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Chapter Text

This wouldn’t just be the final year at Hogwarts; it would be her golden opportunity. The Burrow had become her usual destination for summer and Christmas holidays since her second year. Molly Weasley had always shown her genuine affection, insisting that a witch as brilliant as Hermione should be part of their family. At first, the idea seemed obvious—she and Ron appeared to be a natural match—but once it became clear that he and Harry had been in love since their fourth year, Molly shifted her enthusiasm towards Bill and later Percy. The twins had never been an option—one couldn’t fall for someone they saw as a brother—and, of course, the same applied to Bill and Percy.

But Charlie… Charlie was different.

It was only during those two times of the year that she got to see him. And while Hogwarts had always felt like home, in the months leading up to Christmas or the end of the school year, her longing for him intensified inescapably. It didn’t matter that he only stayed for a week before returning to the dragon sanctuary in Romania—seven days were enough to remind her why she had fallen for him when she was just twelve years old.

It was the way he spoke—with a fire in his voice that seemed to set every word ablaze. Magical creatures, and dragons above all, were his passion. No one else shared that enthusiasm with the same intensity, though the closest might have been Luna Lovegood. But Charlie didn’t drift off into dreamy tangents like Luna did. There was certainty in him, a quiet conviction that made him utterly irresistible in her eyes.

He was always the last to arrive and the first to leave after the holidays, and perhaps that was why he showed such patience with his family, especially his parents. That warmth, that gratitude, had always struck her as deeply moving. No one was as effortlessly kind as Charlie.

When he had gifted her a signed copy of From Egg to Inferno by Theseus Scamander, her heart had nearly burst out of her chest. She had almost embarrassed herself from sheer excitement. From that moment on, Care of Magical Creatures had become her favorite subject, and of course, it would be even more so this year. Achieving the required score in her N.E.W.T.s for that class had been a personal triumph, but the real reward was something else entirely—Charlie Weasley was going to be her professor.

The exhilaration she had felt when he announced it in June had been indescribable. She could have sworn a tear had slipped from her eye. Having him here at Hogwarts meant more than even the day she had received her O.W.L. results. No longer would she have to rely on memories of their conversations at the Burrow. Now, with any luck, those conversations could happen every day.

Could she possibly be any happier?

On the other side of the castle, deep within the dungeons, Draco Malfoy carefully unfolded the clippings from the old Arithmancy book she had gifted him before leaving for Hogwarts. His fingers traced the pages with meticulous precision, brushing over the printed letters with an almost reverent touch. He had kept every article from her career published in various wizarding newspapers around the world: The Sahara Voice, The Ancestor’s Scroll, The Oracle of Ifá, The Ganges Chronicles, and The Arcane Lotus. At first glance, his request to receive these newspapers at Malfoy Manor had seemed odd, so he had added a few American publications to avoid suspicion. But his true interest lay solely in finding any mention of Aurélie.

He never doubted she would have a brilliant career—he had known it from the moment they met. His last tutor before entering Hogwarts, a fresh Beauxbatons graduate, intelligent and ambitious. Aurélie wasn’t one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, but her lineage was pure, and Narcissa Malfoy’s recommendation had been instrumental in securing her place in French wizarding society. That was likely why she had agreed to tutor him in the flood of subjects expected from a Malfoy heir. And without a doubt, he would have taken the top spot… if not for a certain Mudblood witch.

Draco exhaled, narrowing his eyes. It still gnawed at him that Hermione Granger, a Muggle-born, had bested him. A part of him—a very small, deeply buried part—refused to believe her talent was mere genetic luck. Some unknown magical lineage must run through her veins. There was no other explanation.

He pushed those thoughts aside and returned to the clippings. For the second time that week, he stared at her face. It was only Monday, September 1st, but he had already seen it the day before while organizing his trunk. Of course, he couldn’t leave her behind at the Manor. Her delicate features had sharpened over the years, a sign of her growing maturity, and her eyes had become even more expressive. And her mouth… bloody hell, her mouth was more tempting each day.

He dreamed of those lips.

The rare articles that featured photos never revealed much beyond her robes, but Draco could still recall her exquisite figure. The summer before she left for Hogwarts had been absolute torture. The climate-control charms in the Manor’s gardens had malfunctioned after he purchased his wand at Ollivanders, forcing Aurélie to wear less clothing for four agonizing days. Her linen blouses barely concealed the curve of her chest, her light skirts revealing glimpses of her thighs whenever the wind lifted them. Draco had watched, mesmerized, unable to tear his gaze away when she tilted her head to read or stretched her legs out on the grass.

There was no need to mention that he didn’t just dream of that image. He used it.

In the privacy of his bedroom at the Manor—or under the cover of a Muffliato charm, with the curtains of his four-poster bed drawn tight at Hogwarts—he allowed his mind and body to indulge in the forbidden. His skin burned beneath his own touch, chasing an elusive relief that was never quite enough. He had done it countless times in his final week at the Manor. At Hogwarts, he’d have to settle for Pansy again, closing his eyes and pretending it was Aurélie moaning in his ear.

Pansy had noticed. At first, his silence during the act and his strange requests confused her. But over time, she seemed to resign herself. She still clung to the hope of awakening in Draco a spark of passion that belonged to her—one that wasn’t just the echo of another woman in his mind.

But Draco couldn’t complain. Pansy complied with every one of his demands, even the most specific ones: calling him "young Malfoy," just as Aurélie used to, or, once she had mastered advanced spells, transfiguring her uniform into replicas of the summer outfits his former tutor used to wear when her body became more curvaceous.

And then, that night, in the Great Hall, the universe decided to mock him.

When Aurélie stepped through the doors, introduced as the new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, Draco froze. A shiver ran down his spine, an electric prickle of shock and something dangerously close to excitement. He couldn’t believe it. It was as if his most twisted, filthy dreams had been given the chance to materialize.

It was a bitter feeling. He could see her every day now, maybe even touch her… but she still wouldn’t be his.

Or perhaps, with a little help from Merlin himself, she would.

He watched as she took her seat with effortless poise beside a scrawny redhead who, of course, could only be yet another bloody Weasley. And then, he saw it. The wizard was looking at her with longing.

Draco recognized that look instantly, because it was the same one he had seen reflected in his own mirror every summer, when he held her newspaper clippings in the dim glow of his bedroom.

He couldn’t blame the poor bastard. Who wouldn’t be drawn to Aurélie? And yet, his hand trembled against his wand. A barely perceptible tremor, but real.

And he hated it.

There was no reason to hex the Weasley, but for the first time in his life, Draco Malfoy felt jealous.

After the welcome feast and the traditional Sorting Hat ceremony for the first years, all students returned to their respective common rooms. Draco and Hermione had been appointed as Head Boy and Head Girl, but Hermione immediately refused the possibility of sharing the exclusive private quarters that came with the title. To her, it made no sense, and there was no room for debate. Draco, on the other hand, saw no issue in moving alone to the wing reserved for the Heads. Their Heads of House raised no objections either; after six years of witnessing their relentless clashes, they knew better than to insist on forcing them to cohabitate.

At first, Hermione didn’t entirely understand Draco’s reluctance toward her, but it only took Ron explaining in great detail the significance of the Sacred Twenty-Eight—and how the families within that elite circle only socialized among themselves, or with a select few pure-bloods they deemed worthy of their standard—for everything to start making sense. She observed that Draco rarely spoke to anyone outside of Slytherin, save for a handful of Ravenclaws. But that wasn’t enough for her. Her instincts pushed her to dig deeper in the library, and what she found confirmed her suspicions: although Lord Voldemort had been defeated when his own Unforgivable Curse rebounded on him—thanks to the protection that a mother’s love had bestowed upon her now best friend—his ideals had not perished with him. There were still pure-blood factions who firmly believed in magical supremacy and the exclusion of those who did not come from “pure” bloodlines. Some of the more extreme factions even advocated for the eradication of half-bloods and Muggle-borns like herself. It wasn’t difficult to imagine that the Malfoy family had once sympathized with those ideas.

Over the years, Draco’s hostility toward her had only grown stronger. Hermione chose to ignore him completely, and without a word, an unspoken truce settled between them.

The first opportunity to meet her new Care of Magical Creatures professor came sooner than expected—just the next day. According to the class schedule, she had been assigned alongside Neville Longbottom and Parvati Patil as the other two seventh-year Gryffindors in the subject. Across the clearing, near the edge of the Forbidden Forest, Theo Nott walked with Blaise Zabini and Draco Malfoy. It was evident that all three were just as bright as she was—or at least, that’s what their outstanding O.W.L. scores suggested. But beyond their academic achievements, what truly defined them was their unmistakable pure-blood bearing: Zabini, with his height and aristocratic grace; Nott, with his fine, elegant features; and Malfoy, with his sharp, yet undeniably attractive angles. Always impeccably put together, she had only ever seen one of them with a loosened tie on the rarest of occasions, and never outright disheveled. Even on their days off, they dressed with a crispness that betrayed their upbringing.

Their presence in the Great Hall stood out for their refined manners, their effortless mastery of advanced spells, and, most notably, their attitude toward the Muggle world. Zabini concealed it with practiced ease; in Nott, it was barely perceptible. But Malfoy… Malfoy didn’t even bother to hide it.

As soon as Charlie arrived, accompanied by a pair of Knarls inside a massive cage he had levitated in front of the students, the class began. He exuded confidence, the ease of someone who had mastered his craft. The moment he started throwing out questions, Hermione realized she would struggle to stand out. Of course, she wanted to impress her new instructor, but studying alongside students who matched her intellect would make that task significantly harder.

When Charlie asked for a volunteer to feed the Knarls, she was the only one who stepped forward. She thought this was her moment.

But the silence that followed was deafening.

Everyone stared at her as if she had grown a second head. Even Zabini, who was usually unshakable, looked bewildered.

—We thought you were the smartest in the class, Granger —he remarked dryly.

Hermione hesitated for a fraction of a second but quickly dismissed the comment.

—That’s true Gryffindor bravery —Theodore Nott interjected in his usual measured tone— because this borders on stupidity.

Charlie approached her, his brow slightly furrowed but without protest. He handed her a small cloth bag, presumably filled with food for the creatures.

—Keep your wand at the ready. If necessary, use only Stunning Spells. Nothing that could harm them.

Hermione nodded and turned to glance at her classmates. Their expressions remained frozen in shock. But Draco Malfoy… he was smirking. The malice in his expression was so evident that Hermione could have sworn he even performed a mock bow. She was about to glare at him when a sharp voice cut through the air from the path leading to the castle, speaking in flawless French:

—« Oh mon Dieu, il est sur le point de donner à manger à un Knarl ! »

Hermione froze. Her French was as perfect as her English. Her mother, a native speaker, had insisted on speaking to her exclusively in French throughout her childhood, determined to instill a sense of heritage. And because of that, she understood with absolute clarity what she was about to do: feeding a Knarl would unleash its fury. It could attack her with its sharp quills.

The voice belonged to the new, young, and surprisingly attractive Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. Charlie immediately turned, breaking into a wide smile at the sight of her.

—Professor Dumont, what a pleasure to see you. What brings you here?

—I apologize for interrupting your class, Professor Weasley —she responded smoothly as she approached—. I was just taking a stroll, getting to know the grounds. I do apologize again… I simply thought the student might get hurt.

—She might, but who cares? —Malfoy interjected lazily—. Granger tends to seek attention, even at the cost of her own safety.

Hermione felt heat rise to her face, but not because of Malfoy. It was because Charlie stepped beside her and gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

—Hermione—. He cleared his throat—. I mean, Miss Granger is perfectly capable of handling herself. I’m not surprised she volunteered.

—I insist, Professor, I don’t think this is wise.

Hermione noticed the subtle shift in Charlie’s expression. He looked… embarrassed? No, more than that. He looked uneasy, almost intimidated by the professor’s presence.

—You’re right, Professor Dumont. I apologize if this made you uncomfortable in any way.

—Not at all, Professor. This is your class; I merely shared my thoughts —she said with a warm smile.

And that was all it took.

One simple smile.

Her understanding struck her all at once, hitting her like a punch to the stomach.

First, the most obvious thing—how could she have been so foolish as to offer food to a Knarl? What had she been thinking? She had been so distracted by Charlie that she hadn’t even registered the danger. Had he really trusted her abilities enough to put her in harm’s way like that? Or worse—had he simply not cared?

Second, and almost just as bewildering—why did Malfoy look like he wanted to murder Charlie with his gaze alone? She had seen Draco angry before, mocking, cruel… but never like this. Never with that quiet, seething resentment, as if he were looking at his worst enemy.

And third, the most painful truth of all—Charlie had never looked at her the way he was looking at Professor Dumont now. His eyes shone with something absolute and devastating, with utter devotion. With love. That was how Ron looked at Harry, eyes burning with something like restrained passion, a desire he could never put into words.

The weight of that realization stole the breath from her lungs. She felt her heart shatter into a thousand pieces, and if anyone had told her the pain would be subtle, barely noticeable, she wouldn’t have believed them. No. This wasn’t mild, nor was it fleeting. It was agony, raw and unrelenting, like the Cruciatus curse tearing through her without mercy.

Was this what heartbreak felt like? Like a spell splitting you in two, with no wand, no shield—nothing to protect you. Like a chasm opening beneath her feet, vast and endless, swallowing everything whole.

She wanted to run. Flee from this place as if her life depended on it.

But her feet wouldn’t move.

Not even when the rain started falling over the clearing, soaking the earth beneath her. Charlie, with the ease of someone accustomed to these situations, levitated the cage and made it disappear—Merlin knew how—without sparing it a second glance. His only concern was getting Dumont out of there, shielding her beneath a water-repelling charm that enveloped them both.

By then, the rest of their classmates had already bolted back to the castle. Even her friends must have assumed she had done the same.

But she hadn’t.

Hermione remained rooted to the spot, pressed against the rough bark of a tree, as the rain cascaded down her skin, slithering through her curls, tracing down her face before seeping into her soaked uniform. A bone-deep chill settled over her, but she barely noticed.

She wasn’t alone.

Draco Malfoy stood halfway back to the castle, sheltered under the broad branches of an ancient oak. He wasn’t moving—but he wasn’t still, either. With his wand clenched tightly in his hand, he sent small blasts toward the nearest trees, splitting them in two as if they were nothing more than brittle twigs. His expression was a mask of controlled fury, but there was something else burning beneath it—something raw, something dangerous.

Then, with a deafening crack, he felled a larger tree.

The impact jolted her back to reality.

Hermione blinked, the weight of the moment crashing over her like the relentless downpour. It was time to leave.

She started down the familiar path, her steps unsteady. But as she reached Draco, she stopped. Just for a moment. She looked at him—really looked at him—like she was seeing something she hadn’t noticed before.

He met her gaze with nothing but disdain. Slowly, deliberately, he raised his wand and pointed it directly at her.

For one fleeting second, Hermione wished he would strike her down with one of those blasts.

Maybe then, she would stop feeling.

“You’re pathetic, Granger,” Draco sneered, his voice dripping with venom. “You always are. And it’s maddening to think that today, I’ve sunk almost as low as you.”

The insult hung between them, sharp and poisonous.

But Hermione didn’t react the way he expected.

She didn’t fight back. She didn’t lift her chin in defiance or hurl some razor-sharp retort at him.

She laughed.

At first, just a soft, fractured sound. Then, a burst of laughter—wild, uncontrollable, empty of any real joy.

Draco’s frown deepened.

Hermione clutched her stomach with one hand, wiping away tears with the other, her whole body shaking with the force of it. But then, in the space of a heartbeat, the laughter shifted.

The sound broke. A choked sob escaped her lips. And suddenly—

Everything caved in.

Tears crashed over her like an unforgiving tide.

Hermione dropped to her knees in the wet earth, her shoulders trembling, her breath uneven, and an unstoppable sob tearing through her chest.

The rain kept falling. Steady. Heavy. Drowning out everything except the sound of her ragged crying.

Draco lowered his wand—not out of intent, but as if it had suddenly become too heavy to hold.

He shouldn’t be here. He should turn around, walk away, and leave her there, alone in the mud—just as she was now.

Fragile. Exposed. Shattered.

Crawling like something filthy.

But he didn’t.

Hermione’s broken laughter still echoed in his head, tangled with the way her face had twisted in sheer desperation before she collapsed. Something in his chest tightened uncomfortably. It wasn’t pity—he didn’t pity anyone—but it wasn’t indifference either.

Hermione gasped for air, trembling.

“Why…?” she whispered, more to herself than to him.

Draco clenched his jaw.

It would have been so easy to ignore her. So easy to throw another insult and walk away. But instead, something rough and almost imperceptible slipped from his throat.

“Get up, Granger.”

Hermione didn’t react. She remained kneeling on the ground, fingers digging into the damp earth, breath ragged.

Irritation crawled up Draco’s spine. He wasn’t built for this. He didn’t know how to deal with other people’s pain—least of all Hermione Granger’s.

“For Merlin’s sake…” he muttered impatiently.

He moved before he could stop himself.

Not gently. Not kindly. But he reached down and grabbed her arm, firm enough to force her to her feet. Hermione let out a choked gasp as he hauled her up, swaying slightly as she regained her balance.

Draco didn’t let go.

He could feel the soaked fabric of her uniform clinging to her skin, the faint tremble of her fingers against his wrist. Hermione lifted her gaze to him, and for a second, everything else fell away.

It wasn’t the pain in her expression that rooted him in place.

It was the absolute surrender in her eyes.

Hermione Granger, who had always fought, argued, screamed—now did nothing. She only looked at him, with no trace of the girl who had always faced the world with her head held high.

Did he look just as broken? The thought filled him with terror. Not enough for it to show. Not enough for her to notice. But enough for his grip to loosen slightly.

“You’re soaked,” he said, his own voice sounding strange to his ears.

Hermione blinked, as if only now realizing the state she was in. Her hair dripped, mud smeared her knees, and her white blouse clung to her skin in a way that didn’t seem to concern her in the slightest.

“It doesn’t matter,” she murmured, her tone almost robotic.

Draco clicked his tongue.

“Of course it matters. You look like a bloody disaster.”

Hermione let out a short, hollow laugh.

“Because I am.”

A chill ran down Draco’s spine. He should have been reveling in this—having a front-row seat to Hermione Granger’s misery. And yet, he wasn’t. His grip on her arm tightened slightly—not in warning, but in something he refused to name. He didn’t want to think about this, about what he was doing, about why the hell he still hadn’t let go.

This needed to end.

“We’re going back to the castle,” he said at last.

Hermione didn’t answer. But she didn’t resist when he started walking, leading her with him, still holding on.

Draco knew exactly why his body had moved before his brain could stop it, why his grip on Hermione’s arm wasn’t just firm but a raw, desperate need to hold onto something other than the image of Aurélie smiling at another man.

Another man who wasn’t him.

Because Draco Malfoy, with all his arrogance, with all his pureblooded pride, with all the confidence he worked so hard to project, shared a piece of Granger’s misery, and that infuriated him even more. He wasn’t old enough, didn’t have the questionable morality but apparent charm and kindness of Charlie Weasley, didn’t have the heroic, redeeming aura that seemed so damn attractive.

All he had was his last name. His money. His impeccable lineage.

And what was that worth when he saw her laughing with another man as if he didn’t exist?

Nothing.

That’s why he was here.

That’s why he hadn’t left Hermione alone in the rain. Because even if it was for different reasons, at least he understood what it felt like to be invisible to the only person that mattered.

Hermione kept walking beside him, saying nothing. Her steps were heavy, dragging, as if her entire body was too exhausted to keep going. Draco tightened his grip.

Not to help her.

To help himself.

The castle loomed before them, dark and silent, barely illuminated by the flashes of lightning in the distance. Draco had no idea what he would do once they crossed those doors. He didn’t want to think about the moment he let go of Hermione and was left alone with his own misery.

But Hermione stopped before he had the chance to decide.

“Why are you doing this?” Her voice was hoarse, barely a murmur above the sound of the rain.

Draco felt his jaw clench.

He could have told her to shut up. That it was none of her business. That he was simply making sure she didn’t pass out and cause trouble for someone else.

But Hermione’s gaze, still blurred with tears, tore through every single one of those responses before he could say them.

So he told the truth.

“Because we’re both idiots, Granger, and how unpleasant it is to realize I’ve just debased myself again.” He exhaled sharply. “Fixating on someone who will never feel the same… is a fool’s game.”

Thunder roared above them. Hermione blinked, confused.

Draco let out a dry, humorless laugh.

“Well, that’s just too bad,” he said, voice dripping with irony.

They stood at the edge of the clearing, right where the undergrowth of the Forbidden Forest began to tangle around their feet. The rain had softened, now a fine drizzle that clung to Hermione’s curls and trailed down Draco’s neck.

But neither of them moved.

They couldn’t.

Not when Charlie Weasley was right there, standing beside Aurélie Dumont, smiling as if nothing else in the world mattered.

As if the storm hadn’t passed. As if the entire universe had shrunk down to the delicate curve of his smile.

Hermione watched as he took Aurélie’s hand with insulting ease, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. As if he had done it hundreds of times before. Aurélie, in turn, lowered her gaze, a faint, trembling smile on her lips and the barest hint of a blush staining her cheeks.

It was a small gesture. Insignificant.

But it knocked the air from Hermione’s lungs.

The feeling of being crushed under the weight of something much larger, much crueler, expanded in her chest.

She felt pathetic.

Not just because Charlie had never looked at her like that. Not just because she had never been the reason behind his softest smiles, his most effortless touches. But because, for a moment, she had believed she might have been.

Beside her, Draco Malfoy was utterly still.

Hermione could feel the tension in his body, the way his hands clenched into fists inside his cloak. His eyes were locked on Aurélie, and though his face was unreadable, Hermione saw it clearly:

Draco Malfoy was drowning, too.

Because no matter what he did, no matter how much magic he mastered, how brilliant his lineage was… he wasn’t in Charlie’s place. And it was bitterly ironic that a Malfoy could ever want to be a Weasley.

A rough knot climbed up their throats, burning and acrid.

It was incredible how two people who were supposed to be diametrically opposed could feel exactly the same—like strangers. Like parasites. Like something that didn’t belong.

Something dirty.

Something unwanted.

Hermione swallowed with difficulty. Her shoes were sinking into the mud, her soaked clothes weighing her down as if trying to pull her to the ground. For the first time in a long time, she didn’t feel like fighting.

Draco was the first to move. But before he could step away, Hermione grabbed his wrist.

She didn’t know why she did it. And for some reason she didn’t want to understand, he stopped.

They stood there.

Just a moment longer.

Just until they could convince themselves that breathing wasn’t a punishment.

Until the image of Charlie and Aurélie faded from their minds, from their eyes, from their skin.

And then, something else settled between them.

Hermione didn’t know how to name it. How could she define sharing her grief, her rage, her helplessness… with the one person who had despised her for six years?

They weren’t friends. Not allies.

But in that instant, Draco Malfoy understood her like no one else ever could.

It was completely devastating.

And, strangely, comforting.

Chapter Text

The past week had been nothing short of unbearable. Hermione and Draco stole furtive glances at each other every time Aurélie and Charlie entered the Great Hall, sharing meals as if they were a real couple. Their knowing smiles ignited a storm behind Malfoy’s cold eyes and left a barely concealed look of distaste on Hermione’s face.

By Friday night, the Slytherin common room was buzzing with a party. Its location near the dungeons provided easy access to secret passageways leading to different parts of the castle—routes that every house knew like the back of their hand, making them the perfect escape plan when needed.

Hermione had only agreed to come because of Ginny’s all-too-familiar threat: “If you don’t, I’ll tell McGonagall it was you who took her Advanced Charms book without permission.” Honestly, Hermione had been tempted to confess that herself more than once, but here she was, facing the view of the Black Lake across the Slytherin room., drinking something that tasted like piss, and wondering how the hell she had let herself get dragged into this.

Ginny’s real interest in the party soon became obvious. She hadn’t taken her eyes off Theodore Nott, who seemed perfectly content in Lavender Brown’s company. The blonde had casually draped a leg over his, but he looked far more invested in holding Ginny’s gaze in a silent challenge than in actually enjoying Lavender’s attention.

Roger Davies approached the redhead, murmuring something into her ear. Hermione caught enough of it to understand—he was asking Ginny to teach him that tricky maneuver she used to deflect the Quaffle at an angle that made it look like a missed shot, only for it to miraculously curve into the goal.

Ginny let out a laugh, turning to face him with a smirk as she rested a hand on his shoulder.

—"Of course I can teach you, Roger."

Davies beamed, clearly pleased.

—"I can’t believe how generous you are, Weasley."

Ginny slid her hand down his shoulder, tracing a slow path across his chest. The color drained from Roger’s face before rushing back in a deep red flush.

—"I can be very generous," she said smoothly. "What do you say we go right now?"

—"At this hour?" Michael Corner blurted out, clearly taken aback.

Ginny leaned in close to Davies’ ear, but her voice was perfectly audible to Hermione.

—"We should take advantage of the empty pitch, Roger. Or would you rather I put on a whole show for everyone to copy?"

A grin spread across Roger’s face, and without hesitation, he grabbed Ginny’s hand, eagerly leading her toward the exit.

Hermione watched as they disappeared down the corridor toward the dungeons, but just as they reached a secluded passage, Ginny suddenly gasped and clutched her ankle as if she had twisted it. While Roger fussed over her, she deftly pulled away and slipped into a passageway that led straight to Gryffindor Tower, leaving a bewildered Davies behind.

Not that it mattered. Her real goal had been accomplished—Theodore Nott had left the party early.

Hermione made a mental note to inform her friend. After that peculiar—though admittedly cathartic—walk back to the castle with Draco Malfoy at the start of the week, she was certain neither of them would ever speak of it again. Nor would they confide in anyone about their "exchange." If he did, she’d have enough ammunition to retaliate. After all, they now held a secret over each other—one not only humiliating in its sheer misery but also dangerous given their status as students with a clear interest in two of their professors.

Apparently, she was developing a taste for urea because she couldn’t stop downing glass after glass of whatever they shoved in her hands. Watching Charlie practically melt over Aurélie was beyond irritating. She couldn’t remember the last time she had allowed herself to feel this vulnerable, this overwhelmed. Maybe in first year. After that, everything became more controlled—she built her reputation as a know-it-all, yes, but at least she was a know-it-all who excelled.

The moment she felt a little too dizzy for her own good, she decided it was time to leave the party. She made her way through the dungeons toward the passage that would lead to the Gryffindor Tower. A left turn, two staircases to the right—then, suddenly, she realized she had no idea where she was. Bloody hell. She really needed to stop drinking.

She considered retracing her steps, but the corridors all looked the same, and a creeping sense of disorientation settled in. Deciding not to panic, she sat down against the cold stone wall, hoping another student would pass by soon—preferably not a Slytherin. But of course, life, fate, or magic itself seemed determined to mock her.

She heard footsteps approaching and cast a soft Lumos. The dim glow at the tip of her wand revealed a pair of polished black shoes—immaculate and pristine. Her gaze traveled upward. Trousers, perfectly pressed without a single wrinkle. The blue and silver trim of a sweater. She muttered a curse under her breath.

One hand was tucked casually into his pocket, while the other—pale enough for the blue of his veins to be visible—clutched an amber-colored bottle with alarming intensity. She didn’t need to hear his voice to know who it was. But when he finally spoke, his tone was unrecognizable.

"I must admit," Draco drawled, "that under normal circumstances, I would have thoroughly enjoyed watching you wallow in your apparent misery, Granger. But lately, I find myself... disappointed. No one would expect this from the Head Girl. And since I have the misfortune of sharing the title with you, I can’t say it’s particularly pleasant to see you debasing yourself like this. Get up. Now."

Hermione made an attempt to stand but quickly reconsidered. Obeying Malfoy of all people? Absolutely not. Without thinking—perhaps just to irritate him further—she dropped to all fours and started crawling like a common quadruped.

It worked.

A second later, she felt an arm wrap tightly around her waist, hoisting her up with the same ease she would use to scoop up Crookshanks. The strength in Draco’s grip surprised her. He had always seemed tall but lean, and yet he lifted her as if she weighed nothing.

When it became clear he wasn’t letting go, Hermione began kicking her legs in an attempt to break free.

"Let me go, Malfoy!"

"You really don’t want me to do that, Granger. The floor here is disgusting."

"You’re disgusting! Where the hell are you taking me?"

"I don’t know yet," he admitted, his voice unsettlingly neutral. "I have a lot of ideas."

For some reason, Hermione panicked—would he curse her?

As soon as Draco recognized the hallway leading to the sixth floor, he pushed the door open, still carrying Hermione. She had stopped struggling, now trembling instead. That seemed to satisfy him. Draco valued positions of power, and having her at his mercy was no exception. However, he finally decided to release her at the end of a long stretch of wall. At that moment, a massive door materialized before their eyes.

“The Room of Requirement,” Hermione stated, adjusting her blouse.

“How observant, Granger. Ten points to Gryffindor,” Draco drawled sarcastically.

Hermione dusted off imaginary dirt from her clothes and cleared her throat, appearing slightly more sober. “Well, I’ll leave you to whatever it is you’re planning to do.”

“Scared, Granger?” His gaze locked onto hers, debating whether it was wise to push her further. He felt tempted to tell her what he had just witnessed before taking the passageways to the dungeons—Charlie Weasley and Aurélie, sitting together on a bench in the castle’s west wing courtyard. Hermione would be devastated, no doubt. And why not? A dark part of him had enjoyed seeing her in agony, mirroring the torment he was desperately trying to rid himself of through sheer force, while she handled hers in a far more pathetic—albeit civilized—manner.

He scanned the hallway and recognized the old Enchantments classroom. Its windows overlooked that very spot. The Room of Requirement had stretched along the entire corridor, always adapting to their needs. He convinced himself that Hermione needed to see this, though deep down, he wanted to see her break even more than she had in the passageway. At the same time, he secretly hoped Aurélie or Weasley would be alone on that bench—it would mean they were no longer together, easing his own discomfort.

Without a second thought, he grabbed Hermione’s hand and led her to the classroom. She had no choice but to stumble along, unable to protest too loudly—they were already making enough noise and risking getting caught.

The moonlight illuminated their faces as they stepped inside. Draco shut the door behind them, releasing her hand, only to take it again and pull her toward the window. Hermione’s gaze wandered over the landscape, from the rolling hills to the Quidditch pitch, before settling abruptly on a fixed point below. Draco recognized it immediately and braced himself for the inevitable—her unraveling. He knew he’d have to drag her back from her misery once again.

In that moment, he fully grasped the twisted satisfaction he found in breaking her apart just to force her back together—whether with scathing remarks or, at times, through sheer physical intimidation. Was it sick? Perhaps. No more than the fact that he’d been in love with an older woman since he was ten. Dragging Hermione down into the pit she had dug for herself, putting her in a position as wretched as his own, was something he simply couldn’t resist. He hated her, too. And if he was going to drown, then pulling her under with him felt utterly... irresistible.

Yet Hermione’s expression revealed nothing.

Draco stepped closer. Surely, to his relief, one of them would be sitting there alone. Or, better yet, neither of them would be there at all. But then—where else would they have gone together?

The answer was neither comforting nor satisfying. The scene was the same as before: Aurélie, smiling at that filthy excuse for a wizard, Weasley. And, as if the moment couldn't possibly get worse—it did. He gestured toward something in the distance, and Aurélie leaned into his shoulder.

Hermione snatched the bottle from Draco’s hand and drank as though it were water. Yet her face remained unreadable, unshaken. Her expression hadn’t changed in the slightest. Only the flush spreading across her freckled cheeks and a small, sharp exhale betrayed the storm raging inside her. Or perhaps she had simply drunk too quickly.

Draco took the bottle back, muttering a spell that refilled it instantly.

“I suppose that must be some cheap trinket you’re drinking from,” he remarked. “Otherwise, it wouldn’t refill itself.”

“It’s a translation charm,” she said flatly. “The wine from the Manor’s cellar depletes while this bottle fills.”

Draco lifted the now-brimming bottle to his lips.

Hermione hadn’t looked away from the bench where their so-called mentors remained seated. This time, Draco handed her the bottle again. She took another swig—slightly smaller, but just as desperate.

"I have to admit, she's quite beautiful"

Draco lifted the bottle to his lips again, taking a deep swig—almost half of it in one go.

Beautiful wasn’t enough, and he knew it. She was brilliant. And not just that—she was everything the woman he was meant to marry should be. Pureblood. Well-mannered. Cultured. From a family that, while not particularly renowned, still upheld the traditions of their kind. And, without a doubt, the most stunning woman he had ever seen. Her dark hair contrasted sharply with her midnight-blue eyes. Her delicate features clashed with the biting wit of the letters she used to write to her sisters—letters he had snooped through more times than he cared to admit as a child. Her curves—he didn’t even need to look to know that she was more voluptuous now than she had been seven years ago. The graceful way she spoke, the way she carried herself... and yet, all of that was in the hands of a filthy Weasley.

Draco refilled the bottle with a flick of his wand and downed it slowly, his lips never leaving the glass, his gaze fixed on the bench ahead—just like Granger’s. A sharp pain shot through his skull, and dizziness took over. He reached to refill the bottle once more, but Hermione snatched it from his hands just before he could.

"I think we’ve both had enough for tonight, Malfoy."

What the hell was wrong with this witch? He was the one who made the rules. He was the one who was supposed to drown her in misery and then pull her back out. And yet, something in her gaze gave him pause. The fierceness in her eyes? Or maybe the liquid courage she had consumed, making her bold enough to challenge him?

"You don’t get to tell me what to do, Granger."

"I have a better idea. You can keep drinking. We both can."

Draco straightened to his full height, trying to intimidate her, but she simply lifted her chin, refusing to back down. He liked that. He had nothing to lose by listening to her. Though he highly doubted Hermione Granger was capable of coming up with anything remotely entertaining. She was only amusing when she was suffering—what other kind of fun could she possibly offer?

"Fine, Granger. I’m listening. But if this involves books or scrolls, I’m out."

Hermione rolled her eyes and sat cross-legged on the floor, gesturing for him to sit across from her. With an exasperated sigh, Draco obeyed—grudgingly.

"I’ll go first. If the bottle lands on you with the bottom facing you, you take a drink. If the neck points at you, you answer a question—truthfully."

Draco smirked. "And then it’s my turn?"

She nodded. "Same rules apply."

He stretched his arms, interlacing his fingers and cracking his knuckles. "I never thought I’d say this, Granger, but this might actually be fun." His smirk shifted into something more predatory, and Hermione—despite herself—felt a flicker of satisfaction at seeing her so-called enemy acknowledge her as something other than an insufferable know-it-all.

"Who’s first?"

"Ladies first."

Hermione reached for the bottle, but Draco snatched it away. "Since there aren’t any ladies here, I’ll start."

That should have irritated Hermione, but maybe the alcohol was softening her, because instead, she let out a huff of amusement, barely suppressing a laugh.

Draco spun the bottle, and it landed with the bottom pointing at Granger. He wasted no time, refilling the bottle just enough to cover the bottom, wanting to take things slow at first. If it got boring, he could always fill the bottle and knock her out with alcohol.

She sighed, took the bottle, and emptied it. "You’ll have to teach me the spell in case you’re too drunk to cast it later."

"Nice try, Granger."

She grinned smugly before spinning the bottle. This time, Draco had to answer a question. Hermione met his gaze. "On your honor, Malfoy, you’ll answer truthfully."

Damn witch. He could lie, but she knew as well as he did that the honor of his name was not to be tarnished—especially not one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight.

"Of course, Granger."

"How long have you known Professor Dumont?"

"Since I was ten."

He spun the bottle, and once again, it landed on its bottom, pointing at Granger. Begrudgingly, he poured a slightly larger drink this time and handed it to her. She downed it without hesitation before spinning again. Another question for him.

"You enchanted the damn bottle."

"I thought you were smart, Draco. You can’t double-enchant an object—it’s already under your refilling spell."

Damn witch was right, as always. "I was testing you."

"Sure, Malfoy, whatever helps you sleep at night. Now answer—why do you know her? And be more specific this time."

It wasn’t a problem. He wasn’t revealing much. Aurélie was a professor at Hogwarts now. Saying she had tutored him wouldn’t give anything away.

"She was my tutor the year before I started at Hogwarts. She had just graduated from Beauxbatons and needed my mother’s recommendation to advance her career."

"I see. So it’s a Pureblood tradition—to use people."

Draco tensed but didn’t give her the satisfaction of a reaction. That was what she was expecting. Instead, he spun the bottle, watching with satisfaction as it landed on her. His turn for a question. He weighed his options. He wouldn’t pry into what truly interested him—not yet. Not until she was a little drunker. Instead, he’d mirror her questions.

"You have about a dozen Weasleys to choose from. Why that one?"

Hermione knew that trying to hide her obvious infatuation with Charlie from Draco would only insult his intelligence. It was clear by now that both of them were harboring feelings for their professors. At least she was for Charlie.

The first memory of meeting him surfaced in her mind, and before she could stop herself, the words started spilling out...

“It was the Christmas break of our first year. I went home and stayed with my parents until Easter. Harry...” Hermione hesitated before continuing; she didn’t want to reveal how terrible Harry’s relationship was with Lily’s family, who had taken him in. “He was invited to the Burrow.”

Draco arched an eyebrow and interrupted, “Burrow?”

“That’s what the Weasleys call their home,” Hermione clarified.

“Couldn’t it be something more... ordinary?”

“I don’t think they care about your opinion, Malfoy.”

Still, Draco reflected for a moment. Perhaps it was their way of embracing how utterly shabby they were. And yet, he found himself resenting the idea that someone like Aurélie—who deserved nothing less than a mansion like his—could end up in a place called the Burrow. He decided he wanted to know more.

“Go on, Granger, or I’ll be old by the time you get to the point.”

Hermione sighed in exasperation, regaining her composure. It seemed neither of them could resist provoking the other.

“Harry asked me to go with him. Ron was his best friend, but I was his best friend too, and in a way, I was his support. You know, we had both grown up in the Muggle world, and if something was strange for him, it would be strange for me too.”

“How very Hufflepuff of you, Granger.”

Hermione sighed again. “Are you going to interrupt me the whole time, Malfoy?”

Draco rolled his eyes. “I suppose I should apologize. But I won’t. Continue.”

“Anyway, my parents allowed me to go, and we arrived at the Burrow on New Year’s Eve. Harry was already famous for being Harry Potter; I was just the Muggle-born girl who seemed to be brilliant. All the Weasleys’ attention was focused on Harry. However, two of them welcomed me from the start. Somehow, they ‘preferred me.’ Charlie and Ginny made me feel like part of that chaotic family from the very beginning.”

“And did you fall in love with Ginevra Weasley too?”

“No, Draco, I didn’t fall in love with Ginny, but she did become my best friend as soon as she entered school, despite not being in the same year.”

“How touching, Granger, but get to the point. I’m sobering up again.”

Hermione let out a breath that sounded almost like amusement.

“Charlie is different from his brothers, you know. It’s not that he has one defining trait—he’s just whatever he wants to be. He left his family without a second thought, but the moment he’s back with them, he enjoys their company to the fullest. I suppose I like that kind of contradiction in a person. He can be gentle but also strict, calm but volatile. He’s deeply passionate about what he does, and every time I see him again, he has a thousand stories to tell. He knows me so well that I could swear he’s a Legilimens.” Hermione finished with a sigh.

“That was disgustingly sentimental, Granger.”

“I know.”

Hermione grabbed the bottle. “Fill it.”

“What am I, your bloody house-elf?” Draco looked at her, momentarily stunned.

“They’re beings who feel just like we do, not mere servants. But I don’t expect you to understand that, so just fill it.”

Draco was ready to walk away at her insolence, but the moment he saw Hermione’s eyes fill with tears, the twisted part of him that enjoyed seeing her unravel gave in. He poured enough to fill about a fifth of the bottle and watched as she drank it all in one go—slowly, but without stopping to breathe.

Their eyes met, and for just an instant, he felt like he could see inside her. Her pupils were blown wide, contrasting with the golden flecks around her irises. Her skin wasn’t as pale as his, but the tiny freckles scattered across her cheeks and nose seemed almost perfectly symmetrical. Her dark brown curls framed her sharp, delicate face, her long lashes brushing against her thick, well-defined eyebrows. Her nose was no longer the small, round thing he remembered from their early years at Hogwarts—it had refined with time. Her lips, from this angle, looked redder, fuller, something he wouldn’t usually notice.

Draco forced himself to keep looking lower, down her long neck and to her pronounced collarbones, which met at a dip where—under different circumstances—he might have been tempted to sip the very whiskey they were drinking.

Merlin, what the hell was he thinking?

No matter how drunk he was, he needed to snap out of it. The best thing to do was to fill the damned bottle and let Granger drink herself into unconsciousness. A quarter should be enough.

Hermione smiled, her eyes glinting with something unreadable. When she lifted the bottle to her lips, she drank with such eagerness that some of the whiskey spilled over, trailing down her neck and onto her chest.

By Salazar’s wand—he was staring at Granger’s chest.

He didn’t know when exactly she had loosened her tie and unbuttoned just enough for him to catch a glimpse of her skin. Now, a few drops of whiskey ran over her exposed collarbone and lower, past the edge of scarlet fabric peeking through—the color of Gryffindor.

For once, that damned color didn’t seem so irritating.

No. He had to put a stop to this.

Draco snatched the bottle from her hands and downed the rest of its contents himself, ignoring Hermione’s protests.

He felt dizzy again, but at least his vision started to blur slightly. That way, he wouldn’t have to see Granger in so much detail. She snatched the bottle from him and seemed intent on finishing it, but upon realizing it was empty, she simply let it drop with irritation.

“My turn,” she said, spinning the bottle. Cola.

Draco only poured a little. He wanted to get out of there. They couldn’t find him half-conscious with Hermione Granger by his side. He drank without thinking much of it and spun the bottle again. Now, his question.

“Why did you ask about Aurélie?”

Hermione stood up and walked to the window. He knew the professors were no longer outside when he saw her return and collapse into her seat with an uncommon lack of grace. Her skirt rode up just enough for Draco to catch a glimpse of her underwear and the shape of her thighs.

“I want to know what he saw in her,” she replied indifferently.

Draco let out a dry laugh.

“You’ll never be like her.”

“I don’t want to be like her. I want to know what he saw in her.”

“For what? If you don’t plan on imitating her, what’s the point?”

“So I can throw it in his face,” her voice turned into a sharp whisper as she leaned closer, taking the bottle from his hands. Draco didn’t look away. For the first time that night, it felt like they were playing a game they both understood.

She spun the bottle again. Her turn to ask.

“You have it too easy, Malfoy. That woman exudes elegance, glamour, and I already found out—she’s a pureblood. Is it just her age?”

Hermione stared at him, a mix of challenge and expectation in her gaze. She wanted an honest answer. She needed to sink deeper into that pit of misery to see if, at some point, she’d hit the bottom.

Draco didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he filled the bottle halfway and downed it in one gulp.

“You broke the rules,” she pointed out with a crooked smile.

“There’s a first time for everything.”

Hermione burst out laughing.

“Are you expecting me to believe you’ve never broken the rules before this?”

“I’m an exemplary son.”

“Oh, really? Funny, I don’t remember that when I caught you snogging Parkinson in fifth year during my patrol.”

“I said son, Granger, not student. I’m talking about the important rules, not the ridiculous school ones. I don’t expect you to understand. That’s undoubtedly your biggest difference from Aurélie. She’s a grown woman. Not a know-it-all little girl who wears her uniform almost to her knees because she’s afraid of losing her virginity to a suggestive glance.”

He should have felt satisfaction at saying it, but instead, something inside him twisted with discomfort. He expected Granger to get angry, to hit him, to insult him… But what he got was a mischievous smile. Her eyes weren’t filled with rage, but something far worse—understanding.

“That was enlightening, Malfoy. I suppose the proper thing to do would be to thank you. And believe me when I say I’d rather be the pathetic little know-it-all who hasn’t lost her virginity than the insufferable heir who clings to the rules imposed by his parents. I bet they wouldn’t approve of a relationship with Dumont, would they? Being a pureblood isn’t enough. It would be a scandal because of the age difference, and of course, the Malfoys wouldn’t allow such indiscretions. So, you have to keep being the exemplary son you are.”

She paused and looked at him with cruelty.

“Or what, Malfoy? Would they disinherit you? Merlin forbid Draco Malfoy loses his inheritance and position. What would become of him? Would you be anyone, Malfoy? Would you even be something?”

The venom in every word sank into his skin, and his wand was in his hand before he even thought about it. Granger reacted immediately, raising hers and stepping so close he could almost feel her breath.

“You don’t want to do this, Malfoy.”

“Don’t tempt me, Granger.”

She didn’t seem like herself. Draco didn’t recognize her.

“You and I both know why we’re here,” her voice was a sharp murmur. “We wallow in our own filth. You and I know we will never be where we want to be. You are not Charlie. I am not Dumont. And this pathetic situation isn’t going to fix itself. We’re just seeking solace in each other because we suffer the same miserable pain. And that burns you as much as it burns me. It’s ironic, don’t you think? I never thought life would slap me so blatantly—putting you in front of me as the only witness to this wretchedness. Because we can’t admit it to anyone else. Because we’re too ashamed.”

Each word cut like a knife. Draco felt the weight of her truth with every syllable. He had always known it, but hearing it out loud, from Granger’s lips, made it real.

Aurélie would never see him the way he saw her. She had cared for him, yes—but as a younger brother. As a student. Nothing more.

He wanted to stop feeling.

His father had been right. Love leads to longing. Longing is just an unfulfilled desire. And unfulfilled desire is nothing but a lie.

But then he saw the fire in Granger’s face, and something inside him burned in response.

“You should make him see what he’s missing, Granger,” his voice was softer than he expected, almost tempting. “Maybe you have the hope I never allowed myself to have.”

Hermione looked at him defiantly.

“I know exactly what I am to him. And I know it won’t change.”

“You could make it change. Trust me, I see potential.”

“I’ll never be like her.”

“No one said you had to be like her. I’m saying you should make him feel what you feel. You look empty, Granger. Carve a hole in his chest.”

She studied him curiously but stopped herself, remembering who was in front of her. Trusting Malfoy was more dangerous than trusting a Nundu. And yet…

“Sounds like you have something in mind, Malfoy.”

“Maybe, Granger. How about a deal?”

“Let me guess. Are we scheduling our whining sessions?”

Her sarcasm amused him. She was different. Not so controlled. Not with him.

Draco cast a spell over the bottle, filling it again. He stood up and drank a quarter of it before extending his hand. Hermione took it, her wand still clutched in her fingers. He didn’t let go either.

At some point, it started to feel like a game. One Draco was willing to play. Hermione tried to pull away, but he kept her hand trapped, holding the one that grasped her wand. When she tried to break free, Draco wouldn’t allow it, and rather than scaring her, it sent a thrill of euphoria down her spine. She wasn’t sure when it happened, but suddenly, it became a battle of words. Draco crafted them with mockery and challenge, reminding himself of what he had meant to Aurélie despite his desperate wish to mean everything to her and ending up as nothing.

Draco started with a bitter smile on his lips…

“If love isn’t our fate, let it not be our end. We won’t seek it, we won’t recognize it, we won’t accept it.”

Hermione relaxed her grip, understanding what Draco was doing. So this was what he meant by a pact. With pride turned to fire, she played along…

“We won’t be salvation or solace. We won’t be longing or loss. If love didn’t want us, let it never find us.”

Draco looked at her with intrigue. It seemed they felt the same. He suddenly wanted to defy not just his family but also his very essence, his magic…

“Let this pact make us unbreakable, let it hold us when everything else fails.”

Chapter Text

When she opened her eyes, the first thing she saw and recognized was the window of the Charms classroom—an artwork in itself. The imposing structure stretched almost to the vaulted ceiling, allowing golden beams of light to spill over the ancient wooden desks. Its polished stone frames were adorned with delicate carvings of arcane runes, which seemed to whisper ancient secrets when the sun hit them at just the right angle. The glass, enchanted by generations of professors, not only provided a perfect view of the landscape beyond but also seemed to come alive depending on the time of day. At dawn, it was bathed in shades of amber and crimson, reflecting the castle’s awakening. Judging by the dominance of amber, Hermione deduced it must be between six and eight in the morning.

How she had gotten there was a mystery, but the place was unmistakable. She tried to sit up despite the weight of an arm draped around her waist, silently thanking Godric, Merlin, and Morgana that it was Saturday. At least she knew when she was. But not who she was.

Because surely, Hermione Granger could not have been curled up against Draco Malfoy’s chest.

Her gaze darted around the room. Thankfully, no one else was there. She turned toward the door and cast a Colloportus on the lock. Then, as smoothly as her pounding head would allow, she began to slip away.

That was when she noticed her uniform—her tie barely hanging on, several buttons of her shirt undone. Her pulse quickened. She turned to Draco, dreading what she might find, but to her relief, his clothes appeared to be intact. A breath she hadn’t realized she was holding escaped her lips.

Then she saw the amber glass bottle just behind him.

No further clues were needed. She had gotten drunk with Draco Malfoy.

The irony hit her like a slap. Drunk. With Malfoy. And the worst part? She wasn’t sure if that was just ridiculous… or strangely exhilarating. The phrase sleeping with the enemy took on a whole new meaning. Though, judging by appearances, she remained untouched. And the sight before her wasn’t exactly unpleasant. Seeing Draco Malfoy in complete stillness, without his usual expression of disdain, was… surprisingly nice. Not that it would last. As soon as he woke up, his usual hostility toward her would return.

With careful, deliberate movements, she buttoned up her shirt and tightened her tie. She tried to stand, as cautiously as possible, but she hadn’t completely freed herself yet. Malfoy’s arm, which had been resting on her leg, tensed suddenly, pulling her back toward him.

Hermione froze as she heard the low murmur of his voice.

—Aurélie…

Rather than irritation, a flicker of something else—pity, perhaps—stirred within her. With care, she brushed a few strands of platinum hair from his face and, without quite knowing why, traced her fingertips gently over his brow.

—Is that you, Aurélie?

Hermione swallowed. She had no idea how to respond.

—Shhh… It’s okay. Go back to sleep.

Draco seemed to slip back into his dream. His expression softened even further, and a faint smile appeared on his lips, which rested against the fabric of her skirt. Hermione felt something twist inside her. Professor Dumont… That woman must feel so lucky.

Draco was an insufferable idiot, no doubt, but the way he seemed to worship Aurélie was almost the same way Charlie looked at her. A witch with luck, Hermione thought, though she wasn’t sure if it was sarcasm or something else entirely.

Slowly, carefully, she peeled his hand away from her. He let out nothing more than a soft sigh. She got to her feet, gripping her wand tightly. A few steps away, she felt the weight settle into her limbs.

She cast an Alohomora, slipped outside, and shut the door behind her. A quick glance in both directions—only a few third or fourth years lingering in the corridor.

Straightening her posture, she made her way toward the Gryffindor tower.

With every step, the heaviness grew. She decided to take a risk—she’d go straight to the bathroom and transfigure her uniform into something resembling sleepwear to avoid any awkward questions.

What she hadn’t accounted for was Ginny, who was just about to walk in as well.

The look in the redhead’s eyes said everything.

She was about to get interrogated.

And her uniform was only barely presentable.

"Looks like someone didn’t sleep in her own bed last night."

"Long story," Hermione replied dismissively, trying to downplay it.

"I’ve got all morning. In case you didn’t notice, it’s barely seven." Ginny crossed her arms, looking her up and down. "I’ll get you a robe. Please, take a bath. You look… a little wrecked. I hope it was worth it, at least."

The mischievous glint in her eyes didn’t quite match the teasing in her voice.

"Ginny, for the love of Godric, can you bring me a hangover potion too?"

"Only if you promise to tell me everything."

"As if you’d let me get away with not telling you."

Ginny bolted out of the room, and Hermione took the chance to step into the bathroom, shutting the door without locking it. She turned on the hot water, letting it trickle down in a barely visible stream, while the cold water ran a little stronger. Once the tub was nearly full, she undressed down to her underwear. Testing the water with her foot, she decided it was just right and slid in, letting the bubbles cover her before finally removing her bra.

A soft knock on the door made her jump.

"You can come in," she called, resting her head against the tub’s edge.

Ginny stepped inside, practically vibrating with anticipation.

"Alright… are you going to tell me what the hell happened last night?"

Hermione narrowed her eyes.

"Before that, would you like to explain why you used poor Roger Davies to make Theo Nott jealous? Or was that just my imagination?"

Ginny tilted her head with a knowing smirk.

"Did it work?"

"Of course. Theo peeled Lavender off him as gently as possible and then disappeared into the boys’ dormitory."

"Then it didn’t work," Ginny huffed. "He was supposed to storm off so Lavender wouldn’t go after him again. But oh well, I’ll take it as a win. Now tell me—where the hell were you all night? I saw you sneak into the common room just minutes ago."

"Promise you won’t tell?"

"If it helps, we can make an Unbreakable Vow."

Hermione scoffed.

"No need. Your word is enough for me."

"You have it."

Before starting, Hermione pulled out her wand and cast a Muffliato… or at least, she tried to. All she managed was a weak spark.

"You must be exhausted," Ginny said, casting the spell herself. "Your magic’s probably as drained as you are."

"Maybe," Hermione muttered, though that had never happened to her before.

She took a deep breath and began recounting the night’s events—at least, what she could remember. She stopped at the moment she had suggested playing Spin the Bottle with Draco, carefully omitting any mention of Charlie.

Ginny, like the twins and probably all of The Burrow, knew about Hermione’s feelings for her brother. It was one of those open secrets no one spoke about because the awkwardness it would cause was simply unbearable. That was why Ginny had spent years trying—and failing—to push Hermione toward other guys. When that didn’t work, she had tried a different approach: getting Charlie to notice her.

That had been an even bigger failure.

The final confirmation came two Christmases ago when Charlie gave Hermione a pair of carnelian earrings—symbolizing friendship—and made a point of saying she was like another little sister to him. In that moment, Ginny knew she had been far too obvious in her scheming, and worse, that it had all been for nothing.

Without ever discussing it, they both let the matter drop.

But Hermione still needed to keep up appearances. When sixth year arrived, she knew she had to redirect everyone’s attention elsewhere. The perfect candidate had to be someone older, someone about to graduate. Cormac McLaggen fit the role effortlessly—he had always been interested in her, after all.

It hadn’t been difficult to sell the illusion.

She let him kiss her a few times, but the moment she felt his slick tongue in her mouth, she drew the line—lips only, nothing more. Cormac had begrudgingly accepted, replacing deep kisses with wandering hands, which she limited to her arms and legs, drawing a firm boundary just above her knees. He seemed content enough, and to everyone else, they looked like a proper couple.

When McLaggen graduated, Hermione faked a bit of sadness over his departure, but in truth, she was relieved. At last, she was free from her friends’ scrutiny over her feelings for Charlie Weasley.

But now she had a much bigger problem.

She had spent the night with Draco Malfoy.

And she had no idea how much of it she actually remembered.

Hermione took her head in her hands as Ginny handed her a platinum-blue vial.

—For the hangover.

Hermione downed it in one gulp and grimaced.

—By Merlin… this tastes even worse than what they were handing out last night. There’s no fun in drinking something awful only to cure it with something even worse.

—Just drink it. You’ll feel better instantly.

Hermione had already swallowed it, and she had to admit the relief was almost immediate.

—So… you woke up next to Draco Malfoy in the Charms classroom on the sixth floor.

—Yes, we were both in the classroom.

—I’m not asking for details; I’ll just imagine them. —Ginny arched an eyebrow, her gaze sharp and teasing.

—Not that I need to clarify, but nothing happened. Apparently, we just drank too much.

—Interesting. You wake up drunk next to the boy you supposedly despise the most in the entire school… not to mention that, despite being a first-class idiot, he also looks like one of those damn masterpieces in Muggle museums. Sculpted to perfection.

—Ginny… —Hermione scolded her, exasperated.

—Oh, come on, we can’t deny he’s ridiculously attractive, Hermione. I’ll admit that more than once, I’ve gotten distracted watching him in his Quidditch uniform.

—That was disgusting, Ginny.

—I don’t believe you. The only disgusting thing here is that you can’t remember the important details to satisfy my curiosity. I guess I’ll have to rely on my imagination.

—You have an imagination the size of Asia.

—Lucky me, then. That means we can discuss every possible scenario of this little "escapade" of yours with Draco Malfoy.

Draco’s gaze swept over the tables in the Great Hall. He hadn’t eaten a single bite since emptying what he assumed had been his last two meals, and the mere thought of food was unbearable. He only wanted to see her. He forced himself not to make it obvious, so he remained beside Theo, waiting patiently for Hermione to appear. He tried not to dwell too much on whatever had happened the night before, but waking up with the sun glaring straight into his eyes brought a sting of irritation—she hadn’t been there. His strange new companion in misery was nowhere to be found. If that was even the right term for whatever was going on between them. If there was anything at all.

Still, the dream he’d had made up for it. Aurélie, in his arms. Him, holding her close as she brushed his hair from his forehead, her fingers tracing his brow with a delicate touch. Whispering soft words to lull him back to sleep. It had felt so real. The weight of her waist in his grip, the movement of her back against his chest as she breathed, the scent of her hair… so vivid, he could swear it smelled of vanilla and jasmine. Normally, he hated overly sweet scents, but this one—Aurélie’s—was, without question, the best smell in the world.

Theo shifted in his seat the moment Ginny Weasley entered the Great Hall alone. The youngest Weasley sat at the Gryffindor table, right across from him, wearing a smile that was hard to decipher. Playful, maybe? Her gaze flickered across the hall, as if searching for her friends, and the moment she noticed Lavender Brown eyeing Nott and approaching the Slytherin table, she moved.

She shot up from her seat and dropped into the chair across from Theo with practiced ease, exuding the same quiet confidence as always. She grabbed a handful of potatoes from the serving dish and let them fall onto her plate carelessly.

“So, did you sleep well, Nott?”

“Like a baby,” Theo replied smoothly.

“Oh? So you woke up pissed on and drooling?” Ginny shot back, so casually it was almost disarming.

Draco’s stomach twisted, a faint gurgling sound betraying his discomfort. As if the mere mention of bodily fluids was enough to make his nausea worse.

Theo smirked, unfazed.

“I’d wager someone had a better night than I did,” he mused, his gaze sharpening as he studied the redhead. “Or maybe you couldn’t sleep at all?”

Ginny tilted her head, unbothered. She tucked her hair behind her ear, a simple movement—but it was enough. That now-familiar scent of vanilla and jasmine filled the space between them.

Draco stilled, his stomach twisting for an entirely different reason now. His eyes locked onto Ginny, and for the first time in his life, he felt a flicker of genuine dread.

“Where did you spend the night, Weasley?” he demanded.

Theo turned to him, eyes narrowing in confusion. “What the hell is wrong with you?” his expression seemed to say.

Draco cleared his throat.

“Not that I care,” he muttered, brushing it off.

But his mind was already racing, piecing together theories, scrambling for an explanation. Ginny raised a questioning brow at him, and before he could stop himself, the words were already out of his mouth:

“Do all the girls at Hogwarts get the same shampoo?”

Ginny nearly choked on her drink, barely managing to stifle a laugh. She wiped the corners of her mouth and shot him an amused look.

“No, actually. I use one with a citrus scent.” She speared another potato with her fork before adding, “But tell me, Malfoy—are you applying for Filch’s job as caretaker? You seem awfully invested in the school’s maintenance.”

Theo let out a chuckle, though he knew full well that Draco wouldn’t find the comment amusing. What surprised him, though, was his friend’s reaction—or rather, his lack of one. Draco barely sneered at Ginny. Instead of snapping back with one of his usual cutting remarks, he simply continued the conversation with unnerving calm.

“You don’t exactly smell citrusy, Weasley.”

"My apologies, Malfoy. I didn’t realize my scent bothered you," Ginny said with an amused smile. "If you’re referring to my hair, I didn’t use my usual shampoo today. I had to use Hermione’s. It’s terribly sweet, I know—even I find it a bit overwhelming—but it was the only thing I had on hand, so I just went with it."

A flicker of understanding flashed in her eyes before she added, voice dripping with mischief:

"Seems like you recognize the scent, Malfoy. I’d ask where you were last night, but I think I already know."

She resumed eating as if nothing had happened, but not before winking at Theo—an unspoken promise that, maybe, she’d share something later.

Draco, however, went completely still.

The scent that had clung to him last night, the one that had haunted him enough to drive him under his bed curtains twice before forcing him into a freezing shower that morning…

It hadn’t been Aurélie’s.

It was Hermione Granger’s.

The realization hit him like a hex to the chest. A wave of nausea churned in his stomach, and without another word, he stood abruptly and strode out of the Great Hall, his steps stiff and measured.

He barely made it to the nearest lavatory before his mouth flooded with a bitter, acidic taste. He dropped to his knees over the toilet and heaved, emptying what little remained in his stomach in violent, gut-wrenching retches.

His mind was spinning, but through the haze of sickness, one thought burned with searing intensity.

Hermione Granger was a common witch. She was barely anything or anyone—only tolerable because she happened to be magical. It wasn’t possible. It couldn’t be—

His throat clenched as if rejecting the thought itself.

He forced his eyes shut and swallowed against the nausea.

Slowly, he got to his feet, flushed the toilet, and rinsed his mouth at the sink, but the revulsion clung to him. Muttering a hygiene charm, he tried to rid himself of the taste—only for his teeth to take on a sickly yellow hue, coated in a grotesque layer of tartar.

A fresh wave of nausea lurched through him, but he fought it down. He needed to be alone.

Without wasting another second, he headed straight for the Slytherin dormitories and locked himself inside the boys’ bathroom. As soon as the door was secured, he collapsed in front of the toilet and retched again, this time expelling nothing but bitter bile. His body trembled as he staggered toward the sink, frantically rinsing his mouth out with water, trying—desperately—to rid himself of the filth. But it wasn’t working.

In a near-panic, he rifled through his trunk and pulled out the emergency hygiene kit his mother always packed for magical crises. He hadn’t even known why he grabbed it before coming in here, but now, it felt like a twisted kind of foresight.

He scrubbed his teeth so hard that by the time he stopped, the bristles on his toothbrush were frayed and useless, as if he’d been using it for a year. Spitting out the last remnants of foam, he finally began to feel some relief…

Until he glanced up and saw Zabini’s reflection in the mirror.

A cold shiver ran down his spine.

Draco spat the last of the water from his mouth, feeling the sickening unease creep right back into his stomach.

“I would think you understand the concept of privacy, Blaise.”

Zabini rolled his eyes, looking unimpressed.

“If you wanted privacy, you should’ve locked the door. The only reason I felt comfortable opening it is because there was no lock.”

“But I cast…” Draco’s voice faltered. A chilling realization crept into his mind, stopping him mid-sentence.

Without another word, he shoved Zabini out of the bathroom and cast the locking spell again. This time, for good measure, he did it twice.

“Try opening the door again, Blaise.”

Zabini did. Without the slightest effort, the door swung open.

“Anything else, Mr. Malfoy, or can I finally use the damn bathroom?”

A heavy knot formed in Draco’s stomach.

“You didn’t have to undo any spell to open it?”

“No,” Zabini replied flatly.

A cold wave of fear washed over Draco. In a sharp motion, he pulled Zabini back inside the bathroom and slammed the door shut behind them.

“Lock it. With your wand.”

Blaise shot him a skeptical look.

“I’m not your bloody maid, Draco.”

“Please, Zabini. This is a goddamn emergency.”

Something in Draco’s voice—something raw, something desperate—made Blaise hesitate. It wasn’t like Malfoy to sound this shaken. With a resigned sigh, he pulled out his wand and cast the locking spell.

Draco approached the door, running his fingers over it. This time, it was firmly sealed.

Then, without a word, he handed his own wand to Zabini.

“Now, unlock it. With my wand.”

Blaise’s frown deepened.

“This is getting really weird, Draco. You’re going to have to explain what the hell is going on.”

“I will. Just… try it.”

Reluctantly, Blaise took Draco’s wand and cast the unlocking spell.

Draco held his breath.

Slowly, as if approaching a beast that might strike, he stepped toward the door.

Please, let it just be my wand. Let it not be my magic.

But the door swung open without resistance.

His stomach twisted.

He turned to Zabini, expression unreadable.

“Lend me your wand.”

“Not until you tell me what’s going on. And it better be good, Malfoy—for Salazar’s sake.” Blaise stepped closer, narrowing his eyes. “What? Did you just kiss your dead great-great-grandmother? I know incest is a common trope among purebloods, but even you could’ve picked a better option.”

Draco shot him a murderous glare, his jaw locking. Silently, he extended his hand in an implicit request.

Maybe out of camaraderie, or just sheer curiosity, Blaise exhaled through his nose and handed over his wand.

Draco gripped it tightly, his fingers tense. His gaze darted around the room until it settled on a target.

The towel.

He focused on the fabric hanging next to the sink, his voice steady despite the dread creeping up his spine.

“Leviosa.”

A faint spark.

His stomach churned. His grip on the wand tightened as he tried again, this time with more force.

“Leviosa.”

The towel burst into flames.

Blaise yanked his wand back from Draco’s grasp, quickly casting Aguamenti to douse the fire before it could spread.

“What the fuck is wrong with you, Draco?!”

Draco barely heard him. Blaise’s voice was distant, like a fading echo.

What was happening?

He had a vague idea.

But the real question was—

Why.

Zabini had agreed to fix the problem in Draco’s mouth after a brief conversation in which Draco admitted he had no idea why, but his magic seemed to be malfunctioning. Zabini hadn't hesitated after witnessing what happened in the bathroom, so he chose to believe him without digging deeper and told Draco to stay in the room to avoid making things worse. He returned with Theo after an hour—an hour in which Draco felt like he was going insane, his mind drifting through the few memories he had of last night. But Theo wasn’t his only companion; Ginevra Weasley and Hermione Granger were there too.

The moment Draco saw Granger, an almost murderous impulse took over him—he grabbed her wrist and pulled her into his room, slamming the door behind them and leaving the others outside. The gesture should have terrified Hermione, yet the truth was that she felt a strange sense of relief at the mere contact—just as Draco did. However, as soon as he remembered he wouldn't be able to magically lock the door, and Ginny Weasley nearly knocked it down, sending a stinging hex at his hand to force him to let go of her friend, he mentally cursed himself. He needed to control his impulses.

“What the fuck did you do to me, Granger?”

The witch looked strangely revitalized—the old Granger, but with a simmering rage beneath her skin.

“I could ask you the same thing, Malfoy.”

Theo stepped in. “We need to calm down. I don’t know what the hell you two did last night, but what we do know, from what Zabini told us and Ginny's suspicions, which we just confirmed with Hermione, is that something happened to both your magic. Now then—” Theo collapsed onto his bed next to Zabini. “You’re going to have to remember. And if you can’t, we always have a talented wizard who can extract memories.” He gestured toward Zabini, who merely shrugged as if having such a magical skill was hardly worth mentioning.

Hermione was the first to go on the offensive. “If I remember correctly, your family has a particular affinity for dark magic, Malfoy. The real question is: what the hell did you do to us? I can barely cast a Lumos with my wand.”

As soon as she uttered the incantation, her wand lit up instantly. Hermione stared at it in confusion, the Gryffindor in her emboldening her even further.

“Nox.” The light vanished.

“Accio scarf.”

A green and silver scarf flew straight into her hands.

Hermione turned to Malfoy, eyes filled with both suspicion and near-tears.

“For the love of Godric… Thank Merlin, it looks like this was just a fluke. Seems like this idiot didn’t curse me after all.”

“Of course I didn’t do anything to you, Granger. I’m the one who’s actually affected here.”

Hermione could swear she barely saw Draco’s lips move as he spoke.

“How exactly are you affected? You should try your wand as well.”

Draco looked at her in disbelief before his expression quickly turned defiant. “I’m not following your orders, Granger. I’ll do it because I want to, let that be clear.”

“Engorgio.”

The sugar quill resting on the nightstand beside them began to grow.

They both smiled in relief.

Ginny grabbed Hermione by the wrist. “Looks like everything is sorted.” She tugged Hermione toward the door, pulling her along with her.

Hermione felt an immediate sense of relief. She spent the rest of the afternoon in the library, avoiding using her wand. For some strange reason, she remembered how her parents, who were doctors, always told her that when the body suffered trauma—no matter how minor—it needed proper rest to function normally again. And even though this was magic, and her wand was merely a conduit, she figured that giving it some rest might help restore her magic completely. The idea felt odd and even a bit ridiculous, but she followed through with it anyway.

Draco, on the other hand, decided that an entire afternoon of sleep would help him recover from the horror he had suffered that morning—and perhaps the night before as well. At least, he put a great deal of effort into categorizing last night as a complete nightmare. But when he realized that forcing the idea only made his anxiety worse, he chose to push it away, just like he did with the other intrusive thoughts that came to him in flashes—him and Hermione, playing with a bottle.

By Merlin, how had he let that witch convince him? It must have been some ridiculous Muggle game. Then, the two of them drinking recklessly from the same bottle. He focused on feeling disgusted by the thought, but all it did was trigger an even more twisted memory—his own frustrations from that morning. Hermione Granger, drops of amber liquid sliding down her throat, pooling at the hollow of her collarbone before trailing lower, sinking between her breasts. Round and firm beneath a scarlet bra.

Draco squeezed his eyes shut as the thought made him hard beneath the sheets.

For Merlin’s sake, he needed to get rid of this idea. He rushed to his trunk and pulled out the newspaper clippings of Aurélie. He didn’t bother casting any spells on the door—he knew no one would come looking for him at this hour. They all knew better than to disturb him when he was ‘resting.’ He simply closed the curtains around his bed, allowing only a sliver of light to filter through, and stared at Aurélie’s face while his other hand wrapped around his cock for solace and relief.

But that insufferable know-it-all Hermione Granger wouldn’t leave his thoughts, creeping in and stealing the spotlight from his beloved Aurélie.

Draco grew even harder as his mind replayed—or perhaps fabricated—the memory of those golden droplets tracing the length of Granger’s throat, pooling at the dip of her collarbone, then rolling down the center of her chest before parting ways, following the curve of each breast. He imagined her rosy areola, her nipple tightening as the alcohol's final drop landed there, and—oh, sweet Merlin.

He didn’t know how to feel about finishing to the thought of Hermione Granger, with Aurélie’s crumpled image clenched in his other hand.

For the rest of the weekend, neither Hermione nor Draco used their wands. By Monday, their spells seemed to work perfectly fine in class. Since they had obtained almost the same OWL scores, they shared most of their subjects—except for Divination and Muggle Studies. In those classes, where wands were barely needed, they had no reason to notice anything unusual.

Feeling reassured, both of them returned to their usual silent suffering over their unrequited loves. During dinner, they exchanged a look of mutual distaste when Charlie took a seat next to a very pleased Aurélie, who did nothing to reject his advances. The tension only broke when Professor Flitwick, ever the embodiment of decorum, decided to sit between them with a cheerful smile. Draco and Hermione shared a glance, equally satisfied with the interruption, and for the first time in days, they finished their meal without further disruption.

Everything seemed relatively normal until Wednesday, when the Slytherin team trained for their upcoming match on Friday. As team captain, Draco made sure everything was in order, but as practice went on, something felt off. His broom responded as usual, but when he tried to move a branch out of his way with a verbal spell, nothing happened.

When a flock of birds suddenly crossed the field, he muttered a Depulso, but again—nothing.

His reflexes and physical endurance got him through, but the discomfort remained.

At the end of practice, Draco landed with a deep frown, gripping his broom tightly. It hadn’t been his worst training session, but it was far from his best. He felt… off, like something was missing, something crucial in his control and precision.

“What the hell was that, Malfoy?” Montague, one of the Beaters, asked, crossing his arms. “You were slow.”

“Screw you,” Draco snapped, running a hand through his sweaty hair. “Something’s wrong. My spells weren’t working while I was flying.”

Some of his teammates snickered, but Pansy—who had attended practice under the pretense of watching Montague—narrowed her eyes in curiosity.

“Since when do you have wand problems?”

“My wand is fine,” Draco bit back.

Still irritated, he decided not to dwell on it. He was probably just tired. Or maybe his magic hadn’t fully stabilized yet. Whatever it was, he’d be at full strength by Friday.

However, on Thursday afternoon, during Divination, his wand failed again.

It was an insufferable class, with Trelawney droning on about impending disasters. Bored, Draco decided to check how much time was left.

—Lumos.

Nothing.

He frowned.

Tried again.

Still nothing.

A vague feeling of unease settled in his chest. His spells had been working all week—at least since Monday—without any trouble… when he was near Granger.

The realization hit him like a curse.

The Quidditch training. Divination. The moments his wand hadn’t responded all had one thing in common: Hermione hadn’t been there.

The moment class ended, Draco hurried to find her.

She wasn’t in the Great Hall. Not in the library, either. He finally spotted her in the corridor outside the Charms classroom, wand in hand, looking visibly irritated. Ginny Weasley stood beside her, arms crossed.

“I’m telling you, it’s strange,” Hermione huffed in frustration. “Lumos.”

Nothing.

“Are you nervous about the match on Friday?” Ginny asked, raising an eyebrow. “Didn’t think you cared much about Quidditch.”

“It’s not that, Ginny, it’s just—”

Her voice cut off when she felt Malfoy’s presence behind her.

“Let me guess,” he muttered, his voice low. “Your wand isn’t working.”

Hermione blinked, unsure if she was more surprised by his serious tone or by the fact that he seemed to be dealing with the exact same issue.

“Not… not exactly. It’s just that…”

Without another word, Draco walked to the other end of the classroom.

“Try again,” he said from a distance.

Still confused, Hermione lifted her wand.

—Lumos.

Nothing.

Draco felt his stomach tighten. Hermione felt it too.

Jaw clenched, Draco started walking back toward her.

As he stepped closer, Hermione swallowed hard and tried again.

—Lumos.

The tip of her wand instantly lit up.

Hermione froze.

Ginny’s mouth parted slightly as she glanced between them, as if she had just witnessed something unnatural.

Draco and Hermione stared at each other, the undeniable truth hanging between them.

Their magic only worked when they were near each other. Almost together.

The Friday match was fast approaching, and with it, the unavoidable reality of being on opposite sides of the field.

A shiver ran down Draco’s spine.

If his magic failed without Hermione close… how the hell was he supposed to play Quidditch?

Chapter Text

With the revelation of what had now become a problem for the duo, they agreed that until they found a solution, they would keep their proximity to the bare minimum. Fortunately, they shared all the classes where magic was actively required, so they decided that Hermione would try to sit with Theo whenever possible, while Malfoy would stay with Zabini. Hermione wasn’t too pleased with this arrangement—being away from her friends put her at a clear disadvantage—but there wasn’t much they could do. She needed her magic, and the closer she was to Malfoy, the better it would function. At least until the weekend, when they would have time for a proper joint investigation—one in which Ginny would also help, under the strict promise that she wouldn’t tell Harry or Ron.

The redhead had simply suggested asking Malfoy’s parents for help. After all, they were an influential family and surely wouldn’t want to see their son entangled with a witch like her. But the moment the three Slytherins exchanged glances, it was clear that wasn’t an option. The reason remained a mystery—one Hermione silently vowed to uncover.

When Theo proposed seeking McGonagall or Snape for guidance, Hermione and Draco flatly refused. They had no idea how their Heads of House would react, and they couldn’t risk jeopardizing their position as Head Boy and Head Girl—especially Hermione.

Professor Aurélie Dumont walked through the classroom with her signature elegance, observing her students with a faint smile.

“Today, we will be working on paired dueling. Two against two,” she announced, her French accent marking each word distinctly. “I want to see strategy, teamwork, and, of course, creativity.”

Draco glanced up at Aurélie, crossing his arms as he took the chance to admire her while he could—confident that he’d be paired with either Theodore or Zabini. But his arrogance evaporated the moment Aurélie continued reading the names.

“Malfoy and Granger.”

A murmur spread through the classroom. Hermione frowned. Draco shot her a look that said not in a thousand years. But Aurélie had already turned to assign the next pair.

Hermione approached with pursed lips.

“Don’t mess this up, Malfoy.”

“Please, Granger,” Draco muttered, adjusting the sleeves of his robe with practiced ease. “The only thing I plan to do is win.”

Hermione simply sighed and took her position beside him.

The duel began. Hermione and Draco, still struggling to coordinate, managed to hold their ground. But then, in a split second of perfect synchronization, Hermione cast Protego just as Draco fired Expelliarmus. The force of the spell not only disarmed their opponent—it sent Dean Thomas staggering backward several feet. More than twice the usual distance.

Aurélie raised her eyebrows, visibly impressed.

A sharp thrill of satisfaction coursed down Draco’s spine. Maybe Granger wasn’t so useless after all.

Hermione, on the other hand, was processing something entirely different. Her magic wasn’t that strong. And neither was Draco’s.

So why had they achieved that together?

They exchanged a look. Something was off.

Or perhaps... it wasn’t?

Hermione took a slow breath, eyes fixed on the Gryffindor still recovering across the room. The power behind that enhanced Expelliarmus had been unexpected, but she wasn’t about to waste time wondering why. Not when she had the perfect opportunity to test a theory.

“My turn,” she whispered, excitement lacing her voice.

“Granger, this isn’t a library,” Draco murmured, but his smirk remained.

Hermione ignored him. She raised her wand, now aiming at Seamus Finnigan, who was still armed. Her mind raced through possible spells—something more advanced, something that would make them look superior… and give her more insight into what was happening with their magic.

“Oppugno.”

The quills on the nearby desks trembled before rising into the air. Hermione had used the spell before—the quills were supposed to chase the opponent, nothing more than an annoyance.

This time, they didn’t.

For a moment, they hovered weightlessly. Then, suddenly, their edges sharpened into razor-like points before shooting forward with a force Hermione had never witnessed.

The Gryffindor duo barely had time to raise a Protego. The impact was so strong that the shield vibrated, as if holding back a relentless barrage of invisible darts.

A hushed murmur swept through the class. Hermione stood still, feeling the echo of magic still pulsing through her wand.

Something was wrong.

Or... not wrong. Different.

Draco let out a low, appreciative chuckle.

“Well, well, Granger. I had no idea you had so much pent-up aggression,” he mused, his smirk widening as his sharp gaze swept over her with newfound interest—like he had just discovered something fascinating. “And I have to say, it suits you rather well.”

Hermione frowned. She wasn’t aggressive. That wasn’t her nature.

Her housemates seemed unharmed—impressed, even. No one appeared upset or injured, thankfully.

But Draco? Draco was different. He had done things like this before. More times than he cared to admit. Like that time in third year when he nearly broke a Hufflepuff’s nose with Flipendo just for bumping into him in the corridors. Or in fifth year, when he sent a Ravenclaw straight to the hospital wing with an overpowered Expulso during a duel.

Hermione turned slightly and saw him standing too close, their energies still crackling in the air between them.

That was when she understood.

Their magic didn’t just grow stronger when they were together.

They influenced each other.

And if that was true…

A shiver ran down Hermione’s spine—at first from fear, then shifting into something else. Something strange. Something dangerous.

Something dark.

And the worst part? She didn’t hate it.

Beside her, Draco smiled with the arrogance of someone who had just discovered a secret weapon. The potential of their newfound advantage was exhilarating.

He turned slightly, catching Hermione’s gaze already on him. There was something in her expression—the curve of her lips, the feverish gleam in her eyes—that made him think of danger. Of power.

Of desire.

His smirk deepened, almost lascivious. And to his surprise, Hermione didn’t look away. There was complicity in that gaze—a shared triumph that only the two of them understood. No one else had noticed.

Or so Draco thought.

“Five points to Gryffindor and five more to Slytherin,” Aurélie announced, her tone carefully neutral. But Draco wasn’t fooled.

When he glanced at the professor, he noticed the way her jaw tensed ever so slightly, her lips pressed into a thin line.

She wasn’t angry. But…

Jealous?

The thought amused him. A wicked pleasure curled in his chest at the possibility.

Oh, this was going to be fun.

As soon as she finished her meal—during which Hermione didn’t miss the chance to apologize to Dean and Seamus for her "aggressive" performance—they were quick to assure her that they were more impressed than offended. That brought her some relief, though the unease soon crept back in. She headed to the library with determination.

There was something about the whole thing that, while it had made her feel powerful for a moment, she couldn’t afford to ignore. It wasn’t right.

She made her way to the Charms section and pulled several volumes on advanced magic, magical connections, and theories on wizarding synergy. A good starting point. She had been engrossed in her reading for about thirty minutes when she felt someone behind her.

Draco let his gaze roam over the pile of books on the table, briefly stopping at each title: Arcane Bonds: Theory and Practice of Shared Magic, Magical Resonance and Its Influence on Charms, Twin and Symbiotic Spells: When Magic Intertwines, Blood Magic and Ancestral Pacts… However, the only book he deliberately ignored was the one Hermione was holding in her hands.

Hermione, noticing his scrutiny, snapped the book shut, attempting to cover the title with her arm.

Dark Magic and Its Allure.

Draco arched an eyebrow before dropping into the chair beside her, a smirk of evident amusement on his face.

“I don’t blame you, Granger. My family’s reputation precedes me,” he remarked with feigned indifference, lazily crossing one leg over the other. Without asking for permission, he picked up the quill Hermione had been using to take notes, twirling it idly between his fingers.

“What you did with those quills was impressive, truly. I can’t even imagine what else you might be capable of…” His smirk deepened, voice laced with smug satisfaction. “As long as you’re by my side, of course.”

With exasperating ease, he grabbed a book at random and pulled it toward himself with an air of nonchalance.

“It’s a shame you’re so eager to undo it.”

Hermione pressed her lips together.

“I have no desire to be tied to you in any way, Malfoy. And you shouldn’t underestimate me. It’s clear you don’t want any kind of connection with me either.”

Draco placed a hand over his chest in mock distress.

“And what about our alliance, Granger? I thought we shared our sorrows…” He pulled a theatrically exaggerated frown. “You’ve broken my heart.”

Hermione scoffed in frustration.

“It’s quite impossible to break something that doesn’t exist, Malfoy.”

For a brief second, Draco’s expression tightened, but he recovered quickly. Leaning back in his chair, he arched an eyebrow.

“I have to admit, I like you better this way, Granger—when you’re on the defensive. You turn it into a duel…” He smirked. “Always fun.”

Hermione crossed her arms, exasperated.

“If you’re not going to help, Malfoy, at least don’t interrupt my efforts to get us out of this mess.”

Draco continued twirling the quill between his fingers, as if considering something.

“I wouldn’t call it a mess, Granger. Don’t tell me you’re not even a little curious about how far we could take this…” He made a small motion with the quill, pointing to the space between them.

A sudden heat crept up Hermione’s face, and she cursed inwardly.

Draco clicked his tongue in amusement.

“Watch your manners, Granger. A good girl like you shouldn’t be cursing.”

Hermione frowned. She was sure she hadn’t said anything aloud. Or at least, she thought so.

“Where’s your academic curiosity?” Draco challenged again, his tone taunting.

Hermione gestured to the books spread out before her.

“What do you think I’m doing, Malfoy? Do you think I’m exploring a future career as a librarian, sorting texts?”

Draco narrowed his eyes, something mischievous glinting behind them. Almost immediately, an image crept into his mind: Hermione in a library, wearing a fitted uniform and a skirt far too short, climbing a ladder to reach a book on the highest shelf…

He had to shake his head and clear his throat, banishing the fantasy before it became too vivid.

“It’s good that you’re researching, Granger. I wouldn’t expect anything less from you. But consider this… No, scratch that—you’ll have to, because this involves me too. Whatever you decide to do about it, you’ll consult me first.”

Hermione sighed in exasperation.

“Contrary to what you think, Draco, I acknowledge that this”—she gestured between them irritably—“involves you. And your warning, which you so uselessly tried to pass off as a request, is unnecessary. Obviously, I’ll let you know if I find anything. Though I can manage just fine on my own, it would be nice if you also put some effort into finding answers.”

Draco scoffed.

“Of course. I just need to clear some mental gaps so I can focus and not waste my time…” He cast a disdainful glance at the sea of books before him. “Though, in the spirit of this lovely bond this little emergency has created, I have a request.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow.

“It must be something you really need, Draco. There’s no way you’d call anything that connects us ‘lovely.’”

Draco raised his hands in mock surrender, his smirk laced with fake innocence.

“Guilty. For today’s match… could you be as close to the field as possible?”

Hermione stared at him, incredulous.

“What are you suggesting, Malfoy? That you’re going to carry me on your shoulders for the entire match?”

Draco rolled his eyes.

“For Merlin’s sake, no. That would cost me agility, and the rules don’t allow it. I’m just saying that if you positioned yourself in a central spot, I could move with more confidence.”

“No.”

“No what?”

“I won’t do it. You seem to forget that my loyalties lie far from Slytherin.”

Draco let out a theatrical sigh.

“I’m appealing to your goodwill.”

Hermione offered him a cold smile.

“Goodwill is given to those who are willing to extend it in return. I don’t recall any such courtesy from you toward me. In fact, I don’t recall you showing goodwill to anyone since I’ve known you, Malfoy.”

Draco regarded her intently.

“What do you want, Granger?”

Hermione opened her mouth to answer but hesitated.

“There’s nothing I could possibly want from you,” she said firmly.

But in the back of her mind, a flicker of doubt struck.

Or was there?

Draco smirked, his expression turning dangerously shrewd.

“Meet me at the tunnel entrance before the match starts. I’m sure your clever little mind will find something I can provide.”

He stood up with his usual poise and disappeared down the aisle with steady steps.

Hermione watched him go. Still irritated, yet unable to shake the persistent feeling that, despite everything, there was something about Draco Malfoy that…

No. She wasn’t finishing that thought.

Shaking her head, she returned most of the books and selected four to take for the weekend. Before leaving, she headed toward the Quidditch section.

Not because she needed anything from Draco Malfoy… but it never hurt to be prepared.

During dinner, Hermione flipped through a scroll summarizing her afternoon research on Quidditch tactics, though she wasn’t particularly interested. Her gaze discreetly drifted toward the Slytherin table, where Draco Malfoy was deep in conversation with his team.

She was surprised to realize that, at some point, she had apparently decided to help Malfoy. There was only one problem—how could she make sure she was close enough for it to work? A central position would be enough. If so, how could she reach a spot reserved only for professors? Even as Head Girl, she wouldn’t dare. The answer was sitting right in front of her in the form of her best friend.

“Ginny,” Hermione said casually, “I need to sit at the barrier between Ravenclaw and Slytherin during the match.”

The redhead stopped mid-bite, frowning at her.

“Excuse me?”

“For academic purposes,” Hermione added quickly. “I’m studying game strategies for my essay on the impact of Quidditch on decision-making under pressure.”

Ginny blinked, clearly skeptical.

“Can’t you just ask Oliver Wood about that?”

“Oliver Wood isn’t here.”

Hermione sighed, crossing her arms.

“Alright, what do you want in return?”

Ginny smirked.

“I want you to convince McGonagall to let me book extra hours on the pitch for practice.”

Hermione hesitated. If there was one thing she could accomplish, it was that.

“Deal.”

She excused herself before climbing to the central position in the stands, as Ginny had instructed. It was directly in front of where the professors sat and accessible only to the team’s substitute players. A third-year Ravenclaw named Alice McMillan was already there, but there was enough space for both of them. Ginny had handed her a small ball, similar to a Bludger, which would allow her access to the spot.

She made her way toward the tunnel entrance, noticing that both teams were already lined up on the field—except for Slytherin’s captain. Peeking inside, she tried to stay out of sight. Assuming Draco was already on the pitch and out of reach, she turned to leave—only to collide with something as solid as a wall.

Draco was standing there, one brow raised, a smirk of amusement spreading across his face.

Ginny was right—the arrogant bastard did look unfairly good in his Quidditch uniform.

“Knew I’d find you here, Granger. I assume we have a deal,” he said, extending his hand.

“I’ll do my best, but I have to say, I had to research on my own. I don’t know why you thought my position alone would be enough. Don’t you study Quidditch tactics?”

Draco extended his arm fully, closing the space between them, gently pushing her back against the tunnel wall.

“I know plenty of tactics, Granger. And not just for Quidditch.”

They stood in silence for a moment. Too close. Too much electricity in the air.

Then, a voice cleared its throat, breaking the tension.

“Miss Granger, what are you doing in the players’ tunnels?”

Hermione blinked and turned. Charlie stood there, arms crossed, his expression stern.

“I believe they’re waiting for you on the field, Mr. Malfoy,” he added, fixing Draco with a pointed, protective look that made Hermione smile. She took a moment to assess the situation. Charlie sounded irritated. Jealous, perhaps?

With a mischievous glint in her eyes, Hermione leaned in ever so slightly toward Draco, resting her hand theatrically against his chest.

“Relax, Professor,” she said with a feline smile. “I was just having a friendly chat with the opposing team’s captain. Simple courtesy.”

Charlie narrowed his eyes, but Draco, catching on immediately, didn’t miss a beat.

“Exactly. We were merely discussing… tactics.” His voice dripped with smug amusement.

Hermione savored every second of it—until Draco grabbed his broom and strode onto the pitch.

The last thing she heard before heading to her seat was the eruption of cheers as Draco must have soared into the air—and Charlie clenching his jaw as he walked past her.

From her spot in the stands, Hermione bit her lip. There were cracks in the plan. Draco, flying at full speed, was drifting too far, and her magic wasn’t responding the same way. She could see him turning his head toward her, frustrated.

Malfoy’s losing focus, she thought.

And then she saw it—a Bludger heading straight for him.

Hermione gripped the railing. She couldn’t cast a spell in the middle of everyone, but she could try without a wand.

She focused on the feeling of Draco near her, on the pull of their magic.

She barely had time to breathe before Draco twisted sharply on his broom, regaining control with the ease of someone born to fly. The Bludger shot past him, slamming into one of the stadium’s goalposts with a dull thud.

Hermione smiled.

But he had no time for celebrations.

Cho was already moving.

The Ravenclaw Seeker leaned forward on her broom, a blur of fire and determination as she accelerated. Hermione didn’t need to see the Snitch to know she had spotted it.

Draco cursed. He dove.

The entire stadium held its breath as both Seekers plunged at an impossible angle, the wind howling around them.

“COME ON, CHANG!” roared the Ravenclaw stands.

“FASTER, MALFOY!” Theo shouted, standing on his seat.

Hermione could barely sit still. This wasn’t part of the plan. Draco was too far from her, and her magic wasn’t responding with the same strength. But she could still try.

She closed her eyes, reaching for the connection. For the pull of Draco’s magic, his sheer, unrelenting drive to win.

Across the pitch, Draco felt the faint tug in his chest. He didn’t need to turn to know it was Granger.

That familiar spark of magic ignited.

And then, he moved.

A sudden burst of speed propelled him forward. His Nimbus roared beneath him, every fiber of his being alive with energy.

Cho felt it. She pushed her broom to the limit, stretching out her hand.

Draco’s fingers brushed against something small and golden.

The entire stadium held its breath.

And then—his fist closed around the Snitch.

For a moment, there was absolute silence.

Then, an explosion of cheers from the Slytherin stands.

Draco lifted the Snitch high above his head, his chest rising and falling with adrenaline. His smirk was pure arrogance, pure triumph.

From the stands, Hermione let out a slow breath, a tingle running down her spine.

He looked for her.

She was already watching him.

And this time, it was Draco who smiled.

After the commotion of the Slytherin common room celebration, and as soon as Draco managed to slip free from Pansy's cloying grasp, he made his way to the Quidditch pitch through the tunnel stretching from the dungeons.

To his surprise—or perhaps not, because it seemed the connection he shared with Hermione was guiding his steps without him even realizing it—she was already there, sitting in the very spot reserved only for team substitutes.

She didn’t have a Bludgerkey. She shouldn’t be able to access that space, yet there she was.

Draco stopped at the center of the pitch and whistled.

Hermione lifted her head and, after a brief moment of hesitation, stood up. She didn’t run toward him, but she didn’t turn away either. She walked with the same determination she had when stepping into a duel, and within seconds, they were standing face to face beneath the flickering torchlight that still illuminated the empty stadium.

"Looks like you found something I could give you in return," Draco murmured, a smirk tugging at his lips.

Hermione pressed her lips into a thin line. She refused to admit that the scene with Charlie had been her motivation, even though, in truth, she had already decided to help Malfoy before that.

"A simple ‘thank you’ would suffice, Malfoy," she said, lifting her chin. "Besides, you still owe me."

Draco let out a dry chuckle. His hair was still damp from the shower, and the adrenaline from the match was still humming in his veins. He couldn’t deny that Hermione had played a crucial role in his performance, though he would never admit it out loud.

"Do you realize what we accomplished today?" Hermione asked, crossing her arms. "If we perfect this, we could be unstoppable."

"You mean the magic or Weasley’s jealousy?"

Hermione narrowed her eyes.

"I’d swear Professor Dumont was also quite pleased with your ‘performance’ in her class, Malfoy."

They held each other’s gaze, neither willing to back down. There was something in the tension between them, a spark simmering beneath the surface, threatening to ignite every time they clashed.

Then, Draco stepped forward.

Hermione didn’t move.

The air thickened.

Draco raised a hand, and with deliberate slowness, tucked a stray curl behind her ear, his fingers barely brushing her skin.

Hermione felt it again—the same electric current she had experienced during the match.

Draco tilted his head slightly, his breath warm against her cheek.

"Tell me, Granger," he whispered, his voice a low murmur, "did you feel that too?"

Once upon a time, Draco might have recoiled from being this close to her. But no matter what had changed, he didn’t want to step away.

Hermione didn’t answer. Or maybe she couldn’t. Because the moment Draco spoke, the same force that had crackled between them on the pitch surged again, surrounding them in an invisible pulse, as if their magic was syncing to a rhythm only they could hear.

Draco let his hand drop, but this time, Hermione was the one to close the distance. Not because she wanted to be closer to him—but because she needed to confirm what her body already knew.

With the tip of her fingers, she brushed his wrist.

The air seemed to hum with energy.

Draco held his breath. The connection between them vibrated, bringing back flashes of that night when they’d had too much to drink.

Some memories were vivid: the challenge in their gazes, the whispered words in the dim light, the feeling of being tangled in something they didn’t fully understand—yet made them stronger together.

Hermione yanked her hand back as if burned.

"This… isn’t normal," she murmured.

"What is, in the wizarding world?" Draco countered, watching her intently. "But we could use it to our advantage."

Hermione lifted her gaze, wary.

"How?"

Draco’s smirk returned, that insufferable confidence that always got under her skin.

"Think, Granger. If we’re always together, we could refine this without raising suspicion. And there’s only one way to justify that in everyone’s eyes."

Hermione narrowed her eyes.

"Are you suggesting that…?"

"That we pretend to be together," he finished smoothly. "A relationship would explain why we’re constantly around each other. It would give us the freedom to practice without interference."

Hermione scoffed.

"Oh, right. Because no one would find it odd that Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy—after six years of insults and hexes—suddenly become the couple of the year."

"They’ll believe what we want them to believe," Draco said lightly. "Besides…"

He leaned in just enough that his nose barely brushed hers—a touch so fleeting it could have been accidental. But it wasn’t.

Hermione froze.

"There would be other benefits too," Draco continued, his voice casual, though each word was a challenge. "Dumont wouldn’t mind seeing her star student with her favorite pupil. And Charlie Weasley… well, let’s just say he didn’t seem entirely indifferent when he saw us together."

A sharp pang of frustration struck Hermione. The worst part was that he was right. Charlie had looked at her differently—like she was a possibility rather than just his best friend’s little sister. And Dumont, despite her composure, had reacted too.

"This is insane," she whispered, though she was already calculating the advantages in her head.

Draco smirked, knowing he had her.

"So?" he murmured, not moving away.

Hermione closed her eyes for a second.

She was overwhelmed by the sensation of standing so close to him, the way their magic surged like a living force between them—powerful, uncontrollable. Dangerous, yes, but also intoxicating.

Maybe, after all, she was more than just the clever girl with all the right answers and neatly stacked books. Maybe, for the first time, she didn’t want to be just the exemplary student, the reliable friend, the brilliant witch everyone respected but no one really saw.

Maybe she wanted to be seen.

And if making a deal with the devil of Slytherin was the way to do it, so be it.

She knew she was about to make a reckless decision.

"Fine," she said at last. "But let’s be clear—this is a strategic agreement."

"Of course," Draco agreed, amused. "Strictly business, Granger."

And though those words sealed what was already an unspoken agreement, they both knew that whatever had just happened between them—the magic, the tension, the charged energy—had very little to do with strategy.

And nothing at all to do with safety.

Chapter Text

When Aurélie Dumont submitted her application to work at Hogwarts, she was fleeing from a cruel twist of fate at the American Ministry of Magic. She had built a successful career there, but before throwing away everything she had achieved, she decided to take a step back. Thanks to the connections she had gained seven years ago while working as Draco Malfoy’s tutor, she knew that the ever-vacant position of Defense Against the Dark Arts professor at Hogwarts was the perfect opportunity to put not one, but two oceans between herself and her past—whether she looked east or west from magical Britain.

Aurélie, a pureblood witch of French descent, possessed an innate elegance and an ethereal beauty inherited from her Veela grandmother—a trait she shared with her younger cousin, Fleur Delacour. Related through their mothers, who were sisters, this characteristic had always drawn stolen glances and sighs in her direction. Over time, she had also developed a presence that commanded respect wherever she went. During her school years, she stood out for her intellect and dedication, which led to her first job as Draco’s tutor when he was just ten years old. It was then that the young Malfoy, mesmerized by her intelligence and charm, fell hopelessly in love with her. Aurélie had known it from the start—and, in a way, she relished it.

Aurélie loved watching them unravel—how their confidence melted into hunger, how even the proudest ended up seeking her out with their hands, their mouths, with the desperation of someone who knows they are lost and no longer cares. She needed no enchantments, no potions. Just a touch, a lingering glance, a barely-there smile. She knew exactly how far to pull the string before it snapped.

And when it did—when desire turned them into docile creatures, willing to follow her every whim—then, and only then, did she allow herself to savor it.

Because there was no sweeter pleasure than watching them surrender, knowing that, in the end, it would always be her who held the reins.

For a fleeting moment, as she observed the man Draco had become, she wondered what it would be like to be Lady Malfoy. However, she dismissed the thought immediately. She knew she would never be considered a suitable candidate in the eyes of his family, and that alone would bring her more trouble than she cared to invite. While she still carried the prestige of her lineage, her family had fallen from grace after a disastrous business deal with a Muggle that left them in financial ruin. Many of her ambitions had been thwarted, and the failure had not only damaged her reputation but had also left deep scars on her pride.

In private, Aurélie harbored a deep disdain for Muggles—a sentiment she had to keep carefully in check to maintain the approval of most witches and wizards. Even so, she much preferred working alongside purebloods or, at the very least, tolerable half-bloods. Thus, she chose to feign cordiality and respect, despite the resentment she kept buried within.

She had known many men, both professionally and intimately, but when she laid eyes on Charlie Weasley, her newly appointed colleague at Hogwarts, something about him felt different. His gaze did not carry desire but rather the same admiration and devotion that Draco had shown her as a child—as if there was nothing in this world, or any other, more valuable than her.

She knew, without a doubt, that he desired her. That much was obvious.

But above all else, there was something more.

At first, she tried to keep her distance in a composed manner, but the more she caught him stealing glances at her with that almost delicate innocence, the more intrigued she became. Where could this possibly lead? She knew that relationships between professors at Hogwarts were not forbidden, but they did invite unwanted attention. And that was a real problem—she had no desire to attract unnecessary scrutiny.

Within just a week, she found herself feeling a sense of gratitude toward Professor Weasley. He had recognized her exceptional nature, had made her feel even more powerful and superior. His admiration only strengthened her confidence—more than she already needed—and stirred in her a peculiar fondness for him.

Yet, on Friday morning, during her class, she noticed something that made her skin crawl: the exchange of glances between Draco Malfoy and a Mudblood.

Hermione Granger.

The mere sight of it was repulsive. A Malfoy should never set his eyes on a Muggle-born witch. Surely, the Malfoys would be far from pleased if they witnessed such a thing. At that moment, she knew that, if necessary, she would personally bring the matter to Lady Malfoy’s attention.

For now, though, she found far too much enjoyment in watching that filth called Hermione squirm with jealousy whenever she approached her new colleague.

Nothing was more satisfying.

Charlie Weasley, the second of seven siblings, had always valued peace and independence above all else. Since childhood, he had felt that the hustle and bustle of the Weasley home was too small for him—that his family’s love was a warm cloak, but sometimes too tight. So, as soon as he graduated from Hogwarts, he left without looking back, seeking his own path far from the Burrow. In the vast lands of Romania, among dragons and open skies, he found the peace he had always longed for.

He cherished the moments spent with his family during Christmas or summer, but there was always a quiet relief when he returned to solitude. Or at least, that’s what he told himself. Over the years, that solitude—once so comforting—began to weigh on him in ways he couldn’t quite understand. It wasn’t that he longed for constant company, but some nights, the silence didn’t feel as welcoming as it once had.

He had never been in love, and truthfully, he had come to accept that perhaps he never would be. But ever since Ginny hinted that Hermione Granger—the same Hermione who had grown up alongside his siblings—might be interested in him, something inside him shifted. At first, he dismissed the idea with a short laugh. Hermione was, to him, almost a sister. Like Ginny. Thinking of her any other way felt… wrong. Not because of the age gap—after all, six years meant little in the wizarding world—but because he had simply never seen her in that light.

And yet, when he saw her that Friday night in the tunnel leading to the Quidditch pitch with Draco Malfoy, he had to admit he didn’t like it one bit. He had never considered himself a jealous brother, but apparently, he was more so than he had realized. However, what truly unsettled him wasn’t their closeness—it was Hermione’s demeanor. She looked different, changed. No longer the bright, noble girl he remembered from her visits to the Burrow; in her crisp uniform, standing tall with an air of unshakable confidence, she seemed invincible. And sharper than anyone gave her credit for.

But as much as that scene with Malfoy lingered in his mind, there was only one woman who truly occupied his thoughts: Aurélie Dumont, the new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor.

There was something about her that drew him in, though he couldn’t quite explain it. It wasn’t just her ethereal beauty or the effortless grace with which she moved through the halls of Hogwarts—it was the way she seemed so utterly aware of the effect she had on those around her. The way she looked at him, a faint smile on her lips, as if she already knew exactly what he was thinking before he even realized it himself.

Charlie wasn’t the kind of man to be easily swayed by emotions, let alone by fleeting desire. But with Aurélie… he wasn’t sure it was fleeting.  And that unsettled him more than he was willing to admit. And yet, he found no issue in being open about it—if he sensed even the slightest opportunity from his new colleague.

The atmosphere at Hogwarts was as it always was—the murmur of conversations, the clinking of silverware against plates, the glow of hundreds of floating candles overhead. Nothing in the air suggested that the routine was about to shatter in mere seconds. That Monday evening, during dinner, the two new professors had no idea that Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger were about to shake the Great Hall to its core.

Aurelie Dumont, seated at the staff table, stared absently into her goblet, pretending not to hear the dull chatter of her colleague to her right. In truth, her attention was fixed on Draco Malfoy. She couldn’t help it. There was something disturbingly tempting about him ever since he had arrived at Hogwarts. His natural confidence, the way his gaze seemed to promise things no one else knew. But above all, the way his eyes locked onto Hermione Granger in that precise moment.

Draco lifted his head in perfect sync with Hermione, who had shot to her feet.

Her chair scraped loudly against the stone floor, but she didn’t care. Her knuckles were white around her wand as she crossed the distance between the Gryffindor and Slytherin tables. Her steps were firm, her fury palpable. Draco stood as well, and the two met in the center of the Great Hall—halfway between their respective tables, between two opposing worlds.

"Why don’t you say that again, Parkinson?" Hermione challenged icily, her voice cutting through the air, addressing the Slytherin witch over Draco’s shoulder.

Draco didn’t take his eyes off her. Not because he wanted to protect Pansy. Not even because he cared about what was happening. It was something deeper. An invisible thread pulling him toward Granger, compelling him to move in sync with her.

Aurelie felt a slow burn in her chest, but she made no move to intervene. No—this was far more revealing than she had anticipated.

Beside her, Charlie stiffened. There was fire in Hermione’s eyes, a determination he hadn’t seen in her before. This wasn’t the same girl he had left behind at Hogwarts years ago. There was something different about her, something he couldn’t quite grasp.

Draco smirked, but there was no mockery in his gaze.

"Always so passionate, Granger."

The air crackled between them.

Hermione stepped forward. So did Draco.

And then, he knew.

Draco looked at her as if he was truly seeing her for the first time. As if, in that instant, something clicked into place. As if he suddenly understood what he had been holding back since the Quidditch match on Friday. His eyes roamed her face with hunger, with an almost dazed recognition—like he couldn’t fathom why the hell he hadn’t done this before.

The bond between them burned.

The magic that tied them together tightened in the air, an invisible tether, a serpent coiling around their bodies—urging them, daring them, demanding something from them.

And Draco gave in.

In a single moment—without thinking, without restraint—he grabbed her by the waist and pulled her to him.

Hermione barely had time to gasp before his lips crashed against hers in a kiss that was anything but gentle.

It wasn’t a kiss.

It was an intrusion, a storm.

Her body shuddered from the impact, but instead of pushing him away, she clung to him. Her mind went blank, her magic igniting. She hadn’t expected this. It was as if the ground beneath her feet had vanished, leaving only him. This wasn’t just lips meeting—it was fire, it was vertigo, it was both an anchor and an abyss.

Hermione had kissed before. She knew what it was like to feel the press of lips against hers, the shiver that ran down her spine when hands found her body. But this… this was different.

Because with just one kiss, Draco Malfoy was tearing down everything she thought she knew about herself.

Draco kissed her with the certainty of someone who had found something they had been searching for without realizing it. As if, by doing so, he was claiming something that had always been his. His fingers tightened around the fabric of her robes, pulling her closer—because even this wasn’t enough. His ears were deaf to the explosion of noise around them.

There were gasps, shouts, frenzied murmurs.

Some clapped, others cried out in shock, some jumped to their feet without knowing what to do. The chaos was absolute.

Charlie felt his jaw tighten. His instinct was to stand, to separate them, to do something. But his body didn’t move. He could only watch, bewildered, as a dull anger simmered inside him, without understanding why.

When Hermione and Draco finally broke apart, they did so with difficulty, their breathing uneven. Hermione blinked, her lips still parted, still feeling the fire on her skin, the vibration of magic in her chest.

Draco looked at her as if he couldn’t quite believe what he had just done—but there was no regret in his gaze. After all, it was simply a manifestation of what they had agreed upon.

And then—

"SILENCE!"

Professor McGonagall’s voice thundered through the Great Hall, instantly snuffing out the chaos.

"Would someone care to explain what this means!?"

Snape rose to his feet, a murderous glint in his eyes, his robes billowing behind him.

"To your seats, all of you! Except for Granger and Malfoy—to the Headmaster’s office, now."

The command was immediate.

But Hermione and Draco remained locked in place, still staring at each other, oblivious to everything else.

The walk back was steeped in thick silence, heavy with unspoken thoughts. Hermione could barely process what had happened. Her mind oscillated between stopping and seeking a solution with the professors—an option Dumbledore had already dismissed with his usual cryptic manner—or pressing forward. And that last option… was the most tempting one.

Because, as irrational as it seemed, in those brief moments inside the Quidditch pitch tunnel and the ones that had just unfolded in the Great Hall, she hadn’t felt lost. Quite the opposite. She had felt more like herself than ever. Free from expectations, from the need to uphold the flawless image everyone had of Hermione Granger.

When they reached the point where their paths diverged—hers leading up to Gryffindor Tower, his down to the dungeons—Hermione stopped him. She wasn’t sure why she did it; she just followed the impulse before she could overthink it.

"I don’t regret it, Malfoy," she admitted outright, meeting his gaze. "It was… too much. Overwhelming. But I’m in this with you. This is what we agreed to. We just need to be more careful with whatever is happening with our magic. But I definitely want to continue. I’ll understand if you don’t."

Draco crossed his arms, raising a brow with amusement.

"And why the hell wouldn’t I want to continue?"

"Maybe because, after the spectacle we just put on, your parents are bound to find out sooner rather than later… and I doubt they’ll be pleased."

Draco let out a low, careless chuckle.

"Leave my parents to me, Granger. It’s not like we’re getting married."

He said it lightly, as if that stripped the matter of any real significance. But somewhere, buried deep within, he felt a pang. A treacherous longing for at least some part of it to be real.

"No more kissing in public," Hermione stated, emphasizing the words by drawing air quotes with her fingers. "I think it’s already clear enough that ‘we’re dating.’"

Draco tilted his head slightly, his smirk stretching with mischief.

"If it bothers you, I’ll restrain myself… at least, I won’t do it with so much enthusiasm."

The way his gaze flickered over her face made Hermione tense.

"But that doesn’t mean I won’t do it in private."

"Malfoy, this is a farce," she reminded him firmly.

Draco stepped closer, just enough for his voice to drop into a smooth, velvety whisper against her ear.

"Not all of it is fake, Granger."

He brushed his nose against her cheekbone, his warm breath searing her skin before lingering at the corner of her lips. Hermione felt her pulse hammer wildly.

"Just let yourself go a little," he murmured. "That could be an advantage of this arrangement too."

And with that final provocation, he stepped away, leaving her there, the weight of his words clinging to her skin like a spell impossible to break.

Ginny was waiting for her in the common room, along with Harry and Ron. Her expression was carefully crafted into a mask of false displeasure, but the barely contained excitement in her eyes betrayed her. Unlike her, Harry and Ron looked downright furious.

“What the hell was that, Hermione?” Ron blurted out.

“What are you talking about?” she replied, feigning innocence.

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe the fact that Malfoy kissed you in the Great Hall?”

“Oh, that.”

“Yes, that!”

Hermione simply shrugged.

“It was just a kiss. Between two people.”

“Hermione,” Harry cut in, his voice steady but firm. “It’s Malfoy. He’s spent the last six years belittling you. You can’t seriously expect us to brush this off as just a kiss.”

“Well, that’s exactly what it was, Harry. And you’d better get used to it because Malfoy and I are dating.”

Ginny’s mask shattered in an instant. With an eager glint in her eyes, she lunged toward Hermione, gripping her shoulders.

“You have to tell me everything!”

She quickly caught herself under the weight of Harry and Ron’s disapproving stares. Clearing her throat, she straightened her posture and spoke with exaggerated dignity.

“Of course, what I meant to say is that it’s very noble of you to accept the apology Malfoy obviously gave you for being an insufferable git all these years. I assume he did apologize?”

Hermione hesitated for a fraction of a second. Lying outright wasn’t an option, but neither was telling the truth.

“We’ve come to… a mutual understanding and made certain agreements,” she said carefully. “Besides, we’re just dating, for Merlin’s sake. It’s not like we’re getting married.”

She hadn’t meant to, but she ended up parroting Draco’s exact words from earlier. And the realization hit her like a slap to the face.

“I think we should respect Hermione’s decision and support her,” Ginny declared. Hermione sent her a silent thank you for trying to put an end to this bizarre meeting about her fabricated love life.

Harry studied her for a long moment, his brow slightly furrowed.

“But are you happy, Hermione?” he finally asked. “I mean… do you feel happy with this?”

She took a steadying breath, carefully choosing her words.

“With Malfoy, I feel… different. Like I’m carrying less weight, like I can let go a little. And instead of scaring me, it excites me. So yes, I think that means I’m happy.”

Ginny hummed in approval, resting her chin on her hand.

“Well, if he’s willing to be with you despite what everyone else thinks, I suppose that means he’s changed his views on all that pureblood nonsense.”

Hermione said nothing. Ginny was doing her best to be supportive, but they both knew there was something more going on—something beyond just a shift in ideology.

Ron cleared his throat, but the displeasure on his face remained.

“I won’t say I told you so today. Or in a month. Or in a year. It’s your choice, Hermione.”

With that, he grabbed Harry’s arm and tugged him toward the boys’ dormitory. He let out an exaggerated yawn as he waved a lazy goodnight.

Harry glanced at her one last time before following Ron upstairs. His expression had softened—less anger, more concern.

The moment they were gone, Ginny turned back to Hermione, a wicked grin spreading across her face.

“For the love of Godric, Hermione, you just bagged the sexiest Quidditch player in Hogwarts. I can’t believe it.”

She gave her a playful punch on the arm. Hermione sighed and cast a Muffliato before responding.

“I’m assuming you already know why we’re doing this.”

“Oh, obviously,” Ginny smirked, her eyes twinkling mischievously. “But just because the thestral isn’t yours doesn’t mean you can’t ride it.”

She winked.

Hermione let out a long breath, shaking her head. Despite everything, a small, reluctant smile tugged at her lips.

She settled into an armchair by the fire, determined to stay there until it was late enough. She had no interest in facing her dorm mates’ endless questions. She wouldn’t step into that room until she was certain they were all asleep.

Draco walked into the common room to find a familiar scene awaiting him. Theo and Blaise were finishing up a game of wizard’s chess, while Pansy Parkinson stood nearby, practically spitting venom as she ranted about Hermione.

"She’s a filthy Mudblood, Draco! What the hell were you thinking, kissing her? There are better ways to shut her up."

Draco ran a hand down his face, exasperated, before loosening his tie.

"Honestly, Pansy, I’m not in the mood for a scene."

"This isn’t a scene, Draco!" she snapped, folding her arms. "Have you even considered what your parents will think?"

"What they think is none of your concern," he replied coolly. "So do me a favor—stay out of my business."

Pansy let out a sharp huff.

"And now that filthy bitch is going to think she has the right to talk to you? To look at you?"

At another time, Draco wouldn’t have cared about the insult. He might have even agreed. But now, an unfamiliar instinct kicked in—the need to defend Hermione, to make his stance crystal clear.

"I won’t let you call my girlfriend a filthy bitch, Pansy. So either control yourself, or I’ll silence you myself."

The weight of those words dropped over the room like a thunderclap. Pansy froze. Draco saw the way her eyes welled up, though she quickly blinked the tears away and lifted her chin, trying to salvage her pride.

She turned to Theo and Blaise, seeking support, but neither spoke. They remained silent observers, listening but refusing to interfere.

"She must have bewitched him," Pansy muttered under her breath, voice shaking with frustration. Then, louder, "Theo, Blaise, we have to do something. I’m sending an owl to your mother right now."

Draco caught her wrist before she could move.

"No, you’re not," he said firmly. "No one bewitched me. I’m with Granger because I want to be. End of story. I don’t expect you to understand—hell, you don’t have even a fraction of her intelligence—but I do expect you to keep some dignity."

Pansy ripped her arm free and stormed off toward the girls’ dormitories, barely managing to hold back her tears. Draco didn’t bother watching her go, but he did notice Daphne Greengrass standing nearby. He hadn’t realized she’d been there the whole time.

She got up, ready to follow Pansy, but stopped beside him for a brief moment.

"Don’t blame her, Draco," she said calmly. "You never took her seriously, and now, out of nowhere, you’re dating the girl you hated just a week ago. Even I think it’s strange."

Draco narrowed his eyes.

"You going to start trashing her too?"

Daphne gave a small, knowing smile.

"Not at all. Granger has always been kind to me—and to Astoria. And unlike Pansy, I don’t buy into that stupid blood supremacy nonsense we were raised on."

She rested a hand lightly on his wrist, her expression sincere.

"I’m glad to see you don’t either."

With that, she turned and left after Pansy, leaving Draco with a strange, bitter taste in his mouth. Maybe he really was starting to let go of those old ideas. But if it weren’t for the situation with Granger, would he have even considered it?

A sharp thump snapped him out of his thoughts.

Theo and Blaise had abandoned their chess game and were now watching him intently. Blaise, as always, remained unreadable, but the faint smirk on his lips told Draco he wasn’t planning to reprimand him. Theo, on the other hand, had a downright mischievous grin.

He grabbed a dark green cushion, hugged it to his chest dramatically, and made an exaggerated kissing sound.

Draco scowled.

"Don’t."

"Too late," Theo said, and hurled the cushion straight at his face.

Draco barely had time to react before it smacked into him. Without missing a beat, he grabbed a heavier pillow and launched it back with twice the force. Theo stumbled, nearly losing his balance, then burst into laughter before dashing up the staircase toward the boys’ dormitory.

Until that day, it had been unthinkable for Draco Malfoy to see Hermione Granger as anything more than a target for his disdain. And yet, the taste of her still lingered on his lips—a relentless reminder of everything that had transpired.

He let himself fall onto his bed, a frown etched deep into his face as he replayed every moment of the day. Kissing her had been a provocation, a reckless move… or just an excuse? He couldn’t deny it—at some point, he had enjoyed it. More than he should have.

It startled him to realize that he hadn’t even thought about rummaging through his trunk for his collection of Aurélie clippings since last Wednesday. How the hell had that happened? Hermione Granger had no right to push aside his obsessions, to worm her way into his thoughts as if she had always belonged there.

That night, sleep did not come easily. His mind wavered between the satisfaction of his defiance and the unease of what it truly meant. But in the end, he forced himself to cast aside any lingering doubt.

It didn’t matter what was coming. It didn’t matter what this stirred within him. He was still Draco Malfoy, and if the world wanted to be scandalized, so be it. After all, his natural arrogance and innate pride fit perfectly with his newfound rebellion.

Chapter Text

Tuesday’s breakfast was an absolute disaster.

Hermione walked into the Great Hall with a tight knot in her stomach, feeling as if every gaze in the room was on her. She wasn’t sure if it was just her imagination or if every whisper and sideways glance were truly directed at her.

Fortunately, Ginny was already there. Her demeanor remained unchanged—calm, unaffected. But not everyone shared her neutrality. Lavender and Parvati shot her looks that hovered between frustration and disbelief, as if they had lost a bet they were certain they’d win. Seamus and Dean exchanged puzzled glances, frowning, while Neville, though not outright disapproving, avoided making eye contact for longer than necessary.

Ginny, on the other hand, acted as if nothing was out of the ordinary. She simply motioned for Hermione to sit beside her, and Hermione did, hoping the rest of breakfast would pass uneventfully.

But, of course, peace was never an option.

Ron and Harry entered together, as they always did. Ron had a hand resting absentmindedly on Harry’s wrist as they talked in hushed voices, and though the gesture was subtle, there was an intimacy in it that anyone with eyes could notice. It wasn’t a revelation to anyone—this was just how they were.

Ron barely took three seconds to lock eyes with Hermione before blurting out, his usual sarcasm dripping from every word:

—"I thought you’d be sitting with your new friends in the snake pit."

Hermione closed her eyes for a brief moment, willing herself to keep her irritation in check, but before she could reply, Ginny shot Ron a warning glare.

—"Careful, Ronald."

Ron raised his hands in mock innocence, but the look he gave Hermione was anything but playful. Tired of the passive-aggressive remarks, she simply asked:

—"Should I assume we’re not friends anymore?"

Ron blinked, clearly caught off guard by her bluntness. He opened his mouth, but Harry beat him to it.

—"We’ll always be friends," he said with unwavering certainty, his tone as natural as if he were stating that magic existed.

Hermione felt a wave of relief wash over her and offered Harry a grateful smile. Without thinking too much about it, she reached out and gave his hand a light squeeze.

And that’s when she felt it.

A cold, piercing stare, cutting through the air like an unspoken spell.

Draco.

She didn’t need to turn around to know he was watching. She could feel it.

From his place at the Slytherin table, Draco Malfoy, with his naturally imposing presence, had a perfect view of the scene. His gray eyes narrowed slightly, his jaw clenched, and with the subtlest tilt of his head, he sent a silent message that Hermione understood with disturbing clarity.

An unspoken order.

Let go.

And she did.

She didn’t know why. Maybe because she didn’t have the energy to deal with the consequences of disobeying Draco when she had no idea how far he would go. Maybe because, like it or not, in the eyes of everyone around them, she was his girlfriend.

And if there was one thing Hermione knew about Draco Malfoy, it was that he didn’t share what he considered his.

He had proven it more times than she could count.

Like that time in second year, when Pansy Parkinson tried to grab his Quidditch scarf as a joke, only for him to yank it back instantly, muttering coldly that “no one touches what’s mine.”

Or in sixth year, when a Ravenclaw fifth-year—whose name Hermione couldn’t even recall—admired Draco’s new broom a little too enthusiastically in the corridor, and Draco simply raised an eyebrow before replying:

—"I hope you’re not expecting me to let you try it. I don’t share my things."

And now, Hermione Granger was his thing.

At least, that’s what Hogwarts believed.

Was this in the terms of the pact that I could not remember clearly?

The problem was that, as she met Draco’s gaze, feeling the intensity in it that didn’t seem feigned at all…

For the first time, Hermione wondered if he was starting to believe it too.

Then, Draco rose from his seat at the Slytherin table and, without his usual air of superiority, walked toward the Gryffindor table. This time, he didn’t glance at his housemates as if they were beneath him, nor did he carry his trademark sneer. Instead, he took a slow breath, offered a small—almost polite—smile, and greeted them with a composed:

—Good morning.

The reaction was immediate. The sheer improbability of Draco Malfoy willingly approaching the Gryffindor table was akin to a snowstorm in the tropics. And yet, there was nothing performative about his demeanor.

Without waiting for an invitation, he slid into the empty seat between Neville and Hermione, settling in as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Seconds later, Theodore Nott arrived, wearing his signature smirk of quiet amusement, and claimed the chair next to Ginny without hesitation. His eyes sparkled with mischief as he took in the stunned expressions around them.

Just like that, two Slytherins were now sitting comfortably at the Gryffindor table, flanking its members with blatant familiarity.

—Careful, Malfoy. You might break out in hives sitting here —Ron scoffed.

Draco didn’t even look at him. Instead, he plucked a piece of fruit from Hermione’s plate and popped it into his mouth as if it belonged to him.

Before he could respond, Theo spoke up in his usual languid drawl:

—If sitting here gives you hives, and they make you look like that, Draco, I’d strongly suggest you leave before it’s too late.

Ginny elbowed him, torn between defending her brother and laughing.

—Not enough room at the Slytherin table? —Harry asked, his voice neutral.

Draco, rather than answering, picked up another piece of fruit, this time holding it up toward Hermione’s lips. She hesitated, attempting to move her hand away as politely as possible, but she caught the soft, barely audible sound of disapproval from Draco.

For the sake of keeping the peace—and to avoid unnecessary drama—she decided to accept the offering. The moment she did, Draco set down the fork with a satisfied expression and, with infuriating ease, slid his hand across Hermione’s back.

—What can I say? I like spending time with my girlfriend.

Then, as if he hadn't just sent an entire table into stunned silence, he reached for Hermione’s goblet and took a sip of her water without the slightest hesitation.

The reaction was immediate.

Harry watched him with unreadable calm, in stark contrast to Ron, who looked seconds away from combusting. However, before Ron could lash out, Harry squeezed his hand under the table, drawing soothing circles over the back of his palm with his thumb.

—Well, I suppose that’s fine then —Harry said simply.

Apparently, that was all it took to diffuse the tension, and the group reluctantly resumed their breakfast.

Seizing the moment, Theo decided it was the perfect time to start his usual round of sarcastic observations.

—You know, I never thought I’d be having breakfast with Gryffindors. It’s quite the experience. For example, I had no idea anyone could pour tea with that much intensity.

He nodded toward Neville, who was pouring milk into his tea with extreme focus.

Neville blinked, unsure whether that was meant to be a jab or an actual observation. Theo just grinned.

—Tell me you at least use magic to stir it and not a spoon like a Muggle.

Ginny groaned, elbowing him again.

—Leave him alone, Theo.

But Nott was already turning toward Seamus and Dean.

—Ah, Gryffindor’s golden couple. Ten Galleons says Dean’s the one who always forgets anniversaries.

Seamus frowned.

—Hey, that’s not true.

Dean glanced at him.

—Yeah, it is.

—No, it’s not!

Theo’s grin widened.

—It’s sweet seeing you argue. Reminds me of my parents before the divorce.

A heavy silence fell over the table.

Ginny let out an exasperated sigh.

—Merlin, Theo.

Unfazed, Theo turned to Hermione next, propping an elbow on the table and watching her with mock curiosity.

—And you, Granger? What’s it like being Draco Malfoy’s girlfriend? Has he given you an official rulebook yet, or is he still in the subtle conditioning phase?

Draco shot him a glare, but Theo merely winked at him before taking a sip of his coffee, thoroughly enjoying the quiet chaos he had orchestrated.

Hermione exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand over her face. The day had barely started.

And she was already exhausted.

The entire day had passed in relative calm, with Draco at Hermione’s side, accompanying her to every class they shared—which, as it turned out, was all of them. Without realizing it, they had identical schedules. When lunchtime arrived, it played out much the same as breakfast, except for one notable absence: Theo never appeared.

Afterward came Herbology, a class where Draco practically dragged Neville away from Hermione with just his glare. Neville, who was usually Hermione’s lab partner, had no choice but to work with a thoroughly indignant Pansy Parkinson—Draco’s usual partner.

Neville tried to remain neutral, but when Pansy started barking orders, expecting him to do all the work for both of them, he didn’t hold back.

“You’re the most infuriating witch I’ve ever worked with, Parkinson. One would think all that refined education you boast about would reflect in your behavior, but if you expect me to sit the N.E.W.T.s for you as well, I’d rather work alone. I’ll explain the situation to Professor Sprout.”

Draco expected Pansy to explode with indignation, but instead, she just gawked at Longbottom in stunned silence. She grabbed the small pair of scissors to trim the asphodel stems, but before she could begin, Neville—this time with a bit more tact—reached out and stopped her.

With surprising gentleness, he took her hands, guiding them to release the scissors and handed her a tiny scalpel instead, its edge barely visible. “The scissors will ruin it. Hold this firmly,” he instructed, wrapping his hand around hers to demonstrate the proper grip.

Draco waited, amused, expecting Pansy to snap and possibly stab Longbottom with the very instrument he had given her. But, to his utter surprise, Pansy simply let herself be guided. Neville released her hand, and Pansy—perhaps for the first time in her life—was utterly focused as she carefully and precisely removed the delicate thorns from the thin stem.

“There you go,” Neville murmured, watching her work. “You might actually have a natural talent for Herbology, Parkinson.”

A slow smile spread across Pansy’s face as she continued with the same level of concentration.

Draco and Hermione exchanged looks, both equally bewildered.

“We don’t have to work together all the time, Malfoy,” Hermione remarked. “It’s enough that we’re in the same space and not too far apart.”

“I know,” he replied coolly. “I just want to work with you, that’s all. Unless my presence bothers you—which, let me guess, it doesn’t.”

His signature smirk stretched across his lips as he carefully dried the angelica leaves.

“I don’t mind,” Hermione admitted. “I actually assumed you’d be a decent lab partner. But I think our… proximity might be making others uncomfortable.”

Draco glanced toward Pansy and Longbottom, who were now completely engrossed in their project. “Doesn’t look like they’re all that uncomfortable anymore. Besides, if they were, they’ll just have to get used to it. You’re my girlfriend—my place is at your side.”

“Malfoy, you do remember we’re pretending, right?” Hermione leaned in to whisper, not wanting anyone else to overhear.

Professor Sprout cleared her throat, making Hermione straighten up so fast that her face turned bright red. Draco, thoroughly entertained, placed a hand on Hermione’s shoulder and rested his head against hers—leaning down a little too dramatically.

“Sorry, Professor,” he said smoothly. “I just can’t be away from her.”

“Well, you’d better learn to keep your hands to yourself in my class,” Professor Sprout warned. “I won’t tolerate any nonsense here.”

Draco sighed theatrically and pulled away. “Of course, Professor.” His smile this time was deliberately fake, but effortlessly elegant.

“I was reading over the weekend,” Hermione said, shifting the conversation.

“And?”

“I need to know if you’ve remembered anything else. I need to give the research some direction—I can’t just read at random, even though there’s always something new to learn, of course. Or something old to reinterpret or review—”

Draco rolled his eyes.

“But I was hoping you’d recalled something.”

“I told you we need to clarify our thoughts before we can focus, Granger,” he drawled. “But if you must know, the only time I’ve remembered anything—vaguely—was during our little performance yesterday at the Great Hall.”

Hermione’s cheeks flushed, and she tried not to stammer. “Are you suggesting that…?”

“I’m not suggesting anything, Granger. I’m asking you to be practical and a little less uptight. Surely you weren’t this stiff with McLaggen.”

“What I did with McLaggen is none of your business.”

“It is now.” His gaze was unwavering, challenging, as he lowered his voice so no one else could hear. “We may be pretending, Granger, but I refuse to look like a fool—and I trust you’ll know how to behave like a charming and devoted girlfriend.”

“Will you?”

“You didn’t notice at breakfast?” His smirk deepened.

“So that means we’ll be having every meal together?” Hermione asked, mortified.

“No, just some,” he replied smoothly. “Just enough to reinforce our position. Though, I must say, I’m not particularly keen on eating next to Weasley—I’ve never seen anyone mix so many things in their mouth at once.”

Hermione chuckled, and something warm flickered in Draco’s chest. He shoved the thought away immediately and focused on what mattered.

“I think we should make sure we’re together whenever Professor Weasley or Aurélie are in the Great Hall,” he suggested. “We can’t waste a single opportunity to get under your dear tormentor’s skin, Granger.”

“I think you’re about to become my torment, Malfoy. And not a dear one.”

“Don’t doubt it for a second.”

The sound of a promise

The rest of the day passed in a tense calm, but when night fell, Draco slipped into her dreams like a curse—his dazzling smile, his feigned interest, the elegance and grace of every movement. In the dream, he was murmuring things in her ear, his voice a hushed caress as they sat on a bench in the west courtyard. She melted beside him, laughing softly, his lashes brushing his cheeks in a whisper of movement. But just as the moment seemed to build toward something more, a sharp meow startled her awake.

Crookshanks was nudging her cheek with his muzzle, his whiskers tickling her skin. Hermione let out a frustrated sigh, not just at the rude awakening but at the realization that her dream had been cut short before a kiss could happen. No. Not a kiss—she didn't want that, she didn't want anything from Draco Malfoy. Shaking off the remnants of sleep, she forced herself up, preparing for what was sure to be another turbulent day.

But Draco never showed up to escort her to breakfast, nor to sit beside her during any of their meals. At first, the distance was a welcome relief, but by midday, an inexplicable exhaustion settled over her. It was different from the usual fatigue of studying or stress—this felt like something was being drained from her as she slept, leaving her depleted before the day even began.

Draco had decided to keep his distance that morning—not because he wanted to, but because he needed to maintain just enough space to keep his magic from faltering. His dreams had been no kinder than Hermione’s. He had seen himself lying on the grass, his head resting on her lap as she ran her fingers over his face, brushing stray strands of hair from his forehead. She had smiled at him, her voice warm as she reminded him how handsome and brilliant he was. He had basked in her touch, his own fingers absentmindedly twisting the fabric of a delicate floral dress that hugged her waist and draped over her legs, revealing only a modest glimpse of skin. But Draco had reveled in that modesty, in the promise of something hidden beneath layers of fabric—a treasure yet to be uncovered.

When he saw her at breakfast, laughing at something that idiot Weasley had said, a reckless impulse surged through him. He wanted to cross the distance and kiss her. No. Not kiss her—he didn't want that. He didn't want anything from Hermione Granger. Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to stay rooted in place.

Theo, oblivious to Draco's inner turmoil, was already heading toward the Gryffindor table, cracking his knuckles. “This should be fun. I think I’ll mess with Andrew Corrigan and Leslie Wheeler today. Look, they’re sitting next to Longbottom.”

Draco caught his arm. “Not today. We’re giving my girlfriend a break, Theodore.”

Theo frowned. “Oh, I see. So, there’s only fun when you decide?”

“I’d prefer if you kept Granger out of your jokes,” Draco said coolly.

Theo scoffed, but his laughter faltered when he caught Draco’s sharp glare. “Of course, Monsieur Malfoy, I’ll follow your orders. Wouldn’t want your father to hear about this.” With that, he dropped into a seat beside Zabini, though his eyes occasionally flickered toward the Gryffindor table during meals.

Draco, however, kept his gaze firmly on Hermione throughout the day. In class, she had been exceptional—even more than usual. Especially in Charms, where she had managed to—

(HERE, INSERT HERMIONE’S NOTABLE ACHIEVEMENT IN CHARMS)

Draco felt an unfamiliar flicker of pride. His witch had outdone herself. And yes, she was his—to the rest of the world, at least. That knowledge made his chest swell just a little.

That’s when he decided—he had given her enough space.

But when he tried to close the distance, something unexpected happened. Hermione avoided him. Not subtly, not coyly—she fled. A slow, irritated burn coiled in his chest. Was she really trying to escape him?

His pride took an even greater hit when he realized Aurélie had witnessed Hermione’s blatant dismissal. The knowing glint in her eyes sent a sharp wave of indignation through him.

This wasn’t over.

Dinner had been a much-needed break. Hermione had seated herself between Ginny and Luna, both blissfully unaware of the tension simmering beneath her skin. Draco had kept his word—they hadn’t sat together—but that didn’t mean she had felt free of him. She could sense him even when he wasn’t looking at her.

And it was driving her insane.

She needed a moment of peace, a quiet corner where she could clear her head. Maybe the library, though the thought of running into Theo made her dismiss that option. The common room was out of the question too—she had spent the entire day with Draco practically glued to her side, taking advantage of their connection and the way he could leech off her amplified magic.

So she walked with no particular destination, letting her feet carry her wherever they pleased.

She wandered into a corridor on the seventh floor, where the torches burned dimly, casting flickering shadows along the stone walls. She inhaled deeply. She just needed to breathe. Just a little solitude.

But fate seemed to have other plans.

The staircase to her right suddenly shifted, cutting off her intended path just as she was about to descend. Hermione clicked her tongue in frustration, turning on her heel to find another way—only to run straight into him.

Draco Malfoy stood at the other end of the corridor, hands tucked into the pockets of his robes, watching her with that lazy, infuriating smirk that made her want to slap him.

“Are you following me?” Hermione asked, folding her arms.

Draco took a slow step forward, the torchlight catching in his platinum hair, making it shimmer in gold and silver tones.

“Who, me?” His voice dripped with mock innocence.

“It’s hardly a coincidence that you’re here.”

He shrugged.

“Maybe the castle just wants us to keep running into each other. Ever think of that?”

Hermione exhaled sharply and turned away.

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t see you.”

“Running away again?” Draco drawled.

“I’m not running.”

“Oh, but you are. You’ve been trying to escape me all day. And yet, here we are. Funny how that works.”

Her jaw clenched. Before she could snap back at him, another staircase groaned and shifted, blocking her path entirely. She turned slowly, staring at him in disbelief.

“Tell me you didn’t do this.”

“I wish I could take credit for it,” he said, amusement flickering in his eyes.

The torches flickered. The air in the corridor felt heavier, as if the castle itself was conspiring to trap them here. A shiver ran down Hermione’s spine as Draco took another step toward her.

“You know what I think?” he murmured, voice low and edged with something dangerous.

“I don’t care what you think.”

“I think that no matter how badly you want to get away from me, your magic says otherwise.”

Her stomach tightened.

“That’s ridiculous.”

Draco tilted his head slightly, studying her with infuriating patience.

“I don’t think it is. You’ve been… brilliant today.”

Hermione frowned.

“Brilliant?”

“Stronger. Sharper. More… intense.”

The space between them felt smaller. Draco stepped closer. Hermione remained rooted to the spot.

“Magic feeds on emotion,” he continued, his voice barely above a whisper. “And you’ve been full of emotion today, haven’t you, Granger?”

The way her name rolled off his tongue—low, slow, almost intimate—sent a shiver down her spine.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, though her voice lacked the conviction she wanted.

Draco smirked, closing the last bit of distance between them, close enough now that she could catch the faint scent of mint and sandalwood clinging to him.

“I think you do.”

The walls felt smaller. The air between them crackled with something charged, something electric. Draco lifted a hand, fingers grazing a loose curl that had slipped from her messy updo.

“You were right about one thing, Granger,” he murmured, his voice silk and embers.

“It’s not a coincidence that we keep finding each other.”

Her own breathing was the only sound she could hear. Her skin buzzed, every nerve on high alert.

And when Draco let his hand drop, his fingertips brushing her cheek in the process, Hermione felt her entire body react as if he had cast a spell on her.

Draco couldn’t resist the temptation to kiss her—just like a few days ago in the Great Hall. The closeness demanded it, consumed him. He couldn’t stand another minute. He tried to recall his father’s words, his governesses’ warnings, a lifetime of caution drilled into him: never get close to magical individuals with Muggle ancestry, much less to Muggles themselves. He tried to cling to those thoughts like an anchor, but it was useless.

A sharp, resounding—

“To hell with it.”

—filled the corridor before Draco claimed Hermione’s lips with the desperation of a man dying of thirst before a reservoir. He didn’t just want to taste her. He wanted to drown in her, to lose himself in her warmth, her scent, her presence.

Hermione was just as hungry. She met him without hesitation, fists clenched around his robes as if afraid he might pull away. She dragged him closer—closer than should have been physically possible when there was no space left between them. Draco felt her moan against his mouth, and the sound sent a shudder down his spine.

Hermione wasn’t thinking, only feeling. She wanted to feel him everywhere. His skin, his breath, his body pressing against hers. This was better than in dreams, better than any fevered fantasy she had ever dared to entertain. Reality was intoxicating.

It tasted of forbidden desire. Of sleepless nights with his name on her lips. Of danger. Of something as inevitable as fate itself.

And against all logic, she wanted more.

The air around them seemed to hum. A tingling sensation spread over Hermione’s skin, crawling from the base of her neck to the tips of her fingers, and she knew—it wasn’t just desire. It was magic. Her magic.

As if it had been restrained, held back for too long, and now it flowed freely, responding to Draco’s touch.

Draco felt it too. He knew it the moment the corridor seemed to darken around them—not from lack of light, but because the only thing that existed in his world was her. A familiar, dizzying heat coursed down his spine, and instead of fearing it, he embraced it.

It was his magic recognizing hers.

Like a river meeting its natural course. Like this—this undeniable pull between them—wasn’t a mistake, but an unavoidable truth.

Draco dug his fingers deeper into her waist, molding her against him as his lips moved with reckless abandon, lost in the storm they had unleashed. Hermione arched into him, feeling every wall she had built begin to crumble, feeling her own magic coil around her like a shield, as if it knew something she wasn’t ready to admit.

That this was right.

That this was where she belonged.

That Draco Malfoy and she were never meant to be apart.

Draco tore himself away from her lips with a final, desperate pull, as if his very body resisted letting her go. His breath came ragged and heavy, and when he opened his eyes, he found hers just as dazed, just as lost.

Hermione stepped back, as if distance could bring her clarity, but her back hit the corridor wall, trapping her in place. Draco didn’t move either. His chest rose and fell in sharp, uneven breaths, his hands still clenched like they were itching to reach for her again.

The silence between them was deafening.

They should speak. Say something—anything—that could put an end to what had just happened. But the words lodged in their throats, swallowed by the heat still clinging to the air, by the electricity crackling over their skin, the echo of what they had just done.

Because they knew this—whatever this was—needed to end.

But for the first time… neither of them was sure they wanted it to.

Chapter Text

The tapping at the window woke her. Parvati, Lavender, and Katie were still deep in sleep—or at least that’s how it seemed, given the drawn curtains around their beds. Hermione sat up sluggishly, blinking away the haze of sleep, and walked to the window.

There, a black tawny owl stared at her with narrowed, deep violet eyes—an unusual color that could only rival those of its owner. Hermione had seen the massive owl delivering letters to Draco Malfoy before, but she had never really noticed its eyes. Now, as it fixed her with that expectant, sharp gaze, she understood perfectly where it had learned that air of restrained irritation.

The owl pecked at the glass again, impatient, carrying the same arrogance its master displayed whenever he didn’t get an immediate response. Hermione sighed and quickly unlatched the window. The owl extended a claw, and when she cautiously held out her hand, it dropped a neatly folded parchment into her palm. Then, as if judging her, it tilted its head with an indignant huff and took off into the morning sky with an elegant, silent flight.

Hermione shut the window and returned to her bed, pulling the curtains around her four-poster to ensure privacy. With a quick motion, she untied the platinum-colored ribbon securing the note (such a predictable color) and unfolded the parchment.

It was brief.

Third-floor Ancient Runes classroom, 7:15. Come alone. We don’t need an audience.
—DLM

She cast a quick Tempus. 6:30.

Exhaling in frustration, she ran a hand over her face. It irritated her how easily Draco assumed she would follow his orders, as if she were one of his lackeys. But what irritated her even more was that she was already getting up, making sure she’d be ready in time.

The castle was still quiet at this hour. Only a handful of students wandered the corridors, most heading toward the Great Hall for breakfast. Hermione, however, took a different route—one she was starting to know all too well.

The staircases adjusted to her steps as if they already knew where she was going. When she reached the third floor, she stopped in front of the Ancient Runes classroom. Taking a deep breath, she wrapped her fingers around the doorknob.

The moment she opened the door, a firm pull yanked her inside. The door slammed shut behind her with a resounding thud, and before she could react, her back hit the cold stone wall.

And then, Draco was on her.

His mouth crashed onto hers with a desperate urgency, his hands gripping her waist, pulling her against him with a certainty that made her shiver. Hermione gasped against his lips, but there was no time for hesitation, no room for resistance. Their bodies had already fallen into the rhythm of a dangerous game neither of them dared to name.

Draco’s fingers tightened over the fabric of her robes, marking the pressure of his hold. His kiss wasn’t just a fleeting touch—it was hunger restrained, need disguised as control. Hermione felt the heat spread through her skin, and though her mind screamed that this was only an excuse to “remember,” her body clung to him just as fiercely.

When they finally broke apart, breathless, Draco rested his forehead against hers.

“Don’t forget why we’re doing this,” he murmured, his voice rough.

Hermione swallowed hard, her lips still tingling.

“Of course,” she replied, but her tone lacked conviction.

Draco let his fingers linger on her waist before finally stepping away. Hermione felt the cold air rush in where he had been, but she forced herself not to react. She wouldn’t react.

She straightened her uniform with quick, precise movements, as if that could restore the control she’d just lost over herself. Draco, on the other hand, took his time. He ran a hand through his hair with that calculated indifference that always exasperated her, as if the fevered touch of moments ago had left him completely unaffected.

“We needed that,” he finally said, his voice light, almost careless—a justification meant more for himself than for her.

Hermione lifted her chin, matching his impassive mask.

“Yes,” she answered without hesitation. “To remember.”

Draco smirked. His gaze flickered over her, filled with both amusement and something else—something she chose not to decipher.

“Exactly.”

The Ancient Runes classroom remained dim, the morning light barely filtering through the dust-covered windows, casting long shadows over the ancient runes carved into the stone walls. Hermione tried to focus on the symbols scattered across the room, on the magic still humming in the air—on anything that wasn’t the lingering warmth on her skin.

But when her eyes met Draco’s, she knew he felt it too.

Because the truth was, they both knew this wasn’t just about remembering.

Since the night before, when they had locked eyes after their second kiss, it had become clear that the hazy recollections of that drunken night were beginning to sharpen. They hadn’t spoken about it directly, of course. They were both too proud for that. But somewhere along the way, without words, they had come to the same conclusion: a few kisses wouldn’t hurt if they helped them remember.

It had been Hermione who first mentioned the enchantment on Draco’s bottle, a Portkey spell that, apparently, had kept them supplied with alcohol throughout the night. Draco recalled that she had insisted on playing some ridiculous game with the empty bottle, and Hermione, with carefully measured patience, explained that she had been attempting to modify a Muggle game she had seen in a movie with her cousin Charlotte last summer.

The detail seemed to annoy Draco even more, as if the mere idea of drawing inspiration from something Muggle was a personal insult. Hermione noticed and secretly enjoyed the flicker of distaste on his face.

But beyond that, the logic was undeniable: physical contact was the fastest way to trigger their memories. No one would get hurt. It didn’t mean anything.

So why not do it?

“See you at breakfast,” Hermione murmured, turning away before her voice could betray her.

Draco didn’t stop her. He didn’t even reply.

Because they both knew this wouldn’t be their last secret meeting.

Breakfast passed in apparent tranquility. Hermione sat in her usual spot next to Ginny, who was already seated beside Neville. Across from them were Harry, Ron, Seamus, and Dean, as usual. Draco entered the Great Hall alongside Theo and Blaise, and this time, he decided it was appropriate to sit with his girlfriend at the Gryffindor table. Even Blaise, taller and darker than Draco, accompanied them this time. Draco took a seat next to Hermione, and his two companions settled beside him.

“Good morning,” he greeted simply, followed by Theo, who grinned mischievously, as if he were plotting something. Blaise merely inclined his head without addressing anyone in particular.

Each of them summoned a plate, and Draco broke the awkward silence that had begun to settle, directing his words at Harry.

“You know, Potter, I never thought you'd use your fame to request extra Quidditch practice time. The pitch isn’t usually available on weekends.” He sliced a piece of bread and brought it to his mouth, waiting for a response.

“I have no idea what you're talking about, Malfoy. I didn’t request anything,” Harry replied.

Hermione cleared her throat, prompting Ginny to stifle a small laugh as she continued her breakfast.

“Oh,” Draco said, feigning nonchalance. “Then my apologies for the misunderstanding. A mistake on my part.”

The entire table, including his own friends, turned to look at Draco, but it was Ron who voiced what everyone was thinking.

“Since when do you apologize, Malfoy?”

The truth was, Draco didn’t know either. But for some stupid reason, he felt the need to fit in, to make things easier for himself. Or at least, that’s what he told himself, as if attempting to justify his recent actions.

He set down his fork and knife and shrugged.

“What can I say?” He stretched his arm behind Hermione, resting his hand casually on her shoulder. “This witch seems to be making me a better wizard.”

An audible gagging sound came from Theo and Ginny simultaneously, while Hermione flushed crimson.

“It’s hard to tell if you're being serious,” Harry remarked flatly.

The truth was, that single touch sent a jolt through Hermione. She wasn’t exactly uncomfortable, but she was definitely confused. By all logic, she should be resistant to his contact, yet her body seemed to accept it without protest. Draco leaned in, whispering something trivial in her ear, but the warmth of his breath against her skin put her on high alert. She tried to distract herself, playing with her fork, pretending to be indifferent. But she had the distinct impression that Draco enjoyed tormenting her like this.

In a move of retaliation, she speared a piece of bacon and, without a word, held it up to his lips—just as he had done to her once before. For a brief moment, Draco seemed torn between accepting it or not. Then, his gray eyes flickered toward the professors’ table. He didn’t have to guess. A slow smirk curved his lips as he opened his mouth, accepting the bite, his gaze holding Hermione’s with an unspoken request to continue.

Hermione resisted the urge to glance over her shoulder but grabbed a piece of fruit this time, offering it to him. Draco’s eyes darted between her and the same spot at the staff table until he finally realized the rest of the Gryffindor table was watching them with varying expressions—confusion, amusement, and in Ron’s case, absolute horror.

Draco was caught between the satisfaction of being doted on by Hermione, even if it was just a game, and the unwavering gaze of Aurélie, who hadn't taken her eyes off him. He shifted his focus slightly to her companion, Charlie Weasley, whose jaw was visibly clenched. Draco made a mental note to mention this to Hermione later. After a few more bites, he grew tired of the attention and continued eating on his own, just as Hermione did—seemingly determined not to look up again.

“Smart witch,” he mused.

Although they didn’t share lunch, Draco made sure to intercept Hermione on her way out of the Great Hall, slipping a note into her hand as she passed. She clenched her fingers around it and read it later—it contained yet another one of his demands. This time, he had chosen the smaller greenhouse for their meeting after dinner.

The thought unsettled her. Did that mean they wouldn’t be having dinner together? Was she actually disappointed by that? By Merlin, hell must have frozen over. When had she started wanting to share meals with Draco? It had to be the strange bond between them—surely, there was no other explanation. Hermione took a slow, measured breath.

After dinner, she wavered between obeying his summons or not. Her hesitation felt like an act of rebellion against Draco’s orders—or at least, that’s what she told herself. She refused to admit that she was both anxious and eager to see him. But instead of heading to the greenhouse, she decided to make up some excuse later and walked to the library instead. It would be closing in an hour, just enough time to browse for something new. There was always something new to look up.

She was standing in a secluded corner, absentmindedly flipping through a book, when she felt his presence behind her.

Draco had left the Great Hall five minutes after Hermione and had gone straight to the greenhouse. When he didn't find her there, he waited precisely one minute before deciding he had been stood up. He returned to the castle, his irritation mounting as he considered where she might have gone. The answer came to him almost immediately—he couldn’t enter the Gryffindor common room, but he could certainly check the library.

And there she was, standing in front of a bookshelf, her expression peaceful—an infuriating contrast to his own rising frustration. Did she even know she had left him waiting? His order had been clear, and she had ignored it.

Positioning himself behind her, he was prepared to confront her. But as he leaned in, the familiar scent of vanilla and hyacinths filled his senses, stopping him in his tracks. He swallowed down the growl of frustration that threatened to escape, caught between his anger and something else—something far more dangerous.

Instead of snapping at her, he peered over her shoulder.

“History of Magic, Granger?” he murmured.

“How the hell is that supposed to help us?”

“I can’t spend all my time on ‘us,’” she retorted, raising her hands in air quotes to emphasize that there was no actual ‘us.’

Draco had the impulse to challenge that, to remind her just how real this was. But provoking her was far more entertaining—and suited him better. He leaned in just enough to brush his nose against her cheek as he exhaled, taking his time.

Hermione inhaled sharply, her grip tightening on the book in her hands.

“Get lost, Malfoy,” she muttered, but her voice lacked conviction.

Draco smirked against her skin.

“Make me,” he whispered.

Hermione turned her head, intending to respond, but that was her mistake. Draco seized the moment, closing the distance and capturing her mouth with his. The kiss was anything but timid. He held her firmly, and she clung to his robes as if that could steady her. It was a clash of restrained emotions, of unspoken challenges and silent surrenders.  

He pressed her gently against the bookshelf, deepening the kiss with an unexpected desperation. Hermione melted into the sensation—the warmth of his body, the way his lips seemed to fit perfectly with hers.  

And for the first time, she didn’t want to run.

Draco pulled her even further out of sight, guiding her toward a secluded corner of the library he had once explored with Pansy. He never let go of her, keeping her trapped in the heat of their bodies and the taste of their lips. At first, the difference in their heights made the urgency of the moment awkward, forcing them to stumble between breathless kisses and shaky gasps. But neither seemed willing to part, not even to steady themselves.

Frustrated by the physical barrier, Draco acted on impulse. His hands slid down to Hermione’s thighs, and with surprising ease, he lifted her, coaxing her legs around his waist. He expected her to resist, to protest—but instead, he felt her breath hitch against his lips, a soft gasp melting into the kiss, sending a jolt of fire through his veins.

With determined steps, he carried her to a half-empty bookshelf and sat her on one of the sturdier compartments, positioning her so their faces were perfectly aligned. Hermione still clung to him, her fingers gripping the back of his neck as if letting go was unthinkable, as if the very air depended on their closeness.

That raw, undeniable desire only fueled him further.

With slow, deliberate movements, he loosened Hermione’s tie and unfastened a few buttons of her shirt—just enough to reveal the delicate curve of her throat. A shiver ran through her as his warm breath ghosted over her collarbone. Draco cursed himself inwardly, fearing he had pushed too far, but when his gaze met Hermione’s, there was no hesitation in her eyes.

Only hunger.

A hunger so intense it stole his breath, urging him to claim the soft skin of her neck with heated kisses, his hands gripping her thighs, tracing slow, tantalizing paths that made her tremble.

Hermione shuddered under his touch. Draco’s hands burned against her exposed skin, igniting a fire that left her dizzy. How had they even gotten here? She didn’t know, and right now, she didn’t care. She only wanted to feel.

None of McLaggen’s kisses had ever come close to this. In fact, they had never even reached this level of intimacy, of rawness. She had assumed that was simply how these things were—that physical closeness would always feel uninspired. It was why she had never understood Parvati’s or Lavender’s excitement when they gushed about their encounters with William and Tony, the Hufflepuffs from their year.

But with Draco, it was different.

Her body didn’t just respond to his touch—it craved it. If begging was what it took to keep feeling him, she would.

Draco pulled her even closer, and she instinctively tightened her legs around his torso. It still wasn’t enough. She needed more. Her fingers tangled in his hair, tugging him closer with a desperation that surprised even her. When she heard him exhale sharply against her neck, she shut her eyes, surrendering to the sensation.

And then, a memory clouded her mind.

Draco froze, his lips barely grazing Hermione’s, as if the air itself had thickened between them. Their eyes met, reflecting the same raw emotion—the same mix of longing and fear.

And then, the magic pulsed.

Not just the heat crackling between them, but something older, deeper. A familiar echo seeped into their minds, like the whisper of a buried memory.

The words resonated in their consciousness, not as a simple recollection, but as something alive, unbreakable. Draco felt their weight pressing against his chest, each syllable returning with the same force as that night.

"If love is not our fate… then it will not be our end."

Hermione shivered in his arms. She could hear it too. The certainty of those words sent a chill down her spine.

"We will not seek it, we will not recognize it, we will not accept it."

Draco’s voice in her mind intertwined with her own, as if they were both trapped in an echo they could never silence.

"We will not be salvation nor solace. We will not be longing nor loss."

Her breathing turned erratic. The pact had been clear, every promise etched into their magic, into their very bones.

"If love did not want us, then let it never find us."

Draco shut his eyes tightly, a knot forming in his throat as he remembered the conviction with which they had spoken those words. Words that now felt like shackles.

"Let this pact make us unyielding, let it hold us when all else fails."

Hermione felt a cold shudder ripple through her. Back then, those words had seemed like salvation—armor against pain. But now, tangled in Draco’s arms, with his breath warm against her skin, they felt like a curse.

"Let our magic rise as one, impenetrable and indivisible."

Draco swallowed hard. How had they been so blind? How had they not foreseen this?

"Let it strengthen us in its union… and punish us in its absence."

The weight of the final words crashed over them like an unbreakable spell. Hermione felt something inside her tear.

Because now, she understood.

The pact hadn’t made them unbreakable.

It had bound them in chains.

Hermione seemed to recall something from a book she had consulted the previous week, before her research on Quidditch. Her expression shifted abruptly, and Draco, catching the signal, stepped back. As if the air between them suddenly cleared, both adjusted their uniforms, trying to regain composure. It took Draco a little longer; the obvious bulge in his trousers didn’t disappear right away.

Noticing, Hermione cleared her throat and averted her gaze, though the flush on her cheeks betrayed her.

When she was ready, she met his eyes. Their connection was so tangible that words weren’t necessary. With one last glance, she turned and swiftly descended the stairs. Draco followed without question.

Hermione entered the vast Charms section as if her feet already knew the way. She had the library memorized. Her fingers skimmed the book spines at a rapid pace while she murmured, almost desperately:

—Invisible Bonds… Invisible Bonds…

Draco overheard and, deducing that was the title, began searching as well. He found it quickly—an old yet remarkably well-preserved tome, bound in dark leather with embossed details. Its title, engraved in silver lettering, gleamed under the candlelight:

"Invisible Bonds: The Magic of Pacts and Fates"
By Edgar Thorne

Without hesitation, Draco pulled it from the shelf and walked toward Hermione, who looked on the verge of a panic attack. Without a word, he handed it to her.

—This is it —she whispered upon seeing it.

She immediately moved toward a table, Draco right behind her. They sat side by side, but whereas she had been desperate to consult it moments ago, now her hands trembled over the cover, hesitating.

Draco took her hand without fully understanding why. Perhaps a clumsy attempt to steady her.

—Granger, just open it. I know you’ve already figured out the answer in that brilliant mind of yours. Let’s just confirm it.

Hermione swallowed hard.

—I’m scared, Malfoy. If I remember correctly—and I usually do—we’ve made a terrible mistake.

A shiver ran down Draco’s spine, but he forced himself to remain calm.

—Whatever it is, Granger, we’re in this together.

Hermione took a deep breath, and as if his words gave her the last bit of courage she needed, she opened the tome.

The pages, marked with notes from past readers, were yellowed but pristine. Draco suspected the book was rarely consulted, forgotten in a corner of outdated magic.

Suddenly, the letters on the page seemed to draw themselves before their eyes, as if the spell itself recognized their presence.

Fatum Ligare (Bound Fate) -

Hermione looked up and met Draco’s gaze. She swallowed thickly. Without saying a word, they began reading in eerie synchrony.

The contents of the book distilled into a chilling truth:

This spell appeared to be an ancient variation of a binding enchantment, designed to connect two people under an emotional or sentimental agreement. It did not magically compel them to fulfill it, but the farther they strayed from their promise, the more they would feel the emotional weight of the pact.

Fate: Once the pact was made, their paths would intertwine, even if they tried to separate.

Bound: Not just a verbal or emotional agreement, but something deeper—almost inescapable. Magic reinforced it, making it impossible to ignore without consequences.

The characteristics of the pact included activation only through mutual consent. A memory surged within them—though intoxicated, they had been willing… or so it seemed.

It was not a lethal enchantment, but it created a latent magical bond that would weigh upon them until the pact was fulfilled or naturally broken. That explained the magical pull they felt when apart or when attempting to use magic at a distance, like during the Quidditch match.

The magic of the pact “wore down” when the truth became evident. But that remained an enigma—what truth? Which of their words held the key? Perhaps all of them?

Finally, the pact could manifest its breaking through a subtle effect—a shiver, a faint flash, the sensation of something “detaching” from them. This had yet to happen, but the mere mention of the possibility filled them with fragile, dangerous hope.

The immediate effects of the pact were subtle yet significant. Hermione recalled the vibration in her wand just before she felt her magic completely drained. Draco, on the other hand, remembered the same sensation moments before collapsing unconscious in the Charms classroom.

As long as the pact remained, they would experience an inexplicable connection—intrusive thoughts, shivers, involuntary reactions whenever they attempted to distance themselves emotionally. Suddenly, everything made sense: the dreams, the suffocating attraction in each other’s presence…

But what they read next made Hermione’s throat tighten.

If one suffers, the other will feel it in some way. Not necessarily as physical pain, but as a weight in the chest, an inescapable sense of unease.

Draco scoffed in irritation.

—So now I have to make sure you’re happy, Granger? Fantastic. —He ran a hand down his face, exasperated at the mere thought of being emotionally bound to her.

But Hermione barely registered his sarcasm. Her mind replayed every inexplicable feeling she had experienced since that night. The uncharacteristic compassion that drove her to stay with him in the classroom. The urgency to soothe him in his fevered dreams. Every instinct that had pushed her to touch him, to comfort him.

And at last, what she dreaded reading appeared before her eyes.

The pact could not be easily broken, because it was not merely an agreement—it was a magical bond that entwined their fates until the pact was fulfilled… or broken the right way.

Hermione shut the book abruptly, a bitter taste in her mouth. The sweet remnants of Draco’s kisses had vanished.

Draco mirrored her unease. They sat in silence, staring at each other, trapped in an uncomfortable reverie until a pointed throat-clearing broke the spell.

—The library is closing. —Madam Pince glared at them with unmistakable disapproval.

Hermione tensed. She wanted to take the book. Needed to.

But the librarian’s stern gaze left no room for negotiation.

Suppressing her frustration, Hermione rose from her seat. She would have to wait until tomorrow.

Though, after what they had just learned, she doubted she would get a wink of sleep that night.

Hermione hadn't been able to sleep all night. The first thought that crossed her mind was to speak with Headmaster Dumbledore. After all, perhaps his cryptic words after the spectacle with Draco at dinner had meant something. Surely, he knew what he was talking about, and neither she nor Draco had taken him seriously enough.

As soon as she felt it was a reasonable hour to use the bathroom without disturbing anyone’s sleep, she took a shower and got ready for the day. Not long after, she found herself waiting outside the Headmaster’s office. The moment she stepped inside, his words confirmed what she had begun to suspect—he knew something, or at the very least, he had his suspicions.

"Miss Granger, you certainly took your time coming to see me. Please, follow me."

The stone gargoyle shifted, revealing the spiral staircase that led up to his office. Dumbledore sat behind his desk and, with a mere glance, gestured for her to take the seat in front of him.

"Well?"

"Erm—" Hermione hesitated, unsure where to begin. She decided to focus on the most pressing matter—the alarming possibility that she had bound her magic to Draco Malfoy’s through a Fatum Ligare. She recounted the night they had gotten drunk together, carefully omitting the game they had played and, of course, the image she had seen through the window—the one that had pushed her into such reckless foolishness.

But the old wizard was too perceptive to deceive.

"I believe you are leaving out the most important part of your story, Miss Granger."

Hermione narrowed her eyes at him, and Dumbledore elaborated:

"If it is indeed a Fatum Ligare binding your magic to Mr. Malfoy’s—which, I must say, is a rather brilliant deduction—then certain conditions must have been met. I trust you have already researched them?"

Hermione felt judged. She attempted to explain that Madam Pince had not allowed her to take the book from the library, or else she would have already studied the subject extensively. But she chose to remain quiet, realizing she was better off absorbing the wisdom of the wizard before her before continuing her own research.

"First and foremost, there must be a personal motivation. My rather limited experience"—an almost laughable understatement from Dumbledore—"has shown me that, in many cases, the catalyst is nothing more than an emotional void. The witch or wizard who ends up bound seeks to fill that void with the illusion of whatever the other offers, and the emotions imbued in both parties at the time of the pact."

That thought sent Hermione’s mind spiraling. What could Draco possibly have offered her? The only answer that surfaced was Charlie Weasley—the longing to be with him, to be seen by him. Perhaps, on some level, she had wanted to be someone else, someone who could catch his attention. As for the emotions she had been feeling at that moment… anger, defiance, a hollow indifference toward love itself.

Dumbledore continued, as if reading her thoughts.

"It is those very emotions, Miss Granger, that form the core of the need being fulfilled—they are the heart of the pact itself. Surely, the words you and Mr. Malfoy spoke—which I advise you to keep secret, even from me—were charged with those emotions. They gave intentionality to your desires, and yes, Miss Granger, for a Fatum Ligare to take hold, both parties must not only share similar emotions but also a common intent."

A common intent. Hermione could only think of one thing—both she and Draco had been trying to draw the attention of certain professors.

Dumbledore observed her in silence for a moment before speaking again.

"It is good to see your perspective becoming clearer, Miss Granger."

Was he reading her mind? The very thought unsettled her, but the small, knowing smile he offered made her suspect she wasn’t entirely wrong.

"Furthermore," he continued, "these types of bonds include a rule—one that requires a level of commitment, something that makes it difficult to simply walk away when things become complicated."

The realization struck Hermione like a bolt of lightning. The consequences were now undeniable—distancing herself from Draco weakened her magic, and vice versa. But did that mean they had committed to something? And if so, what kind of commitment had they unwittingly made?

Dumbledore pressed on.

"That is not all, Miss Granger. A Fatum Ligare always includes a magical restriction. This, in fact, is the very soul of the pact, as it represents the binding enchantment that prevents the agreement from being broken—"

His piercing blue eyes fixed on her over his half-moon spectacles as he delivered the final words with grave emphasis.

"—without consequences."

Hermione felt lost. The heavy silence that followed made it clear that Dumbledore had said all there was to say. Slowly, she rose to her feet, murmured a quiet "Thank you," and gave a small nod before turning toward the staircase.

Just as she reached the threshold, the Headmaster spoke one last time.

"Be careful, Miss Granger. Magic such as this has a way of uncovering truths—truths we are not always prepared to face."

Hermione felt a shiver run down her spine.

Without saying another word, she left the office with a new certainty burning in her chest:

They were in trouble.

Chapter Text

For a few days, Hermione and Draco avoided each other. They knew they had to stay close, but that was it. They didn’t exchange unnecessary words, nor did they seek each other out. They simply remained within proximity, as if an invisible thread kept them tethered together without allowing them to truly connect.

However, when rumors of their supposed breakup began to spread, unwanted attention followed. During Muggle Studies, Leny Winchester, a seventh-year Ravenclaw, approached Hermione with a smug grin.

"Didn’t take you for the passionate type, Granger, The kiss at the dinner was so sexy" he mused, clearly enjoying himself.

Before Hermione could react, Theo stepped in, effortlessly slipping between them like a shadow.

"I’m not sure Draco would appreciate you calling his witch sexy, Winchester," he said with a calm that felt sharper than any threat. "And I wouldn’t advise testing that theory."

The smile he gave was anything but friendly.

Winchester got the message because, after that, he kept his mouth shut. Still, the school came to its own conclusions when, just days later, he suffered a rather unfortunate accident while descending from the Astronomy Tower. He took a spectacular tumble, earning himself a few days in the Hospital Wing under Madam Pomfrey’s watchful eye, followed by additional bed rest until the Skele-Gro mended his badly fractured arm.

Only Harry and Ron had the nerve to confront Draco about it. But the Slytherin responded with nothing more than a look of utter disdain before walking away. Hermione, meanwhile, was too absorbed in her research to pay much attention to the confrontation.

The exhaustion was beginning to show on her face. But she wasn’t the only one. Malfoy looked more worn down with each passing day. The dark circles under his eyes were becoming more pronounced, his usually pristine appearance seemed a little less put together, and while he carried himself with the same arrogance, there was a weight in his expression that hadn’t been there before.

She hadn’t fully realized just how much this was affecting both of them—until that Saturday night.

Hermione had been asleep when a crushing weight settled over her chest. For a brief moment, she couldn’t breathe. The sensation was suffocating, overwhelming. She jolted awake, gasping, but the tightness didn’t fade. A sudden wave of claustrophobia gripped her, making the walls of her dormitory feel unbearably small.

Desperate for space, she slipped out of bed and left as quietly as possible. At first, she sat in the common room, hoping the feeling would pass. But it didn’t. Her feet carried her forward, almost instinctively, guiding her through the darkened corridors of the castle. She wasn’t entirely sure why—until she found herself standing outside the boys’ bathroom on the sixth floor.

Draco was there.

Slumped against the wall, bathed in the dim moonlight filtering through the window.

He was dressed as always—his crisp white shirt, its collar and cuffs a deep charcoal gray, and matching trousers. But unlike usual, his clothes were wrinkled. The top few buttons of his shirt were undone, exposing a hint of his collarbone and chest. In his left hand, he held a cigar wrapped in sleek black paper, its band embossed with gold. Smoke curled from his lips, twisting through the shadows.

"You can come closer, Granger," he murmured without looking at her. "I’m not drinking tonight, so no more mistakes."

"You shouldn’t be out of your common room," she said, folding her arms.

"No one’s going to find out."

"I just did. Anyone could."

Draco let out a humorless chuckle.

"And?"

"And? The Head Boy shouldn’t be smoking in a bathroom in the middle of the night. I don’t know if you used to do this, Malfoy, but you shouldn’t start now."

He scoffed, exhaling another slow stream of smoke.

"Let me guess why you’re here, Granger." His voice was quiet, almost resigned. "You felt something, didn’t you? Something like sadness."

Hermione didn’t answer. What she had felt was something far worse.

Agony.

Draco took another drag, his gaze distant.

"I could tell you," he said, voice low. "But then you’d feel the pain too… and I’m not willing to go through that again."

She didn’t need to ask what he meant. She already knew.

Charlie. Aurélie.

It was then that Draco reached inside his robes and pulled out a parchment—his essay on Manticores. But it wasn’t the grade that had caught his attention.

It was the message written in runes beside it.

Aurélie.

He had to summon every ounce of self-control to keep his expression unreadable when he saw it. Because the message, though deceptively simple, meant something only he would understand:

"The willow bends with the wind, but it never breaks. Meet me beneath its shadow before the third chime."

"I should assume you were at the Boxing Willow and saw them together?"

"Yes to the second, no to the first" Draco continued to explain

"At the manor, there was a path lined with poplars. I used to mistake them for willows until Aurélie made me see I was wrong. She explained that the difference lay in the trunk’s lines—poplars have more transverse ones, while willows always run parallel and intersect. She insisted it was important to know the difference for potions."

Hermione slowly stepped closer to where Draco was sitting. She wore ochre-striped pajamas that covered everything but her feet, hands, and head. For some reason, that made her feel safe. Draco looked at her and smirked.

"You’d be a Willow, Granger."

She glanced down at herself and immediately understood, which made her laugh as she sat beside him. She thought the smell of the cigar would make her nauseous, but instead, it carried the scent of rosemary—surprisingly pleasant. Draco continued his story.

"So, I waited from two to four in the morning yesterday, but no one showed up. I decided to try again tonight, so I was there again, in the eastern part of the poplar grove by the Quidditch pitch, from two in the morning onward."

"I thought it would finally be my chance to talk to her alone."

Hermione looked at him in astonishment. Was Draco Malfoy really sharing something so intimate about Aurélie with her so openly?

"But guess who got there first."

Hermione felt a sting behind her eyes, but she took a deep breath, controlling herself before she let any emotions slip. She remembered how Harry had taught her to compartmentalize, so she locked away anything Draco might sense—anything that might make him decide it wasn’t worth feeling pain again.

She answered with forced indifference. "Charlie."

Draco looked at her. "Ten points to Gryffindor." He took another drag from his cigar, now nearly finished.

"Indeed, Professor Weasley showed up. And Granger, I have to ask—what the hell do brilliant witches like Aurélie and you see in a guy like him?"

Hell must have been freezing over because Draco Malfoy had just given her a compliment. He seemed to realize it, too, shifting uncomfortably before stubbing out his cigar against the tiled floor. Then, as if trying to move past what he had just said, he quickly resumed his story, forgetting he had sworn not to tell her.

"Aurélie arrived… and I never thought a woman like her, always so composed, could throw herself at him and kiss him as if her life depended on it."

Hermione felt a sharp pang in her chest—distant, muted, but still there.

Draco didn’t say another word. Hermione felt the need to fill the silence.

— I suppose the message was clear to you… and now it is to me as well. They’re together.

Draco met her gaze, and for a moment, Hermione could have sworn she saw pity in his eyes. Pity—and something else. Held-back tears. Tears enough for both of them.

— I’d give you more points, Granger, but I’m not a professor… just Head Boy.

Those words hit Hermione deep. Not because they were cruel, but because she understood what lay beneath them. Draco belittled his own title because he wished he were in his professor’s place—just as she wished she were in Aurélie Dumont’s. The confusion of the past days, her relentless search for a way to break their pact, had been an enormous distraction. But maybe not for Draco.

For a moment, she allowed herself to feel compassion for him. For the boy in front of her, more vulnerable than she had ever imagined Draco Malfoy could be. She stepped closer, hesitated, then lifted a hand toward his face. She faltered, but Draco didn’t pull away. If anything, he leaned into her touch.

Hermione took the chance. She cupped his cheek, feeling the warmth of his skin, the tension in his jaw. She looked into his deep, unreadable eyes—were they slightly bloodshot? Had he been crying? Maybe. His forehead rested against hers, and in that tiny space, they shared the same breath, the same unspoken sorrow.

Hermione broke the silence.

— We agreed not to be each other’s solace… but we also promised to be unbreakable. To hold each other up.

— When everything else fails — Draco finished for her, his gaze locking onto hers.

Hermione didn’t look away.

— I don’t know why someone you love that much would hurt you so deliberately, Malfoy… but you shouldn’t have to go through that. No one should.

His warm breath, carrying that subtle scent of rosemary, wrapped around her again, and for a moment, Hermione thought about kissing him. It seemed Draco had reached the same conclusion because his lips brushed against hers with unexpected softness, as if giving her the chance to pull away. But Hermione didn’t.

“I don’t know if we should…” she whispered, her voice barely audible against his mouth. “We don’t know how this pact works. What if it binds us even more? Dumbledore told me emotions play a fundamental role in this kind of bond, and I… I don’t want to get confused.”

Draco let out a low, husky chuckle, his breath still lingering on her lips.

“I thought all Gryffindors were brave.”

He pulled back just enough to meet her eyes, his tone full of challenge, as if daring her to take the next step.

“I’ve thought about it, and I think we should both look for answers. I’ll help you research, Granger. After all, this involves both of us.”

His hand slid to her waist, pulling her onto his lap effortlessly, straddling his thighs. Hermione held her breath, feeling the warmth of his body through the thin fabric of her pajamas. Draco leaned in even closer, his lips brushing the curve of her jaw as he murmured:

“For now, I don’t think we have much to worry about. The only thing we know for sure is that being together feels good. And if that’s the case… why not give in to it?”

Before Hermione could answer, he tightened his grip on her, and that’s when she felt it. Something hard pressed right between her legs, sending a rush of heat straight to her core. A small gasp escaped her lips, and Draco noticed.

His hold on her tightened. His lips grazed her neck in a barely restrained touch.

“Do you know what happens when a Malfoy wants something, Granger?” he murmured against her skin, his voice low and thick.

Hermione swallowed hard, her heart pounding in her chest.

“They take it.”

Draco captured her mouth in a kiss, this time without hesitation, without reluctance.

The kiss consumed them. There was no logic or caution, just heat and skin and the pressure of their bodies seeking each other in the darkness. Draco held her as if afraid she would disappear. Hermione, against her better judgement, let him hold her.

But then a distinct shiver ran through her. It wasn't desire. It wasn't fear. It was magic.

A tingle ran down her spine, like static electricity, as if the whole room held its breath. Draco felt it too. He tensed under her hands, his grip on her waist tightening.

And suddenly, like an echo in his own mind, the phrase she herself had uttered that night formed with impossible sharpness: 'If love does not want us, may it not find us.

Hermione stopped abruptly, her breath coming in ragged gasps. Draco didn't let go, but his expression had darkened.

"Did you hear that?" She muttered, realising immediately that she hadn't spoken out loud.

Draco stared at her.

"And you whisper very sexily, Granger, almost as if you were in my head"

That calmed her down... for a moment. Perhaps it was just a vague memory. She allowed herself to breathe, to relax a little. Still... why those words? Why this moment?

No. It couldn't be.

"This… this isn’t just attraction." The thought slams into her. "Since when do I even like him?"

The statement slipped out before she could stop it. And Draco, who was watching her without her moving an inch from her lips, which remained sealed in a thin line, understood. He can read her mind.

Her expression changed. A wry grin crept across his face, classic Malfoy arrogance peeking through even at such an absurd moment.

"I always knew it, Granger. Sooner or later you'd fall for it.'

Hermione was about to retort with indignation, but then a foreign thought assaulted her. It's not hers. She hasn't provoked it. It just bursts into her mind as if it were her own.

Damn, his mouth is perfect. And those bloody legs... will he get angry if I touch his bum?

Draco's grip on her thighs tightened, his hands barely slipping upwards.

Hermione froze. Her first instinct was to deny she'd heard that, but the blush on her cheeks gave her away. Draco noticed.

His eyes narrowed, analysing her carefully, and then he understood.

'Can you hear me?'

The answer was in his expression. Hermione pursed her lips, but it was too late.

A crooked, mischievous smile was forming on her lips.

'Looks like I'm not the only one falling, Malfoy.

Her Gryffindor bravery was short-lived.

An uncomfortable silence enveloped them as the weight of what they had just discovered settled between them. It's not just a pact. It's not just attraction. It's something more. Something that should never have happened.

Hermione brought a hand to her forehead, drumming her fingers against her temple as if to block it out.

-Merlin... this is a disaster.

Draco, on the other hand, leaned his head back against the sink and let out a low, almost amused laugh.

-I don't know, Granger. -I could get used to this.

Of course you could,Hermione thought sarcastically, relieved that the initial sadness of the scene had dissipated.

And Draco smiled even wider. Because he'd heard her.

The following week, Draco resumed his usual routine of sharing some meals with Hermione and sitting next to her in class. There was no more awkwardness between them; in fact, having people around acted as an unspoken barrier that kept them from losing control. Because when they were alone, restraint had become a lost cause—and they both enjoyed that freedom more and more shamelessly.

Between classes, they often headed to the library in search of answers. All of Hogwarts watched their unlikely alliance with curiosity. Hermione Granger spending hours buried in books was nothing new, but seeing Draco Malfoy there with her was another matter entirely. He rarely set foot in the library unless absolutely necessary, accustomed to having any book he needed sent to him from Malfoy Manor within hours. However, in this particular case, he preferred to avoid unnecessary explanations to his parents. His mother knew the Hogwarts curriculum inside and out, and if she found out he was researching magical pacts, she might wrongly assume he was considering a marriage contract. Nothing could be further from the truth.

On Tuesdays and Thursdays, their schedules kept them apart—Draco attended Divination alone in the afternoon, while Hermione had Muggle Studies on Thursday mornings. But on Friday, after lunch, fate granted them an unexpected reprieve. A potions class accident left the entire classroom completely unusable.

Apparently, a first-year Hufflepuff had made a catastrophic mistake while attempting to brew a simple Skelegro Potion without supervision. The cauldron exploded with a deafening bang that echoed through the dungeon, spilling a thick, steaming liquid that clung to every surface as if it had a mind of its own. The mess was so disastrous that the classroom was immediately sealed off until further notice, leaving them with an unexpectedly free afternoon.

Draco exchanged a glance with Hermione, and without needing to say a word, they both knew exactly how they were going to spend that extra time.

The library was packed with seventh-year Ravenclaws, all deeply engrossed in preparing for their N.E.W.T.s. Hermione and Draco made their way leisurely to their usual table at the back of the aisle, just before the History of Magic section.

Leny Winchester glanced up, and upon seeing them approach, seemed to shrink into himself. When Hermione greeted him and asked how his arm was doing, the boy lowered his head and buried himself even further in his book, refusing to meet her eyes.

Draco let out a barely concealed smirk, clearly satisfied, and slid a possessive hand around Hermione’s waist for the rest of the walk. A few days ago, that would have infuriated her—but now, for some reason, it didn’t. Maybe it was the damn pact messing with her instincts. Or maybe it was something else entirely.

"Anyone would think you actually like me, Malfoy."

But she didn’t sit down immediately. As she had been doing for the past few days, she waited patiently for Draco to pull out her chair and settle it into place before taking her seat. He did it with the same effortless grace he did everything else, seemingly unaware of the dreamy sighs coming from several witches nearby. Hermione, however, was very aware of them… and she couldn’t deny that she liked it. She kept those kinds of thoughts to herself, saving them for moments when Draco wasn’t watching her so intently, when his storm-grey eyes weren’t scanning her mind as if reading her thoughts before she could even form them.

Draco, for his part, retrieved a quill and a roll of parchment from his sleek black dragonhide bag, embossed with his family crest in silver filigree. He adjusted the sleeves of his robe with practiced ease, unraveled the parchment, and met her gaze with deliberate slowness before answering.

- I do like you, actually.

Hermione felt the heat rise to her cheeks, but she didn’t look away. Not for a second.

"I don’t know when it happened, but it did. I suppose it’s because of the bond"—his mental voice was calm, casual, but there was something in his eyes that betrayed him—"so enjoy it while it lasts. Because it won’t last longer than the pact. Still, at least you’ll be able to add it to your résumé as a noteworthy reference."

He smirked, smug and insufferable. Once, that kind of remark would have set her off. Now? It just amused her.

"That would be a fairly common reference. I’m sure it would appear on several Hogwarts girls’ résumés."

Draco narrowed his eyes slightly, never breaking eye contact.

"No other witch could claim that reference, Granger. You, so far, have been the only one officially recognized as my girlfriend."

Hermione blinked, momentarily thrown off. She hadn’t expected that response. She quickly reeled in her thoughts, grasping for something—anything—to say to hold his gaze.

"I’m not sure Pansy Parkinson would agree with that."

"Pansy has certainly tried, yes. But isn’t it ironic?"—Draco leaned in slightly, resting an elbow on the table—"You, without even trying, accomplished in six weeks what she couldn’t in six years."

Hermione had no response to that. The conversation was over.

Instead, she reached into her bag and pulled out the notes she had taken on Tuesday while Draco had been in Divination. That afternoon’s task was simple: exchange whatever findings they had gathered and draw their own conclusions. After thoroughly dissecting Invisible Bonds: Magic of Pacts and Fate and finding little else of use, they had decided to expand their search to related texts.

Hermione cast a Muffliato and, wasting no time, began:

—This week, I've found relevant information in several ancient texts about magical binding pacts. I couldn’t find any other exact references to fatum ligare, which worries me because it means we did something rare enough not to have any documented precedents aside from Edgar Thorne’s book. However, in Unbreakable Vows and Blood Pacts by Marius Greaves, it’s mentioned that any magical pact with a clause restricting emotions—especially one that denies love as a destiny—creates an adverse reaction in the magic of those involved. According to the author, ‘magic does not understand abstract prohibitions, only true intentions’, meaning we cannot deceive it, not even ourselves. And yet…

—And yet, the pact itself protects us from love because that’s precisely what we denied and swore not to accept, recognize, or seek as our fate, - Draco finished for her.

—Exactly, - Hermione concluded. - Which puts us in a difficult position. If emotions, as the Headmaster mentioned, make the bond volatile in any direction, we’ll have to pay close attention to any changes, particularly in our magic. And, most importantly, Malfoy, we will have to be completely honest with each other about how we feel. It will be extremely uncomfortable, but it's the safest way to determine what path we should take.

Draco looked at her with something close to terror, as if he wanted to hide something but had just been explicitly forbidden from doing so. He had already admitted to Hermione that he was attracted to her, thinking that would be enough and he wouldn’t have to make himself any more vulnerable. He had hoped he could control his emotions and keep them at bay if they involved anything romantic. The only reason he had dared to admit his attraction was because he had reached a similar conclusion to the one Hermione had just voiced. And yet, that single confession had already cost him several sleepless nights, wondering how to say it. He thought about all this while staring at the parchment in front of him. When he realized he had been silent for too long, he pretended to search for a specific line and began speaking.

—I understand, Granger. In fact, I found a similar reference in The Unwritten Rules of Binding Magic by Callidora Yaxley. There’s an entire chapter dedicated to how shared magic adapts to the emotional state of those connected by it. The author explains that when two wizards are linked by a binding spell and experience strong emotions—positive or negative—their magic responds accordingly. Anger, for example, can destabilize the bond, while mutual acceptance reinforces it. The concerning part is that repressing emotions can cause ‘magical dissonance,’ which could explain our instability when…

He abruptly stopped. Finishing that thought would mean acknowledging that the instability they had experienced early in their pact—what they had believed to be an initial strengthening of their magic—was, in fact, just that: instability in their magical cores. At the beginning, he had forced himself to remain detached, bound by the pact’s unspoken rule: never to accept love in any form. But resisting even the smallest attraction to Granger—desire, admiration—was precisely what had triggered the uncontrolled reactions.

Hermione placed her quill on Draco’s parchment, a clear sign that she had noticed his hesitation and would not let it slip by unnoticed. And indeed, she didn’t.

—I know what you were going to say, Malfoy. And I don’t like admitting this either, but yes, you do attract me. And resisting it—because that’s how most relationships that lead to love usually begin—was what initially made our magic so unstable. But the fact that it’s you makes it easier for me.

—Why? - he asked, dreading the answer, expecting her to say she could never fall for someone like him. But to his discomfort, her response was the complete opposite.

—Because you would never fall in love with a Muggle-born witch. That gives us, let’s call it, a strategic advantage in this whole mess. For the first time, I feel relieved by all the disgust I once caused you—and perhaps still do—because of my blood status.

He wanted to tell her that whatever disgust he had felt was practically nonexistent now. Whatever the reason—even if it was a result of the pact—that barrier had vanished entirely. The fact that he found her attractive only proved that it had dissolved completely. Yet, he chose to say something else instead.

—Well, you would never fall for someone who’s sabotaged you for six years either.

Hermione held his gaze. He could read her thoughts, so he knew there was no point in lying to him.

—You and I are too different, Malfoy. We are not driven by the same emotions.

That was enough for them both to return to their notes. Hermione cleared her throat and continued.

—On another note, the most interesting thing I found was in Magic and Symbiosis: How Emotions Affect Enchantments by Beatrice Bagshot. She suggests that binding magic, when not resisted, finds a natural equilibrium. If two people are connected by a spell like ours, but instead of fighting their emotions, they accept them—or at least don’t actively deny them—the magic responds harmoniously. In other words, every time we surrender to the attraction instead of repressing it, the pact stops punishing us.

—That would explain what we’ve experienced, - Draco added, his gaze turning suggestive.

Hermione was surprised by how easily Malfoy could make her laugh now, whether through his insinuations or those ridiculous looks of his.

—Exactly. We’ve both accepted that we’re attracted to each other, and we haven’t put up a barrier against it—at least not recently. But the week before our encounter in the bathroom was exhausting for me. Maybe for you as well. Even though our magic had likely started stabilizing, I felt drained all the time, as if maintaining that stability was sapping all my energy. Did you feel the same?

Draco only nodded before expanding on her idea.

—That’s why every time we tried to stick strictly to the pact—every time we pretended we didn’t feel anything for each other and resisted our mutual attraction—there was instability. But when we gave in, even momentarily, the magic stabilized. No loss of control, no repercussions… just an inexplicable synchronization.

Hermione seemed pleased that they had reached the same conclusion, yet her frown suggested otherwise. Draco noticed.

—Spit it out, Granger. There’s a ‘but,’ isn’t there?

Hermione sighed.

—The problem is, that doesn’t mean we’re safe. According to Bagshot, if the binding magic finds a new balance based on an emotion we haven’t fully recognized yet, the effect can be misleading. We might just be shifting the true consequence of the pact instead of avoiding it altogether.

Draco, if we keep going like this, we might just be delaying the inevitable. We don’t know what will happen if the pact breaks completely. But what we do know is that our magic no longer punishes us when we get close, when we stop denying whatever is happening between us.

—I don’t see the problem, Granger. We’ve already accepted that we like each other.

—Don’t you find that ironic? she countered. —We made this pact to stop feeling. But it turns out the only way to avoid its effects… is to do the exact opposite. It’s as if the pact itself—or the way we built it—completely contradicts itself. And if that’s the case, even if we don’t fall in love, we can’t be eternally bound by mere attraction. Sooner or later, you might fall for someone else… or want to.

Hermione lowered her gaze for a second, a sharp pang in her chest before she forced herself to continue.

—I understand perfectly well what’s expected of you. That you’ll marry, fill your manor with little pureblood Malfoys… something I could never give you.

She shifted uncomfortably, realizing too late what she had just implied. Not just marrying him, but having children with him. She cleared her throat quickly, trying to banish the image before it became too vivid.

—And I’ll want the same, — she went on, her voice steadier than she actually felt.

—To fall in love with someone, to build a life with them. So what happens then, Malfoy? Do we become secret lovers, sneaking around just to keep our magic stable?

Draco looked at her with an unreadable expression.

—Don’t you dare joke about that, Malfoy. This is serious.

But Draco wasn’t joking.

He averted his gaze to the library shelves, fixing his eyes on the spines of the books as if the answer to his growing unease was hidden there. He tried to keep his face impassive, but his mind betrayed him.

Hermione was talking about loving someone. About building a life without him in that role—not as the one she loved, but perhaps as a hidden, fleeting affair? As if that possibility was the most natural thing in the world.

And something dark and razor-sharp twisted inside his chest.

It was a visceral, raw thought, sinking into his mind with such force that it left him breathless.

Jealousy.

A suffocating sensation, strange yet unbearable, like a blade twisting inside his stomach at the mere thought of her with someone else. He didn’t want her for himself. He shouldn’t. But he couldn’t stand the image of her lips forming someone else’s name with the same intensity she used when she called his—when she sighed against his mouth between kisses.

The thought was absurd. Unacceptable.

And yet it was there, burning his skin, sinking into his bones.

And he…

He had never even considered being her secret lover. Because somewhere in the remnants of his former disdain—that once visceral, now nonexistent contempt—he knew Hermione Granger didn’t deserve to be anyone’s secret.

She was brilliant.

Sharp.

Far too attractive for his own goddamn good.

And all of it crashed down on him like an absurd, crushing revelation.

He couldn’t let himself get more tangled in this. He wouldn’t.

—I need to go,— he muttered abruptly, stepping away, tension stiffening his shoulders.

Hermione frowned.

—What?

But Draco was already turning away, walking off with firm strides, as if he needed to escape something he couldn’t quite understand.

Chapter Text

In the days that followed, Draco managed to regain the composure that had abandoned him the day he practically fled from the library. He and Hermione resumed their research with discipline, but no new, useful information surfaced. They considered focusing on whether these kinds of pacts had an expiration date, but their search yielded nothing. Draco even toyed with the idea of asking his mother for help—under the strict promise that she would never mention it to his father. But he decided to wait a little longer.

After all, he didn’t mind being close to Hermione.

In fact, he liked it.

The initial surprise of their classmates had given way to quiet acceptance. By now, their relationship no longer raised eyebrows—just an understanding, almost resigned acknowledgment. Perhaps no one had seen it coming, but in the end, it made sense.

Draco had come to accept the private room assigned to him as Head Boy, conveniently located near the Gryffindor Tower. Though most nights he left it untouched, at some point, he and Hermione agreed it would be wise to make use of it. At first, they arranged their meetings through fleeting glances and whispered words in each other’s minds via Legilimency. But soon, they realized they no longer needed that. A single look was enough now. As if their routine had forged an unspoken language between them.

Without ever discussing it, they fell into a habit of meeting before or after dinner.

Both remained the exemplary students they had always been, which seemed to ease the concern they had noticed in their Heads of House. Hermione’s relentless obsession with her studies hadn’t wavered, despite Draco’s persistent attempts to get her to relax—even a little. She saw his suggestion as nothing more than a ploy to distract her, to steal her top spot. So, she never let up.

But there was one place where those barriers didn’t exist. 

In that room, when the door clicked shut behind them, Hermione wasn’t the flawless, untouchable student. Draco wasn’t the arrogant, untouchable Malfoy.

Out there, they had expectations to meet, along with the nostalgia that once overcame them for not being able to have the ones they really loved.

But here, they were just them.

That night, like so many before, Draco was already waiting for her—leaning against the desk, his arms crossed, wearing that calculated look of indifference. Hermione entered, brow slightly furrowed, still trapped in whatever notes she had been reviewing before coming here.

“If you’re going to come in looking like that, you might as well go back to the library,” he drawled, not bothering to move.

Hermione let out a heavy sigh but didn’t dignify his remark with a response. Instead, she set her things aside and walked straight toward him.

Draco raised an eyebrow, caught off guard by her lack of argument. But before he could say another word, she stood on her toes and kissed him.

It was impatient, laced with frustration and need. He felt the warmth of her mouth against his, the familiar spark that always ignited between them. He didn’t hesitate to kiss her back, pulling her in by the waist, pressing her flush against him. Hermione melted into his touch, gripping his shirt tightly as if their closeness could erase the lingering thoughts of her academic worries.

“Well, Granger,” Draco murmured against her lips, a smirk curling at the corner of his mouth. “Are you using me as a stress relief strategy?”

“Shut up,” she shot back before kissing him again, harder this time.

Draco let out a low chuckle before spinning her effortlessly, pressing her back against the desk. Hermione didn’t protest. If anything, she tugged at the collar of his shirt, fingers threading into his hair, pulling just the way she knew drove him mad.

His hands traced her curves with more intent, fingers skimming over the soft skin of her thighs where her uniform skirt had ridden up. He ran his knuckles along the sensitive flesh, smirking when he felt her shiver against him.

“Tell me you locked the door with a spell,” she whispered against his jaw.

Draco smiled against her skin, his lips grazing the delicate curve of her neck—a fleeting touch that had her holding her breath.

“Of course I did.”

No interruptions. No expectations. No tomorrow.

Right now, there was only them.

That night, the rain pounded against the windows with fury, in sync with the crackling flames in the fireplace.

Draco didn’t want to admit it, but the moment he met up with Hermione had become his favorite part of the day. Along with their library sessions and the classes where they sat together, these moments had settled into his routine, no longer surprising him as much as they once did. Hermione was slowly pushing away the memory of what had never happened with Aurélie—and he couldn’t stop looking at her. There was something about her. The way she absentmindedly bit her lower lip while reading, the way her curls tumbled over her shoulder when she wore her hair loose—it drove him insane.

He shifted between her legs, pressing in closer. Hermione glanced up, one eyebrow arched.

—“Are you going to keep staring at me like that all night, or…?”

She didn’t get to finish the sentence. Draco leaned over her, hands braced on the desk, trapping her between his body and the wood. Hermione’s heartbeat quickened as he brushed the tip of his nose along her cheek.

—“Or…?” Draco murmured, his voice low and husky, before closing the space between them and capturing her lips.

Hermione exhaled a soft sigh against his mouth, her fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer. Draco didn’t need any encouragement. His lips moved urgently, devouring her as if he could never get enough. He kissed her deeply, his tongue sliding against hers in a slow, teasing rhythm.

Deciding the desk wasn’t enough, Draco lifted her in one fluid motion, her legs instinctively wrapping around his waist. Hermione let out a breathless gasp against his lips, clutching at his shoulders as he carried her toward one of the bedrooms. Their bodies tumbled onto the plush mattress, and in an instant, Draco was hovering over her, trailing lazy kisses down the exposed skin of her neck.

—“I missed you today,” Hermione murmured, barely realizing she had said it out loud.

Draco stilled, his lips hovering over her collarbone, before lifting his gaze to hers.

—“It’s Thursday. You have Muggle Studies alone,” he whispered against her skin. “But I’m here now.”

And with a slow, deliberate roll of his hips, he showed her just how present he was.

His hands traced a slow, deliberate path down her waist, sliding up along her ribs, fingers ghosting over her back until they found the clasp of her bra.

Hermione swallowed hard.

Draco heard it.

The sound cut through the stillness of the room, making him lift his gaze. Their eyes met, and in that fleeting moment, her unspoken thought brushed against his own—a silent permission.

—You can.

He expected to smirk, reveling in the satisfaction of what he was achieving with Hermione, but instead, a strange knot twisted in his stomach.

Nerves. Anticipation.

The idea of continuing stole his breath for a second.

With practiced ease, he unhooked the clasp, and the fabric slid away, gravity pulling it downward as she remained propped up on her elbows.

He looked up again, and that’s when he saw it—she was just as nervous as he was. Maybe even more.

This shouldn’t feel like this.

It shouldn’t feel so... momentous.

A few months ago, the mere thought of being with Hermione Granger like this was beyond absurd.

A flash of memory struck him—how easy it had always been with Pansy. He never thought twice. He just took what he wanted, when he wanted it, without hesitation. But Hermione was different.

With her, he wanted to take his time. To savor.

To worship.

His gaze drifted down to her newly exposed skin. Her breasts were small, firm, perfectly shaped. Her nipples had hardened—whether from the cold or anticipation, he wasn’t sure.

He leaned in, his breath teasing over the soft curve beneath one of them.

Hermione let out a quiet, shaky gasp.

Draco looked up.

Her eyes were closed, lips slightly parted, chest rising and falling in uneven rhythm.

Her expression was unreadable, but he could feel it.

He didn’t stop.

Moving higher, he took her nipple into his mouth, closing his lips around the sensitive peak.

Hermione’s breath hitched violently, her heart pounding so loudly he swore he could hear it.

If it had been any other witch, he wouldn’t have hesitated. He would have stripped away the last barriers between them and claimed her without restraint.

But this was Hermione.

And with her, he wanted more than just the act.

He wanted the moment.

A sudden thought slithered into his mind, unbidden.

Would it feel this way with Aurélie?

The idea unsettled him.

Just as the possibility unsettled him that, for even the briefest second, Hermione might be thinking of Charlie.

No.

Not now.

Not in this moment.

Shaking off the thought, he pulled away from her bare skin.

—Look at me.

Hermione’s eyes flew open instantly, locking onto his.

And that was all he needed.

Because there was nothing else in them but him.

Draco smirked, a dark sort of satisfaction settling in his chest, and gently pushed her back against the bed. His lips trailed downward again, this time claiming the other breast. But before taking her into his mouth, he lifted his gaze once more.

—Don’t look away from me, Granger.

The command was low, firm—somewhere between an order and a plea.

Hermione only nodded, her eyes never leaving his.

Draco flicked out his tongue, dragging it over her nipple in an agonizingly slow motion, watching as it hardened under his touch.

A trembling sigh left her lips.

His tongue moved in lazy circles, teasing, taunting—driving her to the edge of impatience.

He could feel her body tense, her breath coming faster.

He pulled away just enough to press soft kisses over both breasts, murmuring against her skin:

—I don’t want you to look away from me when we do this.

A shiver ran through Hermione’s body as his tongue flicked between her breasts.

And then he said it.

—I know you’re in love with someone else.

Hermione swallowed hard.

Lately, even she wasn’t sure about that anymore.

Draco saw it.

He saw the doubt flicker across her face.

—But I want you to be mine. His voice was lower now, rougher. Only mine. Now, and in every moment we have, Granger.

She held his gaze.

And then, a thought of hers slipped into his mind, unguarded.

—And you? Will you be only mine in this moment?

Draco smiled.

Slow. Sinister.

One hand slid down to her thigh, teasing along the sensitive skin before moving between her legs.

—Only yours, Granger.

A sharp breath left him when he felt the damp heat seeping through her panties.

He never broke eye contact.

And she nodded, as if her mind was just as much of a storm as his own.

Draco pressed his hand against her soaked underwear, feeling the damp heat seeping through the thin fabric. Hermione shuddered beneath his touch, her thighs trembling ever so slightly.

Without breaking eye contact, Draco slipped his fingers beneath the waistband of her panties, tracing a slow, torturous path over her folds before parting them. A shiver ran down his spine as he felt her slick warmth against his skin.

And then, he did it.

Something he had always wanted to do with someone else.

Someone who was now nothing more than a distant echo in his mind.

He withdrew his fingers slowly, his gaze never leaving hers, and brought them to his lips. He wrapped them in his mouth, tasting her with a deliberate, brazen sensuality that didn’t make Hermione recoil—if anything, it made the fire in her eyes burn even hotter.

"Just like I imagined, Granger," he murmured with a wicked smirk. "You taste divine."

Hermione flushed, her skin ablaze with heat, but something in her gaze flickered—defiance, bold and unyielding.

"You imagined this?"

Draco didn’t hesitate.

"I'm not ashamed to admit it."

His tongue darted out, sliding over his fingers, coating them in saliva before pressing them to her lips.

She exhaled shakily, parting her mouth to take them in, her tongue swirling around them, tasting herself on him.

Draco felt a sharp jolt of pleasure pulse through him.

"That tongue of yours, Granger… it knows how to move."

"It's pure instinct," she murmured, her voice husky, laced with quiet challenge.

Draco smirked. Dark. Possessive.

"I hope so, Granger. Because I don’t want anyone else enjoying that pretty mouth of yours."

Hermione didn’t reply. She only held his gaze, her lips curling into a half-smile filled with intent.

Then her smile broke into a strangled gasp as he slid a finger between her folds. Her breath hitched, chest rising and falling in erratic waves as Draco watched her, devouring every reaction.

"No one else gets to touch you like this, Granger."

He leaned in, capturing her lips in a slow, deep kiss as his finger circled her entrance before slipping inside.

Hermione arched, a moan caught in her throat.

Draco felt her heat clench around him, molding to his touch with a desperate, pulsing need.

And then, without breaking the kiss, he slid in another finger.

He moved with lethal precision, studying her, memorizing every tremor, every ragged breath, every way her mouth sought his as if air alone wasn’t enough.

"Fuck, Granger," he growled against her lips. "You feel too damn good."

Hermione couldn’t answer.

Not when pleasure was swallowing her whole.

When her mind began to blur and a faint dizziness momentarily distracted her from the searing heat pooling in her abdomen, Hermione felt something inside her tighten, threatening to drag her into an unknown abyss. There was a hidden promise within every thrust of Draco’s fingers—something forbidden and exquisite unfurling deep within her, making her walls clench around him, desperately holding onto the sensation.

She closed her eyes, surrendering to the overwhelming pleasure, but Draco’s voice anchored her back.

“Don’t close them, Granger. I want to see you. I want to see what you look like when you let go.”

The command, murmured with a dark and dangerous sensuality, sent a shiver through her.

Hermione forced her eyes open, her gaze meeting Draco’s through the haze of pleasure. He was devouring her with his dilated pupils, utterly absorbed in the sight of her body unraveling beneath his touch.

She tried to hold onto the steady rhythm of his fingers, to make it last, to stretch the sensation to its breaking point—but the heat was too much. The pressure, the perfect friction, the way his thumb circled precisely where she needed it most… everything was spiraling into a dizzying crescendo, pushing her toward the edge.

“Draco…” Her voice broke into a moan, her nails digging into his arms, his clothes—anything to keep herself grounded as the wave built higher.

Draco never looked away. He knew she was on the brink, that the moment was inevitable.

“Let go, Granger,” he whispered, his tone both a command and a prayer.

And then it happened.

The abyss swallowed her whole.

Her back arched violently as the wave crashed over her, pleasure exploding from her core and rippling through every fiber of her being. Her legs trembled, her breath stuttered, and a helpless sound spilled from her throat, lost between her ragged gasps.

Draco felt her body shudder beneath him, her walls pulsing around his fingers with almost overwhelming intensity. The expression on her face knocked the breath from his lungs.

Hermione Granger—the sharp-tongued, defiant-eyed witch—was falling apart in his hands.

He watched her come undone, consumed by the pleasure he had given her, and a dark, intoxicating pride flared hot in his chest.

As the last tremor of her orgasm washed through her, Hermione gasped his name, trembling against him.

Draco held her, his fingers still buried inside her until he felt her body begin to relax. Only then, with torturous slowness, did he withdraw them.

He brought them to his lips once more, locking eyes with her as he licked them clean with deliberate, sinful pleasure.

“I’ll never get tired of this, Granger. Never.”

Hermione, still shaking, stared at him with parted lips—caught between embarrassment, awe, and the rekindled hunger that Draco Malfoy seemed to ignite in her with almost infuriating ease.

And she knew.

It wasn’t enough.

It could never be enough.

Not with him.

Draco made a move to get up, but Hermione caught him by the nape of his neck and pulled him back down into a kiss that burned with hunger—one that told him, without words, that what had just happened hadn't been enough. Not for her.

He let himself collapse over her, responding with the same desperation. He could still taste himself on her lips, and rather than embarrassing her, it filled her with an intoxicating sense of boldness. As Draco deepened the kiss, claiming her mouth with the same mastery he applied to everything he did, Hermione slid her hands down his chest, fumbling hastily with the buttons of his shirt. Draco didn’t stop her, not even when she pushed the fabric off his shoulders with palpable urgency. Instead, he leaned down to her neck, tracing a path of kisses and bites down to her collarbone while his hands captured her breasts, torturing her nipples with just the right amount of pressure to make her gasp and arch beneath his touch.

The stormy gray of his eyes met hers when Hermione let her hand drift down to the waistband of his trousers. He stilled for a moment, his uneven breath ghosting over her skin.

“You shouldn’t, Granger. I don’t know if I’ll be able to stop.”

It sounded like a warning, but Hermione only heard it as a challenge.

And she had no intention of stopping him.

Nothing existed outside of Draco. Nothing mattered in that moment except the way he made her feel—how he tore down her barriers with a single glance, how he reduced her to a creature ruled by desire. Her mind burned with a single, undeniable truth: she wanted this.

“I don’t want you to stop,” she murmured, and she knew there was no turning back when Draco’s eyes darkened with what must have been a reflection of her own.

A low, guttural sound escaped his throat before his mouth crashed against hers with renewed ferocity. Hermione didn’t shy away from the force of his desire; instead, she moved with practiced ease, undoing the button of his trousers and sliding down the zipper in one swift motion. Using her feet, she helped push them down his legs, freeing him from the fabric. Draco did the same with her skirt, tugging it down her body and pulling it over her head in one smooth motion, never once relenting in his assault on her mouth.

Hermione wanted to order him, as he had done before, not to look away from her eyes—but she couldn’t. The waves of pleasure were already coiling in her stomach, making her arch her hips toward the growing hardness between Draco’s legs. Only their underwear separated them now.

Draco began rocking against her, and though they were both desperate for more, the friction was enough. He moved in the smallest increments, barely pulling away from her center, while the fabric against her core sent sharp, electric pleasure up her spine. Hermione gasped and swallowed his moans as Draco kissed her with an insatiable hunger. She tried to lower her arms to touch him, but he caught her wrists, pinning them above her head as he ground against her with increasing intensity.

The contact became unbearable. Each movement sent jolts of pleasure rippling through her, winding her tighter and tighter. Hermione felt the pressure build, her body pulsing as she reached the edge.

“Fuck, Hermione…” Draco groaned against her neck, his breath hot and ragged.

Hermione writhed beneath him, breaking free of his grip and digging her nails into his shoulders as she tumbled over the edge again, waves of pleasure wracking her body. Draco clenched his jaw, his movements growing erratic, and with a few more thrusts, he shuddered above her, a low, strangled moan escaping his lips as he came.

The tension slowly faded, leaving nothing but the sound of their heavy breathing. Draco didn’t move right away; his forehead rested against hers as they tried to catch their breath.

“That…” His voice was hoarse. “That wasn’t in my plans.”

Hermione let out a breathless laugh, still lost in the aftershocks.

“Since when do we follow plans?”

Draco closed his eyes for a moment and exhaled before shaking his head with something like resignation.

“Damn you, Granger.”

Chapter Text

The days turned into weeks, and Hermione and Draco spent more time in the room assigned to them as Head Boy and Girl than in their own dormitories or common rooms. They always returned to their respective beds in Gryffindor Tower and the dungeons, but only in the late hours of the night—sometimes even at dawn. To everyone else, their constant companionship only seemed to solidify their relationship, to the point where even their Heads of House appeared resigned to accepting their unlikely union. After all, they remained exemplary students, and as far as public displays were concerned, they seemed to abstain entirely. If they were going to engage in anything improper, it would be in the privacy of that room. They were adults now, after all.

However, not everyone shared the general sentiment.

This year, Hermione had decided to spend the holidays with her parents, only joining the Weasleys for Easter. Most of the family regretted her absence, but she reasoned that she hadn’t spent Christmas dinner with her parents in six years, and it didn’t feel fair to keep postponing it. What she didn’t admit was that Draco had seemed restless at the thought of her spending time alone with Charlie. At first, it annoyed and even unsettled her—it felt like an unspoken command, as if Draco had any right to decide for her. When had their relationship stopped being just a façade? Yet, even though he never outright asked nor had any power to impose anything on her, Hermione noticed the relief in his eyes when she told him she’d be spending the holidays with her parents and only visiting the Burrow for Easter. And for some reason, that made her feel strangely satisfied.

With Christmas approaching, Hermione found herself at a crossroads—she needed to choose a gift for Draco. What could she possibly give to someone who seemed to have everything?

The last weekend before leaving school, Hermione and Ginny headed to Diagon Alley for their annual Christmas shopping trip, a tradition they had maintained since Hermione was fifteen and Ginny fourteen. They both knew exactly what to get for everyone—except for themselves. To avoid that dilemma, Hermione had already planned Ginny’s gift: an elegant set of enchanted quills with self-refilling, waterproof ink, perfect for her classes and for writing letters without worrying about smudges or spills.

The rest of the gifts were relatively easy to choose. As always, upon entering Quality Quidditch Supplies, they quickly found the perfect presents for Harry and Ron. However, Hermione still couldn’t find anything suitable for Draco. Nothing felt quite special enough, quite meaningful enough.

Sensing her frustration, Ginny suggested they visit Wiseacre’s Wizarding Equipment, as she wanted to buy something for Theodore Nott. That, at least, didn’t surprise Hermione. They entered the shop, and while Ginny busied herself with an enchanted journal that answered closed-ended questions, Hermione’s gaze was drawn to a display case. Inside, a small silver pendant, intricately crafted in the shape of a Snitch—but in silver—caught her attention.

Just then, a wizard appeared beside her.

“It’s not just a decorative piece,” he murmured, as if sharing a secret. “If the wearer holds it between their fingers and focuses, the delicate wings engraved on its surface will vibrate ever so slightly, pointing in the direction of what they desire most in that moment.”

He hesitated, glancing around before lowering his voice even further.

“We don’t know why it was made in the shape of a Snitch, but we do know that only three were ever produced.”

Hermione considered it for a moment. It wouldn’t give Draco an advantage in the game, but it would serve as a constant reminder of his instincts as a Seeker—of what he truly longed to find on the pitch: the Golden Snitch.

Or perhaps, beyond the pitch, something else.

“I’ll take it,” she said with quiet determination.

That Friday would be the last time she could meet Draco in that space. The next day, they would leave for their respective homes. Hermione lay stretched out on the couch in the common room, positioned between their two bedrooms, when Draco walked through the door. Before she could sit up, he was already on top of her, trapping her between his body and the arms of the couch, his lips pressing against hers in a kiss softer than usual. Hermione smiled in response, wrapping her arms around his neck—an instinctive gesture now, one that hinted at an intimacy that hadn't existed before. She rested her nose against his, hesitating for a moment before speaking.

"I know this relationship is, in theory, fake… even if we've added certain benefits to the arrangement," she murmured.

Draco arched an eyebrow, amusement flickering in his expression.

"I'd call them more than just benefits, Granger. And if I’m being honest, I think we both know perfectly well that the pretending ended weeks ago."

The statement caught her off guard. Draco no longer seemed so reluctant to express his desires openly when they were alone. In public, he maintained a possessive air around her, but in the privacy of their shared refuge, he was more transparent—more real. And yet, his words only widened Hermione's smile, something Draco found himself enjoying more and more. To him, it was a delicious prelude to what could turn into a spectacular evening. He’d had Quidditch practice that morning, and they hadn’t seen each other since—until now.

Draco pulled away with a casual air and disappeared into the room they never used. Hermione heard the sound of movement but remained still. When he returned to the common room, he was holding a long, rectangular box wrapped in emerald-green paper, tied with a silver ribbon.

"I suppose I should say ‘Merry Christmas’ and all that, Granger, but this is the most you're getting out of me," he said with feigned indifference.

Hermione stood up and, rising onto her bare toes, pressed a soft kiss to the corner of his lips before accepting the box.

"It’s more than I would have expected," she admitted, surprising even herself with her sincerity.

"But less than you'll get as long as you keep being mine" Draco replied with a smirk.

It felt too easy. The dynamic between them had shifted so much that the time they once spent researching the nature of their pact was now consumed by losing themselves in each other. Their initial goal—to find a way to break the enchantment binding them—had been pushed aside, along with the restrictions they had originally set for themselves. Restrictions they had clearly failed to maintain.

Even the motivations that had originally led them to make the pact and the lack of love they had experienced for those people seemed to have been sidelined.

Hermione returned to the couch with a satisfied smile, her fingers trembling slightly with anticipation as she untied the ribbon. She lifted the lid of the box and found a book inside. Looking up at Draco, she caught an expression on his face that had become more frequent lately. Seeing her happy disarmed him. It filled him with something wild, something that made him smile despite himself. At first, he’d tried to suppress it, knowing she would notice. But over time, he had stopped fighting it. Now, he simply allowed himself to feel the same warmth he imagined she did. And strangely enough, it satisfied him.

Hermione picked up the book, running her fingertips over the cover.

"The Tales of Beedle the Bard," she read softly, with wonder.

"They’re stories for wizarding children," Draco explained, shrugging. "Theo once mentioned that Muggles have something similar, and I thought you might find it interesting. Then again, you find anything with bound pages interesting, so…"

His words were cut off when Hermione kissed him without warning, still clutching the book in one hand as she reached up to hold onto his neck. The kiss was passionate, yes—but it was also something more. Something Draco couldn’t immediately identify. When their eyes met, Hermione whispered, her voice barely above a breath:

"Thank you."

Draco cleared his throat and looked away.

"It’s not just any edition. Open it."

Curious, Hermione pulled back and flipped the book open. The moment she turned the first page, the illustrations began to move, coming to life in a way that took her breath away.

"It’s an enchanted copy," Draco explained. His tone, usually laced with sarcasm or arrogance, had softened with her.

Hermione flipped through the pages, mesmerized by the animated drawings—until she noticed small handwritten notes at the bottom of several pages.

"Did you write this?" she asked, her eyes shining.

Draco shrugged, feigning disinterest.

"Just a few thoughts I had about certain passages. Nothing impressive."

Hermione looked at him with such intensity that he felt a lump form in his throat. Suddenly, her own Christmas gift to him seemed painfully impersonal compared to what Draco had given her. He noticed the way she was staring at him, and, shifting uncomfortably, he added:

"The ink adjusts to the lighting, so you can always read it perfectly."

But Hermione kept looking at him as if she had just uncovered a hidden treasure. Draco averted his gaze quickly, unable to hold her stare. And in that moment, she understood.

She felt it—an undeniable truth settling deep inside her, slow but relentless.

Against all logic, against everything she thought she knew about herself, Hermione Granger was falling in love with Draco Malfoy.

It should have terrified her. It should have made her panic at the implications, the risks, the inevitable heartbreak.

But instead, she felt a warmth spread through her—unexpected, but not unwelcome.

A warmth she didn’t resist. A warmth she embraced, fully and without hesitation.

And judging by the way Draco wasted no time in pulling her close again, kissing her as if his life depended on it…

He felt it too.

It was strange to think about how it had all started and where she stood now. She should have been worried about the effects of her emotions, about what Dumbledore had said, about the discoveries she had made regarding the pact.

And yet, all she wanted was to stay lost in this whirlwind of feelings Draco had pulled her into.

After catching her breath, she slowly pulled away, setting the book beside her bag before reaching inside. She pulled out a deep crimson box with a golden ribbon, and when they both noticed their matching color choices, they couldn’t help but laugh. They were becoming far too predictable.

Hermione stepped closer, pressing a kiss to each of Draco’s cheeks.

“Merry Christmas, Draco.”

He, ever the well-mannered pureblood raised to show no outward emotion, offered her a measured smile. He had hesitated about getting her a gift—this wasn’t something he usually did. But when he saw Theodore pick out something for Ginevra Weasley, who wasn’t even officially his witch, Draco realized he couldn’t fall behind. After all, he had been raised to be a gentleman, even if he rarely acted like one. And for some inexplicable reason, he wanted Hermione to feel as important as she was starting to become to him.

But he had never expected to receive something in return.

He lifted the lid of the box, revealing a soft black velvet lining. Resting inside was a silver Snitch, attached to a delicate matching chain. He picked it up, rolling it between his fingers with curiosity. Suddenly, the tiny wings fluttered, tugging him ever so slightly toward Hermione. She smiled knowingly.

Draco met her gaze, waiting for an explanation.

“It’s enchanted,” she said, clearly enjoying his intrigue. “If the wearer holds it and focuses, it’s supposed to pull them toward whatever they desire most at that moment.”

A faint flush crept up Draco’s neck.

“I thought it might be useful during your matches,” she continued, her voice casual. “If you ever lose sight of the Snitch, maybe you could use it to—”

She never finished her sentence.

Draco silenced her with a kiss.

It was instinctive, intense, born from an impulse he didn’t bother suppressing. His free hand tightened around her waist, pulling her flush against him, while her hands fisted against his chest as if bracing herself against the sheer force of what she was feeling.

Merlin… would it always feel this good?

When they finally broke apart, Hermione noticed something different about his gaze. She had long observed how Draco’s eyes changed with his emotions. Now, his stormy gray irises glowed with a silvery light, flickering between hesitation and certainty. When he was angry, his stare darkened, steely and impenetrable, like a brewing tempest. When he lied, his pupils constricted ever so slightly—a trick of nobility, learned to mask emotion behind a veil of indifference. But now… now his eyes gleamed with something raw, something he wasn’t ready to say aloud.

“It seems to work well for the purpose you mentioned,” he murmured, idly rolling the Snitch between his fingers. “I’ll use it on the pitch if I ever need to—though I doubt I will. I always find the Snitch on my own.”

“Of course,” Hermione replied, though there was something unreadable in her voice.

They held each other’s gaze, caught in a silent conversation that said more than words ever could. Thoughts laid bare, emotions unguarded. And somewhere in the middle of it all, a quiet certainty settled between them—undeniable, inescapable.

Hermione swallowed.

“Yours.”

Draco’s lips curled, more to himself than to her.

“Yours.”

The room was bathed in shadows, lit only by the flickering fire in the hearth. Hermione felt the heat of the flames licking at her skin, but it was nothing compared to the fire burning inside her as she looked at Draco. His shirt was unbuttoned halfway, the golden glow of the firelight catching in his pale hair, and his eyes... those gray eyes, usually cold and impenetrable, now looked molten, like liquid silver.

They had been kissing for what felt like an eternity—a desperate dance of lips and hands that knew exactly where to touch to draw out sighs and gasps from the other.

She shouldn’t feel like this. She shouldn’t want him this way. Their pact forbade it. But in that moment, with Draco’s breath mingling with hers, the pact was the last thing on her mind.

"Tell me to stop," Draco murmured against her lips, his voice rough, weighted with something beyond desire. It wasn’t a command—it was a plea.

Hermione opened her eyes just enough to see the struggle in his expression. Draco Malfoy, the boy who had sworn never to love, the same one who had mocked her for years, was now looking at her as if she were his undoing.

But she didn’t want to be saved. Not from him.

Instead of answering, she let her fingers trace over the bare skin of his chest, sliding down to the edge of his shirt, pushing it off his shoulders. Draco let her, watching her with a mix of reverence and hunger, his pupils blown wide, his lips slightly parted.

When her hands met his skin, a shudder ran through him. Hermione felt the power in that touch, in knowing she could unravel him with a single caress, that she could make Draco Malfoy forget the world just by touching him.

“You’re mine,” Draco whispered against her neck, his teeth grazing her skin before capturing it between his lips.

Hermione arched against him, gripping his shoulders.

“And you’re mine,” she answered.

Draco began unbuttoning Hermione’s shirt with expert ease, the same skill he had demonstrated countless times before. Yet this time, his fingers hesitated—just barely—as if, despite his confidence, he was still giving her a chance to stop him. But Hermione held his gaze, her message clear, her thoughts even clearer.

So he continued. He slid the fabric down her shoulders, baring inch after inch of her skin. Her skirt pooled at her feet with a quiet rustle as she pushed it down her thighs, while Draco rid himself of his own trousers with restrained urgency. In the blink of an eye, they were both down to their underwear, the tension between them humming in the air, thick with desire and unspoken promises.

Draco straightened, his eyes gleaming with mischief.

“There’s something I’ve always wanted to do, Hermione.”

She arched an eyebrow.

“Let me guess… you’re going to make me figure it out?”

His smirk deepened, the expression of a predator toying with his prey.

“Remember when you told me that if I wanted to keep you close on the Quidditch field, I’d have to throw you over my shoulder?”

Hermione’s eyes widened.

“You wouldn’t dare.”

Draco’s brow lifted arrogantly.

“I thought by now you’d understand that what a Malfoy wants, a Malfoy gets.”

She barely had time to let out a startled gasp before Draco gripped her firmly by the waist and tossed her over his shoulder as if she weighed nothing.

“Draco, put me down this instant!”

Her protest turned into a sharp inhale when she felt his hand skim over the curve of her ass before delivering an unexpected slap. The heat of it spread across her skin, but instead of displeasure, a shiver of pleasure shot through her. Draco noticed, and with a wicked grin, smoothed his palm over the spot he had just punished, caressing it with deliberate gentleness… only to repeat the motion, this time with less force but even more intent.

The muffled sound Hermione made was enough to send his blood boiling.

The walk to the bed was short, and when they reached it, he laid her down with reverence. Then he hovered over her, balancing on his hands and forearms, drinking in the sight beneath him.

Hermione was no longer the shy girl who used to cover herself when he looked at her without clothes. Now, she stared right back at him, filled with confidence and desire, driving him insane. But this time, there was something else in her eyes—something that made Draco’s breath catch.

“You are too beautiful, Hermione,” he murmured, a devotion in his voice that even he didn’t fully understand. “I never imagined anyone could look as perfect as you.”

Hermione held his gaze, and for an instant, everything else faded away. In Draco’s mind at that moment, there was nothing but her. The certainty wrapped around her, warm and absolute: he was his. His and no one else’s. And that knowledge sent a sweet shiver down her spine, filling her with a quiet reassurance she hadn’t expected.

The blush on her cheeks only intensified his hunger. With a touch both electric and possessive, he traced the outline of her body, his fingers gliding from her thighs to her ribs in a slow, deliberate caress.

When he brushed over her nipples through the fabric of her bra, Hermione exhaled a shuddering breath. Draco felt the rapid beat of her heart, the anticipation thrumming between them like a pulse. He leaned down, letting his tongue graze over the thin material, reveling in the way her body responded to even the smallest provocation.

With the same deftness he used to unfasten Quidditch robes in the locker room, he slipped his fingers beneath the clasp of her bra and unhooked it with a practiced flick. His gaze darkened as he took her in, completely bare before him.

It was a sight he would never tire of.

He lowered his mouth to her breast, capturing a nipple between his lips, his tongue tracing slow, languid circles over the sensitive peak. He felt the way she arched into him, surrendering to each touch, every brush of his tongue, with absolute abandon.

But this time… they weren’t stopping there.

They both knew it the moment their eyes met. There was no hesitation. No turning back.

Draco began his descent, leaving a trail of kisses from her neck to her stomach. His tongue traced the curve of her hip while his fingers toyed with the waistband of her panties.

“Lift your hips for me, love,” he murmured against her skin.

Hermione obeyed without question, her breath shaky, her hands fisting the sheets. Draco took advantage of her momentary submission and, with deliberate ease, caught the delicate lace between his teeth, dragging it down her legs agonizingly slow. The sight of her bare skin, flushed and waiting for him, made his pulse stutter.

Tossing the fabric aside, he began his journey back up, pressing kisses along the inside of her thighs, her knees, her ankles—even the delicate arch of her foot. Worshiping her. Devouring her.

And when his mouth finally claimed her, his tongue moving with unrelenting devotion, Hermione stopped thinking about the pact, about the rules—about anything that wasn’t him.

Draco's tongue moved with expert precision over her center, making Hermione lift her hips and thread her fingers through his hair, gripping lightly every time he pulled away the slightest bit from her most sensitive spot. She caressed his scalp as she breathed his name into the air... Draco.

The wetness pooling between her thighs mixed with his saliva, and Draco had never tasted anything more intoxicating. He had done this only once before, and it couldn’t compare in the slightest to the way Hermione surrendered herself to him in that moment. He could, and wanted to, stay there for hours, but his tongue began to feel the rhythmic pulses of her walls, spreading in waves that he could taste against his lips. He looked up, watching her come undone, her breath ragged and her body trembling—he knew this sight well. Every time he had brought her over the edge with his fingers or the friction of his cock through their clothes, she looked just like this. He knew her too well by now, and he knew exactly what was coming. Hermione was right there, on the precipice.

He reached up, brushing his fingers over her nipple, and Hermione caught his hand in hers, holding it gently so he could keep moving. The last thing he heard before he felt her climax spill over his mouth was the broken, desperate sound of his name falling from her lips.

—Draco.

In that moment, he swore he would never tire of hearing his name from her lips.

He placed a soft kiss against her pubic bone before pulling himself up, wrapping her in his arms as her body trembled, soothing her by tracing slow, comforting circles down her spine. His hand drifted from the mess of curls on her head to the curve of her ass, guiding her leg to drape over his.

Hermione lifted her gaze, locking eyes with Draco—liquid mercury, stormy and intense. She kissed him with a tenderness that tried to contain the desire clawing at her insides just from looking at him. Draco responded immediately, deepening the kiss with a hunger that had yet to wane. Her hands tangled behind his neck, and he pulled her onto his lap, straddling him. She paused, letting her fingers roam his chest, tracing every defined ridge and dip until they reached the waistband of his boxers. Draco tensed slightly, and for the first time that night, she saw it clearly—he was just as nervous as she was.

But Hermione wanted him. She needed him. And she could see in his eyes that his desire mirrored her own—if not burned even hotter. The pleasure simmering beneath her skin had been momentarily satisfied, but his was still left waiting.

Draco broke the silence first.

—Are you sure?

—When have I ever been wrong?

Draco smirked. —You insufferable, arrogant witch. That’s why I love you, Hermione Granger. Only you could make every contradiction feel so natural, so clear. You give meaning to everything.

Hermione smiled before asking, —Do you know a contraceptive charm?

Of course, he did. But for some reason, he felt embarrassed to admit it. He didn’t want any memory of before to taint this moment. Hermione noticed his hesitation, reading him effortlessly, and gently cupped his chin, forcing him to meet her gaze.

—It doesn’t matter what happened before, Draco. Think of it this way: everything that came before had to happen so that we could be here, right now. Maybe this was always the path we needed to take before finding each other like this—before it could be just you and me in this moment.

A half-smile curved his lips. He couldn’t believe how easily Hermione accepted it all when he, on the other hand, burned with jealousy every time he thought about that idiot McLaggen putting his hands on her. He pushed the thought aside, focusing instead on the warmth of her touch.

—Do you want it to stay just you and me?

The question caught Hermione off guard, but her walls didn’t go up—she was simply honest, as she always was with Draco.

—I don’t know if this will have a happy ending, but I do know that I want to see you smile every moment we have together.

She felt a knot form in her throat, forcing herself to blink away the tears before continuing.

—Your family’s expectations are nothing like what I am. But it’s enough for me to meet yours, Draco.

It was too intimate a moment, too fragile. Draco didn’t want to think about expectations, not now. He just wanted to exist here, with the witch who had broken down every one of his walls and was now offering him her heart without hesitation. If he had to ignore those expectations now and forever, so be it. Hermione met his gaze again.

—Do you think you’ll miss me when this ends?

Draco held her stare, his gray eyes darkening into a storm Hermione had never seen before.

—If it ends, Hermione. I’d miss you even if I had never met you.

That was all she needed. Hermione crashed her lips onto his, and Draco, with practiced ease, removed the final barrier between them. Their bodies met in a desperate collision, a union of all they had waited for. Draco looked at her once more, whispered an "Accio Wand," and cast the spell low over her abdomen. Hermione barely felt it—just a faint warmth blooming inside her.

That was all.

Hermione drowned in a desperate, deep kiss. Draco, with deft hands, removed the final barrier between their bodies. They collided with the urgency of those who had waited too long. He looked at her one last time before murmuring an "Accio wand" and whispering a spell over her abdomen. Hermione barely felt the magical knot forming inside her before surrendering completely to him.

Nothing existed outside of Draco. Nothing mattered in that instant except the way he made her feel, how he shattered her defenses with just a look and turned her into a creature ruled by desire. Her mind burned with a single certainty: she wanted him.

"I don’t want you to stop," she whispered, and she knew there was no turning back when Draco’s eyes gleamed with what must have been the reflection of her own.

A low, guttural groan escaped his throat before his mouth crashed against hers with renewed ferocity. Hermione did not let herself be intimidated by the force of his desire. She wanted to command him, as he had done before, to keep his eyes on her, to look at her while she felt him inside her—but she couldn’t. The waves of pleasure were already surging in her belly, making her arch her hips against the unmistakable hardness pressing between Draco’s legs, desperate for more.

But he had no intention of rushing.

"It might hurt a little at first." He let his hand drift down between her thighs.

"Fuck, Hermione, you’re so wet. I think that will help make it easier."

The barely-there brush of his arousal against her made her tremble.

"Are you ready?"

Hermione only nodded, gathering the courage to cup his face with both hands, losing herself in his eyes, letting him drown in hers and in the infinite pleasure he would find there.

Draco seemed to be trembling slightly at first. He moved over her, sliding inside with exquisite care. Hermione felt herself stretching around him, little by little, accommodating him. A sharp gasp escaped her lips, and she saw Draco’s eyes darken into molten silver. Once he was fully inside, he withdrew just as gently, his lips hovering mere centimeters from hers, never breaking eye contact. He moved over her with torturous precision, pulling back just enough before rocking into her again in a slow, measured rhythm that made her gasp into his mouth.

Hermione moaned and clung to his shoulders when he thrust deeper, harder, making her feel every inch, every pulse of his need.

Pleasure hit her immediately—raw, overwhelming. Draco let his head fall into the curve of her neck, his breath ragged as he filled her completely.

"Fuck, Hermione…" His voice broke into a hoarse groan, the control he had fought to maintain unraveling as his body trembled with the intensity of the moment.

And then he moved faster. Harder.

Each thrust was a direct hit to her sanity, an intoxicating rhythm that dragged them both mercilessly toward the edge. Hermione felt it in every fiber of her being—in the way her body molded to his, in the way their gasps tangled in the space between them, in the way Draco murmured her name through clenched teeth like it was a spell, a curse, a plea.

The sound of her name on his lips sent her spiraling. She felt the tension inside her coil tighter and tighter, her walls clenching around him, urging him on. She began to move in sync with Draco, lifting her hips to meet his, dismissing the faint sting in favor of the overwhelming pleasure, the desperate need to match his frantic rhythm.

Hermione felt him tense above her, his movements becoming more erratic, more desperate, as the tension inside her reached a breaking point.

"Hermione…" His voice was wrecked, pleading.

She dragged her lips to his ear, catching his lobe between her teeth, whispering her own undoing.

"Come with me, Draco."

She met his gaze, drawing his eyes to hers. His pupils were blown wide, molten silver and darkness swallowing her whole, just as their bodies merged into one. And for a fleeting moment, beyond thought, beyond words, she saw it—

She saw herself reflected in him, not just in his eyes but in his soul, as if they had been written in the same language since the beginning of time. And Draco saw himself in her, in the way she held him, in the way she gave herself to him without hesitation, without fear. He had never belonged anywhere more completely than he did in that moment, inside her, with her.

A guttural sound tore from his throat, the only warning before he buried himself deep one final time, his body trembling as his climax crashed through him, pulling Hermione with him into oblivion. She felt the shudder of his muscles, the way his hands clung to her skin in desperation, as if she were the only thing tethering him to reality while he unraveled inside her.

Draco remained still for a moment, his breath ragged against her neck, before collapsing beside her, pulling her with him, still inside her, wrapping his arms around her with what little strength he had left.

Hermione remained there, her face buried against his chest, his warm breath ghosting over her curls.

Draco had had sex dozens of times before. He had longed for others before. But a truth settled deep inside him, undeniable in the aftermath of what they had just shared—he had never made love before. Not until now.

As they lay entwined, Hermione felt something shift within her magic, as if their pact had responded to what they had done, to what they had now become to each other.

Draco felt it too, but like Hermione, he said nothing. He only watched her skin glow under the moonlight like—

Like the stars had woven themselves into her flesh, like the universe itself had conspired to make her luminous in his arms, golden and endless, something worth worshiping.

Draco held her tighter against his chest, their bodies slick with the remnants of their passion. Hermione rested her head on his shoulder, feeling the steady rhythm of his heart against her own.

They said nothing. They didn’t need to.

But they both knew the truth.

They had broken their pact.

Love had found them.

Chapter Text

The entrance courtyard was packed with students and teachers. Draco was already waiting there alongside Theo and Blaise, both of whom seemed eager to leave, though Draco was still waiting for Hermione. Neither of them had spent the night at home, and their absence hadn’t gone unnoticed by Blaise and Theo. The former had said nothing at all when he saw Draco arrive that morning, barely dressed in his uniform, but Theo—who had years of friendship with Draco to back him up—hadn’t missed the opportunity to quip sarcastically:

“Looks like someone didn’t sleep… but definitely had a great night.”

Draco tried to hide his smirk with a scoff and began gathering his belongings into his trunk, though his mind kept drifting back to the feeling of waking up with his witch in his arms, the sweet scent of vanilla and hyacinths surrounding him—his new favorite fragrance. He was almost certain his Amortentia would smell like that now. However, as he reached for something at the bottom of his trunk, his hands froze.

There it was. The box where he had kept all the newspaper clippings of Aurélie.

Without a second thought, he pulled it out and placed it on top of the dresser at the end of the dormitory he shared with the other two Slytherins. He took a step back, raised his wand, and cast Incendio. The box went up in flames instantly. Something in the magic around him seemed to react, but instead of regret, Draco felt an inexplicable sense of peace.

He was the first to notice Ginny Weasley arriving, meeting Theo halfway before they disappeared behind one of the more secluded columns. Then, at last, Hermione appeared. She tried to contain the sheer joy lighting up her face as she spotted him, but Draco could see it. Lately, it had become one of his favorite sights—right up there with Hermione deep in thought, biting her lip as she frowned at a book, Hermione scowling in frustration when she couldn’t understand something, or when he teased her just to rile her up. And, of course, Hermione trembling beneath him.

She allowed herself a small display of affection, something unexpected given their history, but now entirely natural. She abandoned her trunk mid-path and sprinted toward him. She threw her arms around his neck, and he instinctively caught her, lifting her by the thighs and wrapping her legs around his waist. Physical affection between them had always been rare—except for the spectacle they had put on in the Great Hall when their relationship was still a façade. Back then, it had been a ruse. Now, it was entirely real.

Then, she suddenly tensed.

“Sprout was watching.”

Draco turned his head and, sure enough, found Professor Sprout’s disapproving gaze fixed on them.

“Well, then, I suppose we’ll have to wait until the cemetery.”

“Do you think it’s safe, Draco?” Hermione asked, her voice quieter now.

“It will be. It’s a good Apparition point for me, and it’s close to your house.

- You are right. Next time you can come straight to your room.

-So I'll meet you in your room?

-Of course. Do you think I want to see you in a graveyard every other day?

Draco dropped his gaze to hers, intense, hungry.

-What I want to do to you cannot be done in front of the dead Granger, it would be a flagrant violation of their rest,- he murmured against her ear.

Hermione flushed. They had agreed to see each other at least once every two nights. Neither of them knew exactly how their magic—or their bond—would react to prolonged separation, though it seemed more stable now that they had stopped denying what was growing between them. Even so, they had broken their pact, and neither knew if there would be consequences.

Theo seemed to be returning from his conversation with Ginny, while Blaise remained planted in place, three trunks beside him, looking utterly bored.

“I have to go.”

“I know. So do I.”

Hermione glanced toward where Harry and Ron were standing with Neville and Luna, watching her intently.

Draco leaned in and kissed her. His fingers tightened around her waist as if he could hold onto her, as if he could mold himself into her very skin so no one could ever pull them apart. He kissed her with desperation, with that unrelenting intensity of his—hungry, possessive, unmistakably his. When Hermione heard murmurs around them and tried to pull away, his grip only grew firmer.

“I don’t want you to leave.”

His voice was a low, dangerous growl that sent a shiver down her spine. His eyes flickered down to the scarf around her neck—concealing the mark he had left on her this morning, one he hoped would become even more visible soon. A mark that would prove, without question, that she belonged to him.

Hermione caught his gaze. “I had to cover it. Ginny tried to help me hide it, but neither of us were completely sure what spell to use.”

Draco smirked. “Perfect. Even better.”

“Draco…” Hermione sighed, half-scolding, half-exasperated.

He chuckled darkly. “I knew this would be unbearable.”

She rose on her toes to press a soft kiss against his lips, a silent reassurance. It was time to leave. With one last caress along his cheek, she stepped back—only for Draco to catch her wrist before she could take another step.

“Don’t get too close to Weasley.”

His voice was cold, razor-sharp, but his stormy eyes burned with something feral, something wild.

“He’s my best friend.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “You know which Weasley I mean, Hermione.”

Since last night, he had started calling her by her name, and she couldn’t help but smile every time he did. Her heartbeat betrayed her, hammering against her ribs, her cheeks warming with the evidence of just how much it affected her.

“I’ll only see him for Easter. He’ll be there, but it’s not like—”

“I don’t care.” He cut her off, stepping closer, his nose brushing against hers. “I don’t want any man too close to you. And especially not him.”

Her breath hitched.

Any other man’s possessiveness would have frightened her. But with him… with him, it set her ablaze.

“Then don’t miss it.” It was the only thing she said before kissing him again.

A kiss that he turned into a battle, something hungry and claiming, before she finally tore herself away with a frustrated huff.

Draco levitated his trunk and, along with Theo and Blaise, made his way toward the carriage that would take them to Hogsmeade to use the Floo Network. But it seemed Zabini was no longer willing to hold back.

"You fake it too well, Draco. Even I'm starting to believe you're in love with Granger."

Hours later, Hermione was greeting her parents, who had picked her up at King’s Cross station. Her father hugged her so tightly that it loosened the scarf around her neck, exposing the bruise Draco had left on her that morning. She covered it as quickly as she could, but her mother had already seen it. Rose Granger’s expression was a mix of surprise and something else—something that oddly reassured Hermione.

"We’re glad you’re finally giving us more days instead of spending them all in that magical world, sweetheart," said Hugo Granger.

"It was about time, Dad. I apologize for not doing it sooner."

"Come on, it seems we have a lot to talk about," Rose added casually. "Do you think we should set a place for someone else at Christmas dinner, Hermione?"

"Not yet, Mum."

Yet. That word seemed to satisfy her mother.

At Malfoy Manor, the atmosphere was different. Colder. Tenser.

Draco stepped into the grand foyer with a grimace. The house, though immaculate, felt even more suffocating than usual. It didn’t take long to notice why.

Aurélie was there.

He saw her before she noticed him—her slim, elegant figure, long black hair cascading in perfect waves down her back. She stood beside Narcissa, chatting with the ease of someone who felt at home.

His jaw tightened. Fuck.

It was incredible how, months ago, her presence would have completely unraveled him, how it would have filled him with euphoria. Now, all he felt was irritation and discomfort. He had asked Hermione to keep her distance from Charlie Weasley, yet here he was, standing in the same room as Aurélie.

"Draco." His mother’s voice was soft but unmistakable. No escape. He took a deep breath, composing himself before walking forward. "I’m so glad you’re here. I wanted to tell you that Aurélie will be spending the holidays with us. Isn’t that delightful?"

Delightful. Sure.

He clenched his teeth and forced a smile as Aurélie’s eyes swept over him with familiar ease.

"Draco," she greeted, her voice carrying that melodious cadence that had once been music to his ears. Now, much like in class, it only managed to irritate him. "It’s been a while."

Far too little time, he thought bitterly. "I believe I saw you in Defense Against the Dark Arts last Tuesday, Professor Dumont. I wouldn’t call that a long time."

Aurélie paled slightly but curved her lips into a smirking smile. "Of course, you’re right."

It seemed his only distraction in this house was going to be the living nightmare of his past.

Dinner was exactly as he remembered—his father ranting about the incompetence of certain Ministry employees who dared to obstruct his business dealings. Among them was Arthur Weasley, who had recently been transferred to the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office and was making it difficult to import a set of objects Lucius had acquired from Bulgaria.

"The Weasleys are a disgrace to the wizarding world."

Arthur Weasley, who had been transferred to the Department for the Misuse of Magic, was making it difficult to import a series of artifacts that Lucius had acquired in Bulgaria.

Draco might have agreed, but he turned immediately to gauge Aurélie’s reaction. She remained impassive, as if her supposed boyfriend wasn’t part of that very family.

"The new Care of Magical Creatures professor is a Weasley."

Lucius turned to his son.

"Well, I’ll have to speak with the board. That decision certainly didn’t go through me."

"I don’t think that’s necessary, Father. Professor Weasley has proven to be quite competent, actually."

Lucius regarded him with skepticism and disdain. "And you say this because?"

"I’ve seen him handle creatures that seemed harmless but turned out to be quite dangerous."

He felt Aurélie’s gaze burning into his profile.

"Well, I suppose not all Weasleys are completely worthless," Narcissa commented idly, cutting a piece of roast and bringing it to her lips.

"In fact, I share Draco’s opinion, Mr. Malfoy," Aurélie added smoothly. "Professor Weasley has shown himself to be an excellent addition to the Hogwarts staff. He’s quite helpful, and many students seem to like him... Some of his female students, perhaps a little too much, in my opinion."

That remark managed to provoke Draco. If she wanted to play this game, fine—he was more than ready.

"Well, we must admit Professor Weasley is rather decent-looking. He doesn’t resemble a weasel like his brothers. Maybe that’s why he’s so popular among his students… and even some professors."

"Which wouldn’t be appropriate," Lucius interjected coldly. "I’ll have to bring it up with the committee."

"They’re just assumptions, Father—Professor Dumont’s and mine. Though I barely know him. Perhaps you, Professor, could give us a more precise impression of Professor Weasley’s character," Draco said, turning to Aurélie, who tensed in her seat. "After all, he’s your colleague. I’m merely a student."

He popped a roasted potato into his mouth, chewing as he watched Aurélie smile with infuriating composure before setting her utensils down in perfect alignment.

"Actually, I think he’s a wizard with remarkable skill in handling magical creatures, which makes him completely competent for his position. That, combined with his kindness and charisma, allows him to connect with students. I do wish I could be as approachable as he is, but I suppose my upbringing imposes certain limits."

"As it should, dear," Narcissa replied with a small, approving smile.

"In fact, he invited me to Easter dinner at his home. He’s a very kind man."

"You’re not seriously considering it, are you?" Narcissa’s eyes widened in mild horror.

"Actually, I am, Mrs. Malfoy. Professor Weasley has valuable connections within the Hogwarts faculty. Even the Headmaster himself has expressed his support for him on multiple occasions, and I must admit, I’d like to enjoy Albus Dumbledore’s favor as well."

"It would only diminish your worth, Miss Dumont," Lucius remarked, visibly displeased.

"It’s not as if they’re Mudbloods, Mr. Malfoy. Now those so-called witches and wizards certainly shouldn’t be part of our world."

Draco stiffened in his seat, but he wasn’t about to let her speak that way about Hermione.

"Strange to hear you say that, Professor Dumont, considering the best witch in our class is Muggle-born."

"Granger?" Narcissa interjected, her expression unreadable.

"The very one, Mother. I’ve had the chance to share a few classes with her, and it’s quite fascinating to see how effortlessly she outperforms even me. I must admit it—grudgingly, of course."

Lucius shot him a look filled with disgust. "You make it sound as if you admire her, Draco."

"I do, actually." The words slipped from his lips before he could stop them.

The sound of silverware clinking against fine porcelain filled the air as Lucius rose from his seat without another word. Narcissa glanced at her son with subtle bewilderment but merely finished the last bites of her meal before excusing herself. Aurélie, however, remained, watching him with a slow, victorious smile as soon as Narcissa left the room.

She leaned slightly toward him, her voice smooth as silk yet laced with mockery.

"On dirait que tu es devenu un homme bien compliqué, mon cher Draco."

A few minutes later, Draco was about to enter his room to grab a cloak and appearing at that cemetery, ready to search every nearby neighborhood if necessary. However, his mother was waiting for him at the end of the hallway. That could only mean one thing—an uncomfortable conversation.

Narcissa followed him inside his room and stopped in front of the window overlooking the hedge maze, while Draco impatiently took a seat at his desk chair.

A sharp pang of something akin to fear ran through him when his mother cast a spell that seemed to seal the door, then conjured what looked like a Muffliato over the room. That was unusual for her. She had always felt safe in the manor—it was her home, after all.

“It’s hard to imagine my son growing fond of someone,” Narcissa said, her voice serene but carrying a dangerous edge. “Let alone a Muggle-born witch.”

Draco swallowed dryly and waited for her to continue.

“So I am forced to ask you to clarify exactly what kind of affection you mean.”

Draco had to think fast. If anyone knew him well, it was his mother. If he didn’t come up with a reasonably convincing answer, his silence would speak for him.

“She’s a brilliant witch,” he said carefully, choosing his words. “That inspires admiration, despite her background.”

“You’ve never spoken of her that way before, Draco.”

“In what way?”

“As if you actually respect her. Before, she was just the witch who irritated you because she got better marks than you and pushed you to second place.”

Draco tensed even more.

“Maybe I grew up, Mother,” he replied calmly. “I’ve come to understand that she can be brilliant despite her origins.”

“I don’t recall our household ever encouraging that kind of thinking.”

“I suppose, to you, they’re nothing more than—” Draco stopped. He couldn’t even bring himself to say the word. “Inferior beings because they weren’t born to magic.”

“You may assume many things, Draco,” Narcissa said, unfazed. “But I only want the truth.”

She stepped closer and leaned in beside him. She never did that. Draco tried to pull away, but his mother’s eyes remained locked onto his. She was a Legilimens. He knew it. He averted his gaze as quickly as he could.

“The truth, Mother,” he said, with no way out, “is that I do care for her.”

If hell was going to burn because he had fallen for a Muggle-born witch, so be it. Hermione was worth it.

“In fact, we’re together.”

Narcissa stood up abruptly, swallowing audibly.

“You cannot mention this to anyone else.”

“I won’t.”

Draco had expected a much worse reaction. However, there was no disgust on her face—only astonishment.

“I assume Professor Dumont knows.”

“The school knows. That includes Professor Dumont.”

“Her comment was far too direct, then. I don’t know what made her think she could challenge you like that in your own home.”

Draco was perplexed. His mother was furious with Aurélie for her insinuation about Muggle-borns… but not with him. Or at least, that’s how it seemed.

“We’ll have to keep her away from your father.”

Her tone softened, confusing him even more.

“Please, don’t bring up any conversations that could lead to Miss Granger. We must avoid mentioning her in front of Dumont at all costs. She could end up revealing your relationship.”

Draco was growing increasingly baffled. His mother wasn’t scolding him—she seemed to be… protecting him.

He couldn’t hold back any longer.

“Do you approve of this relationship, Mother?”

Narcissa sat on the edge of his bed and placed a hand beside her in a clear gesture for him to come closer. Draco strode toward her with firm steps.

“Just tell me the truth, Draco.”

He nodded.

“Why did you choose to be with Miss Granger?”

Draco swallowed. He couldn’t get caught up in the details of how it all started. What mattered was what Hermione made him feel.

“Because with her, I don’t have to prove anything. She doesn’t expect me to be the perfect Malfoy or the flawless son. She doesn’t try to mold me or break me. She sees me for who I am, even with my faults, and she still chooses to stay.”

Narcissa narrowed her eyes, analyzing every word.

“And what do you see in her?”

Draco held his mother’s gaze with determination.

“Everything I was taught to despise, and now understand is admirable. Her bravery, her determination, her ability to challenge me without fear—but also her willingness to yield when she knows something is important to me. And she’s so beautiful and brilliant. She makes me want to be better without even trying.”

This time, the silence that settled between them was different. It wasn’t tense—it was thoughtful. And when Narcissa placed a hand on his cheek, Draco knew he had spoken the truth his mother needed to hear.

“Then I approve, darling.”

Draco blinked in surprise.

“You’ve always described her as a brilliant witch,” Narcissa continued, “and on the occasions I have attended school committee meetings in your father’s place, all they do is praise her as much as they do you. I have no doubt that she is.”

Her tone grew more serious.

“But most importantly… if you have been able to let go of the beliefs you once defended so fiercely, then she must truly be worth it.”

Narcissa cupped his face gently.

“I trust your judgment, my son. I was not the one who raised you with those precepts. Your governesses did, under your father’s orders. But I did ensure that you grew into the gentleman you are today, whether you want to admit it or not.”

She placed a kiss on his cheek and, before lifting the enchantments, murmured:

“Every family has its secrets, darling. This will be ours. And so will the one I reveal to you tomorrow.”

She straightened up and, with one last glance at Draco, added:

“I’ll expect you at nine, after breakfast, at the front entrance. Aurélie said she’ll be going out, and we’ll have to take advantage of that moment.”

Draco remained still as his mother left the room, closing the door behind her.

Despite everything that had transpired in that conversation, he now had an ally in his relationship with Hermione. And though he had never expected it to be his own mother, he felt the same sense of relief he had when he burned the box with Aurélie’s newspaper clippings.

He only hoped Hermione felt it too.

Dinner at the Grangers' home in Hampstead Garden flowed smoothly. Hermione didn’t have much to share this time—she had spent the last few months almost entirely in Draco’s company. She made a few comments about Quidditch matches and how she was preparing for her N.E.W.T.s between classes, which seemed to satisfy her father. Her mother, however, looked at her in the same way Ginny did whenever she returned from her meetings with Malfoy. For Merlin’s sake, she just wanted the earth to swallow her whole. She was certain her mother would corner her in her room later.

And, of course, she did.

After washing and drying the dishes, Hermione went upstairs, only to be startled as her mother shut the door behind her and pulled her down to sit on the bed beside her.

"What’s his name?"

Hermione hesitated. Saying that name out loud felt strange. After all, it was the same name she had spent the last six summers complaining about. Every holiday, she'd ranted about the insufferable boy who had made her life miserable at school. Secretly, she was grateful she'd never mentioned the worst of it—that he had called her a Mudblood. She had always limited her complaints to him being jealous that she took first place in every class.

So she simply said his name.

"Draco Malfoy."

Her mother burst into laughter but quickly covered her mouth. Hermione looked at her, puzzled.

"It’s always the same, isn’t it?" her mother mused. "The boys who tease you the most turn out to be secretly in love with you. Just like in Pride and Prejudice."

Hermione thought it was far more like Wuthering Heights—a love born of disdain rather than repressed admiration—but she said nothing. Instead, she allowed herself to enjoy this rare moment of complicity with her mother, who cleared her throat before asking,

"How does he treat you?"

Hermione didn’t even have to think about it. She answered immediately.

"Well. He tries to act like a gentleman. He pulls out my chair when we sit in the library or the Great Hall. He walks me to the entrance of Gryffindor Tower. And he’s been making an effort to share spaces with my friends—even though they’re not his."

That seemed to please Mrs. Granger.

"That does sound nice. Especially the part about him acting like a gentleman." She gave Hermione a pointed look. "Though the mark on your neck suggests otherwise."

Hermione tensed. She prayed her mother would stop there.

She didn’t.

"I have to ask, Hermione. We had this talk when you mentioned that other boy—Cormac, wasn’t it? Whom, by the way, you never brought home. I certainly hope Draco will be different." She paused, then leveled her gaze at her daughter. "How far have you two gone?"

Heat rose to Hermione’s cheeks, and her heart pounded.

"I’m not here to scold you, Hermione. You’re old enough to make your own choices. I just want to make sure you’re taking the right precautions. I’m far too young to be a grandmother."

Hermione forced herself to calm down, to gather her thoughts, to form a coherent response.

"You won’t be a grandmother anytime soon. I promise, Mum."

That seemed to satisfy Mrs. Granger. She pulled Hermione into a hug before standing up to leave. But before she did, she turned back with a thoughtful expression.

"For a while, I thought you were in love with one of the Weasley boys. You always had that odd little sparkle in your eye whenever you came back from their home. But this... this is different. You look truly happy, Hermione. Your eyes give you away."

Hermione knew her mother was right. Perhaps what she had felt for Charlie had been nothing more than fascination—an attraction born out of curiosity. The thrill of the unknown.

She smiled as her mother suddenly seemed to remember something. Reaching into the pocket of her cardigan, she pulled out a small object and handed it to Hermione.

"Cover that up, sweetheart. We wouldn’t want your father forming the wrong opinion about the boy before even meeting him." She winked and left the room.

Hermione remained lying on her bed, staring at the small bottle of skin-toned concealer in her hand. Her fingers traced the mark Draco had so graciously left on her neck, and an overwhelming urge surged within her—to run, to find him.

She knew they wouldn’t see each other until tomorrow.

But suddenly, tomorrow felt unbearably far away.

Draco followed her, emerging beside his mother into a sea of bustling shoppers, their arms full of packages, caught up in the feverish rush of Christmas shopping. Narcissa took firm hold of his wrist and led him down an unfamiliar path.

At the far end of Flourish and Blotts stood a small antique shop he had never bothered to look at before. Its display was unremarkable, the glass clouded with dust as if discouraging potential customers from entering. Yet his mother stepped inside without hesitation.

Inside, an elderly witch regarded them with a keen gaze before drawing her wand and giving a simple flick. A dusty bookshelf groaned as it slid aside, revealing a hidden passage.

Narcissa turned to him.

—We’re visiting your aunt.

Draco froze in place.

—My aunt?

The only sister of his mother ever mentioned at home was Bellatrix, and no one in their right mind would visit her in Azkaban—especially not during Christmas. His stomach twisted at the thought that his mother had somehow found a way to do just that.

Before he could ask more, Narcissa stepped into the passage, leaving him with no choice but to follow. His unease grew with every step, until the narrow corridor finally opened into another shop.

It was brighter than the last, its shelves lined with unfamiliar objects—digital clocks, Muggle radios, odd black-screened boxes, and an assortment of gadgets he had only ever seen in textbooks. The sight of it all left him slightly unnerved.

Behind the counter stood a man with graying hair and a kindly face, observing them with an easy smile.

—Narcissa —he greeted warmly—. What a surprise to see you here.

Draco blinked, caught off guard. His mother knew this man?

—Edward —she replied with a small nod—. May we use your fireplace?

Draco frowned. He had never heard of an Edward before. It wasn’t a name that belonged to any old wizarding family, yet his mother spoke to him as though they were longtime acquaintances.

—Of course —Edward said easily—. Andromeda will be delighted.

A strange chill ran down Draco’s spine.

—Andromeda? —he echoed under his breath.

No one in his family was named Andromeda. Or at least, no one he had ever been told about.

His mother, however, refused to meet his gaze.

Before he could press for answers, Narcissa took a handful of Floo Powder and looked at him with that resolute expression that brooked no argument.

—Birch Street, number 17 —she enunciated clearly, and in the next instant, she vanished into the green flames.

Draco clenched his jaw.

Edward crossed his arms and studied him for a moment.

—You’re the spitting image of your father —he remarked calmly—. But I always knew I’d see you here one day.

Draco met his gaze coolly.

—Oh?

Edward tilted his head, a knowing smile playing at his lips.

—Because, even though you look like Lucius, deep down, you take after Narcissa. You might not realize it yet, but one day, you will.

A flicker of discomfort ran through Draco, as if this man could see something in him that he himself had yet to understand.

—You don’t know anything about me.

—Maybe not —Edward admitted with a small shrug—. But I know your mother. And if she’s brought you here, it means that sooner or later, you’ll understand why.

Draco scowled, unable to think of a suitable reply.

Edward’s smile didn’t waver as he gestured toward the fireplace.

—Go on, you wouldn’t want to keep her waiting.

Draco hesitated for a second longer before snatching up a handful of Floo Powder. He cast one last wary glance at Edward, then stepped into the fireplace.

—Birch Street, number 17.

The green flames roared to life, swallowing him whole as he hurtled toward the unknown.

Chapter Text

The day unfolded beneath twinkling lights and the crisp bite of winter air, signaling the imminent arrival of Christmas. Hermione had spent the afternoon with her mother in central London, weaving through shops with bags draped over her arms, making a barely convincing effort to keep her mind off the anticipation waiting for her that night.

“This would look lovely on you,” her mother remarked, holding up a burgundy wool sweater.

Hermione smiled, accepting it without much thought. Her mother had no idea about the whirlwind of thoughts consuming her, the silent countdown ticking away in her heart. Between gift shopping and a brief stop at a café, she managed to feign normalcy. Yet, when they came across a shop window displaying elegant lingerie, something inside her hesitated.

“Would you like to try something on?” her mother asked, her tone casual, unaware of the turmoil beneath Hermione’s calm exterior.

She nodded with a faint smile, stepping into the store as if indulging in a fleeting whim. She chose a deep blue lace set—nothing too obvious, but something special enough to make her feel different. She didn’t think about him. She didn’t consider the possibility of him seeing it. At least, she didn’t admit it.

By the time night fell over London, Hermione found refuge in the shadows of the cemetery. The cold bit into her skin, but the real unease came from the passing minutes with no sign of him. She hugged herself, her breath forming delicate clouds in the air. Every sound made her turn, every stretched-out shadow made her hold her breath. But Draco never came.

Disappointment seeped through her veins like poison. She felt foolish. It had been a mistake to think he would actually show up. Pressing her lips together, she closed her eyes for a brief moment before turning on her heel and vanishing into the night.

Their pact had once forced them to stay close, unable to be apart for too long without suffering its consequences. But as their feelings had begun to shift, so had the magic binding them. It had adapted, no longer demanding their constant proximity. And so, Hermione could only assume that he no longer needed her near to steady his magic.

Aurélie had noticed throughout the afternoon that Draco seemed more impatient than ever. His gaze kept drifting toward the southern exit of the manor—the same one he had once confessed to her, as a child, that he used to sneak out through to fly his broomstick around the gardens, secretly hoping his mother would catch him, no matter the hour. There was no doubt in her mind: Draco was planning to escape.

During dinner, Aurélie made sure to stall him as much as possible. She took her time with every bite, stretching out a conversation about MACUSA with studied patience. Across the table, Draco clenched his fists beneath the wood. He had tried to slip away more than once, but Aurélie had proven to be far craftier than he’d expected. She skillfully steered the conversation with his father until Lucius was the one keeping him occupied, launching into an endless monologue about the family’s future, expectations, and everything Draco had no interest in hearing at that moment.

Every passing minute chipped away at his patience. Every word from his father was a reminder of what he was losing, of what truly mattered, and of the damned expectations weighing on him—expectations that did not include Hermione.

By the time he finally managed to slip away from the manor’s watchful eyes, it was already past midnight. His breath came in quick, uneven bursts as he Apparated to the cemetery… only to find it empty.

The realization hit him like a punch to the gut. He cursed under his breath, but only the wind answered. Running a frustrated hand through his hair, he exhaled sharply.

He had failed.

But he wasn’t about to let it end like this.

With his heart pounding, he reached for the snitch Hermione had given him for Christmas. His fingers brushed against its surface with something close to reverence, and the object responded immediately. A sharp pull tugged at his chest, a direction settling deep within him.

Desperation gripped him as he felt the weight of the pendant resting against his collarbone. Hermione had told him the snitch’s magic would guide him to what he desired most.

Without hesitation, he let it go.

The small silver sphere fluttered into the air before darting off into the night. Draco followed without a second thought. The snitch weaved through cobbled streets and past iron-gated gardens, leading him into a neighborhood completely foreign to him. He moved cautiously, wand in hand, knowing full well he couldn’t use it outside of Hogwarts but unwilling to let his guard down.

Then, suddenly, he collided with something—or rather, someone.

—"Oi, kid! You got somewhere to be, or do you just go around running people over?"—grumbled a man wrapped in a thick coat, a poorly knitted scarf hanging loosely around his neck, and a beanie covering half his face.

Draco staggered back, momentarily stunned. A Muggle. A real, flesh-and-blood Muggle. He had never been this close to one without the barrier of Hogwarts or the safety of an insult to create distance.

—"What… what are you?"—he blurted out, frowning.

—"What am I?"—The man gave him a baffled look.—"You hit your head or something? Now move along."

He looked like Angus Finch, but with worse hygiene and better teeth. It struck him then—Muggles looked just like any wizard. Just like any Squib, for that matter.

Draco opened his mouth, but the snitch resumed its flight, forcing him to follow. Without sparing the man another glance, he pushed forward, weaving through Heathgate and Hampstead Garden Suburb, completely unaware that he was about to arrive at Hermione’s house.

The Snitch finally stopped fluttering in the backyard of a house that looked suspiciously like his Aunt Andromeda’s. In fact, for a brief second, Draco wondered if he had somehow Apparated to the wrong place. The yard was well-kept, with a small winter garden climbing the back wall. Terracotta pots lined up next to a wooden bench, some filled with fragrant herbs, others with wilted winter flowers. A massive oak tree stood in one corner, its bare branches casting long shadows under the dim glow of a streetlamp. Snow had begun to pile along the edges of the stone path leading to the back door, where a warm light seeped through the curtains.

Draco felt the weight of exhaustion and uncertainty settle over him—but also something else. A strange, unfamiliar sensation.

For the first time in a long time, he felt like he was exactly where he needed to be.

He tried the back door with a deep frown. The handle didn’t budge. Locked. Of course. He clicked his tongue in annoyance and instinctively reached for his wand before immediately lowering his hand. Right. No magic. This was a Muggle neighborhood. He couldn’t risk it.

He glanced around for another option.

And then… he saw the oak tree.

It was massive, old, and, most importantly, it had branches thick enough to hold his weight. More importantly, one of them stretched close to a second-floor window that was slightly open. The Snitch hovered just beyond it, taunting him.

Draco narrowed his eyes.

"You have got to be joking."

But the Snitch did not, in fact, joke.

Draco exhaled sharply and pulled off his cloak to move more freely. He had never in his life climbed a tree. Malfoys did not climb trees. Malfoys used brooms, doors, or, if they were feeling particularly unhinged, a well-placed Portkey. But Draco Malfoy was desperate.

His hands gripped the rough bark as he pulled himself up with more effort than he’d ever admit. The first branch groaned under his weight, and he froze.

"Bloody hell,"—he hissed.

It held.

He kept climbing, muttering increasingly creative swears under his breath every time he scraped his hands or nearly lost his footing. Snow dusted the branches, making them slippery, and he could already feel the bruises forming on his shins. He had never felt less dignified in his entire life.

When he finally reached the branch closest to the window, the Snitch moved again.

Draco clenched his jaw.

"You absolute menace."

The gap wasn’t huge, but it was big enough to be a problem. The window was slightly open, and the Snitch was practically winking at him from inside.

He had no choice. He had to jump.

"Brilliant. Fantastic. Best idea I’ve ever had."—he muttered to himself.

With a deep breath, he pushed off the branch with all his strength.

He crashed onto the windowsill with all the grace of a falling Hippogriff. His knee slammed against the frame, sending a sharp jolt of pain up his leg. His hands scrabbled for purchase against the icy ledge as his body tilted dangerously backward.

The curtains shifted.

The window opened wider.

Draco barely had time to look up before he came face-to-face with a very disoriented, very sleepy Hermione Granger. Her hair was an absolute disaster, her eyes were squinting against the dim light, and she looked entirely unprepared to deal with whatever fresh nonsense this was.

They stared at each other.

Draco panted.

Hermione blinked.

Draco grimaced.

"Are you planning to help me or just let me die here?"—he asked through gritted teeth.

For a brief moment, Hermione looked as if she were considering it.

Then she sighed, grabbed his arms, and pulled with more strength than he expected. Between the two of them (and a lot of awkward fumbling), Draco finally tumbled forward—straight onto her bedroom floor. He landed with a very undignified thud.

Silence.

Then, from beyond the door, a voice rang out:

—"Everything alright, Herms?"

Hermione’s eyes widened. She held up a hand, signaling Draco to shut up.

She took a deep breath, and with the calm of someone who had definitely lied before, she responded:

—"All good, Dad! Crookshanks decided jumping off the oak tree was a great idea."

A pause. Then her father chuckled.

—"Crazy cat. Sleep well, sweetheart."

They waited until his footsteps faded down the hall.

Hermione turned to Draco, hands on her hips, unimpressed.

Draco, flat on his back, staring at the ceiling, exhaled.

"For the record,"—he muttered,—"I hate that cat."

She turned to Draco with a frown and, without another word, pulled out her wand and cast a Muffliato with a swift flick. The faint hum of the spell filled the air, but what pleased her most was the incredulous look on Malfoy’s face.

“McGonagall got me a Ministry pass,” she said firmly. “I’m of age, and since I’m in my final year, I can use magic in the Muggle world.” She cleared her throat. “Apparently, they trust my discretion.”

Draco didn’t reply, but for some reason, the comment struck a nerve. He straightened up with as much dignity as he could muster, dusting off his coat and smoothing out the creases in his clothes with automatic motions.

Silence hung between them, heavy and unrelenting.

Hermione crossed her arms, her gaze sharp as a blade.

“What are you doing here? How did you get here?”

Draco wanted to close the distance between them, to kiss her without a second thought, to feel the warmth of her skin against his. But he knew he couldn’t. Not with the way she was looking at him—like she was holding back something far more dangerous than anger.

Keeping her waiting was practically unforgivable. Maybe not to everyone, but certainly to him. He didn’t want to dwell on her irritation because, deep down, what really unsettled him was her disappointment.

“I’m guessing you waited for me at the cemetery.”

“Ten points to Slytherin,” Hermione said flatly, not bothering to hide her sarcasm.

Draco let out a slow breath, feeling the weight of guilt settle over him.

“I wanted to leave earlier, but only my father could turn a simple conversation into a never-ending monologue… and Professor Dumont encouraged it.”

The second the words left his mouth, he regretted them.

But not as much as Hermione did. Her eyes widened slightly, her expression hardening almost instantly.

“Aurélie?”

Silence stretched between them, thick with tension.

Draco forced himself to hold her gaze, even though every instinct screamed at him to look away.

“I didn’t know she’d be at the Manor,” he finally said, his voice more measured than he felt. “My mother invited her to spend the holidays with us.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes, scrutinizing him as if she were searching for the tiniest crack in his words. A chill ran down Draco’s spine.

“Well,” she murmured, her voice laced with something he couldn’t quite name. “How convenient.”

Draco frowned.

“What are you implying?”

Hermione shook her head, a tight, unreadable smile on her lips.

“Nothing. No point in talking about it, is there?”

A pang of unease settled in his chest, a mix of confusion and something far more unsettling. It wasn’t just about him being late. Not entirely.

“Hermione…”

“I don’t want to talk about you spending Christmas with her,” Hermione said, and though she tried to keep her voice steady, there was the faintest tremor in her tone.

Draco took a step toward her, but she immediately stepped back.

“Hermione, you know it means nothing…”

She looked at him then, and something in her expression made his breath catch. It wasn’t anger. Not entirely.

“Did it ever mean everything to you, Draco?”

Silence fell between them, thick and unyielding.

Draco didn’t know what else to say. He just wanted to hold her, to feel her against his chest and make her understand that she meant everything to him now. He had spent the entire day waiting to see her, longing for this moment, and nothing was going the way he had planned. But he wasn’t leaving without clearing things up, without fighting for her, even if the way Hermione was looking at him made him think that leaving him hanging from her windowsill wouldn’t have been a bad idea.

“It’s far too hypocritical of me to ask you to understand when I was the one who told you to stay away from Charlie Weasley.”

Hermione let out a short, dry laugh—completely devoid of humor.

“You said ‘any man,’ Draco.”

“I know what I said,” he exhaled in frustration, running a hand through his hair. “And now, Aurélie is in my own house.”

Hermione averted her gaze, her expression hardening as if trying to convince herself of something.

“It seems pretty clear to me. There’s nothing left to say.”

“Yes, there is. We need to talk about this.”

She shook her head, swallowing down the words that fought to escape. But then she looked at him again, her brown eyes searching his, perhaps for a truth she wasn’t ready to hear.

“If the situation were reversed, what would you do, Draco?”

The mere thought of Charlie being under the same roof as Hermione made his stomach turn. But what infuriated him the most was the truth—she had chosen not to spend the holidays at the Burrow for him. Not because she didn’t want to, but because she had wanted to spare him the discomfort that she was now feeling herself.

Draco closed his eyes for a moment and exhaled slowly.

“It would be unthinkable for me. You know I wouldn’t be able to handle it.”

Hermione tilted her head slightly, studying him, her voice softer now, but no less firm.

“Why?”

He wanted to answer without thinking. His first instinct, the most primal one, urged him to say that she was his, that she couldn’t be near anyone else because he wouldn’t allow it. But that wasn’t it. Or at least, not entirely.

Draco swallowed hard and looked at her, his face more open than he had ever allowed it to be.

“Because I know what it feels like to be close to you, Hermione,” he said, his voice rough, vulnerable. “Because I know the warmth in your voice when you talk about the things you love, because I’ve seen the way your eyes shine when you believe in someone. Because I know how easy it is to love you… and it terrifies me that someone else might realize it too.”

Hermione’s breath hitched, her body betraying her with the slightest shiver. Her lips parted, as if she was about to say something, but she didn’t.

And Draco knew, with absolute certainty, that she understood.

His confession hung in the air between them, fragile and raw. Hermione didn’t look away, but she didn’t say anything either. And Draco could only wonder if it was already too late.

“It’s not fair,” she finally said, her expression unreadable. “It’s not fair for me to ask you to understand when I never did.”

Draco frowned.

“What are you talking about?”

Hermione pressed her lips together. She didn’t want to say it. She didn’t want to admit that, deep down, a part of her understood all too well what he was feeling now.

“Charlie,” she whispered at last. “The way I was obsessed with him for years.”

Draco felt a sharp sting of jealousy crawl down his spine, but he swallowed it. This wasn’t the time.

“You’re telling me that what you felt for him was the same as what I felt for Aurélie?”

Hermione shook her head.

“I’m telling you that if you had asked me a year ago, I would have sworn Charlie was the only person I wanted to be with. And it wasn’t true.”

Draco watched her closely, catching the vulnerability in her voice, the weight of her words.

“What changed?”

She let out a breath, looking at him as if the answer was obvious.

“You.”

Something inside Draco loosened, as if an invisible knot in his chest had finally come undone.

“And you changed everything for me,” he whispered, stepping closer. “I’ve never told anyone else I was theirs, Hermione.”

Hermione closed her eyes for a moment, as if she were fighting something within herself. And when she opened them again, Draco knew she wouldn’t walk away.

Not this time.

He swallowed hard, lowering his gaze for a second before daring to say what he had never admitted—not even to himself.

“I think… no, I’m sure I’ve never belonged to anyone, Hermione. I only took. I only claimed. I never really cared. And even now…” He clenched his jaw. “That selfish, possessive feeling is still there. You know that. You can see it.”

His breathing was uneven, but his eyes held a kind of determination Hermione had never seen in him before.

“But I don’t want you to just belong to me,” he continued, his voice barely above a whisper. “I want you to choose me. Not because I force it, or because I want it so badly it hurts. I want you to want to be by my side. Because you prefer me—with my possessive jealousy, my pride, and all my arrogance, and despite the pact.”

Draco felt his chest tighten with a truth he had always avoided.

“And it terrifies me,” he admitted, his voice carrying a trace of bitterness. “It terrifies me that someone else might see what I see in you. Because I know I’d lose you.”

Hermione trembled slightly, but she didn’t look away.

“Because I don’t even deserve you,” his voice cracked at the end. “I don’t know if I could ever deserve you after the way I treated you for the last six years.”

For the first time in his life, Draco Malfoy wasn’t demanding. He wasn’t manipulating or staking a claim. He was offering himself.

And Hermione, with a lump in her throat, realized she had never truly known what she wanted… until now.

His confession took not only Hermione by surprise but also Draco himself, a wizard who had always been so proud. Saying it out loud made the weight of his feelings even heavier. He had waited so long for this—for something he once thought only Aurélie could give him. He had spent countless nights imagining this moment, rehearsing responses, convincing himself he didn’t need it. But he had never allowed himself to think about how easily Hermione could shatter him with just one word.

She looked at him with shining eyes, and Draco felt the ground vanish beneath his feet. Because she saw him. Truly saw him—without the masks, without the lies, without the armor he had built around himself for years.

And that terrified him.

Hermione took a step forward, and Draco felt his heart hammer against his ribs.

“Draco…” she whispered, her voice trembling with something he wasn’t ready to decipher.

He swallowed hard, unable to move away.

He didn’t know who closed the distance first—whether it was him, desperate to hold her, or her, finally letting all her walls come crashing down. The only thing that mattered was that, in the next moment, Hermione was in his arms, her fingers clutching his shirt as if letting go was never an option.

“Don’t ever say you don’t deserve me again,” she murmured against his neck, her voice breaking—shaking with something raw. “Don’t ever say I wouldn’t choose you.”

Draco shut his eyes tightly. The feel of her against him, her warmth, her scent—it was too much. It was everything.

He rested his forehead against hers, breathing her in like air after drowning.

“Say it, then,” he whispered, his hand sliding slowly down her back, holding her with barely restrained fervor. “Say it, and I swear I’ll never doubt it again.”

Hermione pulled back just enough to meet his gaze. Her pupils were blown wide, her expression fierce, and something about it made his blood burn.

“Yours,” she said, with a certainty that knocked the breath from his lungs. “Always yours.”

And Draco was lost.

Nothing else mattered. No more doubts, no more fears, no more hesitation. Just the sound of Hermione’s ragged breath as he cupped her face in his hands and kissed her with everything he had never allowed himself to feel until now.

There was no softness, no caution—only the desperate need to claim and be claimed, to prove that after everything, they were still here, choosing each other over and over again.

And this time, they knew.

It wasn’t because of the pact.

It was because of them.

The kiss wasn’t enough. It could never be enough.

Draco held her with the same desperation as a man clinging to his last hope at the edge of an abyss. His lips barely left hers before his hands slid down to her waist, as if he needed to feel her warmth, her presence—to make sure she was really there, that this wasn’t some fever dream woven from his own longing.

Hermione didn’t pull away. Instead, she looked at him with a tenderness that nearly undid him.

“Draco…” she whispered his name with a softness he knew he didn’t deserve.

He brushed his fingers along her cheek, as if she were something precious, something irreplaceable.

“Tell me you want this,” he murmured, his voice rough, unsteady.

Hermione’s lips curved into the smallest of smiles—one filled with love, with certainty. Her hands traveled slowly to the hem of his shirt, lifting it deliberately, as if savoring every second.

“I want this,” she said without hesitation.

And with those three words, Draco knew he was going to lose himself in her all over again.

Hermione pulled away just enough to turn toward the door, securing it with a soft click. Draco watched her do it with a mix of tenderness and growing desire. He saw her lean against the wood for the briefest moment, as if trying to steady herself beneath the weight of what was about to happen. Then, with quiet determination, she took his hand and led him toward the bed, drawing him into her silent resolve.

She lay back with effortless confidence, with a beauty that stole his breath. And only then, as the moonlight spilled through the window, illuminating her more clearly, did he notice.

Beneath her pajama top, deep blue lace peeked through the straps and neckline.

His breath caught.

She hadn’t taken it off.

Not because she hadn’t wanted him to see it… but because she hadn’t gotten the chance.

Draco nearly closed his eyes in frustration, imagining her waiting, wearing that for him. But the thought that truly shook him was another.

What if someone else had found her in the middle of the night? What if some stranger—like that damned Muggle he’d passed on the way back—had noticed her, alone, vulnerable? The very idea made his stomach twist. It made his blood burn.

And now she was here, lying beneath him, his in every way a soul could belong to another.

“Bloody hell, Hermione,” he murmured, his voice rough with reverence.

She blinked, not understanding at first. But when her gaze followed his, realization dawned, and the most beautiful blush spread across her cheeks.

Draco didn’t let her look away.

He leaned over her, bracing her between his arms, pressing soft kisses along her jaw, her neck, her collarbone—following the path of that maddening lace.

“You have no idea how beautiful you are,” he whispered against her skin, voice breaking.

Hermione shivered, her breath catching as her fingers dug into his back.

Draco wasn’t in a hurry. Not this time.

Tonight wasn’t about hunger or urgency, or proving to the world that they belonged to each other.

It was about them.

It was about every lingering touch, every shared breath, the way their bodies fit together so naturally that all the chaos surrounding them just moments ago faded away.

Draco loved her slowly, tenderly, with the kind of devotion only someone who had never truly had anything real could give.

And when their entwined hands finally fell to the sheets, when their breathing evened out and their bodies still sought each other even in the lull of exhaustion, he knew there had never been a moment more perfect than this.

Because there was no longer a pact.

Only them.

They fell asleep like that—fingers tangled, the silver glow of the moon casting soft shadows across their tired bodies.

But when the dawn painted the sky in warm golds and soft pinks, Draco woke first.

And he couldn’t stop looking at her.

Hermione slept soundly, her breath slow and even, her wild hair sprawled across the pillow, her hand still loosely holding his, as if even in sleep, she refused to let go.

Draco lifted his free hand, brushing a stray curl from her face, almost afraid of shattering the perfection of this moment. Was certain that nothing, not fate nor his own fears, would take him away from her side. No matter what happened, he wouldn’t let anything or anyone interfere with what he felt, because he knew, with overwhelming conviction, that his place was now beside her and that he would do whatever it took to stay there.

Chapter Text

Christmas at Malfoy Manor had never been festive.

There were no carefree laughs, no warm conversations. Only a display of power, of status, of traditions meticulously preserved over generations. At the main table, the porcelain dishes with silver detailing gleamed under the light of floating candelabras. The cutlery was perfectly aligned, and the air held a subtle scent of spices and mulled wine.

Draco sat with tense posture, shoulders rigid, jaw clenched. He knew that one wrong word could spark the explosion that would ruin the evening. But what truly gnawed at him was the presence of Aurélie, seated elegantly across from him, radiating that unwavering air of self-sufficiency.

She knew.
The whole school knew.

Draco had lost count of how many times, over the past few days, he’d felt her gaze fixed on him during dinner or the long conversations that followed. Her expression was never one of surprise—but rather a twisted sort of delight. She hadn’t said anything… yet. But he sensed the latent threat in every word exchanged between them.

And now, here she was, at Christmas dinner, playing her favorite game: the slow torture of uncertainty.

It was Lucius who finally broke the silence, his tone cold and unmistakably haughty.

“Curious how some families can destroy generations of lineage with a single poor decision,” he said, elegantly swirling the wine in his glass. His gaze slowly shifted to Aurélie, who smiled with that studied serenity she wore whenever she was preparing for a calculated strike.

“Oh, yes…” she replied, exhaling with disdain. “My father was… reckless. He believed Muggles could be useful. That their money held the same value as ours.”

Draco felt a knot form in his stomach.

“Davet was far too naïve, really,” Lucius let out a dry laugh, clearly relishing in someone else's disgrace. “How humiliating.”

Aurélie didn’t respond right away. She simply lowered her gaze to her plate, letting her fingers glide along the rim of her glass.

“Muggles did what they do best,” she continued calmly. “Steal. Lie. Destroy. My father never recovered from that mistake. And we…” —her eyes flicked briefly to Draco— “learned that mingling with their world only leads to ruin.”

The comment struck with surgical precision.

Aurélie lifted her glass to her lips, savoring the moment. Draco knew she wouldn’t say anything outright—but she was making it very clear that she could, anytime she pleased.

Lucius nodded slowly, as though the conversation only confirmed what he had always believed.

“Your father’s mistake, Miss Dumont, was trusting them. You cannot expect honor from inferior creatures. It’s like trying to civilize house-elves. A waste of time and resources.”

Narcissa, silent until that moment, traced the edge of her plate with graceful fingers. Though she didn’t contradict her husband, Draco noticed the slight squeeze in the napkin she held.

Aurélie shifted slightly toward him.

“I suppose you understand what I mean, Draco. You, more than anyone, should know.”

Her tone was casual, but he felt the trap hidden in every syllable.

And then, his mind betrayed him.

Because he remembered.

He remembered earlier that very day.

He had visited Hermione’s house, right in the heart of Muggle London. He knew she’d never ask him to come—her pride was as fierce as his own—but one of the nights he had shown up in her bedroom unannounced (something he did every night, actually, a habit Hermione had tried to break with threats, spells, and a flying pillow), he had overheard a conversation he wasn’t meant to hear.

That time, they had almost been caught.

He had stayed hidden inside the wardrobe, squeezed between a coat and some ridiculously short summer dresses that sparked all sorts of improper thoughts, cloaked under a rushed “Notice-Me-Not” charm cast by Hermione.

From there, trapped and ready to apparate if needed, he listened as Mrs. Granger spoke to her daughter.

“Herms, remember what you promised? You said you’d introduce us to that boy.”

Draco’s chest swelled with pride.

She was talking about him.

About him—not some other idiot who’d tried to kiss her in the corridors.

That pride lasted exactly two seconds.

“I want to meet him. You seem too excited about him. That boy you once mentioned—McCormac?”

“Cormac McLaggen, mother,” Hermione corrected her.

“That one. You never even mentioned him, actually—I only knew about him because Harry brought him up when he was here. And you certainly never let us meet him.”

McLaggen.

Draco felt a cold stab in his gut. Of course that grinning, empty-headed gorilla had to make an appearance in the middle of his memory.

When they finally escaped the situation without being discovered, and Hermione mocked his “inability to hide among women’s clothes,” he didn’t miss the opportunity to throw a jab.

“Well, Granger,” he said, dragging the words with theatrical disdain, “I am your boyfriend. Not some temporary distraction like that poor idiot McLaggen. Or are you planning to keep me as a dirty little secret too?”

Hermione looked at him, unbothered. That expression of hers—half infinite patience, half you’re walking on thin ice—amused him more than it should have.

“The difference, Draco,” she said calmly, “is that you sneak into my room like a thief on the run. Maybe McLaggen would’ve had the decency to knock.”

“Right. Maybe because he didn’t know how to apparate with style.”

Surprisingly, she didn’t argue further.

The following night, with one eyebrow raised and her hair still damp from a shower, she asked if he’d be free for tea with her parents on Christmas Eve.

Draco didn’t hesitate.

“As long as your father doesn’t try to shoot me in the back with one of those Muggle contraptions, I’d be delighted.”

Narcissa helped him sneak out that afternoon. She pretended to need him for a personal matter, gracefully freeing him from the suffocating presence of his “special guest”—and sent him off before Lucius could notice his absence.

Draco wasn’t sure how much risk his mother took with that lie, but he thanked her in silence. While he was off attending his first tea with the Grangers, Narcissa waited patiently at Aunt Andromeda’s house, under the guise of a formal visit.

Before he left, his mother walked him to the front hall, adjusted the collar of his coat, and looked at him as if he were five years old again.

“Don’t forget your manners, Draco. You’re not just a Malfoy. You’re also my son… and that makes you a gentleman.”

He nodded. And for the first time in a long time, he didn’t reply with sarcasm.

Snow was falling softly onto the pavement when Draco appeared at the end of the street. For a moment, he doubted that this row of identical houses could contain anything remotely resembling a home. But he walked forward with steady steps, his black coat buttoned to the neck, and his silver scarf perfectly in place. He was a Malfoy. But also, that afternoon, he was just a boy trying to make a good impression.

Hermione opened the door before he could ring the bell.

"You made it," she said with a smile that melted the cold right off his shoulders. She wore a wine-colored jumper, and her hair fell around her face in charming disarray.

"Were you expecting I wouldn’t?" he replied with a half-smile. Hermione gave him a sideways glance.

"I was expecting you not to show up directly in the living room."

"I figured your parents weren't quite ready to witness magic in its most elegant form," he said, raising an eyebrow.

Hermione let out a nervous laugh.

"Behave."

"I’ll do my best."

She took his hand before he could say anything else. As he stepped over the threshold, Draco felt as if he were entering another world. There was something warm about the house: the furniture was simple but inviting, the lighting was soft. A Christmas tree decorated with handmade ornaments stood in the corner. The air smelled of cinnamon and freshly baked bread.

"Mum, Dad... this is Draco," Hermione said, a hint of pride in her voice.

Mr. Granger stood up from the armchair. He wore a grey sweater and an unreadable expression.

"Draco," he repeated, as if tasting the name in his mouth. He said it like someone appraising a wine far too expensive for his taste. Then he extended his hand.

Draco hesitated only a fraction of a second before shaking it.

"Mr. Granger. It’s a pleasure."

Mrs. Granger was warmer. She greeted him with a genuine smile.

"So you're the famous... young man. I've been wanting to put a face to the boy who shows up at my house unannounced," she joked.

Draco smiled, though slightly uneasy.

"I assure you, that won’t happen again. Hermione made that very clear."

"I wouldn’t be surprised," Mr. Granger said, sitting back down. There was something sharp in his gaze, like he was trying to see what lay beneath the polished accent and perfect posture.

Hermione led them to the sitting room, where a tray of tea, homemade biscuits, and an apple cake awaited.

Draco sat down without touching anything yet. He was observing. The tea set wasn’t porcelain, and the cutlery wasn’t aligned with magical precision. No elves were serving. But there was something different. Something warm.

"Sugar?" Mrs. Granger asked.

"Yes, thank you." Draco picked up the teaspoon, a little awkwardly, holding it like a delicate war relic.

Hermione noticed. So did he. A smile slipped out.

"It’s just a spoon, Draco. It’s not going to hex you."

Mr. Granger raised an eyebrow.

"So tell me, Draco. What do you do when you're not… making unexpected nighttime visits to my daughter?"

Hermione nearly spat out her tea.

"Dad..."

Draco met the man’s gaze with the same steadiness he used when facing Lucius.

"I study, sir. Top marks in Arithmancy, Transfiguration, Potions, and Charms. And I take care of your daughter as best I can, though that’s not always easy. She’s got quite a spirit." He shot Hermione a playful glance.

Mr. Granger seemed to bite back a smile. But he wasn’t letting up.

"And what are your intentions with my daughter, if it's not too bold to ask?"

"All the good ones," Draco replied without hesitation. "And a few quite serious ones."

The silence that followed was short, but heavy. Mrs. Granger glanced at her husband with a raised brow, as if silently scolding him for treating the boy like one of his difficult patients.

At last, she sighed and turned to Draco with a more genuine smile.

"Tell me, Draco... can you cook?"

Hermione blinked.

"Mum!"

"What? It’s important. I don’t want my daughter starving when she falls madly in love with someone who thinks kitchens clean themselves."

Draco raised an amused eyebrow. He wasn’t easily offended; Muggles had a peculiar way of handling things, and that unexpected bluntness… well, it was refreshing.

"I can make tea, Mrs. Granger. Using the traditional house-elf method... with supervision, of course. And I can peel apples with my wand. Does that count?"

Mrs. Granger let out a hearty laugh.

"That, Hermione, is a sign there’s still hope."

Hermione rolled her eyes, trying not to smile. Draco maintained his composure as if he were in front of a jury, but she could see the faint gleam in his eyes every time her mother laughed at his comments.

"I’m not opposed to learning, by the way," he added. "Especially anything your daughter likes. So if you have a family recipe, I volunteer as a test subject. Even if it means crying over chopped onions."

Mrs. Granger gave him an approving smile, as if Draco had just passed the first part of an unspoken exam.

"Good. So you’re willing to get your hands dirty. That’s something."

Mr. Granger, who had been silently observing the scene like reviewing X-rays, leaned forward.

"Tell me, Draco. What do you think your parents would say if they knew... about this?"

Hermione held her breath.

Draco held his gaze without flinching.

"My father..." —he took a second before continuing— "would probably disapprove. Strongly. He believes in paths that shouldn't cross, in traditions that shouldn’t be broken."

"And you?" Mrs. Granger asked softly.

"I believe my father lives in a world that’s falling apart. And if you don’t know when to change… you end up alone in the ruins."

There was a pause.

"My mother, on the other hand," he added, more calmly, "she’s harder to read. But I have a suspicion... that she might like Hermione. Perhaps more than she’d admit. They’re both just as bossy."

Mrs. Granger nodded, laughing as if she approved of both the answer and the calm way it was delivered.

"Well. You’re more mature than you look, and you seem to know Hermione quite well," she said, without sarcasm.

Draco gave a slight nod.

"Thank you. I try not to look it too often. Strategy."

Mr. Granger smiled, and for the first time, he seemed slightly more at ease.

They drank tea while Draco quietly marveled at every detail the Grangers shared in their private world.

"Thank you for coming, Draco."

Draco stood with him and shook his hand firmly.

"Thank you for having me. It was an honor."

When Hermione walked him to the back entrance of the small garden —a spot hidden among shrubs where he’d arrived discreetly and from which he’d walk to a safe point to Apparate— Draco leaned down and whispered:

"Your parents are lovely. Clearly the logical side of your inheritance."

"And the emotional side?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.

"That’s what I claim for myself these days."

Hermione smiled, and just as she turned to leave, he caught her in a swift, fleeting kiss. When he turned away, she stopped him with a gentle tug on his sleeve.

"Thank you for coming, Draco."

He turned back, looked at her for a moment, then pulled a small folded note from his pocket. He placed it in her hand.

“Tell me your favorite food. I want to learn how to make it.”

And with that, he walked into the darkness, vanishing among the trees.

Hermione closed the door with her heart pounding like a badly cast charm. He wasn’t perfect. He wasn’t easy. But, Merlin... he was real.

The silverware still shone flawlessly under the floating chandeliers, as if nothing had happened. As if the air wasn’t heavy with barely-contained electricity. Draco had barely touched his plate since returning from Hermione’s memory.

Aurélie was still watching him.

Aware of it, Draco set down his fork with deliberate slowness and turned his head toward her, as if granting her attention she didn’t deserve.

“Well, Professor Dumont,” he murmured, wearing a lazy smile. “Such a tragedy about your father. It must’ve been hard—having a Muggle outsmart your entire bloodline.”

The blow was veiled in politeness. The silence that followed was absolute.

Narcissa didn’t lift her gaze, but her napkin slipped almost imperceptibly through her fingers, as if holding the tension before it shattered.

Aurélie didn’t respond immediately. Instead of taking offense, she lowered her eyes to her wine glass, swirled it slowly, then looked at him with a curiously soft expression.

“You’re usually more tactful at school, Draco. Though I admit, I prefer you like this… unpredictable,” she said, with a hint of irony and a trace of nostalgia. “It reminds me of the boy who didn’t need anyone—because he already believed he was better than everyone else.”

Draco kept his smile, tilting it ever so slightly.

“And you, just like back in school, still know how to wrap insults in compliments. It’s adorable.”

“Insults?” Aurélie laughed gently, brushing her neck with a hand in a gesture as rehearsed as it was effective. “I’m only talking about how much you’ve changed. I’m surprised… but I like it. You seem less restrained. Freer.”

The comment was gentle, but sharp enough to make Lucius narrow his eyes ever so slightly.

“Free?” Lucius echoed, turning his head very slowly toward his son. “And what chains, exactly, are we referring to?”

Aurélie took a sip, as if unaware of the weight of her own words.

“Oh, you know, Mr. Malfoy… those modern influences so abundant at Hogwarts. Curious company. Inconvenient conversations. Magic that smells… different.”

The air grew thick.

Draco placed his fork on the plate with a dry clink. Then he leaned back with nonchalance, as if untouched by any of it.

“Are you implying something, Professor Dumont?”

“Of course not,” she said quickly, with a warm smile. “I’m merely saying… there’s no need to fear the new. After all, not everything impure is unpleasant. Isn’t that right?”

Lucius frowned slightly. Draco caught, from the corner of his eye, his father scrutinizing him. But he also felt the quiet support of Narcissa, who now twirled her glass with the same calm she wore when things were beneath her.

Draco leaned toward Aurélie, his tone soft now, venomous.

“Are you offering me your understanding, Professor Dumont? Because let me make one thing clear: a Malfoy doesn’t need it.”

She smiled. Sweetly. Poisonously. And Lucius, regaining his composure, seemed almost satisfied with his son’s defiant pride.

“I’m offering my friendship, Draco. You might need it… if you’re keeping questionable company.”

Lucius straightened ever so slightly. He didn’t speak, but his gaze never left his son.

Draco, however, seemed unfazed. He simply reclined again, lifting the glass in front of him.

“We’ll see who needs whom,” he said coolly before taking a long, icy sip. “If I’m not mistaken, you needed my mother’s recommendation—a Malfoy’s—to get your foot in the door.”

Aurélie lowered her gaze and smiled with satisfaction. Lucius said nothing, but the moment had been noted.

And Narcissa… only glanced sideways at her son, with a look Draco knew well. A warning, yes. But also veiled pride.

He was gaining ground. Even if it meant declaring war on his own table.

The evening dragged torturously slow for Draco. He hadn’t planned to appear at Hermione’s room, but the urge to do so kept him wide awake. When he finally retreated to his quarters, sometime past midnight, he began undressing in silence… until the door swung open without warning.

Aurélie walked in without knocking.

“Anyone would think you were getting ready for bed, Draco.”

He turned coldly, wand still in hand.

“Is there something you need, Professor? I’d say yes—urgently—seeing as you didn’t bother to knock. And I must say I deeply dislike being intruded upon in my private quarters.”

Aurélie gave him a sideways smile, delicate and dripping with venom.

“Just a few months ago, things might’ve been different. I’m quite sure of it.”

“I don’t know what you mean, Professor Dumont,” Draco replied, voice ice-cold, “and I’d appreciate it if you left my room. Immediately.”

But Aurélie didn’t move. Instead, she stepped closer, slow and calculated, as if her footsteps could break past his walls. She stopped in front of him—too close.

“I’m talking about that box you kept in your school trunk. The one with my clippings in it.”

Draco’s brow twitched ever so slightly. Shit.

“I wasn’t aware professors were allowed to snoop through students’ belongings without permission. Coming from someone who boasts such refined manners… I find it rather vulgar, actually.”

Aurélie smiled, unaffected.

“That doesn’t answer the real question, Draco. What were those clippings doing there?”

Draco said nothing. He stood still, unmoving, even as Aurélie looped her arms around his neck. He knew he should push her away, do something—anything—but some foolish, primitive part of him wanted to see how far she was willing to go.

“You’re far too close, Professor Dumont. I doubt this behavior is sanctioned by Professor Weasley.”

Aurélie chuckled, low and dry.

“Professor Weasley doesn’t need to know. Neither does Miss Granger.”

Draco raised an eyebrow, feigning curiosity. “Oh, really?”

“Indeed,” she said, with a triumphant smile. “It can be our little secret. You know I’m good at keeping them. As you’ve already discovered.”

Draco studied her for a moment. Then he raised a hand and took her chin between his fingers, pulling her just a little closer—close enough to hear him clearly.

“I know. And that’s exactly why it disgusts me.”

He pushed her back gently, just enough to create distance. Then, hands in his pockets, he leaned against the desk.

“We both know what that box meant. And just this once, I’ll overlook your recklessness. But let me make something perfectly clear: a Malfoy doesn’t appreciate having his privacy violated. I won’t speak a word of this—of either matter—but know that the box and its contents were reduced to ash by my wand. Nothing remains.”

Aurélie smiled again, but something in her expression cracked. She pretended not to hear, as if she could still win.

“Ashes can reignite embers, Draco.”

“I assure you, Professor Dumont—those embers were scattered to the wind.”

A beat of silence. Then a bitter spark lit in Aurélie’s eyes.

“It’s fascinating how those filthy Muggles can deceive. But I never imagined a Malfoy could be so easily manipulated.”

Draco scoffed.

“You can believe whatever you like, Professor. The time when your opinion mattered to me ended months ago. Now, for the third and final time: get out of my sight.”

Aurélie looked at him for a few seconds longer. This time, she said nothing. She didn’t cause a scene. She simply turned on her heel, head held high, steps elegant—almost triumphant. But inside, the truth was different.

She wouldn’t have him. She never really had.

She had felt a spark of power over him the moment she discovered those clippings—when she realized Draco was slipping away and his attention was shifting to Hermione Granger.

And only now, seeing Draco unshaken in front of her, did she grasp the true magnitude of her loss.

The door clicked shut behind her.

Aurélie’s heels struck the marble with a quick, precise rhythm. She wasn’t running. She wasn’t trembling. She wasn’t crying. But inside… she was boiling.

She stopped at the end of the corridor and braced both hands against the wall, fighting the urge to scream. Her heart pounded in her throat, her temples, in every cursed fingertip. So that was it? Just like that?

Was her hold over him truly gone?

Draco Malfoy—the arrogant boy who couldn’t keep his eyes off her even when pretending not to care—had just thrown her out of his room like some random intruder. The years she’d had him under her thumb, the gestures, the unspoken words, the box of memories that betrayed him more than any confession—they meant nothing now.

No.

Now she—Hermione Granger—was the woman who stirred his voice. His fury. His rejection.

And Aurélie knew it with a bone-deep certainty:

Draco no longer desired her.

And there was no greater insult.

In the end, Draco decided to break the promise he had made to Hermione’s parents. He Apparated into her room in the early hours of the morning, his heart beating faster than he would ever admit.

She was fast asleep, hair a tangled mess of gold and brown sprawled across the pillow, breathing with the peace of someone who believed she was safe. He sat on the far edge of the bed, careful not to make a sound, but even that slight movement was enough to wake Hermione.

She blinked slowly, and when she saw him, she didn’t say a word. She simply smiled—soft and warm, the kind of smile that disarmed every defense. With a flick of her wand, she cast the protective charm on the door, an instinct by now, and shifted to the side, making room for him.

Draco took off his shoes, then his jacket and tie, in silence. He slipped under the covers beside her as though it were the only place he could breathe.

Still drowsy, Hermione moved closer to him with the ease of someone who had done it a hundred times before. As if her body recognized his even in sleep. Draco closed his eyes for a moment, ran a hand down his face, exhausted, holding back everything he didn’t know how to say.

“What happened?” she asked softly, using that tone she reserved for the moments when she could tell something was wrong. That voice that wrapped around him like calm itself.

He shook his head without opening his eyes.

“Nothing worth remembering.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow, unconvinced, but didn’t press. Instead, she slid her hand across the sheets until she found his, lacing their fingers together like she knew exactly what he needed.

“I know you, Draco. When you purse your lips like that, it’s because someone’s pissed you off.”

He let out a short, rough laugh and gave her hand a small squeeze.

“Only when I purse my lips? I’m flattered. I thought I annoyed you most of the time.”

“Mmm…” she hummed, a sleepy little smile playing on her lips. “You annoy me ninety percent of the time. But right now, you’re in the remaining ten.”

Draco opened his eyes and looked at her. With just that small gesture, without even trying, she erased the entire night. His hands still trembled on the inside, but his gaze softened.

“I don’t want to talk about it right now,” he said finally. “I just want to be here.”

She didn’t ask again. She didn’t demand explanations. She just rested her head on his shoulder in a gesture full of quiet intimacy. As if she knew that, in that moment, her presence alone was enough to hold him together.

Draco felt her warm breath through his shirt. And for the first time all night, the world stopped spinning. There was no Aurelie. No Lucius. No weight of legacy or expectations or memories threatening to drown him. There was only her. Hermione. And peace.

“You know,” she whispered, barely audible, “I think this might be the best Christmas gift.”

He tilted his head, curious.

“What is?”

She shrugged, still nestled against his chest, that sleepy little smile stealing the air from his lungs.

“This. That no matter what happens, we always find our way back to each other.”

Something tightened in his chest. Not pain. Something better. Deeper. Like his soul had known that truth long before she spoke it aloud.

He looked at her and lowered his forehead to rest against hers. His lips brushed her nose in an unconscious gesture.

“Yeah…” he murmured. “I think so too.”

Because when they were alone, and the world was reduced to a shared space and a whispered truth, nothing else mattered.

He tightened his fingers around hers and closed his eyes. Just for tonight, just in this moment, nothing else mattered. Not the names. Not the rules. Not the threats.

The only real thing was her.

Draco found peace. Not in his name, not in his inheritance, not in the endless rules that had shaped him since childhood.

He found it in Hermione’s arms, where the world became a distant murmur and the future, a truce worth hoping for.

Hermione squeezed his hand a little tighter, and without needing any more words, Draco knew. No matter what the world said, no matter what poison others tried to spread between them—this was real.

And though he would never say it aloud, he knew Hermione was right: there was no greater Christmas gift than being together.

And no greater punishment than imagining a world where he couldn’t be.

Because not everything that burns leaves ashes… sometimes it just reveals what was real, and what was only smoke. And in the house of Malfoy, one woman walked away without glory, and another—without legacy—became everything an heir could ever want.

Chapter Text

The air smelled of freshly lit firewood and frozen earth. Hermione appeared right at the edge of the stone path leading to the Burrow, wrapped in her mustard coat, her hair tied up in a practical bun. In the distance, two figures stood out against the frost.

Harry was the first to speak.

“Well, the real dragon tamer has arrived,” he said with a half-smile, arms crossed, his hat tilted slightly to the side.

“I thought you weren’t coming,” Ron added, in that gruff-meets-playful tone he used when he didn’t know how to show affection without sounding soft.

“I came early to help with dinner,” Hermione replied, approaching them. “Molly asked me to check on the cranberry sauce before Charlie ruins it again.”

“As if that could be avoided,” Harry muttered.

Without warning, Ron placed a rectangular package in her hands, wrapped in black paper with shimmering metallic details.

“This is for you,” he said in a lower voice.

Hermione raised an eyebrow at him.

“Since when do you wrap gifts like cursed artifacts?”

“Since you started dating one,” Harry replied flatly.

Hermione let out a dry laugh.

“How thoughtful.”

“To match your aesthetic with Malfoy’s,” Ron added, flashing a crooked grin. “Don’t worry. He barely bites. Anymore.”

Hermione unwrapped the package carefully. Inside was a dark leather notebook, with the initials H.G. enchanted in a way that made them only visible under certain light. On the first page, a handwritten note read:

“For the things you can’t say out loud.”

Hermione blinked. For a second, the sarcasm caught in her throat.

“Guys… it’s perfect.”

“Thanks for the gloves,” Harry said quickly, changing the subject. “They’re better than the ones the team gave us. Ron wouldn’t even take his off during dinner last night.”

“I had to break them in,” Ron grumbled, but he was smiling.

Hermione hugged them both. Just a second. No more. Just enough to remember who they were, who they had been, and why they would always come back to this.

“Come on,” Harry said. “The family’s waiting. And so is the main event.”

“The main event?”

“Charlie’s in the kitchen. Making his ‘grand return,’” Ron said, air-quoting with his fingers. “Better hurry if you want to dodge the awkward moment.”

“Or not,” Hermione said, straightening up. “Maybe it’s time I stop dodging anything.”

Charlie stirred the pot with a wooden spoon as if his life depended on keeping the sauce at the right temperature. Molly bustled behind him, organizing dishes, spells, and shouts with her usual expert precision.

“For Merlin’s sake, Charlie, don’t burn it this time,” she scolded without even glancing up. “And don’t forget—the mint goes at the end, not the beginning.”

“Yes, Mum.”

But his attention wasn’t on the mint. Or the sauce. Or even the warming charm keeping the rolls fresh. It was on the sound of footsteps in the hall. That voice.

Hermione.

She entered wearing the scarf her mother had knitted for her and with her hair neater than usual. She greeted Molly with a soft smile and set her bag down by the pantry like it was any other day. Like nothing was different.

But Charlie stood frozen for a moment.

He watched her grab a spoon and approach the pot confidently. She examined the contents, wrinkled her nose, murmured something about proportions. And all of it without even looking at him. As if he were just another piece of furniture.

Since when?

Since when did she move like that, so sure of herself? Since when was it impossible to ignore the color of her mouth when she tasted the sauce?

He felt stupid. Uncomfortable.

The last time Ginny had hinted that Hermione might look at him differently, he’d laughed it off.

“I could never see her like that,” he’d told her, scraping grass off his boots. “She’s Hermione. She’s like you, Gin.”

But now...

Now Hermione moved through that kitchen like she knew exactly who she was. And she didn’t need him. She wasn’t looking for him.

And he—who had always treated her like a younger sister—was suddenly wondering why he remembered so clearly that summer afternoon when she’d looked at him nervously while he carved a broomstick in the garden. Why that look had followed him silently for months.

And why the hell am I thinking about this when Aurélie makes everything else feel like mist?

Why is it only now, when I’m finally starting to figure things out with her, that I realize I’ve seen Hermione all wrong this whole time?

Molly left the kitchen, leaving them alone.

Hermione didn’t seem to notice. She was testing the sauce with the back of the spoon. She licked her lips, thoughtful, then held the spoon out to Charlie without even glancing at him.

“Want to try?”

He took it, a bit clumsily. Tasted it. He couldn’t taste a thing.

“It’s perfect,” he said, though it wasn’t true. Though he couldn’t think straight.

Hermione nodded and started rummaging through the spice rack in silence. As if there was nothing left to say between them. As if there had never been anything at all.

And maybe, Charlie thought, that was true. Maybe everything they hadn’t said in years had already been said in silence.

Minutes passed, the rhythm of the kitchen lulling into something that felt final.

Charlie didn’t know why he did it. Maybe it was the silence, or the scent of cinnamon that always made him nostalgic. Or maybe it was just the fact that Hermione no longer seemed to need any explanations.

But still, he looked for them.

“And you… are you okay with all of this?”

Hermione turned slightly, pulling a tray of rolls out of the oven with a charm. She glanced over her shoulder.

“All of this… what?”

He wanted to ask about their non-existent relationship, the one that never was. But he deflected—toward something else that was still very much on his mind.

“With Malfoy,” he said plainly, letting the name drop between them like a stone.

She blinked, but didn’t respond right away. Charlie kept talking, as if the words had a will of their own.

“It’s just… I didn’t expect it. You two don’t seem…” He hesitated, searching for a word that wouldn’t sound cruel. “Compatible.”

Hermione tilted her head, leaning against the table.

“Compatible how?”

“He comes from a family that won’t easily accept you. You know what the Malfoys think. What they’ve always thought. And you…” Charlie clenched his jaw. “You’re brilliant, Hermione. One of the strongest, most extraordinary people I know. You deserve someone who respects you completely. Someone who doesn’t have to fight who you are just to love you.”

Hermione looked at him in silence. There was no sweetness left in her expression.

“And what makes you think Draco doesn’t respect me?”

Charlie lowered his eyes, uncomfortable.

“I just think… there are wizards out there who’d be proud to stand beside you. Without the burden… of a bloodline like his.”

Hermione crossed her arms. Her voice didn’t waver.

“You know what’s funny? That you’re the one saying this now. I’m not naïve, Charlie. I know Ginny told you what she suspected I felt about you. So I find it ridiculous that you—who never saw me as anything more than your little sister’s friend, who only noticed me once I stopped being available—are the one saying all this now.”

“It’s not that,” Charlie said, though even he didn’t sound convinced.

“Then what? Are you upset that someone like Draco Malfoy—the last person anyone would’ve expected, especially by your standards—sees me in a way no one else ever has? Why should it bother you that he sees me, when you never did?”

Charlie swallowed hard, unsure what to say.

Hermione continued, gentler now, but with the same edge in her voice.

“I don’t need someone to allow me into their world, Charlie. Least of all someone to accept me. Draco loves me as I am. And if his family doesn’t get it, that’s his battle. Not mine.”

Charlie nodded, speechless. For the first time, Hermione wasn’t speaking to him as the clever girl who used to cook beside him in silence. She was speaking as a woman. One who wasn’t asking for permission to stay.

Hermione took a deep breath, grabbed the tray of rolls, and before leaving the kitchen, said without looking back:

“Thanks for caring. But I’m no longer the girl who looked at you from the garden, Charlie. And you… you’re not who I thought you were.”

Charlie stood frozen, feeling the weight of all that hadn’t been said—and all that had been said too late.

Hermione had just crossed the threshold with the tray when his voice stopped her. Quieter. Real.

“Hermione… wait.”

She paused. Closed her eyes for a beat, then turned around.

Charlie hadn’t moved from his place by the stove. He looked larger in the small kitchen, as if the ceiling had dropped closer. But his eyes were different now—not proud, not judging. Just honest.

“I didn’t want it to end like that,” he said. “Not with you.”

Hermione clutched the tray against her chest. It wasn’t a shield, but it almost was.

“Then say it right.”

Charlie nodded slowly. Took one step toward her. And this time, his voice was stripped of bravado, stripped of weight.

“I’m sorry. Really. I was wrong to talk about him like that. I don’t know him, not like you do. And I guess… it scared me a little to see how much you’ve changed. How much you’ve grown—without me noticing.”

Hermione lowered the tray gently onto the counter. She stepped closer. Fearless.

“I’ve grown, yeah. But not alone. Draco…”—she paused, searching for the right word—“Draco’s been a sort of distorted mirror. He’s forced me to see myself differently. He’s shown me things I didn’t know I needed to see.”

Charlie listened, silent.

“He’s not perfect. He’s had his battles, like me. But he doesn’t ask me to shrink myself to fit into his world. He challenges me. He admires me. And… in his own way, he loves me.”

Charlie nodded, jaw tight. And then Hermione offered the faintest smile—one meant to close the circle gently, not wound.

“He’s a smart man,” she said. “Remember who his tutor was. A witch I know you admire quite a bit.”

Charlie let out a soft, resigned laugh. Dropped his head and shook it slowly.

“Aurélie… yeah. She’s got a mind sharp as a blade. Sometimes I think she can read me with just a look.”

“She probably can,” Hermione said.

They both laughed quietly, no tension, just mutual understanding.

“I guess that’s what exceptional people do,” Charlie said.

“Challenge you,” Hermione replied, gently.

They held each other’s gaze for one last moment. It wasn’t awkward. It didn’t hurt.

Hermione picked up the tray again and headed for the door. This time, Charlie didn’t stop her.

“Thank you,” he said, just as she crossed the threshold, “for still being you.”

“And you,” she said, without turning around, “for becoming you again.”

Charlie remained in the kitchen, alone with the mint, the steam, and a smile that wasn’t quite happy—but it was real.

The fireplace crackled softly in the reading room of the Nott Manor, casting golden shadows across the endless bookshelves. Draco removed his gloves slowly, watching as Theo poured two glasses of fig liqueur without needing to ask. That had always been something Draco both admired—and feared—about Theo: his unnerving ability to sense what others were feeling without a single word spoken.

“So you’re going,” Draco said, accepting the glass.

“Ginny insisted,” Theo replied plainly. “She wants me to meet her parents officially. Apparently, I matter.”

Draco glanced sideways at him, leaning against the mantel.

“And you feel the same?”

Theo thought for a second. He didn’t say it with arrogance or insecurity—just the quiet certainty of someone who’d been alone far too long.

“Yes. I’m with her. For real.”

Draco didn’t respond immediately. He took a sip of the liqueur, letting the strong, spiced flavor burn down his throat.

“You never said you were officially seeing her.”

“We weren’t. Not until recently,” Theo replied, settling into one of the deep green velvet armchairs. “But Ginny isn’t one to hide. She asked for clarity—and I gave it to her.”

Draco raised an eyebrow, mildly surprised.

“And the Weasleys? Haven’t said anything?”

Theo smiled, but without malice.

“I’ve been an orphan since I was fifteen, Draco. The Ministry managed my estate until I turned seventeen a few months ago. There’s no one left to dictate who I can or can’t be with. And if the Weasleys are uncomfortable with it… well, that’s their right. But I’m not going to hide because of the name I carry.”

Draco nodded in silence. He knew that line was meant for him, too.

“So, you’ll go as…?”

“I’ll go as what I am. Her boyfriend,” Theo said without drama.

Draco rolled the glass between his fingers, weighing his words.

“Hermione will be there. And so will Charlie.”

“That bothers you?”

“I trust her. But I don’t like what he represents. Familiar. Simple. Safe. Predictable.”

Theo studied him quietly.

“And you’re none of those things.”

“I am what we were taught to be, Theo. What we were taught to love—and destroy—with the same hands. I’m not easy. But I’m hers.”

Theo raised his glass in mock salute and nodded softly, then set it down.

“Then come. But not as a ghost or a shadow. Come as who you are to her.”

Draco pressed his lips together, then admitted:

“I’m not invited.”

Theo smiled with that charmingly dangerous expression he wore like armor.

“Molly Weasley is a deeply decent woman. She’d feed a murderer if he looked cold enough. She’ll serve you soup, say you look thinner than last time, and make you have seconds.”

“And Ron Weasley will kill me with his eyes,” Draco muttered.

“Yes,” Theo said, grinning slyly. “But Molly will probably smack him for being rude.”

Draco couldn’t help but let out a brief, dry laugh—the first of the day.

“All right,” he said, placing his glass back on the mantel. “Let’s go have dinner with the Weasleys.”

Theo glanced at him while adjusting his gloves.

“And how are things back at Malfoy Manor… with your charming guest?”

Draco shrugged, feigning indifference.

“I don’t care. My mother was the one who suggested I spend the day here. Said I could use some fresh air.”

“How thoughtful of her,” Theo murmured, raising an eyebrow.

“Strategic, really. She’s the only one who can manage her without losing her mind. I’d rather stay out of it.”

“I admit, I’m surprised she supports you.”

“Before she was a Malfoy or a Black, she was my mother.”

Theo didn’t reply. The silence, though uncomfortable, said enough—it echoed just how lonely he still felt, even when surrounded by family.

He walked toward the fireplace and, just before grabbing a handful of Floo powder, turned back to Draco.

“Oh, and one more thing,” he added while fastening his cloak. “Try not to look like you’re there to claim the estate. Just a bit less aristocrat than usual.”

Draco lifted his chin.

“This is my humble state.”

“We’re screwed, then,” Theo muttered.

And with that, Draco followed him into the flames.

Diagon Alley

Diagon Alley was unusually lively for Christmas. Enchanted streetlamps twinkled with golden and white lights, and a gentle magical snowfall drifted over the shops. Theo and Draco walked beneath Madame Primpernelle’s awning, carrying several bags, each marked with the unmistakable flourish of expensive, over-the-top holiday spending.

“That one for Ginny?” Draco asked, nodding toward a long, narrow box.

“No. It’s for Percy,” Theo answered without hesitation. “Ginny’s gift’s been ready for weeks.”

“And that?” Draco asked, lifting his chin toward a parcel wrapped in slate-blue paper.

“Fred and George. I got them a subscription to Forbidden Potions Quarterly. Full access to ingredients banned in Hogwarts. They’re going to love me.”

Draco raised an eyebrow.

“And Ron? A potion to increase digestive capacity?”

“No. A set of hand-carved rune chess from Norway. I hate to admit it, but he’s got decent taste—when he’s not speaking.”

“You’re an idiot. You know that, right?”

“An idiot investing in a witch who’s worth it,” Theo said, turning to him with mock solemnity. “Risking my life in the name of domestic diplomacy.”

Draco snorted, checking his pocket watch.

“At this rate, your fortune’s going to dry up before Ginny agrees to marry you.”

“Says the Malfoy heir buying rhubarb jam and rustic ladles for Molly Weasley.”

Draco lifted his bag with dignity.

“It’s symbolic. The woman cooks for an army. She deserves charmed steel and jam that won’t curse her.”

Theo chuckled as they made their way to the exit.

“Nervous?”

“No.”

“Liar.”

Draco adjusted his coat with a half-smile.

“I’m just making sure I don’t show up looking like exactly what they think I am.”

“Good luck with that,” Theo murmured. “I’m just hoping to get out alive.”

Draco glanced sideways at him, and they both laughed—one of those rare, quiet laughs shared by people who have survived too many versions of themselves.

The Portkey from Diagon Alley dropped them right at the edge of the Burrow’s front garden, where the snow seemed to melt under the warmth radiating from the chimneys. The Burrow—crooked and magical as ever—had an undeniable charm, even for someone like Draco Malfoy.

Theo brushed the frost off his coat with his usual effortless grace. Draco simply lifted his chin and took a deep breath, like a man walking into enemy territory fully confident he’d win the duel.

“Ready for the family trial?” Theo muttered, adjusting the gift box with a charm to keep it from bobbing awkwardly.

“Always.”

Theo knocked with his fist. A flurry of footsteps and laughter erupted from inside before the door swung open.

“Theodore!” Ginny exclaimed, wrapped in a dark red sweater that slipped slightly off one shoulder.

Theo greeted her with an exaggerated bow and handed her one of the packages with a smile only she could fully interpret.

“For your parents. And six more, to distribute with diplomatic precision.”

She gave him a quick kiss on the cheek and then noticed Draco, still standing in silence, his hand resting on his coat.

“Look what the holiday dragged in… Malfoy,” she said with a neutral tone, though not unfriendly.

“Weasley,” he replied with a polite nod.

“My advice—stick to using first names or you’ll have nine sets of eyes on you every time you say hello.”

Draco nodded once.

“Mum’s in the kitchen. Come in, both of you.”

The moment they stepped inside, holiday chaos engulfed them. The twins were laughing from the sitting room, Bill was reading a book, and Percy was desperately trying to organize the silverware with his wand. The air smelled of spices, pine, and a slightly off homemade charm.

Molly Weasley appeared from the kitchen, cheeks flushed and her wand holding her hair up in a messy bun.

“Theodore, dear! Finally, you’re here!” she exclaimed, walking over with open arms. “Draco! Welcome.”

Draco nodded as a gesture of thanks, but before she could say more, he handed her a small box wrapped in dark blue paper and tied with a raffia bow.

“For you, Mrs. Weasley. Rhubarb jam and enchanted steel ladles. Nothing too fancy, but… practical.”

Molly looked at the gift, then back at him—and her face lit up.

“Oh, how lovely!” she exclaimed, taking the box in both hands. “I’m always losing ladles, and you can never find this jam. That’s so thoughtful of you, dear. Arthur! Draco Malfoy brought me jam!”

Draco felt Theo shift beside him with a mischievous grin.

“Of course, of course,” Theo whispered with mock irritation. “I drop a fortune on gifts, and you win the matriarch’s heart with spoons and sugared fruit. Unbelievable.”

“My mother would be proud,” Draco murmured, smirking.

Hermione appeared from the dining room carrying a tray of glasses. When she saw him, she paused for a moment. Her eyes lit up in that way no one could fake. Draco noticed. And he smiled.

Charlie, seated at the table, saw him too. He said nothing, but his jaw tensed as he sipped in silence. Molly ushered them both into the living room and introduced them to the older Weasleys as though Draco were a distant cousin, not the son of a man who had once been a political enemy to most of the room.

Arthur approached just as Draco was removing his coat.

“Draco,” he said, his voice low but kind. “I’m glad you’re here. I know you and Hermione have had your… differences. But coming today says something about your character. Maybe your father would never say it, but if he had any sense, he’d be proud to have a son without prejudice.”

Draco held his gaze firmly. He nodded with quiet respect.

“Thank you, Mr. Weasley.”

But as Arthur walked away, Draco couldn’t help but think: What would Lucius say if he knew I was here? Sitting among laughter, the smell of soup, and more than half a dozen Weasleys?

He thought about it for a second. And then let it go.

Because at that very moment, Hermione approached him. She brushed her hand against his discreetly. And nothing else mattered.

The table had been magically extended to seat all fourteen guests. The tablecloth shimmered faintly with golden enchanted stars, and a floating candelabra cast long shadows over antique crystal goblets.

Molly had prepared a feast even by Weasley standards. Everyone had taken their seats: the twins were fighting over the last roll, Percy was reciting Ministry statistics, and Arthur was discussing imported dragon regulations with Bill. Theo and Draco sat side by side, both perfectly upright, as if the chairs understood they weren’t meant to creak under their lineage.

“So, Draco,” Arthur said, scooping mashed potatoes onto his plate, “any plans for after Hogwarts? The Ministry, perhaps?”

Draco held his glass elegantly. His tone was flawless, his smile neutral.

“Anything that lets me rewrite a few systems without having to pretend they were never broken.”

A brief silence followed. Bill raised an intrigued eyebrow. Charlie, at the far end, drank without looking up.

“I like the sound of that,” Bill said. “You could join Gringotts. We need people with good ideas—and very little patience for bureaucracy.”

“And a high tolerance for danger,” Fleur added, eyeing him carefully from across the table.

“Draco handles danger quite comfortably,” Theo murmured, not looking up from his glass. “He’s in a very demanding romantic relationship.”

Hermione nearly spat her wine. Ron snorted but didn’t comment. Molly frowned.

“Theodore, please,” she scolded gently. “A little moderation at the table.”

“Of course, Mrs. Weasley. That was a purely academic observation.”

“And you, Theo?” Charlie cut in. “Still considering the Auror path?”

“I am. There’s something almost romantic about chasing traumatized people with unstable wands.”

“You should write a book,” Ginny said with a half-smile. “How to Survive the Ministry Without Losing Your Soul—or Your Wardrobe.”

“Best-seller material,” Draco said. “Though I doubt Percy would endorse it.”

Percy straightened, scandalized.

“Not everything at the Ministry is decadence and incompetence!”

“You’re right,” Theo replied. “Sometimes there’s tea, too.”

The twins burst into laughter. Fred raised his glass in a silent toast to Theo, while George charmed his fork to dance a solo waltz on his plate.

Hermione glanced at Draco. He met her eyes with a soft, almost intimate look, and his hand brushed hers beneath the table.

Molly noticed the gesture and smiled with quiet resignation.

“It’s nice to see some people can break bread without throwing curses,” she said.

“For now,” Ron whispered to Harry, who nudged him in the ribs.

Charlie said nothing. He chewed harder than necessary, eyes fixed on his plate. But every now and then, his gaze drifted to Draco. And then, inevitably, to Hermione.

Draco noticed. Of course he noticed.

And he held Charlie’s gaze—calm, unapologetic, unafraid.

Truth.

And in the end, it was Charlie who looked away.

The fireplace was down to its last embers. One by one, people drifted away from the living room—some headed to bed, others disappeared through the Floo network.

Ginny stood by the hearth, helping Theo adjust the collar of his coat, her fingers lingering just a second longer than necessary.

“Try not to cause an international scandal,” she whispered.

“No promises,” he replied, just loud enough for her to hear.

He brushed her hand gently—so quickly it could’ve meant nothing. But Hermione saw it. So did Ron, who simply raised an eyebrow and said nothing.

Theo turned to the rest of the room, raising two fingers in a casual salute before tossing a pinch of Floo powder into the flames.

“Nott Manor.”

He vanished in a flash of green sparks.

Hermione stayed a moment longer, getting a head start on helping Molly. She gathered a couple of stray dishes, even though it was clear no one expected her to.

Charlie watched from the doorway, arms crossed. He didn’t speak, but his gaze stayed fixed on her—even as Draco approached from behind, quiet and unannounced.

Draco’s hand brushed hers—just once—as he looked at her. Hermione nodded silently. Then, without a word, he gently took her arm.

And with a sharp crack, they Disapparated.

Hermione’s room was calm, steeped in soft stillness. The moment they landed, she didn’t step away. She exhaled slowly, steadying herself.

“That went better than I expected,” she said.

“I only threatened to duel Ron... in my head. That’s growth,” Draco replied.

She turned toward him, amused, and gave him a soft kiss.

Just outside the Burrow’s window, Charlie was still standing in the doorway.

He hadn’t moved.

He had seen everything—the way Draco looked at her, the silent understanding between them, the ease.

And this time, he didn’t feel angry.

He just felt the door close.

Chapter Text

The Hogwarts Express carried back the echo of a routine that no longer belonged to them—not entirely. Not after the days spent at home, the nights together in Hermione’s room. Not after the shared warmth, the full plates at lunch in her house, or New Year’s Eve dinner at the Burrow, and the way their hands never let go beneath the table.

Draco watched the castle rising through the snow from the window of the carriage. Majestic, but cold. As if winter had settled not only on the stone but also on the decisions waiting inside.

Hermione sat across from him, with Ginny at her side.
Theo was next to him, silent.

The carriage brought them to the castle steps.

Draco crossed the entrance hall with his usual elegance. He headed straight for the Head Students’ quarters. Hermione had gone ahead—she was already unpacking.

During the evenings they had spent discussing how to divide the space they now shared—at least for the remainder of the school year—they had decided to keep the room with the window overlooking the grounds. The other one had become a makeshift storeroom, filled with Hermione’s forgotten library books and Draco’s Quidditch gear and uniforms.

Even though they’d spent months in the same space, something felt different now. It was warm. Like home.

The first day back was always a kind of organized chaos: brooms forgotten in corners, voices echoing down stone corridors, professors firmly reminding everyone that Christmas was over. But Draco moved through it all with unusual clarity. He knew exactly where he was going.

He found her in the North Wing corridor, where only the faint whisper of frost-covered stained glass could be heard. Hermione stood leaning against a column, murmuring schedules under her breath.

“You’re pretending to be busy,” he said, walking up to her.

She didn’t look up right away.

“I’m trying to memorize everything before McGonagall drags us into Charms.”

“You still have time. And I have five minutes.”

“Five?”

“Maybe four,” he corrected, already in front of her.

She didn’t step back. She never did. But this time, she didn’t move forward either.

“I’d rather not get on Sprout’s bad side,” she muttered. “I’m starting to think she likes you and doesn’t appreciate seeing me near you.”

Draco looked scandalized.
“For Merlin’s sake, Hermione—your curls are far more respectable than hers. I’d never leave you.”

Hermione laughed.

She leaned in, as if the castle itself had granted them a moment of peace. She kissed him calmly, without rush, without the desperate fire of their first times.

When they broke apart, Draco rested his forehead against hers.

“Everything feels easier in this place. With you.”

The days passed quietly. The Head Students’ common room was empty. Hermione had gone out early to retrieve a few texts McGonagall had left for her in the restricted eastern library. She returned slowly, not expecting to find anyone there.

But something in the air shifted as she walked down the hall.

Footsteps. Low voices.

She froze at the sound of them.

Draco. And a deeper voice.

It wasn’t common to see Lucius Malfoy at the castle—and certainly not outside the pre-approved “school board affairs” schedule. If he was here, it meant something. Hermione knew it instantly. And even more so when she heard his voice, cold and sharp as steel:

“There are some unpleasant rumors circulating, Draco.”

Hermione pressed herself against the wall, hidden behind the curve of stone that framed the entrance to their shared room. She shouldn’t be listening. But she couldn’t walk away. Not now.

Inside, silence fell briefly.

“And since when do you bother with rumors?” Draco replied, his tone neutral.

“Since they threaten what I’ve spent decades building with discipline,” Lucius responded. “Since they whisper that my son is sharing more than responsibilities with a Muggle-born. And judging by a few items I’ve seen around here, it appears to be true.”

Hermione felt her breath catch.

For a moment, only the faint crackle of magical fire could be heard from somewhere in the room.

And then, finally, Draco’s voice:

“Not everything that’s said deserves an answer.”

Hermione closed her eyes.

Lucius scoffed, unsurprised.

"You don’t seem to deny it, and I find that rather unsettling—frankly unpleasant."

“Well, whatever scandalous rumors you’ve heard, it seems the answer is right in front of you,” Draco said, gesturing toward the Gryffindor scarf resting beside Crookshanks.

“This conversation ends now. Whatever is happening here ends today. And I expect you’ll have the time to reflect on this disgraceful lapse in judgment.”

“It’s not a lapse, Father. It’s a relationship. My choice.”

Hermione stifled a gasp.

The silence that followed was glacial.

Lucius studied his son as if he no longer recognized him.

“And you think you can mingle with a Muggle-born without dragging our name through the mud?”

Draco smiled. Not mockingly. 

“No one’s afraid of getting their hands dirty anymore, Father. That’s your world. Not mine.”

Lucius gripped his cane tightly.

“Have you forgotten what it cost to build and preserve our legacy?”

“Yes,” Draco said. “It seems to be the only thing that’s ever mattered since I was old enough to understand.”

Lucius stepped closer. No longer poised. Tense.

“She doesn’t understand the weight of our name. She won’t know how to protect you.”

Draco held his gaze.

“I’m not asking her to protect me. Just to stand beside me. And she’s done it better than anyone.”

Hermione felt her eyes sting.

Lucius stayed frozen, his mouth tightening as if the words scorched him.

“So you're willing to throw away generations of blood for… sentiment?”.  “For a simple, insignificant little witch?”

Draco took a breath, then answered—voice steady, calm, unshakable.

"Her name is Hermione Granger. And what I feel for her—I wouldn’t call it insignificant. And neither her."

Lucius didn’t respond. Didn’t leave. Just stood there, a statue refusing to accept it had already cracked.

Draco turned and walked to the door.

He didn’t tremble. He didn’t hesitate.

And when he crossed it, he knew that something inside him had finally been set free.

The note appeared on her desk like an enchanted whisper.

“Miss Granger, I’ll be in the greenhouse garden at five. Please come.”
— N. M.

It said nothing more. But it said everything.

Hermione spent hours getting ready—hours that passed in minutes.  Draco didn’t say much when she told him. He wasn’t worried about the meeting; just days before, Narcissa had visited him personally to inform him that his father had revoked his access to the Malfoy vault. She’d reminded him, quietly and without pity, that he would always have access to her personal one.

When Hermione arrived, Narcissa Malfoy was already there. Standing among the winter plants that clung stubbornly to the season’s end, dressed in pale gray, her hands covered by fine dragonhide gloves.

“Mrs. Malfoy,” said Hermione, her voice firm even though her stomach was twisting.

“Miss Granger,” Narcissa replied. No smile, but no sharpness either.

There was a brief pause. Then Narcissa extended a hand—not to shake hers, but to gesture toward a stone bench.

“Please, sit with me.”

Narcissa didn’t rush to break the silence.

Hermione sat beside her on the bench, her back straight, fingers laced in her lap. The greenhouse was softly lit by floating enchanted orbs that shimmered like fireflies. Among the hardier winter blooms, a cluster of black narcissus grew with quiet determination—exactly the color of the name that still stood between them.

“I’ve always liked narcissus flowers,” Narcissa said at last. “Not for the reasons people assume.”

Hermione turned slightly toward her.

“And why, then?”

“Because they bloom when no one expects them to. When everything else seems asleep.”

Hermione didn’t answer immediately. Sometimes, answers ruin truths.

“You know it’s your flower,” she said quietly.

Narcissa nodded, still not looking at her.

“And I don’t mind. Not all names are inherited with pride. Some must be scrubbed clean through choices.”

The words hung there.

“Was it hard,” Hermione ventured, “being a Malfoy?”

“It was. And sometimes, it still is. But the hardest part,” Narcissa said, more to the air than to her, “was raising someone who could carry the name without becoming its prisoner.”

Hermione pressed her lips together.

“Draco isn’t a prisoner. Not anymore.”

Narcissa turned to look at her. Her eyes were a clear, icy blue—like her son’s, when he wasn’t lying.

“No,” she agreed. “But it’s taken work.”

Another silence followed, less stiff than before. Narcissa leaned forward slightly, as if confiding.

“Do you enjoy reading out loud?”

Hermione blinked at the shift in tone.

“Yes… I suppose so. When I’m alone.”

“Draco was a difficult child. Brilliant, but… unruly. He wouldn’t sleep unless someone read to him. Stories of ancient duels. Treatises on magical history. He preferred Cicero to Beedle the Bard.”

Hermione smiled despite herself.

“Some things haven’t changed.”

“No,” Narcissa said. “But now he doesn’t need someone to read to him. He only needs someone who’ll listen—when he’s ready to speak.”

Hermione lowered her gaze. She knew exactly what that meant.

“I listen. Even if he doesn’t always realize it.”

“I know,” Narcissa replied. “And I know he hears you more than he lets on. I saw it in his eyes when he told me he no longer depended on us. Still—” she added, with quiet finality, “—let me assure you, Miss Granger, that you will always have my support. In every way that matters.”

Hermione turned to her, throat tight with emotion.

“Are you angry with him?”

“No,” Narcissa said, her voice as composed as ever. “I’m proud. Despite everything... And I assure you, Miss Granger—Lucius will be proud too. Even if he refuses to admit it for now.”

Hermione swallowed hard. Narcissa stood, brushing off her gloves with graceful precision.

“I didn’t come to test you. I came to see if you were real.”

“And…?”

Narcissa looked at her, that familiar, unreadable calm settling over her features.

“You weren’t what I expected,” she said, without malice. “And that, believe me, is a compliment.”

Hermione smiled faintly, remembering how Draco once told her that his mother often formed opinions of people before meeting them—and that if those opinions ever changed, it could only be for the better.

Narcissa turned, took a few steps forward, and then paused—without looking back.

“If you can get Draco to stop fighting his name as much as he’s willing to fight for what he wants… you’ll have to take it as a personal triumph..”

And then she was gone.

When Hermione returned to the Head Students’ common room, Draco wasn’t there.

Only the familiar silence, the fire, low and glowing, an open book on the sofa, his cloak, still hanging.

But she didn’t need to see him to know that he, too, had changed.

Something had shifted between the Draco who had accompanied her to the station and the one who now left quiet traces of himself across the room.

Because the bond pulsed without anxiety, as if stirred by a kind of serene force that ran across his skin like an ancient enchantment.

A kind of serene force that ran over her skin like an ancient enchantment.

He had faced his father. She knew.

He hadn’t spoken of it, hadn’t boasted, hadn’t worn it like armor. He had done it out of conviction—not to prove anything to her, but to himself.  And that, to Hermione, was worth far more.

She walked to the room. It was empty too.

She crossed the hall to the other room.

She found him with his back to her, organizing books that refused to fit on the shelf.

Draco turned slowly, unsurprised.

“How was it?” she asked plainly.

“Brief,” he answered. “She’s practical. Just like you.”

Draco didn’t move.

He didn’t need to.

She was the one who crossed the distance between them.

And kissed him.

The kiss wasn’t rushed.  It was a line drawn with precision, as if Hermione had been waiting for exactly this moment to mark the end of every fear she’d ever had.  There was no urgency. Just deliberate pressure. A quiet certainty.

Draco didn’t answer at first. Certain, yet unhurried—after all, Hermione was there. Not just physically present, but choosing him, again and again, as if he were a new decision every time.

When he raised his hands, it was slowly. He cupped her face gently, as if he couldn’t quite believe he was still allowed to touch her like that without everything shattering.

Their lips found each other again—deeper, more sure.

Hermione exhaled against his mouth, trembling slightly, with that electric sensation that comes when desire no longer hurts, no longer demands, only stays.

Draco drew her toward him slowly. He held her against his chest as if he needed to feel the heartbeat of something he had, for some time, believed he didn’t deserve.

His hand slid down the curve of her spine, resting just at the hem of her shirt. The fabric was thin—like all the things that separate people who know each other too well to fear touch.

Hermione traced her fingertips along his jaw, down his neck, to the first button of his shirt, which quivered ever so slightly with his measured breathing.

She looked at him. Didn’t ask for permission.

Hermione slipped off his sweater and then his tie.

Each motion was slow, intentional—a silent way.

Their eyes were transparent to each other in that moment, in a promise that didn’t need to say “I love you” because it was already deeper than that.

Draco, always composed, always in control, closed his eyes when she placed her lips just below his collarbone.

His skin smelled like winter and faint spices—a mix of the common room, worn books, and his badly stashed broomstick.

When Hermione leaned back to pull off her sweater completely, revealing her shape beneath a nearly sheer shirt, Draco didn’t move.

Draco didn’t touch her. He only watched her—with devotion, but with desire too.

She had never felt more seen than she did in that moment.

“You’re beautiful,” he said, no adornment, no exaggeration. Just truth.

Hermione flushed, but didn’t look away.

“I know,” she replied with a soft smile. “You made me believe it.”

Draco ran his hands down her waist, steady and firm, as if he could anchor her to the world with just his touch.

He lifted her slightly and sat her on the edge of the desk.

Hermione looked at him with a mischief only he knew how to draw out.

“Are you laughing at me?” he asked, pulling off his shirt.

“No,” she grinned. “I’m laughing at how lucky I am. Have you seen yourself lately?”

He leaned in, resting his forehead gently against hers.

“If anyone’s lucky here, it’s me.”

And then he kissed her—and this time it wasn’t slow. It was deep, consuming, as if he needed to carve his name into Hermione’s skin without a wand.

The wood creaked beneath her as she arched her back.

Her body knew his.

Their intimacy had become something like a ritual—a way to affirm one another again and again.

“Yours,” she breathed.

“Mine,” he whispered.

Draco’s hands moved along her ribs as if he were memorizing them. Hermione pressed her fingers into the small of his back, pulling him closer. They found each other with the ease of people who no longer needed to discover one another—only to inhabit.

They stood face to face, and the air between them felt so dense it almost had texture.

Hermione didn’t need words.

Neither did Draco.

The conversation had ended long before they ever touched.

Now, all that remained was the silence of two people who knew exactly what they wanted and were no longer afraid to show it.

She stepped forward slowly.

And when she was close enough to feel his breath against her collarbone, she raised her hands and began unbuttoning his shirt.

One, two, three buttons.

Each click slower than the last, as if she didn’t want to reach the end too quickly.

Her fingers moved with a delicate precision, like she was opening a book she loved.

Draco didn’t touch her—not yet.

He only watched. Her eyes. Her neckline. Her lips.

Then her face again—always her face.

As if it were a newly discovered treasure.

When she slid the shirt off his shoulders, she did it with both hands at once, tracing the edges of his collarbones with her fingertips.

Draco didn’t say a word.

But his breathing had changed.

Deeper.

Tighter.

Hermione stepped closer and placed her hands on his bare chest.

She felt it—beating fast, hard.

Not from nerves. From anticipation.

Draco got rid of her shirt easily and slowly.

The brush of his fingers was warmer than the cloth itself.

Only the straps of her bra and the bare skin beneath remained.

Hermione felt the air touch her before he did.

And then he looked down.

He looked at her with a mix of awe, quiet gratitude, and a desire so deep it carried softness with it.

He didn’t rush to touch her.

Instead, he ran the back of his hand along her shoulder, caressing without claiming.

Then he pressed a gentle kiss to the spot where the bone curved, light and reverent.

Hermione unfastened her bra with a quiet ease.

Draco swallowed.

He still hadn’t fully touched her, but with every passing second, she became more his.

He didn’t just want to possess her—he wanted to love her the way we love things we thought we’d never have: with wonder and awe.

She unbuttoned his trousers.

Never breaking eye contact.

Draco only looked down when he felt her fingers sliding against him with unerring precision.

She undressed him, and he helped her remove what was left of her own clothing.

And when they stood there, both of them completely bare, there was no shame.

There was a pause, and in that pause, they said everything, with their eyes, with their bodies, With all the desire that had been held back—and was now finally free.

Hermione reached out a hand, and Draco took it to guide her to the bed.

Hermione straddled him with the same calm she used when reading a difficult spell: focused, deliberate, with the certainty of someone who knows exactly what she’s doing—and why.

Draco looked at her as if he wasn’t sure whether to breathe or just lie there, still, surrendered.

His bare chest rose just slightly with every exhale, and his hands rested on either side of her hips, trembling, waiting.

Hermione placed one hand over his chest, right above his heart.

With the other, she guided herself onto him, sliding with precision, pausing consciously just before fully lowering herself.

It was a long moment, and a short one too.

A held breath.

A quiet gasp in both their throats.

Draco squeezed his eyes shut as his fingers gripped the sheets, like he needed to hold on to something more than her just to keep from unraveling.

Hermione felt him shudder beneath her, his body tense with the effort not to move, not to take over, to let her set the pace. To let her lead.

She leaned forward, touching his face with her fingertips, tracing slowly down his jawline, along his neck, his collarbones, his abdomen.

There were no words.

Only that thick, enveloping heat stretching between them like an unnamed spell.

Hermione began to move—gently, rhythmically—not chasing speed, but depth. Each time she sank back down, a moan escaped from one of them. Her mouth was parted, her eyes half-lidded.

His forehead was beaded with sweat, his lips trembling from all the things he wasn’t saying.

Draco took her by the waist then, as if he needed to make sure she was really there—not to lead her, but to hold her. He couldn’t let her go, not ever, and it was a certainty he wrestled with, because he knew she wasn’t something to be owned.

Hermione followed the rhythm her body knew: slow, undulating—more a dance than anything mechanical.

The sound of skin meeting skin was barely audible, muffled by shared breath and the heartbeat between their ribs.

The world had narrowed to the space between them.

The brush of thighs, the press of hips, a gaze that didn’t flinch.

Draco slid one hand down the curve of her thigh, then up her waist, until it rested over her heart. He didn’t press down. Just left it there, feeling her pulse beneath his palm.

“Hermione…” he whispered, voice cracking, “I don’t know if I could ever feel this with anyone else.”

She leaned down, pressing her chest against his, and kissed him open-mouthed, with tongue, and with a need that made it clear she could never feel the same with anyone who wasn’t Draco.

They moved like that, slower each time, deeper with every breath.

There was no explosive end.

It wasn’t that—it was something vaster, but also more tender.

A kind of emotional expansion that left them empty and full all at once.

And when Hermione finally collapsed onto his chest, sweat still warm between them, Draco said nothing, he just closed his eyes and held her, because that moment didn’t ask for explanations only for memory.

Hermione didn’t move right away, her body rested against his, her cheek on his chest, her ear tuned to the echo of a heart that still refused to settle. Her skin was damp—not just from sweat. It was like the heat they had created between them refused to fade.

He wrapped both arms around her—one across her back, firm but warm, the other tracing slow, hypnotic patterns along her buttocks.  As if now that he had her like this, he didn’t know how to stop touching her.

“You’re still shaking,” Draco whispered, voice rough, like his breath hadn’t quite come back.

Hermione didn’t respond at first. She only turned her head, brushing her lips softly against his skin.

“It’s not from the cold.”

“Then why?”

“I don’t want this moment to end.”

Draco closed his eyes. He kissed her forehead—soft as if he didn’t know why he had been so lucky. He didn’t speak. He just pulled her closer, his hand running down her bare back as though he could etch her into memory by touch alone while letting out a soft moan.

“Does it hurt?” she asked after a pause.

“Only my heart.”

Hermione lifted her head slightly, resting her chin on his chest. She looked at him. His eyes were open, staring at the ceiling—but his expression belonged to someone not thinking about tomorrow.

“Why does it hurt?”

Draco looked at her then, without drama or fear, with a softness so rare in him, it could only have been born from this night.

“Because this…” he said, running his fingers gently along her bare arm, “this feels so perfect, so fucking real… That I’m afraid it might be the last perfect thing I’ll ever have..”

Hermione swallowed. She brushed his jaw with her fingertips. Her body still buzzed with remnants of desire, but the emotion had surpassed everything else.

“Don’t say that.”

“I think it,” he replied, not breaking his gaze. “Sometimes I think nothing in my life will ever feel as clear as this. As you. And that scares me.”

She kissed him—not on the lips, but on the cheek, just beside his mouth. Then on his forehead. And lastly, over his heart, where it still beat too fast.

“I have you now. And you have me.”

Draco nodded. But his eyes still carried the wound of what might one day slip away.

“I don’t know if that’s enough.”

“It is,” Hermione said, without hesitation. “Because we’re here. Because after everything… you stayed. And we didn’t hide.”

“It wasn’t a choice at first,” he murmured with a hint of dry humor. “But I guess it became instinct.”

She smiled.

“Then even your instincts want me.”

He pulled her closer again, this time with their legs entwined, as if neither wanted to leave a single part of themselves untouched.

The room was dim, lit only by the soft flicker of a candle nearly burned out.

Outside, the night pressed on.

The castle slept.

Only they breathed.

Draco traced lines down her back with the tip of his finger, sometimes pausing to draw shapes that didn’t exist.

Hermione knew they weren’t idle touches.

It was like he was writing her words he didn’t yet know how to say out loud.

“What will you do after school ends?” she whispered.

Draco didn’t answer right away.

“I don’t know.”

“Will you stay in London?”

“That depends. On a lot of things.”

“On me?”

He looked at her.

That was the question.

The one neither of them had dared ask—until now.

“On us,” he said at last. “But I don’t want to tie you to my world, Hermione. Not if yours leads somewhere else.”

She kissed him again.

This time, on the lips.

Gently.

Without the heat that had consumed them moments ago.

It was a kiss full of love.

Of acceptance.

And of the quiet ache that only real love knows how to leave behind.

“I’m not leaving. Not yet,” she whispered. “Tonight is yours. And mine. It’s ours.”

Draco closed his eyes, she curled into his chest and together, finally, they slept.

Without fear, without masks, as two people who had shared something unrepeatable.

Even if they didn’t know it yet.

Chapter Text

Winter was starting to ease, but frost still clung to the windowpanes as if refusing to leave. In the Head Students’ common room, an enchanted breeze kept the fire low and steady—just enough to warm without smothering.

Hermione was curled up on the sofa, her bare feet resting on Draco’s lap, her hair twisted into a loose bun, and wearing a sweater that clearly wasn’t hers.

“Your handwriting is illegible,” she murmured, correcting a parchment that didn’t belong to her.

“That was deliberate,” Draco replied without looking up, a quill between his fingers and a book open on his lap. “So McGonagall knows it’s not yours.”

Hermione gave him a soft nudge with her foot. He caught it quickly and placed a kiss on her ankle.

“Nice reflexes, Mr. Malfoy.”

“The reflexes of a good Seeker, Miss Granger.”

“What are you reading?” she asked, genuinely curious. It was a slim, well-kept book she’d never seen before. The cover featured a golden Snitch resting atop delicate eastern calligraphy.

“An essay on defensive flight tactics.” He closed the book briefly and glanced at her sideways. “Did you know Japanese Seekers never fly in straight lines? They always fly in gentle curves to confuse the opponent’s eye.”

She stared at him. The interest he showed in that book could only be rivaled by the way he looked at her most of the time. Hermione had never really asked herself what would become of their lives after Hogwarts. In fact, when Arthur Weasley had asked Draco during the Easter dinner about his future plans, and Bill had suggested he might be a good fit for Gringotts, she had known that Draco’s polite nod had been just that—polite. He hadn’t meant it.

But with Quidditch… it was different. It wasn’t just a sport to him. It was something else. A passion.

She remembered one of their lunchtimes at her parents’ house, when Draco had gone out of his way to explain the rules to Mr. Granger, even going into depth about tactics used to turn the tide of a seemingly lost match. She realized then: Draco loved Quidditch.

“Have you ever thought about a professional career in Quidditch?”

Draco paused, eyes lingering on the text, then turned to her.

“Right now there are too many great players in magical Britain… even across Europe. There wouldn’t be a place for me.”

“You’re an excellent player, Draco.”

He gave her a skeptical look.

“I know it sounds like flattery, but Ginny always says your style and leadership on the field are what win matches for your team—more often than not,” Hermione said, peeking over the top of her own book. “And in this case, I’d say Ginny’s judgment is more reliable than mine.”

Draco didn’t reply. He just gave that half-smile that always seemed to carry more than one meaning.

Hermione reached out and stole his quill without warning, holding it like a trophy.

“You’re awfully calm for someone who’s supposed to hand in an essay tomorrow.”

“I make up for it with natural charm,” he said, and tied the scarf lying beside them into a perfect knot around her neck. It wasn’t cold, but he liked seeing her wrapped in things that belonged to him.

“Was that an affectionate gesture or a territorial one?”

“Both.” He leaned in and kissed her forehead.

At that moment, a faint magical crackle filled the air. A small envelope floated toward them, suspended by a school enchantment.

Hermione caught it mid-air. Her name was written on the back in McGonagall’s unmistakable handwriting.

“A summons?” Draco asked.

Hermione read the paper calmly.

“Yes.” She frowned as she opened it. “She wants to see me first thing tomorrow morning.”

“Then we should head to bed. We wouldn’t want you to be late.”

“But it’s still early to go to bed…”

He looked at her with unmistakable mischief in his eyes.

“No one said you were going to sleep just yet.”

She chuckled softly. Outside, snowflakes drifted lazily against the windowsill. Inside, life was simple. And for a moment, the world was just the quiet murmur of two people who didn’t need to make promises—because they were already living them all.

Hermione sat upright, hands folded in her lap and lips pressed into a tense line. It wasn’t her first time in the mistress’s office, but something in the tone of the letter she’d received had unsettled her.

McGonagall stood by the window, watching the snow fall as if waiting for it to reveal something. Beside her, in the shadows, stood Snape. Impeccable. Silent. Arms crossed and wearing the expression of someone already bored before the conversation even began.

“Miss Granger,” McGonagall began without turning around. “As you may know, the Inter-School Potions Championship will be held this year at Castelobruxo. And Hogwarts has been invited to send a single representative. It wasn’t an easy decision.”

“It actually was, Minerva,” Snape interrupted.

Hermione swallowed hard.

“I understand.”

McGonagall turned then. Her gaze was stern, but there was something else—an almost imperceptible glimmer of pride.

“You have been selected.”

Hermione blinked.

“Me?”

“You have the record, the discipline, and the creativity. And, though he may not admit it openly, you also have the support of someone whose opinion I value more than I care to say.”

She gestured toward Snape.

He spoke without moving.

“This competition is not a class, Miss Granger. It’s a civilized war. And if you intend to represent us, you’ll need more than precision with ingredients. You’ll need intuition, control, and endurance. Qualities you’ve only demonstrated so far in situations that weren’t being graded.”

“Endurance?”

Snape turned slightly toward McGonagall.

“I’ll be taking over her Defense lessons. She doesn’t need to know how to defeat a boggart. She needs to stop trembling when she does. Castelobruxo is not Hogwarts. And her opponents won’t be forgiving.”

“And... you’re going to train me?”

“Of course not,” Snape replied with a sneer. “I’ll simply correct you when you think you’re smarter than logic. The rest will be up to you.”

McGonagall raised a brow with mild irony.

“Do you have any objections, Miss Granger?”

Hermione shook her head.

“None. Just... thank you.”

Snape turned toward the door, as if the conversation had ended.

“You won’t like your opponents either,” he added without looking back. “But if that bothers you, you shouldn’t be competing.”

The door closed behind him.

Hermione remained silent.

McGonagall offered her the faintest of smiles.

“That was a blessing, Miss Granger. Don’t waste it.”

The Gryffindor table was livelier than usual. Ginny was chatting with Luna about some invisible creature supposedly living in the castle kitchens, while Theo skimmed through The Daily Prophet with clear skepticism, and Hermione stirred her tea with more nervous energy than her face let on.

Draco arrived shortly after, coming straight from the Slytherin table, not bothering to ask before sitting beside her. He just did. Hermione gave him a discreet smile, the kind that seemed to hold an entire universe in the corner of her mouth.

“You look happy,” Ginny said, raising an eyebrow, “or did you just sleep better than the rest of us?”

Hermione let out a soft laugh. Then she set her cup down with a touch of theatrics.

“Not exactly. I just... have something to tell you.”

Draco looked at her with quiet attention. Theo raised an eyebrow, and Luna stopped talking about wrackspurts.

Hermione took a deep breath.

“This morning, McGonagall officially confirmed that I’ve been selected to represent Hogwarts in the International Potions Championship.”

For a moment, the background noise around them vanished.

“What?” Ginny said, a mix of astonishment and pride in her voice. “The one at Castelobruxo?!”

“The very one,” Hermione nodded.

Theo leaned forward, smirking.

“That’s insane. They only accept one student per school. How did you not tell us?”

“I wanted to be sure. And... I needed time to let it sink in.”

Draco was still watching her. 

“When is it?”

“End of April. There are several rounds. Hogwarts already sent the confirmation. Snape will be training me.”

Theo gave a low whistle.

“You’re going to compete at Castelobruxo… do you know how many indigenous ingredients they grow exclusively on that campus? They have a network of greenhouses protected by ancient enchantments. You're going to pee your clothes from excitement, Granger..”

Luna nodded solemnly.

“They say the cauldrons there sing when the potion is finished.”

“That’s not true,” Draco muttered under his breath.

“But it’s poetic,” Luna replied, unbothered.

Draco looked at Hermione again. This time, there was a different glint in his eyes—something that wasn’t pride or jealousy.

“You’re going to win,” he said simply.

Hermione looked down, blushing.

“You think so?”

“I’m sure of it.”

“I know I’m competitive... but I won’t be on home turf.”

“You don’t need to compete with anyone. But if you choose to do it, make sure it’s because you want to. Not because you feel like you have to prove something. You already have. We all know it.”

Hermione leaned in, resting her head on his shoulder.

Aurélie Dumont stirred a silver spoon in a porcelain teacup without looking at the tea. Her golden quill sat idle atop the parchments—an anomaly in itself.

The door opened without warning.

“Dumont.”

“Professor Snape,” she replied, with the tone of someone who would’ve preferred a fire to break out instead.

Snape didn’t sit. He closed the door with a barely audible motion and walked to the edge of her desk.

“I’m informing you that starting next week, Granger will be exempt from your Defense Against the Dark Arts classes.”

Aurélie let the spoon drop onto the saucer with a faint clink.

“Exempt?”

“Her Head of House has approved that those hours be reassigned to advanced Potions training. With me.”

Aurélie rose from her chair with that dangerous calm that always came just before the storm.

“And why, exactly, does Minerva think a student should stop learning Defense to go stir cauldrons?”

“Because that student has been selected to represent Hogwarts in the Inter-School Potions Championship. And if she has any real chance, she’ll need far more than what you can offer her between illusory charms and aesthetic lectures.”

Aurélie gave him a sharp, thin smile.

“And you believe you have the right to interfere with my lessons without even consulting me?”

“I’m not interfering,” said Snape in a flat voice. “I’m optimizing resources. What you call ‘teaching,’ in her case, is a waste of time.”

Aurélie walked around the desk and faced him, arms crossed.

“This isn’t about her talent. This is about what she represents. Another brilliant Muggle-born you all love to parade around like a trophy.”

“And what if she is?” Snape raised an eyebrow. “Most of the staff believes she’s earned it. You, however, seem to differ. Still, I wonder—what would you have done with her? Ignore her until she breaks down, as most have already observed you tend to do, Miss Dumont?”

“Maestra Dumont,” she corrected, her voice rising two octaves.

“That’s what your plaque says, yes. But I don’t always share the majority opinion.”

Aurélie burned with offense but masked it under a stoicism dressed up as resignation.

“And I suppose Granger didn’t protest.”

Snape tilted his head slightly.

“She didn’t seem to need to.”

Aurélie let out a soft, elegant, venom-laced laugh.

“Of course. She never needs to. There’s always someone ready to raise their wand for her.”

“She’s a witch far too clever for her own good,” said Snape as he walked toward the door, “but I assure you, she’s known how to raise it on her own since third year at least.”

Aurélie said nothing.

Only the quiet sound of cooling tea filled the room.

Snape turned toward the door. He had nothing else to say.

“Thank to Minerva for not making this a formal matter,” he murmured before leaving. “I wouldn’t have been so generous.”

The door closed with a soft click.

Aurélie didn’t move.

Only her knuckles turned white around the porcelain she still held.

Aurélie stood by the closed piano in the music room, her back straight, arms crossed, her coat draped over her shoulders as though the room, warm as it was, posed a threat. She stared out the window, though it was unclear if she saw anything at all.

Charlie entered without announcing himself. He didn’t need to. She always knew when he was coming.

“I didn’t know you came here,” he said, gently closing the door behind him.

“I didn’t either,” Aurélie replied without turning. “But the castle doesn’t offer many places where you can lose your composure without witnesses.”

Charlie walked to one of the wooden benches and sat down, stretching out his legs with the ease of someone unbothered by being out of place.

“So you chose the one room where silence echoes the loudest.”

Aurélie glanced at him from the corner of her eye. He was smiling, as usual. But his eyes weren’t.

“You could tell me, if you wanted to. Sometimes, sharing the burden lightens it.”

“You’ll end up lecturing me.”

“No. You know I’m no good at sermons. But I am good at asking questions you might not like.”

Aurélie lowered her gaze, the window no longer useful. She turned toward him. There was tension in her elegance—as if her whole body was made of perfectly contained straight lines.

“Then ask it already.”

Charlie laced his fingers together, elbows resting on his knees.

“I heard from my brothers that Hermione Granger will represent Hogwarts in the Potions Championship.” He cleared his throat. “I saw Snape leaving your office, and then you storming off, throwing curses into the air—which I never thought I’d live to see.”

Aurélie blushed.

“But I must admit, seeing you flustered makes you more human, Aurélie... and therefore more interesting.”

She smiled again, with her usual poise.

“I connected the dots. And now it’s no longer a rumor but a fact: you don’t like Hermione. So I wonder—what exactly bothers you, Aurélie? That she won’t attend your classes… or that she achieved this without your approval?”

She looked at him with coldness. Not surprise. Just coldness.

“I don’t need him to ask for permission, especially when it was clearly granted in my name. I just need his respect, because I am her teacher.”

“And you think she doesn’t respect you?”

“I think most people don’t understand what has been sacrificed to uphold a certain structure. This school… this world. It wasn’t built on noble intentions and fairytales.”

“And yet,” Charlie interrupted gently, “you still teach here. To Muggle-borns. To half-bloods. To people who, by that same structure, would never have had a place here.”

Aurélie didn’t respond. Her jaw tightened slightly.

“What happened to you, Aurélie?” Charlie asked softly. “You don’t seem like the same bright, witty, quietly sweet witch I once met.”

She let out a dry laugh.

“Is this a therapy session now?”

“No. It’s an honest question. Because I’ve seen you do noble things. Elegant things. Even just things. But every time someone like Hermione shines... you shrink, like the sun burns you.”

Aurélie looked at him like she wanted to answer with a dagger. But she said nothing.

Charlie stood and moved closer, though he didn’t touch her.

“You don’t have to like her. But at least admit she didn’t come here to steal anything from you. What she’s earned, she’s fought for. Like you. Like me. Like everyone who’s ever been outside the mold.”

Aurélie blinked. Once. Then swallowed hard.

“I don’t understand why it matters to you,” she whispered. “You’re not even her brother.”

Charlie looked at her with a kindness that hurt.

“Because I’m learning not to move through people like they don’t feel. And because you shouldn’t have to hide behind perfection just to be seen as true.”

Aurélie lowered her gaze.

Charlie took a step back, as if not to press her further.

“See you around, Aurélie.”

And he left.

Aurélie didn’t move.

She didn’t cry.

But for the first time, she didn’t know what to do with the silence.

She stayed in that room—not because there was anything to correct, but because she no longer knew where else to go. The lighting was low, casting her reflection on the tall windows. For a moment, her silhouette blurred into the glass, as if she didn’t quite belong to the space she inhabited.

On her desk lay an open copy of Bloodlines and Their Magical Implications. She hadn’t touched it in days. She didn’t need it anymore. Or so she wanted to believe.

Charlie’s words still echoed in her mind. They hadn’t been an accusation. There had been no reproaches. Just truths. Simple enough to hurt.

“You shouldn’t have to hide behind perfection just to be seen.”

And he hadn’t said it cruelly. He said it with something worse: sincerity.

Aurélie had never felt invisible. Never ignored. But that night, when she chose not to attend the Easter dinner, she had wanted her absence to be noticed. She wanted Charlie to ask, to worry, to look for her. But he didn’t.

There were no letters, no rushed footsteps in the halls, no lingering looks from across the staff table in the Great Hall.

Only distance. Clear. Simple. Final.

And now, when they crossed paths in staff meetings or between classes, he spoke to her with courtesy. With kindness. But also with that cruel ease that only comes when someone no longer feels anything at all, like to a friend.

Aurélie hadn’t felt so exposed since the Christmas dinner at Malfoy Manor—when Draco had rejected her openly and unapologetically.

She walked to the window and placed her hands on the frame. The castle was still. A light snowfall began to coat the ground, as if even the earth wanted a chance to start over.

“Blood purity…” she murmured, barely moving her lips. “What purity remains when not even the heart obeys the bloodline?”

The answer was silence.

But not an empty one.

A silence that echoed like a truth pushing its way through.

Aurélie closed her eyes.

Perhaps, she thought, unlearning would be the only way to truly learn again.

Hermione carefully closed her notebook, setting aside the magical growth report of the mandrakes. Greenhouse Five smelled of damp earth, fermented nectar, and something sweeter—like the plants themselves were breathing deeper just before nightfall.

“I knew it would be here,” said Draco from the doorway, leaning against the frame with a mischievous smirk.

“Oh? And why’s that?” she asked without turning, already smiling.

“Because no one else turns in reports this late. Because it’s late. Because you can’t help wanting to do everything yourself.”

Hermione turned around. Her hands were dirty with soil, a loose braid falling apart from the humidity. Her shirt was rolled up to the elbows, unbuttoned to the base of her neck. And she looked at him in that way she always did—as if it still surprised her he always followed.

Draco walked closer. Slowly. With that calm that always masked a tremor in him.

“Did you want something else?” she whispered.

“I wanted to see you like this.”

“Like what?”

Draco’s gaze grazed her as if it could undress her by itself.

“Real. Messy. Warm. With flushed cheeks from the heat and your hair half undone. Like when you finally let me kiss you, days after our little show in the Great Hall.”

Hermione looked down, but didn’t step back. She stepped forward. Then again.

“We shouldn’t stay long,” she murmured.

“I know.”

“Sprout might come.”

“I know.”

“And yet…”

“I’m about to touch you,” he interrupted, his voice low, almost hoarse. “You know that, don’t you?”

Hermione lifted her face, her eyes already gleaming.

“Yes,” she whispered. “And you shouldn’t stop..”

And then he kissed her without gentleness or haste, with that mix of clumsiness, certainty, and hunger that only someone who has already tasted something they need to have again can allow themselves.

His hands found her waist, her lower back, the loose button that gave way with a single touch. Hermione pulled him in by his shirt, pressing her chest to his, feeling the heat rise between their bodies, seeping under their skin.

The wooden bench where they worked with pots shook as she pulled it over without looking. Draco lifted her onto it and stepped between her legs, devouring her between whispers, soft bites, and breathless moans.

“I swear I’m trying to go slow,” he muttered against her neck.

“I don’t want you to go slow,” she replied, her nails digging into his back. “Not here. Not now.”

Their hands traveled beneath clothes, over skin, searching for what they already knew but now needed more urgently, more vividly.

The magical vines crept up the walls to the rhythm of their breathing.

And then... the world was that. Only that:

Earth. Heat. Skin. Name.

Hermione.

Draco.

Hermione was still seated on the bench, parted, trembling slightly, her breath tangled in the silence. Her legs were wrapped around Draco, and the heat between them still pulsed under rumpled clothes, under reddened skin, as if their bodies hadn’t quite finished touching.

Draco looked at her like every second was sacred. The tips of his fingers still roamed her thigh, tracing slow, damp lines, almost reverent. The way they slid to the edge of her underwear—that slight, upward motion, nearly imperceptible—sent a fresh wave of heat rolling through her belly, her body reacting before her mind could keep up.

She held his gaze. Unashamed. She knew what he wanted.

She wanted it too.

And when Draco leaned down to kiss her—lower, just over her hip bone, where the thin fabric no longer hid much—Hermione let out a short, stifled sound that wasn’t just pleasure. It was surrender. Absolute desire. A silent “yes.”

Her body arched toward him instinctively, seeking contact it already remembered from within.

His hands slipped under her wrinkled skirt, guided by the warmth of her skin, pausing just where her center pulsed against the thin cloth.

He said nothing.

And he left his hand there, delivering rough caresses to her center as he returned to Hermione’s mouth, allowing himself to taste her on his own lips.

He simply pressed his warm, open palm there, setting a slow, steady rhythm—almost cruel in its control. Hermione let out a soft moan, biting her lip as she clung to his shoulders, each caress, each stroke reigniting a fire she’d thought already quenched. But it wasn’t. Not yet.

Draco’s breath was ragged, his voice a coarse whisper against her neck.

“You have no idea how delicious you are, Hermione.”

Hermione slid her hand down his neck, fingers threading into his damp hair, pulling him closer.

“You just gave me a taste..”

Draco let out a choked sigh.

His fingers moved with more precision, caressing, teasing, opening her with a fierce tenderness. Every motion was a confession. Every breathless sound from her, an echo that etched itself into his skin. It became a wordless exchange between their bodies, a dance of breath, pressure, and sighs that transcended speech.

Hermione gave in again, clinging to him, thighs squeezing his waist, her forehead pressed to his, their lips brushing but not quite kissing.

And when her body tensed again—as if pleasure had knotted itself with emotion—Draco didn’t let go. He held her firmly. Looked straight into her eyes.

And stayed there.

Watching her fall.

Watching her bloom. Right there in the middle of that greenhouse.

When it all settled, when her chest finally slowed its rhythm, Hermione rested her head on his shoulder. She was sweating, smiling without realizing it. And he didn’t stop touching her—now with lazy, absentminded caresses that asked for nothing. That just wanted to linger.

“Know what I’m thinking?” she whispered, voice still rough.

“That we’re going to get in trouble,” he answered, kissing her forehead.

“If this were the last time we were together like this... I want to remember everything.  Your hands. Your voice. How you touched me like it would never be enough.”

Draco lowered his head. His mouth found hers with a different kind of tenderness.  With desire fading but full of gratitude.

“It’ll never be enough. Not with you,” he murmured.

And even though the air still smelled of wet earth and leaves stirred by magic, the world, for a few minutes, narrowed down to the heat between their bodies, the echo of skin still pulsing.

The walk back to the castle was silent. Draco and Hermione walked close, their fingers intertwined, their clothes a little disheveled, hair damp from the greenhouse condensation. Neither spoke. Everything that needed saying had already been said with their hands.

They took a side corridor, avoiding the main hall. The laughter from the Great Hall rose into the air.

And when they turned the corner toward the North Tower, they saw him.

Charlie.

Leaning against the railing, arms crossed, still in his teaching robes, a folder tucked under one arm. Hermione felt her body tense. Draco did too.

Charlie saw them. The three locked eyes.

For a moment, no one said a word.

Until Charlie, without moving, spoke in a low voice:

“Don’t worry. I’m not here to play the overprotective older brother.”

He passed beside them as if he meant to keep walking, but stopped next to Hermione.

“Are you really happy?”

Hermione swallowed.

“I am. Truly.”

Charlie nodded. He didn’t smile. But his eyes held no anger. Only an honest kind of tiredness.

And something else: a recent peace, like someone who’d reached it after a long walk. He remembered what his father had told him when he saw the disappointment in his face during the Easter dinner—not because of Aurélie, as he thought then, but because of Hermione:

“You can live with not being chosen… but you can’t if you don’t accept that you were never meant to be the choice.”

Draco looked at Hermione. But she didn’t let go of his hand.

Charlie watched them for a moment longer. Him. Her. Their hands, still joined.

“I suppose I learned to love you like a sister before anything else, Hermione,” he said, looking straight into her eyes. “So if you’re happy with him… then I’ll be happy for you.”

Hermione felt her chest tighten. She stepped toward Charlie. She didn’t hug him, but she placed her open hand on his arm. He didn’t pull away.

“Thank you,” she said softly.

Charlie nodded. Then looked at Draco.

And for the first time… extended a hand.

“Take care of her.”

Draco hesitated for a moment, then clasped it firmly.

“Never had a doubt, Professor Weasley.”

Charlie looked down, swallowed hard, and walked away down the corridor without another word.

Hermione watched him walk away. She didn’t cry, but if someone had told her months ago that this moment would unfold exactly as it just had, she would’ve denied it could ever be real. At the start of the school year, the wizard who had just walked away was the one who ruled her sighs and shaped her emotions—while the one now holding her hand had always seemed like the last man she would ever expect to be standing in that place.

Ehen Draco touched her back, she turned to him and kissed him on the cheek.

“Thank you for not saying anything.”

“Sometimes silence is the only decent answer,” he whispered.

Front of  them, the Great Hall carried on in its usual buzz. Students rushing in late. Quills floating midair with to-do lists. Ron entering with toast in his mouth. McGonagall crossing the room with three cups of coffee held in magical balance.

And in the middle of it all…

Hermione and Draco.

Looking.

Remembering.

Knowing.

That what they had wasn’t a secret—not because everyone knew about their relationship, but because it meant something far greater.

It was a refuge.

And for a moment, the entire universe didn’t need explaining. It only needed presence.

Because no matter where they were—even beyond the sky, in any corner of the universe, or thousands of miles apart—they would always find a way back.

Back to that place.

To the refuge they recognized as home.

They would return to each other, again and again.

And though they never spoke of the pact again, both could feel it.

The magic no longer weighed on them like a warning. It didn’t ache the way it used to.

It was beginning to settle.

As if the original spell—born of anger, disappointment, and pride—was shifting, adapting, responding to the love they had sworn to despise, but which, little by little, without realizing it, they had begun to feel.

It was no longer a punishment.

No longer a reckless vow.

It was the way magic had found to tell them:

“This is what you asked for. This is what you feared. This is what you are.”

Chapter Text

Greenhouse Three smelled of scorched mint and fresh soil. A humid heat fogged up the glass panes of the windows, while a swarm of tiny flutterblossoms drifted lazily among the enchanted ivy dangling from the ceiling. Despite the appearance of routine, the atmosphere was... charged. Not just by the bubbling potions in the practice cauldrons, but by the imminent match between Gryffindor and Slytherin.

Hermione, already wearing her dragon-hide gloves, arranged her tools with precise care. Across from her, Draco was sharpening the blade of his magical trimmer with the same focus he used when polishing his broom.

"Gryffindors aren't nearly this quiet when they're winning," Draco murmured without looking up, while a group at the back hummed, "Let’s go, Harry, this year is ours."

Hermione pretended not to hear, but the corners of her lips curved slightly.

"Maybe you should worry less about their chants and more about that vengeful nettle about to attack you."

The plant in front of Draco extended a vine with a bit too much intent.

"Let it try," Draco replied with a half-smile. "It’ll fare worse than Potter did in his first year."

"Memorable how you always tried to sabotage us," Hermione said, raising an eyebrow at him.

"I have no regrets. I love seeing you irritated. I used to think you were ignoring me, now it means you don’t want to be away from me… and reconciliations are always welcome," he added, looking at her with blatant mischief.

Hermione gave him a knowing smile, a clear promise of reconciliation for whatever they might argue about next.

But Draco wasn’t the only one with plant-related distractions.

A few tables away, Neville Longbottom was patiently explaining how to induce a second-cycle moon bloom in a mandrake. His voice was calm, his attention fixed on the pale buds emerging from the stalk. And without realizing it, he had Pansy Parkinson practically glued to his shoulder with an interest that was clearly not botanical.

Hermione noticed it first.

"Since when is Parkinson so dedicated to Herbology?" she asked, arching a brow.

Draco, already watching, stopped pretending to care about his plant.

"Since Longbottom started talking like he’s Sprout’s heir. Nobody Slytherin knows how he managed to get an Outstanding on his Herbology O.W.L."

"Oh, this is going to be good," murmured Daphne from a nearby table, appearing with Theo beside her.

Theo, still holding a book on magical hedges, joined in with his usual ironic tone.

"Is this Herbology or Care of Magical Creatures? Are we witnessing an emotional eruption in the wild fauna of the greenhouse?"

Daphne shrugged.

"I’m just saying, if Lavender Brown tries to get close to Neville like she did in Potions, Pansy’s going to throw a mandrake at her. Roots and all." She glanced at Theo. "That’d be entertaining, don’t you think, Theodore?"

As if the universe wished to indulge its audience, Lavender appeared at that moment, smiling sweetly with a baby mandrake in her hands.

"Neville," she said, approaching, "could you help me? I’m not sure if this one is ready for transplant."

Pansy didn’t turn, but raised her voice with venomous sweetness.

"Longbottom is my practice partner in this class, Brown. If you have any doubts… you ask me first. That way, we avoid unnecessary confusion."

Neville blinked.

Lavender frowned.

"Excuse me?"

Pansy looked up and smiled, all elegance wrapped in poison.

"Let’s just say you’re more known for flirting than getting things right, Brown. Neither Longbottom nor I have time to waste, so don’t overload him."

Theo stifled a laugh behind his book.

"Bless Herbology Thursdays," he murmured.

Lavender turned on her heel, muttering something unintelligible as she returned to her seat. Pansy, however, leaned closer to Neville and offered him a smile that felt more like an unsolicited magical contract. Neville was about to say something, but Pansy cut him off before a single syllable could leave his mouth.

"No need to thank me. In fact, I think we make a great team, Longbottom. We should extend this synergy to our other shared subjects." She smiled wider. "You’re in luck—I’ve decided I’ll be sitting next to you in all our other classes. So no one else gets any funny ideas about your botanical priorities."

Neville, redder than fireberries, could only nod with a pitiful squeak of agreement.

Daphne turned to Theo, her expression equally amused and wicked.

"I think we just witnessed the birth of a territorial war. Botanical, but war nonetheless."

Draco shot a sideways glance at Hermione.

"And they say I’m the dramatic one?"

Hermione shook her head, smiling, and returned to focusing on her mandrake—though out of the corner of her eye, she kept watching as Pansy adjusted Neville’s posture with a “let me help you” that bordered on intimate. That witch was clearly tending a personal botanical project—and Neville was very much part of it.

The Great Hall buzzed with contained energy. Gryffindor and Slytherin banners hung above the tables, enchanted to alternate colors every time one of the teams won a bet, a chant, or simply shouted louder. It was the eve of the evening match, and the entire school seemed to pulse with a single question: Who would catch the Snitch?

Hermione arrived among the last, her hair tied back in a low ponytail, still with traces of soil under her nails from Herbology class. Draco had barely let her remove her gloves before grabbing her and catching her mouth with his, just as she was about to leave them next to a pot full of dirt. She sat beside Ginny and Theo, just as Harry flung a crumpled napkin at Dean for singing his name offbeat.

“How’s the pitch?” Hermione asked as she served herself stew.

“Perfect,” Ginny replied, jaw clenched. “We’ve been training like Dementors. More than necessary, thanks to you.” She winked, then added, “If we don’t win, it won’t be for lack of preparation.”

Theo, beside her, was slicing his bread with far too much precision.

“Ah, competitive enthusiasm. What a delicious poison for the soul.”

Ginny shot him a glare.

“You don’t get sarcastic when Slytherin wins.”

“Exactly,” Theo said, raising his glass of juice. “Because I don’t need to say anything. You can feel it in the air.”

Hermione chuckled quietly.

“Are you two going to be like this all night?”

“Worse,” Ginny said, giving Hermione a gentle elbow. “Just wait till Malfoy shows up with that usual smug face of his.”

As if summoned by fate, Draco Malfoy entered the Hall at that very moment, his green robe immaculate, hair swept back with calculated carelessness. He walked as if he already knew he was going to win.

Zabini accompanied him, exchanging low comments. As he passed the Gryffindor table, he didn’t look at anyone in particular… except Hermione, who was watching him with her head slightly tilted.

They didn’t greet each other.

But their eyes met. Just for a moment. A code only they understood.

Ginny clicked her tongue.

“I remember someone mentioning they saw you in the tunnels earlier this year, saying goodbye to Malfoy before a match. You’ve never done that for me,” she said with a mock pout.

“You’ve never played with my heart,” Hermione replied, eyes still on Draco.

“Touche,” Ginny muttered, scooping her mashed potatoes with theatrical resignation. “Just promise me that when we beat him tonight… you won’t cry into his robe.”

“I won’t. But I might stay behind to console the loser,” Hermione replied, with a smile sharp as a blade.

“That was disgustingly romantic and competitive all at once,” Theo murmured, passing Ginny the bread.

At the Slytherin table, Draco sat as if the chair had been waiting for him. His gaze swept the hall but kept returning, as always, to Hermione. And she, from her table, masked with grace the fact that every muscle in her body was bracing for the tension to come.

A group of Ravenclaws began chanting random names, as if they could tip the luck that way. From a corner, Luna raised her glass of blackberry juice.

“May the ones who vibrate strongest win.”

No one knew if she meant it literally. But for a moment, Hermione and Draco felt the pact hum—faint, like an underground current. A tether that, despite everything, still reminded them they were connected.

There was a subtle shift in the air.

But no one said a word.

Because the match hadn’t begun yet.

And the strongest magic… always waits for the exact moment to rise.

The crowd roared from the stands. The enchanted sky above the stadium was veiled in darkness, speckled with stars, and hundreds of magical torches floated above the bleachers like fireflies stirred by adrenaline. The houses chanted names, waved banners, and cast smoke charms in their team colors.

But Hermione wasn’t there to see the start.

She had hurried down from the Gryffindor section, heart lodged in her throat. She was looking for something. Or someone.

She hadn’t seen him walk out with the team. He wasn’t among the players. Not even Zabini—whom she searched for with her eyes and who seemed to understand instantly that she was looking for him—seemed to know where Draco had gone. Anxiety crept up her chest like a poisonous vine. Not because of the match. Not because of the score.

But because she couldn’t see him.

She tried to calm herself by checking that her magic still felt intact. If Draco were in trouble, would she be able to feel it through their connection? She didn’t know.

She turned down a side tunnel, where the stone walls still held the chill of night. And then she saw him.

Draco.

Leaning against the wall just before the entrance to the pitch, legs crossed, broom in one hand, the other tucked into his robe pocket.

“I knew you’d come, Granger,” he said, still not looking at her, his voice so certain it was as if he’d been waiting for hours.

Hermione froze. She didn’t know whether to laugh, curse, or throw herself at him. The moment echoed their first encounter in the mouth of the tunnel—it felt distant, though only months had passed.

“Are you completely mad? You’re holding up the match!”

Draco lifted his gaze. Smiled—slowly. That lazy, lethal smile that could set her stomach ablaze.

“Good things are worth waiting for.”

“They’re calling your name! Snape is going to decapitate you!”

“I'm exactly where I'm meant to be right now.,” he interrupted, taking a step toward her.

Hermione pressed her lips together but didn’t back away. She hated when he acted like this. And loved him for it, too.

“I can’t believe you’re standing here like none of this matters.”

Draco stopped in front of her. Pulled something from his pocket.

The silver Snitch. It glowed faintly under the moonlight, and when he raised it, the wings twitched gently... then fluttered twice and drifted toward Hermione as if drawn to her.

“This is all I need,” he said softly. “My lucky charm.”

Hermione swallowed.

“Are you saying you’ll catch it just because I...?”

“Because you’re here. Because tonight, Hermione, if anything good happens to me, it won’t be because of strategy—it’ll be because of you.”

Hermione was practically glowing with joy. She adored this side of Draco, the one only she got to see.

She stepped closer.

“Maybe I’ll run now. With any luck, your good fortune will vanish and Gryffindor will win.”

“You’ve got to be joking.” Draco pulled her in by the waist, firm hand on her back as the broom bumped against the stone wall behind him. “But I never joke about the things I want most.”

Hermione kissed him. Urgently. Hungrily. Like she needed him to breathe.

And Draco, his body tense from days of training, from the pressure of victory, from the weight of proving himself… held her like she was the only score that mattered.

When they pulled apart, foreheads still pressed together, breath shallow, Hermione whispered:

“Go. Win the game.”

Draco smirked, brushing his nose against hers.

“I’ve already won the only thing that truly matters.”

He adjusted his gloves. Tucked the silver Snitch away with the care of someone handling something sacred. And started walking toward the tunnel’s exit.

Before crossing it, he turned one last time.

“If I see my colors and you’re not clapping, Hermione... I’ll be personally offended.”

Hermione smiled, cheeks flushed, her heart on the verge of leaping from her chest.

“I never fail, Draco. Not as your lucky charm. But if anyone asks, I’ll deny I want you to win.”

Draco disappeared into the tunnel.

And Hermione lingered a few seconds longer, knowing that no enchantment in the world could replicate what they had just shared.

Not even the best magical scoreboard in the stadium.

The stadium roared.

The stands trembled with every pass, every broom clash, every goal. Amplifying charms echoed the cheers of the houses, and streaks of colored smoke exploded across the enchanted sky like carefully controlled fireworks.

Hermione stood among the Gryffindors, pretending to hold her breath every time Ginny dove into a steep spiral—though her eyes were truly searching for an emerald-green robe cutting elegantly through the air.

Theo, beside her, whistled through his teeth.

"She's playing like she owes Merlin a favor," he muttered.

Hermione nodded, clutching her red scarf. It struck her how someone as guarded as Theo Nott could soften so easily around Ginny. His admiration was obvious, and she recognized herself in him—in how he could barely take his eyes off the person he cared for, even for a second.

"And the worst part is... she's doing brilliantly. Too brilliantly."

"You're not here to support your house. And neither am I. But that'll be our little secret, Granger," he said quietly, giving her a wink.

"I'm here to see a good match," Hermione replied, though the tremble in her voice gave her away.

Up in the honorary box, among professors and special guests, Madam Hooch leaned toward a man clad in a dark gray cloak, silver trim along the hem and an embroidered crest unfamiliar to anyone else in the stadium. He was jotting notes on a piece of parchment, enchanted to track flight patterns and speed in real time.

"Thoughts?" Hooch asked with a professional smile.

The man didn’t take his eyes off the sky.

"Two brilliant Seekers," he said in a deep voice. "Potter flies with instinct—aggressive. Very much like his father."

"James was exceptional," Hooch agreed, a trace of nostalgia in her tone. "Though more reckless than refined."

"And this other one… Malfoy." The man glanced down for a moment, noting something else. "He’s got something more. Poise. Control. A style you can’t teach. You can train it, yes—but not replicate it."

Hooch nodded slowly.

"He’s refined his technique since third year. His style is the opposite of Potter’s—less impulsive, more calculated. Less Gryffindor, more Slytherin."

The man gave the faintest smile.

"An interesting contrast. They're equally talented, but one flies to win… and the other to dominate."

At that moment, a play by Ginny sent the entire stadium into a frenzy. A flawless feint, a curved pass between two Slytherin Chasers, and a direct shot at the hoops that Miles Bletchley blocked, using every ounce of air in his lungs.

"The Weasleys have it in their blood," the recruiter commented, adjusting his glasses. "Is she the youngest?"

"And one of the deadliest Chasers Gryffindor’s had in years. Don’t underestimate her. And him..."—she nodded toward Ron—"he's inconsistent, but when he shines, it’s dazzling."

The recruiter nodded slowly again, but his eyes kept drifting back to the sky, to a lone figure spiraling high above the chaos.

Draco.

Hovering several meters above the others, like a hawk waiting for the precise moment to strike.

Hermione spotted him immediately. That stance wasn’t just tactical—it was emotional strategy. He was commanding the field from above, reading the movements, waiting for the Snitch to make the mistake of showing itself too soon.

"He's going to catch it," Hermione whispered, not realizing she'd spoken aloud.

Theo glanced at her.

“I suppose that’s good for you, despite the colors you're wearing.”

Hermione didn’t answer. She just swallowed hard, watching as Draco dipped into a steep dive, slicing through the air as if the sky itself couldn’t hold him back.

High above, the recruiter made another note.

And smiled.

The match had reached a boiling point.

The scoreboard hovered above the field, its numbers flickering in red and green: Gryffindor 380 – Slytherin 340. There was still time left, as the Snitch seemed to have vanished until the next game. However, every play, every pass, every feint carried the weight of a final.

Ginny weaved between the Slytherin Chasers like a red flame. Strands of her hair clung to her forehead, cheeks flushed, muscles taut as she caught the Quaffle mid-air, spun sharply, and launched it in an arc toward the hoops.

“Weasley! Weasley!” chanted the Gryffindors.

But Miles Bletchley, Slytherin’s Keeper, lunged to the right, catching the ball one-handed, stretching his body beyond the imaginable. The impact was so strong that the Quaffle spun to the ground before a Bludger smashed it purely on impact.

From the other side of the field, Peregrine Derrick, Slytherin’s Beater, let out a roar of satisfaction, swinging his bat as if he had scored himself.

“Well done, Derrick!” shouted a group of Slytherins from the stands, waving serpent-emblazoned flags that glowed under the enchanted sky.

But Ron, sweat beading on his face, remained undeterred. Mere seconds later, he dove to intercept a Quaffle sneakily shot by Montague, blocking it with his thigh and drawing applause from his teammates.

“That’s my brother!” Ginny shouted, beaming, throwing him a triumphant gesture.

Theo, in the stands, watched with narrowed eyes.

“He’s either going to vomit or marry the Quaffle,” he commented.

“He did well, in my opinion.” Luna Lovegood had appeared beside him without notice.

Hermione, eyes fixed on the sky, murmured:

“It’s close. You feel it, don’t you?”

Theo glanced sideways at her. He knew what she meant.

Draco and Harry were no longer playing as before. They had ascended higher than everyone else. Too high. They circled in opposite directions, attuned to each other’s every move, every vibration in the air.

From her spot in the stands, Pansy looked at Neville, raising an eyebrow.

“If Gryffindor wins, I’ll let you kiss me, Longbottom.”

Neville coughed.

“What? Why… what does that have to do with…?”

“Today, I feel especially generous,” she murmured, amused. “So you can feel the victory as personal.”

Neville blushed to his ears. Luna, two rows below, nodded solemnly as if it made perfect sense.

“Kisses stimulate magical circulation, they say,” she announced. “It makes sense.”

And then it happened.

The Snitch.

A golden flash among the field lights. A spark beneath the wing of a Bludger. Harry saw it first. He dove with such force that he left a trail behind his broom.

“POTTER!” the Gryffindors screamed.

Draco saw him. Not the Snitch. Harry. And if Potter was diving like that… then he had found it.

And he launched.

The entire stadium held its breath. Two shadows silhouetted against the starry sky. One red, the other green. Both plummeting, swift, slicing the wind like dueling arrows.

“COME ON, HARRY!” roared Dean.

“CATCH HIM, DRACO!” bellowed Zabini.

Hermione couldn’t even scream. She just gripped the railing, feeling the vibration beneath her skin. The magic of the bond burned. Not from fear. From certainty.

Draco felt her. He knew she was watching.

That was enough.

Both Seekers descended among the stands like out-of-control comets. The Snitch spun in a treacherous whirl. Harry reached out. Draco mirrored him. Their fingers grazed the air, inches from the gleaming sphere that darted between them like a golden tease.

And then…

The connection.

Hermione closed her eyes. The bond vibrated.

Draco accelerated.

With an inaudible roar, his broom surged beneath him. The last thing Harry saw was the gleam of the green cloak beside him. One second. Half a second.

And the Snitch vanished.

In Draco Malfoy’s clenched fist.

The stadium erupted.

“Slytherin wins! MALFOY CATCHES THE SNITCH!” roared Lee Jordan’s amplified voice from the stands, and the Slytherin section exploded in a frenzy of screams, green smoke spells, hugs, laughter, and flags waved like whips.

Draco rose into the air with the Snitch still vibrating in his fist. His face was flushed from the effort, but his eyes… his eyes searched for something beyond glory.

Hermione.

She watched him from the stands.

She didn’t clap. She feigned disappointment. But her eyes said it all.

In the stands, Neville collapsed onto the bench, exhausted, unsure whether to mourn the loss or be grateful for the privileged view.

“I guess no kiss,” he murmured.

But Pansy, without a word, leaned toward him. She took his face with a glamorously polished hand… and kissed him.

With defiance and veiled mischief.

“Consider this a consolation prize, Longbottom.”

Neville blinked. And then… smiled.

The castle was asleep.

Slytherin banners still drifted lazily in the corridors, stirred by the lingering gusts of victory charms. But high above, at the southernmost tower—right where night ended and vertigo began—Draco and Hermione were hiding from the world.

They had flown there in silence. Hermione behind Draco. He had joked, insisting he’d carry her on his shoulders like she once suggested, but Hermione’s reluctance and frustration seemed to have tamed him—for a moment. Still, she had agreed to fly with him, despite her fear of heights. His back felt as secure as his chest.

Hermione sat atop the broom, legs crossed along the railing’s structure, her hair tangled from the wind and her cheeks still flushed from the match. Draco remained still in front of her, feeling her arms wrapped around him, occasionally just looking at her, as if that alone could steady his pulse.

“I knew you'd catch it,” Hermione murmured, her voice low and charged like a spell.

Draco barely smiled.

“I knew it the moment you came down to the tunnels. The Snitch wasn’t the only thing flying toward me.”

Hermione shifted slowly. He turned to look at her. His eyes were tamed fire. Concentrated magic.

“Tonight was... intense.”

“And it’s not over,” he whispered.

He stopped the broom mid-air and spun around in one swift motion that startled her only slightly.

He kissed her. No ceremony. No permission. Just the stored-up desire of someone unwilling to let the memory of a shared triumph cool.

The kiss was an extension of the match. Passionate. Urgent without haste. His tongue brushing the invisible wound of longing. Hermione clung to his neck like she’d never let go again, and Draco slid his hands down her back, lifting her gently to settle her on top of him.

The broom floated. So did they.

“This is madness,” Hermione whispered between gasps, her forehead resting against his.

“The kind worth living for,” Draco replied.

The bond pulsed between them, reaffirming what they now felt.

Because there, suspended above the world, lips still burning, bodies still humming, Hermione understood that loving Draco was like flying: terrifying, but impossible to give up once you’d felt it for real.

And Draco, feeling her wrapped around him, knew there was no spell more powerful than this intimate, singular moment, shared by no one but them.

A Granian swept by, soaring from the edge of the lake below where they hovered midair. The gust from its wings threw them off balance, and they were so lost in each other’s gaze that the next thing they knew, the wind had tossed them into the lake—thankfully no longer so cold.

The fall was a stolen breath. The water enveloped them like a silencing charm, breaking the laughter, the jolt, the heat.

Hermione surfaced first, hair clinging to her face, lips parted from the chill, eyes shining with something far more than victory. Draco emerged after, sputtering, his uniform soaked, the wings of the Snitch still visible on his gloved hand.

They met each other’s gaze through the rippling surface.

And without a word, they dove again, as if the world above no longer belonged to them.

When they found each other under the water, it was with hands, with bodies suspended in the current, with the tremble of those who know they’re invincible—just for a moment. They kissed there, among bubbles of magic and held breath, needing no witnesses, no celebration. Just the deep murmur of the lake, the heartbeat floating between them, the echo of something that felt eternal.

No promises were made.

None were needed.

Because that night, they hadn’t just won a match.

They kept gaining confidence in what they were experiencing.

And in the end, that was the only thing that ever truly mattered.

Chapter Text

The Great Hall smelled of toasted bread, coffee, and crumpled parchment.

It was Friday, but the celebration of St. Patrick's Day extended the weekend, meaning no classes. The atmosphere wasn't as sluggish as on other mornings. The tables buzzed with fragmented conversations, open newspapers, and the lingering euphoria from the previous night. Above the house banners, visual enchantments replayed highlights from the match, as if the walls refused to let go of the excitement.

Hermione arrived with a determined stride, her hair still slightly damp, loosely braided. She wore a cozy, oversized sweater—emerald green with gray trim—that many would recognize as not her own. She sat between Theo and Ginny, who were whispering about something.

"Looks like you raided the wrong wardrobe this morning, Hermione," Ginny teased with a smirk.

"I didn't have anything green to commemorate the day."

"I don't recall seeing Draco in any of your clothes on Valentine's Day. He'd probably look adorable in burgundy," Theo added nonchalantly.

"Good morning, champions," Blaise said serenely. "Well, to those it applies to, anyway."

Half the table, mainly Gryffindors, shot him disapproving looks, which he ignored as he settled across from Theo and Ginny.

"Sleep well? Or did you dream of being caught by an arrogant Seeker in the middle of the lake?" Harry asked.

"You need to stop spying with that map, Harry," Hermione replied quietly, trying not to draw attention. But it was too late; Blaise had overheard and raised an eyebrow at the mention of the magical object unfamiliar to him.

Hermione attempted to change the subject.

"I slept perfectly. Not everyone needs drama to end the day."

Ginny grabbed a piece of toast without looking.

"I do need drama. Did you see that move by Bletchley? I think he nearly lost his arm blocking my shot. Next time, I'll aim for his nose."

"Next time, dear Weasley," Draco interjected, appearing at the end of the table with a steaming cup of tea, "the Snitch will make you lose before you can aim at anything."

Theo looked at him with the confidence that comes from years of friendship.

"Draco, that ego should come with a special permit from the Ministry."

Hermione glanced at him sideways, not fully smiling. But the connection remained. Silent. Steady. As if the previous night didn't need to be recalled because it still resonated beneath their skin.

"Did you see the man in the gray robe?" Ginny asked in a lowered voice.

"The one with Hooch?" Theo nodded.

"Officially, he's an observer from the Department of Magical Games and Sports," Zabini mentioned.

Draco poured more tea with practiced indifference.

"And unofficially?" Ginny inquired.

"A recruiter," Zabini concluded.

Ginny confirmed with a nod.

"Then it's confirmed. I heard he spoke with McGonagall after the match. He seemed interested in some Gryffindor and Slytherin players. He was taking notes on several of them. However... I noticed he was watching me quite a bit, which doesn't surprise me. McMillan mentioned he saw the recruiter paying special attention to the two Seekers at the end of the game."

Theo smiled in confirmation, proud of his witch.

Hermione looked at Draco.

"Did you know?"

"I suspected. But it's not that important."

"Not yet," Theo murmured. "But your name is on everyone's lips."

"I'm used to it," Draco said with a self-assured tone, less arrogant than usual.

Hermione looked up from her plate.

"Speaking of names, has anyone else thought about the N.E.W.T.s?"

Silence fell immediately.

Harry groaned.

"Thanks, Hermione. You've just ruined my breakfast."

"They're in three months," Hermione added calmly. "And if you want a future beyond matches, you should start preparing."

"And you?" Theo asked. "Do you have plans?"

She hesitated for a moment, playing with her spoon on the edge of her cup.

"I've been thinking about training as a Healer."

Draco slightly turned his face. He didn't interrupt, but his fingers gripped his cup more firmly.

"Makes sense," Ginny said with a smile. "You've always had a compulsion to heal everyone. Physically, emotionally, and academically."

Hermione rolled her eyes.

"That's not why. It's... because I've always thought it's the most humane way to use magic. My parents are doctors. I guess that influenced me more than I realized."

Theo nodded, more serious than usual.

"Makes sense."

"And you, Nott?" Ginny asked, nudging him. "Are you going to keep writing poetry with thesis titles?"

Theo smirked.

"I'll reserve poetry for you, dear," he said mischievously, causing Ginny to blush. He continued, "Regarding the other matter, I've been talking with the Department of International Magical Cooperation. My surname has a... complicated history. Maybe it's time it served a better purpose."

Ginny looked at him with a mix of pride and evident affection.

"I'd like to work in Herbology," said a voice to her left.

It was Neville, who had just joined the table, his hair still damp from the shower.

"I've been writing to the greenhouses at Castelobruxo. They have an experimental section for magical flora and fauna. It's an ambitious goal, but... why not?" he added, blushing.

"Castelobruxo again!" Ginny exclaimed. "It's like suddenly everyone wants to go to the other side of the world."

"I'd follow you, wherever you decided to go," Theo suggested, without raising his voice. The phrase hung between them, floating like a joke that wasn't entirely a joke.

Ginny held his gaze, tilting her head slightly.

Hermione smiled subtly. It was impossible not to notice how everyone had changed. Not just in what they said, but in how they looked at each other.

Draco, silent until then, set his cup down with a soft click on the saucer.

"I haven't decided yet," he said without anyone asking. "But... I'm starting to think that flying might not be just a distraction."

"That's the closest to an emotional confession we're going to get from you this week, right?" Theo said teasingly.

"Undoubtedly," Draco replied.

And yet, Hermione knew he was referring to more than just Quidditch.

Because Draco's eyes, though speaking of flying, were only seeking her.

The conversation paused as Ron dropped next to Harry, who already had a cup of black coffee in hand.

"Are you already getting depressed about the N.E.W.T.s?" Ron huffed. "Can't we have even one day to talk about someone's sad victory?"

"It was only fair," Theo said, not looking up.

"Ugh. Don't remind me," Ron grumbled, but then looked at Draco across the table and added, "Good flight, Malfoy. I mean it."

Draco raised his eyebrows, surprised, and murmured something resembling a "thanks" that only Hermione and Theo heard.

"I'm more worried about Ron saying something nice than Draco being recruited by an international league," Harry joked, crossing his arms.

Zabini, lounging as always at the end of the table, turned his head slightly and tried to steer the conversation toward safer waters—something that might benefit Draco and ease the tension in the air.

"I noticed the recruiter watching me for a full fifteen minutes," he said casually. "Must’ve been my natural charm."

Astoria Greengrass, who seemed to be spending more time near Luna Lovegood these days, approached the table without hesitation. She looked at him and replied with calm poise.

"If the recruiter is scouting for arrogance, you're hired."

"And if he's scouting for beauty?" Blaise asked, mock-modestly.

"Then he should talk to me," Astoria said without blinking. And Blaise… smiled. For the first time in weeks.

Meanwhile, Pansy appeared behind Neville, dragging a breakfast tray like it was a fashion accessory. She sat beside him as if it were the most natural thing in the world and, without asking, stole a piece of toast from his plate.

"I want elderberry jam today, Longbottom. Pass it over."

Neville, red-faced, obeyed on instinct. Daphne sat on Pansy's other side, crossing her legs with elegance and casting suspicious glances at Zabini, who pretended not to notice.

Astoria, quieter now, slid into the seat directly across from Blaise. She said nothing, but her presence alone was enough to make Zabini stop playing with his spoon.

Hermione watched them all with a mix of amazement and affection.

"And Luna?" Ginny asked suddenly.

"Here," said Luna, appearing beside Astoria as if she’d materialized out of thin air. "I was watching a flock of owls flying in perfect formation. It’s a good omen."

"For what?" Ron asked.

"For those who are about to make important decisions," Luna said serenely, then sat between Harry and Astoria.

A brief silence followed—one not of discomfort, but of understanding.

Hermione looked down at her plate, and Draco, still silent, let his fingers brush against hers under the table. A brief gesture. But real.

Breakfast continued. But something had shifted.

They weren’t just growing.

They were intertwining.

Like different branches of the same tree… beginning to bloom.

Draco leaned back slightly against the bench, his gaze never leaving the group gathered around him.

Neville was arguing with Pansy over whether magical fertilizers worked better with fireroot or mandrake essence. Merlin help him, he never imagined Pansy Parkinson would talk about anything other than bloodlines, handbags, or robe hems. Daphne arched a single eyebrow at one of Zabini’s absurd remarks. Astoria smiled faintly while sharing a theory with Luna about the vibrational properties of cedar broomsticks. Harry and Ron debated whether the new flying robes reduced drag. Ginny was laughing with Theo, their shoulders brushing as if time itself couldn’t separate them.

Then Draco blinked. Slowly. As if convincing himself he wasn’t imagining it.

Never, in his entire life, had he pictured himself at a table like this. With these people. With… them. People he once mocked. Ignored. Even despised.

And yet, here they were. Together.

Without labels, without hierarchies or masks.

He looked at Hermione, and she was already watching him, with a veiled smile—that half-curve of her lips that meant she had read him. As always, as if his thoughts belonged to her.

Hermione held his gaze, and a thought crossed her mind like a soft whisper:

"We didn’t know that what seemed like weakness… was actually the beginning of our greatest strength."

Draco inhaled quietly as his fingers found hers again beneath the table.

And for the first time in a long time, he didn’t think about the past.

Or what he had lost.

Only about what he—unbelievably—had now.

Hermione Granger.

And a table where, finally, every name could be spoken without bitterness.

Snape had been less severe than usual.

Or perhaps Hermione was too focused to notice.

The cauldron bubbled with a thick, pearlescent mixture, and the acidic scent of reactive ingredients still clung to her hair as she extinguished the flame with a precise flick of her wand.

“You can breathe now, Granger,” Snape murmured from his desk. “You're not going to blow up. At least, not today.”

Hermione looked up, her face still lit with concentration. But she didn’t get a chance to reply. The classroom door creaked open… and there stood Draco, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed and an expression that blended challenge with routine.

“Are you coming, or are you still planning to rewrite the Potions textbook with your innate perfection?” he said, not moving from the threshold.

Snape barely raised an eyebrow.

“Mr. Malfoy, am I supposed to be grateful that you at least have the decency to wait for Miss Granger instead of peering through the glass like an abandoned puppy?” he commented dryly.

Hermione suppressed a smile and began packing her things.

“I’m coming. I just… don’t want anything to explode in my absence.”

“The only explosion risk here is you,” Draco said quietly as she passed by him.

Snape pretended not to hear. Or perhaps he truly didn’t. He simply let them go.

As they stepped into the corridor, Hermione, as was customary, handed her bag to Draco before he could take it himself. She had mentioned several times that he liked carrying it for her; after all, she always lugged heavy tomes and didn’t even bother using a decent spell to lighten the load. Draco slung the backpack over his shoulder while Hermione shot him a sidelong glance.

“Are you coming to Care of Magical Creatures now?”

“Of course. You think I wander the halls because I have nothing better to do, don’t you?”

“You do it constantly, Draco.”

“Only because I enjoy seeing the mess you leave behind in the classroom when you go.”

Hermione nudged him gently with her elbow, and they laughed as they walked down the corridors. The March sun, warm yet still shy, began to filter through the tall stone windows.

The March breeze smelled of damp moss, living bark, and something else: anticipation. The field where Care of Magical Creatures classes were held was partially sheltered by a line of young oaks, and the sky, a blue washed clean by the last snows, seemed to stretch endlessly. Sixth and seventh-year students had been summoned to the same space due to the Arithmancy professor’s absence, something the younger students appreciated.

Charlie Weasley walked with his sleeves rolled up, a long stick in hand, and a furry three-legged creature—a corvine triped—hidden under an enchanted blanket floating behind him. The creature occasionally let out a complaint resembling a deep sneeze.

“Welcome, students,” he said, raising his voice as the students formed a circle. “Today we’ll work with a creature that can predict emotional states more accurately than most Knockturn Alley seers.”

Hermione and Draco arrived among the last, still chuckling softly over something she had whispered to him as they crossed the field.

Pansy was already strategically positioned next to Neville, who was carrying a box filled with feathers and roots, presumably part of the day’s activity.

“Please, don’t drop that,” Charlie said upon seeing them. “This creature smells nervousness. And feeds on it.”

Neville tensed instantly. Pansy looked at him with a smile that seemed more like a challenge than a kind gesture.

“You heard him, Longbottom. Relax. Think of… flowers. Butterflies. My face. That should calm you.”

“That doesn’t help,” Neville muttered through gritted teeth, his ears turning red.

Ginny arrived with Theo at her side, both sharing a scarf—probably an excuse to justify how close they were to each other. Luna walked just behind, with a branch in her hair and a serene expression.

“Are we working with augureys?” she asked, without any context.

“Not today, Lovegood,” Charlie replied, not missing a beat. “Though that would give us more melodrama than necessary. Today you’ll meet the Tripidium corvinus, or as they call it in Norway: ‘the heart-sniffer.’”

“That thing predicts if someone’s in love?” Ron asked, appearing behind Harry, who had arrived panting after running from Ancient Runes.

“Not exactly,” Charlie said, removing the blanket from the animal. “But it can sense intense magical bonds.”

The triped appeared: furry, with huge blue eyes and a tail that moved inquisitively. It emitted a sound similar to a deep purr, as if calibrating the energy around it.

“Interesting,” Zabini murmured. “I won’t be the only detector of teenage drama anymore.”

“Does it work with… unusual magical bonds?” Luna asked, looking directly at Hermione and Draco.

Hermione blinked. Draco crossed his arms.

“Define ‘unusual,’” he said in a neutral tone.

The triped turned its head. It looked at Hermione. Then at Draco. And let out a deep sneeze that sent leaves and petals flying around.

Charlie raised an eyebrow.

“Well. That’s… interesting.”

Harry discreetly leaned on Ron, and Daphne, standing next to Astoria, didn’t take her eyes off Zabini. The latter—upon noticing Astoria’s gaze—straightened up.

“What does it mean if the creature sneezes that hard?” Hermione asked, feigning innocence.

“That it just perceived an unusually strong emotional and magical bond,” Charlie said, without irony.

“Is that bad?” Ron asked.

“Not necessarily,” Charlie replied. “But it’s not common either. Anyway, we’re not here to analyze your love lives. We’re going to study the triped’s reaction to touch and emotional projection. In pairs. Choose wisely. Or prepare to have your ego shattered.”

The ensuing murmur was immediate. Theo was already with Ginny. Neville turned to Pansy with the resignation of someone who had already been claimed. Luna positioned herself next to Daphne, strategically avoiding Astoria, and Zabini… pretended not to know whom to look at until Astoria approached by her own decision.

“Want to be my statistical exception, Zabini?” she asked softly.

“Always,” he replied, more seriously than expected.

Hermione looked at Draco. No words were necessary.

They both knew what was coming.

And what they didn’t know yet… the creature would reveal.

Astoria remained beside Blaise. He didn’t comment, merely slid his hand toward hers as if it were the most natural thing in the world. The corvine triped turned its head toward them and wagged its tail with a curious shake, letting out a new low rumble that sounded… satisfied.

“This is getting weird,” Theo murmured, already next to Ginny, who laughed while trying to maintain composure at the creature’s facial expressions.

“What if it bites us?” she asked in a low voice.

“I’ll defend you with my sarcasm,” Theo whispered, squeezing her hand with his.

Ron and Harry arrived later to the group, laughing about something only they seemed to understand. Seeing the already formed

Pansy was already holding Neville’s hand. He was sweating.

"This is a terrible idea," Neville whispered.

"Don’t worry, Longbottom. The creature will sense what I feel for you," Pansy said, almost melodically. "Territorial claim. And a bit of tenderness."

"Very well hidden," Neville muttered under his breath.

Just then, the soft sound of footsteps cut through the moment.

Aurélie Dumont appeared at the edge of the circle. She wore a light wool coat, her hair down, and her expression calm yet alert. She didn’t speak. She simply crossed her arms and stood watching.

Charlie saw her, of course. He didn’t mention it, but his voice dropped a semitone when he continued:

"The tripidium reacts to strong magical bonds. Physical touch, if genuine, stabilizes it. If not... well, we’ll see how well your egos hold up."

Aurélie didn’t approach but kept her eyes on Hermione and Draco for a moment. Then on Harry and Ron. And finally... on Theo and Ginny.

Her gaze softened for just a second.

The three-legged creature began moving between the pairs, sniffing, giving soft sneezes, whistles, and deep growls depending on what it sensed.

When it passed between Draco and Hermione, the creature stopped, sat on its three legs, and lowered its head... in what could only be interpreted as a bow.

Charlie blinked.

"I’ve never seen that before."

Aurélie noticed it too. She said nothing. But lowered her gaze.

Draco looked at Hermione. She looked back.

They both knew: that wasn’t just magic.

It was something more.

It was destiny.

When the tripidium passed by Zabini and Astoria, it tilted its head toward them, its feathers vibrating gently—like a softly plucked string—and let out a light, almost musical trill. Ginny smiled.

"Was that a compliment?"

"I think so," Theo said, lowering his voice in feigned annoyance. "Though I doubt I’ll ever match your ability to charm magical creatures... and me."

Ginny gave him a small elbow jab.

"Shut up and keep that hand where I put it."

Next came Pansy and Neville.

The tripidium raised its front legs and snorted. A short, almost mocking sound.

Neville swallowed hard. Pansy lifted her chin.

"What does that mean?"

Charlie narrowed his eyes.

"I’d say... acknowledgment with skepticism."

"Acknowledgment of what?"

"That there’s tension—and not all of it hostile," Charlie replied with a small smile. "And also, that you’re controlling more than you’re willing to admit. The tripidium can smell fear. Or desire."

Neville sneezed.

"I’m fine. Just allergies."

"To what?"

"Emotional truths," Luna whispered from behind.

The group laughed, easing the mood. Even Aurélie let out a softer-than-usual breath.

When the class ended and the students began to scatter, chatting about magical creatures and how “weirdly adorable” the tripidium was, Charlie walked over to her.

Aurélie hadn’t moved, arms still crossed, watching Draco and Hermione walk away, their fingers barely touching. They didn’t need more than that to be obvious.

"Thanks for staying," Charlie said softly, not rushing to break the silence.

Aurélie slowly turned her face toward him.

"It wasn’t planned. I stumbled upon the class."

"And you decided to observe. That’s more than I would’ve expected a few months ago."

She smiled. It was slight, but real.

"Maybe I’m learning to see without interfering. To listen without judging too quickly."

"And... what did you hear today?"

Aurélie lowered her gaze, thoughtful.

"Connection. Real bonds. Some I don’t fully understand. Others that... bother me a bit." She looked up. "I feel out of place, sometimes."

Charlie stepped closer, no longer pretending to keep distance.

"You’re not alone in that. We’ve all felt that way at some point."

"And you? How do you deal with it?"

Charlie shrugged.

"I lean toward people who make me feel like I belong. And if there’s no one... I try to become someone others want to stay with."

Aurélie looked at him in silence.

"You make it sound simple."

"It is simple. Just not easy to do." He watched her a moment longer. "But I think you’ve already started."

She looked at him with skepticism.

And just before he walked away, Charlie added:

"The tripidium recognized those who don’t hide how they feel. Maybe that’s your next step."

Aurélie didn’t answer. But when she watched him walk away, for the first time in a long while, she didn’t feel like leaving alone.

She stayed  here few minutes longer, surrounded by the silence of magical creatures who, like her, were still learning to trust.

The west wing corridor was unusually quiet. Afternoon light slanted through the stained-glass windows, casting amber and violet across the stone floor. Draco walked with no clear destination, his footsteps echoing like a slower rhythm of his thoughts.

He had left Divination early. He had free time before Defense Against the Dark Arts, but he hadn’t gone back to the pitch. He hadn’t looked for Theo or Zabini either. He just walked.

His fingers toyed absentmindedly with the edge of his robe. He wasn’t in a hurry. And yet, something felt missing.

He turned instinctively as he passed the Charms classroom. Out of habit. 

But she wasn’t there.

She wasn’t anywhere, at least not in the way she used to be.

He couldn’t feel her magic humming behind the walls anymore. Couldn’t guess if she was about to turn a corner or if she was silently furious with him. There was no tension, no chill, no magical tug. Nothing.

And it made his skin prickle.

Not because he wanted to suffer. But because, for the first time in weeks, his chest felt light.

And that relief… felt like betrayal.

He crossed an archway and stopped beside a windowsill. From there, the Quidditch pitch was just a sliver of green under a sky growing heavy with clouds. A flock of corvitas swept across the horizon like living ink on gray parchment.

Draco leaned his elbows against the stone and closed his eyes.

It didn’t hurt.

It didn’t hurt not to see her. It didn’t hurt not to touch her. It didn’t hurt not knowing what she was doing with Snape in some forgotten classroom of the castle.

And that was what was killing him.

Because the pact, until now, had been his compass. His silent certainty that, no matter how much the world burned, he and she were still bound by something more than reckless decisions.

Now, the bond didn’t burn. It didn’t hum. It was just… still. As if it had accepted the distance.

As if it no longer needed to protect him from his own insecurity.

And that —he realized with brutal clarity— meant he could lose her.

Because they were no longer bound by desperate magic, but by something far more meaningful:

by choice.

And Draco, who had spent his life tied to predetermined destinies, felt he had made a decision of his own.

He inhaled deeply and decided it was time to head to his next class.

Once again, without Hermione.

The afternoon light poured obliquely through the windows of the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, casting amber hues over the dust suspended in the air. Outside, the wind was still cold, but it smelled of living dampness—of leaves about to bloom. Winter was beginning to retreat, though begrudgingly.

Aurélie Dumont entered without announcement, her pale cloak trailing behind her like a ribbon of elegant perfume. Unlike other times, she didn’t seal the door with a resonant charm or shake the walls with her voice while taking attendance. She simply stopped at the front of the room, placed her wand gently on the wrought-iron lectern, and looked at the students as if, for the first time in a long while, she wasn’t trying to impress—but to teach.

Draco noticed immediately that something was different. Not just because the seat beside him was empty—something that distracted him more than he cared to admit—but because Aurélie, the same Aurélie who could silence a room with a glance and always had a biting remark at the ready for him, now seemed restrained, as though she measured her words before releasing them.

“Today we’ll be working on energy containment spells,” she said, without theatrics. “The idea is to identify the nature of a magical aggression before reacting on instinct. Not everything that looks like an attack is one. And not everything worth defending… deserves to be defended.”

The sentence lingered in the air longer than necessary.

Zabini, from the second row, raised an eyebrow at Theo, who merely twirled his quill between his fingers as if he hadn’t heard. But they both knew how to read between the lines. Aurélie Dumont was different. Not kinder, but less impenetrable.

Pansy, who had arrived five minutes late, flopped into her seat as if her presence were a gift to everyone. She scanned the classroom with disdain, but when she saw Neville focused on his notes, she pursed her lips, nudged him with her elbow, and murmured:

“Don’t get too comfortable, Longbottom. If someone casts a real spell, I don’t want you crashing into me.”

“I seem to remember I covered you during the last ambush simulation,” Neville replied without looking at her.

“After all, maybe I do want you to fall on top of me.” Pansy shot back with a smile that wasn’t entirely cruel.

Draco, in another time, would have rolled his eyes. But today, he was too withdrawn. His wand rested on the desk, perfectly aligned with his notebook. The hand that usually held it lay still.

Hermione wasn’t there.

Not because she was sick. Not because she had run off with Weasley—a thought that no longer even irritated him. She wasn’t there because Snape had claimed her. Academically speaking, which to Draco was worse. Snape had insisted on increasing her training hours, and she had accepted without hesitation.

Aurélie began walking between the desks, watching as each student conjured translucent shields, energy spheres, or repelled harmless hexes cast by the charmed mannequin at the back of the room. Her voice wove between them, more reflective than sharp.

“Power doesn’t lie in who casts the spell first, but in who understands it fastest.”

When she passed by Draco, she paused just slightly. She observed him with the same focus she gave the others. No favoritism—but without the passive disdain that had once been her default.

“Malfoy,” she said in a neutral tone. “Your shield has a fracture on the left flank. You know that.”

“Yes,” Draco replied, not yet bothering to fix it.

“And are you going to do something about it?”

Draco barely lifted his gaze.

“Depends. Is the enemy in front of me, or in my head?”

Aurélie didn’t answer. But her lips curved ever so slightly. Just enough for Zabini and Theo to exchange a quick look.

“Fix it, then. Because in this class…  the enemy can stop being one too.”

That was enough to shake Draco out of it. He knew Aurélie and could read between her lines. He hoped she was being sincere.

The class ended quickly for most students, who now seemed charmed by Aurélie’s new demeanor. But for Draco, it passed with torturous slowness—relieved only when the hour finally allowed him to stand and go looking for Hermione.

The special Potions classroom was unlike any other at Hogwarts. It was located on a level below the usual lab, with walls of polished obsidian that reflected the torchlight as if the entire room were one massive cauldron. Everything there felt deliberately contained: the display cases, the alphabetized jars on floating shelves, the enchanted cauldrons maintaining their temperature with no visible flame. In the center stood a grayish stone table, and upon it, a single open copy of The Art of Emotional Transmutation in Potions.

Hermione stood with her wand in hand, her hair pulled into a high bun and her apron tightly fastened. She wore gloves, and a haze of blue steam hovered over her cauldron.

Snape watched her from the other end of the room, silent.

“What do you think went wrong?” he asked, his voice low, like a leaf gliding over still water.

Hermione didn’t answer right away. She sniffed the steam, tilted her head slightly, and stirred in the opposite direction of what was indicated.

“The pulse. My wand trembled while stabilizing the waterlily infusion,” she finally said. “I lost three degrees of magical temperature during phase two integration.”

Snape nodded without emotion. He took two steps toward her, arms crossed behind his back.

“A less rigorous witch would’ve guessed. You analyze.”

Hermione looked up, surprised by what—for him—almost sounded like a compliment.

“But it’s still a mistake,” she said.

“Mistakes are only fatal when one pretends not to learn from them.”

Hermione nodded. Her breathing was steady, but her shoulders were tense. The air smelled of moonroot, thick sap, and the faint metallic scent of the enchanted copper cauldron.

“May I try again?”

Snape turned slowly and flicked his wand. The contents of the cauldron evaporated without a sound. The table was empty once more. Clean.

“From the beginning,” he said. “But this time... without speaking.”

Hermione held back a smile. She knew it wasn’t a suggestion. It was a test.

She began again, placing the ingredients with precise movements. She adjusted the cutting angle of the roots, refined the pressure of the mortar, timed the stirring rhythm with the focus of an experienced alchemist. Her movements had a rhythmic cadence—almost hypnotic. And as she worked, she remembered why.

It wasn’t just about winning the tournament.

It was about control. Precision. Balance amidst chaos. Studying potions had been the only thing, for years, that allowed her to order what she felt inside.

And now… now she was here, with Snape watching her as if making sure she wouldn’t break. Or perhaps, as if he saw someone who still might not.

When she completed the first cycle, she stepped back slightly and let the solution decant on its own. The color had shifted to sky blue, threaded with golden streaks.

Snape approached. He observed. He said nothing.

Then, without looking at her, he said:

“There was someone else who used to brew this potion to perfection, you know. With their eyes closed. Claimed they could ‘hear’ the ingredients when they were ready.”

Hermione blinked.

“And could you do that too?” she dared to ask.

Snape didn’t reply immediately. The torchlight danced across his face, casting shadows along his jaw.

“I only heard the silence they left behind when they weren’t in the room.”

Hermione lowered her gaze.

Snape turned on his heel. He walked back to his desk and jotted something down on a piece of parchment.

“Take fifteen minutes. Then… we’ll repeat it with a higher level of interference.”

Hermione raised her head.

“Interference?”

“I’ll disrupt your concentration with environmental simulations. Chaos. Noise. Smell… Emotion.”

“And how do you train for that?”

Snape looked at her sharply.

“You don’t train for it. You survive it.”

*

The Potions classroom was empty when Hermione stepped out. The bittersweet vapor of her last experiment still lingered in the air, clinging to the walls as if reluctant to leave.

Draco was waiting for her in the corridor, leaning against the wall, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the floor. When he heard her footsteps, he looked up. He didn’t smile. He didn’t need to.

Hermione stopped in front of him.

“Snape is tougher than any international exam,” she said with a tired exhale.

“He makes you stronger,” Draco replied. “Even if he’ll never admit it, he respects you.”

Hermione nodded silently.

For a moment, neither spoke. They just looked at each other, as if time had stretched between them, making them more aware of one another.

The castle’s staircases seemed to guide them nowhere in particular, and they simply let themselves drift.

Down a corridor that might have been on the sixth floor, afternoon light filtered obliquely through the windows of the Charms classroom, casting golden reflections across empty desks. It was the same room. The very one where, months ago, a pact had been sealed that never should have been made. Where two wounded teenagers vowed that love would be neither their destiny nor their end. Where their magic—along with their pain—began to intertwine.

Their steps had brought them back here.

Now, in silence, Draco and Hermione stood by the open window. They didn’t touch. They didn’t speak. They just watched.

In the courtyard below, two figures laughed beneath the enchanted cherry tree that bloomed ahead of season.

Ginny.

Theo.

She rested her head on his shoulder. He whispered something into her ear, gesturing as if telling a secret joke that only she would care to hear. And she laughed with the kind of honesty that only comes when you're not afraid to be vulnerable.

Draco recognized the bench. Hermione did too.

It wasn’t just any bench.

It was the one where, not long ago, Charlie and Aurélie had sat.

Now, in the same spot, a different couple gave it new meaning. One that had chosen love without conditions.

Hermione moved a little closer to Draco. Not to touch him. Just to be near.

He turned toward her, his eyes reflecting a quiet kind of nostalgia.

“The same place,” he murmured, barely audible.

“But everything’s changed,” Hermione whispered.

“Do you believe in destiny?” she asked then, her voice low—just a murmur caught in the stone echo.

Draco narrowed his eyes. It took him a moment to answer.

“I used to. Because everything felt written. Because everything felt inevitable.” He paused. “Now… I don’t know. I want to believe something pushed us to where we are. But what I feel now... it doesn’t feel like a chain. It doesn’t feel like that anymore.”

Hermione looked at him. And then she said it.

“To me, it feels like freedom, you know? Because now I know that, despite everything… love really was our destiny.”

Draco lowered his gaze. A small smile tugged at his lips.

“And it wasn’t our end.”

“Even though we swore it would be,” she said softly.

“If love is not our destiny, then let it not be our end,” Draco repeated, as if the words stirred something deep inside.

“We shall not be salvation nor solace…” Hermione added. “If love didn’t want us, then let it not find us.”

“Words spoken by two cowards who didn’t know what they wanted,” Draco muttered.

Hermione stepped in front of him, meeting his eyes.

“No, Draco. They were words from two broken people, doing what they could with what they felt,” she whispered. “And even so, we found each other.”

Draco cupped her face in his hands, and she trembled beneath his touch.

“And we weren’t salvation. Or solace. We were something better.”

“What?”

Draco touched his forehead to hers.

“Strength. We chose to hold each other up when everything else failed. Even when we didn’t know what we were.”

“Even now that we do,” Hermione replied. “Even now that it doesn’t hurt to let go.”

“That’s what scares me the most,” Draco said, barely a breath. “That it doesn’t hurt anymore.”

Hermione understood.

“Because now we’re free. The pact isn’t broken, Draco… it’s just changed. It doesn’t bind us anymore. It connects us.”

Draco looked up. He gazed at her as if he needed her to see every truth written in his eyes.

“Hermione, never doubt this—because if everything vanished tomorrow,” he said, “I’d choose you again. No spells. No pact. Just you. Always you.”

“You know the magic will always remain…” Hermione whispered. “But not to keep us close. Just to remind us that we stayed—when we didn’t have to.”

And there, in that silence steeped in history, the dialogue they had once spoken resurfaced—not as a curse, but as a redemption. They remembered what they had said. What they had promised not to feel. And what, against all odds, they had ended up living.

While Theo and Ginny held hands down below, unaware that they were echoing a scene older than their love, Draco and Hermione completed the circle.

The magical pact hadn’t broken.

It had simply taken on something more human.

Hermione and Draco stood like that—not embracing, not kissing—just face to face, like two people who had lived through a war without explosions, but with scars they knew by heart. Because there, in that hallway enchanted by its own silence, they understood that what they had was born of a twisted truth… and now, somehow, had survived it all.

Chapter Text

Draco saw her before she spoke.

She was sitting on the stone bench beside Greenhouse One—the oldest in the Hogwarts grounds—with her dragon-hide gloves resting to one side and her face slightly tilted toward the reddening sky. She didn’t seem to be in a hurry. As if the sunset had been summoned just to wrap her in that amber light that suited her so well.

Draco stopped a few steps away. He said nothing.

Narcissa slowly turned her head, with a calmness that was almost disarming.

“You’re paler than usual,” she murmured, without judgment. “I hope that’s not Snape’s fault.”

“Not this time,” Draco replied, walking closer with his hands in his pockets. “Though Hermione might disagree.”

Narcissa smiled faintly. She nodded toward the bench for him to sit.

Draco obeyed. He always did with her. It had always been that way.

“I figured you’d come,” he said, breaking the silence when the weight of his gaze on the horizon became too much.

“You figured right.” She looked at him in profile. “And I suppose you know why.”

Draco nodded.

“The recruiter.”

“He reached out to your father,” Narcissa confirmed. “Formally, as protocol dictates. The name still carries weight—for better or worse.”

Draco didn’t reply. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped. The early April breeze carried the scent of moss and resin. And something else… a premonition.

“Lucius didn’t respond,” she continued. “Or rather, he responded exactly as expected. He thinks a Malfoy shouldn’t ‘serve as entertainment in foreign leagues.’ He thinks you’re… wasting your potential.”

“And you?” Draco asked, without lifting his eyes.

Narcissa studied him intently. Then she leaned just slightly toward him, as if sharing a secret with the dusk.

“I think you’re starting to understand your real power.”

Draco frowned.

“And what’s that?”

“Knowing who you let see you vulnerable,” she said, unwavering. “There’s no greater strength than that. Because then, you stop living defensively. You don’t just survive. You choose.”

Draco looked at her, thoughtful.

“And did you choose with Father?”

“Lucius believes he chose me. That I let him take the reins.” Narcissa lowered her gaze, wearing an ambiguous smile. “And I’ve never corrected him. Because sometimes, letting someone believe they have the power… is the most elegant way to actually hold it.”

Draco let out a short, humorless laugh.

“So maybe Father and I aren’t so different after all.”

“You rarely have been, in truth.” —Narcissa looked at him again— “But there’s a difference. Lucius needed power to impose himself. You only need someone who sees you even when you’re not asking to be seen.”

“Like Hermione?”

“You’ve come to that conclusion on your own, dear.”

There was a silence—dense, but warm. Draco lowered his head.

“Do you think she’ll do the same? Pretend I’m in control… even though she knows she’s the one holding me up?”

Narcissa narrowed her eyes.

“She won’t pretend. She’ll enjoy it. Just as I do with your father. Great men… aren’t the ones who lead. They’re the ones who know whom they can surrender to, without losing themselves.”

Draco closed his eyes for a moment.

“And the recruiter?”

“He’s real. And he’s only as good or bad as you believe him to be. He has contacts in Japan, Germany, and France. The magical world doesn’t end on this island, Draco. And if you choose to fly… don’t let anyone make you do it with someone else’s wings.”

Draco nodded. Then he looked at her with a gratitude that didn’t need words.

“Thank you for still being on my side.”

Narcissa tilted her head with that signature grace of hers.

“My loyalty doesn’t depend solely on blood, Draco. You’re far more Black than your father would ever admit. After all, you’re his heir, but you’re mine too. Not just by legacy—you’re my only son, and therefore, my extension in this world. I couldn’t be prouder of you than I’ve been these past months.”

Draco drew a long breath. The bond pulsed faintly, like a magical memory.

Hermione.

She chose him like that, too. Not as the son of a lineage. Not as a name. As a man.

And he… was learning to surrender without feeling defeated.

Narcissa rose. She dusted off her wool skirt with a mechanical gesture.

“There’s a vault in your name at Gringotts. I opened it a few weeks ago. With my surname. In case you ever need it.”

Draco looked at her. He didn’t know what to say.

Narcissa understood at once.

“You don’t have to say anything.” She held his gaze firmly. “I’ve always seen that understanding in your eyes, Draco. I knew the moment would come when you’d see it in yourself.”

She walked away with quiet strength, leaving behind the soft scent of gardenias. Draco watched her go and, for the first time, understood that love… could also wear silence as its cloak.

And deep down, yes. His mother and Hermione had something in common.

They were the only two places where he could surrender… and still feel strong.

The fire crackled softly, held together by a containment charm that barely kept it alive. It was April, but the cold still crept through the stone walls like a memory of winter that refused to die.

Draco sat on the long sofa, his back slightly hunched, fingers interlaced on his lap. He wasn’t reading. He wasn’t writing. He was just watching.

Hermione was asleep, her head resting on one of the cushions, an open book on her chest and a quill—still stained with ink—dangling loosely from her fingers. Her brow was slightly furrowed, even in sleep, as if she were arguing with herself for not finishing whatever she’d been correcting. Her bun had unraveled, and a strand of hair had fallen across her cheek.

Draco didn’t want to move it.

The table in front of them was cluttered with scrolls marked with potion symbols, graphs of magical interactions, small vials labeled in her tidy handwriting. Everything spoke of her imminent departure.

Two days left. Forty-eight hours.

Draco inhaled slowly. Deeply.

The bond between them no longer hurt. It didn’t pulse like it used to. There were no sharp tugs, no pressure in his chest, no sting that had haunted him for months. Only a softer sensation. A kind of echo that still lingered, as if the magic knew it was time to be silent.

Or to trust.

Hermione shifted slightly, and the book slid over her chest. Draco caught it before it fell. He closed it without a sound, set the quill gently on the table, and sat there, watching her as if that alone could freeze time.

“You’re leaving, and I don’t want to say it out loud. Because saying it makes it real.”

He leaned down a little, slowly, and with the tip of his finger, tucked the stray lock of hair behind her ear. She sighed, as if she could feel him even in sleep.

Hermione Granger, he thought.

The witch who turned his internal war into a home.

The one who taught him that power isn’t measured by bloodlines... but by the things you choose to hold onto.

He looked at her as if trying to memorize every detail of that stillness. Her long lashes. The ink stain on her fingers. Her bottom lip, slightly bitten, as if she were dreaming of reading something she didn’t quite understand.

He wanted to touch her.

He wanted to tell her that he’d been trying to find a way to stay with her, and he would keep trying until her last day away. That he had no intention of staying in this castle while she walked beneath another sky.

But he said nothing.

He just sat there, guarding a dream that wasn’t only hers—and that, in a few days, would belong to him only in the distance.

When the clock struck midnight, the fire flickered one last time before extinguishing completely.

Draco rose quietly, draped his folded cloak over her shoulders, and before leaving, he looked at her one more time.

“I don’t know what Hogwarts will be like without you. But I’m going to find out—just to know how much I’ll miss you.”

The door closed with a soft click behind her.

Hermione crossed the office like someone walking through a memory, not a corridor. Every object had a story: clocks that measured more than time, portraits pretending to sleep so as not to interrupt, books watching her as if silently bidding farewell. The air smelled faintly of jasmine tea and dry ink.

Dumbledore stood by the window, hands clasped behind his back. He didn’t turn immediately. The sunset cast his silhouette in amber light, like a statue outlined against the glow.

“Thank you for coming, Miss Granger.”

“Did you summon me to go over the diplomatic rules of school representation?” she asked with a faint smile, trying to lighten the mood.

Dumbledore turned then. His blue eyes, bright even behind his half-moon glasses, studied her with a warmth that wasn’t paternal—but deeply attentive.

“Oh, no. I’m quite certain you could write them better than the Ministry itself. I’ve called you here for something less official. More... personal.”

Hermione nodded and stepped forward. She didn’t sit until he gave a small gesture toward the chair in front of the desk.

“A while ago,” he began, “I told you that magic is rarely simple. Especially not when it intertwines with the will of two people.”

Hermione swallowed. She already knew where this was going.

“I also said that some pacts are not broken with words, not even with time. They may change, yes… but they do not vanish.”

“And if they’re broken…” Hermione murmured, nearly quoting him word for word, “there are consequences.”

Dumbledore dipped his head slightly.

“A truth you’ve had to discover for yourself, I’m afraid. Though I suspect you’ve also come across another, subtler lesson: not all consequences are punishments. Some… are evolution.”

Hermione said nothing. The golden light in the office touched the edges of the books, as if the castle itself were leaning in to listen.

“We did it without thinking,” she whispered. “Without understanding what it really meant.”

“As with most truly human acts, Miss Granger. The desire to feel less alone has created more magic than any book could record. And more wounds, too.”

He sat down, with the slow grace of someone who understood the weight of the moment.

“And yet, here you are. About to represent Hogwarts. About to leave. And the bond… it doesn’t hurt anymore, does it?”

Hermione looked at him. There was something sharp in his words, but also freeing.

“It doesn’t hurt. No. But it hasn’t gone either.”

“Of course not. Any feeling that’s real rarely needs spells to remain.”

The sentence dropped like a quiet charm. There was no judgment in his voice, only truth.

“And what do you do with a feeling like that?” Hermione asked, her voice barely audible.

“You honor it,” Dumbledore replied, with a wistful smile. “You respect it, even if it takes other paths. Even if it grows… toward different places.”

He opened a small drawer and took out an envelope sealed with red wax. He handed it to her without explanation.

“I wrote this when I understood what kind of bond you’d created. You’ll know when to open it.”

Hermione accepted it without asking. Her fingers trembled slightly, but her gaze was steady.

“Thank you, Headmaster.”

Dumbledore nodded.

“Whatever your path may be, Miss Granger, remember this: Pacts born out of need may fade… but it’s the feeling that created them that may evolve into true need. And when that happens, the bond rarely disappears completely.”

He watched her as she stood. Just as she opened the door, he added:

“And if you ever find yourself in doubt… remember: the heart and magic are equally capricious. But sometimes, they are—astonishingly—wise.”

Hermione paused for a second. She smiled without turning back.

And stepped out.

Hermione stepped down the last few stairs from the headmaster’s office, the envelope still pressed between her fingers. The breeze drifting in from one of the high windows felt warmer than usual, as if the castle itself were breathing with her.

“Granger,” said a dry voice to her left.

Hermione turned.

Pansy Parkinson was leaning against the stone railing, arms crossed, her expression carefully neutral. Beside her, Neville was staring at the ground with a mix of discomfort and patience, as if he’d been waiting there for a while.

Hermione narrowed her eyes.

“Pansy?”

“Don’t make me repeat myself,” said the witch without moving. “This is humiliating enough as it is.”

“Excuse me?”

Pansy exhaled dramatically.

“Longbottom says if I’m going to continue…” she waved vaguely toward him, “this academic partnership with him—” She cleared her throat. “Then I should probably stop acting like a harpy toward his friends.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow, genuinely surprised. Neville said nothing but lifted a brow in a quiet I’m-just-the-messenger kind of way.

Pansy cleared her throat again.

“So anyway. I’m sorry. For all of it. Whatever. You know. You and I are never going to have tea and biscuits in the Astronomy Tower, but… I respect what you do. Even if you’re insufferably righteous.”

Hermione felt her lips curve into a smile that didn’t ask permission.

“That was… an apology?”

“It’s as close as you’ll get without me swallowing my pride. And Longbottom knows it,” she added, shooting him a glare. “He said if I didn’t do this, he wouldn’t study with me for the NEWTs. And frankly, I’m not about to fail because of your precious sensitivity.”

Hermione laughed—almost involuntarily.

“Thank you, Pansy. In your own way… that was lovely.”

“Don’t overdo it,” Pansy grumbled, already turning on her heel. “And don’t tell anyone. I have a reputation to uphold.”

Neville cleared his throat this time, prompting Pansy to roll her eyes.

“For Salazar’s sake, this is too much,” she muttered with exasperation, then tossed one last comment toward Hermione over her shoulder.

“You’re not a Mudblood, Granger.”

Neville gave Hermione a small nod—a silent sort of salute—before following after her with a calm pace. She returned the gesture with a look of gratitude that didn’t need words.

And as they turned the corner, Hermione was still holding Dumbledore’s envelope…

But no longer with tense fingers.

Now, she held it with the certainty that even when pacts change, people can too.

Hermione was asleep.

Draco could tell by the soft rhythm of her breathing, by the way the jumper she wore—one of his, of course—rose ever so slightly with each inhale. She was lying on her left side, one arm tucked beneath the pillow, the other stretched out toward the place where he usually lay.

But tonight, Draco was sitting at the edge of the bed, his gaze fixed on the polished stone floor.

He couldn’t sleep.

Not because she was leaving.

But because he wasn’t going with her.

A few steps away, on the enchanted desk, a list was writing itself in her neat handwriting.

Things to take to Castelobruxo:

• Peony root extract.

• Tropical storm goggles.

• Non-enchanted journal (don’t trust sentient quills).

• T-shirt marked with Draco’s surname (wear as often as possible, per his suggestion).

• Don’t cry (bolded, underlined, Ginny’s annotation).

Draco allowed himself a faint smile.

He stood without making a sound and walked to the shared bookshelf, where Hermione had begun to organize the potions Snape had given her for “field use.” He touched one of the vials, turned it slightly, and set it back in place.

Everything smelled like her. Like greenhouse soil. Like new books. Like sleepless nights.

Like something he was going to miss more than he’d expected.

He returned to the bed and sat down slowly. Watched her for a moment. Brushed a strand of hair from her forehead with a gentle touch.

“You’re going to be fine,” he whispered.

She didn’t wake. But she murmured something unintelligible and shifted slightly, seeking his warmth in her sleep. Draco lay down beside her, pulled her into his chest. He knew he only had a few more hours before watching her leave.

And he still didn’t know how he’d survive her absence.

He had grown used to the comfort of her presence.

He just wanted to be near her.

Not to watch over her.

But to breathe better.

To not unravel when more than three nights passed without hearing her voice nearby.

“Magic doesn’t warn me when you leave anymore,” he murmured, resting his forehead against her back. “But I still notice.”

She didn’t respond. She slept deeply, exhausted.

Draco held her tighter.

And for the first time since knowing she would leave… he didn’t feel afraid.

He simply reignited the promise he had already made—one that was now carving itself deeper into his chest.

No matter the distance. He would always find his way back to her.

The carriage waited at the edge of the castle grounds, where the mist still lingered between the hedgerows. The sun had barely begun to rise behind the towers, painting the sky in cold, muted greys.

Hermione adjusted the straps of her bag for the third time. Her cloak was buttoned up to her neck, and her hair was tied back in a braid already starting to come undone from the damp air. Beside her stood Draco, arms crossed, wearing the expression of someone about to plunge into an abyss... or at least that’s what it looked like, until he spoke.

“I still don’t understand why you need to go all the way to Brazil just to sniff wet plants. We’ve got an entire greenhouse here that smells the same after every rain.”

Hermione rolled her eyes.

“I’m not going on holiday, Draco.”

“Ah, right. It’s your noble calling as a Healer. How could I forget—you need to go save the wounded world,” he said, inspecting his nails as if the conversation bored him. “One paper cut at a time. So touching.”

She sighed.

“Are you going to do this all the way to the carriage?”

“I just want you to remember who you’re leaving behind,” Draco went on, flashing a sharp smile. “Me. In this grey, miserable pit, surrounded by emotionally unstable students and professors with halitosis. Did you know Binns talked to me about the Incan Empire for twenty-five minutes yesterday, convinced I was Zabini?”

Hermione stifled a laugh.

“You’ll survive. You’ve done it before.”

“I wasn’t in love with you before,” he blurted, like it had slipped out by accident. Like the words had escaped him in a moment of pure desperation.

Hermione went still.

Draco immediately looked away, but the damage was done—or the gift, depending on how you looked at it.

“I’ll write to you,” she said softly, taking a step closer.

“Yeah, well, make sure your letters don’t smell like tropical potions or come covered in enchanted flowers. I don’t want to open one and end up in an allergic coma,” he grumbled, eyes fixed on the ground.

“I’m going to miss you, Draco.”

“I know,” he said, not arrogantly, but with raw sincerity. Her words always had a way of softening him.

Hermione reached out and brushed her fingers against his. He held them for just a second, as if the touch burned. Then he leaned in and kissed her—but not on the lips. Not this time.

On the forehead.

With a care that disarmed even his sarcasm.

“Go,” he murmured. “Before I say something even more idiotic.”

“You already said you’re in love with me,” she whispered.

“Exactly. I’m clearly losing control.”

Hermione laughed. It cracked a little at the end.

She turned toward the carriage.

And Draco watched her walk away. Bag slung over one shoulder, steps firm. His heart in her hands.

When she climbed in, she didn’t look back. Because she knew if she did, she’d turn around.

And he… stood there, still, in the April mist.

Only when the carriage disappeared between the trees did he let himself speak, voice low.

“Stupid, brilliant witch. Who said you could mean this much to me?”

Then he turned back to the castle.

Sarcasm sharp. Pride intact.

But his heart—well, she was taking that with her.

Draco hadn’t slept well. Not that he’d ever admit it, of course. But the way the sofa was disheveled, the stack of unopened books, and his hair more tousled than usual gave him away.

Theo walked in silently, holding a goblet in one hand and a box of Chocolate Frog cards under his arm. He dropped onto the armchair across from him without looking.

“Of all the ways I could ruin a Saturday,” he began, “watching you in emotional ghost mode definitely wasn’t on my list.”

Draco didn’t respond. He only turned his head slightly—just enough for Theo to know he was listening.

“You know what’s worse than missing someone who left?”

Silence.

Theo continued.

“Missing someone who’s still around… but doesn’t look at you the same. Or worse, who looks at you like they’re seeing you for the first time.”

Draco frowned, not turning all the way.

Theo let out a humorless laugh.

“Ginny Weasley.” He said her name like it burned his tongue. “She has this way of looking at me that leaves me completely unarmed. And, Merlin, I hate it. Because I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t want to feel this. And yet…”

He tightened his grip on the notebook.

“The bloody witch looks at me and I… I'm so afraid of ruining it..”

Draco watched him closely.

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because you’re about to screw it up too,” Theo said without hesitation. “Because you pretend you can handle it, that you’re so Malfoy it doesn’t hurt. But I saw you last night, Draco. You weren’t talking. You weren’t looking. You weren’t you. And she still hadn’t left.”

“I don’t know how to do this,” Draco admitted in a low voice. “This thing… with her. Wanting someone like that. And not falling apart when she’s not here.”

He tried to pull himself together, feeling his composure slipping.

“What am I supposed to do to stop feeling like this? I used to blame the pact, but now it’s practically gone. It’s not pain anymore, not like it was. It’s… it’s—” Draco felt like he’d drown if he didn’t say it, but if he did, it would make him ridiculous. “It’s missing her.”

“I never thought I’d hear myself sound this pathetic.”

Theo looked down.

“Me neither. But you know what? She already knows. She feels it. You don’t need a grand gesture. Just let it be. No matter how disorienting it is—for you, or for me.”

Draco pressed his lips together.

“And what do I get out of it?”

“Breathing,” Theo said softly. “Because keeping it in… is killing you.”

Draco ran a hand down his face, tired. He didn’t argue. Not with Theo. He couldn’t.

Theo stood up, walked to the bookshelf, grabbed an empty ink bottle, and placed it on the table in front of Draco.

“Fill it with whatever you want. A letter. A stupid note. Something to leave on her damn pillow when she gets back. But say something.”

And before walking out, Theo paused at the door.

“Don’t go silent, Draco. If Ginny’s taught me anything… it’s that long silences lead to loneliness that can last forever.”

When he left, Draco remained alone.

But for the first time since Hermione had gone, he seriously thought about not staying silent.

“What are you going to do?” Draco muttered.

“Give you a push. You can’t keep looking this pathetic in front of anyone but me or her. Although, I’ll admit, I’d love for Ginny to see it. She’d enjoy the view.”

“Undoubtedly,” Draco replied, raising an eyebrow.

“You can’t blame me for making my girl happy.”

With a sarcastic smile, Theo walked out.

The letter arrived with a black beetle. Not an owl. Not an official Ministry seal. Just a small beetle with enchanted golden wings that fluttered into the Common Room, slipped through the closed curtains of the tall windows, and landed precisely in the palm of Draco’s hand—as if guided by something more than coincidence.

He recognized it immediately.

Only one person ever sent letters that way.

His mother, Narcissa Malfoy.

Hours later, Draco crossed the threshold of the inner garden of Malfoy Manor. Despite the spring, the air smelled of damp stone and tightly closed dahlias. Narcissa stood by the central fountain, dressed in a pearl-gray robe, lace gloves perfectly in place, her gaze fixed on the water as if she could read the future in its ripples.

“Was it really so urgent that it couldn’t wait?”

“Every second you didn’t waste getting here proves it was, darling,” Narcissa said without turning. “Which only tells me you still don’t know me at all.”

Draco stepped forward, hands in his pockets. He looked at his mother’s profile with a mixture of familiarity and quiet disbelief. No one wore coldness as gracefully as she did. And yet, she was the only person in the world—aside from Hermione—who could make him lower his guard without asking.

“What did you do?”

Narcissa smiled, barely.

“You jumped ahead to the wrong question.”

“And what was the right one?”

‘What are you willing to do for me?’

Draco narrowed his eyes.

“Well then… what are you willing to do?”

She finally turned, a letter in her hand and a dangerous smile on her lips.

“I already did it. Now you just have to decide whether to thank Theodore for warning me—or scold him.”

She handed him the envelope.

Draco opened it carefully. He recognized the seal of the Department of International Magical Cooperation. And the signature of the Deputy Minister of Inter-School Affairs.

“What is this?”

“A special permit. Valid for five days. It includes an international safe-conduct and an approval from the Hogwarts Council so you can accompany the Hogwarts representative in the Potions Championship as a technical assistant.”

“A technical assistant?”

“Technically, you’re the one who needs to accompany the delegate. Emotionally… well, that’s your business.”

Draco lowered the letter. His lips twitched upward—just slightly.

“And my father?”

“He doesn’t know. And he won’t. This favor isn’t from the Malfoys. It’s from me. And it has nothing to do with your name—only with the kind of man you’re about to become.”

“And what kind is that?”

“The kind who knows when it’s time to show up—even when no one asks him to,” Narcissa said, calm but resolute.

She stepped closer. Straightened the collar of his coat with her fingers, just like when he was a boy. With the same delicacy. The same precision.

“You’re stronger than you were raised to be,” she murmured. “All you ever needed was a reason. And it seems she’s reason enough.”

Draco looked at her. Not as a son. Not as an heir. But as someone who, at last, understood what it meant to love unconditionally.

“Thank you, Mother.”

“Don’t thank me,” Narcissa replied, already turning back to the fountain. “Just go. Make it worth it.”

The office in the north wing was lit only by a pair of floating lamps. It was late, but not late enough to justify Draco Malfoy's presence there.

Aurélie appeared without warning.

The moment he saw her, he sighed—with less disdain than he had at Christmas.

He expected a reprimand, maybe a note of disapproval, some barbed remark about his "immaturity" for skipping an entire week of classes just to accompany Hermione to Castelobruxo as her technical assistant. After all, most of the professors had already approached him with varying degrees of condescension to remind him he’d be expected to make up his essays and assignments—and Defense Against the Dark Arts was unlikely to be the exception.

He hadn’t bothered to sit. He stood tall, hands in his pockets, posture straight and expression brushing the edge of arrogance… though inside, he felt none of it.

Aurélie wore a pearl-colored robe, her hair pulled into a low bun, a few strands already falling loose. She looked more tired than usual. Or perhaps just more human.

She didn’t close the door. Not this time.

—“I’ve been informed of your absence, Mr. Malfoy,” she said calmly, without preamble. “One week. Potions Championship. Castelobruxo.”

Draco held her gaze. Not defiantly—calmly.

—“I didn’t realize I needed your permission.”

Aurélie studied him for a moment longer, then crossed her arms.

—“Indeed, my permission is not required, Mr. Malfoy. But I am obliged to inform you that your essay on Wandering Hexes will still be due on time.”

A dense silence settled between them—but not an uncomfortable one. It was the unspoken truce between two people who once stood at opposite ends of the same wound, and who now understood they’d never meet in the middle.

Aurélie walked slowly to her desk and rested her hands on the polished surface. She didn’t look at him.

—“I suppose one cannot lose what one never had,” she murmured. “But that doesn’t make it any less uncomfortable to watch it walk away.”

Draco’s brow furrowed slightly, but he didn’t speak.

—“Don’t worry, Mr. Malfoy,” she added, lifting her gaze. “That matter is closed. I’ve nothing left to sort out… aside from academic matters, of course.”

Draco stepped closer. Not with arrogance. With respect.

—“Then why do you look at me that way?” he asked, without irony—almost as if he truly needed to understand.

Aurélie met his eyes. For the first time, hers looked more weary than proud.

—“Because some of us struggle to give up control. Especially when it’s tied to power.”

Draco stared at her, his understanding masked in practiced composure.

Aurélie moved to the window. Outside, the April sky shimmered with stars and the crisp air hinted at a new beginning.

—“Mr. Malfoy… what was it that drew you to me?”

Draco leaned against the doorframe, thoughtful. He didn’t sugarcoat the truth.

—“I suppose… I’m drawn to exceptional witches.”

Aurélie let out a short laugh. Not mocking. Sad and luminous at once.

—“It’s a shame, isn’t it? Sometimes exceptional just isn’t enough.”

Draco didn’t argue. Didn’t deny. Didn’t apologize.

Aurélie turned toward him, and for the first time, she looked younger. More real.

—“Everyone speaks so highly of her, and she casts every spell with such ease… I think I’m beginning to respect her out of sheer stubbornness. So, I suppose all I have left to say is that you’re lucky, Mr. Malfoy. Hermione Grangers only come around once in a lifetime.”

Draco nodded. It was a truth that needed no embellishment.

When he turned to leave, he thought the conversation was over.

But Aurélie, still standing by the window, looked back outside. There, in the distance, at the edge of the field, was Charlie Weasley. He hadn’t come in. He hadn’t interrupted.

But he had seen her.

Aurélie remained still.

She didn’t smile. She didn’t wave.

She only lowered her gaze, as if a pair of invisible wings had unfurled in her chest.

And for the first time… she felt something unlike anything she had felt for any other man.

No vows. No enchantments.

Just that: feeling.

And maybe, she thought, that too was a way to begin another story.

Chapter Text

There was something different in the air.

It wasn’t just the heat. Nor the humidity that soaked through robes even before crossing the first enchanted threshold. It was the sound. The rainforest didn’t fall silent. Not like the Forbidden Forest, where silence was an omen. Here, magic spoke in shouts. The trees sang, creatures murmured, insects buzzed in rhythms that seemed to follow a secret score.

Hermione gripped the handle of her travel trunk tightly as she stepped down from the Ministry carriage that had crossed the Translation Portal designated for champions. No brooms, no Floo Powder. Only an ancient ritual of transportation handled by the Department of International Magical Cooperation.

The moment she touched the ground, she felt wrapped in a warm pressure, as though the magic of this place were scanning her, weighing her… and approving.

“Welcome to Castelobruxo,” announced a deep voice to her right.

A tall man, copper-skinned, in braided linen robes with a wooden medallion hanging from his neck, extended his hand with an open smile. The medallion bore the school’s symbol: a salamander encircled by leaves.

“I’m Aramis, liaison guide for the championship. I’ll escort you to the reception.”

Hermione nodded with instinctive reverence. There was something in his voice that inspired respect without demanding it. Like the kind of place where one doesn’t raise their voice—because the surroundings already speak for themselves.

They walked along a path that seemed to open and close through the underbrush—not like a door, but like a sigh. The leaves folded back at Aramis’s step and closed again behind them, as though the forest refused to leave a trail.

“Where exactly are we?” Hermione asked, sidestepping a root that moved as if it had a will of its own.

“In the invisible heart of the enchanted Amazon. Castelobruxo isn’t ‘located,’ Miss Granger. Castelobruxo appears when it chooses to.”

Hermione felt a chill run down her spine. Far from feeling scared, she felt in awe.

Then she saw it.

The castle rose out of the mist as if it had always been there, covered in moss and ancient roots. Its towers didn’t pierce the sky like spears, but twisted upward like trees turned to stone. The windows were archways carved directly into rock, some blooming with vines or flowers, as though the building itself breathed life.

“Here, the walls don’t separate magic from nature,” Aramis said, pausing. “Here… they are the same.”

Hermione was speechless.

The castle was watching her.

And she… was beginning to listen.

The vestibule of Castelobruxo wasn’t an enclosed hall. It was an open-air gallery, where the air smelled of ripe fruit, wet stone, and ancient magic. Columns of basalt, wrapped in ivy, gave way to organic corridors, and from the ceiling hung enchanted vines that dripped droplets of light onto the newcomers.

Hermione walked beside Aramis in complete silence, trying to absorb every detail without appearing overwhelmed.

But she was.

Students passed by in light robes marked with tribal symbols that shimmered and shifted in rhythm with their energy. Some spoke Portuguese, others used dialects Hermione barely recognized as Indigenous tongues. She also caught snippets of French, Japanese, Russian, English, and what she guessed was Swahili, spoken by older wizards—likely translators. The Tower of Babel, she thought. 

“The reception is at the Sun Plaza,” said Aramis. “The international delegates have already begun to arrive.”

As they crossed the threshold, Hermione’s heart gave a small lurch.

The Sun Plaza wasn’t really a plaza. It was an enchanted clearing, the floor made of stone and interwoven roots, where an invisible dome filtered sunlight in shifting intensities. Each school had its own corner, marked by subtle enchantments involving local magical flora.

Hermione looked around in mild awe. Each school appeared to have brought a full delegation, with at least four members.

To the right, the Beauxbatons delegation gathered beneath a vine that exhaled jasmine perfume. Their pale blue robes were immaculate, their manners impeccably polished.

Opposite them, Durmstrang students stood in dark robes and reinforced boots, scanning the space with quiet suspicion.

In another corner, Ilvermorny had hoisted banners displaying their houses—Thunderbird, Wampus, Pukwudgie, and Horned Serpent—and their students, already loud and cheerful, were casting small display charms that burst into harmless sparks overhead.

Near an enchanted tree that dripped golden sap, the Uagadou representatives communicated without moving their lips, their wands hidden, magical tattoos pulsing gently across their forearms. One of them, a boy with an intense gaze, watched Hermione for a moment. She held his gaze. 

Beside them, Mahoutokoro had brought only a few students, all in robes of shifting pink silk that changed color depending on magical aptitude. One of them wore robes of pure white. He was the youngest—and the one who smiled the most. Hermione suspected he was far more dangerous than he looked.

And finally, at the center of the clearing—Castelobruxo. The host school. Its students stood in a semicircle, holding staffs carved with local runes, decorated with living leaves, and bearing small magical creatures on their shoulders: glowing frogs, four-eyed lizards that blinked slowly, and a winged monkey flitting around one of the professors who didn’t even flinch.

A magically amplified voice echoed through the clearing.

“Welcome to the 423rd edition of the International Potion Championship. May magic, ingenuity, and ancestral respect guide your hands.”

Hermione took her assigned place near the Hogwarts banner. A knot tightened in her throat—but not from fear.

It was something else.

Yes, she was alone.
But she was ready.

Soon, a rudimentary arrangement of furniture began to appear in front of each delegation, inscribed with carved runes Hermione was certain hadn’t been there a moment before.

Long, circular tables floated at different heights, connected by animated wooden bridges that curved gracefully between them. The torches were held aloft by small, koatí-like creatures, who dozed between enchantments.

Silence gave way to music—a low murmur of soft drums and nearly inaudible ritual chants.

Hermione took a deep breath as she settled into her seat at the front of the central space. Her solitary presence and a carved sign made it perfectly clear:

Delegation of Hogwarts: Champion – Hermione Granger / Technical Assistant – In transit.

Hermione hadn’t been informed of any technical assistant, and now she was wondering who that person might be. Would they assign her someone local?

The curiosity in the air was palpable. Heads turned toward her. A few murmurs drifted from table to table. A stern-faced witch from Beauxbatons, in silver-embroidered robes, whispered something in French with barely concealed disdain. A tall boy from Ilvermorny raised his goblet toward her in a gesture of respectful acknowledgment, as if being alone earned her extra points, Hermione’s competitive spirit hoped it would actually give her an advantage rather than backfire.

Hermione simply inhaled, standing straight and unwavering.

A soft gong marked the beginning of the ceremony. From the back of the hall, a procession entered across the main bridge. At its center, a young man with warm brown skin, tightly braided hair, and a green robe with gold trim walked with ease—like someone who knew everyone was watching him, and didn’t mind in the least.

“João Vasconcelos,” announced Castelobruxo’s headmistress. “Champion of our school and representative of the Brazilian Ministry.”

Some applauded politely. Others, less enthusiastically.

As João Vasconcelos took his seat at the central table, a subtle murmur rippled through the delegations like a poorly concealed spell. A Beauxbatons student, chin lifted and lips pursed, whispered just loud enough:

“He’s the Minister’s son. Of course they’ll make him win.”

Some pretended not to hear. Others exchanged glances. No one responded aloud, but the comment hung in the air like a graceful poison—soft, but potent.

João, smile unwavering, leaned toward the student on his left—a fellow delegate—and gently brushed his fingers against his hand. The other boy, clearly shyer, met his gaze with warmth. A few seconds later, they both glanced toward Hermione.

João winked at her first.

Hermione smiled. She knew, instantly, that he wasn’t what they thought.

Shortly after, the rest of the delegations were introduced: Ilvermorny with their well-dressed team of four, Durmstrang with two technical assistants who looked like they’d come straight from a combat drill, Mahoutokoro in their shimmering robes, and Beauxbatons—ethereal, immaculate, proud.

Then came the welcome speech.

“The Potion championship does not merely test magical skill,” the man who appeared to be the headmaster said in a deep voice, “but the ability to collaborate, observe, and act with purpose. This is not a war. It is an alliance of excellence.”

Hermione listened in silence, feeling—for the first time in months—fully present. The anxiety vanished, as if something inside her had found peace.

She noticed Aramis approaching from across the room, walking with that graceful steadiness that made him seem to glide between the other delegations.

“Miss Granger,” he said in formal English, “we deeply regret that Hogwarts did not inform you in time about the option of bringing a delegation.”

Hermione looked at him in surprise but said nothing. By now, it was more than obvious.

“Each school had the opportunity to bring technical assistants, apprentice healers, even a small research team. Some arrived with as many as six members. We understand your arrival was solitary… and that should not have happened.”

Hermione raised her eyebrows. She hadn’t complained. Hadn’t even considered it. She had simply assumed she had to do it alone.

“I’m fine with it,” she said calmly.

“Even so, as a courtesy, you’ve been assigned upgraded accommodations—larger than those initially prepared for you and your incoming assistant,” he added, consulting his scroll. “The original name was Michael Corner, but it’s been changed by high-level request. You’ll receive an update as soon as they register in the system.”

Hermione didn’t dwell on it. She nodded, grateful for the courtesy, and politely excused herself.

As she made her way out of the hall, João fell into step beside her.

“It’s not easy being the only representative,” he said gently, in flawless English. “But sometimes… the ones who arrive alone are the quickest to find allies.”

Hermione glanced at him.

“Allies?”

João nodded, then—with no hesitation—pointed toward the boy from his delegation with a warm smile.

“My boyfriend thinks I’m overly trusting. I prefer to call it openness.”

Hermione couldn’t help but return the smile, genuine and soft.

“Sometimes trust is just another kind of courage.”

João raised his goblet in quiet salute.

“Welcome to the jungle, Miss Granger.”

And with that, he walked away, leaving behind the echo of an unexpected bond.

Later, alone in her new room—larger, with tall windows overlooking an enchanted pond and a desk filled with fresh potion ingredients—Hermione thought that something about the way both Aramis and João had spoken felt… oddly timed.

But she didn’t dwell on it.

Not that night.

Not when she was finally beginning to feel like she belonged.

And not when, without knowing, the real surprise would come with the dawn.

And that tomorrow… the name they hadn’t told her, was the only one she’d secretly wished to hear.

Draco noticed it immediately—just as Hermione had when she arrived.

The air at Castelobruxo smelled different. Not like forest. Not like rain. It smelled of living magic. Of roots that breathed. Of soil that thought.

Draco walked behind the delegate from the Brazilian school, eyes half-lidded, as if the entire environment were playing a trick on him. The trees leaned slightly as they passed, almost as if in greeting.

The stone paths pulsed gently beneath his feet, and every floating lantern flickered in rhythm with his breath.

“The Hogwarts delegation was placed in the Nimbus Wing,” said the delegate, his English laced with a musical accent. “We expected a group. But apparently, there was a communication issue with the British Ministry. By the time the last-minute amendment with your name arrived, everything had already been arranged for Miss Granger. So, for tonight at least… you’ll be sharing quarters. Very spacious, of course.”

Draco raised an eyebrow. Sharing.

“And there are no objections?”

The delegate smiled but offered no reply. He merely gestured toward a doorway veiled in translucent leaves, which parted like wings at the touch of their presence.

The room was warm, luminous despite the night. The walls weren’t really walls—they were braided vines, firm as stone but unmistakably alive. At the center, a low bed draped in what looked like handwoven blankets. A floating table cluttered with potion vials, rolled parchments, and open books. In one corner, a small enchanted fountain hummed with trickling water, murmuring softly, as if whispering secrets to whoever lived within.

And on the bed—

Hermione.

She was sleeping on her side, head resting on her arm, legs tucked beneath the covers. She wore a white T-shirt Draco instantly recognized as his own—one she had stolen during the winter, when he used to appear in her Muggle bedroom without knocking, without warning. He would just show up, slip through the silence, and crawl into her bed like he belonged there.

Draco held his breath.

The delegate gave him one last knowing smile before vanishing into the corridor.

Now they were alone.

And Hermione, unaware of his presence, kept sleeping with a faint furrow between her brows. As if caught between waking and memory. There was something about her expression that completely disarmed him: the fierce calm of someone who—even in sleep—was fighting her thoughts.

Draco placed his bag in the farthest corner. He walked toward her like he had done countless times during the holidays—on the balls of his feet, as if any sound could interrupt her sleep.

The pact didn’t stir.

It didn’t pull him.

It didn’t push.

It simply… was.

Like a warm hand over his chest.

Like a whisper that asked for nothing, only stayed.

He sat at the edge of the bed.

Hermione shifted. Mumbled something under her breath. Then, as if her body recognized him, she reached for him in her sleep—instinctively.

Draco brushed a strand of hair from her face with the tip of his fingers.

“All of this… it’s too unreal,” he whispered, more to himself than to her.

And he thought of how grateful he was to his mother—for this chance.

The chance to be near Hermione.

He didn’t kiss her.

He didn’t touch her more than he needed to.

He simply looked at her.

As if memorizing every inch of her face might help him survive the week ahead.

He lay beside her, slowly. The mattress dipped under his weight, just slightly. And when his breath found hers—matched it, echoed it—he realized what he’d missed most since he left:

The silence.

That silence where Hermione existed beside him, asking for nothing.

Just being.

And then, for the first time in days,

Draco Malfoy closed his eyes.

And slept.

With the quiet certainty that he didn’t have to dream of her—

Because she was already there.

Dawn at Castelobruxo was nothing like at Hogwarts.

It wasn’t slow or lazy. It was sudden. Impetuous. As if the sun rose in a rush, tearing through the jungle mist with strokes of orange, gold, and green. And the breeze… smelled of new leaves, exotic fruit, and ancestral magic.

Hermione opened her eyes just as the first light of morning crossed the open shutters.

She blinked once.

Then again.

And she didn’t know if what she saw was a dream… or what came after one.

Draco slept beside her, his white shirt wrinkled, his hair tousled, his breathing was deep. Steady. As if he had finally found the calm she knew he hadn’t felt since he left.

Hermione held her breath, overwhelmed by the view.

Because outside, beyond the open window, the landscape was surreal: vines hanging like curtains from another world, a small lake reflecting the sky like liquid glass, birds with impossible plumage flying over the enchanted treetops. And there, in the midst of it all, Draco Malfoy. As if he were part of the landscape. As if he belonged.

“I’m definitely dreaming,” she murmured softly, not moving.

“No,” Draco replied, without opening his eyes. “But if you want to do things to me that you’d only do in a dream, I won’t complain.”

Hermione sat up abruptly.

“Draco?”

He opened his eyes slowly. Looked at her like the whole world fit inside that gaze.

“Good morning, champion.” His voice was low, still sleepy, but full of satisfaction. “Relax. This isn’t a heat-induced hallucination. I’m here.”

“Here here?”

“Here here. In flesh, bone, and morning sarcasm. Draco Malfoy, Hogwarts’ technical assistant,” he said with a ceremonious gesture, “at your full disposal.”

Hermione stared at him, mouth slightly open. Then she laughed. And the sound was clear, crystalline—like the jungle itself was waking up with her.

“But how? I was told Corner had been replaced. I thought they’d send Padma Patil!”

“Actually, I heard Corner had been informed and was ready. Until my mother decided… to intervene,” said Draco, with a lopsided smile. “I suppose Narcissa Malfoy figured no Ravenclaw, however brilliant, had better credentials to accompany you than your reformed ex-enemy with a knack for potions and a weakness for your laugh.”

Hermione shot him a glare, but couldn’t hide the emotion in her eyes.

“Your mother?”

“Never underestimate a Black in love with tragic romance.”

“And you?” Hermione whispered.

Draco leaned in, placing a brief kiss on her collarbone.

“I simply showed up in your room… like at Christmas.”

“Draco…”

“I’m here, Hermione. For you. Because even one day without seeing you was too much.”

She rested her forehead against his.

And for a moment, between the jungle’s murmur and the soft heat of morning, they understood that titles, rules, even the championship—none of it mattered.

Just them. Like this. So real it hurt.

And so happy to be together again… that for a second, even the magic seemed to pause and watch.

Hermione closed her eyes for a moment. Just to feel him breathe.

Draco, still beside her, brushed his knuckles along her jawline. As if he needed to confirm that she was awake. That he was too. That this wasn’t a dream… even if it felt like one.

“Your skin’s warm,” he whispered.

“It’s the jungle,” Hermione replied without opening her eyes. “Or you.”

Draco chuckled softly and slid his hand from her jaw to the hollow of her neck. He felt her shiver. Just a little. As if her body still didn’t quite believe it was real.

“I spent the whole night listening to you breathe,” he confessed. “I wanted to fall asleep. I swear I did. But every time I closed my eyes… it felt unforgivable not to watch you sleeping here, in this light. You always look perfect, but here, I could barely breathe.”

Hermione looked at him.

And something in her restraint cracked.

She kissed him.

Without thinking. Without hesitation.

A soft kiss at first, like a long-held answer. Then deeper, more urgent. Draco wrapped his arms around her, pulling her over him with a fluid ease that betrayed how often he’d imagined it. His body recognized hers with painful precision. As if they’d been made to fit—even halfway across the world.

Hermione let her body choose. There was no rush. Only skin. Only longing. Only love, contained for so long they no longer knew how to hold it in.

The sheets slid down her legs. The warm breeze licked at their backs. The air smelled of blooming flowers, pulsing magic, and a kind of freedom that ached deep inside.

“Draco…” she whispered against his ear, her voice trembling.

“Tell me this isn’t a dream,” he pleaded, his lips brushing her collarbone. “Tell me you’ll keep choosing me. Even if the world’s too big. Even if we’re far apart.”

Hermione held him tightly, with everything she was, everything she feared to lose.

“I don’t need to dream of you if I have you here,” she said, placing a hand over his heart. “You’ll always be my choice, even when you’re not close.”

He kissed her again.

Slowly. As if each second counted too much.

And in whispers, in skin, in a connection that no longer needed magic to feel real, they made love as if there were no tomorrow. Without urgency or teenager nervous. But with depth. With tenderness. With the quiet desperation that only comes when you know time together… is a gift.

When dawn turned into full morning, Hermione was asleep again, this time resting on Draco’s chest.

And he, fingers tangled in her hair, thought that nothing—not even the glory of a championship—could compare to that exact moment.

Where there were no more pacts.

No more fear.

Only one certainty: She was home.

Even a thousand miles away from the world where they’d once broken.

The main dining hall at Castelobruxo was unlike any Hermione or Draco had ever seen.

It was built in a spiral, as if each level floated slightly above the one before, and instead of walls, it was surrounded by stone columns carved with ancient magical symbols. The branches of millenary trees stretched through the gaps in the architecture, weaving natural ceilings that let in the filtered light of the jungle.

A dozen floating tables were arranged in a circle, each one marked by the banner of the school it belonged to in the International Potion Championship. Hogwarts had a relatively modest table.

Hermione still wasn’t used to seeing him there. Not just because his presence disrupted the serenity she had managed to build in her first hours, but because he was being exactly what he needed to be: a Malfoy.

Not the Draco who laughed with Theo and Ginny. Not the one who had been sharing study scrolls with Harry in the library these past few months. This was the diplomatic Malfoy—polite, unreadable. The one who knew exactly when to bare his teeth and when to wield his surname like an invisible blade.

Still, he sat to her left with a natural ease that made her forget for a moment they were surrounded by magical representatives from every continent.

“They’re looking at me like they expect me to melt the cutlery just by sitting down,” he muttered, pouring himself a thick cup of coffee.

“They are,” Hermione replied under her breath. “You’re Hogwarts’ delegate. And you just filled the empty chair everyone’s been whispering about since yesterday.”

“Well, I’m in it now. What a letdown for those expecting Padma Patil or Michael Corner. I suppose they’re not used to seeing a Malfoy outside the UK without a formal cape.”

Hermione glanced sideways at him. His tone was sharp, but not bitter. She knew him well enough to recognize his containment mode.

“They’ll come around,” she said. “After all, you’re not here to win anyone over.”

“Thanks for the reminder,” Draco replied with a frosty smile.

At that moment, João Vasconcelos approached the Hogwarts table. He wore an ochre tunic—simple, but well-fitted—and a smile that felt more genuine than many Hermione had seen that morning. His boyfriend—now recognizable as Marcus, from the formal Castelobruxo presentation—followed a few steps behind, eyeing the dining hall with curiosity.

“Bom dia,” João greeted, his warm accent softening each vowel. “Did you sleep well, Granger?”

“Pretty well,” she answered with a smile. “Though I’m still getting used to the idea that there aren’t any real walls between the bedrooms and the forest.”

“You’ll get used to it. Castelobruxo doesn’t trap you—it invites you to breathe.”

João turned to Draco and extended his hand, kind and unassuming.

“João Vasconcelos. Castelobruxo’s champion.”

Draco shook it without hesitation.

“Draco Malfoy. Hogwarts’ technical assistant.”

Marcus, João’s boyfriend, stepped forward.

“Malfoy?” he asked, half incredulous and half thrilled. “The Malfoy who plays Seeker in the British school league?”

Draco raised an eyebrow.

“Depends. Are you asking for a photo or a tactical breakdown?”

Marcus laughed.

“Pelo Curupira, it is him!” he exclaimed, turning to João. “You can’t just bring him to breakfast without warning me he’s that Malfoy.”

João shook his head, smiling.

Marcus tugged gently on Draco’s arm.

“Just a minute. I want to ask you about a move you made against Ravenclaw last year. It was legendary—they even wrote a whole article about it in The Prophet.”

Hermione watched Draco walk off with Marcus toward the far end of the hall. Not with suspicion, but with that cautious air of his that was often mistaken for arrogance.

“I saw you this morning,” João said quietly, without a trace of judgment.

Hermione looked at him, her fork frozen halfway to her plate.

“This… morning?”

João smiled, tilting his head.

“Before we came into the hall. He—your technical assistant, touched your face as if he were recognizing his place. And you don’t seem like someone who’s easily impressed.”

Hermione felt heat rise to her neck. She pressed her lips together, searching for a neutral response—something diplomatic. But all she managed was:

“It’s not… not that obvious.”

João gave a short, musical laugh.

“Granger, you don’t have to go into defense mode with me. I’m more observant than people think… though clearly not observant enough to win this tournament.” He shrugged, as if it didn’t matter in the slightest. “Besides, you’re the only one who doesn’t treat me like I’m just an extension of the Brazilian Minister of Magic. I appreciate that. Really.”

Hermione looked at him more closely.

“I didn’t think you’d noticed.”

“The magic here makes us a bit more intuitive,” he said, lowering his voice as if sharing a secret. “I can read what lingers in the air. And in you… there’s no flattery. Just respect. Genuine. That’s why I wanted to talk to you. I like people who don’t expect me to fail at any moment.”

Hermione nodded. There was something in his tone—transparent. Honest.

João glanced briefly toward the table where Tallulah Raines, Ilvermorny’s delegate, was speaking with a Beauxbatons witch—but kept casting subtle glances in Draco’s direction.

“And speaking of things that linger in the air… be careful with that Ilvermorny witch, Tallulah,” he murmured with a crooked smile. “She’s been looking at your Malfoy for five minutes like he’s part of dessert. If I were you… I’d keep an eye out.”

Hermione choked on her fruit.

“He’s not my Malfoy.”

João raised a teasing eyebrow.

“Sure. And I’m only here because I won a scholarship. Come on, Granger… magic doesn’t need proof.”

He paused.

“Tallulah Raines. Ilvermorny delegate. Second-highest score in Potions… after her school’s champion, or so they say… she has a fascination with the unattainable.”

Hermione followed his gaze. The young woman with reddish-brown hair, a perfectly pressed uniform, and a composed expression was watching Draco with something between admiration and calculation.

“She doesn’t seem shy,” Hermione murmured.

“She’s not. She’s brilliant. Precise. Ambitious. And she doesn’t like to lose—any competition.” João sipped some tropical juice. “Which makes her… competitive in more than one sense.”

Hermione said nothing. She simply looked down at her plate, though she wasn’t hungry. Something inside her was growing—not jealousy, exactly. More like… foresight.

João watched her a moment longer, then added with a calm smile:

“Don’t worry, Granger.” He glanced toward his boyfriend and Draco, who now and then looked back in Hermione’s direction. “He only has eyes for you.”

“Thanks,” said Hermione, without sarcasm.

Just then, Draco returned with Marcus. Their conversation had been both technical and lively, and Draco looked almost relaxed.

“Seems like you have admirers on more than one continent now,” Hermione commented as he sat back down.

“Jealous?”

“Cautious.”

“Equally charming.”

Draco shot her a sidelong glance.

And in the distance,

Tallulah Raines was still watching.

After a moment the atmosphere in Castelobruxo’s dining hall was growing denser—not with discomfort, but with the weight of glances, curiosity, and rumors floating between delegations like golden dust suspended in the air.

Hermione had just picked up her teacup again when a figure approached with the quiet of a leaf drifting over still water.

Before they could say more, a different voice reached them from the left.

“Hermione Granger.”

It was a tall young woman with dark skin and eyes bright as onyx. She wore a robe of natural fabric dyed in earthy tones, and her hair was braided into multiple golden threads. The crest embroidered on her chest revealed her origin: Uagadou, the African school of magic.

“I’m Naïma Mbeki,” she said, with a smile that blended admiration and ease. “I’ve read several of your articles published in the Hogwarts academic bulletin. The one on modern runes and medical symbolism… was brilliant.”

Hermione blinked, surprised. It was rare to be recognized for academic work at events like this.

“Thank you. I didn’t know they reached that far.”

“At Uagadou, we value research deeply—especially when it can be combined with practical applications. I was wondering if we could exchange notes on runes and ancestral healing. It would be an honor.”

Hermione smiled—this time, genuinely.

“Of course. I’d love to.”

Draco said nothing. But his posture shifted subtly. He straightened. His lips curved into an expression that wasn’t pride or satisfaction. It was something more intimate: the silent recognition that the person he loved was, without question, exceptional. And others were starting to see it too.

“Thank you for coming over, Naïma,” he said with a slight nod.

Naïma returned the gesture, a little surprised by his courtesy.

“A pleasure.”

But before Hermione could ask more, a fourth figure swept into their space with a confidence that didn’t ask permission.

It hadn’t even been a minute before the Koldovstoretz delegation made their entrance with the icy punctuality of the Eastern steppes, Ekaterina Vostrikov had approached them without asking or offering greetings.

Her midnight-blue robe was as flawless as her posture. Her eyes, gray as the Russian winter sky, landed on Hermione with a fleeting assessment… before shifting to Draco.

“Malfoy,” she said, expressionless. “Your surname still sparks reactions in my country. Not all of them good.”

Draco smiled coolly, as someone who had heard that all his life.

“Luckily, I’ve outgrown my surname. Have you?”

Ekaterina didn’t flinch. She looked at him with a flicker of barely disguised interest.

“I suppose I’m intrigued by how someone so public chose to walk in the shadow of someone like her,” she said, nodding toward Hermione. “I don’t mean that as an insult. On the contrary. It’s… unexpected.”

Draco didn’t reply.

Hermione narrowed her eyes.

Ekaterina walked away with the same icy elegance with which she’d arrived.

Hermione watched her go.

“What was that?”

Draco sighed.

“A warning. Or an offer. Hard to tell with that kind of people.”

But his fingers reached for Hermione’s under the table.

And when they found them, there was no more doubt.

Whatever they were… it was beyond the visible.

And stronger than any bond a name could explain.

Hermione knew it.

Not was jealous, she had learned to recognize that kind of look: prolonged, fixed, seemingly innocent. But with the real intention hidden behind the gleam in the eyes. And Tallulah wasn’t hiding as much as she thought.

The Ilvermorny witch—loose hair held back by a green ribbon across her forehead, a rehearsed smile, curious eyes—approached with measured steps and a charmingly calculated energy.

“Hogwarts delegation,” she greeted with a voice so sweet it scraped. “I’m Tallulah Raines. It’s so exciting to have you here. I’ve heard things… especially about you,” she said, locking eyes with Draco.

Hermione tilted her head slightly, eyes still on her plate.

Draco didn’t move.

“About me?” he asked, with a tone indifferent enough to be provocative.

“Some rumors,” Tallulah said with a tilted smile. “That you’re an excellent Quidditch player. That you flew like lightning in a match… I can’t recall against whom.”

“Hufflepuff,” Draco replied, without looking at her. “Caught the Snitch in under two minutes.”

“That’s it!” she exclaimed. “Must be a talent… flying that well. That fast.”

Hermione gripped her napkin between her fingers, not out of jealousy or annoyance, just amusement—but she was paying enough attention to know exactly where the conversation was heading.

“I was wondering if you might teach me some of those moves,” Tallulah added, with a subtle smile.

Draco turned his head slightly toward her. He smiled slowly.

“Moves… on a broom, you mean?”

“Of course,” she said, blinking. “I don’t know much about Quidditch, but I’ve always found it… thrilling.”

Draco smiled with measured indifference.

“Some moves can’t be taught,” he replied, never breaking eye contact. “They’re learned with the body. And with the right person.”

Tallulah blinked again, unsure if it was rejection or an invitation.

Hermione, with a half-smile, turned toward Draco as if only now noticing they were talking.

“I thought your best moves were reserved for special training sessions,” she said, calm but pointed.

“They are,” Draco replied, his tone brushing the edge of intimacy as he picked up a piece of peach with his fork. “And you know exactly which ones are the hardest to master.” He brought the peach to his lips and licked them afterward, never looking away from Hermione.

Tallulah opened her mouth to say something, but she was no longer part of the conversation.

Hermione turned fully toward Draco.

“Are you referring to the reverse glide or the tight curve maneuver?”

“Both,” he said, raising an eyebrow. “But especially the synchronized dive with emotional counterbalance. That one… I’ve only practiced with one person.”

Tallulah stood with a forced smile.

“Well. I’ll see you at the trials,” she said, her tone cooler. “Good luck, Hogwarts.”

“Thank you,” Hermione and Draco replied in unison, without looking at her.

As she walked away, Draco lowered his voice, still watching Hermione.

“Annoyed?”

“No,” Hermione said. “Fascinated. I didn’t know you were so good with curves.”

Draco smiled.

“I’m not. But with you, I always land well.”

Hermione laughed. And this time, she didn’t have to fake it because sometimes, the sweetest thing wasn’t a public kiss, It was the brush of a phrase meant only for her.

By the end of breakfast, the lights in the dining hall were still flickering with the laziness of early morning when Hermione finished mentally reviewing her list of ingredients. Draco, at her side, stirred his tropical juice with the distracted elegance of someone who hadn’t slept much… but not enough to hide the pride with which he watched his witch focused.

Everything seemed in order. Almost.

Until three wizards in robes embroidered with the emblem of the International Magical Cooperation Department approached the Hogwarts table, one of them accompanied by Aramis, who greeted them with a slightly tense smile.

“Miss Granger, Mr. Malfoy,” began the eldest wizard, “we apologize for the interruption, but a situation has arisen that requires urgent correction. It seems there was a miscommunication with the Hogwarts delegation.”

Draco raised an eyebrow, cautious.

“Another one?”

“The tournament will last at least two weeks. The update was sent to the other schools four days ago, but… Hogwarts didn’t receive it. And therefore, your technical delegate,” he glanced at Draco with visible discomfort, “only has a permit for five days. We need to process the extension immediately.”

Hermione’s mouth opened in surprise.

Draco, on the other hand, leaned back in his chair with theatrical indifference, laced his fingers over his lap, and raised an eyebrow with all the Malfoy arrogance he could summon.

“How convenient,” he said, perfectly modulated. “An error in the tournament’s duration… that only affects the Hogwarts delegation.”

The man in front, a bald wizard with enchanted glasses that flickered between two prescriptions, cleared his throat nervously.

“We truly regret the confusion, Mr. Malfoy. The committee didn’t anticipate the elimination round would extend at least nine more days. Most delegations were informed directly by their magical embassies… but apparently, the notification for Hogwarts was sent with a delay.”

“A delay?” Draco repeated with a smile that wasn’t a smile at all. “And how long were you planning to keep us in the dark? Until my train departed while the championship carried on?”

“We understand your frustration, of course, and the permit will be extended for the entire event,” added the second delegate, younger, with a conciliatory tone. “In fact, it has already been validated by the Inter-School Coordination Office. You will have more than enough time to accompany Miss Granger through all remaining stages.”

“What a relief.”

The three delegates finally seemed able to breathe after the tense moment.

“We appreciate your understanding,” one of them began to say, but Draco cut him off with a sharp smile.

“Oh, don’t worry. I’m used to other people’s disorganization. However,” he glanced at Hermione, then back at the committee, “given the circumstances, I believe a special concession for our school is only fair.”

The three wizards looked at each other. Hermione observed Draco from the corner of her eye, barely hiding a smile. She knew exactly what he was doing.

“And what would that concession be, Mr. Malfoy?”

Draco inclined his head slightly toward the table, tapping the edge of his tray with his knuckles.

Hermione raised her eyebrows slightly. That part wasn’t rehearsed.

“During our extended stay, we’ll require full access to Castelobruxo’s training facilities. Private, if possible. For me and my champion,” he added, casting a meaningful look toward Hermione. “I don’t want any interference. We’ll consider it part of the reparation for the mistake.”

The delegates froze for a second. Then nodded, one after the other, with rushed diplomatic smiles.

“Of course. It will be granted. We’ll inform the administration immediately.”

“Thank you,” Draco said, with a subtle, perfectly Malfoy bow.

The delegates, who seemed finally ready to leave, were stopped again by Draco’s voice.

“We also expect that this privacy be extended to all the facilities assigned to the Hogwarts delegation. Therefore, these will remain exclusively for our use. No visitors. No makeshift compartments. And, if possible, enchanted soundproofing. My champion,” he looked at Hermione with an impeccably rehearsed expression, “needs not only extra preparation time but all the concentration she can get.”

Hermione lowered her head to hide her smile. Draco Malfoy was unbearable. Arrogant. Incorrigible.

And he had just asked for exactly what she wouldn’t have dared request.

When they finally walked away, Hermione turned to him, trying not to let her laughter escape.

“Private?”

“You still owe me a hands-on lesson in potion-making under pressure,” he said, shrugging. “And I refuse to share cauldrons with Joāo’s Vasconcelos fanboys. Besides, did you see one of the Russian delegates? That guy has saboteur written all over him.”

“And what do you have to say about the soundproofing?”

Draco shrugged, not looking at her.

“You don’t expect us to spend the next two weeks listening to the Bulgarians argue at midnight, do you? Or the croaking of those talking frogs in the greenhouse?, Or that they might hear us.”

Hermione chuckled under her breath and brushed her fingers against his under the table.

“You’re impossible.”

“And yet… here you are. Sitting right next to me.”

She shook her head, but the spark in her eyes was impossible to hide.

In the distance, one of the younger Japanese delegates watched the scene without judgment. He simply observed them. As if he were counting gestures, not words.

And in that moment, both of them knew everything was exactly as it should be.

Even if no one else understood it just yet.

By late afternoon, after a lunch that unfolded with much the same technical and strategic maneuvering, the delegations of the eight wizarding schools were settling into the tiered benches, wrapped in formal robes, their banners floating proudly above their heads. A murmur of anticipation rippled through the thick jungle air: it was the second day of the International Potions Championship, and at last, the six trials that would determine the year’s magical and alchemical supremacy were about to be revealed.

At the central dais of the Sun Plaza—now shielded by a translucent dome that softened the heat—the organizing committee stood in formation. Canelo Ruiz—former champion, current Grandmaster of Potions at Castelobruxo, and a revered public figure across the continent—raised his wand, and silence fell instantly.

“Welcome, champions,” he began, his voice projected with soft but steady magic. “Over the next twelve days, you will face six challenges. Each will assess a different branch of alchemical knowledge, and all have been carefully designed by international specialists…” —he paused, meaningfully— “…with the intention that no school be given an advantage.”

Hermione felt, more than saw, the small movement to her right. Draco let out a soft, nasal huff—barely audible, but venomous.

“Of course,” he murmured without turning his head, “because designing six trials for six different schools is the best way to demonstrate neutrality.”

She didn’t respond, though a small, ironic smile curled at the corner of her mouth. João, to her left, shifted uncomfortably, clearly used to such remarks—but not proud of them.

“Let them be, Hermione,” Draco whispered, now glancing sideways at her. “They know Castelobruxo can’t win—not with the Minister’s son competing. And Hogwarts…” —he lifted his chin ever so slightly— “well, everyone knows we’re the best. That’s why they designed the rules and conveniently ‘lost’ our notifications. Keep us in check.”

“You think they’re afraid of us?” Hermione said, her tone dry.

“I don’t think it. They feel it,” he replied, turning his gaze forward again with a smugness that, to Hermione’s annoyance, was oddly reassuring.

On the podium, Canelo continued the presentation, while a large structure of wood and enchanted vines unfurled behind him, revealing six glowing symbols—each representing one of the upcoming trials.

Poisonous Flora and Natural Antidotes – Face a living chamber of toxic plants and identify, harvest, and transform their properties into a functional antidote.

Creature-Based Alchemy – Safely gather ingredients from magical creatures without harming them, and craft a complex potion from the results.

Stabilizing Enchantments – Use spells to control unstable alchemical reactions, avoiding explosions or undesirable mutations.

Original Potion with Unconventional Ingredients – Full creative freedom to invent a new variant, evaluated by originality, magical coherence, and effect.

Simulation – A fully immersive illusion will present a moral or strategic dilemma; choices made will affect individual and group scores.

Alchemical Duel of Speed – Three potions. Limited time. Adverse conditions. Only one winner.

As each title was pronounced, the corresponding symbol flared brightly, offering a brief glimpse into the setting for that trial: jungles, caverns, floating labs, and illusion-carved stone halls.

“As for scoring,” Canelo continued, “each trial awards 100 points for first place, 80 for second, and 60 for third. In exceptional cases, individual scores may be added—but all contribute to the school's overall ranking.”

“Official names of the champions,” announced another voice, a witch clad in gold-toned robes.

“For Mahoutokoro: Akiko Watanabe.

For Beauxbatons: Céleste Fournier.

For Durmstrang: Lev Volkov.

For Ilvermorny: Magnolia Blackstone.

For Uagadou: Kwame Njoroge.

For Koldovstoretz: Elira Drăghici.

For Castelobruxo: João Vasconcelos.

And for Hogwarts… Hermione Granger.”

The applause was measured, although a few members of the Wizengamot in the diplomatic gallery clapped more enthusiastically at Hermione’s name.

“Interesting,” Draco muttered, his voice coated in acid. “Just as I suspected. Not a single trial tailored to Castelobruxo’s strengths… or to Hogwarts’. How convenient. Feeling excluded?”

Hermione finally turned to him. Her eyes weren’t filled with indignation—but something far fiercer.

“You say none of the trials were designed with Hogwarts in mind,” she said quietly. “And yet… I think you and I are perfectly capable of winning them all. We have every skill we need.”

Draco looked at her, admiration flickering in his gaze.

And of course, pride swelling in his chest.

Chapter Text

The humid heat seeped through the enchanted slits of the room they shared, like a vegetal, constant breath that not even ventilation charms could dispel. At that hour, just before dawn, only the irregular song of a nocturnal bird broke the calm.

Hermione woke up drenched in sweat. Not the uncomfortable kind, but the kind born of well-contained nerves—when the mind wakes before the body. Beside her, Draco slept on his side, one hand under the pillow, the other resting on the open notebook she’d left half-read the night before: Advanced Antidotes and Deadly Contraindications. He didn’t even bother to pretend he hadn’t been reading her notes.

She didn’t move. Not yet.

She watched Draco’s profile: sharp, serene, with that composed breathing that felt rehearsed. He looked like someone who’d done this before. This wasn’t his first tournament. And it certainly wasn’t his first time waking up next to her. But something was different—something in the silence between them.

“You’re awake, aren’t you?” she murmured, without turning.

Draco tilted his head slightly, eyes still closed.

“Since your breathing changed,” he replied, voice low and rough. “And since your knee’s been nudging me for the past five minutes.”

“You’re lying,” Hermione shot back, her smile not quite fully formed.

He didn’t answer. He simply turned slightly and pressed a kiss to her collarbone, as if it were second nature—no ceremony, but still almost reverent.

“Today, you’re not up against the other schools, Hermione. You’re up against a jungle that wants to eat you alive. That’s worth worrying about.”

“Always so encouraging?”

“I'll be even more worried, Hermione—in fact, I already am.”

They took a quick shower and sat side by side on the bed, dressing slowly. Hermione tied her hair into a practical bun, skipped any magical cosmetics, and checked that she had her wand, her field scroll, and her solar protection charm (courtesy of João, albeit reluctantly).

When they stepped into the clearing connecting the champions’ lodgings, the place was already bustling. Entire delegations buzzed around like perfectly coordinated swarms: leather satchels, floating books, emergency potions. Hermione counted at least three technical assistants per champion, all with embroidered crests. Some were former students. Others, professors.

Draco, dressed in a plain black robe without insignia, walked beside her carrying nothing. No bag. No clipboard. Not even a worried expression.

“Does it bother you being the only one?” Hermione asked quietly.

“It would bother me not to be here,” he said without hesitation.

And she believed him. She knew it as surely as the heat on her back.

The walk to the dome was silent. No one spoke. No one dared. The enchanted path opened and closed behind them like a living throat, swallowing mist with each step. The vegetation whispered in a language only roots could understand.

Suddenly, silence gave way to the murmurs of the plaza outside the dome—a blend of hushed excitement and poorly hidden nerves. Delegations fluttered in precise circles, adjusting robes, checking ingredients, casting focus spells. Hermione observed without staring, fingers laced at the edge of her belt.

Draco approached silently from behind.

“You’re doing that thing with your shoulders again,” he whispered in his lowest tone. “The one you do when you think you have to carry the world on your own.”

Hermione didn’t answer. She kept looking forward.

“Granger…”

“Don’t call me that,” she said, barely audible.

He smiled. Because he understood.

“Hermione,” he corrected, and just saying her name made her turn toward him. “You’re going to walk in there and do what you do best. Not because you have something to prove. But because this is your thing. And the reason everyone flinches when they hear your name at Hogwarts.”

She blinked, surprised by the intensity in his eyes.

“They’re waiting for you to fail. Because they don’t realize you’re not alone. Because they don’t know who’s standing with you.”

“My technical assistant?” she said, wry smile forming.

Draco leaned toward her, just enough.

“Your technical assistant, your favorite distraction, and the idiot who’d walk into that dome just to see you walk back out. All of that.”

Hermione looked at him like the world’s noise had gone silent.

“Draco…”

“Breathe,” he whispered, lightly touching her wrist. “The way you do before casting a tricky charm. Don’t think about them. Don’t think about me. Think about the first book you opened. The first potion you got right. That feeling of finding a solution where no one else saw one.”

Hermione swallowed.

“And if I fail?”

Draco narrowed his eyes, as if the thought offended him.

“You’re not here to avoid failure. You’re here to defy logic. To turn poison into cure. Darkness into clarity. You are the difference, Hermione.”

She lowered her gaze for just a second. And when she looked up again, something had changed in her eyes.

Draco saw it.

“There she is,” he murmured, half-smiling. “My witch.”

Without thinking, not caring who watched, he pressed a kiss to her temple. Quick. Intimate. Enough.

“Now go tear the world apart. I’ll be here… to help you rebuild it if you need.”

Hermione nodded. Fierce. Fired up.

The translucent dome rose in the middle of the jungle, suspended by thick vines pulsing with raw magic. Inside, ancient trees, carnivorous vines, and humidity thick enough to rain from within filled the space.

Canelo Ruiz stood with a group of international judges. João stepped into position with a calm expression, though the slight tic in his left eyebrow betrayed him. Around him, three technical assistants— a light-skinned Colombian witch with onyx eyes who chanted confidently in Spanish mixed with ancient Latin while extracting a dried-leaf talisman; a sharp-faced Mexican wizard with tight braids humming in Nahuatl; and a clear-eyed Argentine who waved his wand like conducting an orchestra—tightened the straps on his field robe and whispered stabilization spells in Spanish with ceremonial precision.

Hermione simply twirled her wand between her fingers. Draco stood just behind her. Sharp. Silent. Unyielding.

Over by Ilvermorny, Tallulah giggled quietly with two assistants while Magnolia Blackstone, the champion, stared ahead with a stoic expression. Still, Tallulah didn’t miss her chance to throw a slow, shameless glance at Draco. He didn’t even notice. Neither did Hermione.

It was a habit. One that no longer held power.

“Champions,” Canelo called, his voice effortless and commanding. “Today’s trial is poisonous flora and natural antidotes. Your task is simple: locate three components from specific toxic plants within the dome, harvest them with minimal harm to the environment, and synthesize an effective antidote for a standard venom. You have two hours.”

A hush swept through the floating stands. Non-participating students lined the dome’s edges, invisible from within but watching every move.

“You may receive assistance from your technical teams during the third phase, the potion synthesis,” one judge added—a thunder-voiced African witch. “Only one person may enter the adjoining lab with you. Choose wisely.”

Hermione felt several champions’ eyes land on her. It was inevitable. Everyone else had tat least two assistants. She had one. And he wasn’t even wearing an official badge. Just a black robe, a sharp gaze, and the posture of someone who never asks permission to be present.

Draco, reading the room—or her mind—leaned in slightly. His voice low, dry. Utterly Malfoy.

“You could ask for reinforcements,” he murmured. “Though I doubt Padma Patil or any of those kids spent more time in your shadow than I have.”

Hermione turned her face just a little. No smile yet. But her right lip twitched.

“Was that a compliment… or a threat?”

“Depends. Are you going to win?”

“Obviously.”

“Then it was a compliment.”

And just like that, he stepped back. As always—right behind her. Not beside. Not beneath. Behind. Because if Draco knew one thing, it was this: from that position, you can hold up the world without anyone noticing.

The dome opened.

And the jungle, expectant, awaited its intruders.

The heat inside the dome wasn’t natural.

It wasn’t like the heat outside—sun-drenched and humid. This was a dense, trapped kind of heat, as if magic itself had perspired and then gotten stuck between the vines. The moment Hermione stepped inside, she felt it: her skin clung to her robes, the air tasted like rusted metal, and the light turned greenish, filtered through the wild vegetation curling around the dome’s edges like a wound slowly sealing itself.

The ground was layered with rotting leaves, slow-breathing violet fungi, and fibrous stalks that twitched ever so slightly as the champions passed. They weren’t alone. The jungle was breathing with them. And against them.

Canelo Ruiz spoke one last time, his voice magically projected over the canopy:

“You have two hours. Three components. One antidote. The balance of the environment must remain intact: points will be deducted for unnecessary damage to magical flora. Your time… begins now.”

Hermione resisted the urge to cast a cooling charm right away, hoping João’s talisman would kick in.

Somewhere out of sight, a bell made of obsidian vibrated.

Then—total silence.

Hermione didn’t move immediately.

She observed.

A black fern twitched to her right, though there was no wind. A crystalline stalk swiveled slightly like a weathervane, following the warmth of her footsteps. The traps were active. The plants were awake.

To her left, Kwame Njoroge moved as though dancing with the terrain. His staff tapped the ground like a metronome, and though his long fingers never touched anything, the jungle seemed to part for him. “As if the jungle recognized him,” Hermione thought, and she knew he was the one to watch—not the others.

Tallulah whispered incantations to Magnolia from the perimeter. João muttered in Portuguese with his youngest assistant, a Peruvian boy who squinted more intently each time he gestured toward a tree dripping with fluorescent sap. But Hermione wasn’t listening. She didn’t need to.

She moved.

There was a way to move through the magical world that wasn’t taught in textbooks or Care of Magical Creatures classes, not even in Auror training. It was something you learned when your life depended on not making a sound. Hermione couldn’t explain it in words, but her body remembered.

Her boots touched the ground with care.

She pulled out the parchment describing the components. Only one clue for each one.

The first—“dormant bloodroot”—had one unmistakable trait: its smell.

Hermione crouched among spiral-shaped plants and closed her eyes. She wasn’t searching with her sight. Not yet. She was searching with her nose.

“If you can’t trust your eyes, Hermione, trust your nose. Nature doesn’t lie.”

Neville’s voice filled her head as clearly as it had back in Greenhouse Three, the afternoon he’d found a fake root by accident. She’d looked at him like he’d conjured fire without a wand. He’d just shrugged and said that.

And then she smelled it.

A metallic scent, like rust laced with bitter almonds, hidden among orange roots that perfectly mimicked magical poppies. She moved closer. Didn’t touch. Just waved her wand in a simple pattern: “Scent reveal.”

A faint trail lifted from the thickest stalk. Hermione inhaled carefully. Confirmed.

“First component,” she whispered to herself.

She pulled out a vial, a fine scalpel, and whispered a clean-slicing charm. “Sectum delicata.”

The root detached without bleeding, as if granting her permission. Hermione smiled—barely. A point in her favor.

Then she heard it.

A dry snap.

Someone had triggered a trap.

It didn’t happen again.

But it didn’t need to.

One of the spiral plants next to the freshly cut root contracted violently, like a muscle reflex. Immediately, the nearby foliage rustled, as if an invisible gust had swept through. But there was no wind. The dome’s defense system had activated: the plants were warning one another. Her harvest had been too precise, too clean. Unnatural. It had alarmed them.

Hermione took a small step back.

That was her first mistake.

The soil beneath her right boot gave way by half a centimeter, like she’d stepped on a living sponge. She had. A heartbeat later, a thorned vine sprang from the mud, spinning like a striking snake toward her exposed ankle.

Crack!

Hermione fell back but managed to roll away just in time. The thorn missed her—but another vine cracked in from the side like a damp whip. This time, she didn’t dodge. “Protego!” she cast in a low voice. The shield caught the hit, but the impact pushed her back three full steps, into a wall of black ferns that began to shiver as if breathing her in.

“Chained trap,” she thought. “One plant triggers another. They’re linked.”

Adrenaline mingled with sweat. Hermione lowered her wand and muttered again:

“Neville… this wasn’t in the textbook.” She thougt

But it was. It was in him—in how she remembered Neville handling plants, never afraid, always treating them like wild creatures: with respect, not fear.

She remembered something else—something he’d done instinctively once, in front of an armored venom plant. Instead of fighting it, Neville had hummed—a soft tune, not magical, just human. But it had calmed the plant enough for its leaves to relax.

Hermione dropped to her knees, panting. The root was still safe in its vial. But now she had to leave the site without setting off more reactions.

“It’s okay…” she murmured, more to herself than the dome. “I don’t want to hurt anything.”

And she began to hum.

It wasn’t a tune. Not really. It was a descending note, half croaked, half whispered—like the frogs in her garden pond back home.

But it worked.

The vines stilled.

The leaves lowered.

The spiral plant returned to its former state.

Hermione stood slowly, holding her breath until the ferns stopped rustling. She wiped the mud from her leg with a sharp flick. No blood. Not yet. But the dome had made one thing clear from the start:

Magic wasn’t the only thing she had to master.

She needed rhythm. Respect. Silence.

She tightened the strap on her belt and stowed the first component. A glance at the hourglass hovering above told her only twenty-seven minutes had passed.

It felt like a lifetime.

There were still two more components to go.

The air was still thick—hotter, more alive.

Hermione stepped into the second sector of the dome with renewed caution. She had learned her lesson: the jungle punished those who moved too fast or too proud. Now, every step was a silent negotiation with the environment.

The second component was more elusive.

The only clue on the parchment read:

“Shifting color, empathy-based reaction. Don’t choose it. Let it choose you.”

A test designed to cost points—or earn the plant’s respect.

Hermione circled a small clearing where the vegetation grew lower, glossier. At the far end, beneath a canopy of arched roots, she spotted the emerald glow of what appeared to be an Aura Lily: a magical plant whose pigment changed depending on the emotional state of the witch or wizard attempting to touch it.

And she wasn’t alone.

Céleste Fournier, Beauxbatons’ champion, stood in front of the lily. Pale. Wand trembling slightly between her fingers.

The flower, however, pulsed an aggressive red. The color of fear.

Hermione remained still. She couldn’t interfere—not without risking disqualification. But she saw the tremble in Céleste’s wrist, the tension in her jaw, the sweat trailing down her perfectly styled neck. The girl tried to use a containment charm. Fatal mistake.

The lily snapped shut, releasing a puff of black pollen that sent her coughing and stumbling back. Hermione didn’t move. But her eyes stayed fixed on the plant—on its behavior, its rhythm.

When Céleste walked away—still coughing, frustrated, visibly shaken—Hermione stepped closer.

Not to the plant. To the edge of the clearing.

She sat down.

Yes. She sat. Crossed her legs. Lowered her wand.

And waited.

Magical flowers, like some people, need to feel heard.

She closed her eyes. Took a deep breath. Thought of something to center her. Not a spell. Not a strategy.

She thought of Draco.

Not a specific moment—just the constant feeling of his presence: the certainty that he’s never far. The way he leans behind her like nothing in the world could harm her while he’s there. The way he watches her when she’s about to say something brilliant. The way he doesn’t say “I love you,” but gives her knowledge, protection, small offerings of devotion. And reminds her that she is his.

The calm.

The flower changed color.

Even with her eyes closed, Hermione felt it: the glow had shifted from red to pale blue—like the sky before a clean dawn. The emotion tied to it: serenity. Control. Quiet courage.

She opened her eyes.

The flower had bowed toward her.

A slow, graceful motion, as if it had decided she was worthy.

Hermione extended her hand.

“Thank you,” she whispered—no spell, no charm.

The flower didn’t just allow itself to be touched. It detached from the stem and landed, whole and perfect, in her open palm.

Second component: complete.

As she stood, she heard a soft rustle to her left. Céleste hadn’t fully left. She stood half-hidden behind the foliage, watching.

Not with envy, watching her with something akin to involuntary respect.

Hermione said nothing.

She simply walked away—in the opposite direction.

She had just over half an hour left.

The hourglass floated above the dome like a suspended heart, casting its golden light with relentless slowness. Hermione had slowed her pace—not out of fatigue, but out of strategy. The dome punished haste.

But the third component wouldn’t be found with patience.

It wasn’t hidden. It didn’t camouflage itself or play tricks on the senses. It defended itself. A plant that could only be collected by a witch or wizard who understood its defensive rhythms. The parchment had warned her, almost cruelly:

“Three stems, three beats. The fourth one cuts.”

Hermione quickly consulted the corner of the map Draco had given her before leaving their quarters. She was surprised to see several parts marked. She scanned the area until she found it—a section circled in black ink, handwritten:

“Sector N-4: Anguis Ferox. Often mimics dead vines. Only touch when the stems retract. Not when they tremble.”

She found the sector after a short walk. And there it was: the Anguis Ferox, also known as the vine serpent. No flowers, no visible fruit. Just twisted stalks and a fibrous texture that looked dry… until the champion from Mahoutokoro, far too confident, tried to cut it without warning.

A sharp scream tore through the air.

Hermione dropped behind a moss-covered rock, shielding herself with a visual dispersal charm. She watched as the Japanese champion—Akiko Watanabe, if she remembered correctly—fell to his knees with a bleeding gash across his forearm. Within seconds, the judges extracted him from the dome using an emergency spell.

“Reactive defense. Lethal,” she thought. “Still… I can’t afford to lose points.”

She stayed low, studying the stalks from a distance.

One.

Two.

Three.

Each time the stems stretched outward, as if ready to strike, they would then recoil—like a heartbeat. A cycle of three. On the fourth… nothing. A dangerous calm.

Hermione immediately recalled something.

Not a person this time. Not advice. A moment.

Third year. Snape, furious, had made her repeat five times the exact moment when a calming potion must be stirred counterclockwise before turning toxic. Hermione had counted not with words, but with rhythm. Like a dance between precision and disaster.

She counted now the same way.

One… two… three… and she moved.

On the fourth beat, she dropped to her knees before the core of the plant, cast a partial shield—not for protection, but to contain—and launched a quick extraction spell: “Exclure radicem!”

The plant trembled. Two stalks rose, as if still deciding whether to strike, but they didn’t. Hermione, still grounded, placed the fibrous fragment into a vial with a stabilizing charm. The stem continued pulsing inside, but it couldn’t hurt anyone now.

“Third component,” she whispered.

The pressure eased. The jungle exhaled.

But as she stood, she felt something she hadn’t before: her own blood, running down the back of her calf.

A cut. Deep, but clean. One of the stems had grazed her just before she finished the spell. She hadn’t noticed—or she’d ignored it.

Hermione didn’t stop. Not now. Not with the final phase about to begin. She tied the vial to her belt, cleaned the wound with a quick “Tergeo,” and made her way toward the center of the dome.

The magical boundary opened with a low hum, and as she stepped through it, the first thing she saw was Draco.

He was there, waiting, arms crossed, brow furrowed so tightly he looked carved from stone. But when he saw her—cut still fresh, sweat soaking through her robe, the three vials secured to her belt—he finally inhaled.

That was all.

A soft breath, barely audible. The kind of relief you only allow yourself when the person you care about most has made it out alive.

Hermione didn’t say anything.

Neither did he.

But in his mind, with the kind of sarcasm love had never quite managed to erase, he thought:

“Of course you didn’t make it out unscathed. You never do.”

And still, here she was.

Hermione Granger. Whole. Bleeding.

And ready to win.

The annex lab wasn’t a classroom. There were no desks, no brass cauldrons, no instructions floating in midair. It was a circular structure, open to the sky, with workstations bordered by rings of magical containment. Only four tables were active at that moment—the ones belonging to the champions who had successfully completed the collection phase.

Hermione walked to hers without looking around. Draco followed a few steps behind, without speaking, without touching her. Just being there—as if that gesture alone was a form of containment.

As they arrived, the rings activated around them, isolating them from the rest.

“You’re bleeding,” Draco said at last, blunt as always.

“Not anymore. I cleaned it before it could oxidize the vial.”

He gave her a look that said you could be dying and you’d still prioritize the potion, but said nothing. Instead, he pulled a small glass tube from his robe.

“Spore neutralizer. Just in case the Aura Lily chose you out of pity.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow.

“It chose me for my calm.”

“Of course it did.”

Still, she took the tube.

They didn’t argue over the formula. There was no need. The parchment had been clear: synthesize an effective antidote using the three collected components. No instructions. No room for error. The antidote needed to counteract Corvian Shade—a slow-absorbing toxin that attacked the magical nervous system.

Hermione placed the first vial on the table. Draco had already begun preparing the dilution core.

“We’re not going with a cold infusion,” he said.

“You’re right. The Anguis Ferox stem releases an acid enzyme with heat, and we’ll lose reaction time.”

Draco nodded. He prepped the base stabilizer while Hermione ground the harvested root. The smell was sharp, acidic. Without a word, he handed her a mask. She put it on without thanking him.

There was no need.

Their movements were almost choreographed. Draco adjusted the temperature without asking—because he knew how it needed to be done. Hermione corrected his measurements when he rushed—because she knew how impatient he could be. They had seen each other work many times before. This time was different.

Not because they were in an international tournament, nor because the world was watching. But because she no longer doubted him. And he had never doubted her.

“Add the flower when it turns violet,” Hermione said without looking up.

“I know,” Draco replied.

But he still waited for her to say it.

The clock ticked down the first minute.

One by one, the ingredients entered the mixture with a kind of fluency that no school could teach. It was rhythm. Intuition. Mutual knowledge. Draco stirred with an enchanted silver rod. Hermione read the liquid’s reactions like ancient text.

There was a moment—a brief one—when he stopped stirring.

The mixture bubbled into a dark gray, nearly black hue.

Hermione didn’t flinch.

“It’s not unstable.”

Draco glanced at her sideways. He knew she wasn’t joking.

He knew she was right.

When the mixture turned amber, she sealed the vial with blue wax and placed it onto the evaluation tray. Draco exhaled slowly.

“You’ve done brilliant things, Hermione. But this…”

She turned to face him. For the first time during the entire trial, she looked him straight in the eyes.

“We did this together.”

And he, of course, said nothing.

Because if he did, the pride would show.

And then they’d attract more attention than necessary.

The dome had vanished.

In its place, the clearing had transformed into an open amphitheater, surrounded by enchanted arches of foliage casting a silver mist over the heads of the spectators. The delegations sat in neat rows, with the champions standing at the front, right at the center of the structure.

Hermione stood between João and Kwame, their robes still stained with dirt and sweat. None of them spoke. No one did. It was one of those suspended moments, when magic seemed to hold the world together by invisible threads.

At the center of the platform, a round table floated with four vials—one for each champion who had completed the trial. Each potion glowed in a different hue, a reflection not only of their success, but of the personal style with which it had been brewed.

A panel of three judges stepped forward. Canelo Ruiz remained a step behind them, arms crossed behind his back, eyes fixed on the brews. His olive-green robe seemed to shift in a wind that wasn’t there.

After what felt like a long deliberation, one of the judges—a tall woman with fair skin and amber-colored eyes—spoke.

“The potions have been evaluated based on three criteria,” she announced, her voice amplified by a soft charm. “Effectiveness, stability, and respect for the magical balance of the environment.”

Hermione lowered her gaze slightly. Not in submission—but in focus.

“The potion from Uagadou was the most effective. Its application neutralized the effects of the venom in six seconds. Kwame Njoroge: first place.”

Applause broke out among the African rows, accompanied by soft chants in Xhosa. Kwame gave a humble nod, though the spark in his eyes was undeniable.

“The second-fastest neutralization came from Hermione Granger, of Hogwarts.”

Hermione didn’t react.

But from the second row, Draco closed his eyes for a moment, as if releasing a breath of tension with the smallest of gestures.

“Her potion was stable, her harvesting flawless, and her presentation… unconventional,” the judge added, allowing herself a small smile. “Second place.”

There was applause then too, though more scattered. Some delegations—particularly Beauxbatons and Ilvermorny—didn’t clap with much enthusiasm. But João did. Firmly. And with a sidelong glance that said told you so without a word.

“Third place: João Vasconcelos, from Castelobruxo.”

The loudest applause didn’t come from his delegation, but from the official box, where his father—the Brazilian Minister of Magic—stood to clap, a dangerous blend of pride and diplomatic restraint in his posture.

“The remaining champions will receive a detailed evaluation in private,” the judge concluded.

The vials vanished by magic. The lights dimmed gradually.

And the tension… lifted.

Hermione stepped back. Draco was already at her side. He didn’t speak, didn’t smile. He simply brushed her wrist with his fingers—a gesture so brief it went unnoticed by everyone.

Everyone but her.

“Second place,” he murmured, raising one eyebrow ever so slightly. “Not bad.”

Hermione took a deep breath.

“No. Not bad at all.”

And she said it as if she already knew this was only the beginning.

The magic of the pact began to "wear thin" when the truth became impossible to deny.

The quarters assigned to Hogwarts were enchanted to block out noise, temperature shifts, and unwelcome visitors. From the outside, they looked like a cluster of breathing, leafy walls pulsing with the rhythm of the forest. From the inside, it was a refuge. Silent. Almost sacred.

Hermione collapsed onto the divan beside the magical fireplace Draco had conjured before leaving. It held no real fire, just floating embers that lit the room with a smokeless warmth. The makeshift bandage around her calf had come loose, exposing the wound beneath: clean, thin, but still open.

Draco knelt in front of her with a potion kit. He didn’t ask. Didn’t hesitate. He simply opened the jar of ointment with tight fingers and placed it beside her, as if every second that passed without tending that wound chipped something away inside him.

His hands were steady, but his breathing had changed. More controlled and quieter.

Hermione didn’t look at him, but she felt him. She knew how much he hated seeing her like that—though he would never admit it out loud.

“It’s not as deep as it looks,” she said, trying to make it sound minor.

But Draco didn’t respond. Because it didn’t matter how deep it was. The wound was there, and he was going to heal it. Because if there was anything in this world that belonged to him—even just for this stolen moment—it was the right to take care of her.

He applied the ointment with precise movements. Each touch was measured, gentle, but carried a quiet urgency. Not out of tenderness. Out of instinct. Out of love.

He wrapped her leg without another word. The ointment was already working, sealing the wound, but his expression didn’t change. No relief. No pride. Just that kind of restrained focus one has when trying not to feel too much.

Hermione rested her head against the back of the divan and closed her eyes for a moment. She breathed deeply. Not out of exhaustion—out of peace. A peace that wasn’t borrowed. That no longer came from him.

And Draco noticed.

He watched her in silence. Her breathing steady. Her posture soft. Her pulse slowed. It wasn’t just that the adrenaline had worn off. It was something deeper.

Hermione was… fine.

And for the first time since they made the pact, Draco realized that the emptiness he carried wasn’t hers. Not anymore. Maybe it never truly was.

He didn’t say it. He couldn’t.

But something inside him pulled—gently unraveling like a magical thread, silent and invisible.

She opened her eyes and caught him staring.

“Thank you,” she said softly.

He nodded, he sat beside her, back resting against the same cushion. For a while, neither of them spoke. They shared the silence with the same precision they’d shared a lab table. With the same gravity. But now, with something new: lightness.

Hermione leaned into him—just a little. Her head came to rest on his shoulder naturally. Draco didn’t move at first. Only when she closed her eyes again did he lower his head, resting it against hers.

And they stayed that way.

Without the magic of the pact.

Without the need for a spell to keep them close.

Just them.

Not equal.

But at peace.

At some point, they drifted off.

The golden light of evening wrapped around them.

A single band of light filtered through the enchanted leaves that covered the wall, sketching soft waves on the polished stone floor. The forest's sounds had quieted by then: leaves brushing like whispers, birds unsure whether to sing or stay silent.

It was warm. Safe.

Their bodies settled into each other until Hermione was completely held in Draco’s arms.

His arm lay across her waist, with the unconscious gesture of someone who doesn’t want to let you go—not even in sleep. His breath was slow, deep, pressed against her back like a second skin.

She didn’t move.

Not yet.

Hermione didn’t know how long they’d slept like that. Draco’s embrace clung to her with the weight of exhaustion, and just like her, he had surrendered to it.

She looked at the moonlight streaming through the living walls. The air was lighter than the night before. There was something different about this dusk. Not entirely new. But clearer.

As if the forest—or the world—or the pact, or what was left of it, had stopped demanding.

And started allowing.

Hermione closed her eyes again.

Just for one more minute.

Just while that warmth still belonged to them.

Chapter Text

Light filtered in like a caress through Castelobruxo’s enchanted leaves, casting green and golden reflections on the walls of living stone. Outside, the world remained wrapped in humidity and the sounds of the forest. Inside, the air was thick, warm, still.

Hermione woke slowly, wrapped in a breath that wasn’t hers.

She felt it first against her neck—warm, steady. Then at her hip, where a long, firm hand rested on her bare skin as if it had been there for hours, as if it knew no other place to belong. The sheet had twisted between her legs, revealing more than it hid.

She didn’t move.

She didn’t want to.

Draco was behind her, his body pressed fully against hers. Skin to skin. Chest to back. His leg draped over hers with unconscious possession.

His nose brushed her hair. His mouth, slightly parted, exhaled against her neck. Every breath was a touch. Every touch, a message.

He wasn’t asleep.

She knew it by the way his fingers shifted slightly, tracing a faint path along her side.

Like someone trying to memorize. To make sure it hadn’t been a dream.

Hermione closed her eyes for one more second.

And then she turned.

Draco opened his eyes at the same time. There was no surprise.

Only that quiet intensity that had never left since they’d crossed the line.

They looked at each other, she touched him first—her fingertips gliding across his brow, down his cheek, until they brushed his lips. He didn’t pull away. Didn’t speak.

He simply leaned in.

Their lips met with the softness of something imagined many times before.

It was a kiss with no urgency. No pretense, A kiss as a gesture.

He deepened it—not with hunger, but with slow, aching need. His hands found her waist, then moved upward, with a reverence that felt like he was speaking a language only he could.

And Hermione listened.

She kissed him back with no rush, her lips parted, her body awakening once more—not with tension, but with that dangerous certainty of wanting him awake. Not just in the haze of exhaustion or euphoria.

When their hips touched, it wasn’t rushed. It was inevitable. Instinctive.

Breathless murmurs passed between them—the kind of sounds that aren’t meant to be translated, only felt.

Draco’s hand slid down her thigh, slow, unhurried. He looked at her like he was asking for permission, though he already had it.

And she held his gaze without fear.

She answered with a kiss.

Deeper.

The sheets slipped down. The light filtered in fuller.

And for a while, there was no tournament, no delegations, no pact.

Only the secret language they had learned to speak in silence.

When they stilled again, Hermione turned around, he wrapped his arms around her from behind.

Kissed the back of her neck.

Whispered something she didn’t need to hear to understand.

And so, wrapped in that truce of light and breath,

they stayed awake.

The enchanted dining hall of Castelobruxo, was arranged that morning beneath a vaulted canopy of living vines mimicking the jungle’s treetop. Delegations were seated by school, though the boundaries between tables were more symbolic than real. Today there would be no competition—only diplomacy.

Hermione arrived a few minutes after Draco, her hair still damp from the enchanted shower and wearing a light linen robe that hadn’t been planned... yet looked deliberately chosen. She found him sitting at the far left of the Hogwarts table, slightly removed from the chatter, flipping through a diplomatic dossier that was clearly not his.

“Since when do you read Wizengamot reports before breakfast?” she asked, settling beside him.

Draco raised an eyebrow without looking up.

“Since I noticed two committee members skipped greeting you after you came in second place.”

Hermione pressed her lips together.

“Maybe they were just busy.”

“Or maybe...” he shut the folder with near-theatrical precision, "Hogwarts isn’t on their list.”

She didn’t argue. Because he was right.

Around them, delegates exchanged poisoned pleasantries. João greeted a Mahoutokoro representative with perfect decorum, while a few steps away, Céleste Fournier was deep in conversation with a young witch from the French Ministry of Magical Education. No one was really eating. Everyone was weaving something with words.

“I read something odd before we came,” Draco murmured, setting the file aside. “About Castelobruxo’s original castle.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow.

“Oh?”

“A local legend. Said the school was enchanted with an ancient spell divided into five fragments. To keep it balanced. I don’t know if it’s true or just added later to sound mystical... but I thought it was interesting.”

“What kind of spell?”

“One that condenses the essence of the magical environment.”

She looked at him, only slightly turning her head.

“And you read that out of academic curiosity? Or because you weren’t sure what kind of jungle you’d be waking up to every morning?”

Draco dropped a spoonful of mango onto his plate with studied indifference.

“Both.”

Hermione hid a smile behind her cup.

“So, what do you think today will bring? A diplomatic downpour? Emotional eruptions?”

“I don't know either, Hermione.” Draco replied without hesitation. “Look at how they’re sitting. All of them. Waiting for something. No one’s moving much. No one’s improvising.” He picked up a strawberry between two fingers and let it fall back onto his plate, untouched. 

Hermione glanced at him sideways; Draco's gaze had settled on the Beauxbatons table, where a blonde wizard in an elegant midnight-blue robe was exchanging glances with Céleste and jotting something down in a floating notebook. Hermione followed his gaze.

“You know him?”

“By sight. He’s the French ambassador’s nephew. Attended a cousin’s wedding. My mother says he’s politically gifted... though with that last name, he didn’t need much more.”

“Ally or threat?”

Draco looked at her as if the question were too simple.

“That depends on what he wants more—appearing neutral, or appearing useful.”

Hermione shook her head gently and picked up a slice of papaya.

“You’re insufferable.”  She looked at him for a moment longer, then turned back to her plate.

That’s when she understood Draco hadn’t come just as her technical assistant.

He’d come to play and this was his board.

“Why do you do this?” Hermione asked, turning slightly toward him. “You’re not competing. You don’t need points. Or medals.”

Draco didn’t answer right away. He turned to her slowly, with the air of someone who’d been waiting for that question.

“Because this isn’t just a potions tournament, Hermione. It’s not just talent and discipline. If it were, you’d have already won.”

She frowned—not in disagreement, but because she understood, even if she didn’t want to admit it.

“Then what is it?”

“It’s an oportunity,” he said, lowering his voice. “One that shows who’s in a position to shape the future. Who has allies. Who understands the unspoken rules. Who knows how to move without casting spells. Hogwarts prepared you to be the best. But the world...” he gestured lightly toward the other delegations, “the world expects more.”

“Ambition?”

The word sounded more like a judgment than a question.

Draco gave her a half-smile—warm, not mocking. Almost fond.

“It’s not a bad word. Not when it comes from someone like you.”

Hermione looked at him, and something in her expression faltered slightly. As if the hard part wasn’t ambition itself—but admitting she wanted it, especially in front of him.

“So, you’re ambitious too?”

“Not just one kind. Many,” he said without hesitation. “Some inherited, some stolen, some mine. But all useful. I know what I want,” —he looked at her, with sudden intensity— “and I know connections are never wasted. Relationships either. If I’m going to play this game... I want to play it well.”

“And you’re saying I should play it too?”

“I’m saying,” he said, voice lower now, almost intimate, “that if you choose to play, you don’t have to play alone.”

Hermione lowered her gaze slightly, but didn’t look away.

“And if our paths split?”

Draco narrowed his eyes, as if the thought itself were painful. But his voice stayed steady.

“Then I’ll become someone worthy of finding you again—with or without help.”

She felt a pang in her chest. It wasn’t pain. It was something else. Something closer to faith.

Draco smiled, just barely, before finishing:

“I want to be the best partner I can be, Hermione. For this tournament... and whatever comes next. Whether that’s with you—or waiting for you, if we’re meant to be apart.”

He didn’t say more. He didn’t need to.

She didn’t answer with words either. But she looked at him with a kind of intensity that said many things at once: gratitude, admiration... and something far too close to love to call it anything else.

And that was their true bond, not sealed by magic but by truth.

Outside, the garden seemed to breathe at a different rhythm.

Breakfast was over, but not the strategies. The committee had yet to appear with the day's announcement, leaving room for a subtle interlude—the kind of space where real moves are made between polite phrases and measured glances.

Draco and Hermione walked slowly along the paths that linked the main structures. He kept to her left, half a step behind, as if his presence alone was an unspoken shield. And it was.

They hadn’t gone far when a tall wizard, clad in midnight-blue robes and with an unmistakably French accent, approached from beneath the shadow of an enchanted tree. Draco saw him before he spoke, and didn’t seem surprised. Hermione, on the other hand, immediately noticed the sharp gleam in his eyes—the kind of gaze she’d already felt on them… from the French delegation’s table during breakfast.

“Malfoy,” the man greeted, with a lopsided smile and a French as smooth as it was dangerous. “I knew it was you the moment you walked into the hall this morning. Some bloodlines require no introduction.”

Draco returned a brief, effortless smile.

“Duval. I appreciate that your eyesight—and memory—remain intact.”

“Hard to forget a boy who spoke like a diplomat at thirteen,” Duval replied, with a tone that said plenty and confirmed even more. “Although I must admit, your company surprised me even more.”

His eyes drifted toward Hermione. Not with disdain, but with a calculation she recognized instantly. He didn’t underestimate her—but he didn’t fully understand her. Not yet.

“Hermione Granger,” she said, with that calm she used when she chose not to back down. “Hogwarts champion. I assume you’ve read that in a report or two.”

Duval narrowed his eyes, amused.

“More than one, in fact. Your name has crossed oceans, mademoiselle. Some speak it with respect. Others with... reservations.”

“And yet all speak it,” Hermione replied. “That’s a start.”

Draco let the exchange unfold without stepping in. Apparently, his witch had decided to enter the game.

When Duval looked back to him, as if seeking confirmation, Draco took one step forward. Just one. Enough.

“Miss Granger doesn’t need my defense, monsieur,” he said softly. “But if she did... it would be as relentless as my father’s was in his day.”

Duval studied him. For a moment, his eyes lit with a different kind of spark—the kind that recognizes not just a bright young man, but a dangerous one. One who plays the same game.

“Your father would never have allowed this,” he murmured, not without a smile.

“My father never competed in a tournament that might draw the magical alliances of the future,” Draco replied. “Nor did he understand that talent and blood don’t always align. I… have other plans.”

Hermione glanced at him sideways. She didn’t interrupt. She didn’t need to.

“And is she part of those plans?” Duval asked, almost politely. Almost.

Draco turned to look at her then. Directly. With that mix of pride and tenderness that only he seemed capable of conjuring without contradiction.

“She is the plan the rest don’t understand yet. But they will soon.”

Duval narrowed his eyes, and for a second it seemed he might say more. But instead, he simply nodded—once—with a different kind of smile.

“Bonne chance, Malfoy. Granger.”

He withdrew with the elegance of someone who’s just been bested by an argument they can’t refute.

Hermione watched him go, until he disappeared among the delegations. Then she turned to Draco.

“That was a move, wasn’t it?”

Draco shrugged with mock modesty.

“It was... positioning.”

“Political?”

“And personal.”

She looked at him for a few seconds in silence. Then turned her gaze toward the paths ahead, waiting for the committee’s announcement.

But in her chest, something pulsed louder than any bell or enchantment: that exact moment in which Draco Malfoy, without quite saying it, had placed her exactly where she belonged.

Not behind, not as an exception but as the centerpiece.

And as had been true for some time now, it wasn’t the pact.

It was choice.

A magical bell rang in the distance, deep and enveloping, as if it were born from the very roots of the forest.

Hermione and Draco stopped walking when they heard it. They weren’t the only ones. From different points across the garden, entire delegations began regrouping with ritual precision. Floating banners aligned in school order, and official figures emerged from the central path leading toward the Lesser Amphitheater of Castelobruxo: a semicircular space carved from living stone, with enchanted benches and protective runes that seemed to breathe with the earth.

The Wizengamot had arrived.

Not the full council, of course, but a delegation led by the venerable witch Dame Eulalia Fitzroy, accompanied by representatives from the Department of International Magical Cooperation and the Committee for Magical Alliances of South America.

Dame Eulalia lifted her carved staff—a family heirloom made from enchanted ash—and with a slight twist, projected a floating image above the dais: a magical view of Castelobruxo from above, encircled by glowing rings pulsing with natural energy.

“Honored delegations,” she began, her deep voice amplified by a subtle enchantment, “on behalf of the Wizengamot and the Council of Magic of Castelobruxo, we welcome you to the first intermission day of the International Potions Championship. As you know, this competition measures not only skill, but also character, vision, and magical responsibility.”

The floating image shifted: now it showed ancient paths crisscrossing the jungle, connecting small sanctuaries hidden behind enchanted vines.

“For that reason, during this first interval, all champions—as well as their assistants—will be guided along the Path of the Sanctuaries, an ancestral route connecting the five natural magical cores of Castelobruxo. Today, you will visit the first of them: the Sanctuary of Primordial Roots.”

A murmur rippled through the rows.

Draco tilted his head slightly. Hermione didn’t look at him, but she remembered he had already anticipated it. Or read it.

“The Sanctuary,” Fitzroy continued, “represents the earthly heart of our school. It is not a tourist destination, but a space protected by wild magic, home to plant species that cannot be relocated or replicated. Only those in a state of magical and emotional balance are permitted to enter.”

Hermione frowned—not out of fear, but at the precision of the term.

“The walk will be guided by Castelobruxo guardians and members of the Green Circle. No external magical artifacts are allowed during the journey. Only your intuition, your memory… and your respect for the environment.”

“Tomorrow, the second task will take place.” added another voice, this time from the Brazilian delegate. “Until then, today will be your only opportunity to observe, learn… and perhaps understand what is truly at stake in this competition.”

The magical image vanished.

And with it, all sound.

For a few seconds, only the call of an unknown bird could be heard in the distance. A brief call. Ancient.

Hermione turned toward Draco.

“Did you know we’d be visiting a sanctuary today?”

He raised an eyebrow with feigned innocence.

“That would explain a bit more of what I read… from what I started researching weeks ago, when McGonagall told you you’d be representing the school. A chronicle about Castelobruxo’s enchanted origins. It said the school was built on five natural cores. Five points of balance.”

She narrowed her eyes at him.

“And today?”

“Today is one of them,” he answered, as if it were obvious. “The first. The one that holds all the others together. The Root. Without it, nothing grows.”

And without needing to say another word, he knew she had already understood everything that wasn’t being said aloud.

The day was just beginning.

And the roots… knew exactly who they were receiving.

The delegations began to break off into smaller groups, preparing for the upcoming trek. Hermione remained quiet beside Draco, reviewing the magically-encoded parchment they had just received.

That was when Tallulah Raines appeared—walking with the casual confidence of someone who doesn't fear rejection because she doesn't believe it's even a possibility.

“Well, well… my favorite assistant,” she said, stopping right in front of Draco with a lopsided smile and a garnet-colored quill pinned into her high bun. “I thought you never left your champion’s side. Or is the Castelobruxo air stirring a new appetite for variety?”

Hermione didn’t look up from the parchment. She didn’t need to.

Draco didn’t smile either.

“Castelobruxo’s air is heavy, Miss Raines. If you’re not used to it, you might end up saying things you don’t really mean,” he replied in a languid tone.

Tallulah let out a soft laugh.

“I always say what I mean. And right now, I mean it would be a shame to waste your company on such a... natural stroll.”

“Fortunately, I don’t believe in waste,” Draco replied, glancing at Hermione as if the real conversation had been happening only with her all along.

Tallulah followed his gaze, and for a second, her smile faltered.

“And you, Granger? Don’t mind sharing your technical assistant with someone else? I promise I won’t ask him to carry anything. Just a few questions about ingredients. Maybe… roots.”

Hermione finally looked up.

But not at Tallulah.

At Draco.

“What do you think?” she asked, with a calm so polished it bordered on academic disdain.

Draco held her gaze for a full second.

Then turned to Tallulah with the composure of someone who doesn’t need to raise his voice to draw a line.

“Neither Hermione nor I make a habit of sharing.”

The sentence fell like an enchanted verdict.

Tallulah raised a brow, now no longer smiling. Hermione returned her look the way one might observe an ingredient that has no use in a potion.

“Understood,” said the American, with a sweetness too false to hide the sting to her ego. “See you on the trail, I’m sure we will.”

And she walked away, though not without one last glance over her shoulder.

Hermione said nothing.

But Draco did.

“I’d say I’m sorry, but charm doesn’t improvise,” he murmured with a faint smirk. “I mean mine, of course, she does have the appeal of a bubotuber in bloom.”

Hermione sighed.

“At least she doesn’t explode.”

“Yet.”

And with that, he settled beside her, just as the path guardian began calling out names to start the walk to the Sanctuary.

The heat had begun to rise as the delegations were summoned to Castelobruxo’s central clearing before departure. Moisture gathered on the tall leaves, creating a constant murmur that fell like suspended drizzle. Nature, far from retreating in the presence of humans, seemed more alert than ever.

Draco adjusted the edges of his robe as he walked beside Hermione. His expression was serene, but there was a measured tension in his movements. She noticed it—not from any obvious gesture, but from the way his steps made no sound.

Up ahead, the committee members waited beneath a pavilion of magical shade. The Wizengamot banner floated with discreet solemnity, guarded by two diplomatic Aurors.

Most of the champions were already gathered. João was chatting with two representatives from the Uagadou delegation, while Céleste from Beauxbatons stood near Magnolia, exchanging soft remarks no one really cared to hear.

Hermione walked slightly ahead, alert to her surroundings: the bushes with sleeping flowers, the hidden songs of creatures slipping away as the groups passed. She noticed that some of the plants seemed to lean toward them—as if watching.

“I heard one of the Koldovstoretz assistants mention that Castelobruxo’s sanctuaries are ancient,” he finally said. “He also said some believe they’re protected by a collective vegetal consciousness. Apparently, the castle and its jungle are rooted in five essential forces—the ones that Wizengamot witch spoke about, and the ones I read up on. It’s obvious now. The five elements. Not the ones from Charms class. Something deeper. More symbolic.”

Hermione glanced at him from the side.

“And what do you believe?”

Draco smile. 

“I believe some things in this place don’t need belief to exist.”

She nodded, thoughtful.

Just then, a committee member stepped forward. Hermione recognized him—the same one who had announced the change in the tournament’s duration. His robe was a pale gray linen, fastened with a small star-shaped brooch.

“Champions and technical assistants,” he announced clearly. “We will now begin the trek. As informed, you will be guided by Castelobruxo’s own along the first of five magical sanctuaries surrounding the protected reserve. This route is meant to strengthen bonds between delegations and to observe how participants behave outside the arena of competition.”

The message was clear. Not everything would be judged in laboratories.

“We ask for discretion, respect toward magical flora and fauna, and diplomatic conduct. At the end of the trek, you will share a ceremonial meal in the Root Clearing. The guides will accompany you throughout the day.”

The words faded with a gentle flick of his wand. A rustle of movement spread among the delegations, each organizing themselves for the journey. Some assistants stepped forward with floating maps and enchanted compasses.

Draco barely turned his head toward Hermione.

“This isn’t just a walk,” he said quietly, without looking at her. “It’s the oldest way to spy on strengths—watching how people act when they think no one’s really watching.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow.

“Always so paranoid?”

“It’s not paranoia,” he replied calmly. “It’s foresight.”

“You take this very seriously, Draco.”

“I will always take anything that involves you very seriously.”

At that moment, just as the delegations began to form groups, Tallulah Raines approached once more, her steps as steady as ever and Hermione tried to suppress a laugh.

“Mr. Malfoy,” Tallulah said with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “I must insist—your company must be a delight. Might you reconsider? Ilvermorny has always had a certain fondness for… charming British talent.”

Hermione turned slightly, still listening. Draco didn’t make a single unnecessary movement.

“I appreciate your persistent courtesy, Miss Raines,” he said in a voice impeccably polite. “Though, as you may know, I came here for strictly academic purposes. And for Hermione, of course.”

He hoped the message had been clearer this time.

Tallulah kept her smile, but a flicker of irritation crossed her gaze.

“Of course. Hogwarts is always so… disciplined.”

“And loyal,” Draco added, without raising his voice.

She nodded, turned on her heel, and walked off. Defeated for the second time in under an hour.

Hermione, who hadn’t said a word, crossed her arms with a barely-there smile.

“She didn’t seem entirely convinced.”

“It’s not my job to convince her,” Draco murmured. “It’s hers to understand she has no chance.”

She glanced at him, amused.

“One might think you don’t give many chances.”

Draco didn’t flinch.

“I hadn’t given any at all before you.”

Hermione couldn’t help but feel a warmth rush through her. And it wasn’t the weather.

And as if the jungle itself had been waiting for that closing note, the first Castelobruxo guide—a middle-aged witch with hair braided down to her waist—raised a wand of golden wood, marking the beginning of the trek.

Hermione and Draco took the first step together.

One of many. In a jungle that knew how to listen, too.

The delegations descended along an ancient path of damp stone, flanked by exposed roots that looked like sleeping fingers emerging from the earth. The thick foliage above formed a natural ceiling, filtering the light into shades of green and amber. The air smelled of fresh sap, wet soil, and something else… like an ancient promise yet to be spoken.

“They say the magical sanctuaries of Castelobruxo don’t respond to spells,” said Naïma Mbeki, the witch from Uagadou who had addressed Hermione two days earlier. She now walked beside Draco, her tone more curious than skeptical. “Only to respect.”

“To intention,” gently corrected a wizard walking just ahead, hands folded behind his back. He spoke English in a clear, measured tone with a neutral accent. He was one of Castelobruxo’s technical assistants, his green robe gliding gracefully through the shadows.

“The school was built on the intersection of five elemental magical currents,” he continued. “Earth, water, fire, air… and something more ethereal. They called it the forest’s final breath. Students come to Castelobruxo from across Central and South America. The rivers and tides that border or rise from our lands converge here as the water current of the five elemental flows. The mountain ranges that stretch through the southern continent and continue beneath the sea form the earth current. Fire is moved by air, and all condense into the fifth element.”

Hermione looked at him with renewed attention. The assistant went on, not looking at anyone in particular, as if reciting a story etched into memory.

“Every part of the castle and its grounds was built under the blessing of an element. Not as allegory—but as protection. Only those who walk with purpose can cross these lands without becoming lost.”

The wizard turned briefly. “My name is Miguel Allende, technical assistant of Castelobruxo.”

Naïma and Hermione both smiled sincerely, while Draco nodded in recognition.

Miguel quickened his pace and easily moved ahead to walk beside Marcos. Naïma also nodded her farewell and fell behind.

Hermione stepped closer to Draco.

“You seem to doubt Miguel's story.”

Draco tilted his head, a small ironic smile playing on his lips.

“I believe that when an entire region flourishes for centuries without being conquered—by Muggles or magical colonizers—there’s more than just superstition at work.”

Hermione nodded, acknowledging something she couldn’t deny: even with all her logic, this place made her feel. And not in the usual way. The jungle wasn’t just scenery. It was a living being. A presence that was watching them.

The path finally opened before them, revealing a vast clearing.

There stood the first of the five magical sanctuaries: a moss-covered stone formation crowned by sacred trees whose roots grew upward, not downward, forming a natural dome. The ground was a blend of fertile earth and buried crystals. Tiny glowing sprouts shone between the cracks, as if they had just awakened.

The committee was waiting at the edge of the sanctuary, led by Jacques Duval—the French delegate who had greeted Draco earlier that morning. Beside him stood an African witch with a serene face, holding a staff carved with ancient runic symbols.

“Delegations,” Duval called out, his voice clear, “you will be guided through the sanctuary paths over the coming days. Each space represents a current of elemental energy and will respond differently to those who walk it. There are no scores. No evaluations. Only observation—and perhaps, for those who know how to look, a deeper lesson.”

Hermione felt a shiver of anticipation.

Draco glanced at her from the side. His voice was barely a whisper.

“Seems like this tournament doesn’t really have rest days after all.”

She didn’t answer, but something in her breath shifted. As if she had realized that what they were walking through wasn’t just a landscape.

It was an initiation.

The earth sanctuary received them without ceremony. The ground pulsed faintly, as if an underground network of magical energy beat to its own rhythm. The students scattered across the clearing, touching the trees, bowing before the roots, observing the enchanted stones that lit up at the brush of a hand.

Hermione knelt before one of them. She placed her palm over a glowing vein. She said nothing. Did nothing.

And the stone lit up.

Draco, just a few steps away, watched her in silence.

He didn’t need to touch it. He didn’t need to steal that moment.

He already knew: Hermione would connect with the magic of the earth effortlessly. Not by instinct. But because she had always stood with her feet firmly planted on it, even when the world tried to rip her from the ground.

And yet, in that place—surrounded by branches, leaves, and ancient blessings—she shone in a way no classroom at Hogwarts had ever managed to reveal.

When she stood again, he was there. Not with words.

Just a look that said: Yor´re incredible 

The group moved on in a kind of hushed reverence. There were no strict instructions, only a tacit invitation to observe. Their Brazilian guide, a golden-skinned witch with coiled hair named Isaura Mendes, moved among them with feline ease, explaining the names of certain formations, millenary trees, and power points that even the Ministry had declared intangible heritage of the magical world.

“Here,” she said softly, pointing to a root curling upward in a spiral, “they say the thoughts wizards are too afraid to name take root. Don’t touch them… unless you want the forest to speak them aloud.”

The Koldovstoretz delegation chuckled under their breath. The French said nothing. Draco, for his part, raised an eyebrow.

“Sounds useful for a diplomatic banquet,” he whispered near Hermione.

“Or a Wizengamot hearing?” she replied, the corner of her mouth lifting just slightly.

He didn’t respond, but looked at her with mischief. Hermione was just as sharp in the magical Amazon as she was in the British wizarding world.

Up ahead, João walked surrounded by his assistants, including a pale-skinned witch with black hair and onyx eyes, who was quietly discussing the healing uses of enchanted sap with a delegate from Uagadou. João seemed distracted, but he didn’t miss the moment when Hermione touched a moss-covered rock and it responded with a pulse of light.

“Tudo bem, Granger?” he asked, approaching just enough.

“I’m fine,” she said. “Just… listening.”

“The forest has a good voice,” João replied, with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You have to know when to shut up to hear it.”

Draco stepped in before Hermione could reply.

“And when to shut up so others don’t hear it too.”

João looked at him with a mixture of respect and warning. But he nodded.

A few meters behind them, Tallulah Raines walked with a bundle of plants gathered for her Ilvermorny champion. Her wand floated above her shoulder, taking notes. Still, her eyes—far too attentive—were, unsurprisingly, fixed on Draco.

She approached again, and what Hermione found increasingly amusing was starting to genuinely irritate Draco.

“Well, aren’t we focused,” she said in a loud, sing-song tone as she neared. “Or is Hogwarts trying to conquer the jungle too?”

Draco didn’t turn.

It was Hermione who did, one eyebrow arched.

“We’re not here to conquer anything. Just to learn… what we’re allowed to.”

Tallulah smiled condescendingly but didn’t reply. She walked off slowly, leaving the echo of her persistence behind her.

Further along, in a stone formation that resembled a natural amphitheater, the group paused for a break. Isaura offered infusions made of magical bark and local leaves. Most accepted. Hermione, cautious, waited to see if Draco would.

He took the cup without hesitation. Inhaled the scent.

“This isn’t poisoned,” he said, as if reading her mind.

“Unless you’re afraid of remembering how you feel.” —Said Isaura behind them, who looked as surprised as they were embarrassed.

“What’s it supposed to do?”

“It reveals the memory most tied to the scent of earth,”  replied. “Not by force, of course. Only if you allow it.”

Hermione accepted the brew. She drank it. Warm. Bitter. Familiar.

And for a moment, she saw herself as a child—eleven years old, reading about the magical world by flashlight. About Hogwarts. About potions. About everything that once seemed unreachable. And yet, here she was.

She turned toward Draco. He hadn’t drunk. He was just watching her.

“You’re not going to try it?”

“I already know what I’d remember,” he said in a neutral tone. “And I don’t want anyone reading it in my eyes.”

Hermione blinked. Because she understood. Because she felt it. Something close to shame—he had already made it clear he didn’t want to remember how he had treated her over the past six years.

He offered her his drink.

“Drink it if you want. You don’t need memories to know who you are now.”

He smiled at her and maybe even reached out to touch her face—yet he held back.

And the earth, in its quiet way, seemed to nod in return.

The group returned to the main camp by late afternoon, exchanging measured words and dragging tired steps. But Draco and Hermione didn’t return with them.

No one noticed when they slipped away. There was no plan. Just a glance. A shift in the path. A quiet turn off the main trail onto a narrower one, veiled in roots and silence.

They walked in single file for a while, saying nothing. There was no need. The air was fresher here, cleaner. The day’s humidity had begun to lift, and the earth exhaled slowly, as if it, too, was resting.

The path climbed upward, winding through vines and stones anchored to the ground by centuries of memory.

When they reached the top—a small natural ledge nestled between tall trees—they stopped.

From there, the Amazon stretched out like a living tapestry of green. No voices. No laughter. No footsteps. Only the whisper of leaves, a distant bird, and the hush of a hidden river.

Hermione took a deep breath.

Draco, beside her, said nothing at first. He stood with his hands behind his back, posture straight but relaxed. As if the world had offered him a truce—and he’d accepted, without surrendering entirely.

“This part wasn’t in the book you read, was it?” Hermione asked softly.

“No. But maybe Castelobruxo, built where magic rises from the ground itself, teaches you that sometimes… the only thing you need to understand something is to stay still long enough.”

Hermione didn’t respond. Because it was beautiful.

And because, for the first time, she understood that Draco wasn’t only a strategist. He was a listener.

“What do you expect from all this?” she whispered.

He turned slowly toward her.

“Nothing. But I like to think the world expects something from you.”

She looked at him. Really looked. As she had that morning. As if the entire day had only been a prelude to this one moment.

Draco stepped closer.

“At first, I came because I needed to. I couldn’t stand the distance between us. But now I know I didn’t just come to help you win, Hermione. I came to understand you. Because if one day I’m no longer beside you… I want to know that you went farther than everyone who ever thought you were just brilliant.”

Hermione blinked, and the air shifted. Not because something had ended.

But because something was beginning to bloom beneath their feet. Invisible. Solid.

“Who are you and what have you done with my boyfriend?” she said, barely smiling.

“This place does things to me.”

She looked down, moved. And he stepped closer.

“I’m not going to ask you for anything,” he whispered. “Just that you remember this. Here. This moment. Because when we're not near each other... I want you to know that I was with you. Not as a shadow or merely a shield, but because we took root together..”

Hermione lifted her gaze. Her pupils wide, her chest rising and falling slowly.

And then, without urgency or excuse, they leaned in.

The kiss was gentle. Unhurried. As if their mouths had known each other long ago and were only now finding their way back.

It wasn’t passion.

It was peace.

When they pulled apart, they didn’t speak. Draco wrapped his arms around her, one hand resting on her back, the other at her neck. Hermione closed her eyes.

The summit was theirs. For that moment.

And for once, the world asked for nothing.

When they began to descend, the sky had already turned to shades of amber and mauve, and the forest had returned to a low hum, as if granting them the secret of that hour.

But they weren’t as alone as they thought.

From a high branch, at a careful distance, the youngest technical delegate from Mahoutokoro—a slim wizard with an expressionless face and ceremonial braid—watched in silence, just as he had whenever the chance arose. And yet, he wasn’t spying. Not intruding. He simply watched with curiosity.

As if he were noting something invisible in his mind.

A gesture. A promise.

A weakness, perhaps.

He didn’t smile. He didn’t frown.

He simply lowered his gaze a second before turning and disappearing into the shadows without making a sound.

As if he’d never been there at all.

Chapter Text

The morning had begun unhurriedly, but not without a sense of foreboding.

From the first light, the air at Castelobruxo felt different. Thicker. Tighter. As if the rainforest knew what was coming before it was announced.

Hermione walked silently beside Draco through one of the living corridors of the north wing. At that hour, few delegations were outside, but movements between the pavilions made it clear something was being prepared. The murmur of footsteps, the soft fluttering of floating scrolls, the dry whisper of high canopies brushing against each other like they were sharing secrets.

Draco, one step behind as he usually kept in Castelobruxo, held his hands clasped behind his back. He wore the Hogwarts delegation robe with the same effortless elegance he might wear a crest. His face was neutral. Not blank. Neutral. Like someone who knew that any extra gesture could become something against it.

Hermione, on the other hand, walked with the measured rhythm of someone who trusted what she had learned—and who walked beside her.

They had been together publicly for seven months. But more than five since they'd begun seeing each other differently, since that Christmas season when certainties had shattered to make room for something new. And since then, the love—because that was what it was, even if they didn’t always say it aloud—had settled between them like a stable constellation: intense, visible... and in constant motion.

When they reached the main gallery, the committee had already gathered in front of the ceremonial clearing. Floating benches were arranged in a semicircle, and a stage had appeared that hadn’t been there the night before. Hermione paused slightly at the threshold. Draco noticed, and his voice came softly, like a shared thread of thought.

Draco looked at her with that expression of his—a mix of irony and fascination—that always surfaced when Hermione said something like that. He didn’t reply. But he walked a little closer.

On the platform, the Wizengamot crest projected like a suspended constellation. A murmur swept through the delegations. João Vasconcelos lifted his gaze slightly from his seat, surrounded by his aides, and cast a fleeting glance toward Hermione. 

When Dame Eulalia Fitzroy emerged from the center with her enchanted staff and the ceremonial robes of the International Council of Magic, silence enclosed the clearing like a glass bell.

The witch’s voice rose effortlessly, as if the forest itself opened to listen.

"Champions. Delegations. Today marks the second trial of this competition. As has been hinted, not all trials rely on classroom formulas or textbook skills. Some demand something harder to teach... and even harder to fake."

The magical projection shifted. It now showed a misty lake surrounded by twisted trees. At its center, a creature barely emerged: powerful, dangerous. Unsettling.

A whisper ran through the rows of benches. Hermione narrowed her eyes. Draco’s shoulders tensed slightly.

"The second trial is an alchemical task involving interaction with wild magical creatures. Each champion will be sent into a specific environment and must identify, soothe, and extract—without harm—a key alchemical component from one of these creatures. Variants may include kelpies, acromantulas, imperial salamanders, or molting lesser dragons."

Silence fell like a weight.

"Excessive use of magical force will be penalized. Any intentional or unintentional harm to the creature... will result in disqualification."

Fitzroy lowered her staff. The floating image dissolved.

And for a second, the world simply held its breath.

Draco was the first to move. He turned to Hermione with measured calm.

"Are you alright?"

Hermione nodded, unsmiling.

"I was expecting something like this. Alchemy was never just about ingredients."

"No," he murmured. "It’s about understanding what isn’t said. And extracting without destroying."

Draco pulled something from his robe. A small wooden case.

Hermione looked at him.

"What is it?"

He opened it. Inside rested a silver whistle, ancient, etched with barely visible runes.

"It’s not unlike the ones medieval alchemists used to calm young basilisks. It’s not perfect. But it might help you not to rely solely on your voice."

She took it. Carefully and gratitude.

"Thank you."

Draco looked at her the way he always did when no one else was watching. Like every inch of her skin, her story, her present, was a gift.

"Just promise me one thing."

"What?"

"Don’t trust the whistle if what you really need... is to trust yourself."

Hermione didn’t answer.

But she looked at him.

And in that look was everything they didn’t yet know was about to happen.

They walked toward the path leading to the central dining hall.

When they arrived, the space had been transformed into a semi-open area. The ceiling’s vines were interlaced to form a natural lattice, letting light filter through like a living stained glass. The humid morning air carried the scent of ripe fruit and damp bark.

Hermione flipped through the diplomatic dossier with her lips pressed into a line. It wasn’t common for official documents to include marginal notes from eccentric thinkers—but there they were: in the final section, preserved like a curious footnote by some indulgent assistant, were excerpts from an article published decades ago in The Quibbler, signed by Xenophilius Lovegood.

"On the Alchemical Harmony Between Creature and Wizard: An Experimental Hypothesis Based on the Unpublished Diaries of Pandora Lovegood," she read softly.

Draco, beside her, barely turned his head.

"That’s in the official material?"

"Yes," Hermione replied.

The delegates were beginning to regroup for the formal announcement of the trial. Draco leaned slightly over her shoulder to read the page, his brow furrowed in a look Hermione knew well: skeptical, but not dismissive.

"Mr. Lovegood... isn’t exactly a canonical source," he murmured, nearly amused.

Hermione didn’t look up. Her eyes were fixed on a line underlined in violet ink:

"My wife used to say magical creatures don’t fear power—they fear judgment. They don’t attack by instinct. They react to the fear of those who see them as nature’s mistakes."

She lowered her gaze. Thought of magical creatures and by extension... she thought of Luna.

Luna, not as she was now, but as she had been that afternoon in fourth year, sitting cross-legged by the lake, talking to a group of thestrals. No one had asked her to. No one had needed her help. But there she was. And the thestrals had let her come close. Hermione, watching from a distance, had thought it was madness. Now she understood it was comprehension.

Her voice, her way of looking at things everyone else feared or dismissed. The way she’d said, “Thestrals aren’t ugly, Hermione. They’re just too alive for eyes that don’t want to see.”

"She told me that," Hermione whispered.

Draco raised an eyebrow.

"Who?"

"Luna. She said her mother believed creatures were mirrors. That they don’t show you anything you don’t already carry inside. And if you look at them with fear, that’s what they reflect."

Draco looked at her. For a moment, he said nothing. Then, slowly, he leaned in, and as if instinct had won over diplomacy, he brushed her cheek with his lips.

A public gesture. Intimate. And yet so serene, so natural, that no one seemed to notice. Except her.

Hermione held her breath, but she didn’t pull away.

"I never underestimated her," he said, very quietly. "You can’t just throw out those kinds of guesses and expect me not to fall even harder."

And then, as if nothing had happened, Draco stepped back and adjusted his cloak with the same effortless elegance as always.

But Hermione was no longer the same.

Because in that quiet evocation, she had found the heart of her strategy.

Not control. Not domination. Not fear.

Remember. Trust. Respect.

Just like Luna had.

Just like Pandora Lovegood had, through the words that now lived on in violet ink.

The sun had risen high enough to pierce through the densest layers of Castelobruxo’s canopy. It was mid-morning, and although the second trial wouldn’t begin until after lunch—a strategic decision, no doubt, meant to ensure that the magical creatures were at their most receptive—the air was already thick with anticipation.

Hermione had stepped away briefly from the main hall, seeking a shaded corner among the giant ferns lining the eastern gardens. In her hand, she held the small silver whistle Draco had given her that morning, wrapped in a strip of dark leather. She hadn’t worn it around her neck. Not yet. She held it the way you hold something with history—careful not to break the intention that came with it.

She didn’t need to blow it to feel its power. Something inside the object resonated faintly, like a whisper in the chest. Not ordinary magic. Something more... instinctive.

She sat on a wide, firm root, high enough to give her a partial view of the clearing. She didn’t want to be completely alone, but she needed silence. Time. Space to organize her thoughts. To breathe.

The same thought had been circling her since the trial was announced: it involved magical creatures, and she suspected that knowing someone as extraordinary and unconventional as Luna might play to her advantage—at least, she hoped it would. She couldn’t stop thinking of moments they’d shared.

It wasn’t a planned recollection. Not like with Neville during the extraction task. This time, Luna appeared the way she always did in Hermione’s life: unannounced, without asking, and with words that made no sense at the time—but made perfect sense when it was nearly too late.

“Creatures don’t always understand what we say,” Luna had once told her while they were gathering lake samples in fifth year, “but they almost always understand what we don’t.”

Hermione had rolled her eyes, of course. Back then. But she’d remembered. And now... now she understood. Truly.

She pulled the whistle free from the leather string and held it in front of her. It had no inscriptions, only a barely perceptible groove, a thin crack that curved in a precise, deliberate pattern. She traced it with her fingers, and then, almost childlike, acted on impulse.

She raised it to her lips and blew.

There was no sound. None that could be heard, at least. But the air shifted. The nearby leaves stilled for a second. As if something—or someone—had heard her.

Hermione swallowed hard. She recalled the list of creatures they might face: kelpies, fauns, perhaps even a controlled acromantula hatchling. All sensitive. All dangerous. All powerful.

And yet, she felt calm.

Because Luna—with her soft voice and eyes always just a little more open than everyone else's—had never feared speaking to what others didn’t understand. And because Hermione, finally, was beginning to accept that logic wasn’t always enough.

That sometimes, what held the world together were far more fragile things: a melody, a gesture, an intention.

A memory.

“Thank you, Luna,” she whispered, as if Luna could hear her from somewhere in the forest.

And when she returned to the meeting point, rejoining the others, her steps were steady. Her eyes, clear. And Draco—who hadn’t looked for her, but had waited—saw her from across the clearing and knew, without asking, that Hermione was ready to face any magical creature that crossed her path not with force but with truth.

The news that lunch would be held outside the main dining hall spread quickly. Just a few steps from the edge of the enchanted forest, a series of long tables and rustic benches had been arranged in gentle curves beneath translucent canopies that let the light through without the heat. The vegetation had been carefully pushed back—but not defeated. Vines and hanging lianas swayed nearby like silent spectators.

There were no delegation tables. No assigned seats.

The arrangement was clear: today, everyone would share the same table.

Hermione arrived accompanied by Draco, who walked with his hands behind his back, wearing the neutral expression he reserved for moments of strategy. The space had been charmed to stay cool, and a soft breeze whispered through the clearing. The scent of roasted fruit, spiced breads, and enchanted juices floated in the air. But those weren’t the only things it carried.

There was anticipation.

Hermione paused for a second when she saw the setup. Without a word, Draco placed a hand gently at the small of her back—a touch so subtle it might have passed for something casual.

“No barriers today,” he murmured.

“Not for alliances. Not for conflict either,” she replied.

They chose a spot at the edge of one of the tables, where they could observe the clearing without being the center of attention. They sat together, as always. They didn’t hide it. But they didn’t make a spectacle of it either.

To their right sat Naïma Mbeki, the witch from Uagadou, and to their left—much to Draco’s surprise—was the youngest technical delegate from Mahoutokoro: the same one who had watched him from above the day before.

“Malfoy-san,” the young Japanese wizard greeted with a subtle bow.

Draco returned it with a polite nod.

“Hermione Granger,” the young man added, with impeccable accent. “It’s an honor to share a table.”

Hermione smiled politely.

“The honor is mutual. Have we met before?”

“No, but word travels fast. And actions even faster.”

As they spoke, Tallulah Riley walked past—not stopping, but not without casting a measured glance toward their group. Hermione didn’t see it. Draco did. And he said nothing.

Floating trays began to serve the food. It wasn’t a feast, but it wasn’t an ordinary lunch either: juices infused with ingredients to heighten magical focus, enchanted fruits to enhance creature sensitivity, breads baked from seeds that only sprouted on consecrated ground. Everything seemed designed to prepare both body and mind.

João joined them shortly after, carrying a small wooden case in his hand. He greeted them naturally and sat across from Hermione.

“This is for you,” he said, offering the case.

Hermione opened it. Inside was an enchanted leaf. It wasn’t particularly flashy, but its deep green hue seemed to breathe on its own.

“Personal talisman,” João explained. “Mental protection against creatures with hypnotic gazes. But more than that, it’s a gesture. A reminder that you’re not alone, even if you always seem stronger than everyone else.”

Hermione smiled. A genuine one. Not because she needed the gift, but because she appreciated it.

Draco didn’t say a word. But under the table, his hand found Hermione’s and gave it a single, firm squeeze. Then let go. No one noticed. Only her.

“It’s strange,” she whispered, turning slightly toward Draco. “To think that just a few years ago, she would have never imagined being recognized by other witches and wizards.”

Draco looked at her.

“And now you’re the center of the conversation—even in silence.”

Hermione lowered her gaze, both amused and quietly moved.

“Luna would say that happens when you become part of the air. Invisibly necessary.”

Draco tilted his head.

“Lovegood has a language of her own. Maybe she always knows what she’s saying. Like you.”

Hermione looked at him. And for a moment, she wanted to kiss him.

So she did. Not on the lips. But at the corner of his mouth. Quick. Precise. Like a secret whispered at the edge of a sentence.

Draco closed his eyes for a second. When he opened them, no one seemed to have noticed. Or at least, it looked that way.

Lunch continued. But somewhere in the shadows of the forest, the stage for the second trial was already waiting.

And the earth held its breath.

Lunch was slowly fading into the background, between cups of fresh fruit, warm root bread, and sparkling juices served in carved stone chalices. The natural hum of conversation had quieted, as if the jungle itself had imposed a hush before what was to come.

A group of iridescent birds crossed the open sky above the tables, and for a moment, every eye tilted upward to follow their unhurried flight. Then, almost with the same synchronicity, all gazes returned to the shadowed line where the clearing met the forest.

The committee appeared as though conjured from the trees: no fanfare, no formal announcement. Just an inevitable presence. Led by Dame Eulalia Fitzroy and a young wizard in a dark red robe—representative of Brazil’s Department for the Regulation of Magical Creatures—they walked the leaf-strewn path until they stood before the assembled delegations.

Hermione set her goblet down, only half-finished. Draco was already on his feet, one hand resting gently on the small of her back—They feared less each time the idea of making their relationship visible.

“Honored delegations,” began Dame Eulalia, her voice amplified by a soft charm, “the second trial of the International Potion Championship will begin in one hour. This challenge will not be measured by cauldrons or gathered ingredients, but by magical sensitivity, alchemical knowledge… and respect for magic creatures.”

Beside her, the wizard in red stepped forward.

“You will be led in groups to the edge of the protected reserve, where creatures classified under ‘restricted interaction’ by the International Code make their home. Your task: to extract, safely and ethically, an alchemical sample of potion-worthy value. No harm. No distortion. No deception.”

A murmur ran through the tables. Some champions—like Céleste or João—held their composure. Others, like the Durmstrang delegation, exchanged smiles that felt more like challenges than courtesies.

“No offensive spells will be permitted,” the delegate continued. “No enchantments that alter the natural behavior of the creature will be accepted. You may use non-invasive objects… and your intuition.”

Hermione felt the weight of Draco’s silver whistle beneath her robes. She hadn’t taken it out. Not yet.

“The trial will begin at the sound of the second bell,” Dame Fitzroy concluded. “Until then, prepare yourselves. And remember: you are not only being observed. You are being judged. By us… and by the forest.”

The committee withdrew the way it had arrived: veiled in leaves, shadows, and a silence heavier than any voice.

Draco turned slightly toward her.

“Ready?”

Hermione nodded. Not with the automatic confidence of someone who knew they’d win—but with the dangerous calm of someone who knew they couldn’t afford to fail.

“Always.”

And for a second, their fingers brushed and the pact pulsed, just for a second.

The minutes that followed stretched with the weight of tropical humidity. The delegations began to move with calculated slowness, like pieces on a board that could no longer retreat. Each champion was led to a zone marked by magical containment rings, set at the edge of the clearing that opened into the forest.

Hermione walked with steady steps, though not quickly. Draco followed behind her, silent. He wasn’t walking as a guard, nor as an assistant. He walked like someone who had walked that path with her many times… though never in this forest, and never under these rules.

The ring assigned to Hogwarts was beneath the shade of a broad-canopied tree, its leaves whispering names. Hermione stopped at its center. She waited for the committee witch to activate the protection seal before turning to him.

“The whistle.”

“Thank you,” she whispered as her fingers brushed the whistle

Draco didn’t respond right away. He looked at her. Really looked at her. As if he wanted to remember everything—the way the light dappled her face through the foliage, the way she held the whistle delicately, like a talisman.

“Remember what you said this morning,” he said at last. “That you’re not here to win… but to move forward.”

Hermione tilted her head slightly. Her expression was calm. But her eyes were intense.

“And you, Draco? What are you doing here?”

He smiled, just a little.

“I’m learning to see you the way someone who doesn’t know you might. And I realize… it only gives me more reasons to stay.”

She felt something loosen in her chest at the recognition of that kind of truth that doesn't need to be spoken aloud to become eternal.

And then, just as the committee witch announced that three minutes remained before the second bell, Hermione stepped closer.

“I want you to remember me like this,” she whispered. “Not for winning. Not for the pact. But for this. For how you see me now.”

And without overthinking it, she kissed him.

It wasn’t a scandalous kiss, nor a calculated one. It was brief—deliberate—and so achingly intimate it seemed to still the air around them. A promise, quiet and certain, that echoed the truth she carried in her chest like a vow.

When she pulled away, Draco didn’t move. He only nodded.

“I’d wish you luck. But you don’t need it.”

She turned without another word, crossed the threshold of the circle, and stood at its center, where the seal glowed like enchanted skin. Across the clearing, João was already in position. So was Magnolia. Each of them with their own story written in their eyes.

The second bell rang.

The silence that followed didn’t fall immediately. It descended slowly, as if the forest gathered it leaf by leaf. Even the whispers of unseen creatures seemed to hush, as if they, too, were watching.

A wide clearing, flanked by stone columns and floating shields bearing the emblems of each school, unfolded as the testing ground. At one side, an elevated platform. There, the Wizengamot judges waited, along with international representatives and three hooded figures the champions had never seen before: the Custodians of the Amphitheater, magical guardians tasked with linking the surroundings to each creature.

The deep-voiced witch—Dame Eulalia Fitzroy—stepped forward.

“Champions,” she said, and the single word filled the air. “The second trial begins now. Remember: the objective is not to subdue. It is to interact, understand, and collect—without violence.”

A spell shimmered across the platform.

The delegations fell silent. The leaves rustled with a breeze that came not from the sky—but from the earth.

The champions were called one by one by name and school, each guided along different paths, as though the forest itself had chosen their fate.

“Kwame Njoroge, Uagadou.”

A ripple of admiration passed through the crowd as the young man in a scarlet robe was escorted to a lush, humid area, where a crystal-clear lake opened between hanging vines. There, an iridescent-scaled Kelpie waited, coiled like a contained whirlpool.

“Céleste Fournier, Beauxbatons.”

The witch advanced with calculated grace into a mist-covered area, where—barely visible—a sleeping Banshee floated inside a silver cage. Her task: to extract a single tear without awakening the wail.

“João Vasconcelos, Castelobruxo.”

He was led to a clearing where a pack of wild Jarveys darted about. They didn’t seem dangerous… until one opened its mouth and began hurling minor curses in a thick Brazilian accent.

“Lev Volkov, Durmstrang.”

The sharp-eyed youth entered a shadowed space where a Baltic Dragon lay chained, covered in inhibitor runes. A single scale had to be removed—without disrupting the balance of the enchantment.

“Magnolia Blackstone, Ilvermorny.”

She was led into a partially submerged cavern where a swarm of Grindylows swam. To collect an intact spine, she would have to navigate through them without provoking magical agitation.

“Akiko Watanabe, Mahoutokoro.”

She stepped to the forest’s edge, where a nine-tailed Kitsune played with illusions of fire. Her task: to obtain a single enchanted hair—while deciphering which of the nine forms was the true one.

“Elira Drăghici, Koldovstoretz.”

She was led into a grove cloaked in icy mist. There, a Thestral waited, invisible to most. She would have to stroke its neck without startling it—and take a fallen feather as a symbol of balance.

“Hermione Granger, Hogwarts.”

The voice rang out, and silence fell. All eyes turned. Hermione stepped forward, her stride steady.

The path sealed behind her.

And then she saw it.

An adult Acromantula, motionless at the center of a circular nest made of twisted branches, silver webs, and discarded snakeskin. Its many dark eyes were closed… for now. A low hum vibrated through the ground. It pulsed.

Hermione swallowed. She didn’t draw her wand. Not yet.

Draco, from his designated place among the technical assistants, didn’t look at her… but his back was perfectly straight, and a vein in his neck pulsed visibly. He knew what it meant. Not just the danger, but that the creature chosen for Hermione was by far the most lethal. He tried not to react, willing himself to channel through what still pulsed of their bond the same confidence she had once given him during Quidditch matches. It was a futile effort—if only for a few seconds—when not even he could summon the relief his reason refused to grant him.

Hermione remembered, then, Luna’s voice— that certainty wrapped in riddles which, to many, might have made no sense, but in that moment, it offered her a clarity she hadn’t imagined.

“Sometimes, dangerous creatures just want you to see them as something more than their fangs.”

“Don’t look at their legs. Look at what they’re guarding.”

Hermione closed her eyes for a second.

Then, from her pocket, she took the small enchanted bone whistle Draco had given her. She held it with both hands. But didn’t bring it out from beneath her robes yet.

Meanwhile, Kwame Njoroge moved with a precision that was not just technical, but intuitive. His wand had yet to leave his robes, but the kelpie watched him with curiosity, tilting its head. With a slow motion, Kwame tossed a braided root into the water. The kelpie dove… and returned with a shimmering scale between its teeth.

“There is no fear in you,” said the zone’s guardian, nodding in respect.

Céleste Fournier stood with her back straight before the floating cage. Her lips moved, but no one could hear the incantation. The Banshee, wrapped in its dormant lament, shed a single tear before fading into a mist of silver smoke. Céleste extended an  small glass vial and caught the drop, disturbing nothing.

João, on the other hand, laughed. Not mockingly, but with camaraderie. One of the Jarveys had barked a curse so vulgar it bordered on poetic, and João simply shot back with a better one. When one of the creatures allowed him close, João gently offered it a guaraná leaf. The small beast accepted. João retrieved the gland with a carved bone spoon—never breaking eye contact.

Lev Volkov looked as if he’d stepped out of legend. The dragon watched him from above, its eyes glowing like coals. Lev moved slowly, without hesitation. When he lifted his wand, it wasn’t to strike—it was to conjure an illusion of a distant storm, something to draw the dragon’s attention just long enough for him to remove a single scale with magical tongs. There was no roar.

“Precise,” one judge murmured.

Magnolia Blackstone swam through the Grindylows with smooth, dance-like movements. Her gestures were graceful, her breathing controlled. But one of the creatures lunged at her when it sensed a flicker of nervousness. Magnolia, quick, deflected it with a flick of her wand. Her expression remained intact. She collected the desired spine. Not a flinch betrayed her.

Akiko Watanabe sat in a lotus position before the Kitsune. She didn’t try to trap it or guess its form. She simply waited. One by one, the fox’s illusions faded—until only one remained. The true one. Akiko bowed her head. The Kitsune approached and dropped a single hair into her lap. Respect had been enough.

Elira Drăghici walked with her eyes half-closed. Not everyone could see Thestrals—but she could. The translucent form of the magical creature materialized softly before her, and she knelt without fear. She didn’t seek a feather; she simply waited. And when one fell at her feet, she picked it up fastly.

And then, the forest stilled.

Only one champion remained.

Hermione Granger.

And her creature was not a reflection. Not a whisper.

It was a living shadow with eight legs and an ancient mind.

The final trial rose before her like a fracture in the world. The vegetation opened to a smaller, darker clearing—less inviting than the others. Unlike the other settings, marked by stone or filtered light, this one carried the weight of the unnamed. The guardian didn’t even approach Hermione to guide her. He only made a curt gesture toward the beast.

Draco took a single involuntary step forward. “Hermione,” he breathed, though no one heard him. Not even her. But Isaura Mendes, the witch from the Green Circle, saw him. And her look was a silent warning: you cannot interfere. Not without consequences.

The earth’s dampness climbed her boots. At the center of the clearing, the woven branch structure formed a nest of unnatural proportions. The threads shimmered like enchanted silk.

The Acromantula was massive. Ancient. Silent. Like a primordial mother who had survived wars, wizards, everything.

Hermione stopped three meters away. Fearing even to breathe and not allowing herself to tremble. She didn’t tremble. But her fingers clenched the enchanted whistle. She didn’t use it right away.

First, she closed her eyes. And remembered.

Remembered Luna calming Ron after he panicked upon learning they’d study Acromantulas in Care of Magical Creatures. Remembered her voice: “Acromantulas don’t hate humans, Ron. It’s just that human fear smells like threat. If you stop smelling like fear… they might let you talk.”

She opened her eyes.

She didn’t speak.

She knelt. Slowly. Placed her wand on the ground—where the creature could see it.

Draco could barely breathe in that instant—she would be entirely at the mercy of that creature, without her wand.

Hermione lifted the whistle to her lips.

She blew once. The sound was sharp, but almost inaudible to human ears.

The web trembled.

And from the nest’s darkness, two eyes lit like coals. Then four. Then eight.

Draco, at the observation line, clenched his fists. His face betrayed nothing, but his chest rose and fell in tight, shallow breaths. It was the fear of someone who had placed everything in faith—and now watched her face death without a shield.

The Acromantula moved. Slowly. One leg, then another. The sound was a soft crackle. As if it wasn’t walking on ground, but on its memories.

Hermione bowed slightly—not in submission, but in respect. And she spoke. Low voice. No incantation. No command.

“I didn’t come to take. I came to ask.”

The eyes gleamed. One front leg brushed the ground. Hermione didn’t flinch.

“Your venom can save lives. If you give it to me, no one else will enter your sanctuary. I promise.”

Silence.

Then, a single strand of web detached from the nest. It lowered slowly. At the end, a gland encapsulated in crystal thread. Like a drop of obsidian.

Hermione reached out.

She retrieved the gland without snapping the silk. Placed it into the crystal vial with utmost care.

She didn’t say thank you.

She didn’t need to.

She turned and walked from the clearing—never once turning her back.

Step by step.

When she crossed the sanctuary’s border, the silence charm lifted. Only then did she hear it.

Applauses That didn’t come from the audience or the judges—only from the other champions.

And among them, Draco. Who didn’t smile.

He just watched her.

As if he had just witnessed something he’d never seen before, and yet had somehow always loved… bravery and passion.

The air was thick when the final bell rang, marking the official close of the second trial.

The champions began returning to the clearing, flanked by their assistants or committee guides. Each walked as if they had just run a silent marathon—not of physical exertion, but of judgment, intuition, and restraint.

Hermione walked with steady steps, though sweat dotted her forehead and her robe clung to her like a second skin. In her hand, she held the small vial containing a single drop of venom—gleaming, viscous, and precious—the only one the Acromantula had willingly released before disappearing into the trees.

Draco didn’t hug her.

He didn’t touch her.

But his eyes said everything. He was as tense as if it had been him facing the creature. And in a way, perhaps he had. Hermione’s slow, deliberate breathing was his only signal of relief.

The committee assembled at the front of the natural amphitheater, with Dame Fitzroy at its center. Her staff glowed faintly in the dimming light.

“The second trial has concluded,” she announced, her voice solemn. “As was previously stated, this challenge did not assess brute strength, but ethical magical interaction with high-risk creatures. The evaluation considered magical empathy, strategic restraint, environmental preservation, and the successful acquisition of the alchemical component.”

A pause. The banners of each school floated gently above their respective groups.

“Third place,” she began, “Hermione Granger, of Hogwarts.”

The name triggered an immediate ripple. Several students from Castelobruxo turned to her, their expressions shifting between surprise and quiet recognition. Even a few from Beauxbatons exchanged whispers. The murmuring spread like a tremor.

Hermione held her head high. Not because she felt nothing—but because she already understood, even before the trial, that this wasn’t simply a contest of skill. It was a stage for diplomacy. A theater of alliances. And the best didn’t always win.

“Her interaction with the Acromantula was exceptional,” continued Dame Fitzroy. “Without external assistance, and without imposing her will, she obtained venom through voluntary offering. A feat not accomplished by any Hogwarts student since Newt Scamander.”

Silence broke into scattered murmurs.

Draco allowed himself the faintest smile. Subtle. The kind of smile that belonged to someone who knew the truth at the heart of every competition: not all victories are recognized, but the real ones are never forgotten.

“Second place: João Vasconcelos, of Castelobruxo.”

The applause came swiftly. Not only from his own school, but also from Koldovstoretz and Mahoutokoro, who admired João’s creative use of magical redirection to neutralize a creature’s aggressive tendencies. His ability to turn the creature’s single attack method against itself had been brilliant.

“And first place,” Fitzroy announced, with a pause timed to perfection, “Lev Volkov, of Durmstrang.”

The applause was more muted.

Volkov didn’t smile. He simply nodded, with the composed gravity of someone who understood that raw power still commanded respect—and that his feat, calming a juvenile dragon with a complex illusion, had earned him more points.

But something shifted in the air.

A soft undercurrent of discontent rippled through Castelobruxo’s students. They looked at Hermione with that rare kind of expression that speaks volumes without uttering a word—the look of those who had seen what really happened. Who knew that of all the creatures summoned that day, the most dangerous had yielded not to force… but to a magic that did not demand.

Kwame Njoroge was the first to approach. His robe was torn, but his composure unshaken.

“What you did didn’t deserve third place,” he said quietly. “But some still fear rewarding what they don’t understand.”

Hermione nodded, offering a faint smile of thanks.

“I suppose things are what they are—and not as they’re meant to be,” she replied.

She said it without anger, but not without a hint of frustration.

Because she had won. Not in numbers.

But in something far harder to quantify: she had left a mark.

One that the forest, the Acromantula… and Draco, would never forget.

Night had fallen, and with it, the distant murmur of the jungle. The enchanted torches of the shared quarters flickered in amber hues, as if they, too, sensed something in the air had cracked.

Hermione crossed the threshold without a word. Her body was exhausted, but what hurt more was something deeper—an uncomfortable mix of partial victory and restrained frustration. She had survived an Acromantula. Had made an impossible creature yield not through control, but respect. And still, the committee had looked the other way.

Draco was already there. Standing. Still. His face bathed in the soft light of magical fire. He didn’t say her name. He didn’t run to hold her.

He just looked at her.

Hermione closed the door behind her in silence.

That was enough.

Draco took a step forward. Two, maybe. As if the air itself resisted him. As if his self-control had been hanging by a thread ever since he saw her walk in—alive. Whole. Breathing.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she whispered, her voice faint. “I’m fine.”

“I don’t want you to just be fine,” he said, and his voice cracked like a fracture in stone. “I want you to not have come so close to dying.”

Hermione swallowed hard. The tension in her chest didn’t come from battle. It was him. It was everything he hadn’t said all day. The unspoken fear. The helpless rage.

“Draco…”

But he was already there.

He kissed her.

It was clumsy and devouring, like something that had been held back too long. Like his mouth needed to confirm she was truly there—that she was flesh, not a ghost.

Hermione kissed him back with the same urgency. Her lips parted. Her fingers tangled in his damp robe. She pulled him closer. Bit him.

Their kisses turned into a map. From mouth to neck, neck to shoulder. Draco yanked at her robes with trembling hands—driven by hunger and need, by a kind of desire that feeds on absence and panic.. She pushed him onto the divan, not out of aggression, but out of the sheer need to be near him.

“Don’t ever look at me like I was already gone,” she murmured against his ear. “I’m here.”

“I don’t know what I’d do if you weren’t,” he answered, and that was the truth—one that snapped yet another thread of their binding pact. Because Draco didn’t say things like that. Not out loud. But now… he did.

Their clothes fell between breaths. No ceremony. Just hands. Mouth. Skin on skin.

Draco’s fingers traced her back like he needed to memorize her again. Hermione arched against him, stripped of all shame and surrendered completely.

“It’s not just the pact anymore, is it?” she asked between soft gasps. “This isn’t magic… it’s something else.”

“It’s fear,” he admitted. “And desire. And everything I don’t know how to say yet.”

Hermione kissed him harder. Her hips moved in a rhythm that didn’t ask for permission—it claimed what was already hers.

It was fast and slow all at once. Like something that drowns you and saves you. Like rain after fire.

Hermione felt a surge of electric energy travel down her spine, and between breathless moans, she cried out Draco’s name. It was then, with a final thrust, that he tore the silence with a groan muffled against her hair.

When it was over, they didn’t pull apart right away.

Hermione lay against his chest, her hair wild and tangled across her face. Draco held her close, one arm around her waist, the other behind her neck—as if something might still try to take her from him.

Hermione felt something else crack inside her. Draco's pain wasn’t the same as the first time he had slipped into her room in Muggle London — back then, it had been a confession wrapped in jealousy, a silent fear that someone else might notice her, and that she might choose not to stay. But this… this was different. This was the kind of pain born from the looming shadow of a real, irreversible loss. Because if they lived, they would always belong to each other — that much was certain. But if one of them didn’t… the pain would be unbearable.

“You accepted it,” she whispered. “You felt fear. And you accepted it. Now we are pain in the face of what we could lose.”

“But I didn’t say it,” he murmured, and for the first time, he sounded small—as if saying it out loud would make him less brave.

Hermione looked up at him, touched his cheek.

“You said it like this,” she whispered. “With your body. With every kiss. With every heartbeat. That’s enough. It always will be.”

Draco closed his eyes. He nodded. Because she was right. Because for the first time, he didn’t need to be the one in control.

And as the magical fire danced in the corner, they were wrapped in a kind of silence that didn’t weigh—but warmed. There was no urgency anymore. Only a real pause.

A moment of truth.

They didn’t say they loved each other.

But the fear of losing one another left them trembling… as if they’d screamed it.

They would sleep later. For now, it was enough to know they were still two—and not one without the other.

Chapter Text

The first light of dawn filtered through the enchanted vines, slipping in like a sigh across the edges of the bed where Hermione and Draco still hadn’t moved. They weren’t sleeping. But they weren’t speaking either. It was the kind of silence that only exists between two people who have survived something together. Something bigger than them.

Hermione had her head resting on Draco’s chest. Her breathing matched the slow rhythm of his.

“Your heart sounds different,” she whispered, not moving.

He didn’t reply immediately. His eyes were fixed on the ceiling, where the enchantment projected a faint version of the real sky: clouds dissolving at the slightest touch of light, leaves floating like fragments of a dream.

“I never thought fear could hurt more after it’s passed.”

Hermione lifted her head and looked at him.

“Did it hurt, seeing me out there?”

Draco held her gaze for a long moment—long like the night before.

“More than anything has in a long time,” he admitted.

She ran her hand down his torso until her fingers brushed a scar. It was there. A barely visible line, pale, cutting diagonally across his skin. It wasn’t the mark of a heroic battle. It wasn’t a war wound. It was older.

“You never told me how you got it,” she said softly.

Draco let the silence stretch a bit longer, as if the story still struggled to leave him.

“I was fourteen. I snuck into the North Tower with an enchanted broom to fly past the border of the Forbidden Forest. I wanted to see how far I could go without being found.”

“And?”

“And the broom went wild. I was testing a spell I’d made to increase speed. It worked. Too well. I crashed into the top of a bewitched willow. Fell from ten meters. A branch saved me. Tore me up catching me.”

Hermione looked at him, part amused, part worried.

“And why did you do it?”

He looked down at her.

“Because everyone said I couldn’t fly past the limits. That it was forbidden. That it was dangerous. And there was something in me that needed to prove… that I could defy what trapped me. Even if it was stupid.”

Hermione smiled. And kissed the scar.

“Seems like you enjoy challenging rules... and expectations.”

Draco pulled her closer.

“And you?” he asked in a softer voice. “What did you feel when the Acromantula approached?”

She closed her eyes.

“I felt like I couldn’t show it fear. It wasn’t just Gryffindor bravery. I felt like I might lose a part of myself I’d never get back. And I don’t just mean my life,” she said as if it were a joke, though it wasn’t. “It was like… looking into a mirror that didn’t lie.”

A pause.

“And what did you see?”

“Someone who no longer needed to win to prove her worth. Fear can change us—if we change it, too.”

Draco traced slow lines along her back.

“Hermione…”

She didn’t answer. She simply curled closer to him.

“Promise me,” he said, no irony, no teasing, “that you won’t disappear.”

Hermione raised her eyes to meet his.

“I already won, Draco. Months ago. When I stopped fearing what I felt. I already told you—fear transforms you, if you transform it, too.”

And she kissed him the way someone kisses after crossing an abyss together.

The sunlight spilled between the curtains. Outside, the world waited.

The first rays filtered through the enchanted lattice of the shared quarters, casting golden lines across the polished stone floor and the half-drawn canopy of the double bed where they still lay entwined.

Hermione moved first, just a soft shift, as if her body knew it could no longer pretend the day hadn’t begun.

“We have to go,” she whispered, still touching him.

Draco mumbled something unintelligible, his face still tucked into her collarbone. But a second later, his eyes opened. And only then did he let her go.

They parted gently. As if even after sleep and desire, their skin still resisted the goodbye.

The magical shower was small, but enchanted to keep the water at the perfect temperature, conserving Castelobruxo’s strictly regulated water supply. Hermione went in first. A light mist wrapped around her figure as Draco, on the other side of the translucent screen, pulled two freshly pressed robes from the enchanted wardrobe.

When they finished dressing, a soft knock against the magical wood of the door announced the arrival of a floating scroll, sealed with the crest of the organizing committee.

Draco caught it with a graceful motion, opened it, and read in a low voice:

“All delegations will have the morning off. Breakfast will be served in the common hall until ten. Champions are summoned after lunch for an official mandatory activity. Formal attire required. More details will be provided at the venue.”

Hermione, already running her fingers through her hair, raised an eyebrow.

“Official activity?”

“I suppose we’re visiting another temple,” Draco murmured, setting the scroll on the table. “But at least it’s not a task.”

“Yet.”

They exchanged a brief look, charged with unspoken understanding.

The day was on pause, but not empty. Hermione felt it in the air, like something unnamed still hung above them. A curious tension, not entirely unpleasant.

“Breakfast?” Draco offered.

“Of course. But after that, I want to go to the library,” she said bluntly. “I kept thinking last night about what João said about the river creatures. And if the committee’s organizing something with elemental rituals, we could get ahead on the theory before they throw us into the practical.”

Draco gave her that sideways smile, half amused, half fascinated.

“Always getting ahead of the disaster.”

“Or avoiding it,” she replied with a raised eyebrow.

“Then I’ll go with you. Just for damage control, of course.”

“Of course,” Hermione echoed.

The Castelobruxo library looked nothing like the one at Hogwarts. There were no straight corridors or symmetrical shelves. It was an organic, half-moon space, with curved walls made of living stone where vines and enchanted roots climbed upward, whispering softly whenever someone leaned in too close. Books weren’t arranged by subject, but by magical affinity. Some floated. Others hid. It was a place that refused to be conquered.

They stepped into that space.

Hermione knew that what she was looking for had no exact title. She didn’t know if she would find answers. She didn’t even know what the question was.  All she had was a vague suspicion, lingering since the last task—  that something was shifting beneath the surface of the tournament.

The creatures. The rituals. The faint suspicion she’d seen in the eyes of the committee.

And more than anything, the need to understand. Not the pact. Not her connection with Draco. That was already beyond books. But the sense that they were being pulled by a current that wasn’t entirely natural.

For a moment, she lost sight of Draco—but then, he stepped out from the shadows with a slim book in hand and his robes still impeccably fastened, though his hair—looser than usual—gave him a slightly less diplomatic look than at the ceremony.

Hermione looked up. Her eyes held that mix of focus and fondness that only Draco ever seemed to draw from her.

"Where exactly are we supposed to start?" he asked. "Should I keep pulling books at random and hope for divine inspiration?"

“I’m trying to figure out if the creatures we’ve seen are here because the forest calls them… or because someone is forcing them to stay.”

Draco stopped beside her. He didn’t smile. But his voice dropped.

“And why would someone want to disrupt the magical balance of a tournament supposedly watched by a hundred sets of eyes?”

“Because eyes blink,” Hermione replied, her gaze dropping to the spines of the books. “And because power doesn’t always hide in obvious places.”

They stood in silence for a few seconds. Hermione lifted her hand and brushed a lower shelf. One of the books vibrated slightly, as if recognizing her intent.

"Besides," she added, "if we’re going to end up in the middle of a diplomatic competition, like you suspect, I at least want to understand the rules."

Draco tilted his head.

"You want to control everything."

"I want to know everything," she shot back, finally turning to face him. "I hate uncertainty, Draco. Knowledge gives us a slight edge in any eventuality."

He extended the book in his hand.

“It wasn’t on your list, but you’ll like it. A collection of chronicles from magical explorers in the Amazon. There’s an entry about the Sanctuary of Iara… and another about a solar-fire serpent supposedly sleeping in a volcanic rift east of the river.”

Hermione took the book—not with surprise, Draco had a way of always staying one step ahead.

“Thanks.”

“I didn’t do it for you,” he shrugged lightly. “I did it for me. I want to know what’s coming. I want to understand when this stopped being a contest and started becoming something dangerous. Because, Hermione, they put you in danger yesterday. On purpose.”

She looked at him as if realizing, once again, how much the boy from first and second year had changed. The Draco before her wasn’t here to challenge her. He was here because he couldn’t not be.

“Then let’s read,” she said, walking into the aisle without looking back.

Draco followed.

Hermione settled at one of the semicircular tables near the enchanted window, where the day light filtered in gently. The space felt suspended in time. The only sounds were the whisper of self-turning pages on distant shelves and the faint rustling of leaves brushing the glass.

Draco didn’t ask permission. He pulled out a chair the way he had back at Hogwarts and waited for her to sit before joining her. He placed his own book on the table but didn’t open it. Instead, he watched her.

Hermione flipped through the book he had given her. Her usual focus was there, but her fingers lingered longer than necessary on certain passages. As if she were reading them twice. As if, instead of reading, she was remembering. Draco noticed.

“Your brow furrows on the third line. That means your mind’s somewhere else,” he murmured.

Hermione didn’t look up.

“It means the author skips details. Says the Sanctuary of Iara appears only when two opposing wills walk together. Doesn’t say what kind of wills. Or why together.”

Draco rested an elbow on the table, turning slightly toward her.

“And what do you think?”

“That there are things left unwritten because no one dares to name them.”

“Like what happens between us,” he offered, without irony.

Hermione lifted her gaze. Their eyes locked, steady and unflinching.

“That doesn’t need naming anymore.”

The silence between them wasn’t awkward. It was weighty. Full of history. Like a shared spell neither had to say aloud.

Draco traced his fingers across the book cover as if touching something else entirely.

“When you said you didn’t want me to look at you like you’d vanished… I felt it here.” He touched his chest lightly. “Not because of the Acromantula. Because of you.”

Hermione closed the book slowly. She leaned forward, resting on her forearms.

“Then don’t look at me like that again. Not when you think you might lose me. Not when you feel this championship… or this pact… is pulling us toward something we can’t come back from.”

Draco swallowed hard. There was something in his expression that looked like fear.

“And what if there is no coming back?”

“Then we go,” she said, without blinking. “Together.”

A half-smile curved his lips. Hermione watched it slide across his face like something that slowly undid him. Like a surrender, not a reply.

“You’re playing with fire,” he whispered, now leaning in too.

“Proper courtesy dictates that I refrain from shouting,” she said, voice low and dangerous. "But nowhere does it say I should silence what is so plainly felt."

Draco dropped his gaze for just a second. As if it cost him something to hold back. Then he looked at her again.

There was no rush. Only restrained desire. Disarmed pride. Absolute understanding.

Hermione stood. Moved around the table, slow and graceful. Not a word.

He didn’t reach for her. She was the one who brushed her fingers through his hair, hand settling at the back of his neck. No permission asked. Only confirmation.

“We’re not finishing this book,” she whispered near his ear.

"I’ve never had your devotion to things bound in covers." he replied, rising at last.

And then they stood there, inches apart, in the heart of a library where every book seemed to pulse—like even knowledge knew something greater had arrived.

Two people. Who, by knowing each other truly, were rewriting what it meant to belong.

They didn’t kiss.

The anticipation was more powerful than any touch.

And the real spell… hadn’t been spoken yet.

Hermione ran her fingers along the spine of the book without reopening it. Beside her, Draco stood still—so close she could feel the heat radiating from his body. Not the tropical kind, but something deeper. Denser.

The curtains at the window fluttered with a gentle enchanted breeze. And for a second, the ambient silence spell faltered: the sound of pages flipping echoed softly, as if the library itself were watching them.

Draco didn’t move toward her. But he didn’t step back either. That small space between them turned into a minefield—an invisible line of tension that needed no words. No justification.

“I didn’t think we’d end up like this… here,” Hermione whispered, her voice low, almost inaudible. But not weak.

“Like what?” Draco asked, not provocatively, but with a cadence that suggested more than it said.

Hermione swallowed, feeling him so close, in a place where she’d always been the rational witch, the one who used logic as armor, forced her to remember that he… was her vulnerability.

“Close,” she said. “So close it feels like something’s trembling inside me, and I don’t even know if it’s fear… or want.”

Draco closed his eyes for a second. When he opened them, his gaze had changed. It wasn’t arrogance. It wasn’t calculation. His eyes became molten mercury, that metallic sheen telling Hermione more clearly than words that he was holding himself in check.

“My hands are shaking,” he murmured. “But not because I don’t know what to do with them. Because every time I touch you, I’m scared I won’t know how to stop.”

Hermione dropped her eyes for just a moment. Then looked up again, eyes glowing—sharp and soft all at once.

"I never asked you to stop. Not once."

He laughed quietly. Not mocking. A little broken. And he stepped forward. Finally. One step that brought them a breath apart.

Hermione felt her heart hammering, but didn’t pull back.

“Do you know what I thought, seeing you with the Acromantula?” Draco whispered, as if even the walls didn’t deserve to hear.

She shook her head. Slowly.

“That if you didn’t make it out… I didn’t want to stay here either. That carrying your death would be easier than carrying a life without you.”

Hermione half-closed her eyes. Emotion burned in her throat.

"Even for a Slytherin, that’s borderline insane."

“It is,” he said. "But we ambitious men always stake our lives on what’s worth possessing, even if it means walking into death and dragging it back with us."

She raised a hand and placed it over his chest.Right where his heart beat.

"Then maybe I’m a little ambitious too," she whispered.

And for a moment, time froze. The air changed more denser and alive.

Suddenly, movement at the end of the corridor snapped them back to the library. A tall boy with brown skin and deep blue eyes paused for a moment in front of them, then kept walking. But soon, more footsteps echoed around them, and they knew it was time to sit.

They returned to their books. Or pretended to.

Almost an hour passed. The murmurs faded. The footsteps disappeared. And silence reigned again.

Draco sat across from her. The quiet, the heat, the half-open books… it was all a trap for his senses. But what disarmed him wasn’t the present.

It was a memory.

That afternoon, months ago, when Hermione had been surrounded by ancient volumes, sleeves rolled up, brow furrowed, a line of floating books orbiting her head.

"What do you think I’m doing, Malfoy? Building a stellar career as a librarian? she’d said, without even looking at him, using that half-annoyed, half-sarcastic tone that always got to him.

And he’d imagined her then.

Not as Hermione Granger. But as the kind of librarian no one could look at without forgetting how to breathe—hair loose down her shoulders, a robe barely cinched at the waist, that stern, commanding expression… until she closed the book and became all skin and want.

“Fuck…” he muttered under his breath, snapping back to the present.

Hermione raised an eyebrow, surprised at the escaped word. She glanced around—saw and heard nothing.

“What?”

Draco shook his head, exhaling sharply through his nose, as if trying to shake off the image.

“Just… cursing myself for having the worst-timed fantasy of my life.”

She looked at him in silence. Understood without asking.

And for the first time, she lowered her gaze with a smile that wasn’t mocking.

It was fire. Contained.

"If I have a bit of Slytherin ambition in me, I don’t see why you can’t take a chance on some Gryffindor courage." she said, her voice husky. Gentle. Shaking slightly.

That’s when desire stopped asking for permission.

Hermione rose from her seat and walked toward the older shelves in the eastern wing. But now she wasn’t reading.

There was no need.

The book before her lay open on a random page. But her attention, her breath, her heat… were fixed on Draco—who hadn’t pretended to study for several minutes. She knew because she could feel his eyes on her, like a spell grazing her neck.

"Being brave like a Gryffindor," she had said. A phrase thrown like a challenge.

And he, of course, wouldn’t waste the opportunity.

“Don’t tell me…” Draco murmured, stepping closer with that dangerously calm look she knew too well. “You’re the librarian? Miss Granger?”

Hermione looked at him sideways, over the top of the book. Didn’t turn fully. 

“Depends who’s asking,” she replied, voice neutral. Almost academic. Except for the glint in her eyes. She returned to the table, feigning interest in her reading.

Draco circled the table, slow, as if walking were a performance in itself. There was no one nearby. The rest of the wing slept beneath research enchantments. Every step he took barely creaked against the magic-treated wood.

“Someone…” he said, dropping into the chair opposite hers like he’d surrendered to some invisible force, “looking for knowledge. With lots of… questions.”

Hermione closed the book with a single finger. Her mouth curved slightly.

“That’s what everyone says when they haven’t done the homework.”

Draco looked at her. The golden glow from the stained glass fell over his robe like a sacred veil. But there was nothing holy in his intentions.

“Maybe I lack practice,” he murmured. “Maybe I need guidance. Someone to teach me… patiently.”

Hermione rose slowly. She walked beside the table, fingers skimming book spines, like she was choosing the perfect punishment.

“And what exactly are you looking for, Mr. Malfoy?” she asked, voice low—barely more than a whisper. The kind used to read warnings.

Draco stood too. Closer now, mouth near her ear.

“Something rare. Hard to find. Something that’ll take my breath away… and my reason.”

Hermione turned slowly. There was nothing left of the student air between them. Just fire. A dangerous dance at the edge of words.

“That sounds expensive,” she said. “Are you willing to pay the price?”

“For you,” he said, no longer playing. “Always.”

And that was the exact moment desire surpassed restraint. Not because they pounced on each other, but because they stood still.

Too still.

As if the entire world depended on that inch between them.

Hermione touched him with the tips of her fingers, just above his collar. Held him there. Firm.

"I should give you one last warning." she whispered. “This book… might change everything.”

And Draco, heart pounding in his throat, knew he’d lost.

And that he didn’t want to win.

He didn’t answer right away.

Because there were no words that could compete with the fire in his eyes. Because that pause—that half-second where Hermione held him by the collar of his robe and looked at him like a secret—had already burned through him.

“So…” he murmured, voice barely there, "Are you going to teach me, then?"

Hermione lowered her hand slowly, letting it glide down the fabric to the edge of his belt. She didn’t touch it. But she was close. Close enough that Draco forgot where they were,  though the air itself could no longer hold the weight of the tension."

“Only if you promise…” she whispered, tilting her head with that half-smile that could undo him just with words, “...not to make noise in the library.” Hermione lifted a finger to Draco’s lips—soft, deliberate—and whispered a quiet, “Shhhh.”

He closed his eyes for a moment. And when he opened them, there was something dark gleaming beneath the calm. Hermione let her finger trail to his chin, her teeth catching her lower lip, as if carefully considering her next move.

“I promise nothing.”

Hermione smiled. She dog-eared the book—deliberately, knowing it would irritate him—and placed it on a low shelf. Then, with deliberate calm, she turned on her heel and disappeared among the old stacks, heading toward the narrowest, most hidden aisle of the wing.

Draco followed.

He would follow her to hell, if it came to that.

The ancient wing of the library smelled of dried roots, enchanted dust, and pages that were never meant to be read aloud. Hermione knew that. That’s why she’d brought him there.

“No one comes here,” she murmured, not looking at him, her fingers gliding along the spine of a tome no one had likely touched in centuries. "I know how to spot places like this in any library."

Draco leaned against the shelf across from her, barely a hand’s breadth away. The heat coming off his body hit like a wave, but he didn’t touch her.

“And you…” he said, “what are you looking for, exactly?”

Hermione looked up.

She stared at him as if he’d just asked something much deeper.

“I don’t know,” she confessed. “But maybe I’ll start by seeing if this tome is worth opening.”

And then, she touched him again.

This time with more intent—her hand flat against his chest, firm, like the silence of the library itself had given her permission to explore what pride often kept quiet. The heartbeat beneath her fingers was real. Alive. Steady.

Draco let her, he was watching her lips. Craving them. But he didn’t kiss her, because the game wasn’t about running—it was about enduring, drawing it out until the thread stretched so tight it could snap at any moment.

And the danger, in that moment, didn’t come only from being discovered—but from not being able to stop once they started

Draco barely leaned a shoulder against the shelf, as if the world weren’t burning inside him. As if every fiber of him weren’t screaming to close the last inch between them.

“I think it’ll be worth it, Miss Granger,” he said in that low, gravelly tone he used when he wanted to provoke her without laying a finger. “To open that tome. To read it. Slowly. Page by page.”

Hermione didn’t look at him right away.

She turned her back on him, deliberately, pretending to examine the spine of an old alchemy book. She traced a finger along the binding with excruciating slowness.

“I don’t think so, Mr. Malfoy,” she replied at last, voice sweetly venomous. “You don’t strike me as a very diligent student.”

Draco stepped closer. The floor creaked softly under his weight.

“I put in the effort… when the content is worth it.”

“Oh really?” Hermione spun around to face him. “Then this time, will you at least promise not to make any noise?”

Draco arched a brow. But he said nothing.

Hermione leaned in, just a little. Her voice dropped to the barest whisper.

“Because you do know it’s strictly forbidden… to make noise in the library.”

And then, this time, she let her hand slide from his chest to his waist, steady and sure. She pushed him gently against the shelf and held him there, as if he were the one who needed to surrender.

Draco didn’t move, he held his breath.

Because Hermione’s body heat had melted into his without excuse, and her mouth was so close that every word vibrated between them like the prelude to something exquisite—and because, though he had always known how to play… this time, she held the rules.

“So, Mr. Malfoy…” she whispered, closer still, lips brushing his jaw, “are you going to behave?”

Draco swallowed. His back stayed rigid against the wood.

“Definitely… not.”

That game was no longer just a provocation—it was so much more than throbbing desire. It was intimate, and silent.

Just as it should be… in a library.

Draco didn’t touch her. Not right away. He let her lead, breathing carefully. His eyes locked on hers like he was deciphering an ancient, dangerous spell written in a language only Hermione Granger could read.

And he hoped her thoughts were full of him.

Because he could already see the answer in her gaze.

“So…” he murmured, tilting his head with that barely-there smile—the one that always came with the sole intent to undo her—“are you certain you don’t want me to go over that tome with you, Miss Librarian?”

Hermione arched one brow ever so slightly.

“You don’t have the best record when it comes to following instructions.”

Draco’s gaze dropped, slowly, to her lips. Then rose again.

“Maybe I’m lacking a little… discipline. Creative punishment.”

Hermione let out a soft laugh. Barely audible. But it shivered down her spine like a current.

“And do you often come with special requests, Mr. Malfoy?”

“Only if the librarian’s willing to bend a few rules…” he replied, dropping his voice an octave—gravelly, sultry. “Or invent new ones.”

He finally touched her—slowly, without the desperation that was costing him so much effort to contain.

He just brushed her waist with the back of his fingers, leaving a trail of heat beneath the robe. Then again, higher this time. As if he were inscribing a spell on her skin. His hand glided up her back and tangled gently in her still-damp hair, tugging just enough to make her look at him again.

“Tell me you’re not enjoying this,” he whispered, brushing the corner of her mouth with his lips—close, but not kissing—“Tell me you want me to stop.”

Hermione didn’t answer.

But her body trembled. Just slightly. Just enough.

Draco smiled, and slid his other hand to the small of her back, pulling her against him fully. No space left between them. His breath mingled with hers. His pulse beat against hers. Every inch a living provocation.

“See, Miss Granger? I’m not such a bad student. I just need the right motivation…”

That’s when Hermione, with a smooth flick of her wrist, pushed him gently toward the corner of the shelves—where the tomes were older, dustier… more forgotten.

“Looks like I’m the one in need of instruction,” she murmured. “But quietly, I must insist. Remember the first rule of this library: if we’re caught, you take the blame.”

Draco let out a low laugh. So low, it was more touch than sound.

“Then you’ll have to be the one to silence me.”

And this time, he did kiss her, not like the night before.  This kiss was slow. Deep. Like each flick of his tongue, each soft bite, each press of lips matched the rhythm of pages turning under eager fingers.

Draco’s hand slid beneath her robe, found the warm skin of her waist, and moved upward—mapping her with touch alone. Hermione arched against him, fingers buried in his hair. A faint moan escaped her lips, and Draco swallowed it before it could echo off the books.

The library had no ears but desire did and the game was far from over.

The kiss slowed, thickened, like a time-freezing spell.

Hermione was pressed to him, but not subdued. She was the one leading the gravity of the moment. The one who slid her hands down his back, unfastening the clasps of his robe with the precision of someone opening a forbidden tome—each fold revealing secrets meant for her alone.

Draco exhaled a low groan—barely a whisper in his throat, but enough for Hermione to raise a hand… and trace a single finger across his lips, never breaking eye contact.

“Shhh,” she whispered, a thread of sound. “No noise, Mr. Malfoy.”

Her finger trembled slightly as his breath warmed it. Draco caught it between his lips, kissed it, bit it softly. Hermione inhaled sharply, chest rising under the disheveled fabric of her robe.

His hand slid lower, between folds of cloth, until he found the burning softness beneath. He didn’t ask. Didn’t hesitate. He read the answer in her eyes.

Hermione bit her lower lip as his fingers explored her—slow at first, Like someone gauging something pliable with the tips of their fingers.  One of them entered her with an ease that felt almost insulting, as if her body had already grown used to it. His other hand held her by the hip, anchoring her, grounding her.

She pressed her forehead to his shoulder, hair cascading like wet silk. A drop of sweat trailed down her back.

Draco didn’t move violently.

But he moved with purpose.

“For Circe, Morgana, Helga and Rowena,” he groaned against her ear, “Hermione…”

Her finger returned to his lips.

“No,” she said with a fierce tenderness, her voice husky—“I’m Miss Granger.” Draco saw the glint of mischief and fire behind her eyes. “Now keep going.” She gasped against his mouth. “Just like that.”

He obeyed.

His movements grew more precise. More rhythmic. Hermione clutched at his neck, her breathing uneven. Every motion was a word unspoken. Every pulse a verse written in skin.

She was close.

She told him without speaking—with a moan barely heard among the tomes. With the way she trembled in his arms. With how her knees gave out just before she gripped him tighter.

Draco held her. Felt her break. Whole. Full. Silent.

Her climax rolled through her like a slow wave—every inch of her body lit by the certainty that she was being wanted with more devotion than urgency. She gasped against his neck. Didn’t scream. Couldn’t. But her eyes said everything when she looked up at him, breathless.

Then, as if the world returned to its axis, Draco rested his forehead against hers without words or movement.

Their pulses synced in that dusty corner of the library—where history would not record what had just occurred.

But magic would, magic… and their bodies, still trembling as if they’d touched an ancient spell that only needed desire and silence to be carried out.

Hermione leaned back against the shelf, pulse still racing, skin tingling from more than heat. A quiet smile curved her lips, unable to fully hide the blush in her cheeks. Draco stood before her—disheveled, robe undone, eyes half-lidded like he was still grasping the fact that it had all been real.

“Do you always,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair, “treat rule-breakers like that?”

Hermione let out a breathless laugh.

“Only the repeat offenders.”

Draco smiled. That smile that still undid her. Not cocky. Not smug. Just real. Like he was seeing her and couldn’t help but smile because she was her.

They straightened in silence. Hermione adjusted her robe, twisted her hair up quickly, while Draco bent to pick up one of the fallen books—trying, at least, to restore the illusion that their visit had been academic.

But they didn’t get far.

A soft click. The hush of approaching steps. And then—

“Well, well. What an… educational scene.”

They both turned at once.

Tallulah Raines stood at the end of the aisle, a volume in hand and one perfectly arched brow raised. She wore her Ilvermorny robe like a ballgown, and her smile wasn’t polite, it was lethal.

Hermione’s stomach twisted because she had no idea what Tallulah was capable of.

Draco, on the other hand, was all composure.

“Miss Raines,” he said, as calm as if they’d met in a tea room. “Lost? This section is for ritual magic consultants only.”

Tallulah took a step forward. Her enchanted heels echoed like sand slipping through an hourglass.

“Oh, I know. That’s why I came. I was curious about a volume on symbiotic bonds. But look at that… I found another bond in progress.”

Hermione didn’t flinch. She stepped forward—slow, firm.

“Seen what you came for? Then leave.”

“Of course, Granger,” Tallulah replied sweetly, then turned to Draco. “Mr. Malfoy… you really do look delicious like that. Rumpled. Unraveled. A dream come true.”

With that, she turned. Her steps faded down the aisle, leaving behind the threat of something unspoken.

Hermione didn’t move for a moment.

“She’s starting to get on my nerves.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Draco said. “She used to irritate me. Now… ignoring her is enough to know she means nothing.”

And with no more words, they left the library together.

Lunch had been served later than usual, with an almost ceremonial air, though no one yet knew why. The tables beneath translucent canopies, set near the river, were less crowded than usual. Delegations spoke in hushed tones, as if something in the air—some unnamed tension—had stolen their usual appetite.

Hermione ate slowly, not for lack of hunger, but because her mind was still elsewhere—perhaps in another corridor, in a library where Draco had known how to touch her as if reading a forbidden line between the pages.

She looked at him.

Draco was speaking in a low voice with one of the Castelobruxo delegates, probably about schedules and protocol. But beneath the table, his leg brushed against Hermione’s with deliberate purpose. It wasn’t an accident. It was a statement.

She didn’t pull away.

“So?” she asked, without looking at him, sipping from her cup.

“So what?” he replied, in the most neutral tone he could muster. He struggled to restrain himself and treat her as he did at Hogwarts, especially in front of so many strangers.

“Do you think it was worth it?”

Draco turned to her then, slowly. As if the world had shrunk to the size of her eyes.

“Are you really asking me that… after everything I made you feel?” He brushed a strand of hair behind her ear with the same fingers that, just hours ago, had been inside her.

Hermione nearly choked on her drink. She shouldn't have been surprised by Draco's brazenness—yet she was. That wizard seemed to have no concept of modesty at times, though she had to admit, she liked it.

“You’re impossible,” she murmured, but a traitorous smile curved her lips.

“And you…” he whispered, “You look breathtaking when you scold me.”

Before she could reply, João appeared beside them, looking more serious than usual. He held a rolled parchment.

“The committee just made the announcement,” he said, looking directly at Draco. “Apparently, we’ll be visiting two sanctuaries this afternoon. Fire and water. They say it’s part of a new balance that needs to be restored.”

Hermione frowned, intrigued.

“Fire and water in the same ritual?”

João nodded.

“When do we leave?”

“After lunch. The ritual will take place at sunset. Request robes with symbolic protection. The committee wants this to carry both political and magical weight".

João left.

Hermione inhaled slowly. The river already shimmered with amber light as the sun began its descent.

“Do you realize?” she said, turning to Draco. “They’re diametrically opposed elements.”

“Like you and me?” he murmured, leaning in. “And yet, here we are—against all odds. I bet the Weasley twins had an entire betting board on how long we’d last after we went public.”

Hermione smiled with the certainty that he was absolutely right. She hadn’t actually seen it, but she had no trouble believing it at all.

The sun sank like a slow sigh over the Amazon River, painting the sky in liquid colors: burning red, aged gold, deep blue heralding nightfall. The delegations gathered silently along the riverbank, where a ceremonial clearing had opened magically at the water’s edge. It wasn’t improvised. It was ancient. Alive. As if it had always been there, waiting.

Hermione walked beside Draco, both wrapped in ceremonial linen robes—enchanted and reinforced with obsidian thread and aquatic pearl embroidery. The ancestral symbols on their shoulders seemed to shimmer with the light. She wore a white feather braided into her hair. He bore a rune of fire inked onto his bare chest, just visible beneath his open robe.

No one spoke.

Before them, two natural columns marked the ritual space. One, covered in lichen and calcified shells, exuded a salty dampness that didn’t come from the river. The other—a dry, ancient tree trunk—looked as if it had burned from the inside. Flickers of ethereal fire escaped its bark, glowing blue and violet. Water and fire. Silence and combustion.

Dame Fitzroy was not there, none of the judges were.

Only a small group from the Green Circle and three Forest Custodians, hooded and silent. One for each element. And one, João had said, for what cannot be named.

They were summoned with a flick of a wand. First them. As if something—or someone—knew they would be the first to cross.

Draco extended his hand. Hermione took it. No one was surprised. Not even Tallulah Raines, who watched from one side with thinly veiled irritation.

They stepped into the circle.

Each was given a talisman: she, a necklace with a liquid moonstone; he, a polished copper chain that burned faintly on contact. No words were spoken as they were fastened.

The Custodians began tracing symbols in the air: one of vapor, one of spark. The shapes collided. Clashed. But didn’t destroy each other. They complemented. Like bodies learning to dance.

Hermione felt the air shift. It wasn’t heat. Or humidity.

It was both.

She looked down at her hands. They trembled with resonance. Draco looked the same. Something in him—in his magic, in his chest—was expanding. As if he finally understood why he had always desired her so much.

One Custodian spoke:

“What happens when water finds its reflection in fire?”

Silence.

Another extended a steaming clay vessel. The vapor smelled of eucalyptus and resin. Soothing. Burning.

“And what happens if they don’t wish to separate?”

The third, who hadn’t spoken, stepped forward with two enchanted staffs. He placed them on opposite ends of the circle. One made of wood petrified by sacred waters. The other, of salamander bone.

"Then, the ritual isn't divided, it's fused," she said. Her voice wasn't a voice—it was the echo of the wind.

A glow began to rise from the ground. First blue. Then red. Then violet.

Hermione tightened her grip on Draco’s fingers and he closed his eyes.

“Think of something you wish to release,” the Custodian whispered.

But Draco couldn’t, because what he desired most now… was to stay.

Water began to spiral upward. Fire descended like reverse rain.

And in the midst of that impossible union, their bodies leaned into each other.

They didn’t kiss, but the brush of their foreheads was a seal more powerful than any rune.

Hermione felt her heart swell, as if each beat claimed its right to be truth, no longer dependent on the pact.

Draco, for the first time, understood what it meant not to fear losing her. Because the only thing left to do… was love her. That’s why he would never lose her. He remembered, briefly, something his father had once said on his birthday—when Narcissa stood at the edge of the Manor’s lake, gazing at the horizon like a perfectly embodied mirage.

“We Malfoys are not made for sentiment… and yet, when I see your mother, I know I’m in the right place. Even when I travel far, I know I will return to her. To you. To my place.”

He’d rested his hand on Draco’s shoulder.

“What must remain united… always will be.”

And in that moment, Draco understood: he and Hermione couldn’t appear more different.

But they had to remain together.

That night, when they made their pact, it hadn’t been a trap—it had been the universe acknowledging what must be. What must become.

Draco didn’t just see a place in Hermione.

He saw home. His fire turned warm flame. His stillness. His flow.

After other pairs had stepped through, the ritual concluded with a silent flare that did not burn—but left a glow over their robes. The Custodians didn’t applaud.

They simply nodded.

And then, as if the world itself gave them permission, the river spoke.

A gentle wave slid to the edge of the circle. It touched their feet, soaking them in a gesture of blessing.

Hermione understood—and so did Draco.

When they stepped out of the circle, the world hadn’t changed, but they had.

Because when fire and water meet… they do not destroy each other. They recognize. And they settle.

The magical beach didn’t appear on any map. João had described it in a few cryptic words: “You’ll find it when the path stops feeling real and starts feeling like longing.”
Draco, ever the skeptic, had frowned.
Hermione, on the other hand, understood immediately.

And so, after the ritual, when the ceremonial fires died out and the jungle wrapped its secrets once more in shadows, they took a turn. They told nobody one just  walked, following the whisper of the river—softer, more melodic than on any other night, as if speaking only to them.

They found it just as the sky had ceased to be red or blue and had turned into a deep black scattered with stars. The moon hung like a burnished coin over the water, and the beach—framed by rounded stones looked like a fragment from another world.

Draco took off his boots first.
Hermione, still damp from the ritual’s dew, let her robe fall over a rock.
Both of them stood completely bare—without shame, without hesitation. That had long vanished between them.

They looked at each other before running, like children, into the beach. It wasn’t desire that drove them, but the longing to be together without defenses.

They stopped where the water kissed their feet.

The current was gentle. Warm. As if the river had been enchanted that night just to receive them.

Draco held Hermione by the waist, wordless, unhurried. His fingers traced slow circles on her damp skin, and the calm of the moment seemed to suspend the world around them.

And then, without warning, without reason—

He threw her into the water.

Hermione disappeared under the surface with a soft splash—more surprise than shock—and reemerged instantly, hair soaked and plastered to her face, wearing a mock-indignant expression so theatrical that Draco burst into laughter.

“Have you completely lost your mind, Draco?!” she shouted, half-coughing, squinting at him.

“You’re no fun at playtime, Hermione. You get intense,” he replied, stepping into the water with a shameless smile.

The waves soon covered them. Hermione narrowed her eyes. Then, with the solemnity of a brilliant witch enacting vengeance for being tossed, she lifted her hands—

And began to splash him.

Furiously. Joyfully. With barely contained laughter.

Draco shrieked like she’d hexed him with freezing charm.

“Are you insane?! That was straight in my eyes! You’re assaulting international diplomacy!”

“I’m assaulting your inflated ego, that’s what I’m doing!” Hermione screamed back, drenching him more.

He tried to dodge her by swimming backward, but didn’t get far. He caught her by the waist, and in a single, fluid movement, hoisted her over his shoulder like she weighed nothing.

Hermione kicked and laughed like there was no tomorrow, smacking his back playfully with her palms.

“Put me down! I swear, if you throw me again, I’ll toss your entire Quidditch gear out the common room window!”

“Oh, Miss Granger,” Draco murmured, feigning a wounded tone, “So easy to provoke, so hard to defeat.”

She snorted.  “And you’re as arrogant as ever.”

“No. Worse today,” he whispered, and let her slide into the water—slowly this time.

Hermione surfaced with a smile wide and unguarded—the kind she saved only for him.

They swam for a while longer, wordlessly. Sometimes diving to escape each other, sometimes touching fingertips as if they doesn’t want to break their contact for too long.

Draco reached the shore far ahead.

“That wasn’t fair,” Hermione said, mock-pouting.

“It wasn’t. But let’s pretend you won— you always do.”

They lay side by side on the sand, waves lapping at them now and then. They floated together, back against chest, arms interlaced like roots unwilling to separate. The current gently pulled them back to shore again and again.

“You know,” Hermione murmured, playing with a drop of water rolling down her earlobe, “I don’t know if we’ll ever have a normal life.”

“And who wants one?” Draco replied. “If we’re still laughing like this after all of this… I’ll sign anywhere.”

Hermione laughed. A clean, bright laugh that slipped through the jungle and mixed with the murmuring river.

They didn’t speak about the next trial. Or the pact. Or the uncertain odds.

That night, they let themselves be just that: two teenagers playing on a magical beach, learning that sometimes the deepest love feels a lot like a ridiculous splash fight under the moon.

Hermione turned to him—Draco mirrored her movement, resting a hand on her waist to listen better.

“They say no one ever swims in the same waters twice.”

He nodded, though his hands tightened on her, as if trying to make the moment eternal.

“And what do you believe?”

Hermione pulled back just enough to look him in the eyes. The night breeze danced through her hair, brushing the droplets sliding down her collarbone. Her expression was serious. Steady.

“I believe it’s true. Waters flow. People too. We change. We’re never the same.”

She took Draco’s hand with almost ritualistic slowness. Guided it to her chest. To the precise place where her heart beat—fierce, present, alive.

“But I also believe in this,” she whispered.
“In what doesn’t change. In what remains, even when we’re far apart.”

Draco couldn’t look away. He knew, in that moment, that although they had never said “I love you” out loud, they’d spoken it in every raw moment where they’d let themselves be seen, wholly and without armor.

“Hermione…”

“It will always beat for you,” she said, eyes locked with his. “Never doubt that.”

Hermione’s eyes shimmered with emotion.

“Don’t miss me if we’re apart. You only miss what no longer belongs to you.”

She brushed her fingers over his knuckles. Her skin was warm—so human, so magical.

“And I will always be yours.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty.

It was fullness.

Draco kissed her slowly. A kiss born of deep gratitude. Not rushed. Not possessive.
It was affirmation. A promise.

They embraced in the water, surrounded by the hum of waves and fireflies dancing on the surface like oceanic blessings. In that moment, all they could do was cling to each other’s body—like an anchor, a lighthouse, a home.

When they finally left the water, cloaked in humid night, Hermione put on Draco’s robe.
He didn’t protest. He only wrapped his arms around her, as if that were enough to hold the universe together.

They fell asleep beneath a blanket of stars, on warm sand.

And when dawn came, they didn’t wake like fugitives.

They woke as survivors.  Of the war the world had waged to pull them apart.  Of the war they’d waged within themselves.

And still—they stood.

Together.

Chapter Text

Mornings had almost become ritual: waking in each other’s arms, or at least side by side, sharing a shower, dressing, and leaving their rooms together.

But this time...

The seventh day dawned with a leaden sky that promised no rain, but didn’t let much light through either. The atmosphere on the Castelobruxo campus felt different: the steps of the officials more rigid. Even the enchanted plants seemed withdrawn.

Draco was already dressed when she came out of the bathroom. Official robe, the Hogwarts crest pinned to his chest, and his hair neatly arranged — but his eyes were fixed on the scroll he had just received from one of the organizers.

“What does it say?” Hermione asked, still drying her hair with a gentle spell.

Draco didn’t answer immediately. He finished reading. Then, with a curt gesture, he rolled up the scroll and set it on the table.

“More Ministry members have arrived. It’s unusual for them to come midway through a championship, especially one so short.”

“Who?”

“Percy Weasley... and two members of the International Surveillance Commission. I don’t know them, but if Percy is here... it means something is out of protocol.”

Hermione froze mid-step.

“What do you think it’s about?”

“I don’t know. The tone of the letter is... excessively formal. As if they want to make sure that every step is officially recorded.”

Hermione nodded. It was the only way to prevent more ‘accidents’ like the Acromantula incident.

They had breakfast in silence, their hands barely brushing—because that morning, words weren’t needed.

The bond between them —the pact, their story, everything they had lived through that week— floated around them like a second skin, invisible but tangible.

When they left the dining hall, the grounds were already crowded with delegations. The champions, gathered in a semicircle in front of the campus's alchemy temple —a structure of black stone engraved with gold-liquid transformation symbols— were waiting for the official announcement.

Then, a sharp bell sliced through the air.

A witch in a golden robe stepped forward. Firm voice. Impeccable.

“Third Trial of the International Potions Championship: stabilizing enchantments over unstable alchemical reactions. The objective is to prevent ingredients from reacting destructively or mutating. The winner will be the one who demonstrates the greatest control and precision.”

Hermione felt her stomach clench. It wasn’t a test of strength or courage.

It was a test of mind. Of calculation. Of calm under pressure.

“You’re made for this,” Draco said quietly, just before she stepped forward.

She swallowed hard, and he squeezed her hand for a moment.

Hermione let out a breath and stepped forward, while, in the diplomatic box at the back, Percy Weasley took his seat alongside the international delegates.

The world was watching—and so was something else.

Something faceless.
Something that waited.

And the Alchemical Temple—the temple that didn’t look like a place of death, yet could be—opened its threshold to receive them.

It rose at the far end of the clearing like a colossus of black stone, silent and expectant. The runes carved into its façade glowed faintly under the grey morning light, as if warning those who approached that not everyone who crossed its threshold would leave as they had entered.

A row of circular platforms floated just a few centimeters above the ground. Each was made of polished obsidian and covered in golden inscriptions: ancient transmutation patterns, formulas whispering in forgotten tongues. The air smelled of incense, old magic, and human tension.

Hermione paused for a moment at the temple’s edge, standing alongside the other champions.

To her left, João Vasconcelos—his face serene but his knuckles white with tension—was exchanging a few quiet words with one of the local judges. Farther on, Akiko Watanabe of Mahoutokoro appeared to be mentally reciting formulas, her lips barely moving. Céleste Fournier, champion of Beauxbatons, stood immaculate, radiant in her silvery-blue robes, as if the weight of the moment couldn’t touch her. Lev Volkov of Durmstrang wore a scowl, arms crossed, watching everything with hawk-like eyes. Kwame Njoroge, champion of Uagadou, discreetly flexed his fingers, as though tuning an invisible instrument. Elira Drăghici, champion of Koldovstoretz, seemed cold, almost indifferent, her wand held in one hand like a natural extension of her body. And Magnolia Blackstone, the American champion representing Ilvermorny, nervously tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, trying to maintain her composure.

The organizing committee, along with Ministry observers, had already taken their places in the floating stands surrounding the temple.

Draco was among them, slightly apart from Percy Weasley, feigning a focus that barely concealed his growing unease.

Everything was ready—or almost everything.

A hooded figure—one of the assistants she didn’t recognize—approached the champions carrying a rolled-up parchment.

“There’s been a change in platform assignments,” he announced, in a tone that aimed for neutrality but couldn’t quite mask the underlying tremor of discomfort.

Hermione frowned.

“What kind of change?” João asked, his politeness strained, like someone sensing a trap.

“A calibration error in the magical setup. Just a minor adjustment,” the assistant assured them. “Magnolia Blackstone will take platform number four instead of number seven.”

It didn’t seem like much. A small shift. Except, according to the original arrangement, platform number four had been assigned... to Hermione.

Hermione and Magnolia exchanged puzzled glances but followed the instructions without protest.

And then, the murmurs from the observers rose just a notch. Like a tremor beneath the surface.

Hermione walked toward platform seven—hers, now.

The obsidian ground pulsed faintly under her feet, acknowledging her presence, accepting her as part of the ritual.

The amplified voice of the moderator echoed from above.

“Remember: each platform generates its own magical stability circuit. You must maintain internal alchemical harmony using stabilizing spells. Any imbalance... will be penalized.”

And in some cases, Hermione thought, not just penalized—but catastrophic.

She inhaled deeply and glanced briefly toward the stands. And though she couldn’t make out individual faces, she knew exactly where Draco was.

She knew he was watching her, holding her with his thoughts, and just a moment before the trial began, she closed her eyes.

And in the darkness, she remembered.

She remembered Harry, teaching her that complicated barrier charm even Professor McGonagall struggled to cast with the same ease. Harry, always intuitive, always able to make magic feel visceral, immediate. She remembered his voice, his nervous laugh as they practiced under the invisibility cloak in an empty Charms classroom.

“Trust the instinct, not just the formula,” he’d once told her.

And then, she remembered Ron.

Ron, who wasn’t the best with wands, but was brilliant with strategy. Wizard chess. The way he saw patterns where others saw only chaos. Always three moves ahead. Fierce patience.

“Sometimes, Hermione, the right move isn’t the fastest one,” he’d said when they were eleven, standing in front of a life-sized chessboard. “It’s the one that keeps you in the game.”

The gong struck, deep as the heartbeat of the earth.

The trial began. Ingredients floated into the air: powdered mermaid scale, moon lotus extract, phoenix essences, meteorite shards.

Hermione raised her wand. The first stabilization charm flowed from her like a melody. Her mixture swirled and shimmered emerald green... Perfect.

On platform four, however—the one that should have been hers—something was wrong.

In between her precise movements, Hermione caught a glimpse from the corner of her eye: Magnolia Blackstone hesitated. A flicker of instability crossed the surface of her alchemical mixture. The air above her platform vibrated unevenly. And then, with a nearly-contained burst, the magical stability collapsed.

A crack, an emerald flash, a low hum that made the other platforms tremble.

The Custodians of the Green Circle reacted instantly, encapsulating platform four in a magical containment barrier. Magnolia was removed—stunned, but unharmed.

But Hermione couldn’t stop thinking:

That… was supposed to be my platform.

It wasn’t paranoia anymore—it was certainty.

Someone had altered the assignments fully aware of what the effect would be.

The trial went on.

João Vasconcelos, on platform three, worked with an almost hypnotic calm. His movements weren’t particularly elegant, but they were steady, methodical—like someone who had practiced the same operation thousands of times until it became instinct.

João seemed to fuse with the stabilizing spells; his magic wasn’t flashy, but it was consistent—solid, like deep roots. The mixture before him—a dangerous combination of sea nettle powder and chimera resin—vibrated evenly under his control.

Now and then, he frowned in concentration, but he never faltered. It was clear he wasn’t trying to impress anyone; he was trying to stay in the trial—and in this kind of trial, that was a lethally effective virtue.

Céleste Fournier, on the central platform, looked like the living embodiment of magical art. Every flick of her wand was a precise brushstroke, a light and calculated dance. The essences before her—lunar crystal fragments, salamander breath—responded to her magic like obedient puppets. Even when the erratic vibration caused by platform four disrupted the ambient flow, Céleste corrected her spell sequence with the ease of someone adjusting her step mid-dance. It wasn’t just skill—it was instinct refined through years of mastery. In the grey morning light, she seemed wrapped in an aura of absolute control.

The other champions were fighting their own battles too.

Akiko Watanabe, with steely focus, advanced slowly, every incantation reduced to the bare minimum, almost no superfluous gestures.

Lev Volkov showed more strength than finesse, wrestling with mixtures that threatened to overpower their containers.

Kwame Njoroge worked impeccably, but Magnolia’s accident had rattled him—his spells began to lose consistency, needing constant adjustments.

Elira Drăghici held steady, though her movements were stiff, as if reciting memorized steps she hadn’t yet made her own.

Among them, only a few understood that this morning wasn’t about shining.

It was about surviving the temple.

Hermione stabilized a mixture of liquid salamander dust with enchanted mandrake root. Each spell was a heartbeat. Each correction, a breath of endurance.

Think like Harry. Protect the core. Think like Ron. Play for the long game—not to win, but to endure.

The next combination was even more dangerous: fermented basilisk tears mixed with star heliotrope seeds. If she failed, the mixture would mutate, turning volatile.

Hermione closed her eyes for a second.

“Facta, non verba,” she whispered. Deeds, not words.

And she cast the spell. A golden flash enveloped her cauldron. The mixture trembled. Screeched. But it didn’t explode.

Hermione was barely breathing—just casting, holding, mending.

It was like walking a tightrope between two worlds.

When the gong finally sounded again, marking the end of the trial, Hermione slowly lowered her wand.

Her knees trembled, her heart did too—but she was still standing.

She looked toward the stands. And though she couldn’t see Draco… she knew he was smiling.

Because despite everything—despite the sabotage, despite the fear—she had endured. And no one… no one would take that victory from her.

A heavy silence fell over the Alchemical Temple as the last spark of magic faded from the platforms.

The attendants closest to the platforms—security officials, organizers, members of the Green Circle—remained in place, rigid, like statues that knew any misstep could trigger an alchemical disaster.

In the stands, however, the murmur swelled like a slow but unstoppable tide.

Draco was still standing among the technical staff, arms crossed and face like stone, though inside, his blood was boiling.

He watched Hermione, still on her obsidian platform, not yielding an inch, though the tension in her shoulders betrayed her exhaustion.

Their eyes met for the briefest moment.

It was enough for him to know: she felt it too—something was off.

In the diplomatic box, the movement was more overt.

The British delegate, a pale-faced wizard with a pencil-thin mustache, leaned toward Percy Weasley, whispering something through clenched teeth as he consulted a parchment. Percy, whose role was to act as the British Ministry of Magic’s impartial observer, kept a tense expression, as though any stray word might compromise his position.

Not far from them, the French delegation—led by a well-dressed man in his forties, the emblem of the French Ministry embroidered in gold thread on his lapel—exchanged calculating glances with Jacques Duval. Beauxbatons was in first place, and they had no intention of letting that advantage slip.

Farther back, the Japanese representative—an elderly man with a piercing gaze, bearing the ceremonial staff of Mahoutokoro carved from dark wood—watched everything without moving a muscle. It wasn’t indifference. Perhaps he simply knew that the best strategy was to observe.

The American delegate, by contrast, made no effort to hide his displeasure. Broad-shouldered and red-faced, he argued in a low but agitated voice with one of his aides, repeatedly pointing toward the now-empty platform where Magnolia Blackstone had been removed after her accident. Ilvermorny had lost its shot, and its ambassador didn’t seem willing to accept a clean defeat.

Other representatives—the ministers from Scandinavia, South America, and Central Africa—maintained a posture of forced neutrality. But it was obvious: each diplomatic delegation, having arrived that very day, was watching not just their own champions, but their rivals as well.

One competitor’s failure was another’s opportunity. One nation’s weakness, the perfect diplomatic excuse to move pieces far bigger than a simple school tournament.

Draco clenched his fists. This International Potions Championship was no longer an academic celebration.

It had become a showcase of political prestige—and someone, or several someones, had decided to rig the board.

From where he stood, he could see João Vasconcelos stepping down from his platform. The Brazilian looked more shaken than triumphant. His expression as he glanced at Hermione—who descended a few seconds later—wasn’t one of rivalry, but of silent warning.

Even João seemed to understand that what had happened wasn’t just an isolated accident.

A movement at the edge of the box caught Draco’s attention.

The Custodians of the Green Circle—who rarely intervened unless a major threat demanded it—were quietly deploying along the perimeter, wands at the ready, forming a magical barrier that hadn’t been there at the start of the trial. It was containment. And caution.

And that only confirmed what Draco already knew: the organizers sensed it too—something wasn’t right.

When Hermione finally reached the base of the stands, her steps measured but steady, Draco took half a step toward her, then stopped. This wasn’t the moment to rush to her side, to make his desperation visible. He had to respect her dignity.

She lifted her gaze just enough and nodded, as if to say, “I’m fine.”

Draco swallowed hard. Forced himself to stay where he was, even though every part of him ached to hold her, to shield her from everything that was coming.
Because it was coming.

The delegations were beginning to reorganize, guided by committee members.

There were words of protocol—security review, incident report, deliberation of results. It all sounded proper. And it all sounded hollow.

Something more dangerous than any alchemical explosion hung in the air: the certainty that magic wouldn’t be the only battlefield.

Reputations. Alliances. The honor of the schools. The stability of ministries. Everything was now at stake.

And Hermione—without wanting it, without seeking it, without deserving it—stood at the eye of the storm.

Draco closed his eyes for a second. Let hell take me, he thought, if I let them so much as lay a hand on her.

When he opened them again, his gaze was cold. Calculating.
This wasn’t just a Malfoy protecting his heart.
This was a Malfoy ready to play the diplomatic game.

At last, Hermione walked toward him, and with that, Draco felt a flicker of calm return.

At last, Hermione approached him, and with that, a flicker of calm returned to Draco.

They looked toward the diplomatic box. Percy gave a slight nod in greeting. It seemed they weren’t alone. And they weren’t defeated.
Not yet.

A low murmur rose from the stands as three members of the Green Circle—cloaked in robes that shimmered with purifying magic—descended in formation toward the center of the Alchemical Temple. Their mere presence was enough to make the delegations retreat, forming a tense semicircle around the champions.

A fourth Custodian, of higher rank judging by the black quartz staff he carried, stepped forward until he was only a few meters from Hermione, João, and Céleste.

“Attention,” he announced, his voice amplified by a resonance charm. “In accordance with emergency protocols and the guidelines of the International Confederation of Wizards, all champions must undergo an immediate magical security screening.”

Another murmur rippled through the hall—this time, one of restrained disapproval.

Draco frowned. It wasn’t just the champions being scrutinized; the reactions of their delegations were also under evaluation. One protocol misstep, one misplaced word, and this would escalate into an incident.

Percy leaned toward one of the high-ranking French officials. They spoke too quietly to be heard, but Percy’s expression was unmistakable: They must proceed with extreme caution.

Hermione turned her head slightly toward Draco. No words were needed. He understood.

“They suspect us.”

The Custodian raised his staff. Three beams of light shot from the quartz: one green toward João, one silver toward Céleste, and one blue toward Hermione.

“Each champion will be escorted individually,” the Custodian continued. “The screening will include: detection of attached enchantments, verification of unusual magical residue, and evaluation of internal magical stability. The procedure is voluntary, but mandatory for validation of results.”

Draco closed his eyes for a moment. A contradiction in terms. Nothing was truly voluntary when so much was at stake.

Hermione nodded. She didn’t hesitate. She reached her hand toward the blue light.

Before she could walk away, Draco stepped forward. He said nothing. He simply brushed her fingers with his own in a swift gesture, as if that could help anchor her. She looked at him. And smiled. Small. Intimate. Enough.

“Trust me,” she whispered, barely audible.

He clenched his jaw—not because he doubted her, but because every part of him wanted to go with her, to protect her, to dismantle the world if he had to.

But he wouldn’t.

This time, Hermione had to walk alone.

The blue light wrapped around her like liquid veil. Her figure shimmered slightly as she moved forward, escorted by a Custodian toward a side chamber carved directly into the temple’s rock.

Draco followed her with his eyes until she disappeared from view.

Only then did he allow himself to take a deep breath.

Only then did he understand—with a certainty that knotted in his chest—that the bond he shared with her, the one he’d thought he could define, control, rationalize, was far deeper than he had ever wanted to admit.

Hermione wasn’t just the witch he loved.
She was home. The place he would always long to return to.

And in that moment, beneath the leaden sky of Castelobruxo, Draco Malfoy made a vow—without wand, without pact, without words—that he would do everything in his power to protect her for as long as she let him.
Even without her permission, if it ever came to that.

Chapter Text

The eighth day of the Championship dawned in silence, wrapped in a light mist that seemed to still carry the echoes of the previous night.

The sunlight, filtered through the enchanted lattice, painted soft lines across the bed where Draco and Hermione still lay entwined. They had both noticed that sometime between the early morning and dawn, the vegetation covering their quarters changed.

Draco was the first to move. Not abruptly, but with that languidness of someone who had slept just enough but was still reluctant to let go of the night's peace.

Hermione was still asleep, curled against his chest, breathing with that calm rhythm that, Draco knew, could disarm him faster than any spell.

He smiled, just barely.

He was about to slip out of bed when a soft tapping at the magical walls made him frown. Two small flying figures waited there: two diplomatic owls, carrying sealed scrolls.

"Correspondence?" Hermione murmured, barely opening one eye.

"So it seems," Draco said, rolling out of bed in one fluid movement.

With a flick of his wand, he opened the window. The owls fluttered in and dropped the scrolls onto the table before shooting back out into the sky.

Draco picked up both scrolls.

One bore the unmistakable seal of the Weasley family, with a looping, playful script that could only be meant for Hermione.

The other was impeccably sober: a thick parchment, with the initials "T.N." engraved in faint magic.

"For you," he said, tossing the first one to Hermione with a crooked smile. "Apparently not even an ocean of distance can spare us from the Weasleys."

Hermione laughed as she unrolled the scroll. The letter was accompanied by a smaller one, tied with a blue ribbon.

Opening it, she immediately recognized Ginny's handwriting.

Hermione,

(brilliant, stubborn, and for months now —apparently— the cause of a Malfoy’s sighs).

Hello, my favorite witch now in international export presentation!

Theo and I bet this letter will find you in the middle of an... interesting morning. (If Draco hasn’t ruined breakfast yet, please mark it as a miracle.)

Mum and Dad (yours, not mine) asked me to send you a message because, according to them, “Muggle owls aren’t enchanted to cross magical jungles.” By good Godric. As if ours were! Anyway.

I’m passing their note exactly as they dictated it.

Meanwhile, a few questions for your reflection:

Is it true that Malfoy learned Portuguese just to insult more precisely the people who stare at you for too long?

Is it true that Malfoy carries wizard-repellent potion and says it’s for magical insects, but he’s actually spraying it on you all the time?

Is it true you’ve had to request a bed change a couple of times? ...Pure academic curiosity (Theo swears yes and says he bet on you).

Write when you can! Or better yet, bring that tamed Malfoy home for formal inspection!

With love (and eternal sarcasm),

Ginny

P.S.: Fred and George are planning a party for your return. Should we warn Malfoy or leave it as a surprise? If you don’t answer, it will be a surprise. I can’t wait to see Malfoy's face when everything is decorated in scarlet and gold!

Hermione let out a clear laugh as she finished reading, and Draco, from across the room, raised an eyebrow.

"Am I earning enemies because of my performance as Technical Assistant?" he asked, amused.

"More like... admirers," Hermione said, unfolding the second letter, much more serious.

My dear Hermione,

You have no idea how much we think of you.

Ginny keeps us informed of your progress, and we are incredibly proud. Not just for competing, but for showing that intelligence, kindness, and perseverance always shine, even when the world seems unwilling to see it.

Ginny mentioned that you have a technical assistant.

Your father and I want you to know that if that young man —Draco — protects you as it seemed he would when we met during the holidays, we couldn’t be more at ease.

Your father keeps insisting he’ll probably show up in your room at dawn. I just beg you, please don’t make me a grandmother too soon, although when the time comes, I can’t imagine more adorable children than those with your curls and his eyes.

Take care, my daughter.

And keep returning to yourself. Always.

With eternal love,

Mum and Dad

Hermione blinked a few times to dispel the warmth in her eyes. Then, smiling softly, she folded both letters and tucked them away.

Draco, meanwhile, had opened his own scroll.

He didn’t smile. He didn’t tense.

He simply read, with that intense concentration that only Hermione knew how to interpret.

Theo’s letter was brief. Cold, on the surface. But every word was a carefully placed shield:

Draco,

Your mother asked me to help her choose something that will surely arrive after this letter.

All I can tell you is to guard what remains, and regarding that reaction —be discreet. Don’t give them reasons.

Stay alert. And remember: the family you choose is stronger than the blood you inherit.

Discreetly,

Theo Nott

P.S.: Give Granger an elbow nudge from me. She’ll understand.

Draco set Theo’s letter down on the table, his expression one of quiet intrigue. Still, his father could take anything from him. He could talk about lineage, about convenience, about old rules—and none of it would change what was already a fact.

Since the days before Christmas, Draco had chosen. Not because he was forced. Because he felt it. 

He looked at Hermione across the room, reviewing some parchments by the window.

If it weren’t for the cursed diplomatic protocol, he would have already shouted to the whole world that she was his.

And when all this ended...

He would.

"All good?" Hermione asked, approaching.

He nodded.

"Theo being Theo. A Slytherin through and through."

"But he reminds me..." he paused, searching for the words, "that I’m not alone."

Hermione slid her fingers between his.

"Never again," she whispered.

They stayed like that for a moment, in the gentle warmth of the Amazonian morning, knowing that outside the small refuge they had built together, the world was waiting. With its challenges and its threats—but also with a story they had chosen to build together, one born of love, a love growing freer and stronger with each passing day.

The dining hall had been arranged that morning with more formality than usual. Under the translucent canopies near the riverbank, the delegation tables were set in a semicircle, as if anticipating an important announcement. The humidity of dawn still clung to the air, but a light breeze, almost symbolic, drifted across the enchanted tablecloths that seemed to barely float above the tables.

Hermione and Draco arrived together, though not holding hands. They didn’t need physical contact to feel each other. They walked side by side, their steps synchronized, their breathing in tune, as if the night before—and everything they had lived through in the past weeks—had entwined them beyond logic or magic.

Several delegations were already present: Castelobruxo, looking a bit gloomier than usual; Mahoutokoro, maintaining their usual impeccable composure; Beauxbatons, with a radiant Céleste Fournier surrounded by her entourage; and the Americans from Ilvermorny, notably quieter than in previous days.

Draco didn’t need to turn to feel the glances that followed them. The tension in the air wasn’t just about the day ahead. It was something that had been building for days—ever since that improvised ceremony at the Water and Fire Sanctuaries, when the absence of the committee and the blending of rituals had left everyone with a barely concealed suspicion.

They sat down next to João and Marcos, who were speaking in low voices. Upon seeing them, João slightly raised his glass of juice in greeting, but he didn’t smile. 

A soft chime resonated from the central platform. The witch in the golden robe—the same one who had announced the trials—stood at the center, this time accompanied by several committee members and diplomatic representatives clearly aligned with their respective delegations.

Percy Weasley, from the British Ministry of Magic, was now seated among the Hogwarts group, near Draco and Hermione. He wasn’t acting like a friend—it wasn’t his role—but his mere presence was a subtle, political, and necessary statement of support.

The same was true for the French delegate, who had discreetly approached the Beauxbatons table, and the American representative, whose hardened expression spoke more for Ilvermorny than any speech could have.

The witch spoke, amplifying her voice with a soft Sonorus charm:

"Esteemed champions, assistants, and delegations: the organizing committee, in conjunction with international observers, has deemed it appropriate to carry out today’s official visit to the two remaining sanctuaries: the Sanctuary of Air and the Sanctuary of Aether."

A murmur ran through the dining hall.

It wasn’t a total surprise. After all, they had already witnessed the unorthodox improvisation of the Water and Fire rituals days earlier. But it didn’t lessen the feeling that something deeper—and certainly unplanned—was still shifting the course of the Championship.

"You are requested to wear light ceremonial robes and carry wands enchanted solely for personal defense. Offensive magic will not be permitted under any circumstances."

Hermione noticed João and some of the other champions exchanging discreet glances. The committee’s caution, the presence of diplomats, the exaggerated formality—everything mirrored the tension no one could hide anymore.

Why would they need defensive spells?

"The Air ceremony will take place mid-morning," the witch announced. "The Aether ceremony, before sunset. In between, you will have free time under supervision. Punctuality is required."

The murmurs died down.

The witch's amplified voice faded with a soft snap.

When breakfast ended and the delegations began to disperse to prepare for the first ceremony of the day, Percy Weasley approached them.

"Miss Granger, Mr. Malfoy," he greeted, inclining his head slightly. "Might we exchange a few words before you depart for the Sanctuary?"

Hermione and Draco exchanged a brief glance. Then, they nodded in unison.

Percy led them to one of the side corridors, where the vines formed a small natural alcove. There, away from indiscreet ears, his posture relaxed just a fraction.

"I can’t discuss official matters," he said in a low voice, his nervous gesture betraying him, "but…" He paused, choosing his words with deliberate care. "There are many eyes watching this Championship. And not all of them benevolent."

Hermione frowned but didn’t interrupt.

Neither did Draco.

"However," Percy continued, lowering his voice even further, "there are also those who… who are extraordinarily proud of how you’ve represented Hogwarts. And, on a more personal note, your people."

He stopped, looking directly at them. First Hermione. Then Draco.

"I’m not authorized to deliver sentimental messages," he added, with a barely perceptible ironic smile, "but… let’s just say that if there were a certain Burrow somewhere in the world, its occupants would be enthusiastically betting on your success."

Hermione lowered her gaze for a second, containing a surge of emotion she couldn’t afford to show there.

Draco, on the other hand, maintained his composure. But his jaw relaxed slightly. Only Hermione—who knew him so well by now—noticed that minuscule sign of relief.

"Thank you, Percy," Hermione whispered.

"Don’t thank me," he replied, adjusting his robes once more. "Just… keep showing them what you’re made of, Hermione. And you"—he turned to Draco with a formality that bordered on playful—"keep proving that a Malfoy can be more than a name."

Draco nodded. He didn’t say anything, but the acknowledgment was clear in his eyes.

Percy straightened, recovering his rigid posture.

"Now, off you go. The air won’t wait."

And with a subtle flick of his wand, he conjured a fake scroll into his hands, as if the unofficial conversation had never happened.

Hermione and Draco returned to the main path and they followed the other delegations.

The path to the Sanctuary of Air was enchanted to float a few centimeters above the ground, as if the steps were not entirely real. Draco and Hermione walked side by side, not touching, not speaking much, but feeling that silent current that always connected them.

Hermione held a small scroll with the instructions for the ritual. She read with focus, as if the world could be ordered simply by understanding the rules. Draco, however, could barely tear his eyes away from her.

Not out of desire—although that never truly disappeared. - It was admiration.