you know. And his is quite bad.”

Hermione sighed.

She looked around and tried to recall the ingredients for the day’s potions. “What do we need again?”

Luna let out a laugh of disbelief and grinned. “Bit distracted today, aren't you?” she teased.

“Shush,” Hermione said, and frowned at a jar of powdered unicorn horn that sat at her eye level. “Fuck it,” she muttered, and grabbed what she needed for a more useful potion she knew by heart: Draught of Peace.

She would pull a Malfoy and rebel a little.

As expected, Slughorn was still absent when she returned to her seat.

∞∞∞

Sean was a little bugger.

“Where are we going?”

“The library.”

“Why are we going to the library, Ms. G?”

“Detention.”

“But why?”

“Detention,” she repeated.

“But what kind of detention?”

“You'll see.”

“But what could you possibly have me do in the library for detention?”

Hermione stopped in her tracks and sighed. She looked down at Sean.

“You're going to be helping me with a personal project. Reading and learning how to write proper citations worthy of a research paper.”

His jaw dropped and horror befell his face.

Hermione leaned down to his level.

“And what are you not allowed to do in the library?” she asked.

“Throw books. Run. Light a fire. Spill water. Annoy Pince–”

“Talk.”

Sean’s jaw dropped. “You’re evil.”

“I did warn you,” she said with a smirk.

Sean’s eyebrows jumped up. He looked halfway between amused and resigned.

“Okay,” he said with begrudging respect. “You're cleverer than the other teachers, Ms. G. You’ve got a mean streak.”

She bit her lip to hold back laughter.

An hour later, they were settled at a library table, and Sean was deep into Spirits and Memory, parchment half-filled with quotes and citations as she’d taught him. He was more into it than she'd thought he would be.

Hermione paged through her pile of restricted books, which Sean eyed in envy.

“Can I read one of those, Ms. G? Please,” he moaned. “Malicious Mesmers sounds so much cooler than this one.”

“No. Not this time, anyway,” she said distractedly.

He brightened up. “You mean I can read it next time?”

Hermione looked at him and bit back a grin. “Are you telling me you want to do this again?”

Sean’s eyes widened and his cheeks turned pink. He lowered his head, hiding his eyes under the black hair that fell over his forehead. “No,” he said, and started reading again.

She chuckled.

Wump.

A heavy bag being set down on their table made her look up.

She froze.

Draco Malfoy stood with one hand on a chair. He wore his usual black jeans and sweatshirt.

She felt a rush of emotions: relief that he was okay, happy that he’d sought her out again, fear at what his excuse would be.

Her eyes trailed over his body, admiring his stature, the thigh muscles she’d become acquainted with, the strong shoulders and abs she knew were hidden beneath his sweatshirt, those perfect kissable lips, and perceptive grey eyes currently appraising Sean under a fringe of light blond. She swallowed.

He turned to look at her and she sucked in a breath at the intensity of his silver eyes. A dark bruise surrounded his right eye, and he had a cut on his cheekbone.

“What happened to you?” She asked, worried, frozen.

He averted his eyes. He looked weary but relieved as he sat down in the chair next to her.

“I’m fine,” he said wearily, leaning back in his seat and reaching a hand up to run through his blond locks. He glanced between her and Sean.

Sean had his quill paused mid dip, and his eyes were darting between them curiously.

“Granger, have you acquired a minion?” Malfoy asked, furrowing his brow in confusion as he tried to work out their dynamic.

Relieved more than anything that he was acting normal, Hermione hid a smile behind her hand and glanced at Sean to see him smirking.

“Detention,” she explained.

“Him or you?” Malfoy asked with a notch between his brows.

“Him,” she emphasized, giving him a dry look. He shrugged. “McGonagall’s having me teach some of her classes for a few months,” she added, realizing that he probably didn’t know. “He got detention today.”

“You’re fucking with me.” Malfoy’s eyes scanned her face as though trying to catch the lie.

“Malfoy!” She nodded pointedly towards Sean, who was looking gleeful. Malfoy ignored her.

“Does she know that you’re taking seven NEWT classes? And that you just spent the last year bringing down the Dark Lord and fighting in a fucking war?”

He looked angry, and it was not exactly the reaction she’d expected. She dragged her fingers through her curls nervously. “Can we talk about this later? We're in the library.”

“Pince isn't here right now.” Malfoy licked his lips and turned his unimpressed gaze to Sean.

“I’ve seen you around,” he said. “What’s your name?”

“Sean Digger,” Sean said, eyeing the older blond nervously. “Sir,” he added.

Awareness flashed through Malfoy’s eyes, and he sized up the younger boy.

“Digger, huh? And what did you do to get the pleasure of Granger’s company this evening?”

Sean shrugged and fiddled with his quill. “Throwing things, annoying Ava, putting slime in Ava’s hair,” he recited. “Or was it just the last one?”

“All of the above,” Hermione said, giving Sean a wry look.

“And what are you doing?” Malfoy nodded towards Sean’s paper.

Hermione answered first. “He's helping me research.”

“So, a minion.” Malfoy’s lip quirked. “You're using a first year for help with homework?”

Hermione flushed. “No! Of course not. It's a personal project of mine. No one is getting graded on any of it.”

Malfoy’s brows raised in interest, but he switched tracks again, focusing on Sean.

“There are two things to know about Hermione Granger,” Malfoy said, setting his gaze on the boy. “She loves essays. She used to write them for fun at your age. Take from that what you will.”

“She already threatened essays if we can’t do the spell by next week,” Sean muttered.

Malfoy gave Hermione a satisfied smirk before turning back to Sean. “The other thing is that she might look innocent, but you don’t want to underestimate her. Not only is she the smartest and most powerful witch at Hogwarts, but she’s done more insane things than you could even dream of.”

Hermione’s jaw dropped and she let out a breath of disbelief. “Don’t listen to him, Sean.”

“Ms. G threw her tie down and burned it during class last week,” Sean said, grinning.

“Psh,” Malfoy scoffed, looking amused. “Child’s play.”

Sean’s eyes widened. “What else has she done?”

Malfoy looked at her and cocked his head. “Do you want to answer this one?”

She narrowed her eyes. “What are you doing, Malfoy?”

“No? I know plenty. For example, she brewed Polyjuice in secret in second year.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Great. Just tell my students that I’ve broken school rules. That’s helpful.”

“She also started a student rebel group called Dumbledore’s Army in fifth year and created an entire new system of communication for it.”

Hermione huffed. How did he even know that she’d started it? Or about the coins? She narrowed her eyes at him in warning.

“She blackmailed a reporter in fourth year.”

“You were feeding her nonsense rumours about me,” she snapped.

Malfoy shot her a look and lifted his hand to whisper over at Sean, “I also heard she broke into one of the oldest vaults in Gringotts and escaped on a dragon.”

Sean’s jaw dropped. “Seriously?”

Hermione groaned and put her head in her hands. “Malfoy!”

“What?” he shrugged. “You impersonated and stole from Bellatrix, are you surprised that I knew about it?”

“Bellatrix Lestrange?” Sean asked, looking queasy.

“How many Bellatrixes do you know?” Malfoy asked him, brow raised.

“You don’t need to be telling my students these things, Malfoy! Parents have already been complaining! Sean, they are all lies, do not listen to him.”

Sean looked suspiciously between them.

Malfoy shrugged and turned back to Sean. “Believe what you want. She is the most qualified person you could find to teach you. But she is not like other people, Digger. Granger is special. This is the tip of the iceberg. She literally saved the wizarding world from the hypocritical murderous egomaniac that was the Dark Lord. I don't want to hear of any Slytherins making trouble for her, or you'll have me to deal with on top of detention. Got it?” His voice turned lethal, and he gave Sean a hard stare.

“Yes sir,” Sean said, ducking his head.

Hermione huffed and shook her head.

What was his game?

“I’d really rather you didn’t intimidate my students into compliance, Malfoy,” she hissed at him.

He gave her a satisfied grin. “Are you sure about that? Intimidation can be rather effective.”

She gave him a frustrated look. “That is not my teaching strategy.”

“Why do you call her Granger?” Sean interjected.

Malfoy paused and avoided Hermione’s curious gaze. “We started out as enemies.”

“And now?” Sean asked, “Are you two dating?”

Malfoy’s face schooled into an expression that would make anyone run for the door. “Is that any of your business, Digger?”

“No, sir,” Sean said.

Malfoy’s eyes flicked to hers and she found something in them – something questioning, contentious, incendiary. Hermione felt heat rush to her cheeks. She ignored his gaze and stuck her nose in her book.

“Why did you burn your tie in class?”

She looked back up at him to see a speculative look on his face. Hermione looked up at the ceiling to gather her thoughts. What could she say in front of Sean? That her students didn’t respect her? That the whole class broke out into a fight? That she just lost her temper?

“How about let’s all be quiet and get back to work,” she muttered.

Sean spoke though, and Draco tore his gaze away to look at him.

“Ms. G got tired of us fighting the Gryffindors and burned her tie super dramatically - like whoosh! - and gave a whole speech to make a point about how ties make us all act like idiots. So most of us stopped wearing them.”

Gah. For heaven’s sake.

“That is not how I phrased it.” She gave Sean an exasperated look, which he returned with a shit eating grin.

Malfoy’s foot bumped against hers under the table and she looked at him. His eyes twinkled with mirth, and a grin was taking over his face. “Officially a rebel, eh Ms. G?” he teased.

She rolled her eyes, and hoped that her face was not getting too red.

“Can we all get back to work?”

Malfoy shot Sean an intimidating look. “You heard the witch,” he said, and Sean quickly looked back down at his book.

“And how long is detention tonight?” Malfoy asked her quietly, searching her eyes.

She looked at her watch. “Until ten. An hour to go.”

He nodded and pulled out a worn leather book from his bag. He then reached back in to pull out a little candy wrapped in green and placed it in front of her.

She picked it up, and looked at him, heart fluttering. It was a small gesture but a surprisingly sweet one, after everything.

“Can I have a candy, too?” Sean asked hopefully.

“No,” Malfoy deadpanned, deviously popping one in his own mouth before opening his book.

They all went back to their books. Hermione opened the wrapper and put the candy in her mouth.

Her eyes widened and she looked at him. He was watching her knowingly, awaiting her reaction.

It was a green apple candy and tasted just like his kiss in the alcove, minus the smoke.

Her eyes flickered to his lips, and he held back a smirk as he looked down and began to read.

The three of them worked in silence, and the closer it got to ten, the harder she found it to concentrate.

At 9:49, she closed her book with a sigh. “You can stop here, Sean,” she said.

Sean jumped up, mumbled a bye, and ran out of the library with a scolding from Pince.

Hermione took her stack of restricted books to place them back on the shelves in the Restricted Section. She returned to their table to find Malfoy standing up, reading her notes.

He put them down as she approached.

Hermione glared.

“What?” he asked warily.

“Did you have to say all of that to Sean?” She asked and started packing her bag. “I’m trying – and failing – to get respect from these kids since I’m literally still a student myself, and you just undermined all of that by telling him that I’m a rule-breaking, blackmailing, thieving delinquent!”

Malfoy raised a brow, making her feel foolish. “Wrong descriptor. You’re a rule-breaking, blackmailing, thieving firebrand, insurgent, force of nature, war hero. And all of that is exactly the point. Kids will never respect a perfect student with good marks as a teacher. But they will respect rumours of how fucking badass you can be. I just helped you along a little bit. Trust me.”

“He’s going to repeat those things to everyone.”

“Yes.”

“But–”

“Just wait and see.”

She let out a huff of disagreement.

“Think. People don't like a perfect know-it-all. But they do like those who can think and fight for themselves. Give these kids a role model.”

“Of what? Bad behaviour?”

He gave her a look. “Critical thinking. Of acting for oneself, not conforming to the masses.”

She stared at him as the words landed. She searched the flecks of silver in his irises.

“But why did you have to say those awful things I did? I mean, blackmail? Robbing a bank?”

“You denied it. Digger will never know if it’s true, but,” he paused and narrowed his eyes at her, “none of those things were awful, Granger. They were incredible. I don’t know what you stole, but it sent Bella into a right panic, so I know it was important. And Rita Skeeter is an uncontrollable hag, yet you figured out her secret and managed to control the press when you were fifteen.”

“How do you even know that?”

“She was a family friend,” he said, shrugging.

She stared at him.

“I kept her in a jar for a week.” She whispered guiltily.

He did a double take. To his credit, he bit down the smirk that tried to form.

“Shhhh!” Madam Pince said from her desk. “It may be late, but this is still a library!”

“Sorry,” Hermione told her with a smile. “We’re just leaving.” The older lady nodded.

Hermione hefted her bag over her shoulder and made her way out of the library with Malfoy on her heels.

As soon as they were past the doors, Malfoy reached out and took hold of her elbow, bringing her to face him.

The hushed silence of the late evening hallway altered the air between them. It was suddenly only the two of them in the world again, and a sensitivity to his gravitational presence flooded into her veins.

She wanted to tear her arm away and be mad at him, but she craved his touch too much.

When he found what he was looking for in her face, his fingers came down to lace between hers, warm and strong. He squeezed her hand and guided her down the hallway. She followed.

Their footsteps echoed and her heart pounded in the silence as he took her through a few deserted corridors until they stood in front of the History of Magic classroom. He swished his wand, and the lock clicked open.

He pulled her inside, locked the door, and then let go of her hand.

Her heart pounded as she tried to figure out his game. She stood still, arms wrapped around opposite elbows, and watched him.

“I really think it will help,” Malfoy said, sticking his hands in his pockets. He looked slightly defeated and a little guilty.

She felt the indignation begin to melt out of her. It was so hard to stay mad at him when he looked at her like that, as though her approval meant something.

“Where were you last night?” she asked, addressing the elephant in the room.

The change in his demeanour was noticeable. His shoulders slumped, and his face fell as he looked down at the floor. His expression became weary, and he looked tired, like he hadn’t slept in days, though that could have been partially due to the black eye. A flicker between his eyebrows and the hardness around his eyes alluded to restrained emotions. He rubbed his forehead.

He was letting down his guard, not closing himself off, she realized.

“I wanted to be there,” Malfoy said, eventually. He ran a hand through his hair, mussing it up. “I…” he trailed off, looking unsure.

Something felt wrong. All the remaining indignation left her. Whatever this was, whatever was causing him trouble, was more important than his spreading rumours to her first years.

She waited for him to speak.

His jaw clenched and he stared at the floor in front of him. “I was… called away yesterday. I just got back after dinner.”

His words betrayed his reluctance to tell her, and her heart fell.

But he’d almost immediately sought her out. That had to count for something.

She tried to focus on the state of the man in front of her. Images flashed in her mind: the times he’d zoned out before class, the shadows under his eyes, the image of him always alone, Ginny’s stories of him drinking at night by himself, the way he’d looked when she’d returned to the library on Saturday. A picture began to form in her mind that she couldn’t shake: the idea that he might be lonely, that he might be going through something difficult all by himself. Her heart squeezed, and it occurred to her that she desperately wanted to know everything about him. She wanted to reassure him, to comfort him.

So, she forced down any remaining irritation and doubts, and brought a hand up to touch the bruise on his cheek.

“Where were you called away to?” she asked, trying but failing to sound composed as her voice wobbled with nerves.

Malfoy winced at her touch, but remained still as she lifted her wand and healed the cut. She tapped it and the bruise around his eye faded just slightly. She wasn’t as good as he was at healing spells, but it was better than nothing.

She gently brushed her thumb over his cheekbone, and he leaned into her touch. Her heart pounded at the pained look on his face.

He licked his bottom lip, and she could see his mind calculating. “Slughorn reported me to the Ministry,” he said eventually, anger simmering beneath his words. “They took me into custody for questioning. But he didn’t have a leg to stand on. This time, anyway.”

Her heart leapt at the fact that he’d actually told her something before confusion twisted her thoughts and fury filled her. She dropped her hand.

Slughorn reported him? That no good, useless professor, his head of house, reported him to the Ministry? To the aurors?

Why? To what end?

“I would have told you, but I couldn't get an owl out. I may have flown off the handle a little bit demanding one. That’s how I got the busted face,” he said, watching her closely.

Oh my god, he got the black eye for trying to contact her. Her heart stung for him. Why was the Ministry treating him this way?

She looked at him, observing his ticks of discomfort. There was a little notch between his eyebrows. His index finger and thumb rubbed together. His posture was stiff.

“Are you okay?” she asked once she found her words.

He looked confused, like he couldn’t understand the simple question.

She grabbed for the material of his sweatshirt. Hermione’s hands bracketed his slim waist, feeling his muscles under the thick, soft cotton. She pulled him in until their bodies were almost touching.

He searched her face and brought up a hand to her cheek. His mouth parted like he wanted to say something but thought against it.

“I waited for you last night,” she continued. “I thought maybe you’d changed your mind, or… forgotten,” she said, and linked her hands around his lower back, willing him to return the gesture. The longer he didn’t the more she doubted herself. She took a deep breath. You can do this, she told herself.

His brow furrowed.

“But then you weren’t at lunch, in class, or in the hospital wing,” she continued. “You show up with a black eye and tell me your own head of house reported you to the authorities, that the ministry abused its power and not only refused you the standard owl but injured you in the process. So, I just want to know… are you okay?”

Malfoy’s chest shuddered as he let out a long exhale. His arms came up to envelope her in a bear hug. He pulled her close and dropped his head into her hair. She felt him finally relax into her, and ran her hands up his back, returning the hug.

“I didn't forget,” he whispered. “You haven't been off my mind since Saturday. All I could think while they had me locked up was how much you were going to hate me. I kept looking at the clock and wondering whether you were still waiting for me, and whether you’d even still talk to me if I came back.”

If.

What was the alternative? Azkaban?

As the thought occurred to her, she realized the truth in it. Slughorn wanted to send Malfoy to Azkaban.

If what she felt was horror and betrayal, then Malfoy definitely wasn’t okay.

The desire to comfort him returned tenfold. She had an idea, and it set her heart racing.

She pulled back slightly and looked up at him. His face was tired, and unhappy, almost nervous as he waited for her to say something.

“One hour,” she said, sliding her hands under his sweatshirt to feel the hot skin of his lower back.

“Pardon?” he frowned, looking dazed.

“I waited for one hour. And I thought a lot of things in that time, but do you want to know one of the reasons I was disappointed you didn’t show up?”

“Why?” he asked, bringing a hand up to brush a lock of hair behind her ear. His hand remained on her neck, like he didn't want to stop touching her.

“Because I wanted to do this,” she whispered, holding his gaze as her hands slowly trailed along his bare skin to his lower abdomen and further down to his belt buckle.

He sucked in a sharp breath as she gently pulled the end through the leather loop, yanked on the belt end to release the prong, and then ever so gently pulled the strap out of its buckle. His eyes roamed her face as she let the ends hang and touched the button of his jeans.

The corner of Malfoy’s lip turned up in a growing smirk. His thumb traced the shell of her ear. “Granger, have you been thinking about my cock all week?”

“Maybe,” she whispered. “Can I…?” She let the question hang and searched his eyes.

“You can do any bloody thing you want to me,” he whispered hoarsely, then leaned down and kissed her. Both of his hands came up to cradle her face, tracing her cheekbones. His lips pressed against hers softly, hungrily, imploringly. She opened her mouth and sought out his tongue with hers, deepening the kiss.

God, she’d missed this. How was that possible? It had only been a few days since he’d kissed her in the alcove. She could feel her own heart racing, pumping desire through her bloodstream.

His hands lowered to grip her waist, drawing her closer as their kiss became more heated.

Reaching between them, Hermione undid the button of his jeans and pulled the zipper down over the hardness beneath. She reached her hand in to wrap around his cock.

Malfoy pulled back from the kiss, leaning his forehead against hers, breathing hard.

She moved her hand tentatively, feeling the smooth skin of his cock from base to head.

He let out a guttural sound. “Fuck. Only you, Granger. You're so fucking good. Anyone else would be running, would have condemned me. Would have demanded to know what I’d done. Why aren’t you running?” He was breathless, eyes closed, as she lightly explored the feel of him. He was already hard, velvety smooth and hot to the touch. She wrapped her fingers under the thick ridge, and thumbed the tip, enjoying the jump of his muscles and the way his breath caught.

“Maybe I don’t want to run from this,” she whispered, releasing his cock to slide her hands up his stomach, bringing his sweatshirt up as she went. He took the hint and pulled it off, throwing it aside. She took a moment to appreciate his lithe frame, his toned muscles, and the dark tattoos that started on his shoulders. Her fingers trailed over his ridiculous Jigglypuff tattoo and the Latin words on his ribs. “Maybe I think Slughorn’s a right idiot.”

An array of emotions flickered over his face. He looked at her in mild disbelief, as though it were crazy that she would want to stay.

Well, so be it. She was known for doing insane things, apparently.

She dropped down to her knees and looked up at him. His eyes were dark as he watched her pull down his jeans, and then his silk boxers.

She ran her hands up his thighs, and his cock bobbed in front of her, rock hard and weeping. He was big – not that she had much experience to compare with.

She wrapped her fingers around his length and felt him pulse under her touch. She leaned in and licked the tip. The salty taste of precum set her on fire. She took the head of his cock into her mouth and let out a moan.

“Fuck,” he rasped, and his cock pulsed again. She glanced up to see his eyes closed and pleasure written all over his face.

God, she was so turned on by the sheer fact that she’d barely touched him, and he was already so hard and ready for her.

She pulled back until she was kissing the tip and repeated the action, sucking languidly up and down over the head.

Malfoy grunted. “Fuck, you're really –” he groaned, throwing his head back. “Fuck.”

His current voice – husky and full of need – was different than his storytelling voice but had no less effect on her body. Where one was a gradual tingle emanating from her head, the other was a buzzing wave of arousal emanating from her core. She ran the tip of her tongue down to the base of his cock and up again, hoping for more.

“I was worried you’d regret – but you're actually – Merlin,” he groaned, “feels so good.”

The way he unravelled sent heat pooling between her thighs. She had Draco Malfoy at her mercy. What a power trip.

She squeezed her hand and took more of him in her mouth, only going about halfway down before she reached her limit and pulled back, sucking as she went. She repeated the movement, enjoying the feel of him sliding over her tongue, and the reaction it elicited.

“Fuck,” he panted, and one of his hands went to her head, gripping her hair lightly.

Her mouth released him, and her hand lightly ran the length of his cock in its stead. She looked up. His eyes were still closed, and his eyebrows were pinched in ecstasy. “I knew you would be so good at sucking my cock. I knew it,” he said through heavy breaths.

She flicked her tongue over his frenulum before placing a chaste kiss onto it and pulling back. “You imagined this?”

“Extensively,” he said. She ran her lips wetly along his length, up and down, before enveloping the head of his cock with her lips once again. He bucked into her mouth reflexively, and his other hand came down to hold her in place. “That sexy mouth of yours – You have no idea how much I’ve imagined those lips around my cock. But fuck this is so much better,” he rasped. “You feel so fucking good.”

At his words, she looked up and her eyes locked onto grey. The heady look in his eyes sent a pulse of arousal straight through her and she moaned. One hand twisted around his length, pumping him as her mouth followed suit, taking him in until he hit the back of her throat, then pulling back, over, and over again.

“Fuck, I’m coming,” he breathed, threading both hands in her hair.

She took him in as far as she could and lapped at the underside of his cock with her tongue. His hands held onto her head, and he moaned as she felt hot salty cum hit the back of her throat. She resisted the urge to gag and moved slowly until the spurts stopped coming. She swallowed and looked up at him. Malfoy was watching her with a dazed and heated look on his face.

She sat back on her heels and wiped her mouth.

He pulled her up by the arms and kissed her deeply.

The salty taste of him was still in her mouth, but he didn’t seem to care. When he eventually pulled back, Hermione bit her lip and beamed shyly at him.

“Feel better?” she asked.

The fog lifted and after a moment, Malfoy furrowed his brow. “Did you do that to cheer me up?” he breathed, letting out a confused laugh.

“Not only,” she said, blushing.

“Hm,” he said, stepping out of his jeans and boxers until he stood before her entirely, unashamedly naked.

Her eyes flickered down to his cock, admiring his entire physique. She could look at him forever. She wouldn’t mind a statue of him to study in detail.

He pulled her closer, and leaned in, centimetres from her lips. “Will you let me return the favour?” he murmured, reaching for her waist, “and cheer you up?”

“Yes,” she whispered, staring at his lips. But he didn’t kiss her. Not yet.

Instead, he ran his hands along her hips, dipping down in the back to squeeze the flesh of her arse, causing her to let out an embarrassing moan. Then he ran his hands back up and slowly started pulling out her shirt from where it was tucked into her skirt.

“So,” he said with smile playing on his lips. “You’re a teacher now, and you’ve just… started a rebellion in your first month of teaching?”

“Not intentionally,” she groaned. “You’re right that they didn’t respect me. The entire class broke out into a physical fight because I tried to make them work together. I didn’t know what to do and lost my temper. Sean was right, it was… dramatic.”

He laughed, and started undoing the buttons of her shirt, bottom up.

“Don’t laugh. I consider it a low point.”

“Come on, Granger. It’s funny,” he said with a grin.

Her lip twitched, unable to resist when he smiled like that.

“Only you could change the world without even trying,” he added under his breath, shaking his head.

“What are you talking about?”

He finished undoing the buttons and then smoothed his hands over the skin of her shoulders, letting her shirt fall to the floor. She’d worn a black lace bra, and Malfoy’s hands slid up her back to fiddle with the clasp. His eyes roamed her body with a little smirk.

“That kid, Digger. His parents are Death Eaters. Both of them. You have children of Death Eaters in a rebellion against housing divisions. That’s pretty fucking impressive,” he said, struggling with the clasp. A little notch of concentration appeared between his brows.

“They’re just doing it as a free pass to break the rules,” she said reaching up behind her and undoing it for him.

He shrugged. “Doesn’t matter, he still did it.”

Malfoy’s face slackened in a dazed look of concentration when her bra fell to the floor. His hands came up to cup her tits, thumbing her nipples.

Her clit pulsed in immediate arousal, and Hermione’s hands landed on his biceps for support.

God, she was so responsive to him. Sex had never been like that before – she’d always had to ask, to direct, but Malfoy knew exactly what to do and say to make her feel good.

“Did you actually want to teach?” he asked, apparently determined to keep the façade of a normal conversation going as she fell apart in front of him. His hands found the zipper of her skirt and tugged it down slowly with a challenging look in his eyes.

“I hadn’t really thought about it,” she admitted.

“So, McGonagall just fucking put this all on you?”

Her skirt fell to the ground, and Malfoy’s hands ran over her arse. He pulled her closer, and – holy shit – Hermione felt a flash of heat at the realization that the only slip of material between them were her lace knickers. He was naked. Entirely naked and radiating heat.

“No, she asked,” Hermione breathed, getting dizzy with desire.

“She manipulated you. Doesn’t she know you’d never say no?”

“That’s not true,” she protested, breathing hard. Was it?

“Come on. You’re incapable of not helping.”

Hermione closed her eyes, disoriented from the mix of indignation and desire flowing through her in equal measure.

Hadn’t she agreed to do it because McGonagall needed her? Maybe he was right.

“Teaching is hard,” she said, gripping onto his arms and looking up at him as though he could solve all her problems. Maybe she even wanted him to. Her hands slid down to the soft flesh of his stomach. “You laugh at what happened, but it was a full-blown fist fight. I had no idea how to handle it,” she whispered.

His hands came up to smooth her hair back. His lip slanted up in a wry expression. “The standard of teaching at Hogwarts is abysmal. How many shit professors have we had? Quirrell, Lockhart, Slughorn, Binns – don’t give me that look, you know you’re the only one who likes him – Umbridge, Trelawney, Hagrid.”

“Hey!”

“Being friendly does not equate to being a good teacher. I know you agree with me,” he said with a raised eyebrow. “But my point is, it’s a low bar. I guarantee you are better than they are. How are you approaching it?”

Hermione bit her lip, focusing on his chest. “I did a ton of research about different teaching methodologies. One class seems to find it hard reading the text, so I’ve been trying to break it down and make it easier for them.”

He gave her an approving look and grinned. “That’s my girl.”

Her heart stuttered, and her eyes fluttered to his in shock. “What?”

“I said, that’s my girl, Granger. You’re already killing it. I doubt a single professor here has researched effective teaching methodology. They fucking hire people because they’re supposed experts, not because they can teach.”

She felt her cheeks heat, and desire zipped through her.

It was a weird revelation. When was the last time somebody had said they were proud of her? Her feats and struggles were usually met with rolled eyes and brushed aside with a comment like, ‘It’s Hermione, she can do anything,’ or, ‘Of course, Hermione’s teaching a class.’ Her blood sang at his words. She hadn’t known how much she’d needed to hear it – how good it felt to hear it.

He noticed and leaned in with a little knowing smile. “Did I say something you like, just now?”

She bit her lip, embarrassed, but she wanted to hear it again. “You said I’m your girl,” she said, feeling incredibly vulnerable. Her heart was pounding in her ears.

“Do you like that? Being my girl?” he asked, brushing his hand along her cheek in a soft gesture that made her melt.

Oh god.

Her shaky breath sped up, and since words were failing her, she circled his waist and stepped in, closing the remaining gap between them. The warmth of his skin on hers chased away the chill of the room, and his cock, still half-hard and burning hot, pressed against her lower abdomen.

Malfoy’s eyes darkened with arousal, and he tilted his head at her with a little smirk.

“Do I need to tell you how amazing you are?” he asked, leaning in so their noses brushed.

Shyly, she nodded.

“Do you really not know?” His lips found hers, pressing softly.

“No, I do know,” she whispered into his lips, causing him to laugh. “I just don’t hear it put like that very often.”

His lips pressed long, dragging kisses on her. “Good. You should fucking know it. And you should hear it every fucking day. Starting with the fact that you started a fucking rebellion against the root of discrimination in this school. Even if it wasn't intentional. You are amazing, Granger.”

God, hearing those words from Draco Malfoy did something to her. Coming from the man who used to call her a filthy little mudblood, it felt like a salve on an old wound. The words carried a heavier significance when he was the one to say them.

She kissed him back fervently, wrapping one arm around his shoulder, and the other in his hair, pulling him even closer as their tongues danced.

He picked her up and she wrapped her legs around his waist. He held her up with one hand and ran another up her back, holding her close. He started walking and placed her on a desk. She leaned back on her hands and took in his presence. His hair hung over his forehead and his light eyes sparkled beneath the fringe as he took her in. It was slower, more intimate than in the library when they’d been desperate to feel each other for the first time. Hermione looked between them at where they connected. Heat pooled in her core at the feel of his stiffening cock pressing hotly against the thin material of her knickers. She was so wet already that she wondered if he could feel it through the black lace.

Then an arm wrapped around her lower back and pulled her against him as his mouth kissed her neck. She rocked her hips against his and revelled at the sensation.

“Bed,” she ordered.

He pulled back, confused. “What?”

Hermione slid off the desk, causing their chests to brush. Her nipples were so sensitive that she gasped at the feeling. Malfoy looked down at her with a dark, patient, curious expression.

She turned and picked up her wand from the desk. He wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her flush against him. One of his hands slid up to fondle her breast, while the other held her close around the middle. She revelled in the feel of his cock pressing insistently against her and the warmth of his body surrounding her. He kissed the side of her neck. The shivering sensation went all the way to her toes, pooling in her centre on the way.

She focused on the teacher’s desk, and transfigured it to a mattress on the floor, complete with a velvety blue blanket and pillows.

He hummed with approval as he took in what she did. “Clever girl.”

A pleasant shockwave went through her at his words. Before she knew it, he’d picked her up and she was falling back gently onto the soft blanket. Malfoy braced his arms above her as his lips captured hers in another kiss.

“Do I want to know why you know how to transfigure a bed like you’ve done it a million times?”

“Is not as salacious as you’re imagining, I’m sure,” she said.

“Tell me.”

He kissed her neck, then her collarbone, and then he leaned down and kissed the swell of her breast. His grey eyes looked up and captured her gaze as he took a nipple in his mouth. It was hot, wet, and she keened underneath him.

“I lived in an old dusty house and then a tent for half a year. I like sleeping in comfort,” she said, gasping. He smirked and rewarded her with a swirl of his tongue.

“Good, high standards, that’s good,” he muttered, before moving to her other breast and taking the other nipple into his mouth, sending a wave of pleasure directly to her clit. She arched into him.

“Do you want to hear a story?” he asked, sucking on her nipple until it released with a pop. He looked up at her with a glint in his eyes.

“Yes,” she breathed.

“It’s about a girl with a weird name and wild hair.”

It took her a second to process his meaning. His lips kissed down her sternum to the soft flesh of her belly. She looked down at him and he smirked.

“This girl grew up without magic,” he said, pressing light kisses on her stomach. His storytelling voice went full power and she whimpered at the glorious effect it had. Her clit was pulsing with the need to be touched. She squirmed beneath him, and he took the hint, kissing further down to the skin just above her knickers. He placed a wide, open-mouthed kiss on her there, and she gasped loudly at the rush of arousal it evoked.

“When she started at magic school, she got a lot of unwarranted hate from idiot boys in her year. She worked hard to become the best and prove her worth as a witch, but even so, a war was brewing in which people wanted to get rid of her kind.”

Malfoy’s tongue found her clit overtop of the lace, and then his mouth latched on, sending a jolt through her.

“Oh god,” she keened, gasping at the feeling.

He chuckled, smirking at her reaction. “And instead of accepting things as they were, she fought back,” he continued. “She fought for her place in the magical world. She never gave up, and she won the war.”

As he spoke, he sat back, manoeuvring her knees up before pulling the black lace over them and down to her ankles, where she kicked them off.

“This girl sees through societal bullshit,” he said, pushing her knees wide, exposing her to him. He looked at her cunt for a long moment. Embarrassed, she reflexively tried to close her legs, but he glanced at her face, seeking permission, and she let him push them open again before settling between her thighs. His hands touched her first, gliding lightly over her lips before spreading them. Then, he leaned in and licked her opening. His tongue dipped inside her cunt, smooth and wet, and a warm dizzying wave of tension began to build in her core.

Holy fuck.

The moan that came out of her was embarrassingly loud. Her hands found purchase in the blanket.

He groaned, and his voice became rougher. “She doesn’t compromise on what she believes in,” he muttered against her before delving his tongue in again.

She tilted her hips against him, wanting more. Her hand went down on its own volition to touch her clit and relieve the unbearable pressure, but Malfoy snatched her hand in his and held it down before she could.

“She fights for those who can’t,” he said. His tongue found her swollen clit, and he kissed it, licked it, and sucked at it, giving her what she wanted.

“How are you so good at this?” she gasped.

She felt him smirk against her. “She hasn’t given up, despite the insane amount of utter shite thrown at her in the last 7 years,” he continued. He abandoned her clit to kiss his way up her hip bone. He crawled up her body, kissing her ribs, before settling beside her. His hard length pressed against her hip. His hand ran down her stomach and found her clit. His fingers drew little circles of pleasure, and he kissed her neck. She opened her neck to him and closed her eyes in the absolute pleasure that buzzed through her when his tongue ran from her collarbone to her ear.

“She cares way too fucking much for her friends,” he said softly, lips brushing her ear as he spoke. His fingers ran through her slit, gathering wetness before circling her clit once more.

“She gives second chances to people who don’t deserve them,” he said, kissing her jaw. She turned her head towards him, searching his silver eyes, wanting to tell him he did deserve it, but his circling fingers cut her off with a gasp. He closed the short gap between them and brushed his lips against hers as he spoke.

“She fought a war before the age of eighteen and was brave enough to come back to school to finish her studies and inadvertently ended up teaching a class. She might even be the first student ever to do so.”

His fingers trailed over her entrance, and he slid a finger inside, swallowing her moan with a kiss. “She’s fucking amazing,” he murmured, finding a slow rhythm.

She moaned her pleasure and moved her hips against his hand. “I feel like I’m failing,” she admitted mindlessly, breathlessly, rocking against him.

“You’re not. You’re fucking amazing and exactly what those kids need.” He moved his finger leisurely, in and out, as he took in her expression.

“You can't know that just from an accidental movement against ties,” she said unevenly.

“I can. Because you’re too fucking good at caring about people,” he said.

Hermione felt the world spin as he added another finger, stretching her.

“Say it,” he said, watching her intently.

“Say what?” she asked breathlessly.

“Say you're amazing,” he ordered, voice low.

Oh god.

“…I am amazing?” She gasped weakly, feeling both mortification and a desperate sense of wanting to please him.

He rolled his eyes. “With more conviction please,” he said with an intoxicating smirk. His palm ground against her clit as his fingers thrust in and out, picking up the pace.

“I am – ah! – amazing!”

“Good girl,” he said, voice rough.

A flash of pleasure flushed through her. Her body erupted in goosebumps at his words. God, those two words could undo her.

“Fuck, you are so wet,” Malfoy groaned into her neck, pressing a kiss to her shoulder. “You are so good at taking my fingers. Say it.”

“I'm so good at – at taking y-your fingers.”

“How does it feel? Tell me.”

“It feels incredible, Malfoy.”

He stopped his hand movements, and she whimpered in protest. She looked at his face, and her heart sped up at the look he was giving her. His eyes were dark and intent on hers, with a spark of vulnerability.

“Say my name, Granger.”

He pressed his palm into her clit, but his fingers didn’t move. She writhed her hips against him, but it wasn’t enough.

She looked at him in pained confusion. “Malfoy?”

He shook his head.

Oh.

He wanted her to call him…

“Draco,” she whimpered. He resumed his fingers while his palm rubbed her clit.

“Again,” he said.

“I'm so close, Draco.”

His mouth found her nipple and he sucked. Pleasure flashed through her, building stronger and stronger.

“You're such a good girl, Granger,” he murmured against her. “Amazing. Fucking amazing. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” she gasped.

“Tell me.”

It was getting harder and harder to speak.

“I'm fucking amazing,” she said. The fingers inside of her and the palm providing pressure on her clit worked in tandem to bring her pleasure to a crest, spiralling up and up until she couldn’t think – only feel.

“That's my girl,” he said, and pleasure crashed through her. Her vision exploded in white, and her body shook, clenching around his fingers. He continued to pump in and out of her, slowly, until she became too sensitive and pushed his hand away. Her heart raced, all the nerves in her body sang, and then all the tension seeped out of her.

Malfoy grunted, and she looked at him through the haze of her post-orgasm bliss. He had propped himself up on one arm and was looking down between them. She followed his gaze and watched in fascination as he reached down against her hip to take himself in hand. His hand, coated in her arousal, pumped erratically up and down the length of his cock. His breath came in staggering pants. His face was still so close that she barely had to move to pressed fluttering kisses into his neck. It didn’t take long for him to release with a groan, coming on her hip.

He rested his head against hers, breathing hard against her temple.

She reached over and picked up her wand, casting a cleaning spell on both of them, before tossing her it to the side again.

Malfoy gathered the blanket and covered them both with it before rolling onto his back next to her.

After a minute, he asked, “Why did you really brew Polyjuice?”

Hermione turned on her side to look at him, amused.

“Really? Has that been on your mind this whole time?” she asked.

“In the back of it,” he smirked.

Hermione took a breath. It wasn’t a big deal. She could tell him. “If you must know, Harry thought you were the Heir of Slytherin, so they disguised themselves as Crabbe and Goyle to investigate. I was going to be Millicent, but obviously I used cat hair by accident.”

He rolled his eyes. “Fucking Potter. He was always thinking I was behind everything.”

“Well,” she hesitated. “He was right, half the time.”

Malfoy looked up at the ceiling. “Yeah.”

“And obviously it ruled you out. Are you angry?” She ran a hand down his arm, tracing the tattoos with a finger.

“No,” he said, looking at her. “I was a right prick that year. Probably deserved the suspicion, really.”

“It's in the past… just a story now,” she said.

“Yes,” he agreed, and pulled her into his arms with a glint in his eyes. “Always knew you were a troublemaker though.”

She lay on his chest, threaded a leg between his, and kissed him.

“Will you tell me something?” she asked, pulling back.

“What kind of something?” He looked like an impressionist painting; his hair caught in the light and darkness, his eyes sparkled in shades of grey, and the shadows of his mouth curved into a pleasant expression, tainted only by the mischief in his brows. She reached out and touched his lips, tracing his bottom lip with her thumb.

“Why did you think I'm like the cuscuta? Because of my hair?”

“Lucky coincidence,” he said with a little smirk.

“Because I need other people?”

He shook his head. “Everyone needs someone.”

“Then what?”

He reached out and brushed her hair with his fingers, smoothing it back.

“Cuscuta is wild, untameable, strong,” he told her. “It can’t be contained. You don't follow others. You grow where you want to, choose who you want to. You make your own path.” He paused and looked at her entreatingly. “You make people better. And even if the connection is severed, you will always leave an imprint. People will always miss you and feel your absence. You said you wondered if I’d forgotten about you yesterday, but the last thing you are is forgettable. Even last year, you weren't at school, and it just felt wrong. Sometimes I imagined you putting your hand up and asking questions in class, challenging the professors. And I would think, a world without Hermione Granger felt empty. It was fucking wrong.”

Her breath caught as she took in his words, feeling emotion well up within her.

“You’re rare, Granger, and valuable,” he murmured. He moved over her, crushing her under his weight as he kissed her again.

“... and the manticore was found and delivered to the empire and peace was restored in May of 1276…”

They froze and looked at each other. The ghost of Binns appeared through the wall above them, entirely oblivious to their presence. He looked around, confused for a moment, before floating back out.

Draco raised his eyebrows.

“Did he not see us?” he whispered.

“Disillusionment charm on the bed,” she whispered back.

Draco grinned and started laughing. “Well, Binns showed up. I suppose you don’t need me anymore, do you?”

Hermione’s jaw dropped and she covered her face with her hands, mortified.

“You’re never going to let me live that down, are you?”

“Shall we call him back so you can get off to his accent while I make you come again?” He said, kissing into her neck, sending a flush through her.

“No!” She pushed him away playfully. He chuckled and rolled off her.

“... the gargantuan army of the trolls…”

Binn’s voice drifted nearby again, through the walls. Hermione tucked her head against Draco’s shoulder and stifled a giggle. She felt his silent laughter.

After the silence remained for sufficient time, Hermione summoned their clothes and they dressed with ridiculous smiles on their faces.

In the hallway, Malfoy pulled her in from behind and said in her ear, “I'll be in that alcove every morning break next week in case you’re still… busy. Come find me.”

∞∞∞

The Fat Lady was nodding off, wine glass tilted to a dangerous degree, when Hermione arrived back at the common room. “Ahem,” Hermione said as quietly as she could, but the Fat Lady jumped in surprise and splashed her wine everywhere. She swung open, grumbling, “Why can’t students just listen to curfew,” in a pitchy voice. Hermione ducked inside.

The common room was dark around the edges but lit in the centre by the orange glow of the dying embers in the fireplace.

Ginny sat curled up on the sofa with a tea and knitted blanket.

Hermione approached and took a seat on the opposite sofa. She glanced down at the table between them and froze.

The Marauders Map stared back at her, as though it was laughing up at her.

Oh shit.

Ginny’s dry laugh stole her attention. She looked betrayed, hurt, and her eyes were red.

“You weren’t in the library. I was worried about you,” Ginny muttered and nodded towards the map.

“What happened?” Hermione asked carefully, grabbing a pillow, and hugging it to her chest like a shield.

Ginny rubbed her forehead and sniffled. “We got into a fight about you. Me and Harry,” she said.

“About me?” Her heart sunk. “Why?”

“Harry was upset that you hadn't replied to his letter. He was saying how you should forgive Ron, and I told him to shove that idea from his egotistical brain, and that your friendship with him does not depend on my idiot brother. He told me I didn't understand his position, and that Ron was still torn up about everything.”

“You defended me?” Hermione asked, surprised.

“Of course, I defended you!” Ginny said heatedly. “Why are you surprised?”

The anger in Ginny’s voice shocked her. “Sometimes I think you're only friends with me because of Harry and Ron,” Hermione admitted, feeling embarrassed to say it aloud.

“That's stupid,” Ginny scoffed. “I like you better than them, anyway.”

Hermione smiled ever so slightly, feeling a swell of emotion.

“Why didn't you tell me?” Ginny asked, hurt lacing her words. “About Malfoy?”

Hermione eyebrows puckered as she thought of what to say.

“Because I know how much you hate him,” she said, anxiety building in her stomach. “I know what you think of him.”

Ginny’s brow furrowed. “Are you sleeping with him?”

Hermione hoped her flush was hidden in the firelight. “I…” she trailed off, unsure what to say, but Ginny took it as confirmation.

Ginny gave a scoff of disbelief. “But why? Are you just doing it to get back at Harry and Ron? Is it just physical?”

Hermione shook her head. “No. I actually like him, Ginny. A lot”

“But I don’t understand. He's a Death Eater. He wanted to kill people like you.”

“He's not. He hated the mark so much he covered it in muggle tattoos, Gin. He's trying so hard to change. And he treats me differently. And somehow without the animosity, we just kind of… click. You just haven't seen that side of him.”

“Because he doesn't show it to anyone. I don’t think you see how he treats everyone else. How do you know what he shows you is real?”

“Because I know,” Hermione said confidently.

“He called me a bint and gave me the finger earlier this week, you know,” Ginny said accusingly.

“And what did you do to provoke him?” Hermione asked. She was fed up. Fed up with feeling guilty. Fed up with everyone’s black and white attitudes. She didn’t want to jeopardize her friendship with Ginny, which she had been starting to appreciate much more, but she couldn’t let it slide anymore.

“What?”

“Did he just say it unprompted, or did you insult him first? Call him a Death Eater?” Hermione asked.

Ginny went quiet.

“Maybe if you gave him the benefit of the doubt, you'd see that other side of him too,” Hermione said.

Ginny sighed. “I don't know. I really can't understand it. Because no matter what he’s like with you, he’s still a prick to everyone else, including me. He's still Draco Malfoy, jerk, school bully, aristocratic snob, Death - fine, former Death Eater, former muggleborn hater, apparently. And he’s a Malfoy. If that name isn’t a reason to stay away, I don’t know what is.”

Hermione’s heart sank. She sat back against the sofa, all bluster gone. Malfoys could never marry a muggleborn. She’d forgotten that little fact.

“Look, I’m always here for you, I hope you know that. I’m not going to try to tell you what to do,” Ginny said. “But just think about it. If Harry and Ron find out, things are going to blow up, you know they will. They’re not going to understand this. If it comes to choosing sides, what are you going to do? You already said you felt distant with Harry and Ron,” she added, looking worried. “What if this makes it worse? I just don’t want you to get hurt.”

Hermione’s heart pounded, and she turned her head away from Ginny to gaze into the dying embers. Ginny was right about one thing: Harry and Ron would never understand, but she hoped it would never come to choosing sides.

After a few minutes, she excused herself and went up to bed.

Numbly, she went through the motions of brushing her teeth and putting on her pyjamas. On her bedside table was the book she’d read on the weekend, Lord of Scoundrels. She set it on Ginny’s bed. She got under her comforter, and closed her curtains shut.

Malfoy – Draco, she mentally corrected – was everything she had never dreamed of. He was fun, intelligent, teasing, considerate, and he liked her. She wished he were here now. He was so good at making her feel better about everything.

Draco, the man who’d kissed her.

Draco, the man who’d made her see stars.

Draco, the man who managed to settle her heart in the rough current of emotions surrounding her.

Hope stood over her like a fragile piece of glass, ready to shatter.

She tried to dispel the growing anxiety and sadness inside of her with thoughts of his face, his kiss, his stories, and his warmth, as she fell asleep.

Chapter Text

Skraaaaawk!

Hermione groaned into her pillow as the ungodly sound pierced through the morning calm.

Skrawk! Skrawk!

She opened a bleary eye and took in the sight of the owl on her nightstand. She didn’t remember falling asleep, but she now cursed herself for forgetting to shut the curtains.

Skraaawk!

Cringing at the horrendous sound, Hermione sat up, groggy and disoriented. She took the proffered letter, took a treat from her night table drawer, and practically threw it at the offending bird. It hooted in a perfectly pleasant tone and flew out through the open window.

She held an arm out to block the glaring morning light from the window as she watched it go.

Ginny tore open her curtains with a sleepy scowl, and Erica followed suit, looking supremely disgruntled.

Hermione winced and gave an apologetic shrug. She held up the letter in silent explanation.

Erica stretched and made for the bathroom. “Bloody mornings. Ugh,” she groaned, before shutting herself in. A minute later, the shower started.

Hermione looked at Ginny, and Ginny looked back at her, and all of the awkwardness of the night before settled between them.

Awkwardness because she’d spent the evening entangled with Malfoy. No, Draco.

Her heartbeat sped up as she recalled the things he’d said, the things they’d done. It was new and exciting, and she couldn’t wait to see him again, regardless of what Ginny or anyone else thought.

She swallowed and looked down at the letter in her hands. Ms. Granger was written in a fancy script on the envelope. She turned it around and found a Hogwarts wax seal on the back. Frowning, she opened it.

Dear Ms. Hermione Granger,

An emergency staff meeting has been called for 8 a.m. this morning in the main Charms classroom. I do apologise for the late notice and the early time, but many Professors do not reside at the castle, and thus it was deemed the best time to let everyone enjoy their weekends.

Sincerely,

Professor Filius Flitwick, Deputy Headmaster

“What is it?” Ginny asked, groggily.

“Emergency staff meeting,” Hermione said and looked up at her, confused. “What could they possibly be calling a meeting for at 8 am on a Saturday?”

“My dear lovely Hermione, may I just say that it’s fucking weird that you’re now Hogwarts staff?”

Hermione laughed and the tension between them dissipated. “Fucking weird, yes,” she acquiesced.

“Also, you’re going to be late,” Ginny said with a yawn. “You’ve got ten minutes.”

Hermione froze, then looked at her own clock in horror.

7:50.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

7:51.

“Shit,” Hermione scrambled up and looked around. “Shit, shit, shit! It’ll take me ten minutes just to get there!”

She tore off her pyjamas, threw open the top drawer, and grabbed on the first pair of knickers she saw. Then she pulled out a pair of flared jeans and a fitted black V-neck tee, pulled them on – sans bra, because that took time – and then grabbed a pair of socks and hopped around like a fool for a full minute trying to put them on.

She grabbed a blue silk scrunchie from her bedside table and pulled her frizzy bed head curls to the top of her head, gave herself a spritz of perfume to replace the shower she probably needed, and turned to Ginny, who was watching her from her bed with an amused expression.

“Do I look okay?” she asked.

“Sure,” Ginny smirked. “If you’re planning to give those old conservative bastards a heart attack, I fully support it.”

Hermione rolled her eyes and grabbed her cloak.

“Make sure to flaunt that hickey on your neck!” Ginny yelled as Hermione all but ran out the door.

She was huffing and puffing by the time she arrived outside of the Charms classroom at 8:07.

Damn. At least the oxygen had woken her brain up properly.

She took a few deep breaths and entered.

At once, there were a dozen pairs of eyes on her, many of which dropped down below her face. She pulled her cloak tightly around herself, holding it in place with crossed arms, and hoped any potential hickeys she hadn’t had time to check for were covered.

“Sorry I’m late,” she said. “I only got the owl a few minutes ago.”

“That’s quite alright, Ms. Granger. You are not the only straggler. Do join us,” Professor Flitwick said, beckoning her forward.

Hermione stepped further into the room and joined the crowd of professors.

“Well, now that we are all here, let’s get straight to the matter at hand,” Flitwick said, much too jovially for an early Saturday morning. “It has come to my attention, and to many of yours as well, that there is a trend of disobedience in many of our students.”

Many professors started talking at once, and Hermione looked around, confused. Was this about the inter house fighting?

“- never in my entire career -”

“- such disrespect for authority -”

“- not wearing uniforms -”

“- I had to take away forty points from Gryffindor yesterday -”

Hermione froze.

Oh shit.

Professor Flitwick held up a hand. “Yes, yes, I’m sure you are all as shocked as I am at this new development, but it seems we might have a student rebellion on hand. I must ask, do any of you know more about this?”

Hermione raised her hand.

“Yes, Ms. Granger?”

Everyone looked at her, and she cleared her throat nervously.

“I… um. Did this not just start yesterday?”

“Of course not,” Professor Trelawney moaned. “It started with the Gryffindors on Monday and spread to some of the second and third years by mid-week.”

“Some of the students in Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff were without ties in my Thursday classes,” Professor Sprout added.

Oh, holy hell.

She had started a schoolwide rebellion, and not just in her own class.

Should she say something? She couldn’t not say something; that felt more like she was betraying her students since they were technically following her example.

Bugger.

Someone was talking, but the buzzing in her head drowned it out. She swallowed nervously and raised her hand again.

“Ms. Granger? Do you have something to add?”

She glanced up at Flitwick, lungs frozen. She had the same dreadful feeling she’d get on the rare chance that she’d forgotten her homework or gotten in trouble with Harry and Ron.

She took a deep shaky breath and let it out slowly.

“Yes,” she said, decidedly. “Um, hi. Yes. It’s me, the instigator. I mean, I believe I inadvertently started this… student movement.” Her words died off and she started to regret speaking.

All she saw were eyes from every direction. Some blinked in shock, some looked on in curiosity, some contained derision, disbelief, disapproval. Eyes were a funny thing; they were able to shoot daggers and draw out guilt and shame, make her want to go back to bed and hide under her covers. The eyes of all the teachers she loved and worshipped over the years – whose approval she’d worked so hard for – were all watching her with varying degrees of judgement.

“Please explain,” Flitwick said. His normally pleasant warble held a dash of confusion and uncertainty.

“It started in my class last Friday,” Hermione explained, and bit her lip as she thought about how to proceed. “The Slytherdors – sorry, the Slytherins and Gryffindors – kept fighting in my classes. And this was not normal bickering between houses; it was like full blown, awful fights, so I… removed my tie to make a point about how houses do not define us as people and that our behaviours and beliefs are not limited to stereotypes…”

She trailed off at the looks around her.

“But, Ms. Granger, you are a teacher at this school now. You cannot disregard the rules willy-nilly!” Professor Sinistra said.

“Maybe if she’s incapable of controlling the students in her classes, then she shouldn’t be teaching –”

“– inner eye has been telling me that she will bring chaos to this school!”

“– new teacher, Sybil, don’t be dramatic –”

“– face the facts –”

She didn’t know who said what. She stared silently at the ground in front of her, face hot, as words blurred together, and awaited her verdict.

“Ms. Granger, my dear,” Professor Slughorn said in that pompous way of his. “Houses are the foundational legacy of this school. The house cup and house colours aside, it is important to promote a sense of house pride. Not tear it down.”

At that, she looked up sharply.

“I disagree,” she said coldly, and the room went silent once more.

“What? I must have misheard you there,” Slughorn said, eyes comically wide.

“You heard me fine, professor,” she said, standing tall and resolute. “While house pride has its purpose in letting students bond with their own houses, that is not the issue at hand. Our house differences are a huge cause of discrimination. First years were calling each other Gryffinsluts, and Death Eaters,” she said, emphasising the two words. “That is not okay. And personally, I think coloured ties should be dispensed with entirely, and a single uniform be used, and better even if all classes were mixed rather than sorted by house.”

Shocked silence surrounded her.

“B-but this is ridiculous. Getting rid of house colours? It would make deducting points unnecessarily difficult,” Slughorn said.

“How interesting that you are only talking about deductions,” she retorted, feeling a fire burn within her as she looked at him. “And that’s not at all what I said. I’m only talking about daily uniforms.” She looked around. “Discrimination was built into this school system, in the way students are differentiated by their houses; it has been perpetuated by students and teachers for a millennium. Perhaps it’s time to start dismantling it.” She looked back to Slughorn. “I would think you of all people would want your house to be treated fairly, Professor. In this political climate, hatred towards Slytherin is at its peak. Students are being accused of things that are not warranted. I want that discrimination to end, don’t you?”

She looked around at a handful of guilty faces. Good.

“But–” Slughorn spluttered, turning red.

“But what?” Hermione retorted. “If you can’t see a student’s house colours, then doesn’t that mean there is less discrimination from teachers as well? Less favouring of houses?”

“Ms. Granger is still a student,” Professor Slughorn said, laughing emphatically and looking around. “She doesn’t understand.”

Hermione bristled and ice filled her veins. It took her a moment to realise that the room had gone silent.

The ice turned to fire as rage flowed through her at the systemic prejudice still at play.

“Do you know how many times I've heard people say, ‘She doesn’t understand’? How many times I have been looked down on for not understanding some archaic part of wizarding society? First it's because of my blood, and now it's because I'm a student? Does living in this world for 8 years mean nothing? Have I just fought a war for nothing? Am I really still considered less than in your eyes?”

Her voice rang on the last word, and Hermione glanced around to find all the professors looking at her with varying degrees of trepidation.

Confused, she looked down and realised she was holding her wand, which was smoking with the strength of her emotions.

Shit.

Professor Flitwick put his hands up to calm her. “Ms. Granger, I think we have all the information we need right now. I will contact Professor McGonagall personally and we will discuss how this should be handled.”

“Professor Flitwick, with all due respect, Professor McGonagall has approved my teaching methods,” she said, voice shaking.

“Yes, but since this has gone beyond your classes, it still warrants a discussion. I will let you know the results by mail.”

With a last look around her, feeling the weight of the stares pressing in from all sides, Hermione turned and left the room without being dismissed.

∞∞∞

Positively vibrating with anger and adrenaline at having mouthed off at her professors, Hermione made it down to the Great Hall and pushed open the doors with such a force that her cloak flew dramatically behind her.

She stood still and watched as life in the Great Hall went on as normal: students ate toast and drank pumpkin juice while chatting to their friends, entirely oblivious of the chaos going on behind the scenes.

She made her way anticlimactically to the Gryffindor table and sat down alone with a sad huff, deflating. She put her head in her hands.

She had learned to censor herself over the years, to limit voicing her opinions so others wouldn’t hate her, but just now, all her self-restraint had snapped.

She imagined for a second that Ron and Harry were sitting next to her. She would have huffed and told them in excruciating detail what had gone on in the meeting. Harry would have patted her back awkwardly and lied in an attempt to be reassuring, and Ron would have guffawed hysterically and told her, “You yelled at the professors! That’s brilliant! I can’t believe you started a bloody rebellion, and you’re a teacher so you can’t even get in trouble for it. I wish I could have seen it!” To which Harry would have started laughing as the two of them pictured it, but he still would have given her a sympathetic expression.

But they weren't there.

Hermione sighed. Neither would have made her feel all that better but having them next to her would have. She missed the days when they’d been able to spend time together so easily.

She missed a lot of things.

But most of all…

Though she be but little, she is fierce, her mother had always said.

They’d had a conversation once after her fifth year when Hermione had come home and told her a watered-down version of Umbridge and how they’d started the DA.

Hermione, my love. Ever since you were a child, you always stood up against injustice. You used to pretend to scold your stuffed teddies for leaving another one out from teatime. You would cry when you saw any sort of animal abuse on TV. You would kick the boys who bullied your friend Bora in primary school. It's in your soul to give voice to those who can’t. Never stop fighting for what's right.

At the memory, guilt and nausea threatened to overwhelm her.

She wondered what her mother would have to say now. She missed her so goddamn much.

You’re fucking amazing.

Her eyes shot up to the Slytherin table as the words echoed in her mind, hazy with desire and determination.

Though not her mother’s words, they made her heart swell just as much. They also filled her with a markedly different kind of warmth.

She swallowed down the emotions and searched for the one person who could probably make her feel better.

She blinked, confused, when she saw him. He usually sat alone; but there he was, focused on the young boy sitting opposite him. It took her a moment to recognize the black hair.

Sean.

Her heart welled up as she watched the young boy talk. Draco rolled his eyes and said something snappy – she didn’t know what, but she could just tell.

Her gaze broke when the morning owls swooped in and plopped her second letter of the day onto her toast. She picked it up, watching the owls fly out of the hall, and when she looked down again, her eyes met silver.

For a moment, he had her in his thrall. It took her aback how easily his attention simultaneously gave her comfort and made her heart race.

She glanced at Sean, then back at Draco, with a questioning smile. He ran a hand through his hair and shrugged, then gave her a little wink. Sean turned and looked around, saw her, and then turned back to Draco with a wicked grin, only to receive stern words in return. Sean backed away, hands up, and slid down the bench to sit next to Adam, Chase, and Hope, who looked at him quizzically.

Draco was still watching her when her eyes landed on him again.

She smiled at him and then looked down at the unfamiliar letter. She opened it and all but wilted at the name signed at the bottom.

Dear Hermione,

We met the other night at the pub. I’m Ron’s girlfriend. We didn’t really have a chance to chat. Ron and Harry have been acting a little bit weird since that night, but they won't really answer my questions. Would you mind meeting me for a drink sometime, just to talk?

Sincerely,

Germaine

Irritation soured her stomach. She had enough problems to deal with. The last thing she needed was this new girl in the middle, meddling. Hermione still hadn’t contacted Harry; she wasn’t ready.

With a sigh, she stood up and made her way to the owlery to send a polite refusal.

∞∞∞

“Aha! Gotcha!”

“Eep!” Luna screamed as water splashed her. “Ah! It’s cold,” she said, laughing and wiping her face with her sleeve. “Why did we think it was a good idea to play outside in ten-degree weather?”

“Because fun doesn’t follow logic of course. Another round?” Ginny said eagerly, gathering the gobstones together in the centre and separating them.

“You’re on,” Luna said, grinning.

They'd been at it for half an hour, sitting at one of the stone tables set in an alcove in the courtyard. Hermione sat in the middle, with her legs crossed and a book open on her knees. The weather held the typical chill of a mid-November day, but the sun was out, casting the stone table in a little bit of warmth and Vitamin D.

It was just what she needed to clear her mind after the disastrous morning she’d had, and it was a good break from all the studying and research she’d been doing in the library for the past week.

Hermione ignored the irony of that thought as she paged the book on her lap.

“Did I tell you Bill’s been brought on board a special team at Gringotts for revamping security?” Ginny asked as she set up the board again.

“Isn’t he a curse breaker?” Hermione asked, looking up from her page.

“Yeah, but he wanted to stay closer to home now that they’re having a baby.”

“Right,” Hermione trailed off, fiddling with the book edges. “What do you think they'll do now that…?”

“Now that you guys single handedly released their scariest bit of security? I have no idea.”

The smile on Ginny’s face was meant to be reassuring, but Hermione only felt a rush of anger at the memory of how the Goblins had been treating the poor dragon.

“That dragon was blinded and chained and frankly abused! You should tell Bill to make sure there are no living things involved as part of the new security measures,” she said heatedly.

Ginny gave her a knowing smirk. “Tell him yourself! By the way, Charlie told me that it was spotted in Russia. They’re keeping an eye on it to make sure it’s adjusting properly to freedom. It seems to be doing well.”

“That's great,” Hermione said. It did make her feel marginally better.

“I'm sure it’s living a much happier life in the sunshine,” Luna said serenely.

“I hope so,” Hermione said, sharing a smile with her.

A sudden dark movement caught her eye and prompted her to look past the girls to the edge of the courtyard.

Draco had rounded the corner and was standing still, watching them. After a moment of contemplation, he approached, and Ginny and Luna both looked up at the sound of his steps. Ginny’s expression darkened, and Luna smiled.

Draco settled down on the fountain’s edge. He lit a cigarette and inhaled as he observed their game. “Haven’t seen anyone play gobstones in years. Not exactly the season for it.”

Ginny all but scowled, but Luna replied calmly, “Sometimes doing something childish can lighten the mood. Would you like to join us, Draco? Maybe if you do, Hermione will play as well.”

“No,” he said with a smirk and a wink in Hermione's direction. He took a drag of his cigarette. “Granger looks quite comfortable with her book.”

Hermione bit down a smile. She, in fact, did not want to play.

“What are you doing here, Malfoy?” Ginny asked with an unimpressed glance his way.

He shrugged, looking up at the sky like it was the most interesting thing in the world. “I still have some free will left, last I checked.”

Ginny scoffed, and they went back to their game.

Hermione watched them all nervously. So far, they weren’t trying to kill each other, so that was a win.

A few minutes later, Ginny sighed dramatically and said to Draco, “Ugh, can’t you smoke elsewhere? I can smell it over here. It’s vile.”

Hermione’s heart sank. She clutched at her book and watched the impending disaster play out before her.

Draco raised a lazy unimpressed eyebrow and ignored the request. “You do know how to do magic, yeah?”

“The world is vast. Can’t you go be free elsewhere?”

He looked hard at the redhead, and then put out the cigarette. “Satisfied, Head Girl?”

“I can still see your face, so, no, not really.”

“What happened to you, Weasley? Too poor for charm school?”

“How many ways do I need to say it? Feel free to fuck off, Ferret.”

Draco smirked. “Alliteration won't help your spell work, Weasel. Can you even do a proper air cleansing spell, or have you just never learned one?”

Ginny sent a rude gesture his way. Draco rolled his eyes, and his face went carefully blank.

There was nothing particularly groundbreaking or vicious about their bickering, but it shot Hermione’s anxiety all the way up. She was thankful for Luna's acceptance of Draco, but Ginny’s hatred for him was essentially a watered-down version of Ron and Harry’s, and if this was the best Ginny could do, well, she didn’t want to think about the implications of that yet.

Was this man worth it? Her instincts said yes, but their relationship was still undefined. Could she risk it for something uncertain?

Her heart told her yes, but her brain told her to be careful.

Hermione brought her knees up and hugged them to her chest as her thoughts spiralled. Her eyes flickered to Draco. He sat perfectly still, elbows on his knees, staring back at her with his piercing eyes.

The world around them fell away. The laughs of her friends faded into the periphery. For a moment, all she could hear was her own breathing. All she could feel was the crisp air on her skin, and the fluttering of butterflies warming her from the inside. All she could see were his glacial, burning eyes beneath that soft blond hair, a vague impression of black, stone grey and sky blue around him.

She crossed her arms over her knees and lay her chin on them. The longer they stared at one another, the more his expression changed imperceptibly.

One moment, his eyes were steel, as though to say, I've put my shield up. Another, they were mercury, swirling liquid metal, as though to say, I missed you, I want nothing more than to be next to you right now. And the next, they were smoky, recalling late night sweaty orgasms. And finally, they turned platinum, sharp and appraising with a barely-there furrow between the brows as though to say, something is wrong, what’s wrong?

She swallowed thickly and shook her head before catching herself. It had to be her imagination. His face had barely moved a muscle.

Tinkering laughter shook her out of her reverie, and she looked back at the girls to see Luna hunched over in laughter while Ginny wiped wet hair off of her face.

Hermione smiled half-heartedly, but her focus was on Draco as he stood up and approached.

“Can’t you take a hint, Malfoy?” Ginny said. “We’re having some girl time.”

“Ginny,” Hermione scolded.

Ginny had the decency to let a guilty expression seep into her annoyed look as she caught Hermione’s gaze.

Draco stopped in his tracks and gave Ginny a cold look. “Fucking reign it in, Ginger. I’m obviously not here for you. I just want to talk to Granger for a few minutes.”

“I don’t trust you, Malfoy,” Ginny said with slightly less fervour.

“Well then it’s a good thing I don’t actually give a fuck,” he sneered. “Granger’s an adult, she doesn’t need a gatekeeper.”

“I swear, Malfoy, I’ll–”

“What? Please tell me what you’re going to do. I’m dying to hear it.”

“I need to send an owl. Ginny, can I borrow Circe?” Luna interjected suddenly with a surreptitious glance at Hermione.

Ginny tore her eyes away from Draco, and the anger in her gaze tinged with a flicker of guilt. “Yeah, sure,” she said to Luna after a long moment. “Yeah, let’s go together.”

“Have fun, you two,” Luna said as Ginny glared at Draco. He saluted her, mockingly.

As Hermione watched the girls leave, she felt a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach.

And then it was just the two of them.

Before she knew it, Draco was in Ginny’s vacated seat, facing her.

“What’s wrong?” He asked, scanning her face.

“I’m fine,” she said, sounding anything but.

He leaned forward and planted his hands on the bench on either side of her before planting a gentle kiss on her lips and pulling back to look into her eyes. “You’re lying,” he said matter-of-factly.

She looked down and tried to gather her emotions as her lip twitched in a smile. Of course, he could tell.

“What is it?” Draco asked, brow furrowed as he brushed a thumb over her cheek, and it was then that she noticed she was crying.

She looked up at him in surprise, and to her utter mortification, proper tears welled up and blurred her vision.

“Granger?” He asked, voice strained, but Hermione only managed to shake her head. Her tears overflowed and her throat closed.

Something soft and cool touched her cheek, soaking up her tears. She reached up to take the silk handkerchief from him and looked at it before wiping her eyes with it.

“You had another one?” She sniffled once she’d calmed down enough to speak.

“Probably one in every pocket I own.”

She let out a little laugh at that and it brought a smile back to her face. He looked relieved and pulled her up to standing. She let him take her hand and pull her towards the fountain.

“I didn’t mean to cry… it's just been a rough day,” she mumbled.

“It's 11 in the morning on a Saturday,” he said. “I literally saw you twelve hours ago. What the fuck happened?”

She swallowed. “Flitwick called a staff meeting this morning at eight o’clock about the students not wearing ties. Apparently it’s become a thing throughout the school.”

He gave her a curious frown. “Okay? That's good.”

“Not good! I had to tell them I started it, and then I scolded them all and lectured them about discrimination and prejudice. And all the while I felt like a child that adults don’t take seriously.”

“You… lectured the professors? Is that why you cried? You’re worried about disappointing them?” Draco asked, brushing a stray curl away from her face.

“No,” she said. “Maybe. But it got me thinking about my friends and my mum and what they would say if they knew what happened.”

“You know what I would say?” Draco asked with a twinkle in his eyes.

She flushed. “Yes,” she whispered.

He raised his eyebrows.

“Tell me.”

“That you think I’m amazing?” she guessed, looking up at him shyly.

He laughed and she smiled at him through her embarrassment. “You’re learning. Good,” he said, tracing her cheek with his thumb. “But I was actually going to say, fuck the professors. They are not infallible. You did nothing wrong, but why did thinking about telling people make you sad?”

Hermione sighed. How could she explain the pervading melancholic fear within her?

“I got an owl from Ron’s girlfriend at breakfast.”

Draco’s thumb stopped moving. “You're upset at Weasley’s girlfriend?” he asked, carefully. A slight sneer graced his face.

“No, I don’t care in the slightest who Ron dates. It's just… this girl is suddenly best friends with both Harry and Ron. They’re a trio now. I know how stupid it sounds, but it feels like I'm being pushed out.”

Draco relaxed slightly. “It doesn’t sound stupid,” he said softly. “So… is that why you cried?”

“No,” she sighed, frustrated at how inept she was at not being able to express her feelings. “I just – I feel like I'm losing everyone important in my life. I'm losing my best friends. Seeing Ginny walk away just now… I know it’s irrational, but I’m scared of losing her too.”

His face shuttered and he ran a hand over his eyes. “Because of me. Fuck.”

“That’s not what I said. It’s just that Harry and the Weasleys are all the family I have left, but… it just feels like I'm losing everyone.”

Hermione didn’t know what possessed her to be so honest, but it felt cathartic to talk about it. Like maybe now she’d be a little less lonely in her suffering.

“What about your real family? Your parents? Siblings?”

Hermione shook her head and hugged her arms. “I’m an only child,” she told him. “And… I lost my parents too.”

“Shit,” Draco said, searching her eyes. “Are they… did they pass away?”

She shook her head. Her heart thudded. It was such a deeply personal, shameful topic. Only a handful of people really knew the truth. Could she really tell him?

“What is it?” he asked carefully. There was no smirk, no teasing, no joking. His face was patient, impassive, and it gave her hope that he would take her seriously. She really hated when people treated the situation with levity.

Hermione exhaled slowly and braced herself.

“I… obliviated my parents and removed myself from their memories after sixth year, and I gave them new identities in Australia,” she said, looking up at him despite the pain that resurfaced with her words. “To protect them,” she added. “I thought… if the Death Eaters found them while I wasn’t there… I figured they could at least live on happily without me. I never thought about the after, just the what ifs. But now that the after is here…”

Draco’s eyebrows had jumped high on his forehead. He looked at her in what? Horror? Awe? His expression froze in a mask, and it made her panic.

“I know, it’s awful! I should never have done it, but I didn’t know what to do. I had to go on the run with Harry, and–”

“Granger.”

“I tampered with their brains without their consent. It’s the worst thing I’ve ever done to anyone–”

“Granger.”

“I probably deserve Azkaban. And I’ve been researching how to reverse the spell–”

“Hey,” Draco said. He took hold of her face between his hands and forced her to look up at him, but she wouldn’t meet his silver eyes.

“- but all the experts that I’ve corresponded with have told me to give up because nothing like that has ever been done before and an attempt could make things worse –”

“Granger, slow down.”

She shut her mouth, and her watering eyes finally met his. She searched the oceans within for a reflection to tell her just how much of a monster she was.

“You did the right thing,” he said, watching her intently. She could see now that his expression wasn’t one of horror but of understanding. Of knowing.

Even though she now knew another side of him, he was still Draco Malfoy; he had lived amongst Death Eaters and interacted with Voldemort himself. He’d been branded and tasked to kill Dumbledore as a sixteen-year-old boy. He knew what they were capable of.

Her vision blurred, and there she was, full on crying in front of him again. She didn’t realise how much she’d been holding it in until the tears were out.

“Tampering with minds is… unforgivable. I hate myself for it,” she said weakly.

“You did the right thing,” he repeated firmly, though he looked pained. “I know better than most the horrible things people will do to protect the ones they love. I’ve done them too,” he said, and wiped at her tears with the handkerchief. “It fucking sucks, but what you did saved them, that’s not even a question.” He looked between her eyes. “Is that why you were researching memory charms and spell reversals?”

She nodded.

Draco’s face remained stoic as he looked around, then took her hand and led her to a raised platform. He sat down against a pillar and pulled her into his lap. She settled between his thighs, her back against his chest, as he wrapped his arms around her and buried his face in the crook of her neck.

“I’ll be civil,” he said, breath tickling her ear, and she choked on a wet laugh at the words.

“What?”

“I can’t promise I’ll be nice, but I’ll be civil. To Weasley. I don’t want to be the reason you cry anymore.”

She nodded and took a deep breath, trying to match his slow, steady breaths.

“Why am I always crying in front of you?” she asked, sniffling.

“I've been asking myself that for the last ten minutes,” he said with a breathy laugh. “I kissed you and you erupted.”

She laughed weakly and snuggled back into him. “Kissing you is the last thing that could make me cry.”

“Yeah?”

He moved stray curls off of her neck and kissed behind her ear. She gasped lightly and leaned into the pleasant tickle.

“How does that make you feel?” Draco asked in a low teasing voice.

“A little better,” she said, smiling.

“Just a little?” He kissed her again below her ear, then again in the crook of her neck, before biting her gently and dragging his teeth lightly over her skin, eliciting a gasp as she tried to wriggle away. He laughed and pulled her tighter to him. His fingers played along the visible strip of skin between her shirt and her jeans.

“Have you heard the tale of the wizard who tried to bottle clouds?” he asked after a while.

“No,” she said, relaxing back against him and looking at the fluffy clouds high up in the bright blue sky.

“It's a wizarding folktale. Do you want to hear it?”

She nodded. “Do you really need to ask?”

She heard the smirk in his voice as he spoke.

“Many hundreds of years ago, there lived two brothers named Gideon and Gavin Goldglimmer. They grew up in a small village in Wales and became traveling merchants. They travelled the world, trading and selling along the wizarding trade routes of Britain and mainland Europe, competing for prestige and connections. At the time, most people traded textiles, foods, herbs, and weapons, but there was a niche yet lucrative market in metals and the elements.”

Hermione closed her eyes at the soothing tone of his storytelling voice, of the vibrations she could feel through his chest. Her anxiety slowly seeped out of her.

“Alchemy was popular at the time,” he continued, “but it was an underdeveloped field of magic, so alchemists experimented with different physical representations of the five elements – Water, Air, Earth, Fire and Aether.”

The peaceful feeling dripped down through her skull and down her body, amplified this time by the warm comfort of Draco behind her. She was calmed by his rhythmic breathing, the feel of his toned muscles along her back, and his arms that wrapped around her.

“One day, Gideon came across a city notice that read, Looking for a merchant capable of acquiring almost anything. Compensation high. Inquire at the castle. Gideon did indeed inquire, and discovered that Lord Oswold Avaris, the King and aspiring alchemist, was in search of alchemical compounds. Unfortunately, Gideon’s brother Gavin was also interested in the job.

“Trends in alchemy were often changing at the times; at one point, they used stones to represent the five elements, and at another, they used coloured powders. But Lord Avaris considered himself an innovator, and he commissioned both Gideon and Gavin to acquire combined versions of the elements in hopes that they would give stronger results. The two brothers decided to compete for the prize and went their separate ways.”

She watched the clouds drift slowly as the peaceful, blissful feeling hummed within her.

“For Fire and Earth, Gideon sought out volcanic rock from the Giant’s Causeway in Northern Ireland. For Earth and Air, he trekked to the Sahara Desert to capture air from a sandstorm in a jar. For air and fire, he decided to preserve a lightning spell. It was easy enough to create a perpetual flash of lightning in a jar with simple magic. And air and water, well, Gideon wanted to bottle clouds.”

Draco’s long fingers slid under her shirt and rested on her stomach as he spoke. Hermione sighed in contentment. A low hum of arousal sang in her veins, complementing the peace and calm she was feeling.

“He went to Cardiff, one of the rainiest cities in Britain. At first, he tried to summon the clouds to him, but they were too far away.”

“And they’re not a solid object,” Hermione said.

“Precisely. At most, he managed to get it to rain a little bit, but water was not the goal. Then he thought of fog, so he went to the Scottish Highlands. He tried to capture the fog into a jar with a spell, but it kept turning into water and condensation. He then tried to duplicate the fog into the jar. But what happened? When the real fog became rain, so did the jar fog become water, which didn’t work out so well for poor Gideon who needed to transport it cross country.

“Gideon then spent his days attempting to conjure a cloud from scratch, and he managed it, eventually, only to find that it still turned into rain in the jars. No matter what he did, nothing worked. After many failed attempts from both sides, the two brothers finally met again. The brothers lamented their inability to bottle natural clouds, but then they discovered something. Where Gideon had been focusing on conjuring clouds, Gavin had been honing a stasis charm, which never worked because real clouds followed the overarching laws of nature. Gavin managed to syphon his brother’s artificial cloud into a jar and keep it fresh with his stasis charm. Because it was a conjured cloud, it wasn’t subject to the laws of nature.

“Happy at their shared success, the brothers went to Lord Avaris with all of their alchemical compounds and decided to share the prize money. However, the trends of alchemy changed quickly, and they had spent so long trying to bottle clouds that the idea that compounds had a better effect in transmutations than water and air separately had become obsolete, so neither brother got any money.”

Hermione blinked, and then sat up to turn and look at Draco. “That’s it? All that for nothing?”

“That’s the story,” he said with a shrug. “And I wouldn’t call it nothing, they did invent some creative spells.”

“What’s the moral of the story then?”

“Do you think there is one?”

“There has to be, otherwise that’s just a ridiculously unsatisfying ending.”

“Then, how about, working together is better than working alone?”

Hermione frowned. “Maybe, but it was too late, they weren’t fast enough.”

“Maybe it’s that fighting with siblings leads to missed opportunities? Or that following greed is not worth it in the end?”

She pursed her lips. “There’s nothing wrong with a bit of ambition though.”

“Don’t trust rich wankers to stick to their words?” Draco suggested with a grin.

She wrinkled her nose, and then nodded, considering it. “But still…”

“You win,” he laughed. “Fuck if I know anything about morals.”

“You and me both, it seems,” she said, and smiled lightly at him in return. She settled back into him and looked up at the clouds.

She wanted to know what it was, this odd, compelling happiness that she felt with him, but she didn’t want to pop that bubble just yet. She wasn’t ready.

In that moment, there was no history between them, no looming questions about their future. They were just two people, enjoying each other’s company, looking up at the November blue sky.

They stayed together for a while longer before heading back to the castle for lunch.

∞∞∞

An irrational fear that her professors now hated her caused Hermione to keep her head down at breakfast and avoid the library during her free period on Monday morning. Instead, she sought out the hidden alcove behind Trawg the Tragic to pass the time.

November rain sent its pervading chill throughout the castle. As most students carried heavy book bags to heated classrooms for their first classes of the day, Hermione stood in the hallway as Trawg blinked at her from the rich burgundy tones of the old velvet tapestry. She wondered what had made his life so tragic. What was his downfall? Did he have a tragic flaw, or did his tragedy come from outside forces?

When the bell rang for class to start, pulling her out of her thoughts, Hermione slipped behind the tapestry and took in a deep breath, finally able to breathe in the peace and quiet of the secluded space.

The window ledge was wide enough to sit, so she hopped up on it and hugged her knees as she watched the raindrops slide down the stained glass and the grey landscape behind it.

What if her own life was a tragedy? What would be her fatal flaw? The one that would destroy her?

Was it her love? She hid her parents out of misguided love and punished herself for it every day. She’d given so much of herself to her friends over the years, only to be left behind. Is that how she would perish? From self-flagellation and hurt feelings?

No. If she ever lo– if she ever felt that way about Draco, knowing he could never fully commit to her, that would surely be her tragic end.

It had only been a month since she’d started sitting with him in potions – a month of wrestling with her feelings and coming to accept the fact that she was inexplicably, obsessively drawn to him. There was nobody in the world that had ever made her feel like he had in the past week and a half.

He didn’t judge her for things others did. He thought she was amazing. He was an intriguing, mystical, incredible human being.

And tragic.

Draco’s life was already a tragedy. He’d put his trust in the wrong people, and they’d led him astray. His tragic flaw was that he was a Malfoy, born to follow a certain path.

Would he follow his name and reject a life of happiness with her?

Hermione sighed and leaned her cheek against the cool window. She knew she was being ridiculous. She was only nineteen. She was at an age and period in her life when relationships should be fun and unattached, but she always got attached – strongly attached – to the people she liked. She didn’t think she could ever be like Luna, who enjoyed multiple sexual partners without commitment.

It was silly to think of commitment when they hadn’t even discussed what their relationship was.

She wanted to ask, but she was afraid of the answer. She didn’t think she could handle it if he told her, Let’s just have fun. She was not ready to give him up.

Hermione pulled out her book on colours. She’d read it twice thus far, but she flipped through it in case there was anything she missed.

At ten-fifteen, the sounds of students filled the hallways. A few minutes later, the tapestry fluttered, and Draco ducked inside.

A slow smile formed on his face as he took her in. “You came early,” he said.

“I had a free period,” she said, putting her book down. She swivelled so her legs hung off the ledge.

Draco stepped between them and ran his hands along the outsides of her thighs.

“You weren’t in the library yesterday,” he said, eyes roving her face.

“Ah, yes, I’ve been avoiding all professors since Saturday,” she admitted dryly.

Amusement flickered over his face. “You can’t avoid the library forever.”

“I know.” She reached for him, and placed her hands on his shirt, just to feel him. His stomach expanded slightly with every breath, and she ran her fingers over the muscles of his abdomen.

Draco looked down at her hands with a little smirk and squeezed her thighs with his long fingers.

“You’re just a little conundrum aren’t you? You’re stuck between pleasing others – giving them what they want – and speaking up for what you believe in.”

Her eyes darted up to his in shock. The truth of his words rang through her. He was right. Was that her fatal flaw?

She was stunned that he had read her heart so easily.

“You’re an open book,” he told her with a knowing look.

No, she wasn’t. If that were true, then why was it so hard for her friends to understand her feelings?

“Am I?”

He just smirked. “It was not that hard to find out your sexy little secret, you know. All I had to do was pay attention.”

He did pay attention, and her heart sang at the thought.

“I just had History of Magic,” he said with a little teasing smirk. His hand came up to cup her jaw, and his thumb brushed over her bottom lip, pulling it down lightly. “I couldn't concentrate because the entire time I was imagining the way your mouth felt around my cock.”

Hermione felt a flash of arousal whip through her at the look in his eyes. She grabbed his shirt and pulled him in.

Draco followed the pull and pressed his lips to hers, leaning in with a hand on either side of her. He sucked her top lip, then her bottom, and then traced it with his tongue. His tongue caressed hers, lightly at first, and then more eagerly as he pressed further into her. He brought a hand up to tangle in her hair, pulling just enough to make her moan.

He was intoxicating – the warmth of his body, his scent, his taste. She hooked her legs behind his and pulled his hips flush against hers. He was getting hard, and the feel of it through his trousers brought back all the memories of Friday night, but there was nothing she could do about it now. They didn’t have enough time.

After a while, he pulled back and leaned his forehead against hers. “You’ve ruined me for learning,” he said. “Your naked body writhing under my touch plays on repeat all day. The taste of you, the sounds you make. Fuck.”

The bell rang, signalling the end of the morning break, but neither of them moved.

Draco looked down at the book next to her and his lip quirked up. “Any theories yet?” he asked, voice unsteady as though he was trying to get himself under control.

Hermione shook her head. “Grey is talked about the least in the history of colour, and nothing fits. There are too many different meanings. For example, it used to be the colour of raw textiles, which poor people or monks would wear, and was a symbol for humility. It could be in reference to rocks being grey, and therefore meaning longevity or stability, which is a more likely explanation honestly, but that seems too simplistic for you. It was also used in grey military uniforms in the muggle world, which doesn’t really apply. I mean, technically you were a child soldier, but wizards wear black. Anyway, I’m still working it out. I’ll let you know when I have a working theory.”

Draco searched her eyes for a long moment before pressing another sweet kiss on her lips, and then pulling back with a little smirk.

“Get to class. And remember: these stodgy old professors need to learn a lesson from you, not the other way around.”

∞∞∞

After dinner, Hermione made her way to the library. Draco was right; she couldn’t avoid her professors forever. Madam Pince was thankfully occupied, so Hermione all but ran past her to the far corner table.

She settled down to work on her Charms essay and was halfway through the first sentence when the chair next to her was pulled out.

She looked up as Draco flopped down, blond hair in slight disarray as though he’d been running a hand through it carelessly. He pushed his knee up against her thigh, and she smiled.

“Hi,” she whispered.

“No longer hiding?” he asked, eyes trailing over her.

She became conscious of her hair, half up with her wand keeping it in place, and the ink smudges on her right hand. She glanced down at herself and noticed another ink stain near a button on her chest. Ugh. How did that even happen?

Feeling slightly embarrassed, she tucked a stray curl behind her ear and sat up straighter, as though nothing was out of the ordinary.

Draco rolled his sleeves up and her eye followed the movement. His hand and forearms were all strength, agility, and tattoos. She itched to reach out and touched them.

“I should tell you, Ginny and Luna are coming later,” she said, running her quill feather along her bottom lip.

He shrugged, mussing up his hair with a hand. “Do you want me to leave?” he asked. His eyes were an ocean, moving with the current and shimmering under the sunlight, but deep and dark down below.

She shook her head. “Of course not, I just… I don’t want any fighting.”

“I told you on Saturday. I'll be a good boy.”

She glanced up at him to see his eyes dancing with laughter. He winked and she lost her breath.

“Okay,” she breathed out a laugh.

“Then give me your notes.”

“What notes?” she asked, puzzled. They didn’t have any assignments together.

“The notes for your research,” Draco said, looking at her oddly.

She stared back in confusion.

“My research?”

“Your research on memory charm reversals?”

“Why?”

Draco leaned in towards her. “So that I can understand what happened and what you have tried so far, what you have researched. Have you written a literature review? I need to catch up to where you are. Or would you prefer to just explain it to me?”

She stared blankly.

“In fact, that’s a much better idea. If you haven’t already, you should write down exactly how you did it in the first place, so I can understand the starting point. And then I’ll need to read your notes.”

Finally, it clicked. “You’re… you… you want to help me?”

Draco stared at her in disbelief. “Did I mistakenly cast a stupefy? Did it really take you this long to catch on?”

The playful jab broke her out of her stupor, and she attempted to give him an admonishing look, but it was overtaken by overwhelming emotion. She could hardly speak. Tears were threatening to well up again.

She’d been in this alone for so long. Not one single person had ever offered to help.

“The more people helping the better, don’t you think? I might be able to fill in some blanks, or help you brainstorm or get through the readings more quickly. Once I know the details, we can search the manor library. It’s rather extensive and eclectic in its contents. And I’ll ask around. There could be something different. Fuck, I can even be like a silent partner if you don't want the others to know I'm helping if my name is a hindrance.”

“The others?”

They looked at each other, confused.

“... the others helping you on this project?” Draco said, brow furrowing.

Hermione’s face went hot. “There's no one else.”

It was his turn to look stunned.

“Why the fuck not? Research of this importance usually has an entire team behind it. That's like… Department of Mysteries level research. Mind magic is not…”

“Yes, well, maybe that’s why no one is willing to help me.”

Words caught in her throat, so she wordlessly rummaged through her bag, and pulled out a folder of papers. She held it out to him.

“You can start with the correspondence. I've described the process in detail there and sent inquiries to a few supposed experts around the world.”

He took the file, but she kept her grip on it a moment longer. “Just… please remember I was desperate. I didn’t want to hurt them, I wanted to keep them alive.”

Hermione felt his gaze on her face for a long time before he looked away and started rifling through the letters.

“Professor?”

Hermione looked up at the young voice, surprised to see Ava, standing in front of them.

“Hi Ava. How can I help you?”

Ava glanced nervously at Draco. “I heard from Digger that you taught him how to research with proper citations. Can you teach me?”

Hermione’s jaw almost dropped. “That was Sean’s detention.”

“I know, but they don’t teach us those things in class, so I was hoping maybe you wouldn’t mind showing me.” Ava shuffled her feet, looking sheepish. “But if you're busy or something,” she said, glancing at Draco. “I just thought I’d ask.”

She looked so hopeful that Hermione couldn't say no. “Don't be silly Ava, of course I'll show you. But it's not a punishment, you can stop anytime.”

Hermione glanced at Draco and saw the beginnings of a smirk on his face.

Ava beamed and sat down adjacent to Hermione.

“Do you have any essays you've been working on?”

“No, I finished all of my homework already.”

“Okay, then, hold on.” Hermione opened her bag and pulled out Advanced Intuitive Spellcasting and handed it to Ava.

“I want you to skim this for any mention of spell reversals.”

She taught her how to scan for context, how to skim a text, and how to write down citations and relevant quotes for future reference, and then set her to work.

On one side, Draco was silently reading her letters without taking notes, and on the other, Ava was poring over the old text. Hermione finally returned to her charms essay. The three of them worked silently for half an hour before Ava spoke again.

“Professor, did you really rob Gringotts?”

Hermione looked up at Ava’s question. She tried to keep her face neutral, but Ava’s jaw dropped.

“You did!”

She sent Draco a withering look. He didn’t look up from the letter he was involved in reading, but the corner of his lip curved up.

“Don’t listen to rumours Ava.”

Pragmatic. Not a lie.

“But why did you do it?”

She would not be able to trick this girl. She could lie outright, but she had a distinct feeling Ava would see through her, so she sighed and said, “Hypothetically, some things are worth breaking the rules for.”

“Such as?”

“Such as the fate of all muggleborns. A way to defeat Voldemort.”

“Like… you couldn’t have defeated him without breaking into Gringotts? Stealing something?”

“Yes. Hypothetically.”

“Wow,” Ava said, looking starstruck. “And did you fly a dragon? Hypothetically?”

Hermione couldn’t help the smile. Ava caught on quickly.

“Hypothetically, if a dragon were the only way to escape, I might have ridden it, and hypothetically, that dragon might have been blinded and abused and might now be living a better life in Russia.”

Ava’s eyes widened. “Do you think it found a family? Hypothetically,” she added.

A smile pulled at her lips.

“Maybe.”

She glanced at Draco and found him watching her like she was… amazing.

“This is all hypothetical, Ava. I'm not saying any of that actually happened,” she said, clearing her throat.

Ava grinned. “Of course not, Professor.”

They settled back into silence for about five minutes before Ginny showed up, looking dumbstruck at their ragtag team.

“What’s all this?” she asked, looking confused.

Draco finally spoke, sounding bored. “Granger is training mini-Granger how to be more like her.”

Ava and Hermione glared at him, and he shot them a smirk in return.

Ginny glanced at Draco, looking surprisingly amused.

“Gin, this is Ava, she’s in first year. I'm giving her some research tips. Oh, and Ava this is my friend Ginny. And this is Draco, I forgot the introductions before.”

Ava looked hesitantly at Draco. He looked up at her. “Minion number two, got it,” he deadpanned.

Ava blushed pink. “I'm not a minion!”

“He’s joking, Ava,” Hermione reassured her.

“Am I?”

“I didn't expect to see you here, Malfoy,” Ginny said, taking a seat.

Malfoy looked up at her coldly. After a minute she saw his throat bob and he said, “Just pretend I'm not here.”

“Draco's helping me with something,” Hermione said, glancing between them.

Ginny frowned and settled in. “Okay. Hermione, would you mind giving my Charms essay a once-over? I'm not sure if I've gotten the explanation quite right.”

“Of course,” Hermione said and took her essay with a smile.

Ginny looked up and met Draco’s stare.

“What?” she snapped, as much as a whisper would allow.

He shook his head and looked back down with a curled lip.

Ginny glared at him.

Before Hermione could fully drown in her anxiety, Luna showed up and slid quietly into the empty seat next to Ginny. “Hi Ginny, Hermione. Draco, nice to see you. And, who’s this?” She looked at Ava.

Ava sat up straight and said, “I’m Ava.”

“Pleasure to meet you,” Luna smiled.

“You as well…?”

“I'm Luna Lovegood.”

“Ava is one of my students,” Hermione explained.

“Well, isn't this nice? Are you all finally getting along?”

“Not exactly,” Ginny mumbled, looking suspiciously at Draco, who remained silent.

“Okay,” Luna shrugged. “Hermione, do you have time to look over my History of Magic essay? Your annotations last time were very insightful.”

Hermione took Luna’s essay. “Sure.”

She glanced at Draco and froze at his cold expression. His eyes were narrowed at Luna.

After a few moments, he ran a hand over his face, then he opened his bag to carefully place the stack of letters inside and stood up.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said to Hermione.

He was out the door before she could reply.

∞∞∞

Draco met her during the morning break on Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday. They always kissed first, desperate to feel each other, but he always spent the last five or ten minutes asking about her research.

He always listened attentively as she answered his questions. His eyes were not judgemental; they were curious and compelling and understanding, and for the first time, Hermione felt able to talk freely about what she’d done to her parents and the research she’d conducted thus far.

But she was still too scared to ask about his feelings for fear of ruining the bubble of happiness she had whenever she was with him.

Every evening, Hermione went to the library to research. Ava joined her sometimes, and she could tell the girl just enjoyed being part of something real. Draco always joined as well; he would sit down with nothing more than a nudge to her foot or a quirk of his lips. On Tuesday and Wednesday, he read her correspondence and took detailed notes about everything in a brown leather journal. On Thursday, she gave him the notes for her literature review, which she’d had yet to write.

He always left first with a quick, “see you tomorrow,” though his eyes always lingered on her. Sometimes he seemed to be checking if she was okay, and other times, he looked on the verge of saying more, before deciding against it.

She lamented their lack of time alone.

At nights, she pleasured herself with The Ghost. She’d chosen a human male shape and set it to automatic function with vibration. The rhythmic movement was fluid, the feel and texture were more realistic, and it felt better than her muggle sex toys. Pleasure built within her quickly, especially when she reached down to circle her clit and thought about the way he touched her, but it was ultimately unsatisfying. It was missing everything she needed from Draco: the feel of his body on hers, his heat, the drugging kisses, the state of relaxed bliss his words left her in, his praises, his lips on her skin, the eye contact, the sounds he made…

Everything.

∞∞∞

After Sean's detention, Hermione had braced herself for an onslaught of interrogations from her Slytherdor students, but as they trickled in through the door in the minutes leading up to class, not a single one mentioned Gringotts, dragons, Polyjuice, or blackmail.

A few students whispered together and gave her curious looks, but overall, it wasn’t the disaster she’d anticipated.

The Gryffindors were all sans tie, unsurprisingly, and even Sean waltzed in and took his seat next to Ava without any green and silver in sight.

Only Adam and Hope came in with their ties on, but they each took them off as they sat down and stuffed them into their bags.

When the bell rang, Hermione stood up, and asked, “Did you all complete the homework? Has everyone managed to turn rock into rubber?”

A few students deigned to respond, while others sat quietly. Of course.

“Sean, how about you?”

Sean’s eyebrows raised in disbelief. “I did it in class last week, Ms. G!”

“Why didn’t you demonstrate it then?” Hermione asked, bewildered.

“You saw me turn rock into slime.”

Hermione blinked and looked at Ava. “It’s true, Professor. He managed them pretty quickly and was playing around with other materials.”

Oh.

She looked around. “Okay then. Well, I’ll be testing each of you before we start today’s lesson, which will be about –”

Jade’s hand went up.

“Yes, Jade?”

“Are you dating Draco Malfoy?”

The air expelled from her lungs in surprise. She looked at Sean and Ava suspiciously.

Sean smirked and Ava’s eyes widened.

“What would make you think that?” Hermione asked.

“We’ve heard… things,” Hope said, glancing at Sean. “That you study together.”

“Studying doesn’t mean dating.”

“Sean says he was definitely flirting.”

“And that you looked at him like you love him.”

Sean nodded sagely.

Hermione was caught between wanting to laugh at these children speculating on her love life and wanting to sigh in frustration. She bit her tongue and looked up at the ceiling.

“My private life is not up for discussion,” she declared.

No one listened, of course.

“Do you like him?”

“She’s a muggleborn! He’s a Death Eater! Why would she like him?”

“He definitely likes her,” Adam said, surprising Hermione. Chase and Hope nodded.

“It’s true!” Sean said. “Ava knows too!”

Ava looked guilty but nodded. Little traitor.

“Nobody in their right mind would date a Death Eater,” Veronica huffed.

This was heading into dangerous territory.

“Okay, stop this,” she said sternly, crossing her arms. The class went silent. “He is not a Death Eater anymore.”

“But he was. Didn’t he want to kill you?” Jamal asked.

Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose.

“It’s not that simple. The world is not black and white. Draco Malfoy is a good man who just had an impossible choice.”

“But –” Veronica protested and cut off when Hermione held up a hand.

She noticed a few quiet faces: Sean, looking down at his desk and bouncing his leg in agitation; Adam, glaring at Veronica; Hope, looking ashamed.

Hermione had a feeling deep inside that this was an important teachable moment. She had to make them understand, for the sake of students like Sean, if anything.

“Okay, listen. I’m going to give you an imaginary situation and I want you to think how you would act, okay? Don’t tell me your answers, just think about them. A thought exercise if you will.”

Students nodded.

Hermione took a deep breath, thinking quickly.

“Imagine that you’ve grown up with a very loving family. You’re happy, you have everything you want, and your parents dote on you. And since you were young, you’ve always known that your family hates… unicorns.” She paused for effect. “So, you believe it's normal to hate unicorns.”

Eyebrows raised all around, and students shared glances.

“You’ve been taught from a young age that they are mutant creatures and that there is nothing good about them except for their horns and hair. They are different from horses. They have too much unnatural magic power they don’t deserve and can be dangerous.

“When you get older, you realize that your parents are part of a group that like to hunt unicorns, but that’s normal, right? You’ve been raised to think that they’re dirty animals that are only good for harvesting for their magical properties.

“So, when the hunting group invites you to join their special club, you feel proud, you feel like you’re a valued member of their community.

“But you go there, and you see this unicorn in real life, and you realise it’s not actually a dirty animal; it’s beautiful and enchanting and shining with strong magic and purity, and you don’t want to kill it.

“As you grow older, you learn there is another group: the unicorn lovers. They want to protect and save the unicorns from unfair treatment. You think they might be right because you've seen that unicorns are not innately bad.

“But the leader of the unicorn hunters’ group is extremely dangerous and tells you that since you joined their club, you must kill the unicorn. If you don’t, it will show disloyalty and they’ll kill you and your parents.”

She let that sink in. “What would you do?” She paused and let them think. “Now you’re confused, right? You thought this hunter’s club was elite, that you were one of them. You’re stuck with a decision where you don’t like either choice. Could you kill a unicorn? Could you let your parents die? What would you do?”

Hermione looked around at everyone. She saw a fair confused frown or two. Good. They were thinking.

“Do you think it’s free will? Because it’s not. It’s blackmail and manipulation. It's only a choice of which consequence you can live with more.

“So, you decide to try to kill the unicorn because your family who loves you is more important to you, no matter how beautiful or pure you’ve come to find unicorns. But ultimately, you can’t do it.

“The hunters now think you've betrayed them and want to kill you, but the unicorn lovers still consider you a unicorn hunter because you attempted to kill a unicorn.

“How would you feel when one side wants you dead and the other wants you locked away for life? It would feel pretty awful, I think.”

“Miss? But why couldn’t he just explain to the unicorn lovers what happened?” Jamal asked.

“That's a great question. The unicorn lovers didn’t trust him. They didn’t give him a chance. They think he had some ulterior motive, or that he’s not truly on their side. They assume he’s guilty and complicit because of who his family is and what he’s done to protect them. It feels really unfair, right?”

Some students nodded their heads.

“The world is not always a fair place. So, we have to give people the benefit of the doubt. Nobody is purely good or purely evil. A lot of it is circumstance and how we’re raised. But we are not our parents. So, we all have to try to stop thinking in black and white, and that means not judging anyone based on their families.”

Hermione looked around at her students. Everyone was quiet, but the looks on their faces gave her hope that her message was sinking in. Adam was watching her with an inscrutable expression.

Indie raised her hand.

“Miss? I think it’s a crime to talk about killing unicorns.”

Hermione sighed. “It’s just a metaphor, Indie.”

∞∞∞

After a relatively successful class in which all students had succeeded in turning rock into rubber and had moved on to manipulating colours, Hermione entered the potions classroom to find Draco already seated. He was slouching back against the bench with his arms crossed, staring blankly at his open journal on the table in front of him. He looked tired and world-weary. Had he not slept?

She looked around for Ginny and Luna, but both girls had not yet arrived. Half the seats were already full of students. Her eyes caught on a pair of Slytherin boys who were speaking in hushed tones and sending dirty looks towards Draco. She frowned at their behaviour.

Glancing back at Draco, she noticed that he was either unaware, or perhaps uncaring, of the boys looking at him. His ash grey eyes looked up at her. Eyes that she was learning could speak without moving a muscle. They brightened to silver at the sight of her.

What a difference two weeks could make.

The last time they’d been in class together, he’d been teasing her with sexual comments and bluebell flowers. He’d taken amortentia and she’d been distraught at the strength of her feelings, thinking he’d meant none of what he’d said.

Now, she was intimately aware of the way he liked to be kissed, and she knew just where to nip his neck that had him bucking into her every time.

“Hi, Hermione.”

Hermione shook herself out of her inappropriate thoughts, turned to Duncan, who had come in the classroom behind her, and was greeted by his boyish grin.

She frowned at his open collar.

“It’s really catching on, isn’t it?” she said, rubbing her hand on her forehead.

“What is?” he asked in confusion.

She let out a breath. “The tie thing.”

Duncan shrugged. “Oh, yeah. Most of Gryffindor has stopped wearing ties now I believe. Many Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws too. I’m here for it. Discrimination is shit. My cousin’s a fifth year Slytherin, you know, and she’s the sweetest girl you’ll ever meet. They're not bad people.”

She smiled at that.

“I’m glad you see it that way.”

He leaned in, conspiratorially. “Rumour has it, it started with someone burning their tie in the middle of class. Wild, yeah?”

“Right,” she laughed nervously. “Totally wild.”

He nudged her arm with his and went to his seat.

Hermione collected herself and made her way to Draco. She stopped a few feet short. His demeanour had changed. His eyes were now charcoal; narrowed, dangerous, smoking.

Hermione held back the smile that wanted to form. Was he jealous?

With a tongue in her cheek, she set down her bag and took a seat.

“Everything alright?” she asked lightly.

He clenched his jaw and looked up at her. His eyes were calculating.

“Fine,” he said, eventually.

“Okay.”

They lapsed into silence.

When the bell rang, Slughorn began to explain the day’s lesson. Hermione had done the reading on today’s potion, a Befuddlement Brew, but despite her best interest, she was too furious at Slughorn and embarrassed at being scolded by him that she tuned him out, unwilling to look at him or listen to what he had to say. Instead, she fiddled with her quill and concentrated on the presence beside her.

Draco drew his arm up on the bench behind her and she could feel the heat of it against her back. His nail scratched the wood, agitated.

His leg angled towards hers, so she pressed her thigh deliberately against it and felt the heat of his gaze on the side of her face.

He leaned in close to her ear and whispered, “I missed you this morning.”

The heat of his breath sent a shiver down her neck, and his words set butterflies loose in her stomach.

She tilted her head just barely towards him and looked at him with a little smile. “You know I didn’t have time because of my class,” she whispered back. “But I missed you too.”

“I really want to touch you right now,” he said, voice barely a whisper.

“Touch me where?” she breathed, heat flashing through her. She wanted to touch him too. She’d been wanting to all week.

He grinned at that. “Get your mind out of the gutter. All I want right now is to properly put my arm around you.”

She looked at him in surprise, heart aflutter. That was surprisingly sweet. But she was feeling naughty, so she asked, “Is that really all you want?”

His eyes darkened with desire, and his fist clenched and unclenched on the table next to him. With a smirk, he brought his hand down to trail the skin of her bare thigh, up under her skirt, until his pinkie finger skimmed the edge of her knickers. She let out a little gasp, and he leaned in again to whisper, “I want anything and everything you will give me, Granger, but you are shit at hiding your feelings. Everyone would know.”

He gave her leg one last squeeze before retreating with a smirk.

She almost groaned in frustration, but he was right of course. It had been a week since the evening in the History of Magic classroom, and it felt like forever. She was aching for him.

All of a sudden the classroom came alive, jolting Hermione back to the present; students were getting out of their seats and chatting at a normal volume.

She cleared her throat and scooted down the bench a few inches to give them space.

“What potion do you want to make today?” she asked lightly.

Draco’s eyebrows rose, and then narrowed in suspicion. “You want to ignore the curriculum and brew what I want?”

She crossed her arms and let out a frustrated sigh. “I never thought I would be saying this about a professor, but I can’t stand Slughorn. He’s an absolute idiot for trying to get you expelled, he doesn’t even supervise during class, and technically, participation is irrelevant for passing the NEWTS, so while brewing Befuddlement Brew is technically NEWT level, I’ve done it before and would much rather learn something new and interesting.”

Draco gave her a puzzled, proud half grin. “You little rebel,” he said quietly so no one but her could hear. “Finally seeing the light.” The low undertones of his voice sent a shiver of desire through her. She could already feel heat settling between her thighs. She squirmed in her seat, and he gave her a satisfied smirk.

Hermione reached over and picked up his personal potion’s journal. “May I?” she asked. He motioned for her to go ahead.

She flipped through the pages. Unsurprisingly, he wrote in a neat, tidy script, and had decorated the pages with drawings depicting ingredients and potion effects.

“These aren’t in the book,” she noticed, frowning at page after page of potions she’d never heard of, and detailed ingredient profiles.

“They’re… my own ideas,” Draco said quietly.

Her eyes snapped up to his in shock, and it took her a moment to realise and appreciate the meaning of his words. He had an entire journal of potions he was creating. That was… incredible.

“Will you teach me one? Your favourite?”

She watched the wheels turning in his mind for a full minute before he nodded and stood up.

“Set up the table,” he said.

“Wait, which one are we doing?”

His eyes sparkled. “I’ll leave you to guess what it does.”

Draco returned with a handful of ingredients: fireflies, dandelion seeds, essence of bamboo, crushed fire lily, soil, phoenix feather clippings, and butterfly wings.

Hermione looked at the ingredients, entirely confused.

Malfoy sat down and crossed his arms, smiling up at her confusion. “Any guesses?”

“Not yet,” she said, frowning.

Under his direction, she crushed fireflies, carefully shelled dandelion seeds, sliced firelily, shaved the smallest amount of phoenix feather clippings, and diced butterfly wings. Then she turned the fire to low heat.

“Use high heat and fill it halfway with distilled water,” Draco ordered softly.

She turned it up and frowned curiously at the cauldron. That was not normal. Most potions started on low heat.

“Tell me your hypothesis, as we go,” Draco said, finally standing up beside her. He brushed up against her arm. “Essence of bamboo, drizzle it clockwise in a spiral and let it sit for five minutes.”

She did as he said.

“We are drizzling it clockwise so that it has a chance to permeate the water evenly and create a positive link to our next ingredients. Counterclockwise would create a negative link. What do you know about bamboo?”

“It is the fastest growing plant in the world,” she recited. “The shoots are hollow inside. It is technically a grass, not a tree, and it’s used for everything from building supplies to clothing to food preparation. In healing, it has anti-inflammatory properties, increases blood circulation and cognitive function. As a potion’s ingredient, I’m not sure… does it encourage growth? Or maybe healing?”

“Very good. Yes, in this case it does encourage growth. So, our positive link will encourage fast growth, and a negative link would reverse or slow growth.”

Hermione relaxed as she watched him stir the potion slowly in a clockwise direction. His calming voice floated around her, dripping like a caress over her skull and down her spine.

“What would happen if you poured it clockwise and then stirred counterclockwise?”

He chuckled. “You always have to consider positive and negative connections between ingredients with stirring. Speed and length of time plays a part too of course. If I were to stir counterclockwise right now, it would destroy the potion and make it ineffectual.”

“Then how do you know how fast or how long to stir it?”

He looked pleased at her question.

“Part of it is relying on generations of recorded potions experiments, but part of it is instinct, getting to know the ingredients, and trial and error of course.”

Draco glanced over at her with a smile that took her breath away. Did he know how incredibly attractive he was?

“So, what are we growing?” she asked, clearing her throat.

Draco just smiled in response. “We’ll sprinkle the soil now, and the crushed fireflies in three minutes. The bamboo is for speedy growth, the soil is for nutrients, the fireflies are for light,” he explained.

She watched as he shook the bowl, covering the potion in a light dusting of soil.

“Those are things plants need to grow,” she furrowed her brow. “Does it speed up plant growth?”

He smiled secretly. “Yes and no.”

When the crushed fireflies were added, Draco sat down, and she followed suit. He set a timer for fifteen minutes.

“Next we’re going to add firelily. Tell me what you know about firelily.”

“Firelily is a magical flower, very finicky. It thrives in dark forests and can die easily without enough water. They’re eaten by unicorns and also used by centaur herds to light their magical ceremonies. At night, they glow orange.”

“Yes. They hold the light from the sun, and they shine from within. They contain an array of nutrients, enough to feed a unicorn, and in potions, it's going to act as an amplifier due to the sheer amount of magic it holds within.”

It was a strange thing. As turned on as she was by his voice, his intelligence, she was too engrossed in what he was saying that her arousal fell to the wayside. Instead, her whole body felt alive and at peace.

When the fifteen minutes were up, Draco had her stir slowly as he added the phoenix feather clippings and butterfly wings.

They let it simmer until only an inch of viscous pearlescent green remained.

“Lastly, we have dandelion seeds,” he said without further explanation. “And there.”

He stirred five times clockwise and then turned the heat off. Taking a small vial with a dropper lit, he carefully bottled it and vanished the rest.

“Ready to see what it does?” he asked. His eyes were bright with constrained excitement and a dash of self-consciousness. He was sharing a part of himself, something he created, and Hermione couldn’t contain her smile. She nodded.

He meticulously dropped a single drop onto their workstation. Hermione watched closely as the drop slowly transformed into a seed that sprouted like she was watching a timelapse of plant life on TV.

Her breath caught. The sprout grew a few inches and unfurled into a yellow dandelion, which faded in colour and expanded until it became a fluffy white globe, which burst into dust before the flower wilted in on itself and disappeared. The entire cycle lasted maybe two minutes.

Hermione looked up at Draco, jaw dropped in amazement.

“I was doing some research into growth potions. I'm hoping to maybe adapt it to other types of growth, especially in healing,” he admitted with a hand on the back of his neck. He was watching her keenly for her reaction.

Filled with a kind of indignation she couldn’t explain, she all but whacked him on the chest and said, “What the hell, Draco!”

He looked down at where she'd touched him and then up at her with a raised brow. “Did you just hit me?”

Hermione huffed and raised her hand to grab his shoulder this time, but he caught her hand in his and stopped it mid-air, eyes dangerous.

“I can’t believe you created this!” she said.

His brow furrowed in confusion.

“You should go write your NEWTS tomorrow and get a mastery in Potions! You don't need to be taking useless classes at school when you already know everything, and you can create potions like this!”

He blinked at her, frozen.

“What?”

“You could literally teach this class. You’re good!” She nodded towards their table. “You just created life,” she said emphatically. “That is fucking amazing.”

She whispered the last words, sacred as they now were, and his thumb squeezed her palm where he held it.

His throat bobbed. “I'm here on fucking probation, I can’t do any of those things,” he said quietly.

“Well, fuck that!”

She tore her hand away, crossed her arms over her chest, and glared across the room in misplaced anger. It was so fucking unfair the way he was treated. She hated it.

A handful of students were looking at them warily. Ginny met her gaze, questioning, and Hermione let her face relax, and forced her forehead to smooth. She looked back at Draco and froze when she saw the heat in his eyes and the beginnings of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

She felt her anger subside.

“I'm serious,” she said softly. “You have incredible talent. Fuck the ministry.”

“As much as you might want to go to battle on my behalf, you're not a match for the whole ministry, Granger.”

The bell rang but Hermione kept her eyes on his, feeling unsettled, indignant, and in denial.

“You okay there?”

Hermione took a deep breath and tore her eyes away to land on Duncan, who was coming out of the ingredient’s closet.

“Fine, Duncan. I’m just angry at the system,” she said with a sigh.

Draco stiffened beside her, and then he started cleaning up their table.

“Aye, well, aren’t we all. See you around, yeah?” He said, glancing at Draco for a second. Draco stared coldly back at him.

“Yeah,” she said. “See you, Duncan.”

When they finished cleaning up, and packing their bags, Draco took hers, and left the classroom. She blinked and ran to catch up to his long strides.

When they reached the Great hall, he met her eyes, and then turned left and exited through the Great Doors. Hermione looked at the students going in for dinner, and then followed him out.

He was waiting for her, and once she was outside, he linked his warm fingers through hers and pulled her along the left side of the castle walls and around the bend. He stopped and put both of their bags on a stone bench that lay along the castle wall.

Then he turned to her, grabbed her face, and kissed her with all the passion of a starved man.

She felt herself manoeuvred around until her back hit the cold stone wall. Draco reached down and lifted her hands up beside her head and pushed them into the stonework. “If you're going to attack me, at least do it without an audience so I can fight back.” He kissed just below her ear, and she gasped and arched into him.

“I wasn’t attacking you,” she said breathlessly.

“No? You almost caused a little scene in there, my little rebel. I was instantly hard.” Smirking, he pushed his hips against hers so she could feel said hardness.

“Do you get off on being hit?” she asked.

“I get off on you getting angry on my behalf.”

Oh.

He released her hands and pulled back. “Now tell me about this new… friend of yours.”

“Who?”

“Brown hair, annoying, does nothing but flirt with you?”

Ah.

“Duncan,” she surmised and then looked at him knowingly. “Is that jealousy I hear?”

He scoffed and stepped back, jaw set. “I am not jealous.”

“Look into my eyes and say that.”

Silver eyes met hers, but he didn’t say a word.

Tell me I'm yours.

He said nothing.

“I ran into Duncan for the first time two weeks ago,” she said. “And he was also at the Three Broomsticks when I met Harry and Ron, so we talked a little bit there.”

Draco’s emotions shuttered behind his occlumency.

“If you remember,” she continued, “That was after you almost kissed me in the library, and before I came back and found you and we… you know.”

His look seemed to soften at that.

“All I could think about was you,” she admitted.

“He likes you,” Draco said, eyes scanning her face.

“Maybe, but I don’t care. I like you.”

The admission made her heart pound. Would he say it back?

After a moment, Draco stepped into her again. His hands slid around her waist, and he burrowed his head into the crook of her neck.

“I don't deserve you,” he said so quietly that she almost missed it.

“You do,” she said, wrapping her arms around his waist and inhaling deeply. He was warm, and she loved the feel of his arms around her.

What are we?

What is this?

Do you want me forever?

Her heart was pounding so hard at the thought of asking him that she wondered if he could hear it.

After a long minute, Draco lifted his head and his cold nose touched hers. His lips ghosted over hers and the breath between them warmed her body and soul before turning to fog in the cold evening air. It was a few pounding heartbeats before Draco fully closed the gap and pressed his warm lips to hers. Hermione leaned back against the stone once more and let him kiss all the worries out of her until the sun went down.

At dusk, the lights in the castle window began to glow yellow, and despite the warmth of his body pressed against hers and the desire simmering in her veins, Hermione was starting to shiver from the cold.

“I wish there was somewhere private we could go,” she whispered against his lips in the dark. “Not the library, not an alcove, not a classroom where anyone could walk in and find us.”

His heavy breaths echoed hers. It took him a second to comprehend what she’d said. He pulled her further out from the wall and looked up at the castle.

“That’s Gryffindor tower, right? Where’s your room?” he asked.

“Fifth window from the top, second from the left. Why? How are you going to…?”

“I can fly. And what are your roommates' routines?”

“It’s just Ginny and Erica. Erica spends most of her time elsewhere. She often sleeps with her girlfriend in the Hufflepuff dorms. Ginny is around a bit, but she's usually out in Hogsmeade on Saturday night.”

“Tomorrow night then. Keep the window open,” he said and ran a knuckle down the side of her face.

“Okay,” she breathed, but her stomach chose that moment to rumble loudly.

Draco looked down with an amused smirk. “Was that a lion I heard just now? Are you housing Gryffindor’s mascot in there?”

“Shut up, I missed lunch today,” she grumbled.

His eyes flickered up to hers, sparkling. “Dinner then,” he said grinning. “Better keep the lions fed.”

He wrapped an arm around her and started walking back towards the school. He pulled her back for a long kiss before they re-entered the castle to catch the tail end of dinner.

∞∞∞

On Saturday evening, as she’d predicted, both her roommates disappeared around dinnertime. Hermione ate dinner and returned to her empty dorm. They hadn’t agreed on a time, but she wanted to be there for whenever Draco showed up. She shed her clothes, put on clean lacy knickers, and donned her silk robe.

By eight o’clock, she was restless.

She tried reading a book as she waited – another romance – but set it down to look out the window at the stars. A few black clouds were coming in on the horizon.

Orion was bright to the east, and she stared at Orion’s shoulder – at her namesake – with not a small amount of bitterness.

Bellatrix was dead, gone, history. She knew this deep in her bones, but every time she even thought of her, she could hear the shrieking laughter echoing through the halls of Malfoy Manor and feel the sting of the blade. She could feel her skin crawl at being inside of the body of the woman who’d tortured her.

Most people thought the things she’d been through were thrilling and impressive, but nobody really knew the trauma she’d endured by becoming her own torturer.

She often had nightmares, but they were never about the blade cutting through her skin, or the sounds of her own screams when she’d been under the Cruciatus; instead, they were nightmares of looking in the mirror to find herself in Bellatrix’s skin, of Bellatrix’s sultry timbre coming out of her own mouth.

Leaning her temple against the cool stone, Hermione’s eyes trailed down to Sirius, the brightest star in the sky, and then over towards the north where Draco was nestled around Ursa Minor.

Draco was not the brightest constellation in the night sky by any means, but it was one of the largest. It was easy to overlook if you didn’t know how to find it, but it certainly was a magnificent presence once you did.

Hermione knew exactly where to look, and doing so restored a sense of calm within her. She took a deep breath and turned back to look around the room. Her curtains were drawn, her bed was made, the book was on her bedside table with the – oops – she’d left the black boxes out.

She didn’t particularly want Draco to see them, so she went over and opened the drawer to place them inside. She arranged some things and made room for The Ghost and The Periwinkles – as she’d come to call them – but curiosity stopped her as she made to put in The Snitch; she had yet to test it out. She gingerly opened the box and held it lightly between her index finger and thumb.

The wings fluttered gently, and she held it up to her neck and closed her eyes as the soft vibrations tickled her in a pleasant way.

A clattering noise startled her, and she lost her grip on The Snitch. It zipped out of her hand and up into the sleeve of her robe.

Oh god, he was here.

The tickling vibrations trailed along her waist, and down her back. She tried to grab The Snitch as it skimmed between her thighs, but it zipped away too fast.

“Granger?” Draco appeared and put his broom down along the wall, as his eyes trailed over her, face slack.

“Hi, Drac-OH!” She squealed as the snitch flew between her legs and up over her stomach. She tried to grab it and failed again.

Draco stood up tall and blinked at her in confusion. “What are you doing?”

Hermione groaned in embarrassment. “I did something stupid,” she said. “I have this toy and it got loose and I can’t catch it. Please help me!”

Draco’s bewildered expression turned wicked. He approached, and as he saw exactly what was assaulting her, he smirked.

“Please, Draco.”

“Mmm, my little rebel. I like hearing you beg,” he murmured when he stopped in front of her.

A shiver went through her from his words, and then The Snitch grazed her nipple and she let out a squeal.

“Dr-ah!-co, hurry, please.”

When the silver snitch appeared out the front of her robe, he reached up and snatched it in one try. He held it up in front of his face to look at it, and Hermione flushed, mortified.

Now that The Snitch had his attention, she took a moment to observe him. He was looking incredibly attractive dressed in casual thick cotton black joggers and a sweatshirt. Her eyes swept down to the hand that held The Snitch and frowned lightly as she noticed purple bruises on his knuckles. His eyes were tired, and he had notable dark circles. He looked wretched and weary, but in that moment his eyes were shining with playful delight.

Maybe her mortification was worth it if it cheered him up.

“Am I dreaming?” Draco asked, stepping into her. “Hermione Granger, scantily clad in silk, playing with a sex toy while she waits for me?” He ran a hand down the silky material of her robe, reaching behind her to squeeze the flesh of her arse with his large hand. He pulled her closer and leaned down to taste her lips.

His other hand came up to her neck, and the wings of The Snitch tickled behind her ear. She felt a shock of arousal through her body at the energy vibrating through him, and she moaned into the kiss. The roughness of his hand on her bum, the softness of the feathers tickling her neck, the heat of his body pressed against hers and the silky feel of her robe between them was enough to make her forget everything. She lost herself in his kiss, in the feel of his tongue, stoking her arousal, in the heady breaths between them.

He walked her backwards towards her bed until the back of her thighs hit the mattress, and he pulled back slightly, shining grey eyes looking dazed into hers.

“How was your day? Everything good?”

Hermione nodded and pulled his lips back to hers. He kicked off his shoes, all but tore off his sweatshirt and t-shirt, and then picked her up by the legs. She grabbed his shoulders for purchase and wrapped her legs around him. He kissed her as he crawled onto the plush velvety red blanket of her bed and laid her down. She moaned into his mouth, desperate for his touch.

Draco moved down her body, kissing her lips, the base of her throat, between her breasts, and then down her sternum. His hand came up to untie her robe around the middle. “You’re so fucking beautiful, Granger,” he murmured. “Sexiest witch alive, I swear to Merlin.”

Every kiss, every touch, every word sent arousal zipping through her.

He drew the silky material over the mounds of her breasts until it pooled on either side. He ran his hand over her right breast, circling her nipple with the lightest touch. She squirmed under him as the sensations went straight to her clit.

“You like that?” he asked huskily when he noticed. He brought the snitch up to her chest, letting the wings flutter softly over her sensitive skin.

She gasped and bit her lip when he concentrated it on her nipple.

He looked up at her with a grin. “Were you thinking of Bowman Wright when you got this?”

“It’s um… a long story,” she said, breathless. Was her face flaming? It sure felt like it. With desire and embarrassment.

“Want to share with the class, Professor?” he asked, trailing the snitch down her stomach. Heat flushed through her at his words, and desire pooled in her core at the feather-light touch.

“Ginny and Luna took me to a… sex shop, and it was my first time in a magical one.”

He kissed her ribs and let out a low, “Mmm.” The sound vibrated on her skin, sending a shiver of delight through her.

“I was curious about what you told me about Bowman Wright, so I was looking at quidditch ones. I wasn’t going to buy it, obviously, but then Ginny and Luna asked the shop assistant what I was looking at and they secretly bought it for me.”

“Hm. Well isn't it lucky that you had me to catch it?” He propped himself up and traced her other nipple with his tongue.

“Very lucky,” she gasped.

Lucky that she had him, had come to know the real him.

She reached a hand down to his face in a rush of emotion, and he turned to suck on her thumb. It sent a jolt through her, and she arched beneath him. He smirked.

“Now, tell me more about this sex shop. Did you buy anything else?”

Her hesitation was enough to betray the truth.

“Show me,” he said, kissing his way up to her neck. “Please?”

“No way. Those puppy dog eyes are not going to work on me,” she said.

“Why not?” He sounded so put out that she almost laughed.

“It’s just…” She hesitated, cursing herself at her insecurities. He wasn’t Ron. She had no reason to be worried, but the anxiety was still there.

Draco noticed and stopped kissing her. He brushed her hair away from her face.

“It’s just what?” He searched her eyes.

“Some men don't like it when a woman uses sex toys, you know?” Hermione said, face hot.

Draco’s brow furrowed in confusion. “Who the fuck told you that? Ugh, you know what? Nevermind. I can guess.” A look of disgust crossed his face and she shrugged helplessly.

Ron. Ron had told her that. He’d always been offended that his cock wasn’t enough for her.

Draco’s face went through a series of expressions before losing some of its animosity. “Listen, Granger,” he entreated as though it was of the utmost importance that she hear his words. “Sex toys are hot as fuck, and in fact, anything that helps give you pleasure is bloody fantastic in my books. Seeing you come apart may be my favourite thing in the world. I don’t know what bullshit other men have told you, but don’t you dare take it to heart, because it’s not true.”

A medley of emotions welled within her. She was embarrassed, of course, but she also felt validated, desired, and grateful that he never seemed to judge her.

But still, it was a ghost dildo. She couldn’t let him see it.

Draco sat back and looked around. He had somehow managed to stop the snitch from moving and set it on her bedside table. He eyed the drawer. “In here?” he asked. He reached an arm out and laid it on the handle, waiting for her okay.

“No!”

She grabbed his arm in panic and wrestled him down on the bed until she was sitting on top of him, holding his arms above his head.

Draco grinned and looked hungrily at her bare tits hanging above him. He lifted his head and captured a nipple in his mouth, eliciting a sharp inhale follow by a moan.

She got lost in the moment and let him tear his hands free to touch the smooth skin of her stomach, her breasts, her nipples, shrugging her robe off her shoulders. His hands gripped her hips, pulling her down to meet his cock. She could feel the length of him through the thick cotton of his joggers and rubbed back against him. She was so wet already that she could only hope she hadn’t soaked through the lace of her knickers.

With his hands around her ribcage, he easily flipped them over so that he was on top once more. It took her a second to realize just how easily he’d let her manhandle him.

Now, on top of her, he held down her hips with his and interlaced his fingers in hers. Her heart pounded at being overpowered and her nerves ignited with exhilaration. Maybe Luna was onto something when she’d mentioned wrestling.

“It’s cute you think you can overpower me,” he said silkily, and she gasped as his cock rubbed against her, sending a pulse throughout her core. “Show me,” he entreated. “Please? I promise I’m going to make you feel so fucking good.”

He let go of her hands, and pressed a warm kiss to her neck, sending a thrill of desire through her.

“The more you hide it, the worse I’ll think it is. Is it a troll cock or something?” he asked between kisses along her jaw, below her ear, on her pulse.

“No!” she choked out, the indignation drowning in all the pleasure he was giving her.

He grinned into her neck with a chuckle and then nipped at her ear. “Think you’ll have to show me if you want to prove me wrong, my little rebel.”

The feel of his lips on her ear sent shocks of pleasure straight to her core.

“You can’t laugh,” she breathed.

Oh god, was she really considering it? On one hand, it was bound to be mortifying. But on the other… her heart raced at the possibilities.

He pulled back and looked her in the eyes. “I won’t.”

She took a deep breath and then twisted her body to open the drawer. Draco sat up on his knees. She brought out the two black boxes.

His eyes went straight to the writing on the boxes. She knew he was reading Ghost, and at the look of struggle on his face, it took him a moment to compose himself. She had to admire his restraint.

“Ghost,” he said, looking at her for confirmation. He looked like he was trying his hardest to repress the smirk that wanted to come up.

“Okay listen, I do not have a ghost fetish. I didn’t choose it.”

“Sure,” he said, somehow straight-faced. His eyes betrayed his amusement anyway.

She tongued her cheek, sat up to open the box, and took it out. She showed it to him, face flaming.

His face morphed into a grin, and he took it from her, but he wasn’t laughing. He looked interested, excited, happy. Silently, he took the paper from the box and read the instructions. His eyebrows flickered and she bit her lip, watching his reaction.

“And what do you think about when you’re getting yourself off with this?” he asked, playing around with the settings.

“You, mostly.”

His mouth quirked up at that. “Good girl.”

Her pulse sped up, as it always did with those words. She waited anxiously for his reaction.

“Do you think ghosts can have sex?” Hermione asked, when he just kept inspecting the dildo.

A burst of laughter lit up his face as his composure finally cracked. “Aren’t you trying to convince me that you don’t have a ghost fetish right now?”

“I don’t! It’s just an academic question! Out of curiosity,” she said, fanning her cheeks.

He grinned at her with such affection that she found herself laughing back.

“To answer your question, in an academic way, ghosts are incorporeal so they cannot touch objects. They can however feel some things, like extreme temperature differences, or the vague feeling of the material they’re passing through. Humans, also, usually just feel cold if a ghost passes through them. Ergo, a ghost would not be able to have sex with a human. A poltergeist could, theoretically, if it were to manipulate an object to do it, but ultimately ghosts cannot fuck humans. Sorry to disappoint you. Unless fucking Peeves was on the agenda?” he smirked.

“It is not,” Hermione said primly. “And that’s not what I meant. I just wondered if they could have sex… together.”

Her face heated as Draco’s smirk widened. “Ah, so it’s ghost porn you want. I’m afraid I don’t know the answer to that one. Although I suspect it’s a no since Hogwarts is a hotspot for spirits and there are no rumours of the sort."

“I never said I wanted to see it,” she mumbled, and he grinned widely.

She watched as he went through the different cock shapes and adjusted the girth and length. His eyes went wide as the girth expanded and the cock lengthened in his hands until it was as long as a forearm.

“Fucking hell, Granger, I was joking about the troll.”

“The first setting is all I’ve tried,” she admitted. She watched, wide-eyed, as he shrunk it back down, took out his hard cock, and adjusted it so the girth and length matched his. He made it 90% transparent.

He handed it to her with a wink. “Now it’s a little more accurate, if you’re planning to use it while thinking of me.”

She took it, heart racing, but couldn’t take her eyes off his cock. It had been dark in the classroom, but now that she was seeing it clearly, she admired its shape – perfectly formed. She wanted to touch it, to taste it again, just to see his reactions.

“Will you show me how you use it?” Draco asked as he watched her, eyes dark and aroused.

Hermione looked down at the dildo nervously. Could she really? She was so turned on already.

After a moment, she picked up the other black box, opened the top, and held it out to Draco. “Here,” she said.

“What is this?” He picked up a Periwinkle and looked at it.

“It's just…”

She took it from him and leaned forward to put it over his nipple. She tapped and then swirled, and then sat back.

His face contorted in pleasure. “Oh fuck!” He groaned and closed his eyes. His abs contracted and his hand went down to grip his cock instinctively.

She tapped and swirled it again, and it stopped. “Take your clothes off,” she said. “If you want me to do this, then I want to see you touch yourself, with both of those flowers. Tit for tat, you know,” she said in challenge.

“Deal.” Draco pushed his sweatpants and boxers down his legs and threw them aside. He reached for the other Periwinkle and put it on his other nipple as he settled back on the foot of her bed as they faced each other. “Knickers off and legs open, Granger,” he murmured.

Her heart pounded as she did what he said.

“Such a good fucking girl, listening so well,” he groaned. “Now turn it on.”

She did and set it to vibrate.

Draco tapped and swirled at his own nipples and then lay back in pleasure at the feeling. His cock stood at attention, and he grasped it in his right hand. He pumped it slowly up and down, and she watched, mesmerized, as the muscles of his arm moved beneath the dark ink of his tattoos.

“Fuck. Your turn,” he rasped. His face flickered in pleasure.

Hermione ran the ghost dildo over her opening, positively vibrating with desire and arousal. She was already so wet, and even more so at the fact that he was watching her. With a moan, she inched the ghost cock inside and let go when it was about halfway. The dildo moved on its own, slowly at first. She moaned and moved her hips with it.

“Fuck, Granger,” he groaned. “I can see inside you. How do you feel?”

“It feels – good,” she said thickly, as the waves of pleasure started to build.

“Touch your clit.”

She did as he said, and her fingers found her nub and circled it. The dildo was filling her more than it had ever before, and it was making her delirious with each thrust. It was hotter than she’d thought, doing this in front of Draco, watching him touch himself, but she still missed the feel of his skin, his warmth.

“Do you think you can take my cock like that, Granger?” he rasped, gripping himself hard.

“God, yes. Draco,” she whined. “This isn’t – it doesn’t compare to the real thing. I want your touch. I want you.”

At her words, Draco tore off the periwinkles and let go of his cock to get on his knees, positioning himself between her legs. “Can I touch you?” he asked, leaning his head against her thigh.

“Uh huh,” she said in a high-pitched breathy voice. “Please.”

His mouth descended, and he took The Ghost in his hand. He traced circles around her clit with his tongue as he took control of thrusting the dildo in and out of her.

The change in pace, more natural, human, in combination with his mouth on her, sent jolts of pleasure through her.

“Yes, Draco, oh god,” she keened, pinching her nipples. The pleasure was becoming unbearable, escalating. She was almost there.

He pushed the dildo faster and harder until she burst with the pulsing pleasure of her orgasm. He removed the ghost and held down her hips as his tongue licked her opening. She writhed under him as she gasped for breath.

“Granger, fuck, you taste like heaven,” he moaned and crawled over her to kiss her deeply. She could taste herself on his tongue. She moaned into him at the surge of desire she felt.

“Draco,” she whispered into his kiss. “I want the real thing. I want your cock.”

His mouth left hers and he groaned when her hand reached down and took him in hand. “Granger, you…” he rasped, but his words caught in his throat. He didn’t move, so she rubbed the head of his cock against her wetness.

“Do you want to?” she asked, faltering.

He closed his eyes, looking pained. “Are you sure?” he whispered.

She nodded. “Yes.”

He captured her lips once again and took himself in hand and lined the head of his cock up with her opening.

Draco’s eyes shone with something new – not quite silver, slate, steel, or mercury. They were an indecipherable grey she couldn’t quite read: open, emotional, and pained.

He pushed in slowly and groaned into her shoulder. “Fuck, you feel so fucking good, so wet.”

He pulled back and pushed in slowly again, stretching her, letting her adjust to him. His hips started a slow rhythm, pushing in deeper and deeper with every thrust. And with every thrust, Hermione fell deeper and deeper into a delirious ecstasy, only vaguely aware of the high-pitched sounds of pleasure escaping her throat every time he drove into her. Then he thrust in hard, bottoming out within her and captured her lips with his. Hermione ran her hands over the warm skin of his back, wanting – needing – to get closer. He was heavy on top of her, inside of her, and she was intoxicated by his hot skin on hers, by the smell of him, and by the taste of him – and herself – on her tongue.

The Ghost didn’t even come close.

“All good?” he asked, breath shaky.

“Yeah,” she breathed, nodding.

He pulled out of her before she was ready, but quickly pulled her up onto his lap and sat back. He manoeuvred her hips and gripped his cock to find her entrance again, and then she sank down on him. After a moment of stillness, she tilted her hips experimentally.

They both groaned, chests pressed together, lips touching and breaths hot between them as she began to lift her hips up and down his shaft. His strong fingers gripped her hips and his tongue traced down her neck as he spoke into her ear.

“You're so fucking perfect, fuck. The way you feel, the way you move, the way you think. There’s no one like you. You're perfect and incredible and amazing and fuck, Granger. Arch your back. Yes, just like that. You’re such a good girl.” He licked down her neck and his hot wet mouth found her nipple and sucked.

“Oh god, Draco, that’s–!” She sped up her hip movements. The wet sounds of sex filled the room, but at the look of rapture on his face, any embarrassment was eclipsed by a feeling of empowerment. Seeing how strongly she affected him dissolved any remaining inhibitions, and she closed her eyes and let her body move instinctively, chasing release. “I'm so close,” she moaned.

He pulled her face back to his and swallowed her sounds of pleasure with his kiss.

The growing pleasure swirled up and up and up, compounding until it became unbearable and crashed into an earth-shattering orgasm. She clenched around him, body shaking, and he thrust up into her a few more times before grunting into her mouth and wrapping his arms around her, holding her closely as he filled her.

His lips left hers to lay his forehead on her shoulder as they both caught their breaths.

After what could have been a minute or thirty, he lifted her off of him, and they lay down side by side.

He kissed her forehead and face over and over again, whispering how amazing she was, before rolling over and pulling her tightly to him.

With her head on his chest, she could hear his heartbeat, strong and fast.

Minutes passed as his heartbeat slowed to a steady rhythm.

After a while, the comfort she felt nestled into him was overtaken by the feel of sticky cum between her legs, so she sat up and grabbed her wand from the side table. She cleaned them both, and then looked at Draco.

He had his arms up behind his head, and his eyes were moonstone, bright and containing a full spectrum of emotions, as they dipped appreciatively to her naked body. She felt heat rise in her cheeks; she still wasn’t used to being looked at naked.

“What do you usually wear to sleep?” he asked.

“It depends on my mood. Pyjamas, sometimes, but more often than not, just a t-shirt and knickers.”

She stood up and opened her pyjama drawer to extract her favourite – the Billy Idol Rebel Yell t-shirt. She pulled it over her head. It was so big that it went to the tops of her thighs.

Draco sat up, staring at her with his tongue in his cheek. After a moment he said, “Is this what you usually sleep in?”

She nodded.

Draco tilted his head with an amused half-smile. “Do you have a type, Granger?”

“What?”

“There is a half-naked, blond rebel on your shirt right now that might as well be my doppelganger, minus that awful hair.”

Hermione froze, eyes wide, and looked down at her front. She looked between her shirt and Draco and laughed. He was right. Jesus, how had she not seen that?

“Okay,” she said with a laugh. “But he’s a singer, not a rebel. Rebel Yell is the name of one of his albums, and specifically the title of a song.”

“Sure,” Draco smirked. “But I don’t hear any denials.”

“Maybe you’re right,” Hermione shrugged playfully, kneeling back on the bed. “Maybe half-naked, blond rebels are my type.”

Draco grabbed her by the waist and pulled her to straddle him. She settled on his thighs, grinning.

“What about you? What do you sleep in?” she asked.

He shrugged at that. “Pyjama pants usually. I would sleep naked, but it’s a habit in case I need to get up quickly in the middle of the night.”

In case he needed to react quickly during the war, he meant. With a sigh, she brought a hand up to smooth back his dishevelled hair.

She wanted to tell him that she understood – that he was safe here, with her – but her throat stuck.

“Now why don't you tell me why your minions are calling me a unicorn?” Draco asked. “A group of them flocked me at breakfast. Couldn't shake them.”

The sound that came out of her was halfway between a laugh and a huff of frustration, but whatever it was had Draco chuckling.

Of course, the unicorn story had gone over their heads.

“You're not the unicorn. You’re the unicorn lover – actually, no; you were raised as a unicorn hunter, but you wanted to be a unicorn lover.”

“A wannabe unicorn lover,” he mused. His lips curved up with an eyebrow. “Does that make you the unicorn?” he asked cheekily, running his hands up to her lower back and bringing her closer.

Her cheeks flamed. “In a manner of speaking. Don’t look at me like that! It was an impulsive metaphor. I was trying to give them a life lesson.”

He smirked. “I’m sure it was a delightful metaphor for whatever it was you were going for. You are like a unicorn. You are the most unique person I’ve ever known,” he said, eyes softening over her face.

“Is that a good or bad thing?”

He cocked a brow. “What do you think? Considering the idiocy of the general population, it is an exceptionally good thing. You are on a level of your own.”

A sweet, glowing warmth threatened to unravel her. There were a million words she wanted to say. How was he so sweet? So perfectly aligned with her?

But the words wouldn’t come out, so she swallowed thickly and played with the hot skin of his chest, tracing his silly tattoo.

“See something you like?” he teased, running his hands over the curves of her waist.

“Yes,” she said shyly, face heating. She recalled the same time he’d asked the question in potions class weeks ago, before everything. Her fingers trailed over his left arm, stopping on the purple thistle where his dark mark used to be. She traced it gently with an index finger.

A faint wince flickered across his face.

“Will you tell me about your tattoos?” she asked, looking at him hopefully.

“It started with that one – the thistle,” he said. “I didn’t choose it. I just wanted to get rid of the mark and I didn’t care what covered it. Julian thought the thistle was funny because it’s tough and prickly on the outside, like me, evidently, but it also symbolizes resilience, strength, and pride. He could tell, from a few hours of knowing me, that it was exactly what I needed.”

“It’s perfect,” she murmured, touching the flowers. And it really was. He was so resilient.

“I liked it, so I got the other flowers quickly after that: violet for humility, hyacinth for regret, daisy for renewal, nettle for defiance, rhododendron for strength, aconite for...”

She ran her hand up his arm. “For what?”

“Death – a reminder of what could have happened, of what has happened. Memento mori.”

“How about the other arm?”

“Fire is for destruction that comes with being a dragon. It’s a defence mechanism, you know. It’s never offensive. Smoke is for the destruction left behind, and the night sky – the stars and the constellations – my namesake. There’s a lot of history in constellations – the stories they tell, the people behind them, what that said about the world those days. It was the origin of my interest in history – in trying to find some kind of meaning in life.”

“I like them. They suit you,” Hermione said, hand coming down to trace the words on his ribcage. “Did you ever find it? Meaning in life?”

Silver eyes scanned her face. “Not yet, but…” he trailed off, ran his hands up under her shirt, pulled her closer, and then kissed her deeply.

With a rebel yell, she cried more, more, more.

∞∞∞

Hermione blinked awake in the first light of the early morning dawn. It took her a moment to fully take in the fact that Draco had stayed the night. He had a leg entwined with hers and an arm draped heavily over her stomach. She could hear his slow breathing on the pillow behind her.

She snuggled back against him and heard him take a deep breath as he pulled her in by the stomach. His hand rested just below her breast.

“Are you trying to kill me?” Draco said, voice sleepy.

She tried to turn her head to look at him. “Excuse me?”

“Just seems like you're trying to suffocate me with all this hair.”

She breathed a laugh. “I thought you liked my hair.”

“I do. Suffocated by Hermione Granger’s hair. Sounds like the perfect way to go,” he said with a grin into the crook of her neck. “I'm not opposed.”

She turned in his arms, and they lay entwined, looking at one another with sleepy eyes.

Draco was unrestrained in the morning. His sleepy grin was silly, unburdened, his grey eyes twinkled with peace and playfulness, and his chin had a hint of morning growth. She reached up and touched it.

“I like this,” she said. “Waking up with you.”

Draco searched her eyes for a long moment. His expression shifted from playful to serious.

After a while, he leaned forward to press his lips to hers. He took his time, slowly, languidly, prying her lips open with his, running his tongue along hers. She happily let him, getting blissfully lost in his kiss. His hands ran over her backside, down her thigh, pulling her knee over his thigh to bring them flush before trailing up to her back and down again.

After a while, his lips left hers, and he pulled her into him.

She fell asleep again, warm and protected in his arms.

When she woke up again, the sun was up, and Draco was sitting right next to her on the side of her bed, dressed only in his black joggers. His hair was wet and falling in his eyes. She reached out a hand and felt his well-defined chest and hard nipples. He gave her a half-grin in response, raising an eyebrow at her instinct to touch him.

She blushed and sat up.

“Did you shower here?”

“Yeah,” he said, with a far-off look. “No one else was in the room, I figured it was fine.”

She nodded and yawned.

“You okay?” she asked. He looked tense, and she could sense a hint of worry or melancholy or something in the hardness around his eyes.

He just ran a hand over her hair. “You're so beautiful, Hermione,” he whispered, tracing the shell of her ear.

She inhaled sharply; he’d never called her Hermione before.

Her heart swelled, so incredibly full. She could love him, she realised. It would be so easy.

The dormitory door creaked open, and Hermione’s heart leapt to her throat.

“Oh, Hermione, you're...” Ginny trailed off as she saw Draco sitting on Hermione’s bed, shirtless.

Panic filled Hermione as she looked at Draco. His face hardened slightly, the melancholy more pronounced, but he didn’t seem worried about being caught.

Hermione stood up as Draco did, facing Ginny with a guilty look.

But Ginny didn’t look angry. Instead, she approached calmly. Her eyes lingered on his chest and a perplexed expression crossed her face.

“Malfoy,” Ginny said, looking at Hermione with something akin to worry. “People are looking for you.”

Draco shut his eyes and let out a long shuddering sigh. He nodded, and then turned to Hermione, grabbing his sweatshirt from her bed, and shrugging it on.

He looked at her for a long moment and reached up to cup her cheeks, before leaning down to kiss her with a long, deep, gut-wrenching kiss.

He pulled back and kissed her forehead. “You're amazing,” he whispered. “Don't ever forget it.”

Then with that, he took his broom and left out the window.

Stunned, and full of sleepy confusion, she stared after him. A sense of unease filled her.

She glanced at Ginny and froze at the look of confusion, pity, and regret on her face.

“What?” Hermione asked, brushing her curls behind her ears nervously.

Ginny gave her a helpless look.

Something was off. It took her a moment, and then she asked with fear slicing through her.

“Who was looking for him, Ginny?”

“The Aurors,” Ginny said.

Her blood ran like ice through her veins.

“Why?” Hermione asked. Her mind flashed back to the night before. He’d shown up looking run down and had bruises on his knuckles. He’d just called her Hermione and said, Don’t ever forget it.

Hermione numbly scrambled through her drawers for jeans and a sweater. She was out the door before her shoes were fully on.

She ran through the hallways, brushing past blurring faces, until she was in the Entrance Hall. She stopped and froze at the crowd that stood there. Students had gathered, watching the commotion.

Draco stood between two Aurors, hands cuffed behind him. An older Auror she didn't know had a hand on the back of his shirt, roughly leading him out.

Draco’s face was impassive – he was occluding – but she could see hints of anger and fear.

She stood in shock at the memory it brought up. It was exactly like the final battle, when Draco had been brutally manhandled and dragged out of the Great Hall. It had angered her then, and it angered her even more now.

“Stop!” she yelled once she’d gotten her bearings. Draco’s eyes snapped to hers.

He stopped in his tracks, resisting the manhandling for just a second, but the second was enough. His eyebrows betrayed his impassive expression with their slight furrow. His eyes were a storm: swirling with agony, raining tears, flashing regret, and containing thunderclaps of truth that numbed the sounds around her. And then they were steel, shut down hard once more.

It was enough to confirm what she’d suspected: he’d known they were coming for him. He had expected it.

She felt numb. He’d spent the whole night with her, and he hadn’t given her a single damned clue that he could be off to Azkaban in the morning.

The Auror pushed him out the door with a shove to his back, and then he was gone.

Hurt and fear flashed through her. She unclenched her fists and stared at the crescent indents on her palms.

Her hands shook from adrenaline, from anger, and she clutched at her chest as her heart shattered.

Chapter Text

There were a finite number of moments in Hermione’s life when she’d felt like she was floating outside of her body, looking down at herself with crystal clear objectivity.

The first was immediately after she’d altered her parents’ memories. She’d been sick with guilt and numb with horror at what she’d done to the people she loved the most in the world.

The second was when Bellatrix had put a knife to her throat. She had truly believed she’d been about to die. Torture was one thing, but a sharp blade next to the carotid artery was another beast entirely.

The third was during the slow-motion end to what was possibly the craziest day of her life, when she’d jumped from the back of a dragon and into a cold lake.

In all three instances, she could only think, How the hell did I end up here?

Now, she saw herself standing in the Grand Entrance, staring numbly at the closed doors, thinking the same. Students buzzed around her, making their way back to the Great Hall for breakfast like nothing of significance had just happened.

She alone was reeling because she alone had just had her world upended.

All her life, Hermione had desperately wanted to belong somewhere. She had always been different in the muggle world, but she never fit in easily in the magical world either. She’d tried her hardest to be good enough but was told her blood was inferior. She’d studied hard to catch up on knowledge that others had all grown up with and was mocked endlessly for it. There was no winning, so she gave up and developed a thick skin.

Eventually, she found a family in Ron and Harry, and they were like a real family in many ways: they loved each other to death, but they didn't always get along or agree on things. They accepted her despite her flaws.

But Draco was different.

He matched her intellect, he made her feel good about the parts of herself she was sure no one would ever understand, and he only ever praised her for the things she thought were her faults. That morning, she’d woken up next to him feeling at peace, like she belonged somewhere.

But now he was gone, and that elusive feeling fluttered out the door after him.

Everything felt like a cruel joke.

Hermione took a deep breath and found herself back in her own body. Her heart pounded loudly in her ears, tuning out the morning buzz from the Great Hall behind her. The frigid air blew through the loose knit of her sweater, prickling her skin in goosebumps.

A small part of her hoped that it was a misunderstanding, that he'd be cleared and brought back to the castle quickly like last time, but she knew in her bones that it was more serious than that. She'd seen it in his eyes.

She looked around for a sign that there had been a mistake, that she wasn’t the only one who cared that Draco was gone, but life went on as normal for everyone else, like his incarceration was nothing more than inconsequential news.

Hermione stood there until the spark of sadness from that thought evolved into a raging fire of anger.

A rotund figure dressed in purple wobbled past her, pulling her out of her thoughts, and she followed in an angry huff.

“Professor!” she called out.

Professor Slughorn stopped and faced her. He fiddled awkwardly with the buttons of his jacket. “What is it, Ms. Granger? Shouldn't you be at breakfast with the other students?”

Hermione fumed. God, she hated this man.

“What happened? Why was Draco taken away by Aurors just now?” she demanded.

Slughorn fiddled with his cuffs, refusing to look at her.

“I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to discuss it.”

She narrowed her eyes. “According to whom? I know it was you who sent for the Aurors. You are his head of house. You literally have his life in your hands, and you are condemning him!”

Slughorn stopped fiddling with his buttons and looked up at her with disinterest. “Have you stopped to think that maybe the boy deserves it?”

“He doesn’t. I know him. He would never do anything to go back there. What could he possibly have done that was so bad? He’s a student. Your student! Whom you’re supposed to protect!”

“You’re too naive, Ms. Granger. Mr. Malfoy’s terms of probation were to follow all school rules, and he broke many of them. What’s done cannot be undone. Mr. Malfoy is likely going to Azkaban this time, for good, so do yourself a favour and forget about him.”

“For what? What did he do?”

“The world is better off with Death Eaters locked away, Ms. Granger. Surely you know that.”

As Hermione glared at him in disgust, someone pushed past her, and she stumbled. Slughorn took the distraction to make his escape.

She stared after him in disbelief for a full minute before leaning against the wall between two suits of armour. She shifted her gaze to the tall ornate frosted windows across from her. Her palms felt the cold rough stone behind her lower back, desperate to find something to ground herself.

The injustice sickened her. The professors sickened her. The ministry sickened her. The justice system was as archaic as the four founders.

“Are you okay?”

The voice startled her out of her thoughts, and she looked to see Ginny approaching.

Unable to form the words, she just shook her head.

Ginny took her arm, and Hermione numbly let herself be led into the Great Hall.

As they sat down at the Gryffindor table, Hermione felt the adrenaline catch up with her. With a shaky breath, she looked at Ginny.

“Do you know what happened?” she asked.

Ginny shook her head. “They wouldn’t tell me either.”

Sunday breakfast was an impressive spread of all their favourites, but neither girl touched the food.

“I didn’t really believe it,” Ginny said, looking curious and perplexed. “That Malfoy was different with you, I mean. But I could see it today in the way he looked at you, the way he acted with you.”

At the words, a single tear slid its way down her cheek, and Hermione brushed it away.

“I thought you'd be mad that he was in the dorm,” she admitted.

Ginny shrugged, picked up a plate and started loading toast, fruit, and eggs onto it. “Eh. I'd have done the same, honestly.”

Hermione’s lip quirked up humourlessly.

“You actually care about him, don’t you?” Ginny asked, looking at her curiously.

Hermione nodded without hesitation. She cared so much that the sting of it pierced her heart.

Ginny set the breakfast plate down in front of Hermione.

“I can’t eat right now, Gin. I feel sick.”

With a look that would have rivalled Molly’s, Ginny nodded down towards the plate. “Hermione Granger, you are going to eat everything on that plate so that you have the energy today to do what you do best.”

“Which is what?” Hermione asked.

“Figure things out and devise a foolproof plan to make it happen, like you always do. You’re going to do whatever it takes to get that snarky boyfriend of yours back at Hogwarts.”

The words caused three separate yet equally strong reactions within her: The first was a glow of appreciation at Ginny’s support. The second was a constricting sadness at the fact that she couldn’t even call him her boyfriend since they'd never discussed the status of their relationship. The third was a strong resolve and determination that settled in her chest.

“You’re right,” she said, taking a tasteless bite of egg and forcing herself to chew and swallow.

She would do exactly as Ginny said.

It had been a while since she’d been in fight mode, making plans and backup plans, and preparing for anything. She hadn't anticipated needing to fight for anything this year, but maybe she should have. Voldemort may be gone, but the attitudes that had started the war in the first place were not. Discrimination remained rampant on both sides.

But, like Ginny said, finding answers and making foolproof plans were Hermione’s forte. Her mind started racing through the avenues at her disposal.

Ginny picked up a grape and popped it in her mouth. “Do you know what you're going to do?”

“I'm not sure yet.”

“You have friends in high places. You could ask Harry, or if you want to talk to my dad, I’m sure he’d be happy to help.”

Truthfully, the idea of contacting either Harry or Arthur, both of whom she had not spoken to in a while, made her stomach twist, but the words gave her an idea.

∞∞∞

The first order of business was finding out the truth. Without it, there would be no ammunition for getting Draco back. She needed to arm herself with information before barging into the ministry to fight for his freedom.

It was not going well.

After breakfast, she had tried to find Professor Flitwick to get an official statement, but he was nowhere to be found. She was told by Professor Sprout, who had been passing by, that the Deputy Headmaster was out of school for the weekend, which meant that Slughorn must have acted on his own.

With both Flitwick and McGonagall gone, Hermione didn’t know who the third in the chain of command was – if there even was one – so she wandered the halls aimlessly until she found herself in front of the Potions classroom without a plan or purpose.

Every instinct within her wanted to barge in and confront Slughorn, but she stopped herself, knowing it wouldn't be productive.

With a huff of frustration, she crossed her arms and glared at the door with an irrational urge to kick it. She felt ineffectual, a feeling she hated more than Slughorn himself.

“Ms. G!”

Hermione turned to find Sean, Adam, and Hope running down the hallway. They stumbled to a stop in front of her. Adam and Sean shared a pointed look as though daring the other to speak first. Hope rolled her eyes at them.

“Is it true?” she asked. “Was Draco Malfoy arrested this morning?”

Hermione’s heart clenched. At least she wasn’t the only one who cared.

“Yes,” she replied simply.

Adam’s forehead creased in confusion. “Why? Because he was a Death Eater?”

Hermione rubbed a hand over her eyes, not in the mood to be dealing with the intricacies of these children’s emotions, but then an idea hit her.

“Come with me,” she told them, and led them from the Potion’s classroom to one of the hidden alcoves a few hallways over.

Whispers trailed behind her.

“... unicorn lover… Death Eater…”

“... missed the point of the story… won’t let him be a unicorn…”

“...I swear you…”

Hermione lifted the tapestry and motioned for Sean, Adam, and Hope to enter. She followed them in, mildly amused by their wide-eyed expressions of amazement.

She briefly recognized that it might be irresponsible of her as a teacher to show them the hidden alcoves.

Oh well.

“Look,” she told them. “What I’m about to tell you is confidential. You know how to keep a secret, right?”

The three kids shared a look and nodded.

“Draco was barely sixteen when he got the mark. After the final battle, despite having defected, the ministry held a trial for his crimes – one in which he wasn’t even there to defend himself, because the Ministry was still in the process of weeding out corruption, and they wanted to get through the trials as quickly as possible. He was one of the last to have one, too, because he was young and unimportant in their eyes. He was let off with the condition that he come to Hogwarts on probation.”

She’d heard it all from Harry and Ron when they started their training, and from Arthur and Molly who would often talk about Ministry business.

“What's probation?” Adam asked.

“It means he has rules to follow, or he can get in trouble,” she said.

“So, like… if he did something bad, he’d go to Azkaban?”

“Yes.”

“Did he do something bad?” Sean asked, brow furrowed in worry.

“I don't know,” she admitted. “But I don’t believe he would do anything on purpose. The thing is, there are a lot of people that don't like him. People that might try to start something or try to get him thrown back into Azkaban.”

“Thrown back?” Adam looked on with horror. “You mean he was there before?”

She stared, surprised, until she remembered these were children; they weren’t aware of all the goings on in the world.

“The important thing is that he does not deserve to go to Azkaban, so I need to find out what really happened. I need you to tell me if you’ve heard or seen anything unusual or suspicious in Slytherin.”

“Slughorn hates him,” Hope said suddenly. “In house meetings, he pretends Malfoy doesn’t exist, even though he would often be the one to complain about things.”

She nodded. “What about other students?”

“Most of Slytherin avoids him. I don’t know if you know this, but he’s kind of scary,” Adam said, like it was a big secret.

“Scary how?” she asked, frowning.

“He just glares and rolls up his sleeves like this,” Sean said, mimicking an angry Draco, “and flashes his tattoos so people leave him alone. If anyone asks him to do something, he tells them to ‘fuck off’ and they do it.”

“Don’t swear,” she chided. “What about the seventh years?” she asked, remembering the dirty looks towards Draco in Potions.

“The older students really hate him, the ones he shares a dorm with,” Sean said. “I’ve heard them say they want him gone.”

“They’re the worst,” Adam added, rolling his eyes. “They pretend to be nice in front of the professors and other houses, but it’s all fake. They supported the Dark Lord, but now they pretend like they didn’t.”

Hm. That was something she could go on.

“Are you going to help him?” Sean asked, eyes full of hope.

All three students looked at her like they believed she could, and it tugged at her heartstrings. Their faith in her bolstered her spirits, pushing away her feelings of helplessness.

You’re fucking amazing.

She let the words wash over her and then brushed them away.

“I’m going to try,” she said, her resolve strengthening. “But I need you to do me a favour. Can you get me into the Slytherin common room and point out these roommates of Draco’s? I need to have a little chat with them.”

They led her eagerly towards the Slytherin common room, whispering to each other.

“... told you they were dating, you lunatic…”

“... but how is she going to…”

“... a teacher, you dolt…”

“... dragon…”

“...the Dark Lord with…”

“... she can do anything…”

Hermione shook her head, and bit back a smile.

Little devils. They were really growing on her.

She just hoped they were right.

∞∞∞

As Hermione made her way through the Slytherin common room, she stopped to register the sun shining through the green-tinted water outside the windows, flickering in wave patterns on the floor. Black leather sofas and armchairs – decorated with a colourful array of pillows and throws – sat atop an ornate green rug in front of a warmly lit fireplace. The ceiling was a large dome with a skylight above water level, letting in natural lighting. The cabinets and bookshelves that lined the room were built in an elegant dark wood, and she eyed them in envy. Why didn’t the Gryffindor common room have books?

The Slytherin common room was not cold, wet, dark, and full of evil things, like Ron and Harry had described. It was surprisingly cozy.

Sean pointed out the staircase leading up to the seventh-year boy’s dorm, and she briefly wondered if it was warded with any castle enchantments, like the girls' dorms were in Gryffindor.

Luckily, she made her way up no problem.

She knocked.

After a few moments, the door opened to a burly boy with short curly brown hair and a dark bruise around his left eye. His eyes trailed down her body with a confused smirk.

“Can I help you?”

Hermione’s fingers clenched around her wand as she narrowed her eyes on the boy.

Another one, taller and shirtless, appeared behind him.

“Well, well, well. If it isn’t the Death Eater’s little girlfriend.” His eyes trailed over her lecherously. “What do you want?”

Hermione grit her teeth and barged inside, pushing past them.

Two more boys were lounging on their beds, and she recognized them from Potions. She stood in the middle of the dorm and looked around.

There were five beds along the large rectangular room. They weren’t in a tower so the difference in shape caught her off guard. One of the beds had the curtains shut. Draco’s, she suspected.

She turned and looked at the four boys. She didn’t think they would cooperate, but she had to try.

“Looking for your Death Eater boyfriend, are you? I'm afraid he’s taken a little trip back to Azkaban,” the shirtless one said with an ugly smirk, crossing his arms menacingly.

“Does Death Eater cock do it for you, mudblood?” One of the boys on the bed grabbed himself suggestively and laughed. “Tell me, does he call you that with his cock down your throat?”

Ugh. They would definitely not cooperate.

“You're disgusting,” she said, rolling her eyes and brandishing her wand, ready for a fight. “Now tell me, what happened to Draco?”

Two of the boys shared a look. Nobody spoke.

“Something happened that got him arrested,” she tried again. “What was it?”

The shirtless boy looked at the boy with the black eye.

Ah. She narrowed her eyes on him. “What happened?”

The boy scowled. “You can’t prove anything.”

Hermione took a deep breath. She needed answers.

“I’m asking nicely,” she said, giving it one last shot. “Please just tell me.”

“Sure, I’ll tell you,” he said darkly, leering down at her. “But what are you going to do for me?”

She looked at the four boys surrounding her and sighed.

“You really want to play it this way?” she asked. “Do you really want to get on my bad side?”

“Stop acting so uppity, mudblood. You think you’re better than us?”

She swished her wand four times in succession and the four boys' wands flew into her hand. Then she flicked it again and they were suspended in the air, just like she’d done to her students weeks ago.

They cried out obscenities.

“You bitch! Put me down.”

“Hm,” she said, tapping her finger to her chin. “See, you three could have done the decent thing and helped me, but since you're all so… obstinate and rude, look what’s happened.”

She walked to Draco’s bed and tried to open the curtains, but there was a strong ward on it.

Good. At least they wouldn’t be touching his things. She added an extra.

“I need one of you to tell me exactly what happened. Nice black eye there, by the way.”

“Fuck you.”

“Alright, well, if any of you decide to be a decent human, then send me an owl. Otherwise, enjoy your comeuppance. I wonder how you’ll be acting once I tell McGonagall about you four. Word through the grapevine is that you're all a little desperate to salvage your reputations after being on the losing side. Do you really want to risk getting expelled? I’m sure your families would love to hear that news.”

She scattered their wands on the floor, let the boys fall, and cast an itching charm on them for good measure before walking out.

∞∞∞

She was all but fuming as she descended the staircase.

In the common room, she forced herself to take a deep breath and look around for any other clues.

Her firsties were sitting on a sofa watching her eagerly. Other students were either glaring, looking at her with curious disdain, or ignoring her completely.

She shook her head at Sean, Adam, and Hope, letting them know she wasn’t successful. The disappointed looks on their faces made her heart clench.

As she made her way out of the common room, a despairing feeling ate at her.

Maybe it was time to message Harry or Mr. Weasley. If she couldn’t find any concrete information at school, she could find out Draco’s charges from them and get started on his defence.

She didn’t know how Harry would take it. She still hadn’t replied to his letter asking her to reconcile with Ron.

She was two hallways away when the sound of running footsteps echoed behind her.

She whipped around, wand up, half expecting it to be the Slytherin boys after her for retribution.

Instead, a pretty brunette with bright blue eyes and smooth wavy hair caught up to her and proceeded to bend over with her hands on her knees to catch her breath.

“Hermione Granger, right?” she huffed. “Merlin, I’m out of shape. How do you walk so fast?”

Hermione let out an unexpected laugh. “That’s me,” she said. “How can I help you?”

“No, no. I want to help you,” the girl said. “I overheard those first years talking about it. That you’re trying to help Malfoy, and I know those pricks in seventh year won’t have given you anything.”

The words planted a seed of hope in her chest.

“Do you know what happened?” Hermione asked eagerly.

The girl nodded, clutching her stomach. “I think so. I was trying to find Slughorn yesterday, and Malfoy showed up to talk to him as well. I overheard everything.”

Hermione’s heart pounded, and her ears buzzed.

Was this it? Could she really save him?

“What’s your name?”

“Melissa.”

“Melissa, thank you so much. Would you object to letting me have the memory? I need to know exactly what happened so I can help him. The more proof the better.”

“You can have it!” Melissa said quickly. “You’ll have to tell me how to do it, but if it’ll help…”

“It will! I’m going to do whatever I can to get him back,” Hermione said vehemently. “But can I ask why you want to help him?”

Melissa shrugged shyly. “He was nice to me. Not at all like what people say about him. And it’s not right what happened. Slughorn shouldn’t be getting away with the stuff he’s pulled this year.”

“What do you mean?”

“He’s our head of house, you know, but he’s never there to enforce curfew or help when we need it. It’s as if we don’t even have a house head. And, well, you’ll see in the memory, I suppose.”

Heart pounding and full of hope for the first time all day, Hermione taught the girl how to take a memory, and then syphoned the milky silver into a small vial.

When they were finished, Hermione wrapped Melissa in a tight hug.

It was late afternoon on Sunday by the time Hermione made it to the owlery. She penned two identical letters and sent them off with the two biggest school owls she could find.

Meet me at 8:00 tomorrow morning on Level One at the Ministry. This is important.

∞∞∞

Hermione woke up at six after a night of fitful sleep, showered, got ready, and walked to Hogsmeade.

The Three Broomsticks was alive with patrons for the weekday breakfast rush. Hermione stepped in from the cold and was greeted by the smell of bacon and sausages. She found Madam Rosmerta behind the till.

“Everything alright, dearie? Shouldn't you be at school? Want me to fix you a plate?”

Hermione gave her a guilty smile and said, “No, actually, do you mind if I use your Floo?”

Madam Rosmerta was gracious and understanding of her request. She put a hot croissant in Hermione’s hand and sent her towards the fireplace.

She stepped through to the Ministry at seven-thirty.

The Atrium was nearly empty at the early hour.

Hermione stood still for a full minute as memories of her last visit flashed through her mind. The last time she’d been there, she’d been disguised as Mafalda Hopkirk to try to steal Slytherin’s locket from Umbridge. The Ministry had been completely corrupt with its inhumane de-wanding trials, its anti-muggle pamphlets, and the incredibly offensive Magic is Might monument.

Now, a tall obelisk stood alone in the middle of a fountain. As she walked closer, she noticed it was covered in names. She took a moment to scan them.

There they were, mixed in with a hundred other names she didn't know.

Remus Lupin

Nymphadora Tonks

Fred Weasley

Albus Dumbledore

Alastor Moody

Lavender Brown

Colin Creevey

Severus Snape

She pursed her lips sullenly. Dobby was missing, as were the names of the goblins. She’d have to have a word with Kingsley about that.

With a heavy, aching heart, Hermione waited for the lift.

Unease prickled the back of her neck. It had only been six months. How much of the ministry was still corrupt? How many rotten employees had claimed duress and kept their jobs? She kept her hand on her wand, as though someone were about to spot her and yell, Undesirable in the building!

The gate opened and she stepped into the empty lift.

When she bypassed Level Two, the DMLE office, she wondered if Draco was there or if they’d already taken him to Azkaban. Tears pricked behind her eyes, but she took a deep breath to dispel them. Now was not the time for emotions. She had to appear level headed.

The lift stopped at Level One with a ding, and she stepped out to a wide black marble hall.

To her left were double doors with the words Administration written above them, and to her right, a large ornate door that read Minister for Magic was flanked by two security desks, each manned by a wizard in black and blue DMLE robes.

The men were not burly, nor were they particularly big, but the lazy way one of them expertly twirled his wand as he watched her put her on guard.

She took another deep breath, pushed her shoulders back, and made her way towards them.

The man on the right gave her the once over. She had worn a pair of high-waisted jeans and a chunky blue sweater beneath her Hogwarts cloak. As the guard’s eyes landed on the crest, he smirked, and Hermione wanted to crawl into a hole. She cursed herself for not thinking to wear something more professional to blend in.

“You lost?”

Hermione squared her shoulders and ignored the derision in his tone.

“Not at all. I have a meeting with the Minister for Magic at eight.”

The two guards shared a look.

“The Minister will arrive at 9,” the one on the left said, looking down at a piece of paper. “And there are no meetings scheduled before then. I’m afraid you must be mistaken.”

“I am not,” she insisted. She just hoped that Kingsley would show up and prove her right.

“Then tell me,” the guard on the right said. “What business would the Minister for Magic have with a Hogwarts student,” he mocked.

Heat flooded her cheeks, and she resisted the urge to brandish her wand. Instead, she clutched her beaded bag tightly. The guard noticed her movement and crooked a finger at her.

“Security check. Open your bag, Miss…?”

Uh oh. She clutched her very much illegally extended bag tighter. “Granger,” she said, hoping her nerves wouldn't betray her. “I’m just going to wait for Kingsley.”

“That’s not how this works, Ms. Granger,” the guard said, voice turning to steel. “You are an unregistered visitor without an appointment and that makes you a threat. Open your bag, or it’s down to Level Two we go.”

Ding.

“Hermione,” Kingsley’s voice sounded behind her, a bit exasperated, a bit warm. “What could possibly be so important that you called a meeting this early on a Monday?”

Hermione gave Kingsley a half smile. “I thought it would be better than meeting on Sunday evening. At least I let you enjoy your weekend, didn’t I?”

He approached and clapped her on the shoulder. “Aye, well, I suppose this is mildly better. Lowe, Edwards, alright?”

Both men were watching the exchange with narrowed eyes. “This girl showed up unregistered, sir. We were just about to search her belongings.”

Kingsley looked down at Hermione’s beaded bag and his eyes sparked with a knowing look. “No need. This is Hermione Granger. You've heard of her, I hope? She is always welcome.”

The guards muttered their understanding but watched her warily as she followed Kingsley through his office doors.

In contrast to the stark marble hall outside, the Minister’s office was full of warm wooden furniture. Trinkets were placed on shelves all around the violet walls, much like the headmaster’s office at Hogwarts. In the centre of the room, four brown leather sofas sat around a large glass coffee table, and at the far end of the office was the Minister’s desk, with a stack of memos hovering above it. Hermione spotted a pensive in the far corner of the room and breathed a sigh of relief. Good.

She turned to Kingsley to find his wand aimed at her.

“What did I say to you the day after we got Harry from Privet drive?”

She thought for a moment. “You said you thought I’d make a great Auror, and that I had good instincts in the face of danger.”

Kingsley relaxed his wand arm and smiled. “Forgive me, I had to check. Have a seat,” he said, sitting down on a sofa. She followed suit across from him. “Now, how can I help you?”

She got right into it. “There’s been a mistake, and I need you to help fix it.”

Kingsley raised his eyebrows. “Go on.”

“Draco Malfoy,” she rushed out. “He’s been unfairly arrested for breaking probation. He does not deserve to be in Azkaban. He’s a good man, Kingsley. He’s not a Death Eater, he has no ill-intentions.”

Kingsley let out a weary sigh. “Yes, I heard that he was brought in this weekend, but if he broke his probation, there’s nothing I can do.”

“That’s rubbish,” she snapped. “His probation is bullshit considering the professor watching him is a goddamn prejudiced piece of shit!”

Oops. She needed to keep a cool head and calm down. She’d first become close to Kingsley the summer after sixth year when they’d teamed up on the mission to retrieve Harry, and then again when the Order had converged to work on rebuilding wizarding Britain after the war. Kingsley had been a frequent visitor at the Burrow, and they became friendly. So, while she shouldn’t lose her temper, she knew he was not offended by her outburst.

“Sorry,” she grumbled, anyway.

Kingsley looked amused. “Be that as it may, I cannot just let him go without a reason. He was a Death Eater, and he had conditions upon his release. There are protocols to follow.”

Hermione observed Kingsley for a full minute. The man was in his forties. He was well respected and well liked both in the Order and the Ministry. He had a certain charisma about him that made him a natural leader. She’d seen him in action: he was calm, concise, lethal. He made decisions like she did, ones that blurred the lines of morality for the sake of the greater good. Maybe that was why they’d always gotten along; Kingsley saw himself in her proactiveness, her ruthlessness and selective mind.

“Kingsley,” she said calmly. “How many people have you killed as a member of the Order?”

His expression turned uneasy, and he didn’t answer.

“And how many people have you attempted to kill but failed?” she continued. “Maybe they got away, maybe they were permanently injured?”

He remained quiet.

“You didn’t even have a trial, did you? Because you were elected Minister in the interim, and because you were on the right side of the war. Your own war crimes were excused. But Draco Malfoy never killed anybody. All his worst charges happened when he was a minor, under duress and coercion. He defected in the final battle. He didn’t fight for Voldemort. He only fought to save his own skin. So why is it that he’s out there being arrested again for what… breaking the uniform code at school?”

“He had a trial, Hermione. His probation was decided upon as a fair punishment.”

“You held his trial without him. I heard all about it. He didn’t even get the chance to defend himself. How is that considered fair?”

Kingsley sighed. “You’re smart, Hermione, we both know that, but there is more than one man’s freedom at play here. If I go forgiving Death Eaters for their crimes in this political climate, people would riot.”

“Kingsley,” she entreated. “You can’t just make an example of him! The legal system is so archaic! How is it right to send someone to prison before they’ve been proven guilty? It seems like it’s at the whim of whoever decides to abuse their power.”

Kingsley observed her with a thoughtful expression. “You know, Hermione, if you’d like a job at the Ministry working in Magical Law, we would love to have you. But until then, without proof, there is not much I can do.”

“Then tell me exactly what Draco’s been arrested for, and how he broke his probation, and I will disprove it,” she said resolutely. “Please, Kingsley. You once told me if there was anything you could do for me, you would do it. This is it. I need you to do this. To free Draco Malfoy.”

Kingsley steepled his fingers and considered her for a long moment before summoning a piece of parchment and a quill from his desk. He wrote a short missive before sending it out the door.

“I’ve sent the DMLE an urgent request to bring me his arrest report. Let’s look at it together.”

Hermione fidgeted as they waited in silence.

Five minutes later, a knock sounded, and the door opened to a disgruntled guard poking his head in. “Minister, there is a Minerva McGonagall here to see you. Is she also part of this impromptu meeting?”

Kingsley glanced at Hermione with a questioning brow. She nodded, and Kingsley said, “Yes, let her in.”

The moment McGonagall entered the room, Hermione was stunned at what she saw.

Her once formidable teacher looked weak and… old. Though her hair was in its usual tight bun, her robes were flowy and loose, and her face was sallow.

She promptly took a seat adjacent to both Hermione and Kingsley.

“Tea, Minerva?” Kingsley offered kindly.

McGonagall declined with a shake of her head. “No, thank you, Kingsley. Now, what is this about?” she asked, looking between them.

Kingsley sighed and leaned back in his chair. “Our dear Hermione is scolding us for our treatment of a certain wizard, isn’t that right?”

Hermione rolled her eyes at Kingsley, before turning to McGonagall and saying, “Yes, that is right. And I do not appreciate the condescension. I’m entirely serious.”

“Oh, I know,” Kingsley said. “Like I said, we could use you in the Ministry, you know, if you ever wanted the job. And yes, I’m being entirely serious.”

“Who has been mistreated?” McGonagall asked.

“Draco Malfoy,” Hermione said, and gave her professor a moment to take in the news.

McGonagall’s eyes widened and then sharpened.

“I don’t know if you heard,” Hermione continued, “but he was taken in by Aurors yesterday. He’s been keeping his head down all year, but the professors all treat him like he belongs in Azkaban, and his housemates have been harassing him. And Slughorn!” Hermione huffed. “He’s the absolute worst! He only shows up for the start of classes now, he has been actively trying to get Draco expelled for no other reason than the fact that he hates him. I’ve been told he doesn’t help the students in his own house, and to be entirely frank, Professor, he shouldn’t even be at Hogwarts.”

McGonagall’s forehead wrinkled in worry. After a long time, she spoke, “Hermione, my dear, first let me say that I am sorry. It seems I have put too much trust in the teachers at Hogwarts. I should have checked in more.” She looked at Kingsley, then back at Hermione with a sigh. “In the Final Battle, I was struck with a rather persistent dark curse. I’ve been getting treatment from an institution in Switzerland. It has not been easy; the aftereffects of war have taken a toll on me, mentally and physically. I am no longer young as I once was. But I need to apologise to you, Hermione, for my lack of correspondence, and for burdening you with so much.”

“Professor…” she trailed off, at a loss for words.

Professor McGonagall waved a hand, dismissing her concern. “We have all been adversely affected by war, and you also have been through much more than most, my dear. Perhaps I was too careless to ask you to teach in my stead. I fear I have burdened you with too much after everything. How are your classes going?”

Hermione swallowed thickly, learning of her favourite professor’s struggles opened up a well inside of her. The admission, along with the acknowledgement that Hermione was also struggling, was hard to bear. She wouldn’t be able to hold it together for Draco if they had this conversation now, so she answered carefully.

“They were difficult at first, but they’ve gotten a lot better, and I can already see the change in my Gryffindor and Slytherin students, both academically and socially,” she trailed off, and then asked, “Did you hear about the ties?”

“Yes,” McGonagall smiled lightly. “You have caused quite a stir amongst the professors of Hogwarts. But do not worry; we will improve the daily school uniforms during the Christmas break so that they no longer include house colours. Accessories such as scarves and quidditch paraphernalia will of course remain, but I do hope a new neutral uniform will improve interhouse relations.”

“Really?” Hermione sat up, brightening. “Can I suggest also mixing up the classes more to encourage more inter house cooperation?”

“Let us sit down at a later date and you may share your ideas. But right now, let us discuss the issue at hand.”

Hermione nodded, smile fading. “Professor, Draco Malfoy does not deserve to be in Azkaban. I’ve gotten to know him this year and he’s changed. He’s trying to be good despite all the preconceptions about him. He needs to be released from custody as soon as possible, and different arrangements need to be made for his probation. If probation is absolutely necessary, then Slughorn cannot be trusted to do it.”

Knock. Knock.

The door creaked open once more, and three heads turned to watch a blonde girl in Auror robes walk confidently into the room towards Kingsley.

Hermione did a double take as she realised who it was: Germaine.

“Draco Malfoy’s cause of arrest,” Germaine said officiously, handing Kingsley a file.

Kingsley nodded his thanks. “Yes, thank you, that will be all.”

Germaine nodded, and with a curious glance at Hermione, turned and left the room.

In the ringing silence that followed, Hermione watched Kingsley unfurl the parchment and read it.

He glanced at Hermione from under a raised brow. “This is confidential. I trust you not to share any of it.”

She nodded.

“Disregarding school uniform rules,” Kingsley read.

“The whole school is doing that now in protest. You can’t possibly count that,” Hermione protested.

“Often being late to class,” he continued.

Hermione bit her lip. She may be partially to blame for that. “Which classes? I can account for his whereabouts during morning breaks. He’s not up to anything dangerous.”

Kingsley eyed her curiously. “And what is he up to?”

“He’s been helping me with a research project,” she said, feeling her cheeks heat. “We often meet up to discuss it.” It was a half-truth. Hermione wasn’t about to tell them they spent the mornings snogging in secret, but by the sceptical look on Kingsley’s face, she knew he suspected there was more to what she was saying.

He looked down at the paper again. “Stealing potions ingredients, including fire lily, which is rare and expensive.”

“Does it specifically say which other ingredients? Draco and I have been brewing different potions together during class time. Slughorn has never opposed,” she said. It was not technically a lie since he never noticed. “And the fire lily was for the last potion we made, which we made at my insistence, by the way, during class time, so if you want to put anyone down for stealing, it should be me.”

“Which potion was that?” McGonagall asked, curiously.

Hermione opened her beaded bag. She reached down to her shoulder and rummaged around until she found the vial.

“Could you be a little more discreet with that illegal bag of yours, Hermione? I am the Minister for Magic,” Kingsley said dryly.

She stopped and looked up. “Arrest me, then,” she said sharply. “Throw me in a cell in Azkaban.” At his unimpressed look, she doubled down. “Why not? Draco’s been arrested for much less. An illegal charm is a much more punishable offence than being late to class and not wearing a uniform, don’t you think?”

Kingsley leaned back in his chair with a sigh and levelled her with a wry look. McGonagall’s lip twitched up in what Hermione could only hope was pride.

With a steady look at Kingsley. she unstoppered the vial and set a drop onto the glass in front of them. McGonagall and Kingsley watched, transfixed, as the dandelion grew and scattered before shrivelling to dust.

Hermione watched their identical frowns as they looked up at her in puzzled interest.

“What is this potion?” Kingsley asked. “I have not seen it before.”

“Draco invented it,” she explained. “He’s a genius with potions.”

“Is that so?” Kingsley said, sharing a look with McGonagall.

After a moment, he cleared his throat and continued reading from the file. “Intimidating first years.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “That’s a lie. The first years love him. They’re my students, I would know.”

“He was out past curfew on Saturday night,” Kingsley continued. “The Aurors were looking for him. He wasn’t in his dorm.”

Hermione’s heart leapt to her throat.

“He was with me,” she said, carefully.

“With you?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“In my dorm.”

She had to bite down a hysterical laugh that threatened to come out in the shocked silence that followed.

McGonagall and Kingsley both looked as uncomfortable as she felt, but neither pressed for more.

“I see,” Kingsley said, clearing his throat and looking down at the paper. “Violence against Slytherin students, violence against a professor, threatening a professor, and breaking into a professor’s personal office,” he said, finishing with a flourish, and placing the report down on the table. “These are not trivial accusations, Hermione.”

Hermione’s heart sank, and she hoped to God she was right when she fished in her bag again and pulled out the memory. She set it gently on the table between them.

“This might prove otherwise.”

“What is this?”

“A fifth year Slytherin girl, Melissa, offered me her memories. She witnessed his interaction with Slughorn.”

A moment passed as all three of them stared at the silvery substance floating within the bottle.

“This is very troubling indeed. Let us take a look together, Kingsley,” McGonagall said with a pensive frown.

Hermione followed them to the ornate white marble pensieve in the far corner of the room. McGonagall unstoppered the bottle and poured the milky liquid out.

After a few seconds she felt the world spin as she was sucked into the memory.

∞∞∞

Hermione blinked, taking in the odd hazy quality of the torch-lit hallway of the Potions classroom. She turned and saw McGonagall and Kingsley beside her.

Melissa was in front of Slughorn’s office door with a big potions book in her arms. She paced around, then stopped to look at her watch and mutter to herself. She stood in front of the door again and knocked hard three times.

“Professor Slughorn!” she called.

Nothing. Her face fell and her eyes watered.

Footsteps sounded from the left, and both Hermione and Melissa turned their heads to see Draco striding down the hallway. He wore his black joggers and his black sweatshirt with the arms pushed up to the elbows, displaying his tattoos. His hair was a mess, like he’d been grabbing it, and his right hand was bloodied. His face was a mask of anger.

Melissa faltered and took a step back. Draco stopped when he saw her. His brow creased, and his cold look fell away when he saw her tears.

“What happened? Has Slughorn done something?” Draco asked Melissa, scanning her for injury.

“No,” she said, and wiped her tears, sniffling. “It’s just, it’s his office hours, and I’ve been here for the past week trying to find him and ask him a question about potions. He always gave me half-answers in class and never stuck around afterwards. He told me to come to his office hours, but he’s never there. My essay is due on Monday, I’ve only got the weekend left to write it.”

Draco’s eyes rolled towards the ceiling before he gave the door a dirty look. “Fucking imbecile,” he muttered angrily. “Slughorn, not you,” he clarified. “I can help you with your question. What is it about?”

Melissa sniffed and looked at him with guarded curiosity. “I’m doing my essay on the brewing process of Veritaserum, classifying the ingredients to see how they all work together, but I can’t find any information about the taste, specifically which ingredients make it clear and tasteless.”

Draco raised his eyebrows, impressed. “That’s an ambitious topic for a what… sixth year?”

“Fifth,” she said shyly.

He considered her for a moment. “The lack of odour comes from the combination of lunaria seeds and jobberknoll feathers. The lunaria seeds have a potent flowery smell, but it is necessary as the main ingredient of truth in the potion. The jobberknoll feathers serve a dual purpose. The first is to make the mind malleable. Jobberknoll feathers are usually used in truth and memory potions for this reason. The second is that it removes the smell of the lunaria and the other ingredients. Add it to the potion last and stir it clockwise with a steady hand to start the process of removing the odours, and then let it ferment undisturbed for the cycle of a moon for maximum potency. The mild scent is completely removed, and the pale blue liquid becomes clear during this time. If you can get permission, there’s a book titled Potions and Poisons in the restricted section by Pontius Perennial. He was the original creator of Veritaserum. Ask another professor for permission though. Slughorn’s a fucking clown.”

Melissa’s jaw had dropped open, and Hermione looked over to find that Kingsley’s had as well. McGonagall was watching the interaction with her typical stern gaze.

“Th-thank you,” Melissa said, eyes bright. Hermione smiled at the look of awe on her face.

“Anytime,” Draco said, shrugging. “And I mean that. If you need help with Potions, come to me instead, alright?”

Melissa nodded and smiled.

“Off you go, no need to waste any more time here.”

Melissa took a few steps down the hallway, but hesitated and looked back as Draco pounded a heavy fist on Slughorn's door. After a few seconds, he did it again, ignorant of the girl still standing there, and then took his wand out with a curse and whispered an Alahomora.

Draco pushed open the heavy wooden door. It opened inwards to a brightly lit room. Slughorn stood inside, fiddling with something on his desk. He looked up at the intrusion and his brow furrowed in disgruntled displeasure.

“I thought I locked that.”

Draco ignored the comment and walked inside. Melissa stared after him, curious, and then followed towards the door to peer in after him.

“And why are you locking your door during office hours when you have students desperate to talk to you?”

“Who, you?” Slughorn scoffed.

“A fifth-year girl. She was fucking crying outside your door because she’s been trying to find you for a week.”

“Hm,” he hummed dismissively.

Draco scoffed, looking disgusted. “How did you manage to get hired when you do fuck all around here?”

“What are you doing here, boy?” Slughorn said, voice cold. “I can’t imagine you don’t have better things to do than visit me on a Saturday afternoon.”

“I need to change my dorm.”

Slughorn’s eyes bugged out in disbelief. “No,” he said simply.

“My roommates are harassing me. They are sending stinging jinxes and choking curses at me any chance they get. If they get a hand on my personal items, they destroy them. They don’t want me there; I don’t want to be there. Let me sleep in fucking peace instead of having to reinforce wards every single night to keep them out.”

“Ah, yes, I heard from Mr. Miller this morning how you punched him in the face and knocked him unconscious.”

“It was self-defence. I’m not exactly allowed to defend myself with magic these days.”

“It sounds like you want a one-way trip to Azkaban, Mr. Malfoy. Violence of any kind is not tolerated.”

“And what about them? Are you going to punish them? Check their wands if you don’t believe me.”

“They tell me that you started the fight, that it was unprompted, and that their Death Eater roommate wants to kill them. I’ve already sent word to the Ministry.”

Draco’s jaw hardened, and he ran his hands through his hair, grabbing tightly and looking around. “Fuck,” he cursed, looking wild.

He looked at Slughorn and then grabbed him by the collar and shoved him against the wall. “Fuck you, you piece of shit. I didn’t do anything wrong,” he snarled. “You’ve had it out for me this whole fucking time.” He stepped back, swirling in place to look around the room.

Slughorn scowled behind him. “Death Eaters deserve to rot in Azkaban. You’re one too, if you’ve forgotten.”

Draco turned back to him and glared. “Is that what this is? Are you doing this to separate yourself from the Death Eaters? Are you trying to make yourself feel better for acting like a fucking Death Eater yourself? Or are you just so fucking delusional that you don’t see it? Just because you don’t have the mark, doesn’t mean you weren’t right here doing their bidding too, watching while fucking first years got the Cruciatus,” he spat. “You did nothing to stop it.”

“You were the one to cast it, you stupid boy.”

“I didn’t want to – I received the Cruciatus from the fucking Carrows the first three times I refused. I couldn’t write with a fucking quill for a month with the tremors. I never saw you getting tortured by them, by the way; you never even tried to stand up to them. So yes, I did it to those students, but who do you think was the lesser evil for those kids? Me, who can barely cast the damned thing to begin with, or fucking Amycus or Alecto? At least I made mine weak enough it would never do any real damage. But you’re the teacher. You should have protected them. Instead, you were a complicit bystander, you fucking hypocrite.”

Slughorn sputtered, but Draco strode out of his office before he had a chance to say anything else.

Draco stopped as he came face to face with Melissa, then stepped around her with cold fury written on his face.

The edges of Hermione’s vision turned to white, and then the hallway blurred and swirled around her, pulling her out of the memory.

∞∞∞

When Hermione was back on her feet in the Minister’s office, the three of them stared at each other with the gravity of what they’d just witnessed.

“Something must be done about Horace,” McGonagall said first. “You were right, Hermione.”

“Draco shouldn’t have been arrested in the first place. Rescind the arrest or hold a trial at least! Don’t just send Draco to Azkaban,” she looked at Kingsley, who looked tired. “Please.”

He let out a sigh. “It is not that simple.”

Hermione wanted to scream. Instead, she took a deep breath and attempted to speak calmly.

“If it was simple enough to hold his trial illegally for the sake of a quick resolution and throw him in prison unfairly, then it sure as hell is simple enough to undo. You owe me. You said it yourself.”

“I suppose you’re not going to let it go, are you?” he asked, resigned.

“I will not,” she confirmed.

McGonagall rubbed her forehead, face deep in thought. “Hermione, dear. Horace will be dealt with in time, that is my jurisdiction, but the matter of Mr. Malfoy’s probation and incarceration lies with the Ministry. If he were to return to Hogwarts, there is also the matter of his handler and his sleeping arrangements,” McGonagall said.

Hermione hesitated, biting her lip. “I had an idea about that.”

She always did. She planned for contingencies.

∞∞∞

Hermione left Kingsley’s office with a growing feeling of anxiety. She had said her piece, and there was nothing to do now but wait for a verdict. Once again, she felt helpless, and she didn’t like the idea of Draco waiting in Azkaban. She wanted him out so she could properly kill him or kiss him – she wasn’t sure which.

Hermione passed the two guards with her head held high.

The Ministry was coming alive with the Monday morning traffic of witches and wizards starting their workday. She waited for the lift with a deep sigh as exhaustion took hold. She had hardly slept and was tempted to skip the rest of the day’s classes to take a long nap.

The lift opened and several wizards popped out onto Level One and disappeared through the Administration doors. When it was empty, she stepped in, pressed the button for Level Eight and then began to descend.

The hustle and bustle of witches and wizards on the daily grind made her sweat with anxiety. She already missed the smell of the forest and the wet nature of the highlands, the view of the lake and the grassy fields, the smell of the stone castle walls, and the peace and calm of the astronomy tower at night when no one was there.

Maybe a Ministry life wasn’t for her. Going back to Hogwarts instead of accepting a job right away like Ron and Harry had definitely been the right decision. She couldn’t imagine coming here every day.

The lift stopped and Hermione stepped out to push through the dense crowd of workrobe-clad witches and wizards waiting to get on.

“Hermione!”

Germaine appeared next to her. Hermione looked at the girl, trying to fight the exhaustion and heartache of the last twenty-four hours, and gave her a weak, tired grimace.

Seeing Germaine on top of it all felt like being kicked when she was down.

“Do you have time right now?” Germaine asked, looking hopeful. “I just got off the night shift. There’s a lovely little café a few blocks over. I’d love it if you would join me.”

Excuses flooded her mind:

I have to get back to Hogwarts.

I haven't slept a wink.

My heart is battered, so I’m not really in the mood.

I don’t particularly want to talk to you since you took my friends.

But then Hemione hesitated as she noticed the nervous anticipation on Germaine’s face.

“Sure,” she sighed.

Twenty minutes later, she sat in a little muggle café – ironically named the Witch’s Brew – with a lovely aromatic blend of Whittards tea in her hands. She lifted the teacup, breathing it in and letting the scent calm her before taking a sip.

“So,” Germaine started, tapping her French-tipped nails nervously on her own mug of coffee. “I've heard so much about you from Ron and Harry.”

“Oh?” Hermione asked, feeling awkward. “I’m sorry, but I don't actually know that much about you.”

“Of course! How rude of me!” Germaine exclaimed, sitting upright, and flashing her with a bright white smile. “I’ll tell you a little bit about myself. I grew up in France and went to Beauxbatons. I moved to London when I was 18. I've been training in the DMLE for a year longer than Harry and Ron, so technically I'm a rank above them.” She gave Hermione a curious look. “They talk so highly of you, you know? How you saved their lives so many times and how nothing they did in the war would have happened without you. Harry is always groaning about how you would already know the answers to everything he’s researching – he hates the research assignments.”

Hermione allowed a slight smile. “Yes, he was always like that.”

“You have quite the reputation, you know. Gerry and Lucas – the Aurors standing guard outside of the Minister’s office,” she added at Hermione’s confusion, “They told me you just waltzed in without an appointment to see the Minister like you knew him.”

“I do know him. So do Harry and Ron. He was in the Order.”

“Right. Anyway, I'm glad you agreed to meet me.”

“What was it that you wanted to talk about?” Hermione asked.

Germaine nervously tapped her index finger on the handle of her mug, looking down at her drink.

“You know Ron and I are dating, right? It's been a few months now, and I really like him. He’s just been acting really odd since we all met that night in Hogsmeade. He acts odd anytime you’re mentioned now, really.” She took a deep breath and focused her ocean blue eyes on Hermione. “I suppose I just want to know why he won’t tell me anything. He pretends like he’s fine, but he won't talk about it.”

“Oh,” Hermione looked down and trailed a finger along the handle of her teacup. “I'm not sure what to tell you.”

“He told me you dated earlier this year, but if there are, you know, lingering feelings or anything, I want to know. Do you still like him?”

Hermione observed Germaine with an internal sigh. What was Ron doing? She had half a mind to owl him – despite her resolve not to – and tell him to stop being an idiot. He had a track record of keeping the women in his life in the dark about his feelings. He’d done it to Lavender when he’d tired of her. He’d done it to Hermione. He was clearly doing it to Germaine now.

Hermione shook her head and said, “No. I don’t have any romantic feelings for Ron anymore.”

Germaine breathed a sigh of relief and leaned back in her chair.

“Can I ask why you broke up?”

Hermione had never told anyone exactly what the catalyst for her decision to break up with Ron was, but she felt for this girl. Being kept in the dark was never pleasant. She had to say something.

“He… we were wrong for each other,” she said eventually, looking back down at her tea. “We wanted different things, and after the war, we coped in different ways. He wasn’t what I needed.”

Germaine nodded, tucking a lock of silky honey-blonde hair behind her ear.

“Then is there a reason you don't like me?”

Hermione looked up guiltily.

“It’s not personal, Germaine,” she said, leaning back in her chair with a sigh. “It's been a really hard 24 hours, and I don’t particularly feel the desire to be sensitive to anyone’s feelings right now, so I’ll be honest. That night at the Three Broomsticks was the first time I’d seen Ron and Harry for months. I had barely heard from them since August, and then you showed up unexpectedly, having replaced me as their best friend. It's Ron’s and Harry’s fault for blindsiding me, not yours, but I suppose I was angry at them and jealous at how easily I was replaced.”

Germaine’s eyes widened. “You know how much they talk about you, right? I'm jealous of you. There’s no way to live up to the reputation of Hermione Granger.”

Hermione let out a disbelieving breath. She was over it. So, they’d been sharing stories of her, but not talking to her?

She drank the last of her tea and set the cup down.

“Germaine,” she asked. “Can you do me a favour and not tell them you saw me here today?”

“Why?” Germaine asked, brows furrowed in confusion.

Hermione bit her lip. “Do you know who Draco Malfoy is?”

“Yes, of course.”

“And you know how much Harry and Ron hate him?”

Germaine nodded in understanding. “I get it. You don't want them to know you were here about him? Oh…” She looked at Hermione, wide-eyed, and slightly relieved. “Are you… ?”

Exhaustion obliterated her desire to keep it a secret. “I'm just… not ready to tell them.”

Germaine gave her a comforting smile. “They can both be rather… judgemental about certain things. I won’t say anything.”

“Thanks,” Hermione said, returning the smile. Maybe Germaine wasn’t so bad after all.

“Will you be at that – What was it? – the Worm Club thing in two weeks?” Germaine asked.

Hermione blinked. “The Slug Club? Maybe. I haven't decided yet. How do you know about it?”

“Harry’s only going because Ginny asked him to, but it's Ron’s first invite, apparently, so he wants to go this time. I’ll be there as his date,” Germaine said.

Hermione had almost forgotten that Ron and Harry were invited. Two weeks. That should give her enough time to prepare her heart and figure out what she wanted to say to them.

Her attendance would obviously depend on whether or not their awful Potions professor would still be employed in two weeks’ time, but she wasn’t about to mention that.

“Then I guess I’ll see you there,” Hermione said with a smile.

∞∞∞

Monday night was torture.

As she lay in bed, she could only think of Draco. Was he sleeping? Was he in a cold cell in Azkaban, or was he still in a Ministry holding room? She couldn’t help but think she should have looked for him when she was at the Ministry.

Unable to sleep, she snuck up to the Astronomy tower to look at the stars. The night sky was clear and beautiful.

Sitting on the rough cold stone, and breathing in the frigid night air, she took out the little vial of Draco's potion, and gently placed drops of dandelions in a circle in front of her.

She watched them all grow, bloom, and die.

Things were always changing and evolving until they died off. Was the lifecycle of their relationship the same? Had it accelerated and already finished, just like the flowers in front of her that grew so fast and strong until – poof! – parts of them blew off in every direction until nothing was left?

∞∞∞

On Tuesday morning, her feet took her to the alcove out of habit, and she hesitated for a long minute before entering. The silence was stiff, lonely, and suffocating, and Draco's absence hit her hard.

As she sat on the alcove window ledge, she imagined a world with him locked up in Azkaban for good, a world where he was not there to tell her stories when she was sad, or to call her amazing when she felt inept.

She also imagined a world where he did come back, and wondered how she would react. She was hurt that he had lied and left her. Their bubble of happiness had been dispelled, and she didn’t know how they could return to it. Not after this.

She felt lonely. She hadn't realised how much space Draco had filled in her existence until he was gone. He’d somehow filled the void left by Harry and Ron, by her lost family, and by the distance that had grown between her and the Weasleys after she and Ron had split up.

His absence was a sharp dagger to the chest rather than a dull ache like the rest.

She missed him.

So, in the secluded privacy of the alcove, she cried.

She was late to her next class. Ginny squeezed her hand as soon as she saw her swollen eyes and didn’t let go for the remainder of the lesson.

∞∞∞

On Wednesday evening, she knew he was there before she saw him. Hushed whispers buzzed through the Entrance Hall on her way to dinner and caused the hairs on her arms to stand up.

She stopped and looked towards the open door and immediately saw him. His silver eyes were on her, all but glowing in the dim hallway.

He took up the whole space in the room. Sucked the air out of it.

His face was shuttered to unknowing eyes, but Hermione could see the emotions peeking through the occlusion. There was a desperation there, something heart-wrenching.

They both stood frozen and oblivious to the whispers of students milling around them.

He was safe.

Kingsley had delivered. She didn’t know how he had made it happen, but it didn’t matter, because Draco was back in the castle, and she felt like she could breathe again.

The immense feeling of relief battled with the hurt inside of her. She wanted to run to him, wrap her arms around him and kiss him. She wanted to cry. She wanted to slap him.

The cocktail of different feelings swirled within her, riling up one emotion she hadn’t expected to feel so strongly:

Anger.

Because it wasn’t fair. She was the one jilted. He’d left her without a word. How dare he look at her like that and make her feel sympathy and relief when if circumstances weren’t any different, she would be solely furious and hurt and rejected.

Her eyes wandered to the rest of him. The messy hair over his forehead, the blood still crusted on his bruised lip and eyebrow. The same black sweatshirt and joggers he’d taken off in her bedroom. The fists at his sides. The way he stood perfectly still, ignoring everything around him to focus on her.

She sensed a hesitance in his gaze as his eyes swept over her body and face, like he was trying to gauge if she was okay.

She wasn’t.

She itched to go to him, to brush his messy hair off his forehead and kiss the bruises.

But he’d known. He’d left her.

Angry tears prickled behind her eyes, and she spun on her heel just as one escaped onto her cheek. She brushed it away quickly, and sped down the hallway ahead of her so she wouldn’t burst into tears in front of him.

∞∞∞

The next few days were hard.

Her anger festered whenever she was alone, and her heart yearned for him whenever she saw him around the castle. She spent Thursday avoiding him, detouring around their hidden alcove, and studying in the common room in the evening.

She went to the Transfiguration classroom early on Friday morning to write updated notes on her students, but instead she slouched back in her chair and just wallowed.

She could only blame herself, really. She’d made the mistake of getting involved, of ignoring the warning signs. But she’d known – hadn’t she? – that hope would eventually crush her.

He’d managed to lower her defences, to make her fall for him in such a short time that she still wasn’t even sure how it had happened. She knew he had changed in many ways, but how much of it had she wishfully concocted in her mind and how much of it was real? Had she been making too many assumptions?

Their last night together had been incredible, but the more she thought about it, the more she realised that she’d all but thrown herself at him. She’d told him she wanted to spend time alone with him, so he’d come. She’d worn the silk robe. She’d been so eager to be with him that she’d stupidly ignored the signs that he wasn’t okay. She hadn’t pressed. She’d thought if he was feeling bad, she could distract him.

She’d practically begged him to have sex, she realised with horror. She’d felt so connected with him, so happy, so complete in the moment, but now… it hurt to think he hadn’t felt the same way. She could only wonder what else he’d been hiding and how much of what she’d felt was real.

Hermione watched silently as her students all entered and took their seats in the minutes before the bell.

She started class easily.

Everyone but her seemed to be in a good mood. It was a blessing that there were no arguments, otherwise she might have snapped. Perhaps they were able to sense her mood, or maybe it was just a side effect of the good sunny weather.

She tasked them with simple challenges designed to help them hone the skills they'd been learning. They had to transfigure a piece of parchment to change its texture, colour, and size, then they had to work on adding lines, a design, and writing to it. It was a simple but challenging activity, and they seemed to enjoy it.

Adam had opened up. He scowled less in class and was making jokes across the room with Sean. He was even comparing his paper to Luke’s in a relatively pleasant manner.

Jade and Amir had started a competition to see who could make the coolest designs. Their combined academic inclination made them spur each other on.

Jamal was helping Indie visualise how to add a cute Mooncalf design to the bottom corner of her paper.

Veronica and Hope seemed to have become fast friends. They chatted easily about their favourite bands and the most recent edition of Witch Weekly magazine more than they spent time working on the assignment, but Hermione would take her wins where she could get them. She was relieved that the Death Eater comments from last week hadn’t deterred any progress there.

Chase, as mercurial as he was, actually smiled when Anna showed him the writing that she’d transfigured onto the paper.

Sean and Ava worked together seamlessly. Sean even seemed to be making jokes to make her laugh. Ava often responded by rolling her eyes or shoving him in his arm, but there was a small smile hovering over her mouth, and Sean clearly revelled in her responses.

Hermione observed them all with a sense of pride. For the first time, she felt like a real teacher, like she was affecting some kind of positive change in these kids' lives; they were learning things, improving their skills, and they were working cooperatively.

She supposed there was always an adjustment period where students and teachers needed to get used to each other. It was easier to guide a group of children whose respect she’d managed to finally earn, than a group of strangers.

At the bell, Hermione wished them a good weekend and let them go without homework for their good behaviour.

As students cheered and left for lunch, Sean and Adam approached her desk.

“How did you do it?” Sean asked.

Hermione didn’t bother asking what he was talking about; they all knew.

“I found out the truth in order to have as much ammunition as possible, and then I went to the Minister and Professor McGonagall to plead Draco’s case.”

“Ammunition?” Adam asked.

Hermione paused at their confusion. “Sorry, is that just a muggle term? It usually refers to bullets – like weapon refills – for muggle guns, but it’s often used to mean having enough facts or proof to support an argument.”

“Ah, so like, your words are a weapon?” Sean nodded.

“Kind of, but rather than intending to harm, they’re loaded with power.”

“But you’re saying the Minister for Magic listened to you?” Adam asked, brow furrowed in confusion. “Why?”

Hermione sighed. “Don’t tell anyone, but I know the Minister personally and he owed me a favour. I may have taken advantage of the connection, but what else could I do when the system is corrupt, and people won’t see past their own prejudices? When the entire world wants to prosecute a changed man for things he didn’t do just because of his past, I can’t sit there and let it happen. I once told you that nothing will ever change in the world when we are all making biased hateful assumptions about each other. This is why. It starts at school when we’re young, but these ideas in the hands of powerful adults is a dangerous thing. Draco Malfoy is not perfect, but he does not deserve that kind of treatment.”

They looked at her with grudging respect and introspection.

As they left, she overheard, “... I told you, she’s so bloody cool! She can do anything…” and she couldn’t help the warm glow in her heart.

When they left, the magic in the room felt positive. It wasn’t silence she felt, but the calm satisfaction of accomplishment.

Rather than going down to the Great Hall to face the cacophony of lunch and feelings, Hermione basked in the comforting solitude of her empty classroom.

She sat alone at the big wooden desk in the old wooden chair and observed the dusty light that shone in from the high windows. She took a deep calming breath.

She spent her lunch hour catching up on her lesson plans for the rest of the semester, and when two o’clock rolled around, she ignored her pounding heart and took out her Charms homework instead of going to Potions.

She tried not to think about Draco and how he was probably sitting at their shared workbench wondering where she was. She lost herself in her essay so that she would not think about how much she missed him.

She wasn’t skipping potions for him. She just couldn’t face Slughorn after trying to get him fired.

It had nothing whatsoever to do with avoiding Draco.

∞∞∞

The sun set and the hours passed, but Hermione remained in the Transfiguration classroom, getting ahead on her homework.

At seven o’clock, the heavy wooden door creaked open, and Hermione belatedly looked up to see the blond hair and black clothes of the sleek figure lounging against the doorframe. Draco had his arms crossed and was watching her with a contemplative expression.

She knew how she looked: frazzled and chaotic with frizzy hair. Transfigured and charmed paper birds flew around her like a hurricane. She’d gotten bored an hour ago and had played with altering some NEWT level transfiguration spells. She liked the effect as it was a visual representation of her turmoil within, but she hadn’t expected anyone to come looking for her and see her like this.

“Hiding from me, are you?” Draco asked, voice smooth and low.

“No,” she said, and cringed at how unconvincing she sounded.

He let out a snort of disbelief. “Sure, and you avoided the library, missed two meals today, skipped Potions entirely… for fun?” he said with a knowing look.

“How did you find me?” she asked begrudgingly, leaning back in her chair. She didn’t like not knowing what was real or not. She didn’t know how to act around him anymore.

He approached her desk and set down a paper bag. “You missed lunch and dinner. Eat.”

She stared at the bag, heart racing. He brought her food… It was a caring gesture and one that amplified the sting in her chest.

Her heart clenched as the unfair feeling reared its head. Her paper birds stopped in their tracks and faced him, threateningly.

She looked up at him angrily and stood up to face him head on. “You can’t just do what you did, and then come here and act all… normal!”

A look of contrition appeared on his face. “You’re angry.”

“No, I’m…,” she said with a huff, trying to settle her emotions. She could feel the birds become more agitated as they hovered above her.

He glanced at the birds with a raised brow.

“You are. You can be honest,” he said.

“Fine. You want honesty? Yes, I’m angry! I’m also hurt and embarrassed. You kept everything important from me. And you just left to go get arrested without even a hint about what was happening. You knew. You knew they were coming, and you just thought – I don’t know – but you left me without saying a word. If I hadn’t gone to the ministry, how long would you have been there? A year? A lifetime?”

He flinched.

“Two years, maybe,” he said, eyeing the paper birds vibrating around her. “Do it, Granger. Let them loose, hit me, scream at me, anything you want.”

She faltered. “Why? So you can feel better about it? If I hurt you back, will your guilt resolve itself?” she said resentfully.

“No,” he said slowly, walking around her desk, removing her last line of defence. “I want you to feel better. I want to fix this.”

He stopped in front of her, unconcerned as the flying birds resumed their hurricane. He snatched one out of the air in front of him. The force of it stabbed his palm and he hissed and opened his hand to a puncture wound pooling with blood.

At the sight, she flicked her wand and the paper birds disappeared.

The room was silent as she angrily took his hand in hers and healed it with the tip of her wand.

“I don’t want to hurt you, Draco. I just spent the last week in a panic worrying about you,” she scolded.

He turned his healed hand and took her wrist in his fingers. His eyes sought hers, desperately. He looked wretched as he ran his other hand through his hair. His expression was sombre, serious, his sharp jaw set, silver eyes in shadow. “I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry. I saw your face when they took me, and I knew how badly I fucked up. I knew they were coming; I just couldn’t stand the thought of seeing you disappointed in me. I thought you’d be okay. That you’d be strong enough to handle it.”

She knew her eyes were shining with unshed tears, and she begged them not to fall. “Strong enough to be discarded by yet another person in my life?”

He looked like he’d been slapped. He stepped back and closed his eyes and covered them with a hand. “Fuck.”

“I just feel so stupid because we had so much fun, and the fun eclipsed the fact that you never told me anything about yourself. You’ve kept me at a distance, which is probably my own fault because I’ve been agonising over what this thing was between us for weeks and never asked.”

“Is.”

“What?”

“You’ve been agonising over what this thing is between us. It’s not fucking over, Granger,” he said, almost desperately.

“I don’t even know what you want,” she said weakly. “You’ve never said. And I can’t tell what was real between the lies of omission.”

“All of it is real. I know I fucked up. I hurt you and I'm so sorry for it.” His eyes scanned her face. “I never said what I wanted because I will literally take anything you give me. You’ve always had all the power here.”

She shook her head.

“It's all or nothing for me, Draco. If you want me, then I need honesty like that tattoo you have.” She tapped him in the ribs – a bad idea because feeling him was too much, too intimate. “You either tell me everything, the good and the bad, or nothing. I deserve someone who trusts me enough to let me know that he is having a hard time and that he’d be off to prison in the morning! I deserve that much respect at least. I won’t accept less, because… because I am already way more attached than I ever should have been.”

“Granger –” he stepped into her, eyes pleading, but she took a step back.

She looked up into silver whirlpools. She could get sucked in if she wasn't careful.

She took a deep breath and finally voiced her biggest fear. “Luna told me you’d have to marry a pureblood as the Malfoy heir, and doing otherwise could get you disowned. Is it true?”

His jaw slackened and he looked at her in shock. Then his face shut down.

“Was she right?”

He hesitated before speaking. “There are… traditions, but there’s no saying what my parents would do.”

Her heart dropped, and the room spun. She needed air.

“Right,” she said. “I guess that’s it, then.”

She shook her head and turned robotically to pack up her books. She hefted her bag on her shoulder, needing to get out. She hesitated for a second, and then grabbed the paper bag on the way out the door. “Thank you for the food,” she whispered.

She chanced a glance back at Draco, and immediately wished she hadn’t. His shoulders were slumped, and he looked as broken as she felt.

She swallowed and continued out the door.

∞∞∞

Hermione spent all weekend avoiding Draco. She sat with her back facing the Slytherin table at mealtimes for fear of crying if she saw him.

She felt his eyes on her regardless.

At dinner on Sunday, Ginny sat down and slapped Hermione’s paperback copy of Lord of Scoundrels on the table.

“I finished it,” she declared.

“What did you think?” Hermione asked, warily watching Ginny’s eyes narrow in a knowing look.

“I think I understand why you wanted me to read it. Sebastian grew up a horrible knobhead because of his upbringing, but he wasn’t bad at his core. Sounds like another arsehole we both know. She brought out the good side of Sebastian, just like you've done to Malfoy.”

“You asked to read it,” Hermione said with a chuckle.

“Oh. Right.”

The confused frown on Ginny’s face made her giggle.

She shook her head. “I didn’t do anything though. Draco changed on his own.”

“So why are you avoiding him? He looks like someone died.”

She turned and blinked in surprise when she found him. He was surrounded by six students at the Slytherin table: Sean, Adam, Hope, Chase, Veronica, and Ava. Hope was showing something to Veronica. Adam and Chase were chatting. Ava was nudging Sean, who was ignoring her in favour of saying something to Draco, who looked guarded, sad, and annoyed. He said something back to Sean and then looked directly up at her.

God, she missed him.

∞∞∞

The week went by slowly, and by Tuesday, Ginny, and Luna, concerned, had dragged her to the library. Ava found her right away, this time with Veronica and Hope. All three girls joined her table to do their homework, and Ava helped Hermione research.

When Draco entered, he stopped in the doorway for a full minute as he took in their full table. He took a seat a few tables over.

She could hardly concentrate, knowing he was there.

One glance showed her that he was working on her research project, and her heart pined.

∞∞∞

On Wednesday, she got a letter from McGonagall at breakfast.

Dear Hermione,

I must once again apologise for what has happened at Hogwarts in my absence.

I have come to the decision to accept your proposal. Come January, you will continue to teach the first-year transfiguration classes in exchange for becoming Mr. Malfoy’s handler. If you would like to lessen your course load and take some NEWTS over the holidays, I would also like to extend the option of covering more years as well, for more pay of course. This would also come with the perks of being a professor at Hogwarts: an office, private onsite sleeping arrangements, access to floo, and of course the freedom to come and go as needed. Do let me know.

I understand that your relationship with Mr Malfoy is of a personal nature, but I trust that you will not overlook any dangerous or suspicious behaviour and promptly report anything you deem as breaking his probation. You have always held a keen sense of justice and fairness, so I do believe you are best suited to the job, given the circumstances.

As for what will happen to Horace Slughorn, he will remain on as the Potions professor until the holidays, and then other arrangements shall be made. I have taken everything you've told me into consideration.

Sincerely,

Minerva McGonagall

∞∞∞

On Friday morning, she went early to her Slytherdor class and sat on the desk, picturing herself as a full-time professor.

Two months ago, she would have never imagined it, but now? She could see it. There were good days, and bad, but seeing a change in her students was rewarding in itself, and she really did love being surrounded by the nature of the highlands.

She decided she would take McGonagall up on her offer. She could probably knock out her Transfiguration, Potions, Defence Against the Dark Arts, and Charms NEWTS over the holidays. It would lighten up her schedule a lot.

Five minutes before the bell, students started trickling in, but then the bell rang, and two students were missing.

Hermione bit her lip.

“Where are Sean and Ava?”

“They were fighting in charms,” Hope told her.

Hermione started class with a review of their last lesson. Ten minutes in, the door opened, and an annoyed Ava walked in, followed by a scowling Sean.

“Sorry we’re late, Professor,” Ava said, settling in and reaching in her bag to extract her book.

Ava glared at Sean, until he rolled his eyes and said, “Sorry, Ms. G.”

“That's alright. Let's get started.”

Hermione set them to work on transfiguring the density and material of a clock.

Sean was being particularly annoying.

He was tossing his clock in the air, then smashed it by ‘accident’ and started sending paper airplanes flying at everyone. He took Ava’s clock and dropped it, claiming to check the quality of rubber.

Everyone seemed to be a bit on edge, and Hermione counted the minutes until the bell rang.

At the end of class, she called Sean over.

He trudged over to her desk looking sullen and moody.

“How was your behaviour in class today?”

He shrugged, looking sullenly at the ground.

“Do you think you were being respectful of your classmates and the classroom materials?”

He shook his head.

“What do you think you can do differently next time?”

He shrugged.

Hermione sighed. “So, here’s the thing,” she said carefully. “You showed up late bickering with Ava, you spent the class throwing paper at all the Gryffindors, you broke your clock carelessly, and Ava’s on purpose. I think this earns a detention, don’t you?”

Sean nodded.

“Today at four-thirty, after your afternoon classes. Meet me in front of the library. You’re dismissed.”

∞∞∞

Hermione was too emotional to see Draco, and still too angry to face Slughorn, so she skipped Potions again and spent the time reading up on NEWT level potions in the library.

At four-thirty, she packed up her books and exited to find Sean waiting sullenly across from the library door.

The halls were busy with students coming out of their last classes, and the library was filling up in the last hour before dinner with students wanting to get their homework out of the way.

Sean looked up at her, clearly still in a mood.

“Let’s go,” she said, before walking off towards the west staircases. Sean followed after her.

“Where are we going?”

“You’ll see.”

She took him down a few floors and took him through the maze of hallways until she was in front of the painting of a bowl of fruit.

“Do you know where we are?” She asked Sean.

He shook his head with a confused shrug.

“This place is a secret,” she said. “Don’t go telling everyone, got it?”

“...Okay,” he said, brow furrowed in confusion.

Hermione turned and tickled the pear. It giggled and the painting opened up into a door.

“Holy shit!” Sean whispered as they stepped inside. She turned to see his eyes widen in amazement as he looked around at the large room and the house-elves preparing dinner.

Hermione sat down at an empty table just as Nixie, a sweet friendly house elf, appeared in front of her. She had been Dobby’s friend and was always eager to assist Hermione.

“Hermione Granger is here! How can Nixie help you today?”

“Hi Nixie, lovely to see you! I was wondering if we could get some of that delicious Apple Crumble of yours if you have any? And some hot chocolate, please.”

“Of course! Anything for Hermione Granger!”

When Nixie was gone, Hermione turned to Sean, who was still looking around in awe.

“Sit down, Sean.”

“Are we in the Hogwarts Kitchens?” he asked incredulously, taking a slow seat at the long wooden table.

“Yes.”

“Why?” he asked, confusion written all over his face. “I thought this was detention.”

“It is detention,” she said with a half-smile. “Isn’t it punishment enough to spend time with a teacher?”

Sean let out a strangled laugh, like he didn’t know how to react.

Nixie brought two mugs of hot chocolate and two plates of crumble.

Hermione thanked her and pushed a mug towards Sean. “Now, tell me what’s going on with you.”

Sean’s face shut down as he realised what she was asking. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Something is bothering you,” she said with a knowing look. “You’re angry and frustrated and taking it out on people that have nothing to do with it if I had to guess. Maybe I can help.”

He took a long sip of hot chocolate, which did nothing to sweeten the stony expression on his face. He looked much too serious for an eleven-year-old, his age illuminated by the hot chocolate at the corners of his mouth. After a minute, he spoke, looking into his cup. “You can’t.”

Hermione tilted her head. “What makes you think that?”

“Because!” He wiped at his mouth. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me.”

Sean glared at the table in front of him. “It’s my brother and my dad.”

“What did they do?”

“Michael – my brother, he’s in fourth year – he keeps calling me a pussy for not wearing my tie anymore, and for being friends with Ava since she’s a Gryffindor. Him and his friends keep saying things in the hallways.”

She pursed her lips at the language.

“And your dad?”

Sean hesitated, looking up at her. “My dad’s a… not a nice wizard. He expects me to follow in his footsteps and be a ‘perfect Slytherin.’ like Michael.”

“And what does he mean by that?”

“He wants me to only have friends in my own house, and not talk to muggleborns, use my influence to get what I want, you know.”

“Ah.”

“See?” Sean said bitterly. “You can’t help. There’s nothing you can do.”

Hermione studied Sean. This poor eleven-year-old child had the weight of expectation on him, just like Draco had.

“Do you remember the story about the unicorn?”

He nodded.

“If you don’t agree with your family, you are allowed to choose your own path. It might not be easy, and you might feel like you’re alone, but you’re not. I’m on your side. So are your friends. I don’t know your brother, but I’ll tell you this: I saw McGonagall on Monday, and she told me that she’s decided to make a neutral uniform for after Christmas.”

His eyebrows rose in surprise.

“Things are changing here at Hogwarts, all because of you guys. Soon enough your brother will be wearing the same and won’t be able to say anything. He’ll be the one in the minority.”

“Really?” He looked shocked.

“Change happens when enough people make a stand. You did that. You should be proud of yourself for being part of it.”

“You started it.”

“Psh,” she scoffed. “I just lost my temper with you guys. You were the ones who made it into something.”

He laughed.

“I’m afraid I can’t give much advice about your dad, but you know who might be able to?”

“Who?”

“Draco Malfoy.”

Sean stared at her.

“He grew up under the negative influence of his family and it took him a lot longer than you to get out of it. You should talk to him about it.”

Sean looked thoughtful as he ate his apple crumble. After a minute, he sighed. “I snapped at Ava,” he said suddenly. “She was there when Michael’s friends were bugging me, so I said mean things to her.”

“Well, you know how to fix that, don’t you?”

“How?”

“Apologise. She’ll forgive you.”

“Will you forgive Malfoy?”

Hermione blinked. “What do you mean?”

Sean rolled his eyes. “It’s so obvious, Ms. G. He’s always watching you, looking like a lost puppy. I asked him why yesterday, and he said he fucked up and you were mad at him.”

“Don’t curse.”

“But you’ll forgive him, right? You’re always saying he’s a good person.”

“Maybe,” she said, more to appease Sean than anything else, but the word stirred something inside of her.

∞∞∞

On Saturday night, Hermione was cozied up in a soft armchair by the fire in the common room. A book lay abandoned on her lap as she stared into the flames.

The flickering fire should have been a calming, hypnotising thing, but as she stared, she only saw the fire eating away at the mountains of abandoned trinkets in the Room of Requirement. She felt the heat of the flames as they threatened to burn her skin. Her heart began to race with the adrenaline of that day, with the look of fear on Draco and Goyle’s faces when they had swooped back to save them. The red of the embers in the fireplace mocked her with the image of Crabbe’s body as he fell victim to his own curse.

She forced herself to close her eyes, but the memories only burned brighter.

The look on Draco’s face was burned in her memories. He’d been different then: desperate, panicked. He’d worn a hard mask to hide it, but she’d still seen it.

When the war ended, Draco had begun to let down his mask, and Hermione really liked who she saw underneath. She almost wanted to give in and just say, fuck it, enjoy the moment, don’t worry about the future, but she knew she couldn’t. If he really couldn’t be with a muggleborn, then she wouldn’t put herself in that position. Every interaction would be tainted with thoughts of blood supremacy.

She pulled out the handkerchief from her pocket and looked at the grey silk. It had all started that day in the carriage. He’d been there from the beginning to give her comfort. He’d been everything she needed this year, with his stories, his attention, his praises, his humour.

Life in the aftermath of war was not easy. They were all dealing with their own traumas, coping in different ways, and trying to find their places in a tumultuous world. Some, like the Weasleys, were getting accustomed to life without their loved ones. Others, like Harry, were off in the world trying to do their best to keep it a better place. Some, like Hermione, were floundering, trying to figure out what to do next.

Maybe Draco was meant to be there to help her through that transition. She could still appreciate the good things he’d done for her.

But still, she mourned the loss of what could have been.

The sound of a body landed in the chair next to her, and Hermione looked up to see Ginny watching her, a look of concern on her face.

“Are you okay?” Ginny asked. “You look a little… haunted.”

Hermione rubbed her eyes. “You could say that. I was just remembering some unpleasant things.”

Ginny nodded in sympathy. “I’m not sure if this will help or not, but Malfoy is outside. He asked for you.”

Hermione’s reaction was visceral: her pulse sped up, and her chest clenched in a painful – slightly hopeful – way.

She glanced up at the clock. “It’s nearly ten. Did he say what he wanted?”

It was a dumb question, and she knew it the moment it left her lips. Ginny clearly thought the same by the unimpressed look on her face.

“He wants you, obviously,” Ginny said. “Go talk to him.”

Heart pounding nervously, she stood up and stepped into her slippers – the warm, fuzzy kind, with rubber soles to protect from the cold floors.

She lowered her head and stepped out through the portrait hole.

The hallway was empty, save for Draco, who was leaning against the stone wall with his arms crossed. His blond hair was relaxed over his forehead, but she could still see the notch between his brows. As he looked up and locked his magnetic gaze on her, the notch disappeared, and an indecipherable expression replaced it.

She stopped a few feet away and crossed her arms over her stomach.

“You came,” he said, searching her eyes.

She said nothing, not trusting her voice.

He pushed away from the wall and stepped closer to her. “Come with me,” he said, voice low and silky. “Please,” he added with a touch of hesitation.

“Where?”

“Outside. I want to show you something.” Draco’s eyes were liquid silver as they searched hers.

She looked down at her pyjamas and slippers.

“You're fine like that. It's just us.”

Just us. He said it like they were still an us, like they ever were.

“You shouldn't be breaking the rules again Draco,” she muttered softly, hugging her elbows tighter.

The corner of his lip rose slightly. “You're my probation handler now aren't you? You'd be with me.”

So, he'd heard. She searched the silver and onyx of his eyes for a hint of what he was thinking. In the silence between them, she could hear only his breathing, and see only the rise and fall of his chest as he waited for her answer.

“Alright.”

Relief flashed over his face, and then he motioned her to follow him, and started down the stairs.

The castle hallways were dark, with only the sound of their footsteps echoing through the night and the occasional groan of metal from the suits of armour as they passed. Draco stopped in front of the Statue of the Minotaur on the second floor.

Her cheeks flushed hot as she remembered their flirty banter from that day in the library.

“What props get you off then? Those muggle ones?”

She stared at him, exasperated.

Frustrated at herself for letting him affect her so much, and determined to leave him flustered for a change, Hermione leaned in conspiratorially and whispered, “Will you leave me alone if I tell you?”

“Tell me,” he commanded with a playful grin.

“The horns on the Statue of the Minotaur,” she whispered dramatically.

His jaw slackened and he froze. His eyes flickered down her body, and she realised in absolute horror that he was trying to picture it.

That day had been the start of it all. Images flashed in her mind: Draco unbuttoning his shirt to reveal his tattoos for the first time; their almost kiss before she left for dinner; sitting on him, topless and breathless, as they devoured each other for the first time; his eyes looking up at her from between her legs as she came in the most intense orgasm of her life; the way he so gently kissed the scar on her arm afterwards.

Draco cleared his throat, and she looked over at him. He glanced up at the statue and gave her a knowing smirk before disappearing through a doorway that hadn’t been there a minute ago.

Hermione flushed and followed him in. The door shut behind her, leaving them in darkness.

A strong steady hand found her forearm and lightly trailed down to her wrist. He traced the skin there for a moment before sliding his fingers between hers. Her chest ached at the contact, and she contemplated pulling away, but he held on tight and pulled her through the dark, dusty tunnel.

After ten minutes, they arrived at a dead end. Draco tapped the wall with his wand three times and the stone rumbled, opening with a gust of fresh air.

They emerged onto a cliff overlooking the lake. The stars were out, sharp and bright, and the air was brisk.

Hermione shivered, running her hands up and down her arms for warmth.

Draco noticed and shrugged off his cloak to drape it over her shoulders. It was too big on her, but it was warm and comfortable.

She pulled her arms through the sleeves with a light, “Thanks.”

The cliff was a narrow landing that dropped off into the lake below. Panic flared within her as she looked down, and she inched closer to the wall behind her. Draco picked up a broom that had been lying on the ledge – his, she realised – and expertly hopped on. He turned and stopped in front of her.

“Get on,” he said, nodding behind him.

“I’m… not really a fan of flying,” she admitted weakly. It reminded her of Fiendfyre, horcruxes, Death Eaters, and dragons. Leisurely flying was not on her list of fun activities.

Draco looked at her curiously, but he didn’t pry. “Hop on in front, then, I’ll hold you.”

When she hesitated, he pointed towards the lake. “Can you see that big rock over there? You probably can't since it's dark, but it’s just the other side of the lake there. That’s our destination. I’ll go slow, I promise.”

Taking a deep breath, she nodded, and he lowered the broom and leaned back so she could lift a leg over.

Feet still on the ground, she gripped the handle tightly with both hands and shut her eyes to the memories. Draco’s front came flush with her back as he leaned forward to grab the broom with his right hand. His left arm wrapped snugly around her stomach, holding her against him, and then suddenly they were in the air. His feet hooked around her ankles, securing her, and then he took off slowly.

The chilly air whipped at her face and hair as they flew over the lake, and Draco’s chin rested on her right shoulder. She questioned whether he could see past her hair, but his grip on her remained tight, so he must have been able to. He flew as promised, slowly and steadily around the lake, and landed on a large boulder. It was maybe three metres tall, twice as wide, and flat on top.

Draco got off first and held her waist as she disembarked. As he put the broom aside, she turned to look at the lake and gasped at the view.

The castle loomed beyond the cliff across the lake. A crescent moon had risen just above the Forbidden Forest to the right, illuminating the scene. The sky above was an ocean of stars, clear and shining in the night, and reflected in the wide expanse of the calm lake below. A light streaked through the water, and Hermione looked up in time to see another one amongst the stars, flaring bright before dropping to nothing.

“There’s a meteor shower tonight,” Draco said. “The Geminids.”

She felt his warmth again as he approached behind her.

“This is incredible,” Hermione breathed, as she scanned the sky for more meteors. “How did you find this place?”

“Flying around after hours,” he said. “I discovered it in sixth year. I often come here alone when I need to get away from everything.”

Her heart twinged as she realised what he wasn’t saying: he was sharing a part of himself with her.

She turned to look back at him, but he stopped her and wrapped his arms around her shoulders from behind. She felt his chest muscles flex against her.

“Keep watching the sky and just listen, please.” The slight pleading quality to his tone made her freeze.

Her heart raced at being in his arms again. Hugging him during their morning breaks had become her favourite part of her day, and she’d missed it.

“I'm sorry,” Draco said. “For everything. I'm sorry for ever calling you that awful word, for ever saying inexcusable things meant to demean you, and for the way I treated you since we met in first year. I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you from my aunt. That I wasn’t a better person. And I'm so sorry I went this whole year without explicitly saying those words to you.” She heard him swallow. “I should have said them in the carriage. Fuck, I should have said them after the final battle.”

A large meteor flew through the sky all the way from the zenith to the horizon above the castle, and Draco hugged her tighter. In the quiet of the night, she could hear the slight shaky quality to his breath, and she could feel his heartbeat, steady and fast.

“I spent three nights in Azkaban last week, and a month last June,” he continued, letting out a breath that she felt on the back of her curls. “If you've never been there, you can’t imagine the awful conditions. It's cold, humid, the guards are fucking abusive, there are no windows. A tiny fucking slab of a bed with a mildewy blanket and pillow. No medical care. If you get an infection, they’d probably let you die. But while I was there last week, I couldn’t think of any of that. I only thought of you, and how hurt you looked. And I’m so fucking sorry I was the one to inflict that pain on you. I was selfish. I just wanted to remember you laughing and smiling and being happy, because… I don’t have a lot of happy memories.” He said, sounding more vulnerable than she’d ever heard him. “I wanted my last moments of freedom to be with you. I don’t want you to feel like I discarded you, because that was not my intention at all. You deserved better and I’m sorry.”

Her hands came up to hold onto his forearms, whether to push him away, or hug him closer, she still wasn’t sure. His words had settled in her heart, simultaneously mending the sting, and making it ache. No matter what they both felt now, there was still the matter of the future to consider.

Draco shifted closer behind her, encouraged from her touch. “And,” he said with a low voice, “I’m not fucking giving up on us, because we’re too good together, Granger. I’m going to prove to you that you can trust me, and you’re going to give me a chance to make it up to you.”

“And how are you planning to do that?” she asked, squeezing his forearm.

His right hand slipped out of her grasp and reached down into her – his – cloak pocket, brushing his hand along her hip, and extracted a small crystal vial. He held it up in front of them.

She took it in her hands and held it up to the moon. The moonlight reflecting through the crystal looked clear, with the barest hint of rainbow, but she couldn’t tell if that was from the bottle or the liquid. It was hard to tell in the darkness. She uncorked it and took a whiff. There was no scent.

“What is this?” she asked, perplexed.

“Veritaserum.”

Shocked, she spun around in his arms to face him. His arms dropped.

“Draco Malfoy, you’re an absolute idiot.”

He was silent for a moment before the self-deprecating smirk graced his lips. “Not that I can particularly disagree right now, but do you care to elaborate?”

She held up the vial. “This is a prohibited substance! It’s illegal to use it on other people.”

His smirk turned amused. “Then it’s a good thing I’m only using it on myself, isn’t it?”

“You just got out of Azkaban. Have you no self-preservation?” Hermione said in a huff. How could he just be carrying around illegal things? Didn’t he know what it would do to her if he was caught?

Draco threw his head back and laughed.

He bloody laughed.

“Oh, Granger,” he said, chuckling. “I have a shameful abundance of self-preservation, except for when it comes to you.”

She gave him an exasperated sigh. “I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but –”

Before she could react, the vial was gone from her fingers, and he tilted his head back to put a few drops on his tongue.

Her jaw dropped. “I can’t – Why did you do that?”

Draco returned the bottle to her open hand and reached up to tuck a stray curl behind her ear with a sad grin.

“I've spent the last two and a half years repressing any kind of emotion, because emotions were a weakness, and I had to appear strong in order to… survive,” he said. “It’s not easy for me to trust people. Being open doesn’t come naturally to me, but I want to be open with you, and I need you to know I’m not lying about anything.” He paused to get his point across. “You wanted honesty,” he continued, looking between her eyes. “And I'm giving it to you in a way that you can never doubt. Ask me anything. And then you can decide whether or not you want to forgive me.”

Hermione swallowed thickly, shaken by the vulnerability of his confession. “Does it even work on you?” she asked. “Since you can occlude?”

“Occlusion is ultimately a stress response,” Draco explained. “It's only become second nature to me because I’ve occluded for years. But now that I've stopped doing it all the time, it's not actually that easy to control. If I were being interrogated, for example, I might be able to subvert some of the potion’s effects because my guard would be up. But with you, I feel comfortable, and I’m not trying to hide anything, so there’s nothing to stop the potion from working.”

“Even if I ask you about your deepest darkest secrets? Something embarrassing?”

His eyes flashed but didn’t waver. “That’s what I want you to do. The amount I took should last about an hour. Now’s your chance. Ask something – anything you’ve ever wondered about me – and let me fix this.”

“And if I don’t ask you anything on principle?”

He sighed and ran a hand through his hair, mussing it up. “Then I’ll take it that you’ve decided not to give me a chance. I’m not going to force you to listen to me if you really don’t want to.”

Oh boy. There was no lying to herself. Her heart vehemently protested the mere idea of not giving him a chance. She desperately wanted to give him the chance to make everything better. She wanted to believe he could.

With her heart pounding, she conjured another one of her beds in the centre of the rock, stepped out of her slippers and lay down on her back.

“Let's at least look at the stars while we talk,” she said, patting the bed beside her.

With one look at Draco’s dumbfounded expression, she amended, “And that was not a euphemism.”

“Fuck Granger, don’t you know the memories associated with this thing?”

She felt her face heat at the way he looked at her.

“Just sit down,” she muttered.

He did as he was told and stepped out of his shoes to lay down beside her. He stretched out languidly, and his arms went up behind his head,

God, why was she so nervous?

“How do I know it is working, the Veritaserum?” she asked.

“You could take a drop for yourself,” he said, and then his brow furrowed. “No. Damnit Granger. You don’t need to do that.”

He was either a good actor or the potion was working, but Hermione pressed on. “It’s the only way to be sure, isn't it?”

“Yes,” he said, looking annoyed.

The corner of her lip quivered at his sudden mood. The potion was clearly working, but the power imbalance made her uncomfortable, so she made a show of once again uncorking the vial and tilted it until a single drop landed on her tongue. She looked over at his annoyed expression, and said, “Ask me something.”

He rolled his eyes. “You couldn’t just let me do this, could you?”

“I could’ve, but it just seems fairer this way,” she admitted. “What do you want to know about me?”

A devious look flashed through his eyes as he looked over at her, tongue tracing his canine as he thought, and Hermione knew she would regret what was coming.

“Would you ever want to fuck a real ghost?”

“Yes.”

The word was out before she even registered that she’d said it. She squealed and slapped a hand on her mouth. “Only for academic purposes though. Draco!” she screeched. “How could you ask me that? Oh my god.”

A wide grin took over his face and his eyes shone with mirth. “I knew it, you kinky witch.”

“Agh.” She covered her face with her hands. “No! It’s just, I will usually try anything once, to settle my curiosity, but it’s not like it’s something I think about!”

“Is that so?” His eyes roved over her face as he took in her words. “Relax, Granger. Don’t you know by now that I will support all your kinks? In fact, if someone kills me. I promise to haunt you so we can fuck all the time. Though,” he paused, expression contemplative, “I’ll have to research how one becomes a poltergeist. I can annoy everyone else while I'm at it, and I could at least fuck you properly with something – maybe that ghost cock you already have, seems appropriate.”

God, what the heck was this conversation? She simultaneously wanted to throw herself into the lake out of mortification and bask in his approval.

“You wouldn’t get any pleasure from it though,” she said, eventually.

His smile was real and soft, and she almost smiled back at how normal it felt.

“Giving you pleasure is my greatest satisfaction,” he said. “If I could pleasure you forever, I could live with getting nothing else in return.”

Hermione almost rolled her eyes, but then she remembered that he had to be telling the truth, and she let out a shocked exhale.

“You'd be dead,” she scolded softly once she unstuck her throat.

“You could always join me as a ghost when you’re sick of being alive, and then we can finally figure out whether or not ghosts can fuck each other,” he said, watching her with a half-grin.

The mood was lighter between them, and it felt easy like before.

“You’re ridiculous,” she said, breathing a laugh. “I can’t believe you asked me that.”

“I’m not above asking you all sorts of embarrassing questions until you retaliate and start asking me things. For example,” he smirked. “Have you ever actually fucked or fantasized about fucking the Statue of the Minotaur?”

“No! To be honest, I had not considered the logistics of it when I made that comment to you. It doesn’t really seem doable. I just wanted to fluster you.”

“Well, you succeeded,” he said, looking much too pleased. “I would eagerly help though, if you ever wanted to try it once.”

“I bet you would,” she grumbled.

He laughed, and the sound made her smile. She tore her eyes away from him to look back up at the sky.

“Can I ask you something else? Not embarrassing,” Draco said after a while.

“Yes,” she said, hesitating.

“How did you get them to drop the charges and release me? McGonagall only told me that you made a good case and that I was now to answer to you.”

Hermione turned her head to look at him again, and he met her eyes.

“A fifth-year girl gave me a memory of you confronting Slughorn. I brought it to Kingsley and McGonagall and convinced them that they made a mistake by trusting Slughorn and arresting you. Kingsley owed me a favour, but I’m not sure how much of that played into it.”

“Kingsley… Shacklebolt? The Minister for Magic?” He looked at her curiously. “I didn’t know you were acquainted.”

“He was in the Order. We worked together a few times, so I got to know him a little bit. I flew on a thestral with him for a mission to get Harry. I saved his life that time, actually. We were in the air being attacked by four Death Eaters and he was hexed and almost thrown off.”

“You flew a thestral? Could you even see it?”

“No. Not then, anyway.”

“Fuck.” Draco looked at her carefully, and then looked back up at the sky. “No wonder you hate flying.”

“Yeah.”

“Fuck war. You shouldn’t have had to do any of that,” he said bitterly.

“I think we’ve both had to do a lot of things we shouldn’t have had to.”

She turned her gaze to the stars and they both looked up in silence. A splash sounded in the distance; it could have been the mermaids or the giant squid for all she knew. The stars twinkled, and her eyes sought out Draco – the constellation – just as a dim meteor slashed through it.

“How did you convince McGonagall to let you become my probation handler? She said you made a deal.”

“I offered to keep teaching for the rest of the school year in exchange for being the one to report on you instead of Slughorn, because then I could make the argument that I am a permanent teacher, not just a substitute, and should have that right. I think she knows I’m probably the only one not biased against you.”

Draco turned towards her and searched her eyes for a long minute. “How the fuck did I get lucky enough to have you on my side?”

Hermione raised an eyebrow at him. “I thought you didn't believe in luck?” she asked cheekily.

“I didn't,” he murmured. “But I certainly did nothing to deserve you.”

She didn’t know what to say to that, so she looked back up at the stars. She felt his gaze linger on her face.

“Your turn, Granger. Ask me something. Or I'll keep going,” he said, a challenge in his voice. “I've got plenty of embarrassing questions on reserve.”

She sent him a scathing look and took a moment to think.

“Fine. What's your most embarrassing sexual fantasy then?”

God, why did she ask that?

“I want you to dominate me. Punish me. Make me hurt and call me a good boy for it.” He blanched, and then a resigned look crossed his face. “That is not what I thought would come out of my mouth just now,” he said dryly.

Wow. An unexpected surge of desire went through her as her imagination went wild.

“Why is that embarrassing?” she asked, after a moment.

He grimaced. “Isn't it? I haven't had a lot of control in my life for a long time. I like to be in control. I need control. It's embarrassing that I have fantasies where I'm not.”

“I think it makes perfect sense. You'd be controlling the lack of control, so to speak, on your own terms.”

He looked thoughtful for a minute, and then the corner of his mouth pulled up into a teasing grin. “Do you want to dominate me, Granger?” he asked in that low husky tone of his.

She imagined the scenario, telling him what to do, torturing him to orgasm, and decided that yes, she did. She bit her lip at the thought and pressed cold hands to her hot cheeks.

“Maybe,” she admitted with a shy grin. “ I don’t know if I could hurt you, but I have no problem with calling you a good boy.”

His eyes turned dark and unwavering as they bore into hers. Silence rang in the air between them. “Cut that out or I'm going to kiss you before you ask what you really want to ask,” he murmured.

It was hard to tell in the darkness but by the look on his face, she would bet his cheeks were pink. He was right; she hadn’t asked any important questions. He’d made her feel comfortable again, joking with her and teasing without judgement, and she’d forgotten to keep her guard up.

They both knew what she wanted to ask though, and by the look in Draco’s eyes, he wanted her to ask it.

“Draco, are you doing all this because you want to be with me? Like in a relationship?”

“Yes.”

Her heart stuttered at his immediate response, and started up again, pounding loudly in her chest.

“Then is forever even a possibility for you? What I said in the classroom last time, about your family… I wouldn’t be able to handle a relationship if it had an expiration date.” She felt her face go hot and covered it with her hands again. “God, I'm so mortified to ask this. It's not like we ever even talked about a relationship, and here I am asking about forever.”

He was quiet for a moment.

“The expectation that I will marry a pureblood is there, that’s true. But the thing is, Granger, I don’t want to follow that tradition. I would marry you tomorrow if it would make you happy and I’d consider myself the luckiest man in the fucking universe.”

I would marry you tomorrow…

She blinked.

Had he really just said that?

Her breath left her as the words echoed in her mind.

“Really?” she breathed, looking back at him as the weight of the words fully registered.

“Yeah.”

Oh. My. God.

All her thoughts evaporated to dust.

Any time she’d imagined a future with him, she’d shut down her own thoughts because she’d known it would never happen. But here he was, saying it could. Her heart was pounding hard against her ribcage.

“Luckier than all the aliens?” she asked, and then cringed at her own joke.

He snorted and looked at her with amused affection. “Sure,” he muttered, and his lip pulled up into a half-smile, flashing his straight teeth. “Let me deal with my family issues, Granger. I'm innately selfish, and I will get what I want this time. Listening to my family has only ever gotten me in trouble, and if they disapprove, then fuck them.”

“But what if they disown you?”

“I don’t think that will happen, but if it ever does, then I’ll survive. The Malfoy name has been nothing but a curse for me anyway. I don’t need the Malfoy estate to survive, I have my own vaults from my grandfather Abraxas, and my share of the Black inheritance.”

A soft breeze blew over them as she listened, and she shivered. A moment later, Draco waved his wand, and a warmth surrounded them.

He was looking at her in that deeply serious way of his, like he cared what she thought, like he cared about her.

Tears welled up at the emotions inside of her. He reached out and brushed a tear away with his thumb but said nothing.

“Do you really not care about disappointing your parents?” she whispered.

“I care,” he said, then paused with a glare. “Fuck all. I care.” He sighed, frustrated. “Maybe I do care, but it's inconsequential. They’ve disappointed me more than a lifetime could fix. I realised how little they cared when I stood up against the Dark Lord doling out my father's punishment on my mother. He branded me the next fucking day to punish all of us, and my father still calls me a Death Eater like it was my fucking choice.”

“What about your mum?”

“She pretends like she cares, but if she really did, she would have done something to help instead of abandoning me to the fucking Death Eater army. But she never did or said anything. Thanks to her and father, I had to live with my worst nightmare for two years. I went to fucking Azkaban, and not once has either of them apologized or taken any responsibility for it,” Draco said, shaking his head bitterly as he lay back to look up at the sky. “She wants a happy fucking family now, but I can’t stand being in the same room as them anymore. I left the manor after I was released from Azkaban and didn't contact them all summer. I actually haven’t talked to anyone since before Azkaban, friends included. I was… scared of getting back into an old routine, of being the same person I was. I needed distance.”

His eyes searched the stars, but she could tell he wasn’t really looking.

“Do you miss them? Your friends?”

“Sometimes. But it's been so long, I doubt they’d even want to hear from me now.”

“I bet they would. They probably miss you too.”

Draco let out a heavy sigh.

Hermione turned on her side and moved closer to him until they were almost touching.

“Draco, I know I’m not the one who needs to say it, but I want you to know I’m proud of you for surviving what you did, and for becoming a better person after everything.”

His silver eyes were on her first, and then he was in her space, mirroring her position. His intoxicating scent surrounded her, and his face was so close that she could count his eyelashes, even in the dark.

“I don’t really know who I am now,” he said, sounding defeated.

She reached a hand up to brush the strands of white blond out of his eyes.

“I do,” she told him.

Draco propped himself on an arm and searched her eyes. When he found what he was looking for, he leaned down to press his lips to hers.

Hermione moaned at the contact. It felt like coming home, the taste of his lips, the warmth of his body, the intoxicating scent that always surrounded him – the scent of not only fresh apples and wood and smoke, but also him.

His warm lips moved gently over hers, and she could feel his restraint in the way he held himself over her, in the gentle brush of his lips. She brought a hand up to his face and threaded her fingers into his hair, pulling him closer. A hand trailed down to her hip as he relaxed against her. His tongue dipped past her lips, and pleasure washed through her. She tangled her tongue with his, tasting him, savouring the feel of him, and pulled his body closer.

God, she wanted him again. She wanted to feel his hot skin against hers, to feel his muscles and trail her fingers over his beautiful tattoos again.

He pulled back and leaned his forehead against hers.

“I missed that so fucking much,” he breathed with his eyes closed. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

“I told McGonagall you should be allowed to take your NEWTS now and replace Slughorn as the Potion’s professor, but I don’t know if she took that seriously or not,” Hermione said, and then blinked in confusion. “Shoot. I didn’t mean to say that.”

He pulled back and looked at her, disoriented. “What the fuck?”

“I’m not sorry,” she mumbled guiltily, also the opposite of what she meant to say. “You'd be a great teacher.” She sighed, frustrated. “Goddamn, how long does this potion last?”

“Lightweight,” he said with a light smirk. He looked extremely sexy with swollen lips, mussed hair, and a confused and amused look in his eyes as he thought about what she said. “Parents wouldn’t want me teaching their kids. And no one would listen to a former Death Eater,” he whispered, and brushed a curl out of her face.

“They didn’t want me to teach their kids either,” she said. “It would give you a chance for more people to see and like the real you. Start small and build a reputation for yourself. The first years already like you. That fifth year Melissa does too. And you know I like you.”

He pulled her closer by the waist and captured her lips again.

“What are you thinking?” she asked, breathlessly between kisses.

He trailed his lips down to the side of her neck. “I’m thinking how kissing you is so fucking addictive that I don’t want to stop,” he said, peppering kisses below her jaw.

“I’m thinking how much I missed you these past few weeks,” he whispered in her ear, “and how much I hated not being able to touch you or talk to you every day.”

He leaned his forehead on her neck for a few breaths.

“I’m also wondering if you've forgiven me. You have, right? Because if not you should probably stop letting me kiss you, otherwise I’ll get the wrong idea.”

He pulled back to look into her eyes. When she nodded, a smile took over his face.

“Good,” he leaned back and looked up at the stars. “I’m also wondering how you manage to look so sexy in your ridiculous sleepwear.” He looked over at her with a playful smirk.

“Excuse me, these pyjamas are extremely cute and comfortable.”

“You're covered in weird little characters,” he said pointedly.

“Exactly. They’re called The Powerpuff Girls and they’re cute.”

“Mm… I think it's more like they're so hideous, I instinctively want to take them off.”

Hermione laughed and admired the wide grin on his face before narrowing her eyes in suspicion. “Is the potion still working on you?”

“No,” he said smugly, and held his arm out in invitation. She snuggled in next to him and looked up at the stars.

There was something about stargazing that made the rest of the world seem insignificant.

A bright light glided smoothly across the sky, fading into nothing and Hermione gasped.

“Did you know that ancient wizards used to believe there were gods up there having a duel?”

“No,” she said with a bright laugh. “But it’s pretty comparable to what muggles believed. They thought it was the gods throwing stones.”

He huffed a laugh at that and leaned his cheek against her head. “Not so different after all, hm?”

“Not so different,” she agreed, relaxing into him with a peaceful sigh.

“Before the Statute of Secrecy, wizards openly learned about muggle science,” he said softly near her ear. “Did you know that?”

She shook her head.

“Magic has limitations, so wizardkind relied on Muggle astronomers’ knowledge of the universe and their development of telescopes,” he said. His voice washed over her like a healing balm and Hermione felt all the stress and tension drain right out of her.

A soft feeling of pleasure trickled from the crown of her head down through her body. The soft bed and pillows, warmed by Draco’s charm, created the perfect pod of comfort as she relaxed and listened to his calming voice.

“Magical folk claim superiority over muggles, but muggles by far outdid them in knowledge of the universe. I grew up thinking that the telescopes we used in Astronomy were a wizarding invention. It was a shock when I learned that we could see so far due to muggle optical science,” he chuckled dryly, and his fingers trailed along her arm. “What a fucking joke, right? Muggle science and technology is incredibly advanced, yet purebloods nowadays like to pretend it doesn’t exist, and that muggles are lesser than, when in fact their innovations have been far more impressive throughout history.”

Hermione had not expected that Draco Malfoy going on about the genius of muggle innovations would turn her on as much as it did, but it sent a rush of desire straight to her core.

She ached to be closer to him, so she turned onto her side and tangled her leg between his. His face was so close, and he easily leaned in to meet hers, pulling her in with a kiss.

“There’s something to be said against relying on spells to do everything. It makes people lazy and inhibits creativity,” he said against her lips, breathing hard. He pulled her in by the waist, and his hand trailed up under her pyjama top to the skin of her lower back. A satisfied hum left her throat, and she fisted his hair to pull him closer.

He smirked against her lips. “Is this conversation turning you on, Granger?”

“Yes,” she said, and opened her neck to him as his lips trailed down. “Most wizards have no idea how some muggle inventions are superior to wizarding ones. Did you know muggles have calling devices called cell phones?” she asked breathlessly as his tongue worked at her pulse. “You can take them everywhere and input a number to connect with another phone so you can hear the voice of the person you want to talk to when they’re far away. Witches and wizards have to wait d–,” she hitched a breath, “days for a response by owl. Or floo and talk in person. Much less convenie – ah,” she moaned as he nipped at her neck and trailed a hand down her side and over her thigh.

He pulled her leg over his hip until she was half lying on top of him. She swallowed a moan at the change of position as his cock pushed against her clit, sending a shot of desire through her.

His lips returned to hers and he sucked her bottom lip between his before releasing it. “Do you have one of those? A cell phone?” he breathed.

Hermione shook her head, running a hand through his hair to grasp at the back and bring him back in for a deep lingering kiss, as she moved her hips against his. Her clit found the pressure it needed, and she gasped. “No, they’re monetized. Subscription based. You have to pay to keep it working, but I'm not in the muggle world enough anymore. Maybe in the future,” she rambled mindlessly.

All she could think about was how amazing it felt to have him like this again, to have these conversations and feel him between her legs.

With a sudden vigour, Draco pushed himself up and over her. He settled heavy between her legs and rested on his forearms to look at her.

“Let’s go to London in the summer and get a pair. And you can meet my muggle friends,” he said, looking down at her with heavy-lidded eyes.

“Do you want them to meet me?” she asked, surprised.

He nodded, eyes dark with desire.

“Then I’d love to,” she whispered, utterly seduced by the promise of future plans and by the way he was looking at her.

“Hermione,” he said, bringing one hand up to brush the hair off of her forehead. His brow creased and his eyes searched hers. “If the Veritaserum was still working, I’d be telling you how much I want you right now. Can you feel that?” He asked and ground his cock against her, and she moaned at the wave of pleasure it gave her. “I’d also be telling you how I know I shouldn’t go too fast for fear of ruining this again, but that I really fucking want to, because I missed you so much these past two weeks. So. Fucking. Much.”

His hoarse whisper, full of desire, gave her goosebumps. He dipped his head and trailed his lips along her cheek to whisper in her ear. “Tell me what you want, my little rebel. Sex? Cuddling? It's your choice.”

His lips brushed her ear, and she hitched a breath.

“Both,” she whispered back, trailing her nails up under his shirt. “I want both. I missed you too, and I want – I want to feel you.”

“Good,” he said into her neck, pressing light kisses below her ear.

Her nails trailed up under his sweatshirt and pulled it up as she went. Draco pushed himself up by his arms and let her pull it over his shoulders and then tossed it aside. She looked at his tattoos, all but colourless in the dark, and ran her hands down his biceps, tracing the lines of his tattoos. Draco let her, breathing heavily as he took in her reactions. Her hands trailed up to his inked shoulders and down his chest. She brushed her fingertips over his nipples and felt his cock twitch against her. She continued down to his abdomen, admiring the sculpted muscles. The Latin tattoo wasn’t easily visible in the low lighting, but she lay her palm flat over it, suddenly overwhelmed that he had listened, that he had opened up to her.

Draco took that moment to lean down and press his lips to hers in a slow, gentle kiss.

His hands worked up under her shirt, pulling it up and over her tits. She lifted her arms and pulled off the rest herself. The warming charm kept out the cold, but not the wind as it blew over them. Hermione hitched a breath as her skin reacted in goosebumps and her nipples tightened.

Draco’s lips found her neck and a hand crept up to thumb her nipple, circling it lightly. His hips rocked against hers.

She wanted to be closer, to feel him in his entirety, to be rid of this last barrier between them.

“Clothes off,” she ordered.

He chuckled at her tone and nipped at her neck playfully, eliciting a sharp gasp, before reaching down to push down his bottoms and kick them off. She did the same.

And then he was on her again, hot naked skin finally flush against hers, and it was at once comforting and arousing. She raised her knees and pulled him closer.

He moved the hard length of him along her slit and they moaned in unison at the contact.

“Fuck, you’re so wet already. Can I…?” He trailed off groaning as he slid against her. “I need…”

“Yes,” she moaned.

He reached down between them to line himself up and rub the head of his cock against her opening.

Blonde hair hung down over his forehead to just barely brush hers, and his grey eyes, cloudy and dark with pleasure, looked between them as he slid his cock in and very slowly filled her up. When she was full, he scanned her eyes for a long moment, and then leaned down and met her lips once more. His kiss was hot and wet, and his tongue delved deep as he began to move.

He swallowed her moans and slowly rocked into her, savouring the moment, as though he wanted it to last forever. She felt the same.

She trailed her hands over his back, feeling the strong muscles as he moved, pulling him closer.

His lips trailed once more to the crook of her neck. His kisses sent shivers down her body straight to her core, amplifying every sensation, filling her body with growing pleasure at every gentle thrust.

The blanket was soft beneath her, his body hot and hard on top of her. His cock filled her, stretched her, every movement sending waves of pleasure through her.

Between their heavy breaths and swallowed moans, she could hear the rustling of trees and the sounds of the lake. An owl hooted in the far distance, and a light breeze blew against her bare skin, tempered by the warming charm, reminding her that they were outside.

She opened her eyes to the sea of stars that spread out above them, and a sense of euphoric pleasure overwhelmed her. The universe was majestic, sublime, and made her worries seem insignificant. Though her emotions were still raw, she felt safe and happy in Draco’s arms; she felt open and vulnerable, and deeply connected with him; and she felt wonder at the fact that they'd found each other in this vast universe.

A tiny part of her still insisted she keep her heart guarded, but the whole universe above told her to trust him, to let him in, and to let go, because it felt amazing.

You’re fucking amazing.

The words played on repeat in her mind as he made love to her until she came apart under the stars.

∞∞∞

Hermione woke up to the sound of birds and the calm blue glow of dawn. The air was cold. Draco’s warming charm seemed to have lost some of its strength.

Draco was pressed into her from behind. His arm was draped over her stomach, and his hand had crawled up under her pyjama top to rest on her ribcage. His breath, calm and steady in his sleep, tickled the back of her head.

Huuuuuu Aaaaah.

Hermione jumped at the loud haunting call and felt Draco jolt awake behind her. His grip on her tightened for a second before he abruptly sat up, wand pointed straight out and a hard expression on his face.

She followed and stared in shock at the large bird on the rock a few feet away from where they lay. A magnificent bird with shiny greenish black plumage was staring back at them with a cocked head. It made quite the picture with the lake and castle backdrop.

What was it with birds waking her up?

Huuuuuuu Aaaaaah Ooooooo.

The haunting song gave her the chills. She looked over at Draco, and noticed his hand was shaking, and his hard expression turned to confusion. He blinked as though trying to assess what he was seeing.

She placed a hand on his wand arm and lowered it. “It’s okay, it’s just an augury.”

Huuuuuuu Ooooooo.

He ran a hand over his face and loosened his grip on his wand. “The bloody thing is lucky it's still alive.”

He glared at the bird, and she almost giggled at his petulant expression.

“Isn’t it bad luck or something to harm one?” she asked with a yawn, stretching her arms up towards the sky to get rid of the morning stiffness. “In fact, aren’t they considered a bad omen?”

Draco glanced appreciatively down at the bare skin that was showing at her stomach. He took a breath and the tension seemed to relax out of his body. “It’s just a myth. Auguries are not actually a bad omen. They just sing when rain is coming.”

Hermione looked around. The sky above them was still clear, with the last dwindling stars disappearing in the dawn light, but clouds were gathering along the horizon.

“Really?” Hermione frowned. “Well, I suppose I only ever heard about them in Divination, which was a load of crock anyway, so I shouldn’t be surprised.”

She made a mental note to grab a comprehensive book on magical creatures. It's too bad she had never done extra work on the subject, but it had been of less importance to her than other subjects. And Ron and Harry would've gotten mad if she had told them Hagrid’s teaching wasn’t enough.

Draco chuckled. “Ah yes, Hermione Granger walking out of Divination class in third year was quite the scandal. The gossip was fascinating. I heard everything from Granger tried to duel Trelawney in class and lost, to Trelawney predicted her death so she ran away in fear. What was the real story?”

She rolled her eyes. “Hardly as interesting. She said I had no talent in the subject, so I walked out.”

He laughed. “Merlin forbid you're bad at something.”

The augury flapped its wings, took off over the lake, and flew towards the Forbidden Forest.

“I guess it’ll rain today,” she said with a sigh. It was the day of Slughorn’s party, so it seemed fitting. She would have to put on her best face and ignore Slughorn while she tried to network – the admittedly only good thing about his parties – and try to mend things with her best friends.

Draco looked up at the sky.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, glancing briefly at her. “After last night?”

“You mean how you manipulated me into forgiving you by taking me to a beautiful yet isolated location and drinking an illegal potion so I would have to listen to you?”

He looked unimpressed, and she laughed, scooting closer to grab his hand in hers. She threaded her fingers through his and leaned her head on his shoulder to look out at the lake, where a grindylow beneath the surface was creating ripples through the calm water. “Joking aside, I’m glad you did it. I feel… good.”

He squeezed her hand. “Good.”

They sat in silence for a while, watching the world come to life as the sun began to rise.

“Tell me something,” Draco asked, eventually. “Can you handle the bad things that come with me? The awful parents, a cursed name, a world that hates me, your friends included.”

Hermione sighed. “I couldn’t care less what the world thinks.” She bit her lip and hesitated before adding, “I do worry about Harry and Ron if we’re being honest. Things are rocky between us right now already, and I am scared to see how they’ll react. I don’t want to lose them, but I do wonder whether they’ll be able to accept it.”

Draco nodded, sucking in on his cheek. “Because they're your family,” he said.

She nodded and hugged her knees to her chest as she watched a bird swoop down over the water.

They sat together until the sun rose over the lake to the left with a reddish orange glow, and the rainclouds crept in from the right.

When the sun was above the horizon, lighting up the day as the castle woke up and students went to breakfast, and the clouds were dispersed above them, they walked back along the lake through the wet grass as the morning frost melted. She’d transfigured her slippers into waterproof boots, and they took the long way around to the castle entrance. Hermione still wore Draco’s cloak, hood up for warmth, and he carried his broom over his shoulder in nothing but a sweatshirt, somehow immune to the cold.

They stopped next to the Grand Entrance, and rather than go inside, Draco leaned against the stone wall and pulled her into him. “I like you wearing my clothes. You look unfairly adorable in anything oversized,” he said with a smirk, tugging the hood down over her eyes playfully. “I like you in your ridiculous pyjamas too,” he added, grinning, as he trailed his hand inside the cloak to wrap about the soft material of her waist. “Even though I much prefer them off.”

She reached up and adjusted the hood with a big smile, too happy to be annoyed. “I like wearing your clothes,” she admitted, wrapping her arms around his waist, and looking up at him.

Draco leaned down and kissed her. She closed her eyes and lost herself in the sensations as his lips moved with hers. Neither of them wanted to let go, to go inside and go their separate ways.

She could feel drops of rain begin to fall but ignored them as Draco’s hands slid under her top. His fingers trailed along the skin of her lower back and pulled her closer.

“Oi! Malfoy, get a room, would you? Nobody wants to see you with your tongue down a witch’s throat.”

Ice flooded her veins at the familiar voice, and she froze.

She stared in shock into Draco's silver eyes before he shut them with an annoyed expression. When he opened them again, he was occluding. He dropped his hands and stood up taller.

Hermione stepped away from Draco and took a deep breath before turning around to find Harry, Ron, and Germaine walking down the path towards them.

“Hermione?” Ron’s eyes widened in a comical expression.

Harry stared, jaw open in pure shock. His eyes dropped down, and she realised with flushed embarrassment that her pyjamas were clearly visible beneath Draco’s oversized cloak. She wrapped it around herself and held it tight.

“What in the actual fuck?” Harry said.

Her heart pounded in panic.

“Hi, Ron, Harry,” she said, and then the rain started to pour.

Chapter Text

Hermione’s heartbeat raged strong in her ears, a staccato rhythm against the drumming of rain as it ricocheted off the cold ground.

Da dum.

Da dum.

Da dum.

Nobody moved.

Her eyes flickered between Ron and Harry, who wore identical expressions of shock and disbelief. She could feel Draco’s presence behind her like a pillar, though he’d stepped back to give her space. She fought the urge to take a step backwards and touch him, whether to feel his support or to protect him from the inevitable damage to come, she wasn’t sure.

Germaine, who stood back behind Ron, was the only one with enough sense to cast a water repelling charm on herself. The boys’ clothes and hair were already soaked through, but neither paid it any mind. They both looked like they’d just walked through a ghost.

Harry was the first to move. With a large furrow between his brows, he took off his rain-splattered glasses and tried to clean them with his sleeve.

Hermione felt a surge of affection for her best friend. Even after 8 years in the wizarding world, his muggle habits always appeared one way or another. She strode forward, took the glasses from his hands, cast a water-repelling charm, and handed them back.

When he placed them back on his nose, Harry’s gaze went straight behind her to Draco. Hermione looked back and saw Draco standing tall and regal. Rain dripped from his hair and face, and soaked into his sweatshirt, defining the muscles in his chest as the material clung to him. He looked back at Harry with a cold, emotionless expression as he stared at his childhood nemesis with the barest hint of a sneer on his lips.

When she turned back to Harry, his narrowed green eyes locked onto hers, and her heart plummeted. He scanned her face with a look of confusion, looking as if he didn’t even know her.

“Harry,” she begged, shaking her head. She wasn’t even sure what she was trying to say. Don’t look at me like that? Don’t hate me because of this?

Hermione caught a movement from the corner of her eye, and time slowed in the seconds that followed.

She whipped her head around and watched in horror as Ron lunged at Draco and drove a fist into his face. Draco staggered back, wiping a hand under his nose. Fresh blood smeared across his skin, mingling with the rain streaming down it.

One heartbeat passed, then two, before the shock in Draco's expression twisted with a blend of fury and cold detachment. He pulled back and slammed his fist into Ron's face with a power that sent him sprawling onto the muddy ground.

Ron scowled and stumbled to his feet. He spat blood and glared at Draco, advancing towards him. “I’m going to kill you, you slimy, fucking Death Eater!”

“No!” Hermione unfroze and ran to put herself between them, but Ron shoved her aside in his single-minded effort to get to Draco. She fell back onto the grass. Her palms stung from the landing, and a few seconds later, tears stung behind her eyes.

“I should kill you for touching Hermione!” Ron yelled, grabbing Draco by the front of his sweatshirt.

“Fuck off, Weasley,” Draco growled and shoved him back roughly, making him stumble.

“Ron, stop!”

Ron didn’t even glance her way as he brandished his wand and aimed it at Draco.

“Expelliarmus!” Germaine strode forward before Hermione could act, snatching Ron’s wand out of the air, and casting a sticking charm on his feet.

Ron turned to Germaine, betrayed.

“Ron, you’re not allowed to assault or threaten civilians!” Germaine scolded, looking furious. “You know this! You could lose your job!”

Ron’s face turned white as he realised the truth of her words.

Threat averted, Draco reached down and offered a hand to Hermione. She took it, and his strong arm pulled her to standing. One glance at her scraped palms and teary eyes made him curse under his breath. He took her wrists, his thumbs gently tracing the skin there as he took in the damage.

“I’m going to kill him,” he said, deathly quiet, so only she could hear.

“Don’t, please,” she whispered. She wiped the rain from her face with a sleeve. Her hood had fallen back, and her curls were dripping wet around her face.

She glanced at Harry, who stood frozen, eyes darting between them. When he met her gaze, she felt the sting of betrayal – her own, not his. He looked at her as if she were a traitor.

“What exactly is… this,” Harry’s voice cut through the rain as he gestured at the two of them. His eyes swept down her body, and Hermione cringed internally as he took in the state of her dress – last night’s pyjamas and Draco’s oversized cloak – with a deep crease between his brows, clearly putting two and two together.

“We’re together,” she said, swallowing thickly. “But if you just let me –”

“You’re dating Malfoy?” Harry cut her off. “Seriously, Hermione? How can you explain this? After all he’s done? He was a Death Eater, a blood supremacist!”

Tears welled up once more, and she drew in a shuddering breath.

“Is this why you've been acting so weird lately? Pulling away? Ignoring my letters? Has Malfoy poisoned you against us?” He sounded accusatory, betrayed, as if she’d wounded him.

“No, Harry! Of course not,” she said thickly.

She felt Draco’s arm drape over her shoulders and pull her into his side protectively. Her pillar of support.

“What the bloody fuck is wrong with you?” he snapped coldly, glaring at Ron and Harry. “I thought you needed more than one brain cell to be an Auror, and perhaps a shred of decency. Oh wait, I suppose you lot are known for your brash idiocy, so maybe it is the right career for you,” he snarled. “She's supposed to be your friend.”

“Friends protect each other from bad people, Malfoy, but I suppose you wouldn’t know that since you treat your own friends like dirt.”

Draco shifted and dropped his arm from Hermione, but she quickly grabbed it, grounding him to her so he wouldn’t do anything. She could feel the rage vibrating off of him.

“What is this?” Harry taunted. “No longer running away from a fight? I thought you’d be crying to daddy by now,”

“Grow the fuck up, Potter,” Draco spat.

“Are you taking his side, Hermione?” Ron asked, incredulously. “Listen to him!”

She turned to Ron, exasperated beyond measure. “You started it, Ron! He didn’t do anything!”

Ron pointed emphatically at Draco. “He was kissing you!”

“So? You don’t have any right to dictate who I kiss!”

“I– Hermione, you've been acting weird since the summer, and now you're dating Malfoy? How else should I react?”

“Without violence!” she said, shrill. She knew there was nothing she could say at that moment to convince him. “You know what? I don’t need to tell you anything when you’re acting like this. If you can calm down, then maybe we can talk about it.”

“Of course,” he scoffed bitterly. “Hermione Granger never owes anyone explanations. You just do what you want without a care for anyone’s feelings!”

His words struck her heart, found their mark, and dug their claws in deep to make it bleed.

Guilt flooded her.

He was talking about their breakup. She’d tried so hard to spare him and everyone else any pain over it, and she was still accused of being heartless.

He found her sitting on his bed in a pretty yellow sundress with tears streaming down her face.

“What’s wrong now?” he asked, standing in the doorway, at a loss.

She wiped her eyes. “Ron, I’m going back to Grimmauld place. I need some time to be alone. I can’t do this anymore.”

“What do you mean? You can’t do what anymore? This?” He said, gesturing between them. “Are you breaking up with me?”

She nodded, tearful chestnut eyes looking into his confused blue ones. “Yes.”

Ron’s expression flickered from understanding to disbelief to hurt. “What? Why?”

“It just took me a while to see it, but we’re not compatible.”

“No. Hermione, how can you say that? I love you. We’re meant to be together.”

“We’re not,” she disagreed emphatically, standing up. “But you’re still my best friend. We’ll get over this. We just need time.”

He shook his head. “Tell me why. We can work it out, whatever it is.”

“I think it’s better for everyone if I don’t say it,” she whispered, and then walked around him and out the door. “I’m sorry.”

“Ron, I would tell you if you would just listen,” she started, “but –”

“Has he Imperiused you? Blackmailed you?”

“No!”

“Then why would you choose him over me?”

The look of hurt on Ron’s face as he said the words sent her into a state of shock.

Surely he wasn’t still hung up on her, was he? Hermione’s eyes shot to Germaine, who’d been standing back the entire time, watching everything play out. The poor girl was looking mildly hurt as she looked between all of them.

“Bloody idiot,” Draco mumbled under his breath next to her, and she couldn’t disagree.

“Ron, mate,” Harry said pointedly.

It took a while before Hermione found her words. “This has nothing whatsoever to do with you, Ron. We broke up months ago. Draco and I are –”

He scoffed. “Draco and you? What a bloody joke.”

“Will you just listen?”

“You know he's using you right?” Ron said, gesturing angrily towards Draco. “He would never be with you, with a muggleborn! You can’t be that stupid.”

Hurt flashed through her. She had expected the outbursts, of course, but it stung, nonetheless.

“He’s not,” she said at the same time Draco raised his own wand and pointed it at Ron.

“Disrespect her one more time, Weasley, and I’ll rip that nose right off your ugly face.”

Hermione turned and glared up at Draco, suddenly furious. “Don’t you dare!”

After all she’d done to get him freed!

Draco glared at Ron for a few heartbeats, but then his expression softened with a look of realisation. His eyes flickered back to hers, reflecting the storm around them as he warred with himself. A muscle in his jaw twitched, and he lowered his wand.

“He should be in Azkaban!” Ron said. “He was just there a few days ago.”

“I know, Ron!” Hermione shot back. “I’m the one that got him out. He was falsely accused.”

“Yeah fucking right!” Ron said at the same time Harry scoffed, “Unlikely.”

Hermione bristled as they touched a nerve. “Stop it! Both of you!” she snapped. “You don't know what you're talking about.”

Germaine cleared her throat and strode into the centre of their triangle.

“Hermione,” she said assertively. “Why don't you take Draco, and let's all take some time to cool down. We can reconvene at lunch and have a rational chat about everything once things have had a chance to sink in.”

“That's a fantastic idea,” Hermione told her, grateful for her calm command of the situation amidst their high emotions. She cast one last look at Ron and Harry. “I know this is a lot to take in and that you don’t understand it yet, but if you value my friendship at all, you need to try to listen. I'll see you at lunch.”

Turning her back to the boys, tears welled up and began streaming down her face, blending into the rain. She looked down at her stinging palms and felt the pain all the way through to her heart.

“Let’s go,” she whispered to Draco.

Throwing a steely look over her shoulder at Harry and Ron, Draco seized her wrist and pulled her towards the castle doors. They stepped inside, out of the rain, and Hermione mindlessly followed him, their clothes dripping onto the stone as he guided her through a maze of hallways and staircases. Before long, they stood in front of Trawg the Tragic.

Draco let go of her wrist and held up the tapestry for her to enter.

Once inside, he took a deep breath and ran a hand through his hair. She could sense the anger radiating through him. Her own hands shook from the adrenaline of the confrontation.

He took one long indecipherable look at her and then swished his wand to clean and dry her muddy, drenched clothes, and then his own.

Before she could stop him, he cast a drying spell on her hair, effectively transforming her wet curls into fluffy frizz. His severe expression softened with a hint of amusement.

He stepped closer with a half-grin and ran a hand over her hair to smooth it, ineffectively, before outright chuckling. “What is this?”

“You can’t dry curls like that,” she said, repressing a smile of her own, and she felt the tension begin to melt from the room.

“You’ll have to show me how to do it properly next time,” Draco murmured softly.

His grin slowly faded, leaving behind a hardness in his eyes and a stiffness in his posture as he looked her over. Blood dripped from his nose and he swiped his hand under it, smearing it across his face.

“Come here,” she murmured, and brandished her wand. He leaned down and let her clean the blood and winced when she cast a silent Episkey to fix his nose.

“Well, that couldn’t have gone any worse,” she muttered when she’d finished.

“Sure,” he said, voice dripping with sarcasm. “It didn’t turn into a duel, I wasn’t arrested, Weasley didn’t manage to kill me, and I miraculously avoided maiming him, but yeah, it couldn’t have been any worse.”

Hermione sighed, hugging her arms. “I suppose you're right.”

Draco leaned back against the wall, and a remorseful expression took over his features.

“Are you angry?” he asked with a touch of hesitation in his voice. “I wasn’t thinking when I punched Weasley. I didn’t mean to make things harder for you, but I couldn’t–” he stopped and closed his eyes. “They were being awful to you.”

“No. I’m not angry at you for reacting,” she said gently. “I just want you to be careful, so they won’t find a reason to throw you back in Azkaban. I’m sorry Ron hit you.”

He stiffened and ran an agitated hand through his hair. “Don’t you dare apologise for him,” he said angrily. “Your best friends just treated you like shit. One of them just pushed you to the fucking ground and called you stupid. The other is blaming you for the state of your friendship. You don't deserve to be treated like that. They're acting like fucking idiots.”

As usual, she could practically hear the unspoken taunt. Or was that her own thought? She cringed with guilt.

She was silent for a moment, absorbing the truth of his words and the irony of him defending her against Harry and Ron when just a few years ago, it had been the opposite. She wasn’t sure how to feel about that.

Draco was angry, affected by what had happened. She’d seen hints of his old self when he’d been talking to Harry and Ron: the sneer, the mocking, the aggression – even though he’d been defending her.

She wanted a glimpse of the new him, the sweet, caring one, to balance it out.

As though reading her mind, he sighed, approached, and gently took her left hand, holding her palm up while he tapped his wand to remove the dirt and rubble before casting a healing charm and then placing a gentle kiss on her sore palm. He did the same to the other hand, and by the time he finished, tears were once again tracking down her cheeks.

“I just… I know they react rashly to things. They're both extremely emotional and don’t always think before they speak. I knew this would happen. They just need to calm down before rational conversation can be had.”

“I don’t like it when they talk to you like that,” Draco said with a low timbre, and her heart fluttered at the admission.

She nodded and turned to face the window and looked out into the dark thunder clouds and rain blurring the horizon. “Is it too much to hope they'll listen to me?”

Draco let out a sigh and stepped in behind her, caging her in with his arms and resting his chin on her shoulder. He tapped his fingers on the rough stone window ledge. “I’ve only ever seen them hold grudges for way too long, but you know them better than me.”

Hermione turned in his arms and searched his eyes. Her hand fisted in his sweatshirt and pulled him closer, wanting nothing more in that moment than his comfort. He followed willingly, enveloping his arms around her lower back as he leaned into her. His hands slid down over the curve of her arse, and then his gaze darkened with desire as he reached down the backs of her thighs and lifted her up. With a squeak of surprise, she wrapped her arms around his neck and her legs around his middle as he lifted her into the air.

He placed her onto the window ledge, giving her only a second before leaning down to capture her lips with a desperate sort of intensity. His hands cradled her head, threading through her wild frizzy hair as his lips melded with hers, and she returned the kiss in equal measure. The kiss deepened and slowed, and each press of his lips and swipe of his tongue both soothed her anxious heart and stoked an aching need within her, a yearning for more.

The world around them fell away.

She ran her hands over the muscles of his chest before sliding them around his middle and pulling him closer. He fell into her until their bodies were flush, and his kisses slowed into an intoxicating mix of tender sweetness and restrained passion.

It was exactly what she needed.

He was exactly what she needed.

“Draco,” she breathed against his lips.

“Hm?”

“Tell me a story, please.”

He pulled back, breathless and disoriented, as his brain caught up to her words. “You want a story? Now?”

She nodded.

“What kind of story do you want?”

“Anything, literally anything. I want – I need to feel…I just…” She trailed off, not knowing how to express how his stories always melted the stress out of her. “Please.”

His eyes lit up at her admission, and he breathed heavily as he thought.

“Okay,” he said eventually. His hands ran down the outside of her thighs and then back up the front, tracing up the inside seams with his thumbs. “Don't worry, Granger, I'll make you feel good.”

She gasped as he came close to her centre, but instead of touching her there, he skimmed the crease of her thighs and back down her legs, in a cycle.

He smirked, pleased by her reaction.

“Deep within the labyrinth of rooms in the Department of Mysteries lies a rare and exotic magical plant called the Elysium Bloom. Have you heard of it?”

Hermione shook her head. The effect of his voice was immediate. Her scalp tingled pleasantly, and his soft dulcet tone washed over her and started to relax the muscles in her body. The pit of anxiety in her chest began to loosen.

He watched his fingers where they grazed her thighs, and then glanced up at her with a look that told her he knew exactly what he was doing.

“Most people think it’s just a legend,” he continued softly. “But it’s real. It’s a beautiful, glowing, fluorescent white, with arithmetically pleasing arrangement of petals around a chromatic centre. Around the base, there are larger, thinner petals that look like spikes. It’s about the size of a quaffle and only grows in magical hotspots.” He lifted a hand and traced the back of his finger from her brow to her neck. “Its petals shimmer with a faint, otherworldly glow.”

The soft brush gave her goosebumps.

“This flower only blooms once a year at night, and thus it has become a symbol of mystery and elusive desires. Legend has it that the Elysium Bloom possesses the power to forge a soul bond between two hearts destined for each other.”

His fingers ran back up her thighs and he pressed his thumbs into the creases this time, and a rush of arousal flooded her core. She squirmed and shifted her hips. A small smile graced his lips.

“Soulmates?” she asked. Her voice carried a slight tremor, betraying her desire.

“Essentially, yes.”

His thumbs traced the creases of her thighs, and she opened her legs wider for him, but instead of moving into her, he shifted his hold onto her hips and pulled her down from the ledge. She looked up in question, but he just gave her a little smirk and turned her around, so she was looking out the window.

He slid her – his – cloak from her shoulders and dropped it on the floor. A hand roamed up under her soft sleep shirt, pulling her back against him. He moved the hair from her neck and planted a kiss onto her shoulder.

“Throughout the ages, the tale became twisted. People started to believe that if you picked the Elysium Bloom, it would lead you to your true love. As you can imagine, countless witches and wizards searched far and wide. Some found them and plucked the flowers, thinking they would find their soulmates. Instead, the plants died. These plants live for centuries if protected but are now rare and endangered.”

The combination of his words and his hands tracing little patterns on the soft skin of her stomach caused pleasure to flood down her spine and into her core. She sighed at the heavenly feeling and leaned back into him, feeling his strong body behind hers and the growing hardness at her lower back. His hand inched up and traced the bottom of her breast before ghosting up over her nipple. She swallowed a moan and squirmed against him.

“This okay?” he asked.

“Yes,” she breathed, as he traced light circles around her nipple. “Perfectly okay.”

“Tell me if you want me to stop.”

She shook her head. “Don’t stop.”

He chuckled with approval into her neck, nipping at the skin playfully. “Just what I like to hear,” he murmured, before bringing his other hand to her hip, tracing the skin just above the waistband of her bottoms.

“A few centuries ago, there was a witch named Seraphina, who had a keen interest in ancient magic. She attended Oxford’s Magical College. One day, she came across the story of the Elysium Bloom and became fascinated, drawn in by its allure throughout time. Seraphina wanted to know whether soulmates really existed, so she decided to find an Elysium plant. Unfortunately, she was not an expert in the geography of magical hotspots or magical flora. There was, however, another wizard at the college, whom she’d heard had an extensive knowledge of both of those things.”

He switched his soft touches to her other nipple, planting a soft kiss below her ear.

“She asked him one day why he was interested in the Elysium Bloom, and he told her that he was fascinated by the lengths through which people would go to find their soulmates,” Draco continued softly.

His hand slipped under her waistband, and his index and middle finger found her clit. A needy moan escaped her, and she reached out a hand to steady herself on the window ledge.

He circled her clit and nuzzled into her neck. Pleasure flashed through her.

“He didn’t believe that soulmates existed. The two of them agreed to work together to find the Elysium Bloom. Seraphina was a dreamer, and Lucian a cynic. They butted heads over everything. She would interview people with stories to tell, and Lucian would scour the lands and old libraries for clues.”

She closed her eyes as the addictive feel of his seductive voice in her ear created a hum of arousal throughout her limbs, dripping down her spine and turning her to putty, unable to do much but absorb his words and gasp in pleasure as his fingers played with her sensitive clit and her nipple.

“Their research, however, brought them to a turning point,” he continued, teasing her lightly. “There was a waterfall grove in South America that was so hard to get to that it was all but untouched for a magical hotspot, and there were local tales of a special flower there. Their journey was arduous. They took a ship to the Americas together, sharing a room,” she could feel his smirk against her ear as he spoke. “They became closer, slowly, arguing and debating during the day, and sharing deep conversations in the quiet of night.”

Draco’s fingers went past her clit and traced her slick opening. “You’re so wet for me already, you eager witch.”

She keened and shifted against his fingers, closing her eyes as anticipation coursed through her veins.

“When they arrived in the Americas they began their hike into the rainforest. One day, a poisonous snake bit Lucian so Seraphina set up camp, with protective wards, and nursed him back to health. She took care of him, fed him, bathed him, until he was better,” he spoke sweetly into her neck.

Draco’s lips brushed lightly over her ear at the same time his fingers entered her. She let out an uncontrollable moan, overcome with an aching need for him. His fingers expertly pleasured her, slowly plunging in and out of her as much as her clothing allowed.

With a hum of approval, she reached behind, between them and found his cock, hard where it pressed into her, and squeezed it. Draco groaned into her neck.

“By this point, he was deeply in love with her, but – fuck – he didn’t show it yet. They continued their trek through the rainforest and found the hidden waterfall grove. There were different versions of the legend, as is the nature of oral traditions – fucking Merlin, Granger, keep doing that,” he gasped and rested his head on her shoulder, pushing his hips into her hand as he pushed his fingers inside of her. “Some people,” he moaned, “reported that the flower blooms on the summer solstice, while others say All Hallows’ Eve, but all research suggested that it happens when the veil is thin – fuck. So, they arrived a week before the solstice, and camped out on the bank.”

After a minute, she let go of his cock and pushed down her bottoms. “Inside, please,” she whimpered.

He sucked in a breath and groaned in approval. His hands traced her naked hips. “Fuck, yes.”

He kicked her feet further apart and pulled her hips further back so that she was leaning forward with both hands on the window ledge. She heard the rustle of his clothes, and then felt the hot head of his cock slide against her opening. He let out a groan and notched into her, just slightly.

“Draco,” she keened in a senseless whisper.

He gripped her hips and slid fully inside. She gasped as he filled her. He gave her time to adjust, and then she tilted her hips experimentally, closing her eyes to take in all the sensations of the new position. “Mmm. Keep talking,” she breathed.

He chuckled breathlessly and began moving his hips in a slow steady rhythm, pushing in and out of her as he spoke.

“One day,” he said, breathing hard, “the heat was… sweltering, so Seraphina went for a swim in the pool… naked – fuck – It was… she was pulled under… Amazonian grindylow.” Draco gasped, having a hard time speaking coherently. “He rushed in… saved her… and they kissed.” Draco grunted his pleasure and gripped her hips harder. “Fuck, you’re so perfect. You feel so good,” he gasped.

The words threw her into ecstasy as his cock delightfully stretched her, putting pressure on her sensitive walls and filling the pool of arousal growing within her.

He slowed, pulling out all the way, and then thrust into her, hard. The sound she made would have embarrassed her if not for the fact that he made the exact same one.

His hips pulled back again then he started steadily pounding into her. Draco’s hand found her clit again and added pressure in time with his thrusts. The slap of his skin on hers and the wet sounds of their sex filled the alcove along with the soft ahs he fucked out of her.

“The story –” was all she could manage as delirious pleasure shot through her on every thrust.

“They fucked… in front of the … Elysium plant,” he said with effort, pulling her upper body to him with one hand as he leaned his other on the wall. He panted in her ear as he went harder, faster. “That night – fuck, Granger – the Elysium plant bloomed… As you remember, – Merlin – neither one really believed in soulmates… But… as each reached out a hand to touch a glowing petal… something … something happened,” he choked out, almost incoherent. “Fuck, Granger. How do you feel right now? Tell me.”

She keened at his words. “I can’t – It’s – fuck – ah – so good.” She could barely get the words out.

Draco hugged her to him, panting near her ear as his cock drew desperate moans out of her, over and over. Her pleasure grew to unbearable heights within her until her orgasm crashed through her, and she collapsed, convulsing in strong spasms of pleasure on his cock as he held her up.

Draco picked up his pace, hitting hard and prolonging her orgasm. A low, filthy groan left his throat as his hips jerked into hers and he came inside of her.

He breathed heavily for a minute, and Hermione grasped onto the arm holding her for support. She felt weak in the knees.

“It felt like the world’s longest orgasm,” Draco said breathlessly in her ear, continuing the story. “Pure bliss flowed through their veins, pulsing with purity and beauty. When the feeling settled down, they were left with a vibrating magic within. Seraphina could sense his presence, could feel a hint of his emotions, and vice versa.”

Both of his hands came to her hips, and he gently pulled out of her with a hitched breath.

“They were soul bonded,” she whispered, turning back around to face him.

“Yes,” Draco said, tucking himself back into his bottoms. “They stared at one another in awe and fucked the rest of the night next to the Elysium Bloom. The sex was different – smoother, better, more rewarding, because they could sense the other's needs,” he said, running his hands over her arse, giving it a squeeze with a little smirk and pulling her hips to his. “The next day, when the sun rose and the bloom wilted, they transplanted the Elysium plant and brought it back to England for further study. For years and years, it was kept in secret at Oxford.”

Draco kneeled down. His hands caressed the curves of her arse and thighs before trailing down to hook his thumbs in the waistband of her bottoms and pull them back up. He rested his head on her stomach for a few breaths and then stood up and wrapped his arms around her in a tight hug.

“It was taken by the Department of Mysteries in 1936,” he continued. “It’s still there, still thriving, and still only blooms once a year.”

She breathed in his scent, and snuggled into his chest, absorbing his comfort like he absorbed hers, letting his heartbeat fortify her.

“Is the soul bond like a marriage bond?” she asked, pulling back slightly to look up at him.

“Not quite, it’s a unique phenomenon. There aren’t any real spells or magic to create a soul bond like there are for marriage bonds. That’s why it’s still being studied in the Department of Mysteries. Anyone can be bonded in marriage, but a real soul bond is stronger, more connected.”

She nodded, thinking about it.

“Do you feel better?” Hermione asked, hands sneaking up under his shirt to feel his skin.

His lip twitched up in amusement. “I thought I was making you feel better.”

“Oh, you did,” she said. “Very effectively. But you look calmer now.”

“I always feel calmer when I’m with you.”

She pulled him down to her. He obliged, kissing her like her lips sustained him.

He brushed her hair away from her face and stepped back to pick up his cloak from the floor. He draped it over her shoulders.

“Go back to your dorm and take a shower. Fix whatever the fuck I did to your hair. Talk to Potter and Weasley. Spend the day with your friends, but don't take any shit from them,” he said with a look. “I may lose it if I see them hurt you again.”

She nodded, with a little smile.

“Good.”

He leaned down to kiss her again. Then he took a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and slid one between his lips. There was a melancholic look about him, a hardness around his eyes.

He lit it with his wand and took a long drag. Her eyes went down to the muscles and tendons in his large hand.

“I'll see you later,” she said.

He nodded with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Later.”

There was something about his posture she couldn’t place. Something in his eyes that said he wasn’t quite fine. Something pulled her to stay, but with a last hesitant look, she left.

The emotional toll of the morning hit her as she entered Gryffindor Tower. She wrapped Draco’s cloak tightly around herself, attempting to hide her pyjamas, and ignored the odd looks as she ascended the stairs.

As soon as she entered her dorm, Crookshanks rubbed up against her ankles and gave a soft meow. She reached down and picked him up. His purr vibrated through her, and she buried her face in his orange fur.

Cat hugs were honestly the best remedy for everything.

“... and then she …”

“... do you think she…”

Hermione joined Ginny and Luna, sitting down cross legged at the foot of Ginny’s bed. Crookshanks settled on her lap.

“What are you guys talking about?”

Ginny smirked. “Luna slept with Andria last night.”

“The girl you kissed when you took the Amortentia? What happened to Evan?” Hermione looked at Luna with raised brows.

“Oh, he was there too, of course,” Luna said, smiling serenely.

“Oh,” Hermione said, voice pitchy. “So, you were all… together? And how was that? Your… threesome, I presume?”

Ginny laughed.

“It was very enlightening,” Luna hummed in a satisfied way. “I learned that I like the taste of cunt more than cock. Especially since I was able to sample both at the same time.”

Hermione’s lip curved up and she shook her head. She felt positively vanilla in comparison to Luna and Ginny sometimes, but she did learn a lot from them. “Sounds like you had a good night.”

“Speaking of which, you look…” Luna tilted her head curiously as she gave Hermione the once over.

“Exhausted? Frazzled? Emotionally wrecked?” Hermione supplied wearily.

“I was going to say, you look like you’ve been thoroughly fucked,” Luna said with a smirk.

Hermione flushed and brushed her hair awkwardly behind her ears. At the feel of the frizz, she quickly summoned a scrunchy and tied it up and out of the way. “Well, yes, I suppose I was.”

Ginny was grinning like a wildcat. “Did you and Malfoy make up then?”

Hermione nodded with a private smile. “Yes,” she admitted. “He took me out to see the meteor shower last night, and he apologised for a lot of things. We took Veritaserum and had a pretty honest discussion.”

Ginny looked surprised. “He agreed to that?”

“It was his idea.”

She looked thoughtful for a minute. “I’m glad you worked things out, but why do you still look miserable?”

Hermione sighed and deflated against the footboard. She brushed her fingers through Crookshanks’ fur.

“Harry, Ron, and Germaine are here. They caught us together.”

“They caught you having sex?” Ginny asked, jaw dropping.

“No! We were just kissing by the castle doors when they walked up. But it was awful, Ginny. Ron punched Draco, and Draco of course retaliated. They were both bleeding. Harry was looking at me like I had betrayed him, and Ron… he was, well, there was a lot of yelling.”

Ginny whistled. “I’m sorry Hermione. I know both of them have awful emotional impulses.”

“Draco’s a bit of a trigger for them, isn’t he?” Luna said. “Ron especially has always been jealous of him.”

Hermione frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Well, Ron’s always been jealous of his wealth. Most of Draco’s insults over the years have been to tear him down in that regard. And Harry was always envious of Draco for having a family that loved him and gave him everything he wanted, even if in retrospect, his family wasn’t all that great. In Harry’s mind, having a difficult family is better than having none.”

Hermione and Ginny blinked at each other.

“That’s very insightful,” Hermione said. She was right. It was more than the fact that they still thought of Draco as a prejudiced git. There was some deep-rooted jealousy there too. She sighed, wondering how she could change their minds – if she even could.

“Where are they now?” Ginny asked.

Hermione bit her lip. “I’m not sure actually. Germaine suggested we all cool down and meet again at lunch to talk. I left with Draco, so I don’t know where they went.”

“Okay,” Ginny said with a determined look on her face. “Luna and I will find them and set them straight, alright? You shower and fix all… this,” she motioned to Hermione’s hair with her hands, “and we’ll find each other at lunch.”

Luna nodded her agreement.

Relief and gratefulness filled her heart. “Thank you.”

“You know what we should do?” Luna said, sitting up straight and with purpose. “Hermione, get that potion of yours. The flower one.”

Hermione lifted Crooks off her lap and stood up to find her beaded bag. She took out Draco’s potion and handed it to Luna.

“We all need a little bit of luck today. Dandelions are good luck. Let's all wish that things get resolved with minimal casualties today. You’re so lucky you have this, you know? Wishes at your fingertips.”

Luna placed three drops in front of her, and they began to grow.

“Close your eyes, make a silent wish, and then eat the dandelion,” Luna instructed.

Hermione let out a shocked laugh. “What? You eat it?”

Luna smiled serenely. “Of course. The dandelion’s magic has to mingle with your wish if you want it to come true.”

“In the muggle world, we blow the flower so the seeds disperse, like you are spreading out your wish into the world so the universe will make it come true.”

“That’s lovely,” Luna said. “You should do it that way.”

Hermione watched with silent amusement as Luna and Ginny closed their eyes and then with the utmost serious expressions, ate the heads of their dandelions.

Then she closed her eyes and wished for something entirely different:

Let Draco be okay after all of this. Let us both be.

She opened her eyes and blew the white fluff. It dispersed around the bed, and a minute later it was gone to dust.

After a much-needed shower, and a lazy morning lounging on her bed in deep thought, Hermione braced herself for confrontation and made her way down to lunch.

The Great Hall was already crowded when she arrived, but Harry, Ron, Ginny, and Luna were nowhere to be seen.

“Hermione!”

She looked to her left and saw Melissa waving at her, all smiles and gorgeous brown wavy hair. Duncan was sitting next to her, smiling handsomely.

“Come sit with us!” Melissa said enthusiastically.

Grateful to no end for this girl, Hermione sat down across from them with a friendly hello.

“I heard you met my cousin here,” Duncan said.

Hermione’s eyebrows rose as she put two and two together. “Melissa’s your cousin! I didn’t realise.”

“Didn’t I tell you she was sweet?” He said with a cheeky grin and a nudge at Melissa’s ribs. She brushed him away and rolled her eyes.

“You did,” Hermione said with a grin at the younger girl. “The sweetest, honestly. I’ve been meaning to thank you. You helped so much.”

“I saw that you were successful,” Melissa said, smiling brightly. “I’m glad he’s back.”

“He’d be in Azkaban if it weren’t for you.” The reality of the statement made her heart hurt. She felt fiercely protective of Draco now, and ever grateful to Melissa. “I wish I could do something for you. Oh! There’s a Hogsmeade weekend coming up soon, isn’t there? If you don’t have plans, let me buy you lunch. It’s the very least I can do.”

Melissa beamed at her. “I’d love to!”

Duncan gave a dramatic sigh. “Merlin, Mel. It’s been two seconds and you’ve already got the hottest girl at Hogwarts asking you out,” he teased.

Heat flooded her cheeks at the comment.

“Duncan! She’s with Draco. Stop flirting with her!”

Duncan grinned and winked at Hermione. “I heard from this one that you’re with Malfoy now.”

Hermione nodded, feeling heat flush her own cheeks. “Yes, I am.”

“I feel like I should have seen it coming. The Amortentia, the way you two were always whispering during class. The way he looked at you when you weren’t paying attention,” he said, shrugging. “It makes sense, honestly. I’m only sad I never checked in on that library date sooner.”

Hermione smiled awkwardly and was saved from replying when Ginny walked up behind him and smacked the back of his head.

“I know she’s bloody hot, but she’s taken, McDougal.”

He rolled his eyes. “I know,” he said, rubbing his head. “Why are you always so bloody violent, witch?”

Ginny shrugged and took her seat.

“Where are the others?” Hermione asked.

“Giving Germaine a tour of the castle. They’ll be here soon, I hope, but Luna’s telling them about all the hidden wrackspurt hotspots. I snuck away. You should have seen Harry’s face when he saw me sneak off,” she grinned.

Hermione laughed half-heartedly, picturing the look of betrayal that he’d given her just that morning. Her heart pinged with sadness.

“Duncan, did you get your Herbology project done? Want to help me with mine?” Ginny asked, fluttering her eyelashes dramatically.

Duncan met Hermione’s eyes, and she almost laughed at the horror within. “Nope. Time to go. Have a good lunch ladies!

Melissa stood up as well. “Bye Hermione!”

“Bye,” she said with a smile.

When they were gone, Hermione raised a questioning eyebrow at Ginny.

“He hates working with me on schoolwork,” Ginny said with a smirk. “I just wanted to update you before the others get here.”

Hermione cringed. “Hit me.”

“So, Germaine let both Ron and Harry have it. She was telling them to be nice and respect your choices. Ron and Harry were trying to convince her how terrible Malfoy is when we found them. I straight up told them to stop being idiots and that you have your reasons for liking him and they need to respect that. I also told them that I have seen how much he likes you.”

“Thanks Gin,” she said, grateful. “I know you were in camp, ‘I hate Malfoy’ until recently, so I appreciate that.”

Ginny tilted her head at her and pursed her lips. “I’m firmly in camp Hermione, and I realise that I may have made some unfair judgments. But if he ever hurts you, I will kill him,” she said, prompting Hermione to chuckle. “Anyway, Luna’s also been throwing in comments here or there about Draco and how he's good for you. They promised to be open minded when they come down.”

“We’ll see,” Hermione said wearily. She hated the fact that she felt nervous to talk to the two closest people to her in the world. Although… they weren't really the closest people to her anymore, were they? Her stomach twisted at the thought.

Ginny’s waving hand alerted her to the others’ arrival.

Hermione turned and watched them approach.

Germaine and Luna sat on either side of Hermione, while Ron and Harry took their seats across from her, looking decidedly relieved.

“Did you have a good tour?” Hermione asked with a little grin. The restrained looks on their faces made her bite her cheek to stop from laughing.

“Yeah it was great.”

“Super.”

Germaine laughed. “Your school is so much more… mediaeval than Beauxbatons. The stone walls, the suits of armour, the dungeons, the ghosts. But the scenery is beautiful.”

“I love the nature here,” Hermione said, agreeing wholeheartedly. “There’s something so healing about being surrounded by the forests, lakes, and hills. I grew up in a London suburb, but there’s such a difference between cultivated nature and the wild outdoors that we have here.”

“Ron, didn’t you say you grew up in the countryside?” Germaine asked.

Ron nodded, stuffing a sandwich in his mouth. “The Burrow’s in Devon, yeah, but I prefer living in the city. At least I don’t have to de-gnome the garden and cut the grass at Grimmauld Place.”

Harry and Hermione shared a look and then both cracked a smile at the memory of summers visiting The Burrow when Molly would send them out to de-gnome the gardens.

At that, the ice thawed slightly between them, and a tentative peace took over, giving her hope.

Hermione watched as they all filled their plates. She wasn’t that hungry, but she poured herself a glass of pumpkin juice and started picking at the sandwiches stacked in the centre of the table.

As they ate, Harry and Ron started telling Germaine about the Hogwarts professors and classes they’d taken. She stayed silent as they talked, wondering if their avoidance of their morning confrontation was a good sign or not.

When they all finished eating, the conversation turned to work, and Hermione’s mood deflated.

“I hope Robards puts me in training with Jackson next year,” Ron said. “He’s so cool. Apparently he’s got a secret strategy-building club for his favourites and goes on missions on his own all the time when everyone else takes a partner.”

“Yeah, he’s a real maverick,” Harry said, rolling his eyes good-naturedly. “I hope I’m with Clark.”

“Psh,” Germaine said, laughing loudly. “You’ll end up with Browning for sure! He’s got a hard on for you and your golden boy status.”

“What are you guys talking about?” Hermione asked, confused. “Is there a mentor program or something?”

The laughter died down and Germaine turned to Hermione with a smile. “They’re assigned to a higher up for six months to get one-on-one training to learn about the job. They’re already doing that now in the afternoons just to experience how everything works, but this is more like being a junior partner or assistant to one Auror full time,” she said.

“Right,” Hermione said softly, and took a sip of her pumpkin juice. It was another marker of how far they’d drifted to not have told her about the important things happening in their lives. “Sounds like a big deal.”

“Browning is such a stickler for rules! Can you just imagine if Harry got him?” Ron said, laughing. Harry elbowed him.

They fell back into conversation about work, and Hermione retreated into her thoughts, feeling left out of the references and stories they weren’t bothering to explain.

Hermione looked at Ginny, who then gave Luna a pointed look. Luna caught Hermione’s eyes and patted her knee in sympathy. She stood up and said, “Germaine, do you want to see the Ravenclaw common room? We’ve got an exclusive library with a whole section on Hogwarts’ history. It’s fascinating.”

Hermione’s jaw dropped. Was that true? She’d have to ask Luna for access.

“Uh, sure!” Germaine said, catching the mood. She stood up. “See you boys later?”

Ginny nudged Harry with a pointed look and followed.

Harry shared a look with Ron, before looking at her awkwardly.

“So… Do you want to tell us about what that was this morning?” Harry asked. The friendly mood from moments ago had dimmed.

“What what was, exactly?”

Ron looked at her like she was crazy. “You and Malfoy.”

Hurt filled her again. It wasn’t, I'm sorry, I'll listen now. It was, Explain your crazy behaviour from earlier and why the hell you were with the enemy.

She bit her bottom lip, wondering how to start. “Look. Draco and I–”

Ron rolled his eyes, and she stopped, heart sinking. He obviously wasn’t going to listen. She should have known a few hours in the morning were not enough to make a difference. Draco was right. Ron had a record of holding grudges for months, and Harry, well, she could only hope.

She ignored Ron and focused on Harry.

“I know you don’t understand it. I know you think of Draco as just what he was two years ago, but he's different now. He's rejected his family’s beliefs. You told me he wouldn’t have killed Dumbledore. And you agreed with me in the Three Broomsticks that he’s had it hard too, Harry.”

“He’s still a bully that only cares about himself and belittling everyone else. Just… how? Why?” Harry asked, folding his arms.

She swallowed and nervously tapped a finger on her fork. “It actually started on the first day back. We talked for a bit and had an enjoyable conversation. And then in the last few months, we’ve just gotten a lot closer. As for the why… I like him. A lot. We have great conversations, great chemistry. He makes me feel happy and good about myself.” She paused at the looks of doubt on their faces. “You don’t have to like him,” she said. “All I’m asking is that you try to understand that he has changed and respect my decision.”

Ron scoffed. “He’s Malfoy, Hermione. We saw him this morning, and he didn’t seem any different. The real him is an arrogant, manipulative, conniving, muggleborn-hating rat.”

Hermione glared at Ron. “You’re not listening to me. The only point you’re making is that you’re still blinded by your own hatred. And maybe if you hadn’t attacked him first, you would have seen another side of him,” she snapped. She turned to Harry. “Harry?”

“I don't understand,” he said plainly. “It doesn’t make any sense. This is the prat who called you slurs and spouted off daddy’s poisonous rhetoric for years. He's been nothing but a sarcastic cruel prick to all of us, regardless of whether or not he’s actually changed like you say. What the hell do you see in him?”

Exhaustion filled her. She’d always hated arguing with Ron and Harry; they were too stubborn in their views. “It just feels right, Harry. We have such a strong physical and mental connection, it’s hard to explain. We’re good for each other.”

Harry and Ron shared another look, with something unspoken said between them.

“Look, Hermione, we were talking, and I think we haven’t been there enough for you,” Ron said carefully.

Her eyebrows rose at the change in direction. Her eyes darted between them hopefully. Was this an apology?

“We know you've had a really hard time after the war. You’ve also been pulling away since summer,” Harry added, looking concerned. “And now you've started dating a Death Eater. Do you think that maybe it’s time to see a mind healer?”

“We’re just worried about you,” Ron added, quickly. “Is this some kind of self-deprecation thing? Are you punishing yourself? If Malfoy has changed, which I don’t believe, don’t you think he’s just with you to make a point? I mean why else would he date a muggleborn?”

“We don’t want you to be taken advantage of like that,” Harry said, looking concerned.

Hermione stared in shock as the words settled in her gut like a rock.

“You think I'm barmy,” she said with a laugh of disbelief. “And you actually think I need a mind-healer because I’m dating Draco.”

There were surely a lot of things she needed a mind healer for: The suffocating guilt of what she’d done to her family. The stress of being on the run for her life for half a year. The fact that an entire ministry was repressing and hunting people like her, claiming she didn’t deserve magic, removing her basic rights. The trauma of being tortured. The trauma of impersonating her torturer. All the goddamn flying she’d had to do despite her fear of heights. This. Navigating the rough waters of her friendships and the feeling of no longer belonging.

Draco was the only one who made her feel grounded in the chaos of everything else, and Ron and Harry were determined to make the only good thing she had going for her into something awful. She laughed at the irony because the only alternative was to cry.

She stood up, and her eyes caught on Draco at the Slytherin table. He was absorbed in a conversation with Adam, who sat across from him. Both wore black, a mirror of the other, from their posture to the colour of their hair, though Adam’s was more dirty blond. Two boys from difficult families.

She felt a surge of affection for the man sitting there, and nothing but disappointment for the two sitting across from her.

She looked back to Ron and Harry, full of hurt and bitterness.

“I don't know why I thought you two might actually be reasonable and listen to me. It’s like you’re wilfully ignoring everything I say,” she said. “Let me repeat it so that it sinks in: Draco Malfoy is a good person. He is not a Death Eater. He has rejected his past. I like him, and he likes me. He treats me well. None of that is up for debate. You either trust my judgement and accept that I’m with him, or you don’t. I'm happy to talk more about how he's changed. I’m happy to bring him over so he can tell you himself, if I thought you would try to understand, but I'm not going to sit here and listen to either of you try to change my mind or tell me I need a bloody mind healer when he is the only thing keeping me sane these days!”

Their looks of disbelief and pity threw her over the edge. She looked at them both, shook her head in disappointment, and then turned and left the Great Hall before the angry tears would start coming.

After lunch, Hermione spent the afternoon cuddled up with Crookshanks, wearing Draco’s cloak because it smelled like him, and watching the incessant rain outside the window.

The dull, gloomy grey reflected her mood. Anger, sadness, and confusion swam within her like the turbulent clouds outside, getting darker and darker until they rained tears that she wiped away with the grey silk handkerchief.

What an emotionally exhausting day.

It had started so lovely, waking up with Draco, only to be entirely derailed by Ron and Harry’s arrival. They acted like her forgiveness of Draco’s past was an unforgivable offence and made no effort to understand her perspective. They thought she was mad.

She tried to see it from their point of view. If she had been dating a real blood supremacist or Death Eater, she could understand their concern. But this was Draco, their classmate for the past seven years, a boy who’d grown and changed and learned the ways of the world the hard way, as they all had. She didn’t understand where the double standard came from.

They’d all changed after the war.

In Fred’s memory, Ron had become determined to work hard to become an Auror and make the world a safer place.

Harry had stopped pushing Ginny away and accepted her love and support instead of doing everything alone. He learned how to be happy once the threat on his life had been removed.

Draco had finally escaped from a horrific situation and was trying to be a better person.

And Hermione, well… she was a work in progress, but she was beginning to figure out her purpose.

She’d had many great times with Harry and Ron over the years, but it had not always been easy being their friend. She used to think that their disagreements, their bickering, their teasing, their eye rolls at her homework schedules were out of love and the closeness that they felt to each other, but now, she wondered… had she always been walking on eggshells around them? Had she always sacrificed herself just to keep the peace between them all?

She still wanted peace, of course, but rather than trying to keep everyone happy, she was no longer willing to compromise on her beliefs for it. Losing her parents had really messed with her mind; after the war, she hadn’t wanted to fight with anyone, to create tension, lest she lose anyone else; but after what she’d witnessed with Slughorn, the professors, the first years, Ron, and Harry, her ability to remain silent in the face of injustice had been obliterated.

She would advocate for the kind of world she wanted to live in.

And if Ron or Harry didn’t come around, if they stopped trying, then… Was this it? The end of their friendship?

It felt like the end of something.

Hermione’s eyes were dry, and her heart was uncomfortably numb by the time the girls came in at four o’clock to start getting ready for Slughorn’s Slug Club party.

By six, they were ready to go. Germaine wore a gorgeous cream silk slip dress, which complemented her silky blonde hair. Ginny was in a pretty cerulean strapless dress that flared when she twirled. Luna – there as Hermione’s date so they could all go together – wore a short silver dress with a high collared neck.

Hermione had borrowed a dress from Luna: an ocean blue one that hugged her curves. On a whim, and feeling markedly rebellious in the face of her friends’ attitudes, she charmed it emerald green, a colour she knew complemented her skin tone but never wore because everyone would call it Slytherin green, as though the Hogwarts houses had a monopoly on colours.

Luna was smaller than her, so the fit of the dress was snug, pushing her boobs up high and snatching her in at the waist. She wore a simple gold heart necklace that her mum had given her when she’d returned home for the summer after fifth year. Her mom had claimed that she’d seen it in the store and just had to buy it for her, saying that pretty sixteen-year-old girls deserved pretty jewellery.

When they descended to the common room, Harry catcalled Ginny and twirled her around before kissing her. Ron kissed Germaine’s cheek, telling her she looked beautiful, but then his eyes looked past her to Hermione and Luna.

He baulked. “What are you wearing?”

“A pretty dress,” Hermione said simply, crossing her arms and standing tall.

“It’s green.”

“So? I think it looks good on me.”

“You look like a Slytherin,” Ron said, eyeing her with disapproval.

She rolled her eyes. “Don't start,” she said sharply. “You’re not even in Hogwarts anymore. Why do you care about house colours?”

“Has Malfoy turned you into a traitor?” he scoffed. “What's next? Rooting for Slytherin in quidditch? Switching houses?”

Wow.

He was lashing out, and Ron never said things like that unless he felt threatened or judged, so Hermione took a deep breath and pushed down the words that threatened to come out. “Grow up, Ron,” she said calmly instead. She took Luna’s hand and stalked out of the common room.

As she exited the portrait, she heard them:

“... it's just a dress Ron,” Harry said. “Not a big deal.”

“She’s started a whole movement against house animosities, you idiot. How did you think she would react to that?” Ginny scolded.

“Ron, why do you care so much what…”

Hermione closed the portrait door and stood still in the silence of the empty hallway, feeling her pulse pound in her head.

Luna squeezed her hand. “Come on, my beautiful date. Let's go flaunt how good green looks on you. I bet everyone else in that party will be head over heels.”

Hermione smiled, grateful, and they made their way to the dungeons.

“Pst! Granger. Lovegood.”

Hermione jumped with a hand to her heart as Draco stepped out of the shadows in the open alcove next to her, just down the hall from the entrance to the party.

He took her hand and pulled her in. Luna followed.

“Were you waiting for me?” Hermione asked.

Draco nodded, scanning her from head to foot with sharp ash grey eyes, dark from the shadows.

“Fuck, you look incredible. Were you feeling rebellious?” he asked with a smirk, drawing her in by the waist.

“Something like that.”

Draco glanced at Luna. “You look nice as well, Lovegood. Silver’s your colour.”

Luna smiled widely. “Thank you Draco. Sorry to steal your girlfriend for the night. I suppose you weren’t invited?

“Slughorn despises me, so no surprises there,” he shrugged.

“Did you want to join us?” Luna asked.

Letting out a laugh on a breath, he shook his head. “Fuck no. You wouldn’t catch me dead in there.” He looked past them, and Hermione turned to see Harry, Ron, Ginny, and Germaine enter the party, oblivious to their presence in the shadows. “Lovegood, do me a favour and don’t let them say rude shit to her.”

“It’s Ron and Harry. They can be rude without meaning to sometimes. But I'll try,” she said. “Hermione, Draco looks like he wants to tell you something, so I'll see you inside.”

“Okay.”

Hermione watched her go in and then turned into Draco.

“How did it go at lunch?” he asked, leaning back against the stone wall, and pulling her closer with his hands on her hips.

“Not good,” she sighed, stepping into him. “They didn’t listen to me.”

“What did they do?”

“They just… ignored everything good I said about you and told me to see a mind healer,” she whispered, looking up into his eyes. “If I'm being honest, I can't really see a way to make them understand. Ron’s stubborn and Harry… honestly I expected more from him, but he’s the same. They hate you and they can't see past it.”

He looked down at the ground for a few seconds, his brow pinching together. After a few moments, he ran a hand through his hair and then looked up at her with a hint of a smirk. “Fuck that. Sneak me into the party, and I’ll sort them out myself, Slughorn be damned. In fact, it might give him a heart attack, so it’s a win-win, really.”

Hermione didn’t know whether to scold him or laugh, so she settled for a wry nudge to his torso. He took the opportunity to sneak his arm around her shoulder, pulling her close to his chest and looking down at her with a twinkle of amusement in his eyes.

Speak of the devil. The door down the hall opened and Slughorn stepped out to welcome in more guests. He caught sight of Hermione and Draco in the shadows and scowled.

Draco’s expression hardened.

“Granger,” he said, turning back to her. “There’s a wizard named Daston Grimm attending. He’s already inside. You need to find him.”

“Why?”

“He's very well connected. An old family friend. Morally grey, which is to your benefit, but he isn’t a blood supremacist. He is somebody you need to know. He has connections all over the world.”

“Okay?”

“He's going to put together a research team for you, if he likes you.”

She blinked in shock.

A research team.

For her.

“What?” she breathed, searching his face for a sign that she misheard him.

“A research team. For your research. Just promise me you'll introduce yourself.” He said, looking concerned.

“Oh my god. Are you serious? You…”

She was shocked, stunned at the enormity of the idea. The things she could accomplish with a whole team of researchers! She could actually make headway in getting her parents back.

Unbelievably touched that he’d done this for her, her face crumpled, and she gave him a tight hug, which he returned with a light chuckle. “You’re incredible. I can't believe you did this. Oh god, now I’m nervous.”

He gave her a half grin. “Meet Daston. Deal with your friends today. And try to have fun.”

“Okay,” she said with what she felt was the first real smile since the early morning.

She turned towards the entrance to the party.

“Hey,” he said, pulling her back for a quick kiss. “You're fucking amazing. Don't let anybody forget it.”

Twinkling fairy lights splayed over the ceiling and basked the room in a warm yellow glow. Elegant sheer blue curtains draped along the walls, separated by wall sconces of animated flowers that glowed orange. Instead of sit-down tables, there were tiered arrangements of hors d’oeuvres and desserts floating all around the room.

There was a platform in the far corner of the room, where a trio of musicians were playing a soft classical tune that added a calm and sophisticated air to the party.

Along one wall, there was an elaborate champagne fountain, with spiralling streams of liquid moving and dancing in a rhythmic pattern, defying gravity. She watched as a wizard picked up a champagne flute and held it up to the fountain. A spiral of champagne detached itself, filling the glass, and then returned back to formation.

People she’d never seen before filled the room, creating a lively atmosphere as conversations were had and drinks were shared.

She could only think of the money and effort he’d spent to set this up.

She caught Slughorn’s eye by accident and they stared at each other in embarrassed shock for a long moment before Slughorn looked away.

Good. If he avoided her, all the better.

She found her friends near a luxurious chocolate fountain streaked with white, milk and dark chocolate. The smooth liquid chocolate fell from a tall, tiered platform like a waterfall, and flowed through the centre of the table like a river. There were trays of skewered fruits of all kinds. She saw everything from bananas and strawberries to dragon fruit and mangosteen.

“This seems like a much bigger production than the last one,” Hermione said mildly as she joined them.

Harry and Luna all nodded. “Slughorn has always had a flair for the dramatic, hasn’t he?” Luna said.

“Yeah, yeah, let’s all talk about the last one,” Ron said sulkily for a second as he turned around and picked up a large chocolate covered strawberry, stuffing it in his mouth. “Ish not like all of ush were there or anyshing.”

Germaine looked awkwardly at Ron, and Hermione’s stomach sank. Their relationship was new, and Hermione worried that this was Germaine’s first encounter with sulky, jealous Ron.

Although… Hermione’s stomach twisted. She wasn’t exactly sure what he was jealous of. Was it the fact that he hadn’t been invited last time? Or was he jealous of Draco like Luna had suggested earlier? Jealous that she was dating someone else? She hoped not, but his insecurities had arisen in their morning confrontation, and she didn’t really understand where it was coming from.

“Ron,” Germaine said, looking like she wanted to diffuse the situation. “Why don’t we go get some drinks?”

Germaine took him by the arm before he even had a chance to answer and marched him away.

“Oooh, is that Gwenog Jones from the Holyhead Harpies?” Ginny gasped out excitedly. “Harry, look! You know what? I'm going to introduce myself. I’ll be back,” she said and grabbed Luna by the arm and left Hermione alone with Harry.

They stared at each other awkwardly.

“Ron seems a bit on edge,” Hermione said, crossing her arms over her chest.

Harry glanced over to where Ron and Germaine looked to be having a heated discussion.

“Can you blame him?”

“You mean because he wasn’t invited last time? He’s a war hero now, he doesn’t have any reason to be insecure about it.”

“No,” Harry said, looking at her with a slight frown. “I mean because you broke his heart and are now dating the guy who’s made him feel like shit his entire time at Hogwarts. Just think about it from his perspective.”

Ouch. Always on Ron’s side.

“So? What exactly are you suggesting I do?”

Harry sighed, mussing up his hair. “I don’t know Hermione. You need to figure that out.”

“Do you think he'll ever get over it?”

Harry shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“And what about you?” she asked. Ron’s rejection she could deal with, but Harry’s…

“Would you really choose Malfoy over Ron’s friendship?” he asked. “Our friendship? You really won't listen to reason?”

Oof.

He did it; he was talking about choosing sides.

A lump in her throat formed and she blinked furiously as acute pain filled her chest and watered her eyes. The room around her spun in her periphery as she felt panic take root.

“Don’t ask me that, Harry,” she whispered, looking up into his green eyes. The eyes of the boy that she’d shared years of laughter and tears with, that she’d survived life or death situations with, whom she’d done her best to support and be there for, as he’d been there for her.

“You would choose him, wouldn't you?” Harry said sadly.

A tear escaped and ran down her cheek.

“Draco had been there for me when no one else was. When you weren’t. He would never make me choose. He understands what your friendship means to me. Why can't you understand that I need him too?”

A crease formed between Harry’s brows. “It's just–”

“We aren’t all sharing a common room or a tent anymore,” she said shakily. “Our lives are already going in different directions, and I'm afraid that if you make me choose, I’ll lose you forever.”

His eyes widened at her words.

“I love you like a brother, Harry,” she continued. “I don’t want that to happen, but the way things are going, it very well could. However, I refuse to be manipulated by ultimatums, so it won’t be because I choose Draco over you or Ron. It’ll be because you don’t value my friendship enough to support me and what I want. You’re the one making the choice.”

Hermione took a deep steadying breath and left Harry in his shock, not paying attention to where she was going until she found herself in front of a drink table. She crossed her arms and took deep breaths to try to get her tears under control.

A throat cleared, and she looked up to see a man holding a napkin out towards her. The memory of Draco doing the same thing months ago made her smile through her tears.

She took it.

“Thank you,” she said, wiping her eyes.

“Trouble in paradise, my dear?”

Hermione shook her head. “More like my friends don't understand my choices. We’ve been sort of… growing apart, and I wanted to fix things today, but… I’m sorry. You don’t care about any of this,” she said, with an apologetic look.

“C'est le temps que tu as perdu pour ta rose qui fait ta rose si importante,” the man said cryptically. He watched her with keen eyes.

It is the time you have wasted for your rose that makes your rose so important. It took her a second to translate, but her summers in France had her studying French since she was young.

“Le Petit Prince,” she said, looking at him in surprise.

“Bien sûr,” he said with a wide smile. “The deeper the friendship, and the more time you spend on any relationship, the stronger the impact it will have on your life, and the sadder you will be when it ends. Every friendship leaves its mark. If it is meant to last, it will, but friendships can change and evolve too. Some are only meant to shape you for a fleeting time, some find each other at all stages of life, and some grow apart, but the deepest friendships will always be there to fall back on, no matter how far you drift. Take it from me.”

She absorbed his words with a sad heart and smiled lightly. “You look too young to be so wise.”

He gave her a mysterious smile. “And you look too young to be so world-weary.”

She took a sip of her champagne. “Well, some might argue I’m too young for a lot of the things I've had to do.”

He observed her for a moment with a calculating gaze.

“Yes, knowing the state of the wizarding world in Britain, I’m not surprised to hear it, sadly. I can tell you're a resilient young lady. Friendship troubles aside, a friend may be waiting behind a stranger’s face,” he said with a knowing smile.

She did a double take. “Maya Angelou,” she said with approval. Then she took in the meaning of his words and smiled broadly. “Oh! I'm so sorry, I haven't introduced myself. I'm Hermione Granger,” she said, holding out a hand.

“Daston Grimm,” he returned with a satisfied grin, taking her hand, and giving it a firm shake.

“Oh!” Hermione’s eyes widened. “Draco told me about you earlier.”

“He was right,” Daston mused, picking up two flutes of champagne and handing one to her.

“What do you mean?”

“There’s something special about you. He told me as much. I hope you know that boy thinks the world of you.”

Heat flushed her cheeks, and she took a sip of champagne to hide her embarrassment at the flattery.

“I've known him since he was a child, you know. I always liked him despite certain… proclivities of his family. He's got a big heart, but most people don’t see it since he hides it so well. Visible emotions were trained out of him at a young age.”

Hermione was tempted to give this man a hug. She was so sick of hearing terrible things about Draco that it felt like a breath of fresh air, giving her a boost of positive feelings that she so desperately needed. “I see it too,” she said softly.

“Hermione,” he said. “I would love to have you and Draco over for dinner to discuss your research. My husband makes the best makowiec in the entire world.”

She laughed. “I’d love to, but Draco might not be able to get away from school for a while.”

He frowned. “Ah, yes. His probation. They did that poor boy dirty. Perhaps I can use my influence to get a one-night exception?”

“Can you really do that?” she asked. Maybe this man really did have all the influence Draco said he did.

“I’ll figure something out,” he winked, and clinked his glass to hers. “Go enjoy the party, Hermione. Let us rekindle our newfound friendship soon. I’m off to schmooze with the host.”

Hermione smiled widely. “Yes, I can’t wait.”

She watched him walk away with a last wink at her. She sipped the champagne, enjoying the pleasant taste and the bubbles in her mouth as it went down smoothly. She felt much better.

Her eyes wandered and took in all the people around the room. There was quite the variety of attendees, and she vaguely wondered if there was anyone else she should try to meet.

Her eyes locked onto a pair of blue eyes glaring at her with betrayal all over again, and she froze.

Ron.

She sighed and contemplated what to do. Should she ignore him? Should she talk to him and try to mend things? Was it even possible?

Not feeling particularly like dealing with his childish behaviour, she made the rounds, spending the next hour and a half talking to as many people as she could. She had come to the party to network, after all.

Later in the evening, Hermione found Luna and threw an arm around the girl.

“Sorry for ignoring my date,” she said. “How’s your night been?”

“Oh, I’ve had a lovely time. There is a really fascinating vampire over there named Dorin. He says he knows of a colony of Invisible snorkacks in Romania. He’s going to bring me there in the summer.”

Hermione let out a laugh. “You’re going to follow a vampire to Romania to go into the wilderness looking for invisible creatures? Is that safe?”

Luna shrugged. “Vampires have a much deeper connection to invisible creatures, you know. They see the world differently than us. I think it'll be educational.”

“That sounds,” she said, hesitating, “fascinating and potentially dangerous?”

“Sometimes things sound much more dangerous than they actually are,” Luna said, shrugging.

“Right,” Hermione said. Luna had really grown on her. When she was younger, Hermione had never understood the girl’s desire to believe in all things invisible and unprovable. But she’d proven herself to be accepting and thoughtful, with a unique perspective that set her apart from others, and for that, Hermione was grateful to have her as a friend.

“Have you talked to the boys at all?” Luna asked.

Hermione sighed and shook her head. “A little bit with Harry earlier, but he’s still saying the same things. And Ron’s been glaring at me all night, so I’ve been avoiding him, honestly. Although maybe I should just talk to him and get it over with.”

Luna snuck her arm around Hermione's waist and gave her a half hug. “Can I make a suggestion?”

“Please do.”

“When you get a chance with them one on one, don’t sugar coat it. Tell them how they’ve hurt you these last few months. Get it all out in the open once and for all. They will react how they react, but you will feel better for saying your truth. They might not get over it today, but they will eventually, and you'll have said everything you need to say.”

Hermione squeezed her. “Thanks Luna.”

Bite the bullet.

Just do it.

Hermione bit her lip and forced herself to take the steps to find Ron. They were long overdue for a private conversation.

She found him alone in a corner, chugging a pint. His cheeks were ruddy. She almost stopped and changed directions. Nothing good would come of it if Ron was drunk.

He spotted her and so she had no other option but to approach. She leaned against a pillar and tried to smile, “Hi, Ron.”

He just stared at her with a miserable expression on his face. “Why him, Hermione? Why not me? Anyone except me right?”

Yep, definitely drunk.

“Where’s Germaine?” she asked.

“She left,” he said, deflating and finishing off his pint before putting it haphazardly on the table.

“Why?”

He shrugged. “She got tired of me.”

Ugh.

“Ron,” she hissed. “Why are you doing this? You have a perfectly respectable girlfriend and you drove her away.”

“I didn’t drive her away!”

She stared, at a loss. “Ron, let's talk outside.”

Hermione turned and exited the room.

Ron followed her out the door and into the dark torch lit hallway. She walked quickly and stopped a few hallways over, next to a row of unused classrooms.

She turned around and asked plainly, “Okay Ron. What is this about? Why have you been acting so jealous all day?”

Ron’s eyes were teary, full of sadness, humiliation, and anger. She saw real emotion there; he was clearly distraught.

“Why him? Malfoy, Hermione! Why would you choose him, but not me? Tell me why.”

Had she made a mistake, keeping the truth of their breakup to herself? She’d known it would be hard on him, not knowing the real reason, but… telling him would have been worse. Or so she’d thought, but apparently he’d been torturing himself over it more than she’d imagined.

“Do you want to know why I broke up with you, Ron? Do you really want to know why I chose Draco and not you? Really?”

“Yes!” he said heatedly. “It’s been months, and I've thought about it every fucking day and I still can’t figure it out.”

“Do you remember the day I broke up with you? I stayed over at The Burrow.”

“Yes,” he frowned.

“I overheard you, Ron, when you were talking to George.”

It was a lazy August morning at the Burrow, and the sky was clear. Hermione lay prone on Ron’s bed, under him. His eyes were closed as he thrust and grunted his pleasure as he drove his cock into her, over and over.

The sun shone in through the open window, and a warm breeze was blowing the sheer curtains and giving the day a warm hazy start to match their lovemaking.

His weight was heavy but comforting atop her, and the sounds of his cock slapping into her filled the room. It felt good. Nice. There was a low hum of pleasure growing with each mild thrust, and she moaned into her pillow, trying to spur him on. “Harder, Ron,” she said.

He stopped. “Hm?”

“I said harder. Go harder.”

“Oh, okay.”

Ron sped up his movements, thrusting faster – not harder like she wanted. Hermione snuck a hand under herself and found her clit, to try to find the release that she needed. His breathing sped up and he grunted louder, and after a minute, his hips stuttered and she got one, two, three hard thrusts before he collapsed on top of her, breathing hard.

“Did you come?” he asked, voice hopeful.

Hermione let out a disappointed sigh into her pillow, and then turned around beneath him.

Of course not.

“Sure.”

“Was it good for you?”

“Yeah, it was great Ron,” she said with a false smile.

It wasn’t like she could tell him otherwise. He was already insecure about his sexual performance. The one time he went down on her, and she’d failed to come, he’d sulked for days, taking it as a personal slight.

Ron got up to shower, and Hermione closed her eyes and circled her clit the way that she liked until she finally had an orgasm, getting that little bit of release that she needed.

Afterwards, she lay spread eagle on the bed with a deep sigh, wondering if she was doing something wrong. Where was the magic she read about when a man touched a woman in those romance novels her mom liked? Where was the passion? Sexual satisfaction? The chemistry?

Ron returned with a towel around his waist and was drying his hair with another. He barely glanced at Hermione as he opened his wardrobe to get dressed.

He left with a quick kiss, and an, “I’m going down for breakfast first. Take your time getting up.”

When he left, Hermione took a long shower, massaging the stress out of her scalp, and washing the semen out of her vagina, before putting on a yellow summer dress and sitting by the open window with her arms wrapped around her knees to soak up the sun in solitude.

After a few minutes, she heard voices.

“... Angelina’s been great. I know it’s only been months, but we’ve really become close.” George.

“Isn't it a bit weird? Dating Fred’s girlfriend?” Ron.

Hermione peered down and saw the two boys rounding the corner to sit on the picnic bench.

“I think we both feel like it’s brought us closer to Fred. It’s what he would have wanted.” Silence. “How’s it going with you and Hermione?”

Ron sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “It’s… fine.”

“But?”

“It’s just… she’s always so sad, you know? Why can’t she just be happy? She’s obsessed with the idea of healing her parents and getting their memories back even though it's clearly impossible. It’s just… it’s all she talks about, and if I’m being honest, I’m tired of hearing it. I feel like she’s stuck in the past and needs to let go. Why can't she just move on?”

“Let go of what, her parents?”

“Well, yeah, pretty much. She did the damage, so shouldn’t she accept the consequences? They’re living safely and happily without her – I mean, because her parents don’t know her anymore, you know? They'll be fine, won’t they? I just think if she tries to move on from it, and stops obsessing over it, maybe she’ll actually be happy with me - ow!”

George had punched him in the arm. “Somehow I wonder how you’re my brother. You can’t ask her to give up her family, you idiot.”

“I’m not going to ask, I’m just telling you my thoughts - fuck, stop that would you?”

Hermione watched numbly as Ron stood up and left. George leaned back and looked out at the field, shaking his head.

The sting of his words cut straight through to her heart and bled all over her feelings. She hadn’t even known that George was aware of what she’d done to her parents, but clearly, Ron had told him without her permission.

Any romantic love she had for Ron became irreparably tainted from that moment on.

“You were talking about how you thought that I was obsessed with healing my parents, that it was a hindrance to our relationship, and that you wished I would give up my only remaining living blood relations because it annoyed you, because you couldn't handle me feeling sad. And rather than trying to help me through it, you wanted me to stop being sad because it was dragging down your mood.”

She let the silence ring between them.

Ron stared at her, frozen. The anger turned to shock on his face, which faded to guilt.

“I… I didn’t know you’d heard that.”

She scoffed. “Do you understand now why I didn’t tell you, or Harry, or Ginny? Having said it aloud, I feel sick just looking at you right now. I thought, if I voiced the reason, then it would always be between us. I was willing to just let it go so it wouldn’t come between our friendships. We were all still reeling from the war, and I know you needed their support and they needed yours. I wasn’t trying to hurt you by not saying it. I was trying to limit its effect on everyone.”

Ron stayed silent, completely sobered.

“Do you know what Draco did when I told him what I did to my parents? He told me I did the right thing, that I saved their lives. He just showed up in the library one day and started helping me research memory charm reversals, and he has been researching with me almost every day since! And I didn’t even have to ask him to. That man I was talking to at the party is a friend of Draco’s who’s going to fund a bloody research team for me.” Her voice rang through the empty hallway, echoing slightly in the suit of armour in the corner. “So, can you see? There is no comparison between you and Draco. You and I are not compatible. We were never right for each other. Draco and I are, in every way imaginable. He makes me laugh. He challenges my intellect; we have deep conversations, and we talk about books. We work together seamlessly. The sex is mind blowing. He always tries to make me feel better, happier, more confident. He cares about me. With the way you treat me, sometimes I think you've never cared about me. You always cared more about your ego than my happiness.”

Ron stared hard at the floor in front of him. He looked humiliated and humbled. Good.

“Germaine is a nice girl, Ron,” she added, sadly. "If you know what’s good for you, forget about me, go after her, and grovel until she forgives you. Because believe it or not, I want you to be happy. I still do. But as for you and me, we need some space until you stop blaming me for everything and criticising my choices. And maybe one day we can be friends again.”

Hermione wiped away an angry tear, walked past Ron and around the dark corner, and stopped short at the figure in front of her.

Harry was standing in the middle of the hallway, looking easily as shell shocked as Ron.

She searched his green eyes for a moment, then, unable to stand the hurt of Harry’s inevitable defence of Ron, she looked down at the floor and then sidestepped him.

She could just hear it. Hermione don’t you think that's a bit harsh? He didn’t know. Can't you just be nice? You know Ron is sensitive.

After a heartbeat, Harry followed her.

“Hermione!” he hissed quietly, and she walked faster. He grabbed her arm to stop her, but she shook him off.

“Don’t touch me,” she snapped, looking back at him with tears in her eyes. She kept walking until she reached the west staircase.

He followed her to the first landing. “Hermione, stop, please. Can we talk?”

“I think I’ve had enough talking for tonight.”

“Please.”

Her steps faltered at the sound of his voice breaking. She closed her eyes and a tear escaped. She brushed it away with the back of her hand and turned.

There were tears in his eyes to match her own.

“I heard you before,” he said. “I don’t want to lose you. I didn't think… I don't want it to come to that. Please talk to me.”

She hugged herself and looked at Harry in silence.

"I'm sorry," he said eventually.

“For what exactly?”

"For everything, I think.”

“You’re going to have to be a little more specific than that, Harry.”

“I think… I know I’ve been a shitty friend to you after you and Ron broke up. I think I blamed you for putting a wedge between the three of us, but I heard what you just said to Ron, and I know I’ve fucked up too. You didn’t deserve it. How can I fix this?”

“Harry,” she said tearily. “You can't. I've been struggling all year. I've had letters from all my contacts advising me not to attempt to heal my parents. McGonagall asked me to teach classes as a favour, and I chose to do it because I need the money since I don't even have a family to rely on anymore, but I was so exhausted and so busy. I've been at Hogwarts practically alone, with only two friends and Draco for company. I needed you this whole time, but you weren’t there. You were always meeting Ginny, but you couldn’t spare any time for me.

“I was looking forward to seeing you and Ron so much at the Three Broomsticks, because I’d hardly heard from either of you for months, and I wanted to catch up with my best friends. But what happened? Ron was belligerent all night. I found out he didn't even read the notes I spent a lot of time I didn’t have on, and that you gave them to your head Auror. I also learned that Ron's girlfriend has taken my place in our friendship. I thought I was the person you were there to see, but you went off with Ginny, Ron went off with Germaine, Luna snuck off with her boyfriend, and you all left me alone. And then of course, your only contact afterwards was to tell me to make amends with Ron like it was all my fault. I was too hurt to reply.”

Harry looked appropriately ashamed. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there enough this year, and for not treating you like a priority. And for that night.”

“After the Final Battle, you and Ron… you just… moved on. But I’ve been struggling trying to find a place in this world. Trying to find where I do belong. All I want is for some peace, and Draco gives that to me. You, and most of the people in this damned world only want to continue the hatred we tried so hard to eradicate. But I get scolded for trying to defend a man who was hurt so much more from this war than almost anybody, and it seems I'm losing all of my friends doing so. But, I am no longer willing to compromise on any of that. If you want to fix this, Harry, you need to try harder to understand me, and put more effort into maintaining this friendship.”

“Okay,” he said, swallowing.

“I have put myself out there, I have sacrificed myself so much for you, for Ron, for everyone, yet somehow I am still everyone’s last priority. And for some reason you all still feel the need to dictate my relationship. Do I not deserve a little bit of happiness?”

“You do. Of course you do.”

“Draco is a good man, Harry,” she said, voice tight. “He's not the same person he was. I have finally found somebody who puts me first. He’s everything I need.”

“I know,” Harry said, deflating a little bit.

"What?"

“I can see that he cares about you. After lunch, I confronted him, but he scolded me pretty badly for the way I've been treating you. I think I was in denial, but hearing what you said to Ron about him… maybe he's not as bad as I thought.”

The words sent a wave of something through her chest. An ache. A hope. She clutched at it.

“I'm sorry I was a bad friend. I took Ron’s side without even questioning it.”

“That’s why I didn’t say anything, Harry. I know Ron will always be your first and best friend. I didn’t want to come between that, to make you choose sides, so I just took myself out of the equation. I didn’t realise it at the time, but I backed away because I didn’t want to be the one to hurt more people like I hurt my parents. I was already too disappointed in myself.”

Hermione’s face crumpled and she pressed the heels of her palms to her eyes to stop the stupid tears.

Harry stepped forward and wrapped her in a big hug, like he’d used to.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry. I’ll be a better friend, I promise. I'll make more time for you, just you and me. We’ll have regular lunch dates or something.”

She nodded and breathed in Harry’s scent. A deep nostalgia for those lost moments of comfort when they’d been each other’s ultimate confidante filled her with longing and ripped a sob out of her chest.

Harry held her while she cried.

“We used to be able to read each other. What happened?” Harry asked and pulled back to wrap an arm around her shoulder and look out the window at the rain hitting the window pane. Lightning flashed in the dark night beyond. She leaned into him, two orphaned friends clutching onto each other.

“Life happened,” she said. “A war happened, and now we’re all just trying to figure out how to live in this altered existence with all the trauma of what we’ve been through. You found Ginny, you got a job, you have your own worries and a new circle of friends. It's just life. Our paths are going in different directions. And maybe that’s okay. Maybe it's good to have some space so we can figure out who we want to be. But I hope we’ll always still be there for each other.”

Harry was silent for a long time.

“You'll always be my sister,” he said, planting a kiss on her hair. “I hope we can overcome this.”

“Me too. One day we will.”

The heavy rain pelting the window slowed to a gentle pitter patter, and Hermione leaned into Harry, savouring his familiar embrace before saying goodnight and going up to bed.

Chapter Text

Draco turned off the scalding shower with a deep sigh of discontent. He stepped out, wrapped one of his luxurious quick-drying towels around his waist and picked up a smaller one to start drying his hair.

The anti-fog spell he’d used on the bathroom mirror months ago was beginning to fade, causing his reflection to look cloudy from the steam. He swiped the mirror with the towel in his hand and stared at the gloomy face beyond.

He saw a boy of sixteen, scared, angry, and hollow, with a slight sneer and dark circles under his eyes. It was an expression that used to be reserved for everything around him. Now it was only aimed at himself.

The impulse to lay scathing remarks and belittle Potter and Weasley had been overpowering. He’d wanted to fight back, to hit them where it hurt.

I’m going to kill you, you slimy, fucking Death Eater!

After all he’s done? He was a Death Eater, a blood supremacist!

Has he Imperiused you? Blackmailed you?

He’d heard their cutting accusations, and the irrational anger he’d felt towards them in return had made him feel like a boy again – the one that spouted nonsense about blood purity, worshipped his father, and knew nothing about the world.

Self-hatred overwhelmed him and the weight of his anxiety crushed his organs.

Once a monster, always a monster.

Right?

With a frustrated scowl, he ripped his eyes away from his reflection.

He opened the bathroom door and stepped out into the chilly air of the empty dorm.

The only positive aspect of his short stint back in Azkaban – if there was one – was that Hermione had gotten those seventh-year fuckers suspended until after the holidays, which meant he had the dorm to himself. He no longer had to defend himself from spells as he exited the bathroom.

Instead, he sat down on the edge of his bed and watched the rough waters of the lake through the window. The water was dark and turbulent, swirling below the surface as rain pelted down from above.

The temptation to use occlumency to numb his emotions was ever present. He’d been slowly weaning himself off of occlusion since Hermione had started sitting next to him in Potions, and he had no intention of starting the habit again.

He could be himself with her, so he’d begun to let down that wall and let himself feel without reservation. It was so freeing, not having to hide everything he was thinking.

She’d lulled him into a sense of safety, of comfort and hope.

He’d let his guard down, and he hadn’t been prepared for the reality check. Deep down, he knew he shouldn’t care what Potter and Weasley said. They were fucking morons. He’d intended to step back and let Granger deal with the idiots on her own, without being part of the conversation, but who was he kidding? Draco never had the capacity to shut up and take anything from them.

He’d been so fucking angry, furious at how they'd treated her, like she was the problem.

She was caring and selfless. How could they not see that?

But more than anger, guilt plagued him over the fact that his mere presence was causing more discord between Hermione and her friends.

She’d barely talked to him for two weeks, and he’d just gotten her to trust him again. He would be lying if he said he wasn’t worried that this would make her realise how much he didn’t fit into her life. He didn’t want this to derail them.

When she’d asked for a story in the alcove, it had been comforting for both of them, but it had also been his selfish way of asserting his claim, of reminding her that she was his, and that even though her friends were fucking dumbasses, he was there.

The more he thought about it, the more his insides twisted.

He could only hope to Merlin that the Golden Trio would resolve their issues today, and that his involvement with Hermione wouldn’t end up deepening the rift between the three of them. He couldn’t deal with hurting her more.

Draco pushed the damp hair out of his eyes and listlessly flopped down onto his silk duvet.

A movement caught his eye and he glanced at the window, where a grindylow battled with the rough current, only to give up and tumble down and down in a spiral of turbulent water.

∞∞∞

The Great Hall was crowded for lunch. Draco took a seat at the end of the Slytherin table.

His eyes immediately sought out Hermione across the hall. Her hair was back to her normal wild curls, and he smiled at the memory of her frizzy hair that morning, and how endearing she’d looked, so undone.

She wasn’t sitting with Potter or Weasley, like he’d expected, but two other students. They turned to look at one another and he recognized them as the Slytherin girl who liked Potions, and the seventh year Gryffindor – Doug? Denny? Whatever the fuck his name was – who had taken a liking to Hermione.

Hermione laughed at something the prick said, and jealousy crept up in his gut.

With a sigh, Draco took out a book and grabbed a sandwich. He had no appetite, but he forced himself to eat, just so he could get out of there and not be tempted to keep watching her like a fucking creep.

Halfway through his sandwich, an owl swooped down and dropped a letter on his plate.

Draco dusted off the crumbs and looked at the envelope. His name was written in familiar handwriting. He slid a finger behind the wax seal, lifting it off, and pulled out the thick parchment.

Dear Draco Malfoy,

I have been remiss in the handling of your probation this year, and for that I am sorry.

It had not crossed my mind that Horace Slughorn would abuse his power over you. It has also come to my attention that he has not been performing his job up to standard this year. I have investigated this matter as well and have decided that he will not be returning after the break, and thus a new Potions Master must be found. I would not usually be divulging such personal information to students, but you deserve to know that he is being dealt with.

That being said, I would like to offer you a unique opportunity.

Ms. Granger has been convincing and rather vehement in her defence of you. She has made it known that your potions knowledge far exceeds that of a Hogwarts education. I am also aware that you have had extra tutelage from Severus over the years, which leads me to believe she is right.

After much discussion with the Minister for Magic, we have come to an agreement.

If you are amenable, I would like to have a Potions Master assess you for your skills over the Christmas Holidays. If you pass, then you may complete your NEWTs and return to Hogwarts as the new Potions instructor in January. Perks include a research budget, your own Potions stores and rooms, your own quarters, and a full salary of course. Your activity, however, must be restricted to the castle per your probation, and you still may not use any kind of offensive or combative magic.

The Minister and I agree that with proper supervision, your history should not be a factor in your ability to teach. Any potential backlash will go through me.

Should you reject this opportunity, your current probation will remain as it is, and you will continue to attend classes until the end of the school year.

The choice is yours.

Kindly relay your decision before the holidays.

Sincerely,

Minerva McGonagall

Headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

He let out a laugh under his breath at the memory of Hermione’s confession:

“I told McGonagall you should be allowed to take your NEWTs now and replace Slughorn as the Potion’s professor, but I don’t know if she took that seriously or not. Shoot. I didn’t mean to say that.”

His eyes found her again at the Gryffindor table. They were all there: Hermione, Potter, Weasley, the new girl, the other Weasley and Lovegood.

Her family.

His chest twinged. It struck him that he would always be at odds with the people she loved. He could never imagine being remotely friendly with Potter or Weasley. Ginny Weasley was a firecracker and hated him about as much as her brother, though she'd mellowed out a bit in the last few weeks. Lovegood was friendly enough, but he didn’t understand why, considering the time she’d spent in the manor dungeons.

“Man, these sandwiches are goooood.”

Draco tore his eyes away from Hermione and raised an eyebrow at the blond boy across from him, currently grabbing his favourite sandwiches and stacking them on his plate.

Adam Wheeler.

“Wheeler,” he said, “What the fuck are you doing?”

Adam furrowed his brow and took a bite. “What?”

“Don’t you have friends to sit with?”

Adam shrugged.

Draco sighed and leaned back in his seat, wondering at the mentality of these children. He was never remotely nice to them, but they kept coming back.

“Can I ask you something?” Adam said eventually through a mouthful of food.

Draco narrowed his eyes, anticipating a question he would not like.

Adam ignored his lack of response and continued, “Do you really think there’s no difference between purebloods and mudbloods?”

For fuck’s sake.

“What did I tell you about using that word?” Draco said, deathly quiet.

Adam sank back, face turning white. “Sorry, sir. It’s just a habit.”

“You needed to change that fucking habit yesterday.”

“Sorry.”

Draco’s hackles lowered at the scared look on the kid’s face. Sure, he’d threatened Adam a little bit back when he’d said the word to Hermione, but he’d never actually hurt a first year.

Sighing, Draco leaned forward onto the table and looked him in the eyes.

“There is a difference,” he said and paused to observe Adam’s confused expression. “Not what you expected I would say?”

Adam shrugged a shoulder. “Well, you like Ms. G, so I thought…”

“Listen carefully, Wheeler. The difference between purebloods and muggleborns is in how they grow up. Muggle culture is vastly different from ours, and muggleborns have a challenging time adapting. Many of them come to Hogwarts knowing nothing, whereas we have a whole eleven years of magic exposure and knowledge of the way things work. They have to work harder to catch up and learn everything we take for granted. It’s not exactly a fair race, and purebloods want to keep it that way. Do you know why?”

Adam frowned and shook his head.

“Think about it,” Draco continued. “We live in a world designed for purebloods. There are no programs to help muggleborns adapt because they want muggleborns to be disadvantaged, so they can keep that advantage and stay in power. But they won’t tell you that. They want to feed you the idea that muggleborns are inferior. That’s the bloody purist mindset, anyway. It’s all fucking propaganda, based on power, not fairness, not reality. It’s brainwashing.”

“You don’t believe it? That muggleborns are inferior?”

“No, I don’t fucking believe it, and you shouldn’t either.” Draco ran a hand through his hair. “Imagine this. What if you had to give up magic today and live amongst muggles? How would you feel?”

Adam looked horrified at the idea. “I don't know. I wouldn’t know where to start.”

“Exactly. You have no experience with the way muggle things work. You’d have to learn everything muggles think of as common sense, like flipping a switch to turn on lights, and how to use their electric kitchen devices for heating water and toasting bread. Everyone uses computers and something called email to communicate and find information. They have a thing called telephones that you can carry in your pocket to speak to people anywhere, immediately. They use plastic fucking cards for money, and they have something called convenience stores on every street corner to buy snacks and cigarettes. Does it sound like I’m speaking gibberish?”

Adam nodded.

“These are all things every muggle knows. To them, we’d seem really stupid not knowing those things, right? But we’re not stupid, it’s just a different culture, a separate way of life. It’s the same thing for muggleborns moving to the magical world. They're not stupid. They’re not worse at magic. They're just disadvantaged from the start, and the magical world doesn’t seem to give a fuck.”

“How do you know so much about the muggle world?” Adam asked.

In another stark moment of self-reflection, Draco looked at Adam, and saw his eleven-year-old self stare back. They had the same upbringing, but Adam was already questioning things. If Draco had had better influences in his life, would he have done the same?

“I spent the summer with muggles,” he said quietly. “Because to them, I was just a normal person, not a public enemy.”

Adam looked on, curious and perplexed.

“To answer your real question, though,” Draco continued. “There’s no difference in pureblood and muggleborn magical ability. You’ve seen Granger’s magic, haven’t you? She’s the top student in this school. She’s…”

“Special, yeah, yeah. I heard. But that’s not typical right?”

Draco smirked at his attitude.

“She tries harder than others, but it doesn’t mean that others don't have the potential.”

They lapsed into silence. Adam crossed his arms and stared, unseeing, at the pitcher of pumpkin juice between them as he absorbed the words.

“Have you been behaving in class?”

“Yes,” Adam said begrudgingly, seeming to have lost his appetite.

“Good. Do yourself a favour and get away from that pureblood mindset. It ruined my fucking life. Don’t let it ruin yours.”

Adam looked up at that and sighed.

“How’s your father?” Draco asked suddenly. He’d been a low-ranked Death Eater. Not a nice one, but not the worst.

“Why?”

“Just wondering how far rooted your prejudice lies.”

Adam shrugged. “We don’t talk much. He’s got four years in Azkaban. It’s only my mum at home now. She’s a lot nicer than him.”

Draco nodded. “That means you’ll be in fifth year when he gets out. Use that time to build yourself a good support system – friends that are not friends because of blood, and adults who are more open-minded. Don’t succumb to his ideas when he returns.”

“Adults like you?”

He looked at Adam’s begrudgingly hopeful expression and sighed. “Yes, like me, Wheeler.”

If he could keep these kids away from what he’d gone through, he could suffer through their occasional presence.

Adam smiled to himself and picked up another sandwich. He looked so young at that moment. It was easy to forget he was only eleven.

Out of habit, Draco glanced over at the Gryffindor table and caught sight of Hermione’s curls bouncing as she walked with purpose out of the Great Hall.

His eyes snapped back to the Gryffindor table and locked onto a pair of green ones, glaring at him.

Fucking Potter.

Draco’s stomach dropped. By the looks on Potter and Weasley’s faces, things had not improved. He glanced back to the doors, debating whether to follow her.

A heartbeat later, he stood up and stalked out of the Great Hall.

“Wait, where are you going?” Adam called out, before running behind him to catch up.

Draco ignored him, and pushed the heavy doors open with a shove. He turned left towards Gryffindor when he heard another voice following him.

He stopped, turned around, and narrowed his eyes on the two boys.

Sean and Adam skid to a halt in front of him.

“Why are you following me?” Draco asked, sounding more patient than he was.

“Did you…?” Sean started, looking awkward for a moment. He shuffled his feet and glanced at Adam, then back at Draco.

“Spit it out, Digger.”

“Did Ms. G forgive you?” Sean asked, looking decidedly sheepish.

Draco blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

Adam snorted. “Is this about Ava?” he laughed. “Salazar, you are so hung up on her!”

“I'm not!”

“You are! Why else would you be asking about that?”

Draco furrowed his brow, confused. “What the fuck is this? Explain. Or rather, don’t. Just leave me out of it.”

He walked further down the hallway, but then slowed to a halt, realising he wouldn’t be able to find Hermione at this point.

“Sean messed up, and Ava’s mad at him,” Adam said, following. “He wants to know how you got Ms. G to forgive you, because he looooves Ava.”

“Shut up!”

Draco smirked and leaned against the stone wall. “You like the little swot?”

“No!” Sean’s cheeks tinged pink.

Oh, to be a first year, with first-year problems like crushes. He envied them for their innocence.

“Granger forgave me,” he settled with.

“How?”

“I made her listen, and I apologised. Don't be a stubborn arse, Digger. If you fucked up, own up to it.”

Sean deflated.

“Oi!” Adam called down the hallway to where Ava, Veronica, and Hope were coming out of the Great Hall. “Ava! Come here!”

Ava glanced over at them and narrowed her eyes. “Why?”

“Sean has something to say!”

“Adam! What the fuck!” Sean hissed.

The girls walked over, and Ava raised her nose, crossing her arms. “What?”

Sean glared at Adam and then glanced awkwardly at Veronica and Hope who exuded equal amounts of judgement.

Draco smirked at the spectacle.

“I just wanted to say… sorry,” Sean said, swallowing nervously as he looked at Ava. “I didn't mean those things I said to you yesterday. I messed up. I was just angry at something else and took it out on you.” Sean glanced at Draco for approval, so he gave him a little nod.

Ava looked shocked and awkward for a long moment before her indifference and anger melted.

“It's okay,” she said, shrugging it off. “I never take you seriously anyway.”

Sean looked starstruck and lovesick, and Draco would have been tempted to either laugh or smack the boy in the head, if he didn’t know he looked at Granger the exact same way.

“Ahem.”

Draco looked over and saw Potter approaching, looking confrontational. He tore his attention away from the minions and lifted himself from the wall, standing tall.

Potter crossed his arms menacingly. He held his wand in one hand, tapping it threateningly against his bicep.

“Explain yourself,” he ordered.

Draco had to stop himself from snorting at the image of Harry fucking Potter, in full wizarding robes, attempting to interrogate him like he was already a fully-fledged Auror. He should have predicted a little world experience would go to his head.

Draco made a show of languidly rolling up his sleeves, and then put his hands in the pockets of his muggle joggers and waited. He didn’t take out his wand. It wasn’t like he could retaliate.

Potter furrowed his brow as he looked at the tattoos.

“What are you doing with Hermione?” Potter pressed.

“I don't see how that’s any of your business.”

“She’s like a sister to me, and if you're taking advantage–”

Draco scoffed. Potter’s attempt to protect her was too little too late. “Has almost dying scrambled your brains, Potter?”

Potter froze and narrowed his eyes.

“I don't have a sister,” Draco continued. “But even I know that’s not how you treat a sister. Or a friend, for that matter.”

“Excuse me?”

“Do I need to spell it out for you? You’re a shit friend,” he spat.

Potter stared, confused at the direction the conversation was taking.

Draco crossed his arms, if only to keep his hands from doing something stupid, and advanced on him. “You've upset her, ignored her, made her feel worthless and abandoned when she needed you, like her worth is conditional to you. Granger thinks of you like family, but all I see is that you take advantage of her. You take her intelligence and kindness for granted and give nothing back. And what? You think you have a right to dictate her love life? You can fuck right off.”

Potter glared at him. “Fuck you, Malfoy, don’t act like you know her more than I do. We went through an entire war side by side, fighting people like you. So, you can see why I don’t trust you. How do I know you’re not doing this as some stupid act of revenge? Or I don’t know, using her for your image or whatever it is you are doing? You were a Death Eater. You can’t overturn your personality overnight.”

Flashbacks of the last two years resonated throughout his mind. Potter fucking knew nothing, as usual. Rage began to build within him, rising so fast that he had to bite his tongue from saying something he’d regret.

“He’s not a Death Eater! He's a unicorn!” Sean said, stepping between them.

Fucking Merlin, he’d forgotten they were there. Draco closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

“For fuck’s sake, Sean! He’s a unicorn lover. For the millionth time, get it right!” Hope said, exasperated.

Sean smirked at Hope, and Draco got the sense he was teasing.

“Uh…” Potter's confusion was comical as he stared at the first years. “What?”

Draco unclenched his hand and clapped it on Sean’s shoulder. “Stand down, minions. Potter and I have a long history. Nothing you say will change his mind.”

“But he’s—”

“Scram. All of you,” Draco ordered, voice devoid of amusement. At his tone, they all looked at each other and reluctantly left. Whispers followed them before dying out:

“… Potter? Like Harry P…?”

“… fighting over Ms. G…”

“… do you think would win…”

“… Malfoy, definitely…”

Draco watched them leave.

“You have minions?” Potter scoffed. “Really? What did you do? Induct all the Slytherin first years into your schemes?”

Draco rolled his eyes. “They’re Granger’s minions, not mine,’ he said, and watched the confusion flicker over Potter’s face once more. “Maybe you’d know if you bothered to fucking talk to her once in a while.”

“I do,” Potter said defensively. “I tried.”

“Yeah? How?”

He hesitated. “That's none of your business.”

Draco’s hands turned to fists. They looked at each other in equal measures of dislike and distrust. It was obvious enough that neither one was about to concede.

“I really can’t stand you, Potter,” he all but growled. “You think the whole fucking universe is about you. You thought the whole war was too.”

Potter let out a dark laugh. “No, there was just a psycho murderer after me, no biggie.”

“You think the entire war was the Dark Lord after you?” Potter opened his mouth to speak, but Draco cut him off. “He was deranged and obsessed with you, yes, but it was never your war. It was always hers. Muggleborns were murdered, expelled from society, raped, beaten, and arrested. The war was so much more than Harry Potter versus the Dark Lord. It was centuries of pureblood prejudices scared of the idea of new blood stealing their power. ”

“I know that.”

“I don’t think you do. She supported you during the war, but how the fuck do you think she must have felt having her own people targeted for murder and stripped of their wands? Don’t you ever think about how it’s affected her? What’s she’d had to sacrifice? The war ended, you got the spotlight, but then what? You can go on living and become a fucking Auror or whatever, but Granger’s war is not over. Those views are still everywhere. She is still fighting against them. She’s still dealing with the consequences. Maybe it’s time you stop acting like the fucking main character and support her for a change?” Draco took a deep breath and glared at Potter and the stupid dense expression on his face. “Something tells me that whatever happened between you two was entirely your fault, and that you’re expecting her to fix it, as usual. Because that’s what she does; she fixes things. She finds solutions when no one else wants to try. She’s always there for others, but what the fuck are you doing for her except being a shitty friend and making her cry?”

Potter raised his wand, vibrating with anger.

“I know better than anyone what she’s had to deal with, and you’re a daily reminder of it,” he seethed. “She doesn’t need to be hanging out with Death Eaters, especially a prick like you that called her names and wanted to hurt her because of her blood. If you cared about her at all, then you’d stay away from her.”

Draco stepped into Potter’s raised wand, feeling it dig into his chest.

“I don’t give a fuck about you, Potter. I really don't. Resort to cheap tricks and petty insults all you want, but if you are accusing me of hurting Granger, you need to take a look in the fucking mirror.”

Finally, a look of doubt crossed Potter’s face.

“She’s hurt because of you,” Draco repeated hotly. “Are you oblivious or just stupid?”

“Fuck off.”

“Gladly. I never understood why she was friends with you, honestly. She's too good for you.”

With a last glare, Draco sidestepped Potter’s wand, knocking him in the shoulder as he walked away.

∞∞∞

Later that afternoon, Draco exited through the creaky wooden castle doors and emerged back into the rain.

His purpose to brave the downpour was twofold: The castle was suffocating – Potter and Weasley were wandering around somewhere, and that set him on edge – and Daston was set to arrive soon for Slughorn’s party.

Prepared this time with a water repelling charm, Draco walked a few metres along the castle wall before stopping to conjure a large transparent awning and a comfortable chair. He settled into it with a deep sigh, pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, and shook it to slide one out. He took the cigarette between his lips and then lit it with his wand. He inhaled deeply, letting the familiar habit calm him, and blew the smoke out as he leaned his head back and looked up at the hypnotic rain parting above his spell.

He thought of McGonagall’s offer. He didn’t care for the idea of teaching, but the prospect of having his own private accommodations and a potion’s lab for research was enticing.

He could have unrestricted use of any ingredients he wanted and wouldn’t be accused of stealing.

He could stop this charade of repeating all the classes he’d already taken last year.

He could stop worrying about being cursed by the seventh years.

He could have somewhere private to bring Hermione.

He could–

“Well, if it isn’t little Draco Malfoy,” a familiar voice filled the space above the underlying shhhh of rain. “Not so little anymore though, I see.”

Draco turned his gaze to the man in his late thirties. He had curly dirty blonde hair with a trimmed beard and an enigmatic smile.

Daston Grimm.

He stood up to shake the man’s hand, and then charmed another chair. “Daston. Nice to see you. Will you join me?”

“Enjoying the rain today?” Daston’s eyes twinkled as he sat down. “It does have a certain heavy aura, don’t you think?”

Draco shrugged, looking around at the grey clouds rumbling in the sky and the watercolour effect created by the rain hazing up the world beyond and bouncing off the cold ground.

“Usually I would disagree with you, but I saw an augury this morning. I know they're not portents of bad luck, but something feels…”

“Different?”

Draco nodded and took a long drag of his cigarette. He glanced at Daston to see the man eyeing the tattoos peeking out around his wrist.

“I've heard many things about you these last few years, my boy. How do you fare?”

“Life has been shit,” Draco said plainly. It was the truth. He reached into his pocket and offered a cigarette to Daston.

Daston took one and lit it, bringing it to his lips with a discerning look. “A Malfoy smoking a muggle cigarette? That's something I thought I’d never see.”

“I don't particularly care what Malfoys should or shouldn't do anymore,” he said with a shrug.

“I've always liked you, kid. You've got a sharp mind. It's good to see you out of the influence of your name for a change.”

Draco raised his brows in agreement.

“So, this girl in your letter. Tell me about her.”

Draco ruffled his hair as he thought. Daston was a tricky motherfucker. You never knew what he was thinking.

He'd reached out to him for advice on healing Hermione's parents’ memories. The only reply had been a short but cryptic missive a few days prior: I’ll arrive at the castle around four on Saturday. Find me.

“She’s smart,” Draco said carefully. “Genius, really. She works hard, she reads more than anyone, knows more than anyone, tries harder than anyone.”

Daston raised an eyebrow. “Boring.”

Fuck. Letting out a deep breath, he wracked his brain for the right thing to say.

“She’s Hermione Granger. In my year. Muggleborn. Logical mind behind the downfall of the Dark Lord. She’s… special.”

A spark of interest lit up Daston’s eyes. “Continue.”

“She sacrificed too much for a war she was forced into, and she lost her family in the process. She’s trying to figure out how to get them back all on her own, but she needs help. She deserves it; and honestly, if anyone in the world could find a solution, it would be her. I just… I want to help. I need to.”

Daston smiled appraisingly. “Have her find me at the party,” he said after a while. At Draco's questioning look, he added, “If she impresses me, I will create a research team. Will you be on it?”

“Yes.”

Daston nodded, satisfied. He vanished his cigarette and stood up.

“Rain nourishes life, Draco. Don't hide from it. Let it wash away the heaviness within.”

With a snap of his fingers and a knowing smirk, the awning was dispelled. The heavy rain poured down on Draco for the second time that day, plastering his hair to his forehead and permeating his clothes in seconds.

The solid wooden castle door groaned and then met its frame with a dull thud, signifying Daston’s departure. He watched the door bounce back just a fraction before settling into place.

With a look at his hand, he flicked his drenched cigarette out of existence, leaned his face up to the sky with closed eyes, and let the rain pelt him.

∞∞∞

Draco watched Hermione enter the party with an aching heart.

She was so bloody gorgeous in that dress of hers. He wanted to keep her close, run his hands over her curves, thread his fingers through her curls, and kiss her.

But he couldn’t.

As he watched her disappear through the ornate door to join the live music and buzz of voices beyond, he felt an irrational fear that she would disappear forever.

Like he didn’t belong where she was going.

His presence in her life was interfering with her friendships. They were her family; she needed them.

He was causing her pain again, and that made him sick to his stomach. It made his heart pound, and his hands shake. He hated hurting her.

Fuck.

He ran a hand over his face and looked up to see Slughorn watching him with narrowed eyes.

Draco stared back at him, unblinkingly for a few heartbeats before sticking his hands in his pockets and approaching the rotund sycophant.

“You're not invited,” Slughorn told him with an air of defiance.

“I wasn’t planning on joining,” Draco snapped, barely holding back a sneer. “I just wondered how you felt about me taking over your job next semester. That must be a kick to your ego. You’re so fucking incompetent that you’re being replaced by the student you tried to have incarcerated.”

Slughorn’s eyes bugged out of his head.

“Or did you not know?” Draco said with a mean smirk, and then walked down the hallway, leaving the old bastard sputtering.

Time to send that owl.

∞∞∞

The castle was dark and quiet. The stone halls were cold and damp, and the only sound that could be heard was an occasional creak as the suit of armour the next hallway over changed its position.

As the party went on somewhere in the dungeons down below, Draco sat alone in the large open alcove on the fourth floor. The rain had slowed, and the moon was peeking through the clouds, lighting up his hair and glinting through the half-empty bottle of firewhiskey in his hand. It was his last one.

Anxiety and restlessness seeped into his cells and hummed through his veins.

How could one conversation with scarhead and the weasel revert him back to his sixth-year self so fucking easily? He didn’t want to be that person anymore. He didn’t want to hate everything. He didn’t want to be compared to the version of himself that had spewed insults and slurs all the time, who’d been so fucking angry and scared for his life that he’d broken down and befriended a ghost because he couldn't show his emotions anywhere else.

Was it selfish of him to want a fresh start, like he’d had in the summer with Julian and the lads? Like he’d had with Hermione these last few months? He just wanted people to look at him and not think he was a fucking monster.

He dealt with it daily, and he was used to it, but this was the first time he'd seen its effect on her, and it was sobering.

So, after battling with his occlusion all day, he turned to whiskey to numb the pain.

Hermione had single handedly pulled him out of the depths of the ocean in which he’d been drowning. She made everything easier to deal with – the stares, the whispers, the name calling, Slughorn. She made him feel like he could be whomever he wanted to be. She’d fought for his freedom when no one else had. His own parents hadn’t even fought for him, and his friends had been just as powerless as he.

He had no need of an Elysium Bloom to know she was it for him. He felt such an ease with her, like they’d known each other this intimately for years and not just a month. He wanted to know all of her thoughts and all of her worries so he could make things better, make things up to her.

She was everything.

But what was he?

A dark cloud that only brought destruction and pain wherever he went.

He knew how hard everything was for her with her parents, and he knew what it was like to be forced into survival mode in war and have trouble adjusting to the after. Was he causing her more grief by being in her life? By being the source of tension between her and her chosen family?

He couldn’t help but wonder if she would be better off without him.

"Malfoy."

With a beleaguered sigh, Draco glanced over to find the head girl leaning against the wall, arms crossed, watching him. She wore a blue ensemble with a black overcoat draped around her shoulders. Potter’s, probably.

He gave her a dead stare and took a swig of firewhiskey.

Ginny approached and held a hand out for the bottle, eyebrows raised in expectation, as was her routine.

Draco froze at the familiar action.

Can't you just be nice?

Granger’s face when she’d said the words ages ago was still stuck in his mind. All the fight left him, and he wordlessly held out the bottle for her to take. He would order more.

Ginny closed her hand around the glass neck of the bottle, but instead of taking it and going on her way, she sat down across from him and took a swig.

Draco looked at her for a moment, wondering what her game was, and then directed his gaze back out the window.

The silence was thick, but he was not in the mood for a conversation.

“You know, when you came back to Hogwarts this year, I thought you should have been in Azkaban,” she said, filling the silence between them.

His chest ached as all the self-deprecating thoughts of the day seemed to culminate. The whiskey wasn’t doing enough.

“I thought you were the same spoiled brat spewing insults and slurs on every breath,” she continued.

Draco sighed and ran an agitated hand through his hair as he tried to ignore her. The rain had lessened to a sprinkle, and he could make out the top of the forbidden forest in the moonlight.

“When Hermione started defending you, and claiming you were different, I didn’t believe her. And when I found out you two were… together, I just didn’t get it.”

His eyes finally shot to hers at the mention of Hermione. Ginny held out the bottle, and he hesitated for a moment before leaning forward to take it. He held it to his lips and let the fiery liquid burn down his throat.

“But then she told me that maybe you were only retaliating, so I started to pay attention and saw it too. You never started shit. You just fought back. So, I'm sorry for assuming the worst.”

Draco’s fists unclenched and he took in a deep breath. He hadn’t even realised he’d been so tense. Ginny’s brown eyes were looking at him with too much understanding. It was unnerving.

“I've seen how you treat her,” she added. “Hermione has always had good judgement. I don't know how I forgot that.”

She was watching him carefully, awaiting some kind of reaction.

“Why are you friends with her?” Draco asked, finally.

Ginny’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“I know why she's your friend, but why are you hers?” His voice came out rougher than he’d intended, more accusatory, and Ginny visibly tensed.

“Because I like her.”

It was not a bad answer, but Draco was slightly drunk and feeling belligerent.

“Most of her friends seem to take advantage of her because she's smart, because she always has the fucking answers,” he cut out. “You are all constantly asking her for help. You and Lovegood with those fucking essays. Don't you fucking know how much she’s taken on with NEWTS classes, teaching, and her own research? That she’ll never say no because she is scared of losing you?”

A guilty expression crossed her face. “Did she tell you that?”

“No. I just have eyes.”

Ginny sighed and looked down at her nails. “I’ve known Hermione for more than six years. We’d share a room whenever she’d visit the Burrow in summers, but at school, we were never that close. I think the essay thing started early this year as an excuse to get closer. She would always offer, so then I started asking.”

“Find a better way to be close,” he said, taking another swig of firewhiskey.

They lapsed into silence, and Draco felt the rough stone with the tips of his fingers, trying to ground himself.

“You love her, don't you.”

Draco's eyes snapped up to hers again. Her head tilted at him curiously, like she was trying to solve a puzzle. His heart pounded in his throat for much too long.

“Fuck off,” he muttered, tearing his eyes away and holding out the bottle, which she took with a smirk. “Did she resolve things with Potter and Weasley?” he asked.

Ginny shrugged. “I'm not sure. She had a big confrontation with each of them. It's been a hard day for her. She's back in the dorm already.”

“So go comfort her.”

“I will. But you know I'm not the one she wants.”

He shook his head. “I'm the reason she's fighting with them.”

Ginny scoffed.

“Is that why you’re here moping? She’s fighting for you, you prat. Don't be a stubborn fool like those two idiots.”

Draco laughed under his breath and gave her a half-hearted smirk. “Aren’t you dating one and related to the other?”

“So? That doesn’t mean I can’t call them out on their stupidity, same as I’d call you out on yours.” She levelled him with a look. “Hermione’s my girl. Don't you dare hurt her.”

“Hurting her is the last thing I want to do.”

Ginny nodded, satisfied. “Then we’re good.”

They sat in silence for a while, listening to the gentle rain on the window and the sound of voices trailing by a few corridors down.

“Can I ask you a question?” Ginny asked, peering at him with a slight smirk on her freckled face.

“Must you?” he asked with mild sarcasm.

Her smirk widened. “Why do you have a pygmy puff tattoo?”

It took him a second to remember that she’d seen him shirtless in the Gryffindor dorm a few weeks ago before he’d been carted off to Azkaban.

He let out a laugh.

“It’s not a pygmy puff. Did it make you see me differently?”

Ginny tilted her head and looked him up and down. “I did wonder what secret personality you were harbouring. A cute pink creature didn't seem to fit all those bad boy rebel vibes you have going on,” she said, gesturing at him with her hands.

He snorted at that and grinned. Julian and his fucking magic. He would get a kick out of this. “Maybe you don't really know me.”

Ginny smiled broadly and shook her head. “Maybe I don't,” she said, standing up and placing the firewhiskey down next to him. “Take care of yourself, Malfoy, and don’t mope too much. Hermione will need you after what happened today.”

Draco watched her go and resumed looking out the window. The rain had stopped, and the stars peeked out from behind the clouds.

He watched them for a few more minutes before heading down to bed.

Chapter Text

After the emotional rollercoaster that was the weekend, Monday morning felt positively mundane.

Hermione awoke late to an empty dorm. After splashing her face with cold water in a futile attempt at reducing the swelling still around her eyes from last night’s crying, she threw on her uniform, her cloak, a thick yellow knit scarf, and then made her way to the Great Hall for the end of breakfast.

Ginny and Luna were nowhere to be seen, and a scan of the room told her that Draco was also absent, so she sat at the Gryffindor table, alone.

She made herself a cup of tea and took a sip, relishing the comforting taste as it warmed her from the inside.

Bright sun rays streamed in from the tall windows. The enchanted ceiling reflected the calm blue sky, sprinkled with fluffy clouds, but a frosty chill was in the air, as though the rain had finally washed away autumn and declared it winter.

The hall was filled with the buzzing sounds of tired students piling their plates with toast, sausages, and eggs to sustain them through the first classes of the day. Life went on as though nothing had changed.

But it had; everything felt different.

It felt like she was on the precipice. Of what? She wasn't sure. It was as though yesterday had been before, and today was going to be the after, however it may come.

For a long time, she’d been holding onto the past, wanting only to return to a time when her, Harry, and Ron had been inseparable; but now, she was beginning to accept that sometimes things just… changed, and with it, the cloud of anxiety that had been hovering around her all term was beginning to clear. A wild freedom crept in in its place, telling her that she could now craft her life how she wanted, without the need to appease anyone.

It still hurt. She didn't know if they would fully rekindle their friendship in the future, only time would tell, but at least with Harry, she was hopeful that things might turn around now that they’d cleared the air.

Across the hall, her eyes caught on something that made her smile: her students were clustered together at the Slytherin table. Adam, Chase, and Indie were chatting; Hope, Veronica, and Anna were sorting through those little idol cards that they loved; and Sean and Ava were playing some kind of game with their hands. Sean pulled his hand away, laughing, and Ava swatted at him in an energetic manner before a bright smile lit up her face.

Something in Hermione’s chest swelled, and tears of emotion pricked behind her eyes. After everything, these kids were now crossing house boundaries and sitting together by choice. It gave her hope for the future of the wizarding world.

A loud flutter of wings had Hermione looking up as the owl post swooped in. A school barn owl landed on the table and haughtily held out a leg. She took the scrap of parchment tied there and gave the bird a piece of toast before it shot back up into the air.

She unfurled the note.

Ditch the library during your free period and come to the lake! Bring me some toast, and I’ll love you forever. - G.W.

She laughed under her breath. Ginny must have had quidditch practice in the morning and skipped breakfast. She drained her tea, packed a stack of buttered toast in a napkin, and stood up.

Her gaze swept over the Great Hall one final time, hoping to find Draco.

She wanted to thank him for introducing her to Daston and to tell him everything that happened with Harry and Ron. She wanted to sink into the comfort of his hug as he played with the ends of her hair. She wanted to make sure he was okay after yesterday. It wasn’t as though he’d been any more prepared for that confrontation than she had. But most of all, she wanted to kiss him and tell him how amazing he was.

Where was he?

∞∞∞

She found Ginny and Luna sitting on a mat under the big oak tree by the lake. All three girls had the same free period, but it was the first time they were spending it together.

“Took you long enough!” Ginny shouted as Hermione approached. “I was worried you didn’t get my message.”

“It’s a long walk.” She sat down on the mat and handed Ginny the toast.

Ginny let out the most guttural sound of hunger Hermione had ever heard, opened the napkin, and greedily took a bite. “I love you,” Ginny groaned through a full mouth.

Luna’s face lit up with tinkling laughter. “Is that how you say it to Harry?”

Ginny raised an eyebrow at her. “Yes,” she deadpanned, mouth full of toast.

Hermione shared an amused look with Luna, and the two girls dissolved into giggles. She fell back with her arms spread wide and laughed, loud and free.

“Good mood?” Luna asked with a happy lilt. “The wrackspurts have left you alone for a change.”

Hermione looked at the clouds blowing high in the sky before answering. “You know, it’s weird, I should be feeling sad and depressed about Harry and Ron, but I just feel…”

“Free?”

Hermione nodded. “It’s such a relief to get everything off my chest. Ron knows why I broke up with him, Harry knows how I’ve felt these last few months, and they both know about Draco. Their reactions weren’t ideal, but it feels like a weight’s been lifted.”

Ginny nodded. “Good.”

“Sorry I messed up your night with Harry.”

Ginny reached a leg out and kicked her playfully. “Shut up. I can have sex with Harry any time I want. He wouldn’t have been in the mood anyway.”

“Have you talked to him?”

“He came by practice this morning to say goodbye. I can tell he feels really bad about everything. He told me what you said to Ron, too, the prick.” Ginny made a disgusted face and shook her head.

“You know what?” Hermione said, pushing down the remnants of sadness. “Let’s talk about something else. Whatever comes of last night will come. I’ve made peace with it – well, I’m trying to, anyway.”

“Let the broomstick fly where it may,” Luna said, looking at the lake. They all let her words hover in the air around them for a minute before Luna pulled out a deck of muggle playing cards she’d borrowed from Evan.

The girls spent the next hour joking, teaching each other card games, and chatting about inconsequential things.

Hermione felt good. She had the girls and Draco, and she was thankful for them. She’d spent most of her teenage years in close orbit with Ron and Harry, convinced that making other friends was hard, that she must be unlikeable, but now she was learning that she just had to find the right people and give them a chance.

“This time last year, I think I was in the Forest of Dean living off of foraged food and tea,” she mused, looking out at the lake. Dense clouds had settled in as they’d sat, until there was more white than blue. “Ron had left, so Harry and I spent whole days in the tent, reading, checking the wards, and trying not to go mad. We hadn’t had any leads in ages, and we were both getting angry and antsy.”

She didn’t know what prompted her to say it, but as she did, she realised that her time on the run now felt concretely in the past, and that felt good.

“Foraging for food… I can’t even imagine,” Ginny said, shaking her head. “Last December, we were struggling to keep the Carrows away from the younger kids. Hogwarts felt like a dystopia.” Her voice turned sombre as she shared her own memories.

“We were heading up Dumbledore’s army in your absence,” Luna added, hugging her knees to her chest, “trying to replicate those coins you had made, and helping students escape the Carrows’ punishment. They were so cruel.”

Hermione looked back at the castle, trying to picture it. She’d been told, of course, what had happened in her absence, but she would never really know how it felt to have the hallways of Hogwarts controlled by Death Eaters. In a way, she was thankful that she didn’t have those memories to cloud her experience this year.

They all sat in silence, each lost in their own thoughts. Hermione listened to the wind stirring the branches above and wondered if the others felt it too – the same release she did, the quiet catharsis of saying it aloud.

“Thank God we won,” Hermione said. “I can’t even imagine where we’d all be if we had lost. Or if we had still been fighting.”

Ginny snorted. “Thank yourself. It wouldn’t have happened without you.”

Hermione smiled lightly, but it felt more like a grimace. She looked out over the lake and her eyes caught on one of the boulders on the other side. Their boulder. Her heart warmed, but then she felt a twinge of unease.

“Have either of you seen Draco today? I couldn’t find him at breakfast.”

Luna shook her head, but Ginny frowned. “No, but I saw him last night after seeing Harry off. He was moping and nursing a bottle of firewhiskey, looking a bit tragic.”

“Moping?” Hermione bit her lip in worry. “Why?”

“You’ll have to ask him.” Ginny shrugged, but there was a knowing twinkle in her eye. “I got the impression he was more worried about you than anything else.”

“Me?” Hermione glanced back towards the castle and bit her lip in worry.

“I still can’t imagine how you did it, but you got the big bad Death Eater to fall for you so hard that he’s going around defending you.”

“He’s not a –”

“I know, I know! Former Death Eater,” Ginny clarified. “Honestly, you two are made for each other – both fiercely protective of each other.”

“You’re right, I am protective of him,” Hermione said. “He’s a good person at heart.”

“We’re happy for you, Hermione,” Luna said. “Right Ginbug?”

“I’ll admit, he’s not as insufferable as I once thought.” Ginny smirked at Hermione. “I’m not saying I’m his biggest fan or anything, but I can definitely see what you’ve been talking about.”

Coming from the girl who’d once said he belonged in Azkaban, that was practically singing his praises. “That means a lot.”

“Do you think it’s the real deal, you and him? Something that’ll last?” Luna asked.

God, she bloody hoped so. “Honestly? Yes. I just feel so… whole when I'm with him.”

Luna smiled. “That’s lovely.”

The wintry wind was blowing harder, and Hermione shivered, rubbing her hands together to warm them up. Ginny noticed and raised an eyebrow in the direction of the castle. “Let’s head back. I know you’re itching to find him.”

She really was.

∞∞∞

They arrived back at the castle right as students were piling into the hallways at the start of the mid-morning break.

Hermione said her goodbyes to Ginny and Luna and made her way to Trawg the Tragic.

She pulled the tapestry aside and stepped into the cold, empty alcove.

Her worry grew. He’d been tense yesterday. She should have stayed longer after they'd had sex. She should have spent a little more time with him before heading into Slughorn’s party. She’d needed to focus on her conversations with Harry and Ron since they’d been a long time coming, but now she could only wonder if she’d been neglecting Draco when he needed her?

Had he just been acting strong for her and hiding his own feelings?

Out the window, tiny flakes of snow fluttered down from the sky – the first of the year. With a sigh, she pulled her scarf tighter around her neck, checked her watch, and then trekked through the halls to Charms class.

After sitting through the entire lecture unable to concentrate, she rushed to the Great Hall at lunch, but Draco didn’t show. She checked the library and the hospital wing just in case, but he was nowhere to be found.

Her afternoon classes went by slowly. She stayed after Defence Against the Dark Arts to ask Professor Roshtund a question about extending the length of protective charms. By the time she made it down to the Great Hall, the sky had begun to darken through the windows. Snow was piling up outdoors, and the wall sconces were alight in yellow flames.

The house tables were bathed in candlelight and firelight from the large fireplaces that lined the hall. Students and professors were digging into an elaborate meal of roast chicken and potatoes.

Not even bothering with the Gryffindor table, she marched towards Slytherin and scanned the students. Worry sat deep in her gut. She was determined to storm the Slytherin common room if he wasn’t there, and if that didn’t work, she’d get the map from Ginny.

As it turned out, she didn’t need it.

Her heart leapt in relief when she found him. He was sitting alone at the far edge of the Slytherin table, facing away from her.

With her heart in her throat, she tightened her grip on her shoulder bag and approached.

“Draco,” she said, clearing her throat.

He looked around, and his oceanic eyes – a moody grey in the evening light – widened at the sight of her. A faint crease appeared between his brows as he took in her determined expression. He turned around in his seat, pulling both legs around the bench to fully face her.

They stared at each other for a heartbeat, and Hermione felt certain, from that little notch between his brows, that she must look crazy.

“Granger, wh–”

Heart pounding, she stepped forward between his legs, cupped his face, and cut him off with a kiss.

He was frozen for a few seconds, and she hesitated at his lack of response. She almost pulled back, but then he opened his lips to hers and his body seemed to melt, easing the stiffness and tension she’d just seen.

His hands came up to grasp onto the sides of her cloak, pulling her into him. She let him guide her down onto his lap, putting a knee on either side of the bench as she sat on his thighs.

She got lost in him, in the way his soft lips felt like a drug, in the way that his tongue pressed to hers, raising the heat in her body, in the way that being with him just felt so right. She’d dreadfully missed him, and it had only been a day.

His hands ran down her waist and over her hips before sliding along her thighs, pulling her into him. He kissed her like she was the only person in the world, with a hunger that made her heart race.

Then she heard it: the cheers and catcalls around them. She pulled back, face flushing with heat, but she kept her gaze on his. There it was, that prickle of doubt in his expression, that flash of steel that she’d been dreading.

Before she could react, Draco stood. He set her down on her feet, took her hand, and led her out of the room in long strides.

A low hum of incredulous whispers remained behind as they emerged into the quiet of the Entrance Hall.

He led her down the west hallway, and she followed him blindly around corners and down staircases until they were alone in one of the abandoned hallways in the dungeons.

Draco released her hand and turned to face her.

His lips were swollen from kissing, his hair tousled, but there was something anguished about his expression that made her heart twist.

He raked a hand through his hair, made to say something, and then stopped.

Sensing his struggle, Hermione stepped into him and reached a hand up to his face, tracing the dark shadow below his eye with a thumb. “Rough night?”

He closed his eyes, let out an exhale and then leaned into her hand. “Is it that obvious?”

“Ginny implied you'd be nursing a hangover today. Is that why you weren't at breakfast or lunch?”

He nodded and looked down, jaw ticking. “Yeah. Couldn't stomach anything. I ran out of hangover potions.”

“Was it because of Ron and Harry? The drinking?”

He rubbed his eyes, and she dropped her hand, watching the way his chest rose and fell as he sighed.

“I realised something yesterday,” he said quietly. “As much as I want to be with you, I really fucking hate the idea of hurting you.”

“Okay…?” She tried to keep her tone light, but his words unsettled her. She crossed her arms, bracing for his explanation.

He searched her eyes, and she felt the brunt of his inner turmoil shining through. “I just need to know… Are you sure you want this?” he asked, voice raw. “Being with me, I mean? I can’t help but think I’m condemning you to a life of misery.”

Hermione froze, numbness spreading throughout her body. It was worse than she thought. Was he doubting their entire relationship because of what happened with Ron and Harry?

“Of course I want this,” she said, voice full of hurt. “How could you think you’d make me miserable?”

“Granger,” he murmured, looking heartbroken. He smoothed his hair back haphazardly. “You're… everything. Brilliant, beautiful, goodhearted. And I’m… I’m a bloody ex-convict who called you slurs for years and grew up hating what you are. I’ll never fit in with the people you call your family. Fuck, Potter and Weasley can’t stand me – you saw them – and it’s mutual. I don’t want to be a burden on your life. They’ll always judge you for being with me. Hell, the entire world will. I wouldn’t blame you if you changed your mind.”

Tears welled up behind her eyes at the idea that her friends had made him feel like that. She dropped her arms and stepped closer to take his hand, feeling his trembling fingers. “Stop. You’re not that person anymore.”

He shook his head and looked away. “You could be with anyone you want. Someone who isn’t at odds with everything else in your life, whose very existence doesn’t make you cry.”

Her throat tightened. “First,” she started, squeezing his hand tightly. “Let it be perfectly clear that your existence has never made me cry, even before this year.”

A faint smirk softened his mouth. He wiped a stray tear from her cheek with his thumb. “You’re crying right now, my little rebel.”

“Because I hate that you feel like this. And the idea of losing you hurts.” Her voice shook, and she couldn't keep the accusation out of her tone.

He looked conflicted at that, like it hurt him too.

“I know what happened with Ron and Harry yesterday was… a lot, but I’ve spoken with both of them. They know how I feel, and it’s up to them to accept it or not. But they're not what's important right now. You understand me, Draco. You always support me. I don’t have to censor any part of myself around you. I want to talk with you and share stories with you all day. I want to wake up in your arms and fall asleep next to you. We fit, you and I – like two broken pieces mending together. I want you – only you – and that's all that matters.”

Draco’s posture softened, but he shook his head, as though rejecting the words.

“You could be with anyone,” he said, squeezing her hand before letting it go. He stepped closer, lifted a curl, and brushed it behind her ear. “Someone easier. Someone that you don’t have a dark murky history with who will see how incredible you are from the start. You deserve to have that.”

She waited one heartbeat, then another. The heat emanated off of him in the cold hallway, and she breathed in his comforting scent. She stared at his chest, imagining the tattoos underneath, and his heart beneath that. Was it aching like hers was?

“And if I said I wanted that, you’d just… let me go?” God, it felt like she was standing at wand point, knowing that a curse was about to rip through her heart.

“I’d respect it,” he managed, though he looked torn apart by the words. “Maybe,” he amended. “I don’t fucking know, but… I’d try.”

His words stung as she knew they would. She swallowed, gathering her courage, and resetting her defences. He still wanted her; she knew he did. She just had to convince him that she was ready to face the obstacles in their way.

“Draco, I don’t want someone easy,” she said, looking up and holding his gaze. “I want the man I’ve known since I was eleven, the one who knows what I’ve been through. The man who’s fought his own battles and come out on the other side as a good person, because that’s what you are, even though you won’t admit it. We have this deep connection because we know each other’s pasts,” she faltered, voice thick. “Don't you think?”

“I do. More than you know,” he whispered.

“Our history is what makes us us. Your journey, hard as it has been, has shaped you into the person you are now, and I wouldn’t want it any other way. We all have baggage. I do too. I’m certainly not perfect.”

“You are,” he implored. “Perfectly imperfect.”

She laughed softly, remembering the last time he’d said it under the influence of Amortentia, and felt lighter. “You’ve said that before. What does it even mean?”

“It means your imperfections are the most beautiful parts of you.”

“Well then can't I say the same about you?”

He shook his head with a laugh under his breath but said nothing. The flickering light down the hallway cast shadows on his face, and she couldn’t tell what he was thinking.

She swallowed nervously, grabbed his shirt, and pulled him closer. Her fist clenched around the material for a moment before smoothing to lay over his chest. “Draco, I want to be with you. And I’m fairly sure you want to be with me too. Don’t you?”

“I do,” he said, hands coming up to cradle her face. His thumbs gently traced her skin. “I really fucking do. You’re the only thing in this cursed world that I want, but I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Then don’t,” she said firmly. “If you want me to be happy, then stop overthinking and be happy with me. No more of this ridiculous train of thought.”

Draco searched her face for something. But then the corner of his mouth lifted. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” She held his gaze, unflinching.

His eyes flickered between hers. “It would be you and me against the world, Granger.”

“That's a little dramatic, don't you think? We already have Ginny, Luna, and half the first years on our side,” she teased, and he breathed a laugh. “Besides,” she added. “I took on the Ministry, didn’t I? I can take on the world.”

“You really would, wouldn’t you?” His eyes held a familiar glint, and her heart relaxed a little bit.

Her hands found his waist, slid up under his shirt to the hot skin of his lower back, and pulled him closer. “You can't get rid of me that easily, Draco Malfoy. You’re my sun. I have a feeling I’ll always find my way back to you.”

His mouth curved in a wry smile, and he affectionately muttered, “Stubborn witch,” as his arms circled her shoulders, pulling her into a hug. She leaned into the warmth of his body and breathed a sigh of relief. “But let’s get one thing straight,” he said. “I’m not your sun. You’re my black hole.”

She snorted and leaned back to look at him. “What?”

“I’m drawn to you, inescapably so, and I’m so far past the event horizon – past the point of no return. There’s no escaping the hold you have on me. You’re magnetic, a force to be reckoned with, and you have all the power because I’m absolutely bloody helpless when it comes to you.”

She let the metaphor sink in. “Let’s hope I don’t destroy you, then.”

“You already have, in the best fucking way. You’ve destroyed the demons inside of me, the thoughts holding me back, the weights holding me down at the bottom of a black sea. You’ve pulled me to the surface and helped me see the light for the first time since I can remember. I can breathe again, taste the freedom in the air, see the blue of the sky, because of you.” He paused and shook his head with a huff. “I take it back. I’d never be able to let you go, Granger. It was absolute madness to think I could. That’s the last time I ever try to be selfless.”

She laughed, heart soaring, and he gave her a rare, unguarded smile in return.

“Good,” she said, hugging him tight around the waist. “Take what you want.”

He looked at her for a long moment. His forehead smoothed and his eyes softened. “If you're really sure, then let's do this,” he said, his eyes clear and bright as they searched hers. "I'm all in.”

“Do what?”

“Life. Let's make our own path together. Let's write our own story.”

Her body filled with a wonderful sense of lightness, and tears of happiness pricked her eyes. She nodded vigorously.

He kissed her then, and as their lips met, Hermione knew they were exactly where they were meant to be – together, against everything.

∞∞∞

Draco took her to the Slytherin common room. It was blessedly empty as he rushed them through it and up to his dorm.

The moment they were through the door, he dropped their bags, then shed his cloak and then hers. With a carefree grin that took her breath away, he picked her up and twirled her around.

She laughed, free and happy, wrapping her legs around his waist, her arms around his neck, and then kissed him.

He returned the kiss with fervour.

“Hermione,” he murmured against her lips. “I love you. So fucking much.”

Her heart thudded at the words, and she pulled back to look at him in surprise. His eyes were liquid mercury, and there was no doubt in them.

“And here I thought you wanted me to break up with you twenty minutes ago,” she said with a small incredulous laugh.

He shook his head, and she reached a hand up to brush the blond locks out of his eyes. “Momentary lapse in judgement. I let my guilt get the best of me. Won't happen again.”

“Promise?”

He hummed in the affirmative. “I tried to give you an out. You lost your chance. You’re stuck with me now.”

“Sounds perfect,” she said coyly, playing with the soft hairs at the back of his neck. “I love you too, by the way.”

“Fuck.” He closed his eyes. “Say that again.”

She leaned in and whispered against his ear. “I love you.”

Groaning, he walked over to his bed, kicked off his shoes, and set her down gently onto the soft duvet. He pulled her trainers off one at a time, dropping them on the floor, and then crawled over her. Settling between her legs, he kissed her.

She pulled her knees up, bracketing his thighs, and felt his hardening cock between them. Heat pooled to her core at the contact, and she tilted her hips to feel him better. Draco released a satisfied groan and ground into her in response.

“Your roommates?” she asked breathlessly as her fingers slid under his shirt, pulling it up. He lifted his torso off of her and helped her take it off. He returned, glorious muscles and tattoos on display. God, he was so perfect. She ran her hands up the hot skin of his back.

“Suspended until after the holidays, thanks to a particularly capable and manipulative witch I know.”

She scoffed at his wolfish grin. “Manipulative?”

“You manipulated McGonagall and the Minister for Magic, you little rebel. Don’t try to deny it.”

“But –”

“Stop. It’s sexy as fuck, just take it.”

“I had to do it.”

“Manipulative and resourceful. My kind of woman.”

She gave him a reprimanding look, then softened. “So, that means you’ve got this place to yourself?”

He smirked. “Damn right.”

“What did McGonagall say? She didn’t tell me she suspended them.”

After a moment, he rolled off of her, sitting up and adjusting his trousers before pulling a letter from the night table. “She asked for my memories and found them all culpable of violence. But you just reminded me. I got this from her yesterday.” He held out the letter.

She sat up and took it with a questioning look. He nodded for her to read it, so she opened it and read the familiar script.

When she finished, she beamed at him. “Draco!” She hugged him tightly and pulled back, grinning. “I knew it! I just knew that you would be perfect for the position. Will you accept?”

“I sent her my acceptance yesterday.”

Happy tears welled up, and she brushed them away with a big smile. “This is incredible.”

He gave her a wry look, opened his drawer to a stack of handkerchiefs and pulled one out to hand to her. “Don’t get me wrong,” he started. “I love that you wear your heart on your sleeve, but what the bloody fuck are you crying for?”

She took the handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes. “They’re happy tears, honest!” She grinned at him, and a laugh bubbled up. “You really do have a ton of these, don’t you?”

“Did you think I was lying?” he smirked, leaning back on his hands.

“A little bit,” she said, grinning. “Are you looking forward to teaching?”

He looked thoughtful for a moment. “I don’t care for the teaching, but the perks are good. I’ll get private rooms, and I’ve requested they be next to yours. I’ll get a private lab and a budget to research potions. Maybe I’ll finally figure out how to restore tooth enamel.”

“I bet you will,” she said laughing. She slid the cool grey material through her fingers. “Draco?”

“Hm?”

“Will you tell me the story behind your handkerchiefs?”

He looked over at her, with the hint of a knowing smirk on his lips. “Have you finally given up?”

“No!” she protested, feeling her cheeks warm. “Well, yes, I suppose,” she added begrudgingly. “I’ve researched extensively, and I haven’t really found a satisfying explanation.”

“How about you tell me your hypotheses, and then I’ll tell you the real meaning?”

“Alright,” she said softly as she played with the silk, gathering her thoughts. “There were a few different avenues I thought about while researching: the history of colour, colour psychology, and colour associations.”

Draco settled onto his side next to her and propped his head up with his elbow. He watched her with an encouraging smile. She lay back down and turned to face him.

“The silk is a no-brainer. It’s expensive, durable, and soft – it’s always been a high-end fabric, so no surprise there. But the grey colour… that’s not so easy,” she said softly. “First, I considered which theories might apply to the Malfoy name. Like I mentioned last time, grey can represent longevity and strength, like a rock, standing the test of time, but it’s not that, is it?”

He shook his head. “It is not.”

“Is it a family colour? Something relating to the history of your family?”

“No, there’s silver in the family crest, but not grey.”

Hermione nodded, expecting that it wouldn’t be that easy. “Grey can also mean calm, detached, or neutral, but that can also carry connotations of depression – a world in grey, and forgive me for saying, but unless it’s a sign of how well you occlude, you are not emotionally detached or neutral about anything.”

He raised an eyebrow. His hand traced lines up and down her bare thigh, bringing up her skirt over her hip and exposing her knickers. His eyes went dark as he traced the black lace lazily with an index finger. He looked back up at her face, attentive.

“I dug into history a little bit,” she continued. “I found that in the French revolution, the aristocracy stopped wearing loud colours and patterns and opted for greys and neutrals in order to stand out less in public, and since you speak French, I thought maybe your family came from France? Does the grey represent aristocracy somehow?”

“We’ve been in Wiltshire for a millennium but originated in France prior.”

Her eyes widened. “A millennium? Holy shit.” No wonder he was the oldest and richest of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. Jesus Christ.

“What else?” he asked, with a satisfied grin.

She licked her lips, shaking away the thoughts of his wealth and lineage. “Well, grey can represent mourning and modesty. Is it grey so that you don’t stand out in some way? Or are you mourning something?” She looked at him curiously.

He shook his head. His fingers continued their light path, tracing her knickers along her hip, dipping under the material to feel the smooth skin beneath. A shiver of arousal went through her, and she squeezed her legs together. As she did so, Draco’s lips curved up and his eyes found hers.

“If I look around, there’s grey in strong metals, silver jewellery, the castle walls, the grey of a rainy day,” she continued, trying not to lose her composure. “But there are many kinds of greys, like your eyes when you’re feeling different things. The sharp edge of a knife when you're angry. The grey of a dark ocean on a cloudy day when you look like you have a lot on your mind. The liquid silver when you look at me like you want me. Is it grey to match your eyes?”

“No,” he murmured, smiling.

She pouted.

“Any more theories?”

“Well,” she said, hesitating. “There’s one more thing I found in my research, but I am entirely sure it’s wrong.”

“Go on.”

“Have you heard about handkerchief code?”

He shook his head, and his hand slipped beneath the black lace to hug the curve of her arse.

“In the ‘70s and ‘80s in muggle America, there was a lot of prejudice against gay people, so they created a way to discreetly communicate the fact that they were gay and signal their sexual preferences. It was a safe way to find each other without risk of harassment or violence. They would put a handkerchief in their back pocket, and the colours and placement were significant. Apparently if the handkerchief was in the left pocket, it meant they were a top, and the right meant they were a bottom. Each colour had different meanings as well. Light blue meant they liked oral sex. Dark blue meant anal. Red meant… fisting.” His eyebrows rose, and her face heated. “Yellow meant golden showers,” she continued slowly, and the corner of his lip turned up. “Grey meant…”

His fingers gripped her arse, moulding the flesh. “What did it mean, Granger?”

“Bondage,” she finished weakly, eyes wide on his. She was sure her face was red at the burning heat she felt in her cheeks.

His smile broadened in interest, and his eyes darkened with a restrained wickedness. “Bondage? Is that your last theory? Or did you think I was gay?”

“No, just the bondage,” she squeaked. “That’s all I’ve got. What’s the real story?”

With a chuckle, he took his hand off of her and lay on his back. His cock was tenting his trousers, and she struggled to tear her eyes away.

“Lots of interesting theories,” he mused.

“Are any of them right?”

He took the handkerchief from her and looked at it. “Mother gave them to me for my birthday when I turned fifteen at the end of fourth year. She knew what was coming with the Dark Lord, and she told me that people are never purely good or evil, that there were a million shades of grey in between, and to always remember that we’re all made up of both dark and light. I used to think that she meant for me to forgive her and father for all the awful things they’ve done, but nowadays, I think maybe she just wanted me to find where I fit on the spectrum, to remind me that I wasn’t evil just because I had to do certain things to survive, and that those actions didn’t define who I was on the inside.”

Hermione watched as his throat bobbed. He turned his head to look at her, and she smiled lightly. “It sounds like your mum really loves you. She tried to make sure you wouldn’t lose yourself when you were forced to do dark things. She tried to protect your soul.”

Draco's eyes were on hers, but his gaze was far away. He sighed. “I suppose. She always excused father’s actions though. He brought the Dark Lord into our lives and neither of them have ever expressed regret or owned up to the damage it did.”

“Is it possible she was just trying to survive, too?”

“Maybe.”

They lay in silence, both of them staring at the grey handkerchief he held between them. She took it from him, feeling the silk.

“I can’t believe I didn’t guess something like that,” she pouted. “Shades of grey between good and evil. It makes perfect sense. But I suppose I wouldn’t have been able to guess the true meaning anyway, especially with what little I knew of your family dynamic.”

“I have a confession,” he said slowly, looking from the handkerchief to her eyes, and there was a hesitance there that made her pause. “I didn’t want you to guess it. I wanted you to keep thinking about me, and if you did guess the correct meaning, then I thought that maybe you would start to think of me as more than just a prejudiced Death Eater.”

She thought suddenly of the pureblood book she’d read in the library ages ago and sat up, mouth agape. “I read a book on pureblood dating culture that mentioned that a gifted handkerchief usually served as an intentional reminder of the gifter… I thought I was crazy for considering it.”

He grinned at that, and his hands went behind his head. “Well now, at least we know one of the things you researched was right.”

She pursed her lips and chose to ignore that comment. “It worked. I thought about you so much that I had to hide the handkerchief in my bag for weeks so that I wouldn’t think about you,” she admitted. “I’m disappointed that I didn’t guess the true meaning, though.”

“I liked your last hypothesis better anyway,” he said, smirking. “Tell me, Granger. What would you say if I put that handkerchief in my back pocket, purely in a kink-sharing way?” His eyes twinkled.

A grin crept onto her face, and she looked at him shyly, heart pounding. “I’d ask which pocket.”

A spark of interest lit up his eyes. “I could be persuaded either way.”

Interesting.

A plan formed in her mind, and heart pounding, she crawled over to sit on his hips. He lay still and watched her, unmoving save for the gentle rise of his stomach and the twitch of his cock between them.

She smiled then and leaned forward to kiss him. His lips attempted to follow her when she pulled back, but she pushed him back down and ran a nail lightly down his chest.

“Tell me, Draco. Are you going to be a good boy for me?”

His eyes turned dark and full of desire. “Fuck yes,” he breathed, hands coming up to rest on her thighs. His hips canted up into her, and she felt his cock. It took a lot of willpower not to roll her hips against him.

“Do you have a safe word? Just in case you start to feel uncomfortable?” Hermione asked. Not that she had any experience with safe words, but she didn’t want him to feel trapped by what she was about to do.

“Anything. You choose.”

She thought for a moment, then smirked at him. “How about, ‘Binn’s is coming’?”

They both grinned at the memory of almost being caught in the History of Magic classroom.

“You wicked witch. How do I know that won’t turn you on more? I know how you like that old ghost.”

“Shush.”

“I mean come on, you just said, Binn’s is coming. That sounds like he’s… coming.” He paused. “Hold on, do you think ghosts wank?”

“Draco!”

“What?” he said with mock innocence. “I know you want to know.”

She leaned forward and put her hands on his collarbones, pinning him down. “Maybe I’ll kill you and then you can show me.”

He took her hands and moved them to his neck. “Do your worst, Granger.”

Her hands wrapped around his throat, and the look in his eyes begged her to do it. She squeezed lightly and he moaned, cock twitching through his trousers.

But she didn’t want to hurt him, not now, so she let go and placed a languid kiss on his lips. His cock had grown, hard and insistent between them, and she rubbed along the length of him. “I’m not going to kill you. I need you alive for this cock.”

He smirked, eyes closing in bliss as his hands guided her hips to repeat the action.

She tilted her hips and the pressure of his cock pressed against her clit had her restraining a moan.

Draco’s resulting moan was not restrained.

She sat back and grabbed her wand. “Hands,” she ordered. With a disarming grin, Draco reluctantly let go of her hips and held his hands up in front of her.

With a flick of her wand, she summoned a handful of handkerchiefs from his drawer, then tied them together with another swish until she had two makeshift ropes of silk.

She took one of his hands and tied the silk securely around his wrist. “This okay?” she asked. When he nodded, she did the same with the other one.

Leaning over him, she secured his hands to the bedposts, one at a time. His dark eyes followed her every movement. “Not too tight?”

Draco pulled at the restraints experimentally, then shook his head. “I’m fine,” he said, voice husky.

She leaned down to whisper in his ear, “How does it feel to be under my control?” She licked the shell of his ear and nipped at the flesh of his lobe.

“You can always do anything you want to me,” he breathed, breath hitching when she sucked on the pulse in his neck. His hips writhed against her, and he pulled at the restraints.

With a smile, she sat back and looked down at him. His chest was expanding on each heavy breath. She placed a hand over the warm skin of his heart. His muscles were strong and full of vitality, and she loved that she could freely touch them like this. Her fingers trailed over his nipple, and she spent a moment to feel it and enjoy the way his breath sped up.

He was ridiculously handsome, watching her with lips parted and eyes dark and intense, waiting to see what she did next.

Her fingers splayed over his stomach. She dug her fingers in lightly and felt his cock twitch. “Should I leave my clothes on, or shall I take them off?”

“Off,” he said quickly. “Take it all off.”

“Say please.”

His eyes flashed. “Please. I want to see you.”

“Good boy,” she said, shifting her hips to drag along his cock through his trousers, eliciting a little moan from his throat.

She slowly unbuttoned her blouse and threw it on the floor, then plucked the bottom hem of the thin white camisole she wore beneath it in lieu of a bra and pulled it over her head. Her fingers trailed over her tits, circling the sensitive skin of her nipples.

Draco pulled at the ropes, and she admired the strain of his muscles. “Fuck,” he groaned, watching greedily. “I could look at you all day.”

Hermione smirked, enjoying the feeling of power she had over him.

“Only look?”

“And touch.”

“Tell me exactly how you want to touch me,” she ordered.