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Chapter Text

The train ride had been silent. Or at least, their compartment had been.

Draco sat by the window, staring at the blurred countryside, the familiar whistle of the Hogwarts Express doing nothing to ease the weight in his chest. Across from him, Blaise lounged, unreadable as ever, while Theo and Pansy sat stiffly beside each other, their usual banter absent.

No one had spoken much.

Not when the trolley witch passed, her cart rolling to a stop before them as she hesitated, eyes flicking uncertainly between their faces before wordlessly continuing down the aisle.

Not when a group of younger students—Ravenclaws, maybe—paused outside their door, whispering before quickly scurrying away as though standing too close to them was dangerous.

And especially not when the compartment door slid open and, for the briefest moment, Ginny Weasley stood there.

She hadn’t expected them to be there. That much was clear in the way her eyes widened slightly before her expression twisted into something more familiar—resentment, distrust.

She lingered for only a second before muttering, “Wrong compartment,” and slamming the door shut.

Pansy let out a scoff. “Yeah, you got that right.” 

Draco exhaled, tilting his head back against the seat. It was going to be a long year.

When they stepped out of the train, the air smelled the same. That crisp, early autumn bite, the faint scent of coal and steam curling from the Hogwarts Express. The same red train, the same station, the same castle waiting in the distance.

And yet, everything was different.

Draco stepped onto the platform with his head high, shoulders squared, but there was no denying the weight pressing down on him. Heavy. Suffocating. A silence that followed him like a shadow, thick and unrelenting.

The stares were nothing new—he was used to them. Had grown up basking in admiration, feeding off envy, dodging glares from those who despised him. But this was different. These weren’t the looks of respect or loathing he was familiar with. No, this time, the eyes that trailed him were filled with something worse.

Pity.

Disgust.

Suspicion.

Like he was some ugly reminder of everything they’d lost. A breathing, walking, talking mistake.

Blaise walked beside him, looking as relaxed as ever, hands in his pockets, expression unreadable. Behind them, Pansy and Theo moved in uneasy silence, the usual chatter among their group now replaced by something unspoken. Something fractured.

Draco felt it in his bones—the way the world had shifted under his feet, the way they didn’t fit here anymore. Slytherin didn’t fit here anymore.

The air was thick, heavy with the ghost of war, and no matter how many repairs the castle had undergone over the summer, no matter how much they tried to pretend things were normal, Hogwarts would never be the same.

“Feels different, doesn’t it?” Blaise muttered.

Draco didn’t answer. It wasn’t a question. It was a fact.

His gaze flickered across the platform. Crowds of students, first-years whispering to each other with wide eyes, older students staring as though they were still deciding whether Slytherins should be allowed back at all.

And then—them. 

Potter. Weasley. Granger.

The Golden Trio.

Stepping off the train like war heroes returning home, untouchable, unbroken, victors.

Weasley’s hand was clasped around Granger’s. Their fingers intertwined, easy, familiar. Draco heard rumors that they were dating. So that wasn’t just another post-war fairytale.

Draco told himself he didn’t care.

But in that second—just for a heartbeat—his mind betrayed him.

A flash of something else. Granger on the floor of Malfoy Manor. Her screams tearing through the room, high-pitched and raw. Bellatrix’s laughter, sharp as a blade.

His stomach twisted.

Before he could stop himself, his fingers twitched at his side—a useless, involuntary reaction.

He forced them still.

It was nothing. Just a memory. Just—irrelevant.

Draco exhaled sharply and looked away, locking the thought in a place he didn’t plan to visit.

His eyes lingered for only a second too long before he forced himself to look away. But Granger must have noticed, because for the briefest moment, she met his gaze.

She tensed.

It wasn’t obvious—not to anyone who wasn’t watching closely—but Draco saw it. The briefest tightening of her jaw, the flicker of something in her eyes.

Not anger. Not fear.

Wariness.

Like she was assessing something. Calculating.

And then—just like that—it was gone.

She turned away, started talking to Potter as if Draco didn’t exist.

His jaw clenched.

Fine. He didn’t want to look at her either.

The crowd around them began to shift, students moving toward the carriages. The excitement of first-years drowned out, the tension hanging in the air, but Draco could still feel it, like static against his skin. His fingers twisted his ring, once, twice.

Someone jostled into him—probably on purpose—and his lip curled, sharp retort ready on his tongue, but when he turned, the girl was already walking away, whispering to her friend.

Draco exhaled sharply through his nose. This was how it was going to be, then.

They didn’t have to say it out loud.

He was unwelcome.

The war might have ended, but the battle lines were still drawn.

Pansy was scowling at the murmurs, at the way people whispered behind their hands. As if she had any right to be annoyed.

Draco ignored them all. Ignored the curious glances, the sideways sneers, the too-loud whispers of “Death Eater” and “Malfoy” and “shouldn’t be here.”

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t react. Didn’t acknowledge a single one of them.

Instead, he kept walking.

Hogwarts loomed in the distance, its silhouette jagged against the sky, the stonework patched, mended, but still broken.

Just like him. 

Some damage had been patched, but there were places where the cracks still showed, where the magic didn’t settle right.

Draco could feel it in the air—the lingering weight of everything that had happened. The castle might have been standing, but it was different now. They were different now.

He followed the others into the carriages, barely glancing at the creatures as he climbed in beside Blaise. He didn’t need to. He knew they were there. The Thestrals.

Silent. Watchful. Creatures of death.

He could see them now. He had been able to for a while.

The way they loomed in the dim evening light, their skeletal wings shifting with every movement, their hollow eyes tracking the students boarding the carriages—he knew that look.

It was the same one everyone had given him today.

Like they were trying to decide if he was dangerous. Or already dead.

It was almost laughable. Few months ago, Hogwarts had been a battlefield. And now? Now they were expected to just… go back to normal. As if they could. As if everything hadn’t changed.

The castle doors swung open as they reached the entrance hall, and the flood of students moved toward the Great Hall. 

Draco stepped inside, the familiar scent of candle wax and roasted meat curling around him, but there was something off about it. The enchanted ceiling flickered unevenly, the sky above struggling to maintain its usual illusion.

A banner still hung torn along one of the walls, its edges singed. The long tables were filled, but the gaps where missing students should have been were impossible to ignore.

He barely had time to breathe before the whispers started again and Draco gritted his teeth. He told himself he didn’t care.

But then—

“Bet his father bought his way back in.”

His jaw locked. His fingers twitched at his side, an old, dangerous instinct flaring to life. A cutting remark was ready—sharp, cruel, effortless—but he swallowed it down. Forced his breathing even. 

He wasn’t that person anymore.

But Merlin, some days, he wished he could be.

He walked faster, sinking into his usual seat at the Slytherin table.

The Great Hall had always been a place of order. Each house had their table, their space, their silent understanding of where they belonged. But now… something was different. The air had shifted. Conversations weren’t as divided. Lines were blurred.

McGonagall stood at the head of the room, surveying them all with her sharp, calculating gaze before calling for silence and the sorting ceremony began.

The Sorting Hat’s song was shorter than usual. No grand riddles or poetic warnings—just a brief acknowledgment that Hogwarts had survived, that unity was needed more than ever.

Draco barely listened. He kept his gaze trained on the long line of first-years at the front of the hall, most of them wide-eyed and nervous. It should have been a normal sight. Should have felt like any other year.

But it wasn’t.

A small, pale boy stepped forward when his name was called. He trembled under the weight of the Sorting Hat as it slipped down over his ears. The pause felt endless, the hat murmuring its decision only loud enough for the boy to hear. And then—

“Slytherin!”

Silence.

No polite applause. No welcoming cheers. Just an eerie, suffocating stillness—like the whole Hall was waiting for the Sorting Hat to change its mind.

The boy’s lower lip wobbled. His shoulders shook as he slid off the stool and made his way to the Slytherin table, where he sat stiffly, fingers digging into the fabric of his robes. Draco watched, expression unreadable.

The Sorting continued. The next student was placed in Hufflepuff, and the hall erupted with applause.

Draco’s fingers curled against the table.

It was the smallest Slytherin class Hogwarts had ever seen.

When all the new students were seated Professor McGonagall asked for silence again as she stepped forward, her sharp gaze sweeping across the hall.

The usual warmth of a Hogwarts welcome was absent—not out of unkindness, but necessity. This was not a normal year. This was not a normal Hogwarts.

She cleared her throat, and the murmurs died instantly.

“Before we begin our feast, there are a few matters that must be addressed,” she said, her voice steady, unwavering. “Hogwarts has stood for over a thousand years. Through war, through loss, through triumph. And we are standing still.”

A hush fell over the students. Even those who had been shifting in their seats, restless and impatient for dinner, sat a little straighter.

“But we do not stand unchanged,” McGonagall continued. “Last year, our school became a battlefield. We lost classmates, teachers, friends, family. Some of you fought. Some of you hid. Some of you did what you had to do to survive. And now, we are here. Together. But make no mistake—Hogwarts is not healed. Not yet. And neither are we.”

He barely listened. He didn’t need a speech to tell him things weren’t the same. He could feel it with every step he took.

Draco’s fingers tapped idly against the wood, but the movement felt wrong—not his own. He stilled them, curling them into a fist, and for a split second, his eyes flickered downward.

His father used to do the same thing—a slow, irritated drumming of fingers against his cane whenever the world displeased him.

He exhaled sharply through his nose and shoved his hands under the table. He hated the thought that any part of him still mirrored his father.

“In the past, our four Houses have stood apart. A tradition as old as the castle itself. But tradition does not always serve us well,” McGonagall went on, her voice carrying through the hall.

“For too long, these divisions have separated us. Encouraged us to see each other as rivals first, enemies second, and only rarely as equals. That must change.”

Draco resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Here it comes.

“This year, inter-house cooperation will not be optional,” McGonagall continued, her expression firm.

“Students will be partnered across Houses for patrols, classes, and rebuilding projects. Prefects will no longer supervise only their own House, but will work together. Common areas will be shared for study groups and meetings. And House points—” she paused, glancing around the room as if to make sure they were all listening—“will no longer be awarded or deducted based on inter-house competition alone. Points are meant to reward achievement and effort, not reinforce hostility.”

A ripple of murmurs spread through the Hall. Some students looked intrigued. Others looked openly disgruntled.

Draco’s fingers curled into fists.

Perfect. Bloody perfect.

He could already imagine the conversations that would come later. Forced cooperation won’t erase what happened. Sitting next to a Gryffindor in class won’t make them forget which side we were on.

Across the Hall, Granger sat up a little straighter.

Of course she would be thrilled about this. The brilliant Hermione Granger, eager to prove a point, to fix the world, to play hero—even when no one asked her to.

Then, as if she could feel him looking, she turned.

Their eyes locked.

Draco didn’t flinch, didn’t look away. He knew that expression well—annoyance, suspicion, that irritating sense of superiority.

She was excited about the project, for sure. She was just not excited to execute it with him.

A smirk curled at his lips.

At least we agree on something, Granger.

“I will not pretend this will be easy,” McGonagall went on, cutting through the murmurs. “I will not pretend that one year will undo centuries of division, or that shared assignments will erase the pain of the war. But healing does not happen in isolation. It happens through understanding, through effort, through choice.”

Her gaze swept over them all once more.

“What we choose now—how we choose to move forward—will define the Hogwarts we leave behind.”

A heavy silence settled over the Hall.

Then, with a small nod, McGonagall straightened. “Now—let us eat.”

The food appeared in an instant. Conversations started up again, though they were quieter than usual. The usual excitement of the start-of-term feast had been dulled, dampened under the weight of the past and the uncertainty of the future.

Draco barely glanced at the spread in front of him. He wasn’t hungry.

He was too busy thinking about how impossible all of this was.

House unity.

As if fixing Hogwarts was as simple as forcing them all into the same room and hoping they’d get along.

He could already feel it—being forced to spend time with people who despised him, expected to work alongside the same students who had fought against him in the war. As if that would fix anything. As if slapping some forced unity onto the wounds would make them heal.

Draco exhaled slowly, dragging a hand down his face. He knew what was coming.

Forced group projects. Awkward, stilted patrol shifts. Hours spent pretending to tolerate people who wanted nothing more than to see him gone.

As if being paired with a Hufflepuff in Charms would erase the fact that his father had once stood at Voldemort’s side.

As if sharing a study session with a Gryffindor would make them forget the way the Carrows had ruled last year—how some Slytherins had stood by and watched.

And how others, like him, had done much worse.

Draco swallowed.

The Great Hall felt suffocating. The clinking of cutlery, the hum of whispered conversations, the stolen glances thrown his way—it was all too much.

With a sharp scrape of wood against stone, he pushed back from the Slytherin table and stood.

Blaise raised a brow but said nothing, simply following. Theo and Pansy did the same, and together, they left.

As soon as he stepped out into the entrance hall, the difference was stark.

The warmth of the feast behind them gave way to cold air and colder silence. The torches flickered against the stone walls, shadows stretching long and jagged. The sound of laughter and conversation echoed faintly from inside the Great Hall, but out here, it felt like another world.

Draco let out a breath, flexing his fingers at his sides.

It was strange. For years, Hogwarts had been a place of certainty—a game where he knew the rules, where he knew his place.

Now?

Now it was something else entirely.

The doors to the Hall swung open again, and the flood of students spilled out, filling the space with movement, voices, tension. Draco straightened instinctively, shoulders pulling back, mask slipping into place.

He didn’t need to hear their whispers to know what they were saying.

But he kept walking, his hands shoved into his pockets, his usual careless stride forced and deliberate. Blaise and Theo were at his side, silent as ever, and Pansy trailed a step behind, her heels clicking sharply against the stone floor.

It should have been like every other year—leaving the Great Hall, heading to the dungeons, slipping into the comfortable arrogance of being Malfoy, Slytherin, untouchable. But nothing about this was the same.

He could feel it. The way the castle watched him.

And then, Weasley’s voice cut through the air, grating against Draco’s nerves like sandpaper.

“Malfoy—” Weasley’s voice cut through the hallway, sharp and bitter. “Can’t believe they just let them back in.”

Draco didn’t slow his pace. Ignore it. That was the rule now. That was what he had to do. Ignore it. Keep walking.

“S’not right, after everything they did.”

His jaw clenched. His fingers curled into fists.

Ignore it.

But of course, Pansy didn’t.

She let out a sharp, bitter laugh, but didn’t turn around. “Yeah, well. We can’t all be Gryffindor war heroes.”

She didn’t say it loudly. Didn’t meet their eyes. Just tossed it over her shoulder, careless.

But her grip on her wand tightened.

Weasley went red instantly. His shoulders squared, his hands clenching at his sides as if he were moments away from swinging.

“Shut your mouth, Parkinson,” Weasley snarled, stepping forward.

Potter grabbed his arm, holding him back. “Don’t,” he muttered under his breath.

Potter’s grip on Weasley’s arm was firm, but his eyes—his eyes were on Draco.

It wasn’t the glare of an old enemy. It wasn’t even distrust.

It was exhaustion.

A tired, assessing glance, like he was trying to decide if this fight was even worth it anymore.

Draco thought Potter might say something. Might call him out, or tell him to piss off, or make some half-hearted attempt at civility.

But then, Potter just sighed, shook his head, and let it go.

Draco didn’t let himself think about whether that made him feel better or worse.

Didn’t matter.

He exhaled, dragging a hand down his face.

Let them fight. Or don’t. What difference did it make?

But the headache pressing behind his temples said otherwise. This wasn’t worth it.

“Leave it, Pansy,” he said, voice flat, cold.

Pansy shot him a look of disbelief. “Draco—”

“I said leave it.”

And that was when Granger turned to him.

She had been quiet until now, standing beside Potter and Weasley, arms crossed, expression tight. But at his words, her head tilted, brown eyes sharp and unreadable.

“Never thought I’d see the day Malfoy kept his mouth shut.” she said, voice dripping with something he couldn’t quite place.

He turned to her, arching a brow. “Disappointed I’m not acting like the villain in your little story?”

Her jaw tightened.

“No,” she said coolly. “I just didn’t expect you to roll over so easily.”

Something in his chest twisted.

He held her gaze, smirking like he hadn’t felt the sting of her words. “Not at all, Granger. Though I’d have thought you’d prefer me silent. You always liked the sound of your own voice best.”

She opened her mouth, a retort already forming—but then she hesitated.

For a second, just a second, she saw something different in his face.

Not arrogance. Not cruelty. A crack in the mask. Something raw and unsettling.

She wasn’t sure what to make of it.

Her jaw tightened, her words shifting in her throat. Whatever she had been about to say, she changed it. Softened it.

Instead, she exhaled sharply, shaking her head, muttering, “Forget it.” 

And then she turned away.

Draco watched her go.

Something in his chest twisted.

He ignored it.

He had to.

He and the others kept walking without any other incident, which was good. He said the password and they were finally inside their common room.

The Slytherin common room had always been comfortable.

Draco had grown up in these stone walls, had spent years sinking into the plush green-and-silver armchairs, had sat by this same fireplace countless times, watching the lake. It had always been a place of certainty—where things made sense, where he knew his place.

But now?

The fire crackled in the hearth, casting flickering shadows against the dungeon walls, but the warmth didn’t reach him. The room felt colder than usual, the tension from dinner lingering in the air like smoke.

Conversations were hushed, cautious. Slytherins weren’t used to being watched the way they had been tonight, judged with every step they took.

Draco sat in his usual chair, back against the worn leather, fingers drumming against his knee. He wasn’t tired. He should have been—exhaustion had settled into his bones months ago—but his mind wouldn’t quiet.

Blaise dropped into the chair beside him, stretching out his legs, watching him with that sharp, unreadable expression of his.

“You alright?”

Draco rolled his eyes. “I’m fine.”

Blaise hummed, clearly not convinced. “Sure. That’s why you nearly flinched when Granger spoke to you.”

Draco tensed.

“I did not flinch.”

Blaise smirked. “Whatever you say, mate.”

Draco exhaled through his nose, dragging a hand down his face.

The problem was—Blaise wasn’t wrong.

Granger was the last person he wanted to be thinking about tonight. The absolute last.

And yet—her voice was still in his head.

Never thought I’d see the day Malfoy kept his mouth shut 

His jaw tightened.

He didn’t know why it bothered him. Maybe because of the way she’d looked at him—not with hatred, not with disgust, but with something else. Something that made his stomach twist in a way he didn’t like.

He wasn’t stupid. He knew what people thought of him. What she thought of him. That he was nothing more than a coward. A spoiled, spineless coward who had chosen the wrong side, and now had to live with it.

Draco dragged a hand down his face, exhaling slowly.

Blaise had already dozed off in the chair beside him, but Draco sat rigid, mind churning.

His hand slipped under his sleeve before he realized what he was doing. Fingertips brushing over his forearm.

The Dark Mark was still there. Faded, but never gone. No one found a way to get rid of it.

A phantom sensation prickled beneath his skin. Not pain, exactly. But something else. A weight that would never quite lift.

Maybe they were right.

Maybe he shouldn’t be here.

Draco clenched his fist, yanked his sleeve back down, and forced himself to look away.

He exhaled, tilting his head back against the seat. This wasn’t just another school year.

It was a sentence.

Chapter Text

Draco woke up feeling like absolute shit. 

His sleep had been restless, full of fragmented memories and half-formed thoughts that refused to leave him alone. The castle still felt wrong, the weight of yesterday clinging to him like a second skin. 

And then there was Granger. 

He had no reason to be thinking about her. None. And yet, her voice was still there, sharp and accusing, lodged in the back of his skull like a splinter. 

Never thought I’d see the day Malfoy kept his mouth shut. 

He exhaled sharply, staring at the green canopy of his bed. It was ridiculous. She was ridiculous. As if she had any right to be irritated with him. As if she wasn’t just as insufferable as she had always been, sitting there at the Gryffindor table with her self-righteous frown. 

His hands clenched into fists. 

It didn’t matter. It wasn’t his problem. 

He forced himself out of bed, grabbing his uniform with more force than necessary, and stalked toward the bathroom. His reflection in the mirror was about as pleasant as he felt—pale, hollow-eyed, a permanent crease between his brows.  

His hair was a mess, but he barely ran his fingers through it before giving up. What did it matter, anyway? The whole bloody school already saw him as a disgrace. Might as well look the part. 

When he stepped back into the dormitory, Blaise was already dressed, leaning against his bedpost, arms crossed over his chest. His usual smirk was firmly in place, the kind that immediately set Draco on edge. 

“Big day, Malfoy.” 

Draco narrowed his eyes. “Why do you sound so pleased?” 

Blaise stretched lazily, as if he’d got a full night’s rest instead of being forced back into the hellhole that was Hogwarts. “Because you and Granger have a date with destiny.” 

Draco froze. 

What? 

And then, all at once, it hit him. 

McGonagall. 

The bloody House Unity projects. 

His stomach twisted unpleasantly. He’d been so preoccupied with the stares, the whispers, the suffocating weight of being back, that he’d managed to forget the worst part of it all. 

Today was the day they were officially being paired up. And knowing his luck, the chances of him being stuck with one of the Golden Trio were dangerously high. 

He dragged a hand down his face, exhaling sharply. Just get through it. Keep your head down, take whatever ridiculous assignment they throw at you, and move on. 

Easier said than done. 

By the time he reached the Great Hall, the air was already buzzing with conversation. It was all anyone could talk about—the bloody pairings. 

Draco slid into his usual seat at the Slytherin table, ignoring the way people stared. He was getting used to it. Used to the weight of their whispers pressing against his back, the occasional glare sent in his direction. He didn’t react. Didn’t acknowledge them. Let them look. Let them talk. 

It didn’t matter. 

What did matter, was figuring out just how miserable this so-called unity project was about to make his life. 

His gaze flicked across the hall, scanning the Gryffindor table. 

Granger sat with Potter and both Weasleys. 

Weaselbee was talking animatedly—too loudly—his gestures exaggerated, his voice carrying across the hall. Potter muttered something in response, looking vaguely unimpressed, but Granger… Granger looked distracted. 

Her arms were crossed, brows drawn, lips pressed together in that way she did when she was thinking too much. Which was always. 

Draco’s gaze lingered for half a second too long before he forced himself to look away.

Not my problem. 

McGonagall stood at the head table, tapping her goblet with a single sharp clink. The hall quieted immediately. 

“As you are all aware,” she began, her voice carrying effortlessly, “this year, Hogwarts is taking active steps to promote house unity. You will be expected to work together—to rebuild, to cooperate, and to move forward as one school, rather than four divided houses.” 

Draco twisted his ring. Move forward. 

As if it were that simple. 

McGonagall continued repeating her lines from last night, as if they could have forgotten it. “To encourage this, all students will be partnered across houses for patrols, classwork, and the ongoing restoration efforts.” 

More murmurs. Some excited, some nervous. Others, outraged. 

Draco exhaled slowly, fingers curling against the table. He already knew how this was going to go. He was going to be stuck with some self-righteous Gryffindor, forced to play nice for the sake of ‘unity.’ 

McGonagall raised a piece of parchment. 

“The assignments for the ongoing restoration efforts  are as follows,” she announced, reading from the list. 

“Hannah Abbot and Theodore Nott.” 

Theo barely reacted. From across the table, he simply shrugged. 

“Pansy Parkinson and Ronald Weasley.” 

Weasley choked. 

Pansy made a noise like she had just swallowed poison. 

Draco smirked. Well. That should be entertaining. 

McGonagall continued without missing a beat. 

“Luna Lovegood and Blaise Zabini” 

Draco glanced at Blaise, whose lips twitched in amusement. Lovegood, of all people. 

“Justin Finch-Fletchley and Ginevra Weasley.” 

Ginny Weasley barely looked fazed. 

Draco exhaled slowly. Good. Maybe he’d get lucky. Maybe he’d be paired with— 

“Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy.” 

The room went silent. 

Draco’s stomach tightened. 

Across the hall, Granger looked like she’d just bitten into a lemon. 

And then, Weasley made a noise of pure outrage. 

“That’s ridiculous!” he barked. “You can’t pair her with him!” 

Draco smirked—forced, sharp, and thin. “Relax, Weasley,” he drawled, leaning back against the bench. “I’m not thrilled about it either.” 

Granger turned to him with a glare that could have skinned him alive. 

“Trust me, Malfoy,” she snapped. “The feeling is mutual.” 

Hermione let out a slow, sharp breath, her jaw tight as she turned away. For a second, she just stood there, fingers flexing like she wanted to throttle something. Like she wanted to throttle him. 

Then, just as quickly, her expression hardened. She brushed at her sleeves—short, efficient motions—wiping away the moment like dust on her robes. Like she refused to let him be something worth reacting to. 

Across the hall, Weasley was still fuming, his voice rising in protest. McGonagall’s gaze sharpened. 

“If you wish to discuss it further, you’re welcome to take it up with the portraits of past headmasters. Otherwise, sit down, Mr. Weasley.” 

Weasley looked furious, but even he wasn’t stupid enough to argue with McGonagall. 

Draco exhaled slowly. 

This was going to be hell. 

McGonagall continued reading the pairings, and—predictably—the only students who looked remotely upset were the ones stuck with a Slytherin. How original. 

Then, as if things weren’t already bad enough, she added, “The prefects and Head students’ patrols will be assigned weekly, and class pairings will be determined by the professors. No switching of partners will be permitted.” 

And with a wave of her wand, timesheets appeared in front of them all. He and Granger were supposed to meet in an hour for the restoration. 

Draco exhaled slowly, fighting the urge to slam his head against the table. 

Brilliant. Because his life wasn’t miserable enough. 

Slowly, the Great Hall had settled back into a hum of conversation, but the tension still lingered in the air like the aftershock of a curse. 

Draco barely heard any of it. He was too busy processing the absolute nightmare that had just been handed to him. 

Granger. 

His partner for the rest of the year. 

Across the hall, she looked equally unimpressed, lips pressed into a thin, irritated line. Weasley was still muttering angrily under his breath, looking like he was one step away from hexing someone. 

Draco exhaled through his nose. This is going to be hell. 

He pushed away from the Slytherin table and strode out of the Great Hall before anyone could try to engage him in more useless conversation. Blaise caught up with him as he stepped into the entrance hall, amusement dancing across his face. 

“Well, that went well,” Blaise said, falling into step beside him. 

Draco shot him a glare. “Don’t.” 

Blaise smirked. “Oh, come on. You and Granger, working side by side? It’s poetic, really.” 

Draco scoffed. “It’s idiotic.” 

Blaise shrugged. “Same thing.” 

Draco ignored him. He had bigger problems. 

Because in less than an hour, he’d be stuck with Granger. 

For the entire year. 

Merlin help me.  

The thought alone was enough to put him in a worse mood. 

He took the long way to the East Wing. Not because he was avoiding it—definitely not—but because the thought of showing up early, standing there awkwardly, waiting for Granger, made his skin itch. 

The corridors were quieter now, most students already settled into their first assignments. A pair of third-years whispered as he passed, eyes darting away when he glanced at them. A group of Hufflepuffs stood near a classroom door, their conversation faltering as he walked by. 

The back of his neck burned. He clenched his jaw and picked up his pace. 

By the time he reached the East Wing, irritation had settled thick in his chest, replacing the unease. He wasn’t nervous. He was just—annoyed. 

And then he saw her. 

Already there, already scribbling away on some bloody parchment. 

Of course she was. 

Draco watched her for a moment, then sneered. “Let me guess—painstakingly documenting every crack in the stone?” 

She didn’t even look up. “Let me guess—you’re planning to contribute absolutely nothing?” 

Draco exhaled sharply. Merlin, this is going to be painful. 

They walked the length of the corridor, surveying the damage. Or rather, Granger surveyed, and Draco tolerated. 

He looked at the parchment in her hands. It was already filled with notes, her quill scratching furiously across the page. 

Third-floor bridge supports still unstable. Great Hall ceiling flickering intermittently. South Wing tapestry completely beyond repair—centuries-old magic lost. 

Draco scoffed quietly. Of course, Granger had already catalogued half the castle’s structural weaknesses before they’d even started. 

She barely looked up, muttering to herself as she worked, rattling off spells and theories about restoration. Something about structural stabilization charms, reinforcement wards, lingering magical residue. 

Draco only half-listened, more focused on the way she kept worrying her bottom lip between her teeth, eyes scanning the damage like she was personally responsible for fixing it all. 

She looked tired. 

More than usual. 

Every so often, she would rub at her forehead, her brows drawn together in frustration. Too much tension. Too little sleep. 

Draco almost asked if she was all right. 

Almost. 

Then he stopped himself. Not my business. 

They reached the Grand Staircase. It was one of the worst-hit areas. 

The damage was obvious—huge chunks of stone missing, a few steps still unstable, some of them barely holding together. Enchanted portraits had yet to be restored, leaving crooked, empty frames hanging along the walls. 

Draco folded his arms. “So, what’s the grand plan, Granger?” 

Granger exhaled sharply, like she was actively resisting the urge to strangle him. 

“Step one: structural stabilization charms. Step two: assessing magical residue for any lingering dark enchantments. Step three—” 

She stopped mid-sentence, narrowing her eyes. 

“Why am I even explaining this? You’re not listening.” 

Draco smirked. “Oh, I’m listening. I just don’t care.” 

She glared. 

“You know, Malfoy, if you’re not going to help, just—” 

And then, the staircase shifted beneath them. 

For a single, heart-stopping moment, the entire world tilted. 

Draco barely had time to react before the stone under his feet lurched violently to the left. 

The staircase groaned beneath them, a deep, splintering sound that sent a sharp jolt of warning through Draco’s spine. Then, all at once, the stone gave way—cracking, crumbling, collapsing. 

Shit. 

Instinct took over. Move. Now. 

Granger gasped, reaching for the railing, but the sudden drop sent her stumbling. Draco’s body reacted before his mind could catch up—his hand shot out, grabbing her wrist. 

They collided hard. 

Draco’s back slammed against the railing, Granger’s hands fisting his shirt to steady herself. For a breathless moment, everything held. 

Too close. 

He could feel her breath against his collarbone, the press of her fingers against his chest. And she was looking at him—wide-eyed, startled, searching. 

Draco swallowed hard. What the hell was happening? 

Then, the last of the stone beneath them crumbled, and gravity took hold. 

They were falling. 

For half a second, there was nothing but weightlessness, the rush of air, the shock of losing control. 

Then—impact. 

Draco hit the platform hard, the impact jarring through his bones as his shoulder slammed against unforgiving stone. A sharp burst of pain shot down his arm. 

Brilliant. Just brilliant. 

Before he could fully process it, another weight crashed down beside him. 

Granger. 

She landed with far less grace, her knees buckling as she tumbled forward. And Draco—acting on nothing but instinct, on something reflexive and stupid—reached out. 

He caught her. 

Her hands fisted into his robes as she collided with his chest, the force of it knocking the breath from his lungs. His fingers curled around her arms, steadying her before she could fall further. 

For a moment, neither of them moved. 

Draco’s pulse thundered in his ears. Too close. She was too close. 

Her face hovered just inches from his, breath warm against his collar. A few curls had come loose from her ponytail, stray strands brushing against his sleeve where his grip still lingered. Her fingers, still clutched at the fabric of his robes, tightened for half a second before she realized— 

Then, just as fast, she pulled away and Draco let her go like she’d burned him. 

His fingers twitched at his sides as he stepped back, breath steady but pulse erratic. It didn’t mean anything. It was reflex. That’s all. 

He hadn’t caught her—she’d just happened to fall where his arms were. 

His scowl deepened. No, that wasn’t right. He had caught her. Instinctively. Without thinking. Which was worse. Which was bloody unacceptable. 

He rolled his shoulders, shaking it off, but the feeling wouldn’t leave. His body was still buzzing from the impact, and that was just adrenaline. Nothing else. 

“That was—!” She clears her throat. “You didn’t need to grab me.” 

Draco scoffs, straightening his robes. “Please. You grabbed me first.” 

She scowled. “I did not.” 

Draco huffed. “Sure.” 

Granger exhaled sharply through her nose, dragging both hands through her curls in a rare show of agitation. She muttered something under her breath—probably a curse—and turned away from him, like looking at him any longer might actually worsen the situation. 

“Fantastic,” she said, voice clipped, still shaking dust from her sleeves. “Brilliant. As if this day wasn’t already a complete disaster.” 

Draco folded his arms. “You’re welcome, by the way.” 

She shot him a glare sharp enough to cut through steel. 

“Well,” she said, voice slightly strained, “that was unpleasant.” 

Draco scowled. “No, really? I hadn’t noticed.” 

She barely looked at him before scanning their surroundings. The staircase had completely collapsed, leaving them stranded on the lower platform. 

Draco rolled his shoulders, testing the pain in his arm. Sore, but not broken. 

Granger sighed, rubbing her temples. “We need to find a way back up.” 

Draco huffed. “No shit.” 

She gave him a look. 

He smirked. 

“Think of it this way,” he drawled. “At least we won’t have to do any more of your precious ‘restoration plans’ today.” 

Granger muttered something that sounded suspiciously like a curse. 

Draco exhaled sharply, raking a hand through his hair. 

This day just kept getting worse. 

And the worst part? 

They were stuck. 

Together. 

Draco sighed dramatically, surveying their predicament with the absolute lack of enthusiasm it deserved. 

“So, let me get this straight,” he drawled. “We’re stranded on a collapsing staircase, with no clear way up, no backup, and no way of knowing when someone will find us.” 

Granger huffed, dusting off her robes. “Correct.” 

He crossed his arms. “Excellent. Let’s never do this again.” 

She shot him an unimpressed look before turning her attention to the wreckage around them. The staircase they’d fallen from was nothing more than a pile of broken stone and jagged edges, and the only visible exit was several floors above them.  

The portraits that hadn’t been destroyed during the battle were empty, their usual occupants nowhere to be found. 

Perfect. Just perfect. 

Granger was already muttering to herself, eyes scanning the rubble with that maddening focus of hers. 

Draco exhaled, glancing up at the gap where the stairs used to be. 

“Any brilliant ideas, Granger?” 

She gave him a tight-lipped smile. “Yes. Let’s leave you here.” 

“Tempting, I’m sure,” he said smoothly. “But as much as I’d love to see how long it takes for you to realize you need me, let’s speed this along, shall we?” 

Granger muttered something under her breath—probably an insult, knowing her—and knelt to inspect a large slab of stone. 

Draco watched her for a moment, then sighed. “You do realize no amount of glaring at the rubble is going to magically put it back together, right?” 

She didn’t even look at him. “Unlike you, Malfoy, I actually think before I act.” 

Draco scoffed. “Thinking is overrated.” 

She gave a sharp, humorless laugh. “That explains so much about you.” 

He smirked, unfazed. “Careful, Granger. If you insult me too much, I might start crying.” 

“Merlin forbid,” she muttered, shaking her head. 

Draco leaned against the cracked railing, tapping his fingers against his arm. “So? What’s the plan, then? I assume you have one, since you’re always so prepared.” 

Granger shot him a look that was half-annoyed, half-murderous. 

Instead of launching into solutions, she took a steadying breath and pressed her palms against her knees, like she was forcing herself to slow down. 

She was rattled. Trying not to show it. Trying to be fine. 

It should have been funny. It wasn’t. 

 “You hit your head or something, Granger?” Draco asked, more out of habit than concern. 

Her jaw tightened, and she straightened too quickly, ignoring him. 

“We need to stabilize the area,” she said, standing and brushing dust off her skirt. “Some of these stones are still shifting. If we try anything too risky, the entire structure could collapse further.” 

Draco raised an eyebrow. “And that would be bad because…?” 

She glared. “Because I’m not dying here with you, Malfoy.” 

He smirked. “I’m wounded.” 

She ignored him, drawing her wand. “I’ll reinforce the surrounding structure, and you—” She turned, giving him a once-over. “Actually, you should probably just stand there and try not to be a hindrance.” 

Draco put a hand over his heart. “I see you’ve already moved into the insulting-your-teammate phase of the disaster. What’s next? Tears? Screaming?” 

Granger gave him the world’s most unimpressed look before turning back to the ruined steps. 

Draco watched as she lifted her wand, murmuring an incantation under her breath. A soft, golden light spread across the broken stone, sealing some of the smaller cracks and stabilizing the looser debris. 

“Huh,” he said. “Not terrible.” 

She didn’t respond, focusing instead on a particularly unstable portion of the staircase. 

Draco should have been bored. He should have been rolling his eyes, wishing she would hurry up. But instead, he found himself watching her. 

Not just the way she worked, but how she worked. 

Every movement was precise, controlled. She chewed her lip when she concentrated, her brows pulling together in that determined little frown. She adjusted her stance every few seconds, shifting her weight, recalculating. 

It was… impressive. Annoyingly so. 

He shook the thought away, crossing his arms. Not my business. 

“Alright,” Granger announced, stepping back. “That should hold. Now we just need a way up.” 

Draco eyed the gap between them and the nearest landing. “And how do you suggest we do that, Granger? Fly?” 

Granger tapped her chin, eyes scanning their surroundings like she was already forming a plan.  

Draco narrowed his eyes. He knew that look. He didn’t trust that look. 

“No,” he said immediately. “Absolutely not.” 

Her gaze flicked to him, something calculating behind it. Then, to his utter irritation, she smirked—that infuriating, self-satisfied expression that usually preceded a terrible idea. 

“Malfoy, when’s the last time you actually trusted someone?” 

His spine went rigid. His fingers twitched at his sides. 

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” His voice was sharp, but she didn’t flinch. 

She just tilted her head, gesturing toward the edge of the platform. “It means we’re levitating each other.” 

Draco stared at her. 

He expected unwavering confidence—Granger always thought she was right—but there was a fraction of a second, a flicker of something in her eyes. Not doubt. Not about the spell. 

About him. Draco’s stomach twisted unpleasantly. 

“You’re insane,” he said flatly. 

She rolled her eyes. “Oh, don’t be so dramatic.” 

His jaw tightened. “And you expect me to just stand here and let you control whether I go splattering across the floor?” 

She huffed impatiently. “It’s a simple spell, Malfoy. We learnt it at first year” 

Simple, she said. As if letting her suspend him in the air with nothing but her wand and her so-called Gryffindor integrity was a minor inconvenience. 

His nostrils flared. “I am not an idiot.” 

“No,” she said. “You’re a coward.” 

His blood ran hot. 

His fists clenched. “I am not a coward.” 

“Then prove it.” 

Merlin, I hate her. 

But fine. Fine. 

“You go first,” he said flatly. 

Granger lifted an eyebrow. “So you can drop me? I don’t think so.” 

“Touché,” he muttered. 

She took a deep breath, then raised her wand. 

“Wingardium Leviosa.” 

Draco felt himself lift off the ground, weightless, magic humming around him. 

Granger’s face was tight with concentration as she guided him up toward the nearest landing. 

Draco did not like this. Not one bit. 

Being completely at her mercy, completely out of control. 

But he kept his mouth shut. If he so much as twitched, she’d drop him just to spite him. 

After a painfully slow ascent, his feet finally touched solid ground. 

He let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. 

Granger grinned up at him. “See? Not so bad.” 

Draco scowled. “I hated every second of that.” 

“Too bad,” she said, adjusting her grip on her wand. “Your turn.” 

He hesitated—just for a second. She was watching him closely, like she wasn’t entirely convinced he’d follow through. 

Draco sighed heavily. “If I drop you, it’s because I had to endure your voice this whole time.” 

Granger scoffed. “I’d expect nothing less.” 

Draco sighed again, then flicked his wand. 

“Wingardium Leviosa.” 

Granger rose into the air, and for a second—just a second—Draco almost panicked. 

He could feel her weight in the spell, the way her body shifted slightly with each breath. He could drop her. He could let go, let her fall, let her— 

But he didn’t. 

Instead, he focused, carefully guiding her up. 

Her curls floated slightly around her, brushing against his arm when she finally landed beside him. 

Draco let the spell drop, and she wobbled slightly before catching herself. 

They stood there for a moment, too close, breathing a little too hard for something that hadn’t been physically demanding. 

Then Granger exhaled, brushing off her robes. “Well. At least you didn’t drop me.” 

Draco scoffed. “Don’t get used to it.” 

She rolled her eyes but didn’t look away immediately. 

Something about it made his skin feel too hot. 

He cleared his throat. “Let’s get out of here before the stairs try to kill us again.” 

Granger nodded, but her expression was unreadable. 

Not quite amusement. Not outright smugness. Something quieter, more self-contained. 

Like she was keeping something to herself. 

His irritation flared instantly. “What?” 

She shook her head, lips pressing together like she was choosing not to say whatever had crossed her mind. 

“Nothing.” 

That was a lie. 

That annoyed him even more. He hated that. Hated her. 

They walked in tense silence, their usual antagonism settling back into place like an old habit. The castle corridors felt heavier now, the weight of the day pressing down on them as they neared the main hall. 

Then, just for a second, Granger slowed. 

It was barely noticeable, just the briefest hesitation. A glance over her shoulder—quick, almost reflexive—like she was checking to see if he was still there. 

Draco’s brows furrowed, but before he could say anything, she shook her head. At herself, not him. And without another word, she kept walking. 

Draco made his way to the dungeons while he told himself the odd weight in his chest had nothing to do with her. 

The Slytherin common room was quiet, save for the low crackle of the fireplace. Shadows flickered against the dark stone walls, the green and silver tapestries unmoving in the still air. The usual tension that settled in the dungeons had eased slightly—most of the house had already retreated to their dorms. 

Draco sat in his usual chair, elbow propped on the armrest, fingers absently tapping against his temple. 

He wasn’t thinking about her. 

He wasn’t. 

Except—he was. 

Bloody hell. 

The memory kept playing over in his head, uninvited and infuriatingly vivid. 

The way she had grabbed onto him when the staircase collapsed. The tight press of her fingers against his robes, her breath sharp and fast against his skin. 

The way he had caught her. 

Reflex. That’s all it was. Just an automatic response, nothing more. 

But for a split second—just one—there had been something else. 

A flicker of something dangerous. 

Draco clenched his jaw, shaking the thought off. 

He was tired. That was all. Too much stress, too little sleep, too many people staring at him like he didn’t belong. That’s why his thoughts were running in circles. 

It had nothing to do with her. 

It was the situation, that’s all. A natural response to sudden movement, like grabbing onto a railing. He would have done the same for anyone. 

Across from him, Blaise watched with obnoxious amusement. 

“You look weirdly thoughtful, Malfoy,” he mused. “That’s never a good sign.” 

Draco scowled. “It’s nothing.” 

Blaise raised an eyebrow. “Right. That’s why you’ve been brooding for the past hour.” 

Draco exhaled sharply, resisting the urge to throw something at him. 

“I’m not brooding,” he said coolly. 

Blaise smirked. “You absolutely are. It’s quite the sight, really. Should I be concerned?” 

Draco didn’t answer. 

Because what the hell was he supposed to say? 

That Granger had been in his head since they got out of that bloody staircase? That the way she had looked at him—equal parts exasperation and something else—was bothering him more than it should? 

No. Absolutely not. 

Instead, he leaned back in his chair, forcing a smirk. “I think you’re just upset I’m not hanging onto your every word, Zabini.” 

Blaise chuckled. “Nice deflection. Very convincing.” 

Draco rolled his eyes. “Merlin, you’re insufferable.” 

Blaise shrugged. “And yet, here we are.” He studied Draco with lazy amusement, tapping his fingers idly against the arm of his chair. Then, far too casually, he said, “You’re thinking about her, aren’t you?” 

Draco’s muscles tensed, his fingers curling slightly against his knee. “Fuck off, Zabini.” 

Blaise’s smirk widened. “That’s a yes.” 

Draco exhaled sharply through his nose, forcing his gaze onto the fire. The embers flickered, shifting and cracking apart—just like the thoughts he refused to acknowledge. 

“It’s nothing.” 

“Mm.” Blaise tilted his head. “Sure it is. Just like it was ‘nothing’ when you lost a whole minute of your life staring into space earlier.” 

Draco tensed. Had he? 

Bloody hell. 

Silence stretched between them for a beat too long, so Draco did the only thing he could. He changed the subject. 

“How was your little repair project with Lovegood?” His tone was deliberately bored as he leaned back, feigning disinterest. 

Blaise chuckled, either seeing through the deflection or simply choosing to be entertained by it. “Fascinating, actually. She spent half the time telling me the stones in the castle have feelings. Something about ‘residual emotional energy’ from centuries of students.” He shook his head, lips twitching. “It was bizarre. But she’s not dull, I’ll give her that.” 

Draco scoffed. “You do attract the weird ones.” 

Blaise smirked. “Maybe I just have better taste than you.” 

Draco rolled his eyes, but the distraction worked. Blaise let it go—for now—and Draco let himself believe, just for a moment, that the conversation about Granger was over. 

He forced himself to look at the fire, watching the embers crackle and shift, anything to keep from reacting. 

Because the truth—the absolute worst part of all of this—was that Blaise was right. 

And that? 

That was a problem.

Chapter Text

The castle was unnervingly quiet at this hour. 

Draco had never cared much for patrolling—not during his prefect days, and certainly not now. But this? This was something else entirely. 

Because this week, he had to do it with Granger. 

It had been weeks since the staircase incident, and the first couple of days were chaos. 

Draco had seen Granger annoyed before. He’d seen her furious, argumentative, even borderline hysterical in a fit of righteous Gryffindor rage. But that? 

That was something else. The way she moved—sharp, efficient, methodical—was almost unsettling. Like if she worked fast enough, hard enough, she could erase the entire disaster from existence. Like she could will away the fact that she’d been stuck with him, that he had caught her, that he had touched her. 

Weeks of forced cooperation on the restoration project, of biting remarks and lingering glares, of working next to her but never with her. 

And yet, despite all of that, they still managed not to kill each other. Which was a shame, really. 

Fortunately, he wasn’t the only one dealing with this disaster of a year. 

Pansy had been losing her mind over having to partner with Weasley, her rants becoming increasingly unhinged. 

Zabini, on the other hand, had grown far too amused by Lovegood’s nonsense, often recounting their conversations to the Slytherin table with an almost gleeful fascination. 

And Theo was stuck with Abbott and spent half his time complaining about her Hufflepuff optimism and the shameful disgrace of her bloodline, as if Draco gave a single fuck about that anymore. 

He didn’t. What he did care about was the fact that he was already in a bad mood before this patrol even began. 

First, he had to endure another gruelling day of pretending to work with Granger on their assigned restoration tasks—standing around while she meticulously documented every single crack in the castle, talking about stability charms and magical residue as if he actually gave a damn. 

After that, he had to put up with Professor Bill Weasley in Defence Against the Dark Arts. Because two Weasleys at Hogwarts apparently wasn’t enough—no, the universe had decided he needed to endure a third.

Unlike his siblings, he didn’t go around picking fights or waving his moral superiority in Draco’s face. He just did his job and expected everyone else to do theirs. Draco supposed he should be grateful for that, but it didn’t change the fact that a Weasley had authority over him.

And now, he was stuck wandering the corridors with Granger—at night, no less.

Draco exhaled sharply as they walked side by side, boots clicking softly against the stone floor. 

For once, Granger wasn’t speaking. That alone should have been a blessing. But it wasn’t. 

It was her silence that made it worse. Not the stiff, focused kind, but the kind that felt deliberate. Like she was actively choosing not to acknowledge his existence. 

She didn’t walk too close. Didn’t glance his way. Her jaw was tight, her movements sharp—brisker than usual, as if she had somewhere much more important to be. As if she wasn’t currently patrolling the castle with him. 

Draco sneered. “Oh, don’t go all quiet on my account, Granger. I know how much you love the sound of your own voice.” 

Nothing. 

Not a glare, not a snide remark. Not even a huff of irritation. She just kept walking, chin lifted, like he was beneath notice. 

He had patrolled with the other Head Girls before—Weasley, Abbott, some seventh-year Ravenclaw. And sure, those had gone fine (if he ignored the way Ginny Weasley glared daggers at him the entire time). 

Normally, she would have already scolded him for slacking off or accused him of not taking this seriously. He would expect her to be lecturing him about his responsibilities as Head Boy, or listing off some ridiculous guideline she expected him to follow.

But tonight something was wrong.

She wasn’t completely silent, but she wasn’t herself, either. No sharp reprimands, no irritated sighs, no forceful, self-righteous declarations of how he was the worst part of her day. Just—short, clipped words. And when she did speak, it was without her usual fight, like she couldn’t summon the energy to argue properly.

It felt wrong.

And the worst part was that he had no bloody idea why it was bothering him so much.

He should be celebrating. No lectures, no nagging, no insufferable commentary about how he was an absolute waste of a Head Boy. But instead, the quiet felt thick. Stagnant. Like something had changed, and he hadn’t noticed when.

Draco frowned, sneaking a glance at her. Her arms were crossed tightly over her chest, her brows drawn in thought. She looked… tense. Not angry. Just tired.

That was new.

Not that he cared.

And even if he did—he didn’t. So it didn’t matter.

He tore his gaze away, staring straight ahead. The torches along the corridor flickered as they passed, throwing shadows across the walls.

The silence stretched too long, too strange.

Draco exhaled sharply. “You’re unusually quiet, Granger. Lost your voice?”

She let out a short breath through her nose, shaking her head. “Not tonight, Malfoy.”

His brows twitched at the response. There was no real heat behind it—just dry, exhausted amusement.

And that? That was definitely new.

“Should I be concerned?” he drawled, tilting his head. “It’s unlike you to suffer in silence. Normally, I can’t get you to shut up.”

Granger rolled her eyes but didn’t rise to the bait. “Malfoy, I don’t have the energy for this today.”

It should have been cutting. Should have stung. But it didn’t—it just sounded tired.

Draco smirked—automatically, out of habit—but it lacked its usual bite. Because the truth was, he didn’t feel like arguing either.

And that? That was probably the worst part.

They passed by the library, its towering doors looming in the dim light.

Draco didn’t care.

But—

He glanced at her anyway.

Instinct. Nothing more.

And for a fleeting moment, he saw something different. She always looked different when she wasn’t talking. Less sharp edges. Less fire. More exhaustion.

Her lips were pressed into a thin line, her fingers gripping her arms just a little too tightly—like she was holding herself together by force.

She wasn’t just ignoring him. There was something else. Something off.

Draco ignored the strange feeling stirring in his chest—irrelevant. Not something he needed to care about.

They walked the rest of the way with the occasional exchange—his snark met with an empty retort, her words lacking their usual sharpness.

And Draco hated it. 

Even as he lay in bed later that night, staring up at the green canopy above him, the quiet still felt unnatural. 

He scowled, rolling onto his side, forcing the thought away. It wasn’t important. He had Quidditch tomorrow. Something that actually mattered. 

And yet, even with that certainty, the quiet still felt wrong. 

Not the castle’s quiet. He was used to that. Liked it, even. But hers. It clung to him, intrusive and unwelcome, long after they’d parted ways. 

Draco exhaled sharply, raking a hand through his hair. 

He needed to shake this off. Get his head straight. Focus on something that wasn’t Granger. 

So, before the sun had even begun to rise, he dragged himself out of bed, grabbed his broom, and left. 

The air was sharp and bitingly cold when Draco stepped onto the Quidditch pitch. The sky was still a dull grey, the castle just beginning to stir in the distance. Most of the school was still asleep, tucked away in their warm beds. But Draco had been awake for hours. 

Because he needed this. The cold air biting at his skin. The solid weight of his broom. The certainty of the pitch beneath his feet.

This was the only place he still felt like himself. 

He took a slow breath, exhaling as he stepped onto the field, his boots crunching against the dewy grass. 

Everything else—the stares, the whispers, the suffocating tension of being back at Hogwarts—all of it disappeared here. 

This was his escape. His sanctuary. 

He flew for hours, pushing his broom faster, higher, the cold air biting at his skin. Here, in the sky, nothing else mattered. Not the stares, not the whispers, not bloody Granger and her silence. Just speed, precision, control. 

Eventually, the sun began to creep over the horizon, casting long shadows across the pitch. Soon, the rest of the team would arrive, and the real work would begin. 

And Slytherin’s team was an absolute mess. 

Not that it mattered as much this year. The new Quidditch schedule—McGonagall’s brilliant idea to make the matches fairer—meant there were more chances to recover from a bad game. Twelve matches instead of six. 

The first half of the season from November to February, the second from March to June. And then, in the end, the two highest-scoring teams would fight for the Cup. 

It made sense, he supposed. A single disaster of a match wouldn’t kill a team’s chances anymore. You had to be consistent, not just lucky. 

Still. It also meant more games. More practice. More pressure. And right now, with a team that could barely keep up, Slytherin had a long way to go before they were anywhere near that final match. 

Draco exhaled, tightening his grip on his broom. They didn’t have time to fall apart.  Slytherin had already lost everything else. If they lost their reputation on the pitch too—if they became a joke— 

He wouldn’t let that happen. 

Draco scowled as he reached the ground and surveyed the players who had bothered to show up for practice. 

Most of their best players hadn’t returned this year. Some were dead, others on the run. And the ones who had come back were not at their best. It was painfully obvious that their team had no direction. No leadership. No identity.

Slytherin used to be feared. Respected. Even when people hated them, they at least knew better than to underestimate them. Now they were just another team. Another name on the board. And Draco hated it.

And even worst, he was their captain now. 

Flint would have whipped them into shape. Montague would have kept them in line. But they were gone, and the rest of the returning players were either unmotivated or bloody useless. If Slytherin wanted to stand a chance this season, someone had to take control. 

So he’d do it. 

Draco pushed them harder than ever, barking orders, merciless in his expectations. He had no patience for mediocrity. Not this year. 

Not when the entire school was waiting for them to fail. He wasn’t going to give them the satisfaction. 

By the time he finally called an end to practice, the team looked wrecked. Players collapsed onto the grass, panting and sweat-drenched. But he had a team. 

Blaise wiped his face with his sleeve, shooting Draco a knowing look. 

“Bloody hell, Malfoy,” he muttered. “You trying to kill us?” 

Draco smirked, but there was no humour in it. “If you can’t handle it, Zabini, maybe you should sit this year out.” 

Blaise raised an eyebrow, studying him. “So you’re taking this seriously?” 

Draco exhaled, dragging a hand through his damp hair. “Quidditch is the only thing that still makes sense.” 

Blaise didn’t argue, because he knew it was true. 

Thanks to the practice, his body ached with exhaustion, but for the first time in weeks, his mind was quiet. 

At least, it was quiet until he reached the castle.

The soreness in his limbs was a welcome distraction, grounding, familiar. But as he walked through the courtyard, the tension in his shoulders crept back in, the silence of the castle pressing against his ribs like a weight.

That was when he saw it.

The Hogwarts Memorial.

His steps faltered—just slightly. Just enough to feel it. A flicker of something that didn’t belong there, something intrusive and unwelcome.

It stood near the entrance, polished and solemn, carved names stretching in endless columns. Students. Professors. Fighters. Dead.

his fingers twisted his ring, once, twice.

He hadn’t really looked at it before. Had avoided it, mostly.

His eyes flickered over the names—Potter’s people, mostly. The ones everyone whispered about in the halls. The ones whose absence was noticeable, whose deaths were mourned in public.

Then—Vincent Crabbe.

His stomach twisted. It was brief, just a flicker of something in his chest, gone before he could name it.

Crabbe had been stupid. Reckless. A blunt instrument more than a friend. But he had been there, always there, following Draco’s orders like it was all that mattered.

Draco swallowed, forcing his gaze away. He barely realized his feet had started moving again, carrying him toward the castle. Away from the names. Away from the weight pressing against his ribs.

By the time he reached the doors, the cold air had settled in his lungs, sharp and grounding. Better.

He kept walking, to shake that feeling. Not aimlessly—he wasn’t that pathetic—but just far enough to clear his head.

And that was how he ended up near the library. Not looking for her. Obviously. That would be ridiculous.

But when he passed the library, he heard her voice—soft, muttering—half-hidden behind a tower of books. 

Granger was still working. Obviously. Her quill moved in sharp, efficient strokes. There were at least six open books surrounding her, parchment stacked so high it nearly toppled when she reached for another reference.

As she flipped a page, her fingers twitched—just slightly. The movement was so brief he almost missed it, but then she did it again, this time curling her fingers into a fist before smoothing them out. Like she was trying to steady them.

“This should have been done weeks ago,” she huffed, flipping through another page with sharp, practiced movements.  

Every note, every figure, every recalculation—done by her. Draco rolled his eyes. Classic Granger, but something about the way she said it sat wrong.  

That something sat heavy in his ribs, low and unfamiliar. Like a memory he didn’t want to look at too closely. 

Because it was stupid. He wasn’t the reason she was like this. He hadn’t made her this way.  

Except—hadn’t he? He spent years tearing her down, mocking her, making her life just a little bit harder every chance he got.  

And now she was sitting here, voice edged with exhaustion, muttering about how she couldn’t trust anyone else to get things done properly. As if she was the only one who still cared enough to fix things.

Draco scowled. He should leave. Shouldn’t waste another second standing here, watching her scratch out notes like the world would end if she got something wrong.  

But something about the way she muttered to herself, voice low and edged with frustration, made him hesitate. 

“Of course, no one else bothers to double-check these things,” she said, rubbing her forehead.   

Her left hand flexed against the table, fingers twitching absently before she curled them into a fist—just for a second. 

Draco’s gaze flicked to the pale, raised letters on her arm, half-hidden beneath her sleeve. 

Mudblood. 

His entire posture went rigid, the tension locking in his throat like something wedged too deep to swallow. His fingers twitched at his sides, an old habit from duelling—ready to move, to react. Except there was nothing to react to. Just scars. Just consequences.

His grip on the bookshelf tightened, knuckles aching. There was a dull, unpleasant buzzing at the base of his skull, a pressure he couldn’t quite shake.

His fingers twitched again—more than a twitch, this time. A sharp, involuntary spasm that sent an uncomfortable jolt up his wrist. He curled his hands into fists, willing the tension out of them, but it didn’t work.

Because he couldn’t unsee it.

The library air felt thick, suffocating. The dim candlelight flickered against the inked scars on her skin, and something ugly twisted in his gut. His breath came sharper, too fast, and he forced himself to exhale slowly. Steady. Colder. He curled his fingers into a fist before forcing them to relax, looking away before he could think about it too much.

The shape of the word burned behind his eyes. Raised, permanent. 

Just like the way she had screamed. 

The memory hit without warning—Bellatrix’s laughter, Hermione’s voice breaking in a way that shouldn’t have been possible. And him. Standing there. Listening. 

He had done nothing. 

A muscle in his jaw twitched, and suddenly, the library felt too small. Too fucking suffocating. 

He closed his eyes. Not my business. 

So without another glance at Granger, he strode toward the exit, his footsteps sharp against the stone. 

The castle corridors were quieter now, most students either in their dorms or still buried in their books. Draco barely registered where he was going. He just walked, taking the long way back to the dungeons, hoping that if he moved fast enough, thought about anything else, the weight in his chest would disappear. 

It didn’t. 

Even after he collapsed into bed hours later, exhaustion settling deep in his bones, sleep refused to come easily. His mind churned restlessly, fragments of the day pressing in too close. 

Too much. 

He rolled onto his side, forcing his breathing to steady. 

Tomorrow, he told himself. Tomorrow would be better. 

The next morning, Draco slid into his usual seat at the Slytherin table, the familiar hum of the Great Hall filling the space around him. He didn’t look for her. He didn’t care. 

And yet—his eyes landed on her immediately. Not on purpose. Just out of habit. 

That was what he told himself. 

Granger sat at the Gryffindor table, sandwiched between Potter and Weasley, as always. 

Weasley was grinning at her, laughing at something she had just said, his entire freckled face stretched into a stupid, lopsided smile. 

And Granger was smiling back. It was small. Faint. Not her usual wide, blinding, know-it-all grin. 

And Draco didn’t like it. 

It was absurd. Utterly pointless. And yet, the irritation sat in his ribs like a curse that wouldn’t lift.  

It wasn’t just the sight of Weaselbee, all grins and easy laughter. It was the way Granger looked at him—like she wanted to be laughing, like she was trying to force something back into place. 

And that was more annoying than anything else. 

Across from him, Blaise stretched lazily, lifting his goblet to his lips before side-eyeing Draco with his usual obnoxious amusement. 

“Merlin, you’re brooding already?” Blaise muttered, dragging his fork through his eggs. “It’s barely morning.” 

Draco didn’t look up. Just took a slow sip of his coffee, ignoring the amused tilt of Blaise’s voice. 

It didn’t matter. Not worth a reaction. 

But Blaise was already following his gaze. And then—the smirk. 

Ah, bloody hell. 

Draco immediately looked away, but it was too late. Blaise saw. Of course he did. 

Draco should have expected it. 

Blaise was an expert at reading people—which was deeply unfortunate, because Draco had no intention of explaining why he had been staring at Granger. 

Not that he had been. Not really. 

Pansy, ever eager to insert herself into things that were none of her concern, leaned forward with an arched brow.

“Malfoy,” she said sharply, dragging out the syllables like she was biting into them. “You were staring at Granger.”

Draco scoffed, reaching for his goblet. “Wasn’t. I was glaring at Weasley.”

Pansy let out an exasperated sigh, tapping her nails against the table. “Right. Because you always glare at Weasley. And that’s definitely why you’ve been looking in that direction for the past five minutes.”

Draco’s fingers twitched around his fork. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Theo, who had been half-listening while buttering a scone, let out a disgruntled noise. “What we’re talking about is the fact that you’re being obvious.” He set down his knife with a pointed clink. “And it’s distracting.”

Draco shot him a glare. “Distracting you from what, exactly?”

Theo gave him a flat look. “From enjoying my damn breakfast without watching you have an existential crisis over a Mudblood.”

Draco stiffened. The insult landed wrong. Too sharp. Too forced.

Blaise, lazily swirling the wine in his goblet, let out a low chuckle. “Funny thing about habits,” he murmured. “Sometimes we don’t even realize we’ve picked them up.”

Draco’s grip tightened. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Blaise smirked, taking a slow sip of his drink. “Nothing at all.”

Pansy scoffed, flicking her gaze toward the Gryffindor table with a look of pure disdain. “Honestly, if we’re talking about annoying faces, Granger’s always looks like she’s solving a life-or-death equation.” She rolled her eyes, shaking her head. “And now, apparently, it’s our problem.

Draco exhaled sharply through his nose, willing himself not to react.

Because fuck them.

And fuck the fact that, for once, they might be right.

But then, from across the hall, Weasley said something else. Something stupid, no doubt. And Granger laughed. 

It wasn’t a loud laugh. Not obnoxious. Not over-the-top, but real. Unfiltered, which make Draco’s stomach twisted. He hated it, but he didn’t know why. 

Weasley was still grinning, looking like Granger just hung the bloody moon—until something in his expression wavered. Not much. Just a flicker of hesitation, like a thought creeping in before he could push it away. 

His laughter slowed. His eyes flicked toward Granger—then past her. 

And then, they landed on Draco. The shift was instant. His grip on his fork tightened, his entire posture bristling as if Draco had said something rather than just looked. 

Draco arched a brow, smirking just to be an arse about it. Weasley’s scowl deepened, his grip on his fork tightening, before he turned away. 

Draco rolled his shoulders, forcing his gaze back to his plate. It was nothing. Just an irritating, insignificant moment that meant absolutely nothing. 

And yet, the tension lingered. 

Conversations buzzed around him, forks clinking against plates, but his mind kept circling back to that laugh. To the way it sat wrong in his chest. To the way Weasley had looked at him, all fire and suspicion, as if he could see something that wasn’t there. 

Because there was nothing there. 

Draco exhaled sharply and pushed his plate away, appetite gone. 

The Great Hall suddenly felt too loud—too crowded, too stifling. He needed air. 

“Skipping breakfast, Malfoy?” Blaise murmured, ever watchful. 

Draco shot him a glare. “I have things to do.” 

Blaise smirked like he knew that was a lie but didn’t press. 

He didn’t think about where he was going. Just kept moving, out of the hall, past the stone corridors, until the cold breeze off the Black Lake bit at his skin. 

The surface barely rippled, dark and glassy beneath the fading light. The castle loomed behind him, the glow of torches flickering in the windows, but out here, everything felt quieter. Further away. 

Draco exhaled slowly, shoving his hands into his pockets as he stared out over the water. He hadn’t meant to end up here. But somehow, his feet always took him places he didn’t want to think about until it was too late. 

A sharp breeze rolled in from across the lake, biting against his skin. He barely felt it. 

Because in his mind, all he could see was her hand on the table, fingers twitching. That split-second hesitation before she curled them into a fist. 

And the pale, raised letters beneath her sleeve. His stomach twisted. 

He’d never seen it up close before. Never let himself look long enough to really register it. But now the image burned behind his eyes, stark and undeniable. 

Mudblood. 

His word. 

No, not his—he hadn’t done it, but he was there when she’d been held down and carved into. And he did nothing. And now it was on her skin forever. 

Draco’s muscles tensed, and his nails bit into his palms. The wind picked up again, sending ripples skittering across the surface of the lake. 

He had told himself, over and over, that there had been nothing he could have done. But that never stopped the sick twist in his stomach when he thought about it.

The war was over. Everyone had their scars—he was no better off.

His reflection wavered in the water, distorted by the wind, shifting and stretching into something unrecognizable. 

Draco exhaled sharply and turned away. 

He had things to do. Classes, patrol, Quidditch practice. Real things. Present things. 

Not old ghosts. Not her. Never her. 

By the time he returned to the castle, the day had passed in a blur of classes and idle conversation. It was easy to get lost in routine, to let muscle memory carry him through the motions. 

Until practice. 

Quidditch had been a salvation. A way to push everything else aside, let instinct take over, let exhaustion claim whatever restless energy still burned beneath his skin. He flew for hours, stretching the practice longer than necessary, until the rest of the team had long since left the pitch. 

And now, as he walked back through the dim corridors, broom slung over his shoulder, reality settled back in. 

Granger. 

Weasley. 

That stupid bloody laugh. 

Draco exhaled sharply, shaking off the thought, focusing instead on the steady click of his boots against the stone. 

And then—voices. Sharp, tense and familiar voices. Just ahead. 

He slowed his steps, lingering in the shadows, listening. He should have kept walking, but he didn’t. 

Instead, he stood just beyond the curve of the hallway, using the shadow to hide while he listened. 

Weasley’s voice cut through the quiet corridor, sharp and frustrated. 

“Why do you always have to be like this?” 

Draco lifted an eyebrow, the hint of a smirk tugging at his lips.

Oh. Interesting. 

Granger’s reply came fast, exasperation dripping from every clipped syllable. 

“Like what, Ron? Like someone who actually cares about her future?” 

Draco almost laughed. Merlin. She didn’t even hesitate. 

Weasley exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. His shoulders were already tense, his jaw tight—like this wasn’t the first time they’d had this argument.

“Right, because studying twenty hours a day is really going to fix everything.” 

She exhaled, shoulders shifting as if she was trying to shake off the tension. “Ron, this isn’t—” 

“Oh, here we go,” he interrupted, voice thick with frustration. “Another lecture?” 

Her lips pressed together, the flicker of patience in her expression snuffing out like a candle in the wind. 

Then came the pause. A dangerous one. 

Draco had heard silences like that before—tensed and heavy, stretched thin between two people standing on opposite sides of something too deep to cross. 

When Granger spoke again, her voice was colder, quieter, but no less sharp. 

“At least I’m trying. What are you doing, Ron?” 

Draco didn’t move. 

For a moment, neither did Weasley. 

The words hung there, thick and unmoving, and Draco could feel the weight of them pressing into the air. 

Weasley didn’t have an answer. 

Of course he didn’t. 

Something flickered at the edge of Draco’s thoughts, something unwelcome and immediate, and before he could stop himself, his mouth had already half-opened, the words forming without permission. 

She’s not wrong, Weasley. 

The thought alone was enough to send a sharp jolt of irritation through him. 

What the hell was that? 

Draco scowled, inhaling sharply through his nose, shutting his mouth before anything could slip out.  

Not my problem. Let Weasley be a bloody idiot—let her fight her own battles. Why do I care? 

Control. That was what mattered.

But wasn’t this just another lie? Another illusion? If he really had control, he wouldn’t still be standing here, listening to a fight that had nothing to do with him.

His fingers curled into his sleeves, a restless twitch of tension he ignored immediately. 

He wasn’t thinking about this. He wasn’t thinking about her, because he didn’t care. 

Not about their pathetic little fight, not about whatever issues they were having. 

And yet, he didn’t leave. 

He should have. He had no reason to be standing there, no reason to care. But his feet remained planted, his arms crossed, his breath slow and steady as he watched the argument unfold. 

Then Granger sighed, the sound barely more than an exhale, but somehow heavier than anything she’d said so far. 

“I don’t want to fight with you.” 

Draco almost rolled his eyes. Of course she didn’t. That was the difference between Gryffindors and everyone else—always so desperate to smooth things over, to stitch up every wound and pretend the bleeding had stopped. 

And Weasley? He’d cave. 

He’d sigh just as heavily, rub the back of his neck, grumble something under his breath, and then do what Gryffindors always did—pretend things were fine. 

Except— 

“Then maybe stop acting like I’m the problem!” 

Weasley’s voice came sharp and frustrated, bouncing off the stone walls, and Draco barely stopped himself from flinching at the sheer vehemence behind it. 

And then, he saw it. 

The shift. 

It was small, barely there—just a flicker across Granger’s face, gone almost before it happened. 

But he caught it. 

The way her shoulders stiffened, like she’d braced for impact before the blow even landed. The way her chin lifted just slightly, a practiced kind of defiance masking something else. 

Something she didn’t want anyone to see. 

For the first time since the argument started, she didn’t snap back. Didn’t correct him, didn’t bite. 

She just—stood there. Her lips parted slightly, like she was about to say something. Then, just as quickly, she pressed them into a thin line. And she looked… Hurt.

Not angry. Not exasperated. Just—tired. Like this wasn’t the first time she’d heard those words. 

Like she’d been expecting them. Like she was used to it. 

That thought sat wrong in his chest. Because he knew what it felt like to be on the receiving end of that—someone spitting words at you like you deserved them. 

Maybe he had deserved them. Maybe he still did. He’d spent years throwing insults at her like they were nothing, cutting her down for sport, and now she stood there, exhausted and bracing for impact. 

A familiar sort of guilt coiled in his stomach. The kind that crept in when he wasn’t careful. The kind he crushed before it could become anything more. 

Granger had fought. She had won. But she still looked like she was waiting for the next battle. 

Draco exhaled sharply, raking a hand through his hair. It wasn’t his problem. He didn’t care. And he certainly didn’t feel guilty about it. 

It was not his business. Not his fucking business.  

Still, his boots felt too loud as he walked away. The echo stretched behind him, like a sound he wasn’t meant to hear. 

He rolled his shoulders, exhaling sharply, forcing the tension from his body. This had nothing to do with him. He had things to do—patrol, Quidditch, exams. 

His fingers twitched. He shoved them into his pockets and kept walking. 

His head was a bloody mess. He knew what he had just seen, knew what it meant. 

Granger and Weasley were cracking. 

And Draco hated that he cared. 

He pushed the thought away, scowling as he stepped through the entrance of the Slytherin common room. The dungeons were dimly lit, the green glow from the fireplace casting flickering shadows across the cold stone walls. Most of Slytherin had already gone to bed—except for one person. 

Blaise was still awake, lounging on one of the emerald armchairs, his legs stretched out lazily. He glanced up as Draco entered, eyes sharp with amusement. 

“What’s with the face? You look constipated.” 

Draco shot him a withering glare. “Merlin, Blaise, can you just—” Draco exhaled sharply, rolling his eyes. “Fuck off, maybe? 

Blaise smirked. “Well, that’s not a denial.” 

Draco ignored him, shrugging off his cloak and tossing it onto the nearest chair before collapsing into his own seat by the fire. He exhaled through his nose, forcing himself to focus on the warmth of the flames, on the rhythmic crackling of the logs. 

It didn’t help. 

Because his mind wouldn’t shut up. 

Because he could still hear Granger’s voice, sharp and tired and not quite breaking, but close. 

At least I’m trying. What are you doing, Ron? 

I don’t want to fight with you.

His fist clench.

Blaise shifted in his chair, watching him with infuriating curiosity. Then—far too smugly—  “You’re thinking about her again, aren’t you?” 

Draco didn’t answer. He just huffed and went to his dorm. 

Because it wasn’t a question. And that was the problem. 

As he stepped inside, the dim green glow from the enchanted lanterns barely reached the corners of the dormitory, casting long, restless shadows against the stone walls. The fire in the hearth flickered low, and the quiet should have been soothing. It wasn’t.

His fingers twisted his ring. Restless. Irritated.

He needed to focus. He needed to do something.

Quidditch drills. The Charms essay due next week. The fact that Theo had been moaning about Slughorn’s ridiculous syllabus for the past two days.

Draco scowled, stalking toward his desk, shoving aside the clutter of parchment and ink bottles. He dropped into his chair, flipping open the nearest book, quill poised.

He stared at the page.

His grip on the quill tightened.

One sentence. That’s all he needed to write. One thought. One coherent bloody thought.

Nothing.

His mind was useless. Worse than useless. Because all he could see was Granger. That stupid, fleeting crack in her expression when Weasley snapped at her. The way her fingers had curled into her sleeve, like she was keeping herself from reacting. Like she had been expecting it.

Draco exhaled sharply, pressing his fingers against his temples.

This was ridiculous.

He forced his gaze back to the book. Forced himself to read the same line over and over until the words blurred.

It didn’t work.

With an irritated sigh, he let his quill drop with a dull clatter, grabbing the nearest book and pressing it over his face with one hand, his other arm draped over the back of his chair.

The cool weight of the leather-bound cover did nothing to ground him.

Bloody hell.

He was not thinking about her. Not about her silence. Not about how it had felt wrong. Not about how he’d been looking at her too much.

It didn’t mean anything.

Just a habit. A reflex. A lingering effect of spending too much goddamn time around her.

Nothing more. He needed to stop thinking about this. About her.

Not my business.

Chapter Text

Draco Malfoy needed structure. He needed control, without it, everything spiralled.  So, as the quidditch season started, he had settled into a routine. A strict, unrelenting routine. 

Wake up early, while the castle was still quiet. No students, no noise, no one to deal with yet. Quidditch practice came next—always before breakfast—because flying was the only time he felt like himself. The only time his head was clear.

Classes followed, where he did exactly what was expected of him—no more, no less. Patrols were next, a waste of his time, especially when Granger was involved, but still necessary.

And he still had to deal with Slytherin politics, which was a mess. Pansy was still raging about Weasley. Theo wa complaining about Abbott. The younger years still looked to him for leadership, because who else would they trust? They had no idea he was barely holding himself together. That was their problem.

And then, of course—ignore Granger, specially during rebuilding chores. That part wasn’t going well.

Because nothing was changing. 

Despite all his efforts, despite the routine, despite keeping his head down and focusing on what actually mattered— 

It wasn’t about her. It was about distractions—too many, everywhere.

He noticed everyone.

Longbottom hesitated before drawing his wand. Weasley filled every space he entered. Potter—

Draco stopped himself. Dragged his nails against his palm.

Whatever. It didn’t matter.

Not the way Granger held her quill too tightly when she was stressed. Or the way she rubbed at her temple during potions, as if she had a headache that wouldn’t go away. The way she sighed softly when she thought no one was listening. 

Also didn’t matter the fact that he still had to watch her with Weasley.

They were barely together.

But still.

And every time Draco saw them—talking, arguing, kissing—his stomach twisted.

Annoying. Unnecessary. A distraction he didn’t need.

Quidditch was the only thing keeping him sane. Everything else—the whispers, the scrutiny, the bloody House Unity projects—was suffocating. But here, on the pitch, none of it mattered. 

He had control and Slytherin needed control, because their team was still a mess. 

Quidditch was the only thing that still made sense. The only place he could dictate the outcome—if he pushed hard enough.

So he did.

By the time he blew the final whistle, his team looked half-dead. Fine. They could hate him as long as they won.

Blaise wiped a hand down his face, shooting Draco a flat look. “You’re running us into the ground, Malfoy.” 

Draco barely heard him. Because across the field, near the Gryffindor stands, he saw them. Granger, Weasley, Potter, and Weasley’s sister. They were laughing, like the world wasn’t falling apart. Like everything was fine. 

And something inside Draco twisted painfully. He didn’t realize he was staring until Blaise followed his gaze, then chuckled darkly. 

Pansy followed Zabini’s gaze and, contrary to him, was far from amused.

“Disgusting,” Pansy muttered under her breath, just loud enough for Draco to hear.

He didn’t react. But Pansy wasn’t done. She arched a perfectly sculpted brow, voice dripping with disdain. “You do realize she’s practically hanging off Weasley, don’t you? Or do you like it when they fight? Does that make it easier for you?”

Draco’s grip on his broom flexed. Just slightly. Not enough to acknowledge her.

“Pathetic,” she scoffed. Then she turned and stalked off, the sharp click of her heels punctuating her irritation.

Draco didn’t react. Not outwardly. Instead, he twisted his ring, pressing his thumb hard against the engraved crest. A sharp edge bit into his skin.

Blaise slung his broom over his shoulder, eyeing Draco with a slow, knowing smirk.

“You’re wound tighter than the bloody Snitch, mate.”

His chest rose and fell too fast, too tight, dragging a hand through his hair. “Brilliant observation, Zabini. I’ll be sure to schedule a relaxation potion.”

“Not sure a potion’s gonna fix that.” Blaise stretched, watching Draco too closely. “But, by all means, keep pretending you don’t notice things you obviously do.”

Draco’s jaw locked. “Fuck off, Zabini.”

Blaise gave a slow, lazy shrug, but his eyes were sharp. “Just saying. The thing about ignoring something that’s already in your head? Never works.”

“I don’t remember asking for your opinion” Draco shout back

Blaise just grinned. “You always get like this when you don’t know what to do with yourself.”

Draco didn’t respond, but he was thinking about it. His muscles ached, his body was wrung out from practice—but his head wouldn’t fucking shut up. It never did.

His jaw hurt. He had been grinding his teeth all day, the pressure coiled tight behind his temples.

His fingers sought out the heavy silver ring on his hand. He twisted it, once, twice, before forcing himself to stop. Bad habit.

He had tried to cope. He had gone to practice. Pushed himself until his limbs screamed. Forced himself to focus on strategy, drills, anything.

It didn’t bloody work.

He had even tried sitting still—forcing himself to stay in his room, to breathe, to let the tension settle. It only made it worse. He couldn’t sit still. Couldn’t shut it off.

But he still had one more thing to try, and fuck it he would do it.  It didn’t mean anything. Just muscle memory. Just a way to shut his mind off.

It wasn’t difficult to find someone. That was the whole point. It had to be easy. Quick. Forgettable.

No hesitation. No complications. No goddamn thinking.

So he chose Tracey Davis. 

Because Tracey had always been easy—easy to talk to, easy to touch, easy to forget. She was sharp enough to keep things interesting, pretty enough to be a distraction, and, most importantly, she never asked for more than he was willing to give. 

Davis was in the common room, lounging with practiced indifference, wearing that deliberate smirk she always did when she wanted something. She wasn’t subtle about it. She never was. 

She wanted him to notice her, so he did. 

When he stepped closer, she leaned in immediately, smirking. She didn’t touch him yet. She made him come to her. “Looking for something, Malfoy?”

Draco didn’t answer. Just tilted his head, waiting. He wasn’t here for games.

She hummed, tapping a manicured nail against his sleeve. “You only find me when you need something. What is it this time?”

He wasn’t in the mood for this. He grabbed her wrist, pulling her forward. Tracey let him.

The door clicked shut, and Tracey was on him immediately—lips hot, mouth greedy, her hands sliding under his shirt without hesitation. Her fingertips traced familiar paths down his chest, silencing any stray thoughts. Draco exhaled sharply, closing his briefly, letting himself sink into the comfortable familiarity of her touch.

This was easy.

Exactly what he needed.

Tracey’s mouth moved to his throat, teeth grazing his skin, warm breath ghosting across his pulse. He barely felt it at first—just heat, just pressure—until her lips parted, until she started to suck lightly at his skin.

His hand clenched tighter against her throat, too tight for a second, before he forced himself to ease back. Too much. Too fast.

His pulse pounded in his ears, and for the briefest moment, it wasn’t Tracey beneath him—it was a flash of firelight against stone. A voice—his own voice—swearing an oath he never wanted to take.

The Mark itched. The past pressed down on him like a hand to his throat, like hers had been a second ago.

Never again.

“Do not mark me.” His voice was sharp, final. No room for argument.

His grip loosened entirely, his hand dropping away. Tracey blinked up at him, throat bobbing as she swallowed. She didn’t say anything, but she nodded

His hands moved back to her hips instead, grounding himself in something physical, something immediate. He backed her up until she hit the wall, her breath shuddering out as he rolled his hips forward.

Tracey grinned, recovering quickly, her fingers already tugging at his belt, teasing, impatient.

She pulled back first. Smirking. Like she had all the time in the world.

“Come on, Malfoy,” she whispered, against his mouth. “No thinking. No talking. Just let me.”

Draco didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. He just gripped her chin, meeting her gaze.

She laughed. Low. Knowing. “That desperate, huh?”

Draco exhaled sharply, fingers tightening.

She paused. Just for a second. Studied him.

“You’re tense,” she murmured. Not teasing this time. Not quite.

Draco smirked, tilting her chin up. “And you talk too much.”

She laughed, letting it go.

And then she dropped to her knees.

He leaned back, watching with hooded eyes as she undid his trousers quickly, confidently pulling his cock free. Her fingers curled around him firmly, stroking slowly, teasing him to full hardness without hesitation.

Tracey glanced up, holding his gaze as her tongue dragged deliberately across the tip, slow and wet and dirty. Draco’s breath hissed between clenched teeth, his hand instinctively tangling in her hair, gripping lightly as she sank down onto him, taking him deep, her mouth hot and slick around his cock.

“Fuck,” Draco groaned softly, tipping his head back, eyes sliding shut as pleasure coiled comfortably low in his stomach. Tracey hummed around him, mouth working smoothly along his length.

She was experienced. Knew how to use her tongue. How to hollow her cheeks just right. How to take him deeper, inch by inch.

Until the heat of her throat tightened around him.

His grip tightened in her hair, hips jerking forward involuntarily as she sucked harder, deeper, her fingers pressing into his thighs as she steadied herself, never slowing her pace.

He liked that it was predictable. Liked that it required nothing from him. No thought, no effort, no meaning.

She moaned softly again, sending vibrations through him, making his thighs tense and his breathing uneven.

Draco’s jaw tightened as his release built quickly, predictably—inevitable, like reaching the end of a sentence. He let go, as smoothly as ever. Let her think he was relaxed, let himself believe it too. But his pulse was still off, his breathing still wrong. He should feel something. Anything.

He tried to let the sensation wash through him, his cock pulsing as she swallowed every drop without hesitation.

When she finally rose, wiping her mouth with casual satisfaction, her eyes sparkled knowingly. “Better?”

Draco exhaled slowly, pulling his clothes back into place, a familiar calm settling into his chest. “Good enough.”

Tracey smirked, stepping forward again, playfully biting his lower lip as she pressed closer. “Next time, you’d better make me come too, Malfoy.”

He caught her hips firmly, dragging her sharply against him, “Next time,” he muttered, voice low and uneven, “I’ll wreck you.”

Tracey’s laugh was soft and satisfied as she pulled back, eyes gleaming. "I'll hold you to that."

It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t even good. But it worked. It had to.

He flexed his fingers, then curled them into a fist. His chest was still tight.

The door clicked shut.

Draco sat back against the desk, rolling his shoulders. Waiting. For what?

Nothing.

Just silence. Just the too-loud sound of his own breathing.

“Pathetic,” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face.

Routine. Empty. But it worked. At least he wasn’t unraveling. That was enough.

The castle was quiet when he left the room.

The corridors stretched long and empty ahead of him, the air still thick with the weight of what he’d just done. He exhaled, running a hand through his hair, willing the lingering tension from his muscles.

Sleep didn’t come easily. It hadn’t in months, but that night, when he finally collapsed onto his bed, exhaustion pressing into his bones, he drifted off faster than usual.

Not peaceful. Never that. But quieter.

And when morning came, he didn’t overthink it, didn’t let himself dwell.

He went through the motions—showering, dressing,

His shirt buttoned unevenly the first time. His fingers weren’t steady.

He growled under his breath, yanking them open and starting over.

The cold air prickled against his skin. He was already burning inside.

Stupid. Pointless.

He rolled his shoulders. The tension should have eased by now.

It hadn’t.

By the time he reached the Great Hall, the usual breakfast chaos had begun—chatter, clinking goblets, the scrape of chairs against stone. It was easier to sink back into routine, to act like nothing had changed. Like Tracey had erased whatever restlessness had been clawing at him. 

Across the hall, Granger sat with Weasley. But something was off. She wasn’t smiling. Weasley was talking—loud, animated—but she barely looked at him.

And then—Weaselbee leaned in, hand brushing her wrist, murmuring something close to her ear. A moment that should have been intimate. Easy. But she flinched. Barely.

Most people wouldn’t have noticed.

But Draco did.

A muscle in his jaw twitched. He turned away. It wasn’t his problem.

He had other things to deal with.

But then he walked into Potions.

And saw her again.

And something in his chest went tight.

Fuck.

A memory of the way her voice had lingered in his head for weeks. He shoved it away, bracing himself for another pointless lesson—Until Slughorn spoke. 

“Ah! Mr. Malfoy, Miss Granger—just the pair I was hoping for!” 

Draco froze, his eye twitched. Across the room, Granger inhaled sharply. She turned to Slughorn with clear disbelief, then back at him, then back at Slughorn. 

“Professor, is that really necessa—” 

“Two of the brightest minds of your year! What a pair!” Slughorn beamed, completely unfazed. 

Draco exhaled slowly through his nose, this was going to be hell. 

Slughorn clapped his hands together, already moving on forming the next pair, completely oblivious to the silent war unfolding between them. Around them, the rest of the class had begun pairing off, dragging cauldrons closer, flipping through their textbooks. Someone snickered—probably Nott. Draco ignored it. 

Granger, on the other hand, looked like she was considering arguing further, but after a brief pause, she exhaled sharply and snapped her book open instead. 

Draco rolled his shoulders, bracing himself, because the tension was suffocating as they sat at their shared table. He could practically feel the rigid discomfort radiating from Granger, as if she’d rather be anywhere else—which was fair, because so would he. 

They were too close, every time their arms brushed, she stiffened. Which, of course, meant Draco had to make it worse. “Relax, Granger. I’m not contagious.”

Her eyes flickered up, sharp, unimpressed. “No, but you are insufferable.”

Draco smirked. He was supposed to be ignoring her, but where was the fun in that? 

They started brewing. The assignment was complex—a high-level restorative potion that required perfect precision. Normally, this would be easy. Draco was good at this and, although he doesn’t like to admit, so was she. 

He reached for the powdered asphodel at the same time she did. Their fingers brushed.

Granger stilled.

It was brief—barely a second—but Draco felt the heat of her skin, the hesitation in her movement before she yanked her hand away like she’d been burned.

He smirked, slow and deliberate. “Jumpier than usual, Granger.”

“Your existence is an irritant,” she snapped, gripping her ladle tightly.

“Good to know I still have so much effect on you,” he murmured.

She scoffed at him and they went back to work. It should have been flawless. Except it wasn’t.

Draco’s knife slipped while dicing the valerian root, slicing unevenly. Not enough to ruin the potion, but enough to make his lip curl.

Hermione’s eyes flicked down. Paused. Then flicked back up, unimpressed.

“Watch your angles,” she said flatly, voice just loud enough for him to hear. Not mocking. Just noting it.

Draco’s grip on the knife tightened. He exhaled through his nose and fixed the cut, pointedly not looking at her.

He could mess up once and still be miles ahead of half the idiots in this room.

And then Granger made a mistake—a small one, but a mistake nonetheless. She added two extra drops of essence of nightshade. 

Draco noticed immediately—and for a second, his stomach made a knot. She didn’t mess up potions. Ever. His fingers tightened around the ladle, muscles locked in place as he debated whether to say anything at all. 

“You just put in five drops instead of three.”

Granger’s stirring hand faltered, just slightly. Her brows knitted for half a second—was he right? But then her shoulders straightened, and her eyes snapped up, flashing. “I know what I’m doing.”

Draco arched a brow. “Clearly.”

She shot him a withering glare, gripping the ladle like she wanted to hit him with it. “Unlike you, I don’t need constant supervision.”

Draco just smirked. And watched. Because now she was second-guessing. He saw it in the slight pause, in the way her fingers tightened around the ladle. 

From across the room, Potter looked up, brow furrowed. His quill had stopped moving.

He wasn’t watching the cauldron. He wasn’t watching Draco. He was watching her.

His gaze sharpened, fingers stilling against the desk. His mouth parted slightly, like he was about to say something. Ask something.

But then Granger’s chin lifted, her expression smoothing out. Whatever Potter had noticed, she wasn’t acknowledging it.

After a beat, he looked away. His quill resumed its quiet scratching against the parchment.

“I doubt that this will turn a light shade of blue” Draco shot back at her

Granger’s head snapped up, eyes flashing. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” he drawled, arms crossed. “Unless your genius has suddenly developed selective hearing.”

“I don’t need a lecture from you, Malfoy.” she snapped, stirring harder.

Draco rolled his eyes,“You’re distracted.” 

She stiffened.“I’m not distracted.” 

Draco smirked, because oh, this was interesting. “Really? Then maybe you’ve just lost your touch.” 

And just like that—Fire. Her expression sharpened, her irritation sparking to life as she straightened in her seat, shoulders squared. 

“I have not—” 

Whatever retort she had died on her tongue as the potion settled into simmer, its colour shifting to an odd shade of blue. 

Her lips pressed into a thin line. She let out a slow, controlled breath, staring at it. Then, finally, she muttered under her breath, "Stupid."

Her fingers clenched around the ladle, knuckles white. She stirred—too fast. The potion rippled violently, nearly sloshing over the edge of the cauldron. She froze, inhaled sharply, and corrected her movements, forcing her hand to steady.

Draco’s gaze flicked to hers, sharp, assessing. Too aware.

Hermione clenched her jaw, already irritated, but the moment his lips curved into that slow, insufferable smirk, her irritation hardened into something sharper.

Draco raised a brow, voice maddeningly smug. “What was that, Granger?”

She pushed the air out slowly, gripping her ladle too tightly. “Don’t just sit there smirking. Fix it.”

Draco rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. He reached for the ingredients, his movements quick, practiced—too precise, like he was forcing himself to focus.

She scowled harder, watching his hands, hating that he was fixing it. Hating that she needed him to.

“You’re enjoying this,” she muttered, voice sharper than before. Accusatory.

Draco smirked, flicking a glance at her. “Terribly.”

And for a split second, it was familiar—sharp-edged banter, the same push and pull. But then—she looked at him like she saw something she wasn’t supposed to.

And everything shifted and they finished the rest of the lesson in tense silence.

Draco’s hands were shaking. Only slightly. Not enough for anyone else to notice.

Except he noticed.

Everything was wrong. Fucking wrong.

Slughorn dismissed them. Draco shoved his chair back, storming out.

His pulse was erratic, jaw tight, head pounding.

Granger. Always bloody Granger.

Staring too hard. Getting under his skin.

His fingers kept twitching. He clenched them into fists.

It wasn’t anything. Just a stray thought. A trick of proximity.

He’d felt something.

His stomach turned.

Bloody pathetic.

He should’ve left the classroom and gone straight to the common room. He should’ve showered. Studied. Kept his head down.

But that’s what a better version of him would’ve done.

His jaw locked. He had never been good at being better.

Because he needed something to shut it off. And he knew exactly where to find it.

Tracey was waiting in the common room, smirking the second she saw him. “Rough day, Malfoy?” 

Draco didn’t answer. He should’ve ignored her, should’ve gone straight to his dorm, but his body was already moving. His fingers curled around her wrist—not firm, not rough, just tired. He led her to his dorm, hoping it would work this time.

The door clicked shut behind them, sealing them inside. The air was thick, charged, humming with something dark and electric. 

Tracey leaned against the desk, arms crossed, eyes sharp. “So,” she mused, voice low. “You going to tell me what’s got you wound so tight, or should I just assume it’s your usual brooding?” 

Draco didn’t answer, instead, he stepped forward, fingers curling around her waist, pulling her flush against him. 

Tracey hummed in approval, fingers skimming over his chest. “That bad, huh?” 

His fingers flexed at her waist, his grip uneven, uncertain. It had never felt this forced before—never felt like he was convincing himself.

Tracey noticed. She tilted her head, studying him. “What’s with you tonight?”

Draco exhaled sharply through his nose, jaw tight. “Nothing. Just—” He cut himself off, shaking his head. Talking wasn’t the point of this.

Tracey’s eyes flickered with something knowing, but she let it go. “Whatever you say, Malfoy.”

He let out a breath—not steady, not controlled, just a release. Then, without thinking, he kissed her.

It wasn’t smooth. Their teeth clicked. He barely noticed. His fingers dug into her hips, gripping too hard, like he was holding himself together.

With one smooth motion, he lifted her onto the desk, stepping between her legs as his mouth trailed along her throat. 

Tracey gasped. “Fuck, Malfoy—” 

He didn’t let her finish. His teeth grazed her pulse before he sucked, hard enough to make her hips jerk against him. 

Easy. 

No pressure. No expectations. No complications. 

Just heat, instinct, distraction. 

Her hands moved quickly, dragging down his shoulders, finger skimming over his back—she knew better than not to mark him by now—hips pressing into his like she was already aching for more.

Draco barely had to do anything.

Her body moved on instinct, arching against him, thighs brushing his hips as he shoved her skirt up.

"You’re impatient tonight," he said smoothly, ignoring the way his fingers hesitated at her thigh for half a second before finding their usual rhythm.

Tracey exhaled sharply, grinding against him. "I don’t want to waste time."

Draco’s fingers clenched at her waist. “Me neither.” he muttered, more to himself than her

His hands found her thighs, fingers pressing into smooth, bare skin, before he slid higher, brushing against damp lace.

"Already wet for me?" he mused, fingers pressing into the fabric.

Tracey whimpered, her hands grabbing his forearms. "Don’t tease, Malfoy."

His smirk widened, but he didn’t tease. Not tonight. He hooked a finger beneath the waistband of her knickers, dragging them down, not bothering to be gentle.

And fuck, she was ready for him. Warm, wet, dripping with need as he dragged his fingers through her folds, stroking slow, deliberate circles over her clit.

She let out a shuddering gasp, hips twitching forward, pressing into his hand.

"More," she demanded, voice breathless. Needy.

Draco exhaled sharply. She was begging. For him. For this. 

Draco pressed deeper, harder, dragging his thumb over her clit, watching as her lips parted, as her eyes fluttered shut.

“Fuck,” she hissed, fingers curling around his bicep, gripping.

It was mechanical.

A formula. A learned response.

He knew exactly how to get her there

And when she finally tensed, shuddered in his grasp, clenching and gasping out his name as she came around his fingers—It was satisfying.

Not exhilarating. Not life-changing. Just satisfying.

He cleaned his fingers off on her thigh as she recovered.

Tracey didn’t waste time. She let out a shaky breath, thighs still trembling. Then, with a knowing smirk, she slid to her knees.

She smiled up at him, passing her finger down his stomach as she undid his belt, tugging his trousers open. She slid her hands down his hips, dragging his trousers and boxers down just enough to free his cock, already thick and hard, already aching for more.

Tracey took her time, wrapping her fingers around the base of his cock, giving an experimental stroke, making him exhale sharply, head tipping back for a fraction of a second.

Good.

Expected.

His fingers slid into her hair, firm but not too tight. Not as tight as the tension coiling in his stomach. He forced himself to smirk.

Tracey hummed against him, a smug little sound as she bobbed her head, stroking what she couldn’t take with her hand.

He smirked down at her, sharp and lazy, like nothing was wrong. Like he wasn’t barely holding himself together. Like this wasn’t just another distraction that wouldn’t fucking work

She worked him deeper, her pace confident, knowing. Draco exhaled slowly, keeping his grip light in her hair, letting her do what she wanted.

“Fuck,” he muttered, barely aware he’d said it aloud.

She looked up at him, eyes dark, dragging her tongue along his length before taking him back in, faster now, rougher.

His muscles locked, his abs tensing.

It was harsher this time. Faster. Desperate in a way he refused to acknowledge.

He wasn’t fucking her. He was drowning.

His grip on her hair was getting tighter, his thrusts sharp and punishing, chasing something he couldn’t name. Tracey gasped, her finger clutching him.

It wasn’t enough. His fingers tightened, his hips jerked forward slightly—then she pulled back, smirking, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

"Don’t want you to finish yet," she murmured, standing. “You promised to wreck me”

She leaned into him, pressing her lips to his jaw, rolling her hips against his in a way that made his breath catch. Draco exhaled, turning her around, gripping her waist.

"Desk," he ordered, his voice sharp, impatient.

Tracey grinned, bracing herself against the wood, lifting her skirt, arching her back like she knew exactly what he wanted.

Draco didn’t waste time.

Didn’t offer teasing words.

Didn’t care about anything except taking what he needed.

"You’re desperate, Davis," he muttered, dragging himself through her slickness, pressing just the head inside, feeling how wet she already was.

Tracey let out a whimper, rolling her hips, trying to take more.

"Draco, please—"

His fingers flexed against her skin, tighter than usual. He made himself smirk, made his voice come out slow and sure. "Already begging?”

He felt the weight of his ring pressing against the bare skin of her thigh as he gripped her. The cool metal against her warmth. The contrast was startling, grounding.

Tracey gasped, her fingers curling against the desk, her body tightening around him.

Draco moved on instinct.

No thought, no rhythm—just a desperate attempt to get lost in something.

Tracey moaned beneath him, but he barely registered it. His own breathing was too ragged, his grip slipping, like he couldn’t hold onto anything properly.

Tracey moaned, pushing back against him, taking everything, chasing her own high.

His hand shot up to her hair, grabbing a fistful, yanking her head back just enough to make her gasp.

"Stay still," he growled, his lips brushing against her ear, his breath hot, rough, uneven.

Tracey let out a wrecked little sound, her fingers clawing at the desk, her body trembling beneath him.

Draco didn’t stop.

Didn’t let up.

Didn’t care.

He kept her where he wanted her, kept fucking into her like he was trying to forget everything else.

"Fuck—harder—" Tracey gasped

Draco grunted, snapping his hips into hers harder, deeper, faster. Her breath hitched, her back arching, her body tightening around him, completely gone.

Tracey’s moans turned sharp, broken, her body locking up as she came, her walls tightening around him, dragging him under with her.

"Inside," she gasped, barely coherent.

Draco didn’t answer. Didn’t think. He just pressed forward one last time, too far gone to stop himself.

For half a second, his body registered release. For half a second, it worked.

Then—nothing.

For a moment, the only sound was their breathing, the only movement the slow, lazy drag of Tracey’s fingers over the desk.

Then, she let out a sated sigh, completely smug.

"Damn, Malfoy," she muttered, voice thick with satisfaction. "That was—"

Tracey sighed, stretching lazily, already arranging her clothes.

Draco just stared at the ceiling, jaw tight, lungs burning like he’d been holding his breath.

He should move. Should say something.

But he couldn’t.

Not yet.

Draco just watched her, exhaling slowly, rolling his shoulders.

"Well, if you need another distraction, you know where to find me" she said lightly, adjusting her skirt smirking, probably expecting him to say something cocky back. He almost did. Almost.

She flickered her hair over her shoulder as she turned for the door, unbothered.

The moment the door closed behind her, Draco sat back on the edge of his bed, staring at the floor, rolling his shoulders. He exhaled. Slowly. Measured. Forced.

He ran a hand down his face, inhaling slowly, forcing his body to register the relief that should have come by now. His muscles ached, the tension had drained from his limbs, but inside—

Nothing.

He curled his fingers into a fist, pressing them hard into his thigh. He should feel better. It worked, didn’t it? It always did.

Then why was his mind still racing? Why was his pulse still too fast?

He shut his eyes. Exhaled. Focused on the quiet hum of the castle at night.

It didn’t help.

His body ached. The room smelled like sweat and sex and something he couldn’t name.

He laid in bed, urging sleep to come. The last thing he saw before the darkness took over was her—Granger, glaring at him across the cauldron. Her hand twitching after their fingers had brushed. Her breath catching.

He told himself it wasn’t important. He told himself he was imagining it.

He told himself a lot of things.

It wasn’t working.

He clenched his fists, nails digging into his palms, sharp enough to sting. He barely felt it.

Chapter Text

Some things never changed. The way the Slytherin common room felt too small after certain nights. And the way Blaise always had a smirk, like he knew something Draco didn’t. 

So when he stepped into the corridor and saw Blaise waiting for him, arms crossed, expression far too amused, he knew exactly where this was going.

“Merlin, Malfoy, you look like you saw Weasley’s O.W.L. scores.”

Draco scowled before he even turned, not breaking stride as Blaise approached, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Zabini.”

Blaise smirked, pushing off the wall to fall into step beside him. “So… Tracey, huh?”

Draco’s expression remained unreadable. “What about her?”

“Is she sticking around, or just the latest diversion?”

Draco’s jaw ticked. “Not sticking around.”

Blaise hummed like he already knew. “Shame. She’s fun at parties.”

Draco said nothing.

They walked in silence for a moment, boots echoing against the stone. Then—

“Oh, and in case you’re wondering, Pansy’s in a mood,” Blaise added casually, like he was discussing the weather. “Got detention for hexing Weasley during the rebuilding project yesterday. Hit him square in the back with a Conjunctivitis Curse. Flitwick was not amused.”

Draco huffed once, almost a laugh. “Of course she did.”

“Flitwick didn’t even raise his voice,” Blaise added. “Just looked at her like she was nothing. It was worse, somehow.”

Draco’s jaw clenched, it was bad enough to be mistreated by the other students, now the professors were getting biased too. Perfect, just what he needed.

“And Nott’s on thin ice with Abbott. Something about a disagreement over volunteer rotas turned into him insulting her entire family tree.”

Draco snorted. “He always did have a gift.”

Blaise gave him a sideways glance, sly. “What about me, you ask?”

“I didn’t.”

“I’ll pretend you did.” Blaise’s grin widened. “I quite enjoy rebuilding with Lovegood. “Absolutely no efficiency. Completely irrational… But it’s… surprisingly fun.”

Draco raised a brow. “Fun?”

“She offered me a flower crown last week while we were repairing a hallway. Called it a spiritual bonding ritual.”

“And you wore it?”

“Of course I did,” Blaise said smoothly. “I looked phenomenal.”

Draco rolled his eyes, but a faint flicker of something eased the tension in his shoulders.

As they neared the common room, he asked, dryly, “Anyone else giving trouble?”

Blaise shrugged. “Most of the house is sort of following your lead, actually. Which, frankly, is the real concern.”

Draco let out a humorless snort. “Bloody fantastic.”

They reached the entrance to the Slytherin common room, the tension shifting, darkening, as the murmured conversations inside bled into the corridor. 

Draco felt it immediately—the shift and the weight of unspoken tension the moment he stepped inside.

This was the real problem. Not Tracey. Not Granger. Not whatever the fuck was wrong with him. He had bigger things to deal with. 

So he pushed everything else aside, straightened his shoulders, and stepped inside. 

The tension was suffocating. The war was over, but Slytherin was still fractured.

Some wanted to move on.

Some were still bitter.

And some weren’t ready to let go of the past. The problems during the rebuilding project was proof of it.

Draco didn’t blame them. But if he didn’t hold this house together, they’d tear each other apart.

They had come back to a Hogwarts that no longer feared them. No longer catered to them. No longer looked the other way.

Without that power—without the weight of their name and influence—Slytherins had turned inward. Onto each other. Onto him.

And he had become the de facto leader of the house. 

And Draco hadn’t come back to Hogwarts to watch Slytherin collapse. Not on his bloody watch. 

So he sat, calm, collected, unreadable, as the meeting, he didn’t know was about to happen, began. 

Theo leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, watching Draco with thinly veiled scrutiny.

"Word is, you’ve been… distracted lately."

A pause. Long enough to let the implication settle.

Draco didn’t react. Didn’t tense. Didn’t blink. Instead, he tilted his head slightly, one brow lifting in mock curiosity.

"Word is, you should mind your own business."

Theo hummed, unimpressed. “See, that’s the thing, Malfoy. Your business used to be our business. And lately?” He tilted his head. “Not so much.”

Draco exhaled through his nose, rolling the silver ring on his finger. “I don’t have time for riddles, Nott.”

Theo smirked, but his eyes were sharp. “Alright. I’ll spell it out for you.”

He tapped a finger against the armrest. Once. Twice.

Then, too casually—too deliberately—he said it. “You’ve been stopping things.”

Draco’s fingers stilled against his ring.

Theo didn’t stop.

“A few weeks ago, Snyde hexed some Hufflepuff in the halls for mouthing off. You made him undo it.”

His voice was even, dissecting.

“Last week, Burke cornered a Ravenclaw for spreading rumours about us. You told him to leave it.”

Another tap against the chair. Slow, steady, calculated.

“Just yesterday, Rosier offered to ‘deal with’ that mouthy first-year. And you—” Theo’s smirk sharpened, victorious. “You told him to drop it.”

Silence. A heavy, suffocating beat of it.

Draco didn’t flinch, but the stillness in his expression sharpened. He hadn’t even notice he did those things.

Theo leaned forward slightly, sensing the shift—like blood in the water.

“You’re putting out fires before they even start, Malfoy. That’s not leadership. That’s fear.”

The word landed like a blow.

Draco’s voice was low, even. Too controlled. “Fear would’ve been hexing them myself and calling it strategy.”

Then—

“You almost blew the entire rebuilding project mouthing off to Abbott in front of McGonagall,” he said coolly, fixing Theo with a look. “And Pansy—hexing Weasley during a shift? Brilliant strategy if we’re trying to get all of Slytherin banned.”

He let the words settle, then added, quieter, more clipped: “You two want to play like it’s still the good old days? Fine. But don’t expect the rest of us to clean up after you.”

Pansy huffed, arms crossed. “Weasley drew his wand first.”

Draco scoffed. “Yeah, and he’s a war hero. We’re not. Guess who McGonagall’s going to believe?”

Pansy scoffed, flipping her hair over her shoulder. “People are talking.”

Draco finally looked up, expression blank. “Let them.”

Theo’s smirk sharpened, but his posture stayed loose. "You’ve been shutting us down, Malfoy."

Draco’s jaw clicked. His knuckles whitened where they curled around the chair. He forced his grip to loosen, forced his expression to stay blank. Because he had. Not consciously. Not intentionally. But still.

Theo was watching him, waiting for something. Draco wasn’t sure what.

So he leaned back, exhaled through his nose, and smirked. “And?”

Theo’s eyes narrowed. “And you think that doesn’t mean something?”

Draco let the silence stretch. Let them wonder if he even cared. 

“It’s cute,” Draco drawled, tipping his chair back slightly. “The way you all think this is up for debate.”

Theo’s jaw tensed. “And you think it isn’t?”

Draco smirked, slow and deliberate. “I don’t think. I know.”

Then, without looking up, he rolled the silver ring on his finger, his voice cool, detached—

“I think some of you need to adjust to the fact that we don’t run the school anymore.”

A flicker of irritation crossed Theo’s face, but before he could bite back, Pansy let out an exasperated huff. “That’s not what this is about, Draco.”

Draco lifted his gaze, unimpressed. “Isn’t it?”

She held his stare for a second too long. Then, finally, her lips pressed into a thin line. “People are noticing that we don’t fight back.”

Draco exhaled sharply, tipping his head back against the chair. “Good.”

Theo’s fingers drummed against the armrest. “You think this doesn’t matter?”

Draco finally let his smirk surface, slow and deliberate. “I think you lot are forgetting something.” He leaned forward, elbows braced against his knees. His voice dropped, soft and lethal. “The war is over, Nott. And we lost it, try acting like it.”

Draco’s voice snapped at the end, harsher than intended. The silence that followed wasn’t respectful—it was loaded. His hand twitched at his wand, a movement so instinctive he had to clench his fist to stop it.

A muscle jumped in Theo’s jaw, but he didn’t argue.

Pansy let out a sharp exhale, annoyed, but not stupid enough to push further.

Draco sat back, satisfied. They could grumble all they wanted, whisper about him when his back was turned.

He was still the one holding the leash.

"Not all of us have the luxury of moving on so quickly." Theo said sharply.

Draco arched a brow. Like he had that luxury. Like he wasn’t the one with a permanent fucking mark on his arm. The only one.

“That sounds like a you problem.” He said, trying to keep calm, although part of him wanted to hex Nott into oblivion.

Pansy scoffed, but it was different this time—less dismissive, more raw. “You sound like them.”

Draco’s gaze snapped to her. “Like who?”

She hesitated, fingers curling into fists at her sides. “The ones who think we don’t belong here.”

Draco inhaled through his nose, forcing his expression to stay blank. “Slytherin belongs wherever we decide it does.”

For a second, something flickered across her face—something sharp, something almost hurt. She opened her mouth, then closed it, her jaw tightening like she was swallowing something back.

Then—too fast, too forceful—she laughed. “Right. Whatever you say, Malfoy.”

The room stood silent, but not for long.

Nott leaned forward, breaking the silence. “You’re changing, Malfoy.”

Draco barely tensed, but it was enough. A flicker of something sharp and sour curled low in his stomach—anger, irritation, maybe even guilt. He shoved it down before it could surface, schooling his expression into something cool, unreadable.

His mother had always told him to control his expression. To never let them see weakness.

He forced his grip to loosen. Tilted his head slightly. Smirked

“And?”

Nott smirked, but there was no humour in it. “And people are watching.”

Draco exhaled slowly, controlled, detached. “People have always watched me.”

Nott studied him, gaze dark and sharp, calculating in that way he always was when he thought he had the upper hand. He tilted his head slightly, voice quiet but deliberate. “Yeah,” he murmured. “But what exactly are they seeing now?”

Draco didn’t answer.

Because he knew what Nott was really asking.

And he didn’t fucking know.

A slow breath, deliberate and measured, cut through the silence.

“They see a traitor.” Pansy’s voice was light, almost bored, but the weight of her words landed heavy between them.

Draco’s jaw tightened.

But, before could speak—before he could shut it down, deny it, twist it into something else—Blaise did.

“They see someone who still has this place on a leash, whether you like it or not.” His voice was smooth, almost amused, but there was something steely beneath it.

“And if you don’t believe me—” he flicked his gaze around the room, slow, deliberate “—then tell me. Who else are they looking at?”

The room stilled.

"You’re walking a fine line, Malfoy."

Theo’s voice was smooth. Conversational. Like he wasn’t warning him—just stating a fact.

He held Theo’s gaze, unreadable, but for the first time all night, he felt it—something cold curling at the edges of his ribs, something that sounded suspiciously like doubt.

Theo smirked. “People remember which side you stood on. And if you think they’ll ever trust you again, you’re more deluded than I thought.”

He leaned forward slightly, voice almost casual. “Tell me, Malfoy—if things turned again, do you really think they’d choose you?”

Draco’s thumb rolled over the silver band on his finger, the motion slow, deliberate.

Theo stood with slow, deliberate ease. He adjusted his sleeves, voice casual. Too casual. “Enjoy the role while it lasts, Malfoy.”

He sat still, jaw tight, as the words sunk deep.

Because Theo wasn’t just warning him. He was waiting. It lingered. It got under his skin. Because Theo wasn’t wrong.

And that—that was the part that bothered him.

After Nott left, Daphne Greengrass finally spoke, her voice smooth, cool, and cutting through the silence like a blade.

“You act like you don’t care, Malfoy.”

Draco stayed still. Expression blank. Unmoved.

Daphne tilted her head, gaze sharp, watching him like she was solving a puzzle. “But you do.”

For some reason, that sentence landed heavier than it should have.

He forced himself to smirk, shifting lazily in his chair. “That’s an assumption, Greengrass.”

She only smiled. “Isn’t it?”

Pansy scoff, standing abruptly between Draco and Greengrass, pushing her chair back with more force than necessary. “Don’t forget where you belong, Malfoy.”

Draco didn’t react.

She lingered a second longer, arms crossed, sharp chin tilted down as if she was waiting for something—for him to say something, to reassure her, to pick a side.

When he didn’t, Pansy lips curled into a sneer. “But I suppose you already have.”

Then she turned on her heel and left, her steps clipped, too fast, too rigid.

And even when they were gone, even when the room was nearly empty, their words stayed with him. 

Draco exhaled slowly, fingers tightening against the arm of his chair. 

Nott was watching him. Measuring. Like he knew something Draco didn’t. Like he was waiting for something— for him to slip.

He could feel their eyes on him, waiting for a reaction. He gave them nothing.

If he let go, someone else would take it. Simple as that.

Later that night, Draco sat on the edge of his bed, rolling the silver ring between his fingers. A habit. A tether.

It had always fit perfectly.

Lately, it didn’t.

The crest caught the candlelight as he turned it over, metal cool against his skin. A symbol of legacy, of bloodline—of things that were supposed to matter.

He pressed the ring into his palm. It didn’t ground him.

Draco barely slept. Nott’s words echoed in the dark.

People remember which side you stood on.

He exhaled sharply, pressing his palms to his face. He turned onto his side, waiting for morning to come.

And when it did, he had buried it—doubt, guilt, all of it. Locked it away beneath routine, beneath sharp movements and sharper words, beneath the kind of control that left no room for doubt. 

He dropped onto the bench at the Slytherin table with the practiced ease of someone who did not have the weight of a thousand things clawing at the edges of his mind.

The whispers were getting bolder. Louder. Slytherins used to lower their voices when he walked past—now, they didn’t bother. They spoke about him like he wasn’t sitting right there.

His gaze flicked to Snyde—loudmouth, as always.

It would be easy. One sharp comment, one reminder of exactly who he was. He could cut Snyde down in two words. He nearly did.

But he caught himself. Forced them back down. Swallowed them whole.

His mother taught him restraint. He used it.

His father had taught him something else.

Power wasn’t given—it was taken. Held onto with both hands. Never let them see you slip.

And yet, here he was, letting it slip.

The voices kept talking, “Yeah, but he’s not that Malfoy, is he?”

Being invisible in his own house was worse than the stares. At least when they watched him, he still meant something.

But something about the way his name wasn’t a certainty anymore made his jaw tighten.

He set his goblet down with deliberate ease. The Gryffindors, the Ravenclaws, the self-righteous Hufflepuffs—he had expected it from them. But this?

Slytherin should have been different.

Draco exhaled slowly. Picked up his toast. Took a bite, even though the taste barely registered.

He had spent years looking down on others. Weighing their worth with a glance. Dismissing them as lesser.

And now, they looked at him the same way.

His fingers curled around his goblet, grip tightening. He hated it. Not because it wasn’t fair—because it was. And that was the worst part.

The day passed in a blur. Lectures. Assignments. Scrutiny.

He ignored it. Ignored the stares, the whispers. Ignored the weight of expectation pressing against his ribs.

Potter was watching him as well. No, not just watching—he was waiting. Like he also already knew something Draco didn’t, and wasn’t saying it yet.

He resisted the urge to sneer. What the hell did he think he was seeing? A threat? A ghost? A mistake he didn’t know how to fix?

Draco curled his fingers over the silver band, resisting the urge to roll it between them. Then he forced his expression blank.

He exhaled, rolling his shoulders back. He needed to go to class, he needed to leave before he did something stupid.

Draco barely looked up when he entered History of Magic, already resigned to an hour of monotone droning from Professor Binns. He moved toward his usual spot—somewhere near the back, far enough to avoid attention but close enough to pretend he was listening.

Students were shuffling in, claiming seats beside whomever they could tolerate. Binns, of course, didn’t bother assigning partners. He simply hovered near the blackboard, flickering in and out of visibility, already mid-lecture before half the class had settled.

Draco settled into his chair, quill in hand, already disinterested. The seat beside him stayed empty—until Granger showed up, of course.

She hesitated a second before sitting, jaw tight, like she wanted to say something but didn’t trust herself to start it.

He kept his eyes on the parchment. Like she wasn’t even there.

But Granger felt off. She wasn’t even fidgeting—just still. No furious note-taking. No annoyed huffs. Nothing. She was just… still. Arms crossed, brows drawn, eyes fixed ahead in a way that suggested she wasn’t really seeing anything.

Professor Binns drifted through the blackboard mid-sentence, mumbling something about the 17th-century Goblin currency reform as his chalk scribbled on without him.

Draco twirled his quill between his fingers, watching her from the corner of his eye.

Normally, she’d have already huffed at him for slouching or muttered under her breath about his lack of participation. But today? Nothing.

So he leaned back, stretching his legs out in front of him with exaggerated nonchalance. “Granger, if you don’t start scribbling down every pointless word that ghost says, I might actually get concerned.”

Her lips pressed into a thin line. She exhaled sharply through her nose, then, finally, without looking at him, muttered, “I don’t have the patience for you today, Malfoy.”

Her voice snagged slightly on the last word.

Then louder, her voice sharp and splintered—“For once in your life, just shut up.”

For a second, Draco blinked.

The barb landed deeper than it should have.

His smirk returned a beat too late. “Tragic. I was really looking forward to another riveting discussion about goblin rebellions.”

Sh didn’t bite. Didn’t even roll her eyes. Just sighed, rubbing her temples.

Draco’s smirk faded slightly, but he didn’t push. Instead, he turned his attention back to Binns, letting the lecture fade into background noise.

A few rows ahead, a group of Ravenclaws were whispering, casting quick glances back at him. Another table over, a pair of Hufflepuffs exchanged looks.

Draco’s jaw tightened.

The scrutiny was growing—tightening like invisible bindings across his chest.

Ignoring it was getting harder.

So he didn’t try.

Instead, he let his eyes flicker back to Granger—just once, just briefly. And for some reason, that was easier to focus on than the fact that he was being watched.

By the time evening rolled around, he was already halfway to the pitch before he even made the decision to go. 

Quidditch still made sense. Complication-free. Even with the time being shit.

So he jumped on his broom and pushed himself harder. Pushed his team harder. Forced every lingering thought, every flicker of tension, every unwelcome reminder of the night before into the motions of the game—the sharp turns, the brutal dives, the aching pull of exhaustion in his limbs. 

Draco leaned forward, pushing his broom into a brutal dive. The air howled past his ears, the ground coming up too fast—but he didn’t pull up. Not yet. Not until the very last second, until the grass was a blur beneath him, until—

His hands jerked instinctively. His broom veered too sharply, skidding sideways through the air. For a split second, his balance tipped—his stomach lurched, weightless, out of control.

“Malfoy!” Mulgrave shouted.

Draco twisted his broom violently, stabilizing just before impact. His breath was ragged, his grip white-knuckled, but he didn’t let himself react.

He just circled back, jaw tight, voice even. “Again.”

No one argued, but he knew that did not look good on him. Specially not before the whole fiasco in the common room the other night.

Mulgrave shot him a long, measuring look. “You alright, Malfoy? Not seen a dive that bad since Warrington took out Flint on accident.” He paused. “And he was on our team.”

Draco rolled his shoulders. “I said again.”

As Mulgrave muttered something about him not being focused, Draco exhaled, rolling his shoulders back. His fingers found his ring, twisting it once. Twice.

Focus. Control. Grip tight, don’t let it slip.

So, he didn’t stop. Not until the sky had deepened into indigo, until the wind cut sharp against his skin, until the only thing left in his head was the steady, grounding rhythm of his own breath. 

The night was quiet, save for the distant rustling of the Forbidden Forest.. 

And for the first time all day—maybe even all week— 

He let himself enjoy it. 

Even then, the moment his feet hit the ground, the weight crept back in.

It was almost past curfew when he landed. He liked this part of the night—the way the castle settled, the way the air turned still, the way the world felt momentarily untouched by all the bullshit that filled his days. 

Draco exhaled, rolling his shoulders, adjusting the strap of his broom as he made his way back toward the castle. 

He didn’t go straight inside.

Instead, he stood at the edge of the pitch, his broom dangling at his side, staring out at the dark horizon. The wind had picked up, cutting sharp against his skin. It felt good. Real.

A quiet shuffle of footsteps behind him. Draco didn’t turn.

Blaise didn’t say anything—just came to stand beside him. Draco didn’t even know he was still there. The rest of the team left as soon as the night began to fall.

For a while, there was only the rustle of wind through the grass and the distant hoot of an owl. Then, a soft click—Blaise flipping the top of a tin open, the faint clink of something inside.

He held out a small square of chocolate without looking at Draco. “Don’t worry,” he said, almost lazily. “I won’t ask if you’re alright.”

Draco didn’t answer. Just took the chocolate. He stood there in silence as Blaise walked towards the castle, leaving him behind.

For a moment, he considered flying again. Just one more lap. One more reckless dive.

Instead, he exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over his face. Enough.

Draco turned back toward the castle, unsure where he was going at first.

His feet carried him through the castle on instinct alone, his body moving while his mind remained tangled elsewhere—still stuck in the tension of the pitch, the sharp crack of a bludger against wood, the weight of too many things pressing against his ribs.

The corridors blurred past.

A portrait of an old wizard in tattered Quidditch robes muttered something indecipherable as he passed, eyes flicking toward Draco with tired disapproval.

His hands found their way into his pockets. Shoulders tight. Breath uneven.

And then—

He stopped.

The Astronomy Tower loomed ahead.

Draco exhaled sharply, curling his fingers into a fist.

His feet slowed. Too familiar. 

He turned sharply and walked away, forcing his hands into his pockets before they could shake.

Theo’s voice echoed in his mind.

Word is, you’ve been… distracted lately.

Blaise’s smirk.

Pansy’s sharp, scrutinizing tone.

People are noticing.

He dragged a hand through his hair, breath short. Let it go.

But then—Voices.

Real ones.

Draco tensed, every thought snapping to attention. He turned slightly, listening, ears catching on the sharp edge of a conversation just beyond the next corridor.

Not just any conversation.

Granger and Weasley.

Draco stilled.

He hadn’t meant to overhear. Hadn’t meant to stop walking. Hadn’t meant for his focus to shift entirely to her.

But it did.

And the moment he caught the tension in their voices—something brittle, something raw—he knew.

They were fighting again.

He could hear them just ahead, standing somewhere off the path near the courtyard, their words echoing too easily in the empty space between them. 

This time, Draco didn’t stop. He didn’t listen, but he also didn’t walk away as fast as he should. 

His knuckles went white, as he caught fragments of their argument, their voices cutting through the night like knives against stone. 

“I don’t see why this is such a big deal, Hermione!” Weasley’s voice was frustrated, defensive. 

“Because it is, Ron!” Hermione shot back, exasperated. “You can’t just dismiss everything like it doesn’t matter!” 

Draco exhaled through his nose, forcing himself to keep moving. It wasn’t his problem. 

Not something he should care about. And yet his feet dragged.

He should leave. Should being the key fucking word.

And yet, he stood there, listening to her voice catch like she was losing something she hadn’t realized she’d been holding onto for too long.

Like she already knew how this ended.

He should’ve left. He didn’t.

“It’s always something with you, isn’t it?” Weasley snapped. “Merlin, Hermione, I can’t say anything without you jumping down my throat!” 

Her hands clenched at her sides. A tremor ran through them—anger, or maybe something worse.

Draco sighed sharply, dragging a hand through his damp hair. He should go. This was pathetic. Listening in on Weaselbee and Granger’s crumbling disaster of a relationship? What the hell was wrong with him? 

And yet, his body didn’t move. 

This was pathetic. Standing here. Listening.

He adjusted his grip on the broom handle, jaw tight. Just another fight. Just Weasley being Weasley. Just Granger wasting her breath on a losing battle.

And he had better things to do than watch them fall apart.

But as he was leaving, Granger let out a bitter laugh, sharp and humorless. “Maybe if you actually thought about what you were saying before you said it, I wouldn’t have to!”

Ron blinked like he'd been slapped. His mouth opened, then closed.

“You never think before you speak, do you?” Hermione snapped, her voice sharp, unyielding. Her eyes flashed, chin lifted like a challenge.

Ron’s eyes widened. “That’s not—”

“Yes, it is,” she cut in, too fast. Her cheeks were flushed now, her hands clenched into white-knuckled fists at her sides.

“Don’t twist my words—”

“I’m not twisting anything!”

They spoke over each other, voices climbing, cutting, crashing. Frustration coiled in the air between them like a live wire.

“You dismiss things when they make you uncomfortable. You laugh when I try to talk to you. And then you act like I’m the problem when I get upset.”

Ron’s jaw worked silently. His ears were bright red now.

Hermione stepped forward, just half a pace—but enough. Her voice dropped.

“No, Ron. You don’t get to act like this doesn’t matter.”

He didn’t look at her. Just stared off, jaw clenched.

Her breath came fast, chest rising and falling in shallow bursts. Her eyes shimmered, not with tears—but with fury barely held in check.

“I don’t want to fight.” Her voice faltered, then steadied again, brittle as glass. “But I’m not going to just stand here and pretend you’re right.”

Her arms folded across her chest. A shield. Her fingers dug into her elbows like she was trying to hold herself together by force alone.

“You’re exhausting, Hermione!” he exploded, throwing his arms out. “Everything’s a bloody test with you—like I have to pass an exam just to talk to my own girlfriend!”

The word hung between them like a curse. Girlfriend.

Hermione flinched.

Ron saw it, and some of the fire drained from his face. His hands dropped to his sides.

“Shit,” he muttered. “That’s not what I meant.”

Something flickered across his face—uncertainty, maybe shame. But it was gone as fast as it came, replaced by the same defensive tilt to his shoulders. Like he didn’t know how to say the right thing, even when he wanted to.

Hermione’s breath hitched, but she didn’t cry. 

“Try listening, Ron,” she exhaled, but it wasn’t a release—it was a bracing. Her posture sagged, just a little.

Then—quieter still, and it hurt more for the softness—“It’s not just what you say, Ron. It’s that you never stay long enough to understand it.”

Weasley’s expression shifted again. Just a flicker—regret, guilt, something heavier than either.

“Hermione, I didn’t mean—”

But it was already too late.

Draco’s grip on his broom tightened. Of course she’d still be waiting for Weaselbee to be better.

And what was he waiting for?

A flicker of disgust curled low in his gut—at them, at himself, he couldn’t tell.

He should leave

It was ridiculous that he was still there. That he wasn’t even trying to leave.

He told himself it was just because it was pathetic to watch. That was all. Watching   Weasley being a fucking idiot

Draco’s fingers flexed against his broom handle, his knuckles aching. His pulse was still too fast, his breath uneven—something hot and restless curled in his stomach, something he couldn’t name. His jaw was locked so tight his teeth hurt, and for a brief, reckless moment, his feet almost moved forward. Almost.

Then, the muscle in his jaw twitched. Something in him recoiled—hot, sour, like bile in his throat.

He inhaled sharply through his nose. No.

And then, with stiff, deliberate steps, he turned on his heel and walked away.

He made it halfway to the castle before he realized his jaw was clenched so tightly it ached. 

His fingers twitched around the broom handle.

Not his problem. Not his fucking business.

Everything else could be ignored—the whispers, the power shifts, the weight of the past clawing at his heels.

But this? This was something different.  Something insidious.

Something—

No .

He refused to think about this.

He shut it down. Buried it so deep, no one would ever see it—because maybe if they didn’t see it, they’d still see him.

He scoffed at himself. Too bloody sentimental. What did it even mean—“see him”?

Either way, he wasn’t sure he’d recognize the version they remembered anyway.

Chapter Text

November at Hogwarts came in like a hex—gray, bitter, impossible to ignore.

The days bled together, the cold sinking into Draco’s bones, into the walls themselves.

Snow came early. The Great Hall ceiling stormed endlessly. Something felt wrong.

Constant. Low-level. Unnamed.

Probably just stress. Pressure. The usual weight of keeping Slytherin from crumbling.

His patrol shift with Abbot had ended an hour ago, but he wasn’t ready to return to the common room. He didn’t feel like walking back into whispers and stares.

No plan. Just motion.

Pressure older than him, tightening around his ribs.

A classroom flashed past. His reflection in the glass—pale, blurred.

For a second, the urge: sit. Breathe.

He didn’t.

Kept walking. Like forward meant something.

Like maybe the thoughts would lose track of him.

Slytherin was in third. A disgrace. 

All teams had played once, they lost to bloody Gryffindor.

If they lost to Hufflepuff, they'd finish the round at the bottom. He could already hear the whispers—still weak, still broken, still a joke.

But Draco would rather hex himself into oblivion than let that happen.

He pushed the team hard. No breaks. No mercy. Drills bled into each other. Sweat froze on skin. No one complained, except for Blaise.

Draco gripped the broom tighter. His shoulders locked, the cold biting every tendon.

Good. Let it hurt. Let it shut everything else up.

Flying used to be freedom.

Before the war. Before the name.

Now it was just another cage.

Another thing to control.

So he pushed forward, barking an order at the Chasers. Control. That was all that mattered.

Blaise wiped his face with his sleeve, shaking his head as he hovered next to Draco in the air.

“It’s not the bloody World Cup, you know.”

“You want to lose?” Draco snapped.

Blaise sighed. "No. But I’d like to survive warm-ups."

Draco didn’t reply.

One of the younger Beaters missed a Bludger block, and Draco spun midair. “Do you even know what you’re doing up here?” he barked, too loud.

The kid flinched.

“Go back to the locker room if you can’t fly straight.”  he snapped. The boy went pale. No one said a word for the rest of practice.

Draco’s fingers tightened around his broom handle, pulse thudding. Too much.

His heartbeat thudded in his jaw. He wanted to throw his broom. He didn’t.

Weakness had cost him everything once. He wouldn’t let it happen again.

But even as he drove himself into the ground with training, even as he threw himself into every drill, the irritation never left.

The frustration.

The restlessness.

Like a splinter under the skin—invisible but never forgotten.

He told himself it was stress.

It felt like a lie.

Because every time his gaze caught the Gryffindor table—her curls, her voice—

He noticed. And he hated it. Hated how his eyes followed her like he didn’t have a choice.

He wasn’t supposed to feel anything except maybe guilt when he looked at her. But guilt didn’t make his chest tighten like this.

If she’d died in that cellar like she was supposed to—

He flinched.

Fisted the fabric of his sleeve.

Don’t think that.

But it wouldn’t fucking leave.

Like rot. Lodged under his skin.

This had to stop.

It wasn’t real. It wasn’t anything.

Just an annoyance. A distraction he didn’t have time for.

He threw open the door to the Slytherin common room, half-expecting the usual noise, the political undercurrents of conversation, the weight of eyes waiting for him to fix something. But the room was quiet, most of the younger years already in bed. Only a handful of students remained by the fire, he ignored them.

Draco sat back in his chair, rolling his ring around his finger. His eyes flicked over the Quidditch board, but his mind wandered somewhere else.

Lucius Malfoy had once told him, A Malfoy leads. A Malfoy commands.

But that had been before.

Before his father had lost everything. Before Draco had realized that following orders didn’t make you a leader—it just made you a pawn.

Draco flexed his fingers, staring at the ink stains smudged against his palm. He wasn’t following his father’s rules anymore. Slytherin needed to win, and he would do whatever it took.

He moved toward the board, scanning through their last match’s mistakes, trying to focus.

Not thinking about her.

Obviously.

He pressed the chalk into the board until it snapped. He grabbed another one, pressing it too hard into the board as he mapped out a new play. The tension in his chest coiled tighter, his frustration twisting into something sharp, something he couldn’t name.

He inhaled slowly. Exhaled even slower. Forced himself to push every useless thought aside.

Because tomorrow mattered.

Tomorrow, he wasn’t going to think about her.

Tomorrow, he was going to win.

Morning arrived too quickly.

Draco barely slept, his mind running through strategies, plays, and every possible scenario that could unfold on the pitch. He was the first one in the locker room, the first one on the pitch before warm-ups even started. The air was unusually warm. 

By the time the rest of the team arrived, his focus was razor-sharp. The usual pre-game chatter faded into background noise as he adjusted his equipment, rolling his shoulders, blocking out every unnecessary thought.

This wasn’t about pressure. This wasn’t about proving himself to anyone—not his team, not his House, not the entire school watching from the stands.

This was about winning.

Because if he couldn’t win here—on this pitch, in this game—then where the hell else could he?

A sharp whistle cut through the air.

Draco exhaled slowly, he adjusted his gloves that covered the mark on his arm, but sometimes, he swore he could still feel it burn.

Not burning. Festering.

Like the magic underneath it was spoiled, waiting to rot through his skin. Sometimes he could still feel it twist under the surface, like a curse that never finished unraveling.

It was muscle memory now—the way his hand twitched before gripping his broom, the way he ignored the phantom sensation. Some scars never fully faded.

He took a slow breath, steadying himself, and then he stepped onto the field as the crowd roared around him.

The stadium was packed.

Draco could feel the weight of hundreds of eyes on him, the energy of the crowd pressing down like a storm about to break. The wind cut across the pitch, sharp and relentless, but the chill barely registered. His blood was already hot with adrenaline, his fingers curled tightly around the handle of his broom.

Slytherin needed this win.

It wasn’t just about the House Cup.

It was about showing the school that Slytherin was still here—still dangerous, still fighting.

About proving that Draco Malfoy could still bloody win at something.

The whistle blew.

The Quaffle shot into the air.

And the game began.

Draco had expected the match to be brutal, but within the first fifteen minutes, he realized he had underestimated just how badly Hufflepuff wanted to crush them.

Their Chasers were relentless, weaving through the pitch with precision and speed that caught Slytherin off guard. Every pass was sharp, every move calculated, and it became painfully clear that they had come into this match with one goal—humiliate Slytherin.

And it was working.

Hufflepuff was steam rolling them. Goals stacked up like insult to injury—100, then 140, then 170 to 20. Their Keeper was in shambles. Draco’s jaw ached from clenching.

Draco gritted his teeth, resisting the urge to throw his broom into the nearest Hufflepuff player. His grip tightened, jaw locked as he forced himself to scan the pitch again.

He needed a miracle.

And then—

He saw it.

A glint of gold.

Just beyond the goalposts, hovering low and fast.

The Snitch.

His heart leapt into his throat.

But he didn’t move.

Not yet.

Because if he caught it now, if he ended the game before Slytherin had a chance to score even once more, they would lose.

170 to 170 was still a fucking loss.

And Draco Malfoy did not lose.

And then opportunity rose. Mulgrave intercepted, passed. Blaise scored. It wasn’t much—but it was enough. Draco moved.

Wind rushed past his ears, the world tilting as he dove. The Snitch was fast—blurring, twisting, weaving through the air like it knew he was coming for it.

But Draco was faster.

He flattened against his broom, pushing it to its limits, chasing the streak of gold with single-minded determination.

The Hufflepuff Seeker saw him.

He dived, desperate to close the distance, but he was too late.

Because Draco’s fingers closed around the Snitch first.

The moment he felt the wings flutter against his palm, everything else disappeared.

The noise.

The crushing weight of expectations and pressure and everything that had been suffocating him since the start of the year.

For the first time in months, Draco Malfoy had done something right.

He had won.

He landed. Cheers hit like background noise.

His team swarmed him, clapping him on the back, shaking his shoulders, shouting in excitement. Blaise was grinning, Pansy was smirking, Mulgrave looked like he might cry.

The Snitch twitched in his palm. Draco didn’t move.

Quidditch rules were absolute bollocks.

170 to 30, and yet they won.

He caught the Snitch. They won. It was a win.

Draco spent most of the night thinking. Not about classes. Not about House politics. And certainly not about Granger.

No—his mind was tangled in Quidditch strategies, running every mistake through his head like a damn game reel. Because they hadn’t won because they were good—they’d won because he’d played it right. And next time, that wouldn’t be enough.

The Keeper was shit. Chasers shaky. Beaters useless under pressure.

Training wasn’t enough.

He needed new blood.

But who the fuck else was left?

The dorm was quiet.

Draco sat on the edge of his bed, fingers curled around the edge of the mattress.

He hadn’t let anyone stay the night. Not since the match. Not since—

He rubbed his eyes, hard.

Girls.

That was the answer.

No one ever let girls try out for Slytherin’s team before. Other houses had them—Ginny Weasley was Gryffindor’s best damn Chaser. But Slytherin? It had always been just the boys.

Not because girls couldn’t play.

But because tradition.

There was no rule in the Quidditch handbook, nothing actually barring them from trying out. But there didn’t need to be. It had been understood. A team of strong, ruthless boys—future leaders, his father had once said.

He wasn’t leading like his father.

Fear didn’t work. Not anymore.

He needed loyalty that lasted past failure.

Past fear.

The next morning, he marched straight to Madam Hooch before breakfast, asked if he could open tryouts for the team. She looked surprised but gave a sharp nod.

"It’s about time someone broke that ridiculous rule."

By the time he made it to the Great Hall, the announcement was already spreading like wildfire.

Slytherin was holding open Quidditch tryouts.

For everyone.

And Hogwarts lost its collective mind.

Draco barely made it to the Slytherin table before Theo slid into the seat across from him, eyes narrowed. “What the hell, Malfoy?”

Pansy wasn’t far behind. She dropped into the seat beside Theo and slammed her goblet down hard enough to splash pumpkin juice. “Tell me this is some kind of stunt.”

Draco didn’t even blink. “Forgive me, Parkinson. I didn’t realize you’d rather lose with pride than win with brains.”

“Oh, piss off,” she snapped, folding her arms. “This has never been done. Ever. What do you think this makes us look like?”

“Like we’re tired of getting flattened,” Draco said smoothly, pouring himself coffee. “Which, shockingly, we are.”

Theo scoffed, voice tight. “So what, we’re just letting anyone on the team now?”

Draco leaned back, lazy and cold. “Right, because Merlin forbid someone outperform your precious ego.”

Theo bristled. “You think this is funny?”

“No,” Draco said flatly. “I think it’s pathetic that half the house would rather cling to some dead tradition than win.”

Theo sneered. “You’re turning this team into a joke.”

“Then leave,” Draco said, his voice sharp now. “Walk away before someone new makes you look slow.”

Theo opened his mouth—then closed it. He didn’t answer.

Because he knew Draco was right.

Slytherin was tired of losing.

And if they wanted to win, things had to change.

Draco caught the glances—sideways looks exchanged between the older students, hushed murmurs just out of earshot. Let them talk. He didn’t owe them an explanation.

By the time he made it to the common room that evening, most of the House had already settled into their usual groups. The fire crackled in the hearth, casting flickering green shadows across the stone walls.

Theo was lounging near the fireplace, still wearing that vaguely irritated expression, while Blaise looked somewhere between amused and indifferent. Draco barely spared them a glance as he dropped into his usual chair, stretching out like he had all the time in the world.

He thought that was the end of it.

Until he noticed Pansy’s expression.

He exhaled slowly, bracing himself. “Go on, Parkinson. Say whatever’s been sitting on the tip of your tongue all morning.”

She folded her arms, eyes sharp. “You’re making us look weak.”

Draco arched a brow, unimpressed. “By letting girls play Quidditch?”

She scoffed, shaking her head. “By changing things too fast. You think the rest of the school sees this as progress? They see you—Draco Malfoy, desperate for a win, so desperate that you’re breaking tradition to get one.”

Draco leaned back, voice cool. “Funny, I don’t recall you giving a shit about Quidditch.”

“I don’t,” she snapped. “But I do give a shit about Slytherin. And right now, everyone— everyone—is watching us, waiting for an excuse to push us down further. And you’re giving it to them.”

Draco frowned, but before he could respond, her expression changed. Just slightly. Something flickered across her face, something raw, something unspoken.

She looked away first.

Her voice wavered—not just irritated now. Brittle. Like she was holding back something sharp.

Had he missed something?

“You really don’t see it, do you?” she said louder, her eyes suddenly wet, furious. “You think this is about Quidditch? About fucking progress?”

He blinked.

“You’re not saving us, Draco. You’re just trying to save yourself.”

She turned on her heel before he could reply, storming out like she'd just torn a hole in something between them.

Draco scoffed under his breath, dragging a hand through his hair as he watched Pansy disappear. Never noticed what? What the hell was that supposed to mean?

Whatever. He didn’t have time for cryptic dramatics.

Let her sulk. Let her be pissed. Let her stew in whatever that was.

He had bigger things to deal with.

Like the absolute circus unfolding on the Quidditch pitch when he arrived.

The stadium was packed.

Draco hadn’t expected the level of interest it would draw, but apparently, everyone wanted to see history being made.

Most of the other houses showed up, too, lingering on the bleachers, watching curiously as Slytherins took to the air. A lot of them were girls.

Draco stood at the edge of the pitch, watching the news spread like wildfire. The looks. The whispers. The blatant shock.

It should’ve irritated him.

Maybe it did.

But beneath the annoyance, beneath the exhaustion of having to constantly justify his choices—there was something else.

Something unfamiliar.

Change.

Not comfortable. Not easy.

But necessary.

For Slytherin.

For him.

Draco’s nails dug into his palms. He inhaled sharply.

Let them talk.

Because he had already decided.

His father would’ve called this a disgrace. Letting tradition rot, handing Slytherin's legacy over to anyone with decent aim.

But his father didn’t win. And Draco was done listening to ghosts.

The tryouts started. And some of the girls were shit.

Tracey Davis was one of them.

She had tried. Really, she had. But after dropping the Quaffle twice, missing the goalpost completely, and nearly colliding with Vaisey midair, Draco had been forced to wave her off the pitch.

He didn’t even know why she bothered—she was clearly shit at it, and she had to know it.

She hadn’t seemed too upset to be cut off. Tracey shrugged. Lazy grin, tired eyes. “Guess I’ll stick to what I’m good at,” she muttered with a crooked smile.

She didn’t wait for a response.

Draco didn’t give one. Her voice was too close, too knowing. Like she had that right. He dragged a hand down his face, jaw tight. It wasn’t supposed to be personal, it was just sex, just an escape.

He pushed the thought aside. There were still half a dozen other girls on the pitch. He needed players, not distractions.

It was Millicent Bulstrode turn.

She was built like a goddamn wall and blocked every single goal attempt with brutal efficiency. Their current Keeper, Bletchley, had been humiliated.

And then there was Daphne Greengrass.

Daphne was fast. Smart. Fucking lethal with a Quaffle.

She darted through defenders with ease, her passes clean, her shots perfect.

By the end, he had replacements. And a fight brewing.

Theo’s arms were crossed, his voice colder than usual. “You blind-sided us.”

Draco didn’t blink. “Didn’t know I needed permission.”

“It’s not about permission,” Theo snapped. “It’s about leadership. We don’t follow people who change the rules every time they get uncomfortable.”

“Then don’t follow.” Draco’s tone went flat. “I’m not here for a group hug.”

Theo scoffed. “Right. You’re here to rewrite the entire fucking team without even running by the rest of us.”

“I’m here to win,” Draco said sharply. “Something you clearly stopped caring about.”

Behind him, Blaise stood with his arms crossed, silent, unreadable—an unmoving wall at Draco’s back.

Theo stepped forward, voice sharper now. “Of course you are. Anything for Slytherin’s prince.”

Draco’s jaw flexed. His hand drifted—almost unconsciously—to the ring on his finger. The Malfoy crest caught the sunlight, cold and gleaming. Heavy. He didn’t respond.

“You don’t want a team. You want a kingdom.”

Draco tilted his head. “Are you really that scared a girl might be better than you?”

Theo’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t rise to the bait. “I’m not playing on a team with girls,” he muttered, quieter now but with more venom.

Draco didn’t even hesitate. “Then don’t.”

“You think this makes you better than your father?” Theo hissed. “News flash—you’re still just a Malfoy. Still playing war games. You’re not rebuilding anything. You’re just moving the pieces around.”

Draco’s nostrils flared. His grip on the broom turned white-knuckled.

“Then get out,” he said, low. “Before I stop pretending to be civil.”

The silence snapped taut.

Blaise didn’t move. Just stayed there—arms crossed, gaze cool, the weight of his presence sharp behind Draco’s shoulder.

Theo stared at Draco like he didn’t recognize him. Like maybe, he never had.

Then his expression hardened. He grabbed his broom and turned, stalking out without another word.

Bletchley followed, muttering about not being second Keeper to a girl.

Draco didn’t watch them go.

Let them walk. If Nott couldn’t keep up, that wasn’t his problem.

He stared at the bench long after the others left.

The ring on his finger caught the dying light—too polished, too tight.

He twisted it. Felt the metal grind.

Winning wasn’t peace. It was pressure, waiting to start again. But now he had a team with an actual chance.

By the time Draco left the locker room, the sun was bleeding low across the pitch. His shirt was slung over one shoulder, forgotten somewhere between tryouts and the shouting match with Theo. 

He stood there too long, the sweat drying cold on his skin. The ring still cut against his finger.

Still not enough.

He barely saw her coming.

A sharp turn. A shoulder. A collision.

Soft. Firm. 

Granger.

Her palm splayed against his bare chest to steady herself, and for a half-second, neither of them moved.

A jolt. Static under his skin. Raw. Unwanted.

She jerked her hand back like she’d touched a curse. Her throat worked. One breath, then another, shallow and forced. Her fingers curled at her side—like she needed to hide the tremor.

She looked up. Looked down. And froze.

Her gaze stalled on the scar below his collarbone—curse-burn, not healed right. But her mouth pressed tighter at the thin line on his ribs.

Clean. Surgical.

Not from war. From before.

Something flickered in her. Draco didn’t miss it. The way she crossed her arms after, like closing a vault.

Scars. She had them too. Not the kind you show. The kind you manage.

Her hands had trembled like that, once, too.

Her eyes snapped back to his.

“You think showing off scars makes you interesting?” she said, voice clipped. “It doesn’t.”

And there it was—her armour. Sarcasm with a spine.

He opened his mouth. Words tangled. Nothing landed.

So he said the first thing that sounded like armour: “Didn’t expect you to throw yourself at me, Granger.”

It felt wrong. Thin. Like wearing someone else’s skin.

She blinked once. Too slow.

“Put a shirt on,” she muttered.

He raised a brow. “Or what?”

She didn’t answer. 

His arms crossed over his chest, not from confidence but from instinct. Her eyes followed the movement—flicking from his ribs to his throat to the mark on his forearm. Memory again. Not fear. Just something unspoken twisting between them.

“You’re enjoying this,” she accused. “All of it. The attention. The spectacle. Pretending you’ve changed.”

“It’s performative,” she said, firmer now. “Calculated reform. You know people are watching, so you rehearse redemption.”

Her tone had teeth. But her gaze flicked—just once—back to the line of his shoulder.

Like she hated herself for noticing.

“Maybe,” he said, voice low. “Or maybe I just got bored of losing.”

Her eyes scanned him again and then paused at the ring.

“Still wearing that?”

“What?”

“Your father’s idea of a crown,” she said. “You know, the one that keeps you in line.”

He twisted the ring. Too tight on his finger lately. Like it didn’t fit anymore.

Granger expression hardened. “You didn’t change because it was right. You changed because it served you.”

The silence sat there. Heavy. Bare.

Then—she stepped in.

Not touching. But enough that the space between them vanished.

His breath hitched. He didn’t let it show. Couldn’t.

Her hand hovered at her side, like it had started to rise and changed its mind. Her chest rose once—shallow—and her next words came sharper.

“Don’t start pretending you care about justice, Malfoy. You care about winning.”

“Don’t know what else you expected” he muttered.

“I expect you to disappoint me. You always do.” she whispered, too close now, voice a blade

He laughed, quiet and sharp. “That sound like something Potter coached you to say.”

Her smile didn’t reach her eyes. “No one had to coach me, Malfoy. I know exactly what kind of game you’re playing.”

His body tensed, but he kept still. “Then play smarter.”

“I’d rather lose than stoop to your kind of win,” she said, but her voice was thin now. Brittle.

She stepped forward once more, too quick.

And then it happened.

Her shoulder brushed his arm. Bare skin on bare skin. It was nothing. It was everything.

A flicker of heat. A snap of nerves.

She didn’t look back.

But he did.

The space she left felt louder than any shout.

He hated that.

He watched her walk away, spine straight, fists tight.

And still, the contact burned like she’d branded him.

His mind betrayed him—just for a second. What would she feel like if she didn’t flinch? What if she touched him and meant it?

He shoved the thought down like poison.

He wasn’t that pathetic. Not over her.

His hands curled into fists. He exhaled through his nose—slow. Useless.

He didn’t move until she turned the corner.

And she didn’t walk straight. Not quite. Her shoulder clipped the stone wall as she turned, and she muttered something under her breath. Maybe a curse. Maybe his name.

He hoped it wasn’t his name.

And then—

“You’re not subtle, you know.”

He turned.

Pansy leaned against the stone archway just off the pitch, arms crossed tight like she was holding something in. Her gaze dipped—just for a second—to the bare skin across his chest. Then back up, sharp and unreadable.

She scoffed. “Half the school’s talking, and you’re out here playing shirtless martyr.”

He rolled his eyes. “Didn’t know you were taking notes.”

“Someone has to. You’re rewriting the house handbook like it’s a bloody diary.”

He made to move past her, but she didn’t step aside. Just tilted her head, watching him too closely.

“You used to care what we thought,” she said. “Before you decided you were the only one worth listening to.”

Draco sighed. “If you’re still mad about the tryouts—”

“I’m not.” Her voice cut in too fast. Too defensive. “It’s not about the bloody tryouts.”

A pause. Her eyes flicked to the ground, then back to him. “You just keep choosing people who haven’t bled for this house.”

The words landed with more weight than he liked.

He didn’t answer.

Her mouth twitched, not quite a smile. “But I’m sure they look better on a broom.”

He narrowed his eyes.

“You’re not angry,” he said. “You’re jealous.”

She laughed, low and humorless. “Of what? Being tolerated?”

She brushed past him then—deliberate, shoulder against his chest, hand dragging down his arm like it was muscle memory. Like she wasn’t even aware she was doing it.

Draco didn’t move.

Not when her fingers ghosted over the spot below his elbow—just above the mark. Not when she paused there for the briefest second.

Then she pulled away.

No parting shot. No goodbye. Just the sound of her footsteps vanishing into the stone.

He didn’t watch her leave.

Didn’t need to.

Touch. Guilt. Exit.

Same verse, new chorus.

Chapter Text

He didn’t sleep. Not really. It wasn’t the tryouts, or the stares, or Vaisey practically choking on his own ego when the roster went up. It was her. That fight. Too sharp. Too clean. Like she knew exactly where to cut.

Her voice kept echoing. Low. Precise.

You didn’t change because it was right. You changed because it served you.

He’d stood there—shirtless, stupid—choking on half a comeback and the ghost of her hand on his arm.

She walked away like she’d already won. Like she’d uncovered something in him—something she hadn’t earned the right to see.

That was the trick with people like Granger. Speak with enough certainty and everyone mistook it for truth. She didn’t know anything—just thought she did. It was easy to be righteous when the consequences were someone else’s. Easy to point fingers when you’d never knew the full story.

She didn’t know what he’d done. What he hadn’t.

She thought it was survival?

It wasn’t. He adapted. Different thing.

But that didn’t stop her voice from following him.

Didn’t stop the ache. The kind that sat under the skin—quiet, constant.

He could outfly the whispers. He couldn’t outthink her.

By the next morning, Hogwarts wouldn’t shut up about the Quidditch tryouts. The entire school was still buzzing with shock, outrage, or amusement—depending on whom you asked. Some were calling him a revolutionary, some were calling him a traitor, and some were just waiting for the inevitable disaster.

Slytherin politics were rotting from the inside. Nott eyed him like a heretic. First, the shutting them down. Now the team. 

They didn’t say it out loud. They didn’t have to. He was breaking tradition. And tradition was all Slytherin had left.

Draco didn’t care. Except, maybe, he did. Because they wouldn’t shut up.

But he had a stronger team now. That was all that mattered.

He was still basking in that small victory when Blaise strolled over, dropping into the chair across from him with a lazy smirk.

"Well, this is interesting."

Draco barely glanced at him, raking a hand through his damp hair. “What now?”

“You,” Blaise said with a lazy grin. “Or rather, the latest bit of gossip flying around.”

Draco exhaled through his nose. “Let me guess—someone thinks I slipped Bletchley a Dungbomb and called it food poisoning?”

Blaise snorted. “Would’ve been more subtle than whatever actually got him into Madam Pomfrey care. But no.” He stretched his legs out, casual as ever. “Apparently, Weasley and Granger had a fight. Over you.”

Draco froze, fingers still tangled in his hair.

Then he laughed.

Loud, genuine, completely amused. Because what the hell?

"That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard."

"I know." Blaise grinned wider. "Which is why it’s so bloody hilarious."

Draco shook his head, still smirking. "Honestly, do these idiots have nothing better to do?"

"Oh, come on, it gets better." Blaise leaned forward, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Weasley lost it. Something about you talking to Granger. Shirtless.”

Draco blinked. “I wasn’t shirtless.”

Blaise smirked. “Mate. You were. Chest, sweat, smirk—honestly, if my girlfriend had been eyeing you like that—I’d have knocked your smug arse off the pitch”

A slow grin spread across Draco’s face. Huh .

His gaze flicked to Granger—and hers found him back, not for long, but enough for Weasley to notice.

Draco saw it happen—the way Weaselbee froze, how his eyes cut between the two of them like he’d been waiting for proof.

The goblet hit the table hard. Juice sloshed over the rim.

“You really think he’s changed? He still a bloody Death Eater”

Weasley didn’t shout but the words cracked through the Hall, slicing the morning open. Several heads turned. A few forks stilled midair.

The words landed hard. Not because they surprised him—Weasley had the subtlety of a Bludger—but because they still had teeth. The Mark didn’t leave. It just stopped burning.

He didn’t wince. He never allowed it. But the air went taut in his lungs. And then—he let it go. Because what Weaselbee didn’t understand, what none of them could, it was how that stupid mark ended up in his arm.

He didn’t want pity. Especially not from someone who couldn’t pick a side. Let Weasley snarl. Let her scold. Let them all think they knew him. They didn’t . None of them had been there, not when it counted.

Granger looked up slowly, already tired. Her fingers locked around her goblet.

“Ron,” she warned. One word. Heavy. Like they’d already had this fight before—and more than once.

He didn’t flinch.

“What?” Ron shot back. “I’m not allowed to notice when my girlfriend’s busy making eyes at someone who’d be licking Voldemort’s boots if things had turned out different?”

Ginny snorted—sharp. “Merlin, can you at least wait till breakfast’s finished before you implode?”

She shoved her goblet forward. “And besides, she can talk to whoever she bloody wants, Ron. Even if he’ looks like he bathes in guilt and overpriced cologne. Honestly, maybe if you spent half as much energy listening as you do panicking, she wouldn’t be looking anywhere else.”

Granger voice was low, surgical. “I talked to him. I didn’t flirt with him. And even if I had—this isn’t 1956, Ron. You don’t get to decide who I talk to.”

“No flirting?” Weasley barked. “That’s not what you said to Ginny last night.”

“Ron.” Potter’s voice cut through the noise.

Not loud—but heavy. Commanding.

“You’re not protecting her,” he added, tone flat. “You’re just making sure she needs protecting.”

Potter’s eyes didn’t leave Ron. “Say one more word, and I swear I’ll hex you into next week,” he added, lower, quieter. Deadly.

There was no wand drawn, no raised voice—but every student within earshot turned like he’d cast something anyway.

But Granger didn’t back off. Her goblet hit the table hard. She stood, slow, deliberate, voice slicing through the noise.

“You don’t need to speak for me, Harry” she said, not loud—but lethal. “Not now. Not after everything we’ve survived.”

Her voice shook. Just slightly. But her hands trembled more—white-knuckled around the goblet. She blinked fast, too fast. And for a breath, she looked like she might cry or curse or both.

“You don’t get to decide who I talk to like I’m a bloody war prize, Ron.”

A stunned silence rolled through the Hall.

“You think you’re defending me? You’re humiliating me. Again .” Her eyes glittered. “You want to talk about loyalty, Ron? Try giving it before the shouting starts.”

She didn’t wait for a response. She sat back down, calmly, as if she hadn’t just shattered him with her words.

Potter leaned in, eyes flicking between them. “This isn’t the place.”

Then, softer, to Hermione: “We’ll talk later.”

There was something in Potter’s voice—not anger, exactly. But control. Weight. Granger’s head turned toward him, and something silent passed between them. His brow furrowed behind his glasses, unreadable.

Weasley’s chair scraped against the floor as he shoved it back. His fork clattered to the plate.

“I thought—I thought if I stayed close enough, you wouldn’t keep pulling away.” His voice cracked. “I—I don’t know how to be enough for you anymore.”

He looked at her like he wanted to say more. His hand twitched on the edge of the table—like he meant to reach for her wrist, then didn’t.

“Hermione, I—”

He swallowed it and walked away.

Granger didn’t move. Didn’t speak. But she didn’t go after him, either.

Her fingers hovered over her goblet—hesitated. Then slowly curled away, as if she'd forgotten what they were doing.

And when her eyes met Draco’s across the hall—brief, flickering like a spell misfired—

It didn’t feel like an accident.

And Blaise, still beside Draco, saw it and hummed under his breath. Not quite a laugh.

“Careful, mate,” he said, voice low. “That kind of look starts wars.”

Draco didn’t bother answering.

But that has never stopped Blaise before. 

He leaned back again, eyeing Draco sideways. “So what’s the plan? Pretend you’re not staring at her like a lovesick kneazle? Or are we going for the ‘bully until she kisses you’ approach?”

“Not my type,” Draco muttered, rolling his eyes. “Too many books. Not enough fun.”

Blaise didn’t buy it. Of course he didn’t. But Draco leaned into the smirk anyway. Better that than whatever the hell was actually crawling under his skin.

Blaise rolled his eyes. “Look, I’m not saying you like her. But if you do? Just make sure it’s not about proving you’re not your father.”

Draco’s smirk dropped half a degree.

Blaise leaned in. “You want to ruin her for fun, good luck. But if you actually care—don’t. Not her. Pick someone with less fire.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Draco muttered.

He watched with the corner of his eyes Granger leaving the Great Hall, probably to smooth things out with Weaselbee, and Blaise was still talking.

“I’m your friend,” he said. “Not your enabler.”

“You talk like you have the moral ground”

“I don’t,” Blaise said, all smooth confidence. “But I’m working with someone who might.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “You’re still on the Lovegood shift, then?”

“Unfortunately.” Blaise smirked. “She made me bless a doorway yesterday. Said the bricks were spiritually congested.”

“Still blaming McGonagall?”

“Mostly. But I’m not complaining.” He adjusted his cuff with theatrical care. “She brings me tea. Calls it grounding. Smells like regret and lavender.”

Draco gave him a look. “You’re enjoying this.”

“Obviously,” Blaise said. “It’s chaos. But curated. And she’s not boring, which is more than I can say for half this school.”

Draco huffed. “She put a flower crown on you.”

“I wore it with dignity.”

“You wore it like you were marrying a meadow.”

Blaise shrugged. “Still looked phenomenal.”

Draco shook his head, half-exasperated.

“Point is,” Blaise added, “Lovegood talks to ghosts and still lets me fix her charmwork. That's more than you’ve got going for you.”

He fixed Draco with a look. “Granger? Not that kind of girl. She’ll hex you into next week if you give her the wrong look. And you—” he leaned in, smug again— “you’re not exactly built for subtle.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Is that supposed to be a warning or a challenge?”

Blaise smirked. “Both.”

“Frankly,” Blaise added, tipping his goblet, “She’d bandage her own wand arm mid-duel and still finish your essay. That’s not someone you play with.”

“Thanks,” Draco muttered. “Really helpful.”

“Anytime,” Blaise said, reclining like he’d just delivered ancient wisdom.

Draco’s fork hovered over his plate. Then he stood. Quiet. Sharp. Done.

He didn’t get far.

Pansy and Theo stood near the corridor—silent, still, watching. No words. Just judgment in their stares, and something worse in the silence.

Draco didn’t stop walking.

Didn’t have to. The message was clear.

They weren’t going to fight him this time. Just wait for him to fall.

He shoved his hands into his pockets, jaw tight. 

He took the long way around the dungeons. Past the windows that still wore frost. Past the statue of Emeric the Evil, whose scowl felt increasingly personal.

Until he heard it—sharp, sudden.

A thud.

He turned his head toward the noise, steps quiet.

Granger knelt near the Potions corridor. Pile of books spilled everywhere, and she wasn’t picking them up. Just staring at them.

She muttered something under her breath. Then again—louder. A curse, this time. Something cracked between her teeth.

Then she kicked one of the books. Hard. It skidded across the stone.

“I did everything right,” she said—quiet, angry. To no one. “Everything. And it still—”

She trailed off. Just stood there, fists tight. Shoulders trembling. She grabbed the books the best she could and walked away, fast. 

She didn’t notice him right away, but once she did, Granger almost tripped.

Her books scattered across the floor—again. One landed near his foot. He picked it up without thinking.

Their hands brushed. Too long.

Not enough to count. But enough to remember.

She blinked, then flushed. Sharp and fast.

“Don’t.” It came out too fast. Too loud. She didn’t look at him. Just kept her eyes low.

He said nothing. Just shoved it down like everything else.

“You don’t get to be gentle,” she muttered. “Not now.” Eyes locked on the spine of the book like it had just insulted her family.

He should’ve told her to fuck off. Laughed. Walked. Something. Instead, his body held like it remembered something before his brain did. Like her voice rewound something in him.

His mouth opened—then closed. Then finally:

“Wasn’t planning to,” he muttered. Rough. Not kind.

She looked up. Too fast.

Then she arrange the books in her arms and stepped back. Just barely. Her arms tensed around the pile of books like they might shield her from him.

And then, she pushed past him, shoulder brushing his arm.

He turned, couldn’t stop himself. “If you’re this bothered, maybe—maybe stop pretending you don’t care.”

She didn’t turn. Her voice came out quieter than he expected, but sharper for it.

“Maybe I’m tired of—” Her breath hitched. “—tired of caring about people who only change when it benefits them.”

He didn’t have an answer for that.

Not one he wanted her to hear, so he watched her go.

Then—footsteps. Heavy. Fast. Not accidental.

Draco didn’t have to turn. He already knew who it was.

Weasley’s voice came from just behind him, too steady to be calm. “You’re not going to pretend that wasn’t intentional.”

Draco turned slowly. Weaselbee stood there, jaw tight, fists clenched, eyes still burning with something that had nothing to do with logic.

“Pretend what, exactly?” Draco said. “That I exist?”

“I saw it,” Ron snapped. “All of it.”

Draco raised a brow. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

“She bumped into you,” he hissed, stepping closer. “You didn’t move. You just stood there. Like you were waiting for it.”

Draco didn’t deny it. He didn’t confirm it either.

“You looked at her like—” Weasley’s voice cracked. “Like she’s yours.”

“She’s not,” Draco said flatly. “Not yours either, from the look of things.”

That landed. The flicker in Weasley’s eyes—hurt, raw—lasted a second before fury took over.

“She’s my—girlfriend,” His voice cracked, but it wasn’t just anger now. It was fear. 

“You might want to remind her,” Draco said. “She’s starting to forget.”

Weasley’s face cracked. Just for a second. Long enough to see the doubt crawl in behind the fury.

He shoved Draco. Just once. Not hard. But enough to break the silence.

He held steady, voice sharpening to cold steel. “Touch me again, and you’ll regret it.”

Weasley didn’t move. His hand twitched, useless.

“Stay. Away. From her.”

Draco leaned in, voice low. “You’re pissed because she didn’t act like I’m a threat. That’s what really gets you, isn’t it?”

Weasley’s hand twitched near his wand, but he didn’t draw.

Malfoy’s smile faded. “If you’re that worried, maybe she’s not the one who’s straying.”

And then Draco was gone, walking away without a backward glance, leaving Weasley standing in the corridor alone, fists clenched, silence ringing louder than any spell..

This, whatever it was, was over. It had to be… Just another hallway skirmish. Another Gryffindor tantrum.

Except it didn’t feel over.

That night, the castle felt colder. Even the walls held their breath.

Draco didn’t tell Blaise. Didn’t write to his mother. Didn’t sleep. He sat in the common room long after curfew, watching the giant squid across the window, trying not to replay every second of that hallway—Granger’s flushed cheeks, Weasley’s cracked voice, the way her hand had jerked away like touching him had been some kind of betrayal.

But she hadn’t looked away.

And Weasley had seen it.

At breakfast the next day, the usual Gryffindor chatter filled the hall—but the corner where Weasley and Granger sat was quiet. Too quiet.

She angled her body away from him. Not dramatically—just enough. Her arm rested near her book, not his. She didn’t speak, didn’t look at him.

Potter saw it. Of course he did. His gaze flicked once—between them, then across the hall to Draco—and narrowed.

He didn’t say anything—just studied the air between them. Like he was watching the slow collapse of a bridge no one dared cross.

Granger stared at her book. Weasley stabbed his eggs like they’d wronged him.

And Potter, always the peacekeeper, just kept chewing, jaw tight.

Draco told himself it wasn’t his business.

By the time he reached the Defence Against the Dark Arts corridor, he wasn’t late—he was explosive.

The classroom was half full already. A few students glanced up at his entrance and then looked away quickly. Even Blaise, already seated, said nothing.

Draco dropped into his seat too hard, jaw clenched, fingers twitching.

Vaisey leaned toward the bloke beside him and muttered something. Draco didn’t catch all of it—just enough.

“—girls on the team now… waste of a uniform…”

“Say it again,” Draco snarled.

The words tore from him before he even registered drawing his wand.

Chairs scraped.

Several heads turned.

Vaisey blinked. “What the—?”

Draco’s wand was already in his hand. His fingers ached. This was the tight, bitter ache of almost losing control. Of wanting to hurt something just enough to feel it.

“Say it again,” he repeated, voice low and shaking.

Professor Bill Weasley’s voice sliced through the tension like a cutting spell. “Mr. Malfoy.”

Draco didn’t look away. His breathing was sharp, jaw locked.

“Mr. Malfoy,” Professor Weasley said again, his voice like steel. “Put the wand down,” he said, sharper this time. “Now.”

Draco’s grip didn’t loosen fast enough.

It clawed at him—having to obey a Weasley. Worse, this one. The polished curse-breaker. The golden firstborn. The brother of the boy who’d called him a Death Eater loud enough for the whole Hall to hear.

Draco was a Malfoy, Marked or not. Every instinct screamed to push back, to snap something cutting. But that path ended where it always did now—expulsion. Headlines. His mother’s silence.

So he swallowed it. The pride. The heat. The urge to hex the smug look off Bill bloody Weasley’s face.

“I don’t care what your name is or who your father paid off to keep you in this school—if you ever draw a wand on a classmate again, I’ll make sure McGonagall sends you home in pieces.”

He swallowed hard and then blinked, exhaling slowly. His arm lowered. Wand slid away into his robes.

His voice, when it came, was rough. “Sorry, Professor.”

It sounded false.

Because it was.

Professor Weasley didn’t speak again. Just stared at Draco long enough to let the silence sting.

“You think power’s drawing your wand?” Bill said coldly, gaze locked on Draco. “Try restraint. That’s strength.”

He waited a beat, then: “Detention. Tonight.”

There was a collective inhale from the students.

Draco sat back. Said nothing. He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just stared down at his wand like it might turn on him. He hadn’t felt  like that since Crabbe. Since fire swallowed a room and left only guilt behind.

His hands trembled. Not fear—he knew that too well. This was something else. Something tighter. Hotter.

Just for a second, he saw fire again. Smoke curling under the door. Crabbe screaming. Then silence. The kind that doesn't end.

Blaise let out a low whistle. “You really know how to make friends.”

Draco didn’t answer. His wand was still buzzing under his palm, sitting down hard.

He stared at his ring. Still fit. Still heavy

He wondered, not for the first time, if his mother would recognize him now. Probably. She always did. Even when he didn’t want her to. And his father—well, he’d see the Quidditch team, the detention, and call it weakness. Lucius hadn’t taught him how to live. Just how not to die for the wrong side.

The Mark itched a little harder after that.

The rest of class dragged like it was cursed—every tick of the clock a hex waiting to misfire. No one spoke above a whisper. Even the chalk on the board moved quieter. The tension hung thick in the air, like everyone was waiting for him to snap again.

Draco didn’t raise his hand. Didn’t glance up. Just sat there, jaw locked, wand burning faintly against his ribs like it remembered what it almost did.

When the class ended, he wasn’t planning to go anywhere. Just walking. 

And then, he passed the corridor that cut near the library, voices pulled him in before he could think better of it.

Familiar ones.

Granger’s. Weasley’s sister. 

Draco slowed, breath steadying like instinct, and slipped behind the edge of a shelf. Not listening. Not really. Not again .

“I don’t know, Ginny,” Granger muttered. “It’s just—habit, I guess.”

Behind the shelves, Draco froze. Brow twitching. What they were talking about?

Weasley didn’t blink. “Habit?” she repeated, like the word offended her. “That’s what we’re calling it now?”

Granger crossed her arms. Uncrossed them. “I’m not saying it’s good—just... Ron is familiar.”

Weaselbee, of course.

“You’re saying it’s easier.”

Granger looked away. “Isn’t that the same thing sometimes?”

“No,” Weasley said flatly. “Not when you’re miserable.”

“I’m not miserable.”

“Right. You’re just snapping at your boyfriend in corridors and kicking your own books across the floor.”

Granger flinched.

From behind the shelf, Draco blinked. This was stupid. Tactical suicide. Eavesdropping on Gryffindor damage like it was his business. But strategy demanded intel, didn’t it? Emotional weak points. Fault lines. 

“I didn’t mean to,” Granger said quickly. “I just—he keeps—he makes me feel like I’m doing something wrong all the time.”

“Because you are,” Weasley said. “You’re dating a ghost.”

Granger blinked. “What?”

“You’re clinging to who he was, not who he is. And Ron? He’s barely holding on to himself.”

Granger’s breath hitched. “I know. I know that. But I can’t—he’s been there, Ginny. Since forever. Since before things broke.”

“That doesn’t mean he gets to keep you.”

Granger opened her mouth. No sound. Then—“He knows me.”

Weasley scoffed. “Does he?”

“I—he used to.”

“Yeah. So did I.” Weasley’s voice was quiet, but it cut. “But I didn’t get to keep the same version of myself after the war, and neither did you.”

Granger’s arms wrapped tighter around herself. “I’m not trying to hurt him.”

“Fine. But are you trying to not hurt yourself?”

Granger didn’t answer.

Weasley shook her head, stepping closer. “You want to talk about confusing? Let’s talk about the real problem.”

Granger blinked. “What—?”

“You ran into Malfoy, shirtless .”

Granger went still.

“You said, and I quote, ‘Didn’t expect the git to have a body like that.’”

“That was—Ginny—it was nothing. I was tired, I was stressed, I wasn’t—”

“You said it twice. Then you launched into a full monologue about the geometry of his shoulders.”

Granger made a strangled noise. “I—I was being observant.”

“Like a researcher taking notes?”

“Shut up, I wasn’t—”

Weasley tilted her head. “You sure?”

Granger groaned, dragging both hands down her face. “It wasn’t like that. I wasn’t thinking about him.”

“You are now.”

“I’m not! He’s Malfoy. He’s not even—he’s never—he’s not an option!”

“Then why does your voice shake when you say his name?”

“I don’t know!” Granger snapped, too loud, too fast.

She ran both hands through her hair, shaking her head. “It’s not logical. He’s not—he’s everything I am supposed to hate, Ginny. He’s rude, and arrogant, and he’s—him. But when I’m near him, it’s like... everything quiets down.” She paused. “And I hate that my brain won’t make that make sense.”

Granger shook her head again. “He’s not—it’s not like I want him.”

Weasley raised a brow. “But?”

“But—” Hermione’s hands twisted at her sleeves. “He doesn’t... look at me like I’m something to fix. He doesn’t ask if I’m okay every five minutes. He doesn’t try to make me small just so he can feel big.”

Her voice cracked.

Draco’s jaw locked. She didn’t know it, but she’d just named every conversation he’d ever had with his father. That’s what stung. Not the comparison to Ron—but how easily it could’ve been him.

“And he doesn’t hover. He just—he just is . And somehow that makes it easier to breathe.”

“Which shouldn’t matter. Which doesn’t matter.” Her voice went quieter. “But I’ve tried to quantify why I’m not okay. I made lists. Symptoms. Coping strategies. Ron fits the checklist. He’s stable, familiar, Gryffindor. But none of it’s working.”

Draco shifted, just barely. His fingers itched at the memory of her brushing past him. Of the scar she'd seen. Of her hand on his chest.

Weasley took a step back. “Do you know what I see?”

Granger didn’t respond.

“You’re circling the drain, Hermione. Trying to convince yourself you’re still in love just because you used to be.”

“I—I don’t know if I’m not,” Granger whispered. “And that’s worse, isn’t it?”

“Only if you lie about it.”

Silence.

Then Granger’s voice—smaller than before. “I just—I want it to make sense. All of it. Him. Me. Why everything still feels so wrong when it’s supposed to be over.”

Weasley tilted her head. “Maybe it’s not about him. Or Malfoy. Or anyone.”

Hermione blinked. “Then what?”

Weasley stared at her. “Maybe you’re just not okay. And you’re trying to pretend you are so Ron won’t have to see it.”

That landed harder than it should have.

Granger’s mouth opened, like she meant to argue—but nothing came out. Her eyes dropped.

“He hates when I talk about the war,” she said quietly. “Like if I say it out loud, it’ll make it worse. Like it still has power.”

She twisted the hem of her sleeve. “But it already does.”

A pause. Her voice cracked as she added, “I still have nightmares about it.”

Weasley didn’t speak.

“Her laugh,” Granger whispered. “I remember the way she smiled. And I remember—I stopped screaming before she stopped.”

Draco’s grip on the bookshelf slipped. Fingers clenched again, tighter this time. His knuckles bone-white.

He could still hear it too. That laugh. The high, lilting cruelty of it. The sound that had echoed down stone halls while he stood frozen outside the door, useless and silent, like a coward.

His mother hadn’t spoken. He hadn’t moved.

Her voice cracked again. “It’s not the pain. It’s the laughing that stuck.”

Behind the shelf, Draco’s chest strained, pressure climbing behind his ribs like a curse. His jaw clenched hard enough to ache. His thumb rubbed hard over the Malfoy crest on his ring like he could scrape the memory off his skin.

Weasley didn’t speak right away. When she did, her voice was different. Softer. The sharp edges tucked away, just for this.

“I didn’t know it was that bad.”

Granger shook her head. “It’s not even that. It’s—it’s.”

Draco didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

“When I talk about it,” Granger whispered, “he gets quiet. Or changes the subject. Or holds my hand like he’s... checking if still works.” She laughed, but it cracked in the middle. “Like I’m a wound he’s hoping will just scab over if he waits long enough.”

She crossed her arms around herself, tight. “I flinch, and he acts like it’s an insult.”

And Draco—he hated that he understood that, too. That guilt had corners. That silence could be selfish. That some part of him had let it happen.

Granger’s voice dropped, nearly lost in her next breath. “I hide it. I hide everything, so he won’t feel bad. So he won’t look at me like I’ve failed him. Like—like I’m not healing fast enough.”

Draco pressed a hand flat against the shelf, needing something solid. His pulse pounded at the base of his throat. His scar itched. Not the mark—the scars. The one his father gave him.

He felt the urge to speak. Merlin, he wanted to tell her—I was there. Close enough to stop it. And he hadn’t. His mouth moved. No sound. Cowardice still tasted the same, even months later.

Weasley finally spoke, quieter now. “That’s not love. That’s damage control.”

Granger exhaled. “I just—I wanted to fix it. Us. But I think I wanted to fix me more. And I thought, maybe if I could make it work with him, I’d stop feeling like—like I lost something I don’t even remember losing.”

Weasley reached out. Just briefly, hand brushing her arm. “You didn’t lose anything. You crawled out of hell and stitched yourself shut. That’s not weakness, Hermione. That’s survival.”

Granger didn’t respond.

Silence again. Then—

A creak of stone.

Ginny whipped around. “Did you hear—?”

Draco vanished like a spell gone wrong—no flash, just absence and consequence. Like none of it mattered. Like he hadn’t heard a damn thing.

Even though every word still echoed like it had teeth.

Let her talk. Let her spiral into her damage and war stories.

He hadn’t meant to hear any of it. But now it stuck—habit, regret, and a girl who looked like she might crack in silence.

He walked fast and without direction, like forward motion could scrub the words from his brain. He didn’t stop. He didn’t want to.

His hand struck stone before he even noticed. The sting hit a second later—knuckles scraped raw.

He didn’t know what the pain was for. Her, him, the war. None of it. Probably just nerves. Or guilt. Or pride pretending to be something else.

Chapter Text

The castle had changed. It always did around Christmas—the air was thick with cinnamon spells and the faint hum of enchanted carols drifting from the Great Hall. McGonagall had insisted on keeping the tradition alive. 

“Tradition has its place,” McGonagall had said, tone clipped. “Even if some of you have forgotten how to value it.” she’d kept her discourse, eyeing Draco like she knew exactly what he was trying to drink away.

McGonagall charmed wreaths like it would fix anything. The smell of cinnamon made Draco nauseous.

He hated it.

It felt like someone had put a fresh coat of cheer over a battlefield.

The long house tables had been replaced with a single shared one, for the bloody house unity program, the few stragglers who stayed behind forced to sit together, regardless of House.

He thought he saw Longbottom packing up earlier that morning—a flurry of plants following him down the corridor like ducklings.

Pansy had gone home, thank Merlin. So had Nott.

No barbed looks from her across the table. No cryptic silence from him in the corners of rooms.

The air was easier to breathe without judgment curling at the edges of every glance and, for once, the snakes that stayed behind were the quiet ones.

Ginny Weasley had left too, no doubt dragging Weasselbee behind her.

But Granger? She stayed.

And the gossip about it had already mutated three times by the time it reached Draco.

Most of it included him somehow, and none of those sound accurate, but still, it spread. Fast.

Whispers followed Granger through corridors. Not loud—just enough to pause conversation when she entered a room. Heads turned. Girls stared.

Blaise, ever the opportunist, leaned over breakfast one morning and smirked, “Your name’s everywhere. The portraits won’t shut up about it. Even the Baron raised an eyebrow.. Well done.”

Draco had rolled his eyes. But something in his stomach curled anyway.

He didn’t care. Obviously.

Except maybe, he did—because the moment Weasley wasn’t at her side, it didn’t feel like a victory, it felt… wrong.

The castle still buzzed with speculation, but it was background noise. Easy to ignore if he tried hard enough. And lately, he’d been trying harder than usual.

Because everything else—the noise, the chatter, the bloody house unity posters—meant nothing once the door shut at night and the quiet crept in.

Tracey had stayed too, and she didn’t talk about any of it. Never brought up Granger. Never asked if the rumours were true.

She didn’t need to.

And maybe that was the point, because Davis never spoke much about her home life or anything else.

Even the quidditch win hadn’t helped to easy Draco’s mood. They’d crushed Ravenclaw before the holiday season. Flattened them. 260 to 80. No fouls, no drama. Just strategy and precision. Slytherin had played like a unit—controlled the skies like they were born for it.

And yet, even as the scoreboards flashed green, all Draco could think was how quiet it felt. The cheering sounded tinny in his ears. Hollow. Like winning a war after everyone you knew had already fled the field.

He should’ve felt something. But standing in the locker room, watching Blaise preen and the first-years practically vibrating with adrenaline, all Draco could think was:

So what?

Victory only bought silence. And silence wasn’t peace. He was starting to understand the difference.

And he caught himself lingering. Remembering another kind of silence, from the one place he refused to go.

The Manor.

A house that wasn’t a home. A place filled with ghosts that weren’t dead but haunted him all the same.

Draco hadn’t even considered going back.

The thought of returning—to his father’s cold, judging gaze, to his mother’s exhausted silence—had been unbearable. He had made that mistake over the summer—had let himself believe that, maybe, things could return to some twisted form of normalcy.

But there was no normalcy to return to.

The war had bled into the very walls of Malfoy Manor. He remembered the silence most. Not the yelling. Not the fear. Only that crushing, echoing silence after the war—his father’s footsteps across the marble, deliberate, heavy. His mother, sitting in the salon, staring at the same page of a book for hours.

The house never smelled right after. The blood might’ve been scrubbed away, but it lingered—in the walls, in the way the light hit the corners of the drawing room. In the way he still avoided the eastern wing—the one with the cellar door he’d never open again.

He’d passed his father’s study once—door cracked open—and heard Lucius speaking to no one. Whispering names. People they’d lost. People they’d buried.

People they’d betrayed.

People they’d kill.

And Draco was expected to be the same. Do the same.

To sit at their dinner table as if his hands weren’t stained, as if his family’s name wasn’t poison, as if he wasn’t marked forever and the world outside those gates wasn’t waiting for the moment he slipped.

Lucius had tried to stop him.

Had stood in front of the fireplace with a glass of Firewhisky in hand, eyes sharp, voice like a blade. You’re not going back.

Draco had expected the refusal, but he hadn’t expected the sheer fury behind it. His father’s grip on control had crumbled since the war—his name no longer protected him, his influence had withered, his carefully crafted world had collapsed.

And he was desperate to hold on to whatever was left.

Draco going back to Hogwarts—returning to a place where their name meant nothing, where he would be forced to face people who wanted him gone—was the last thing his father could allow.

“You belong here,” Lucius had said, voice tight. “With your family. With your people.”

Draco had laughed, short and bitter. “Who? The ones rotting in Azkaban?”

The glass had shattered against the wall.

His mother had intervened, stepping between them, her fingers cold when they curled around Draco’s wrist. A silent plea. Let it go.

But Draco hadn’t let it go.

Because he couldn’t stay there.

Because if he stayed, he would have suffocated.

Because when he had stood in that room—when his father had forbidden him from leaving, from trying to make something of the life he barely had left—it had been a sharp, horrifying realization.

His father wasn’t in charge anymore.

And Draco would never be like him.

So he fought.

Not with wands, not with magic, but with words, with the last shred of autonomy he had left. He tore through his father’s arguments, ignored his mother’s pleading looks, stood his ground against the man he had once never dared to defy.

In the end, it hadn’t been Lucius who gave in.

It had been his mother.

Let him go, Lucius.

A simple sentence, but the final blow.

Because she had saved his life once before.

And now, she was saving it again.

So Draco had packed his trunk in silence, walked past his father without a word and stepped out of that house without looking back.

And when the option to stay at Hogwarts for the holidays had been presented, he hadn’t hesitated.

And of course, his father noticed.

Draco already expected the letters.

They arrived daily—elegant parchment, Malfoy crest, his father’s spidery script as sharp as ever.

Accusations. Commands. Disappointment.

He didn’t bother reading them.

Letting them pile up on the bedside table, white and silver reminders of a life he didn’t want anymore.

Tracey didn’t ask about it—not because she didn’t care, but because she know he wouldn’t answer her. So she watched. Quietly. 

The letters kept coming and he started burning them. The first time, he hesitated. By the fifth, he didn’t. After that, he barely thought about it.

Almost.

His father’s voice still lingered, even in ashes.

The fire had taken the parchment. The words. But not the cold. That stayed—in his bones, in the dungeons, in the quiet.

He turned the ring on his finger slowly—the Malfoy crest half-worn, the silver dull. It used to mean something. Now it was just weight. Still, he never took it off. Sometimes he wondered why.

Maybe that was the problem

“You burn them like they’ll stop writing,” Davis said once, watching the flames.

Draco hadn’t answered.

“They won’t,” she added. “People like your father never run out of things to be disappointed in.”

Tracey didn’t say it cruelly. It was a fact. Like naming a storm already overhead.

He kept watching the flames curl over his father’s handwriting until there was nothing left but black curls of ash on stone.

She shifted beside him “You think it’ll stop meaning something once it’s burned?”

He didn’t answer that either. Because no—not really.

The silence settled. Heavy, but expected.

Draco looked down at the ashes. Stirred them once with the poker.

Some of the parchment hadn’t fully burned. Just blackened at the edges—his father’s writing still visible in places, even in ruin.

Tracey stayed again that night. No expectations. No mess. She was useful for that. A buffer. A body. Something that moved when he asked and didn’t ask for anything in return.

But lately, he’d started staying awake longer. Not thinking. Not anything like that. Only... awake. Letting the dark press in and the ceiling spin. Davis always fell asleep fast. That helped.

But even that wasn’t enough.

It was getting repetitive. Predictable in a way that stopped feeling like a buffer and started feeling like routine wearing him down. She was always there—in his bed, at breakfast, in the corridors—like they had made some silent agreement he didn’t remember signing.

She was supposed to help him stop thinking. Motion. Heat. Silence. A body between him and memory.

However, even Tracey’s silence sounded like noise. That wasn’t the deal. He’d kept it simple for a reason. Clean lines. No expectation. No mess.

But it never stayed clean. Nothing ever did. And lately, every silence dragged.

And then the owl came. Different seal. Different script.

Delicate. Neat. Familiar.

His mother.

For the first time, he didn’t throw it in right away.

She was different.

The reason he wasn’t in Azkaban. The reason he was still alive.

She had lied to the Dark Lord’s face to save him. And she was the only reason Draco had fled during the battle.

Because he hadn’t wanted to.

After he had tossed Potter his wand, after the chaos had exploded around him, Draco had felt something in his chest—a pull, an urge, a desperate need to do something, anything, to help.

But then—he had looked at his mother.

Had seen the way she looked at him, the silent plea in her eyes, the sheer, unbearable fear.

He looked at her and froze. That’s all it took. Not a curse. Not a wand. Just her eyes, terrified and pleading. He didn’t choose—he surrendered.

He walked away. From the only brave thing he’d ever done.

And he hated himself for how easy it was.

Stupid.

Weak.

He hadn’t even run. He’d drifted. One foot in front of the other. Like a coward. Like a son doing exactly what was expected of him. A proper Malfoy heir.

She kept writing. And he started burning her letters as well, watching the flames eat them, one by one. It was easier that way. And yet, every time—

Something twisted in his chest.

But he never stopped.

Which was how he found himself here with a firewhiskey bottle in his hand.

The Astronomy Tower was colder than he remembered.

The enchanted telescope creaked in slow rotation above him, still scanning the sky, as if waiting for a constellation that wouldn’t return. A faint blue rune flickered and died in the stone nearby—a frost charm struggling against the wind.

Draco took a long sip.

He wondered if the stone still remembered. If it could still feel Dumbledore falling.

He closes his eyes, seeing it as clear as day, his own hand shaking, the fear, the anger. And then Snape, taking his place, doing what he could not.

His wand had nearly slipped—slick with sweat. He remembered the smell of iron. The press of stone under his feet. Dumbledore’s face, tight and unreadable, like he already knew this was what Draco was supposed to do.

He slumped against the stone wall, firewhiskey bottle nestled loosely between his fingers, breath fogging the air in soft bursts. Snow gathered in the corners of the stone floor, untouched. The wind bit at his collarbones, but he welcomed the chill—it dulled the edges.

His thumb rubbed absently across the band of his ring. It was cold, even in the firewhiskey haze. A loop of metal, yes, but one that felt more like a chain than a signet. Another mark that wouldn’t come off.

He knew he was supposed to be on patrol. Supposed to be responsible. Instead, he’d cracked open a bottle and climbed as high as the castle would let him. Somewhere he could drink in peace, surrounded by stars and silence—and not a single bloody opinion.

One swallow turned into five. Then ten. The burn in his throat was steady now. Numb.

Thinking meant remembering. Remembering meant—no. It meant nothing.

It wasn’t metaphor. It wasn’t anything. Just him, a bottle, and a sky that didn’t give a damn. 

He stared down at his hand. The ring caught the light.

He twisted it once. Twice.

Then pulled.

It slid off easier than expected. Like it had been waiting for an excuse.

He held it between his fingers. Weighed it.

Tossed it once—lightly—into the air, just to see it spin.

The cold bit harder without it. That was probably in his head.

He set it down beside the bottle.

One minute passed. Maybe two.

Then he grabbed it. Slid it back on.

Coward.

And then he heard it. Boots on stone. Sharp, unhurried steps. He didn’t need to turn to know who it was.

Granger always walked like the castle owed her answers.

“Malfoy.” Her voice snapped like a ward breaking. “You blew off patrol! This is where you thought you’d disappear?”

Draco didn't look at her. Just tipped the bottle back and took another slow drink.

“Firewhiskey at the top of a tower,” she snapped. “Of course. You’d pick the highest place in the castle to feel sorry for yourself.”

“You found me. Congratulations. Ten points to Gryffindor.”

He heard her boots scrape across the floor, stopping a few paces behind him.

“There are students still flinching at shadows, Malfoy. We’re supposed to be helping fix that. Not vanishing to get thoroughly drunk on rooftops”

He turned his head just slightly, eyes narrowing. “What, Weasselbee’s too busy to keep you company over the holidays?”

She stiffened. He smiled. “Didn’t think he’d let you off the leash long enough to patrol with a Death Eater.”

The words hung there—sharp, deliberate, unnecessary. But he didn’t take them back. He just watched the way her jaw clenched, the way her hand jerked like it wanted to draw her wand.

“Don’t talk about him,” she snaped.

He took another sip.

“You think you’re clever?” she cut in. “You think if you sound bitter enough, no one will notice how pathetic this is?”

He raised the bottle. “Didn’t know Weasellbee was still a sore spot.”

There was a pause. Then, “You’re drunk.”

“Nearly there.”

She scoffed. “Unbelievable.”

Her arms were crossed, her expression tight—irritation barely hiding something rawer.

“You could’ve fallen,” she said. “You could’ve passed out up here and frozen to death. And then what, Malfoy? A seventh-year death to remind the Prophet we’re still cleaning up after the war? What would I have told McGonagall?”

Draco snorted. “Tell her I finally did something useful and ended the Malfoy bloodline.”

He didn’t mean it. Or maybe he did. Maybe he wanted her to think he’d jump only to see if she’d look down after.

Her eyes narrowed. “Stop it.”

“What, the drinking?” He tilted the bottle toward her with a mock-toast. “Too late.”

“No,” she snapped. “The martyr act. You’re not the only one twisted by the war, Malfoy.”

His lips twitched. “That so?”

“You think you’re special because you made bad choices under pressure? We all made bad choices. But not all of us had gold-plated excuses and a manor to drink in after.”

“I didn’t have a cho—”

“Spare me.” She cut in before he could finish. “You had choices. You just picked the ones that hurt the least.”

“I followed orders and tried to survive.” He said trough clenched teeth.

“Exactly,” she said, stepping closer. “You followed. You had magic. Privilege. A name that terrified half the world. And you still played pawn. You don’t get to say that like it erases what you did. Survival isn’t noble if it leaves bodies behind.”

He scoffed, bitter as he got up. “Right. And the Gryffindor princess didn’t leave bodies behind?”

He took a step forward. “Didn’t hex when she had to? Didn’t whisper Unforgivables when it got dark enough?”

His voice dropped. “Or does winning make it noble?”

“You bent your morals too, Granger.” He kept saying “You just had the luxury of coming out on the right side of history.”

“That’s not the same,” she snapped, too fast. “We didn’t have a choice—”

“Neither did I,” he said.

She ignored him, barrelling forward. “We were fighting for our lives. For other people’s lives. You can’t compare that to—”

“To what? Survival? Funny, I thought that’s what you were doing, too.”

She opened her mouth—froze. Her jaw clenched like she was still searching for the winning argument.

“I didn’t—” She faltered. “We didn’t want to hurt anyone.”

“But you did,” he said quietly.

That silence stretched—harsher now. Like it cut.

She stepped forward, voice climbing. “Stop pretending this war was yours alone.”

He stared at her, eyes sharp despite the haze of alcohol.

He pushed off the wall. “And what would you know about it, Granger?”

She stepped forward. “I know fear, Malfoy. I know how it tastes, how it shakes your teeth loose. I didn’t walk through the war untouched. I just didn’t get the luxury of hiding while others bled. So don’t talk to me like I had it easy.”

“You think I was hiding?! That I liked any of it?” His voice cracked—a fissure, not a break. “The Dark Mark, the Manor, the screaming downstairs while I kept my eyes on the floor?”

“You’re still justifying,” she snapped. “That’s all you do. Wrap cowardice in trauma and call it depth.”

Silence.

“You think I’m proud of who I was?” he snapped. “Of what I let happen?”

“Don’t act like you were the only one pretending to survive,” she snapped. “I had to hold Harry together. I had to explain strategy while my hands were shaking and my teeth wouldn’t stop clacking from fear.”

She was breathing faster now. “I kept lists, Malfoy. I made schedules. I divided nightmares into categories. You think I was brave? I was efficient. There’s a difference.”

Her expression shifted—not softer. Sharper. Like she saw something she refused to acknowledge out loud.

And he hated that.

A spark flared behind his ribs—like a stinging hex. For a moment, he wanted to throw the bottle. Smash it against the wall. Watch something shatter the way he had. But he didn’t. He held it tighter.

“I didn’t want to be that person,” he admited. “But fear’s good at picking for you.”

Granger's voice cut in, sharper than before. “Everyone was scared, Malfoy. That wasn’t special. It was just the air we breathed.”

She closed her eyes for a second. Then opened them. “You could’ve done more.”

Draco’s mouth twisted. “So could you.”

The words landed harder than he expected.

Her shoulders stiffened. Then dropped. She looked exhausted.

“Merlin,” she muttered. “You’re such a bastard.”

“Better than being a coward.”

“Are you?”

A beat of silence. Breath fog. Wind.

“I don’t know,” he said quietly.

She stepped closer, enough that he could feel her breath again. Her scarf smelled like something warm. Something safe.

And maybe that’s what made her shift away—because she didn’t want to feel safe near him. Didn’t want to understand him. She just did.

“Why are you really up here, Malfoy?”

Her tone flattened. Neutral. Lecture-voice. She was reclaiming it. “And don’t say stars. You’re not a brooding hero.”

He looked away. “Because it was quiet”

That made her stop talking.

They stood—wind, alcohol, and unfinished grief between them.

When she spoke again, her voice was quieter.

Hermione looked up. “I used to love the stars,” she said quietly. “Before everything turned to ash.”

For a heartbeat, Draco leaned forward—not enough to touch her, but enough to want to. His fingers twitched like they didn’t know what to do with the air between them.

“I didn’t come looking for you,” she explains herself. “I came to finish patrol. But I couldn’t leave you up here.”

“Doesn’t mean I wanted to stay,” she added, like she needed to say it out loud. Like she needed to remind herself.

Her voice lacked heat, but there was something taut beneath it—a resistance she hadn’t quite crushed.

Draco watched her carefully. There’d been no Weasley hovering nearby. No familiar tension. Only her.

Whatever had broken between her and Weasley, it had been bad enough to keep her here—in the cold, with him, instead of wherever he was.

“Sure” he quipped back.

It wasn’t about duty. She could’ve walked away. Should’ve. But something made her pause. Maybe she hated herself for that.

Granger didn’t speak. Didn’t blink. But her mouth tightened like she was choosing what not to say.

And maybe that’s what scared her.

She reached for the bottle in his hand. Her fingers paused, hovering.

Draco watched her eyes. There was something moving there—conflict, calculation. She looked at the bottle like it was a live wire, and him like he was worse.

For a second, she almost stepped closer. Almost.

But then she stopped herself, the movement clipped and sharp—like she’d caught her own body betraying her and reeled it back in.

Her hand tightened on the bottle, and her spine went straighter. Rules. Reasserted.

That was more like her.

But, for a second, their hands touched.

Her knuckles brushed his. Too warm. Too alive. Like they hadn’t been through the same war. He could feel the pull between them—like static. Or gravity. Or something worse.

For a breath, he thought she might touch him. Not softly. Like she needed to prove it was real.

His hand twitched. Once. A reflex he didn’t control, a betrayal of stillness. She felt it—he saw it in the way her breath hitched.

For a heartbeat, the space between them felt electric.

He wondered what would happen if he closed it.

He didn’t.

And thank Merlin for that.

Granger blinked—too long. Like she'd forgotten where they were. Then she straightened, pulled her sleeve down, and smoothed her scarf like a barrier. She was back in control before he could even register the shift.

She took a step back. And another.

“Go inside, Malfoy,” she ordered. “Before you freeze yourself stiff chasing this tragic little crusade.”

She turned like she meant to leave—like the conversation was over. Like she’d won.

But Draco wasn’t done.

Not with her voice still echoing. Not with her pretending he meant nothing.

“Funny. You talk like you don’t care. But you did. You care to look long enough to catalogue. Geometry of my shoulders, wasn’t it?”

She froze. One heartbeat. Then another.

He kept his eyes on the sky. Didn’t smirk. Just watched the stars like they were more forgiving than what he’d said.

“Should probably keep your voice down in the library next time,” he added, quieter.

She stilled, the breath caught in her throat. But when she turned to look at him, it wasn’t embarrassment—it was fury.

“You had—You had no right to listen.”

“Wasn’t listening,” he said. “Just passing by. Call it... unfortunate acoustics.”

“That wasn’t meant for you.” Her voice was tight now. Clipped. “None of it was.”

She took a step forward. Her eyes scanned his face like it was a battlefield—like she didn’t know which part she should hit first.

Maybe she would punch him.

“You don’t get to use that,” she whispered. “You don’t get to—to know that part of me.”

She sounded furious, but it cracked in the middle—like she knew exactly how close he’d come to something she didn’t name and didn’t want him touching.

Her hand shot out to wipe away the trembling at her neck, as if to erase the vulnerability. Her eyes hardened, and she stepped back as if to put a barrier between them

“Stop acting like you know everything, Malfoy. You don’t.”

Her tone snapped—the familiar lecture edge returning like armour. “You don’t see people, Malfoy. You dissect them. You poke things until they bleed, then act surprised you’re covered in it.”

He blinked. There she was. Granger, mid-debate, bleeding and still trying to win.

“Shame,” he said, voice soft, biting. “It was the most honest thing I’ve heard all term.”

Her nostrils flared. She didn’t look away, didn’t recoil, but he saw her fingers curl tighter around the neck of the bottle.

She took one step forward—then stopped. Her jaw clenched, like she was holding something in her mouth she didn’t dare spit out. Her hand jerked like it wanted to move once more, then closed into a fist. 

“You think this is funny?” she asked. “Me. Ginny. That conversation?”

“I think it’s... interesting,” he said. “How someone who claims to hate me can’t stop talking about me.”

Her jaw twitched. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Not flattery,” he said smoothly. “Just geometry.”

There it was—the split-second flicker. Mortification, fury, regret—it passed behind her eyes like a curse building behind a wand, waiting for the right word.

She shoved the bottle into his chest. “You’re insufferable.”

“You’re scared,” he said, low. No venom. No smirk. Just truth. “That’s why you talk so much. You’re terrified of what silence might say.”

Her hands dropped. “I don’t hide.”

“No?” He leaned in, not close enough to touch, but close enough she’d feel it. “Then what are you doing right now?”

The wind cut between them like a third presence.

“You think this is about you?” she snapped. “That everything I said in that corridor was about you?”

“No,” he said. “But not all of it was about Weasley, either.”

She opened her mouth. Closed it. Swallowed once, hard.

“That wasn’t for you to hear,” she repeated, quieter now.

“Then stop saying things you don’t mean loud enough for people to hear them,” he replied. “Or better yet—stop pretending you don’t mean them.”

“Ron knows who I am,” she said, but even she didn’t sound convinced.

He gave a slow shrug. “I don’t care if he does, but sure as hell did not sound like it. Not from what you told his sister.”

That hit like a hex. She flinched—barley, but he saw it.

Her hands twitched at her sides, curling into fists. “You’re disgusting.”

“Just observant,” he said, sipping like it didn’t matter. 

Her breath caught. She hated that he could see it. Hated more that she didn’t deny it.

“Go back to Weaselbee,” he added, too casually. “Tell him you’ve been good. Tell him you never looked at me like you were thinking of anything else. Even if it is a lie”

She should.

He wanted her to.

He didn’t.

He didn’t know what he wanted.

A long pause. Her eyes searched his face, something unravelling behind them, she didn’t want him to see.

He hoped it stung. Wanted it to. Maybe if she hurt, she'd leave. Maybe if she hated him, he wouldn't have to think about how her silence felt like a bloody confession.

Or maybe he was just a bastard. Probably that.

“You're still the same,” she said finally. “Still cruel. Still poking at things you don’t understand just to watch people bleed.”

Draco’s expression hardened. “Better than pretending you’re fine when you're bleeding anyway.”

That hit. Harder than he intended. He didn’t mean it. No—he did. No—he regretted it the second it landed. No he—

She turned away, quick now, boots crunching against the stone as she made for the door. He didn’t stop her.

But before she left, she said—without turning—

“You don’t get to be the one who sees it.”

The door clicked shut behind her.

He stared at the place she’d been.

Silence hung, sharp and echoing, then muttered under his breath—

“Good.”

A beat.

“I don’t want to.”

But even he didn’t believe that.

And now, instead of the pleasant numbness he’d been aiming for, his thoughts wouldn’t stop.

The night pressed in, cold and silent. His coat was still off, forgotten somewhere near the stairs, and the wind nipped at his skin, but he barely felt it.

It was ok. Just Granger being her usual self—bossy, righteous, annoying.

So why the fuck couldn’t he stop thinking about her?

He moved. Down the stairs. Back to the corridor. Her silence followed him. Worse than words.

He’d been cruel. He knew it. Had seen it in the way she flinched. But he didn’t regret it. Couldn’t. Regret was a luxury—and he’d stopped affording himself those.

But the way she’d looked at him up—not with pity. Not with disgust. And not with that damn Gryffindor superiority, she always weaponized like a shield.

That made it worse.

He didn’t want to be seen. Didn’t even know what she saw.

Probably nothing. Probably too drunk to care. Probably cared too much.

It wasn’t pity. That would’ve made more sense. It was something else. Something quieter. Something he didn’t want to name.

People looked at Draco all the time. With hate. With caution. With thinly veiled judgment.

He preferred that. He could handle that. It was familiar. Predictable.

But her silence had been different.

He hated it. Hated that she hadn’t looked away. That she hadn’t spat or sneered or called him a monster. That would’ve been easier. That would’ve made sense.

She hadn’t decided if he was worth saving. Smart of her. He wasn’t.

Draco tilted his head back, eyes searching the endless dark above the tower. The stars didn’t care. They never had. But right now, he wished they’d stop watching him, too.

She left like it didn’t matter. Like she hadn’t paused—for just one second too long—and thought about staying.

That should’ve made it easier.

It didn’t.

He told himself it was the firewhiskey. Told himself she was just another Gryffindor trying to clean up a mess she didn’t understand.

He told himself a lot of things. That he wasn’t drowning. That it didn’t matter. That it was just her voice stuck in his head, not her.

It was the drink. It had to be.

Or the cold.

Or the sound of her voice when she said his name and didn’t mean it like poison.

Chapter Text

When the students returned to Hogwarts after the holidays, the castle felt different.

The silence was gone, replaced by the endless hum of voices, the echo of footsteps against the stone floors, the occasional shriek of laughter in the corridors. The common rooms overflowed. The stares returned.

Draco had never liked crowds. And, after weeks of near silence, the noise pressed in from all sides.

It wasn’t claustrophobia. It was scrutiny. Noise could be escaped—eyes could not.

For a brief moment, he had almost forgotten how much he was watched.

How many eyes followed him, how many conversations stopped when he entered a room. Like they were waiting for him to crack.

Draco ignored them.

He fell back into his routine, keeping himself as busy as possible.

Quidditch.

Slytherin politics.

Not Tracey. That distraction had stopped working weeks ago. She’d noticed—he’d stopped answering.

It wasn’t like he owed her anything. He told himself that every time. She’d known what it was. Temporary. Numbness with a name.

He kept himself busy. And busy dulled the noise—his noise, not theirs.

He twisted the silver ring on his finger. Cold against his skin. Solid. A reminder that some things still clung to him, no matter how much he burned the rest.

He barely made it through breakfast.

He hated that normalcy had returned. He didn’t miss the quiet—he missed invisibility. Two weeks of silence had been tolerable. It was the remembering that gutted him.

Reflection without firewhiskey was dangerous.

He didn’t ask for this. She stayed. McGonagall assigned. What was he meant to do—apologize for surviving it wrong?

What did Granger want from him? Mercy? No one gave him that.

Least of all her.

Least of all McGonagall, with her “unity projects” like stitching a corpse and pretending it would come back to life.

He hadn’t done anything worse than anyone else. Not really. Not when it counted.

They’d all chosen sides. He just hadn’t picked the one with a golden fucking trio.

And if he had hurt people—what? They’d have done the same, if they’d been him.

And now, everything was back to how it had been before, the unspoken divide between houses, still present no matter how much McGonagall insisted on unity. 

Draco told himself he didn’t care. 

This was better, because the full, busy castle meant he could fall back into routine. Avoid people. Avoid thinking too much. 

Avoid— 

He clenched his fist, stabbing at his eggs with far more force than necessary. 

Avoid whatever the hell that night at the Astronomy Tower had been. 

She’d looked at him like he was something cracked open. And he hated that he remembered the exact angle of her jaw in the moonlight, hated that he’d said too much and not enough.

That night was a slip, not a confession. A flinch, not a truth. She hadn’t stayed because she cared. But he had no bloody idea why she had stayed.

The memory came back like blood under fingernails. He shoved it down. Thinking about it too long made his hands curl, like he needed to punch a wall just to feel something else.

It was nothing, a drunken conversation. A mistake, if he even wanted to call it that. 

She wasn’t supposed to matter. That was the whole point.

It hadn’t meant anything. And if it had—still not his fault. She stayed. She listened. 

His grip tightened around his fork. Across from him, Blaise raised an eyebrow, amused. “Planning to hex your breakfast, mate?” 

Draco scowled. “Do sod off, Zabini.” 

Blaise smirked. “You’re always foul after the holidays. Let me guess, family send another love note?” 

Draco didn’t bother responding. Blaise already knew. He was one of the few people who had an idea of what was going on behind the façade of Malfoy perfection. 

He hated how the castle moved on without them.

He watched them laugh and lean on one another, as if the world hadn’t broken. Like they belonged to it. He didn’t miss the old world. He just hated knowing the new one didn’t have a place for him.

Every smile, every nod—costume. Pretending to belong was its own sentence.

He stabbed the fork into his food and tried not to think about how easy it looked—everyone else falling back into rhythm like nothing had shattered. Like they could forget what they’d done. What they’d seen. 

He couldn’t. That was the difference. They built futures. He rebuilt a lie.

And then, Daphne chose that moment to make everything worse. 

“Have you heard?” she said, dramatically flipping her hair over her shoulder. “The professors are switching up the class pairings again. It’s some idiotic House unity thing.” 

His stomach had already dropped. 

Slowly, he looked up from his plate. “What?” 

Daphne smirked. “Oh, don’t look so miserable, Draco. Maybe you’ll get lucky, and they’ll stick you with someone tolerable.” 

Blaise snorted. “Not likely.” 

Draco’s eye twitched. 

Keep his head down. Get out. McGonagall, of course, had other plans.

As he stepped into Charms, his stomach sank.

The parchment was already there, tacked to the board, its neatly inked list spelling out his impending doom.

The moment Draco saw her name next to his on the bloody seating chart, he knew his day was ruined.

Ginevra Weasley.

Of course.

Her scowl met his the moment he entered. They didn’t need to speak to know this would be hell.

“Brilliant,” she muttered, slamming her books onto the desk. “This is exactly what I wanted today.” 

Draco smirked, leaning back in his seat. “Try not to make a scene.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Try not to mess this up, Malfoy.” 

Draco arched a brow. “Try not to hex me in the back, Weasley.” 

Flitwick called for the class’s attention, but neither of them were listening. 

They had been given an advanced charmwork exercise, something that required perfect synchronization and spell coordination, and within ten minutes, they were already at war. 

Weasley ‘accidentally’ knocked over his ink pot, sending dark blue ink spilling across the desk. 

Draco, gritting his teeth, retaliated by shoving her textbook off the table with a flick of his wand. 

She shot him a murderous glare, grabbing her book from the floor. “Very adult of you, Malfoy.” 

Draco smirked. “You started it, Weasley.” 

Flitwick, standing at the front of the room, let out a deep, suffering sigh. “House unity, Mr. Malfoy. Miss Weasley. Try it.” 

Ginny muttered under her breath, loud enough for him to hear. “The only unity I want is hexing him into next week.” 

Draco grinned. “Charming,” he drawled. “I see why Potter’s so smitten.” 

Ginny actually growled as her hand twitched toward her wand. 

Draco smirked. Unbothered.

“Go on, hex me. Lose it. I’ll tell McGonagall.” he said smoothly, voice low enough that Flitwick wouldn’t overhear. 

Without giving him a response, she flicked her wand at the mess of parchment, books, and ink-stained notes between them, casting the sorting charm Flitwick had demonstrated. 

The spell should have separated everything into neat, colour-coded stacks, but instead, the ink-stained parchment exploded.  She barely flinched as ink splattered across Draco’s robes, his sleeves, his face. 

The entire class went silent.  Draco slowly set down his quill, he took a deep breath, and then—very deliberately—he cast a silent Rebounding Charm on Weasley’s half of the desk.  A perfectly timed retaliation. 

Her own book launched itself into her face, and a satisfying smack echoed through the classroom. She cursed, knocking the book away, and Draco smirked so hard it actually hurt. 

Flitwick raised his wand—clean, precise—and snapped a bolt of blue-white magic between them. Sparks cracked the parchment near her elbow.

“Detentions,” Flitwick said crisply. “Plural.”

Draco didn’t argue. Just smirked, ink drying on his cuffs.

Granger had never hexed him mid-class. But Weasley? She’d make it an art form.

The bell rang, and Draco wasted no time, shoving his ink-stained notes into his bag. Around the room, students were still laughing—some at Weasley’s ink-splattered victory, others at Flitwick’s crispy tone. Even Blaise, the traitor, was smirking at him as he passed.

Draco scowled and stalked toward the door, shoulders tense.

At least Charms was over. At least he wouldn’t have to deal with Weasley again until their next miserable lesson. 

As he walked by in the corridor, Filch was scraping ink off the stone with a grim expression and a muttering about “bloody Gryffindors.” Probably another house unity thing going wrong.

Draco didn’t stop to hear the rest.

Maybe his next class would be better and fate might show mercy.

It wasn’t.

Defence Against the Dark Arts paired him with Lovegood, of all people. She hummed under her breath, cast Shield Charms at invisible things, and offered him a beetle wing for luck.

He didn’t take it.

“You don’t blink when things fall apart,” she said. “That’s rare.”

Later, at lunch, Draco dropped onto the bench across from Blaise and stabbed his fork into a potato.

“How do you put up with Lovegood?”

Blaise grinned. “Because she sees through everything. And doesn’t care.”

“She’s mad.”

“Even the war didn’t crack her,” Blaise said, quietly now. “Can’t say the same for most of us.”

Draco glanced away. “She said my magic moves like someone who stopped expecting to be believed.”

Blaise nodded once. “Sounds about right.”

Draco stabbed at another potato, slower this time. Blaise was right, and that made it worse. Lovegood unsettled him—quietly, without trying.

Across the hall, Granger brushed past a knot of Ravenclaws. One girl stiffened. Another whispered behind her hand. She didn’t flinch, but Draco saw the set of her jaw, the way she held her books like a shield.

Potter wasn’t with her. He was across the hall, buried in some conversation with Bones and Longbottom.

But Draco saw the way his gaze flicked to her—sharp, assessing. Like he was giving her space she hadn’t requested, but still keeping tally. Like the hero’s job wasn’t over, just quiet.

Weasley, on the other hand, looked like he wanted to hex someone. 

Draco knew that look.

Like a caged dog, snarling through silence. The kind of possessiveness that still believed it had a right to ownership, even after being walked out on.

Weasley said something sharp to Thomas and shoved his chair back. Granger didn’t even glance his way.

Blaise noticed his gaze. “You keep doing that.”

Draco didn’t look at him. “Doing what?”

“Still pretending not to look. Pathetic, really.”

Draco’s grip tightened around his fork. “Choke on that pumpkin juice quietly, will you?”

Blaise chuckled. “You should ask Lovegood how to realign your aura. She mentioned yours was ‘made of knives.’”

Draco groaned. “Never speak those words again.”

The bell rang, signalling the end of lunch, and students began filing out in groups. Draco took his time standing, adjusting his sleeves, making a deliberate effort not to glance in Granger’s direction.

By evening, of course, fate wanted to play with him again. McGonagall had many ideas about House Unity. Most were insufferable. And Patrols were the worst—two Prefects, paired like an experiment. 

Naturally, it was her. Of course it was Granger. Some twisted sense of balance, maybe.

In the dormitory mirror, Draco adjusted his tie with surgical precision. He said the lines under his breath—cool, dismissive, untouched.

None of them sounded like him. Not anymore.

He buttoned his cuff and didn’t look at his reflection again.

They met at the corridor and started to walk through the castle, side by side, the tension thick enough to strangle him.

The silence was driving him mad. 

Draco had always thought he hated arguing with Granger—the constant bickering, the relentless comebacks, always chasing the last word. 

But this? 

This was worse, because before, at least, their fights had been predictable. They could trade insults, snap at each other, scoff, roll their eyes, walk away knowing nothing had really changed. 

Now, she barely looked at him. 

She acted like the Astronomy Tower hadn’t happened. Like she hadn’t said it. And walked away before he could lie.

And no matter how Draco bloody hated it, they were stuck together.

Every time they had to stand too close, walk the same path on patrols, brush against each other when squeezing through narrow corridors— 

It had happened three times tonight. Once near the Owlery, when she turned a corner too sharply and her shoulder grazed his chest—brief, sharp, gone in an instant. 

The second time, in the dark hallway near the old tapestry, when they both reached for the same sconce to relight it.

Her fingers had hovered an inch above his. Not touching. Not quite.

He hadn’t moved. Neither had she. For a heartbeat, it was unbearable.

He yanked her hand back, fast. Jarring.

Later, near the stairwell, their robes tangled. Just for a second. A catch of fabric—his sleeve caught in her hem. She didn’t look at him. He didn’t move to fix it. And they just stood there—bound by accident.

Her scent—something sharp, maybe cedar or old parchment—got into his head. His jaw locked. She was just standing there, doing nothing, and it still felt like drowning.

The air between them felt pressurized. Waiting to snap, and Draco was so bloody tired of pretending not to notice it. 

They stepped apart at the same time. No words. No apologies. Just space—manufactured, artificial, too late.

And yet, somehow, they fell back into stride.

They walked in time, footsteps synchronized. He could hear her breath.

She never used to breathe this loud.

Granger pressed her lips into a tight line, gaze flickering with something he couldn’t quite decipher. For half a second, something sharp flashed in her eyes—anger, hesitation, regret? Then it was gone.

He thought she might say something. For a moment, it looked like she might.

But instead, she just shook her head, muttered something under her breath, and kept walking.

He didn’t know what he’d been expecting. But somehow, that quiet dismissal cut deeper than any insult she could’ve thrown.

The tension between them kept coiling tighter with every step—until they reached the corridor outside the Great Hall, where their patrol officially ended.

She turned left without a word.

No pause. No glance back.

Her footsteps faded, swallowed by stone and shadows.

She didn’t look back.

And neither did he.

Not when his fists were clenched.

Not when the air still smelled like dust, and her perfume, and all the words he hadn’t said.

When he finally moved, it wasn’t toward the Slytherin dorms.

He ended up in the Astronomy Tower, again.

He didn’t know why he came. Maybe because the ghosts here weren’t loud. Maybe because it was the last place he hadn’t tried to rewrite in his head.

He stood where she had stood. Touched the spot on the railing. Cold.

Tried to forget the way she’d walked away.

He failed.

The next morning, the castle was louder than usual. Sunlight spilled through the windows like it had no business being there—too bright, too warm, too normal.

Draco didn’t eat. Didn’t speak. He stared down his tea like it might rearrange his insides.

Blaise didn’t comment, just raised a brow and muttered something about “brewing moods again.”

He left early.

Not out of want, but inevitability. Because he already knew what class was next. And who he’d be paired with. Slughorn was nothing if not predictable.

He exhaled slowly.

And sure enough—the moment he walked in, Slughorn was standing at the front of the room, grinning like the meddling old bastard he was. 

“Ah, Mr. Malfoy, Miss Granger!” he beamed, gesturing toward the workstation at the front. “Could not have paired you up with anyone else, you’re the only ones that match each other in my class” 

Draco didn’t react. Didn’t even blink. 

He was coming apart, but quietly. Strategically.

Granger, however? 

He saw the way her grip on her quill tightened. The way her jaw clenched just slightly. The way her entire posture stiffened for half a second before she forced herself to move toward their cauldron. 

Draco followed without a word. They both knew this was going to be hell.

Not because they’d spend the hour sniping at each other—that would’ve been easy.

Predictable.

But the tension now was something else entirely.

They were too aware.

She muttered, low enough he almost missed it, “They keep saying it’s about House Unity. Like gluing together broken glass will make it whole again.”

He almost laughed.

Pretending meant survival. But she wanted something honest—and he had nothing clean left to give.

The glass cut the same, whether it held water or not.

The moment they started working and had to stand that close, it hit.

Their arms brushed over the cauldron—barely a graze—and it was unbearable.

What infuriated him most was how much space she took up in his head for someone pretending he didn’t exist. As if she had the right to look away first.

She moved stiffly every time he reached for an ingredient, her fingers curled around her quill like a reflex.

Like she’d already prepared the excuse for flinching.

Like she needed one.

They worked well. oo well. Like they were built for damage control.

She should’ve been muttering about precision, correcting his technique—but she didn’t.

She just adjusted.

Silently. Efficiently.

And somehow, that felt like betrayal.

They moved like a system. Seamless. Synchronized.

She adjusted the heat while he crushed the fangs. She added the base just as he stirred.

Until suddenly, she didn’t.

“Too high,” she said. Quiet. Not looking at him.

He blinked. He hadn’t even noticed. That tiny error—that was the giveaway.

She moved fast, wand flicking left, resetting the brew’s temperature just a fraction off his last input. A correction.

“We don’t get points for spite,” she muttered, still not looking at him.

They didn’t speak again until they were finished, didn’t look at each other unless absolutely required. 

And the result? A bloody perfect potion. 

Slughorn was thrilled. 

“Oh, you two make quite the team!” he said cheerfully, clapping his hands together as he inspected their cauldron. “Such natural chemistry!” 

Draco exhaled sharply. Granger went rigid.

He didn’t need Legilimency to know what she was thinking. That word—chemistry—wasn’t just irritating. It was dangerous. It implied something that had no business being named.

“He always says that,” she muttered, voice flat. “Like collaboration means compatibility. Like brewing a perfect potion makes us perfect.”

Draco scoffed. “Maybe he’s just thrilled we didn’t kill each other.”

She gave a sharp, bitter smile. “Maybe he should raise the bar.”

When Slughorn clapped again, praising their ‘perfect chemistry,’ Michael Corner snorted behind them.

Granger turned—too fast, too sharp—eyes sparking. “If you’re so curious, maybe try brewing something that doesn’t explode next time.”

The words hit harder than they needed to. Draco saw it—not just in her tone, but in the way her shoulders stiffened after. The way she immediately turned away, like she’d said too much or not enough.

She bent over her notes and started scribbling.

Draco glanced down. Numbers. Temperature. Potion ratios. She was anchoring herself in equations.

He wondered if she even realized she was doing it.

He stared at the potion between them—still and flawless, which somehow made it worse.

Nothing that came from them should look that easy.

“Nice to know we’re excellent at pretending,” he said, more to himself than to her.

Hermione’s eyes flicked up, sharp and fast. “Pretending? You think I’m pretending?”

Draco shrugged, tone turning cold. “You’ve certainly got the whole dead-behind-the-eyes thing down.”

Her face didn’t change, but her voice dropped a shade lower—quiet, deliberate, aimed to wound. “Careful, Malfoy. You might actually start sounding hurt.”

He leaned in slightly, the edge of a smirk ghosting across his mouth. “Please. I don’t bleed for Gryffindors.”

She snorted once, no humor in it. “No. You bleed—and let them mop it up. Like that makes it noble.”

That one landed. He didn’t flinch, but his eyes darkened.

She turned back to her notes, deliberately calm. 

But her fingers trembled for half a second before she picked up the quill.

He wondered if she even noticed. Or if trembling had become so ordinary she no longer bothered to hide it.

“This doesn’t work,” she said, almost too lightly.

“The potion’s fine,” he bit out.

“I wasn’t talking about the potion,” she snapped.

And just like that, the air between them thickened, bitter and electric.

“You think I want to be here?” Draco hissed. “You think I asked to be shackled to you for the rest of term?”

“No,” Hermione said, setting her quill down with surgical precision. “I think you’re exactly where you belong. With the rest of us, who can’t outrun what we did.”

Her voice was too calm. It cut anyway.

Draco’s jaw clenched. “Right. Because you’re so above it all.”

“I’m trying to move forward,” she said, every syllable clipped. “You’re just trying to pretend nothing ever touched you.”

He didn’t say anything.

Because she wasn’t wrong.

But he saw her hand hover too long over her notes—like she was still calculating the cost of tolerating him. Because that’s what she did. Fix what shouldn’t be fixable. Even if the seams didn’t hold. Even if it bled.

Even now, she was probably writing an internal list. Reasons to tolerate him. Exemptions for shared duties. Logic to keep the noise quiet.

From the corner of his eye, Draco saw Potter glance over from two benches away—sharp, narrowed, the kind of look that said he knew. Maybe not what was said. But enough to know something was happening. Something that shouldn’t be.

Draco looked away first.

For a second, neither he nor Granger moved. Neither blinked.

Then, as if choreographed, they both reached for the same vial.

Their hands collided.

Her thumb brushed his knuckle.

Not intentional. Not prolonged.

But for one impossible moment, he didn’t move. She didn’t move.

The potion was perfect. Everything else was poisoned.

So he let out a sharp breath, casting her a sidelong glance, his voice no louder than a whisper.

“You planning to pretend that night never happened, Granger?”

She exhaled heavily—the kind of exhale that meant she was already exhausted by him.

Good.

“That’s mature. Bury it deep enough and maybe it’ll stay dead, right? Just rewrite the whole Astronomy Tower scene—pretend you didn’t flinch.”

She didn’t even look at him. “You forfeited that privilege when you turned my private moment into leverage.” Her voice was as low as his, controlled, but biting.

Draco gritted his teeth.

“Strategic, really,” she added, voice like steel. “You said it before I could. That’s the trick, right? Make the wound look like your idea.” She tilted her head, eyes still on the cauldron. “Sounds like something you’d enter for an award.”

Draco scoffed, low and mean. “You always this righteous, or is that just for me?”

She didn’t answer, so he kept going, because if she wanted him to shut up, she could bloody well say it.

“You think I meant to twist it? That I sat there with a bloody quill, plotting how to humiliate you? Do grow up, Granger. I was drunk. I was angry. You didn’t like what I said. Doesn’t make you any different.”

He told himself that every night. That it hadn’t meant anything. That he’d said it to protect himself. That if she’d had the chance, she would’ve said worse.

Which only made him dig in harder.

“But don’t act like you didn’t catalogue my every fuck-up that night. Don’t act like you didn’t enjoy watching me unravel.”

She turned fully now. Cold, controlled. “I’m not your priest, Malfoy. If you want absolution, try the chapel.”

Draco rolled his shoulders, feigning boredom. “I do not want absolution.”

His voice was too casual, too indifferent.

But inside, something was twisting. Because the truth was—he didn’t know what he wanted her to say. All he knew was that this—this avoidance, this distance, this indifference—

That burned more than he expected.

His fingers drifted to the ring on his hand. He twisted it once, twice—old habit, old reflex. His father’s voice echoed in his head before he could stop it.

Control the room. Control yourself. Never give them more than they deserve.

His father would have sneered at him for this. For all of it. The pairing, the tension, the way Granger could twist his nerves like strings.

He’d say he looked weak. Sentimental. Contaminated.

Draco’s grip on the ring tightened until the metal bit into his skin.

And then, just as quickly, he let it go.

The thought didn’t deserve to finish.

He didn’t notice that the class was already emptying. Slughorn had dismissed them five minutes ago, but neither of them had moved.

Now, the last few students brushed past them, whispering under their breath. Granger gathered her things in silence, her expression unreadable.

Draco shoved his notes into his bag and followed her out—not because he wanted to, but because there was nowhere else to go.

He didn’t want to fight her. Not this time.

But he couldn’t stomach being dismissed like he didn’t matter.

Like he hadn’t mattered that night.

It was infuriating.

Just before she turned the corner, he said it. Not loud. Not soft.

“Granger.”

She paused—not like she was waiting.

More like she already knew he would try.

Like she’d counted on it.

He opened his mouth. Nothing came out.

The words caught. Thick. Splintered.

He remembered the way her voice cracked on the Astronomy Tower when she said, “You could have done more.”

He hadn’t stopped hearing it since.

Her gaze slid past him. Not cold. Not angry. Just… tired.

Not of him.

Of this. Of all of it.

“Don’t,” she said. “You don’t get to flinch now.”

Her scarf brushed the air as she passed—still faintly warm from her breath. Cinnamon. Or clove. Something sharp. Something unyielding. Something that stayed.

He wanted to say her name again. 

But his voice failed. She didn’t even look back this time.

One step closer. That’s all it would take.

One step, and he could reach out. Say something stupid. Or honest. Or both.

He thought of the stars.

Of her saying she used to love them—before everything turned to ash.

That silence had meant more than this one. At least then, she’d still believed in something.

Now she just walked away.

And Draco stayed behind—like a secret no one wanted to keep.

Like a regret with nowhere to go.

Chapter Text

It had been long days.

Days of patrols and reconstruction shifts. Days of sitting next to Granger in Potions, their arms brushing over cauldrons, their spells syncing like they’d done this their whole lives.

Days of forced proximity, and still—he hadn't adjusted.

He figured she'd become background noise again. An irritating frequency he could tune out. But instead, she got louder.

His concentration snapped. His silences grew heavier. Even her laugh—rare, restrained—had started to ring in his skull long after she left the room.

At first, he told himself it was just irritation. Residual frustration at being stuck with her. Same as always.

But then it changed.

They never spoke about the tower. Not really. They’d circled it in arguments, pretended it hadn’t happened. But sometimes, she looked at him like she still heard the echo of it.

Or maybe it had always been different. Maybe he’d just been too proud to notice.

It wasn’t infatuation. It was worse. Sharper. Familiar. Predictable. 

He noticing things.

The way she bit her quill when she was concentrating—like every problem had a solution, and she’d be the one to solve it even if it killed her.

The scent of her shampoo, faintly floral and maddeningly persistent.

The way she leaned forward in Potions, hair spilling over her shoulder, exposing the pale line of her neck.

His pulse jumped. A twitch in his fingers when their hands brushed. A burn low in his spine when her voice dropped too close to his ear. He shifted in his chair more than usual, jaw set, trying to ignore what was already happening.

It was infuriating.

And it was undeniable.

She was always there. In the quiet. In the corners.

He saw it. Even when he didn’t want to. Especially then.

And then there was Weaselbee, leeching attention like he had any right to it.

Draco had assumed—naively, apparently—that after everything, after the tension, the silence, the distance, Granger had finally come to her senses. Had finally realized that Weasley was a useless, red-faced embarrassment who didn’t deserve her attention, let alone her affection.

He’d been wrong.

Because Weaselbee was trying again.

Hovering around Granger like some pathetic kneazle with a wounded paw. 

Dropping by her table at breakfast with her favourite tea. Showing up between classes with that stupid look in his eyes. Talking to her like he hadn’t already messed it all up—like they could just go back to whatever disaster they used to be.

And the worst part?

Granger wasn’t pushing him away.

She didn’t stop him. Not with words, anyway. Just that tight smile, just enough distance—like she hadn’t decided yet whether to forgive him or hex him.

And Draco loathed every second of it.

Not that it mattered, it was his business and he he cared. Not truly.

Except—he did.

He sat at his usual table in the library, quill poised above his parchment, but the words in his Transfiguration textbook blurred together.

Draco wasn’t even pretending to read anymore. The ink on his page bled into a blot. His eyes flicked up again—third time in as many minutes. He didn’t even realise he’d stopped writing.

And then he saw them.

Weasley and Granger. Tucked in the far corner, speaking in hushed voices like they had secrets worth keeping. Draco had been tracking them for weeks, half-conscious of it, like watching a wound you’re sure will reopen. But not like this. Not this close.

He shouldn’t be watching. Shouldn’t be cataloguing the way her jumper sleeve twisted in her fist like she was holding herself together.

Weasley was leaning in, voice low, eyes trained on her like she was the only thing that existed. 

“I didn’t mean to screw it up,” he said, too quiet to be confident.

That wasn’t new. Pathetic, yes, but not new.

Granger, though—

She didn’t pull away. Just kept her hands tight in her lap, like she was clenching an argument between her fingers.

And then she smiled, not the bright, smug grin she wore in class, nor the self-satisfied smirk she gave when their potions landed flawlessly. No—this one was smaller. Softer.

Genuine.

Draco clenched his jaw until it ached.

His fingers curled into a fist on the table, nails biting into his palm. The book beneath his hand trembled, seconds from being ripped in half. His vision tunnelled on Weaselbee—on his hand, too close to hers, hovering like he thought he had a right. Like he was waiting for an opening.

Like he had a chance.

Draco looked away. Forced himself to breathe. This was nothing. Not his business. Not his problem. He had absolutely no reason to feel like this.

She’s still that bossy know-it-all. Always talking, always showing off. I don’t even want this. Her.

Except his shoulders were locked tight with something he didn’t want to name.

“You’re really bad at pretending you don’t care.” Zabini whispered.

Draco scoffed and smoothed his expression into something bored, detached. Practiced.

“I don’t care,” Draco said, too flat to be believable. 

Blaise smirked, tapping the corner of his book with one lazy finger. “Right. That’s why you’re holding that book like it hexed your ancestors.”

Draco exhaled sharply, snapped the book shut with a crack loud enough to make two first-years flinch.

“Do shut up, Zabini.”

Blaise didn’t press. Just stood, gave Draco one long, unreadable look, and closed his book with a quiet snap.

"Come on," he said. "You’ll bore a hole through the floor if you keep at it."

Draco didn’t respond immediately. He packed his parchment with clipped, careless movements, like it had insulted his bloodline.

"I'm not avoiding anything," he muttered.

"Didn’t say you were." Blaise arched a brow. "But the lack of ink on your page says otherwise."

Draco pushed back from the table and followed. Not because he had anything to say. Just because he couldn’t stand the sight of Granger’s smile burned behind his eyes any longer.

The walk to the dungeons was short. Familiar. Unchanged.

Cold stone. Damp walls. Echoes of footfalls that weren’t theirs.

Blaise didn’t talk, and Draco didn’t fill the silence. But the longer they walked, the heavier something felt pressing down between his shoulder blades. Not guilt. Not really.

Just the weight of not being able to let something go.

By the time the entrance to the Slytherin common room whispered open, Draco’s face was smooth again. Empty. Mask on.

He stepped inside like he owned the room.

But even he could feel it—eyes on him. Whispers waiting.

And something worse than judgment.

Expectation.

The fireplace crackled, casting flickering shadows across the green-and-silver décor. The giant-squid nowhere to be found.

The hum of conversation filled the air—low, deliberate voices, goblets clinking softly, the rustle of parchment. First-years clustered near the hearth, whispering about exams. They were watching. Waiting.

Nott sat at the far end of the sofa, legs stretched, arms folded. Pansy perched beside him, posture sharp, chin tilted like she still ran the place. 

Daphne stood near the fireplace, flipping through a Quidditch stat parchment she clearly wasn’t reading.

And Davis was nowhere, he hasn’t seen her in a while. Not that he cared.

He sat in his usual corner, textbook open. He hadn’t even dipped his quill. The parchment stayed blank. Like it was waiting to see who he’d be.

Draco stared at the page, but all he saw was Granger. Her twisting the sleeve of her jumper. Her smiling at Weaselbee like he was anything more than a leftover.

That smile. That infuriating, unwarranted smile.

His grip tightened on the quill until it bent. That caught him more attention.

Theo was the first to speak. “You missed the meeting.”

Draco didn’t glance up. “I didn’t realise you were holding them again.”

“We weren’t,” Theo said. “But some of us were discussing... House priorities.”

“Let me guess,” Draco said, finally looking up. “How to cling to power you already lost?”

Pansy’s mouth tightened. “You’re not untouchable, you know.”

“No,” Draco agreed, calm. “Just irreplaceable.”

Daphne snorted—just once. Pansy’s glare cut to her. “Funny?”

“Only if you’re slow enough to think this is still about sentiment,” Daphne said, folding her arms. “He’s winning matches. Winning students. You lot are still nursing your pride.”

Theo ignored her. His eyes never left Draco.

“You’ve made your changes. Let in the mudbloods. Shake hands with Ravenclaws. You’re dictating.”

“Is that a problem?” Draco asked.

Pansy stood. “You think this is noble? That rewriting the rules makes you better?”

Draco stood slowly. “I’m doing it because the old way failed.”

Theo leaned forward. “You’re losing control.”

Draco tilted his head. “You sure about that?”

Silence.

“I see your little circle,” Theo said. “Greengrass, Davis, Zabini, the second-years who think you’re clever. But the rest of them?” His voice dropped. “They’re watching. And they’re waiting.”

“For what?” Draco asked.

“For you to slip.”

Daphne finally looked up from the parchment. Her voice was lazy, but her words were anything but. “Then they’ll be waiting a while.”

Theo ignored her. He was watching Draco like he wanted a reason to push harder.

“You think we’ll follow you just because you sneer loud enough?” Theo’s voice was sharp now, rising. “You’re not a leader. You’re a ticking clock.”

Pansy’s mouth twitched—not anger. Not yet. Something smaller. Almost pleading. “We stood by you, Draco. I did. You can’t erase that just because it’s inconvenient now.”

“I’ve eliminated dead weight.” He said sharply.

Pansy stepped forward, something wild in her eyes. “And what am I then? Extra?”

Draco didn’t answer right away. He studied her.

“You think I don’t see it,” she said. “That every time you look at me, you see a mistake. A shadow.”

“You’re the one who keeps standing in it,” Draco said. “That’s not my fault.”

She looked like he’d slapped her.

Theo didn’t move. Just muttered, “So this is it, then. We bend or we break.”

Draco’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “You break.”

Daphne arched a brow, stepping forward now, gaze flicking to Pansy and Theo in turn. “And no one’s putting you back together.”

Theo’s expression turned to stone.

He stood, adjusting his cuffs.

“This isn’t over.”

Draco didn’t respond.

He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to.

But it echoed.

And the silence that followed wasn’t victory. It was a warning.

For a House obsessed with legacy, they sure had short memories.

He wasn’t trying to be a hero. He was trying to keep the rot from crawling back in.

But maybe it was already too late for that.

They left in silence—Pansy slower, glancing back once. Not at the group. At him.

He waited until the door closed behind them before he sat again.

Daphne whistled under her breath. “You’re making enemies faster than you used to.”

Draco stared into the fire.

“Good,” he said. “Means I’m doing it right.”

He stood there, knuckles tight, spine straighter than it had been all day. It felt like the only thing holding him up. He could still feel their eyes on him.

Nott had walked out like he’d won something. Pansy hadn’t just walked—she’d twisted the knife on her way out. And Draco, for all his perfectly timed smirks and clipped comebacks, hadn’t stopped them.

Not really.

He wasn’t holding the reins anymore. He was just pretending no one else had picked them up.

So, he left the common room like he’d meant to—coat sharp, footsteps louder than necessary. Not in anger. In habit.

But as he passed the dark halls toward the dungeons, something tight and sour sat in his chest. Like the House was slipping through his fingers, and all he had left was posture and sarcasm.

He couldn’t make Pansy stay. Couldn’t make Nott fall in line. Couldn’t make Slytherin look at him without suspicion.

So maybe that’s why he went to the one place that always came last.

The corridor where Granger would already be working. Alone. Focused. Predictable. Where he should be thirty minutes ago.

And maybe—if he could poke the right bruise—she’d crack.

Because someone ought to, and it was not going to be him.

He kicked aside a broken bit of marble with more force than necessary. Dust hung thick in the corridor air, and the tip of his wand glowed faintly with an illumination charm he hadn't refreshed in over ten minutes.

Granger hadn’t said anything about it. Didn’t vem acknowledged his tardiness.

Her wand kept carving arcs through dust-heavy air. No hesitation. No pause. Her lips moved around incantations like it was nothing. Brick by brick. Spell by spell. Like the war had a ledger she meant to balance.

The corridor still bore scorch marks. Cracked stones, blackened beams, the ghost of fire spells in the air. It had once held classrooms, maybe. It didn’t anymore.

She stood at the far end, wand lit, coaxing a broken arch back into place. Quiet incantations under her breath. Precision. Control. Always control.

Draco watched from a distance, leaning against the half-toppled statue of Circe like he had any intention of helping.

He hadn’t said a word since he arrive. She hadn’t asked him to.

Granger moved again, arm raised, hair tied back. Her jumper sleeves were pushed up to her elbows, exposing her wrist—faint burn mark still visible from last week. She hadn’t healed it properly. Too focused on the job. Too focused on anything that wasn’t—

He wondered if the burn hurt. Not the skin—she could’ve fixed that. But maybe the ache underneath it hadn’t gone quiet yet. Maybe she needed the pain.

“Busy saving the world again, Granger?” His voice broke the silence like a curse.

“One of us has to do something, while the other is standing around spitting venom like it solves anything,” she snapped, still not facing him.

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

She finally turned, face flushed, wand lowering an inch. “You’re leaning on a statue, Malfoy. That doesn’t count as work.”

“Neither does trying to impress McGonagall.”

She scoffed, turning back to the arch. “Right. Of course. It’s always about that. Couldn’t possibly be about doing something useful. About cleaning up the mess you helped create.”

He let it pass. Guilt was for people who believed they’d been forgiven.

Instead, he pushed off the statue and crossed to her, slow and steady. His wand hung useless in his hand.

“You think if you patch enough bricks, people will forget you help break them?”

Her jaw locked. “You think if you sneer at it long enough, you don’t have to feel guilty?”

Draco stepped closer. “Guilt’s not the problem.”

“Then what is?”

“You.”

That made her freeze. Just for a second.

She turned. Met his eyes. “Me?”

Her voice wasn’t confused anymore. It was controlled—too controlled. Like she’d recognized the heat behind his words and was already building walls.

Draco said nothing at first. Just stared. At her. Through her. At all the things she wasn’t saying and all the things she’d said to someone else.

Weasley. Again. Always. He’d seen the way she smiled at him in the corridor earlier that week. That smile she used to give Potter after a hard-won duel. Like survival was something to be proud of.

Draco had survived too. No smiles for that.

He stepped forward. Too close again.

“This about Ron again?” she asked. “Because if it is, save it.”

He tilted his head, voice low, venom curling at the edges. “Oh, I’m sorry. Did you had another tender moment between star-crossed trauma victims, or does the geometry of his shoulders the new topic?”

“Don’t,” she warned, voice sharp.

“You still whisper things to Ginny in the library?” he pressed. “Still lie about how safe you feel with him?”

Her expression cracked, just a sliver. But it was enough.

“Jealousy’s beneath you,” she said, voice cold. “Isn’t it?”

“Jealous?” He barked a hollow laugh. “You think I envy Weaselbee? His scraps of affection? His pitiful second chances? The mediocrity?”

“You hate that I still let him in,” she said. “That I haven’t shut the door the way you shut every one that scares you.”

He stepped forward again, forcing her back a pace. His voice dropped lower. “He doesn’t even see you. Not really. But you’re still standing there like maybe he’ll get it right this time.”

Granger’s eyes narrowed to slits. “And you do, is that it? You understand me?”

Draco scoffed. “Better than him.”

Her lip curled. “That’s not a high bar.”

He matched her glare. “Still too high for someone pretending you’re not already gone.”

That landed.

And for a second, the corridor stilled. No flickering torchlight. No echo. Just silence stretching, warped and volatile.

Then she stepped into him—not backing down, just bracing.

“You don’t know anything about what I’m doing,” she hissed. “You don’t get to say his name like you’re some authority on what I need.”

Draco’s voice sharpened. “I know what you look like when you lie, Granger. You do it with your whole body. The straight spine. The twitch at your mouth. The way you don’t let yourself blink.”

Her fists clenched at her sides.

“You think you’re better than me?” he went on. “You’re just more acceptable. Easier to forgive. Easier to ignore.”

Her voice dropped dangerously low. “You think this is about forgiveness?”

“No,” he said. “I think it’s about pretending none of it happened. That you didn’t end up in the Astronomy Tower with me. That you didn’t flinch when I said your name. That you didn’t look at me like—”

“Don’t finish that,” she snapped.

But it was too late. They were already too close. The war was already between them again, breathing through the cracks in their voices.

“You’re angry because you care,” he said. “And you hate that I know it.”

She stepped in first. “You don’t get to decide what this is.” Her voice cracked—just once. But it didn’t break. “You think I care? Then say something worth caring about.”

A beat.

“I hate,” she continued, voice shaking now, “that you think I’m still waiting for you to say something that isn’t cruel.”

Draco swallowed. “And yet you’re still here.”

“And that’s the part I hate most—that I haven’t walked away.”

The look in her eyes then—rage, confusion, grief—it hit like a spell. Like something unspeakable had passed between them and neither of them could name it.

Draco first instinct was to lash out, to remind her who he was and who she wasn’t. But the words died before they left his mouth.

And before he could say anything—

Her hand struck him hard.

A clean, brutal sound.

His cheek stung. His jaw tightened.

She didn’t apologize. Didn’t flinch. Just stood there, chest heaving, eyes glassy but cold.

“You deserved that,” she said, voice hollow. “You’ve been asking for it for weeks.”

He didn’t disagree.

Didn’t speak.

Just stared back at her, hand at his side, the ghost of her palm burning against his skin.

His face was tilted, the heat blooming across his skin like shame and fury fused together. His jaw is locked so tight it hurts.

When he turns back to her, it’s slow. Controlled. But his eyes—his eyes are storm-bright.

Hermione’s chest is heaving. Her fists are still clenched. She looks like she regrets it and like she’d do it again.

Like she’d been holding something in for months. Not anger—grief, maybe. Or something that burned the same.

For a moment, they just stand there.

Unmoving. Unbreathing.

Granger looks furious. But beneath it—something else. Cracked. Raw. Like she’s one breath from breaking apart.

And Draco—Draco feels unmoored. Like she’s just cut through the last tether he had to pretending he didn’t care.

And Granger looked just as wrecked. Like she’d kept it together too long and the seams had finally split.

He takes a step forward.

Then another.

She doesn’t move.

Of course she doesn’t. She’s never been the type to back down from fire.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” he says, voice low and deadly calm.

“You deserved it.”

He gives a ghost of a smirk. There’s no humour in it. “You might be right.”

The air between them shifts—tightens.

Draco watches her throat bob as she swallows. Watches her fingers uncurl, then curl again. She’s still shaking.

So is he.

“Why are you so angry?” she asks suddenly. “Why do you care who I talk to? Why do you care what I do?”

Her voice is louder now. Not desperate. Demanding. As if she’s daring him to lie.

He should.

He could’ve said something cutting. He almost did. But all that came to mind was a silence sharp enough to bleed on.

Because his heartbeat was roaring and his hands won’t stop trembling.

Because she was still looking at him like he mattered.

Because she’s standing in front of him, flushed and furious and so real it hurts.

He opens his mouth.

Closes it again.

And leans in.

Not all at once—just enough that her breath ghosts across his skin. Just enough to feel the tension snap taut between them like a wire drawn too tight. Their foreheads nearly touch. 

He’s close enough to see the gold flecks in her eyes. Her lips part slightly—no sound, just breath—and suddenly, Draco’s lungs stop working altogether.

He shouldn’t be this close. Shouldn’t want to be closer. But she’s not backing down. Her eyes are daring him. Asking for a fight or something worse. Something that ends them both.

Her shoulders shifted like she might step back. Like she was about to say no.

But her lips didn’t move. Her hands didn’t move.

Because some part of her—however buried—wanted it too.

She blinked—slow, reluctant. Her breath caught in the space between them, shallow and sharp. Her eyes dropped to his mouth. Then shut. Hard. Like she hated herself for noticing.

This was a mistake. They knew it. But their feet didn’t move.

Her lips parted—then froze. She blinked, too slow.

Draco watched the war on her face. The logic. The moral scaffolding. Cracking

She almost turned away. Almost. But something tethered her there—his breath, her pulse, the silence. They hovered enough to kill any hope of pretending this was never going to happen.

She glanced at his mouth again, and didn’t look away. Like she’d stopped weighing the consequences and started choosing the mistake.

And then—she leans in.

Their mouths crash together like something volatile, lit on contact. Like they’ve both been holding a match for too long, just waiting to drop it.

It’s not soft.

It’s brutal. Raw. All tongue and teeth and months of barely contained fury, grief, and need. Her hands fist in the front of his robes, dragging him closer with a desperation that makes his knees nearly give.

Then her hand flattened against his chest. One hard shove—just enough to break their mouths apart. “Don’t,” she whispered. Her breath was still shallow. Her fingers didn’t let go. “I can’t—”

But she didn’t move. Didn’t stop. Just looked at him like she hated how much she wanted it.

He kissed her again, like he hadn’t meant to. Like his control had slipped one breath too far.

His fingers dive into her hair, threading through the curls at the nape of her neck. Not gentle. Just needy. Grounding. They shifted—too close, too tangled—until her back found the wall behind her. Neither of them stopped it.

She just grabs the collar of his shirt and pulls harder.

Fierce and hot and maddening. Like she’s punishing him for making her want this. Like she’s trying to drown them both in it.

And then—

She makes a sound.

“This–is,” she whispered. Then louder, like she hated herself for it: “Merlin—this is wrong.”

“I know,” he muttered—and kissed her like it didn’t matter.

His hand fists in her jumper, yanking her flush against him. His other slides to her jaw, thumb brushing the corner of her mouth, tilting her face up so he can take more—deeper, rougher, until he’s not sure where he ends and she begins.

The corridor spins.

His mind is blank.

There’s no plan. No strategy. Just her—against him, under his hands, matching him with every breathless pull.

And all he can think is this:

Of course it was her. The complication he hadn’t accounted for.

And then— 

Granger yanks herself away so fast it feels like a physical slap. 

Draco stares at her, dazed, breathing hard. His hands are still hovering in the space where she’d just been, fingers curled like they’re missing something. 

Her eyes are impossibly wide, lips swollen from the force of the kiss, her chest rising and falling in sharp, frantic bursts. 

Her hair had slipped free of its tie. Her jumper hung askew on one shoulder. Her lips were red and her eyes—wide, gleaming with a dozen things she hadn’t said.

Her mouth opened. Closed. Her brows knit like she was solving a problem that had no clean solution. For one breathless second, he thought she might say something.

She looked like she’d just failed an exam she hadn’t studied for—stunned, furious, already writing a thousand mental footnotes explaining why it shouldn’t have happened

“This never happened” she muttered.

Not a plea. A demand. A warning.

Then she turned and ran.

But before she did, she looked back. Just once. Enough to let him know she hadn’t lost control. She’d given it up—on purpose.

The corridor was silent. Not quiet—silent. Like she’d taken the air with her. He didn’t move. Couldn’t. The space she’d occupied felt colder now. Abandoned. His own breath echoed off the stone.

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just stood there, as if anything might crack him open.

His fingers hovered at his lips. Still warm. Still burning. He needed to hex something.

Draco’s hand drifted to the ring on his finger—silver, sharp-edged, too tight. He twisted it once. Twice.

Lucius’s voice hissed in his memory. “Control the room. Control yourself.”

He curled his fist until the edge of the ring bit down hard. 

He hadn’t taken it off since the tower. Not once. Not even when it left marks.

Even a Calming Draught wouldn’t touch this. He needed something stronger. A firewhiskey. A duel. A hex. A goddamned Pensieve.

She kissed him back. That’s the part he can’t outrun. Hermione bloody Granger kissed him back. Until reality crashed down on her and she— 

Ran. 

She pulled him in like it meant nothing. Then ran like it did.

Draco exhales sharply, pressing his fingers to the bridge of his nose.

If anyone saw this—Pansy would twist it. Nott would make it proof. That he’d gone soft. That he’d betrayed the House again. Worse this time.

No. He wouldn’t be that foolish. Not again.

He need to get a grip. This isn’t complicated. It’s physical. He’s been tense, wound-up, frustrated, and she— 

She’s Granger, the last person he should be thinking about like this. He hates her, doesn’t he? She’s insufferable, opinionated, a nightmare to deal with. 

And yet—

It had been too much, too overwhelming, like striking flint to dry parchment. It was fire. And maybe that’s what it was. Maybe it was just the heat of the moment. 

That has to be it. 

It wasn’t just her mouth. Or the fight. Or the tension. 

It was unexpected. He hadn’t thought about her like that before. 

Had he?

No.

Draco turns on his heel, striding back toward the dungeons. He needs a distraction. He needs something else to focus on, because this isn’t going to become a thing. 

He just needs to burn it out of himself. Let the wrongness scorch clean.

Because it’s not like he actually wants her. 

Right? 

He swallows hard, forcing himself to breathe.

Draco wasn’t sure when wanting her had started and it was starting to feel too late to stop.

But that doesn’t matter.

He’ll prove it. 

There’s no shortage of girls at Hogwarts. If that’s all this is—want, tension, proximity, a stupid lapse in control—then fine. Easy. Find someone else. Let it burn out. Let it rot.

Chapter Text

Draco stepped through the entrance to the Slytherin common room, jaw locked, hands clenched in his pockets. He ignored the raised eyebrow Blaise sent him from the armchair near the fire.

“What’s crawled up your robes?” Blaise asked lazily, flipping a page in his book without looking up again.

“Nothing.” Draco dropped onto the nearest chair. “Mind your business.”

Blaise hummed. “Ah. Granger, then.”

Draco’s head snapped toward him. “What?”

“Only thing that puts that look on your face. What happened? Did she finally hex you on principle?”

Draco sneered. “You’re an idiot.” 

Blaise laughed. “And yet, I’m not the one sulking about Hermione Granger in the middle of the common room.” 

He ignored Blaise's knowing smirk, and headed straight for the dormitory.

Draco didn’t bother changing. Just collapsed onto the bed, arm thrown over his eyes, trying—failing—to wrestle his thoughts into submission.

Thinking about her was pathetic. But so was not thinking about her. Either way, she’d gotten in—not through charm, not through warmth—but through a crack he should’ve sealed.

Lucius would call this weakness. Draco agreed.

He was not thinking about Granger. Not about how she’d felt pressed against him, how she’d gasped against his mouth before pulling away. It meant nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Sleep finally wore him out.

And with it—her.

Warm skin. Soft breath. Her body pressed close. Fingers in his neck.

No logic. No control. No clothes. Just heat.

“Granger—” His voice was low, ragged. Didn’t sound like him.

He gripped her hips, pulled her closer, kissed her like it might shut everything off. Her breath hitched—uneven and surprised. Her hands skated him nails scraping lightly down his spine.

Urgent. Hungry. Like she was already chasing something she couldn’t name.

“You’re in my head,” he murmured, not sure if he said it out loud.

She kissed him harder. Dragged him down with her.

He slid inside her like he had a right to. No resistance. Just heat. Just wet. Just her—

And none of it real.

She arched into him, hips rocking. Fingers in his hair, pulling. Whimpering his name like it mattered. Like he mattered.

He moved harder. Deeper. Like the rhythm could erase her voice. Her face. Himself.

“Draco,” she breathed. Again. And again.

Too intimate. Too much.

He turned her. Rough. Fast. She gasped, catching herself on the mattress. Didn’t stop him. Didn’t ask questions.

He didn’t say anything either. Just pressed in again. Took what she gave like it meant nothing. Like it meant everything.

She moaned—wrecked and wanting—and he hated how much he felt it.

Her back arched. Her body tightened around him. She was close.

He chased it too.

Not for release. Not even for escape. Just for the silence that came after, and then—darkness.

He woke up.

The shame hit first. Then the ache. Then the fury.

It was just a bloody dream. But the room was dark and silent, and his heart still hammered as if it hadn’t got the message.

For a long moment, he just lay there, staring up at the canopy of his bed, his mind struggling to catch up. 

A dream. 

He rolls to his side and snarls at nothing. Just nerves, misfiring neurons. 

And yet— 

It had felt real. Too real.

Draco groaned, dragging a hand down his face.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered, pressing his palms against his eyes like pressure might erase what he saw. What he felt. What he wanted.

He rolled to his side, fists clenched in the sheets. Cold air licked across the room, but the burn beneath his skin wouldn’t fade.

The curtains of his bed rustled—someone moving in the dorm. Draco didn’t look. Didn’t speak.

He just lay there, willing his body to forget.

It didn’t.

His hands found the blanket, yanking it higher, smothering the heat, the shame, the ache he refused to name. The one she’d carved into him without even trying.

He stared at the canopy.

This was a problem.

A very, very big problem.

He swung his legs over the bed, feet hitting the floor harder than necessary. The cold stone didn’t help. Nothing helped. He reached for his trousers, yanked them on too fast, the button slipping once—then twice. His fingers twitched.

The buckle wouldn’t thread.

He tried again. Missed.

Something in him snapped.

The belt slammed against the dresser as he ripped it off, flung it sideways. It hit the wall with a dull crack.

He stood there, breathing hard. Shirt still half-unbuttoned. Eyes fixed on nothing.

He caught sight of himself in the narrow dormitory mirror. Pale. Sharp. Unreadable.

Except for the hands.

They were shaking.

He shoved them into his pockets and turned away.

Draco strode into the Great Hall, determined to act like nothing had changed. 

Because nothing had. 

The kiss had been a mistake. A lapse in judgment. A moment of pent-up frustration that meant nothing. 

Even if his body refused to forget. 

He sat at the Slytherin table, his expression schooled into indifference, but his mind betrayed him at every turn. The phantom sensation of her lips still lingered, soft but demanding. It was infuriating. 

He told himself it didn’t matter, but his stomach twisted anyway—she was under his skin, and he hated that it felt permanent.

He shovelled food onto his plate, not tasting a damn thing. The low murmur of morning chatter filled the hall, students waking up, talking about assignments, plans for the weekend. The world had moved on. No one knew what had happened, what a bloody disaster had taken place inside his head. 

A few minutes later, the doors opened again. Granger walked in, book still clutched in one hand, like she’d come straight from the library—just like she always did.

Except now, Draco noticed everything.

The way she hesitated for just a fraction of a second when she spotted him at the Slytherin table. The way her gaze flicked away like she hadn’t seen him at all.

She was pretending. But so was he. And he’d always been better at pretending—especially when it meant lying to himself.

“You’re in a mood,” Zabini muttered beside him, sounding far too amused for Draco’s liking. 

And then his gaze flicked to the Gryffindor table. “She seem to be in a mood as well.”

Draco’s fork stilled midair, forcing himself to look. Weasley’s brow was furrowed like he was trying to solve a riddle she wouldn't give him. Potter kept glancing at her, then at Weasley, then back. 

And, suddenly, Potter looked once at Draco—not long, just enough. Enough to make Draco’s wonder if he knew.

He tried to focus on his breakfast. On his bloody food but he couldn’t.

He looked up once more—and caught her eyes already on him. Her expression unreadable. A blink later, she was back to her plate, but he’d seen it. The flicker of something. Recognition. Regret. Rage. He didn’t know.

He stabbed at his eggs without looking. Missed. The metal edge dragged against the plate with a screech loud enough to draw a glance from Daphne. He didn’t care. He barely registered it. His hand was clenched around the fork, his knuckles were white, the handle strained.

Footsteps passed behind him—shoes brisk and too loud, like they were marching instead of walking. Then a voice, low and close to his ear, calm enough to be dangerous.

“Stay away from her,” Potter muttered, tone flat, cold, and iron-heavy.

Draco didn’t turn. Didn’t breathe. Only stared ahead. But something in his grip cracked. The fork handle splintered beneath his fingers with a small, decisive snap. He dropped it on the plate and didn’t look at the mess it left behind.

His chest felt tight—like there wasn’t enough room in his own ribs. Like he was wearing a version of himself two sizes too small. His jaw locked. That was enough. 

He reminded himself: composure, lineage, precision. All the things Lucius demanded.

But it was slipping.

Because she was bloody everywhere.

In History of Magic, she corrected Binns twice—audibly—and snapped at someone misquoting a Muggle law like they’d insulted her mother.

She brought up the Goblin Rebellions like it was personal. Cited sources like she was duelling. He remembered her in second year—correcting professors like she couldn't stop herself. Some things didn’t change. Except now, she was brittle with it.

In Transfiguration, when they were paired for a spell demonstration, she barely looked at him, but her wand trembled slightly. 

For a second, their fingers touched. Nothing more. But he pulled back like she'd burned him. He didn't like how it felt. He hated what it meant.

She pretend nothing happened and corrected the incantation without meeting his eye.

“Wand clockwise, not counterclockwise,” she muttered. Her tone was clinical, controlled—as if that precision could erase everything else.

Her voice didn’t shake, but something else did.

His spell misfired. Sparks burst sideways, singeing her sleeve.

She hissed. Glared. “Maybe try listening, Malfoy.”

He didn’t apologize. Didn’t breathe. Just stared at the scorch mark like it accused him.

She wasn’t ignoring him—she was erasing him. Probably drafting a mental thesis on post-trauma impulse control. Footnoted and cited. 

Except once—in the Library corridor—she hesitated. Her shoulder had brushed his. Just a moment.

And that was all it took—his mind snapped back to the dream. The way she had arched against him. The way her nails had scraped down his spine.

His hand twitched. He shoved it into his robe pocket.

Control the room. Control yourself.

Lucius’s voice again. This time, it didn’t work—and he hated that.

He’d believed him then. Almost still did.

But he missed his mother advices more.

Narcissa never said anything about control. Only survival. Wich he was also failing.

It was maddening. 

Because all he could think about was how she’d let him kiss her.

How she’d kissed him back.

And how now, she moved through the castle like he was forgettable. Like it hadn’t happened. Like he was nothing.

His hand twitched. The quill snapped under it with a dry crack.

Daphne startled beside him, ink splashing across her notes. “What is your problem?” she hissed.

His wand was in his hand before he realized it. Not aimed. Just drawn. Muscle memory. Instinct.

Daphne froze. Her eyes locked on his. Across the aisle, Longbottom had gone still, halfway through a sentence.

For one taut second, it hovered—violence not quite chosen.

Then Draco shoved the wand back into his robes like it burned him.

He stared down at the ruined parchment. Jaw clenched. Breathing even, but not calm.

He’d been raised to believe in control. In blood. In superiority.

But here he was—spiralling over a girl who still quoted regulation charms mid-panic. Who answered questions no one asked. 

A girl he’d been taught to hate. Who he kissed anyway.

A Mudblood.

The word surfaced fast. Reflex. Ingrained.

But it hit wrong. Landed flat. Like calling firewood a forest. The word didn’t land. It just... missed.

It didn’t suit her anymore. Maybe it never had.

He shut his eyes, forcing his jaw to lock, not because it brought peace, but because it was the only way to stop the memory.

That night. Bellatrix’s cackle slicing through the dark. Her wand. Her knife. Hermione’s scream—high, broken, human. And his silence, more deafening than anything else. 

His hands curled into fists beneath the desk, knuckles aching, like maybe if he cracked something hard enough he could dislodge it all—her voice, her kiss, her fucking scar. 

She was everywhere. Like nothing had happened. Like he hadn’t left fingerprints all over her spine.

It was a mistake.

A lapse.

That’s what he kept telling himself. Over and over. Like it would stick eventually.

And then he’d seen her again.—alone, near the greenhouses, standing with her back to the path and her fists clenched around the spine of a book like it was the only thing keeping her together. Her shoulders were tight. Her jaw set.

Her lip bloodless from biting. She blinked too many times for it to be nothing. Not crying—but close.

He didn’t speak. Just watched from shadow as she stood still. Her fists around the book like a lifeline. Her silence loud. She didn’t see him. Or maybe she did. And didn’t care.

By the time Charms rolled around, his temper had curdled entirely

The sight of Ginny Weasley already waiting in their assigned seat was just another insult.

He paused, scanned the room for a possible switch, found none. Exhaled through his nose.

Fine.

He dropped into the seat beside her with deliberate force. No words. No courtesy. Just tension in a uniform.

His patience was already frayed—dragged thin by sleep-deprived thoughts, lingering heat from a dream that wouldn’t leave him alone, and the ghost of Hermione Granger’s mouth still burned into his memory like a fucking brand.

The last thing he needed was Weaslette’s commentary.

But of course—

"You look like shit, Malfoy," Ginny said cheerfully.

Draco hated her.

Not as much as Granger.

But today, she was gaining ground.

Weasley leaned back in her chair, wand spinning between her fingers like she had all the time in the world. “Even your silence is pathetic.”

He gave her a look that could’ve peeled paint. She didn’t flinch—but she didn’t grin again, either. Maybe it hit. Maybe it didn’t.

And for a second he wanted to hex the smirk right off her face. Not because of her. But because she was right.

The bell rang. He was on his feet before anyone else, parchment snapped shut, steps clipped and controlled, heading for the one place he could still breathe.

But Hogwarts had other plans.

Peeves drifted overhead near the stairwell, upside-down and humming something tuneless. The moment he spotted Draco, his grin widened with glee.

"Ooooh, ickle snake looks ready to snap!" he cackled, flinging a half-full ink bottle that shattered on the stone behind Draco’s head.

"What's wrong, princey? Girl trouble? Or just your little wand misfiring again?"

Draco didn’t stop walking. Didn’t flinch. Just clenched his fists tighter. Peeves’s cackling followed him down the corridor until he reached the pitch like a curse.

The sky over the Quidditch pitch was a dull grey, thick clouds promising rain, but Draco didn’t care. He needed this. He needed something to rip his mind away from the disaster it had become. 

Quidditch was supposed to be a distraction. A release. A way to forget that Hermione Granger’s lips had been on his.

This was what he needed. The cold air. The rush of the wind. The sheer force of movement, of physical exertion, of something tangible. 

Something that wasn’t her. 

He mounted his broom, kicking off from the ground with force, ascending high above the pitch. The rest of the Slytherin team followed, their green and silver robes whipping in the wind. 

“Listen up,” Draco barked as they hovered in a loose formation. “We’ve got Gryffindor next match, and I refuse to lose to a team led by that halfwit. I want us sharper. Faster. Better.” 

His voice carried through the open space, the bite in it unmistakable. He saw a few players exchange glances, but none of them dared challenge him. 

Good. 

Draco needed to push himself, needed to push the team, needed to focus on something that wasn’t Granger. 

“Bludgers first,” he called. “I want everyone dodging them. No one gets hit, no one lets their guard down. Vance, Pucey, you’re sending them our way.” 

The beaters nodded, already gripping their bats with eager determination. Draco’s grip on his broom twitched and he forced himself to clear his mind. 

It worked. 

Wind in his face. Rhythm in his spine. No room in the air for distraction. For the first five minutes, he was brilliant. Clean catches. Tight turns. Every motion his own.

The Bludgers came fast—iron and rage in motion—but Draco moved faster. He swerved, ducked, twisted, his movements crisp and precise. 

It was exactly what he needed. His thoughts cleared, his body focused only on the rush of the game, the sharp pull of the wind against his robes. He could breathe. 

And then he felt that floral perfume, her shampoo, or something like that, and he   hesitated—just for a fraction of a second. His knuckles went white on the broom handle, his mind screaming at him. 

He didn’t even see the Bludger coming. 

The iron ball came barrelling toward him, and by the time he snapped back to reality, it was too late. He swerved just in time to avoid a direct hit, but it still grazed his shoulder, knocking him off balance. 

He gritted his teeth, correcting his position, ignoring the sharp pain that bloomed in his arm. 

His father would sneer. You let a girl ruin your spine, he'd say. You let weakness wear a Gryffindor face.

Draco flew higher, cold wind biting at his face. It didn’t help.

“Malfoy, seriously?” Pucey called, frustration creeping into his tone. “What the hell is going on with you?” 

Draco ignored him, pretending he hadn’t just almost been knocked out of the sky because of a fucking distraction that should not be a distraction. 

“I swear to Merlin, you need to get your head out of your arse, Malfoy.” 

Draco turned sharply at the voice. Daphne hovered a few feet away, arms crossed over her chest, looking at him like he was a damn liability. 

Draco jerked forward. “Say it again,” he snapped.

Daphne’s eyes narrowed. Her wand twitched at her side. The air thickened.

Someone called his name. He turned away before he made it worse.

He wasn’t afraid of losing a fight. He was afraid of how much he wanted to.

“Shut up and keep moving,” he snapped, urging his broom higher, faster, away from whatever just happened. 

The entire team was staring at him, waiting for some kind of explanation. 

“You’re not fooling anyone,” Daphne muttered, flying closer. “You think they don’t talk? They do. You used to be sharp. Now you’re a crack in a uniform.”

“I know,” he muttered, jaw locked. 

He was furious with himself, with the fact that his own body had betrayed him, with the fact that Hermione bloody Granger had crawled under his skin so deeply that it was affecting the one thing he had left. 

He twisted his ring on his finger, he sometimes missed what that ring meant— power, legacy, restraint.

Now it felt like a manacle.

After it was over, Draco stalked through the dimly lit corridors, still seething from practice, still too aware of his own goddamn body. His shoulder ached from where the Bludger had clipped him, but the real problem was the other ache, the one he refused to acknowledge, the one that had everything to do with Granger. 

He didn’t see her at first—just felt the shift in the air. A pause in the stairwell ahead, the quiet weight of someone waiting.

She stopped in front of him. No one else around. Just the hollow echo of distant footsteps and the thin, brittle silence hanging between them like a curse neither of them wanted to break.

“Stop looking at me like that,” she said. Flat. Controlled.

He didn’t answer at first. Just tilted his head, slow and mocking. “Like what?”

“Like you lost something that was never yours.”

It wasn’t the words. It was the calm. Like he didn’t even have the right to be angry. Like he didn’t matter enough to be a mistake.

That landed harder than it should’ve.

His temper flared, quick and bitter, dragging words to the surface before he could stop them. “You think I wanted this?” he snapped. “Wanted you in my head?”

Her jaw set, but she didn’t back down. “I’m not in your head,” she said coldly. “You put me there. So you’d have someone to blame for wanting something you weren’t supposed to want.”

She hesitated—for a beat. Her fingers twitched at her sides, like she wanted to say something else. Then her face hardened again. The softness never made it past her jaw.

“You hurt people, Malfoy,” she said, quiet but sharp. “You don’t get to rewrite that just because you want to kiss someone now.”

He took a step closer. Close enough for her to feel it—his heat, his fury, the shape of everything he wasn’t saying.

Her mouth opened like there was more. Then it didn’t come.

He filed the silent instead “You didn’t stop me”

She met his eyes. Steady. Cruel. “And I regret it.”

It was a lie. He knew it. She knew it. But it landed like a blow anyway.

He didn’t flinch, didn’t speak, didn’t breathe. She turned—without waiting for a reply—braid snapping like a whip behind her, spine unyielding as she disappeared down the corridor.

He didn’t follow. But he didn’t move either.

Not until footsteps echoed—a first-year Hufflepuff, judging by the oversized robes and the wide, startled glance cast his way. The boy hesitated mid-step, clearly unsure if he should pass.

Draco straightened. Rolled his shoulders back. Forced his rage into a colder shape.

His hand found the ring on his finger. Twisted it once. It was cold, always cold. A reminder of what he wasn’t allowed to want.

He turned and walked in the opposite direction.

Control wasn’t silence.

Control was pretending you’d never heard her say it.

By the time he reached the far corridor, the burn beneath his skin had calcified into something worse—numbness pretending to be control. The castle's stones blurred past, grey and indifferent, like they didn’t care what had just cracked open inside him.

He didn’t know how long he walked before footsteps fell in beside him.

Zabini, of course.

Effortlessly smug, infuriatingly perceptive. He moved like he already knew what Draco didn’t want to admit—like the air between them reeked of something unfinished.

They walked the corridor in silence, stone and torchlight stretching ahead like a path Draco didn’t want to follow. His pulse still hadn’t settled. Her voice lingered.

Zabini matched his pace—too quietly. No smirk. No snide opening.

That was the first sign something was off.

"You look like you haven't slept in a week," he finally said, voice low. “And you fly like it too.”

Draco didn’t answer.

Zabini continued, more measured this time. “If you're trying to implode, at least pace yourself.”

Draco’s jaw tensed. “I’m fine.”

“Right,” Zabini muttered. “Because flying into Bludgers and starting fights with Daphne is your usual brand of ‘fine.’”

They turned a corner. The dungeons swallowed sound, always had. Made everything feel colder than it was.

“Could’ve kept seeing Tracey,” Zabini said. “You were playing better then.”

Draco’s hands were buried in his pockets. He didn’t look over. “It stopped working.”

“Why?”

He hesitated. “She started watching me. Like she was trying to name whatever broke.”

Zabini exhaled slowly. “Yeah. That’ll kill it.”

They didn’t talk for a moment.

“I don’t need another girl who wants to fix me,” Draco said, flat. “Or figure me out. Or—” He cut himself off.

“Or see you,” Zabini supplied quietly.

That landed. But neither of them acknowledged it.

“You’ve got options,” Zabini added. “You could just go to Pansy,” he said, tone dry. “She’d have let you crawl into her bed and pretend you never meant it.”

Draco didn’t flinch. “Not happening.”

Zabini raised a brow. “Already tried that too, then?”

Once. When things were worse than usual. Before the war, before the mark. Pansy had always been loyal, which he’d mistaken for comfort. She’d wanted more. He hadn’t. It had turned ugly fast.

“Too complicated,” Draco muttered. “Not worth it.”

Blaise shrugged. “At least she knows what you are.”

Draco said nothing.

“Vaisey still around. She said your name last night with that look.” Zabini continue, unbothered.

“She always looks like that.”

“Exactly.”

Draco didn’t answer. His steps slowed near the turn for the common room, but he didn’t stop.

“Keep this up, and you won’t need a distraction. You’ll be a wreck in green silk and ruin.” Zabini said. 

The silence stretched again.

Then Draco said, “I just need to forget. For a night. That’s all.”

Zabini gave him a look that was almost pity—but buried deep enough that Draco could ignore it.

He pushed open the common room door.

Green light. Stone. Warm bodies. Willing distractions.

Draco’s voice was low. “I’ll figure it out.”

Zabini didn’t follow him inside.

The common room was packed, the usual late-night crowd scattered across the emerald-lit space. Low laughter, murmured conversations, the occasional clink of contraband firewhisky bottles—it was perfect. 

Draco took a slow, assessing glance around. He wasn’t in the mood for subtlety. He knew exactly what he needed. 

He caught Pansy watching him from across the room—eyes narrowed, lips set. She didn’t smirk. Didn’t scoff. Just watched.

He didn’t speak to her. He didn’t need to. The silence between them said it all.

Finally, his gaze landed on Selina Vaisey—a striking girl with sleek black hair and a reputation for being thoroughly unbothered. She wasn’t delicate, wasn’t the blushing, innocent type. 

She was known for being cold, competent, and always leaving first. Which was perfect. No clinging. No questions.

Selina tilted her head slightly in his direction. It wasn’t coy. Just an opening.  

“You’ve got that look,” she said. “Like you're one wrong word from exploding.”  

Draco didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.  

She closed the space between them.

“Well,” she murmured, “if you’re not punching someone, I can guess what you want instead.”

Draco didn’t speak. Just took her hand.

She followed without hesitation.

Past the couches. Down the corridor. Through the familiar dark.

No words. No second thoughts. Only footsteps echoing against stone.

By the time they reached the dormitory door, her mouth was on his neck, breath hot, fingers tugging at his belt.

He opened the door without looking. Pulled her inside. Eager. Automatic. Her mouth found his jaw before the door even closed.

Her hands moved quickly. Practiced. He followed because it was easier than stopping.

He shoved her onto the bed, hips between her thighs, movements mechanical, her gasp timed like punctuation.

Her breath hitched—just right. Her hands, just rough enough. For a blink, he almost believed it might work. Like this might drown her out.

But then—

It didn’t.

She kissed like she wanted noise. He fucked like he needed silence.

He shoved her onto the bed, unzipped his trousers. Moved between her thighs. Movements sharp. Thoughtless. 

His cock was inside her. 

Fingers in his hair—wrong ones.

He froze. Breath caught. Jaw clenched.

Selina didn’t notice. But the ghost of it scraped down his spine.

Wrong girl. Wrong scent. Wrong mouth.

Granger’s name rose in his throat like bile. He swallowed it, burring his face in her neck, bit down—hard. She moved with well-rehearsed ease, every response perfectly placed.

He moved without rhythm. Just force, need. Not for her. Not for him. Only momentum. He shifted her leg. Kept going. Something in her gasped. He didn’t listen.

He just chased the end, feeling his release surge up, hot and bitter and inevitable. It ended without satisfaction. Just a dull relief.

He pulled out, collapsing beside her, breath harsh and uneven, chest heaving with lingering frustration. A restless irritation clawed beneath his skin, refusing to fade even as his breathing slowed. 

Beside him, Vaisey stretched lazily, completely unaware of how utterly empty it all felt. She turned onto her side, smirking at him through heavy-lidded eyes. 

“Merlin, Malfoy,” she murmured, trailing fingers across his chest. “You always fuck like you’re trying to forget something?”

A pause.

“I don’t mind,” she added. “But you should be clearer when you just want a body.”

He should’ve laughed. Thrown on that smirk she expected and deflected like always. That was what Malfoys did. What he'd always done—with Tracey, with Pansy.

And still—she was there. Under his skin, in his throat, threaded into the ache behind his ribs. The worst part wasn’t that it meant nothing. It was that it meant nothing and she still hadn’t left him.

He lay still, jaw locked, breath evening out as if that would calm the storm underneath his ribs.

Vaisey sat up. Pulled her skirt back down with one smooth motion. She didn’t look at him. Just ran her fingers through her hair, tied it back, and stood.

She paused at the door. One hand on the knob. Still silent.

Then—without looking back—she left.

The door clicked shut behind her.

Draco stared at the ceiling.

His thumb grazed the Malfoy ring. Cold silver, curled snake. This is who I am, he thought.

But it didn’t feel like legacy anymore. It felt like surrender.

He’d always thought control was silence. Composure. Discipline. But maybe it was knowing when to stop running. When to turn around. When to fight like hell to stay yourself.

He lay back. Stared at the ceiling. Waited for sleep.

It didn’t come.

There was no silence left to crawl into.

Chapter Text

It had been a week.

A week of lying to himself. Badly .

A week of watching Weasley try to win Granger back.

It was Pathetic. He was always hovering. And she didn’t lean in, but she didn’t step away, either. And that was worse.

But he wasn’t thinking about it. Not really. There were worse things. Bigger things. Probably. He just needed to stop noticing. That was the plan. That had always been the plan.

So he got up. Showered. Dressed. Adjusted his tie. Pretended the mirror wasn’t mocking him.

“You’re wasting a lot of scowling on someone who won’t even make eye contact,” Zabini had said, casually flipping through the Prophet.

“She’s not why,” Draco muttered, which was the worst lie he’d told all week.

“Right,” Blaise said, unimpressed. “You think shagging half the seventh-year Slytherin girls is fooling anyone?”

“It’s not working,” Draco snapped.

Blaise blinked. “Isn’t it? That’s… new.”

Draco didn’t answer. Just adjusted his cuff like it mattered.

“Why don’t you just talk to—” 

“Because that worked so well last time?” Draco interrupted.

“No, because whatever this is?” Blaise nodded at Draco’s tie—perfectly straight, too perfect. “It’s not you surviving it. It’s you losing.”

“Thanks for the insight, Madame Trelawney,” Draco said coolly, standing.

“You’re welcome,” Blaise said, going back to the paper. “Keep pretending.”

He left the common room, he wasn’t going to keep talking about it—least of all with Blaise. Especially not when Blaise was right.

The corridors were mostly empty, but the walls felt closer than usual. Like they’d overheard too much.

He’d missed a series of marks on last week’s conjuration assignment—precision issues, McGonagall said. Focus, she’d added, eyes sharper than her tone.

She didn’t assign detentions anymore. Just reminders that sounded like orders:

“Come back this evening, Mr. Malfoy. And bring a wand you plan to respect.”

So he did.

He expected to be alone. Of course he did. Extra work was for people with something to prove—or something to fix. Granger didn’t fall into either category. Which made her presence irritating. And interesting.

The classroom was half-lit, chalk dust still hanging faintly in the air. He worked at the back bench alone, reconstructing chair legs and glassware from raw components, listening to the scratch of his own wandwork echo against stone.

A rustle across the room caught his attention.

Granger was hunched over a transfiguration grid at the front bench—wand clutched tight, muttering under her breath as she tried to rework the animated arc diagram.

Her parchment twitched once. Then twice. The enchantment frayed at the corner.

He saw it before she did.

She was off by two degrees. She knew it—he could tell by the way her wand stuttered mid-curve, how her jaw clenched, how she didn’t stop.

She kept going anyway. Pressed harder. Like force could replace accuracy.

The ink snapped into the wrong channel. The spell flickered once—then collapsed in on itself.

She cursed under her breath. Sharp. Quiet.

Then reset the parchment like it hadn’t happened.

Draco didn’t speak. Didn’t smirk. Didn’t move.

Just watched.

Then turned away.

This wasn’t anything.

Just noticing things. That’s all.

Not that he cared. He could forget her if he wanted to. Any day now.

He just needed space. Distance.

Unfortunately, the universe—or McGonagall—had other plans.

Draco had a long list of things he despised, and at the very top of that list was the Hogwarts House Union Project.

McGonagall probably thought that Granger would be the best person to fix him, or at least to not hex him on sight. And because of that idiotic idea, Draco was stuck fixing the castle with her twice a week.

And it was torture.

Not in the way it had been in the past—back when their fights had been filled with fire, when she would whip around to snap at him with her sharp tongue, when her eyes would burn with frustration and her voice would rise, all righteous fury and stubborn defiance.

No, this was worse.

Because now?

She didn’t fight with him, didn’t acknowledge him at all.

She moved beside him through the fractured corridor, passing inspection notes like spell ingredients. Her gaze never drifted his way, always fixed forward, posture stiff with purpose. As if he were just another assignment. As if their past—as if their kiss—had been some shared delusion.

As they walked, he caught the corner of her sleeve snagged on loose stone. His mouth opened—maybe to warn her, maybe to say something else entirely. She freed herself before he could speak. 

But her shoulder brushed his, once. Barely. And she didn’t pull away. Her hand flexed—just slightly—like she was aware. Like she almost had.

Later, at the base of the moving staircase, her hand reached for the banister at the same time his did. Their fingers didn’t touch, but they came close enough for him to feel the heat of her skin.

She didn’t pull away, again .

They kept walking, passed the alcove where the Room of Requirement used to be. Only jagged stone now, scorched black around the edges.

Draco never looked at it long. Too many ghosts in the dust.

The castle was still broken, sections of it barely held together, the once-great structure scarred from the war in a way that mirrored the people within it. 

Staircases crumbled, walls with cracks, ceilings had collapsed, and the Great Hall was still missing entire sections of its enchanted sky.

Draco didn’t give a damn about the rebuilding project, but of course Granger did.

She passed him notes, scribbled lists of which corridors needed extra reinforcement, which staircases were still unstable, which spells were required to stabilize the foundation. 

There were moments—brief flickers—when he caught her watching him from the corner of her eye.

Not with hate. Not with hope. With calculation.

Like she was trying to decide if he still existed.

She paused. Pen hovering over the parchment. Like, maybe, she had something else to say. But then she just underlined a repair charm and handed it off. 

He clenched his jaw as they turned another corner, breath tight, every step dragging. He could hear the way she breathed—controlled, deliberate. Like silence was something she had to fight for.

The sound of her footsteps echoed in the corridor—steady, close, maddening. He kept his eyes ahead, counted stones, didn’t look.

He wasn’t thinking about the kiss. Or her mouth. Or how she hadn’t looked back.

Didn’t matter.

He repeated the lie all the way back to the Slytherin common room.

The next morning didn’t help.

Weasley hovered. Always nearby. Always watching.

Like he deserved to be there.

But that morning in the library, he pushed too far—and Granger didn’t let it slide.

“I don’t need looking after,” she said, not even glancing up from her book.

Weaselbee blinked, caught off-guard. “Wasn’t trying to—”

“I can carry my own books too, by the way.” She reached for her bag without looking at him.

Weasley’s ears flushed. He scratched the back of his neck. “You know I’m not trying to be—”

She cut him off with a look. He muttered something—sounded like “figured as much”—but didn’t argue.

He wasn’t trying to be possessive. He just didn’t know what else to do.

Draco knew the feeling better than he liked.

So when he passed Weasley by the library entrance, he didn’t move aside. His shoulder clipped hard.

“Watch it,” Weasley muttered.

“Walk straighter,” Draco said coldly.

Their eyes met. Nothing was said. But Granger looked between them like she’d heard everything.

He told himself it didn’t matter.

But it did.

The flush in Weasley’s ears. The half-second flick of her eyes between them. The way she didn’t even correct Draco—didn’t even scold him. Just silence.

He kept walking, he was late for patrol.

A portrait of Elfrida Clagg muttered something under her breath as he passed, but he didn’t catch it. The corridor turned colder near the Charms stairwell—one of the sections still under restoration, his boots clicked once, twice, then softened against new flagstones.

By the time he reached the fourth floor, the tension in his jaw hadn’t eased, but his expression was set. Clean. Controlled.

He turned the corner, still brooding, and found her Ginny Weasley waiting. Arms crossed. Like she’d been standing guard.

His expression blank, tie immaculate, posture straight. He had arrived three minutes late.

Which, as it turned out, was three minutes too late for her.

The way her eyes found him—sharp, assessing—made it very clear this wasn’t going to be a quiet walk through dim halls.

“Three minutes late,” Ginny said coolly, pushing off the wall. “What, sulking took longer than usual?”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Didn’t know you’d taken up timekeeping for Gryffindor.”

“Didn’t know you’d snog Hermione, then ghost her like it was strategy.”

He froze. Just for a beat.

“You’ve got bad intel.”

“I’ve got her face,” Ginny snapped. “That’s enough.”

Draco recover himself, smirking. “Funny. I don’t remember that being your business.”

She raised her wand—not in threat, but in warning. “Everything that hurts her is my business.”

“Oh, please.” Draco’s voice dropped, tone sharp as a blade. “What is this? Honour guard duty? Or are you just worried Granger won’t be your sister-in-law anymore?”

Ginny’s jaw twitched. “You think this is about Ron?”

He smiled—cool and slow. “Isn’t it always? Golden trio fractures. Family dinners. The Weasleys like their stories neat, don’t they?”

“You arrogant—” she stepped closer, wand tip twitching between her fingers. “You think this is about you getting between them?”

“I didn’t get between them,” Draco said, voice like glass. “They broke long before I got there. I just happened to be standing in the rubble.”

Ginny’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t get to rewrite what happened. You kissed her, and now you act like you're owed something.”

“Watch it,” Draco snapped. “You’re not her bloody spokesperson.”

“Hermione deserves peace, stay the hell away.” 

He watched her walk ahead, voice low as he answered, ““She ever say she wants peace?” Draco muttered. “Maybe she wants someone who doesn’t flinch.”

Ginny didn’t turn. “Then she’s making the worst mistake of her life.”

Draco’s voice came colder. “She already did. You know that.”

Ginny stopped. Her grip on the wand tightened.

“Stop circling her like you’re owed something,” Ginny said, low.

Draco didn’t look at her. “You’re awfully invested for someone who’s not in it.”

“She’s my friend,” Ginny growled. “And I won’t let you unravel her just because you don’t know how to admit you care.”

Draco turned his head. Just slightly. The corner of his mouth pulled upward, but it wasn’t a smirk. It was jagged. Bitter.

“Guess all of Gryffindor’s lining up to protect her now, huh?”

Ginny's voice dipped. “I’m warning you, Malfoy. Keep your distance.”

Ginny walked ahead. Silent. Wand swinging low, steady. She didn’t look back.

He kept his distance. Let the silence fill in the rest of the corridor. Let the echo of her words chase him down the stone walls.

He should have seen it coming.

Even Potter had started looking at him differently lately. He’d caught him watching in Defence once. Not glaring. Not suspicious. Only watching. Like he was waiting for Draco to come undone in real time.

Later, during study hall, Potter’s gaze lingered on Granger too long. Not worried. Just… aware. Like he was piecing something together.

Draco hated that he noticed. Hated that Potter might notice too.

They finally reached the last checkpoint outside the Charms corridor. Ginny muttered the clearance spell, jotted the report quill into the ledger box, and gave him one last look—flat, loaded, final.

“Don’t mess her around just ‘cause you can’t get your head on straight.”

Then she was gone.

Draco didn’t flinch. Just turned away like the words hadn’t landed. Like he hadn’t heard them at all.

His boots clicked cleanly against stone. Shoulders square. Steps measured.

It was almost enough to fool himself.

What the hell did she know about it, anyway?

Like she was some authority on what Granger wanted—what she needed.

Maybe no one knew.

He sure didn’t.

The thought didn’t help. It made it worse.

The corridor beyond the checkpoint was dim and mostly deserted, the torches flickering low. Draco didn’t head straight for the stairwell. Instead, he drifted.

Past shuttered classrooms. Through the chill of an open archway. Letting his footsteps echo just enough to feel alone.

Somewhere near the north wing, he paused. There was a bench wedged into an alcove beside an old tapestry—a faded scene of Merlin arguing with a centaur. Dust lined the corners.

He sat for a minute.

Let his shoulders drop. Unclenched his fists.

The cold stone seeped through his robes, grounding. He let his eyes close. Briefly.

Of course she’d told Weasley. Of course she looked at him like he was a ticking curse. That was fine. Expected.

But Potter knowing too?

That was harder to ignore. The way he watched from across classrooms, or when Granger walked ahead and didn’t say a word to either of them.

Not suspicion. Just quiet knowing.

It made Draco want to hex something. Or vanish.

He sat a little longer. Didn’t move when a ghost drifted through the far wall, trailing frost and silence. Just stared past it, jaw tight.

Eventually, the weight of stillness got too loud.

He stood. Adjusted his collar. Tucked the edge of his sleeve back beneath his glove and turned before he could stop himself. Down the corridor.

He passed the long windows near the Transfiguration wing. Saw his reflection—drawn, tight around the eyes, still too obvious.

Pathetic.

He needed quiet.

Not dungeon-quiet. Not library-quiet. Something alive. Something unbothered.

And somehow, that led him to the greenhouses.

The glass doors creaked when he pushed them open, the warm, damp air curling over his skin like breath. It smelled like dirt and moss and something vaguely citrus. Not a soul in sight—except for Longbottom, bent over a cluster of squat, leafy plants near the far wall.

Of course.

Draco considered turning around.

He didn’t.

Instead, he stepped inside, boots scuffing quietly against the worn stone path as he moved down a row of benches lined with potion-friendly flora. Some were still scorched at the edges, like they’d only just been repotted from war-damaged plots.

Longbottom didn’t look up. His fingers moved steadily over a small cluster of seedlings, pressing soil around their bases, careful but unafraid.

Draco stopped at the end of the row. Watched.

One of the seedlings trembled slightly under Longbottom’s touch, releasing a faint shimmer of gold. Draco blinked. He recognized it—Phoenixwort. Rare. Temperamental. Nearly impossible to keep alive after replanting.

But here it was. Growing. Thriving, even.

Figures.

“How did you get it to stabilize?” Draco asked before he could stop himself.

Longbottom glanced up, hesitated—like he was deciding if this was worth saying aloud.

Then: “Took a few tries,” he said. “They don’t respond to force. Or fear. They have to think they’re safe.”

Draco barked a laugh. Harsh. Dismissive. “Sounds sentimental.”

Longbottom didn’t blink. Just pressed soil around the stem like he hadn’t heard. “No. Just true.”

They lapsed back into silence. It wasn’t awkward. Not exactly.

Draco walked a little further down the path, pausing at another planter—this one filled with tiny violet-leafed things that looked like they’d snap if breathed on.

Everything in here was breakable. And yet it kept going.

He stared at the rows of growth for a moment too long, jaw tight, hands deep in his pockets.

The war had been loud. Then silent. Then this—quiet plants and Longbottom talking like things just... grew back. Like who you were before didn’t matter.

Longbottom, of all people. Found something worth building.

Typical. Even bloody Longbottom had found something to make sense of.

Things were rebuilding here. Unlike him. Unlike the castle still spitting out smoke.

Longbottom spoke again, soft but certain. “Sometimes... things come back better than they were.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “And sometimes they don’t.”

He stepped back from the planter, brushing imaginary dirt from his sleeve, the scent of damp soil thick in his lungs, Longbottom’s words still echoing somewhere deeper than he wanted to admit.

A moment passed.

Then he turned. Left without a word, without a glance, but the words followed him.

The castle corridors were colder. His breath fogged faintly in the air. His sleeves reeked of greenhouse damp. He rubbed at one wrist like it might come off.

It didn’t.

Potter would’ve said something just as soft. Draco would’ve ignored him. But this—Longbottom, saying it like it was fact—that clung worse.

Sometimes, things come back better than they were.

Draco almost laughed.

Hermione Granger wasn’t something you repotted and hoped for the best.

He wasn’t sure she could come back. He wasn’t sure he could either. Not like before. Maybe not at all.

A ghost slipped through the wall behind him—young, maybe fifth year once, face half-missing where spellfire must’ve taken it. The robes were torn at the badge. Hufflepuff.

Draco didn’t move.

It didn’t look at him. Just kept drifting, silent and aimless, trailing cold like fog.

Dust clung to the air. The kind that never settled. The kind that remembered.

The castle didn’t forget. It made sure they didn’t, either.

His hand flexed before he could stop it.

The ring pressed into his skin—familiar, cold, unwelcome.

He’d stopped looking at it weeks ago, but the weight was always there.

Inherited, inescapable.

Like the ghost. Like everything else.

Draco’s boots echoed down the corridor as he walked without aim, slower than necessary. He kept his hands in his pockets, his eyes on the cracks in the stone. 

He reached the stairwell and pulled himself upright—spine straight, expression blank, tie immaculate.

Control. He could still manage that.

Then he turned. One last loop of the hall, and he’d be done.

But then—

He saw them.

Granger. And Weasley.

Again.

Tucked near the library corridor, speaking in low tones—too close, too familiar. She wasn’t smiling. But she wasn’t backing away either.

She said something. He nodded, too eagerly. Reached out—just enough to brush the curve of her arm. Casual. Like it belonged to him.

Her elbow shifted subtly, stepping just out of range. His fingers missed by a breath. He dropped his hand. Didn’t try again.

Draco almost turned, almost walked the other way—but then she nodded again and her shoulders were already shifting away.

A small thing. A blink. But Draco caught it.

When she walked off, Weasley watched her go for a beat too long.

Pathetic.

Draco muttered under his breath—“Bloody hell.", and before he could think better of it, his feet were already moving—

Quick. Controlled. Toward her.

Until—

“Granger.”

She froze mid-step. Her bag shifted on her shoulder. Her fingers twitched.

There was a split second when he could’ve said something real.

Not a demand. Not a sneer. Just her name, and maybe something that wasn’t covered in bitterness and bile.

But the moment passed. And he picked the wrong words. As always.

“Why the hell did you tell Weaselette?” Draco’s voice cut through the corridor—sharp, cold.

Hermione froze. Her shoulders squared, chin lifted. “She’s my friend. She asked.”

“So you told her?” His voice curled low. “Let her decide what I was?”

He stepped closer, voice lowering. “Did you tell Potter too? He’s been watching me like he knows. Like he’s waiting for something to snap.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You’ve been... off. Don’t blame that on me.”

Draco scoffed. “Right. Because you’re walking around like nothing happened.”

She hesitated. Her mouth opened—then shut.

“Funny,” she said tightly, “coming from the one pretending Zabini doesn’t know every move you make.”

“I didn’t tell him.”

That made her falter.

Her eyes narrowed, confused, almost startled. “You didn’t?”

A pause. She blinked once, hard.

“Oh.”

Draco frowned. “Oh?”

She looked at him like she didn’t recognize him. Like maybe, she’d imagined something different—someone different.

“Of course you didn’t,” she said, almost to herself.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked, frowning.

Granger shook her head, jaw working like she was trying to swallow a sentence she didn’t want to speak.

“You didn’t tell anyone,” she muttered.

“No,” she added quickly, too quickly, like the words jumped out before she’d reviewed them. “Of course not. Why would you?”

She folded her arms, schooling her tone. “It’s more convenient for you this way. You never have to defend what happened, because you never acknowledged it did—”

“I don’t parade things around for attention.” He cut her off.

Her expression tightened. “No. You just stare from across rooms and pretend it didn’t happen. Like that’s not its own kind of performance.”

Draco stiffened. “Don’t twist this.”

“I’m not,” she said, barely above a whisper. “You are. You didn’t tell anyone because it’s easier for you if it never happened,” she added. “Because then you don’t have to answer for it. Or for why you let me go.”

“I didn’t let you go,” he growled.

“Oh?” She turned, finally meeting his eyes. “You didn’t stop me.”

He was standing too close now. Too still. She hadn’t moved away.

His gaze dropped—just for a second—to her mouth.

Then her jaw flexed. Steel returning.

“You didn’t—” He stopped. Jaw clenched. “You didn’t look back.”

It sounded smaller out loud than it had in his head. Like it mattered too much.

“I didn’t have to,” she snapped. “You were already walking away.”

The silence between them rippled—thick, hot, and brittle. Because he did not walk away.

Finally, Hermione’s voice softened—but not kindly. “We’re not the same, Malfoy. You kissed me, then buried it. I kissed you, then realized I shouldn’t have.”

That one stung.

But Draco only smiled, thin and dangerous. “Of course. Because you had someone else to go back to.”

Hermione’s expression darkened. “This isn’t about Ron.”

“You sure?” His voice dropped. “Because you don’t shove him away. You don’t look like it hurts.”

Her mouth opened. Closed again. Something almost surfaced in her eyes—something too sharp, too soft. She swallowed it and instead said:

“Because it doesn’t mean anything.”

Draco’s voice turned razor-sharp. “And I do?”

Silence.

“You don’t get to—” Her voice broke off. She blinked. “You don’t get to act like you’re bleeding, and then—then bite like it’s nothing. Like none of this ever touched you.”

“You don’t—”

She faltered. Blinked hard. Like the next word had vanished halfway to her mouth.

“I—bloody hell—” She didn’t swear often. That made it worse.

“Granger—”

“No.”

A pause.

“It’s none of your business!” Her voice cracked through the hallway, sharp, furious, completely unrestrained. 

Draco sneered, because he didn’t know. 

Because she was part of it. 

Because everything about this—about her—had been spiralling for weeks, and he had no idea how to stop it. 

“It isn’t,” he drawled, tilting his head, watching her through half-lidded, deliberate amusement, like her rage didn’t affect him, like he wasn’t enjoying it too much. “Is just funny watching you fall for the same thing, over and over again.” 

She gasped. 

Her entire face flushed with fury, her hands trembled at her sides, and Draco had the distinct feeling that if she had her wand out, he’d be on the floor already. 

She exhaled sharply. Looked away, like something had cracked but she wouldn’t name it.

“Ron is trying to make things right, Malfoy.” Her voice was low, sharp, cutting, every syllable dripping with pure, righteous fury. “But you wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?” 

Draco laughed, but it was cold. Bitter. Sharp. Dangerous. 

“Right.” His lip curled as he took a step forward, forcing her to tilt her chin up to keep glaring at him. “Because he suddenly remembers how to treat you well?” 

The air shifted. 

Draco felt it before he saw it—the way her breathing hitched, the way her fingers twitched, the way her entire body stiffened like he had struck something deep, something raw, something that hurt more than she wanted to admit. 

Her voice shook when she spoke, but not with fear. 

With rage. 

“You have no idea what you’re talking about.” 

And maybe he didn’t. 

Maybe he wasn’t thinking straight, maybe this wasn’t about Weasley at all. Maybe this was about his own unbearable frustration, his own inability to make sense of what the hl had been happening to him since the moment they kissed. 

But Draco was too far gone to stop. 

He stepped closer. 

Lowered his voice. 

Made it soft. Made it cut deeper. Then he said it—the worst thing so far:

“You’re just—” Draco exhaled hard, voice tight. “You want him to prove you picked right”

He stepped closer—just barely—and her breath stuttered. Like it had that night. Like her lungs remembered what her mind wouldn’t allow.

Her fingers twitched.

His hand followed—close. Almost.

She didn’t step back.

Her chin tilted up. Her eyes burned.

He should’ve said something. 

Instead, he stood there, every muscle locked in place. Like his own pride was a spell cast too tightly around his ribs.

He wanted to reach for her. Just once. Just to see if she’d pull away.

Her mouth parted like she might say something, or maybe not say anything at all.

His hand hovered close to her sleeve.

He could feel the warmth of her skin, close enough to brush his wand fingers.

She leaned forward—barley, but it counted. Her eyes flicked to his mouth, then shut tight. Her hand twitched at her side, rising—and then froze halfway, like the motion itself betrayed something. She stepped back, sharp, like air had returned too fast.

He didn’t breathe. Couldn’t.

He’d imagined it—except he hadn’t.

The space between them still wasn’t much. Just enough to make everything worse. The corridor seemed to fall away around them, the silence thickening until it pressed against his skin.

He could feel her breath near his collar, and he could have closed the distance. He could have kissed her again.

His fingers twitched. Then curled into a fist. Not against her—against himself. He took a step back so fast it jarred his knee against the stone wall. The cold helped.

Barely.

His spine straightened, the moment snapping in two as he pulled back without moving. And then, because he didn’t know how else to survive it, he twisted the knife.

“But let me guess, Granger—”

His voice could’ve stayed silent. It almost did, but the words were already rotting behind his teeth. And the silence between them was too full of things they’d never unsay. His voice dipped, cruel and casual.

“How long until he leaves again?”

Hermione flinched like he’d slapped her.

She didn’t mask it. Didn’t hide behind cold logic or steady composure. Her hands curled into fists at her sides, and when she met his eyes, there was no calculation—just fury. And hurt.

He should’ve stopped. He didn’t.

Words were sharper than spells anyway.

“You think—” He shook his head once, voice dropping. “You really think Weasley can handle what’s left of you? What the war—what it made you?”

His lip curled.

“I’ve seen what’s left of you, Granger. When the lists are gone. When there’s no one to impress. Just—what’s left.”

A beat.

“You think he still wants you? After all that?” His voice cracked, low. “After the war rewrote you? After the part of you that used to believe in people got scorched?”

Her head snapped slightly—just a flicker of motion, a crack in the porcelain.

“Go to hell, Malfoy.”

Her voice wasn’t loud, but it landed like a curse anyway.

She didn’t answer at first. Just stared at him, eyes unreadable. He almost preferred the yelling. Then—

“Is this a game to you?” Her voice cracked, too loud in the corridor. “You think digging up the worst parts of me makes you—what—smarter? Stronger? Less wrecked?”

Her voice cracked, but she kept going.

“You don’t know the first thing about what he’s done. He hurt me, yes. But he apologized. You don’t even acknowledge damage—you just step around it.”

Draco blinked. Something in her expression knocked the wind out of him.

This wasn’t the Granger who argued over syllabi or corrected him in Potions with that infuriating calm.

This was someone stripped down—frayed, furious, hurting.

Someone scraped raw.

“You don’t get to do this,” she said, voice unsteady but rising. “You—”

Granger took a breath—sharp, uneven.

“You—Merlin, I don’t even know what I’m saying—”

She shook her head again. “You kissed me like it—like it meant something. And then—”

Another breath.

“Then you were gone.”

He opened his mouth. Nothing came.

He hated how quiet it was, like she'd hexed the words out of him.

When he finally spoke, it was low, not steady:

“You kissed me,” he said. Blunt. “Let’s not rewrite that part.” He stared at her. “You kissed me. Then you left.”

“One of us had to,” she snapped—quick, brittle, like the words had been waiting.

He opened his mouth. No excuse came fast enough.

“Don’t stand there like this is some favour,” she said, her breath catching on the edge of it. “Like you’re doing me a kindness by sticking around in the ruins.”

Her eyes locked on his.

“You weren’t just in the rubble, Malfoy. You helped bring it down.”

It hit like a curse. No yelling. No wand. Just the truth—sharp, and unforgiving.

Draco stepped back. Just once. Like his own thoughts had shoved him.

His stomach twisted. He shoved it down. Didn't matter.

He jammed his hands in his pockets, fists clenched. His ring caught on the edge of his sleeve—cold against his skin.

A reminder. Of who he still was. Or who he was supposed to be.

And that person didn’t owe her anything. Not Granger.

She was the enemy once—still might be.

So why the hell did it feel like he’d lost something?

“I didn’t—” Draco’s voice caught. He looked away. “I didn’t mean that—”

“You did.” She cut him off, voice steadier now. “You meant every word.” Her voice was flat now. Almost quiet. “And that’s the part I—” She stopped. Exhaled slowly. “That’s the part I won’t forget.”

Her eyes glittered—not with tears, but with clarity. The kind that cracked through denial like lightning.

“I knew better,” she said quietly. “But I let you in. That’s on me.” She shook her head. “You’re not the worst choice I’ve ever made, Malfoy.” She met his eyes, steady and brutal. “Just the one I regret most clearly.”

Then she turned.

This time, with purpose. With decision. With finality.

A portrait behind him whispered, “That one broke something.” He didn’t turn to see which one it was.

He didn’t move. Hands half-closed. Like something had slipped.

Because for the first time in years, he wasn’t sure what hurt more: The look she gave him—or the one she didn’t.

Somewhere, in the back of his skull, Longbottom’s words stirred again.

Better than they were.

He didn’t flinch.

Just straightened his tie.

Held still.

Like nothing had touched him. Control, he could still fake it.

Chapter Text

The brightness of the room scraped against his eyes.

Draco blinked at the chalkboard, squinting at the diagram of non-verbal defensive casting before lowering his gaze to the scuffed stone floor. Sunlight glinted off the edge of Granger’s sleeve; she hadn’t looked at him once, but her quill slipped in her hand—just briefly.

He kept his head down, hands folded, jaw clenched, wand untouched atop his parchment like it didn’t belong to him.

Speaking wasn’t part of the plan. Neither was looking. Thinking least of all.

Luna Lovegood sat beside him, a quill behind one ear, humming softly and mostly off-key. Her parchment was a strange mix of defensive charm diagrams and hand-drawn Thestrals. A beetle rested on her ink bottle, unbothered. She hadn’t brushed it away.

Draco stared at the beetle. It stared back—or maybe it didn’t. Either way, it stayed still.

The match was later today. Everyone was tense about it—except him. He’d forgotten to care somewhere between not sleeping and getting too many detentions.

“Today,” Professor Weasley said from the front of the room, “we’ll be practicing non-verbal Shield Charms under pressure. Real pressure. You’ll be paired as usual. Try not to hex anyone’s eyebrows off.”

He walked to the back, flicking his wand at a practice dummy that lurched into movement with a grind of gears.

Behind him—Granger. Straight-backed. Focused. Pretending. The silence felt forced. 

Lovegood tilted her head slightly. “You keep pretending you don’t want to look at her.”

Draco didn’t respond. His grip on his wand tightened.

Luna continued, “But your body isn’t very good at pretending.”

Draco hated how right she was. He hated that it showed. He hadn’t realized he was gripping the edge of the desk until the wood dug into his palm.

Professor Weasley cast a low-pressure Stunner toward the dummy’s left arm. The charm struck with a dull impact, ricocheting off the dummy’s shoulder. He gestured to the room. “Focus. React. No verbal cues. Use your instincts. Use the connection to your partner’s motion. The point is to feel it before you think it.”

Draco scoffed. He hated this kind of magic. It was too exposed. No rules. No strategy. Just raw reaction—and raw was never safe.

Luna hummed again and raised her wand. “Ready?”

He nodded once. 

The first spell she sent wasn’t even aimed at him, but Draco flicked his wand up instinctively, shielding it. Too sharp. Too fast. Overcompensating.

Professor Weasley’s voice drifted past. “Malfoy, Lovegood—less force. Try again.”

Lovegood smiled like she hadn’t noticed anything wrong. Draco reset his stance. His jaw was clenched so tightly it ached.

In the corner of his eye, he caught Potter watching him. Not glaring, watching. Like he was waiting for something to snap.

And yet again, his eyes went to Granger. 

Her hand moved in a clean upward arc, shielding her Ravenclaw partner from a practice Stunner. She didn’t stumble. Didn’t even twitch when he sent a spell her way.

Across the room, Weaselbee laughed—too loud, as usual. He elbowed Abbott, missing the target entirely, then called over his shoulder, “Oi, Hermione—save some precision for the NEWTs, yeah? You’re making the rest of us look like trolls.”

She huffed a quiet laugh without looking at him, adjusted her grip and raised her wand again.

“Just glad I’m not on the other side of that wand any more,” Ron added, lower now, to Abbot—but not low enough. “She always did know how to cut you down without blinking.”

Granger didn’t deny it. Didn’t even glance up. But the smile that tugged at her mouth looked real.

Draco’s hand twitched. Of course Weasley could still make her smile. Of course he could joke like it was all so easy—like he hadn’t spent sixth year being a walking disaster and seventh barely showing up for her.

He hadn’t earned that laugh. But he got it anyway. While Draco didn’t even got a bloody glance.

Because of course, Granger was always the Gryffindor—convinced the right book made her untouchable. As if magic would bend for her because she read the right bloody book.

That was the worst part. She could dismantle him and never flinch. As if he didn’t exist in her world beyond an academic nuisance. Like she’d already filed it away. An error. Not worth a second thought.

It infuriated him.

Lovegood’s next charm grazed his shoulder. He didn’t flinch. Wouldn’t give them that. 

The light impact barely stung, but the failure of shielding it echoed louder than it should have. He cursed under his breath and reset.

Weasley—the older one—stopped beside them. “Focus, Malfoy. That delay’ll cost you your nose next time.”

Draco didn’t look at him. Only nodded, jaw locked, and muttered, “Sorry.”

Lovegood turned her wand in her fingers, watching him, and he knew better than to ask what she was thinking.

She said it anyway. “Don’t worry. Feelings get in the way sometimes. Even with wandwork.”

He froze. Didn’t respond, and turned away.

He tried not to watch Granger. Failed. Her grip was off now. Still better than his. 

Always the bloody Gryffindor poster girl, while his spells were off. Too late. Too strong. Twice, Lovegood flinched.

The bell finally ring and he packed his things with precise, deliberate movements. 

He said nothing to Lovegood. Didn’t say goodbye. Just walked out of class with too much noise in his head.

The door shut too loud behind him.

The corridor outside was colder than it should’ve been. Probably the wind. Or maybe something else pulling loose beneath his ribs.

He should’ve gone to the pitch. Or the dorm. Or to the common room to drown in Quidditch prep.

Instead, he walked. Past the third-floor. Nowhere in particular. Only enough to pretend he wasn’t waiting to see her.

Where did she go after class? Would she be with Weasley? Would she even mention him?

He didn’t know. And the fact that he didn’t know—that got under his skin more than anything.

But if she wanted quiet… there was only one place to go.

The air felt thicker as he climbed toward the library level. He wasn’t planning to go there. Not really.

At least that was what he told himself.

His feet made the decision before he did.

He reached the corridor that led to the library and he should’ve turned back. Should’ve told himself she wouldn’t be here.

But one table was occupied.

He knew it was her. And he should’ve turn around. But he didn’t. And he hated himself for it.

Granger sat alone, hunched over a spread of parchment and a thick, battered spell manual. Her shoulders were tight. Her hair was twisted back with a quill stuck through the knot, wand rested on the table, tip twitching occasionally like she’d been correcting lines with unnecessary precision.

A few inches from her hand, a complicated runic equation bloomed across the parchment, half-finished. Shield charm variants. She paused only to circle one rune and underline it—twice. Her mouth moved slightly, like she was testing the pronunciation in her head.

She hadn’t looked up, but she shifted her ink bottle an inch to the left—on purpose. Lined her parchment again. Precision for the sake of control. It wasn’t for the work. It was for him. She knew he was there. She wanted him to know she didn’t care.

His boots struck the stone louder than he meant them to. 

She looked up and met his eyes—calm, cold, guarded. Like she’d trained for this.

“There are plenty other free tables,” she said without inflection. She didn’t tell him to leave. Just shut the door with posture and silence.

He hated that she knew how to do that, hated even more what came out of his mouth before he could stop it.

“Are you getting back with him?”

He should have said nothing. Should’ve left. But the question was already in his mouth.

She stilled.

No twitch. No gasp. Only stillness. The kind she only pulled out when something landed too close.

 “Malfoy—”

“Just answer.”

Her jaw clenched. Her eyes stayed down, and she didn’t speak. Not at first. Not at all.

Draco waited. One beat. Two.

Still nothing.

That was worse.

The silence. The refusal. Like she’d weighed the cost of answering him and decided he wasn’t worth it.

His exhalation came sharp through his nose. Bitter. Flat.

“So that’s it?” he muttered. “You don’t even have the guts to say it?”

She still didn’t look at him. Still didn’t answer.

He stepped forward. Slow. Controlled.

But something in him was cracking.

She finally glanced up. And the look in her eyes wasn’t fury. It wasn’t pity.

It was restraint.

Like she had too much to say and didn’t trust herself to say any of it.

Like she’d already decided he didn’t deserve to hear it.

That burned.

“I didn’t ask for this,” he bit out.

Her voice came back low. Measured. “Neither did I.”

She closed her eyes for half a second. When they opened again, something was gone—maybe patience. 

“You look at me like I’m supposed to know what to do with this. With you,” she said, almost quietly. “Like I owe you some kind of answer for the mess we made.”

Her fingers curled at her sides, then unclenched. “But I don’t even know how to explain it to myself.”

Then she stood up, voice sharpening—

“I fix books. Spells. People. But I’m not fixing you.” 

Draco snapped, “Did I ask you to?”

His voice cut fast—too fast. “Don’t flatter yourself, Granger. I’m not broken. And if I were, the last thing I’d need is your kind of help.”

They stared at each other.

He couldn’t breathe right. Her hands were locked like she was bracing for impact.

His gaze dropped to her mouth—too long. He didn’t mean to, but he didn’t stop either.

She saw it.

“Don’t look at me like you want me, you don’t,” she said, “You want the girl who’d walk away. You want the bloody chase”

He almost laughed. “You started it.”

Granger slapped her hands on the table—sharp, loud, a crack of wood on stone. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t back away. Just braced, like the only thing keeping her steady was the fury itself.

From across the stacks, Madam Pince hissed a warning shhh—sharp as a hex.

Neither of them moved.

“You think I don’t know that?” she snapped, but her voice was lower.

Draco stepped in, crowding the space between them.

“So what was it, then? Pity?”

“Don’t,” she warned.

He saw it—the flicker. Not fear. Not revulsion. Not something he could name. Her breath stuttered.

She blinked like it might reset the moment.

“You think this is new?” she whispered sharply. “You think I didn’t see it coming? You’re unstable, you’re angry, you hate yourself more than you hate me. And if I give you more than one piece of me, you’ll use it to hurt us both.”

He didn’t stop.

“Oh, I see. You saw it coming and still let it happen. That is bloody worse” His voice twisted. “Makes it conscious. Makes it yours.”

She squared up. “It wasn’t supposed to happen. And I don’t want it to again.”

She looked away first this time. Not far, but enough. “I’ve spent years becoming someone who wouldn't make mistakes like this.”

He scoffed. “And yet here you are, Granger—still making them. Funny how that works.”

Her voice was hoarse. “At least I am not pushing until it sounds worse than it is—just so you can hate it more.”

Her breath stuttered, once.

Behind her, a loose page fluttered off the table and skated across the floor like it was trying to escape the room.

“You corner me like I owe you something,” she said. “And I hate how much of me still wants to give it.”

Her hands trembled as she pushed the parchment aside, and that was the crack—Draco saw it.

She hated being wrong. But more than that, she hated being right about wanting him.

A beat passed. She looked at him, really looked. “You wanna know? Fine. I kissed you because I was tired of pretending I didn’t want to.”

Her hand tightened on the table’s edge. She looked like she wanted to run. Or scream. Or both. And maybe if he’d said one more cruel thing, she would’ve. But instead, he said nothing. Just stood there, breathing, waiting.

And then she kissed him—like it would shut her up.

No warning. No pause. Just teeth and heat and frustration. Her mouth hit his too hard. Their teeth knocked. His balance slipped, and his hands flew to her waist, more for steadiness than want.

It wasn’t careful. It wasn’t mutual. It was chaos, collision.

Her hands clenched in his shirt—like she needed to erase him. His back hit the table behind him. She shoved forward again.

Draco kissed her back. Because she was heat and anger and everything he shouldn’t want—and did anyway.

But then it faltered.

Too much pressure. Her lips slid. Their noses bumped. A breath caught at the wrong time.

The words slipped out from his mouth, breathless—

“This shouldn’t—”

But she kissed him harder, and the rest died in his mouth.

And her kiss deepened—hot, unthinking—and he followed her lead.

Fingers tightened. Her breath hitched. His balance cracked.

Then she stopped. Abrupt. Clean.

Her lips slowed—but didn’t break. Not yet.

His hand found the back of her neck. Hesitant. Careful. For once, not a challenge.

And for a breath, she leaned into it.

For one breath, she let him win. His nose budging her cheek. But then—

“Please,” she said. “Don’t.”

He flinched. His hands hovered, breath catching, too close—but he didn’t touch her. Couldn’t. Didn’t move.

“Why?” he asked, too quiet, too fast.

She didn’t move right away. Her hand lingered near his chest, not touching—but hovering like it might. Like she wanted to undo the kiss and couldn’t find the spell for it.

“Because if I do this again—” Her voice cracked once. “I won’t stop.”

A pause. A breath.

She looked away as she stepped back. “And I can’t keep losing pieces of myself just to feel you.”

Draco’s hands dropped to his sides. Fingers twitching. 

He didn’t move as she gathered her things. Didn’t stop her when she reached the door.

She didn’t look back.

He almost called after her. Not her name—something cruel. Something to make her flinch.  

He knew exactly which words would do it. He’d used them before. Filthy. Undeserving. Beneath him, beneath her .

He was better at being awful than being honest.

But the words died before they reached his mouth.  

He stayed in the library too long after she left. Long enough for the silence to feel deliberate. The parchment she'd left behind curled at the edge, catching the breeze from the high window. He didn’t move to touch it. Just stood there, listening to nothing, his pulse hadn’t caught up to the silence

He stared at the ring.

Stared at nothing.

The match was minutes away. He couldn’t feel his legs.

And her name still echoed like a spell miscast. Not wrong—but dangerous.

All he could think about was the feel of her mouth, and how she pulled away like he was poison.

He started to move and, by the time he hit the stairs, his broom was already slung over his shoulder.

He didn’t remember grabbing it. Only knew he needed to fly.

The wind bit harder above the pitch. Draco liked it that way—air, distance, silence.

Slytherin’s green and silver banners whipped in the wind behind him as he circled above the far goalposts, eyeing the clouds like they’d drop the Snitch early. Like, if he flew hard enough, it might actually matter.

The crowd roared behind him, a wall of sound he couldn’t hear properly.

The match started and he was not looking for her.

The broom jarred his grip as he cut past Pucey, wind sharp in his ears. Like flying hard enough might erase the aftertaste of her mouth.

Ginny Weasley twisted in midair to dodge a bludger, letting the red Quaffle arc over her shoulder with impossible confidence, one hand braced on her broom, the other already reaching to intercept the rebound.

She looked up as she caught it. Met Draco’s eye. Smirked like she had something to prove.

His thoughts shifted. Granger’s mouth was probably still red. His chest still felt the push of her hand.

Below him, Blaise was shouting something to Daphne near the scoring zone—probably to cut inside and force an opening—but the sound blurred. Draco tuned it out. Focused on patterns. Trajectories. Shapes.

Potter passed low beneath the stands. Glint of goggles. Watching again.

He gave Draco a look—sharp, unreadable. Like he knew something. Like he was waiting for Draco to lose whatever grip he still had. He tried to ignore it.

The Snitch had to be near. He’d felt the shift in the air, the tension of motion that didn’t belong.

He ducked under a high Bludger and scanned. Nothing.

Gryffindor scored.

Draco didn’t look toward the stands. Not at first. He was halfway through a loop toward the other end of the pitch when his eyes betrayed him. She was there.

The wind ripped at his sleeves as he dove. No plan. Only speed. Wind and noise and thoughts he couldn’t outrun.

By the time he saw the Snitch, gleaming right above the Hufflepuff stands, he was already too late.

Potter had it.

Draco was closer. He knew it. His body had trained for this moment since he could hold a broom, and he froze. Because she was bloody there.

He gripped the broom like he wanted to break it.  

It was stupid. Weak. Like his father after the war—trying to be relevant and failing.

And here he was, still chasing gold like it rewrote the past.

The roar from Gryffindor was deafening. Red flags waved like fire, banners shaking. 

Draco landed hard, the pitch rushing up beneath him faster than it should have. He didn’t wait for the team.

Neither did he take off his gloves. Didn’t speak to anyone. Just kept walking toward the changing tent as the stands erupted in noise.

“Nice form,” Potter said, stepping across the pitch in his muddy boots. “Right up until you froze.”

Draco didn’t break stride. “Still trying to coach me, Potter?”

“Just calling it like I saw it.” his voice was even. Not smug—just infuriatingly Gryffindor. “You blink at the wrong moment, Malfoy, and you lose. That’s how it works.”

No pause. “Still talking like you know everything?”

Harry’s voice was flat. “Still acting like you don’t care when you clearly do.”

He scoffed and Potter’s brow furrowed. “You’re spiralling.”

A pause. “Whatever’s going on with you—don’t let it break you before the rest of us do.”

Draco’s fingers clenched in his gloves. The cold helped. A little.

He walked away from Potter, wanting nothing more than to be alone, but he heard footsteps behind him.

Theo’s boots always scraped the pitch like he thought it made him sound deliberate. Pansy’s were quieter, more precise. Measured, like she was deciding whether to stab or sneer.

“Got tired of being the villain?” Pansy asked, tone light and venomous, “Thought maybe you’d try out hero for a season.”

He didn’t look back. 

“Letting girls on the team?” Theo said, derision curling under each syllable. “Bold strategy. Real forward-thinking.”

“Very progressive, pity it did not work” Pansy murmured. 

That slowed him.

Draco turned. Not fast. Just enough for it to be a warning.

“If you hate the new team so much,” he said coldly, “try watching from the bottom of the standings. I hear Gryffindor always has room for fans.”

Theo smirked, but his eyes were mean. “The team was fine. The prince leading it?” He shrugged. “Little shaky.”

“You look the part,” Theo said. “But no one’s following you. Not really.”

“At least before, we knew what the rules were,” Theo added. “You’re rewriting everything. That makes people twitchy.”

“Lot of talk from the bench,” Draco replied.

“You think this is about the game?” Pansy snapped. “You’re trying to rebuild the House from ashes,” Theo said. “Problem is, you’re using Gryffindor bloody blueprints.”

Pansy crossed her arms. “And no one asked you to be a reformer. They asked you to win. But all they see is a Malfoy grasping at relevance.”

Draco stepped closer. “And all I see are two ghosts pretending the war didn’t end.”

That hit. Pansy blinked. Theo’s jaw ticked.

“You had power,” Pansy snapped. “Legacy. Control. You handed it over for the chance to be liked.”

“You’re not changing for Slytherin. You’re changing for them.” Theo said tightly.

“For who?” Draco shot back. “The ones who don’t hex first-years for fun? The ones who don’t think loyalty means rot?”

Silence. Thick and sour.

Draco felt the shift—the way they were looking at him now. Not angry. Just… distant.

Like he wasn’t one of them any more.

Maybe he wasn’t.

He’d stopped buying into the old rules, and they knew it.

Didn’t mean he liked the way it felt.

Didn’t mean he’d go back.

Then—

“You know they still call you the Slytherin prince,” Theo said. “But not like before. Now it’s a joke. The boy with a crest and no crown.”

Draco’s hand twitched. Not toward his wand. Toward the ring. 

His fingers caught the edge of it. Slid under it.

He twisted once. Halfway.

It felt cold and sharp against his glove. Pressing into the bone like a reminder. Of the things that didn’t matter any more. Of the ones that still did.

He stared Theo down.

“Then stop kneeling,” he said.

Neither replied.

Blaise appeared in the periphery, hands in his coat pockets, eyes unreadable. He didn’t speak. He never had to.

Draco turned again. Kept walking.

The ring pulsed against his skin with every step. Heavy. Useless. 

He pushed forward, the noise of the crowd already fading behind him. His gloves creaked as he flexed his fingers, but he didn’t take them off.

He didn’t look back and kept walking. Shoulder stiff, chin high, the back of his neck hot.

Blaise didn’t say anything. Didn’t have to. His silence said enough.

Then came Daphne. Dry, level, unbothered.

“You’re flying like you’re trying not to see something,” she said. “No wonder why we lost”

Draco stopped. He was. That was the worst part, but he didn’t look at any of them.

He just kept walking.

The changing tent was cool and dim. His gloves came off in slow, careful pulls. One, then the other. He sat, pulled off his pads, and let them drop onto the bench with soft, deliberate thuds.

He could still feel her eyes. Or maybe he was imagining them. Didn’t matter.

The locker room had emptied before Draco made it back to the dungeons. Pucey had muttered something about bruised ribs. Vance had stormed off first, helmet under one arm, mumbling about broom interference. Millicent hadn’t spoken at all—just yanked off her gloves and vanished through the exit flap like she had somewhere better to be.

Draco said nothing. Didn’t stop them.

The common room went quiet when he walked in. One of the students straightened when he entered, mouth half-open like he might say something about the match.

Draco just looked at him once.

That was enough.

He headed straight for the dorms. Shoulders stiff. Boots echoing too sharply off the flagstones. 

His trunk sat untouched at the foot of his bed. His gear bag slumped open against the wall. 

His fingers brushed the ring again. He wanted to take it off. He didn’t.

It still weighed the same. Still sat like a verdict that being a Malfoy meant inheriting things you didn’t choose and pretending they belonged to you. 

Draco leaned back against the stone wall between the bookcase and the narrow window, one boot braced, arms folded like he could press the tension into stillness.

Blaise pushed open the dormitory door with the heel of his hand and let it slam shut behind him.

The scent of wind and pitch still clung to Draco’s jersey. He was stiff with sweat. He hadn’t even showered.

Blaise crossed the room and leaned a shoulder against the nearest bedpost—his, probably. He didn’t speak at first. 

Draco could feel it. That measured, sharp-eyed stare Blaise had perfected over the years. The one that waited. The one that knew exactly how long silence could last before someone broke.

 “We lost,” Draco broke it.

Blaise’s eyes didn’t narrow. Didn’t widen. 

“We had it,” he said. “Everything lined up. You knew their formation. You called their shifts before they made them. But you flew like your hands weren’t on the broom.”

Draco could still feel her hand on his chest. Still feel the moment she kissed him, then pulled away before they could do more damage. But the game? He barely remember it.

Blaise’s voice dropped. “What the hell’s going on with you?”

He didn’t bother with venom. It was too cold for that. He sounded tired. Disappointed, maybe. Or worse—concerned.

Draco hated that.

He ran a hand through his hair and let his head knock back against the stone. The impact was dull. Solid.

“I’m fine.”

Blaise didn’t flinch. “Bollocks.”

“Drop it.”

“Not a chance.”

That pulled Draco’s gaze down. Hard. His jaw locked.

He stared at Blaise for a long second, voice low and tight.

“I said—drop it.”

“You’re not eating. You’re not sleeping. You’re skipping strategy nights. You’re flying like your balance is off, and you’re reacting three seconds behind. And I’m supposed to pretend it’s fine?”

Draco’s pulse skipped once. Then settled. He didn’t answer as he braced for shouting. For mockery.

It didn’t come.

Blaise’s voice dropped.

“You worked too hard to fall apart this easily.”

Not loud. Not cold. Just honest—and that made it worse.

“You train harder than any of us. Then you throw it all away over what?”

He shook his head, not like he was angry—like he was disgusted with himself for expecting more.

“You build a new team, under a lot of bloody scrutiny, and then–.”

A pause. Sharp. Final. “Then you go and cost us the bloody game.”

That hit.

Because it wasn’t just the game. It was everything.

Draco’s throat burned. He looked away.

Blaise didn’t.

“You had the Snitch in sight. You saw it. You were closer than Potter. But you hesitated. You never hesitate.”

Draco opened his mouth. Closed it. Almost said something unforgivable—something about blood and names and her place. But it stuck in his throat. He wasn’t that boy any more. Or maybe he was and didn’t want Blaise to see it.

Instead, he said:

“She kissed me.”

Blaise stilled. "Who? Granger?" 

Draco didn’t look at him.

“She kissed me. Then shoved me off like I was something foul.”

He didn’t say how desperate it had been. How angry. How badly he’d wanted to chase her. How he hadn’t.

He’d wanted to lash out again, to say something sharp, something final. But he didn’t take the shot. Small mercy, or weakness. He couldn’t decide.

Blaise finally exhaled. “So you kissed her.”

Draco’s head tilted forward. Not quite a nod. “She let me.”

Blaise’s voice came soft, bitter. “And that’s what’s wrecking you?”

Draco let his fingers curl into his sleeve, just once.

“No.” He looked up. Not at Blaise. At nothing in particular. “She meant it. That’s the part I can’t fucking stand.”

Blaise leaned back, folded his arms across his chest, and stared at him like he’d just solved the puzzle no one wanted solved.

“It wasn’t just the kiss, was it?. She cracked something open.” 

Draco slid down the wall. His laugh didn’t make it past his teeth. He couldn’t tell if he was angry or embarrassed.

“I hate that I want her,” Draco muttered. “I hate that she makes me feel like someone my father would've burned out of me.”

He scraped a hand through his hair. “And that pisses me off more than it should.”

Blaise’s face changed. Subtle. Still. But Draco saw it—that flicker of something colder. Not anger. Disappointment, maybe.

“That’s what this is about?” he snapped. “Not the kiss. Not the game. Not the fact that you cost us the win. But what your father would think?”

He didn’t sound surprised. Not really. Blaise could live with Draco losing his head over Granger. But the moment it stopped being about her—and started becoming about who he used to be—that was the line.

Blaise let out a sharp breath.

“You think Lucius bloody Malfoy would’ve been proud of that broom slip? That hesitation?”

He shook his head, voice flat. Not angry—just tired.

“I thought you were done needing his approval.”

A pause.

“Hell, I thought you were trying to prove something to your mum .”

He said it flat, no softness. “At least she wanted you to be better.”

Draco’s tongue pressed hard to the roof of his mouth as he thought of her. Narcissa would never say it aloud, but she’d seen him break before—and helped him stand back up.

She used to press his collar flat and say, Look up, never back. He hadn’t stopped looking back since the war. 

Maybe he shouldn’t have burnt her letters after all.

“He always told me to act like I was better.”

Blaise didn’t look at him when he answered. “Yeah. And look where that got you.”

A pause—too long. Then:

“With a fucking mark burned into your arm.”

Draco flinched. Barely—but it was there. A twitch in his jaw. A shift in his posture, like something had punched through muscle memory. His hand moved, almost unconsciously, to cover his sleeve.

Blaise stood there a moment longer. Then turned, grabbed his jacket off the bedpost, and made for the door. He paused at the threshold.

“Figure out what really matters, Malfoy. Before you end up with nothing left to choose.”

Then he left.

The door didn’t slam. It clicked. Like judgment.

Draco didn’t move. The ring dug into his skin, sharp as ever.

Maybe Blaise was right. Maybe he was clinging to the past worse than he’d realised.

He’d wanted Granger to see something else—something better. But maybe all she saw was exactly what he’d been trying to outrun.

They weren’t opposites. They were force. History. Pressure.

When they collided, it never ended in balance—only aftermath.

And he wasn’t sure what had shattered this time—him, the lie he’d built, or the part of him still pretending he could be both.

Chapter Text

The dungeon ceiling had 143 bricks.

He knew because he counted them.

Twice.

Draco lay flat on the stone bench between the torch sconces, arms folded beneath his head, tie undone, wand discarded on the floor beside him. Useless. Unwanted. The corridor was cold. It had always been—stone and silence and scorch.

He hadn’t gone to Transfiguration. Or Potions. Or the last two Quidditch briefings that Blaise had scratched onto the chalkboard with increasingly furious handwriting.

He wasn’t ready to hear it. Not when Blaise’s voice was still lodged somewhere behind his ribs.

Figure out what really matters, Malfoy. Before you end up with nothing left to choose.

Draco stared at the ceiling. Brick 88 had a crack in the mortar shaped like a dagger. He traced it with his eyes over and over again, until his vision blurred at the edges and the only thing left was the echo of her voice.

Because if I do this again—I won’t stop.

Her words had been sharp. But not cold. Just enough shake in them to make it worse. Like she meant it. Like she regretted it—only a little.

And that was worse.

He sat up, because the stone had started biting into his spine and his legs ached. He didn’t stretch. Didn’t yawn. Just stood, gathered his wand, and drifted.

He passed the Slytherin common room without looking in. Ignored the shuffle of parchment, the whispered strategy, the boy by the fireplace who stood when Draco passed and then slowly sat down again when Draco didn’t acknowledge him.

Outside the castle, the air was thick with fog. He cut through the greenhouses without pausing, boots slick with dew, then wandered toward the stone steps behind the Owlery, where the wind caught harder and the cold felt like permission.

Hours passed.

He didn’t track them by bells or classes or patrol rotations—just by the shift in light across the castle walls, the flicker of torches as evening began. The sky was dull and uncertain, like it hadn’t decided what to become.

His body moved like it remembered things he didn’t. He walked a path he hadn’t decided on. Until, somehow, he ended up on the second-floor landing where the east wing still hadn’t been fully repaired—where the wall opened out into the charred edge of what used to be the Defence corridor.

He leaned against the frame. Watched the wind snake through the half-destroyed tower. Out here, the silence didn’t prod. It just sat with him.

Below, far down near the quad, a familiar flash of movement caught his eye.

Granger.

Her steps were even. Not rushed. She was alone.

Granger always walked like she had a destination. Like forward motion was the only thing keeping her upright.

He hated that about her. Hated the certainty. Like she’d chosen a side and never looked back. Like there was nothing left to question.

She didn’t look up.

He didn’t call out.

He didn’t know if she’d stop.

And if she did—what then? He’d say what? Apologize? Ask if she missed him like a lunatic in the corridor? 

He wondered if that’s what survival looked like. Making a decision and living like it didn’t cost you everything. She’d walked out of a fire and still managed to carry herself like a plan.

Draco pressed his thumb to the edge of the stone, grounding himself in texture, temperature. His balance was off again. Like something kept tugging at him when he wasn’t looking.

No. Not something.

Someone .

And it was infuriating.

He used to know how to keep people out. Used to be sharp. Sleek. Controlled. He was a Malfoy. He had rules.

But lately?

He couldn’t keep things out any more. Not the way he used to.

He skipped dinner.

Blaise would notice. He always did. Maybe he’d say something. Maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe he was done trying.

In the Great Hall, she sat with the Weasley girl, head bent, expression unreadable. From the corridor, he could see them through the tall doorframe.

Potter sat across from her, head tilted, expression unreadable. Weasley had his arms crossed—eyes flicking to her, then to the table. They didn’t speak to her, not while Draco watched. But they didn’t leave either.

Potter’s jaw was tight. Not angry—just worn. Like he was bracing for something that never came.

Weasley kept glancing at her like she might shatter mid-sentence, and he didn’t know whether to touch her or leave her alone.

They weren’t just watching.

They were grieving something, too.

And Draco hated that he could see it. 

He’d wanted to think they were just standing there to play the part.

But maybe they were standing because they were scared she wouldn’t.

Her lips moved occasionally—quiet, careful. She stirred her tea three times before drinking it.

He watched her tuck a curl behind her ear.

That hand—small, calloused, steady—had been on his chest not long ago. Then curled in his shirt. Then gone.

He closed his eye. Her waist had felt too narrow beneath his hands, like holding something meant to vanish. Her breath had hit him—too warm, too sure. She'd made a sound, too, barely audible. Not a gasp, not a word. Something rawer. Like surrender caught halfway through a swallow.

He hadn’t meant to remember that part.

He told himself he didn’t care. That it had been a mistake.

But he couldn’t stop feeling it.

It wasn’t just the way she kissed. It was how she looked at him, only for a second, like he wasn’t rotting. Like he might still be salvageable.

He remembered her breath on his jaw. Too close. Too much. He hated that he still felt it. Like a bloody first-year with a crush.

He’d felt her want him and hated how much of him wanted to deserve it.

That was more dangerous than anything else. And worse—he wanted that. The chance to be undecided. Like she’d seen the worst in him—and didn’t flinch.

The weeks fell apart in pieces. Not loud. Not obvious. Just slowly losing shape.

Classes blurred. He missed enough that people started noticing.

First it was Potions. Then Charms. Then every bloody class he had with her.

McGonagall had said nothing yet, but he’d caught the way she looked at him during meals—sharp, knowing. Like she was biding her time.

He’d thrown a book at the dormitory wall last night. Missed the shelf entirely. The thud had sounded like a heartbeat he didn’t own.

“Pathetic,” he muttered to himself. Then louder: “Bloody pathetic.”

He didn’t clean it up.

The book still hovered midair, slowly rotating in the levitation field he'd never fully turned off. Its spine glowed a faint blue with ambient magic—like even spells couldn’t decide whether to stay or leave.

Others started to notice it too.

He hadn’t even made it down the stairs to the dungeons when she peeled off the shadows and stepped into his path.

“Are you planning on failing discreetly,” Daphne said, “or are we all just meant to watch the implosion on repeat?”

Draco’s eyes flicked to her. Sharp. Exhausted.

“Back off, Greengrass.”

“No.” She stepped into his line again. “You’ve been drifting like a bloody spectre, and I’m done letting you sulk all over the common room like someone hexed your spine off.”

“Not your problem,” he snapped. “Try minding your own.”

“You made it our problem when you started captaining like a ghost. And let’s not pretend Blaise didn’t already try. What—you used up all your brooding quota with him?”

He rolled his eyes. “And here I thought I’d earned a bit of peace and quiet after the war.”

“You didn’t earn anything.” Her voice lost its patience. “You clawed your way back, yes. You earned respect. Not pity. Not this pathetic martyr routine.”

That landed.

He stopped. Turned. His voice was low, venom curling under each word.

“Careful, Daphne. You sound like someone who thinks they know me.”

“I do,” she said, not missing a beat. “I know exactly how much effort it took to build something decent out of the mess you used to be. And I know how fast you’re burning it down because a girl looked at you like you were more than that—and now she won’t again.”

“You think this is about her?” He laughed, short and mean. “You think I’ve unravelled because of some bleeding-heart Gryffindor with a hero complex?”

“No,” she said. “I think you finally wanted something honest. And it scared the hell out of you.”

He took a step forward.

“You think I’m scared?”

She didn’t flinch. “Yes. I think you’re terrified.”

Something twisted in his chest—tight, familiar. Maybe he was scared. But not of her. Of the weight they kept handing him like it was some bloody honour. Of how even collapse came with a performance review.

His voice came out flat, bitter. “I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t ask for redemption, or for a house to follow me around like lost puppies waiting for a rebrand.”

“But you got it anyway.” Her eyes didn’t waver. “And now you want to toss it away like a costume that stopped fitting. But it was never about fit, Malfoy. It was about effort. You rebuilt something. Whether you meant to or not.”

He barked a laugh—sharp, without humour. “You think this is hard?”

His hand flew out, faster than thought. It struck the bookshelf behind him. The sound cracked like a slap in the corridor. A book slid off the top and hit the floor between them.

He didn’t flinch.

“Try waking up with a war carved into your skin. Try walking into every room and wondering who still sees it—who still smells it on you. Try pretending it doesn’t cost you everything just to keep breathing, like you earned the right.”

She leaned in.

“Do you even remember who you were becoming before all this?”

His voice cracked—not soft, but rough.

“Oh, sod off, Greengrass. You want a war report? You want numbers? Bodies?” He shoved up his sleeve—not to the ring this time, but past it.

“There. Take it in. Ink and coursework and a lifetime of rot. Branded, Greengrass. Not marked. Branded.”

The Dark Mark stared back. Two marks, one had been burned in by war. The other? By inheritance. And neither ever let go.

Her mouth flattened, but she didn’t look away.

He’d once thought the Mark was the worst thing a body could carry. But at least it hadn’t been a choice. The ring was worse. The ring meant staying. Meant trying. Meant pretending you could build something with broken tools.

“It’s easy for you to say all this,” he went on, voice sharp and shaking. “You weren’t the one carved open by a man who pretended it was a choice.”

His voice fractured—still hard, but less steady. “You don’t know what that mark took.”

He hadn’t meant to say it. Not out loud. But the words tore out of him like a hex, fast and bitter.

She inhaled through her nose, slow and quiet. But her arms didn’t uncross.

“You think grief’s a shield, Malfoy? You think you get to wave that thing and excuse every bit of decay that followed?”

“No,” he snapped, “but it explains the bloody difference between falling and being pushed.”

She stepped back, cool again. That glacial Daphne calm that said she wasn’t angry—just done wasting time.

“You’re not broken, Malfoy. You’re just missing. So either show up, or get out of the bloody way.”

She turned.

And over her shoulder, without looking back:

“You don’t want to carry that bloody mark? Then stop hiding behind it.”

No reply.

Just Draco’s silence, sharp and stubborn.

And this time, it didn’t slam like a door.

It shut. Final. Locked.

He turned without another word. Steps stiff. Every movement felt too loud, like it might echo back something he didn’t want to hear. His shoulder clipped the stone wall on his way out, but he didn’t slow. Didn’t look back.

Let her keep her certainty.

He took the back stairwell down from the seventh floor, where the torchlight was low, and the stone smelled like forgotten spells.

He wasn’t headed anywhere in particular. Just… away.

The corridor outside the Arithmancy wing was narrow—barely wide enough for two. And he didn’t hear her until the sound of footsteps rounded the other end.

Granger.

Of course it was.

She was alone, arms full of books, hair twisted into something too neat for how late it was. Her head lifted—and she saw him at the same time he saw her.

They both stopped.

A pause. Fractional. But full of unsaid things.

She blinked, shoulders tightening. Her gaze flicked down his body—his unfastened sleeve, the mark on display, his crooked tie, the fact that he looked about two days removed from functioning.

He didn’t speak.

Neither did she, but her lips parted, just slightly. Like she might.

He hated that she looked like she wanted to say something.

Say it, he almost bit out. Say whatever you want to say.

But he didn’t. His hands balled in his pockets instead, nails biting through the lining. 

Something shifted behind her eyes. Not anger. Not disgust.

Something closer to—

Concern?

Then it was gone.

She stepped to the side. He mirrored her. They passed one another in silence and their sleeves brushed. Barely. But it still felt like touching a live wire.

She held steady. He didn’t. And, just before she turned the corner, he saw her pause.

Her hand tightened slightly around her books. She didn’t look back.

Of course she didn’t.

She didn’t have to. She never did. She just kept rebuilding—brick by bleeding brick—like pain was a bloody wall.

She wore her scars like they made her smarter. He wore his like they made him smaller.

Granger was always so bloody composed. Always choosing the high road like it didn’t cost her anything.

And Draco—who had once held her by the waist in the dark, who had memorized the taste of her lips—stood frozen in place, like the air had gone tight. Pressed against his ribs.

She had almost said something.

That was worse than if she had.

Because now he didn’t know what it would’ve been.

A question?

A reckoning?

Or something softer, more dangerous, like I want to kiss you again ?

He swallowed hard and kept walking. The silence buzzed behind his ears like a hex that hadn’t landed properly.

He passed Strategy Night without stepping in. Listened to the chatter of Quidditch plays echo under the stone archway outside the common room, then turned the opposite direction without looking back.

He didn’t bother explaining. 

And if they were smart, they wouldn’t ask. Draco was two bad questions away from snapping.

So he kept walking. Past the archway, past the murmured plays and team strategy pinned to the wall. The weight of the badge still sat in his pocket, cold and unearned.

He didn’t go far. Just far enough that no one would follow.

He’d sat on the cold floor of the dormitory—alone, lights out, boots still on—just staring at his hand.

At the ring.

His father’s. Heavy. Useless. A relic from a house now rotting under house arrest and quiet disgrace.

He slipped it off. Slowly.

It resisted, the way old burdens always do.

For a moment, he just held it. Spun it across his knuckles.

The bone beneath felt naked. Lighter. Too light.

He didn’t throw it.

Didn’t scream or curse or pretend it hadn’t mattered.

But he wanted to.

He wanted to throw something. Break the damn trunk open. Punch the wall until something hurt more than his ribs. But he just sat there. Too hollow to rage. Too used up to grieve.

Eventually, he slid it back on.

It still fit.

Of course it did.

He slammed the trunk shut hard enough to rattle the bed frame.

“Brilliant,” he muttered. “Still fits. Like a bloody leash.”

Sleep didn’t come. Not really. He lay on the bed with the ring biting back into his finger, the room too dark to soothe and too quiet to drown out the noise in his head.

Eventually, the stillness became unbearable.

He shoved the blankets aside, boots still on, and left without checking the time. The corridors were nearly empty—just the rustle of paintings and the distant groan of castle stone.

He didn’t have a destination. Only motion. Something to chase the thoughts back into silence.

He stopped, taking the route through the Astronomy corridor. Too high, too open. The air felt thinner up there. The sky too wide.

And she’d kissed him there once, against the railing, heat in her fingertips, anger in her mouth.

She’d looked at him like she didn’t trust herself—and then kissed him anyway.

Now, even walking past the tower door felt like a dare.

So in the next day he found new paths. Avoided the shortcut that passed Gryffindor Tower, even though it was faster. He didn’t want to see Weasley bristling on her behalf, or Potter pretending to look through him like he was something already buried. Or worse—her walking beside them, not flinching when they stood too near

He could stomach most things, but her mouth, twisting in polite indifference?

He’d rather face the Dark Lord again.

That week, he started counting his steps differently. Measuring which corners to cut, which stairwells echoed less, which paintings wouldn’t whisper when they saw him retreat.

Some avoidance was strategic. Some of it was just muscle memory.

But either way, the effect was the same: he wasn’t seen. Not really.

And when you weren’t seen, no one expected anything from you.

That helped. A little.

Most mornings, he stayed in the dorm until the halls were empty. Missed breakfast. Avoided shared stairwells. Timed his patrols to end late or start early, or skip it altogether.

He wasn’t hiding. Not exactly.

Hiding was for cowards. For people who hadn’t already been dragged through courtrooms and spit out with pity.

This wasn’t hiding. This was refusal.

He just didn’t know what he was refusing.

Days blurred. Nights were quieter. Too quiet, sometimes, even for him. The castle had a way of noticing when you went silent long enough—it started answering back. In creaks. In draughts. In the way people stopped asking where you'd gone.

And maybe that was the point. If no one asked, you didn’t have to explain.

If no one looked—you didn’t have to look back.

Even Blaise gave up. Maybe he thought Draco had already left.

One afternoon, he had tossed a wrapped bar of Honeydukes chocolate on his bed without a word.

Draco didn’t ask why. Didn’t thank him.

But he ate it.

Every square.

Sometimes, Draco would find himself sitting in empty classrooms after hours. Watching dust float in torchlight. Listening to the low hum of castle magic between the walls.

He’d press his hands flat to the desk.

Try to feel grounded. Solid. Real.

And still—he heard her voice.

I can’t keep losing pieces of myself just to feel you.

The echo didn’t fade. It just hung there, heavy.

He told himself it didn’t matter. She had made her choice. She walked away.

But late at night, when the fire in the common room flickered too quietly and the corridors stretched too long—

He caught himself reaching for the ring again.

Spinning it. Feeling the bone underneath.

And wondering if this—whatever this was—was the cost of trying to be something else.

Something more.

The night didn’t end, exactly. It just curled in on itself. 

Morning scraped in through the windows like an afterthought.

And when the folded parchment landed on his desk without fanfare, he wasn’t surprised.

Just… tired.

The summons came in the quiet way that meant it wasn’t a request.

No seal, no signature. Just his name, in McGonagall’s sharp, unmistakable hand.

Mr. Malfoy. My Office. Now.

The now wasn’t underlined. It didn’t need to be.

Draco found himself outside her office less than ten minutes later, tie askew, shirt half-buttoned, jaw clenched like it might keep the rest of him from unravelling.

He didn’t knock. The door opened before he could.

“Come in, Mr. Malfoy,” McGonagall called from behind her desk, her voice clipped.

The room hadn’t changed much—towering bookshelves, charmed quills, tea steam curling in the corner like it belonged more to Dumbledore than to her. The fire was lit low, just enough to fight the chill. A tartan scarf draped over the back of her chair. Two portraits above the desk pretended to sleep.

Draco stepped inside.

He didn’t sit.

McGonagall didn’t ask him to.

For a long moment, she simply regarded him. Her eyes flicked over his half-fastened shirt, the crease in his collar, the stiffness in his stance.

When she spoke, it was quiet. Direct.

“You’ve missed eleven classes in eight days.”

Draco said nothing.

“You’ve failed to attend Quidditch strategy meetings, skipped two patrols, and have yet to submit your spell work journal for November.”

Still nothing.

“I could continue,” she said coolly, “but I imagine you’re already aware of your... academic disappearing act.”

Draco’s mouth twisted. “If you’ve called me up here to read my timetable back at me, Headmistress, I could’ve sent you the annotated version.”

McGonagall’s gaze sharpened. “Mr. Malfoy, do not mistake your familiarity with this office for permission to speak to me with that tone.”

Her voice was quiet, but it cut like a spell cast without a wand.

“You may have grown used to second chances. I suggest you don’t assume them infinite.”

He looked away. Jaw locked.

She folded her hands on the desk. “When I agreed to your return, I made it clear—painfully clear—that you were not owed your place here. That your surname, your family’s contributions—or failures—were not currency you could trade for indulgence.”

Her voice remained even, but the air felt tighter somehow.

“You made promises, Mr. Malfoy. When we sat in this very office last August. You assured me you would not waste this second chance.”

Draco’s fingers twitched at his side. His ring caught the torchlight, gleaming sharper than he meant it to.

“You think this is me wasting it?” His voice was bitter, rising. “I’m still here, aren’t I?”

McGonagall just looked at him. Not angry. Not scolding. Just still.

And that was worse.

She didn’t raise her voice. Didn’t lean forward. But somehow, the space between them felt like it had shrunk.

“You have students watching you,” she said. “You have a team following you. You have a house—fractured, yes, but healing. Slowly. Because you set a new tone.”

Draco snorted. “It’s not charity, I didn’t bloody volunteer to play role model.”

McGonagall’s brow lifted. “Language, Mr. Malfoy.”

Then, more sharply:

“You may not have volunteered, but influence is not always chosen. You are not a child. You are a young man trusted to lead a House still healing its reputation. You don’t get to sulk your way out of that.”

He hated that. Hated how her logic held even when he didn’t want it to. Hated that she could say it without making it sound like praise.

“Your younger students have stopped hexing each other in stairwells,” she continued. “They’re speaking to Hufflepuffs in class. Slytherin hasn’t lost house points to an actual duel in weeks.”

Draco stared at the wall just to the left of her head.

“That is not nothing,” she said quietly.

He shifted his weight. Said nothing.

“And now,” she went on, “you’re on track to lose the very things that gave you the leverage to enact those changes.”

She let the words hang for a beat.

“Your prefect badge,” she said. “And your Quidditch captaincy.”

His head snapped toward her then, almost involuntarily. The tension behind his eyes surged, immediate, hot.

She didn’t blink.

“I don’t issue warnings twice,” she said. “You know that. I made exceptions for you once because I believed—still believe—that you’re capable of being more than the sum of your surname.”

Her tone didn’t soften.

“But my belief in your potential does not negate your responsibility to prove it.”

Draco looked down. His fingers curled. One hand drifted toward his other wrist—hovered.

The ring pressed cold against his palm.

He wanted to take it off. Just for a second. Just to feel what it would be like to not wear the reminder.

Instead, he said—low, cutting, defensive:

Draco’s voice was flat, clipped with resentment.

“You don’t have to pretend I matter that much, Professor. I know what most of the school thinks I deserve.”

McGonagall’s eyes narrowed. “I am not in the habit of pretending, Mr. Malfoy. Least of all to spare the feelings of sulking boys who mistake guilt for insight.”

She let the words settle, cold and sharp.

“You matter because your choices still affect others. That is what it means to lead.”

A beat.

“Now, behave as though you understand the weight of that privilege. Or I will remove it.”

Draco tensed.

McGonagall’s gaze didn’t soften. “Your mother lied to Voldemort to keep you alive.”

He froze.

“I assume,” she said, quieter now but no less exact, “you do not intend to waste that gift sulking in corridors and skipping classes.”

The fire cracked. The silence stretched.

There was no anger in her tone. Only steel.

He didn’t speak.

McGonagall finally leaned back in her chair. “I don’t expect perfection, Mr. Malfoy. But I do expect your presence.”

She glanced at the parchment on her desk. Then back to him.

“You will submit your overdue coursework by Friday. You will attend your next patrol. You will report to Madam Hooch for Quidditch review.”

Her voice did not rise. It didn’t need to.

“If I must summon you again for this,” she said, “I will not issue a second warning. I will simply expel you.”

Draco swallowed. It scraped like dry parchment down his throat.

He nodded. Once.

“Understood,” he muttered.

McGonagall didn’t nod back. She didn’t smile.

She only lifted a hand, gesturing crisply toward the door. “You may go.”

He turned.

Walked.

Didn’t slam the door. Just let it shut behind him, quiet as breath.

On the way back down, he caught a glimpse of himself in one of the tall glass cases—half reflection, half shadow.

For a second, he didn’t recognize the figure looking back.

Pale, sharp, hunched. Like something that had crawled out of someone else’s life and got stuck in his.

He kept walking. The corridor felt colder than it should.

Draco didn’t feel angry. Not quite.

Only… uneasy.

Like something inside him had shifted again—off-axis. Like the excuses he kept telling himself didn’t sound quite so convincing any more.

He slipped his hands into his pockets as he walked, shoulders tight. His fingers found the edge of the ring again.

The walk back to the dungeons felt longer than usual.

The stone corridors stretched wider. Every footstep echoed like it didn’t belong to him.

By the time he reached the Slytherin common room, the fire had burned low, students tucked into alcoves or slipping off to bed in small, murmuring groups. A few heads turned when he entered. None of them spoke.

He didn’t slow.

The dormitory door creaked faintly as he pushed it open. The room beyond was dark, save for the soft blue shimmer of a privacy charm someone had forgotten to disable. The beds were made. The air smelled faintly of broom polish and damp stone.

He shut the door behind him and stood in the centre of the room for a long moment, staring at the edge of his trunk like it might offer him something useful.

It didn’t.

He sat down on his bed without removing his boots, just letting his hands rest in his lap. The quiet didn’t comfort. Didn’t punish. Just lingered.

Eventually, he moved.

The trunk creaked open, and he pulled out a few things he hadn’t looked at in months.

His old wand, the one he’d been disarmed of at the Manor—cedar, dragon heartstring, loyal once, but never again. It was splintered near the grip. He ran his thumb over the crack, then set it on the bed beside him.

He should’ve snapped it in half the moment he got it back. Let it go down with the Manor.

Instead, he kept pretending it would work for him again. Like something broken could still cast clean magic.

Pathetic.

He looked away from the wand, staring now at a half-finished letter to his mother, parchment yellowed at the corners, folded twice. The handwriting started formal, clipped— Mother, I hope the house is quiet —but faltered halfway through a sentence about breakfast. He’d never sealed it. Never sent it. He almost hadn’t remembered writing it.

Then there was the Quidditch captain’s badge.

Still bright. Still smugly perfect. No tarnish, no scratches. It hadn’t earned its wear yet.

He turned it over once in his hand. Then again.

Blaise’s voice returned, uninvited:

You worked too hard to fall apart this easily.

He didn’t scoff this time. Didn’t dismiss it.

He pressed the badge flat into his thigh. Just to feel something push back.

What if this was it?

What if the version of him that crawled back here wasn’t rebuilding—just rotting slower?

What if this is it—the version of himself that crawled back to Hogwarts, only to rot in a school robe and let the rest burn?

Blaise was right.

Draco had clawed his way back into this place. Fought to be more than just a Malfoy in the aftermath. He’d captained the team, held the badge, walked the halls with his back straight, let them talk, and kept going anyway.

He’d gone to war. Come back. Stayed quiet. Built something, however small.

And now?

He wasn’t losing it to detentions or sabotage or bloodlines.

He was losing it because of her.

Draco hadn’t understood the kisses. Still didn’t. Just knew it felt like she needed it too much—and hated that she did.

He should’ve been stronger than that. Smarter than that.

But he hadn’t been.

His voice came low. Flat. Like confession more than thought.

“Then why the fuck do I still want her?”

The room didn’t answer.

Neither did the badge, or the letter, or the broken wand.

He stood abruptly. Nearly knocked the badge to the floor.

Crossed to the window and opened it, just enough to let the cold in.

The air bit at his skin. He stayed there anyway.

Let the cold cut through everything else. Let it remind him that he still chose this—this place, this silence, this penance.

The Mark had been someone else’s command. The ring had been his. A choice. A leash he’d clasped himself.

He reached for the ring again and slid it off slowly, the cold band catching once on his knuckle before slipping free.

He held it in his palm.

It looked small now. Not weightless—but reduced. A piece of metal and memory. No weight. Just residue. It didn’t promise anything except burden.

For the first time in years, his hand felt lighter.

Not better.

Just… less bound.

He set the ring on his bedside table and climbed into bed fully clothed, pulling the blanket over himself, boots and all.

The torch by the door guttered out.

He slept. Not well. Not right.

And the ring stayed on the table.

Chapter Text

The dungeon air was damp, thick with the sharp tang of flux weed and burnt sage. Cauldrons hissed quietly over blue flames, steam curling up in lazy plumes that blurred the outlines of bodies, parchment, and motion.

Slughorn’s voice rose and fell somewhere near the front, jovial and booming, but Draco barely registered it. He slipped in just as the bench beside her, like nothing was wrong.

Granger didn’t turn. Not immediately. But her quill paused mid-stroke, its ink blooming too dark in the margin of her notes.

He sat without speaking. Every movement controlled—like if he didn’t micromanage his limbs, McGonagall’s words might ring louder in his head.

Behave as though you understand the weight of that privilege.

He didn’t feel like anything close

His school bag dropped to the stone floor with the soft thud of leather and glass. He rolled his sleeves back past the wrist, thumb brushing over bare skin. Habit. Muscle memory. The ring was gone—but his hands hadn’t learned that yet.

He hadn’t meant to leave it behind. Not really.

But the sight of it made his skin crawl that morning. Like it was mocking him.

So he didn’t wear it. No plan. No rebellion. Just... couldn't.

If anyone asked, he’d say it didn’t matter.

And if she noticed—

Well, of course she did. She didn’t even bother to pretend. Just let her gaze drift—slow, measured—then moved on like it hadn’t meant anything.

Except it had. Her eyes caught on his wrist. The skin above his pulse.

And he wondered—for one sick, unprovable second—if she’d thought about putting her mouth there.

He looked back to the board. Instructions to Memoria Vivens , Living Memory draught. Potion Ingredients. Valerian Root. Asphodel Root Powder. Bezoar Fragment. Something safe. Something cold. He needed to be somewhere else—even inside his own head.

Draco turned his hand over, thumb brushing the base of his finger by reflex. The band wasn’t there. He stilled the motion before she could see.

Her gaze slid to his hand again—lingered. Then back to her notes. Like she hadn’t noticed anything at all. But he had. 

His jaw locked instead, muscle twitching just beneath the skin. A pulse of something—not panic, not arousal—something darker. Resentment, maybe. Or envy.  

She didn’t ask why. She asked something worse.

“Where were you, Malfoy?”

It wasn’t supposed to come out like that.

And he knew it. Her jaw shifted like she wanted to backtrack—or worse, explain. That was the Granger way. Make it clinical. Rational. Less revealing.

Her eyes flicked back to her parchment, like she wished she’d waited one more beat. Like she hadn’t meant to sound like someone who noticed he was gone.

Maybe she’d meant to say something else. Something about the project. Or the schedule.

But she hadn’t.

And now her hand was gripping her quill too tightly.

The tip snapped.

Something in his stomach dropped. Not hard, just enough to notice.

She wasn’t accusing him.  

She was… concerned.

Which meant she’d seen too much, because worry meant she saw something. Weakness. A fracture. Something he hadn’t covered up fast enough.

He hated that.

Not because it hurt. Because it sounded like she thought he deserved to be asked.

Like she had a right to check in.

Like they hadn’t spent six years hating each other.

Now suddenly she cared?

No. No, she didn’t.

She just wanted to know if he was broken enough to stop being a problem.

And he could have lied about it. Should have.

But his voice came low, flat—the kind that dared her to question it.

“Took a break from pretending I’m fine.”

She opened her mouth again, like she was ready to classify that statement. Label it. But for once, she seemed to lose the right category.

“That all right with you?” he asked, already stretched thinner than he liked to admit.

She blinked. Once.

Then: “Well—someone has to track the schedule—”  

She stopped. Too late.

He raised an eyebrow.  

That wasn’t the real question.  

And she knew it.

Her mouth pressed into a line.  

She didn’t try again.

Around them, the class hummed. Potter’s cauldron hissed violently two tables over, and he cursed under his breath. Longbottom flailed with a pair of tongs. The scent of burnt marsh fern made someone gag near the back.

Somewhere in the chaos, Finnegan’s cauldron belched out an alarming puff of green smoke. Of course it did. One day, someone would confiscate his wand.

And then, over their table, Granger used the wrong proportions of Wormwood Infusion.

She cursed under her breath—louder than usual—and reached to correct it herself, already halfway through a counterpour, but it was too late.

She didn’t usually curse like that. 

And the way she moved—too quick, too sharp —wasn’t about precision. It was panic.

Or something like it.

Her hand jerked, then steadied—frustration, not with the potion, but with herself. With the fact that he'd noticed.

He expected her to say something—a comment about the distilled water, or how poorly stocked Slughorn’s ingredients were. Something neat. She said nothing.

Draco flicked his wand. Instinct. Fast, clean. The vial reset midair, and he was ready to measure it right this time, but Granger reached out—not to thank him, but to adjust the angle of the vial stand by two degrees. Precise. Unapologetic.  

Her hand paused, too close to his. Close enough, he could feel the shift in heat between their fingers.

He kept waiting for the dig, the snide comment, the “you’re not the only one who knows how to rightly dilute wormwood infusion.”

But it didn’t come, and that made it worse.

Because the silence wasn’t condescension.

It felt like... respect.

He didn’t trust that.

Didn’t trust her.

She didn’t look at him—not directly. But she wasn’t avoiding him now. She wasn’t tense any more. Not stiff. Just… quieter. Like something in her had slipped when she wasn’t looking.

He stared straight ahead, jaw locked, pulse tight. His sleeve slipped lower again. The place where the ring should’ve sat felt… exposed.

Granger shifted beside him, her knee brushing his. Barely. Once. Then again.

She didn’t pull away. Maybe she even leaned in. And he was already imagining the rest—warmth, pressure, motion. That wasn’t safe. Not even close.

His fingers twitched against the underside of the bench—barely. The kind of movement that wasn’t meant to be seen. A traitor reflex. He stopped it before it could turn into anything worse. Let it bleed out through his knuckles instead

The second time it happened, when she was reaching for the bezoar, he nearly twitched. Not from surprise. From the way it made his breath catch.

His fingers moved at the wrong moment. Only a fraction. Brushed hers.

He jerked his hand back too fast, like she’d burned him—like she’d seen that he hadn’t meant to, and might ask why it still mattered.

A flush rose behind his ribs, too fast. His hand tingled like it had been cursed.

He didn’t move again, didn’t breathe too hard.

The gap between them suddenly felt measured in inches. Too few of them.

He had to remind himself they were in class.

That he couldn’t lean in and find out how warm she was under all that control. If she matched his.

Potter glanced over. He didn’t say anything—but his eyes narrowed slightly. Assessing. Protective. Waiting.

Draco ignored him. Looked at Granger instead.

He should’ve looked anywhere else.  

But he didn’t.

Her eyes caught his—not by accident, this time. And something passed between them.

Not heat. Not really. Not unless he let it be.

Her mouth parted—slightly. Not to speak. A breath caught. Or held.

Draco stared too long.

He told himself to stop.

Didn’t.

He noticed too much. The stillness in her shoulders, the way her eyes tracked him like she was measuring risk, her mouth. Her taste, the sound she made when he—  

He shut the thought down. Or tried.

His thoughts were turning toxic. Looping. Loud. He needed to shut them up before they said too much.

Granger shifted her hand again—not toward him, but close enough that his attention snagged like thread on a splinter. Every movement too fluid to be innocent.

He clenched his jaw until it ached, muscle jumping just beneath the skin. The memory of her hand on his chest—it didn’t fade. It pressed.

“Marvellous,” Slughorn trilled, weaving between tables like an overfed spectre of cheer.

He gave Draco a too-jovial nudge in the ribs that landed like a bruise.

“Libatius Borage himself would weep with joy! Formidable technique, Miss Granger. Flawless coordination, Mr. Malfoy.”

Draco grit his teeth hard enough he could taste iron.

“This—yes, this—is what the Board loves to see. House unity, academic excellence, two once-opposing forces stirred into perfect synthesis!”

Slughorn chuckled at his own metaphor, oblivious.

Granger returned to stirring. But her grip was off, almost enough not to be anticlockwise, like it should.

He watched the way she kept her eyes down and her cheeks tight, like not saying something cost more energy than speaking ever had.

Their elbows brushed.

He didn’t move.

She didn’t breathe right away. Then—her voice. Barely audible. Still not looking at him.

She reset the stir without waiting for him. Found the right rhythm. Took the lead like she always did—and expected him to follow.  

“You’re not wearing it.”

His fingers twitched—then curved, instinctive. He turned the base of his thumb like he always did. Only this time, there was nothing to catch. 

Just skin. Just absence.

“Not today.”

A beat.

Her hand faltered, then resumed the motion. Slower now. Controlled.

Draco’s voice dropped, barely more than a breath. “Does it bother you?”

She shifted like she might lie. Like she was already crafting something academic, safe—a line about group dynamics or public optics or the bloody importance of house unity.

But it didn’t come, instead:

“No,” she said. Too quickly. Then, quieter: “Maybe.”  

She looked startled by her own answer. Like the word slipped past her filters. She blinked, then reached abruptly for her quill. Rewrote the same line of notes three times—neat, fast, furious.  

“It’s just—you’ve worn it every day since sixth year,” she added, too quickly. “I noticed. That’s all.”

Then her gaze caught on his lips—not directly, not obviously, but too long for an accident. Like she was tracking a word that hadn’t left his mouth yet.

She blinked fast. Tension flared in her jaw. A correction. A retreat.

Their hands were too close on the table now. Almost touching.

He didn’t look away.

Neither did she.

But he looked down first.

Coward.

Always the first to look away, the first to run, the first to fold when it started to mean something.

He’d spent years pretending he could win any stare down, bluff through any silence.

But not with her.

Because she wasn’t trying to win.  

She was trying to understand.

And that made it worse.

Draco curled his fingers against the table’s edge, nails biting into scarred wood. His other hand itched for the wand he didn’t need. He didn’t want to hex anything. Just needed to do something.

He clenched his jaw. Straightened his spine. Pulled himself back together with the kind of slow, sharp-edged grace that had got him through war trials and worse.

Focus.

Not on her mouth. Not on her fingers. Not on the absence of her words, which somehow spoke louder than anything she’d said to him all term.

Just the potion.

The cauldron. The fumes. The measurements.

He adjusted the flame. Swirled in the silverweed. Kept his eyes on the glassy swirl and not on the girl beside him, who smelled like parchment and citrus and something sharper, like risk dressed in clean linen.

Granger started stirring again. He added the peppermint leaves

Three precise turns counterclockwise, two leave. One to reverse, one more leave. Then fold.

Of course she knew the pattern by heart.

Of course they synced—flawlessly, unconsciously.

He told himself he hated it. But there was something in the ease of it—the rhythm, the unspoken coordination—that felt more dangerous than resentment ever had.

Slughorn approached then

“Miss Granger, Mr. Malfoy—textbook precision. I must remember to write to Professor Snodgrass in Salzburg. He was just asking about the rare cases of inter-house synergy!”

Granger offered a tight smile. Polite. Empty.

Draco didn’t bother faking one.

Slughorn shuffled on, muttering something about adding them to next term’s Apprentice roster.

The cauldron simmered to a silvery-green. The fumes pulsed once, then settled—a soft shimmer like mercury. Perfect.

Granger reached for the vial to bottle the sample. Her fingers were steady, but her mouth was still parted. 

She wasn’t hurrying. She knew he was watching—she let him.

That shouldn’t have affected him, but it did—deep, low, and with a weight he couldn’t shake. Like something unspoken had settled under his skin and made a home there.

Whatever this was between them—burning, breaking, bleeding—it wasn’t one-sided.

And him disappearing from classes change something between them. He didn’t know if that made it better or worse.

When they stood to bring the potion forward, Potter caught his eye from across the room. Just for a second.

A flicker of something. Not rage. Not even suspicion. Just… warning.

Draco held his gaze. Cool. Calm. Detached.

Nothing to see here.

Just a potion. Just Granger, not looking at him. And him—still wanting her like a bloody idiot.

But still, Potter’s gaze held—not just protective, but measuring. Like he was weighing something. Judging. But not stepping in.  

As if their truce extended only as far as silence.  

Draco straightened, spine stiff, expression unreadable. He could feel the eyes on him—some subtle, some not. Watching. Waiting.

This—this performance of control, the perfect potion, the seamless teamwork—this was what McGonagall expected from him. Demanded, even.

It was proof. Or a delay tactic. Something to show her he hadn’t lost control. Yet.  

Too bad it only made him feel more like a placeholder. Like something pretending to belong.

She’d said he had influence. That students were watching. That if he failed again—really failed—she wouldn’t ask questions next time.

No more warnings.

No more titles.

Just one signature on parchment, and it’d all be gone.

His badge. His captaincy. His name.

And maybe, today, he’d done just enough to delay it.

But barely.

One wrong move, one missed patrol, and she’d make good on it.

She meant it.

He handed the vial to Slughorn, fingers steady.

Behind him, Granger sat back down without a word. Her quill was already in her hand again, already scratching out something on her notes.

She underlined the same word three times, then scratched it out. Wrote something else. Crossed that out too.

He’d seen her annotate footnotes like she was saving the world—but right now, she couldn’t seem to finish a sentence.

Draco sat beside her, slow and silent, and didn’t let his knee brush hers this time.

Because if it happened again—if she flinched or didn’t flinch, if she looked at him like she had before—

He didn’t trust himself to keep pretending.

So he said nothing.

And let the silence stretch between them like a curse neither of them could cast first.

The soft clatter of closing books and murmurs of dismissed students signalled the end of the lesson. Slughorn’s voice faded behind them as chairs scraped back and cauldrons hissed into silence. 

Granger gathered her things with mechanical precision, quill forgotten on the desk. Draco stood without a word, falling into step a few paces behind her as they filed out of the dungeon.

The corridors outside the dungeon were brighter, but somehow colder. Sunlight filtered weak through the tall windows, pooling in pale smears on the flagstones as students pushed toward the Great Hall in noisy packs.

Draco walked just behind Granger, their silence still clinging to him. She didn’t look back. Not even once.

But her hand brushed her skirt as she passed. Deliberate. Calming herself? Or making sure he noticed the movement?

He didn’t care.

He really didn’t.

By the time they reached the corridor outside the Hall, he’d rebuilt the walls around him—shoulders loose, jaw slack, eyes half-lidded in that particular brand of disinterest he’d perfected before puberty.

Blaise and Daphne were already waiting by the Slytherin table, flanked by a few fifth-years. Pansy wasn’t there—probably skipping again. She had a way of conveniently disappearing whenever Slytherin tension brewed past a boil.

“Look what the cat dragged back,” Blaise said mildly, his expression unreadable. “How very generous of you, Malfoy. Gracing us with your presence twice in one day?”

Draco snorted. “Try not to collapse from the honour.”

He slid into his usual spot, pulling an apple from the nearest fruit bowl like he’d been doing it every day for the last month instead of disappearing for half of them.

Granger passed in front of him on her way to the Gryffindor table, and he didn’t turn

Didn’t watch.

Didn’t flinch.

Instead, he bit into the apple and gave Blaise a look that said, Say anything, and I will hex your eyebrows off.

Blaise just smiled faintly.

He saw too much.

He always had.

Daphne crossed one leg over the other and leaned forward, her voice light but cutting as a blade tucked into silk. “You planning to make an appearance at practice tomorrow, or should we just assume you’ve finally quit pretending to care?”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “I’ll be there.”

She blinked, clearly amused.

He added, voice sharper, “But if any of you complain about the drills, I’ll throw you off your broom midair and call it a tactical demonstration.”

That earned a dry chuckle from Bulstrode and a barely-hidden smirk from one of the fifth-years. Daphne just tilted her head, assessing.

“Charming,” she said. “So you do still bleed green, after all.”

Draco took another bite of his apple. “Only when it’s convenient.”

The bite was too hard. Too fast. Juice hit the corner of his mouth, and he wiped it away too quickly—like the mess could prove he was still calm.

Blaise hummed, low and amused.

But he didn’t laugh.

He just looked at Draco for a beat too long, that knowing expression curling at the edges of his mouth like smoke. He saw it—the tightness in Draco’s shoulders, the brittle shine in his eyes, the subtle tension between his posture and his tone.

Draco was pretending.

Too well.

And not well enough.

“Practice at six,” Blaise said lightly. “Don’t be late. Wouldn’t want to ruin your dramatic re-entry.”

Blaise’s smile faded into something quieter. More surgical.  

“Also,” he added, voice low, “you should get some sleep tonight.”  

A beat.  

“You look like you’re about five thoughts away from ruining something.”

Draco rolled his eyes and leaned back in his seat, feigning boredom like it was second nature.

And it was. Or had been.

But now the act felt heavier. Looser in some places. Like a costume he couldn’t quite fasten properly any more.

Still—he wore it.

Because no one here needed to know that his hands were still buzzing from a brush of skin, or that Hermione bloody Granger had looked at him like she’d felt it too.

They didn’t need to know that he hadn’t slept. Or that she’d asked where he’d been.

Or that, when he told her the truth—just a sliver of it—she hadn’t looked away.

They didn’t need to know anything.

So Draco smirked. Bit into the apple again. Let the easy slouch of his shoulders sell the lie.

He could pass for fine. That had always been enough, hadn’t it?

The lie still fit. But it felt more like a charm wearing off mid-duel.

He needed air. Or movement. Something to shake the noise out of his head before it rotted. The corridors would be loud by now, flooded with lunch crowds and too many voices. But better that than Blaise’s knowing eyes or Daphne’s sideways glances. Better noise than quiet that noticed things.

It started with the kind of laughter that meant trouble.

Too loud. Too brittle. Too pointed.

Draco rounded the corridor just outside the Great Hall, half a second before it happened—a flash of violet light — unmistakably Densaugeo — and then a choked sound as the third-year Hufflepuff slammed into the stone wall.

His teeth were already growing. Fast. Warped, jutting out over his bottom lip, gums red and swollen. He whimpered, trying to cover his mouth with one shaking hand.

The Slytherin who hexed him—Rothwell, fifth year, pureblood name sharp as his jawline—was still laughing, wand lazily pointed like it had been a joke.

It wasn’t.

Draco didn’t speak at first. He just walked straight past the twitching wand and dropped to one knee beside the Hufflepuff.

“Hold still,” he said—flat, quiet.

A flick of his wand. Finite Incantatem.

The grotesque teeth stopped growing, freezing mid-jut. Still swollen, still painful-looking, but no longer mutating.

The boy whimpered again, trying not to cry.

Draco didn’t sigh. Didn’t soften.

“Hospital wing. Now.”

The boy nodded fast, too fast, snatching his wand and hurrying off with one hand still covering his mouth.

Only then did Draco stand and turn to Rothwell.

“You think that was funny?”

Rothwell lifted a shoulder, smirk already forming. “It was just densaugeo.”

Draco didn’t blink.

“I know” he said. “It’s still a hex. And you used it on a third-year.”

A pause. Then, quietly: “Five points from Slytherin.”

Rothwell’s face twisted. “You can’t—”

“I’m a head boy,” Draco cut in, voice like ice. “I can.”

A beat.

“And I should take more for being stupid enough to hex someone in a hallway. In front of me.”

He let that settle.

“Do it again,” he added, voice quiet and sharp, “and I’ll densaugeo you so badly you’ll be able to taste your own collar.”

A breath.

“And I don’t miss.”

Rothwell hesitated. The smirk didn’t come back.

Draco took a step forward, wand still loose in his hand, and felt something sour crawl up the back of his throat.

This—this was what McGonagall meant.

Be the example. Take the blow. Play the head boy with enough precision to look like leadership instead of punishment.

He hated how clear it was. Hated that he’d done it without thinking. Hated that somewhere under all the anger, he’d understood what she wanted from him.

Rothwell muttered something under his breath, but it wasn’t clever—just sour and shaky. He glanced at Draco one last time, then turned and stalked off, wand hand clenched, pace too fast for calm.

Draco didn’t watch him go. Just let the silence settle.

And then he heard it.

A shift of footsteps. A rustle of robes. Two voices, approaching.

He looked up—too late.

Granger stood halfway down the corridor, one foot frozen mid-step, her hand curled loosely around the strap of her bag.

Beside her, Weasley frowned, clearly unaware of what he’d just walked into. But then again—maybe he wasn’t as unaware as Draco assumed.

“Seriously?” he muttered, low, sharp. “This again?”

Not loud. Not angry. But the way he said it—tight, brittle—cut through the corridor like a thin curse.

Granger didn’t look at him. Not yet.

“You’ve been staring at Malfoy like he’s going to grow wings,” he added, tone stuck between exasperation and disbelief. “Or bite you. I can’t tell which one worries me more.”

He wasn’t yelling. But Draco could feel the old fight curling under his words. Like maybe Weaselbee thought keeping his voice down made him noble.

“Everything okay?” Weasley asked, quieter. But it didn’t sound like concern. It sounded like a trap.

He reached out, brushed her arm—casual, but not really.

She didn’t lean in.

But she didn’t shake him off either.

Draco saw that—all of it—and for a moment, his breath caught in a way he couldn’t quite explain, let alone stop.

Granger didn’t move. Not toward Draco. Not away. Just watched him—saw him—like the pieces were still clicking.

Her voice was quiet. Tight. “I’m fine.”

She didn’t sound it. Not to Draco. And maybe not to Weasley, either.

“You sure?” he asked, jaw working like he was chewing on the next mistake before he made it. “Because last time this happened, I ended up looking like a prize prat in front of half the bloody Hall.”

His tone wasn’t cruel. It was tired. Defensive.

“I mean, you’re not—”

He broke off.

“Look, I get that he’s...different now. Or whatever. But you don’t have to keep proving it by—”

Granger turned to him, sharply. “By what?”

Her voice was glass. Polished, dangerous. But underneath it—cracks.

“He reversed it, Ron.”

Her voice was sharper than he expected. Sharper than she expected, maybe.

“That Hufflepuff could barely breathe. And he stopped it. No hesitation. No gloating. No points for show.”

She turned toward Weasley now, fully facing him. “He handled it better than most prefects would have. Better than you, probably.”

Her words were too fast, too loud for the corridor — and definitely not neutral.

Weasley’s mouth twisted. “You do remember he’s the one who used that hex on you once, right?”

The words landed harder than they should have. Draco felt it like a jolt behind the ribs — old guilt, sharper for being dragged out like a bloody trophy.

But Granger didn’t hesitate.

“That was an accident,” she said quickly. Too quickly.

Her jaw tightened the second it left her mouth, like she’d heard it too late to take it back.

And Draco—

He went still.

Accident.

Not excuse. Not forgive. But not the worst thing, either.

Just… not what he expected.

Maybe not what she expected either, because she seemed startled. Like her mouth had leapt ahead of her brain.

Weasley blinked. Mouth half-open.

Draco didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

He wasn’t used to being defended.

Especially not by her.

Weasley looked at her again. Not angry. Just—lost.

“You don’t have to keep proving it,” he continued what he was saying, after a second. “By looking at him like that.”

She blinked.

Looked away.

Too fast.

“I said I’m fine.”

The lie sat between them, obvious. But Weasley didn’t press. Maybe he’d already learned how it ended.

Draco let them pass, didn’t speak, didn’t turn, but the echo of her eyes stayed behind like smoke.

He leaned back against the stone once they were gone. Just for a breath. No audience. No eyes.

The air was too thin. Or maybe too much. Like the silence she'd left behind was still pressing against his ribs.

He wasn’t good at being seen. Not like that. Not with someone who knew how to look past the defences.

That was the problem with her.

She didn’t flinch any more. And he didn’t know what to do with that kind of steadiness.

By the time he reached the dungeons, the weight of her stare had settled deep under his collar.

He straightened before the door even opened—spine rigid, jaw loose, mouth set like he hadn’t spent the last ten minutes coming undone in his own head.

Slytherins didn’t flinch. They posed.

He’d worn that mask so long, it still fit. Even when it choked.

The common room was alive with low voices and tension when he stepped through the arch.

Same faces. Same pointless arguments. Same heatless fire.

Pansy was already waiting, like she’d planned it — like she’d timed her entrance to make sure she’d be the first thing he saw. Perched on the arm of the velvet chair like a queen, not a girl scorned. Fury, yes — but it wasn’t blind. It was curated.

“Oh, now you show up,” she said, before he could make it halfway across the room. “Back from your brooding time?” she asked—loud enough for the room to hear. No flinch. No blush. Just venom, clean and public. A warning shot, and maybe a recruitment pitch.

Draco didn’t stop walking.

Didn’t answer.

Didn’t even blink.

He was so fucking tired of this game.

Same lines, same jabs. Like standing in a duel where no one ever fired.

“Say nothing, then,” she said, voice sharpening. “That’s a choice. Just don’t be shocked when people stop waiting for explanations.”

“You want a bloody reason?” he muttered without turning. “Fine. Pick one. Preferably one that doesn’t start with jealousy and end with me giving a damn.”

He didn’t mean to say it out loud, but the second it left his mouth, it tasted too good to regret.

Daphne, who was lounging across the couch, didn’t even look up as she said, “Maybe shut your mouth for once, Pansy. You’re starting to sound like your mother.”

That did it.

Pansy turned so fast, her hair whipped over her shoulder, face flushed with cold fury. For one wild second, Draco thought she might actually lunge.

Her mouth opened—not for another insult, but something thinner, frayed at the edges.

“She hated when I got loud,” Pansy said, under her breath.

Her breath caught—once—like the words had escaped her by accident. Not planned. Not staged. Just raw.

She covered it quickly, chin tilting back in defiance. But Draco had seen it. So had Daphne.

A crack in the armour.

Daphne’s eyes flicked up. Sharp. Slow. “Careful, Pans. If you keep talking like that, people might think you care.”

Her tone was velvet, but her jaw tightened half a beat too late—like she’d bitten the inside of her cheek to stay cool.

She crossed her arms a second later, like she needed something to do with them.

Pansy’s jaw clenched. Not a retort—just tension.

For once, she didn’t answer.

And that silence said more than any insult could have.

Draco finally dropped onto the edge of the nearest couch, rubbing the bridge of his nose with a sigh.

Pansy wasn’t just angry. She was vibrating with it—the wild, personal kind, not the polished Slytherin version Daphne wore like perfume.

She didn’t plan her fights. She flung them.

If she was looking around the room, it wasn’t to strategize. It was to decide who was still hers, and who’d already drifted too far.

And maybe—just maybe—she saw that Draco wasn’t at the centre any more.

He wasn’t sure who that bothered more: her or him. 

He needed solitude. Or her , not in this room, looking at him like he was still made of sharp edges.

“Daphne’s got a point,” Blaise said lazily from the corner. “You do look good when you’re scolding someone, Greengrass.”

Daphne didn’t even blink. “Don’t flirt with me when you’re this boring.”

Blaise gave her a low laugh.

Draco stood up again.

He couldn’t sit here.

Couldn’t do this. Not tonight.

If he stayed, something would snap. His mouth. His mask. Maybe worse.

He rolled his eyes at all of them—because it was easier than admitting the weight in his chest—and walked toward the dorm stairs without another word.

Let them tear each other apart.

He had other problems.

Real ones.

He took the last step like it might splinter under him.

Merlin. He needed sleep. Or a duel. Or some bloody silence.

Because if he kept thinking like this—feeling like this—he’d lose something real. And he was running out of things he could afford to lose. 

Chapter Text

The corridor near the eastern tower still smelled like dust and limestone frost.

Peeves had hovered near the suits of armour, muttering about Gryffindors and snakes shagging in empty corridors.

Granger said, “Ignore him.” Draco did. Peeves never tattled—just watched things fall apart.

She smoothed the cuff of her sleeve like she wasn’t even thinking about it. Tugged it straight, then again. Always the same pattern—one, two, tuck. She’d probably been doing it since she saw her bloody friends.

He kept walking a few paces behind, hands shoved in his pockets, boots silent against the stone. Their shared rebuild patrol had been quiet so far—tense, mechanical.

Neither of them had spoken.

Not since she’d passed Weasley and Potter on the stairs. She hadn’t even looked at them. Potter had glanced back once, eyes narrowed. Draco had felt it. The suspicion. The calculation. It clung to him like smoke.

They hadn’t said anything. Which suited him just fine.

He scratched at his finger again. Stupid habit. Like the non-existing ring would fix it. Like anything could.

It was not like they were together by choice, they had the rebuilding patrol together, but Weasley probably didn’t care about it, he just hated seeing Granger with him.

He could picture it—Weasley frowning, arms crossed, pretending not to care. Pretending he wasn’t already building some idiotic plan to confront Draco in a hallway, again .

It had been three days since McGonagall had threatened to strip him of his badge, his captaincy, his place. She hadn’t raised her voice. She hadn’t needed to. Her words had been cold, clean, final:

Behave as though you understand the weight of that privilege. Or I will remove it

He agreed. His stomach flipped. She hadn’t shouted—but, it hit harder than yelling would’ve. And this was him trying.

Showing up for house unity duty. 

Rebuilding staircases. Trust. Morale.

None of which was working. Gryffindors still walked wide circles around him. Hufflepuffs tried too hard to pretend they weren’t afraid. And his own house had started to look at him like a liability—too soft, too visible, too compromised.

They turned another corner. And there it was.

The stairwell.

The one that had broken beneath them in a snap of stone and instinct.

The magic around it flickered now, restoration spells half-faded. The support scaffolding creaked softly in the draft. Temporary, like the fix it was.

Granger slowed beside him.

Her fingers twitched once at her side. 

She didn’t speak, but the air between them had changed. 

Granger didn’t do impulse. She calculated, analysed. She held herself together so tightly that when she trembled, it meant something. And right now, she was trembling.

For a split second, Draco thought it was about him. That she was nervous because she felt it too—the weight, the want.

But then he saw the way she stared past him, jaw clenched, spine straight, like she was bracing for something.

And he wondered if he was misreading everything.

If this wasn’t tension. If it was restraint.

If she was shaking, not because she wanted him—but because she didn’t trust herself around him.

“You think they’ll ever finish it?” he said, voice low.

Granger’s gaze stayed fixed ahead. “Eventually.”

“Looks like it’s holding on by stubbornness alone.”

She gave a short exhale—half a laugh, half a sigh. “That makes two of you.”

Draco snorted. “Been saving that line, have you?”

“Don’t flatter yourself. I watch what breaks.”

She straightened her collar. Like it mattered. Like she could tidy herself out of this conversation. But she didn’t move away. Neither did he.

They stood there in the corridor’s grey hush, surrounded by war-scarred stone and half-mended history, and for the first time in weeks, the silence between them felt less like avoidance—and more like pressure. Waiting to break.

She shifted, almost turned to him. Something about the set of her jaw said she was about to fight. Or confess. Or both.

Then her heel slid back. Just a little. Like she might leave.

Not decisive—just a twitch of retreat. Like part of her still thought walking away was smarter.

Draco saw it. Felt it.

His breath caught. If she turned now, he wouldn’t stop her. He didn’t know if he could.

“You never said anything about that day,” he said. Voice too casual. Fake-casual.

“You wanted a ‘thank you’ note?”

“I did catch you.”

“I didn’t fall.”

“Didn’t you?”

Silence. Her shoulders drew tighter.

Draco shifted, hands awkward at his sides. He shouldn’t want this—shouldn’t even be thinking about it—but the words were already slipping loose, and she was still so close. He wasn’t even sure what he was reaching for. Her hand? Her gaze?

This was wrong. This wasn’t how she looked at him. Not like this.

He tells himself to back off, to be smarter than this. But his body’s already moved.

He stepped closer—barely. A breath of space between them, close enough to feel her inhale. Too close to call it accidental.

His hand twitched. Not in some practiced move, just—awkward, like he didn’t know where to put it. Too close to her waist, too far from being a mistake.

“You’ve been stuck in my head” he said before he could stop himself. It sounded wrong. Too close to something he wasn’t supposed to feel.

He opened his mouth to take it back. To reframe it. To say it differently. But she got there first.

“That’s—” She cuts herself off. “Leave me out of it.”

His fingers found her waist—light at first, unsure. Then they tightened—firm, possessive.

“You haven’t made this easy,” he mutters, breathless, not sure if it’s a complaint or confession. 

She huffed, impatient, but not moving away. “You look at me like I owe you something.”

“You did bloody kiss me, twice ”

He tried to smirk, to keep the rhythm of their banter, but it came out wrong—offbeat. His heart wasn’t in it. Not this time.

“Don’t act like you didn’t want it.”

He wants to sound smug. Confident. But when she lifts her chin and looks at him like that—steady, furious, unflinching—his next line stalls in his throat.

"I’ve been thinking about this," he says, composing himself, lips pressing to her throat. “Thinking about you. When I shouldn’t.”

His teeth graze her skin—barely enough to make her whimper. And bloody hell, that sound will haunt him.

Her breath caught. Her fists clenched in his robes.

"Like what?" she breathes, and that nearly destroys him.

His grip tightens. Lips ghost her neck—hot, dangerous.

“Like... what if you didn’t walk away” he barely got the words out, and he is pressing her up against a wall. Her hand flies to his chest—not to stop him, but slow him.

Control.

He lets her.

Neither of them spoke, and the silence was louder than anything they could’ve said.

Then her fingers dropped.

“You’re such an arse,” she pants, half-laughing, half-moaning. “But—”

Her voice breaks. Doesn’t finish it. He already knows.

His expression flickers—want, disbelief, something too raw to name. Becoming something sharper. His fingers press harder into her waist—grounding, not commanding

And then, she exhales.

“You’re still here,” he said quietly. “Even if you already hate yourself for it.”

She doesn’t react right away, and that’s how he knows that her mind is catching up to his words.

Her fingers twitch at his collar—processing. Like no one’s ever talked to her like this.

“Say it,” he murmurs.

Her voice is hoarse. “Don’t make me.”

“If this is a mistake,” he says, low. “Say it.”

Her jaw tightens. She stares at him like she might bite. Or bolt. Or both.

“You’re insufferable,” she hisses. “And this is going to blow up in our faces, and when this implodes, I’ll be the one picking up the pieces,” she snaps, and her eyes are fire. “Not you. Never you.”

Then she kisses him—like punishment. Like collision. Hard. Teeth clashing. He almost pulls back, but she drags him deeper. It’s messy. It’s real.

Her lips are swollen, her breath uneven, her fingers still tangled in Draco’s hair. 

She pulled back just a little. Just enough that the space between them felt like a fault line.

“This is bad,” she said—not like a joke. Like a fact. Like a theorem already proved.

Draco swallowed. “Then why aren’t you stopping it?”

She laughed, brittle and sharp. “You think I know?”

Her eyes were gleaming wild. Hurt. Scared. “I don’t know what the bloody hell I’m doing, okay? I just—” She broke off, breath hitched. “I’m always fixing things I didn’t even break.”

“So this is...?”

“Yeah. Coping.” she muttered. “Whatever that means.”

She swallows, trying to collect herself, but he doesn’t give her space to think.

His fingers press firmly into her hips, his breath hot against her throat, his entire body still flush against hers. 

“This wasn’t the plan.” Her voice was too quiet, like she didn’t mean to say it out loud. “I know how this ends,” she whispered. “It ends with people getting hurt. And I’ve hurt enough.”

Her fingers clenched in his shirt. She still hadn’t moved. But her voice was still stuck in some echo of guilt.

“It shouldn’t be you.” She lets out a frustrated noise, shoving lightly at his chest, but Draco doesn’t move.  

He scoffed against her neck, low and bitter. “Of course it shouldn’t.”

“You weren’t meant to see me like this.” she muttered.

He presses her back harder, lips brushing against her ear now, voice low and wrecked.  

"Tell me to stop. I’ll listen."

She doesn’t

“Not here.” The words leave Granger’s lips rough, urgent.

He took a step back, pulse hammering, every nerve in his body screaming for oxygen. Maybe this was the out. The smart choice.

He looked at her—really looked. Eyes wild. Breathing ragged. But waiting.

And something in him buckled.

Because he could’ve walked. Should’ve.

But her hand twitched at her side, just like it had at the broken stairwell.

And he didn’t move.

Because maybe he didn’t fall then. But he was falling now.

Stupid. This was so bloody stupid.

She still hadn’t looked away. Not once. Not even when the air between them snapped taut with what they were about to do.

He saw the guilt flash across her face then—fast, buried, but real.

Maybe it was Potter. Maybe Weasley. Maybe his sister.

But whoever it was, it lived in her eyes for one breath too long.

Then it was gone and she kissed him all the same.

His hands were still gripping her hips, still holding her in place, because if he doesn’t, he might actually collapse. Because this is happening. Because fuck, she’s letting this happen.  

He didn’t know what to say. His mouth just moved.

And what came out sounded fake. Like someone else said it.

Too clean. Too practiced.

He hated how easy it came.

“If we’re... fuck—then—just—where, Granger?”

She didn’t answer.

Her eyes locked on his. Searching for something he didn’t want her to find.

Shit. He’d gone too far.

Say something. Fix it. But nothing came out.

“Would you have stopped,” she asked, voice low, “if I hadn’t?”

It wasn’t a tease. It wasn’t a trap. It was something else. 

Draco blinked, mouth parting, his brain scrambling for the right answer.

“Yes,” he said, too fast, too flat. Then swallowed. “I think so.”

She didn’t nod. Didn’t forgive it. She just stared at him like she was still deciding.

“Then you’ll stop if I say stop now.”

He nodded. Slower this time. With meaning. “Yeah. I will.”

For half a second, her eyes flicked sideways. Past him. Somewhere distant.

Not fear. Not doubt. Only weight.

He could see it—who she was thinking of, her Gryffindor friends.

The ones who didn’t know she was here with him, choosing this.

Her throat worked, like she was trying to swallow it. Guilt, maybe. Or names.

His fingers brushed the ring line out of habit—absent now, but still burned into his skin. It’s automatic.

He hated that, too.

It felt like phantom pain. Like something was supposed to be there to keep him tethered.

And then she grabbed his wrist and started to walk, their footsteps were quick, unsteady. Draco follows—stunned. 

A torch nearby flickered as they passed, casting long shadows across cracked stone and twitching tapestries.

A portrait of a knight stirred, half-asleep, muttering something about decorum.

Down the corridor, a staircase rotated into place with a grinding sound—too slow, too late to catch them.

Hogwarts itself seemed to turn its head, pretending not to watch.

The first door they reach, she throws open. Empty classroom. Dust. Damp parchment. Forgotten. Flitiwck used it once—before the war. Before the Battle. 

Draco had hidden here once during the battle. Behind a desk, hands shaking. He hadn’t cast a single spell. Just waited for it to end. And now—he was back. With Granger. About to do this.

He kicks the door shut behind them.

She grabs him hard. Not just to kiss him—but to push him back, eyes searching his face like she needs to memorize something before it breaks.

“This isn’t safe.” she said.

“I know.”

“I’m doing it because I don’t want to think for once.” Her voice shook. “So don’t make me.”

She was lying. He could see it—flicking her eyes toward the door, pausing too long. She wasn’t done thinking. Just trying to bury it.

Maybe she’d made a list. Pros and cons. Risks and outcomes. 

But, before he can make another move, she’s on him again, pushing him against the door, pressing up on her toes, dragging him down into a kiss that’s all teeth and desperation and  fire.  

“Let me,” she said, voice suddenly rough. Her hands moved fast. Focused. Like she didn’t want to think.

“You—uh—always take charge?” he asked, voice unsteady.

“Only when I can’t afford not to.” she said, and pushed him back against the door again.

"Fuck, Granger—" 

Her knee nudged between his. His hand skimmed up her ribs, one motion too fast, the next too careful. 

Ganger’s fingers slid down his stomach—hesitated at the edge of his shirt.

He flinched. Not from the touch. From the fact that he let her. That she was seeing too much.

They were tripping over each other, skin, and cloth, and want, fumbling for leverage more than finesse.

Part of him hates this. Not the heat. Not the taste of her. But the way it feels stolen. 

"We—we can’t get caught—" she gasps against his mouth. Draco kissed her harder—messier. Like he didn’t know what else to do. Like if he stopped, she’d remember who he really was.

He bites her lip, she moaned, and that sound—fuck, that sound—made something snap. His body moved before his brain caught up.

He spun them, clumsy, desperate, his hand bracing her back as he turned her.

Her spine hit the door. He barely registered the thud.

All he could think was: What the hell am I doing?

He had Granger pressed to a wall, skirt hiked, breath ragged, and every part of him screamed that this was a terrible idea—

"We—we shouldn’t be doing this."

She doesn’t answer, but grabs his wrist. Not hard. Just enough to stop his hand from sliding higher.

“This happens my way,” she says, breath sharp against his cheek. “Or it doesn’t happen at all.”

He nodded—too fast. Too eager. His hands hovered, uncertain. Didn’t know where to go, what she’d allow.

His hands slid under her skirt—slow, greedy. Every second felt like something he wasn’t meant to have.

His fingers hooked the edge of her knickers—thin, damp lace already clinging to heat.

He hesitated—heart pounding—then dragged them down, slowly, baring her inch by inch like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to see this.

He waited for her to stop him. She didn’t, and then, the underwear hit the floor. He didn’t look down.

He stepped in—chest to chest, cock pressed thick and hot against her bare skin, teasing the space between her thighs.

She didn’t stop him. Just let out a low moan that hit him like a punch to the gut.

And then Granger claws at him—gripping, dragging, urgent. His robes hit the floor. Her fingers worked open his buttons with the kind of desperation that made his knees nearly buckle.

She pauses—just for a second. Breath stuck. Eyes darting past him like she’s trying to remember what she’s doing.

“Bloody hell, this is a mistake,” she mutters—breaking, but not pulling back. “I don’t even know why I’m still…”

He kisses her before she finishes it. Not to silence her, but because he doesn’t want to hear the end.

His hands yank at her tie, her blouse—his fingers shaking. It’s her. It’s Granger.

"Shirt stays on." She doesn’t explain. 

He doesn’t ask. Just nods. Whatever scars she’s protecting, are hers.

She hesitated a beat too long after, like something had dragged her back.

Maybe it was Potter again. Or Weasley. Or some invisible thread pulling her away from him, even as she reached for more.

“I’m tired of pretending I don’t want this,” she muttered. “It’s exhausting—”

Her fingers clench his open shirt, knuckles white. Draco opens his mouth to tease—

And stops.

He pulls back, breathing hard, hands still under her skirt.

But, fuck, he has to be sure.

He has to know this is real, that she wants this, that she isn’t going to push him away, that she isn’t going to change her mind. 

His lungs burned. One wrong breath and this would all split open.

And Granger—looks like she’s come undone at the seams. Flushed, wide-eyed, chest rising and falling with every uneven breath. But not uncertain. Just overwhelmed. 

“Have you—” He winced. Shit. Stupid. Why the hell did that come out?

She froze. Like he’d hexed her. Her breath stalled in her throat, and her fingers fisted in his shirt like she might shove him away—or use it to stay standing.

She blinked, hard. He saw it—that split second where her mind went somewhere else. A calculation, maybe. A memory. Something she hated. She was cataloguing him again, reclassifying the risk.

“What the hell kind of question is that?” she asked. Not defensive. Just... exasperated. Like she didn’t want to have to explain the shape of her past to him right now.

“Forget it,” he muttered. “I didn’t mean—”

“Yes,” she cut in, blunt. “But not—.”

She wasn’t looking at him when she said it. She was staring at the stone behind him. At the classroom door. At the hallway beyond it. Anywhere but his eyes.

“Not with someone who gets under my skin like this.”

That hit like a punch. This wasn’t just shagging. It was trying to erase something—and both of them would pay for it.

His mouth crashes back against hers, his hands gripping, pulling, lifting, pinning her against the door. Granger lets out a sharp breath into his mouth, and Draco feels her fumble with his belt, his zip, pushing his trousers down just enough for him to slide against her, hot and hard and— 

“Fuck, I shouldn’t—”

But he didn’t stop.

She was right there, and he was already too far gone.

“We’re going to regret this.” he breathed. 

“I don’t care. Just—” she muttered, nails scraped his spine. 

And then—she stopped thinking. Her hands moved first. Her mouth. Her hips. Not reason, just heat. Something snapped loose in her, and Draco felt it, like a spell detonating in his chest.

"Granger, fuck—" he mutters

She gasped—hot against his throat—and he flinched.

Want clawed through him. Ugly. Unstoppable.

He lined up, cock hard and aching, the head slipping through her slick heat.

And then—he pushed in.

Slow. Deep.

She was wet. Soaked. Gripping him like her body already knew his.

Draco sucked in a breath through clenched teeth as she tightened around him, heat pulsing, dragging him deeper.

Her back arched—unconscious, needy—and he groaned, fingers biting into her hips.

Too tight. Too fucking good. Too real.

She gasped, the sound torn straight from her throat, breath catching against his neck as her hips jerked forward.

“Bloody hell, Malfoy—” she said, voice high, breaking apart in his ear.

She made a sound again—low, wrecked—that hit him dead in the gut.

“Fuck—” he hissed, throat closing.

Her fingers dug into his back, dragging across skin like she couldn’t decide if she wanted to hold him in place or claw him apart.

He groaned—raw, broken—as her walls fluttered around him as she adjusted, hips shifting, taking him deeper.

She rocked against him—needy, demanding—each motion dragging slick and tight around his cock, like she couldn’t get him deep enough.

“You—”

“Just—don’t stop.” she said, too fast. 

Draco choked on a breath, almost came apart at the tone alone.

Her fingers dug into his scalp. “Don’t go soft on me,” she muttered, biting.

He moved again. Harder. Because she asked.

She dragged him deeper. No words. Just breath.

“You’re on potion?”

She blinked—then snapped, “Yes.”

Her bra strap slipped. She fixed it fast, eyes still locked on his. “I’m not reckless.”

He thrust again—deeper this time—grinding into her heat with a groan that tore from his chest.

She grabbed him—tight, urgent. Nothing gentle.

She was on him. Around him. Her breath tangled with his.

“You’re—” He didn’t finish. Couldn’t.

She gasped—sharp, involuntary.

Then her whole body clenched around him, sudden and brutal.

And Draco—

Draco nearly lost it.

He slammed into her once, twice—then spilled hard, his whole body locking as she dragged him over the edge.

Her body fluttered around him, milking him through the last pulse of it.

For a long moment, they didn’t move.

Just breath—uneven, shared. Shallow, like they’re both bracing for the after.

Neither of them let go.

Granger’s head dropped to his shoulder.

Her fingers skimmed his neck. Like routine. Not meaning.

It should’ve felt warm. Familiar. It didn’t.

“That didn’t—” she muttered. Didn’t finish the sentence.

He didn’t either.

It was too bloody quiet. Too real. Like the noise had been covering something up, the mess they made.

She’d still have to look Weasley in the eye tomorrow. Sit next to Potter at breakfast. Pretend her skin didn’t still remember Draco’s hands. Pretend her voice hadn’t broken on his name. Pretend she hadn’t unravelled with him still inside her.

Potter would stare too long. The way he did when he didn’t trust his own instincts.

He wouldn’t say anything. He’d just watch her. And she’d lie. She was good at it, when she had to be.

Nothing happened , she’d say, probably. Calm. Unbothered. And Potter would believe her. Maybe.

But he wouldn’t stop watching.

And Draco—he’d have to walk into the Slytherin common room and know that if anyone found out, it’d be a bloodbath. Not from house rivalry. From betrayal. No one would say it to his face. But they’d know.

"I shouldn’t have let it happen," she adds, so quietly he almost misses it.

She rubbed her temple like she was trying to erase the last half hour.

She’s probably writing a thesis in her head , Draco thought bitterly. On moral compromise. Or how to lose yourself in six reckless choices or less.

He wanted to argue, say something, anything, but his throat closed up. Because it was. And it wasn’t. And he didn’t have words for this kind of fuck-up.

He leans in, breath warm at her temple, and mutters, “You still breathing, Granger?”

She didn’t answer. Just breathed. Not in relief—just a breath.

Draco  pulls himself out of her, still holding her up, still pressing her into the door like he’s afraid to step back and ruin whatever just happened between them. 

Her skin was warm. Real. Too real.

His chest stuttered. Hands cold.

Sweat trickled down his spine and he couldn’t feel his fingers right.

He should’ve stepped back. Should’ve left. But he didn’t.

His thumb brushed her arm. And then he saw it.

The scar.

The raised, ugly letters carved into her skin, a reminder of everything she’s suffered, everything she endured at the hands of his family, his people, his world. 

Mudblood. 

His chest squeezed tight. His hand hovered over it. Useless.

It’s not just a scar. It’s a brand. A failure.

It was her arm, but it felt like it burned him too.

His fingers twitched. Stopped. He didn’t deserve to touch it.

She didn’t choose hers.

Neither did he.

Hers was carved. His just... happened.

One said victim. The other said coward.

Neither of them said enough.

He stares at it, at the raised, angry letters, and for a moment he forgets how to breathe. 

He wants to erase it, to fix it, to make it disappear, to go back in time and stop it from ever happening. 

But he doesn’t get to. He never will. That scar lives in the world he helped build. And there’s nothing he could do, not even this, that will make it right. 

It makes his skin crawl. Makes his own mark itch under his sleeve.

He almost touches it. Drawn to it like gravity. Like guilt. But he stops, lowering his hand. Just barely. 

Her breath hitched—sharp and high, like she’d been punched.

He wondered who else had ever made her look like that.

And hated that it mattered.

Her fingers, which had still been curled loosely against his chest, suddenly stiffen, tighten, then pull away. 

Draco frowns, confused, but then— 

Then he follows her gaze. 

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. He watches her eyes lock onto the black ink burned into his forearm. That bloody mark. Right there. Like it was waiting to be seen. Her mouth parts, and for a second, he thinks she’s going to scream—or hex him. Or worse.

But she doesn’t. She just stares, like she’s seeing him for the first time. Not the version that kissed her. Not the one who touched her. The other one. The real one. The coward. The Death Eater.

Her fingers flew to her own scar, her own mark. 

Then she looked down. Back up. Blinked fast, like she could push it all back where it came from.

And before he can say anything, before he can explain— 

She backed up too fast and stumbled—caught herself on the desk beside her, fingers shaking.

Her mouth opened. Then shut. She bit the inside of her cheek, hard.

She arranges her clothes, and looks at him.  Just meets his eyes—sharp, burning—and gives him one last look that says everything he’s too afraid to ask. 

She tugged her sleeve down. Not careful. Rough. Like it burned.

Like if she didn’t cover it, she’d start screaming.

Then she walks away. Fast. Determined. Not broken. Just done.

Halfway to the door, she paused—just for a second—and smoothed her skirt.

Tugged the hem. Tucked her blouse. Like if she left messy, it’d mean he still had a hold on her.

She didn’t need to hex him. Walking away like that was worse.

Draco stares at the place where her voice whispered his name like it meant something. 

He should move. Should breathe, should’ve left. But he didn’t. Maybe he wanted someone to see. Hit him. Drag him out. He didn’t know.

Instead, all he does is clutch his wrist. Right where the ring used to sit. Like if he pressed hard enough, it’d come back. Make it stop hurting.

Outside, the castle groaned.

Stone shifting. Holding things it shouldn’t.

Just like him. Trying not to crack.

The stairwell. The one that gave way beneath them. Would be rebuilt it with magic.

Charms, scaffolding, temporary supports.

Everyone said it was fixable.

But Draco knew better.

Some things looked fixed until they cracked again.

Like the stairwell. Like him. Like her.

There’s no going back.

That’s it.

It’s done.

And she’s not coming back.

Blaise would say he was a bloody idiot. Daphne wouldn’t say anything—she’d just raise one eyebrow and never let him live it down.

But none of them were here.

The air shifted, colder now. Like something was moving in the castle—shifting beneath them.

Somewhere far off, down the echoing corridor, a high-pitched laugh cut through the dark.

Peeves. Still watching. Still waiting. Still laughing at the wreckage.

Draco didn’t move. Didn’t blink. 

Just let the laugh echo.

It wasn’t funny.

It just wouldn’t stop.

Like the castle knew. Like it always bloody knew.

He didn’t know if it was the stairwell. Or if it was him.

But something was going to give.

And this time, he wasn’t sure what would break first.

Chapter Text

Still. He stared at the ceiling, blank and unmoving, the breath caught somewhere behind his ribs.

His back ached when he shifted. Not from Quidditch—no, he knew the difference.

Fingernails.

Her nails.

The scratches stung as his shirt brushed over them, sharp enough to remind him it hadn’t been a dream.

Sweat cooled at the base of his spine. Her scent lingered on his skin—too real. Too recent.

He hadn’t cast any cleaning charms.

There were bags under his eyes. He didn’t need a mirror to know. His body ached—overused, not his any more.

Blaise hovered in the doorway, arms crossed. Watching. Like he already knew the worst of it—and had decided to stay anyway.

Draco didn’t meet his eyes, stared at the mirror instead as he moved like the room was closing in. 

His reflection looked clean. Too clean. Like it didn’t know what happened.

The collar bit his throat.  The tie came too tight. Cuffs buttoned like a punishment. Control. That was the point, wasn’t it?

Draco’s hands were steady, though, but only because he forced them to be.

His father never let a button go crooked. He’d hexed a house-elf once over a crease.

Draco looked away from the mirror.

The shirt dragged across his back, feeling the scratches

The sting was low, sharp, unfamiliar. Her.

He bit the inside of his cheek hard enough to ground himself. He hadn’t healed the marks. Not magically. Not on purpose.

Blaise’s silence dug deeper. It crawled under Draco’s skin like judgment in a suit too tailored to be kindness.

His fingers clenched at his side. He kept his eyes on the floor. His lungs locked up, tight behind his ribs.

Then, voice low—flat—he said,  “We had sex.”

The words slipped out before he even noticed. Loud in the quiet.

He saw Blaise go still in the corner of his eyes.

No reply. No look. Just knowing.

And that was worse.

“Gnome got your tongue?” Draco muttered.

Still nothing.

That silence? That was worse than shouting. Worse than judgement. It meant Blaise knew . That this wasn’t just another fucked-up impulse. It was real.

Too real.

Draco looked down, fingers adjusting a cuff that didn’t need fixing.

“Forget it.”

He reached for his ring. Slid it on like armour. Smoothed his shirt, his sleeves, his expression. Piece by piece, the mask came back on.

It held—but barely. Like trying to pin a lie to skin.

As he walked toward the door, Blaise shifted like he was about to speak—something heavy already rising in his throat.

Draco didn’t give him the chance.

He brushed past, robes trailing, and let the door shut behind him with a clean, final click.

And that silence Draco left behind?

It was louder than any scream.

The Great Hall buzzed with low chatter when Draco walked in. Robes straight, tie precise, expression carved from marble.

He slid into his usual seat at the Slytherin table like nothing mattered.

Tracey Davis was already there. Close. Familiar. Calculated.

“Brooding again?” she murmured, eyes still on her tea. “You always look prettiest when you’re miserable.”

He didn’t look at her. “You always show up when you’re bored.”

She leaned in, fingers trailing lazily down his arm. “You’re not the only one with habits.”

Draco didn’t pull away. Didn’t return it either. Just tapped his spoon once against the bowl and gave her the kind of smile that used to mean something.

She shifted her attention to someone else across the table and bit into her toast like none of it mattered.

Someone said his name in passing. He laughed on instinct. Too loud. Too smooth.

Another girl—maybe Greengrass, maybe Vasey—greeted him with a hand on his sleeve and nails that matched the silver of the ring back on his finger.

He let her fingers linger near the ring. Let them misread him.

Better that than thinking too hard about the real reason he’d put it back on.

He didn’t look at the door—but he felt it when she entered.

Granger.

Ruffled robes. Tight smile. Eyes that didn’t drift his way—except for the flicker. One look at the ring. The girl. The mask.

Weasley was hovering. Watching her too close. Tracking every breath, every movement a second too late.

Potter noticed. His glance barely lasted—but it landed sharp. Not suspicion. Assessment. Like he was weighing the cost of saying nothing.

Then Ginny Weasley passed. Her hand brushed the table. Her voice cut low.

“Still breaking things, Malfoy? Girls, friendships, laws?”

She didn’t wait for an answer.

Across the table, Blaise muttered, “What the bloody hell was that?”

Draco shrugged. Reached for the jam like it mattered. Smiled like it cost nothing.

Laughed when Selene whispered something sharp in his ear.

Watched Granger pretend not to hear it.

Je didn’t let himself look. Not properly. But his body betrayed him—chin tilted just slightly, gaze tracking her retreat out of the corner of his eye.

She didn’t look.

He did.

And that was enough to feel it crack again.

The Dark Mark itched beneath his sleeve—buzzing, angry, too loud. He scratched at it absently, sharp and rough, like he could scrub away the way she’d looked at him last night. The way she’d walked out, like she was sealing a door shut behind her.

Blaise sat beside him. Said nothing.

Didn’t need to.

Because Draco was smiling harder now. Louder. Crueller. He laughed a little too easily at a passing jibe about Ravenclaw duelling styles. He nudged a second-year down the bench with a smirk. Every move precise. Rehearsed.

Flawless.

And none of it meant a damn thing.

He didn’t know what the fuck he was doing.

Why he kept waking up.

Why he still—cared.

The Slytherin table emptied around him slowly, but Draco lingered longer than usual, drawing out the last sips of his tea like the rest of his day depended on it.

It didn’t.

So he dragged himself up, murmured some half-hearted excuse to Blaise and left without waiting for a reply.

He was behind on his studies, so he would fix that, before McGonagall sum him once more.

The library was cold when he slipped inside. Not in temperature. In tone. Still. Heavy. Predictable.

There were wards on every entry now—thin, blue-threaded charms meant to detect unauthorized magic, duelling hexes, even how long someone lingered. Half the Slytherins called it surveillance. The other houses called it safety.

Draco didn’t call it anything. He just passed through them, used to the buzz of magic brushing his skin like suspicion.

He slid between rows of tall shelves and headed straight for the far back corner, where Transfiguration texts lived, and the wood smelled like dust and ink. He didn’t check if Granger was already there. He didn’t want to know.

Didn’t mean he wasn’t aware of every breath behind every shelf.

He let out a breath and dropped his bag on the table. Two assignments. Both late. Both N.E.W.T.-level. Both due tomorrow, if he didn’t want to lose more ground with Flitwick and McGonagall.

He started with Transfiguration, Human Transfiguration. Three scrolls due on its ethical boundaries and practical applications.

He flipped open Transmutation of the Self: Theory and Ethical Implications by Emeric Switch and dipped his quill into the inkwell.

Unfortunately his thoughts kept drifting—to scars. To control. To her face when she saw his arm.

He wrote a line. Scratched it out before the ink dried.

The chair scraped wrong beneath him. His shirt caught on the scratches. 

He’d write about Metamorphmagi versus spell-induced changes. He’d cite Uagadou’s traditions—self-transfiguration through wandless magic, even if it bored him half to death.

But even as he wrote, his mind kept circling the same damn thought: He had changed—and not by spell or willpower. By her.

And he didn’t know how to transfigure back.

From behind one of the shelves, a cart squeaked. He froze.

No footsteps. No rustle of Gryffindor robes.

Still.

His spine stayed tight.

He didn’t want her to see him like this—buried in books, pretending that order still worked.

The bell rang. It was nearly lunch now, he’d been here over  two hours and barely written a full scroll.

But at least in here, surrounded by rules and ancient ink and Spello-taped bindings, he could pretend things made sense.

Outside the library, nothing did.

With a sigh, he returned his books, muttered something half-civil to Madam Pince, and walked back to the dungeons

The common room was empty. His dorm wasn’t.

Blaise was sitting on his bed, flipping a quill end over end. His expression didn’t change when Draco entered.

There was a folded letter on Draco’s pillow.

He stopped in the doorway when he recognized the handwriting.

Blaise didn’t look up.

“She sent it to me,” he said. Calm. Uninterested. A warning without the warmth. “Said you weren’t answering.”

Draco didn’t move.

“Figured if it came from someone else, maybe you’d actually read the bloody thing.”

Draco dropped his bag by the door. Crossed to the bed. Picked up the letter. The parchment was thick. The handwriting unmistakable.

Narcissa Malfoy.

He stared at the seal—already cracked.

“You opened it,” he said, flatly.

Blaise shrugged. “Figured that if you don’t read it I could spit it out for you”

Draco hesitated. His thumb hovered over the edge of the folded parchment. He didn’t want to read it. Not with Blaise still watching. Not when his hands were already shaking.

But he opened it anyway.

My dearest,

I will not waste this parchment begging for a reply. I know what silence means in our house. I taught you how to wield it.

But do not mistake silence for strength. That was your father’s first error—and his last lesson to you.

I have sent quite a few letters. You’ve answered none. So I’ve sent this one to someone who might reach you when I no longer can.

You are your father’s son, Draco.

But you are also mine .

Do not forget which part of you kept you alive.

I know the school is watching you. I know McGonagall. She believes in mercy, but not without measure. And the others? They will always remember what side we stood on—whether we held a wand or not.

You cannot disappear. You do not have that luxury.

But you can adapt. Survive. Shape the version of yourself they’ll accept.

You are not forgiven.

You are not condemned.

You are a Malfoy. And a Black. You endure.

That is what I’ve taught you. And if I failed—then write and say so. But do not flinch now.

You cannot afford to.

 

She'd written it like comfort. But he knew better.

He wanted to vomit.

Of course it wasn’t comfort. Nothing ever was.

Just orders. Orders with perfume and better handwriting.

And Blaise— bloody Blaise —had made sure he got it before it was too late.

And he was still there, sitting, elbows on knees, not watching—but not looking away either.

"You going to tell me what that meant?" he asked finally, nodding toward the ring.

He noticed Draco did not wear it the other day. Of course he did.

Draco didn’t answer, but his fingers brushed it—took it off. Held it, but he didn’t put it on. Not this time. Not when it felt more like surrender than protection.

“I don’t want to put it back on,” he muttered.

Blaise didn’t blink. Just waited.

“That’s not an answer,” he said eventually.

“No,” Draco agreed. “It’s not.”

A pause.

Then—

“I told you,” Draco said, low, “we—she and I—”

The rest stuck in his throat.

Blaise didn’t react.

“Fucking hell,” Draco muttered. “Say something”

Blaise stood, met his gaze. Even. Honest.

Blaise exhaled, sharp through his nose. “You’re exhausting, you know that?”

He stood, rolling his shoulders like the room had bored him.

“You mope like it’s a full-time job, sulk through breakfast like the world owes you clarity, and then act shocked when people call you on it.”

His tone wasn’t cruel. Just matter-of-fact.

“You’re not the only one cleaning up after a war, Draco. You’re just the only one pretending yours is more poetic.”

A pause. Then, quieter—

“But I’m still here, aren’t I?”

Draco looked away.

The worst part? Blaise wasn’t wrong.

He had been performing it—grief, guilt, whatever this was. Dressing it in silk and scowls and calling it survival.

Maybe he did want it to look poetic. Something prettier than pathetic.

He rubbed a thumb over the edge of the ring, still not wearing it.

Because the truth was harder to swallow:

He didn’t know how to be anything if it wasn’t tragic

“She’s not wrecking you,” he said quietly. “You were half-wrecked before she showed up.”

Then he left. The door clicked shut behind him.

That was the thing with Blaise. He stayed long enough to make it count—and never demanded more than Draco could give.

He was the only person who didn’t treat him like a symbol. Just a wreck, trying to hold shape.

His eyes flicked toward the desk. The inkpot. The empty scroll beside it.

One step. Just one. Just write something back. Anything.

But he didn’t.

He turned away instead—like not writing was its own kind of power.

He needed air.

The corridor was empty—almost.

Draco stepped into it with his hands shoved deep into his robes, the weight of the letter dragging against his ribs. The ring was still back in the room. 

He kept walking, head down, until—

“Malfoy.”

Her voice wasn’t loud. Wasn’t angry.

That was worse.

He looked up. Granger stood at the far end of the corridor, arms crossed, brows drawn tight. She didn’t look furious.

She looked like she’d been thinking too much.

He schooled his face. Let his smirk settle in like a reflex.

“Granger,” he started, voice too polished. He hated how automatic it sounded.

“To what do I owe the—”

“Don’t,” she said.

He tilted his head. “Don’t what?”

“That.” Her jaw twitched. “That voice. That—thing you do.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You’ll have to be more specific. I do so many things.”

She took a step closer, eyes sharp. “You—” she gestured vaguely, angrily, “—you walk around like nothing touches you. Like—like last night didn’t even—” Her mouth clicked shut. “Merlin, you’re insufferable.”

“Thank you” Draco said too smoothly. 

“You’re not funny.”

“I’m not trying to be.”

Her arms tightened across her chest. “You were laughing this morning. With Vaisey. With your little ring back on.”

He stiffened.

“It looked—” she scoffed, voice suddenly thin, “looked very... perfect. Very polished. Very Malfoy.”

“I didn’t realize you were keeping track of my jewellery,” he said, too lightly.

“You think I care what you wear?” Her voice cracked—once.

“I think—” He stopped. Swallowed. His tongue felt thick. “—you care more than you want to.”

That landed.

Granger’s eyes flashed. Her chin lifted in defiance—classic Gryffindor. But her hands were trembling at her sides.

“I don’t know what the hell that was,” she snapped. “And clearly, neither do you. Whatever game—whatever this is—you’re playing, Malfoy… just—just leave me out of it.”

He stepped forward, expression tightening. “You weren’t ever—bloody hell, Granger” his voice snapped before he meant it to. “You left. And now you’re looking at me like I was the mistake.”

He hadn’t meant to say that much. The air between them felt thinner now, like the paintings were listening. They probably were.

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

Her breath hitched. She blinked hard. “I don’t—I don’t even know what I’m supposed to do with you.” Her voice caught. “I don’t know how to—how to talk to you any more.”

“You’re not supposed to do anything.”

He didn’t mean to say it like that. Not like he was giving her an out. But maybe he was.

Maybe that’s all he’d ever offered her—outs and exits. Never answers.

“Then why —” She stopped herself. Looked down. Shook her head like the words were ash on her tongue. “Forget it.”

Granger turned half away, one hand rising to her mouth, fingers brushing her lips like she was trying to erase the memory of his name there.

“You should’ve gone back to him when I told you to,” Draco said. “Said all the right words. Pretended you never wanted anything.”

“You think I’m just supposed to pretend it didn’t happen?” she said, without turning back. 

“You said it was coping,” Draco replied flatly. “I’m just respecting your terms.”

That made her turn.

Fast.

Eyes burning.

“Don’t you dare throw my words at me like that.”

She stared at him, breath shallow, arms at her sides like she didn’t trust them not to shake. There was something in her eyes he recognized now— fear . Not of him. Of herself. Of how far she let him in.

Her gaze dropped—to his hand.

She stared at his bare finger for too long. He didn’t move it. Didn’t hide it. But he didn’t explain either, and her lips parted just slightly.

He saw the flicker of confusion there. Of hope. Of doubt. And said nothing. Not because he couldn’t—but because every word felt like a trap, even silence.

And she sealed it off, like she always did.

Like she wasn’t seconds from shaking.

“Maybe I should’ve hexed you instead,” she said, voice brittle. “It would’ve been cleaner.”

“Would’ve left a mark,” he muttered.

She let out a cold laugh. “So did you.”

That hit too close. His jaw flexed. She saw it.

Good.

Except—no. Not good.

It didn’t feel like power any more.

It felt like a bruise.

“I wasn’t the only one in that room,” Draco said, quieter now. “And I wasn’t the one who left first.”

Granger froze.

Her breath caught, sharp and uneven. Like that single sentence cracked something she hadn’t been ready to admit.

“I had to,” she said, too quietly.

Her eyes flicked down.

To his arm.

The one he never uncovered, where the mark lived.

She didn’t ask to see it.

She didn’t have to.

Something twisted behind his ribs.

And without thinking, his hand moved—across his forearm. Covering the place she’d looked.

His fingers dug in, pressing the fabric down. As if that could erase what he’d been. What he was .

“Right,” he said, voice flat now. “Because nothing says ‘coping’ like fucking someone you were supposed to hate.”

He wanted her to slap him. Spit at him. Anything. Something ugly to match the shape of what he felt. But she just stood there, jaw clenched, breathing like he hadn’t already dragged her down with him. That made it worse.

And then she was pulling back.

He could see it happening—second by second. That same bloody tightening. That resolve she wore like armour. She was about to walk away again. Neat. Controlled. With her pain folded behind her teeth like it hadn’t happened.

And that—

That was the thing he couldn’t bear.

Not again.

She took a breath. Stepped back.

And Draco moved.

Fast.

One hand grabbed her wrist, the other her elbow. He wasn’t rough—not really. But she gasped all the same.

“Let go,” she hissed.

“No.”

“Malfoy—”

“I said no .”

He pushed forward, eyes locked on hers, dragging her down the corridor—not far, just around the corner—until they reached a door half-sunk into the stone wall.

She tried to pull back once, but he was already opening it—an old supply closet, dusty, forgotten, just wide enough for two people to fit and pretend it meant nothing.

He shoved her inside.

Then followed.

The door slammed behind them.

Dark.

Close.

Breath and body and too much silence.

Granger stumbled back a step, her back hitting shelves of worn brooms and rusted cauldrons. “What the bloody hell is wrong with you?”

She looked like she wanted to hex him. Or bolt.

Her foot shifted like she might. But she didn’t.

Not yet.

That was the thing with Granger—her anger always came first, but the questions always followed.

And maybe that’s what made her dangerous. She didn't just react. She thought. Even when she hated what she was thinking.

He should’ve let her go.

But the second her back turned, panic grabbed the reins and his hand moved before his head did.

“You’re not walking away from this,” Draco said—desperate, not cruel.

She didn’t move. Just stared at him.

Breathing hard.

Not backing down.

“You don’t get to grab m e —”

She jerked her arm again. He let go.

Her feet stayed planted, but every inch of her body screamed to leave. Like her legs hadn’t got the message.

She crossed her arms tight. Not to intimidate. To hold herself in place.

“You think dragging me in here gives you the upper hand?” she snapped. “It makes you look desperate.”

“I didn’t grab you. I—” He stopped, chest heaving. “I needed you to stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like I’m the only one who crossed a line!”

She stared at him, mouth open, fury, and disbelief warring in her expression.

“You did cross a line!” she snapped. “You dragged me in here —you think that fixes it?”

“No,” he said, low.

They were too close now. 

His eyes dropped—to her lips.

Then her throat.

Then to the trembling edge of her hand, clenched at her side.

“I see you, you know,” he said, softer now. Dangerous. “You want to hate me so badly. But you can’t.”

“You’re not clever, you know,” she snapped. “You’re spiralling and dragging me with you. And that’s not tragic, it’s manipulative.”

She shoved his hand away again. “This is me setting a boundary, Malfoy. Try respecting it.”

“Oh, I respect your bloody boundaries,” he snapped, stepping back like she’d burned him. “I respected every single one.”

He took a step back, like being near her made the whole thing worse.

“Don’t stand there like I forced something on you. I respected every bloody line you drew. I still am.”

He didn’t recognize his own voice. It was too loud. Too brittle. And his pulse was in his throat again, hammering like panic.

He wasn’t trying to scare her. That wasn’t what this was.

Except—

Except, maybe, he was scaring himself more.

His hand fell to his side. He flexed his fingers like that would anchor him. It didn’t.

“You can go,” he said. He meant to sound cold. It came out hoarse.

But she didn’t leave.

And that—that pause was too much.

His hand twitched like it remembered her skin. His mouth opened like it had something to say—something honest, maybe. He didn’t say it.

Instead, he crossed the last inch between them and collided into her.

The kiss was brutal. Nothing soft, nothing careful. All edge and ache and fury. A demand for proof. A punishment.

Her hands fisted in his robes. Not pulling him closer. Not pushing him away. Just holding. Like she didn’t trust herself to move.

And when she bit his lip—hard enough to draw blood—it wasn’t rejection.

It was a warning.

He tasted copper. And still didn’t stop.

“You looked at my arm like it decided everything—” His voice cracked.

She flinched.

“It did,” she said, voice low. “It still does.”

Her eyes dropped—

“You wore it,” she said. “You chose it.”

Her voice faltered. A flicker at the edge of conviction.

Like part of her wanted to say something else—wanted to ask if he still would.

But that scared her more than the mark ever did.

And that—that was worse than a hex.

Because it wasn’t a scream. It was fact. It was judgment. And it was deserved.

“You don’t get to play victim, Malfoy,” she snapped, shoving him back with her forearm. “You don’t get to pretend like this wasn’t your choice.”

Her wand hand twitched like she was debating ending this with a jinx.

“I came here to tell you to leave me alone,” she hissed. “Not to get dragged into your guilt spiral.”

“Then why are you still here?” he bit back.

“Because I’m still trying to understand how someone so intelligent could be so fucking stupid.”

His skin was too hot. His robes, suffocating. His body, a weapon that didn’t belong to him.

“Fuck,” he breathed.

He didn’t know if he wanted her to hit him or stay. Or both.

“We should not keep doing this, and you know it.”

Her voice had edge now. Not cruel—controlled. “You think it’s about guilt, or lust, or some twisted version of penance.”

She stepped in now, close enough that he couldn’t look away.

“But it’s not. It’s about the fact that you stood on the wrong side. That people died. That this—” she gestured between them, frustrated, “—shouldn’t exist.”

Her voice cracked—but not from weakness. From control.

“This isn’t safe. I— I can’t bloody think when I’m around you,” she snapped. “You twist everything. Every word. Every breath. And I let you.”

He froze.

“You don’t—you don’t know how to be with someone who doesn’t bend to it. Doesn’t—doesn’t let you win just because you got there first.”

Her voice cracked, not with pity—but anger.

“You don’t want help. You just want someone else to hurt with you.”

Draco flinched.

“You think I left to punish you?” she hissed. “You have no bloody idea—” she choked, tried again, “—what it took to walk away. No idea what I gave up just to be in that room—”

She broke off, fists clenched.

His throat tightened. “Then why come at all?”

She laughed once—sharp, humorless. “Because I’m tired. Tired of fixing everything. Tired of carrying other people’s guilt. And for one second, I wanted something that wasn’t about saving the world.”

Her voice broke then, and she hated it. Hated that he saw.

She looked away too quickly. Like it burned.

She hated the part of herself that hadn’t walked away sooner.

And Draco—Draco didn’t know what to do with that.

She turned away. Gripped the doorknob like it was the only solid thing left in the room.

Draco stepped forward—just once. “You think this is easy for me?”

He waited for the slap.

Maybe a curse.

Something clean. Final.

She stepped closer instead.

That was worse.

“No,” she said, without turning around. “I think it’s familiar.”

“I didn’t—I never said—” he stopped. Couldn’t finish the thought.

“If you’re waiting for absolution,” she said. “Go ask the Wizengamot.”

She paused at the door, breath steady now. “But don’t look at me like I’m the court.”

That was the cut that landed.

Clean. Quiet. Final.

She smoothed her sleeves, lifted her chin, and walked out.

The door closed behind her like it always meant to.

His breath caught. Then buckled.

It cracked out of him. Loud. Ugly. No warning.

Then another.

Then more.

He couldn’t stop it.

Couldn’t breathe through it. Couldn’t think. His whole chest tight like it was trying to cave in on itself.

The crying didn’t stop. He didn’t try to.

His father’s voice—cold, clipped, echoed in his head: Control yourself, boy . Not comfort. Just disgust.

Slowly, he let himself slide down the wall, spine hitting stone, knees folding beneath him. The air was just air. He hated that it didn’t change.

The letter sat heavy in his pocket. Still stinking his mother’s perfume.

Words blurred. Paper blurred. None of it mattered.

Do not forget which part of you kept you alive.

He stared at the words without seeing them, vision blurring just slightly as something clenched behind his ribs.

Draco remembered the way she looked at him when she saw his mark. That flicker of horror. The shame she didn’t try to hide. The questions she didn’t have to ask.

Her scar. His mark.

Hers meant she fought.

His? Just meant he stood there. Wand in hand. Watching.

Like Snape.

A ghost in someone else’s war. Pretending he chose the battlefield.

He wanted to peel it off, hated that it still defined him

He bit his lip. Tasted blood. Good .

His hands were clammy. Sweat pricked the back of his neck even though the dungeon was cold.

He wanted it gone. All of it. But it wasn’t.

He folded in on himself, knees sharp under his chin, like he could physically press it all down. He wished he could.

Chapter Text

It was already morning, and he hadn’t slept.